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Where there is no law, but every man does what is right in his own eyes, there is the least of real liberty
Henry M. Robert

Tempted by Greatness

19 January, 1999 - 00:00

The documentary, Ivan Marchuk: Voices of My Soul, which recently
premiered at the House of the Cinema, was an extraordinary event in every
respect. In the first place because it was the first full-length documentary
released in 1998 (along with two motion pictures), given today's current
assassination of cinematography in Ukraine.

Secondly, the film has prestigious names both on screen and in the credits,
including the author and the hero. The author is Oleksandr Koval, People's
Artist of Ukraine, winner of the Taras Shevchenko State Prize, corresponding
member of the Academy of Art, secretary of the Cinematographers' Union,
manager of the Ukrainian Documentary Film Studios, himself an excellent
film director. And Ivan Marchuk, Meritorious Artist of Ukraine, also a
Shevchenko laureate and Ukrainian painter of international acclaim. Listing
his accolades is of principal importance, because I think that they determine
perhaps the leitmotif of the story.

The film starts with Ivan Marchuk warmly recalling his childhood. We
see his parents' home in Moskalivka, a village in Ternopil oblast. The
house is deserted, with an empty yard overgrown with weeds reaching a man's
height and unattended apple trees with ripe fruit no one any longer needs.
The prodigal son hastily explains, "Sometimes I visit the place just to
take a look and am pained at heart. Well, that's life, nothing to be done
about it." Gently he touches an old walnut tree with a rich crown, then
walks over to an old drinking well gone dry and looks inside. We see poplars
way off which he climbed as a boy to rob crows' nests, and a valley where
the cows grazed and hay was stacked, we can just picture a young village
lad spending a moonlit night with his sweetheart in one of the haystacks.
It was here, we are told, that the artist found the source of inspiration
at certain creative periods categorized as "crow," "cow," and "moonlit."
The childhood's lyrical topographic montage smoothly proceeds into the
artist's chimerical sketches transferred to canvas. Here tribute is due
cameraman Volodymyr Kukorenchuk with his precise portrait and landscape
renditions as prompt and accurate video equivalents of the painter's quickly
spoken reminiscences. Moreover, the camera "accidentally" spots something
left unsaid, like a quick shot inside a glassless window, showing the debris
inside one of the abandoned rooms that used to be the hero's first studio,
reminding the viewer of the artist's series called "Garbage Heaps."

And then we are back to the urban environs where Moskalivka "immigrants"
settled. Ivan Marchuk and his relatives recall the good and the bad, the
authorities hunting down nonconformist painters, dark envy, KGB informers,
and the generally oppressive atmosphere. "I didn't want to live. I ran
around villages, hid somewhere, just to come to my senses." Finally he
recounts his head-spinning success abroad. He is proud and makes no secret
of it. At this point the documentary veers sharply from "voices of the
soul" to a monophonic choir of praise. In fact, two-thirds of the film
leave one with the impression of being present at one endless noisy celebration
with fellow countrymen (mostly VIPs) pouring out belated accolades. We
hear a ranking politician dwell on the familiar breast-beating topic: "We
lived in a period when one Marchuk painted and another Marchuk spied on
him. Now they are both building a new independent state!" Another one of
national democratic sympathies continues in this vein: "This is a national
artist who never used another language, only his mother tongue, even during
the most trying periods." His colleagues prefer the good old technique
of complimentary rhetoric, using clichОs like "painter of worldwide caliber,"
"permanent revolutionary," etc. Yes, Ivan Marchuk was and is all that,
but it is also obvious that such tempting verbiage makes any further journey
into the creative personality's soul and philosophy impossible. Meanwhile
the author makes the artist join in the choir of syrupy eulogy. Offscreen
between the accolades, against the backdrop of fragments of his pictures,
particularly a series eloquently called "Across the Expanses of My Beloved
Motherland," he recites Shevchenko and Whitman, even his own literary exercises.
Here a very clear line is drawn between painting to express oneself and
to be exhibited. Toward the finale the strictly personal lyrical motive
is finally crowded out by official pomp. Yet I think this is precisely
where the ultimate truth breaks through, maybe contrary to but surely unforeseen
by the author. The scenario's and direction's misdirected "voices" blend
into a photographically precise rendition of an altogether different story.

The praise sequel culminates in Ivan Marchuk receiving the Taras Shevchenko
Prize from the President of Ukraine. Everything is held according to protocol
atop Taras Hill in Kaniv. I can guess the author's/director's logic: the
distance between an abandoned home on Shevchenko St. in a god-forsaken
village and the prize of the same name being presented in the cultural
center of the country, near the sacred grave of the father of the nation
by the Chief Executive. We hear the President's official eulogy accompanied
by a brass band striking off Shevchenko's "The Mighty Dnipro Roars and
Groans..." We see the statue, the poet is frowning in concentration, and
then the artist's smiling face, immediately followed by the museum interior
with Leonid Kuchma politely studying Ivan Marchuk's canvases after presenting
the award. The guide, pointer in hand (why the pointer is anyone's guess),
explains to the President precisely why the laureate is worthy of the high
award. Taras and Ivan, each with his art, the President with his award,
and the guide with his pointer - all in one episode, yet each is cast separately,
as though in a different spiritual dimension. They have nothing to relate
to each other. The social understatement is clear and needs no comment,
nor does the place of real art in the whole setup. Starting as a story
about an artist ascending to the peak of accomplishment, the documentary
turns into a story about how an artist is put to the test by history. Remarkably,
not only the hero, but also the author and the rest of the crew appear
to be involved in what happens on the screen.

In a word, Oleksandr Koval's production turned out a genuine documentary
and strikingly true to itself. With photographic precision it reflects
the peculiarities and paradoxes of today's cultural situation in Ukraine:
decades of thickheaded repressive official pressure on the arts supplanted
by a period of officious attentiveness from the powers that be, an epoch
of nationwide ruination of unique cultural monuments followed by one of
top priority renovation and restoration projects, hastily and ruthlessly
destroying what is left of original masterpieces. Each year sees fewer
masterpieces and more laureates. Normal creative processes dwindle for
want of funds while staggering sums are spent on pompous "cultural" festivities.
New Ukrainian talent is discovered abroad while local creative personalities
find less creative but better paid jobs like in television, advertising,
or the art business. After all, culture as a facade, a cover for supplying
the interests of those in power, with Muses acting as call girls, is nothing
new. Yet this does not make the realization any easier to bear.

Anna Akhmatova, as a veteran poet, once told Arseny Tarkovsky when he
was living through a very trying period, "Just don't lose your despair."
Ivan Marchuk at the time had had more than sufficient reason to despair.
I think that his art still imbibes from that period, for such emotions
form that necessary component which keeps creativeness genuinely alive.
Accolades, awards, titles, films dedicated to him, and other even more
tangible forms of incentive are not likely to tempt and crack his integrity,
but one never knows. Persecution often serves to stimulate one's inner
freedom, while carefully measured praise and cultivation may well turn
into lasting bondage. Even now, looking away from his easel, Ivan Marchuk
can find sufficient cause for despair. One can only hope that this mature
and recognized talent will continue to be nourished by such keen perception.

 

The film about Ivan Marchuk demonstrates yet again that official favor is the temptation most dangerous to an artist 
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