Jef Geys’s work is firmly anchored in autobiography; it resides in the margins of aesthetic contemplation and creates a constant dynamic somewhere between popular culture and drawing attention to the banal.
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One sees stacks of newspapers, files scattered haphazardly about and papers stuffed onto shelves: the untidy workroom looks as if it were kept in fluttering disorder by recurrent wind. Everything is painted in delicate pastels. Continue reading Thomas Hartmann