John: Lily, I want to know more about Mihail [her husband, pronounced like “Mee-kael”] and his art. But you were a practicing artist, too, weren’t you?
Lily: I actually did a couple of years jewelry. When the dealer wanted me to do something with precious stones, I said “No, I cannot afford that.” We were in New York, just freshly from Europe so I refused. It was mainly little pebbles from the beaches of Long Island, painted, with some strings or chains. My first order was in Columbus, Ohio. It was a gay men’s shop. They loved the stones, and I had lots of orders. And then from other places in the States. It went on for 2 years probably when she asked me, “Why don’t you paint on your stones Picasso faces?” I said, “I’m not going to copy Picasso.” There are so many fake Picassos; Picasso this and Picasso that. People don’t know who Picasso is but they know the name. So I started helping Mihail with his projects.
Mihail was a practicing artist when I married him. He make a monument of a Bulgarian monk called Paisius of Hilendar who wrote the first Bulgarian history. You know we are almost of the fifteenth century in the Ottoman Empire, not existing as Bulgaria. So he made the monument.
It stayed under wraps more than a year, or maybe two years, before it was inaugurated by some politicians. That was the Communist era. The prime minister at the time was Todor Zhivkov. He was saying that when he passed the monument he closed his eyes. And that was a little man without any education. He didn’t like it.
Because of this monument my husband was left without any commissions, any work. That was the time when he was smoking. My mother was giving him money for cigarettes. We left Bulgaria. At that time there was a group of Bulgarian architectural firm that was building the first stadium in Tunisia because they were preparing the African Olympics. some of the architects was very close friend of Mihail and he said we will need some sculpture in front of the stadium. So he left and three months after that I left with my baby daughter with two suitcases and never returned for almost twenty years.
After six years, I remember we came to New York City. Because Mihail went to an American high school, in Tunisia he befriended many Americans from the Ford Foundation, from the embassy. Some of our American friends said, “You’re not going to return back, are you? Let’s do something.” Marilyn Johnson was the American Cultural attaché at the time. That was the Johnson family, I think, from Boston. She wrote that Mihail was an exceptional artist and he had all the preparation to come to America. So he came here for his Green Card. With his Green Card he returned to Tunis and two years after that we left with a round trip ticket because we didn’t want to alarm the Bulgarian embassy because we also had a Bulgarian embassy there.
For the first couple of months in Westchester, New York. My daughter, Iana, spoke both French and Bulgarian. It was fantastic because she had a tutor, a teacher who spoke French and English. In three months she spoke English! For the new school year we moved to New York and rented a loft the size of a block, from 17 to 18th Street where my daughter was roller skating and bicycling.
This was Union Square. No one lived there; we were the first one, the top floor and right to the roof where we make sort of a garden. Little by little the building started emptying and artists moved and finally all the business moved out. There were a very nice bunch of people there. Still some of them are my friends. There was a metal door to the next loft. We never locked the door. It was so funny. There were five hippies who lived there. There were a couple of our friends, especially the French, who said, “Do you trust them?” I said, “Why not?” They just come for a cup of sugar, or “Do you have coffee?” We could go out sometime, with my husband, because they were babysitting Iana. They’re very practical.
Mihail started doing many things. He wanted just to get rid of the Communist era and explore some new things. He continue with sculpture because he said, “I think sculpture.” But he started paintings, and many new art pieces with photographic paper. He [had] a couple of [gallery] exhibition in New York. I never went to his openings. I hate openings and premiers. I just go when people’s not there. The last exhibition with only bronze sculpture. It was downtown, SoHo, Phillip Stepp Gallery. He was French. Bronzes are a very expensive practice. That’s why he stop at [that] point.
Our building at one point — our landlord was a very nice man from Brooklyn — our rent was started something $600 for this loft. He was a very kind man. But he died and inheritance started raising the rent. Finally, without saying anything to anybody in our building, they sold and we had to go. And the rent went absolutely incredible. I heard maybe our place sold close to four millions. So we moved to Long Island. His studio was not big. He was not happy although it was a charming little village. Many friends from New York had cottages here for the summer. He said, “I cannot live here. When we go to party everyone is talking about investments. Nobody even ask me what I’m doing.” He said “It’s so bourgeois. I just want a raw space to work.” He was travelling to New York by subway reading the New York Times. There was an article about Pawtucket, old mills and space for artists. He came and said, “We’re moving to Pawtucket.” What? He wrote to the mayor —I think it was Doyle at the time — and he invite him and show him all kinds of mills. Finally he liked this place. We moved to the top floor, the only ones here.
We were all alone in the whole building without permit living here. We travel. We stay with friends. But it was a little too much without studio for Mihail. As he said, “This is my life: My girls and my studio.” We finally moved here. Every early morning we covered the bed with paintings in case the inspector comes and check. I have one empty suitcases by the door. One day the inspectors surprised us. It was 7:30 in the morning. I opened the door. Luckily I was dressed. I said, “Oh, come in, please. We just come in from the city.” I don’t know if he believe us but he didn’t say anything. He look around: no bed, no dishes, nothing. Just empty space. At one point, Mihail said, “I have to move my things here. I live with my doubt. I wake up in the morning and I see what I did the previous day.” So the landlord, the management, was very kind. A whole crew moved everything upstairs.
We continue to sleep and work until two years after we moved. It was just before Thanksgiving holiday they had the permit. We said, “Lucky we have the proper holiday to be thankful we finally can sleep in peace.” We had living quarters, a living room, a studio and office. Until he was diagnosed with a malfunctioning kidney from the malaria he got in Kenya.
After he cast the elephant [see the project in Artist’s Statement], he was visiting friends George Adamson — his wife Joy wrote Born Free — George was working there in Kora, just looking after the lions with his assistant, Tony, who was a young man who learned all about elephants and lions.
Later George was killed from the poachers. Tony moved to Zimbabwe and opened a camp for the wild dogs. When Mihail was in Kora with George and Tony he got malaria that goes to the brain. Either you survive or you die. He had such a high fever he went to Mount Sinai Hospital and the team of doctor told him to just go home, he was going to die in four days. We sent our daughter immediately to France to stay with my family. He lost something like, in these 3 days, 30 kilos. He became like Gandhi. He was very strong, you know, big man. I was holding his hand. And then the fever broke and he was fine. But with high fever, he did four big pieces of paintings. To the end of his days he said that he made five. I said, “I was there. I didn’t have high fever. You had hallucinating. Where is the fifth?”
He continue to work, he goes to dialysis. He makes peace with that because, you know, he had such unnatural optimism for life, and zest for life. He thought he was never going to die. Until the last moment. In the last two months, they goes to the studio and just check some of the painting he didn’t like. My daughter who is absolutely so protective of his art and of him, she said, “But can’t destroy all that. It’s energy. Let’s do something.” So together they sat and made photos and they sign together Iana and Mihail. Sitting in the hospital a couple of days before he died, he was already making plans how you will buy a scooter to go to his studio. Because he has gangrene in his toes and they amputated his leg above his knee. And he took that so lightly. I cried at night. I cried that this is the most horrible day in my life. He was already showing all the research he need for the scooter, for the wheelchair, for the prosthesis, what exactly and how he is going to learn to walk. One night I text him, “Good night, see you in the morning,” and didn’t have any response. I thought probably he’s asleep. He died. Iana was with him when he died. We cremated him because he didn’t want a memorial service. He didn’t want people gather to eat. He said, “No fuss. When we die, spread the ashes somewhere. Your choice. Preferably the Mediterranean Sea.” Because we love so much Tunis.
Inside Lily’s apartment