Olga Kalafatiillustrators.ruThe novella The Heart of a Dog is a very cheerful thing, you know. But today, some people forget that, falling under the impression of Vladimir Bortko's somewhat, perhaps, minor-key film adaptation. It's understandable: the film appeared almost simultaneously with the book's official publication, and for this reason, it's inseparable from it in the minds of the mass readership. The film is certainly wonderful, but it was shot in a tone that differs somewhat from the tone of Bulgakov's novella. The director, unlike Bulgakov, already knew the history of the Soviet Union from beginning to end, so it seems he wasn't in the mood for cheer.
But never mind that, we're not going to talk about the film now, but about the illustrations by Olga Kalafati—they, it seems to me, are done in the right key. At least, they seem very fitting for the book.
A few words about the artist: In 2005, Olga graduated with honors from the Shadr Art College in Yekaterinburg, where she trained as an animation artist, and then worked as one at the Sverdlovsk Film Studio. She also enrolled in the VGIK art department (S. Sokolov's workshop) and began working at the Christmas Films animation studio, as well as a production designer in film.
I feel it, I know it—he has sausage in the right pocket of his fur coat. Oh, my sovereign! The dog crawled on his belly like a snake, shedding tears.
“Come with me.” He snapped his fingers. “Whistle-whistle!” “Go with you? To the ends of the earth.”
The doorman's gold lace disappeared below. On the marble landing, a warmth from the pipes wafted up; they turned once more, and here was the piano nobile.
In the evenings, the star of Prechistenka would hide behind the heavy curtains, and if there was no Aida at the Bolshoi Theatre and no meeting of the All-Russian Surgical Society, the deity would be located in his study in a deep armchair.
The door let in some unusual visitors. “What do they want?” the dog wondered in surprise. Filipp Filippovich met the guests with much greater hostility. He stood at his writing desk and looked at the newcomers like a general looking at his enemies. The nostrils of his hawklike nose flared. The newcomers shuffled their feet on the rug.
“Everything will go smoothly. First, singing every evening, then the pipes in the lavatories will freeze, then the boiler in the steam heating will burst, and so on. That's the end of Kalabukhov.”
On the narrow operating table, spread out, lay the dog Sharik, and his head was helplessly beating against the white oilcloth pillow.
The dome of Sharik's brain was laid bare. Filipp Filippovich bit into the membranes with scissors and cut them open.
From the diary of Doctor Bormental: ”Putting his hands in his trouser pockets. Weaning him off swearing. Whistled ‘Oy, Yablochko.’ Holds a conversation. Started smoking. Professor Preobrazhensky, you are a creator!”
