This work is a portrait of Angola — a beautiful mare I knew many years ago. She was bright, elegant, with a glossy coat and a finely shaped face. I remember her not simply as a horse from an old photograph, but as a living presence.

One of my clearest memories of her is from a very hot day when we walked to the sea together. It was the first time she had seen the water. She stepped in and tried to drink, but the sea was salty and unpleasant. She snorted, protested, almost complained — and still reached for it again. She was thirsty, stubborn, and completely alive.

Years later, this moment has become, for me, an image of memory itself. We reach for what remains: a photograph, a movement, a fragment of light, the shape of a face. But memory is never pure. There is always salt in it — distance, loss, time.

I had not seen Angola for many years. She grew old and continued living at the Odessa Hippodrome. Later, I learned that she was gone. She died during the war, as innocent animals often do — without understanding any of it.

After that, her image stayed with me. I knew I had to draw her — not as a copy of a photograph, but as I remember her: thirsty, beautiful, bright, and alive.