The Raft of the Medusa
Henry Moore refers to his sculptures as ‘reclining’. Hung paintings can seem quite uncomfortable if we consider them more generally as objects in space. If lying on the floor, they can be accidentally stepped on. When leaning, they touch both the wall and the floor simultaneously—actively engaging the space around them.
I attended a French secondary school in Tallinn, where the walls were adorned with reproductions of great works of art, all similar sizes, uniformed by frames and glass. These were meant to be studied, and occasionally our knowledge was tested. Yet this education ended prematurely, for according to our headmaster, art stopped at Picasso. Seeing these imprisoned images daily made me curious about the real scale of the artworks.
The dimensions of my work are identical to that of another image, which was painted exactly 200 years ago by an artist my age, and whose content instinctively coalesced with a snapshot my mother had sent me.
Katarina Meister, 1990, Tallinn, Estonia
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