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Vsevolod Mikhailovich Garshin
Artists
Today I feel like a mountain has been lifted off my shoulders. Happiness was so unexpected! Down with engineering shoulder straps, down with tools and estimates!
But isn't it a shame to rejoice so much at the death of a poor aunt just because she left a legacy that gives me the opportunity to leave the service? True, after all, when she was dying, she asked me to give myself completely to my favorite pastime, and now I rejoice, among other things, in the fact that I am fulfilling her ardent desire. That was yesterday... What an astonished face our boss made when he found out that I was quitting my service! And when I explained to him the purpose for which I was doing this, he simply opened his mouth.
- For the love of art? .. Mm! .. Submit a petition.
And he said nothing more, turned and left. But I didn't need anything else. I am free, I am an artist! Isn't this the height of happiness?
I wanted to go somewhere far away from people and from Petersburg; I took a skiff and went to the seaside. Water, the sky, the city sparkling in the sun in the distance, the blue forests bordering the shores of the bay, the tops of the masts on the Kronstadt roadstead, dozens of steamers flying past me and gliding sailing ships and life - everything seemed to me in a new light. All this is mine, all this is in my power, I can grab all this, throw it on the canvas and place it in front of the crowd amazed by the power of art. True, one should not sell the skin of a bear that has not yet been killed; because while I - still God knows what great artist…
The skiff quickly cut through the surface of the water. Yalichnik, tall, healthy and handsome guy in a red shirt, tirelessly worked with oars; he leaned forward, then leaned back, strongly moving the boat with each movement. The sun was setting and played so spectacularly on his face and on his red shirt that I wanted to sketch it with colors. A small box with canvases, paints and brushes is always with me.
“Stop rowing, sit still for a minute, I’ll write you,” I said.
He dropped the oars.
- You sit down as if you were lifting the oars.
He took up the oars, waved them like a bird's wings, and froze in a beautiful pose. I quickly outlined the outline with a pencil and began to write. With some special joyful feeling, I stirred the colors. I knew that nothing would tear me away from them for the rest of my life.
The skiff soon began to tire; his swashbuckling expression changed to one of dullness and boredom. He began to yawn and once even wiped his face with his sleeve, for which he had to bend his head to the oar. The folds of the shirt are completely gone. Such an annoyance! I can't stand it when nature moves.
- Sit down, brother, be quiet!
He chuckled.
- Why are you laughing?
He smiled shyly and said:
- Yes, wonderful, sir!
- Why are you wondering?
- Yes, as if I'm rare, what to write me. It's like a picture.
- The picture will be, my dear friend.
- What is she to you?
- For learning. I’ll pee, I’ll pee small ones, I’ll write big ones too.
- Big ones?
- At least three fathoms.
He paused and then asked seriously:
- Well, that's why you can image?
- I can and the image; I only paint pictures.
He thought about it and asked again:
- What are they for?
- What's happened?
These pictures...
Of course, I did not lecture him about the significance of art, but only said that these paintings paid good money, a thousand rubles, two or more. The yalichnik was completely satisfied and did not speak any more. The study turned out beautiful (these hot tones of the calico lit by the setting sun are very beautiful), and I returned home completely happy.
Standing in front of me in a tense position is the old man Taras, the sitter, to whom Professor N. ordered to put his “hand on the head”, because this is an “ochen classical pose”; around me is a whole crowd of comrades, just like me, sitting in front of easels with palettes and brushes in their hands. Ahead of all, Dedov, although a landscape painter, paints Taras diligently. In the classroom, the smell of paints, oils, turpentine and dead silence. Every half an hour Taras is given a rest; he sits on the edge of a wooden box that serves as a pedestal for him, and from "nature" turns into an ordinary naked old man, stretches his arms and legs, numb from long immobility, dispenses with the help of a handkerchief, and so on. Students crowd around the easels, looking at each other's work. My easel is always crowded; I am a very capable student of the academy and I have great hopes of becoming one of "our luminaries," as the well-known art critic Mr. V. S., who had long ago said that "Ryabinin would be a good idea." That's why everyone looks at my work.
Five minutes later, everyone sits down again, Taras climbs onto the pedestal, puts his hand on his head, and we smear, smear ...
And so every day.
Boring, isn't it? Yes, I myself have long been convinced that all this is very boring. But just as a locomotive with an open steam pipe has one of two things to do: roll along the rails until the steam is exhausted, or, having jumped off them, turn from a slender iron-copper monster into a pile of debris, so I ... I'm on the rails; they tightly wrap around my wheels, and if I get off them, what then? I must by all means ride to the station, despite the fact that it, this station, seems to me some kind of black hole in which you can’t make out anything. Others say it will artistic activity. There is no dispute that this is something artistic, but that this is an activity ...
When I walk around the exhibition and look at the paintings, what do I see in them? A canvas on which paints have been applied, arranged in such a way that they form impressions similar to those of various objects.
People walk around and wonder: how are they, the colors, so cunningly arranged! And nothing more. Whole books, whole mountains of books, have been written on this subject; I have read many of them. But from the Thenes, the Quarries, the Couglers, and all those who have written about art, up to and including Proudhon, nothing is clear. They all talk about the importance of art, and in my head when reading them, the thought certainly stirs: if it has it. I have not seen the good effect of a good picture on a person; why should I believe that it is?
Why believe? I need to believe, I need to, but How believe? How to make sure that all your life you will not serve exclusively the stupid curiosity of the crowd (and it’s good if only curiosity, but not something else, the excitation of bad instincts, for example) and the vanity of some rich stomach on its legs, which does not hurrying up to my experienced, suffered, expensive picture, painted not with a brush and paints, but with nerves and blood, mutters: “mm ... wow”, puts his hand into his protruding pocket, throws me several hundred rubles and takes it away from me. It will carry away with excitement, with sleepless nights, with sorrows and joys, with seductions and disappointments. And again you walk alone among the crowd. You mechanically draw a sitter in the evening, mechanically paint it in the morning, arousing the astonishment of professors and comrades with your quick successes. Why are you doing all this, where are you going?
It's been four months since I sold my last picture, and I still don't have any idea for a new one. If something came up in my head, it would be good ... A few times of complete oblivion: I would go into the picture, as into a monastery, I would think only about her alone. Questions: where? For what? - disappear during operation; there is one thought in the head, one goal, and bringing it into execution is a pleasure. The picture is the world in which you live and to which you are responsible. Here worldly morality disappears: you create a new one for yourself in your new world and in it you feel your rightness, dignity or worthlessness and lies in your own way, regardless of life.
But you can't always write. In the evening, when twilight interrupts work, you return to life and hear again eternal question: “why?”, which does not let you fall asleep, forcing you toss and turn in bed in the heat, look into the darkness, as if the answer is written somewhere in it. And fall asleep in the morning dead sleep so that, upon waking up, again descend into another world of sleep, in which only the images that come out of yourself live, folding and clearing up before you on the canvas.
- Why don't you work, Ryabinin? a neighbor asked me loudly.
I was so thoughtful that I started when I heard this question. The hand with the palette dropped; the skirt of the frock coat got into the paint and was smeared all over; brushes lay on the floor. I looked at the sketch; it was finished, and well finished: Taras stood on the canvas as if alive.
“I finished,” I answered my neighbor.
The class is over. The sitter got down from the box and dressed; everyone was noisily collecting their belongings. The conversation went up. They came up to me and complimented me.
“Medal, medal… The best study,” some said. Others were silent: artists do not like to praise each other.
It seems to me that I enjoy respect among my fellow students. Of course, not without the influence of my, compared with them, respectable age: in the whole academy, only Volsky is older than me. Yes, art has an amazing power of attraction! This Volsky is a retired officer, a gentleman of about forty-five, with a completely gray head; to enter the academy at such an age, to start studying again - isn't that a feat? But he works hard: in the summer, from morning to evening, he writes sketches in any weather, with some kind of selflessness; in winter, when it is light, he constantly writes, and in the evening he draws. At the age of two, he made great progress, despite the fact that fate did not reward him with a particularly great talent.
Here Ryabinin is another matter: a devilishly talented person, but a terrible lazy person. I don't think anything serious will come out of him, although all young artists are his admirers. It seems to me especially strange his predilection for the so-called real stories: he writes bast shoes, onuchi and short fur coats, as if we had not seen enough of them in kind. And most importantly, it almost does not work. Sometimes he sits down and finishes a picture in a month, about which everyone screams like a miracle, finding, however, that his technique leaves much to be desired (in my opinion, his technique is very, very weak), and then he stops writing even sketches, walks gloomy and he does not speak to anyone, even to me, although he seems to move away from me less than from other comrades. Strange young man! These people, who cannot find complete satisfaction in art, seem amazing to me. They cannot understand that nothing elevates a person so much as creativity.
Yesterday I finished the picture, exhibited it, and today they have already asked about the price. I won't sell for less than 300. They have already given 250. I am of the opinion that you should never deviate from the price once set. It brings respect. And now I won’t give in all the more because the picture will probably sell; the plot is one of the most popular and pretty: winter, sunset; black trunks in the foreground stand out sharply against the red glow. So writes K., and how they go with him! In this one winter, they say, he earned up to twenty thousand. Thumbs up! You can live. I do not understand how some artists manage to live in poverty. Here at K. not a single canvas is wasted: everything is for sale. You just need to be more direct about the matter: while you are painting a picture, you are an artist, a creator; it is written - you are a merchant; and the more dexterous you are in dealing, the better. The public often also tries to cheat our brother.
I live in the Fifteenth Line on Sredny Prospekt and four times a day I walk along the embankment where foreign steamships dock. I love this place for its diversity, liveliness, hustle and bustle and for the fact that it has given me a lot of material. Here, looking at day laborers pulling coolies, turning gates and winches, carrying carts with all sorts of luggage, I learned to draw a working person.
I was walking home with Dedov, a landscape painter... A kind and innocent person, like the landscape itself, and passionately in love with his art. For him, there are no doubts; he writes what he sees: he sees a river - and writes a river, he sees a swamp with sedge - and writes a swamp with sedge. Why does he need this river and this swamp? He never thinks. He seems to educated person; at least graduated as an engineer. He left the service, the blessing was some kind of inheritance that gives him the opportunity to exist without difficulty. Now he writes and writes: in the summer he sits from morning to evening on the field or in the forest for sketches, in the winter he tirelessly composes sunsets, sunrises, noons, the beginnings and ends of rain, winters, springs, and so on. He forgot his engineering and does not regret it. Only when we pass the pier does he often explain to me the significance of the huge masses of iron and steel: machine parts, boilers, and different varieties unloaded from the ship ashore.
“Look what a cauldron they dragged,” he said to me yesterday, hitting the ringing cauldron with his cane.
“Don’t we know how to make them?” I asked.
- They do it with us, but not enough, not enough. See what a bunch they brought. And bad work; will have to be repaired here: see, the seam diverges? Here, too, the rivets loosened. Do you know how this thing is done? This, I tell you, is a hell of a job. A person sits in the cauldron and holds the rivet from the inside with tongs, which has the strength to press on them with his chest, and outside the master beats the rivet with a hammer and makes such a hat.
He pointed to a long row of raised metal circles running along the seam of the cauldron.
- Grandfathers, it's like beating on the chest!
- Doesn't matter. I once tried to climb into the boiler, so after four rivets I barely got out. Completely busted chest. And these somehow manage to get used to it. True, they die like flies: they will endure a year or two, and then, if they are alive, they are rarely fit for anything. If you please, endure the blows of a hefty hammer with your chest all day long, and even in a cauldron, in stuffiness, bent over in three deaths. In winter, the iron freezes, it's cold, and he sits or lies on the iron. Over there in that cauldron - you see, red, narrow - you can’t sit like that: lie on your side and substitute your chest. Hard work for these bastards.
- Deer?
- Well, yes, the workers called them that. From this ringing, they often deaf. And do you think how much they get for such hard labor? Pennies! Because here neither skill nor art is required, but only meat ... How many painful impressions at all these factories, Ryabinin, if you only knew! I'm so glad I got rid of them for good. It was just hard to live at first, looking at these sufferings ... Is it something with nature. She does not offend, and one does not need to offend her in order to exploit her, as we artists ... Look, look, what a grayish tone! he suddenly interrupted himself, pointing to a corner of the sky. - Lower, over there, under a cloud ... lovely! With a greenish tint. After all, write like this, well, just like that - they won’t believe it! And it's not bad, is it?
I expressed my approval, although, to tell the truth, I did not see any charm in the dirty green patch of the St. Petersburg sky, and interrupted Dedov, who began to admire some more “thin” near another cloud.
- Tell me, where can I see such a capercaillie?
- Let's go to the factory together; I'll show you all sorts of things. If you want, even tomorrow! Have you ever thought of writing this capercaillie? Come on, it's not worth it. Isn't there anything more fun? And to the factory, if you want, even tomorrow.
Today we went to the factory and inspected everything. We also saw a wood grouse. He sat curled up in a corner of the cauldron and exposed his chest to the blows of the hammer. I looked at him for half an hour; in that half hour the hammer rose and fell hundreds of times. The capercaillie writhed. I will write it.
Ryabinin invented such nonsense that I don't know what to think of him. On the third day I took him to a metal factory; we spent the whole day there, examined everything, and I explained all sorts of productions to him (to my surprise, I forgot very little of my profession); Finally I brought him to the boiler room. At that time they were working on huge cauldron. Ryabinin climbed into the cauldron and watched for half an hour as the worker held the rivets with tongs. Came out pale and upset; was silent all the way back. And today he announces to me that he has already begun to write this wood-grouse worker. What's an idea! What poetry in the dirt! Here I can say, without embarrassment of anyone or anything, what, of course, I would not say in front of everyone: in my opinion, all this masculine stripe in art is pure ugliness. Who needs these notorious Repin "Barge Haulers"? They are beautifully written, there is no dispute; but after all and only. Where is the beauty, harmony, grace? Isn't it to reproduce the graceful in nature that art exists?
Whether business at me! A few more days of work, and my quiet "May Morning" will be over. The water in the pond sways a little, the willows bowed their branches on it; the east lights up; small cirrus clouds turned into pink color. A female figurine is walking down a steep bank with a bucket for water, frightening away a flock of ducks. That's all; it seems simple, but meanwhile I clearly feel that there is an abyss of poetry in the picture. This is art! It sets a person to quiet, meek thoughtfulness, softens the soul. And Ryabininsky's "Capercaillie" will not affect anyone just because everyone will try to run away from him as soon as possible, so as not to be an eyesore to himself with these ugly rags and this dirty mug. Strange affair! After all, in music, ear-piercing, unpleasant harmonies are not allowed; why is it possible for us, in painting, to reproduce positively ugly, repulsive images? We need to talk about this with L., he will write an article and, by the way, give Ryabinin a ride for his picture. And worth it.
It's been two weeks since I stopped going to the academy: I sit at home and write. The work has completely exhausted me, although it is going well. Should have said no Although, A especially that goes well. The closer it gets to the end, the more and more terrible what I have written seems to me. And it seems to me that this is my last painting.
Here he is sitting in front of me in the dark corner of the cauldron, crouched in three deaths, dressed in rags, a man choking with fatigue. It wouldn't be visible at all if it weren't for the light coming through the round holes drilled for the rivets. Circles of this light dazzle his clothes and face, glow with golden spots on his rags, on his disheveled and sooty beard and hair, on his crimson-red face, on which sweat mixed with dirt flows, on his sinewy torn arms and on his exhausted wide and hollow chest. . A constantly repeated terrible blow falls on the cauldron and forces the unfortunate capercaillie to strain all his strength in order to maintain his incredible pose. As far as it was possible to express this intense effort, I expressed.
Sometimes I put down my palette and brushes and sit down away from the painting, right in front of it. I am pleased with her; I have never been more successful than this terrible thing. The only trouble is that this contentment does not caress me, but torments me. This is not a painted picture, this is a ripe disease. How it will be resolved, I do not know, but I feel that after this picture I will have nothing to write about. Bird-catchers, fishermen, hunters with all sorts of expressions and the most typical physiognomies, all this “rich field of the genre” - what do I need it for now? I won’t act like this capercaillie, if I only act ...
I made an experiment: I called Dedov and showed him a picture. He only said: "Well, my friend," and spread his arms. He sat down, watched for half an hour, then silently said goodbye and left. It seems to have worked... But he is still an artist.
And I sit in front of my picture, and it affects me. You look and you can’t tear yourself away, you feel for this exhausted figure. Sometimes I even hear the blows of a hammer ... I'll go crazy from it. Need to hang it up.
The canvas covered the easel with the picture, and I still sit in front of it, thinking about the same indefinite and terrible thing that torments me so much. The sun sets and throws a slanting yellow streak of light through dusty glass onto an easel hung with canvas. Just like a human figure. Like the Spirit of the Earth in Faust, as portrayed by the German actors.
Who called you? I, I created you here. I summoned you, only not from any "sphere", but from a stuffy, dark cauldron, so that you would terrify with your appearance this clean, sleek, hated crowd. Come, chained to the canvas by the power of my power, look from it at these tailcoats and trains, shout to them: I am a growing ulcer! Hit them in the heart, deprive them of sleep, become a ghost before their eyes! Kill their calm like you killed mine...
Yes, no matter how it is!.. The painting is finished, inserted into a golden frame, two watchmen will drag it on their heads to the academy for an exhibition. And here she stands among the “noons” and “sunsets”, next to the “girl with a cat”, not far from some three-yard-long “John the Terrible, thrusting a staff into the leg of Vaska Shibanov”. It cannot be said that they did not look at her; will watch and even praise. The artists will begin to disassemble the drawing. Reviewers, listening to them, will scratch pencils in their notebooks. One Mr. V.S. above borrowings; he looks, approves, praises, shakes my hand. The art critic L. will lash out furiously at the poor capercaillie, will shout: but where is the gracefulness here, tell me, where is the gracefulness here? And scold me to the core. The audience ... The audience passes by impassively or with an unpleasant grimace; ladies - they will only say: “ah, comme il est laid, behold a capercaillie”, and swim to the next picture, to “a girl with a cat”, looking at which they will say: “very, very nice” or something like that. Respectable gentlemen with bull's eyes will stare, lower their eyes to the catalogue, emit either lowing, or sniffing, and proceed safely on. And unless some young man or young girl stops with attention and reads in the exhausted eyes, suffering from the canvas, the cry that I put into them ...
Well, what next? The painting is exhibited, bought and taken away. What will happen to me? What I've been through last days Will it die without a trace? Will everything end with just one excitement, after which rest will come with the search for innocent plots? .. Innocent plots! I suddenly remembered how one acquaintance of the curator of the gallery, compiling a catalog, shouted to the scribe:
- Martynov, write! No. 112. First love scene: a girl picks a rose.
- Martynov, keep writing! No. 113. Second love scene: a girl smells a rose.
Will I still smell the rose? Or will I go off the rails?
Garshin Vsevolod Mikhailovich
Artists
Garshin Vsevolod Mikhailovich
Artists
Today I feel like a mountain has been lifted off my shoulders. Happiness was so unexpected! Down with engineering shoulder straps, down with tools and estimates!
But isn't it a shame to rejoice so much at the death of a poor aunt just because she left a legacy that gives me the opportunity to leave the service? True, after all, when she was dying, she asked me to give myself completely to my favorite pastime, and now I rejoice, among other things, in the fact that I am fulfilling her ardent desire. That was yesterday... What an astonished face our boss made when he found out that I was quitting my service! And when I explained to him the purpose for which I was doing this, he simply opened his mouth.
For the love of art?.. Mm!.. Submit a petition. And he said nothing more, turned and left. But I didn't need anything else. I am free, I am an artist! Isn't this the height of happiness?
I wanted to go somewhere far away from people and from Petersburg; I took a skiff and went to the seaside. Water, the sky, the city sparkling in the sun in the distance, the blue forests bordering the shores of the bay, the tops of the masts on the Kronstadt roadstead, dozens of steamers flying past me and gliding sailing ships and life - everything seemed to me in a new light. All this is mine, all this is in my power, I can grab all this, throw it on the canvas and place it in front of the crowd amazed by the power of art. True, one should not sell the skin of a bear that has not yet been killed; after all, while I am not yet God knows what a great artist ...
The skiff quickly cut through the surface of the water. Yalichnik, a tall, healthy and handsome guy in a red shirt, tirelessly worked with oars; he leaned forward, then leaned back, strongly moving the boat with each movement. The sun was setting and played so spectacularly on his face and on his red shirt that I wanted to sketch it with colors. A small box with canvases, paints and brushes is always with me.
Stop rowing, sit still for a minute, I'll write you, - I said. He dropped the oars.
You sit down as if you are lifting the oars.
He took up the oars, waved them like a bird's wings, and froze in a beautiful pose. I quickly outlined the outline with a pencil and began to write. With some special joyful feeling, I stirred the colors. I knew that nothing would tear me away from them for the rest of my life.
The skiff soon began to tire; his swashbuckling expression changed to one of dullness and boredom. He began to yawn and once even wiped his face with his sleeve, for which he had to bend his head to the oar. The folds of the shirt are completely gone. Such an annoyance! I can't stand it when nature moves.
Sit down, brother, calm down! He chuckled.
Why are you laughing?
He smiled shyly and said:
It's wonderful, sir!
What are you wondering about?
Yes, if I'm rare what to write me. It's like a picture.
The picture will be, my dear friend.
What is she to you?
For learning. I’ll pee, I’ll pee small ones, I’ll write big ones too.
Large?
At least three fathoms.
He paused and then asked seriously:
Well, that's why you can image?
I can and the image; I only paint pictures.
He thought about it and asked again:
What are they for?
What's happened?
These paintings...
Of course, I did not lecture him about the significance of art, but only said that these paintings paid good money, a thousand rubles, two or more. The yalichnik was completely satisfied and did not speak any more. The study turned out beautiful (these hot tones of the calico lit by the setting sun are very beautiful), and I returned home completely happy.
Standing in front of me in a tense position is old Taras, the sitter, to whom Professor N. ordered to put his "hand on the head", because this is "Oshen classical pose"; around me - a whole crowd of comrades, just like me, sitting in front of easels with palettes and brushes in their hands. Ahead of all, Dedov, although a landscape painter, paints Taras diligently. In the classroom, the smell of paints, oils, turpentine and dead silence. Every half an hour Taras is given a rest; he sits on the edge of a wooden box that serves as a pedestal for him, and from "nature" turns into an ordinary naked old man, stretches his arms and legs, numb from long immobility, dispenses with the help of a handkerchief, and so on. Students crowd around the easels, looking at each other's work. My easel is always crowded; I am a very capable student of the academy and I have great hopes of becoming one of "our luminaries," to use the happy expression of the well-known art critic Mr. V. S., who has long said that "Ryabinin will make sense." That's why everyone looks at my work.
Five minutes later, everyone sits down again, Taras climbs onto the pedestal, puts his hand on his head, and we smear, smear ...
And so every day.
Boring, isn't it? Yes, I myself have long been convinced that all this is very boring. But just as a locomotive with an open steam pipe has one of two things to do: roll along the rails until the steam is exhausted, or, having jumped off them, turn from a slender iron-copper monster into a pile of debris, so I ... I'm on the rails ; they tightly wrap around my wheels, and if I get off them, what then? I must by all means ride to the station, despite the fact that it, this station, seems to me some kind of black hole in which you can’t make out anything. Others say it will be an artistic activity. There is no dispute that this is something artistic, but that this is activity ...
When I walk around the exhibition and look at the paintings, what do I see in them? A canvas on which paints have been applied, arranged in such a way that they form impressions similar to those of various objects.
People walk around and wonder: how are they, the colors, so cunningly arranged! And nothing more. Whole books, whole mountains of books, have been written on this subject; I have read many of them. But from the Thenes, the Quarries, the Couglers, and all those who have written about art, up to and including Proudhon, nothing is clear. They all talk about the importance of art, and in my head when reading them, the thought certainly stirs: if it has it. I have not seen the good effect of a good picture on a person; why should I believe that it is?
Why believe? I need to believe, I need to, but how to believe? How to make sure that all your life you will not serve exclusively the stupid curiosity of the crowd (and it’s good if only curiosity, but not something else, the excitation of bad instincts, for example) and the vanity of some rich stomach on its legs, which does not hurrying up to my experienced, suffered, expensive picture, painted not with a brush and paints, but with nerves and blood, mutters: "mm ... wow," puts his hand in his protruding pocket, throws me several hundred rubles and takes it away from me. It will carry away with excitement, with sleepless nights, with sorrows and joys, with seductions and disappointments. And again you walk alone among the crowd. You mechanically draw a sitter in the evening, mechanically paint it in the morning, arousing the astonishment of professors and comrades with your quick successes. Why are you doing all this, where are you going?
Vsevolod Mikhailovich Garshin
Artists
Today I feel like a mountain has been lifted off my shoulders. Happiness was so unexpected! Down with engineering shoulder straps, down with tools and estimates!
But isn't it a shame to rejoice so much at the death of a poor aunt just because she left a legacy that gives me the opportunity to leave the service? True, after all, when she was dying, she asked me to give myself completely to my favorite pastime, and now I rejoice, among other things, in the fact that I am fulfilling her ardent desire. That was yesterday... What an astonished face our boss made when he found out that I was quitting my service! And when I explained to him the purpose for which I was doing this, he simply opened his mouth.
- For the love of art? .. Mm! .. Submit a petition.
And he said nothing more, turned and left. But I didn't need anything else. I am free, I am an artist! Isn't this the height of happiness?
I wanted to go somewhere far away from people and from Petersburg; I took a skiff and went to the seaside. Water, the sky, the city sparkling in the sun in the distance, the blue forests bordering the shores of the bay, the tops of the masts on the Kronstadt roadstead, dozens of steamers flying past me and gliding sailing ships and life - everything seemed to me in a new light. All this is mine, all this is in my power, I can grab all this, throw it on the canvas and place it in front of the crowd amazed by the power of art. True, one should not sell the skin of a bear that has not yet been killed; after all, while I am not yet God knows what a great artist ...
The skiff quickly cut through the surface of the water. Yalichnik, a tall, healthy and handsome guy in a red shirt, tirelessly worked with oars; he leaned forward, then leaned back, strongly moving the boat with each movement. The sun was setting and played so spectacularly on his face and on his red shirt that I wanted to sketch it with colors. A small box with canvases, paints and brushes is always with me.
“Stop rowing, sit still for a minute, I’ll write you,” I said.
He dropped the oars.
- You sit down as if you were lifting the oars.
He took up the oars, waved them like a bird's wings, and froze in a beautiful pose. I quickly outlined the outline with a pencil and began to write. With some special joyful feeling, I stirred the colors. I knew that nothing would tear me away from them for the rest of my life.
The skiff soon began to tire; his swashbuckling expression changed to one of dullness and boredom. He began to yawn and once even wiped his face with his sleeve, for which he had to bend his head to the oar. The folds of the shirt are completely gone. Such an annoyance! I can't stand it when nature moves.
- Sit down, brother, be quiet!
He chuckled.
- Why are you laughing?
He smiled shyly and said:
- Yes, wonderful, sir!
- Why are you wondering?
- Yes, as if I'm rare, what to write me. It's like a picture.
- The picture will be, my dear friend.
- What is she to you?
- For learning. I’ll pee, I’ll pee small ones, I’ll write big ones too.
- Big ones?
- At least three fathoms.
He paused and then asked seriously:
- Well, that's why you can image?
- I can and the image; I only paint pictures.
He thought about it and asked again:
- What are they for?
- What's happened?
These pictures...
Of course, I did not lecture him about the significance of art, but only said that these paintings paid good money, a thousand rubles, two or more. The yalichnik was completely satisfied and did not speak any more. The study turned out beautiful (these hot tones of the calico lit by the setting sun are very beautiful), and I returned home completely happy.
Standing in front of me in a tense position is the old man Taras, the sitter, to whom Professor N. ordered to put his “hand on the head”, because this is an “ochen classical pose”; around me is a whole crowd of comrades, just like me, sitting in front of easels with palettes and brushes in their hands. Ahead of all, Dedov, although a landscape painter, paints Taras diligently. In the classroom, the smell of paints, oils, turpentine and dead silence. Every half an hour Taras is given a rest; he sits on the edge of a wooden box that serves as a pedestal for him, and from "nature" turns into an ordinary naked old man, stretches his arms and legs, numb from long immobility, dispenses with the help of a handkerchief, and so on. Students crowd around the easels, looking at each other's work. My easel is always crowded; I am a very capable student of the academy and I have great hopes of becoming one of "our luminaries," to use the happy expression of the well-known art critic Mr. V.S. That's why everyone looks at my work.
Five minutes later, everyone sits down again, Taras climbs onto the pedestal, puts his hand on his head, and we smear, smear ...
And so every day.
Boring, isn't it? Yes, I myself have long been convinced that all this is very boring. But just as a locomotive with an open steam pipe has one of two things to do: roll along the rails until the steam is exhausted, or, having jumped off them, turn from a slender iron-copper monster into a pile of debris, so I ... I'm on the rails; they tightly wrap around my wheels, and if I get off them, what then? I must by all means ride to the station, despite the fact that it, this station, seems to me some kind of black hole in which you can’t make out anything. Others say it will be an artistic activity. There is no dispute that this is something artistic, but that this is an activity ...
When I walk around the exhibition and look at the paintings, what do I see in them? A canvas on which paints have been applied, arranged in such a way that they form impressions similar to those of various objects.
People walk around and wonder: how are they, the colors, so cunningly arranged! And nothing more. Whole books, whole mountains of books, have been written on this subject; I have read many of them. But from the Thenes, the Quarries, the Couglers, and all those who have written about art, up to and including Proudhon, nothing is clear. They all talk about the importance of art, and in my head when reading them, the thought certainly stirs: if it has it. I have not seen the good effect of a good picture on a person; why should I believe that it is?
Why believe? I need to believe, I need to, but How believe? How to make sure that all your life you will not serve exclusively the stupid curiosity of the crowd (and it’s good if only curiosity, but not something else, the excitation of bad instincts, for example) and the vanity of some rich stomach on its legs, which does not hurrying up to my experienced, suffered, expensive picture, painted not with a brush and paints, but with nerves and blood, mutters: “mm ... wow”, puts his hand into his protruding pocket, throws me several hundred rubles and takes it away from me. It will carry away with excitement, with sleepless nights, with sorrows and joys, with seductions and disappointments. And again you walk alone among the crowd. You mechanically draw a sitter in the evening, mechanically paint it in the morning, arousing the astonishment of professors and comrades with your quick successes. Why are you doing all this, where are you going?
It's been four months since I sold my last picture, and I still don't have any idea for a new one. If something came up in my head, it would be good ... A few times of complete oblivion: I would go into the picture, as into a monastery, I would think only about her alone. Questions: where? For what? - disappear during operation; there is one thought in the head, one goal, and bringing it into execution is a pleasure. The picture is the world in which you live and to which you are responsible. Here worldly morality disappears: you create a new one for yourself in your new world and in it you feel your rightness, dignity or worthlessness and lies in your own way, regardless of life.
But you can't always write. In the evening, when twilight interrupts work, you return to life and again hear the eternal question: “why?”, which does not allow you to fall asleep, makes you toss and turn in bed in the heat, look into the darkness, as if the answer is written somewhere in it. And you fall asleep in the morning with a dead sleep, so that, upon waking up, you will again descend into another world of sleep, in which only the images that come out of yourself live, folding and clearing up in front of you on the canvas.
- Why don't you work, Ryabinin? a neighbor asked me loudly.
I was so thoughtful that I started when I heard this question. The hand with the palette dropped; the skirt of the frock coat got into the paint and was smeared all over; brushes lay on the floor. I looked at the sketch; it was finished, and well finished: Taras stood on the canvas as if alive.
“I finished,” I answered my neighbor.
The class is over. The sitter got down from the box and dressed; everyone was noisily collecting their belongings. The conversation went up. They came up to me and complimented me.
“Medal, medal… The best study,” some said. Others were silent: artists do not like to praise each other.
It seems to me that I enjoy respect among my fellow students. Of course, not without the influence of my, compared with them, respectable age: in the whole academy, only Volsky is older than me. Yes, art has an amazing power of attraction! This Volsky is a retired officer, a gentleman of about forty-five, with a completely gray head; to enter the academy at such an age, to start studying again - isn't that a feat? But he works hard: in the summer, from morning to evening, he writes sketches in any weather, with some kind of selflessness; in winter, when it is light, he constantly writes, and in the evening he draws. At the age of two, he made great progress, despite the fact that fate did not reward him with a particularly great talent.
Author given text V.M. Garshin wanted to convey to us, to his readers, the idea that any creativity comes deep from the heart of the creator, that the main thing is the emotions and feelings that it evokes in us. Therefore, do not get hung up on technique, on execution.
If you look at the picture and you have an indescribable feeling of pleasure, lightness, sublimity, then it doesn’t matter what critics or others say professional artists about the technique of applying strokes, about the idea itself, about how the colors were chosen in their opinion. The opinion of professionals will always be somewhat different from the opinion of ordinary people. After all, their duties include evaluating creativity with the “brain”, and we ordinary people from the crowd should always evaluate the things we like with our heart and soul.
If you look deep into yourself, then everyone can remember such a work of art, from which tears well up in your eyes from beauty and tenderness, from what it awakened in you, perhaps a long time ago. forgotten feeling, the feeling of touching the beautiful and unique. There are many examples in history when people could not restrain their emotions from the beauty they saw. For example, the painting by Leonardo da Vinci "Mona Lisa" more than once caused tears of joy among visitors to the Louvre, while some could not even stand still and enjoy its beauty, but were in a fainting state. In my opinion, such a great artist as Leonardo da Vinci could not even expect what a sensation his painting would make in the distant future.
And it doesn’t matter at all to visitors from all over the world that the portrait is covered with cracks in some places, because once upon a time the beauty of this beautiful Mona Lisa was not recognized, and she for a long time fun in the bathroom of noble people in Italy. Therefore, she is not in the very best condition With technical side, but what emotions she opens every day for visitors to the Louvre is much more important. So, professional artists and critics rated da Vinci's painting quite low, but how highly ordinary people rated it. It is this recognition, in my opinion, that is much more important for artists and any creative people.
After all, everything comes from the heart, from the heart. And when a person contemplates a great work of art and finds exactly those feelings that were laid down by the creator during creation, then the creator himself will certainly experience indescribable feelings of pride in his creation and joy for what he was able to convey to ordinary people those good, warm and sincere feelings that at the moment of creation overwhelmed his soul. In my opinion, this is what V.M. wanted to convey to us. Garshin. I fully share his point of view, and it seems to me that there would be much more creative people if everyone first evaluated creative work with soul and heart, and then they made their sharp and weighty remarks about technology, if it is not flawless.
Plan1. Autumn in the forest.2. The forest is our wealth: a) the forest is a source of inspiration and health; b) the forest is a wonderful fairy tale; c) the threat of destruction of green spaces.3. Protect forests! To protect nature means to protect the Motherland. M. Prishvin There is probably no such person who would not be in the forest. The forest is beautiful all year round. But it is especially striking in its grandeur in autumn. Purple and crimson, yellow and green here and there. Autumn is sad, but at the same time great time. In the forest you can understand how nature says goodbye to autumn. Fallen leaves rustle underfoot. Somewhere else they bloom
In 1934, in connection with the 500th performance of The Days of the Turbins, M. Bulgakov’s friend P. S. Popov wrote: “The Days of the Turbins is one of those things that are somehow included in own life and become an epoch for itself.” The feeling expressed by Popov was experienced by almost all the people who had the good fortune to see the performance going on in Art Theater from 1926 to 1941. The leading theme of this work was the fate of the intelligentsia in a situation civil war and general savagery. The surrounding chaos here, in this play, was opposed by a stubborn desire to maintain a normal life, “a bronze lamp
The theme of “The Cherry Orchard” is the theme of the death of the old noble estates, their transfer into the hands of the bourgeoisie and the fate of the latter in connection with the appearance on the arena public life Russia's new social force - the advanced intelligentsia. The play shows the inevitability of the departure from the historical stage of the nobility - an already obsolete, unadapted class. The central place in the play is occupied by the images of the landowners-nobles Ranevskaya and Gaev. They are the descendants of wealthy owners of a magnificent estate with a beautiful cherry orchard. IN old days their estate brought income, on which its idle owners lived. The habit of living by the work of others,
The author of this text, V.M. Garshin, wanted to convey to us, to his readers, the idea that any creativity comes deep from the heart of the creator, that the main thing is the emotions and feelings that it evokes in us. Therefore, do not get hung up on technique, on execution.
If you look at a picture and you have an inexpressible feeling of pleasure, lightness, sublimity, then it does not matter at all what critics or other professional artists will say about the technique of applying strokes, about the idea itself, about how the colors are chosen in their opinion. The opinion of professionals will always be somewhat different from the opinion of ordinary people. After all, their duties include evaluating creativity with the “brain”, and we ordinary people from the crowd should always evaluate the things we like with our heart and soul.
If you look deep into yourself, then everyone can remember such a work of art, from which tears well up in your eyes from beauty and tenderness, from what it awakened in you, perhaps, a long-forgotten feeling, a feeling of touching the beautiful and unique. There are many examples in history when people could not restrain their emotions from the beauty they saw. For example, the painting by Leonardo da Vinci "Mona Lisa" more than once caused tears of joy among visitors to the Louvre, while some could not even stand still and enjoy its beauty, but were in a fainting state. In my opinion, such a great artist as Leonardo da Vinci could not even expect what a sensation his painting would make in the distant future.
And it doesn’t matter at all to visitors from all over the world that the portrait is covered with cracks in some places, because once upon a time the beauty of this beautiful Mona Lisa was not recognized, and for a long time she was cheerful in the bathroom of noble persons in Italy. Therefore, it is not in the best condition from a technical point of view, but what emotions it opens up every day for visitors to the Louvre is much more important. So, professional artists and critics rated da Vinci's painting quite low, but how highly ordinary people rated it. It is this recognition, in my opinion, that is much more important for artists and any creative people.
After all, everything comes from the heart, from the heart. And when a person contemplates a great work of art and finds exactly those feelings that were laid down by the creator during creation, then the creator himself will certainly experience inexpressible feelings of pride in his creation and joy for being able to convey to ordinary people those good, warm and sincere feelings, which at the moment of creation overwhelmed his soul. In my opinion, this is what V.M. wanted to convey to us. Garshin. I fully share his point of view, and it seems to me that there would be much more creative people if everyone first evaluated the creative work with their heart and soul, and then made their sharp and weighty remarks about the technique, if it is not perfect.
