Russian Visual Arts Project

TITLE: 'Architecture in I.A. Fomin's Paintings'

AUTHOR: Georgii Lukomskii

Using copper or steel plates to render architectural drawings is one of the oldest methods employed to realize architectural projects. As early as the sixteenth century, many of the best architects turned to engraving to illustrate their drawings. Though metal plates were used, they were not treated with nitric acid (as in the etching method), nor were the images applied to the plates with a needle. Instead, these engravings were typically produced on copper, or more often steel, plates with a thick cutting instrument called a burin, a quadragonal high-tempered steel rod with a beveled tip. At the same time, in the actual process of printing, pigments were rubbed directly into deep grooves without any dipping occurring. This was the method employed to produce Palladio's engravings - i.e., the drawings in his initial publications. However, burin engraving was gradually superseded by "drypoint," a non-dip engraving technique known as pointe seche. This method of executing a drawing on the blackened surface of a plate with a sharp, steel needle is significantly easier - it is almost as easy as drawing on paper with a pencil. The very first work made by means of drypoint was executed by Albrecht Durer in 1513, i.e., at a time when fine woodcut engravings were still being produced - albeit somewhat rough and flat, perhaps, but rich in the quality of their hatchings.

Beginning in the time of Rembrandt, whom no one surpassed in the etching of artistic images, techniques became more complicated. Mantegna, Van Dyck, Hogarth and other artists from many countries gradually improved ways of engraving using various methods and means; however, they all maintained a preference for drypoint. Even in architecture, etching caught on relatively late.

The drypoint method was especially well-suited to the execution of architectural drawings, which is why we see architects' rapid transition from woodcuts to pointe seche. The first of Serlio's works from the middle of the sixteenth century and Palladio's works from the second half of the sixteenth century, as well as copies of their work, were printed from woodcuts.(1) But, subsequently, in republications by Vincenzo Scamozzi, these drawings were quickly transferred to iron, then to steel, and eventually, in the eighteenth century, to copper plates.(2) The drawings become more precise and elaborately detailed (particularly in terms of classical order), but at the same time become more tedious and severe. The drawings lack that very intensity and grace that was initially conveyed by the agility of the artist's hand and is detectable even now in the very buildings themselves. There is truly a surprising tenderness and delicacy in the design of every curve of the cornices, in the profiles and decorative detail of these sixteenth and early seventeenth century buildings. There are almost no straight, even lines. All the lines appear wavy, as if drawn solely by the hand of the artist, unaided by a compass, ruler or any other tool.

It is curious that as metal engraving and, especially, etching developed, buildings themselves began to manifest a certain severity and coldness in their lines and edges.

Engraving architectural drawings on metal plates by means of etching gradually became more common. Not only did architectural plans begin to appear, but also engravings of an illustrative nature, including views of cities, views of ancient monuments and especially compositional drawings (indeed, entire series of these). Individual talents developed and expressed themselves in artistic works created solely by the etching technique. Engraving with a stylus was combined with the use of a brush, used as if in watercolor, i.e., the brush was dipped into nitric acid. With the help of this method, it became possible to achieve stronger illuminating effects. Saturated areas were created and the former character of pointe sèche engravings was transformed, producing a new look called the aquatint.

Piranesi was the name of an engraver who combined in himself all the best and most typical characteristics of the etcher and visionary architect, who was able to express the richest painterly combinations in a single tone.(3)

After Piranesi, however, it seemed that even architects themselves abandoned such methods of rendering architectural drawings on plates. The fact that it was even possible to produce drawings in this way was forgotten. In any case, after Piranesi's masterpieces, which he created with such brillant mastery and immense scope of talent and imagination, works by other artists paled in comparison. Despite the fact that history has preserved the names of a number of engravers, we remember them only as followers of Piranesi's school, i.e., engravers who failed to distinguish themselves in the art of etching.

As we see in works by Guarenghi and Gonzago, painting in watercolor and sepia developed, and, in fact, sepia even began to supersede the aquatint.(4) The results of both techniques are actually very similar, but engraving with nitric acid is immensely more difficult. Only Goya, remaining true to his own ideals of how the etcher should practice, worked primarily on copper with a brush.

In the course of the nineteenth century, especially in the second half of the nineteenth century, the existence of lithography and numerous other types of printmaking did not lessen the import of etching, as such, but they did supplant it in practice. In the beginning of the twentieth century, etchings, like watercolors, were made in order to produce multiple prints, but, at that time, hardly anyone had yet become interested in engraving as a method of reproduction. Moreover, it certainly seemed that the practice of engraving architectural drawings was disappearing for good.

But in the course of the last years of the nineteenth century, the etching was again revived, and the significance of etching as a means of creating original art - i.e., not merely as a means of reproducing art - was firmly acknowledged. Societies of graphic arts enthusiasts and associations of admirers of arts publications (in Paris, Vienna and other cities) supported the rebirth of the artform, and, at the same time, reference was rarely made to so-called classical engraving, i.e, with a cutting instrument. (Engraving was generally considered a school subject to be studied in the academies.) In addition, by acquiring colored etchings, vernis moux, etc., departments of prints and engravings (for instance, in the Rumiantsovskii Museum in Moscow(5)) made possible the development of new ways of engraving.

Frank Brangwyn is one of the most talented masters of the new etching style.(6) He works in the spirit of Rembrandt, but also makes generous use of the brush, and achieves remarkable results. However, like nearly all European and American engravers, his primary subject is landscape.

Only our gifted Russian architect, I. A. Fomin, has succeeded in restoring the former status of the etching by using it as a means to render architectural drawings. Moreover, Fomin has not only created purely architectural etchings (plans and designs), but also views of buildings already constructed.

Fomin's architectural etchings are remarkably pleasant and richly rendered drawings that achieve effects not possible on paper. In his perspectival treatment of planned, but still unexecuted buildings he creates beautiful illustrations, which clearly reveal the idea behind the design and, even more importantly, express a vision of the proposed building many years in advance; he predicts how the building's lines will become more refined, how its forms will soften and how the patina of time, the result of sun and rain, will leave its traces on the stone walls...

However, before embarking on a detailed analysis of Fomin's etchings and architectural designs, we should touch upon this architect's general architectural principles, precepts and devices. The reader of Apollon, who has encountered Fomin's work on the journal's pages (see Apollon No. 3, 1909), will already be acquainted with the character of Fomin's etchings. In terms of their artistic merit, these etchings greatly surpass the works of artists who devote themselves solely to engraving (such as any of Professor Mate's former students).(7) But it would not be appropriate to lament the fact that Fomin has not exclusively dedicated himself to this form of art. He employs the art of etching only to the extent that it is needed to express his ideas clearly and to illustrate his projects…and nothing more.

Of course, architecture, as such, remains, nonetheless, the main theme of his artistic work. Despite the fact that etching is only one of many techniques at which he is adept, the strength of his gift in this area is so remarkable that in a very brief time, he has become one of our finest etchers.

An architect by trade, I. A. Fomin entered the field of building construction long ago. In the early 1890s, he became attracted to the moderne and worked on several buildings in Moscow constructed according to this style. His architectural worldview subsequently underwent a change, and he began to devote all his efforts (projects, drawings, written commentary) to the classical style. In an essay on Muscovite Classicism, published in The World of Art in 1901, he revealed this transformation in his taste. Eventually, as a result of his knowledge and effort, an enormous amount of material was collected and became the basis of the Historical Exhibition of Architecture and also the collection of the Museum of Old Petersburg. Later, Fomin contributed essays on several artists to Grabar's The History of Russian Art, but, eventually, he began to move away from questions of a "literary" nature.

We cannot forget the delightful drawings Fomin created in the early 1900s. His characteristically delicately illuminated views of Moscow were admired for their simplicity and exquisite coloring that successfully revealed the essential character of the image depicted. However, these drawings - composed under the influence of increasingly well-defined architectural doctrine - and the artist's study of Russian architecture during the reigns of Catherine and Alexander were only paths along which the artist moved toward the finest elucidation of beauty, proportion and harmony of form.

As he grew more self-assured in his convictions - finally settling on developing classical subjects created by early nineteenth-century masters - and gained complete proficiency in composition, it became no longer necessary for him to learn from examples of architecture by studying and drawing ancient monuments.

Fomin became an architect of the first water and turned to etching only as a means of expressing his ideas in a more artistic manner, much as others sketch in watercolor or draw with charcoal. In this regard, his etchings represent the quintessential expression of his unique understanding of the Empire style. In many ways, they are the best examples of the artist's creative personality. This is especially true in cases where the project itself was not executed, or where unavoidable departures from his original idea occurred. Therefore, in this essay, devoted solely to Fomin's etchings, we will approach these works not as etchings per se, but rather as a means of understanding the artist's architectural goals and achievements. From this point of view, even the etchings that he created not as individual works of art, but only as impressions of architectural monuments (especially those he did while in Egypt and Rome), are of interest to us.

In fact, in 1910, while illustrating his competition project to earn the title of artist-architect (the Kursaal Project), Fomin made his first series of etchings, a number of which were reproduced in Apollon. The idea of illustrating a project with detailed etchings subsequently became a regular practice for him. But Fomin's etching techniques varied. In his strictly architectural etchings, he remained an exacting artist - a faithful illustrator of the given project. These subtle designs, made with a stylus, are rather bland, but elegant. Working with a stylus allowed him to carefully convey contours, cornices, lintels, etc., especially in their details. When depicting landscape, he was able to exploit all the potential of the aquatint: immersing the shadows in nitric acid, inking them, suppressing light in all areas of the drawings except where a cloud or wreath of smoke is illuminated by the sun or a white house by a streetlamp. Fomin's love of chiaroscuro, a la Rembrandt, is especially visible in his Egyptian etudes: the grand sphinxes in the gardens of Roman villas that are illuminated by the light of the moon, and the splendid ceremonial halls with gleaming columns reflected in smooth floors that gleam even more brightly. In these cases, the brush works well; the acid ensures a surprisingly soft, rich tone. Fomin beautifully renders the old stone, battered by time, the cracks and traces of streams of water. Of course, this is due, in no small measure, to the etching technique itself.

I have already had the opportunity to mention the Kursaal, which is one of a number of projects that Fomin illustrated with etchings. His work on the Kursaal, an ambitious project, quickly revealed his tremendous gifts not only as an architect, but also as an etcher. Views of individual sections of the Kursaal, including the stairs, the fountains, the alleys, the pools, the interior rooms filled with elegant crowds, the theaters, the exitways, where people disperse after performances, etc., all appear to have been equally accessible to the artist. Fomin's initial etchings - printed mainly on yellow paper - are distinguished by their ease of composition, bold hatchings, and a marvelously-expressed tone. His project was a success and met with a sympathetic critical and public reception. Fomin then began to perfect himself in this area. Almost all of his subsequent works, especially the complex competition designs, were accompanied by etchings. The Borodino Bridge project, conceived in splendid detail, was illustrated by a series of etchings. Without a doubt, this project was the best of those shown at the competition, for it most fully demonstrated the Empire style, which was appropriate for a monument to the War of 1812. The project was successful and expertly combined an early nineteenth-century style with forms and materials unknown in that era. The most minute details were remarkably rendered: the etchings bear witness to this. But, unfortunately, as with many of Fomin's other projects, fate did not favor him. As often happens, construction of the bridge was not entrusted to the authors of the prize-winning projects, but conferred according to the dictates of political patronage. So now, in reality, we see only several borrowings (the grating is one example), which are but pitiful imitations of Fomin's original project. The best of the etchings for this project are those for the balustrade and supports with cannons on them; the armature (shields, helmets, and swords) was especially well-designed.

Plans for the competition to create Moscow's Museum of 1812 were the next etchings Fomin produced to illustrate his ideas. This project was likewise not destined to receive recognition, for it was not deemed worthy of first prize. The museum itself was never constructed. However, it is worth noting that preference was given to another plan; this plan, while perhaps more elaborately developed in terms of design, was significantly inferior to Fomin's in artistic merit. Especially in view of its style, which was responsive to the purpose of the museum, Fomin's plan successfully satisfied the demands of the project. Moreover, his plan was distinguished by a quality rare in our time - its authentic monumental expression. One of the etchings depicts a section of the facade. Made of massive doric pilasters, its portico is covered by an enormous, grand pediment. Depicted in high-relief on the pediment's tympanum are crowning victories and numerals representing the year. A statue of Pallas Athena stands above the tympanum. The metopes are empty. The triglyphs are unfluted, and those on the pilasters are very prominent. The rustication on the ground floor is even bolder. Between the capitals on the pilasters, there is an enormous depiction of military armor. The entire facade of the building manifests the spirit of the time and is even somehow reminiscent of the gestures of early nineteenth-century heroes. With remarkable power, the facade beautifully responds to the demands of monumentality. While such monumentality is alien to us, perhaps future events and victories will revive in us a love that has almost disappeared - a love of strength and simplicity in architectural forms...

By analyzing the architectural forms in the designs for the museum, we come to understand not only the merits of the project, but also the essential qualities of the author's artistic personality. Indeed, the entire project demonstrates the author's admiration for the Classicism of Voronikhin's epoch(8); for example, it brings to mind the portico of the Mining Institute. On the other hand, there is also much that is unique in Fomin's interpretation of these familiar forms.

Fomin stands alone among modern architects for his mastery of the beauty of our Empire style. His skill at coordinating the elements of the cornice (the large projection of the cymatium) with the proportion of the fenestration and the sheer degree of the rustication - already detectable in the plan for the Kursaal, where Fomin did not neglect to include a touch of the moderne (the grotesque features of the statues) - creates an ideal beauty in the museum's portico. Shchuko, on the other hand, is more comfortable with Renaissance forms; he was not quite at home in the Empire style (the Italian exhibition pavillions) and ended up incorporating some of Palladio's ideas.(9) The Empire style is likewise alien to Il'in(10); he would just as soon develop the Petrine Baroque. Because of their backgrounds, Lialevich and Peretiatkovich have had greatest success when working in either the Polish Empire style or the Renaissance.(11) And Belogrud interprets our Classicism entirely in his own unique way, while others fail to understand it at all.(12) Only Fomin can be called a true architect of the Empire style. Harnessing all the power of the early nineteenth-century artists, he has mastered and is managing to convey the singular quality of our Russian Empire style.

Distinctive proportions, capitols, bases and well-placed ornamentation are not the only appealing features in Fomin's etchings. The very quality of the etched line is pleasing: the dark areas of the open spaces harmonize with the surface of the stones. One glance at such a drawing gives the impression that the depicted building was erected about a hundred years ago, but this sensation arises not from the borrowing of forms, but from the ability to capture their essence and to convey the true look of the style in new combinations of forms. Of course, the purely visual particularities of the etchings play no small role in this, but, I repeat that even if one disregards this "patina," the mark of the Empire style is still visible in the very proportions of the building itself.

In addition to the series of museum etchings, a number of individual works by Fomin deserve comment. Fomin's etching of the facade of Prince A. V. Obolensky's mansion on Lake Saimaa, which chronologically follows the museum series, somehow stands apart. The Petrine Baroque is wonderfully expressed here, but it is hardly in accord with the fundamental character of Fomin's work. In addition, there are certain technical particularities evident in the execution of this etching: for example, the author conducts a completely successful experiment with color. Both color schemes - the blue walls with white sculpted decorations and the orange background with white details - are magnificent. Fomin's etching of the Spiridonov house is less exciting. The extended facade is itself not bad, and the net of branches in the foreground effectively conveys an impression of the park in which the house is located; but, nevertheless, the forms are more lackluster and haphazard. That very same sensation of haste and lack of poetic attention to each of the individual aspects of the design is felt in the etchings illustrating a plan for a grating around Isaakievskii Square, which was also never built. In this etching, the only worthy features are the lions on the lower granite pylons. But let's now turn to some finer etchings: that of the obelisk in memory of the soldiers who died in the Battle at Vitebsk; the etching of the K. I. Ksido house (with a side entrance); and the etching of the Polovtsov dacha on Kamennyi Ostrov (a perspectival view). Fomin's superior etching of the colonnade of New Petrograd is also notable. This grandiose plan, comparable to projects by the preeminent architects of the Aleksandrian period, was destined to see the light of day, to be built in stone, but only in part. Other architects introduced changes which ruined the whole project. F. I. Lidval replaced the first courtyard encircling the arcade of market stalls with enormous six-story apartment blocks; thus, there was no transition created to connect this proposed lower courtyard with the next semicircular area, which, of course, was never built. Construction was begun on only one house. There was not enough money available, nor decisions made... But, in earlier times, ensembles on such a scale had been realized...

The etching shows two apartment blocks joined by columns that are arranged in a semicircular shape (50 sazhens in radius). By looking at the design, one can tell how captivatingly beautiful the image of the new city could have been! And it is evident how clearly the architect envisioned the possibility of such a city, how much he wanted it become a reality! He shows, with the use of perspective, the delightful foreshortening of the columns. He depicts the deepening of twilight shadows near the capitals, and shows how the passage between the porticos will be filled... His imagination offers a view of the length of a street lined with homes built in only one style. The etching shows us the architect's longing for a reality so difficult to achieve in our time. Here, we come to understand the sorrowful fate of a talented imagination that longs for flight, but struggles, like a bird with bound wings...

The etching for a trading rows building depicts a portion of one wall, decorated with robust casings and coping. The etching holds great significance purely as an architectural sketch, but the perspectival view of the same building is less interesting.

Finally, we come to the series of etchings for the Nikolaevskii Train Station. The etchings depicting the facade and details of the train station are the least interesting of the sketches mentioned thus far. Here, the whole value of supplementing a plan with an illustrative etching is nullified. The very parts of the design that are appealing and successful lose their significance when rendered in the etching. As a matter of fact, the unique effects of etching are absent here. The work itself holds significance not as a supplementary illustration, but rather as a project that turned out to be singularly difficult to realize. The extended facade of the train station, appearing as if from a distance, is utterly diminished by such a rendering. Undoubtedly, it would have been more successful to depict only a part, a fragment, a portico of the facade, because the individually conceived porticos are effective, despite their obviously illogical placement near the passageways, where bulky columns would hinder movement.

Even though these etchings are less satisfying than the others, it does not mean that the fundamental idea of the building was poorly conceived. In fact, precisely the opposite is true. Furthermore, the weaknesses of these etchings should not be considered a reflection of any loss of interest in etching on the part of the artist. Nor should it lessen the recognition Fomin deserves as one of the best etchers, which, indeed, he is. The etching entitled Nikolaevskii Train Station was simply less successful. The ornament was just too grandiose to be depicted - in its entirety and with such boldness - on a copper plate. Three enormous glass arches, covered by a gable roof and divided by pairs of rusticated stone columns - one of the artist's favorite subjects - offer an ideal expression of train station architecture. Two solumn towers at the edges (Castel Sant'Angelo in Rome) and the doric porticos near the bases of the crowns, in particular, express the Piranesian technique of juxtaposing diverse forms. And even though the beam device used in train station design has now gone out of fashion and slipped into history (following the construction of the Leipzig Train Station), Fomin does not attempt to disguise the fact that half of the building consists of trains. Yes, a train station is indeed made of buffets, entrance halls, ticket counters, restaurants, but it is also made of rails and locomotives! There is much more of the "train station" present in the essence of Fomin's plan than in the architectural facade designed by Shchuko. Nevertheless, the plan, especially that of the side facade, was a failure and did not receive any recognition. If Fomin's recent etchings and plans are less artistic in their choice of point of view or simply in terms of the quality of the rendering, they hold much greater architectural significance than his early efforts. As a matter of fact, the etching of a section of a wall of a trading rows building in Kiev is a masterpiece of architecture. And even though Fomin's etchings from 1912 and 1913 are not particularly valuable in their own right, they readily demonstrate the classical foundations of his architectural work.

If the Kursaal etchings manifest a significant painterly quality, if they show how the artist's imagination was working so intensely that it overwhelmed the very rendering of the work itself, and if they show a general inclination towards painterly effects (clouds, sunsets, the manipulation of background), then, in contrast, Fomin's recent etchings reveal serious attempts to refine his architectural theme. Despite their lack of decorative interest, the latest etchings hold larger significance as evidence of Fomin's work as an architect.

In addition to these strictly architectural sketches, Fomin offers us purely painterly subjects. In this way, the self-sufficient meaning of his architectural works is strengthened, while the painterly etchings comprise a special category of his work that has little bearing on his architectural ideas. The Monument to Victor Emmanuel in Rome can be numbered among his most successful etchings in this vein. The etching was made while the monument was still under scaffolding. At that time, it inspired greater interest than now, when in the eyes of those who admire ancient Rome, it appeared to emulate ancient architecture. With great skill, Fomin depicts the hoists, cranes, scaffolding, wreathes of smoke and swarming workers.

Fomin also renders landscape extremely well: he shows an appreciation for the sky and clouds (in contrast to the majority of our architects, who, surprisingly, render the sky in a generic manner, without sensitivity). Only gradually do you realize that building construction, as such - where Fomin's artistic calling and talent lies - serves to distract the artist from creating charming landscape etchings, which in terms of their subject matter are so distinctive in European art.

Of Fomin's etchings that have little architectural meaning, but comprise very beautiful drawings, we should note the views of old Petersburg, especially the etching of Chernyshevskii Square, where the point of view is chosen with taste and the buildings on the semicircular space are depicted well. Of the series of views of old Rome, the following are especially successful: the arch in the ancient wall of via Cavour, the Lugano Bridge near Tivoli, the Porta Flaminia arch, San Pietro - a marvelous aquatint - and the mask [on the fountain] on the road to Villa Caprarola. The Temple of Luxor and other views of Egypt reveal Fomin's tremendous ability to express the spirit of ancient architecture.

As we should have expected, Fomin's wonderful etchings have been so influential that other artists have begun to master his understanding of the Empire style. Actually, no school has yet emerged, due to a stubborn devotion to individualism and a petty, vain fear of being accused of imitation (as if, in the good old days, no one abided by common ideals!). Nonetheless, Fomin already has individual followers. And in the provinces, he already has imitators, for which we should be happy; indeed, it is better to be led by good role models than to create original, but poor works of art...

The need to continue the development of the architectural etching is being acknowledged more and more, for in the realm of architecture, there is less fear of being seen as a disciple. Illustrations, typically executed as etchings, are being used to supplement architectural plans much more frequently. Especially notable is the preference shown for this type of illustration in works seen in competitions at the Academy of the Arts. Taleporovskii, Shilovskii and others are attempting to work in the spirit of Fomin. For now, they have not yet created anything outstanding, and their works have, as yet, only the significance of mere vignettes, stamps, inscriptions and picture mounts, modelled on Fomin's works. But, of course, even in this case it is better to follow a good example than to work idiosyncratically, but badly...

In general, the significance of the etchings by Fomin that we have discussed today is enormous: they bring his ideas to broader portions of the public, help increase understanding of the demands facing the architect, and educate the public on matters of taste. As valuable works in the sphere of engraving, these etchings will occupy a distinguished position. Finally, by teaching us to see planned buildings from different points of view, by advancing methods and techniques, they remind us that etchings are a wonderful pedagogical tool. They remind us that the art of etching should become a required subject in architectural schools.

Apollon, 8 (1914): 5-16.