on the swollen lips of the horizon [DL; Line]

In recent years, I have found myself locked into Paw Grabowski’s Instagram account. His hand cut collages are magnificent studies of the organic world colliding with supernatural forces and industrialization. If I were an art scholar, I would have an encyclopedia’s worth of New Yorker worthy print to espouse on this juxtaposition, how it relates to our modern culture and its lack of reverence for art and nature in favor of puerile technological interfacing.

Instead, I opt to fumble over words when describing Grabowski’s musical accompaniments to these works of art. on swollen lips of the horizon is the wistful placation necessary to compress the unrelenting flow of information into a relatable, if sorrowful, byte. There is no loss of message when, once again, we are faced with a digital message of a physical presence. The two long form pieces which enable this digital release are synthetic meditations (not dissimilar to those I take in on a nightly basis via a phone app that helps me achieve some form of Mindfulness practice). What I most appreciate from these exercises, much like I receive on a nightly basis through steady breathing and dark-eyed contemplation, is the practice of patience. His art across all media severs our reliant connection to a sped up world. That separation allows us to realize how vital it is. Some fret being too plugged in, a Borg-like creature that warns of us our apocalyptic future. But Grabowski’s art reminds us that we are one in the same; the technological glut of our fraught Bourgeois existence but merely a reflection of our long-chased connection between man and machine. Much like the works of another artist, Jakub Rozalski, Grabowski’s two pieces lending their names to this collection, ask us to see how fat some have become off the neverending landscape (and sky, and space, and…) in front of us. It asks us to not disconnect to avoid what makes us anxious, fearful, or nostalgic, but rather to stay tuned into the frequency to get the real read of the land. We are all hurting, but we are all of the same star stuff. It’s a truly heartening experience to find within the melancholy.


Cerberus seeks to document the spate of home recorders and backyard labels pressing limited-run LPs, 7-inches, cassettes, and objet d’art with unique packaging and unknown sound. We love everything about the overlooked or unappreciated. If you feel you fit such a category, email us here.

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