Filatov Sergey

Well, hello. My name is Sergei Filatov. And yes, I'm an artist. The kind who smears paint on canvas and tries to convince everyone that it's not just daubs, but "the breath of nature, frozen in eternity." Something like that.

Who am I? On paper—a Russian landscape painter. A member of some association or other, a teacher. My works hang in people's homes. Somewhere between Moscow and New York. Probably in hallways or kitchens. Someplace where they can quietly remind you that there's something outside the window too, while you're zoning out staring at a screen.

What do I do? I paint landscapes. Sometimes it works out. They say my paintings bring peace and harmony. Or, you know, they just match the sofa nicely. For some, they're an emotional anchor. For others—just a spot on the wall that isn't irritating. I've made my peace with that.

Who needs this? Mostly people who are tired. Tired of the city, of the constant flow, of all this smooth, plastic crap. Those who want a hole back to somewhere else in their concrete box. To the forest. To silence. To some semblance of peace. They don't come to me for art. They come for a tranquilizer. In the form of oil paint and primed canvas.

What drives my clients? Loneliness. But no one will admit to that. They all talk about "aesthetics" and "investing in art." But in reality, they just want something living in their house. Even if it's just a picture. To wake up not to the scream of an alarm clock, but to the quiet whisper of their own longing for something real.

In fifteen years, I've painted a mountain of canvases. Some have even gone to other countries. People sometimes write to me. They say thank you. They say that some puddle or field of mine reminds them of something good. That my sunrise became their sunrise. That they found five minutes of peace looking at my work. For them, it's a ritual.

My mission? It sounds pretentious, but I believe that nature is the last honest thing we have left. It doesn't lie. It doesn't pretend. When I paint, I try to capture that state. The elusive one. When the palette knife scrapes across the canvas, it feels like you can stop this whole damn circus for a second and just be a part of something bigger. No bullshit. Maybe that's the little something I can give. A reminder: life isn't only in this hell. It's also out there, outside the window.

If it ever gets completely unbearable and you want a little piece of that silence in a frame—I'll be glad to help.