You took

I could have spent for ever on this image but i decided to put it up in an unfinished state in stead.

Anyway, on the pretentious side, i feel i have rediscovered the therapeutic side of making images in the last years. Growing up with two therapist parents and having a real nag for over intellectualizing traumas and feelings i sometimes get absolutely stuck in analyzing events i still have to strong emotions about to really be able to distance myself sufficiently from them. At points where i find myself trying to distance myself from something that feels to threatening to turn my back on for even a second (for example for the purpose of dinstancing my self from them) making images of the feelings as one does in art therapy often makes me able to see sides of them i otherwise wouldn’t have dared glance at. Well here’s depressing image number one anyway; you took

On the same note, i’m currently working on a larger project, an abstrat image..or actually more like  four images of four stages in life surrounding death (not your own death of obviously or it would have said preceding since i’m not a big fan of the whole afterlife thing) but the experience of losing people close to you.. or to be moderately personal..losing my mother. I’m aware that it sounds somewhat depressing or pretentious but i think i have sufficient distance in that case to actually find it mostly interesting to reflect on what happens to your perception of time and the organization of your thoughts at traumatic times in hour life… the most depressing part of it actually…witch is in itself a bit depressing… is constructing the last image/phase that concerns how your life comes together afterwards…

A Darker Rococo

The two latest images commissioned by sprezzatura. The theme is commentary on an excerpt from a rather wellknown diary kept by one of the ministers of louis XV’s court, the comte d’argenson.

The excerpt in my own translation: The Dauphin (crown prince) and the princesses become melancholic and devote them selves without constraints to their peculiar taste; they wont see and will never speak to others: they love to talk of death and catafalks; in the dark antechamber they amuse themselves by playing quadrille in the light of a yellow wax candle, and with delight they tell each other: “Nous sommes morts” (we are dead).