BELYUKIN Dmitry – White Russia. Outcome

Yes, Im already introducing myself. THE MOST BEAUTIFUL PAINTING, SO MUCH SOUL, KNOWLEDGE OF PEOPLE, AND LOVE FOR THEM!!!

Leaving their Homeland, saying goodbye to the last corner of the Russian Empire with the hope of returning, they watched as the slowly receding shores disappeared from view, carrying within them the treasure of their ancestral soul into the unknown distances and times. And perhaps, the lips of each one embarking on this journey into nothingness whispered: Farewell, Russia...

For the last time, the port of Novorossiysk in 1920 saw off the Cossacks, with Georgievsky ribbons pinned to their chests, weapons in hand – a rifle, saber, and whip.

Years of bloodshed, turmoil, and oblivion.
Let us not curse exile...

The Renaissance is not far away!

They themselves brought Russia to this state, and you have to pay for everything.

In the eyes of all those aboard the steamboat, one could see a sense of despair and a complete lack of hope for the future they once believed in. Even the gaze of the officer standing in the middle expressed a longing for the old Russia that he and his comrades had lost. The seagulls flying overhead, echoing each other with mournful cries, clearly symbolized only what had been lost – it was already gone.

This is a tragedy for Russia, both for those who left and for those who remained.

The tragedy of the country, embodied by the artist – the spiritual essence of society was disappearing, and a wave of Marxist materialism swept in. Yet, Marx considered Russia and the Scythians to be dirty and unrefined. History has proven who was right. The canvas is filled with immense pain for ones country.

They deserved it.

Exodus

Now we are a rabble,
Of fallen order,
Betrayed, cursed, forgotten,
We are not a people,
And they are a mystery to us,
A secret hidden by our pretense.

We were rejected,
Historys verdict,
Cast aside all hope and dreams,
That blissful tale,
Burned like a manuscript,
Life turned into a fatal irony.

There is no hope,
Overcome by despair,
Silent weakness, deafening hatred,
A hermit,
With doomed aspirations,
Will be awkward in the cold foreign land.

The path ahead,
Without rest or peace,
We will find no refuge,
Only to regret,
Trying somehow to arrange our lives,
Forever exiled from our native soil.

Farewell, forgive us,
My beloved, my homeland,
Your sons have abandoned you, cursing,
We will stay
Far from the edge of our home,
The land we called motherland without appreciating it.

/AK/

Dmitry Belyukin / White Russia. Exodus. 1992.