Morphine the phantom of love. Ром Амор

      Chapter 1

      Glistening with yesterday’s rain, the sett-paved road led the casual passer-by, gaping tourist or resident rushing to work along Andriivskyi Descent. Past displayed paintings and reproductions of talented artists and less talented sellers, people scurried, scrutinising every work, trying to find the brushstrokes of a masterpiece or a genius in works, which often lacked any whiff of artistry.

      Having arrived earlier than usual, I took my paintings out of my black bag and set about hanging them perfunctorily in no particular order around my stall. It was just another unpromising trading day of a man wearied of life.

      ‘Let me tell you your fortune, young man,’ said a woman to me with the voice of an old woman and the appearance of a gypsy past her prime.

      ‘Are you out of your mind? Get lost! I’m not going to waste my time and money on your fables!’

      ‘Fables to some, and to others a life’s worth of advice,’ she hurled at me, grimacing with an anticipatory smile.

      ‘I said get lost! There are enough quacks here as it is!’

      ‘Well, you may call me a quack, but while you had your eyes shut, you’ve missed the bad hand life had dealt. Oh you people, I come to you with the truth, and you blindly chase me away! Never mind, dearie, you’ll soon understand… Get sight of yourself on the canvas and all become clear… Then you’ll remember the gypsy… Recall her words… But it will be too late then, you won’t save yourself, nobody will save you. She will be your ruin, mark my words.’

      The old woman plodded away, grumbling and resenting me for turning her down. But I don’t believe in anything anymore. I simply exist, flip over lonely days and dispel cold nights.

      I have been trading in this place for many years in a row. It can hardly be called trading – it’s more a display than anything else. A display of a life’s emotions. Every morning I unveil to the world my seven paintings and at nightfall I disappear with them.

      Andriivskyi Descent is a special place, a corner of ancient Kyiv that captures the imagination with its beauty and charm. It is no wonder that it attracts throngs of tourists and lovers, who take in its beauty and try to keep a piece of this atmosphere as a memento, buying one of the overpriced paintings or just taking a plain photo of it with a brand new iPhone, to emphasise once more that “I’m a Homo sapiens, and I know about art or at least beauty”. This is what the local artists count on when they exhibit their creations for passers-by, in the hope that some tourist would have a few thousand to spare on a unique painting in the City of the Soul.

      If one manages to sell at least one during the day, he is either lucky or has simply slashed the price. To use economic terms, he has used a dumping pricing policy. Such dealers are not welcome here. The community of artists and sellers of paintings has its own tacit rules: if it becomes known that you have been slashing your prices, the others will find a way to squeeze you out of the community.

      Like any other business, this one is just as cruel, although it may appear small in scope. Surviving on money earned from it is not easy, but this statement probably holds true for my entire country. Be that as it may, if you have the brains and the knack for it, you will surely make it. Take for example the Pozhalovykhs: From morning till dusk, Valentin sells mediocre paintings that his wife paints at home. They manage to make ends meet rather successfully, given that their eldest son is pursuing higher education abroad and their daughter attends a prestigious school and a lot of other extracurricular activities.

      You may ask why I have deemed their paintings mediocre? Well it’s quite simple: they are devoid of any subject. Mostly, they are just beautiful paints on a canvas. Well, of course, one might find some deep meaning and philosophy in a tulip opening against a timid blue sky. But I’m afraid I have to disappoint you: the artist did not intend to convey anything to you, well perhaps if only to say: “Buy my painting. It will perfectly go with the interior of your kitchen.”

      Such “deeply philosophical” paintings are the bulk here. “A Field of Red Poppies”; “Kissing Lovers in the Street”; “Reflections of St. Andrew’s Church Golden Domes”; “Kyiv’s Chestnuts in Bloom”; “Lonely Pier”; “The Dog in the Manger”. Hackneyed still lifes are the typical offer of the local imaginations. Yes, of course, there are exceptions. My colleagues and discerning buyers place me in the ranks of such exceptions.

      People such as I are the minority here. We might not be geniuses, but we are people who use art to express emotions. We paint not for the sake of money – there’s never enough of it anyway – but in order to quell the overpowering urge that at times bursts out of the firm hold of our consciousness and being.

      Gennadiy Vasilyevich is perhaps the only one I truly respect for what he had to go through and what he is trying to convey to people through his paintings.

      You are probably aware of how hard it is to get through to people's hearts in this twenty-first century of ours. Recklessness, greed, and the power of facts, technologies and unfiltered information run the show. People switch off their subconscious and sensory perception of the world, and give themselves entirely into the hands of the materialist beast, fuelled by human frailties and fears. The fear of being less than someone else, the fear of being poor, the fear of being not needed and forgotten, the fear of being criticised and judged, the fear of being unrecognised…

      So, Gennadiy Vasilyevich skilfully tries to strike a chord, to ignite a spark in people’s hearts and lay bear their fears. That not everybody is ready to face these fears is a separate issue. In Gennadiy Vasilyevich’s paintings you would not find an array of bright colours lavishly brimming over on a spring day on Andriivskyi Descent. You would not remark on their beauty or aesthetics. His paintings make place for nothing but the truth. For fear can only be conquered when you look truth right in the eyes.

      And it seems to me that the people who buy his paintings get closer to their real selves.

      The emaciated and bony body of a nude woman, stretching lengthwise against the background of grey and green clouds of cigarette smoke, with put out stubs strewn at her feet, may seem repulsive to the viewer at first sight. The skin of the seemingly young woman is flabby and shrivelled. Dark circles under her closed eyes betray her fatigue, induced by life or simply lack of sleep. The elements create the impression that she is partly dead, yet somehow partly alive. And it is up to the viewer to make out the full picture.

      I