I once went to Georgia for a week, and I stayed for almost four years. That's what happens when you don't want to go back.

And then there's the sun, the chacha, and the people... Especially the people. I started writing about them because I was on a journey and didn't want to be idle. I met all kinds of people, big and small, kind and stern. That's what I was most afraid of, and out of fear, I spoke Russian, but with a strong Georgian accent, thinking that way I would be understood more quickly. The Georgians were offended, but they never even beat me, and I continued to paint them.

I painted from memory, but mostly I just imagined what they might be like, especially those I had never seen. I was told about some of them, and I saw others in my dreams. Some of my paintings didn't turn out well, and I broke all my brushes. And then, as if some emerald fairy would whisper in my ear: “Don’t forcefully poke the canvas, it doesn’t tolerate it, gently anoint it, like this…” And it worked. I especially liked Georgian dogs, dzagliks, and I also painted them. I also painted food. Delicious food, so I could remember how it looked. I also loved the uncertainty of someone not yet arriving and someone already departing.

Here comes Georgia, a place that seems to have been reached by not all of us.