text and notes by Damir Zubcic

You cannot know Andy without understanding his morphology: the morphology of an ostrich. Not the biggest flying bird but the biggest soaring, the ostrich is the fast runner of its species. A terrestrial fate, a horselike strength, you should know full well. His appearances aren’t deceptive, his forma mentis doesn’t lie. I am Andy when I am the ostrich.

Across the surface, running breathlessly, while improbable colours vibrate in your visual field, trespassing, forcing as a real exhibitionist, walking with its powerful legs and, at the same time, rejoicing in a sincere and deep “BOOMING”. “Buu, buu, buuh, buu”, this is the quintessence of Andy’s fluorescent elan vital.

Ostrich: “My dear Andy, please tell me what you’re not!”

Andy: “I’m nothing of what I’m going to tell you: psychic autopsy, esoteric anatomy, deep catabasis, anabasis in the unclean, vertical psychology, transcendental religion, no phantasio, no imagery, ex nihilo creation, no Kroatilo’s world, a truthful mirror, a lying priest”

Ostrich: “You’re very kind Andy, tell me what you really are”

Andy: “I’m just like you, as in that old belief describing the ostrich brooding its eggs by providing them only with the warmth of its glance. My pictures, without their frames, without their edges, are like eggs trespassing minds. Even their weight (1.500 g. each) is that of your egg, and my thought is your feather.”

Ostrich: “feather-thought?”

Andy: “All your feathers are the same length, as my measure for everything, right, severe. My painting code’s like your body: chromatic islands that I close within a black border, letting you imagine what’s further; maybe the white colour of your not flying wings.

Ostrich: Everybody wants to fly, why don’t you want to?

Andy: Remember my sign, my autograph. My name above and a big eye below, in a symmetrical position. A big, powerful eye, but connected to terrestrial life. I stretch out, and everything gets into my visual field and nothing gets out of it. I’m faithful to earth, to the ground. I prostrate on it, as the chromatic bench on the level of the visages and things in my pictures, I perform a sort of holomer, an image of our body, where dumb rocks vibrates together, empowered by an omniscient sight.

Ostrich: It’s very kind of you, Andy, photography is the invisible background of your pictures. Every thing, every person, is captured for all eternity. I dare to say: you work on the surface of eternity, on the horizontal level, parallel to eternal triviality. The banality of beings shines iridescently, ultra-mundane colours advise us, don’t seek further, you, your body and your mind are like us.”

Andy: “My dear friend, you’re right about everything. Every image I love was created and seen in past memories. Nourished by their own life, they stare at me plane, flat, but growing an urgent question, asking for a new life, more powerful and simple.

I do answer their question. The loud, sonorous visibility of beings, hardly ever revealed in its fullness, in the superetenal greyness, supermodern is my supreme amazement.” 

Ostrich: Eminent friend, after the pulsing eternity is depicted, marked, revealed, in you picture doesn’t it become something to exchange, doesn’t it become cash?

Andy: “My very gentle friend, you’re right a hundred times. I need to be without every image. But my mind and my body are weak, I’m an addict, poisoned by my own childhood, super-fed and fondled, for example, by K.D.B. (Kraftwerk, Depeche Mode, Bowie), they all are guilty and they all are absolved, powerful poisons still circulating in my artistic, decadent veins.

I’m not a high medieval German mystic, but I found my way to be pure. I sell my picture to detoxicate me, and I play with the cash, I play it.

DAMIR ZUBCIC