CONSTANTIN SKOPTSOV: The Story of the «Ukrainian Bosch»
Konstantin Skoptsov / rbc.ua
SHORT PROFILE
Name: Konstantin Skoptsov
Date of Birth: December 13, 1958
Place of Birth: Odesa, Ukraine
Profession: artist, graphic artist, illustrator
The biography of the Ukrainian artist Konstantin Skoptsov could itself become a standalone work of art — it is a vivid example of «life-creation», whose main driving force is an intense contemplation of the world’s deepest meanings. Meeting Skoptsov means encountering the archetype of the creator — a meeting with Giotto and Dante, with Hemingway and Dürer. We are certain that for our readers it will be a true event.
Vladyslav Mikheyev: Konstantin, you are often called the «Ukrainian Bosch». How does it feel to live and create with such a status?
Konstantin Skoptsov: Wonderful! First of all, no one really competes for this status. Today, everyone wants to become Mark Rothko; for some reason, nobody wants to be Bosch. And this is quite understandable: to paint like Rothko, you need to spend much less time and effort… But I do spend that time — I enjoy investing a great deal of work into a painting. Right now, for example, I’m preparing for my 13th exhibition. Its theme is «Cabinet Graphics». And it is quite strange, unpopular, and in some sense even artistically suicidal. Because cabinets are a reality of a distant past.
Today, «classical» cabinets are almost never found in homes, just like, for instance, home libraries. All of this is a class of phenomena that is disappearing today, like dinosaurs. But cabinet graphics interest me. In the end, someone has to understand and preserve what is happening in the cultural space with cabinets and libraries. So I continue, in my own way, the work not so much of Bosch as of Dürer.
Cabinet graphics is a distinct genre, practically gone by now. Yet earlier, there were even special categories of collectors who gathered this kind of work exclusively. Because cabinet graphics is the «finest delicacy», as we say in Odesa. It is a special language — extremely intellectual, loaded with symbolism and subtext.
V. M.: Why do you consider this genre a form of artistic suicide?
K. S.: Because in today’s reality, there is no place for cabinet painting — such works simply have nowhere to be displayed. If you go to any contemporary exhibition, you will see paintings for which a place can always be found — you can easily imagine them in various modern interiors. For example, this nude lady is perfect for a bedroom. And this jug with pears would fit beautifully in a dining room. A battle scene? Wonderful! Let’s place it in the living room. But what will you do with cabinet graphics if you don’t have a cabinet?
V. M.: But if cabinet graphics is a dying genre, why does it interest you so much?
K. S.: This is easy to explain with the following metaphor. Imagine that your home is a living organism. What in it can you compare to the brain? The library! It is the most important part of the house, because it does not simply symbolize but actually embodies civilizational development. Until the advent of artificial intelligence, the library was the most important part of a home! A home without it is unthinkable — just as a living human organism cannot exist without a brain. The library was the place into which people once invested enormous effort, time, and money. And now, do you know where the main funds go when arranging a home?
I conducted a small social survey among my acquaintances, and I can tell you that today the most expensive part of the house is… the toilet. Notice that all our corruption scandals for some reason are often linked precisely to a «golden toilet». I do not recall a single corrupt official, successfully mastering millions from the budget, who was found to possess a richly decorated and tastefully curated library with, say, first editions of Dante on the shelves. And you want to tell me that this reality does not correspond to the artistic language of Bosch?
V. M.: We’ve more or less understood why you are compared to Bosch… But is there an artist from the past with whom you personally associate yourself? Who is closest to you in spirit?
K. S.: The closest, of course, is William Blake. Because he knew how to create vast worlds. Unfortunately, there isn’t as much written about him in art-historical commentary as about Bosch. Bosch is, without doubt, a great artist. But in this peculiar «cult of Bosch», in my view, there is a great deal of speculation. I often notice that people discover symbols in his works that simply aren’t there. A similar thing happens with Bruegel — he has, so to speak, «gone to the masses». His image has become surrounded by inventions, sayings, sacred events…
But the real Bruegel — not the one mythologized by pop culture — has none of that. In reality he is Flemish-style brutal; his works are something in the spirit of Till Eulenspiegel. So there are invented Bosches and Bruegels, created as a result of a kind of jester-like pop-cultural game. With Blake, however, everything is different. Blake is serious! What he does is not even myth-making — it is world-making. He creates incredible, fantastical worlds. And even his biography is fantastical. You know, he had only one exhibition in his entire life. It took place in a small closet-room of a shop owned by his brother.
V. M.: So it turns out that interpreters and collectors carry the main burden of responsibility for the fate of art…
K. S.: Yes. The work of a collector is not a leisurely walk along a wall of paintings, but a very heavy responsibility. A collector’s mistake costs dearly not only for a particular artist, but for culture as a whole, for all humanity! Their function is to find one diamond among millions of tons of barren rock. And for that, they must have an eye and intuition trained in a very specific way — the eye of a jeweler. A true collector is, in a sense, a co-author of the artist. They must not only discover the precious stone, but also create a proper setting for it.
If a collector does not fulfill this cultural function, then unfortunately, they are not a jeweler but a banal reseller or junk dealer. Such a collector creates nothing — they simply follow popular opinions. They hear that something is selling well, and so they buy it. In this sense, they bear little guilt, because such purchase is not a truly volitional or creative act. A real collector is one who takes risks and retains the right to make mistakes.
Stendhal, in Walks in Rome, tells of a woman from the Borghese family who did not buy works from a young artist who later became a recognized genius. And the realization of this colossal blunder tormented her for the rest of her life — not because she could have purchased his works cheaply, but because, being a first-class jeweler, she failed to recognize and appreciate a unique diamond.
V. M.: There is an opinion that true art is always underground. What do you think about this?
K. S.: In my view, this is not entirely true. Even Bosch, whom we mentioned earlier, was quite popular and in demand during his lifetime. Yes, we have examples of «underground» biographies — artists like Modigliani or Van Gogh. But these are exceptions rather than the rule. On the other hand, we can recall, for example, the Pre-Raphaelites. Some of them — Morgan or Rossetti, in particular — remained in the history of painting. Yet among them were portraitists whose names no one remembers today, even though during their lifetimes their works were worth fabulous sums. So it varies…
Blake was practically unnoticed by his contemporaries. And the only review written during his lifetime was insulting. Worldwide fame came to him only in the 20th century. I think a true artist will always exist beyond any limitations — temporal, material… Although it is, of course, good when a great artist has a «curator» — a patron and a benefactor, without whom they sometimes simply cannot survive. Vasari tells a story about a not very well-known and sought-after artist who suddenly received a commission. The client paid him in small coins. It was a huge and very heavy sack, which the artist, not wanting to spend money on a cart driver, carried on foot from Verona to Milan. As a result, he overstrained himself and died on the way. Creativity and commerce can coexist in many different — sometimes tragically comic — ways.
V. M.: As far as I know, you are a kind of self-made artist — or, simply put, self-taught…
K. S.: Yes, I am completely self-taught! There is nothing radically unusual about that. Blake was self-taught, Čiurlionis was self-taught. Dürer painted his first self-portrait while still self-taught! And yet they managed to be far more interesting than hundreds of «professionals». No one taught me painting, but my art has a source — literature. One day I felt an irresistible desire to illustrate literary works. That’s how it all began. If we speak of teachers, in some sense they could be considered Henri de Régnier and Jacques de Saint-Victor. But I am deeply convinced that an artist must be «born from above». That is, something must be given to you at birth. And then you cultivate that initial soil — plow it, sow seeds into it. For example, literature can become such seeds.
You feel how these seeds sprout directly into your soul, and a need is born to visualize this experience. Then comes the question of tools: how to do it? At first I would take an ordinary pen and copy something. Those drawings, of course, were far from perfect. But I kept searching, developing, refining techniques. My visual abilities grew, and into this process philosophical intuition and literary aesthetics became interwoven. I began by copying great works. In my firm belief, imitating geniuses is the best school.
To me, this is far better than formal education. My first exhibition took place at the factory where I worked as a test mechanic. There were magnificent marble-clad halls, and I was given the chance to hold an exhibition of my illustrations there. But already on the second day everything was dismantled, and I was called and told to remove it immediately. It turned out that a delegation from the United States had come to the factory, including a pastor. Among other things, the delegation was taken to my exhibition — to demonstrate how much more gifted and advanced Soviet proletarians were compared to Americans. And they certainly managed to impress the pastor, because I had three illustrations from the Gospel. He pointed to them with admiration and recognized the scenes from the Gospel of Matthew.
Unfortunately for me, the day before that the Party and the government had issued a decree against the «search for God» in art. And showing religious art from an «advanced» Soviet mechanic to Americans was a huge mistake on the part of the factory leadership. I had to take everything down. But this in no way diminished my desire to illustrate literary works. There is a wonderful translator, Igor Losinsky. He translated Blake’s poems, and I created illustrations for these translations. Now I am working on a cycle of illustrations for Dante. It is an incredible experience. I have almost finished Inferno, and when I moved on to Purgatorio, I was suddenly struck like lightning by an unexpected realization — I was illustrating the very same line that Botticelli once illustrated! It creates a fantastic feeling: as if you are connecting with this great artist — across centuries, distances, cultures!
V. M.: An artist — at least a Renaissance artist like Botticelli — is not simply an outstanding «draughtsman». Each painting is the result of tremendous intellectual effort, an incredible concentration of meaning. Reveal the secret: how is all of this embodied in art?
K. S.: In fact, this secret has a very simple «key» — symbolism. When you accumulate a certain body of knowledge about symbols, they become a natural, organic toolkit for creativity. Through symbols you can freely express any meanings — the most complex, the most intimate. Art draws many of its ideas and plots from sacred and esoteric sources. Therefore, an ordinary landscape may not be ordinary at all. With symbols, an artist can create a hidden dramaturgy full of semantic tension. One can leave hints that help decipher the concealed meaning.
For example, by placing an image of a rose in a particular spot or adding a barely noticeable inscription. Nicolas Poussin has a very famous painting — The Adoration of the Shepherds. King Louis XIII of France paid a huge sum to acquire it. And he acquired not just a painting, but a secret. Because the best specialists in esotericism and Kabbalah are still trying to decode its symbolism. Unfortunately, from the world we live in today, not only cabinets and libraries are disappearing, but also paintings with complex symbolism and dramaturgy.
V. M.: Why, in your opinion, is this happening?
K. S.: Because the audience has dragged the artist downwards. One of my friends formulated this brilliantly: «to bow before the plebs!» An artist always faces a dilemma: elevate the audience to your level or descend to the audience’s level? If you choose the first path, you risk not selling a single painting. It is truly a difficult path. But it must be walked if you are a real artist.
V. M.: And how can one determine whether someone is a real artist?
K. S.: I think one must be born one — just like a real doctor. Such a person must have one essential quality: a heart. You can only become a good doctor when your goal is not money but helping people. This is beautifully shown in Kurosawa’s film Red Beard. Everyone should have a talent — even a plumber. In other words, you must embody a certain archetype. Who is the archetypal artist? The one who does not sell out. Yes, of course, they may sell their paintings — but they must not sell their gift by descending to the level of the public. There is a story about a drawing teacher who scolded his students because they were learning to draw not because they possessed talent and love for art, but because dipping a brush into paint is much easier than swinging a shovel.
With such an approach, you get artists who have acquired some technique, but whose works are difficult to distinguish from anyone else’s. Recently I visited a collector who gathers works by Odesa artists. And how do you know it’s an Odesa artist? Your painting must include a typical Odesa courtyard with laundry drying on ropes. In his study hung several such paintings with freshly washed underwear. So — an Odesa artist without an Odesa courtyard simply doesn’t sell, and thus is forced to follow the tastes and demands of the audience. But the archetype of the artist is completely different! Essentially, the archetypal artist is a teacher. If they possess a certain volume of knowledge, they must pass it on to others. Even if only 1% of viewers will understand it.
V. M.: What do you want to teach people today?
K. S.: Hemingway has a novel titled Islands in the Stream. From English it would actually be more accurate to translate it as «Islands in the Flow». That is precisely what I called my exhibition. Why? One of the biblical prophets has the following words: «I turn to you, O islands!» This address has several layers of meaning. The surface meaning is this: a man living in Judea speaks to his brothers in faith who are far away on island territories — in Cyprus, Britain, Sicily. Usually that meaning is enough for everyone. But there is also a second, less obvious symbolic subtext: the address is directed to those who survived and did not perish in the Great Flood.
There are still living people on the islands who can hear the prophetic message. «Islands in the Flow» is a strange title for strange cabinet graphics that have nowhere to be hung. Each work is an island rising above the ocean of vanity, worldly fuss, and informational noise. But an island is also each viewer — the one of whom the Bible says «he who has ears, let him hear». A viewer who wants to go beyond the identical courtyards and ropes with laundry.
V. M.: So it turns out that you are a kind of Noah, and the exhibition is the ark you are building on the eve of the Great Flood?
K. S.: The artist is a creator. They can create worlds; therefore, in a certain sense, the artist is a co-author with God. And a creator cannot be indifferent to the fate of the worlds they create. You bring outward only what is already within you. There is an astonishing novella by Greene, in which he tells the story of an artist. A collector acquired one of his paintings. At first glance, it depicted an ordinary landscape: winter, trees, snow on which crows are sitting. And then, after some time, it turns out that this is not snow but cotton wool, and the crows are in fact dead flies. That is what was truly inside the artist — from his inner world he brought out not crows, but flies!
V. M.: Konstantin, perhaps you will agree that, roughly speaking, there are two aesthetics. One requires a narrative to be understood, and the other does not — it exists «purely for beauty»…
K. S.: I think these two aesthetics cannot exist without each other. The first inevitably implies the second, and even presupposes a third. At least, I personally try to follow three principles: the work must be beautiful; it must carry a philosophical message for the viewer — about the world, about good and evil; and finally, it must contain an element of sacred meaning. By sacredness, I mean the mystery of the relationship between a human being and the Lord. The third meaning of a painting is something I never comment on. But a person studying, for example, Kabbalah or the teachings of the Daoists may attempt to decipher it on their own.
V. M.: Where does this Eastern theme in your work come from?
K. S.: In fact, I was raised within an Eastern tradition. It began back in the 1970s with karate lessons. Although I quickly realized the deception — any boxer can knock down any karate practitioner within minutes. So I didn’t practice karate for long, but Oriental studies were always important to me. I enjoyed feeling that extraordinary «taste of the East» on my lips: the Dao De Jing, Confucius, the Bhagavad Gita… In the latter I once found about fifteen statements that confirm the truth of the Gospel. And this deep resonance between cultures and religions became a true revelation for me.
You begin to look at the history of cultures and peoples as a single gigantic mosaic: everything is very different, yet this great, beautiful, and complex canvas rests on one foundation. That is why I find it fascinating to change techniques, to change the optics of how I look at the world. It is like close combat in a martial arts match: you change your moves to reach your goal. Besides, to work my whole life in a single style would simply bore me. For example, while working on one cycle, I may stylize it as a medieval miniature. Or, when illustrating Dante, rely on the experience of those who illustrated The Divine Comedy a hundred years after him. And these techniques open incredible possibilities. It is astonishing how complex and rich a «flat» image can be!
V. M.: Since we’ve started talking about the Renaissance, it’s impossible not to mention Giotto — and as far as I know, you even wrote an essay about him…
K. S.: My work on Giotto’s Gospel-themed frescoes almost coincided with my work on the Dante illustrations. I tried to trace the connection between Giotto’s frescoes and the medieval mysteries that existed within heretical closed societies — for example, among the Albigensians, Bogomils, or Paulicians. Many things in his work are impossible to explain if we rely solely on Catholic dogma or traditional painting of that era. But if we accept that he was initiated into Albigensian secret knowledge, far more becomes understandable. These mysteries were an important part of the history of religion and culture; fierce debates and even wars were fought around them.
The heretical ideas that reached Italy from Bulgaria and Byzantium nearly brought the Catholic Church to ruin. It was fascinating to discover these cultural influences in Giotto. Take his famous Kiss of Judas — nothing like it had ever existed before! It is interesting that Giotto lived in the same century as Saint Francis, the founder of the great order who, one might say, also walked on the edge of tradition, on the verge of heresy. To me, this saint is as pure and transparent as Giotto. «Transparency», for me, is the main characteristic of his painting.
Look at his Temptation of Saint Anthony: the saint is gazing at a city over which clouds are gathering, yet everything is penetrated by some kind of light… Giotto is a demiurge, the creator of a new and astonishing world that did not exist before him. That is why he can rightfully be called the embodiment of the «archetype of the artist». But there is also another Creator — with a capital C — the one who created Giotto himself and gave him this extraordinary gift. Thus arises a certain hierarchy of creation, which manifests itself through the artist’s connection with the Absolute.
And I, for one, feel this hierarchy very clearly. I often feel that there is a higher being in whose hand I, the artist, am something like a compass or a pencil. I am an instrument that, wishing to embody the infinitely greater design of the Creator, attempts to tell the viewer something about Him. The purpose of an artist is to convey knowledge of the Absolute; therefore, true art cannot be anything else — it can only be sacred.
To be continued…
When copying materials, please place an active link to www.huxley.media
Select the text and press Ctrl + Enter
