10 March 2010. Black crow on pool deck, morning sun. Pointed steps, one by one...
Another go at Repin, Surov's portrait from 1892. Forget it. Yes, Repin was his teacher, but somehow I don't quite believe this kindly face of middle years. Usually warmth in a painting is beguiling, but can it not also be a form of deceit? A covering up? As in the scene from War and Peace, the late-night revel, when Pierre clambers onto the third-floor window ledge, demanding a bottle of rum--if he drinks it, he'll fall, without a doubt--and Anatol Kuragin makes his soto voce aside to their drunken pals, "I'll fool him..."
Good intentions, questionable tactics...
And Brecht? "Und das nasse Ohio wuchts unten..."
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