It was a cold December night, 1984. Being placed into Communist Czechoslovakia. I developed detachment from this place where queuing for bananas was a privilege. I left the motherland to search for the sticky side of the cardboard, the little broken edge of aluminium; the necessary cerebral vacation to see clearly again. It all started somewhere around Jung and his views on death and rebirth. The sense of self, the persona, the anima, and the shadow, was always right there disguised through Muybridge’s pigeons to Bacon’s violent pre-selfie internal expressions.