This is already a confession, not merely a drawing.
Look — the machine is ordinary, almost gentle in its outline, yet its keys are thorns. Every pressed symbol hurts. “Autobiography” — a word written in blood, not in ink.
Boyan seems to say: writing one’s own life is not a pleasure, but a wound. Every line demands a fragment of flesh, every word — a drop of oneself.
And here lies the paradox — without this pain there is no truth. A true autobiography is never written with fingers, but with a heart that does not stop bleeding while it arranges the letters.
There is a bitter dignity in this graphic.
The machine is like an old friend, witness to everything a person would never say to anyone — except to the white page.
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This is already a confession, not merely a drawing.
Look — the machine is ordinary, almost gentle in its outline, yet its keys are thorns. Every pressed symbol hurts. “Autobiography” — a word written in blood, not in ink.
Boyan seems to say: writing one’s own life is not a pleasure, but a wound. Every line demands a fragment of flesh, every word — a drop of oneself.
And here lies the paradox — without this pain there is no truth. A true autobiography is never written with fingers, but with a heart that does not stop bleeding while it arranges the letters.
There is a bitter dignity in this graphic.
The machine is like an old friend, witness to everything a person would never say to anyone — except to the white page.
Lia