Kamil
Kukla

I feel drawn to (...) kinks and quirks that exist in the cultural periphery, curated and illustrated by unknown amateur artists. They create images to quench the passions that might be deemed “sick” and which are, in essence, the most shameful fantasies and well-kept secrets of the most ordinary creatures who we pass by every day, with whom we work and shake hands on a daily basis.
 

What I do is born in the same recesses of the mind. I feed on what is artificial, impossible to embody, called into fictitious existence for the sole purpose of excitement. As an artist, I neither fulfill a civic duty nor express any noble reasons. What I paint, mold, form and knead is not a product of careful calculation and consideration, not a result of a calibrated intellectual or intelligent endeavor. All of it is “just” an expression of an internal trepidation; a fever that causes flushed cheeks, makes you drool, forces beads of sweat down your temples and unfurls a sweet yearning inside you.