We lived in a hostel, like in the commune. A world shared so closely with someone, a world where no one has a room of their own and no way to wall themselves off, a world where there are breakfasts together, and dress swaps, and night music in an empty kitchen, and flashes and sparks. Who you share a house with is someone you become very close to, and it’s not about friendship, it’s about something else.

I used to take pictures of her on instagram. And one day, I took a tiny piece of her on camera. Seven pictures. A fragment from a whole, very long story. 

My hostel ended, her hostel ended, but the snapshots remained, and the cause and effect remained. A tenderness for all the girls around me, a boundless tenderness. We happen to be homeless and no one else’s, and there is pain in that, but also freedom and a way out — somewhere much further away. Much further than. 

Years later a wrote a piece about that time together, trying to understand what was that strange experience about. I don’t know yet.

Six months in the public eye (rus)

February 2014