Anastasia Kaineanung and Her Micro-Publishing House "She Does Not Exist"

By day, Anastasia Kaineanung teaches Russian to foreigners. By night, she creates vivid performances, large-scale exhibitions with art objects, manifesto embroideries, and publishes her own zines under the name She Does Not Exist.

The zine and exhibition: "Schau Mit Schmerzen"

"At one point, I went through a painful breakup. Everything hurt. In my mind, everyday objects sharpened and grew spikes—it felt like I was living in a world made of sharp corners pointed right at me. I wanted to make that visible. I created a zine: I drove nails into everyday items—whatever came to mind—like a toothbrush, a bar of soap, shoes, even a piece of bread. I photographed them. Laid them all out in front of me and realized—this is an exhibition. I added embroidery and a central object: a bleeding onion heart pierced with nails. I decided to hold an opening and invited friends. The very next morning, a phone call brought the final end to that relationship. In that moment, I realized all my pain had poured into the exhibition, and I felt lighter. The show later traveled for a day to the GROUND gallery na Peschanoi in Moscow".

The performance and back-and-forth reverse calender: "6 knives for me"

"Another zine became a kind of calendar of waiting. “I had to wait six weeks for someone I loved to return from a long trip. Each week was a knife—because waiting hurts. In the zine’s narrative, knives fly and pierce an archaic statue of the goddess Nike. In the end, bloodied but undefeated, Nike rises—her wounds healing. She is, after all, the goddess of victory. Each day I wrote down a thought about the relationship—sometimes in English, sometimes in German. The zine went unnoticed. Years later, I casually mentioned it to a friend who asked for a copy. As I printed it, every page flashed before my eyes again. I realized I needed to stage a belated presentation-performance."

"The performance featured a mannequin as Nike, donated by a friend. “I painted the mannequin and inserted ziplocks of fake blood inside, so it would bleed when stabbed. During the performance, I read the zine aloud, tore off calendar pages, and stabbed the mannequin each time a week passed. After the third week, I poured paint over her. At the end, I dropped the figure to the floor and embraced her. I was covered in paint and fake blood; my black dress was soaked through. The knife holes had been pre-cut—I just had to remember where to strike."

The own self-publishing house: "She Does Not Exist"

"At first, my work was pure DIY punk: I used only my hands, no software—just scissors, glue, a copier, and staples. Later, I picked up Photoshop to adjust contrast and clean things up. Then came InDesign, and I learned to layout digitally. But my main software,” she says, “is in my head. I don’t shy away from imperfection. I don’t bind myself to institutions, scenes, or opinions. I print and bind zines at home, on my lap, in the middle of the night—when I have five hours till work, the printer jams, and won’t see the cartridge. In short, just like everyone else."