Antarctica by Jan Tyniec, 2001

Time stops here, frozen between millions of years of thin layers of ice. There is only empty space between the silence of my mind and ever present sounds of cracking ice and amazing clarity of light. The space between snow and sea. Days melt into nights. Into infinity. This infinity issue keeps on surfacing in the last few days. What does it exactly mean? Am I trying to outline the borders of my reality? Not capable. Indefinite. It is the end of the world, the end of meaning, where all discourses became irrelevant? There is no good and evil here.

The space around me is abstract, impossible for one to determine scale or point of reference. Distances do not matter. Thirty miles looks like ninety miles and vice versa. The sun goes down in the southeast and the moon hangs just over the surface of the sea: larger then I’ve ever seen it before, with a bloody orange glow of the resting sun, with its craters illuminated in sharp details. Nothing remains as I have known it.

All seems simple here. All seems possible.

Jan Tyniec
February 2001