Aleksei Kolesnikov — “A Game of “Classics”

      First of all, I wanted to say what “contemporary” means from my point of view. One must distinguish “contemporary” from “fashionable.” Those things that were created a hundred, two hundred, five hundred, a thousand years ago — and which we still cannot make better — do not cease to be contemporary. The meaning of my artistic statement is new, but the material itself I take from the classical Western European artistic tradition. This is the treasury from which one can endlessly draw means. Everything I depict has already been depicted many times by artists before me. But I place these objects in such a context where they have never appeared in classical art. This is where a new synthesis, a new meaning, is born. This is one of the main tasks of art — to expand the boundaries of consciousness.

      I am a fighter for a certain literariness in art. The word “plot” is now tainted with omissions and crooked understandings. But in itself, it is a good word. I stand for a story — with a beginning, a middle, and an end. Each of my works is a plot. Their abundance comes precisely from the classical tradition. I do not invent anything new — I simply place old plots in a new context. My works are living classics. That very mainline of art which began in Ancient Greece and continues to this day. Only the situation changes — and the classics are revealed anew.

      This is not a replica addressed to the classics, as modernism once did. Recently I saw an old photograph: Matisse’s famous panel Dance in Shchukin’s mansion in Moscow. And suddenly I understood what Matisse was counting on — Shchukin’s mansion was a real 19th-century palace, with carpets, plaster arabesques, still lifes in gilded frames, heavy curtains… And suddenly — the Dance panel on the staircase. It was a living dialogue with the classical setting. But today this gesture may be largely incomprehensible. This kind of art is a dialogue with the classics, but not the classics themselves. But Rembrandt — that is the classics themselves. Rubens — the classics themselves. Witkin — the classics themselves. And I am an ordinary classical artist, embodying this tradition.

      My work is for people who know the world’s cultural code. This must be either an art historian or an artist. Can one say that I know the English language? When reading a text, I don’t understand half of it, but I guess the meaning. Imagine a text in Chinese before you, and you understand only part of the characters. But the one you do not know completely changes the meaning of the whole sentence. So it is with art: you need to know all the signs to understand what it is about. Each of my paintings hides many surprises. To reveal them, one must be honest and trusting. Stand before the work, open up, and patiently look. But on the other hand, it is enough simply to be a sincere person capable of perceiving. The main condition is a mind free of foolishness and stereotypes. There is a fashionable word — “interactivity.” But all art is interactive — the interaction between the artist and the viewer is the work of art. That which arises between the painting and your eyes.

      My work can be summed up like this: an attempt to see long-familiar, habitual things from a different side. These words are silly and only indirectly relate to my work, but sometimes they must be said, because one has to use conventional passwords. I understand that everything I am saying now limps along. One must look at the paintings. But since something must be said — I prefer to say this. People no longer feel elementary things. Relationships between them have become ugly. People have become ugly — most often, unfortunately. Decay. The fall of morals. With each passing year, I think we are all closer to catastrophe. Losev said that any constructive activity in a destructive period leads to even greater destruction. Maybe my activity in this foolish situation leads to this too. But still, it is constructive.

      I believe: creativity must be creative. You twist into the whirlpool — after all, you live here. But no one will force you to submit. If I know that I cannot break through a concrete wall with my head — this will not make me accept it. An artist does not think about this at all. He does — and that’s all. Just like children are made. They say — “the fruit of love.” So is a painting — the fruit of love. Of course, evil exists. And one must fight it. Any normal person must be able to oppose it with something — otherwise, the person will simply be destroyed. If an artist at the Last Judgment cannot defend himself with his paintings — then he did not believe in them.

      What is beauty? What is morality? For an artist, it is the same thing: good structure. A positive structure — like a native mother. A stick that pulls you out of the swamp. If anything saves — it is only this. All this pure, beautiful, structured thing is clearly visible to me — as a pledge that everything will be alright. All our frenzied efforts and sufferings are not in vain if the world in its depth is arranged beautifully and delicately. For many people, “morality” and “beauty” sound like swear words. They say: “There is no meaning — the meaning is in the nonsense.” But I am still sure: there is a certain immovable coordinate system. And the fact that your head is on top is not accidental. I saw an old German book from the 16th century — there the devil is depicted like this: instead of genitals — a face, and above — something resembling genitals. A very precise detail: the devil’s gesture is to swap top and bottom, good and bad. My work is an attempt to cling to the immovable system of positive structure.

      About taste they say: there is no arguing about taste? There is arguing, very much so. Bad taste is bad. Sound taste is a mystery. It simply exists. Culture exists so that a human being can be human. Look: the city of Kyiv stands — by a hair, but it holds. The Roman Empire collapsed — but we still hold on. But who knows what will happen in a thousand years? Someone sits at a computer — thinks he is the master of the universe, and tomorrow it’s all over.

      People are arrogant. They think that the Earth will always be theirs, and animals are just beside them. But just recently I had a bouquet of flowers on my windowsill — huge, heavy ones. I came up, looked — and felt: these flowers are not for us. This is the cosmos. Beautiful, but alien. These flowers are stronger than me. They gave off hot sap and strength, the petals were tough and angry. They were ready to scratch me. This is the wild cosmos. And I feel: it always opposes man.

      Man is a mistake of nature, or maybe not a mistake, but definitely not the master of the universe. The universe will take care of itself. There is no guarantee that there will be a place for man in it.

      My paintings are blows to one point. They change life. These are not my fantasies. This is reality. This is a continuation of Leonardo da Vinci.