Tatyana Todorova the artist?. Changing a reality, space and time. Once about it someone has told: «This woman was already used up …». Roughly? Yes is not present. With sympathy. There was an opening day. Played a chamber quartet. Smiled in dizzy compliments. Somewhere forecasts flied to shovels. Because even áåñïðåäåë, believed, - it should, somewhere, though once, to be compressed in one point. Further which - emptiness. But the formal logic has brought. … silently, having seized the son in an armful, has rushed off in Peter. Behind oil paints.
To it it is extremely easy. Pianist Tatyana Todorova in one pressing day has selected a tablet and water colours at own child, according to the status of the hereditary intellectual comprehending art at art school. Pleasure, I will assume, has covered both parties. Eventually, it has found an opening from stagnant melancholy.
To write became at once. Professionally. As if since the childhood not in scales fulfilled technics and put a brush, and studied to mix paints. The confident dabs each time developing in the unforeseen ending. The artists who have casually seen the first works, praised. Spoke: you happy - on you do not press rules and canons!
Truly, do not press. The classical treatment of a water colour after any time seemed boring. Òîäîðîâà, not puzzling, has begun to improvise. Water colours, oil, ink, gouache, distemper - them is possible and so, and ýäàê to mix, alternate, combine. A hand drive emotions tearing to slices, instead of the academic knowledge and interdictions following from them.
The madam! - the Petersburg artist ironically exclaimed, observing for Tatyana while it rushed, extorting as colours are called than to dissolve paints, and so forth … the Present artist, with a beard and in a beret … He continued to grin: «the Madam, you are assured, what you will manage to apply it to destination?...»
And she, so at times sharply and long living every instant, did not hear sarcasm. Sometimes it seems, that you anything in this life does not confuse. You can be as much as necessary ridiculous, ridiculous. But today to you - all the same! Because you precisely know: today you need to learn, how colours are called. And to drag on trains - as always, on a stomach, a foolish manner - a huge box with the bought paints.
Experiments have begun. Three years. Tatyana has taken away a ready cycle of works to France. And all has sold. Òîäîðîâà has come to euphoria from reaction of the tempted Parisian public. It, suddenly, was recognised at once. Which never searched here.
And sense here to search? You saw, how our artists shrug shoulders against each other? You heard, how they significantly are silent about each other, diluting silence caustic «it is possible and so …»? And here - the small woman-revoljutsionerka with the past of the pianist. Who??! A way to a recognition, basically, one. To die and become the master. The sequence usually is not broken.
And public? Shy public looking back at the neighbour who prefers all copies of classics. Because only in this safe case nobody will ask: IT is pleasant to you?!
Òîäîðîâîé inspired: everything, that you do are a disgrace! Her abused: how it is possible to use such combinations of colours? How it is possible so to work with paints?
I do not know, that she spoke in the answer. Probably, silently smiled innocent, it is for nothing that by green eyes. She after all never asks another's opinion. And still I think: to it - it is not easy. To it so it is difficult!
St.-Petersburg, Toulouse, Paris, Lyons, Bonn, Strasbourg … And therefrom, from exhibitions, its picture - in States, to Israel, to Canada, to Germany. All over the world … Europe which for a long time has left realism, learnt by bitter experience of many centuries to peer and distinguish a spark Divine, is grateful has responded to Tatyana Todorovoj. It was first a pity to sell. But - it was necessary, has got used. There was even a pleasure of parting.
To describe creativity, any, words, - an invention hopeless. Sometimes it is possible to outline the sketch of own impressions only. What in its pictures? I do not know. Also I do not try to learn. Not looking back at names which, it seems to me, too conditional. And too personal. Search. About myself I can notice only, that I do not admire. Here another: I in them feel love. Do not ask, what. Love as attitude. But also, they as if tighten me. Like David Lynch's films. Which and films you will not name. There is a sensation of change of a reality. It that is condensed, dissipates, grows dark, but parts before shrill-warm light torments questions throws answers. And one more feature: each time process is stretched. And those five minutes which sufficed for each work, for a long time already it is not enough…
The word "abstraction" offends it. Once, right at the beginning, Òàòüÿíèíû works have defined as «biopower painting». The attention of the run mystics, psychics has pulled hard. Has shaken journalists. Not àáû painting. And with any special effects … In Bonn Òîäîðîâîé have told, that it «ñïèðèòóàëüíàÿ painting»…
We sit opposite each other. It sharply dissects air a hand. The pier, will suffice! Art treats IN GENERAL. Beauty. We take everybody from classics. Who - does not treat?!
And all torment her, recently again here have asked: what is it? She something also has answered. That - itself will not recollect. Òîäîðîâà the such. It is ready to say lies, if only did not adhere a label, did not exhaust in a niche. Something to answer. To put on a correct dress, to do a correct hairdress, to become on a hairpin. And all opening day to smile broadly.
And then, leaving the set game to come tearing along home, to throw hairpins, to get out of a narrow dress, to make coffee, to cut on Bach full power. … Perhaps it only game of my imagination.
Bach - precisely is. Music became that conductor which deduces from environment, helps to take a brush, and, eventually, conducts a hand. Grieg, Mozart's turn, but in the beginning - Bach then can come.
«Than I differ from normal - traditional - the artist? Traditional knows, that he will write now. A still-life. A portrait. Or a landscape. And I look at white sheet … and I dive into ice water. È. This horrible sensation. But, probably, in any creative process there is a fear moment …»
Òîäîðîâó it is quite possible to name the successful artist. It is recognised. It is exposed. Is on sale. At a minimum of public relations and parties, at an immersing maximum. But she begins to argue. Not because it - has not enough. «I do not know how to distinguish success from failure. These are very slippery concepts. I know, that it is necessary to pay for all. For success too. I am not assured, that that at us is called as success, I am ready to pay». - and I again to it give in and agree.
And at all thus - Modigliani's history for it is very painful. Artists should go during lifetime in a normal coat!
... I observed of it from the party. It as if not from this city. More likely, whence from coast Seny. A growing - on Montmartre. Again freak of the imagination. But - plays not at me one. It was verified. Any not ours - not Kishinev - gait. A fragile figurine in black áåðåòèêå. Innocent, it is for nothing that green eyes. A charming timbre of a voice - any ðàçãèëüäÿéñêèé, whether that. The person, to which all - a tryn-grass, and in a second intolerably painfully. Against works. In which - everything, everything. Drowned in love.
Inna Jeltova, photo by Valerii Corcimari.