The Kremlin I

The image of Moscow as a city deeply connected to its people’s life has been carefully preserved by national artistic tradition. A pictorial chronicle of Moscow shows its abundance, its historic import, its soul and character. All genres of the fine arts were engaged with the city – landscape, portrait, historical portrayals – from the 16^th century onwards. Russian and, later, Soviet painters and graphic artists depict an evolution of the city that is not only of historic notability but also of artistic interest. We can trace the development of the urban landscape; the works devoted to a single topic vividly demonstrate the specific features of artin different historical periods, reveal the complex processes taking place over the centuries, and reveal the creativity of individual artists that propelled the genre.

Three works depicting the Moscow Kremlin allow us a comparison. First, we have Simon Ushakov‘s icon of the Kremlin painted in the 17^th century; second, we have Maxim Vorobiev‘s landscape from the first half of the 19^th century; and, finally, the Soviet painter Pyotr Ossovsky‘s nocturnal vision.

Genealogy of the state of Muscovy (Panegyric to the Virgin of Vladimirsk) by Simon Ushakov. (1668).

Ushakov’s icon ‘In Praise of the Virgin of Vladimirsk‘ depicts the Kremlin as a part of a larger composition accomplished in the tradition of Russian iconography. Convention, abstraction, symbolism are inherent in this work. His intent is to glorify Muscovy, pleasing to God, a Russian state under divine protection, richly flourishing in the reign of Alexei Mikhailovich. The Kremlin on the icon is a symbol of Moscow. Iconographer does not depict a  realistic view of the Kremlin. He shows only its basic elements: a part of the ramparts from the direction of the Red Square, Spasskaya and Nikolskaya Towers, and the Cathedral of the Assumption, from which the genealogical tree of Muscovy grows. The figure of the king and members of the ruling family appear above the walls and towers. The icon of the Vladimir Mother of God is almost twice the size the building of the cathedral. The architectural forms themselves – the crenellated and double-walled Kremlin ramparts separated by a moat, towers, five-domed Cathedral of the Assumption – have been handled by the painter accurately to the smallest detail. He has maintained the correct ratio of levels and proportions of the cathedral towers. The depiction of the decorations, windows on the drums of the domes and so on is correct. All this suggests that the real world for the Russian icon-painter of the second half of the 17^th century was already only a sign, a symbol. He was interested only in the beauty of forms, proportions, colors. But for all his interest in the real world Simon Ushakov did not transgress, as we see, the strictures of the iconographic convention. They are  rendered in the overall structure of the work, in its character, composition and colour. In the red brick walls and the illuminated Assumption Cathedral we see conditional, decorative colours. The dark pink and light green tones of the walls and the temple, combined with the gold background, domes, brocaded royal robes, give rise to a lighter mood of festivity, and merge into a chorus of colours of the icon, expressing a “Panegyric to the Virgin of Vladimir”, whose patronage was thought to be enjoyed by Muscovy.

View of the Kremlin from the direction of the stone bridge, by Maxim Vorobyov. (1819).

In Maxim Vorobyov’s ‘View of the Kremlin from the direction of the stone bridge’, we already see a realistic view of the Kremlin complex as it appeared at the beginning of the 19^th century. The brick fortress walls now appear golden-brown and the cathedrals and bell-towers in the sunlight glow gold and white. Everything appears natural. However, the artist has not restricted himself to what he saw from a fixed point. The landscape is imbued with patriotic ideals as the ancient capital of Russia has only recently survived the ‘great storm of 1812’; it is filled with a sense of immortality and eternity. One of the brightest representatives of the Russian academic landscape art of the first half of the 19^th century, Vorobyov expresses this idea by the means available to the art of the time. The artist was not so much attracted by the monumental Kremlin itself; rather, seeking integrity and a clear structure to the composition, he wants to show the entire complex in organic union with Russian nature. Shrouded in a blue haze, illuminated with soft sunlight, the Moscow Kremlin in Vorobyov’s depiction appears as a perfect castle, light, elusive and bright. The idyll is accentuated by the figures in the foreground – fishermen in boats, washerwomen cleaning cloths in the river. Vorobyov’s painting is infused with serenity and harmony, aided not only by the three-part composition, but also the soft palette constructed with blue and golden-brown tones that creates a chiaroscuro through which the artist reveals the architectural forms and conveys the scarcely perceptible movement of water in the river and clouds in sky.

Moscow Kremlin at night, Pyotr Ossovsky. (1979).

Pyotr Ossovsky’s ‘Moscow Kremlin at night’ is a romantic painting. For the Soviet artist, too, the Kremlin – as for his predecessors – is a symbol of Moscow, of Russia, of the Motherland. But Ossovsky speaks of this in the language of today, and in his creation is permeated with the sensibilities of our time.

On a large horizontal canvas, the majestic silhouette of the Kremlin appears in an alarming red glow, combining in itself history and modernity; this is a Kremlin with its white-stoned and gold-topped churches, and it also a Kremlin from the Spassky tower, crowned with a red star, a Kremlin with a red flag fluttering above the dome of the Council of Ministers.

Ossovsky paints the Kremlin from a viewpoint that suggests a layering – St. Basil’s Cathedral and Lenin’s Mausoleum and other buildings – so that, in contrast with the free space of the sky, the bottom half of the picture suggests weight, and the Kremlin appears to be fused with the ground, inextricably linked to it. The artist has boldly and confidently established the architectural forms out of large planes of colours. His language is lapidary. He constructs an image on the comparison of large generalised masses. Energetic lines delineate the light silhouettes from the dark background. The colour contrasts are sharp, the colour is intensely decorative. The landscape is filled with romantic elation, internal tension and solemn grandeur. That is how our contemporary saw and artistically expressed the Kremlin.

[Loosely translated from Moscow Streets – Moscow in the eyes of artists.]

Bogdan Willewalde

If you were following the series on the Napoleonic invasion of Russia in 1812 that I posted last year, the name of Willewalde should not come as a surprise to you. Gottfried (or, in Russian, Bogdan – gift of God) Willewalde (1812 – 1903) was not only one of the foremost academic military artists of the nineteenth century, but also an important court artist to the Russian imperium.

One of the special attributes of Willewalde’s paintings is their extreme attention to detail, so much so that individuals can be identified by their likenesses even in the most crowded works; also, the paintings provide a superb glimpse into the protocols, dresses and uniforms, and indeed interior decor of the periods depicted.

I was interested enough in the man’s works that I created an English Wikipedia page for him. Check it out for biographical details.

Here’s a brief gallery of his works. First, some court-related paintings – not great quality, I’ve gotta say.

Czar Nicholas and Crown-Prince Alexander in the artist’s studio, 1854.

Ceremonial entry of their Imperial Highnesses into the Moscow before their coronation August 17, 1856.

His Imperial Highness Nikolai Alexandrovich (the heir apparent) takes the oath at the Georgiev coronation hall in the Winter Palace, September 8, 1859.

Inauguration of the monument ‘A Millennium of Russia’ at Novgorod in 1862. (1864).

His Imperial Highness Alexander Alexandrovich (the heir apparent) takes his oath at the Georgiev Throne hall of the Winter Palace, July 20, 1866.

And here are some military paintings.

They were imprisoned in 1814. (1885).

“Today it’s you, tomorrow it’ll be me”, Kulm, 1813. (1886).

Scene at the milestone. (1859).

Greetings, Beloved France. (1898).

Blucher and Cossacks at Bautzen. (1885).

Attack of the Leib-Hussars at Warsaw.

Vladimir Sarabyanov

[That fine magazine Bolshoi Gorod has frequent profiles of people who live in the big city of Moscow. The latest issue has an article on Vladimir Sarabyanov, a restorer and art critic. I have loosely translated it. The original text is by Elena Mukhametshina.]

People of the Big City: Vladimir Sarabyanov

Restorer and art critic – on revealing XII century frescoes, footstools, the phenomenon of the sacred space, spasmodic state funding, and the tints of Titian.

On the specifics of working with Russian antiquities

A third of my life is spent in the studio, and two thirds on projects. We go on the road to restore monumental paintings in Novgorod, Pskov, Ladoga, Polotsk, Zvenigorod, Kirillov, the Trinity church of St Sergius. All of the ancient monumental paintings that we have in this country are religious, so we work mainly in churches. But there is far more: for example, in the Shulgan-Tash caves (the Kapova caves in Bashkortostan), there are a palaeolithic paintings from about fifteen or seventeen thousand years BC – scientists haven’t yet decided.

I love antiquity. The twelfth century is the dawn of Russian culture, and I have worked hard on it: the Yuriev monastery, St. Anthony monastery, St Nicholas cathedral in Novgorod, the St. George and Assumption churches in Ladoga. Mirozhsky monastery and Snetogorsky convent in Pskov – the latter, of course, is from the fourteenth century, but still a favourite. About seven years ago we began the restoration of the frescoes at the St. Euphrosine monastery in Polotsk, also dating from the twelfth century, which hopefully we will soon complete. This was incredible – it is an amazing monument, invisible, and we revealed it over a few years from under layers of oil paint. Such monuments are for me the most precious jewels in my work.

All the ancient churches of Russia, from the Kievan churches of the eleventh century to the seventeenth century churches at Yaroslavl and Kostroma – all of them were repainted. Between the seventeenth and the nineteenth centuries, they were never restored but merely renewed, with paint applied directly atop the ancient paintings. Sometimes they tried to correspond with the originals, and sometimes they didn’t bother. And sometimes the paintings would be broken up with a hammer, ‘to improve them, to beautify them’. The only exception is the Ferapontov monastery cathedral which has survived without renovations. Therefore, our restoration of monumental painting has some specificities unlike other countries of the world – we reveal art from under the works of later periods. This is quite specific to the Russian school of restoration. In Italy, for example, where there are large numbers of monumental fine art, it was very rare for artists of one period to overwrite another. It’s the same in Greece. In Byzantium, such stratification is rare. For us, though, it was common practice. Often there would be several layers. In Polotsk we revealed a twelfth century mural from under several layers of oils, in some places up to seven. Sometimes we soften the layers, exfoliate them, and where there are figurative elements, we transfer them onto a new foundation, while where it is just paint, we remove it. It is like a surgical operation.

On the sacred location

Stratification is a Russian cultural mentality. Nothing can be done about it. For example, the Annunciation cathedral in the Moscow Kremlin is the third cathedral of the Annunciation on that site. Where are the previous two? They were demolished because people wanted to do them even better. Well, if you want to do better, build it on a neighbouring site, as is done in any other European country. In some little French or Italian towns there are huge Romanesque-Gothic cathedrals that were built over periods of 200 or 300 years. In Russia, everything was done differently. They built, demolished after a hundred years, built again, and demolished a hundred years later, and rebuilt. And then they say ‘This is the Cathedral of the Assumption of the city of Kolomna from where the advance to Kulikovo field began…’ No, this is not that cathedral. This cathedral is from the 17th century. Of the cathedral from where Dmitri Donskoi went to war, not a stone remains. Intolerance to what someone has done before you lies deep in the Russian subconscious. If you want to do something, you have to somehow destroy all that was done by your ancestors. Why do all the nouveaux riches have to build their ugly towers necessarily in the centre of St. Petersburg or Moscow or another wonderful town? If you want to build a skyscraper, build it on a vacant lot. But they have to build it right where there already is something. In no civilisation is there a concept of a sacred location. ‘No, we have to build a church here.’ – ‘But why? There already is a chapel here.’ – ‘No, we must build it right here.’ – ‘Why?’ – ‘Well, now, it is a sacred spot.’ Sorry, this stinks of heathen practice, it’s not a sacred space. In Christianity, there is no concept of a ‘sacred location’, and yet we have it: we have a special Christianity, a special mentality, a special way about us. We are all special, with quirks.

Irrationality can reside within a person, but when it spills out into public life, and begins to determine the fate of the country, it becomes frightening. But I have an optimistic attitude to life. Firstly, no matter how bad it gets, we know that it could be worse. Secondly, we still believe for the most part in God, consciously or unconsciously, we live in hope. And this hope helps us, otherwise our country would long have ceased to exist. I am deeply convinced of this.

On training in restoration

I came into the profession in the mid-1970s, where you could hardly study the subject anywhere. There were no serious schools offering training in restoration, so I learned everything in the studio, and went to the evening courses at Moscow State University only later, once I had learned to work with my hands.

These days it’s better for restorers. There are strong departments at Stroganovka, Moscow Architectural Institute, Surikov academy; in St. Petersburg as well there are several schools. Firstly, the profession has come into demand. Secondly, towards the end of the 1970s and the early 1980s, it became clear that the restorers who formed the basis of our schools may have been great masters, but were for the most part, quite uneducated. When they were asked, ‘What kind of icon is this?’ they would hesitantly mutter, ‘From some time between the 16th and 18th centuries.’ It was a strange time: an eerie, inward-looking state, the rise of the Brezhnev era, absolute stagnation in all things, but somehow there sprang occasional shoots of hope. And one of these was the fact that the government’s attention was drawn to the serious lack of training in restoration.

On professional principles

Many people go into the profession out of a sense of idealism. In my studio there is a girl who has just graduated from the Stroganovka. She pursued a highly technical diploma for half a year at Polotsk, lived in a hostel for monastic novices and owned barely anything. And today she earns a very modest pay, because we ourselves, old men, are hardly paid. She could have gone into another ‘department’ of our organisation, where it is possible to earn 100-150 thousand every month – on demand, on expensive objects, where it is necessary to engage less in restoration than in renovation – to repaint or apply gilt. These days there are lots of such jobs in Moscow. But the girl didn’t go there. Out of six people in her course, four didn’t go into that line – they all work in my team.

The career of a restorer offers a wide choice. It is possible to get into the commercial, profitable way, where you needn’t work to the highest principles of restoration, but rather based on demand, working on everything that’s brought to you. But if you want to work with wonderful monuments and history, then step off the path of riches.

It is like with doctors: you can bleed your patients dry pretending to treat them, or you can actually cure them. The doctors call this the Hippocratic oath. Among restorers there are no oaths, but there are principles.

A specialist in monumental restoration needs hands, a head, eyes and a conscience. If any of these is lacking, the chain is broken. You can distinguish a good restorer from a poor one by the results. But the difference can be understood only by other specialists. The hoi polloi are far from this level of understanding.

Restoration – it is a way of life. It is better to ask my wife about this – she will eloquently keep silent on the subject. All my life I’ve spent either in the studio or on the road, on projects.

It is not necessary to equate restoration with the creative process. We do not create anything new; we concern ourselves only with the extension of life. The proper restorer thinks not of themselves, but of the object they hold in their hands.

Our team has a rigid principle – we restore antiquity, revealing it from under all the growths on top of it, and we present it to people in the way that it has been preserved. Not in the form that they want to see it – with little eyes and smiling mouths, little arms and legs; but rather in that authentic form that it has reached us from the past.

On stools and bureaucrats

It used to be that you would arrive in some Old Ladoga and you would be lodged literally in a hovel – no windows, no doors. And to begin work, you would have to make the doors yourself, glaze the windows, set up the electricity, build furniture from wooden boards. We used to go to Novgorod every year and we’d be settled in the empty chambers of the half-ruined Yuriev monastery. Floors were missing, the roof leaked, the windows had no panes – everything was smashed or burned. So we constructed beds and tables and stools and we lived there for about five months. We would return the following year, and again there was nothing around. Sometimes, it is true, we’d discover one of our stools in a neighbouring studio of some Novgorod artist who had taken it but wouldn’t admit to having done so. And we’d take it back from him in exchange for a bottle of port.

Recently, attitudes towards us and in general towards restoration have improved. That same Yuriev monastery where we long had a base for restoration and archaeology is now functional, in use.

The biggest obstacle today to the work of restoration is its financing. It is the most destructive force that puts a spoke in our wheels. Financing always appears at the last moment, because of which it is impossible to make plans for the year. It’s one thing if you restore an icon or a painting or a sculpture inside your studio. If you aren’t paid, you get up, go home and wait until they pay you. On the other hand, we have objects that are out on the street, exposed to the elements, interacting with the environment. You can work on them in summer, but not in winter. But this goes completely against the system of government funding. When it is warm – there is no funding. Maybe it is available where it is even warmer. But when it gets colder, the bureaucracy gathers in Moscow and begin to cluck: ‘Oh no, we really need to finish the project. Oh no, we did nothing for half the year.’ Or maybe they did something with the money – perhaps it provided for their presence in some warm clime. ‘Well, we got to do something. Let us hand out the money here and there.’ They do not consider that we would now have to work in subzero temperatures. But we need at least seven degrees Celsius for ordinary work in the interior of a church. Last year, for example, we worked on the southern facade of the Assumption cathedral in October, while the money for it had been granted at the beginning of the year. Sadly, this spasmodic regime of funding is the main problem today with the industry and, it appears, the whole country.

On Moscow art and Titian

In Moscow there are few ancient monuments. They are mainly concentrated in the Kremlin; there are some in the Novodevichy convent, the Trinity church at Nikitniki, and the Intercession church at Fili. All the restoration there was accomplished thirty or forty years ago, often done quickly, focused on some festivity or the other, such as the Olympics. Perhaps the only church that was restored according to scientific techniques is the Annunciation cathedral in the Kremlin. Three generations of restorers worked on it, the most recent contribution being our own.

Matters are not good at the Novodevichy convent – everything is covered with writing; it needs serious restoration. I would restore all the churches of the Kremlin too but this is not a pressing problem – the paintings there are in stable condition, not falling apart. They look somewhat unclear because the original is covered by the remains of overpainting and additions from previous restorations, but they can be handled in the future, there is no hurry. And anyway, these flaws are visible only to a professionally picky eye, like mine, for instance. I can scarcely enter a museum in peace because I see not art but its restoration. This is a professional defect in me. Everybody says, ‘Look, what a Titian!’ And I think, ‘Why does this Titian have such heinous tones? Who put them there? Tear off his hands.’

Lives of the Artists XI

As you can imagine, artist life under Communism was no different from that under aristocratic control – one was not only beholden to one’s patrons, one found one’s freedom curtailed in often overt ways. In the 1920s, Red Army generals were notably paternalistic in their support for the arts. Voroshilov and Budenny were two such enthusiastic generals, and the artist Pavel Radimov mentions an encounter with them in his memoirs:

I went to see him in his small room at the National Hotel [in Moscow] to talk about the proposed Red Army exhibition [that of 1923]. I did a sketch painting of Voroshilov, and also of Budenny, who was there at the same time. Comrade Budenny jokingly commented that it was much easier to take part in a battle than to pose for a painting. On looking at the study I had done be became carried away, and, seizing the brush, corrected his portrait a little. I left the hotel inspired by the comradely conversation I had had.

Sure, and I’m sure he appreciated the ‘correction’ Budenny provided.

[From Matthew Cullerne Bown, Brandon Taylor (editors), Art of the Soviets: Painting, sculpture and architecture in a one-party state, 1917-1992.]

Art Roundup – January 2013

Happy New Year, folks. Here’s wishing you all a fine and arty 2013 filled with joy and the chance to hang up the occasional Goncharova or Malyavin on your walls!

As Napoleon abandons his Army, so do I my series of posts on his great invasion of two hundred years ago. It should back to regular programming for me, folks, although I do find myself somewhat filled with lassitude. Here, though, is what’s happening in the world of art this month.

1. A new gallery in London, ArtMost, is promoting Russian talent. Check out their exhibition of the works of Viktor Razgulin till January 20, 2013 (by appointment only).
2. One of the great nonconformist artists in the old Soviet Union was Leonid Sokov. At Rutgers University’s Zimmerli Art Museum in New Brunswick, NJ, will begin on January 26, 2013, an exhibition of some of his finest works, titled Ironic Objects.
3. Here’s an interesting idea: an exhibition of art by artists of the Russian diaspora who are now Shrewsbury’s residents. At the Hive Art and Media Gallery, from January 14 – February 1, 2013, is ‘Born in the USSR‘, curated by Svetlana Elantseva.
4. At the House of Photography in Tashkent, a Turkmen Artists’ Exhibition continues till January 10, 2013. Among others will be the works of Ruvim Mazel who was one of the founders of the Turkmen Painting School at Ashgabat.
5. Lithuania’s National Art Gallery has a permanent exhibition on 20th century Lithuanian art. Check it out if you are in Vilnius!
6. The Chinese are not to be outdone: Shanghai’s Museum of Contemporary Arts ‘Huntsiao’ hosts an exhibition of ‘Modern works of famous Uzbek artists‘, including pieces by Mukhtarkhan Isanov, Marat Sadykov, Gafur Kadyrov, Faizullah Ahmadaliev, Khurshid Ziyakhanov and Akmal Noor. Ends January 12, 2013.