Which path does it take? Harmony or struggle? A compromise with a bitter aftertaste, or a ripe, fluid movement toward something whole? But development is inevitable.
Do we make conscious choices as we move forward? What is consciousness, exactly? Of all the selves that exist within a single person, which one makes the defining decision — and speaks it back to us? To whom, exactly, is it speaking?
Where does the impulse come from? What is harmony? Do we need to search for it within ourselves? Did nature truly make us so incomplete that we must find our way back to ourselves? Shape ourselves? Which self?
Wholeness surrounds us. We are part of it. And yet — we isolate ourselves, assert ourselves… and begin an endless search. For what? For ourselves?
Harmony already exists. Outside. Inside. Development is inevitable.
The understanding of personality as an ideal image is, at its core, a social agreement. But are the criteria truly sound? Do values actually carry weight? Why do we keep searching for "our place" while so rarely questioning the concept itself? When we define meaning, we are simply inventing it for ourselves. And in the end — do we achieve, or do we burden?
From birth, human beings need to categorise — to simplify in order to understand. And yet, we persistently divide everything into good or bad. Yes or no. For or against. It can feel like invisible scales we never once set down. Or perhaps this is simply our nature. Duality?
Talking with people, watching their reactions, recognising the same questions in their eyes — I came to understand that this subject cannot be avoided. Too many minds are occupied by the same thoughts. More than that, I felt a deep personal need to give form to what my consciousness could no longer hold alone. A need to speak.
The geometric metaphor was right there on the surface. All that remained was to give it character. And it was the Duality series that became the point where form and thought finally met. A series that came easily — and stayed with me. Artists know the feeling when the work their hands have made seems to arrive without the artist's participation. The moment you feel yourself become an instrument. For me, this was exactly such a moment.
What was the geometric metaphor? Duality has been associated with the number two since ancient Greece — and the Greeks observed that comparison is the very path through which we come to know the world. It is hard to argue with: we seek opposites, study proportions, push things toward their extremes. Nature reinforces this, giving birth to new life through the union of two opposites. These principles hold. We use them every day. Some call them universal laws, sacred knowledge. I tend to avoid the word sacred — not because I doubt its depth, but because in contemporary usage it has become overloaded with mysticism and religion. What I speak of through my work is symbolic meaning: the meanings ancient thinkers assigned to forms and numbers, and the reasons why they assigned them.
Returning to the Duality series and its geometric foundation — the number two — which in geometry is visualised as two points at the ends of a line segment, or two circles (or two circles inside a third, when we speak of division into two within unity).
In building an idea around the development of the self and the inevitability of that process, I needed expansion. I was not ready to close the circle — though circles are the very grid — or to limit the composition to the edges of the paper. But here too the answer came immediately: progression. Geometric progression. The circles began to grow and spiral outward — which is, incidentally, also the geometric foundation of growth in nature, as seen in the way plants unfold.
But geometry, which can be found almost everywhere, must not constrain or displace living movement. And here, again, we arrive at the concept of duality: precision coexists with imperfection. External forces, conditions, circumstances — they give rise to errors, to curves… to the trembling of the artist's hand.
And so the final layer of my graphic works (and my paintings too) is a process of sculpting, of revealing, of bringing forth — a harmonious dance between precise lines and living ones.
With every new work, I have one wish: to find a composition that allows the viewer to sink into silence. To watch the lines flow into one another, to feel connection intuitively — but in silence. Perhaps it will be the silence that follows a long conversation, an internal one, of course. You cannot know silence without first crossing a noisy crowd — and that crowd lives inside each of us.