25/08/2025
It rained yesterday afternoon. I have a particularly tender, warm affection for August rain. A thought occurred to me: for me, “home” is not a city, nor even a particular building — indeed, it is not even strictly the people. For me, “home” is cosy comfort and a measure of solitude. For the time being, I am, in a sense, homeless.
Over the past few months, I have felt as though I’ve finally — even if not entirely — shed the peel that sort of shielded me over the last decade. This year, on the whole, has been very helpful. Perhaps the most bruising experience so far was taking part in a workshop on the making of art films; it rather bluntly revealed that cinema is simply not for me. (Once, I even considered applying to the directing programme at drama school!) Today I feel I have met myself again — that child who aspired to be Cruella de Vil. It is important now not to stray from the path, not to give in to despair after the first setbacks — and equally important not to programme myself to expect their inevitability or some apocalyptic outcome.
These days, I am sewing my first pieces not for myself but for private clients. In everything — in sewing and tailoring, in drawing and painting, even in the simple act of tying a turban — I follow a set of plain rules: I work diligently and persistently, and I try to concentrate solely on my craft; I do not overexert myself; I take well-timed pauses and leave things for the next day when it feels right; I remind myself that not everything comes at once, but if one conserves and spends one’s energy evenly, success will follow.
I am at a turning point. From painter I am becoming a fashion designer — a couturier of sorts — as I dreamed in childhood. Follow me so you won’t miss the updates from the front line of my atelier.
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P.S. — Guess which three drawings were done in the past week and which are older? I’ll be charmed if you’re right.
