IN PLACE OF AN EPILOGUE
“Dear Misha,
Well, here I am writing to you, and email will deliver the message in a matter of seconds. How can we imagine that? To get from Moscow to Vienna in seconds. Such speed! Everything that absorbs that speed is devastated. It is madness. The image of that madness is in your paintings: the identical skyscraper columns poking an empty sky and sinking into it; quiet, secluded nooks in villages, boats motionless on water, churches floating off into the sky, all from another world where time has stopped. These two worlds cannot be joined to make something whole, and frightening crevasses appear between them. We no longer understand or remember who we are. Where have we come from? Why?
Your painting is tragic because there is no game-playing in it. It makes no
