"A painting must have integrity, regardless of how minutely it is done," wrote Vojo Stanić. "Danger lurks in the little things that can distract. While working on the details, think of the whole. It seems easy, but what seems easy is often the hardest. It's the hardest thing to be a genius, but - it's easy for him."
Is it easy for Vojo Stanić?
As I descend the Herzegovinian stairs to the sea, below, on Škver:
"You're going to Voj Stanić?" someone calls out from a nearby garden. "There, that white house at the end."
And in that beautiful, stone house - the former Austro-Hungarian customs office - Nada and Vojo Stanić lived for fifty-four years. Mrs. Nada is gone in March... As soon as they moved in, Vojo Stanić made himself a studio with a view of the open sea from a small room in the attic.
"I had the feeling that the cosmos itself was passing by my window," he explains.
In his "autopoetic primer", a collection Does the world remember Oskar Schmidt?, Miljenko Jergović writes that the great Serbian painter Mića Popović tried to buy Stanić's painting after an exhibition in Belgrade.
"It's out of the question!", Vojo refused. "Come to me in Herceg Novi and paint it yourself; you can see it all from my window."
It is difficult to meet a more gifted and simpler man. And that kind of simplicity, claims Božo Koprivica, is a sign of elegance.
image (26)Afternoon, 1980.
As usual, a black cat greets me at the gate. In a sailor's shirt and green pants smeared with painter's paint, Vojo Stanić comes out after him. He approaches me, spreading his lips in a hearty smile.
"Ah, you are!... Come on, come on" - he hugs me and, Montenegrin lazily, gently swaying as he walks, he leads into the house. We continue the conversation we started last year.
"I don't understand how they always know that I'm going to your place," I ask, pretending to be surprised.
"How?! I'm known to you in Novi, better known even than Picasso!", he replies, laughing. "Sit, oils here?... It's on that chair, remember..."
Of course, I remember the stately and thin Mrs. Nada, daughter of the priest Vlado Marović from Luštica. Although the artist herself - a talented sculptor - chose to live in the shadow of her famous husband, who, as Jergović would say, painter of displaced everyday life.
"Hope is gone, er... I didn't even know, because, at the time she was sick, I got sick myself. Some fucking tangle of intestines, I barely passed. I was operated on in Podgorica, for several days I did not know where I was. It's going to be from the devil's anesthesia, isn't it?! They also say that I was hallucinating..."
"WEATHER": You don't remember anything.?
VOJO STANIC: No, for God's sake. Let's say, it seemed to me that, leaning on a cushion, I was sitting in bed in a white room: white walls, bed, cushions, white windows, everything! A man stood at the door all day, and he was all in white; he was saying something, but if you killed me, I wouldn't know what to tell you. The sisters say that I was muttering, he will be talking to tim in white... When they came and said that Njake had died, at first I thought I was dreaming...
Who told you??
Son... Njake died and was buried while I was in the hospital, well... She was weak, but the doctors said that you can do as much as you want with that sclerosis. There... I went to the hospital and I didn't see her again. And I was dependent on her: she took care of everything, I just took pictures... I promised myself a long time ago that I would die without the help of a doctor.
How come?
Nice! The doctors won't help me die! I can do without them, and... By the way, I never went to the doctor. Because when a man gets hurt, he either passes or dies; there is no third, eh! It always passed. Not now. I'm old, what?! I am ashamed of my age. Although I'm not to blame for that... Ever since Nada died, except for that bar next to Kusturica's cinema, I haven't left the house for four months. I can't... Your emotions are a complicated, fucking thing. It is difficult, although I have decided to live to the end. Because I can't after that, eh... I talked about it... I'm always "you"; you don't get angry, do you?'
I'm not angry....
I hate "you"; it sounds far, artificial, doesn't it?! Here, at the time of the Kingdom of Montenegro, everyone said "you"; they even addressed King Nicholas in that way. At school, I used to say "you" to everyone, so teachers and parents often reprimanded me for that.
You finished school in Nikšić?
I am. Both elementary and high school. I was born in Podgorica and, because I didn't like something, when I was only eight months old, I moved to Nikšić. I lived there until I was twenty; I spent the rest of my life, with the exception of those few years of study in Belgrade, here, in Herceg Novi. But I always say that I am from Nikšić.
image (27)Wind, 1988.
Why?
Because I believe that for every man, for his formation, those first fifteen years are the most important. Then you learn the language, you start getting to know people, the world around you; it's the backbone. And the experience is the most powerful. The picture you bring from your childhood, from your parents' house, you only embellish afterwards; or, if you're really unlucky - you spoil it.
What did you do with that picture?? Are you satisfied??
The devils would know him... But I'm telling you: the first impression, the one formed on the basis of the subconscious, is important. The subconscious is our true consciousness, because it is spontaneous. Consciousness is also important, but, being the result of experience and education, I have never relied too much on it. In painting, in art in general, what is valuable comes from the subconscious. I always listened to my instincts. Art is intuition. Naivety is a characteristic of a child and, fortunately, there are people who are too serious to allow themselves to lose that naivety.
And you, Are you naive??
I am. I kept and preserved that naivety throughout my life. Especially in painting... And I painted all kinds of things, anything. Just as there are scenes that I transferred to the canvas by looking at them through this window, there are also those that I invented myself, that I have never seen. And that's good. You and I, say, from here, from this window, we can see palm trees, sea, ships, sky, clouds, people walking, colors, perspective, a million things; you may notice a color, a ship or a sailboat; opposite you, the face of a man or a woman will shine on me. I want to say that it is best to let the memory itself make the selection. There is always something left of that big picture, and you are most honest if you paint based on what is left.
Which is why it's the fairest?
Because it's true. A picture is your experience, not a document. When he stands in front of the canvas, the painter does not know what will happen. That's the charm. Because if he knew, it would be boring. If you don't hope to make "that" picture every time, then it's better to kill everything immediately, and...
image (28)Toma's concert
What a feeling it is to know that you made it right "UN" picture?
Eh, how would I know?! But I know one thing: as they are, all my pictures are unique. Because, since I never learned to paint, I can't do anything again. Let's say, I paint the sky; I like it, so I try again; in vain, something else always turns out! I want to say that if something I paint miraculously works, it must be my fault.
Critics say your pictures are full of humor, but also some nice memories. Are they?
If someone writes about my pictures like that, that's how they see them. It's always interesting to me when I read what people think about what I do, how they experience it. Not just the critics; anyone. I tried to help once, so I said that my pictures are just pictures; they should not be interpreted, it only hurts them, eh... I don't think anyone can give a definitive assessment of any art because it is the most subjective thing in the cosmos, right?! How then are you going to make an objective judgment about something that is totally subjective? Well, your assessment is also subjective, eh...
Your pictures, I noticed, they generally don't have long names; just one word...
Because I don't want to suggest anything to the viewer; let everyone experience it in their own way. Mario Mascarelli, for example, named his exhibition Colorful eyes of the wind, which, like the painting, is poetic. And you see, I don't like it when the title explains everything to me. I give the picture a name only to distinguish it from the others. Well, neither of us explains the names we bear. Wow?! Weird damage, huh? Or - Tamara?
To paraphrase Matija Bećković: as in the word "Ararat, " I have the impression that in the word Tamara "boils stones".
Yes, but maybe only you see it that way; maybe others don't have that association.
Dobro, maybe... You told me once....
I have a habit of lying, eh... Don't trust me...
Ma, don't be like that...
Yes, yes! I lie to be more interesting. Men of science use the truth to prove something that may not be true; the artist lies to tell the truth... Here it is: sometime in June 1979, after the terrible earthquake in Montenegro, I was visited by a high-ranking American diplomat, future ambassador to Yugoslavia, Lawrence Eagleberger, and art historian Joan Mondale, wife of the then vice president of the USA. Igleberger spoke perfect Serbo-Croatian, much better than me. Suddenly, Mrs. Mondale stopped in front of the painting Fear, on which houses are being demolished; stones, cars and people are thrown into the sea...
image (29)Nyake, 1976.
"You painted your earthquake well," she praised me.
"But I painted that picture in 1974, five years before the earthquake!" I said.
"How did you know?!" Mrs. Mondale was astonished.
"I knew there would be an earthquake," I snapped.
I always lie, I tell you.
"If you knew, why didn't you say so?" asked Mrs. Mondale gravely. "Why didn't you warn?"
"Because no one would believe me."
In the end, we concluded that I had provoked an earthquake by my painting, so Mrs. Mondale did not want to leave until I promised her that in the future I would paint only beautiful things: flowers, birds, the sea... Poor thing, she left without ever finding out if I really sensed or provoked that fucking earthquake... Come on, tell me, what did I tell you?
You told me how he greatly influenced your art "quiet" with which the pre-war firms of Nikšić artisans were painted...
Well, they are... At that time, Nikšić was a real cosmopolitan town, inhabited by Herzegovinians, Katunians, Bokelians, Podgorica residents, Croats... Like every city, this diversity and mixture of mentalities gave Nikšić a special charm. The architect from Trogir, Josip Slade, who created the perfect town square and urban plan of the town, was invited to Nikšić by Prince Nikola...
We lived in the center, in Gundulićeva street. Today, there is no Gundulić in Nikšić, just as there are no more of those people. And how would they be, eh?! No one is as crazy to live as I am!... Well, there, in the center of the city, on the street leading to the Monastery, a certain Mitar Mitrović kept a tavern; it was called - "Inn for the night"...
Pa, that's my street! Formerly Zagreb, so Croatia; today Monastery... And yours? "Lodging for the night" the famous one was later opened in that place "Koka's tavern"!
There you go, who would have thought!? Then you know what I mean…
The companies that hung above the entrance to the taverns and craft shops were painted by the same artist: Mileta Nikolić, a drunkard, cousin of the poet Vito Nikolić. And, of course, a cousin of my Herzegovinian student, the great Montenegrin director Živko Nikolić. If someone had picked up those Mileta pictures, if they had remembered, they could have made an exhibition out of them. It was an interesting naive painting…
At the market in Nikšić in those years, the stalls were mostly held by illiterate peasants who, at night, when they finally sold what they brought from the village, wandered around the city looking for a place to stay. In order to make their search easier, Mileta Nikolić drew a bed above the entrance to the tavern with a bearded Montenegrin in a cap. Since it was appropriate, he put a huge bed bug on top of the bed, which only Mitar Mitrović, the owner of the "Bed and Breakfast Inn", failed to spot; the others were rolling with laughter. Or in Cara Dušana Street, above Stanišić's tavern, he drew a table with a square tavajula and four pots of coffee in piatins. And across the street from my house, above the butcher shop, Mileta's company hung: a stump with an ax deeply stuck in it and, next to it, a flayed, bloody lamb's head. That picture always reminded me of Petr Lubarda; only he painted in that way.
In the book Power and Rebellion, Milovan Đilas writes that Petar Lubarda once explained to him what he was painting: "The angry scimitar in his belt roars.! E, I would like to paint just that growl. "
That "cut" moves the image, gives it life; it is a provocation, but also a risk: you can confuse the viewer, but you often confuse yourself, eh...
You knew Petar Lubarda.?
I knew Lubarda quite well. Regardless of the years spent in Belgrade and Paris, almost all the motifs in his paintings were from here, from Montenegro. He spoke with a strong Cetinje accent, as if he had just arrived from his native Ljubotinj. And it was not easy to understand him: he spoke incoherently; like when you write a sentence and leave out five or six letters. I'm sure Lubarda was talking to himself and then repeating out loud what he thought he had already said. That's how confusion was created. Or so it sounded to us who listened to him. But in Lubarda's brain, a painting genius, everything was perfectly connected, everything had its own meaning. That's how it "snarls".
I saw Lubarda for the first time at the Academy of Fine Arts. My thesis - some interesting sculpture - was declared the best that year. Lubard and Milo liked it too...
Milo Milunović?
Yes'... Milo was delighted; especially when he found out that I'm a Montenegrin like him. He told me to come to the tavern of the Majestic Hotel, where he would receive me. At that time, no one could come to Majestic. Next to Milo, Lubarda and Stojan Aralica sat at the table. That's how I met them all. They were very useful to me afterwards...
They helped you.?
They are, eh... Shortly after the graduation exam at the Academy, in 1951, I participated in a competition that, on the occasion of the centenary of the death of the Montenegrin bishop and poet Petar II Petrović Njegoš, was announced by the municipality of Cetinje. I reported the sculpture of Njegoš's teacher, Sima Milutinović Sarajlija: I found a photo of him and worked on it. Milutinović had a strange, oval head; she looked like a sea hen's egg to me; in addition, two prominent pointed mustaches and a shirt with three or four decorative buttons. It was easy, I thought, to hit him. But the Cetinje jury insisted...
Who was on the jury??
I will not mention them... Let the devil carry them! Basically, since they weren't sure I hit the mark, they decided to invite the first passer-by outside the Blue Castle and let him judge. That, I tell you, is 1951, a time when all of Montenegro is still in fear of the Informbiro.
"Comrade, who is this?", they asked that unfortunate man from Cetinje whom they had accidentally caught.
The man turned pale as a rag, almost fainting. He must have thought that he was guilty of something, but... They let him go, he didn't say anything. I see - one zero for them, not for me. Dark hat! Then another one comes. He entered boldly, you can see he was brave.
"Who is this?" they ask.
"Tito!", answered ka' from the cannon.
Veli - if I say Tito, I can't be wrong. They were going to kill him too. I was desperate: I'm listening to them spout nonsense, and I'm hungry, with no money in my pocket, I'm in debt, I don't even have to pay for the hotel I'm staying in'... It would strangely have continued indefinitely if Milo Milunović hadn't been banned from somewhere. He stopped the torture immediately. He was a great authority, they listened to him, well...
I, Did you get the award??
I am, what am I doing! Later, the bust was to be transferred to Belgrade, where the centenary of Njegoš's death was also celebrated. Rushing for the fucking jury, I didn't even have time to properly pack. I carried Sim in my hand, uncovered; he was, I think, almost my size. When I got on the bus to Titograd, I saw that people were frowning, looking at me strangely. It was night, you couldn't see a white cat, and Simo and I were sitting in the back.
"Comrade," encouraged one of the passengers. "What's wrong with this guy?" He neither talks nor moves; isn't he as weak as possible?'
He whispered, so that Simo would not hear him. I told him it was a plaster sculpture, not to worry. That's when the poor man got even more confused: he thought I had said how Simo was from Šavnik, so nothing was clear to him. It was only when we arrived at Rijeka Crnojevića for the party that they understood what it was all about... And at the opening in Belgrade, there was a miracle.
What a miracle?
In Belgrade, next to my Sim, stood a bust of Ljuba Nenadović, the work of the famous sculptor, rector of the Belgrade Academy of Arts, Sreten Stojanović. Everyone was waiting for Moša Pijade to come and evaluate the work. Ratko Đurović had previously told Moshi that one bust was made by Sreten Stojanović, and the other by a beginner who had just graduated from the Academy. Having first seen my bust and, thinking that it was done by Sreten, Moša Pijade began to miss it with all the bells; about the latter he said - not bad, considering that he was a radio novice. A miracle happened... Then someone whispered to Moshi that this second bust was Sreten's.
"Whose is it, this one is better!" Mosha snapped and left.
Well, then, like every silly Montenegrin, after hearing what Moša said, I started to brag to the assembled world:
"That's my bust, I made it!"
Seeing me so poor, without an invitation and without any status, people thought that I was mocking them. I almost got my nose...
When Petar Lubarda helped you?
Always! Lubarda had a smaller apartment in the Professor's Colony, and my friend, the sculptor Drago Đurović, and I would go there almost every day. Probably more often than Petar liked, well... Lubarda always had a cigar and never forbade us to smoke. He would keep an open box of "son-in-law" on the table and the two of us would sit until we smoked his last cigar. Along the way, we would also grab something to eat. We didn't bother him to paint; we didn't speak... Lubarda worked in a studio that was smaller than this room. And somehow narrower. He also painted there Vuchji do. Drago Đurović and I took that picture to the exhibition, Terazije number 2...
To that famous exhibition from 1951?
There, right there! Lubarda had wrapped up the picture for us, the paint still hadn't dried on it. By the way, Peter didn't care much about technology; sometimes he would mix oil and sand with a putty knife and put it on the painting. Gallerists told how parts of Lubarda's plane trees often leak and fall.
"Let it!", said Lubarda. "And what is superfluous should fall away!"
And why was Vuchji do such a significant painting, why did she cause such a stir?
That is the era of socialist realism - the beginning of the fifties, as you said yourself. Everyone took pictures of the working man, strikers, agricultural cooperatives... Well, with that picture Petar smashed everything to pieces! Vuchji do marked a revolution in art and culture. In addition to being modern, that painting freed the artists, showed them where to go. There was no turning back... Even though he was a French student and was in touch with modern European painting, I do not believe that Lubarda Vuchji do made with the intention of provoking someone, knowingly, well... It was spontaneous; there was no artificiality, pretense with him. It was as if he didn't even care that anyone understood him. He had his own world. There was a lot of Montenegrin arrogance in the way he painted and lived...
What arrogance!?
In my life, I have never met a Montenegrin who is not convinced that he is smarter than everyone else...
And you, do you think so??
I often catch myself thinking... But, I'm so smart that I know I'm stupid. Admittedly, others are also stupid, but they don't know it. That's why I always say it's better to keep quiet and let people get to know me through pictures.
Looking at your pictures, What do people find out about you?, what do you think?
They will find out that I am crazy, what else?!… But it is not our merit if we are smart, talented or beautiful. Honestly, I'm not particularly happy with myself, but I've never complained about that to anyone. And he didn't even justify it, for God's sake. Could it be that it is called devotion to one's own being? What do you say?! I have always said that it is treason to be inconsistent with yourself. It is akin to betraying the flag in war.
Now that you mention it, You have experienced two wars.... You spent the Second World War in Nikšić, under Italian occupation...
In a way, the Italian occupation was a cultural experience for me. Italians were always cheerful, nice; softer and more open, especially towards children. They had beautiful, sumptuous uniforms and hats with tassels that hung almost to their bottoms. I became friends with one of them. His name was Benini; he was twenty-four years old, but he looked like an old man to me at the time. It seemed to me that he was ashamed of being an occupier. He taught me to draw - he was some kind of painter, he painted on those big pillars in the Nikšić post office. Those drawings left a stronger impression on me than anything I saw later. And in the Louvre, and everywhere, well... I guess it's that first experience, the first sensation, and that's why I remember.
Otherwise, life went on normally in Nikšić. The director of my high school and professor of Italian language was Olindo Sekondini. I remember that there was a warning written on the doors of all school offices: greet in Roman style!
Did you greet??
Yes, what am I doing?! As the worst students, some Glušica and I tried to please the Italian professors, so we always greeted them properly by raising our hands. We thought that it would be easier to get passing grades that way. If they knew what we were doing at home, they would kill the god in us.
I, did that greeting help you??
The devil helped! Nevertheless, in 1943 I somehow managed to graduate. We took our exams in that old theater in Nikšić that looked like the theater in Dubrovnik; same style. Instead of protecting it as a cultural monument, they recently demolished it. Here is proof that there is no end to human stupidity!
Mostly, we took the matriculation exam with Sekondini, who didn't know a devil's word. They arranged us in lodges and placed carabinieri around. The topic was – Beauty of Italy, the beauty of Italy. I wrote: L'Italia e piu bella terra del mondoThat was all.
You didn't know Italian or...
I tell you: I didn't know anything! By the way, I always laugh when I hear that a man is worth how many languages he speaks. And I have never met a man who is so stupid that he has not learned his language; and then, if he learns a few more, then he is stupid not only in his own language, but also in five or six other languages. So, is it an advantage to express one's own stupidity in several languages, huh?!
Dobro, double...
Yes, you're right... For the most part, despite that nonsense I wrote, Sekondini let me pass. Trouble arose when it was Serbo-Croatian's turn: I was supposed to write about Lovcen and Njegoš's chapel. In the end, what saved me was that I smoked "lovcen"...
You smoked.?!
And, by God, he smoked since he was twelve! And here, I've been smoking for seventy-five years. If I hadn't, I would probably be dead a long time ago... On the cigarette box was a picture of Lovcen, whom I had never seen before. Thinking about what to write, I started to draw our mythical mountain from memory and, as I was even more silly than I am today, I got so engrossed that I forgot about the time. I drew for four hours without writing a single word! I thought - I'm done! I was not allowed to see my mother, so I decided to admit that I passed. Later, history professor Đurović came to the house.
"Look at this bastard!", he pointed mockingly at me. "Well, that one is more lucky than smart." He didn't write a word, but that fucking Sekondini insisted that we evaluate the drawing; thinks it's worth it. That's how he passed."
And I graduated, can you believe it?!
They say they called you. cartoonist. When did you discover that talent??
I don't know when I discovered it, because I'm not sure I ever had it. But it's true, I liked to draw. I always carried a notebook with me and I couldn't bear to be looked at.
Why?
I can't relax. Even if there is only one person there, I feel their presence and it bothers me to take pictures. Once a nice journalist sent me interview questions; answering, I wrote that the center of the world is where you are. As a well-intentioned man, trying to help me not appear stupid, the journalist corrected me: the center of the world is, he wrote, where we are. And "you" is different from "we", right? Because every person is unique; it is identified by a fingerprint - it is different for everyone - let alone a character, incomparably more luxurious than any print. I often think that this world is trying to destroy that individuality; people seem to run away from it, they want to drown in the crowd, to become invisible. And that's not good, eh…
Where did you meet the liberation??
Wait! Before that, I joined the partisans...
Kada?
Towards the end of the war, in 1944. And I'll tell you why right then, just to light this devil's pipe... Here... The partisans were nice to us, young people, not because we knew something about communism; simply, we felt that justice and fairness were on their side. And why did I join them only in 1944? Someone will think because I saw that he will win, but he didn't. It was different: first, by the nationalists, after the violent mobilization in the Iron Regiment, I was taken to Cetinje with a few other schoolmates; the five of us ran away from there...
How did you escape??
We deserted. That night I was on duty, I had a seal with me, so, like a good draftsman, I made false passes, forged signatures; that's how we escaped from them and joined the partisans the same night. We were organized by Sveto Bijelić... I must tell you that I did not like how the partisans received us: they did not act as if we had come voluntarily, but as if they had captured us. Dissatisfied and disappointed, I remembered that I had left it at home Serbian trilogy Stevan Jakovljević, so the very next night I returned home by wire to complete it...
That's why you came back.?!
Well, I was annoyed by how they greeted us, I tell you. But I quickly went back and participated in the battles for the liberation of Danilovgrad, Nikšić... Our brigade fought around Mojkovac, then in Bosnia, in Kosovo. We arrived in Nikšić from Vranje only in 1946.
And during my stay in the partisans, I drew: first, portraits of comrades, and then, as soon as I was transferred to the Brigade Headquarters, I started making headlines, illustrations and caricatures in the brigade newspaper. The war made me more or less serious: I saw deaths, suffering... Before, I only heard about it, mostly from my grandfather.
This is the grandfather who went to America before the First World War?
Yes, that one! Maternal grandfather, Neđeljko Ivanović. Although originally from Kuča, they lived in Šavnik, where they had some kind of trade. Grandpa went to America with Koja Žarić. They set off on their horses and, arriving somewhere above Risno and seeing the sea for the first time in their lives, they suddenly became discouraged. When he returned, the grandfather continued. He thought - America is close: you cross the sea on a horse and there it is, right behind the hill. Although he soon convinced himself that it was not, he somehow managed to reach South America. But when the First World War began, he volunteered and was wounded at Kajmakchalan. During that time, my grandmother Mara, who stayed with the children in Šavnik, was waiting for her husband, hoping that he would return with a bag of dollars. Grandpa hasn't called in years. When he finally returned, Grandma Mara had something to see: wounded, crippled, without one eye, one ear, and without the devil's soldier. Then he opened a tavern in Šavnik. He rarely talked about America. I don't believe he was overly happy there...
What about this other war?? I know you're in the nineties., because "unbearable pressure on the conscience" publicly protested the attack of the JNA and Montenegrin reservists on Dubrovnik.
I usually don't get too involved in politics, but I couldn't keep quiet about this. I was ashamed. I was born in Yugoslavia, I grew up there, lived my life there. I wouldn't believe it... Yugoslavia was a serious country, with serious criteria and, for example, if you were considered a good painter here, then you were good everywhere. It was the same with writers, directors, actors... Culture was taken care of. Tito wasn't crazy, was he!... My wife and I watched that shameful attack on Dubrovnik from quite a close distance. We are neighbors and missiles flew over our heads towards Konavle and Dubrovnik; I had many friends among those people. Later, when everything was over, the people of Dubrovnik invited me to make an exhibition there. I refused…
Why?
Because I was ashamed. Imagine: I sit down in front of the City Cafe, and someone approaches me, slaps me, curses, spits in my face. What would I do, huh?! Nothing, honor me! Not because I'm afraid, but because I'm ashamed...
In the end, we did make that exhibition. It was opened by Luko Paljetak. It was a beautiful world, half of Stradun was jammed... And, despite everything, I always say how lucky I am that, during that madness, no one lost me as a friend; but who knows who i lost everything, right?
You did not lose Emir Kusturica. A, as far as I know, He is not you either..
Well, it's not, by God! Whenever he comes to Herceg Novi, Emir always stops by. He drives, he says, a plane. And a helicopter, can you imagine?! He also called when my lady died... He is always in a hurry; came, looked at the pictures. We don't have time to talk about politics. We know what everyone thinks, so... And maybe that's how we protect each other. It could be that too, eh?…
I always remember how in the nineties, after the opening of the exhibition at Sveti Stefan, Emir wanted to buy one of my paintings. That's how we met. Since, at that time, the sale of paintings was solely decided by my lady, who was always a little hard on the matter, she refused him. He left in despair. But here he is again sometime after midnight.
"I can't sleep!" he says. “I have to have that picture; I can't stop thinking about her.'
"Njake," I say to my lady, "if I were wondering about something, if he likes it so much, I would give it to him."
Of course, she didn't give it to him; she sold it to him.
What picture is this?, do you remember?
O To the Lustica wedding...
When you said that Mrs. Nada was "hard" about selling your pictures, how you feel about it?
I am very attached to some pictures. But, hung on my wall or on someone else's wall - it is always my picture; someone bought it or stole it, it's mine again. By the way, I had a painting stolen several times, just from the exhibition; everyone got annoyed, and I say that I would personally congratulate the man who risked prison for the sake of art.
"If you ever catch that rogue, call me to take him to dinner!" I said.
By the way, Emir later bought several more of my paintings, among them Lodging for the night. He loves them, he says. And, well, we became friends. I really appreciate him as a director. And, politically... I don't think artists should be involved in politics. Because many excellent writers, painters, actors were compromised in that way. Momo Kapor, for example. An artist can talk about politics in a bar, among friends, not in public. Because if he talks publicly, these sons of bitches usually take advantage of that and drag him into their circle. And that's not good, is it?
You didn't give up.?
No... I'm not a nationalist and, to tell you the truth, if, before I was born, someone had asked me what I wanted to be, I would never have remembered to say - Montenegrin. But since I was born that way, I will remain that way for the rest of my life. As you can see, I carry that Montenegrin madness inside me...
What does that mean to you??
Well, as if you didn't know!
I know, but others don't know...
Montenegrins are difficult to define; they are like a toothfish - a rare fish...
Fortunately!
Yes, Vala, you are fine... No matter how tiny, Montenegro is the "most diverse" country in the world; more "different" than China, America and Russia. Because, unlike a Chinese, an American or a Russian, a Montenegrin is first HE, and only then a Montenegrin. And each one is known; here it is much more original and unusual to be unknown. Glory is imperative! Here, take that story about heroism: yes, it's true, they are heroes; but it is also true that they die only if there is someone to see it; if there is no audience, there is no death; he will rather escape'. In the end, they are always "contra", opposition to everyone...
Apart from the government!
It could be, eh...
You are too "against everything"?
I didn't. I was always more "for" than "against"... They also say that Montenegrins are lazy; they are, but they are not passive. And they are ambitious. Even sick! Because, even though we are the smallest, we compete with everyone. Although, it is not so bad for a small nation.
Are you lazy??
I am. Well, that's why I became a painter. That's better than digging, getting tired and sweating, huh?! In a way, I smuggle myself through life: I have fun, I paint, and, by the way, I live from it.
How did you become a painter?? I read that you, having passed the matriculation exam in Nikšić, enrolled in sculpture at the Belgrade Academy of Fine Arts.
I entered sculpture out of snobbery. And it sounded somehow more masculine. With all those brushes and paints, painting seemed like a job for some wretch... Before the Academy, I was enrolled in the Faculty of Law...
Why?
I was late at the Academy, and I had to somehow get hold of the status of a student. It wasn't there, was it... And why right? Well, one night I was watching a movie in which Lincoln, who was also a lawyer, was defending some unfortunate lumberjack; I liked it so much, so I decided to enter Legal, well... And there was another one a moment: since I lived near Kalemegdan, I looked at what was closest to me, how far I had to walk the least. Philosophically, I understood, he was the closest, in the first place. I started, I was there. Well, that's where I got caught by a certain Vojo Agram. He was a law student, and whenever I met him, he always talked about his college; missed him on all bells. It occurred to me: if Vojo goes to Pravna every day, I could go with him; it's further, but at least I'll have company. By the way, I always made decisions that way: in a hurry, on the fly. Or for some cheap effect…
I didn't enroll in sculpture until the following year...
How do you remember that period of your studies in Belgrade?
Like all youth, that period, regardless of poverty and hunger, was beautiful... I lived, I told you, in the center, near the Academy; in a small room in the attic where there were two beds: a porter and his friend slept on one - people I had never met - and I shared the other, almost completely rotten, with a schneider. I didn't get to know him very well either - he would leave the room early in the morning and come back late in the afternoon; at night, when I would come from wandering, I would find him sleeping like a cannon. Poor guy, he will be working all day, so tired...
I hung out mostly with people from Nikšić. We fed on scraps - always hungry as dogs and without the devil's salary. And in that sense, I had nothing to report to my mother. It was the post-war period, there was nothing. But, no matter how poor, we believed in some kind of bright future, in equality... There was hope.
When you returned to Montenegro?
Right after the Academy. Although, I tell you, I made a few statues, I did it reluctantly. I simply saw that sculpting was not for me, so instead of going to the studio, I wandered around the pubs. And then, at the age of thirty, I started painting. I know the exact time and day: December 23, 1954, at 16:30 p.m.
What made that day and hour special?
In my hands I had a book of Van Gogh's letters - a small, cheapest edition, which included some of his reproductions. I was so mesmerized by the passion that radiated from those pictures that, even though they were black and white, I managed to see colors in them. Well, at that moment, intoxicated by the beauty of Van Gogh's art, I started painting. The first picture I painted was an oil painting and it showed the Herzegovinian pier. I continued and, no matter what anyone thought of my pictures, I did not repent. Painting is a wonderful, expressive art... I have been to the Louvre many times and, while looking at that beauty, I would always think that, regardless of my hot head, I was still lucky to be dealing with something that is extremely, stunningly beautiful. You won't believe it, but even today, at this age, while I work, I feel passion; maybe because I'm now much more focused on the picture and I'm less and less interested in other things, is it...
You could have made a career in Belgrade as well, and abroad; why did you return to Montenegro??
Painting has always been the most important thing to me. That's what I live for. And the painter who can live from his work is considered successful. Why did I come back?! Well, where else would I go, huh?! I never liked big cities. It's not for me. Small places are comfortable, everyone knows each other. This is where you learn to notice people. In Herceg Novi, for example, a man you don't know dies, but you saw him every day, so in a way, you lived his life: you think about where he goes, who he loves, why he is sad or happy. Sometimes it's enough to notice someone's missing, isn't it?!… Besides, I've always loved the sea. When the south blows, it causes depression in many people; i enjoy it. I also like to sail, eh…
Does this solitude please you?...
Except when I'm working, I can't really say I like solitude. Although, I tell you, basically, man is always alone. Especially when he is in company. When something hurts, it only hurts you. Regardless of friends who love you. Cho'ek is only a small part of the others. And the closest ones, if you want. He is simply alone in the cosmos, isn't he?…
Therefore, that's why Herceg Novi?
It is. And back in Nikšić, as a student, I dreamed of one day living by the sea. After my studies, in Herceg Novi I was given the opportunity to get a job at an art school; you had to live on something. And then I fell in love with him.
You are talking about the famous Herzegovinian School of Arts and Crafts...
IS…
Živko Nikolić once told me how you used to give lectures to your students on the beach, as you often entered the classroom through the window, explaining to them "that art can be entered in a different way". What else did you teach your students??
I didn't teach them anything! To be honest, I learned more from them than they learned from me. After all, I have always believed that art cannot be taught. Someone was an artist, he studied, he didn't study. It was born. If my favorite painter, Van Gogh, had graduated from the academy, I'm sure he wouldn't have become what he is. His talent is original. And such a gift must be protected. That's why the artist has to start painting immediately himself. When he comes to school, a man admires everything he sees, especially the professors, and loses that grain, that raw, uncorrupted talent...
The School of Arts and Crafts was an academy in the ancient sense of the word. The professors, among whom were Mirko Kujačić, Đorđe Bato Pravilović, Luka Berberović, Sava Vujović, Boris Veriga, tried to create the best working conditions for the students, and rejoiced at their every success. At my place, every student had an A. Why? Because I always thought grades were unimportant: a bad one can't teach you or fix you, but it might spoil something in your life.
You were also a professor of Dado Đurić?
Dado was a real, original talent, immediately noticeable; he didn't need school. He came formed. He learned nothing neither in Herceg Novi, nor in Belgrade, nor in Paris. He developed himself. With those figures... In France, he was isolated by his own will, living as if on a desert island. I visited him once. We talked, but we painters never talk deeply; maybe, if we're as lucky as Dado was, that's how we paint: deep! I was not surprised when I heard that Dado Đurić asked to be buried in Montenegro; he was very attached to her…
By the way, here in Montenegro you have everything - geniuses, great talents, improvisers, liars, originals... Well, look at my Herceg Novi! Well, I remembered, there once lived a bank clerk who was dead-convinced that he was a great poet. Genius, isn't he! He took his poetry to be read by Ivo Andrić every day...
Da, coming here, I passed by Andrić's house...
Before they built a house, Andrić and Milica stayed at the "Boka" hotel. Milica was suffering from gout, so she used to come to the spa... Well, this one original, Andrić, with a notebook under his hand, literally waited in front of the door every day. He was almost a literary character: he knew all of Yesenjin by heart, so, trying to imitate him, instead Kerusha songs, in the same style and tone, wrote a poem about his cow Šarulja. Often, in that recitation, he would forget which verses were his and which were Yesenin's. He must have thought - it's all the same anyway. And with that he would bury Andrić every day!
How Andrić reacted to that?
Andrić was a strange man, it was difficult to figure him out. I remember that in those moments he had a very serious expression on his face, as if he was listening carefully. Maybe he listened to him, who knows?! I used to have the impression that they were much more interesting to him than the boring intellectuals he met the originals. I've never noticed him making fun of anyone like that.
Did you hang out with Andrić??
I can't say we were friends, but we were, we hung out. Njake and I often went to their place for dinner, they visited us. And sometimes we would sit in my boat and set off. We didn't talk much. Andrić was closed, somehow buttoned up. I believe that sometimes he was on "vi" with himself. If he hadn't written all those wonderful books, Andrić would probably be that somewhat boring pensioner. But he knew how to listen. And, mostly, he listened. The writer and former diplomat Branko Lazarevic came to my place every evening, exactly at five o'clock; we would drink, share what we have. Sometimes someone would bring me French cognac as a gift, which, as a great gentleman, I would leave to Branko Lazarevic. He was eloquent and educated, so I sometimes thought that Andrić, because of that charm and the impression he leaves on those present, envies him a little...
I remember that Danilo Kiš also enjoyed his conversations with Branko Lazarević. I didn't get involved. I usually kept quiet and listened. I'm more of a down-to-earth guy...
Danilo Kiš often came to Herceg Novi; and finally, after cancer surgery...
Yes, yes... Maybe a month or two before he died, he came to Herceg Novi for the last time. After that devilish operation, his neck was somehow tight. And he came to me before. He would always carry a guitar; he sang Hungarian and Russian romances beautifully.
Milovan Đilas also used to come here; Have you met him??
How I didn't! He was brought by Mihajlo Lalić. Lalić was a strange man: Đilasa would usually walk to this door and - disappear.
Later, Djilas visited often. Without going into what he was imprisoned for, I was flattered that such a man was hanging out with me. I admired his courage: I have always appreciated one who, regardless of the consequences, boldly expresses his opinion; it doesn't matter if I agree with him, well... Djilas opposed everything and that at his own expense. And it wasn't really easy to get from the top, of your own free will, to the bottom! I think that Đilas was an honest man and that he carried his destiny with a steadfast, Montenegrin... Because of Đilas, I was once summoned for questioning.
Kada?
I don't know about my age, I don't remember... It could have been at the end of the sixties, eh... Basically, it was clear that because of Djilas, I was put under the supervision of the UDB. How? Well, I received a letter which began very politely: We beg you most kindly to come to Room 10 on such and such a day for an interview; and then came the threat: otherwise, you will be detained by two officials...
The police officers were correct, they asked about Đilas - why he was coming, when; unfortunately for them, I had nothing interesting to tell them; they already knew everything. They later apologized for inviting me at all.
Why did you say that Mihajlo Lalić was "strange man"?
Well, yes, he was strange. He was silent and closed, worse than Ivo Andrić. He would stop by occasionally, but never enter.
Why?
Well, he didn't want to...
Once, as CANU academics, Lalić, Dušan Kostić and I went to Titograd, to the Academy. Lalić was suffering from some kind of fucking ulcer, he was constantly on strict diets and he ate breadcrumbs all the way. And kept silent. And I'm always uncomfortable when someone is silent, so, in order to ease the discomfort, I don't stop talking. So, when we had already reached Tivat, I started and almost did not close it until Titograd. And I was talking about how one morning, at the crack of dawn, when I went to pour a demi-jar of water at the tap next to the "Mogren" tavern in Budva, I ran into the painter Ac Prijić and Radulović, the actor who Mountain wreath played Duke Drasko; they were drunk as hell! Otherwise, as soon as he got drunk, Aco would start talking about how he would surely die one day. Once upon a time, hearing a similar lament from Ac, the sculptor Luka Tomanović burst into tears. God, it's like Aco really died! Then Aco, when he saw Luka, started too. They were hardly comforted.
Eh, Montenegrins!…
We are like that, what are you going to do!? Strangely, Aco looked like he was going to die to me that morning. He was very pale in the face, and, suddenly, in the midst of his usual whining to himself, began to vomit; a stream of beer comes out of it. And not from the mouth, but straight from the nose. The jet was fresh, as if from a bottle: falling to the ground, it began to foam. If I had a pint, I could have picked up at least half, eh…
We were just descending towards Lake Skadar, when Lalić, without waiting for me to finish the story, burst out laughing. He was so excited that the stick stuck in his throat. He almost drowned. Dušan Kostić, the driver and I started hitting him on the back, we barely saved him. And, when we had already stopped, we used the break to pee like humans, all four of us. I didn't want to talk any further, but Lalić, every now and then remembering the story about Ac Prijić, started laughing like crazy. I was surprised; Lalić rarely reacted to anything. I soon snatched his wand from him. He could have died laughing. Which isn't so bad, is it?!
Are you afraid of death??
I don't know... I love life and I'm sorry I'm going to die. If it ever happens to me. And it looks like they will. Although, I always say that we are not going anywhere; everything that is seen and heard lasts forever. Our image and our voice will roam the cosmos for a long time...
So is Mrs. Nada's character and voice?
She is here, with me... As if I hear her voice. And I don't know if we will meet. Maybe it's good that I don't know, because that ignorance perpetuates. People always hope, don't they…
Otherwise, as a curious man, I can't wait to die. Although, it's not urgent, is it?! I tell you: I will be alive only until I die. And after a billion years I will be dead. So, you don't really have to hurry, do you... Because living is beautiful. What life is like. Even ugly things make him beautiful, eh... And everything is always different. And new. The world is new, because you are looking at it for the first time. It could be a billion years old…
I just hope I don't go to Heaven; Hell is another: everything that is forbidden is there.
What is there??
All the things you did while you were alive, for which you were "punished". In Hell, I am sure, I would find my friends, all those with whom I sat in the pub. That's my picture... And Raj, that's not it; no, not at all! Since I'm a relatively nice and modest person, I curse God at least twice a day: as a precaution, so that he doesn't make a mistake and send me to Paradise. I know how it is…
How is it?
I haven't been, but I imagine it as a park in spring: lots of fruit, warm, anything and everything. Wonderful, but the problem is that it is not a short trip; lasts forever! And who would normally put up with something like that? Besides, you have to play chess in Paradise. Everything else is kind of embarrassing, isn't it?! And I, imagine, never learned to play chess. And then - what am I going to do there?! Maybe that's why the best solution would be to stay here, huh?! What do you think?
