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Description

Everything in this world is fragile and short-lived.
We are desperately looking for the meaning of our lives, trying to embellish and fill our destinies with personal ideals and values.
Many of us are driven by a simple instinct - survival, some - dreams and the endless struggle to fulfill them.
In pursuit of perfection, wealth, luxury or status, we lose our identity. Under a beautiful outer wrapper, decay and emptiness can hide.
The vast majority of people depersonalize themselves, sterilizing and paralyzing their minds, turning into lifeless mannequins or dolls, only from a distance, resembling a person, but if you look inside this soulless shell, you can drown in the bottomless ocean of impersonal, indifferent, devastating emptiness.

As wood withers and falls over time, so our bodies wear out, break and turn to dust, left to grow cobwebs, become a haven for rats, without a single sign of life. But the most terrible thing is to be dead and empty while still alive, aimlessly passing through a lifeless wasteland blindfolded. To turn into a living dead, surrounded by a deafening silence, interrupted only by the echoes of an invisible clock, reminiscent of the inevitable end, when only a soulless shell remains from the body, devoid of feelings and consciousness, left to be torn to pieces by merciless time and decay.

60 x 30 cm, black ink an paper, golden potal

Description

Everything in this world is fragile and short-lived.
We are desperately looking for the meaning of our lives, trying to embellish and fill our destinies with personal ideals and values.
Many of us are driven by a simple instinct - survival, some - dreams and the endless struggle to fulfill them.
In pursuit of perfection, wealth, luxury or status, we lose our identity. Under a beautiful outer wrapper, decay and emptiness can hide.
The vast majority of people depersonalize themselves, sterilizing and paralyzing their minds, turning into lifeless mannequins or dolls, only from a distance, resembling a person, but if you look inside this soulless shell, you can drown in the bottomless ocean of impersonal, indifferent, devastating emptiness.

As wood withers and falls over time, so our bodies wear out, break and turn to dust, left to grow cobwebs, become a haven for rats, without a single sign of life. But the most terrible thing is to be dead and empty while still alive, aimlessly passing through a lifeless wasteland blindfolded. To turn into a living dead, surrounded by a deafening silence, interrupted only by the echoes of an invisible clock, reminiscent of the inevitable end, when only a soulless shell remains from the body, devoid of feelings and consciousness, left to be torn to pieces by merciless time and decay.

60 x 30 cm, black ink an paper, golden potal