a remark on photography versus realism in art

More than once I have heard the argument that classical painting is obsolete, that it is unnecessary to render objects in a realistic manner, because photography fulfills that need. This argument holds true for many areas where photographically produced images suit the goal. But in certain areas photography cannot substitute for the critical eye and hand of an artist. When an artist paints an object, no matter how true he or she wants to be to the painted subject, the whole process of painting or drawing involves selection and synthesis. An artistic mind engages in tremendous interpretive work and sends its commands to a trained hand that materializes those thoughts as paintings, drawings or sculptures. This is the core of the creative process in fine art. The traditional artist is not a blind keeper of some anachronism. In order to be closer to human feelings, artists have to rely on their natural sensory systems. But why is it so important after all these centuries still to search and try to express these subtleties? Probably because we are still human, and, despite all our technological and scientific advances, we still don't know the answer to many questions of our being: who we are, and what our purpose in the universe is, if any. Maybe it's important because more than ever in this modern era we need a guide-rail on our steep staircase to remind us that we live and feel for some ultimate purpose. Whatever that purpose turns out to be, just in case, we should try to preserve our original humanity.

* * * *

My teacher in art college used to tell me: “Andrei, you don’t see colors”. She said it to me so many times that I decided to become a graphic artist. I thought – etching and pen and ink are good mediums for an artist without a feel for color.

After four years in art college I entered the Mukhina School of Design in Leningrad, Russia. I studied in the Department of Interior Design. Painting classes were required there. My painting results were almost the same as in art college. At some point I decided: “To heck with it, why am I trying so hard to catch those subtle colors for shades and light of different parts of the human body?” I took a bigger brush and started to paint not what I “see”, but whatever colors I like. That particular day we had a substitute teacher, Mr. Smirnov, the head of the Department of Painting. He took a look at my painting of a nude figure and said: “You just paint… I’m not going to tell you anything. Just continue doing whatever you are doing.” He had a reputation for being a very strict teacher, and his criticism was merciless. But every time he came to my easel, he would say: “You just paint.” I thought: “This is something new… but whatever it means, at least I’m left alone and I can paint how I like.”

At the defense of my diploma project – a design of the interior and exterior of a department store – Mr. Smirnov rose and said that I have a most unique vision of color. His short speech was not directly relevant to this project and, probably, nobody in the audience understood the significance of his comments.

So many years have gone by since then, and Mr. Smirnov passed away a long time ago. My views on art, styles and artists have undergone many transformations. But something always stayed with me – a sense of the importance of trusting myself. The first viewer of my art is… me. Every piece of art that I work on should pass that first viewer.

I will never forget Mr. Smirnov.

* * * *

Lao Zi is my friend

Lao Zi is my friend. We sit on a concrete block in the wasteland, watching an empty sky. A rain droplet strikes my nose. I look disappointedly at him. He laughs. My face becomes long and stupid. He laughs again and his fast palm slaps my face. I see a beautiful bulldozer flying through the skyline. My hair grows to the ground. Am I old or am I young again? Broken glass on the ground reflects the army of bungee jumpers making faces to a stray dog. Lao Zi laughs and my right cheek is burned with another slap. I am starting to understand what those signs on the electrical box mean. Cultural Revolution became so obvious, that the dust on my cowboy boots gets curious about what had happened to the hardware store that went out of business last week. My head is so clear. I can count every window on that facade. Of course they forgot to make a door for the milkman. Now he has to use his extra wheels to reach the eighth floor. Color becomes so dominant, that details of the carpet curl under each other leaving only the texture to deal with the unavoidable conflict between two eyes sitting on each side of my nose. Slap! I love him. He is my… slap! ... friend.