Winter Art

In glancing at the title above, you might bring to mind paintings of winter at its best--snow scenes, city or country, day or night. You might picture the work of painters such as Anna Mary Robertson (Grandma) Moses,  Claude Monet, John Fulton Folinsbee, John F. Carlson, or even Jim Lane. However, in this case I'm talking about painting on snow. That's no typo. I'm referring to the fine art of using a snow-white canvas of white snow upon which to paint. I've already dealt with snow sculpture (although some such artists choose to paint their creations). Painting snow and painting on snow are two distinctly different art forms with totally different "rules," techniques, values, and mindsets. In fact, some snow artists don't even use paint (below).

 

Snow calligraphy--anyone who quotes Faust has to be a serious artists, with or without paint.

When I first set out to explore the art of painting on snow I went in search of the usual broad range of professional snow painting artists. It didn't take long to realize what a naïve approach that turned out to be. For various reasons, not the least of which is the virtually non-existent archival element, all I found was a number of talented amateurs. Painting on snow is, after all, fun. Actually, the main emphasis I encountered was that of entertaining children on snowy days when schools were called off. At first I was disappointed, but then quickly came to realize that if painting on snow was the realm of school children, then so be it. As a former elementary art instructor, far be it from me to belittle such art "work."

 

From watercolor markers to food coloring to Kool-Aid, art of painting on snow has few rules and broad possibilities.

Although there are few "rules" in painting on snow, there are some factors to keep in mind:

 

 1. Snow disperses color as with the snowy decorated evergreen (above). Expect pastel tints if you dilute food coloring with water in a spray bottle.

 

2. Bright colors demand pure food coloring (upper images above).

 

3. Liquid colors tend to melt the snow except in extremely frigid conditions (at which times no one, especially young children, should be out painting on snow).

 

4. There is a learning curve. Start small. Then once you find what "works" and what doesn't, go for the spectacular.

 

5. Painting large scale works leaves footprints. Experiment--learn how to deal with them. (There are a number of ways depending on the nature of the snow).

 

6. Jettison any traditional thoughts of permanence. An hour is good, a day is great, a week is fantastic (and damned near unheard-of).

 

7. Expressionism or Symbolism are the best styles to emulate.

 

Kool-Aid may be sprayed on in
diluted form or sprinkled directly
from the package. It tastes good
with snow too (unless it's yellow).

One of the disadvantages of painting on snow is that snow tends to lie flat on the ground, or at best on a sloping hillside, (which demands the added skill of a sure-footed artist). A fairly "wet" (and deep) snow provides one way to remedy this limitation. Simply recruit some strong hands and arms to roll up a large snow-ball (much like the base of a snowman). Then, leaving it on its rounded edge, use a 2-by-4 or a piece of plywood, to flatten out the surface to be painted. Use "clean" snow to cover up any debris which may have been picked up along the way. Then draw on this smoothed surface with a stick, the image to be painted. Apply color as desired, guided by the factors mentioned above.

Whether free-form or stenciled, painting on snow can be quite expressive (the two images just above are in reverse order).

When you have SNOW...lots and lots of snow, and you're tired of sledding, building snowmen, and shoveling sidewalks, try SNOW SPRAY ART! I don’t know how this art craze got started, but it looks like everyone is doing it. Probably because it’s a blast! Inasmuch as traditional paintbrushes are of little use in painting on snow, water and food coloring or even diluted dry tempera can be used in a discarded spray container. Here the use of stensils is quite appropriate while also allowing the combining of multiple shapes and colors into abstract images. Try Jackson Pollock's drip-and-splatter techniques (in diluted form, food color washes out of clothes quite easily).

Once you've become fairly adept, along side the creation of a vertical "snow canvas," mentioned above, spray painting snow goes hand in hand with snow sculpture. Once more, start small. Save the your full-size version of the Statue of Liberty for when you turn "pro." Try first sculpting a cat or dog, or perhaps the head of President Trump (several times life-size, of course). Varying concentrations of orange Kool-Aid should suffice for flesh tones and the hair.


Paint? What paint? Who needs paint? The Russian "snow artist" Simon Beck has boots.

Drakony, Simon Beck

Simon Beck, who bills himself as "the world’s first and most famous "Snow Artist," proudly displays a new work of art--a massive snow dragon (left) that he drew by walking in the snow near Yakutsk, Siberia. His works take anywhere from 5-10 hours to more than a day to create. Beck created this particular work of art for a Russian movie called Drakony.
 

 

The work of Utah snow artist Simon Beck.

The sworn enemy of all snow art.

Giovanni Giacometti

Boathouse with Boats on the Lake, watercolor, Giovanni Giacometti. The fact that the boathouse is unaccountably tilted makes the painting all the more intriguing.

Portrait of Ottilia Giacometti,
1912, Giovanni Giacometti

In this country we've come to call it "The American Dream." That is to say, we've come to expect our grown children to do at least as well in life as we have. Perhaps John Quincy Adams, the sixth President of the United States, said it best: “I am a warrior, so that my son may be a merchant, so that his son may be a poet.” In times past, the emphasis was on progeny stepping up to a higher social level with each generation. Today, Adams' words tend to equate to a higher economic plane--bigger house and car, better educated, more invest-ments, and a more secure retirement than what their parents enjoyed. Giovanni Giacometti was not an Am-erican. He was Swiss, but he seems to have instilled the essence of the Am-erican dream in his three sons, Alberto, Diego, and Bruno. Giovanni was a landscape painter who also painted portraits from time to time...mostly his own. He sometimes painted his wife, sons, and daughter too (above, left).

The children of artists frequently get called upon to model.

Alberto (above) and Diego Giacometti both became artist involved in sculpture (bottom), while Bruno became a notable architect. All three did well, although Alberto (above) far surpassed his siblings, even his father, who rather fades into the background among dozens of other outstanding Swiss painters of his time. I guess when you live in a country as scenic as Switzerland, you can't help but want to paint the landscape in its ever-changing seasonal beauty. Such works are the hallmark of Giovanni Giacometti's art. He became a painter so his sons could become sculptors and an architect.

There are ten self-portraits above. Giacometti painted at least that many more (not shown).

Giovanni Giacometti was born in Stampa, now part of Bregaglia in the southeastern corner of Switzerland, in 1868. Encouraged by his teacher, the young Giacometti chose an artistic career, which found him studying in Munich by 1886 where he attended the school of arts and crafts. It was in Munich that Giacometti met Cuno Amiet, who became his close friend as they studied the works of the French impressionists. Supported by his parents, Giacometti moved along with Amiet to Paris in 1888. In visiting the spring salon, the young artist was deeply impressed by some of what he saw. There, Giacometti saw for the first time the works of Gianni Segantini, whom he got to know in person later on.

Giacometti was there when his good friend and fellow painter Gianni Segantini died in 1899. He recorded in various media the man's final days, including a portrait after his death.

Annetta Giacometti, 1911,
Giovanni Giacometti.

As he frequently did, Giacometti ran short of money, forcing him to return to Stampa in 1891. There he suffered a period of loneliness and lack of inspir-ation. However, the showing of his first works in the Nationale Art Exhibition in Bern, along with a commission for a portrait made him a small profit. On the proceeds, Giacometti travelled to Rome and Naples. In 1894 he got to meet his longtime idol, Gianni Segantini, with whom he formed a deep and lasting fri-endship. Giacometti was invited to help Segantini with a mural for the Swiss pavilion at the world exhibition in Paris in 1900. But, again, he ran out of mon-ey. In 1900 he married Annetta Stampa and settled in Borgonovo, where his son, Alberto, was born in 1901, followed by three other children.



Giacometti was a dedicated impressionist, even to the point of
painting his Swiss snowscapes out in the cold wind and snow.

In 1912 Giacometti was invited to exhibit in Dresden with artists of the "Der Brücke". In the same year, Giacometti had a large success with an exhibition in the "Kunsthaus" in Zurich. In 1920 his works were exhibited in Bern, followed by several other international solo-exhibitions. The last years, the artist spent in the quiet of Stampa. Giovanni Giacometti is regarded as mediator of modern French and Italian art assets. He made a substantial contribution to the renewal of Swiss painting in the 20th-century. Along with Cuno Amiet, Giovanni Giacometti belongs to the representatives of Swiss Colorism." He died in June, 1933 at the age of sixty-five.

The Card Players, Giovanni Giacometti, work reminiscent of Cezanne.

Cows in a Mountain Landscape,
Giovanni Giacometti.

The sons' art was nothing like that
of their father. They should have
fed their pets better.

 

Screw Art

Screwing around, getting a "feel" for his portrait
subjects--the art of Andrew Myers.

Postmodern art has, as one of its most basic principles, that it must be "new." That's a very tough criteria. Some have equated it to creativity, though the validity of such an equation has a great deal to do with your working definition of the two words. Maybe they shouldn't be, but both words are relative--new, newer, and newest. Creativity is easier to justify in that regard since, in practice, creativity suggests an evolution of one innovation built upon another--a key element in Modern Art. With Postmodern art, something isn't really "new" if there also exists a similar object or concept that is "newer." And both items fall by the wayside in the face of the "newest" similar concept. But if two objects are similar, doesn't that suggest creative evolution rather than true "newness?"

 

A Postmodern self-portrait. The art of Andrew Myers.

One way Postmodern artists have had some success in the pursuit of newness is by employing previously unexplored media. Carving sculpture from a block of salt is probably a new idea. Leaving it outside for the rain and snow to help shape what the artist has created is a newer idea. Adding various dyes at intervals along the way would make it the newest thing. Trying the same techniques with cotton balls...not so much. Creating low-relief sculpture by pounding nails in a slab of would might involve creativity but it certainly would be nothing new. Painting an image on the heads of the nails would be a newer, more creative endeavor. Switching to phillips screws, then painting the heads to form a portrait so a blind man can feel his own image...that would qualify as the newest thing, certainly in portraiture, and quite possibly the whole realm of Postmodern art. That's the art of the Californian screw-painter, Andrew Myers.



Question: "What type of art do you do?"
Andrew: "I paint screws."

Even though he lives today in all-American Laguna Beach, California, the work of Andrew Myers has been influenced as much from his birth heritage in Germany and the Italian sculpture of Michelangelo and Bernini, as by southern Californian culture. Born in Braunshweig, (central) Germany, and raised in Ciudad Real, (south-central) Spain, about 1989, he enrolled in the Laguna College of Art and Design (LCAD) in 1999 where he majored in painting and sculpture. After about two and a half years, Myers began his professional career, his first works being traditional (more or less) cast bronze--nothing new, but with a certain creative flair causing him to stand apart from his peers.

Portrait of John, Andrew Myers
--as real as a phillips screw will allow.

Myers' Postmodern portraits blend modern materials with classical figurative techniques featuring universal subject matter unifying these three characteristics. The result is innovative works which have captivated viewers nationwide. Art lovers marvel at his stunningly realistic portraits of people created with ordinary four-inch drywall screws. Seen straight-on, the screws create the effect of a pointillist painting. But when viewed from other angles, Myer’s pieces reveal their sculptural side. His latest work deviates from his usual portraits, and focusing instead on man-made objects (below and at bottom).

A portrait of a shirt and that of a breeze. Discarded pages from phonebooks provide the background for most of Myers works.

Andrew first came up with the idea for the screw portraits around 2004. He'd kicked around the idea for years before deciding one day to make a grid and start putting screws in it. Little did he realize how much work it was going to be. His first screw portrait began with drilling 10,000 holes in a 4 x 4 foot panel of ¾-inch plywood, which he covered with pages from a telephone book. The outlines of the portrait he drew to create in relief. After that, he affixed 10,000 screws into the panel, carefully screwing each one in only as far as it needed to go to create a smooth contour when viewed from a distance.




Once all the screws were in place, Andrew painted the top of each one to add color and depth to his subject. Thus, his screw portraits become three-dimensional pointillism with each screw almost touching the one beside it, creating an image out of thousands of tiny raised dots. Myers recalls sometime later watching a blind man experience his work for the first time. As the man ran his hands over a large three-dimensional portrait his blank expression suddenly transformed into a warm smile. He could feel what others could only see. That man was George Wurtzel. The creation of his portrait, given him by Myers, can be seen below along with a video produced of its making.

Helping a blind man "see."

On a Short Leash, Andrew Myers

 

John Fulton Folinsbee

Tow Canal, 1923, John Fulton Folinsbee

Most landscape painters pride themselves in their choice of subjects and very often their willingness to subject themselves to the wiles of nature in painting on location. They have often developed their creative instincts to the point that they automatically choose the most beautiful locales, the most attractive (often nostalgic) content, the best angles, the most appealing time of day, and then render their art in the most exquisite array of pigmented hues they can reasonably justify in having done all of the above. More often than not, they have long ago joined the "art must be beautiful" school of painting, whether for the purpose of enjoying consistent income from their work, or simply because, without even realizing it, they were indoctrinated by some instructor in their past art training to think only along such lines. The American painter, John Fulton Folinsbee, might reasonably have fallen into that category. Quite a number of his New England painting colleagues did. However, Folinsbee stands apart from the other New Hope School of landscape painters for the simple reason that he didn't.

 

Canal Bridge, October, 1923, John Fulton Folinsbee

That's not to say you won't find an of the usual well-composed, beautifully pigmented, traditional landscapes such as Canal Bridge (above), from 1923, among his works. Although he began his career as a Tonalist, the work above obviously indicates that, like so many other painters of his time, as his personal style evolved, he joined the ranks of the best impressionists the U.S. ever put forth. The difference is, Folinsbee seems to have been forever fascinated by people, places, and things most artists would reject out of hand as either beneath their dignity in painting, or simply downright ugly. He always seems to paint the "backside" of his scenes. His Brooklyn Roofs (below), dating from 1920-21, is a near perfect example of what I mean.

 

Brooklyn Roofs, 1920-21, John Fulton Folinsbee

One could hardly imagine a more unattractive locale than the Brooklyn waterfront, in the middle of winter, during the bootlegging era of the 1920s. Even several inches of gray-green snow are inadequate to make this scene anything but despairing, even repulsive. This particular painting would appear to have been painted through a window from the warmth and comfort of his studio. However, unlike many of his peers, who retreated to their studios in winter to paint shivering nude models, still-lifes, or imagined landscapes, Folinsbee refused to limit himself to such temptations. Although he painted numerous portraits of his wife, Ruth, and their two daughters as they were growing up, even in the winter, even given what appears to be quite adverse weather, John Folinsbee bundled up, packed up, and clomped through deep snow to set up his easel and paint on location. Check out Tow Canal (top), from the winter of 1923. There were several quite dedicated landscape painters in his circle of friends, but few who were that dedicated.

It would appear that when Folinsbee wasn't slogging through snow to paint en plein air, he had to brave the rain and its accompanying mud.

John Fulton Folinsbee self-portrait.

Speaking of John Fulton Folinsbee's friends, they included Edward Redfield, Daniel Garber, Robert Spencer, and William Lathrop—the group of artists now generally known as the New Hope School of landscape painting, or the Pen-nsylvania Impressionists. John Folinsbee was born in 1892 and grew up in Buffalo, New York. He displayed an early interest in art, and, at the age of nine, attended children's art classes at the Buffalo Art Students League. He continued to draw after his family moved to Boston a few years later. There, around 1907, Fol-insbee received his first formal art in-struction during several months of study with the Norwegian-born artist, Jonas Lie, who introduced him to plein air painting. Soon after, Folinsbee left for Washington, Connecticut, to attend The Gunnery (boarding) School, for the next several years. Fortunately, the Washington area, like many other small towns in Connecticut’s Litchfield Hills, attracted a small colony of artists.

Harry Leith-Ross Painting Outdoors, 1913, John F. Folinsbee

Folinsbee spent the next three summers at Woodstock, two as a student and one as an independent artist sharing a studio with Harry (Tony) Leith-Ross, who became a life-long friend. At the time, the famed landscape painter, instructor, and writer, L. Birge Harrison was the head of the summer school of the Art Students’ League of New York, located in Woodstock. He invited both artists to stay with him in Woodstock and paint during the winter of 1913–14. Through Harrison and a book he wrote on the subject of landscape painting, Folinsbee gained an appreciation of French masters such as Jean-Baptiste-Camille Corot, Jean-François Millet, and Claude Monet, as well as leading American landscape painters Dwight William Tryon, Winslow Homer, Childe Hassam, Edward Redfield, George Inness, William Lathrop, and W. Elmer Schofield.

Whether the sea, rivers, or canals, water was always one of
Folinsbee's favorite areas of "landscape" content.

In the years that followed, Folinsbee's career blossomed as he began exhibiting at museums, galleries, and private clubs in Pennsylvania, focusing his professional attention on the nation’s art capital, New York, while at the same time broadening recognition of his work in exhibitions across the country. For several years early in his career, Folinsbee was represented in New York by numerous prestigious galleries such as the Macbeth Gallery, and beginning in 1917, and for the next forty years, Folinsbee was represented by Ferargil Gallery, where he had a solo show nearly every year.

Folinsbee found a stark beauty, not just in the worst mother nature had to offer,
but somehow, in the worst industrial ugliness of mankind as well.

Folinsbee is normally associated with the New Hope School and impressionism, however he only painted in that style for a short period. By the mid-1920s, as he began to study the landscapes of Paul Cezanne, Folinsbee explored his subjects’ structure and contour. During the 1930s, he studied intently the work of El Greco, Goya, and the French Expressionist Maurice Vlaminck. As a result, Folinsbee’s style became highly expressive. His brush strokes loosened and lengthened. The shimmering colors and bright light of his early work were replaced by sharp, impressive contrasts of deeper, more intense color. Folinsbee appears to have escaped the formulas impressionists are prone to as his brush became more flowing, bolder, surer, and more concerned with contours.

Kennebec Bell Buoy, 1962, John Fulton Folinsbee,
a-far-from-landscape.

Folinsbee was also a teacher. One of his better-known students was Peter G. Cook, who became a close colleague and friend. He also became Folinsbee's son-in-law after marrying his mentor's daughter, Joan. The two collaborated on three post-office murals in Pennsylvania and Kentucky working for the U.S. Treasury Department's Section of Painting and Sculpture during the 1930s and 1940s. Folinsbee stopped painting in 1971. He died the following year in New Hope at the age of eighty.


The Funeral (not his own), 1921, John Fulton Folinsbee.

Chip and Dana, 1950s,
John Fulton Folinsbee. Some people
should never be allowed in a boat.

 

Found Object Art

Still-life with Chair Caning, 1912, Pablo Picasso

Is it art, or is it not? Pablo Picasso may have been the first, (or at least one of the first) to take an ordinary object and turn it into art. His Still-life with Chair Caning (above), from 1912, is said to have started the ball rolling along this line. In it he took wallpaper with a chair caning image and attached it to his canvas, working the pre-printed (found object) into his painted composition. It was innovative. Picasso called it "collage" (loosely translated French for "to paste"). I doubt very much if anyone (now or then) would not consider his oval abstract image to be art.

The Fountain (the date is that of this reproduction), Marcel Duchamp

Then, in New York. less than a year later and shortly before the famous 1913 Armory Show, Marcel Duchamp not only kept the ball rolling, but practically booted it off the field with his famous The Fountain (above), a urinal, laid on it's back, and signed, "R. Mutt." (This type of conceptual art is sometimes referred to as "readymade.") Like Picasso's wallpaper, it was a "found" object, though purchased by Duchamp specifically to become an art object. The show's jurying committee (of which Duchamp was a member), despite his spirited defense, consigned his "Fountain" to the back alley. The consensus was, he'd gone too far. Not only was it considered in poor taste (perhaps the primary objection) but it was manifestly not art in that Duchamp had not made the object but merely declared it to be art.

"If I say it's art, it IS art."
Picasso's "Bull" (uppermost image) is a bicycle seat
with handlebars welded to it.

Any argument along this line today is purely academic. Artists "make" art. If an artist "makes" a work of art by simply making an artistic statement pronouncing it to be art, then that alone makes it an art object though most academics would prefer the artist sign the work, title it intelligently, and make some changes to the object's appearance in doing so). Duchamp did all three. And before you discount any such art, be aware that a long line of well-respected famous artist such as Salvador Dalí, Jim Dine, Marcel Duchamp, Tracey Emin, Damien Hirst, Jasper Johns, Joseph Kosuth, Louise Nevelson, Pablo Picasso, Robert Rauschenberg, Man Ray, and Kurt Schwitters have created thousands of works of art using Picasso's "assemblage" formula (above). And when found "objects" (usually printed items) are used on a flat surface, with or without paint, the technique is referred to by Picasso's term, "collage" although British artist Jane Perkins blurs the line between the two considerably (below).



British artist, Jane Perkins, has a lot of patience. Since 2008,
she has been recreating classic artworks and portraits of iconic
figures using thousands of tiny found objects, such as buttons,
beads, LEGO pieces, and shells.

Sky light, Light Years Away,
Lynn Aldrichto 

Over the past few years I've written about sculpture made from paper, fire, steel, ice, snow, food, glass, ice, and water just to name a few. Some involved found objects, some not so much. In any case, found object art in the years since Picasso and his ilk has come a long way. Contemporary artist have taken an "adopt and adapt" path in following the footsteps of the art form's 20th-century pioneers.


Tim Holtz recycling time.

As with virtually all forms of art, the results range from the stunningly beautiful sponge painting, Sky light, Light Years Away (left), by Lynn Aldrichto, to the delicately feminine clock creation of Tim Holtz (below). Then there's the "macho" ugly Holy Cow by Sean O'Meallie (below).

Holy Cow, Sean O'Meallie

A recycled collage using scraps of paper.

 

Stanislav Zhukovsky

Abandoned Terrace, 1911, Stanislav Zhukovsky

Sometimes I feel a little guilty when I write quite often about certain types of art, or artists of various national origins. Recently that's been the feeling with regard to Russian artists from all eras, but especially the 19th and 20th-centuries. I run into the same feelings of overexposure when dealing with Dutch "Golden Age" painters and Impressionism of all national flavors. By the same token, it seems like I've been writing excessively about Polish painters. Strangely, I don't seem to encounter these feeling of guilt in writing about French, Italian, English, or American artists. I wonder why that is? Conversely, although I respect it and recognize its importance in art history, I have gotten "burned out" on Abstract Expressionism. Be that as it may, I hope I shall be excused for doting on yet another Russian painter (and an impressionist as well) working mostly in the first half of the 20th-century--Stanislav Zhukovsky.



Forest Road, 1900, Stanislav Zhukovsky

Quite often, in delving into an artist's work I find a far greater number that I don't much care for, or which don't excite me, than I do those which I deem outstanding in some way. Not so with Zhukovsky. I absolutely love virtually everything he did. Usually I look at artists whose work appeals to me and choose what I consider their best, or their most unusual pieces to display and write about. Insofar as Zhukovsky is concerned that's been extremely difficult, leading me to err on the side of overkill. That means you're going to see a lot of Zhukovsky here today. What you'll see here is the work of a man dedicated to the beauty of the Russian landscape, but also just as appreciative of the warm, Victorian interiors which kept the Russian upper classes (who purchased his work) warm and cozy while Zhukovsky was outside painting in the snow, as seen in his Forest Road (above) from 1900.

 

Zhukovsky painted no portraits of himself or anyone else.
In fact, there are barely any photos of him.

Stanislav Yulianovich Zhukovsky was of Polish-Russian descent, born in 1875. He lived during his childhood in the far western Grodno Province of what is now Belarus, though part of Poland at the time of his birth. The Zhukovsky family had been wealthy aristocrats, but came to be nearly ruined after the suppression of the Polish uprising of 1863. The artist's father and two of his uncles were deprived of all property and class rights and exiled to Siberia. The family lived a very patriarchal and closed existence. Stanislav's mother taught children music and foreign languages. She welcomed and encouraged their lessons in drawing. Stanislav's successes especially pleased her. His father was always gloomy and severe, discouraging Stanislav's drawing in favor of a commitment to science, causing him great irritation, and anger. The boy's penchant for landscapes manifested itself very clearly at a young age. Zhukovsky decided, together with his art teacher, that he was going to study painting.

 

Zhukovsky's landscapes centered around three of the four seasons.
I could find few works bearing a summer title.

Zhukovsky chose the Moscow School of Painting, Sculpture and Architecture, which preserved and developed the best traditions of the Russian landscape school. However, Stanislav's dream of becoming a professional painter he kept to himself. His overbearing father would not allow even the thought that his son might become an artist. Knowing that his father would in no case give his consent for him to study painting, Stanislav was forced to prepare secretly for entrance to the Moscow School. According to the school's charter, they could accept twelve-years-olds, but younger children were supposed to apply through their parents, promising to assume the student's financial support. Zhukovsky had no hope that his father would even consent to his art studies, much less sign a written petition for its admission. Therefore he decided to hide his age, adding two years. He hoped that such a "white lie" would allow him to enroll in College as a student on public tuition. Zhukovsky, without permission from his father, left for Moscow. His father took it as an escape from home, disowned his son, and refused to meet with him again until many years later, when Stanislav had become a well known painter. Until the end of his life Zhukovsky's father mocked him with a derogatory grimace calling him "painter."

 

Zhukovsky's first major success, March Evening
(sometimes titled Spring Evening) is just above the old church.

Even in his student years Zhukovsky knew few failures or disappointments. Exhibitions he entered were opened one after another. Shortly after a successful debut at an exhibition at the school in 1896, Zhukovsky's Manor was accepted into the Twenty-fourth Mobile Exhibition, where it was immediately noted in the press. And just one year later, the Twenty-fifth Mobile, Pavel Tretyakov acquired the landscape March Evening (above), painted in 1896. In 1901 Zhukovsky finished his studies at the Moscow School of Painting, Sculpture and Architecture, receiving his first silver medal and the title of the class artist. Zhukovsky begin to be invite to exhibitions all over Russia. Feeling himself an independent, mature artist, Zhukovsky chose a circle of like-minded friends who came to form the Union of Russian artists in 1904. In his first speech at their first exhibition, Zhukovsky demonstrated a subtle shift in the nature of State influence--a willingness to accept the most emotionally expressive "pieces," as well as a wide range of moods.

 

Autumn Evening, 1905, Stanislav Zhukovsky

One of Zhukovsky's best paintings, Autumn Evening (above) from 1905, depicts a corner of the Sigovo Manor House on the shores of Lake Kolokol′cevyh Udomlya. Landscape became increasingly attracted to Zhukovsky. However, interest in the subject was evident not only from him, but from an overall retrospective of early 20th-century art. Many artists, from Borisov-Musatov to representatives of the mainstream world of art, find positive ideals outside the tragic pictures of Russian reality--the first Russian revolution of 1905-1907. From about 1910, Zhukovsky's art developed under the influence of Impressionism. Impressionistic techniques are subject to plein air painting, which organizes and unifies Zhukovsky's works. Zhukovsky's favorite works developed thematic cycles: "pure" landscape, architectural, or more precisely, the manor landscape, and interiors. Sometimes in a single painting the artist intertwines elements of all of these genres including landscape, architecture, while open windows and doors connect interiors with the landscape surrounding the house as seen in Inside Sunny (bottom) from 1925.

 

Zhukovsky is nearly as well known for his antique Russian interiors as for his landscapes.

As a painter, Zhukovsky was dedicated to landscapes involving wealthy estates. His fondness for lavish things left him suspect in the Bolshevik era. In 1923 he moved from the Soviet Union to his ancestral homeland of Poland. Zhukovsky's refuge in Poland lasted less than two decades. During the German occupation of Poland in World War II, he was arrested by the Nazis and held at the prisoner transit camp where he died in 1944.

 

Inside Sunny, 1923, Stanislav Zhukovsky