AB № 11.
2003 - Without and Within
In
Memory of One Who Carried Light
Vasily
Lopata
|
|
|
A. Rapoport. "Still-Life
with Dictionary" |
Having
lived for some time in America, I discovered for myself with delighted surprise
the rare treasure of a human being and unusually talented artist Alek
Rapoport. Few have such fortune come
their way, and it was my fortune to find him on the other side of the
world. Not only was he born in the
Ukraine, it was completely possible we could have met in Petersburg—I was there
quite often—yet fate brought us together (sadly, not for long) in far-off
America, foreign to us both.
Having
taken root with all his artistic, human and moral being in Russian culture, he
proved an outcast in it, a creative dissident, as one who did not adapt
himself, sought no favor, but continued to do battle for the right to be
himself until a time came when he had to competely take leave of his native
setting.
Upon
reaching America, he struck out again on his own way, which remained as thorny
as before—not chasing success, not indulging the noncommital taste of the buyer
in search of lightness and, still more avidly, lightweightness. Alek’s art, primarily religious, with a
surprising, personal vision, was neither commercial nor socially oriented. Life was hard. With amazing dignity and virtue he carried
his cross: calmly, patiently, not
decrying fate, undisturbed. His thin
body, drained by illness, was a storehouse of burning creative energy, love,
sympathy. Envy was completely foreign to
him; he was able to take sincere pleasure in another’s good fortune. His life was to create—constantly, every day,
untiring, never condescending to himself.
With him it was awkward, shameful to speak of the insignificant,
commonplace, material. The problems that
plagued me seemed mere invention beside his undivided creative absorption, his
spiritual solitude. Of course, he had
the endless devotion of his wife, son and friends—they understood the scale of
Alek’s personality and loved him as he deserved. But he was deprived of what is so essential
for an artist—no, not recognition, no, not income (these are secondary)—but
creative dialogue with the people for whom he made his works, which were born
in a heart’s flame, from the depths of a soul and a taut mind.
Conscientiousness,
firmness, deliberate, stubborn trueness to his calling as an artist were for
Alek an organic and conscious compass in seeking the deep, essential meaning
that in itself was the source of his strength.
Always after our meetings or private telephone conversations I attained
new calm, certainty and patience. Alek
for me was a model of genuine, unfeigned courage and the highest morality. He had the energy of light and purity.
He left
much undone; our plans for a shared exhibit remained unfulfilled.
He died as
he lived—as a true great artist, one whose like are few in the history of
art: in poverty, unrecognized—but in the
studio, but with brush in hand. I know
of no death more beautiful or worthy.
His dust
was taken by the ocean. I see the holy
ashes slowly scatter on the water, see our flowers mark his path—and I hear
Alek’s beautiful words, which I too would like to call my own: “Emigration, exile, prison are given to a
person for the work of self-perfection.
And now I look back (or is it not ahead?): Byzantium, the Middle Ages, the
Renaissance. There are my teachers, whom
unfortunately I sometimes have betrayed.
I ask now for their aid again. I
want no trickery—I want the true art of Conscience.”
Kiev-San
Francisco, 2002
About the
Author: Vasily Lopata is a People’s
Artist of the Ukraine and a State Prize Laureate.
(Translation
from Russian: J. Manteith)