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On this photo I am 22. I am on stage, playing a famous Russian poet, Vladimir Mayakovski. My former wife (at that moment – my future wife) is lying on the floor in a pose of desperate refusal, I am looking at her exactly how a twenty-two year old guy looks at his future wife – fascinated, perplexed, confused and thirsty. To love a woman is in a way also a hopeless prayer without address, but let’s avoid going further into details, let’s stop at this poetic thoughtful corner and just enjoy the panorama.

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Love and art have the same purpose: unconditional and inexplicable desire; so, it is highly probable that love and art are the same movement of a soul. Rituals of love are as intimate and ambiguous as art rituals; the connection between being in love and being loved breaks under the slightest touch. Lovers are strangers on the square in Venice, trapped in the web of sounds and lights, and sometimes also forget to press the button, that opens the lens of the camera to capture a dissolving moment of ephemeral togetherness.

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