Black Is Like The Silence Of The

The Artist Is Not A 'sunday Child' For Whom Everything Immediately Succeeds. He Does Not Have The Right To Live Without Duty. The Task That Is Assigned To Him Is Painful, It Is A Heavy Cross For Him To Bear.

The True Work Of Art Is Born From The 'artist': A Mysterious, Enigmatic, And Mystical Creation. It Detaches Itself From Him, It Acquires An Autonomous Life, Becomes A Personality, An Independent Subject, Animated With A Spiritual Breath, The Living Subject Of A Real Existence Of Being.

A World Of Colors On The Palette Remaining... Wandering... On Canvases Still Emerging.

The Artist Must Be Blind To Distinction Between 'recognized' Or 'unrecognized' Conventions Of Form, Deaf To The Transitory Teaching And Demands Of His Particular Age.

I Let Myself Go. I Thought Little Of The Houses And Trees, But Applied Colour Stripes And Spots To The Canva... Within Me Sounded The Memory Of Early Evening In Moscow, Before My Eyes Was The Strong, Colour-saturated Scale Of The Munich Light And Atmosphere, Which Thundered Deeply In The Shadows.