Letters For
Natasha

Two Natashas. One of them, me, lives in Rotterdam, makes art, wears black. The other one, me too, stayed in Sevastopol, and probably does the same and looks the same. They send letters to each other in order to break silence. Figurative talks about politics, fear, freedom, about yourself and art, about all sorts of platitudes and routines. An eye scans the shell of the envelope: you see just a flower inside, but I wrote about politics, about the history that has changed my mindset and turned my life upside down. I do not know if Natasha, who lives on the seashore, will understand this message. Petals of tulips, falling down, counting my days, soil from the exhibition, endless portraits from photographs of endless passports or loud thoughts that had to be cut out for your own safety.