07-12-2013, 01:10 PM
Old Arbat was among the main arteries to Moscow’s tourist heart, a clash of tacky souvenir stalls and eclectic street performers vying endlessly for space and attention along the wide walk-way. The mill of foreign crowds was dwarfed by the stark, pastel-shaded buildings looming high above, the intricate flashes of old architecture at their heights dissected with neon signage and the bohemian fronts of quirky bars, shops and cafes at their bases. It was always so busy, and never quiet – which, for Thalia, was part of its allure. English might be the official language of the CCD, but the odd resonance of guttural Russian supposedly added to the traditional air of Arbatskaya’s illustrious history. It blended with the chime of various musicians – today a man was playing a full sized piano beneath one of the lampposts designed to look like ancient gaslamps. She soaked it all in; the noise, the colour, the wafting scents of food (you could find pretty much any cuisine here), and bullshitted herself – as always – that half-remembered memories of the shifting blur of passing faces was why so many strangers materialised in her sketchbooks.
Made sense. Right? It was one of the reasons Thalia still came here so often, though it numbered one of a myriad haunts she frequented for similar reasons, because after six years in Moscow she understood why there were so few locals here for any other motive beyond making money; New Arbat attracted the affluent elite, and Tverskaya was the hub of shopping and nightlife. Old Arbat was like most eccentrics; walk its thoroughfare one too many times and its appeal began to fade like colour bled dry from the sun. It amounted to a charming and lively taste of pseudo history, or a vulgar and overpriced tourist trap – depending on your view – but for Thalia it was nostalgia; she liked its quirky jadedness. Once, she had been among the painters hawking their wares along the cobbled street, set up under the shade of a turquoise umbrella amidst an array of her work, swapping portraits for income. Strange, how in the age of instant-gratification tech, people still went crazy for something so old-fashioned as a black and white portrait of their own face, but good for her, since drawing amounted to pretty much the only thing she was good at. That and a part-time job at a local art café had been the only things keeping a roof over her head for a long time.
These days, though, she ran almost exclusively on word-of-mouth commissions, and no longer sold on the street. For that matter she didn’t work in the café, either (not officially, anyway), though it was where she was now, catching a leisurely dinner before she headed back to her studio. Artskaf was a small place, all cosy kitsch, deep colours and soft shadows inside, and its wide length of doors opened outwards to spill seating into the street. Comfortable stuffed chairs rounded the tables, angled towards the street entertainment. It looked odd, but that was kind of the point. Only one wall, the back wall, was painted stark white in blatant contrast to what was basically an emulation of someone’s front room; designed to catch the eye of passers-by if the scent of home-cooking and coffee didn’t. On it was a mini-gallery of local pieces, including one of her own; a neo-classical style portrait skewed with fantastical embellishments; the woman, her chin tilted defiantly, had burnished gold eyes and flowers for hair. It had been a parting gift for Alek, the proprietor and Thalia’s old boss, and was the only piece displayed that wasn’t labelled for sale. An investment, he always called it, and one he was so far unwilling to part with, despite some generous offers.
Today Thalia sat outside, since the sun was peeking a little warmth through the clouds; she was curled in a chair, the remnants of dinner on a table beside her, half watching as vendors rearranged the splendour of their wares and the crowds continued to ebb and thicken. Her current sketchbook was planted open on her lap, her satchel tucked down by the chair’s curling feet, and a mug of lukewarm tea balanced precariously on the arm – a mug because all the café’s cutlery and dishes were a mish-mash Alek called “vintage.”
She was doodling, though most people would not share her definition; they were too intricate for that, though since they took little effort on Thalia’s part it was what she called them. A couple of tourists had already flocked to ask questions, perhaps interpreting the sheer languidness with which she relaxed in her chair as indication that she was somehow part of Old Arbat’s eclectic collection of entertainments. A young couple, once realising Thalia was not one of the street’s many portraitists (though she did give them her card, containing an address in Tverskaya where she had a small collection currently on display) disappeared into the café’s cool and homey interior to order coffees. When Thalia turned in her seat, Alek offered her a grin and a brief thumbs up; she grinned back. She didn’t mind the interruptions; she didn’t come to Old Arbat for solitude.
Edited by Thalia, Jul 12 2013, 03:35 PM.
Made sense. Right? It was one of the reasons Thalia still came here so often, though it numbered one of a myriad haunts she frequented for similar reasons, because after six years in Moscow she understood why there were so few locals here for any other motive beyond making money; New Arbat attracted the affluent elite, and Tverskaya was the hub of shopping and nightlife. Old Arbat was like most eccentrics; walk its thoroughfare one too many times and its appeal began to fade like colour bled dry from the sun. It amounted to a charming and lively taste of pseudo history, or a vulgar and overpriced tourist trap – depending on your view – but for Thalia it was nostalgia; she liked its quirky jadedness. Once, she had been among the painters hawking their wares along the cobbled street, set up under the shade of a turquoise umbrella amidst an array of her work, swapping portraits for income. Strange, how in the age of instant-gratification tech, people still went crazy for something so old-fashioned as a black and white portrait of their own face, but good for her, since drawing amounted to pretty much the only thing she was good at. That and a part-time job at a local art café had been the only things keeping a roof over her head for a long time.
These days, though, she ran almost exclusively on word-of-mouth commissions, and no longer sold on the street. For that matter she didn’t work in the café, either (not officially, anyway), though it was where she was now, catching a leisurely dinner before she headed back to her studio. Artskaf was a small place, all cosy kitsch, deep colours and soft shadows inside, and its wide length of doors opened outwards to spill seating into the street. Comfortable stuffed chairs rounded the tables, angled towards the street entertainment. It looked odd, but that was kind of the point. Only one wall, the back wall, was painted stark white in blatant contrast to what was basically an emulation of someone’s front room; designed to catch the eye of passers-by if the scent of home-cooking and coffee didn’t. On it was a mini-gallery of local pieces, including one of her own; a neo-classical style portrait skewed with fantastical embellishments; the woman, her chin tilted defiantly, had burnished gold eyes and flowers for hair. It had been a parting gift for Alek, the proprietor and Thalia’s old boss, and was the only piece displayed that wasn’t labelled for sale. An investment, he always called it, and one he was so far unwilling to part with, despite some generous offers.
Today Thalia sat outside, since the sun was peeking a little warmth through the clouds; she was curled in a chair, the remnants of dinner on a table beside her, half watching as vendors rearranged the splendour of their wares and the crowds continued to ebb and thicken. Her current sketchbook was planted open on her lap, her satchel tucked down by the chair’s curling feet, and a mug of lukewarm tea balanced precariously on the arm – a mug because all the café’s cutlery and dishes were a mish-mash Alek called “vintage.”
She was doodling, though most people would not share her definition; they were too intricate for that, though since they took little effort on Thalia’s part it was what she called them. A couple of tourists had already flocked to ask questions, perhaps interpreting the sheer languidness with which she relaxed in her chair as indication that she was somehow part of Old Arbat’s eclectic collection of entertainments. A young couple, once realising Thalia was not one of the street’s many portraitists (though she did give them her card, containing an address in Tverskaya where she had a small collection currently on display) disappeared into the café’s cool and homey interior to order coffees. When Thalia turned in her seat, Alek offered her a grin and a brief thumbs up; she grinned back. She didn’t mind the interruptions; she didn’t come to Old Arbat for solitude.
Edited by Thalia, Jul 12 2013, 03:35 PM.
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