It was a long process defined by coincidence. For a long time we knew that we wanted to move away from the city and live our lives primarily somewhere in nature. Unfortunately, in our country any kind of real estate is absolutely unaffordable, and our budget was very limited. Lunigiana is a place I remembered from a road trip with my parents a long time ago. It is a forgotten corner between three regions, with a very specific identity. It is an area that is still, to a certain extent, a bit wild, and the sense of nature here is quite intense. We were lucky that after years of constant moving we found a place here where, for some reason, we feel at home - some kind of base in which we can exist even with an absolute minimum of resources.
For us, the question is less about retreat and more about how to reactivate such an environment. This begins with refusing to romanticize it, or to separate it from the so-called spaces of production and capital. What interests us is how this context shapes life itself, and how it makes other, more sustainable modes of existence possible within its limitations. In my own work, I’m interested in something like fake heritage. This is a place that isn’t ours and never will be, and it’s inevitably saturated with other people’s memories - memories that nonetheless structure our present. Historically, this area was very poor, and self-reliance is deeply ingrained. I often connect this to our Slavic background, DIY isn’t just a method but a condition, and here it feels especially tangible.
Exhibiting together was never a programmatic decision for us; it always emerged from specific circumstances. I still find the format of a duo show somewhat opaque and never fully know how to approach it. But because dialogue between us has functioned as a kind of ongoing medium for many years, that perhaps makes things easier. At the same time, we’ve come to realize that working this way can place unnecessary pressure on our relationship, and it’s probably not something we want to continue developing. I’m not even sure our works truly interact - they seem to coexist, more than anything, on a daily level.
I see nostalgia as a form of false comfort. Rather than history, I would describe it as resemblance.
The medium usually grows out of the subject itself. Material is always charged with meaning and signs - some collective and widely readable, others deeply personal. What interests me less is their interaction, and more their flattening, or the possibility of arriving at a kind of baseline.