Gregor Kruk

My birthplace in Western Ukraine was a village called Bratyshiv. It lies in the southern piedmont region near Ivano-Frankivsk and on my birthday consisted of some 350 houses of whitewashed clay walls and thatched roofs, a lovely, old, wooden church, one four-class schoolhouse and a large, brick structure in the center of town. The latter housed Bratyshivs tavern.

The people lived life from the tilling of their soil. Those with little land of their own practised trades, particularly shoemaking, tailoring, carpentry and pottery. The poorer residents worked as hired hands on the landlords estate, which sprawled on the outskirts of the village.

There were times when my family would run short of grain. My mother went to work on the landlords field, reaping his wheat or rye. For this she was permitted to keep every thirteenth sheaf.

I have yet to succeed in capturing a butterfly in my hands in order to pore over its colour from very close-up. In much the same way I have yet to grasp and capture precise form in my sculpture. This haunts but forever eludes me, it is one and the same for the unyielding de-mands of my intellect: an impetus toward work, an in-spiration through disappointment.

When I turned older and stronger, a boy of nine or ten, I began to attend school during the week, helping my mother grind wheat, rye or corn on Saturdays. It was usually my job to turn the huge millstones, for my mother was not strong and always complained about her painful back. I didnt like Saturdays; in fact, I dreaded them, because of that heavy, noisy stone that would stand as dead weight against my straining youthful body. The coarse grain became flour under the burden of the stones crush-ing which my younger sinews turned round and round.

My father, Yakiv, and his father, Ivan, were potters. They turned household crockery from backyard clay, then decorated their craftwork by hand. The pieces were later fired and marketed personally by these artisans at neighboring towns and wherever else trade would flourish. He loved to attend town meetings, never missing one and became a member of a local cultural organization founded by Kyrylo Trylovskyj. There he would hear lectures by such Ukrain-ian national leaders as Ivan Makukh, the cautious Pavlyk and above all, the gifted politician, poet and national apostle, Ivan Franko. At home wed hear my father discuss the wisdom which he would bring back from these inspired speakers.

As a small child I helped my father at work, if only for the delight of oozing the sweet, soft clay through my little hands which attempted to give it form and shape. Vasyl Lukasevych, my school teacher, was the first to notice my simple drawings and figures in clay. Thanks to his advice my father sent me to the handicraft school in Stanislaviv.

Summers I returned home to help in my fathers work shop, and this would arouse considerable interest in the village.

The people would say: Look! The son wears a tie and city trousers but he isnt ashamed of his fathers farmhouse or the dirty work.

Years later, while studying at the Krakow Academy of Fine Arts, I became acquainted with Ukrainian and other world literatures. This provided a fertile substance for me, and worthwhile, practical wisdom such as that which my father supplied me day in and day out at home. It was more than all my booklearning put together; much like, a little forest spring which can be more refreshing in a different way than all the water splashing from a school water tap.

I often asked my father: Batko (father), how is it that youve never read a clever book, yet you speak in the parables of a wise man ?

And he would say: Always follow the wisest teacher of mankind, nature. Learn to read nature and to love her. And when you do, she will bare herself to you. Doesnt everyone, learned landlord and a simple peasant alike, create and build his life from what nature gives and takes?

At times my father would say: Hryhoriy, you are ill-suited for the life of farming. You have talents for other things which must not be buried. Because of these talents you will find yourself lonely in the world, alone and with little counsel or help. Take then the Jews as your model. They are a shrewd people, and very, very practical. In my sixty-odd years I have yet to see a drunken Jew stagger through the village streets. Neither have I seen a Jewish blacksmith. Care for your health, Hryhoriy for it is precious. Protect yourself from physical labour. And if you must ruin your eyes, spend them on beautiful things, never on trash.

Artist Gregor Kruk, was born 1911 in Bratyshiv, Ukraine and died 1988 in Munich Germany. An exhibit of his work will be opening soon in Toronto.

The Ukrainian Canadian Art Foundation hosts a commemorative exhibit of sculptures, drawings and lithographs by Gregor Kruk from September 7-22, 2002. The opening reception will be held September 7, 7pm. 2118-A Bloor St W, Tel 416-766-6902