Borovsky the designer was right.
– I don’t want to make a puppet master’s study, he said (the old man was making puppets). – It will be childish. We’ve got to make a workshop. The whole lower half of a tiny house on the Arbat, cleared out to make a workshop. Whitewashed plywood walls. A big table in the middle, or rather a workbench. Made out of a door, ripped off its hinges, laid on sawhorses. Half the table is covered in oilcloth. Here they eat roughly-cut sausage, placed on the same paper in which it was wrapped. Like bricklayers or carpenters during a break. At the back – a divider, also made out of several doors ripped off their hinges, fastened together. And on the walls hang patterned lattice awnings, like the ones over entryways on the Arbat. Such that the workshop simultaneously reminds us of a courtyard. Under the awnings, we could fasten all sorts of doorbells, and set them ringing. On the floor – a few boxes, from which more unfinished toys stick out. One of them is mechanical; it sits on the table and comes to life like a motorcycle engine.
The thing is that Borovsky is the type of person who can focus on the concrete. With him, the general grows out of unusual and spirited concentration.