Picture it. St. Petersburg, Russia. 2016. Two kids in tow, aged 11 and 9, a Russian speaking husband and a niece who is more like a sister. Yes, we spent the wad, and we went. It was the trip of a lifetime! But lets back track a little. In art school I so desperately wanted to go to Harlow and study there. It was an opportunity offered annually but depended on the university for funding. Knowing I was poor as hell but desperate to go, I set out to do some fundraising to make this happen. Alas, it was not meant to be. The funding fell through and it was my last year in art school. Sucky. Sucky. Sucky. My art history professor said he'd buy me a beer since my hard earned but meager fundraising dollars were used the following year. He recently bought me a nice scotch, so it's all good. So why does an artist want to travel? Why is studying abroad so important? Well, where does an artist find inspiration if not from other artists? I knew this. I mean, to see in person the Rembrandt's and the Monet's and the Goya's and all of the artists would be as prodigious as it could ever be for a young art student. I don't think I even appreciated art the way I do now until I took a plane across the pond to see them for myself. While my Harlow adventure didn't work out, I did go on a whirlwind trip to England, France and Rome as a teacher with three other adults and 22 junior high kids in tow. It was quick and dirty but seeing my first of the greats was emotional. But still, I craved more. I wanted to go back and spend time there. Real time. Little did I know how artistically captivating Russia was until I met my husband. He is not Russian but learned the language after becoming fascinated with the Russian hockey team as a child. He lived there and studied the language and culture. He taught it for several years and brought students there to immerse them in a cultural luxuriance like no other. You must know, however, that my husband’s agenda was quite different than mine. The World Hockey Championships were on and where better to watch Canada beat Russia, right? So off we went with brand new Canada hockey jerseys, a 24 hour turn over time and very little sleep. We learned that our little ones are actually good travelers; adventurers like their mama and papa. Thank God! It’s funny how the eastern hemisphere smells different to me. I suppose it makes sense but you don’t think about it until you are there. And even then, only if you take the time to notice it. Inside the buildings was the same. The floors were old. The elevators were old. The sinks and toilets were old. I must be clear that old does not mean bad. Not in my opinion. Old is interesting; historical. The floors and walls were insulated with stories of all kinds. Perhaps it is the silly romantic in me, but I could always feel it. It comforts me, somehow. If I had any reservations about the Russian people, it was quickly to put to rest when I met Masha and her family. We met her grandmother who had such a large, sincere smile. We met her mother, Irena, who was smart and charming with her unique Russian style. Masha, a beauty worthy of magazine covers, introduced us to her sweet children, Mark and little Alexander. We joined them all on that first night at the grandmother’s apartment. They fed us a delicious meal of pizza in a small, cozy kitchen. It was interesting, not knowing each others language, but I did try. “Spacibo,” I would say. “Pozhaluysta,” they would say as they passed the tea. I’m sure most of us were nervous, but it was special. They had invited us in their home like a Newfoundlander would. I’ll never forget it. I could write about so many aspects of this trip, but the absolute best of all, for me, was visiting an artist’s studio. His name is Sergei Morozov. My husband, Rod, had already purchased some of his work that were like 18th century paintings. While getting art out of Russia is not easy, with the artists help, we managed it. Walking up the stairs to the studio was creaky but warm. We were greeted by a large, solid dark wood door and the handle itself was a work of art. Just like I imagined it. Entering that space was like walking into a movie. The walls stretched higher than humanly necessary but were well utilized. Paintings were hung from bottom to top – salon style. Leaning against these walls were more paintings, stacked one in front of the other on their way to wall, no doubt. There were small paintings and massive ones; finished and unfinished; bare and torn. The first thing I really noticed was the smell of oil paint mixed with fresh wood for stretching canvases. The familiarity of that immediately filled me with excitement. I was in a place that I could relate to – that I could probably live in. The floor was clean but not afraid of the odd splash of colour. A few stools and large, chunky, delicious easels were splattered in years of paint. In one dark corner of the room were a few unlit lights and a set of velour furniture, peppered with all kinds of props like flowers and crowns and gowns and umbrellas and vases and marble busts and intricate Venetian rugs. A few old trunks lay there like treasure boxes. I couldn’t stand not being able to dig inside them. It was similar to that feeling as a kid before Mr. Dressup would start hauling stuff out of his tickle trunk. I couldn’t wait to see what was in there. It was clear that models were an ever-present part of this man’s studio. The chaise lounge, the fancy throne-like chair, the dresses and fans, the hats and robes. Someone wore these and posed for Morosov. I could just imagine them there with their shoulders bare. All delicate and stunning. Sexually charged. They would have to stay still for hours. Their slight wrists would ache for a rest but it was always a struggle since they wouldn’t want to disturb the artist’s flow. They wanted to be liked. They wanted to be immortalized. Models in art school was an experience. We had mostly clothed models. I even modeled myself for a bit of cash. But the best fun was when we had nude models. Most of us were fresh out of high school. Some of probably didn’t even have any sexual experience. Yet here we were with a naked man on our platform exposing a drawn happy face on his ass to break the ice. We all laughed, of course, but it was still one of the quietest art classes we ever had. Among the mass of paintings were paper charcoal studies of the human form in a gestural style. Some of them had ripped edges like they were taken in a hurry to capture a vision. All were pinned up randomly around the room. These are what artists use to practice proportion and to design paintings. Oddly, I always find them just as interesting as the paintings themselves. Sometimes more so. And of course, there was a place for tea. A corner spot filled with antique furniture, cutlery and tea cups. An artist’s space is rarely filled with new things. These were inherited or given or bought cheaply. But this area was not just for afternoon biscuits. This would also be used late night philosophical meanderings of the artist and his friends. It was for intellectual fights and drunken laughter. No art studio is complete without it. Masha and her mother, Irena, accompanied us as it was their network that made this amazing event happen. Welcoming us at the door was the artist and his son. How lucky we were to have this “in” – to have this once in a lifetime connection with a prominent site of the St. Petersburg art scene. I think I was so stunned the whole time I didn’t have the sense to ask the proper questions. But I did soak it up. Like a proper scrounger of the most artistic vibe I was likely to ever come across. It was hard to know what to do while we were there, except listen to my husband converse in Russian and try to understand. My kids tried on all the hats, my daughter had her photo taken for a portrait and my niece and I went art shopping! She purchased a ballerina painting and I a woman in a dazzling dress stoking a fire. I wanted to stay longer. I wanted to know Russian. I wanted so much to be able to understand everything better. But what I did get was beyond good enough. Because I got to see something I never knew existed but somehow didn’t believe it. What ever your ultimate destination is, this was it for me. To be inserted into an artists world like that was awe-inspiring. As for my kids, Nadyezhda and Malcolm, what they enjoyed most was the “best milk in the world”. Rod was in hockey heaven and my niece, Klyea, was just enjoying everything. Including the vodka. Well, all the adults did that. Along with some salami and cheeses. We still keep in contact with Masha and her now three kids, her mother Irena and through them, Sergei. In fact, we commissioned two portraits of our children and our dogs as you can see above. We love to support him and we figure we could open up our own Morozov museum at this point. As for me, though I don’t often paint due to my two full-time jobs (teaching art and parenting), I love that we have this connection and can visit any time knowing that it will be, once again, incredibly marvelous.
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