The following paradox is possible: in the place where art is free, too free, in that place, because of an absence of obstacles, art grows weak, dwindles, degenerates; and in the place where it endures fifty years of persecution, abuse and suppression, fully-formed art comes to fruition. Because only that which is genuine, steadfast and harried will manage to somehow preserve itself, to survive. Who passes through the dreadful filter? Only the strong. All that which is weak fails. It is interesting, very interesting, to think how our descendents, “rummaging through the petrified refuse of today,” will find precious ingots, evidence of genuine human art.