The Price of Desire

The dollar in art has long ceased to be just a banknote: it can signify power, fear, freedom, vanity—or personal independence. Elena Grokhovitskaya chooses the latter interpretation. In her works, monetary symbolism transforms into a conversation about character, and painting transcends its frame, appearing on silk scarves and clothing. We met with the artist to talk without marketing catchphrases: can one create art about success without becoming a hostage to pretty promises, where does a painting end and a brand begin, and what does a collector actually buy.

— In your art, money appears almost demonstratively. Weren't you afraid that viewers would see it as too straightforward a gesture? — Straightforwardness doesn't scare me if there's a second layer behind it. Money is an image that is instantly recognizable, but each person imbues it with their own experience. For one, it's freedom; for another, anxiety; for a third, a measure of responsibility. I'm interested not in the currency symbol itself, but in what happens to a person around it. — So, your "money paintings" aren't about wealth? — Not about wealth as a display. Rather, about the ability to create and manage resources. I see money as a consequence of movement: labor, decisions, perseverance, sometimes risk. Therefore, in my works, it's the energy of action, not a promise of easy luck. — But on social media, art about money easily turns into a talisman of success. How close is this territory to you? — I understand why viewers want to see a personal symbol in a picture. Art has always been imbued with additional power—memory, protection, hope. But for me, it's important not to promise a magical outcome. A painting doesn't replace actions. It can remind a person of their intention, focus their attention, and create the mood of a space. Its power lies in the meaning that arises between the work and its owner. — When did the idea for "Paintings on Clothing" emerge? — From the desire to eliminate the distance between art and everyday life. First, there were silk scarves, produced in Italy. I liked that the image ceased to be static: it changed with gestures, fabric, and light. Then came the idea of swimsuits with original monetary symbolism. For me, it's not about transferring a picture onto an object, but a different way for the artwork to exist. — Where, then, is the line between art and fashion? — I'm not sure that this line needs to be guarded today. Something else is more important: does the author's idea remain when the medium changes? If the item becomes just a souvenir, the idea disappears. If it continues the artistic language, a full dialogue emerges. I want clothing not to illustrate a painting, but to carry its internal tension.

— You call painting the core of all your experiments. Why? — Because the studio is where the most honest part of the work happens. There's no audience, no reaction, no sales—only the canvas and the need to make a decision. Painting is disciplining. It doesn't allow you to hide a weak idea behind packaging. Everything else—scarves, clothing, collaborations—makes sense as long as it's connected to this primary experience. — Your public image involves a lot of talk about ambition. For an artist, is ambition an advantage or a danger? — Both. Without ambition, it's hard to endure a long journey, especially when results don't come immediately. But ambition becomes dangerous if an artist starts creating not a work, but proof of their own significance. I try to return to the question: does the artwork have an energy that a person who knows nothing about my status and achievements will feel? — And yet, you emphasize professional recognition: membership in the Creative Union of Artists of Russia, academician status at the European Academy of Natural Sciences, the Geometria Awards 2025. Why does a contemporary artist need accolades? — Accolades don't make a painting stronger. But they mark stages of the journey and remind of responsibility. For me, the professional environment is important as a space of demand. The courage to experiment must be based on craft, education, and constant work—otherwise, provocation quickly becomes empty. — Your works are in private collections and museum funds. What changes at the moment the work leaves the studio? — It ceases to belong solely to my concept. In a collector's home, a painting gets a different biography: new light, space, people, events. I like to think that the artwork continues to live without my control. Perhaps then it becomes complete. — Today, almost everyone who sells art uses the word "investment." What does it mean to you? — I treat it cautiously. An artist shouldn't promise price appreciation—the market is more complex. Investment value is built gradually: from the quality of the works, the recognizability of the language, the author's consistency, exhibition history, collector interest, and professional reputation. But the primary reason to buy a painting should still be personal: you want to live alongside it. — So, aesthetic pleasure is more important than calculation? — They don't have to conflict. Aesthetics attract, meaning retains, and the author's story can enhance the work's value over time. But calculation without an emotional connection turns art into a number. A good collection always tells about the person who assembled it: about their taste, intuition, and ability to see something before others. — What should a person feel when they look at your painting? — There's no single correct reaction. But I resonate with a state of inner focus—when the work doesn't just adorn the wall, but restores a person's sense of their own potential. It doesn't say, "You will definitely achieve success," but asks, "What are you prepared to do for it?" — You create art about strength. Is there vulnerability in it? — Without it, strength would be decorative. The desire for success is almost always accompanied by the fear of not succeeding, losing control, or being insignificant. I'm interested in precisely this contrast. A bright, confident image can hide a very personal question—and perhaps that's why it resonates. — How do you envision the development of the "Paintings on Clothing" project? — I want to turn it into an independent artistic line: with limited editions, collaborations, and exhibition projects where painting and fashion speak on equal terms. At the same time, the edition size must remain meaningful. It's important for me not to dissolve the artistic gesture in infinite production. — And what question do you ask yourself today as an artist? — How to maintain freedom when a system begins to form around my work—collectors, projects, recognition, expectations. Success offers opportunities, but simultaneously invites me to repeat what has already worked. It's important for me not to become a hostage of my own recognition. In Elena Grokhovitskaya's art, the symbol of success turns out to be not a final destination, but the beginning of a conversation. Her paintings don't so much promise wealth as they examine the price a person is willing to pay for their own fulfillment: with attention, discipline, risk, time. Perhaps that's why the dollar sign in them functions not as an advertisement for a beautiful life, but as a mirror of desire—bright, attractive, and not always comfortable.