Notre Dame de Paris
All painters can basically be divided into two groups: the living and the dead ones. For a living one, it is difficult to compete with a dead one. The one who is dead enjoys fame worldwide and represents
a value verified by time, to be sought after by collectors. He has his place in the hall of fame and is a proof of the undeniable thesis of progress in art. His published works influence subsequent generations, including us, the living ones. But what’s most important, he needn’t paint any more. He enjoys his well-deserved rest. What’s left to us then? It is the very unrest, the possibility to go on searching, to assume the position as if we were the first painters in the world. Not to take into account the fact that fame lurks somewhere awaiting us, as well. But only after death, of course.
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All painters can basically be divided into two groups: the living and
the dead ones. For a living one, it is difficult to compete with a dead
one. The one who is dead enjoys fame worldwide and represents
a
value verified by time, to be sought after by collectors. He has his
place in the hall of fame and is a proof of the undeniable thesis of
progress in art. His published works influence subsequent generations,
including us, the living ones. But what’s most important, he needn’t
paint any more. He enjoys his well-deserved rest. What’s left to us
then? It is the very unrest, the possibility to go on searching, to
assume the position as if we were the first painters in the world. Not
to take into account the fact that fame lurks somewhere awaiting us, as
well. But only after death, of course.
My friend Boris Lekar phoned me from Jerusalem saying that he had been awarded „The Painter of Israel 2004“ prize and it entailed a studio in Paris for half a year. To achieve such fame he seemed to me half dead already. But he reminded me of our mutual vow: when we painted in the north of Russia in 1968, we promised each other that we would paint together in the open air of the French capital. To a great enjoyment of the Japanese tourists and glazed steamboats filled with curious children, two gray-haired painters stood in front of their forty-year-old easels, worn by the tours of Russia, Georgia, the Ukraine, Armenia, and now even Paris, painting near Notre Dame for two weeks. Never in our lives had we been so eagerly photographed. Absorbed in our painting, however, we missed our chance to get rich on photo-fees.
Where shall we meet next, my friend Boris?
