Copywriter

Front Pictures is a tech company that develops advanced visual solutions for events, advertising, and entertainment. To name a few of their clients: Disney Channel, Coca-Cola, MTV, National Space Center, etc. They created shows for America’s Got Talent and Eurovision. Front Pictures brings together top-notch programming, interactive design, video production, hardware engineering, equipment rental, and event support, all under one roof.

My responsibilities were copywriting, media plans, content managing, and pr materials.
The main challenge was to translate the engineering language about the cutting-edge technologies the company developed into something their clients will understand and appreciate. On day to day basis, I talked with engineers, directors, and designers, rewrote all the texts on the website, created documents for clients and press releases for press.

Please note, that though the company was based in Ukraine, I worked with English.Front Pictures is a tech company that develops advanced visual solutions for events, advertising, and entertainment. To name a few of their clients: Disney Channel, Coca cola, MTV, National Space Center, etc. They created shows for America’s Got Talent and Eurovision. Front Pictures brings together top-notch programming, interactive design, video production, hardware engineering, equipment rental, and event support, all under one roof. My responsibilities were copywriting, media plans, content managing, and pr materials. The main challenge was to translate the engineering language about the cutting-edge technologies the company developed into something their clients will understand and appreciate. On day to day basis, I talked with engineers, directors, and designers, rewrote all the texts on the website, created documents for clients and press releases for press. Please note that though the company was based in Ukraine, I worked with English.

• • www.frontpictures.com

Occasional mediocre but close to the heart poetry.

When I think: Bowery poetry,

I think a little drunk at dusk.

I think an overflowing trash can

On the corner with Rivington,

That looks like a sculpture.

I think a million hearts broke in one night,

I think smelly food and spilled beer,

I think old ladies with huge plastic bags,

Awful street art that somehow still makes sense.

I think intellectuals losing their minds

to drugs at those hip bars,

I think tourists overpaying

for meat and bread,

I think a genius hidden

In a tiny second floor apartment.

When I think Bowery poetry,

I think School For Poetic Computation 2015,

I think us splitting a sandwich, dreaming.

I think everything is just beginning,

it’s always beginning.

When I think Bowery poetry,

I think in Lower East Side poetry.

Published in the photobooks on Paris and Kyiv.

Yet to see the light of day. Music video script example:

FADE IN:

A car emerges from the Queensboro Bridge, ghostlike. Dissolves in and out of motion as it veers off the exit into the city.

Everything between these beats flickers in timelapse—life slipping past like water under ice.

[CAMERA: FLOATING POV / WINDSHIELD REFLECTIONS / PULSELIKE CUTS TO REAL-TIME MOMENTS]

Upper East Side.
An old woman with a floral grocery cart, hat a little too strange to be accidental, stops to admire a young family. Toddler in a red hoodie laughs like it’s still possible to trust the world. The woman blinks—half-smile, half-memory.

Park Avenue, near Grand Central.
Three men in charcoal suits cross the street on a red. One bumps another. They bristle—but when eyes meet, something stutters. A flicker. That rare, pre-verbal recognition. Then they keep walking.

CAMERA drifts—tracking westward, loop around Grand Central.

From the Tudor Place Bridge, we see the city pinned under late sun.

A passenger gets in. No words we can hear. Just a nod, the ritual of AirPods, then silence.

CUTAWAY: Sunset gridlines drown the avenues. The passenger has tears in their eyes but answers a call with too-big a smile.

The driver peels off at 14th. The passenger gets out on 2nd Ave. Someone is waiting—arms out, loud happiness. They’re already talking. But the passenger? Slightly elsewhere.

Broadway near Union Square.
Crowd spills diagonally across the street. Skaters. Parsons kids. Minimalist millennials. Post-work boomers. Rich kids from Seoul. Tourists. Nannies. Fake-shy influencers. Reality in every direction.

Zoom in/out—faces flickering like tarot cards.

The next pick-up: near Strand. Person with branded tote, holding a novel like it’s a talisman. Doesn’t notice the car.

The driver rolls down the window to call.

Just then—someone else bolts from the bookstore. Holding… a notebook? A message? Trying to catch up.

The person finally looks up. Overwhelmed. Book drops. Stranger picks it up, returns both. A smile. One line exchanged. A pause that holds something.

The car leaves.

Passenger opens the book. A note flutters out. She smiles and keeps reading.

SoHo.
Sun bleeding gold onto brick. A violinist draws a half-circle crowd. Photographer snaps a couple mid-laugh in the street.

Passenger sends a text. Same moment—car stops on Leroy.

New pick-up: FiDi-bound.

Tribeca traffic.
End-of-day rush. Office packs spilling into subway wells.

Man stops to take a call. Pedestrians flood around him.

A duo exits an old firm, jumps into the cab mid-conversation. Loud. Overlapping.

Driver interrupts, confirms names. Destination: Lower East Side.

Chinatown.
A bike delivery nearly clips a fruit stand. Elder curses. A younger man helps recover fallen apples. Their eyes soften.

Nearby.
Artist carries oversized canvas, wind fighting him.

Driver stops in a noisy alley. The smell of fresh pizza seduces. Passengers out.

Time slips. Lights change. Mood tilts.

Lower East Side at night.
Street becomes dreamlike. Luminaria. Chatter. Neon and jasmine smoke.
Driver finally gives in. Pizza slice, one hand. Phone buzz: Gramercy pick-up. He drives, windows open wide, keeping the scent honest.

Crossing 14th.
Everything shifts. Light cooler. Sound distant. A hush inside the city’s breath.

Passenger: a woman in her 50s. West Side bound. She asks for windows closed.

“How was your day?” he offers.

She says, “Fine. Like any other.”

He mentions driving—how it broke something open. She half-nods, not biting.

Times Square.
Too many people. Too many lights.

She mutters: “God, I hate this place.”

He pauses. Then: “I know.”

Not about Times Square.

Heading uptown.
Her phone rings. “Almost there, baby. See you soon.”

She smiles—transformed. Lighter.

They arrive. Townhouse steps. Kids tumble down, shouting for their mom.

The nanny calls, warning them not to knock her over.

The driver watches. She thanks him. He lingers a second.

Phone buzzes. Another ride.
He stares. Then cancels.

Turns down a quiet street. Drives home.

FADE OUT.