A memory from May 25, 2018
An unfinished lilac is waiting for me in the studio. To the right stands a wonderful, though already fading, bouquet of irises that I must manage to finish painting.
Peonies are fragrant in the vase. Yesterday, when we were returning from a concert and discussing Cyril and Methodius, my husband bought me peonies from a nice little grandmother. A neighbor noticed us in the process, watched skeptically, but when we had already reached the house, he nevertheless caught up with us carrying an identical bouquet for his Tatyana. So I am walking with the peonies, trying to catch their scent, when suddenly my husband calls me a “pioneer girl” — a pionerka. I, thinking about my own girlish matters (which I will tell about later) and at the same time trying to catch the smell of the peonies, wonder: why “pioneer girl”? But I wonder for only a fraction of a second, because the answer is obvious: what else can one call a person carrying peonies, possessing peonies, and even trying to catch their aroma?!
So I walk, all such a pioneer girl, and reflect on freedom of choice: that it is, of course, good, but sometimes making a choice is difficult. Remember What Men Talk About? The very first, original one: “Suppose they forbid you to eat with forks...”
No, no, do not worry, our forks are in place, as are the knives, by the way. Or not quite by the way? Or very much not by the way?
I am talking about flowers.
All my post-school life, and much longer, I loved autumn flowers. All those September asters and alyonushkas, not to mention luxurious chrysanthemums. I did not love asters: to my mind there was something boastful and provincial about them, in the bad sense of that not-bad word: yes, we are simple, even plain, but look how colorful we are, how neat. Well, God be with them))
And then, somehow imperceptibly, I fell in love with spring flowers. First (and quite long ago) with irises, and then with peonies. They are impudently luxurious, not as refined as chrysanthemums, but very dear, fleeting, and accessible. And what aromas, mmmm! The whole room is now soaked with the scents of irises and peonies. It was outdoors that my allergic nose was searching for that wonderful smell; in the apartment it appeared at once, taking over all the space)) (the fir tree cried at first from the warmth of the house; by morning it stopped crying, breathed, came alive.)
So with this love of spring flowers that came to me came also a dilemma: should I paint irises or peonies? Both are so brief in communication and so simultaneous. And when lilac was added to these torments...
If only one flower were blooming in these May days, even an aster, I would take it and paint it. But here there are three at once!
What should I seize upon: the sheet with the unfinished lilac, the pad with the unfinished irises, or the sheet with the not-yet-begun peonies?
That is why I always say (I am dissembling, dissembling!!): one must not give a person freedom of choice!
For example, I once had such a case. I came to Belgium in October. And for some reason decided that there, in Belgium, in October, it must be warm. Apparently I remembered being in France in November, flying from snowy Moscow to the flowering beds of Burgundy (Burgundy, Normandy, Champagne, or Provence...).
Belgium was cold, sometimes rainy. In short, I was freezing very much in my thin little raincoat and shoes. If finding a jacket in the shops was not difficult at all, then with my almost-adult size I had to run about quite a bit for boots. And at last my travel companion and I came upon an Italian shop in the center of Brussels, and in it were shoes of all sizes, with no limitation of possibilities. Choose as much as you like. And I understood that I did not like it. In the old days, how was it? You came into a shop and asked whether there was any footwear in such a size. The saleswomen usually asked in reply: “What exactly do you want?” I repeated the question: “Is there anything at all in this size?” “There is nothing,” they answered. Why did they ask, one wonders.
But this was a different case: there were high boots and low boots. And everything was beautiful. And comfortable. And shoes. And I became tearfully offended by this so-called freedom. If there had been one type, fine — but there were two at once! I thought and thought, took advice and took advice, and could not decide, period! I had to resort to the win-win method: toss a coin. This greatly amused the seller-owner of Italian appearance. Even surprised him. But the choice was made, and the choice was right; I never regretted it. And for some reason I bought the shoes too, probably out of habit (what do you have in this size?).
There it is, your vaunted freedom. Even if only freedom of choice.
So all morning I have been thinking: rock-paper-scissors? (That is: finish the lilac, finish the irises, begin the peonies?)
And do not tell me that if I had not been thinking, I would already have painted something, for I paint slowly and with pleasure. And whoever disagrees with my reflections on freedom may be the first to throw a stone at me. Or scissors? But paper is much better!
And seriously, may you, my morning ones, always have freedom)) including freedom of choice. Look, almost a toast has been born. I shall go make some toast and drink tea to your health. And to freedom in all its manifestations, including freedom of choice.
For now, good morning to everyone, and here you have no choice: morning!
And may it be good. No options))
