Experimental ART Photographer

For many years His perception of a “contact” notion was based on its literal translation from Latin: contaktus – “a touch”. According to this, He classified His life experience into 1) useful – where there was everything he could really touch (money, luxury things, women...), and therefore material; 2) useless – everything he couldn’t hold on to, couldn’t smell or write into his “debit” column (pangs of conscience, dreams, love, disappointment...), and therefore spiritual. Out of the whole first group He preferred women. Contacting with their bodies, looking for the differences – doing everything to enrich his “useful” life experience... Once, an intellectual got into his bed. Being used to cliche thinking, He, frankly speaking, didn’t even expect any signs of brains in the head of a long-legged blond... The contact with Her didn’t bring Him any pleasure, for the woman managed to bring this terrible little element from the group number 2 – Doubt - into their bed. She made Him understand that THERE all women are the same and in order to make a better quality comparative analysis, one needs to listen to these women... That was something he was not capable of. Leaving, She mockingly flung a remark at Him: “You’re a complete lepidopterist!”. How did the bitch even manage to articulate this?! For a couple of days He was trying to forget Her. All in vain. Even that unpronounceable word wouldn’t leave His head, it got stuck deep into his memories. When it finally became unbearable, He, swearing, searched for it on the internet. It turned out She didn’t intend to insult Him. She simply compared Him to a butterfly collector, for whom it’s not enough just to make contact with fragile beauty by means of a glance or an emotion, or positively charged fluids. As these combined rise to the cosmos in a form of harmonic energy. She compared Him to a person who needs to touch it, pierce a trembling body with a needle, put a killed beauty under the glass and count himself an aesthete. And who cares if it’s dead? Here it is – real, material, tangible, palpable with the soft finger tips that just committed a murder... He couldn’t remember how much time He devoted to Loneliness. The contact with it grew to mean so much to Him, that it made Him confused: if you can not touch Loneliness, than why did it take the first place on His “useful” list? All His life he was making contact through a touch... Not caring how many wounds, bruises, fractures and mutilations He was leaving. And now He felt how easily He was torn, broken from the inside by this Loneliness – yet He never got to touch it. And He understood: He should have made contacts cautiously, with solicitude, so as not to harm the thin cover of somebody else’s inner world. To behold from a distance, so as not to scare with an unceremonious intrusion in the personal space. Touching only with a glance, being able to put all the feelings multiplied millions of times into it. For only this kind of a contact can arouse the ability to love! And Love, itself, in return will put an end to the Loneliness, setting the priorities and rewriting His list from scratch...