If there are two non-art related words that stand out in a conversation with Alexander Kaletski these are: communism and cardboard. Kaletski has a high opinion of one of these and a low one of the other. His story is a fascinating one, even in the long history of artist-immigrants to the United States.

Kaletski is first a painter but he was and remains a well-known actor in Russia. He just completed a self-produced film  in the USA (Song of Silence) with his wife. He is a musician and he has written several novels, including a best-seller.

At Art Miami, during Art Basel in Miami, some of Kaletski’s work on cardboard was on display. What drove him, after emigrating, to work in this peculiar medium? The motive wasn’t totally aesthetic.

“I always wanted to paint oil on canvas, when I came to America I had no money. I couldn’t.” he says.

But wandering around in New York, he saw something beautiful—and something scarce in Russia, or at least not piled up on the street.

“I saw, on the streets of New York, there was recycling, pieces of cardboard. Coming from Russia they looked so beautiful. There was no cardboard in Russia. Each box was a masterpiece in my eyes.” says Kaletski.

And Kaletski made many pieces from cardboard and continued to work with what we throw away, even after his finances improved and he could afford canvas. There is something in this about America and Americans—something sort of sad.  What we throw away others can find beautiful and make more beautiful. We take our beautiful junk for granted.

Kaletski didn’t, and doesn’t. He still makes his cardboard paintings. And it isn't just slapping paint on cardboard. He first applied white or black gesso (used to prepare canvas as well).

“You can put oil on cardboard but it eats cardboard and makes ugly spots. Sometimes I use pastel and you can mix that with gesso. When gesso is on cardboard you can put oil on top of it—whatever comes to mind and is nearby, glue…When I start with cardboard I never know what I am going to do. The spirit of the cardboard comes out of the box.” says Kaletski.

These days Kaletski’s main work is oil on linen. He adheres to no specific style. In each new work he strives for something different and not only stylistically.

“All painting I tried to do is experimental, every show is different. I try to do something different technically.” he says.

He considers the oil work to be his experimental, serious work. While his oils are drying he works on cardboard pieces which he says are for “fun and the soul.”

Creating is what fuels Kaletski’s soul and even in a brief conversation you come to understand the challenges faced by a creative mind in the repressive system that was the USSR.

“When I was a child I was painting all the time—I won every children’s competition. When I was older I had to go to University,’ says Kaletski. “In Russia at that time you picked an area of training and that is what you did for the rest of your life.”

And if you decided to be a painter you didn’t run with your muse. You didn’t try to create something new; after all, you lived in a society that was already the perfect ideal.

“You had to paint Socialist Realism. You couldn’t paint anything except this style. They had even started to teach the style in the children’s classes.” he says.

He didn’t want to do it. More than that, given his temperament, his spirit, he couldn’t do it.

“I didn’t want to follow instructions” he says—a trait unlikely to lead to success in the USSR.

He also realized that the training would kill his love of painting. So Kaletski took a different tack. He opted instead to go to theater school—an exclusive one—and studied to be an actor. He could act and he could do it within the confines of the system because, while it is something he enjoys and excels at, it wasn’t part of his soul like painting.

“I became a successful actor involved in those stupid Soviet movies. I hated them.” he says

But they gave him money to live on and he kept painting and writing songs on his own. While making the films and being an actor he also lived a double life.

“I still painted and made collages of Soviet posters. They are always the same colors. I sold the drawings to foreigners. It was considered to be a crime. I was also writing songs. I would say songs of protest but very independent. It was about the same time, in America, as Bob Dylan,” he says. “It was parallel. Songs and paintings were underground. I got really involved in the underground—living in Moscow illegally.”

Being involved in the underground, selling paintings, writing protest songs was a dangerous thing to do. American singers of such music often feel put upon. In some cases they have been harassed but the situation in the Soviet Union it was far worse. Kaletski feared he might be caught with his art or music and sent to a psychiatric hospital. If you were against the perfect Soviet system? You were obviously insane.

He decided to leave the USSR.

“In America I first made living selling paintings, performing at colleges or at Russian Clubs. I sang in Russia. It was natural for me to do different things.” he says.

He also made money hand painting silks for boutiques. This is not so far, perhaps, from painting on linen in form. It clearly had to differ in style (alas fashion is not always art).

The move was not easy for Kaletski. He emigrated and it was the hardest thing he ever did. He says if he had known how difficult it would be he would not have come. His language studies in school had been French and German, not English. His idealism also took a hit when he arrived.

“I was anti-communist and want to help America fight communism. It sounds idiotic now.” he says.

But it was his mission, fighting communism. He wanted to show people that the glimpses of freedom Russians had. He brought the underground to America. Yet it his ideal of America and the reality did not mesh. It was culturally horrible for him. He liked the country and the political system but day to day living was not what he had pictured. It took time but eventually he came to terms with his new home.

“I got past ideology and how America can be a tough place. I thought America would take me as a hero fighting communism but no one gave a shit.” he says, laughing. “Now I know what America is and I love America. Nothing is easy her but you can do whatever you want. Still, in my heart, I am a Russian idealist.”

Imagine being a movie star, an idealist, an anti-communist, who moves to the leading nation in the west and no one cares. Imagine you wind up painting on cardboard because you have no money. But also imagine being able to find beauty and wonder in the cardboard. It worked out. The cardboard paintings helped keep his soul intact.

They cost him little but no one wanted to buy them (at the time). He did it for himself, to satisfy his need to create. It is a lesson to artists. The best work isn’t what you create to hang in a bank lobby or a commissioned painting of a rich old lady’s poodle. It is what you create for no reason other than you feel compelled to make it.

Kaletski became something of a celebrity. He was on the Merv Griffin Show twice—once with Arnold Schwarzenegger. His wonderful quasi-autobiographical book, Metro, became a best seller. Griffin was taken with Kaletski and his story and therein is the origin of Metro.

“Once I was on his show as a singer. He said; ‘You have such a great story, let’s make a movie'.” says Kaletski.

They gave him a writer. Kaletski didn’t like what he was writing and asked for a new writer, He was told “no” and decided to write it himself. It took seven years. Metro became a best seller but the film was never made.

Kaletski continues to sing, here and back in Russia. He has an exacting schedule. Kaletski rises early and first plays guitar and sings for an hour. Then he paints for five or six hours.

“Then I write to punish myself. Writing is the most difficult thing for me.” he says.

He writes for 40 minutes to an hour. He has written another three novels but painting has remained most important to him. It has not kept him from branching out further.

“I just finished a movie, acting as myself. There is my music, my story. My wife and I are finishing it in two or three weeks. It is fiction, a murder mystery.” he says.

Song of Silence premiered in New York City In February 2012.

He also still acts in Russian movies.

His main work, however, remains painting. It isn’t just work though. Painting is a spiritual activity. When he discusses his work, his process, you get the feeling you are talking to a mystic about some secret rite. But then his ease and good humor transform that spell.

Despite the effort he puts into it. Despite the hardships he endured to become an artist, Kaletski has, perhaps, a surprising view on what makes good painting.

“Good painting should be random. It should be accidental.” he says.

Art should be, perhaps, as accidental as finding beautiful  bits of cardboard that others, unseeing, throw away.

“Dying is easy, comedy is hard,” goes the quote, often attributed to one actor or another on their deathbed. And whether some thespian, in his (and yes, it is always a man) final moments, actually saw fit to utter this immortal phrase, it is often repeated and widely given credence: except on awards night. If you are a director or actor and your ultimate goal is an Academy Award you may want to write about a cancer patient who finds a cure for obesity, and do so in all seriousness. A battle against alcoholism also works as does having a mentally handicapped lead.

Saul Austerlitz, a writer and critic living in New York, will shortly release Another Fine Mess A History of American Film Comedy and explore the history and the now of the American comedy. The fact that comedies are given short shrift at award time was part of the impetus to write this book.

“The types of movies that win Oscars are serious. I have nothing against those movies but think it is interesting how some performers are deemed ‘ineligible’ to win these awards,” he says. “Comedians understand how the game is played. Look at Jim Carey twisting himself into a pretzel to play dramatic roles.”

Austerlitz allows that Carey did a fine job in some of his more serious roles but adds; “It isn’t really his forte.”

Think of all the comedic talents, directors, actors and those who wore both hats that never won an Oscar. Charles Chaplin never won an Oscar. Honorary or “special” Oscars don’t count, those are usually, Oops-you-are-really-great-and-might-die-soon.” awards. The dearth of major awards for comedies is easy to trace. Go to the Academy Website.  Less so are the roots of American Comedy.

“The thing people might find surprising is the interconnection of people within the book.  It was more than an abstract idea but a sort of guild. One comedian passed on to another, stocked one another.” says Austerlitz.

Comedians also change and adapt over their careers.

“Jerry Lewis in the 50s began as an incredibly low-brow, eternal child to go solo and try to take on high comedy,” says Austerlitz. “I would probably argue that in his middle period work he was still playing, for lack of a better word, a ‘dipshit’ but he is taking on multiple roles, director, actor and more.”

Austerlitz says this is a reflection of the Chaplin influence. But how many of Lewis’ films really stand the test of time?

“There are probably two of them worth checking out again before he goes about being famous in France and telethons. His most successful film is Nutty Professor,” says Austerlitz. “His plays a second role, understood to be Dean Martin but a better way to reflect on the film is as two sides of Jerry Lewis. It has a lot of fun balancing those two roles.”

And it doesn’t suck like the Eddie Murphy remake either.

Another film Austerlitz recommends from Lewis is The Bell Boy.

“The Bell Boy is a much more low-key film. It is less hectic and loud. It is almost silent. His character has one line.” says Austerlitz. “The film is an attempt to bring back or update the silent film”

The film also has a dead ringer for Stan Laurel says Austerlitz and it is hard to imagine that is an accident. 

When the subject of another comedian, whose films seem to have suffered with time, Bob Hope, comes up, Austerlitz is equivocal. He notes that when Woody Allen talks about his love of Hope as a teenager, it sometimes makes modern film enthusiasts shake their heads. But there are still Hope films that can hit with modern tastes, including one often cited by Allen.

“My Favorite Brunette is actually a pretty good film. Hope was a self-deprecating one-liner machine.” says Austerlitz.

Today’s audiences can decide for themselves how well the humor stands up. One comedian/filmmaker who is universally thought to stand up is, obviously Charles Chaplin but he is more than just an actor or director. It is pretty unfair to compare other comedians to Chaplin and not just because of his control over his projects. Indeed, Austerlitz believes that an actor can influence a comedic film more than dramas.

“I don’t think anyone can be compared to Chaplin in his effect on film history and culture—or on American culture, period, with a very few exceptions.  But I think that, on the whole, an actor can, and have, had an enormous impact on the growth and development of comedy,” says Austerlitz. “Comedy is a performer’s medium, to a large extent, and a talented actor like (Bill) Murray can place his imprint on a film as much as, if not more than, their directors.  Rushmore and Groundhog Day and Lost in Translation are Bill Murray movies as much as they are films by Wes Anderson, Harold Ramis and Sofia Coppola.  There is a notable difference in the variety of the talents displayed by an actor-director like, say, Jerry Lewis, as compared to an actor like Peter Sellers, but I wouldn’t necessarily rank Lewis ahead of Sellers merely because he directed as well as acted.” 

Another example of a performer, “just an actor,” having a profound impact on films is the regrettably overlooked, Harold Lloyd.

“Chaplin is the ideal of people who did everything. Keaton did some of his own directing but advisors. Lloyd didn’t direct his own films but he put his own stamp on them. Lloyd, even though the least remembered, may have been the most successful. He had a studio, set of directors and gag men.”  says Austerlitz.

Lloyd was a producer and more and while he may have started out as a sort of Chaplin-esque character, he evolved.

Austerlitz says that his book doesn’t really have any “undiscovered” comedians in it for film buffs (although casual fans may not remember Lloyd). He does take time, however, to reconsider some comedic talents who have fallen into eclipse.  

One of these is Doris Day.

“She has become a punch line in movies about chastity. The movies she did with Rock Hudson were better than we remember. We think of them as Doris Day being chased around the room by some horny guy. They are quite modern for the times about young single, upwardly mobile people,” he says. “Doris Day is just as much an icon of 50s female sensibility as Marilyn Monroe. The time is ideal for Day to be recovered as a performer and not a ridiculous parody of herself.”

And where are the current non-painful romantic comedies?  The ones with no J-Lo?

“I think it is, in part, that there are not a lot of performers whose performances translate to that genre and the most talented directors are not making those movies. It seems like a genre that, for the moment, has run its course.” says Austerlitz.

The world really needs Christian Bale in a remake of Pillow Talk.

Though the romantic comedy may be in the creative doldrums, Austerlitz contends that another sub-genre is not: the trash guy comedy. Austerlitz credits Judd Apatow with rescuing this genre from simply being eternal remakes of Porky’s and Hollywood Knights. 

“I think Judd Apatow is unique in the way he has skillfully integrated raunchy guy comedy with a subtle emotional palette heretofore unknown to the genre.  The 40-Year-Old Virgin and Knocked Up in particular, are hilarious, unadulterated comedies of masculine aimlessness that manage to capture something very real—about relationships, about contemporary life, and most of all, about the ways men relate to each other,” he says. “Apatow is a poet of masculinity, and his films demonstrate a remarkable understanding of, and sympathy for, his male characters. That said all of that would be enough, together with four dollars, to purchase a tall latte at Starbucks if he weren’t also blessed with the gift of writing exceptionally funny dialogue.  Knocked Up, in particular, is a gold mine of brilliant comic roughhousing.”

 And yet, getting back into the dearth of awards train of thought, how often have you heard Apatow’s name called on Oscar night? There should be a new high end award, perhaps “The Chaplin” (please don’t sue me Chaplin family) for comedies. They can give whoever directed Porky’s an honorary one to start things off right.

Beyond Apatow, Austerlitz singles out another group of contemporary comedians for special attention: Will Ferrell and Ben Stiller. 

“Ferrell is a personal favorite of mine.  He is, I suppose, a one-joke comedian—the cloddish boor triumphant—but hell if it isn’t a surprisingly flexible joke.  And didn’t W.C. Fields make his own version of that same joke last for an entire career, too?” says Austerlitz.

Stiller’s work is a different sort of creature to Austerlitz.

“It’s more inward-looking, more directed at skewering himself and his own delusions of grandeur.  If you look at the films Stiller has made like Reality Bites or Dodgeball or Tropic Thunder, he is often the butt of his own jokes,” he says. “Stiller refuses to wink at the audience—to acknowledge in any way that his portraits of odious strivers and petty tyrants are in any way meant satirically, or that the real Ben Stiller is somehow superior to the characters he plays—and that, ultimately, is his saving grace.”

Austerlitz notes a somber note in the book, one Chaplin’s protagonist in Limelight articulates.

“The slightly depressing undercurrent of my book is that nearly every major comedic talent eventually does stumble. Comedy is a fickle master, and even the greatest comedians eventually lose whatever mysterious spark it was that allowed them to succeed,” says Austerlitz. “Often, their time at the top of the comedic heap is surprisingly short—look at someone like Preston Sturges, whose brilliant run of films lasted approximately 5 years, or Buster Keaton.  Being funny, it seems, is not like being a skilled actor or a superb writer.  It is a skill that emerges mysteriously and disappears with just as little warning.  Comedians’ lives are often depressing to exactly the extent that they fail to understand the fragility of their gifts.”

Saul Austerlitz is a writer and critic for, among others, the Los Angeles Times, Boston Globe, Slate, the Village Voice, the San Francisco Chronicle, Spin, Rolling Stone and Paste.  He is likewise author of Money for Nothing: A History of the Music Video from the Beatles to the White Stripes (Continuum, 2007). Money for Nothing is currently being adapted into a documentary film with a screenplay penned by Austerlitz. He resides in the borough of Brooklyn.