Every step of your path is the first.
The depth of every meter of this swamp is unpredictable.
To get into these swamps, you need to go through the hut – a small log house on high stakes on the border of the world of existence and the kingdom of the dead. This hut is a portal between "here" and "there", the world of the living and the kingdom of the dead. Traditionally, it was believed that the hut, which served for the burial of the deceased, should be placed as the entrance to the forest – the habitat of spirits and evil spirits, a place of none, the space between actuality and probability.
Today, our hut is spinning like a whipping top, having no clue of where to turn to. Everything is mixed up – the dead and the living, embodied and virtual, the kingdom of the Kashcheys and fields of white flowers; the heads are rotten to the bone and faces with hope in their eyes.
The terem with its dim light – is it ominous or soothing? – shows the way to the palisade of heads, faces, masks, skulls, embodied thoughts, ideas, mutations, paradoxes ... All of them stare with a gaze of dark times, speaking the rumble of the era, babbling the spells in a language of OBERIU:
Marshes your way
Marshe syou rway
Ay-ay
Really-illy
Ay-ay-ay-ay-ay
We have only momentary flashes of the present at our disposal. The future cannot be imagined; the past cannot be described. You can only tell fortunes мшф crocodile scarecrows, or throw a snake shoe, put on the head of a forest spirit and look through its eyes. Revolutions and mutations, mutations, mutations, nutation… Of the virus, of the political system.
Progress is a historical costume party where Lucas Cranach the Elder drinks nectar while petting a white sable; Bruegel's blind men offer the latest vaccine, and the guests of the Salpêtrière
clinic build an old money spaceship and sell NFTs.
Chthonic creatures, tyranny, savagery, dim glow of the screen.
A head on a stake, a head like a rotten potato, a head inflated from the inside with its own significance, righteousness, belief in invulnerability.
The voices, the hum of the era, the mumbling of the sorceress:
«Marshes your way
Marshe syou rway
Ay-ay
Really-illy
Ay-ay-ay-ay-ay»
Liza Tsikarishvili
Participants: Anna Andrzhievskaya, Petr Dyakov, Vadim Kondakov, Vadim Mikhailov, Nestor Kharchenko, Alexander and Elizaveta Tsikarishvili, Leonid Tskhe, Ivan Chemakin, Nestor Engelke.
