Sergey…
The mystery of your innocent sacrifice is here with us while your soul, up there, is shining brightly and whispers down on me: “Awake! Remember thyself…”
I remember you instead, your light and tired eyes, your modest and quiet world, far removed from meaningless fluff of “high society”, from vanities, concerto epatage and everything else which in essence only means anything but work.
Your fate was driving you to the bank of accumulation, your fate was driving you to the bank of self-perfection. You seemed to be in the middle, fearing sufferings and suffering even more… Forgive my judgements, but you left your time and it’s nobody’s business now what was there. It was and it is. And it’s there in a quiet sadness, on an old and childish forest lawn,roses are eclipsed by the blinding power of the sunlight and the cornflower bends in a silent prayer for you and for us… and what is there to remem¬ber?
I did not stand stunned in trembling tremor in front of your paintings. I hoped for the thrust of a madman who trusted in himself or in God – but it was all wrong, I was deceived.
And now your grandma looks at me with a smile, her tenderness is flooding the boundaries of childhood, which leads into love, and love leads back to childhood again, and everything around is so quiet!..
The shutters which veiled the hidden image of your mu¬sician brother were dissolved by your love… magic backs of a child with a kitten, stare into the depth of a star-ridden abyss… Everything flows smoothly in quiet calm when all of a sudden! – scream of a torn apart canvas with evil flow¬ers – your mystery of your time.
Before you went you composed your “Children’s Cycle” – which means you reached the bottom of the well, and picked up the steel, and made your choice. But the three firebreathing never came, did they?
..And you dreamt and you saw how a young faun was not fighting God for His image. But other people’s myster¬ies are none of our business.
I bow my head and ask you to forgive me for the “Russian Songs”and “Advance to the Past”, and for the fly I have just slammed. I know you have forgiven. Will I ever forgive myself?
Vyacheslav Gayvoronsky