Emerging from the crystalline caves full of spikes and horns, or melting, dripping molasses of psychical perturbations, hallucinant creatures whisper, chant or groan in their hologram or telluric, chthonic quality, flashed over with bioluminescent crests and foams of oceanic howlings. They shimmer in electric, digital quality of fractals and echoes of their glitchy disintegration or wiggle like slimy serpents in sensual moans. Self-portraits are metaphors and allusions to the mythological or hystorical dimension of female experience, monadic and lighthouse-like, rising up in venomous desolation or sensory overloads of primordial nature screams and neon jungle metropolis, with dirty, rusty sewers, tunnels and catacombs, occupied and devoured by phosphorescent reptilian succubi. Some of them are suffocated by macabre, poisonous exotic flowers with vampire teeth and blooms of the psychotropic substances that alter the mind, ritually massage the vipers of brain and spark the ignitions of paranormal, cenesthetic sensations inside the body, like unbearable tickling, tingling or itch - bordering on holographic projections onto astral canyons to another dimension of existence. I channel their essence and the meaning that is imminent to my deepest self, but I always tear their skin apart and fuse it with my own, revamping them into the cocktail of brand new identity fatamorgana. As in poetry, I deal with both world-building and confessional breathing out the lamias of emotions, transforming them into literary devices. Their skin is dewy, wet, resembling melting chrome of a bullet car, shining like opalescent fish bellies and the whites of pearlescent eye sclerae, or imprisoned in the chains and thorns of naked, organic, intricate skeletal branches, black and red like flames that lick my faces. Those woody veins are the hands of the dark forests, where ghosts of childhood and youthhood moonwalk and escape from the churches of chimeric ancient despots and their vengeful knives, fantasizing about the planet that glows with only love, fresh springs and blinding light. They set the chapels on fire, running barefoot on broken glass and harsh rocks, through sticky cobwebs and torn wires, through the ring of flames to the new allegory, where they encounter new temptations, forced to live through new pictorial incarnations.
I celebrate galvanized intensity of untameable female beasts, hysterical dragons, harpies and vixens that ride on their vertiginously high surf wave of rage, sedimented around wild, feral undercurrents of the ancestors, both traumatized and victorious, wounded and transformed. The darkness is sexy and possessed, there is an eternal fight to escape the diabolic claws of ruminations and skeletons from the past, to break free from the shadows reminiscent of gothic novel ruins and step into the neon flashes of the enigmatic future. There jumps the glitch monster ex machina, the pixelated sorceress, that magically fragments, disintegrates and tectonically shakes the image, like fluorescent silhouettes of millions of hyperactive, talkative, buzzing TV-s with a kaleidoscope of faces, invading the emotional space and protruding gelatinously from the noised screens, with their lush, pouty and voracious lips that suck the emptiness and infuse the spiraling madness of seductive visual informations. The thick narcotic syrup that streams from those aquarium televisions is a blood of digital hybrids, and flood of misty fairy lavender hair is their soul. Glitch is manipulating the data that builds the creatures like Frankenstein, rearranging its fundamental setups like Rubik's cube, tickling its buttons, ruffling its tentacles and antennae into a giant knot of fishnets and acting like a Poltergeist. Images vibrate in alchemical decomposition, crumbling in elementary particles, its inhabitants multiplying like rabbits, and parasites of commands are populating the initial simplicity of a concept like virus. It persists like a memory and foreboding, and the image is unfolding like a panopticon, as if we entered a hall with millions of malformed mirrors in the state of rhapsodic intoxication and are bombarded with a gazillion of mutants or spectres of our persistent, ghoulish reflections. And it hounts us in reverb. Faces become strange, bestial, skull-like, rorschachian and otherworldly. Digital sirens bend backwards in ecstasy, in fumes of the technology-demon attack. Fractures and ruptures are seamlessly sewed together like kintsugi, cliffs are approaching like mating insects and waves are crashing against each other, hugging and licking like kundalini serpents, culminating in eruption of unexpected, but fantastical and puzzling errors. Tantalizing erotic imagery flooded with phantoms of BDSM practices and kinky playfulness dances in the flashlight of the digital surgery, clashing contradictory and polarizing images into one exhilarating, mesmerizing fusion, that hisses loudly or just gives rippling hints, emerging from the darkness of secrets abducted by unconscious. I am tiptoeing carefully around the notion of Real, the unspeakable and reluctant to be symbolized, the abhorrent and nightmarish, the apparition too fleshy and hot to be touched or glanced in the eye, too oozey, sludgey and slippery to be grasped by the face or even horns, so concrete and primordially terrific that it slips into absolute abstraction. So, my notion of that terror and my poetic experiments became lovers.
I play with light in rainbow colors, and jewel hues, as in some underground seedy decadent disco, contrasted with gloomy, dystopian, apocalyptic and morose blackness of women trapped in plastic, nylon, silver materials that remind of a spaceship equippement, speculative, supernatural laboratory, or simply grey matter that dissolves like a surreal mountain of corroded flesh and bones, in the shine that is muted and asphyxiated under the collision of the black holes. The processes of solarization, burning, overlaying, displacement, create the visitors from Neptune, Uranus and Pluto, cold planets of dreams and visions, in contrast to warm celestial bodies of carnal sensuality, and that way, I immaterialize the picture, giving it the aura of something coldly incandescent, that transcends the flesh. Au contraire, my self-portraits are eager, yearning bodies, belly-dancing on a witch pyre, but freezed in the state of indescribable yearning, fluttering on the crossroads of desires that hang like thousands of figs from the tall cypress chandelier, and a my female creature is bewildered by the stark ambivalence that creates opulence, mystical ecstasy and desperate isolation at the same time. I depict dreams both divine and troubled, and am often inspired by them, for example, by vivid adventure on a gigantic cruise in the pitch black night of the vast, deadly sea, with numerous chambers and capsules full of unhinged parties, oracles doing divination from my electronic data as from tarot cards, an animus in the form of a young, saucy, devilish hooligan that dragoons me like an Amazonian (in contrast of an animus in the form of an old male haggard that persecutes a nymphette-like puella aeterna), but I have a poetess as a protector by my side, old wise bear-man, and huge, thin, sinewy black animals-psychopomps, ominous, cryptic, arcane and scary, but majestic and offering trust and guidance through the trippy labyrinth of my psychological mystery.
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