The Aesthetics of the Uncomfortable

28.3.26

With a certain sense of discomfort came my understanding of how that strange, absurd branch of contemporary art must have been born — why it proved so enduring, and why it is now so difficult to understand. The simplicity and naturalness of the process frightened me.

At the root of the aesthetics of ugliness, as at the root of all ideas — successful or not — there must once have been something deeply sincere, something that later disappeared, leaving behind only a shell. Fairly harmless at first glance. But that is precisely what makes ideas dangerous: it is so easy to slip into substitution and self-deception. Who is perceptive enough to catch the first false notes?

That was my thought while reflecting on my attraction to awkward stains and marks.

Lately, I have even begun to feel a certain shame when an elegant, aesthetically pleasing line emerges from beneath my brush. It is beautiful, but it does not disturb, does not question: too noticeable to become background, too bland to ignite discussion. It is a beginning — and an immediate end. It is barren. Such an attempt goes straight into the trash.

Quite different are those awkward, ungainly strokes. The eye stumbles over them, searches, rummages, and eventually, with satisfaction, discovers harmony somewhere in their depth. One looks at such paintings for a long time, uncovering new details. A rare occurrence. It suggests the thought that, technically, this may be a serious breakthrough, and that my growth awaits me precisely there.

Naturally, they have become my goal. To achieve such a stroke — honest in its rawness — is difficult both technically and emotionally. Too much force must be concentrated into a single point. Enough to overpower self-control, to disarm it. So that the mark bursts out, overwhelms all restraint, and spills itself onto the page. So that the hand may tremble at the necessary moment, tremble and dart freely, held back by nothing.

Is this not the very freedom that called to me in that old hotel? It is, of course — I have no doubt.

And yet there is fear. The fear of slipping into “art for the initiated” — an artificial world where, in order to find beauty in my works, one would have to stare at them for a long time in vain, or else ask me to explain.

What is carelessness for the sake of carelessness? It is easy to cross the line between perfection hidden within free brushstrokes and the chaos of crude stains. It is easy to conceal emptiness behind texture, monumentality, disorder — all valuable elements of technique that may nevertheless become nothing more than a screen.

So what sustains my work? What must I preserve in order to remain? Where does my depth lie, in a world without human destinies or the thunder of battles?

I would say it lies in my relationship to the plant, to its lines — something I pour into the brushstroke, consciously and not entirely consciously. Tenderness. Wordless admiration. It emerges as something unnamed yet warming; it is the soul. This is probably one of the reasons I hold so tightly to the theme of plants and refuse to move entirely into pure abstraction. In abstraction, it is difficult to preserve emotion, because the object itself is absent.

And yes, hanging overhead like the sword of Damocles is the danger of going astray. I think it is always this way at the edge of creativity. And if it is not, then you are far from the edge. But there is some comfort in having looked within yourself and seen that precipice, in keeping it within your field of vision. For the most treacherous of delusions is called this: “Surely it could never happen to me.”