Pyotr is underdressed for this event -- but since he's taken only an observer, not a participant, it's all right. He sits on a low wall some distance from the Festival Green, observing the party and making quick sketches and studies onto a large pad. Those who approach him may receive a sketch of themselves in their party clothes for a small fee -- or as thanks for bringing him food and drink -- while those who stay a while to watch him work, and who possess any familiarity with European art movements may at time recognize the romantic yearning of pastoral idylls, and at other times the writhing of Hieronymous Bosch's Unearthly Delights.

The artist himself seems to be of two minds about the party, the images he creates, tears out, and let fall into a loosely-stacked heap on the ground at times seeming to nearly drip with smug condescension, while at other times they're on fire with stark envy. But that changes when the sun touches the horizon, and a new band takes the stage.

Pyotr doesn't stop drawing, even when the tears fall from his eyes heavy enough to blot and smear the page. He draws the sorrow, the pain and confusion. He draws Andrey and Fever, Erik and Farkhad, and the bewildered milling party members. He draws the little blue people that suddenly appeared on the back of a black horse,