Artists: Dasha Kuznetsova

When I cross the road on the way to the store I notice homeless guy smoking by the press stall, and at this exact moment it’s like an image of the Old World is standing in front of me. I’m seeing it through a child’s eyes: illegal construction and narrow passageways between the garages, where one can come across a decomposing body. My gaze wanders towards the wall getting fixed upon an old crumbled paper and cracked rotten windowframe. Through the glass dusty I’m trying to make out the shapes of oneiric hallways and chambers. I have to pay a visit to a multi-storey ruin with crumbling brickwalls exposed under the shabby plaster. Elevator is missing a wall panel, buttons are jamming and the floor is sagged all the way. I’m moving silently along the walls painted red with cheap oil paint, walking underneath the fretworks and stunted palmtrees. Finally I enter apt. 121. A bed with grey sheets is there in a dim chamber. I come back to 128 through the curvy hallway with pitch-black tar covered handrailings and convoluted windowframes. No one noticed me.