Interview with Pavel Deineka

I met Yulia on the Petrograd side, in her creative studio next to the Prince Vladimir Cathedral. I’m climbing my heavy scooter up to the fifth floor without an elevator. The metal door is open, and to the left of the entrance is a kitchen covered in Italian majolica plates and a sink covered in blue Dutch tiles. The rooms line up one after another to the left. Along the walls of the passageway are large photos from the "Zaya" exhibition and an exhibit: like a key shelf, but with plush bunnies in niches. Each one is a distinct male type. "It's like a whole communal apartment," I think about the bunnies and the apartment.

"My mother lived with me for a long time," Yulia begins, looking around the room. She brought her from Altai when things got tough. She moved to the mountains after she was sixty and lived there for several happy years. At the time, my mother was fascinated by Roerich's teachings, gathering like-minded people, and "charging herself with energy." She’s an artist and designer, and works with textiles; several of her works are here. Here’s a large rope cocoon, my work using her technique. I’m planning two figures, one larger and one smaller, a mother and daughter. The result of some quarantine reflection. Then it became difficult for both of us, and I sent her to an apartment. In St. Petersburg, my mother converted to Orthodoxy; now she attends church in her neighborhood and has made friends there. Yulia shows a brochure about her mother’s work. "My mother is a person of intense emotions." In Altai, despite local discontent, a museum named after her has been built, partly for the benefit of tourists. My parents got together in adulthood and consciously raised me and my brother, but we were very different people. My father managed a factory and was a calm, wise man. I’m quick-witted and can multitask—that's from him.

And here is my boudoir. She shows him a bed, an artist's desk with bookshelves, knick-knacks, boxes, and drawings on the wall. "I don't like to sit, I like to lie down. And I receive guests here."

The last room has a small window. The view ranges from the trash bins in the courtyard to the spire of the Peter and Paul Fortress above the rooftops. Painted bricks hang on the wall—remnants of an installation from the "Ceramics in Landscape" exhibition. Yulia says she’s reluctant to part with her pieces, ready to keep them until the last minute, and even plans them out, figuring out where they’ll fit in the studio. "But we’re running out of space!" Yulia laments. "For the exhibition on Yelagin, I bought angel wings, pinned them on the students, and asked them to play with them (the bricks are dominoes). People walked around and got involved. I love provocation, and I was delighted when, not knowing I was an artist, they asked me, 'Where can you buy those?' We were told you can only play with wings."

Here’s an unfinished work for the latest exhibition at the Stieglitz Center, "Square Meter." On the floor are square clay slabs with scratches, pyramids, and mushroom-like plates. We settle into the kitchen and adopt a formal look:

P.D.: Tell us about yourself.

Yu.K.: I was born in the closed city of "Krasnoyarsk 26," built in the 1950s according to L.P. Beria’s design. Radioactive waste is still stored there; it was a military production facility, and uranium was enriched. The Sputnik-V vaccine is currently being produced there. The city was planned to be built entirely underground, but they only built a huge underground plant, which still exists as a closed facility. They probably no longer enrich uranium there, but the storage facilities remain. When we were already adults, my friend's father, a power engineer, told me that at that time our entire city was heated by water that cooled the nuclear reactor. And now I joke that if I get up at night, I don't have to turn on the light. Back in the days of coupons, we had special provisions; city residents would bring sausage, condensed milk, Finnish suits, and other hard-to-find items to friends and family. The Yenisei River is nearby; the Finns floated timber down it, and rare goods arrived through them.

As I’ve already said, my mother is an artist, my father an engineer. I love the question "How did you become an artist?" Because, for me, at first, they forced me to. Until I entered college in Krasnoyarsk, drawing was the most terrifying thing for me. I remember crying constantly, because at some point my mother realized I was no good. We were in the city of Tuapse, and she put a wicker sandal in front of me and said, "Draw." My mother enrolled me in various clubs: music, math. And they told her I was talented, but not very diligent. I didn't show any special abilities. But since she’s an artist, where else could she go? An art school opened here, and I went there, and someone there praised me (!), and I immediately wanted to go back. My mother only reproached me: "You're not trying," "That's wrong," "You're drawing the wrong thing," and she never praised me.

Then I went to Krasnoyarsk and enrolled in the art school. I liked the atmosphere there. My mother's brother lives in St. Petersburg, and I was fired up by the idea of ​​coming here. At first, just to scout out the area, without having graduated from art school. With the help of a friend, the rector’s secretary (or whatever that position used to be called), they stole my documents from the safe. When I arrived, I tried, but didn’t get in on the first try, and began studying with Mosevich[1] and Kazakov.

[1] Stanislav Petrovich Mosevich was born in Kazan in 1937 and has lived in St. Petersburg since 1946. He graduated from the E. I. Repin Institute of Painting, Sculpture, and Architecture in 1963. He has taught painting since 1964, and since 1974, in the general painting department at the V. I. Mukhina Higher School of Art and Industry (Stieglitz Academy). Since 1991, he has been a member of the Union of Artists of Russia. Stanislav Mosevich’s works are held in museums in Boston (USA) and in private collections in Russia and Poland.

P.D.: Legendary teachers…

Y.K.: Yes. And that’s it… from that moment on, my love for art began to blossom.

P.D.: Did the teachers play a role, or was it St. Petersburg as well?

Y.K.: Everything at once. I have a childhood memory. My mother and I visited the South, then went to Moscow, and then to St. Petersburg. Moscow was high-altitude, it was raining, and I felt unwell. We arrived in St. Petersburg, at Peterhof, and the sun rose! And I remembered St. Petersburg as a joyful, sunny city (laughs). And when, in my second year, I was doing an assignment called "Pushkin in St. Petersburg," I painted a composition in bright tones of orange and red. They said to me:
— "Yulia, what have you painted? This doesn’t really capture the flavor of St. Petersburg!"
— "Why?"
"Well, he’s not like that, he’s subdued, reserved…"
"You know, in my city, where there are only nine-story buildings, it’s really subdued. And St. Petersburg for me is one big theatrical set, how could it not be so vibrant!?"

So, I studied like that for two years… I only got in on my third try. Since I came the first time with no preparation at all, I applied mostly out of curiosity, and I was hooked. It also turned out that Kazakov (the drawing teacher) was a friend of my uncle’s. Kazakov got me into Mosevich. That same Kazakov was silent for a long time during our first lesson, looking at our drawings, then came up to me and said, "You see the proportions, you’ll be able to draw." Boris Borisovich had many nuances, but I consider him an outstanding teacher. He taught without words, coming up and humming, moving his hand over the drawing: "Hm? Mmm, hm! Got it?" And you said, "Uh-huh!"

P.D.: I know many of Kazakov’s students; they remember him fondly.

Yu.K.: Yes, for example, my friend, the artist Andrei Gorbunov, who works nearby, also considers Kazakov his teacher. Mosevich also changed my mind. Now students suffer from his teaching; they say, "He breaks" them. Maybe he’s become older and more irritable. But I don’t think that’s true. You’re given different schools, you study, and then you have the right to choose whether you want it or not. If I were to start painting now, I wouldn’t do it in Mosevich’s school, in his method. But he taught me to see connections, the organization of space, the internal connections in composition, and so on, which I really liked; it’s a whole philosophy. It completely changed my outlook on painting, which I’d learned at the Krasnoyarsk School. So, embrace any school, and then take the kernels of what you liked from there. I don’t understand how something like that could break you! After all, even at school, you first cover all your subjects and then choose where to go.

P.D.: Did Mosevich also teach by humming?

Yu.K.: No! He explained his views, bringing visual aids. I remember the combination of Orthodox icons, the Impressionists, and Cézanne, line and color. It was fantastic for me. He’d show me an icon: "Look how the space is organized, the perspective." Then he’d bring me a Cézanne still life: "Look at the way the objects touch." May the teachers at the Academy forgive me, but I believe I learned painting and drawing before I entered, during those two years.

P.D.: This isn’t the first time I’ve heard that. Why is it like this?

Yu.K.: It varies. I work at the Academy, it has its pros and cons, but I don’t want to air my dirty laundry in public. Delete all this later…

P.D.: But I also love the Academy, I worry about it. I see the root of the problem in the students' "rootlessness." At the Repin Institute, for example, the students report to one master for their entire years of study, which creates strong interpersonal bonds. He’s responsible for them, but the students also develop a sense of belonging. But at Stieglitz, we went from classroom to classroom like in school, each time to a new teacher.

Yu.K.: Mukha had a completely different educational goal from the start: to train artists for production, designers, and applied artists. I recently read Gottfried Semper’s book "Practical Esthetics." I believe his ideas formed the foundation of our school (originally the Central School of Technical Drawing of Baron Stieglitz, TSUTRBSh). Ilya Palaguta brought this book. We passed it around in our department. It’s interesting. In this regard, I sometimes wonder if the modern Western system is correct, where students in higher education choose several specializations themselves, thus creating their own curriculum.

P.D.: Not all of my European acquaintances are happy with the Bologna system.

Yu.K.: Our master’s graduate, Yulia Belova-Weber, is currently studying in Vienna. She took a sculpture class and a book graphics course. Although she already has a basic artistic education, it would be interesting to see the results of her studies there. We, however, remained with the old system. Our teachers—Kazakov, Mosevich, Puko, Sazhin—graduated from the Repin Institute, but when they came to us, they adapted their methods to our needs. The Mukhina system is different from others; you study and understand it yourself. For a factory artist, drawing and painting are only part of the necessary skills. And we teach so much more. Technology in ceramics, for example, includes porcelain and earthenware, physics and chemistry.

P.D.: It was a little bit already, but tell us about the influence of family on creativity

Y.K.: Yes, I’ve already told you almost everything. I’m incredibly grateful to my mother for giving me this happy creative life. I’m interested in life!

P.D.: Did you have any ideas to go in a different direction?

Y.K.: No. But I wasn’t particularly fanatical about dreaming of becoming an artist after school. That came much later. When I was at college, there were very few girls there; it was mostly grown men who were very skilled in their fields. For example, my friend who stayed there to study, when he later entered the institute, became a teacher in his own department in his second year. Many people from there went into interior design, and I really wanted to go there. But looking at my male classmates, I doubted my ability to be like them. So I decided to take a smaller course. I also considered studying textiles, since interior design seemed desirable but unaffordable to me. When I arrived in St. Petersburg in 1993, I was told that the ceramics department was the strongest, with excellent teachers and so on. And so I made my decision. The competition back then was seven people per place, one of the highest.

P.D.: Do you teach?

Y.K.: Now I have, but I mostly help out with teaching. I’m consciously avoiding this fate; I want to have more free time. I try to do what I want. I have a craft that I earn money with, and I need it to do everything I want in the creative field. I don’t make money with creativity. I want to be independent. Teaching takes a lot of time and mental energy. Of all the people I know, few can combine creative work and teaching. Now and The number of students has increased dramatically, with groups of sixteen or twelve. When we were studying in a group of six, everyone got more attention. But now there’s a flood of students, and interacting with everyone is psychologically taxing. Your brain is engaged with everyone, and it drains your energy. It’s hard to come home and do anything else. I love and respect all my colleagues, but I’ll say this: many of them literally dream of having free time to dedicate to creativity. Now they pour all of themselves, all their energy and ideas, into their children. Creativity requires not only inner peace but also less immersion in the learning process.

P.D.: Can you just do whatever you want and sell it?
 
Y.K.: I guess so. Firstly, while I’m making something, I love it, and then I feel sad to part with it; I become so attached to it. Secondly, I want to sell it for a decent price. And I want to understand where my thing will live and why. It’s like giving a child a place: you can only give it a good place. Of course, there are different artists, but sometimes the needs of society shape what you do. To sell, you have to make sure people like it. People want something cute, pleasant, and heartwarming. And I really don’t like "cuteness"! I don’t want to make something that people will like, but I want them to like what I do.
Let there be three or four people who like my work. And I’ll understand that these are my people and know what to talk about with them, and they’ll speak the same language as me. As soon as you think about souvenirs—after all, that’s what sells best—there's an immediate desire to please and please. And that’s something I fundamentally don’t want. I want to be honest with myself and do what I love. I already know how to do a lot of things that people like: I make majolica and have been painting fireplaces with Alexander Vasilyevich Oleynik for 10−15 years now. It’s my craft, I love it, and I do it well. Now even I like how I do it; I’ve apparently reached the peak of my abilities. But I treat it as a craft.

P.D.: I remember Oleynik telling me how in the 90s some bandits put him in a cooled muffle furnace, closed the lid on top and he sat there until his colleagues returned.

Yu.K.: And we also found out from him: "at what temperature does a person burn out completely…" Those were cruel years.

So, about teaching: I adore the Academy, I love the students, I teach the first year, I absolutely love it. But I don’t think I’m a very good teacher, and here’s why: when a student has an idea and shows it to me, I immediately finish it for them and then make them do it well. When Dimka (Dmitry Ilyinsky) teaches, he can endlessly say, "Well, think about it." He waits for the student to "feel it out and come up with it." And then I immediately draw five more options, consult with myself about which one is best, choose it, and approve it. In other words, I turn any sketch into a finished work. And that’s wrong.

Now I’m ready for teaching, I love it. I’m confident, I know how much knowledge and skills I can impart, and I have a lot of practical experience. But all my teachers are still close by, and I understand that they know and are much more capable than I am. And so I don’t want to dive headfirst into teaching either. Besides, I need to write teaching materials…

P.D.: A question for families, although not relevant, I will ask it: would you like your children to become artists?

Y.K.: Yes, it’s not relevant. But from experience and examples, I know that if they do, then it’s good. I treat my students like children. And I’m strict about one thing: "If you don’t want to become an artist, why did you come here?" "Come here, study." It’s impossible to force someone to be an artist; our profession requires not only hard work but also fanaticism. If it’s not there, then nothing will happen. Of course, the fact that we’re no longer artists for industry is discouraging, because there’s practically no industry in the country. And in our business, you can’t force someone to be passionate, but they have to be passionate. They tell you: make a vase or a tile, so what? Nowadays, kids go to Stieglitz after school, and that’s not good; they’re not formed. They’re focused on the question: what do I need to do to get an "A"? And here they suddenly have to think for themselves, which isn’t really fostered by the school testing system. They expect you to give them multiple answer options, as my colleagues with teenagers say, and they’ll have to choose. They expect a set of rules, options they can memorize, and then everything will be fine. But in creativity, the most important thing is imagination. How can you teach that? Unfortunately, it’s more of an innate quality.

P.D.: Where do you get your information?
 
J.K.: I have a bad memory and I’ve been ashamed of it my whole life. I feel like I’m not well-read enough. Although I’ve always watched and listened a lot, everything quickly evaporates from my memory. But I have a talent: I love people. And for me, they are sources of information. I don’t remember who said it, but people are like books to me: I read one, admire it, and want to slam it shut, while others are interesting and I reread them over and over again, and every time I find something new. So I love people, and if I read a book, I quickly forget it, but I will remember what a real person told me about it and how. I react emotionally to stories. I often fall in love with people, and my friends are offended at me for this. Generally, I never throw anyone out of my heart, but when I fall in love, all my thoughts are occupied with one person. Close friends know that it is useless to prevent this. As soon as life settles down, I urgently need "fresh blood," and I find another interesting person, another click, and everything starts all over again. I draw from them not necessarily knowledge, but also habits and skills. So, I find them interesting to study, literally. I’m interested in how a person lives, what interests them, and so on. This way, I discover entire worlds, it’s amazing. Now, with age, this happens. less often and the need became less.
If we’re talking about people in my profession, I rummage through social media, looking for artists, and checking out their followers. So, you’ve started this project (langzame gesprekken), and I’m bookmarking other artists' works I like on Instagram, creating an album and wanting to share it with my students. I don’t follow accounts because it’s impossible to read every post, but I do take what I like. Over the years, I’ve built up a large collection. And I check it out, including when talking to my ceramicist friends. For example, Nadiya Miniakhmetova came recently, wanting to get some emotional stimulation, and I said, "Let me show her my collection?" She said, "Yulia, why aren’t you sending me those pictures!?" Others are surprised: "Where do you get this stuff? Why isn’t this in my feed?" And I don’t know; maybe the algorithms aren’t suggesting it. And I’m interested in conveying this to students, because they’re not interested in much until you show it to them.

P.D.: Perhaps first-year students lack experience and knowledge of where to look?

Y.K.: Well, maybe. But I’m even interested in organizing a "show me your selection" project! But I’m also interested in discussing in person what exactly each person liked. After all, everyone sees something different in the same picture. Sometimes you don’t notice something yourself, but for me, details are important: texture, the spout of a teapot, etc. By the way, this is what happens with Dimka Zhukov, with whom I’m friends. When he comes over, we constantly have arguments "about art." He shows me his selections from the internet; maybe he taught me, because he makes a lot of them. He even prints them out on paper and hangs them around himself when he’s passionate about a particular topic. Apparently, men and women create work differently. For you boys, it’s accumulation first, collecting and collecting material. I don’t know if this is the case for everyone. But when an idea comes to me, I walk around and wait for it to pass. I wait for it to let go, because if you can avoid doing it, don’t do it. But if it keeps nagging at me for more than a month, I realize: "I have to do it." Then I’ll draw and do something else, the process begins, and I wait for it to be born. That is, I don’t accumulate material or start looking at examples. I let the process unfold. Suddenly, at some point, the image of the work appears before my eyes entirely. And then I realize there’s no way out, so I sit down and do it. As the process progresses, the material makes adjustments. Basically, if the idea doesn’t survive this month, if it flies away, then it wasn’t meant to be.

P.D.: So the idea must show persistence and then it will come true?
 
Y.K.: Yes.

P.D.: Where do you fire your pieces?

Y.K.: There’s no capacity for that here. Usually, I work in other places: in Mukha, with Alexander Vasilyevich. By the way, you say "teacher," but I don’t like to be stuck in one place; I love having multiple jobs, rushing between them. Again, take the coronavirus year as an example: I asked several people about their plans, and they said, "Now we’ll get things done!" But no such luck! And no one actually did anything. It was only when I returned to my life between three jobs in different parts of the city, between which I’m like a squirrel in a wheel without a single day off, that ideas come, and I’m overwhelmed by the desire to create. Such an influx in recent weeks has made me want to sit down and cry because I couldn’t keep up with everything. And all my ideas come to me when I’m walking. To think, I need to physically walk, to move. So, in the summer, I like to walk from here to Mukha. And ideas rarely come if I’m sitting there, ready to draw, with a notebook.

P.D.: And in a dream?

Y.K.: No, ideas don’t come to me in my sleep. My mother has that sometimes. When I’m on the move, all the "cockroaches" in my head start to move, and I concentrate. For me, Mukha represents activity, children, a team, almost family—all my favorite things. It gives me emotional nourishment. But I also adore working with Alexander Vasilyevich, because for me, it’s a sense of peace; for me, painting is a craft where I don’t have to think, and I listen to lectures and audiobooks while I’m working… so for me, this part of my work schedule is incredibly informative. I go there as if I were on vacation. Sometimes I tell him, "Alexander Vasilyevich, I’m coming to you to relax. When will it be? I can’t wait for the next order." I love those moments when I sit down, start listening to my book, and immerse myself in myself.

P.D.: Do you have any people who serve as reference points in your life?

Y.K.: My friends and I argue: I think envy is a good quality. But good envy, the "white" kind. I’ve never been a fan of anyone in my life, but I always feel like I’m worse than someone else and want to be better. And I have a lot of these benchmarks. Each of my friends has a quality I look up to. I have a friend, Larisa, who’s incredibly hardworking. And I knew she got what she got thanks to her hard work. My friend Yulia Repina is a benchmark for me in almost everything (if she reads this, she’ll kill me): she speaks a bunch of languages, has a great job, is successful, sculpts, travels the world, and manages to do so much! And she always thinks she’s still bad at something. She now lives in Germany. Once, she went to India with some ceramicist colleagues. Katya, a more active colleague, interacted with the locals, while Yulia was shy and silent. But after the symposium, one Indian colleague wrote on her blog: "There were two Russians, one very active, the other quiet, but when she started talking in the last few days, her English turned out to be excellent!" Yulia, by the way, has a very stressful job, but she comes home and sculpts, gets up in the morning and sculpts, and I can’t catch up with her!
I don’t consider myself particularly gifted, but I believe that everything I’ve achieved has come through hard work. You need brains and imagination, and you need to have a good head. Of course, it varies; some people achieve things through their brains, others through their hands. I’m one of the latter.
I have a personal guideline in my work. Although people make fun of me, I’ve moved away from figurative art; it no longer interests me. I’m more interested in abstract forms because I think they’re more informative than a picture you "see and understand." Abstraction contains much more imagination, sensuality, and information.

P.D.: In the history of art, the pendulum has swung from figurativeness to ornamentation. Is it the same for you?

Y.K.: At least away from direct plot. Maybe it will return, but right now I’m interested in something else. I have a quality in my nature that I call structure , the opposite of what’s called picturesqueness . For example, Masha Koshenkova has lightness, emotionality, spontaneity. I don’t have that; I’m a precise person, but my whole life I envy people capable of spontaneity! And I’ve been trying my whole life to cultivate this quality in myself through sheer willpower ! And now I’ve taken on a piece for the "Square Meter" exhibition, called "Three Stages of Waiting," and I thought I’d end up with "waiting, chaos, and fatigue." But what I ended up with was structure again, square upon square—I was very upset, my colleagues laughed at me. I was sculpting with rapture, I was having a great time, working with the image in my head the whole time. But when the first results became visible, it became clear that nature had won out. So when I brought people to see my "Chaos," they died laughing. Of course, the work was still a success (knock on wood, it’s not baked yet), it will be beautiful. But I didn’t achieve my goal. And I have a ton of creative goals like that.

Of the people who are reference points… I rarely like ceramic artists now, but I am captivated by Anne Wenzel .

P.D.: What are you working on now, and what do you want to try?
 
Y.K.: I’m a cyclical person, but I always get obsessed with one topic for a long time. The pillow topic, for example, lasted for several years.

P.D.: By the way, why pillows?
 
Y.K.: I don’t remember anymore. I probably had the idea of a contrast between a soft pillow and hard ceramics, but then I forgot about it. Then the egg theme arose, then the theme of a French park. And then I started working with paper pulp porcelain. This was facilitated by the fact that Oleynik, when moving from one place to another, gave me six hundred kilograms of construction porcelain.

P.D.: A royal gift!
 
Y.K.: Yes. And it’s still not finished. Then I discovered paper pulp, and I liked sculpting with it. It turns out that pressing it high creates an interesting texture. Now I have a new "affair," which will probably last for a few more years: fiberglass. Three of my successful fiberglass works are currently at the Anikushin Workshop, at the exhibition "Your Name Could Have Been Here." Come on, I’d better show you. (We move to the next room.) Here are some fiberglass and basalt fiberglass samples. I don’t have any special technical secrets; I glue the layers together with porcelain slip and bake them at 1200 degrees.
I’m preparing decorative shot glasses for the "Ceramics Day" at Stieglitz. (He shows unfired pieces resembling shot glasses and tumblers made from twisted fabric soaked in glue; I realize they’re fiberglass. The edges are jagged and sharp.) They should become transparent when fired. I’m trying them: I didn’t really like the flint one; basalt is better. You see, I don’t care whether the edges are sharp or not, or whether you can drink from them or not; I’m pursuing my own goals. I hope the fiber and porcelain will fuse together during firing, and the shard will be transparent. If someone tells me to "make something practical," I’ll do it, but it won’t be Yulia Klopova’s work, you understand!

I have a new project brewing, "Izabelin Flower Time." Do you know what an isabelin is? The term Animals are used in paints. Once upon a time, there was Queen Isabella of Spain, whose husband, the king, went off to war, hoping for a quick victory. And she declared, "Until my husband returns from the war, I will not change my shirt." So, her husband fought for three years, and his shirt became dark with dirt. And this color of a queen’s dirty laundry is called isabelline. And I love literally everything about this story. And the fact that it’s the color of anticipation, royal submission, a sense of uncertainty. There is also humility here. So we sat and waited during self-isolation, not knowing how long this would last. The fiberglass items will go to the exhibition "The Time of the Color Isabelline."

P.D.: Are you self -oriented? Does it matter to you whether many people like you ?
 
Y.K.: Yes. But that’s probably just how it is now.

P.D.: Are such original works sold or returned from galleries?
 
Y.K.: They’ll probably sell, but no one has approached me specifically and offered to buy them. People started asking about the "per square meter" panel and other things. But I’m probably quoting the wrong amount. Many people don’t understand the price; they don’t expect such a price, and I respect my work. I haven’t received any reasonable offers, and I’m not upset. I don’t want to sell these things now, as I want to form a larger project out of them. Others, like the pillows, were sold, but I’ve forgotten those days; I guess I live in the present .

P.D.: What’s that sculpture under the table? It looks like Dima Zhukov. Is that his?
 
Y.K.: Yes, a Zhukovskaya one. He gave it to me for safekeeping, and I unpacked it and said, since you’re not taking it, it will be part of my exhibition. The work is called "Cosmic Fleece." Dima and I have been friends for many years, we discuss it. He has done a lot for me, inspires me, energizes me: "Klopova, who will advance art if not us!?" He pushes me to create new things, to exhibit. I admire Dima. He consciously doesn’t work for commissions and lives for his work. He is the kind of person who sells his projects; he is his own director and manager at the same time. He has a collector who buys them. Dima writes up projects, convinces people to give him money for them, and then lives and works from that. His principled position is not to waste time on hack work or commissions. He loves, values, and respects himself. He is one of those people who, if he doesn’t work, will die. Of all my acquaintances, Dima Zhukov is the closest to the ideal of a "true artist."

P.D.: What do you remember about self-isolation in 2020 ?
 
Y.K.: I’ve had a lot of work, but I haven’t noticed any significant changes. I had an urgent order for painted tiles, many identical pieces. Perhaps the coronavirus has taught me to work in my own studio (I used to paint in the same place where I fire). I built a table and worked in a stand-up, stand-up, stand-up, and sit-up mode from morning until night.

P.D.: How did you organize physical activity while working a sedentary job? Did you go outside?
 
Y.K.: Firstly, I’ve never worked indoors for so long as I did during quarantine. I used to always run, but then I realized I couldn’t do that anymore. First, I started walking up and down Krasnogo Kursanta Street, which I’ve grown to love. At first, I wore a mask, because everyone was really scared back then. Then I started going to Petrovsky Island, then to Krestovsky Island. Then, one month, I started getting up at eight (I'm usually an early riser, but during the coronavirus pandemic, I started getting up later). I’d be out by nine, walking to Tarelka (Zenit Arena stadium), and back. It’s twelve kilometers! I’d arrive and sit down to work. And I really liked it. On the way, I saw the old building of the former Bavaria brewery, stunningly beautiful, and I was afraid they’d demolish it, but I googled it and it was gone, and I calmed down. Then I started taking friends there. But that was only while I had to stay home. And now I’ve returned to the routine where I just have to crawl home after work. My energy level goes away with age, which is a real pain; I’ve become more easily tired, and it’s annoying. But my drive has returned. The active phase of my life has begun.

P.D.: A question about the studio… we’re already walking around it. Tell us what you haven’t had time to talk about yet.
 
Y.K.: Look, I have a wall with diplomas and achievements, like a dentist. That’s not all, but there are some important ones. Here’s one from China, about my pieces being kept in the Zibo Museum. I love going to symposiums, and I love coming to a place where other crazy people gather, where I feel incredibly cozy. Our work is also on display in Salerno, France. The certificates for participation in St. Petersburg exhibitions at Elagin aren’t all here; there’s a stack of them. On this wall are drawings and canvases dedicated to me. I love it when my friends draw me. This is my mother’s work, Olga Dolzhenkova’s, Larisa Ivushkina’s, but none of this applies to me… these are also Larisa’s works, the rest are, I think, mine.

A girl painted this picture of me when I was about seventeen and she was sixteen. Can you imagine how they painted at sixteen? There was a competition, like "Hello, we’re looking for talent." She was a child prodigy and studied at the Surikov Academy boarding school in Moscow, then came back and painted me. It just so happened that there was a fire here, it was a difficult time for me, and this work survived because there was a sketchbook on it.

P.D.: So this is not a portrait in the mirror?!
 
Y.K.: Yes, everyone thinks so. These works are inspired by the Chinese artist Cai Guo-Qiang, who paints with gunpowder and various other techniques.

These are pieces from the period of my fascination with Baroque, when I was sculpting trees. The starting point was a French park, and the idea was that gardening is a complete assault on nature. And I still tried to destroy the structure that was so characteristic of me. All my Baroque works are made of two modules. Crowns, trunks, if you look closely, you’ll notice. For this exhibition, the idea of a Baroque table came up, and I was asked to decorate it, and I couldn’t refuse. The curator, Sveta Kuznetsova, casually said, "Yulia will sculpt several works for us." And if something gets into my soil, it multiplies. So I sculpted four forms, and now I love them. And I love this too (turning toward the shelf with ceramic teapots). But I jump from thought to thought.

First, a beautiful story. Tell me, what does this remind you of?

P.D.: I don’t know. I’m looking at a ceramic heart covered in uneven white glaze, a large souvenir gingerbread hanging on the wall.

Y.K.: These are "cow roses." I was once visiting my mom in Altai, walking through the village, and there was so much of this shit, it was so beautiful! It had such textures, I walked around taking pictures of it, and my mom walked by, repeating, "Oh, Yulia, the villagers are going to go crazy." And I was literally drooling all over it, it was cracking this way and that way. I was photographing piles of it. Then the years went by, as I told you, the idea was inside me, I tried to forget about it. I didn’t even look at the photos, this shit just sat there in my head. And then I decided to make these "cow roses" for "Ceramics in Landscape" and display them in the grass. I thought of flatbreads with holes: I’ll put real roses in them! But what can I do, I need to get cow dung somewhere ! So I call Dima Zhukov: "Dima, do you have any cows there?" He says, "Come on over!" At that time, Petrovich, a technologist (Ivan Petrovich Kozitsyn), was working in our department; he launched 3D machines and all that stuff. So, we needed Vixint, otherwise how could we mold the shit? I ask my friends, "How can I buy it?" I can’t just say, "Give me Vixint so I can mold the shit?" "Well, tell me, from clay…" Okay, so I bought Vixint. I went to see Zhukov, and he only had five cows there; the selection isn’t like in Altai. So, we took some hardboard, a shovel, and dug up one specimen. I regret I don’t have a photo. It was autumn, a beautiful time of year: a yellowing field of grass, Zhukov, all blond and Viking-like, striding through the tall grass, holding a piece of hardboard with a flatbread above his head. A neighbor shouts, "Dimka, what are you talking about?" And he replies, "Shit!" "Are you kidding?" "No!" Anyway, I took a Vixint mold from him. I came here and thought, "Yeah, the model will shrink, it won’t be clear that it’s cow clay; clay shrinks during firing." I go to Petrovich and ask, "Can you enlarge the mold by exactly fifteen percent?" And he says, "Yeah, easy, I have a special program." So he scanned the flatbread for me in a 3D scanner, made a three-dimensional model, and, taking shrinkage into account, re-created it on a 3D printer ! So, this flatbread embodies the latest ceramic technology! And then I would press them into shape, play with materials, clay, porcelain. Irka Razumovskaya was still a student then, I had no idea what she would become. You have to step on shit… and I called to her: Irka, step on it! So I have a footprint of Razumovskaya’s in my suitcase. I have many of them, one here, the others in suitcases. I have everything in suitcases.
I keep my works in them. I don’t buy them; I started collecting them, and then people brought them to me. I’ve found suitcases in France, too. So, I don’t find them in the trash. The fire, of course, spared me a lot of things, including books, my works, and suitcases. Although some of the ceramics actually improved after the fire…

P.D.: How did the fire happen?

Y.K.: In 2012, a heater caught fire. Incidentally, a suitcase full of domino bricks was at the source of the fire. I ran in, and it was horrific! A hole had burned through the floor to the neighbors' downstairs. The lack of ventilation saved me; the fire smoldered without air and didn’t spread. It only flared up when the door was opened (dear readers, turn off electrical appliances when leaving the house!). The neighbors didn’t complain; they even gave me some water to bring me back to my senses. I fixed everything for them, compensating them for the damage. I made a lot of new friends because everyone was raising money for the repairs. It turned the most terrible moment of my life into one of the best, because I didn’t expect such attention and care from the community.
So I burst into the burned-out studio, interested only in things like passports and documents. And I see a fireman holding a suitcase full of "bricks." And I scream, "Don't throw them away! There’s art in there!" And I think to myself: if only he’d opened it and seen what kind of art was in that heavy suitcase… bricks! I think that was the first time I called my work art.

P.D.: Tell me about the teapots.

Y.K.: It was a long-term project, and the remnants aren’t included here. In Shanghai, the owner of a chain of luxury restaurants assembled a new collection of designer teapots every year. We sent him a few pieces each year, themed around the Chinese calendar—the ox, the hare, and so on. In Shanghai, they’d select a few of the best pieces, then hold an exhibition and buy the selected pieces. So, there was some extra income and satisfaction. There’s a story behind it: since I kept asking my friend Yulia Repina to write me texts to accompany the pieces, one year, when I made some pretty good teapots for the Year of the Hare, I received a letter from the organizer that went something like this: "Yulia, your English is good, I invite you to Shanghai." They invited five artists from all over the world to a session every year. I’d studied English, of course, but all I could say was, "My name is Yulia." But I had to go ! Katya Sukhareva found two Estonians in my party who speak Russian and English and asked: "Yulia "She doesn’t speak a word of English, you help her there." And it was a wonderful trip, during which I made a new friend from Taiwan; we miraculously found a common language from scraps of phrases, living in the same room. We were driven back and forth, like dear guests, around the vast metropolis. To artists, to gallery owners, to exhibition openings. The Chinese love to drive you around like a general in power. And so the restaurateur created a teapot museum for himself. Now the project is complete. Over twelve years, the owner has collected a sufficient number of exhibits from all over the world. You can come to Shanghai and visit this museum; it’s open. While the museum was under construction, the artists were interested and we could make money; he bought several pieces at a time, and teapots also broke along the way at the post office. Others, like Yulia Repina, continue to make teapots every year, just for themselves. So I’m left with the less successful ones; the best ones went to Shanghai.

Everyone loves this pillow pyramid; it was even bought by Americans for a decent price at an exhibition in Mukha. But they couldn’t get it out of the country. The buyers asked me to handle the shipping, but it turned out that shipping would cost as much as the purchase price, so everything stalled. And I decided the work would look pretty in the studio, too.
Here’s another one: majolica for the Hermitage is my love!

P.D.: So what we see in the Hermitage souvenirs is your work?

Y.K.: Yes.

P.D.: Amazing ! Tell me.

Y.K.: I’ve been doing this for fifteen years. Once upon a time, there was Igor Babanov, then the head of the innovation department at the Hermitage Museum. We met at Lenexpo, where we were seeing student work from the antediluvian era. A man came up to me and said, "Hello! I’m so disgusted to see you! How wonderful, what you’re doing!" and so on. So they started creating a chain of stores, and I painted majolica for them, which they approved as copies. So I’ve been working with them all these years. Igor later left, built himself a hotel in India, and he and his wife became my friends for many years. At some point, he said, "That's it, I’m tired of this, I want to live in India!"

Considering how many years I have been painting majolica plates, you can laugh when I talk about I don’t have the patience. Majolica is made in huge print runs. They tell me, "Take pictures!" And I’ve already made a cartoon out of copies of the same plate. I love how the characters' facial expressions change depending on the mood I was in while I was working on it! I even had the idea of writing down what I was feeling while I was painting the Baptista Bella plate and putting the edition number on the back, because you can tell by their faces: Klopova was angry, she was happy. The copies change their expressions endlessly. I signed fifteen of them like that and then let it go. Well, I don’t like photographing my work; I love the process!
I also love it when I fail at something! Because that’s when I feel free. I’m talking about production defects in majolica, for example, and the spontaneity I strive for; it comes to me through technical defects. These plates hanging on the kitchen walls, which I love with all my might, are about that. That’s what I haven’t been able to do for many years. As soon as I fail, I can do anything; I like them because they’re alive. I wouldn’t do it on purpose. Of course, there’s always a creative approach to the process: I’ll decide: I’ll paint a braid in a hairstyle differently this time and try it. Then comes the time to experiment with another part of the drawing. That is, I still bring new features to a well-established pattern; I can’t do them without emotion. I find a new idea and play around.

When I started painting plates, it would take me a day or two to complete one, but now I can paint a plate in two hours. I recently gave a master class in Estonia and was terrified I wouldn’t be able to speak—I'm always nervous in public. However, I was amazed that people were interested! For a long time, I couldn’t understand the furor… but I have a hunch: they’ve stopped painting in the West, but I can paint, for example, faces. When someone paints a person, it’s an indescribable mastery for them. By the way, the most popular plates in majolica are wedding portraits. People buy people. Over the years, we’ve tried to change our selection, choosing plates that I personally found interesting, grotesques, for example, and others. Incidentally, I’ve had a thing for grotesques for a long time. In short, there’s something captivating about these wedding portraits.

P.D.: Perhaps 20th-century art has overfed the viewer with dehumanized forms, stripped of everything human, and now we want to return to humanity?

Y.K.: Who the hell knows. I love both. Anyway, I dream of a majolica exhibition. I 'm in touch with Oleg, who runs your bookstores; he also opened the "Most" store at 58 Moika Street. He has an exhibition space there.

Here are some drawings by Masha Usova. Here are some more works for the city of Zibo. It’s really interesting when artists get together and work; it creates so many human experiences. I generally prefer traveling if I have the opportunity to work locally in my field. I don’t really like the beach as a form of relaxation. But if I can come and sculpt there, that’s the best for me. I adore Rome, for example, but I don’t know if I’ll be able to work there. But that’s why I dream of getting to Faenza. So I can have both work and exercise.

P.D.: If you met yourself 20 years ago. Your actions.
 
J.K.: I have a plate from my first exhibition. Every time I look at it, I think: everything in my life was worth it, I see my professional growth, and I like it. So, the only thing I envy about myself twenty years ago is my health. Look at this plate, isn’t it awful?! But I love it too, I remember how much work it cost me, and I see the difference between the beginning of my creative path and what it is now. It reminds me of that. And I don’t envy myself twenty years ago. Now, in my understanding, I’m much more interested in things; twenty years ago, I was a complete idiot. In many ways, I’ve developed thanks to the people around me, and I thank my mother for pushing me into this profession, since I had no particular desire to follow this path. There’s also an element of luck: all these years, people have been around who have guided and helped me. I think everything has worked out for me thanks to the people, through communication.

P.D.: What does "Contemporary Art" mean to you ?

Y.K.: I’m very interested in it, I’m exploring it. I like some of it, I don’t like others, but it’s a new format of art.
 
P.D.: Now there is also a debate about the term itself. Some say that there is no such thing as contemporary or non-contemporary art. What do you think?

Y.K.: I guess everything being done now is contemporary, but it seems there’s more to it than that. It’s probably where there’s some kind of discovery, like an invention. Something technologically new, conceptually new. After all, contemporary art isn’t necessarily visual; the term also encompasses literature, theater, and other forms of art. It’s simply a format that didn’t exist before. I guess we’re talking about discoveries, new interpretations. Some kind of forward movement is required to talk about contemporary art. It has to be different from what’s gone before. Even though everything has been done before… But there still has to be a sense of novelty, a new interpretation.
 
P.D.: Funny question: an artist and substances. How are things going for you, how do you view it?

Y.K.: I’m all about materials here: fiberglass, glazes, and so on. At some point, I think I might switch to textiles, because they’re close to my heart and interesting. I recently saw an artist on Instagram who weaves with living grass, studying the soil and creating different textures. Her texts are in German, so I sent them to my friend Yulia for translation. It’s clear there’s a scientific basis, but it’s also visually compelling. I love that she creates with living matter, which forms my favorite structures. She’s the opposite of a French garden; she lets living things grow.

P.D.: The survey delved into the area of industrial chemistry. But it was about something else.

Y.K.: I like wine, but not drugs, and I also like rock and roll.

P.D.: The artist and the internet. Anything else to add?
 
Y.K.: The coronavirus has freed up time, and it’s been productive. We created an online gallery in the department. I called my works "Viruses." I participated in open calls, and colleagues contributed some. I used to be too lazy to search for competitions and submit projects for artists online. I focused on exhibitions among my peers, but I didn’t participate in larger ones. Of course, when I started traveling, Facebook took off. After a trip to China in 2011, we became wildly friendly with new acquaintances through it, and I realized how nice it was to see other artists from all over the world. Then I was forced to come to Instagram. I realized I needed to participate in this side of life. I joined the International Association of Ceramic Artists, where Irina Razumovskaya invited me. She gently made it clear that the photos of my work weren’t of the right quality; I needed better ones. I contacted Max Nesterov, and we took decent photos that I like. He saw in my work what I see. It’s these same works that I use in my publications. Then I realized how important it is to take high-quality photos of my work. But I can’t do it myself: capturing volume is very difficult, and ceramics also has color and surface texture. Equipment alone won’t save you; you need skill, experience, and an eye.

P.D.: Do artists need creative unions? Are you a member of one?

Y.K.: Yes, I am. I’m already a member of two. I’ve even grown to love the St. Petersburg Artists' Union, for the people who exist there on sheer enthusiasm, without any money. They’re trying to maintain their reputation. Of course, in my opinion, it’s a dying institution; it’s clear why it was created back then. That was a different system of government. And it was right then, but now it’s a vestige that undoubtedly continues to help us artists survive. After all, studios are a gift; otherwise, who would make art, and where?
There are a lot of ceramicists now. I’m currently working on Liflyandskaya Street with Alexander Vasilyevich, and Inna Rusadze and Lesha are there, as well as Andrey Osinin, Yura Osinin’s brother. There are plenty of ceramicists, and they find a place to set up shop. But right next door to us is a commercial souvenir ceramics workshop that makes piglets and piglets, and their business is booming, they’re expanding! But what they produce is appalling. But people eat it up, and as long as people eat it, they’ll keep making their souvenirs.

P.D.: Artist and politics. How are you?

Y.K.: Are you talking about actionism? I don’t have any. I just don’t. After the events at the Academy, when the students were fighting for a better life, and all those upheavals, I lost any desire to participate in anything like that. I have my own position, I’m concerned, but I’m not a member of anything. I read the news, but I try to distance myself from it because it gets me going, but it’s just another distraction, it gets in the way of my life.

P.D.: What occupies you besides creativity?

Y.K.: Traveling! I love it and miss it. I went away every year. I calculated the time I needed for rest—three or four days, a week at most. I easily jump off and fly on a whim for that length of time. I don’t like planning ahead.

P.D.: Are you more interested in cultural tourism or nature?

J.K.: Definitely a cultural one. I haven’t told you everything about my childhood. My parents were tourists. Living in Siberia, I visited quite a lot of places. We would endlessly go to a hut in the taiga and rent skis. Then I went to visit my mother in Altai. My brother is still actively involved in tourism. I experienced a fair amount of beautiful nature as a child. It was very beautiful, and I remember my first time in the mountains on Lake Baikal. I understand the phrase, "Only mountains can be better than mountains…" My brother took me to the area around Mount Akturu. In short, that was enough for me, and now I’m interested in other things: Italy, Rome, Florence. I really want to go to Hungary. We went with ceramicists to Cannes and the Côte d’Azur to see Picasso’s works. There was also an exhibition. It was a joy — everyone was local, the French showed the country from the inside. I really like all this, when you don’t feel like an outsider.

P.D.: Do you want to work in production in Hungary? Zsolnay, Pécs?

Y.K.: No, just to go. I usually end up at symposiums spontaneously, without having to look for them.

P.D.: When are you happy?

J.K.: I don’t even know. These are usually seconds, and they’re only realized afterward. And I try to capture such moments. My mother and her friends once taught me this when they were hiding in rock crevices in the mountains. I asked her, "Mom, why hide in the rocks?" And she said, "This will help you later in life when things get tough." I asked, "What should I do?" We had just completed a difficult trek near Lake Baikal, and a beautiful panorama of snow-capped mountains opened up. She said, "Remember this view, sit in a crevice, and try to recreate this image in your memory. And if you ever have a hard time in life, recall this image." Pash! This has worked my whole life! When I realized I couldn’t cope with my emotions, I would suddenly tell myself, "Go to the rock crevice." And I remember this peaceful image.
At work again. When I was sculpting this "square meter," I was happy. When I feel a moment of happiness, I try to capture it, but I have to have time to tell myself: here it is, catch it! And it falls into the piggy bank I started in those mountains.

P.D.: Where can viewers and buyers find your work and you?

Y.K.: On social media. Now, even when you apply to an international competition, you’re asked to send not only a biography, photos of your work, and a description, but also links to your social media profiles. I use my Instagram whenever possible, and I’m on Facebook, but that’s more for fun and observing others. My work is on display until November at the Anikushin Workshop, at the exhibition "Your Name Could Have Been Here." I like the exhibition, and I like the exhibition space; there are interesting people working there, passionate about their work, playing, thinking, and creating. It was a pleasure working with them.