In a historical moment in which our gaze seems constantly distracted, altered, or fragmented, Misha Nikatin’s works invite us to a form of radical attention. In his works, time loosens, reality becomes porous, and the image transforms into a liminal space made of suspension and waiting. We’re Only Left to Watch the Moon and Quietly Wait is not only the title of his new solo exhibition, but a poetic declaration that condenses the essence of his practice: an invitation to observe in silence, to linger in uncertainty, and to recognise slowness as the only viable way to truly understand the world.
The exhibition title originates specifically from one of the paintings on display, in which an owl gazes at a distant, unidentified point, pushing beyond the frame. This emblematic figure evokes an attitude of quiet perseverance: a way of moving through the present time with firmness, patience, and clarity. The image resonates with a phrase by the Russian writer Kornei Chukovsky—known above all for his verses for children—who wrote: “In Russia one must live for a long time,” a warning that evokes the resilience of wisdom, the ability to endure, to wait, and to continue believing, with determination, that the night, however long, will eventually open to light. Watching the moon and waiting in silence therefore means accepting vulnerability, inhabiting it, and recognising that meaning often does not manifest in moments of frenzy, but in the interval preceding every change, the unfolding of which remains unpredictable and prismatic.
This new series marks a turning point in the artist’s research, shifting his attention to the verbal dimension as a core part of the work. Each painting is accompanied by a brief question or response: fragments of dialogue that insinuate themselves onto the visual surface without explaining it, making it even more ambiguous and complex. The viewer’s gaze moves, disentangling itself between painting and words, oscillating in a continuous return. This visual device recalls the Moscow conceptualism of the 1970s and ’80s, particularly the work of Victor Pivovarov, whose research reflected the ideological saturation of Soviet life while expressing both critique and nostalgia; and that of Ilya Kabakov, who, ironically riffing on the details of Socialist Realism, employed everyday materials to stress the primacy of the idea over manual skill, turning reality into fantasy and fantasy into permanence. Nikatin draws on these legacies but offers a more intimate version, free of irony and oriented not toward critique but toward the search for a deeply personal and poetic communicative dimension—spiritual and profoundly empathetic.