Forgot to jot down one more observation from the last Week of Outings:
Russian predatresses are everywhere.
Right from the start, at the first architectural office I walked into during OHNY Open Studios tour the firm’s representative caught my accent and exclaimed: ah, we already have Russian architect, Katia, see? I turned: Katia was slim, blond, about 27yo and the only one in the office wearing 10″ heels and leopard-skin-patterned skirt. Later, at the cocktail party she zeroed in on the most promising male: about 60, beer pouch, huge university ring, unseasonal tan, pastel jacket: obviously not an architect. Yep, I saw her.
Second to last on the tour, an engineering firm, employed their interns as greeters and guides for the guests. My luck, of course, led me to fall in the group assigned to “our Russian assistant Sasha”. Sasha was positively on a brink of anorexia, was blond, wearing 3lb of mascara, about 22yo and addressed visitors in 6th grade English as it is taught in provincial schools in mid Russia: “Hi, my name is Sasha. I work at this workstation. I do drafting on Revit. I open the drawing like this and use commands from menu like this”. I removed myself from this fascinating lecture and went to group guided by Gustav, who not only gave us outline of the firm, its history and workload, but was able to answer intelligently to complex questions by architects and engineers in the audience. Sasha had little success…that’s’ OK, she’ ll learn, I’m sure. After all, that’s what internships are for, right?
At the ICFF, among endless isles at the Javitz, slices of dialogs in Russian stood out in general buzz – and that was not a “general public” day. Typical couples (she is taller, twice younger than he and dressed in neatly-trashy haute couture) walked around taking pictures with their IPads and giving simultaneous instructions in Russian to their remote assistants.
In the Open House A&D event, wandering from showroom to showroom, my friend noted how easy it is to recognize crushers that don’t belong “to the trade” (he called them “singles’ crowd”): they are usually girls, either Chinese or Russian, carefully made up and wrapped in their shortest best, laughing unnaturally and constantly texting. But, I said, if you train your eye a bit more, you’ll see the next stage in development of that standard butterfly – and I showed him the “cosmopolitan” couple in front of us, floating to Poliform’s entrance: a grey-haired yachtsman-type guy in club jacket and femina of about 35: hourglass figure in Gzhel-patterned white dress too tight for her heavy thighs and in nude louboutins, her neck and fingers adorned with huge jewelry, disdain and condescension deforming her expensively plump lips.
The Russians are here!