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In a gloom of grown out spruces, there they lazed upon the rust of needles. Chunks, being something once, were turning uncovered iron organ of the ribs to the sky, the spiral stilts of springs were telling-on to the shadowing branches of the spruce, plastic toys fragments layed there hopelessly scattered and drowning in a loose mass of fallen leaves.The acid pestilence has poisoned little iron parts of rust, scabies of mildews and of lichens has anchored on the shiny surface of artificial leather and plastics. Tizian´s monochromia was disturbed only here and there by greens of mallows and primroses. Time has stopped in a grove. Only the fluttering of black arches´s, mosquitos and bottle flys wings has churned the air. There was no evidence around, that there is a scrapyard running straight behind the curtain of the last bristly trunks. And a bit furhter behind it, there lives whole village and its people – Volary.

But one day…

... but one day ...

Ordo ab Chao/s! Words were spoken, and on impulse of that there became an act/ion. Verba movent exempla trahunt. Thing´s indentity, its deprivation can work only being based round the element, which it comes from. Dust you are and the dust you shall return…Recycle! The maker opposed returning things inside the bowels of the grave. He delyed merciless Chronos for a while, seeking a solace in bald-headed Kairos. Out of an amorphous mass, there emerged a totem, a statue, a structure.Things fit in each other as if they should be like that for a long time. A spirit of young spruce stuck in the middle, beeing convenient sacrifice to the gods´ intercession for a bit of favour and time. Ífigeneia with the head of Marcel Duchamp. „Ready for made“ crowned by „ready made“. And nearby, as if accidentally, carelessly thrown scull – vanitas – in a bathing helmet with faded orbits, facing to the lightbulb, the symbol of lumen fidei. All is cleaned up around, deserted, void, the needles are combed. Solitude and silence.

Jindřich Lukavský