78 x 86 cm
Archival pigment print, framed, edition of 8 + 2 AP
I was 17 years old, blinded by love and pregnant. Half a year later Cibor offered me his mother’s ring in the pedestrian area. He was seven years older than I was. My parents held a modest reception for the relatives. All was well until my newly wedded husband said he wouldn’t be staying for the night. He was going home to his mother. I lived with my parents, but my husband was with me when I went to give birth. The midwife praised him: “He held the baby so gently, and he cried.” As we came back from the hospital, I found out our new address. The baby would sleep with Cibor’s mother and aunt, in their room. I would move into the extended kitchen with my husband. When Martha got sick, I couldn’t go to her.
My mother-in-law was tired, but still wanted to care for the child alone. If I tried to go for a walk with my daughter, my mother-in-law announced that she would take the child out. I could take care of my own business. I said No. They called me ungrateful. I was an idle burden, an extra mouth to feed. The door to my child was locked in front of my eyes. I applied for jobs; I attended courses. I met people, who taught me to be selfish. And that was how I acted, to get out of that sick house.
78 x 86 cm
Archival pigment print, framed, edition of 8 + 2 AP
My father is hot-tempered, my mother impatient. My brother is the most important; he was born before my eyes. My boyfriend is much older than I am. Sometimes we have this symbiotic relationship, and then he disappears again. Zombie. I hate my love for him. At school they called me names. I didn’t let it bother me. I was the class clown, funny, exciting, and always in a good mood. So some people liked me. Strangers told me about their problems. My friends were close, at least when the heartaches struck. On Monday, I collapsed for no apparent reason. My father cried as he looked for a psychiatrist for me. After that, everyone turned against me. My feelings no longer fitted into their everyday lives. I kept hearing: “You’re selfish; the world doesn’t spin around you. ”STOP, I TOLD MYSELF; THERE’S NOTHING TO WORRY ABOUT. My own words yelled that I was in tatters. Men didn’t notice. My therapist told me I was too hard on myself. I want to be happy and I don’t take the insults personally.
78 x 86 cm
Archival pigment print, framed, edition of 8 + 2 AP
I drew a line over my life when I answered my phone in Popova Street on a normal weekday evening. I was in the third year of my studies. Caucasians and Russians were fighting in the dorm and urgent help was needed.
I called my cousin and two friends. I got a knife from my brother's place, and all the guns I could find. My cousin came by car and we got together in the dorm parking space. We shared out the weapons. Really, we had taken them only to intimidate; we had no intention of using them.
A bunch of people attacked me at once as I came through the dorm door, and in desperation I fired at random. At that moment, the whole gang fell silent. They all stood in their places, like people in a photograph. My friend looked me in the eye with a strange expression on his face. I didn't understand anything. He was covered in blood and fell to his knees. We carried him to the car. I went to the back seat and held him in my lap. I didn't behave like a man; I cried. I didn't understand what had happened.
My friend whispered something; I bent over and heard him ask me to read the Surah Yaseen. I kept repeating: you're not going to die from this, you're not going to die. But he asked me to read the Yaseen. I read, and he smiled. We reached the hospital. I held my friend tightly in my arms, and didn't hear what the staff said when they took him. I didn't have time to read the Yaseen to the end. I left the Yaseen unfinished, and that's something I still regret.
I ran after him, but I wasn't allowed inside; instead, the militsiya arrived. Apparently, they had come to the dorm just as we left. Someone had reported us. Then they had driven after us to the hospital. My cousin begged them not to take me yet. The militsiya agreed to wait, when we gave them money. My cousin squeezed me and said everything would turn out all right in the end. My ears were ringing, and I knew nothing could be put back the way it was. I had only one idea in my head: that I had killed the friend who had come to help me. I had killed my own friend.
78 x 86 cm
Archival pigment print, framed, edition of 8 + 2 AP
So I got an annual membership at a gym. I had fallen hard for the clunking of the free weights, for the energetic soundtrack in the background and for forcing out moves and repetitions like a machine. I was happy for the recovery drink and the clean underwear after a shower. On the way back home, it made my day when my legs gave out from under me on the stairs. This is how I lost Jesus. Out of all the children in my family I was the only one to live in Christ until adulthood.
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