Dearest Sara, isn’t she a beauty! Just like you! When I look at such a beautiful face I realize what a powerful force women are, especially in our male lives. Just for her, just for one of her smiles, we would go into any battle, we’d undergo torture and death. She is the Tsaritsa, the ruler of life and everything in it; the best and most wonderful things in life belong to women, because women are the most wonderful and beautiful of all nature’s creations! What utter joy to be the man who makes her wonderful eyes light up with the fire of passion, or glitter with mad merriment and intoxicating beauty . . . Even the Gods would envy that man. I want to be that man, I want that so desperately . . .
Aleksandr
4.
Aleksandr to Sarra Ginzburg, October 17, 1907
The postcard has the caption Don’t go! and shows a woman seeing off a revolutionary in an astrakhan cap. He has a mustache and carries a revolver. In the background, snowy roofs and a little onion dome. Above the image someone has added by hand: you would have told me to go!
Sarra, this morning I sent you a letter, but I forgot that today is October 17 and so I didn’t mention it. You know that this day will always be dear to me and not just because it’s a national celebration, but because on this day two years ago we went to our first street protest, and we took each other’s hands. We hardly knew each other back then, and how could I have known that the black-eyed girl walking beside me, whose hand I held so tightly, would become so dear to me and would even agree to marry me? October 17 made us comrades and brought us together. How I love this day!
Your Aleksandr
Say hallo to Katya
October 17, 1905, was the day the October Manifesto was published, in which the Tsar promised the people of Russia civil liberties and the creation of a State Duma.
5.
Mikhail Fridman to Sarra Ginzburg, December 26, 1909
A girl with large yearning eyes and hair loose over her shoulders, sitting by a window, her hands placed uselessly on her knees. Caption: Richon. If only I were a bird!
My dear Sarra! I didn’t send you my greetings for the New Year. I didn’t know where you would be, as I heard you’d left Montpellier. But then I found out that you were only away for a short while, so in the hope you will receive this I send you all the very best for the New Year. I hope you will never lose your faith in the future, and that all your endeavors will be crowned with success and you will be able to build a life for yourself that meets your ideals as far as possible.
I also hope we will see each other again.
Your loving Mikhail
6.
Dmitrii Khadji-Genchev to Sarra Ginzburg, Montpellier, December 29, 1909
The letter is entirely preoccupied with arrangements, the tiny cramped handwriting fills a page from top to bottom, the shifts from French to a deformed Russian look like mistakes born of haste and agitation. Two days until the New Year. Sarra is just about to return to Montpellier.
Sarrka, I right in hast, reply to you card which I just receive. I wrote day before yestday that it is better you leave Lausanne in morning and arrive here in bonne heure. Best variant is you travel at 5:45 early morning. In Lyon the train arrives at 10:13, 10:45 dep, Tarascone apresmidi in Montpellier at 7 in the evening. Another good train, but arrive late in Montpellier is at 9:17, Lyon will be at 4:05 apresmidi, depart Lyon at 5:53 arrive Tarascone at 10:23 and Montpellier 12:23 in nigt. Third variant but don’t know if there is 3 Class, is best at 12:10 at noon, arrive Lyon 4:34 apresmidi, leave Lyon at 5:53 and arrive Montpellier as last a minuit. Check this one, says it is best and with 3 Class. Please take this if you cannot take train at early morning. Then look, do as the plan says, and make sure you little head is out of window at all station and you look for me also. Otherwise we may risk not seeing each other. But we will definitely see each other on Montp station if not before. We’ll see how it is. I have decided I come to Tarascone. So you look for me there. If I don’t see you Tarascone I go to Nime, and if not there I come back to Montpellier and wait all night but I will find you. Write Ida about envelopes. Buy me I need for visite de [Nrzb], don’t depart Lausanne this apresmidi or you have all night in train.
Warmest greetings, your MG
7.
Aleksandr to Sarra Ginzburg, January 4, 1910
A German postcard with a Berlin postmark. Two peasant lovers are kissing in the rye, he has a flaxen mustache, she wears a brightly colored skirt. To the side a little ditty concerning Liebesgedanken.
“Die Liebe bleibt immer gleich” . . . whether you are in Paris or Berlin. I’ve been wandering around looking at Berlin for two days now. It’s an interesting place. If I didn’t already have a ticket to St. Petersburg I’d have stayed around and tried to find some work. And then I’d have found a pretty little face like the one pressed to the young plowboy’s on this card, and found some respite from the torment of the black eyes of a Hebrewess.
Greetings, Aleksandr
8.
Dmitrii Khadji-Genchev to Sarra Ginzburg, July 27, 1912 (translated from French)
Dearest Sarra, I just received your card from Sofia. I passed my state exam a while ago. It wasn’t easy, but I passed. You know me, things work out for me from time to time.
I’m spending another two or three days here and then I’ll go to another town to take up a post as a military doctor in an army hospital. The worst part will be the lack of money, the work itself, the professional side won’t be hard. I had my first patient yesterday. They only paid two francs. I spent it all the same day. Things aren’t easy for me at the moment and all because I’ve no money. I haven’t got married and I’ll probably never get married. No one loves me, no one wants to marry me. Sarra, why don’t you write more about your past life and your future to me — I hardly know anything about you.
On the other side:
Sarra, dearest, come and live at the dacha in Dryanovo with me. It’s so nice here, so good, so free — no one around, just chickens and pigs. I shake your hand. Goodbye.
9.
Dmitrii Khadji-Genchev to Sarra Ginzburg, Tyrnovo, October 29, 1912
Greetings from the ancient capital of Bulgaria. Tomorrow I’ll be checked over and approuvé as a soldier by the conscription service. I’ll be back in Dryanovo tomorrow night and I’ll write more. My brother came to stay three days ago (back from war). He had an injury in his right arm (1/3 moyen du bras, Humerus intact). Salut [ . . . ]
War on European soil began two years before the outbreak of the First World War. The First Balkan War was already underway in 1912.
10.
Sarra Ginzburg to Mikhail Fridman, November 1913
Paris, 15 novembre
Misha, you are quite the limit, your Sarra goes away, and you vanish from the face of the earth. I know one shouldn’t ask lawyers questions, but even so! I was taken to a tavern yesterday (I complained that I wasn’t getting to see much), so today I want to sleep and my head is ringing. What news have you got? How is work, what’s the mood like after the “Beilis” affair? Write and let me know or I won’t write to you either.
A jury had just vindicated Menachem Beilis, a Jewish man accused of the ritual murder of a twelve-year-old boy from Kiev; the notorious trial was often compared to the Dreyfus affair.
11.
Sarra Ginzburg to Mikhail Fridman, Paris, February 18, 1914
You’re right to say that I haven’t been writing. I’ve been conscious of it, but fleetingly, and just now when I read your postcard I realized how little I’ve been in touch. You are partly to blame. Although, no, I don’t really think that. It’s just I’ve had a lot to deal with, and it would have been hard if not impossible to tell you about it. You are too far away, things are too different there for me to be able to make it as simple and clear for you as it is for me here. But I was so much in its grip that everything else seemed remote and I was quite alone. Y
es, I understand your predicament, Misha, I really do. So much effort for such little money. As for me . . . I’ve got such a long time to go! For a start my time here has been extended and I won’t finish before Easter, and once in Paris you can’t ever tell when exactly you will finish. God alone knows. I haven’t managed to have a photo done, in answer to your question. But then you also promised, so send yours. All the best, Misha. Send more news about yourself. S
P.S. I found these two postcards of old women among my papers, I’ve had them for two weeks without sending them. + aren’t they crazily old?
12.
Sarra Ginzburg to Mikhail Fridman, March 29, 1914
Misha, you should see the Spring we’ve been having!
It was an incredible morning today, I couldn’t tear myself away from the streets, the sunlight was pouring down, nor from the bright, laughing springtime faces I passed. I want to be one of those smiling faces, I want to leave the town and go somewhere where there are meadows, the first spring flowers, gather a huge pile of them and breathe in that uncomplicated and unbelievably fresh scent of meadow — don’t you? I feel very cheerful today, I have heaps of energy and I’ll try to use it well. I’m just starting my studies.
13.
Sarra Ginzburg to Mikhail Fridman, May 8, 1914
Just back from my exam. I’m quite shattered. Incredible how my nerves are on edge and no physical effort can hold them in check. The nervous reaction dominates everything. Everything went well, but I have another exam tomorrow — on birth and midwifery. If it goes well I can rest a while.
Write and tell me your news.
Sarra
14.
Sarra Ginzburg to Mikhail Fridman, October 1914
This postcard is sent from within Russia, on the front a view of the Anichkov Bridge. The First World War began in July, three months earlier.
I am incensed by your careless indifference to me. Not a word in reply to my letters. S
15.
Mikhail Fridman to Sarra Ginzburg in Petrograd, October 1914
A drawing by Leonid Pasternak: an injured sailor leans against a wall, red paint on his face to make it look flushed. A handwritten note reads: This is the last sketch from contemporary life by Leonid Pasternak. Isn’t it true to life? Misha
Sarra, I only received your letter and your request to go into the university the day before I was due to travel to Voronezh, so I wasn’t able to do as you asked. But I think it’s pointless to make inquiries, it will be the same in Saratov as it is everywhere else. The declaration of war with Turkey is hardly going to change the situation. They’ll need doctors, and there are bound to be additional exams. But even if there are more exams, don’t let it upset you. When you finished in Paris you thought you would have to take an exam, so there’s no need to despair now. All the best, Misha
16.
Sarra Ginzburg to Mikhail Fridman, November 1914
2 o’clock at night
I’m alone now. I saw Olya and Sanka off a short while ago. I turned down my bed a truly luxurious one by Russian standards (the landlady spent some time abroad and knows what the bedlinen is like there, so she made up a bed for me in the same way). I was just about to go to bed, and I suddenly looked around my room and saw how cozy it all was. The white flowers that Polya brought are in the corner, it’s clean everywhere, and pretty, an electric lamp casts a soft glow, and I started to feel sad that you left without coming here. I wanted to send my greetings at least, as I can’t do anything else. Olya brought the postcard, my sadness is about the view, and not about you. Night night. Write soon.
17.
Sarra Ginzburg to Mikhail Fridman, December 4, 1914
The days last forever, and the nights even longer. How long will I have to wait for a letter from you. Can you feel my need, enough to answer me, enough to write to me right now? I’m cheerful though, so don’t be sad, Misha. S
18.
Mikhail Fridman to Sarra Ginzburg, April 10, 1915
I haven’t written for a while, Sarra. It’s all been a bit much recently. I’m sick of the endless grind. I would love to rest from all the worry and bother and live without a care in the world. But it hardly looks likely. I’ve been traveling every day to Tambov and Razskazovo — they had some unfortunate regulation issues there and it put me in a difficult position. Not that I really give a damn. I’ll go one more time and put an end to the whole business. Write to me in Saratov. My regards to your friends. Misha.
*
Sarra and Mikhail’s ketubah, their prenuptial agreement, written in Hebrew, was signed a year later in April 1916. My grandmother Olga (Lyolya) Fridman was born a few weeks later.
* * *
* From “To Chaadaev” by Aleksandr Pushkin, written in 1818 and addressed to Pushkin’s friend Pyotr Yakovlevich Chaadaev — one of the poems that contributed to Pushkin’s disgrace and exile. In this version the writer has replaced “a star” with the revolutionary commonplace of “dawn” in the first line of the excerpt, and “our names” with “your names” in the last line.
2. Selfies and their Consequences
Moving through the rooms of a gallery from portrait to portrait it becomes abundantly clear, and you’d think obvious, that the various ways of preserving the “I” — canvas and oils, pastels and paper and all the rest — come down to the single basic formula x=y. At a specific moment in a person’s continuing presence, that person hands over the right of posthumous representation to the portrait. The job of the portrait is to draw together and condense everything that makes you what you are now and will become, your past and future, and to sort all this into a fixed shape that is no longer subject to the laws of time. This process bears a direct relation to the old adage “the best words in the best order,” only the conditions are more stringent, and the order lays claim to being the single, decisive summing up. In a sense every portrait wants to be a Fayum Mummy portrait, to be shown like a passport as you cross the border between living and dead; when the work is at an end, you come to an end yourself. For this reason no person needs more than one portrait, one is enough, all the other portraits of Philip IV of Spain are like zeros lined up after a four, multiplying the distinctness of his features, tallying them up.
Photography casts even this principle into doubt, to the extent that it is now possible to believe that the identity of a portrait’s subject can and should be made up of a dozen different jigsaw pieces, selected from a range of various and sometimes not even acquainted versions of the “I.” A selfie (the most extreme manifestation of the belief in mutability) is born of the need to fix the image in place, and the conviction that the face of today and the face of tomorrow are infinitely different. Developing this principle leads us down the way of cinematography, a road composed of a thousand momentary prints. This might be a good point to remind ourselves of Aristotle’s definition of memory as the imprint of a seal. He goes on to talk about states of mind that are incompatible with memory, like passion, age, youth, describing them as a flood of raw unorganized movement: “Both the very old and the very young are defective in memory. They are in a state of flux.” A precise impression is not possible, instead the shape of a movement is left on the surface of the mind, like a half-erased tire mark on a road.
A portrait of movement — this is exactly how we see ourselves now, presenting our faces daily to the camera, or changing our social media avatar. Social media play this game with enthusiasm, constantly inventing new ways to arrange images: “my face five years ago,” “my photos with this or that friend,” “last year in pictures,” presented so they appear to be the turning pages of a book, or grandly as “a film.” It’s not even that Facebook helpfully remembers (chooses what to remember and what to forget) for me and on my behalf that I find so fascinating �
�� it’s that the never-ending nature of the flow seems to oblige me to feed it with new photographs. Your own face needs constant updating or you’ll forget how it used to look.
Each new face casts off and cancels the ones before. It reminds me of the way a space rocket releases each stage, one after the other, in order to pick up speed. Elena Shvarts describes in a poem a room in which all her past, worn-out, and cast-off selves are “crowds /Of the dwindling, clothed, unclothed / Of the raging, and joyful, and sorrowing,” among whom the soul runs like the flame along a safety fuse. Charlotte Salomon draws her subjects in much the same way. Here’s a woman leaving her home on her way to end her life. Eighteen little figures repeating across the page in different phases of movement, a little like a corridor with intention moving down it. Each following figure confirms the decision of the one before, each new figure moves a step closer to the hole in the ice.
*
Rembrandt’s younger contemporaries, Von Sandrart, Houbraken, Baldinucci, all wrote studies of his life. These were not motivated by a love of his pictures, but were rather an attempt to depict a curious instance, an example of “how not to go about it.” The list of his crimes was long, but the complaints against him were all strangely similar — along with his “ugly plebeian face” and the crooked letters of his signature, he was accused of what must surely follow from these basic flaws: a crooked sense of taste. A predilection for the creased, the wrinkled, and the dog-eared, the bedsore, the mark of a tightened belt on the skin, for anything that bore on it the imprint of life.
For his first biographers, Rembrandt’s unwillingness or inability to derive contentment from the best, the select, the exemplary — to know how “to distinguish and to choose from life the most beautiful of the beautiful” was a serious failing. It had to be explained in some way, best of all by his background, his education, and his resulting pigheadedness. The biographers (including Von Sandrart, who knew Rembrandt in life) also insist on his desire to model from nature, and as any event back then needed a precedent, they nod to Caravaggio, who was at the time the archsinner in this worship of nature.
In Memory of Memory Page 15
