One, two, start.

When a month begins, I feel this excitement as when something new has chance to begin, something new, something I haven't experienced yet. The start can be considered as favourite part — fresh, open, full of expectations and strong energy. Expectations for the things we want to live, the experiences we haven’t lived yet, the moments we want to gain. The start is a small rebirth: a chance to be newer, a bit better.

Every beginning carries the same electricity as the start of a race. The tension, the hope, the fear, the pulse of time. And then you run — you run without thinking, without stopping, until you reach the finish line.

And what does the finish line look like? Well, that’s something we keep imagining throughout the run.

For years, I imagined my first finish line as family life, as marriage. A shared run. A relay. A stafeta where the baby becomes the baton you pass to each other until the next finish line, and then the child begins its own run. But then I asked myself: is that truly my first finish line? Or the second? Or the third?

photograph by Sonya Fichte

Family sounds beautiful. Those who don’t have it often long for it; those who do sometimes envy the freedom of the ones who run alone. I’m somewhere in between — not because of life itself, but because of the ideas and age expectations? Maybe. Yet I’ve been running the art‑run for the last ten years. I haven’t even thought about the finish line — I just know, I like to run fast.

And, what's art — run, actually?

In this run, you don’t even think about the finish line — but there should be one. The art run gives you - water splashed in your face, some shouts of support mixed with hate, and if you’re lucky, someone can throw some money. But most importantly, everyone looks at your shoes.

“Where does this runner run from? What number does he run? How far can he run? Does he even like running, and why he runs in high heels? Is he running toward something — or away from something? Why is he running?”

Whether the runner carries a guitar, a brush, or a camera doesn’t matter. It always begins with a dream — and with how deeply you believe in yourself. Yet the art‑run’s finish line… does it exist? And if, how it feels?

A finish line in the art‑run does exist. But there is always another start right after it — more tempting one. Still, a small break between those long and difficult runs is necessary: a moment to breathe, to understand what the run was about, and to look down at those shoes. Running and running for so long, with so many ideas, can be exhausting yet exciting at the same time. Yes, it is pretty bipolar, but isn’t that what art often is? Ups and downs. And it’s sad that many artists never reached even their first finish line.

Running ten years in my Nike Cortez makes me want to reach my first finish line as soon as possible! To see the end of these ten years, hang the shoes on the wall, and look forward to the next ten. It makes me want to run faster and stronger toward the finish line, and shout: my first run ended, and I’m ready to change the route — change the view, change the run, change at least the shoes! Hehe. Maybe I could run in high heels now, I don’t know which race I’ll choose next, or which one I’m destined for, I only know that ten years of art‑run gave me enough experience to survive anything.

Art‑run is fun. Art‑run is addictive. Art‑run is incredible, risky, and adventurous, yet there is still that START, — it shifts with time, changing with generations, but it never disappears. NEVER. Maybe that’s the most fascinating and addictive part of art and it's run, always discovering a new version of ourselves, and then START again, running into the next time‑shift.

Thank you for reading, Sonya Fichte.