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Ivan Shmelyov – The Year of God. Christmas. Part 2

Arkhip Kuindzhi – Moonlight Spots in the Forest in Winter (1898-1908)

Three days or so before Christmas all markets and squares were like a great forest of fir-trees. And what fir-trees they were! Russia is very rich in them. The ones here are thin and brittle. The Russian fir-tree, after it warmed up and spread its branches, was like a conifer thicket.

Moscow’s Theatre Square was like a thick forest. All trees stood there, covered in snow. And when it snowed, you could literally get lost! Traders were dressed in thick coats, as if they worked in the woods. And people were walking there, choosing a tree.

My word, the dogs looked like wolves in those fir-trees. The fires were burning, for people to warm up. The smoke was billowing in huge clouds. And in the thickness of the trees the sellers of sbiten were shouting: “Here, sweet sbiten, hot kalach!” Sbiten was everywhere – in samovars, in buckets with long handles. What is sbiten? My, it is so hot, and better than tea. It is a drink with honey and ginger, fragrant and sweet. One glass cost one copeck.

The roll was frosted, and a glass with sbiten was thick and faceted, it burned your fingers. Sbiten was nice to drink in that snowy forest. You sipped the drink, and your breath went up in clouds, like in a steam train. The roll was a veritable icicle, so you had to dunk it in sbiten, to make it softer. And so you walked in those fir-trees till late. The frost was getting bitterer. The foggy sky was burning purple. The branches were covered in frost. Now and again you would stumble on a frozen crow that crackled like a piece of glass.

Frosty may be Russia but… warm!

On Christmas Eve, we usually did not eat until the first star. Kutya was cooked with rye and honey, and so was stewed fruit: prunes, pears, and dried peaches…They were put on a heap of hay, under the icons.

Why did we do so? This was like a gift to Christ. Well, as if He was there in the manger, on that hay.  

As you were waiting for that star, you would wipe all windows in the house. The glass was all covered with ice because of the frost. Oh, dear, how beautiful that ice was! There were fir-trees and wonderful streaks, all lace-like. You would scratch it with your nail: is there a star to be seen? There is indeed! First, there was one, then another. The glass turned blue. The stove was crackling because of the frost, the shadows were galloping, and the stars were lighting up one by one. And what stars they were!..  You would open a window pane, and the frosty air would sear you with its bitterness. Oh, those stars..! They were trembling and twinkling, and the black sky was boiling with their light. Oh, what stars! They were live and whiskered, and they were breaking into pieces that blinded your eyes. The air was so cold that it made stars appear bigger, and they shone like coloured crystals, sending down the arrows: azure, and blue, and green. And you would also hear the tinkle, as if it was coming from those stars! It was icy and resonant, like a silver bell was ringing. There was nothing like this, ever. In the Kremlin, when the bells rang, the peal was ancient, sedate, and very deep. And this starry peal was from tight silver bells, all velvety. It seemed like a thousand churches were ringing their bells at once. You would not hear such sound on any other day. At Easter, the bells were chiming, and at Christmas, it was a silvery hum that spread for miles and miles, like a song that had neither a beginning nor the end… 

Translated from Russian by Julia Shuvalova.

Ivan Shmelyov, Christmas, part 1.

Ivan Shmelyov – The Year of God. Christmas. Part 1

Ivan Shmelyov (1873-1950) was a Russian writer and essayist who emigrated to France after the October Revolution. The Year of God (Лето Господне) is a book of his recollections of pre-revolutionary life in Russia. The narrator, an adult person, recalls everyday life and religious festivals of a merchant family in Moscow, into which he was born. He turns a loving eye to his childhood memories, going through them like a fantastic kaleidoscope of events. For this Christmas season I have translated a respective chapter of his book…

Ivan Shmelyov – Christmas

You want, my dear boy, that I told you about our Christmas season.   Well… Should you not understand something, let your heart guide you.  

Konstantin Korovin – Winter. A Street.

Imagine me as old as you are now. Do you know what snow is? Here it is rare, and it melts as soon as it falls. But in Russia once the snowfall started, no light of the day would be seen for three days or so! The snow covered everything. The streets were all white, with large drifts. The snow was everywhere: on the roofs, on the fences, on the streetlights – lots of snow! It would even hang down from the roofs – and suddenly it would drop, like a heap of flour, and even get behind one’s collar. The caretakers collected the snow and took it away, otherwise everything would sink in it.    

The Russian winter is silent and dull. The sledge may ride fast, but you do not hear a sound. Only when the frost comes, then the runners screech. And when the spring arrives, and you hear the sound of the wheels, then what a joy it is!

 Our Christmas comes from afar, very quietly. The snow is deep, and the frost is getting stronger.  

Once you see the frozen pork being delivered, then you know that Christmas is near. For six weeks people were fasting on fish. The wealthier ate beluga, sturgeon, walleye, navaga; the poorer had herring, catfish, bream… In Russia, we had all kinds of fish. But at Christmas everyone ate pork. At the butcher’s, they would lay those pigs, like tree logs – up to the ceiling. The gammon was cut off, for corning. And so these cuts were lying in rows, and the snow dusted the pink stripes on the ground.    

The frost was so strong that it riveted the air, turning it into a foggy frosty haze. The wagon trains were coming for Christmas. What is it, you ask? Well, it is like a train, except there were wide sledges instead of carriages, and they were riding on the snow, coming from the distant lands. One after one, they went in single file, stretching for miles.  

The horses were from the steppe, to be sold. The drivers were all healthy, strong men from the Volga Region, near Samara. They brought pork, piglets, geese and turkeys, from the “ardent frost”, as they said. Then there was a Siberian grouse and a black grouse. Do you know a Siberian grouse? It is mottled, or pockmarked, that’s what its Russian name means. It is as big as a pigeon, methinks. It is a game, a forest bird. It feeds on rowan, cranberry, and juniper. And what taste it had, my brother! Here this bird is rare, but in Russia it was delivered by wagon trains. The merchants would sell everything, including the sledge and horses, buy the cloths and calico and go back home by cast iron. What is cast iron? Ah well, it is the railroad. It was more profitable to travel to Moscow on a wagon train: the merchant carried his own oats for his horses from his plants on the shoals of the steppe, and sold the horses in the capital.

Just before Christmas, in Konnaya Square in Moscow – or the Horse Square, for they sold horses there – the groans never stopped. This square… how to say it? It was more spacious than… the one where the Eiffel Tower is, you know? And there were sledges everywhere.    

Thousands of sledges stood in rows. Frozen pigs were piled like firewood for miles on end. The snow would cover them, but snouts and bottoms were lurking from beneath. Next stood the vats as great… as this room, perhaps! The corned pork was cooked there. The frost was so strong that the brine froze, and you could see thin ice on it. The butcher was cutting the pork with an axe, and sometimes a piece of it, as much as half a pound, would bounce off – no care! A beggar would pick it up. These pork “crumbs” were thrown to beggars by armful: have it, the fasting is over! In front of the pork there was a piglet row, for another mile. And farther they traded geese, chicken, ducks, black grouse, Siberian grouse… They traded directly from the sledge. There were no scales, and everything was mostly sold by piece. Russia is a very hearty country: no scales, things are done by the eye. Sometimes the factory workers would harness themselves to the large sledge and off they went, laughing. And in the sledge there was a pile of piglets, and pork, and corned pork, and mutton… Life was rich then.

Translated from Russian by Julia Shuvalova.

Other posts in Translations.

Ivan Shmelyov, Christmas, part 2.

Russian Orthodox Christmas: Peace and Victory

Many of my friends with whom I exchanged the New Year and Christmas wishes expressed a special hope for Peace and Victory. Judging by dispatches from the Western media, the end of the Special Military Operation is imminent because the West is losing the nerve and financial capacity to carry on with the campaign.

Despite our common wish, we harbour no thought that the end of a military campaign might turn the time back in domestic policy. So many changes are due, and people are so keen, that the year 2024 is set to be a decisive one in many careers. Still, today, when the Star of Bethlehem is shining upon our world yet again, we feel immense gratitude for witnessing the Miracle of Love. The energies of Love and Goodness (Kindness) are presently revisited, showing the majorities the previously unknown (unrecognized) facets. Here, war truly becomes an act of Love whereas peace at the cost of one’s independence is an unequivocal Evil. We don’t redefine things; rather we begin to see them for what they truly are.

Holy Night to all my Orthodox readers! Happy Christmas, Peace, and Love! Let us celebrate Glorious Nativity of Jesus Christ!

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Christmas Calendar Festival in Telegram

Christmas Calendar is a Telegram channel dedicated to celebration of Nativity of Jesus and other winter festivals in arts throughout history

This year I decided to venture to pastures new: to hold my (nearly) annual Christmas in Arts series in a private channel in Telegram, renamed as Christmas Calendar. And so as of December 1st, that is, for over 2 weeks now, I’ve narrating the story of Nativity and Christmas celebrations in arts. Best of all, I’m doing this in collaboration with my former student and a good friend, a musicologist Gleb Konkin.

We have gone over the pictorial story of Nativity, watched The Gospel of Matthew by P.P. Pasolini and the Russian and Italian versions of La Freccia Azzurra, and listened to W. Bird, B. Britten, J. Schutze, and J.S. Bach. We watched the stained glass of the Chartres Cathedral and that of some English churches, notably of Birmingham, where the glass was made by Sir Edward Burne-Jones. And recently, we have revisited the aristocratic traditions of celebrating Christmastide that started on December 25th and ended on January 5th with the Twelfth Night, commemorated by W. Shakespeare. Incidentally, the latest post was on the Russian screen adaptations of this fantastic Christmassy play.

If you know some Russian or can automatically translate the posts, you can join our online festival from wherever you are. There are two tariffs, the cheapest lasts a week, for the full one Christmas will become a “movable feast”, as you will be able to get back to it whenever you want.

Join Christmas Calendar via link: https://paywall.pw/ywo1yxy4kgob.

More in Christmas in Arts and Xmas 2022

Thoughts on Sts Peter and Paul’s Day

Today we celebrated the Day of two Christian saints, Peter and Paul. Peter was one of Jesus’s disciples who tried to emulate his master and follow him in his footsteps but couldn’t quite do so. He was afraid to walk on water, and, despite his own expectations, refuted Jesus three times. Following the Resurrection, he became the leader of disciples and an ardent professor of faith.

Saul, on the other hand, was a staunch persecutor of Christians until the angel knocked him down and revealed God’s will. And so Saul became Paul and wrote many epistles to pagans and Christians alike. Caravaggio’ The Conversion of Saul depicts the moment of epiphany.

Both eventually martyred: Peter was crucified head down (at his own request), and Paul was beheaded for he was a Ronan citizen. As a result, Paul is often depicted with a sword, as in this painting by El Greco.

Paul may also be depicted with a book which is a nod to his literary activity, and Peter is portrayed with the keys to Kingdom of Heaven in his hand. In this Russian icon another aspect is noticeable: Peter is older and is always on the left side of the picture.

The saints were celebrated in Russia practically since the Christening, and the Cathedral of St Sophia in Kiev has the earliest surviving image of Peter in what was Ancient Rus.

The popular expression says “Peter and Paul reduce the day by an hour”. By August 2nd, St Elijah’s Day, the day will have lost two hours, which is commemorated in another expression.

The story of Peter and Paul is that of a person’s following his or her vocation with faith. At the beginning of this short fasting period I went to St Clement of Rome’s church where I wrote down something of my own epiphany, that Christianity is not about suffering but about faith and service. When one has found their vocation, they should follow it, not in the hope to martyr or to die a peaceful death, but in the determination to fulfill their vocation. Martyrdom or a good death is not the end in itself; the vocation is. The story of Peter and Paul is a good illustration of this thesis. After all, there were St Nicholas and St Spyridon of Trimythous who died a peaceful death but whose contribution to Christianity was no less than that of the apostles’.

There are two lessons Peter and Paul teach us. One, follow your vocation. And two, none of us is ever good enough for a task. Peter betrayed Christ but came to be the guardian of the heavenly Kingdom. Saul used to destroy Christians but eventually became the most ardent propagator of a new religion. Whatever we used to do in the past, we can always change our ways and start anew.

Moscow Celebrates 874th Anniversary

For the 874th anniversary of my native city I went to the Pushkin Museum of Fine Arts. There are currently two “Italian” exhibitions. One, in collaboration with Pinacoteca di Siena, focuses on the rise of the Sienese school of art. It features at least one work attributed to workshop of Duccio di Buoninsegna and works by Simone Martini, Giovanni di Paolo, and others. It also demonstrates some rare Sienese biccherni and 13-14th Italian paintings and altarpieces from the Pushkin Museum collection.

Another exhibition features works by Giambattista Tiepolo (18th c.) and other Italian painters of 17-18th cc.

In the city, in one of the boulevards, there is an exhibition of Soviet photography. Photos span 1930s-1980s and focus on celebrations in Red Square and Moscow architecture.

Below is one of exhibits, a painting by a 17th c. Neapolitan master, “The healing of the man sick with palsy”.

The Mystery of William Turner’s Dinefwr Castle

As I’m reading through Art History books of my English-language library, I’ve immersed myself into a book on Turner’s trails in North and South Wales. I bought it on my visit to Valle Crucis Abbey in Denbighshire in 2009.

My visit to Dinefwr

I visited Dinefwr Castle two years earlier, in the summer of 2007. I was accompanying my husband to Carmarthen, and on a free day we decided to travel to see one of the castles. Dinefwr in Llandeilo turned out to be the closest, we didn’t have to change buses, and we thoroughly enjoyed it. I wrote about the trip in my Carmarthen Cameos and even received a long comment from a once citizen of Llandeilo, in whom my post awakened lovely childhood memories.

William Turner, Llandeilo Bridge and Dinevor Castle (1796, National Museum of Wales)

Turner’s Dinefwr Castle

Dinefwr Castle, in its turn, inspired Turner: he visited it in 1795, and in 1796 he exhibited the watercolour painting, Llandeilo Bridge and Dinevor Castle. It can now be seen at the National Museum of Wales. Just like in his other paintings, he juxtaposes different viewpoints, making both castle and hill more magnificent and closer to the viewer than they really are. The bridge, as we can see, used to be insecure: in the watercolour Turner depicts it being supported by an uprooted tree. Following his intention to combine the past with the present, Turner concentrates entirely on the foreground, which is ridden in misery, whilst the silhouette of the glorious past glows in the light of the setting sun. The eye of the viewer may travel from top to bottom or the other way round, but in any case, one is moved to consider the fate of Wales and its people.

And this is the extract from the aforementioned Cadw book that sheds light on the variety of techniques an artist could use to enhance the desired effect:

Whilst this picture was undergoing conservation in 1993 an unexpected discovery was made that shed new light on Turner’s experimentation with watercolour technique at this time. Bonded onto the back of the paper was another sheet painted with the same scene, though in a different technique and seemingly unfinished. At first this was thought to be a preparatory sketch that Turner had abandoned, but further investigation revealed that it was almost certainly a deliberate attempt to imitate in watercolour an effect that he had found possible with oil by superimposing layers of pigment. Here he seems to have tried to exploit the translucency of the watercolour paper and enrich the level of reflected light from the surface of the finished picture by placing additional painted work underneath the paper (from: On the Trail of Turner in North and South Wales, p. 30. Cardiff, 2008 (3rd ed.)

More secrets?

To summarise, Turner made another painting of the similar scene on the back on the final picture in order to enhance the light and expressivity of the watercolour. Given his secrecy about his working methods, I’m very intrigued to find out what other methods and techniques he deployed to obtain a previously unknown artistic effect.

Van Gogh Goes Hipster: What Messages Photoshopped Art Sends Us

Mona Lisa used to be a makeover darling for many an artist. I was caught off guard by postcards of La Gioconda in sunglasses, with punk make-up on a stand opposite the Louvres in Paris. They looked weird because a stone-throw away was the real Gioconda. However, the image and all surrounding mysteries were so well-known that have become a commonplace, a household name, so some kind of rebellion against such omnipresence was almost welcome, also giving a fresh perspective.

Recently I’ve rediscovered Pinterest, and there I came across a few images that suggest that Vincent Van Gogh, the troubled Impressionist painter known for his haunting Sunflowers and self-mutilation, is the new Mona Lisa. In one photo he’s partying with Frida Kahlo and the famous Girl with the Pearl Earring. In another, La Gioconda consoles him. And in others he’s paired with the mentioned Vermeer’s model. Admittedly, they make a good couple: one cannot help remembering paparazzi images of Johnny Depp and Kate Moss.

Mona Lisa and Vincent
Vincent Van Gogh partying with Vermeer’s Girl and Frida Cahlo

What I always wonder about, thinking of these images, is their purpose. With Mona Lisa it was quite obvious: she was SO famous one couldn’t help trying to bring her down. Different, especially satirical takes on La Gioconda were the acts of rebellion against classical art, the Old Masters, as well as against the popular fascination thereof. It was so easy to love and copy the classics without ever asking what makes them good, important, etc. So, the funny images of Mona Lisa served the purpose of shaking the pedestal beneath the Old Masters. In this, they continued the tradition of revolts against classical art that started in the 19th century.

Mona Lisa takes to the streets with Vincent

Hence, the hipster images of Van Gogh seemingly run in the same vein. Except for one thing: it’s not the modernity that alters the portrait of the artist. We see something different: an artist’s head leaves the body and takes to the modern-day streets. Whereas we instantly recognise Mona Lisa, whatever the makeover, the gingerhaired dude is likely to be familiar only to those who know his art. To others, he’s a guy-next-door, evidently a regular at all the city bars, sporting the fashionable five-o-clock beard and wearing an ethereal girlfriend on his arm.

I’m prompted to see these images as an attempt of contemporary artists to show how difficult it’s become to embed oneself in history. Perhaps, they don’t regard their work as such, but their opinion doesn’t change the fact: if you do something publicly, you want it to be noticed. And there’s a lot to be noticed and contemplated. For instance, why precisely it is Van Gogh who’s become the new Raphael and his art is both famous and yet common. Monet’s Waterlilies are too simple yet pretentious for today’s interiors, Degas is too complex, Picasso and Dali are too famous, and Vincent’s contemporary, the ravishing Gauguin, is probably too daring for the otherwise tolerant society.

Or, why it is Van Gogh who’s been chosen by the new generation of “creative people” who’ve got the misfortune of living in the shadow of both the classics and the better known contemporaries, when self-mutilation suddenly becomes a publicity act to illustrate the artist’s impotence. Not to mention his mental state, the work of Van Gogh lacked the languid tenderness of Monet or Gauguin’s exotic vitality. Van Gogh is halfway between these two emotions, and again this may be what makes him so popular today. Artists and the public want to enjoy the steady bourgeois life but the thirst for change and the ennui (as a by-product of that very steadiness) push them far and wide. They settle on Van Gogh as a troubled soul with peculiar landscape paintings, starry skies, potato-eaters, sunflowers and irises, who’s quite exotic and simple and thus doesn’t challenge the status quo. So contemporary art doesn’t challenge the capitalist status quo. There seems to be a truce between capitalism and art today: art can criticise capitalism as long as it doesn’t attempt to erode its basis. Van Gogh serves better purpose here, as he’s never left the capitalist, bourgeois setting, unlike Gauguin.

Finally, as a society we’re still fascinated with the troubled genii who didn’t live to see the fame that befell their work. And this is again where Van Gogh fits so well. This fame and success thing belongs to the same class of unattainable values, as, say, money. It is argued that money is everywhere, yet why so few people get comfortably well-off? There are many reasons, from poor thinking to some objective factors, like the time and place of living, yet ultimately they all serve the purpose to explain why you’ve not got money now AND give you hope that one day you may be a rich man, too. Today artists are subjected to such fierce competition that you’ve got to be inspired by someone who remained faithful to his path and eventually received his delayed gratification. Van Gogh is an excellent example: not too notorious, not too political, a typical shy genius.

So when Vincent takes to the streets in those images there are several messages we receive. This may be a homage the contemporary art and indeed life itself pay the bygone times by bringing them into the 21st century. I mean, do you see similar takes on the work of David, Ingres, Degas, Gauguin? Nothing instantly springs to mind, which means that incorporating Van Gogh into modern-day discourse is a sign that he belongs here and now.

This may be an attempt of contemporary art to trace itself back to some period in Art History with which it’d like to be associated. Regardless of artistic value of Van Gogh’s work (which I don’t dispute), the reason contemporary artists may wish to be close to Van Gogh is a peculiar combination of avant-garde and mainstream in his work, which is neither too challenging, nor boring.

Finally, contemporary life itself wants to find a historical setting to which it belongs — or, alternatively, to destroy the value of any historical tradition. Lost in between capitalism and socialism, today’s “young adults” are very much like the troubled Vincent. They need to know that there’s hope, that the past has preserved the images of people both similar and familiar to them. Van Gogh lived at the time when the notion of art was only beginning to undergo revision. I guess he’d be completely lost today when your local graffiti, a dead shark and Leonardo are all considered “art”. So his hipster images are a link between the fin-de-siecle and the first half of the 21st century. And it’s kind of good, except for the sinister side. Van Gogh serves to justify the artistic impotence, the second-hand artistic practice and spending life in a fleeting hope for fame and success. Nobody cares for his mental state nor views on art. His distorted face is placed in all sorts of settings, from bars to film posters, to make him as common as Mona Lisa has become. This devaluation works very cleverly, equalling a great artist to his unfortunate paragons and further distorting the notion of art, which in the end isn’t about Beauty but about Labour of Love for Beauty.

Sketches to Portraits by Terentiy Travnik

A collection of aphorisms Sketches to Portraits by Terentiy Travnik, illustrated by Darya Khanedany’an. Translated into English, Spanish and French by Julia Shuvalova and Patrick Jackson.

sketches-to-portraits-terentiy-travnik
Terentiy Travnik and Darya Khanedany’an, Sketches to Portraits. Translated into English, Spanish and French by Julia Shuvalova and Patrick Jackson.

One of the milestone events of this year for me is a publication of a book Sketches to Portraits with the aphorisms by Terentiy Travnik and illustrations by Darya Khanedany’an.

Terentiy Travnik is a poet, artist and musician, a native Muscovite. Darya Khanedanyan was also born in Moscow into a family of artists, however her own creative career started in Spain. I took part in making the book as a literary editor, an editor of the English translation of aphorisms, and a translator into French. I also translated the opening article into English.

The pronounced Iberian facial traits is obviously a hommage to Spain; Travnik’s aphorisms retain their Russian heritage in form as in the intellectual depth. A harmonious combination of words and images is therefore all the more striking, strengthened by artistic editing by Travnik himself. The vibrant colours, ethnic rhythms and avant-garde stylisation all bring out a truly cosmic dimension in Sketches to Portraits.

The aphorisms by Terentiy Travnik deserve a special mention. One of his best-known books, A Splinter, that has seen 4 editions since it was first published in 1990s, is a collection of aphorisms that embrace practically all spheres of human life. One can note here a loyalty to the tradition of La Bruyère, Schopenhauer and other philosophers who found endless creative possibilities in the concise and succinct form of an aphorism. Ever after A Splinter Travnik’s work has been marked by the mentioned qualities (e.g. Tabulas, 49 Tabulas etc.).

Sketches to Portraits by Terentiy Travnik includes 41 aphorisms translated into English, Spanish and French languages. Great happiness matures slowly; There is a lot of grass in the field, but we can only remember the flower; Time does everything on the go; Touch the roots, and the crown will blossom; To do a foolish thing and to make a mistake are two different things; Wisdom does not take money; Education is the path from authority to truth; Treat the fatigue of the body with rest and the fatigue of the soul with work. This is but a little part of what the author invites the reader to think about. Perhaps, this openness to the dialogue is the most remarkable trait of these aphorisms. Nowadays the Internet is saturated with many an interesting and deep quote, but the most popular are those presented in a mentoring or affirmative voice. Do this; don’t do that; the meaning of that is this. Terentiy Travnik’s aphorisms, while speaking directly to the reader, don’t insist on their ultimate truth. Their deceptive simplicity disguises some really deep reflections.

Terentiy Travnik’s website

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