Tiemar Tegene / Ethiopia



My prints are fictional they do not relate to specific people .The subjects of my work enter my consciousness much like the characters in a novel appear to an author. The world of the imagination is peopled by many seemingly ‚real‘ acquaintance that have no actual substance other than the description of them created by another, and yet they may be more revealing to us about our own condition than many of the living people that we interact with.

Tiemar Tegene is a talented Ethiopian painter living in Ethiopia, with great human values. Her artistic approach turns to essentially existential questions such as: Who is really man and what is his goal? why a man who at the outset is fundamentally good turns into a fundamentally wicked and cruel creature? we can unfortunately see it through wars, atrocities, gratuitous wickedness, hatred, racism etc … All these cruelties are committed by human beings … we can say that it is a sad reality. Well, through his prints, you will discover codes of artistic languages ??in which the artist Tiemar Tegene questions the very existence of man, as well as his spirituality, captivating people sensitive to his art to transfigure them in a world artistic or the victims of hatred and human loneliness pushes the human being himself to question himself and reconnect to the origin of his existence on earth to create the language of Love !

She is interested in the boundaries that exist within human beings: those that exist naturally within each person and those that are constructed by oneself. She is interested in the use of these boundaries as a tool of control and power. For Tegene, the denial of human tragedies occurring in the world does not escape the collective unconscious. On the contrary, according to her subliminally, atrocities such as torture, poverty, injustice cast shadows on our comfort zones.

The people who appear in her works are nameless; they are tributes to the "disappeared", the "rejected", those who are considered "collateral damage", the "disenfranchised"; they are "figures", "victims", "statistics". They also evoke "compassion".


„I am constantly trying to communicate something incommunicable, to explain something inexplicable, to tell about something I only feel in my bones and which can only be experienced in those bones.“

( Franz Kafka to Milena Jesenska )


„I’m getting quiet again, but I’m too tired to do anything about it. My hands are violins without their strings, so the fields stay silent all through the night. For what it’s worth, I am thankful for even the unholy parts of this. For getting drunk on sorrow like its Dionysus’s wine. For the poems my mother read off like a diagnosis. For slamming the door on everyone I’ve ever loved. every single time. If there’s a right answer somewhere, it doesn’t want to be found yet. I’m going to name it after the ache I convinced myself I needed. The ache I thought I’d bleed more without.“


Out of the night that covers me, Black as the Pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul. In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings of chance My head is bloody, but unbowed. Beyond this place of wrath and tears Looms but the Horror of the shade, And yet the menace of the years Finds, and shall find, me unafraid. It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll. I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul. Do broken pianos play broken songs? Do they have busted selodien for busted hearts? Is there a song living inside it that’s waiting to get out? his keys are shattered and his notes long since silent but I can still hear his song. Just listen, Just listen. ( Tyler Enott Gregaon )


I sit beside the fire and think of all that I have seen, of meadow-flowers and butterflies in summers that have been; Of yellow leaves and gossamer in autumns that there were, with morning mist and silver sun and wind upon my hair. I sit beside the fire and think of how the world will be when winter comes without a spring that I shall ever see. For still there are so many things that I have never seen: in every wood in every spring there is a different green. I sit beside the fire and think of people long ago, and people who will see a world that I shall never know.

Shrinking in a corner, pressed into the wall; do they know I’m present, am I here at all? Is there a written rule book, that tells you how to be all the right things to talk about that everyone has but me? Slowly I am withering a flower deprived of sun; longing to belong to, somewhere or someone. ( Lang Leav )
"My father tells me that I'm too loud but he hasn't yet figured out that
I inherited it from him,
that some traits were passed down to his daughters
even though he wanted to see them
in sons.
Had I been a boy, he would've told me
to shout louder,
the world wants to hear
what a man has to say.
I'll keep shouting until someone listens, until I wake up GOD from a peaceful night's sleep.
He created all men equally, where do I fit in?"

                                                          Jasmine R.