An American Werewolf In St. Petersburg by SRaffa, journal
An American Werewolf In St. Petersburg
Excerpt from a travel journal, Wednesday, January 14, 1998
Sergei drives us to the Hermitage.
The tour begins with our guide showing us early religious icon paintings.
Icons, icons, icons.
We spend way too much time on these icons and, as a result, far too little time on the great contemporary art upstairs.
Holy shit.
Upstairs, there are original Rembrandts, original van Goghs.
Our group is, literally, RUNNING past these paintings, since our allotted time is all but used up.
Marge and I pull a small mutiny, having come to our senses long enough to decide that, no, we won't be running past the Rembrandts and van Goghs and, as a result
Artists have a peculiar relationship to the night in general, and to their dreams in particular...
I've had trouble with insomnia off and on since I was a kid; sometimes because I can't shut my brain down long enough to get the required peace and quiet, sometimes because there's something unresolved in my day that won't let go, and sometimes I don't know what the hell it is...
But I do know that I need my dreams to nourish my paintings (as well as my sense of humor).
I'm on the verge of finishing five paintings I've worked on for a long time now, and it seems like the closer I get to finishing them, the longer it's taking me to fall asleep