On the edge Painting

“At the Edge”
120×80 cm, oil, acrylic, gilding, signature technique, 2021

They say that on the edge of the village, where the endless steppe begins, grow grasses that remember.
When golden light hovers over the land — they awaken.
Not loudly. Not to be seen. But simply — to become alive.

Yarrow rings softly, like a bell of memory.
Dandelion lifts parachutes of dreams, as light as childhood.
Wheat whispers a lullaby of warmth and abundance.
Coltsfoot lays a soft carpet beneath your feet — full of care and experience.
Nettle stands as a silent guard: letting through only what belongs.
Bindweed unites it all — gently, tenderly, invisibly.

These are not just herbs. They are fragments of a state.
What existed in childhood but had no name.
What remains in the body as a warm imprint of home.

The golden light is not an effect. It is the inner glow that appears when memory no longer hurts, but warms.
The field is not a background — it is a place of power, where peace still lives.

Not a composition. Not nostalgia.
A point of contact with what never left. Just became silent.

If you walk past — your sight may remain unchanged.
But you may lose access to yourself, one that no other window can reopen.