Mao Fragile Painting

I was born in Omsk, an administrative centre of the Siberian Federal District. Over the centuries, all the neighbouring peoples have poured eagerly into that vast area of harsh frontier land. Turks from the Ottoman Empire, Mongolian warriors under Genghis Khan, enterprising Russians sent by Peter the Great and, more recently, hordes of Chinese settlers with their worthy statutory ideologies. Each of them has raised their own flag and fixed the icons of their own particular creeds. With the greatest indifference, the winds of the steppe blow on all of them in equal measure. I felt an inner need to enter into a reflection on the fragility of power, which is paradoxically contrasted by the undying intensity of its forms of selfpromotion. Like most human beings, I too have the doubt that it is not that healthy to get accustomed to these awkward presences. At the centre of Tiananmen Square stands the mausoleum of Mao. Litter flutters all around and souvenir stalls and shops throng the place.