Birches. Hightide.
1840s.
Oil on canvas.
The State Russian Museum, St. Petersburg, Russia.
Spring Evening. Alder Bljssoming.
1880s.
Oil on canvas.
The State Russian Museum, St. Petersburg, Russia.
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Early Spring. Thaw.
1880s.
Oil on canvas. 68 x 54.
The Kustodiev Picture Gallery, Astrakhan, Russia.
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Savrasov was one of the most important -arguably the most important- of all the 19th century Russian landscape painters, considered the creator of the lyrical landscape style.
There are three varieties of the landscape of the Wanderers: natural or "shishkinski", lyric or "savrasovski", and decorative or "kuindgevski". 90's took and continued the lyric line.
Savrasov was a delicate lyric-man. His best pictures were like Russian poetry and pieces of P. I. Chaickovsky's music.
Savrasov called his disciples not to represent nature, and to learn to feel it and to show the feeling in the pictures.
You can see it in hisspring landscapes.
Painter showed the beginning of spring, he showed how nature begins to make up, the air begins warmer, and he showed fragrance of spring. Also the pictures of Savrasov carries in itself the beauty of the Russian nature and at the same time the poverty life in the place which is shown in the picture.
The pupils of Savrasov continued his lyric line. The greatest of them was I. I. Levitan.
«Savrasov tried to find and in the most simple and ordinary those intimate, deeply touching, often sad features which so are strongly felt in our native landscape and so irresistably act on soul. Beginning with Savrasov, there was a lyricism in landscape painting as well as an endless love for One's own country...» (Levitan).
Sergey Esenin.
1910.
Blossom white bird cherries scatter
On the on the dewy grass like snow.
Hungry rooks in ploughland gather,
Picked warms up as they go.
Low the silk smooth grath is bending,
Pitch scents to the pine-trees cling.
Groves in leaf, and luscios meadows -
How the senses reel in spring!
Secret things give me pleasure,
Heart-ease and delight they bring.
There's a girl whose love I treasure
And of her alone I thing.
Shed your blossom-snow, bird cherries!
Sing, birds, in they shady groves.
Weaving up and down the meadow
I'll go scattering flower foam.
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