BY ANNA BLOCK & KONSTANTIN LADVISHCHENKO.
Moscow winters – sullen and grey, penetrating with damp to the very bones, corroding from inside, viscous and infinite as an obscure recurring hangover dream where two people want to catch each other but just endlessly move away…
It‘s unbearable to look at it, but this reality seems stronger than their will, and in search of salvation they turn their tenacious looks at each other, they stick, clutch, pierce.. They have no choice but to maniacally observe and absorb each other and move fast to warm up in these icy evenings in waiting for a spring, light..
«I knew plenty of women. Why always more women? What was I trying to do? New affairs were exciting but they were also hard work. The first kiss, the first fuck had some drama. People were interesting at first. Then later, slowly but surely, all the flaws and madness would manifest themselves. I would become less and less to them; they would mean less
and less to me. I was old and I was ugly. Maybe that’s why it felt so good to stick it into young girls. Was I trying to screw my way past death?» Charles Bukowski.
«The only joy he gave her was the knowledge that she was necessary. Probably he didn’t love her. Love, even when filled with hate, doesn’t have that sullen face. But what is his face like? They made love in the dark by feel, without seeing each other. Is there another love than that of darkness, a love that would cry aloud in daylight? She didn’t know, but she did know that Marcel needed her and that she needed that need, that she lived on it night and day, at night especially — every night, when he didn’t want to be alone, or to age or die, with that set expression he assumed which she occasionally recognized on other men’s faces, the only common expression of those madmen hiding under an appearance of wisdom until the madness seizes them and hurls them desperately toward a woman’s body to bury in it, without desire, everything terrifying that solitude and night reveals to them.» Albert Camus.