Influence scope. Clouds
Texts for the Exhibition
5
5
The Twenty-Second of March, Saturday
The heady smell of the sea and the chaotic cries of seagulls burst into the room through the balcony door that had been open since morning. The waves crashed against the rocks with such force that when I went out onto the balcony and held out my hand, I felt sharp drops of water. I couldn’t believe that on this morning the sea would be angry with me, but I still decided to retreat from it and travel into town. From the train window I saw the sea pulling a cloud over me with a hand of concealed annoyance: expanding and contracting, the cloud drove thousands of tons of barely restrained anger across the sky.
I took in this terrible metallic blue with my gaze, but continued to smile. Even when I was in town, and all of this water began pouring down on me, I smiled and delighted in the spring, although I was not dressed for the weather.
The Seventh of July, Tuesday
I had been walking for several hours, and my sandals kept getting stuck in the sand. I constantly heard the sea, and saw it on my left, and a couple of times I even felt the urge to swim. But the strawberries won; it seemed that the whole thin strip of land was covered with them. I wandered along the slopes of these strawberry fields—from the sea to the bay, and onward again to my temporary goal, where cobwebs on the broken windows of the wooden house and a rucksack full of books awaited me, along with the prospect of a long swim away from the shore, away from the hot day, across the silent sea to the still trembling reflection of the moon.
The Twenty-Fifth of October, Monday
I spent a long time travelling by train, I flew for a long time to get back here again. The warm shadows of hills covered with fir needles were waiting for me. I wrapped myself in them, wrapped myself in that salty air, in the transparency of the day, in the barely perceptible rustle of the waves behind the veil of foliage.
I trusted the sand and the surf, and trusted the coolness in every step I took. I trusted it as I walked along the hard shore, slipping into the sandbanks, walking toward the sunset sky, where the sun was dissipating, clinging to the cape. Where white threads of clouds fringed the horizon and filtered the last light of this day.
The Thirty-First of December, Sunday
In the morning I went to the beach. The waves were crashing unevenly, the blueish-grey clouds were rushing by and seemed to break into hundreds and thousands of small ones, different and the same. The wind blowing from Sweden bent the dry grass on the dunes down to the sand; it was long and became tangled up in the briar bushes. The gusts struck me in the face, ruffled my hair, and caught me under my elbows; had they been a little stronger, I could have laid down on this wind and flown away.
By evening, only the circling white specks of seagulls served as a reminder of the disturbance. The sky was red and beckoning, tumbling into the steel water, splashing onto the sand mixed with amber, seeping between the trunks of trees that once had been so steady, and embracing everything.
The heady smell of the sea and the chaotic cries of seagulls burst into the room through the balcony door that had been open since morning. The waves crashed against the rocks with such force that when I went out onto the balcony and held out my hand, I felt sharp drops of water. I couldn’t believe that on this morning the sea would be angry with me, but I still decided to retreat from it and travel into town. From the train window I saw the sea pulling a cloud over me with a hand of concealed annoyance: expanding and contracting, the cloud drove thousands of tons of barely restrained anger across the sky.
I took in this terrible metallic blue with my gaze, but continued to smile. Even when I was in town, and all of this water began pouring down on me, I smiled and delighted in the spring, although I was not dressed for the weather.
The Seventh of July, Tuesday
I had been walking for several hours, and my sandals kept getting stuck in the sand. I constantly heard the sea, and saw it on my left, and a couple of times I even felt the urge to swim. But the strawberries won; it seemed that the whole thin strip of land was covered with them. I wandered along the slopes of these strawberry fields—from the sea to the bay, and onward again to my temporary goal, where cobwebs on the broken windows of the wooden house and a rucksack full of books awaited me, along with the prospect of a long swim away from the shore, away from the hot day, across the silent sea to the still trembling reflection of the moon.
The Twenty-Fifth of October, Monday
I spent a long time travelling by train, I flew for a long time to get back here again. The warm shadows of hills covered with fir needles were waiting for me. I wrapped myself in them, wrapped myself in that salty air, in the transparency of the day, in the barely perceptible rustle of the waves behind the veil of foliage.
I trusted the sand and the surf, and trusted the coolness in every step I took. I trusted it as I walked along the hard shore, slipping into the sandbanks, walking toward the sunset sky, where the sun was dissipating, clinging to the cape. Where white threads of clouds fringed the horizon and filtered the last light of this day.
The Thirty-First of December, Sunday
In the morning I went to the beach. The waves were crashing unevenly, the blueish-grey clouds were rushing by and seemed to break into hundreds and thousands of small ones, different and the same. The wind blowing from Sweden bent the dry grass on the dunes down to the sand; it was long and became tangled up in the briar bushes. The gusts struck me in the face, ruffled my hair, and caught me under my elbows; had they been a little stronger, I could have laid down on this wind and flown away.
By evening, only the circling white specks of seagulls served as a reminder of the disturbance. The sky was red and beckoning, tumbling into the steel water, splashing onto the sand mixed with amber, seeping between the trunks of trees that once had been so steady, and embracing everything.
Женя Чайка (1986, Екатеринбург)
Куратор, исследователь. Сфера интересов — философия, эстетика, арт-резиденции, альтернативные образовательные форматы, теория выставок. Четырежды была номинирована на государственную премию в области современного искусства «Инновация» (2012, 2018, 2019. 2021), один раз становилась лауреатом (2018) за кураторство программы Арт-резиденций 4-й Уральской индустриальной биеннале. Куратор арт-резиденции «Шишимская горка» (2019-2021). Со-основатель и председатель Ассоциации арт-резиденций России. Автор книги «Арт-резиденции и как их готовить» (V-A-C Press, 2025).
Недавние проекты: «Весь этот мир» (Ямал, 2023-2024), «Зазор влияния» (ГЭС-2, Москва, 2023-2024).
Женя Гаврилов (1985, Новосибирск)
Аудиовизуальный художник, музыкант.
Куратор, исследователь. Сфера интересов — философия, эстетика, арт-резиденции, альтернативные образовательные форматы, теория выставок. Четырежды была номинирована на государственную премию в области современного искусства «Инновация» (2012, 2018, 2019. 2021), один раз становилась лауреатом (2018) за кураторство программы Арт-резиденций 4-й Уральской индустриальной биеннале. Куратор арт-резиденции «Шишимская горка» (2019-2021). Со-основатель и председатель Ассоциации арт-резиденций России. Автор книги «Арт-резиденции и как их готовить» (V-A-C Press, 2025).
Недавние проекты: «Весь этот мир» (Ямал, 2023-2024), «Зазор влияния» (ГЭС-2, Москва, 2023-2024).
Женя Гаврилов (1985, Новосибирск)
Аудиовизуальный художник, музыкант.
