/ One year after COLD LIPS OF THE WAVES show, I'm posting a text accompanying the exhibition, written by Michalina Sablik. /
Your lips of the waves are so cold, he said to me during our last meeting. He then left for good, like the last train from Sopot to Warsaw, like the memorable last night on a summer camp or a package holiday in August. Your arms are Magellan’s boat, he used to say when we walked along my coast. The sand measured seconds, minutes, hours; it played its wicked game with the wind. It was inevitable. We knew it was going to end suddenly and painfully, yet we could not believe it. Instead, we wanted to draw handfuls from those shared moments. We were as different as two drops of water. For him life was the port tavern, for me – the deep, deep blue ocean.
I told him I had places where precious ambers were born, where the Sun touched my raptures and curves. The man spoke wisely about insects, forests, the Eocene and billions of years locked in golden stones. Humans! They could think of such beautiful stories: of kings, piano players, romantic writers and mysterious chambers. They gave universal meaning to accidental events. They pursued and found sense in everything. Now they are gone, leaving behind empty hotel lobbies, souvenir shops, fish fry shops and lonely ports. Sunscreens, flip-flops, deckchairs, butterfly nets, newspapers. Today no one is going to read the breaking news of the days that are gone.
I wipe one lonely salty tear. I will lock this memory in a glass box and I will carry it close to my heart, like a precious diamond. When everybody could already sense the smell of the approaching catastrophe, when the weather alerts vibrated in our pockets and the temperature in the shadow reached 36 degrees centigrade, he walked barefoot to the spot where the sand collapsed under his weight and said: Your lips of the waves are so cold…