Anna Zacharoff & Nata Goncharova @ Vilma Gold

I rly like it when u go into a gallery & u can see where they’ve patched up the walls with filler. Little pock mark patches on the walls ,,, they are the same colour, u can only see them bc the walls are glossy white & the filler is matte white ,,, it’s so nice to just see texture only & for that to be so visible. It feels small and special, the way the walls shimmer but only when u stand in a specific place and tilt ur head.

This show didn’t look spectacular when I googled it. I recognise that there’s a precarious thing going on there; when I admit that I google shows before I go to them ; ; when I judge if I should bother going to them by the way they look on my screen. It’s not a bad thing to admit, it’s just a biT precarious. Bc this show felt smoll to me. (not small; smoll). My boy & I were in the area on a date day, and we popped in super late before having dinner. I don’t think I’d have gone otherwise. Naughty.

Everything felt ;,;,;, like ;,;,;, slower. Like, the art felt like it just realised it was walking around fast, kinda rushing for no reason; and just took a breath ~relaxed out~ and carried on at a slower pace. Bc even tho it was a Wednesday, we have got ages till dinner time & it’s not too far, let’s just peep our noses in & look in the boujee shops on the way down. Art can feel so macho sometimes. Like, everyone is in a rush to tell u wot they’re thinking about; how clever their thoughts are. I don’t wana think too much sometimes, it’s ok to take a break, just walk down streets & listen to traffic noises. Hold ur hand and avoid the puddles.

Everything was just >>>> brought down, turned down a lil lower. Lights, tone, my voice dropped to a whisper. I didn’t wana disturb (not in a, we must be careful, so restricted way; in a naice, lowered whisper like a child was sleeping in the other room). The paintings were v tender in this very particular way; like… unprimed raw linen canvas with very tiny gestural flicks. Such sweet colours. Glossy paint glittering slightly in the low-lights. It all felt like… careful. As I whispered around the work, the work was whispering too. It took care with itself. It was such a nice feeling. To feel like everything that was there was placed with care; a delicate but firm hand (nicely moisturised & soft, but not sweaty).

& I would like to say, this feeling was so universal across the room. I love when that happens, I feel like that is Good Art; when u walk in & ~feel~ ah yes, something specific. It was a feeling I felt from the paintings (the big, raw canvasses as well as the smaller, more considered watercolours) to the sculptures: clay pots patched up with gold leaf, all stacked on top of each other nicely, not neatly. It was like this specific kind of care; the care of like… a nice Instagram pic of ur food. It felt like the care was taken for u / for ur eyes / for the purpose of ur looking. And maybe that’s what struck me as special & generous & tender. I think, in this way, this show felt un-macho (if that’s a thing). It didn’t flex, it didn’t speak over u, it waited until u finished & a gap appeared in the conversation before it piped up. ~tender~.

When we walked in the gallery, the sky was dusty blue, and the sun was just lowering itself away from the sky. When we walked out, it was nearly dark. The sun was gone, but we could still see its light reflecting up against the bottom of the clouds; they were kinda pinky peach against the dark blue. I held my boy’s hand & we went to dinner. The traffic tumbled past & I avoided a puddle as we crossed the road.

Sorry, the show ended yesterday, and I didn't realise :( i always feel bad when we write about shows that have closed :(:(