The Proletariat Art

«Hey, you like art»? - he asked people passing by. Some ignored the question and kept walking, avoiding an eye contact and trouble.

Vlad looks scary, he’s been told.

«Fuck you!» - he shouted when ignored, and a red soviet star on his military hat dangerously blinked in all the glory.

Street artist VLAD in downtown New York City, pics by me

It all started on a dirty subway floor in Brooklyn where I first saw him sitting low & comfy, distributing art cards. There was a wheel chair parked next to them - photo prints of his artworks thrown on messy tiles. I was about to exit the station whenever heard his smoky voice behind: «Take for free». I had to stop, turn around and announce: «Don’t you ever give your art away for free».

Listening to my blaring Russian accent, he got up and came closer with a jumpy walk.

«Are you russian?» - he asked, convinced.

I sure was.

I looked at the wheelchair, then right into his eyes.

The eyes were dark blue and naughty. I avoid looking directly into such men’s eyes. He wore a pilotka hat - vintage cap of the USSR with a Russian Soviet Red Star pin centered in the middle of his forehead. Shadowed by dark curls and thick eyebrows underneath, the hammer & sickle symbol dropped a hint of mystery and danger on his face. What a character, I thought. Underground, undiscovered, underrated and unappreciated. Unbothered.

Vlad is a punk - how romantic.

Vlad is typing one of his Bukowski inspired stories

I knew he’s got a million stories to tell and I wanted to know them all instantly. His drawings gave hints: many were created in prison. They were unique female sex figures cards. With boobs and guns, Vlad’s women gave me a feeling of superpowers. There was one which said “Yoga”. Do they teach yoga in prison? 

The thing is, Vlad has no feet. I don’t know about yoga because his lifestyle is something from a different universe. It consists lots of cheap booze, cigarettes, punk friends and Tompkins Square Park dangers. Although, there’s Krishna tree at his favorite hang out spot. It has healing powers, I’ve heard.

Now imagine: MTA subway train, dark tunnel, grinding sound of meat and metal, crashing bones and electric discharge. That’s how Vlad lost his feet. There is even a New York Post report showing his injured body dissolved in a brutal underground reality of year 2023.

Vlad at home in New York City

Injured Society Art. PROLETARIART.

Fair Walk with me?

«Artists should be on streets» - said somebody I can’t remember, but it doesn’t really matter anymore. Times have changed. The masters of paints and brushes were found safe and sound in New York city downtown last weekend - not living rough on sidewalks, but enjoying their high sales numbers. «Pretty-pretty high» [in Larry David voice]

Artexpo New York 2025 - the 48th edition of the world's original fine art trade show - featured over 200 galleries, art publishers, dealers from around the globe, showcasing original works from more than 1,000 artists. You can imagine the visual overload.

And so, I stood on my heel, turned clockwise and spanned around. Wizards of art sent their warm welcome through the colored waves of unique visions.

The most amazing thing about Art Fairs is a chance to meet and chat with artists themselves. Whenever I saw these hypnotizing portraits by Ivan Gauthier - 24-years-old East European artist adopted in France, I felt a weird connection with his creatures. Sadness in their eyes, sincere face expressions, purity of colors - as if they were characters from slavic folklore books - made me feel warm. Young superstar talent from Paris definitely has a unique art style with obvious French influence. Think of Montmartre street artists, but with price tags reaching $8K. Enchanté.

French artist Ivan Gauthier at Art Expo New York 2025

Now, a little Paris reference.

There is this powerful painting at Whitney Museum, of the sad clown smoking a cigarette. Below is a pic of my friend Olya Sonica looking at him with a bit of distrust (you can also read more about our Whitney Museum walk via link):

Soir Bleu (1914) is a vivid homage to the years American painter Edward Hopper spent in Paris. The painting explores loneliness and existential isolation experienced by everyone who lives in a big city.

The painting below reminded me our Whitney’s find. is called «Whispers in disguise». I couldn’t find the creator’s name next to it, but I really love it and find so many different meanings in this creepy portrait of the Self, studying the duality principle - that idea of two opposing forces coexisting. One laughs, another not so happy about it. Is that all happening in one person’s head? Sure it is.

Painting at Art Expo New York 2025

Comedians and jokers are often broken inside, but they’re here to entertain us indefinitely.

For me - art is therapy, and it’s also a tool helping many to deal with the unbearable reality. It teaches to focus on details and stay still in thought. Not an easy task these days.

«Rapids of Thought» is a drawing by Yianna Foufas.  Such a perfect illustration of a human mind. I thought it was impossible to picture overthinking, but she did it.  

Self-psychology is a trendy thing at the moment. Nobody paints broken hearts and gorgeous bodies better than New York based artist Eddy Bogaert. I call his style Sexy Dangerous Soul Splash. His paintings are glossy and mirror the nature of an alfa-feminine spirit. The mixed media list is impressive: acrylic, latex enamel, oil, spray paint & nail polish on wood board. 

Painting by Eddy Bogaert

«Who is that gorgeous lady, posing naked unbothered?» - you’ll ask. And I answer: that’s you, my girl. All of us together at once. Isn’t pink our favorite color?

Brazilian artist Diogo Snow answers «YES» indefinitely.

Diogo Snow at Artexpo 2025 New York

He has a cool style, nickname and he received a reward for being the best new exhibitor at Artexpo 2025. His graffiti art with hot pink signature crowns reminding Basquiat logo is very popular at the moment, but I couldn’t stop staring at his other two paintings.

Kate Moss & Frank Sinatra paintings by Diogo Snow

With their pixelated muzzy eyes and neon pink gunshots in chests Kate Moss & Frank Sinatra look immortal. Not sure if Mustache Kate found her home, but Sexy Frank has been already sold by Saturday. Celebrities make cash! 

Speaking of celebrities. Dear Biggie, can I please look at you daily? You kinda boost up my confidence. $5,500 - Dream on, Alëna Adamson. 

«The Biggest» - The Notorious B.I.G by Seek One

Transcender Art Presentation

“It was a cold February evening on the Lower East Side, and I walked through empty streets with a canvas I put together back in October. I felt dizzy, but confident: it belongs to them streets. I made it with headlines from the oldest NYC newspaper”.

A couple weeks ago I had my Art Presentation at Equity Gallery in Manhattan. All thanks to Transcender Art Collective initiative, I had a chance to talk about my game of characters and words.

It all started when I lost my job at New York Post tabloid. Long story short - I collected a bunch of newspapers. Each one of them traveled from a News Corp building on MTA train with me while I was working in a photo department. I went through hundreds of articles, creepy pictures and crime reports, and I started cutting out news headlines. I glued them onto canvases and told my own tales-collages.

My collage cutting discoveries took me to a magic place where words started to form city buildings. My characters turned into female divas, surrounded by random words. At some point I couldn’t stop. I kept changing images, adding details, switching words and meanings around.

You can check out the whole collection here, in the ART tab of my website.



The Guggenheim's Art Portal

Shapes are uncertain, palette is bright. Abstract human figures in unexpected patterns and color mismatch forms. Ready to teleport?

I’m talking about Paris of the early 20th-century and Orphism avant-garde art-movement. Creations of the most interesting cultural time period currently on view at The Guggenheim.

L-R: Marcel Duchamp’ painting, Guggenheim library museum entrance + a frame from “library scene” in Interstellar movie. Digital Collage by Alëna Adamson.

It all started with "Sad Young Man on a Train" for me. They hanged this Marcel’s Duchamp painting next to the library entrance. The deconstructed art phenomena and its warm colors reminded me of rustling yellow book pages. Looking at the canvas from afar, I clearly imagined my favorite “Landing in the Tesseract” scene from C. Nolan’s “Interstellar”. In my mind, it was located in the round Guggenheim wall hole aka library entrance.

Art Portal is now open. Welcome to Harmony and Dissonance: Orphism in Paris, 1910-1930.

Orphism as an “enhanced cubism” art-movement was created by a poet and art critic Guillaume Apollinaire. It first appeared in 1913 - very important year in the historical sense. “The Year Before the Storm”. There’s a whole book by Florian Illies about it. Magic of everything happening at once in Europe on the threshold of the first world wars. Paintings are hypnotizing and alive. The style is associated, mainly, with Robert Delaunay and his wife Sonia, whose grandiose canvas above invites you to spy on Parisian party goers. And for her husband Robert Delaunay - I just love how he deconstructs Eiffel Tower.

Robert Delaunay - “L'Equipe de Cardiff” 1913 and “Eiffel Tower”, 1911.

Orphism kept Paris artists obsessed with round shapes and colorblocking for some time. Below is Mainie Jellett’ 1938 dark blue “Painting” [L], taking it to the next level with its deep and difficult tones combination. And “A revolta das bonecas” by Eduardo Viana [R] is simply an abstract fashion statement. Love the skirt! 1916.

Circles, swirls, space donuts on canvases go so well with the Guggenheim’ architecture. Now, go and see it for yourself.

Whitney Fridays Walks

When everything suddenly loses its meaning, exposing the void of a human existence - I place myself in between of two Warhol’s noses: big and small, Before and After, [4]

The artwork’s replica used to hang on my tiny NYC kitchen’s wall, left there by previous residents, my friends. The original 1962 canvas is on view at Whitney Museum, it’s 6 feet tall - serves as a perfect backdrop for a selfie. I go there on a Friday night, for free.

After a spin of noses I approach a big-chested bronze mama  - the sculpture just around the corner. A “Standing Woman” by Gaston Lachaise.

I count graceful ladyfingers — 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. This woman is in charge.

The pretty colored painting next to her is a portrait of Gertrude Vanderbilt Whitney - American sculptor and art collector, the Whitney Museum’s founder. I stare at her in awe: all my favorite color combinations, silks. The poetry…

Feeling lost
Next moment - found
Trapped in New York underground
Elevator “A” to “One”
Dirt and rats - next level. Done?

“Don It Again” - collage by Alëna Adamson, 11.07.2024

I've been working on this art piece over the last two days. It shows "Don it Again" Trump's face covered with a fragment of a New York Post headline. The only thing left from Kamala is a pearl earring. "Trump Country" says the hat inserted into her gone face.
Joe Biden in the bottom left corner says "BLIN" in Russian.
Bloody News Reality, here we go.

Reconstructing my reality and personality with the help of Jungian analysis I realized that there’s so much darkness in my unconsciousness - apparently, it might be a karmic curse or generational trauma history. It comes in my dreams trying to teach me lessons and giving out weird hints. If only I could decode them quickly.

I’ve been drawing, but it gives no answers, really. All I know that there’s so much fear in me, wild, unexplained, raw and animalistic. It’s bad. Fear evokes anger and takes away power.

“You are just so, so angry, - he told me. - Relax”. This statement made me furious. My left arm was pulled in the air by some invisible force. My face crooked in a grin of hate. An almost uncontrollable part of myself was trying to reach the nasty MF’ neck. I woke up and remembered:

"Namah Saptanam Samyak Sambuddha Kotinam TADYATHA: Om! Cale Cule Cundi Svaha" - I sang.

Headlines Art

My whole life I worked in newspapers. There was a dark storage room in Tambov Courier editorial office with piles and piles of weekly issues. Floor-to-ceiling rows of A3 trash. Typography excess - two years archive. Headlines and news columns rotting unattended, unopened. I was a 17 years old reporter with an ambition of a photographer, even artist perhaps, and I sneaked into that room once. I had a camera on a tripod with me. I’ve heard a mouse rustling some pages. It smelled like dry bread and instant coffee. I had a vision of myself positioned comfortably on top of the Archive Paper Giant.

Alëna Adamson in Tambov Courier newspaper archive room, 2006

That’s how I began my affair with printed words doomed for an infinite storage incarceration. Perhaps, that’s why yesterday I made this collage. I used a front page of New York City oldest tabloid, I selected juicy headlines meanings and splashed some acrylic paint on a canvas. In addition to all that, I decided to add “Alënka” soviet chocolates candy wrappers (I got them in a russian grocery store in Manhattan’s uptown).

Alëna Adamson creates her first collage with New York Post newspaper headlines

I went through hundreds of articles, creepy news and crime reports published in the newspaper. I checked out mugshots and celebrity galleries, I remembered Andy Warhol - he loved tabloids and copied front pages obsessively, with a pencil.

I’m not here for the pencils. I like cut-outs and neon paints. I see these headlines as a part of my identity now. They are reminders of my days working there. They are memories of loud newsroom talks. They are my emotions experienced on a day of the paper release. And it’s all saved in print and released to the public.

I glue them onto canvases and tell my own tales. I feel so seen.

Art of Embroidery

A Man’s Shirt. Amen. My personal style struggles seem to fade away now with this perfect piece of clothing. What makes it even better is the unique embroidery detail created by my golden-hands Katrina Fashion Fairy. I styled it with crocheted pajama shorts, put on nude ballet flats and walked out of my fashion depression. Next thing I saw was this INSANE million-beads-decorated car casually parked on NYC sidewalk. Must be some kind of a hint from the Universe? Dress-up spell in every stitch indeed.

Photo of me wearing Art & Shock LA shirt, by Lisa I. Embroidery details by Katrina Dress Up

These Art & Shock shirts are truly magical: my friend finds them in local thrift stores in LA and then embroiders flowers, flies, kisses and other cute details. Cool right? Not too much with a stylish touch.

Order yours: https://www.instagram.com/katrinadressup/

Frida Kahlo Couldn't Dream

My friend is an artist. She paints these large-scale acrylic abstractions. Four years ago I walked into her apartment in New York, laid down comfortably on a massage table she had placed next to one of her artworks and let her tattoo my face. The procedure took a couple of hours. Sharp needles tickled my forehead, injecting color in between of eyebrows hair. I loved the result: my silent films 1920s face has been transformed into a dark-framed 2020s feature.

Painting & permanent brows make-up by Anna Nareiko

In two years the paint has faded, and I had to go & tattoo my brows again. In a professional world of permanent make-up it’s called “touch-up”. This time it was in a SPA setting, my eyebrows masteritza was tired of New York and was getting ready to leave. If you told me back then that I will fly all the way to St Augustine, Florida in 2024 to tattoo my eyebrows, I would’ve probably laughed. I still am.

O, du lieber Augustin (oh, dear Augustine)
Augustin, Augustin,
Mädl ist weg, Mädl ist weg (Girl is Gone)

But my eyebrows are back in place! Oh, Augustine*. And what will you do for the beauty?

Her name is Anna Nareiko and her art is permanently on my face.

Thank you, Ms. Artist. Frida Kahlo couldn't even dream.

A Conflict Of Interests

As you might know, 🇷🇺 white-blue-red tricolor belongs to Russia. Thanks to a never ending “special operation” activity in Far Fur Lands of medved, samovar and vodka right now, we have a news machine disaster non-stop creating content for tripped out Pinky Putin & Vova Brain reality-show episodes. American citizens cover production costs, but reasonably raise many questions as they have no idea who is in charge of this weird project. Perhaps, AI.

As a result, my controlling and curious mind keeps introducing me to a wonderfully sabotaging idea of “going back to my country to check myself”.

Who knows, maybe they all just sit together with Xi Jinping in Kremlin and meditate without me?

“But you can’t go!” - annoyed and depressed Woody Allen’ character exclaims in my head. This гундосing-пиндосing inner voice is always right.

In my motherland, you see, I’ll be considered a “foreign agent”. That sounds like a lot of trouble I don’t need (but subconsciously really want to experience).

I notice little details around me obsessively and I force my sacred meanings onto them.

There was a white-blue-red appearance of a tiny candy wrapper flying in the air in front of my eyes in NYC park today. The weather turned windy earlier, and the fresh breeze from both rivers might’ve picked up this piece of trash tricolor. It looked alarming. The skies were bright white and cloudy, and the candy wrapper kept spinning in the air for a minute or two, shining. I thought of nukes.

Can they?



Ice Cream Therapy

Sweet Deal! 2.50 for a Black Hole experience.

Last week I went to a park with a Soviet Cheburashka toy in my “New York Keith Haring” canvas bag. This stuffed animal “unknown to science” (from a Soviet cartoon) became a visual symbol of my past. I put all my rebel-child upsetting experiences into that stupid looking male doll. Too long to explain, but I had to destroy Cheburashka by orders of my Gestalt therapist.

"Cheba Pixel Blyat" photo video collage

I wanted to burn him first, but that would be hard to carry out in the NYC Parks space. Burning ritual of that woolen creature made out of highly-flammable russian plastic materials might even cause Great Inwood Hill fires which will smoke up the entire Manhattan island. Too much of the risk. And so I decided that I want my trauma toy animal to be eaten by dogs.

The problem I faced once I brought Cheburashka to the park was ridiculous: dogs around here are way too friendly. They are not interested in tearing psychological ritual totems apart. I left it under a tree for 20 minutes, sat in the distance and watched retrievers, bulldogs, poodles, terriers and huskies passing by. I then got scared that my ugly cutie pie might attract creeps or drug addicts. I had to return under the tree and pick Cheburashka up. Across, there was the river.

Cheburashka, «animal unknown to science», with large monkey-like ears and a body resembling that of a cub, comes from a tropical forest. He accidentally falls asleep next to a banana peel, but later finds out it was not the accident.

He’s been thrown into the dark muddy waters returning back to the shore, to me, in the matter of minutes. I picked him back up with a stick, turned upside down (scratched round eyes facing the sky) and pushed far away. Fast river flow coming down from Hudson pushed the toy back to the rocky shore of Spuyten Duyvil Creek where I were standing. I had to leave him stuck in the mud. Next day, the waters will rise up, and he’ll be picked up and washed away. Poor, poor Cheburashka.

Today I went to check on him. Walking through NYC Park felt like some kind of an endless festival of Dominican Summer: Latina beats, baseball, folding chairs and grandmas with golden hoops earrings sitting next to speakers blasting music. I saw people chilling, having dates, kissing, picking strawberries at picnics, playing sports, taking pictures and dancing.  I’ve heard some tunes and couldn’t help it but started moving my hips a bit. Cheburashka was nowhere to be seen. A sharp emotion of weird sadness hit my solar plexus. It is what it is for now //

Fred Cut The Grass

“Fred cut the grass and walked in all itchy: that was a lot of work, and he’s finished. “Did you know that long jucy stems secrete this liquid which has a specific smell of the freshly-cut grass for a reason?”

I didn’t know the reason, and I was just enjoying the smell. Reminds me of a late summer evening in the countryside back home.

“To keep predators away” - he continued.

Freshly Cut Grass by D.S.

A vegetarian hater already told me about this once. “You feel sad killing and eating a cow? Then have compassion for plants, too. Do you know that energizing smell of freshly-cut grass?”

“Buddha through pink glasses” 06.16.2024

I inhaled the air with traces of the smell. Dust specks flying around in the sunlit room shuddered. I made an attempt to imagine how harmful Fred’s actions were for the grass over there. I pictured wildly growing weeds on the side of a staircase. Sharp blades and chilling sounds, bright green sprouts flying around… It is sad, indeed.

If I want it to be.

Scenario by D.S.