At the cold, lonely room my hands are freezing and head is under pressure. There is a cup of tea with lemon and lots of pencils around the laptop. I’m to make sketches. And I am to make sketches the last four hours which I spend looking at the old lamps and knives.
The thing which I really want to say is that I feel horrible. Yesterday we went to the studio of our master. That cite places not at the center and I had problems with finding a point. Finally I got it and came in. The flat was small. Or it’s better to say typical. There were lots of clutter like: pictures, paper schedules, old gadgets. The surfaces were full of phone numbers and other quick note. He showed us his heap of pictures for different series and little films. That was huge amount of work which he had done. There were sketches of Celtic patterns, drafts for labels, working drawings for the sets, big sketches drawn in very little detail.
I should be inspired, hyped, excited or anything this kind. But in reality my heart dropped. There were all the proofs about the need to draw a lot. A lot doesn’t mean normal practice, it means great efforts day by day. I saw that and wanted to fade away. Where is my love to drawing? I have not practiced it for a year for some reason and I naively hoped we wouldn’t draw as much as before.
After the show we sat to eat a cake and talk a bit. He asked us about the background and everyone told own story. Mine was boring. He smoked as well as our mate. The kitchen was messy and without any clue of woman there. Many rubbish, broken window and dirty tables. That reminded me common hostel room. But we all laughed and did remarks on the pictures and the basic level of them. I asked him about maquettes and the photographer’s work.
We went out the dark building. I spoke loudly with many ironical jokes. I didn’t feel shame about ignorance in Soviet and Russian films. My songs at the underground are illogical but absolutely mine. And there we talked much too. I confessed to the youngest mate that I want to study to write script and she had the common reaction on that. Outside it was raining. Rain, green grass and orange night-light drove me crazy. I wanted to sing more, to make Nastya declare French poems or to discuss immortal themes. But they were tired, passive and talked to each other closely.
At the dark cold room I was sitting at the bed and considering about that all. I still recognise that it’s not completely mine role in this industry. I can’t breathe freely. For some reason. And I seriously mull over the idea of direction. Yes, the words are terrible, the feelings are not suitable and I have to be grateful instead of this.