The texts – written by Genia Ivashchenko and Natasha Chopra – capture a suspended moment where the author’s inner state collides with the city’s character. The paintings are not illustrations in the literal sense. They are attempts to hold that moment. Abstract oil canvases where rhythm, colour, density and silence correspond to the city’s pulse – subjective, unstable, alive.
Other Cities is not about cities. It’s project about the essence of a place. Each city here is approached not as geography, but as a man – imagined, desired, resisted. A relationship built from pauses, glances, disappointments, moments of sudden closeness.
Other Cities is not about cities. It’s project about the essence of a place. Each city here is approached not as geography, but as a man – imagined, desired, resisted. A relationship built from pauses, glances, disappointments, moments of sudden closeness.
The other cities
60x60. Oil on canvas
With him it always seems like you’re on the move, going somewhere. He talks about sex. He talks a lot about sex—sex for two, orgies, all of it. That’s his thing.
Then suddenly he’s all about work. And just as suddenly, he’s back to something fascinating again. He talks about his feelings. And a minute later — some boring crap.
He calls me into an adventure, but it turns out he doesn't really like adventures himself. But then he hugs me and starts kissing me. And, well… I guess… I give in.
He hears my moans over the rhythm of the train wheels.
Such a Berlin.
Then suddenly he’s all about work. And just as suddenly, he’s back to something fascinating again. He talks about his feelings. And a minute later — some boring crap.
He calls me into an adventure, but it turns out he doesn't really like adventures himself. But then he hugs me and starts kissing me. And, well… I guess… I give in.
He hears my moans over the rhythm of the train wheels.
Such a Berlin.
He can be so different. I look at him and it feels like I know every feature, every little wrinkle in his face, the way he speaks. I know the very gesture he’s about to make. And then…
And then, unexpectedly, he turns from me, lost in thought. And I think, "why did I ever decide I knew him at all?"
There he is, saying something I never expected. Or shifting his mood from sentimental to harshly brash—or just plain unpleasant.
It seems I don't understand him at all.
Even though he speaks many languages, including Russian. He wears beautiful (bold?) shirts and drinks that strange alternative cola. A hand tucked into the pocket of his jeans. Leather boots. Blond hair and blue eyes—he looks both young and old at the same time.
We stand together looking at his sky. He says "mm-hm" with a tone that makes something inside me drop, like hitting an air pocket.
And then, unexpectedly, he turns from me, lost in thought. And I think, "why did I ever decide I knew him at all?"
There he is, saying something I never expected. Or shifting his mood from sentimental to harshly brash—or just plain unpleasant.
It seems I don't understand him at all.
Even though he speaks many languages, including Russian. He wears beautiful (bold?) shirts and drinks that strange alternative cola. A hand tucked into the pocket of his jeans. Leather boots. Blond hair and blue eyes—he looks both young and old at the same time.
We stand together looking at his sky. He says "mm-hm" with a tone that makes something inside me drop, like hitting an air pocket.
Text by Genia Ivashchenko
50x60. Oil on canvas
Everything here seems "proper" and "respectable." In the restroom, heavy with complex perfume, there’s even a sign on the wall: "Attention! Couples caught together will be immediately expelled from the premises and permanently stripped of membership." And yet the place reeks of hypocrisy and pretense.
You have the best seats at the opera. You’re willing to wander museums for hours — but only to assess the scale of private collections. You’re deeply interested in who earned what, and how, so it could later be spent beautifully and with a flourish.
You are, without a doubt, very, very talented. You’re a workaholic. You believe that everything in this world can be achieved — if one only manages.
And everything would be fine, if only you didn’t start drinking. By now it’s the third trendy bar in the third trendy hotel of the evening — and you turn loud, crude, and unruly. Crashing into the crowd like an icebreaker, you’re clearly looking for someone to "pick a fight" with. Then you come back to me and practically shout: "SoOo, pussy, do you want another cocktail, or shall we finally go?"
Following your gaze, I look down at my short dress with those stupid little cats on it — of course, pussy cat! I knew I shouldn't have bought it…And waiting for you to sober up is pointless, too.
Goodbye, New York. Shit happens. But I’m smiling, already imagining how hard Los Angeles is going to laugh at me when I tell him the whole story.
You have the best seats at the opera. You’re willing to wander museums for hours — but only to assess the scale of private collections. You’re deeply interested in who earned what, and how, so it could later be spent beautifully and with a flourish.
You are, without a doubt, very, very talented. You’re a workaholic. You believe that everything in this world can be achieved — if one only manages.
And everything would be fine, if only you didn’t start drinking. By now it’s the third trendy bar in the third trendy hotel of the evening — and you turn loud, crude, and unruly. Crashing into the crowd like an icebreaker, you’re clearly looking for someone to "pick a fight" with. Then you come back to me and practically shout: "SoOo, pussy, do you want another cocktail, or shall we finally go?"
Following your gaze, I look down at my short dress with those stupid little cats on it — of course, pussy cat! I knew I shouldn't have bought it…And waiting for you to sober up is pointless, too.
Goodbye, New York. Shit happens. But I’m smiling, already imagining how hard Los Angeles is going to laugh at me when I tell him the whole story.
Text by Natalia Chopra
You like to say that you’re the heir to The Great Gatsby – only you actually HAPPILY made it in life.
You take obvious pleasure in showing me the backstage of Wall Street: “Watch this — the opening bell is about to ring, and money will literally start flowing into my pockets.” “Common people, make me rich — oh, wait a minute, it already happened!”
You’re ridiculously pleased with your joke.
We have lunch at a fashionable new business club, and of course you don’t have to wait a single minute.
“Good day, Sir, great to have you back — your table, as always!”
— Why is it that people here are always standing in lines at restaurants just to eat, when tables are reserved for a specific time?
— No idea, I never stand in line, you say, laughing sincerely and shrugging.
You take obvious pleasure in showing me the backstage of Wall Street: “Watch this — the opening bell is about to ring, and money will literally start flowing into my pockets.” “Common people, make me rich — oh, wait a minute, it already happened!”
You’re ridiculously pleased with your joke.
We have lunch at a fashionable new business club, and of course you don’t have to wait a single minute.
“Good day, Sir, great to have you back — your table, as always!”
— Why is it that people here are always standing in lines at restaurants just to eat, when tables are reserved for a specific time?
— No idea, I never stand in line, you say, laughing sincerely and shrugging.
Text by Natalia Chopra
50x60. Oil on canvas
And next to it—no, not a cathedral, just the post office.
You find it ironic that the British Empire—which in its eighty-nine years of rule built all these "administrative hybrids"—was not only full of itself, but also deeply fascinated by the Mughal Muslim empire, whose rulers fled all the way from Uzbekistan to conquer your land for two centuries. Hence the Alhambra echoes.
We pass an enormous, monstrously neglected building, and you explain that the new rental law was unprofitable for the owners, so in protest they stopped caring for it long ago—and the monsoon spares no one. Luckily, your grandfather managed to sell his apartment here in time.
Around the corner it suddenly feels like Rome, like Madrid—a stark white building with sculpted muses on the roof—hello, Vatican and Bernini!—with medallions, urns, columns. Neoclassicism! And inside—unexpectedly again—Deutsche Bank. Your father works here.
A Zoroastrian temple—escaped from Iran, bringing Sumerian bulls along—was warmly received by your great-great-great, and now lives large and prosperous.
And finally, Mani Bhavan—a house that draws you in with its coolness, colonial in style, from which Gandhi’s civil disobedience began the end of all colonial rule.
Bombay-Mumbai-Mumbai, you’ve completely spun me around in your kaleidoscope. But in all this accumulation, I suddenly understand you, hear you with my whole heart—you're not a collector at all. You are simply incredibly open and kind to everyone seeking protection and a better life. You are a little naïve and believe that everyone who comes will be just as hardworking and will learn from you to mind their own business.
You are ready to learn, to work hard, and to protest everything you find unjust. You are an optimist. May everything work out for you.
You find it ironic that the British Empire—which in its eighty-nine years of rule built all these "administrative hybrids"—was not only full of itself, but also deeply fascinated by the Mughal Muslim empire, whose rulers fled all the way from Uzbekistan to conquer your land for two centuries. Hence the Alhambra echoes.
We pass an enormous, monstrously neglected building, and you explain that the new rental law was unprofitable for the owners, so in protest they stopped caring for it long ago—and the monsoon spares no one. Luckily, your grandfather managed to sell his apartment here in time.
Around the corner it suddenly feels like Rome, like Madrid—a stark white building with sculpted muses on the roof—hello, Vatican and Bernini!—with medallions, urns, columns. Neoclassicism! And inside—unexpectedly again—Deutsche Bank. Your father works here.
A Zoroastrian temple—escaped from Iran, bringing Sumerian bulls along—was warmly received by your great-great-great, and now lives large and prosperous.
And finally, Mani Bhavan—a house that draws you in with its coolness, colonial in style, from which Gandhi’s civil disobedience began the end of all colonial rule.
Bombay-Mumbai-Mumbai, you’ve completely spun me around in your kaleidoscope. But in all this accumulation, I suddenly understand you, hear you with my whole heart—you're not a collector at all. You are simply incredibly open and kind to everyone seeking protection and a better life. You are a little naïve and believe that everyone who comes will be just as hardworking and will learn from you to mind their own business.
You are ready to learn, to work hard, and to protest everything you find unjust. You are an optimist. May everything work out for you.
I see you from a distance. You turn your sun-browned face toward the breeze from the bay and narrow your eyes slightly beneath long black lashes. I was introduced to you as a passionate collector of "grand architectural styles," and for a moment you seem so modern, so tall and fashionable—Dubai?—but no, I shift my gaze just a little to the right and see it—what is this, Rio?—slums, slums, slums.
—Oh, that? Well, I just haven’t had time to rebuild it yet!
And don’t you dare joke about me being late or on Indian time—it's getting much better!
Come on, I’ll show you better places—my grandfather’s, my great-grandfather's, and my great-great-great-great's!
You laugh at my "Is it far to walk?"—walking isn’t really a thing here, and there’s nowhere to walk anyway. Everything is done by car, with a driver, in which there is always an Ice Age, because God forbid we might sweat!
We drive past an enormous square. At its center stands something majestic, domed like Sir Christopher Wren’s London and arched like the Spanish Alhambra.
—What do you mean, an abbey? It’s a railway station! My great-grandfather worked on the project!
—Oh, that? Well, I just haven’t had time to rebuild it yet!
And don’t you dare joke about me being late or on Indian time—it's getting much better!
Come on, I’ll show you better places—my grandfather’s, my great-grandfather's, and my great-great-great-great's!
You laugh at my "Is it far to walk?"—walking isn’t really a thing here, and there’s nowhere to walk anyway. Everything is done by car, with a driver, in which there is always an Ice Age, because God forbid we might sweat!
We drive past an enormous square. At its center stands something majestic, domed like Sir Christopher Wren’s London and arched like the Spanish Alhambra.
—What do you mean, an abbey? It’s a railway station! My great-grandfather worked on the project!
50x60. Oil on canvas
To me, you are always ten years old. You are like Peter Pan. A boy who has long since disappeared—and you are no longer my peer.
With you, we kicked through fallen chestnut leaves, they came up to our knees and smelled wonderful. With you, we walked through cemeteries. You scared me with dark stories (no wonder—you once planted a gravestone right in my yard!) and entertained me with funny ones. Together we climbed over fences and rolled down grassy hills on our sides in your parks. And we secretly went to watch crack heads punks hanging out! And we’d freeze in front of that enormous horse. And we’d put up leaflets about world revolution and peace for everyone. Secretly of course! You remember, right?
I remember how your parents wouldn’t allow women into pubs (yes, that actually passed for normal)), while they themselves smoked on the upper deck of buses. You gave me my first felt pens and my first pair of jeans. You treated me to green soda and taught me swear words my parents had never even heard of.
You were a real childhood friend. There’s probably still a small treasureof mine buried in one of your parks. With you, everything seemed endlessly interesting.
Seems we both grew up and became so different. Or did we, London?
With you, we kicked through fallen chestnut leaves, they came up to our knees and smelled wonderful. With you, we walked through cemeteries. You scared me with dark stories (no wonder—you once planted a gravestone right in my yard!) and entertained me with funny ones. Together we climbed over fences and rolled down grassy hills on our sides in your parks. And we secretly went to watch crack heads punks hanging out! And we’d freeze in front of that enormous horse. And we’d put up leaflets about world revolution and peace for everyone. Secretly of course! You remember, right?
I remember how your parents wouldn’t allow women into pubs (yes, that actually passed for normal)), while they themselves smoked on the upper deck of buses. You gave me my first felt pens and my first pair of jeans. You treated me to green soda and taught me swear words my parents had never even heard of.
You were a real childhood friend. There’s probably still a small treasureof mine buried in one of your parks. With you, everything seemed endlessly interesting.
Seems we both grew up and became so different. Or did we, London?
Text by Genia Ivashchenko
50x60. Oil on canvas
We went to nightclubs where local girls considered it good fortune to sleep with any white man, while local men stepped back in near-sacred dread from European-looking women.
You pulled me into uncharted neighborhoods that looked like sets from Jackie Chan films (which I’d never actually seen—Indiana Jones was as adventurous as I got). Children came out to stare at me, to touch my hand.
You dazzled me with skyscrapers and and laughed with me when you loaded my plate with slippery food, completely forkless.In my attempts to keep half an egg from slipping away in soy sauce, I mastered the art of eating absolutely anything with chopsticks.
An so, there in the hot air, sipping milk bubble tea through a straw, rolling the pearls around my mouth, I fell in love with you. I still regret that the love was half-childish.
“Write to me when you’re ready to come back,” you said, seeing me off at the airport.
And I still haven’t, Taipei.
You pulled me into uncharted neighborhoods that looked like sets from Jackie Chan films (which I’d never actually seen—Indiana Jones was as adventurous as I got). Children came out to stare at me, to touch my hand.
You dazzled me with skyscrapers and and laughed with me when you loaded my plate with slippery food, completely forkless.In my attempts to keep half an egg from slipping away in soy sauce, I mastered the art of eating absolutely anything with chopsticks.
An so, there in the hot air, sipping milk bubble tea through a straw, rolling the pearls around my mouth, I fell in love with you. I still regret that the love was half-childish.
“Write to me when you’re ready to come back,” you said, seeing me off at the airport.
And I still haven’t, Taipei.
I flew to you from half a world away. Not just geographically. To meet you, I found my first job and pushed past my fear of flying.
I got lost along the way, only to learn later that you had been worried, waiting for me at the airport.When I finally arrived, I locked myself in a bathroom stall, wiping away my tears, convinced you weren’t waiting for me at all.
And then – on the third try, smearing tears across my cheeks – I suddenly understood that those strangely familiar sounds, spoken with a strong Chinese accent, were my name, echoing through the entire airport.
And somehow, the moment I fell into your warm arms, I realized: there was something between us, after all.
You looked at me with admiration: “Do you know you look like Claudia Schiffer?”
I got lost along the way, only to learn later that you had been worried, waiting for me at the airport.When I finally arrived, I locked myself in a bathroom stall, wiping away my tears, convinced you weren’t waiting for me at all.
And then – on the third try, smearing tears across my cheeks – I suddenly understood that those strangely familiar sounds, spoken with a strong Chinese accent, were my name, echoing through the entire airport.
And somehow, the moment I fell into your warm arms, I realized: there was something between us, after all.
You looked at me with admiration: “Do you know you look like Claudia Schiffer?”
Text by Genia Ivashchenko
50x60. Oil on canvas
With you, you can watch the sunset every day and it never gets boring. With you, you can drink rakija at any time of day and consider it good for your health. And how wonderful it is to go to the market with you! Your dirty market – the very best place for an unexpected date with you. Bags full of impressions, flowers, textures, and smells won’t even fit into the car trunk.
And when your perfume finally fades, you smell so good that I want to bury my face in your armpit and fall asleep. And then wake up in your arms to the gentle morning sun rising behind your fortress.
Damn it, I love you.
Alright, Ulcinj, you’re calling me to eat burek – I’m running off.
And when your perfume finally fades, you smell so good that I want to bury my face in your armpit and fall asleep. And then wake up in your arms to the gentle morning sun rising behind your fortress.
Damn it, I love you.
Alright, Ulcinj, you’re calling me to eat burek – I’m running off.
You are awful. That’s exactly what I thought the first time I saw you: “how awful.”
You’re unwashed, and lately you even stink of suffocating perfume. You’re toothless and pot-bellied, always in a wife-beater, and lately you’re more and more often seen in a branded tracksuit (fake, of course). Your friends are thug neighbors, and your role models are mafia guys from across the sea. You don’t keep your word. You’re… disgusting.
And yet I can’t help myself: my heart stops every time you’re about to appear around the corner. I know that deep in your heart there’s a view of the mountains—and it always makes me smile. The way you speak, stretching out your words; the half-ironic smile you give me; the way you fling your sea open toward me—so much so that I… I simply feel happy with you, like with no one else.
You’re unwashed, and lately you even stink of suffocating perfume. You’re toothless and pot-bellied, always in a wife-beater, and lately you’re more and more often seen in a branded tracksuit (fake, of course). Your friends are thug neighbors, and your role models are mafia guys from across the sea. You don’t keep your word. You’re… disgusting.
And yet I can’t help myself: my heart stops every time you’re about to appear around the corner. I know that deep in your heart there’s a view of the mountains—and it always makes me smile. The way you speak, stretching out your words; the half-ironic smile you give me; the way you fling your sea open toward me—so much so that I… I simply feel happy with you, like with no one else.
Text by Genia Ivashchenko
Text by Natalia Chopra
50x60. Oil on canvas
None of them remain. Only you – the old man Bukhoro–Bukhara – still the same, still casting spells in the night.
You are truly ancient. If you turn up late in the evening, you’ll find that there isn’t a single streetlamp on your street – only an “Ilyich bulb” swaying in the wind, ominously playing with shadows. But your neighbors have spread a tablecloth right on the ground and are warmly treating us to juicy watermelon. Everyone has been waiting for you, and finally you come out to meet us, unhurried, shuffling along in slippers, drowning in an open robe—slightly dusty, sand-colored—and adjusting a massive turquoise turban. We are waiting for your stories, but you slowly reach for a clay jug and whisper something soundlessly.
Just a single hair from your beard—and three thousand years of wishes you have fulfilled rush past us: mighty khans asked for eternal glory; merchants, for immeasurable riches; Ibn Sina, for great knowledge; pilgrims and students of madrasas, for eternal life.
Just a single hair from your beard—and three thousand years of wishes you have fulfilled rush past us: mighty khans asked for eternal glory; merchants, for immeasurable riches; Ibn Sina, for great knowledge; pilgrims and students of madrasas, for eternal life.
50x60. Oil on canvas
He holds his cheek, leans wearily against the wall of a building, staring straight ahead.
Then, as if waking from a dream, he pushes himself off the wall and walks off briskly, whistling, in the direction opposite to where the woman went. Toward me.
You can love him. You can hate him.You can suffer from his excess. Or you can miss him and dream of a meeting. You can be thinking of him on lonely nights. Or you may not even know that he exists.
He will still be there. And not merely theret. He will shape all of us. He is old, yet he looks like an impossible heartbreaker. And, really, he couldn’t care less what I – or you – think of him.
That is how he passes me by, whistling a tune I almost recognize. This Rome.
Then, as if waking from a dream, he pushes himself off the wall and walks off briskly, whistling, in the direction opposite to where the woman went. Toward me.
You can love him. You can hate him.You can suffer from his excess. Or you can miss him and dream of a meeting. You can be thinking of him on lonely nights. Or you may not even know that he exists.
He will still be there. And not merely theret. He will shape all of us. He is old, yet he looks like an impossible heartbreaker. And, really, he couldn’t care less what I – or you – think of him.
That is how he passes me by, whistling a tune I almost recognize. This Rome.
He was very old. Everyone knew that. And yet…
A dark street. Yellow light slicking the pavement. The silhouette of a couple caught in it, both in profile. She stands facing him on high heels. They are speaking loudly. A scooter passes. Somewhere farther off, an ambulance siren fades away. Or perhaps it isn’t a scooter at all, nor a siren either – there is no way of knowing when exactly this is happening. In any case, the sounds dissolve into the intensity of their argument.
Suddenly, he pulls her toward him, one arm firm around her waist authoritatively. She freezes, lifts her face, offering her lips. But then she tears herself away and slaps him hard across the face.. She turns and walks away, her heels striking the pavement.
A dark street. Yellow light slicking the pavement. The silhouette of a couple caught in it, both in profile. She stands facing him on high heels. They are speaking loudly. A scooter passes. Somewhere farther off, an ambulance siren fades away. Or perhaps it isn’t a scooter at all, nor a siren either – there is no way of knowing when exactly this is happening. In any case, the sounds dissolve into the intensity of their argument.
Suddenly, he pulls her toward him, one arm firm around her waist authoritatively. She freezes, lifts her face, offering her lips. But then she tears herself away and slaps him hard across the face.. She turns and walks away, her heels striking the pavement.
Text by Genia Ivashchenko
Text by Natalia Chopra
50x60. Oil on canvas
And than it started: first, drinks “for our boys, with friends – and there we were, standing in a crowd outside a bar no one had any intention of entering. Why would we, if along the façade (inevitably decorated with red-and-white flags) there were shelves for glasses of txakoli and endless sandwiches – anything you like, as long as it’s on bread?
All the conversations were about our lehoiak and zuri-gorriak, the lions and the red-and-whites. Nothing but Gorka Guruzeta and Iñaki Williams, their goals in some minute of some match. And all around - shop windows, balconies, façades, people of every age - suddenly everything pulsed red and white.
The next day, heads tilted back, we were supposedly looking at the same thing – a bridge overlooking the Bay – but where I saw a stroke of engineering genius, a UNESCO heritage site, you were simply looking at the highest point, where red-and-white flags of your football club were flying.
I politely declined the invitation to listen to a symphony orchestra performing in support of your anthem despite the fact that you have a very, VERY beautiful stadium. There were still two whole weeks to go before the cup final; I couldn’t spend all that time listening to football talk.
Aupa Athletic, hello to you, Athletic—goodbye, Bilbao! It turned out, unexpectedly, that you are the most devoted and completely mad football fan.
All the conversations were about our lehoiak and zuri-gorriak, the lions and the red-and-whites. Nothing but Gorka Guruzeta and Iñaki Williams, their goals in some minute of some match. And all around - shop windows, balconies, façades, people of every age - suddenly everything pulsed red and white.
The next day, heads tilted back, we were supposedly looking at the same thing – a bridge overlooking the Bay – but where I saw a stroke of engineering genius, a UNESCO heritage site, you were simply looking at the highest point, where red-and-white flags of your football club were flying.
I politely declined the invitation to listen to a symphony orchestra performing in support of your anthem despite the fact that you have a very, VERY beautiful stadium. There were still two whole weeks to go before the cup final; I couldn’t spend all that time listening to football talk.
Aupa Athletic, hello to you, Athletic—goodbye, Bilbao! It turned out, unexpectedly, that you are the most devoted and completely mad football fan.
God, what joy and what impatience I felt, coming to see you again.
We hadn’t seen each other in so long that I could hardly tell anymore who you really were, and what I’d made up about you while we were apart.
“He has no flaws, he’s the best man in the world!” kept echoing in my head, in the voice of a sobbing heroine from a romantic novel.
Breathlessly I told all my friends that we were clearly made for each other: we had so many in common. We adored everything unusual, modern, beautifully done: architecture, art, beautiful food.
I should have been alerted when you met me this time wearing red trousers and a white shirt—but I found it strikingly effective!
Or later, at the ballet, when you whispered to me, “She’s definitely one of ours,” pointing at the dancer in red.
We hadn’t seen each other in so long that I could hardly tell anymore who you really were, and what I’d made up about you while we were apart.
“He has no flaws, he’s the best man in the world!” kept echoing in my head, in the voice of a sobbing heroine from a romantic novel.
Breathlessly I told all my friends that we were clearly made for each other: we had so many in common. We adored everything unusual, modern, beautifully done: architecture, art, beautiful food.
I should have been alerted when you met me this time wearing red trousers and a white shirt—but I found it strikingly effective!
Or later, at the ballet, when you whispered to me, “She’s definitely one of ours,” pointing at the dancer in red.
50x60. Oil on canvas
Text by Natalia Chopra
– Where are you taking me?
– Hearst Castle! You have to see it – it’s brilliant!
– I don’t understand… what is this room?
– This is the formal dining hall. Hearst brought everything over from Europe – it’s perfect!
– My God, what a nightmare – church wooden benches, altar silver, coats of arms and flags…
– Really? I think it’s perfect. Very historical!
Thank you, Los Angeles, my perfect gay friend.
You taught me not to overthink things, to drink champagne in the morning, and to ride in a convertible.
– Hearst Castle! You have to see it – it’s brilliant!
– I don’t understand… what is this room?
– This is the formal dining hall. Hearst brought everything over from Europe – it’s perfect!
– My God, what a nightmare – church wooden benches, altar silver, coats of arms and flags…
– Really? I think it’s perfect. Very historical!
Thank you, Los Angeles, my perfect gay friend.
You taught me not to overthink things, to drink champagne in the morning, and to ride in a convertible.
– You lost my suitcase?!
– Only so you’d agree to go to the outlet with me – the perfect bonding! And then I’ll give everything back.
– A convertible?!
– Of course! It’s the perfect experience! We’ll tie a silk scarf around your head… like this! And sunglasses!
– That’s a great white shirt…
– Don’t be boring! Look at this dress instead, it’s the perfect little black dress!
– Are you out of your mind?! There are pink kittens drinking blue cocktails on it!
– Not blue – Tiffany! Why so serious, baby? It’s long past time for you to have a drink!
– Only so you’d agree to go to the outlet with me – the perfect bonding! And then I’ll give everything back.
– A convertible?!
– Of course! It’s the perfect experience! We’ll tie a silk scarf around your head… like this! And sunglasses!
– That’s a great white shirt…
– Don’t be boring! Look at this dress instead, it’s the perfect little black dress!
– Are you out of your mind?! There are pink kittens drinking blue cocktails on it!
– Not blue – Tiffany! Why so serious, baby? It’s long past time for you to have a drink!
50x60. Oil on canvas
He: Hey. Long time no see. This is random, but I was thinking of you. Remember me?
(sends a photo of himself at sunset)
Me: Hey. You look different from this angle.
He: And you’ve completely forgotten how we fucked on the King of Montenegro’s bed? That was before you left me for Ulcinj.
Me: No. That, I remember. That’s impossible to forget.
He: What about how we danced in the colonnade of the Pera Hotel? And how we only went in to look at the lamps and got high instead?
Me: That was good.
He: Can you imagine? Pera is five stars now. Obscenely pretentious.
Me: Yes. I read about it.
He: Come.
Me: Why?
He: (sends another photo of himself at sunset, seagulls in the frame).
Istanbul
(sends a photo of himself at sunset)
Me: Hey. You look different from this angle.
He: And you’ve completely forgotten how we fucked on the King of Montenegro’s bed? That was before you left me for Ulcinj.
Me: No. That, I remember. That’s impossible to forget.
He: What about how we danced in the colonnade of the Pera Hotel? And how we only went in to look at the lamps and got high instead?
Me: That was good.
He: Can you imagine? Pera is five stars now. Obscenely pretentious.
Me: Yes. I read about it.
He: Come.
Me: Why?
He: (sends another photo of himself at sunset, seagulls in the frame).
Istanbul
Text by Genia Ivashchenko
50x60. Oil on canvas
You emptied the toys out of the bag and examined them with a critical eye.
– We’re going to build a city. Come on – this will be the station! And a tower!
You move fast, placing the models one after another, sticking labels onto them. Around the station it all turns into a jumble; a big Volkswagen logo refuses to fit anywhere.
– We’ll attach it to the tower!
It’s actually quite all right, even with that huge round logo – very television-like – but it seems to be missing height. You must have lost the base. We start assembling other buildings: there are plenty of pieces in the set, some old, as if handed down to you by your grandfather, others new, glass-like. From those I build a house about ten stories high, but you’re clearly unhappy with it.
– I hate it when it’s tall! This one, we’ll keep it, fine, but it’ll be called a “tower” too. The others should be smaller. How about seven floors? No, five? Or even three, but tall ones?
You find a whole pile of road barriers and, methodically clipping them together, block off an entire “neighborhood.”
– Ha! Now you can’t drive up to this building! Or to the stadium either.
Suddenly you get distracted and stare at the sky for a long, long time. That must be why you don’t like things being tall – the clouds disappear. Right now they’re all there, every size and shape at once, racing across the sky, reflected in our glass pieces.
– What if we make a lake?
You’re already dragging over a fairly large tub of water and generously tossing colorful boats into it.
– They’re actually canoes. And we’ll have a fountain too.
On the “shore” you place some red, amazing metal thing.
– Technically it’s The Halberdier by Calder, but Grandma got terribly upset when we bought it. She says it looks like a strange moose and for some reason now calls it Guadalupe.
You have a lot of “strange and amazing” things like that – people have given you so much. Another Twister by Alice Aycock looks like a wildly twisted, crumpled strip of metal. You say it glows in the dark and set it next to the Halberdier. You promise to show me more of your treasures – you’re already looking for the colorful, cheerful dancers and acrobats, the Nanas by Niki de Saint Phalle …. but you’re called to dinner.
– Then we’ll continue tomorrow?!
Of course, Hannover!
Hamburg
– We’re going to build a city. Come on – this will be the station! And a tower!
You move fast, placing the models one after another, sticking labels onto them. Around the station it all turns into a jumble; a big Volkswagen logo refuses to fit anywhere.
– We’ll attach it to the tower!
It’s actually quite all right, even with that huge round logo – very television-like – but it seems to be missing height. You must have lost the base. We start assembling other buildings: there are plenty of pieces in the set, some old, as if handed down to you by your grandfather, others new, glass-like. From those I build a house about ten stories high, but you’re clearly unhappy with it.
– I hate it when it’s tall! This one, we’ll keep it, fine, but it’ll be called a “tower” too. The others should be smaller. How about seven floors? No, five? Or even three, but tall ones?
You find a whole pile of road barriers and, methodically clipping them together, block off an entire “neighborhood.”
– Ha! Now you can’t drive up to this building! Or to the stadium either.
Suddenly you get distracted and stare at the sky for a long, long time. That must be why you don’t like things being tall – the clouds disappear. Right now they’re all there, every size and shape at once, racing across the sky, reflected in our glass pieces.
– What if we make a lake?
You’re already dragging over a fairly large tub of water and generously tossing colorful boats into it.
– They’re actually canoes. And we’ll have a fountain too.
On the “shore” you place some red, amazing metal thing.
– Technically it’s The Halberdier by Calder, but Grandma got terribly upset when we bought it. She says it looks like a strange moose and for some reason now calls it Guadalupe.
You have a lot of “strange and amazing” things like that – people have given you so much. Another Twister by Alice Aycock looks like a wildly twisted, crumpled strip of metal. You say it glows in the dark and set it next to the Halberdier. You promise to show me more of your treasures – you’re already looking for the colorful, cheerful dancers and acrobats, the Nanas by Niki de Saint Phalle …. but you’re called to dinner.
– Then we’ll continue tomorrow?!
Of course, Hannover!
Hamburg
You emptied the toys out of the bag and examined them with a critical eye.
– We’re going to build a city. Come on – this will be the station! And a tower!
You move fast, placing the models one after another, sticking labels onto them. Around the station it all turns into a jumble; a big Volkswagen logo refuses to fit anywhere.
– We’ll attach it to the tower!
It’s actually quite all right, even with that huge round logo – very television-like – but it seems to be missing height. You must have lost the base. We start assembling other buildings: there are plenty of pieces in the set, some old, as if handed down to you by your grandfather, others new, glass-like. From those I build a house about ten stories high, but you’re clearly unhappy with it.
– We’re going to build a city. Come on – this will be the station! And a tower!
You move fast, placing the models one after another, sticking labels onto them. Around the station it all turns into a jumble; a big Volkswagen logo refuses to fit anywhere.
– We’ll attach it to the tower!
It’s actually quite all right, even with that huge round logo – very television-like – but it seems to be missing height. You must have lost the base. We start assembling other buildings: there are plenty of pieces in the set, some old, as if handed down to you by your grandfather, others new, glass-like. From those I build a house about ten stories high, but you’re clearly unhappy with it.
Text by Natalia Chopra