I watch too much TV. It’s cold outside, I am snuggled in. I spilled coffee and sat on chocolate in bed. I am a mess. I am living in fear of never making enough to continue to live, to age, to die. No stopping. That’s an impossibility. My work seems to float beside me, inside me, lifting and weighing me down simultaneously. How difficult is it to not be an artist? To maintain a practice is a probability…but to walk away is not p.o.ss.i.b.le. Consistently straddling the edge of no return from the windy plains of a nihilist forest. Exhausted, I am attempting to nest and gather my precious butterflies of imaginings. One more time.
This Body is in a suspended state of agitation. Aging is a feat of hope and inevitable ignorance. Persevering. Insatiable desire to achieve something. Some type of measure of understanding or a complete and radical breakdown. I live somewhere in the in-between: the wild untamed lands of endless ideas and a brutalist-style cement ceiling of exclusion. It has many cracks. My head is bleeding. All the time. My platform is a cleaning sponge, mopping up the ongoing debris of emotive lust of making. More.
I want a whiskey. I want to smoke. I don’t want to think about projects. Women work from behind their oppression….? Devalued initially by it and once again, by the fruit it bears. The female body heavily outweighing the expectation of success, sitting on my chest, relentless in it’s plight. This pursuit of beauty and youth. I sense the feeling of fullness in my work, overflowing, the too-muchness of it all ruining it, ever so slightly. Decay is inevitable.
Morning coffee as reluctant paint, thin scraggly brush gliding through rough pages of a cheap sketch pad, into violence and passive sex. Here, here, come to me, my little darlings of dormant imagination, rotten and spoiled and cared for. More.
Top image: Katya Grokhovsky, Nightmare, 2024, acrylic, bed sheet, enamel paint, oil pastel on canvas
Bottom image: Katya Grokhovsky, Call your Mother, 2024, socks, burlap, enamel paint, fabric, dried flowers, paper on canvas