Project selected as a finalist for the 55th Illustrators Exhibition of the Bologna Children's Book Fair.
Sklepy Cynamonowe is the original title of The Cinnamon Shops, a short story written by the Polish author Bruno Schulz. Narrated from the perspective of a young boy, Schultz takes us for a magical walk through the streets of a nameless city in the between-wars Eastern Poland. The sky, the stars and the moon are a constant presence above us, sparkling and in unceasing change, letting us know that this is not a regular night. As we continue reading, we will get lost in between the real world and the subconscious of the protagonist, in a dreamlike winter night that will feel warmer than ever.
These 5 illustrations were my final project for my Master studies in Illustration, at the Barreira Arte + Diseño school in Valencia, Spain.
"The artificial sky spread out in both directions, swelling with the powerful breath of pathos and of great gestures, with the atmosphere of that fictitious floodlit world created on the echoing scaffolding of the stage. The tremor sailing across the large area of that sky, the breath of the vast canvas which made the masks revive and grow, revealed the illusory character of that firmament, caused that vibration of reality which, in metaphysical moments, we experience as the glimmer of revelation:. The masks fluttered their red eyelids, their coloured lips whispered voicelessly, and I knew that the moment was imminent when the tension of mystery would reach its zenith and the swollen skies of the curtain would really burst open to reveal incredible and dazzling events."
"These truly noble shops, open late at night, have always been the objects of my ardent interest. Dimly lit, their dark and solemn interiors were redolent of the smell of paint, varnish, and incense; of the aroma of distant countries and rare commodities. You could find in them Bengal lights, magic boxes, the stamps of long-forgotten countries, Chinese decals, indigo, calaphony from Malabar, the eggs of exotic insects, parrots, toucans, live salamanders and basilisks, mandrake roots, mechanical toys from Nuremberg, homunculi in jars, microscopes, binoculars, and, most especially, strange and rare books, old folio volumes full of astonishing engravings and amazing stories."
"He shut the door of his study carefully behind him: through it for a brief moment we could see over his head a crowd of plaster shadows, the classical fragments of suffering. Niobides, Danaides, and Tantalides, the whole sad and sterile Olympus, wilting for years on end in that plastercast museum. The light in his room was opaque even in daytime, thick from the dreams of plastercast heads, from empty looks, ashen profiles, and meditations dissolving into nothingness. We liked to listen sometimes in front of that door – listen to the silence laden with the sighs and whispers of the crumbling gods withering in the boredom and monotony of their twilight."
"The horse, an old wise cab horse, looked round cursorily and went on in a monotonous regular trot. In fact, that horse inspired confidence – it seemed smarter than its driver. But I myself could not drive, so I had to rely on the horse's will. We turned into a suburban street, bordered on both sides by gardens. As we advanced, these gardens slowly changed into parks with tall trees and the parks in turn into forests."
"The whole forest seemed to be illuminated by thousands of lights and by the stars falling in profusion from the December sky. The air pulsated with a secret spring, with the matchless purity of snow and violets. We entered a hilly landscape. The lines of hills, bristling with the bare spikes of trees, rose like sighs of bliss. I saw on these happy slopes groups of wanderers, gathering among the moss and the bushes the fallen stars which now were damp from snow."
