All of we are artists to a certain extent. And not only, because we draw. By attitude toward the life, to attraction to wonderful, by the dream, we surprise a long ago not only itself but also whole world. However much, that we do, giving life, fully we ignore by a necessity to give all it to the complete form. Although as works of art. Our workaday employments our endless personal interest by a daily occurence, hopes, troubles, disappointments it is scored off, and in the stream of events we are already unaware, that are related to anything yet. Thus we are in this world, as though torned on two halves  as though outcast from a paradisial garden. Therefore, the art is returning to beginning returning in paradise. And those, that, who there returns us, - artists.

The Eduard Stranadko works as tailings of sleeps, complete senses
flight and easy nostalgia. Landscapes of long-ago  which never existed, but where each of us once, seems it was. There is some dream in his works. From it and plastic method: and as though nature, but all is unfinished some dyed haze, pictures, objects whether stand, whether fly in space without a clear prospect.

The desire to be hidden appears, to dissolve in
 twilight pictures, to hurry from reality and drop off in sleep.  Transparent, tender, dove-coloured darkness which fills a plane images on his eveningly and nightly pictures, softens a difference  objects to one another. A city landscape acquires symbolic sounding and has sense of all-embracing anything. Other pictures are full the piercing sun: retrospective provincial streets  at buildings in the sunbeams of output day in day out, nostalgia, oppressive pain of spirit... you do not analyse talented works, only inhale. They, as beauty, as a smile of kid to give us rare sense weightlessness. Technique of sepia, mat pape create also atmosphere of the forgotten childhood, dream-land after horizon, clean source, ideal...

The facts of the Eduard Stranadko biography are misty and incompatible.
 It is known, that after the life in a frightful barrack in Poltava he lived a few years in Petersburg. Possibly, from there and attraction to the classics. It is ordinary on his pictures young, attractive people with an easy smile, without theatrical falseness with thin elusively intimate problems. Now - also architecture. As one wise man said, these pictures looked like unfrequented city landscape, where a sun dust converts city buildings in mirage, falls on the cornices and as though swims by the easy cloud of smoke of tobacco. It seems that a city sleeps and sees black and white sleeps. Do you hear voice? This - wind that got lost in time, and his whisper simply can be heard: Memoria...

Natalia Scarlatti

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