In Memoriam

Igor Galanin, the Russian American artist whose serene paintings and sculptures of women, animals, fruit, and other objects of his imagination made him one of the world’s most original creators, died on Saturday, November 16, 2024, in Westchester County, New York. He was 87.

His death was caused by a fall which led to a hemorrhagic stroke.

Igor often gave a simple reason for becoming an artist: “I did not like to wake up early.“

Living in Soviet Russia, he started with ceramics. He liked the feel of the clay and was handy with the wheel. He then found commercial success as a children’s book illustrator. With an easy laugh, warm blue eyes, and an endless stream of stories, he charmed the largely female contingent who doled out commissions at Soviet publishing houses. The books he illustrated won awards.

The illustration commissions fueled a dream life. An apartment in downtown Moscow, a car, a summer rental across the way from Soviet Prime Minister Gromyko. In the evenings his studio, located proximally to the KGB headquarters, became a party scene where artists and intellectuals congregated.

One day as he sat in the waiting room of a publishing house, another artist in his fifties came in seeking work. He was roughly treated and rebuffed. Igor realized that if he stayed in the Soviet Union, this would be his fate. He decided to get out.

He considered some risky options—escape by balloon to Finland—and then heard through the grapevine that Jews could apply to emigrate. His mother, Bettina Friedman, was Jewish. He did not hesitate to risk his dream life—he would have lost everything if his application was refused. But his gamble paid off. He was permitted to leave.

The first emigres from the Soviet Union went to Israel. Igor reasoned that the market for art in Israel was limited. He approached the authorities with a reasonable question. “If I am leaving, does it really matter where I go?” They agreed to let him go to Italy.

In Rome Igor had his first solo exhibition at the Paesi Nuovi gallery. Surprisingly, the show sold out. “I did not expect Italians to buy art from someone who was not Italian.” He decided not to push his luck, and on October 31, 1972, he and his family landed at JFK airport in New York.

Kindness, often from strangers, fueled his career in the United States. He illustrated Thomas P. Whitney’s translation of Marko the Rich and Vasily the Unlucky (nominated for a Newberry-Caldecott award). “Thom Whitney,” as Igor called him fondly, arranged for him to exhibit at the Red Barn in Fisher’s Island, NY. A friend and fellow artist Alexander Nezhdanov selflessly recommended that Igor be included in a group show of Russian artists at Andre Emmerich gallery in 1975.

At the Emmerich show Igor was “discovered” by NY Times art critic John Russell. Russell had been instructed to review a different artist but was struck by the originality of Igor’s work and subsequently wrote a review that put Igor on the map. A bit begrudgingly, Russell described Igor’s work as a “dreamland” and concluded that he was “an unsentimental Chagall.” Igor’s feathers were not ruffled. He knew his own worth.

Igor never talked about the meaning of his art. He wanted people to experience it for themselves without interference. Russell was right to describe Igor’s work as a dreamland. Igor lived through a lot of trauma in his early years. His father, the grandson of the famous Russian historical figure Count Sergei Uvarov, was taken out of their home in the middle of the night by the KGB when Igor was 4 years old. Igor remembered his mother putting a fur coat on his father as he was led away. She subsequently developed schizophrenia, which was not diagnosed or treated for years. Later his stepfather withheld food from Igor to motivate him to get a regular job. He grew up alone.

Igor escaped to his studio to make art that was serene, beautiful, offbeat, and orderly. Largely, he taught himself. His bio credited Georgii Schetinin as a teacher, but Igor said he was more of a mentor. “We talked about life, not painting. His work actually did not appeal to me. But I liked him a lot.”

In the late 1990s the art world became more like a financial market with prices and reputations manipulated by well-heeled players. Igor retreated from the New York City spotlight and deepened his roots in Millwood, New York. He made friends with everyone—at Dodd’s Liquors, Drug Mart, even Chase Bank.

As the honorary Mayor of Millwood, Igor’s style could be blunt. He told people what he thought was best for them, even when his words would pinch a bit. People recognized that he cared. He did.

His early success in the Soviet Union taught him that fortune and fame were not worth pursuing. “Once I knew I had enough money to survive, I relaxed.” His work became less adorned. When he first started painting, he filled the canvas so clients would get their money’s worth. Now he scaled back his work, like Johny Cash in his unplugged recordings. A single wine glass. A bear on a bicycle. Four oranges.

Throughout his life Igor leaned on his wife, Natalia, for support and understanding. Their meeting was straight out of a fairy tale. He was encamped outside an artist’s retreat that Natalia’s sister, Tanya, was attending. He was sleeping under a tree when Tanya and Natalia showed up to give him food. Natalia sensed that this somewhat tiny man held great power. She decided to help him.

And boy, did he need help. In his first years in the US Igor had a limited grasp of English. He did not drive. He did not write. He did not do errands. He did not attend parent-teacher conferences. Natalia freed him up to do the things he loved: paint and entertain.

Igor inherited some aristocratic tendencies. He looked down on chicken, beer, and baseball. He often quipped that “stupidity is an incurable disease.” With exposure to the American way of life these inclinations became less pronounced, and his ease was transmuted into his paintings.

He sold more than 750 paintings, mostly to individual collectors who would buy several paintings over the years. The paintings spoke to people in an ancient, fundamentally human language. The connection to his collectors gave Igor tremendous solace. His daughter, who was his manager, fostered these relationships and turned them into friendships. They are Igor’s lasting legacy.

Igor is survived by his wife, Natalia, and their two children: daughter Natalia Gaither and husband Rowan and their two daughters Natasha and Nina, of New York City; and son Ivan Galanin and wife Pamela and their three children, Vince, Dima, and Katya, of New York City. A celebration of Igor’s life will be held later in Millwood. In lieu of flowers Igor would have wanted you to make a new friend.