The works of Akulin bring us into a space where the boundaries of perception and emotion dissolve, creating an introspective realm where the viewer confronts not only the landscapes but the essence of their own existence. What ties these paintings together? On the surface, they are landscapes, but not in the traditional sense. They lack the reassuring familiarity of identifiable locations, the warmth of human presence, or the tools of civilization. There are no houses, no signs of life or utility, no paths leading elsewhere.

Akulin’s landscapes are not imbued with the overt symbolism one might find in romantic or metaphysical art. Instead, they resonate with a primal stillness, dark and void of movement, animals, or the comforting cacophony of life. They are silent landscapes, cloaked in a profound emptiness that evokes the dark recesses of a cellar or the infinite solitude of a dungeon. Yet, amidst this oppressive silence, there exists a flicker of light—a faint glimmer behind clouds, perhaps from a full moon. The light is ambiguous, peeking through as if through the cracks of a shed. Does it illuminate an outside world, offering hope of an elsewhere, or does it underscore the inescapable isolation of the horizon?

The sea, as rendered in these works, becomes a symbol of infinity. Its waves follow one another in ceaseless rhythm, forming a timeless clock that measures the eternal. This unrelenting regularity transforms the waves into something more solid, almost petrified, as if the passage of time itself had hardened the water into stone. In Akulin’s portrayal, the ocean feels untouchable, as unreal as the fleeting images of a dream.

And herein lies the complexity of his landscapes—they straddle the boundary between the dreamlike and the visceral. Like the illogical yet emotionally potent narratives of dreams, the waves seem to carry the weight of infinite time, and yet, they confront us with a stony hardness that feels tangible yet ungraspable. This ambiguity seeps into the viewer's consciousness. Are we observing the sea from the safety of the outside, or are we trapped within its infinite expanse? Are we the dreamers, or are we being dreamed by the ocean itself?

These works evoke the spirit of Romanticism, but in a way that denies easy categorization. They do not explicitly invite us into a dialogue with metaphysical processes or grand narratives. Instead, they demand that we confront our own relationship with the void, with infinity, and with the confines of the self. It is through this confrontation that Akulin’s paintings become meditative spaces—mirrors of our inner landscape, where the viewer decides, with open eyes, whether this is a place of horror or solace, a nightmare or a reverie. It is within this decision, in the oscillation between dream and reality, that the profound essence of Akulin’s work emerges.