As much as I like to be in denial about certain things, one thing stays true. And that is that something Polish is always there in my subconscious. I dream in Polish, I often think in Polish, and my Polishness remains one of the most fundamental blocks of my “self”. All this, even though my family moved from Poland to the UK when I was twelve years old. Ever since, my Polish heritage has been haunting me, ready to reappear even when I think I have succeeded in setting it aside.
But I am not sure it is fair to call it a haunting. It is precisely this constant subconscious presence that eventually transfers itself onto the canvas in my art. There, I try to follow my memories of my childhood, letting them lead me wherever they want. Many of them are unpleasant, complex, conflicted. Creating works from them has a clear therapeutic value to me, as I discover thorns stuck in my subconscious and try to extract them. It is also, as an endeavour, often fun.
And yet, it feels like this journey is very lonely, subjective and egotistical. I am the only one who experiences a sense of relief at the working-through of a memory. I am the only one who gets to move on and grow. I am the only one who can fully relate to my exploration on the canvas. It is just me, on my own, fixing my own problems. Is art made for myself alone really art at all?
That feels wrong to me. A consequence is that I’ve decided to adopt a more outward-facing perspective and refocus my thinking on what my process and journey can give back to others.
