Miami Art Week Begins

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , on December 2, 2014 by lisadiakova

I kicked off Miami Art Week by visiting Peter Kappa’s Open Studio, which gave me a chance to see his newest work firsthand. I’m always excited to see Kappa’s new creations. He’s a very real artist–honest, intelligent–and it shows in his work. You can check him out at Here are some pictures.

DSC_1157 DSC_1432DSC_1200DSC_1212DSC_1258DSC_1276 DSC_1341  DSC_1352  DSC_1449DSC_1387DSC_1216DSC_1244

Emily Wells

Posted in Life with tags , , , , on November 26, 2014 by lisadiakova

Feelin’ so musical. I think it’s the weather. Emily Wells, I love this woman.


Posted in Stuff I Find On the Internet with tags , , , on November 25, 2014 by lisadiakova

Woke up too early. Came across this guy. I’m obsessed. Had to share.


Steak and Eggs

Posted in Life with tags , , , , , , on November 24, 2014 by lisadiakova

The Steak and Eggs I’m having for brunch are so good I almost want to take a picture. I want to idolize this meal and put it on display to convey the experience. But nothing I can say or show you will make you understand the significance of this particular thing within the context of my reality today. I can help you imagine the breezes swaying in from the ocean a block away. I can describe the tourists in their airy clothing, with their huge beach bags, and adorable children. I can tell you about the bodies… all these beautiful nearly naked bodies glistening in the warm Miami sun. I want you to be here. To taste this. But you are not, and therefore the experience is my own. You can’t have it.

Lately, I’ve been disturbed by how many people I’ve encountered who are unhappy with their lives. Judging from the outside it seems like such an easy fix – to change, to make decisions that lead to new experiences. But when you’re in it, living it, the fear, if left untended, can consume every part of you, until you become something unrecognizable – a soft-spirited pile of mush that melts when put under pressure. It takes courage to be your truest self. It takes sacrifice, sometimes the kind of sacrifice that makes you want to scratch your eyes out. You can’t please everyone you encounter on your way, especially the nice ones, the ones who love you. It takes honesty. A person must face the animal inside if that creature is to evolve, to create, to succeed.

Honesty is such a difficult thing. People hold on to these ideas of themselves. They take pictures to portray the life they choose to share. No one sees the mold growing in the gaps, the crying babies, the dishes in the sink, the headaches, the talks of money… the bottom of the well. Most people don’t really want to see themselves. They don’t look inward long enough to realize the ugliness of it all, the beauty, the despair, the overwhelming love, the emptiness, the blessings… the juxtaposition of all the light and every bit of dark.

It frightens me that we seem to get further from enlightenment. We sacrifice our experiences to market an idea of ourselves. This is not to say that there is anything wrong with sharing the best image of yourself. The danger is in how much time we dedicate to this act of selling. If we lose ownership of our own experiences, we surrender our understanding of them, our perception of the world.

All this preamble, to accurately express what a wonderful weekend I’ve had on the beach, alone with my thoughts… how grateful I am for the life that I have, but above all, just how intensely I’ve enjoyed this meal. A picture just wouldn’t do it justice.

Lisa Diakova_Nascondino_Thirst Close-Up

Nascondino, Opening Nov. 15th

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , on November 6, 2014 by lisadiakova

Hello Everybody,

I’m excited to share Nascondino, my new collection of artwork.  The opening reception will take place on November 15th at Gallery 212 Miami in the Wynwood Arts District. The address is 2407 NW 2nd Ave. Miami, FL 33127. Come by between 7-9 pm so I can meet you!

Nascondino Flyer Gallery Solo Show Lisa Diakova


Posted in Life with tags , , , on October 23, 2014 by lisadiakova

One of my oldest friends shows up at my house last night at 12:45 am. She comes through the door with a bottle of chilled Prosecco, talking about Bukowski. She says, “It feels like I fucked him in another life.”

“I’m glad you’re enjoying him.” I tell her.

While I paint, we talk and drink. The wine goes down easy, so we uncork another bottle from my collection. The stuff she says to me makes me cry, makes me cringe, makes my belly ache with laughter. It’s like rolling in a pile of dry leaves, popping the pockets of air in bubble wrap, smashing an empty beer can underfoot. It’s like that moment when you realize you could have died, really died, so you laugh so hard it becomes madness.

Later she reads me some of her poems. There’s a bite to her writing that I really dig. It’s raw. It meanders. It kicks. Just like her. I tell her she’s a wild horse, not the most original metaphor, but I’m 5 glasses in and that last bit of creativity is siphoned toward the hand still holding a paintbrush.

At 5 am, three bottles later and depleted of energy, we take a walk around my block to get some fresh air. I wear a long dress that drags along a street that’s freshly rained on. The night is humid, warm, maternal. We want to stay in it, breathe it in, live in it. I want to lie on the street, but everything is wet so we sit in my car and doze off.

This morning we wake up to the revelation that somehow she’s made it onto the sofa, and I am in bed spooning a handsome, six-foot German.

Prodigal Poem

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , on October 23, 2014 by lisadiakova

I seem to lose this poem over and over. I forget its name… I fish through the internet rivers, read dozens of Sharon Olds poems that aren’t “the one.” So I’ve decided to make it a bed here, a place where it can perform a million times–like a senile mind that retells a story each time as though it’s the first.

The Takers
By Sharon Olds

Hitler entered Paris the way my
sister entered my room at night,
sat astride me, squeezed me with her knees,
held her thumbnails to the skin of my wrists and
peed on me, knowing Mother would
never believe my story. It was very
silent, her dim face above me
gleaming in the shadows, the dark gold
smell of her urine spreading through the room, its
heat boiling on my legs, my small
pelvis wet. When the hissing stopped, when the
hole had been scorched in my body, I lay
crisp and charred with shame and felt her
skin glitter in the air, her dark
gold pleasure unfold as he stood over
Napoleon’s tomb and murmured This is the
finest moment of my life