USSR journal, at the Pushkin Museum

20 Jan. At the Pushkin Museum, I gaze upon Matisse’s still life with a goldfish and I burst into tears. I want to be alone with all that color and eat it from a spoon, midwinter in Moscow where everything is dirty. White and grey. A goldfish mouthing pure color. Goosebumps on my arms, the wash of green philodendron, and that wicker chair. I swoon. Nothing can prepare me for this raw gorgeousness, and the tangerine fish.

Nasturtiums and the dance, the magenta and all that blue, the shadows of dancers on the wall, dancers floating, floating world, the chair knows no other life. Rosseau’s jaguar is still attacking the horse, white blossoms a trinity of birds, and the knowledge of blood. So much for the peaceable kingdom.

I feel like I have found old friends, Matisse, Renoir, Monet. I gaze upon seagulls, a sketch of the Houses of Parliament, Rouan Cathedral. Luncheon in the Open Air.  But I love the approximations of  the titles—translation from English into Russian and back into English. Sometimes I have to guess what the title is in English. Dégas—Rehearsal of the Ballet but they spell it Rechursal. Cezanne’s colors are so bright, peaches and pears abundance. Mt. St. Vittoria. .

Picasso’s a violin and a Spanish woman from Madrid. They embrace. Matisse’s fabric, the children stare at the artist’s studio. Because it was so blue. Maybe Pablo could only afford one color plus black and white. And the wandering acrobats. Zorah on the terrace with the fish, and a pair of slippers.

Matisse’s color palette. Again. Entering into the casbah, ghost figures and all the lights of Morocco is loosened at once on the unsuspecting eye. All that blue. I imagine they will have an after hours party when we are all gone for the night.

Vincent Van Gogh View of Arles after rain. Those red vineyards at Arles, and then Lautrec. Notice details I have never noticed before. Venus is missing her left nipple. Her skin is etched, she has a headache. Why doesn’t she smile? Even her eyebrows are drooping.

Gauguin’s What, are you jealous? A breast raises to the sun. Perhaps the air is cold. On the tree, a carved heart and arrow, A whippet looks around, two bottles, on the eaves, a man leans towards two women. Yes? I begin to understand why the Russians all ran off to Paris and to the south of France—the light, the inescapable light is like a character in a novel.