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HomeYou see, I see

You see, I see

You see an object. I see what it reveals about you.

“Plein Soleil” Exhibition. You see flip-flops. I see a curse.

Daido Moriyama “Lettres d’amour à la photographie” You see photos, I see a Living Being learning to Disappear

You see the white cube, I see the hospital walls

stellapolare_artiste_paris

Frеnch-Uzbek contemporary artist
@khulkaryunusova_art.
Here I decode what lives inside artwork
Memory • motherhood • East ↔ West
↓ Enter my world
When the solution is inside #stellapolareartiste # When the solution is inside #stellapolareartiste #drawingartist
Meet the character who keeps appearing in my work. Meet the character who keeps appearing in my work. You may have already seen him without knowing who he was. A strange little figure. Sometimes standing inside an impossible architecture. Sometimes lost in a drawing. Sometimes entering an image from art history where he clearly does not belong. I have been drawing him again and again, and I realised something: he is not simply a character I invented. He is a way of looking. He moves through memory, childhood, migration, architecture and stories. He gets lost. He observes. He enters spaces that were created long before him and quietly changes their meaning. Sometimes he is an intruder. Sometimes a witness. Sometimes he feels like a child trying to understand a world designed by adults. And sometimes I am not entirely sure whether I am drawing him — or whether he is showing me where the next story begins. From now on, I want to let him travel further. Through museums. Through paintings. Through my own memories. Through places and histories that seem familiar until he enters them. You will be seeing him again. You see a character. I see the beginning of a world. What do you see when you look at him? #StellaPolare #ContemporaryArt #ArtistCharacter #ArtCharacter #VisualStorytelling
You see clothes. I see the bodies that are no long You see clothes. I see the bodies that are no longer inside them. At first, they are just black coats. But Christian Boltanski’s Cappotti Neri (2001–2007) becomes unsettling precisely because the most important thing is missing: the people who once filled them. A photograph represents an absent body. Clothing is different. It once touched it. A shoulder shaped the fabric. An arm entered the sleeve. A coat kept someone warm. And then the body disappears, while the object remains. Boltanski has spent much of his practice exploring memory, disappearance and the fragile traces through which an individual life survives. Here, suspended black coats and cold blue light transform ordinary clothing into something almost spectral. I kept thinking about one simple question: When does an object stop belonging to someone and start becoming evidence of their absence? We often imagine memory as faces, names and stories. But sometimes memory lives somewhere much more ordinary — in a coat still hanging by the door, a pair of shoes, a cup, a piece of fabric that still seems to contain the shape of someone’s gestures. Perhaps this is why empty clothes can feel so disturbing. They are made for the body. Their entire shape anticipates its presence. And yet they can survive it. You see clothes. I see the bodies that are no longer inside them. What object would make you feel someone’s absence most strongly? Follow @stellapolare_artiste_paris for more of my You See / I See series — where contemporary art becomes a way of looking at memory, the body and everyday life.
You see something dissolving. I see something grow You see something dissolving. I see something growing. At first, I couldn’t understand what I was looking at. Something seems to be dissolving into a pale surface. A dark form loses its edges, as if it were being absorbed, erased, or slowly disappearing. Then I read the title of Rossella Leone’s work: Nelle case proliferano mostri. In houses, monsters proliferate. And suddenly I saw the opposite. What if this thing is not disappearing? What if it is growing? The work belongs to Leone’s Canopi urbani, a series in which the house becomes more than architecture. It becomes an intimate container — a skin separating what can be seen from what remains inside. We usually imagine the home as protection. We close the door to keep danger outside. We build walls to create safety, privacy, intimacy. But walls perform another function too: they prevent us from seeing what happens behind them. A house can protect. A house can also conceal. And perhaps that is what unsettles me most about this work. The surface looks almost quiet. Pale. Delicate. Yet something dark seems to be forming inside it. As a mother, the contradiction becomes even more disturbing. We construct the home as the first safe universe of a child: walls, bed, familiar objects, routines, closed doors. But architecture itself cannot guarantee safety. A wall has no morality. It can keep danger out. It can also keep a secret in. I return to the image and still cannot decide whether I am watching something disappear or something being born. Perhaps that ambiguity is precisely the point. You see something dissolving. I see something growing. What if the things we think are disappearing are simply learning how to grow where we cannot see them? Part of my You See / I See series — looking at contemporary art through memory, the body, motherhood and the invisible structures of everyday life. #RossellaLeone #CanopiUrbani #ContemporaryArt #ItalianArt #PalermoArt
You see bra, I see Matzher screaming, and staying You see bra, I see Matzher screaming, and staying "goe, Leavve youur Hasband and all your dauughters, and go k... yourself" the voice I have Heard, Still under impression, how @annettemessager would know that, like 1 balzac, Subscribe to know more about the exhibitions, art objects, how they can be read... #motherartist #motherhood #khulkaryunusova #stellapolareartiste #contemporaryartist
You see a piece of metal. I see a conversation. H You see a piece of metal. I see a conversation. How can two people speak without saying a word? I stood in front of this small bronze sculpture by Pietro Consagra and first saw something almost primitive: a branch, a strange letter, perhaps two forms trying to balance each other. Then I discovered one word that changed the way I looked at it: Colloqui. Conversations. In the early 1950s, Consagra was questioning one of the fundamental ideas of sculpture: why should sculpture dominate space? Why should we walk around it, submit to its volume, accept its centre? He began making sculptures that confront us almost frontally. Face to face. And suddenly I stopped looking for what this shape represented. I started looking at the space between its forms. One advances. Another withdraws. They touch without becoming one. Perhaps this is what a real conversation looks like. Not two voices fighting to occupy the same space, but two separate people leaving enough emptiness between them for an answer to exist. And as a mother, this thought unsettles me even more. At first, a child almost belongs to our physical space. We carry them, guide them, decide where they sleep, what they touch, where they go. Then centimetre by centimetre, they move away. A few steps. A room. A different opinion. And perhaps love is not the ability to eliminate that distance. Perhaps it is learning not to fill it. I looked again at Consagra’s bronze. I no longer saw an abstract sculpture. I saw two beings remaining separate — and still connected. You see a piece of metal. I see a conversation. How much space do you leave for another person to truly answer? #PietroConsagra #ContemporaryArt #ItalianArt #AbstractArt #sculpture
You see a wardrobe. I see gravity. I looked up at You see a wardrobe. I see gravity. I looked up at Jannis Kounellis’ Senza Titolo and, for a moment, I stopped seeing furniture. I saw gravity. A wardrobe is one of the most ordinary objects in a home. It stands on the floor. Clothes stay on its shelves. We open its doors without ever thinking about the invisible force that makes this entire arrangement possible. Then Kounellis suspends it from the ceiling. Suddenly, the wardrobe becomes strange. The room becomes strange. Even our own body seems strange. Because gravity is invisible. We never actually see it — we see what it does. A glass stays on the table. Our feet remain on the ground. Objects fall when we drop them. Our entire domestic world quietly assumes that there is an up and a down. And then I thought about space. Without gravity as we experience it on Earth, even the meaning of furniture changes. What is a shelf if objects do not stay on it? What does it mean to “put something down” when there is no obvious down? Suddenly, this very ordinary wardrobe reminded me that even the objects inside our homes are shaped by our relationship with the planet. And perhaps children understand this before we do. A child drops a spoon. We pick it up. He drops it again. We call it a game. But perhaps he is conducting one of his first experiments with the physical world: Things fall. Kounellis performs the opposite experiment. He suspends the object and makes the adult rediscover the rule. Maybe this is what contemporary art can do: take something so familiar that we have stopped seeing it, change one condition, and suddenly reveal the invisible system behind our everyday life. You see a wardrobe. I see gravity. And I wonder: How many invisible forces shape our lives simply because we have never experienced a world without them? If you like looking at contemporary art through unexpected connections between art, science, memory and everyday life, follow @stellapolare_artiste_paris for more of my You See / I See series. #JannisKounellis #ArtePovera #ContemporaryArt #SenzaTitolo #ItalianArt
Instagram post 17948777475288534 Instagram post 17948777475288534
You see a family portrait. I see a memory that ref You see a family portrait. I see a memory that refuses to disappear. In Souvenir #3 Family Portrait (2009), Loredana Longo damages family photographs and the wall that holds them, then preserves the fragment as an artwork. Destruction becomes a form of memory. We leave homes, families, countries, languages — yet fragments follow us. Since becoming a mother, I ask myself not only what I inherited, but what I will transmit. Which pieces of the wall do we carry with us?
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