trapped in the amber of the moment

Currently a busy English undergraduate, I write something that could be called epiphanies, but mostly I post my sketches

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Pencil on paper. 07.07.2014

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Starry iris. Oil pastels on paper.

16.07.2016

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Indian summer. Oil pastels on paper.

25.09.2016

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Green special. Oil pastels on paper.

09.10.2014

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Lucid dreaming. Oil pastels on paper.

16.10.2014

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The Sun is he, the Moon is she. Ink on paper.

Date unknown.

'I said to the sun, 'Tell me about the big bang.' The sun said, 'it hurts to become.' /Andrea Gibson

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Horse. Ink on paper.

05.09.2016

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Faites-vous la guerre pour me faire la cour. Ink on paper.

10.09.2016

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Day 4

Munich was thought to be the most important stop in our journey, and the evening there turned out to be as well the pinnacle of my state of happiness. As I was inhaling the crisp air of a new city, whose heated streets had been freshly washed by a summery drizzle, I begun to notice that what I exhaled besides quiet gasps of amazement was a definite sense of being content. But deeper in the evening, when going through my travel notes, that contentment grew into an ecstatic outburst of joy. Like every trip I've had, this has been a culturally rich experience, but besides it has aided me spiritually, cliché as it might sound, because this time I've been writing on the go - a past-time that has turned into a habit, a habit that has become one of my favourite things. After having made the final touches on the third entry, I had some troubles falling asleep because of that realization how lucky and grateful and how much in love with life I am right now. It was a peculiar battle of my heart wanting to jump and my mind desiring to get some rest. However, a day full of walking and a hot shower had tired me, and soon enough, as a compromise I fell into a sound sleep, half-smiling, though. -------------------- We have already crossed the border of Czech Republic, and we're out of Germany. The road leading us to Prague has a charmingly melodic name, so that all along the ride I can take pleasure in silently pronouncing the exotic-sounding 'Via Carolina' written on the roadsigns. Via Carolina, Via Carolina... The consonant phonemes join in a little, but distinct melody like glass beads in a string, following one after another. In a short moment, Prague will be welcoming us, but today, feeling a little more deprived of sleep than usual, I'd rather take a quick look around and get a good rest.

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Day 3

I’ve found out that there are minor, but noticeable differences of some societal rules between Latvia and Germany. For example, the smoking ban in Latvia (and other countries of Europe as well, from what I remember) that restricted smoking in cafés and restaurants seem to have made an exception for Stuttgart. Previously, I was convinced that such law was unavoidable and imposed by the leading countries of the EU for everyone to abide. Apparently, it isn’t so, and I was caught by surprise to find among the smells of sauerkraut and August heatwave the odour of cigarette smoke, making its way towards us from the man at the table next to ours in a crowded pub of Bavarian cuisine.

Soon we found out that, firstly, cigarettes are openly advertised, and, secondly, widely sold everywhere. The lobby of our hotel, for instance, holds a somewhat ancient (judging by its looks) and working (judging by the marks of, what seems to be, frequent exploitation) tobacco vending machine, where for just a few Euros anyone can buy themselves a packet, without having the need to show an ID of any kind. But the fact is that nobody of illegal age would do such a thing. Just like nobody in Stuttgart goes around the town roaring and drunk, despite the liberal policy concerning alcohol consumption in Germany.

In the sortiment of a regular vending machine, it is also likely to come across bottles of beer and miniature wine. If you happen to walk past the place after a hard day’s work, you can just grab a considerably cheap little bottle, open it straightaway and continue your route through the city whilst sipping a refreshing Riesling (walking with open bottles in public is forbidden in Latvia, just to compare). I have to admit, I didn’t try it out myself, but I did accidentaly participate in a mass wine tasting festival in the old town of Stuttgart, where the place was swarming with cheerful people clanking wine glasses. It wasn’t a surprising sight, considering that this is almost like a national holiday. But out of the marketplatz, where the event was held, in and around the park, and even further, were delighted couples and merry groups of wine connoisseurs sitting in the lush lawn, the sound of their sizzling chatter just as refreshing as the sparkling beverage in the evening heat.

After observing the people, the non-existance of some rules that we highly regard in Latvia, in the long run, seem to have not caused disorder among the citizens. Given that they can behave themselves well on their own, there seems to be no need for such laws. After all, everyone knows the paradigm of imposing restrictions; that where there are rules, they are bound to be broken.

Apparently, the Germans have a sufficiently refined nature to liberate themselves of some restrictions. The highways permit anyone to go as fast as their car goes, providing they can control it; alcohol is consumed in public, providing it won’t cause any trouble; and tobacco can be easily bought in a simple vending automat even by a child, providing, of course, that no child does, and is, in fact, in a safe distance of the parents. Providing one can behave as well as Germans do, what use of such laws would be there anyway?

To conclude, Stuttgart was charming in its liveliness and merrymaking. Today, I’m in Munich: a city, that excels in the refinement of details, a city, whose shopping streets of couture clothing can nourish any aesthete’s appetite of appreciating beautiful expensive things. A lot is planned for tomorrow, too. But before that, I should finally get some rest in the fresh cool sheets of the hotel bed.

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Day 2

I am glad to have these writing pauses while moving from place to place. As I found out, 180 kph with marvellous sights to both left and right is a fast remedy for overthinking. Here and now, I have different things to get my mind around.

It seems like I’m still processing the cinematographic memory film from walking through the old centre of Dresden yesterday. The setting sun had painted the sky in a rosy hue, and on that soft sateen of evening sky out stood the velvet black baroque buildings. The sun, though dunked deep into the horizon behind the skyline, made its way to appear on the mirror-like surface of the steady waters of the Elbe. The sun reflected gold shimmer in the glass windows and illuminated the gilded decorum on the dark stone, so that all along the Brühlsche Terrasse one could witness a tasteful spectacle of natural light playing with the architecture.

The city had an air of careful stillness and tranquility. The streets were not lonely, but wherever there were people, they couldn’t form a crowd in aspects of both number and sound. Little could be heard of the usual city soundtrack, too; and instead of honks and wheels, and tram-line buzzes, rhythmic steps of horseshoes were clicking away towards the Augustus bridge. The silence of the city, however, didn’t feel strange. It was accurate. It felt as if too many pairs of feet and wheels rushing across the neat ancient squares could only ruin the delicate arrangement of flowerbeds, and the weight and sound of swarming masses could shake the bridges and disturb the peaceful stillness the river of Elbe has existed in. Perhaps I had caught an unlikely moment of Dresden, perhaps the silence in the air hangs only above its historical part, perhaps it only occurs on Tuesday evenings, or maybe I’ve grasped the essence of the city, and then, presumably, its imperturbable quietness complements the reserved nature of the Germans themselves. However, to explain this from a more pragmatic perspective, surely, the silence derives from the fact that nobody has dared to dismantle the considerate arrangement of the Theaterplatz and the surrounding buildings by pushing a road through it. And after all, everyone holds their right to remain silent, and to build a multi-lane street through the old city would mean taking away that right from Dresden.

As this is written, the sight of Stuttgart is emerging in a valley between the Alps. The countryside on the sides of the road looks particularly textured here. Sometimes, I toy with the idea imagining the fields felt as soft as they look, and I could reach out my palm to go through the vineyards like thick hair.

I am putting my notes away for a while. Today I’ll get acquainted with yet another city, and I can’t wait to get a hold of her.

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Stuck inside the mobile driving through Poland... again

Although the nature of Poland from time to time can provide a satisfying scenery, driving through that country basically feels like a nauseating punishment of enduring neverending traffic jams due to roadworks, all the while out of boredom being forced to look at the surrounding masses of probably the ugliest advert signs in the history of advertising. Poland has quite a pretty landscape: its repetitiveness can soon lull anyone into a sound sleep and its natural colour scheme is incredibly soothing for the eyes, reminding me something of the homelike Latvian meadows. Deeper to the South, Poland can even offer refreshing Alpine views, as I am reminded of the last year's trip, where we made a stop at a little town named Nowy-Targ to get some rest. To see a mountainous landscape in Poland is such a rare delight for the ordinary can't-escape-driving-through-Poland traveller, but even that pureness of the snowy mountaintops in the distance of the poor little Nowy-Targ was ruined by yet another series of ad signs, promoting window installment in blinking LED lights screaming "OKNA". A terrible mistake was made to let the first Pole discover WordArt by Microsoft, since it seems as if from that very moment it was pronounced a conventional format for Polish advertising. The proof of this thesis manifests in the real-life examples, which you'll find in ridiculous places like on the walls of private residences, and, generally describing, they look like they were designed by someone colourblind, clueless and technologically confused. Largely, Polish advertisements are in their design, overabundance and evident economy on materials, comparatively the worst I've ever seen in the developed part of Europe. Weird and quite comical is also their enthusiasm towards household renovation. Every 5 kilometres a huge advert near the highway displays roofing samples. Just in the right place and time to remind the forgetful Pole driving homewards that it's high time he finally repaired that roof. They have just as much to choose from windows and doors, too. Also, they seem to have a well-established wooden palet market traditions: the Poles are up for buying, selling, exchanging wooden palets at any rate and any time of the day. Honestly, some places that offer buying wooden palets from you are open for 24 hours should the Pole casually passing by the 'Skup Paleti' sign experience a devastating urge at 3 in the morning to get rid of that stack of wooden pallets he's been carrying around all night. What a considerate and handy nation the Poles turn out to be. Overall, Poland is a country of familiar meadows, appletree plantations, consistent roadworks and, probably, a national sport of purchasing wooden palets at night (if that doesn't really happen I am confused). I have never really despised the country, however, the impression of Poland I have always had remains unchanged: it is an unbelievably large, drive-through country that simply hasn't turned their Ad-Block on.

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Day 1

Travelling - what a way to forget the troublesome world: to get yourself a whole different one. We are dashing through the plains of Central Europe. Hundreds of kilometres after hundreds of kilometres more and I am finally away from that world where I left my agenda with all its contents: scribbled-down appointments, to-do lists, lecture schedules, contacts, emails, telephone numbers. All that was written in important, urgent letters over the yellowish paper, enclosed in the navy blue covers rests still on my table in a world that I am getting away from for a while. All the plans won’t matter for now. All the appointments will wait for just a few days. A few days through the Alps and Bavarian sights, enough to clear my head. Just driving in a car is a therapeutic experience for me. Sometimes even a daily trip to work or back is a pleasant way to unwind. Sometimes I don’t even care where the wheels are taking me, as long as they’re moving. I absolutely enjoy moving fast towards different places. The scenery before us slowly expands, the path cautiously bends in curves interchanging the straight perspectives. The landscape farther near the horizon remains somewhat static, but the sides of the road are captivating, where the nearest objects slide by one after another in an expressive current of motion blur. But instead of someone with a mind and equipment like that of, let's say, Edward Munch, in this case, it is the speed that blends the colours of the scenery in layered, textured streaks. The fresh asphalt of blue undertones meets a block of beige gravel, the area above is filled with harsh strokes of sunburnt grass, and the rest is the horizon. Behold, through the side windows of the car you'll find a fantastic artwork arising out of even the dullest nature. Surprisingly, but exactly in the repetitive, tiresome stretches of Poland’s countryside had I found the resemblance of the colourblocks à la Rothko. Previously, my head had been burning hot with everyday troubles. Today, it feels as if all that had been washed out by that breeze that a car speeding towards a different place catches up. It's also a pure delight - to be deprived of internet connection and any mobile notifications. In turn, I have spent the long hours of the drive surprisingly well - I've been writing, then reading, putting down ideas, then taking the time to simply appreciate the moving horizon, then again writing... Travelling, the act of moving, is in essence wonderful, even if so far for me it has only been a tedious journey in a car, but I've finally got the chance to be completely consumed by the moment, simply aware of the landscape, simply doing what I love, undisturbed by that world I left behind. If you ever get overwhelmed by the pressing deadlines and duties of the world, perhaps, try leaving it there on your desk and go somewhere, anywhere to seek a new one instead.

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No mind, no problem. Pen on paper.

08.12.2013

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The curse of having an agile mind

How does one get out of a creative block? It seems so hard when the mind is full of other things: things with pressing deadlines, things of inflated importance, things of the real world with real responsibility towards them - chores and plans, promised deeds, forgotten duties.

Today, the trivial thoughts are dancing around my mind, playing sharp swinging jazz beats on the nerves, playing louder than the part of the mind where creative thoughts usually crop up and thrive. Writing, drawing, painting, producing anything of art amidst a stressful routine means to have a battle between the imaginative and the rational sides of the brain. The imaginative part does whatever it wants: appears, then retires, roams freely around; the rational is attached to everyday responsibilities. It’s challenging to have waves of imagination pop up in inconvenient times of the day, like in the morning, when one ought to be working, yet the body is urged to break out of the office; or in the evening, when faint efforts of falling asleep are once again disrupted by superfluous amounts of ideas. But it is painfully stifling to force creativity when there is nothing, when words are just as dry as the paintbrushes in my drawer. I tried to lure that inspiration out wherever it was hiding, bring all the forgotten ideas back to life, tried recalling what was it that I had dreamt of this night; nothing worked. Today, the mind of mine is terribly blocked with urgent, but aggravating petty problems, trying to convince me of their priority.

After several superficial attempts to finish an article and three failed attempts to begin three new ones (a consequence of having a bewildered, running mind), here I stop. Heaps of clothes still lying around me, waiting to be folded in the suitcase, draft of a sketch still etched in pencil: the body of the subject eager to be given meaning by the pen. Here I stop. Today, I have not quite finished anyth...

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Daffodils. Pen on paper

10.11.2013

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Lines on petals. Pen on paper.

02.02.2014