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Planet Piniak: The literary in the work of Piniak Przemysław

Maja Demska

What did he read?

What were his favorite books? What films did he see as a kid that left a lasting impression on him? I never asked, and now I’ll never know. And I’m trying to understand where this uncanny writing had come from. I have to rely on—more or less informed, but still—guesswork. I need to read all his writings closely and, based on that, recreate a probable past. Which is not unlike the way Piniak himself was creating his visions of the future: by reading (shredded) tea leaves, by gluing together rice-and-wheat balls wrapped in vegetable omelets.^[1] These are decent material; in five hundred years they will be what townhalls are made from—by town-building bacteriosapiens and humanfish.

Piniak’s writing interrelated with his practice as a visual and performance artist. Text would come first, and it was always intended as a starting point rather than an end in itself. Many texts were meant to be heard: recited, sung, enacted, performed for camera. Others served as a basis for visual pieces. To now try and abstract purely textual content from this kind of work is not entirely reliable as a means of reasoning, but it is an attempt worth making nevertheless. For as a writer, Piniak developed a distinct, highly original voice while remaining unpretentious and even retaining, at times, the clumsiness of a non-, or a half-professional—of someone uninvolved in any literary circulations or discourses. His writings, however, do hold up as literature alone and, consequently, deserve to be read as such.

Books found in Piniak’s studio:^[2]

Niesamowita słowiańszczyzna [Uncanny Slavdom] by Maria Janion

Duchologia polska [Polish Hauntology] by Olga Drenda

Fashion Cats (Japanese kittens photographed wearing haute couture)

The Big Penis Book (shiny, bulky album from Taschen)

(A vision begins to emerge in my mind; those bits might almost combine into the argument I’d like to make!)

The literary output of Piniak Przemysław

Piniak’s complete writings—not much more than a dozen short stories, one dramatic piece, several film scripts, audio shows, and “spoken” performance acts, uncollected notes, and recorded dreams—would make an average-sized volume, neither thin nor a tome. It is a non-existent volume, although perfectly imaginable. But nothing like that had seen light while the artist was alive. Even if his artwork descriptions were to be included (for existing as well as planned works)—and these count as literary short form too, as far as Piniak is concerned—we’d still be talking about some 150 typed pages. Likely, there is more somewhere: on his hard disk, perhaps, or in private letters that he exchanged. But we don’t know, really, for the time being. I am dealing, then, with what has been collected so far. Curators of the exhibition Hit Where It Hurts brought together various texts, both unpublished and once distributed as pamphlets at his exhibitions. As for films, audio shows, and filmed performance acts, I also consider their scripts and transcriptions literature for the purposes of this study. That is the literary output of Piniak Przemysław.

This isn’t going to be a book; this is going to be a tiny little notebook. My very first volume, titled “my instagram.”^[3]

Contents

Short stories and prose: Księżniczka Marcin [Princess Marcin] (a series of nine stories, 2023), Warszawa chmuroczy / Warsaw Cloudeyes, RYBA [FISH] (published in fragments on Instagram, 2023)

Performance pieces: Nie odbieraj, bo zobaczą [Don’t answer it or they’ll see] (2023), Demony [Demons] (2022), W cieniu katedr [In the Shadows of Cathedrals] (2021)

Audio dramas: Palec Piłsudskiego [Piłsudski’s finger] (2019), Chickensy szczecińskie [Szczecin’s chickenses] (2019), Klepisko / Hard Ground (2020)

The film Ciepła Wojna [Warm War], 2022

The play Prącie przepychu / Schlong of Splendor, 2020

artwork descriptions, e.g. for Kapliczki [Shrines], PylniceP / PDusters

notes, fragments, dreams, e.g. Planeta motyli [Planet of the Butterflies]

If this is pre-recorded, then what you’re listening to is not a book. You’re listening to a tiny little notebook. If you’re unsure what a notebook is, go online and google “sheet of paper” and imagine it cut into eight tiny little sheets of paper which are then folded together.^[4]4Ibid.

Exactly that’s my source material here.

The hot-glued method

So, the material we have—is it a lot or not at all? That is not the question one should be asking. Quantitative approach does not account for diversity or, more importantly, for density of these writings. And Piniak’s prose is, in fact, incredibly dense, as dense as hot glue—a substance he was very fond of. It was hot glue, or hot-melt adhesive, that more or less kept his spatial objects from losing their multi- (i.e. three-) dimensionality. Words performed a similar function in his work as narratives gave due weight to his otherwise waste-made sculptures. The hot-glued method also allowed him to reconcile what is theoretically irreconcilable—disparate materials, textures, styles, conventions, and forms. There’s something strangely shocking about PET bottles covered in small sheets of cork. Equally startling and electrifying is how Piniak’s texts work in terms of structure. No excerpt can do justice to the way they burst sooner or later, nor to the friction or dissonance they contain. Reading them to the end takes some effort. Sometimes it seems as if those densely packed and ill-fitting themes, motifs, anecdotes, and remarks made it to the final text by chance, in a spontaneous rush, out of pure chaos. It is not until the conclusion (or later even, until a complete rereading) that everything falls into place: characters and topics reappear in disguise, varied and variated, and variegated; anecdotes turn out to have consequences for the plot after all; and refrains—since he does repeat certain phrases over and over again—form new, intertwining connections, revealing to the reader the mysterious rules of sense-making. (That said, not everything, and not always, is to be made sense of this way.)

While stating repeatedly in his texts that he liked a good mess,^[5] Piniak was at once experiencing internal tidiness-messiness conflict.^[6] It does help a little to arrange his works and writings in cycles, such as those of Shrines^[7] or Demons.^[8] It is certainly not the point, however, to put absolutely everything in order. In an interview, he said: Say, in this or that work, there are ten items of something stitched perfectly; if so, then comes item eleven and I just leave it hanging by a thread, literally, and precisely this is my personal style. To me, this is peak composition!^[9]

Square head

As far as criticism is concerned, there has only been one instance of reflection upon the literary in Piniak’s work—in the 2023 essay Narrator z kwadratową głową [The Square-Head Narrator] by Stach Szabłowski. The curator and art critic pointed out, and rightly so, that writing was central to our subject’s artistic practice: it is from literature that everything else stemmed, be it paintings or drawings, video pieces or live performances, objects and costumes, and long-running cycles, and entire exhibitions.^[10] Szabłowski identified what is most striking about Piniak’s style, even upon cursory reading: the vernacular of big city streets, the colloquial, the slip and the glitch. The neurotic narrator whose first-person pitch alternates between chopped and stream-of-consciousness-dense. While Szabłowski hears echoes of Miron Białoszewski and Dorota Masłowska in this prose, personally I would name Michał Witkowski as particularly akin to what we’re dealing with here. But I’d rather steer clear of name-dropping, especially since as things stand, the likes of Masłowska have been analyzed and interpreted inside out; they have been disarmed in a way. Drawing this kind of comparisons is meant to give praise, but it also entails oversimplifications. In doing so, we risk losing sight of what’s most unique about Piniak, what is actually unprecedented and unmistakable.

Biographical note

Painter, performance artist, futurologist, footwear designer.^[11]

Predominantly concerned with creating visions aimed at the collapse of space-time, as well as with painting and customization of headwear.^[12]

The portal

Piniak’s visions make space-time collapse indeed. He dares to fuse conventions which have traditionally been opposite ends of the (Polish) literary spectrum—autofiction on the one hand, and on the other, science fiction—in the form of a street-wise or urban legend-like folk tale, one that is also markedly queer. Stylization is fairly common in sci-fi, to be sure, but here it consists in combining confessional writing with some kind of robot fables. How does one picture anything along those lines? It is as if an art student friend of yours tried to recount a film he’d seen on cable TV back in the early 2000s and explain how deeply it had affected them. And we’re living in the most down-to-earth and everyday “here and now” of streetcars and sprawling chain stores, venturing into strangest parallel universes in the very middle of it all. Connecting the former and the latter are peculiar portals such as, for instance, unexpected bodywork of a car we see in town, or cheap confectionery.

Take the planet of the butterflies, where the narrator—infected by brain-eating larvae^[13]—turns into a hairy, clingy flying creature, one of a warning coloration, like that of rear lights on an old Nissan station wagon.^[14] Or this biblical teleportation to the planet of the houseflies: You hear what you hear of that cosmos. And what you hear is just hearing. From the dark, dark emerges. A planet. An Earth-colored donut. You can have glaze like that these days, blue-and-green.^[15] The houseflies are partying at a hotel, drinking champagne, posting insta stories^[16]16Ibid.; notably, everything’s life-sized.^[17] (Now think about this: how many flies will fit in a single flute of the glass. Now think about how many sausages have been consumed in Poland as żabka’s hot-dogs since the chain started operating.) ^[18]

Murmel

Piniak also draws on conventional, if not outmoded, motifs known from genre fiction. Harvesting tensions between utopian and dystopian realms. Travelling both back in time and to the future. Impersonating the archetype of a brilliant inventor whose ideas could change this as well as other worlds.^[19] But he’s not serious about those patterns or templates. One example: fictional substances or drugs. The narrator in Piłsudski’s finger, a brilliant inventor (who also happens to be a penniless ceramics student), accidentally creates murmel. It’s a clay-like substance, like putty, and made from—who would’ve thought!—putty itself.^[20] Piniak is not after any of the solemnity we have come to associate with literary sci-fi classics; murmel is not supposed to be joining the ranks of soma or melange.^[21] Rather, it is comical in the way Naked Lunch was in Cronenberg’s rendition, with protagonists getting high on cockroach repellent.

Although made from harmless ingredients, murmel is extremely dangerous when used as recreational drug; one can easily overdose: the right amount of murmel is an ultrathin slice encapsulated in a quartz marble called murmelette.^[22] Murmelettes come in pairs, matched for opposing polarity so that the creativity and the narcissism they unleash are balanced. Used responsibly, they can cure depression (and they also make good headwear customization resource). Eventually, production and distribution of murmel spin out of control and, after a time, knockoffs abound on planet Earth. The world is thrown off balance, with grave consequences for the course of history—including Poland’s post-1989 transition or the rise of particular social phenomena, such as homophobic prejudice.

Churches of the future

Another thing changing Poland, and Poles, is what’s known as Christol. The eponymous painting, Chrystol, depicts a single pill of that substance (worth noting here, perhaps, is the 2018 piece Placebo by Agnieszka Kurant: a glass cabinet full of invented pharmaceuticals—from literature, movies, comic books, and popular culture in general). Christol is highly addictive and administered to us all from an early age, whether we want it or not. It is precisely this chemical that keeps us from being our true selves—that makes us forever stick to strictly defined social norms and gender roles.^[23]

The Catholic Church and its oppressive heteronormativity recur throughout Piniak’s writings, but such references of his are quite subtle as far as Poland’s art scene is concerned; they’re humorous and abstract rather than bitter. Churches of the future, which are in fact teleportation stations. When being teleported, we’re watching art on television screens. … Want to be teleported too? Pitch in a dollar at the congregation. Work on the new cathedral is underway already.^[24]

This peculiar mixture of themes—Catholic upbringing, queer culture, and science fiction—makes one think of the great artist-ufologist Mike Kelley.^[25] Piniak and Kelley share more than that, but speaking of literature, we shall turn our attention to how the shame and trauma experienced by a young homosexual brought up in the Catholic tradition find an outlet in sci-fi fascinations. In The Aesthetics of Ufology, Kelley analyzed representations of alien visitors in 20th-century popular culture. Whether a meaty, genital blob or a gray humanoid with oversized eyes and not a single orifice in their body—these are invariably sexual innuendos, at the same time implying that sex is gross and just aberrant.^[26] Growing up, Kelley was feeling literally alienated himself. He empathized and identified with “terrifying” aliens, rejecting the culturally normative aversion. Piniak: It’s not that I’m just inventing those sprites for amusement, funny ha-ha. It’s a constant struggle for identity.^[27]

Waste

As a self-proclaimed futurologist, Piniak sometimes set his texts in a time to come. That future is no less coarse and crappy than the present, simply because it’s made of what we’re generating today like there’s no tomorrow: all sorts of garbage. Of cheap junk food, rice crackers and puffed rice cones. In future Szczecin (or Szczeczolio, to be precise), residents are cage-farmed. Humans are only raised as meat for Szczecin’s chickenses.^[28] Back in 2020, people were still allowed to leave their cages, on the sole condition that they came back for the night. The city prided itself on keeping free-range humans.^[29] In 2089 (or 2500; this recurs in a number of works), Szczecin will have become the garbage dump of Europe but will yet have to receive a visit from the World Disposal Council.^[30] Waste will be the building material for infrastructure, and students at the “Asatemy” will be transforming waste into “Abt” wherever possible.

Piniak repeatedly mocks campaigns and marketing slogans of local governments and public institutions.^[31] Too much star wars, now those Tusks think they’re going to legislate mere science-fiction.^[32] He’s skeptical about CGI visions of modernized cities, promising us the brightest of all futures if we only put on a brave face and survive twenty more years of roadworks.

In a hole

The chronically makeshift nature of urban modernization projects turns the futurologist’s attention to both pasts and futures. As a result, even the Princess Marcin stories (written during a residency at the Zamek Culture Centre in Poznań, which is located on Święty [Saint] Marcin street)—where the artist practically breaks with sci-fi conventions in favor of a more diaristic, flâneurist, nostalgic tone—continue to give off the aura of his cosmic captivations.

Unearthing. First you remove a piece of street paving, then a layer of sand, foil, some pipes, a layer of earth, a layer of what used to be the surface around two hundred years ago, piece of a wooden archeological artifact, then earth again. All these are merged into a snake of sorts: you pull on just the pavement and what comes out is this earthworm consisting of all those countless layers.^[33]

Elsewhere, the same is seen from a different perspective, from underneath:

For all these years that I spent lying underground, sensing vibrations from every streetcar passing above me six feet up as the earth would transmit those to me, I had been pretty sure I was an egg.^[34]

Prime ministers and real estate developers keep telling us that a brave new world is right around the corner, it will surely come to be as soon as excavations are over. Later we’re left with a train station that looks like a breadbox (Poznań Główny), or a UFO-shaped marketplace (Rynek Łazarski). Female birdcheetah, sparrowheads, pigeons as well as eagles are disappointed: “we were promised a nest, sniffle-sniffle, we were promised a nest and all we got is a flying saucer!!!”^[35]

Non-science fiction

Lately, sci-fi has increasingly been a thing in visual arts. This certainly has to do with the rampant rise of AI—but ecocriticism, fairly mature now, is not irrelevant here either. Curators quote from Ursula K. Le Guin and Octavia E. Butler in their exhibition texts. What follows is an aesthetic we’ve seen before: retrofuturism, techno-floral hybrids, metal as common material, monochrome as default color. And Piniak? Something else altogether: rice crackers and second-hand tracksuits.

Sometimes it works the other way around and visual arts become a starting point for sci-fi literature, as was the case of The Employees by Olga Ravn.^[36] In science-fiction novels (mainstream as well as experimental), protagonists are no longer male space engineers and astronauts but female installation and performance artists. Swan, main character in Kim Stanley Robinson’s 2312, creates planetary ecosystems inside hollowed-out asteroids. Deep Wheel Orcadia by Harry Josephine Giles begins with homecoming from art university. In both these books, protagonists are queer and marked attention is given to non-heteronormative sexuality—freed from contemporary Earth’s binarism.

Piniak: I am not a male, I am not a madam either; human living in the company of a cat, that’s my identity.^[37] Also, his writing is neither “speculative” or particularly intent on “world-building”: he never aimed at building alternate worlds realistically, or at speculating on how our primary world will turn out. In Piniak’s case, science fiction is staffage and decoration (the narrator in Piłsudski’s finger builds moons out of brick). Sci-fi as convention allows him to capture the specific mental condition of those living in 2010s Poland. In our hands, greatest achievements of digital civilization serve pure nonsense: 3D-printed bread, you say. I guess they ran out of that sprayed type?^[38]38Ibid. Our everyday lives are larded with high tech, and we’re mostly using it to spread fake news and stereotypes, nurturing our demons of gibberish and demons of screenshots. The pieces of found footage in Piniak’s work, though “real,” take on qualities more bizarre than his most twisted weird fiction as soon as we hear them edited into those audio dramas. Viral clips from the early days of Polish YouTube, filmed openings of small-town McDonald’ses, or the notorious 1924 recording of Józef Piłsudski’s voice (“I am standing in front of some strange trumpet…”)^[39]—all these feel like creations of aliens who gave their best shot at cosplaying earthlings, and utterly failed.

What Piniak and Piłsudski have in common is suspicion with which they both regarded technological innovations: Ever since I was little I’ve been scared of computers.^[40] It is precisely for that reason that he’d been picked to take part in an experiment in arts and science combined:

Thousands of laser beams passing through me, cutting to bits and piecing back together, and cutting again and piecing together. Like ham. This allowed the scientist to generate cross-sectional pictures of a human being, to picture their insides even. I felt awkward, because I had Asado last night. Which is an Argentine dish consisting of bat hearts, skewered and grilled medium rare. And nobody had warned me I was supposed to come on empty stomach!!^[41]41Ibid.

Piniak also mocks all those techno-optimists making their case everywhere in mainstream politics and mass media. He’s sure to pinpoint how sheer opportunism makes artists take on certain subjects and themes: The two of us stepped out on a tiny balcony by the studio and were greeted immediately with applause and cheering. As if we were astronauts back from the moon. That project of ours really meant a lot to the City of Poznań. Most nation-wide recaps would later shortlist us as artists of the year.^[42]

Piniak’s genre is non-science fiction.

Future fiction^[43]

More than anything, however, it is Piniak’s joy of writing that’s made possible by his use of science fiction. Invention by invention, with each consecutive space-time travel he simply keeps on talking, rewinding his absurdist narrative machine forever, like in The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai. The sci-fi genre is one of satire and (self-)parody to a large extent, and Piniak’s prose certainly honors that element of tradition. As a case in point, his neologisms have more in common with Stanisław Lem’s knack for word formation than they do with those of Masłowska.

Still, my feeling is that it’s not literature itself that prompted his writing, but movies. You can hear dark bass and riffs, sadness goes ding-ding-ding, it’s that part in the film where his darling is no more and he’s crossing desert on a bike.^[44] And I mean television, rather than cinema: Fourth grade. TVP runs Klan for the first time. Our lives would never be the same again. … Bravo, acts like Varius Manx and Piasek and Kasia Kowalska in concerts, Idol, inspirational quotes, fortune-tellers, film festival in Międzyzdroje.^[45]

There’s no doubt Piniak had seen classics on TV: Lucas’s wife re-edited first star wars before release, saving his ass.^[46] Surely, he’d watch sci-fi comedies as well, and action B-movies of the future-fiction kind too, which flooded into Polish television programming and VHS rental stores at the turn of the centuries (Any trope whatsoever plus a dead body equals crime).^[47] Parody films based on “serious” sci-fi IPs, some Men in Black or Spaceballs. Piniak had a soft spot for gags, and for plain dad jokes: An acute condition is when, you know—you’re a cute one.^[48]

Many science-fiction movies based their humor on the “war of the sexes.” More often than not, this reinforced rather creepy stereotypes about gender, at the same time implying heterosexuality by default.^[49] What Piniak does is he takes the somewhat cringy “gender comedy” of films like Sexmission (Seksmisja) and queerifies it on his own terms: Now would you look at those speckled eggs, what are these? Well these are Sparrowhead, from a same-sex couple.^[50] He impersonates an entire gallery of stereotypically “female” and “male” characters (an artist, a pope, a princess, an inventor), switching costumes and pronouns in the process. At times, nasty nonwomen throw spokes in his wheels.^[51] In this light, the planet of the houseflies in Piniak’s Schlong of Splendor can be seen as an abridged and queer-wise retelling of The Fly by Cronenberg: Two houseflies, one created by the scientist, the other, by the artist. … Sunday coffee time turns into an orgy. After a couple rounds the upstairs neighbor takes his clothes off, stands in the middle of the room, and impales a donut on his knob. Ten minutes later everyone’s running around like madmen, donuts dangling on their dongs. High like kites, they take flight to then spin in the air. It’s all they might ever ask for, they don’t even need physical contact. Just this particular state. Feeling the jelly squelch against one’s most delicate skin regions. Donuts get injected with bodily fluids. Seventy-two hours later, when this perfectly colorful social occasion is eventually over, you spend your whole day cleaning up, licking the apartment walls dry of all this sugar coating ….^[52]

Homo homini ufo^[53]53Ibid.

Piniak’s writing is inventive, fantastical, scientifically fictional. But it also is—perhaps most importantly—confessional, painfully autobiographical. And it is when those two seemingly conflicting modalities come together that this prose is at its most unsettling: I wonder why I always set myself on another planet, on different earth, on other pastures.^[54]

Misfit, weirdo, lunatic—these are words he himself used to describe his complexion. All eyes were on me: skinny, androgynous, exuvial.^[55] He’s tormented with the feeling of being constantly watched and judged—by passers-by in the streets, but also by crabs at the local Lidl.^[56] In order to hold out somehow, you need escape: Feasting on clouds, compulsively so, as if it were fairy floss, blocking everything out.^[57] For escape, one can lock themselves up in their head (which is not necessarily pleasant, either) or banish oneself to another planet.

Time

Vectors of escape can have two directions—back in time, or forward.

Ever since I was a little child, I pictured numbers on a horizontal axis, in any circumstances. … Negatives are dark and get darker to the point of black. But somewhere far below zero, they become light again. Positives, up to and including ten, are still gray. Like sky at the crack of dawn. And then it’s all white. You know what I mean?

And I got the same thing with time. … Outlandish. As in cosmic, for it is cosmos to me, ever-expanding space. … Sometimes I catch a glimpse of the entire timeline, that of my life. Childhood years are mustard, the warm color of hallway at my grandparents’ house, a stretch in which I felt safe. … Then, curiously, I see age of 19 to 25 as pure light, the light of rising sun, but bright already, and there’s lots of clean air within. That’s summertime.

I must unwind time.^[58]

Further reading

What should we read if we were to contextualize Piniak’s literary work historically? (Notwithstanding my reservations about any such attempts, expressed earlier.) Reading his writings and writing about them, I kept coming back to sci-fi classics, by both female and male authors, where gender, identity, and sexuality transcend the binarism of heteronormativity in interesting ways: The Female Man by Joanna Russ, The Einstein Intersection by Samuel R. Delany, short stories by Izumi Suzuki, or by Alice Hastings Bradley (James Tiptree Jr.). Looming on this horizon, of course, are also Ursula K. Le Guin (The Left Hand of Darkness) and Octavia E. Butler (Xenogenesis).

As far as Polish literature is concerned, my mind mostly wandered towards the sorts of writing where there’s lots of roaming around town, and where city streets occasionally see things that are not of this world. Take Andrzej Szpindler, whose prose is dense like Piniak’s, or Adam Kaczanowski (the neighborly inferno in Ze Słowackiego [After Słowacki]). Earlier examples include Ryszard Schubert, who has featured Poznań in his work and been employing “women’s talk” fluently in his writing. And Białoszewski, after all, for a number of reasons—ufological too. In his Secret Diary, alleged UFO sightings are covered repeatedly: on vacation by the Baltic Sea, above Warsaw’s high-rise housing projects, in Falenica, Tczew, and Garwolin. So much that it eventually enters his dreams:

It’s getting dark. Suddenly I notice a small saucer, spinning. At half eye level. I come running to it. Cassette tape? But it spins and shines by itself. UFO? … The UFO stops, puts something down. I come flying to it. Minuscule items, all burning hot. Tiny little hieroglyphs. Pebbles, amulets.

— Looks like the kind of marks they’d leave. But, these also look a lot like those miniature sculptures that Hania Swenowa used to make out of clay. She would always work fast, that’s why they were so hot. Or was it them after all?^[59]

It all starts to come together again, everything’s relevant: aliens, cassette tape, miniature sculptures. Nothing short of Piniak. And I still haven’t got to audio dramas, to radio shows—because, what about Orson Welles and his War of the Worlds, or the Polish Radio Theater’s production The Matysiak Family (Matysiakowie). But that’s enough, I’ll leave it there.

Writing

One: clean up every single one of your studios.

Two: tidy up folders, portfolio, photographs.

Three: the opposite of sedimentation.

Four: scraps get trimmed.

Five: fungus upon fungus, bracket upon bracket, and upon that bracket, another bracket, and another fungus.

Six: overgrowth, slashed.

Seven: solar energy, kindled.

Eight: zero has got to be at zero.

Nine: zero cannot possibly be at zero.

Ten: save the world.^[60]

Well, I admit it, the above was not exactly about writing. It’s an excerpt from the film / enacted reading-for-camera Ciepła Wojna [Warm War], which deals (as far as I can tell) with something different altogether. It’s the usual Piniak: folk tales, a solar cult, some primeval peoples; the latter, from the future, though (It’s all the rage in 2179!^[61]61Ibid.). A bit of Żuławski’s On the Silver Globe but what it’s actually concerned with is painting (and gender). At some point, however, the story (which is largely disposable) breaks off. Enter Piniak, wearing a cardboard-made piece of headwear that looks like a doubled pharaoh’s crown, reciting his ten commandments. For the sake of this study, and for my own sake, I consider that list to be a methodology for writing. A methodology for writing and for saving the world.

[ The screening is over; viewers are leaving, elated.]^[62]

Translated by Błażej Bauer

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Planet Piniak: The literary in the work of Piniak Przemysław

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Planet Piniak: The literary in the work of Piniak Przemysław

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