Photo Santina Amato
Rythm33, April 8th, 2010
@Basespace, SAIC
Ok. I'm in my Jesus year and in a "Terminal Degree", marching towards second and final year of my MFA at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. This is a Year- long photo and writing Documentary Project to accompany my Thesis Studio Work. My Art and Life Practice. It is Time. Do or die!
Lets Go!
April 8, 1977, at 3 am-6am , Odessa, Ukraine - a birth.
April 8, 2010, at 7pm-8pm, Chicago, USA - re-birth.
Rythm 33. Re-enactment by Katya Grokhovsky of Rythm 0 by Marina Abramovic:
Guarding the Eternal Fire of the Victims. Standing still for hours, holding a heavy tired Kalashnikov in my 13 year old weak arms. White shirt, blue skirt , white stalkings, red pioneer satin tie around my neck. Arms slightly shaking, straight back, legs shoulders apart. Trembling. The Fire eternally sculpted. The children of Soviet Union. Born and escaped. As red wine pours all over my stiff back, I relax. Standing still in a long line, always small, always at the end of the line, by height, always insignificant, I shivered in my newly acquired fake Adidas suit. From Italy? From Turkey, bought on the Second Kilometer black market outside of Odessa. We hitchhiked there every Sunday. Second- hand Western Blue jeans. Oh, America. Fake Chanel singlets, bright neon leggings. Coffee ice cream softly melting, running down my hot, sticky cheek in sweet-smelling strips of happiness . Standing still and hardly breathing at 6 am in a summer pioneer camp, standing still, listening vaguely to That Hymn. Learning the Russian Traditional songs. All together now. Whispering words. Faking enthusiasm. Escaping, running. Running. Standing still, head down, scolded in front of a class. I did not do it! I did not do it! Blamed. Guilty. Standing still. Shivering in my silence. Sweet , pungent onion , cake, string, egg in my mouth. Knife in my face. He slashed our leather padded door. In front of me. I walked through it. These slashes remained until we left our apartment in 1992. A knife near my cheeks. I cannot handle it. I handle it. Fear of knives, fear of touching, fear of public. Standing still, they made me speak in front of a whole school. I almost peed on stage. The everyday smell of urine in the lifts.They paint my back with red acrylic. It feels sexually pleasant and relaxing, as if my skin is being licked. That first painting. Shaking. Holding. Keep it.
