. We do not belong to ourselves. So to what we do belong? – you'll ask.
To sunrises and sunsets, cracked walls, dirt and grayness of the street.
To all those minor issues passed by every day, dry leaves, cardboard boxes, scattered light, puddleswith cigarettes butts.
Asphalt heated by the summer belongs to the sun. It is the sun.
The sounds, which can be found on the street and composed inside head, when being already far from the reign of words. Words are establishing their own order. They are pulling us towards direction which they give shape to. They are able to subjugate the majority of thoughts, sometimes they impose themselves. Thinking, when there are no words, is accompanied by joy. A lot can fit between eyes and ears. Sometimes the whole body. You can wrap your head around this. It can suddenly get really hot, you may feel mixed and bewildered. Just as while looking at the images, when you begin to belong to them, and they reciprocate your glance. The warmth of the day and the warm glance.
Asphalt, damp concrete, pile of leaves, dead dove, the sounds of telephones, own feelings. It all defies words, pulling in the direction of stories, that someone has likely told before. Meditations without object other than observing.
You're that pile of leaves, everything falls apart and blurs.
Then the sun is shining and it warms the streets, and you see just as if your gaze was also warmed. However, sun has enough attention. Rose-coloured sunset, cold air, drawings from the sand on the flagstones, someone smokes a cigarette.
I move, create my own trajectories, rhythms, traces on the wet ground. There are no streets on my map, only cracked patterns on the shop windows, trodden paths, the rustle of gravel alleys. I am all of this at once and my head is buzzing.
Anna Bąk

Courtesy of the artist and SKALA