Postmodern2

We live in a world woven with images that denies the linear flow of time. There is neither a beginning nor an end in these faces; just layers of meanings peeled off, overlapping fragments... Every color is an echo, every line is a deviation. And each figure, like a shadow that cannot fix its existence, is a sediment of a passing dream.

The postmodern is not an opposition, because it does not directly oppose anything. There is no center so that there is a periphery. Each item stands like pieces torn from a puzzle; It rejects completion, glorifies its incompleteness.

There is no order here — only encounters. Shapes collide with meaning, shatter, reborn. Each work is a pre-linguistic cry, a post-meaning whisper. And we, the audience, are not called to understand, but to witness. Because in these images, meaning is not fixed; It is reborn with every glance, it speaks with a different poem in every eye.

Postmodern is the domain of intuition, not seeing. There is an echo here, not a narrative; not history, but a broken mirror of the present. Each part of this series is part of a quest, not a whole. Steps taken in the footsteps of a meaning that is neither found nor lost...

And perhaps most here, in this fragmentation, we are closest to ourselves. Because we are also incomplete sentences.