Centaur 1989

Curator: Oleg Holosiy's "Centaur," rendered in oil in 1989. What strikes you immediately about this canvas? Editor: Its restless energy, the way the blue-grey tones wrestle each other, suggesting some elemental, barely controlled force. It's a somber take on the centaur myth, a world away from classical serenity. Curator: I agree. It departs from conventional imagery. In terms of symbolism, beyond the obvious association with raw power and instinct, I think of the centaur as an archetypal image of duality—reason versus impulse. What do you read into the brushwork and palette? Editor: There's a wildness, even crudeness to the application of paint that pulls me. It’s almost as if Holosiy wanted to undo any prettiness. And the palette – largely monochromatic—creates a sense of something ancient being dredged up from the subconscious. Curator: Exactly! It feels unearthed rather than born of some graceful inspiration. To my eyes, there are hints of decay—a world-weariness about this mythical beast that makes it poignant, despite its imposing presence. He renders the centaur neither idealized hero, nor terrifying monster, but something tragically in-between. The ghostly markings on its shoulder make me think of an insignia, perhaps of some forgotten tribe. Editor: That insignia feels less like a marking and more like a scar in my eyes, contributing to this sense of pathos, like a brand of slavery and constraint. Curator: Holosiy's work often deals with these undercurrents of longing and fractured identity, explored through fragmented forms and stark palettes, but also raw emotional exposure. Editor: Exposure feels like the right word. This isn't a celebratory myth. It's a stripping away. Curator: It challenges us, I think, to confront the more unsettling aspects of human nature reflected through the mythical. A powerful image indeed. Editor: Leaving you haunted, wondering what the cost is for carrying dual burdens: both beast and human.