BIRTHDAY
paper, colored pencils

A butterfly on the snow.
A tiny fragile creature of warm, life-affirming summer against the backdrop of cold, lifeless winter, relentlessly deadly for the vast majority of summer beings.

The theme of this drawing unexpectedly appeared on a small sheet of watercolor paper back in the last century, initially including a hint of a window frame separating the butterfly from the snow, that is, from the imminent and inevitable death.

Later, the theme abandoned these hints, leaving the viewer alone with their personal choice: to imagine the presence of a protective glass or to allow the possibility of this incredible meeting of two irreconcilable opposites—the butterfly and the snow—and thus the inevitable disappearance of one of them.

Once at an exhibition, a very upset lady accused the artist of heartlessness, almost tearfully asking, "How! How could you do this?!—allow the butterfly to fly out into such cold?!" My attempts to convince her that the butterfly was not flying in the open air but inside a warm house, outside the window, were unsuccessful, and the visitor left the hall extremely distressed.

However, to the happiness of both me and my drawing, most viewers accepted the metaphor without unnecessary drama—for that is what a dream is meant for, to appear unreal—and with their kind attention made "Birthday" the most popular work in my art—copies had to be drawn about five times, and if it weren’t for my caring brother Vitaliy, who introduced me to digital technologies, and the high-quality printing that soon came to the rescue, I don’t know how many more times I would have had to draw it, because over 20 years of this theme’s successful life, several hundred reproductions were made, literally flying all over the world.

However, against the backdrop of several billion people, even a thousand looks like a rare edition. Therefore, if any of you also wish to shelter a little miracle in your warm room, the pink butterfly against the snowfall will remain for you a truly genuine rarity.

So don’t hold back, get in touch—spring flying in through your window from the frosty air doesn’t have to wait until April.

* * *
Snow is falling. It suits you,
that is, snow looks good on you.
Like a courtyard, like a palace,
it fits perfectly. It will come.

It will come on a January day
with a prepared gift,
modest and unremarkable—
there will be nothing in it,

except flakes, white ones,
except large ones blown by the wind.
You will cook them with milk
and add sweet, ripe

beloved bananas,
and brew the best tea.
Refined sugar at the bottom of the glasses—
soluble sadness,

whose trivial remains
we will drink as a farewell sip,
snack on a sweet pie
and finish that little poem.

In it, snow falls slowly…
Snow is falling. It suits you.
That is, snow looks good on you.
It doesn’t pinch the soul anywhere,
it’s cozy like a starling
in a well-kept starling house.
You are friends with it, on familiar terms.
It is earthly and unearthly,
that is, it is your exact likeness.