Considering the unparalleled popularity
he enjoys in his own country as well as
the fame and recognition he has achieved
the world over, visitors to Ilya Glazunov’s
web site can expect to see not only portraits
of writers, actors, and others from various
walks of life, but portraits of kings and
presidents as well. Many of these, such
as the portraits of Kurt Waldheim, W. A.
Harriman, the King of Laos, and Pope John
Paul II belong to private collections both
in Russia and abroad. The artist’s portraits
of women are particularly expressive; Glazunov
like no one else feels the mystery of the
feminine spirit. The painting entitled “The
Mysterious Lady” convincingly conveys emotional
depth and inner turmoil. For the artist,
time is not a barrier. His portraits bring
to life the ancient Russian folk hero Boyan,
calling others to battle, and Prince Dimitri
Donskoi, looking out over the countless
hordes of Khan Mamai on a September’s dawn.
When Indira Ghandi saw Ilya Glazunov’s portrait
of the King of Laos in the international
press, it prompted her to invite the artist
to New Delhi. In place of Glazunov, whom
she did not consider a prominent master,
the Russian Minister of Culture, E.A. Furtseva,
sent to India academician D. A. Nalbandyan,
a leading figure in Soviet art. However,
Indira Gandhi was dissatisfied with Nalbandyan’s
portrait and returned it to the artist,
stating “I am not an Armenian.” Two years
passed. Glazunov began receiving urgent
calls from the Ministry of Culture, inquiring
when he could go to India to paint a portrait
of Indira Gandhi. This time the artist demanded
that his wife, previously denied permission
to travel abroad, accompany him. The Minister
of Culture, Furtseva, was willing to agree
to anything: in one month’s time the “historic
visit” of Leonid Brezhnev to India was to
take place. Gandhi greeted the artist coldly:
“I am pleased that you have finally found
time for my portrait. Your ambassador informed
me that you were very busy with another
project.” The portrait was completed in
twelve days. The artist was sent back to
Moscow, and two weeks later Brezhnev arrived
in India, and in a grand ceremony presented
Indira Gandhi with a gift from the Soviet
Union. Gandhi was delighted with the portrait,
and spoke flattering words about the artist.
Seeing her delight, Brezhnev leaned over
to his assistant and said: “Why does Glazunov
only paint portraits of bourgeois prime
ministers and kings? Soon it will be my
70th birthday -- let him paint my portrait.”
Ilya Glazunov was invited to the Kremlin
and ushered into Brezhnev’s office chambers,
where he was shown a favorite photograph
of the leader. “I need Leonid Ilyich to
pose for four half hour sessions.” Brezhnev’s
assistant asked the artist to begin working
from the photograph, promising that he would
be able to finish painting from life. “I
completed a small canvas,” the artist said
later, “approximately 60 x 40 cm, and I
tried hard to prepare the portrait for the
final sittings, since I had never seen Brezhnev
in real life – only in photographs and on
television. The assistant called and asked
me to bring in the portrait – ‘Let’s see
what you’ve done.’ I brought it in. They
told me: ‘We’ll call you within three days
and let you know about the first sitting.’
Three days passed. I got a call in my studio.
The cheerful voice of the assistant announced:
‘Ilya Sergeyevich, let me congratulate you
on your great success – Leonid Ilyich is
extremely pleased with the portrait that
we commissioned from you, and for the first
time in his life he has taken the portrait
home with him.’ I listened in amazement:
‘But when will Leonid Ilyich be able to
pose?’ The assistant’s voice took on a metallic
tone: ‘I have tried to make things clear:
Leonid Ilyich will not be posing. He said
that you could only ruin the portrait. And
as the very best of all the countless portraits
that have been painted, it will be published
in the magazine “Ogonyok” on his 70th birthday.
Let me congratulate you once again.’ Then
he suddenly added: ‘Why didn’t you paint
a single medal on his lapel? And why is
there a church visible in the window?’ With
all the calm I could muster I replied: ‘I
wanted to paint the portrait of a man, and
not a man with a medal. And as far as the
Kremlin churches, you pointed them out to
me through the windows of the office!’ As
he hung up the receiver, the assistant remarked
disapprovingly: ‘Your answers are bold;
I understood you. But I congratulate you
once again nonetheless on the enormous success
of your work!’ Never, neither before nor
after the portrait did I meet Brezhnev,
nor did I receive any royalties or even
a medal, with which the head of the Soviet
government was known to be so generous.”
