Untitled (Self-portrait)
It was during an evening Raisa and I felt particularly buoyant and spirited, despite the snow being stacked outside in colossal piles, far too large for that time of the year, and the world still gnashing its teeth with the new virus, that we decided to put some props on us and take pictures of each other.
We dressed up with scarves, blankets, fancy hats, pillows, and other paraphernalia we found at hand in the house.
Conscious that sometimes fancy dresses may reveal more than what they hide, the next day we created quick sketches on paper of eight uncanny characters using those pictures -four of them based on pics of Raisa and four on pics of me-, that eventually crystallised in the painting above/below.
A troubadour in a balaclava; a tall, soft, mushy, silky lady; a shy receding figure; a ghostly face floating about; a distracted, oblivious, rather vulgar, sort of high priest; and some others, each with its own distinctive painterly spirit, density, character and calibre, make up the odd company, who inexplicably sit together around the same table.
A figure lying on the table has been concealed by an undergrowth of designy patterns (the ones you find in those chic boutiques all over Finland). The troupe seem enclosed in some kind of kelomökki, where random geometric forms tamper with a reliable, bona fide representation of the space.
Behind the eight figures Raisa and I intended to paint a window to a scenery we know well, we feel close to, and is so dear to us; however, as usual, our intentions proved to be in vain against the irremediable will of painting: the snowy vista through a window we aimed at, rather wished to become a painting within the painting.
