The Red Vineyard in Moscow

The faculty room was abuzz with the names of different places in the four corners of the wind. The long-awaited mid-term break had finally arrived, and most were looking forward to hightailing it out of Moscow. The names of various destinations and means of travel were spewed out in succession; cities and towns in the UK, off to London … connecting from Dublin, driving from Dublin airport, flying first class to Paris, Durban, South Africa, a resort in Turkey, Dubai, were among them. There were fervent discussions about one another’s activities and how great it was going to be not to be in Moscow, where people don’t speak English like in other big cities in Europe, and it was currently just too cold and grey. It would be nice to get some sun and eat some nice food elsewhere. None of these views about Moscow were untrue, but...

“No, I’m staying in Moscow. I still have a lot to explore here.” I replied, when asked if I was going somewhere.

“Well, enjoy Moscow then.”

“I certainly will. See you next week”.

For once, I was looking forward to a lie-in and leisurely strolls in Moscow; weather permitting, and that was an important condition. On Saturday I enjoyed my lie-in with the intention of starting my expeditions the next day.

Not unsurprisingly, Moscow was blanketed with a white sheet of snow on Sunday. I woke up to witness the first snowfall in Moscow on October 28^th – big, fast descending flakes for hours; long enough to pile up for deep, clear footprints all over the city. Had it continued snowing throughout the day, it would have been better. Unfortunately, as day broke and the temperature rose, it turned to rain. For hours, it rained non-stop. Most of the snow turned to slush and fast-flowing streams and puddles I had to jump over on my way to the Pushkin Museum - my chosen destination.

I made it safely to the metro which I rode to Krapotkinskaya. Outside, on my right stood the majestic white and gold-domed Christ the Savior Church where Pussy Riot had staged their infamous riot, the result of the worldwide, media-covered, on-going trial in Moscow. I was in the Museum Quarter where a series of palace-looking buildings housed the most prominent museums in Moscow – Roerich, Pushkin… and a few others. I successfully navigated my way across the street, over a pile of snow and fast running streams, narrowly escaping a heavy splash from a huge, speeding four-wheel drive to the museum. The 45-second journey took on the dangers of an expedition in the jungle.

At the museum, I went through the metal detector sans bag and umbrella. Cleared of any subversive acts, I proceeded to the cloakroom to unburden myself from the coat and wet umbrella to enjoy a tour of the three floors housing canvases and sculptures of contemporary art authored by some of the most famous hands and brushstrokes in the history of the art world.

Although the price of the ticket was not an exorbitant amount, I was not happy to be charged exactly double what Russian citizens would pay. It wasn't the ticket seller's decision, so why would I address it? And even if I'd wanted to, I doubt that it would have been possible. She had the phone receiver glued to her ear during the whole transaction, engaged in an apparently important, interesting conversation with her interlocutor on the other side of the line. I duly paid my 400 rubles and walked up to the first floor.

What a pleasant surprise to be welcomed by all these familiar artists' works – Goya, Corot, Constable, Fortuny, Ingres, Courbet, and to discover a few I didn't know, Virgile Narcisse Diaz de la Pena or Jean-Baptiste Carpeaux. Interspersed among the beautifully framed canvases, were the museum wardens sleeping peacefully in their comfortable, sometimes, uncomfortable, chairs. This is a repeated scene in most Russian museums - grey-haired, sullen-looking, elderly women employed as wardens, openly taking naps on the job without a care in the world. I wondered if the CCTV cameras actually worked as people photographed paintings, and warden dosed away; both usually, utterly forbidden elsewhere.

The opportunity to take in all those works, colors, scenes, portraits was a wonderful treat. And it didn't end there. The second floor offered an even greater variety with Degas's well-known ballerinas among many others, as well as more sleeping babushkas. The third floor housed the Matisses, Chagalls, Legers, Rousseaus, Picassos, Miros, Kandinskys. My plate was overflowing, but I kept adding more spoonfuls of art to it. I couldn't get enough. I also discovered Boris Taslitsky and Utrillo – another wonderful treat. It was just sublime!

I found the Pushkin Museum to be a manageable, bite-size museum where I was able to spend about three hours of a very leisurely morning. Although there were other visitors, it was very comfortable to move around and stand in front of a painting for as long as I wanted, alone, or sit on the comfortable benches provided in some of the rooms to contemplate the scenes depicted in the paintings and get lost in them.

The abundance of paintings from different eras of French painters, Renoirs, Monets, Pissaros, Cezannes, as well as a few paintings from Picasso's blue period, all transported me to the Musee d’Orsay in Paris, filled with paintings of contemporary art, where it is unfortunately almost always crowded. Similarly the Louvre and the Hermitage, both venues of impossibly long queues, elbowing, pushing and shoving, where a strong athletic background and a fat wallet seem to be the entry requirements. Eventually, you get in after paying a hefty price for an entrance ticket, but you find you are exhausted and hungry after standing for three hours, or more, in inclement weather. You need rest, sustenance and refreshment, so you spend a small fortune in the museum cafeteria recovering and refuelling before you embark on the viewing tour which you cannot enjoy as a result of all of the above. Not to mention the merchandising; gift shops selling books, fridge magnets, calendars, posters, note pads, mouse pads, kitchen towels and every imaginable object with the print of a well-known work of art on it.

The thought of the absence of those hurdles created an atmosphere of enjoyable intimacy at the Pushkin museum; a pleasant contrast to previously exhausting experiences in over-crowded museums which I have decided not to endure anymore. Despite the intense revelry of walking around admiring the masterpieces, at the end of the tour I felt I had room for more. 

I could easily have done another tour, but I chose instead, to just take two of my favorite paintings home with me. I could look at them every day as they brightened and livened the bare white walls of my apartment, in contrast with the grey skies I can see, and will be looking at for the next, possibly, six months. I chose Van Gogh's “The Red Vineyard” and one of the several themes of Matisse's “The Painter’s Studio”.

The Red Vineyard, as the title suggests is predominantly red in the foreground. Several harvesters, both men and women, can be seen hunched over attending to the grapes. The women are dressed in long skirts, men in pants, a rudimentary farm look about them, and one distinct figure standing among the workers, holding an umbrella - the overseer, more than likely. The luxury of an umbrella while the others labor away under the hot sun! A vividly scorching sun, which occupies the far right corner of the canvas in a bright yellow, projecting strong, yellow rays reflected on the river which occupies the bottom right of the canvas. A lucky fellow is fortunate to be wading in it, possibly freshening up after several hours of work.

A straight row of mature, leafy trees with seemingly manicured, triangular big boughs and big, circular trunks act as a demarcation territory between the vineyard and the main road occupying the left side of the canvas. A tractor with a lonely driver missing the fun in the vineyard stands alone in the middle ground, far from the vines – his only companion is the worker currently unloading a basket of harvested grapes into the buggy.

A hut, possibly the workers living quarters can be seen not too far from the vineyards, whereas far beyond the vineyard, the tractor, and the hut, on the right, we can see a series of concrete buildings which could be the church, and vineyard owner’s chateau.

The Painter’s Studio, a huge wall-size painting showing exactly what the title professes is also a very colorful scene; a room with a predominantly pink floor, a carpet, a yellow floor mat, walls painted in mauve and a high window which opens onto a garden with leafy trees, currently closed.

An easel, several rudimentary stools and coffee tables with ornamental objects have been placed at different angles. The main object which draws the audience into the picture, however, seems to be a divider draped with a bright blue blanket with yellow motifs. It is unbelievably suggestive. What happens behind the divider? Is the blanket always on the divider, or is it removed at times to be draped over something else? A body, perhaps?  Several vases, which may contain drinking water, or meant for cleaning have been strategically placed around the room as well. The bright colors and the cosiness depicted in the room made it difficult to leave it behind.

Both paintings are currently hanging on the walls of my apartment. The Matisse is in on the left wall as I walk into my bedroom. It is keeping my bed and bedside tables company, and the Van Gogh, much smaller, is on the living room wall, just above my desk where I can see it now as I write. Virtually.