Maximilian Voloshin (1877 1932), a poet, a painter, a thinker, a follower of the "Cimmerian" school in poetry and fine arts. Early in life he studied law at a university, but quickly understood that it was not his lot. He traveled over Western Europe and Central Asia, learning everything. Like a sponge, he absorbed Mediterranean theosophies and Oriental religions, Russian symbolism and Greek mythology. Later all the impressions and mental searches transformed into his own philosophy, natural and harmonious. In 1917 Voloshin came back to Cimmeria again and no longer left.
His comprehension of Cimmeria happened not right away. In 1894 his mother bought a plot in Koktebel (godforsaken place at the time), and started building a house. Young Max did not like the place at first. Sun-burnt hills, wormwood plateaus, rocks, harbours, desert sea... But one day his mind opened, and the magic transformation happened. Later it was expressed in his amazing poetry, intellectual and sensual. Something very special, different from everything. Poetry and painting were inseparable for Max; they complemented each other ideally. And inspired an image of the promised land a bit puzzling and unrepeatable.
Hause of the poet
House of the poet became a center of attraction for writers, painters, actors and other creative people. In summer life boiled up with performances, discussions, entertainments. In winter was a time of great solitude, great reflection, great inspiration. At the hard period of Civil war of 19181920 the house often was a shelter for supporters of both fighting sides. Risking his life, Max remained himself. In his opinion, during any social cataclysms one must be not a supporter, but a man. A man, his personality, is much more important than his political convictions. Any political parties are kinds of collective insanity. Politicians are sick and mad, they find satisfaction in manipulating people. Sounds topically at all times.
There are not many examples of such a close bond between the human creator and the place, where he lived. Strange, but true: profile of Kara-Dag, being watched from some positions, does resemble Voloshin's profile. As if the very earth predetermined his living there. And adopted him ultimately. In August of 1932, at the age of 55, Voloshin had gone. By his will, he was burried on top of the hill Kuchuk-Enishar, over the land, whose spirit he was. On the thombstone are always bunches of steppe flowers, pressed down by sea pebbles. And small paper pieces with amateurish verses of his admirers. A nice place to sleep forever...