“The truly unruly are few—and so there are no leaders.”
An interview given online to the artist F. Starin in the summer of 2010.

Starin: Oleg, to be honest, I’m very tempted to ask you a host of questions directly related to your biography, but I’d rather talk about the artist’s worldview. About your worldview today. Do you think the visual arts have some higher purpose?
Trofimov: I think they do. Any art is meant to

evoke various emotions in the viewer and make us think about the meaning of life, about a person’s place on earth—all the things we leave unnoticed in the routine of everyday life. Let’s hypothetically remove all art from our lives, and what would we be left with? In a situation like that, even people who think art is a waste of time would howl. Art is an integral part of human life, and that is its chief purpose.

Starin: Is it not a mistake that we rather greatly overestimate all art, when in fact it is simply play, entertainment? I’m not a supporter of that theory, but perhaps everything is more prosaic, and Nietzsche was right: “We have art so that we shall not die of the truth”?
Trofimov: In places such as the army or prison, where there is little art—if not none at all—a person develops a special craving for creativity. Any third-rate concert there is perceived as a world-class show. And that is not to mention artists, whose importance in such places cannot be overlooked. I myself was an artist in the army, and of course my abilities were in great demand, from tattoos to demobilization albums, whose “beauty” at times went beyond every boundary of decency. In such conditions, art becomes something more important than entertainment; it is already more like a means of survival, an escape from harsh reality. And in ordinary life the significance of art is no less; we simply don’t pay it as much attention, thinking that it exists somewhere in parallel, while in fact everything around us is permeated with it. If you ask a person reading these lines to tear himself away and look around, wherever he may be, he will discover a multitude of things belonging to one kind of art or another—design, fine art, decorative and applied art, and so on. Examples from history also say a great deal. Just remember the very serious significance that such monsters as Stalin and Hitler attached to art in propagating their ideas. Without relying on art, they would hardly have been able to overturn people’s consciousness so quickly and so thoroughly. And what a role art plays in religion—for example, in Christianity, the very object of visual art often begins to become a source of miracles and mysteries beyond human understanding. How many examples there are of icons streaming myrrh, and of miraculous healings through them. All this says that art has some higher spiritual purpose; most likely it is our invisible dialogue with God. As for Nietzsche’s statement, there is really no arguing with it: the naked truth of life is, of course, not very attractive. And art certainly is play and entertainment—but rather for the people who serve it, for those who have devoted their lives to it.

Starin: What do you think gave rise to this manner of quick, rapidly executed painting among many contemporary artists? Why did masters in the past work on a single piece for several years, while now that is a great rarity?
Trofimov: It’s simply that earlier there were different tasks. There were no cameras, printers, or other such equipment, and people needed a portrait or a beautiful landscape on the wall; so artists labored away, inventing technical methods in order to convey what they saw as realistically as possible. Over time that need disappeared, and the Impressionists appeared, setting themselves the task of conveying the impression made by what they saw. But an impression cannot last long; it is a matter of moments. So the task arose of conveying one’s emotions quickly, and from this came the expressive manner of painting. I make a plein-air study in fifteen or twenty minutes, and I consider that a long time. When I see artists sitting for hours and torturing their works into shape, I don’t understand it: after all, when they started, the sun was on the left, and by the time they finish it is already on the right—if it is there at all. Why sit outside, then, when all of that can be invented at home? Besides, there is a great deal of charm and freshness in a dynamic manner of painting. True, it is hard to do, but it is something one has to work on.

Starin: In other words, cameras, printers… technocracy is seriously correcting painting. Can one suppose that this techno-tendentiousness will, in the end, “cut out” classical painting—oil, canvas?
Trofimov: No, Fyodor, I don’t think technocracy will destroy classical painting. Canvas and oil may disappear, but they will be replaced by a more durable paint, one more convenient to work with; canvas, too, will be replaced by a material more resistant to the ravages of time. Well, if that happens, it means we’ll learn to master new materials; that’s even interesting.
The most that threatens us is the possibility of drawing digitally on a tablet and then immediately printing paintings already with texture. Here, of course, a certain connection with materials will be lost, but I think new technical possibilities and new delights will appear there. The main thing is that no one can replace the artist; no program can replace the creator, though it can help him. By the way, scientists recently discovered that Caravaggio did not merely paint from something like a photograph—he actually made something akin to a photograph on the canvas, using a phosphorescent substance that he obtained from fireflies and, by projecting an image onto the canvas with a camera obscura, received nothing other than a photograph, which he then successfully painted over. And are his works any less significant in the world history of culture because of that? Imagine what a technocrat he was for his time. All these technical gadgets should simply help in the work; there will always be plenty of room for creativity, and there is nothing to fear here.

Starin: You’ve surprised me. Is the Internet an artist’s best friend?
Trofimov: The thing is, I grew up in the Soviet Union, and at that time a young artist had practically nowhere to exhibit. To get into some exhibition or other, you had to stand in an enormously long line at the exhibition committee, and there was no guarantee your works would be accepted—for those reasons, and mainly for OTHER reasons. I’m not even talking about selling. You had to sell your goods from under your coat, in the literal sense of the word, standing in the street near art salons and endlessly running from the police. In a salon you could hang a work only if you were a member of you-know-what, and even then only one or two a month. But the Internet is an enormous exhibition hall where you can not only hang your work but sell it as well—and what’s more, it is not the hall of some shabby little town, but of the whole world. On the Internet you can communicate with people and artists who interest you without spending time on in-person meetings, which, because of geography, are sometimes simply impossible. You can keep up with the news in the visual arts, and a great deal more. The Internet is a good garbage dump; the only question is what you are looking for. After all, it’s no secret that you can find a diamond in the trash—you just have to look for it, and along the way, you may see a couple of emeralds and a little ruby turn up as well.

Starin: Why are there more male artists? Why, in almost any art, are there always several times more men than women?
Trofimov: I wrestle with that mystery myself; perhaps you can suggest something. In fact, there are many talented young women, but somehow in the end things don’t come together for them. Perhaps their attitude toward family and motherhood has an effect, and they change their views and set their priorities away from art. I don’t know.

Starin: Perhaps, paradoxically, it is a matter of leadership? Maybe men are more inclined to want to win, to lead, to occupy a high position, and art is not very different from any other profession. As elsewhere, in art a man strives to express himself as fully as possible, to be the best, to become an exception, to possess influence. Women are inwardly more peaceable, and the desire for universal recognition is not an end in itself for them. What do you think?
Trofimov: Absolutely, Fyodor, everything you have listed affects the role of women in art. Perhaps women do not set themselves global tasks. In life, for the most part, a woman strives to create her own small, cozy world and to fight for leadership there (if she needs that at all), and that struggle is quite enough for her. Because it is precisely there that women win their brilliant victories, almost unnoticed by those they have defeated. But in general I agree with you: women are, after all, less ambitious, and they have no need for self-realization; they already fill us with admiration. And we strive to win mainly for them—and a little, of course, to amuse our own vanity.

Starin: If we speak about the modern world order, statehood, public life—who, in your opinion, is now the artist’s chief enemy?
Trofimov: The chief enemy, I think, is money. When there is none, the artist is distracted by how to feed his family, what to eat himself, how to buy materials; his head is filled not with creativity but with survival. And when there is money, as a rule, the artist begins to relax, rejoice in his success, take pride in himself and his skills, and stops experimenting. Then the exploitation of a discovered theme begins, which inevitably leads to a loss of interest from his admirers and to a complete absence of creative growth. And the chief friend, of course, is the Internet; here, in my opinion, there is nothing to add.

Starin: Besides painting, are other arts close to you? Perhaps music, literature? Do you have favorite authors or works?
Trofimov: Of course, as far as time allows, I am interested in music, literature, theater, and film. In contemporary music I like Nick Cave, Tom Waits, Petya Mamonov; Leningrad amuses me. In classical music: Mozart, Bach, Albioni. I like the Armenian duduk—unearthly music. In literature: Kafka, Platonov; it would take too long to list everyone. As for theater, I am delighted by the director Kirill Serebrennikov; there are many interesting productions at the Praktika Theater. In film, among contemporary directors, Peter Greenaway amazes me.

Starin: Is being an artist an easy profession, in your view? Is it easier to be an artist today than, say, a hundred years ago?
Trofimov: I would say that the artist’s profession is interesting and absorbing, and at that point you no longer understand whether it is easy or hard. The tension during work is evidently great, because afterward you clearly feel tired, as if you had been hauling sacks, but that cannot compare with the pleasure of the process itself. Many will say there is material instability, but it exists everywhere, and today’s crisis shows that practically all strata of the population, in all professions, have felt it. As for the old masters, there was simply more order then. Today paints have become available to everyone, while earlier the guild of painters issued them to order, especially the blues. That guild had an inspection commission that would come to the studio and check the progress of the work and compliance with technique. So it was no picnic either; you could not exactly experiment creatively. In a word, it is a profession like any other; what matters is your attitude toward it.

Starin: In your opinion, does the Russian “public,” so to speak—those who are interested in painting, visit galleries and significant events, collect painting—differ in some way from, for example, the European public? Do responses to your work differ in Russia and abroad?
Trofimov: The wonderful thing about visual art is that it does not require an interpreter. The author addresses the viewer directly through his works; he conveys the mood, feelings, and ideas he experienced while working. And, as a rule, if through the means and mastery given to him he has managed to express them on canvas and evoke a response in a lover of painting, then the result is positive. The artist has made a small miracle, summoning from the viewer’s memory emotions he once experienced, or expressing an idea that resonates with or surprises the public. And since people’s feelings, regardless of nationality, are similar, the perception of paintings and the responses to them are also similar. There are, however, certain peculiarities. For some reason, people in Europe and America prefer more major-key works: if it is a landscape, it is better for it to be sunny, life-affirming. Subtle, lyrical landscapes that evoke quiet sadness and a melancholic mood have less resonance. Even in sunny California, where there is an overabundance of sun, sunny landscapes in a warm palette are exactly what is in demand. And in Europe, demand for a European landscape is higher than, say, for a Russian or Asian one—although of course the quality of the work and the mastery of execution are considered first, and only then the subject. So cosmopolitanism in painting does exist, though with small reservations.

Starin: Do you follow contemporary visual art?
Trofimov: As much as possible, I do; after all, it is my profession. Among contemporary artists I would single out Bato Dugarzhapov, Nikolai Blokhin, Ivan Danilov, Lilian Spiktorenko, and Svetlana Rumak—people whose mastery truly inspires admiration. As for new movements, there simply are none; the genius has not yet come who will show a new path for the development of visual art. It is like the song about the insane asylum by V. Vysotsky: “There are few real hell-raisers, so there are no leaders.”

Starin: In your opinion, why are there so few full-fledged genre works in realism now? Why are there more and more simple forms and characters, landscapes, still lifes—why are there so few people in large, serious compositions?
Trofimov: Here, Fyodor, it seems to me that the framework of realism no longer allows an artist to express his idea as sharply as he could in other styles that already exist today. And why use methods that may be beautiful, but are outdated and inexpressive, when other methods already exist—more alive and more responsive to the present day? And whom, now, should a realist artist depict? A meeting between Putin and Medvedev, the bombing of the Leningrad railway, or oligarchs vacationing on the Mediterranean? It smells of kitsch, with elements of mockery. Though now that I think about it, it might turn out very funny, especially if all of that were painted on one canvas—but I do not think it would be serious. However, I know several artists who are making serious genre compositions in realism that have a contemporary sound. One of them is the Norwegian artist Odd Nerdrum, although he calls his work high kitsch; that is already a conceptual underpinning, while in fact I would call it contemporary realism of high quality and substance. To make works of that class, you must achieve great mastery in realist painting, develop your own individual creative and plastic language, and, most importantly, have something to say to people. All of that is enormous work, and contemporary artists are not ready for it; hence the shortage of this kind of realist painting.

Starin: What do you think of contemporary criticism in the visual arts?
Trofimov: To be honest, Fyodor, I am not very interested in contemporary criticism. And because of the development of material relations in our country, critics—at least when it comes to the visual arts—produce only laudatory articles for catalogs and other printed matter. I have not come across serious, thoughtful articles lately, though not because they do not exist; I simply have not looked hard enough. Among the interesting things I have read recently in this field is O. Ya. Kochek’s book The Painting System of Borisov-Musatov. It is a serious, fundamental work that helps one understand the enchanting beauty of the artist’s works and the means by which he achieved it. Very useful for artists. Incidentally, the author once taught me art history at the institute, long ago.

Starin: Do you often correct, “finish up” your works? Is it better to be overly doubtful or overly confident?
Trofimov: Well, it seems to me foolish to be self-confident; that already borders on psychological disorders, or on certain complexes—at least that is my opinion. So I would put myself among the doubters. But I do not correct my works; in extreme cases, I paint over them. For some reason, the most successful works are made on just such canvases. Apparently there is double energy there, and the painting is afraid it will be painted over a third time.
If one must be excessive, I would probably prefer to be intelligent; then perhaps that circumstance would allow me to be moderately doubtful and moderately confident. But if I have to choose, then doubt appeals to me more: it provides ground for analyzing one’s actions, space for searching, whereas self-confidence leaves no choice—and the choice already made may not always prove to be the best.

Starin: Name three artists you love, and the works of theirs that, in your view, are most successful.
Trofimov: I like Fechin and Serov very much. Last year, while in Spain, I discovered Dalí from an entirely different side: it turns out he was a strong master technically, but you can see that only in person. By the way, I will digress a little and tell a story that happened to me on that trip. My wife, my son, and I were driving to Port Lligat—for those who do not know, that is the house where he worked for most of his life. During our drive, a purely Dalí-esque cigar-shaped cloud appeared in the sky. I said to my wife, “Look, I thought Dalí had invented clouds like that, but it turns out they exist in real life.” The cloud followed us the whole way. We arrived and went into the house for the tour. Of course, the journey through the house was permeated by a kind of magic; even my son, who is not very fond of that kind of excursion, fell under Dalí’s spell. When we left the house and entered the inner garden, we looked up at the sky and—oh, miracle—the cloud that had been pursuing us had turned into Dalí’s lips sofa. That completely stunned us, and my son, wide-eyed, said, “Dad, he’s alive!” So there is no death.

Starin: Romanticism, in your opinion—is it a certain fragility of the soul, vulnerability, or rather self-sacrifice, even with inner firmness? Are you a romantic?
Trofimov: I would not say I am a romantic, but a share of romanticism is sometimes present. I do not idealize reality, but I do relate romantically to some part of it. It is impossible to look at the landscapes around us and not feel an inner tremor and a desire to prolong that moment. More than once I have watched people who seemed completely disinclined to sentimentality gaze at a sunset with awe. Therefore I think romanticism is a part of our perception of the surrounding world, inherent in each of us, but in different proportions.

Starin: Do you agree with those who are convinced that all creativity is sacrifice?
Trofimov: I do not think a creator makes some sort of sacrifice, and he does not have all that much altruism either. In any case, even if an artist’s works are not in demand, he hopes recognition will come, followed by fame, success, and, as a rule, money. He consoles himself with that and dreams of those glorious times. And until that happens, he justifies his work by saying that he creates for himself and is interested only in the process—but that is obvious dissembling.
If someone told me, “Create; you will produce only masterpieces, but no one will ever see them,” I would change my line of work without a second thought. Why do something that is of no interest to anyone, or that no one will see? That is not normal. There is a producer; there must be a consumer. What does the artist sacrifice? Health, time, strength, nerves—but every citizen who regularly goes to work sacrifices the same things. So I do not see any great difference here. I think we should not idealize creative professions. Yes, there is a certain mystical component, a feeling of involvement in something large, but it is not such a mysteriously exalted profession as artists themselves sometimes present it. Incidentally, when I was in America I met two artists. We got to talking about our common “affliction,” painting. One of them said that painting is pure mathematics, where everything can be calculated, computed, and a wonderful result obtained; the main thing is to conduct the process correctly. The other, sitting at the easel and looking up every time, said: “I don’t understand what is happening; we are some kind of sorcerers. We color in little squares and exchange them for money, and people even thank us for it. But in reality we are deceiving them and selling them some kind of illusion.” Those are the different opinions my acquaintances hold—and, characteristically, I agree with both of them.

Starin: Can a self-taught artist reach true heights in great art? To what extent is the profession of artist a matter of knowledge and craft? Perhaps diligence is more important for an artist than talent.
Trofimov: A wonderful question, Fyodor. I will probably incur the wrath of fervent supporters of art schools, institutes, and so on, but I am, after all, an opponent of education in the form in which it exists in our country. Let us look at who teaches in our educational institutions: as a rule, they are either unsuccessful artists or the most capable graduates of those same institutions. The first group may be glad to teach something, but the trouble is that they themselves do not properly understand the matter; for the second, teaching is merely a prestigious springboard for further activity. They have no time for students; their heads are full of their own plans, and if those plans do not come to fruition, they automatically move into the first category. In the old days, a successful artist had students who also helped him while mastering the profession; today you would hardly lure such an artist into teaching—he simply has no time. Therefore, I believe one should not count on anyone here, but calmly study the craft. I have an artist friend, Tolya Movlyan; he independently worked through D. I. Kiplik’s Technique of Painting, and in three years achieved such results that he can give many academicians a run for their money. And I myself, with two degrees, am still patching the holes in that education and remembering that the methodology and assignments were developed correctly and very competently—only no one was able to convey them to us. As for the second part of the question, of course, first of all one must study the craft, and as well as possible. Otherwise, how can you express your feelings and thoughts through a clumsy little drawing and color illiteracy? It will come out clumsy and muddy. You have to draw until your hand is trained and you understand tonal relationships; knead the paint a little, admire it, see how it behaves; analyze composition—and only when you are armed with all this knowledge and skill can you show the viewer your unique vision of the world, your feelings, your experiences, your ideas. So if God did not endow an artist with this arsenal (and that happens in life), one must study diligently, which is what I am doing at present. Therefore everything here depends on the person. If there is desire, one can learn everything at home; the main thing is to become imbued with passion for the subject. By the way, no one has seen either of my diplomas to this day except me and my wife.

Starin: So, in the end, is hard work more important than talent?
Trofimov: Talent and hard work are inseparable things. I have never seen talented people who were lazy in the work for which they have an aptitude. In general, I believe that all people are endowed from birth with more or less equal abilities; the task is simply to develop them. If a person has a purposeful character, he is able to make use of his potential. Through hard work he achieves certain results, and we already say, “That is talent,” although we have no idea how much sweat it cost him. Educational institutions can serve as an example. Students enter the first year with varying degrees of preparation, and by the end of the second year everyone begins to more or less even out, because everyone reaches toward the leaders. And only the person who does not grow complacent or stop at what has been achieved, but continues to work on himself, can become a leader. Therefore, here it is more appropriate to give not a proportion, but an equation with all the known quantities: 100% work = 100% talent.

Starin: Name three of your works that most accurately characterize you as a creator. Are these, in your view, your most successful works?
Trofimov: Here I want to answer in the words of the heroine from Bulgakov’s Heart of a Dog. Remember when Sharikov asked at the circus what the main event of his life would be, and the “clairvoyant” answered that the main event of his life lay ahead. Seriously, in fact I cannot single out any one of my works, much less three. But I firmly believe that someday I will make something I could be proud of, and for now I am only striving toward that.

Starin: Single out at least a couple of works.
Trofimov: Yes, Fyodor, I did not manage to laugh it off. Perhaps I would note Tulips (2010) and Boats (2010). And I chose them not because they somehow characterize me, but only because in them I discovered certain technical devices and the expressiveness of the painting’s format.

Starin: What do you think now has the most negative effect on contemporary visual art in the world?
Trofimov: Such a favorable situation has now developed that it is impossible to name what is hindering it. Artists have complete freedom: create whatever you want. But there are no strong ideas and embodiments, and because of that there is no development in art. For now we are marking time, most likely before a powerful leap. Let us hope that we, too, will have the honor of taking part in it.

Starin: In your opinion, does the state devote enough attention to supporting visual art in Russia?
Trofimov: I do not understand at all what that support should consist of. If they do not interfere, that is already good. And the allocation of all sorts of grants, which are stolen on their way to the artist, brings nothing good except the creation of additional corruption. Personally, I am used to relying only on myself, and therefore I do not expect any handouts from the state, foundations, or unions.

Starin: Nowadays some increasingly believe that the development of art depends on unsuccessful artists just as much as on successful ones, and therefore one must be extremely delicate in judgments and criticism. Others believe that excessive tact multiplies crowds of untalented painters who are incapable of bringing anything positive through their work. Do you think one should be gentler in assessing weak artists and works, or categorical? Are we doing ourselves a disservice when, out of kindheartedness, we do not dare call vulgarity vulgarity, or a bungler a bungler? Perhaps it is better to cut straight from the shoulder?
Trofimov: I believe there are no absolutely talentless people, and if you look even at artists’ not very interesting works, you will find there is something in them that attracts: some brushstroke, some device, or an overall naive state. Secondly, a person is reaching toward beauty, after all, and with a harsh word or tactless expression of your thoughts you will arouse nothing in him except hurt and anger. And that is already negativity, of which we have more than enough; why multiply it? Let a person live and rejoice that he is connected with art. There is no law saying that painting exists only for the chosen.

Starin: Does the concept of “commercial painting” exist?
Trofimov: In my opinion, no, there is no such concept as commercial painting. Painting that is bought—that is what commercial painting is today. At one time, in order to earn money, I tried to please potential buyers; I painted what sold faster, and it was hard labor. I went to the easel as if to the guillotine. But one fine day I had had enough of it all, and I decided I would paint what I wanted. The gallery owners did not understand my bow in that direction, but I stood my ground, and after a fairly short time my commercial success became significantly greater than when I was following the public’s lead. Therefore any painting, if it is of high quality, is commercial; otherwise, what is the artist supposed to live on? As Picasso said: “An artist is a person who paints what can be sold. A good artist is a person who sells what he paints.”

Starin: Tell us a little about your family. Were your parents not from the art world? How did the choice of painting as a calling come about?
Trofimov: No, my parents had no connection to art. My father was a worker, my mother an office employee, and no one among my relatives was interested in painting. As for the choice, there is a funny story. When I was still in kindergarten, the war in Vietnam was going on, and the front pages of the newspapers of the time were full of photographs from the battlefields. In those photographs I was attracted by the airplanes of the American aggressors, like everything foreign at that time, and I gladly copied them from the newspapers, which is how I successfully trained my hand. Drawing an American airplane was no trouble for me then. And then one day, in kindergarten, we were given an assignment to draw whatever we wanted. While all the normal children drew little houses and flowers, I naturally drew an American airplane; to sharpen the composition, I drew Vietnamese people in pith helmets below, and little bullets flying out of the airplane toward these peaceful citizens. And of course I created a sensation among the teachers with my art, especially with its political undertone. The next day they fenced me off from the whole group with little chairs, gave me the necessary materials, and told me to draw a landscape for some competition from a rather unattractive photograph the teachers had chosen. I drew it; I even think I won some place. But that was not important to me. What mattered were the eyes of the children looking at me from behind the chairs. That is where my path in life was determined.

Starin: How do you work? Is there a certain routine, a system? Do you often have to force yourself to work, or, if there is no inspiration, can you leave work untouched for days?
Trofimov: No, there is no routine or system. I get up in the morning, have breakfast, and paint until evening. In the evening, when there is no natural light, I think over what I will do tomorrow, rummage through studies, develop a future painting—and so it goes day after day, if I am not on a creative trip, and those are quite frequent. So such a schedule is simply happiness for me. And if there is no inspiration, or no mood, or I am tired, I stretch frames and prepare canvases; I love that too. But in general, somehow it has not worked out to work fully for even a whole month, though I am striving toward that.

Starin: To put it categorically, in what case can an artist consider himself successful, accomplished, even if no one buys his work? If works categorically do not sell for years, can an artist be happy in the profession?
Trofimov: I would still separate these two concepts. Whether an artist has fulfilled himself or not can be said only after his death; while an artist is alive and working fruitfully, we do not know where the curve—or straight line—of his creative path will lead him. Creativity is constant searching, movement, striving for perfection; it is a nonstop race, and try to figure out at what moment an artist has become accomplished.
Success is unstable, one might say shaky and deceptive. If you chase it, there will be no time to work, so I prefer to entrust that part of the job to specialists: art managers, promoters, and so on. There everything depends on their quickness. What is required of the artist is to do his work as well as possible; the rest will come, and the return will certainly be there. The sale of paintings is not an indicator of happiness in the profession, still less of recognition. Of course, I would be lying if I said sales did not interest me at all; that is not so. Every sale flatters one’s pride and stimulates work, but I would not put it at the forefront. It is a normal situation: you have worked and received payment for your labor. But besides sales there is also the pleasure of working, and perhaps that is the main thing, when you hang suspended between heaven and earth. No drugs or other accelerants can produce that state. I know many good artists who sit without sales but nevertheless do not abandon this profession, despite a catastrophic lack of money. And how they are transformed when they work—you have to see it. There he is king and god.

Starin: Speaking of contemporary painting on a global scale, in your view does any country stand out noticeably for having bright, promising artists?
Trofimov: In my view, every country has its good artists, but because populations differ from country to country, the percentage of artists differs as well. I would single out Russia, Ukraine, and America here. But I would not exclude England from that list. In general, an interesting situation has developed in England: it has its own original school of painting, whose methodology centers on revealing a person’s creative potential rather than drilling artistic disciplines. I think that will bear fruit; perhaps something new and serious will emerge from there.

Starin: In your opinion, why are more and more artists choosing computer art?
Trofimov: I do not think computer art or the graphics tablet carries any sort of threat. It is simply a new part of the visual arts; incidentally, when handled skillfully, it can also help in traditional art. In general, today I would begin teaching students with the computer. Through graphic programs and the same tablet, one can explain the fundamentals of painting, color, and so on much more clearly. A beginning artist can use a tablet to bring out the pure idea of what he wants to depict, without being distracted by the technical side of the matter; he can analyze it and, accordingly, correct it painlessly if something is wrong. In a word, I see nothing bad in the tablet—only benefit.
As for artists’ fascination with computer art, in my view there is nothing bad there either; someone has to develop it. The problem is not in the material with which you create, but in immersion in the subject and study of the process. Whether it is canvas, paper, or an image on a monitor is not important. No one has abolished the artist; the main thing is his ideas and thoughts. The technique of execution is secondary; it must be chosen for maximum expressiveness.

Starin: What, for you, is the main difference between avant-garde painting and realism?
Trofimov: There is no difference at all. If you are going to paint an abstract or a realist picture, you must possess at least the basics of painterly mastery; if you do not, nothing will come of it. It is like many beginning artists: they smear around in realism and it does not turn out well, so they think, “Let me do abstraction; there drawing is supposedly not important.” But no: the hand is not trained, there is no beauty in the application of paint, the color does not come together, everything falls apart—and then that magnificent phrase appears: “THIS IS HOW I SEE IT.” At that point one can only sympathize with such an author for having such terrible eyesight, although of course it is elementary illiteracy, unwillingness to work on oneself, and disrespect for the profession. Therefore painting is painting, whatever you call it.

FINAL BLITZ

Starin: Is popularity now a synonym for talent?
Trofimov: Not always

Starin: A good artist and a bad artist—there is no third option?
Trofimov: Everyone is good; some are simply better.

Starin: Will beauty save the world?
Trofimov: It may not save it, but it certainly will not let it perish.

Starin: Man is born for happiness—is that so?
Trofimov: I think for suffering, but it is within our power to turn that suffering into happiness.

Starin: What saddens you most in the contemporary artist, in the person?
Trofimov: Lack of love, lack of respect for one’s neighbor, and a formal approach to one’s work.

Starin: Talented people are talented in everything?
Trofimov: My life experience tells me that this is so.

Starin: Is a critic a failed artist?
Trofimov: No, of course not. A failed artist will be a failed critic.

Starin: The more I learn about people, the more I love…
Trofimov: Painting.

Starin: What quality do you consider most valuable in yourself?
Trofimov: I do not sweat the small stuff.

Starin: If you had to choose one: a happy family, or worldwide recognition as a genius in your profession?
Trofimov: I will not answer; my wife will be offended. ))

Starin: An intelligent, cultured person—who is that?
Trofimov: Simply a decent person.

Starin: And decent?
Trofimov: Well, at least someone who does not urinate in the stairwell; that is already a big plus.

Starin: Your chief shortcoming as an artist?
Trofimov: I almost never manage to do exactly what I intended; everything is somewhere nearby.

Starin: What rules the world?
Trofimov: Does anything rule it? In my view, there is complete anarchy in the world.

Starin: Is there ultimate justice?
Trofimov: There definitely is, and everyone will be convinced of that sooner or later.