Sometimes, when I look at my drawings, it seems to me that I can put together the right combinations.
And then one drawing will be like a continuation of the next.
And then small pictures ( 110 x 165 mm ) will turn into something bigger.
Although in reality it wasn't planned that way from the very beginning. Although? 😎
!BBH
Thank you so much! I am very pleased!
An empty canvas often witnesses the greatest tragedies that will never go beyond the four walls of the studio.
A person endowed with the rare gift of seeing the world in all its colorful diversity, every day takes up a brush, obeying an inner call.
He spends years perfecting lines, studying the play of light and searching for the perfect brushstroke, but this entire path lies in the absolute darkness of the unknown.
The shadow of the room hides the finished paintings from prying eyes, turning creativity into a silent conversation of the author with himself.
In such a space, talent gradually loses its original shine, becoming a heavy burden that brings neither glory nor peace.
The futility of painting becomes obvious when the created images remain locked in a space where there is no viewer.
Art, by its very nature, needs dialogue, response or at least a random look that can breathe life into frozen paint. Without this process of transferring meaning, any masterpiece turns into an ordinary accumulation of pigment on the canvas.
The artist continues to create, guided by the illusion that one day his work will be appreciated, but reality mercilessly erases these hopes.
The ingloriousness of such an existence lies in the understanding that the best impulses of the soul, embodied in graphics or painting, will forever disappear under a layer of dust.
Each new drawing that has not seen the light of day of recognition only deepens the feeling of one's own uselessness.
The shadow falling on the easel seems to be the personification of oblivion that awaits all these silent creations.
The artist's hand continues to move by inertia, but the heart no longer feels the former thrill, because the futility of efforts poisons the very joy of creation.
The world around demands loud statements and noticeable results, ignoring the hidden masterpieces that quietly die in the corner of a forgotten room.
This inglorious fate of a talented person becomes a silent reminder of how much beauty remains forever buried in stories that no one ever read in color.
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