Anyone who has ever been to Soviet Union public hospitals, might well feel a vague sense of deja vu in front of Mariia Gelman’s “Transparency”. The installation is made of glass blocks filled with unit-dose packages left from various prescription drugs. Some of those drugs constitute Mariia’s daily therapy, she must take them in order to live on. The artist, born in the year of Chernobyl nuclear plant explosion, has suffered irreparable damage in the mother’s womb. Having spent most of her childhood in hospitals, Gelman grew up with a special type of sensitivity, traces of which can be found in almost all her artistic projects. An uncanny presence of the ugly nameless Threat encroaching on your body and health. Feeling of your own inferiority, coupled with rejection by the society, the vigorous life of which you can’t get involved into because of your limited ability to work. Since 2016 Mariia visited Japan couple of times, communicated with local people who, just like herself, had suffered from the Fukushima Daiichi disaster. Nevertheless, the installation of “Transparency” does not bear a melancholic mood. On the contrary, Gelman's work emanates a love of life and optimism, as well as a seemingly inappropriate experience of the sublime, which sometimes accompanies the contemplation of church stained glass.