When I went to see this exhibtion at the V&A nostalgia hit me. Not just for my home, sweet home russia, but also for lost times. The past is a strange thing, especially when you were not part of it. It is like memories that are not yours, ones you look at through glass: your reflections stares back at you and the objects lie in front used, worn, having once been useful, and now part of something idealised and to be admired from affar. And all I wanted to do is to touch, to smell, to feel part of that time. Otherwise what use is it to me? On the other hand, are MY memories anymore useful?
What use will my art have for anyone hanging on their walls? It will tell them stories they might care little about. It will tell them some things about who I was, or the ideas I want to portray, but at the end of the day they will just be paper, canvas, paints and what-not-else. They will just be things noone really cares about. Things one can only hope to understand. Or perhaps I am just talking about myself, and projecting it onto my work.
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