The exhibition disturbance:witch approaches the theme of the witchcraft from the perspective of contemporary art. The focus is on “the disruptive factor” that shakes the deadlocked power structure and that is inherent in the figure of the witch. The witch-like, “abnormal”, “irrational”, “magical” and “wrong” opposes the traditional role patterns and structures and thus poses a threat to the status quo of contemporary societies that are still white and masculine dominated.
The exhibited works analyze aspects of the witchcraft as attributions and projections onto “witches” or women and queer people, which serve as instruments of exclusion, and examine strategies and goals that are still virulent as “witch hunts” today. The work examines not only the physical, but also the digital space in which the so-called “witch burnings” take place.
Works by: Jamika Ajalon, Tina Bara and Alba DʼUrbano, Emilio Bianchic, Anna and Bernhard Blume, Johanna Braun, Barbara Breitenfellner, Lysann Buschbeck, Sarah Decristoforo, Veronika Eberhart, Margret Eicher, Valerio Figuccio, Parastou Forouhar, Gluklya, Nilbar Güreş, Horst Haack, Orsi Horváth, Emily Hunt, Isabel Kerkermeier, Sharon Kivland, Miriam Lenk, Libera Mazzoleni, Franziska Meinert, Lambert Mousseka, Lisl Ponger, Protektorama (fed by JP Raether), Suzanne Treister, VIP and Carolin Weinert
Curated by Alba D’Urbano und Olga Vostretsova
Made possible by the Kunstfonds Bonn Foundation, with the kind support of the district promotion fund of the Senate Administration for Culture and Europe and the Austrian Cultural Forum
‘Positions #4’ the latest iteration in a series of solo exhibitions in dialogue with each other at the Van Abbemuseum, Eindhoven concentrated on activist practice.1 The selection of work included two films and a video installation by Naeem Mohaiemen that address recent histories of failed leftist movements. Sandi Hilal and Alessandro Petti presented several installations, such as Common Assembly (2011–ongoing), which consists of a life-sized section of the abandoned Palestinian Parliament building in Jerusalem, a video essay projection and a number of interviews. Hilal and Petti’s Refugee Heritage (part I) (2015–ongoing), a photographic dossier of the Dheisheh Refugee Camp that is part of an application for UNESCO’s World Heritage List, was mounted on light boxes. In the next gallery, the second part of the project presents another dossier, this time displayed as 44 books, each documenting the reality of a Palestinian village that has been left behind. While these works are easily accommodated in the gallery space, others do not fit in so comfortably, such as Hilal and Petti’s Mujawaara / The Tree School (2014–ongoing), a spontaneous site of communal learning turned art installation. In the case of Gluklya’s (Natalia Pershina-Yakimanskaya) project, the third position considered within the series, this uneasiness to adapt to the exhibition space proved productive in presenting the artist’s difficult collaboration with refugees and asylum seekers in Amsterdam. In what follows, my analysis of three video works from the exhibition concentrates on the way in which Gluklya’s feminist approach brings different people together.
Gluklya’s early work developed in the context of Factory of Found Clothes, an artist collective she co-founded with Tsaplya (Olga Egorova) in St Petersburg in 1995. The first line of their manifesto indicates a strong social commitment: ‘The place of the artist is on the side of the weak.’ Since 2003, Gluklya has also been an active member of Chto Delat (What is to be done?) and she shares the collective’s feminist emancipatory approach, the demand for equality and interest in micro politics, as well as activist self-education and co-creation. Under the pseudonym of Gluklya (a childlike, made-up name), the artist keeps working with clothes and across media to explore the notion of ‘fragility’. She is especially interested in how clothes have a closeness to the body and considers them as the frontiers between individuals and society that can also complicate the boundaries between the internal and the external, the private and the public, and ultimately, between art and life. Her Clothes for the demonstration against the false election of Vladimir Putin (2011–15) was presented at the 56th Venice Biennale in 2015 as a reminder of a weakened movement that nevertheless took place. Dozens of garments displayed as banners stood tall on wooden posts against the wall at the Arsenale. In some cases, tulle-wrapped foam hands and limbs stuck out. A small, white ‘resistance dress’ bore a drawn raised fist, with a long piece of flowing red fabric attached. Other items were inscribed with phrases such as ‘anti-abortion law is Russia’s shame’ or referred to poet Pavel Arseniev’s protest slogan: ‘Represent us? You can’t even imagine us.’ The installation set out the agency of clothes and their ability to stand in for the will of protesters to take to the streets. In more recent work, Gluklya makes use of clothing and found objects to bridge people’s experiences and enable ways of being and working together and reclaiming the street.
The exhibition at the Van Abbemuseum focused on work developed over the last couple of years as part of the Utopian Unemployment Union, a wider framework under which Gluklya develops different projects in collaboration with refugees, asylum seekers, students, other artists and academics. In partnership with TAAK, an Amsterdam-based collective that supports artistic projects in the public domain, Gluklya set up her studio at Lola Lik, a ‘creative hub’ located in one of the former buildings of the Bijlmerbajes prison.2Her intention was to be close to the Wenckebachweg refugee center, which occupied the neighboring building of the former prison. Lola Lik worked with the Central Agency for the Reception of Asylum Seekers COA and provided affordable space to local artists, entrepreneurs, pop-up restaurants, designers and the like. As I discuss below, the exhibition design brought to the fore the artist’s studio as a site of encounter. However, establishing contact with often traumatized refugees and asylum seekers still required going through multiple bureaucratic barriers, at which point the artist then needed to deal with the language barrier.3
Gluklya came up with a game that consists of matching words in different languages that sound alike but have different meanings. This playful method upends the difficulty of learning Dutch as a mandatory integration requirement. Shown on a monitor placed on top of Homeless Chair (2017) and its stuffed cardigan and joggers, Language of Fragility (2017) takes the viewer into one of the former prison’s buildings, with its long corridors, heavy doors and, later on, the sound of a sharp alarm. Participants use sheets of paper with drawings and words in Dutch and their native language to show some examples to the camera. A young woman wearing a hijab explains that pen means the same in Dutch and English; in Arabic, بن (pronounced ‘ben’) means ‘coffee’. A man points out that kennis means ‘knowledge’ in Dutch, while كنز (‘kanz’) means ‘treasure’ in Arabic. Another young woman plays dead in a tiny tiled cell and utters in Russian труп (‘trup’) means ‘corpse’. In the next scene she remains lying down, covered with a blanket and a bunch of hair, and exclaims, ‘in Dutch troep means garbage!’ Wearing a black veil over her head, she dips a sock into a glass of juice and explains that сок (sok) means ‘juice’ in Russian. The video gives a glimpse of the stiff environment inside the building and the slow passage of time. Anyone can relate to the need to do something other than wait. In this context, and from a feminist pedagogical perspective, the artist’s game creates what bell hooks calls a ‘space of bonding’, the opportunity to listen without mastery and to build political solidarity with those staying at the refugee center.4
At the Van Abbemuseum, the video was shown in the first of two rooms, which was arranged as a prison with a central corridor and dividing walls and bars that structured a row of interconnected cells on each side. A stuffed fabric ‘snaketree’ climbed up and down the walls; a large red carnation (a symbol of the October Revolution) hung from the ceiling. The space was filled with found clothes, embroidered textiles and Language of Fragility drawings: in Arabic كأس (kas) means ‘glass’, whereas in Dutch kaas means ‘cheese’. There were protesting potatoes, a red hood with wolf ears and the words ‘I want to go back to Syria’ written with black paint on a white tunic. In recreating the atmosphere of the artist’s studio at Bijlmerbajes, the staging of the exhibition presented the work as ‘social practice’. This display strategy emphasized the creative process, the time and space required to sustain collaborative work.5 While it was clear that the room was an installation, its lived-in feel, disorder and confusion supported the objects’ active role not only as props, but also as witnesses and facilitators of the work undertaken at the refugee center. Through the notion of ‘fragility’, Gluklya’s project explored ways of being together and building social interdependency in the sense described by Judith Butler as the need to acknowledge our corporeal vulnerability to others that nevertheless ‘does not mean we are merged or without boundaries’.6
Another cell in the room was covered in green, government-issued blankets. Inside, a monitor presented Embracing all the strange (2017), a video set in Bijlmerbajes that follows Tuncay Korkmaz, a political activist from Kurdistan who spent seven years in a Turkish prison. He wears a blue tunic with a raised fist on the chest and a single silver wing; this item also hung from the gallery’s ceiling. A woman bangs on the door repeatedly with the large red carnation. Another woman writes the percentages of female and male victims of domestic violence on a chalkboard in white paint, which Korkmaz smears all over the board. In a poignant scene, he sits in bed, repeating: ‘appointment, interview, lawyer, letter, meeting, money, status, house, appointment, interview, lawyer…’ He walks around a room followed by a woman in a snake costume. As he lies down in a cell, he exchanges a few words with another character in a heavy costume, saying: ‘my roots are long and free. I can go anywhere, and I will never collapse.’ A loud siren invades every room. The work provides insight into a process-oriented, feminist practice that challenges the gendered, asymmetrical dichotomy between subjects and objects and rationality and affectivity, and explores their interdependent relationship. In the video, the chairs, the white paint, the brush, the unmade bunkbed, the tiled walls and floors, the laptop, the doors, the carnation, the pile of clothes, the costumes and the green blanket are all actively involved with the performers in the production of meaning. They take part in collaboratively dealing with feelings of loss, fear, hope and frustration.
The second room of the exhibition concentrated on The Carnival of Oppressed Feelings Trying to Overcome Suffering (2017), a performative demonstration that took place on 28 October 2017 and the culmination of Gluklya’s project at Bijlmerbajes. The event brought together around 150 people, including asylum seekers, refugees, activists, social workers, students, the Fair City movement, artists and academics. Preparing for the carnival involved making costumes, masks and objects based on the experience of asylum seekers at the former prison. The artist was inspired by Mikhail Bakhtin’s conceptualization of the medieval carnival, where there was a temporary suspension of rules and any form of inequality between people. In this case, the carnival became a moment of joyful togetherness. At the same time, the use of masks and costumes allowed people to both remain hidden and to become other. A route was drawn between Bijlmerbajes and Dam Square in Amsterdam with several stops at city landmarks for participating artists’ performances, as well as activist and academic speeches on human rights, critical journalism and Spinoza’s philosophy. These were shown in separate monitors, while a two-channel video projection concentrated on the festive mood during the walk.
The carnival kicks off with Robert Steijn’s performance at Bijlmerbajes, closing with a collective scream. The leading banner reads: ‘Better conditions for refugees in AZC’ (asylum-seekers’ center). Some people are dressed as books, such as Fyodor Dostoevsky’s The Idiot or Johan Huizinga’s Homo Ludens. Others carry the massive carnation. The blue snake costume and the silver wing reappear, as does a furry monster. Gluklya wears the red hood with wolf ears. Others hold dresses as placards or wear Language of Fragility drawings. They smile, chant and laugh. An accordionist joins the march. The camera captures skeptical but curious onlookers. Towards the end, the artist reads the Utopian Unemployment Union’s manifesto over the loudspeaker: We call out to you courageous creatures without jobs, visas and or status, Mothers and children, Lions, Eagles and Partridges, Winged deer, Fish, and Algae and Sea Wheat and all microorganisms, witnesses of migrants drowned on their way to Europe and to the destroyed houses and the suffering people from wars, in a word, all lives, that completed their sorrowful circle now embodied as nomadic artists […] Artists and Refugees Unite!7
Despite the cheerful ambience, this coming together was based on difference rather than sameness. The protesters’ costumes acted as barriers between each other. Feminist educator Elizabeth Ellsworth has argued for a notion of unity that ‘is necessarily fragmentary, unstable, not given, but chosen and struggled for’.8 Rather than relying on consensual dialogue, the strength of the work lies in its momentary enactment of the feminist ambition to build interdependence on the basis of difference. There was no pretense of fully understanding each other. The march was about meeting the unknown and recognizing how dispossession uncovers our fundamental implication in each other’s lives.9 It involved sharing common but differing experiences of injustice. The alliance between artists, refugees, activists and students demonstrates the kind of collaboration that acknowledges each other’s perspectives as ‘partial, interested, and potentially oppressive to others’.10 Gluklya’s defamiliarized protest puts forward the longed-for possibility of liberating the unknowable from notions of absence, lack and fear and redefining it as a transformative practice.11 The works at the Van Abbemuseum offer glimpses of the artist’s project at Biljmerbajes. They reveal a feminist pedagogical approach that sustained a co-creative process and emphasized the interdependent relationship between participants and between objects and subjects. Throughout the exhibition, the clothes acted as boundaries within a collaborative practice demonstrative of ways of coming together and at the same time recognizing that we will never fully know each other.
‘Positions #4’, curated by Charles Esche and Diana Franssen, Van Abbemuseum, Eindhoven, 1 December 2018–28 April 2019.↑
Bijlmerbajes was built in southeast Amsterdam in the 1970s. The prison closed in 2016 and temporarily housed asylum seekers from the Middle East and war-torn African countries. It is currently being redeveloped into Bajes Kwartier, a green residential complex designed by the Office for Metropolitan Architecture. Lola Lik closed at the end of 2017. Seehttp://www.lolalik.nl/ and https://oma.eu/projects/bajes-kwartier (last accessed on 13 June 2019).↑
bell hooks, Teaching to Transgress: Education as the Practice of Freedom, New York: Routledge, 1994, pp.169–72.↑
See Shannon Jackson, Social Works: Performing Art, Supporting Publics, New York: Routledge, 2011, p.14.↑
Judith Butler, Precarious Life: The Powers of Mourning and Violence, London: Verso, 2004, p.27.↑
Gluklya, ‘Manifesto of the Utopian Unemployment Union’, available at http://gluklya.com/ (last accessed on 23 May 2019).↑
Elizabeth Ellsworth, ‘Why Doesn’t This Feel Empowering? Working Through the Repressive Myths of Critical Pedagogy’, in Carmen Luke and Jennifer Gore, ed., Feminisms and Critical Pedagogy,New York: Routledge, 1992, p.107.↑
Obuhova Aleksandra , Orlova Milena “GHOSTS HUNTERS. Phantasmal Metaphors of the Present”
Deepwell Katy, ‘Teh relationship between big and small things: Tsaplya and Gluklya, Factory of Found Clothes,’ n.paradoxa: international feminist art journal, volume 27 pp. 81-92, January 2011.
Meindl Matthias, ‘Wir arbeiten ja mit Menschen. Das sind nicht Leinwände und Farben. Das ist unglaublich schwer: interview mit Natal’ja Peršina-Jakimanskaja (Gljuklja) aus der Gruppe Factory of Found Clothes und der Gruppe Chto delat,’ novinki.de, Novinki, 7 September 2010.
Artyukh Angelika , ‘Teh Labor and Breath of Romanticism,’Katalog der 55. Internationalen Kurzfilmtage Oberhausen, 2009
Kovalev Andrei ,Russian Actionism 1990-2000, (Moscow, Agey Tomesh WAM) 2007
Tolstova Anna, ‘Bound together by one thread. Contemporary art action.
Gluklya and Tsaplya’s final performance,’ colta.ru, Colta.2013
Volkart Yvonne and Gluklya conversation “Towards Transversal Intersections” , Subverting Disambiguites, Curatorial Practice Shedhalle 2009-2012 INTERVIEW WITH DIMA VILENSKY/CHTO DELAT GROUP ABOUT UTOPIAN CLOTHES SHOP Chto delat #5: Love and Politics (2004) re.act.feminism #2 – a performing archive 27 August 2012 – 30 September 2012 Tallinna Kunstihoone, Tallinn, Estonia
Elena Volkova The Protest Dress: Shoot Them By Hanging (Gluklya at the Venice Biennial)
Do you remember how you chose what to wear to the protests of 2011-2013? In winter, people got their white summer trousers out of the closet and bought white scarves and flowers. I remember how on Strastnoy Boulevard a “white knight” appeared, walking toward me out of a restaurant, carrying a bouquet of white chrysanthemums, a crane’s pink beak on his nose. Slightly drunk, smiling blissfully, he folded a couple of paper beaks for us, and we attached ourselves to the zany flock of the insubordinate.
What nostalgia we feel today, looking back at those white jackets, trousers and scarves that were our protest clothes! They hang gloomily on our hangers, tired and disappointed, or lie on shelves, remembering their glory days at the carnival, when they found their voice and served not merely to clothe the body, but, unthinkable as it may seem, to expose the emperor’s lack of new clothes.
An artist from Saint Petersburg with the childish-sounding pseudonym of “Gluklya” (Natalia Pershina-Yakimanskaya) treats a piece of clothing as a living being. Anna Tolstova notes that “the most ordinary dress—fragile, throwaway, worthless, the ridiculous and frivolous material that the FFC [Factory of Found Clothes] works with in performances, video and installations, was conceptualized as a kind of pan-human universal, emerging from the everyday and inserting itself into culture. The dress is both a protector of the body’s memory with its intimate experiences, a record of cultural and subcultural codes, a political manifesto, and a weapon of resistance against gender and social stereotypes.” (http://www.kommersant.ru/doc/2394738)
Clothes have a life of their own: they travel, march with students, go into seclusion, go scuba diving, they may even, following in the footsteps of “Poor Liza,” jump into the Small Swan Canal (http://www.kino-teatr.ru/kino/history/10/982/), or they may go to a protest march against the falsification of elections. Gluklya’s installation at the Venice Biennial is called “Clothing for Demonstrations Against Vladimir Putin’s False Elections in 2011–2015.”
Gluklya has a special affection for white clothes, and does not like new clothes, which have no personal stories to tell. In her creative duet with Tsaplya (Olga Egorova) the two of them created the FFC (Factory of Found Clothes), which existed until 2014. I have always loved Andrei Bely and his metaphysics of the color white, so I therefore immediately took to calling the artist Belaya (White) Gluklya, all the more appropriate since one of the installations of the Gluklya-Tsaplya duet was entitled “The Psychotherapy Cabinet of the Whites” (2003).
Love for old white clothing fits perfectly with the theme of the white ribbon movement, which very quickly dropped into the past and simultaneously lives on in the protests and repressive actions of the present.
The hopes connected with these clothes have been replaced by apathy and despair; the Bolotnaya Square case became a new triumph of lawlessness and fortified the feeling of hopelessness. The subject of protests is in many ways a traumatic one: those who went out on the streets then were victims of injustice and violence, who soon became victims of a new violence, spreading into the bloodletting on the soil of Ukraine.
The white ribbon protests abound with stories, faces, images and themes that present a rich narrative for art, including the art of representing political practices, which Pyotr Pavlensky calls art about politics, as opposed to political activism using art as a means of direct action.
In an interview with Radio Svoboda, http://www.svoboda.org/content/article/27049832.html Gluklya said that the installation contains “a certain amount of ambivalence, without which, in my view, art does not exist. But at the same time it was very important for me to leave it ‘black and white’ in terms of my position. And that was a surprisingly difficult task. All my energy went into that.” Her mighty effort created a multiplicity of meanings.
Ghosts on Stilts
A few dozen tall T-shaped wooden poles stand by the wall. “Talking” clothes with slogans delicately embroidered in red on a white background (such as “Russia will be free”) hang upon them, with others written in black on white or orange (“You can’t even imagine us,” “NO,” “Power to the millions, not the millionaires,” “America gave me $10 to stand here,” “Does Russian mean Orthodox?” on a Russian Railways vest), or in red on black (“A thief must sit in jail”).
They look like a column of ghosts who have stepped out of the void to remind us about the recent demonstrations. These apparitions appear to be the rebellious spirits of protest. One-legged, they also bring to mind clowns on stilts, conveying the carnivalistic atmosphere of the first marches and rallies. The associations with ghosts and clowns add a multitude of visual and literary resonances to the viewer’s impression.
A simple pole with a crossbeam was used in the southern and eastern parts of the Roman Empire as a site of execution, on which criminals were crucified. This type of cross is known by various names: Tau cross (after the letter in the Greek alphabet), St. Anthony’s cross, crux сommissa, among others. It is highly probable that Yeshua of Nazareth was crucified on just such a cross. There is also a long white shirt—the charred “sackcloth of shame” in which criminals were led around the city—reminiscent of the robes of Christ.
The wall of “elevation of the cross” references Christian images of crucifixion, and more broadly, the typology of execution. The artist seems to have created an amalgam of different types of lethal execution: the trousers without a top and the shirt without trousers conjure up a dismembered body, the dress on poles a beheaded, hanged, or crucified one, and what is more, they are all placed up against the wall, as if in front of a firing squad.
This array of crucifixions can be seen, of course, as hyperbole about repressions or the expectation of wholesale slaughters of protesters, but today, with the police ready to declare their right to shoot in crowded places, including at women, Gluklya’s installation looks like something out of the evening news.
The Female Body
There is a girl’s white dress bordered with a blood-red thread; a ballet tutu with a rusty hammer-and-sickle bottle opener in place of a head (a vivid symbol of our culture); on the back of an overcoat, an image of a woman being dragged into a paddy wagon by OMON agents (riot police); on a summer frock, a drawing of a “witch” tied to the stake, on fire.
The theme of the sacrifice of women puts the viewer in mind of Pussy Riot, who have elicited people’s bloodthirsty fantasies and calls for the most horrendously cruel forms of punishment (pussyriotlist.com). The exhibit also contains headgear made to resemble a balaclava helmet. Not explicit, but ambivalent, a kind of hint.
Gender violence is one of the recurring themes of the tragic parade of clothes. It seems to be no accident that Gluklya’s exhibit at the Venice Biennial opened around the same time as Alketa Xhafa-Mripa’s installation at the stadium in Prishtina, Kosovo (http://www.wonderzine.com/wonderzine/life/news/214075-thinking-of-you; Xhafa-Mripa, born in Kosovo, lives in Great Britain): there, a few thousand dresses and skirts, hung up on white ropes, testify to the sexual violence that occurred on a mass scale during the armed conflict in Kosovo of 1998–1999.
In Ludmila Ulitskaya’s novel The Funeral Party, Robins formerly Rabinovich, the far-sighted owner of a funeral home, “had difficulty in determining the client’s property status” at a funeral attended not only by Jews but also by blacks, American Indians, rich Anglo-Saxons and “numerous Russians,” comprising both “respectable citizens” and “out-and-out scoundrels.” Can social status be determined by protest clothing? Here, too, were various sorts of people: office clerks in waistcoats, hippie-punk-goths, sophisticated women and Poor Lizas, ballerinas and Lovelaces. Their clothing—the body of their souls—is torn and in danger. They, too, are the targets of Gluklya’s reproach: “Are all of us really like this torn old rag?”
LE CHOC DE L’ACTUALITÉ À LA BIENNALE DE VENISE
A l’Arsenal, c’est l’artiste russe Gluklya qui dénonce le durcissement du régime de Moscou, à travers ses “Vêtements pour manifestations contre de fausses élections de Vladimir Poutine”.
Perchés sur des madriers en bois, ces drôles de pièces de tissu portent des messages en russe: “un voleur doit être assis en prison”, “je veux que la Russie devienne le plus beau pays du monde” ou seulement “va-t-en”.
In the best of all possible worlds one would hope to find works of art that are both visually engaging and layered with meaning. Of 136 artists or groups of artists featured in the International exhibitions, very few made me pause. One of them was Russia’s Natalia Pershina-Yakimanskaya Gluklya, who contributed a suite of clothes and placards for an anti-Putin demonstration, with many surreal, startling touches. Considering the treatment dished out to the band, Pussy Riot, Gluklya’s work was as politically edgy as anything in the show, but also witty and inventive.
It fills us with pride to say that Okwui Enwezor’s exhibition All the World’s Futures, currently at the Venice Biennale and displaying the work of Gluklya, is appreciated as being “frighteningly necessary.”
Artspace writes the following: In this show, Enwezor has tapped an impressive number of artists who ignore the market enough to speak truth to power—sometimes to the extent that it’s not obvious that what they’re doing is art. Their ethos may be best summarized by the Russian artist known as Gluklya, who co-wrote a 2002 manifesto declaring that “The place of the artist is by the side of the weak.” Her work, featured in the show, has been characterized by an exploration of the nature of public and private space in Putin’s Russia.
GLUKLYA / Natalia Pershina-Yakimanskaya, Clothes for the demonstration against false election of Vladimir Putin, 2011-2015, textile, hand writing, wood, Courtesy AKINCI Amsterdam, sponsored by V-A-C Foundation, Moscow.
In the Moscow museum of modern art at Petrovka 25, Petersburg artists Gluklya (Natalya Pershina-Yakimanskaya) and Tsaplya (Olga Yegorova) presented a performance piece with the multilayered title “Final Cut”: it signifies simultaneously the final edit, the final wound, and a definitive separation, not to mention the title of a Pink Floyd album which in fact coincided with the beginning of the group’s dissolution. The performance symbolized the end of an artistic partnership of many years’ standing: henceforth the “Factory of found clothes” (FFC) will be Gluklya’s solo project, while Tsaplya will be a full-time participant in the work collective “Chto delat.”
The material was published on the website Aroundart.ru 27.07.2014
On July 13, Gluklya (Natalia Pershina-Yakimanskaya)’s performance “Debates on Division” was presented as part of the parallel program of the 10th Manifestos on the New Stage of the Alexandrinsky Theater. Art critic Valery Ledenyov was one of the participants in the project, and has decided to share some thoughts and ideas prompted by some of its plot twists.