Some think that truth is measured in victims, in sacrifices, in pain. I must admit, pressing a button on my camera in the middle of a Venetian night didn’t provide any uncomfortable sensations, and that moment itself was a second of absence rather than a flash of revelation. What can I say… Among the possible senses of life, art is the most unreliable; like any passion, art has no solid ground under its feet, but in the opposition to religion, rituals of art are destroying the temple of faith, rather than supporting its firmness. Practicing art, one can quickly realize, that the connection between the amount of effort put into training a craft and the “truth” of art pieces is bizarre, obscure, unclear and ungraspable. However, no one would dare say it doesn’t exist at all. Knowledge, experience, craft, talent, vanity, fame and the notorious truth eat from the same plate, but none of them serve this dish, none of them will wash it after it’s empty. Every true artist carries their own cross, trying to be courageous enough not to pray to “true art” on the way, but to count steps and feel, how the heat of the sun makes the bones soft, and the skin – porous and wet. I believe a true artist measures the self in flowery avenues, in the ambiguous sorrow of the winter air, in red dressed girls, independent of the fact, if the finger reaches the button of the camera, or not.