It won't be me
opening: 10th September 2015, 6.00 pm.
Łukasz Filak cries with laughter as he gets a Magritte-esque tattoo contemplating hipster sensibilities and a naive wish to hold onto rushing images for ever and ever. All of those reflections of sunlight burning our backs, perfect evenings, those extremely important moments which we mercilessly destroy with one swipe of a finger on a screen. This goes here, that goes here, that was then, this will be – they don't exist. Any more or yet. Remember, the next time you see me, it won't be me. I'll throw a stone at you, and your doppelgänger will become wet with excitement.
Łukasz knows what he's doing, while many young artists emerging from art schools drown in an overproduction of similar, tired visual messages. His proposition is a nuanced, ironic reflection on the passing of time and the fluidity of the morphing persona he creates for himself, which turns out to be himself. He is the author of the puzzle, casting doubt over his previous choices and erasing the footprints of his own doppelgänger wherever an answer to the viewer's questions would mean an unnecessary end of their journey. As a film school student (the Polish National Film School in Łódź), he does this with cunning and a ton of narrative-juggling skills, precisely planned plot twists, working for a cinematic effect. His installation is characterized by conceptual thinking and a dadaistic lightness, but most of all it is cinematic – each piece, created in various media (from a unique polaroid, a highspeed, erotically analytic video in which we travel several decades within two minutes to a fragment of a film set) is put together as a story within a story, referencing Duchamp, Magritte, Lynch.
Łukasz becomes serious as a serious technical perfectionist (pieces made using the wet collodion technique, large-format contact prints, highspeed video material). He creates a set of pieces which comment each other, mercilessly telling us that the baloon of quotes which makes up our "unique" experiences will grow and grow without popping. This is both sad and beautiful, which is what we like best.