Overripe meta-irony has long and firmly accustomed viewers to the need that they should instantly generate interpretations and meanings, in the best traditions of Pavlov's dogs, when encountering art. And although the «lyrical hero» passed away at a school desk, their legacy lives on in the explanatory texts, accompanying works of art. Magritte declared that the pipe is «not a pipe» (TM)—and opened Pandora's box. Bulatov infused the visual «high» with the visual «low,» the language of agitprop, stating the obvious, but in an unequivocal way, so that the obvious drowned in its literalness.

Savvin tells us that a forest is simply a forest (a pipe is just a pipe, by analogy)—not «merely a forest» nor «The Forest» (with a capital letter), but «a forest,» as an a priori reality, an evident given. Beyond that lies the art of the plastic. He invites viewers not to doubt their instincts, not to strive to generate a concept, or to force what they see into a convenient and familiar framework of interpretation (via shortcuts of analogy or «similarities» to something else).

He tells us: Yes, yes, I know about Magritte, Bulatov, and Kabakov—now let’s look at the image on the canvas and remain silent. Firstly, it is beautiful. Secondly, it is complex. The «Cha-sha» series (any coincidences are intentional) is for viewers not only familiar with the alphabet and grammar of contemporary art but also capable of simply feeling it—those who have ceased to reflexively verbalise every work they encounter.

It is for those who recognise the self-sufficient power of an individual brushstroke and a splash of paint, the semantics of painting that resists transliteration by the laws of verbal communication’s linguistic semantics.