Tamaz Khutsishvili

   It was purely by chance that I found myself in a drawing circle at the Pioneer Palace. My first teacher, Grigol Meskhi, was a brilliant person and a good painter (a portraitist) of the old generation. He taught me the ABCs of drawing and gave me my first ‘blessing’.
 

   As a child, at first I wanted to be a fireman and then later a mountaineer, a profession which I thought would allow me to support my family… we were experiencing severe economic hardships at that time. My father was dead and my mother was doing everything she could to send me to a private teacher. I think I turned out to be very lucky - Alexander Bazhbeuk-Melikov became my one and only great maestro. I began to take lessons from him and continued to do so even during my studies at the Art Academy.
   Once, back in 1957 if my memory serves me right, the Alikhanov brothers (both inventors) bought some works from Bazhbeuk-Melikov at a rather high price. Alexander first asked my mother’s permission, and then with this money took me to Moscow with him, where an exhibition of paintings from the Dresden Gallery was on display. Up to that time the authorities had stubbornly denied the existence of this unique Dresden collection in the Soviet Union. They kept announcing that it had been destroyed during the war. The exhibition was held in the Pushkin Museum, where an ocean of people lined up outside and waited for several days for the chance to see it. Thanks to Bazhbeuk’s Painters’ Union membership card we were able to avoid standing in the line, and we enjoyed visiting the exposition every day.
   One day at the museum Alexander asked me which painting I liked best. I stopped in front of “Chocolate girl”.
   “You, a false man!” exclaimed the great maestro, overwhelmed by my poor taste.  “Tomorrow I’ll put you in a train and send back to Tbilisi,” he added, and I felt a strong blow on my head.

   This event definitely had an influence on me. The next day I saw Titsian’s canvases and loudly expressed my admiration, and a satisfied teacher praised me and in the evening rewarded me with cakes and candies at the hotel.
   Prior to that trip Sergo Kobuladze, Apolon Kutateladze and Ucha Japaridze had advised my mother to try to have me enrolled in a faculty of the artistic processing of fabric, since at that point in time they considered me weak in painting. They planned to have me transferred to the painting faculty after completing this fabric schooling. I did manage to get enrolled in this faculty and there I studied batik, tapestry, carpets, and kilims. David Tsitsishvili, an excellent teacher and a great professional, taught me this art.
   Several years ago I was invited to China to take part in a one-year workshop as head of the easel painting training courses. This workshop was arranged for teachers from higher education institutions. It was my first trip overseas. During Soviet times I crisscrossed nearly all the republics of the Union, but never traveled beyond its borders. To tell you the truth, staying abroad turned out to be rather difficult for me - I missed my home immensely. Peking is a strange city, and something about it reminds me of Tbilisi: winding streets, very Tbilisi-like Italian-style courtyards with water taps and mulberry trees…
   It seemed that the hosts of the workshop noticed my nostalgia and purposely invited me to the home of one family. As I stepped out of the car, a gate opened and an very handsome man came out to welcome me, greeting me in Georgian with “Gamarjobat, chemo batono” (a Georgian greeting). Inside the house a Georgian table was laid for us, complete with ghomi (of the corn flour variety), baje (a spicy walnut sauce) and red beans. Chinese cuisine is very rich and varied, but, knowing that they do not prepare walnut stuffed meals, I was surprised and confused, thinking that they had arranged all this in my honour. Before we sat down to dinner, the genial host invited me to have a look at their family photo album. I opened the album and could not believe my eyes. There, I saw a picture of myself as a first-grader. There was me, there was Guram Chkhetia, Gia Borchkhadze, and others. Then I noticed Sandro Tushmalishvili and it all became clear… Sandro had relatives in China and I just happened to be visiting the family of one of them. Coincidentally, I also saw David Tsitsishvili’s photos in this album.
   I was a second-year student at the time I took part in a students’ exhibition being held in the Painters’ Club. At this exhibition Professor Parnaoz Lapiashvili offered to transfer me, along with Shota Samkharadze and Irakli Kipshidze, to the theatre decorative art studio in the Faculty of Painting, from which I graduated in 1966. Communicating with the theatre and with the stage are my sweetest memories. I worked at nearly all of Georgia’s state theatres, but eventually I grew disappointed with this activity.
   I used to travel in the same circles as some very interesting people. In addition to the pleasure of their acquaintances, I was able to obtain a great deal by communicating with these people - I learned many things from them. However, the experience that left the greatest impression on me was the years I spent with Mikheil Chiaureli. Despite the fact that ‘Uncle Mish’ was a theatre and cinema producer himself, he was the very man who had previously convinced me to quit stage design and devote myself to real painting. I recall how he once assigned me the task of drawing the portrait of a disabled general with a terribly ugly appearance. I worked for a week and proudly submitted to him the result, a work that I was rather proud of. He picked up a pencil and crossed out my drawing.
 

  “What are you doing, Uncle Misha?”  I cried out in astonishment.
   Chiaureli turned to me and preached, “You know, son, in this technically well-executed work I failed to notice the aesthetics. Remember, even when drawing a murderer, you should do it so that he does not rouse disgust in a man.”
   After graduating from the Academy, I often participated in thematic and free exhibitions. In these exhibitions there was no liability on me as the artist, and I was also well paid for my contributions. I recall once displaying a canvas entitled “Old Tbilisi” at an exhibition dedicated to Lenin’s hundredth anniversary. It seemed that the theme was not quite in line with the purpose of the exhibition, but this work garnered so much appreciation that it was purchased by the contemporary art section of Tretiakov’s Gallery.
   My attitude towards the Communist authorities, despite the misfortunes that my family suffered at their hands, remained loyal. Painting is such a complicated and labour intensive profession that it never left me any spare time, so I had no occasion to sit around and think about politics. As far as portraits of party leaders are concerned, I have painted many of them. Goja painted the queen, whom he couldn’t stand, so if I painted Lenin, Brezhnev or anyone else for a sizable fee why would that be so surprising?
   I have dedicated myself to portraits since my student years. However, I do not consider myself to be a portrait painter. I wouldn’t be able to divide my creative art into separate stages. I have had periods of time when dark colours prevailed in my works, and other periods when the dominating colour was light. Despite my constant reiteration to my pupils that they should not disregard any one colour, I frequently feel that I am doing that very thing myself. I prepare the colours by hand, because the standard colour of the “tube” is unacceptable for me. Before I can use it I must mix it and “tame” it to my liking.
   Even if I don’t feel like working, the instant I find myself standing in front of an easel I forget about everything else. I am a professional painter who has been holding a brush in his hand and inhaling the smell of paint for forty-nine years, since the age of thirteen. How many works my mother has salvaged from the rubbish bin! As time elapses, something that I have thrown away previously may eventually appeal to me again…