How I moved to London for love and found myself in work
Let's start with the fact that I did not plan to move anywhere, and certainly not in love with London and never dreamed about it. Even my English, to put it mildly, left much to be desired. However, in 2010, drinking beer alone at a French ski resort (while my parents slept during the day), I met a British citizen with blue eyes and immediately caught myself.
Playfully, the year lived in three countries: Russia, France, where the elect then lived, and Scotland, where he had a home, friends and parents. And then I got all the tourist visas. So, accelerated by oxytocin and immigration laws, we decided to get married and move to London, where, of course, I had to work as a photographer (nothing I had never been there, it's London!).
We issued the papers for the so-called visa of the bride rather quickly. I handed over IELTS, without preparation, the benefit for this type of visa is needed some kind of minimum points. Visa was given for three days. The painting took place in the Scottish town hall, which worked only for us that day. A big wedding for friends happened six months later in Chamonix, where we lived before moving to London. Everything was fun, exciting and beautiful, with tears of pure happiness and faith in a bright future.
And then we moved to London, where we were one at a time about to move. I wanted something new and spacious, like our new life, so we found an apartment in a new building in the ghetto called Docklands in the east of the city overlooking the same new buildings. The work did not fall, the city looked dank, expensive and inaccessible (certainly not as a place where the two of you want to live on one paycheck), and I had no idea what to do. Okay, I nagulit some agencies, sent them a portfolio, did not get a single answer and fell into a stupor. Offer yourself? I was then even afraid to speak on the phone, being impressed by the popular Indian accent.
It is worth noting that my husband (now former) worked in Indonesia every five to five weeks, so hibernation became my usual state. I also followed a certain rule of immersion on Wednesday, that is, I did not hold on to any Russian diaspora (in vain). True, I spoke with the London doctors: two times that she tried to call an ambulance, she did not come. Doctors kindly rang during the day to find out if I had died. And once it seemed to me that the tip of a cotton swab was left in my ear, I defended a gigantic queue at the hospital, and then some intern with a cry "catch!" I scratched something inside with special scissors. A cotton wool was found the same evening on the rug in the bathroom.
The work did not fall, the city looked dank, expensive and inaccessible, and I had no idea what to do
The work was random and rare. I tried to work either the second, or the third assistant of a successful commercial photographer, but he was very surprised when I asked about the money, although now we are very good friends on instagram. When the husband returned from Indonesia, we, as a rule, jumped into the car and rushed out of the city. I remember the Olympics, which happened right under our windows (yes, most of the Olympic facilities were located in Docklands). Our ghetto revived from the crowds and drumming, but it did not become more familiar.
I was still not fascinated by London, and then something happened: at a party where a Moscow girlfriend dragged me, I met a thin, ringing Londoner and believed that we could become just friends - so great was the need in the interlocutor, or in the conductor.
I drove in to a new lover a few months later, with boxes and a rather tangible sense of guilt, albeit in central London. But to begin to conquer the city even then, simply taking over his dentist, lifestyle, craving for expensive restaurants and mostly boring friends. I sincerely believed that I was overwhelmingly happy until I found myself hanging out on a beautiful Ibiza wedding in a white wide-brimmed hat taking the first sip of champagne, followed by the first full-blown panic attack in my life.
Then there was the second, third and fourth, the change of therapists, endless doctors and disappointment in the eyes of the beloved, who every day became more and more distinct. We broke up suddenly (actually not) and ugly. Panic attacks have stopped. It seems that for the first time in a long time I was responsible for myself. Hooray.
For the first time I am not playing the Russian gender game “who owes what to whom” - and oh, this is not easy, but it’s wildly interesting
Four months of rehabilitation in Moscow, and I return to London - this time, to establish contact with him without intermediaries. First I live with friends, then I find a room. To guarantee paying the bills, I go to work in a coffee shop, which is held in the center of a friend of a friend (Australian gay diaspora. You can’t imagine how these guys help each other). I have some kind of shooting all the time, but it's very difficult to live on them. A series of half-starving musicians and actors. All sincerely believe that you are interested in working for the portfolio. One room costs 700 pounds. Local magazines are much worse than Russian ones. The market is so saturated that everyone is ready to shoot for free.
Getting up at five in the morning. The brain does not turn on until nine. Cleaning, display baking on the window, making coffee, standing behind the cash register. Tears due to the fact that I can not exactly cut a piece of cake and put it in a box in front of the whole line (God, I'm 32 years old). Endless small currents. In the free from eleven hour shifts, I look at the ceiling. Oh, and go on dates. Since my return to London, I have been using Tinder and going on dates like to work. Not to stay at home, not to roar, to have sex, not to be invisible, to recognize this damn city, after all.
After a month of this strange work, they fire me, and I still do not take off the conceived series of portraits of visitors to the coffee shop before the first cup of coffee. But then I take out two clients from there - the Russian auction house and the creator of their own cosmetics line. Having drunk to smithereens in the company of an English friend, I solemnly promise him that from now on I earn my living solely through photography. And I keep the promise to this day.
The first lonely Christmas I spend, photographing the congress of a large French family, which does not let me go anywhere after the shooting. And that was the most merry Christmas in all four years. December 31, 2014, I go on a Tinder-date and, sorry, fall in love. I start a relationship with the same creative rogue like me, and it seems that this is the only man who knows what is happening in my head. In addition, for the first time I am not playing the Russian gender game “who owes what to whom” - and oh, this is not easy, but wildly interesting.
↑ work of Anastasia Tikhonova
I still have a fucking cloud of complaints: in London, everyone is so busy surviving that there is no time for anything else. It is very difficult to be spontaneous here, almost no one ever decides to whip up suddenly, a taxi costs a lot of money. Tickets for any significant events are sold in the first hours of sales. You need to really start scheduling appointments for the month and buy tickets immediately, which means, for example, subscribe to newsletters. You are learning to buy a membership in a museum based on a company. You plan to treat your teeth and visit a beautician in your hometown, where you are trying to get at least a couple of times a year.
Somehow I fall in love with opera and now I go there once a month. With a newsletter announcing the start of sales of seasonal tickets, it’s cheaper than spending a Friday in a bar. Okay, if you are able to spend three hours standing, then it costs almost nothing at all. Tom York also loves the Royal Opera - we saw him there.
I appreciated London for the fact that with a certain knowledge you can regularly go to the opera and buy oysters on the market (if you get up at four in the morning) for about 3,000 rubles a month. You can walk in your pajamas to yoga (verified) and look at the park for a deer about twenty minutes from the house. Use the app to search for partners for threesome, fours and more. Here you can pretend to be anyone, rejecting the Soviet past - this turns out to be the most difficult. London is ready to accept everyone and not make anyone their own. Therefore, I began to appreciate the Russian diaspora, it helps to feel belonging to something more. And, you know, swearing in your native language is also important. It seems that I began to appreciate Russians more.
I have been here for almost five years, and I am just beginning to understand this city. He definitely makes me stronger. They say that if you can live in London, you can live anywhere. And I don’t know how yet, but I still plan to become rich and famous here, haha. And then leave. Ask any Londoner - no one plans to meet old age here.
Photo: Flickr, Anastasia Tikhonova