by Douglas Messserli
day
three - africa
One of the great treats
of traveling with a jazz group was that every night I got to hear wonderful
music. I never grew tired of the ROVA group, as I came to know some of their
works quite well.
The first few days, moreover, occurred
during the Leningrad Jazz Festival, featuring many of the top talents from
around the world. The Festival was held on an island, which required one to
cross a drawbridge, which led, the first night, to my roommate being home long
after midnight. The ship was trapped under the bridge!
From time to time, I went to the nearby
green room, which had a small café, and where figures from all the arts gathered
to talk. Whenever my friend, Arkadii, decided to visit the café he simply got
up and walked across the stage instead of retreating through the back of the
vast auditorium. It was his way of speaking out, I believe, against the
authoritarian way of life in the Soviet Union, a kind a swagger, as if to say,
"I'll go wherever I damn please." I always chose the long route.
Arkadii
Dragomoschenko at Sun & Moon Press, with a painting by his son Ostap
At the café, Arkadii introduced me to several young poets and to two young curators, husband and wife, who were planning a large international retrospective of contemporary artists. When I told them of my companion, Howard's involvement with art, they immediately responded, "Oh yes, we know of him. We have his Robert Longo catalogue. Yes, we want definitely to include Robert Longo in our show." I grew interested, and we discussed several other artists they hoped to include, often asking me what these people were like to work with. "That, I wouldn't know, except for hearsay. Robert, I believe, is usually a sweetheart."
After a while, I asked them what they were
thinking of calling their show. Both quickly responded: "AF-ri-ka," emphasizing the first
syllable.
"Africa?" I queried. But you've
named no African artists in your show, not even any Blacks!"
"Oh, but you see, it is a world of
pristine beauty. Of perfection. Of innocence. That's what we want."
"Oh dear," I pondered.
"When I think of Africa, I think of all the destruction of land and cities
caused by Western investments. I think of great poverty, of diminishing wilderness.
Yes, I am sure there is much beauty in Africa, particularly in the protected
parks and isolated sections, but so many scenes in photographs and films show
ramshackle huts and tin-built canteens, crumbling cities. But then, I've never
been there."
"Nor we! But I am sure it is beautiful," insisted the male.
"It is as close to heaven as one can
get," added his wife.
I smiled painfully. How to you argue
against such a wonderful illusion? Given their own polluted rivers, rusting
industrial complexes, they needed to believe that such beauty might exist
somewhere, just as I had had to look elsewhere when faced with my childhood of
suburban burger and pizza stands and chain shopping outlets.
Los Angeles, January 14, 2010
Ostap
Dragomoschenko in his studio with the painting now owned by publisher Douglas
Messerli
Each of us, as expected, had purchased
vodka and other foods (chips and candies) from the tourist shops, where, once
again, Russian citizens were not permitted.
Zina had made a dish of chicken drums and
wings soaked for days in a hot vinegar sauce, and served cold. The huge bowl of
chicken, most of us realized, must have taken her several days, working with other
women friends, to accumulate from the almost-always empty food stores. If it
was not the best food I had ever consumed, it was, nonetheless, a veritable
feast, given her few resources.
Ostap was a handsome young man, proud of
his slightly abstracted figures on canvas. I was particularly taken by the
brightly colored painting of two beefy wrestlers, and when I expressed my
appreciation of the work, the artist immediately took it down from the wall, rolled
it up, and handed it to me as a gift. I tried to pay for it, but he refused.
Today, after these many years, it still hangs in my offices, tacked to the
walls as it originally was, in his studio.
The evening was absolutely splendid, but
I could not help but feel some sorrow for these young artists, who lived perhaps
not so differently from young New York artists in frigid, walk-up lofts in the
early 1950s. But each of their spaces was so tiny it seemed that one might
become claustrophobic if they all turned up on the same day to work. Perhaps
they had planned it out that
they
would paint, draw, or sculpt at different times during the week. Yet they all seemed
excited and proud to be able to show their art to a new audience whom we
represented. Several works were purchased by members of our group. It was, in
short, one of the most joyous evenings of our stay in Leningrad.
Reprinted from Green Integer Blog (March 2010).