Alina Glazoun. Implausible

For many years now I’ve been describing and explaining art – be it works from the history of art or work of my contemporaries, as well as my own. I still talk about my work and do so eloquently and in an engaging way, but all explanations come long after the artwork itself. Even the most elaborate and sophisticated explanation is still a curtsy to the viewer, who is eager to find out exactly why this particular little piece of metal is next to this word and that image, otherwise, he might be left with an unpleasant aftertaste of his incompetence (he failed to understand what the author wanted to say). The thing I value in art the most is a particular feeling of a miracle, flow, magic; a portal emerging out of thin air. It can't be put into words ("it's breathtaking", "wow", "this is awesome", etc.), but we always feel it. It can't be programmed or fabricated, deliberately stuffed into a painting, sculpture, or object on purpose – either it arises, or it doesn't.

Sometimes I can pinpoint the moment in the process of combining different textures, colours, and materials when I realise – it HAPPENED. And sometimes it doesn't happen, but it turns out to be beautiful and elegant, and I am very happy about that too. 

Our restless minds, eager for meanings, often keep us from enjoying ourselves, and even more so – from enjoying art. My exhibition does not have an overarching concept or a single narrative. It's constructed as a series of images that fascinate me and that I wish to share with the viewer. I also want the viewer to let go and trust their feelings and imagination. Allow it to be a meditation of sorts when you simply observe your emotions and thoughts without analysing them.

When you walk through the gallery, you will easily notice several vectors of imagery – holiday, the non-linear flow of time, repetition, and personal and religious objects. In some works they intertwine, in some not as much. The point is not to decipher them, but to contemplate the way they unravel and where they lead your imagination.

The exhibition opens with a small work with the word “Important” (vazhnoye) and a picture of three-year-old me, my grandfather Boris and my mother's cat Krosh taken on New Year's Eve at our house in Kirovograd and closes with a big canvas where the same word – “IMPORTANT” – appears again, but this time with a photograph of thirty-five-year-old me with Ulysses and Phaedrus (its composition is similar to the picture in the first room). The first work resembles an icon, the second imitates the image of the Virgin Mary with the infant Jesus and little John the Baptist. It is probably worth making some kind of conclusion here, but I don't have one (except that it’s the first time I appeared as a character in my work). The same is true for the redoubling and upscaling of the glowing phrase on the ornate curtain which gave the exhibition its title: "This doesn’t happen". It seems that something here requires an explanation, but it’s better to try and feel something. There is also a work from 2013 with a magazine clipping "How should a superstitious commoner not mistake these shrieking sounds for the cries of Satan?" and a carpet from 2023 echoing that message. 

Three small works play as an epigraph to the show – the first one with the word "accept" (primite), the third one says "leave it" (ostav'te), and the middle one contains no words, hence is difficult to describe, but you can look at it and try to feel it. Essentially, this is exactly what I want to convey and share with the viewer: embrace this exhibition, spend some time with it, and take the impressions with you.

Alina Glazoun

Photo: Lyudmila Byrchenkova