May 6, 2015 at 5:51 p.m.
Painting was worth the effort
Back in the Saddle
It should come as absolutely no surprise to anyone who knows me that when it came time to buy a birthday present for my wife when I was in Moldova (and missing her birthday) I went shopping for a painting.
If journalism is a genetic flaw for the Ronald family, so is the acquisition of art.
It’s something we do. We buy pictures. I have no idea why, but it is a fact of life. Our walls at home are crowded, and there are paintings stored in closets waiting their turn.
So there I was in Chisinau on a 10-day project with virtually no time off, and when work ended early one day I went looking for Galleria L.
It’s a place we discovered back in 1998. There’s an “art park” in Chisinau, but it’s mostly full of souvenirs and kitsch. Galleria L — though it had its share of kitsch — also showcased some excellent regional artists.
But that was 17 years ago, and much has changed. So I was stunned to see that Galleria L still survived, tucked into what was apparently part of a school at the corner of Bucharest and Pushkin.
When I stepped inside, a recorded voice said, “Welcome,” in English. That was a new touch.
A middle-aged woman was soon at my elbow, turning on lights so I could see the paintings on display. (No point in wasting money on electricity if there are no customers.)
My eyes swept over the pictures on the wall and stopped.
“Panov?” I asked.
Yes, she answered.
“Tiraspol? Transnistria?”
“Da, da,” she said.
I’ve bought two pieces by the same artist, Serghei Panov, at this gallery. The first, a huge one, we bought in 1998; it hangs in my study at home.
The second I bought in 2006 or 2008 and was just the right size to fit in my luggage.
Before I knew it, the woman had brought out three or four other Panovs for me to peruse.
But I loved the one I had first spotted. It was a Moldovan landscape, but it just as easily could have been painted in southern Indiana. It also looked as if it might fit in my suitcase, which is always a plus.
Still, I didn’t buy it just then. I wanted to think about it, wanted to see if the image stuck in my brain. Was I in love with it or merely infatuated?
Several days later, at the end of a very long day, I went back and was pleasantly surprised to find the gallery open. But the middle-aged woman wasn’t there.
Instead, there was a little old man — okay, he probably wasn’t that much older than I am, but if asked to describe him I would still say he was a little old man — alone in the gallery.
I asked about the Panov. I knew the price in dollars and was ready to make a purchase.
But the little old man balked. He didn’t want dollars.
Now, that made no sense. The Moldovan currency — the leu — has been very unstable. Everyone in Moldova would prefer to have dollars instead of lei (the plural of leu).
Except the little old man. And he wasn’t budging.
“Visa?” he suggested.
When we lived in Moldova in 1998, no one took credit cards. There wasn’t an ATM to be seen. But times have changed, sort of.
I agreed to try a Visa transaction and was led to a little room the size of a walk-in closet at the back of the gallery.
Through the walls, I could hear kids playing in a gymnasium next door; apparently part of the building was still a school.
The little old man pulled out a small credit card phone link unit and grabbed a bunch of scribbled notes of instructions. Muttering to himself, he worked his way through the instructions and swiped my card. Nothing. He tried again. Nothing.
Finally, I gave up. “Schimb?” I asked him. Was there a currency exchange nearby?
He had no idea.
Five minutes later I was back with the Moldovan lei to complete the transaction.
But then the paperwork started. Receipts, stamps, and a whole bunch of paperwork for the VAT (value added tax) and more paperwork that said I could get a refund on the VAT because I was taking the painting out of the country if I was ever able to find the right place at the airport to get my refund. (I wasn’t.)
In the end, though, it all worked out.
The painting made its way home safely. My wife loved it as much as I do.
So now it’s just a matter of finding room on the walls to hang it.
If journalism is a genetic flaw for the Ronald family, so is the acquisition of art.
It’s something we do. We buy pictures. I have no idea why, but it is a fact of life. Our walls at home are crowded, and there are paintings stored in closets waiting their turn.
So there I was in Chisinau on a 10-day project with virtually no time off, and when work ended early one day I went looking for Galleria L.
It’s a place we discovered back in 1998. There’s an “art park” in Chisinau, but it’s mostly full of souvenirs and kitsch. Galleria L — though it had its share of kitsch — also showcased some excellent regional artists.
But that was 17 years ago, and much has changed. So I was stunned to see that Galleria L still survived, tucked into what was apparently part of a school at the corner of Bucharest and Pushkin.
When I stepped inside, a recorded voice said, “Welcome,” in English. That was a new touch.
A middle-aged woman was soon at my elbow, turning on lights so I could see the paintings on display. (No point in wasting money on electricity if there are no customers.)
My eyes swept over the pictures on the wall and stopped.
“Panov?” I asked.
Yes, she answered.
“Tiraspol? Transnistria?”
“Da, da,” she said.
I’ve bought two pieces by the same artist, Serghei Panov, at this gallery. The first, a huge one, we bought in 1998; it hangs in my study at home.
The second I bought in 2006 or 2008 and was just the right size to fit in my luggage.
Before I knew it, the woman had brought out three or four other Panovs for me to peruse.
But I loved the one I had first spotted. It was a Moldovan landscape, but it just as easily could have been painted in southern Indiana. It also looked as if it might fit in my suitcase, which is always a plus.
Still, I didn’t buy it just then. I wanted to think about it, wanted to see if the image stuck in my brain. Was I in love with it or merely infatuated?
Several days later, at the end of a very long day, I went back and was pleasantly surprised to find the gallery open. But the middle-aged woman wasn’t there.
Instead, there was a little old man — okay, he probably wasn’t that much older than I am, but if asked to describe him I would still say he was a little old man — alone in the gallery.
I asked about the Panov. I knew the price in dollars and was ready to make a purchase.
But the little old man balked. He didn’t want dollars.
Now, that made no sense. The Moldovan currency — the leu — has been very unstable. Everyone in Moldova would prefer to have dollars instead of lei (the plural of leu).
Except the little old man. And he wasn’t budging.
“Visa?” he suggested.
When we lived in Moldova in 1998, no one took credit cards. There wasn’t an ATM to be seen. But times have changed, sort of.
I agreed to try a Visa transaction and was led to a little room the size of a walk-in closet at the back of the gallery.
Through the walls, I could hear kids playing in a gymnasium next door; apparently part of the building was still a school.
The little old man pulled out a small credit card phone link unit and grabbed a bunch of scribbled notes of instructions. Muttering to himself, he worked his way through the instructions and swiped my card. Nothing. He tried again. Nothing.
Finally, I gave up. “Schimb?” I asked him. Was there a currency exchange nearby?
He had no idea.
Five minutes later I was back with the Moldovan lei to complete the transaction.
But then the paperwork started. Receipts, stamps, and a whole bunch of paperwork for the VAT (value added tax) and more paperwork that said I could get a refund on the VAT because I was taking the painting out of the country if I was ever able to find the right place at the airport to get my refund. (I wasn’t.)
In the end, though, it all worked out.
The painting made its way home safely. My wife loved it as much as I do.
So now it’s just a matter of finding room on the walls to hang it.
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