June 25, 2009
The silence was heartbreaking. First, he tried Lithuanian. Then silence. Then, “Parlez vous francais?” Only enough to answer, “no.” Then silence. German? No. Anything, but English? Spanish, yes. Him, no. After a few minutes, he motioned us inside in defeat. There was so much love in his soft eyes. For me, perhaps. Or for the memory of his dead sister that I invoke. Or, perhaps I have mistaken this love for sadness, as Jurga later explained to me that he has been having major depressive episodes lately and cannot care for himself in Vilnius. He cared for me though, in the Lithuanian way I came to know from my grandmother, his sister. I was never with an empty glass of apple juice, he frowned when I wouldn’t have a 3rd helping of dinner and I couldn’t leave before a 2nd piece of cake.
A funny thing about traditions is that they really are timeless. We disputed whether if it had been 8 or 9 years since I had last been there, but we argued while sharing the same meal, in the same chairs, finished by the same cherry cognac we shared 8 or 9 years ago.
His sister, Zuza, the caretaker of the 3 siblings still living, slipped into Russian once in her attempt to communicate with me. She then laughed like a child at her mistake, and perhaps the ridiculous-ness of it all—that here I was, linked to them in DNA and named after their mother, unable to communicate except through smiles, nods, and “thank you”s . Then she turned to the cabinet and dug out her tools for story telling without language. This was the last
photo of all her siblings together—in the 40s before Jonas was killed and Albina fled. There was the photo of my grandmother at 14, sitting in the doorway of their family home and another of the horse and carriage outside their first house. And then came the photos of Siberia. Zuza’s first child was born there, while Vytautas was barely an adult. Albina was no longer with them—1st in a work camp in Germany, and then finally to the U.S.
Back to his loving eyes. His sad eyes. He is almost 83. As he clears out the garbage left for weeks in the studio, and shoos flies away from rotting fruit, Andrius explains that he cannot take care of himself anymore, and that is why he is in Kacergine. Ignas reassures me with “he has lived a good life,” as he waters that plants and empties the half finished cups of kavos hidden away under books and tucked behind easels. A good life, yes, but you can still see Siberia in all of his paintings. From artists and actors who actually were in Siberia, to Mindaugas, only King of Lithuania in the 1200s, long before Russia stole Lithuania’s livelihood. Even the one he did of my mother when he visited Chicago when she was ill. Cancer eyes look like Siberia eyes.
He never married. It is my understanding that he toyed with the idea of becoming a priest, but after a month or so, he left the seminary as he knew his true calling was in the arts. He returned to the family farm to work, as his father had died and his brothers were eventually called to the army. In 1944, an Art school was opened in Kaunas, and he attended for 4 years, under some false pretenses created for him by a priest in their village. He was able to avoid the army by being enrolled in school, but in 1948, the truth of his situation was revealed and he was removed from the institute. Soon after, his apartment was surrounded and seized, and he was sent to Siberia. I don’t fully understand the reasons why my family was sent to Siberia. I believe it has something to do with them all being intellectuals (doctors, etc) and some of them revolutionaries, fighting with the Lithuanian Underground Army. In Siberia, Vytautas had a two year sentence of hard labor in the pine forests. He lived in a room with some 70 odd others and would try to draw portraits of them to keep art in his life. After a few years, he met a professor in Siberia who helped him get a job in a theater there, doing scene construction (this brings to mind Gregory Hine’s character in White Knights).
After regaining his freedom, he was eventually admitted to the Art Institute again and finally graduated in 1961. He was invited to teach at the MKCiurlionis Art School and did so for many years. He is a portrait artist. To me it seems he has painted almost every important historical figure in Lithuania. During our first trip here, he dragged us on an extensive tour of Lithuania’s churches, many of which have his portraits hanging in them.
Last Saturday was “culture night” in Vilnius. It was the shortest night of the year, and hundreds of events happened all night long throughout the city. The National Gallery of Art celebrated a re-opening after some renovations. I read about the event in a magazine yesterday as the guest list was full of Lithuanian VIPs in the art / entertainment world. Wandering though the museum, I found myself frozen when I came to the wall that displayed two of Vytautas’s pieces. I guess I was looking for them, but was still mesmerized by the reality of them hanging there.
I could pretend that I was invited to the opening because I am the grand-niece of the great Lithuanian painter, Vytautas Ciplijuaskas, but really it was because Andrius worked on the installation of the Ciurlionis exhibit, was invited, and snuck me in. Still, I am the grand-niece of the great Lithuanian portrait painter, Vytautas Ciplijuaskas, who lovingly stared at me throughout dinner from the seat next to me with the same sad eyes shared by the subjects of his portraits that drew me in from the wall at the museum.
So then DNA and family history, why am I such a terrible painter?
No comments:
Post a Comment