Пишу с 11 лет, с объемных сказочных саг со временем перешла к малой форме и по-настоящему полюбила её. Работы публиковались в университетской газете, в интернет-журналах, в настоящее время к публикации в петербургском издательстве «Лениздат» готовится моя книга сказок для детей и взрослых. Получила степень бакалавра искусств в «Смольном Институте Свободных Искусств и Наук», со специализацией «Музыка» − в качестве дипломного проекта создала четырехчастный цикл «Sparrow phase» для одноактного балета на стихи средневековых японских поэтов о птицах и представила его в контексте существующего опыта осмысления японской поэзии и японской “темы” европейскими композиторами. С англоязычной пьесой участвовала в конкурсе радиопьес инициированном «Би-Би-Си».
Starting to write at the age of 11, by my late “teens” I realized that the short story form is closer to my heart and switched from rather voluminous fantasy works to more laconic pieces. St. Petersburg based publishing house “Lenizdat” is releasing my book of tales both for kids and grown-ups this year. With a radio play written in English I took part in a contest held by BBC. I got Bachelor of Arts degree in Smolny College of Liberal Arts and Sciences, been specializing in music. As a diploma project I presented my own music piece “Sparrow phase” meant for one-act modern ballet and having as a libretto 4 poems of medieval Japanese poets featuring birds, in the context of European composers that have already used anyhow Japanese texts or those who had been inspired by Japanese poetry and Japanese esthetical principles.
See a playground right beneath the windows? Listen to the authentic sounds coming right from it, as they will willingly play as your loyal alarm. This music has this very magic ability to penetrate into your dream in the guise of a character that had already been acting there. Feel the palm of that melody on your own palm – because it will follow you straight to Sunday morning. When it’s Sunday you don’t have to go to school. You can play your favorite games all day long, when it’s Sunday. Nicolas’s passion was for football, so the first thought that usually appeared somewhere on his pillow on Sundays was about this leg-sport, the idea of which would have probably made Wagner very angry if he had caught it during his days. A sweet enigmatic state of lying almost awake with your eyes still closed and your face all exposed to the morning sun that for some reason seems to have much more purity in its essence in the morning, could absorb Nicolas for an hour or sometimes even more. He could feel the freckles finding their places on his cheeks as they were fresh grass blades, staying captivated by that subtle surf somewhere in between dream and the actual morning.
Meanwhile the imaginary orchestra was getting its body and its shape: voices of the boys that’ve been already playing football worked as brass, while the ball hitting was like timpani and the bird voices as woodwinds for sure. Cars rushing somewhere further could be meant as cellos, with them anyway that street orchestra sounded more real. Listening to all that, Nicolas imagined himself to be a tenor waiting for his magnificent aria to start as soon as this heavenly overture will finish. This was exactly how he felt waiting for the guys (those ones playing in the yard already) to give him a call to join the game. As it used to happen every single Sunday.As it should happen today. They will yell:” Nicola-a-a-a-a-a-as”! Mark will be the first to start, as a rule joined by Sasha with Pier as the third and the last soloist.
“Nicola-a-a-a-a-a-as” – he could almost hear their call.
Anyway, he will doze a little bit more even after getting their energetic signal and then…He will rush like a flash, faster than the lightning, probably turning to one of the fastest existing substance – sound, the one that will be sooner welcomed by that living street opus magnum. Mother will be hardly able to catch him in order to feed with some fresh pancakes and as usual it will be immensely difficult to explain to her that actually the pancakes can wait, but not the game. Though for pancakes lovers a real collapse might set in, in case all moms will suddenly get a taste of morning football and start gathering in playgrounds to kick the ball instead of baking.
Nicola wondered how the boys chose up sides this time.
He opened his left eye, then the right one, but before opening them wide he savoured that moment when you can watch some surreal lucid ornamental picture as a result of sunbeams tangled between your eyelashes. Nicolas listened carefully not to miss his friends’ call, since no one had called for him yet. But what was that yell? Sounds as if Mark was celebrating his goal. Confused Nicolas sat in his bed and tousled his hair. Next minute he started to flatten them back to his forehead as in front or a pretty girl, in golfs, for example, passing by. He felt discomposed: what if there were not his friends playing today but some other boys, older ones that never call the younger to join them? What if Mark, Sasha and Pier had all caught cold as one and were forced by their moms to stay at home?
Somebody knocked at the door.
With spirits brightened Nicolas flung from his bed, but something went wrong: strong legs of a football player refused to obey this very minute. A woman entered the room with a kind smile and slim long legs, that probably shouldn’t be hidden under such a long dress. She gave him a strict look: «Nicola!s» It could be mom talking to him this way, but it was a different woman. Coming up to him she handed some pills on one palm and a glass of water in the other, never stopping to examine him with care and some anxiety in her hazel eyes.
- Oh, don’t say we start from the very beginning one more time, Nicolas… - words came out of her mouth with a deep sigh.
Stared at her, Nicola did not know what to reply, what to do with those pills and water, it was hard for him to find any memories regarding this polite stranger.
He saw a big mirror hanging solemnly on the opposite wall. Nicolas felt like he had to come up, but getting closer he could find a fear rising in his guts – fear of what he might see there. The reflection of an elderly guy with grayish hair slowly getting its shape was something he didn’t want to admit being of his possession. Under the pitiful look of the nurse he touched his hair, watching how his action matches what happens in the mirror: a lost curly-haired man with bunches of beams-wrinkles in the corners of his eyes , with his hand in his messy bush of hair. The reflection told he was not younger than 40. A few minutes later he started to remember every little thing and realized that no one would ever call him to join the game this Sunday.