Spring Sangria Somnambulic Sirens (2023)
https://www.artsteps.com/view/64864face1b1649a29dabf59
This is the temple of my morbid and spookish drawings and illustrations,
named after my drawing, visual artwork and motifs from my poems. It
reveals an obscure dance of sexuality and death, of viscose narrative
about Femme Fatale creatures and Lolita nymphets. They are caught in
nightmarish, Lovecraftian, and hentai scenarios, weaving a dark, macabre,
surreal fairytales of sexual pleasure spiked with pain, BDSM séances, and possessions by diabolic creatures, ghosts, monsters and predators.
Oftentimes those fiends represent shadow selves of the heroines, and all
is bathed in polarity of innocence and cruelty, fragility and sadism.
Resembling film noir ondines, they dance in another astral planes, speak
in tongues like transfixed and hypnotized, and bewitch the spirits
into their spider net. Fishtail of the ingenue turns to vagina dentata
of an intense, deliric, voracious mafiosa bride. The images are immersed in
a spiky, thorny soulscape, with ocean trying to invade the futuristic
castle, and perform as a cocktail of paradise and inferno, boiling of
monstruous libido and mournful screeching of venomous desolation,
merging all four elements of nature that collide with neon of my
personal Alcatraz and dragon talons of Dark Night of the Soul. I could
say that my alters are torn apart between wildfire of salacious paganism
and Pacific depths of melancholy mysticism.
--- Simpler manual works are a selection of my drawings, from college
years till today (1997 -). Heroines in my work are punk and gothic riot
girls, vulgar, vulnerable, disclosed, dreamy, seductive, hallucinant and
dangerous. They are simultaneously angelic and demonic, representing
witches, vamps, tramps, bestial harlots and ethereal virgins, angry and
moody bitches and elusive magicians. I believe that identity is complex
collection of multitudes, like shattered glass of a haunted mirror,
glued again with pure gold. I squeeze blood from my wounds to build
christal piramid shrine. Digital, more intricate illustrations show
ecstatic, fervent and diabolic encounter of gorgeous vamps and
dominatrix women with demons, celebrating the depths of the perverse and
deviant sexual pleasure. They are in eternal escape of their
claustrophobic status of lonely queens. I also add an element of
violence and sadism, in one way consensual, which belongs to kinky
sexual practices that bring to life the most intimate and hottest sexual
fantasies, and in the other, toxic and painful one, that discloses
hellish stories about codependency, obsession, torture and addiction,
trying to heal it. In polymorphic perversity and free, viperous and
wicked female sexuality I see a revolutionary potential, following the
footsteps of Wilhelm Reich, with the spicy entanglements of Marquis de
Sade and Sacher-Masoch and the tripoid visions of Georges Bataille, but
tainted with my own distorted visions and chimeras.
---My uncut poetic musings that triggered this exhibition: „Voices of
Lamias in my head peaking violently dizzy heights, vultures pecking my
virgin flesh, ultramarine corpse, cerulean breaths, sapphire blood:
kitchen knife blade etching fatal canyons in my delicate porcelain skin,
I rise from the stormy oceans, hissing bijou byzantine icons turned
upside down, you push me down in the bushes and we dance as lonely
satans, angelic strippers of tinsel nectarine, wiggling in nembutal
haze, my stilettos poking your heavenly eyes, in mefisto dance of
amethyst siren flashing syrup of your intestinal archipelago, entrancing
you, betraying you, bewitching your ouija, oh, sefirot of misfits –
their slit wrists and dirty punk faces pressed against tempestuous
silverscreens of howling, horny desire. Zephyr is wild, anacondas
copulate in feverish hemorrage of deep lunar cuts, Lorelei bedevils
doped up sailors in her troublesome loins of vicious orchids. Their
leechy labia flicker like pyromaniacs in ecstasy of crimson crime,
sanguine mermaids suck your ardorous itch of salacious maniac, nympho
lymphosis bites off your listless dewy limbs like a cannibal, she
screeches jelly blood, puking and vomiting fountains of bloody
tentacles, clairvoyant antennas of violated violator, and your (…) head
is rolling down the Neptune Avenue like fetal snowflake, tumor of love,
desolate heresy of everything I ever believed in, blinding sun of
nuclear noon – I killed it with my crucifix moon, in obscene gemstone
erotica, I devour your cellophane heart, that useless piece of pulsating
meat, I surf on the swelling waves of your wretched tar despair, when
your scandalous wildcat hands, criminal and polluted like hell´s blaze
grave, reach for my pure, bright face, lucid as a lighthouse upon
pitch-black blizzard cape. – (…) Virulent vertigo of royal blood soaking
bikini pole dancers with electric eyes shooting lasers of glitter
sorcery, inflamed glamour of (…) stalactites and catacombs, monstruous
crimson of their vulgar stigmata, sultry slots of their Medusa gowns,
oh, how those mesmeric ingenues charge their flesh and guts and
exquisite hearts, blinded by fluorescent light. - Monarchs crowning my
moonstone hair, harbour whores with red holes in their Rio de Janeiro
palms, I´m entangled in thick morose dream, porose bones scream, their
horrific pallid chalkiness crumbles in stardust powder, in fire of
pregnant moon amnesiacs, lingering glissando over death canyon.“
------------------------------
From Babylon to Uranus: Blood Moon Goddess (2023)
With this concept, I describe the most stigmatized mental disorder on
the planet: borderline personality disorder. It is characterized by a
vague self-image and chameleon-like soul, unstable and intense
interpersonal relationships, large amplitudes in mood (from euphoria to
depression and back at lightning speed), self-destructiveness and
impulsiveness (drinking and drug use, fast driving, self-injury,
shopping addiction).
We deal a lot with racism, misogyny, homophobia, xenophobia, but we
actively avoid talking about our loathing, fearing and distancing from
physical and especially psychological aberrations, and the latter are
often demonized and exaggerated, overly dramatically depicted in films
and pop-culture. Borderline is the other side of narcissism, the black
death of modern society, that fragile, sad and misunderstood phantom who
feels too much and too intensely in a world where it is imperative to
be an arrogant and greedy iceberg.
Borderline is also characterized by a fragmented self and is very
similar to the symptom of multiple personalities, so I present it
through a neon colorful array of my fluid identities in eternal
transformation. I play with otherness by examining and exploring
different, multiplied identities that are viscous, in eternal
metamorphoses, and I realized that I am queer, i.e. that Other,
radically different, displaced, strange, exaggerated, theatrical,
hysterical, non-normative, playful and “crazy”.
My obsession with dark goddesses is also fiercely present from the
beginning. I channel mythological creatures that are part of that dark
pandemonium, dangerous and seductive mistresses of love, death, night,
chaos, magic, the occult and transformation, and my photo sessions
themselves are a kind of invocations and pagan rituals, because through
them I come into contact with my ancestors.
In doing so, I challenge the historical view of female sexuality as
dangerous, unpredictable, capricious, shrouded in a veil of mystery,
all-consuming and fatal. Dark goddesses (primarily the primordial rebel
Lilith and the sorceress Hecate, as well as succubi, vampires, lamias
and sirens), simultaneously represent the ultimate power and strength
with which I want to reach my inner, immanent goddess again, but also
the destructiveness of illness and trauma, where they play the role of a
demon or nemesis that persecutes me, therefore, I persecute myself and
thus I myself become diabolical. I am simultaneously a walking phallus
and a huge, gaping, hallucinatory wound, displaying the tango of my
impudence and bleeding fragility and fear. BPD used to be understood as
hysteria, and before that, manifestations of mental illness or
deviations from the norm were interpreted as demonic possession, vile
marionette shadowplay of the devil, and led to the persecution and
burning of "witches".
Therefore, there is an erotic and sexual element (because sexuality is
an elementary part of my identity, but also sex as a trauma) that I
permeate with the aromas of violence, someone else's
physio-psychological that I introjected inside and directed towards
myself in the form of self-destructiveness, and through this
interweaving eroticism becomes provocative, predatory, vengeful,
devouring, punishing like Medea or petrifying like Medusa – and I
describe it as perverse sexuality and paraphilias, pervading pleasure
and pain. Hypersexualization is another symptom of trauma.
I try to untangle the ball and knot of my turbulence and ambivalence in
the performance through extravagant and extreme or familiar but
distorted body states, where I use erotic language and the language of
transgression to bring to the surface emotional turmoil, pain and the
fact of trauma, which I transform into metaphorical exotic plants
through a surreal and hallucinatory imaginary. I analyze
neurodivergency, the feeling of otherness, otherness, displacement,
marginalization and misunderstanding due to the taboos and stigmas with
which psychological deviations from the norm are still covered, and the
society of spectacles and all-consuming narcissism alienate what,
pathetically speaking, is authentic or feels true, arising from the
deepest personal abysses, essences and cores.
I show these identity deformations and transformations by parading in an
abundance of assortments, decorations, masks, prostheses, everything
that emphasizes the theatrical bulkiness of thirst and desire. These
prostheses and elongations serve the theater of cruelty that I present.
There are also quirks, masquerades, hyperbolized presentation of one's
own character and my alter-egos from cinematography and pop culture
(mainly actresses). From them I create delirious parallel universes, and
I realize their strangeness through surrealism, the grotesque, the
carnivalesque quality of motifs and images, and I crush the reality of
myself and hybrid characters, archetypes that acquire a futuristic
dimension, and alien representations. They are a gap and a crack through
which reality peers into the astral infinity and slips into the world
of phantoms, ghosts, aliens, bizarre beasts and actresses who, instead
of plastic surgery, go through digital malformations, in a kind of
transhumanism. The intimate becomes completely robotized and handed over
to technology that tailors something that I would describe as different
cosmic laws. Reality schizophrenicaly sizzles, plays, and the
characters I portray seem possessed.
It is a fantasy world in which I sleepwalk and dive, in hyperrealistic
nightmarish or opioid, altered states of consciousness through dystopian
landscapes of the mind and spirit, trying to escape the horrors of the
gloom and doom and the venomous, nuclear desolation of alienated, lonely
self.
On the sunnier part of the concept, there is an unbridled, unhinged
witch in me that balances those glitter tears out, a great pagan
sorceress, drawing from the Balkan roots, and reminding of shamanism,
divination and magic rituals. I dance like a walking heresy, spiting
Spanish inquisition, unbothered and unbridled, in crazy, hysterical but
wavy-soft meanders, in a fire that is so strong inside that erects from
around like phalluses. Those candles are organs in a sacred cathedral of
Nature. I´m blind to the ones that search for silencing or punishment
of rebels, seducing with my dance only, in redness like red shoes of Oz,
in wizardry and musk scents of streams that connect me with my pagan
ancestors. Those streams are as deep as ocean undercurrents, and as
undestroyable as arteries and veins of a woman that is free and in
possession of her own body, mind and spirit, but is called mad and
insane for it.
------------------------------
Dancing in the Desert Flames (2025)
Disclaimer: I added my life stories and musings that relate to this
work, but I am not describing it, because it is open to interpretations.
I'm just depicting the fragments of its background, because I love to
talk. I always throw the key to the ocean of the multiverse minds and
let the emotions flow ----- This is a multimedia exhibition consisting
of my photos, glitch art, objects and poems from my first poetry book
(2006), „Posjekotine“ („Cuts“). I recently found my old diaristic
drawings from 2007, from the troubled time when I was shattered by some
unfortunate events. They consist of two and three females with opposite
qualities, where the blonde one is innocent, fragile, angelic, and the
darkhaired is a tainted mayhem product of traumas. I wrote short poems,
associations and tags about them all over and around (just as I firstly
used tags in my first video ever, „Nigredo“ from 2005). They are dark
emotional striptease with colossal intrapsychic conflict, with obvious
splitting, self-sabotage, self-blame and riding on a toxic tide of
broken mirror pieces in a self-built coffin, on a burning cross. There
is a prominent and dominant dichotomy and distinction between what I
called femme fatale/vamp and lost little girl in those screaming pieces,
and those self-imposed tropes I investigate in this project, but this
storytelling in parts inverts the roles and attributes, where the blonde
one is rising phantasmagorically, like a threatening hallucination, and
the blackie is cut in pieces by glitch actions. I was viscerally
projecting myself in grand symbols in that sour past, in order to make
sense of what was happening to me. In poetry, I decomposed that more
universal symbolism into my own fragmented and disintegrated and then
rearranged and fused pictorial hot spots.
The scenery is a body as a temple and a cathedral. I examine agressive
vs elusive sexuality, predatory claims vs subtle seduction. Ego weakness
is confronted with ego strength that is ready to die or dissolve. I am
opposing Nietzschean will to power in my analysis of psychological
constitution of the situation anthitetical to his preachings, to
blissfull peace of Buddhist liberation from suffering. Primordial
impulses and destructive drives, as well as ones that attract me to
pleasure and decadence, are maniacal and predatory and I try to overcome
them and step into state close to nirvana.
I attack the walls with poems and glitch art, and poetry is abundant
with multiple identities and doppelgängers, with contrast of good and
evil, tenderness and brutality, desire and fear, ecstasy and deep grief
with its five stages. I examine fight-flight-freeze-fawn response to
menacing states of affairs. Also, I drew inspiration from my drawing
"Blink Three Times if in Trouble", like a sign of a damsel in distress
and I use the flood of passionate, sacrifical and libidinous red that
represents the boiling blood of the fighter, truth seeker, dangerous
woman that uses her pain and trauma as weapons. I am also obsessed with
my blonde self, as it represents the daring nonchalance and braveness of
the youth, the self-absorbtion, mirror-kissing, snake-hissing and the
sense of being untouchable and invincible, and, the innocence of youth
is paradoxically met with all its vices. The blonde is simultaneously
naive and ingenue, and seductive, irresistible, fatal, lethal,
poisonous, like a sociopath that doesn't think about consequences. It is
a life before I entered the void, penetrated the jungle full of beasts
that screech in agony and descended into the Inferno of metropolis and
purgatory of burning haciendas in the desert. Hot red is illuminating
the scenes accompanied with my poetic weaving of my awe struck by the
magic treasures, wondrous secrets and vertiginous, Sphinx-like puzzles
of the inner life. The abysses of psyche opened to me in 2001 like
otherwordly gallaxies, like Atlantis, so sticky, muddy, fleshy, veiny,
bloody and glittery, like a sick disco with mad women from the attic,
skeletons and geishas, maharajas and exquisite corpses, samurais and
ashen pale, languid vampire brides that bloom with life like gothic
passion for shadows and exotic exuberance, like cascade of champagne,
wine, opium, dewy limbs and shimmering hair. Velvet curtains of
blindness opened and there were the magnificent misty mountains to
explore, volcanoes to jump in or dance around ritually.
I always remember when I first meditated to aleviate anxiety, and one
evening I had a sensation that I really am floating four feet from the
ground, and another, I had all-engulfing orgasm of the blood, tingling
electricity flowing through my spine like a serpent, like brooding
kundalini. It was spiritual playing with fire and I concluded that there
is a thin line between salvation and hell. I couldn't halt its
unhinged bellydance, deliriously overcooked and overspiced, laced with ruminations as a child of the devil's playground. Haunted by a ghost of
me and my projections. Claustrophobic ambient with sharp black spikes,
and thorny tendrils represent veins representing the body, physical and
psychological, and they are the vessels of blood, the element I am so
preoccupied by, because leaking blood is a sign of traumatic
woundedness, and also an agency, something that innately, irresistibly
drives me like a charged pistol or furious wings.
I departed from explicit, confrontational and aggressive displays of
sexuality and I turned to more elusive, mysterious, hazy, blurred and
ambiguous representations of my body and soul, the ones that don't jump
in your face with a grin but lure in the cobweb of Arachnea, one of my
early alters and creations from drawings that merge vulgar and sublime,
punkish and pseudo-royal, brats and goddesses. Arachnea is a Spider, a
black widow and devourer of oblivious souls, powerful and all mighty.
Images dance like in a drug-induced state of disinhibited exhibitionism,
and female avatars are breeding and multiplying like rabbits in
hurricane of desire, occupying space resembling a church, an island
chapel, a spaceshuttle or a submarine, full of lustful echoes and
chantings. Polimorphously perversed queenie and ethereal bitch caught in
moaning ambivalence like a butterfly, levitating above the world like a
memory of a lost forgotten crime, in their celestial whispers.
Images are big enigmatic apparitions and poetry does all the work of
unrestricted, unbridled expression, which is stream of consciousness and
flow of associations turned in a metaphorical movies full of stylistic
devices and magical layerings of meaning through suggestions, allusions,
verbal paintings and using language as autonomic living creatures. I
remembered, when I wrote my first poems, it was as if some higher entity
was speaking through me, maybe god, and I was demiurge, possessed and
hypnotized by exciting, powerful and strange forces within and above me.
It was like pulling the demon out on the scorching light of the day,
like speaking in tongues, like glossolaliac summoning the fire of the
Divine and materializing it on paper. Like a sex with deity, and la
petite mort turning in an endless loop of seamless nights, fueled with
what is unnameable in this context.
Neptune Avenue: Overdose on Dreams (2024)
As a person mesmerized by cosmos, astronomy and ancient
astrology, but diving in it in fragmented particules of interest, I referenced
Neptune as a planet of dreams, subconscious, instability, creativity, intuition,
and most of all, altered states of mind (hallucinations, intoxication,
near-death experience, dissociation, depersonalisation, derealization,
dissociative fugue, memory loss, hypnagogic states, somnambulism, dream
paralysis, hypnosis) and a love for a good drink or even narcotic. That cool,
distant planet symbolizes escapism, frantic flight from reality, which is so
painfully rough on the edges and laced with sharp teeth, like a vagina dentata.
In every possible way reality has become unbearable and the Real is penetrating
like a horrific pterodactylus. I am telling a story of a person reminiscent of
Vivien Leigh in „Streetcar named Desire“, who famously said „I don't
want reality, I want dreams“ and who always relies on the kindness of
strangers, which is very risky and dangerous inclination, if not
straightforward impulsive, and which I practiced through my hazardous youth.
When the beaks of terrible bird of the all-devouring world peak the sidereal
flesh to deep cuts and bruises, it is time to recoil in a cocoon and build
imaginary world of fantasms, with equally imaginary friends (furry, unicorn, invisible
daimon for a bedtime confession, angel on the shoulder and – alas – devil on
another). I dream of sugar cotton candy clouds in rainbow colors, I am losing
myself in a ballroom of mirrors which are built in a strange, warped way to
show myself an illusion, an idealized cinematic creature, a soft, buzzy fairy
that will lick my tear and pop me a poppy dew. I hallucinate levitating neon
avenues above crystal skyscrapers, car bullets flying above like exotic flower
pollen, translucent snakes and jellyfish in the skies, myriads of hot urban ads
that flicker like fireflies and I see a mirage in the desert, maybe even a milk
and honey and coconut pool in the oasis, after I escaped an abhorrent murderer
with obscure mask, thin as a skeleton, but fast as a ray of light. Also, films
and horror movies are a way to gloss away from the jaws of ugly realism, to
almost orgasm in the midst of being scared to death, and then to gasp loudly
from relief, as if I dived out explosively from the ocean, like a volcano
burst, puking lava. My self-portraits and body images are in contorted poses,
suggesting ecstasy, feverish daydreaming, a bliss of transponing agony to pure
pink euphoria and violet softness of the limbs and veins. I am turned into my
own desire, and I transcend the flesh into the sacriledge of erotically charged
holy icons. I am chewing harsh and rusty diamonds of nightmares and turn them
to dreamland, sometimes leaving the blurred line between the two, with the
accent on something artificial, otherworldly, fictional, fantastical, chimeric,
like phantoms creeping in the victorian graveyard or water nymphs emerging from
the wiggling, rippled lake. A body as an ideal is sensual and erotic, alluring
and mesmerizing, it invites to its nest to lull the lost inbread creatures into
its venereal symphony, and skin is sliding, hiding monsters, youthful and
beautiful on the outside, but treacherous and venomous in the depths and throes
of its owner – master of puppets. Of kittens underneath her crinoline. I
connect spiritual and paranormal states of neptunian narcotic influence and
imminent vicinity of the flesh, and the aching yearning to stitch the wounds
and become hole again.
.gif)
