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Audio version: SLAVA (Slava Balasanov)

Everything you can say about yourself has either already been said or

has lost all meaning. Everything you know is scattered throughout the

world wide web, yet you stubbornly chase the shadows of your

thoughts among search-engine results. Bundles of wires are hungrily

devouring the mysteries of your correspondence while the secrets

of your archives dissipate in silicone clouds. You are deceiving

your loneliness by collecting avatars and broadcasting a

pointless stream of abbreviations, fragments

of speech, messages about nothing

-request - response of the system

-click - byte - bit -

- HARD BIT-

-but maybe-

-HEART BEAT

the pulse of those,

whose faces I need not

know, so that we can feel -

we-are-still-here I mangle words,

extract roots, destroy morphological ridges,

transform them into lumps of word-clay, that which has

long-since stopped explaining origins and does not fit into

any well-formed image of the world. Ever since space melted

and lost all form, since time has lost its rhythm, I fill my life with

 small things so that I won't think about the big ones. But maybe

I will, after all, manage to understand something about this time.

Tower (280 x 140 cm)

Transit Space (204 x 280 cm)

The Net, (150 x 150 cm)

Do I Know You? (190 x 140 cm)

NY#57 (200x 224 cm)