Алена
Writing of author's texts, rewriting
Work description:
A girl named Alena, who is in fact the subject of this biography, was born in a small town located in the very heart of the Kuban region. Southern sun, mountain air, and excessive parental love nourished her young character. On my own initiative, I refused to attend the establishments for mass gatherings of children known in society as "kindergarten". As punishment, my mother instilled in me at such a young age a love for the thoughts of people long dead. I read Kant, Hesse, Mann, not grasping the meaning at all; I read merely for the sake of reading. I did not manage to avoid school and other no less interesting educational institutions. I grasped everything on the fly, as it seemed to me; it was hard to define the boundaries of my interests: drawing, mathematics, dancing, target shooting... Now I would say I was spreading myself too thin, but back then - no, back then I was a well-rounded developing personality.
A love of knowledge and art prompted me to leave school as early as possible, or rather to swap it for a "more serious" educational institution. After finishing ninth grade, I left for the big city of Krasnodar, where I began my education specializing in "Advertising". My dreams shattered when I failed to find in my teachers' eyes any passion for the disciplines being studied. It turned out that not only things have a price, but so does the status of a top student.
A child's psyche did not expect anything like that at all.
A year and a half later, the most logical solution seemed to be to finish school externally and, together with my former classmates, to undergo the unified state exam. At that moment, there still was not (or no longer was) any certainty about my future profession, or even about the desire to have one. This led to excellent exam grades and a whole year spent pondering the meaning of my future life.
Recalling my distant childhood and attending art school classes, my memory paints my own spellbound gaze, now lingering for a long time, now darting swiftly from one picture to another. These pictures are now fashionable to call masterpieces. A multitude of complex words dwelled incoherently in my head: romanticism, postmodernism, psychologism... Perhaps the genes of my intellectual ancestors began to stir in my blood, or perhaps I was struck on the head with a blunt object, but I came to Moscow and enrolled in the State Academy of Slavic Culture. Surprisingly, it is already the third year of my life in the capital of Russia, the third year of the process of obtaining a proudly sounding label: "Art Historian".
The constant wavering of my soul between advertising and art history affected most of all the process of earning money. Today I am a promoter of baby diapers, and tomorrow a wedding stylist. A week ago I was giving people a smile and samples of improved shampoo, and yesterday I was creating the image of Little Red Riding Hood for some unknown photo shoot. All the emptiness of uncertainty and the bitterness of many years of disappointment are worth the happy eyes in front of me. It does not matter what this joy is connected to - a freebie received with a purchase or hair extensions.
By the age of twenty, all I have is a pile of ambitions behind me, the experience of rare ascents and frequent falls, and the cockroaches in my head whose dancing seems to make my brain explode. When, as a little girl, I was asked what I wanted to do - I answered: write. When I am now asked where I see myself in five years, I quietly smile; my answer has not changed.
When I am asked to tell about myself - I most often stay silent. I can tell a lot about myself. But these would only be fragments of stories. Subjective experience telling its tale, often confusing the main with the secondary. I am a figment of my own imagination, I am a story about myself.
A girl named Alena, who is in fact the subject of this biography, was born in a small town located in the very heart of the Kuban region. Southern sun, mountain air, and excessive parental love nourished her young character. On my own initiative, I refused to attend the establishments for mass gatherings of children known in society as "kindergarten". As punishment, my mother instilled in me at such a young age a love for the thoughts of people long dead. I read Kant, Hesse, Mann, not grasping the meaning at all; I read merely for the sake of reading. I did not manage to avoid school and other no less interesting educational institutions. I grasped everything on the fly, as it seemed to me; it was hard to define the boundaries of my interests: drawing, mathematics, dancing, target shooting... Now I would say I was spreading myself too thin, but back then - no, back then I was a well-rounded developing personality.
A love of knowledge and art prompted me to leave school as early as possible, or rather to swap it for a "more serious" educational institution. After finishing ninth grade, I left for the big city of Krasnodar, where I began my education specializing in "Advertising". My dreams shattered when I failed to find in my teachers' eyes any passion for the disciplines being studied. It turned out that not only things have a price, but so does the status of a top student.
A child's psyche did not expect anything like that at all.
A year and a half later, the most logical solution seemed to be to finish school externally and, together with my former classmates, to undergo the unified state exam. At that moment, there still was not (or no longer was) any certainty about my future profession, or even about the desire to have one. This led to excellent exam grades and a whole year spent pondering the meaning of my future life.
Recalling my distant childhood and attending art school classes, my memory paints my own spellbound gaze, now lingering for a long time, now darting swiftly from one picture to another. These pictures are now fashionable to call masterpieces. A multitude of complex words dwelled incoherently in my head: romanticism, postmodernism, psychologism... Perhaps the genes of my intellectual ancestors began to stir in my blood, or perhaps I was struck on the head with a blunt object, but I came to Moscow and enrolled in the State Academy of Slavic Culture. Surprisingly, it is already the third year of my life in the capital of Russia, the third year of the process of obtaining a proudly sounding label: "Art Historian".
The constant wavering of my soul between advertising and art history affected most of all the process of earning money. Today I am a promoter of baby diapers, and tomorrow a wedding stylist. A week ago I was giving people a smile and samples of improved shampoo, and yesterday I was creating the image of Little Red Riding Hood for some unknown photo shoot. All the emptiness of uncertainty and the bitterness of many years of disappointment are worth the happy eyes in front of me. It does not matter what this joy is connected to - a freebie received with a purchase or hair extensions.
By the age of twenty, all I have is a pile of ambitions behind me, the experience of rare ascents and frequent falls, and the cockroaches in my head whose dancing seems to make my brain explode. When, as a little girl, I was asked what I wanted to do - I answered: write. When I am now asked where I see myself in five years, I quietly smile; my answer has not changed.
When I am asked to tell about myself - I most often stay silent. I can tell a lot about myself. But these would only be fragments of stories. Subjective experience telling its tale, often confusing the main with the secondary. I am a figment of my own imagination, I am a story about myself.
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