'...even if it were your own hand, still you would not be pleased if it touched you...'

The name of this cycle is a passage I caught a glimpse of over the shoulder of a fellow passenger on the tram, in an open book. I think it was "The Unbearable Lightness of Being" or maybe "Immortality". I’d read both books, but at the time, neither had really stuck with me. Not until that one day when it suddenly popped into my mind on its own. Something in it caught my attention. I pondered for a long time: what exactly? Why wouldn’t I want my own hand to touch me? Is it dirty? Do I not recognize it? Do I not like it? Does it bother me? I was drawn to the ambiguity, the uncertainty, the hidden paradox. The excerpt simply lodged itself in my mind and began to influence the works that were taking shape under my hands. It spoke to me; I needed to grasp it somehow, to explore it.

The motifs that appear in the drawings are inspired by the everyday objects that surround us and shape our daily lives. They map out our personal, intimate space, as well as the world of which we are an inseparable part. What appears in it, what creates it, what transcends or disrupts it. They also contain promises, wishes conveyed through the images they evoke. Thus, for example, a shoebox becomes a swimming pool, and caps viewed from above become parasols—a memory of a vacation discovered among the shelves of a built-in wardrobe. A discarded glove with cut-off fingers on a silk scarf, as if on translucent insect wings—who will catch whom first? Grandma’s specialty: rolled-up socks. Two cocooned. Pea soup from the cafeteria on a plate, an island perfect for sticking a spoon into. An unreachable spiky cactus on the windowsill, next to the winding stone stairs. In another window, a fluttering curtain, behind it a shifting horizon...