To this day, I can still feel the doll in her pink dress on my lap as I sat strapped into my stroller, all while hearing that low rumble of an approaching train.
The city lights shimmer in the distance from my home on clear nights. The winding street runs down to the Esentai River, where people gather on weekends to stroll through the park, enjoying its fairytale atmosphere and the snowmelt flowing down from the mountains. From my window, I see large green gates that give the place the feel of a prison, yet the reason lies within: at any moment, it is possible to simply pick up and leave.
But still, I often stand by the window, as if hope alone could overcome the internal barriers to a fully open life.
Specifically for the sake of art, I bought a second-hand armchair and a matching footstool. Massive and cozy, the chair is upholstered in dark brown velvet - though, honestly, it is not at all to my taste. It stands by the wide window, positioned so that the light falls directly on the model’s torso. Today, the model is my brother, Sanzhar.
Sometimes calm, old music fills the room. Sanzhar sits silently, wrapped in snow-white sheets tightened by a leather belt, glancing at me while pretending to be a serious Roman. At eighteen, he always strives to look much older than he is.
“Don’t make me laugh, just keep a simpler look!” I said, hoping my brother would relax and just be himself.
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But Sanzhar only grumbled back:
“It’s good enough, stop making fun of me!”
Sometimes he becomes such a bore that the urge to just get up and leave grows nearly unbearable. But not today. This painting must reach the exhibition, and time has run out to find another model.
“I understand, I understand! I'm not meddling in your life, Your Highness!” A small joke followed, intended to smooth over our little conflict.
Once the preparations were finished and everything was in its place, it was time to get to work. I took a simple pencil and began to sketch.
My student days returned to me; everyone posed for one another back then, and the memory remains vivid: it is a true torment to sit motionless under a relentless gaze.
At the rustle of the pencil running across the paper, tiny hairs on the skin stand on end. It feels as if the pencil is not a pencil at all, but a hand moving along the body, just half an inch from the surface.
To put it simply, the world is full of illusions.
Sometimes the Muse in my soul falls silent. During those times, garden chores—pruning trees and canning vegetables—take over. Yet, in the midst of this work, the feeling of truly living remains absent.
On the hardest days, the park with its pool and beautiful gazebo offers a temporary refuge. A terrifying urge to sink to the very bottom of the water often arises, but at the last moment, the choice for one more chance at salvation wins out, and I drag myself back home.
Perhaps this craving is linked to a psychological childhood trauma?
When I was two years old, my father seduced a recently hired young nanny and then abandoned her. Seeking revenge, she rolled my stroller onto the railroad tracks. Fortunately, a local old man saw me and rushed to help just in time.
