The connection to rough and harsh nature, still being shaped, is essential for me as an artist.
My understanding of nature comes not only from playful observation, but from my past role as a first-hand intruder. I have intervened with nature in the most brutal ways possible – moving millions of cubic meters of material, using machines and dynamite, building great constructions in unspoiled landscapes. With my art, I want to take responsibility.
I make butterflies, not to create a nice-looking imagery like Damien Hirst or Salvador Dali but to portray a vanishing world, a sign for the battle of survival. I dig straight into the core of the earth looking for answers.
I want to show that nature isn’t always nice. She is beautiful, but she doesn’t always look the way we want her to. There is no order in unspoiled nature; she is chaotic, and she is dangerous, surprising and weird. She is strong but also extremely vulnerable. We can shape her, we can push her, but we can also go too far. And that is what we have been doing.
With my paintings, I want viewers to take personal responsibility for their role in this battle. To confront their consumerism, their superficiality, and their quest for pleasure rather than fulfillment.
We need to change, and butterflies are a symbol for transformation. My butterflies are pretty. They are magnetic, they’re screaming for existence, swirling around looking for hope.
We see the wings of a butterfly - is it falling, or is it flying high? Do we see the world the way it is or the way we want it to be? Our perspective is a choice – just like the choice we have to make to take responsibility, rather than giving it away to others and hoping for the best. We see nature, flowers and butterflies, vanishing behind concrete. It’s a warning sign but also a whisper of hope. Nature will find a way, it always finds a way - but it might not be the way we hope for.