Autobiography

Childhood and Family

I, Alexei Pavlovich Belych, was born in 1923 into a large family in the village of Krutets, Kolpnyansky district, Oryol region.

My father, Pavel Petrovich, was a joiner and cabinet-maker. In my estimation, he was a remarkable master of his craft. As a child, I remember him standing at his workbench or his lathe almost all of the time.

Our village hut consisted of three parts: the living room with the stove, the sleeping shelves and beds in the middle — the entrance hall and the parlour, and the unheated part of the house where the workbench stood. It seemed such a large and complex contraption to me, this bench with its two wooden screws that could clamp boards and timbers of all kinds for planing, sawing and chiselling. Essentially, it was used to make all the necessary things for household use — for nearly the whole village: chairs, chests, stools, window frames. My early childhood passed to the sound of the plane and saw, steeped in the smell of fresh wood shavings and hot carpenter's glue.

Mama, Natalya Ilyinichna Belych, ran the entire household. We were six brothers. We had to be clothed, shod and sewn for — no small task with these stubborn children who would answer back whenever anyone told them what to do.

When the eldest of us, Nikolai, turned eighteen, he was married to Varyushka, a girl from the neighbouring village of Bukhtiyarovo, partly so that she could help our mother with the housework. At the teachers' college, our drawing and military studies teacher was the distinguished artist Sergei Petrovich Volkov. Outside of class, he ran a drawing circle for enthusiasts. I was his favourite pupil. Everything would have been fine, had the war not begun.

The War

The city of Oryol was taken by enemy landing troops and Livny and our village suddenly found themselves deep behind enemy lines. All activity ceased — we were under occupation, although we had not seen any live Germans ourselves.

I remember that in winter 1941, our "nanny" Varya came running in and said that there were two Germans on horseback in the street, babbling something. I rushed out into the street and through the kitchen gardens and saw in the cold winter air a long column of troops, while these two were trying to find the way to Bukhtiyarovo. And I understood that they were retreating!

In the morning, on home-made skis, I went out beyond the gardens and suddenly saw: the entire neighbouring village of Burychki was on fire. The Germans were leaving and burning everything in their path. They burned our village too. To this day I can still see that line of soldier-arsonists before my eyes. They went to the end of our village — 35 houses in a row along the bank of the Krutets stream. Our hut was somewhere in the middle. They set it alight and left, saying they would return tomorrow and drive everyone to Germany.

But we decided to try to save our house. Right beside it was the well. Father climbed onto the well frame and I drew bucket after bucket of water from the well. I bailed out nearly the entire well. The clothes I was wearing froze solid, just like the armour of an ancient knight.

Then I saw some movement behind the gardens. Two men on horseback. Suddenly I heard one of them say something in Russian. Ours! I jumped from my hiding place and ran towards them. They were our scouts. They told me: "Don't be afraid, lad, tomorrow we'll be here." And indeed, we spent the night in the cellar, warming our hands over glowing coals. I heard father shout: "Come out, ours have arrived!" That is how I celebrated the New Year of 1942.

Then I walked with my older brother Ivan to Livny to the military commissariat. Thus began my military life, which lasted until March 1947.

I recall an incident. Our military train stopped at some dark little railway halt. I was tired and dozed off. I hear: "Get out! Fall in!" I stood up — my cap had disappeared, and outside it was bitterly cold. I had a small pouch sewn from a waffle towel in which mother had packed us some provisions. I wound it around my head like a turban. The political officer came up to me: "Non-Russian?" — "No, no, someone stole my cap in the night." — "Can you draw?" — "How do you know that?" And so it began. Instead of learning to handle the "Maxim" machine gun, I had to furnish the Lenin room and design the wall newspaper "The Machine Gunner."

Then the 2nd Kiev Artillery School, evacuated to Razboishchina near Saratov. After six months of intensive study, on 15 January 1943 I was already an artillery lieutenant. By the end of the war I was a senior lieutenant holding a major's post as intelligence officer of the 88th Guards Artillery Regiment, 38th Guards Rifle Division.

Studies in Moscow

The war ended and the vastly expanded army had to be reduced, but they would not release me from the regiment. I did not want to remain in the army in peacetime. It was only with great difficulty that I managed to resign. From 1946 to 1958 I lived in Moscow and worked at the club of the "Red Textile Workers" factory. I designed posters, banners and cinema advertisements. At the same time, from 1952 to 1958, I studied at the Moscow State Art Institute named after V. I. Surikov.

Life and Work in Kostroma

When I finished the institute, I was assigned as a teacher to the N. P. Shleina Art School and sent to Kostroma. I was warmly received there. I lived next to the school in the former office of the director A. I. Buzin. At the same time I got to know the other artists. The director of the art gallery, the sculptor A. V. Shchepyolkin, turned out to be a former classmate of mine.

I remember an amusing incident. We agreed to go out painting landscapes. I was overjoyed — somewhere in the forest, and even on the banks of the Volga! We drove to some Uncle Vasya. I went to look for a motif. I approached and saw a great many fish piled on a tarpaulin. That evening we had a jolly time in the autumn forest on the river bank. We came home singing songs. In any case, it was a fine introduction — and the fresh fish soup was delicious!

After finishing the institute I was sent to Kostroma and immediately given the assignment to paint the portrait of a diligent milkmaid. The Karavaevo state farm was famous practically the world over. Suddenly, from beneath a cow, the bright grey-blue eyes of young milkmaid Rozhina flashed up at me. I then painted her portrait right in her home, in what I believe was a single sitting. The portrait is now in the Kostroma Museum of Fine Arts.

The Volga! On cold November days I saw women on a heated barge rinsing laundry in the biting cold water and warming their hands between their knees. "Our hands don't get cold easily!" They laughed. That is how the painting "Evening on the Volga" came about.

On a commission from the regional party committee I went to the Antropov timber works and for the first time saw real logging operations. During a break the workers told me: "Let him go. He bores us with his nagging. But we'll pose for you as much as you like." Then I understood that they had accepted me as one of their own. That is how the paintings "Lumberjack", "Youth Brigade" and later "Raftsman" and countless studies came into being.

In 1960 I was admitted to the USSR Artists' Union, and in 1962 I was elected chairman of the Kostroma Artists' organisation, where I worked for 25 years.

The Akademichka

In 1962 I first visited the "Akademichka". That is the simple name for the artists' creative residence "Akademicheskaya Dacha". This famous and beautiful place is situated on Lake Mstinko, not far from Vyshny Volochyok in the Tver region. Every two months, groups of fifty to sixty artists would come to work outdoors. We worked from morning until evening, and it was immediately obvious who could deliver and who could not. We learned from nature and from one another.

The commission chairman was almost always Yu. P. Kugach. The artistic director was V. M. Sidorov. For some reason — I no longer remember why — they appointed me "Minister of Culture."

On Saturday evenings, convivial gatherings were held in the "battle" workshop. We danced, sang songs and chastushki. As "Minister," I had to organise all of this. I did my best, wearing out a brand-new pair of shoes on the concrete floor.

One day, as a cycle ended, the artistic director — the remarkable Leningrad painter V. F. Zagonek — said: "Why search? Here stands Alexei Belych — already a ready-made artistic director." And so it went. I worked as artistic director almost continuously until just before 1991. The last time I was invited was in 2000.

The "Akademichka" was not an educational institution, yet it was a very great school. But time passes and much changes gradually. It would be good if it could also light the way for new generations of artists on the difficult path of the visual arts and help them find their own trail, their own road. That is the main thing.