When one faces Ivan Olasjuk’s paintings for the first time, one is tempted to suggest that their creator is no human artist, but rather time itself, an accidental touch, chance. But there is nothing accidental in these works, and what seems auto-generated is actually the result of a long and thoughtful working process.
The works require the viewer (and interlocutor) to be attentive, delicate, and sometimes quiet in order to perceive all the nuances and vibrations of the “painting noise” of modernity.
The image of a book is a metaphor for lived space, for movement with no starting or ending point, and for a thought process in which the global and the personal find themselves on a single empirical level. The book we live in has many layers and levels, and thus its interpretation is always ambiguous and subjective. From time to time we meet bookmarks or markers that draw our attention to objects, occurrences, or spaces that are captured by the artist out of chaos and transmuted into an object of a different sort.