Severe Splendor

Kyiv artist Marko Heiko can hardly be described as a public person. He keeps some distance between himself and the motley and noisy artistic community. Meanwhile he ranks among the capital’s best. In the early 1990s he was an active participant in the famous Artistic Preserve project. At present, the name is synonymous with a school of art that has gone down in the history of Ukrainian culture. His “innermost” canvases are most often nonfigurative, relying on intensive color experimenting. It is a territory saturated with colors, dominated by bright contrasting combinations. It is true that Marko Heiko is in many respects an exception to the rule. His reserved, almost geometric patterns impress the viewer by the elegance of form and markedly economical expressive means inherent in outstanding traditional works of art. In a word, Marko Heiko has every right to claim the status of classic in the artistic community of Kyiv, in terms of technique and perception.

I interviewed him at his studio in a grim brick structure in Filatov Street.

How did you become an artist?

I was born in a village and the countryside is not the best place to implement one’s creative talent. There was no way I could learn painting, buy water or oil paint. There was just my village, people and cows... Deep inside I wanted to express myself; at the time it was most likely a desire to write verse. I was fond of literature. In the ninth grade I tried to copy a portrait of Shevchenko. I liked his somber countenance. I discovered my artistic talent in the army. Previously, I had visited Kyiv for the first time to try to enroll in the Pedagogical Institute [teacher’s college] and decided to drop in at the Russian Art Museum. I went there and found myself in Vrubel Hall and it was there I had realized that it was what I had wanted all my life. Art. I cancelled my enrolment application, so my teaching career ended before it started. In the army I began sketching after I had become a “lifer” [after one year of service], mostly at night.

Did they make you decorate the Lenin Room [special room at every Soviet military unit with a large portrait or bust of the proletarian leader, shelves packed with his works and other party editions, propaganda posters, where Communist and Komsomol meetings were held and other official occasions observed]?

No, although I was conscripted as an “artist.” At military registration and enlistment office they had asked who wanted to serve in Leningrad and who could paint. I had raised my hand and then I found myself at the Kazan Railroad Station in Leningrad. We spent the night there and then boarded a commuter train and got off in the woods, somewhere near Arkhangelsk. So much for Leningrad (although I would go AWOL with a friend and visit the Russian Museum in Leningrad. Imagine: two privates, wearing dirty uniforms with crewcuts; I am still surprised that we didn’t get caught). I returned from the army in the spring of 1977.

How happy was your reunion with civilian life?

Everything was in short supply and subject to strict quotas — I mean literature on the arts and the arts themselves. My favorite hunting grounds were Kyiv museums and the Mystetstvo [Art] Bookstore. As a demobilized soldier, I was entitled to dormitory accommodation, so I got a room at a footwear factory dorm in Pechersk. I could attend classes at an art studio a short walk from the October Palace downtown. And I had good company; we would sketch together, at the studio and outdoors. I enrolled in the Institute of Art shortly afterward. Life was hard, but I was totally engrossed in the fine arts; this must have helped. Although I quickly realized that the institute could not provide what I needed. Instruction there was meant to supply artists to what was then known as artistic combines. In fact, the Soviet Union could not give me what I really wanted. Except that I had an opportunity to work with models and rub elbows with interesting people. We would learn from each other, not from the obsolete teaching staff.

Who do you consider prominent artists?

In the fourth or fifth year at the institute, I became fond of the arts in Romania, then there was Giorgio Morandi (I was then taking shape as a professional artist). I love the fine arts in all their true, realistic manifestations. Previously, I’d pay more attention to stylistic subtleties; today, I can understand good realism. I love CОzanne. I have a reproduction and every morning I look at it and once again realize that he had real talent.

You belong with the so-called Artistic Preserve. What did they have in mind when they founded it?

I was not one of the founders. I was invited to join the Artistic Preserve when I was hanging around after graduating from the institute. I lived in Poltava and my family life didn’t work out... There was a group of artists on Paris Commune Street. They actively propagated postmodernism and socialist art; they would ridicule good artists and they used art the way you use a condom: just once, then throw it away. We wanted to counterpoise that with a true culture of art, without delving into literature and enlisting social contexts. We wanted to prove that art can be a subject unto itself; that color and texture can determine what a given work of art is all about. I’m happy to say that we did it. The Preserve exists only nominally; everybody paints in his own way. However, we have principles firmly installed and they still work. Too bad our ideas have never gained the desired scope, although Ukraine is a flexible country; baroque means flexibility in the first place.

You mean the preserve has failed to reach its stated goal?

Art changes nothing in life. Well, Soviet art wanted to. The preserve is an excellent phenomenon for Kyiv and Ukraine; I think we would be quite popular in Moscow. Few people are actually into the fine arts.

From what I know you had a Poltava period in your life.

I moved there after marrying a girl from Poltava. In the Soviet Union one was free to move and settle in any rat hole. The times were great. Jews were emigrating and eager to buy good works of art; we were making good money, so we could buy the best paints and food. It was then we formed that Poltava creative community.

You mean a school of art?

Well, it got to be known as one. We organized an exhibit of Poltava artists in Kyiv, together with Markosian and yours truly, and then critics started discussing a Poltava school. Then I left and the people stayed. Poltava is small town, and there were no demand for paints after the Soviet Union had collapsed; there were no jobs, so I’m not sure, really...

When did you realize you had become an artist?

Actually, I’ve never considered this when working at the studio. When my works started being displayed after graduation from the institute, I realized that I had become a professional, compared to all those others. Easel painting is very interesting. Too bad it has fallen into decay; artists no longer receive what was known as social contracts. Life has changed. Now everything is focused on money, format, customer; we have to produce small canvases.

Monumental easel painting seems to have actually become extinct.

It’s tough. There is no special program. An artist working on a canvas must get help, for it may take years and he has to have something to eat. What’s a picture in principle? Maybe no one needs it... A small canvas can be hung on the wall and you can turn it if you don’t want to look at it. But what if it’s a huge one? Or a bad one? Can you tell what your canvas will look like in the end when working on it? In fact, I’m not sure how my pictures turn out; I don’t know what the result will be. I might’ve worked out such plans at the institute but not now, although I do know what I’m after.

What are you after?

I’d like to produce a full-fledged work of art, complete with everything that, say, CОzanne had. With all that coloration and everything else. It’s easier said than done, so old masters are like a restraining factor to me. I’d like to offer the viewer my own culture, technique, my own plastique approach to space; I’d want the viewer to have empathy. That’s what I see as my ultimate task. A work of art must be like that, a kind of treasure.

There are different kinds of treasure; take uncut or cut diamonds, for example.

Thank God, we all travel different creative roads. Paradzhanov and his films, for example. They are all works of art. I enjoy watching them; every production is a perfect objet d’art, nothing irrelevant. If only he could live another life and start painting, without wasting time doing silly things! I think he would be a real artist.

It appears that he could create works of art with a movie camera?

He was an artist in the first place. It was part of his talent. There are also artists and cameramen, like Ilyenko.

How do you consider a canvas accomplished?

Simply. I step into the studio one morning, look at it and tell myself it’s ready. And I am at peace with myself. I’m even surprised that I’ve done the job. But that’s what happens now. Previously it was a nightmare; I’d give away my old paintings or even destroy them. I found some of my early sketches, framed them and hung them on the wall. I looked at them and thought they weren’t bad, and then remembered that I’d previously regarded them as crap. Now I can tell whether a picture is good or bad — I mean my own and others’ works. You know, artists are like peasants, toiling away constantly. Pictorial art has become even narrower, more intimate, but that’s good. The more it gets biased, the better. At one time I wanted to bar my works from all exhibits, make it a taboo, so I wouldn’t get caught in the competition. It was like choosing monastic seclusion. But then I saw I couldn’t; I’m too involved in and with Kyiv, money-making, attracting customers. Otherwise I’d spend 10-15 years as a creative recluse, so I could paint and paint and do nothing else...What a shame that the times, life itself, no longer allow an artist to live like Cezanne and have a father who would build a factory making hats. Sometimes I meet people who like my works; they buy my canvases, and the money allows me to move further in my quest. Unfortunately, it isn’t on the global scope I’d prefer. If only our state were interested in the arts... There are artists who receive government stipends in the Baltic states. What we need here is such a scholarship, so we can demonstrate our potential without sustaining too much hardship. An artist is like a student, he looks constantly for a chance to earn a couple of bucks.

You’ve mentioned seclusion — what about popularity?

Nowadays a student doesn’t work to have an entry made in his record-book; the reverse is true. People know me, but I’m not eager to become beloved by one and all; I want to be like everybody else, like all those people crowding the buses. I love visiting the countryside where I can communicate with people that don’t like verbal posturing. I’m not one to vie for some kind of membership or privileges. Look at all our politicians. They have to be taught simple truths, so they can keep our interests in mind. They still haven’t passed the bill on culture; there isn’t a single museum of contemporary art in Ukraine. It’s as bad as if we lived in a country without post offices or airports. In a normal country people can explore classical and contemporary art museums. And look at how much they are spending on all those Khreshchatyk monuments! It creates a special atmosphere in Kyiv. They shouldn’t have built any of them; after all, you must sometimes think first and do things afterward. Good works displayed in a museum produce a much stronger impression.

You sound rather conservative. Do you think there is any confrontation between tradition and experimentation?

I’m interested in the things that concern me personally. I don’t try to take a closer look at something happening elsewhere; if I did, it would drill a hole in me, make me vulnerable... I could probably point to 10-15% of modern phenomena that keeps me ticking. Previously they’d exhibit Matisse at the Venetian Biennale and his works would win prizes. Too bad they’ve lost this tradition. It’s just that people are getting so smart, they think they have such good brains; why waste time doing any manual work? It’s all intellect now and all kinds of tricks. Well, life is changing. I have a son, he is 20, and he doesn’t want to be an artist.

Does he have talent?

Yes, but he isn’t interested. He prefers to sit at his PC where everything is readily available and he keeps everything under control. What I like is to take a piece of canvas, put it in a frame, and start working on it.

But perhaps the tool is not as important as talent?

I don’t like using a PC. I’ve browsed lots of international biennale catalogs and I haven’t found a single picture I liked. I think that one shouldn’t be concerned about getting anywhere, becoming a superstar. A hundred years isn’t a very long period in art. We, in contrast, are getting accustomed to racing, constantly changing directions and things. We shouldn’t be in a such hurry, to throw the baby out with the bath water. The whole thing has become a show that I just don’t feel like watching.

Granted, but mass entertainment could be the hallmark of the times.

The trouble is that art is getting to be part of the commodity-money-commodity pattern. I want art to remain a means of self-expression, so an artist (pardon the clichО) could create a canvas others would be happy to explore. A work of art is something very meaningful.

You’ve mentioned sketches. They have lots of colors, but your later and better known works are quite reserved, almost black and white. Why?

I paint in summer, from nature. Now I can’t; look what’s going on outside... Indeed, I started doing watercolors, they allow me to catch colors. Colors emanate their own special energy; it’s a chain where you are to pick the right link revealing the whole situation. You subordinate your colors to a certain objective. That’s what minimalism is all about here.

Leonardo da Vinci doubted his talent all his life. Are you often dissatisfied with yourself?

Not often, to tell the truth. I’ve been through this; I used to doubt everything. I thank God when I feel that I’ve done a good job. It’s like Maradona scoring with his hand rather than foot and then saying it was the hand of God. When you feel that you’re doing fine you look at it and tell yourself, thank God. That’s the way you live; you’re always after it. However, you can’t make a deal with the Lord, and you can be lucky only so often. Works of art are always created the hard way; the best attainment is never a promise, for the very next day you have to start from scratch, working all the way from bottom to top — if you try to reverse the process you’re sure to land flat on your butt. A normal artist can’t be too proud of himself, ever.

Can an artist be rich and make himself famous?

Absolutely. I wish we had among our prosperous citizens not only smart businessmen, thieves, and such, but also artists. I wish we had at least one artist living the way Berezovsky does. Yet, I think that our artists aren’t the point. There are artists in the West with a lot of money and publicity; customers are on waiting lists to buy their works, meaning that their art remains in demand. It’s good. It’s a jibe at all those making fortunes manufacturing missiles, tanks, and suchlike, things made by the human race and used in slaughtering fellow human beings. The Americans have a lot of money, and they want to start a war. How can you make good plans if carrying them out means the death of even one person? Thus, it’s good to sell works of art and get money in return. I don’t know whether it’s true, but they say an artist’s living standard [in Ukraine] is just above that of a regular junky.

So what keeps you afloat under the circumstances?

It’s my family, my children. I could have worked without them, somewhere else, in Africa or Antarctica, but the family is a stimulant, it makes me get organized and work rather than hang around. Also, strange as it may seem, I am encouraged by what my colleagues are able to do. Whenever I see good canvases I feel that there are good artists alive and kicking. It’s a very good stimulant. Too bad I can’t afford to travel to Europe and elsewhere, so I could see places and things. This would be very helpful. An artist should visit a lot of places, see a lot of things. This provides the greatest creative impetus.

Getting back to where we started, are you writing any verse for yourself?

It was like champagne bubbling in my head — no, I think that one must concentrate on something, even perhaps narrow the artistic scope, to receive good results. It’s a problem of quality. Grebenshchikov can paint, but I saw his works and stopped respecting him. Does he really think that painting is just another hobby? If he does, I’d like to question him as a musician. You just don’t do things like that. My son doesn’t want to get drafted into the army, so he’s trying to enroll in a university. Still, it’s in the army that you are confronted by life the way it really is, ruthless and uncompromising; here you reassess all the civilian values and can choose what you need most of all — rather than wade through the swamp of life till you’re forty and realize that you’ve become something different from what you had wanted. I was lucky because I could quickly made my choice and I have since enjoyed it. Nothing is as important as the fine arts; not money or women. Yes, I love reading poetry and movies. I wish I could do some pottery, sculpturing, silk prints, making things from metal, but it all takes money and time. As it is, I paint for 4-8 hours and I get tired.

What makes you so fond of your occupation?

My monthly income, so I can buy a turkey, roast and eat it.

Anything else?

I see a man with an easel. He is painting and I am overwhelmed by affinity; I see someone doing something good, perhaps great. It’s an act of creativity, an enjoyable one. Something that cures your body and soul. My wife, a pediatrician, says I would have made a good doctor. Diagnosing means running tests, analyzing things, making suggestions, and arriving at justified conclusions to help your patient. It’s the same with painting. It’s a complicated job, and it’s too bad that such “doctors” are produced en masse. Their number should be halved, leaving those actually capable of treating people. I’d hate to come up with the wrong diagnosis, if you know what I mean.