Winter Landscape"

Impatiently, he put down his brush. After a moment, he picked up another, thinner one and began absentmindedly picking paint from under his fingernails. He stood up and began pacing the studio: seven steps one way, seven the other. He stopped at the window. He grabbed a broom from the corner and swept the floor for a moment. He sat down on the stool again and, in frustration, hit the makeshift table made from a wardrobe door placed on two rickety trestles. Several tubes of paint and a palette, lying at the very edge of the tabletop, landed on the ground (the palette, of course, landed on the dirty side, just as buttered bread always lands on the carpet), and the jar containing the cloudy mixture of all the colors, turpentine, and oil, tipped over. The liquid dripped slowly. He ignored it. He hit it again, harder. The jar rolled off the table and shattered into smithereens. The tinkle of breaking glass seemed to wake the painter. He smiled faintly, sighed, "I was just sweeping," and rose heavily.

He removed the canvas from the easel, containing the barely begun work, and placed a second, almost finished painting on it. It was a winter landscape. It had remained in this "almost finished" state for two years. At first glance, nothing was lacking. It was very pretty, one might say "decorative"—ideal for hanging in a living room over the fireplace, or rather, considering its size, in the conference room of an elegant firm. Daubs of varying shades of white, gray, and blue, delicately applied with a wide brush, contrasted with the sharp contours of the leafless tree branches. It gave the impression of a silence saturated with anxiety and anticipation. He could have been truly pleased with it. But he wasn't.

It was neither the flirtatious dissatisfaction characteristic of some, nor the chronic dissatisfaction often accompanying artists. He tried to critically evaluate his art, but he had nothing specific to criticize about this landscape. Quite possibly, it was the best he had ever painted.

He stared at it now, as he did almost every day. He gazed, hoping to finally see what it was all about. Perhaps it was the light? No, the pale rays of the winter sun, which only promised warmth, were brilliantly rendered. Some lines softened, blurred, others emphasized... The composition? The perspective? Everything was perfect. The problem certainly wasn't the painting technique. So what was it? Despite the banality of the subject, the painting was original. Despite the sparseness of its means of expression, it was profound and ambiguous. If it had been finished, it would have been brilliant. Since he hadn't finished it, he hadn't painted anything. That is, yes, he covered canvases with paint, some completely, but he knew better than anyone that this had nothing to do with art. And yet he

was one of those people who lived solely for art and for it alone.

His ex-wife was also a painter. Perhaps she had less talent, perhaps less luck, but she hadn't achieved a comparable career in that field. Now she was working in her great-grandparents' restaurant. That's what she said, and everyone assumed she'd inherited a place. Sometimes she explained, sometimes not; it depended on the person she was talking to, that she was restoring old portraits. People liked to hang them on their walls and tell their guests fanciful family stories. Sometimes they actually dug up a likeness of one of their ancestors in the attic; more often, they bought them in antique shops or flea markets, but what did it matter?

When she heard the news of her ex-husband's death, she was engrossed in a beautiful, though terribly neglected, late Renaissance medallion, a true rarity. This might somewhat justify her lukewarm reaction to the call from the police. Famous painters may not jump out of their studio windows every day, but it's even rarer to find such exceptional works of art in your hands.

But now the medallion lay forgotten, abandoned, and seemingly bare without its beautifully inlaid circular frame. Since morning, she had been organizing her husband's paintings. She didn't want to leave his canvases in storage, and when she finally found the time, she began browsing through them. Most were already in the most prestigious galleries. The artist's price had risen rapidly with his death.

This painting caught her attention for a long time. A truly successful winter landscape. Painted with a distinctive sense of color, very subdued and balanced, yet simultaneously evoking a range of emotions in the viewer. From sadness and dejection, through anxiety, even a vague fear, to solace and delight in the beauty of dormant nature. The impression was uncanny.

But it was fleeting, the first time she looked at the painting. When she began to stare at it and then away, alternating between placing it in different places, in different lighting, moving away from it, and then examining every detail up close, she concluded that something was missing. As if it weren't finished.

*

For a few days, she left it in the corner and busied herself with her work. But the feeling that something was wrong with it haunted her. The first thing that came to her mind was that the painting lacked life. Usually, this was the reason her works failed to provide her with artistic satisfaction. For several hours, she examined it from this angle, squinting, imagining the silhouettes of children, skiers, strolling couples, a flock of rooks, and a lone dog, all composed into the landscape. But she was wrong. This view was alive, even if it represented decay and hopelessness.

The old portrait, itself "almost" finished, eventually faded into the background. She approached her husband's painting more methodically. Gradually, slowly. And meticulously. They say the devil is in the details. Just like back in college, when she'd spent time in museums, painstakingly reproducing the works of masters, wanting to learn as much as possible from them, sketching, searching for the right shades. She made a few test copies in tempera on paper, then devoted two canvases to a few particularly difficult sections, which she painted ad nauseam, until she was certain she'd mastered every brushstroke.

She didn't sleep, barely ate. Every inch of her body and clothing was saturated with the scent of oil paints. She lost track of time, even losing track of night and day. She wasn't sure if days, weeks, or perhaps months and years were passing. This painting was driving her crazy.

*

"It's very pretty, I wonder who painted it, not our daughter, that's obvious. Maybe her husband is an 'artist'. Be careful, honey, when you're carrying it," the mother of the "crazy painter," as the press dubbed her, begged her husband, adding that no one was sane in that environment. "Or no, leave it, first we need to wrap it in something. Now, maybe take these boxes.

" "Why didn't we hire a moving company?" the man sighed, feeling a twinge in his back.

"The movers will come tomorrow for the furniture, don't complain. After all, I've been doing nothing since morning, just packing all the junk. You don't want your daughter, when she recovers, to blame us for some movers taking her things. You'd better put that box down and hand me some string. And help me with that painting."

They both stood over the large canvas. They were concentrating on admiring the painted landscape. A world covered in snow and bare, black trees.

"It's beautiful indeed," the older gentleman praised. "But don't you think it's missing something?

" "What?

" "I don't know.

" "Oh well. It needs a frame, yes, every picture looks better framed. You know, I've been thinking about decorating the bedroom in blue for a long time. It would be perfect," said the wife, with the confidence of a woman who had been a seamstress for thirty years, but after a downsizing at the factory, she took a correspondence course in interior design, so she knew better. The diploma had arrived in the mail only a week ago, but she wasn't about to waste time.

"It's probably not a frame...

" "Frame, frame.

" "Don't you think it's kind of... unfinished?"

"Then finish it, smartass. Could you?"

The man fell into a thoughtful mood. For a moment, he recalled the days when he was young, full of enthusiasm, and firmly convinced that a mining apprenticeship was just a stop on the road to a great artistic career. He smiled at his thoughts. His wife, who had been trying in vain to interest him in a hobby for some time now, smiled too. It pained her to see him struggling after early retirement, spending all day in front of the television, watching whatever was on.

*

"Oh, dear, we're glad you're okay. So when will you be released from the hospital?

" "Did your mom say your landlord has already rented it out to someone else? You'll have to move in with us...

" "At least for a while, until you sort things out.

" "Yes, don't worry, all your things are with us."

"Yes, mom packed everything up in boxes and they're in the garage.

" "Yes, everything."

- Yes, the paintings too, of course... Only that winter landscape... You know, we couldn't possibly pack it into the Trabant...

- And the movers didn't notice it was lying on the ground and dropped a couch on it...

- I know, honey, it was nice, what a shame. - Yes, I'm sorry too, but in the end

it was kind of unfinished anyway.