April 22, 2018 / 01:23
The place I spent my teenage years was far from being aesthetic paradise. Actually, it was (and stays) a real slams. Municipality has some plans to take it all down and build a regular middle-class neighborhood. But right now, just as 20 years ago, these houses are still here. They are so ugly, that has even some kind of old charm.
Back then, this dispiriting landscape around wasn’t bothering me. I was concentrated on my friends and our relationship, fantasy books (reading Hobbit and Lord of the Rings again and again), and drawing comics with little creatures, which my mum still keep in a box on top of her cupboard. Not the creatures, of course, the comics.
Now I like to believe I see the real things as they are. I have to see it, because now I am a responsible grown up. We all have to. But sometimes, especially when I am walking around with my kids I enjoy to look through my personal kaleidoscope. Then I can turn this:
see more transformations
January 7, 2018 / 00:02
One day I was cutting tomatos and suddenly had an idea for the new painting. «I’ll use pencils, acrylic and watercolors together,» — was I thinking while sketching.
I noticed that the pose and face of one of the women on my sketch reminds Ingre’s La Grande Odalisque (not the albino monkey, but the pencil face on the left)
La Grande Odalisque, Ingres, 1814
Did you notice that her hand is too long, and the left leg is in impossible pose? Well I did, but only after reading about it in wikipedia.
So, this is my Grande Odalisque, but in her normal life, while she is cutting tomatoes after swimming with friends in the river.
February 22, 2015 / 00:41
My grandma died. No, it didn’t happen today or yesterday, but a few months ago, and this is for the first time I can put it in words and write it down. When I write down things, here or elsewhere, I have a feeling that I make them a part of my personal history. Unlike memories in my mind, that can just disappear or change.
My grandma’s name was Izabella Usviatsova. This is her at the right side, first row, followed by photos of my mum, me, and then my three children in the bottom row.
It feels sometimes so strange, like I am one of her big notebooks, that she was filling up with texts, useful information and lists. I am as well full with useful information she gave me, with her stories, emotions, ideas, hugs, sweets, books, values. I still love her so much, but this love is now really useless.
May 1, 2012 / 22:37
Yesterday it was my last day at work. For almost 12 years (brutto) I came to this BN studio where I worked as a senior designer. I loved my job, and even now, after I quit, I still love it. But… I just want to do something else. In different tempo. Perhaps, will take the art path more seriously? I face the unknown and feel excited. And tonight I go on a short trip to Prague. To meet friends, to drink beer and to think, what to do now with my life.
March 25, 2008 / 12:25
Yesterday I had a lesson, the subject was preferences, «I like», «I don’t like», «I’m good in» etc.
So I asked Yukiko, how to say «I love you» in Japanese. I asked it before, but didn’t remember what she said, and that’s why:
— We don’t say «I love you», — she said, — we use only «I like you». «I love you» is old-fashion. Nobody uses it, except of old people. Or soap-operas on TV. It’s an exaggeration.
I was puzzled.
— But if you want to tell somebody that you love him, what do you say?
— «I like you». Or «I like you a lot».
— Using the same verb as you say «I like this book»?
— Hm, but, Yukiko… How do you distinguish in Japanese someone you only like and someone you really love?
— You can tell him: «I want to take care of you, please, come to live with me».
— Hehe! And what happened to all the vocabulary for relationship between «I like you» and «Come to live with me»? And if you don’t have a place to live together? How you express love?
— Lena, — said Yukiko, — in Japan we don’t talk about love, because it’s something expressed with actions. The other side has to feel it from you. If he needs words from you, you’re doing something wrong.
© 2007—2018 Lena Revenko