In the year 2001, I fled with my family to the United States from Vologda, Russia.
My relationship with space has always been a temporal one, as displaced migrants seldom are tethered to one language, one experience or one nation’s livelihood. In certain ways, painting for me resembles a continuation of migration. There is a distant familiarity suddenly implicating itself into an entirely new picture. Each figure is informed by an obscuring history. Various forms and edges will collide precariously on the surface—or maybe they don’t get to. And such is my navigation of this country, I think. A precarious conjunction of certain lived experiences in America, that are nonetheless informed by a distant Russia and its history.