I made these illustrations a long time ago, as far as I recall when I was in my third year of the Kharkov Fine Arts Academy. Back then, when I showed them to my father, he looked very carefully and said,”hmm, you certainly have developed the greatest skill to hide your lack of ability to draw.” Many years later, as I stood facing the coffin with my dead father’s body, I was no longer a fifty five year old man, but a little boy who from the shock of losing a parent, forgot that things had their names. I wanted him to stand up from that coffin and rectify my broken reality and maybe read something to me, the way he used to do when I was little. But all I could bring back was only the memory of that distant afternoon, when he walked into my room and gave me a book. ”You are almost fourteen,” he said, ”more than ready.” It was ” Hundred Years of Solitude” by Gabriel Garcia Marquez.
