Daiga Krūze (b. 1980) hunts for that moment when quite often insignificant external stimuli – the snap of a twig on the path, a finger pricked by a pine needle – breaks through the body’s walls, enter the hideout and present themselves in the form of nerve impulses as material for the work of the imagination. She is interested in the moment when the senses transform into images. What would you see if you could only smell or hear? What does fear look like? Does your body give you sufficient information about the surrounding world? Do you know what’s out there or are you only guessing? The images seen begin to live their own unpredictable lives until they find their final, precise form.
Sometimes, when I’m looking for a visual impulse to continue a work, I will trust luck, pull out three photographs and place them next to the sketch in order to find some hint or eye-catching compositional or graphic technique in them. On another occasion, one painting is a letter to my new working day and the subsequent works are both the reply and the continuation.