We are inviting you to the opening of the project that will take place in Ya Gallery Art Center in Kyiv, at 49B Khoryva Str., on September 4th, from 19.00 to 21.30.

By the end of august the sea is starting to change: seaweed is thrown out on the sand and, in a short time, everything is filled with a pungent odor - smell of the sea. September surrounds you with calm, not boredom, but calm, you start to value it either with the passing of time, or rather since the move to a resort town.

Calm.The town subsides with the end of the summer, more precisely, with the beginning of autumn. Autumn here is the start of life, an unfamiliar beginning for everyone, something different, more of an anticipation.

Anticipation of quiet and peace. Beaches are gradually becoming empty from the very end of august. This pleasant emptiness carries no anxiety or longing, on the contrary - you can breathe more freely without the scorching sun, sizzling sand, hot air and town guests.

Looking through the studio windows or walking along the shore, you notice the sea change. It changes its color, changes you and everything around: "... as it fades, becomes foamy and dirty and spews filth, when the rains cause its boisterous digestion".*

Cold winter air binds the coastal waves, turning them into huge chunks of ice-cold stone. Over time you get used to it "not even looking at it, but not forgetting it even while sleeping".*

*Gabriel Garcia Marquez "The Sea of Lost Time"

Albina Yaloza

Presents of the memory, as if glowing slides, faded in the sun, provide me with visions of my childhood, spent in Yevpatoria resort zone. Like Nabokov's Mnemozina, nourished in carefree childhood, keeping these gifts over the years in places mostly inaccessible for daily use, or rather, avoiding exploitation in vain, is destined to reveal the subtle worlds of experiences reinforced and seemingly raised from these abandoned places by nostalgia for childhood in the most appropriate place, to act as a long-awaited cure (perhaps even as a drug), encouraging detachment from reality, really needed at critical moments. And you cannot keep silent about it, cannot refrain from dealing, from getting rid of this very intimate inner baggage of experience. In this position, so as not to repeat yourself, as a poor story-teller, and after using it once, not to touch it (unless it's a style and it's appropriate), you are binding time in order to keep these experiences in the form of a butterfly - caught in the net in the late summer of 2012 and opened sometime before the New Year's Eve in a poorly heated room to warm up.

Andrij Dudchenko