A work about the ubiquitous fences in Russian cemeteries, sometimes forming a labyrinth; a place neither for the living nor for the dead, but for fences
I was surprised by the ubiquitous fences in cemeteries even in childhood. Sometimes made of strictly improvised materials, obviously stolen from somewhere - an imprint of the strange Soviet era.

Inevitably interfering with navigation and movement, endless fences; 
I looked at them while relatives were being buried. There was no great connection with the deceased, therefore there was no grief; there was sympathy and empathy for the living: I burst into tears when I saw my cousin crying over the coffin, a cheerful and humorous person in life.

I was rarely taken to the cemetery.

According to my memories, in no part of my hometown is it a walking and peaceful place, as is traditionally established in many places in the world. There was no thought of taking a walk there, even at the peak of girlish romanticism and interest in subcultures. In my perception, the Soviet and post-Soviet cemetery is not for the living and their grief, not for the dead and their memory.

The cemetery of my hometown has not become familiar and understandable to me, important and sacred. It was imprinted in my memory as a mysterious and inexplicable chaotic heap, a place not of people and not of the deceased, but a place of fences.

With things that are “well, that’s how it’s done, and that’s it”, as usual - you notice them with your mind, you think about what and how, why - much later. Especially with taboo topics, which death and the cemetery are in post-Soviet culture.

Now, when I have the opportunity to see some other cemeteries - the difference is even more surprising, the reason for the phenomenon is even more curious. Now, when I roughly imagine the [involuntary] scattering of first my living ancestors, and then their graves across the vast Eurasian space, by the forces of an irresistible soulless leviathan, now the proverb about ‘where you were born’, ‘about living next to the graves of your ancestors’ – only evokes a wry smile.

Name: TANYATAUS
Born — Location: Russia — Georgia

My experience of emigration is quite soft and privileged, I left Russia with my husband and cat, whom I love. There are no criminal cases against me, and my relatives are not disturbed. I found more new connections in emigration than I could have imagined, and it seems that I have goals and dreams. Some derealization is present in places, but this is such a trifle to talk about it.

Tatyana Mykitina is an artist, ceramist, and performer. She received a classical education in the field of "artistic ceramics" in Krasnoyarsk. She works in the direction of conceptual unique ceramics and formalism in hand-building techniques, using colored and black clay. The focus of the artist is on personal experiences, feminist agenda, reflection on totalitarian trauma and contemporary political processes. In collaboration with the "Party of the dead"
, she organized a series of performances in the self- organized space "Sad" and abandoned baths in Tbilisi. Due to the events in Russia, she was forced to move to Tbilisi.

Death is an abstraction for me, I don't think I fully understand death and loss. Sometimes I'm afraid of a stupid death, just moving around the city: touching wires, getting hit by a dump truck on my bike, falling into an unsafe undercrossing. How much trouble this would bring to my poor relatives from Russia and my husband, I try not to think about it.