Kika Karolina Niemczyk - Flowers of our childhood - vernissage

You only come home when it's so dark that you can't see your hand, but you can clearly see the big and small wagon, and you can't wait for the next day. A leg torn from the last climb up the plum, and the papers are the ones that taste the most from the neighbor, reached by stealth. Dandelions dye their hands, sorrel is eaten straight from the meadow, young nettles brew the most, and mom says not to pick something there, because it is poisonous. The air smells of heat, grass and adventure. Grasshoppers, grasshoppers and crickets shout. It is purple from cornflowers, red from poppies and blue from forget-me-nots. Feel the “Flowers of Our Childhood.”

We invite you to the vernissage.