Nadya Tolokonnikova of Pussy Riot talks about her prison time

Editor’s Note: This story is part of the journalist, and it’s a new one Artnews For the series, we interviewed porters and shakers who changed in the art world.

The artist has re-established himself in his production prison for more than a decade after the Muscow riot co-founder Nadya Tolokonnikova was imprisoned in Russia for two years after performing “Punk Prayer” in Moscow’s Christ Savior.

For installation Police State (2025) Tolonkonnikova has recreated a Russian prison cell at the Museum of Contemporary Art in La Moca. But this time, she reimagines the cell as an art space. This work is not only a form of reclamation for Toronikova, but also for all Russian, Belarusian and American prisoners. The effort to include them is part of a larger ongoing project between Tolokonnikova’s Organizing Arts Action Foundation and the Art Freedom Program, which jointly archive and display the art of prisoners.

In the article, visitors are stabbed into a creepy authoritarian state. In prison cells, Torokonikova can be observed through security cameras and peeping stations to make music or art, and even have a rest throughout the day. Initially, the attractions were only visible between June 5 and 14, but the program was extended due to the museum’s anti-ice protests and National Guard deployment.

Artnews A conversation with Tolonkonnikova was conducted to learn about the installation being carried out during ongoing political conflicts in the United States and abroad.

This interview has been edited and condensed to be clear and concise.

Artnews: How did you think of it first Police State?

Nadya Tolokonnikova: I think the starting point is that my idea about five years ago was to reclaim my prison experience as a work of art. From 2012 to the end of 2013, I began to consider that my prison time was one of the longest lasting performances in art history. That was my way of taking back the time the government stole from me. I want them to be my bitch, not the other way around. The second day after the US election [associate] Geffen’s performance and planning curator Alex Sloane wrote me a letter.

Guide me to what you did when you perform Police State.

Every day starts at 11 a.m. and ends throughout the weekdays, sometimes at 5 p.m. or 6 p.m. on a long Friday, once until 8 p.m.

I got into the cell early and was ready and put everything in its place. Sometimes, I’m changing the artwork on the wall because I’m showing a lot of artwork from current and former political prisoners. Then I put on my uniform and turban because all Russian female prisoners have to wear them in prison – it’s a super patriarchal norm and Russian law – and if you refuse, you are not eligible for parole.

After the day started, I swirled between two tables. I stuffed everything I wanted to eat in prison, but couldn’t. I realized my dream around this idea: What if prisons could be a place to create? I’ve been thinking about healing and punishment and how we move towards the former. How do we help people heal through art? I have been in touch with many people in many different countries running these programs.

A table is for audio production, where I mix and basically make music. This is a combination of different layers. The grassroots are the deep foundation that penetrates your body. I wanted to create this very intrinsic feeling before putting different sounds on it. Then I got the actual prison sound from several prisons in Russia. There are some human rights groups playing videos of this torture on YouTube. I downloaded them and then showed video footage on the TV on my device and I played this very ambient and disturbing soundtrack. There is another layer that is more nostalgic to me, the ancient Russian lullaby that my mother once sang to me. Sometimes I play old recordings, or I sing with the microphone I own. Other times, I play on this little pink piano on the table.

On the second table is a very old 1921 singer sewing machine I found on the street to make it work. I was sewing military and police uniforms while I was in the Russian prison camp. So, I wanted to recreate that part of the jail experience, but to turn my own twist. I attached something (like lace and teddy bears) to police uniforms to make them less sinister and almost eliminate them, as well as slogans and words that make sense to me like “Alien,” “Revoked,” “Ghost,” “Ghost,” “Deleted,” “Deleted,” “I’m the one who was forced to leave her home and elsewhere.

What does it mean to present this work in the United States now?

This is surreal. When the protests first broke out, it was only my third day Police State The museum is closed. I decided to stay until the end of the weekday because that was what I agreed, but my husband, John Caldwell, participated in the protest, and the protests were broadcast live. Now, instead of the original Russian prison sound, I layered the sound of protest to create a new soundscape. The recording is shocking. There was an activist talking about the country becoming Russia. But we recognize that there is military on the streets. I have fought the Russian National Guard for many years. When I finally left the museum that day, there were a series of police ripped gas tiles and shot peaceful protesters with rubber bullets. The bullets flew close to me and I had never experienced it before since they didn’t do it in Russia.

I think those two days (when the biggest protests happened) were like a scene 2001: Space Odyssey Where characters travel through multidimensional worlds. I feel like time and space are twisted in this ugly geopolitical dictatorial dance, and I’m experiencing what I’ve done before again. The United States began to remind me of Russia in 2011 and 2012, when we had a huge protest against Putin. We believe we can save this country and then we can’t do that. From there, everything fell. I really hope that the people here in the United States have the ability and durability to defend this democracy. The entire cat riot movement is ready to help as much as possible.

What do you want people to get rid of Police State?

I hope they come and experience it. We can’t run it everywhere at once, which is awful. We’re all kind of connected to this big city that knows everything and everything, anyway, but I want people to come to their own conclusions, which is the first point. I don’t want to bring up any ideas. There is room for explanation.

How does it feel to put yourself in a police state on your own terms?

The entire installation has an exciting, almost church-like quality. I played a lot of religious music, mainly Gregorian odes, which were a little sad on the one hand, but also felt that they almost brought you to heaven. So through this horror and voice of the police state, we have this beautiful choir of angels that can help us beyond this moment.

I want to encourage people to speak out loud and use whatever instrument they have – whether it’s art or whatever. This moment reminds me of Russia in 2011 and 2012, when we felt like we could really be democracy. I’m not a historian and I don’t know what’s wrong, but I think Americans still have a lot of room to express themselves and exercise their rights. It’s not as bad as it might and at some point.

I want the current political prisoners who are witnessing to have work on the walls of the installation. If these people had the courage to make political art from literally Gulag, murdered like Alexei Navalny, who could demonstrate this by creating acts to overcome this horrible environment, so could each of us.

Tell me about cooperation with prisoners.

There are two works. One person works with anonymous prisoners in the United States and Belarus. I sourced fabrics from these prisoners and used them in the installation instead of on the canvas, which were my own calligraphy. One of the works says, “The last one here. I will be the first in heaven.” I think this is the mood I’ve experienced recently – sad, but also very uplifting. Another feature is the iconic cat riot Balaclava and I wrote in Russian, “They won’t go through it,” a slogan by Antifascist to General Francisco Franco during the 20th century Spanish Civil War. The interesting part about the pain that the system of recognition and oppression must go through is also its beauty and hope. Ultimately, the community is where I gain most of my strength.

As I mentioned before, I also play the artwork of the prisoner on the walls of the installation. For me, some include portraits of a woman in prison by artist Asya Dudyaeva, who served in Russia for three and a half years in Russia for release of postcards for the Ukrainian war; and anarchist of the poet Artem Kamardin, who was imprisoned for seven years for reading poetry on the streets of Moscow. Anya Bazhutova’s bleeding banana work, serving within five and a half years for committing Russian crimes in Bucha, Ukraine. This little fair for Political Prisoners Work is part of a larger joint project with my Organisation Action Foundation and the Arts Freedom Initiative that I am very passionate about. Our mission is to prevent artworks from being deleted by vulnerable artists.