So much for the unfeigned admiration on my part. It is difficult to write about painting. One feels like making a fool of oneself. The same as when writing about music. Best regards.

There is nobody here. Everyone is gone. Nothing will ever happen again, because nobody will return. That is what things abandoned once and for all look like. We are looking at them and we are thinking about the absent, because they are more important than what is left. Who might have abandoned these parts? Who raised them and then spurned? Everything seems to be still warm, in use until recently and reminds us of those towns in the jungles, deserted by their builders and residents.

Signs of absence then, traces left by someone who died or got bored and went somewhere else to build something even more sad and more beautiful. Or a scene prepared for a spectacle, which we won’t see, an empty theatre plunged into dark light. The story is over and we are late and we will never find out if there was a happy ending. But it’s only just finished, because the scent of bodies can still be sensed and shadows of gestures can be seen.

Of all the books I know, these paintings remind me the most of some books by Andrey Platonov. For example, "Czewengur" or "The Trench". Also there everything failed and everyone had to die or go away. Wooden planes could not take off. Things would fall apart before they were finished. Mechanisms of wooden watches would become spoiled with the passing of time and would collapse after a few days. Here as well everything seems to be like that: the matter is too weak to change its shape and aims at a state of rest, at peace and quiet. A kind of a gentle apocalypse comes out of it, a peaceful end of the world. Perhaps people have not died but simply have gone to heaven and the earth and the objects are left to live a life of their own.

Or maybe the story is different? Maybe everything is going on in heaven? Maybe that’s how it’s going to be? We will be trying to produce a copy of the past world using some heavenly material, however, the material won't be useful, too fragile and too delicate, and instead of copies we will be producing faulty parodies, defective fakes.
Anyway, when we look at all this what is absent comes up to mind in the first place. That is why it is so beautiful. Because it fills us with nostalgia. Because we want to see what is deep inside, behind the board or the canvas and on the sides, beyond the edges, beyond the frames. It is a strange childish hope that we will see the silhouettes of those who have left the painting, small figures receding from view.

However, everything may turn out in a completely different way. They may return in a while. Someone has prepared all this for them; these objects, this landscape and the rest are arranged so as to be ready to live there. Maybe it is just a break that has been painted, an interval, a short rest. As a matter of fact it is so warm there everywhere as if someone has left only for a moment.