101

contemporary
artists
and more...

ANNIVERSARY EDITION | COLLECT ART | 2023 | GEORGIA

 ABOUT
The idea of Collect Art came to light at the end of
December 2019, in order to support Georgian and
international artists during the pandemic, however,
the experience accumulated over the years and
current processes pushed us to play more with
Collect Art and give it different workloads.
On January 1, 2020, Collect Art was launched in the
online space and we started to reach our goal. The
online space allowed us to quickly reach the voice of
the international artistic field. In the autumn of the
same year, we started publishing magazines, and at
the same time launching online exhibitions, the
number of interested artists has already exceeded
500, from 96 countries of the world. In total, we
have released 16 issues of seasonal magazines and
special editions.
During 3 years, we were able to help several
successful artists, such as Nata Buachidze, Salome
Kobulashvili, Tamriko Melikishvili, George Chaushba,
and many more, whose works were exhibited at the
Paris Art Week, the Venice Biennale, the National
Museum of Madrid and etc...
The purpose of Collect Art is to build a bridge
between Georgian and international cultural events
and artists, to give a chance others to think from a
different perspective, and to make art even more
accessible to those interested in the field of culture.
101 CONTEMPORARY ARTISTS:
Eloise Schoeman 31
JASACID 32
Nata Buachidze 06 Dolores Mephistopheles 33
Krzystof Tarnowski 07 Tim Edgar 34
Edina Soós 08 Cat Simmons 35
Kristine Narvida 09 Erika Szentgyörgyi 36
Tamriko Melikishvili 10 Arai Fuzuki 37
Michele Noble 11 Ayan Aziz Mammadova 38
Tamuna Melikishvili 12 Pete Clarke 39
Walter Lee Allen III 13 Maka Gotsiridze 40
Dato Abesadze 14 Michael Wagner 41
Levan Samnashvili 15 Monique J DuFour 42
Shekofteh Afrasiabi 16 Art Sokoloff 43
Patrice Sullivan 17 George Chaushba 44
Fernando Coreia 18 Miguel Sopena 45
Juan Canals 19 Chris Holley 46
Andrew Smith 20 Marie Ruprecht 47
Pol Barbero 21 Lunyu Fu 48
Nobody 22 Colin Gillespie 50
Maya Aomatsu 23 Brian Voce 52
Dimitra Bouritsa 24 Lita Doolan 53
Victoria Vimbert 25 Jane Mckeating 54
Rikardo Druškić 26 Helen Grundy 56
Josh Hollingshead 27 Becky Moriarty 57
FERRÓ 28 Cesar Mammadov 58
Maria Christou 29 Dorotheos Antoniadis 59
Philip Westcott 30 Adrian Flaherty 60
Nina Antonakes 61 Kobi Walsh 88
Ela Vultur 62 Daniel Spehr 89
Manuel de Sousa 63 Adam Czech 90
Levan Kherkheulidze 64 Maria Myasnikova 91
Patrícia Abreu 65 Sam Haynes 92
Birgit Schiemann 66 Chichan Kwong 93
Salome Jishkariani 67 Zaur Gamkrelidze 94
Anne-Marie Glasheen 68 Salome Kobulashvili 95
Vakho Khetaguri 69 Sam Sherborne 96
Alexandr Agafonov 70 Ian Bride 97
Mariam Amurvelashvili 71 Ilia Ramishvili 98
Romina Belda 72 Jose Yumar 99
Vincenzo Cohen 73 Sarah Grace Dye 100
Nino Khundadze 74 Thomas González 101
Zinka Barnovi 75 René Garza 102
Erika Zanelli 76 Cameron Lings 103
Sandro Murvanidze 77 Sam Heydt 104
Dato Koridze 78 Caz Hildebrand 105
John Walmsley 79 Matthias Neumann 106
Tamar Khelashvili 80 Vazha Melikishvili 107
Guilherme Bergamini 81 Tanya Preminger 110
Anna Safronova 82 Gillian Davenport 111
Konrad Hellfeuer 84 Daisy Richardson 112
James Mellor 86 Nugzar Manjaparashvili 113
Allan Punton 87
AND MORE...:

Radoslav Rochallyi 115

Walter Lee Allen III 116
Casy Soma/ Mad Truth 118
Tony Warner 119
Susan Plover 121
Jes Chatwin 124
Ralf Wendt 129
Nino Melikishvili 137
Claudi Piripippi 147
Ally Zlatar 149
R.Prost 194

Collect Art | Tbilisi, Georgia | 2023 | Anniversary Edition

 Love and beauty, purity and trust, exchanging feelings and
even lives, with spontaneous, unpredictable consequences.

Wild Asparagus - Oil on canvas, 80x80cm, 2021

Nata Buachidze

06
Painting
 Untitled - Acrylic and mixed media on cardboard, 70x70cm, 2021
Krzysztof Tarnowski

07
Painting
 Edina Soós

Vulnerable, Project 'Doubts' - Mixed media on canvas, 80x60cm, 2020

09
Painting
 Look how I move - Oil on canvas, 40x50cm, 2021
Kristine Narvida

10
Painting
Tamriko Melikishvili

Self-Portrait - Oil on canvas, diameter 22.5cm, 2020

11 Painting
 Last Post - Mixed media on paper, 50x50cm, 2021
Michele Noble

12
Mixed media
Tamuna Melikishvili

Touch - Oil on canvas, 60x95cm, 2013

13 Painting
 Self-portrait - Oil on canvas, 61x46cm, 2019
Walter Lee Allen III

08
Painting
Dato Abesadze
Road - Oil on canvas, 186.5x126cm, 2006

15 Painting
Levan Samnashvili

The Room - Acrylic on canvas, 50x70cm, 2022

16 Painting
 Mr. president - Acrylic on canvas, 100x100cm, 2020
Shekofteh Afrasiabi

14
Painting
 Lounge Chair - Oil on linen, 10''x8'', 2021
Patrice Sullivan

17
Painting
Fernando Coreia
Reading and sleep - Acrylic on polycarbonate, 30x40, 2020

18 Painting
Juan Canals
Paisaje con Seres - Mixed media on paper, 50x65, 2002

19
Andrew Smith
Salamanca - Oil on canvas, 105x127cm, 2021

20 Painting
 Postmodern man - Digital painting, 4096x4096px, 2022

21
Pol Barbero

Digital Art
Nobody

Mode - Acrylic and mixed media on paper, 90x25cm, 2022

22 Painting
 Dream of the Sun - Oil on canvas, 170x140, 2022
Maya Aomatsu

23
Painting
 Piniata -Oil and oil pastels on canvas, 150x100cm, 2022
Dimitra Bouritsa

24
Painting
Victoria Vimbert

Skinny - Inkjet on canvas, 120x90cm, 2022

53 Print
Rikardo Druškić

FolieADeux - Acrylic on canvas, 150x160cm, 2020

25 Painting
Josh Hollingshead

Human Chain - Oil on canvas, 210x366cm, 2014

26 Painting
FERRÓ
Jim Kaufman - Acrylic on Figueras paper on foam board, 73x103cm, 2021

27 Painting
Maria Christou

Body Escaping Itself - Intaglio-monotype, 120x170cm, 2022

28 Print
Philip Westcott

Sunbathers Eccles - Digital print,20x30cm, 2019

29 Digital Art
Eloise Schoeman

Umbrella - Acrylic on canvas, 120x150cm, 2021

30 Painting
 JASACID

Improvisation
Acrylic and emulsion on acrylic board, 40x40cm, 2021

1/2 2/2

31 Painting
 A glimpse of the Siren Charms - Acrylic on paper, 127x98cm, 2022

32
Dolores Mephistopheles

Painting
Tim Edgar
Cosmic Organism - Mixed media on Greyboard, 50x50cm, 2022

33 Mixed media
 Objet a_9 - Print on archival paper using pigment inks, 37.5''x30'', 2020
Cat Simmons

34
Print
 View from our window II - Lino paint on paper, 30x21cm, 2020
Erika Szentgyörgyi

35
Painting
 Arai Fuzuki

Solar System - Acrylic and gold leaf on canvas, 109x79cm, 2022

36
Painting
 Secret of the colors - Acrylic on canvas, 120x100cm, 2012

37
Ayan Aziz Mammadova

Painting
Pete Clarke
downpourscaffolding - Oil & acrylic on canvas, 100x120cm, 2018

38 Painting
Maka Gotsiridze
One man's nonsense is another man's sense - Oil on canvas, 140x150cm, 2021

39 Painting
 Metropol - Print on canvas, 80x80cm, 2021
Michael Wagner

40
Print
 Mediterrean Seaside - Acrylic on canvas, 102x102cm
Monique J DuFour

41
Painting
 Art Sokoloff

Intuitive Surface pattern - Acrylic & texture paste on canvas, diptych, 61x46 each, 2022

42
Painting
 #48 - Acrylic on paper, 90x70cm, 2021
George Chaushba

43
Painting
 Morning I (from Dénia series) - Oil on canvas, 120x90cm, 2022
Miguel Sopena

44
Painting
Chris Holley

Beethoven miniatures - Oil and pigment on canvas, 30x30cm each, 2019

I II III

45 Painting
Marie Ruprecht

Water & Land

Acrylic & Indian in on old linen pieces, diameter 30cm, 2019

Nr.1 Nr.2 Nr.3

46 Painting
Lunyu Fu

Before You Call It a Tree

Mantoto is a silly little dog,

With a big head and four short legs.
Never jumps high or pees high.
A wisp of wind could evaporate his urine,
Before the big dogs come.
Mantoto needs a piece of urine which is earth-shattering!
Which shows our favourite earth, grass, and spring.
The line and the points were the original Mantoto provided to me,
I know he was drawing a sprout,
A sprout who wants to be a big tree.
Just like the forever ancient shepherd puppy Mantoto,
Always waiting to grow tall!

47
Before you call it a Tree - Print, 100x85mm each, 2021 to present

48 Print
Colin Gillespie
Cities and mental health

In historically recent times people have increasingly migrated from rural areas to cities. They have done so
because large gatherings of people in one place normally create better economic and social
opportunities for all – this, in turn, can offer an improved quality of living.
Many who move from rural to urban settings often leave behind their social networks of friends or family –
this is the framework supporting a ‘sense of place’. Replacing this - in a city - can be difficult. Friendships can
take time to establish – may be transitory –people move around or away – contacts are lost – and a ‘sense of
place’ can become a shifting reality – uncertain and sometimes difficult to define.
However – although it is certain that city living can contribute to positive ‘well-being’– it can, for some, have a
negative impact. It is now generally accepted that cities are associated with higher rates of mental health
problems than those evident in rural areas.
Cities normally have a central ‘heart’ or core – surrounded by suburban neighbourhoods that lead into
outlying areas. These three parts often vary as regards density of population, physical presence, a well-
planned ‘infrastructure’ and availability of resources. The levels of overcrowding, noise and pollution may
also vary within the three parts and have a differing impact on those living there.
Cities provide stimuli – created by the movement of people, the ‘hustle & bustle’, noise and interaction – for
most this can be an energising experience – for others, it sometimes can create ‘overload’ and a gradual
inability to ‘cope’.
Such people may find ‘relief’ by seeking out private spaces in their neighbourhood or begin to accept a level
of self-imposed social withdrawal that easily slips into some form of anxiety or depression.
I spent several years working in a Mental Recovery Centre - providing printmaking as a focal point of
interest/involvement for the Centre users.'Living in a City' was often a topic of conversation and a majority
held view - from their collective experience - was that ' the pace of life was too hectic' -' there was a lack of
manners among people' - ' there was no sense of LOCAL people' - 'it was too congested, noisy 7 dirty' - 'there
was no clean air to breathe' - there should be a control on numbers allowed into a city' - 'there were too many
homeless people on the streets' - living in a city can dilute the brain and make you feel lost'.
The 'HEAD' prints came from my experience working at the Centre - the others reflect my sense of living in a
city.

49
 Dark Corner - Linocut, 35x30cm, 2022

50
Linocut
Brian Voce

A Song For a Nebula

Risograph print, 59.4x42cm, 2017

51 Print
Lita Doolan

Winter creates a crisp new silhouette

with a jagged edge. Taking a walk
past tree barks that reach up
through the snow a mist circles. The
clean shape-shifting power of the
frost is transparent. The powerful
white sparkles, held safe by the trees
outline.

Monochrome tree
Giclee print, 25x25cm, 2021

52 Print
 ane McKeating
J
An autobiographical work. The story of a woman examining the global origins of her wardrobe one
morning whilst ill in bed. The piece documents, on scraps of her bedsheet, images that reflect on
both the individual’s identity and imaginary connections made, through labeling, with the makers
both known and unknown.

The Story
It was 7 am on a migraine day and she wasn’t up to much, so she idly began examining the labels on the
contents of her wardrobe, listing them as she lay in bed.
She isn’t a clothes buyer; familiar, timeworn, outmoded, and charity shop purchases for the most part.
A revelation, why had she never scrutinized them before?
A container of ‘made ins’ from across the globe:
From countries visited, where she could imagine the makers, India, Cambodia, Thailand….
From countries more unfamiliar to her, Bangladesh, China, Malaysia…..
and personal histories, sentimental items made by family, outliving the maker, igniting tactile grief.
She speculated on the hands that had touched them, in the designing, weaving, knitting, printing,
embroidering, and construction. The packaging, transport, and delivery. She reflects on both the global and
more intimate connections and worries about environmental impact, working conditions, and her personal
responsibilities.
She muses about wearing each item, prompting herself; she should appreciate them more.
Each morning she selects her outfit and knows it reinforces her identity that day. Some days it’s a bit of a
struggle and she makes a poor choice.
So, it being a migraine day, on the bedsheets she draws an assortment of the different women she becomes
daily. Over the next few months, she prints and intricately clothes the figures, documenting with the ‘made in’
labels as a personal, miniature, global catalog of one day in 2021, in the middle of a pandemic, managing a
migraine.

55
 'One Monday Morning I Found 25 Countries In My Wardrobe'
stitch and print onto a cotton bedsheet, 120x120cm, 2021. Photo by Jack Armour

56
Print & Stitch
 Power Play - Digital collage, 35x35cm, 2021
Helen Grundy

57
Collage
 Waiting at the traffic light - Pen & Pencil on paper, A3, 2021
Becky Moriarty

58
Drawing
Cesar Mammadov

French Motive - Oil on canvas, 25x35cm, 2019

59 Painting
 Old house from 1922 painting - Tempera on Cardboard, 75x50cm, 2005

60
Dorotheos Antoniadis

Painting
 Adrian Flaherty
Lambeth Bridge - Oil on canvas, 45x78cm, 2018

61 Painting
 Endurance - Acrylic on canvas, 48''x48'',2021
Nina Antonakes

62
Painting
 Ela Vultur

The city from above - Watercolor, pen & ink on paper, 29.7x21cm, 2021

63
Drawing
 Untitled Ito - Digital photography, 36''x24'', 2021
Manuel de Sousa

64
Photography
Levan Kherkheulidze

The Gate

65 Photogtaphy
Patrícia Abreu

Solitude, from Series “Echoing Humanity”

66 Photogtaphy
Birgit Schiemann

Ships waiting to enter the Bosphorus

67 Photogtaphy
Salome Jishkariani

68 Photogtaphy
Anne-Marie Glasheen

Wreckage

69 Photogtaphy
Vakho Khetaguri

70 Photogtaphy
Alexandr Agafonov

71 Photogtaphy
Mariam Amurvelashvili

72 Photogtaphy
Romina Belda

73 Photogtaphy
Vincenzo Cohen

Companions

74 Photogtaphy
Nino Khundadze

In the Middle

75 Photogtaphy
Zinka Barnovi

82 Photogtaphy
Erika Zanelli

Life needs ice cream

81 Photogtaphy
Sandro Murvanidze

Freedom from the known

76 Photogtaphy
Dato Koridze

77 Photogtaphy
John Walmsley Baggage at an art exhibition (#125690)

78 Photogtaphy
Tamar Khelashvili

#thinkingbytheriver

79 Photogtaphy
Guilherme Bergamini

80 Photogtaphy
Anna Safronova

«We stay» consists of works that investigate the issue of war and its consequences on the
environment and society.

The project consists of photos of people who stayed in Ukraine even when military actions
occurred and have been saying that they will be in their country till the end. Their willingness to
protect the country and real devotion command real respect.

In this work, I tried to show the Ukrainians, their feelings and thoughts, whose life was completely
changed by the war that suddenly broke out and became a part of ordinary life. Those people
whom I photographed, are familiar to me. They represent the types, a kind of symbol. The
commonality of thoughts and ideas is an inevitable consequence of similar upbringing, social
attitudes, and environment. And at the same time, each person in the picture is a person who has
his own life attitudes, point of view, thoughts, and feelings - even children who had to grow up very
quickly. We all know that war takes the lives of young people and damages their physical and moral
health, however, the ordinary civilian population - women, children, and youth – nation`s future
and present, are in a constant state of stress. And this leads to mental injuries and leaves a scar.

The war is something that should never happen, and this project is not only a document of time,
which shows the mood of Ukrainian society, but also a warning.

83
84 Photogtaphy
Konrad Hellfeuer

The Anatomy of Melancholy

The Art of Melancholy is to exist between states of remembering and

forgetfulness - and the polarity of holding these direct opposites in unison.
Inherently, this speaks to the ordinary world; of the places we inhabit, the objects
we possess or disown, and the phenomenon we experience within and outside of
ourselves. This then underscores the general malaise of the human condition: how
to form any real sense of meaning and belonging from life with all its
impermanence, change, and increasing obsolescence? Either we sink into this
oblivion and surrender to a malaise or navigate to sense-making. Essentially, to
"storify" our life from the constant formation and reformation of memories. For
what is memory but the invocation of a feeling, emotion, mood, or inflection?
Being human is therefore a constant patterning and repatterning, of finding order
from chaos and translating ambiguity into meaning. The Art of Melancholy is
inherent to all human beings. By knowing this, we become expert witnesses and
protagonists in our life and the lives of others; to hold "Mnemosyne" - a term
derived from the word mnemonic, which itself is from the Greek mneme which
means "remembrance, or memory".

85
86 Photogtaphy
James Mellor

Autumn Orion

87 Photogtaphy
Allan Punton

Chroma 8 - Coloured glass, size 63x33 cm each, 2021

88 Glasswork
 Kobi Walsh

CONSUME 1

CONSUME explores the transition

between cyclical states of accumulation
and depletion. Examined through
momentary fragments of light and color,
these forces exist in a constant state of
movement, never stagnant, fluidly
adapting to their environment. The two
halves of the series are meant to exist in a
temporally contiguous format, blurring
the lines between beginning and end,
fluidly transitioning between states.
Depicting the constant struggle for
balance between accumulation and
depletion, these states are constantly
changing, ever searching for an
unattainable equilibrium. Throughout my
work I use shifting fragments of natural
light within my own environment to
parallel the impermanence that I believe
defines the human condition.

89 Print
Daniel Spehr

Nothing is certain.
Much is a parody.
The echo of emptiness -
The Silence of Photogrpahy.

90 Photogtaphy
 Adam Czech

The series „STREETWALKERS”

Involves noticing the often
unnoticed elements of urban
everyday life, treated like a
specter. Street people are a
permanent part of the urban
landscape, silent witnesses of
reality. The author of the series
attempts to give a second life
to objects that influence the
shape of the landscape, as well
as building the typography of
the city.

Silesian Streetwalker #1
Graphic Imagery, Algraphy printed
on handmade paper, 70x50cm.

91 Print
Maria Myasnikova
My Roots /
A Fraction of Me Will Always Bleed for You

Oil paint, spray paint and nylon on wood,

Size 75 x 36 cm

92 Mixed media
Sam Haynes

Stellar

An assemblage made of
found objects, developed
through an intuitive
process, presented in
photographic form. The
fluidity of the netted
fabric enveloping the
contoured metal orb
conveys a dynamic sense
of movement as if
propelled from on high.
Limited edition photo
prints on aluminum
Dibond are available in
varying sizes. 2022

93 Mixed media
Chichan Kwong

Wǒ men - Acrylic on Sewn Canvas, 8''x8''x8''

94 Painting
95
Sculpture 06 - Bronze on Stone,34.3x50.8x15.2cm
Zaur Gamkrelidze
Salome Kobulashvili

Coral...Nefertiti... - Bronze, coral, 5x2x6cm, 2020

96 Sculpture
97
Sam Sherborne

Beacon of Dad

The sculptor's father has been dead for 32 years. This portrait sculpture is normally
placed close to his father's actual chair in the sculptor's kitchen. It shines out
constant 'Dad' positivity. Medium: Blacksmith-made in forged steel, with a glass
lens, LED, and switch. Size: 38 x 18 x 18 cm

Sculpture
Ian Bride
A Six-eyed, spotted thwark and commensal Thwark-snake (Thwarkus stiktika, and
Thwarkopthidis filomenos), being attacked by a Beaked crabulus (Kavulas ramphostis).

A fantastical reworking of the Mexican tradition of the Alebrije. All three species were sympatric with the
Jabberwock, Jubjub bird, and the Bandersnatch, described by Lewis Carol in 1871. Sadly, no further records
of any of these species or their original distributions have even been found. Alebrijes Originated by Pedro
Linare in 1930s Oaxaca, who, falling very ill, dreamt of incredible creatures, and upon recovering began to
materialize his visions. The value of his 'Alebrijes' was soon recognized, others began to make them, and they
are now extremely popular with the Mexican public and international tourists, with the best exponents
exhibiting in galleries. I used alebrije-making as an exercise with science students to explore their
understandings of biology and their creative practice alongside the role of different forms of text in
authorizing knowledge. My own efforts began with imagining, then making, but now I allow my 'beasts' to
emerge from the materials, notably driftwood.

Driftwood, acrylic paint, semi-precious stones, 26x50x26cm, 2021

99 Sculpture
Ilia Ramishvili

100 Ceramics
Jose Yumar

From Series 'Alive', 2021

101 Sculpture
 Sarah Grace Dye

The Unforced Rhythms of Unfurling

The dictionary describes the word ‘unfurl’ as; to make or become spread out from a rolled or folded state,
especially in order to be open to the wind.

102 Mixed media

Thomas González

Multimedios 12.1

103 Mixed media

René Garza

RE:Struc_00
Upcycled textiles, metal rods,
paint, 40"x24", 2021

104 Mixed media

Cameron Lings

All-Rounders

The fluctuating numbers of UK-based artists are

mapped throughout the previous decade via a
statistical sculpture of stacked discs.

Laser-cut MDF with steel and reclaimed pine,

25 x 10 x 10cm, 2021

98 Sculpture
Sam Heydt

Pulling Apart - Heterotopia, analog assemblage, 30''x45'', 2020

Collage
54
 Caz Hildebrand

Elysian Fields

‘… a city made only of exceptions, exclusions, incongruities, contradictions.’ – Italo Calvino,

Invisible Cities This work consists of separate elements that form a continuous urban landscape
made of stoneware clays in line blends from red through to black. They can be configured in
multiple combinations and can be displayed on a flat surface or wall-hung.

Stoneware clay, 240x30x20cm, 2022

105 Sculpture
Matthias Neumann

Camina Fantasma #1, realized for Enclave Land Art, Vall de Gallinera, Spain, 2021

Gliclee print on Hahnemühle paper; Material: Wood

edition of 10; 17”x11” Size: 3x3x1.5 m

106 Architecture
 Vazha Melikishvili
Memorial in Senaki

The global view on the war reflects the natural catastrophe, equal to the great flood, and the eternal theme-
the rebirth of life after such a flood.

Theme 1. Motherland and mother home country – this eternal theme supports the spirits of our ancestors,
continuing its existence in us, in our homes, flowing from the past dark times into our veins, genes, spirits at
unrest, stupefied and immobilized by witnessing this devastation; in this infinity, the dome protects their
eternity.
Theme 2. The steed born from the narrow neck of the war disaster and death funnel with its scarred body, and
the hands of mothers and sisters stretched out in the attempt to save its suffered body.
Theme 3. The group of not grieving but begging, with the view of a perspective, with the picture in the hand,
the picture of a son, the picture of the pristine human hope, and existence.
Theme 4. The human livelihood force of controversy, a breastfeeding mother with a horn, deep space
disturbed by the cosmic unrest, and the rebellious spirit of humans a great force.
Theme 5. The pregnant woman, standing on a groundless infinity, tortured and troubled, but strong, proud of
the force that gives birth to the future. The spine. And the dark space. And a man supporting the ceiling with
his head, he tries to protect and hide the bodily parts which give generations in the restricted space, and a
child, a son, the new and eternal bud from the father’s roots – trying to reach the freedom, thirsty for sky and
light. The theme is optimistic; a child, a new life at Noah’s Arch after the great flood.

This is how I did it: I did it directly in gypsum: I followed the fundament all around ... I built it like a silkworm.
Made a cocoon and found me inside it. I did it all on my own, somebody else would destroy it, would make it
vanish in its oblivion, and I would not be able to collect it together again. It would not exist anymore.

The Cube, lit with the light from the skies all across is the ray of hope. The solitaire candle would do it well –
the symbol of life.

The marble, of course, the marble, white cold, and warm–like earth.

I spent every night sleepless like this: whoever and whatever you are, the god, the sky, the earth – help me to
do this.

107
108 Sculpture
Sub-themes:
a. The wise stargazer, sitting on the high, gazing into eternity.
b. The upside-down figures walking up and down.
c. Mesmerized
d. Bind to each other
e. All meshed up together. Tangled with each other. One hundred and twenty figures with voices like
strings, with heads and bodies. The Cube is white and clear, the pristine grave a white shroud. The eternal
form with a crack. The great pain embedded in the broken body.
I feel with my fingertips the magical voices of the strings .. . and ... I am creating
Problems

Composition: distribution of the space, foreground, and background, ceiling and stairs, bumps and hollows.
Interdependence between the round and the flat; Correlation of narrow and wide and its plasticity;
Creation of the spiritual space, arrangement of a large and a small, correlation between these two; Model
and its completion; The secret of the light and shades; The Cosmic senses.
Works in gypsum are finished.

Three years have passed. 1977 - 1980.

One more year has gone by in search of foundry-men
The mold is finished!
The mold is cast!
Five happy years have passed.
June 19, 1977 – July 1982
The Sculpture was opened in May 1984.

109 Sculpture
Tanya Preminger

My purpose is to express the immaterial essence of

things in physical stuff: to make tangible the universal
essence of the creation.

Containers

Marble,
260x200x140cm, 2018

110 Sculpture
 Gillian Davenport
Highlight beauty found in unusally overlooked natural objects.

driftwood

found object industrial stand,

found driftwood, resin
made remade gneiss stone
2019

111 Sculpture
Daisy Richardson

Rock Seat

found stool and papier maché

155x100x70cm, 2011

112 Sculpture
Nugzar Manjaparashvili

Kiss

Stone, 1995

113 Sculpture
and more...

114
 Radoslav Rochallyi

115
"You," “Who am I, to you?” what is she doing
behind that door?
she said, At first you were an asterisk, she's been there an hour,
and then drawing my attention maybe three, maybe four…
blank to additional information i hear water and splashing
at the end of a page. and a great wind roar.
tic what is she doing
wait Then it seemed you were behind the bathroom door?
turn an em dash
appear –inviting an aside–
then a comma, another sunday
tic bringing pause night flight,
wait turn and surprise. to be in another
humming the piece of home
side seen Now you’re a semicolon;
a welcome interruption, wondering, wandering,
saw she signaling more to come, and aching from longing,
bellied the bell; pointing the way searching for soil;
she--aflame, for dangling dreams. a place to plant myself
appeared
at long last Is there a period tears flow,
on the horizon? touching the seed
I want to know… that is me now;
you: my needed sun
You are proper punctuation,
weaving these wandering
words
to new conclusions.

116
i wake very early and walk the streets if i could pour myself
to find a new flower for you, out into a glass,
you who are part of my soul. i could feel your lips,
you warmth around me,
i wait at the place we usually meet,
wanting me to enter you,
blossom in hand, for you;
have me all to yourself,
and whisper secrets to the wind.
filling you with my love.
if you do not come,
i will leave the flower and go, ah,
and look for you in my dreams. what a drink would would be.

“heavy flower”

i was in a shop
looking for flowers,
and suddenly
hurt a wonderful one.

i was holding it,

just gazing with care.
but the flower was heavy
and could not hold itself.

i wanted to show
that i damaged the flower.
but you stopped me,
saying it was not my fault. Walter Lee Allen III

117
Council Property

Then, In the early hours, by the dim glow of a fluorescent strip light she passed between
worlds. The bereaved march in like sheep one by one, that subtle relentless buzzing,
breathing in and breathing out, still, after all of this.
My body aches, my lungs burn - cauterised with volcanic ash, in hell grateful that the
creatures have been gracious enough to keep a seat warm for me. I wait by my window like
a faithful dog beside a grave, the same song on rotation but I have forgotten what it
means.
If I collapse, the world goes down with me. Beneath my red raw skin, images of pulsating
flesh, dreams doused with gold and ecstasy and in my forever restless sleep I bathed in
the cold twilight of the winter. Inevitable as change still using that tired, cliche alias called
progress. They butchered all of the trees around here, the lone survivor stood forthright
and alone, like a promised savior out in the snow. With strong bare branches reaching out
to connect the world anew.
They stared at me with wide savage eyes as my heart was blown from my chest by the
shockwave. Like a bombs gone off, disembodied mind atrophed, along with limbs and
ligaments, the carnage wrapped in cartilage and faint murmurs of “I love you”, distant,
from a hospital bed.
I walk independently. And still I bleed in the mirror as council property. Branded by a cat
with nine tails, crucified beneath a crumbling church ceiling, while a rain of stained glass
falls from above forever- you stole my youth but you will never take my crown.
With my heart, my tears, my blood and that of those I love ingrained into council carpet I
will burn you to the ground- with my love the only thing still separate from the
contradictions and hypocrisy of your beloved bureaucracy. From my blood I will paint
new futures, empires built on foundations of stars. I will be what I was from the start -
Everything and anything that you are not.

Casey Soma/ Mad Truth

118
The Portrait

I knew something was up when she offered to pay for the coffees. She hasn’t done that in
all the years I’ve known her. Perhaps she had fallen out with her gallery, wanted me to
introduce her to another one.
She didn’t beat about the bush. ‘What they want is a portrait of the founder.’
‘So why have they asked you? Your stuff is strictly abstract, all dots and squiggles,
Jackson Pollock on speed. It could be a map of the moon on a bad day or forest fires in
Brazil. Why don’t they ask a sculptor or some nerd who makes holograms?’
She sneered. ‘Because they want something modern, something good the public
haven’t seen before. And it has to hang on the wall while the formal portrait is under
conservation, so no holograms or lumps of bronze.’
I sighed. I’m only an art critic, what do I know? She had a fierce glint in her eye. I
feared the worst.
‘What I’m going to do is this.’ Reaching for a napkin, she began to scribble out a
design, adding in plastic spoons and lumps of sugar to illustrate the point. I hate looking
at an art work before it is finished, or reassuring artists asking what is missing from. If I
knew, I’d do it myself.
‘That might just be crazy enough to work,’ I muttered through gritted teeth, ‘has
potential, but it will cost you a fortune.’
Never mind, the client is paying all the up-front costs. Can’t you see? It’s what
Rauschenberg said his work was doing: “making painting do the work of sculpture”. When
it’s finished I’ll sell it to the Met, the Tate or the Pompidou Centre.’
We parted on the best of terms. My approval seemed to have cheered her up. I
didn’t see her for several months, until a peremptory order arrived on my mobile phone.
The studio, Friday, mid-day.
Friday it rained all day. I was soaked by the time she let me in. ‘Don’t drip on the floor,
throw your coat over there. Did you bring any biscuits?’

119
Biscuits, coffee and small talk first. It was nearly four by the time we made it through to
the business part of the studio, the light fading badly. From her spoon and sugar
description months ago in the coffee bar I knew this was part of the plan.
For a change, the studio was empty of canvasses, except for a huge one which took up
most of the far wall, probably some ten feet by eight. I found a mobile spotlight hidden in
one corner, plugged it in and directed it at the painting. A single object dominated the
centre, standing out in bright blue and green impasto against the heavy tones of the
background. Looking carefully I could see the barely discernible elements were made up
of collaged objects: old canvas cut-offs, fragments of unrecognisable detritus, metal
advertising signs, even a toy boat.
However, it was the figure itself which demanded most attention. The body was a heavy
rectangle, surmounted by an oval head made from purple plastic. ‘Because it’s the royal
colour,’ she said, urging me along.
Beneath the plastic the face was constructed from swirls of thick paint, like a child’s
finger painting in nursery school. ‘Wait,’ she ordered, turning on an adjacent light switch.
The face and the front of the painting burst into life. Three dribbles of neon, red, blue and
green, hung down, defining the body, casting their coloured shadows on the paintwork
beneath. Above, the face turned to a mass of writhing neon snakes, like the ornaments on
Anglo-Saxon manuscripts, trying to bite one another’s tails.
I stood, amazed, trying to take it all in: the snakes, the lights, the haphazard collage. Stood
back to get a better perspective. ‘Turn the lights off again.’
She did so. We stood there shoulder to shoulder.
‘Well,’ she said at last, ‘what do you think?’
‘Utter bloody rubbish,’ I said.
‘Yes. I know. But I’ve got a better plan. Not quite as crazy, but I think this one will work.’

Tony Warner

120
One Careful Owner

"So,this is it ."
Still dripping from an unusually calming soak in the bath she caught sight of herself in the
steamed up mirror.
"Stop cringeing and try to see potential!"she told herself with more bravado than belief.
"If only life could be persued in soft focus."
Replacing her new varifocals Sylvia continued squinting at her naked form.
Rubbing life back into her pink limbs she mused.
What she really needed was a vain man. One who needed specs but kept them in his
jacket pocket for menus.
"What if he wears glasses ?
Blindfold ?
Not entirely feasable in a busy restaurant but a thought for behind the ear."smiling
she put on her housecoat and fished her phone from the Quality Street wrappers in the
pocket.

On autopilot she googled " Fountain of Youth."

At this rate the link will end up on speed dial.
She scrolls down the options ,reading them outloud seemed to make the expert tips from
one of Joan Collins ex husbands seem more ..feasable.
After all he above anyone should be the proverbial font.
"Control underwear-tick.
The correct length sleeve to flatter the bingo wing-tick.
Clever ways with thick ankles -not an issue thankfully ,still remarkably my best feature.
Excerises for the sensitive bladder-tick.
BLAH BLAH....Ah Ha !
Now we are getting to the nitty gritty- gardening tips for sprucing up the undercarriage."
She regarded her slightly worried reflection.

121
"Firstly consider a serious trim.
Okie dokie."
Now ,"instructed the video,"be honest with yourself,do you really want a grey area ?"
A senior moment flashed past her.
"There are several quick fix solutions.
Regular hair dye works fine but avoid root spray or waterproof mascara.
In the case of a sparse crop consider a full wax.
"Yikes."
Plumping for the topiary option she found it rather theraputic..tantric trimming,could be
the next big thing .

Just as she was about to embark upon 10 ways to disguise cellulite her phone announced
an incoming message.
"Sorry cannot make it tonight ....some other time maybe?"

Relief and dissapointment flooded through her varicose veins in equal measure.
As a distraction she pressed the X rated content on the site and was greeted with tips for
using Lilly of The Valley talc when wearing rubber.
In rapid succession she progressed from frocks to gimp masks culminating in a section
that she would never unsee.
Her username sprang to mind.

Undeterred she clicked back to the main dating site.

Houdini.
One Careful owner.
Yes ,she still wanted a man.
Just for a moment she hesitated.
Ok now let's be realistic the voice in her head suggested.

122
It was a long time since she had played rounders but at least she still knew what team she
batted for !
It had been a long marriage and often quite happy.
Own teeth ?
Yes.Well mostly ,she would consider implants as preferable to whistling dentures.
Hair-yes ,bald men reminded her of Bruce Willis- so definately no thanks.
Sex-yes please,
" I should be so lucky,lucky,lucky.lucky,"the Kylie lyrics had an irritating habit of dancing
into her thoughtsat the most innapropriate moments.
Another ad popped up for bulk discount on over the counter blue pills.
She still had an industrial supply despite her husband devouring them like smarties.
Resolving to upgrade to the no add pop up premium she continued.

IQ ,this was an area she had previously been firm on along with tatoos and body piercings.
Surely it was a given on Guardian soulmates ?

Should she relent to widen her horizons?

At this rate PULSE would be her only active criteria.

Later that evening after feeding The Ungrateful, her geriatric cat, she wandered back
upstairs.
Brandishing her compact mirror she confirmed her earlier suspicions.
He was still dead.

"Time to bite the bullet and ring your daughter,she might even be sober for once ."
she said smiling.

Susan Plover

123
Dostoevsky

A great gambler
For the thrill

To court danger
With the idiot

Breathtaking ideas
To plan in exile

During the winter of exception

Anew

Time and again

Livelihood of danger

At the tables he took the penniless novel

Decided to depict time as at roulette

Respect

He risked honour and in return

He was no less ready

In his art

124
Geneva

Dostoevsky was the potential triumph of a win

And his fictions

are essentially
about Geneva.

Brotherhood

And most gamble.

Dostoevsky’s novel
Began in 1867,

This to explore his friend

An absolutely wonderful person.

Brink of death

All he was he writes:

The idea is harder than that,
A risk under my pen.

Letter 330 turned out to be

The most challenging.

125
Simply

And no philosophical describing

I don’t think there can be anything

126
Life

And no philosophical describing

I don’t think there can be anything

In a notoriously intractable project

To our will

Oeuvre

While new to virtual conundrum

I took: Maybe
To Apollon Maykov,
Geneva, 31 December 1867
The resulting work.

Affectionate penmanship

He, his Maykov especially,

Develop in it
[12 January 1868]
One of
Novelist’s
Grandest and
[...] creations.

127
GENERAL INTRODUCTION, A.K.A. ‘BIBLE’

Classics and Introductions assist the reading narratives.

Inexpensive general jargon Notes interpret surprises we enjoy.
Editions write - We free the stories of spirit.
Designed teachers and readers- because pleasures advise Introduction.
Wordsworth reader specialists provide rather the revelations,
and Appeal to students’ wide understanding for secrets..

Guessing game

Are **** **** to the commissioned

To ranging ****, to **** that would ****
Our ***** **** than them.
In the same **** of ****
**** are inseparable from the ****
And that **** all contain ****,
**** Strongly advise ****
To **** this book
Turning to the **** ****.

Jes Chatwin

128
Sandy Soil

I am soooo natural
I am soooo natural

Who could tell you what you need

Who could tell whom to meet
if you don't feel the human greed
if you don't notice beetle feet

I am soooo natural
I am soooo natural

My skin is almost pergament

speaking in tongues like elephants
or whisper sexy tunes for ants
my parents drinking childhood dreams

I am soooo natural
I am soooo natural
I am sooooooooo natural
I am sooooooooo natural

I am not of your kind i am not what you like

I am absent if you chant about mine
I am part of the new thing I am long away
dissolving in enemies creating the rhyme

I am soo natural

129
I am soo natural
I am soo natural
i am soo natural

My face is cloud, my voice is root

my sex is rude, my choice is good
my noise is food for beings who need
my nose is eye my ears can cry
my ground is solid and is soft
you enter this space - is full of beloved
I would let some traces for you my dears
but i dont have the time to lick your tears
I am digging the holes for all of you
You can enter here - but the friends go through
you and you and make you to soil
I am sick of your thinking your functions your role
you bore me to leave and to enter the void
the everlasting moving and growing
sandy sandy sandy soil
sandy sandy sandy soil
sandy sandy sandy soil
sandy sandy soil

we are soooo natural

we are soooo natural

Leave, leave, leave, branch, leave - a little blue in between - the oooopen

130
The men who was men and not, cat no cat, no tree no lake, is not turning around for days
already.
What does that suppose to mean - un poco loco - almost yellow eyes he has - not quiete
healthy this being - maybe is not ticking anymore at all. Tick, schiiiit, tick, flak, tick tock rrk
nnniick look frog schneck sick fleck bschschschschschschschschschit
chchchchchchchchchciz chitz schnitz fatzzzz ritzzzz

On the ground there are yellow lines everywhere - little insects following her (or him?) and
the man which is not no tree no cat no lake no earth on his feet - this being draws lines
and is curving along this scratched landscape. May be it is only its eyes which could not
see anymore the broken spectrals and which is smelling with the mouth on the ground
and with its voice vibrating the thin legs of the insects and may be they also dance

The man which is not a cat no insect no men is neighter an inhabitant. So is more a visitor
in here which is no nature but full of insects and earthes which is always more than
grounds. Or they just inhabit this area for a time, which could be counted in insect-days,
or these little waves, reaching the coalblack shore and whispering from their origin, these
little strange divers with their black neckes and red ears. The divers seem to realize the
lake differently than the too simple structured gray gees, what a projection…

Only 30 million years ago - so just a geological blink only, this area was crowded of walking
lizzards and small hunting horses. The horses made these little smacking sounds, mixed
with heavy breathing noises of the Terrorbirds, which were not of terror at all and just
taking a bit of gras and fruits from time to time.

131
Nature she said, is what we are waiting for while being sad.
Nature, said the man which is not, no cat, no dog, an animal, or not, Nature it sais: Nature?
It sounds strange- this word out of this mouth with full lips: nature
It is more music than language, what is that, hm? Isn't it able to speak properly? Nature,
Nature. Once forever! This phantastic imagination of miracles and flowers and gras, deer
water boats lake bathing wasps sausage beach sand palms sunset gulls.

Restart. nature. hm- let’s get in

light half shadow quite brazen to settle here quite short or long or long stretched and
lame or fast through the lake or above or under water the ferns as clothes and feathers as
hair or bed or moss or grass or soft branches grassed ferns flowered mushroomed sat
eaten poured sheathed intertwined slipped mad lost or in search of more and more and
more and dissolved disintegrated sheathed mossed flowered faded intertwined braided
grassed
a roof, a chair or stone or wood and a bed and a table or wood or stone and a pen. and
paper or bark or fibers and lines lay to writing

She puts on her make-up on the shore. He applies his make-up in shallow water over a
charcoal-black ground. She draws fine lines over the body, in the sand, fine copper rays
lead into the deeper water, where the terns conjure small glittering stripes from the
bottom and form a white shiny cloud above the still mirror surface, which changes its
shape every second.
It brushes algae around the fishnets and lifts the blue dresses exactly to the level of the
water surface.

The voice doesn't seem so foreign between islands and cranes, coal and Rieth. In the
dragging, intense refrain, the seagulls resound from the middle of the sea.
That their calls would sound longing is just your version!

132
Talking to gulls in a slurred voice, adding a creak of tired vocal folds to the soft buzz of
beetles, dribbling drops from the left hand onto a smoothly polished fern leaf. Between
arms and body the wrinkled skins of bark and birch rustle with the weary groaning of
buckthorn bushes, punctuated again and again by the almost inaudibly fine drawl of the
marsupial tit.

Low frequencies in nature are earthquakes or large animals, falling giant trees, rumbling
surf or the explosion of lava through the earth's crust. So the man who is not a big animal,
not a mountain, a woman perhaps rather or a marsupial tit, a June bug, fish or a heron
perhaps, so she adds to the whispering all around a muffled boom that only she hears,
inside her head, the base of her tongue on the roof of her mouth, a resonant bass
between her ears.

Later - the light casts angular shadows over the jagged banks - the man who is like a
shadow - blue-black - lays an ear on the still warm dry ground and feels the light waves
continue into the soil.

The memory or center that interprets all the information from the delicate movement of
the hair cells inside the ear adds a melody to the growl of the floor, like the seemingly
distant traces of an opera voice recorded on wax roll, an acoustic event long gone that
only calls up in interference and hints the carrying voice of a tenor who may have been a
deep alto on the stage of La Scala in Milan.

The ear is so long on the ground that the woman, the man could not even tell how long.
Also, the head lying on dry warm ground has long since become part of the shadows that
are now everywhere, leaving only a few bright areas on the slopes to remind us of the day.

133
The head now listens deeper into the ground and one's own body, the gurgling sounds of
the stomach, the soft murmur of blood, interrupted sometimes only by the rolling song of
the green toads from the distant swamp on the slope of one of the unreachable islands in
this ice-age lake.

Good that the moon comes with that pale light.

As a young man, he had traveled from this small Caribbean town of Choroni up to the top
of the Cordillera in the middle of the rainforest by night bus, which was all lit up and had
loud music in its belly.

The disbelieving look on the bus driver's face when he got off there in the nothingness,
where even the road began to crumble at the edges due to the many downpours.

When the engine hum disappeared in the mist that had shrouded this elfin forest in the
night, it was so quiet and dark that his body had expanded into the forest as if longing for
something perceptible, at the same time not moving an inch away from the roadside, this
human aisle in the most densely populated place in the world.

From a far distance - ears aching from the effort of tracking down signs of life - an
elongated glass shade - quite surreal here.

Nervously chewing on the bread he brought with him, then he throws it onto the asphalt.
Seconds later, a dry rustling sound.
The bright spot on the asphalt shows that the bread is gone, and so is the animal that took
it.
The experience of being where one's own body is also food. To have only the sense of
hearing, The thinking that disturbs rather than helps.

134
Eyes widened without a response from the black, muscles tensed, ears and the louder
rhythmic pulsing of the blood within them.

And then this peeling fear as the first shades of gray reveal the enchanted mist trees. The
change in body weight, the burden disappears into the forest, the roadside aisle becomes
a security tape, until this feeling also disappears and the first toucans appear, a python
shuffles leisurely across the asphalt, the delicate ocelot looks the strange human being in
the eye, gently continues on its way like all cats, as if this monkey had actually not been
worth the stop.

the measured, circumscribed, ordered, decreed, regulated, measured, recorded, named,

numbered, labeled, drawn and stretched, standardized and measured, improved and
decreed,

But ja- he knows that's romantic, to be in love with disorder. That it is a luxurious state to
reject the orders without giving up one's own life, to know it ended between worm and
water, earth and free fall.

It is more like a constant border crossing; a suicidal phenomenon, a friend told him in the
vastness of the Slovenian Karst. a wish, the functions may stop at last, the behaviour, the
rehearsed movements, the nodding of the head, the raised eyebrow, the grin, the disgust
at one's own movement; the language should stop, at last, this trained parrying with the
polished sentence, the voice disappear, the clothes rot, hang in tatters from the body, the
fat - the traces of routine.

time; a fiction of the rotation of the earth, the orbit of the sun, the tides, the attraction of
celestial bodies in the void. Stretched time, strained time, a mayfly trundles past before
his eyes, in its fiftieth year, shortly before retirement, the evening that will be its only one.

135
From dawn till dusk. An eternity measured by the rhythm of viral life in the blood of the
man who is a virus and inhabited by viruses. Who is an old man, a child, a bee of the day, a
thought for a fraction of a time so short that his neurons are too slow to propagate it.

The shore also disappears. Its time is blurred.

The waves have changed in their course - they stand
as the blink of an eye scans the picture
it is still - and rigid
and as if the fingers could dive in and sink
into color and image and time and history
the moment coagulates into everything and eternity

And he - is gripped
as if the drugs had left him wordless and mute
and transported out of the now and why
Fuck; time, that monster.

Death is nature. Undead is culture. Dead is culture. Undead is nature.

The man who is now a plant is now growing very slowly, and taking root - very small ones
only, not too firm, not rooting too much, the process is also not stopped at all, not
controlled at all - at some point along the way this control has been lost. It is also a bit like
a rhizomatic existence.
The order in love with disorder. The endless fingers into nowhere with a root in a circle of
witchcraft. Like a virus from outer space. without language within language. Friendly
firering - reentering the circles , moving back and forth in time licking the parallel strings
of existence. Being nature making nature being nature making nature being nature making
Ralf Wendt

136
Nino Melikishvili
Generalized Architecture Infrastructure of transitional complexity
Concept From the Last Century

I proceed from number in its geometric pattern (Geometric reflection), which I

call an “architectural point”

Number as a potential for form-building in architecture

When designing with a number (through a number) I rely on the principle of proportion
which is known in architecture as supposedly easily accessible through numeric or
geometric manipulations; but when it comes to complete geometric data – the frequency
of points, lines and crossings - proportion is a most complicated structure.

I will reflect on the number spectrum, an extension with the geometrical reflection of a
certain complexity. Therefore, what we have in the finale analysis is a spatial structure in
which free and architecturally weighed spaces effectively alternate.

An architectural cell – actually a number – changes instantly in front of our eyes in size, as
well as form and quantity. This process is to some extent manageable from the outside
and we, as creators, could develop it in terms of particular contents as well. It is exactly
the number that provides a real condition for an instant transformation of the shape, a
phenomenon that borders with the imaginary metamorphosis inherent to human nature.
Let us try to evade the process of fragmentary creation so typical of architectural
thinking and, of course, yielding the same fragmentary results. In other words, let us try to
create an architectural extension. It is logical to call it Generalized architecture.

137
138
Architectural point

Egyptian “pure numbers”, ancient numbers, philosophical and theological “point” of

Johan Petritsi (Georgia), Le Corbusier’s modular– 48-century-old creative energy is
accumulated in one mathematical, namely geometrical, point that I present as an
architectural point. I consider the process – Morphogenesis.
During the form-building caused from the outside, it is possible to vary the set of cells
within the confines of one spatial outline by varying the meaning of the number. The
number allows us to introduce the concept of one and a set, the philosophical concept
of the relative one in architecture: “every set, in essence, partakes of one” (Proclus).

The key point is to create an alternative to the frozen architectural structure. We proceed
from the banal reality – proportion, which we perceive solely fragmentarily; number
allows binding the fragmentary characteristics of proportion that present difficulties
exactly through their specific tasks - due to their dispersion.
It should be noted that the number itself gives us the possibility for developing the idea
of the architectural extension. We can use the number, as far as possible, in the form in
which the number is revealed in dynamics. Even the fixation of this process with definite
completeness and form is possible in architecture. We can consider this creative process
as the organization of the architectural space analogs to reality or we can consider it as a
transformative process of the number into material-architectural and indispensably
continuous, an uninterrupted form of development. The main thing is to apprehend this
real possibility correctly. Thus, specific architectural decisions and, accordingly, specific
architectural forms are considered in this project.
We shall specifically consider the specter of the number and not one-way linear
sequence of the number. We can imagine the extension of the number (its reflection) as
an identical “point” having an infinite radius which sharply is expressed the simultaneous
process of order and changes of the number.

139
Thus, as we can consider the number both with its increasing development when it tends
to infinity and with downward development to the point of its primary state, we can
consider the architectural space with increasing and decreasing development as well. This
is the main principle of the represented project. Based on the architectural problem we
can start an architectural progression of space from both the smaller or the larger one –
from “the beginning” or from “the end” – depending on the starting point.
We can imagine accepted architectural form as a successive development of space:
volume (building) – complex – city or city with a complex involved in it, which from its part
contains volumes enclosed in one another like Russian ‘matryoshkas’ (infrastructure of
transitional complexity).
The philosophy of proportion, of one and of a multitude, the philosophy of the relative
one, allows the creation of an architectural diversity in one specimen - an architectural
extension /”Unitary Progression”/. A given space can be considered an outcome of self-
production. This is architectural morphogenesis.

140
Feasible Project: Infrastructure of Transitional Complexity:
1. City; 2.Volume – Complex – City
1. City
Realizable today

City as a specific finite cell, as well as a set of finite cells – continuity

How can a hypothetical city be imagined at the dawn of the 21st century? Hence the
question: how far behind is the past 20th century, i.e. city building problems, left, or is it
only an illusion that those problems are left behind?
The path from past to future is somewhat obscure. This obscurity might be one of the
reasons underlying the intense interest in the city.
Because of this obscurity: It is essential to implement the very essence of morphogenesis
– continuity: let us examine architecture as a process giving rise to a functional material
form. Within the framework of this rivalry, I naturally consider the city in its entirety - an
apparatus that manages and regulates complex social processes, which at the same time
has become a victim of these same processes.
Based on the biological multiplication principle, view the city as continuity – a specific
finite cell and a multitude of finite cells; as much as possible, maintain organic city
relationship between internal - its proper, and outer world - other cities that, in turn,
should represent the harmony of relationships by the analogy of constituent cells, indeed
showing the difference in scale.

Most importantly, solve the regularity of architectural relativity with the account to
social problems; Study various simple tasks on the general basis of proportion.
Relativity of cities – the essence and sign of city continuity: if one city under the system
is located e.g. in Australia and another in a different part of the world, e.g. in Georgia, the
road flung over to this other city should connect to the relevant road inside it.

141
The city is changeable. The multitude of its cells (districts) depends on the multitude of
the number that we mark as a module; the city is also changeable in terms of the
temporal development potential. Therefore, I provide the city in general terms: it can be
reduced to any specific scale by adjusting the numeric module, i.e. the multitude of cells.
The city structure is produced by a variable numeric module with a planar reflection
(space and plane are identified in the architectural sense depending on proportion). The
proposed structure is feasible today: a base city can be built with the prospect of
temporal development.

142
Realizable today
Volume - Complex – City: Cognitive research Center/A Multi-functional Hub /Basic
module - 1.66666…/
Priority: ECO Climate: Ecosystem&Social and Political Situations
Given structure - Architectural point is also feasible through the development of specific
spaces (cognitive, art, sports, trade etc.) from volume (edifice) into the complex and
through the potential of transforming them into satellite cities of pertinent content (the
complex accommodates volume with the mathematical precision, while the city embeds
the complex within itself).

143
Conceptual Solution

1. The Layered City - Big Green City

2.“The Laboratory of the Future”

The Anthropocene Raised Above Ground Level

The fabric and consequently the height of the City are governed by the principle of
relativity of numbers. This makes it possible to build cities of relative values in– relation
to one another, depending on their size and role. The addition of layers in accordance
with the time yields the city of continuous development along the horizontal as well as
the vertical axes. As a result of layering the habitat levels high above the ground, the City
is elevated in time, becoming a big home - City Home, employing technical and
technological data that are in accord with the time and simultaneously make the previous
layers contingent upon them. 1. Ground level - a pass-through green space of free use. 2.
The first layer – a pass-through green space of free use. 3. The second layer - built-up
space. The remaining layers alternate in the same sequence, with some requisite
exceptions. In this way, the layers are built up, leaving the multipurpose pass-through
green spaces between inhabitable levels to provide the latter with light and fresh air. At
the same time, spacious good yards within the city fabric ensure the ecological purity of
the given construction. Each layer of the city, in conjunction with the underlying green
layer, in its essence constitutes an autonomous abode, equipped with high-quality
amenities. In broad terms, we have to do with a Self-Sufficient City employing technical
and technological achievements in accordance with the time. The layers support the vital
energy through the technologically equipped point towers rising up from the ground.
They are vertical city-towers made of steel and glass, integrating from a certain height
point the inhabitance functions characteristic of the cities. They are also a constructive
link for the city as a whole.

144
145
City inside a container
In an extreme situations, the city is set up in an airtight container, in which the climate is
created with the help of a technically and technologically equipped tower that rises high
above the ground extracting essential resources from the entrails of the earth and from
out in space and converting them into properties suitable for earthly life.
As a matter of fact, isn’t the earth itself a container of its kind, protected by the
atmosphere and charged with vital power.

146
147
 Claudi Piripippi

148
 the monsters
are alive
Ally Zlatar

Foreword

I firmly believe in the power of creative voices to edify our experiences. In "the monsters
are alive" my art and poetry create a space for authentic representation and sincere
engagement of some of the most profound and difficult aspects of the human condition.

The amalgamation of these works is an exploration of my monsters, struggles and depth

behind what living in an unwell body truly entail.

My paintings provide a 'monster' companion as a visual aid to guide you through the
potency of the poetry. They aim to provide contextual foregrounding for the concepts the
poems are exploring.

What I hope for you as the reader, is to engage in these pages and dark conversations of
my lived-in experiences of struggling to live with my monsters. In turn,
help broaden your perspectives and understanding of struggles with wellbeing.

149
 tears like petals

they fall in the winter

and remind me of you

beautiful yet delicate and hanging on by

fragile hope

150
 my beaches stand still waiting for your
waves of validation

what a hopeless fixation

the waves whisper words that you once

said

and embed themselves deep again

build sandcastles high on my shores

waves crash and you take what is yours

you put me on a pedestal

stand me tall
and watch me fall

the waves bring the fury of your seas

and remind me of how it used to be

151
 who cries when the pheasant dies and the
hunter has had their fill

who worships the churches when the truth

is stained like glass

and the masses bend to their will

who pays the price when the bodies

remember

who sews the wounds and buries the dead

after the throne is weakened and the pain

did not end

who guides the rivers when we are out of

air

and who is the cowboy with the red beard

152
 lets set fire to the city

and let my rage fill the streets

the fumes will suffocate

as the heat decimates

my desire for vengeance

will leave no remembrance

of the place that caused my severance

153
 i am a king

i am a god

i am tired

i am exhausted

i am power

i am crumbling

i am a lord

i am about to cry i am president

i am weak

i am going to die

154
 i scream
as the wifi goes out
left with my thoughts as they bounce about
i scream louder
and you come here
we scream together as we both are in fear
i struggle deeply
and my arms crumble weakly
i weigh you down deeply
and make you stress weekly
but you love me so
and around and around we go
the problems are so
but i can't let you know
i scream inside
as I can not hide
when no noise comes out
you never feel doubt
that the pain has not gone
and fuck, your not wrong
so you pull me near
and hug me so dear
that my world stops spinning
but the fury is not dimming
and when the pain comes back
we turn to our dance
but it's not one of romance
it's just poor luck
that you are stuck
spinning with me

155
 my tears sting like acid
warm and speeding down my face

i can't catch them all

i couldn't be there for you

blankets are boulders, debilitating and yet

strong

my eyes watched a thousand memories and

none can bring you back

i feel pain

156
 today, i withstood the trials of agony

as my life is still lingering on

trapped in my sorrow, is a tale of a life

gone past

why are coffins made of wood when life is

fragile as glass?

even if i was a soldier, you know i hate

battles

for i have wounds from wars long ago and

they seem to last

plough fields with my weapons, and abuse

my military vest

as i have grown too tired of this ferocious

fight

and wish borne was a concept rather than

a place

157
 let's get brunch

let us listen to funky tunes

let us fight the bourgeois

let us meet in the food court

let us cuddle until the communists win

let us do anything but be left with our

thoughts

158
 sorry i catfished you

with false hope of the person i could be

and the shortcomings of who i am

sorry for my fleeting beauty and fake tan

i came as i was, with a résumé to

impress

i don't think i was qualified for this role

to love you

159
 my mother was a pile of crumpled up
papers

for she had ideas that never came to be

these crippled writings could not stand

she has a body that was becoming a blank

page again

i wonder what shall she be

her strength comes not from cast iron

but from the purity of her pain

she cries for mercy and to make meaning

from her tired aches

her finite pages need ink and seek refuge

in the hopes of change

it is time now for her to prepare for new

calligraphy to remain

160
 please god no more cardio

no more blisters on my fragile feet

have mercy on the unfit

for our breaths are too weary to

compete

161
 the games have begun
grab your hopes, grab your guns

grab your fears, grab your tears

grab all that you cling to dear

as the bells ring

some cry, some sing

some come back feeling fucking ecstatic

others frantic

most are beaten, hopeless and defeated

but remember everyone has to compete

162
 take a seat

on my yellow chair

forget my back, my bones, or my

aching joints

take rest in my patience and my

relentless desire to please

163
 my parents heard a drum in the distance
but did not listen

for they were young and in love

if they paid attention, they would hear

it was me calling them with a snare drum
cadence

i gaze toward them and see their smiles

young hearts seldom beating

for i have not come

sadness stopped me from playing

as I know how the story would unfold

for they bought me a drum to drown out

the noise of their fights

but no matter how hard i played it was

just a tin drum

and life is too unstable to warn them to

run

164
 my crumbling skies hold onto things they
know

preachers preach
sinners sin

the rain will always begin

church windows are stained and pillars

are in pain

columns falter and capitals are altered

but at least i know demise will come

165
 i just want to get banged
banged up really good

screw me over in all the ways i know you

could

burn, scratch and tear through my skin

make me rethink what it means to let

someone in

rip my hair and pull out my teeth

let the blood drip down all over the

sheets

banging me up is what you do best

so i'm ready for you to destroy what

hope i had left

166
 all tied up in my thoughts
and too busy to answer your calls

my laces are twisted and ideas

complicated

it would be nice to escape but, it is also

quite comforting

knowing my knots are my own

and not having to untangle yours

167
 laying in the proverbial eye of the storm

these turbulent winds paralyze my body

crippled by anguish

and experiencing the fragile nature of

the human condition

memories do not live in objects

but in our tender agony

for when the storm settles

and the memories are released

we rest in the comfort of knowing

ferocious winds are just air

168
 last night i saw a moon surrounded by 28
stars

i wondered why those gravitate to what is

darkest

perhaps they see there is depths to the

profound abyss of the night

or maybe they want to see their own

brightness shining back

169
 his eyes were filled with fear

i held him in my arms

i feel his heart, it cries for too long

the words he said i'll remember for a very

long time

smoulder ascends

golden flames started to rise

as his shadows fade into the light

170
 your stomach is empty because you starve

with sadness
why do you wish to be bones
when they are too fragile to hold his love

tears are meaningless when you leak like a

faucet

young girl, you are drunken with tiredness

and your iron eyes have rusted with tears

stop searching for him in every fractured

night terror and every melted scene

nothing can bring back the dead

171
 i will sit as the sirens are blaring

they do not stop wailing and my arms

have not stopped flailing

my bomb shelter is weak and filled with

my shrieks

but no one can stop the demise

so i sit in the corner and cry

take down the barricades and unbolt the

gates

my defence is weak and i'm scared of

what awaits

as i can't take this pain anymore

and hope is no more

there is nothing to do now, but sit here

and cry

so i will do that and standby

172
 unmask your monsters and let them
breathe

let them be wild in the night or

coy in the day

let them guide your impulses

and give you what you crave

for they have been trapped too

long and need to get out

let them run wild and let them be

free

in the end, you will thank me as

i let you truly be

173
 yellow walls, red socks and mass hysteria

they remind me of the weight i carry

the males gaze on and the gospels

whisper

that i am a broken man with a soul

migrating

there is no food for my mind or blades

for my fury

my body is of pain and the colours grow

weary

the mezzanine watches as my eyes fade

and realize the severity of sensations
burning

174
 i scatter my cigarettes before you

they fall in the shape of who i am

that disgusts you

for i tread a dangerous path

tears flow for where i am

this place is not me

and i am not being

i crave the geist of nicotine

and hope that seeing this, you won't be

scared of me

you put a dart in your hand, inhale deep

and breathe out the grief of the woman

that i am

175
 i'll never be famous
i'll never be known

i'll waste away into the waves of the Styx

buried deep in the ground with my

aspirations transfixed

and be remembered not for me

but for the space, i made when i left

176
 when the tigers break free
there is an unrestricted view of salvation

but i fear this feeling of fullness

i see red rivers and satin dresses

i also see the faulters of my demise

there is comfort and chaos in this

certainty

and yet my bones and flesh are ready

177
 fate guides me down a broken road

volition faintly whispers for me to run

angst slows me down

and i am deadlocked

i am in a stalemate with myself

and i cease to move

the three voices iterate how i am not alone

but their patience grows weary

but the choice is now mine to see who i follow

178
 i screamed into the darkness

to give me power, give me glory

and get me out of my father's suit

i see empty bottles as i drown above

water

i see burn marks on benches

and in the mist

i see i no longer belong

179
 sometimes when i see clothes hanging out
to dry

i think it is not about the way they hang

on the line

but rather look at the shadows of what

they are

and that makes all the difference to me

180
 i wish one day my poems will get translated

for i hope the words sound nicer in Dutch

i want them to call me the golden dagger

for my poems will be covered in warrior's blood

my blade will roar in Korean

and hide the fallacies in my grammar

the books will be a house of flying bayonets

for the Portuguese

that will unsheath the wrath of my pain

i hope my words will prevail

in the mornings of other languages

as my one is dead to me

181
 i look to the horizon for suns that will
never come

for moments that were desired

and memories that were to come

but i layed flowers down

and you drifted away

what is left of me is far from peace

just a tear glistening for the sunbeams

of you

182
 in the mountain skies, you see the
hurricane of my agony

i paint you a pretty picture of it

fragmented clouds, dawn breaks through

a violet sunrise, fields of fury and thunder

amongst the hills

i make you feel a hundred rivers

there is such beauty in the forecast

i share with you

but you don't look to the skies and see my

heavens

you turn your head instead

the weather is too unstable

you are like the others

and do not embrace my rain

i am left being the storm of the century

that never came to be

183
 just look

those petals were pale as a white flame

the grass as a soft as the first touch of skin

it's been twenty years since i first ventured

down that road

and it may be another twenty more before i

forth come again

and still, this is the memory that i cling to in

the darkest of days

when the walls of Jericho have crumbled

and the library of Alexandria is set ablaze

i cling on to this moment in time

i wear this memory as a necklace

with the beads coloured with those petals

lights glimmer on my golden mask where

i stand tall facing these fires

watching the windswept plains abolish Babylon

i embrace the vastness of the

night because in every ruin i see the light of my field

184
 the devil went down to Kyoto

he was under the gun again

he spread romantic propaganda

and a tale of treachery and lechery

across the wild west

but things are not okay anymore

for the devil could not die

he never liked to quit

for he was an artist of destruction

whether i love or hate his ways

i know he cannot rest

185
 please don't let me die in Tulsa

my long violent history has caught up

my past was a western movie

i was riding on a trustee steed searching for a

beautiful damsel

however, i was a lone cowboy and a stranger

to every town

i had my fair share of run-ins with dreary

sheriffs

i have crossed many roads to not die in Waco

and swam through many rivers to not lay down

in Dallas
for you see a cowboy never dies

as they are far too precious

cowboys ride into every sunset and add

essence to each saloon

the world would be a lot less resilient without

the cowboys
so please do not let this cowboy die

186
 televangelist fired his gun

not with bullets but scripture pierces the

crowd

crimson rivets flowing, he was making his

voice loud

he would recruit in gun shops as they are

prone to be seen

his gospels were preaching false dreams

and revolution

he prepared armies with holy rites and a

constitution

there was no house of God when the

televangelist was louder

preachers should not be politicians

why are they fully loaded?

187
 el matador

as i get older i get more afraid

of when the horns are too near

and he only sees red

bold, brave, and swift will i be

as i meet the world ender

he will raise the dead

and bury me deep

but i will put up a fight

and make him dream of me tonight

188
 asked for just a slice of bread and pain

but you blunt the knives and cut the ties

i said "please come back to the dinner

table"

as i cannot sew my sorrows without you

eating honey cake is now a game of one's

own

and cutting the pages of recipe books

begin again

189
 i saw your blade and you burned my shield
you scorched my skin with an awful taste
of vengeance

while this malice attempt to joust was a

delicate balance of hope and deceit

what it taught me was that

a renaissance had begun

190
 no one donates to my causes

or feed the homeless in my churches

for my cities are crumbling

and my farmers cannot grow crops for

harvest

they never reap what they sow

the great melancholy of life is that

not every ship gets sent to Troy

and not every person is destroyed

but those who do feel the pain a hundred

more than you

and know they are not worthy

191
 surrounded by dumpster fires

that have a stench of broken dreams

none of them are mine but the fumes

continue to rise

i look into each of their eyes and see the

ghosts of lives gone by

they have set their garbage ablaze and

watch the flames slowly die

maybe we are modern and it is not the

right century for hope

the American dream is dead

and in all this despair, i see a glimmer of

kitsch

each dumpster is an artwork of dismay

and transformation

192
 pluck the feathers off the wings of those
that cannot fly

cast aside the cross for those who cannot

be free

lay them in a field of grass if they cannot

appreciate the rain

those who fled to the ports of europe

will never reach the threshold of paradise

as they have a room with the darkness of

their wounds

locked by a key of silence

parted forever is them and who they want
to be

193
R.Prost

Etudes

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notes:
And last but not least, special thanks to all
who support us!