The Artist and his Abstract World
The Artist and his Abstract World
The bus stopped at the terminal. During the three-hour journey from St Petersburg to Nov Gorod, I had a good nap since the road was butter-smooth and ruler-straight. Bleary eyed, I alighted, only to wonder if I was still dreaming. For, standing before me was an angel; a lovely girl with azure eyes and a pearly white smile. Her long earrings dangled above her slender shoulders reflecting the sunlight and her golden hair framed her pretty face. Russian girls were beautiful, I had heard, but bewitching! I was staring; now, not so much at the girl as my husband, who stood enraptured and didnt seem to notice my glare.
Hello, said the girl coming closer. My name is Yulia.
My husband, who had after a momentary lapse regained his poise, now introduced himself. Yulia flicked a lock of hair behind her ear and continued, This is my father and we are your hosts here. She introduced the middle-aged man standing beside her.
Her father was slightly plump with a stubble and an unmistakable twinkle in his blue eyes. He introduced himself as Kwasha and once again retreated to the background, while Yulia did all the talking in her broken, accented English. She concluded, assuring us a good stay in Nov Gorod. Although it was my idea about a home stay with Russian hosts for an authentic rural experience, now the thought of staying in their house brought a feeling of unease.
Seated in their spacious Lada car, we passed a quiet town with sleepy lanes, old cathedrals and bungalows. Along the way, Yulia informed us about the town. Nov Gorod (New City), despite its name, was one of the oldest Slavic cities of Russia with a history dating back to the ninth century. It was prefixed with Veliky (the great), as it was a seat of principality in medieval times. As she spoke, every now and then, Yulia looked at her father for help regarding historical facts and then roughly translated it for us from Russian. The car stopped before a red-bricked bungalow with a tulip garden and spacious compound. I was left wondering if everything in Nov Gorod was so beautiful.
I was in for more surprises as I looked around their house. Wooden interiors, pieces of artwork and antiques, walls adorned with exquisite wooden masks and paintings, piano, wrought iron lamp shades and potted plants, all of which impressed me with their aesthetics. There were also objects specific to life in these regions -- skis, sledge, samovars, set of jungle knives, fishing rods and shovels for the fireplace. But my eyes were back, scanning the more beautiful objects, the paintings. And this time I noticed that almost all were signed Kwasha. I knew instantly why everything was a perfect blend of beauty and harmony. It was an artists house.
Kwasha's house
With renewed interest I looked at each object, as Yulia showed us the rooms. In the bedroom was a charcoal portrait of an incredibly beautiful woman. Even as I turned to ask, Yulia informed me that it was her mother. She works in St Petersburg, Yulia added quickly. And thats me, she said laughing, pointing to a photograph of a chubby toddler with curly hair and luminous eyes. The room had many pictures of the beautiful woman I saw in the portrait and in some she had a mystic smile that reminded me of Da Vincis Mona Lisa. There were also some lovely old time photographs of the three of them. On the attic was Kwashas workstation where he created his masterpieces. Landscapes, nudes, portraits lay in various stages of completion. And here again, I noticed the same strikingly beautiful face on the canvas.
Loshka! I heard Kwasha yell, as I descended the wooden staircase. A furry cat that yawned lazily on the dining table immediately got down and hid under it. What surprised me about Loshka was that even the string of fish, tied high across the kitchen window had not enticed her, as it lay sun drying. It makes a good snack with beer, Kwasha informed us, aided with gesticulation. The kitchen was relatively empty, but for a few utensils, jars and essentials. The refrigerator however, was loaded with sausages, eggs, breads, flavoured yogurts and milk. And everything was ours to use! As a vegetarian though, I hardly had any choice on my menu. The whole set up was far removed from everything I was familiar with, but strangely, I was not as uncomfortable as I had anticipated. Perhaps, it also had something to do with the information that Yulia would be staying with her babushka (grand mother) for the duration of our stay.
Kwasha accompanied us as we set out exploring the charming town. In the middle of the town was a fort, the Kremlin that dated back to the tenth century. On either side of the route leading to the Kremlin were trinket stalls selling birch wood jewellery, paintings, bags and other knick-knacks. As I got delayed halting at the stalls, I noticed Kwasha and my husband looking my way and sharing a laugh. Was it cross-cultural-male-bonding, about the interdependence of women and shopping? I had guessed right as I found out later. Some topics are evergreen and universal, I thought to myself and walked along. At this point, I casually asked Kwasha about his wife, but he did not divulge much.
Kremlin as seen from the River Volkhov
Bridge on the River Volkhov
At the Kremlin we met our guide Nina, who Kwasha introduced as his mother-in-law. Nina was an elderly woman with short curly hair, who spoke reasonably good English. Her enthusiasm was infectious as she took us around informing and explaining about every monument -- the Millennium of Russia bronze monument representing the most important figures from Russian history, St Sophia Cathedral, built in the tenth century, the oldest Russian bell tower and the oldest Russian clock tower.
Millennium of Russia monument
Along one side of the Kremlin, river Volkhov flowed gently. As we stood there absorbed in the tranquility, Nina informed us that the current peace belied a tumultuous history replete with wars and invasions. We walked across the bridge on Volkhov and looked around Yaroslavs court speckled with ancient churches. The business centre looked totally devoid of life and far removed from the busy bazaar Nina informed us it was, in medieval times. On our way back, during our conversation about Russian churches, Nina enquired if we had seen a church made entirely of wood.
No, we shook our heads.
Well, you will see it tomorrow, she said with her trademark enthusiasm. And then, night cruise on Volkhovit will be romantic. Nina smiled, bade goodnight and walked away sprightly. We headed home.
The halfhour drive to The Museum of Wooden Architecture was fascinating since many everyday images of rural Russian life unfolded before us. Window decors, flowerbeds, vegetable gardens, people in their farms; our camera clicked constantly. Nina and Kwasha were with us all along, informing, explaining and entertaining.
A couple diggingout potatoes from their farm
Window decor at the dachas (country houses)
Farmer carrying sacks of potatoes to town
The outdoor Vitoslavlitsy (quite a tongue twister) museum, as the locals call it, got us acquainted with everyday life of the Russian people. Houses, churches and wells -- everything here was made entirely of wood! The interiors of houses were designed for a life of cattle rearing, farming, hunting and fishing in cold climate. Facades of wooden houses here reminded me of the wooden architecture at my ancestral home in Kerala. Near the museum was the Yurev monastery with tenth century churches and a charming orange orchard. We got back in time for the cruise on Volkhov and now were solely in the company of Nina, as Kwasha gave this a miss.
Wooden church at Vitoslavlitsy
The well and pulley system at Vitoslavlitsy
Entrance to Yurev monastery
Floating down the Volkhov River in the twilight of the white nights, unique to the northern skies in summer, was a memorable experience. The rural landscape looked pristine and familiar too, since I had seen it in Kwashas painting. In the unhurried and quiet ambiance, as we enjoyed the sights, our conversation ranged from general topics such as countries and culture to a more specific one -- our families. Nina, for the first time, albeit reluctantly, talked about her daughter. We learned that Anna, her daughter, was separated from Kwasha. To our astonished queries, Drunkard Eccentric Irresponsible? she replied in the negative. We finally learned that Anna lived with someone else. In the reverie that followed, sights seemed to merely drift before me -- shimmering waters, distant images of cathedral domes, spires, tree lined bank, fishermen cheering a catch. Like a jigsaw puzzle, I was putting pieces together -- Yulias change of topic, the bedroom filled with Annas pictures, Kwasha evading questions about his wife, the unfinished portrait.
On the day of our departure, Kwasha and Yulia came to see us off at the same bus terminal. Yulia looked beautiful as ever and Kwasha still had the twinkle in his eyes. But now, they didn'took different to me. Rather, I saw how similar we actually were, masking everything under our cheerful and jovial exteriors -- pain, jealousy, desire love. Despite distances and superficial differences, we were all bound by the abstractness of life. As we bade good-bye, even without my knowledge, the artist travelled back with me. Vast Russian plains stretched out endlessly as our bus sped to the horizon.
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