This series draws inspiration from childhood memories and seemingly ordinary family photographs: changing groups of loved ones in the courtyard of the house built by my grandfather. The house and courtyard are painted in blue, pink, yellow and scarlet, arranged in geometric patterns. The people in the photographs touch each other's shoulders and look into the camera. These images represent a sense of collective belonging and closeness, captured on film and in the mind. They depict a time when everything was 'together' and 'in place'.

Memory has preserved our provincial summer habits of sitting under the open sky on chairs, folding beds and camp beds. This is a natural and trusting extension of the home into the courtyard or garden, turning them into 'rooms without roofs' — connecting everyday life with the transcendent.

In my work, these 'non-rooms' that open to the sky refer to Michel Foucault's concept of heterotopia: places that are both real and utopian, and which immerse us in alternative ways of being and interacting.

The elongated horizontal formats, assembled from separate fragments, become a visual analogue of time. They enable us to experience time as it unfolds in both real and metaphysical spaces. The polyptych's fragmentation fixes and connects scattered observations into a single nonlinear flow.

Colourful 'curtains' — contrasting blocks of intense shades — serve as openings, simultaneously dividing and connecting fragments. This creates the effect of the same state appearing multiple times — not literally, but in an emotionally recognisable way. This is not a landscape, but a metaphysical space — a spiritual refuge to which the gaze turns. Repeated and slightly ajar, it becomes an image of a lost childhood hideout, where one could exist outside of time, experiencing pure presence.

The figures in my paintings are no longer facing an imaginary camera. Instead, they are immersed in contemplation, acting as mediators between the past and the present, and between the concrete and the abstract. The segments of the composition are organised like memory cells — scenes that open up momentarily, like frames through a camera diaphragm. I am creating my 'meta-Sibai',* where loneliness without isolation, presence without discussion and contemplation without utopia are possible. There is no event here, only what remains after it.

This painting explores the concept of silent presence, in which figure, plane and colour coexist in a state of tense equilibrium. To some extent, it engages in dialogue with Richard Diebenkorn's Berkeley period, during which female figures seated on chairs inhabited unstable, semi-abstract spaces. The formal logic of my series — clear colour fields, intersecting angles, and open horizons — mirrors the spatial structures of Diebenkorn's Ocean Park series.

'The Time Is Noon' is both a means of slowing down and a philosophical challenge that enables us to reconsider memory, space and time, and to find solace amid the rapidity of existence.
Here, the suspension of time is an act of resistance; silence is a form of presence; and pause is an action.

From the notes:
Time stands still and the countdown stops. The world is ruled by light, shaking off emptiness and becoming transparent for a moment, renewed. Clear. Nothing obscures this clarity.

The 'I' disappears and you are freed for a moment, becoming an extension of the light.
But soon, your body will remind you of itself — with its hot insides and burning belly.

It swings from red to blue and back again, moving from the centre to the periphery and back, where red becomes something like crushed berries, and then scarlet.

No matter what position we are in at midday, our sunlit bodies freeze for a moment in the eternal blue, only to remember, forget and simply burn in an instant.

It is midday. A time when it is impossible to turn back because the fire is already burning.