11.15 P.M. I am alone finally acknowledging my age while the rest of the gang is off to the Internet café again. The new cadet Vova pitched up for dinner and is eager to have me email him, no doubt to practice his English. My Vova takes very much a big brother role in this. He is the main reason I am sad to be leaving. Though I must say, I surely wish I had used this city more carefully as my visit to the Hermitage today showed me what I have been missing. Stunning building, stunning collection. Showed around by others which rather robbed me of my usual pleasure but it was still incredible. They brought their roommate. He has the most amazing animal presence, almost to the point of being a mutant of some kind as each time I saw him at the museum, he seemed more like a prowling exotic creature, rather than a young Russian.We transferred all the work I have done here onto a disc and I am furious with myself once again for carelessness. TRIPOD, freak! Tripod. A simple albeit somewhat cumbersome object to transfer and voila, all my effort would be three times the quality. Make myself so mad. Forget so much. And this really will be it I think as far as the project is concerned though I would not mind a series of fanciful landscapes. Tomorrow Steve and I leave. This note about the city makes me sad because I have not had enough of it. But then knowing people this intimately gives one much more of a sense of place than anything. And I have been able to drink in the streets, the rivers and canals as we wondered about. And again I think place is better felt this way than museums though they are such a sound foundation in history. This made itself even more apparent when we briefly visited museums of war and the 999 day blockade of World War II. I walked these beloved streets with a more sober almost sacred step as I thought of the blood shed on them and the horror of history. We poor pathetic humans. But then we make art, music and literature and look within… Does this compensate for the horror we perpetrate on each other? No, but at least we ask questions and perhaps the children of my grandchildren will live with less blind hope and respond to threats less wildly.

10.20 A.M. The troops barely stir. Having been out to V’s yesterday and internalized the sheer drudgery his life must be usually with 12 hours to 24, at times 7 days a week at a plastics factory, I am happy to see him having a break. Wonder if they will take him back. He is full of bravado and cheek but who can tell. I must confess I despair at the magnitude of the problems here. The tiny microcosm his little family represents makes Putin’s job impossible… and it is only a matter of degree because I realize that I live at home within five minutes of people with not much more hope or opportunity. But there is a transparency in the west…

4.30 Irena the cook works in the kitchen. I have so loved her daily infusion of a center at the table each day. She and I have such a connection across the cultural divide. I just photographed my last military guy, Sasha. Has done a superior job helping find models. I will do a drawing now. I have real enthusiasm for this one but am also tired of the sheer pace I have kept, yesterday being my only real day off since my arrival.

7.20 Went at the drawing aggressively and feel good about it. I am really getting into the swing of this pastel now that it is over. Feeling melancholy as we ate our second to last meal together with Irena cooking her chicken breast in cream sauce special. I like this woman so much and once again wish a woman were more part of my life. Getting ready to meet Bella with her boy friend and a couple of others. Will meet a couple more tomorrow because there is a feud between some. I love the way they use the word “scandal” to describe some to me petty dispute. I am so weary. I cannot get over my mercurial feelings about this dear Russia. Up one minute down the next. Guess Steve is right, I am just way too sensitive with needs that are disproportionate to reality. That is why I embraced the idealism of the church and why I keep on struggling to make the world I yearn for happen, speaking half seriously of taking little old ladies out to tea in the Cotswolds in England. Fighting off a little infection and don’t feel too sharp.

9.50 A.M. I await the others. They are surprisingly all up. It is a surprise because they were all out at clubs last night. Smelled horribly of smoke reinforcing one of the reasons that love this country though I do, there are always things that make me nuts.

We had the most remarkable experience today with an old military guy covered in medals. Apart from the drawing, which is one of the best I have done, we did a long interview during which we learned that he was 77 and served in the tank corps defending Budapest. His tank was hit. He was saved by his commander. His two comrades were burned to death. We taped the interview with me requesting translation and leading the questions. I would be pathetic if I tried to do that professionally since I kept breaking out weeping and strangling on my questions. I am such a sentimental old idiot. It was intense and deeply touching made even better by the friend and social worker who accompanied him and who turned out to be the mother of the first cadet of this trip named. She works for an institution taking care of crippled people and the many kids on the streets who are runaways and drug addicted. Cannot help but wish people who have resources would be better focused on working in institutions like this. Such random things happen and there is so much uncertainty and a seeming endless chain of people who are cutting into the efforts one may make to take a fraction here or there of what a person might to donate. We then went to lunch. I loved listening to Vova and Sasha talking and laughing together as we walked. It was good to set the pace. After our lunch we went to the Dostoyevsky Museum, which is the last of many apartments he occupied here. It was astounding and for once made more so because I was not cheap and rented a headset. Excellent commentary and again I was brought to tears. Big baby. The lady watching the last room seemed both amused and perhaps impressed by the fact that I was so touched.

I wrote a long letter to dear Jill in England and lost it before I could zap it. I wrote about the elusiveness of the Russian people for outsiders. I seem to have experiences that vary from black to white with little in between. I feel Russian in a way, so profoundly compelled by the history and agony and yet can only touch the surface because they reveal so little of the grey. Perhaps it is part of the need to be secretive? I think of a moment such as when Sasha, (the man who will immigrate to Germany with is wife soon) who speaks so little English, came into my room to ask me something. I was lying down reading, he knelt at the bed side and with those huge dark eyes with their amazing lashes peered into my eyes, asked me something as he patted my chest, almost familial. A minute later he was on his feet and off. He has been around a lot, a favorite of J and excellent at finding models, but since his English is minimal and he was off with his wife (whom he informs me is now home with her parents in the Urals two days away by train) I have seen him as a third player to V and Alex.

But I lose my way… I have this sense of connection and then it is gone. I delight in the laughter and chatter between Sasha and V after our excellent afternoon’s work as we walk to lunch, and then flinch at the spittle and litter on the sidewalks. I love the sense of being part of a gathering of friends feeling so happy and full of life, and then walking alone am horrified at three black sedans with tinted windows racing down Marata at least 50 miles and hour as I try to cross the street. Mafia, I am pretty sure. Guess there is really an element of the wild, Wild West I mention above. Where is the grey wherein I believe most of us live? It is like mist here among people I know. Maybe it is the same for them. I know I have written over and over about this but I cannot let it go because it is central to the way I live…. Grey is the fluidity that allows the discovery and evolution of one’s soul. The clarity of the black and white parts is easy, often knowingly and a façade but clear. Must read Dostoyevsky, especially after the museum today.

8.10 P.M. Just left the gang at the Internet café about an hour ago. We had indulged yet another night in desert, I having my usual cream puff. I still feel bloated after a forty-minute walk alone along the Nevsky to Catherine Square. Great excitement much of the time of an impromptu parade of cars of some sports fans tooting horns, waving huge blue and white flags as they sat on window sills or out of sun roofs. Presumably some great triumph in soccer or something. Of course I had my usual revulsion against competition with the accompanying notions of it being born of aggressiveness and that it is better they get it out of their systems this way than in war. But I could not stop a tear and throat swelling at the triumph, if for no other reason than the poor Russian people have been so benighted in so many ways after their great nation status of the past.

V found a grand old babushka to draw today. She was so delightful as with her huge expressive powers as she spoke of her past and bemoaned her present. Unlike some of the others, she was delighted with her drawing calling me “golden hands”. Because she could not sit still, the drawing has a long way to go before I feel good about it but she does seem to be conversing rather than just sitting, her mouth agape with a half dozen silver teeth on her lower jaw. Otherwise she was toothless. She was dirty and smelly but what a charmer.

6.45 P.M. Just had a marvelous time photographing three cadets from yesterday afternoon, from left to right I need to remember, Kirriel, (English speaker and natural leader), Ilya (handsome and short) and Andrei (handsome one who could not be serious). Jim came up with the idea and though I am loathe to increase my burden in this project, I feel strongly that these three lads, in full uniform will be a perfect foil for the nude individuals along with the family members. I would very much like to include the newspaper clipping image of a child being buried in Afghanistan but must first get permission for copyright purposes (J says he will take care of that along with all the other stuff he has in mind). Then I started to worry about the levity of these lads next to such a tragic image. Would separate them somehow. The whole context issue is so important to me…. Would also like to do another “Ode to Ideology”.

It has been an incredible day of production even though there were more moments of respite than usual. Poor Vova is beginning to separate himself from me I think because facing the grueling task of his normal life must need some easing into, and in a way I am a father to him seen too rarely.

10.30 P.M. “Came over poorly” I believe is the old British expression. Was brushing my teeth and suddenly felt weird, a little faint. Hope I am not sickening for something. We are on a working roll and I am worn out. Must be brief. What to me seemed like a very old man came this afternoon and I did what I felt was a pretty good drawing of the old codger. Discovered later that he was not more than five years older than me. Shows how brutal life can be. He was so funny, making faces and cracking up every now and then. But after I had done the drawing, Vova asked him some questions about the war and he became weepy telling us that his father and three uncles had been killed in WWII. The young in the U.S. who were barely touched by this, can only begin to comprehend while the young here just shrug it off as common because they were almost all touched by it, as Vova did just that when I asked for the translation. “The usual”, he said with that shrug. They seem so amused by my anguish.

Later this afternoon was another event related because J came up with the idea of a painting of buddies in full uniform together. We had the most remarkable experience, first packing ourselves on to a bus in rush hour and then waiting in the park in front of the Academy when the sweet and remarkable Cadet Alex came marching up with ten cadets and two young officers (he used to be their superior), literally marching that is, shoulders back, chins high. They remained formally at attention until the very end while I made selections for three of them to come to the studio to pose for a group painting which I think may work well… but when will it end. Almost all the kids were so tough and tender I could not help being moved and to my embarrassment became a little weepy as I thanked them stressing my feeling of humanness needing to transcend nationhood. Sentimental old fool.

6.30 A.M. Have been sleeping like a baby and loving the rhythm of the days accordingly. Frustrated to find myself doing the old thing again, waking up prematurely and worrying about things. The rest of the household does not usually rise till about nine. My mind plays through all kinds of things, the work at hand, the personalities of the various players here, generosity and injustice… silly things over which I have so little control. Was in the kitchen a few minutes ago getting some water and watched as a large truck sprayed the already rain wetted streets in cleaning. How I wish there were some way to clean up the courtyards so well.

6.15 P.M.

Worked from a sweet young girl aged nine who was brought by Sasha who is one of the first cadets and who has been part of the team finding models. The child’s brother, Ilya, accompanied her. He was a rugged soul and I mistook him for her father. I fear he might have been insulted though people here seem not be to be insulted easily. The drawing came quickly, which was a complete surprise to me because I feel children are so difficult. She was dressed in black and white with white lace flowers in her hair. I do not recollect a model declining rests totally much less sitting so still, so solemnly and simply watching my eyes. She seemed to project that same old elusive nature of Russians that beguiles me so. And Jim when he arrived said that in effect, I was capturing Russia. I would hope so.

The derdushka (grandfather) whom I will draw today is here and I should go to work. But I need a transition and this writing is it. I just went in there and they are all watching cartoons, the old man enjoying them as much as the woman who accompanied him as a social worker and of course the cadets. J and S are off doing stuff the J’s new apartment. I feel the need to shut my eyes a minute…

12.45 P.M. Vova is off hopefully picking up a Babushka. I worry that he seems to be slack in his research and I can only protect him so much from the wrath of the powers that be, Jim, Alexei and Igor. I don’t know whether he is just shy but I suspect this whole procedure is tougher than one realizes. People are very suspicious which is understandable given their history.

10.50 p.m.The Babushka was a classic. The powers that be are indeed thrilled and I am very pleased with the start I have on a person who will definitely be a painting. She was so funny and so direct, suddenly pointing at me and declaring something in her strong voice. Vova translated it as she is just short of falling in love with me. She also said she was glad she was not scared. And that is I think the root of getting these older people to pose. Suspicion. They lived through so much and suspicion and fear were critical to survival. There was no way for her to know we were not some kind of villains. But as I watched V interview, I was again profoundly impressed by the way he connected with her, the respectful gaze of his eyes as he politely asked questions. He is a very impressive young man even if as Cadet Alex (subject of second large painting) says, he is a simple man. At twenty-two now, he is simply impressive in his grace and maturity. We had lunch today alone, really the first time alone, and it is amazing to think of our struggling communication compared to now when the years of his English classes have paid off so well. I cherish our friendship and think of him as family. Alexei repeated tonight that it is time for him to go to the states. I would be so thrilled to have him around for a few weeks, to show him a good time. He has become such an excellent assistant by now. He went home to his wife and baby daughter tonight instead of sleeping over in the living room with Ruslan. The latter has surely become fun to be around, his naughty ways from the first trip now being somewhat tempered by the extra few years. But he is still tempted by the bottle. I am so proud of the way Jim and his partners stay loyal to some of these people.

9.15 A.M. Did two drawings yesterday, one of an old lady and another of a fifth year cadet who used to be in the Marinsky Ballet. He seemed so tough and even a little mean but I liked working from him. I could really imagine him in battle and thought of the agony of Chechnya. I love this work but I am so glad that I am headed down the home stretch in the project. I relish doing these studies and finally seem to have moved into my stride.

THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 11, 2003, 10.A.M.It was exactly two years ago that the horror occurred. I had been in Russia just two hours when Jim called me to watch CNN. I will never forget that day and the anxiety I had being away from the family. This has been strange pattern for me. Away the day after the big quake of ’89, away for the fires in the hills in ’93, in New York when my dear old Mom died in the house…I have been half expecting that a massive “anniversary” might be attempted and of course it is the middle of the night at home. There is too much time for them. I find myself waiting, if not this day then others, all too aware as to how easy it would be.

4 p.m. I have spent a few minutes reworking the drawing of Dmitri and already feel better about it. There are times when it is better to work from memory because it is almost as if the memory collects impressions and then allows them freer expression when working. I like to think that having the model in front of me is good and in a sense the collective nature of the sitter makes itself apparent. But the very act of sitting tends to arrest that freedom in some people, especially the cadets. It is almost as if there is a kind of man-boy nature to Russian males that plays out depending on circumstances. One minute these lads are joshing each other and laughing with a huge easily accessible sense of humor, and the next it is as if the weight of family responsibility rests on their shoulders, or in the case of the cadets, the weight of national trust, and that weight becomes present in the persona. Certainly true of this drawing as he would be paging through my book looking all the world like a youth of such romantic innocence and then I would have him sit, and the sailor would present himself to me, dignity, spine stiff with strength, chin raised in drill sergeant’s pride. I seek to link these parts and as much personal history as when I do portraits. I find it increasingly difficult. Age? Or am I becoming more demanding? I feel sometimes that I have gone away from the demands of my younger years in some casual wandering, and now want to return more to that discipline.

6.40 p.m. Have just stopped working on Dmitri. He is so young looking and I have struggled to be true to that but as usual a strange seriousness descends on these drawings and the weight I wrote of above is apparent no matter how hard I try to avoid it.

11 p.m. Exhausted did a rather inadequate job on a drawing of a cadet. Young man named Dmitri, whose face was so tender that I struggled to tap into him enough to make the kind of mark on me so that I could really get a grip. No excuses… know exactly what I needed to do and kept at it but my back eventually gave out. A sweet woman, Irena came by and cooked a splendid meal that I thought would last for days but it was virtually all consumed by us and guests. Jimmy is really great as he tries to do the right thing by people.

RUSSIA, St. PETERSBURG

Arrived about four and was happily surprised to find Vova with Igor. I have not been in direct contact with him for months and was worrying about him. I have good reason to worry and feel helpless in the face of it. His factory job was in plastics and made him horribly sick and indeed he has lost yet more weight. But he seems happy with his wife and baby Irena though money is a constant burden to them.

We are ensconced in an apartment at #13 Marata Prospect just off the Nevsky (central street of the city). It has good studio/living space and two bedrooms. Of course a certain spoiled brat has planted himself firmly in the master bedroom. But I am perfectly happy in my space though the furnishings are sparse. I love the sheer solidity of these old buildings with their deep, deep windows. This place has double glazed windows which makes it pretty quiet though there does seem to be one particular car alarm going off regularly while another chirps one little bleep very minute or two or is that something else… I know this building sits with a couple of others between the Hungarian Consulate and a very swanky Swiss hotel. Maybe the chirp is some security thing.

We have a very sophisticated security system here with a huge steel door opened by gentle brush against what seems to be plastered wall of a plastic thing on the key ring. That leads to a shared entrance with a couple of other apartments and then there is a double dead bolt on our actual door. The feeling of a wild Wild West still pervades to a certain extent and I am not much easier when Alexei (one of Jim’s local partners) told us of his father-in-law being hijacked in his car, driven into the countryside and abandoned. But it is so good to be back among my Russian friends. I had forgotten how much I miss them.