It seems now, that all my life I was in love with someone, mostly unrequitedly. Older I get, stranger this weird feeling appears to me, more idiotic, narcissistic, over sweetened, hungry for power over the object of love - but it doesn’t get weaker.
In contemporary art the topic of artist-in-love is even worse and flatter, than the classy sunset painting. Therefore, quite a part of me, with it’s endless desire to poetry, love confessions, romantic letters, male nude paintings, is completely covered in the image of myself as a contemporary artist, more or less suitable for the current century.
But on the exhibition, which abolished the self-censorship, naïve, "young Verter" aspect of me gets the unique right to get out and present itself in all of it’s kitschy grandeur. The teenage poetry from the social network groups, mixed with French classics, images of men, conscripted by these poems, but never arriving to the same bath, roses and candles become the tools to stop the inner discrimination of this form of the sexuality and make the «romantic subject» a room in the contemporary art context.
Dedicated to my current unanswered love.