In the painter’s urban landscapes, the human recedes into the background. He merges with the reflection of his pictures on the pavement on a rainy day. Sometimes, he falls into a narrow gap between the stone of the walls and the iron of the cars, and only the colorful umbrellas retain his vanishing outlines on the surface of life.

The bright chimneys of Prague’s red roofs though are as optimistic as hundred years ago and cheerfully promise hot supper and a lively chat at the fireplace which no darkness  peeking from outside through the window will ever spoil. (Prague Ruftoops)

As your eye travels along the wave-shaped and repeated pattern of contours of roofs or dives into deep gorges of city streets, you cannot but stand in awe before the endurance of man who persistently drills his way through the stony bulk of problems disregarding the evanescence of things and the shortness of his lifetime on the planet.

Sometimes Onishchenko’s female images lose their passionate essence and become the grains of light, the light fairies on the border of multi-colored darkness, where there is no sky and no magical flights. They are beautiful, lovely and faceless. But they don’t know how to fly, so they need protection.

Darkness is life-giving, just like light. But it is much older. Darkness is the basis of everything. The world emerges from darkness, and it hides all its shades. It’s the same with Onishenko’s paintings. Each of them hides a secret of the creation of the world. And the trees in the winter forest, like the cuts in the fabric of space, take the viewer deeper to the magic horizon of the painting. The spectator feels dizzy with anticipation of entering another dimension.

Red trams look at the viewer from the streets of Prague. Onishenko loves to draw trams moving with their headlights on. They remind us of Woland’s prophecy: “Who knows what will happen in the evening?” Who knows whose head will be chopped off by the Tram of Destiny? All you can do is hope that your personal tram is still in the depot.

The painting shows a powerful and static passion of fertility. The woman, embraced by this feeling, is a sister of the Scythian stone babas, sitting in the endless steppes of Ukraine. She is thousands of years old, and millions of lovers have already sung their mournful songs to her. Rocking in her chair, she measures life not in years, but in millennia. She is enormous. She absorbs and gives life. She is heavy and powerful, and there is no trace of love or illusion in her. She is real.

The bright chimneys on the red roofs of the houses of Prague look just as optimistic as they did a century ago. They promise you a cozy evening and a hot dinner, and even the darkness outside will not be an obstacle to a friendly conversation over a delicious meal.

The Charles Bridge is shrouded in a mauve fairy fog, through which you can see only the frozen figures of the light knights or cruel rulers and the arch, flickering in the distance and inviting us into the unknown.

In this painting, you can see a huge white cloud that looks like a fairy dragon, who burned the ground with a scarlet riot of poppy fire and flapped its huge wings, flying towards the sunlight. Life is a formidable and beautiful game of magic forces, where a human in it is only a spectator. But maybe this performance was made only for him?

As your eye travels along the wave-shaped and repeated pattern of contours of roofs or dives into deep gorges of city streets, you cannot but stand in awe before the endurance of man who persistently drills his way through the stony bulk of problems disregarding the evanescence of things and the shortness of his lifetime on the planet. Just doing their thing.

The sky is a separate character of the artist’s paintings, which has a bright and sensual face. It can be confined and impenetrable, like the closed doors to heaven that leave no hope of forgiveness. The exile is left alone with an autumn tree or the birds flying away. The painting “Flying away” is brimming with loneliness.

In the painter’s urban landscapes, the human recedes into the background. He merges with the reflection of his pictures on the pavement on a rainy day. Sometimes, he falls into a narrow gap between the stone of the walls and the iron of the cars, and only the colorful umbrellas retain his vanishing outlines on the surface of life.

Looking at the waving and endlessly repeating lines of the roofs or at the deep ravines of the city streets, you admire the strength and perseverance of people who don’t think about the frailty of life but cling to it despite their short time on this earth. Those who just do their duty.

The beautiful women in Onishchenko’s paintings are so far away from the viewer. They live in their own world, filled with white butterflies of hope, light daisies of fortune telling, or darkness of protection. Their slim but bright figures are contrasting and full of dark matter, fighting its way through the carmine and sapphire blue of the dresses.

Looking at the picture, the viewer finds a mixture of white, blue and black. You can see the dark depth passing through the divine white color, giving the image blueness, contrast and the magic of recognition.

In the painter’s urban landscapes, the human recedes into the background. He merges with the reflection of his pictures on the pavement on a rainy day. Sometimes, he falls into a narrow gap between the stone of the walls and the iron of the cars, and only the colorful umbrellas retain his vanishing outlines on the surface of life.

The birches stand still like soldiers in the enchanted autumn forest. They don‘t try to lure you inside or promise you salvation. They just remind you that you don‘t need to be afraid of winter, because it will be followed by spring. You should be afraid of autumn, as it means that winter is coming.