the art tsar and the girl in the arbat
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And the Girl in the Arbat
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ITS SEPTEMBER. Moscow is filling up. People are back from the country and abroad. The crowds are
thick as I ride the green line.
Sokol Station is vast. The metros buried so far underground, youre riding the escalator skyward
forever. On the opposite side of the marble-faced cavern, you see young lovers burying themselves
against the handrails.
I find Konstantin, a journalist I wrote from New York, waiting for me on Leningradsky Street. Hes
27, roguishly handsome, with a full beard that makes him look wolfish in the dark. His eyes glitter as
they take me in.
Robert? he asks.Ztras, Kostya.
***
Were in a svelte black Nissan now, shooting through Petrovsky, past spike-haired dudes on motorcy-
cles, in the direction of Red Square. The Stones are belting out Gimme Shelter on the stereo.
Kostyas pal Sergey drives. His black hair is tied back, his eyes mesmerizing. You think of tales of Dos-
toyevsky and Babel, of times when it was good to be bad.
So, Robert, says Sergey, switching to perfect English, Kostya tells me you are a journalist.
Once in a while, I go.
Hes a screenwriter, adds Kostya, from the backseat, in Russian.
A screenwriter? Sergey asks again, fixing me with his narcotic stare. Me too.
Im writing a script that opens in Saint Petersburg, I go. But Ive never been to the city before.
Im writing a script set in America, laughs Sergey. And Ive never set foot in the place.You two have a lot in common, goes Kostya.
The Stones segue into Amakye Dede as we speed past Rozhdestvensky Monastery, whose walls
repelled the invasions of the Golden Horde.
What are the magazine stories about? asks Sergey.
Ones photo-reportage, I go. Like portraits of Russian artists, the high and the low. The literary
one Ill figure out as I go along.
The muse hasnt hit you yet? asks Sergey.
Im waiting patiently.
Ill find you one, Robert, grins Sergey.
***
In the posh lounge of the Ritz-Carlton several hours later Im having my way with the caviar
and a river of 50-year-old whiskey flowing from the labradorite-veneered table. Kostyas friend, a
young Russian businessman and art collector named X, is answering my question about why I cant
find much killer Russian art in New York. Luxuriating on a saffron-striped sofa, X speaks perfect English,
svengali-like in his intensity.
The Russian art you see in America depends on your own holdings, says X. And since a third of
every auction in New York is returned to Russia, soon youll see nothing.
Except hacks like Alvazovsky, says Xs fashionably long-haired associate, Dimitry, sitting nearby.
Dimitry is serenely stacking thick bundles of rubles inside an open briefcase.
Plus there are no equivalent reserves here since all significant paintings are owned by the Russ-
ian Federation, goes X.
The New York art world thinks its the shit, I go. But think of the stuff Kimmelmans never laid
eyes on. All the Constructivists, the Suprematists, buried deep in the crypts of the Hermitage.Painters like Surikov, Repin...
The fathers of Social Realism, says X, growing tired. The only way you might see them is if our
state museums are lured by billions in hard currency.
Thatll never happen, says Dimitry, this time in Russian. The dollars too precarious.
Across the lounge, my gaze fixes on three drop-dead Russian beauties migrating from a group of
middle-aged Turkmenistani businessmen to join Sergey and Kostya at the bar. Sergeys beckoning me.
Who will you be meeting while youre here? asks X finally.
Vitaly Komar...
Hes interesting, says X.
Alexander Sokurovs partner, the film producer Andrey Sigle...
I saw Alexandra in Cannes, Dimitri says.
Zurab Tsereteli...
PHOTOGRAPHY BY ROBERT GOETHALS ART BY VIKTORIYA BASINA
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The most politically powerful artist in all of Russia,
states X. Bar none.
And a girl I met teaching art at the 92nd Street YMCA.
The 92nd Street YMCA? asks X, arching an eyebrow.
Over at the bar, Sergey presents me with one of the
miraculous women whove sidled up against the marble
counter. She has shoulder-length auburn hair, violet lipstick,
and vaguely sullen eyes. Her smile suggests a serene
knowledge of sex.Ta-da, goes Sergey, Luccia is nice Russian muse to
inspire you.
Coochie-coochie-coo, goes Luccia.
***
A couple days later, between the Krasny Oktyabr chocolate
factory and the Moskva River, Zurab Tseretelis monumental
sculpture of Peter the Great shoots into the sky with
bebop energy.
What was the reaction of Moscuvites? I ask Sergey,
contemplating the riff of Peters head.
Many panties in major uproar, goes Sergey. Somebody
tried to blow it up.God, how I love him. I pray for a tour guide and I receive
a legitimate holy man.
Read Loney Planet Guide, says Sergey, holding up my
copy. Too gaudy, too ostentatious, too much, he quotes.
What do they know? I shrug. I love it.
Sergey grins.
You know what Norman Mailer said?
You know Norman Mailer? asks Sergey.
When he was at Harvard, Norman and my old Uncle
George used to pick up girls on the Boston subway.
I love the The Naked and the Dead.
Mailer said Zurabs Peter is a fundamental contradiction.
Its playful. And, its huge.
Yeah?
He looked at it for seven consecutive days from his
window at the President Hotel. He said Peter never failed to
cheer him up.
Many people in Moscow see things with old eyes.
The sky is gloriously blue and its warm. A group of
schoolgirls walks past, laughing wildly.
How much did the big guy cost? I go.
Seventeen million in dollars or so.
Cheap.Barely enough to buy a dud Raphael, goes Sergey,
oozing pure, primal badness.
My Tchaikovsky ring tone goes off: Its a text message
from Viktoriya.
***
A couple years back, at the 92nd Street YMCA in New
York, Viktoriya was teaching painting for a summer. Thats
where I met her, and this evening, when I emerge from the
Plochad Revolutski metro near the art school, Im reminded
how beautiful she is. She has a perfectly straight nose and
full lips, and her dark brown eyes, smudged with fatigue,
are bottomless.
Wazzup, Viktoriya?
Hi, Rob, she goes, suppressing a smile.
As we walk past Tanganskaya metro in the dark,
Moscow suddenly assumes a deep benevolence. Viktoriya
laughs when I confess how bad my Russian actually is. Id
once impressed her in New York by reciting the Russian
alphabet in under eight seconds.
As we cruise the corridors of the Surikov Institutes
dorms, it doesnt exactly feel like an art school. You donthear Tegan and Sara booming out of the rooms, see tickle
fights in the hallways, or pot-smoking prodigies delivering
scathing objections to the last show they witnessed in
Chelsea. Its more sedate.
In a studio that feels like a big repository of paintings,
Viktoriyas trying to yank a canvas from a massive bundle
against a wall. My gaze is still locked on one of her self-
portraits: Her and a black cat on a bed. Its on her
CouchSurfing page, she tells me, since her real photograph
attracts too many amorous inquiries from far-off places like
Turkmenistan.
How long have you been studying here? I go.Six years, she says. I have one more to go, but I cant
afford it.
That sucks.
You have to be rich to live in Moscow.
Will you still get a diploma? I ask. Youve put a lot of
time in.
No, says Viktoriya, Unfortunately not.
She finally frees the canvas shes been wrestling with.
Im looking at a man seated inside a constellation of hallu-
cinatory Andalusian images.
Its dedicated to Federico Garcia Lorcas Somnambulist
Romance, she goes.
Your teachers must adore your work.
They say its pornography, she laughs. Thats why I
have to hide them.
***
The cerebral Vitaly Komar stands smack in front of Lenins
Tomb, in Red Square, where many of the most hallowed
events of Russian history have unfolded. Im photographing
him. Vitalys dressed in black, save for his red-framed
glasses, the long red scarf.
Have you ever been here? asks Vitaly, puckishly.
First time, I go.I wanted to run a Dow Jones-style electronic band across
the top, he goes, pointing to the tombs upper faade.
After thumbing his nose at Soviet cultural tsars back in
the 1970s, Vitaly turned his satirical eye to the American
art establishment's obsession with commodifying culture.
He knows the camera, too. As I burn film, each expression
is distinctive and finely calibrated. I silently imagine him
playing the tragic hero in my thriller Nude Descending with
Guns and Money.
What was the national poll you commissioned? I ask.
The one where the Boston firm asked Americans what
kind of art they like? You know, red art or yellow art? Big
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art or little art?
The Peoples Choice, goes Vitaly. The paintings Ameri-
cas Most Wanted and Americas Most Unwanted resulted
from that poll. I like art that entertains and poses questions.
Its been hugely successful for you.
Its not a bad idea. Young artists thinking about money.
Whos their muse? Ben Franklin on a c-note?
Muses are fictional, Vitaly chuckles. Not inspirational.
You think?Have you seen Stalin and the Muses? he goes. Hes
referring to one of his famous paintings from the 1980s.
Sure, I go, suddenly engulfed by a wave of elfin Japanese
tourists on their way to view Lenin under glass.
Muses are visual icons that political or cultural regimes
co-opt, says Vitaly, fiddling with his cool red glasses.
Theyre like painting itself. A myth.
***
The blue sky deepens into evening as I walk the Arbat,
past house No. 53 where the young Pushkin used to invite
Denis Davydov and Pavel Nashchokin over for stag nights. I
see buskers selling toys, musicians reconciling melodywith discord, street artists crouched over charcoals.
***
Viktoriyas finishing a portrait of a self-conscious man
who looks like hes holding his breath. She draws with
quick, confident strokes. She doesnt see me. In the dark-
ness, her beauty is shadowy and elusive. I think of my
high school art teacher looking over my shoulder, yelling,
Dont fill in the space with objects! Youre not making out a
shopping list!
Later, Viktoriya asks me if Id like to visit her friend Katya
in her communal Stalinist flat.
Yes, I go. Id love to.
Id follow her anywhere.
***
You may think of the gloomy Cold War days when
scientist s implanted electrodes in the brains of dogs
before shooting them to outer space, but Katyas flat feels
more like the things you love in Rudyard Kiplings tales.
Katya pours tea from a samovar, and her august Commu-
nist boyfriend shows me Massim art from New Guinea.
When I begin writing my feelings on a napkin, Viktoriya
smiles patiently, saying Moscow isnt as seductive and sen-
sual as I think.I was lucky to meet people who inspired me here, she
goes. But now its overpopulated and commercial, and it
processes human lives just like New York.
People make art.
But its always about making money.
Viktoriyas resting against an ancient map of the world.
Its a portrait of noble isolation.
If you dont want to make commercial art, she goes.
If you dont want to spend your time selling yourself. You
want to find a place that is calm and cheap. A place that
will inspire you. At least for a time.
Her voice is tender.
Wheres this place? I go helplessly.
Mexico.
Mexico?
For me. I can paint there. I can live without money.
Im still staring at her.
Its a simple life, she says quietly.
I remember thinking of a magical place like this one
when I was young, but as the years recede, I sometimes
lose sight of it. Tonight, with this beautiful girl in the Arbat,
it materializes incandescently out of the stillness of the
room. Nothing is more desirable.
What about teaching? Katya asks. It would help. Even
in Mexico.
I wont get my diploma, Viktoriya says without dismay.
Viktoriya, I finally go. Im meeting Zurab Tsereteli
tomorrow.
Zurab Tsereteli? she asks uncertainly.
Hes powerful. Maybe he can help with your diploma
and get you to Mexico.
You think?Zurab knows there are spiritual treasures in life, too.
***
Were walking from the Kropotkinskaya Metro, along
dazzling Prechistenka Street. Im loading my Leica. The blue
sky is drained and pure. The walls of the generations-old
houses are pastels in wheat, turquoise, and plum.
Where did Zurab grow up? I ask Viktoriya.
In Georgia, she says. His father was a well-known
Georgian painter. Later, he attended the Academy of Art in
Tbilisi. He studied with Marc Chagall in Paris, too.
Paris, I think. Thats where I feel I am now.
We arrive at the Tsereteli Gallery. Its a gargantuan 18th
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century mansion, with a courtyard to one side. Viktoriyamakes a call to Zurabs press attach, Irene, to announce
our arrival. Its Monday and the gallery is closed. Viktoriya
tugs a long strand of hair nervously.
Remember, I tell Viktoriya, as she puts away her
phone. Be strong. Tell Zurab how hard it is to live in
Moscow without money. How the diploma will help you
teach and survive as a painter in Mexico. He may be the
richest artist in Russia, but hes a consecrated one, and
true hardship wont be some startling discovery.
I sound like some high school guidance counselor on
Parents Day.
How will you introduce me? asks Viktoriya, tentatively.
Jesus, Ill say youre my friend.
Friend? goes Viktoriya, frowning. He might get the
wrong idea.
Okay, I say, figuring I better give my muse more ample
space. Ill tell Zurab you were my goddamn art teacher at
the 92nd Street Y.
Viktoriya suppresses another grin.
Who also happens to be my translator, I add glumly.
Someone opens the door. Irene stands before us, smiling
radiantly.
An hour later, the worldly, 73-year-old Zurab Tseretelileads the way through the topographical maze of his
gallery, from one gilded room to the next, each ablaze with
fiery creation, each one larger and more decked out than
the one preceding it.
Im always having a dialogue with the past, Zurab
confides to me, as Viktoriya translates effortlessly from
Russian to English and then back again. I enjoy informing
age-old techniques with new technologies.
Like everyone else, Zurabs extensive entourage of
lieutenants and assistants is having a difficult time keeping
up with him. Theyre stylish men who make me feel like a
townie. Wherever Zurab turns, they magically part.
What about color? I go. Were talking about cloissone
enamels.
The color comes from repeated burnings at high tem-
peratures, says Zurab. The repetitions mean you achieve
minutely successive transformations of the pigments.
And then you cool it? asks Viktoriya, before the question
even forms in my mind.
The cooling process is complicated, nods Zurab defer-
entially, pleased to take the lovely girl in.Passing through another of the enormous archways,
the vista opens up so dramatically that you feel like
youre floating inside a vast, sun-drenched pantheon
populated by heroes and gods or an awesome, Siber-
ian-sized version of Disneyland I couldnt tell which.
Robert, commands Zurab, Id like a photograph.
Separating himself from the mass of followers, Zurab
walks alone across the expanse of the showroom, where
he positions himself beneath a colossal sculpture of
Alexander II. For an instant I consider the disproportion
between the tiny figure of the sculptor alongside the tran-
scendent bronze giant, contemplating whether anythingwas commensurate to Zurabs capacity for wonder. Then I
hit the shutter.
***
Hours later, making my way out of the gallery, I look
back over my shoulder. Zurab and Viktoriya are walking
arm-in-arm, speaking in hushed tones, paying no attention
to the people surrounding them.
Afterwards, in a noisy caf off Gogolevsky Boulevard,
students bust each others chops while a couple of honey-
mooners make goo-goo faces at one another, and a group
of Communist-era babushkas sip tea. Joseph Arthurs
singing Honey and the Moon over the tinny stereo, and
Viktoriya talks excitedly about Zurabs magical promise, the
diploma, and Mexico. She looks strong and invincible. If I
were young shed be a girl Id love and keep, but Im not
young, so I dont tell her what Im thinking. Its simply
enough that she is happy.
***
The next evening Im sitting on the roof of Viktor
Tikhomirovs atelier in Saint Petersburg, where Viktor talks
about his archetypal illustrations of wolves, Russian folk
tales, and the theories of his Mitki group of artists. Two
models have climbed the roof with us, to watch the starsrise behind the golden domes of the Church on Spilled
Blood. One of them, named Inna, notices when I begin sur-
rendering to the silence and softness of night.
Are you wishing you were young again? asks Inna, for
no particular reason, snuggling next to me.
Mais, non, I go.
Cheri, Inna purrs, resting her head on my shoulder.
What are you thinking about?
A muse, I go.
Oh la la, she intones.
Tu penses?
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Why?
It ends in tears. Sometimes, worse.
Worse?
Ashes, whispers Inna.
***
Two days later, the Grand Hotel Europe on Mayakovskaya
is my destination, where Tchaikovsky spent his honeymoon,
where George Bernard Shaw dined with Gorky, and whereat 10 a.m., Im scheduled to meet Zurab.
Shortly afterwards, Zurab and his unwieldy entourage
navigate the mammoth and unmappable spaces of his art
factories. The Stalinist-era buildings are filled with the din
of hammers, metal sanders, and diamond-tipped drills. A
small army of artisans wails away on countless works-in-
progress, both titan and frail. At each turn, Zurab stops to
measure, assess, and weigh.
I return to Manlios flat that evening, tucked away on
Moskohvaya near the Fontanka. Manlios my friend from
Venice, who abruptly abandoned the Italian Soccer league
and moved to Saint Petersburg, to study Russian literature
and fend off girls. I find him meditating on Notes From the
Underground, as Radio Hermitage belts out tunes like Dia-
monds Are a Girls Best Friend. Im unprepared, however,
for the email on my battered iBook.
Hi Rob,
Thanks, you are very nice. :) They told me no. They said
that its forbidden, never showed the letter Zurab asked
me to send. Now its impossible for me to see him, by now
he probably cannot remember who I am. On top of this
the dean is pissed off at me for trying.
Are you still in St Petersburg? How is your time there?
Did you see Nadia?
I miss you as well :)
Viktoriya
***
I wonder what I do, I go.
Manlio and I walk along Moyka, rich as jade. The silence
consumes us. Its my last night in Saint Petersburg.
When you see Zurab again in New York, says Manlio,
you say theres something you need help with after all.
You give him Viktoriyas letter.
A lone saxophonist plays in Dvortsovaya Plaza. Acrossthe concrete expanse, the famous museum glows pink in
the blackness of the nighttime sky.
A muse is like a gift from heaven, says Manlio. He
sounds like a young Marcello Mastroianni. She gives you
the encouragement to be who you are.
A meditative silence ensues.
Although Viktoriya doesn't produce your art, continues
Manlio, it comes into existence because of her.
A week later, in New York, the allure of Donald Trump and
an American Dream exert a stronger hold on the sculptors
feverish imagination than a rendezvous with a wayward
screenwriter worrying about his muse. When I materialize
at his Madison Avenue address, after being held hostage by
cops for speeding, Zurab is nowhere in sight.
Standing alone and holding Viktoriyas letter, all my hopes
suddenly collapse. I wonder if the experience that moved
me so deeply in the Arbat has somehow been surpassed. I
think about lifes chanciness, and all the things that might
never happen.
***
Viktoriya emails me a few days later. She tells me its greyand gloomy, and that Moscow has had its first snow. That
shes doing more paintings based on the poems of Lorca.
Which ones? I quickly email back.
Sonetos Del Amor Oscuro, Poeta en Nueva York, and
Divan del Tamarit, she goes.
The next day, I start laboring on Nude Descending with
Guns and Money again. I begin writing things I want to
write, too. Not for money or because I have these cool
ideas I want to show the world. But simply because I hope
I can write something that people might love or remember.
After that, I lay out a map of Mexico on the living room
floor. My friend Maria, a young Mexican who once stole across
the Arizona border by night, lies down alongside the dog to
describe the towns of El Chilar, Buenavista and Solo Dios.
Solo Dios? I ask her. That a cool place?
To start an artist colony? Maria laughs, trying to imagine
the possibility. Why not?
Mucho dinero?
A hacienda?
A casually dilapidated one, I go. Near the beach. A
studio where the mules usually go.
Well find one, Roberto.
Maria raises her tea. To the Russian muse, she toasts.
***
Sounds like magic? Perhaps. But before the visions and
passions of muses and artists were converted to rubles
and dollars, this remained their intoxicating realm for over
20,000 years. Robert Goethals
Compadre, quiero cambiar
mi caballo por su casa,
mi montura por su espejo,
mi cuchillo por su manta.
Compadre, vengo sangrando,
desde los puertos de Cabra. Federico Garcia Lorca
Instead of using traditional con-
structions, these songs are impressionistic, focusing on
creating a dreamy trance. Angular hooks and motifs, unex-
pected meter changes, and songs without precision
endings develop into an odd somnambulant feel that
lingers as the album proceeds. Perhaps some fans will con-
sider this a cleaner, more polished Antics; or will longingly
interpret it as a signal that they plan to return to the format
of Turn on the Bright Lights. They may be correct: yet to me,
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