The existentia fluxa of Mariusz Łukasik

Mariusz Lukasik - in his atelier

"… I go to see Mariusz on a Monday, about a week after the fog fell on Warsaw. It fell on streets, boroughs and districts, and cloaked the Palace from view. On the airport, too - only the boldest of planes have dared to take off. It fell onto the beds of the Vistula, the Narew, the Rhine, the Danube. On every sheet of paper, each piece of stationery, each bill and receipt. It looms large in the eye and in the mind. All things mobile have fallen still. The unmoving set in motion. Trees have edged along the lane, bodies jutted beyond their outlines, limbs flop awhirl as if cast in rubber.

I head anxiously home. I want to be where what is immutable by nature endures as it was. Where there is no alternation of traits, no ill-fitting qualities, shifted contours; no unforeseen and disjointed events. I want a place where colour clings to surfaces like cloth to table-tops, where voices sound forth from throats not Tannoys, where volumes are part of shapes, and shapes given once and for all, in witness to permanence.

But all things are separate now. It can’t be helped. Heads severed from bodies, heels from feet. Nudity from arousal and desire. Men from women. Breath from lungs. Air from space.

What had seemed whole now comes apart, frays and flutters. The home is no longer a refuge or fortress. We open the window. Hogsheads of fog roll back and forth. Helter skelter. Purposeless.

We had felt the cleft for some time now, though nobody ever said a word.

It took the fog to make us painfully aware of how things stand.

Some say: the world is what we see it as.

Some say: there is no world!

Some say: the world only exists on paper. Within the frame of an image."

Krzysztof Gedroyć

Translated by/tłumaczenie: Artur Zapałowski

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The existentia fluxa of Mariusz Łukasik