ivan the terrible and his son ivan.

i don’t even know what to do with this. other than maximize it so the image fills the screen, and i can stare and stare. it’s by ilya repin, (the 19^th-century russian dude who painted they did not expect him, of which i wrote briefly and terribly last summer, in trying to explain why i’ve a deeper and more complex attachment to it than any other painting.) this one is called ivan the terrible and his son ivan on friday, november 16, 1581, though it’s better known as

ivan the terrible killing his son.

i marvel at how much emotion is right there. this is a guy, ivan the t, and t is for terrible. it seems likely that, at some point, he laid out a map, circled all the places where people will never ever give up, no matter how grim the odds, and started wars with them. really early on he did some good things: he was made tsar at 16, and he destroyed the world’s biggest slave market, which he then balanced out by making it illegal for peasants to go places.

(ivan the t at the appetizer table in hell: likewise, it’s nice to meet you, george. what kinds of things did you do during your career? oh, you co-sponsored a failed bill to make it harder for the mexicans to get in? bet that was real fun, yeah. guess what: i co-sponsored serfdom. introduced it on the motherfucking block, so suck it. have a baby carrot.)

there’s a lot of info out there about ivan the t's near-death illness and loss of his first wife, and it was after this that the schizoid stuff began in earnest. the painting moved me, and i read several pages about him; but i didn’t really come closer to knowing what emotion it is i feel for this man when i look the work. i—i cannot help but feel his despair: it’s right there, alive; and punishing. i have a glimpse of empathy for this man. ivan the t. who, according to wikipedia,

beat his pregnant daughter-in-law for wearing immodest clothing, causing a miscarriage. his son, upon learning of this, engaged in a heated argument with his father, which resulted in ivan striking him in the head with his pointed staff, causing his son's (accidental) death.

repin put it all there—wild, full cognition of all he's done, up to and including that moment. just in his face. i've found that when i look at it for long, my heart rate bumps up, then i keep looking, still longer; and my pulse cycles back down, till i'm very calm, and aware of it. i want to pray.