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About My Father

A personal account of Grygoriy Shyshko by his daughter

Tatyana Grygorivna Ivashchenko, February 2007

Family is given to you by God but whilst living your own life there is little time to think of those in proximity to you especially your family. This is not how it should be. I have had a good family - mother, father, brothers - a family forever, or so I thought. Only over time did I understand how fortunate I was to have been given my father. He was always working, absorbed in his thoughts, his whole soul and being devoted to art. Even at weekends he used to take his sketchbook and work at self-portraits or views from the windows of our apartment. I was always amazed and particularly during the public holidays when people were enjoying themselves, relaxing, that father was, as ever, still painting.

Now I understand that that was his life, his passion, his obsession. Even whilst seriously ill, not long before his death, he took up his brushes and tried to make changes to some old sketches, paintings. My mother tried to stop him doing so and used to hide his brushes. He would then take a spoon and attempt to continue his work. That is how he ruined one very nice painting 'Courtyard with Hollyhock' that used to hang in our living room.

I remember our home being full of books and my father reading, both morning and evening. In the mornings he used to look through art catalogues and in the evenings he would read his books. As well as the books he had at home he had more in his studio. It was often said that we could have purchased a car with the price of those books!

As well as art books my father loved history books. Once my father said to me, "If I had not become an artist, I would have liked to have been an historian." At that time little attention was given to the history of the Ukraine ; it was taught as a part of the history of the Soviet Union . My father, however, knew the history of the Ukraine well; he read the works of Ukrainian historians such as Hrushevskovo and Yavornytzkovo . He was also of course overwhelmed by the genius of Shevchenko.

Before being allocated a studio as a member of the USSR Union of Artists, my father used to work at home. A large wooden easel would be set up in the living room with his current work on it and his paints next to it. The flat was always full of the smell of oil paint. The studio, when allocated, was quite far from our home. It is a widespread belief that artists are not tidy people. But his did not apply to my father. His studio was always clean and tidy; brushes were kept in clay pots, pencils - in special boxes. I do not recall a single occasion when he did not clean his brushes at the end of the day. If he was in a hurry he would leave them in white sprit. My mother used to go quite often to his studio to clean the windows. The studio was located on the second floor. The proximity of trees to the windows made the studio quite dark even during the day which often led to my father to trim the branches to gain more light!

I prepared for my entrance examination to Art College in my father's studio and from time to time my father would leave his work to comment on and correct mine. Being young, I held the view, of course, that it was simply good enough to paint what I saw. He repeatedly reminded me of the need "to think, to compare, and to make correlations." He would explain to me that two plane surfaces being next to each other could never be of the same tone and colour. Later, I understood that he was right. He would have made a good teacher.

He liked to come to the Institute where I subsequently studied to discuss art with myself and my fellow students. He also had several opportunities for staying at Sedniv, where there were special facilities for USSR Union of Artists members. These visits resulted in many works - beautiful as the location that inspired them. Of all the seasons of the year, he especially loved autumn. His landscapes glow with autumn colour and this colour scheme was a reflection of his inner state of being. He once told me that his works glow not from direct light but from inner light. Now, reflecting on his life and its hardships, I see how strong both his goodness and ability to see beauty really was. He used to work without break at Sedniv. This ceaseless activity made one artist implore me, "Please ask your father to have a few breaks, otherwise we cannot catch up with him." His visits to me in Tchernihiv, where I lived, also resulted in many sketches of churches, monasteries, and streets.

Every summer I used to take my son and daughter to my parents for the holidays; both my parents would drop their own interests to be involved with my children. My father even came to take my son to his first day at school and looked after him on his own for two weeks when there was illness in my family. The photo he took of my son's important first day of school is a constant reminder to me of his paternal love and kindness.

Recently I visited my aunt (my father's sister) and asked about their former family life together. Their mother, my grandmother, worked on a construction site; their father, my grandfather, in a stable with the horses. Like many in those days they had to endure the Great Famine of 1932-33. To survive they had to check the rubbish bins at the hospital in order to collect potato peel to fry and eat. At other times their hunger led them to knock on house doors to ask for food. It was at this time that my father made his first drawing of a bird on a branch, viewed from the window of his cottage home. On another occasion, as he was returning home from school he stopped to watch some people painting by the bank of a stream. He stood and saw landscape emerge on canvas - produced by brushstroke and paint. He knew then that he too had to paint.

When the family moved to Kryvy Rih he was able to attend art school. A drawing of his was entered into a Moscow art competition and was well received, and even appeared in newsprint. Sadly, the newspaper kept by the family was destroyed in the Second World War. Too young to be conscripted at the time of the outbreak of war, he was, after the German occupation began, deported to Germany - a victim of the slave labour production policy of the Nazi authorities. In 1945 he returned to Kryvy Rih and never spoke about his time in Germany.

In 1948, he was able to start his studies at the Odessa Art College: A happy opportunity, marred by personal privations - a lack of food and living accommodation. He had not been allocated a place in the student hostel and consequently had to sleep on the studio tables. His father had never returned from the war and his mother, village bound, was unable to help him financially. The years of hardship suffered, seriously affected his health thereafter. In 1985 he had to have two operations followed shortly after by a further two. In 1993 he suffered a paralytic stroke and lost the power of speech.

With what little means of movement remained to him he continued to try to paint until his death on the 29th of August 1994. His sister, my mother, my brother and I were with him when he died. Three minutes before his death he opened his eyes and tried to say something. But we could not understand.

During his lifetime he produced a great many works - more than can be calculated by us now. Now I, his daughter, his son, and a stepson remain to remember the father and the works that will remain beyond our time.