I live in a wood. Not much happens around here. Trees grow, larvae bore holes, hungry woodpeckers tap at bark. I like entering and combing the wood. I sniff the stumps, they’re best when toppled. Cold water carves grooves in the ice, the foot is happy to fall in them. Crust collapses with a plop. Now it’s dry. The rustle of a browsed book. A drizzle from the sky, steam flows into the bog. Refuse clogs up the branches. Paper, plastic, rubber gets stuck. Something snaps, my eyes pop out. I blend into the path from behind. Left hand, right hand—they both soar off the thin runway of my limbs. Larva grows, churns up pulp, and spits it out the rear. I ingest another film, then I dream again and trip out, just to puke it up. I remember nothing, as if I wasn’t there, as if I’d fallen dead asleep. Yet the wood stirs itself and lures you onto the hill. The ice sheet has mercifully retreated before the forest. I note with a hearty dose of relief.

In Nature’s temple living pillars rise,

And words are murmured none have understood,

And man must wander through a tangled wood

Of symbols watching him with friendly eyes.

“Correspondances” (fragment), Charles Baudelaire, trans. Antoni Lange

Kamil Kukla

24.04.2026 – 17.05.2026
Curators: Mateusz Piestrak, Krzysztof Mętel
Text: Kamil Kukla
Translation from Polish: Soren Gauger
Photos: Mateusz Piestrak

Project carried out as part of the scientific research of the Faculty of Art at the Tarnow Academy.