Passion for Great Art

Victor wrinkled up his nose as an unexpected gust of wind almost knocked him sideways. What on earth had possessed him to come to Switzerland in June? Most normal people came here in the winter to visit the ski resorts; then again, Victor had never been skiing either. He was a businessman through and through; a workaholic; a steadfast cog in a machine. He did not find it easy to take holidays, especially those that did not involve physical activities or some kind of sport. But then there was Lidochka; she had got caught up on the idea of going to a music festival in Lucerne and he was, of course, compelled to go.

He contemplated how lovely it would be if he could be at his yacht club on the River Neva. The flags would be gently blowing in the breeze and groups of well-proportioned, suntanned ladies as well as
little children would be congregating thereabouts. They exuded a youthful vivacity, a strong sense of optimism, mixed with the sea air and sun. But the main thing about the yacht club was that there was a pile of things to do and a mass of people to see, all of which Victor felt comfortable tending to. These duties depended on Victor just as the yachts depended on the wind.

Wagner got on Victor's nerves and for the remaining part of the concert he drifted in and out of sleep; much to the horror of Lidochka. She tried with all her might to convert the former "work horse" to the world of contemporary living and music, but to no avail. The day before they had even had a huge argument about it; hence the reason why, today, Victor had gone out for a stroll in the town. It
was on this stroll in that Victor was brought to such a quivering excitement that he rather forgot himself. The bridges and archways were laced with beautiful antiquity and the houses displayed a
wondrous architecture; all of these were mounted by the turquoise blue mountains and Lake Firval'dshtetsky.

It was cool on his stroll. Victor took note of the stylish summer coats that people had taken to wearing whilst looking around for a nearby cafe. Needless to say, cafes did not seem to be that prevalent in this area. Nevertheless, there was a very modest sign that someone had put up nearby announcing an exhibition of abstract art by the Armenian artist. "It seems as though I am destined to become familiar with the art world," Victor smiled wryly as he immersed himself in the noisy crowd.

In the gallery, Victor was hit by distinct smells of sandalwood, dust and oil paintings. There were also hints of other smells that were difficult to discern. "This is the smell of antiquity…" Victor
instantly recalled Kandinsky's abstract monsters and expected to see something similar, but these paintings were different; they attracted and fascinated him straight away. The warm beige and reddish tones; the fragments of old yellowing photographs showing charming young
girls which the wind had tarnished long ago; a watch; a chair; patterns that had been etched in stone years ago. An ornament, wonderfully imprinted with elegant violins. A fish - a strange stone
fish. The canvas invited its audience to contemplate, just like in childhood when we contemplate our senses, by feeling the velvets and the smoothness of the pictures. The audience was invited to study each fragment of the picture, experiencing pleasure at the juxtaposition of the textures.

Just like in the fragments of a mosaic, the artist had merged the colours and textures of old photographs, adding to the patina of antiquity and breathing new life into the works of art. "I'm going to buy these" Victor decided with a feeling of satisfaction. "I can buy them for the yacht club, after all, I seem to spend more time there than at home." The aroma of antiquity will add to the vital and lively
atmosphere and will appease the state authorities. "And I… will look at them. I will simply look."