I sure like to rummage through cellars and attics, to search through discarded archives and the remains of people’s personal collections. Damaged, moldy books, notebooks, diaries and corny love and practical letters. There I look for words and drawings on the margins.
So, as soon as I, looking from the glass elevator, saw the yard with the wooden garages and broken door on one of them, and looking through the door saw a glimpse of a bunch of yellow, crumpled pages, I immediately run down there, because I discovered treasure.
A suitcase full of semi-interesting books, complete sets of “Flowers” (Kvety) magazine, school and high school notebooks of a technology and chemistry student, who, as an eight or ten old boy, I think, had a passion for aircraft and aerial warfare.
And, you see, he drew them so patiently, carefully, detailedly and naively. With a sense for the depth of endless sky, plane and weapon types, tracing the lines of bullets and the shapes of explosions like they are noises and sounds.
Firing, smoking, hit engines; tiny, distant, threatening fighter planes approaching from the horizon. Cluster bombs that slowly rotate in the air while falling, pine trees, and similarly shaped – fires. Little tanks and little people with erected guns. Or, already dead people scattered around the field, now just scribbles, just a pile of check marks.
Of course it was all drawn with a ball pen, that quill for drawing unpretentious drawings in your room. But the ball pen blurs and stains, the line trembles pressed with the weight of the whole body, drawn and observed from up close, barely breathing through the nose, touching the drawing with the nose, forgetting football, lunch and girls.

I don’t know, that is how I imagine it. I rarely draw myself but I cannot praise this drawing enough, because, you see, when you choose something to draw, then, with your hand, looking carefully, you outline all the lines and the shape of that object. Like you are caressing them, man, what attention and respect, like some kind of worship of what you draw.

Flipping through magazines from before the WWII, my attention was caught by the advertisements which promise to the old girls and tired mothers new, second, and even eternal youth, ripe firm breasts, glowing hair, thin figure and the feeling of happiness, endless happiness and love, being surrounded by adoration and envious gazes.