My first blog post here - remembering 1990

A JOURNEY TO ODESSA

A little more than a year has passed since I made my first journey to the USSR. Like most Canadians, my understanding of things Russian had been limited to reports I had read in the newspapers or seen on television, and none of them had fully prepared me for the trip I was about to undertake. As a result of some business dealings, the opportunity presented itself that I could travel to the USSR for the purpose of selecting paintings to be sold here and in the United States.

Having arranged the visa required to enter the country, I left Pearson International on a gray February day, aboard an overnight flight bound for Amsterdam. After a six hour layover, and a change of aircraft, I departed Amsterdam for Moscow. The aircraft made a short stop in Warsaw where most of the passengers got off, leaving perhaps a dozen of us to make the last leg of the trip to Moscow.

Well into the late afternoon of the next day we entered Soviet airspace. The cabin crew distributed a declaration form to each passenger as required by Soviet customs. We were asked to disclose the nature of all valuables we were bringing into the country, including jewelery, travelers’ cheques, and currency of all kinds. As I soon found out, in Russia there are two types of currency, hard and soft: hard currency being any Western money such as dollars, francs, yen, pounds, etc., and soft currency being rubles. (I was later awestruck by the fluency with which sales clerks could make change using several currencies at once, not sure whether I had been given too much or not enough, but holding a mixture of unfamiliar coins nevertheless.). Resignedly, I made a complete disclosure while wondering what might become of a hapless traveler who thought himself clever by exchanging some dollars into rubles at home. While such a transaction is entirely possible, Soviet authorities take a dim view of these activities, and the importation of rubles is strictly prohibited by law.

From the air at night, Moscow reveals itself grudgingly and hesitantly. Unlike Toronto, truly a thousand points of light when we departed, the approach to Moscow is dark and arduous, the aircraft descending and ascending again, banking left and then right. Surprisingly, all to be seen is a few lights here and there, a vehicle moving below along an otherwise empty roadway, and no apparent evidence of the ancient capital of Russia. Sheremetyevo International Airport, about 40 kilometers removed from the city, belies the fact that twelve million people, roughly equal to half the population of Canada, live here.

My first impression inside the airport terminal is that the airport is closed: half of the lights are out and the place seems deserted. I later learned that there aren’t very many international flights arriving on a daily basis (domestic flights use a different airport), and the light fixtures simply require new bulbs. The presence of the army is immediately noticed, with a group of young soldiers talking quietly among themselves, and the first customs checkpoints all manned by military personnel, none of whom appears over the age of twenty-one. After carefully reviewing my documents, scrutinizing my passport photo, and giving me the one once-over, the

customs officer stamps my entry visa and waves me through. Proceeding to the baggage collection area, another officer asks me several incomprehensible questions to which my brilliant response is to stare blankly and offer him my passport. He refuses it, points to my bags, and then at the conveyor into the x-ray machine. Now I understand, and having completed the task, he shoos me away with a grin, all the while muttering something in Russian that I didn’t understand---and perhaps that’s for the best.

In the arrival hall I search out, and find, a placard with my name on it and I am greeted warmly by an affable young man named Sacha, who immediately relieves me of my bags and escorts me to a waiting car. In the car Sacha welcomes me to Moscow, inquires as to my flight, and as we drive the twenty minutes to my hotel, he manages to make me feel very relaxed and comfortable.

Sacha instructs the driver to give me a quick tour of Moscow at night, and he points out the landmarks as they pass by: the Bolshoi Theatre, the Kremlin, Red Square, KGB Headquarters, and with an air that seems to be equally proud, Pizza Hut and McDonald’s. The tour concludes at my hotel, the Leningradskaya, and after helping me to check in and escorting me to my room Sacha conjures up some soft drinks for us. and then bids me good night. As I climb wearily into bed I glance at my watch, and realize it’s almost exactly twenty-four hours since I left London.

The next morning, waiting curbside in front of the hotel is the same car and driver but instead of Sacha, Sergei Shelyapin introduces himself as my contact and escort while in the Soviet Union. We proceed to his offices where we have tea and discuss our business together. It’s immediately apparent to me that there are some very real obstacles to overcome before we can establish a mutually rewarding business relationship, but it is suggested that we should visit the artists’ studios first, and try to deal with the problems later. Reluctantly, I agree only because the pre-arranged itinerary of the trip requires us to leave immediately if we are to make our flight out of Moscow via Aeroflot.

Travel visas inside the Soviet Union are so strict as to require a traveler to be in a specific city on a certain day and to leave on a certain day, and any deviations from itinerary are not welcomed and can present the traveler with some real problems. I’m talking from experience here, because when we arrived at the airport for domestic travel in Moscow, Sergei and I were faced with a bureaucratic riddle. At the baggage check-in he asked me for my visa, which he gave to the clerk. Speaking in Russian, a few questions ensured, and then a heated reply from Sergie, which prompted a full-scale argument between them, finally leaving Sergei red-faced and speechless. Sensing they had come to a standoff, I asked Sergei what was wrong. He explained to me that when he had prepared the visa support documents for my trip, he had listed the cities we were supposed to visit as “Moscow, Odessa, Kiev, Leningrad, and Zagorsk”. The problem was that instead of “Odessa’ the visa read “Ottawa”. Someone at the consular division in Ottawa had made an error when typing out the visa, but this baggage clerk wasn’t about to let us travel to Odessa when we had a visa to Ottawa! At this point Sergei ordered me to wait where I was, and he left to argue his case with higher authorities. After about half an hour he returned smiling and told me that all was O.K. He had persuaded the powers that be

that the error was a typo since it wasn’t very likely that I needed a visa from the Soviets to visit the capital city of my own country. He shrugged his shoulders and muttered what was to become a standing joke between us: “John,...Russia is Russia”.

Having made our way on the airport tarmac, we boarded a small bus which shuttled us across the pavement to our waiting aircraft. Here, perhaps three hundred passengers crowded the base of the stairs, jostling one another, simultaneously trying to board and find some relief from the bitter wind. The bureaucratic indifference that had been displayed only a few moments earlier was soon to be replaced by the opposite extreme. To my great embarrassment, the Intourist guide who had accompanied us from the terminal to the aircraft was now marching through the crowd up the stairs to the aircraft. Halfway up she turned and waved at us to follow, and despite my protests Sergei pushed me forward through the crowd amid considerable grumbling from our fellow travelers. Unable to see the first step I stumbled slightly, evoking a great laugh from the crowd at my clumsiness. As I hurried up the steps, Sergei explained that Intourist guides are required to see that foreigners receive VIP treatment and must board aircraft first. Ironically, the portly Russian man who had laughed most loudly ended up sitting in the next seat, and after a few uncomfortable minutes, he nodded politely and offered me his window seat. I tried to accept this small gesture of friendship as graciously as possible, saying “than you very much” in Russian. Since my Russian vocabulary was limited to only seven words at the time, the ensuing questions were entirely lost on me. Finally I stated bluntly “Ya Canadits” (“I'm a Canadian”) and he then, having understood my ignorance, nodded and dropped off to sleep.

Odessa, a city of just over one million people, lies 1,000 miles south of Moscow on the Black Sea coast. Famous as a spa or resort town, Odessa is the city of choice for vacationing party officials, and its seaside is littered with the “dachas” of the elite. In contrast with the modern cityscape of Moscow, Odessa is old-world European in flavour and boasts an opera housed designed by Viennese architects F. Felner and G. Gelmer. In the spring of 1983, English writer James Aldridge on vising Odessa said, “Magnificent! I haven't seen in any country of the world and opera house like this”.

It should have been no surprise that we found the Odessa artists to be influenced by the European academic and impressionist schools, their work devoid of much of the political and social commentary that typified most contemporary works. A vibrant and active artists' union supports a school of artists turning out canvasses which might not be improved upon even if signed by one of the impressionist masters.

During the studio visits we made, I found many artists asking the same question: Were we going to visit Konstantin Lomykin? Consensus of opinion here was simple enough: Lomykin was the heart and soul of the Odessa school and truly a great painter. I had seen some of his work prior to leaving London and had been so impressed that I had asked to visit his studio specifically. If the entire trip proved to be fruitless, I would at least have met a living master.

Fila Lomykin is a tiny woman with the hands of a man. A sculptress herself, her strength is apparent when she shakes my hand, and leads us up five flights of stairs to her husband's studio. The door opens wide enough to allow us to enter single file and she clears a trail through dozens of paintings to the artist, who is sitting quietly on a chair in the center of the room. He greets us and invites me to sit beside him, where I can't help but notice the incessant tremors in his hands. Konstantin Lomykin is suffering from Parkinson's disease, and hasn't painted in years. The scope of this tragedy isn't fully apparent until Fila begins to show us his work.

The oil paintings are powerful works, masterfully executed. Boldly painted landscapes display a rare sense of composition and a daring use of colour. Afternoon tea in the garden, rendered in verdant greens and blues set against sunlit pink dresses and yellow flowers. Girls with Melons portrays two young women in a boat full of watermelons, the central figure wearing a dress painted with such a pure red it must have come directly from the tube, contrasting with the green-violet complementaries of the melons in front of her. Suffused with light, the painting simply reverberates with feelings of well-being.

Lomykin is equally articulate in oil pastel. Delicate and sensitive compositions of still-life subjects so deftly rendered they can only be described as flawless. Dancers from the opera house, one of his favourite subjects, drawn with such richness and virtuosity they could be mistaken for Degas. His keen eye for the human form catches every nuance of movement and turn of line, and he effortlessly captures the essence of his subject without unnecessary embellishment. In Bathtime, Lomykin demonstrates his ability to work with light and shadow so as to direct the viewer's attention to the intimate and special relationship between a mother and her child.

All too soon the afternoon is spent, and as the artist tires easily, we decide to leave. But before we depart he autographs a copy of his book for each of us and warmly bids us farewell. Fila presents us with a bag of fruit for the return journey to Moscow, which we try to refuse, but later we are thankful for her thoughtfulness. As I leave Odessa, my mind replays the sublime images of Lomykin's creation and I determine to overcome the business obstacles I first encountered in Moscow.

Twelve months have passed since my first encounter with Moscow and Odessa, and I have just completed a return trip. Happily, we have resolved most of the problems facing us one year ago, and I expect to be able to share the vision of Odessa artists with other Canadians sometime in the summer of 1991. Until then, Das vidanya.