48 hours and a picture «The Light»
They say that an outstanding Russian phylosopher and scientist Pavel Florenscky stated that we are able to see all the colors of the world around us because the COLOUR is the most important description of some other Supreme world.
It is only the range of electromagnetic waves that exists in the world of physical phenomena and there is no at all place for COLOUR in the sense of a riot of colors.
In other words it is our mind that paints the world with the dyes it «saw» in some other world, (either remembering them, or when seeing dreams, or somehow else).
No need to say that I considered such a theory ravings, as in general I had some notion, how Pyotr usually conceived the subjects of his pictures, and when it came to the hues and colours of the painting it was under my control, whatever the whole World had in store for my husband.
As soon as the canvass acquired some murky shades and got imbued with gloominess, I went boisterous, and cut the picture into small bits. For such are the facts that the position we are for a long time in is in no way close to adopted norms of human existence to say nothing of harmony.
I was always demanding that there was a rainbow on the canvasses, so that every stroke of the brush was not only a pleasure for one’s eyes but served also to warm one’s soul. In the situation we found ourselves in any kind of gloom cold lead me into hysterics, and that would have been the best outcome and who knows, what would have been the worst one... .
That's why everything was utterly clear for me when it comes to Kyrreyev's art. When watching him working I was sure that he lived within his paintings. During the winter season he painted pictures of the warm, sunny colour gamut in order to make himself warmer. During the summer season, when everybody was dying of heath, only the winter landscapes were on his easel.
Sometimes he himself seemed not to comprehend fully the idea of the picture he was working on. The process evolves slowly and spontaneously; the artist covers the canvass with the tiniest, not more than 1-millimeter long, strokes of the brush. And now the work proceeds yet more slowly... . So it often happens that when finishing the picture, the painter does not remember exactly his own original intention.
And professor Florenscky would have never come back to me had not it been for Kyrreyev who happened to sink into a coma state for approximately 48 hours. Having come to normal state he demanded that all the multicolored things were taken away from his study. Everything, even the books with vividly coloured covers annoyed and distracted him. The painter seemed to be trying to keep within himself that feeling of colour, which had accumulated in him by the time of his return to normal state.
The set of the dyes was dull and dark but I did not protest as I was interested to find out what a humane being feels when on the verge of life and death. Submissive to some intention the paint stroke after stroke slowly lay down on the canvass.
I watched the appearance of a new picture, feeling that some kind of worry was gradually rising within me. Step by step this feeling was transforming into recollection of something that was far away, being at the same time well known and dear up to the quick. My childhood, my native home, i.e. the house in which Pyotr and I were born, looked at me from the surface of the canvass. Everything was as it used to be, only our playground with the heap of sand was left somewhere beyond the borders of the picture.
And the picture “Father’s home” put in an appearance and I had to hide my emotions, as I was afraid to disrupt the process of this creative evolution. My wish was to see more and more new pictures painted in such colour gamut. I realized pretty well that this picture was the best one out of everything, that had been painted by my husband. But may it be that the picture was just touching my soul?
I can’t forget the attitude of professionally experienced artists towards this picture. They looked at it intently as if struck by some surprise and then left our house not saying a word and never coming back anymore.
I was a bit perplexed with such their attitude but I never felt distressed or aggrieved. I had no need to keep in mind other talents, I wished I were able to manage a talent of my own.
Happily enough my talent began to work on the next picture. He did it in the same colour manner as the “Father’s home” almost not leaving the easel and not letting himself to be distracted even to eat or have a sort rest. In a short time the pictures “The Light” and “The Night Landscape” made their appearance.
And at this point I got exulted. In my dreams I have already seen this set of the pictures at the picture galleries of the world level. Even the gallery of the “Hermitage” in the town of St. Petersburg has already become my closest friend! I did not hide my ambitious aspirations imagining how I would wipe eye of all the tutors, both coming and going away.
As a result I stopped controlling myself and began to order my husband what to paint and in which manner it was to be painted.
But ignoring my orders Pyotr just for spite painted the picture which he named “The pretty little courtyards of Kerch” and which I considered a mockery. The set of colours was the same but there was depicted an old broken and forgotten car and our garage boxes as a background
After that I left my husband in peace. By that time he parted with marine subjects in his pictures and it wasn’t surprising, as he hadn’t seen how the sea looked like for 18 years.
I kept silence even when the still lives made their appearance on the canvasses of my husband. New bursts of protest were ripening in me, (cause to paint flowers is an occupation no real he-man deserves), and yet I was silent as I understood well that that was the way things were to go. But after our grandson was born the theme of the sea returned to Pyotr and by this time the sea was far more warm and wondrous.
These three pictures which so unexpectedly came into our collection and into my soul taught me: it’s impossible to make inspiration hold the line and it’s impossible to impose any kind of control upon it.
Are there in these pictures sadness, melancholia or love to the life itself – who knows? But I know for sure: those 48 hours during which Kyrreyev was dwelling between life and death are present in those pictures. And judging by them it wasn’t an entirely dark dwelling