September 15 continued
He replied forcefully “Anything is possible! Anything! You see this man (pointing to Petro)? He flatlined five times!” Then, gesturing to Petro he asks something in Ukrainian. The soldier takes out his smartphone and plays a video for me. It was a personal voice message from Howard Buffet, Warren Buffet’s son, saying he’d seen him walking on the beaches of Odessa, and to keep going, that he’s doing great. Andriy then turns to me, saying “Now you know you’re a phone call away from Howard Buffet.” Buffet’s involvement was instrumental in renovating the Superhuman facilities.
September 16
I begin today sharing an epic breakfast with housemate Yuliana at World of Coffee – avocado toast, croissant, egg, salmon, cheese in ash, cappuccino, and macrons. Lviv is clearly European in its culture and aspirations, with its vibrant shops, bars, cafés, art exhibitions, live music and opera.
Yuliana very recently reconnected with her ex-boyfriend. It was their first face to face meeting in several years and she wasn’t sure how she’d feel about him, as they’d been primarily friends while dating. But now, he was buff, tattooed, and a soldier. It was clear they shared major chemistry. In two days he gets sent off to the front. She explained to me that she cannot fully open her heart to him, knowing she might lose him within a week.“We lost our best men. The ones who understood how important it was to defend our homes, our country. They were the ones who volunteered; the brightest, the kindest, and the best.”
After breakfast, Yuliana and I return to Unbroken so I can paint Olexiy, the gentleman confined to a wheelchair, left side paralyzed, who suffered a significant head injury. He is so joyful, so appreciative. “Paint my head as it is! With its scars and deformations. I want you to capture the reality. You should! Please….” he implores while pointing to his massive cranial scar. He seems to understand everything he hears, but the neural language center in his brain is damaged. I’m told by staff he’s recovering more than they could have hoped, working hard with a speech therapist. He’s from Odessa, where apparently everyone has a strong sense of humor. I explain I’ll later paint and exhibit large oils of the portraits in America. He responds “And I will come to America and attend the exhibition!” He is my only soldier to say that. I place a gold heart sticker on his wheelchair before leaving.
(I later saw a video of him walking again, and cried. I recalled Andriy’s assertion “Anything’s possible!” Seeing these soldiers and their remarkable recoveries, I believe it.)
Just as we are leaving another soldier (Volodymyr 3) texts Julia, saying he, too, wants a portrait, so we turn and head back upstairs. He offers to pick us up and take us to his friends’ art opening tomorrow night. “Are you afraid to get into a car driven by a man with no leg?” Yes, that’s the normal approach to humor these days. “I’m from New York. I’m not afraid of anything” I shoot back with a smile.
This evening I treat Nestor and his girlfriend Sophia and myself to Carmen at the Lviv Opera House. The requisite “Please switch off your cell phones…” is followed by “In the event of air raid alarms, please retreat downstairs to the basement.” The juxtaposition of war/everyday life, is for me, supremely surreal. Which is our reality? They are diametrically opposed, yet coexisting simultaneously. I feel like some version of Schrödinger’s cat. For me the most impactful scene in the opera is when a troupe of young children march in line onto the stage, each with a shortened broomstick slung over his shoulder, the first and last carrying a pale blue and yellow flag, halting, then turning in place and pointing broomsticks in unison at the audience and “firing” on us. I’ll never forget that heart wrenching moment.
Oleksa, whom I painted yesterday, was photographed by Marta Syrko for her Soldier Series, and I am thrilled to meet her for the first time tomorrow.
September 17
It’s Sunday, and I’ve reserved it to meet famous Ukrainian photographer Marta Syrko. At the youthful age of 29, she’s already made a name for herself on the European stage as a fine art and fashion photographer. We meet for coffee at a local, trendy café, where she delivers not one gift, but a full bag of gifts: a small journal, one of her photos, a pin from a famous Ukrainian artist, and a cloth bag with Unbroken written in Cyrillic, decorated in line drawings of hands signing the institution’s name. So thoughtful! Marta is an incredibly beautiful soul: intelligent, sensitive, intuitive, with dark brown eyes, alabaster skin, and bee-stung lips. I mention I need to purchase a new bathing suit, and a lighter shirt (I’d overdressed in the chilly morning). She offers to give me a shirt at her studio, which she does, and later insists that I keep.
We drop in at Green Sofa Gallery and view an ex voto-inspired exhibition by a female artist. Wooden panels depicting the human figure have areas of the figures pierced out. Below the panels are the cutout images of body parts in tiny baskets marked with prices. I begin gathering several of these puzzle-parts as souvenirs to purchase and am told they are meant as donation gestures; one slips a donation in a box on the wall and pin the chosen body part onto a heavy canvas-covered wall hanging above them, much like milagros. Disappointed I cannot purchase the objects, I ask if I make a larger donation, might I keep two. They agree to make this exception; a female torso for my partner David and me, and a sacred heart for Andriy at Superhumans (I later wrap it in black tissue paper and gift it to him, making him promise not to open it until the taxi drives me away).
From the gallery we stop briefly at the Armenian church, whose tiny plaza was restored by the nearby Armenian restaurant owner.
After some clothes shopping (a bikini made in Poland) we visit Marta’s studio, an old, Soviet-era industrial building whose brick chimney has been “decorated” at its top with cell tower receivers. I have the privilege of photographing her in her workspace, whose high, gray walls she proudly explains she painted herself; impressive, as she has experienced chronic, intense migraines since the age of five, in part possibly due to chronic abuse in her family by visiting relatives and the resulting trauma.
Outside, behind the building (whose reception area is like a coffee shop) one steps into what feels like Berlin; loud techno music by a DJ spinning plates, a pizza parlor pop-up, a vintage market and art gallery where I purchase matching teacups for Marta and me, to share black tea and camomile when our evening and morning timezones overlap. The cups were created in a famous ceramics factory in Lviv, long shuttered. I also purchase a small portrait study from a young woman and a sticker of Putin wearing a ball gag. It’s wild to imagine pasting that up on Russian territory; you’d be tossed in the gulag.
At her studio Marta chooses a blouse for me and I change comfortably in front of her, she as a photographer of nudes and I, a painter of them, share an immediate level of intimacy and trust from that first encounter; fellow artists and survivors.
After an informal photo shoot with requisite selfies, we hurry out to attend the art exhibition of Volodymyr 3’s friends Roman and Zirka, where Marta and I part company, as her migraines returned. Outside the building is a black pickup truck riddled with bullet holes too numerous to count. This is how cars look eventually at the front. Money is being raised for a replacement vehicle.
Zirka and Roman’s friend and brother-in-arms was injured while fighting at the front, then retuned after his recovery, only to be killed there. He’d begun an art project that was left unfinished, later completed by his friends. Amazing; a missile shell painted by Zirka in a graphic novel style, two ropes of eyes crisscrossing in front of a face. Scan the artwork, entitled Eyes, with your phone (Roman’s contribution) and a 3-D image appears on your screen, a virtual reality of clouds and “Heaven”. The eyes are symbols of all the fallen soldiers watching over their brothers at the front.
Volodymyr 3 transported us there in his car. I’m not sure what I was expecting…. a normal car? His is completely covered in exquisitely painted camouflage, using pine trees branches as stencils. I climb inside to discover a cream-colored leather interior with burled wood accents. We rocket through the streets but I’m unconcerned; this guy’s hyper-vigilance at the front makes him a competent racing driver. Or was he like this before the war? In any case, what starts blaring over the radio? A catchy tune by Status Quo whose refrain is “You’re in the army now. Whoa oh oh you’re in the army. Now.”
After the exhibition my housemate Yuliana and I are invited to Zirka and Roman’s art studios housed in another dull grey Soviet-era building. We all feel the security guard’s judgmental stare as we enter the building. I am gifted a small abstract mono print by Roman; in it I see an angel wearing body armor, cerulean, yellow and red. Both Roman and his brother served side-by-side until both were wounded in combat and both sought rehabilitation at Unbroken.
After the visit, Yuliana shares this with me: “Volodymyr told me he wanted to show you the art exhibition so you’d see that Lviv isn’t just a hospital for people with no arms and legs.”
Expecting to stay in for the evening and recover from a very full day/week, I receive an invitation from Vlodo and his partner to meet in Lviv City Center, and I accept. I gifted him his portrait after putting some finishing touches on it beforehand, and we wander about the town at dusk, them sharing their favorite restaurant and bar with me, and taking in an art exhibition that features a local artist’s response to the war.
September 17/18
Finally, safely ensconced in bed after an extremely long day, we’re awakened by air raid sirens around 3:00 am echoing throughout the city, the notes tumbling over one another from different broadcast points. My phone app blares at full volume “AIR RAID ALERT! SEEK SHELTER! DO NOT BE COMPLACENT! COMPLACENCY IS YOUR WORST ENEMY!” I shut it off and immediately throw on my sweater, climb into my leather pants, jacket and boots, and meet Nestor in the living room. “We go to the basement?” I ask. “Wait… one moment… we have time…” he says, checking a group text that lets him know if incoming bombs are being diverted to another location or not (in this way, Russia disrupts the sleep of multiple cities, towns and villages). “Missiles being diverted to Odessa. We can go back to bed.” That’s when I notice my body is shaking. I undress and climb back in, and once snuggled under the covers, notice the shaking has stopped. While I can return to bed, I cannot return to sleep.
Daylight finally arrives and I’m scheduled to return to Superhumans. September 15th was the last time I was there, and I keep postponing my cab ride to later in the day, until I finally text Andriy that I won’t be coming. I’m too fatigued after yesterday’s long day and air raid alerts.
I think he sensed during our last visit that I might not return, hugging me three times before I left, reaching into the taxi for one final, awkward hug. It was the only day he kept showing up in the room where I was painting. I knew it would be hard to say goodbye. I wind up staying home in the studio, wrapping up two portraits begun at Unbroken of Olexiy and Volodymyr 3, and resting up.