A BITTER GLORY : SYDNEY FILM FESTIVAL
it was not all pain and pavement slick with rain and shining under lights from shitty clubs and doing shitty drugs and hugging girls that smelled like britney spears and coconuts
Romayuk Konstenko emerges from a dark caravan that abandons the Los Angeles Ballet's two principal dancers like a pearl— his iridescence complimenting the very jewel that is Anastasia Romanov. Together, the stride as the tokens of one form of art invited to bow to another. Dressed in a white trench coat adorned with the raw cult opalescence of oysters down the storm flap, any glint of light is subtle. Pearls hold the cuffs at his wrists that are held in place with another string of Swarovski crystal and sea glass. Linen, known to billow and wrinkle, is carefully tailored to his waist to drape with elegance. Romayuk breaks the tradition of suit and tie with a woven sleeveless tank made of bleached thin rope tied over and over again in various knots— from a carrick bend, overhand, and constrictor. Refusing to wear anything to hurt his strut anymore after a performance just the night before, he wears simple white sneakers that are, of course, of a brand muted by a small logo. Around his neck, Romanyuk wears a thin chain of pearls and a gold necklace carrying a coin pendant. He also sports for the first time in a long time a trimmed haircut.