Curated by: Agnieszka Gołębiewska
Seemingly, everything looks perfect.
But time is ripening, and moments are soaking up, like a sugar cube dipped in poison.
Red glows in the sky ominously announce the solstice.
Everything is turned up to the limit. Aesthetic and morbidly beautiful.
Marie Antoinette still running around Petit Trianon a moment before the revolution.Pills for sleep, pills for life.
The green fairy of absinthe turns up the dance of our mind.
Emotions are also turned up, because we constantly have too little of everything and not enough of everything.
Or inversely: emotions are suppressed with pills to silence images and thoughts.
A pill of happiness, or a drop of poison on the edge of lips smiling spasmodically, against the background of a red sky tastes of bitterness.
Essences and poisons. Rituals and magical spells. Diseased greens, fiery decadent reds.
Mysterious flasks and magical potions. Female protagonists stir the cauldron of this witch’s kitchen. But will we be able to undo it?
Seeping into our heads venomous thoughts. Poisonous words coming out of our mouths, like beautiful stinkhorns. Evil, quiet and watching us, evil standing like a wall behind, guarding lies and conspiracies, like a bastion. The threat, the sense of entrapment and fears.Hands giving, taking, appropriating. We have collected so much, we need so much, we still cannot come to our senses, although we know that we will not be able to escape from a bombed home even with a plastic bag in our hands.
Flashbacks like Hitchcock’s Vertigo. Haven’t these stories been told before?
A sense of end, but one more story on insta, one more glance at Facebook, one more online shopping with a delivery at the door we hardly open to anyone anymore.
Martyna Borowiecka records a state of highest alert.
Neurotic arousal, spasmodic laughter, anxiety and multi-dimensional overstimulation.
In her paintings we are dismembered and alone. Compulsive and wanting everything.
Everything is shrouded in mystery. We peep and observe each other.
We search for our limits, we live in an illusory idea that all this will not fall apart after all.
And it was only supposed to be the end of history, as the delusion of living in the optimum of our achievements.
What a beautiful end of the world. The melancholy of rituals without the announcement of another morning.