I am an artist from Moscow, but I live mostly here — online. So my works, they exist in the world without borders, my characters have no nationality, race, clothes and sometimes gender, their skin could be red like blood, their veins are electric wires and their friends are any creatures who prefer speaking the language of symbols and colours.
There is a page from my intimate diary, red album. Images appear in it as answers to big questions like these — what makes intelligence intelligent? What if the conscious mind is possible only inside the living body, as an answer to the question of survival? And is the desire to be free from corporeality the very reason that makes me dream my beloved naive dream, at the end of which I do not exist?
But I am here. I'm alone. I'm inside of myself, and around it is you know what? That's right, me.
And my dream is real only while I'm asleep. So I continue.