Los Angeles, Spring 2022


Text by Rosanna Albertini

Fingers dripping black on white paper remake nebulas and galaxies by hand, dot by dot as if space was their matter … images appear that will never be what they seem to say … the bodies of plasma, shining spheroids pulsing from a heart of hydrogen that fuses into helium and release such a bright light that we can see it, piercing the blanket of the night.  Images are absurd. Spreading from chaos and illusions, also the scientific images pulsing from a core of numbers and measurements, they shape million years of movement and transformation. They are figures of time.

EPHRAIM PUUSEMP, Nebula 3 2022

Yet we see them like space, and the artist lets his mind float over the natural explosions of gasses feeling his soul, probably, floating alike. Dot by dot, for months and months. 

There are moments in which life makes one feel like having feet in the air. The floor of existence cracks. How can an artist walk straight under the pressure of gravity if he encountered a rupture of his daily living, while confusion and darkness loom through the windows.  Am I romantic?  I wish he hadn’t revealed me the state of sorrow he had crossed, waiting for a bridge. But he did. I can’t ignore it. Real as it is, the thing doesn’t explain his drawings. 

EPHRAIM PUUSEMP, Nebula 2 2022
EPHRAIM PUUSEMP, Nebula 2 2022

They are pure beauty taking shape despite the bitter of coffee and the taste less routine of the day. They were three flat creatures waiting as well for their moment of transformation.  I imagine it happened when Ephraim, dot after dot, started to accept the idea of darkness. The kind of darkness one experiences closing eyes and pressing fingers on the eyelids. So that he feels he “was made of a changing substance, of mysterious time. 

Maybe the source is in me.

Maybe out of my shadow

the day arises, relentless and unreal.”  (Jorge Louis Borges) 

The white becomes black and the black dots turn into white. Art, sometimes, is a gift of new life, yes, relentless and unreal. 

All the remnants of words, broken objects and dead flowers floating on something like a river, go on their own, far from life and strangers to art. The artist picks up the bones as if their corpses had been cremated, and puts them together: Sepulture/Sculptures.