Jenny Ivanova
“Face to Face”
painting
24 October – 12 November 2023
Nuance Gallery has the pleasure to meet you for the first time “Face to Face” with the work of the young artist Jenny Ivanova from October 24 to November 12. This is only her third solo exhibition and is a kind of continuation of her previous project “Persona”. It is not by chance that the exhibition is titled “Face to Face”. Here the exploration of the image deepens and leaves the viewer with a sense of intimacy and solitude with the face in the painting. References to the artist’s favorite period – Art Deco, are present in every picture and imperceptibly transport the audience to the streets and jazz clubs of Paris century ago. Icon painting, part of Jenny’s high school studies, has its influence in the expressive faces of the characters in the exhibition. Velina Derilova has written a short story based on the paintings in the exhibition, presenting a fraction of a night in Parisian clubs a century ago. You will be able to read it on site in the gallery, as well as on our website. And in the following lines, Jenny Ivanova presents the idea behind her exhibition.
“The portrait has always been a pillar of art history, taking different forms throughout its development: from Egyptian statues of pharaohs to Hellenic busts of Greek gods, from Renaissance frescoes, all the way to Warhol’s screen prints.
Reflecting on what is the role of the portrait in the 21st century, I decided to create “Face to Face”. Striving to expand its boundaries and mine, as well as establish a genuine connection with the viewer. These are persons freed from any external influence who can fully explore their own identity. The idealized world that surrounds them unfolds as if on a theatrical stage. An almost voyeuristic view of a dream or a perfect moment in which you are most important.”
You can read Jenny biography here.
Short story based on the paintings: VELINA DERILOVA
Autumn holds the answers to all mystical questions, thought Antoine as he walked down the leaf-covered Daunou street on his way to Harry’s Bar. After the opulent summer nights, he longed for melancholy. Only in it, the poet with a dusky face and cat eyes believed, art is born. The endless parties interested him only to the extent that Elizabeth Perry was in attendance. The actress whose palm, against all etiquette, was always wrapped around the base of her champagne glass. The heiress from Atlanta knew it wasn’t elegant and Antoine had decided this was a protest against the ideas of femininity of a time that no longer was. Not a lack of finesse but a social stance. Just like any muse, Betty was perfect.
Harry’s Bar, packed for a Tuesday night, was bursting with the sound of Armstrong’s thunderous trumpet. The crowd would ordinarily annoy Antoine, but today his heart needed noise and fuss to complete its feat. His eyes found her immediately. Betty held her drink as if it was what allowed her to be taken seriously. With her left arm tightly under her breasts and a right elbow bent at 45 degrees. They suited her, damn it. The silk gloves that she often smoothed out drawing attention to her beautiful long ghostly fingers. She didn’t have to follow the etiquette—Paris belonged to her. Antoine stood at the entrance for a moment. He wanted to take in the gorgeous back, the swan-like neck moving in sync with her hoarse laughter. When he approached, he saw that Betty was talking to a stranger in an expensive suit.
— Happy birthday, marvelous child of the South.
She turned around and her curious bottomless pupils threw their sparks. Emerald earrings dangled from under her short blonde hair.
— Mr. poet, you made it after all! I know you find celebrating trivial occasions tasteless.
— Nothing is tasteless if there’s absinthe
He kissed her on the cheek and a thousand needles pierced his fingertips. He met the eye of the man Betty was talking to and gave him his hand.
— Antoine, let me introduce you to F. Scott Fitzgerald. A mercenary artist and a charming drunk.
Fitzgerald smiled with his thin feminine lips. Small drops of jealousy appeared on Antoine’s
forehead. They shook hands.
— Did Saint-Raphaël bore you? Even the blue skies of the Riviera must become dull for the
cosmopolitan mind.
— Not at all, but a breath of decadent inspiration will benefit my new novel greatly.
Not a breath of inspiration but a breath of air, Antoine thought. He had heard about Zelda’s affair with the naval officer. About the pills.
— Girls! — screamed Betty and rushed to the door where the pale elegantly dressed L’Open sisters
appeared. As she was walking away, Fitzgerald made a step forward. His face became somber.
— You’re in love. It’s obvious, I hope you know.
— Absolute non-sense.
— Don’t, there’s no point. You are a poet with a sharp mind which is why I will be your friend tonight.
If you really want to be with her, remember…
— Don’t patronize me.
— Remember — Fitzgerald continued as if he hadn’t heard him, — your heart will be in pieces at least
once a month. And it will be broken by a different persona every time. Because there are many of them living inside her. “Do I contradict myself? I am large, I contain multitudes.” Wittman knew what he was talking about. If you think you’re going to bring the restless spirit of an elusive woman into your art without paying for it, you’re wrong. The price is high.
— What am I going to sacrifice?
— Yourself. She will begin where you end. Love is a voluntary loss of self. Over and over. One day
you will wake up and realize there is no ‘you’ without her. It’s intoxicating and there’s nothing more terrifying. Betty! I was just telling Antoine you are the most captivating Desdemona on this side of the Seine.
