technicolour.
There were four of us. We were going to use the local tools available. One of us had to be in the kitchen, in charge of the taper. When the train approached the one in the kitchen had to light the taper. This was a sign to the train driver to keep the train’s fire blazing, and to maintain his speed. His fire and speed would then activate another scene, where one of the women on a bicycle would ride forth. And then somewhere else another character would do what he was supposed to do.
It was all so well co-ordinated, and depended utterly on a one-take success, a once-only event. It was then or never.
The taper caught fire, the train driver saw it, the other dependent scenes went off perfectly, and as the train sped past I jumped on the open-backed platform where, to my surprise, I encountered a black man who was an important worker on the luxury train. He was in charge of looking after the higher-ranking travellers. He was dressed beautifully in a red jacket with gleaming epaulettes. He had dark, almost blue skin. When I jumped on the platform of the moving train he smiled at me. Then, to my astonishment, he said:
‘Welcome, Dubchanka,’ as if he had known me all my life. He smiled again knowingly.
Whereupon I helped myself to one of his freshly cut and lovingly buttered sandwiches, with delicious slices of cheese. The one I chose had been bitten into by him, but I didn’t mind. Then I jumped off the slowing train. The black Russian jumped down too. He ran elegantly towards the local shops to buy some caviar for the remaining sandwich, and to get other items for himself during the train’s brief stop in town.
But someone else in our crew had jumped on the train’s platform and, imitating me, had helped himself to the last of the splendid cheese sandwiches. I could see the black Russian’s polite dismay as he watched the crew member devour his sandwich. It was so funny.
Anyway, all the scenes went off well. The school teacher had her moment. Kuragin had his. The train was beautiful and was painted black. Colours were so perfect on that day. The women played their roles excellently. All the co-ordinated filming had been a great success, and we knew in our hearts that we had brought home a great Russian classic. It was the last day of filming. We had done Pushkin proud, at last.
Wild Bulls
IT IS THE aftermath of war, and there is chaos everywhere. I am in a fabulous house where they have gathered the children of war. They are all orphans and all lost. I am meant to be their teacher.
They can’t absorb anything just yet, so I try to get them interested in art. To my surprise, they take to it. They paint and draw freely, for long hours, absorbed and lost in colour, fleeing from grief into a world of mysterious shapes, of bulls, birds, hybrid creatures, and patterns in which are concealed indeterminate beings.
I also try to get them to do other subjects, like maths, history, geography, but about these they are desultory. For them art is the thing.
After some time folks come visiting, acquaintances from various universities. They take an interest in what the children of war had been doing. They find little to remark upon in the general subjects. Then I show their art. The visitors are bowled over, thunder struck. They are astounded at the paintings, in rich ochre, in reds and yellows, of enormous wild bulls. The canvases are large, and the paintings bristle with unaccountable energy and wildness.
There isn’t one painting that isn’t extraordinary, or terrifying, in some way. It is like beholding, on the walls of obscure caves, works of bold mature colourists, of the stature of the post-impressionists, or even the masters of expressionism. It is awesome, and spooky. Who on earth are these children? Has grief unhinged them into genius?
Later on we are at a large round table. It is the end of dinner. Most of us are writers. One of the writers, a woman, and celebrated, proposes that we each sing
There were four of us. We were going to use the local tools available. One of us had to be in the kitchen, in charge of the taper. When the train approached the one in the kitchen had to light the taper. This was a sign to the train driver to keep the train’s fire blazing, and to maintain his speed. His fire and speed would then activate another scene, where one of the women on a bicycle would ride forth. And then somewhere else another character would do what he was supposed to do.
It was all so well co-ordinated, and depended utterly on a one-take success, a once-only event. It was then or never.
The taper caught fire, the train driver saw it, the other dependent scenes went off perfectly, and as the train sped past I jumped on the open-backed platform where, to my surprise, I encountered a black man who was an important worker on the luxury train. He was in charge of looking after the higher-ranking travellers. He was dressed beautifully in a red jacket with gleaming epaulettes. He had dark, almost blue skin. When I jumped on the platform of the moving train he smiled at me. Then, to my astonishment, he said:
‘Welcome, Dubchanka,’ as if he had known me all my life. He smiled again knowingly.
Whereupon I helped myself to one of his freshly cut and lovingly buttered sandwiches, with delicious slices of cheese. The one I chose had been bitten into by him, but I didn’t mind. Then I jumped off the slowing train. The black Russian jumped down too. He ran elegantly towards the local shops to buy some caviar for the remaining sandwich, and to get other items for himself during the train’s brief stop in town.
But someone else in our crew had jumped on the train’s platform and, imitating me, had helped himself to the last of the splendid cheese sandwiches. I could see the black Russian’s polite dismay as he watched the crew member devour his sandwich. It was so funny.
Anyway, all the scenes went off well. The school teacher had her moment. Kuragin had his. The train was beautiful and was painted black. Colours were so perfect on that day. The women played their roles excellently. All the co-ordinated filming had been a great success, and we knew in our hearts that we had brought home a great Russian classic. It was the last day of filming. We had done Pushkin proud, at last.
Wild Bulls
IT IS THE aftermath of war, and there is chaos everywhere. I am in a fabulous house where they have gathered the children of war. They are all orphans and all lost. I am meant to be their teacher.
They can’t absorb anything just yet, so I try to get them interested in art. To my surprise, they take to it. They paint and draw freely, for long hours, absorbed and lost in colour, fleeing from grief into a world of mysterious shapes, of bulls, birds, hybrid creatures, and patterns in which are concealed indeterminate beings.
I also try to get them to do other subjects, like maths, history, geography, but about these they are desultory. For them art is the thing.
After some time folks come visiting, acquaintances from various universities. They take an interest in what the children of war had been doing. They find little to remark upon in the general subjects. Then I show their art. The visitors are bowled over, thunder struck. They are astounded at the paintings, in rich ochre, in reds and yellows, of enormous wild bulls. The canvases are large, and the paintings bristle with unaccountable energy and wildness.
There isn’t one painting that isn’t extraordinary, or terrifying, in some way. It is like beholding, on the walls of obscure caves, works of bold mature colourists, of the stature of the post-impressionists, or even the masters of expressionism. It is awesome, and spooky. Who on earth are these children? Has grief unhinged them into genius?
Later on we are at a large round table. It is the end of dinner. Most of us are writers. One of the writers, a woman, and celebrated, proposes that we each sing
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