“Stop,” said Dorene, “you look twenty-five. Don’t worry.”
“Yeah, you say that only because you’re just thirty-four,” said Loretta.
“Hell, you both look eighteen to my eye,” said Bobby, smiling and taking his wife’s hand.”
“God, I love you, Bobby,” said Loretta, turning back to the painting. “Kiss him for me, Dorene! Anyway, if I might, this piece represents the new man fighting against the old… you know, the brave proletariat not flinching as these brutal czars interrogate them.”
“I’m also noticing,” said Dorene, “how the faces of the young man and woman who represent the proletariat are lit up, while the faces of the three czarist army officers appear dark. The man and woman appear bold, not afraid of these men.”
“True Socialist Realism,” said Loretta.
“Hmm,” said Bobby. “What exactly is Socialist Realism again?”
“You sound suspicious,” said Loretta.
“No, not at all, just curious.”
“Well,” said Loretta. “It was explained best by Andrei Zhdanov, an aide of Stalin’s. Most artists here have his words stained in their brains. And Stalin himself gave Zhdanov’s explanation his stamp of approval.”
“Tell us,” said Bobby.
Loretta cutely closed her eyes and began. “Zhdanov said, ‘Socialist Realism, being the basic method of Soviet literature and criticism, requires from the artist truthful, historically concrete representation of reality in its evolutionary development. Moreover, truth and historical completeness of artistic representation must be combined with the task of ideological transformation and education of the working man in the spirit of socialism.’ ”
Moments later when we arrived at Loretta’s two paintings, my heart began to race, as I hadn’t seen either. They were nothing like those I’d looked at before, no women holding babies in either. One was a painting of two young proletariat boys in civilian clothing chasing two uniformed czars who had looks of fear on their faces. The other was a similar painting, but the two young chasers were girls. Both were so vivid and colorful, as if they were photographs that had simply been copied. That was how truly talented my wife was.
“Stunning!” said Dorene.
“Truly!” said Bobby.
“My gosh, Loretta!” I said, taking her around the waist and pulling her close.
“You’re all being far too kind,” said Loretta, such pride washing over her. “They represent the true fear that was instilled in the czars as the revolution drew to an end. They feared the Bolsheviks at this point so much so that even the mere sight of proletariat children scared them to death. They knew that lingering not too far behind these youngsters was likely a heavily armed brigade of angry Bolshevik soldiers. At the same time, these children symbolized this newfound, emboldened attitude that had permeated the whole of the proletariat. This one is called Proletariat Boys Rising Up, and the other is called, of course, Proletariat Girls Rising Up.”
“The color is just stunning,” said Dorene. “But it’s as if you’ve used only various shades of red, yellow, black, and white. And still, it pops off of the canvas so powerfully, the girls’ lemon dresses, the boys’ cherry pants.”
“Thank you,” said Loretta. “In terms of color, probably the great artist, Konstantin Melnikov, gave me the greatest compliment. He said I must have found a way to paint with molten lava.”
“But you’ve always had a flair for color,” I said, turning to Bobby and Dorene. “Our daughter’s namesake, Ginger Bouvier, from our Harlem and Paris days, liked to brag about Loretta’s talent for creating various shades of particular colors.”
“Ah, yes,” said Dorene. “I remember her. We actually met her once when we first arrived in Paris, before she moved to Canada with her new husband.”
“Oh, that’s right,” I said. “Of course.”
“Where do you go from here, Loretta?” said Bobby. “I mean… you’ve truly reached the mountaintop. Tretyakov Gallery! The pinnacle!”
“Well,” said Loretta, “I can tell you what might be next. Prescott and I haven’t discussed this yet, and I know that you’ve asked him to join you in Argentina, but a bit of breaking news here, even for you, love.” She looked at me and raised her eyebrows. “I’ve been asked by the State to teach full-time here at the Moscow Painting Academy. Obviously, as you know, only the very top artists in the country are given the opportunity to do such.”
“Of course,” said Bobby. “Only the masters! Wow!”
“We have a lot to discuss in the coming days,” I said.
“I worry about the changing climate here,” said Bobby. “Ever since Kirov was mysteriously killed in Leningrad about a year and a half ago, Stalin seems to have made a shift. He’s arresting some of his own men. Perhaps justifiably, but still, all of us at the chancery have continued to grow suspicious of these arrests, along with those of regular citizens. And there’s an ever-disturbing secrecy about them.”
“But he’s arresting men and women who’ve obviously shown an allegiance to Trotsky or the exiled czars,” said Loretta. “So many men and women are undermining Stalin. This country is still hanging in the balance in terms of folks who long for yesteryear versus we who want to move forward. It’s like the Confederacy never fully embracing the Republic. That battle is still being fought as well.”
“Yes,” said Dorene, “but Roosevelt is hardly arresting all of the conservative members of Congress who oppose him.”
“Maybe he should,” said Loretta. “Many of them are, after all, responsible for turning a blind eye to mass lynchings, just like the czars were responsible for—”
“Both of you make good points,” I said, squeezing Loretta’s hand. “Like I said, we have a lot to discuss in the coming days. I think we’re all just reacting to the fact that there’s a question mark about whether we’re all going to be together again in Argentina.”
“I hate even the thought of us not,” said Bobby.
The four of us stood quietly admiring the paintings, the somewhat sad thought of our maybe not joining them perhaps running through each of our minds. It was a joyful moment mixed with a dose of confusing emotion.
As Loretta and I drove to the French embassy, the Ellingtons’ car just ahead of ours, I still hadn’t come down from the high I’d felt at seeing the paintings. I was married to a renowned artist.
“Well,” she said from the passenger’s seat, “what do you think of all this news?”
“It’s amazing,” I said, one hand on the wheel. “I’m so excited for you. So impressed.”
“But I’m sure you’re conflicted.”
“A bit.”
“Well, I hope you can come around to seeing how important this is to me, love.”
“Of course,” I said. “But you’re an artist with a name now. You can work from anywhere in the world. Why not spread your celebrity to Argentina and beyond? I’m sure Paris and London would roll out the red carpet for you.”
“I have no interest,” she sternly said. “I’m committed to this country, to the people who’ve accepted me and made me a success. My paintings can, and might, be sent to every country in the world, but I want to live and work here. They love me here. And it feels good.”
“Let’s take some time this week to think about it all, Loretta. This opportunity at the embassy in Argentina—”
“No! This is about me now. We’ve always done what you’ve wanted to do. But now, this is about me. I’m not moving to Argentina. I’m going to stay right here in Moscow, where I’m actually, in case you haven’t noticed, becoming somewhat famous. I’ve finally arrived as an artist. I just wanna shine.”