If there are hate groups, then they have reflections. Or are they not reflected in mirrors?

From the series "Marginals"

He's neurotic, paranoid, and yet he thinks he's a talented artist! He's an avant-garde artist, but he paints like a realist. No one takes his paintings.

She's clearly hysterical, and she's even proud of it. She wants so much from life that she's resigned herself to poverty. She's accustomed to it and only occasionally cries out, "I don't need anything, absolutely nothing! My flesh is dead!" But she's never been offered anything.

- Give me a moment of silence, I want to see the leaves fall.
- Fix the faucet in the kitchen! And how, I wonder, does the noise interfere with my vision? How much can you ask? Leave the cobalt green, I need to paint over the scuffs on my shoes.
- Scuffs? Is that the word?..
- Exactly. Scuffs.

He's incredibly talented, but he doesn't paint what's in fashion these days. "Opportunists!" he says with disgust about all his other contemporaries. He puts all his contempt into that word, and she understands it. He despises them all — painters! But he doesn't curse them — cursing is the companion of hatred. People hate their equals or the strongest, those they can love. He curses his wife and loves her.

She's still beautiful, but tired, with a wonderful soul, but now bitter, a woman — "My dream," he once said. She had countless brilliant admirers, and if she'd wanted it, she could have it all, even now, in her early thirties. But she chose him — this sad man, fifteen years her senior. She chose him, knowing in advance what awaited her — all his "peaks" long gone, never conquered. She chose him, and he submitted.

"How much longer can we tolerate this stench?!" Please, open the window, your paints are terrible!

- I know, of course, they give you a headache, forgive me. There's perpetual dust outside, and it's amazing how it sticks to the wet layer. I'll finish right now.
- Paint. But your wet layers take weeks and months to dry.
- Such paints... Linseed oil...
- Linseed? I think it's sunflower oil.
- Yes, sometimes I mix in sunflower oil — linseed is expensive.
- What should I cook with then? Solid oil? Sunflower oil isn't cheap either.
- Sunflower oil doesn't dry at all... Good linseed oil is odorless...
- Okay, then! You should at least sign your paintings, at least the large-format ones... (He always forgets this important detail in artistic disputes.)

He models all his female characters on her, and they are all different, and he's not being disingenuous. "There are a hundred different women in her," he says, his eyes sparkling. "But people don't see that; they see only one woman. Especially if she's naked... They see that, if they see anything at all..."

Many have modeled themselves on her, but he alone knew how to draw her — he understands he can't be fooled by what's called "pretending."

When she undresses (she does this behind a small screen), something awakens within her. Outwardly cold, but playful and theatrical within... She feels as if he's spying on her at this moment. Spying discreetly, with the curiosity of a grown child. She begins to play the role of an innocent seductress, moving her hips, her belly, stroking herself... She wants him to spy, but he's focused on his work — outwardly, like the Master, he's cold, impartial, with a hard, even angry gaze. And they're already like two strangers — a wall between them — his work and hers. As if strangers.

He swiftly sketches with charcoal with his confident hand, or tenderly, caressingly applies glazes with soft brushes (he touches the canvas more gently than she). He casts sharp, precise glances at her, as if she were an inanimate object. His gaze dispassionately penetrates all the most hidden places, tenaciously snatches out a detail and transfers it to the canvas. This almost inhuman gaze melts her. Remaining a statue, she experiences ecstasy, orgasm, happiness. Overwhelming, powerful waves of heat are emanating from somewhere below... He senses it, glances disapprovingly at her lower abdomen, and goes to smoke his cheap, stinking cigarettes. He returns when the slight tremors subside — now everything is fine, he can continue working. She greedily inhales the aroma of tobacco smoke emanating from him and freezes like a sculpture. An insensitive mannequin!

In the evening, they sometimes go for a walk and, smiling at the sunset, don't hear the voices behind them: "Oh, there they go again... Two freaks!" It's all dust.

©1998 Mikhail Dmitriyenko