The Forgotten Ledger of the Morozov Ink Room

The Ink Room sits still, its tools and pigments frozen mid-preparation. On the central table, a half-filled vial rests beside a small funnel, its batch measurement incomplete. Dust settles evenly on everything, from the rolling pin used to crush pigments to the unused funnels stacked neatly nearby.

Absence is the only trace left by the last hand that labored here.

A Career Mixed by Hand

These implements belonged to Nikolai Morozov, professional ink maker (b. 1872, St. Petersburg), trained in an artisanal workshop supplying inks to publishers, illustrators, and urban offices. His meticulous Russian notes record pigment ratios, water proportions, and drying times. A folded sheet addresses his nephew, Viktor Morozov, “collect pigment Wednesday,” reflecting precise daily routines and careful attention to the subtle differences in hue and viscosity. The room’s structure—glass jars, metal funnels, wooden presses—reveals both ambition and disciplined practice.

Instruments of Color and Measure

On the main bench, spatulas, pestles, and glass rods lie aligned, while partially used pigments are set in shallow trays. A ledger beneath folded sheets lists client names, ink types, and intended batch proportions. One mixture shows careful measurement halted mid-stir, suggesting the work was interrupted suddenly. Splattered pigments mark the last moments before abandonment.

Signs of Decline

Later ledger entries reveal inconsistent batch ratios, some over-pigmented, others too watery. A letter from a publisher lies unopened, its seal intact. Aging eyes and a trembling hand gradually undermined Morozov’s precise work, leaving inks incomplete, pigments unblended, and recipes abandoned mid-calculation. Corrections in margins show his frustration, attempts to compensate for faltering vision, and fading precision.

The final drawer contains Morozov’s last batch record, unfinished formulas and notes left suspended. A penciled note—“finish for Viktor”—stops mid-word. No record explains why he abandoned his work, nor why Viktor never collected the pigments.

The house remains abandoned, jars, tools, and colors frozen in quiet incompletion, every mixture and measurement suspended, awaiting hands that will never return.