Painting a single picture is a continuous, usually one-time process, which should not be interrupted before completing it or reaching at least a partial agreement between the artistic form and the inner emotional state. The point of completion is, of course, the artist’s subjective feeling. So each picture is an expressed and materialised, separate sentence.  

        The origin of the language of these works and their artistic form is my typical, unwitting scribble, which, in the course of continuous evolution, was magnified from the size of small pieces of paper, notes and fragments of drafts from notebooks.

        Apart from the meaningless, nervous traces of felt-tip ink or paint, these paraencephalographic records lack content, they are only remains of some “flowing”, evolving form, which was finally vehemently covered with scribbles or thrown away. I filled with them empty pages in my notebooks and handbooks where I doodled on the banal illustrations until they were illegible.   

        Although there was more of scribbling than writing in them, they also reflected my character and temperament and that is why became my emotional diary which I fill with drafts and artistic pictures even nowadays.

        Magnified to the size of a notebook, then a sketching block and finally a large picture, the forms could be called art. 

        The clumsiness of the traces, which almost ridicules them, their limited, lacking in flirtatious elegance, almost mechanical character suggests their intimate interpretation, omitting the barrier of “highly enlightened” mind. This, in turn, encourages those who are not acquainted with art to interpret it.   

The traces in pictures are almost like fingerprints or the encephalogram of the soul. The artist’s anti-idealised inner world is shown to the public while the artist’s main objective is simply to look into his own soul and confront what he sees there.    
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