Increasingly, some thoughts grow in my mind that humanity rests, as on pillars, on the noble lines written by poets. The rhythms and words from the world of poetry exist in the real world. They emerge from the captivating fog of oblivion, restoring and enlightening the true nature and feelings. In a few remarks, the poetry lines could be the key to learning a state, phenomenon, or even an entire era which they encrypted.
For the first time in my life, I came to Paris in April. The weather was uneven, more stormy than usual. Still, I was delighted – my dream to discover Paris came true! I strolled along the unfamiliar street paths, thinking that the famous artists like Modigliani, Picasso, Soutine, Chagall, and many others recognized them as well.
That spring it rained cats and dogs in Paris. However, the European cities were well-suitable for rainy times, with terraces and umbrellas in the street cafes. It was a simple joy to have a cup of coffee while waiting for the rain to stop.
While raining, the sun peeped out, blinding people with the glare of puddles and windows, causing me to squint and smile. Just suddenly, when the sun was sheltering behind the clouds, the first falling drops started to threaten with a downpour, forcing passers-by to look for a shelter in the cafes.
At that moment, the real magic began: walls of buildings, roofs, sidewalks sparkled with an incredible kaleidoscope of gray shades. The wet asphalt reflected the mother-of-pearl colors of the walls – either pinkish, ocher and bluish reflexes scattered on all surfaces of the sky, peeking through and complementing the amazing shimmer. I was enjoying the playful spectrum of shades, not actually trying to comprehend or define it, when abruptly a line from the poem started to recite with me, with every drop of the rain….
“In the rain, Paris blooms like a gigantic gray rose …”
A moment of rediscovery! I only remembered a few lines from the entire poem. Still, it was sufficient for a precisely accurate definition of what I saw and felt at that moment … I saw a wet, blooming gray rose of Paris. I needed to capture it on the canvas, as the image was so perfect…
The world rests on the shoulders of poems.
In the rain, Paris blooms,
Like a gray rose …
With wettish caress of anesthesia.
On the windows dancing
Everything faster, faster,
Laughing and exulting,
Gray fairies dance …
Thousands of fingers
Are pulled by the strings of gray silk,
Needles touches the hoops fast
Images have become diffused…
How many eyes are dissolved!
And they rush into confusion,
And they kiss passersby,
And caress the plants …
And at the heaps of treasures,
Spilled over the stones,
From the height of Notre-Dame …