In Russian art 1990-ies became a time when butterflies emerged from nymphs. At the period of 'stagnation' the mighty crown of the socialist realism tree found itself inhabited with vermin worms, the non-official artists, who freely swarmed in rampant leafage. Then in the perestroika process they've pupated, hardened and mortified, not without some help from Conceptualism. Appearance of butterflies, serenely flittering in the stormy sky of local culture, was so unexpected for art criticism, that at first time they've been either ignored or considered an 'optical illusion'. Though Apollo the Sun has burned stronger, butterflies played in flocks, and even the critics had to realise - there's a neo-classicism in the weather succeeding the post-modernist spring. Aidan Salakhova was among the first, who spread the wings. To be first is really hard. Aidan looked like a lone ballerina among bookkeepers in sleeve protectors and hooligans with broken bottlenecks. But time doesn't stand still. It's a long time since Aidan is no more alone on wide boards of the new Russian classicism. And she is prima - the first. And I'll go to XL Gallery and applaud for her. Bravo, Aidan!