The fear of a white paper.

A new sketch waiting for ink painting.

<p style="text-align:center;"> </p><p style="text-align:center;">The rays of the sun shyly peek into my studio interior, lightly touching the tabletop, where a white card of a bristol still lies awaiting.<br />Sliding happily on its surface, they seem to look for some sorts of a pencil outline. I stand in the middle of the room with a cup of coffee in my hand and watch this moment.</p><p style="text-align:center;">A lonely and white like the snow-covered North Pole, the paper is waiting for me to get. The snowstorm of ideas obscures any traces of the human hand. You need to overcome the vastness of white and slowly break through to shapes and lines telling a new story.</p><p style="text-align:center;">The first lines, the first shadows on and I glide, laboriously to get the paper's "North Pole" and colonize the plane of cardboard with the new residents.</p>

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