As long as I remember, I’ve been fascinated with light. It still flutters inside me, this sensation of time, like a butterfly being captured inside the glass jar; as a little me stands on the porch, my chin raised up, eyes fixated on the light bulb surrounded by mosquitoes and moths. As soon as the moths fly closer to the shining bulb, the light’s glare infiltrates through their wings and makes their powdery patterns even more mysterious, bringing out some colours which on the colour chart can’t be found. ‘Who lit the Moon?’ and ‘why my shadow follows me?’ were the most important, yet unanswered questions of my childhood. So much like a child, the light likes touching things, though so unlike humans, doesn’t have any need to possess them.
Early in the morning the sun climbs over the garden fence, and makes the sleepy grass break out with droplets of dew. In the swivel of sun-rays, pegs on the clothesline turn into jewels, but it takes time for the awakening backyard to acknowledge that the day of the week has changed its name and number. I want to be in the studio and get my hands on paints. Because it’s my duty to show that the doings of light on Tuesdays are so different from its habits on Fridays and it’s only a cup of black coffee that keeps the day and night from colliding.
Light is difficult to draw. Evasive, it changes its direction and doesn’t even retain a memory of where it’s been or what it’s done. So, an artist is supposed to remind the light of its own existence. Unfortunately, the light isn’t aware of what impression it makes on those who are really able to pay attention to it. When I paint or draw I put on the persona of a light-beam that enters the room and decides what stays in the shadow and what is lit up, creating this meaningful border where shadows flirt with light.