The person responsible for centralising the great state of Russia was also the proponent of many violent outbursts. Terrible, yes, in many modern ways. He was short tempered and ordered many wars. But terrible used to mean formidable. He inspired much respect through his heavy handed rule and militaristic and intense leadership. But here in this grand painting spanning nearly 2mx2.54m he is the one utterly removed from the definitions of his leadership. A heavy red carpet engulfs the flooring. The sparse furniture is sprawled across the room, the background holds the ghosts of paintings and cabinets. First you notice his rose cloak, then his iridescent shoes. It is only on the third look that your vision shifts to the bulbous eyes of Ivan the terrible. His expression aghast and removed from reality. In his hands he holds his son, his eldest boy, his name sake. The blood runs down the boys despaired face. And no he is not a boy anymore, but for any parent holding their child, what is the difference? You can have many great titles, pillage many lands or make peace with everyone on the earth, but what is that to the death of your child at your own hand? The spectre that Ivan used to make this mortal blow at the hight of a rage lays at the bottom of the painting. It frames the image of a man clinging to the hope that his deed may be unlike the blow. But a man that has seen much death knows better. His head and his heart are at odds and his eyes show the extent of the fear. When the world is so callous in itself, he was ended up being the monster. A life hardened by the blunt blade of rule could not have prepared him for the biggest of all challenges. The frightened man knows that now he will be faced with a lifetime of shame. His God will need answers. The boys mother will need more. How in the world do you admit to yourself the exent of the guilt. How heavy will his conscious become? How do you reconcile the fact that in one hubris filled action you strike your legacy down and what do you think about while its blood runs down your fingers? His eyes show all of this and more. There has never been a painting that more ardently shows fear. Not in any execution, not in any scene even in the midst of violence or aggression. Maybe because fear is like a glass cup, it’s easily useful, fragile, deadly, common. Maybe fear is like a tree line – easily distinguishable from far away and wholly engulfing: but only from the moment you realise that you are lost in an unfamiliar forest. This painting goes to show that still, whoever you are, the worst thing that could possible happen to you will always be something that you have a hand in: and if that doesnt scare you, it should. Nearly 500 years later, there are still two Ivans mimicked in the oil brushstrokes, but only one of then is titled “Terrible”.