«DELAYED»
Hold your hands. Breathe.
Hold your breath. Live.
Hold your breath. Live.
A5
2023
Paper, ink
2023
Paper, ink
Dictatorship lives in people. It metastasizes into the brain space, its blood floods the mind. It envelops people in a pernicious wind, spreading like an epidemic wherever the crowd breathes. And then the very nature of the crowd changes. It changes mercilessly. And these changes are fatal.
Dictatorship lives in a circle. The circular bail resurrects the original power of the round dance, in it is the rebellious power of the archaic, bringing the triumph of barbarism and primitivization, of total simplification. Now the individual must die because it is complex, now the masses rise up. Rough hands, clasped in a chain, will shackle everyone and everything inside the circle. The enslaved themselves become the shackles with which the dictator ensnares the country. This is the bitterest bitterness of captivity, for the slave and the overseer are one and the same. People surrender their freedom to the common will that dominates every individual. And its demise is the triumph of collectivism. Its intoxicating joy is so sweet because it appeals to the primordial herd instinct that underlies the purely animal aspect of human nature. The feeling of the elbow will calm all excitement, all doubt and trepidation, no matter what lies underlie it.
The tyrant chooses cyclicality, cursing the arrow of progress, he rests his gaze on the oldest of the symbols of eternity, for it will protect him from the terrifying unknown of the future. The tyrant wishes to cheat time by escaping its flow and preserving himself in a closed figure forever. In his striving many recognize their own. He is at the center, and the people around him are bound together. As they cluster together, they form an unprecedented unified organism, like a multi-headed fungus, like mushrooms, they decompose.
everything that was once alive. In a tight circle, the air is stale and full of the spirit of decay. Here are the dictator's men - gripped by the pervasive decay, they grasp their neighbors' hands with a dead grip. They will not notice that their toes have already fallen off and turned to ashes, and gangrene is creeping up their shins. They won't know, because everyone is holding their breath and the smell won't reach them. You can't breathe here, it's a stuffy, cramped void.
A round dance of the dead keeps her safe. Unbroken. Unchanging. A circular dance of decomposing corpses forever moving, but always staying the same.
There is no one to lower their eyelids, their eyes open. But these men will never see the overripe sores on their own feet. They will never see that they have embraced the void. For their gaze is always directed outward, toward you.
The other surrounds them, holding their attention. Against it are all the arrows of the circle. If you happen to hear the smell of decay, it's clear: the west wind outside has brought it. And then there will be no more rockets flying from the Earth into space, for all rockets will be given to the Earth, and the circle will turn into a red wheel.
In the meantime, look at the breathing practices in the customs of our homeland. Hold your breath. Can you feel it?
Thank you for watching!
