Gennady Spirin
Two illustrations for Philipok
circa 2000
Such a determined child. Eager to learn and to prove himself as big a boy as his elder brother, Philipok deviously makes his way into the depths of winter towards the school house while his grandmother sleeps, unaware. He trudges along the familiar snowy road winding through his village, confident and bundled warmly in thickly-wrapped boots and coat and his father’s big fur hat, only to be deterred by a snarling, relentless pack of territorial dogs blocking his path. Feeling small and powerless he succumbs to fear, falling into the snow with a sudden weakness in his little legs and large cumbersome feet, his alphabet book clutched still more firmly under his arm. But he knows, in a way, that in order to fall one must first learn to walk, and to walk again little Philipok shall in order to reach his wish. With the help of a kind old man he again finds himself bracing the tireless winds, only to finally reach the school doors now crippled by his own doubt - will he be scolded and sent away by the teacher, or be embarrassed and teased by those more clever than he? But events are sure to repeat themselves.
Spirin’s hand shows care in each scene he illustrates. Not only in the types of people and animals is there a familiar warmth drawn from the artist’s own Russian upbringing, but in the boy, too, there resonates a fondness, a detailed closeness, which defines Philipok as more than just the main character of Leo Tolstoi’s tale. Modelled from life, Philipok takes the shape of Spirin’s own young son, imbued with an equal sense of rosy-cheeked wonder and awe. Both boys bring the qualities of the fictional and the real out in the other, making both story and fact coexist within the readers’ minds. It is a story for children, and for the child within every adult. It is Philipok’s story, and it is our story.
