They breathe.
They feel.
They remember who they once were.
Gentlemen…
Ladies…
Perverted aesthetes and politely applauding the monster—prepare yourselves.
This is God’s mistake, frozen in a pose resembling despair after an anatomical failure.
A creature whose only crime is existence.
Inside—nothing. No thoughts, no hopes.
Only the echo: “Kill me, please.”
You may laugh.
You may take photos.
But don’t forget: one day, you too will be among the exhibits.
Applause, gentlemen.
Now they hang. Dead, yet twitching.
Grotesquely twisted. Mutilated.
They look like something between a garden root and the stretched entrails of a lord caught sympathizing with the poor.
And all that remains of them is a plea:
“Kill me please.”
/commentary
In the series KILL ME PLEASE!, Alina Kleytman stages a grotesque masquerade of decadence and decay. The sculptural ensemble—writhing forms of iron cloaked in velvet and reclaimed beaver fur—suggests creatures caught mid-contortion, elegant and suffering. Their fleshy silhouettes and wiry appendages point to a hybrid of animal, object, and ornament, caught in an eternal pose of discomfort. KILL ME PLEASE! is both a plea and a performance: theatrical, absurd, and tragic. Kleytman’s hybrid bodies embody the contradictions of pleasure and pain, seduction and surrender, exploitation and excess. These are not passive objects, but witnesses—begging to be seen, touched, consumed, and ultimately destroyed.