number forty: look look don't touch me

Katya Grokhovsky, Dance like a man, Ukrainian, 2010, New Blood IV, photos Andrew Green


Previously fatigued and aggravated.
Stated for your pleasure.
Would you like to look ? Look.

Cold, snow outside, whiteness covering covering wetness softly flowing, I'd like to read and write. Perhaps that is all , but the desire to painfully unwillingly communicate driving me forward with your public with your public. Audience let me talk to you. I never know how, but let me. The desire to stay internally forever blocked and written on the page /screen is overwhelming but the adrenalin of standing in font of you dancing in font of you dancing with you talking with you showing you my work is leading and flying me towards your sun. Sun so to speak.

Oh romantic snow, days before the Fall critique or the second last critique before the last critique of this adventure, I am in bed, nostalgic melancholic, unwell. Thoughts of childhood and mother's care flood my consciousness. broken dreams of broken lucid daily long sleep. Perhaps its all about timing. Right time. right place. am I there? somehow it always feels like I'm a too far or too early for the party or too late or slightly wrong address.Missed, just by a door. Somehow I am left standing at the station wondering where the hell is my train, plane, bus, dogs and feet with wings, de-ttached, for always.

Dancing like a man, she wonders, abut choices. yes, free to choose your gender free to behave as you wish masculine bisexual feminine girly boyish aggressive.makes no difference. it makes all the difference. You have choices. women know. unless they change their gender, literally, they will always be women, lesbian bisexual or straight. manly. always women. and whatever the hell comes with that perception and physicality. Add voluptuous physicality to it all and you get the cocktail.Anxiety, objectification whatever sexualization and embarrassment.

Theorizing my life, how to tell it all be less personal be more personal blood tears sweat. I had sweat. I couldn't cry.solitude lonely solitary stand here at your service generosity and loneliness of private try to be colder and icier stand it endure it leave it be. Dancing in a traditional clothes she is enduring sweating jumping becoming red realizing its hell and its difficult.

Durational looped dancing something of a constant idea . Steps and dance steps. Physicality is what everybody sees, acknowledge it and move on. I wish I acknowledged it ten years ago. Breathe breathe. You are OK.

Keep going...



Yotube, Hopak, extract for the performance Dance like A Man, Ukrainian

THIRTY: woman. With icy contempt.WOMAN. Confused.

Katya Grokhovsky, Invitation to slow dance, 2010 (Dancing with Patrick 'Q' Quilao)
photo Andrew Green

Reconstructed and remixed from stage directions in "DOG", a play by Valentin Kransogorv translated by Benjamin Sher.

Performative Text.

"A woman.
A dog
her role.
Somewhere in Russia.
WOMAN. Whispers under her breath. Spitefully.
The woman makes a vague gesture.
The puppy.
Expressive gesture.
The howling grows louder.
The woman shrugs her shoulders.
She inhales deeply.
Momentarily silent.
reaches into pocket.
This procedure is repeated three times.
Rubs her nose.
The woman. Again reaches into pocket.
Hands the money.
Silence.
The woman makes her way slowly.
WOMAN. with icy contempt.
Shakes her head.
WOMAN. Confused."

Red trench coat. Black tights. Gold stiletto heels. A large fur bean bag in a shape of a cute puppy-bear-creature on a bloody leash tied to the woman's hand.Dragging the bag behind her, her puppy, she shushes it softly, putting her middle finger to her lips. I think it's howling, ever so slightly. Sculptural. aware of the vast space around her. Conjuring up the absurd. The bizarre. She is far.


Somewhere in Russia.
Colder than here.
Now, she flicks through the latest Italian vogue.
Treadmill. 2 hours. Shower. Lotions and makeup. Gold heels. Red coat. Black short dress. ready to leave his apartment.
He is still breathing softly and heavily on that wide comfortable bed.
She glances at him, turns around, inhales the smell of fresh blood. deeply. swiftly walks towards the door.
Exit woman.
Exit man. He stops breathing.
bloody sheets.
his dog.
Also dead.
all dead.
she.
Woman confused
Icy.
lethally aware.

red.
lips.
roses. have some whiskey honey you are tense.
she is tense. the howling grows louder.
licking. smelling the blood.
Woman inhales.
she changed her clothes.
red black and gold
her favorite combination.
Craving blood.
once again.


woman shakes her head
makes a vague gesture.
expressive.
Gone.
This procedure is repeated three times.

Recently. Performative texts and increased sensitivity to light. perform it perform it.What a woman what a woman what a woman what a woman. Theories and metal thinking. Slow slower slowing down. my heart beats faster, strong coffee and organic espresso chocolate. 3 am. studio. I am essentially trying to think . Thinking hard. Who tells you? who talks to you. Russian play list building up, one life, one life one chance.Gender gender make gender art art systematize ephemeral permanent versus public private discoursing through planet orbiting sleeves sleeves . 13 new fashion garments an unwearable collection for us for you for her and him. Moscow nights, Moscow doesn't believe in tears. last drop, sweat bring us your sweat and tears. Blood. we want your blood. Bleed for us. and we will follow. Lead us. I will lead. I shall lead you into the heavenly skies of stars and at the top of that tallest hill I will slash your throat with my paper knife. My paper knife. Towards you.

Borscht Dinner. Coming right up. 13 guests.
13 13 13 13 13 13 13 13 13 13 13 13 13

repeat and think.
drink that vodka.
whiskey and cigarettes.
Americana. Americana. Wanna be Americana.
He will never be back.

Sophia....
Dance and drink smoke and think love and twirl around. Proposing. Posturing. MALE action. To propose to act to male it out. Boys complain they are sometimes the only ones in their classes. They are outnumbered, outsourced and hunted down. Rarity.
eat some meat and behave. collect some bones. drink red wine mix it all up and sing me a song.

Salsa your way out of there..dance down that corridor. Put on your tulle skirt . Gender and love, food and sex, dreams sleep, dirt and lust. do it for all of them. for him. Cook something.Dream big. Moralito. Baby, how long has it been. Little bit of summer, write me a poem like you used to. Throw it down be mine.

the melting ribs and marinted steak. the new family. don't let me let go. ice cream root bear float?


chewing gum


butterfly

hold it!
I will bow to each one of you.
Thank you.





Katya Grokhovsky, artgreed, 2010

TWENTY TWO: I want to make nothing//

emptyheart, Katya Grokhovsky, 2010

Now, I think and think. Imagine worlds. Imagine art. Imagine openings for my art. Bed and extensive travels of the world. Interviewed on Russian TV about my piece in Moscow Bienalle. Living between My countries, teaching in the world-class art schools, projects, moving every 6 months. America, Australia, Ukraine, Russia, France, Italy, Japan, etc. Being many people through My practice. Learning trades. Learning crafts. Learning disciplines. I don't want to be a professional dancer. I want to dance. I don't want to be an ice-skater, I want to ice skate. I look around. 4 am. Bed. Chicago. Work tomorrow at 9 am. I make nothing. Sometimes I get up and dance. I sing also. Into the emptiness of furniture, plates and books. Internet just exists. I just exist. Ice under my feet. Short Red flowing dress. I swirl on ice to loud Russian music. Heart pounding, sweat slowly trickling down my arched back. Remember? I Produce nothing. Something is wrong or terribly right. Service economy - versus- object economy or no economy at all? People as material. My body as a tool. Carry me through. Emotions as a my tubes of paint. Squeezed out, empty. Faces: craving physicality. Imagining scenarios. Living swiftly through them. Finishing relationships, marriages, love affairs, beginning friendships, taking voyages. Worlds unseen. Waiting. Sometimes I have an incredible compulsion to document every second. What for? My research into the epidemic of narcissism has brought me back to Start. Myself. How to not be a narcissist? Extend and expand? Or - develop into a fully fledged narcissist and self-lover via constant obsessively illogical and systematic self-tracking documentation? Self-portraiture. Describe with words. Paint a picture. Facebook and blogs. Who the hell do you think you are?

openings: What it is, Sara Schnadt

apartment cleaning party
Emptyheart//gathering//action//thing @apartment

DVD's:

Frida,
You and me and everyone we know,
Pedro Almodovar: Volver, Broken Embraces
Red Baloon





emptyheart, 2010, Katya Grokhovsky, Australia