Název “Green strawberries” (zelené jahody) navozuje panickou vzpomínku na Gombrowitze,
nevinnost, pomíjivost; štíhlá, křehká, slabá dívka v tričku...
Kdo ji to stále sleduje, bez ostychu, váhání a mlčky spoza závěsu/okenice?
Dívka, holčička sedící na sedačce, v telefonní budce, posmutnělá ve vaně, zkoumající svůj odraz v
koupelnových dlaždičkách, nesoucí banán a vajíčka na měkko, v zástěře polite červeným vínem. A
ona, s pohledem “prsaté” Edith Piaf v křesle, s kadeřníkem bledého Chekhovianského typu; pijící
kafe jako
“Green Strawberries” conveys girlishness reminiscent of Gombrowicz, immaturity, evanescence; a
slim, fragile, slender girl wearing a T-shirt...
Who is the man constantly watching her, without restraint, hesitation, without lips, from behind the
shutter?
A girl, a woman-child, in the sedan chair, in the telephone box, sad in the bathtub, scrutinising her
reflection in the bathroom tiles, carrying a banana and a soft-boiled egg, her apron stained with red
wine. And she, with the look of a “bosomy” Edith Piaf in the chair, her hairdresser a pale
Chekhovian type; drinking an espresso, as the guy tinkers with a monkey wrench at the sink’s elbow,
and also she, who has just been granted a basement in a housing project.
Is man a demon, one that icons show deprived of colour, lurking somewhere, clinging to the wall,
immersed in the shade? Deprived of God, a devil stripped of light, skulking in the dark. That shade
of dark skin, greenish shirt, peeping ominously at the little girl with a lollipop, this sweet limeflavoured emblem colouring the tongue and lips…
The steps in the centre of the composition – a few of them, leading to the garden? Fig plant’s leaves
provide an African scenery for the “shade” incarnated in the form of the black man.
The characters in Viola Głowacka’s paintings freeze in mysterious stillness, like the Florida black
alligators in the parks run by the Seminole tribe. The beasts’ vital functions are only revealed by the
eye movements. They peek at you preparing to thrust forward and instantly snap their jaws.
The action is only hinted by a barely sketched gesture, no maenadic madness of expression. In
“Laundry” the statue-like features of the portrayed woman, depicted full- face, convey indifference,
weariness, or disapproval. Her smooth, young face inscrutable, as beauty out of reach always is.
Prince Myshkin, the famous Idiot of the Dostoevsky’s novel knew it very well when talking to the
youngest Epanchin sister:
“You are very beautiful, Aglaya Ivanovna, so beautiful that one is afraid to look at you.”
“Is that all? What about her character?” persisted Mrs. Epanchin.
“It is difficult to judge where such beauty is concerned. I have not prepared my judgment. Beauty is
a riddle.”
In Viola Głowacka’s works, sombre, washed colours prevail. However, a distinct, powerful element
tends to stand out in the rich variety of colors, such as the aforementioned green strawberries.
The artist’s style is defined through the line, its noble sketchy trail sculpting forms in the painting.
The layout consists of a few geometric zones. Viola combines asymmetry of composition with the
rhythm of recurring themes. By toning gestures down, she grants the figural scenes the impression
of stillness.
On the one hand, created for contemplation, the paintings let you relax. On the other hand, the
“stillness” raises anxiety. The author’s style is unmistakable. The trail of brush strokes is visible and
so is the washed background; however, resulting from the sparse use of tempera, the painting
reminds one of a graphic work. Thanks to this painting medium, the texture is smooth and yet matt
at the same time. The painter works with a burin to scratch the thick cardboard and create patterns
in the paint on the canvas.
The upcoming vernissage at the Prague Trafačka Gallery, to be held at 7 p.m. on 26th March 2013,
will provide you with an excellent opportunity to talk to the author. To ask about her painting and
literary interests in a face to face conversation.
In my view, she is an artist capable of anything that a creative woman may do. Attentively listening
to Egon Schiele’s portraits, eagerly reading the brutal daily routine of Wróblewski’s canvases,
emanating a subtle eroticism as in Nowosielski’s works. In private - charming and beautiful.
Even though the author’s literary loves are impressing, reading Cioran is not necessary to come and
appreciate this exhibition...
Feel encouraged and invited!
Agnieszka Szablewska