Tag Archives: Graffiti

An Afternoon of Art Hunt in Shoreditch

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I continue to pray, Romeo

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Here it is, my British, nihilist naturmort, I thought when he opened the doors, but only spat the tedious:
-Hey.
He was silent. Then shortly after taking not the most pleasant bath in my eyes, he began to suck the rest of the content. I started to feel as poorly as his face mimic, which pretty much reflected the ‘eh ‘ rating. He appeared to just have jumped from the bubbly, marble one to a public, covered in mold. Cursed hippocrate, he is not that … OK, I confess this rotter was hollowed out by the God himself, while I, or rather my face, is in the fourth Dante’s hell ravine. Well, you just can imagine the impact I felt after realising the differences of our worlds.
He left me in the doorway and went towards the record player like a goddamn deer… I have never seen a creature more graceful than this one, right before my eyes. In the middle of the process he seemed to remember me and an invitation to come in followed:
– Busy while waiting for a miracle? – Murmured, without turning around.
-What are you, bloody Dorian Gray? – Jealousy has taken the form of words.

The guy turned around and showed  puzzled  ‘I found myself ambushed’ type of smile. It was better than the 1/8 of a sneezing orgasm. I swear at this time I was going under a criminal case  and although I sentenced my heart for a death penalty, the head started to hold forth about democracy and rights, – all the boring dung, which acted as an antibiotic to the electrified hormones.
– Will it be? – Interrupted the inner case to offer a drink.
I took quite some time to digest the information, but did not fail to seem undeterred:
– With the ice. Fill the glass up to the end. – I threw a challenge.

He turned back and showed a slightly different smile, initiating curiosity and again his actions forced me to compare bottle-opening with the Victoria’s Secret show. He kept his gazes on me, I did too. For a second, I forgot to breathe, blink, swallow the saliva and just watched him watching me, that I watch him. He did not stop staring even when the liquid hit one millimeter to the excess point, he just knew when to stop pouring. This man was frighteningly skillful.

– Lynx – he says with a slightly hoarse voice. Me, still being reflex-less creature, tried to understand what this mystical creature is doing on Earth.
– Leo – takes the prepared drink of mine and his own,  while maintaining the eye contact and now starts massing towards me.
– Wolf – says, while shoving liqueur, contained in a quite luxurious looking  glass, to my face.
– After all, missus asked for an introduction, right? – as if explained the strange string of words and clearly satisfied with his reply he went straight back to the window.

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At this point JK Rowling’s world of magic and invisibility cloak, started to slowly disappear and the poison ceased to take over my body. The hormones, gave into the Penal Colony and now only my brain was left on the minefield.

– And you? – His tone suggested the lack of interest in my existence.
– I am Beatrice, but friends call me Deila. – I showed one of the best, sneaky smiles I had in my compartment. Buddy, it takes two to Tango. (lynx, leo, wolf and Beatrice are the characters from Dante’s “Divine Comedy”)

The guy starts to chuckle and I join.

-You read?- He put his guards down.

-A little bit. Dante just happens to be a personal favorite.

– I am surprised that you followed my remarks, but I guess I knew  it will go that way when you dropped the character name from Oscar Wilde.

-In fact, before this  game of words, I was thinking about the poem and that’s why I seemed undeterred.

-Kevin. Call me Kevin. – Slightly nods his head. Enchanted by his manners I did the same. Then I cursed myself. This man is none other than coquette. Demon closeted in a perfect body. What is his height? It seems roughly about 1.80-1.90 meters, can not exactly handle it from the couch’s perspective. Medium length hair,  directed to the back that reminded me of 1984 New York  trends. Rather a solid build, and a two-day beard, frowning eyebrows and long eyelashes, so tuned into the French fantasies I usually have. Plump lip tip with clear lines … one of those with pointy ends that kidnaps gaze. He wears a black Armani suit and slightly unbuttoned shirt exposes the delicate collarbone …

He must be joking. Such people should be driven away from the society, they pose a threat to the maintenance of a healthy mind. Coo, am I in traps, coo did the poison actually worked, Romeo?

I continue to pray for my heart to remain under the bars.

Cubanisto: Discover the spirit within

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As soon as  I, and my fellow adventure-seeking mates entered the smoky corridor, we were blown away by the mysterious attempts of the new Rum flavored beer – Cubanisto. At that instant I thought to myself: ‘Well fuck me, that’s some next level shit!’

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And that’s, my beloved (decided to be nice for a change) readers, was the beginning of the masked awesomeness.

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-Hello Sir or Madam, – we were greeted by the  nursers in masks, hiding in the shadows of fabricated fog. Soon after such cloak-and-dagger suggestion to drop the identity (whether it was gender, age or an ugly face) we were asked to confess our secrets on a sheet of paper. I am usually pretty open, perhaps to a disgusting level, but this time I would rather not share my confession, as I was pretty downright there. Perhaps even too blunt, as later the perplexed faces of the two-speaking-at-once-nurses implied, while reading it. The misses were also  kind enough to  give a piece of  puzzle for each of us to solve. I felt  Zamza’s motifs messing with my essence and moulding it into a shape of a Sherlock Holmes’ magnifier.  Curiosity driven metamorphosis was now partying in my brains and pants.

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This and that happened, and we found ourselves facing a closet, and yeah, you guessed it, it was a hidden door to the party. Literally a God damn Narnia, but like tres tres cooler, as we knew that on the other side – free booze awaits (pardon me, the movie or book fans). The transfusion to boozy Narnia happened through a really small coridor with, yep, some lights at the end (almost the dying-like scenario). A lit sign offered to ‘discover the spirit within’ and directly beneath there was the most (and the only one, so far in my short life) beautiful midget door.

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*Opens the petite doors*

We see a pair of masked beer ladies, who provided the salvation to our poor alcoholic souls. The Sherlock within us soon realised that the puzzle pieces need to form a skull. We dared to take out our socialising paraphernalia – revolver of a smile, and M4A1 of word voms and began targeting the victims. As the expert of the later gun, I got an overkill: spotted, aimed and then GUNSHOT. After solving the puzzle, thanks to the guns , Sherlock or whoeverthefuc, we went to claim the key.

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Let me tell you more about this hell of a key. The party had some wooden creates with locks on them, but luckily, the key for the curious fucks, had an open Sesame function. Behind those boxes, almost angelic , were the free-food cards. I don’t think a child’s birth can compare to the happiness I found at that time.

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So I was eating my precious sandwich, drinking some (or rather a lot of) beers and enjoyed the swarm of people merrily glitter-pimping their masks. The confessions were projected next to the mask workshop, but I don’t think they put mine out there, as it was a bit too much, as I have warned.  There were also folks putting up some nice neon graffiti on walls, and a photo-booth that gives the pictures manually (instead of a machine printing it, there was a hand that poped-out (almost shat my pants, though)) so I was really on high happiness levels.

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Finally, a countdown to the midnight began, and at the end of it some sick  beat-boxing took over the vibes.

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It was a damn good adventure, let me tell you. Cubanisto and Ralph agency (the guys who put all this up), you sirs or madams deserve a freakin’ bow, for all I know.

All photographs are by ‘They call me GT‘  // @theycallme_gt

Winters make me fat. A tribute to food

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I come from a family where gravy is considered a beverage.

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There is no sincerer love than the love of food.

Sort of an open letter to India

Dear,

I have this extraordinary habit of having insomnia whenever I go heavy on drinks and guess what, this is one of those nights (or days, kind of lost right now). I found myself up and ready to hustle at 4AM. And the realization of time was as painful as the alarm clocks are in the morning. Well, you get the picture – pain in the arse. The stream of thoughts at night are quiet entertaining, though. To say it softly… I found myself in the making of newfangled terms  for the Lithu-American dictionary and sharing this verbal crap with my girl gang over the group chat. I hope it didn’t wake them up. No, actually I don’t care, the word is really worth of waking up for. And yes, I do have girl friends now. Everyone tends to categorize (even this statement has categorization motifs in it) people and I kind of fall into the segment  I am not too proud of – a mate who never writes first. This tag sucks and I am afraid it describes me as a fucking lousy friend to just anyone, so to speak. I could probably throw in some promises to you that would be related to changes in actions, but you know that I am a person of a habit. You know that very well, actually, because you were the very one who was grammar-nazi-ing my ‘the’s and ‘a’s and look at this letter now – still don’t get a difference.  I won’t be promising you changes, maybe once in a while I will write a manifesto as such, but not because you’re not worthy of the change, but I just don’t believe in such methods of friendship maintenance. Not keeping in touch has its own mysterious narratives, leaving me often to find myself remniscening about the good old days we had almost 2 years ago, now. Fuck… Two years, huh? I think I even gained a wrinkle or too. So, I do remember you, like a lot. Even if I don’t announce it personally. And if that was an essay, this would probably be its thesis statement. Cool beans?

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After having a marathon of the Internet and its darkest, deepest corners I decided to try falling asleep, but insomnia is a heartless bitch. I just had this urge of writing a letter to you and couldn’t shut my brain, therefore I blame you if my heart fails.  Here I am at 8AM (rhyme is not a crime) with my laptop in my bed (sad story), trying to encapsulate all the good stuff we ever have been through in few sentences but just keep failing the job. You taking care of me – health, cooking food, making the best fucking ice coffee ever or just patting my back whenever I had my most depressive moments – all of it comes back as heart-warming fragments of the time interval we shared.  FYI: I developed serious iced coffee addiction after this. I remember, me coming up to you and asking to leave the city, for the reason that I just wanted to have a wanna-be runaway from the various shit. You unwaveringly agreed. Me making you  wear VANS or dragging to funny places (corsica studos) or forcing Harry Potter (can’t believe this bitch doesn’t like it) upon you – all of it was really hilarious. Except Hachi: A Dog’s Tale. Hachiko was heavy stuff and even the beauty of Richard Gere didn’t make it less sad. 12 inch subway sandwich [dauuumn] was consumed as if it was nothing – that’s how upsetting it was. Cried a river, literary. Oh, and thanks for all the books you left behind, I am trying to cope up with the huge pile, yet I tend to go back to the abusive relationship with Murakami’s writings. Bloody bastard, but I do fancy him a little, even gave up on the idea of burning the collection. Well, bitch, I really really miss you and am happy for you – going to get married soon and working for Elle India, I mean even adopting – pure  amazeballs of philanthropy. But I selfishly wish for you to be my neighbor once more. One more time wake you up and see  your bizarre morning face or go eat some cakes with tea,  just any girly bullshit would do. For fuck’s sake we event went to Spanish classes together so that we could  swear and call each other names. Tell me that’s not epic!?

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Finally, I want to say that i quit smoking. Chain smoker like me? Hell yes! And that would probably be the conclusion. Habits or getting rid of them, apparently, is as easy as prostitutes (get the hidden message?)

So, salut, slut!

For the really true friends.

(hope you didn’t find the letter too gay)

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Warehouse//Grafitti raves

Recently I got invited into a private warehouse-graffiti party. And the first thing I saw when me and my mates entered the place was a bunch of people drawing on walls,

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Obviously, since we got invited, we already knew what to expect, thus we came prepared as well. We occupied a free spot on a wall and started scribbling:

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Good music, that after became a live band’s performance, audience that is of ‘arty’ type, and art itself complimented the experience of this secret gathering.

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These sort of hidden communities properly define London as a place for people interested in arts. It’s not Tate Modern or other publicly advertised and commercialized institutions that are worth of attention, but rather a place where people can get in close contact with art itself. Instead of taking a position from standing point of view.

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The only thing that might be bothersome, is that you can attend a place like this only through networks. But people here are friendly, so as long as you’re willing, you can come to the next party as well!

See you there?

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