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Translated article: "Meetings with Shostakovich," Solomon Gershov

This is my original translation of an article originally published in Sovetskaya Muziyka (now Muzikalnaya Akademia), issue 12, 1988. As I am not a native Russian speaker, this translation may not be perfect; however, I have attempted to translate it to the best of my ability.

The original article: Встречи с Шостаковичем (mus.academy)

I want to start my short story about Shostakovich from afar. In our time, different people, for different reasons, have turned to me with questions about this, how, when in these circumstances, my meetings with Dmitri Dmitriyevich Shostakovich came together. At that time, I was young, an amateur artist, and Shostakovich was already a famous composer. Therefore, these questions were sometimes delivered with unambiguous notes of snobbishness and mockery.

I had no relation to musical art, nor did I play any instruments. But that didn’t stop me from attending the concerts of the Leningrad Philharmonic, buying affordable entrance tickets, and listening to music, which opened to me a world of enchantment and beauty.

How then, after all, did my meeting with Shostakovich transpire? I was led to him at the house of the artist Boris Mikhailovich Erbshtein in the summer of 1929. (At that time, the ballet “The Red Poppy” was being staged at the Marinskiiy theatre, with Ulanova in the lead role.) Dmitri Dmitriyevich waited for us. He met us cordially. I managed to tell him a little about my modest success of my exhibition at the House of Art, not to mention the criticisms in the “Evening Krasnaya Gazeta” on a certain V. Gross.

Other meetings followed this one. I was well-received at his house. He lived there with his mother, Sofiya Vasilievna, and his two sisters, Maria Dmitriyevna and Zoya Dmitriyevna. I think it’s not a mistake for me to say they showed me some sympathy.

Naturally, I wanted to paint Dmitri Dmitriyevich. But this proved to be a difficult task, as it was unbearable for him to sit still. A state of rest was organically alien to him, in view of his impulsiveness, mobility, even some nervousness. Still, it’s a wonder that Kustodiev could sketch a portrait of Shostakovich at the time when he was a boy, with his restlessness.

And yet I contrived to make an outline with the nature of the moment, when Dmitri Dmitriyevich was resting on the black leather couch, occupying three quarters of the area of the little office.

I showed him these little drawings sometimes. To tell the truth, they didn’t particularly move him, which didn’t affect my further attempts to draw him again and again. Unfortunately, a large amount of the drawings were lost for reasons I was not responsible for. Maybe some are left, which I gave to friends.

Our meetings in those years were mainly saturated with conversations about art, first of all about music and the people who created it. Among the many topics we touched on, I remember Beethoven. I was very interested to find out his opinion on the Heiligenstadt testament.

“Do you know what the most surprising thing about it is?” he said. ”In my opinion, it is that his Second Symphony was already written after the testament, and he finished it in C major.” After many years, when Shostakovich’s 13th Symphony appeared, it seemed no less amazing to me that the finale he wrote was also in this emotional key.

We talked about the tendency towards atonality in music and the destruction of melody. Due to my commitment towards Beethoven, Bach, and Mozart, Shostakovich’s music seemed difficult to me the first time I heard it. Only when Mahler, Bruckner, Hindemith, Berg gradually grew closer to me did I understand his work. I was candid with him, and he was not offended by me. He said, “listen to more music, and different [music].”

We argued about literature. He was mainly occupied with Gogol, Saltykov-Shchedrin, Leskov. He really appreciated Kozma Prutkov and often quoted him. He loved that place where the following is said: “[while] throwing pebbles in the water, look at the circles they form; otherwise, such an activity would be idle sport.” (note- orig. «Бросая в воду камешки, смотри на кругу, ими образуемые, иначе такое заняте будет пустой забавою») I paid attention to his enthusiasm in his view on literature, which was characterized by the grotesque, satire, and sharp metaphors.

But one such interesting detail: Since childhood, the book “Tom Sawyer” by Mark Twain was on his table. Doesn’t that mean that something childish and mischievous sits in the depths of the soul of even a very serious genius?

Somehow, Dmitri Dmitriyevich invited me to the movie theater to see a film starring Buster Keaton, an actor whom, along with Charlie Chaplin, he was very interested in. The movie theater was located on Vosstaniya street (formerly Znamenskaya). The film brought us much pleasure. The tragic essence of Buster Keaton was constant with Shostakovich’s own mood.

On the way home, he suddenly said to me, “come home with me for a short while.” “Home” represented the character of Petersburg at the end of the century. We went through the front door, ascended to the fourth floor, and Dmitri Dmitriyevich turned on the light, and I saw that the main thing in the room was the grand piano. Without a word, he went to the piano and began to play Chopin’s Seventh Waltz. The waltz sounded marvelously beautiful, touching at the occasional rest. Then, we left immediately.

Outside, I timidly asked him, “what is that room you have? We’ve never heard anything about it.” He answered that it was necessary for him to have a place where he could work in privacy…

I wanted to ask him why exactly he played Chopin, since it seemed that all of his musical works were very far from the spirit of Chopin’s music. But I calculated that the conversation was heading in an uncomfortable direction. I never visited that room again, but the episode has always stayed in my memory.

I knew that Dmitri Dmitriyevich was interested in the circus. Once, I invited him to see a performance by the famous strongman Chekhovsky. Shostakovich willingly agreed.

Jugglers, gymnasts, clowns, and trained dogs all performed in the first act. But with a particular impatience, we, like the whole audience, waited for the second act with Chekhovsky. His performance looked like this: He lay down completely flat in the arena, with a pretty big wooden shield over his chest. An automobile rolled over the shield, crowded with passengers, and afterwards, to the delight of the crowd, he got up as if nothing had happened. Then, he put a long iron pole on his shoulders, from which hung about ten people- or twelve! With all this cargo, the performer made circles from one side, then to the other.

Why do I recount these episodes? I want to cancel the perception that Dmitri Dmitriyevich only saw the world from outside the window of his office. He loved life in all its manifestations.

For those who knew Dmitri Dmitriyevich closely, it’s no secret that he was a very cheerful person, loved sharp words, and appreciated this in others.

In 1934, I went to Moscow. Thus, our communication was cut off. If we saw each other, it was only occasionally, at some concert already in Moscow. Only in the war years did our meetings resume. I lived at the time in evacuation in Novosibirsk, where Dmitri Dmitriyevich visited from time to time. In Novosibirsk, it’s well-known that the Leningrad Philharmonic orchestra evacuated there, led by Mravinsky and Kurt Sanderling. Ivan Ivanovich Sollertinsky also lived there with his family.

After the premiere of the Seventh Symphony in Moscow (1942), Kuibyshev, and Leningrad, Mravinsky prepared hard for it with his orchestra in Novosibirsk. I remember the first performance of the symphony in the hall of the Novosibirsk Philharmonic. The concert was a great success. I was amazed by what I’d heard. Present at the concert was Shostakovich himself, whom the hall enthusiastically greeted.

In 1944, Ivan Ivanovich suddenly died in Novosibirsk. His death produced a heavy impression on all who knew him. In the hall of the Philharmonic, a civil memorial service took place, where an enormous number of people gathered. I had to paint Ivan Ivanovich lying in the coffin. Later, in 1945, when the composer Georgiy Vasilievich Sviridov went to Leningrad, I asked him to give the painting to Shostakovich. Only after many years, when Sviridov was at my house (he came for a portrait of Shostakovich, which I decided to give him as one of Dmitri Dmitriyevich's closest friends), I asked him: "Did you give the painting of the deceased Sollertinsky to Dmitri Dmitriyevich?" And he answered me: "I kept it to myself." I understood him, and wasn't offended. Maybe he didn't want to cause Shostakovich even more pain.

Another small memory of the pre-war years. In Moscow 1938-39, there was a general meeting of arts workers at the capital on the so-called formalism in the works of musical and theatrical figures. I remember the speech of one orator- a music teacher. When, later, I asked Shostakovich his opinion on the speech, he, not thinking, answered, “what one composer says about another composer can be said without being a composer.”

After the war, I returned to Moscow. One time, Shostakovich and I happened to meet outside. Dmitri Dmitriyevich was interested in what I was up to. I told him everything in detail. He left me his telephone number and asked me to somehow go with him.

I was surprised by his huge apartment in a building not far from the “Ukraine” hotel- almost without furniture. My attention was drawn to a portrait of the composer pictured at the piano- a gift by a Czech artist. His lifelike portrait did not especially produce an impression on me. But hung around it were others which I recalled- a portrait painted by Kustodiev, whose work I liked.

My meetings with Dmitri Dmitriyevich were broken off after then for a long time (until 1956). Letters rarely came to me from him. In one of them, he asked me to report to him in detail on the death of Boris Mikhailovich Erbshtein, our mutual friend. I fulfilled his request, but added that I was finishing a cycle of twenty works, dedicated to his Seventh Symphony.

I don’t know if other artists have attempted to depict the Seventh Symphony in paintings. But I got to work with great zeal. This applied not only to the period of the Great Patriotic War, but also the fascist invasion of Europe that started, for me, with the events in Spain.

Shostakovich was very interested in my reports. He asked me to go to Moscow and show him my works. Without delay, I collected all twenty pictures and sent them to him. Dmitri Dmitriyevich lived in a house on Nezhdanova Street. He let me know ahead of time on the telephone that he was already waiting for me. After a short conversation, we proceeded to the point. We looked at the pictures quietly (his whole family participated in this). Not a single word was said- no comments, nor compliments. When I finished showing them, I asked, “well, which one left an impression on you? You were quiet, and didn’t say anything to me.”

Then, he said, “I really like all of these works. They all produced a profound impression on me.”

Hearing this, I decided to be generous and told him to choose any one of them as a gift. He liked seven of the works. So then I said, “take all seven!”

When we parted, Dmitri Dmitriyevich said to me, “come tomorrow and have lunch with us at two in the afternoon. We will wait for you.”

1968. I was given a ticket to the Creative House of Composers at Repino. I went there not so much to rest as to work. Soon, I noticed something strange- an unfriendly attitude towards myself from some of the members of the Composers’ Union who lived there at the time, especially their wives. It seemed to me that they were thinking, “walking among us is some sort of ignorant person, clearly unacquainted with music.” Suddenly, Dmitri Dmitriyevich arrives at the Creative House (he visited yearly). We met like good friends. Often, we’d have lunch or dinner together in the canteen, and walk together along the ice of the Finnish gulf. The others’ attitudes towards me drastically changed. Those who had almost bullied me now let me pass anywhere: to the cloakroom, to the canteen… Such a change brought me undisguised grievances (огорчения), and I shared them with Dmitri Dmitriyevich. He completely shared my outrage.

One evening, Dmitri Dmitriyevich, Irina Antonovna, and I went for a walk along the bay after dinner. When our stroll came to an end, I requested Dmitri Dmitriyevich to pose for a bit so I could draw him. He said that it wasn’t especially possible for him to sit, he couldn’t. I enthused to him that the duration of his “torment” would only last about ten to fifteen minutes. But this didn’t help. On the edge of despair, I heard Irina Antonovna’s words addressed to him: “Well, let’s go briefly; sit for a bit.”

Such was my joy when Dmitri Dmitriyevich uttered, with a patter, “okay, let’s go.” And we went.

And here the three of us were in my small room in one of the cottages on the Creative House territory. Throwing off his coat and warm boots (his woolen socks stayed on), he perched on the couch for me. I grabbed paper and a pencil, and immediately began to draw. But I didn’t get a pose, because Dmitri Dmitriyevich kept turning his head to the left, then to the right, the whole time. With difficulty, I asked him not to move for at least one to two minutes. In the end, he finally succeeded at this, and not without effort. I don’t know which one of us it was more painful for, me or him… He continued to sit motionless for no more than three to four minutes, during which I managed to do three sketches. Looking at the tired view of Dmitri Dmitriyevich, one would think that he had endured a hard physical overload.

I used these sketches of mine- the only material from nature- for work on the portrait. There were three variants. Each one was of a different color [palette], composition, and size. In 1977, one of them entered the ownership of G.V. Sviridov.

Of all the iconography of Shostakovich I know of, I want to highlight a portrait by the artist I. Serebryan. I feel that this work is an enormous achievement in our art, and not only ours. Before artists stood a very difficult task, and how brilliantly and talentedly he accomplished it.

I will stop at one final episode, not related to music, true, but quite instructive. It was in 1929 (if I’m not mistaken). In the Raphael and Titian hall of the Academy of Artists, a large exhibit was arranged of Leningrad artists of different [ideological] currents (разных течений), beginning at the ultra-left and ending at the Orthodox right. A work was exhibited in this display (a female portrait). The opening vernissage was scheduled one Sunday for two hours a day, but it just so happened that nobody invited came. A small group of organizers of the exhibit trampled down the landing stairs, waiting for visitors.

About five minutes before the opening hour, the figure of a lone man of small stature appeared on the horizon, familiar to every Leningrader. It was the President of the Academy of Sciences of the USSR, Aleksandr Petrovich Karpinsky (later, the Academy of Sciences transferred to Moscow). After a short pause, he took from the side of his pocket his old-fashioned pocket watch with a silver lid (its ticking was barely audible), screwed up his eyes to look at the clock face, and uttered, “the opening starts at two, but now it’s seven minutes past three.” With the raised watch lid, he passed each of the organizers in turn, showing them the watch face. This created an awkward situation. The reference to the fact that the public was expected did not convince him. He said, “it’s scheduled for two hours, we need the exhibit to open, despite the situation.”

And the opening took place in the presence of these four men, not counting the watchman. In the evening, I was with Dmitri Dmitriyevich and told him about this occasion. Having listened to me attentively, he uttered, “they taught your brother a lesson!!!”

I answered, “not only our brother; aside from our brother- the respected public!” (не только нашего брата, но и не нашего брата тоже— уважаемую публику!)

Impatiently, I waited for Shostakovich’s new work to appear- the transformation into music of Gogol’s story “The Portrait.” It’s difficult to say what could have hindered this plan. I only know that it was not about a play, but an operatic show.

Dmitri Dmitriyevich loved to repeat the advice of the famous French artist Edgar Degas: “if you have skill worth a hundred thousand francs, try to add at least one more sou to it.”

In conclusion, I want to talk about one characteristic particular to Shostakovich’s personality. I refer to his oratorical talent. In the Great Hall of the Philharmonic, his speeches before concerts were distinguished by freedom of expression, deep thought, and impeccable style. The enormous erudition of the composer caught my eye, not only in music. He spoke without supporting notes or abstracts. It was a delight to listen to him. When he spoke, he always waved his hands [in a ‘brushing aside’ motion/ отмахивался].

Several years passed. I knew that Dmitri Dmitriyevich was sick, and that his legs were seriously injured. The season at the Maly hall of the Leningrad Philharmonic traditionally opened with an author’s concert of Shostakovich. Knowing about the next such concert, I went to get a ticket. On the way there, already close to the Philharmonic, I met Dmitri Dmitriyevich. He moved laboriously. I immediately announced that I was going to buy a ticket for his concert. We parted then, so that we would meet the next day after the concert. But this was not destined to come to pass. When I went to Maly hall the next day, an announcement was hung on the doors that read that due to his illness, Shostakovich’s concert was canceled… Soon, I found out that he had a heart attack and was admitted to the hospital.

That was my last meeting with the composer.

#shostakovich #dmitri shostakovich #muzikalnaya akademia #sovetskaya muziyka #soviet history #classical music #classical music history #composer

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