Hello, European! Hello from Russia! Whether you will understand me? The same things have here and there different prices. Is, you will tell, common to all alive: joy and fear, love and boredom... Should be. Both you and I, both we see in the window of a house trees, roads. From them only trees kindred there and here, in other... The special print, the shadow of other fate lays here on everything that human make.
"All kinds, kinds of double description" - tells ancient wisdom. Life in general is paradoxical. But I want to tell about Russian paradoxicality, where scope was turned in torture-chamber. Where kindly people were forced to worship harm, do not believe in belief, do not love love, if it's not belief in the light future, common for the whole mankind, if it is not love to the leader indicating path to this future for whole mankind. Nevertheless, that light future would only for progressive people, all other are independent and diversely conceiving, were subjects for re-education or removal from path.
The facts are known for you. But how there can be that fairy tale, or, easy, fiction, deceit became the reality? "Ah, to deceive me not too hard!.. I'm glad to be deceived by myself!" Unless not glad for looser to find out, that he was lucky: he is a poor man, that's mean that he is honest, - "Just works don't make a stone palace!" - that is why he has the right on misappropriate all, that wealthy has. Unless not easy to take away and "justly" divide, than to increase? "Wolves howl be shut up, but sings are set free". Also there is Siberia for fans of scope, but in Russia it's GULAG, - life, knowing two ultimate exits: eternal patience or ruthless revolt. And hate to middle, to norm. And I condemn it as inaccessible and secretly desired... I'm a part of Russia.
Any more, not for the first time I leave from heavy illness, each time new, and with especial pungency I love the joy of easy life. Coming to the window looks on the garden (there are crows and magpies in there, farther, behind it there is a road, the noise of cars, barking of dogs, farther there is a cabbage field, farther away there is a wood, with smoke above it rising from crematorium chimney and lazy going up in the sky), I admire, and it's hard to refrain to pin this view to a piece of canvas or, at the worst, hardboard... Large pictures are the fruits of night watches. Much of them came from trips on country... Ten years ago illness has forced me to write verses (laying in a bed) and since then it need of my attention almost each day... Music and, first of all, Bach are the possibility of touching to the highest life, piece of the sky on the ground. Organ, clavecin... "In chordis et organ".
Do not think, however, my friend, that the shadow of past has left from Russia. Do not think also, that this shadow guzzled it all without the rest. Look for it, and you'll have found. I turned your attention to past, that you could feel the way we felt and how complicate for us today, what price the elementary things that we hadn't: possibility to think, to talk, to love the way we want.
...Music is mercy
To the world of thundering steel.
Music us will not betray,
Music us will not leave!
The shadow of past lays on my painting, verses. It darkens my joy and hope. But I am happy! Also I want to share my joy with you. My personal revival has coincided with the beginning of revival of Russia.
I have not many friends, but give a God to you such as mine! I honored such love, that happens once in life and not in each. This has changed my notion about human nature itself.
Painful happiness! It's hard to believe it's hard to combine with life, practical to the core. I am not young, and my happiness seems inadmissible impudence. And I am truly impudent. But the boldness of my inspirer is more remarkable it could be compare only with her charm.
Here than is my bliss and torment that makes me alive. Also I write down my life day behind day by verses and prose. In this life poetry and truth is the same.
O, how terribly and cheerfully to quit from gloom on dazzling bright light! How strange the fresh air smells, how I am feel giddy, and sometimes how pity about my habitual underground, stuffy hovel... also will not understand even what kind of quiver trembles a man from that place by birth... And nevertheless it is more joyful excitement of a young man, for the first time entering in life.
I opened my soul to you, and hope, - you will understand me!
|Anywhere on the ground, in the sea or in the sky,
Whether blues, the spleen, the boredom,
Will rescue neither Cant, nor Hegel,
Even, maybe, nor Pascal.
I know, heart begin to throb, but
Why - couldn't be described in words,
If Mozart will have touched strings, and
Bach will have breathed in accords.
But when all claviers are silent,
In the dark or in the day -
Light of one's eyes and bitter whether
Turn me to my life again.
Writers of fantasy invent new worlds то find fresh sight at ours, at themselves. There is nothing more fantastic then reality, if to rise up a veil of habit, indifference, boredom.
It also do love and illness - if the God will give, this is promoted by creativity and travel in general - if the objective does not shield path,
path - roadside.
Convalescent and in love anew learn to live, they are similar to by births from the back of beyond, where the life is not similar to life, or is similar to it, as caricature on original.
Extraordinary, unfamiliar reality opens to convalescent and in love: all in it lightly, impossible, not accidentally, everything happen in time and suit taste; separate and far thing and thoughts that were incompatible before incorporate in harmony, certificate of presence of a deity. "Clean casual outlines..." - poet has told, but all efforts are in vain. It happens by itself, comes as a gift without merits, like the grace, unexpected and also filled in soul suddenly and wholly.
So art and poetic thought come this way, grain of the future book. So on our way we meet the human we love and the one who loves us: who searches - will find, but not that searches, and not there. Not that one search but unknown, impossible waits for us on the path to devised purpose.
In a back-woods unknown flower
Opens washed eyes at morning time
And greets the east by sight... Where it takes fragrances
And colors beautiful and prime?
From red Sun or from light-blue heaven?
There is no, from gray plain land.
What it tells by? It tells by only cleaver
Love, that couldn't be reached by forceful hand.
Flower could flash out as clear glimmer,
Grass will find officinal, poison - snake.
In quicksand and in loam whatever
You want types of a solid lay.
In any land with love and grieve,
All search of happiness, but will find themselves.
The sensation of cleanness and conciliation, that akin to walk on a spring wood, supplies chaotic circulation among the exposed pictures, decomposed in show-windows, photos, figures, verses, travelling notices. The small videohall in "Spark" Palace of Culture of Lyubertsy satellite-town of Moscow has managed to contain only part of creative heritage of the artist, poet, writer Gustav Muller.
The works are exposed here for the first time. And up to it - life rich of events: childhood that was singed by war, then art school - "chudovka", Stroganoff's school of fine arts... The author of an exhibition has visited in many points of Russia, his works created in Baltic countries of former USSR, Central Asia and Transcaucasia visually testify it. The cycle of pictures devoted Armenia is interesting too. Looking from a portrait, eyes of an Armenian girl are slightly blinked and curious. It seems, what not you, but she examines you, observing of your movements from space, limited by a frame. On the other canvas there is an abrupt mountain slope with whimsical outlines of the human face profile.
From represented photos my attention has involved snapshots made in different places, but reflecting one theme. It settled down, as a rule, by a number and it was curious by an once to see singing dekhans from small settlement in Central Asia, concert of organ music in the Dome cathedral of Riga, girls-artists drawing gravestones of the Don monastery.
The exhibits of Gustav Muller's exhibition are an original collection, that seems to us at times unessential in motley kaleidoscope of vital events. And only then suddenly understand, how are important the moments seized by an acute sight of the artist and embodied by him in pictures and photos. Also a talent consists in it - to see great in simplis.
OR AS THE PICTURE APPEARS
Again I have arrived to the city known as a place of tuff production, now to see frescos, rarity in Armenia, fresco of church Lmbat, concerning to the seventh century.
The church is insignificant, a little bigger and a little older than Karmravor of Ashtarak. It stands on a naked shoulder of a rock, it is simple, deprived of a rich groove, about which wrote Mnatsakjan and Stepanjan (1970).
The fresco saved partially, it is the bottom of "Visions of Iesekiel", tetramorf with big-eyed wings, standing in the middle of fire, double wheels ("a wheel in a wheel"), look like two-coil closed spi-rals. Seraphim on the left and iridescent shell of mandrola on the right (we are talking about the left fragment).
This fresco has reminded me the story of Azat R. Mkrtchjan, told me, as turks, driving in one house everyone, whom have found in a village Marmarashen, burned them all at once. In my pic-ture the Angel embraces by wings this live bonefire. He looks into the (close to us) dis-tance.
Azat is a watchman of garden in the Marmashen monastery, I had turned him to the guard of earth paradise, that should become ill-fate Armenia, when the enmity of the peoples will be stopped of time and for ever.
Surprises wait for travellers. The road to church Lmbat passed lengthways aryk with breakneck spring water in it. Below aryk ran in concrete font, and desperate black boys bathed there. One of them sat aside and silently ?miled, in the picture he is in the near right corner.
Opposite to a church mountain other was visible, is step chopped up, with a barrack behind a prickly wire on the top. It's stone quarry, drudgery, fire-hot Armenian hell (icy at winter), depart-ment of all-Union GULAG. It's Calvary, profile of blunt and ruthless Evil. Good there was itself as an antipode, profile alive, young, Future, resisting to the past. To the left of Calvary there is a ra-vine, turned into dump. On the right in the distance, filling the young profile, there is the azure Sevan-lake that seems to convicts, martyrs of a hell.
The images of the right part of the picture have intruded in it from home use of the author, where native, home Russian hell waits for him till he'll have returned from one Transcaucasia to another (inhabitants of Georgia and Armenia just Russia should seem as Transcaucasia).
The 1978 had prepared to him especially stunning news.