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After the Final Clash, one more image emerged, this time through a more intentional process. What looked at me from the paper was clearly a girl talking to a dragonfly in an open field. While I was writing and preparing the publication of "The Final Clash", already in love with the scroll as a publishing format, I was considering turning that second drawing into the background story of the Witch of Bubbles. Meanwhile, a friend saw the drawing and proclaimed it was a pirate ship emerging from water. That's when I decided to open the subject online, which brought a third vision, that of the baby bird with open beak, in a nest. Effectively, "A Bird's Hunger" fuses all these interpretations, and is therefore a philomuse publication, as the collaboration element is central. Further, it is an addition not only to the saga inaugurated by "The Final Clash" but also to the scrolls, which will hopefully grow in number.
A Bird’s Hunger At the edge of the marsh, a girl with a long crinoline dress was marching among the thinning reeds, jumping over the little streams that rushed along toward the sea. A dragonfly the color of old copper and river-glass followed the girl, and despite its frantic winging it struggled to keep up. Still it found time to tilt its head, as if the world were a riddle worth solving. The girl, both fierce and awkward, marching like bobbing fire through the uneven marshlands, was thought by some to be a princess, coming as she did from a household of tapestries and velvet curtains, while others called her a witch, because she had been seen talking to the moon and nodding to the wind. “They’re here,” the girl said and the dragonfly vibrated, affirming the rumors that had been moving beneath the water. They stopped and turned their gaze to the bay. The world fell silent. Next to them, in the crook of a sparse and naked wind-bent tree, a nest trembled. A small bird lifted its head and opened its beak to the sky but didn’t make a sound. The girl looked from the nest to the water, and from the water to the dragonfly. “They’re starving,” she said. “Yes,” said the dragonfly. “What are you going to do?” At that moment the water bulged, as if the sea were holding its breath. The featherless bird pipped faintly. Then the water began to split, and the bow of an enormous ship rose slowly to the surface with a creaking sound, like a heavy door opening. This was a pirate ship returning from the place where lost things go, a construct of both reality and myth, unkempt and majestic at once, its golden sails unfurled, its carved figurehead blinking free. The girl felt the old pull in her chest: She could sense what the ship was bearing, and the bird’s hunger was the omen which told her that what she sensed was true. The ship drifted closer, its…
During an experiment with textures and surfaces I accidentally made the print which revealed the amazing story of the creation of the Rift of Regrettable Decisions. I fine-lined it, so that everyone could see what I was seeing, and turned it into a wonderful A3 scroll publication, with the poster of the Battle on the one side and the story on the other! More prints and stories will follow soon.
Before you read the story, look at the wonderful animation made by the multi-talented Jon Miller (who wrote the music for "Ways In and Ways Out").

The Final Clash The battle of the Mighty Giraffe and the Witch of Bubbles took place in the In-Between Universe, at the extreme upper left corner of the Trentulon Galaxy and didn't come as a shock to the denizens of all the twelve kingdoms of the eight known dimensions. It didn't shock them, as they had been expecting it for some time, but it did shake their planets, that were hit by unprecedented earthquakes that lasted a millennium. Before this catastrophic and monumental battle, for which songs were sang and tomes were written, the Mighty Giraffe and the Witch of Bubbles used to be best friends. No one knew who started the fight or even what the fight was about, but of course everyone had their theories. The two of them had stopped talking either to each other or in fact to anyone, consumed as they were by their mutual hatred. There were 6128 different rumors and 404 legends circulating in the 256 planets from which perhaps only the testimony of the United Archivists of the Twelfth Kingdom carried some credibility: They maintained that the quarrel began over qwertubraes, a board game of unprecedented complexity, involving six hundred dice, three gravitational anomalies, and a rulebook written in a language that actively changed its grammar every seven minutes. According to them, the argument had escalated when the Witch tried to summon a bubble to stabilize Space-Time Column G, and the Giraffe accused her of cheating. Unfortunately, even this account was considered unreliable, as everyone knew how fond the Archivists were of qwertubraes and how they tried to promote it with every chance. But everyone agreed on one thing: over time the hostility had become so intense that stars dimmed when the two passed each other in the sky, and entire planets pretended not to be home when they approached. And while this feud continued in this passive-aggressive state for centuries, it was during one chance meeting — or was it fate? Not even the Wise Ones can distinguish between the two — that a slant look brought momentum (and in such cases momentum historically never ends well). So came the Final Clash, which is how the battle of Mighty Giraffe and the Witch of Bubbles would come to be known. The Final Clash folded reality and hiccuped time, and led to the creation of the Rift of Regrettable Decisions, a shimmering fold in the…
When mistakes do not cause damage, they open unexpected paths. Those small slips of intention are full of rare beauty: They are the generative equivalent of losing your way in a city that you know. They carry a sense of liminality, a refreshing unfamiliarity, eventually the thrill of what comes next, provided that you can let go, even for a while. Like the city, the machine becomes a co-author of a different story. Digital tools invite precision. We specify formats, destinations, and parameters, expecting clean execution. Yet when something misfires the logic breaks open – accident and misinterpretation become collaboration: machine and human co-create something neither could have predicted or done alone. A transcription system, when fed the wrong input, invents. It strings together words that produce or mimic meaning. What begins as failure becomes poetry. An OCR, when it fails to recognize the alphabet of a given text, replaces it with other symbols, that can be observed and admired separately from any possible meaning. Errors, deviations from the plan, and accidental artistic results: Photos taken by accident
Cell phone screen after accidental fall: Stickers created by accident Asemic language created by OCR
Transcription system errors due to wrong language input: [a] original text [b] correct translation [c] error
Image from a video after an ffmpeg command ran without destination
We spend so much of our time trying to avoid mistakes – in speech, in text, in code – we dread making them, and we are often judged and scolded for making them. Yet the most memorable discoveries often happen when control is lost. When we lose orientation, we see differently. A misaligned photograph may reveal a new composition. A broken command may expose a hidden pattern. An algorithmic confusion may give us fresh poetry. To embrace error is to suspend mastery. It means allowing the system – technological or personal – to surprise us. It’s a form of trust: a willingness to let meaning unfold rather than dictate it. Getting lost, whether in a city or in a sequence of commands, restores our capacity for wonder. It reminds us that not every route must be efficient, not every result must be correct. Besides, an error is also a performance, a one-time act of deviation that can’t be rehearsed: a resistance that you usually only find in improvisation, and this improvisation can’t be planned, predicted, packaged, or monetized. Its value lies in its singularity: once recognized and repeated, it ceases to be error and becomes style, code, or pattern, even when the results differ. This is not necessarily a degradation but a transformation. The raw accident becomes a method, the surprise becomes craft. In a world obsessed with optimization, the true mistake is still one of the few gestures that escape design. After all, perhaps the error is not the deviation, but the plan itself, a breaking of the illusion that outcomes can be perfectly engineered. Maybe we need to lose our way, again and again,…
In September I launched philomuse. It is a project, an initiative, a hybrid, a proposal. I wanted to combine knowledge, desires, values, the inspirational things I've seen and learned during my studies and my professional life. Philomuse is very ambitious in its goal, which is to connect creativity, learning and community for anyone interested, but it is also an expression of a trend that wants the arts to be socially engaged, and which has contributed to the rising phenomena of the workshop and the participatory art project. The focus of philomuse is rather cultural than purely artistic, however it dares to claim its presence within both worlds. Besides drawing inspiration from the latest models, it allows me to combine diverse skill sets that I have developed in the last two decades. How will it be received? Will it be successful? What will my next steps be and will I manage to overcome my own limitations? Are the conditions right and what kind of audience will it reach? I can only dream of it as something that will grow roots and flourish in time.
Between September 2023 and July 2025 I studied for an MFA. When I started this study I was 41 years old, with three jobs, a young child and a busy, somewhat messed up life. My creative rhythm, as well as almost any other set rhythm I might have had up to that time, was disrupted, and most works that came out during this period were not products of the pure joy of making (one day we'll talk about the process as well as the outcome of this study). However, there were those moments that somehow slipped through the fingers of institutional creativity and then several little projects appeared. However, because they came to life in fragmented, seemingly unrelated moments, I failed to see them as a whole and I also failed to see from the start their immediate connection with the topics, materials and methods that I chose for my 'institutional' projects.
Self-portrait was the first one of these side projects. It came to fruition during a ceramics workshop around Halloween. I decided to use acrylics and varnish (nail polish) instead of glazing it. The topic of identity, stereotypes and gender roles, that would later emerge in my graduation project, as well as masks as a medium, would only become concrete about a year later in my practice. Picnic was a child of found objects. The discarded, the every day, the unfitting. From the wooden board to the plastic threads, all objects in this assemblage are items that would have otherwise ended up in the trash, which was also meant to be a performative building element that would shape the sculptures in identitours. Wall was the last one. The bold color palette is there, as well as the found objects. Underneath, on the found canvas, you can see parts of an underlying painting of a woman. But it's not a message of despair. This wall is a live wall, a lived wall, against the sterile white of decorum, and is in fact a happy expression of that woman. Looking back, those choices I made unconsciously were expressions of and foreshadowed the concept of virtuality, that I also embrace in identitours. It seems that there is always a little bit of us in everything we do, one way or another.