By the way, why ultramarine? There is cornflower blue here, and Prussian blue, turquoise, cool lilac, golden cadmium and ochre, juicy lemon yellow, muted sepia, sensual carmine. The opening was hot, festive, poetic, jazzy. And so crowded that it was impossible to get close to the pictures. Later, when the speeches had been made, the crowd thinned out and the selfie maniacs had finally taken enough pictures against the backdrop of the edible still lifes, it became possible to look closely at everything that had been drawn. How is it done? Yes, of course, with watercolor, pen, felt-tip pens. But — how? Irises and peonies, mountains and the sea, daisies and a little sun on a window curtain, an olive grove, narrow streets of a distant city, old houses, little churches, fishing boats, tender clouds, dense snow, a deliciously laid table, the delight of life — whatever may happen, whatever sorrows and illnesses may trouble us. Still there is the very best: summer, love, waves, yachts, masts, seagulls, space, the sky, from where, from above, out of the ultramarine infinity of night, all this is perhaps dictated — lines and rhymes, the feeling of light, peace and joy refracted in color. Is that why it is ultramarine? I must remember to ask Elena Orlova.
