Books from a Kyiv apartment
dried fruit, soviet collections of works by Pushkin, Lermontov, and Leskov,
polyefir gesso, oil colours, 2023, 40/35.25, 35/25/20, 45/30/35 cm


In Georgia I saw huge piles of books, half of them were in Russian, and half in Georgian. Old Soviet books in modern Georgia, in a territory that was part of the "Soviet empire". It was a plastic expression, an image that touched me. Intuitively I asked my mum's friend from Kyiv to go to our old flat and take some books from there. Books of my grandfather, his old collections of essays, from the fifties, sixties. I unfolded the piles and put them in my place, not knowing what to do with them. Then they reminded me of a pillar, which supports nothing, which is also very pathos-like. What could make this pillar complete? Probably something perishable and already dead. That's how the image of rotten fruit came in, partly as a reference to the decor of the Stalinist Empire like VDNKh*. As if this whole idea of "empire" had rotted from the inside out. Maybe it's been rotting for centuries. Even though these books are dear to me, I read them, because I grew up reading them.




