I Am At My Most Beautiful When I Am Alone

2017-2018, ceramic objects, installation, drawing

“The beauty of loneliness is something we don't talk about enough. About the moment when someone's face blossoms in the dark like a rare plant that will never become extinct. Lea Rasovszky's portraits in ceramic do not transpose her drawings into solid matter, but continue them in a relentless effort to discover their boundaries. Where exactly is the boundary between me and you, where does the contour of the face end and a landscape begin, where is the pure air and what's the purposefully sculpted void? The life of a line drawn becomes a fold in porcelain imbued with sleep, silence and peace. Every splash of color transforms into topographical indices that place the character in a diorama of solitude."

Diana Marincu, curator

I would trade all the late nights for the translucent early hours, when the world is new, fine threads of sunlight engulfing the world like the finest tongue retracing everything and leaving it glowing with a satin-like saliva glow.
The simplest miracle ever.

You are as diaphanous as an insect and as feeble as first love. Sunlight would devour you to the bone so you better dress yourself in cool darkness, electric red like the back of your veiny lids. Wear it as a cloack, blend in with the other Fasnacht goers. Go wild. Everyone is doing it.
I won’t be there, though. I love mornings, remember?
The internet said: She did not wish to be unkind, but her one absorbing idea at this moment was of solitude. No need to quote writers, this is not the time or place.

Let your uneasy and monstrous self rest in between soft velvet walls that muffle even your darkest thoughts, amplifying only your heavy breath until it becomes abstract and sort of romantic, like tides hitting a rocky shore.
The internet said: O divine sensibility, defend me from this isolation of the heart! No need to quote writers, this is not the time or place

Inside me lives Hashimoto. He was trying to grow out of me or escape me through a portal just to the right of my jaw. A phantom limb, or a branch, or a set of lips, or a war, was trying to protrude my body, giving me fever and making me feel like a helpless vulcano.
Hashimoto is only a boy, he reminds me of a dear friend who used to be a boy back when we first met. His name is Kyohei. It means soldier.

I am at my wost beautiful when i awake with last night’s dream still visible on the fine lines of my face. My eyes still searching to clarify some deep, residual situation, that i failed to resolve while dreaming. The first glance out my window that faces a friendly wall makes it all disolve faster than Aspirine in a glass of tap water.
The internet said: In a forest, solitude would be life; in a city, it is death. No need to quote writers, this is not the time or place.

I felt transparent, my yellow flesh paler than ever, I stood out like a mustard stain on dark imperial velvet. We were looking at each other, I self aware, him perfectly blended in the lush surrounding, like a calm king that never uses words and never blinks. I was nervously trying to focus on something, anything, pulsating under his precious and still gaze.
I then realized I was not standing upright. My head, disconnected from my body, lay as a leaf, the top of my head cooled by the setting sun and my chin sensing the secret murmur of insect life, sliding, being more alive that life itself, just below the damp and rich earth that held my head gently, like the soft belly of a tropical God.

Sitting in a reverie with eyes glazed, shelterd by thick glasses. Four eyes they call him, making him feel like an all powerful mythological creature, a saviour of nothing, a potential hero, if he could only get over this pubescent and age unnapropriate self. Late bloomer? More like an ancient logg with confetti sprinkled on it.
It’s alright, Four Eyes know he is steady and timeless, he threads the loneliest routes, completly ignoring the cartoonish and trivial blue sky.
The internet said: On his table was the dust of solitariness; and with his finger he wrote in it "Forever." No need to quote writers, this is not the time or place.

You might find yourself trapped in a body you might not feel is your own. Who’s to say the beast you nurture within has to follow this rigid exterior?
No one, that’s who.

Lea Rasovszky 2017