Бесплатный фрагмент - Interview

In beige lacquered high-heeled shoes, the journalist timidly entered the studio of the renowned artist. The sharp scent of turpentine and oil paints enveloped her from head to toe. Her black, formal dress felt dreadfully out of place in this treasury of the genius artist’s creations. She knocked on the open door, catching the attention of the host.

“Yes, yes, come in,” replied the bustling, slightly hoarse voice.

She took a step forward, and her right heel immediately sank into the gap between two wooden planks of the old floor. Frozen in place, the journalist looked around with curiosity. The countless paintings made the space seem incredibly small, despite the room having three-meter-high ceilings!

“Good day, Valentin Evgrafovich,” the girl awkwardly smiled and struggled to retrieve her shoe from the trap.

“You must be Severina, then?”

In the center of the workshop stood two chairs with traces of paint in various colors on the backrests. On one of them, facing the door, sat the elusive artist, who was difficult for the press to catch. With his massive glasses, thick-rimmed, grizzled shovel-like beard, and tousled silver hair, he resembled a mad professor.

“You can just call me Seva,” the girl extended her hand.

Instead of responding to the greeting, he pointed to the second chair. The girl checked the seat and, satisfied that her dress would remain clean, sat down on the edge.

“And here I am,” the man theatrically waved his hands, “the king of horrors, the mad creator, the genius of horror, and what else do you love to call me in your scribbles?”

Even through the lenses of his glasses, the way Valentin Evgrafovich scrutinized his guest was captivating, transforming her into an icy statue. It seemed that one awkward movement or word, and she would become the heroine of his new painting, one that would be impossible to look at without fear.

“Oh, come on now, don’t be like that. Scared, are you?” The man leaned back, letting out a friendly chuckle. Accompanied by his ringing laughter, the chair beneath him let out a plaintive creak. Severina awkwardly smiled and lifted her head. Her wandering gaze caught two enormous cat-like eyes on a white primed canvas.

“They almost seem alive. It’s astonishing,” she remarked.

“Not alive, something’s missing,” the artist waved his hand dismissively, then refocused on the matter at hand, “shall we begin?”

“Yes, yes,” the girl tucked strands of chestnut hair behind her ears, “Valentin Evgrafovich, I need to turn on the voice recorder…”

Every time, it felt like the first time. It was always uncomfortable to bring up recording the conversation. You’d think that you’d get used to it after three years of work, but no. Severina retrieved the device from her bag and glanced questioningly at the artist. He nodded silently.

“Valentin Evgrafovich,” she pronounced the patronymic slowly to avoid any slip-ups, “you’ve been painting in this studio for forty years, and you’re already a world-renowned artist. Don’t you aspire for something more?”

The girl surveyed the space. The intense cat-like eyes were children’s pranks compared to the other canvases. A dead blue one-legged man chatted with a little girl on a brilliantly sunny street, while an enormous black shadow with red eyes loomed above them. The colors shimmered in the dim light of the lamps. Probably a recent work. Behind that canvas stood another, partially revealing its image — a woman’s head with tangled hair interspersed with green slime. Severina instinctively shuddered and pulled out her notebook. It was challenging to gather thoughts in such an atmosphere. When you step into the studio of a creator, you feel like some kind of magic is happening there, but here… It’s an entirely different matter.

“Seva, don’t be frightened, these are just paintings,” said the man, “and to answer your question, I believe that every person should be content with little but strive for more.”

To the girl, it seemed that every word from this enigmatic master of the brush was laced with a bitter mockery. It felt like he was mocking her black dress and polished shoes, her profession, her serious approach to work, and the questions she had prepared — everything she held dear with reverence.

“Do you consider yourself a free person?” she asked, “And what does ‘freedom’ mean for you?”

The artist crossed his legs so far that his body resembled a question mark, looking like an unsure musician. He turned away. In his oversized glasses, the reflection of a gloomy painting overlapped his eyes. And it was looking as if his dark personality was coming out. The girl swallowed the lump in her throat. Valentin Evgrafovich turned to the journalist and smiled wryly.

“A good question, Seva, an interesting one!” It seemed like he genuinely enjoyed pondering it. “I haven’t given an interview in twenty-five years, and I thought the media had completely deteriorated. I expected questions about the most expensive painting, which celebrities bought my works, but here you are asking about freedom! Impressive!”

While the man shared his thoughts, the girl, keeping her gaze fixed on the artist, took out her short pencil from her bag. She crossed out unnecessary questions from her prepared list. After all, creative people are more about meaning than money.

After half an hour of easy conversation, Severina relaxed, lowered her shoulders, and even genuinely smiled. She had asked everything she planned and stashed the notebook behind her back, placing it neatly on the remaining seat space so it wouldn’t be a hindrance. Her silky chestnut hair, like little snakes, playfully cascaded from behind her back over her shoulders.

“And do you have enough light in here?” she glanced at the window.