Sensual, sexual, ephemeral but inescapable, Nina Kraviz has created something truly beautiful and unique and yet something that approaches a numinous experience.
The deepest of house reminds us of our most deep and intense memories and dreams and leads us on, a definite will-o-the-wisp, forcing us to trudge ever onward through the muck, to sail through the mist, a siren's call that leads us onto the rocks.
It's briskly walking through the freezing streets of Moscow at 3am, walking quickly because of the howling gale and the bitter cold, but never running because it's undignified. It's more Murmansk or Irkutsk than Moscow but the lights are of the boutique stores and the inescapable grim albeit everyday realities that contrast sharply with the dream-like opulence displayed publicly. The contrast of a drunk with a glimmering shopfront all in this mist, all while actively trying to go somewhere and being purposeful about it but not actually having anywhere to go to.
It doesn't mean that it's not worth the effort if it lacks a purpose, because even if it lacks a true purpose or meaning it still has style and definition and effect and poise. And we do and so we go and we move onward and we try to reach for the green light and our simultaneously ambiguous and precisely defined lofty aspirations.
And we change ourselves, now less Zeligs and more Bulgakov and we immerse ourselves in culture and literature and high art and buy expensive scarves because we are finding that self-definition and we put ourselves on impossibly likely tangential paths that will lead to nothing positive but something definitively revered and we think we are so clever and we are so dumb and it's all simultaneous and it's insane but that's life.
We must take risks and make stupid decisions and live in order to feel fulfilled. We need to fuck and it must be meaningless in order to dissipate the brooding sense of the fact that something is wrong. We need our pills, we need our thrills, we need to get ourselves up and bring ourselves down. We need coffee, cigarettes, cashmere, chairs and couches, Ciroc till closing time, cocaine, until we are the cancer and then it's cytostasis. And we stop and we go, what the hell is the point? But would you rather die safe, bored and alone or at a wild feast with all our friends and all these random people having the time of your life with just a small dash of cyanide?