Wet terrace

Written by И.Я.Великанов

This picture which has visited at many Soviet and foreign exhibitions, is exhibited now at the Tretyakov gallery. Its author - the national artist of the USSR Alexander Mihajlovich Gerasimov. «The wet terrace» was reproduced and published not once by the big circulations. One copy of a bright reproduction full-scale the original in my hands.
Behind the Venetian window of a huge art studio the young birch singed by the autumn sun loses the gold. Paints not that on a picture reproduction «the Wet terrace». September dictates the spirit, and Alexander Mihajlovich conjured with a palette, publishing that tonality in which the autumn sounded the gold. And I by all means would like to overcome a copy of "the Wet terrace» with its summer paints. From a reproduction.
Addressing to the author «Wet terrace», I have asked: whether «It is possible to make a copy from this reproduction?»
- Try, - he has answered.
On a stretcher the tense canvas. It would be possible to reduce a marking from a reproduction on a canvas under a carbon paper, but all becomes it me by rules of technics of drawing. Then took a palette and has transferred from it a brush a paint on the future copy of a terrace.
- Not that, not with that you begin, - Alexander Mihajlovich has noticed. - You forward roses write, it is easier to depart from them.
It seemed to me that in a picture the terrace with the lattice over a bench in which the sky through lattice gleams was surprisingly reflected should be main.
The summer storm rain has just taken place, a terrace all wet, water on a bench, on a floor, on card table, everywhere water, in water patches of light of the sky, the sun. But all the same is brighter in a picture petals of roses burn. And I also have not noticed them really. Has not noticed also that my undertaking was watched also by the author.
In meditation there was I and looked at the unsuccessful creativity. To continue or throw this invention, yet late while at all has not exposed itself in amateurishness. Gerasimov observed of my affliction as it seemed to me, has then told:
- There in a corner there is a box, in it foreign paints, take them.
The box has appeared old painter's case, without the lock and the handle, tied up by a string. Having opened этюдник, has found out in it not tubes with a paint, and the rests from them. Whether It is possible that from them to squeeze out?
Alexander Mihajlovich continued me to teach, more truly, to push supposedly if undertook to copy, finish work. But it pushed politely, even is tender, as like would tease. He spoke:
Are rare paints. Find there lake and write them flowers. Thirty years ago I these paints have written roses, they and now burn as live, are precisely just written.
I long silently was zealous over a new palette. The artist was silent also. It seemed to me that to silence there will be no end as suddenly it, continuing to write, has loudly burst out laughing. He something has recollected the amusing. To it such happens often. When in its society the silence or boredom becomes ripe, he recollects any episode from the life and starts it to tell. And now having laughed, he has asked:
- In Fominovka the pond is still whole?
Has asked, and then began to tell, how once in a youth it carried treacle in jugs which has overturned together with itself from the bridge in a stream. This stream filled a pond.
Ancient topographic maps prompt that from settlement Small Izberdej through Mikhailovka, Sergievka and Afanasevka proceeds a spring stream which behind Big Izberdeem runs into the river Matyru. On this spring stream as little beads, took places estate with little ponds and water-mills - Korobovy, Gusevs, Laptevy, Jartsevy, Karandeevy, Gurjevs. All of them took places in a seven-kilometre piece on the left coast of a stream from Small Izberdeja to Sergievki. In youthful years the future artist often went from the city of Kozlov (nowadays Michurinsk) in Karandeevsky estate which garden was rented by his parent Michael Sofronovich Gerasimov. On the right party of a stream against Karandeevsky manor the manor of Chicherinyh took places, at which the grandfather of the artist was serf. Fominovka was on a way to eight kilometres from Karandeevki where the artist often happened and, recollecting an episode, told about it:
- Then there was at me a history with this pond in Fominovka. I to the mistress carried one treacle. Time was at night, apparently, at a dawn. Whether a horse washing has dozed off, whether I. Only, when the cart has appeared on the bridge, one wheel and come off it. Treacle together with me under the bridge. It in jugs was. I when jugs under the bridge were on me have come round, and from jugs treacle flows. Well and the fun was. All I in treacle. It was hardly washed in a pond.
To tell any stories of the life it loved and interestingly them told. At last, it has postponed the palette, has approached to me, has looked, as I deduce petals of roses, and have praised:
- Fine. It is well written. The good fellow. Only here you have placed a little table incorrectly. Verify once again.
For a week I have almost finished a copy. I speak "almost" as to finish to me it all the same it was not possible. And that is why. The driver has come into a workshop and has reported that the car is submitted.
- Gather, - addressing to me, the artist has told, - will go with me.
Where to go and what for I did not know, but also did not ask him. Such unexpected invitation was not once. This time, as it has appeared, we have gone to the Tretyakov gallery where its meeting with fans-artists of one large Moscow factory should take place. I do not know, whether workers of factory have not arrived still, whether any intermediate affairs of the artist in an office of the director of gallery expected, it, having taken advantage of free my time, addressing to me, has recommended:
- Go while look "terrace", it here somewhere in halls hangs.
Only now it became clear to me, what for he me took with himself in Tretyakov gallery. How the reproduction was good, and the original remains the original from which means will not transfer an original picture to a reproduction.
Lately time and again it was necessary to hear that the polygraphy supersedes painting. Error in similar judgements the obvious. Painting has the features, and boundless. The technics, certainly, has the borders about what not followed forget.
Travelling on Tretyakov gallery halls, I find Alexander Mihajlovicha Gerasimov's picture «Wet terrace». The original, of course, not a reproduction. I well represented it to myself, but what my affliction when my consciousness has reached was that a copy to me not to overcome. The original has justified the name. Each dab expressed itself not a paint, and a life. I long looked at the original which mentally carried away me to Michurinsk, in a garden of parents of the artist, in a summer time on a terrace which here is represented in a picture... - also worried. A unique condition, live, juicy. Also it seemed that has begun to smell here not paints you feel, and dense ozone after a rain. The transparency of air and a droplet on foliage of trees are that in the image that to me not to repeat them, though also a paint on my palette the same with which wrote this original the author. These drop semi-precious stones, unless it is possible to repeat them? On card a wet little table, in a puddle, dropped petals roses and the tumbled down thick glass tumbler. A glass jug with water in which a bouquet of roses - all is reflected, as the nature. More and more time mentally I repeat: «Is not present, a copy to me not to overcome. I will not write it». Whether Not therefore the author has recommended to me to look at the original in Tretyakov gallery.
- The original absolutely another.
- Then I also have brought you that you have looked.
- Then I will not make a copy?
The author has looked at me, probably, has taken pity over me, has recommended:
- Come here, draw from life.
I have kept silent. Now I was definitively convinced that a copy to me not to write. With such belief I have returned to an art studio on Levitanovsky streat and did not take a palette in hands.
Not finished copy and until now hangs at me. And roses all the same burn!