It was for the opening of his exhibition Anamorphoses, if my memory serves me right, that Gia was late. The exhibition hall of the Musical Center was packed with invited guests. The artist, however, was nowhere to be found and no one seemed  to have noticed it but me.  Some mystical energy was pouring out from the walls with an explosive force into the hall, filling the space with some intangible force.

Then entered Gia - confused and embarrassed. Something had gone wrong with his car. His confusion grew even more as the huge hall suddenly burst into thunderous applause.

I often remember this incident when the topics of contemporary art and the fall of mankind into universal “anorexia” are being discussed.

I have not used “anorexia” by chance, Gia Bughadze likes to use different terms when elaborating on a theme.

“As time passes by and epochs change, man’s sensory organs become dulled. They suffer anorexia and therefore require increasingly vivid, emotional and dynamic forms of outside stimulation. The music that Beatles performed in the 60s and 70s was regarded by older generations as shocking, noisy, aggressive. Today, they sound melodic and rhythmically benign.”

It is true, though, that today people go to concerts and exhibitions to please the eye and ear, or to see one another. Their feelings are more touched by soap operas. I, however, have seen many moved to tears by Gia’s work.

Much has been written and said about him. Good and bad. He himself has written and talked a lot. His works eloquently reveal his views on the permanent and transitory in art, on colours, ideas and words in modern painting.

Today, however, Gia Bughaze will speak about different things.

“I began to paint, actually, by having been born to a family that had no connection to painting. Television came to Tbilisi around the time I was born. Our family had a big box with a tiny screen like everyone else. My grandmother Salome loved to watch it. In those days they often showed concerts of music students. Shura Machavariani or Lia Mikadze would announce the concert of Musical School No.2. The children would then come to stage and perform Bach, Mozart and others, and Grandma Salome would melt, totally overwhelmed. Grandma Salome, as we the five grandchildren would call her, singled me out: Gia must learn to play the piano!

“That is how they dragged me into music lessons. The other grandmother, Nata, my mother’s mother was more open minded about this enterprise. She played piano herself and knew perfectly well that I had no special gift for music, so she was rather sceptical about Grandma Salome’s musical ambitions on my behalf.

“Grandma Salome was a big, robust woman with fair hair and blue eyes. One day she noticed that something was really wrong with me. I practised the same pieces and made no progress whatsoever. What happened in reality was that when I went to my piano teacher (who knew my worth all too well) she avoided unnecessary pain by sending me to play in the yard until time to go home. This went on for two months. One day, however, a few minutes after I had arrived for the lesson, she opened the door for me to go out and play. Well, there was Grandmother standing there!  I still remember that she was wearing black and held a black umbrella in her hand. You should be inside - not outside!  She then proceeded into the room, frantically swatting my hapless teacher with her umbrella. The piano teacher was a short, stooping girl and, well, there was no stopping Granny. I admit that I was not much help to my poor teacher either. ‘You shameless baggage! I will have you out of the school! You are ruining the future of this talented child who is burning to learn!”

“I was taken out of the musical school and a new teacher was hired to give me private lessons in music. My suffering thus resumed.

“I remember the Shota Rustaveli memorial days. It seemed that everyone was painting his portrait during these days, and so did I. I kept my little memorial at home where the music teacher saw my unsightly Rustaveli and marvelled at my outstanding natural ability. She probably meant only to hint that I was hopeless in music. I was already in the fourth form at school. I was not a bad pupil, and had excellent marks in maths. The maths teacher, Eliko Dvali, noticed that back of my notebook was full of doodles and sketches. I drew non-stop and with profound pleasure. I played by drawing.  At the table, as I was doing my homework,  I would involuntarily begin to draw on the white tablecloth. I drew football players, soldiers, and was so carried away that  two or three hours would pass before I realised that the table was covered with pictures.

“One day, the maths teacher asked my mother to visit and told her that I had a talent that needed to be developed. She advised my parents to send me to the Youth Palace where her friend worked. In the same year, at the age of ten, I was accepted and I began to paint. My first teachers of painting were Tsiala and Shalva Kapanadze. At school, my marks began to go down, and I gave up on maths altogether. I realized that painting was my calling.

“In 1967, we celebrated the 50th anniversary of the Great October Revolution. Shalva Kapanadze suggested that I do compositions on this theme. He was a god for me and I always did what he suggested. So when he would tell me to paint Lenin with the Iskra editorial staff, Lenin in the Avlabari publishing house, and then the Fall of the Winter Palace, that was what I would paint. He would  examine the pictures, nod approvingly and hang them on the wall. Altogether I produced over fifty pictures - in pastels, pencil and oil. When I was eleven, he helped me to put on my first personal exhibition.

“At twelve some sudden change in me took place, and I was moved to begin painting on Georgian patriotic themes.
“It took until I was in the seventh grade for Grandma Salome to reconcile herself to the fact that she would not see me perform on television. She complained and grumbled, but that was all she could do. Besides, she could not help taking pride in my small successes - after all, they did write about me in the newspapers!

“I used to have a teacher who, if she got angry at you, would keep you after school, and make you stand. One day when she kept us in after school I got tired of standing. I was a heavy boy then. To make my life easier, Nino, who used to sit next to me surreptitiously offered me her notebook so I could draw. This escapade did not escape the teacher’s attention and she went mad. She made me stay in the corner for what seemed an eternity.

“I really do not know how many hours she kept me like this, but I remember that suddenly the door of the classroom was pushed wide open. My grandmother burst in, looked around, and spying me in the corner she began to protest vehemently. The teacher was shocked. “You should not have taken the trouble,” she mumbled. “Forget that,” grandma snapped, “What is he doing there?” The teacher tried to explain that I misbehaved and had also been engaged in the notebook nonsense, promptly producing the notebook. “Give that to me,” barked Granny, “This is not nonsense. It is art and it is why he is a good kid, not like you.” She grabbed the notebook, grabbed me, and took me solemnly home. Only that day did I understand that she had  recognised my true vocation.

“Soon I was fortunate enough to be selected to be among the Palace children (dancers, singers, etc.) to visit Germany. To my great astonishment I found myself in this group and at the Dresden Art Gallery. Most importantly, that trip turned out to be an important learning experience in my life. Before that I had lived in a sort of vacuum - school, painting and football. In Germany, we were beaten in a fight with our dancers.  This was my first encounter with violence, humiliation, and desire to dominate others.

“I had one remarkable relative, my father’s cousin, Omar Ghambashidze whom I loved and admired very much. He was my ideal and role model, the symbol of freedom and alert wit, intelligence and humour. He lived with us for almost seven years. He was fourteen years older than me and we were together day and night.

“I am fortunate to have known Ucha Japaridze. When he was already confined to bed, he introduced me to his friend as his student. I was not, and I had never regarded myself to be his student and thought that he did not either. At that moment I realized that I was indeed his student, maybe not in painting, but I have learned so much from him.

“It is difficult to say how others would use it, had they had the power that Ucha Japaridze had in painting. Although he was extremely powerful, I  have never felt an aggression, which others certainly had in abundance. He was Chairman of the Artists Union, Rector of the Academy of Arts, Full Member of the All-Union Academy of Arts and I think a five-time laureate of the State Prize, a three-time Hero of  Socialist labour. He possessed the full regalia of the Soviet Union, but that is a separate topic.

“My first emotion regarding painting relates to the following incident. Once I asked my father to draw a car for me. He did. I remember it was too small for me to add a driver and passengers to, so I drew a car myself. This was my first joyful feeling of success.

“Painting is my passion and I give myself entirely to it. Some people may dislike everything I paint, but you cannot escape criticism. I love to paint and it is my life’s blood.

“The city Mtsketa played an important part in my artistic life. Mother used to work in a hospital there as head of the X-ray Department. Twice a week she would take me to Mtskheta. In those days the hospital and the Samtavro monastery shared a common yard. I remember that mother would leave me with the nuns. I grew so attached to this town that I could not bear to stay away.

“I remember  my first visit to Shiomghvime and the indelible impression it made on me. Later I asked my father to take me back there. I stayed and painted for the rest of the day. I made four sketches. Father was to  fetch me at six and take me to Tbilisi. He did not, the night fell and  I could hear some animals howling. The stars began to twinkle in the sky and I was  captivated by the monastery and the mountains, the overwhelming sense of mystery. I was not frightened in the least, but I remained standing still, not moving or breathing.  The mountains resembled huge dragons rearing up on their hind legs. Twenty years later, when I read about the life of  Shio Mghvime, I discovered that he had, in Christ’s name, paralyzed the devil in a dragon’s form and turned it into a mountain. It was around eleven o’clock when I  heard the roar of the engine and my father’s Moskvich stopped in front of me. He had been in a restaurant, having forgotten his only son in the middle of a forest. I have always grateful for this, as it was like revelation to be alone in Shiomghvime.

“One more thing happened in Shiomghvime. I was working on a sketch and asked my father to leave me on the road. Words cannot convey the beauty of the cliffs there. Suddenly it began to rain. I had just finished reading about the life of Cezanne. He died of pneumonia, which he caught from working in the rain. He did not stop painting, finished the picture, and only then did he go home, where he died later. Young people often believe that they should sacrifice themselves for the sake of their work. Later you come to realise that you should not attempt such a sacrifice, but rather you should live quietly and do the work you were born to do. Striving to emulate Cezanne, I did not relinquish the “post”.  The canvas, however, began to loosen, and the paint smeared. Everything became deformed and I was thoroughly drenched. I wondered how Cezanne could paint in the rain, and I felt cheated. When I checked, however, I discovered that he had had an umbrella.

“Such paradoxes, mystique and fun connect me to Mtskheta. To this day when I pass it, I get a strange thrill. This is my home, Sakartvelo.  Here are my roots, and I have been blessed indeed to have been born a Georgian.

“This is why I have tried to become a painter of the Georgian chronicles. How well I have succeeded is another issue. I have always said that I want to do for Georgia, what Wagner did for Germany. Based on mythology and folklore, he created an idealised image of the German genesis. I, perhaps, have not and will not be able to do even a fraction of this, but at least I have wanted and tried to do this, and that means something.

“Once I asked my mother what philosophy was, because I would often hear someone say ‘don’t start that philosophy now (meaning basically: shut up). She told me that it was a science about who we are and why we live. I was enthralled. My painting has always been philosophical. Some are irritated by the philosophical retrospection in my painting. I think in philosophical forms, only through the help of my eye and not my brain. I cognise a visual thought philosophically, if I may say so. Just as music is an audible expression of an idea, so painting is the visual expression.

“Eventually, I moved to my other grandmother and aunt’s house. Here Aunt Ketino and Grandma Nata created ideal conditions for me to work and grow. It was quiet and peaceful there. First I was given my own corner in the dining- room. Then I wanted to paint a bigger picture and the dining table was moved to another room. I was seventeen when I first painted a large picture, then the second, third  and I soon occupied the entire room. But my expansion did not stop there. Today I have a large studio on Nutsubidze, but I am always short of space. Space gets filled at a catastrophic pace.

“My son Lasha was born, then Niniko. I have my wife Ani and my life goes on.”

Indeed, any house or studio would be too small for him. Only narrow passages are left in the rooms. Pictures are everywhere. He paints quickly and with incredible lightness, all the while receiving guests and talking about life and art, with passion and wit. In the room where Gia works, the works are leaning against all four walls in several layers.

There is an armchair amidst this artistic profusion, from which a whole new world is seen. How fortunate that this armchair exists.

MARINA VASHAKMADZE