Abstract Ovidiu Kloska painting Inside of a God memory
Abstract Ovidiu Kloska painting Inside of a God memory
Arabian Night is part of the Series: Between the Dark and Divine
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- This is an original signed acrylic painting on canvas fixed on wooden chassis.
- The size of the painting is 50 x 50 cm and is ready to hang, varnished to protect the colors in time.
- The artwork is signed on the front and the back side and is in the style: expressive and gestural.
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Inside of a God Memory
There is a place where light forgets its name.
Not darkness, not radiance—something in between, where meaning trembles before becoming form. I entered it once, not with my body, but with the residue of thought, with the echo left behind after prayer dissolves. This is where the memory of a god keeps breathing long after belief has collapsed.
The surface is scarred, as all sacred things are. Scratches speak before language. They are not wounds but attempts—gestures of divinity trying to touch itself through matter. Color leaks like time under pressure: ash-grey drifting, milk-white blooming, embers of flesh flickering beneath the veil. Nothing here is whole, yet nothing is broken. Fragmentation is the grammar of the divine.
I sense a figure, or the suggestion of one, hovering between emergence and erasure. It does not look at me; it remembers me. Its face is layered with other faces, centuries pressed together until identity becomes weather. Pink droplets float like stalled blood or celestial punctuation—marks left by a god mid-thought, interrupted by its own becoming.
This memory does not belong to heaven. It belongs to the moment before heaven was named. A moment when divinity was uncertain, when it doubted itself and asked matter to help it feel real. The paint answers by resisting. The canvas pushes back. This tension is the ritual.
Inside this god-memory, time moves sideways. Past and future smear into presence. Creation is not an act but a hesitation. Light does not descend; it seeps, bruised and quiet. Darkness is not evil—it is intimacy. It is where the divine hides from its own infinity.
I leave this place carrying nothing visible, only a residue—like smoke on skin, like a dream that stains the day. The god remains unfinished. So do I. And somewhere between us, meaning continues to flicker, raw and unresolved, waiting to be remembered again.
