Wednesday, May 4, part three. Finale.

How can this be over? I didn’t get a chance  to mention the hurdy gurdy man with the raccoon on a leash, or the woman who was texting with one hand and holding her toddler’s hand with the other, slowly circumnavigating a fountain while her child walked along the rim. This illustrated lineage of the doomed Romanovs, which made ‘end of the line‘ a visual truth.A display of court dress for a trio of lordlings.

So much I had to leave out, but don’t want to forget.

I’d Ubered back from the Hermitage Storage facility around 3:00, and stopped for a farewell meal at Fruktovaya Lavka.

Meatballs with pureed peas and cranberry sauce? Da! 

Finished with a raspberry custard tartlet. Not too big, not too small, not too sweet, not too tart. Just right.

Turns out my favorite server had an avocation as a clown. Here she is, ready to do a show in her bride costume. She was unfailingly patient and kind to me. 

I walked the few blocks to the Hermitage. The route – through gated courtyards, down streets alongside canals, and over bridges – was familiar now. I passed by the Hermitage Theater with its supporting cast of mighty men, holding up the portico.

There was scaffolding going up on three sides of the palace square, and Victory Day banners hung. Catherine the Great was arguing with someone on her cell phone.  I raced through the maze of the Hermitage to their post office, but it was closed, which meant the last two dozen postcards would have to be mailed by the Astoria*. The Hermitage was open until 9pm, the tour groups were gone and  I was free to wander. First, a long slow walk down the length of the Loggia.

I sat in the room of paintings of tables heaped with plenty, produce and game, fowl and seafood. Out of context, this a pair of turtles look romantically inclined.

I blew kisses to Rubens and and solemnly bid farewell to Rembrandt’s Prodigal.

My final destination was the Crouching Boy, the only work by Michelangelo in Russia. It  was hewn from a cramped cube of marble no one else wanted.

I said hello to him for my nephew, William Rich, whose encouragement helped me summon the courage to visit St. Petersburg. I said goodbye for me. It’s unlikely I will ever return. Leaving the Winter Palace was wrench, but with a 4am departure to the airport scheduled, I couldn’t afford to stay to the bitter end.

Well and truly tired, I walked back through the now familiar streets to the hotel.
Last days are like first days;  you are wide open, unwilling to miss a moment, keenly aware of your surroundings, and what a marvel life itself is.

My view of Russia has changed, from notions created secondhand by propaganda and politics, to a reality experienced firsthand.  St Petersburg has its own distinct shape in my memory, with a slant of light all its own. Cultures are infinite in variety, yet the same across all geopolitical  boundaries – everyone wears denim and everyone carries cell phones.

So, where to next? The smart money is on Rome, if I can wrangle some kind of pass to the Vatican Museum. But I am open to suggestions.

*I handed over the postcards to the front desk at the Astoria, who promised to mail them. They still haven’t arrived. But it’s only been two weeks.

Wednesday, May 4, part two, Hermitage Storage Facility

After the regal equipage, paintings, icons and frescoes, we were taken to view a variety of furniture, mostly chairs.

A Radio City Music Hall Rockett’s line up of chairs.. Wondering if there’s a museum of fine furniture.

Chairs and more chairs.

There were wonderfully elaborate examples, great fun to look at,  but surely purgatory to sit on.

Cherub heads and velvet worn to the nap .

Peacocks

Golden scrolling.

La-Z-Tsar. Even royals can’t resist a good recliner

Looks shockingly modern in this context.

Lovely and bold needlepoint

After this we were led through a large room filled with brilliantly colored cloth tents. I imagined them being used for weddings or warfare. I had a dearth of facts, so I let my imagination run free.

Inside, looking out

I was surprised to see this. I have a coat very like this one. It came to me from Afghanistan by way of NYC back in 1975

.

There were several exhibits of court finery. Unfortunately, most of my photos were spoilt by glare.

Reigning.

Marrying

Mourning

Showing off

Lastly, these two garments.

Sleeve of a coat worn by Peter the Great. He had a very recognizable silhouette – great height, narrow shoulders. He liked ease of movement. That sleeve inside the sleeve helped hold in warmth. And those buttons!

My personal favorite, a coachman’s hat for those really special occasions.

Fancy!

After several hours, this visit was done. Uber found me on the steps, and hauled me back to the city for my last meal and final visit to the Hermitage proper. That will be my final post of this trip.

 

Wednesday, May 4th. Part One - Hermitage Storage Facility

It all funneled down to this day. Things fell off my hopeful maybe? list like hanged men dropped on a gallows. No way I’d get to the Museum of Politics or the Alexander Nevsky Monastery where Dostoyevsky lies restlessly interred. Ah well. Enough is as good as a feast.

I updated and sized photos* then skipped downstairs to breakfast with my order queued up on my Google Translate app; porridge with raisins, brown sugar, and cinnamon on the side, please. “Would you like the cappuccino you ordered yesterday, Ma’am?” asked the maître d’, appearing at my elbow. They’d been taking notes. The waiter looked at my order, hesitated, then suggested perhaps it would be better if they softened the raisins in warm water for me first. It was hard to keep a straight face. “Thanks, but no.” Chewing fresh golden raisins is no hardship. I nearly added, ‘it’s fortunate that someone of my advanced years can sit up and take nourishment at all.’ 

I Ubered about 25 minutes in light traffic to the storage facility of the Hermitage, where they keep objects that need special care, restoration, and those thousands of items that don’t have a slot on the hallowed Hermitage walls. I don’t know how they decide what is displayed and what goes on hiatus.

I’d hoped for a glimpse of paintings from the Northern renaissance and reliquaries that could serve as inspiration for my own design and build metal projects. Instead, I was added to the only available tour, a Russian language group of parents and children, from middle school age, to mobile enough get into mischief, down to a nursing infant in arms. Surprisingly, this turned out well. I didn’t see works of the kind I generaly seek out, but what was deemed sufficiently engaging for children was right up my equine alley. The guide began with saddles and carriages of the Romanovs.

Diamonds on the soles of her shoes immediately started playing in my head.

Diamonds on the edge of her saddle.

Painted wood versus chunky embroidery. Not sure which would be the most uncomfortable.

Decent pommel you could grab if the horse got frisky or attractive fringe? Tough call.

More of saddle blanket than a saddle. You can see where the rider’s legs wore away the fur on the sides of the cheetah.

I roamed around peering into things while the guide nattered on in Russian. I liked being able to look closely, instead of feigning polite attention.  One small boy set off impressive alarms by wandering deep into the display area behind the red ropes. He only did it once.

One of the carriages was a magnificent red affair

Crown on the roof. In case you were looking down from a rooftop.

Fabergé copied it on a minuscule scale, turned it into a mechanical toy, and hid it inside one of their famed eggs. It can still propel itself on tiny wheels.

I loved the painted carriages. I’m about to get my Prius painted (blue instead of that boring inoffensive and dull beige it’s been since 2007), but part of me wants to do something like this.

Or like this tiny sleigh. Very popular in Holland at the time – note the windmill on the right.

Rolling art.

Figureheads. lions, and dolphins, oh my!

From there we went to a room of works undergoing restoration. We had out own personal guard, who didn’t do much more than open doors and herd stragglers.

On duty, across from racks of stored paintings.

The paintings each of these unit holds are listed on the sides.

What I wouldn’t give to be turned loose in here for, say, a decade.

A few bits of paper were taped to the exit door, visual notes on works undergoing restoration.

Next we were led down featureless corridors and in and out of elevators until we arrived in a room packed with large frescoes on one end, and small icons on the other. Everything was hung behind glass, under strict light and climate control.

Closeup of an Icon supported by brackets on a grid system. The light was dim while we were there, and the lights went off when we left.

Precious, in every real sense of the word

An archangel snuffing out a demon? Russian saint? Gabriel blowing his horn on judgement day?

This Christ looks showroom ready, almost too clean. He seems faintly disappointed and slightly cynical. Very Russian expression.

I’m breaking this excursion in two parts, since there were multiple categories of treasures and too much I want to show rather than tell. Plus, my adventure is nearly over and I hate to let it go.

Next up: Chairs, Couture, & Camping.

*If I didn’t hook up my phone to the computer, I’d be screwed when it comes to uploading photos. It’s still seems glitchy, but it’ll be important to know when I’m arranging the next long journey.