The sun sets, and the wind died down, There is no trace of those lights pierced by clouds; Here, on the outskirts, a living and unburning wavered, All that steppe illuminated and faded ray. There is already no sun, there is no day of tireless aspirations, Only the sunset will burn for a long time a little visibly; Oh, if heaven had judged without grievous languor, It would be the same for me, looking back at life, to die! Athanasius Fet Vladimir Egorovich pretty rubbed his hands, shook his disheveled hair. Today is Wednesday, which means – again fun, the joy of creative communication. His house will be filled with noise and noise, heated debate and deafening laughter. The most talented and restless brothers will gather again with him.
Artists are people from God, people are creators. Vladimir Shmarovin organized his famous mediums for Continue reading