Mitch Brezounek
Solar plexus

Exhibition at Stefan Stambolovo 36th Street - as part of the 48h Varusha South Festival

Allahluia, allahluia! I came to understand my own magnificently frightening, disorganized intelligence. Tech will inevitably crash, and when it does... it won't make sense. But no man can be a prophet in his own country. I'm doing this for the 0.5%. I carry Occam's razor in my breast pocket, because it makes me feel warm when I go for a stroll around the block, to take a good hard look.

Nowadays everyone's got a little blade tucked away. How can I be a pacifist when my heart's already beating? Solar, solar, solar plexus. My tentacles are all over the situation. When the tweakers at Kristall Garden come out at night and pull on their barber knives, for yet another round of twenty to one, God gloats, with eyes wet. Its reproductive organs ooze creative juices all over the legs of a beggar and its form grows an infinite number of limbs, ready to stab. Particles celebrate their emancipation. The state of a particle never depended on the observer. It was always the particle itself that wanted to choose a state to be in. You... the ant, simply happen to be there, at the moment of birth, the moment of creation. Now.

To be held by a monster, fearless, because it won't, I know it won't use its claws. God is Gaussian, a comedian, a pastel-pink, multi-multi-multi-dimensional trickster. God loves war and destruction. Its humor, rotten. And we, decent humans, usually find its jokes distasteful. The more civil and devoted the man, the more anger builds inside until it pops, like a hemorrhage. The average person despises God, because it slips their understanding. They mistrust the higher beings: at the core our egos want us to be top-dog. Regardless, God laughs at our fallen cities and tiny tears.

I suck indulgently on a tooth and there's blood. A filthy mouth. A logic that factors in all casualties escapes common sense and thus turns into gibberish. It's an array of infinitely small numbers, an endless equation that can be reduced to the most elegant form – all it takes is a skilled mathematician. Why don't we get along? The answer rests at the tip of our tongues, so small, it fits the sharpest edge of a knife–and as the sharpest imaginable knife pierces our hearts, cuts us open, rizzrazz, to the beauty of the world, we still don't understand.

On the windy corner of a street, I meet M., his appearance, a puzzle piece of understanding, to the question that grows bigger with every answered question. He asks too many questions and disturbs the other pupils. He is the loose screw in the otherwise perfectly spinning machine. "It's called Samsara! And no, we can't escape it!" Or so they say. I landed on this prison colony we call earth with a fixed plan in mind, to escape it. And no, I don't mean death; for death throws me right back to the start. - Julia Blau

Mitch Brezounek was born in France in 1989 and has been based in Plovdiv, Bulgaria since 2016. He graduated with a National Diploma of Plastic Arts from the Beaux Arts Academy of Lorient, France. From 2013 to 2017, he was a member of the art collective “Ouest Fisting” from Lorient, which was part of the underground graphic culture involving fanzines, silkscreen printing, video, and other media.

His first solo show, “Incubus”, curated by Voin de Voin, took place in 2017 at EATHER Gallery in Sofia, Bulgaria. Since then, his works have been featured in numerous curatorial group exhibitions and projects. Brezounek's artistic practice spans various mediums, including painting, drawing, installation, sculpture, and video art.

The exhibition opening is supported by Tequila Bar Fnky Mnky with free drinks at the opening.