Heaven Probably, in all his work there is no more light and, at first sight, joyful picture than “Paradise”. It seems that in everything it is the opposite of “Truth”. There – night and closed space, here – a day and open-minded look; there – the deafness and gloom of color, here – light and rich colors; there the blurriness of the figures and the lack of detail, here – the clarity of the contours and detailing down to the petals of chamomile and leaves of the grass. Here, the nocturnal creatures that are blind in their hypnosis fly to the fatal target, and the sharp pigeons are birds, which in olden times were used even for mail for the ability to distinguish the way to the rewarding addressee.
Here, not reached by the burnt corpses, those who have reached the goal fall, and anguished restless peace and rest, pure souls of the righteous, like white doves. So is it good to know what you want, as accurately as you see clearly every blade of grass in front of your nose? Is it so good to reach the final goal and know that everything is: nothing will ever change again? Is not bliss even benign if it is eternal? Why wings to these immortal souls, if there is no way back for them, but to God – here, near – lead the gilded steps? What to do ideologically by nature to people without a high idea, what to do winged, not knowing where to send your flight? Such a question, which leads beyond Christianity and in general religiosity, arises when looking at the “Moths.”
In chaotically scattered smears of an indefinite color, finally, you gradually recognize the silhouettes of several moths and the contiguous contiguous contours of a huge number of their brethren. What kind of disorientation is the myriad aphids, if not the image of the aimless existence of little people? And whether it exists at all, if in many cases you can not even understand: it’s twilight or a mole dissolving in them. The hue of smears and a lot of silhouettes creates the impression of tightness and as if you feel the nasty slipperiness of a swarming swarm. How can they bear each other? Off, away… But they are winged. And, maybe, they are striving to fly to freedom, into the distance, but where: everywhere – the same. Or dissolve in the gray non-existence, disappear, quietly disappear, no more noise, What can these soft wings be rustling with? Or is it better not to think about it? It’s so easy to see nothing in this work…
(1 votes, average: 5.00 out of 5)