The Western press reacted positively to euphorically. However, for us, it was dangerous to read the foreign press, so we learned much of the news from conversations with our foreign friends. (Note: It was only since 1989 that it became possible to use or even purchase a typewriter without having to register your passport number; the same applied to photocopies.)

    From 1979, I worked as a theater painter and thus had the opportunity to occasionally display some of my paintings - seemingly by chance. These "permanent exhibitions" also led to constant trouble and reprisals from the KGB. However, since I never lost my job during this "game," my friends soon began to see me as a KGB agent and avoided me.

    In the 1970s, 25 of my paintings were smuggled into the USA, thereby escaping the KGB's grasp.

   In 1984, I exhibited at the "Nevsky 20" Gallery, and a Dutch art patron took notice of me. He bought the painting "Red Cat with Fish" from me for what was then an unimaginable sum. Since then, the regime has been more cautious with me.

   However, even after Perestroika and Glasnost, things are not completely trouble-free. In 1991 and 1992, several of my paintings were still confiscated at customs. But Russia is my homeland, which I love and will not leave. Yet, like a lover, my country must also accept constructive criticism. Not everything is purely good or purely bad. I am optimistic and see a good and interesting future for my country.

Edited by: Ursula Leidens

(All rights reserved)

In 1975, I transferred to the Serov Art School, named after the president of the Academy of Arts during the Stalin era. The prestige of this school was equivalent to that of the Academy of Fine Arts, and there was relative freedom. I studied together with Viktor Tsoi, the famous Russian singer. Then the school was moved to Smolny and named after the scoundrel "Serov," who had once been the Commissioner for Art and Culture but should not be confused with the painter Serov. And then again, a move to a remote suburb of Leningrad, and far too late, it was given the name Roerich, the painter and director of the Imperial Society for the Encouragement of the Arts; under the last Tsar. But by then, our school had already been systematically destroyed. It was a difficult and complicated time, and I want to describe it quite drastically: If your paintings are flattened by a tractor, you can deal with it. But if your "brother painter" suppresses you and is ready to hit you in the face at any moment, it is cruel and incomprehensible.

Now, one can laugh about it easily.

Back then, I received 30 rubles a month as state support. Too much to live on and too little to die. The teachers received the same "salary," so it is easy to imagine the relations between teachers and students. There was no trust, and performance was assessed as follows: Prove what you can do, and maybe I will acknowledge it.

And in 1979, I finished my studies and moved to Syktyvkar, where I worked at the local theater. Here I realized

: Everything I had learned so far was of no use. No painter can claim to be a master—whoever does is dead. I met Igor Borisovich Grinevich, who truly made me a painter. Sashin gave me professionalism, and Grinevich showed me the way to art. I worked with both of them for three years at the theater. But over the years, we lost touch.

In the 1980s, I lost all my friends because, at the theater, I had the opportunity to constantly display some of my paintings—seemingly placed by chance. These "permanent exhibitions" also led to constant trouble with the KGB. However, since I never lost my job during this "game," I was soon considered a KGB agent by my friends and avoided. In the 1980s, 25 of my paintings were smuggled into the USA, thus escaping the KGB's reach. Then a Dutch art patron noticed me and bought my painting "Red Cat with Fish" for what was then an almost unimaginably high sum.... Since then, the regime has treated me with more caution.

Of course, there were also many who wanted to go to the West and did so. Restlessly, I followed the fame of Zhelkov (now in the USA), Shemerkin (now in the USA), and Yuri Zharikh (now in France). They tried to lure me into working with their groups, but I remained alone. Then I saw how they collectively went into nothingness. One hanged himself in the West, others became alcoholics. Thus, the flames of life have destroyed many works that contained an entire painter's life. I have no fear for my works, even if many only view them fleetingly. Fate has tossed me back and forth. For example, I worked for two years in heating basements and met writers, musicians, philosophers, painters, and others there, as they had all fled there to work in peace. It was a time when you would talk to street sweepers and suddenly realize you had a genius in front of you. On the one hand, this situation was a societal decline, but on the other hand, very useful. No one could fire you, that is, of course, only if you were not a street sweeper in the Kremlin. On the other hand, you had free time, a lot of free time, and that was as essential for painting as air for breathing. But that was my world for those two years, and I loved my heating basement.

There were four of us there. Two persecuted Christians, one of whom called himself a photographer, the other a carpenter, a speculator, and me. Each lived their life in this "basement free time." I practically lived in that basement, painted, read, and invited friends there. I could also stare at the fires in the heating boilers for long periods. Fire is like a flower to me, but these "fire flowers" cannot be painted. One of my "basement friends" eventually became a priest, the other an icon painter at the Alexander Nevsky Monastery, the speculator is in prison, and I paint. Now our paintings are being "discovered" by the West, and thus also we "insignificant" painters. We were surprised that although we lived behind the "Iron Curtain," we knew much more about Western artists than the other way around. That is why I got used to collecting all information like little crumbs from an early age and reading a lot between the lines. We were sad that despite the fantastic opportunities the West offered, it seemed that Western artists had run out of steam. Many Western collectors felt the same way, and they began buying our paintings and, if necessary, smuggling them to the West.

And then came the time when the government said: Save yourself if you can, the time of Perestroika and Glasnost. We painters were allowed to sell our paintings on Nevsky Prospect. The first 1.5 years were simply fantastic. There was much to see, and one could buy paintings for a few kopecks that are worth thousands today. But the market conditions and the mafia devoured everything. I wanted to try it out too. I stood on Nevsky all day—and sold nothing. It was almost evening, and I cursed the day. And as I looked sadly at the ground, suddenly two old, worn shoes were in front of me. I immediately thought of an alcoholic, so I didn't even lift my head. The shoes asked, how much? I grumbled: 300 rubles and didn't even know whether it was for one painting or all of them. Okay, the shoes replied, I'll take them all. Then I looked up. In front of me stood a handsome young man with a gold necklace. It was the famous emigrated Russian singer Krabelnikov (pop and schlager singer), who was on tour in Russia. As he took the paintings, the other painters came and said that my paintings had been too cheap. I was shocked and didn't know if I deserved praise or if someone had insulted me.

That was my lesson in capitalism.

Then I stopped working and lived off the sale of my paintings, something not every artist in the West can afford. I live by the motto: If there is money, I am extravagant, and if there is none, I am not sad either. At least now I have the opportunity to choose the galleries and exhibitions in Russia and the West. But money is gaining more and more control. And something else has become very difficult: gaining and establishing trust. The future has begun, and to cope with everything, you need time. But Russia is my homeland, which I love very much and will not leave. Yet, like a lover, my country must accept constructive criticism. Not everything is just good or just bad. I am an optimist and see a good and interesting future for my country.

Picasso says that he does not search, he finds. But I do not look down searchingly, I look around and find everything interesting.

St. Petersburg, July 1, 1993

Translation: Helena Bergen

Edited by: Ursula Leidens

(All rights reserved)

(Note: The additions in parentheses serve to aid understanding.)