Artur Novikov’s article: Comprenez-vois les Arts?

In what we call art there is destructiveness –

– this is one of the most desirable characteristics.

Leonard Cohen


The Golden Gate in Kyiv, they are like the Golden Horn where Constantinople is the city of Istanbul, du diable!), a spiritual, life-giving place.

Here Baudelaire could become a gymnosophist, and Francis Bacon, an artist, not sir, it seems, from the preparation of bio-gender figurative, still lifes of slaughterhouses and raw bodily acts, par plus inner liquid faces (cannot be conveyed in Russian), perhaps on the same line of ecstasy painted the world idyllic pastorals in the style of Watteau or, heaven is evil, even Sandro Botticelli.

Of course, the newly recreated ancient Russian artifact itself carries a clear taste of provincial monumentality and does not even come close to comparison with the untimely departed Gates, but the sculpture of a nameless architect in a Volga army jacket with its size and expression will probably cause a good laugh from an idiot, but what?

Here is the whisper of time of a flying era.


Like paint from a canvas.

It is not showered with leaves under the broom of bored street cleaners, it simply scrolls through the eyes, and the pupils care about the situation, the entourage of what is visible. That’s why Golden Gates, as the old-timers of Proriznaya say, is an artistic bar, Rublev’s cave of non-church writing under the usual sign – Golden Gate.


Wonderful space.

You won’t find anything to taste or taste, yet it seems that small bars, pubs (cafes for aesthetes) are exactly the kind of intimate space, in a word – space – don’t be surprised, that painting needs.

Of course, large museum halls are good, Beaubourg, who can argue? – but a conversation with a painting there is somewhat reminiscent of sex in a tie, decency is required.

In the galleries, of course, the atmosphere is different, the presentations are a special feature, but even there are sex scenes of American cinema, anything is possible! – but under the sheet.

Lost Train

And here is an artistic tavern, gentlemen.

The most natural place to meet art face to face.


“..yes, uneven artist

– But who needs even ones?

From the conversation


White Franciscan, crystal minorite.

Pure absurdity, of course, Minorites wear gray robes, then in English Greyfriars, Gray Brothers. But it is worth noting that the colorless St. Francis, wandering around the world, renewed the light and colors around him, look at Francesco by Liliana Cavani, the truth is surprisingly visual.

Not only in Tuscany.

The incorporeal colored thing takes on life, such as illusion, emotion or providence, in the sense of a dream.

When transferred to canvas, it produces living tissue.

And of course all the other attributes, such as character, biography, unique self in the end. And here is the brand up to the lantern: Pollock, Polyctetes, Constable; Favorite nickname is one – Unknown artist.

All life is unknown, you know.

Sunset 66

Let’s start our review of the exhibition with probably my favorite work, the Steam Locomotive from Nowhere, Train out Neverwhere, or, more simply, The Lost Train. On the one hand, it is iconographic, and golden ocher instantly cuts off the space immediately into the beginninglessness of a Byzantine fresco, on the other hand, the purely Confucian perspective of the conventional center, and not the depths, invites you on a tour of the inner worlds. A column of steam locomotive smoke here is Stairway to Heaven from Led Zeppelin, but the banal wet black soil and faded lakes return the dreamer to the South Western Railway near the Razdelnaya station. Hope and flesh are like a picture in a teenager’s book, a story of beginnings, a reserved seat for everyday life, a calendar for any season, and, of course, a landscape.

A space that didn’t exist.


Alors messieurs, we are at the first personal exhibition of Bogdana Chilikina, prelude, adagio and allegro forte.

I always repeat, we don’t choose places, but the place chooses us, but the funny truth is this, isn’t it? It is (the place) that provides a talisman for everything that comes your way and, of course, will come true.

And you yourself must agree, where else can an artist with an architectural diploma exhibit, if not in one of the few remaining architectural oases of the capital? And certainly in an artistic tavern, no less. There, both the sincere spectator and the connoisseur remain silent, saving the vocals for Pinchuk (Center for Contemporary Art in Kyiv, Mecca of post-orgasm).


Further in pairs as in Noah.

Off-season and the Endless Road


Either a traveler on the side of the road, or a roadside cross, transparent spring, or maybe the approach of autumn in the rain zone? – everything is windy right through, like the smell of youth at 18. And peering into the faded colors of the horizon, the dim tones of the hills and ravines, the road and the nameless river, we experience all the sensations of wall painting from who knows what century.

Crossing the river of times without ford.

Perspective brings you to itself and now it is no longer observation, but contemplation of the inner ego. Holst Eulenspiegel, look at him and he will tell you who you were.


It’s raining, the road is wet, the wipers don’t work.

endless road

High loneliness and Kinchev on Autoradio, Highway E-95. And the seemingly purely literary term “low sky” acquires two attributes at once: content and embodiment. You can’t escape the third one – the naturalness of the landscape.

Don’t think about it, it’s not about whether there is such a place on the planet, that’s just unimportant. The view of a city dweller is significant, having acquired

space, road and freedom, all that damn unburied romance of a teenager. It gives the true colors of a wet field, a damp sky, real wet asphalt.

And then let the windshield be flooded, completely forgetting about the wipers. I don’t rule out that it’s just a window in the carriage.

Farewell capital, do we need you?


But the city won’t let him go so easily.

It’s more expensive to be friends with him, it’s not customary for us, so Levitan, and Surikov, Shishkin just didn’t stop by. Therefore, they probably write Sunset 66 and On the outskirts. In one case, psychedelic according to Avvakum, in the other – the outskirts of Troieshina or the town. Odintsovo.

There is basically no contrast here as such.

All cities are a little mannequins, they are dressed by the weather, nature (but what kind of nature? – Karaganda, e..) and our gaze. At the same time, one should not confuse a tourist and a city dweller par nature; What is the tourist’s view? – so, a fool at a carnival.

The crimson expression of dirty heavenly streams, high-rise buildings ossified to the point of not being a living shadow, the stench of existence without hope of smell. However, everyone’s beauty is personal, see the epigraph; right here in the area, Brian Hugh Warner, known in the world as Marilyn Manson, would live in complete harmony, and Rob Zombie would generally consider this place a true heaven on earth.

Beauty does not seek confidantes.


The outskirts have their own romance.

On the outskirts

It is the essence of Frontier in its highest sense, the border of established lands as it once was in the West. It is this edge that is distinct and discreet on the canvas.

What’s next? The fields are unplowed, the forest is stray, the sky is inhospitable, maybe a thundercloud or smoke from an abandoned mine.

Stay at home, citizen of the polis, there is no place for you there.




Romance of the purest water and a Japanese brush with a slight accent from Franz Kline. Swift, a bird that has taken a turn to fly away and flows into the sky.

Flight in the plane of the wall on damp plaster is like a small celestial graffiti, the expression of a moment on the fast retina of the eye.

Suddenly it occurred to me that the subtle taste of Cline is noticeable not only in this picture by Bogdana Chilikina.

However, she is a realist.



Frankly, the name of the canvas was suggested to me by my rock and roll memory; it was the name of one of the best Deep Purple albums. The point is not only that the sketch is similar to the cover of Parplov’s record. To me, there really is a certain British rock spirit here; the colors fit perfectly on the notes and in the keys and riffs of this work it sounds like The Gypsy or Soldier of Fortune.

Away from the music, under such a sky, where all the clouds are brought together into one grinning storm, it would be perfect for the duet of Edgar Allan and Howard Phillips and let Mary Shelley serve them beer during breaks from Frankenstein.

..there is no Zakievshchina or Moscow region in colors, rough simplicity without reference to geography and nature, fantasy as it is.


The last chord is the best.

The sun is still a woman, and let all mythology convince me otherwise.

Shamash, Horus, Apollo, there is no mess ry, you can’t even take me to cuneiform writing, and runic writing simply does not inspire.

– I do not believe! – and an ode to Stanislavsky.

I’ll agree to Innana or Artemis as a compromise.

So, Lonely.


A convex luminary, a sharp solar outline of conventional space, probably a road, perhaps fields, perhaps a lake and a whitish unknown horizon, in everything there is both piercing loneliness and the possession of everything in the world.

Perhaps this is how Demeter sees herself in the mirror.


I’ll end the essay with this barrel organ, I’m a sentimental person:

Good August.. orphan songs

You and I will still be together

Under the foliage on a broken accordion

With a holey basket full of wind

tryn guitar

Vodyary fill up

For autumn, all the sad songs

Rails in color with fallen leaves

Rusty train… apparently drunk

Time flows like bad moonshine

Let’s run with you through the carriages

We will move the arrows of the paths ourselves

What’s left?

White light

In the blue reflection




الصبر جميل

alsabr jamil


author: Artur Novikov