SKETCHBOOK. ON THE CARPET. There is a place in the wilderness where a broken tree lies. Its once dignified crown sunk into a swamp, from which barely single powerful boughs protrude like the arms of a drowning man fighting for life still alive from the lush green mosses growing on them. A man often sits on the green cushions of the trunk. He does not know why he comes here. It just happened. By chance, this place became a permanent place of his pilgrimages. He always comes back here, when he does not know where to go, when he feels tormented, when the muffled call of adventure takes advantage over reason. There is nothing special about this place. He could have chosen better. After all, he might have chosen one of those mighty oaks in their prime instead of this dead tree. One of those oaks, which everyone admires as trees of strength from which man can draw vitality, yet at the end of his journey he found this dead tree and here he decided to rest. In fact, at first he did not pay attention to the tree. He was attracted by the mirror of water. He always felt drawn to the water. However, it happened so that fate threw him far from lakes and seas. So he would come here and just sit staring into the distance. Each time he admired the forest spirit passing by him indifferently. With every next step the forest turned more and more green, and when he walked away, he left the world rich in burning gold, which later disappeared in blinding white as if in the ashes of a dying fire. He wondered where the green monarch had gone and why he kept coming back to the same place. As if against the logic and the clock. Just like him. Was the spirit of the forest blessed with the chance of admiring the lakes and seas hidden under the highest mountain peaks, in impenetrable jungles, on the other side of endless deserts, about which he himself dreamed so much? When I cannot express something the way I would like it, when I cannot stop or go somewhere, when I fail to capture the moment in a photo, or when there are other obstacles, I try to describe it with pen and pencil. I witnessed the forest passing by. Maybe one day I will show you how dignified was his green retinue. Maybe the forest is in a way reflected evergreen in the mirror of the water. Who knows what secrets the forest swamp hides. Maybe what seems to end here has its proper beginning somewhere deep down there. For a brief moment, it seemed to me the water reflected the broken tree in full bloom. A glimpse of true enlightenment. Just a glimpse. Almost like a secret discovered through the keyhole. The more I become attached to a place, the more I discover it over and over again. As if a new secret was revealed to me every time. Another curtain raised. Me going deeper and deeper in the spiritual matter of this other world. During sketching this drawing, I noticed a dune hidden behind the thicket of trees that gave the landscape an unexpected mountainous touch. And again I thought what a great talent it is to be able to draw with these hands all that is forbidden to be done in another way. Art enables all that the laws of men have forbidden.
Jest takie miejsce w leśnej głuszy, gdzie leży złamane drzewo. Jego niegdyś dostojna korona zatopiona w bagnie, z którego wystają zaledwie pojedyncze potężne konary niczym ramiona topielca walczącego o życie wciąż żywe od porastających je bujnie zielonych mchów. Na zielonym kobiercu powalonego pnia przesiaduje często pewien człowiek. Sam nie wie, dlaczego tutaj przychodzi. Tak wyszło. Miejsce to stało się zupełnym przypadkiem stałym miejscem jego pielgrzymek. Zawsze tutaj wraca, gdy nie wie, gdzie się podziać, targa nim niepokój, odżywa ponownie tłumiony zew przygody. Nie ma w tym miejscu nic specjalnego. Mógłby wybrać lepsze. Mógłby wybrać przecież jakiś potężny dąb w sile wieku. Jeden z tych dębów, które każdy wskazałby jako drzewo mocy, z którego człowiek czerpać może siły witalne, a jednak u kresu swej wędrówki trafił akurat na to martwe drzewo i tutaj postanowił spocząć. Właściwie z początku nie zwracał uwagi na drzewo. Przywiodło go tutaj lustro wody. Zawsze ciągnęło go nad wodę. Los sprawił jednak, że życie rzuciło go daleko od jezior i mórz. Przychodził więc tutaj i po prostu siedział, wpatrując się w dal. Widział jak duch lasu za każdym razem przechodził obok niego obojętnie. Z każdym jego krokiem zazieleniały się kolejne połacie lasu, a gdy odchodził, świat ginął pod ciężarem płonącego złota, po czym znikał w rażącej oczy bieli niczym w popiołach gasnącego paleniska. Zastanawiał się, dokąd zielony monarcha odchodził i, dlaczego wciąż wracał w to samo miejsce. Jakby na przekór logice wbrew naturze wskazówek zegara. Tak samo, jak on. Czy leśnemu duchowi dane było odwiedzać jeziora i morza skryte pod najwyższymi szczytami górskimi, w nieprzeniknionych dżunglach i za bezkresnymi pustyniami, o których sam tak bardzo marzył? Gdy nie mogę czegoś wyrazić tak, jak bym tego chciała, gdy nie mogę się zatrzymać lub gdzieś dotrzeć, gdy nie uda mi się uchwycić chwili na zdjęciu lub gdy istnieją inne przeszkody, opisuję to słowem i obrazem. Widziałam, jak idzie las. Może kiedyś pokażę Wam, jak dostojnie kroczy jego zielony orszak. Być może las jest na swój sposób wiecznie zielony zaklęty w lustrze wody. Kto wie, jakie tajemnice skrywa leśne bagno. Być może to, co wydaje się mieć w nim koniec, ma tam swój właściwy początek. Przez krotochwilę wydawało mi się, że widziałam w nim odbicie złamanego drzewa w pełnym rozkwicie. To była chwila olśnienia. Tylko chwila. Niczym tajemnica odkryta przez dziurkę od klucza. Im dłużej jestem związana z jakimś miejscem, tym za każdym razem odkrywam je jakby wciąż na nowo. Jakby za każdym razem uchylało mi rąbka tajemnicy. Odsłaniało kolejne zasłony, a ja zagłębiała się coraz bardziej w duchową istotę tego innego świata. Gdy szkicowałam ten rysunek, dostrzegłam skrytą za gęstwiną drzew wydmę nadającą pejzażowi pozorów górskiego krajobrazu. I ponownie pomyślałam sobie, jaki to wielki dar móc dzięki temu magicznemu talentowi w dłoniach przekazywać nieskrępowanie innym to, czego nie można przekazać im we właściwej, docelowej formie. Sztuka przekaże wszystko to, co człowiek chciałby zakazać.
SKETCHBOOK. ON THE CARPET. There is a place in the wilderness where a broken tree lies. Its once dignified crown sunk into a swamp, from which barely single powerful boughs protrude like the arms of a drowning man fighting for life still alive from the lush green mosses growing on them. A man often sits on the green cushions of the trunk. He does not know why he comes here. It just happened. By chance, this place became a permanent place of his pilgrimages. He always comes back here, when he does not know where to go, when he feels tormented, when the muffled call of adventure takes advantage over reason. There is nothing special about this place. He could have chosen better. After all, he might have chosen one of those mighty oaks in their prime instead of this dead tree. One of those oaks, which everyone admires as trees of strength from which man can draw vitality, yet at the end of his journey he found this dead tree and here he decided to rest. In fact, at first he did not pay attention to the tree. He was attracted by the mirror of water. He always felt drawn to the water. However, it happened so that fate threw him far from lakes and seas. So he would come here and just sit staring into the distance. Each time he admired the forest spirit passing by him indifferently. With every next step the forest turned more and more green, and when he walked away, he left the world rich in burning gold, which later disappeared in blinding white as if in the ashes of a dying fire. He wondered where the green monarch had gone and why he kept coming back to the same place. As if against the logic and the clock. Just like him. Was the spirit of the forest blessed with the chance of admiring the lakes and seas hidden under the highest mountain peaks, in impenetrable jungles, on the other side of endless deserts, about which he himself dreamed so much? When I cannot express something the way I would like it, when I cannot stop or go somewhere, when I fail to capture the moment in a photo, or when there are other obstacles, I try to describe it with pen and pencil. I witnessed the forest passing by. Maybe one day I will show you how dignified was his green retinue. Maybe the forest is in a way reflected evergreen in the mirror of the water. Who knows what secrets the forest swamp hides. Maybe what seems to end here has its proper beginning somewhere deep down there. For a brief moment, it seemed to me the water reflected the broken tree in full bloom. A glimpse of true enlightenment. Just a glimpse. Almost like a secret discovered through the keyhole. The more I become attached to a place, the more I discover it over and over again. As if a new secret was revealed to me every time. Another curtain raised. Me going deeper and deeper in the spiritual matter of this other world. During sketching this drawing, I noticed a dune hidden behind the thicket of trees that gave the landscape an unexpected mountainous touch. And again I thought what a great talent it is to be able to draw with these hands all that is forbidden to be done in another way. Art enables all that the laws of men have forbidden.
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VICTORIA TUCHOLKA
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