by Polina Kuznetsova.
Although wasn’t the past life history? There was also something there: some crises, covid, the nineties. But the past disappeared on February 24. At first, even time disappeared, and then appeared and flew according to new laws. A day for a week, a month for a year. Nine months had not happened at all. Time dragged on and sucked into its funnel. So many events and it is impossible to remember anything.
The past sometimes appears in dreams or weaves into reality with the twenty-fifth frame. Some little things… So I go to the workshop through the streets of my hometown, or I go to my parents in Saltivka, or something else… it’s all simple, every day, a corner of some house in the center of Kharkiv. Now it is impossible to draw any conclusions because the case is not yet finished. Therefore, my war series has no narrative, only feelings. I wrote it in a small kitchen in Estonia, passing picture after picture of the stages of the war, looking at the phone screen, which was the only connection with the homeland. News, news… An unbearable desire to return home. And here I am.
But the distortion of time and space makes it impossible to return. The feeling of home is still not available like a paradise lost) Because home is something ordinary, and there is nothing ordinary in war. Only the warmth of human communication in a store, in a taxi, in a museum, only the opportunity to hear and be heard, understanding, mutual assistance — only this has value… in these times I am very glad that this event is happening — my planned exhibition, sometime in autumn or winter, in Ukraine, in Kyiv. This possibility, like a hand of support, reached out to me from the future, when in August I painted my “nausea” — a picture of how I could no longer contain so much grief.
The past sometimes appears in dreams or weaves into reality with the twenty-fifth frame. Some little things… So I go to the workshop through the streets of my hometown, or I go to my parents in Saltivka, or something else… it’s all simple, every day, a corner of some house in the center of Kharkiv. Now it is impossible to draw any conclusions because the case is not yet finished. Therefore, my war series has no narrative, only feelings. I wrote it in a small kitchen in Estonia, passing picture after picture of the stages of the war, looking at the phone screen, which was the only connection with the homeland. News, news… An unbearable desire to return home. And here I am.
But the distortion of time and space makes it impossible to return. The feeling of home is still not available like a paradise lost) Because home is something ordinary, and there is nothing ordinary in war. Only the warmth of human communication in a store, in a taxi, in a museum, only the opportunity to hear and be heard, understanding, mutual assistance — only this has value… in these times I am very glad that this event is happening — my planned exhibition, sometime in autumn or winter, in Ukraine, in Kyiv. This possibility, like a hand of support, reached out to me from the future, when in August I painted my “nausea” — a picture of how I could no longer contain so much grief.