The predatory details in the drawings appear best in fine particularises: almost claw-like configuration of the leave which covers genitals of Atlant, acute, aggressive instruments, zigzag-curves branches, fern similar to the fish skeleton in a bottle, huge jaws of the bug near to the girl of a quiet aspect. It is not so much tragic, how much cold, estranged feeling of life. Whether dancers really dance or not, it is not clear. Well-traced human body seems more unreal than its illusive vegetative vis-a-vis. Lone instruments, lone books. A gloomy room of style… In the foreground, there is an impressive book on a music stand. Probably we see the library... Is it a door on a background? The arch made of stone is closed by cross beams - no exit; on the left of the arch a stairway leaves vertically in the darkness of an attic or a sky; loneliness, discomfort, "abandonness", the uncovered book reminds a bird - where it can fly? Where here to fly? Anywhere, only far from this world, by Bodlaire.

And we look on the caravels on engravings, - of cause, caravels (it should be strange to draw our modern armoured saucepans). Caravels, which great refinement carefully thought over light-mindedness, let to whim of a sea wave, winged immovability of clouds and noctuelles.

Besides caravels if to use expression Gaston Bachelard, have "onirique value". They are designed not only for the terrestrial seas, but also for spaces of magic geography, for that Ocean, where our reality is only a meandering isle in boundless dreams…

Problem: only whether the word "caravels" drives a lyrical burst, or just caravels, figured by Dmitry Vorontsov. Probably, both that, and another. On an engraving in pale - creamy-brown tones the ship "ploughs" the sea, as furrows are appreciable; the details are traced quite carefully, the caravel is graceful and air is compared with rather dense random clouds look like flocks of sugar cotton wool or a marshmallow. Much more curious other composition: does the caravel sail here? Or is it steeped? Between sea and skies, as if it is in the stoic Posidonius' ecumenical Ocean: the ship shades, rather than illuminates a pink flare of the sun of a restless pearl-grey sky faster. All this awakes associations uncertain: caravels, probably, in depths of waters, despite of the inflated sails and the direct flags, below something, recalling underwater flora, from sides hang down strands of difficult to understand filamentary substation - viscous captivity or driving, dream or reality.