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Quince

Painting, 1976, 75×90 cm

Description of the artwork «Quince»

Once drank van raine
And, apparently, it seemed a little.
Added, slightly, port,
Woke up in the morning - "d" was gone ...

It's been 40 years.
Sounds like a shot.
But the bullet passed by - I live.
Cottage on the mountain above the hot, tart Theodosius. I sit alone, idle. Work reluctance - very hot and lazy. I read the old magazines "Spark", "Health", "Worker" ... Far from the sea. I went once, but while I was returning to the mountain in a stuffy bus, I again wanted to go down.
He opened a sketchbook a couple of times, put a lap, stood and closed. How can local artists work in the resort area ?! And I don’t understand the visitors at all - stand in the heat and swing the brush ?!
Once a fortnight the boss, who fought for Soviet power in the twenties, was a communist, a good, kind, very sick grandfather. When he brought me for the first time, he showed me a well with mineral water, explained how and when to water, where the nearest grocery store was, who was neighbors, when the small bus went down. On the second visit after dinner, he got up heavily, took a bunch of keys and beckoned me with his finger. We came to the back of the plot to a thick grass covered earthen mound, in which heavy metal doors with a huge barn lock rusty brown in color. The key with a creak turned. From the darkness of the dungeon it smelled damp and rotten. Grandfather lit the flashlight and we quietly went down. Downstairs there was another door, another lock, another check with creak. Opening the door, grandfather stuck his hand into the darkness. Clicked the switch. The host seen behind me slightly reminded me of the dungeons of the Koktebel winery - four huge barrels were lying on carved goats.
Yes ... - I said dumbly. The rest of the text was swallowed - it was so incredible, unexpected, and ... very useful. On a normal, not at all general's cottage, and SUCH ... A plan of action quickly began to form in my head.
The grandfather turned and, moving his yellow smoked mustache with his thumb, said: “You can’t drink it all, but in the evenings you can. But don’t get carried away - it’s insidious, you can pack it and you don’t feel.
Showed how to open - close the tap where the draft tank is and repeated again: “Do not get carried away.”
He hung the keys on the nail for Aivazovsky's etude and went to the bus.
For two hours I wandered around the station, looked down at the winking lights of the evening city, at the signal lights of ships standing in the sea and ... thought irresistibly: go down - do not go down, open - do not open, spill - do not spill ... Somehow start for some reason uncomfortable. I had to try to make friends with the thought, "Where do you get away? It should be!". And the friendship won.
The first time woke up from the cold. At the usual place of the switch was not. Having groped some cloth in the darkness, he covered himself and fell asleep again. The second time woke up from cold and thirst. Shivering in the chill, he crawled into the light absentmindedly penetrating from somewhere above. Seeing the stairs, he remembered everything. Staggering rose and headed for the well. He drank water for a long time, sharply smelling of hydrogen sulfide. He sat down near the well and began to warm up gradually - the sun was almost at its zenith. It was very bad morally and physically. I went into the house and slept until the evening.
Waking up, he made tea and went out onto the veranda. The sky glittered and flashed stars with a small nut. I will not describe the beauty of the southern night - it is not about that now. My head was still buzzing and dripping from my nose. It's funny to catch a cold in the Crimean August.
He drank tea and pondered. I have three more weeks and four huge barrels with fine wine. We need to somehow organize ourselves, somehow manage to coordinate one with the other. Barrels, with their contents, should be a reimbursement of certain costs, as if a reward for some useful work.
And I understood - how not to shirk, and it is necessary to paint - otherwise "... booze and that's all."
There are no people nearby. To the landscape is not ready. One thing remains - still life.
I looked through the shelves and pantries, walked around the whole area, looked into the barn, behind the barn and, already heading into the "bottling", came across a quince. The yellow-lemon-greenish fruits sagged branches with their weight, and from one look at them in the mouth began to grind. The fruits were covered with some fluff, somehow intricately squeezed, crumpled and resembled a young Shar Pei. Under the tree lay an old basket. “Here,” said to himself, “still life is ready!”
The beginning of the "new life" should have been noted. And I went to celebrate. With the consciousness of the correct direction of movement.
The first time woke up from the cold. ...
Further, as in the song: couplet - chorus, couplet - chorus ...
Somehow I managed to pull myself together. Still life made up. Then, without going into the "bottling", another one. Then he tried to give himself a word not to drink during work and, especially, alone. I'm still trying. While it is possible.
Ps.
On my first personal photo in France, a still life with a quince was purchased. This was the first sale outside. She was bought by a pretty Frenchwoman who came to the exhibition with a little girl. She walked along the canvases and kept asking her daughter: “Do you like this one? Do you like this one?” Near the quince, a young Frenchwoman said: "This!"
$3,500.00
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About the artwork

This artwork has been added by Arthive user, if it violates copyright please tell us.

Art form: Painting

Subject and objects: Still life

Style of art: Realism

Technique: Oil

Materials: Canvas

Date of creation: 1976

Size: 75×90 cm

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