I don't know why, I have no explanation for it (every 2 x4 Freudian (sic) in has it and I rather ignore it anyway), but I have a compulsion, a desire, overpowering desire to finish this nonsense before I keel over into my potato salad. Or will God order a platter of oysters? Or the intersection of Route 156 and 85? His ways are so mysterious and too roulette-wheel like for my taste (3).
As always my brain is buzzing with 1000 ideas. The only trouble with it is its inability to pick out the best one strikeout best good (4).
Together, these two quotes succinctly describe the unfinished project that seemed to consume Boris Artzybasheff during the last years of his life: His autobiography. There can be little doubt of why he thought that such an endeavor was worthwhile. Although he was one of the first artists to receive a Caldecott honor in 1938, this distinction is actually a fairly minor accomplishment of an illustrious career that spanned almost four decades. His real fame as an artist came as a result of the more than 200 covers that he did for Time magazine between 1941 and 1965, several of which now hang at the Smithsonian Institution's National Portrait Gallery -- not to mention the designs that he crafted for Fortune, Life, numerous best-selling books, and advertisements for some of the nation's leading manufacturers. In fact, he was so famous that at least one five-star-hotel clerk ranked his arrival among the day's honors, the other two being "Mrs. Roosevelt and Perry Como"; for that era, you didn't get much more reverence than that.
As with most good stories, such a satisfying conclusion is not nearly as page-turning as the events that preceded it. Here, too, Artzybasheff's story does not disappoint. The 1917 Russian Revolution sets the stage for suffering, loss, and adventure, while his youthful adjustment to the new ways of the New World provides both humor and desperation.
In short, it should have been an easy tale to tell, especially for someone gifted in the art of storytelling (He wrote his Caldecott-honored book and several others.), for someone who had a “reputation for making complex relationships clear," for someone known for capturing the entirety of a person in a single portrait -- without a single hint of clutter in his studio or a single stain of paint upon his sleeve (1).
(Sample pages of autobiographical notes by Boris Artzybasheff, courtesy of
Special Collections Research Center at the University of Syracuse Libraries)
And really, who could blame him? While he may have had a lifelong distaste for psychology -- or , as he put it, "the Freudians" -- the mental health community of his day didn't yet have terms like "post-traumatic stress syndrome" or "survivor guilt." Even if they did, he likely would not have sought them out. Thus, like so many war survivors, he had to battle those demons alone, while making his way in a world removed from them. Whatever conflicts he may have faced in his new life, no matter how serious, must have seemed manageable in comparison. At the very least, after all, there was material comfort and the companionship of friends, acquaintances, colleagues, and admirers to distract him.
1899-1917:
"We knew the War was coming, but when?"
Rudyard Kipling once said - bless his little soul, I loved him dearly - ‘Scratch at [a] Russian and you find a Tartar.’ Well, I was always extremely proud of the Tartar blood in my veins. So was my father, and so was his father (3).
The story of Boris Artzybasheff begins 21 years before his birth with that of his father, Michael Artzybasheff, the son of a "retired officer and small landowner" in Okhtyrka, and also a descendent of the 18th century Polish revolutionary Thaddeus Kosciuszko (2). Their "old family" that could trace its history back 500 years, when their Tartar ancestors came to Russia from Austria, "'Artzy' meaning the lead, the first, and 'basheff' meaning head" (2). Throughout their stay, they mixed and mingled with French, Polish, German, and Georgian families.
Special Collections Research Center at the University of Syracuse Libraries)
Despite their rich and proud heritage, life was not easy for Michael's family. Michael's mother died of tuberculosis when he was three, as did three of his siblings, leaving Michael with only one sister. Still, Michael loved his hometown, with its Polish-Lithuanian heritage, and remained through much of his teens. When he was 19, he traveled about 100 or so kilometers to Kharkiv (then, "Kharkov") to study art (Wikipedia). Here, he met and married Boris's mother, Anna Vasilyevna Kobushko, and Boris was born a year later on May 25, 1899 (14).
At the time of Boris's birth, Kharkiv was a blend of old and new: A growing industrial center was spreading behind the walls and above the underground passage ways of the fortress that the first Russian settlers built during the 1600s. Now the second largest city in the Ukraine and historically (during the Russian Revolution) the capital of Ukraine, Kharkov's population in Michael's time was primarily Russian. It was also one of the primary centers for the hromada, secret societies of the Ukrainian intelligentsia that sprung up after the Crimean War (1860-1861).
Despite its bustling business and cultural life, Boris's father, Michael, felt the pull of even bigger dreams. In 1900, he left Kharkiv -- as well as his wife and infant son -- for St. Petersburg to study art, which proved "a stronger lure to him than even love" (The Real Artzybasheff). This youthful impetuousness may have been for the best, for Michael would later write: "'There can be no happy marriage. The path of life is too narrow and two human beings, especially such different beings as a man and a woman, cannot walk it without jostling and annoying each other. They love each other? Yes, they will stop loving'"(2).
The move also was the catalyst for Michael to find his true calling: Writing. Studying art in St. Petersburg proved more expensive than studying it in Kharkiv, and Michael began working as a freelance journalist and mingling with the extensive intelligentsia. In addition, he began to write stories and would become know for his humor. In 1903, he wrote Sanine, the novel that would bring him international fame; however, due to active censorship, he could not get it published until 1907, when he sold it "for a few hundred rubles to a publisher who became a millionaire through it" (2). Sensational in its day, Sanine dealt frankly with sexual relationships and, like many of Michael's works, explored the human condition in controversial ways. One self-proclaimed "European Critic" summed the writer up this way:
The best as worst that can ever be said about Artzybasheff is that he is himself: the mind of an artist in the body of an aristocrat; an Anarchist by pity and an iconoclast by faith; emotionally gentle to the point of weakness but intellectually firm; sensitive and brutal; hyperconscious yet a dreamer; a realist and a romancer; proud as Lucifer yet humble at heart; adoring nature with all the refinement of hyperculture; a spiritual sensationalist; a conqueror but also a most wonderful soul to be captured (2).
As Michael found his literary voice, he found his political one. He was active in the 1905 uprising of the intelligentsia, but "his anarchism prevented him from sharing illusions" (2). He shared his outspoken political beliefs in the Weekly, first as a writer, then as an editor, and would later write for the anti-Bolshevik Za Svobodu! ("For Freedom!") (15).
As it turned out, neither Michael's political-literary career nor his pessimistic views about marriage kept him out of his son's life, although one wonders if the opposing forces within his psyche took a toll on him that was apparent to his perceptive son. As Boris would later write: “My parents separated when I was a year old, but . . . I did not have to commute between the two of them as many children of parted parents do. My father did not want to be free and unencumbered. He . . . became the least free in the most encumbered SOB I ever met” (Artzybasheff Papers, Syracuse University, Box 2, Folder 18, “Autobiographical Papers).
Thus, Boris, primarily under the care of his mother, spent summers in St. Petersburg and winters in Kharkiv, two artistically rich cities -- a stroke of fortune for Boris, who “‘wanted to be an artist ever since I stopped wanting to be a fireman’” (NYT obituary). As a “fat, dear old Abbot” once put it: “Boris, you have no understanding of your good fortune. Living in St Petersburg, with all the concerts, operas, theaters and museums there, you don't realize that the only beauty the peasants around here have to hear and see is what our humble church can give them” (Artzybasheff Papers, Syracuse University, Box 2, Folder 18, “Autobiographical Papers).
He was right: The world was at young Boris's feet, ready to inspire him. As he later recalled in a "Letter to Mrs. Warren Shearer" (March 23, 1959), “I came upon a book on Hieronymus Bosch when I was about 12 or 13. About that time I also discovered Pieter Bruegel the Elder. I love them both still. My other loves at that age where the Russian icons and Persian Miniatures," as well as Rosetti and Botticelli (Artzybasheff Papers, Syracuse University, Box 2, "Correspondence"). His father, no doubt thrilled by the artistic bent that his young son inherited, tried to direct his career, giving him a "fine set of oil colors" and suggesting that he switch his subjects from "angels and mounted knights in deadly combat with devils and Dragons" to "realistic landscape painting." The good son gave it a go, but things did not work out as his father hoped: "I painted a few birch trees and a ghastly self-portrait and quit" (letter to Mrs. Warren Shearer," March 23, 1959).
Instead, young Boris was drawn to Aubrey Beardsley, whom he imitated obsessively for years; his interest waned a bit, however, when he saw the artist's works in person: “I discovered that technically I was better” (letter to Mrs. Warren Shearer," March 23, 1959). From there, his influences were mainly Far Eastern. For many years, it was his dream to go to Japan to study “But fortunately it didn't work out. I might have learned to paint something like Whistler, which would have been a calamity” (Letter to Mrs. Warren Shearer March 23, 1959).
The twin cities of Boris's youth were as culturally diverse as they were artistically rich. Foreign expatriates were part of the societal fiber, although the native Russian populace had distinct opinions of them. For example, Boris says, “We did not think much of English. They counted in pounds and Shillings and expect everybody to speak their language, which is absurd. The English we used to say, write ‘Manchester’ and pronounce it ‘Liverpool.’” (Artzybasheff Papers, Syracuse University, Box 2, Folder 18, “Autobiographical Papers). Germans, by contrast were thought to make the best hotel managers, shopkeepers, chambermaids, even prostitutes; thus they were, deservedly, “all over the place... They... ‘knew everything, solved every problem and met every emergency. A German governess was a must among the wealthy. The Germans were efficient, clean, useful, and a bit dull" (Artzybasheff Papers, Syracuse University, Box 2, Folder 18, “Autobiographical Papers).
The American influence was more complex -- and in retrospect probably foreshadowed the ambivalence he would feel toward his adopted nation in later years. In the theater of world cultures, he writes:
. . .Americans didn't count. Enterprising as they were, they had enough trouble with the Indians. . .Although my friends and I were devoted to Mark Twain, James Fenimore Cooper and Edgar Allan Poe, we thought of them as sports, or mutations, and not characteristic of America. Americans, we knew, wore checked suits, had buck teeth and gross manners. However they were good at building things big and fast. There was a picture of the Flatiron Building in my geography book and I used to count the stories in it, all 22(?) of them. Very impressive, but the Eiffel Tower was taller (Artzybasheff Papers, Syracuse University, Box 2, Folder 18, “Autobiographical Papers).
In fact, even years later, Boris's reverence for the American literary giants he admired in his youth was qualified. “ I still maintain," he quipped, "'The Raven’ is better in Russian translation than in original. Poe should have been a Russian”(Box 2 autobiographical papers 1926).
That said, the lure of the great American Western made an impact even in Boris's sophisticated circles. When they weren't playing pranks in town or careening at "full blast" down the hill of a nearby monastery (causing trouble that the aforementioned "old, fat abbot would routinely bail them out of), his friends were making their plans to join the Westward expansion:
Some of my contemporaries were known to steal a few rubles from their father's desk, by a penknife and run to America. They were eager to become Cowboys (sic.) and fight the Indians. But usually they were picked up at the nearest train station by police and returned to their parents (Artzybasheff Papers, Syracuse University, Box 2, Folder 18, “Autobiographical Papers).
A final influence that left its mark on Boris's youth was the politically charged atmosphere of the era. In a short essay or chapter entitled "Emperor and Autocrat of all the Russians," he remarks that he was born
. . .at the time of the first Hague Peace Conference. It was called together by our Tsar Nicholas II of Holy Russia, Defender of the faith, etc. [who had declared that] the time has arrived for all peace-loving states to unite their efforts in behalf of the noble idea of the triumph of universal peace over the elements of trouble and discord (Artzybasheff Papers).
Noting the conference proposed a ban of soft point bullets among other things, he adds that “Naturally U.S.A. objected because it ‘interfered with the inventive genius of our people’” -- with a tone that suggests everybody knew the accords were dead in the water (Artzybasheff Papers). As he and his friends devoured The War of the Worlds, adult political discussion revolved around the Kaiser's plan for world domination. England's “schemes for keeping us Russians from God-given right to Constantinople and the Dardanelles” and “French and Belgian maneuvers to own all our public utilities in Russia including the horse-drawn trolley cars. We knew the world war was coming, but when? Will we be lucky and live long enough to see it? How exciting it would be!" (Artzybasheff Papers, Syracuse University, Box 2, Folder 18, “Autobiographical Papers)
With hope and anticipation, then, Boris and his friends:
. . .played very elaborate war games on a checkerboard and collected tin soldiers. . . I used to pedal my bike to the outskirts of St Petersburg and watch the airplanes taking off the green field. As they flew overhead [they] buzzed sounding not unlike the power lawn mower. You could see the gallant man perched on the wing and clutching the stick. This was so unlike anything Jules Verne or H.G.Wells and others were describing, but it made your heart flutter. My school books margins were covered with minute designs, which looks something like this.
If you don't recognize a biplane head-on, you miss a thrill (Artzybasheff Papers, Syracuse University, Box 2, Folder 18, “Autobiographical Papers).
1917-1919:
"The years of bleakness, frustration and madness"
By the end of 1916, Boris Artzybasheff had fallen in love at least once and, due to a shortage of men during the war, had worked as a police officer, carrying a gun and directing traffic (December 25th 1931. Artist developed into author also by Kay Mott). His primary occupation was that of a student, first in law Kiev, then in art at the Prince Tenishev School in St. Petersburg (Alison Oswald, "Illustrating Invention").
Decades later, a single note scrawled on a piece of scrap paper would hauntingly tell how quickly everything changed:
Petrograd 1917 -- February. Last glory of Czarist Russia. 'Maskarade,'kidding a handsome young Cossack on horseback. Soft snow falling and his happy grin in reply. Next day shots, machine guns, fires. Militia patrols gun (Artzybasheff Papers, Syracuse University, Box 2, Folder 18, “Autobiographical Papers)
While the young Artzybasheff was enjoying the final moments of his aristocratic existence, his father had been in Moscow in the thick of the action. As the 1917 revolution approached, he would criticize Kerensky, "the revolution's first love"; seeing "through the hysterical weakling from the first, he foresaw ruin and attacked him in the Weekly" (The Real Artzybasheff). Although Kerensky "did not retaliate," Lenin and the Bolsheviks would, shutting down the paper. Just what happened next is a bit unclear. While in a New York Post article dated July 24, 1920, the author ("a European Critic") writes of reports that Michael joined forces with Maxim Gorky and the Bolsheviks, another source states that he published the anti-Bolshevik Notes of a Writer in 1918, citing Taylor & Francis's 1998 Reference Guide to Russian Literature. Of course, both could be true; Michael Artzybasheff wouldn't be the first person to adopt expedient political beliefs during times of chaos. It is certain, however, that he escaped to Warsaw in 1923, claiming citizenship from his mother's side, and remained there until he succumbed to tuberculosis in 1927.
In the years to come, Michael's status would come to haunt and help his son at various times. His understanding that such an eventuality was inevitable is perhaps what caused him to give Boris the advice that he would quote so often later: “'Get out of Russia, don't sponge on my reputation, and change your name'” (NYT).
Also telling, perhaps, is the fact that Boris appears to have only taken one piece of this advice to heart, having kept the name and delayed his departure of the country. To be fair, the need to flee was not immediately obvious. As Boris writes in an essay or chapter entitled "The First Million was the Hardest”:
When Revolution came to Russia, I was lucky. Being only 17 I was too young to be shot as ‘the enemy of the people’ and old and robust enough to withstand privations which followed. But this event shattered all my plans for the future. It is one of the firmest convictions of most of the good Americans I have known that revolutions happen only to uncivilized, backward and hoodwinked people. Being well-bred and courteous they ignore such affliction in others as long as possible. After all it may go away by itself, like a pimple on a friend's nose.. . . but hoodwinked or not we never thought of ourselves as uncivilized or backward end had an unshakable faith in our and Russia's future (Artzybasheff Papers, Syracuse University, Box 2, Folder 18, “Autobiographical Papers).
Therefore, in 1917, Boris, just emerging from a his privileged and protected childhood, likely would have been shocked to learn that his later self would summarize the years 1917-1919 as follows:
1917-1919 --the years of bleakness, frustration and madness. Kiev: Petlura, autrocity posters, trying to enlist. Army. Russian officers, Ukrainian commands. German soldiers. German officers. barracks cold filth. Cow's head in the stew. Defeat. Explosion. (bomb). Hiding. Gasoline lamp. And drawing (Artzybasheff Papers, Syracuse University, Box 2, Folder 18, “Autobiographical Papers).
He would find out soon enough. Of 1918, he writes on one side of a notepad sheet:
All that is etched on my mind of this year is cold. More cold. Broken windows in the barracks, latrines at 20 degrees below. Nobody did tarry at the latrine, food was rather short. Cow's head, night duty – little wood stove. Dagger is useful for chopping wood. . . .
On the back of the same notepad page, he wrote, “This was a GREAT country once” (Artzybasheff Papers, Syracuse University, Box 2, Folder 18, “Autobiographical Papers).
Other recollections of this time hint at the devastating effects the social upheaval had on Boris's family. For example: “Mother's ‘room’ on Principo: 5 x 6, made of 2 sheets on the floor - bedding. Little box for bedside table. Flowers on it!” (Artzybasheff Papers, Syracuse University, Box 2, Folder 18, “Autobiographical Papers). Other recollections include an “Odessa shop window. Folding cot (sic.). Cold, cold! Tailor's window iron shutter. Mother's diarrhea (sic). Rubber overshoes and cold! Lice!” (Artzybasheff Papers, Syracuse University, Box 2, Folder 18, “Autobiographical Papers). While these physical and materials effects are certainly terrible enough, there is also evidence of the psychological toll. In a later note labeled "Petrograd 1918," he recalls:
Finding my uncle Nikolai one evening entirely nude, cursing and breaking furniture and China. Seeing him in the Naval Hospital: manuscript covered with mathematical formulas about a mouse. Later in Lebedin the German Commandant sleeping over a cache of firearms (safest place to hide them). Potatoes. Salt and pepper. Salt fish. Clay-like bread on a sheet of writing paper. Horse head in a bloody newspaper, carried by a dignified bespectacled man on a trolley car. Potato peelings cakes. The fat boy of the class looking like a scarecrow in his former suit.
According to his New York Times obituary, Boris was drafted into the German-sponsored Ukraine Army in 1918 (NYT obituary). His service began rather inauspiciously:
My appearance before the Army acceptance board was brief but memorable. I'm dressing in a small room with a dozen other men. Rolling clothes in a bundle. Bad cold: handkerchief, pince-nez, wristwatch my father's present. Standing under the light, Stark naked... There was no medical nonsense, if the boy looked well enough and had pubic hair he was fit for service. My surname (or rather father's fame) attracts great interest. Serdutzkay Division, Uniform: hat with vizor removed, dagger. Smell of uniform (Artzybasheff Papers, Syracuse University, Box 2, Folder 18, “Autobiographical Papers).
In other notes, Boris seems to give a little more detail about the "great interest" shown in his father, recalling the following question: “'Wasn't your father somewhat to the left? Writes books and things like that? Radical, I mean?'” (Artzybasheff Papers, Syracuse University, Box 2, Folder 18, “Autobiographical Papers). There is no reply recorded, and it's easy to imagine a 19-year-old, traumatized, and congested Boris not really knowing how to respond. Led by Symon Petlyura, a controversial figure who would later be linked to anti-Jewish pogroms, the Ukrainian People's Army was formed to establish Ukraine independence. As a result, it was engaged in fighting both the White and Red Armies. Given this context, it's hard to imagine a good answer to the inquiry.
The army was ill-equipped, and promised supplies from Germany seldom arrived. As Boris would later recount, his original assignment was to be a motorcycle dispatch rider. However, the corporal in his unit totaled the only motorcycle, so he was moved to the machine gun squad. According to his notes on the topic, the Russian word for machine gun literally translates to “bullet tosser," a meaning that seems more fitting to his actual training. He recalls being “given an air-cooled Colt... and a large pair of asbestos gloves,” which were "needed in combat because the barrel would start to melt and would need to be replaced by a cooler one." Then, training commenced. It was brief but successful. With ammo was in short supply, it was limited to
. . .a burst of about five rounds per man to qualify as a marksman. I must have been good or they wouldn't have promoted me to a corporal almost on the spot. This promotion went to my head, I became obsessed with spit and polish, very mean to my underlings... In all probability, if this particular Army lasted much longer, I would have ended as a field Marshal (sic) with a baton and enough medals to reach my navel. But God, in his wisdom, willed it not. The Army was no more. The Germans had promised armor, but it never arrived ("Harley Davidson," Artzybasheff Papers, Syracuse University, Box 2, Folder 18, “Autobiographical Papers).
The remainder of Boris's war recollections focus on the chaos surrounding him in 1919 Odessa as the rest of the world, weary itself from the devastation of World War I, makes a futile effort to save the Russian Empire. As he recalls:
Everybody had a hand in Russian affairs. . . . American forces . . . .were mired and bewildered in the far north or east extremes of Russia, without ever finding out what they came to do.. . . Germans came to loot and made no bones about it. They were a good enemy. You could not help to admire their efficiency and discipline.
The French came as allies to White Army, but Boris rather bitterly recounts that their troops were “stupid (sic) loose wild rabble.” Understanding that they were “tired of the years of trench muck and slaughter” and sure that they would have "rather gone home to their wives and families or whatever they had,” Artzybasheff can’t help but emphasize that “they treated it as a sort of impromptu vacation. . .[ they] were drunk, annoyed women and were disorderly in every way and they never even flashed their tricolors at the Red Army” (Artzybasheff Papers, Syracuse University, Box 2, Folder 18, “Autobiographical Papers). Also of little help were the English, who "came next on the Caspian side of the Black Sea," their "[f]ew merchant ships and an occasional destroyer" bringing “rusty leftovers of the war," including broken down tanks “field guns beyond repair,” and the wrong caliber shells (Artzybasheff Papers, Syracuse University, Box 2, Folder 18, “Autobiographical Papers).
Always one to find humor in even the bleakest moments, Boris ends his recollection of 1919 Odessa describing the “Comic relief" of the Greek army's arrival on the scene. You can almost hear him laughing through the ink on the page as he writes of their "shiny new uniforms" and “freshly painted artillery”: “Their officers look very dashing just like in Viennese (sic) operadas.” Eager to fight, the Greeks immediately went out to battle the Red Army. They were back four days later:
What was left of them staggered back to board their ships and go home... What a sight! Torn, muddy uniforms, no guns, no mules, no wagon! They had so little to load and were in such a hurry that they were gone in less time than it takes to say ‘Papadopoulos' (Artzybasheff Papers, Syracuse University, Box 2, Folder 18, “Autobiographical Papers).
Their defeat received an odd reaction from the people that they came to save, for as the Greeks left, “The entire population of Odessa cheered. Even the Whitest of the Whites felt elated. The defeat of the Greeks by the Red Army meant that the noose lightened” (Artzybasheff Papers, Syracuse University, Box 2, Folder 18, “Autobiographical Papers). Having endured almost six years of war and revolution, it seems that the people of Odessa, understandably, just wanted peace.
It also seems that the anti-Red Boris saw the writing on the wall and realized that it was time to take at least part of his father's advice and leave Russia -- but where to go?
I had desire to see Japan, China, India and Africa, but America? There was nothing of interest there, as we all knew, but a few Indians. Japan had much to offer. I became smitten by a book on Japanese art about this time and thought that studying there would add much to my future as an artist. Also to get there one would love to travel across the Urals, full length of Siberia (8,000 miles?), past Lake Baikal and to the shores of the Pacific. One of my chums, who wanted to go on the trip too, and I swore that someday we would stand on the Pacific shore and piddle into the ocean. It was to be symbolic or ritualistic gesture, you will understand (Artzybasheff Papers, Syracuse University, Box 2, Folder 18, “Autobiographical Papers).
So, he signed up as a volunteer on the SS Vladimir, a White Army ship "bound for Ceylon, India" but landed but "chance lands him in New York instead. Decides to remain for one year and see America"(25 Years). As it would happen, fate thwarted these plans as well. It would not be until several decades later that Boris would finally reach the Pacific, standing "on the rocks near San Francisco watching the sunset over the great for the first time waters rather than sunrise as originally planned” (Artzybasheff Papers, Syracuse University, Box 2, Folder 18, “Autobiographical Papers).
1919-1921: "America is a stepmother to the newcomer."
Both the Dutch elm disease and I entered America via Port of New York, but I came first. The tiny Beetle passed through without a hitch, and soon prospered here and multiplied to the delight of Olin Mathieson and other makers of pesticides, but I almost didn't make it. The reason for this was simple. I arrived in 1919 from Russia, which was torn by Revolution, the country inhabited, as every American knew, by the bearded Bolsheviks who carried a bomb with a burning fuse in one hand and used the other to nationalize women and smashed churches, because they believed in free love but not in God. I had no beard, only some black fuzz under my nose, with the rest of my face being peaches and cream in colorization and rather honest. But still there was no one in New York to vouch for me. I could have been a Red in disguise infiltrating America. Besides, I had no money and was practically sans-culotte. I did wear pants, but they were in a state of almost total disintegration.” (Artzybasheff Papers, Syracuse University, Box 2, Folder 18, “Autobiographical Papers)
One of several draft introductions to his autobiography, this passage encapsulates many themes that run throughout Boris's recollections of his first years in America, including the deprivation he faced and the struggle to feel accepted that would linger for years, even after he achieved success. More poignantly, it reminds the reader of his youth and the fact that he was alone in the world, without an option to go back to the country he called home.
The Revolution had separated Boris from his parents. As noted above, his father was trying in vain to navigate the increasingly dangerous literary and political landscape in Moscow -- and very probably eying an escape to Poland at this time. Other than the brief notes about her spartan room assignment, though, there is little information about his mother. His personal papers at Syracuse University contain several letters that appear to be from her, and it would be interesting to have them translated. As it is, only one appears to be-- and because it is only addressed to "My Dear" and not signed, it is difficult to tell. This letter, dated June 2, 1919 recounts an arrival in Constantinople with great joy upon seeing the brightness of the capital city as well as its bounty; in particular, the writer describes the thrill of being able to purchase lemons-- and their delight in enjoying the succulent fruit. That same mood is reflected in Boris's account of his journey on the SS Vladimir:
Our Vladimir was the first Russian ship since the war and revolution, and very proud of it, to come out of the confinement of the Black Sea, past that narrow door called the Dardanelles, was opened (sic) to Russian ships for the first time since 1914 and sail in freedom upon Mediterranean waters. We felt as if released from prison (long confinement) and were dazzled by the freshness and brightness of the world around us (Artzybasheff Papers, Syracuse University, Box 2, Folder 18, “Autobiographical Papers).
Moments like these probably kept passengers sane, for Boris's other memories of the trip are far less enchanting. On a paper labeled “SS Vladimir 1919," he writes: “. . . Refugees in cargo-hold. Stink. Paul and my suitcase – shuggar. Lady with two little dogs, which Paul takes to own cabin. Painting the cabin, signal flags for decoration" (Artzybasheff Papers, Syracuse University, Box 2, Folder 18, “Autobiographical Papers). On yet another sheet, he asks us, “Ever try to sleep with violent fornication 2-½ feet over your head?”
Thus, when the Ceylon-bound ship "changed its course and ran into New York for ammunition," it is hard to say whether Boris was moved by the Big Apple skyline, as he told a few reporters, or by a desire to just get off the ship when he asked for permission to stay (December 25th 1931. Artist developed into author also by Kay Mott). Whatever the motive for the request, permission was granted and on June 17, 1919, Boris Artzybasheff arrived at Ellis Island with 14 cents in Turkish currency and "no passport, no friends, no English" (25 years).
He would stay there 29 days. In addition to the aforementioned threadbare clothes, Boris describes himself upon arrival as
6 ft tall, rather lanky but strong, with wide shoulders. All together about 175 lb of 20 year old flesh. The egg-shaped head (point down naturally) was attached to a very long neck and topped with an abundance of dark brown, almost black hair - (don't look astonished, this was nearly half a century ago). The complexion was better than fair, almost peaches and cream, and nicely accented by black eyebrows and something dark under the nose, which {I} thought to be {a } mustache. My countenance was further enhanced by the rimless pince-nez which I wore because of nearsightedness. I preferred them to the common spectacles even if they hurt my nose and had a tendency of slipping off at inopportune moments. But they made me look intellectual, which I knew myself to be. At that time most members of the Russian Intelligentsia, be they real or fake, myopic or hyperopic, wore them (Artzybasheff Papers, Syracuse University, Box 2, Folder 18, “Autobiographical Papers)
There must have been something endearing in his appearance to induce the kindness of strangers. According to NYT obituary, while on Ellis Island, “a visiting Russian priest gave him a suit at least two sizes too big, and a girl employee, to whom he never spoke, presented him with shoes. (His boots had split open).” An official on the island got him a job with the engraver (NYT, “Boris Artzybasheff Dies at 66; Illustrator of Covers for Time"). Nevertheless, according to Kay Mott, it was his father -- or rather his father's name -- that ultimately reached across the ocean and freed him from confinement; the Russian ambassador in Washington, who knew his father, intervened to get him out (Kay Mott).
Boris used his referral from the immigration officer to secure a $15 a week job with an engraver, where he first did lettering, but was quickly “promoted to drawing beer bottles, shoes, etc." (25 years).
(Samples of Boris’s work for the engraver, 1919, courtesy of
He also got himself a bed at the Bronx YMCA. Outside of work, his notes indicate that he immediately set out to build his reputation as an artist, spending evening doing his own art such as “‘18th Century Park Scene’ to have something to show editors” (25 years). His correspondence, however, details a much more heart-wrenching effort: To get his mother safely to the United States. Although permission from the U.S. government appears to have come fairly quickly via an official letter dates November 25, 1919 -- just five months after his arrival, extracting her proved more difficult. There are numerous letters, including one in French to someone of possible influence, begging for help. Tragically, his efforts proved to be in vain. In a 1933 profile for Creative Art, Bruce Lockwood noted that Anna Vasilyevna Kobushko Artzybasheff died “alone and in poverty, among the refugees in Turkey."
Sometimes silence speaks volumes. It is interesting to note that despite the large amount of correspondence -- not to mention the time and emotion that must have been involved -- Boris never wrote about it in his memoirs, choosing instead to write about events that seem trivial in comparison. Perhaps he thought the letters were enough of a record. Perhaps, also, the subject was too overwhelming, too emotional. As he would write years later to an admiring researcher:
I think the content is as important an element in art as color and design are. But the last two are more natural to the intuitive talents. The subject, or content, on the other hand, is a product of reasoning mind (Letter to Mrs. Warren Shearer March 23, 1959).
The quote strongly suggests that as artistic as Boris was, he required a large degree of emotional distance from his subject in order to portray it. Such an approach is hauntingly similar to the views on literature that his father shared in 1913:
Common sense, consistency, argumentation, a clear and concrete idea of one's subject that constitutes the plot of the work, a thoughtful evaluation of the phenomena introduced in the novel, clarity and concreteness- these are the things I demand of a literary work (Wikipedia, quoting the Introduction to Sanin by Cornell University Press, 2001).
In any event, this sentiment likely made it impossible for him to write about those to whom he felt the closest.
Despite the personal challenges, Boris kept working and networking. Helping him in this effort had to be some name recognition due to his father's fame and, more important, the minor celebrity status he might have been enjoying through his association with the SS Vladimir:
Vladimir's arrival in New York caused a sensation in the Russian colony. After all, our ship was the first direct contact with Russia since 1914. Five, almost six years of war and then Revolution. Every Russian here was so excited by our coming, from the Ambassador in Washington down to the last bum on the Brooklyn Waterfront (Artzybasheff Papers, Syracuse University, Box 2, Folder 18, “Autobiographical Papers).
Among those he first met were Vasia and Helena Troussoff through their cousin Yourevitch. Vasia, a fellow artist, shared jobs that he got with Artzybasheff. Recalling the couple's “stark, empty apartment . . .on the city's outskirts,” Boris details with equal parts humor and horror, his first exposure to American parenting:
first impression of ‘progressive child upbringing,’ very American. The baby, left alone in a cold room, with a window wide open, to scream bloody murder. We sit in the living room, shaking with worry, but leave him cry. According to the book do not pick him up - very American! (Artzybasheff Papers, Syracuse University, Box 2, Folder 18, “Autobiographical Papers).
It also appears that Boris attempted to make contact with more successful members of the Russian "colony," as evidenced by the following anecdote from 1919:
My ‘uncle’ Djenien. Stuffy, comfortable place on the Riverside. Sort of middle-class Russian setting. Well-executed and do oil paints. Aristocratic bearing, soft voice. Handsome face, blond Van Dike beard, mustache as pretty as cat's paws. Dark haired, fiery wife. She does speak English, he is too absorbed in himself to learn it. Good Republican though - all ‘nice people’ are Republican (Artzybasheff Papers, Syracuse University, Box 2, Folder 18, “Autobiographical Papers).
Through this growing web of acquaintances, Boris also met Natalie de Bogozy Valevitch, whose father was a revolutionary in 1905. In an intriguingly cryptic note that begs for more explanation, Boris writes of her: “vigil on top of a wardrobe, in the nude . . .guitar (sic), gypsy songs, black wavy hair. . .Natalie spells my name for me once an for all” (Artzybasheff Papers, Syracuse University, Box 2, Folder 18, “Autobiographical Papers). Whatever else may have occurred, Natalie hired him to paint her apartment and introduced him to the editor of the Sunday New York World supplement, whom he impressed enough to earn a full page spread and $50 (25 years).
The success was short-lived. As a result of the New York World spread, Boris writes: “Elated, asked for a $3 a week raise from engraving shop, is refused and resigns in a huff. Lives on boiled rice and nearly starves” (Artzybasheff 25 years).
That is not to say that the time was without camaraderie and distraction. For example, one amusing anecdote recounts an adventure with his friends from the Bronx YMCA. Trying to find some action, the three poor immigrants went to “the Hudson side of Manhattan where so many ships tie up. Nothing! Miles of cobblestones, rows of warehouses and no people, no gaiety, no lights…” Disappointed, they return to the Bronx, where another friend tells them that they should have gone to Hoboken. Needless to say, that's exactly where they go the following Saturday, where "We walk the streets and peek into dark alleys. Nothing. The town is asleep. And then we see a building still lighted and we make for it. And of all the things that could have been, it turns out to be the Hoboken YMCA!" They look around a bit and go back home to the Bronx, with Boris reflecting:
It is hard to be very young and full of sap and find yourself without a tongue in a big, cold, unfriendly City. The friends you make are the people very much of your kind. They may be a month, or a year, ‘older’ in this country but they are just as ignorant or scared as you are. But it helps them in their fears to find someone a bit more scared than themselves. So they tell you to go to Hoboken or wherever (Box 2 autobiographical papers 1926).
Still, the rice diet and dead nightlife was no place for the boy who grew up among the finest cultural opportunities that Imperial Russia had to offer:
I hadn't been a New York six months when I came to realize that America was not the place for a sofisticated cultured European like myself. I was 20 and pretty well set in my outlook. America had much to offer when it came to sightseeing. Much around me was queer, odd, unusual and even exotic. It was worth exploring, observing and remembering. Something to be telling about when back in European civilization. In other words USA and I misunderstood each other. Perhaps we still do to some extent (sic.) (Box 2 autobiographical papers 1926).
Fueled by cultural boredom and hunger, Boris and his friend Leonid “were impressed with the Navy recruiting posters (Join the Navy and See the World but [friends] said only the bums went into military services so we dropped the idea” (Artzybasheff Papers, Syracuse University, Box 2, Folder 18, “Autobiographical Papers). Still, the desire to leave was growing. As he later wrote:
America is a stepmother to the newcomer. He is afraid of her. He sees the wrong side of her face and finds her cold and even cruel: difficult to know and impossible to love. Love may come in due time with understanding but never at first sight.
Interestingly, in one edit to this note, he added “mutual understanding,” but then crossed out “mutual" (Box 2 autobiographical papers 1926).
It was perhaps around this time that Boris met the eccentric -- or crazy -- Madame Strindberg. Although he never gives her first name, presumably she is Frida Strindberg, a former wife of the noted Norwegian playwright August Strindberg. Project Gutenberg lists her as a translator of several works by Michael Artzybasheff, including Jealously, Enemies, and The Law of the Savage. Additionally, both her timeline and her picture seem to match Boris's notes, which are scattered among four or five different pages:
I have no recollection of how or where I met this woman for the first time. After some 40 years her name is still a red zigzag to me. For some reason of her own she was then persevering in finding a producer for my father's play Jealousy. The play was a great hit in Russia before the Revolution and was translated into other languages, including English, just about the time I arrived in America... It was a good play and I think still is. But perhaps a bit too tame for the modern stage, although very daring in its day.
Madame Strindberg had that blowzy air about her. I remember her figure as not fat but full, alway[s] in black, but not clean black, with scarves and flowing things hanging all over. Her heavy dark hair, which did not look combed but rather raked, framed [a] very pale face with [a] flabby mouth and a bit too long a nose and more than one chin. She might have been pretty in her youth, in a sort of Viennese (sic) or Gypsy way
She gave an impression of softness and of slight corruption like that of an overripe fruit. Hers was not the face that launched a thousand ships but her personality would, if she were a Trojan, [have] forced the Greeks to think twice before undertaking their amphibious assault.
Most likely she was actually insane, but how was I, at twenty, to recognize that? To me, she was Madame Strindberg, the widow of the famous [playwright?] (Artzybasheff Papers, Syracuse University, Box 2, Folder 18, “Autobiographical Papers)
Whether it was because of her fascination with his father or with Boris himself, Strindberg was a prominent if unwelcome feature in the young artist's life at this point. Among the ploys she apparently used to gain his attention was claiming to have news of his mother. In fact, it is likely that such a promise first enticed Boris to befriend her, but he seems to have soon realized that she did not have quite the knowledge or clout that she purported.
To escape poverty and Strindberg, Boris and his friend Leonid got a 4-month stint on the Fred W. Weller oil tanker in Mexico and South America. Finding the ship "very impressive after Vladimir," he was less impressed with the food: Provisions potato bags, sides of clammy beef, 15 lb of crackers. . .Maggots and oatmeal. Dead chicken for Sunday. Craving for borscht!" Among the other issues Boris faced was having to cope with his city shoes on deck, forcing him to use his first $2 to buy a pair of white ones in Tampico, where he also recalls there being bubonic plague. Other problems on the trip included a fire and running "Out of fuel somewhere off in the Straits of Yucatan. Oil tanks, bilge, buckets, can of kerosene (sic) to wash (week of this)" (Artzybasheff Papers, Syracuse University, Box 2, Folder 18, “Autobiographical Papers).
The real problem on the ship, however, proved to be the boatswain, whom he described as a "red hairy Swede with Gorilla like arms... Nearsighted - thought to be stupid. . . We bristled at each other like two Tomcats over a dead fish." One incident in particular understandably still angered Boris 40 years later:
little pig eyes with blond lashes: while I slept spread eagle and naked in the tropical heat, he made a snare out of the fine string and was going to drop it on me and hit the fire bell at the same time. My bunk was a good six feet off the deck. But fate had it so Leonid . . .saved me from being emasculated (Artzybasheff Papers, Syracuse University, Box 2, Folder 18, “Autobiographical Papers).
The vast sea, however, proved no match for Strindberg. In Montevideo, Boris received a letter from her, brought and read to him by the captain himself, who "seems to be much impressed" with what was surely exquisite handwriting on premium stationery. In it, she "tells about renting house(?) on Staten Island and looking for me in the blue horizon, also about mother." Weeks later, someone from Standard Oil's main office would board the boat, asking the boatswain: "‘Have you a seaman by the name of Archibichi aboard? His girlfriend was raising hell on the phone for several days now. Wants to speak to him the minute he comes ashore.'" Again, she was claiming to have news of Anna.
Not all of Boris's time on the tanker was full of maggots, sick pranks, and stalkers. He fondly recalled seeing the palace guard at Montevideo, exploring the jungle and climbing trees, and "walking the rails" to see the country. Life on the ship also seems to have eased, as he wrote on a note titled "Return trip (from S.A.)":
We make money by staying sober (over time) become pets of Chief Officer. Impress him with our education: crossing the Equator. The joy of being alone in the Crow's Nest. Nights 12 to 4, mornings 4-8 watch, fog, (seen passenger ship almost head-on). Fog- own ship disappearing below. Moonlight. Moon rainbow. Leonid promoted to helm. Bosun and I remain enemies to the bitter end, although he seems to show some respect for me after the hatch cover episode (Artzybasheff Papers, Syracuse University, Box 2, Folder 18, “Autobiographical Papers).
Upon his return from the tanker, Boris had $100 and a fresh start. He and Leonid rented a place at 111 West 103rd Street & Amsterdam Avenue. As he recalled, the apartment had a “Piano for Leonid. Morris chair and a large board for my easel. Nice German landlady very clean: ‘No books in the room, please. They collect dust.’" Years later, he was still amused that the landlady was convinced they were Jewish because they were Russian, apologizing that there was no synagogue in the neighborhood and not hearing their attempts to correct her assumptions. Life in the area seems to have suited Boris. "We must have loved bananas," he remarked, obviously remembering the number consumed daily, and had vivid memories of using the piano to crush coconuts at 2 a.m. Other lasting impressions include walking home from the ferry and many lots of unusual people in the quarter, including "The fellow Russian with the tailcoat, but no daytime clothes or job." Overall, he seems to have relished these months: “I have no recollection of just how we earned our living, but we were very poor and, also, rather happy" (Artzybasheff Papers, Syracuse University, Box 2, Folder 18, “Autobiographical Papers).
At the bottom of this rather idyllic description of life on the West Side of New York City, is a shriek of terror: “Strindberg finds us!” Naturally, Boris had failed to inform her of his return or his new address. She countered this evasive maneuver by scouring the classifieds for rentals with pianos, sending notices of interest until one didn’t return -- that one being where Boris and Leonid were living. Even 40 years later, Boris was exasperated and impressed with her ingenuity: "As insane people often are, she has great cunning and tenacity of purpose. . . The same story again she has heard from my mother!” (Artzybasheff Papers, Syracuse University, Box 2, Folder 18, “Autobiographical Papers)
Perhaps seeking divine assistance against Strindberg, Boris made his way a few weeks later to his first visit of an American Church. In this rather amusing anecdote, he described being shocked when the minister shouted, "Jesus Christ" -- so much so that he said it sounded “abusive.” Apparently, the name sounds different in Russian, but he did recognize the words in a much less than holy experience:
Only some weeks before I was a deckhand on the oil tanker. The confusion of languages aboard The Fred W. Weller was not unlike that of the land of Shinar after they built the Tower. But this particular exclamation was one we all used fluently and often. Every other sentence began or ended with it and one always had to say this when somebody dropped a heavy tackle on his foot or jammed his finger in the hatch covers. The bosun practically never said anything else – that we understood (Box 2 autobiographical papers 1926).
The rest of the service was less memorable: “some mediocre music on organ... The ritual itself, after I recovered from the original shock, seemed rather colorless and boring. But so was the setting for it.” In the end, he felt that the American Church can't compare “to the Russian church with its Byzantine blaze of color, gold Investments, polyphonic fire, candle-light, incense . . .[it's] more like a house of God” (Box 2 autobiographical papers 1926).
More satisfying was the Russian staging of his father’s Sanine on 2nd Avenue. As he recalled, it was as close to home as he had been in years: “The samovar never left the stage,” and there were icons all over, the “men wore high boots and peasant blouses, the girls had long braids and much cross stitched embroidery." In fact, it was so Russian, that he could not help but quip, "Maybe the whole staging was a revenge for the pogroms in Russia, but it was very stimulating.” He was not alone in his reaction, for when Sanine beat up the officer “the audience stood up and cheered till the roof fell in” (Artzybasheff Papers, Syracuse University, Box 2, Folder 18, “Autobiographical Papers).
Very likely, it was a much needed escape to an easier time.
1921-1923:
"I was lucky, as always."
Part of the reason has to do with Boris himself. As he noted, one of his commissions was a movie studio poster for Dorothy Dalton. It was a hit and he was “Offered $35 a week to paint more like it (!)" The starving artist's response? "Refuses – wants to be a freelancer. Nearly starves” (Artzybasheff 25 years). No amount of rice, it seems, could persuade young Boris to relinquish his artistic freedom.
(Dorothy Dalton, courtesy of
Special Collections Research Center at the University of Syracuse Libraries)
Financially, the job was of no use, as Boris spent almost every night undoing the work of his crew: "My helpers, ex-officers, ex-actors... ex-seaman. How can I make them work? $300 in the hole. Hysterics morning of the opening - No Sleep." However, it ended up being a "Great success!" Not only did he score a "dinner jacket from Hearns" but he also got the attention of legendary choreographer Michael Fokine, who hired him as art director for his ballet at the Strand Theater (Artzybasheff Papers, Syracuse University, Box 2, Folder 18, “Autobiographical Papers). He also got a treasure trove of wonderful memories. Much later he would write, “Just now I looked at a TV show. It's a thousand years old movie with Ronald Colman and Joan Bennett -- The Man who Broke the Bank in Monte Carlo and whom do I see in it... My old friend General Lodijeski! And this brings back memories. The Russian Eagle!” (Artzybasheff Papers, Syracuse University, Box 2, Folder 18, “Autobiographical Papers)
Perhaps it was here, among the princesses, counts, and self-proclaimed generals of New York that Boris met writer and photographer Carl Van Vechten. Nowhere in his notes does it say where or how they met, only that Van Vechten introduced him to an "almost unknown publisher, Alfred A. Knopf" -- and that he angered the writer's sisters by failing to join them for a weekend getaway. The social faux-pas did not affect his standing with Knopf, who enjoyed Boris's "gloomy black-and-whites" enough to hire him "to illustrate a first (gloomy) book by a young unknown (Edmund Wilson). In sympathy with the subject he makes three times as many gloomy pictures as Knopf is willing to print." A year later, in 1922, The Undertaker's Garland was published (Artzybasheff 25 years). He would later note the strong influence of Beardsley in this book (Artzybasheff Papers, Syracuse University, Box 2, Folder 18, “Autobiographical Papers).
Another notable who entered Boris's life was the sculptor Jo Davidson, with whom he would remain friends, off and on, for years. Jo used to introduce Boris to friends saying, “My friend who doesn't like my work, much to my embarrassment.” Among those to who he introduced Boris was his sister Rachel, "Ray," Rosenbaum, who was opening a restaurant called the Russian Inn on 36th Street in the Garment District ( “The Russian Inn 1922,” Artzybasheff Papers, Syracuse University, Box 2, Folder 18, “Autobiographical Papers). She quickly commissioned him to ”decorate The Russian Inn with egg tempera murals." The ever-starving artist assembled his old crew and seized the opportunity that this presented: "Is supplied with crates of eggs, lives on omlettes and mixes paint with glue instead. The murals are a success" (25 years & Artzybasheff Papers, Syracuse University, Box 2, Folder 18, “Autobiographical Papers).
Pictured above, the murals recall the knights and dragons that Boris says filled his childhood sketchbooks, finally given the grand scale that they deserve. The decor caught the attention of painter and art critic Guy Pene du Bois, who wrote about the Russian Inn for International Studio: “Rich in color, bold in design, and imaginative in symbolism . . [a] fine example of a particular problem dealt in with an intimate understanding of its nature... Maybe the average citizen will regard these decorations as outlandish but that has nothing to do with the case. They show what can be done by a painter who has had a sense of fitness of things that is not too fit” ( “The Russian Inn 1922” Artzybasheff Papers, Syracuse University, Box 2, Folder 18, “Autobiographical Papers).
Special Collections Research Center at the University of Syracuse Libraries)
With his name getting such notice, it is not surprising that a job offer emerged: $95 a week to paint scenery for a Broadway Movie Palace. Again, he "Refuses... to become freelance scenic designer" (Artzybasheff 25 years). To promote himself, he printed his first and last set of business cards. Much of the text for the card was easy: his name, address, landlady's phone number. The title proved more difficult. As he explained in one note, "In Russia an artist was an actor, which I wasn't," and a painter was like a house painter, which he also wasn't anymore. Thus, he chose "Artist-Painter," hoping that the putting the two words together would avoid confusion (Artzybasheff Papers, Syracuse University, Box 2, Folder 18, “Autobiographical Papers). The result of this effort was predictable: "In debt again. Returns to rice diet, but gets more children's books to illustrate." He also would get his first two exhibits, one at the Brooklyn Museum and the other at the New York Public Library (Artzybasheff 25 years).
Among the book illustrating commissions that Boris received was Verotchka’s Tales for E. P. Dutton. This job led to several encounters with the soon-to-be company president John Macrae who “has one of the nicest smiles I ever knew” but apparently also drove Boris somewhat crazy with long talks about God and fishing (Artzybasheff Papers, Syracuse University, Box 2, Folder 18, “Autobiographical Papers). Deadlines also must have been an issue. Another note dated 1923 says he was “ under pressure from EP Dutton . . .decide to take up dope of some kind. Tobacco (sic)? Go to United Cigar store: What is the best cigarette to start with? Melachrino, $1/ pack” (Artzybasheff Papers, Syracuse University, Box 2, Folder 18, “Autobiographical Papers).
Pressure was not only coming from publishers. His freelance set design business also was causing headaches. One note about an unnamed through theater says “50 costumes and 2 sets - ‘I never ordered that!’” (Artzybasheff Papers, Syracuse University, Box 2, Folder 18, “Autobiographical Papers).
All of those headaches and sleepless nights would pay off. He earned his first children's book Russian Fairy Tales from E. P. Dutton & Company -- and with it a whopping $250. With these riches, he didn’t not pay his back rent or make any attempt to get out of debt, but instead went to purchase a motorcycle -- something he had dreamt of ever since fate robbed him of the chance to be a motorcycle dispatch rider for the Ukrainian People's Army. However, now, "I was here - in America, in New York, on 110th Street and at last about to own a motorcycle. I was lucky, as always” ("Harley Davidson," Artzybasheff Papers, Syracuse University, Box 2, Folder 18, “Autobiographical Papers).
There are several drafts of Boris's experience on the motorcycle, and the memory clearly was of great importance to him. I am including the full text of his essay/chapter "Harley Davidson 1922" because it not only gives clear picture of his voice but it captures the spirit of his youthful spirit at the time:
Frugality is not one of my many virtues. I believed and still do, that although the prodigal perhaps cheats his heirs . . .surely the miser robs himself of many joyful and priceless experiences life holes out to everyone. Cheers to the much-maligned grasshopper; what dismal existence is the ant’s. Money is like manure : good only when it is spread on the flower beds. I have no sympathy with the cheeseparing dolt who stints and pinches and has no fun for the sake of future security. Can such a thing be? Security is the proprietary rights of the dead. We all inherit this blessing in the end.
When Mr. McCrae wiggled his beautiful mustache into something resembling a smile and presented me my reward for illustrating my first book for EP Dutton and company, instead of going home with the check to pay the much overdue rent, as any cheeseparing dolt would, I rushed to the 110th Street where my true love awaited me. I saw her many times before, but always through the window. Now with money in hand, I could go in and claim her for my own. What striking beauty! She was dark olive green and voluptuously long and low. My old passion to own a motorcycle was about to be consummated.
With leaping heart but appearing nonchalant, I pushed the door into my Cleopatra's chamber. Actually, as this often happens in love affairs, the flower was much easier to pluck than one anticipated. The two men, who ran the showroom, saw nothing wrong with the Duttons' check and were pleased to have it in endorsed to their firm. Naturally they did inquire of my proficiency as a motorcyclist, but were reassured and much impressed when told that I was a former dispatch Rider with the Russian Armed Forces. Well this was not quite the whole truth, true enough. It is true that when I was drafted in the army I was assigned to the motorcycle squad to be trained for a dispatch rider but I had no dog's chance to become one. The nice men suggested a short refresher course in motorcycling before I take possession of the machine. With her being a Harley-Davidson – our army’s was an Indian - I might need a few pointers on the difference in mechanical details between the two makes.
After the papers were duly signed, one of my new friends took me out for a spin in a sidecar hook to an old machine that they had on hand for such occasions. The old machine coughed, belched and expired twice to every block. This presented him with a fine opportunity to demonstrate the kickstarter. He told how to operate the clutch with the left foot while I could watch with his right work on the brake as this was on my side. By twisting one handlebar you fed the gas and made the thing go; the other hand was for advancing or retarding the spark, whatever that meant and I still don't know. When we reached a tranquil spot on the Morningside Drive he let me change places with him. This time with the beef between my legs I shifted the gears and stalled it promptly. “Oh don't you worry about this old junk. You couldn’t stall the new machine like this if you try.” I had two lessons. Next day when, after the second, we put-putted back to the shop my own green beauty stood shining there at the curb, all filled up and eager to go.
As my friends cheered and waved, I mounted, kicked the starter, twisted the handlebar, kicked in the clutch like an expert and before there was any time to wave back at them we roared, became airborne and hell-bent in the general direction of Central Park’s nearest entrance.
I have no idea how often you ride a motorcycle even if you never undoubtedly you must know that a motorcycle with a sidecar which adds a third wheel to the infernal rig [and] is more stable than it is by itself. Being an expert with a bicycle from the way back even at the age of 65 I still have a scar on my stomach to prove this, I had no fear of riding on two wheels. My new vehicle was stable enough as long as it rolled fast. The park in those days had no traffic lights or anything much to impede anybody's momentum. I almost enjoyed this part of my journey... How Sweet the caress of the Summer Wind upon my cheek... But much too soon we reach the park’s utmost limit and my journey's end. The onward course was checkmated by Columbus Circle, with all the trucks, trolleys, taxis and policeman orbiting madly around the admiral of the ocean-sea, who was perched high on his column and out of harm's reach. I did manage to kick back the clutch pedal and, with both feet on the pavement, skidded to a stop. The engine stalled, which was just as well because I had no audacity to cross this hell underpowered even if all the hours of paradise beckoned to me from the other side. Instead I got off and pushed. Did you ever try to push a 300 lb motorcycle? Holy crickets! That day I pushed my green hippopotamus all the way from 59th Street to Pennsylvania station, on 34th. The traffic is somewhat past this point and I did ride from time to time, but at the busier intersections or when I saw a policeman I dismounted and shoved. It was almost dark by the time we arrived on 13th Street, where I knew of a garage. I left my bird in there and trembling with fatigue, so with perspiration, staggered home and to bed. I felt other utterly defeated.
For 3 days I kept repeating to myself: you craved this cursed thing you have it now now you have it! You must learn to ride it, if this be the end of you! I knew then what Shaw meant by the two tragedies in life: “One is not to get your heart's desire. The other is to get it.”
On the third evening I made for the garage. My sweetheart was a bit dusty by now but as beautiful as ever. Her nickel-plated headlight looked forward with anticipation to adventures yet to come; her shapely fuel tank gargled with essence of life; by its somewhat exaggerated calibration, [the] speedometer hinted at fabulous needs to be achieved with [a] mere twist of the handlebar. The . . . garage man, who never rode a motorcycle in his life gave me a few practical tips in this art. He also suggested taking the machine to 11th Avenue which is very wide and is deserted at night. There I might try my luck unmolested by traffic. For several nights after I went there to practice. The riverfront was indeed wide, but paved with rounded, slippery cobblestone end scarred (sic) by railroad tracks. Occasionally the hush of night would be broken by the sound of hoofs, chugging and clanging horseman, barring a lantern wood clatter by, followed by a steam locomotive huffing and puffing and pulling a string of freight cars. For some reason, which escapes me, the street was known in those days as the “Death Avenue.” I must admit it was rather spooky there after dark and even the cops patrolled the area into twosomes ("Harley Davidson," Artzybasheff Papers, Syracuse University, Box 2, Folder 18, “Autobiographical Papers).
For the record, he seems to have trained well enough to actually use the bike, but his motorcycle issues didn’t end here. When he felt ready to take his first trip, he thought of a Russian family in Atlantic city, who “had a very pretty daughter. I had no trouble deciding my destination.” Without bridges or tunnels at the time, he boarded the ferry to New Jersey, but the ride proved more harrowing than he anticipated. At one point, he tried to stop the vehicle by digging his heels into the ground, at another he swerved and had a near miss with a Rolls Royce, putting him face-to-face with the dowager in the back seat. Eventually stopped by police, he was told to be more careful and let go (Artzybasheff Papers, Syracuse University, Box 2, Folder 18, “Autobiographical Papers).
1924-1930: "Then I realized America had so much to offer."
Work was steadier in subsequent years, even if a bit random. From, 1924 to 1925, Artzybasheff's portfolio included "women's dresses and underwear, interiors and books many more books" (Artzybasheff 25 years). Among these interiors was Poor Richard’s Room at Philadelphia's William Penn Hotel.
In 1926, Boris became an American citizen, a story he wrote about often with nostalgia and humor. After studying for his citizenship test and memorizing the Constitution, he appeared for his examination before "A gray little man in a little dusty shabby office behind a small and cluttered desk" who rambled for several minutes about how most Americans don't understand the Constitution and that "If they want to change, they don't need to have revolutions or kill people. All they have to do is vote! They could even have communism if they care to vote for it. We can even change the Constitution if we vote!" After getting down from his soapbox, the man asked Boris what newspaper he read:
Perhaps he expected me to say The Daily Worker but when I answered firmly and truthfully “The New York Times!” he looked pleased, got up, shook my hand and said, “The examination passed. You will hear from us in 6 months.”
That was all to it. But I never regretted memorizing the Constitution – it was such a fine document! The little man was right. American should read it sometime, rather than just adore it. (genuflect to it) (Box 2 Autobiographical Papers, 1926)
Later, at his swearing in, he recalled being told “ to stand under a flag, together with a dozen or so of other scared, bewildered, anxious men," after which “Without the least delay upon being transmuted into a 99.94% pure American from nothing but a Russian and an emigre at that, I marched to the nearest post office and requested an Income Tax Form.” His income was actually too small to be taxed and he lied to qualify. “This is how the right people heard of my existence," he later mused. "It was a wonderful feeling of belonging, which was denied me for so long" (Box 2 autobiographical papers 1926).
The irony of this was not lost on Boris, who would later come to hate income taxes enough to make them the theme of his annual Christmas Card. As he noted, “I was an innocent babe then and really believed every word written into the Constitution... But this was... Before the American Legion, D.A.R.’s, Hiroshima bomb or McCarthy's investigations." Ho older self, though, would wonder what they needed taxes for in 1926 with no war, no social security, no space program and the whole world in debt to the United States. “Someday I shall look it up in a history book” (Box 2 autobiographical papers 1926). Even more pointedly, he also would express much regret over the need to repatriate himself at all:
The very expression - “naturalization” - is positively enchanting. The most unnatural act a member of any tribe can perpetrate upon himself is to deny his tribe and accept another. We used to [flay or burn] them for this sort of flippance, but today we praise (sic) them for the same stunt. That is if they join the right tribe. Otherwise they are known as defectors (sic) or traitors. (Artzybasheff Papers, Syracuse University, Box 2, Folder 18, “Autobiographical Papers).
Perhaps even as an "innocent babe" in 1926, Boris had some sense of this. No sooner was he a bona fide U.S. citizen than he decided to go to France in order to advance his art studies. In need of cash for this endeavor, he "obtain[ed] four books to illustrate for four publishers (each made to think himself the soul patron). Does work in 3 months by sleeping only every second night. Result, temporary physical breakdown but enough money to go to Paris for six months.” (Artzybasheff 25 years).
Thus, much of 1927 was spent traveling through France, Italy, England, and Germany. Of this time, Boris had recorded only a few scattered notes. One set told the story of meeting a Parisian cab driver who was a former “admiral or lieutenant of his Imperial Majesty the Tsar’s Navy.” Impressed with the fact that Artzybasheff was from New York, the former White Russian asked how to make it there. Apparently, he had saved to come to the United States, but once there was unable even to drive a cab. Instead, the only job he could find was to sweat it it out “minding some very hot machine or cauldron at the Sunshine Biscuit Company in Brooklyn.” While this state of affairs might seem bad enough for a former royal officer, the real problem he faced was the snobbishness of American women, who to a one rejected his advances. Thus, when “The agony of chastity became unbearable,” he went back to France. Years later, Boris still seemed to find humor in the story, marveling what might have been if the man had only waited a while longer in the States, when the two inevitably would have crossed paths (Artzybasheff Papers, Syracuse University, Box 2, Folder 18, “Autobiographical Papers).
Another note from this period refers to Boris's being commissioned to design the altar for the Lady Chapel at St. Patrick's Cathedral; however, the patron who commissioned him in Paris died so it was never built-- and it is doubtful that Bors was ever fully compensated (Artzybasheff 25 years).
What did occupy his time, however, was more work illustrating books. According to Bruce Lockwood of Creative Art magazine: “While abroad, the traveler toiled over book illustrations until hallucinations beset him" (Artzybasheff 25 years). Hyperbole aside, Boris's output during these years was impressive. 1927 saw the release of at least three books with Artzybasheff illustrations, The Wonder Smith and His Son by Ella Young, Funnybone Alley by Alfred Kreymbourg, and Gay Neck: The Story of a Pigeon by Dhan Gopal Mukerji, the latter of which would garner a Gold Newbery Medal in 1928. Among the most eloquent praise for his work in Gay Neck came from the Asheville, NC, Citizen, which stated: "he never draws pictures with a preconceived idea of what children want. He simply interpret story and gives to this interpretation his best work" (December 4, 1927).
(Illustration from Gay Neck: The Story of a Pigeon)
Nevertheless, Europe's artistic treasures were no match for his new home, and Boris returned to the United States: “Then I realized America had so much to offer. There was nothing as wonderful in Russia as corn flakes, as Grape-Nuts, as Donuts, as Crullers, as ice cream in paper containers!” (Box 2 autobiographical papers 1926).
Through 1928 and 1929, he enjoyed an increasing reputation as an illustrator, with a strong black and white style that would appear in books such as Creatures, Three and the Moon, Orpheus, Ghund the Hunter and Herodotus (Artzybasheff 25 years). His style was much imitated by others at the time and also influencing textile design. “Artzybasheff employed and extremely rhythmical and decorative style of bold curves, black on white, and white on black, which is said to have started a wave of imitations” (Artzybasheff 25 years). In fact, one undated newspaper article that Boris saved reported that Macy's admitted to using his pictures on their Christmas wrapping paper, noting that the artist’s “friends could not understand why he took no action about this violation of copyright” (Artzybasheff 25 years).
1930-1941: “A book is a work of art or should be.”
The first great joy in life is being able to see. To see the morning mist and sun piercing it. The starry night, the cool light of the moon. The second great joy is to be excited about a piece of work. Feel it to come to shape in your hand. Then to discover that someone else is having a sliver of fun, a bit of joy out of the fruit of your effort. The third, and the greatest joy in life is the feeling you have when something smaller than yourself feels complete trust in you. Be it an animal, or a child, or a woman to a man or perhaps a man to a woman, but the last I wouldn't know. I never saw such a phenomena (Box 2 autobiographical papers 1926).
When Boris and Betty met, she knew her dance partner by reputation: A frequent guest at the Russian Eagle, the 26-year-old Mayflower descendent "admired his murals there immensely I even went there just to see them" and was "thrilled" to meet him. The feeling was mutual, and the two were married 8 months later on February 19, 1930. The whole affair was a bit of a whirlwind right up until the "I do's," as Betty recounted to a reporter:
The funny part was that we had a small wedding all arranged and then we told my mother and ran away and got married . . . somewhere way uptown I don't even quite know where. The reason we went there was because the minister had known [his] mother. Several years ago, when she had been dead six years, Mr. Artzybasheff received a letter from her, enclosed with a note from this minister. He had met her in Constantinople at the close of the war and she had given him the letter to take to America with him and asked him to send it or give it to her son, if he ever came across him (December 25th 1931. Artist developed into author also by Kay Mott).
Special Collections Research Center at the University of Syracuse Libraries)
Soon after, the newlyweds whisked themselves away, first to North Africa for Boris to research Behind Moroccan Walls -- and then to the French Riviera for him to complete it. By this time, he had developed a painstakingly long process, as Betty described:
The technique of his work makes it slow, of course. When he is finished he usually has two sets of finished work: One in watercolor brush work and the other carved from Celluloid for heavily coated paper. He always does his complete drawing with the brush first and then carves them out the illustrations for Behind Moroccan Walls took six months to complete (December 25th 1931. Artist developed into author also by Kay Mott).
In an article for Creative Art, reporter Bruce Lockwood detailed this process even more, noting that it was unique to Artzybasheff:
To to obtain a sharpness of contour and neatness of line and to give a more definite suggestion of wood cut, Artzybasheff invented the use of celluloid (technically ‘pyroxylin sheeting’) as a substitute for both paper and wood block. He sprays the sheet about 1/8 of an inch thick with black and then lifts this from it with engravers’ tools. This is one of several craft methods he has devised to give his work that high degree of tonal quality for which his reproductions are noted. In some cases, however, he uses multiple methods for producing textural and tonal qualities. In the representation of a woman drinking tea, he used rags, brushes, pens, sponge, knives, pieces of wood, fingers and whatever else he could think of to produce the different qualities in grays and blacks" (Lockwood, Creative Art).
The following trio of pictures from the 1940 children's biography Nansen shows different stages of this process:
The superior results of this process made Boris a leading illustrator -- and by 1931, he had all the trappings of a highly regarded artist. Right on the heels of Behind Moroccan Walls, in addition to receiving more commissions to design books, Boris released his second book that he both wrote and illustrated, Poor Shaydullah, "a satire . . .so written that to a child it would seem like a charming fairy story" (December 25th 1931. Artist developed into author also by Kay Mott). Profiles of him began appearing in local and national media. In 1932 or soon after, he was featured by Higgins American Drawing Inks in their ads -- likely the equivalent of an athlete getting a Nike or Gatorade endorsement today.
With this attention came critics and criticism as well. In 1935, he bristled at being called a "surrealist" for his work in The Circus of Dr. Lao. He said he was using “his unrealistic ‘burlesque or grotesque’ style long before Salvador Dali came onto the scene, and that while it is intended to give emotion as a design, it always has idea content" (Artzybasheff 25 years, unnamed press clipping). Almost thirty years after the publication of Behind Moroccan Walls, Boris still indignantly recalled:
Westbrook Pegler accused me of ‘maligning the noble Arab race’ because he thought they were the same people who invented the Arabic numerals. The modern North African resembles the more just about as much as the present Greek or Egyptian are like the men who erected the great monuments centuries ago; only the names are similar (Letter to Mrs. Warren Shearer March 23, 1959).
Perhaps such comments stuck in Boris's mind because there were so few of them. Response to his work seems to have been overwhelmingly positive. From 1936 to 1937, he worked on Seven Simeons: A Russian Tale. Like Poor Shaydullah, there is a tongue-in-cheek tone that only adults and older children will pick up on, but the story is still told in a way to delight younger listeners. The real magic of the book, though, lies in the illustrations, which were a complete departure from the woodblock-style black-and-white creations that had become his trademark. As a review of Seven Simeons from "Junior Bookshelf" of Birmingham England notes:
Boris Artzybasheff wished to illustrate one of the Fantastic folk stories he used to hear as a child and Russia. He wrote his version with pleasant irony and a good sense of humor. Then he took a pen, and starting in the corner of the page, let it wander rather like the organist in the “Lost Chord.” Then he became so intrigued that he tried to see how far he could get without taking his pain from the paper. He had to stop at last, but not before he had composed two very attractive endpapers. Next he took four pens and four different colored inks, and by a kind of expert calligraphy, wove the fascinating drawings which illustrate his very pleasant fantasy. He leaves some fine open spaces, but give him a heap of jewels, a king's raiment, a sail -- and he will fill it with an exhilarating four-colored filigree, much as the old Illuminator must have let his pen run away with itself. But the wayward pen is under control, whether weaving round the playing card fixity of expression fitting to creatures inhabiting such a fantastic world, or depicting the miniaretted palace. The pages are equally shared by letterpress and drawings, but you never know when the exuberant artist will overflow into the margins with a bouquet or some delicate and humorous trifle. Artist in Publisher are to be congratulated on producing what will undoubtedly rank as a book of exceptionally happy conception and achievement (F. A. R. Hopkins, May 1937).
Stated much more succinctly, a child interviewed by a book reviewer said of Simeons: "I like the book very much because the pictures were on the side of the pages. And it was very funny. It was a beautiful book. In one part of the story the Simeons took the princess from the king of Boozan Island. I like the printing because the color was in some of the words" (Hackney, Milared Gang. “The Book Nook, “South Bend, IN News-Times, February 15, 1938).
If nothing else had established Boris Artzybasheff in the field of children's literature, Simeons did. The book received an Honor/Runner-up Caldecott from the American Library Association in 1938, the inaugural year of the award. While it may seem strange to children's book enthusiasts of today, this distinction was barely a blip in the book's press coverage at the time. Much more significantly, it was "awarded the New York Herald Tribune’s prize for the most distinguished book for younger children published this spring. The book is conspicuously outstanding and was selected, it is reported, practically without debate by a group of distinguished judges” (Pontiac, MI PRESS, “What Should My Child Read?” May 26, 1937).
Seven Simeons would prove to be the last children's book that Artzybasheff wrote and illustrated -- and one of the last children's books that he did -- although he would design several more books throughout his career. There is nothing in his notes to explain why he stopped. Perhaps he did not like the criticisms and opinions that came with the genre. In "Let George Do It!" -- his 1940 speech to the Trade Book Clinic in New York, Artzbasheff gives an extended complaint about book publishers and their limited view of illustrations: "The trouble is that to him an illustration means a picture of a Boy kissing a Girl with a caption under it saying, 'he kissed her'" (p. 12). While acknowledging the realities of the business side of publishing and the need to make money and the difficulty of packaging and distributing "human thought," he nevertheless feels that they lack artistic vision (p. 13-14).
Of course, he was not alone. Other artists of the time, such as Robert Lawson, were certainly very vocal about their frustrations with restrictions and rules publishers had for children's books, all fueled by educators, parents, and other adults who didn't really understand what children like. However, while Lawson's complaints were chiefly against overly strict leveling of books, age-specific word lists, and restriction of subject matter, Artzybasheff's main concern was the attempt to "make standard the book size and design" as well as the limited vision for what art can add to a book. If anything, he saw the publishing world as undervaluing its own creation: "The object of any work of art is to evoke an emotion. A book is a work of art or should be" (p. 17).
While these sentiments were heartfelt, the fact that Boris never stopped designing books suggests that these frustrations alone would not have kept him out of doing more of his own children's books. Perhaps he just did not think of or find projects that inspired him; he had certainly achieved enough clout to be more selective. My guess, though, is that he just found work that gave him more satisfaction. As Bruce Lockwood wrote for Creative Art:
If you study even the slightest piece of art of A's work you will find that it is unhurried . . .Even with Rush jobs for which the art department heads are yapping over the phone, he takes his time to do his work properly. There is no bustle. Around his table, all is in order. When he speaks his voice has pitched for civility and his answers are reasoned, he is serene, equable, somewhat reticent. All of this is in his work. . . It's rhythms are the flux and reflux of the mind, filtered through a civilization at which the artist smiles with something just short of disdain, something essentially austere and only incidentally entertaining.
His Fairyland concepts are not boy and girlish; they remind me of a professor trying to romp with children. In other words he is intellectual, rather than emotional... These things that his work suggests are honest reflections of the man; indications of the sincerity and integrity of the individual. His life is not a succession of blundering excess, either of rum, romance, or religion. He is a professional who strikes one as a dilettante, a gentleman who works” (Lockwood, Creative Art).
Thus, Boris never seems to have lost the reasoned detachment of the Old World Intelligentsia, a quality that he maintained throughout his life: That equal balance of "content" with "color and design," instinct and reason (Letter to Mrs. Warren Shearer March 23, 1959). While it would have been fascinating to see where such an approach would have led in children's literature, we can only guess at that impact. Instead, beginning in 1934, Boris started getting work from quite a different source: Fortune magazine hired him to do statistical maps and charts. Likely, the work appealed equally to both his rational and artistic mind, and he fell in love with the work, quickly excelling at "making complex relationships clear” (Artzybasheff 25 years, unnamed press clipping). As it turned out, this new direction would take Boris Artzybasheff to even greater heights of success.
1941-1955: “Being slightly myopic all I have to do is take off my glasses and the world around me looks that way.”
Artzybasheff's work for Fortune was as inventive as it was informative. Memorable maps detailed tropical diseases and Japanese control of China, among many other topics, while other visuals charted the effects of flight on a pilot's brain. The work -- and his friendship with S.W. Boggs, chief geographer for the U.S. Department of State -- landed him commissions for several works from the government and he soon became an adviser to the U.S. Department of State and Psychological Warfare Branch. By all accounts, the vehemently anti-fascist artist took this work seriously, as did Betty who headed up recruitment for the Manhattan Volunteer Office of Civilian Defense (For excellent details about his work in this area, with great examples, see John Krygier's post.). In addition to this work, "several units of the Armed Forces asked him to design insignia for them" (Artzybasheff, 25 Years).
In addition to serving his adopted country, Boris entered into another life-altering partnership, this one with Time Life. On June 16, 1941, Time ran with Artzybasheff's portrait of Chiang Kaishek’s favored General Che Cheng (Time Life News Release October 27, 1965). Although at first editors fought him over the use of expressive backgrounds, Boris's vision eventually won out, resulting in more than 200 iconic portraits which not only helped the magazine stand out on news racks during the 1940s, '50s, and early '60s -- but guaranteed it prominence in American art for future generations (NYT Obituary). Several of his portraits and other illustrations for Time hang at the Smithsonian (See National Portrait Gallery Portrait Search.).
In addition to portraits, Boris completed various series of "machinalia" (anthropomorphic machines), anti-Nazi images, promotional pieces for the U.S. Armed Forces and the industries serving it, and other artwork for Time and other magazines. (For links to more artwork, see my post: "Boris Artzybasheff: Where Insight Meets Imagination").
Whatever the work, Artybasheff seems to have approached it with an eye for detail and in pursuit of perfection. His papers include several thick notebooks full of notations about each work:
As WWII drew to a close, opportunities continue to unfold for Boris. Time and Life made for steady work, and he continued to design books. In addition, he started to do even more commercial art, including ALCOA and Wickwire Spencer Steel, for whom he developed the series "Axis in Agony." In all, he did 45 pictures for Wickwire Steel and found that “A rather unique position was achieved with this and other ‘commercial art’ jobs. To wit, a complete freedom from the client’s interference” (Artzybasheff 25 years).
Good fortune (no pun intended) had certainly found Boris Artzybasheff, as this undated Time profile of the magazine's favorite artist attests:
The war is not remote to this artist who was born in Russian Kharkov, scene of some of the bloodiest fighting in the present war. He came to New York on a munitions ship and arrived here with 14 cents in his pocket. It is unlikely that you could catch him today with less than $40 in the pocket of his superiorly tailored clothes. Although the examples of his work shown here might give you the impression of a temperamentalist of almost morbid personality, Artzybasheff is far from that. Movies and the bulk of literature would have you believe that artists live in hovels, eat rarely, cut their own hair and work in surroundings reminiscent of cyclonic disorder. Artzybasheff lives in no hovel (to commit a masterpiece of understatement parentheses, his appearance would not cause comment at the stock exchange, and his studio is unbelievably orderly and efficient. Jars of color stand in neat unspotted rows. His finished drawings are clean as though the human hand had never touched them. His personality is a reflection of his work, impressive, sincere, and deeply humorous (Press Clippings,Special Collections Research Center at the University of Syracuse Libraries).
Professional success seems to have coincided with personal contentment. Family photographs from this time depict Betty and Boris Artzybasheff's as a happy and sociable couple, still embodying the description that Kay Mott gave in her 1931 profile of the newlyweds as "full of fun" with "gorgeous senses of humor" (December 25th 1931. Artist developed into author also by Kay Mott):
Special Collections Research Center at the University of Syracuse Libraries)
Despite his success, Artzybasheff, like perhaps many immigrants, struggled at times with his identity. One of his "notes to self" reminds him to discuss "Name on the phone. Suggestions for changing it. Not wanting a child, or children, in this country because of it. And pride in it”(Box 2 autobiographical papers 1926). Later, he elaborated, “This was rather tough, having carried a name which was known and respected, or at least treated with respect due to any man's name, find yourself among people who laughed at it. This never happened to me anywhere in the world but in America only." In fact, he admitted to feeling constant anxiety upon saying his name on the phone, checking in at hotels and airports -- and great relief when it was recognized. Among his proudest recollections was once being told, “But Mr. A, this is our day!” and placed on a pedestal with "Perry Como and Mrs. Roosevelt" (Artzybasheff Papers, Syracuse University, Box 2, Folder 18, “Autobiographical Papers).
Other recollections express similar and deeper mixed feelings about his place in the United States. One page of notes for his autobiography reads almost like a poem:
starry-eyed about America
Europe - cultural Storehouse of 3000 years
Immigrant
gradual adjustment to the ways of America and slow erosion of his own culture (Box 2 autobiographical papers 1926)
In other places, Boris sound all-too "American," complaining of fellow citizens who don't appreciate it and of the IRS and its vendetta against our right to pursue happiness. On one page of notes, he fumes, “America is a mess. America the Beautiful! America was beautiful. Why do they litter the roadside with beer cans? Why do they have to befoul their own nests? So much beauty that stretched from sea to sea fell into the hands of savages, only to be buried in cement, junk and filth. The Savages create a jungle of Phil and imbecility and call it Progress”(Box 2 autobiographical papers 1926). His resentment over taxes is a recurrent theme in his notes, although not to a notable degree. It did, however, inspire a Christmas card one year -- which now is on display through the Smithsonian.
Closing out this chapter of his life was the final book that he both wrote and illustrated in 1954: As I See. It's an unusual book that very much lives up to its title: A collection of artwork under several themes ("Neurotica," "Machinalia," "Diablerie," "Escapades"), each preceded by his reflections. It truly is a window into the artist's mind and if nothing else confirms the worldview implied by the rest of his art. The opening of the book says it all:
As I see, so I draw. There is no need for me to smoke marijuana or opium because, being slightly myopic, all I have to do is take off my glasses and the world around me looks that way. I feel no bitterness toward it. I like the soft breezes and sunlight and blue water as seen through the trees. But I dislike every form of tyranny and control of thought including communism, fascism, jingoism and spreadeaglism. All these should be remitted to hell from which they sprung ("Introduction," As I See, 1954).
Similar passages throughout the remainder of the book. For example, to introduce "Escapades," he writes, "Let us flip this way or that, say one thing and mean another, let the freak take us where it may; but above all, let us be entertained at any price and find relief from the bondage of reality (As I See, 1954).
Although "Diablerie" suggests some sort of Satanic chaos, Artzybasheff makes clear that the devilry is entirely human:
But by a fluke, some jaywalking molecule evolved itself into a multitude of living creatures such as fleas and men, and peopled the earth. The men cursed their lot upon the earth after making her fair countenance ugly through their own doings. . .it may be that a healthy planet should have no more life upon it than a well-kept dog has fleas; but what possesses the flea to concoct its own flea powder? (As I See, 1954).
"Machinalia" opens with one of Artzybasheff's most quoted passages: "I am thrilled by machinery's force, precision and willingness to work at any task, not matter how arduous it may be. I would rather watch a thousand-ton dredge dig a canal than see it done by a thousand spent slaves lashed into submission. I like machines" (As I See, 1954). This section of the book contains a bit of a twist; among the pictures of humanized machines, Artzybasheff includes mechanized people, with all the features needed for the modern world -- creating a reality in which man and machine are truly interchangeable.
Of the four sections, "Neurotica" may be the most pointed. It's Introduction is short but succinct:
Your traits and mine make us different from each other. Consequently there is spice and variety to our opinions, and thus our dinner conversation is enlightened . . . When we carry the same traits one step farther, our friends shake their heads in sympathy and promptly proceed to describe us as being eccentric, queer or "neurotic." But if we take still another step in the same direction, the man in the white coat comes to fetch us . . .Don't look, something may be gaining on you this very instant (As I See, 1954).
Reactions to As I See were mixed, as Boris later noted: “People on the whole do not like satire. They are pleased when it is directed against their enemies - such as Germans or Japs were, or Russians are – but, when they suspect it of being directed at them, they abhor it” (Letter to Mrs. Warren Shearer March 23, 1959). The size and format of the book made it expensive to print, leading one to wonder if on some level Boris was using his celebrity to get the last word on all his previous debates with publishers. In the end, profit won out. In a letter to his friend William McCleary, editor Princeton University magazine, Boris asked if he had “Come across my book of drawings - As I See... The darn thing is out of print and I am down to my last copy” (January 15th 1965). (For links to more artwork, see my post: "Boris Artzybasheff: Where Insight Meets Imagination").
Boris dedicated his manifesto "To Betty." In many ways, the simplicity of the dedication is typical of Artybasheff's reticence about people close to his heart; there was the same lack of elaboration and written reflection about his mother. In another sense, it might have been that the book itself was so much a reflection of his inner self that there was simply no more to say, except to dedicated the work solely and completely to her. Finally, it could have been that to say more would have been too painful. In 1950, Betty was diagnosed with cancer, so by the time As I See was published, she had been battling the disease for four years.
1955-1965: “My favorite time of day: nearing sunset."
Amid Boris Artzybasheff's papers is about five year's worth of a simple home calendar, like the kind you used to get free from a bank or other vendor, each month laminated on pressboard. Like any person's datebook, it's filled with mundane details about meetings, errands, and other reminders. Every so often, there's a note about a vacation or a similar big event. The year 1955 was particularly busy. There was a move to a new house in Lyme, Connecticut. There was a long trip to Bermuda. There was, in fact, no sign that life had slowed down for the fun-loving Artzybasheff couple. Until October.
From there on, we see a note about a hospital, of going to see Betty, of an ambulance ride bringing Betty home. Finally, on Friday, November 11, 1955, two words stand alone: "Betty goes." Three days later is a note: "Betty 10 a.m. Service 7 p.m." As noted in the November 12 New York Time obituary, she was only 50 years old.
It's impossible to guess the void Betty's death left for Boris, despite his efforts to keep busy. His calendar remained full of various engagements and his work output did not slow down. When a friend asked if he "'Ever thought of retiring,'" Artzybasheff's reaction was unequivocal: "But what the hell can I do? I don't particularly care for woodworking. I nail things if I have to, and a carpenter is hard to find - I have no hobbies, no golf. I can paint watercolors... But, hell, this is what I would have to retire from. I'd rather paint pictures than (sic) eat" (Artzybasheff Papers, Syracuse University, Box 2, Folder 18, “Autobiographical Papers).
Still, there are indications that he no longer relished the work or success as he once did. In a 1959 letter to a fan who seems to have been writing an article on him, Artzybasheff's summarizes his present condition as follows:
Much has transpired since 1945. My wife was Ill with cancer for 5 years and died 3 years ago. I live alone, but have a fine, fat West Indian cook who tries to make me fat too, I have a gardener who thinks me crazy, and I am loved by a charming little Pomeranian whos name is Mischa. He thinks I am somebody really important. I have a big and handsome house, a studio, a swimming pool, which attracts too many local children, and too much lawn. Also, I am bored stiff. Will all this help with your paper? (Letter to Mrs. Warren Shearer, March 23, 1959).
Echoing the bittersweet tone of that description is another musing: “My favorite time of day: nearing sunset. I look over a little valley, which is supposed to be my own. My own. Mine and the bank’s and the Infernal Tax Collector’s. It will be dark before long and the Russian satellites will become visible as they go at plummeting through awesome space above this pretty planet” (Box 2 autobiographical papers 1926).
Other notes suggest that Artzybasheff's darker thoughts were becoming more frequent -- or that he was just more ready to share them. For example, recalling the day of his naturalization, when he immediately wen to pay his taxes, he writes: “This was a proud moment of my life. Much did I know, I should have dropped dead instead” (Artzybasheff Papers, Syracuse University, Box 2, Folder 18, “Autobiographical Papers). In addition, his 1965 letter to William McCleary editor Princeton University magazine gave this reply to an inquiry for an existing piece of art to accompany an article called The human nature of organizations by Dean of Faculty J. Douglas Brown:
It seems to my dour mind that larger the organizations grow, less human they become. This may be the reason why I never made a picture showing a ‘humanized’ organization. I did make some pretty lousy pictures in my time, but I always try to be honest about it. I have nothing among my ‘masterpieces showing an organization in human form,’ but I do have pictures showing dehumanized and fully organized humans. If you care to have them. I hope your mail is not censored in New Jersey, but nuts to Jay Douglas Brown!
In addition to ennui and loneliness, Boris had some health setbacks as well. In 1962, a bad case of shingles caused him to write “I find them to be insulting and very painful. Hate myself!” (Letter to friends, March 12th, 1962, Folder 3). A diary entry dated June 16th, 1965 details an array of health concerns that were consuming him:
All “classic” symptoms of something but what?
Shortness of breath, feeling of strangulation which comes on as a spasm (especially at night) and makes sleep impossible. Each attack is short, but may come 3 to 5 minutes apart. This happens second half of the night, but from 10 p.m. to 1 a.m. I may sleep very well. From then on it could be hell. Sitting up or even standing helps sometimes. Another thing that seems to help is a cup or two of warm milk. During the day I feel sleepy and listless, living in expectation of good night's rest, but not getting it. On the whole I feel depressed and stupid.
- feeling of pressure or fullness in the stomach
- constipation (“sleeping pills”?)
- bad taste (bitter) the mouth
- lack of appetite
- dry mouth
I feel that sleep in the is the first thing I need (Box 2 autobiographical papers 1926)
Later that day, he would die of a heart attack; after a missed “dinner engagement,” friends went to check on him and found him “sprawled on the floor of his studio” (NYT obituary, Sunday July 18th 1965).
In the months that followed, Time Life would hold an exhibition of their prized artist's work, with two of his editors commenting:
Despite his fame and success Artzybasheff remained a self-effacing gentleman who won the affection and devotion of all who came to know him. Otto Fuerbringer, managing editor of Time: “He preferred villains to heroes... But his accumulated portraits constitute a living gallery of movers and shakers of the past 30 years.”
James Keogh, Time assistant managing editor and close friend: “[He was] a perfectionist. He agonized over his work, he wanted every little brush stroke and every small detail to be perfectly right. Until it was right, he couldn't let go of it. He was a very sensitive man, a very friendly man and probably, in his last year, a very lonely man” (Time Life News Release October 27, 1965).
As true as this statement might be, it would be wrong to look upon the life of Boris Artzybasheff with sadness. Despite all of the odds against him, he survived one of the 20th century's bitterest social upheavals, came to the United States and found love and success doing what he loved -- for the most part, on his own terms. On top of that, he became a world-renowned artist who chronicled more than 30 years worth of history during a pivotal era. Even in his final moments, one can only believe that Artzybasheff found himself "lucky, as always" that God's roulette wheel had spared him "keeling over" in a plate of potato salad to call him home from the place he loved most: his studio.
7: Artzybasheff, Boris. "Harley Davidson." Artzybasheff Papers, Special Collections Research Center at the University of Syracuse Libraries, Box 2, Folder 18, “Autobiographical Papers."
10: Artzybasheff, Boris. "Letter to William McCleary, Editor Princeton University." January 15, 1965.
