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psomodotis1smallThe new documentary from KOYINTA Production is a bout ideas.Ideas have their own life. They have their own zone. Staying there, all together, waiting for a hand to touch them. Maybe a mind to alter them. Or someone to conceive them from scratch like they never existed so far. Does parthenogenesis really exist? It doesn't exist. It exists though. No, it doesn't exists. It exists. Every time it is born again. In the glance of a new artist. Nothing is born in the same way. Everything looks alike and everything is different.An idea is always new.

 

How much time remains empty?

If somebody lazes in front of the TV, the day will soon be over…

And if he goes to pay the bills and then cooks something at noon or goes out to buy bread or goes to see a friend…

And if later he has a fight, if he sleeps for a little while ot takes a shower.

If something comes up, if he has to go somewhere, or answer some letters or if he works for eight hours….

If he has a wife or kids… If he has to, he needs to, he…

A day is like a drop of rain: it stops being a drop of rain so quickly.

Days are thrown into the muddy stream of yesterday.

They flow out of memory’s sewers.

How much time is left? How much time remains empty to fit something else? The body is hungry, the flesh demands and the mind is stressed.

How much time waits to be spent on the conception of an idea? No, time does not exist. The roots of the idea are weak. Ideas don’t even have roots.

How could art possibly fit inside days that are so full? Where can an artist find space and time? Space and the way to exist between days that are so filed to capacity. How can the artist discover their pauses, the small, faint interims that remain empty and slip from there gaining some space…

How can the artist become strong, so that he mesmerizes the day, he twists time, he turns space upside down, he generates time from scratch.

Suddenly, those packed days empty from everything. He lifts the days up like they were bags full of useless things. And then he can gaze upon this deep silence that always brewed under the noise.