Schwärze Löcher 1992, ca. 40 x 40 cm, Eitempera auf Papier
Each day we meet holes in every size and shape.
Indeed, the holes appear so trivial, it's easy to categorise them as insignificant. Art holes are different from material holes in that they're not conceived for their own sake: A hole is not necessarily a hole. Looking closer, art holes can draw us near, and pull us to the other side. In such case we even chance falling out of touch with ourselves, and yet, the same challenge affords the potential of self discovery.
The black surfaces which compose so many of Bunsen's black holes are not as black as they are deep. The depth comprises the hole, not the blackness. Then again, it's not the depth of black which makes them tangible, but their quality of depth.
The quality of the hole, determined by artist hand, tells at last, which kind of depth is presently engaged. The experience of depth is also a living methaphor for that which can't be explained, as many of life's mysteries, for example: love. There is depth of cheating, depth of lying, depth of disapointment. So often, such holes aren't recognised before they're actually fallen into.
On the other hand, there is depth of love, that doesn't allow mediation until approached unconditionally. Depth of hate blinds us for the uselessness of an aspiration, until our endeavors have been amassed into one whole emptyness. Now I've encircled the black hole, and have even accounted for it with a picture. Bear in mind the kind of depth you submit yourself to. It's determined solely by you.