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February 22, 2004Hey Slav, accurate?-- Early on Saturday, the living room is a place of quiet instruction and frequent repetition. The first sounds of the morning originate there as children already known to be gifted try their hands on the black, upright Steinway. Above the piano hangs a small painting of the Potemkin steps, and beside it, one of the shore of the Black Sea. Across from it hangs a larger painting, an oil painting of an old Orthodox church, its property overgrown by dry, ancient weeds. On an adjacent wall, a painting of the Opera House in Odessa on a rainy afternoon, colors tenderly smeared in a vertical direction. Later, as a thin fog overwhelms the outdoors, the mauve walls help the room retain a formal warmth. Before dinner, adults gather on the small couches for cranberry vodka and soft talk about the concerns of the modern European. Olives, feta cheese, and caviar are spread over a low, fragile, glass table. Words are exchanged about the fluctuation of the euro and the latest political developments in the West, but once discussions become heated, they are taken elsewhere. Near midnight, when electricity abandons the house, the living room is where two children gather to pass the time. By the light of small candles, one reads the story of the fisherman while the other listens. In their father’s temporary absence, the looming paintings offer the safety of old tradition, a quiet but unquestionable protection that serves to maintain order on a cosmic scale. -- |
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