He was 20. To respect his privacy we only used his first name, Vladimir, or more casually, Vova. We could not really communicate much. My few words of Russian were barely bettered by his few words of English. Perhaps over the years of my African childhood and youth, plus years of other travel, a capacity grew in me to get through to others by gesture and a few stick figure sketches, for I was able to glean quite a bit about him. Later, an electronic interpreter inadequately assisted us.

He was one of many young men who came to a party with the idea that they may be selected for this project. They may simply have come for the five dollars each was given, but they were also full of youthful curiosity; clearly eager, shy, excited, amused, or any combination thereof, politely trying to make a link to us as they exchanged repartee with each other.

Vova came from a very small village deep in the country beyond Novgorod. He did not mention his father; presumably dead or otherwise gone, but did show me a few pictures of his mother and their humble, wooden cottage. His mother currently attends eighty calves at a farm near her village. Because she was at work all the time, his Babushka (grandmother) had largely raised him. I commented that he seemed like a real gentleman and teased him that perhaps she had had to chide him often to make him such a gentleman. Indignantly he entered a word in the interpreter that translated into "never!" His demeanor added the exclamation mark. One could tell he must have always been a serious boy.

But the real communication came as we worked over a period of nearly three hours. I located him close to the easel and asked that he watch my eyes. I became aware that a remarkable communion was occurring. This was much more potent than it might have been if the clutter of language and thus culture had intervened. It even bridged the generation gap. It was as if there was an exchange of something, some ingredient between us, human to human, that profoundly connected us. Sometimes it made us nervous. At times he would suddenly smile, and then at others giggle with a kind of delight. My added years yielded some insight, but we both seemed to comprehend something extraordinary. We might try to speak every now and then but it added little. Even now so many months later, I feel an elusive connection with him and with most of the others.

When I gave him a rest, he would abruptly become a callow youth again, grab a cigarette and then linger bemused over the evolving drawing, smiling or glowering his opinion. There was a new essence there now. It seemed as if this time of communion had awakened not only my perception of his deeper human dimensions, but also his own. Of course one could easily be deluded into thinking this might have lifelong ramifications, but more likely the encounter would be lost in the general hubbub of life which consumes us all. One could only hope that memory would bring this time back and enrich it again. Perhaps the experience would be used as a guide in future silent communion with others.

Maxim - detail

Aleksie

Nude, they cease to be Russians. The nudity is deliberately also chosen to suggest the sheer vulnerability of these specific people, their human being, their connection to ourselves... indeed their likeness to us, which so easily becomes hidden under the lie of the uniform making them anonymous and that much easier to kill.

It would be silly to disavow the reality of some, if inadvertent, erotic component to these works. That is a potent part of our human nature. But most importantly, these boys/men are the children and grandchildren of parents and grandparents in Russia, though they could just as easily have been American, Korean or Iraqi. We partially kill these parents and grandparents in a way each time we kill a soldier, sailor or airman. I knew too well the “dying” my own grandmother endured as she lived with the death of a son shot down over Holland in World War II. Another son, also shot down, endured the living death of a life shattered by the appalling memories of being a prisoner of war, of forced marches and before his eyes the summary execution of others, including his best friend, because they were too weak to march any more.

Of course, there is little likelihood we will be able to send all these young back to the bosoms of their families and close up military shop for generations. The horror of September 11, 2001 is just another reminder. The seeds of war are sown too deep. However, there are little hints of hope as we become more indignant at the endless nightmare of it all. Our perceptions of justice and honesty are becoming more sharpened. We can hope that modern communications shared more widely by more and more people will gradually change us. The stupidity of the reasons so blithely and grandly declared by political and religious leaders, are more likely to be questioned than ever before. Our mutual humanity increasingly bridges the suspicions and distrust, which so simplistically compel us to glib labels such as "the evil empire". Certainly evil will continue to exist, but our more circumspect analysis will hopefully give us pause and over the generations, the dreams of the peaceful settlement of disputes will become the norm. I yearn to believe that these particular young men will never become cannon fodder, especially to the cannon of my own nation. "When will we ever learn..."

— Trevor

Further details on each of the works including digital images of work completed and in progress are available through www.djfa.com.

To purchase works, or to request color photographs, project brochures and additional information, please contact gallery@djfa.com or Marianna Southey at 415-407-8607.