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COLLABORATIONS
Welcome !
This page stands as a testament to the remarkable beauty that blossoms when creative spirits intertwine, reaffirming my profound faith in the boundless and exquisite potential of the human heart and mind.
HECTOR HERITIER
Hector is a French movie and music video director from Bezançon.
I had the pleasure to dance for some of his music videos :
OSCILLATIONS
My wonderful friend Alisa Safina is a visual artist from Russia who lives in Paris.
Her visions are expressed through oil and acrylic paint.
I have the pleasure to transcribe them for you into words.
night creeps into the apartment through the black hole of the window
at the entrance I gaze at my reflection in the mirror
overwhelming and intrusive,
the artificial light sticks every detail to the eyes
makes it painfully tangible
one step towards the mirror
one step back
Who is that in the blue floral dress staring back at me?
This dress is my favorite.
A piece of sky I wrap myself in.
Wearing it makes me feel special.
Two little braids.
Neat. Adorable. I like them a lot, but it's not enough...
Mother! Mother, why do I have such ordinary ears?
How happy I would be if they were like this, big and sticking out!
november 2023, Paris
a small rented room, a November
a lamp, a bottle of white wine
...as in a trance
I cut my locks in front of the mirror
and dry shave my head
with five single-use razors
thus crumbled the walls of fear
fell the shackles of prejudices
the myths were mown down in sheaves
this new fresh, intoxicating
wind of freedom
wafted over my bold and defenseless naked little head
just a few more square centimeters to absorb this world
another organ of sensation
november 2023, Paris
[gallery guide for show number 4]
There have been many turbulences and metamorphoses, and Alisa has felt the need to address her inner child, forgotten but still very much present within her.
This little girl from post-Soviet Russia who had to grow up so fast, who had to give up her dreams and understand that she wouldn't have toys because the fridge was empty.
The artist takes the child on her eternal journey – who else would she leave her to?
A stuffy overnight Flixbus to or from Paris, fogged windows, a snoring neighbour, someone watching a series without headphones, a man shouting over the phone in a foreign language...
Yet neither Alisa nor the child notice them - it's been so long since they've seen each other, Alisa needs to listen to her so much.
And the more they lead their quiet, very important and intimate conversation, the more the painter's hand reaches for bright, mischievous colors.
As if the moment had finally come for little Alisa to get all the incredible porcelain dolls, all the rag dolls, stuffed monkeys, and carnival costumes she had dreamed of.
And now the silhouettes appear on the canvases, Alisa bursts into laughter more and more often as she listens to their stories and misadventures.
It's the inner child wiping the fogged window to the world with her sleeve; things become clearer, their essence sharper and simpler. Alisa and the child have so much fun that the eternal Flixbus passengers cast stern glances at them.
What's the point?... can you really blame kids?
march 2024, Paris
[oscillations showcase]
[oscillations] is a performative exhibition of Alisa's hand-made and hand-painted kimonos/robes staged and showcased in Parisian atelier "Artistes en exile" in March, 2023.
created and staged by Alisa Safina, Katya Zharkova, Teymuraz Glonti, Anastasia Kruglyak
© Cyrielle Dagneaud
And if you think at the top of your brains "I love you" next to her, would she feel it ?
I'm fourteen and I love her so much !
The words are drowning in tenderness and trouble.
I can’t, it's unbearable, I can't !
I look at her and it’s irresistible.
How do I get to her ? stamp her under my skin ? absorb her with my eyes ?
I'll guard the delicate lines of your face.
Growing up as a kid I didn't have a dressing gown.
Neither did my mother.
And I didn't have a father either.
When at a friend’s place I see someone's dad walk out in a cozy beautiful dressing gown my heart skips a bit and melts simultaneously from someone else's happiness.
Dressing gowns aren't worn in all kinds of houses.
So I fantasize a house where everyone walks around in their gowns as they please. This luxury.
Me, I am stuck with my mother and my dreams.
And with this weird, disobedient body.
I don't know yet if I'll grow up to be a man or a woman.
Should I make a choice ? I need more time, need to hide from all the tumult ! So I put on my dressing gown. It shields me from prying looks.
It doesn't need my choice. I feel warm.
.... in this movement the portraits remain on the backs of these people As they dissolve into the crowd
move on to their elsewhere
And you to your elsewhere
The sweet irony is that they wear these portraits on their backs
so to see them they need to undress
to get intimate with themselves
Just the air between skin and naked cloth
...
through your valley from toes to forehead on your intimate
I leave the blueprint
of mine
march 2023, Paris
French photographer and visual artist from Limousin, France.
[EOLIENNES]
So… what are you looking at?
Did you think we won't notice you?
Neither me, nor this forest?
Our silent conversation has been rumbling at least since I was born.
And from what I know, long before.
Here, all things vibrate. Things breathe, dilate, merge. Everything lives. Burns, rots, alters.
And in the middle of this your apnea appears more clamorous and troubling than nocturnal cries of a hungry tawny owl.
It's the strangest thing though... you're here, among us, yet you can't be approached.
Weird, isn’t it ? I know, don't tell anything, you didn't choose any of this.
Neither your supervising stance, nor your loneliness, nor this screaming perpendicularity.
I do wonder if they put in cage you or all of us. Who's being guarded from whom ?
You're silent... But I got used to it. Yes, yes. It’s very often that our eyes meet.
You thought I couldn’t see you through the branches ?
They’ve enthroned you, but you’re no blue blood, are you.
More like this beanpole classmate who grew tall over one summer. Awkward feeling...
And it’s not like you could go away either.
How to find out what kind of world they erected you in ?
Although I’ve learned your secret. Your blades absorb everything the wind carries through the earth.
You let it wash over you and send it on. That’s how you live.
So I’ve got another one for you, here.
Send me out into the wind.
june 2023, Limoges
Charles Auguste is a multidisciplinary artist and a true soulmate.
His universe revolves around music production and movement.
Here's our first music piece together.
Some more are still in the making, as we both are very busy bees scattered all over the world.
[FLEURS NOIRES]
prod : Charles Auguste
lyrics : Anastasia Kruglyak
I went there myself.
I knew the time has come.
Voluntarily entering the beast's cave avoids you the role of the prey.
I didn't want to be their prey.
This was my hunt.
Men always smile so stupidly before they start undressing me.
As if someone pulls strings on the sides of their mouths.
It was an early spring morning, pearls of poisonous dew on the black flowers glistened, slowly evaporating under the sun thickening the air, making it deadly.
The way it burned made me want to peel off my skin.
His musty, light-filled room smelled of fresh coffee and cold tobacco smoke.
I hate the smell of cigarettes, sneakily slipping into my nostrils in the morning. Like a thief.
They all smoke out the window naked with a cup of coffee for some reason.
While I withhold from the thought of pushing them out that window.
Life and addictions will kill them far more exquisitely than I would.
Though I could just cling my warm skin against his trustful back and poof. —
Just the threads of smoke hanging in the dusty air.
When I came in, he was already dressed.
The window was closed.
Too late.
« Undress me. »
What a ridiculous gesture.
Why hadn't people ever invented clothes that you can step out of as gracefully as a Blue Morpho butterfly leaves its cocoon.
He jumped awkwardly and almost stumbled, pulling down his trousers.
Slammed into the wall, taking off his T-shirt.
What a dismal circus.
I always wear things that come right off easily, sliding down the skin.
With a single clasping motion.
He leered and trembled with all his milky pink skin, unable to handle the clasp.
A dismal circus it is.
My body was already poisoned by the dew of black flowers.
I'd never had a man in me before.
Strange how it affects them.
I feared he might back down.
But no, he sat on the edge of the couch, grasping for air like a fish, getting ready for the leap.
His last moments.
The venom of black flowers would strike him as soon as he penetrates my body.
Like the octopus black ink it will invade his circulatory system with a million black threads.
Sort of a mortal shibari.
He staggered ridiculously, looming over me.
A poisonous white puddle on my stomach.
He exhaled loudly and apologized.
There was no water in his den.
To wash his traces I had to pour kettle water on myself.
How stupid.
Although we'll never see each other again anyway, darling.
Black flowers don't leave a chance.
He only had time for the cigarette he'd just lit.
You know what I did with my first lover, darling?
I threw him into a ravine.
It was a birch log with a red nail polish mouth.
We kissed all summer long.
And then I threw him into the ravine.
He finally looked handsome in his deadpan serenity.
His stern and sad face, devoid of emotion, bared the beauty of his right features.
A cigarette smoldered in his lifeless hand.
Hey, darling.
There's your true face.
What a pity I have to go to school.
That sticky spot on my stomach is your last reincarnation.
listen on other streaming platforms :
MUE
Adrien Dournel & Anastasia Kruglyak
music : Klara Lewis & Simon Fisher Turner - Drone
part I : "The inside of the chrysalis is now filled with an apparently structureless mush..."
Metamorphosis (MUE) is a period in the life of an animal that corresponds to the transition to an adult form. It is most commonly characterized by significant physiological and behavioral changes, among other things.
Holometabolous, whose final phase is the nymphal molt, can last several weeks to several years depending on the species, leading to the development of the imago, which is radically different from the larva in terms of mode and habitat, morphology, and so on.
Seilhac, 2022.