Sergey LemehovBook graphic artist and caricaturist Sergey Ivanovich Lemehov was born in Leningrad to a family of an artist, Ivan Lemehov. In 1967, he graduated from the Secondary Art School at the Academy of Arts, after which he entered the Repin Institute of Painting, Sculpture and Architecture, from which he graduated in 1973. In the 1980s, Sergey Ivanovich was already a regular participant in all-Union (and international as well) caricature exhibitions.
Today, his works are held in collections in Italy, Germany, Canada, the USA, and also in the Bulgarian Museum of Humor in the city of Gabrovo.
Since 1991, the artist has worked in the genre of book graphics, having since illustrated more than three hundred books, including those by Ilf and Petrov, Gogol, Saltykov-Shchedrin, O'Henry, and, of course, Bulgakov. It is his illustrations for The Heart of a Dog that we will get to know today.
What a personality! My God, what kind of a fate have you brought me to, my dog's lot! What kind of a face is this that can lead stray dogs past a doorman into a housing association building? Look at him, the scoundrel—not a sound, not a movement.
“Heh-heh! Are we alone, Professor? It's inexpressible,” the visitor began, feeling awkward. “Parole d'honneur—for twenty-five years, nothing like it,“ the subject took hold of his trouser button, ”believe me, Professor, every night, naked girls in droves.”
The door let in some unusual visitors. There were four of them at once. All young men, and all dressed very modestly.
Filipp Filippovich was getting excited, the nostrils of his hawklike nose flared. Having gained strength after a hearty lunch, he thundered like an ancient prophet, and his head shone with silver.
His appearance was strange. Hair remained only on his head, chin, and chest. Otherwise, he was bald, with flabby skin. His skull had increased significantly; his forehead was sloping and low.
Filipp Filippovich sat at the table in an armchair. A brown cigar stub stuck out between the fingers of his left hand. By the portière, leaning against the doorframe, stood a man of short stature and an unappealing appearance, with one foot crossed over the other.
It was three o'clock after midnight, but the two men in the study were awake, wound up with cognac and lemon. They had smoked so much that the smoke moved in thick, slow planes, not even wavering.
Sharikov invited his own death. He raised his left hand and showed Filipp Filippovich a thumb with an unbearable dog-like smell. Then, with his right hand, he pulled a revolver from his pocket, aimed at the dangerous Bormental.
