Acrylic paint, image transfer, steel dust, medical tape, uv varnish on wood and aluminium
200 x 155 cm
78 3/4 x 61 1/8 in
In Passage I (2020) three flyer jackets are stacked gently like hollow vertebrae. With arms outstretched, each one becomes successively disarticulated into ever smaller squares and slivers of tape. Glimpses...
In Passage I (2020) three flyer jackets are stacked gently like hollow vertebrae. With arms outstretched, each one becomes successively disarticulated into ever smaller squares and slivers of tape. Glimpses of the jacket’s orange lining along the central axis create an upward surge, as if to tear the jackets asunder. The entire composition is crowned by a head of sorts comprised of image transfers of floodlights from Heysel Stadium, where in 1985 thirty-nine soccer fans perished in a stampede. The emulsified photo transfers become indexical traces, at times revealed or erased, beneath layers of Dudek’s affective outpourings of anger, ecstasy, and grief.
Slipping into the jacket’s soft shell for the first time in 1993, Dudek suddenly belonged to something that felt greater than himself. That year, during a match between Poland and England, he turned his jacket inside out and abandoned himself to the melee. His initiation was, too, a descent. From afar, the three jackets are the silhouette of a boy collapsing to his knees. At the very bottom edge of the frame, splinters of orange tape pulse like an EKG. They seem to capture the adrenaline coursing through Dudek’s veins, the blood rushing in his ears. Dudek’s first passage was a fall into soundlessness, save for the pounding of his heart.