the white night’s shadows
run like spilled ink down
the hills and drip its puddles
from pedestrians feet
the trees cypher light in broad strokes
of brushed sumi liquid over the earth
jumping puddle, river and streets
black mercury pools of shapes
and lines of gestalt fingerprints
a display on the absolute of gravity
and when the rain comes
the pools reflect the pedestrians shadows
back up like grounded butterflies
by Anja Marais
Artist: Yury Stupitsa (Юрий ступица)
Born:1954
Located: Kronstadt, St. Petersburg, Russia
Background: Yury Stupitsa is an Icon painter registered with the UNESCO international artist federation. He started his studies in theater at the Odess School for Theatre & Art and later at the St. Petersburg Repin Institute of Painting, Sculpture and Architecture. Today he does commissions and restoration work mostly for the Russian Orthodox Church. His work is displayed internationally in collections in Germany, France, Brazil, Israel and Finland.
Yury’s studio was bright with a view over the city that included Cathedrals where his work is installed in. He loves to collect items that brings history into his studio for companionship. You can view photographs in the below slideshow which was taken in this ‘sacred’ space.
{EDIT: I originally had his name as Tupitsa but is name has been changed to Stupitsa}
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She looks tired, her face sullen
her built is somewhat smaller than
the younger generation
She is clad in coarse wool and black
her shoulders broadened by years
of hard labor and her hands
contain mountains and rivers
She never sits down she is
somehow always going forward
forward, toward, toward
Her steps are now short but still plenty
her back that of a tortoise-shell
covering its soft contents
When she passes soldiers, they salute her
The priest gives her a silent nod
The youth offers her their train seats
For she melted the steel that became
the bridges, the car
For she crushed the rocks that became
the road, the city hall
For she planted and harvested so that
you can grow
Even in her weakened state and waning last days
her footsteps keep pounding past our front doors
forward, forward, toward, toward
by Anja Marais
From Notebook: Kronstadt, Russia, May 2013
The sensory world is a cluster of
visuals, shapes, forms and gradients
it is an ocean I am drowning in
Sounds tumble from doors, windows
and the waves crescendo with laughter, music
a tsunami that rushed me off my feet
Ideas pile up like Tetris in multilevel
abstracts, hypothesizes, revelations
a Jenga that soon will collapse and crush me
by Anja Marais
I know: to the trees, but not to us, Perfection of the life is given, whole. And on the Earth – the sister of the stars – We live in exile, while they do at home. In latest falls, in sad and empty fields, The red-brass dawns and amber-clad sunrises Teach to the hues, dissolved in thinnest films, These people – green and free forever masses. Moses exists among these oaks, tall, And Mary, too – among the palms for ages … Their souls send to the others quiet calls With waters, run in darkness, void of edges. While polishing and brushing stony gems, And grinding rocks, the springs babble in a chore: They sing a song, or mourn a broken elm, Or praise the leaves, which dressed a sycamore. Oh, if I might be ever blessed to find The place, where, lost of singing and bewailing, I would rise silently up to the heaven height For the millenniums, unending.
Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, May, 2000 Edited by Dmitry Karshtedt, December, 2000
