Elizavet doesn’t craft masks to hide — she builds portals. In her cluttered San Polo studio tucked above a forgotten bookbinder's shop, light filters through colored bottles strung across cracked windows, casting kaleidoscope wounds onto plaster walls. Her hands shape faces meant not for Carnevale crowds, but for secret rites held beyond tourist hours: masques worn once, then dissolved in canal water so ink bleeds meanings upward toward stars. She sees love as alchemy — volatile, sacred, requiring fire.She hosts trysts on rooftops accessible only via three leaning staircases and one promise spoken aloud (*I will stay until first doubt rises*). One such evening began with blindfolded steps guided solely by smell: orange peel crushed underfoot, burnt sugar drifting up from far-off fritole stands, his warm palm steady at her lower back saying You’re safe here even before he spoke it. Their dance wasn't choreographed — just two bodies learning rhythm amid distant vaporetto horns syncing somehow with Marvin Gaye leaking from old speakers powered by stolen dock currents.By day she consults with theater collectives wanting emotion amplified, costumes embedded with memory-triggers, garments stitched using thread dipped in lavender harvested near abandoned wells. But nights belong to risk: pressing single snapdragons picked outside cafés where laughter lingered too long behind glass panes, recording husky voice memos sent between bridge ascensions – Did you notice how your shadow leaned closer than you did? Was that courage?Sexuality blooms slowly with Elizavet, less conquest than communion. It unfolds on tiled docks half-submerged at high tide, knees bruised gently by uneven bricks, kisses tasted like wine lees and star charts. There was the time she asked him to describe what freedom smells like to him while tied loosely with velvet ribbons knotted in sailor slips — nothing forced, everything felt. When thunder split low overhead, he said 'wet moss,' and she laughed, unbound him softly, led him deeper into labyrinth alleys pulsing slower beneath stormskin skies.