110 × 90 × 4 cm
Acrylic on canvas.
Free shipping anywhere in the world.
When I was painting this piece, I kept returning to the idea of mystery — that quiet, suspended moment when something vast seems on the verge of unfolding. The three images felt like fragments of the same event, seen from shifting perspectives, like time folding in on itself. I imagined a celestial occurrence — a comet passing, light refracting, the world holding its breath.
In the top image, the darkness of the water felt crucial. It has depth and pull, like an unconscious space — opaque yet alive. Against it, the brightness that strikes her eyes becomes almost violent, a piercing illumination that both reveals and blinds. That tension between seeing and being overwhelmed by what is seen lies at the heart of the painting.
I was thinking about Andrei Tarkovsky’s films — their sense of time as liquid and spiritual — and about Deleuze’s “time-image,” where events coexist rather than progress. Writers like Italo Calvino remind me how cosmic and personal can merge, how perception itself can be an act of transformation.
Each section of the painting offers a different angle of experience: immersion, witnessing, and aftermath. The comet’s passage becomes both external and internal, like an awakening or rupture. The surface of the painting carries that instability too — layers colliding, colours vibrating at the edge of control. For me, it’s about the impact of seeing: how light alters us, how moments of beauty or catastrophe never truly pass, but ripple on within us.
110 × 90 × 4 cm
Acrylic on canvas.
Free shipping anywhere in the world.
When I was painting this piece, I kept returning to the idea of mystery — that quiet, suspended moment when something vast seems on the verge of unfolding. The three images felt like fragments of the same event, seen from shifting perspectives, like time folding in on itself. I imagined a celestial occurrence — a comet passing, light refracting, the world holding its breath.
In the top image, the darkness of the water felt crucial. It has depth and pull, like an unconscious space — opaque yet alive. Against it, the brightness that strikes her eyes becomes almost violent, a piercing illumination that both reveals and blinds. That tension between seeing and being overwhelmed by what is seen lies at the heart of the painting.
I was thinking about Andrei Tarkovsky’s films — their sense of time as liquid and spiritual — and about Deleuze’s “time-image,” where events coexist rather than progress. Writers like Italo Calvino remind me how cosmic and personal can merge, how perception itself can be an act of transformation.
Each section of the painting offers a different angle of experience: immersion, witnessing, and aftermath. The comet’s passage becomes both external and internal, like an awakening or rupture. The surface of the painting carries that instability too — layers colliding, colours vibrating at the edge of control. For me, it’s about the impact of seeing: how light alters us, how moments of beauty or catastrophe never truly pass, but ripple on within us.
