Only time will compel me to feel that this is the case
Just imagine that rather than today, we have turned up at Nastya Kuzmina's exhibition ten, fifteen or thirty years down the line. What will we see then compared to what we are seeing now? We might possibly see the state of the artist, and the conflict between the world and her – blurred sensations of the past that we will take for almost imperceptible forebodings of the future. We will be greeted by the voices of people who were the first generation after the collapse of the Soviet Union. We will understand that at the time of this exhibition Russia was on a steep curve, had returned to the orbit of a new authoritarian regime, and we will see conflicts in the post-Soviet space and economic crisis. Who were these people — these artists who had believed in art, the lost ones facing an uneasy future? They gave their all in order to peer into the murkiness of the days, to catch a glimpse of fragments of meaning lost in the ocean of propaganda and insanity.
It only takes one step to get to your side
Frozen images – this is the main narrative of the exhibition. Both foundering and elusive, if you look at them for a long time, they stack up into an irregular and nervous picture of the present day. The utopian desire to wrest the spectator from the state of viewing “this as just another exhibition” engenders an intuitive sense of the exposition. Logic chains are unlocked, while the works themselves are more points in the plane, and not the final picture. Any work always contains more than the author assumes, and is transformed here into a virtually mystical sensation, the rumble of a distant echo reporting that something has been concealed. The “concealed” item — as if they were sounds of a past time when we had only just started to live — represents the carefree childhood where the world around us was simple and wonderful, while the adult world was feverish with historical turbulence. And this clash reflects the tragedy that has never disappeared. It can also be seen in the relations between the artist and society, and in the interplays between office workers, their eternal debts and the routine of the working day, in the clashes between man and the state. This tragedy cannot be talked about openly, as it simply dissolves into banality and is transformed into a caricature. The conceptual noise, the cerebral crisis of art and the intoxication of your own impotence all mean nothing. At this moment in time you are all on your own with the work of art.