The Bride Has Gone to Pick Flowers is a group exhibition curated by Lila Nazemian that presents works by Levon Kafafian, Fatemeh Kazemi, and Levani. The artists in the show utilize installation, sculpture, assemblage, textile, sound, and performance to reflect on the significance of marriage rituals from the Caucasus. Together, they create new worlds that reimagine these traditions through a speculative and queer lens.
The title of the exhibition makes reference to a Persian phrase common in Iranian wedding ceremonies: « », spoken as part of a playful consent ritual at the altar. When the bride demurs at the first or second offer of marriage, guests chime in with various lighthearted reasons for why she cannot respond, before the inevitable «yes» arrives.
Within the exhibition, the eponymous bride becomes a metaphor for the fluid and evolving nature of identity, a character shaped by the dynamic exchange of ideas and the porosity of cultural boundaries. Each artist employs alter egos as a vehicle for exploring and reinterpreting inherited practices. By embodying ancient deities and iconic literary figures, Kafafian, Kazemi, and Levani question societal norms, reposition archetypal constructs, and expand upon established customs, creating spaces that are inclusive and affirming of queer identities.
Levon Kafafian’s installation Mirror of Fate is inspired by the Armenian spring holiday hampartsum—a celebration of love and new beginnings. It is centered around the serpentine spirit Anarad, a central figure in their ongoing world-building project, Azadistan. Making reference to the practice of vijagakhagh (fortune telling), Kafafian creates an altar enveloped within suspended panels of hand-dyed silk dedicated to divination and the search for love. Among the objects handmade by the artist within the altar are a book, a leather artifact and rug, and Pools of Liquid Time crafted from satin, beadwork, and cured resin that evoke the flow of time, Anarad’s domain of influence and magic. The work is accompanied by a soundscape by electronic musician and sound artist Lara Sarkissian informed by the resonant echoes of Armenian churches and the mountainous landscapes of the Caucasus.
Fatemeh Kazemi’s Yalan Dünya draws inspiration from a ritual led by married women of rubbing sugar cubes above the heads of newlyweds. In Saqi, a partition screen is covered in wallpaper that reproduces drawings of a female figure and archival photos of lovers embracing. These works explore the parallels between celebration and mourning, joy and grief. Kazemi channels her
alter ego, the saqi (cupbearer), a seminal character in Persian literature who serves as a conduit for collective memory. In Dünya Mest Olmuş, wall moulding doubles as a concrete poem written from the perspective of the saqi about the process of fermenting grapes to be distilled into libations. The saqi embodies both earthly and spiritual realms and is represented as both male and female, manifesting a fluidity aligned with Kazemi’s explorations of queerness and cultural identity.
Levani delves into ancient Georgian beliefs and Sumerian mythology in the installation the altar, which marries the elemental forces of fire, water, earth, and air. Projected footage of the sun—a primary source of light, life, energy, and knowledge—is flanked by v. the hierophant i. + ii., two horned, androgynous totems that embody the duality of light and dark, masculine and feminine. Positioned amidst them is a water-filled stone basin hand carved by sculptor Papuna Dabrundashvili. Sounds of protesters in Tbilisi, recorded by artist Marika Kochiashvili, create perceptible vibrations. Across from the installation is ii. the priestexx [bride], which has dual presence as a warrior, and includes hand-hammered copper adornments by designer Godera. These works echo struggles for justice throughout time and highlight the relationship between present-day and ancestral cultural practices.
The Bride Has Gone to Pick Flowers transforms the gallery into a sanctuary imbued with the tranquility of sacred gathering sites. Viewers—who enter with their own personal histories, heritages, identities, and beliefs—are invited to take a moment of reprieve to contemplate their place within the world, and to consider how ancient traditions and contemporary realities intertwine to shape our individual and collective understandings of love, identity, and community.
Fatemeh Kazemi, Yalan Dünya, 2024-25
As part of the series Dünya Yalan Dünyasi
(The World: A World Full of Lies) Pine, polychloroprene adhesive, granulated sugar, table, tablecloth, laser engraved sugar cubes, clove powder, 3D printed PLA, paint
Dimensions vary with installation
Fatemeh Kazemi (she/they, b. 1992, Tehran)—also known as Afimoh—is an interdisciplinary artist and researcher whose practice spans material fabrication, fiction writing, archiving, film, curation, organizing, and hosting. Her work engages with themes of communal grief or (/gham/), underground economies, kitsch Iranian visual culture, ritual, and subculture. Developed through conversation and community-oriented collaborations, her approach is deeply rooted in collective experiences.
Kazemi earned a BFA in Painting from the University of Tehran (2014) and an MFA in Studio Art from Syracuse University (2024). Her work moves fluidly across worlds, blending installation, lens-based media, and the poetic flow of creative writing. She has exhibited at Parallel Circuit Space (Tehran), SUB Community (Çanakkale), Ruschman Gallery (Chicago), Navel LA (Los Angeles), Smack Mellon (New York), and Bayt Al Mamzar (Dubai). Her experimental films have been screened at the London Short Film Festival, CulturalHub (New York), LUX Book Fair (London), Dresden Film Festival, Everson Museum of Art (Syracuse), and Foundry By Emaar (Dubai), among other venues.
Fatemeh Kazemi, Saqi, 2024-25
As part of the series Dünya Yalan Dünyasi (The World: A World Full of Lies)
CNC milled MDF, two monitors with looped moving images, digital print on adhesive paper, fabricated glass beads, cast aluminum tiles, chain, tassels, prefabricated plastic leaves, metal rosary, imitation grapes Dimensions vary with installation
Levani (Levan Mindiashvili, b. Tbilisi, Georgia) is a transdisciplinary artist who works at the interstices of art, contemporary science, ecology, and spirituality. Ze hold an MFA from IUNA Buenos Aires National University and BFA from Tbilisi State Academy of Arts. Levani has had solo exhibitions at Cuchifritos Gallery + Project Space; Artists Alliance Inc.; Marisa Newman Projects; the National Museum of Georgia; NARS Foundation; and the Silk Museum, Tbilisi, among others. Zir work has been included in group exhibitions at The Bronx Museum of the Arts; Socrates Sculpture Park; Kunsthalle Tbilisi; the National Museum of China; Elizabeth Foundation for Arts; BRIC Biennial; the Tartu Art Museum, and more.
Levani is a recipient of residencies, awards, and grants that include: the LES Studio Program at Artists Alliance Inc.; the Annual Fellowship at Socrates Sculpture Park; the Peter S Reed Foundation Grant; the NYFA Immigrant Artist Mentoring Program; the Creative Time X Summit Grant; the AIM Fellowship at the Bronx Museum of the Arts; the NARS Foundation Studio Residency; and an award from the National Endowments for the Arts. Levani’s work has been featured in publications that include: Frieze, Art in America, The Brooklyn Rail, BOMB, ArtAsia Pacific, Art Papers, Hyperallegic, and The Art Newspaper.
Inviting a sense of multidirectional temporality, Kafafian also commissions an immersive composition by electronic musician and sound artist Lara Sarkissian, with wandering microtonal melodies and resonant echoes of the churches of the Armenian Highlands. Interwoven with elemental sounds of nature, the composition evokes a sense of temporal suspension, alluding to Kafafian’s early experiences in Armenian diaspora churches—where incense, chant, and ornament create a space in which “time does not exist.” This poignant multimedia collaboration further unveils the potential for tradition to serve as a site of transcendence and futurity.
The work of Levani (the artistic name of Levan Mindiasvhili) resonates with this vision while fragmenting it into a dissonant, post-organic key emanating from the cultural framework of contemporary and prehistoric Georgia. An installation work evoking the bride’s boudoir, ii. the priestexx [bride] (2025), is loosely anthropomorphic and techno-futuristic: a recumbent assemblage of carefully selected and designed material forms a composite being that evokes a bride who doubles as a warrior. The figure is constructed with a gazelle horn and 3D printed replica at the apex, along with 3D printed “fungus” earrings and hand-hammered copper armored underwear by Georgian designer Godera, a cast silicone “heart,” and various brass and stone elements—including
two cuboid volumes that evoke prosthetic legs, made with stone from the rural Georgian region of Tusheti. Reflected in a partly obscured mirrored panel and united together by a neon tube that serves as a “vertebrae” of sorts, the work invokes Sumerian cosmology and preChristian Georgian spirituality—undoing dichotomies of synthetic and organic, man-made and naturally produced. It also formally recalls Marcel Duchamp’s The Bride Stripped Bare by Her Bachelors, Even (1915-1923), a seminal artwork of the twentieth century. In Duchamp’s work, two glass cases with lead wire, lead foil, oil, and dust become abstract domains of a bride and her suitors—a commentary on alienated desire in the era of militarism and mechanisation. Though these works share fragmented, hybrid forms to challenge traditional representations of gender, Levani’s work nonetheless holds faith in the transformative potential of union.
With its rich layering of material and references, Levani’s practice disrupts ceremonial logic and stages a form of ritual animated by elemental tension—dwelling comfortably in the indeterminacy and the riddle that the Caucasus represents for many outside of the region. In the altar (2025), a glowing projection of the sun hovers between two androgynous totems, v. the hierophant i and v. the hierophant ii (2025). Between them and below the sun sits the well (2025), a basin of pink marble made in collaboration with sculptor Papuna
As part of the series
(The World: A World Full of Lies)
3D printed PLA, spray adhesive, vinyl, spackle, paint Dimensions vary with installation
This transcript is from a conversation held over Zoom six weeks after the opening of The Bride Has Gone to Pick Flowers. Facilitated by exhibition curator Lila Nazemian, the discussion included artists Levon Kafafian, Fatemeh Kazemi, and Levani, as well as CUE’s Executive Director, Jinny Khanduja. Conceived as a durational space for reflection, the conversation extended the temporal frame of the thinking connected to making—allowing the artists to return to the exhibition themes and to their practices with intention.
Fatemeh Kazemi: Happy Nowruz everyone!
Levani: Happy Nowruz.
Levon Kafafian: Happy Nowruz.
Jinny Khanduja: I have a question for each of you, because I’m familiar with Persian Nowruz, but is it celebrated in Armenian and Georgian culture? If so, are there differences?
Levani: In Georgia, we actually don’t celebrate it.
Levon: Armenians don’t really celebrate it, either, unless they are living in Iran, and have done so for centuries. But I have continually been in spaces where Nowruz has been celebrated. And a number of the traditions line up; the date of Easter is based on the date of Nowruz.
Lila Nazemian: It’s true. I’ve always heard from Armenian friends who are from Iran that they celebrate Nowruz. Many communities in Eastern Anatolia, currently and historically, have also celebrated Nowruz, like the Kurds. So I wonder if your family, Levon, who were from Eastern Anatolia, would have celebrated it as well?
Levon: I wouldn’t have anyone in my family who is old enough to ask [laughs], but Armenians do celebrate the holiday that precedes Nowruz—the fire jumping—although it’s been transformed a bit. I know it as Trndez, and that might be related to the term Tiarnndaraj, which means “in front of the Lord.” It’s the presentation of Jesus to the temple. There’s a big church service, and following that, people leave the church with their blessed items and make their own bonfires in their villages with juniper. The jumping happens in more private spaces—as in non-church spaces.
Lila: Yes, because it was a “pagan” thing. In Iranian culture, on the last Wednesday of the year—because Nowruz is the new year—people jump over fire to cleanse themselves of negative energy, sickness—all the things that the past year has brought. There’s also a chant that translates to something like, “Fire: take all my yellow, take all my sickness. Give me your red. Give me your vivacity.”
There are huge bonfires, and kids take part too. It’s kind of crazy. There used to be celebrations in the East Village at this small community park on Avenue C and 5th Street.
We used to go there every year, and I don’t know why they stopped having it there. But it’s a pretty special thing.
Levon, if Armenians celebrate that, then they likely also celebrated Nowruz, because they go hand in hand. So it’s interesting to think about. And I’ve been seeing that in New York, younger generations of Armenians, at least, are also celebrating Nowruz and Chaharshanbeh Suri—which is what we call the fire jumping ritual.
Levon: Oh, yeah, I have been to a club in San Francisco where there is a mini bonfire at that time of year. We have even lit a lighter, and everybody jumps over it. So that tradition is very strong, but with the advent of Christianity, a lot of it got subsumed into other holidays. I think that the way that Armenians celebrate Easter is very much colored by Nowruz’s celebrations and practices.
But there’s something that’s really curious to me that is possibly related. I was reading an article about this house spirit—perhaps a snake? These were benevolent spirits of the home, who would be chill all year round, but when February came around, they started to act up, and you’d have to chase them out of the house to go work in the fields—-to bring abundance. This is somehow tied to an idea that is really prevalent across the region and beyond, even into Russia, and the spirits had a name that aligns with the historical word for February in Arabic.
Lila: Oh, because now Arabic uses Western words for the calendar months.
Levon: Yeah, and these spirits were a version of a tale that was about these twinned beings, like Harut and Marut. There are a ton of different names, many of them rhyming.
Lila: Jinns also—there are often couple jinns.
Levon: And so I wonder, after having read all of this, how are they being chased out? How are they moved towards the fields? Part of it was through people banging things and speaking loudly inside the house, and also cleaning. But I think that the fire jumping could have also been a way to be like “shoo.”
Lila: All of this is so interesting and so connected to a lot of the questions I have for you all about the show, so let’s dive in. As we talk, I think we’ll all have other questions for one another, so go for it.
So much of this exhibition is inspired by spirituality and came about by thinking about rituals and tradition. In the case of the show, we’re obviously talking about marriage and wedding ceremonies, but I’m curious, since you’re all so connected to multiple realms of inquiry and cultures from around the world: in your individual practices, what are some of the rituals or spiritual traditions that have inspired you and also inspired the works in this show?
[Pause while everyone contemplates the question]
Jinny: And while everyone’s thinking, Lila, can I ask you a question? I hope I’m not putting you on the spot, but obviously the question you just asked is grounded in the curatorial framework that you’ve established for the show. And as we all know, this show came to CUE through an open call proposal. I think in instances like this, we perceive a lot of the what of the concept, but maybe not the why. So it would be amazing to hear a little bit about your why, for this idea or this concept, and for what you saw in these three artists that was compelling to your why as a curator.
Lila: Yes, of course. This relates to my practice as a whole, the why. As you know, I didn’t go through a traditional route within my academic journey. I didn’t study art history. I was a historian, and I’ve always been interested in early modern or even ancient history. I love objects, and I have a fascination with old things. On a day when I want to clear my mind, I would ideally go to the Met, either into the Temple of Dendur sections or the Islamic Art sections. To connect with these ancient objects grounds me. I think it’s something that I look for even in the cities that I go to. I truly believe one of the reasons I can live in New York is because it’s one of the older cities in the US. I find myself lost when I’m in a brand new city. Being in Dubai or Vegas, for example, completely messes with my nervous system, But I feel absolutely fulfilled walking around in a place that has thousands of years of human touch and human traces. There are echoes of the past that are always around us.
So the why is because I am able to make sense of what I do and what I’m interested in through some sort of connection to the past, or some deeper inquiry into a tradition or a practice from the past, approached from a contemporary angle. And in terms of everyone’s work, I think that all three of these artists explicitly do this within their own practices, within materiality too. There is a richness of material in their work, from sugar and stone, to textiles and metal. And then each of these artists’ work layers research and connects to something that’s deeper, either culturally, linguistically, or spiritually. I think that’s how it all comes together for me, and that’s why I was initially so drawn to the work of these artists, and have been for years. That’s very much part of my practice too, developing long-term relationships and following artists’ practices over time.
Levani: Lila, I like what you said about what draws you in, like the spirituality of historical context and material— it gives us a deeper meaning and purpose, maybe.
To give a little context on my current practice, I really believe COVID was such a defining moment for humanity, almost a perceptible shift in the evolutionary cycle. It’s resulted in definitive changes on every level, and I think it’s redefined how we approach this world, how we build value, how we live our lives, and how we actually value life itself.
One of the biggest questions I’ve been dealing with recently, and even more so since the genocide, is what is the purpose of art? Everything became so meaningless. I mean, some of these questions I’ve been asking myself for a while. But, you know, there are these events that confront us with reality in a way that we know it is time to deal with the responses to those questions now. For me, art that is an abstracted aesthetic production of its own—that which basically becomes a commodity—was obviously not enough anymore. It’s something that I’m trying to distance myself from. And so these questions of purpose have raised even more questions, and it’s become more important for me to interrogate my own practice through them. I think that in the West, or in the art world, there have been for a long time confined, strict rules about identity, and it’s become obvious that this lens on culture is kind of dated.
Last year, I finally had a long standing dream come true: to go to the mountains of Georgia. I went to a special region called Tusheti—one of the most remote places in Georgia— which is only accessible for three or four months of the year, from June or the end of July through September. The rest of the time, the roads are inaccessible and the villages are cut off from the rest of the country. It’s a place that’s retained some of the oldest pre-Christian traditions, from before Georgia became Christian in the third century. So a lot of this culture is essentially lost or not recognizable to many Georgians; it exists in glimpses here and there, but not as a whole. In Tusheti, a lot of it is still perceptible, so it’s a really magical and very interesting place.
While I was there, I had a meeting with a historian and ethnographer who has deep knowledge of the history of the region. He said something interesting at the beginning of our conversation. He said that Tusheti is a place of shepherds, so the entire culture is built around the needs and beliefs of shepherds. That was an interesting wake up call for me, and I know it sounds…I mean, it’s something very obvious, but it brought to the top of my consciousness this sense of how the culture in that region was informed by something so specific and human, that then was reflected in the symbols, signs, architecture, rituals…which became their own form of culture. It opened up, for me, an interesting way of how to look at my own practice, and how to think of it as something that would act for me—and maybe for those who experience it—as a connection point to an almost primordial, prehistoric state of existence. What is life at its most pure form, at its most elemental, in its most primordial state? That’s when I started thinking more broadly about this idea of elements.
At the same time, I’ve been studying and learning about ancient indigenous cosmologies and also microbiology. And something that’s been interesting to me is learning that the newest findings in contemporary science in terms of microbiology and cellular knowledge are not very different from indigenous cosmological beliefs. One piece of microbiological knowledge that has opened up my work
since COVID is the fact that only 10% of the cells that humans consist of are purely human, and 90% of what constitutes us as humans exists in the outside world…fungi or bacteria or even stardust, perhaps. It’s this sense of interconnectivity, of being part of everything. It also makes it very clear that a human-centric approach to the world, how dated and just technically, physically untrue it is, in a way that all this other knowledge started to make more sense to me.
I started thinking more about the elements, the more primal elements, which always fascinated me, but I did not have language or knowledge to begin to consider them. In thinking of, let’s say, the sun as the essence, as the beginning and the source of life in our galaxy or on our earth. And then I began thinking about the structure of the sun itself, or the patterns it has, and how they are repeated in every other life form, from the microscopic and to the molecular. Trying to understand or make sense of all these patterns, of how life represents itself or presents itself or acts is something that very much interests me, in a sort of loose form. I also have found that ritual is a compelling way of connecting these knowledges, and a way of collapsing time into the past and future. It creates these moments of connection, where this linearity falls away and you have the experience of overwhelming, spacious, spatial presence.
So for the work in this show, in particular, I was asking myself a lot of these questions, and thinking about these
revelations. The show gave me an opportunity to embody these ideas more deliberately—creating an altar through sculpture and using materials that are elemental, such as fire or stone or steel or soil. Animal life is also visible in the works, like with the horns. And even air, which shows up as sound waves. It all converges into this space, and all these elements meet each other.
In addition to that, because of how things are developing in the world, particularly in my country, Georgia, I was also wondering how I could direct all this beauty and force of life into something important, something that needs to be elevated—the resistance in Georgia. The altar became a way of bringing together all these elements of life toward a fight that’s been going on for over 120 days now, nonstop.
Lila: Wow. Thank you. In a way, you also answered one of the questions I had for you, which is how your work engages with science and spirituality on a micro and macro level. And I would love to go back to the ways that you’re bringing in the protests and what is happening on the ground in Georgia today, within this micro/macro framework.
Levon or Fatemeh, do you want to speak to some of the practices that you have incorporated or been inspired by that may not be obvious on the surface of your work?
Levon: I think for the longest time in my practice, I’ve been
Levani: Thank you, Jinny, for allowing that space for us, too.
I’ve mentioned before in our conversations that one of the highlights of working on this show was also discovering all of your work, and seeing that work come into being, to be materialized. I think that underlying all of this is honesty— how honest everyone’s approach is, how much sincerity there is in everyone’s work in the show, whether it’s the material, process, or the labor that made it possible.
I knew Levon’s and Fatemeh’s work before this, but only from images. It’s the first time I’ve encountered it in person, and it was really interesting to see the connections in how we approach these bigger themes of spirituality and ritual and community. There are even these underlying formal or aesthetic elements that we all share—for example, with elements that have three parts, like altars, doorways, and partitions, or with the circle of the sun or the shape of a heart. It’s interesting to me how we all got to those forms from very personal places, but there exists this dialogue— and how effortless the dialogue between all of our work is!
Lila, when you wrote to me and proposed that I be in the show, you said all the magical words, and made me reflect on my summer in Georgia, my thinking about the sun and pre-Christian rituals and beliefs, and marriage. The concept of the show really opened me up and allowed me to work with these ideas without really trying to hold back.
That leads me to a question that I have for all of you, also related to Jinny’s comment—when we’re talking about
things that are ritual and ancestral, I feel that sometimes there’s an element of these things living in a symbolic space rather than actively in the present. Somehow, in particular in the Western art world context, works or ideas that are about indigenous or ancestral practice, are interpreted symbolically and translated to an aestheticized representative form. It’s almost as if there’s a pride in being devoid of spiritual aspects, in ideas being intellectualized at a distance, a form of academic knowledge.
But from my understanding, the work each of you are doing, Levon and Fatemeh, is deeply invested in the present and the future, in touching our real current lives, and also in perhaps changing things or facilitating things to happen that couldn’t otherwise. So my question is, in dealing with the sacred or the spiritual, how do you communicate this about your work? Not just in addressing aesthetic inquiries, but in how they present, represent, and reimagine life and the world and our interactions with each other? I think, for all of us, ritual is not something that stays in the past; it doesn’t just mimic old traditions and paths and patterns, but has real presence in the contemporary world, as a form of contemporary knowledge that can be applied to our everyday, and to our future.
Levon: That is such a beautiful, many part question. The first thing that I pinged in on is the idea of intellectual value in the Western art world. And I have to say that I identify as a dumb bitch. Okay, hands down…don’t make me think so hard! I prefer to feel. I do engage with academic research. I
take value from that, and it does provide inspiration, but for me, it’s of interest because it’s deeply tied to the embodied. How are we taking these traditions and moving them forward? How do they live in the present moment and in the future, but also in an embodied relationship with material? How does the material call for these things to come to being?
I think it’s always very difficult to parse a lot of this out to people who are asking you to tell them about the concept. I’m like, “do you have three hours to sit and talk? Because that’s how much we’re going to need to get to an understanding.” Because A, there’s a stupid amount of historical context. B, there’s the lived context that you don’t have. C, we have to go through all of the process of feeling and touching material to intuitively get to all these things. And then, D, shut up and go sit in the space and see what it makes you feel! That’s the point.
So that being said, when I see the installation up at CUE, when I’m in the space with all of our work, it makes me want to worship. I just want to go and sit in there alone and just bask in all the energy. And I’m really looking forward to figuring out what the hell I’m going to do, how I’m going to worship and engage in ritual for the upcoming performance. That’s all I have to say.
Fatemeh: I also think a lot about the idea of academia, and the intellectualization or conceptualization of work. It really depends on how you’re thinking about discourse and the research. For me, at least, I think the space itself, the exhibition, has a capacity to be a form of knowledge making,
but not a traditional, Western, imperial form of knowledge. It’s more similar to the type of knowledge that exists in domestic spaces, and it sometimes becomes scattered into the air. I really like to visualize it that way, and think of this knowledge as being absorbed rather than understood.
And as Levon said, it can almost be its own space of worship, of meditation. It facilitates connection and the grasping of knowledge, but not the way that happens in a classroom or an institutional space.
And as far as the nature of ritual, both past and future, for me it is deeply connected to labor. For example, my alter ego, the saqi, or cupbearer, serves wine. There is a layer of ritual in serving, and in work and employment, too. I think about everyday rituals as really connected to the sociopolitical landscape of life, and particularly about the intersections with the economy.
This is also why I often like to quote friends in many of my texts, rather than just esteemed philosophers or thinkers. I know this is a corny thought, but I think art right now doesn’t have to be about what’s already known, and also, it should help people connect to each other. I think this show, and the dinner we hosted a few weeks ago, for example, is grounded in that idea in some ways.
Lila: Yeah, I absolutely agree. And with all of your comments about how Western academia may not necessarily view ritual as an acceptable academic pursuit.
Fatemeh Kazemi, Detail of Yalan Dünya, 2024-25 As part of the series Dünya Yalan Dünyasi (The World: A World Full of Lies)
Lila: Absolutely, and just to follow up on that…thank you to all of you, because it would never have been possible without each and every one of you, without Jinny, Keegan, Jasmine, everyone at CUE. And I have to agree with Levani that I am so appreciative that we all were able to work so seamlessly with one another. It has been the best experience I’ve had working on a show.
For me, it’s been the best case scenario, and I know our relationships will grow stronger from this. I think you all know that I’ve had relationships fall apart in the midst of exhibitions, so it always causes a little bit of anxiety. But, speaking about intuition, I think I’ve slowly and finally come to a place where I now know who I can build intentional work with, and with whom I should focus on friendship. Thank you for joining me on this radiant journey.
