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The
Threadbare Flags of My Radiant Motherland
I'm interested
in fabric, but not the fabric that is sold in cuts in stores. I’m not into new
fabrics, in those fresh clean threads, direct from the machine and soaked in
fresh paint. I'm interested in fabric that has been worn, that lived a long
life together with its owner. Clothing means a lot in our frigid region, a
place where the snow still covers the ground in May, and where in October it's
time to put on quilted jackets. Clothes were repaired yes, and they were also
inherited. When a person died, their wardrobe was distributed among relatives.
And when things became too ragged to wear, they were cut into pieces, which
were used to weave rugs or were taken to an old woman to weave floor runners.
From this dilapidated fabric, from these worn out rags, people made round
crochets that they put on the courtyard floors of their homes. Newer, brighter
crochets were put inside the house, at the front door, on chairs, on the couch,
at the foot of an armchair and by the bed, to tread on them with bare feet. The
floors’ wooden planks, painted with the brown oil paint, were cool to the touch, and made you shiver with
the cold in winter. Without these rugs, you could completely freeze your feet,
that’s how cold it was in our houses.
My mother used to wake me up on cold dark mornings. I always tried to get dressed right under the blanket, and only after managing that did I get up and have a wash. The rugs, like colorful warm islands under my feet, kept me warm. Those round rugs seemed to preserve the memory of those many people who used to wear the clothing from which they had been made, clothes that had been torn to ribbons, deemed useless, worn out, or irrelevant after the demise of their owners. Such a rug preserves the memory of the departed and exudes the light of their memory, almost as if it were a digital disc. These memory laden carpets now lie at the entrance to rooms, greeting those who arrive. They welcome visitors like a round, bright, warm sun. The round rug recalls the main symbol of the Slavs, the solar disk, making such rugs solar symbols. The visitors enter the gornitsa, an elevated room, which was the brightest one in traditional houses, and was said to be where the sun lived, with its windows pierced by the rays of the bright noon sunshine. That is why it is called svetyolka or svetlitsa(the room of light). This room was usually located on the upper floor of the house, where young girls were spinning and knitting, embroidering and cutting clothes, painting, singing songs, and gossiping. The windows, on all four walls, have carved wooden frames; the light is the master here. We leave, but the light remains.
Flag of my Motherland. 2017
Metal, wood, old carpet from family of the artist.
XII Krasnoyarsk Biennale "Word and Village".
Lightroom.
2017
Wood, glass, neon, LED, windows from late house.
XII Krasnoyarsk Biennale "Word and Village".
Photo by V. Dmitrienko
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