by Bogdan Ciocodeică
Exhibition initiated by Alina Cristescu and Bogdan Rața
Critical introduction: Anca Verona Mihuleț, Diana Marincu
Exhibition Architecture: Attila Kim
Project Manager: Andreea Drăghicescu
Graphic Design: Attila Kim, Ion Gherman
Technical Production Coordinator: Cosmin Răducanu
Exhibition production manager: Loredana Ilie
Production assistants: Bianca Asofiei, Vlad Bîrnoagă, Ștefania Iakab Chirca, Alexandra Irimia, Andreea Pădureț
Asistent project manager: Ana Foltuțiu
Financial coordinators: Doina Gogan, Loredana Sorică
Communication: Georgeta Petrovici
Social Media: Andra Negru, Loredana Ilie
Foto-video: Vlad Cîndea
Financed by Municipiul Timișoara prin Centrul de Proiecte.
Partners: Uniunea Arhitecților din România (UAR), Ordinul Arhitecților din România (OAR) - Filiala Teritorială Timiș, RIDL, Stage & Showtech, THE INSTITUTE, Insula 42, Unicat, Zeppelin.
Sponsors: BEGA, PINTeam
THE REAL ME IS THE VOICE INSIDE MY HEAD is a series of objects that explores the universal desire to “be seen” in our purest form and the implicit necessity of “allowing ourselves to be seen.” Opposing this desire is the fear of not being accepted for who we essentially are.
The title reflects the inner monologue that narrates thoughts, debates decisions and responds to conversations all before we have even uttered a sound. Some of us experience this voice as a constant or intermittent stream, while others think through images, abstract concepts or emotions that are felt rather than heard. Whatever the way in which we process the external world, our inner universe remains the place closest to the authentic self, the space of our greatest personal honesty.
This series of functional art objects questions the ways in which we attempt to conceal or mask this “self,” not out of a lack of authenticity or a desire to distort reality, but rather out of an almost primordial fear of not being enough, of not being sufficient as we are at a given moment and, consequently, of exposing ourselves to the risk of rejection. The fear of not being accepted is met with masks, with all the protective layers we construct in an attempt to conceal what is valuable precisely because it is fragile. Transparent layers, opaque layers, solid layers, heavy armor or merely a thin veil of smoke take the place of the love we lacked, the love we were deprived of, which should have taught us that we are perfect as we are and that no one and nothing can alter that. Instead, all we know how to do is bandage the wound and cover it, hoping that no one will notice it, hoping that no one will ever cause us pain again.
The exploration of this tension between appearance and essence ultimately leads to the question: what happens to all these layers if we never learn to free ourselves from them, to stand vulnerable and exposed to those who matter? How can the fear of the other be overcome? And how can we learn that it is beyond this fear that we truly begin?
These questions dictate the forms taken by the present series of objects and provide the rationale for their formal existence. The objects are merely the final step in a long process of exploration, the physical manifestation of an extended chain of thoughts. They are safes concealed behind translucent draperies; cabinets of curiosity hiding fears, emotions and lived experiences; ladders made of twisted metal that reference a DNA sequence and are covered by successive layers; metal structures that bend beneath the weight of these accumulating solid layers. The objects themselves, with their functional potential, and their titles are conceived as entries in a journal: a succession of fragmented inner voices, continually interrupting one another.
I wanted the exhibition to evoke the sensation of inadvertently overhearing someone’s mind as it thinks.
When does the creative process end when the medium of expression is an object or a piece of furniture? Because I am not the one who physically makes the objects with my own hands, the process becomes a shared experience, a collaboration with the artisan who participates in bringing them into being. In this way, a relationship emerges based on mutual trust and vulnerability.
I often ask myself: when someone leaves the exhibition, what is the thought they will take with them? By sharing with the viewer what my own inner voice is saying, will I be able to reconnect them with their own? To bring them, ultimately, to ask themselves a single question: “What is my inner voice trying to tell me?”
Bogdan Ciocodeică
ACT 1 - THE LADDER
Tell me who you want to be when you grow up
The work takes the archetypal image of the ladder as its starting point, understood both as a structure of becoming and as a succession of stages through which identity is constructed and transformed. The twisted metal rods that form its structure reference DNA, that primordial core which precedes our choices. Translucent layers are progressively superimposed onto this structure, like coverings or masks accumulated over time. The title revisits a question we were all so often asked as children “Tell me what you want to be when you grow up” and transforms it into a reflection on becoming: how much of what we eventually become already exists within us, and how much is constructed through the mechanisms of protection, projections, and expectations we accumulate in relation to others?
ACT 2 - THE SHELF
It’s OK to Be Scared Sometimes
If the layers we accumulate over time initially emerge from a need for protection, they gradually become instruments through which we negotiate how much of ourselves we choose to keep visible. The work continues this exploration through a succession of shelves partially concealed by translucent surfaces, whose depth varies from one level to another.
This alternation references the way we continuously adjust our degree of vulnerability depending on the situation and context. To conceal does not mean to dissimulate, but rather to control the distance between interior and exterior, between who we are and what we are prepared to allow to be seen. The title acknowledges and accepts fear as a form of wisdom that determines how much of ourselves we choose to expose.
ACT 3 - THE BASE
My Heart Breaks Every Time I Think of Yesterdays
As mechanisms of protection become more firmly established, the layers constructed between the self and the outside world cease merely to filter exposure and begin to almost entirely replace what they were meant to protect. In this work, the object withdraws completely behind a drapery of translucent surfaces, its presence perceptible only indirectly, through densities, shadows, and variations of light. The masks sustain the possibility of revelation while perpetually deferring it. The work introduces memory as an active force, capable of shaping the way we construct our relationship with the present. Protection is no longer merely a response to fragility, it risks becoming the very distance that separates us from others.
ACT 4 - THE SHADOW
My Shadow Lies to Me All the Time
Through repetition, mechanisms of protection gradually detach themselves from the vulnerability that first gave rise to them and acquire an autonomous existence. The act of concealing is no longer determined by the presence of something fragile, it persists instead as the memory of a need for protection.
The work constructs this tension through a rhythmic succession of shelves and translucent draperies. At the lowest level, however, this correspondence is disrupted: the drapery continues, although there is no longer a shelf behind it and, consequently, nothing left to protect. The mask outlives the very thing it was meant to protect, while protection becomes a self-referential gesture.
The work questions precisely this distance between reality and the reflexes through which we continue to interpret its shadow: the moment when fear responds to its own memory.
ACT 5 - THE ROW
Sometimes I Like to Imagine Futures
When layers of protection become part of the way we relate to the world, they alter both what we choose to conceal and what we allow to be seen. In this work, translucent surfaces overlap the precise geometry of the metal structure, creating in the foreground a configuration that no longer coincides with the actual form behind it. Through variations in length, density, and overlap, these layers generate a new geometry, autonomous from the object they are meant to protect. The work introduces the possibility that this distance between reality and perception is not merely a consequence of fear, but also a space for projection and imagination. The same mechanisms through which we protect ourselves can participate in constructing possible versions of the self, while the form we project outwards can become a genuine departure from reality.
ACT 6 - THE CHAIR
These Days It Seems Every Little Thing Can Break Me
When mechanisms of protection persist beyond the moment in which they have fulfilled their purpose, what was once constructed to protect begins to exert its own pressure on the underlying structure. The layers are no longer translucent and fragile, they appear to have crystalized, becoming compact, rigid, and heavy. Their accumulation progressively alters the supporting structure, which bends and deforms beneath the weight of its own armor. The work questions the moment when the mechanisms created to protect us can no longer be shed, even after the need that gave rise to them has disappeared. What happens when we are no longer able
to free ourselves from our own masks? The layers accumulated and hardened over time may begin to weigh increasingly heavily upon us, until the very form they were intended to preserve gives way beneath their weight.
ACT 7 - THE SAFE
The Wall Facing My Window
Following the accumulation and hardening of mechanisms of protection, the possibility of reaching the things of value once again requires us to reconsider the way we relate to them. In this work, elements of value are held within a metal structure and can be glimpsed through overlapping translucent surfaces. Access appears intuitive. And yet, this logic is reversed. The translucent plane remains fixed, while the safe behind it must be displaced in order to release its contents. The work marks the necessity of a shift in paradigm: sometimes, the obstacle is not the impossibility of reaching what we seek, but our insistence on trying to do so through familiar mechanisms. What is essential becomes accessible only when we abandon the familiar gesture and discover another logic of openness.
ACT 8 - THE LIGHT
I Hope You Get to See Yourself
Once the layers of protection have been constructed, multiplied and, ultimately, understood, they no longer necessarily need to be removed. In this work, light passes through the translucent surfaces and alters their condition: the masks remain present but cease to function solely as barriers. What once protected, concealed or distorted now begins to allow light to pass through, vulnerability is no longer associated with the danger
of exposure, but with the possibility of looking at and recognizing oneself. Thus closes the circle opened by the question once addressed to the child about who they would become. The answer lies neither in returning to an original self untouched by experience, nor in shedding the masks accumulated over time, but in accepting them as part
of one’s own journey. The title takes the form of a wish addressed to that same child, all grownup now.