The exhibition is a group presentation, a now-established format of summary exhibition-sale. This time, however, alongside works by contemporary Georgian artists and photographers—regular collaborators of the gallery—we were also shown examples of earlier, now historical, artistic production. These included works by Russian artists—Prince Grigory Gagarin and Vera Rokhlina—and Georgian artists—Elene Akhvlediani and Sergo Kobuladze—spanning painting, graphic art, and lithography. A kind of dialogue between past and present thus emerged.

Most notably, from January 22 to February 2, Gallery “Vernissage” hosted two graphic works by Hermann Hesse, belonging to a Georgian private collection (their permanent location, presumably, being one of Tbilisi’s banks). Such is the unembellished prose of life. Rather than dwell on this, it may be preferable to turn to Hesse’s prose—and why not, to his painting as well?

To my surprise, at the exhibition opening on January 22 at 18:00, Gallery “Vernissage”—located in the heart of Old Tbilisi, at the end of Kote Abkhazi Street—received an unusually small number of visitors.

That the German writer, in his early forties, first took up pen and brush during the most difficult years of the First World War is connected to his profound depression, spiritual crisis, and the catastrophes—both global and personal—that he endured. Yet how are we to explain such indifference on the part of Georgian society toward this exhibition: a deficit of spirituality, or simply a lack of free time?

Certainly, Hesse’s landscapes can be viewed in digital space, just as films can be watched and books read. But then, what need would remain for galleries, cinemas, and libraries (or even fashionable media libraries)? Should we abolish them altogether?

What remains is to oppose the egoistic “isolation” that has become a disease of our time (and not Byron’s splendid isolation) with the timeworn maxim: “man is a social animal.” Let no one accuse me of advocating the suppression of individual will by the collective. Call it, if you wish, love of one’s neighbor, civic consciousness, or solidarity—humanity is not a mere arithmetic sum of individuals.

Hesse himself undoubtedly shared this view when, in 1914, in an article published in the German press (Neue Zürcher Zeitung), titled “O Freunde, nicht diese Töne” (“O friends, not these tones”), he called upon German intellectuals to cease their lamentations and warned against the dangers of nationalist polemics—thereby incurring widespread hostility in his homeland. He later left Germany and settled in Switzerland.

In the years that followed, several tragedies befell him: the death of his father, his son’s severe illness, and his wife’s diagnosis of schizophrenia. These events rendered unbearable the life of a writer already склонный to depression from a young age. He was forced to abandon his work assisting German prisoners of war and to begin treatment.

In 1916, the author of “Knulp” became acquainted with Carl Gustav Jung, underwent psychoanalytic therapy, and, upon the advice of his physician, began to “transfer” his dreams onto paper—this time in the form of drawings. Hesse is primarily known for his watercolors depicting the landscapes of Locarno and Ticino. If we recall the importance that walking held for him, it becomes clear that this combination of the pleasurable and the beneficial must have brought him inner peace (cf. Hesse, “Walking,” 1920).

Indeed, the writer not only overcame his spiritual crisis but returned to literary activity with renewed intensity. It is sufficient to recall that the majority of his masterpieces—“Demian” (1919), “Siddhartha” (1922), “Steppenwolf” (1927)—were created after this period. “Without painting, I would not have achieved much as a poet” (from a letter to Georg Reinhart, 1924).

Hesse continued to paint in subsequent years, organizing several exhibitions, publishing an album of paintings, and issuing books with his own illustrations. At the same time, he did not consider himself a professional painter. “My small watercolors are a kind of poetic improvisation or dreams, conveying only a distant recollection of ‘reality’ and transforming it according to personal feelings and moods (...); thus I am merely a dilettante, which I never forget” (from a letter to Helene Welti, 1919).

It would, of course, have been possible to avoid such an extensive account of Hesse’s personal life and “couch-bound” experiences. Yet without it, the origins of his watercolors would remain obscure, as would their significance for the artist himself. “I found a way out of unbearable sorrow—I began to paint, something I had never done before, and attempted to create images. Whether this has objective value is of no importance to me; for me it is a consolation through art, something that writing did not provide. It is a passion devoid of desire, like an unpretentious love” (Hesse, from a letter to Felix Braun, 1917).

Thanks are due to Vernissage Gallery and to Ms. Zaira Berelidze for this unexpected gift, which has, in turn, provided an occasion to once again recall the great writer, thinker, and artist—Hermann Hesse.

Alina Kadagishvili