This project is dedicated to my grandmother, Valentina Khotsialova. Three memories of her have stayed with me over the years: the boundless, unconditional love she gave me; the quiet unhappiness that seemed to accompany her; and her extraordinary collection of fabrics.
As a child, I could lose myself for hours in that treasure trove — bright colors, rich textures, intricate ornaments. Running my hands through endless meters of fabric was one of my favorite games, a kind of private, tactile wonderland.
As a child, I could lose myself for hours in that treasure trove — bright colors, rich textures, intricate ornaments. Running my hands through endless meters of fabric was one of my favorite games, a kind of private, tactile wonderland.
The other cities
60x60. Oil on canvas
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.
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.
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.
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.
50x60. Oil on canvas
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.
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 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.
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.
50x60. Oil on canvas
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!
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.
—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!
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.
50x60. Oil on canvas
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.
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 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.
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.