“essence in Surikov”
He wrote it as the warmth left his hand,
a red‑warm script rising from within,
as though the line itself carried breath:
“In this life it is not new to die,”
spoken with the calm of someone
who has watched winter iterating
its familiar pattern for centuries,
each return neither omen nor surprise,
just the world continuing its old motion.
“But neither is it new to be alive,”
and here the words shift their weight—
not brighter, not louder,
but opening a quiet passage
where another way of making
steps forward without ceremony.
From there, the thought rallies toward
a way of making that masters the familiar
through observant contemplation,
shaping what is here by returning to it,
touch after touch,
until the red‑warm script
settles into ink
that congeals with a rising, breathing wind.
.
