«Just imagine-ka himself - he explained - from the depths of the universe, millions of eyes watching, and what they see? Crawls and crawls on the ground kind of a boring one-color gray mass, and suddenly a shot - the bright splash! That I went out into the street. "

And now he, too, was not dressed for the people, and for the galaxy. On his head was lying flat and a rapid take on the skinny shoulders hung a blue cloak with trifles, and from under it shone something incredibly vivid and desperate - red, yellow and lavender. The artist worked. He threw on the canvas one stroke, two, three - all of this casually, in passing, playing - and then retreated to the side, dramatically lowered the brush dale - shunned the crowd, the artist trying on, gazed, and suddenly threw his hand - again! - And fell to the canvas black greasy smear. He stuck somewhere at the bottom, slanting, sloppy, if not in place, but then there were more strokes and a few brush strokes and touches, that is, stains - yellow, green, blue - and has been on the canvas of colored fog was beginning to something erupt, to thicken, to appear. And the piece appeared Bazaar: dust, heat, sand, red-to white playing, and a cart loaded with watermelons. Sun blurred outlines, discolor paint and stesalo form. Cart streams, trembling, blurred in the heated air.

The artist creates, and people watch and appreciate. They are pushing, laughing, urged on one another, walk forward. Everyone wants a better look. Drunk, children, women. People are serious about there. People are serious this parsley to anything! They look, let pass by: "muff - talk about Kalmykov respectable people - and mug stupid, and wearing a kind of ass! Previously, such a crazy home only on major holidays to his family were released. That's just such a conversation took place at Zybin. He came up, pushed and stood in front of all though, evidently, and slightly tipsy, but very cultured uncle - edakii CHapaev a mustache, boots and tunic. He stood, looked, stroked his mustache, grunted, and said very politely:

- You excuse me, from the Union of Artists?

- Yeah, - said Kalmykov.

Uncle busily frowned, still stood and thought.

- And what is it you, excuse me, are drawing? - He asked gently.

Kalmykov absently nodded at the square.

- And there are carts with watermelons.

- So where are you? - Astonished uncle. He was a relentlessly polite, sarcastic, stern and vseponimayuschy.

Kalmykov away from the track for a second, squinted, then something pulled from the air, caught his wrist and threw it on the canvas.

- See the better - he called out cheerfully.

But Uncle was not anything else to watch. He shook his head and said:

- Yes, if we do not painted the. With us, if painted, then would it take, sist that the apple that watermelon that ham - and what's this? That's how I was when the day in the henhouse shalt not, I have the floor there is the same!

Kalmykov fun glanced at him and leaned over the canvas. Brush and flashed. Whether inspired by his uncle's words, or maybe just at that moment he grabbed the thing right? In general, he has earned, and all forgotten. Cultural uncle still stood and stared, shook his head and suddenly rudely asked:

- And what are you dressed, how? To laughter, or what? People are surprised? Artist! Previously, this would be an artist at once would be nice for the soul by the neck so the police station, and now, of course, go ahead, Malaria!

And he left, angry and dignified taking under his arm tight black tube - Swan Lake on the oilcloth.

A Kalmykov continued to write furiously. No its not about anything else he did not. One very good, easily and with great dignity, he held this conversation, and then Zybin same thought: "Well, God only knows what he is for the artist, but the price he himself knows."

He turned and walked out of the crowd.