Preface to the exhibition
Everything dissolves in river of time. States, cities, people, objects, and instants disappear. Tops of spirit remain only... Masterpieces come away a bit slowly if they were put into the matter.
Only through fragments of sculptures ofš Notre Dame de Paris in Musee Cluny I have understood how mastery of founders of the cathedral was high, spirit is cheerful, details are exact and expressive, compositions are intelligent. The restorations do not have already spirit, only the form.
The river of time is relentless. Only idle wanderers send a challenge to it, whose souls are light and their joy is in free break in any place of this infinite river.
What it Mr. Paris? It is thoroughbred, well cared-for, a bit serious and eccentric, rather world-weary, tiny piece a gourmet being sensual up to voluptuousness. It is of many many-sided. Its face is either of medieval monk or of modern punk with piercing, or of an young man of the Siver Age with mysterious Bacchic smile.
Paris is a peeping into subconsciousness, but it is dangerous to light and the opened soul.
Paris is a kingdom of a vertical line, which pull into the twilight depth, it is movement inside. You stand at Paradise doors, but at first it is necessary to pass a temptation what means and equally to pass through a pinhole.
Paris... I peer into this such familiar and unfamiliar face. The medieval layer is entirely umber-grey, very restrained, almost severe, and have outlined bright strokes of the present: violet, yellow, green, white. Both layers cannot tear off each other because of their close interweaving.
To glance at Him eyes is almost equal to glance at tiger eyes -- it is too exciting abyss...
Paris, Paris... Its satiated soul does not accept impetuous energy of "barbarian". The soul does not know exciting power of horizontal line. There is not enough time for dialogue, for acquaintances: if only you could discover Its secret, solve Its name... Paris...