Bay

Exhibition / installation
2025

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Exhibition Halls Titanikas at Vilnius Academy of Arts

Since the moment I began to consciously perceive myself, I’ve always felt an inexplicable attraction to water. The fear of dark depths and the understanding that water is an essential condition for existence have always coexisted in my mind. I’ve noticed that, more subconsciously than rationally, I keep returning to water in my artistic practice as a boundless, intangible, all-encompassing substance essential for life. Alongside this, the concept of water as a pathway is also significant. Theoretically, by traveling through water (or along it), one can find oneself in almost any point on Earth. It is a path that cannot be destroyed – you can alter the course of a river or dam it, but the water will always find a way to seep through.

 

On a gloomy February morning, while walking the dog, I found a couple of broken concrete icicles under the Druja Street viaduct (concrete, influenced by the environment, emits calcite, which forms stalactites). I took them, and on my way home, tossed them into the trunk of my car. That morning, the war began in Ukraine. The safe and familiar world was thrown off balance, and I felt a clear and specific threat to existence. Together with Agnė, like many others overwhelmed with anxiety, we bought food, water, and fuel supplies, got ourselves respirators with carbon filters, and packed survival backpacks. We followed the news closely and discussed possible evacuation plans if things were to take a really bad turn, but it was still hard to accept that the threat wasn’t just a bad dream from which you can’t wake up. A couple of months after the war began, we found out that we were going to be parents. It was a strange and complex feeling – waiting for the arrival of new life in the face of potential danger. Probably, this was an intuitively born desire to survive through another or in another. In a way, it’s a kind of pursuit of immortality – passing on part of yourself to another and, through this, hoping, at least partially, to remain in the future.

 

Every time someone tells their dream, I feel somewhat uncomfortable. Especially when I become one of the characters in the dream – as if I’m responsible for my actions in someone else’s subconscious. And yet, my own dreams often serve as a starting point for my creative practice. Lately, those dreams have become homogeneous and repetitive. The environment is industrial-urban – a worn-out dock or Savanorių Avenue, somewhere near the thermal power plant. But more often, it’s an unknown harbor, restless, dark water, a small bay, dilapidated buildings, and faceless people wandering about. Everyone is in a hurry – as if trying to escape or flee from something. It’s as though they’re searching for Noah’s Ark to board and survive. In my hands, there is a child. Light flashes through the clouds, like explosions, but without sound. Fragments fall from the sky. Looking closely, I realize they are fragments of sculptures I’ve created. I begin to frantically search for a place to hide so I don’t become a victim of my own creation.