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After the rain

Painting, 2012, 85×65 cm

Description of the artwork «After the rain»

If you are trying to be defined as an artist, and you are trying to knock on the keyboard buttons with your index finger and build some readable text out of letters, this is annoying.
And sho do?
I respect this person very much and love. Or - much love and respect. Today is his birthday. There is no possibility to be near this day - it lives far from me, in another country. In the city in which I was born and lived the first 18 years.
A friend of his youth in his hometown of Samara. It is now that I arbitrarily appropriate the title of his friend, but then, during the years of the vigorous port youth, I could not even dream about it. His friend was my cousin and they had their own "get-together" of highly advanced young people. I read, learned, know a lot of names and directions of the world philosophical, musical and film thought unknown to me. Almost all of them wore Polish jeans, and some were wearing leisses. Where from ?! Unknown. I puffed up the Soviet tailoring of trousers, then expanding them, now narrowing down, trying to keep up at least outwardly. Internally, my friend helped me through long evening conversations, trying to endure my bad habit of contradicting everything. Judging by the fact that we are still in correspondence, call up and, unfortunately, rarely see each other ... suffered.
And here is my friend standing in the rain in a square in the central square, where a seven-meter bronze (not counting five meters of granite under it) still "flaunts" the idol symbolizing ... everything that ... everything that was hidden in our past fog of youth Together with port wine.
The rain ends. The last drops of spring rain flow down from the umbrella. Now the sun will look out and will play in the glasses of big glasses, in the gray of a wise head, in an ironic smile and, washed by a warm rain, the surrounding world.
Benjamin, or Venia, as his close friends clicked.
He knows his hometown better than any guidebook. Each is more or less significant in architectural or historical terms of the house. The names of their former owners, the sequence of transformations of the names of streets, squares and districts. Walking, on thin legs, the encyclopedia of the city. A sort of Samara Karl Bedeker.
Visiting Samara, not once fell under the spell of this remarkable in every sense of man. Walking with him in the city is sheer pleasure. And to sit in his small apartment, usual for Soviet citizens, to communicate, drinking a little (already!) Is not port wine at all, an even greater joy and pleasure.
Dear friend, accept this text as a toast to you and live long. As much as God gives you! Amen.
************************************************** *******
In 2012, our era had the good fortune to communicate with Venya, arriving briefly in Samara. He gave an amazing tour of his native city and I realized that I did not know anything about my city. And having walked with a friend, he even felt the smell of his native city.
And at the end we sat in the canteen of the tram park and, eating cognac with 44-size cakes, we remembered the past for a long time. There was something to remember.
And then I came to another, which had already become a native city and sent him a poem. Venya answered me, and I answered him. Here's what it looked like:

To benjamin

My city, you are no longer mine,
You stand behind a wall for others
To others you are the spectacle and the bread
And for other various requirements.
I played with you young
With you when you were different
And my voice, sounding to you,
In Jericho lived pipe.
And you fell apart in the dust of years,
I returned, you really do not.
You're like the same, but different
My city, but not mine.
Concrete poke into the heavens,
Your alien beauty to me
And only the river, without taking calculation,
Flows, flows, flows, flows ...
You are sad, Jericho,
Sad look of your windows,
And the new warriors squad,
Circles go and blow.
09/16/12

To david

Sad poem, sad city,
where are you back, not young.
But, without smearing tears,
you, last watch sailor,
walked with a friend (well, with me)
where the streets flow river
to the river that Volga is called,
and us, my friend, remains
the course of waters, hours and years
send my fiery greetings.
$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: Portrait

Style of art: Realism

Technique: Oil

Materials: Canvas

Date of creation: 2012

Size: 85×65 cm

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