Viktor Vladimirovich Golyavkin
R I S U N K I N A S F A L T E
VERY RARE FRAME
Here is the bay, here are the ships...
- And this?
- And this, in the distance, is the “Maiden Tower”, comrades, from it, from this incredible
heights, once... God forbid... I jumped into the sea imprisoned
beauty... then the waters of the sea washed this tower, so to speak, from all
sides... I draw your attention to the numerous flat roofs of houses...
this factor, as you yourself understand, suggests that precipitation in our
the city receives a small amount...
- And this?
- ...these red flowers, comrades, the so-called oleanders... Pay attention
attention... you see the huge figure of Kirov... Kirov seems to be standing above
bay... he greets this wonderful city from this mountain... And now we
Let's take pictures against the backdrop of our magnificent city, which is located on the shore
Caspian Sea, as you can see, comrades...
- With a boat in the background!
- It’s impossible to take pictures in front of a boat, comrades, because he’s just like you
you understand, it will not be visible in the photograph.
- Oh, why?
- And because, comrades, he is located at a very distant distance
from us, which you can naturally see for yourself.
- Maybe it will work?
- No, comrades, I already told you, it won’t work. Who loves
exotic, sit on the rocks, and who doesn’t like it, stand here, like this...
the whole of Baku will be at your fingertips, which, you yourself understand, is very valuable...
I’m taking pictures, comrades, I’m taking pictures, once! That's it, comrades. Go your separate ways and
At the appointed time, you will gather again for further movement...
Everyone leaves. I approach my father. He wipes his face with a handkerchief. It's hot in
our city is strong.
- What do you need? - asks the father.
“Very rare frame,” I say.
- Frame again?
“Very rare,” I say.
“Leave me alone,” says the father. - Is everyone here? (He's not talking to me.)
Let's continue the march, comrades...
Everyone follows their father.
- ...I want to draw your attention to the fact that the winds in our city
blows two hundred and forty days a year... But the bay, comrades, is located like this
way...
I'm trailing behind. All the dust flies towards me.
If he doesn’t buy me this frame, I just don’t know what to do, where
I have to get money then... Paintings without frames are not paintings. Here I was in
museum. All the paintings are in frames. They hang like real ones. I'll write later
oil paintings. And I won't have frames...
Drawings on asphalt
Very rare frame
Here is the bay, here are the ships...
And this, in the distance, is the “Maiden’s Tower”, comrades, from it, from this incredible height, once upon a time... God forbid... an imprisoned beauty jumped into the sea... then the waters of the sea washed this tower, so to speak, from all sides... I appeal to you attention to the numerous flat roofs of houses... this factor, as you yourself understand, indicates that the amount of precipitation in our city is insignificant...
-... these red flowers, comrades, the so-called oleanders... Pay attention... you see the huge figure of Kirov... Kirov seems to be standing over the bay... he greets this wonderful city from this mountain... And now we will take pictures against the backdrop of our magnificent city, which is located on shore of the Caspian Sea, as you can see, comrades...
With a boat in the background!
Comrades, you can’t take pictures in front of a boat, because, as you yourself understand, it won’t be visible in the photograph.
Oh, why?
And because, comrades, he is at a very far distance from us, which you yourself, naturally, see.
Maybe it will work?
No, comrades, I already told you, it won’t work. Those who love exotic things, sit on the rocks, and those who don’t, stand here, like this... the whole of Baku will be at your fingertips, which, as you understand, is very valuable... I’m taking pictures, comrades, I’m taking pictures, once again! That's it, comrades. Disperse and at the appointed time you will gather again for further movement...
Everyone leaves. I approach my father. He wipes his face with a handkerchief. The heat in our city is intense.
What do you need? - asks the father.
A very rare frame,” I say.
Frame again?
Very rare, I say.
Leave me alone, says the father. - Is everyone here? (He’s not saying this to me.) Let’s continue the march, comrades...
Everyone follows their father.
-...I want to draw your attention to the fact that the winds in our city blow two hundred and forty days a year... But the bay, comrades, is located in this way...
I'm trailing behind. All the dust flies towards me.
If he doesn’t buy me this frame, I just don’t know what to do, where I can get money then... Paintings without frames are not paintings. So I was in the museum. All the paintings are in frames. They hang like real ones. Then I will paint pictures with oil paints. And I won’t have frames...
-...from here, comrades, from this height, you see the boulevard... which, as you yourself understand, did not exist before... There was a sea... By this fact, you can imagine how shallow the sea has become, which gives off evaporation... not to lie...
Is it really that shallow?
Exactly, comrades... you noticed correctly... it became shallow to such an extent... And the heat and time... which, just like the heat... gradually...
Everyone looks at the sea in surprise. They shake their heads and sigh. I'm thinking about the frame. This frame is now before my eyes. It’s hard to imagine such a frame! Then you will never find such a frame, I’m sure of that!
-...changes, big changes everywhere...
So much dust!
-...if you're not tired, we can walk...
Aren't you tired? I'm tired too.
-...rest and gather yourself for further movement...
Everyone leaves and smokes. They talk endlessly about how surprisingly shallow the sea has become.
The father was left alone. I approach him.
Are you still here?
Such a frame! - I say.
It makes no sense to buy any frames! - he says.
If only you could see this frame! - I say.
And I don’t want to see it,” he says.
I need a frame!
For what?
You will see her! You'll see! I don’t know what will happen to you if you see this frame! You've never seen such a frame before!
“You don’t have any paintings,” says the father. - There is not a single picture. God! Why do you need a frame?
There will be pictures, I say, if there are frames!
He looks at me like I'm lying.
I would buy these frames if I didn't have any pictures!
So that it is in last time!
He gives me money.
You will see her! - I shout.
“Oh,” says the father, “get away from me with your frames!”
Largest frame
She stood in the corridor, huge, reaching to the ceiling.
The dimmest light bulb shone in this corridor. The most beautiful frame shimmered in the semi-darkness. Covered with dust and hung with rags, this frame was not immediately noticeable. There was a pot on the frame. But I noticed her immediately. I wiped it with my sleeve. It was a very old, very beautiful frame.
Father and mother were sitting in grandma’s room and drinking tea, and I kept walking near the frame in grandma’s corridor. I reasoned to myself: “If this frame was needed, they wouldn’t put the pot on it. They wouldn't hang rags. She wouldn't be standing here in the dust. But at the same time, it may be necessary. She may still be standing. And then she will be needed. If it weren't Grandma's frame, one might wonder if it was for sale by chance. There is nothing special about this. Maybe people want to sell. And I want to buy. Why don't they sell if they buy from them? But my grandmother won’t sell me a frame! She can only give it to me. And asking her to give it to me was inconvenient.” Before, when I was smaller, I could easily ask her anything. But now I couldn't. How much have I heard different words: “Don’t worry grandma,” “Our old grandma may die,” “Don’t pester grandma,” “Don’t upset grandma,” “Aren’t you ashamed to ask grandma this way,” “Who allowed you to talk to grandma like that!” No, I couldn’t ask my grandmother about this frame. I wasn't sure if this was the right thing to ask. That there is nothing wrong with this.
I talked about all this in my grandmother’s hallway.
Then they called me into the room, and my grandmother treated me to jam and kept repeating that she had not seen me for a long time and wanted to look at me properly, but I was only thinking about the frame. If something comes into my head, it never goes back. I thought about what huge picture could be inserted into this frame, about where in our apartment I could hang a picture in such a frame, about how long it would take me to paint such a picture.
“He used to be much more cheerful,” my grandmother said about me. - And he asked for jam all the time, but now he doesn’t even ask for jam.
“Soon he will ask for something stronger,” said the father.
What will it require? - asked the grandmother.
“Nothing,” said the father.
“Don’t talk,” said mom.
Grandma asked if she should put on some more tea, and I suddenly asked if the frame bothered grandma when she went to the kitchen to put on the kettle.
“My darling,” said the grandmother, “she bothers me terribly.” Only his own granddaughter can remember his grandmother, understand her, how this frame does not allow her to pass... She knocked out all her knees, scratched her back, almost broke her side on this damned frame...
I have never loved my grandmother so much! She didn't need a frame.
What do you mean? - Mom asked. My mother hated frames more than anything in the world. As if these frames will drive her into the grave. It's as if all the worries are coming from outside the frames. And the house is a mess.
When mom saw this frame, she screamed:
So that's what he's getting at! That's why he cares so much about his grandmother! Here she is, pure, selfless, kind soul! Here he is, amazing artistic child! And you think I'll let you drag this trash into the apartment? Could you really think about this for even a moment?
If mom starts screaming, she won't stop. She will scream until she gets tired.
I need a frame! - I shouted. - I need a frame!
My mother and I screamed so much that my grandmother felt sick.
What did you do to grandma! - Mom was indignant.
After all, I buy him frames! And they give him this frame for free!
Then mom said:
I don't want to witness this disgrace! - She slammed the door and left.
My father and I took out the frame.
Grandmother was baptized.
So that the gilding does not fall off! - I yelled. - Be careful not to let the gilding come off!
My father said that if I screamed like that, he would immediately throw the frame. Then I fell silent.
We carried her silently along the street. And mom was walking somewhere ahead. It seemed to me that we were not carrying a frame, but something that could not be explained.
I wonder what my mother, who is now against this frame, will say when she sees my picture in it, and there is a crowd around this picture and everyone asks: “Tell me, do you know who painted this picture? And look how beautifully the frame is chosen!”
I wonder what she will say then? She will then probably say: “I didn’t say anything like that, I was always in favor of taking this frame from my grandmother.”
The frame stayed with us throughout the spring, summer and fall.
I often dreamed about that picture. Which will be in this frame. It must be a wonderful picture. Maybe it will sea painting. Sea and moon. Or a sea without a moon. Or not even the sea. And some kind of palm tree. Or not even a palm tree. And some kind of military picture. Or maybe not military. Maybe some other wonderful picture.
One winter, late in the evening, my father and I came from the bathhouse and were glad that the room was so warm. We drank tea and praised mother. After all, she lit the stove! And mom smiled. And we also drank tea and smiled.
Suddenly my mother asked:
Do you know what I burned?
I immediately felt something and began to look around and couldn’t guess, but for some reason I suddenly got scared and didn’t want her to talk further.
But mom said:
I burned your stupid frame.
I choked on my tea and then cried.
It would be better if you didn’t touch this frame... - said the father.
I grew my hair out and it was combed back. They started pulling my hair. Call him Pop Thick Forehead, Bastard.
I cut my hair completely. It got even worse. "Bald! - they shout. - Head of cabbage!" The head is often stroked.
I'm sitting with my bald head on the back desk. A new student comes to our class. So black, and his eyes are black. They wanted to put him with me. I was just sitting alone. But he doesn't want to.
Why, asks Maria Nikolaevna, don’t you want to sit with him?
And he firmly answers:
I won't sit with him.
Why so? - asks Maria Nikolaevna.
Because he's bald.
I wanted to jump up and give him for it.
Maria Nikolaevna says:
What nonsense! Firstly, he is not bald, but has a haircut, and secondly, even if he were bald...
He repeats:
I won't sit with him.
Why don’t you still want to sit with him? - asks Maria Nikolaevna.
“And because,” he answers, “I was already sitting with a bald man, so they teased me at the same time, although I was not bald.”
How wild! - Maria Nikolaevna was surprised.
In the end he did sit down. Doesn't talk to me. He doesn't look in my direction. I don’t look at him either, but I see that he has taken out a piece of paper and is drawing something.
I see - he draws cavalry galloping to the attack. How great he was at it - like a real artist! It's like he's been studying for a hundred years. I've never seen anyone draw horses like that.
I immediately thought that I would never draw like that, no matter how hard I tried, but at the same time, if I tried hard enough, I would draw just as well.
I wanted to show him how to draw. And then I pretended not to see. He doesn’t know that I’m the best drawer in the class. He'll say I'm imitating. He'll say I'm some kind of monkey or a parrot.
Nothing. Then he finds out who is sitting next to him! Then he will find out what kind of wall newspapers I drew! What kind of Shota Rustaveli did I draw? What a pilot Pokryshkin I drew, three times Hero of the Soviet Union!
Let him, let him draw!
And then I think: he’s probably imagining things right now. He sits and imagines that there is no one better in the world. It turns out that he will be imagining things here, but what about me? Will I just sit there?
I tore out a piece of paper from the notebook. And he began to draw tanks going on the attack.
At first he didn’t notice that I was drawing too, or he didn’t want to notice, but then he noticed and stopped drawing.
He looks at my drawing.
I felt it immediately. And I draw with all my might, I don’t pay any attention to him. I just cover my drawing with my elbow so that he doesn’t see.
Suddenly he says:
Come on, show me.
What, what? - I say.
“Show me,” he says, “what you tweeted there.”
What, what? - I say.
Ace, ace! - speaks.
What? - I say.
Carefully! - speaks. - Ace, ace!
What kind of ace is this, I say, ace?
Ra-ra! - speaks. - Ra-ra! Work.
Here's what I found! He mutters some words to me. He probably wants to surprise me with these words. What, I think, should I answer him so that he would stop talking to me like that? At this time he tells me:
Now, if someone asks you: “Are you not a kr?” - What will you answer?
What, what? - I say.
You need to answer: “I’m not cr!” It's clear?
Then I got angry and told him:
You rat!
I don’t know why I called him a rat. I just couldn't think of anything else.
He raises his hand and says to Maria Nikolaevna:
He called me a rat!
Maria Nikolaevna says:
Shame on you, Starikov! A new guy came to us, he’s probably shy, and you called him a rat...
Who? - I say. - He is shy?!
You have no idea how much evil has taken me!
If you don’t answer me now how fast planes are flying towards each other, you will leave the class...
What planes? - I ask.
I must have been blinking my eyes a lot, because Maria Nikolaevna suddenly said:
Stop blinking! Come on, stop blinking! Imagine a fool!
I was just blinking by accident. But I didn't answer. And still he was silent. And I haven’t heard anything about these planes at all.
Well? - says Maria Nikolaevna.
Please repeat about these planes, I say.
“Please leave the class,” says Maria Nikolaevna.
If you would repeat it again... - I say.
“I can’t listen to your speeches,” says Maria Nikolaevna.
I collect books. I didn't do anything like that. If only I had meowed like last time. And now? They put him in front of me, and it’s my fault!
I'm sitting on the last desk. I walk slowly towards the door. Through the whole class.
The country is healing its wounds after the war,” Maria Nikolaevna says after me, “millions are engaged in creative work, millions are working, and one...
I'm already near the door.
Wait,” says Maria Nikolaevna.
I stop.
Come here.
I'm coming.
For some reason she is worried. Now it’s completely unclear. Why should she worry? They kick me out of class, and she's worried.
I try not to blink anymore.
Are not you ashamed? - says Maria Nikolaevna.
She holds a pen in her hands, probably wants to give me a bad mark. And her hands are shaking very much. This is probably because she is very old. They say that old people's hands always tremble from old age...
“I treat you well,” she says, “and you, Starikov, are a capable person.” But you’re sitting on my head... And then, please, don’t imagine. You can disappear... like a stone thrown into the sea. And don't smile. You will disappear or become a tramp along with your art. If you don’t study... People who are not honest about their work usually end badly...
She's not going to give me a bad grade.
Will you draw a wall newspaper? - Maria Nikolaevna asks me.
“I’ll draw it,” I say.
To be famous,” she says.
Okay, I say.
Are you drawing wall newspapers for me? - she says.
I'm going to the place. I sit next to the new guy.
Ra-ra! - he says quietly. - Ra-ra! - He speaks right into my ear, can you imagine?
“I won’t sit with him,” I say.
Maria Nikolaevna looks at me and frowns.
“I don’t want to sit with him,” I say.
Come out, both of you! - says Maria Nikolaevna. - I don’t want to listen to your speeches!
We both go out.
I'm on one side. He's on the other one. I was the first to go out into the corridor, and he followed me.
Suddenly he says:
Listen, there are probably different head teachers walking around here... Let's go to the restroom.
“I don’t want to go to the restroom,” I say.
The safest place, he says. - Sit in complete safety.
At first I didn’t want to go to the restroom at all. And then he went. And really, I think it’s probably safer there.
Everyone sat in their own booth. We sit in complete safety. Great idea he came up with!
We sat and sat, he knocked on me.
Are you sitting? - asks.
I’m sitting, I say.
What is your name? - asks.
Vitka, I say.
“And I’m Alka,” he says.
“Very nice,” I say.
“Very nice,” he says.
He and I turned out to have a lot in common. Oil paints It turns out, just like me, he never wrote. And no one taught him to draw either. He taught himself everything. He has been drawing on the asphalt since childhood. He goes with his grandmother to the kindergarten and draws with chalk on the asphalt. I began to remember and remembered that I used to draw on the asphalt too.
Have you painted on the asphalt a lot? - he asked.
“A lot,” I said.
Good school, - he said.
Which school? - I didn’t understand.
Artistic,” he said.
Yeah, I said. Although I still don't understand.
On the asphalt. On paper. On canvas,” he said.
Well, yes, I said.
All true artists started painting on the asphalt,” he said. - That's what one artist told me.
Of course, I said. Although I couldn’t understand why they all started drawing on the asphalt.
He knocked on me again.
Why are you silent? - speaks.
Have I painted enough on the pavement? Will I become a true artist? That's what I was thinking.
Are you asleep? - he asked.
Have you drawn a lot on the asphalt? - I asked.
“As I remember,” he said.
Someday I will paint a huge picture, - I said, - up to the ceiling... I had a frame... a huge frame... my mother burned it in the stove. I feel sorry for this frame...
If you want to be an artist, he said, only be a great one. One artist told me that you shouldn’t be a great artist.
Hit five, I said.
“Later,” he said.
Of course, I said.
There’s no call,” he said. - We've been sitting here for a long time. It seems to me that there should be a call.
It’s probably too early... - I said.
“Go and investigate,” he said.
For what kind of reconnaissance? - I asked.
Whether there was a call or not, he said.
And you? - I asked.
And I'll sit.
You're cunning.
And you are a coward.
“I’m not a coward,” I said.
I left the booth. He stuck his head into the corridor and saw the director. He beckoned me with his finger.
Hasn't there been a call yet? - I asked confused.
Come, come here,” he said.
The next day my mother was called to school.
Pyotr Petrovich
Pyotr Petrovich walks around the classroom.
He is very thin and tall. In a soldier's tunic and boots. Guards badge on the chest. Two Orders of the Red Star.
Pyotr Petrovich checks if everyone has brought paints.
Not everyone brought paints.
“I never understood people,” he said, “who don’t like paints... Tintoretto! Titian! Delacroix! They all loved colors. Remember their names! And Surikov! Watch “Boyaryna Morozova!” Look at this picture and you will be bringing paint to class...
Pyotr Petrovich takes out a clay pot and a lilac rag from his briefcase. Places these items on the table. He puts one end of the rag into the neck of the jug, and the other hangs over the table.
Has everyone filled their jars with water? - he asks.
Almost no one filled the jars with water. Half the class goes to get water.
Couldn't you have been prepared? - Pyotr Petrovich sits down at the table and sits there with his head in his hands.
One after another, students enter with jars, glasses, cups. There is noise and talking in the classroom.
Pyotr Petrovich still sits with his head in his hands.
So, is everyone ready? - He gets up and walks around the class. Places sheets of drawing paper on the desks.
The drawing lesson has begun.
They are shouting from all sides:
Pyotr Petrovich, look at me!
Pyotr Petrovich!!!
He looks at everyone.
It's a good start,” he says. - It's a good start...
The class falls silent. Almost everyone is happy. Almost everyone has a good start.
Pyotr Petrovich sits at the table, resting his cheek on his hand, and says:
When I was still a student, my big picture... So you, Kafarov, ask why I don’t famous artist? Hm... how should I tell you... I, of course, am not a famous artist, you noticed this correctly... you emphasized this quite rightly... I... the war prevented me... a large family... well, how can I say this, my dear... That painting that I’m talking about I just said, she was worthy to hang among respected artists... I’m saying all this because... essentially, you, Kafarov, asked me quite complex issue, which I probably won’t be able to answer for you... given the complexity of human life...
The class is quiet. Although it is often noisy. Almost no one draws. Everyone is listening. Tasya Lebedeva opened her mouth and looked at Pyotr Petrovich. A fly will fly into her mouth and she won’t open her mouth like that...
Where is the painting now? - asks Kafarov.
Now I don't even know... Further fate I don't know this picture. After all, they bought it from me... It hung in great hall…
I have seen! - Kafarov shouts.
You couldn't see her because it was in Leningrad. I remember right now: hanging in a large hall... beautifully lit... crowds of people... conversations... even arguments... I was just then in my fifth year at the Academy of Arts... somewhat overusing the colorful side to the detriment of drawing... And why am I telling you all this, and I don’t know myself... So... I remembered, as they say...
Did you also draw? - asks Kafarov.
Pictures are not drawn, but painted with paints. They draw with pencils, charcoal, and pastels. I already told you this.
Did you paint just one picture? - asks Kafarov.
When you grow up, you won’t think like you do now... I understand perfectly well what you want to say... That’s not why I’m telling you this... By the way, I’m currently painting a picture in fits and starts, which I’m doing pretty well... Let it be known to you that Alexander Ivanov spent twenty-five years painting one picture...
Kafarov doesn’t ask anything else.
Nobody asks anything anymore.
Brushes rang against jars, glasses, cups. Everyone is drawing again. Even Kafarov, who hates drawing, even he stuck out his tongue - he tries so hard. Everyone draws a pot and a rag. Everyone seems to want to be great.
I never thought this pot and rag was so difficult to draw! Firstly, one side of the pot turns out to be crooked. Secondly, it doesn't turn out round. And thirdly, things don’t work out that way.
I hasten to correct the drawing. While Pyotr Petrovich does not see. At least fix this crooked side before he sees it. “Here you are,” he will say, “and the best draftsman!” Here's a capable one for you! Once I broke my arm, so Pyotr Petrovich said: “How can it be, you have golden hands, and you break them!” I was very proud of this then, that, they say, golden hand, and despite this, I took it and broke it!
I'm in a hurry, but it turns out even worse. Now the second side of the curve.
I look at Alkin’s drawing. It doesn't matter either. It turns out to be a crooked pot.
Damn pot! It’s still difficult to become great if we can’t even draw this pot...
The bell rings.
One minute! - Pyotr Petrovich raised his hand. - I completely forgot. "Pionerskaya Pravda", guys, has announced a competition for best drawing, and if any of you try...
Alka says:
That's great! I'll probably take the bonus. I've been drawing since childhood!
There was an uproar all around:
What will the prize be?
How long does it take to draw?
What to draw with?
What to draw on?
What to draw?
Pyotr Petrovich lowered his hand.
You can draw anything,” he said. - You can't draw.
“And I’ll copy it, and no one will know,” said Kafarov.
Will you know it yourself? - asked Pyotr Petrovich.
And you say, no one will know!
Everyone laughed.
Michelangelo! - said Pyotr Petrovich. - Francisco Goya! Remember their names! - He put a pot and a rag in his briefcase. - Goodbye! - he said.
Come on, Kafar!!!
Hit, Kafar!!!
Here, Kafar!!!
There, Kafar!!!
Yes, Kafar!!!
Yes, Kafar!!!
Go-o-o-ol!!!
Ka-fa-a-ar!!!
I'm covered in dust. In a torn shirt. I'm a goalkeeper.
Kafarov is already very close. He rushes with the ball towards me.
Hit! I'm flying into dust. Late. Goal!
If you have Kafarov on your team, you will never lose. If he is against you, you will definitely lose.
No one in the whole school, on our whole street plays better than Kafarov.
Game continues.
Catch! - Kafarov laughs.
I jump past the ball.
Scarecrow! - they yell at me.
What do I have to do with it? Look how our guys play! Kafarov has the ball all the time. It's rushing towards me again.
Grab it! - he shouts.
Hey crow! - they shout to me.
Game continues.
Goal! Another goal! More!
Our entire team is running after Kafarov. He has the ball all the time. Kafarov broke through again. Our team is racing after him. What a team!
I'm leaving the gate.
The ball flies into an empty goal.
Hello! - I yell. - I'm over it!
What's happened? - the captain shouts. - Get back into place!
Get up and stand! - I shout.
You have no right! - someone yells.
They trusted you! - our captain yells.
They trusted you too! - I shout. - You don’t know how to play!
None of your business! - they shout to me.
Here's another! Whose business is it then? They score goals on me - and it’s none of my business?
You have to take it! - they shout to me.
We must play! - I shout.
They whistle and shout. Scandal on the field.
Twelve is zero! - someone yells. - Twelve - zero!!!
“It’s not for you to draw pictures,” Kafarov tells me.
Just think! - I say.
There are different drawings there, play around, play the fool, but here it’s serious business!
Think what you say! - I shout.
There's work here! - Kafarov yells. - You have to hit! You have to take it! And your work is not work! - He puts the ball in my nose. - Come on, forget it! Well? I will get up! And you forget it!
Let's! - I grab the ball.
Kafarov goes to the gate.
I'm counting the steps. I put the ball down. Kafarov got ready.
The ball flies into the bushes.
Kafarov laughs the most.
Near the teachers' room
I ran down the corridor at full speed. And why I ran, I don’t know. Sometimes I have such a desire - to take it and run. I’ll run, I think, to that door until that girl reaches it.
I’m running, which means I run into the head teacher with all my might. I almost knocked him off his feet.
He staggered and said:
What if it was a baby? First grader? You probably would have killed him on the spot? What are you, a horse, or what? Go this minute and wait for me near the teachers' lounge.
I went and stood near the teachers' lounge.
At that time I had the most rosy dreams... Great ideas were still spinning in my head...
The tram drove down the street, and I didn’t hear what he said next. Then I hear:
-...graduated from art school...going to the Academy of Arts...
I came closer.
- ... delayed... began to paint portraits with a dry brush... At that time they were in great demand. Any institution then required...
The radio in the corridor was turned on at full power:
...All chairmen of the detachment council must gather in the pioneer room by five o'clock.
The radio went silent. Pyotr Petrovich said:
- ...you know, it’s very easy to do with a dry brush. The canvas is divided into cells of the same size... photograph of this portrait accordingly, it is divided into cells... the outline of the portrait is drawn along these cells... from a photograph... It goes very quickly... easily... the result is obvious... Along these contours with a dry brush... you rub it, so to speak... nonsense work... no talent needed... just a little skill... no out of my mind, as they say.
Then the tram passed again.
- ... I kept thinking: after all, Bryullov, Surikov, Repin studied at this academy ... I dreamed ... I was timid ... I earned money ... I painted portraits with a dry brush all the time ...
At this time, Kafarov comes up to me.
Why, he says, are you standing here?
What do you want? - I say.
Then he leaned down to my ear and said:
Have you noticed how beautiful Tasya Lebedeva is?
I stared at him and blinked. I never thought about it.
“Oh, you,” says Kafarov. And left.
Pyotr Petrovich says:
-...on the way my suitcase was stolen...
At this time the bell rang.
- ...mood... position... condition... Leningrad... I... Academy of Arts... failed... worried... got married...
This tram was grinding all the time. Grinding when turning. Even the glass was shaking. Pyotr Petrovich began to speak very quietly.
- ... just like me... Surikov... at one time... a son was born... failed for the second time... studied... eventually dropped out... War... rains, swamps... wounded... Volga... Dnieper... nothing can be done... Warsaw... Königsberg... Berlin ...six, seven, eight... Baku...
Do you know what the doctor told me recently? “You,” he says, “will never die.” I, of course, looked at him and said: “You know what, you don’t need to tell me fairy tales: they have little effect on me.” Then he says: “You didn’t understand me.” “I understand you perfectly,” I say, “but this is unnecessary.” “No,” he says, “you didn’t understand me. Even if you had just one son, you wouldn’t have died a damn thing, and since you have five of them, then, you know, it’s downright ridiculous to talk about death...” That’s what he told me...
Pyotr Petrovich laughed.
You are great person“Pyotr Petrovich,” someone said.
The tram creaked.
The head teacher comes up to me.
Go, he says, to class. And don't run like that anymore.
Tasya Lebedeva
After Kafarov told me about Tasya Lebedeva, I began to think about her. Moreover, Maria Nikolaevna said about her: “Have you noticed why Lebedeva sits in class during breaks? Because she’s a serious girl and she hates running around the corridors.”
I really liked the word “disgusting”. “Tasya”, “disgusting”, “cake”, “petit” (I didn’t know what petit was) were the most beautiful, magical words. I no longer doubted that Tasya was the most extraordinary.
I began to look at her. Watch all the time. Continuously. When they love, I decided, they probably watch all the time. During lessons, I couldn’t look at her all the time: she sat behind me, and I brought a mirror to class and looked at her in this mirror. Then this mirror was taken away from me.
What fascinated me most, of course, was that everyone goes out into the corridor, no one is disgusted by this, but she is the only one, one might say, in the whole class, and maybe in the whole school, who is disgusted by it.
Everything, everything, everything disgusts her... - I sang quietly before going to bed. The motif was from an old romance. I heard it from my mother. “Everything, everything, everything disgusts her...” I sang quietly during recess.
Why are you muttering? - asked Kafarov.
“It’s none of your business...” I said.
“Leave me alone,” I told everyone, although no one bothered me. Love, I thought, is such a thing that no one should pester you.
I decided to give her a drawing. I will give her my best drawing, which hangs above my bed. And let her hang it above her bed.
There was a change.
There were me and Tasya in the class.
She read.
Tasya,” I said quietly.
I put the drawing on her desk. And he left.
Throughout the break I was thinking about whether she understood that I was giving this drawing to her for the rest of her life, forever. I have never had a better drawing than this. I should have told her about this. What if she didn’t understand why I put the drawing on her desk? He'll think I just took it and put it away. He will think that I don’t need this drawing at all. He’ll think I have maybe a whole bunch of drawings like this...
Wake up call. I enter the class.
There was no drawing on the desk!
Everything, everything, everything disgusts her... - I sang on the way home.
Tasya walked behind.
I slowed down.
When Tasya was almost there, I was in some kind of incomprehensible delight, not understanding how it happened, I turned around and... tripped her.
I just wanted her to think that I always pay attention to her... So that she would think that I notice her. I didn't know it would work out like this!
She got up and cried.
Fool! - speaks. - Fool!
I stood there and blinked.
At this time, Ygyshka came up. If you knew this Ygyshka, you would never want him to approach you. For the third year I was in the same class. Then he was expelled. He was hefty. Still would! So he comes up to me and says:
What are you worth, dumbass! Calm the bride down!
What kind of bride is she to me, I say? Do you think what you're saying? And what right do you have to call me a cudgel?
And he laughed like this:
Y-gy-gy-y-y...
And says:
Cavalier! The bride is crying, and he has his mouth open! Calm the bride down, gentleman!
And it doesn’t go away, that’s the main thing. Stands and laughs.
Who told you that I'm a gentleman?
I was so upset! Here you come!
And he says:
And who are you? Club?
I wanted to throw my fists at him - he made me so angry. And then I changed my mind. His fists are huge. If he hits me with his fist, I just don’t know what to do then!
Leave me alone, I say.
He laughed and walked away. He walks and laughs. And where did he come from?
And Tasya takes my drawing out of her pocket. He gives it to me and leaves.
I'm catching up with her.
She turned and walked in the other direction.
And I'm behind her.
And I keep explaining to her that this happened to me by accident.
Suddenly I see this Ygyshka coming towards us.
He comes up to us and says:
Are there any matches?
I clenched my teeth and looked at him. Doesn't he understand that I can't have matches? He came here on purpose!
I look at him and don’t blink.
And he squinted and said:
Look, you made a fool of yourself! If there are no matches, say: no. And don't be a clown. Ygy? - It is his favorite expression. - And it won’t take long to get hit in the neck.
He turned and walked away.
And Tasya went in the other direction.
And I was left with my drawing.
Then he started tearing it up! He tore it into small pieces and threw it after Tasha.
Cube and square
Seeing us, Pyotr Petrovich shouted:
Who came to us!
“We just came,” Alka said.
So that's great! - he said. - That’s great!
I hear noise from the room. It was as if they were moving something, rolling a ball on the floor, as if they were scraping glass with something, and singing.
We entered the room.
One of the younger sons of Pyotr Petrovich was sitting on the floor. He held a hammer in his hands. He was driving nails into the floor. Several nails lay next to him.
Look! - I shouted. - Look what he's doing!
Ugliness! - said Pyotr Petrovich. - What a disgrace! Before I had time to go open the door for you... - He snatched the hammer from his son. - Where did you get it?
The son quickly got up from the floor. I managed to squeeze the nails into my fist.
Pyotr Petrovich put the hammer on the table.
“The mother left,” he said, “and they separated...
The hammer was no longer on the table. Now the knock was coming from the kitchen.
Just a minute,” said Pyotr Petrovich. He quickly went to the kitchen.
Two other sons of Pyotr Petrovich rolled out from under the sofa.
The fourth son came out from another room. He was older than these. But younger than me. He looked at us silently. He wanted to ask something. I felt it. But he didn't ask anything. And I looked at him and didn’t ask anything either.
Suddenly he said:
I wrote a story.
Alka and I looked at each other.
Story? - I asked.
Yeah,” he said.
So what? - I asked.
Nothing,” he said.
He again began to look at me silently.
Do you want to read it? - he suddenly asked.
Come on, I said.
He handed me a piece of paper.
Read it out loud,” he said.
STORY IN PROSE BY A. P. VOLOSHIN
NAME "OFFENSE"
WE WALKED ON THE WET SAND AND SINGED: “WE ARE ALL GOING TO THE SEA,
TA-RA-TA-RA-TA-RA-RA!”
NOW THE SEA IS ALREADY VISIBLE, BLUE, BIG, WITH A SHIP, AND WE
THEY SINGED EVEN LOUDER: “WE ARE ALL GOING TO THE SEA,
TA-RA-TA-RA-TA-RA-RA!”
SUDDENLY THERE COULD BE THUNDER AND SUDDENLY THE RAIN POURED WITH NOISE.
STOP! - THE COUNSELOR SHOUTED. - WE WILL NOT GO TO THE SEA!
“I’ll write again,” said the son of Pyotr Petrovich. He folded the paper into four. He put it in his bosom. He sighed and said: “If you want to know, I can write a huge book.” They're just bothering me. Too much noise. We'll be there soon new apartment We're moving. That's where I'll write.
Pyotr Petrovich entered the room. He led the younger one by the ear. In his other hand, Pyotr Petrovich held a hammer. The baby was sobbing.
“Forgive me for God’s sake,” Pyotr Petrovich told us, putting a hammer on the table.
“I broke this chair,” the kid announced.
For what? - I asked.
I don’t know... - he said thoughtfully.
“Get away from here,” Pyotr Petrovich told him.
He walked back to the table. I took a hammer. And he went to the kitchen.
“Angelina Petrovna is not here,” said Pyotr Petrovich, “that’s why there’s such a mess...
Nothing, I said.
Your son read us a story,” Alka said.
“He was in a pioneer camp,” said Pyotr Petrovich. - I came from there with great impressions, I remember it all the time camp life and writes stories on this topic, I won’t contradict him on this, let him do whatever he wants. Didn't he read you a story about airplanes?..
“I haven’t read about airplanes,” I said.
There was a knock coming from the kitchen.
Damn it! - said Pyotr Petrovich. He quickly went there.
Only now did I notice the eldest. He was sitting at a small table.
I approached him.
The eldest son of Pyotr Petrovich was drawing some strange object. He didn’t even turn around, he just covered the sheet with his hand.
Don’t interfere, please,” he said.
Angelina Petrovna entered. I understood it immediately. Alka and I greeted her. She greeted us.
Pyotr Petrovich appeared. He held a hammer in his hands.
Don't be shy, he told us, please don't be shy. Let’s have some tea, and then I’ll show you something, as true connoisseurs of art. Sit down at the table, don’t pay attention to all this noise...
Pyotr Petrovich put the hammer on the table.
I kept looking around. There were many reproductions on the walls. There were people in helmets, and foggy landscapes, and some beauties, and there were horses, and a boat racing along the waves with people. And just below the ceiling hung an unfinished one; Probably the same picture that Pyotr Petrovich told us about.
Everyone sat down at the table.
Only the eldest son sat at his small table. He drew everything.
This one,” Pyotr Petrovich suddenly said, pointing to his eldest son, “is studying at art school. He deliberately, deliberately draws some illiterate nonsense and assures that this is the most beautiful art in the world. He assures us that this is some kind of forward movement, something immeasurably cosmic, something unattainable, some kind of, in general, modernity... I’ll show you now!
Pyotr Petrovich got up and went into another room.
The youngest son of Pyotr Petrovich was tugging at my trouser leg.
Nigaya, nigaya, nigaya... - he repeated.
What he says? - I asked.
“He’s drinking tea,” Angelina Petrovna said, smiling, “and I’m glad to tell everyone that the tea is not hot at all.”
Yalad, yalad, yalad,” said the younger one.
He tells everyone that he is happy about this,” said Angelina Petrovna.
Well, so,” said Pyotr Petrovich, carrying a small canvas in his hands. He placed it on a chair. - This is what you can get to! Of course, he is not taught this.
What it is? - I asked.
This is my portrait! - said Pyotr Petrovich. - The handiwork of this one young man! - Pyotr Petrovich pointed to the elder. - And he assures me that it’s me! This cube and this red square are me! How far one can go, how far one can improve, to imagine one’s own father in such a form! But I posed for him. Sat. He drew me from life. “Don’t move,” he says, “dad, otherwise it won’t work!” He looked at me, drew - and drew this cube and square! After all, this is a complete disregard for a person, not to mention the father! It turns out he wasn’t looking at me when he was drawing. His head was filled with some insignificant thoughts - to surprise everyone in the world, to show everyone and everyone what an original he was!
The eldest son of Pyotr Petrovich still did not turn around. He was still sitting with his back turned.
Calm down, please,” said Angelina Petrovna.
Pyotr Petrovich waved his hand.
Atechik! Atechik! Atechik! - shouted younger son Peter Petrovich.
That’s what he calls his father,” said Angelina Petrovna.
Another son of Pyotr Petrovich looked attentively at the hammer.
I looked at the portrait. I couldn’t understand why Pyotr Petrovich’s eldest son painted his father like that. I wanted him to turn around so I could look at him.
He suddenly turned around.
He looked like Pyotr Petrovich. It’s as if this is Pyotr Petrovich very young. Only his hair was long. He said:
This generation will understand me! - He pointed at us.
That's bullshit! - said Pyotr Petrovich.
This is genius! - said the son of Pyotr Petrovich.
“This is stupidity,” said Pyotr Petrovich. - With what respect the little Dutch sharpened their herring heads, and with what disdain you treat your father...
This is a logically constructed compositional solution,” said the son of Pyotr Petrovich. - I must have my own “I”!
Nightmare! - said Pyotr Petrovich. He grabbed his head. - Have it, but don’t poke it in everyone’s nose!
Buzylyuks! - said the youngest son of Pyotr Petrovich.
And Picasso? - asked the eldest son of Pyotr Petrovich.
Akoloko! - said the youngest son of Pyotr Petrovich.
“Bring him milk from the kitchen,” Angelina Petrovna said to one of her sons.
“An eternal dispute,” said Pyotr Petrovich. He didn't want to talk.
Who is Picasso? - I asked.
One artist,” said Alka. - One artist told me about him.
But can I experiment? - asked the son of Pyotr Petrovich.
“You can,” said Pyotr Petrovich. - Can. But I won’t pose for you. And they too,” he pointed at us, “they won’t pose for you either.”
We will not! - Alka and I shouted.
The eldest son of Pyotr Petrovich looked at us angrily.
You will sing again! - he said.
You will sing yourself, we said. (We told him very bravely!)
He showed us his fist. We pretended not to see.
I want mildidi! - said the youngest son of Pyotr Petrovich.
“He wants to swim,” said Angelina Petrovna.
Di-ko-ko! - said the youngest son.
This word is unfamiliar to me,” said Angelina Petrovna.
Two other sons of Pyotr Petrovich rushed across the room.
The hammer disappeared from the table.
I looked at the painting of Pyotr Petrovich hanging from the ceiling. It hung somehow sideways, crookedly, and I, tilting my head, looked at the people swimming across the river and the tanks.
“Come with me,” said Pyotr Petrovich, getting up, “I want to show you something.”
We went with him to another room.
There was a knock coming from the kitchen. One of Pyotr Petrovich’s sons continued to drive nails somewhere...
Great Masters
“I’ll show you the great masters now,” said Pyotr Petrovich.
He took an album from the shelf.
I got from the front to Leningrad. Neva in ice. A blizzard is blowing. Blockade. I'm walking along the Neva towards the Academy of Arts. I go into the lobby. Pechurka. People are sitting, warming themselves. Thin, pale faces. They sit, warm themselves and are silent. I say: “I want to see my teacher Osmerkin. I studied with him before the war. How can I see him? They tell me: “You can see him. Only he recently went to the Hermitage.” “Come on,” I say, “it’s a joke, what kind of Hermitage can this be?” All around is hunger and cold.” They calmly tell me: “He really loves watching great masters. You will still catch up with him. He walks slowly." I'm catching up with him. He barely walks with his stick along the wide embankment. The snow is blowing around as hard as we can. And I remember his scarf fluttering in the wind... He looked at me and said: “Petechka, is that you? I'm very glad that I met you. Now you and I will go and see the great masters...”
Pyotr Petrovich walked from corner to corner.
We looked at an album with great masters.
Pyotr Petrovich said:
Rembrandt! Remember this name! These old woman hands... whole life man in these hands!.. only Rembrandt could paint such hands!.. His self-portrait... Old man Rembrandt smiles... squinting, looking at us... Rembrandt is old. But he remembers those times: the nobles of Amsterdam crowded into his studio, cackling and indignant: they didn’t like the way Rembrandt portrayed them! “Look at your pig faces,” Rembrandt tells them, “and you will see that I am right!” Rembrandt saw them as they really were. Scandal! They poke at the painting with sticks... He didn’t bother to correct his painting, he didn’t... That’s why old Rembrandt smiles. “Hehe! - he says. “You failed to deceive me...”
...Delacroix! Pure color! Romance!.. “Lion Hunt”! "Fighting Horses"! "Moroccan Fantasy"! - horsemen rushing against the backdrop of mountains... a boat in a stormy sea... This man had the sun in his head and a storm in his heart! Remember this name!
Raphael!.. Brilliant!.. The lines sing... nobility, humanity, beauty... Great masters! Great art! Remember their names!.. I understand, these are all words... You just can’t explain it with words... By the way, compare the “Sistine Madonna” with this one, by another artist... and it’s not the same! That's not all! Not that! That's the whole point... Although here everything is correct... everything is drawn... Such comparisons are useful... they bring clarity. After all, everything is relative, and Raphael is the top! You need to strive for the top!
...Remember this name! Tintoretto! Marvelous! Amazing!.. When Surikov was in Venice, he saw Tintoretto’s canvases there. “I hear the whistling of robes!” - exclaimed Surikov. The highest craftsmanship... Everything in the canvas seems to be moving... Everything seems simple... It seems that if you take a brush, you yourself will paint in exactly the same way... everything seems so simple! You don’t see the work... you don’t think about how difficult it is... Written from the heart, that’s what it’s all about! And you begin to believe, looking at Tintoretto, that someday you yourself will take it and write it the way you want... Genius does not suppress. It doesn't hit you over the head, as some people think... It infuses you with good spirits... It's amazing!
...Rublev! Remember this name!!!
Pyotr Petrovich spoke from somewhere in the corner of the room. It was as if he was talking to himself. He shouted some words and spoke quietly. The pictures were wonderful, that's true. But I didn't see the lines singing. I didn’t see anything moving in Tintoretto’s canvas. I couldn’t understand why Rembrandt alone could paint such hands! Alka didn’t see this either. Although he repeated: “Yes, yes!” - as if he understood everything. And yet, I thought, probably all this is there, in these paintings. And the lines there are probably singing, and Tintoretto’s people are moving, and Tintoretto’s robes are whistling... All this is probably there, since Pyotr Petrovich sees it. But I don’t see...
-... During his lifetime he was not famous... that’s what’s curious... Very curious... the Old Russians didn’t even sign their names on their works... What does it matter in the end who did this work?.. It’s important that it was done!..
. . . . . . . . .
- …Alexander Ivanov! Remember this name!..
. . . . . . . . .
Not this cube and square!..
Pyotr Petrovich patted me on the shoulder:
You need to think!
He patted me on the shoulder again.
It's clear? - he asked.
“I see,” I said.
I said it so quietly that he probably didn't hear.
When Alka and I were leaving, I suddenly remembered that I wanted to ask who these little Dutch people were who sharpened herring heads...
I wanted to ask and didn’t ask.
A mysteriously illuminated Rembrandt emerged from the brown fog. The feather on his hat glowed in the shadows.
I sat up on the bed and asked:
Tell me, please, did you draw on the asphalt?
Raphael smiled in space...
Rembrandt smiled at Raphael...
Eugene Delacroix rode like a whirlwind on horseback...
Something rang and crackled. Because of this ringing and crackling, no one heard me. The eldest son of Pyotr Petrovich walked straight through something solid that was bending and cracking. And this was solid space. In one hand, the eldest son of Pyotr Petrovich held a cube, and in the other, a red square. He tried to squeeze the square into some hole in space...
I asked the same thing a third time.
The eldest son of Pyotr Petrovich squeezed in his square, and the crash was terrible.
And again I could not be heard.
Remember their names!..
The wind whistled with terrible force. The eldest son of Pyotr Petrovich flew off somewhere into the distance. The square and the cube were spinning in a whirlwind.
There is no need to sign your names! - said Rublev’s loud voice.
Rembrandt pierced the square with his sword.
Tintoretto, wrapped in a cloak, sat down on the cube.
Mildidi! - Pyotr Petrovich’s youngest son laughed. He laughed thinly, like a bell.
A hammer floated in the air.
I must have my own “I”! - Pyotr Petrovich’s eldest son yelled from somewhere above.
Tell me, which of you drew on the asphalt? - I asked.
And again I could not be heard. The eldest son of Pyotr Petrovich shouted so loudly about the fact that he should have his own “I”, only he could be heard.
Burst in bright light. It was as if my mother pulled back the curtain in the morning.
Everyone began to leave. Raphael - hugging Rembrandt. Delacroix - embracing Tintoretto...
From somewhere above, the eldest son of Pyotr Petrovich fell onto the square. The square fell apart.
The youngest son of Pyotr Petrovich laughed like a bell.
There was no more crackling noise. There was only silence. The bell just rang. Quieter and quieter...
Cobalt purple
The eldest son of Pyotr Petrovich stood in the corridor. And I just left the class. He called me:
Listen, do you know where my father is?
I didn’t want to answer him at first, but then I said:
Don't know.
What grade is he in now, do you know?
I don’t know, I say.
Listen, he says, you seem to have a whole warehouse of frames. This is true?
So it’s true,” he says. - Let's change. For oil paints. I'll give you some colors. And you give me the frame. I really, really, really need a frame. I need to put my father's portrait in a frame. It will look completely different in a frame. A frame is like a dress for a person... Well, you still don’t understand anything, why talk to you...
I wanted to leave, but he stopped me.
“Come on,” he says, “just wait.” Are you going to change or not? You will paint an oil painting. Is it bad or what? Very good. You see, I want to ask my father for money. This is, in fact, why I came here. You know, I need to buy a frame. Yes, he may not give me money. Yes, maybe he doesn’t have one. Don't you know where my father is?
I've been thinking a lot about paints. Real oil painting...Great masters...
How many colors will you give me? - I ask.
Let’s go,” he says, “let’s look at your frames.”
“I have to have a lesson,” I say.
Don't give a damn about the lesson, he says, if this is the case.
I can’t do this, how can I do this...
You say something: a tooth, you say, it hurts, or there’s a liver, spleen, think about it!
How is it possible, I can’t do this...
“You’re a worthless person,” he says. - Oil paints. Such big tubes. Different colors. Blue, orange, green...
Do you have any brushes? - I say.
It will be found, he says. - There will be some shabby brush.
Apparently he really needed the frame. He finally persuaded me. I have never left a lesson in my life. And then he took it and left.
He and I went straight to our place.
There were no father and mother. He walked throughout the apartment and shouted:
You live wonderfully, stump! Gorgeous!
Why is it gorgeous? - I asked.
Square,” he shouted, “square!” Gorgeous area! And no old people!
He began to examine my frames.
I chose one. Began to measure. Will she fit his portrait?
So how many colors do you need? - he asked.
All colors, I said.
He whistled.
A lot,” he said.
“I need everyone,” I said. - Or I don’t need anything.
And cobalt violet? - he asked.
And cobalt violet.
“I can’t,” he said. - All colors except cobalt violet.
If he had not told me about this cobalt, I would not have demanded it. I had never even heard that such paint existed. But since he feels so sorry for this cobalt, it means that this is the most beautiful, most wonderful paint...
He sighed.
“Okay,” he said. - Half cobalt violet.
He sighed again.
And why did you give up this violet cobalt, I don’t understand!
Why did he give up to you?
I need him like this, you know, up to my neck...
And I need it,” I said.
You don’t need him for a damn thing,” he said.
Here, I think, is a cunning man! He, you see, needs this cobalt, but I don’t? I wonder why he needed it so much? Is it really impossible to do without such paint? Probably not, since he clings to this paint so much.
“You could totally do without this cobalt violet,” he said.
No, I said. - I couldn't.
He kept looking at the frame.
Do you have any small palette? - I asked. - Maybe you have some small palette?
“I have nothing,” he said.
Where can I get a palette?
Plywood. Take plywood. That's all.
What will I use to thin the paints?
What do I care what you use to thin your paints?
How can I breed them?
Kerosene,” he said. - From a kerosene stove.
That's all? - I asked.
What about brushes?
What brushes?
Where can I get brushes?
What do I care? What do I care about this! - he yelled.
But where can I get them?
For some reason he began to speak in my ear:
A tuft of hair. Of your own. Trim. Cut. Bandage. With a thread. On a stick. That's all! Understood? Secret. Clear? What will I get for this invention?
So, then I can make as many brushes as I want?
As many as you like,” he said. - Own factory.
And it's all?
And the canvas?
What's canvas?
Where can I get a canvas?
He chuckled:
What do I care! My God, what do I care!
But where can I get it? - I just looked at him pleadingly. I didn’t know where these canvases were taken. He knew after all. He could have said it.
Cardboard,” he said. - Take the cardboard. Cover it with glue. Carpenter. That's all.
We took the frame and went to them. I waited downstairs and he brought me some paints. Maybe not all the colors were there, but cobalt violet was there. I checked this right away. I unscrewed the cap of the tube and squeezed this cobalt onto my finger. This is paint! Lilac-lilac! How terribly beautiful. Now I understand why he didn’t want to give me this paint.
"Flying Dutchman"
When I was getting my hair cut at the hairdresser, they asked me:
Is it you who lives in that window?
I was surprised and said:
Why are you always spinning around and waving your arms?
Is it visible? - I asked.
“I’m painting a picture,” I said. - I’ve been painting a picture for two days. But I’m not very good at it yet.
I must have been spinning around my cardboard pretty well. He waved his brush so that the whole wall was splashed. He spun the rag like a propeller. I ran up and - bam! bam! - paint on canvas! I applied strokes right away. There must be a storm in my heart, like that Delacroix! He, too, probably did not stand like a dead man near his painting. He, probably, just like me, could not stand still.
“Like a top,” said the hairdresser, “you’re spinning like a top.”
Am I spinning now? - I asked.
Not really. You're spinning in the window. You're spinning all day long. What do you think is going on there? What do you think it could be?..
“I’m painting a picture,” I said.
Now I understand.
“The Flying Dutchman,” I said.
Hard work.
He cut my hair and smiled. Maybe he didn’t believe that I was painting the picture.
“Well, that’s it,” he said. - Go. Paint your picture.
Then I asked him:
Do you need hair?
What kind of hair? - he was surprised.
Mine, I say.
“I don’t understand anything,” he says.
These are my own, from my head... - And I point to the floor with my finger.
He shrugged:
Absolutely not necessary. Take as much as your heart desires, any hair from any head.
I rushed home. It was my mother who tore me away from the picture. “Go,” he says, “get your hair cut.” As if I couldn’t get my hair cut another time.
When a creative worker is distracted from work, this is the worst thing. Pyotr Petrovich told us how terrible it was for one talented artist distracted from work. His friends distracted him from work all the time, and that’s it! And he was distracted with them. So then he died. That is, he himself did not die. His talent was lost. Man's friends have destroyed him. Just imagine, they treated him to vodka all the time. That's what kind of friends they were, huh? God forbid I have such friends in my life...
...The sea is blue and green. I never thought that so many colors would come to this sea. And in the middle is a cobalt purple ship. I planted all the violet cobalt into this ship! This is the Flying Dutchman. Who told me about The Flying Dutchman? It was a terrible thing... The team disappeared somewhere. One ship left. Its sails are billowing in the wind. The masts tilt to the right and then to the left. Surprised gear creaks. Rope ladders dangle. The Flying Dutchman rushes through the waves...
I looked out the window. The hairdresser looked at me. He sat on a bench near the hairdresser and looked up. I waved to him. And he to me. A boy approached him. And he went with it to the hairdresser.
I just couldn’t get waves - that’s what’s bad. I've heard that when it doesn't work, you have to scrape all the paint off. Remove paint with a knife. I've already done this for the third time. I removed all the paint. And he started again. And then I saw that I no longer had paints. I've run out of all my paints.
At this time, the father approached. He kept coming up to me.
“I think,” he said, “an artist must have some method...
What method? - I asked.
In any business, he said, there must be a method.
“I need paints,” I said. - I still need paints. Will you buy me some more paints?
“Will you smear them on this cardboard,” he said, “remove them with a knife and throw them away?”
That’s what everyone does,” I said. - All artists do this! If they don’t succeed, they remove this paint...
They have a method! It can’t be that they didn’t have this method...
But where can I get it?
If you don't have a method...
If I had paints,” I said, “I would certainly paint this sea... and “The Flying Dutchman”... I would do it all perfectly...
“You don’t have a method,” said the father, “you wouldn’t succeed.”
I looked out the window. This barber cut that boy's hair. I won't go to this barbershop to get my hair cut again. I'll go somewhere else and get my hair cut. He asks me about my painting, what will I answer him?
And in the morning Alka will come to me. He'll come straight away in the morning. He will definitely come.
He paints a self-portrait. Now he sits in front of the mirror and paints himself with oil paints. He probably thinks he's Rembrandt! He probably smiles in this mirror just like Rembrandt. And he probably has the same shadow on his face. And he probably put a beret on his head, like Rembrandt...
Olive Neaves
My father walked with this letter to all the neighbors.
What is it? - the neighbors asked. - What's happened?
A letter from England to my son! How do you like it? They sent him a letter from England! To him personally! What do you say to this?
The neighbors couldn't say anything. They were surprised.
I received a letter from London. I followed my father and could not understand why on earth they were sending me letters from London.
Aunt Regina brought some old man.
Do you read English? - his father asked. - Do you read English well?
Yes, I read English,” he said, putting on his glasses.
Can you translate? - asked the father.
Yes,” he said, “I can translate, strange as it may seem.”
There’s nothing strange about that,” my father said.
Everyone went to our apartment.
So, here... here... yeah... so... clear...
Nothing is clear! - said my father. He was impatient to find out what they were writing to me from London.
“Now,” said the old man. - Yeah...
Well, what is it, after all! - my father shouted. - What is it about? What is written there?
Let him read it,” my mother said.
The old man took off his glasses, looked at my father and said:
Absolutely right. Let me read it. - And put on his glasses again.
Yes, read... - said the father.
The old man read to himself. Then he finished reading and said:
This letter is written by a girl... that is, a girl... she is a girl, that is, a girl, lives, as I understand it, in London. And, of course, he writes a letter to your son...
English girl? My son? This can't be true! - said the father.
They shouted at my father, and he fell silent.
She writes that she saw... just a minute... aha!.. She saw at the vernissage... well, yes... at the exhibition, probably... quite correctly, at the exhibition some kind of painting... probably of your son... That's it... A painting of your son!..
I almost went crazy when I heard this. This probably wasn’t written to me, or what? Where could my picture be there? Some kind of nonsense...
What kind of rabbits? - said my father. - Some kind of nonsense...
That's it, rabbits,” said the old man.
Read, read! - everyone shouted.
-... she admires our men... yes, yes... that’s it, who held back the countless hordes... hordes, or rather... rushing to our land...
“This is sensible,” said the father, “very sensible!” - He looked at his mother.
- ...and she would also really like... yes... she would like to see the Russian winter... and Russian snow... and... that's it... the author of this wonderful picture…
See snow, my father said, in Baku? This is impossible!
They shouted at my father again.
-... she is studying well... in college... sends greetings to all the boys and girls... England... Soviet Union... in short, must live in peace... her name is Olive Neaves...
Olive Neaves! - Mom said. - That's very beautiful!
Olive Neaves! - said my father. - It sounds!
Olive Neaves! - said the old man. - That's it.
Then everyone left very surprised and looked at me, and the old man took off his glasses, looked at me and said:
Olive Neaves, my dear, Olive Neaves!
I, of course, did not understand what he wanted to tell me by this. I didn't understand anything at all. I started blinking well again. So I’ve probably never blinked like this time.
When everyone left, my father said to me:
Come here. And don't lie. Be an honest man. We are talking about a capitalist country. Don't prevaricate. Lay it all out. What does it mean?
“It doesn’t mean anything,” I said. - How do I know what this means?
Don’t dodge,” he said. - Tell me everything honestly.
Post what? - I said.
So you don't want to post it? - he said.
“Leave him alone,” Mom said. - That's his business. His conversations with this girl. You're always interfering in other people's conversations!
A girl! - the father shouted. - Which girl? English?
Does it really matter? - Mom said.
I've never had any acquaintances English girls, - said the father.
“It’s very vain,” said my mother.
Oh that's how it is! - said the father. He was waving this letter. - I didn’t have capitalist girls, that’s true! And I didn’t receive any letters from various Americas, England, Brazil!
“Be quiet,” said my mother.
“Okay,” said the father, “okay...
That's good! - Mom said.
I slowly ran out into the yard.
I sat down on the step and sat there for a long time. The next morning they brought me a letter from Pionerskaya Pravda:
Dear friend! We inform you that your watercolor “Tanks are breaking into hometown", sent to the competition, we sent it to England for an exhibition dedicated to Anglo-Soviet friendship. We wish you creative success!
The second "Flying Dutchman"
This time I painted on canvas. I pulled a piece of the bag onto a stool. I didn't do very well. First I pulled it onto the legs. So it didn’t stretch at all for me. And I pulled it onto the bottom.
Father, after that English writing, bought me paints. A whole box of oil paints.
Although you don’t have a method, he said, let’s hope that one will appear...
It’s better to paint pictures on the set,” my mother said.
I carried the stool onto the landing.
Holding a plywood with embossed paints in one hand, and brushes made from my own hair in the other, I walked around our site.
Vitya, are you an artist? - Uncle Sadikh was surprised.
“Don’t interfere,” I said, “this is a serious matter...
The most serious people live on our site,” said Uncle Sadikh. - Vitya and I are the most serious...
Everyone parted. I approached the canvas.
I started writing the second Flying Dutchman.
This time I will write this “Flying Dutchman”!
The neighbors said:
Why do you apply so much paint?
How much does one such paint cost?
You can’t sell such a painting at the market...
Don't push him, don't push him!..
Get away from him, get away!..
Don't bother him, don't bother him!
It’s beautiful, it turns out beautifully!
Where does it look beautiful?
The ship is working!
Where does the boat come from?
Look! Look!
Don't splash me! (I’ve already started to disturb them!)
Don't wave your rag like that!
Move away, I said, I have to look from afar.
I walked away from the picture.
And I looked this way and that way. He tilted his head first to one side and then to the other. He squinted. He folded his fingers into a tube and looked through the hole.
The neighbors were silent.
They also folded their fingers into a tube and looked into the hole.
And who knows, maybe later they will nail a board to our house. Here, they will say, in this house, the famous artist Vitya Starikov lived...
Well, they’ll kill you, wait...
If they kill about him, then they’ll kill about me too,” said Uncle Sadikh.
An artist is interesting...
I had a brother who was an artist, then he drowned...
Artists - they make great money...
I had an uncle who was an artist, he bought himself a motorcycle...
It depends on which artist...
But the paints smell...
...I think I did pretty well. In some places the colors applied thinly, and in others they were thick. In one place it turned out to be a real sea. It's just a pity there was no cobalt violet. This means that not every box contains cobalt violet... And the neighbors praised me.
I carried the stool into the room. I was sure that I had painted an outstanding picture.
Look at yourself in the mirror, said mom.
I looked at myself.
My face was red, blue and purple...
Palettes on the walls
Walk around the city after school, said Pyotr Petrovich, and erase these palettes!
Alka and I walked around the city and drew palettes on the walls with chalk. And inside the palette they wrote:
Tintoretto!
Delacroix!
Rembrandt!
We knew, of course, that writing on walls was not a good idea. We knew all this. But somehow they didn’t think about it.
If everyone, - said Pyotr Petrovich, - writes their names on the walls... I understand your desire to perpetuate yourself, so to speak, to consolidate your names... Somewhat premature... not quite, I would say, noble impulses... The head teacher tells me: “This is not Have your walls been painted there?” I say: “No, these are not ours.” I think you and I will figure this out ourselves. Please erase these palettes... - Then he said to the whole class: - There are so many of these palettes around... It’s not so easy to get rid of them... Maybe you, Kafarov, can help?
Kafarov was silent. It was clear that he did not want to help at all.
The smallest girl in our class, Kira Velimbakhova, stood up and said in a thin voice:
I will help.
There’s no need to help us, I say.
Then we’ll do this,” said Pyotr Petrovich. - Everyone, going to or from school, will probably come across at least one palette. I ask you: erase it. That's all. I'll do the same myself when I pass by.
This palette is painted on our front door,” said Tasya Lebedeva.
Here, here,” said Pyotr Petrovich, “you can erase it!”
I really need it! - Tasya Lebedeva looked at us. - They will draw, and I will wash?
“They realized their mistake,” said Pyotr Petrovich, “they understood everything.”
Let them wash it themselves,” said Kafarov.
What are you guys like! - said Pyotr Petrovich. - Why can I do laundry, but you can’t?
“We painted two palettes on our front door,” said Kostya Shilo, “and then the janitor erased them.”
They create work for janitors! - said Pyotr Petrovich.
Let the headman erase these palettes,” someone said.
“Here’s another thing,” said the headman.
There is no palette on our house,” Kirschbaum said.
“Okay,” said Pyotr Petrovich. - Enough. This conversation is dragging on for us. It takes on a ridiculous hue. By the way,” he turned to me, “approximately how many of these palettes have you drawn?
About a hundred,” I said.
Maybe two hundred,” Alka said.
“It’s a disgrace,” said Pyotr Petrovich. - A complete disgrace! So, it turns out you haven’t been drawing them for days?
Not alone, I said.
Every day,” Alka said.
How long ago did you start this campaign?
“I don’t remember,” I said.
“We don’t remember,” Alka said.
“I really didn’t expect it from you,” said Pyotr Petrovich. - I didn’t expect this from you...
“We’ll erase it,” I said.
And I think so,” said Pyotr Petrovich.
There was no more talk about palettes.
Great masters loved monumental art! - said Pyotr Petrovich. - They loved the scope. Swing, as they say... Murals by Raphael, Tiepolo, Rublev, Michelangelo, Tintoretto... These are huge works... remember their names!.. Michelangelo! Remember this name! He had a crooked neck. All his life he painted ceilings and walls, not to mention sculptures. Try to lift your head like this... like this... and keep it in this position. And he held her in this position!.. And lying on her back for hours? Lying on the scaffolding and looking at the ceiling? This is no joke, I tell you! Remember this name!..
After class we went to wash our palettes.
It was not so easy to erase them. They didn’t wash off, that’s the point. And we took a rag from the classroom. And they rubbed with all their might. Do not erase! We erased two palettes. Somehow they erased it. They rubbed for two hours. They were running into the yard. The rags were wet. It was much easier to draw them.
Come on! - says Alka.
It’s inconvenient, I say.
And why did we even draw them! - says Alka.
Some old man stopped, stood and watched as we washed them.
He looked and looked, then asked:
And how much do you get paid for this?
We don’t answer him and continue to wash.
He says:
Would you like to say that you are doing this for free?
“We don’t want to say anything,” says Alka. - It's clear?
The old man says:
Understandable, but not entirely. - I put on my glasses and started watching again. He sighed and said: “It seems I’ve confused you with someone.” - He shook his head and left.
He left, some dog began to rush at us. She rushes and rushes as if we were touching her.
When we painted these palettes, nothing like this happened to us. Only once they hit Alka in the neck. That's all. Because we smear it on the walls.
Somehow the owner of this dog took her away.
He took her away, the children began to gather. They gather and gather. "Why? From what? For what?" - and various other questions are asked. They really got on our nerves.
Alka shouts to them:
What is this, a circus or what?
They're back.
As soon as we are about to do the laundry, they go ahead again.
But what, they say, is impossible, or what?
Alka tells them:
What, you don't go to school yet?
We don’t go, they say.
If only we went to school, he says, we wouldn’t hang around here.
That's right, they say, they wouldn't hang around.
And they don't leave.
At this time, a thought occurred to me.
Do you want to do laundry? - I ask.
They will all shout together:
I tore off half of the rag for them.
Here’s a rag for you, I say, wash it. This is the task you are given.
Thank you! - they shout.
It was as if they were waiting for this. Alik tells me:
Let's give them our rags. Let them erase everything. Let them go and do laundry.
We gave them our rags.
They were so happy, as if we had given them toys.
As soon as you see, says Alka, a palette like this, wash it immediately!
Let's erase it! - the kids screamed.
And tell others to do the laundry too.
Let's say! - the kids screamed.
Hooray! - Alka shouted.
Hooray! - the kids screamed.
And Alka and I went home.
Ygishka comes up to me on the street and says:
Listen, do you want me to turn your ears away?
Out of the blue, he suddenly comes up. He tells me such things. Evil has taken a terrible toll on me.
For what? - I say.
Yig! - speaks.
What? - I say.
Artist! - speaks. - Me too, artist!
What do you need? - I say.
“I’ll turn away my ears,” he says, “and that’s all.” Ygy.
Well, what should I tell him? I absolutely don’t know what to tell him. I look at him and don’t say anything.
Do you give away your drawings? - speaks. - Ygy?
What drawings?
You know! - speaks.
“I didn’t give any drawings to anyone,” I say.
Ygy, - he says, - it’s clear. Didn’t he give it to Lebedeva either?
Leave me alone, I say.
Ygy,” he says, “just right!”
I wanted to leave, but he blocked my way.
Swear,” he says, “that you won’t give away any more of your drawings.”
If I want, I will, but if I want, I won’t. What is your business? - I say.
Ygy, he says. - Don't go here. And don't go there. Don't go anywhere here. And then... Ygy. Clear? Don't meet me. Clear? Ygy.
“I see,” I say.
What more can I say? Of course, I’ll still be walking here. Where else to go? I have nowhere else to go. Should I drop out of school because of him, or what? There is no other road. He speaks nonsense, of course. It's unpleasant. It’s still very unpleasant when you meet such a hefty guy on the road. And he will meet you tomorrow. I'm in trouble, in trouble. I walked and thought about these troubles. But what can you come up with here? I won't complain to my mom. Or dad there. I won't complain to anyone. I don’t like this manner of complaining.
So I didn’t come up with anything. I go to school again along the same road. Of course, it’s unpleasant for me to go. This big guy is about to jump out. With this “ygy” of yours. This is all turning out very badly. Other people somehow live wow. Nobody meets them on the road. They walk calmly. And they don’t think about anything like that...
At this time, someone threw a nut at my back. Such a big nut. They fucked me so hard on my back that I almost sat down. First I wanted to run, but then I thought: “If I run like this every day, nothing good will happen. I can quite easily throw such a nut after me. Here, run, don’t run, it’s all the same.”
At this time this Ygy comes out.
Ygy, - he says, - how are you?
And his friend at that time lay down at my feet. So quickly. This guy pushed me in the back. I'm immediately in the dust.
They stand and laugh.
Don't go here, they say. - You are welcome. You can't walk here. Not allowed. Don't you have a pass? No. And you go without a pass. Are you a spy or something, walking around without a pass?
They started telling me all sorts of stupid things. And they both laugh.
I stood up and hit this little guy in the head with my briefcase! He didn't even expect it. For some reason his friend immediately ran away. And he grabbed my hand. “Well,” I think, “now he’ll give it to me properly.”
At this time the teachers passed by. And he let me go. I'll run now, of course.
After classes I look out into the yard. That's right - it's waiting. And with him there are two. They're waiting for me. They walk around the yard. Hands in pockets. And they look at our window.
Of course, I didn’t go out to them. I'm not such a fool as to go out to them. I climbed out through the window. I went to another class. Came out from a completely different direction. I look into the yard: they are walking with their hands in their pockets.
I suddenly immediately decided what to do with it.
I had a wonderful cork gun lying around my house. I had this pistol in my drawer. Along with broken, old toys. I used to shoot with it from morning to evening. And then I got tired of him. Nothing comes out of this gun. This plug immediately falls after the shot. But it makes great noise. And fire flies out of the barrel, and smoke.
Now I slept peacefully.
And in the morning I put this pistol loaded with cork in my pocket.
Before I could go outside, he shot in my pocket. Smoke poured out of the pocket. Some old woman was walking nearby, and she almost fell out of fear.
I had to go home. Load your cork gun with a new cork.
And here I am walking along the same street. Where I'm not supposed to go. I'm going without any pass. I keep one hand in my pocket. And I have a loaded cork pistol lying there. And no one knows what's in my pocket. And they don't know either. There are three standing there. Are waiting. They smile. They are thinking about how they will now say various offensive things to me. About all the different stupid passes there. About the fact that I'm not allowed to walk here. They're probably thinking about how they'll push me again. And I will fly into dust. And they will laugh. They don't know, the fools, what's in my pocket!
I approached them, and they blocked the road. And they also keep their hands in their pockets; you'd think they had cork guns there too. I approached them, stopped, beckoned them with my finger and said:
Come, come here...
They were surprised, looked at each other and slowly walked towards me. And I walk slowly back, and keep my hand in my pocket. “If only,” I think, “the gun in my pocket doesn’t go off like that time.”
I decided to take them somewhere into the front door and shoot at them there. For some reason it seemed to me that I definitely needed to start it somewhere. I was very confident in my pistol.
Go, I say, go, don’t be shy...
This Ygy says:
Why talk to him, guys, why is he fooling around...
Come, come here, I say, come...
“If,” I think, “they rush at me, I’ll shoot at them right away. I’ll pull out my gun and shoot right at them.” I was very confident in my pistol.
No, for some reason they didn’t rush at me. Or they felt something bad, or something else, but they suddenly stopped.
Ygy says:
Have you gone crazy, or what?
Shut up, idiot, I say.
He was taken aback.
Wow! - speaks.
Little girl, I say, damn! Stump! Balabolka! Ygyshka!
He just turned completely pale. He pushed these friends of his away and said:
I'll deal with him myself now. I'll rip his stupid ears off now!
And I say:
Look what you are, Ygyshka! Come here!
“If,” I think, “he comes at me now, I’ll shoot at him right now. But it’s still better to drag him somewhere into the front door.”
And I'm approaching the front door with my back. And he follows me. And his face is kind of strange. It’s as if he himself can’t understand what’s going on. He still felt something. Because I wasn't in a hurry. But he still went into the front door. But his friends remained on the street.
I walked up the stairs backwards, and he walked up behind me.
Go, go, I said, go...
I kept getting up, and then I stepped forward. He stepped forward one step towards him. And I pulled out my pistol carefully so that it wouldn’t fire prematurely. I don't think he even noticed when I pulled him out. He kept looking at me. And he twisted his mouth. Did he scare me with his crooked mouth, or what?
That's when I shot him.
Well, my pistol banged! Like a cannon.
He screamed as if he thought he was dead. His face at that moment - you can’t explain it! The eyes were open, as if they were about to pop out. I didn't really look at him at that moment. I was only thinking about making my gun fire. But still, I noticed how frightened his face was.
Then he turned. And he ran out.
I followed him out.
He ran as fast as he could down the street, and his friends ran after him. This street was long. And up. So they rushed along it like crazy. As if I was going to shoot after them again. I followed them until they disappeared around the corner. They were probably still running there too, honestly!
A guy came out of the front door. He was in pajamas.
Did something happen? - he asked.
“Nothing happened,” I said.
Why does it smell? - he asked.
Where does it smell? - I asked.
“It smells of sulfur,” he said, “and there was a shot.” I heard.
Where was the shot? - I asked.
Haven't you heard? - he asked.
“I didn’t hear anything,” I said.
Strange,” he said, “very strange...
And he went back to his front door.
My mother washed my pants, hung them over the gas to dry, they fell into the fire and burned. It's good that there was no fire! But I was left without pants...
It's lonely in the wild north
There is a pine tree on the bare top.
And dozes, swaying, and snow falls
Dressed like a robe, she...
I stood in my shorts, leaning against the closet, twirling the clock chain in front of my nose and shouting this poem to the whole house.
I imagined trains rushing north. The locomotives are humming. I'm on the same train. I'm in a very happy mood. I’m riding in the first carriage and at a turn I see the whole train, how it bends in an arc. There, in the distance, Alka, Kafarov, Tasya... And even Ygishka... They wave to me... And I rush to the north. Where there is ice and snow. And I’ll paint a picture with the northern lights...
And she dreams of everything that is in the distant desert -
In the region where sunrise,
Alone and sad on a burning cliff
A beautiful palm tree grows...
...And everything northern went somewhere to the side, the trains rushed in the opposite direction - I’m going in the opposite direction. The train shines in the sun, as if it were silver, and sunbeams jumping on the grass and through the vineyards... And Tasya, and Alka, and Kafarov meet me, and even Ygishka meets me with his friends...
When the poem ended, I started over.
I really liked this poem!
My mother went to buy me pants. And I stayed. I couldn’t even go with her to try on these pants. I can’t walk around the city in shorts with her. I also had pants. The mother searched the whole house, but it was as if her pants had sunk into the water. It was as if they had evaporated. There were almost new canvas pants, where did they go? It’s just some kind of miracle: where could my pants have gone?
And she dreams of everything in the distant desert...
...The camels are walking, and the bells hung on their necks are ringing... And the sands are probably like waves... Such huge waves... The wind blows, and the sand spreads over these waves...
How many times have I already read this poem!
The chain wraps around your finger and unwinds...
Bells are ringing, locomotives are humming, trains are rushing...
I really like this poem!
And suddenly I remembered that my mother sewed a jacket for me from canvas pants, which I’m wearing...
I've never seen anything like this before beautiful light in the window. And I have never seen such a beautiful lampshade. The lampshade was lilac. And the light bulb there was probably reddish. I have never seen such a beautiful color - that's for sure!
Kafarov and I walked past this window a couple of times. We raised our heads with all our might, but we never saw Tasi Lebedeva there.
The light from the window illuminated the trees. The sky was black. And the wind blew.
Maybe she doesn't live there? - I asked.
I know! - said Kafarov.
For some reason I felt offended that I didn’t know this, but he knew.
How do you know? - I asked.
Let’s go to the other side,” he said.
We went to the other side.
Standing on the other side, we stared out the window with all our might.
“Now she will appear,” said Kafarov.
Or maybe it won't appear? - I said.
It can’t be,” said Kafarov.
How do you know? - I said.
Then we sat down.
We saw her today in class... - I said.
So what? - he said.
“And we’ll see tomorrow,” I said.
So what?
He didn't even want to listen to me.
Look! Look! - he shouted.
Something flashed through the window.
Are you sure it's her? - I asked.
Certainly!
What if this is her father?
Yah you! - he said. - Well, he has bows in his hair, or what?
“I didn’t see any bows,” I said.
“I saw it,” he said.
There were no bows. I think there was a mustache there.
“They were bows,” he said. - Two bows.
Okay, I said. - There were bows.
A cat came out to the window. She looked at us. It was as if she had come out specifically to look at us. From the neighboring balcony a dog began barking at the cat. The cat didn't pay any attention to the dog. She probably understood that the dog could not reach her.
Still, we saw her,” he said.
“We saw her father,” I said. - Look! Look! - I shouted.
Someone touched the lampshade with their hand, and it began to sway slightly. Shadows moved across the curtain. It was as if the whole room had come to life. The whole room rocked...
Did not see? - I asked.
Have you seen it? - asked Kafarov.
Either I saw it or I didn’t see it,” I said.
“I think I saw it,” Kafarov said.
Shadow? - I asked.
“Shadow,” said Kafarov.
On the curtain?
On the curtain.
Or maybe it's not her?
“I saw the bows,” he said.
There were no bows there.
Now I saw clearly. He just imagined these bows!
Two bows,” said Kafarov, “two big bows...
Maybe it’s grandma or mother,” I said.
“You yourself are a grandmother,” he said.
He was sure it was her. He was absolutely sure of this.
And then we saw her.
She quickly walked past us. I went over to the other side. She waved her hand at the cat. And she entered her front door. Two huge bows swayed on her head...
The youngest son of Pyotr Petrovich bit the dog. He went with his mother to the store. Mom walked up to the counter. And she let him go. And there was a dog sitting near the door. She was waiting for her owner. The youngest son of Pyotr Petrovich approached the dog and bit it. The dog squealed terribly, and the baby got scared and cried. Angelina Petrovna shouted: “Take away the dog! She bit my son!” At this time, some guy says: “Nothing like that! The dog didn't touch your son. She sat quietly. She didn't touch anyone. I have seen! Your son came up and bit her!” Everyone began to say that it could not be that such Small child bit this one big dog. And that guy says: “You don’t believe me? Oh, so you don't believe me? Look how he did it! He approached the dog, I saw it, citizens! He approached her like this...” And the uncle wanted to show how Pyotr Petrovich’s youngest son approached the dog. At this time, the frightened dog thought that they wanted to do something to her, and without hesitation, she bit the guy on the nose. The guy screamed terribly, and the dog’s owner said: “Why did you bother the dog? Tell! Why did you go after her? Did she touch you? Didn't touch it! Then why did you bother her?..”
Pyotr Petrovich told us all this, and we laughed. Pyotr Petrovich always told very funny things...
If we take X,” says Maria Nikolaevna, “if we take X!”
I look at the board. This story came to mind at the wrong time...
At this time, a note fell next to me.
When Maria Nikolaevna turned away, I read:
Don't think that I'm offended by you. I'm not mad at you at all. I'm leaving tomorrow with my father and mother. And I will study at another school. In a completely different city. And I have never been offended by you. If my father had not been transferred to another city, I would never have left...
TASYA-... two thousand four hundred and fifty by one thousand four hundred and forty eight...
I hear nothing.
-...It turns out three thousand eight hundred and ninety-eight...divided...it turns out...adding...so...subtracting...
I hear nothing.
Kafarov looks at me. The bell rings.
I approach Tasya.
Are you leaving? - I ask quietly.
“I’m leaving,” she says.
For good?
For good. - And smiles. As if it's good that she's leaving for good!
Well... leave... - I say.
I wanted to say something completely different.
She stood there, looked at me, and then turned and walked quickly. I shouted after her:
It's good that you're not offended by me!!!
But she probably didn’t hear me anymore.
I wanted to run after her.
And then he didn’t run.
Can't be
Pyotr Petrovich unwrapped his breakfast and began to eat an apple. He placed a piece of bread and butter on the windowsill.
I stood behind the glass door and also ate an apple. I placed a large piece of bread and butter on the windowsill.
Pyotr Petrovich raised the apple and pointed to the sandwich. He seemed to say: “What a coincidence!”
We smiled at each other and I remembered. In second grade I wrote a poem. I couldn't decide whether this poem was good or not. And is it worth reading? What if this is a terrible poem? What if there is something so terrible there that I don’t see? But at the same time, if I don’t read it to anyone, I won’t know what kind of poem it is. Or maybe this is a wonderful poem? What then? Blushing and worried, I told Pyotr Petrovich: “I wrote a poem!” There were two of us in the class. I deliberately chose this moment so that no one else would be there. “This is commendable,” he said, “read it!” I walked out to the middle of the class. For some reason he climbed onto the desk. It seemed to me that the poem must be read from somewhere on high. “You don’t need to sit on your desk,” said Pyotr Petrovich, “get off, it’s not at all necessary.” I teared up in confusion. “Read on the floor,” he said, “it’s better.” I started reading:
A tailor was walking down the street.
I walked calmly, I walked home,
At this time I saw:
People are starting a scandal...
He suddenly interrupted me. “Where, where are they going?” - he asked. “For a scandal,” I said quietly. "For what?" - He laughed with all his might. “They climb and that’s it...” I said.
I couldn't understand why he was so funny. He suddenly stopped laughing and asked: “Are people starting a scandal?” - and started laughing again. He even had tears in his eyes.
“Well, brother, I made you laugh,” he said. I was offendedly silent. Finally he asked: “So you wrote it yourself?” “Myself,” I said. “You can see it right away,” he said. “Is it bad, or what?” “No, why,” he said, “it’s funny... let’s move on.”
I remembered this incident, and it seemed to me that he also remembered this incident now and that’s why he was smiling. Now I see that this is a bad poem. Now I see for myself...
I took my breakfast from the windowsill and quickly left. But Pyotr Petrovich stayed. He waved to me as I left.
Two lessons went by very quickly. I myself don’t know why this happens: some lessons go by quickly, while others drag on.
I walked up the stairs. I went to class for my last lesson.
Behind me they said:
Such unexpected things don't happen often...
No, this is terrible... this is such a surprise...
After all, just...
In fact of the matter…
Just... you know... just... how can I tell you...
No, you know, it’s hard to believe...
And I, imagine, the same thing...
You heard they say he came home...
What are you saying! I did not know that…
Very, very unpleasant...
A man of amazing soul...
That's the point... that's what I'm saying...
At first I didn't really listen to what they were saying. And then he began to listen.
The head teacher Pal Palych walked unnaturally quickly along the corridor.
Several people ran down the corridor in one direction.
I entered the classroom.
Kira Velimbakhova stood on a chair and repeated in a thin voice:
Pyotr Petrovich died... Pyotr Petrovich died...
Tasya Lebedeva cried very loudly.
Maria Nikolaevna entered the class and said:
Hush guys, hush... this is a big misfortune...
She left as quickly as she came in, and I thought she might not have said that. It was not at all necessary to enter the class and say that this was a misfortune. This is already understandable...
The door creaked sharply and everyone turned around. It was Tasya Lebedeva who ran out of the classroom.
The head teacher Pal Palych said at the door:
Classes are over today...
For some reason the bell rang at the wrong time.
Everyone began to leave.
“This can’t be,” I thought, “this can’t be…”
At home I said:
Pyotr Petrovich died...
This can't be true! - Mom said.
And the father said that this cannot be.
Both father and mother looked out the window, as if there, outside the window, a funeral procession was about to pass...
All funeral processions pass by our house. There was a general's funeral and a composer's funeral. The general was killed in the war. He was brought home from the war. He was killed somewhere in the west. The general was carried on a cannon carriage by six horses. And there were many horsemen, many military men, many people. A countless number of wreaths were carried behind the composer’s coffin. The streets swayed like the sea. There were people on the balconies, in the windows and on the roofs. The music was blaring and everyone was walking slowly...
And the children, our class and other classes - the whole school - will follow the coffin of Pyotr Petrovich.
No, I'm not going…
On the day of the funeral I ran away.
I took the train. Houses and vineyards rushed outside the window. I was leaving town. The train rushed me out of town. I went out into the vestibule. He sat down on the floor. Thoughts were jumping around in my head like crazy. I didn't know where I was going and just sat there.
The whole school is probably walking past our windows right now. Our entire class. Everyone is going to bury Pyotr Petrovich, and I’m sitting here in this vestibule... I kept wanting to get up and transfer to the oncoming train. And go back. And I still couldn’t. At one stop we waited for a long time for an oncoming train. Everyone got out of the car and walked along the platform. I got up and went out onto the platform.
I saw an oncoming train rushing by, I wanted to run across the tracks and get on it and go back.
But I didn't do it. I still stood there, and when the whistle sounded, I jumped into my carriage and drove on.
When the train returned to Baku, I did not get off. People came in and out, and I sat.
Again I left the city. I sat in the corner and did not look out the window, although I always look out the window. I looked at the people, but they didn’t know why I was here, they didn’t even pay attention to me...
At one stop I got off.
I went to the rocks. The wind was blowing and the sea was green. The wind blew the sand and the sea roared.
It was empty.
And everything seemed strange. The tarpaulin from one mushroom was torn off by the wind and carried into the sea...
The sun was strong and the wind was strong.
And the waves hit the rocks hard...
On the way back, I jumped out without waiting for the train to stop and sprained my leg.
I barely made it home. My leg is swollen terribly.
I didn’t go to school for several days, I was still lying with sprained leg. I considered myself a coward - otherwise why didn’t I then go with everyone to bury Pyotr Petrovich?
I'm just a coward, that's all!
I couldn’t see a dead person who was alive yesterday!..
Don't drop anchor!
The sails are turning white. The sea is rippling. The sun is burning. The trees sway slightly. Alka and I are sitting on the barrier.
- “Don’t drop me,” we read. - “Os-to-rozh-but-cable”...
Does anyone drop anchors here? - says Alka.
It’s written not to be abandoned,” I say.
Since no one quits, there’s nothing to write about,” says Alka.
If no one had given up, they probably wouldn’t have written,” I say.
We silently look at the sea.
When I was still little, I thought that anchors were just thrown like that. I thought it was old rusty iron and was being thrown from the ship. So that these anchors do not lie on ships. And then I read this inscription and thought, probably because they are not allowed to drop these anchors, because they are scrap metal. And then I found out about anchors, and it was funny to me that I thought so...
I didn’t know about anchors before either,” Alka said. - I used to think that they catch fish with anchors. They throw an anchor into the sea, and a fish clings to it. Such a huge fish. And they pull her out along with the anchor. Like on a hook... It was all childhood... - Alka sighed.
A real childhood,” I said.
Do you remember about the carousel? - Alka said. - You and I stood in line in the morning to spin this carousel. Speed it up and go for a ride. The accordion is playing. With music. And completely free.
“There were a lot of people who wanted to spin the carousel,” I said. - Once you and I were spinning for two hours, and then we got up and fell. We lie down, and everything seems to us that we are spinning. And then they got up and went.
“Oh, that was a long time ago,” Alka sighed.
“Last year,” I sighed.
I can’t even believe it,” Alka sighed.
I can’t believe it at all,” I sighed.
“Different times,” Alka said.
Completely different,” I said.
We sighed again. Suddenly Alka asked:
Will you die for painting?
He always suddenly asks something like that.
I'll die! - I said. “I’m ready to die for painting at any moment, there’s no need to ask about that.”
And I will die,” said Alka. - Painting is such a thing that it’s worth dying for. Do you remember Pyotr Petrovich telling us about Michelangelo? Shall we die for Michelangelo? “He looked at me as if I refused to die for Michelangelo.” Yes, I would die for him a hundred times without even thinking.
Alka immediately understood this and said:
I knew you would have died for him.
Of course I would die, I say, what a question!
Alka and I sighed, then he said:
Listen, if we die, how will we paint then?
Why should we die, I say, we don’t need to die at all.
That's the point, it's not necessary! - says Alka.
It was you, I say, who came up with everything - to die. I don’t understand why you need to die for painting! On the contrary, you need to live more in order to paint more pictures.
That’s right,” says Alka. - Absolutely correct!
The sails sparkled in the sea. It was as if they were dancing in water. The wind blew against the sea, and the sea rippled towards us.
“Throw away the frames,” said Alka. - Since we will make monumental art. Once we write on the walls. Like Michelangelo. Swipe! In! - He spread his hands. - Wow! The sky is all around! The clouds are floating. And there's a picture in the clouds.
He was already screaming with all his might. He pointed to the sky and waved his hands.
In what clouds? - I asked.
In the heavenly ones! - he yelled. - In the heavenly ones!
If something comes into his head, he thinks that others know what came into his head.
“I’ve already changed one frame,” I said, just in case.
Change it! Change it! - he yelled. - Change everything! Paintings on houses! You walk down the street and look at the paintings! Is it a great idea? I just came up with this!.. - He caught his breath a little and said: - This is who I am? Who do you think I am?
I looked at him in surprise, and he said:
I'm an innovator! I just realized this.
Why, I ask, are you an innovator?
And because,” he says, “I am, one might say, the first person on earth who came up with the idea of painting all the walls of houses...
I didn’t let him finish and said:
After all, Michelangelo wrote on the walls before you...
He fussed so much, I thought he was going to fall off the barrier, and said:
Michelangelo wrote on the walls inside the house, and I outside! Have you seen Michelangelo writing outside?
He really wanted to be an innovator!
I didn’t know or see whether Michelangelo painted his paintings outside houses, but still I didn’t believe that Alka was an innovator.
He really wanted to be an innovator, it was simply amazing! It’s as if it’s impossible to live without this innovation. People live without this. Nobody says anything to them for this. Let him not think that he is more likely to be an innovator than me. He came up with some nonsense about these walls... Although, maybe he really came up with something? Maybe it just seems like there’s nothing special about it, but in fact there’s a lot about it? Maybe no one has really come up with something like this yet - to paint all the houses? Is it really true that in all the time of mankind such a thought has not occurred to anyone?..
Again I remembered Pyotr Petrovich, and the fact that I ran away then, and that I was a coward... And it began to seem to me that a person like me would never become an innovator, would never do anything big, since he ran away... Of course, Alka is more likely to become an innovator, and maybe he has already come up with something that no one could come up with before him...
The sails still sparkled. Only there are more of them. And everything around seemed to become brighter. The sun hung overhead. And it was hotter.
I got down from the barrier and said:
Come with me to Pyotr Petrovich.
He didn’t get off the barrier, he just turned to me and asked:
I calmly tell him:
To Pyotr Petrovich.
He looked at me with open eyes and said:
How can we go to him if he is dead?
“We won’t go to him,” I say, “we’ll go to his family.”
To his family? - says Alka.
To his family, I say.
For what? - says Alka.
It’s necessary, I say.
Now? - says Alka.
Now, I say.
That’s right, I very suddenly decided to go to Pyotr Petrovich’s family. But since I’m ready, I’ll definitely go. Anyone who doesn’t know me well may think that I won’t go where I’m going. Alka knew me. He knew that I would definitely go there, since I was going to. I will come to the family of Pyotr Petrovich and say: “Hello! Sorry I wasn’t there then.” No, this is not good, this is not the same at all... I will say: “Hello! I really regret that it all turned out this way... this happened... I came to say that I am a coward... I was scared, forgive me for being scared... I always loved Pyotr Petrovich... maybe more than anyone else I loved Pyotr Petrovich..."
I’ll say something like that... I’ll say something like that as soon as they open the door for us...
I don’t understand anything,” says Alka. - Why do we need to go there now?..
“We have to go,” I say, “that’s all.”
I also told him that he didn’t have to go if he didn’t want to. I can go myself, let him not go if he doesn’t need to.
He threw up his hands and we went.
As we walked, we met Ygyshka. With my friends. He stood on the other side of the street, near the cinema. He said something to his friends, and they listened to him with their heads bowed. You would have thought he was telling them something smart. Could he really say anything smart to them other than his “ygy”? I saw him many times speculating with tickets. That's probably why they're hanging around here.
And then he saw me. He raised his head and saw me on the other side. He no longer said anything to his friends, but looked at me. It seemed to me that he first shuddered, and then somehow became petrified. His friends turned their heads: they wanted to find out what Ygyshka saw there. And at that moment they scattered. As if on cue, everyone rushed in different directions. One of them pushed one of the aunts and she fell. She had a bag, and a cat jumped out and ran after this group. This woman immediately got up and ran after her cat. The policeman began to blow his whistle, and several passers-by rushed after this cat, the aunt and the whole company. They probably thought they were some thieves or something else, since they started running and, in addition, the policeman whistled after them. Most likely, no one understood anything. It was difficult to understand here. I was the only one who knew what was going on. But I couldn’t explain it to them!
Where, I wonder, was the aunt taking this cat? Maybe she was carrying it to drown it? Then it’s very nice that the cat was saved thanks to this incident.
“Something was stolen,” Alka said.
The cat must have been stolen,” I said. I didn't want to tell him anything. First of all, he won't believe it. And secondly, I wasn’t in the mood to tell something like that.
Was the cat stolen? - he said.
“You saw it,” I said.
He walked a little and said:
It still can't be that the cat was stolen. Such a scandal over a cat? Can't be!
“You saw it,” I said.
Was the cat really stolen? - he repeated. He was very surprised that the cat was stolen. It had a great effect on him.
We were approaching Pyotr Petrovich’s house when Alka said:
Was the cat really stolen?!
He kept thinking about this cat.
I was thinking about something completely different.
I was very worried when I called.
The eldest son of Pyotr Petrovich opened the door for us. He wasn't very surprised when he saw us. He invited us in, and we did. I decided not to tell him anything. I decided to tell Angelina Petrovna all this...
In the middle of the room, leaning against a table, stood a canvas. Half the paint was scraped off. Multi-colored pieces of paint, scraped off with a knife, lay on the floor. Water was dripping from the canvas.
The eldest son of Pyotr Petrovich soaked the canvas to make it easier to scrape off the paint. When the canvas is soaked with reverse side, the paint peels off easily. Again a blank canvas. Write your own on it new picture…
Not paying attention to us, Pyotr Petrovich's eldest son scraped off the paint with a knife. The sound of the knife on the canvas was dull and dull. The face of the eldest son, Pyotr Petrovich, was concentrated.
I immediately saw what kind of canvas it was.
A portrait of his father - that's what he scraped!
We looked confused.
After all, this was the very portrait that Alka and I were supposed to “understand and comprehend” in the future!
Pyotr Petrovich's eldest son continued to scrape. Then he raised his head and said:
Mom is gone.
We all stood.
Then he said:
If you want, I can return your frame to you...
I was silent.
He scraped everything.
Without looking at us, he said:
Don’t let this bother you... This is a logical step for the artist... Preparing the canvas for new job…
Alka and I looked at each other. After all, it was that same “masterpiece”! That very “logically constructed compositional solution”...
I immediately imagined that if he had painted a REAL portrait of his father then, he would have kept it as a keepsake...
We marked time. Then we said goodbye. And they left. He continued to scratch as we left. We opened the door ourselves.
...In the park named after Twenty-six Baku Commissars, Kafarov rushed past us with the ball. He didn't even notice us. He was racing to score his goal.
Ladder
How many times have I passed by!
Palace of Pioneers. Columns. Sculptures at the entrance. Marble staircase...
There, on the fourth floor, easels are visible in the windows. A huge plaster head looks at me from the window...
How many times have I passed by!
How many times have I wanted to get up! I already entered the lobby once. I stood and looked at the stairs. The stairs were shiny, and in the middle of the stairs there was a carpet. I wanted to get up. There. To the fourth floor. Where easels are visible in the window. Where is this huge plaster head...
I stood with my mouth open and looked at the stairs.
I didn't dare get up.
The guys went up and down these stairs. They just walked along it! They laughed and talked. And some fled. And some jumped two steps...
No, I couldn't get up!
I imagined: I’m going up... there... to the fourth floor... where the easels are... “Oh, it’s you!” - they will tell me. - We are waiting for you! Did you paint Rembrandt on the wall? You know, this is wonderful! We will be happy if you... for your part... deign... to study, so to speak, in our studio. We just don’t have enough talent like that.” And I will say: “Please, I can study, it doesn’t cost me anything... I basically came for this, in fact... I saw easels in the window and went in; Let me, I think, see what’s going on there...” What if they tell me: “Oh, Lord! Did you see the terrible drawing he drew? And he still came here! Yes, he's gone crazy! Leave quickly and don’t interfere with our work.” Then what will I say? That's the point! It's better not to go there. Who knows?
Pyotr Petrovich said: “Guys! I'll be running a studio soon. I’ll take you with me.” But he died. Of course he would take me. He did praise me. Do you remember what he said then about my golden hand? He would definitely take me. And I would take Alka. But he died.
What if I go myself? I'll go up to the fourth floor. Did I draw a bad Rembrandt? What about The Flying Dutchman? Then why was my drawing sent to England?
And the stairs didn't seem all that special to me. It was necessary to climb it. That's all…
What if it just seems to me that I have succeeded in The Flying Dutchman? And it seems like Rembrandt turned out well? And maybe they sent my drawing to England because they didn’t have any other drawings? But Olive Nieves is a girl... What do they understand, girls!..
This staircase is leaving again.
No, I wasn't sure. I just wasn't sure. And all those who ran up the stairs, and all who are now sitting in the studio and drawing, they are all probably confident, since they are sitting there now and drawing. And I'm walking past.
Yesterday and now, every day I walk past.
But at the same time, would I paint such a huge Rembrandt all over the wall, right up to the ceiling, if I’m not sure? Would I buy frames? Why do I need frames then if I will never have paintings? No, I was sure. I was sure of everything...
This all came to my mind. And it left. Like this very staircase.
And so I walk past again.
And Maria Nikolaevna is coming towards me.
“Hello, Maria Nikolaevna,” I say.
“Hello, Vitya,” she says. And he stops.
This is the weather! - I say.
The weather is great,” says Maria Nikolaevna.
There’s no wind at all,” I say.
Sailors seem to say: calm? - she says. - The sea is calm, isn't it?
And when the wind is north, I say.
“Oh, this Nord,” says Maria Nikolaevna. - Two windows in my room were broken by this Nord...
And he knocked out one of our windows,” I say, “he knocked out one glass...
How are you, Vitya? - says Maria Nikolaevna, as if we haven’t seen each other for a hundred years. - You draw everything, you draw... No, of course, you have abilities, and when a person has abilities... this is happiness... creativity in a person... art is a big thing...
What, I think, she tells me about these abilities, I myself know that I have abilities. Now he’s telling me about art, and tomorrow he’ll give me a bad mark.
And she says:
You definitely need to develop your abilities. Abilities must definitely be developed. You need to study. But what about it? The path to mastery is long... I remember one of my friends...
I’m not at all interested in hearing about her friend. I myself know that abilities need to be developed...
Come, Vitya, come with me here, to this house, I’ll introduce you... He teaches these guys... in the studio... Maybe it’s useful for you too... By the way, don’t you go to the studio?
We entered this front door.
And they began to climb the stairs.
It was difficult for her to get up. She's old after all. And we rose slowly.
The ships are sailing away
Horsemen are dancing on stage.
Music flies from there to us.
Ships and boats sail on the sea.
Dinghy boats swing on a leash.
There is a huge monument to Kirov over the bay.
Alka and I are sitting on the roof. From here we can see the city. Even the stage of the summer philharmonic. Even Nargen Island is in the distance.
The sky is dark blue and the sea is dark blue. There are stars in the sky and lights in the sea.
Alka is leaving for Moscow tomorrow. And he will live there with his parents. He will go to art school there. And he will write me letters.
And I'm staying. I will study here. I'll go to art school here. And I will write letters to him.
And we will meet in Leningrad. At the Academy of Arts itself. Where did famous artists study? Where did our Pyotr Petrovich study... We will meet Alka at this academy, hug, then slap each other on the shoulder and ask together: “How are you living?” Then we will laugh because we said together “how are you?” and ask each other: “How are you?” And then Alka and I will go to see the Academy of Arts... And then we will become famous artists... Like great masters...
This huge house,” says Alka, “you and I will paint someday... You and I will paint the whole city...
And other cities,” I said.
Horns were heard from the sea. They were drawn out and long.
And Tasya left,” I said. And why did I suddenly remember about Tasya!
Well, you’re in love with Tasya! - Alka said.
And Kafarov is in love,” I said.
“And I’m in love too,” said Alka.
I looked at him and didn’t believe it. The first time I heard that he was in love with Tasya.
It’s true,” says Alka. - But I didn’t tell anyone about it. I'm just saying now. Doesn't matter. Now I'm leaving.
“You’re lying,” I said.
Why should I lie? I'm leaving anyway...
Again the horns began to sound from the sea. The Philharmonic stage was empty. That means the concert is over. The stage was still glowing like a big spotlight. But the horsemen were no longer on it.
Then the scene went dark. We were silent for some time. The horns from the sea were loud. As if many ships were sailing somewhere...
Viktor Vladimirovich Golyavkin
Notebooks in the rain
Bright word
Viktor Golyavkin’s first book, “Notebooks in the Rain,” was published in 1959 by the Leningrad publishing house Detgiz. Since then, the writer’s books have been published every year in different publishing houses and in different cities around the world. Here is another book with the author’s drawings being published on the eve of the writer’s seventieth birthday.
Writer and artist Viktor Vladimirovich Golyavkin was born on August 31, 1929 in the city of Baku into a Russian family of music teachers.
Father, Vladimir Sergeevich Golyavkin, a Muscovite, received his primary education at the Moscow Synodal School musical education under the direction of the later famous conductor N. S. Golovanov. During the Civil War he fought in the legendary 25th Chapaev Division. As part of a cavalry unit, he liberated Baku from foreign invaders. After civil war Vladimir Sergeevich graduated from the Baku Conservatory and worked in music schools and schools of the Azerbaijan Republic.
Mother, Lyubov Nikolaevna, was born in Baku in the family of a St. Petersburg survey engineer who worked in Absheron as a land management specialist, was musically educated and taught music to children.
Their parents taught their three sons music. But the eldest son Victor has been drawing well since childhood. During the Great Patriotic War When my father was at the front, his cartoons ridiculing the fascists were even published in the “Battle List” and in the “Baku Worker” newspaper.
My father returned from the war and continued to work in music schools. Victor was preparing to become an artist. Apparently, he believed that first of all he needed to break away from his family, where “they played and sang all the time.” He boards a ship and leaves for Samarkand, an ancient eastern city, where his friend lived at that time. Here Victor enters art school.
Here is an excerpt from a letter to my father. This letter is also half a century old. It is like a document about a place, time and person.
“I left Baku on July 26, sailed for a day by boat (to Krasnovodsk - L.B.) ... and three days by train (that’s how trains ran then. - L.B.). In the carriage, the Uzbeks treated me to melons and watermelons, and I drew them. I arrived in Samarkand at 10 pm. My friend and I were together for five days, looking at the city and ancient monuments. This city made an amazing impression on me. Everywhere there are Uzbeks, Turkmen - all in national costumes bright colors, everything around is colorful, playing in the strong, burning sun. All around are colorful robes, beautiful skullcaps, burqas... emerald-ultramarine-turquoise monuments, decorated with the most beautiful ornaments made of multi-colored stones. The sky is blue-blue and the sun is orange... Rich land! This is where an artist should work! Very hot, cool in the shade. Water flows through ditches everywhere, there are small lakes all around, near which there are teahouses, and everyone here drinks tea from beautiful bowls... There is a festive mood in the city... A lot of fruits. There is plenty of bread, but here everyone eats choreki (flatbread). Soon everything will be very cheap - grapes, melons, watermelons..."
Soon the school was transferred from Samarkand to Tashkent. The young artist wanders around Central Asia and graduated from art school in Dushanbe (Stalinabad) with honors.
He had already visited museums and exhibitions in the capital and was preparing to continue his artistic education in Moscow, but his path led him to Leningrad - “the most artistic city,” the center of Western European art. Victor admires him, the masterpieces of the Hermitage, the artists Tintoretto, Raphael, Picasso, Van Gogh...
In Leningrad, Golyavkin enters the Academy of Arts and remains in this city forever.
Leningrad - a granite, northern, cold city - has survived revolutions and wars. At the time Golyavkin appeared here, the memory of the nine-hundred-day blockade was still fresh. Viktor Golyavkin sympathized with the Leningraders. He probably wanted to please and amuse people. He wrote short, easy to read, funny stories. Their heroes were the most ordinary people they met, passers-by. He wrote stories first for adults, and then for children. And since the writer himself is with the highest art education, then he drew his books himself. His life experience evident in stories and stories.
Impressions of the writer’s wartime childhood can be read in the very serious, sad story “My Good Dad,” written from the perspective of little boy. The author protests against the war, which affects people, especially children. This is one of best stories about war in children's literature.
“It was a victory. Firework. Joy. Flowers. Sun. Blue sea... The soldiers were returning home. But my dad, my good dad, he will never come back.”
Just a few simple words the author needed to express “the joy of victory and the bitterness of defeat,” but their combination makes his throat tighten.
When the story was first published in the early sixties, the last phrase seemed too touching and “sentimental.” The editors advised the author to cross it out. Let, they say, what remains from victory is Joy, but there is no need for sadness. The author had to defend his last phrase, his few words, from which bitter tears welled up in his eyes. Let there be no wars, but let the words remain. Wars happen when people lack words.
The story “Drawings on Asphalt” is about how one becomes an artist. The amazing, passionate lives of children are filled with important, significant events. Sometimes the author makes fun of his characters. But his humor is good-natured, bright, warm, addressed with love and compassion for the little person.
And Golyavkin always manages to make the reader laugh. Take, for example, a magnificent passage from the story, where... “The youngest son of Pyotr Petrovich bit the dog... The dog screeched terribly, and the baby got scared and cried... “Take away the dog!” She bit my son!”… “Nothing like that! The dog didn’t touch your son... Your son came up and bit her!” He approached her like this... At that time, the frightened dog thought that they wanted to do something to her, and without hesitation, she bit this guy on the nose. The guy screamed terribly, and the dog’s owner said: “Why did you bother her? Did she touch you? Didn't touch it! Then why did you bother her?..”
The episode is written on only half a page, but it’s as if there’s a whole crowd of people with children and dogs, each with their own character, even the dog.
This is how a writer notices the details of everyday life and, with the power of talent, transforms them into a work of art.
He does not try to please political and public sentiments. Boys, girls, and even adults in his stories are not poor, not rich, not workers, not peasants... They speak and act out of an inner impulse, of their own free will - sincerely, generously, unselfishly...
I came across an excerpt from Viktor Golyavkin’s story “Drawings on Asphalt,” which I remember reading when I was ten years old.
«
Pyotr Petrovich appeared.
“Don’t be shy,” he told us, “please don’t be shy.” Let’s have some tea, and then I’ll show you something, as true connoisseurs of art. Sit down at the table, don’t pay attention to all this noise...
<...>
Only the eldest son sat at his small table. He drew everything.
“This one,” Pyotr Petrovich suddenly said, pointing to his eldest son, “studies at an art school.” He deliberately, deliberately draws some illiterate nonsense and assures that this is the most beautiful art in the world. He assures us that this is some kind of forward movement, something immeasurably cosmic, something unattainable, some kind of, in general, modernity... I’ll show you now!
Pyotr Petrovich got up and went into another room.
<...>
“Well, so,” said Pyotr Petrovich, carrying a small canvas in his hands. He placed it on a chair. - This is what you can get to! Of course, he is not taught this.
- What it is? - I asked.
- This is my portrait! - said Pyotr Petrovich. - The work of this young man! - Pyotr Petrovich pointed to the elder. “And he assures me that it’s me!” This cube and this red square are me! How far one can go, how far one can improve, to imagine one’s own father in such a form! But I posed for him. Sat. He drew me from life. “Don’t move,” he says, “Dad, otherwise it won’t work!” He looked at me, drew - and drew this cube and square! After all, this is a complete disregard for a person, not to mention the father! It turns out he wasn’t looking at me when he was drawing. His head was filled with some insignificant thoughts - to surprise everyone in the world, to show everyone and everyone what an original he was!
<...>
I looked at the portrait. I couldn’t understand why Pyotr Petrovich’s eldest son painted his father like that. I wanted him to turn around so I could look at him.
He suddenly turned around.
He looked like Pyotr Petrovich. It’s as if this is Pyotr Petrovich very young. Only his hair was long. He said:
- This generation will understand me! - He pointed at us.
- That's bullshit! - said Pyotr Petrovich.
- This is genius! - said the son of Pyotr Petrovich.
“This is stupidity,” said Pyotr Petrovich. “With what respect did the little Dutch sharpen their herring heads, and with what disdain do you treat your father...
“This is a logically constructed compositional solution,” said the son of Pyotr Petrovich. - I must have my own “I”!
»
The story was written in the mid-1950s, but this fragment definitely resembles something from modern life.
As a child, everyone draws on the asphalt. And what is convenient, large-scale, everyone can see. And most importantly, what is drawn will not be erased immediately. So the heroes of Viktor Golyavkin’s funny book also drew on the asphalt.
Firstly, in kindergarten boys were not taught drawing. Secondly, they did not have oil paints: their childhood fell on war time. And finally, the guys themselves explain quite clearly why they need to paint on the asphalt.
Alka believes that drawing on asphalt is a good “art” school. He claims that “all true artists began to paint on asphalt.” They probably start on asphalt, and then on paper and canvas. “Have I painted on the asphalt enough? Will I become a true artist? - worries main character story and dreams of someday painting a huge picture up to the ceiling and in a frame. Both friends decide to become artists, but only necessarily “great” ones: “One artist told me that you shouldn’t be a great artist.”
Viktor Golyavkin’s story “Drawings on Asphalt” is largely autobiographical: the hero, like the author, is also passionate about painting, reads books about fine arts, which are difficult to find, constantly draws, communicates with a wonderful art teacher.
Viktor Vladimirovich did not create large canvases, but he painted sketch paintings all his life, and he himself illustrated his funny books:
“I have loved drawing since childhood. Together with my friends, I painted walls all over the city. We didn't have enough paper. It was war time then. It wasn't that easy Blank sheet get some good paper.
It's not very good to draw on the walls, but somehow we didn't think about it. We got it. Then we moved into our apartment and began drawing on the walls there. We got hit for this too. What could we do? We just had to go learn to draw.”
The author of the story makes the reader think about trust and gratitude, about the complexity and diversity of tastes, about a serious and superficial approach to art, about the fact that the selfless desire to become a real artist is in itself worthy of respect. For the first time, second-grader Vitya feels creative restlessness and a desire to learn how to draw for real. This is the desire naturally turns into maximalism, severe demands on oneself.
Eight-year-old Vitya did not go to the funeral of his beloved teacher, but did not forgive himself for this act: “Again I remembered Pyotr Petrovich, and the fact that I ran away then, and that I was a coward. I was thinking about something completely different, and then I remembered this... And it began to seem to me that a person like me would never become an innovator, would never do anything big, since he ran away...”
The narration is so lively and natural that there is no doubt: everything happened in reality. It is easy to be convinced of the truthfulness and accuracy of many children’s confessions: “I immediately thought that I would never draw like that, no matter how hard I tried, but at the same time, if I tried hard enough, I would draw no worse.” Or again: “I never thought that this pot and rag would be so difficult to draw! Firstly, one side of the pot turns out to be crooked. Secondly, it doesn't turn out round. And thirdly, things don’t work out that way.”
Read the story “Drawings on Asphalt” by Viktor Vladimirovich Golyavkin and think about the questions that the characters pose and solve.
V. Golyavkin
Chapters from the story “Drawings on Asphalt”
Alka
I grew my hair out and it was combed back. They started pulling my hair. Call him Pop Thick Forehead, Bastard.
I cut my hair completely. It got even worse. "Bald! - they shout. - Head of cabbage!" The head is often stroked.
I'm sitting with my bald head on the back desk. A new student comes to our class. So black, and his eyes are black. They wanted to put him with me. I was just sitting alone. But he doesn't want to.
Why, asks Maria Nikolaevna, don’t you want to sit with him?
And he firmly answers:
I won't sit with him.
Why so? - asks Maria Nikolaevna.
Because he's bald.
I wanted to jump up and give him for it.
Maria Nikolaevna says:
What nonsense! Firstly, he is not bald, but has a haircut, and secondly, even if he were bald...
He repeats:
I won't sit with him.
Why don’t you still want to sit with him? - asks Maria Nikolaevna.
“And because,” he answers, “I was already sitting with a bald man, so they teased me at the same time, although I was not bald.”
How wild! - Maria Nikolaevna was surprised.
In the end he did sit down. Doesn't talk to me. He doesn't look in my direction. I don’t look at him either, but I see that he has taken out a piece of paper and is drawing something.
I see - he draws cavalry galloping to the attack. How great he was at it - like a real artist! It's like he's been studying for a hundred years. I've never seen anyone draw horses like that.
I immediately thought that I would never draw like that, no matter how hard I tried, but at the same time, if I tried hard enough, I would draw just as well.
I wanted to show him how to draw. And then I pretended not to see. He doesn’t know that I’m the best drawer in the class. He'll say I'm imitating. He'll say I'm some kind of monkey or a parrot.
Nothing. Then he finds out who is sitting next to him! Then he will find out what kind of wall newspapers I drew! What kind of Shota Rustaveli did I draw? What a pilot Pokryshkin I drew, three times Hero of the Soviet Union!
Let him, let him draw!
And then I think: he’s probably imagining things right now. He sits and imagines that there is no one better in the world. It turns out that he will be imagining things here, but what about me? Will I just sit there?
I tore out a piece of paper from the notebook. And he began to draw tanks going on the attack.
At first he didn’t notice that I was drawing too, or he didn’t want to notice, but then he noticed and stopped drawing.
He looks at my drawing.
I felt it immediately. And I draw with all my might, I don’t pay any attention to him. I just cover my drawing with my elbow so that he doesn’t see.
Suddenly he says:
Come on, show me.
What, what? - I say.
“Show me,” he says, “what you tweeted there.”
What, what? - I say.
Ace, ace! - speaks.
What? - I say.
Carefully! - speaks. - Ace, ace!
What kind of ace is this, I say, ace?
Ra-ra! - speaks. - Ra-ra! Work.
Here's what I found! He mutters some words to me. He probably wants to surprise me with these words. What, I think, should I answer him so that he would stop talking to me like that? At this time he tells me:
Now, if someone asks you: “Are you not a kr?” - What will you answer?
What, what? - I say.
You need to answer: “I’m not cr!” It's clear?
Then I got angry and told him:
You rat!
I don’t know why I called him a rat. I just couldn't think of anything else.
He raises his hand and says to Maria Nikolaevna:
He called me a rat!
Maria Nikolaevna says:
Shame on you, Starikov! A new guy came to us, he’s probably shy, and you called him a rat...
Who? - I say. - He is shy?!
You have no idea how much evil has taken me!
If you don’t answer me now how fast planes are flying towards each other, you will leave the class...
What planes? - I ask.
I must have been blinking my eyes a lot, because Maria Nikolaevna suddenly said:
Stop blinking! Come on, stop blinking! Imagine a fool!
I was just blinking by accident. But I didn't answer. And still he was silent. And I haven’t heard anything about these planes at all.
Well? - says Maria Nikolaevna.
Please repeat about these planes, I say.
“Please leave the class,” says Maria Nikolaevna.
If you would repeat it again... - I say.
“I can’t listen to your speeches,” says Maria Nikolaevna.
I collect books. I didn't do anything like that. If only I had meowed like last time. And now? They put him in front of me, and it’s my fault!
I'm sitting on the last desk. I walk slowly towards the door. Through the whole class.
The country is healing its wounds after the war,” Maria Nikolaevna says after me, “millions are engaged in creative work, millions are working, and one...
I'm already near the door.
Wait,” says Maria Nikolaevna.
I stop.
Come here.
I'm coming.
For some reason she is worried. Now it’s completely unclear. Why should she worry? They kick me out of class, and she's worried.
I try not to blink anymore.
Are not you ashamed? - says Maria Nikolaevna.
She holds a pen in her hands, probably wants to give me a bad mark. And her hands are shaking very much. This is probably because she is very old. They say that old people's hands always tremble from old age...
“I treat you well,” she says, “and you, Starikov, are a capable person.” But you’re sitting on my head... And then, please, don’t imagine. You can disappear... like a stone thrown into the sea. And don't smile. You will disappear or become a tramp along with your art. If you don’t study... People who are not honest about their work usually end badly...
She's not going to give me a bad grade.
Will you draw a wall newspaper? - Maria Nikolaevna asks me.
“I’ll draw it,” I say.
To be famous,” she says.
Okay, I say.
Are you drawing wall newspapers for me? - she says.
I'm going to the place. I sit next to the new guy.
Ra-ra! - he says quietly. - Ra-ra! - He speaks right into my ear, can you imagine?
“I won’t sit with him,” I say.
Maria Nikolaevna looks at me and frowns.
“I don’t want to sit with him,” I say.
Come out, both of you! - says Maria Nikolaevna. - I don’t want to listen to your speeches!
We both go out.
I'm on one side. He's on the other one. I was the first to go out into the corridor, and he followed me.
Suddenly he says:
Listen, there are probably different head teachers walking around here... Let's go to the restroom.
“I don’t want to go to the restroom,” I say.
The safest place, he says. - Sit in complete safety.
At first I didn’t want to go to the restroom at all. And then he went. And really, I think it’s probably safer there.
Everyone sat in their own booth. We sit in complete safety. Great idea he came up with!
We sat and sat, he knocked on me.
Are you sitting? - asks.
I’m sitting, I say.
What is your name? - asks.
Vitka, I say.
“And I’m Alka,” he says.
“Very nice,” I say.
“Very nice,” he says.
He and I turned out to have a lot in common. It turns out that he, like me, never painted with oil paints. And no one taught him to draw either. He taught himself everything. He has been drawing on the asphalt since childhood. He goes with his grandmother to the kindergarten and draws with chalk on the asphalt. I began to remember and remembered that I used to draw on the asphalt too.
Have you painted on the asphalt a lot? - he asked.
“A lot,” I said.
It's a good school,” he said.
Which school? - I didn’t understand.
Artistic,” he said.
Yeah, I said. Although I still don't understand.
On the asphalt. On paper. On canvas,” he said.
Well, yes, I said.
All true artists started painting on the asphalt,” he said. - That's what one artist told me.
Of course, I said. Although I couldn’t understand why they all started drawing on the asphalt.
He knocked on me again.
Why are you silent? - speaks.
Have I painted enough on the pavement? Will I become a true artist? That's what I was thinking.
Are you asleep? - he asked.
Have you drawn a lot on the asphalt? - I asked.
“As I remember,” he said.
Someday I will paint a huge picture, - I said, - up to the ceiling... I had a frame... a huge frame... my mother burned it in the stove. I feel sorry for this frame...
If you want to be an artist, he said, only be a great one. One artist told me that you shouldn’t be a great artist.
Hit five, I said.
“Later,” he said.
Of course, I said.
There’s no call,” he said. - We've been sitting here for a long time. It seems to me that there should be a call.
It’s probably too early... - I said.
“Go and investigate,” he said.
For what kind of reconnaissance? - I asked.
Whether there was a call or not, he said.
And you? - I asked.
And I'll sit.
You're cunning.
And you are a coward.
“I’m not a coward,” I said.
I left the booth. He stuck his head into the corridor and saw the director. He beckoned me with his finger.
Hasn't there been a call yet? - I asked confused.
Come, come here,” he said.
The next day my mother was called to school.
Pyotr Petrovich
Pyotr Petrovich walks around the classroom.
He is very thin and tall. In a soldier's tunic and boots. Guards badge on the chest. Two Orders of the Red Star.
Pyotr Petrovich checks if everyone has brought paints.
Not everyone brought paints.
“I never understood people,” he said, “who don’t like paints... Tintoretto! Titian! Delacroix! They all loved colors. Remember their names! And Surikov! Watch “Boyaryna Morozova!” Look at this picture and you will be bringing paint to class...
Pyotr Petrovich takes out a clay pot and a lilac rag from his briefcase. Places these items on the table. He puts one end of the rag into the neck of the jug, and the other hangs over the table.
Has everyone filled their jars with water? - he asks.
Almost no one filled the jars with water. Half the class goes to get water.
Couldn't you have been prepared? - Pyotr Petrovich sits down at the table and sits there with his head in his hands.
One after another, students enter with jars, glasses, cups. There is noise and talking in the classroom.
Pyotr Petrovich still sits with his head in his hands.
So, is everyone ready? - He gets up and walks around the class. Places sheets of drawing paper on the desks.
The drawing lesson has begun.
They are shouting from all sides:
Pyotr Petrovich, look at me!
Pyotr Petrovich!!!
He looks at everyone.
It's a good start,” he says. - It's a good start...
The class falls silent. Almost everyone is happy. Almost everyone has a good start.
Pyotr Petrovich sits at the table, resting his cheek on his hand, and says:
When I was still a student, my large painting hung at one exhibition... So you, Kafarov, ask why I am not a famous artist? Hm... how should I tell you... I, of course, am not a famous artist, you noticed this correctly... you emphasized this quite rightly... I... the war prevented me... a large family... well, how can I say this, my dear... That painting that I’m talking about I just said, she was worthy to hang among respected artists... All I’m saying is that... essentially, you, Kafarov, asked me a rather difficult question, which I probably won’t be able to answer for you... given the complexity of life person...
The class is quiet. Although it is often noisy. Almost no one draws. Everyone is listening. Tasya Lebedeva opened her mouth and looked at Pyotr Petrovich. A fly will fly into her mouth and she won’t open her mouth like that...
Where is the painting now? - asks Kafarov.
Now I don’t even know... The further fate of this painting is unknown to me. After all, they bought it from me... It hung in the large hall...
I have seen! - Kafarov shouts.
You couldn't see her because it was in Leningrad. I remember right now: hanging in a large hall... beautifully lit... crowds of people... conversations... even arguments... I was just then in my fifth year at the Academy of Arts... somewhat overusing the colorful side to the detriment of drawing... And why am I telling you all this, and I don’t know myself... So... I remembered, as they say...
Did you also draw? - asks Kafarov.
Pictures are not drawn, but painted with paints. They draw with pencils, charcoal, and pastels. I already told you this.
Did you paint just one picture? - asks Kafarov.
When you grow up, you won’t think like you do now... I understand perfectly well what you want to say... That’s not why I’m telling you this... By the way, I’m currently painting a picture in fits and starts, which I’m doing pretty well... Let it be known to you that Alexander Ivanov spent twenty-five years painting one picture...
Kafarov doesn’t ask anything else.
Nobody asks anything anymore.
Brushes rang against jars, glasses, cups. Everyone is drawing again. Even Kafarov, who hates drawing, even he stuck out his tongue - he tries so hard. Everyone draws a pot and a rag. Everyone seems to want to be great.
I never thought this pot and rag was so difficult to draw! Firstly, one side of the pot turns out to be crooked. Secondly, it doesn't turn out round. And thirdly, things don’t work out that way.
I hasten to correct the drawing. While Pyotr Petrovich does not see. At least fix this crooked side before he sees it. “Here you are,” he will say, “and the best draftsman!” Here's a capable one for you! Once I broke my arm, so Pyotr Petrovich said: “How can it be, you have golden hands, and you break them!” I was very proud of this then, that here, they say, was a golden hand, and despite this, I took it and broke it!
I'm in a hurry, but it turns out even worse. Now the second side of the curve.
I look at Alkin’s drawing. It doesn't matter either. It turns out to be a crooked pot.
Damn pot! It’s still difficult to become great if we can’t even draw this pot...
The bell rings.
One minute! - Pyotr Petrovich raised his hand. - I completely forgot. "Pionerskaya Pravda", guys, has announced a competition for the best drawing, and if any of you try...
Alka says:
That's great! I'll probably take the bonus. I've been drawing since childhood!
There was an uproar all around:
What will the prize be?
How long does it take to draw?
What to draw with?
What to draw on?
What to draw?
Pyotr Petrovich lowered his hand.
You can draw anything,” he said. - You can't draw.
“And I’ll copy it, and no one will know,” said Kafarov.
Will you know it yourself? - asked Pyotr Petrovich.
And you say, no one will know!
Everyone laughed.
Michelangelo! - said Pyotr Petrovich. - Francisco Goya! Remember their names! - He put a pot and a rag in his briefcase. - Goodbye! - he said.
Great Masters
“I’ll show you the great masters now,” said Pyotr Petrovich.
He took an album from the shelf.
I got from the front to Leningrad. Neva in ice. A blizzard is blowing. Blockade. I'm walking along the Neva towards the Academy of Arts. I go into the lobby. Pechurka. People are sitting, warming themselves. Thin, pale faces. They sit, warm themselves and are silent. I say: “I want to see my teacher Osmerkin. I studied with him before the war. How can I see him? They tell me: “You can see him. Only he recently went to the Hermitage.” “Come on,” I say, “it’s a joke, what kind of Hermitage can this be?” All around is hunger and cold.” They calmly tell me: “He really loves watching great masters. You will still catch up with him. He walks slowly." I'm catching up with him. He barely walks with his stick along the wide embankment. The snow is blowing around as hard as we can. And I remember his scarf fluttering in the wind... He looked at me and said: “Petechka, is that you? I'm very glad that I met you. Now you and I will go and see the great masters...”
Pyotr Petrovich walked from corner to corner.
We looked at an album with great masters.
Pyotr Petrovich said:
Rembrandt! Remember this name! These hands of an old woman... a person’s whole life in these hands!.. only Rembrandt could paint such hands!.. His self-portrait... Old man Rembrandt smiles... squinting, looking at us... Rembrandt is old. But he remembers those times: the nobles of Amsterdam crowded into his studio, cackling and indignant: they didn’t like the way Rembrandt portrayed them! “Look at your pig faces,” Rembrandt tells them, “and you will see that I am right!” Rembrandt saw them as they really were. Scandal! They poke at the painting with sticks... He didn’t bother to correct his painting, he didn’t... That’s why old Rembrandt smiles. “Hehe! - he says. “You failed to deceive me...”
...Delacroix! Pure color! Romance!.. “Lion Hunt”! "Fighting Horses"! "Moroccan Fantasy"! - horsemen rushing against the backdrop of mountains... a boat in a stormy sea... This man had the sun in his head and a storm in his heart! Remember this name!
Raphael!.. Brilliant!.. The lines sing... nobility, humanity, beauty... Great masters! Great art! Remember their names!.. I understand, these are all words... You just can’t explain it with words... By the way, compare the “Sistine Madonna” with this one, by another artist... and it’s not the same! That's not all! Not that! That's the whole point... Although here everything is correct... everything is drawn... Such comparisons are useful... they bring clarity. After all, everything is relative, and Raphael is the top! You need to strive for the top!
...Remember this name! Tintoretto! Marvelous! Amazing!.. When Surikov was in Venice, he saw Tintoretto’s canvases there. “I hear the whistling of robes!” - exclaimed Surikov. The highest craftsmanship... Everything in the canvas seems to be moving... Everything seems simple... It seems that if you take a brush, you yourself will paint in exactly the same way... everything seems so simple! You don’t see the work... you don’t think about how difficult it is... Written from the heart, that’s what it’s all about! And you begin to believe, looking at Tintoretto, that someday you yourself will take it and write it the way you want... Genius does not suppress. It doesn't hit you over the head, as some people think... It infuses you with good spirits... It's amazing!
...Rublev! Remember this name!!!
Pyotr Petrovich spoke from somewhere in the corner of the room. It was as if he was talking to himself. He shouted some words and spoke quietly. The pictures were wonderful, that's true. But I didn't see the lines singing. I didn’t see anything moving in Tintoretto’s canvas. I couldn’t understand why Rembrandt alone could paint such hands! Alka didn’t see this either. Although he repeated: “Yes, yes!” - as if he understood everything. And yet, I thought, probably all this is there, in these paintings. And the lines there are probably singing, and Tintoretto’s people are moving, and Tintoretto’s robes are whistling... All this is probably there, since Pyotr Petrovich sees it. But I don’t see...
-... During his lifetime he was not famous... that’s what’s curious... Very curious... the Old Russians didn’t even sign their names on their works... What does it matter in the end who did this work?.. It’s important that it was done!..
. . . . . . . . .
- …Alexander Ivanov! Remember this name!..
. . . . . . . . .
Not this cube and square!..
Pyotr Petrovich patted me on the shoulder:
You need to think!
He patted me on the shoulder again.
It's clear? - he asked.
“I see,” I said.
I said it so quietly that he probably didn't hear.
When Alka and I were leaving, I suddenly remembered that I wanted to ask who these little Dutch people were who sharpened herring heads...
I wanted to ask and didn’t ask.
Dream
A mysteriously illuminated Rembrandt emerged from the brown fog. The feather on his hat glowed in the shadows.
I sat up on the bed and asked:
Tell me, please, did you draw on the asphalt?
Raphael smiled in space...
Rembrandt smiled at Raphael...
Eugene Delacroix rode like a whirlwind on horseback...
Something rang and crackled. Because of this ringing and crackling, no one heard me. The eldest son of Pyotr Petrovich walked straight through something solid that was bending and cracking. And this was solid space. In one hand, the eldest son of Pyotr Petrovich held a cube, and in the other, a red square. He tried to squeeze the square into some hole in space...
I asked the same thing a third time.
The eldest son of Pyotr Petrovich squeezed in his square, and the crash was terrible.
And again I could not be heard.
Remember their names!..
The wind whistled with terrible force. The eldest son of Pyotr Petrovich flew off somewhere into the distance. The square and the cube were spinning in a whirlwind.
There is no need to sign your names! - said Rublev’s loud voice.
Rembrandt pierced the square with his sword.
Tintoretto, wrapped in a cloak, sat down on the cube.
Mildidi! - Pyotr Petrovich’s youngest son laughed. He laughed thinly, like a bell.
A hammer floated in the air.
I must have my own “I”! - Pyotr Petrovich’s eldest son yelled from somewhere above.
Tell me, which of you drew on the asphalt? - I asked.
And again I could not be heard. The eldest son of Pyotr Petrovich shouted so loudly about the fact that he should have his own “I”, only he could be heard.
A bright light burst in. It was as if my mother pulled back the curtain in the morning.
Everyone began to leave. Raphael - hugging Rembrandt. Delacroix - embracing Tintoretto...
From somewhere above, the eldest son of Pyotr Petrovich fell onto the square. The square fell apart.
The youngest son of Pyotr Petrovich laughed like a bell.
There was no more crackling noise. There was only silence. The bell just rang. Quieter and quieter...
Palettes on the walls
Walk around the city after school, said Pyotr Petrovich, and erase these palettes!
Alka and I walked around the city and drew palettes on the walls with chalk. And inside the palette they wrote:
Tintoretto!
Delacroix!
Rembrandt!
We knew, of course, that writing on walls was not a good idea. We knew all this. But somehow they didn’t think about it.
If everyone, - said Pyotr Petrovich, - writes their names on the walls... I understand your desire to perpetuate yourself, so to speak, to consolidate your names... Somewhat premature... not quite, I would say, noble impulses... The head teacher tells me: “This is not Have your walls been painted there?” I say: “No, these are not ours.” I think you and I will figure this out ourselves. Please erase these palettes... - Then he said to the whole class: - There are so many of these palettes around... It’s not so easy to get rid of them... Maybe you, Kafarov, can help?
Kafarov was silent. It was clear that he did not want to help at all.
The smallest girl in our class, Kira Velimbakhova, stood up and said in a thin voice:
I will help.
There’s no need to help us, I say.
Then we’ll do this,” said Pyotr Petrovich. - Everyone, going to or from school, will probably come across at least one palette. I ask you: erase it. That's all. I'll do the same myself when I pass by.
This palette is painted on our front door,” said Tasya Lebedeva.
Here, here,” said Pyotr Petrovich, “you can erase it!”
I really need it! - Tasya Lebedeva looked at us. - They will draw, and I will wash?
“They realized their mistake,” said Pyotr Petrovich, “they understood everything.”
Let them wash it themselves,” said Kafarov.
What are you guys like! - said Pyotr Petrovich. - Why can I do laundry, but you can’t?
“We painted two palettes on our front door,” said Kostya Shilo, “and then the janitor erased them.”
They create work for janitors! - said Pyotr Petrovich.
Let the headman erase these palettes,” someone said.
“Here’s another thing,” said the headman.
There is no palette on our house,” Kirschbaum said.
“Okay,” said Pyotr Petrovich. - Enough. This conversation is dragging on for us. It takes on a ridiculous hue. By the way,” he turned to me, “approximately how many of these palettes have you drawn?
About a hundred,” I said.
Maybe two hundred,” Alka said.
“It’s a disgrace,” said Pyotr Petrovich. - A complete disgrace! So, it turns out you haven’t been drawing them for days?
Not alone, I said.
Every day,” Alka said.
How long ago did you start this campaign?
“I don’t remember,” I said.
“We don’t remember,” Alka said.
“I really didn’t expect it from you,” said Pyotr Petrovich. - I didn’t expect this from you...
“We’ll erase it,” I said.
And I think so,” said Pyotr Petrovich.
There was no more talk about palettes.
Great masters loved monumental art! - said Pyotr Petrovich. - They loved the scope. Swing, as they say... Murals by Raphael, Tiepolo, Rublev, Michelangelo, Tintoretto... These are huge works... remember their names!.. Michelangelo! Remember this name! He had a crooked neck. All his life he painted ceilings and walls, not to mention sculptures. Try to lift your head like this... like this... and keep it in this position. And he held her in this position!.. And lying on her back for hours? Lying on the scaffolding and looking at the ceiling? This is no joke, I tell you! Remember this name!..
After class we went to wash our palettes.
It was not so easy to erase them. They didn’t wash off, that’s the point. And we took a rag from the classroom. And they rubbed with all their might. Do not erase! We erased two palettes. Somehow they erased it. They rubbed for two hours. They were running into the yard. The rags were wet. It was much easier to draw them.
Come on! - says Alka.
It’s inconvenient, I say.
And why did we even draw them! - says Alka.
Some old man stopped, stood and watched as we washed them.
He looked and looked, then asked:
And how much do you get paid for this?
We don’t answer him and continue to wash.
He says:
Would you like to say that you are doing this for free?
“We don’t want to say anything,” says Alka. - It's clear?
The old man says:
Understandable, but not entirely. - I put on my glasses and started watching again. He sighed and said: “It seems I’ve confused you with someone.” - He shook his head and left.
He left, some dog began to rush at us. She rushes and rushes as if we were touching her.
When we painted these palettes, nothing like this happened to us. Only once they hit Alka in the neck. That's all. Because we smear it on the walls.
Somehow the owner of this dog took her away.
He took her away, the children began to gather. They gather and gather. "Why? From what? For what?" - and various other questions are asked. They really got on our nerves.
Alka shouts to them:
What is this, a circus or what?
They're back.
As soon as we are about to do the laundry, they go ahead again.
But what, they say, is impossible, or what?
Alka tells them:
What, you don't go to school yet?
We don’t go, they say.
If only we went to school, he says, we wouldn’t hang around here.
That's right, they say, they wouldn't hang around.
And they don't leave.
At this time, a thought occurred to me.
Do you want to do laundry? - I ask.
They will all shout together:
I tore off half of the rag for them.
Here’s a rag for you, I say, wash it. This is the task you are given.
Thank you! - they shout.
It was as if they were waiting for this. Alik tells me:
Let's give them our rags. Let them erase everything. Let them go and do laundry.
We gave them our rags.
They were so happy, as if we had given them toys.
As soon as you see, says Alka, a palette like this, wash it immediately!
Let's erase it! - the kids screamed.
And tell others to do the laundry too.
Let's say! - the kids screamed.
Hooray! - Alka shouted.
Hooray! - the kids screamed.
And Alka and I went home.
Literature
1. Golyavkin V. Drawings on asphalt. - M.: Children's literature, 1965.
2. Golyavkin V. Drawings on asphalt / http://peskarlib.ru/lib.php?nm=4&id_sec=98
3. Golyavkin V. Drawings on asphalt / http://peskarlib.ru/lib.php?nm=5&id_sec=98
4. Kolmanovsky E. Children have their own wisdom. About the books of Viktor Golyavkin / Children's literature. - 1966. - No. 5.
