Rationality, Intuition and Emotion

exploring an artistic process

“Love is the extremely difficult realization that something other than oneself is real.”

Iris Murdoch

Picture 1, newspaper clipping, NRC Handelsblad, around 1992

Picture 2. From the series "On Racial Biology - Eugenics"

Ceramics and pigments, 2011, life size.

Picture 3. Portrait of a Man

Ceramics and Pigments, 2004-2006

Picture 4. From the series: "French Children of the Holocaust":

"Anny-Yolande Horowitz was born on june 2, 1933, in Strassbourg. Interned in the Lalande camp near Tours and then transferred to Drancy, she was deported to Auschwitz on convoy 31 on September 11, 1942, with her mother, Frieda and her sister Paulette, age 7."

Ceramics and pigments, 2011, life size.

Picture 5. 'Pondus',

Charcoal on paper, 2011

100 x 70 cm.

Picture 7. No title, (Jump)

charcoal on paper (detail), 2012

Picture 8. War against War!

Ceramics and pigments, 2011

Picture 6. No Title, (Moon)

Charcoal on paper, 2012

100 x 70 cm.

JOURNAL

day 1. My studio is a mess.

Some months have passed since I was here. I’ve been working in Denmark and doing other stuff, so I haven’t been here. It has become a dump, into which I tossed everything I didn’t need for the moment. It doesn’t work for me to simply start in a mess. I need to feel undisturbed and focused. I need to see my references. It can be chaos, but it has to be mine. I start with making three different workstations: one for painting the last sculptures I made in Denmark, a large table for drawing and a table for writing.

As usual, I procrastinate before I even think of starting: settling my mind, wandering around, putting in order, choosing what to do. Taking in books and stuff I want to work with. Taking out whatever doesn’t fit in. Deciding. Trying to get focused. Once I have started I am fine.

On my writing table lie a selection of books that will guide me in some way: Ellsworth Kelly, Drawings on a Bus, 1954; Silvia Bächli, das; Tetsumi Kudo, an exhibition catalogue with work from his show at the Stedelijk Museum in Amsterdam in 1972 (*); The Big Five, about psychological keywords; Boltanski; Karin Lindholm, Knäppfinger; John Coplans, A Body; Antonin Artaud, works on paper; Francis Bacon, an inventory of his studio; Ernst Friedrich, War against War!; Serge Klarsfeld, French Children of the Holocaust.

The last book is the major reference in the series of sculptures I am working on at this moment. I might or might not use the other books mentioned, but I want them at hand. I tend to pick them up, walk through and put them aside again, as a source of artistic reference. I don’t read them. I look at the pictures. Some of them don’t even have texts. I don’t care about the texts, it’s the visuals I’m after, although sometimes I read.

Part of my way of procrastinating is writing. I write about how to get going, about my mood, about whether or not I want to be in my studio and whether or not I feel blocked. I write about why I write all this. I write to kick myself to work: the “work” of sculpting or drawing. But with this project my attitude towards this writing has shifted paradigm and it has become work as well. Even though writing has always been a part of my process, as a way to gain focus, it has also been a way of postponing my work. Now this writing has become permissive, it feels like a liberation or a relief. I feel triggered to write, but since this text will be a part of a presentation, I have to bring it to another level: it has to be readable for others as well.

Who will I address in these writings? This is a journal, but unlike the diaries I am used to keeping, this one will not be private. It has to be more formal, yet personal at the same time. It has to be readable for people with a general interest in art, who happen to be interested in my work or in this research project. This will mean: not too much repetition and self-indulgence. But since I don’t want to lose the openness that I normally have in my diaries, I will write freely and edit later in order to achieve clarity of my intentions and make it more readable for others.

For me, writing is a time-consuming occupation. That is to say, I write very slowly. I use introspection as a method, I try to capture my inner voice. Due to this, I enter a contemplative state of mind where I can be aware of thoughts that otherwise are too ephemeral to notice. It is thereby a writing from within, a reflective writing, like the writing Emma Göransson and Roland Ljungberg describe, rather than an analytical writing. (Göransson, & Ljungberg, 2009) Writing in English, which is not my mother tongue, brings down the speed of this process even further, creating time to develop my thoughts. My vocabulary in Dutch might be much larger; writing in English forces me into a more reflective attitude, where I weigh each and every word.


(*) I saw this exhibition of Kudo together with a friend when I was an adolescent, since we strolled around the museums every weekend, and we thought it was so cool: a penis in a birdcage, a body smeared out over a chair, eyes in a bucket. We saw this exhibition several times and we were very impressed and excited as twelve-year-olds. Kudo is probably one of the artists who has most influenced me to become one myself. Even after 40 years I still have a vivid memory of this show.

I walk in a park. Ephemeral existences disperse from trees. I am not afraid.

day 2. Last year I worked on a series of drawings, which I called “Pondus”. A big, black curved form, a dot, on a white sheet of paper (picture 5). It was about balance and weight and the apparent ease some people, especially dominant white males, have about themselves. At one point the form hits the side of the paper, on the other side it runs off the paper. As I was working on the drawings, I realized that it was not a drawing I was after. In my mind it became a huge, free-standing, abstract, flat, black sculpture. I have not come so far as actually making it, but I will. 



Later I developed the drawings in the opposite direction: a white curved form, left behind after making the rest of the paper as black as it can be. The curved form became the moon in the night sky. Since the drawings were meant to be presented together with a sculpture series on the Danish resistance movement, in particular portraits of assassins, the moon became a symbol for activities which under normal circumstances cannot take place in broad daylight. That is where I start now: a negative form (picture 6).


Black space around a white, single-curved form. If I leave the paper white as it is, it remains two-dimensional. I need to do something in the white sphere. First I adjust the curve, since I am not pleased with it. It should not be perfectly round, but almost. Now it is sort of hanging. 



As it is still not as close to a circle as I want, I use a pair of custom-made compasses and adjust the curved line. I have noticed before that I get a better feeling of ‘a moon’ if this moon is not a perfect circle. I will adjust once more. 



The black space holds clouds, enclosed. They are in direct contrast with the very dense black space/form around, which has become a container. The clouds meet the dense surface, precipitate, sublimate.

Inside and outside are the same but of a different quality, a different density, a different state of being, another state of mind. The moon has been transfigured.

I am a self-murderer. We are rehearsing the Hell of Dante in an underground parking lot. I am doomed to burn in hell forever and ever.

day 3. Even though it is only one aspect of my work, my psychoses, and how I will relate to them in this project, have dominated this last week. I need to find a convincing way to integrate the small text fragments in the memories of my psychoses that have popped up recently, as parallel elements in my texts. This is in order to say something about the emotional layers of my work. And I need to articulate why I want to include these text fragments in the first place.


I have read about Anna Odell and the way she manifested herself through her BA degree project at Konstfack (University College of Arts, Crafts and Design) Stockholm (Odell, 2009) and I am reading and pondering bits and pieces of other artists whom I could refer to. I am thinking of Antonin Artaud (1896-1948) the French writer/artist connected to Surrealism who, for the better part of his life went in and out of mental hospitals and all the while continued to work, write and draw. (Rowell, 1996) I want to use him in my text as an example of an artist dealing with being mentally ill, put him in an opposing position to that of Anna Odell and relate these two artists to myself and to how I approach my work.

I am in a corridor. I need to visit the bathroom. It is dark. A note on the inside of the door says that the light will switch on if you close the door and lock it. I don’t dare go in.

day 4. New drawing. 70 x 100 cm. Although that might be too big right now. Smaller is faster and I want to work with a new form. But small doesn’t speak the same language as big, and 70 x 100 is still just a step in between.

It is sort of the same curved form as the moon, but with a horizontal platform. A plateau. (One could jump from) (picture 7). It’s an old idea, probably twenty years old, but I want to pick it up again, since it is still present. Back then, I hardly ever continued working with a form to develop it further. I worked a little bit with it and went on to the next, knowing that there would come a time when I would continue. This time has come now. I have small sketches in a book and I want to work with them.

The abstract forms I use are quite simple. They always have been simple, in their apparent form, not so much in their context or content.

In my drawing I never developed the technical skills as I have with my sculpture. Drawing has been my older sister’s domain since I was young. She had a hand for drawing, so I could just as well forget even thinking about it. I became convinced that it was not for me and I never even bothered to try. Later I did, but it always has been, and still is, loaded with fears of my inabilities. So I get easily locked and blocked, and it is precisely that which this is about, the Pondus-motif and content are directly linked.

I drive a needle through his eye.
The picture is a newspaper clipping that hangs on my wall. He is a war criminal, responsible for the deaths of tens of thousands. In my delusion it is me. I am he. I commit voodoo on myself.

day 5. I am struggling to find a way to embed the memory fragments of my psychoses in this project. Since they are very private, I hesitate to integrate them in this text. Yet, if I want to go beyond my fear, I need to use these fragments in view of the fact that they represent important emotional layers in my work. These emotional layers are present in both my drawings and my sculptures as a part of the expression and content. Though in my sculpture they are not directly visual, since I try to conceal them. In my recent drawings the emotional layers come more to the surface.

My psychoses are not a subject in my work, as they are in that of Anna Odell. Odell faked and relived a psychosis as a part of an art project in 2009. (Odell, 2009) She pretended that she would commit suicide and protested intensely to the people who wanted to help her, until she was drugged and forcibly removed from the scene. She had a psychosis 13 years earlier in her life, and did this project to question the way psychiatric hospitals take care of people with an acute psychosis. With her project Anna Odell generated massive media attention and public debate. Yet this debate was not about psychiatric healthcare as she had hoped, but about the legitimacy of her actions and whether her project was or was not art. I don’t think this text is the place to discuss these questions. I name Anna Odell because she is an artist who explicitly used her psychosis, as a theme in her work, to question what she thinks is a systemic failure in psychiatric healthcare. A political stance that I do not want to take.

I use my experiences with psychoses to charge my work emotionally, to make it more powerful, but the psychoses themselves are not a subject in my work. They are a part the experiences that formed me into the person I am now. I do not feel the need to communicate these experiences in a political format as Anna Odell does in her project. Yet, I want to write about these experiences in order to get a deeper understanding of my motives to work with portraits of victims.

From my abstract work one could construe my mental state during the psychoses, which would be a valid interpretation of these works, but only if this interpretation is explicit. Since these drawings are conveyed in a fully abstract realm, they are open to any interpretation.

My intention is to make art. Unlike psychiatric patients who have an incurable urge to draw or who need to get hold of themselves through creative therapy. In my perception they don’t make art with the same intentions as an artist. Yet, the list of artists with psychiatric problems who managed their illness through their work is long. Consider Antonin Artaud. In contrast to Odell, who replayed her psychosis with a political agenda, Artaud can’t be anyone other than who he is: a man with psychiatric problems.

Demonerna kaller mig. 

Det är skuggor av fåglar överallt. 

Över mig, under mig, på sidorna, bakom mig.

Demons are calling for me.

There are shadows of birds everywhere.

Over me, under me, beside me, behind me.

Berny Pålsson, 2004 

(the english translation is my own)

day 6. Painting a sculpture from a recent series “War against War!” based on a book with the same title by the German author Ernst Friedrich who was active between the wars (picture 8). With this book, and his anti-war museum, the pacifist Friedrich took a stand against war. He collected over one hundred and eighty photographs from German military and medical archives and published them to enlighten the public to the horrors of war. The book contains a collection of pictures of destroyed cities and vehicles, endless numbers of dead bodies scattered about the battlefields, cumulating in a series of close-up pictures of soldiers whose faces are partly blown away by grenades, but who miraculously survived. Some of these pictures are of man whose faces are ‘restored’ by the primitive plastic surgery of the early 20th century. Friedrich hoped that his book would give a face to the war and as such function as a deterrent, preventing wars in the future. In 1933 he was chased away by the Nazis from his hometown Berlin, forced to leave his museum which the Nazis seized as their hangout (Friedrich, 1924: 14-15; Sontag, 2003: 13-14). I have used some of the pictures from this book to make a series of sculptures, since they fascinated and horrified me. The sculptures themselves are freer in style than my series on Racial Biology and French Children of the Holocaust. In the latter two, I wished to depict specific individuals, whereas the former deals with anonymous war victims. I wanted to use a freer style to open up my way of working.

But why do I want to create these sculptures in the first place? What is my interest in them? Is it to shock and provoke the audience? Do I think that the contribution I make with my art will help to put an end to war? Just as Friedrich thought? Actually not. I am not so naive that I believe private discussion initiated by my work here in Sweden would help to put an end to the war in Afghanistan. Yet war seen from the perspective of war victims is one of the recurring themes in my work. Mutilated faces represent mutilated souls. With this work I relive some of the aspects of my past, transfigure those aspects into sculpture with a thought-content tangible to others. With this work I tell my story through the stories of others; I tell their stories through my experiences, through my eyes. Nevertheless, my private stories remain untold. My personal incentive is to feel purified, slightly redeemed, having created these works, while at the same time I feel that I can focus on a topic that is larger than me. This is to salvage the Calvinist in me.

Thinking of Louise Bourgeois in the way she brought her experiences into her work, saying something both very personal and of common value at the same time.

I smash my head through the glass. It is like an eggshell. I need to be reborn. I open the window and put myself on the ledge. I am naked. I loose myself, but there is an angel to catch me.

day 7. Sometimes there are frustratingly long periods between the days I can work in my studio. Like now: I have worked and I have travelled and I have even been in my studio, but I was unable to do any artistic work. So, here I am, trying to get focused again, but there are many things and thoughts pulling me in all directions. Not the least the reading and writing for this project. I permit myself a small amount of idling in able to get back on track.

Yesterday I was in the studio for a short while and started a new drawing. It is big, 230 x 145 cm. Unlike the drawings I discussed earlier, I have not started with a clear form, but I sprinkled some charcoal powder on the paper to start with. There is a connection to previous abstract work I made: two blocks (fields) hovering over a third. Just black ink, nothing else. The lines and sides are drawn by hand, which upon closer observation, give the blocks a more organic character (picture 9). I think of some of the works of Brice Marden, for example: “Dark”, 1963. (In: Garrels, 2006: 134) Two dark grey fields, put together. It is the expressive way Marden applied his paint that brings this painting to life.

“If you’re not working with preconceived forms and thinking, then you can concentrate on expression. It is possible, I think, to make art on this instinctive level, out of a deeply felt response. The longer I paint, the more I think this is true.” 

Brice Marden, 1987

 
Something like this I would like to achieve in my drawings: a direct emotional expression on an instinctive level, connected to a deeper layer in myself. Which means that I cannot simply go to the studio and start with a new drawing like starting the lawn mower. This is why I procrastinate to get focused.

I am in a fog. They put me there. There is no way out. I am numb.

day 8. What is happening in the drawings I make? They are kind of reiterative. There are two, three or four dark organic forms with multiple nodes, cores that are meeting, touching, merging, dissolving, separating, enclosing–each other and themselves. There is a flow, a movement, a genesis, a growing, a becoming. But this becoming is as well a start for something prodigiously heavy.

In the early years when I made abstract drawings, I could literally feel salvation from the pains and fears I had suffered during my psychoses. I could convey these emotions in my drawings and felt catharsis afterwards. But I could only work for a limited amount of time and on a small scale. I lacked the energy to move on. It was an exhausting experience.

Now I have the capacity to work on a large scale (and maybe I even have to), yet I wonder if I have the capacity to convey the same emotional energy. My psychotic experiences took place more than twenty years ago, and yet the immanent emotionality is still strong, is still a threat, but this threat is no longer persistent.

I am a chicken. I lay on my nest and scratch the surface with my legs. My feathers are itching.

day 9. Today I’ll start with a new portrait.

I have selected a photo from the book “French Children of the Holocaust”. It is a picture of Jacques Jakubowicz, deported when he was 13. (Klarsfeld, 1996: 1586) He looks like a very sweet Aryan boy with blond hair and a hint of a melancholic smile on his face. I go for this melancholic smile whose contrast to the Star of David mounted on his coat captures my interest (picture 10-11).

I have to work fast, since there is not much time left. At the end of next week it has to be done. First I have to decide on the size of the sculpture. The picture of Jacques was taken when he was probably 12 years old. At this age he was somewhere between 140-170 cm, according to a standard growth curve. He looks frail to me, so I put him at the lower part of the scale, around 145-150 cm. The next assumption is that his head is around 19-20 cm, which implies that the actual sculpture has to be approximately 42 cm, if I am to follow the picture. Which in turn means that I have to make the sculpture around 46 cm high, since the clay will shrink by about 9%. This means that I have to multiply every measurement on my picture by 1.7. Since I want my sculpture to have a naturalistic appearance, I measure every little detail in his face and body and transfer that to my piece of clay.

Over the years I have developed this particular working method, and I have become seasoned with it, which might be both its weakness and its strength. In a way I repeat myself, but this reiteration has meant that I have developed very specific skills, which I now can apply to my sculpture. These sculptures are like actors in a play that I direct, serving my needs in a presentation. But sometimes I question the creativity of this process and it can feel that I am in a sense more a craftsman then an artist. Even though these are not opposite positions, an artist is also a craftsperson, a craftsperson also an artist.

I have only one picture of Jacques. He looks straight into the lens, but his body is slightly turned away in a classic and traditional photographic portrait. I have to estimate the depth of his face and features, which I only can get accurate by approximation. Here my experience comes in. Even though I try to get as close as I can to portraying Jacques Jakubowicz as the person I think he was, I have only limited information. The question is not whether I make an accurate portrait of Jacques, but whether or not this portrait is credible.

I am in an egg and I need to get out.

day 10. Even though I have made dozens of portraits, I never take sculpting them for granted. It doesn’t always come naturally to me. Sometimes I have to struggle, because it simply doesn’t work the way I want, and sometimes it floats out of my hands. Which is much better. If I struggle, I might as well stop and do something else, since it will never be any good. The best pieces I make come with flow, the mental state where I feel confident, secure and challenged at the same time, but unfortunately I can never force myself into this mental state. I can only create the space where it can happen. (Csikszentmihalyi, 1998: 39-41, 61-62) That is where my procrastination comes in. It can go wrong when the pressure is too high. For example when I had to perform at the Artist in Residence Guldagergaard in Denmark last autumn. Working in a shared studio space on a commission and struggling for four weeks with a piece that never became as good as I wanted it to be. I did the following piece, no commission, in three hours and it was more interesting to look at. Flow is an absolute necessity in my work.

I will now return to my drawings and see if it works to switch just like that. Going from vacuum cleaning to cutting the grass. I have been looking at the drawing for a couple of days while it was hanging on the wall. I did not interact with it and I sort of know what to do next. The different fields have to meet and work together; I will slowly move forward to the point where I think it should be. I will also start with a new and smaller piece, 140 x 148 cm. I don’t want all the drawings to be the same size, to lend each of them a distinct character. In the new drawing I plan there to be only one field.

The two fields that looked like kissing heads are gone. Instead I seem to have a standing figure in this drawing. These associations are OK for me. It is like looking at the clouds in the sky and discovering elephants, faces and cars. The mind wants control and interpretation. I don’t want it to be too obvious though. The abstract/non-figurative quality should prevail, so that the contrast with my sculpture is maximized.

I continue with the second drawing, because I want the other one to rest. The next time I can work on them is in a week. I feel that these drawings have to grow in my mind and I don’t want to impose myself on them. They need to tell me what is next.

I wake up in a white room. There are no windows. I lay on a mattress with a plastic cover. I am naked. There are no sheets. The door is locked. I am not cold, but tired. I need to poop and there is only a white pot on the floor. I nearly throw up from disgust. I bang the door and point at the pot to the one who is opening. He takes it out and comes back with some food. I sleep again. Later, he brings me my clothes and I can follow him out. We walk through a corridor and come to a room where there are some people eating. I scream at them all I can.

day 11.   My method of drawing is very different from my way of working with portrait sculpture.

In my sculpture I have one or two pictures that I use as a reference. I try to get as close as I can to the person I depict. Through the years I have developed a descriptive working method, where I measure the head and all its features and their positions and relations to each other. At the same time, while looking at the pictures I have, I try to feel the person I depict on an emotional level and I try to catch that feeling in my sculpture.

I hardly ever use my hands to articulate my sculpture. Instead I use tools as an intermediary between my hands and the clay. I apply clay and remove it as I think is needed. I can go back and forth in this process of modelling and start all over with a detail if needed. I use tools for measuring and modelling in a rational approach, together with my sensitivity to get the portrait “right”. During this process I measure and compare the sculpture with my reference picture(s) and I am done when I think I cannot go further in creating a credible likeness and the sculpture itself seems to be in balance.

In my drawings I take another position. My references are not outside, but inside me. I don’t use mimesis, but introspection. There is no way to get it “right”.

I scatter some charcoal powder on the paper, or I draw a line and try to see what happens. The process is highly coincidental. I hardly ever work with tools in my drawings, but I use my fingers and hands to spread the charcoal over the paper. I might use a glove to protect my hand from wearing out, as I have on several occasions worked until my hand started to bleed (picture 12).

I work flat on a table, hang the paper on the wall and see what is happening. It is an intuitive seeing. I make decisions about where to apply changes, take the paper from the wall and put it on the table again to work further on it. Since it only can become blacker, it is a one-way process of a drawing getting darker and darker. White is the space which I leave untouched. There are a lot of nuances in grey. I work until I am intuitively pleased.

I smash the glass. It scatters in small fragments all over the room. I hide with my blanket under the bed.

day 12. Initiating work on my sculpture is considerably easier than starting with the drawings. Since I know where to go with my sculpture, I can simply continue where I left off. I can easily see what needs to be done. This is more complicated with the drawings: I have to sit down and look and feel first, before I can make any decision on how to proceed. Where my attitude toward my sculpture is conceptual, toward my drawings it is contemplative; the drawings pull me deeper into my process, deeper into myself. The rational process of modelling allows me to excel technically; drawing challenges my intuition. The differentiation between my drawings and my sculpture interests me, since it triggers a broad spectrum of my personality; it satisfies my rationality, intuition and emotionality.

The drawings visualize and embody deeper emotional layers within myself that are partly formed through the prodigious emotional experiences during my psychoses. My sculptures bear a similar emotional drive, though the expression is diametrically different and under the surface. The emotional content is merely disclosed in the selection of the subjects I work with.

Until recent years I could only scratch the surface of this content through rational and analytical articulation. I found it difficult to define the underlying motives and to search beyond my self-created concepts, mainly because I didn’t want to mention my experiences with psychoses. Consequently, I have never seriously formulated what this content is about; I wanted to describe my work without referring to these experiences, which made it into a dragging exercise. Obviously, since I have started with these writings, I dare to access deeper formations within myself, visualize them in my drawings and connect the drawings to my sculpture, without having to hide a crucial component. Now I can begin to verbalize their interrelations on another level.

I lay in a bathtub that is filled up to the brim. The water is warm and welcoming. I see how my naked body is floating and consider drifting away.

day 13. Reading Judith Butler’s critique on Julia Kristeva (Butler, 2006: 79-80), I can think of the rational-conceptual approach that I have in my sculpture as a representation of a paternal system and the intuitive approach in my drawings as maternal. Though this might be obvious, it describes another aspect of my work. I have thought of these kinds of connections a long time ago, but Butler brings it back to the surface with great clarity.

In my early twenties I experienced an identity crisis. In the “Symbolic” environment in which I was schooled, I worked as a laboratory assistant and was trained in a strict template of how to think and work, I discovered that I had developed myself unilaterally and that I was cut off from my maternal side. My quest for this side within me, which encircled my sexual and later even my gender identity, was triggered by the film Querelle by Rainer Werner Fassbinder (Fassbinder, 1982). I was knocked out by this hypnotic film about masculinity and gay life and I soon found myself questioning the whole cultural-symbolic system in which I had grown up and in which I never had been at ease. I questioned this white-male dominated disposition, which I call Pondus in this project, through making art of all kinds (visual arts, singing, writing, poetry, theatre, dance) to find an alternative form in which I would thrive better. Through this I returned to the interests and spirit that I had as a child. This artistic questioning, that can be read as an attempt to return to the maternal body, disrupted the fundaments of the world in which I lived to such an extent that I became psychotic.

After these psychoses, I continued making art, but considerably more at my guard for the possible consequences of ‘her’ disruptive powers. The rational-conceptual approach to my sculpture proved to be a safe choice, but doubts over the unilateral tendencies of this method remained. Which is one of the reasons why I took up my drawings again. If I include both drawing, sculpture and writing in my process, as I have done during this project, I will generate a multi-facetted attitude, which I find highly compelling.    

Picture 9. No Title

Ink on Chinese paper, ca. 1993, 137 x 68,5 cm.

Picture 10. From the series: "French Children of the Holocaust: Jacques Jakubowicz was born on April 15, 1931, in Nancy (Meurthe-et-Moselle). Arrested in the UGIF Lamarck-Secrétan children's center, he was deported on July 31, 1944, on convoy 77".
Ceramics and pigment, 2012, life-size.

Picture 11. Detail.

Picture 12. From 'Naive and Sentimental Drawings'

Charcoal on paper, 2012

240 x 135 cm.

Picture 13. From the series "French Children of the Holocaust":  “Jacques Wisznia was born on October 15, 1937, in Paris, where he lived at 108 rue de la Folie-Mericourt (11th arr.). He was deported to Auschwitz on February 9, 1943, on convoy 46.”

Ceramics and pigments, 2011, life size.

Picture 14. Examination exhibition for the course "Artistic Research Processes" at Konstfack, University College for Arts, Crafts and Design, Stockholm, june 2012.