Garaža Kamba

We dwell in the layering of external self-consciousness that exists in the form of reflecting our inner character in someone else’s eyes, while true, essential introspection is left to druids and shamans, woven into the myths and inscriptions of ancient Deepak Chopra manuscripts. Maybe. And yet again, we walk day by day on the streams of concrete, anxiety and liquefied emotion, while neurons whisper: Look at this, look at that over there, but wait a minute, hang from somewhere a moment or five, it tastes new in your mouth, but old as it was, remember, once before, when the body was younger. And this guy really rides this bike really bad, yellow bike, yellow like a raincoat, raincoat on a woman. And so on and so forth, introspection is inherent in every thinking being, self-examination, however imperfect in the standards of “true” enlightenment, is an essential part of everyday human complexity.

In the ambient installation, Whisper will weave wire Jelena Kovačev takes the literary notion of the flow of consciousness and translates it into a visual medium intertwined with metal wiring, paper, and written word. By visualizing and transmitting thoughts into space, intertwining the line with words in the spatial drawing, which is the result of the author’s own exploration of her own self, Jelena translates the flow of consciousness into several levels: knitting the wire into abstract structures, interconnected by strands of thread, she evokes the complex interweaving of neural networks, representing thought syntagms in a literal but also symbolic sense, in this way creating complex organic structures. Such a material construction she continues with lines of written word that again are continued with wires, containing impressions of herself, sometimes others, about the questions she raises about her work, herself as an artists, as a woman, a child, sister, friend, giving the element of doubt the complexity but not the weight.

Jelena herself is better able to ask a question about herself than I can: What is the mind rather than a combination of all this, a thrust of thoughts in turmoil, with brief interruptions, with crumpled masses that intertwine, touch, repel? Does the word finally release us or shut us down? Do we get answers to our imaginary questions? Or are we left in an undefined space surrounded by things hanging from the ceiling and walls, staring at us, waiting, turning as the wind blows and waiting, eternally waiting for an answer?

Gallery