I bee-lined for the post office in the depths of the Hermitage. Found it by being humble enough to stop frequently for guidance from the babushkas. Mailed a clutch of illustrated postcards, then wandered around the subterranean level, to see what I could see. Came across the desiccated corpse of a Siberian man with extensive tattoos. The Hermitage helpfully supplied detailed drawing of the patterns. I took photos to pass along to my daughter Emily; musician, artist and, when the spirit moves her, tattooist.
A few rooms away, above a swatch of preserved skin, was this schematic drawing.
I wonder about the significance of the images and their placement.
I got caught up in imagining the people who used the everyday implements; particularly a room lined with the iron pots. Nothing dainty, these were hefty cauldrons worthy of Turtle Soup, the main course at Kempf family reunions. I promise you that for every pot, there was a vigorously used paddle.
There were cases of arms, armor, and equestrian gear. If warhorses were the engines, these saddles were the luxury chassis, interior and rims.
Aston MartinMaybach
That afternoon I walked the Italian halls of the New Hermitage, a purpose-built space for the display of large canvases. I loved this still life of an oriental carpet. Someday I’ll take a serious run at one myself.
When I realized the enormous stone vase blocking my view was made of Lapis Lazuli, I nearly swooned.
That gorgeous blue is even more impressive in person.
It’s the blue of the Dutch skies and Italian Virgins robes. It was one of the most expense colors to buy, and there’s enough here to paint the ceiling with. Later I was told that these gargantuan pieces are veneered, not solid, but I don’t know that for a fact. It’s still a massive chunk of glorious blue.
Note the person standing next to it for scale.
I stayed long enough into the evening hour for the hordes to diminish, and got to spend a few precious minutes alone with The Conestabile Madonna. And that’s why I came. Everything from here on out, is gravy.
Back to the Hermitage. Hey, it’s why I filled out all that paperwork and journeyed all these miles. Totally worth it.
After downing a double shot Double B latte, my goal was a thorough look at the French rooms and the small English collection. Passing by the classical Baroque painter Nicolas Poussin, I heard something outside the window. More band practice, or as I like to think of it, the Hermitage halftime show.
A lovely Raeburn portrait captivated me, as did this partially completed portrait of a general.
I love these incomplete works, the intention of the artist and his bold beginning still visible.
I lingered in a large room lined with glass cabinets filled with mostly silver and gilded silver objects; variations on goblets, boxes, serving trays, dishes and vanity sets. Took way too many photos to post, but here are two standouts:
A dragon devouring a horse on top of a tankard.
I guess St George lost this one.
The Big Chicken, Hermitage-style.
Turn right at the Big Chicken to get to the throne room.
Stumbled into the throne room. I think the Russians invented the phrase, “Winter is coming.”
Game of Thrones, Russian Division. Winter is coming.
Very imposing. I especially liked the ceiling.
Looking up.
I was fascinated by a small exhibition about restoration of embellishment and embroidery.
Made me itch to pick a needle.
Then I stumbled across the white and gold baroque chapel. The lines from Keats’ poem, On First Looking into Chapman’s Homer, popped into my head.“Much have I travelled in the realms of gold,/And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;”
There were interesting liturgical bits and pieces, all of Romanov dynasty historical significance.
detail of an icon
During my lunch break in the cafe, I drew cherubs on the backs of postcards to send home. Afterwards I went in search of the postoffice annex inside the Hermitage. Up I went to the top floors, down they sent me to the basement, I just couldn’t locate it. Tomorrow I’ll give it another go.
Walked to Fruktovaya Lavka after for another stellar meal (sous vide turkey breast, with parsnip puree and cherry sauce, buttered mixed Cruciferae vegetables, and raspberry tart on crème anglaise).
Trying to figure out where to go to buy authentic and interesting Russian goods not made in China and not nesting dolls. Not making great progress, but ever hopeful.
It was a blustery day of squalls. I Ubered to Double B coffee, passing this statue that always starts the William Tell Overture playing in my head. Hi yo Silver, away!
Fortified with a cup of their smooth brew, I started my walk to the Benois branch of the Russian Museum. Only a ten minute stroll, but by the time I passed the Church on the Spilled Blood, rain was pelting down. Despite rain boots, raincoat and sturdy umbrella, my jeans were going from damp to drenched. It was raining so hard water bounced up from the cobblestones and riccocheted from the surface of the canal. I sloshed onward as far as Café Berlin where I stopped for an early lunch, in hopes the downpour would ease up.
I ordered a burger, a sure sign that I’m missing home. It arrived, pretty as a picture, but it was like a burger made by someone who’d read about them and seen photographs, but hadn’t actually eaten one. The sesame seed bun was as dry and crisp like a meringue. The meat, while tasty, had an odd, pebbled texture, and was topped with pesto and pickles. I asked for a cheese burger and they slapped on mozzarella. Fries were great.
Sure enough, the sun came blazing out and I hoofed it to the Russian Museum of Art. A completely different experience from the Hermitage – less formal, less crowded (praise all the Russian Saints), and more relaxed. The change of pace was welcome. The art wasn’t as spectacular, but more than one piece made it not only worthwhile, but gave me reasons to return. I adored this painting of Phryne. I circled back to it twice, and sat on a bench and absorbed what I could. Similar to the Slav epic in scale (huge) but more celebratory. Thanks, Semiradsky.
As always, I noticed the dogs, like this jaunty, backlit fellow.
Detail of a larger hunting-themed painting. I miss you. Maddy.
The grimacing, half concealed faces worked into the design of this wall embellishment fascinated me.
This statue of Catherine and her page had marvelous textural detail.
It took a lot of self-discipline to not stroke this.
And, according to the museum note, this naughty satyr is just being helpful, tying the nymph’s sandals. Riiiight.
Personally, I think he’s taking it off, not tying it on. Museum interpretations can be so prissy.
My favorite was this painting of a knight at a crossroads by Vasnetsov.
I overheard a guide tell five military officers that it’s from a Russian folktale. The knight must choose his direction. If he goes right, women and marriage. If he turns left, he’ll have wealth and land. If he rides straight ahead, war and death. He chooses the straight ahead path. I couldn’t help but mutter, if he picked the right woman he could have marriage, wealth, and all the fighting he wanted. Probably great makeup sex too. One of the military guys cracked a smile. They weren’t Americans or Russians, or they wouldn’t have had an English speaking guide.
I stood there and drew a couple of versions.
It reminded me of the painting in the Musée d’Orsay of a defeated cavalry solder riding home through fields of tulips, lance dragging, head bowed. The way I often feel after a full museum day, dragging my ass home through a field of glorious beauty. So much art, so little time. But I forgot one of the best attributes of this museum.
Refuge for the weary, and plenty of it.
Yay, sofas.
I had planned to walk through the connected wing of the Benois, but fatigue overruled me. I sensibly walked to my dinner place, and after an excellent risotto, called it a day. Tomorrow, return to the Hermitage.
It was a beautiful day in the neighborhood, blue skies, sunny, in the 60s. The faces of people in the street were perceptibly sunnier too, their expressions more cheerful. I decided to take advantage of this brilliant day and do some of the audio tour walks, building in little respites so I don’t over do it. My art-finding mission will be met by visiting two of the churches on my must-see list; St. Issacs and The Church on the Spilled Blood.** Plus, it’s Sunday.
I made a simple plan using Google maps – 10 minutes to an old school coffee shop, The Nutcracker, near that balletomane shrine, the Mariinsky Theater. I’d pause for a restorative espresso, then walk another 25 minutes to the childhood home of Vladimir Nabokov, and pause again to genuflect before the master wordsmith and lepidopterist. Another 15 minutes walk would take me to the monumental ecclesiastic architecture of St Isaac’s Cathedral. After absorbing all the spiritual grace available, walk eight minutes to the well-reviewed Teplo restaurant. From there, Uber over to Church on the Spilled Blood, that postcard for St Petersburg, followed by dinner at Fruktovaya Lavka, another eight minutes walk, and a final Uber back to the hotel. Sounds like a modest plan, right?
Did I mention I’m listening to an audio book of Speak, Memory, Nabokov’s blindingly intelligent , deeply evocative memoir of his life in pre-soviet Russia? Yep, and it’s read by someone with the most sonorous, basso profundo voice you can imagine. Hearing Nabokov describe growing up in a St. Petersburg mansion and on country estates, his patrimony and lineage part of the air he breathed, the inevitable future losses shadowing every bright memory – fencing in the library, evading his fat French governess, seeking secluded halls of the Hermitage for sexual trysts – was an excellent choice.
Here’s what happened.
I didn’t stop for the coffee because wasn’t tired and wanted to push on while I was still fresh. Nabokov house, listed on the internet as open on Sunday, was closed today. A piece of paper in the window broke the news. I was passing Teplo before I got to the cathedral so I stopped and drew a lapdog on one of the pair of chalkboards that line the alley entry to the restaurant.
Hi, Maddy
Walked on to St. Issac’s Cathedral and, after a brief battle with the ticket-dispensing machinery, successfully bought a ticket to both the interior and to climb to the top of the bell tower. The interior is vast. I made myself dizzy looking up.
Lit seven candles for family and friends before an icon of the Virgin.
So much hope and heartbreak represented by these slender candles.
I headed over to climb up the the 200 plus steps – Robin, you are my inspiration – and realized I’d lost my ticket. Ah well. Maybe it’s for the best, a sign of a benevolent creator.
I walked back to the charming Teplo and had a great meal of sautéed fish and fresh vegetables.
Flounder fillet
The menus were totes adorb.
Retro photos of happy families. No, I’m not going to quote Tolstoy.
The whole place had a childlike, Mr. Rogers comes to Russia vibe, like this giant courtyard chess set for children.
Check.
Ubered to Church on the Spilled Blood, with it’s fairytale exterior. Consider that most fairytales are terrifying. The wolf eats grandma, the mermaid walks on knives, parents abandon their children in the woods. It’s better to show than tell about the interior. Here’s a glimpse of a corner. spilled blood video.
Big, bold pattern and color in your face.
I appreciated the audio guide, especially for the specifics on how different mosaics were created. To an artist, that’s fascinating.
Small, subtle and extraordinary.
After an hour of craning my neck and staring agog, I walked up the main drag, Nevsky Prospect, hoping to find some Russian cosmetics to take back home to my girls. No luck, one place directed me to another, and so forth. But I did get to see this other Love, Actually moment. There was smooching and he was, adorably, trading his hat for hers, completely oblivious to the crowds surging by on the street.
Hello, young lovers. I miss you, Boatie.
It was getting lateish, after 6, so I checked Google maps and thought a 30 minute walk, that’s not so bad, and I need to buy some milk. I set out in the direction of my hotel.I shouldn’t have. I really shouldn’t have.
That last fifteen minutes I went from tired to limping to painful hobbling. I need to face the fact that just because I think I ought to be able to do it, and I am willing to do it, doesn’t mean I can do it or I should do it. In all, I walked 6.8 miles. I think five miles is my limit. I will for damn sure take Uber everywhere tomorrow. I’ll be aided in my resolve by the fact it’s supposed to rain all day.
** So named because it marks the exact spot where Tzar Alexander II was blown up by terrorist’s bomb in 1881. Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose. Funded by the imperial family, it housed a shrine and held memorial services for the fallen Tzar. After the October Revolution it was used as a morgue and as a vegetable warehouse. It’s now officially the Museum of Mosaics. Thank God.
Spent the early morning writing blog posts in my bed. It was a luxurious moment, relaxing in a square of sunlight, sipping my tea, resizing photos. I have to remind myself there’s no hurry to get anywhere, I am already here. No rushing in Russia.
Planned to do an audio guide walking tour of the Peter and Paul Fortress. Reading about it in the Eyewitness guide over my breakfast porridge, I started worrying about all the many variables. It’s a vast walled-island fortress. I don’t know which gate to enter. My mind started telling me I needed a day off. I should rest. I had a sudden urge to get back in bed, but the truth was I just felt anxious. Fortunately for me, I’ve learned that feelings aren’t facts, so I acknowledged my emotions, and got ready to go.
I switched my venue to the Kunstkamera, Peter the Great’s personal collection of artifacts acquired in the spirit of scientific inquiry. It sounded smaller, more contained. Smithsonian lite. I Ubered over in no traffic to speak of, with Dale Earnhardt Sr. behind the wheel. JK! It’s probably Mario Andretti. No crowds, no lines, no waiting. I opened the museum entry door and did my windmill, flailing thing. The threshold the door closes against abruptly dropped six inches **
I did the ticket booth and coat check waltz. It was rubles (cash) on the barrel here. Good thing I brought plenty. The building was sturdy, but showing signs of hard use and lack of upkeep. Two upper floors were closed. It began with tableaus of Inuit life – tools and clothing, hunting gear and toys. There were posed figures; a family unit, and a shaman tricked out in his rig. I liked this child’s toy model of a kayak.And this ritual basket , something my talented artist friend, Gin Petty, would appreciate.
I wish I could take this home.
This ritual mask reminded me of another ritual, in Golding’s Lord of the Flies
Before I go further, let me say that I’d read up on this museum and knew there were some creepy exhibits. My notes read – Peter The Great’s Anthropology and Ethnography Museum. Utter weirdness and cool shit. I thought I was prepared.
WARNING NOTE: Read no further if you are squeamish. Just don’t. Resist your curiosity. Skip down to the next sentence in bold.
The large well-lit room held glass jars of deformed infants and animals that Peter the Great collected. Scores of jars packed with the pitiful, pathetic and horrific. And not one two-headed baby in a jar, oh no. Shelf after shelf of them, from the utterly broken (hematomaed flippered open-spined cyclops) to the barely dented (a harelip). I thanked God I didn’t see this when I was of childbearing age. The fetuses weren’t even the worst part. To my modern CG-informed eyes they didn’t look real, they looked like Blood Salvage horror movie props. No, what got me was the shelf with a row of baby arms in glass decanters. Tiny, tender little infant arms. I thought of the story from Apocalypse Now; the guerrilla army that lopped off all the vaccinated arms of children. The horror, the horror. That’s when I wished I could run the tape backward, erase the memory.
Recall that Peter did this in the spirit of enlightened scientific inquiry. These deformed fetuses weren’t the work of Satan, he decreed. Unfortunately, he went on to add, “They were the result of disease, or the mother’s thoughts and feelings during pregnancy.” (my emphasis added) Thanks for nothing, .
Death Mask of Peter the Great
That’s pretty much the only thing that could have made this worse – being handed the blame for all this human misery. Here’s the least gruesome photo in the spirit of that room.
The autopsy
By now I was queasy and emotionally off-balance and the vignettes of village or nomad life looked nasty, brutish and short. People in harsh conditions, scrabbling to exist.
Moving right along, I had a great encounter with a woman selling souvenirs. I liked a teeshirt that depicted the first two dogs to be rocketed into space and come back safely. I wanted a red version but my size only came in black. “Black is better,” she insisted. “It’s outer space. It’s supposed to be black.” Ha! So true. Yes, reader. I bought one. I walked instead of Ubered over to another location of my favorite restaurant, Fruktovaya Lavka. It was a half hour walk and helped to clear my head. I was in the thick of St. Petersburg daily life and happened across some delightful things, like this monument to a trolley conductor and his faithful steeds.
Sadly, this outpost had fruit and veg, but no café. Ended up at Bush, a bakery and coffee place I’d starred on my Google map because, pastry! I gobbled a tomato and cheese on croissant and half of a hazel nut caramel and chocolate tart, and headed back to the sanctuary of my hotel.
**there are no lawyers in St Petersburg or there are no liability personal jury laws.
Simple plan today. Go to Double B coffee, then up to the red room of excellent hunting dogs, and restart my exploration. Break at 5pm for dinner, then hurry back to roam the hallowed halls until 9 at night. It’s going to be a long day.
Double B coffee was having a blind tasting of beans. An educational and competitive event for whatever the coffee bean equivalent of sommelier is, I guess. There was a lot of sniffing and tasting from multiple cups.
Hard Core coffee bean aficionados, hard at work
Okay, every post could be a variation of this – I was on my way to see X, when I saw Y. Two hours later… TodayI was going to the hunting dog room, when I saw a small painting with this pair of hounds.
I had to stop and draw them. Did them together and separately. A passing tourist took a photo of me that serendipitously included the guard who kept a sharp but benevolent eye on me. It’s my favorite.
After lunch I ventured to the Dutch and Flemish rooms. Oh my, Rubens. I turned a corner and blinked. It was like he suddenly turned on the lights. Everything from the rooms before receded, becoming flat and dim in memory. His work looked supercharged with life, vivid and bright. Not just his luscious woman, either. I already knew he had an unmatched grasp of the pleasure of carnality. This small portrait of fierce old man’s face stopped me in my tracks.
Bam!
It was dark-thirty by the time I walked through the Rembrandt gallery. Rubens is hunger and appetite; he exults.
Rembrandt aches.
He didn’t flinch from the dark. His darkness wasn’t a featureless void, it was a deep well that he could dip into and draw out compassion and empathy. “He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster. And if thou gaze long into an abyss, the abyss will also gaze into thee.” – Nietzsche. **
I got to spend a good quarter of an hour essentially alone with his Prodigal Son, a theme that resonates through my own life. Rembrandt understands the shame of degradation, the benediction of touch, the unexpected, undeserved, and unconditional welcome home.
His painting is forgiveness made visible.
Yearning for home.
**When I was checking the exact wording of the Nietzsche quote, I came across this interesting link about that very question.
Here’s a brief excerpt. “…People are losing their souls. Sex and Money are the draw. Emptiness the motivator. The hole of the abyss is filled with them, not what they were after. Addicts always start out with a view they can tempt the abyss and not be caught. Every addict ends up saying ‘Oops.'” – Mike Leary.
Yesterday, short sleeve weather. Today rain. Tomorrow snow. Wow, just like home. Wore my rain boots and carried my chucks in a bag, which worked a treat. My good deed for the day was telling a woman, who hesitated at the cloak room over whether to check her fleece-lined hoodie or not, to leave it or she’d cook like a Sunday roast. Hear me now, thank me later. She left it.
Going for the early Italian rooms today. En route I paused to examine this mosaic table embellished with tiny, precise fragments of semi-precious stone.
Intricate and subtle..
These chips of stone are so very small that even standing there in good light, I had to look at the close-up photo on my iPhone and use zoom to see the fine lines of the joinery.
Lovely beast.Marvelous work.
Crowds of tourists, specifically the huge tour groups, pushed past me like 18 wheelers blowing past a Smart Car. Here’s a tip; If you want to see the marvelous Peacock clock in peace, go after 6pm on a Wednesday or Friday night. It’s an awesome experience. Of course, if you like seething crowds and a noise level like a thousand monkeys chattering on crack, be my guest.
Left the raucous peacock room and entered this calm and lovely space.
Symmetry. I’m a fan.
Wandered past incomparable religious works by Italian masters, which still didn’t prepare me for the glory that is the Loggia.
A copy of Raphael’s Loggia at the Vatican, his testament to the glory of creation.
It brought tears to my eyes. I can’t find the words to do the moment justice. It’s so exceptionally beautiful and complex, yet by some miracle, as crammed with visual riches as it is, it doesn’t feel fussy. How is that even possible? There are Genesis stories overhead and on every side the walls are ornamented with flora and fauna, the bounty of this world rendered with a loving eye for each detail. Even his rat is charming.
Critters. I hate rats. If you fought to get them out of your attic, you’d hate them too.
I was that tourist, the one humbly asking strangers to photograph me. But you know, even a scowling Russian man, who irritably growled, “No English,” when I approached him, changed as soon as he saw the iPhone in my hand. He smiled and nodded. Apparently the iPhone is a universal language and an instant bridge between cultures. I’m awed by its power.
My happy place.
Later, still reeling from the glory of Raphael’s vision, I stumbled down to the café to eat my contraband croissant. On the way, I walked though a dark red room lined with enormous paintings of hunting dogs bringing down bears and leopards, and tables laden with vegetables and game. I hastened back after my break and discovered there were, huzzah, two benches to choose from. I sketched a table draped with a peacock and rabbit, the dog underneath growling at a hissing cat.
Sketch detail
I felt fully in my skin. This is why I came. I don’t know how this will shape my future art but I know it fed my soul.
I knew this image so well through photographs and was still blown away.
When I finally put down my pencil some hours and several sketches later, I looked out a window to see snow falling. Big, fat cinematic flakes. I grinned like a madwoman and babbled my new Russian word Sneg! to every guard I passed on my way out.
Walked through the heavy, wet snow, well protected by my umbrella and plenty warm enough for the ten minute hike to Fruktovaya Lavka. Devoured an excellent risotto, with chicken liver and grilled vegetables, and my favorite raspberry tart. Took my first surge-rated Uber. The exchange is so favorable that even doubled, Uber pop was around six bucks.
My iPhone rang at 1am, unknown caller. I changed my voice mail message to ‘I’m in Russia. Text is good and email is better, but if you want me to call you back, leave a message.’
