Vytenis Burokas at Editorial

Artist: Vytenis Burokas

Title: Wandering Wind

Venue: Editorial, Vilnius

Photo: Ugnius Gelguda

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His Sneakers were on, yet the journey started first with his eyes and ears and only then with the rest of his body members. He’s standing in a temple of their ruined lodge, smiling because he learned not to love the ruins and passing clouds, not to long for the ‘good old days’, or the temple to be rebuilt. Yet he desires to reunite with vast emptiness, with an unnamable singularity where all the history and its matter with all dichotomies are melted away. Clouds and pollen float into his eyes, and the ears hear how the wind carries a cloud of entropic debris. A word heard or formulated by the inner ear / eye sinks into an intangible being. How deep is the fry? How long can we keep an idea on the horizon of consciousness before it melts away? Repetition and action inscribe thoughts and embodied experiences into an inner programme. On the outside, we need to create dotted borderlines, mnemonic anchors that would constantly remind us of what we believe in again and again. We externalise our belief systems to stumble upon evidences now and then. But how to raise the anchor when we see a storm approaching, and allow the still favourable wind to blow into the sails, how to make a leap of faith?

A slightly different story begins if we employ an idea after capturing it, giving it direction not only in the perspective of eternity, but also weaving it into the fabric of a hitherto tangible reality. We are carried by waves of progress. But the waves have the property of breaking ashore, over and over. The arrow of progress, time, has the strange property of accelerating, flying with ever- increasing speed, increasing its destructive force. Let us no longer believe in a place that is not poisoned by the arrow of time, where everything would exist at once, where there is no top and bottom, empty and full, where the x and y axes are deleted with a transcendental eraser, where math doesn’t have this particular significant chalk, and chalk doesn’t have such fingers with which to make the search for the Truth public on the board. Everything is language, but languages fade away.

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