A patch of his hair is shaved across his forehead, and the word ‘Lover’ transpires, scrawled into his skin in clumsy letters. His skin is injected with ink of emancipation. “I have a bit of like, borderline-ish personality, so when I feel bad, I just hurt myself,” Nikvashvili declares with a casual, matter-of-fact tone as he pulls the jacket off his shoulder and drags on a Marlboro Red. The drawings on his skin animate. My Darling Monster. ‘დედა’ (‘mum’ in Georgian) tangles into the name of his ex-husband crossed off with harsh black lines. If his body is a canvas for episodic outbursts of anger, the deeply engrained – and, in some cases, repressed – memories of growing up in Georgia find catharsis in masks, Nikvashvili’s main medium as an artist.