Halls

 

Blessed Teofilius Matulionis in his homeland Alanta – relics, photos, letters from Soviet prisons, thousands of prayer testimonies

Small wooden eggs brought by Bishop Matulionis to his nos, ieces as souvenirs from abroad, Christmas decorations cut out by him from paper, an intricate double altar also made by the bishop, his embroidered initials on the surplices and the jacket lining.

These items will be on display in the exhibition Blessed Teofilius Matulionis in his homeland Alanta, is a continuation of the series of exhibitions dedicated to the beatification of Bishop Martyr T. Matulionis.

The exhibition also contains Bishop father’s baptism certificate, the certificate of marriage of the bishop’s parents Jurgis and Ona (nee Juočepytė), and the birth certificate of Teofilius Matulionis from the Alanta church archives. It also features 30 stands with photographs of the bishop and his numerous family members – brothers, sisters, their spouses and children.

The exhibit also features inter-war postcards sent by T. Matulionis to his relatives from Berlin, Alexandria, Rome, letters he sent from the prisons of Orsha and Vladimir (1947-1953) with many cross-outs by the prison censors, letters written in Lithuanian at the Special purpose institution – Potma Home for the Disabled in Mordovia ASSR (1953-1956), after the death of Stalin and the bishop’s amnesty. Matulionis did not write his letters in standard Lithuanian (and it is amazing!). He wrote in the Aukštaitian dialect and included many words borrowed from Latvian and Russian. Errors of a holy man are just as holy and should by no means be corrected.

The exhibition Blessed Teofilius Matulionis in his homeland Alanta features a few small but fancy exhibits, given to Bishop T. Matulionis after his return to Lithuania from imprisonment in Soviet prisons and labor camps in 1933 or brought back from his trip to America in 1934-1936.

What are those narrow rose decorated ribbons and thin prayer notes? They are documentary testimonies of prayers with intentions and spiritual sacrifice very popular in the Church environment of the time. For example, on September 22, 1934, on the eve of the bishop’s trip to the United States of America, he received a “modest prayer crown” from students of the Kaunas Metropolitan seminary: 548 of the Mass, 33 novenas of St. Therese of the Child Jesus, and 167 of good deeds. He also received a similar prayer testimony from the Benedictine Sisters of Kaunas and students of the Girls Gymnasium of the Congregation of the Sisters of St. Casimir. In 1937, the Benedictine Sisters of Kaunas gave Bishop. T. Matulionis a written document of their 2000 “zealous acts of love”.

Nowadays these statistics may elicit a smile, but they are proof that people cared for their beloved bishop and prayed for him during his imprisonment. Who knows if the “zealous acts of love” played any part in the legal case of the martyr bishop and the “divine bookkeeping” on the whole, but the approaching beatification is proof that they were of great value.

The exhibition in Alanta manor contains a letter from the Sisters of Jesus Crucified with “spiritual flowers” given to the bishop in 1935 during his visit in the US: Mass, Communion, Stations of the Cross, rosaries, litanies – 138 of each, as well as 138 000 short prayers. The spiritual gift from the orphans fostered by the sisters: 100 Masses, Communions, Stations of the Cross, and 1000 children’s prayers. Even during the war, on May 2, 1943, in Kaunas, participants of Eucharistic Adoration handed their spiritual greeting and a prayer testimony to Bishop Teofilius: 350 Masses, 168 adoration hours, 293 resolves and 243 days of fasting.

All these prayer notes and ribbons travelled in the bishop’s luggage around America and across the Atlantic Ocean, were brought back to Kaunas in 1937 and remained there during the first Soviet occupation. Finally, when Teofilius became bishop of the diocese, they were taken to Kaišiadorys where they stayed until his return from deportations in 1956. Not found during the KGB searches in Birštonas and Šeduva, after T. Matulionis died in 1962, they spent another 55 years in the private archive of his niece Marija Bendoraitiene. Until this year.

The photos are courtesy of Prof. Stanislovas Sajauskas and Eugenijus Peikštenis, the closest relatives of Blessed Teofilius Matulionis, and the Lithuanian Central State Archives (LCSA). For example, there is a large photograph from the LCSA, in which all the Lithuanian political and church elite of the time inspects the Eucharistic Congress parade in Kaunas on July 1, 1934 from the stairs of St. Michael the Archangel Church. Everybody with a little knowledge of the inter-war history and the ability to decode the arrangement of people in the photograph, will see how poor were the relations between President Antanas Smetona and the Lithuanian Church, between the Lithuanian State and the State of Vatican, as Nuncio Antonio Arata was seated farthest from the president and the archbishop of Kaunas – next to Bishop Matulionis who had just returned from his imprisonment in Soviet Russia.

The sponsors-benefactors of the exhibition dedicated to Blessed Bishop Martyr Teofilius Matulionis: Marija ir Vitas Bendoraičiai, Laimutė Matulionytė-Grumadienė, Asta Piktužienė, Algirdas Saudargas, Paulius Martinaitis, Vaidotas Vaičaitis, Žilvinas Petrauskas, Agnė Širinskienė, Audrius Mikitiukas, Darius Auglys, Zenius Mištautas, Evaldas Darškus, Eglė Stašienė, Vytautas Jankauskas, Caritas Lithuania, Paulius Ratė, Rimantas Jonas Dagys, and Arimantas Raškinis.

Translation by Judita Gliauberzonaitė

Lionginas Šepka and Antanas Mončys – a Union between the Lithuanian Highlands and Lowlands

Vaidotas Žukas

The Alanta Estate Gallery is hosting an exhibition of carvings by one of the most famous Lithuanian folk artists of the 20th century, Lionginas Šepka (1907-1985), born in the Rokiškis region, and modern sculptures, ceramics, collages and drawings by Antanas Mončys (1921-1993), a native of Kretinga who after WW2 lived in Paris.

As far as is known, A. Mončys and L. Šepka never met in real life (A. Mončys may have seen the Soviet cultural press publications about L. Šepka works), but both of their lives were marked by the same creative passion. Both of them were outcasts: L. Šepka was a recluse who lived in a dugout, a hut with a stove but no chimney and was later banished for four years by the government and his relatives to the Didvyžiai Old People’s Home in Vilkaviškis. A. Mončys lived in France for a long time, but did not become a French citizen, wrote letters to his relatives who remained in Soviet Lithuania under fake names.

The work of both artists at times is amazingly related in terms of topics and forms of expression – the symbols of life, love and death. L. Šepka often portrayed Christ, Mary, angels, saints, etc., while among works by A. Mončys there are an abstract wooden “Pensive Christ”, drawing “Announcement of Birth”, “Love” etc.

There are also chains, carved from solid wood, found in traditional Lithuanian art. In the Alanta exhibition – a large chain made by Mončys from large chestnut tree rings, called “King – Idler” and L. Šepka’s wooden chain details from the monument to his brother Petras. Sticks: “Stick – Woman” by Mončys and seven sticks decorated with floral motifs and texts. Hands: A. Mončys stone relief “Hand – Moon” and the wooden “Hand”, L. Šepka’s several wooden hands for statues of saints, or a carved New Year’s greeting portraying a handshake. Birds: ten small and large birds by Šepka remaining from the composition “The Bird Ball” (1970-1972), “Bird” by Mončys, “Head of a Bird” and twenty colored bird shaped clay whistles the artist had made for his three children.

Death forms: a bone woman going up the stairs by A. Mončys, “A Skull”, a large hanging wooden skeleton and 8 crucifixes by L. Šepka.

Both artists – the self-taught L. Šepka and A. Mončys who was a professional artist – had a viable, extremely talented, almost innate sense of form; they are part of the Lithuanian art tradition, immersed in the sacred springs of Christianity, which consciously or intuitively survived the existentialism of the 20th century.

The exhibition at the Alanta Estate Gallery features works from the private collections of Karolina and Arūnas Paliulis, A. Mončys’ son Jean-Christophe, who lives in Paris, Eleonora and Vladas Žukas, as well as the funds of the Rokiškis Regional Museum and Antanas Mončys House-Museum in Palanga.

The exposition is complemented by the Parisian portraits of A. Mončys taken by photographer Algimantas Kezys (1928-2015), two documentaries about Mončys created by Henrikas Gulbinas and Ugnė Karvelis, Rimantas Šilinis’ documentary film about L. Šepka “Pasirašau – arkitektas” (“My Signature – Architect” (1972), and photo portraits of L. Šepka by Father Alfonsas Jančys (1954) and Petras Dūda (1977). The exhibition Lionginas Šepka and Antanas Mončys – a Union between the Lithuanian Highlands and Lowlands at the Alanta Estate Gallery will be open until June 30, 2017.

Translation by Judita Gliauberzonaitė

 

Halls in Alanta Manor

Vaidotas Žukas

CALAMMITY

The major calamity of the Jews of Molėtai region commenced on 26 June 1941 after Nazis arrived in Molėtai. In one week after their invasion 60 Jewish young people were arrested and killed. Older Molėtians remember that only 6 Germans arrived in Molėtai. The Germans organized the units of local henchmen to watch the Jews in the ghetto established in the center of Molėtai between Vilnius and Kaunas streets as well as for their killing and parceling out of their property. The head and accountant of the mass annihilation of Jews in Lithuania was SS colonel standartenführer Karl Jäger, head of the 3rd operational unit. His reports of 1941 are peculiar account- books of the mass killings in Lithuania: ”I may state today that the 3rd operational unit reached its goal – to solve the problem of Jews in Lithuania. There are no more Jews in Lithuania…”

The major calamity of the Jews of Molėtai region commenced on 26 June 1941 after Nazis arrived in Molėtai. In one week after their invasion 60 Jewish young people were arrested and killed. Older Molėtians remember that only 6 Germans arrived in Molėtai. The Germans organized the units of local henchmen to watch the Jews in the ghetto established in the center of Molėtai as well as for their killing and parceling out of their property. It is only God himself who is aware of how many people of this marvelous lake district contributed to the rescue of their  neighbours Jews or – vice versa – put the finger on them, betrayed them and killed them by shooting. It became clear that the Nazis sent only a few Germans to Molėtai. It was Lithuanian villains that arrested and killed by shooting the majority of Jews. There was however, the powerful bright side of the issue as well because there were not individual people but hundreds of Jew rescuers since the rescue of one single Jew required everyday effort and deadly risk of numerous people. Glory be to them!

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Vaidotas Žukas and layers of his work

Vaidotas Žukas is like a multifaceted theatre character. I prefer not to use the word “painter” or “artist” because it would reveal but a few of the cultural layers of this personality. He would probably say he is an artist of life. Really, he makes, creates, plays, projects his very life, which intertwines with other people’s biographies and stories and forms their lives, which in turn affect Žukas’s life as a certain art form. Anyway, this isn’t the most important thing. The most important thing is Žukas’s multilayered character. When trying to geologically or archaeologically uncover those layers, scraping them off one after another, we may reveal the core of the artist, or at least the constituent parts of his character. Why is it important? In his curriculum vitae, Žukas covers a broader cultural field. This should interest his biographers as well as researchers of the Zeitgeist (spirit of the time) of a certain age or period… The outer, upper cultural layers of Žukas’s personality are the most visually compelling because here he expresses himself as an artist, painter, author of religious art and a representative of Salon Art in the most positive sense. We can perceive this particular role specialization as fans of the artist in question, leafing through the pages of a substantial album, or as guests who have come to the hypothetical house of the character Žukas to explore the family album courteously offered by the master – like   scientists flipping through the dossiers, files, and documents about V. Žukas as a mouthpiece of a certain time. In any case, being multilayered and multifaceted (like a prototype of the Renaissance’s homo universalis), Žukas faces us like an individualized kunstkamera, a personalized panopticon, a personal museum whose various exhibits and their combinations have different notional connections. To find, establish, and read them, one needs the cipher key owned or embodied by Žukas himself.

We suggest that the reader of the book and the art lover uncover at least a few of Žukas’s cultural layers and put their findings onto the shelves of their own kunstkamera. What’s important is that the above-mentioned layers are combined using the collage technique, which the artist is so fond of, combining images which, at first sight, seem impossible to combine, and creating different, very specific notions.

It seems the deepest cultural layer of Žukas’s work lies in the bluish horizons of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania, in the Baroque churches, wooden estates and chapels of Lithuania’s landed gentry, in old parchment writings, ancient letters or little albums. But if you delve deeper, you can get to the Stone Age – to the universal petroglyphs left by ancient man all over the world. Scraping off the upper layer may reveal “the barfly’s Moscow” with futurists shrouded in the smoke of Velimir Khlebnikov’s cigarettes, with Cubo-Futurists, Rayonists, and developers of Utopian mechanisms. And stinking Francis Bacon would be sitting in a small cage (like some canary the color of a person’s skin).

Knowing Žukas’s public-spirited nature, the political layer of his work has always been evident. One’s work may be politically motivated, even if there’s no political content. An innocent still-life or a landscape can be charged with ideology. However, in the case of Žukas, the political layer is apparent like white thread stitching. For example, the painting of the Chinese Communist Party Politburo or the portrait of Egypt’s President prove that in Soviet times Žukas bought and skimmed through newspapers, sat in libraries, and listened to Western radio stations. Cramming young people’s bodies in tight spaces without any freedom of decision is also political – a more than eloquent detail in the time of totalitarianism and dictatorship. Žukas’s religious paintings are nothing more than a political stance: during the time of Soviet atheism just as during the first years of popular religious enthusiasm and conversions in independent Lithuania. Today, when a religiously expressed determination is more than just a declaration of a worldview, sacred themes in art remain a political stance.

Many religious groups might consider Žukas one of their own. Based on the mystical, pantheistic ideology of the forest and plants, representatives of harsh Siberia would recognize him as a worshiper of nature. Looking at the perfect human bodies in Žukas’s paintings, the ancient Greeks would view him as a portrayer of the Olympian gods, titans, and heroes who have descended into our banal daily life. Or vice versa – the Jews, Muslims or Byzantine iconoclasts would bless the artist for the floral ornaments, especially suggestive in certain fields of Žukas’s work. But there is no doubt that the fundamental part of the artist’s creative roots stem from Christianity – from it he draws the most essential images and the basic values.

The historical layer of his work is mixed with the cultural. History and culture are inseparable. Such eminent personalities of the cultural history of Lithuania as Juozas Keliuotis, Justinas Mikutis, and Rev. Česlovas Kavaliauskas, as well as folk heritage objects from the Baroque painted on paper with watermarks found and cleaned in Lower Lithuania, make frequent appearances in Žukas’s oeuvre. The breath of history can be felt even in a simple forest scene, an unpretentious form of a plant, or a collage with multiple layers of forms and meanings. However, history is most vividly recorded in people’s faces and collections of items covered with a thick layer of dust. History is coded in Žukas’s portraits and still-lifes. He doesn’t tell propaganda jokes about meritorious historical personalities, nor does he profess prominent, epic truths – no! He conveys simple stories of ordinary people. But facts and deeds of the past are etched in each element and wrinkle.

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Žukas’s paintings and ceramics are literally mineral and mineralogical, because this means of expression uses materials of mineral origin. However, the meaning of minerals in his work is far broader and more important for: 1) Žukas’s perception of colors is mineralogical or, rather, gemological – it glitters with the kaleidoscopically changing colours of our universe, and every stone, even the smallest piece of rock (and the artist’s work) is nothing but a minimized representation of the world, 2) the surfaces of the artist’s creations have a mineralogical nature – they resemble magmatic, sedimentary rock textures, 3) his works are mineral because of their forms, natural silhouettes and surfaces polished by history, nature, and winds, and their monumental sizes as well as solid structures slightly covered with moss.

Žukas’s work is philosophical in the most basic and trite sense of the word. His philosophical work is both phenomenological and Husserlian. The spike of his work is directed at both outer and inner experience – the artist dissects the layer of empirical reality to enter the depths of what’s substantial and essential. His creative act is noetic (from the Greek noēsis/noētikos, meaning direct knowing); it crosses the sphere of the senses to reach the world of ideas and prototypes, much like a diver who looks for pearls at the bottom of the sea.

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And yet, whatever Žukas does, he does using his intuition and painterly logic. Correct color matching is essential for painterly logic. He combines colors in different ways: by using achromatic black or white, and, often, gray, like cement, like a binding material for other colors, connecting contrasting colors sparkling with countless shades (blue, yellow, red), adding a noble brown or pink, or sanguine, coming from old paintings, immersing everything in Danae’s golden rain. All items created by Žukas are nothing but objects intuitively and logically arranged from colors. He uses an array of instruments – brushstrokes, glazing, dabbing paint with a knife, spray painting, spattering, or drip painting.

Is Žukas is a landscape painter? Perpetuating landscapes has never been the purpose of his work. Although if we look more closely at his paintings, we shall see that many of the compositions are constructed using the principle of a landscape. It is related to the Italian (terraced, geometric) setting of the Renaissance Park – looking at such a picture the viewer can easily distinguish the first and second planes, see the curtain and the stage. On the other hand, even the still-life genre, so unrelated to the landscape, also obeys a macrocosmic logic – items (characters of different eras) arranged on a horizontal plane (a kind of ancient world) are enveloped by a limited space of the interior – like an antique crystal vault, looked at by the author as well as viewer through the eyes of a demiurge.

It would seem that there is nothing more boring than daily life. But Žukas rejects the idea and uses art to romanticize daily life, adding bright colors to it. Even the simplest arrangement of things or the way a person sits, an incident or anecdote takes on features of a fairy tale, a subtle allegory, an existential parable or a political joke. And vice versa, all most magical and exciting stories gain a down-to-earth side – such are the saints, and other prominent characters. Even plants, being non-routine and unusual – epiphanies of another world – become tangible, realistic and routine.

In Žukas’s creative ground, the layer of daily life is mixed with that of the landscape. As mentioned before, simple still-lifes obey the logic of the landscape. All other genres are still-life-like. This perception of the environment is embodied in the actual still-life and people’s portraits. The objects in still-lifes are displayed like exhibits in a small museum – so that by looking at them one would see their most typical and noblest traits. Žukas’s ceramic objects are especially still-life-like – they resemble bodies that have been immersed in clay or glaze like in formalin. Anthropomorphic characters of the paintings are turned into some sort of inanimate objects, which are looked at by the viewer from a respectful and safe distance as if covered by a bell jar (a literary critic has explained that this is an existentialist’s way of looking at people).

One of the profoundest layers of Žukas’s creative work is the ornamental layer. You could even describe the artist as panornamental. Ornaments are everywhere – in the air, on the ground, in plants, beasts and human figures, as well as in objects. Most of the things portrayed are similar to ornaments. Some of them are pure Renaissance grotesques, others – Baroque arabesques, Rococo rocailles and chinoiseries, lashes of a Secessionist whip; gestures and touches of Modernism, and semantic postmodernist compounds and structures.

All of these layers are organized in a completely random order. They may overlap, mix or connect in any way possible. In terms of motifs, themes, or even inner intentions, we may apply a different interpretation; for example, one based on the inner intentions, which have been given a visual sense by the figures and silhouettes of naked boys, political leaders, ordinary people, people in culture, Christian icons, landscape-shrines, animals and monsters, household items, ornaments and jewelry, sculptures and glazes, and all kinds of other objects. The viewer can select and arrange them in any way he or she likes, and draw their own conclusions…


<…> Canvases hidden in basements were brought to light, still in their authentic state.  Unframed paintings that had never been exhibited, included a rebellious spirit and the dust of time; they did not deny the past, but neither did they stiff. These vital, tacky paintings had, perhaps, an even stronger effect than they had back in the eighties. At that time, Mr Žukas’ work was foreshadowed by a convulsive existentialist art, which intoxicated most of the more flexible painters. Today his art emerges as a lonely pillar of fire in the torn apart landscape of contemporary painting. Žukas’ painting fits under the expressionist formula: it creates a vision of the “suffering world”. However, the author does it with dignity, not chasing after the typical stimulants of Expressionism. He paints the issues of the Far or Middle East, and chooses biblical scenes, i.e. stories which should make one excited or tearful. The same can be said about the plasticity: it’s complicated, multi-layered process lacks obvious signs of depression, but it gets on your nerves as something that’s about to burst. Not only does the exhibition, provide a rare opportunity to see quality painting, it also has a moment of intrigue. Knowing the metamorphoses of V. Žukas’ life and his current journalistic and educational activities, many will be interested to explore the “pre-Christian” face of the author. A conversation with the artist should also clarify the circumstances of creating art in the past.

‘Why weren’t these paintings “displayed”?’ ‘For various reasons. Some paintings are leftovers which did not fit in the larger cycles, others I hid because of  their “non-commercial” appearance. Some of them I used to carry to the Exhibition Palace, believing that they weren’t inferior to works brought by others. But then they ignored me. I’ve heard there was a sanction: not to accept Žukas’ work in exhibitions for ten years. I remember a case when a portrait of J. Keliuotis painted by me got accepted. Unfortunately, just before the opening of the exhibition, it was visited by K. Bogdanas and L. Šepetys who upon seeing my name ordered that it be removed.’

‘What does the intriguing phrase “the basement period” mean? You used it many times when preparing for the exhibition.’ ‘For me the basement was the beginning of my creative career, a stage of my life. For a couple years I worked in the basement. Clearly, this was harmful to my health. There was a lack of light (sometimes I painted in candle light), a lack of air, and the smell of paint made me choke. Later, Father saw that something might come out of his son and allowed me to bring my canvases home. Here it was better, but what was painted during the day I had to breathe during the night – I worked and I slept in the same room… Works piled up, and then they were again taken to the basement. Many of them were destroyed when the sewer pipes broke.’

‘You call works that are displayed in the exhibition your “existentialist period”. How much is the suffering purely philosophical, and how much of it is real?’ ‘All was real, a true experience, nothing was done on purpose. I’ve always been very much aware of the occupation – for me it was a very heavy burden. I survived it through my creative process. For example, I sometimes would paint a nice and neat picture. And then I’d take the broadest brush, dip it in black paint and go over the faces and bodies a few times. Of course, I tried to do this in a way that was logical and aesthetic. Such is the semantics of my work. For example, who were those naked children? They weren’t stripped and put on display for morally wrong reasons. Someone looks at them as guinea pigs – maybe the doctors or the military experts. After all, the stripping of a young man is known from ancient times – the Christian martyrs were stripped down for ridicule. A girl protecting her chastity would be displayed in the middle of town. Of course, there are beautiful legends about how her hair would grow long all of a sudden, but if you imagine the actual condition of this person, I think it’s similar to the human state during Soviet times. For me, the creative process was excruciating. At that time I thought that everyone who wanted to seriously pursue artistic quality could achieve it. I sought art with brutality. For ten years, day after day, I would stand in front of the easel for ten straight hours. My friends Josifas Josadė and Rolandas Rastauskas would come every weekend only to find a dozen new pieces. But I destroyed many of them. Especially when my friends harshly criticized my art.’

‘What made ​​you stop?’ ‘My life and work had reached such a degree of tension that it seemed easy to end everything. Those sick kids were my authentic experience. I myself lay on a deathbed several times. Everything I painted was connected to my personal life. In addition, my arrogance as an artist had reached its peak. There came a time when I felt that I could do everything, everything was in my hands. But what was next? Was this enough? I realized that something had to change.

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‘Looking from the side, this period seems not unlike a session of exorcism.’ ‘Could be. Although I did not consciously formulate these things. I just worked and searched. I’m not very fond of the word “to search.” I have never done art “just for the hell of it”, so even my earliest work cannot be called “searching.” But, on the other hand, after all, a good artist is always looking for something – even if he is ninety years old. I think it’s funny that some of my older colleagues even wear beards the way they grew them thirty years ago. Don’t they get bored? The same can be said about painting: how long can you use the same strokes, the same colors? I have learned to create hard, coarse, even screaming art: work that makes you want to run away, and attracts you at the same time. But the time came when I felt that it might hurt others, and I felt I couldn’t go on like this myself.’

‘Can good pictures, however, be harmful?’ ‘Kęstas Antanėlis had bought a few rather strange paintings from me – I warned him that he had better hide them. I do not want to mystify those things and think that the tragedy that took place in his home happened due to the paintings, but I sometimes feel that it isn’t good to be with them all the time and keep them in the environment where you come to rest. They suck your energy, they breathe, they require attention and are emotive. That’s what I want, but I’m not sure if it’s good for others. Yet many in Vilnius have my paintings – I’d say, there is about a hundred of them in different homes.’

‘Everything, you say, is very personal. Didn’t you experience any influence from the development of Lithuanian art and its topical issues of the time?’ ‘I came to a Lithuanian identity through a different door than everyone else. And much later – when I did not have a workshop and was allowed to work in the folk art repository of the All Saints Church, and when I started to travel throughout Lithuania. Only then did the Lithuanian identity become natural to me. In the beginning, I deliberately wanted to move away from what is known as the “Lithuanian tradition.” I really like the words of an Estonian painter and a good friend of mine Peter Mudist: “There is no need to look for your face.” If you look for the creative product conscientiously and long enough, if you are not afraid of changes (and changing is very typical of me), the face appears automatically.’ (Nijolė Adomonytė “Lietuvos Rytas”, January, 2000).

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