Dzięki uprzejmości artysty (thanks to artist's kindness)
Kosovo is like dream of a blind man. Cactatonic shine of windows, courtyards that smell like sand, rugged facades of houses (which don`t know neither place nor time), streets twisted like bowels; all of that is holding this country together. No, not country but island with its barbed-wired fences, barycades, houses with windows in which you can look at yourself like in the mirror. Mounatins, mountains, mounatins, lakes flat as our puddles and blood, not mine, not yours, entirely unknown, but still present. In Kosovo the sun is mocking people, stubbornly flooding the heat; plants looks like shackles which was used to chain dead Serbians.
Bullets in walls remind us that war was here recently and dead ones was arranged on streets as a totemic signs. Orthodox churches seem to be trees groving on gulf. Surrounded by soldiers they are protecded from natives. Only black, bicephalous eagles are drifting over the rofftops, screaming about new history. Hatred is common here like sludge, like gun which you can get if you`ll kneel ltlle bit lower.
There`s a method to one`s madness. Ismet Jonuzi gets it and holds in his arms. Among hot streets, sky (which soon will fall on aur heads), the artist is looking for an answer. Every new element of puzzle is receding it. There are more and more qustions. They are arranged with layers, grunting with absurdity like asthmatic. Jonuzi seems to be a blac-billed magpie who is stealing shiny things. His sculptures, sized probably whith air, are creating elements of matter which is being eaten by war, guns, metalic fragments, screws an twisted wires.
In Albanian gun is puszka, in Polish puszka means box. Artworks of Jonuzi is like Pandoras Box, all of world`s misery has its begining in it. Pain, suffer, spasms of self orientated anger. Apparently there is nobody responsible for this mass hatred. The silent moon (consisting of keys and castles) is watching it all. He is holding those people in prison.
Eagle builded from barrels is shepherd guiding his sheeps on sloughter. Black eagle is emblem of friend, who led Kosovo out of Serbian madness. He has led it through the mountains, acacia forests (changed in golf fields by now), rivers looking more like poppy seed fileds than crooked paths. Ismet Jonuzi is standing on the barycade. In strange city, where orthodox church was changed into public latrine, he is sending his kids to beds. But the name of the town is common.