latest uploads: 20th August 2018
SALVE REGINA - SHROUDS (22 large-scale paintings)
SALVE REGINA - MIRRORS (53 small-scale paintings)
SALVE REGINA (exhibition)
SALVE REGINA (video)
SALVE REGINA (catalogue)
All these decorations and this celebration are a tribute to you. For the time when you return to the known, and when you are scattered back in time. Sorry, next time around we'll be more durable.
Natalija Šeruga Golob ( 2018)
 “Sorry," they seemed to say, "next time around we'll be more durable." Then there were those mirrors, two or three in each room, of various sizes, but mostly rectangular. They all had delicate golden frames, with well-wrought floral garlands or idyllic scenes which called more attention to themselves than to their surface, since the amalgam was invariably in poor shape. In a sense, the frames were more coherent than their contents, straining, as it were, to keep them from spreading over the wall. Having grown unaccustomed over the centuries to reflecting anything but the wall opposite, the mirrors were quite reluctant to return one's visage, out of either greed or impotence, and when they tried, one's features would come back incomplete. I thought, I begin to understand Régnier. From room to room, as we proceeded through the enfilade, I saw myself in those frames less and less, getting back more and more darkness. Gradual subtraction, I thought to myself; how is this going to end? And it ended in the tenth or eleventh room. I stood by the door leading into the next chamber, staring at a largish, three-by-four-foot gilded rectangle, and instead of myself I saw pitch-black nothing. Deep and inviting, it seemed to contain a perspective of its own-perhaps another enfilade.
(Joseph Brodsky, Watermark, Harpe CollinsCanadaLtd, 1992, pp. 54-55.)
You know. Solitude is my support and my homestead. I don't measure time in it, I don't calculate, I don't count. There's no biography. I wander around in it, wishful for more patience. After snowstorms there comes the pure joy of new discoveries. Summer is certain to come. And the painting awaits me throughout my wanderings, already there in the future. Loyal as a dog I go to meet it.
Natalija Šeruga Golob (2012)
I WANT TO PASS THROUGH THE WOODS AT THE DARKEST NIGHT
There is no mysticism and I still believe you Louise that I create because I do not know other way of seducing.
In order to get rid of solitude, to which a birth condemn me to, I am prepared to nurture this scorned and compassion worth desire.
If I dedicate myself to all technical preparations faithfully like a dog, I will catch what I am hunting for, you are saying. And exactly this I am persistently dogged by, makes the most of me. That, what I have a premonition of and I can smell it is for sure in same others places and totally evasive. Approximations and their imitations I am capable to catch, I throw as bait. All what is created have a secret background; you can see only a surface, non-essential side. There is an access to what is expressed, but the essence always snatches away from me. So, I am offering myself.
You know, during hunting only love or downfall can disturb me.
Presents from the sky disturb routine in which I am caught day after day. One of the biggest present I got in the beginning of this year. Thanks to downfall; one of my fundamental life experiences. But the idea of death mitigates this tragic situation. Suchlike metaphysical stroll to the grave of anybody close is a lesson of wisdom. Simply, I adore downfalls, of course after healing up. Downfalls have always been displacing my way. They deliberate me and let me breathe easier.
I have deep wrinkle between the eyes on my forehead; it is an impression of what has been breathe out. Body is sly and it is betraying me. Body is a landscape.
It is lake this, my last downfall made me move my studio, I cannot say for sure what happened first - downfall or movement.
In the nearness of brushes and paints I felt seek or started crying (intensive body reaction). I had had folded not opened paint tubes for at list one year, neither dust I had wiped. World is full of paintings, the old ones, the new ones, and tons ones being created. Frames, under frames and meters of canvases. This damned largeness, which I am not into momentarily. World is too packed, loading, folding, setting up.
Being free metaphysically, I am able to cut to pieces and bury everything. In art I dwell in the word created by myself. In it I do have the power. In the real life I am a cowardly mouse, who is frightened of the darkness, of the speed, of the height. I have enough power to tear up one of the beautiful old book, placed on the altar next to the paintings Armamaxa. For this extreme action I needed downfall, which deliberated me and gave me power. For years I only had had this book, it was one of the dearest items among my overloaded luggage. Whenever I am able to throw away one of the items I had been attached to I fill easier.
No, don't worry; desire for seducing has not abandoned me. Of course, if it did, I wouldn't feel torments, but became conscious vegetating being.
I am drawing on the torn out pages, because I in no way and never give up this desire. The floor of my studio, where paintings used to be created I swapped for a chair and a desk, fearful certainty became a severe doubt.
When drawings are finished I look for words (meaning, also spiritual one, this time it follows the act of creation).
The change of things, their most profound life, nourished with people's lives. Yellow faded pages of the book were easily nourished still by me. But I adore past times. I voluptuously surrender to the past, become its prey, snatch for it, accumulate it, produce from it and stuff it with the present.
They say: Life is bearable only if a man is not aware of each moment, which is going away.
I say: Bearable life I fling to the ground, we should love.
It has been in my nature and it had been even before me, that I permanently counted deduced minutes. I cannot put up with the thought that me and my dearest will not be. With the idea of death I take a deeper breath. I consider idea of death as a fountain of madness and courage.
I yearn for the sharpness of a razor, which would deeply cut into preconception. I yearn for the wisdom to be able to choose what is worth to move my little finger for.
There is no mysticism and I still believe you Louise that I am creating because I do not know another way of seducing.
In order to get rid of solitude, to which a birth condemn me to, I am prepared to grow thus despised and compassion worth desire.
Natalija Šeruga Golob (2009)