By Wojciech Tuleya
Rafał has escaped civilisation, like Gauguin once did. He lives in the company of people he loves. Yet Gauguin’s egoism is not part of Rafał. For him, being famous is not a prize. The prize will come, some day.
In his paintings, animals appear as frequently as humans do. The foxes and the birds have their souls. And it is so obvious for this painter as it was for Franz Marco or Piero di Cosimo. Cats are there to chase mice; dogs would chase thieves. This is all his pair of eyes, in darkness.
Nature is omnipresent. It pulsates with energy, as with Leon Tarasewicz’s works. A forest wall pierced with sunrays. There is a river by the house, a genuine one, not a river of vehicles. An endless one. Endless trance.
An end of the world, that. The edge of a painting. A starting point and end of a composition arranged in the network of a drawing, like in a hammock. Composition is prevalent, against colour. The school of Cézanne, or Picasso.
A horror vacui – like a Rousseau or a Filonov. Paint it to the very last leave, not overlooking any single thing, with humility. To paint is to prey. If not an outsider, then, who else could possibly afford it?