Hristo Mihailov is a hunter of beauty. He
seeks and pursues it in the mysterious forests of shadows,
where beside the mighty trunks of oaks
the enchanting stems of unknown flowers twist,
invisible to the sober human eye. He
seeks it in the boundless fields of the Word,
which builds roads to people but also leads
to distant worlds. He finds it in his
studio, in the inscrutable spiral of a silver earring.
He sees it in stone, in wood, in the cauldron of
seething molten metal, and with caring hands
he cleans away the needless crust that clings to it,
to show it to us, his friends:
“Look how beautiful the world is!”
Hristo Mihailov is a hunter of beauty. He seeks and pursues it in the mysterious forests of shadows, where beside the mighty trunks of oaks the enchanting stems of unknown flowers twist, invisible to the sober human eye. He seeks it in the boundless fields of the Word, which builds roads to people but also leads to distant worlds. He finds it in his studio, in the inscrutable spiral of a silver earring. He sees it in stone, in wood, in the cauldron of seething molten metal, and with caring hands he cleans away the needless crust that clings to it, to show it to us, his friends: “Look how beautiful the world is!”
