There are no hidden meanings. There are lives lived In which we saw many things differently. History is like a door through which everyone has entered. Like a door that all those who tried to decorate with their own vanity Who took hold of the handle of this door, Often trying to listen to the creaking. And many layers have long eclipsed the originality. Here is an Italian courtyard. There are no traces of endless contacts. But there are more stories there than anywhere else. The afternoon shadow presses into the foliage. And the wind, with its silent stealth, creeps through the gray hair, A long-lived, half-blind Italian, Decided to get ready for bed...
Canvas. Oil. 50x60 January 2024
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Not every meaning finds instant echoes in the storehouse of the soul, but everyone is given the opportunity to touch the string. The only question is who is tearing and who is trying to barely touch ?! Everything has its time and result ...