fifty nine: 15th April 2010 - 15th April 2011

Katya Grokhovsky, Status Update, 2011

"As a woman I have no country. As a woman I have the whole world", Virginia Woolf

I must, must I?
CONTRACTUALLY BOUND to my body of work:
this body I own,
Body I bend this way, diagonally and that way, perpendicular, LOOK: it has been a joy,

Bound:
and to enjoy freedom, I shall control myself:
Bound:
by own self-made system and manufactured love of writing,
auto-criticized fictionalized prose and bedtime art story,

let me release you:

If I could Turn Back Time
Time shall be ours
Ours once again: I'll do it all again
over again

oh, painfully and sentimentally aware:

where does this fall
which side do you take?
Where do you stand, shaking violently from all fears?
Perhaps a certain hopelessness falls on my shoulders,
perhaps one more spoon of the deliciously sweet dark honey of art instruction,
one more
one more
perhaps, once more

what have you re-learned?

I touch the keyboard:
another fleeting thought, another crowded day, another limitless life, another limit I mistake for a hat:

Remember:
A contract has been made
A year ago,

Approaching =

Oh, let it be a lyrical journey,
a poetic world of my microtopia
As an alien in a magical land of stars:

No love can Match the Beauty of Their faces
Carry away with my Love Song

OH, Amore

Whisper so sweetly, softly, whisper, whisper a half and half, word, word to me, no words
Come color , come all colors
Come to me: baby blue

OH, do not ever keep me waiting
It is between us
all
There is no her place
No world
This and That and Art and I conceptualize and idealize
stagnating ever so slightly, sometimes, on purpose

Let me grow my Universal from My personal,

And towards passion! Yes, passion! Remember?
This passion I buy into.
Oh, boy! Feminist I am after all, and angry and hungry and all there is, to it:

I stand and slowly DANCE to it and let's get Faster, yell and laugh out loud and let us get loud and
rejoin the living and the memory of this!

keep at it: love me, love my art

What's in a year?
the numbered days, the short hours, the lengthy minutes, the prolonged seconds, the split hairs of time of my time, time forgotten, time lost , time gained, time gone, time found

Time has been Money
Money Time
Timed Perfectly and arranged in rows

trickling: slowing down and speeding my pulse
blood of stones
short, brief, and fictional, factual, actual
closing, opening, flying south
North, I haven't yet

The thoughts, the ideas, the monumental, the minimal, post-critical
I am exhausted, my mind is swollen, my eyes flicker
I, a machine, Oh, my Machine, keep at it, keep working hard
Working Hard

And She has dealt the blows
And she has been given All
Heaven and Hell, she made her own
And then there were many more

Many more of her of them of what

Art: Once MORE !

and kindly words of gratitude:

THANK YOU TO MY FELLOW GRADUATE FAMILY AT SAIC
THANK YOU TO ALL MY ADVISERS, VISITING ARTISTS , INSTRUCTORS AND PROFESSORS AT SAIC
THANK YOU TO MY PARENTS
THANK YOU TO MY READERS

SAIC 2011 MFA Thesis Exhibition:
Opening: 29th April, 2011, 6-10pm
30th April-21st May 2011, Sullivan Galleries, SAIC, Chicago

Book Signing Performance
MFA Sculpture Group Exhibition
May 6th-11th, 2011
Zhou B Art Centre, Chicago

SAIC 2011 Graduation ceremony:
21st May 2011, Frank Gehry's Jay Pritzker Pavilion, Millenium Park, Chicago
Commencement Speaker: Patti Smith

"NOTHING HAS REALLY HAPPENED UNTIL IT HAS BEEN RECORDED"
Virginia Woolf


THANK YOU......
............................

fifty eight: Almost and fulfilling and sugary satisfaction on the Day of Birthday

Katya Grokhovsky, 2011, Untitled(heroic)

Constructed illuminations, whilst I blow that candle of my Birthday.
Another.

Post-relational automatics and I contrive this to be all:
tiny wishes coming true, everything is riding on this one small plastic candle, the light of which highlights my unspoken gratitude. A piece of cheesecake, on the house, it tastes of the years full of opportunities: smallest details and extreme loveliness of the future, promised and forgiven.
Thank you for all and to be and to come again, and to feel once again for all your true roaming hearts. Once upon a time, once again and surely, neverending, the fairytale starts.

A NEW PLACE TO Fulfill
cherish
behold

Critical and subjective, whilst I softly whisper:
so lucky so lucky

And the desire to jump out of my glowing skin smelling like Dior, Miss
Auto-love, auto-addiction, I blame self for I am,

Addicted

memorial to multiplicity and others: hopefully
hopeless monuments
the altar of my sacrificed and treasured past
undefinable nation
flickered lights of theories
heavy sounds

historical and heroic classicism of unimaginable passions
you posses nothing
gently gently
your red balloon
your ornamental present
careful careful
they suffer hard
they play strongly against your will
Liberty leading the people: she said, impending doom foreboding
said to be true
to what end this happens to be true
did I find
Did I find a place for us: for you ?
our father and parental guidance have been extreme and I build you a gold platform to stand on and be treasured and trash your senses to the streets
the streets full of music
yours mindfully
sound of, Oh Russia,
talk to their souls
Yes, souls, I utilize the word here as necessity of my Romantic hope.

in the buildings, they camp and nest

wait, touch, look, LOOK at me, look, stare, I accept
fearful, slight, greedy, impatient, I open the book
mine....


http://www.katyagrokhovsky.com

fifty seven: Standing

Katya Grokhovsky "Untitled (heroic)", 2011

"The women on Death row have murdered, in most cases children, in most cases, their own.
The men have murdered in most cases, women." Julie Carr, 100 Notes on violence.

Feeling great or not at all, fatigue and words, as such, per reasonable doubt. Bones, skull, hair, blood. Rooftop and vodka and cigarettes and sometimes no Body is perceived per se.

Here we are, at your graciously built station, in an elegant city of precious ideas, not letting go. A single second away, a second of a second of your time, let me gather an eyelash and blow. Away. Critically acclaimed work and I will not show you my flesh.

Standing. Effecting the breath of world.

Missing softest feathered touching your fingertips allowing to introduce and forgiving stale smells, plasticine wings, heavy.

Ask me. What to do?
what to learn and to know and how shall I know anyway?

Internalized patriarchy, they told me. Feminist affect?

How much and WHO? Directly at death, stare and realize. This is you. And this is me.

And perhaps, that is exactly how it is. And that is all.
WHO needs to say this again? Sex has become the enemy, don't intrude.
I came upon this article" how to collect female artists for a new collector".
Let's begin.

Anger is not my answer.

Doing and looking and observing and doing again.

Perhaps it matters perhaps it will not and does it occur and does it roll off your tongue when you say my name. No no it doesn't, I guess it doesn't. It catches it in mid air: mid letter: mid word and you jump high and rule out and screen for mistakes and hop to it and rule out failure. Fail you must at something and winning is an option. Achieving the highest and appropriate, my lyrical writing isn't good enough. The turns and postings and my own discomfort. Here we are, leaving behind a sense of learning and newness. I must be gone and then I just continue.

Who keeps it rolling?

who makes a stance? who runs? who lies?
where to go?

why?

Standing.
Academically?

My words are falling, and pausing against the tidal waves of the mud. Always, UP THE CREEK, WILLING TO breathe. reward me or not.

Katyushka, Katenka, Katrusya, little bit.
being itself, being let it be, in the being of it, let it be.

fifty six: untitled (bed)

Katya Grokhovsky, 2011

Response to "Sprawl", by Danielle Dutton


Bed

There was an orange in her bed. Yes, an orange fruit. Citrus. Also, Leonard's cookies and a cup of coffee. Take out coffee. Still warm. In a white paper cup, with a black, plastic lid: shiny. I saw a ketchup bottle there too. Half used. Under all the blankets she uses to warm herself up on cold, unexpected nights. Count them: one, two, three, four. The one acting as a cover is the softest, laying on top of the others. Soft, pastel green, satin piping. It is very large and covers the whole bed, lingering beyond it's borders. Sometimes, I act as If I don't know and hide under all those covers. I hide and act normal.

Orange peels everywhere, dried up and dark brown at the curled, stiff edges: vitamin bottles, nearly empty. Olive leaf extract: it helps with her frequent common colds. Take two capsules, upon immediate discovery of first symptoms, also take for general immune care. She likes to read these long, instructional, small print labels on those bottles. It is reassuring. Two lighters from 7 /11. She buys new lighter every two weeks, and then forgets about the ones she bought. She smokes on occasion. Occasion being stress, lack of sleep and general discomfort.

A paper cup, party cup. Dried inside: black ink and two brushes. Three white paper take away containers. The ones in which you get those Thai noodles or rice with your curry. The rice is dried and is stuck to the bottom of the container. Used chopsticks, stained, wooden.

How personal would you like me to be with you? Tomorrow you will know what I mean in general. Five Postcards. Black and white, seem vintage, but it's Cindy Sherman's "Film stills". Also some newspaper clippings: photographs of recent rebels and revolutions and heroism. Failed all. I was born like this. Consumed, assimilated, burned down. Repeating body gestures I have seen in all of her eighty five years here, I beg her to start dancing and get out of that bed. She enjoys it and complies with my demands. Orange and red hardback covers of books beckon me. What about Cosmo magazine, September 1987? Were you there? "How to look good naked": I read aloud and twirl a little, slightly to the left of her center.

I wash my face with icy cold water and raise both my arms. My pleasure is all yours. Pastel lavender to dusty rose pink flannel bed sheets and plenty of scarves. Worn and Feminine. She has hundreds of scarves tied to the poles of the bed. All colors, imagine: silky red, yellow chiffon, green grass and murky burgundy, white, pastel sky blue, sultry orange and violet. Plenty of blacks. All sorts.

It is the best bed I have ever slept on, she exclaims, and jumps onto it. I am having a ball she said, smirking. I walked away fast, stepping lightly. Don't forget the dress, I yell into her ear. Cotton dress, circa 1981. I put it on, metal zipper, sometimes, I even do it up and walk around my apartment, thinking about sleep. It happens so often I am wishing to sleep in this dress. Bill Viola, how about Bill Viola? Silence, sudden outburst: no, Cosmo, circa 1992: " How to have gorgeous skin in under 2 minutes". OK, I answer and keep walking around, raising my glass of red Australian Shiraz towards the ceiling. It is not good wine at all. It is bitter and leaves a strange, tangy aftertaste. I'd like to see it stain this cotton dress. What a lovely, wine color it would make. The dress is pink. Reddish pink. I do not make a stain and go back to bed. It is four in the afternoon. I read Cosmo, 2000: "Stoned to death by her brothers".

Sometimes, there are other fruits in bed. Like that time, I found a rotten apple, once green and juicy. The acid smell of decay didn't bother her either, she likes the perfume of rotting apple flesh. Brown and green still. It tasted bitter. I threw it away and she cried for a long time. Another time, one afternoon, it was sunny and hot, dust in the air, she found a peach there and ate it, it was warm and fleshy, fire red with yellow specks . Very pretty , I said and found an "I love NY" T-shirt between the third and forth blanket. Who's? His? It's small. Its tiny. I put it on my head and stood up. I could see rooftops and red bricks in the window, standing like that on her bed, in my underwear, blue pastel, some torn lace. Old pillows. That time I ate a stake, bloody and raw. I like raw meat. Ancestors call out, as I google blood type diet. Her blood type is O.

How about Andy Warhol? Silence and a passing - by truck shakes my apartment. I live on the 3rd floor, we have rooftop access. In winter, the view is gloomy and snow covers our rooftop, it is very cold, I cannot feel my face, but I go there and stand still. Sometimes, it takes two hours total. Sometimes, I don't do it and I put on my Adidas hoodie and red tights and Australian UGG boots made from Australian sheep and I sit in her bed and listen to iTunes and watch strange things happen. Fruits appear and I imagine gluttony and NYC bagels and Intelligentsia coffee.

I liked the smell of freshly brewed coffee. She shakes her head and finds a cat at our feet. The cat is a kitten, soft, maybe colored pink, sometimes it is lavender, baby blue also, perhaps even beige and creamy, like coffee and milk, it looks like a little tiger. We cuddle it and pet it, until it sleeps. The bed is warm and between fifth and sixth blanket, I find courage and understanding.

Sometimes, I even find a small pine tree in there and winter Christmas lights. Sometimes, it even smells of stale smoke, and I manage to remember and embrace her. Gordon Matta- Clark even? Cosmo, 1999: " How to be a genuinely beautiful, irresistibly fashionable, stay- at- home mum". My nails seem chipped, I paint them dark brown. Better perhaps.

I simply indulge. There is her stance and a helping of generosity and my mild headache. Freshly squeezed Orange juice for breakfast: two glasses. Carefully constructed lies. I beg of her, do not reveal my secrets and illusions of grandeur. Sometimes, I sip my juice and forgive her indiscretions. Old Vodka bottle, nearly empty and a pack of Marlboro cigarettes, brand new. Frozen face skin and luscious intellectually stimulating conversation, I am going to live here. Perhaps tomorrow.

fifty five: down to the business of art

Katya Grokhovsky, 2011

Many and numerous: lectured and talked and desired and spoken to and kissed, liked, hated, held in high esteem and forgiven, crying out: no pain no gain, they said!

Red scarf and yellow dress have initiated your response towards my own dignity and surface.

Ok, so after all, how do I save this world? Tendency towards nihilist thought and existential rants. Red wine and sometimes bad coombinations of rum and coke. Lucid and touched.

So, the Russian will tear you slowly apart, into tiny bits, which will scatter across the world, for them you will search forever.Their reunion shall not be so pleasant.

Who wants to go on a "date" to discuss all? Non believer until proven otherwise, remains to be unproven.

IN the cafes of Paris dear, Paris proper, back when they knew, back when they floated on the hungry sea of illusions, how about that house? Shall we live there? Hard espressos and beer at McDonald's, buckwheat crepes, reembark, now! You designed a logo for both of our names, intertwined? Gothic style? You went to numerous cemeteries for inspiration? Drawing languid female figure in dark cherry inks on watercolor - pad paper, that is how it was, that is how it shall simmer your memories. Cherry and black night inks.

The spotty, murky, dark fairy tales of my mind and the sloppy seconds of my hardly wake subconsciousness. I had no dinner and hallucinated you, jeans are loose in the morning and eyes are glassy and glazed. Ideas are pouring in somehow, truthfully I do not wish this upon anyone.

What will you do, poor grad? Locally aware of methods of loving immoral values. To hell to hell.What's your secret?My sexual energy, recycling itself, circling my body, electrifying and shiny. I search. I meet sparkling eyes and receive wet kisses. I linger and walk away. Every time.

Revisiting my own gestural ideas and professional lingering in my mouth. What did I do? Proposals magnifying my need to beg the world. One at a time. More, just a little bit more. Just this time perhaps: just this once I receive one cookie, one! Beg borrow steal and I slip into miracles, readings and theories and constant flow. Remember this, now.

fifty four: a rose is a rose is a rose is a rose. Gertrude Stein

Katya Grokhovsky, Untitled 2011

"What you have to play with is yours". Gertrude Stein.

In one month this project will end, and in a little more than two months I will graduate.
Is it time? what is time?
Loosing myself and looping in the loop of Stein's writing, I dust the roses of my labors and sniff the moody Chicago icy sunshine of a brand new tired, sleepless day.
Perhaps, there I reside, in the never attained horizons of new and born super human knowledge. What do you mean what do I know?
I know that and I know this and perhaps nothing and does it matter after all.

Relational aesthetics and participatory poetry, feminist ideals and my fists into the thin, frozen, air. She said writing into the unknown is the best strategy. Let me gallop there, holding on, just barely onto the rough constraints of my time here.

I do not know how good or good or not I am or great or not , perhaps never reaching the best or the ambitions or the real and realities of it I'll be able to truly fix all of this to the hems of my lacy sexy nightgowns. I do not own any lacy sexy gowns. Black or white?

In high heels I struggle, pain acquiring legs, feet, status of a woman and falling harder and standing once again.Colors flying, clothing I have been given and ultimate reward points I have been able to gather.

Not gaining theory and irrelevance I am able to keep preparing. Color, folding classicism into chaotic struggles. Shifting uncomfortably, yes this iceberg has been there all along.

fifty three:

Untitled, 2011

Hear me,
going under
words
no words
worried
occasionally
respectful
dramatized
spectacular

Throw in the towel
perhaps
perhaps now
the time is for revengeful ideas
nowhere she walks over knives and proclaims the cool
now, she slams doors
read the article " The end of Men"
discuss!
when women are taking over, it is what? disturbing, says new yorker
disturbing, say men, promptly closing their eyes and sliding lower into the depths of the couches,
their mothers egging them on to do better
is this the end?
or the start of a new war?
war is never over, unitl it is over and it is never over, until she sings!

says she, starting to roar, forward, seeking,
bathed in pinks
glowing in sparkling tights and platforms,
surrounded by joy and masks of bleached blonde and Gagas:
strips and sings,
romance into your ears
Thelma and Louise kill the men

I search and search for empowerment
everywhere I look I am confronted by
laughter
laughing and crying she confirms sadness and no, I'm not lonely at all
I am quite sane and I march ahead, my failed revolutions in my skirts
heavy stepping over your incompetence and impotence
deal with it and stop asking me to seduce you
no, nothing is good or over and nothing is as nothing does
I said this all over and before it has begun, everything I said, I have said before
and again, again, over and again


She stands proud, contesting classicism
in her stride
blow air
and rejoice
sing and sip your high teas

it is time for that revolution
who says?
she says
the wounds are deep, they hurt,
and always on time