pirosmani stack001 + Duplication

Text :

Almost every morning I came to spend a moment in the little Pirosmani museum in Tbilisi. I was most often alone. There were few tourists at that time, and the city's inhabitants were already familiar (or in some cases, would never know) those silent galleries peopled with attentive beasts and distracted humans, all related by their gaze. When, in the early nineties, Georgia in its turn began to sink into the maelstrom of battles and murders that greeted the post-perestroika period, I used to wonder if the little museum was still open, if the attentive animals and their humans had been left in solitude, without even a single visitor coming to tell the shade of Nico Piramanachvili that for him, the eyes of a blue giraffe came from the same "different world" as a
certain patch of yellow wall.