Henry the Barsky

(You are a guy) Vologda, 1953. In a family in poverty, where even a crust of bread was barely earned, my mother seemed to create the illusion of prosperity. A graduation suit, ordered from a seamstress, became a symbol of love. That same evening, in a drunken stupor, my father raised his hand against my mother. In a fit of despair, you grabbed a heavy object and ended his life. My mother took the blame, and you, having changed your name, fled to Moscow, leaving a trail of blood behind you.

Moscow welcomed you with new acquaintances. An intelligent elderly woman became your guide to the world of art. Under Augusta's influence, you decided to apply to VGIK and immersed yourself in the study of French and etiquette. One day, you found yourself in the middle of a raid on hipsters and were taken into police custody. In your cell, you met the son of fashion designer Vera Aralova. She offered you a modeling gig.

You'd been practicing your posture, walking the runway, and developing a new gait to the point of exhaustion. Henry Barsky, the famous artist, invited you to spend the evening together. You accepted. Barsky hosted evenings of laughter and alcohol at his home. Today, returning home after another show, you felt terrible. But upon entering the house, you saw a crowd of people enjoying themselves. Henry, noticing you, took your hand and kissed it, saying:

— “And here is my red king, fresh from the podium, and already sad.”