The bus cracked, but I didn't

Stretched canvas, acrylic paints, markers
110x90 cm
2019

A year has passed since a bus hit me. By the name of the work, you can guess that the bus cracked, but I didn't. It was still unpleasant both physically and emotionally.

First of all, this is a story about hyperactivity, irrational distribution of one's forces, about the desire to embrace the immensity and be in time for everything and everywhere. Now, sitting in isolation, not in absolute, but nevertheless, in calm, I remember the last year and a little shocked at how, in comparison with today, everything rushed, how many projects I managed and at what height the efficiency was. Several parallel working projects, your own creative things, and you also need to catch a rave, drive the site to measure the site in the morning and raise the model in the evening, defend the project at school at Art Who Art, have dinner with a friend on Pokrovka, and from there go straight by bus get to Baumanskaya and drop into the bank to remove the cash, jump on the bus with the same number and get to Semenovskaya, from there, on a skateboard, Preobrazhenka is a stone's throw away.

“Oh, Vasya, my bus, I drove it”, BEEEEEU! I'm already on the opposite side of the road, on autopilot, scraping off the asphalt, grabbing the skate in my hand and getting on the bus. Here he is, standing right in front of his nose. Here, in confusion, a man is screaming, they say, guy, you dropped your phone. Where, what, what phone? And, for sure, my pocket is empty, my campaign. I am already on the bus with one foot in the direction of Baumanskaya, the look is transferred from the fucking bus driver to the less fucking guy on the opposite side of the street. There is also a bus nearby. The emergency gang is flashing, the windshield is in the trash, the janitor is pressed into it, about 10 people have already gathered around. Vasilisa is also worth fucking (as it turned out later, I thought I was done). This is where I start splicing what happened.

In short, I burned out, and the bus stopped me. It cracked, but I didn't. But after that I rethought a lot. And also my collarbone shifted from the impact of the bus and my pelvis from the impact on the asphalt, my hands scrawled. I hit my head too. It seems, even in childhood. By the way, I always cross the road very carefully, but then I was simply tired and hurried to finish things. An interesting case.

Be careful, please.