Photo by Ivor Lapić
My dearest,
As I sit in my Zagreb studio, motivated by the dim yet omnipresent midday light of November, my
thoughts drift to memories of our past summers and the magic of our holidays together. The sparks
of heat crackle and direct the precise movements of the thick brush into black-lined shapes and the
solid structure of the drawing, which can reach up to a B1 format on refined 200 gram Fabriano
Accademia paper. There is something so soft and delectable about the experience of creating an
analog image, digging up lost time and re-establishing one's own timespan. At the same time, I am
there with you, my Little, lively cat, watching me closely as I bring all of you back with each
successive gesture. Because we are all scattered, someone needs to try and bring us back together.
That feeling of yours is so well conveyed to all of us, Jessica; grandfather Brian pensively looking
at the view of the empty street of a small English town; the hot cup of coffee shared on that joyful
morning when you had so much to say to each other; the sweet anticipation of meticulous Vanja
preparing the court for pétanque on a lazy summer evening on one of our offshore Adriatic islands.
Those moments are as much everyone's as they are preciously yours, so I understand the need to
immortalise them, and it seems that the moment has come to share them with all of us. Is it a token
of possible closeness in these days of general restlessness and frequent absence of kindness and
attention even in elementary interactions?
I read somewhere that daily, ritualised actions make a person feel calmer and safer, whether it's a
cup of tea at 5 p.m., looking out the window at one's own street at 11 a.m., Spanish class on Fridays
at 2 p.m.. And this world is anything but safe and inviting lately. How often do your wishes come
true, how often are you taken aback in the morning by some breaking news, how often are you
simply alone, helpless and burdened by your worries? Are our quiet, repetitive everyday actions our
greatest comfort right now?
I recently came across a series of paintings by the Nabis in the museum; P. Bonnard, E. Vuillard, do
they speak to you? The history of art remembers them for their inclusion of decorative patterns and
scenes from everyday life in paintings created at the turn of the 19th century to early 20th century,
for the decorative aspects of compositions woven from dense patterns of textiles, wallpaper and
other elements of the home of the French middle class. I recognised you in all that, in the domestic
scenes, mostly interiors or exteriors with a touch of the internal, characterised by flattened forms.
And yet, your world, unlike theirs, has no colour, it is a return to the core-memory negatives, like in
analog photography, and psychological conditions, a systematic archive of intimate and personal
connections, for all of us.
This is called the small dark light. It looks like nothing much, it sounds like nothing much, and you
can't get enough of it 1 .
As I sit in my Zagreb studio, motivated by the dim yet omnipresent midday light of November, my
thoughts drift to memories of our past summers and the magic of our holidays together. The sparks
of heat crackle and direct the precise movements of the thick brush into black-lined shapes and the
solid structure of the drawing, which can reach up to a B1 format on refined 200 gram Fabriano
Accademia paper. There is something so soft and delectable about the experience of creating an
analog image, digging up lost time and re-establishing one's own timespan. At the same time, I am
there with you, my Little, lively cat, watching me closely as I bring all of you back with each
successive gesture. Because we are all scattered, someone needs to try and bring us back together.
That feeling of yours is so well conveyed to all of us, Jessica; grandfather Brian pensively looking
at the view of the empty street of a small English town; the hot cup of coffee shared on that joyful
morning when you had so much to say to each other; the sweet anticipation of meticulous Vanja
preparing the court for pétanque on a lazy summer evening on one of our offshore Adriatic islands.
Those moments are as much everyone's as they are preciously yours, so I understand the need to
immortalise them, and it seems that the moment has come to share them with all of us. Is it a token
of possible closeness in these days of general restlessness and frequent absence of kindness and
attention even in elementary interactions?
I read somewhere that daily, ritualised actions make a person feel calmer and safer, whether it's a
cup of tea at 5 p.m., looking out the window at one's own street at 11 a.m., Spanish class on Fridays
at 2 p.m.. And this world is anything but safe and inviting lately. How often do your wishes come
true, how often are you taken aback in the morning by some breaking news, how often are you
simply alone, helpless and burdened by your worries? Are our quiet, repetitive everyday actions our
greatest comfort right now?
I recently came across a series of paintings by the Nabis in the museum; P. Bonnard, E. Vuillard, do
they speak to you? The history of art remembers them for their inclusion of decorative patterns and
scenes from everyday life in paintings created at the turn of the 19th century to early 20th century,
for the decorative aspects of compositions woven from dense patterns of textiles, wallpaper and
other elements of the home of the French middle class. I recognised you in all that, in the domestic
scenes, mostly interiors or exteriors with a touch of the internal, characterised by flattened forms.
And yet, your world, unlike theirs, has no colour, it is a return to the core-memory negatives, like in
analog photography, and psychological conditions, a systematic archive of intimate and personal
connections, for all of us.
This is called the small dark light. It looks like nothing much, it sounds like nothing much, and you
can't get enough of it 1 .
Ivana Meštrov
1 Ursula K. Le Guin, LAO TZU TAO TE CHING, Shambhala, Boulder, 2019., 42.
Photo by Ivor Lapić
Photo by Ivor Lapić
Photo by Ivor Lapić
Photo by Ivor Lapić
Photo by Ivor Lapić
Photo by Ivor Lapić
Photo by Ivor Lapić
