None of the seven languages that circumstances forced me to pick up in my childhood and later in life, ever became my first language.

I often felt lost in the world. I had no means to tell anybody, who and what I am.

It had its good sides. I had to learn to listen and to observe. The injustices and fears, experienced in wars and under totalitarian rule, or the unparalleled sense of humor or sarcasm delivered by a Polish miner or English landlady, became a foundation of what started to appear on paper as “Visual Notes.”

While learning to draw or understand the force of colors, many hundreds of drawings piled up. I never dared to show them to anybody. They were my second outer skin. Packed in boxes or rolled up, they followed me wherever I had to go.

Only now, in 2025, at the age of 89, I began to open the boxes. Here is a small selection, organized into groups that are even beginning to make sense to me.