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| Period | Contemporary (1945-today) |
|---|
Kafkian Eternity with Flowers at 7 PM – May 7, 2025
In this latest piece from the “Kafkian Eternity with Flowers at 7 PM” series, Ovidiu Kloska reaches perhaps the most refined fusion between memory, matter, and visual poetry. The composition is not a traditional still life, but a fragile altar built from the ashes of a deteriorated time—a fingerprint of abandoned spaces and the quiet emotions that haunt them.
The work is directly inspired by a real place—a former industrial park in Focșani, now demolished, which the artist used to pass through, drawn by the strange beauty of urban decay. In a collapsed hall, with crumbling walls, seepage marks, graffiti scars, and moss clinging to cold concrete, Kloska discovered a visual source of immense expressive power. That raw plasticity and the unique palette of time-stained greys became his pictorial language.
This painting becomes a symbolic vessel in which no fresh flowers bloom, but instead, echoes of a forgotten world. The perennial flowers are shadows, memories, visual sediments of passing time. They do not wither—because they never truly lived—but hover in translucencies, among cracks, between layers of corrosion and light.
The palette—metallic greys, oxidized green, burnt copper, and faded white—creates an atmosphere of suspended meditation. There is a subtle pulse of “life was here,” but life has evaporated, leaving only traces in texture and light. It feels as if the painting was not made with paint, but with solidified time.
“7 PM” here becomes a metaphysical dimension: the moment when time slows down, matter speaks, and Kafkian flowers ignite through absence. It’s not an hour on the clock, but an hour of memory. A time when nothing appears to happen on the surface, yet everything stirs beneath.
With this work, Kloska succeeds in turning ruin into sacred space. He weaves pictorial detail with urban residue, vulnerability with monumentality. And amid this controlled chaos, where textures nearly become audible, a new kind of eternity is born: a Kafkian eternity, where time no longer flows but hovers in the inner movements of a flower that cannot die—because it never truly lived.
Sometimes, flowers bloom not from life — but from memory.
This still life is born from the ruins of an abandoned industrial space in my hometown. Crumbling walls, moss, silence.
A painting about time, fragility, and the strange beauty of decay.
7 PM. The hour when everything fades... or begins again.
