In the work of Paulina Otylie Surys everything is hushed but incisive. Every image is a sigh that conjures up virtual yet magical moments. It offers the velvety enigma of a story that reaches its equinox among limpid yet voiceless images that flit away, rather than plunge, into the abyss. Once again, it’s a question of slipping outside time on the wings of an instant of febrile duration. Ablaze, the throbbing breath dies down; the heart is laid bare. Incandescent emotions crepitate to the tune of hidden life, where everything is “pleasure, calm and opulence” (Baudelaire).*
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