When I can paint grasses, wheat, hay, what have you, paint nature and tractors like this man, I will have achieved private career satisfaction. And look! His title has made me think I want to join him in Russia to discuss world politics and how he ever could have thought that turquoise on the Russian letter shaped “M” would surprisingly fit in a spring solstice-colored afternoon plein air.
I could learn a lot from Alexey. I know I am a good artist-thinker already. I spent many years in the making of myself, and am satisfied. However, Alexey is a better painter by far, and knowing myself this well, I can sanely declare that Russia, like the U.S., must also nurture a very stupid professional class. Alexey paints better, thinks better, proposes futures better than an American coward Andy Warhol or Jackson Pollock ever dreamed. Some tasteless oil oligarch would spend millions to hang a Warhol soup can in his parlor. He wouldn’t know a work of art—what profound beauty can come from privation and unreal determination—until that work of art is valued by the international market of whoosasses.
Listen to me doctors, lawyers, and businessmen of Russia and the world over, you do not know a thing about art and artists. And you’re going to the wrong finely combed idiot to tell you what’s what, and who’s who. New York galleries are done, finished, kaput like yesterday’s abstract expressionistic hooker money.
If you and yours cannot see greatness, start to ask the honest painters who the best painters are. We know. Most of us won’t tell you via the demon professional jealousy. But I will. I have nearly given up the ghost. I know greatness. This is it.
Now reach into your fat, pathetic billfolds and hand this teacher Stepanov a few thousand dirty rubles, now, before you expire your dreamless lives to eternity.
Pardon my Russian, but “ебать художественную политику всей” as well.
Great painter. Alexey Stepanov.