RASSIM®, an interview with RASSIM

 

The body paints the body. To paint the body with the body.

Urine is the holographic code. It is the paint, the tone with which I create— the gold within the human being, according to the god Shiva.

Before the idea of painting with urine was born, I drank it as a means of healing (urine therapy). The old masters would add cow urine to their pigments to achieve a pearlescent tone with which to depict human flesh.

At first, I simply wanted to create an image—a drawing on paper that would leave a trace, something visible. But as I delved deeper into the material and technique, my desire grew to create a painting in the manner of Leonardo—one that is unique, unrepeatable, and inimitable, painted with tone, with pigment—the paint extracted from the body itself; a painting, a work of art that is IMPOSSIBLE TO REPRODUCE OR COPY, even by myself.

One could say these paintings are made with bodily gold. In a very real sense, they are golden. If alchemists sought to obtain gold through chemical means, I have extracted it through the body.

RASSIM®

 

 

Milla Tarabanova: Have your series Portrait with Iliya and Engram since 2006 been created with organic materials?
Krasimir Krastev / RASSIM: Technically speaking, these are organic materials. Even though petroleum, once processed, is no longer considered organic. The same goes for the motor oil used to paint on the back of the canvas. Francis Bacon also painted on the back of the canvas. The way paint sits on canvas differs from how it behaves on paper. The variations that emerge from the canvas fibers cannot be controlled by the artist. But even on paper, the paint spreads in a particular way. If cave paintings have lasted for so long, and if the paints used by the old masters have endured, then something will remain even if it eventually disappears. Something was there. However, no one has worked with this technique before. For example, acrylic paints, considered a new technique, are only 50 years old. We still don’t know what will happen to them, while plastic takes 500 years to decompose. This technique is more likely to last than watercolor paints.

Why did you choose to depict Elizabeth II and Madonna?
Because they are contemporary figures. Every artist, no matter what they paint, ultimately paints themselves. Even Francis Bacon—his distortions come from his past, from his father, from within himself, even if he paints other faces. That’s why I decided to work with myself, with my own body. I can’t make someone else breathe in glue fumes for me. This is a period of my life that can become a subject of art, so I document it. Self-Portrait with a Cigarette, my first video—rather than painting myself with a mirror, easel, and canvas, I used a camera and a TV, arranged the composition, and recorded it. A moving self-portrait with my favorite music—this way, you provide more information about yourself. Corrections 2 (Circumcision)—there’s no one else I can make do this, even though in the history of video art, many artists work with themselves and exploit others. The initial idea was to re-experience, as an artwork, something I had lived through in real life. Corrections, for example, is about sculpting yourself. This helped me detach from glue during my time in the army. I wanted to escape reality, but it also helped me create two works: Drugs and Corrections. Because they were truly lived experiences—there was nothing else to invent. Painting is dead. There is nothing new to be done with oil paint and a brush. Everything has already been painted.

Are Drugs and Corrections 1 & 2 inspired by the Vienna Actionist School?
You could say that. I was aware of it, but my works are still different. None of those artists build upon each other—they urinate on the audience, Hermann Nitsch skins animals and uses students for these performances. It was a different time, and their goal was to scandalize the more conservative Austrian society of the time. But none of them worked on their body for an entire year to create a new image. Here, the artist and the model are the same person. For a whole year, I engaged in bodybuilding, which was banned under communism. Bodybuilding and Schwarzenegger were considered decadent. I spent 24 hours a day following a strict diet, in complete madness—even sleep was crucial. The Viennese artists were rebelling against society, but from today’s perspective, their approach is exhausted.
After Corrections 2, I changed my body again—I was circumcised, I shed blood, but not to adopt a new religion or to make statements about the existence of God. That’s the idea of Corrections 2—to permanently change oneself.

What about Boryana Rossa?
She sews and then unsews her vagina, but she did that after me. That’s not a permanent change to oneself. That’s Viennese Actionism—something meant for the audience.

Many artists recreate Viennese Actionist performances.
As Joseph Beuys said, anyone can be an artist now. Anyone can be an artist. Terrorists film executions and upload them to YouTube. That means this medium is now commonplace—it’s no longer enough for an artist. This medium, like the world, requires absolute change. By 2000–2001, video documentation was no longer sufficient for me, except for my fire-walking experiment, which was a personal challenge. I didn’t plan to publicize it—I did it for myself—but it ended up documented like all my other videos. They are records of my actions, which could be repeated—Drugs could be repeated, Corrections could be repeated, but why? I don’t want to. They are done once, and that’s it. Corrections 2 (Circumcision)—it would be absurd to repeat that.
With videos, as with painting—you will always resemble someone else.
Going through all these experiments and searches, they are not performances, but they helped me rediscover painting with new expressive means—urine and petroleum. Maybe that was always my goal—to give meaning back to painting when everyone else was doing video.
In 2001, when I was finishing Corrections 2, people told me it was dangerous and that I shouldn’t mess with the Muslim religion. That was when the Twin Towers fell, and we were preparing for an exhibition in Switzerland. It wasn’t just a Bulgarian project but an international one. That’s why Harald Szeemann invited me to the Blood & Honey: The Future of the Balkans exhibition at Essl Museum in 2003 and then to the 26th São Paulo Biennial in 2004. There is a void in art, as in society, that must be filled.
So, compared to all the explosions and live bombings, our videos are nothing. I work with myself, and that was OK for 2000, 2001. I walked on fire—it’s not like Christo’s Walking on Water, but Christo is a classic. Walking on embers at 600°C—nothing will help you if you are not pure. And you burn like a torch. My hair was longer then, and I thought it would catch fire, but my feet didn’t burn. I had a teacher—he introduced us to the fire, played special music. We trained for 7–8 months—it’s a process, not something you just do on a whim.
What comes after that? Filming refugees and exhibiting them? That’s voyeurism, as I wrote about Corrections 2. What is an artist supposed to do? If God created man in His image, then man must turn inward, not use images of unknown people. What’s the point of taking pictures of refugees and exhibiting them? No one has an answer. Because they have nothing else to do. You exhibit yourself—you don’t put your name on someone else’s suffering or happiness. That person has their own path—they might be a terrorist, they might not be. Art must return to its essence. Can you paint a picture, even with yourself?
In my paintings made with urine, I paint with myself. The rest is from the earth, from petroleum, which contains all the codes—of terrorists, of our ancestors, of Hitler (if he’s dead), of dinosaurs—everything is in petroleum. Petroleum is formed from the decomposition of all plant and animal life over 500 years.

So we are entering the topic of collective memory?
Yes, everything is there. Since I couldn’t just keep painting myself, I started experimenting with my family. The Portrait of My Son is in the National Art Gallery—it includes myself, my wife, and my son. The portrait of my pregnant wife with Iliya comes from a family photo I later used. The very code of the artist is holographic (it was painted with the artist’s urine).

What exactly is the idea? For the holographic code, holograms are used with the help of three beams, which supports the thesis that the particular is a reflection of the whole—that a particle carries the code, the formula of the whole, and thus of the entire universe, the cosmos.
We can assume that we ourselves, our lives, are a projection. And it is no coincidence that sleep occurs in darkness. It reflects what happens when the sun illuminates the Earth—one half is always in darkness while the other is in light. Some say that what we experience in dreams is the true reality, which unfolds after death. Like when the power goes out—the image still exists elsewhere. As Buddhists say, when you die, it’s as if you wake up… into your true reality. And this world—whether it is for trials, for the material, for the spiritual, or for a combination of both—is a dangerous one. Both extremes can be dangerous. But the spiritual more so, and engaging in art can truly lead to spiritual transcendence.
Many engage in commercial art, focused on sales figures. But that doesn’t bring happiness. It would be better to sell drugs than to create false art. At least that way, you’re bringing people pleasure, rather than deceiving them with fake art. There is no greater crime than pretending to create art.
My ideas are born from a pure desire to be an artist, to keep myself engaged and to give meaning to my artistic pursuits—in this case, painting. Art must return to its spiritual foundation if the world is to be saved; otherwise, things will not work out. Western people, too, are deeply confused by their overabundance. So, in a way, everyone is to blame, but artists—whether writers, poets, or painters—bear the greatest responsibility.

Still, what exactly is the idea behind your holographic code series? Is this an exploration of the spirit, of the astral body? If we follow the titles of your series—The Holographic Code, The Engram, The Collective Memory—what is the key idea?

It’s not a hologram because it’s not three-dimensional. What I wanted to emphasize is that we ourselves are a hologram. Reality is very strange—what you think becomes real. I used to record my dreams. When I revisited these notes, I found it fascinating—whether I would encounter things that had already happened or were happening in the present. You can even work in dreams—life continues there too.

How does this differ from predestination? The theories of the holographic code of the universe align with ancient teachings, incorporating conclusions from experiments in physics and psychology. How does this reflect in your work?
These are fundamental principles that seem unchanging. They are timeless, yet one must experience and confirm them personally. Otherwise, life would be very dull.
But take, for example, the portrait of my pregnant wife. If you extract from this code, you could be restored—you could be recreated three-dimensionally.

So, with this portrait, you are recreating your code anew?
Urine, after all, carries a specific code. Buddhists regard it as the gold of the human body, radiating light. It has been used for healing. The old masters also used urine to paint—but from cows. Whether I read this, heard it, or dreamt it, I can’t say. I started painting with urine for all these reasons.
I wanted to develop a new technique that would reconnect me with painting. But when something has passed through you as an experience, as a long process of accumulation leading to an idea, it is difficult to explain.
When I first started working with urine, my wife exclaimed that it was genius—but how would an image emerge? So I experimented day after day until I reached these results. It is truly innovative. It genuinely embodies the artist’s code, which could be reproduced if science advances far enough. These are my first attempts. This is a drawing, but the portrait of my pregnant wife is a painting, a work of fine art. That’s why I insist that through this technique, I seek to achieve a Leonardo-esque image. I worked on this painting for a month and a half.

Most of the paintings in this series are based on family photographs.
For the petroleum works, I used old photographs of my wife’s grandfather. That’s where the idea of collective memory originated. I needed narratives. But these images remain contemporary in the sense that they are eternal. Photographs themselves are already a projection and serve as documentation of memory. I also liked them compositionally. The man must have had a talent. Owning a camera in the 1970s was a serious endeavor—not like today when everyone takes photos with their phone.

By using his photographs, did you aim to integrate him into this collective memory?
I simply liked them. I also have his slides, which I project. This gives a very different perception of the work itself. It’s a kind of hologram, though not three-dimensional—that is, we are a projection, and I use projection in my painting process as well. I paint in the dark. Even Rembrandt painted by candlelight. A painting should be viewed in darkness to truly see the image.

Are your seascapes a continuation of your series with urine and petroleum?
In a way, yes. Since the 1990s, I have been working on the human body. Though the artist’s body is absent here, it dissolves into eternity. I don’t usually paint landscapes. I have always been interested in the body, but then I suddenly felt an absolute conviction that I had to create these seascapes. I extract and collect layers from the sea. But additional processing is required because our sea is not salty enough to achieve this effect. The seawater must be further distilled.
There is a video showcasing part of this process. The paintings appear very poetic, but the artist’s body is entirely absent here.

You have moved from studying the ideal of the contemporary body—sculpting your own physique, painting bodybuilders—to exploring the spirit.
The bodybuilder’s physique is neither from the time of Rubens nor Michelangelo. Such a body has never existed in history—it has never been described.
After the Corrections project, I decided to paint them. Without faces, just bodies, because here, you only need to compose the form. It is already distorted, so the artist doesn’t need to deform it further, as Francis Bacon or Picasso did. These bodies are deformed by modernity itself—by industry, by the pharmaceutical industry. Now, you can build such a body in a month or two—but you can also die in the process.
Even the Olympics have completely degenerated. These are serious issues. I have a series, Olympic Games (painted with urine), that critiques them. Ideas emerge in the process of work.

What will be the next step?
Now, I am painting the old masters. Nude figures—Rubens, well-known and lesser-known works. Because right now, especially in the West, it is very fashionable to exhibit new works. But what are these new works if they are always just the old ones?
So, I decided to create a series called Old Paintings, based on the old masters. To experience these paintings anew but using my own techniques—petroleum, urine. To relive them, to return to the golden ages and give new meaning to painting today. To offer an image—whether beautiful or not, I don’t know—but one that is contemporary and that can offer us salvation.