Author: Mariam Mebuke

“I had to leave something for you before I returned to my refuge, where there is not even a mirror, only a hole, where until the final complete darkness I can hide, remember so many things, and imagine from time to time how you continue to paint again, how you leave the house at night to paint again.”
— Julio Cortázar, Graffiti

Have you ever considered how things that are part of our daily lives gradually become invisible over time? This observation applies to the architecture and character of the city we live in. The places we frequent fade into the background as if we believe they are immutable, forever locked in our memories. But eventually, we notice something different, and suddenly, what we once took for granted becomes foreign. The city in our memory doesn’t match the reality before us, and this dissonance reveals that even the most familiar of places is subject to change.

As banal as it may sound, everything shifts with time—its form, its meaning. Contemplating this change is akin to reconnecting with reality, and the people who prompt us to reflect on this transformation become more valuable than they were before. This feeling is reminiscent of the joy of reading a cherished book for the first time, much like the experience described in Guram Dochanashvili’s stories.

A friend of mine visited Kutaisi this summer and asked, “Do you know where Kato Mikeladze’s house is? She lived here, on the old Sadovaya Street—she mentioned this address in her diary.” I was pleasantly surprised and immediately intrigued by her desire to find the house. I began searching for the new name of the street, frustrated with myself for never thinking to look it up before. The trail led to what is now Tbilisi Street. As we climbed the cobbled road, we imagined meeting Kato Mikeladze herself. We expected to find a memorial plaque, but despite walking the street twice, we left disheartened, convincing ourselves that we had missed it. Later, my friend returned to Kutaisi and discovered the address, only to find that Kato Mikeladze’s home, once the residence of Georgia’s pioneering feminist, no longer exists.

It’s a strange realization, discovering you don’t truly know the city where you were born, even after all the time spent there. But this revelation opens up something infinite, a sense of endless continuity, a city with no clear beginning or end. The charm of Kutaisi is in its paradox—each time you return, you must rediscover it.

Though we’ve walked through the streets of Kutaisi countless times, new street art quietly adds to the city, and we often fail to notice its context or history. Like the works displayed in Davit Kakabadze’s museum, graffiti demands evaluation, analysis, and reflection. Street art is just as significant as statues or buildings, and its stories are just as compelling.

A recent addition to Kutaisi’s streets is an image of Rezo Gabriadze holding a puppet, a nod to the iconic photograph. This graffiti is more than just art; it’s educational. For those unfamiliar with Gabriadze’s pivotal role in Georgia’s puppet theater, it sparks curiosity, leading to questions and discovery. And in the asking, we learn about the city. Our thoughts are associative, connecting threads, events, and facts, much like Cortázar’s story Graffiti, which comes to mind as I write this.

The interplay between graffiti and monuments on the streets of Kutaisi is a paradox—an immovable art juxtaposed with a transient one. Soviet-era monuments are a permanent fixture of the city’s appearance, shaped by the influence of socialist realism. Graffiti, a modern form of expression, is often seen as disruptive. However, far from devaluing the cityscape, street art makes Kutaisi more dynamic and intriguing.

Each painted wall in Kutaisi tells a story. One mural, dedicated to the Georgian hero who died in the 2008 war, depicts paper birds and a faceless figure, the contrast between the blue and white colors lightening the gravity of the subject. Below, a fragment from Zurab Kukhianidze’s poem reads:

“ My soul is in the fast breathing of Georgia”

The city also honors its “Eccentrics.” ( a famous Georgian film).  On Newport Street, “Ms. Margalita” smiles warmly at passersby. Other murals tackle serious themes. On the wall of the “House of Gratitude,” you’ll find Tina Chertova’s piece on women’s rights, a nod to Kutaisi’s progressive history dating back to the women’s high school. The same theme is echoed in Salome Nikolaishvili’s “Cosmic Girl,” which celebrates the strength, desires, and goals of women.

Recent history has also influenced street art in Kutaisi. One mural, titled Lockdown, portrays two silhouettes separated by a wall, reflecting the isolation of the pandemic. Another, titled Environmental Collapse, comments on environmental degradation, issuing a silent call for action.

Kutaisi’s murals are not all somber. Amidst the depictions of war and social issues, there are playful works like “Childhood” by Masholand, and “Kite and Children,” which brighten the city’s appearance. These colorful works, alongside more serious themes, maintain a balance in the city’s visual narrative.

Street art, an integral part of the pop art era, thrives in Kutaisi, raising questions about what constitutes art. Some may think of Banksy and debate whether graffiti qualifies as art. But regardless of opinion, cities like Kutaisi, which embrace both their history and the modern process of change, remain vibrant and relevant.

As you walk the streets of Kutaisi, whether happy, tired, or indifferent, you’ll begin to notice the city’s ever-evolving face. Perhaps, like the search for Kato Mikeladze’s house, you’ll rediscover both the old and the new, uncovering the stories this city continues to tell.