dmitrykuznichenko

[dmitrykuznichenko]

THE REVERSED  PERSPECTIVE

My childhood had passed overlooking St. Marco’s square with a corner of the Dodgers Palace slightly obstructing the view of canal.

I only can try to imagine, how the bassinette with a newly-born baby was brought from the hospital’s ward to our flat and by the hands of my young mother, carefully placed on the bed. The bassinette was positioned in such way that the eyes of the baby were facing the walls of the Dodgers Palace of Venice. In progression of several months, I started to blow raspberries. Fireworks of my saliva burst out, saluting to beauty I yet could not appreciate.

As I found out later from my Babushka, this view of Venice in the past was filled with chicken feathers and as a decorative cushion bludged on a fancy couch. It had a three coloured weave; cream, grey and black. In hypnotic repetition, the tapestry’s threads overlapped one another, creating a convincing illusion of depth, where columns and arches were overshadowed by the belltower spearing the clouds.

I have only overheard conversations to rely on, to be able to envisage how, back in 1917, without wiping their feet, came the Bolsheviks. Babushka’s family home was turned up-side-down. Bolsheviks tore everything that could have been torn, even my young Babushka’s earlobes, as the Red Proletarians ripped her earrings out. This view of Venice witnessed it all and was the sole fortunate item that escaped intact. That is why with so much sentiment and, also as a reminder what her life used to be, Babushka hung this tapestry on our wall. Instead of chicken feathers, the view of Venice now has a stiff board inserted inside it.

Whenever we talk about old architecture, we think of geometry and straightness of lines. Straight lines have this tendency of tilting towards the invisible vanishing point. I don’t like this idea and prefer the depictions on the Orthodox icons, with what is called a reversed perspective, where the vanishing point is actually, you. The reversed perspective brings the viewer into a picture and allows to participate, while the conventional perspective makes the one who looks, invisible.

I don’t even need to close my eyes to reverse the perspective of events and go back into that pigeon hole of our flat, in closest proximity to my dear Babushka leaning onto her ironing board next to a mountain of washing. All over again breathe in the tobacco presence of my father, only the tip of his head is visible above the edge of his draughtsman board while a smoke from his cigarette unhurriedly rises up and as if obeying the rules of conventional perspective, vanishes somewhere at the height of that tapestry with the view of St. Marco’s square. And of course, never to be forgotten, my mother’s complaining voice; how could one in these kind of living conditions be possibly preparing for medical school exams. Funny as it seems, those challenging living conditions made me want to draw. While my engineer father criticised the incorrectness of lines in my sketches, the tapestried view of Venice was not critical at all, on the contrary, it was accepting of me and encouraging. So, besides all the other things, this tapestried view of Venice also witnessed how my childhood eventually ran towards its vanishing point, and how the point of my graphite became more confident.

The real artist has to visit Venice at least once in his lifetime, my teacher in the Kharkov’s Academy of Fine Arts kept repeating. It only has taken me a half of a century and finally on the New Year’s Eve, I found myself squeezed by the crowds of tourists on the St. Marco’s square. A few steps away from me, a voice kept shouting that St. Marco’s square is the best spot in Venice to catch a Pokémon. Twelve pm on the dot, right above the Great Canal the fireworks erupted. Hundreds of selfie sticks towered above me, since everyone had to take the pictures of themselves with the fireworks on the background. Gold and silver medusas were exploding, spilling sparkles of their glamour all over the Venetian skyline. As if the descending smoke had a power of magnifying glass, those sparkles were magnified in the dark, but instead of sinking down into the harbour, drifted forwards in the direction of St. Marco’s Square. I was trying to get a sight of the buildings that lullabied and soothed me all through my childhood. But spooked by the self- adoring modern day crowds, Architectura shrunk and went all crooked, the Reversed Perspective was versing a Happy New Year. Now I had to share this sacred place with Pokémon and thousands of others. I felt like a child whose favourite toy was suddenly snatched; all through my lifetime I had this St. Marco’s square all to myself.