It was -18 Celsius when I packed my stuff and two cats to come to a beautiful place – Maajaam residency – in order to focus on my artistic rather than all other practices. Against all safe driving definitions, a beautiful mist was growing inside the car, sticking onto the windshield and on both side-door-windows while I was driving. It was freezing onto glass forming a layer of non-transparent ice. The warm air blowing out of all possible places of the heating system would not help. I ended up using a roll of toilet paper to clean the mist before it would freeze while, at the same time, trying to figure out the direction I was driving in. Cats were terrified, as, frankly, was I. I guess this is one way to start an exciting something.

Since the time I came, January turned into April: the stream on which I was walking a week back is now running with delight. Landscapes of tree stumps kneeling on moist soil in the clear cut forest are quite a change to compare to the melancholic white horizon that manages to steer the attention somewhat away from destruction. On snow, I was tracking dogs, deer, cats and badgers. Without snow I track forestry machinery tracks, etched deep into earth. The forest grew suddenly green with the leaves of Hepatica nobilis and Vaccinium vitis-idaea. Instead of snow and ice cracking under my feet, I walk on lulling moss, abbundantly soaked in water that was snow just maybe yesterday.

The landscape here undulates under ones footsteps and each hill uncovers a new story. I would love to hear the story of those people that grow bees two hills and a bit of a forest away. I would like to know why a wooden boat is standing stranded high on a hill on the other side of the stream, in front of a constellation of old houses that look uninhabited (but I know are anything but). I’d like to hear why people on that hill that I see over the window decided to live here.

It is a privilege to be here like this, I know. I don’t have to look at the horizon to spot the smoke rising from a burning building that has just been senselessly bombed. I don’t look at the horizon to see when the rain is going to end, if ever, hoping the flooding will end. I don’t have to look around cautiously checking if all my hair is neatly covered, otherwise risking my freedom and life. I feel indebted for the privilege to sit, look at the horizon and research things related to climate catastrophe, whatever form my research takes after.

The things I’m working on / thinking of will take up space in Kaunas gallery Meno Parkas in February. I’ll see what I can do to make part of it available online.

This work process is supported by the kind people, cats and dogs of Maajaam and Lithuanian Culture Council (that has provided me with a mobility grant).