In the short afternoons of a Polish winter our gaze entwines into empty foliages and stays trapped there until, with all its force, the lump of night falls onto the world and erases that dry ramification. In the bright nights of a full moon, carefully flowing upon the landscape, the labyrinth of foliages resists and our gaze stays trapped for days. The temptation of leaf-deprived trees is not morbid, we are not attracted to a life that is no more, but to a life that is not yet. The gaze wraps around the cracked bark with the careful gentleness of a parasite taking care of its host. What we don’t see under the bark is not death, but overwintering. In winter the sun moves away from earth and water in the air idles into the slow wriggling of a mist, and even deeper into the icy bark through which the greyed sky glides down foliages. All this liberates the life under the bark from the necessity of growth and seduction. Then the life of trees is the freest one, it takes all possible shapes in the space of winter’s contemplation. When, in a few months, the Sun again gets close to Earth, it will peel the grey sky’s low covering and the landscape will once more gain verticality. Pulled by the sudden swelling of the world, tissues will leak out through the cracked bark of the trees. The seductive flood of greenery will make us scamper across nature. However, only if in these spring wanderings do we run into colour-deprived lagoons, which have been left behind in the sudden withdrawal of winter, will we see how the chlorophyllous traces of vegetation’s offensive do not manage to write out more than “I am a tree”. We will nostalgically remember the dense ramification of a text which, with our gaze, we have been reading for days from the empty foliages that were filling the narrow world of a Polish winter. The pleasure we will then try to evoke is the pleasure of a reader, a fantasy about a book written in an unknown letter containing all possible stories, a book whose impenetrableness is a guarantee of its inexhaustibleness.
© translated by Serena Todesco and Silvestar Vrljić