— Liubov Petrivna, you give your profession an unusual name, "voice tuner". Why is that?
— The conception of singing, as I understand it, is the accord of soul and body. The soul is the instance of God and goes to God. It always sounds and always wants to pray. The body, in its turn, is always less well tuned. My task, therefore, is to find the accord of soul and body, so that the body may voice the thought of the soul.
The word gives vibration to the body — that is how the voice appears. A word taken correctly on the support of the breath is the voiced thought. All that is needed is the word and the breath — nothing more! This is especially noticeable in monasteries, where people with a musical education are rarely met with. My task is that in the lessons a person should understand, should feel, that the voice is an axis sounding in the centre of his body. The first thing I require of pupils is the ability to stand. A person must stand harmoniously, as God's creation, and not as an infirm being. For singing this is very important. Because, when one turns to God in prayer, one must be in a good, correct physical state.
— In an emotional state, you mean?
— No. In church singing I am categorically against any emotions at all. Singing must be extremely strict. Strictness presupposes clarity, and clarity in its turn audibility. The border between the theatre and church singing is very unstable. In my view, in church one must sing strictly and prayerfully — when I hear all the words, then I pray together with the singer. But when a professional artist sings, he enters into a role and tries to express something emotional, sensual.
— You stood at the sources of monastic singing, which had to be revived after 70 years of Soviet persecution…
— I have the feeling that in Kyiv I am one of the first who took this up. I shall never forget how I first came to the seminary for a lesson. I go into the classroom, and there sit about a hundred people! It even made me dizzy, so many wanted to sing. But those were happy years. Twice a week I came at 12 o'clock and left at 21. But for me the voice is something sacred.
— And do you yourself sing in church?
— No, I simply pray. I go to church to pray, not to sing.
— And what is your voice?
— Lyric-dramatic soprano. In the theatre I sang until "pension age", and even beyond. In 1986 I was often in Chornobyl and six months later my health sharply deteriorated. I had an operation on my windpipe. It was a most terrible operation; for three months I did not speak at all. After that I was invited to the conservatory.
— What is the difference between monastic voices and the voices of professional singers?
— Rather it is not a difference but a difficulty, though a surmountable one. In monasteries it is far harder to work, because you work with what there is. Perhaps the ear is not very good there, and there is little voice, but we begin to work — and I see that the person is already acquiring an ear, and the voice is waking up.
— Presumably it is more interesting for you in monasteries, since you become party to the appearance of a new voice?
— That is true. Sometimes I am even more glad than they are. In the world much comes about through overcoming. Sometimes I do not even know myself where to pull it next, what to do? Some put up mirrors in order to look at how the mouth appears. But an "ugly mouth" during singing is in fact the result of a person not having sufficient command of the breath and of the word. It is only a question of incorrect breathing — that is all.
Singing is not formulae, after all, not rules with diagrams. We are all unique, and for me every pupil is one and unrepeatable. The difficulty lies in the fact that I must understand instantly what is wrong and why he is not sounding. Everything is very individual. But the main thing is that a person should have the desire to sing. If a person greatly wants to, then even without an ear he can learn to sing. One must find the accord, the balance between the body and the voice, and then the ears will "start working". Besides this, singing must be constantly trained. As a pianist constantly trains his hands, so a singer trains the body, the voice. Precision of letters is important: the consonant must go together with the vowel — this is vocal diction. Any exercises train the muscular memory. If a person does exercises in the morning, he will have muscular tone all day. So it is in singing too — we have worked, and we have muscular tone for a week.
Lessons must take place once a week — that is a conservatory rule. Because people who are constantly occupied in a choir must not be overstrained. Endless singing is very harmful. Voices are worn away. First it is "strong singing", then shouting singing, and then the vocal cords cannot bear it. Even metal has a limit of resistance, let alone the voice! Therefore I treat voices very carefully. For example, Bishop Antonii, Archimandrite Mark and Archpriest Pavlo, when they came to me, their singing was in a catastrophic state. Their voices were broken, the doctors spread their hands and said that it was beyond repair. But God arranged everything. In our lessons everything was gradually restored. With God's help. But it is better not to let things come to that.
— You once said that it is easier to work with monastics than with professional singers. Why is that?
— Professionals have much ambition. I often have to struggle with their ambitions, and here one must be very firm. In the first years one has simply to remake the person, his way of thinking, because even if he has entered the conservatory, that is still study, and so he is not yet a fully matured singer.
Monks, on the other hand, feel everything more quickly. They have a different perception of any obedience whatever. When do we remember God? When it is hard and when there is time. But monks lie down and rise up with God. To monks it is enough to say: "If you do not understand that God and the Mother of God are everywhere, if you lose the chief address of your singing, then all your efforts are in vain. You must not sing in such a way that the Mother of God should stand and weep beside you."
In my view, worldly people ought not to sing in monasteries. It is incompatible. The spirit is not the same. A worldly person is preoccupied with what comes next, where to run, what to pay for, whereas in a monastery the spirit of the monks is at peace — no one is hurrying anywhere.
— To break oneself and to trust one's teacher completely is not at all simple. Not everyone can endure the demands of his mentors. With you, on the contrary, there are not merely many pupils but simply an enormous number. What is the secret of your approach to pupils?
— I have this formula: the eyes are the mirror of the soul, and the voice is its sound. Therefore I treat every voice with great respect and with enormous responsibility. When a pupil begins to sing better, begins to sound, I feel an enormous joy — you cannot even imagine what kind! For the fact that I began to teach singing to monastics I am still grateful to Father Petro Vlodek. It was he who persuaded me to teach at the theological seminary. Can you imagine how many voices have passed through my hands? How many people it has been possible to help!
— Liubov Petrivna, how do you remember your childhood?
— The family of a serviceman who with two children was sent to the Far East. My father served together with Zhukov. And there, on the bank of the Amur, I was unexpectedly born. We lived in a small town, where a division was stationed near Blagoveshchensk. There were neither theatres nor cinemas there. But artistic energy was in me as long as I can remember. "Who wants to recite poetry?" — "I do!" — "Who is going to sing a song?" — "I am!" — "To dance?" — "I will!" And so the word "actress" I heard for the first time in the kindergarten.
When my father was transferred near Stanislav (now Ivano-Frankivsk), to Bohorodchany, I went to school there. The times were very hard; there was a struggle between the Soviet authorities and the OUN and other nationalist units. It was dangerous to walk about in the evenings. My father contrived to put me into a club for children's creative work, for even then I simply could not live without singing. To this day I remember the surname of my accompanist-violinist — Yavorskyi.
We were incomers, and no one even called me by name; they simply said "sovitka" — meaning "Soviet girl". But I answered to it. In general it was all the same to me what I was called, as long as I was with the other children. I was a ringleader, constantly dragging everyone off now into some cellars, now to the cemetery, now somewhere else.
I remember I incited the children to run off from lessons into the mountains. There for the first time I saw real soldiers of the OUN-UPA. Out came an uncle, so stern, and straight at me: "And who is this?" And I did indeed differ from the other children in my clothes and my appearance. For example, all my peers in Frankivsk went about in postoly (simple Hutsul leather footwear), while I had little boots on. The children saved me by saying: "That is the daughter of the combine driver who has just arrived." If they had found out that I was the daughter of a political officer, they would have hanged me without a question. As it was, they took us to a hideout, fed us and sent us home, having taken our word that we would tell no one where we had been.
The struggle at that time was terrible. My teacher, because she made us join the Pioneers, was burned alive, and a star was cut into her breast. That was the first shock of my life. To this day I cannot understand who had the right simply to burn a human being in a fire. It was already her remains that were buried. It was a nightmare. I was then in the lower classes, quite a child, but I already understood that in this life something is not right.
In the third class I was sent, as a representative of Western Ukraine, to a competition in Kyiv. There was a big congress of Pioneers there. I sat on the knees of Sydir Kovpak, a general and twice Hero of the Soviet Union, saw Kyiv for the first time, and spent some time in the zoo.
— In the family of a serviceman, in theory, there should be obedience and discipline. But it seems that things did not go very well with that for you?
— I never obeyed. My parents lived in perfect harmony, they never quarrelled, but they simply did not know what to do with me. Though they never scolded me. My brother and sister were quiet children, but I was not. For example, I never played with dolls. What interested me were small parts from a tank, all sorts of bearings and the like — my father served in a tank division, after all.
Incidentally, my father punished me only once with a soldier's belt, and that "deservedly". There was a boy called Vania in our class, who grew up without a father. He was always pulling my plaits. I could not bear it and once said to him: "You have no father, and I have! He will come and beat you for hurting me!" I came home and said to my father: "Go and beat Vania, he has no father, for pulling my plaits." My father took his belt and gave it to me with the words: "If they hit you, hit back, but do not dare to complain!" Those were fateful words. After my father's "blessing" I began to fight better than the boys. I had my own move: first I strike with my fingers into the solar plexus, and while the boy is gulping for air, I get him on the jaw. Such were the "exercises" I had in Western Ukraine.
But in the fifth class I began to fall ill often, with constant tonsillitis and bronchitis. The doctors said that evidently the climate did not suit me. Then our family moved to Marhanets, and there I went into the 6th class. Here, instead of the summer holidays, the children were sent to work on the collective farm. We harvested the wheat. I was good at binding sheaves. Then I carried them away on a cart drawn by two oxen. There my voice came in very useful. Can you imagine, I had to sing to make the oxen go! As soon as I fell silent, they stopped. But I cannot sing loudly for a whole hour… My father was glad when, after two months spent in that way, I brought home a sack of wheat.
There, in Marhanets in the Dnipropetrovsk region, there was a splendid Miners' Palace, where I went on with my singing. It was the only thing I was good at. Our choir had 100 people, and I was the soloist. In the tenth class, before the World Festival in Moscow (1957), I went as a soloist from the Dnipropetrovsk region to perform in Kyiv. We sailed on a steamer, through Kaniv, and visited Shevchenko's grave. In Kyiv there was an extensive programme. We sang on the radio, then performed in the new stadium, which then bore the name of Khrushchev (the present Olympic stadium).
— Was it then, in 1957, that you visited the Lavra for the first time?
— Yes, and that thanks to relatives in Marhanets on my mother's side. They asked me to go into the Lavra in Kyiv and buy candles. Once they used to walk to the Lavra themselves, but with age they could no longer… Our ship was standing in the port at Poshtova. And I went by myself, I was not afraid. At that time I did not even know what a monastery was. Some monk led us round the caves. I remembered only some 12 brothers in the little caves (the 12 builders), and that was all. When my candle suddenly went out, I nearly died of fright. Then I bought the candles — and that was all.
— When did you understand that singing was your calling?
— After school I told my father that I wanted to sing. All the more so since after that World Festival I was given a diploma by which I could enter the conservatory without examinations. I wanted to go to Kyiv, but my father honestly admitted that there was no money. He advised me to enter the Dnipropetrovsk music college — what difference did it make? And indeed it made no difference to me.
When I had taken the examinations, it turned out that I need not have taken anything at all — participants of the International Festival of 1957 had the right to enter without examinations.
After finishing the music college I was offered a place there as a teacher. I was horrified then: "Teach? How dreadful!" I wanted to enter the Kyiv conservatory, but the Kharkiv one was nearer. That is where I went, and I was accepted at once into two faculties — conducting and voice.
It was hard to manage two faculties at once. Besides, I had to work at three jobs — fortunately all of them were connected with singing. God led me; I was performing and recording somewhere all the time. A recording in which I was the soloist was even played at the exhibition in Montreal (Canada) in the Ukrainian pavilion.
— And I know that you were heard even in space; how did that come about?
— In my second year my friend, fellow student and splendid composer Borys Mykhailovskyi composed the song "Romashki", which he dedicated to Tereshkova, the world's first woman cosmonaut. We recorded this song and it was broadcast all over the country in the newsreel "Molod Ukrainy". And it so happened that Valentina Tereshkova took precisely this song with her on her space flight. The recording, incidentally, has survived to this day and is available on the internet. And a telegram came to the Kharkiv conservatory from Tereshkova: "Tell Liubochka that I am listening to her."
— Tell us about your teachers: who influenced your formation as a teacher, and how?
— I consider that the most important thing in the life of a creative person is to meet a worthy teacher. In this matter I was very fortunate. In the Dnipropetrovsk college I was taught by Olha Dmytrivna Tarlovska — a pupil of the Italian vocal school. That is a school "for the ages", so calm, beautiful and noble. Olha Dmytrivna was a most wise person, such a subtle, sensitive and attentive teacher. We were her last graduating class, since she was already of advanced years.
In Kharkiv I was fortunate too. Our Olha Vasylivna Obukhova was a teacher, an accompanist and the dean of the faculty. In general, much bound us together. In the conservatory she was my teacher, and in amateur work and in my extra jobs my accompanist. Olha Vasylivna was a person of the highest culture. I remember we were performing Rachmaninoff. He has up to 100 most beautiful romances, but the most beloved is "Noch pechalna". This is that rare case where the poetic philosophy coincided with the musical… And so, the rehearsal is going on, I am singing, and suddenly Olha Vasylivna asks me: "And do you know whose verses these are?" I honestly said that I did not. I looked into the score and read: "I. Bunin". She answers me: "Very well then, you will go to the library, take the fifth volume of Bunin and read it. Do not come to the lesson without that." That is how we were taught… She taught me always to be responsible. If you undertake something, then approach it with all responsibility. If you teach, then teach. When I was already in Kyiv, she used to come to me. She has long been gone, but to this day I pray for her every evening.
— And when did you become a believer?
— In the 70s the thought of being baptised suddenly came to me. I persuaded my daughter and we were baptised in the Exaltation of the Cross church on Podil. I did not, however, begin to go to church; it was dangerous. But on my birthday I always went into St Volodymyr's cathedral. I did not know how to pray; well, I shall say what I can — I simply asked the Mother of God in my own words. And always, as I went to church, someone from the theatre was watching me.
Then, one day, the choirmaster Liudmyla Pavlivna Dunina, a graduate of the Odesa conservatory, came to me and said: "A seminary is opening here; perhaps you would agree to teach there. It will be interesting, do come! We have a rector now — Father Petro Vlodek, and he invites you.
I came to him all made up, serious. He introduced himself: "Father Petro." "And your patronymic?" I ask. "Simply Father Petro." — "No, that will not do," I say. "I have one father, do not give me that here. Everyone has a patronymic!"
In a word, I even tried to teach him. But he was polite and patient with me. I told him that although I was baptised, I rarely went to church and did not properly know the prayers. I began to make excuses, saying that my eyesight was no longer good enough to read the prayers, and that I did not want to disgrace myself before the children. For some time he persuaded me: "You will teach the children to sing, and they will teach you to pray."
This conversation lasted about an hour. And I agreed to try.
I arrive, and the classroom is full of children, about a hundred! "What, do you all want to sing?" I was horrified. "Yes, of course!" the seminarians answered.
Those first two years were the best. That generation was no longer afraid of the KGB, of torture and of prisons. In the seminary there was strictness and order, and fine suits were made for everyone. The spirit then was something special…
— And how did monastics become your pupils?
— They learned that there was a singing teacher in the seminary, and began to come little by little. They would come, write their names on the board, and sit down to wait for me. I arrive — and the whole board is covered with surnames and names. I worked nine hours a day, can you imagine? So much that was good there was! How I liked them all!
And in each of them the voice had to be identified. That is a great responsibility. For they come and argue: "This is a tenor," and I listen and answer: "He is as much a tenor as I am a ballerina." I know for certain that if a person sings in a voice that is not his own, ailments will inevitably visit him.
I remember one pupil complained to me: "I do not want to be a bass, I want to be a tenor!" "No problem," I answer, "you will be the nastiest tenor in Ukraine." — "No, I do not want to be a nasty tenor!" — "Then you will be the best bass!" — "I do!" Everyone bursts out laughing…
I had 250 people a week studying with me. And on Sundays and Saturdays I travelled to the monasteries: Yelets, Holosiivo, Tserkovshchyna, Kytaievo, St Florus, the Protection, Bila Tserkva, Danivka, Krasnohirsk. And nuns from Orel also came to me to study, staying here for a month at a time and having lessons. Those were the ones directed by Father Iliy (Nozdrin). The happiest time…
— And how did the nuns from Orel find you?
— One of the sisters of the Protection monastery was from there. She told them about me in her homeland, and they found me: "Could you not help us?" I always helped those who came for help, and refused no one. But at that moment my state examinations were beginning, and I asked: "Do not come this month, I have entrance examinations for 20 days in a row." And what do you think? They came all the same. I clutched my head — what was to be done? The next day it turned out that the chairman of the commission had fallen ill and the examinations were being postponed for two weeks. I telephone the nuns from Orel and say: "You are in luck, the examinations have been postponed." And they answer with a smile: "That is Father Iliy who prayed and gave his blessing. We told him that you had examinations, and he still said that we must go." That was the Lord's miracle for me. Now, after so many years of life with God, I believe in all this so much that there are no words. There are no words to express that depth!
— Liubov Petrivna, I know that at the age of 27, at an examination in hospital, you were told that you had no more than a year left on the stage. But you left the stage in 1994… What were those years like?
— Retinal dystrophy and the complete loss of central vision were diagnosed in me at the age of 27. Many admired my eyes: an astonishing combination — a strong voice and beautiful, wide-open eyes. And at the same time few knew that I saw nothing in front of me, since at that moment only 10 per cent of peripheral vision remained. Every six months I travelled to Moscow, where they maintained my seven-hundredths and eight-hundredths of vision. And when American lenses were fitted for me in 2015 — they made even my peripheral vision worse. Well, and so I held out. Therefore I do not grieve; I simply know that it could have happened much earlier. And the main thing is that when I was invited to the conservatory — can you imagine what impudence that was: I cannot see the notes, and yet I went to teach and I taught.
— And how did that happen?
— I worked on the placing of the voice and on the interpretation of any work. I know 9 operas by heart. The accompanist plays, and I say: "This phrase like this, and this one like that." While they are performing it, I have memorised it all.
— And the piano?
— I am not a pianist, but in the conservatory, incidentally, I played the piano very well. And that although I only learned the notes at the college at the age of 17. I liked this instrument very much, and I played very difficult works — while my sight lasted… And when I could no longer read anything, long-sightedness set in, and somehow I still managed.
Afterwards I got by on character alone. Fortunately, I had a splendid schooling. I did not rely on the conductor to wave his baton; I had to know exactly when to come in. No prompting at all. I do not give up to the last. I simply know: since the Lord helps, then be worthy of it.
— And how did you learn the parts?
— At home my daughter dictates to me and I write it down in an exercise book. That is how I memorised it. But of course there were drawbacks too. If anything went wrong or was changed, I was thrown off at once. Or, for example, when on stage one had to climb up on something. I remember I had to jump up onto a barrel. I never refused, never complained, but at rehearsals I calculated to the millimetre how to do it properly. For me overcoming is the meaning of life. And with all that, at 50 I played what I had played at 25. My appearance and my voice allowed it. And with health it is as with all actors — we wait for the interval and go on stage again. You cannot beat the actress out of me!
— In Turgenev's "A Nest of Gentlefolk" there is a description of a man who has completely lost his sight: pitiful and helpless, afraid of loneliness and a burden to everyone around him. With you it is exactly the opposite!
— Yes, I do not see, but nothing prevents me from thinking rightly. With such sight I could have had a disability status, but I did not apply for it. It is character, as they say — "trees die standing". There is an obstacle — I must overcome it. And it was only from 2015 that the situation grew worse; before that I still managed. Now the only help I need is to have food bought for me; for the rest I look after myself entirely. The more people help me, the weaker I am.
— All real people are solitary, or at least they understand that this is so. What is solitude for you?
— I feel myself entirely independent. Yes, I may bump into something at times, but that will not drive me into despair. It is not natural to me. When I am sad, I put on Rachmaninoff's second concerto.
Music is the chief thing in my life. Romain Rolland said that thanks to music we have come to understand God better. Music is something one can live by, something akin to air.
When audiobooks appeared, my daughter downloaded more than 100 works of the classics for me, and I listened to them all. If I particularly like something, I listen to it again. I am very interested in psychology, in human actions. Everything interests me. Yes, it is a pity, but I remember the view from the window that I had, and I often recreate it in my mind.
I have never asked anyone for help. If people do not see that I need help, then perhaps I do not need that help… A true friend always knows himself when and with what to help. That is my position in life.
— Do you agree with the phrase of a well-known violinist that if we do our work properly, then we grow by it, and if improperly, then our finances grow?
— I have never striven after big money. I earned my pension by colossal labour: 25 years in the conservatory, 25 years in the "Dumka" academic capella, 32 years in the monasteries. And another 4 years teaching in the M. Lysenko school, two years in the M. Drahomanov pedagogical university. In all, 58 years of working life. I treat what I do with enormous responsibility and respect. And I do it not for money.
— Is it possible to count how many people you have taught in the monasteries?
— That is impossible; I have not counted and see no sense in it. For me this is obedience to God, not earnings, not secular work.
— What is the most valuable thing you have achieved in life?
— At the beginning of the 1990s my pupil Archpriest Dmytrii Bolharskyi and I made the first audio recording of the All-Night Vigil, the Liturgy and the akathist to the Mother of God sung by the monastic choir of the Lavra. There are the fruits of my labour. I bow before the singing of the Lavra! By the harmonic canons that exist it does not conform, but this singing is unique! There were no professional singers there, only monks and novices. It was created in their feeling of prayer. Glory to God that we recorded it! It was a gift from God for me. To take part in such a project is the greatest honour. It is precisely in this recording that the essence of my vocal school lies.
The first recording — the All-Night Vigil — is entirely the voices of seminarians. The lads deliberately did not go home for the holidays but stayed. They came early in the morning and I warmed up their voices. It was the Apostles' Fast, they were hungry and thin… By all the rules the sound ought to have shown it. But how they sounded! In them one hears the Spirit! These were the first seminarians admitted after the long break of 70 years. A special time, special people… The second and third recordings — the liturgy and the akathist — are the monks singing.
As far as I can, I go to the All-Night Vigil at Christmas and at Pascha. There are thousands of people, and it seems to me that I am the happiest of them. I stand and listen to the voices — with all my emotionality I cannot even convey in words the state I am in.
What is also valuable to me is that, in spite of my age, my abilities are still needed by someone. It gives me enormous pleasure to remember how many voices I have opened, how many people I have helped to sound. Seven of my graduates are laureates of international vocal competitions, 6 are Honoured Artists of Ukraine and one is a People's Artist.
And also my beloved ones: my daughter, my granddaughter and my great-grandchildren… For that it is worth living.
Every day I learn, every day someone teaches me. I try to live by the commandment: "Love thy neighbour as thyself." I try never to scold, but to give information, and information that is as positive as possible.
— Depending on how a person has lived his life, there is an ugly old age and there is a beautiful old age. Yours is undoubtedly a beautiful old age. There is nothing to hide here. Many of the monks come to you for support and advice. Merab Mamardashvili has a phrase that people are alive to the degree that they bring others to life. That is about you. Thank you
— The conception of singing, as I understand it, is the accord of soul and body. The soul is the instance of God and goes to God. It always sounds and always wants to pray. The body, in its turn, is always less well tuned. My task, therefore, is to find the accord of soul and body, so that the body may voice the thought of the soul.
The word gives vibration to the body — that is how the voice appears. A word taken correctly on the support of the breath is the voiced thought. All that is needed is the word and the breath — nothing more! This is especially noticeable in monasteries, where people with a musical education are rarely met with. My task is that in the lessons a person should understand, should feel, that the voice is an axis sounding in the centre of his body. The first thing I require of pupils is the ability to stand. A person must stand harmoniously, as God's creation, and not as an infirm being. For singing this is very important. Because, when one turns to God in prayer, one must be in a good, correct physical state.
— In an emotional state, you mean?
— No. In church singing I am categorically against any emotions at all. Singing must be extremely strict. Strictness presupposes clarity, and clarity in its turn audibility. The border between the theatre and church singing is very unstable. In my view, in church one must sing strictly and prayerfully — when I hear all the words, then I pray together with the singer. But when a professional artist sings, he enters into a role and tries to express something emotional, sensual.
— You stood at the sources of monastic singing, which had to be revived after 70 years of Soviet persecution…
— I have the feeling that in Kyiv I am one of the first who took this up. I shall never forget how I first came to the seminary for a lesson. I go into the classroom, and there sit about a hundred people! It even made me dizzy, so many wanted to sing. But those were happy years. Twice a week I came at 12 o'clock and left at 21. But for me the voice is something sacred.
— And do you yourself sing in church?
— No, I simply pray. I go to church to pray, not to sing.
— And what is your voice?
— Lyric-dramatic soprano. In the theatre I sang until "pension age", and even beyond. In 1986 I was often in Chornobyl and six months later my health sharply deteriorated. I had an operation on my windpipe. It was a most terrible operation; for three months I did not speak at all. After that I was invited to the conservatory.
— What is the difference between monastic voices and the voices of professional singers?
— Rather it is not a difference but a difficulty, though a surmountable one. In monasteries it is far harder to work, because you work with what there is. Perhaps the ear is not very good there, and there is little voice, but we begin to work — and I see that the person is already acquiring an ear, and the voice is waking up.
— Presumably it is more interesting for you in monasteries, since you become party to the appearance of a new voice?
— That is true. Sometimes I am even more glad than they are. In the world much comes about through overcoming. Sometimes I do not even know myself where to pull it next, what to do? Some put up mirrors in order to look at how the mouth appears. But an "ugly mouth" during singing is in fact the result of a person not having sufficient command of the breath and of the word. It is only a question of incorrect breathing — that is all.
Singing is not formulae, after all, not rules with diagrams. We are all unique, and for me every pupil is one and unrepeatable. The difficulty lies in the fact that I must understand instantly what is wrong and why he is not sounding. Everything is very individual. But the main thing is that a person should have the desire to sing. If a person greatly wants to, then even without an ear he can learn to sing. One must find the accord, the balance between the body and the voice, and then the ears will "start working". Besides this, singing must be constantly trained. As a pianist constantly trains his hands, so a singer trains the body, the voice. Precision of letters is important: the consonant must go together with the vowel — this is vocal diction. Any exercises train the muscular memory. If a person does exercises in the morning, he will have muscular tone all day. So it is in singing too — we have worked, and we have muscular tone for a week.
Lessons must take place once a week — that is a conservatory rule. Because people who are constantly occupied in a choir must not be overstrained. Endless singing is very harmful. Voices are worn away. First it is "strong singing", then shouting singing, and then the vocal cords cannot bear it. Even metal has a limit of resistance, let alone the voice! Therefore I treat voices very carefully. For example, Bishop Antonii, Archimandrite Mark and Archpriest Pavlo, when they came to me, their singing was in a catastrophic state. Their voices were broken, the doctors spread their hands and said that it was beyond repair. But God arranged everything. In our lessons everything was gradually restored. With God's help. But it is better not to let things come to that.
— You once said that it is easier to work with monastics than with professional singers. Why is that?
— Professionals have much ambition. I often have to struggle with their ambitions, and here one must be very firm. In the first years one has simply to remake the person, his way of thinking, because even if he has entered the conservatory, that is still study, and so he is not yet a fully matured singer.
Monks, on the other hand, feel everything more quickly. They have a different perception of any obedience whatever. When do we remember God? When it is hard and when there is time. But monks lie down and rise up with God. To monks it is enough to say: "If you do not understand that God and the Mother of God are everywhere, if you lose the chief address of your singing, then all your efforts are in vain. You must not sing in such a way that the Mother of God should stand and weep beside you."
In my view, worldly people ought not to sing in monasteries. It is incompatible. The spirit is not the same. A worldly person is preoccupied with what comes next, where to run, what to pay for, whereas in a monastery the spirit of the monks is at peace — no one is hurrying anywhere.
— To break oneself and to trust one's teacher completely is not at all simple. Not everyone can endure the demands of his mentors. With you, on the contrary, there are not merely many pupils but simply an enormous number. What is the secret of your approach to pupils?
— I have this formula: the eyes are the mirror of the soul, and the voice is its sound. Therefore I treat every voice with great respect and with enormous responsibility. When a pupil begins to sing better, begins to sound, I feel an enormous joy — you cannot even imagine what kind! For the fact that I began to teach singing to monastics I am still grateful to Father Petro Vlodek. It was he who persuaded me to teach at the theological seminary. Can you imagine how many voices have passed through my hands? How many people it has been possible to help!
— Liubov Petrivna, how do you remember your childhood?
— The family of a serviceman who with two children was sent to the Far East. My father served together with Zhukov. And there, on the bank of the Amur, I was unexpectedly born. We lived in a small town, where a division was stationed near Blagoveshchensk. There were neither theatres nor cinemas there. But artistic energy was in me as long as I can remember. "Who wants to recite poetry?" — "I do!" — "Who is going to sing a song?" — "I am!" — "To dance?" — "I will!" And so the word "actress" I heard for the first time in the kindergarten.
When my father was transferred near Stanislav (now Ivano-Frankivsk), to Bohorodchany, I went to school there. The times were very hard; there was a struggle between the Soviet authorities and the OUN and other nationalist units. It was dangerous to walk about in the evenings. My father contrived to put me into a club for children's creative work, for even then I simply could not live without singing. To this day I remember the surname of my accompanist-violinist — Yavorskyi.
We were incomers, and no one even called me by name; they simply said "sovitka" — meaning "Soviet girl". But I answered to it. In general it was all the same to me what I was called, as long as I was with the other children. I was a ringleader, constantly dragging everyone off now into some cellars, now to the cemetery, now somewhere else.
I remember I incited the children to run off from lessons into the mountains. There for the first time I saw real soldiers of the OUN-UPA. Out came an uncle, so stern, and straight at me: "And who is this?" And I did indeed differ from the other children in my clothes and my appearance. For example, all my peers in Frankivsk went about in postoly (simple Hutsul leather footwear), while I had little boots on. The children saved me by saying: "That is the daughter of the combine driver who has just arrived." If they had found out that I was the daughter of a political officer, they would have hanged me without a question. As it was, they took us to a hideout, fed us and sent us home, having taken our word that we would tell no one where we had been.
The struggle at that time was terrible. My teacher, because she made us join the Pioneers, was burned alive, and a star was cut into her breast. That was the first shock of my life. To this day I cannot understand who had the right simply to burn a human being in a fire. It was already her remains that were buried. It was a nightmare. I was then in the lower classes, quite a child, but I already understood that in this life something is not right.
In the third class I was sent, as a representative of Western Ukraine, to a competition in Kyiv. There was a big congress of Pioneers there. I sat on the knees of Sydir Kovpak, a general and twice Hero of the Soviet Union, saw Kyiv for the first time, and spent some time in the zoo.
— In the family of a serviceman, in theory, there should be obedience and discipline. But it seems that things did not go very well with that for you?
— I never obeyed. My parents lived in perfect harmony, they never quarrelled, but they simply did not know what to do with me. Though they never scolded me. My brother and sister were quiet children, but I was not. For example, I never played with dolls. What interested me were small parts from a tank, all sorts of bearings and the like — my father served in a tank division, after all.
Incidentally, my father punished me only once with a soldier's belt, and that "deservedly". There was a boy called Vania in our class, who grew up without a father. He was always pulling my plaits. I could not bear it and once said to him: "You have no father, and I have! He will come and beat you for hurting me!" I came home and said to my father: "Go and beat Vania, he has no father, for pulling my plaits." My father took his belt and gave it to me with the words: "If they hit you, hit back, but do not dare to complain!" Those were fateful words. After my father's "blessing" I began to fight better than the boys. I had my own move: first I strike with my fingers into the solar plexus, and while the boy is gulping for air, I get him on the jaw. Such were the "exercises" I had in Western Ukraine.
But in the fifth class I began to fall ill often, with constant tonsillitis and bronchitis. The doctors said that evidently the climate did not suit me. Then our family moved to Marhanets, and there I went into the 6th class. Here, instead of the summer holidays, the children were sent to work on the collective farm. We harvested the wheat. I was good at binding sheaves. Then I carried them away on a cart drawn by two oxen. There my voice came in very useful. Can you imagine, I had to sing to make the oxen go! As soon as I fell silent, they stopped. But I cannot sing loudly for a whole hour… My father was glad when, after two months spent in that way, I brought home a sack of wheat.
There, in Marhanets in the Dnipropetrovsk region, there was a splendid Miners' Palace, where I went on with my singing. It was the only thing I was good at. Our choir had 100 people, and I was the soloist. In the tenth class, before the World Festival in Moscow (1957), I went as a soloist from the Dnipropetrovsk region to perform in Kyiv. We sailed on a steamer, through Kaniv, and visited Shevchenko's grave. In Kyiv there was an extensive programme. We sang on the radio, then performed in the new stadium, which then bore the name of Khrushchev (the present Olympic stadium).
— Was it then, in 1957, that you visited the Lavra for the first time?
— Yes, and that thanks to relatives in Marhanets on my mother's side. They asked me to go into the Lavra in Kyiv and buy candles. Once they used to walk to the Lavra themselves, but with age they could no longer… Our ship was standing in the port at Poshtova. And I went by myself, I was not afraid. At that time I did not even know what a monastery was. Some monk led us round the caves. I remembered only some 12 brothers in the little caves (the 12 builders), and that was all. When my candle suddenly went out, I nearly died of fright. Then I bought the candles — and that was all.
— When did you understand that singing was your calling?
— After school I told my father that I wanted to sing. All the more so since after that World Festival I was given a diploma by which I could enter the conservatory without examinations. I wanted to go to Kyiv, but my father honestly admitted that there was no money. He advised me to enter the Dnipropetrovsk music college — what difference did it make? And indeed it made no difference to me.
When I had taken the examinations, it turned out that I need not have taken anything at all — participants of the International Festival of 1957 had the right to enter without examinations.
After finishing the music college I was offered a place there as a teacher. I was horrified then: "Teach? How dreadful!" I wanted to enter the Kyiv conservatory, but the Kharkiv one was nearer. That is where I went, and I was accepted at once into two faculties — conducting and voice.
It was hard to manage two faculties at once. Besides, I had to work at three jobs — fortunately all of them were connected with singing. God led me; I was performing and recording somewhere all the time. A recording in which I was the soloist was even played at the exhibition in Montreal (Canada) in the Ukrainian pavilion.
— And I know that you were heard even in space; how did that come about?
— In my second year my friend, fellow student and splendid composer Borys Mykhailovskyi composed the song "Romashki", which he dedicated to Tereshkova, the world's first woman cosmonaut. We recorded this song and it was broadcast all over the country in the newsreel "Molod Ukrainy". And it so happened that Valentina Tereshkova took precisely this song with her on her space flight. The recording, incidentally, has survived to this day and is available on the internet. And a telegram came to the Kharkiv conservatory from Tereshkova: "Tell Liubochka that I am listening to her."
— Tell us about your teachers: who influenced your formation as a teacher, and how?
— I consider that the most important thing in the life of a creative person is to meet a worthy teacher. In this matter I was very fortunate. In the Dnipropetrovsk college I was taught by Olha Dmytrivna Tarlovska — a pupil of the Italian vocal school. That is a school "for the ages", so calm, beautiful and noble. Olha Dmytrivna was a most wise person, such a subtle, sensitive and attentive teacher. We were her last graduating class, since she was already of advanced years.
In Kharkiv I was fortunate too. Our Olha Vasylivna Obukhova was a teacher, an accompanist and the dean of the faculty. In general, much bound us together. In the conservatory she was my teacher, and in amateur work and in my extra jobs my accompanist. Olha Vasylivna was a person of the highest culture. I remember we were performing Rachmaninoff. He has up to 100 most beautiful romances, but the most beloved is "Noch pechalna". This is that rare case where the poetic philosophy coincided with the musical… And so, the rehearsal is going on, I am singing, and suddenly Olha Vasylivna asks me: "And do you know whose verses these are?" I honestly said that I did not. I looked into the score and read: "I. Bunin". She answers me: "Very well then, you will go to the library, take the fifth volume of Bunin and read it. Do not come to the lesson without that." That is how we were taught… She taught me always to be responsible. If you undertake something, then approach it with all responsibility. If you teach, then teach. When I was already in Kyiv, she used to come to me. She has long been gone, but to this day I pray for her every evening.
— And when did you become a believer?
— In the 70s the thought of being baptised suddenly came to me. I persuaded my daughter and we were baptised in the Exaltation of the Cross church on Podil. I did not, however, begin to go to church; it was dangerous. But on my birthday I always went into St Volodymyr's cathedral. I did not know how to pray; well, I shall say what I can — I simply asked the Mother of God in my own words. And always, as I went to church, someone from the theatre was watching me.
Then, one day, the choirmaster Liudmyla Pavlivna Dunina, a graduate of the Odesa conservatory, came to me and said: "A seminary is opening here; perhaps you would agree to teach there. It will be interesting, do come! We have a rector now — Father Petro Vlodek, and he invites you.
I came to him all made up, serious. He introduced himself: "Father Petro." "And your patronymic?" I ask. "Simply Father Petro." — "No, that will not do," I say. "I have one father, do not give me that here. Everyone has a patronymic!"
In a word, I even tried to teach him. But he was polite and patient with me. I told him that although I was baptised, I rarely went to church and did not properly know the prayers. I began to make excuses, saying that my eyesight was no longer good enough to read the prayers, and that I did not want to disgrace myself before the children. For some time he persuaded me: "You will teach the children to sing, and they will teach you to pray."
This conversation lasted about an hour. And I agreed to try.
I arrive, and the classroom is full of children, about a hundred! "What, do you all want to sing?" I was horrified. "Yes, of course!" the seminarians answered.
Those first two years were the best. That generation was no longer afraid of the KGB, of torture and of prisons. In the seminary there was strictness and order, and fine suits were made for everyone. The spirit then was something special…
— And how did monastics become your pupils?
— They learned that there was a singing teacher in the seminary, and began to come little by little. They would come, write their names on the board, and sit down to wait for me. I arrive — and the whole board is covered with surnames and names. I worked nine hours a day, can you imagine? So much that was good there was! How I liked them all!
And in each of them the voice had to be identified. That is a great responsibility. For they come and argue: "This is a tenor," and I listen and answer: "He is as much a tenor as I am a ballerina." I know for certain that if a person sings in a voice that is not his own, ailments will inevitably visit him.
I remember one pupil complained to me: "I do not want to be a bass, I want to be a tenor!" "No problem," I answer, "you will be the nastiest tenor in Ukraine." — "No, I do not want to be a nasty tenor!" — "Then you will be the best bass!" — "I do!" Everyone bursts out laughing…
I had 250 people a week studying with me. And on Sundays and Saturdays I travelled to the monasteries: Yelets, Holosiivo, Tserkovshchyna, Kytaievo, St Florus, the Protection, Bila Tserkva, Danivka, Krasnohirsk. And nuns from Orel also came to me to study, staying here for a month at a time and having lessons. Those were the ones directed by Father Iliy (Nozdrin). The happiest time…
— And how did the nuns from Orel find you?
— One of the sisters of the Protection monastery was from there. She told them about me in her homeland, and they found me: "Could you not help us?" I always helped those who came for help, and refused no one. But at that moment my state examinations were beginning, and I asked: "Do not come this month, I have entrance examinations for 20 days in a row." And what do you think? They came all the same. I clutched my head — what was to be done? The next day it turned out that the chairman of the commission had fallen ill and the examinations were being postponed for two weeks. I telephone the nuns from Orel and say: "You are in luck, the examinations have been postponed." And they answer with a smile: "That is Father Iliy who prayed and gave his blessing. We told him that you had examinations, and he still said that we must go." That was the Lord's miracle for me. Now, after so many years of life with God, I believe in all this so much that there are no words. There are no words to express that depth!
— Liubov Petrivna, I know that at the age of 27, at an examination in hospital, you were told that you had no more than a year left on the stage. But you left the stage in 1994… What were those years like?
— Retinal dystrophy and the complete loss of central vision were diagnosed in me at the age of 27. Many admired my eyes: an astonishing combination — a strong voice and beautiful, wide-open eyes. And at the same time few knew that I saw nothing in front of me, since at that moment only 10 per cent of peripheral vision remained. Every six months I travelled to Moscow, where they maintained my seven-hundredths and eight-hundredths of vision. And when American lenses were fitted for me in 2015 — they made even my peripheral vision worse. Well, and so I held out. Therefore I do not grieve; I simply know that it could have happened much earlier. And the main thing is that when I was invited to the conservatory — can you imagine what impudence that was: I cannot see the notes, and yet I went to teach and I taught.
— And how did that happen?
— I worked on the placing of the voice and on the interpretation of any work. I know 9 operas by heart. The accompanist plays, and I say: "This phrase like this, and this one like that." While they are performing it, I have memorised it all.
— And the piano?
— I am not a pianist, but in the conservatory, incidentally, I played the piano very well. And that although I only learned the notes at the college at the age of 17. I liked this instrument very much, and I played very difficult works — while my sight lasted… And when I could no longer read anything, long-sightedness set in, and somehow I still managed.
Afterwards I got by on character alone. Fortunately, I had a splendid schooling. I did not rely on the conductor to wave his baton; I had to know exactly when to come in. No prompting at all. I do not give up to the last. I simply know: since the Lord helps, then be worthy of it.
— And how did you learn the parts?
— At home my daughter dictates to me and I write it down in an exercise book. That is how I memorised it. But of course there were drawbacks too. If anything went wrong or was changed, I was thrown off at once. Or, for example, when on stage one had to climb up on something. I remember I had to jump up onto a barrel. I never refused, never complained, but at rehearsals I calculated to the millimetre how to do it properly. For me overcoming is the meaning of life. And with all that, at 50 I played what I had played at 25. My appearance and my voice allowed it. And with health it is as with all actors — we wait for the interval and go on stage again. You cannot beat the actress out of me!
— In Turgenev's "A Nest of Gentlefolk" there is a description of a man who has completely lost his sight: pitiful and helpless, afraid of loneliness and a burden to everyone around him. With you it is exactly the opposite!
— Yes, I do not see, but nothing prevents me from thinking rightly. With such sight I could have had a disability status, but I did not apply for it. It is character, as they say — "trees die standing". There is an obstacle — I must overcome it. And it was only from 2015 that the situation grew worse; before that I still managed. Now the only help I need is to have food bought for me; for the rest I look after myself entirely. The more people help me, the weaker I am.
— All real people are solitary, or at least they understand that this is so. What is solitude for you?
— I feel myself entirely independent. Yes, I may bump into something at times, but that will not drive me into despair. It is not natural to me. When I am sad, I put on Rachmaninoff's second concerto.
Music is the chief thing in my life. Romain Rolland said that thanks to music we have come to understand God better. Music is something one can live by, something akin to air.
When audiobooks appeared, my daughter downloaded more than 100 works of the classics for me, and I listened to them all. If I particularly like something, I listen to it again. I am very interested in psychology, in human actions. Everything interests me. Yes, it is a pity, but I remember the view from the window that I had, and I often recreate it in my mind.
I have never asked anyone for help. If people do not see that I need help, then perhaps I do not need that help… A true friend always knows himself when and with what to help. That is my position in life.
— Do you agree with the phrase of a well-known violinist that if we do our work properly, then we grow by it, and if improperly, then our finances grow?
— I have never striven after big money. I earned my pension by colossal labour: 25 years in the conservatory, 25 years in the "Dumka" academic capella, 32 years in the monasteries. And another 4 years teaching in the M. Lysenko school, two years in the M. Drahomanov pedagogical university. In all, 58 years of working life. I treat what I do with enormous responsibility and respect. And I do it not for money.
— Is it possible to count how many people you have taught in the monasteries?
— That is impossible; I have not counted and see no sense in it. For me this is obedience to God, not earnings, not secular work.
— What is the most valuable thing you have achieved in life?
— At the beginning of the 1990s my pupil Archpriest Dmytrii Bolharskyi and I made the first audio recording of the All-Night Vigil, the Liturgy and the akathist to the Mother of God sung by the monastic choir of the Lavra. There are the fruits of my labour. I bow before the singing of the Lavra! By the harmonic canons that exist it does not conform, but this singing is unique! There were no professional singers there, only monks and novices. It was created in their feeling of prayer. Glory to God that we recorded it! It was a gift from God for me. To take part in such a project is the greatest honour. It is precisely in this recording that the essence of my vocal school lies.
The first recording — the All-Night Vigil — is entirely the voices of seminarians. The lads deliberately did not go home for the holidays but stayed. They came early in the morning and I warmed up their voices. It was the Apostles' Fast, they were hungry and thin… By all the rules the sound ought to have shown it. But how they sounded! In them one hears the Spirit! These were the first seminarians admitted after the long break of 70 years. A special time, special people… The second and third recordings — the liturgy and the akathist — are the monks singing.
As far as I can, I go to the All-Night Vigil at Christmas and at Pascha. There are thousands of people, and it seems to me that I am the happiest of them. I stand and listen to the voices — with all my emotionality I cannot even convey in words the state I am in.
What is also valuable to me is that, in spite of my age, my abilities are still needed by someone. It gives me enormous pleasure to remember how many voices I have opened, how many people I have helped to sound. Seven of my graduates are laureates of international vocal competitions, 6 are Honoured Artists of Ukraine and one is a People's Artist.
And also my beloved ones: my daughter, my granddaughter and my great-grandchildren… For that it is worth living.
Every day I learn, every day someone teaches me. I try to live by the commandment: "Love thy neighbour as thyself." I try never to scold, but to give information, and information that is as positive as possible.
— Depending on how a person has lived his life, there is an ugly old age and there is a beautiful old age. Yours is undoubtedly a beautiful old age. There is nothing to hide here. Many of the monks come to you for support and advice. Merab Mamardashvili has a phrase that people are alive to the degree that they bring others to life. That is about you. Thank you
Prepared by Hierodeacon Khrystofor
Photo gallery
