В начале марта я по приглашению большого Мастера - художника Владимира Сидоренко попала в его кузницу. Возможность наблюдать работу умелых рук - вызывает совершенно потрясающие ощущения и завораживает. Я с изумлением смотрела на происходящее: казалось бы необуздываемый металл вдруг превращался в легкие крылья то ли птицы, то ли ангела. Все время не могла избавиться от ощущения, что всё происходящее вокруг меня является едва ли не зеркальным отображением одного из чудесных стихотворения Лонгфелло под названием “Деревенский кузнец”:

“Над сельской кузницей каштан
Раскинул полог свой.
Кузнец, могучий исполин
С курчавой головой,
Железо там куёт весь день
Железною рукой.
По закоптелому лицу
Струится честный пот.
С утра до вечера кузнец
По наковальне бьёт.
Он не богат, но и просить
На бедность не пойдёт.
Ревут кузнечные мехи,
Едва встаёт заря,
И мерным гулом полнит дол
Рука богатыря….”

Я была так признательна Владимиру, что он позволил присутствовать при своей работе и сделать несколько фото. Время промчалось незаметно, но день - исключительно памятен.

At the beginning of March I was invited to visit a smithy of a great artist, Vladimir Sidorenko. I was stuck by the work of talented and high-skilled hands. I was astonished at appearing of wings from the piece of red-hot metal. I had a kind of waft that everything around me was relatable to the one of splendid poems by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Among them there is a poem “The Village Blacksmith”:

“Under a spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands;
The Smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate’er he can
And looks the whole world in the face
For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming furge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church
and sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach.
He hears his daughter’s voice
singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother’s voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling,–rejoicing,–sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night’s repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought!”

I am so grateful to Vladimir for his invitation and the opportunity to take a few photos of his work. The time whirled away but it stays unforgettable.