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The lonely son of a rain Verlan. Professionally argue on painting critics and for a long time the trained critics can, perhaps, only. The learnt phrases all of them will tell about advantages or lacks of the artist and its works, the technician, a genre a
The lonely son of a rain Verlan. Professionally argue on painting critics and for a long time the trained critics can, perhaps, only. The learnt phrases all of them will tell about advantages or lacks of the artist and its works, the technician, a genre and style, materials and paints. But the work of art therefore is called as product, that to technical measures is not subject. It measure by emotions: here this picture was pleasant, and they be is not present. And it is unimportant than. And to recede on pair steps from a cloth it is not necessary: depart - do not depart, if on a cloth only technics of execution anything else there and you will not see. An another matter - soul. Yes, yes, this notorious something about which all speak, but anybody plainly cannot explain, that this such. But it is. 

In Mark Verlana's pictures all is collected. Here there is no adherence to certain subjects, will not find also a trace of strict classical canons. But, as a matter of fact, to me, as to the nonprofessional, absolutely all the same as as the artist has represented. To me the main thing to feel. Pleasure, a rage, grief or happiness - all the same. The main thing not to remain indifferent. To me it is good when sedately to wander among pictures it is impossible. You rush about: about, here, look! And there!!! And here it!!! The round dance of paints and images surrounds and entices. It would be desirable to stop and realise up to the end, but to stop it does not turn out yet is then, through an hour, hardly having calmed down. And how me, indifferent to painting, has managed? Business Perhaps in names? « Cemetery of machines »- notice, not"cars", namely"machines"- the tablet says. And machines under it: old, rusty. Really, a cemetery. Lovely, it is hardly ridiculous, sad - in it all Mark. And what there is a name« Буратино and Пьеро shoot girls »? Intrigues, isn't that so? And here on a wall a profile of the girl pulled, such impression, behind last ray of the sun. A young charm. And hardly more low the same profile, but in an image of death: the skull with empty eye-sockets all as lasts, only here to what already? You fade, and the easy chill runs мурашками on a skin: nothing is eternal, you know it, but here have reminded suddenly, and somehow not on yourself suddenly became. It would be desirable to distract? Here, a number of the person - grotesque, strange colour. But whence Mark Verlan has learnt, what exactly such the sad clown in the childhood seemed to me? It is said that artists are not similar to other people: interests not those, priorities others. I do not know. Itself not the artist, and another's soul, as is known - darkness. But after visiting of this small workshop, it seems to me, that Mark Verlan, really differs from usual people. He understands much more, than any of us. Not in the politician, not in economy. In sincere impulses and feelings. Nadejda Degtiarevа, photo by Valerii Corcimari.

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The stuffy crude cellar with the walls covered with a rough building fur coat is a chamber №9 temporary detention facilities.


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