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TITLE: 'On the Arts and Artists in Russia:
On the Occasion of the Exhibition at the Petersburg Academy of Arts'
(1)
AUTHOR: P. M. Kovalevskii
THIS VERSION: Copyright © 2002 Carol Adlam; all rights reserved. Notes by Carol Adlam and Robert Russell.
Redistribution, or republication of this text in any medium requires the consent of the
translator.
Introduction to the text But whether displayed well or badly, paintings in Russia are nevertheless exhibited, admired, bought (by tax-farmers), and even praised (by journalistic sketch-writers). Very sweet young people with very great hopes compose very well-intentioned tracts apropos of exhibitions, about whether a photograph should be considered art or not, or that we must encourage art. There is even a society which has just such a name - the 'Society for the Encouragement of the Arts'. This 'Society' has its own exhibition, but that won't encourage anyone! Here is the Academy with its professors and its library, its collection of antique casts, ancient pictures, engravings, and so on, and with its gold medals and pensions; and there is the 'Society' with its exhibition and accompanying ticket office, and its tax-farmers with full pockets - how much there is to stir up the artist! What a sweet life while he studies, and what golden dreams for the future! ... Only our artists can remain insensitive and not be the nicest, most worldly and educated people in the world! This is how it seems when the subject is viewed in a certain light (rather as happens at an exhibition). But if one also lights this picture as one should, then perhaps the colours too will change... What, in fact, is an artist in Petersburg - or, at least, what has he been? As a pupil he was the property of the Academy, the executor of its discipline, both artistic and non-artistic: he submitted to his professor, who would blur the features of his wet canvas with a dirty umbrella, or who would illustrate an anatomy lecture by chalking on his face. For this to happen it wasn't even necessary for the picture not to please him or for it to have some anatomical errors - it was enough that he didn't like the artist's face. The artist was the subordinate of every academic functionary, and he would endure insults. If he was well-mannered and offered compliments of the season to the right people, then he would be given a Gold Medal; if not, then he was passed over (or was very frequently, at least). The Academy did not consider Briullov (3) and Ivanov (4) to be worthy of a Gold Medal, and they received them from the 'Society for the Encouragement of the Arts'. There were artists who were given a medal for length of service and endurance, and who, to their own and others' despair, would then turn up in Rome when they were capable of nothing and it was too late to learn. What a good thing that in Rome there are at least those to whom one may extend one's compliments... At one time, students of the Academy learnt at least several subjects which were indispensable to them as artists, but then this was found to be unnecessary. Thus history has long been a complete mystery to the historical painter. Now those subjects that may be of assistance to the artist have been renewed once more, to the widespread pleasure of its true friends. People will say that an artist could also study outside the Academy - that's what universities are for. Notwithstanding those doors which must be beaten down before, as they say, 'crossing the threshold of any sanctuary of science', the sanctuary itself was beyond the competence of an utterly untrained youth. It would be easier for him to do this after the Academy. And when you consider that the majority of young people (and almost always the most gifted) arrive on foot at the Academy from their village or district town, on the orders of the sexton or because they've studied with an icon-painter, and that many of them will not manage to meet the deadline with the programmes because of a lack of paints, and that, on top of this, others bear a moral obligation to share their small earnings with their family, whom they have deprived of a labourer - then your tongue seizes up and you cannot reproach them for lack of education. And, moreover, the Academy's Library was constantly out of access and was locked up as a formality, while the engravings decorated the rooms of the staff, and were as inaccessible as the library: where, then, was intellectual curiosity to come from? Now imagine that, after many years of such a life, chance, talent, patronage, or simply a whim - no matter which - pushes an artist forward out of the ranks and awards him a Gold Medal. The Gold Medal! That is his meal ticket for several years, it is the road to Rome, the path to freedom of activity and to an artist's studio - it is the goal and dream of every artist in Petersburg who does not have a studio! And it is precisely with Rome that a new era of his artistic life begins... it is a shame, however, that his social life continues there. In coming out from under the wing of the Academy he then falls under another wing - that of the aristocracy. His needs are not understood, there is no advice for him, and no support in a foreign city. But Rome and all the roads to Rome have nevertheless succeeded in opening the eyes of the quick-witted youth: he has seen for himself that he knows little, that he must study, and that one may win medals without studying, but one cannot be an artist. He would be glad to study, but first he has to sing for his supper. Should he read in Russian? You can't get too many Russian books in Russia, but in Rome there are none at all. At official festivities and tea-parties given by the authorities there's nothing new, while the old can't be forgotten... And to study in Rome is not completely without danger - it's no business for an artist. His business is to send a painting to Petersburg to meet deadlines (it doesn't matter what it's like, just as long as it's a painting); and if he doesn't send it, no one will mention all the studies, etudes, rough drafts and copies that were the cause of his not sending it! He will have the reputation of an idler and a sponger who breaks the bank: while others will have the term of their pension extended, he will come back to Russia to live in poverty or to paint icons... This is why in any society one comes across bureaucrats and officers (many bureaucrats and officers), writers, occasionally scholars, but never, or almost never, artists. With very few exceptions, their very way of life condemns them to be detached and to remain outside the general flow, and even an assessment of their works is only to be found in the feuilletons of young people trying to resolve the question about photography. At the same time the alienation of artists from society also alienates society from proper artistic development, leaving it in that state of ignorance which is supported by views in print. People with an aesthetic education and the connoisseurs of art look down on Russian artists, and do not want to give the finest representatives of our art their due - representatives who would be valued highly, for instance, in Rome. Their verdict is that Briullov, who first lived in the dead, scholastic, if proper forms of our art school, is a farcical artist without thought and taste (de mauvais goût), while Ivanov is a conscientious labourer, and no more... And all because one paid his dues to Romanticism, while the other worked on his painting for a very long time. When Paul Delaroche (5) died in France, the Parisian Academy gathered in its halls everything that the great artist had painted in his lifetime, and the public, which had been fairly indifferent to Delaroche until that time, suddenly realised what it had lost. Briullov's works were never collected. His portraits, genre paintings, and historical paintings are scattered throughout private galleries, museums and houses. There is no doubt that they will never be collected together, and that a definitive judgement on the artist's talent will never be formed. Everyone will think and say about Briullov whatever comes into his head: some will see some portrait or other by him at a friend's, some will see an icon in a church, and others (these will puff themselves up!) will catch a glance of his unfinished work The Siege of Pskov, (6) which he himself neglected. But while judgements of such sort freely circulate amongst the mass public, and of course there is no need to impede them, one may at least take a look at what remains in Russian painting from Briullov. Incidentally, the 'Catalogue' to the Exhibition begins with his painting. Going back to our grandfather's times in our art, we are pleasantly surprised by the decisiveness with which they followed the path they had chosen. They were not distracted by the external glitter of the French School, as was literature, but took the stricter devices of the masters of Raphael's time as their model of edification. Briullov's teachers (Ivanov senior, (7) Egorov, (8) Shebuev), (9) themselves outstanding draftsmen, could see no salvation for painting unless there was strong and accurate drawing from nature, decisive and conscientious brush-work, well-intentioned strokes, and consideration of all the details of a composition and its execution. Shebuev, as Rector of the Academy rejected from the exhibition all works which were attractive, but whose beautiful colours and effects concealed the absence of content, learning, or artistic truth. The French School, or even the slightest hint of it, received the appellation 'Frenchism' (frantsuziatina), and this word became a term of abuse in the Russian arts. The forms of our painting remain in this way invariably correct, but dead and unmoving, or what is called academic. During this time the unusual vivacity of the gifts of the young Karl Briullov and Aleksandr Ivanov stood out amongst the students of the Petersburg Academy. It is not known whether they violated some magic principle of Shebuev's, or whether someone just didn't like them, but their successes in painting were crowned by a medal that was not from the Academy 'The Society for the Encouragement of Artists', which in its powerful charter was a counterbalance to the Academy, awarded them a medal and sent them to Rome at its own expense. In Rome the differing inclinations and temperaments of Briullov and Ivanov led the artists in different directions: the first, with all the force of youthful impulse, protested against that cold world in whose forms and views he was educated. Inclined by nature towards extremes, he rejected Raphael and wanted to demonstrate in what vital, contemporary, free art consists. This error of youth, of course, laid the foundation for those errors which appeared in many of Briullov's works and which manifest themselves most strongly of all in his least successful (and also least finished) work, The Siege of Pskov. Briullov was not idle in Rome, and he did not rest on the tender laurels of the 'Society for Encouragement'. He studied diligently, and hard, and he studied from nature. Because of this, the draughtsmanship he had acquired in the Academy became more lively, began to sparkle, lost its statuesque harshness, and formed that intangible delightfulness and beauty of line which is characteristic of him alone. The beauty of the body, the beauty of expression, the beauty of the surroundings, landscape, background - these became the young artist's passion and possession. The vivid, exquisite, somewhat showy beauty of Italy, the picturesqueness of the Italians' poses, which had almost turned into affectation, all suited Briullov's tastes and soul. The ease with which technique came to him, his serious, deep preparation, his always obedient, impulsive inspiration, his bold perspective, the strength and fire of his movement and expression: all this made him the Russian Il furioso, just as the same qualities had rendered Tintoretto 'the Venetian Il furioso'. (10) Had Briullov come to terms with his excess of furia in time (and the means for so doing were to hand, in the Vatican), then he would have surpassed all his peers in Europe. 'But youth gives sly advice!' True connoisseurs of art, including the late Ivanov (who was not fond of Briullov personally), nevertheless considered him to be above Delaroche, the most irreproachable of artists of our time. The young Ivanov responded completely differently to what he encountered in Rome, and his own outburst of independence immediately and hesitatingly gave way to the old and new authorities of the eternal city of the arts. Raphael, (11) Titian, (12) even Overbeck (13) and Cornelius (14) (at that time Germans were in vogue) began, each in their way, to draw him towards them, and caused him to hesitate in his faith in himself, in his power, and in his inner voice, which was already whispering new motifs to Ivanov for The Appearance of Christ to the People. (15) And then, at least to the same extent that the complete rejection of models wrought indelible damage for evermore upon Briullov, Ivanov's blind faith in these artists damaged him for his whole life. A certain diffidence in some parts of his paintings and a dryness of stroke which is utterly uncharacteristic of the brush that drew Magdalene before Christ, (16) testifies to this. Nowadays Ivanov and Briullov are no more, but there are two currents in the history of Russian painting which are sharply differentiated from each other; directions which, if we must give them names, may be called Romantic and Natural, or perhaps, Classical, but only in the best sense of the word. Ivanov, impeccably true to nature (although incapable of moving from that to materialism), was unable to turn himself into one of those German classicists, those old believers of art, who suffocated their gifts in slavish imitation of models, and who, in pursuit of an unattainable ideal of primitive artists, distorted form, thinking to draw closer to the naïve works of their forefathers in this way. He took from them what he could: their temperance, simplicity, and calm worldview, while retaining that elegant form which Raphael had already searched for and found. He drew only honey from the poison flower: the German classicists drew forth poison. I said earlier that Briullov breathed life into Russian painting. An entire generation of young artists blindly and reverently followed in Briullov's footsteps. For decades Briullov had absolute, indivisible control of the direction taken by our arts. From pictures by gifted artists to student programmes, everything was imbued with the devices and manner of the author of the Last Day of Pompeii. Even tonal colouring, which he neglected, was adopted, and artists with positive talents asserted that colouration was rubbish and that anyone could match colours. The adoration of Briullov reached its apogee, and, by the time of his death, was already beginning to die down a little, when Ivanov appeared on the field with his Messiah. With the appearance of Ivanov, the first period of Russian art, the Briullov period, came to a close, and the second, the Ivanov period, began. Ivanovian naturalism and simplicity was bound to take hold, although, in all likelihood, without such unanimity and speed: some young artists had already adopted it, and the bold spots of Briullovian painting had already begun to give way to the more even coverage (in light) of Ivanov's figures. The creator of The Appearance of Christ to the People took a step in art which it was possible to follow. This was achieved by Ivanov himself after many years of work, study and concentration on one subject. In this respect, Ivanov brought more that is useful to the younger generation. Briullov directly and without permission, in his own way so to speak, mastered art, and as Ivanov said, brought about a revolution in it. He was everywhere, he who ensued from no one and who followed no one, he who was unbridled and original, in his great qualities as well as in his flaws. It was impossible to follow him. Thus he will remain, valued enthusiastically by some, and sternly dismissed by others. The Roman merchant, friend and landlord of Briullov when he was already ill, (17) has not sold and will not sell his posthumous paintings and sketches, or his most idle scribbles on scraps of paper, and perhaps the best of his works will be willingly sold to a tax-farmer by a Petersburg aristocrat. ... In a word, Briullov's talent, as with any exceptional character is capable of arousing prejudice, deep sympathy, and antipathy. But let us turn to the exhibition. The Siege of Pskov is a picture painted according to a programme... This is the best commentary to Briullov's painting. It is well known, incidentally, that Briullov could not stand his Siege, and it goes without saying, he would never have believed that one day it would be brought into the same hall which takes its name from another of his pictures, in that very place where that picture so shone. It is said that the subject at first preoccupied Briullov and that he jotted down a sketch for it somewhere in the south of Russia, and was pleased with his composition. Those who have seen the sketch praise it highly. They say that when they subsequently saw the painting in the studio, they were astounded by the changes for the worse. The artist himself was extremely dissatisfied with his work, and complained that he was distracted, that all sorts of pieces of chainmail, clothing and weaponry were dragged before him, that he was crushed with advice and instructions from scholars, and he said that all this clouded his own thought, etc. Since that time the painting, half painted, never progressed towards completion. It is possible to judge it only to the extent that we may judge the second part of Gogol''s Dead Souls. It is but a skeleton that is not clothed by the body. Nevertheless, the absence of a centre in the picture, the affectation of the movement and poses, and a certain coldness of the composition, so uncharacteristic of Briullov's feverish imagination and explicable only by the task of the subject, all make The Siege of Pskov an exhibition of nothing more than the flaws of the remarkable master. And anyway, what sort of picture could come of cuirasses, chainmail, red shirts and sarafans? Bodies are covered, shackled, and even Shuiskii's horse, which at first was drawn so perfectly, was subsequently hidden under a saddle-cloth, no doubt because of some sort of scholarly idea or other. Turning from flaws in Briullov's large work in the historical genre to historical flaws in his pictures in general, then one sees them more clearly, as one sees a man's innate flaws in a moment of rage or illness. It follows that the utility of the picture is negative: but will it be understood thus by inexperienced students, who will of course copy the best parts of the painting (and there are superlative parts!), or will they be unable to distinguish these from the parts which Briullov himself would probably have destroyed with his own implacable hand? People will ask, however, what great things did Briullov in fact leave behind? The answer to this is easy: he left behind The Last Day of Pompeii, in which the artist's entire blaze of youthful inspiration and abundance of ideals of beauty flowed together in full magnificence, while the gracefulness of the separate figures of women and children, and of groups, the energy and strength of the musculature in the men, the refinement of draughtsmanship and line cannot be faulted. It may be that the rather stridulous subject does not appeal, but here we see where the task of the subject leads, and in addition how each subject is explained and justified by its execution. You may like quiet subjects which give rise to contemplation - I like them too. Briullov loved destruction and chaos; as the poet says, 'the rebel begged for a storm', (18) and a storm he got. Don't ask for calm from him. His Crucifixion in the Lutheran Church (19) demonstrates that he had ample talent for completely opposed subjects. The body of Christ is surrounded by grave, hopeless, and devout silence, such that is not to be found in any of the pictures known to me in the galleries of Europe. In addition, the torso of Christ is a perfect exemplar of painterly execution and anatomy. A defining feature of Briullov's brush was the sheen that is characteristic of human skin, which is not present, incidentally, in Ivanov. Apart from The Last Day of Pompeii, Crucifixion, and several other pictures of the historical genre (for example, Inez de Castro, (20) which is remarkable in parts), Briullov has also left behind many genre paintings which are true to life and full of a freshness of imagination. Here, he is generally even less reproachable than in his historical paintings. Finally, Briullov's portraits are extremely valuable treasures not just of Russian, but of European painting. They stand alongside the portraits of Velasquez (21) and Van Dyck, (22) and surpass the somewhat arid portraits of Titian and Raphael. Briullov's family scenes are whole pictures. Frequently, the landscape, dogs, horses and various accessories, which are perfectly executed, add even more to the quality of these exemplary works. The legacy of Briullov is upon us. The only pity is that it has come upon us before we can decisively pass judgement on him: the exhibition of The Siege of Pskov will not help in this. What is needed is an exhibition of Briullov as a whole. No one, of course, will begin to dispute Briullov's influence on a whole generation of Russian artists. Ivanov's influence is just beginning. And in order to finish talking about influence here, we must first mention two more artists of a more particular order, whose influence continues to this day with varying degrees of usefulness. I am speaking of Fedotov (23) and Zarianko. (24) The genre painting of Briullov, like that of the Flemings, has not lost all its followers in Russian art, but has been strengthened and even supplemented by the followers of Fedotov's art - the Gogol' of our painting. 'Through visible laughter' he, like Gogol', touched the world of the invisible tears of Russian life, and like Gogol', he elevated its most everyday, vulgar phenomena 'into a pearl of creation'. It was in Fedotov's hands that a Russian brush first made the viewer stop and think. He was the first to crack the whip of satire and didacticism, clothed in artistic form. The era of thoughtful Russian genre painting begins with Fedotov, and a whole host of students and young admirers are proceeding along this newly built path. Each exhibition is ample evidence of this. At the present exhibition, for instance, of those seven or eight works in the genre section which are worthy of mention, more than half are of the Fedotov type (The Beggar's Holy Holiday, (25) The Sexton's Son Accepted for Office; (26) The Deal; The Broken Engagement). (27) Not all of them are distinguished by the lively simplicity and truth of the works of their teacher - some err on the melodramatic side (such as The Broken Engagement); in others the intended plan shows through all too clearly underneath the artistic form; but the general direction taken and even several particular details are extremely satisfying. The theme, for instance, of The Beggar's Holy Holiday, in which the beggar has just arrived on Easter Day with a red-painted egg and hunk of Easter cake for his family; the face of the wife, full of hopeless reproach; the rags and pathetic corner in which just one child - his son, a future beggar, satisfied with his lot because he can show his father a scruffy mongrel puppy: all this is conceived both successfully and with warmth, and, were the execution to be better, would give one pause to think. In The Deal, the bridegroom is very well done, with a round, clean-shaven face and a most well-mannered disposition, in a wig, with a star peeping out from the cuff of his civil servant's uniform... . No less lively is one of the figures in The Broken Engagement who grins with a self-satisfied and vengeful laugh. Although it is completely secondary, there is incomparably more truth in this than in the main figure of the bridegroom, who is reminiscent of stage first lovers in those minutes before an uproar. The best of these pictures, which truly absorbed us, is The Sexton's Son, which decisively reflects Fedotov's influence. Still a sexton's son by his feet, which are traditionally shod in bindings, his face is that of a collegiate registrar, as is his pose and his civil servant's uniform, which the village tailor drapes about him, no less moved than he by the grandeur of what is taking place. The domestic servants carefully remove the paper from his gleaming buttons. His elderly mother has even abandoned some sort of complicated spinning or knitting, and, her glasses resting on her forehead, cautiously examines the uniform, symbol of her son's new dignity. The sexton himself, the most kind-hearted creature in the world, is full of affection and joy. The inexperienced artist has not laboured long over his picture, as a result of which the brush-work sometimes loses its richness. But flaws of this sort are more pardonable and trustworthy in new talents than in work done straight off and alla prima. (28) Time and practice bestow a sense of measure. Zarianko's influence on Russian art, however, has been as harmful as Fedotov's has been beneficial. A conscientious and timid copyist, who achieved astounding likeness in his portraits by means of sitting with unheard-of patience, and working by the sweat of his brow, Zarianko decided not to restrict himself to the execution of the tiniest details of the face, its spots and warts, but, with equal indefatigability ruined his sight on portraits of uniforms, lovingly and tenderly hammering out the crests of their buttons, capturing the character of the Order of St Anna round the neck, and of the needlework on a collar ... And how much velvet, satin, and other forms of domestically-produced goods and imported textiles have been immortalised by him! Those who wish to discover a new era - wherever it may be, so long as it is new - have proclaimed its appearance on the basis of Zarianko's portraits. It is true that Zarianko's first portraits promised much. A strictness of line, an unprecedented finish, and a maximal verisimilitude made one almost forgive the dryness and lack of painterly ability. One might have thought that this flaw would be smoothed out in the artist's later works, that these hard-won qualities would overcome Zarianko's limited talent, and that he would be hailed as the Russian Holbein. (29) It is said that, carried away by his initial successes, the portraitist intended to broaden his field of activity and to test his strength in historical painting (he had attempted perspective painting before, with great success); but, generally speaking, his attempt to convey to posterity the work of his tailors, as well as his own personal qualities, stalled him forever in the same place. Overwhelmed with orders, for which a queue formed even amongst those who were used to receiving everything without waiting, Zarianko turned increasingly to extremes, which appealed all the more to those for whom the art of a portrait painter was most of all like that of a photographer's stand. Finally Zarianko, whose sight had begun to suffer as a result of his unremitting labours, began to send orders out to his imitators. As happens, Zarianko's achievements were propagated by his epigones, who also, as usually happens, also took his flaws to an extreme. Portrait painting was instantly transformed into 'boudoir' painting, and even contaminated the 'everyday' sort of historical painting. Satins and velvets spread throughout exhibitions, and of course everyone had to be witness more than once to the most laudatory reviews of them by the amateur Sunday art critics (specialists from the Holland Line of Gostinnyi dvor ). (30) The portraits which used to appear by Goravskii, (31) a young artist with a remarkable gift, as well as the delightful children's heads and male and female portraits (usually family) by Makarov (32) - although they did not appear at exhibitions - testified to the presence of the portrait in Russian painting. Sorokin (33) and Khudiakov (34) sometimes painted portraits, but this was not their constant occupation. The first standard-bearer, the Giulio Romano (35) of the Zarianko lineage, is Mr Tiutriumov, (36) unequalled in renown to this day. The material of his works is of the best quality, and, by all accounts, the market for them is large. One might wish him complete success, if he will give his word not to leave his enchanted circle, and to leave Ophelia in peace, who is, after all, guilty of nothing ... Ophelia, a sweet dream, who was without embodiment before Mr Tiutriumov - this figure from fleeting, elegiac poetry, this girl with a quiet, loving madness in her gaze, who is frail and ready to destroy herself in the sea of life - under Mr Tiutriumov's magic brush the Ophelia of Shakespeare is transformed into a gnädige-Frau (37) of Baltic German provenance with tubercular characteristics and with horrible hands stiffly placed upon her fallen chest, wearing a wreath made of ears of rye or wheat which are also rotten and promise a bad harvest... . Pittore - tradditore! ['A painter - a traitor!' Ital. (i) ] Recently, landscape painting in Russia has been fated to experience the influence of Calame; (38) but it has only improved because of this influence. With his two pictures (The Tempest and Quietude), executed particularly lovingly on orders from the St Petersburg Academy, Calame was the first to attract young landscape painters along his path and even into his studio. I once had occasion to watch some of the most talented of them, who had already acquired a certain fame in Russia, working, pencil in hand, on a picture set by Calame for them to copy. Mr Erassi, (39) an artist with a notable talent who studied long and hard, and to good effect at the Academy, was the first to willingly lock himself away for four years as a student in his idol's Geneva studio. There he not only 'adopted the manner of Calame', as the 'Exhibition Catalogue' declares with remarkable acumen, but added all those qualities which comprise a complete artist: purity of taste, vitality of colours and tonal harmony, along with a strictness of draughtsmanship and faithfulness to nature. Mr Erassi's resemblance to Calame is so natural that it is not worth speaking of it: he may distance himself from him [Calame], or he may perhaps remain with him - that is a secondary matter. The main thing, however, is the innate quality of the artist's gifts, his ability to perceive nature, to sympathise with it, and to arouse sympathy for it in the viewer; in Calame's own view the best of his pupils is richly gifted in all this. In Calame's presence only did those principles which have always been characteristic of the landscape painter begin to develop and take root correctly. On his own he [Erassi] would have worked differently, but he would have emerged from the ranks of insignificant landscape painters onto the open road. To be under the influence of a great master and to imitate him are absolutely not one and the same: many of Calame's pupils are merely imitators of him. Whoever has nothing in himself will involuntarily imitate another. Mr Tiutriumov cannot be anything other than Zarianko's shadow: his existence without him is unthinkable. Similarly, Calame himself in his early works resembled Diday, (40) under whom he studied as Erassi now does under Calame. May the beauty of Calame's pen and draughtsmanship, with its perfection in all details, find acceptance in Russian landscape painting: no harm will come to it from this. One illustrious artist calls Calame a clerk with excellent handwriting. Such a comparison may be willingly accepted since we know from experience that clerks can also be remarkable writers. It is true that, when standing before a painting by Erassi, it frequently happens that one hears the question: 'who is that, Calame or Erassi?' But are there no other reasons for such bewilderment at the sight of our landscapist's superlative works? It has probably happened to everyone, when travelling through Switzerland (particularly when walking in it and stopping in various places for the summer, in the mountains or above lakes, at different times of day of evening, with varying caprices of light and line), that the thought involuntarily springs to mind: 'how like a Calame painting!' This means that Calame mastered the scenery of Switzerland, and that its spirit, its imprint, lies in his landscapes. Is this not the reason why any Swiss landscape - if it really is Swiss - is reminiscent of Calame? If we take into account the Geneva master's method as well, then the likeness becomes all the more understandable. Mr Meshcherskii, (41) a landscape painter of considerably less experience than Erassi, has in one or two years become similar to Calame in his Swiss scenes. But both Erassi and Meshcherskii, as it seems, are heading for the south - one to Italy, and the other to the Crimea. We shall see whether they will remain 'Calames' there. The works exhibited in the Academy by Mr Erassi speak for themselves. You won't tire of standing before his Lake of the Four Cantons. (42) What he has created is a magical nook where nature has brought together and piled high the marvels of its mountains, where it has poured forth an enchanting lake, around which there have spread green meadows shaded by hazelnut and chestnut trees... A corner of the world, a place of peace, of expansive poetry and of endless thought ... The warm day draws to a close. Its last ray of light trembles on the snowy Alps; dusk is already settling now... The pale red crags are echoed in the water ... A grey wisp of smoke rises from a lowly chalet and hangs in the air ... All this is just as good on Mr Erassi's canvas as it is at the Lake of the Four Cantons. And the 'Catalogue' thinks that this means to 'adopt someone or other's manner'! It is to assimilate nature entirely, as it is, and as it reveals itself only to a select few in art. The landscapes of Mr Meshcherskii are younger and not so restrained. In his Oberland View there are even blunders, but how much freshness and living poetry there is in it! There is so much air, cool foliage and light! Mr Meshcherskii is the shining hope of our landscape painting. His talent possesses the same attractiveness as Mr Sokolov's : (43) both are full of a lyricism which is not given to everyone, and which in particular explains the great success of their works. Everyone's heart somehow responds to them, and they suddenly become the public's favourite. Their motifs are easily engraved in memory. They have a sort of pulchritude about them. If they draw a tree, then one immediately wants to sit beneath that tree. If they select a view, then one feasts one's eyes upon it ... but we will speak of Mr Sokolov later. Not all our landscape artists are educated in the manner of Calame. Before the appearance of Calame's influence in the Russian Academy, Mr Lagorio (44) was a notable influence among young artists, promising as he did to develop into an independent artist. Undistracted by forms other than those of nature, to the study of which he dedicated the best years of his artistic career while in Rome, Mr Lagorio fulfilled the promise of his youth. And this does not always happen in art. Many hopes are fated to remain hopes, and more than one promise turns into a falsehood... Mr Lagorio has appeared at the Academy exhibitions for over ten years now. People have grown accustomed to him and virtually do not discuss him - he is just praised. Mr Lagorio has earned himself a place amongst the pre-eminent names in Russian painting. He has created his device, which one might call 'Lagorian', and his motifs. His celebrated lighting and celebrated views with their distribution of patches of light and shade are already called 'Lagorian', that is, the kind that he loves and that he conveys on canvas. As a thoroughly mature artist he is a complete master of technique, and it is all the same for him whether he paints a view of the sea, or a landscape with cliffs and vegetation, or even a landscape with figures. In a word, Mr Lagorio is a true Professor of Landscape Painting. The large Italian view (Hannibal's Fountain) exhibited by him here in order to attain that title is seemingly deliberately selected by him in order to demonstrate the whole art of his technique. This is a huge study which, perhaps, he will not be able to get off his hands, but which will remain an eternal testament to his definitive successes in landscape. An artist does not undertake such works twice. His other view (a sea view) is an example of a marine painter's remarkable gifts. His waves move, and the glimmer of light in them and their watery lustre is higher than any praise. And the band of silver in the distance, and the golden vapour above the mountains is so true to the South, which is so difficult to convey in the proper measure ... Moderation is one of Mr Lagorio's excellent features: he extends this to the point where, seeing shining colours (surely only Aivazovskii (45) could see them better), Mr Lagorio avoids those moments which demand bright tones. He strives exclusively to work in agreement (harmony) with them. Because of this it will not be difficult for him to move to the landscape of the North, which is far more convenient for the observation of such conditions. The painting of folk scenes has also emerged, and continues to develop in Russia independently of any particularly positive influence from any celebrated artists, but with the imprint of a certain Briullovian, and perhaps Fedotovian, physiognomy. By 'folk', I mean not just Russian folk, but also all those scenes that convey the character and life of the common people. This sub-division of genre painting in particular bears the hopes of Russian painting in abundance, and is full of its talented representatives. Messrs Khudiakov, Sokolov senior (46) (they are also historical painters), Chernyshev, (47) Sokolov, and Trutovskii (48) are each, in his own way, developing in this field with great success. (Amongst the students, Mr Popov (49) and, at times, Mr Korneev (50) give hope that with time they will be good painters of the life of the people). (ii) Messrs Sokolov and Trutovskii, who came to the field of genre later than the others, are both gifted with undoubted talents which may continue, given continuing development, to bear rich fruits. Both Trutovskii and Sokolov are painters of the people, but both treat their subject very differently. Sokolov's works are a poem of the everyday life of the people, while Trutovskii's comprise its material aspect. As I said before, Mr Sokolov's motifs are lyrical: they beg to be accepted into the soul, they soothe it pleasantly and do not leave any heavy trace behind them. Mr Trutovskii's motifs are gloomy, if you like: he depicts people dancing at a drinking bout, and the impression this leaves is not rosy, but is just the sort of impression that would remain after carousing at a peasant dance with drinking bouts. Mr Sokolov has even included a bitter drama about a recruit, with his feet in shackles and his family in tears, which does not so much disturb the soul as fill it with a moving and sad compassion. Perhaps Mr Trutovskii is closer to reality, perhaps the 'spirit of the people' in his work is clearer, but it is in Sokolov's idealisation of this unpleasant reality that a sympathetic chord sounds. The delight of Sokolov's gifts lies specifically in a tender impression of beauty. His thought-provoking genre painting (Sending off the Recruit) displays, in addition, another aspect which is more rare and all the more valuable: the ability to discover the greatest number of facets to the social life of the people. The two Ukrainian lads who have been called up as recruits are seated on a two-horse sled. The calm resolution on their faces so resembles restrained despair that it is almost an explanation for the fetters on their feet. A young woman with an infant under a sheepskin, weeping her eyes out with grief, and an old mother, trudge along in the snow: both have come outside to accompany their loved ones to the outskirts of the village. ... The village lies behind them, swept by a snowstorm ... farewell, freedom, farewell house and family! And farewell to you, fine lads! Will you ever return?... Thus is Sokolov's painting. In Mr Trutovskii's, peasant men and women are dancing jauntily in front of a hut, and a red-haired peasant in bast shoes stands out in particular - no doubt he is an old hand at drunkenness and revelry. Others have lain down on the grass and are refreshing themselves from the wine glass that is hospitably brought up to them by a very typical publican in a long, full-bodied frock coat. This picture is also redolent of Lermontov's line: 'I love my country, but with a strange love', etc. (51) The strong side of Mr Trutovskii's gift is great truth and naturalism. If it were necessary to find a point of comparison between our activity in painting and in literature, then I would say that in both there has begun a common striving (independently, without any preliminary agreement ) towards Russian populism [narodnost'] and how to depict it truthfully. . Mr Trutovskii even reminds one of Pisemskii's (52) talents; while Mr Sokolov's gifts have something Turgenevan about them. Messrs Khudiakov and Chernyshev have presented their works from abroad at the exhibition. Given the general attention to pictures with domestic content and to Russian scenes of the people, the crowd was immeasurably more sparse before these scenes from other lands. Nevertheless, the evident maturity of the artists and their mastery of technique, of course, earn them assessments of a completely different order from connoisseurs. We can call Mr Khudiakov's painting simply the best painting of the exhibition. (53) One can learn from it. It is making a great name for the artist. Since the time of Briullov's Italian genre paintings, only Sorokin senior has sent us anything similar back from Italy. Its exemplary draughtsmanship, strength of colouring and softness of line, the character of the persons, and the fullness of the composition, return us to the happiest days when the first teacher of living Russian landscape painting was active. And just think, even the content of Mr Khudiakov's picture is straightforward! A festive crowd has gathered under the awning of a little house, ramshackle in the Italian style, to watch two athletic giovine casting heavy boules - a game which is the Italian's delight. An old man passing by on an ass, with a coat (also worn through, in the Italian fashion) slung over one shoulder, has evidently forgotten the business on which he arrived, and has gone out of his way to follow the players. Women peer out from the vineyard, some of them lounging on the steps, others striking tambourines. There is even a fat cat that has come outside to satisfy its curiosity and to luxuriate in the sunshine. And the sunshine soaks the picture so warmly, and the profiles of beautiful women in their picturesque attire are traced against the blue sky... They will say: yes, but where's the idea in it? We see no idea in all this. But the idea in this is just that - that there is no idea in all this. The idyllic, carefree life of Italy (not in the present era, of course!), illuminated by the obliging sun; a childlike ability to enjoy equally a game of boules or the proclamations of Garibaldi; beauty - the beauty of everything: the rags, the sky, the facial types, the bareness, the skinny sides of the ass, which, too, is a beautiful spot in the general picture: herein lies the true idea of Khudiakov's picture. And in this respect he has shown himself to be the most thoughtful painter of Italian life. Here it is, Italy the golden, beautiful in its dirt, like an old painting by Titian - the Italy which exists eternally, and not in the unusual years of its bloody coups-d'etats. Do not then ask the artist not to depict her thus: this is how he has seen her. Her political drama would probably not have remained obscure to him had he remained in Italy. The name of Mr Chernyshov is a favourite amongst painters in Russia. His scenes of Russian domestic and popular life have long confirmed his place in the ranks of our best genre painters. Everyone is familiar with his superior drawings and water-colours. There are entire albums decorated by his lively pencil-work and elegant brushwork. With the elegance and artistry of work of this sort Mr Chernyshov decisively surpasses all our draughtsmen, while his works in oil paints are executed with a consummation and a truth which testify to a prolonged and fundamental study of all the secrets of painting, without which, even with great talent, there is no guarantee for the future. Unfortunately, an excessive assiduousness in working, particularly on very small items (Mr Chernyshov has always painted scenes with small-scale figures), which demanded a constant effort of sight, turned out to be bad for the artist's eyesight in his Rome days. At one point the most sad consequences were feared. However, Mr Chernyshov arrived in Russia with his pictures and we may hope that any such hindrance arising from his illness will not stop him returning to his former form. Such an artist as Mr Chernyshov will not find it difficult to make up for the loss of half his time as a pensioner: all he needs to do is find the right subject. His Norman Fisherman and Roman Bandits are not familiar figures in Russia. This is why, when we look at them, we expect a Russian subject from this artist who has made himself a name as a Russian artist. Nevertheless, both these paintings, particularly the Normandy one, have indisputable qualities: on both of them there lies the imprint of a country, and this is very important. These women trading fish, this mayor in glasses, with an official importance on his pock-marked face, the customs sergeant with a French élan about him, the man in a cap who is arguing with the market-woman: all of these are the products of France: they are her legitimate children. The northern landscape, against which the groups are masterfully drawn from nature, skilfully amplifies the northern character of the country. Mr Chernyshev is just as strong a landscape painter as he is a genre painter. His perception of colours is very felicitous, and his mastery of tone superlative. Bandits Attacking a Stage-Coach (that small unpleasantness in the great pleasure of travelling around Italy) is conveyed very interestingly. The courteous night robbers are very typical; while the one who, amongst all the turmoil, invites a girl to far l'amore (love each other), with an utterly Italian insouciance, is more remarkable than the rest. But all this, as the 'Catalogue to the Exhibition' remarks, is of a usual character. The unusual, then, comprises landscapes by Mr Vorob'ev. (54) Such sunsets do not usually occur, such nights also do not happen... In one of his landschaft the unusual professor seems to want to compete with the Chernetsov brothers who (the 'Catalogue' assures us) sailed the Volga to Astrakhan in 1857. But this seems to me to be completely unfounded. Who would ever think (even Mr Vorob'ev) of measuring themselves against people who sailed all the way to Astrakhan - and in 1837 to boot! (55) That is simply unbelievable. P. Kovalevskii (i) Author's note: 'This Ophelia was at last year's exhibition. At the present one Mr Tiutriumov restricted himself to portraits alone, and did well to do so. If only he would always do so.' (ii) Author's note: 'The first exhibited Tea Warehouse at Nizhegorod Fair, and the second Temperance Society.' |