Romadin White Night Description. Nikolay Romadin: Kolybanov - LiveJournal

N. Romadin.

Self-portrait N. M. Romadina. 1943. Gallery Uffizi. Florence.

"A view of Samara from the Volga." 1920s.

Tarantas. 1939 year.

Portrait of a daughter - Nina Nikolaevna Romadina. 1943.

"Footpath in the forest." 1940.

From the series "Volga - Russian River". Road. 1944 year.

From the series "Volga - Russian River". Moon rise. 1944 year.

"Crimea". 1965.

N. M. Romadin. "Pond". 1940.

N. M. Romadin. "White Night". 1947.

What a raw bloom,
What an unrestrained outcome:
Lilac star vision,
Space Flight Bushes.
The universe blooms with jasmine,
Gives Milky Ways.
They float pass by
I can close to them,
Hand to take a spiral of galaxies,
Closer to the flame of stars
Forget - Dreamer I Ile Practice,
On the moment to breathe the universe splash.
Sergey Gorodetsky (poem, written in the book of reviews at the exhibition N. M. Romadina.)

About himself

I was born on May 19, 1903 in Samara, on a garden street, in a house in the courtyard, a lamp of a big profitable home. This house has long been no. Father, Mikhail Andreevich Romadin, and Mother, Maria Kuzmichnna Golovin, were peasants of the Stavropol County of Samara Province, people from neighboring villages with peculiar names of Piscal and Tashla. They were 40 kilometers from the Volga and were surrounded by a huge pine forest. The peasants worked on the cutting of these forests. After the end of the military service, the father is forever ass in the city, became the railroad. In addition, he was self-taught with self-taught painting. He was a very gifted man.

After Samara, we moved to Orenburg, where the father worked as the main conductor on express. Because of his restlessness, his father often changed cities, and always it was cities, not villages.

For some time, he even stayed in Merve and Cushion, obviously, this is due to the fact that the father served in the army just in these places, in the railway battalion.

In my 7-8 years we lived in Melekles - a quiet pose, surrounded by the forest. The forest stood closely, heavy, dark, eternal. I loved him, watched whole days, I dreamed of him and was afraid. It seemed that there were lying, wheels and Baba Yaga.

And suddenly, in 1913, again Samara. The huge city, "Russian Chicago", as it was then called. Breakdown, noisy, with a huge pier, with a Volga, branded with hundreds of barges, reproving boats. Permanent beeps of steamats. And immediately near the station, the same unrestrained energy and movement, ever running on the happiness of people. Samara was famous for the whole of Russia by Zhigulevsky beer, the secret of which was particularly suitable for the brewing of spring water, which lied at great depth.

Samara washing the apple orchards, Bakhchi, gardens. Our street was not accidentally called Sadovaya. According to it, to a huge, blameless, fragrant, bright, noisy trade, the Troitsky Bazaar was walking and walked along the powerful cobblestone, endless weapons with apples, melons, watermelons. The smell of ripe fruit, the aroma of suburban gardens, it seems, never disappeared from our garden street.

But my whole soul belongs to the Volga. This widespread happiness of the morning rest, the mighty, great, all the taking Volga; What happiness, what is the joy in the morning run to her to roll on the sand, "fly" on the boat "on the other side", endless wipes, their pure jets and translucent through the water on the sand of pebbles, ripeny bushes, lops ... and serene Feeling joy and almost constant sun. No, this free, short childhood I do not forget!

It was 1914 - the First World War. The house is an extreme need. Scooty earnings of the father and the numerous family (five people of children, I am the youngest) forced me to go to trade with newspapers.

I got up daily at 4-5 am, fled to receive newspapers, quickly sold at the station and went to school. In the school of his position, he was terribly shy, hid from everyone, because then the newsmens were the most "garbage", unfortunate orphans, abandoned, street children, half-eyed, whose need also generated the war. Therefore, I grew silent and secretive.

There was a crowd for newspapers at dawn, and fights began, children's landfills in front of a small end of the newspapers. Every morning with fear, I again resorted to the queue for newspapers "Volzhsky Day", "Volzhsky Word". I was persistent. It was necessary before others with a heavy canvas bag on the shoulder from the Volga reach the station. Then sell the newspaper first. I remember, for the first time I brought a mother of 11 kopecks, they were enough for two pounds of meat, however, "crash", that is, all sorts of varieties.

I clearly remember: hot, dusty day, I sit on the asphalt, leaning against the wall of the house on Shikhovalovskaya Street, on me a shirt, pants, a canvas bag near, sometimes. Newspapers almost all sold. I am 11-12 years old. Very sad, gravity of severe life and injustice has already lay down on my children's shoulders. The future is very vague. Now it's run to the Trinity Bazaar dining - Okroshka (pennies) and a bunch. From a huge Chan, Chatka Merry Well done pours over a bowl of meat - pieces of meat, vobble, cucumbers and so on all together. Cheap, but good and satisfying. How much should I, almost a child? And tomorrow morning, my torments again. Again the turn for newspapers. Sad, hurt, slightly to tears. The sun burns, the street is deserted, hot, but I love the heat. The moments when I was free, I painted and wrote watercolor, imitating my father.

Father always did something, singing quietly. It was happily to look at him: he's kind. "Threatened," but never touched his finger. From the earliest childhood, I remember how he sat down and wrote his amazing boats, trees, her dreams. I stood next to how the fascinated and could not believe that this was my father. He seemed to me the creature supernatural. At that moment I was afraid of him. Apparently, my state came to him, he turned, smiling and smeared to me with a brush under his nose or on his cheek. I was offended for a minute, and yet he continued to seem like a man of super-particle.

Watching your father in Russia, moving from the city to the city with family, and sometimes without it (he just left his mother with children and left), I explain it to his desire to get out of the need, get out of the circle, above which he was in his abilities. Essentially - Empty Talent.

After his death, a small library remained, in her books on astronomy, botanic, medicine, "coming word of nonsense" E. Rotterdam and "Travstniki". In herbs he disassembled exclusively, he was treated himself, he treated and others. Sometimes, taking a piece of bread, he left for two or three days in the forest and was from there all the faded, as if he had grown herbs, dark, chunky (he was a small height), as if from the forest with a painting point. Bright blue eyes glowed like Vrulevsky "Pan". He finished only the two-class church-parish school.

When I started drawing at the 8th age, my father opposed this with all his might, took paints, destroyed the drawings, talking at the same time: "I don't want you to be hungry, and if you become an artist, you will love all my life. You need to be a technician." He died in 1936, when I had already graduated from the institute, I wrote a lot, I wrote about me - his joy and pride for me were immense.

My mother, nee grub, was illiterate, but very intelligent woman from nature. The powerful, harsh, deeply religious and highly moral, it was demanding of themselves and people. She kept pure Russian speech. Sayings, proverbs, to the place of said, and flew out of her mouth. Young I really appreciated it. He was offended that she was Nelskova, Surov. But later I understood why: the father calmly leaving the house, leaving five children on her hands. He knew that she would cope, sampling the family. The mother never complained, firmly knew her strength, knew how to stand up for children and only allowed himself to "beaten" and walked in conversations with neighbors.

I remember the difficult mother's disease. She was already compared, sent to the unknown. From noon and all night I kneel and prayed for her, for her life. I remember she said: "Kohl, stand up." "I will not stand," I answered, "until I extole your life." Mom recovered. A hard life imposed his imprint on her character, she was not fun, never sang, but the arrival of guests to the house was sacred for her. Guests have been exposed to all the best, to the detriment of their own. Already in old age she spent sometimes I have winter. Meet my friends with dumplings, pies, show them the prosperity of the son was for her happiness and pride. The parents lived in Tashkent last years of their lives. In Uzbekistan, at that time there were many former railway workers, friends of their youth.

The life of the newspaper, the seller from the tray at the station of all the little things (cigarettes, notebooks, pencils) and even bread, who baked mother, lasted until 1918. It was no time to go to school. The last two years - 15 and 16 years - I almost did not study, the school seemed to me far away. The life of the Volga city in the days of the war and revolution, the station, demobilized soldiers, sailors - that's among whom I was.

In 1918, I entered a volunteer in the Red Guard. For a good handwriting and ability to handle horses, I took me a personal calling commissar of the region. I delivered orders to the Commissioner in the city on purebred horses. This, of course, gave me great pleasure. I received military missions on which our whole family lived. I remember myself and I remember - slender, pale, always half-rolled.

Since 1919, Samara heal a peaceful life. I understood that I need to learn. Demobilized, went to school again. At the end of the summer, made an attempt to enter the art institute in Moscow. The trip at the time to Moscow is a whole epic. All Russia moved. Returned demobilized to the East. From the east to the west, the crowds of people who were going to go home, looking for their own, brought bags with flour, bread. Echelons are clogged with exhausted, tired people, rail tickets did not exist. It is necessary to hide, climb when departure to the reservoir and there to win the place itself, and it was not only to sit, but essentially, and stand.

With a drawing folder, a bunch of bread, a bottle of boiled water (was cholera) and in one shirt I climbed into the car. Stood closely. Gradually, they sat on the floor and in the evening fell asleep, tightly clung to each other. The next morning I saw with horror that the side of my shirt was washed with a herring, the bag with which a neighbor snapped on me, sleeping nearby.

For the fifth day, I am in Moscow. Settled on ragble, in the attic. There lived there Ravefakovtsy. Hungry. Moscow is deserted, Denikin has come.

It was not possible to enter in Vhutemas. I was given a certificate of the Council of People's Commissars, signed by Ulyanov-Lenin, that this year there is no reception in Vhutemas.

On the second day of arrival went to the Tretyakov Gallery. She walked barefoot, so looked in Samara to wear shoes in summer, of course, walking with walking. Came very early. Opposite the Tretyakov, where the art school is now, lay down on the grass and fell asleep. When they opened the gallery, I worked and entered.

It is impossible to describe the impression. I was stunned by the beauty, depth and height of Russian art. Many pictures I knew by postcards (my father loved to write with postcards), some on reproductions. But then I saw the present, great. Vrubel completely promised me. Nesterov, Repin, Surikov, can it be possible to list everyone! Here I realized what should learn. Go home, finish high school, return to Moscow prepared and enroll in the institute. What I did.

The way home in Samara was even harder. On the ragulation, I exchanged the upper shirt on the bread, but, unfortunately, I ate him with such a speed that I did not even notice.

The train lay on the upper shelf is terribly hungry. Demobilized sailors and soldiers were driving in the car. The next day, one of them noticed that I didn't eat anything and I didn't go down from the shelf, and I shared meals with me. Seeing my folder, asked if I could draw it. After the first drawing, others also wanted to pose. I painted, but I was fed, and everyone was satisfied.

What an alarming, extraordinary time. In the car between soldiers and sailors often broke out quarrels. They grabbed the weapon, everyone was armed. I remember how one handsome sailor, with contempt by opposing the infantry, said: "Well, what do you have - Galifa, Galife, Galifa (meaning the shots from the rifles), and we have a glue! Clash! Clash! And at once five hundred under Ice (implying artillery salts from the ship) ".

So we got to Syzran. Bridge over the Volga. Echelons with civilians are not allowed through it. This is understandable, the bridge is the strategic, the only one that connects the two parts of Russia. The people at the station in Syzran scored countless. I'm waiting, again hungry, with me only a folder with pictures. My neighbor is Krasnogwarders, who has a certificate with an octagonal seal that he is demobilized and returns home, offered: "Now we will get dinner for two." He entered the certificate of a chemical pencil: "Dinner for two," and we went through the rails to the Evacopaunk, where the cook, standing at a huge boiler, there was a lady soup. Near him, the mountain was help. Looking at our, said: "One Help is one dinner" - and splashed in the bowler. My kind comrade shared with me, we sat on the asphalt of Perron and in turn, drawing with one spoon, ate soup. He went home only one, though a huge, basket with a lock (in which at that time they were drunk), and in the basket - only a bowler and a spoon.

When Military Echelon moved to the bridge, everyone rushed after him, clinging on the go behind the steps. There was a chain of soldiers with rifles around, we were shot down with buttons: they did not have the right to drive through the people's bridge. But some way or otherwise, the people were filled into the wagons. I got myself. Doors and windows closed. We hit. On the "braces" there were redarmeys with rifles and, when the passengers tried to open the windows, began to shoot. Finally, the Volga moved, windows and doors opened. The train reached Samara unhindered.

I'M AT HOME!

In Samara, a few last months before a trip to Moscow, I studied in a rustic school commune. I returned there.

This school, which entered the story called "Bashkirovka", because it was in the house and gardens of the Volga Mukomol Millionaire Bashkirov, there was a great influence on my development. The house, or rather, a few houses stood on the beautiful high bank of the Volga, drowned in the gardens. There was a descent on the Volga, their boats. It was paradise. We have our own electricity. The forest was served up the top with an electric gate. We all worked: sawed, silenced firewood, they themselves treated the furnaces. There was also a turning workshop, a lot of their land. We worked on the gardens. There was their product storage room.

The house has a magnificent library, publishing of classics, casts with antique sculptures, huge photos of the sculpting of the fidia. And a wonderful assembly hall.

The teaching staff of a very high professional level. At that hungry time, university teachers were engaged with us, and in Samara University there were mainly teachers from Petrograd, who fell into this Volzhsky city during the war and ruin.

Soul and organizer "Bashkirov" - director of school, she is a teacher of history - Vera Nikolaevna Lukashevich. The disadvantaged daughter, who listened to the course of history in Sorbonne, an active and fair person, she contributed to all sublime enthusiasm of Russian democratism. In a difficult time of hunger in the Volga region, she sought for the school of the whole possible and impossible. I went to Samara in a broillion on foot, in the lapties (there was no shoe), and the school was at a distance of 10 kilometers from Samara. This truly Russian woman with dignity transferred deprivation and difficulties.

At school, all sorts of mugs worked. Musical education has practically could get everyone else: there was an abundance of musical instruments - 12 pianos, 5 pianos. Nikolai Dmitrievich Samarin, who graduated from the St. Petersburg conservatory, led the musical and dramatic classes. Put opera, drama. I played Boris in Boris Godunov, wrote scenery. The school tied the studied in her life. To call yourself "Bashkirovts" was flattering.

A delegation from Moscow arrived at school. Dating Lee with a new undertaking - organization of the school commune - or just an artistic group, I do not know. Among them was someone Goroshoshenko, at the concert he made a violinist. Before the concert, I, as always for all performances, painted the poster. She depicted the Volga, the Zhigulevsky Gate. Goroshchenko became interested in the billboard, met me and said that I would send me a book J. Reskin about art from Moscow. And really sent. This book made a huge impression on me. I studied her from the crust to the crust. Many places quoted in memory: "Science studies the attitude of things to each other, and the art is only the attitude of them to a person." In a letter that Goroshoshenko put in the book, he wrote that I need to go to study in Moscow. I read about the same thing at the same thing: "Half of our artists, possessing knowledge, dies from lack of education; the best of those I have met, they have been educated and illiterate. However, the ideal of the artist is not illiterate; it should be very well-read, Baby in terms of the best books and absolutely blagovospitan, both on the inside, and with external. In short, it should be suitable for a better society and hold on to the side of all. "

Until 1940, I no longer met Goroshoshenko, did not know who he was and where he lives. Suddenly in 1940 in Tarusa, I met him, I do not remember who I introduced us to the artists. He taught the drawing in some of the institutions, then except the violinist, was the artist. I did not remember about the sent book, too many years have passed. Obviously, doing good laid in it. He was pleased to know what importance was his invaluable gift for me in my 16 years.

I studied with an extraordinary zeal, for the year I passed the exams for two classes. In 1922, in the spring, I graduated from school, entered the Samara Art Technical Academy, whose three-year rate was completed in one year. In the same winter, lectures at the University of Samara.

In Samara, we, students of the artistic technical school, organized the theater-studio, prepared two performances, including the "marriage" of Gogol, played them on the club scenes, divided them and lived and studied.

In 1923 I came again to Moscow, I endured the entrance examinations and was adopted in Vhutemas. All my further life is connected with Moscow.

The first course is a picture from Shcherbinovsky. Wonderful teacher and artist, friend Shalyapin and Korovina. He has 105 people in his workshop. At the same time, some professors have only 8-10 people. Painting - in the woods. I studied with great passion, came to the workshop first. The guard was already knew me and allowed.

Two scenes in the workshop of Shcherbinovsky. First. He himself, having turned to me: "Hair let go, do you draw the album?" I'm scared, I try to explain that I have a paw in a bath, a card free, haircut too, and while there is a turn, I came to draw. Scholarship 8 rubles, without complimentary bath and hairdresser will not cost. Second scene. We draw us 105 people. Posing Kostya Dorokhov, our comrade, student. Posing too because of terrible need. Shcherbinovsky passes by me, looks at my drawing and says: "Stop it, look at him, I predict him a big future. I needed to teach thirty years to say these words. Here is the lion, and you are all kittens." It is so unexpectedly and so flattering, I, a first year student.

From the second course I studied at Falk. He treated me very well. We walked with him in Moscow, went to museums. I asked him not to approach me during classes, he agreed and did not touch me. The fact was that, coming to the student, Falk loved to take a brush and make a black contour at work. It was very knocked me out, and I asked him to give me myself: "If you get worse, you tell me about it, Robert Rafailovich," I asked him. He agreed, and we talked about work with him, walking in the evenings in Moscow.

When I was on the second year, eight works from all over Vhowemas were selected at the Paris exhibition, among them chose one mine. From the Moscow Art Exhibition, the Tretyakov Gallery acquired two of my landscape. In 1930, I graduated from the Institute with the title "Artist-Stankovist 1 category". Since then, my life is entirely devoted to art.

Through all soothery and tests, I carried one dream - art. And here my dream fell las. In 1939, I went to the Volga and started writing little landscapes. Worked very hard. I decided to make an exhibition. At the discovery made Mashkov, Lentulov, Turzhansky. Nesterov came to the exhibition. He did not go before the exhibition 20 years. And I brought him Olga Valentinovna Serov, daughter of Serov. Since then, I have become a permanent participant in all all-Union and anniversary exhibitions, and the first personal exhibition took place in 1940. Since 1950, my monographs began to leave.

Fragments from diaries of different years

Art does not depict the visible, but makes it visible.

I do not want anything from life, except for the feeling of joy and feeling of justice, the feasibility of life and love, which I am filled to everything: Russia, women, children, sorrow of human.

I have a debt to Russia, before your country, before the Russian best people. I separate the best, kind, loving Russian people. The best Those who give the gift of love.

I myself do not get tired thanking life for this gift. My love for nature, to all these twigs, christmas trees, a deaf forest, a quiet water, a stormy-spring twitter Sparrows, Cark Raven, shouting the forties and the eternal murmur of the stream fills my heart to the meaning of the existing.

I live on my trips uncomfortable, without any comfort, but joyfully. It seems to me that I fulfill honestly my duty, overcoming the capricious desire of calm, everyday well-being. I always tried to avoid it. Happiness and misfortune are not always distinguishable, often one of the other implies. Holding such a point of view on life, I am almost constantly happy.

God gave the happiness to love the beauty of nature, her pure, chasing the soul, absorb and transmit his feelings for her.

You are the only one, my beautiful land, is hardly there is a more beautiful living planet. Apparently, religion and ancient thinkers who considered the land of the Universe, more right than all the latest discoveries, assumptions and scientific hypotheses. So sorry will part with you, with the happiness you give, with the incomparable joy of life, with the great instincts - love, good, preservation of life and the extension of the kind.

What awaits ahead? I know that I did not live in vain, worried, thought - as it were that they were preparing for new activities. Now the earth is sleeping. It is beautiful in its eternal uniqueness of autumn. The falling snow created a wonderful ornament on the Christmas trees, branches, bushes, created a fragile shape on gentle branches. And the mystery ...

The landscape opens the full opportunity to freely express his feelings.

Landscapes of Pushkin, Tyutchev, Turgenev, Yesenin, Levitan and others are amazingly consonant with a person and will constantly sound in our heart.

Today, as usual, I thought a lot - why is there so much attention I focus on skill? What is this me - the notorious "Russian Academism"? After all, the main thing is the feeling. It is during periods of decline, degradation of the spirit, the skill begins to replace the feeling.

There is no greater truth in art than life itself. Only she is the beauty of the beauty that the artist is trying to reproduce.

About Nesterov

Nesterov Among the artists, I began to allocate especially since 16 years, when I came to Moscow for the first time and got into the Tretyakov Gallery. His "Bartholomew" hurt me so deeply that I immediately put it in one row with Vrubel; I also struck me the portrait of my wife Mikhail Vasilyevich - Catherine Petrovna.

Then, already in 1935, his personal exhibition took place in the Museum of Fine Arts in the Round Hall. She indifferently delighted me, and I, then a relaxed student in Vhowemas, dreamed of acquiring his cowgirl - "Swirl".

I greedily listened and read about Nesterov everything that could learn and get. Judgments about him were enough and characterized by him as harsh, fanatically honestly relating to their creativity and appointment in the life of the artist.

My ideas about Nesterov became much deeper after my meetings and conversations with Pavel Dmitrievich Zinin, with whom I was familiar for quite some time. But all this was only the correspondence sensations.

And I met Mikhail Vasilyevich in 1940 at my personal exhibition on Kuznetsky Bridge.

When I brought work to the exhibition hall and folded them together in the corner, they fit in a very small space. I was surprised: how do they take the whole hall? And only scoreless courage suggested me so that I did not retreat, so that I was as shattered, as when the young men swam the Volga under Samara.

But now, when I bring my work to the Academy of Arts, I continue to be surprised how little work should be taken to take all the halls! In 1940, at that exhibition I had the same impression. How many unrest before the exhibition!

Nikolai Vasilyevich Vlasov, a friend of all famous Moscow artists, an organizer of exhibitions from private collections, an expert of Russian painting, I didn't remember that tomorrow, I would visit Nesterov himself at 11 o'clock in the morning, and I will bring His daughter Valentina Serov.

I was very excited - it seemed to me that it was absolutely impracticable for one reason or another. When I came to the exhibition in the morning, the hall was already quite full. In the middle of the scattered message about what Nester will come, agitated many. I wanted to see him, but I must say that he did not attend art exhibitions.

I sat in the middle of the hall and suddenly saw a person of a small growth, with sharp movements, sharp, with a dry face of the sage and ascetic. It was necessary to see how he approached the Swiss, took off his cough with two hands and filed it. I was struck by his own gesture and squeezed in his arms. This gesture reminded me of a portrait of I. P. Pavlov. Mikhail Vasilyevich several times bypassed the exhibition and approached me. He said a little good, praise words and invited to visit him. I became his second student after Corina, who was before me his student for 26 years.

Two days later I came to the house to Nesterov for the first time. He lived in a Siva enemy. He put me in a small room in a chair with him and hugged. In the chair two it was very close. He asked: "How do you know that?" I immediately understood that he asks about the essence of creativity, and began to respond from afar. Said he studied at Falk. He noticed: "Falk does not know." I told him that I consider my first teacher Shcherbinovsky, Mikhail Vasilyevich objected: "How could this Shcherbinovsky come from? However, he added," Schcherbinovsky was a friend of Korovin, he could hear him, but he didn't know himself. " Then I said that Krymova also consider his first teacher. He nodded: "Crimea knows. Brings everything that you write, bad and good. Be sure. And bad - especially."

I brought him everything, I wrote then small things, the size of the palm, after I wrote the pictures for which it was "glorified", with figures in full size: 50 figures - "Country Soviets". I realized that this is not mine, this art was in the service of controversy, politicians, reviews. With the help of Nesterova, I realized that you would not leave this art. I realized that I needed an infinite study of nature, I was not enough for me, because the rabid pace did not give the opportunity to study nature, and without deep knowledge of nature there could be no artist. True, Nesterov told me at the exhibition that these my things, compositions - also art, only for them I had little preparation. Even before my first visit to the house, Mikhail Vasilyevich, at our first meeting at the exhibition, he seriously asked: "Please answer me, please, for two questions: Do you have any will and do you like money?" I answered him definitely that I do not like money, but I seem to eat.

Soon Mikhail Vasilyevich asked him to show him my wife. Take us in the evening, very friendly, mentally, the whole family: Ekaterina Petrovna, Natasha's daughter and son Alyosha. The impression is as if we were familiar for a long time. My wife, Nina Gerasimovna, came in a dark blue dress that wore before that 8 years. When parting, in the hallway, Mikhail Vasilyevich gave her a coat, quickly bounced off the door (I was afraid to catch a cold) and quietly told me: "And from this side I am calm." From that day, our friendship began with Nesterov's family, which continues until now.

On June 1, Mikhail Vasilyevich's birthday, he was 78 years old. After sending a welcoming telegram and receiving an invitation from him on the phone, came along with his wife.

People gathered a lot. Mikhail Vasilyevich sat me at the chest, pressed me to him and said: "Here is here, on this chest, some artists are sitting." This evening, I fell happiness to get acquainted with my friends Mikhail Vasilyevich: the grandson of Tyutchev Nikolai Ivanovich, the architect Shushev, the artist Kruglikov, the singer Ksenia Georgievna Derjanskaya and the hope of Andreevaya Obukhova, Bariton Panteleimon Markovich Nazovov (the best Onegin) and others. With Ksenia, a close friendship before her death also knitted with Ksenia Georgium Durzhskaya.

The evening turned out very celebrated, very hearted and very simple. Ordinary words, ordinary congratulations, but everything is spiritualized by the presence of a big artist.

I remember another evening. There was a phone call: "Mikhail Vasilyevich says with you. I invite you today to myself at four o'clock, do you want to still be anyone? I don't know who you want, but if you do not mind, I will be Konchalovsky" . I arrived a minute in a minute, Peter Petrovich with his wife appeared a little later. Cole Konchalovsky was, I remember, passionate, they said what interesting portraits Peter Petrovich writes and what wonderful Olga Vasilyevna. When I felt that we were dressed, I began to persuade everyone to leave because it was late and Mikhail Vasilyevich need to go to bed. And indeed, the owner began to fall asleep. But Peter Petrovich was very interested, and Olga Vasilyevna too. They did not want to diverge, and everyone said that it was too early. They were funny and careless as children. And Nesterov, by the end of our meeting, sat at all gray, he needed to do procedures - he developed a disease.

Nesterov inspired to me: "Your perception with age will weaken, and therefore you need to develop a technique in advance. Mastering technician perfectly, you can, without reducing the advantages, to work as well. The artist needs a technique and its improvement that the feeling does not go to overcome difficulties related to the image of nature, and freeing would have been fluid. The main thing in painting does not lose what is given. This is a great law.

Oh, as well as good to have talent, and summer houses, and pleasures, whom the great many appears for money, and praise, praise ... But remember, talent is a difficult duty, it is not pleasure. For the manned talent you answer before the nation. You must convey it until the end of your life. This is what you live for.

The word search in art is false from beginning to end. The search can only be understood in the sense of overcoming the difficulties of nature expression. You need to search in order to achieve authenticity, hill, and not meaningless distortion of the forms of expression. The distortion of forms in art is not a new, this is an amaver, from which Tosca takes. In Greece and Rome, they took a fine from the artist or sculptor, if he did not express himself in the work of his soul, that he himself is truly valuable, I am experiencing a century and leaves an indefunable feeling of the feeling of eternal truth, talks about our ancestors, the funns, their thoughts, acts and love.

All the great epochs created art Unnamed: Greece, Rome, Byzantium, Middle Ages, Renaissance. Unnamed was our great iconography. It is above all separate talent, and it did not rush on individuality. We are only on the brush of the master we assume Rublev, Dionysia, and so on.

Our new era eventually comes to the same. And now while many searches, extreme individualism. All these searches do not determine anything and hang themselves. We are standing in front of the new start and new epoch in art, but it matches the centuries, and not decades.

Humanity cannot exist without art, and art we will be great and prophetic, will be higher than what was at the end of the XIX and XX century.

In Russian painting, three geniuses: Rublev, Ivanov and Vrubel. "

Nesterov told that when he expressed his feelings, his admiration for his work, Vrubel answered: "And you have a warfolomer!"

Why is such a picky man like Vrubel, so highly appreciated this picture?

Nesterova is simple, unpretentious, "slander" nature, spiritual and quiet, which keeps the hidden joy. Her simplicity and humanity are so deeply connected with the Russian heart! Only one Nesterov understood this feeling. He has a deepest secret of the relationship of man with nature. His nature is the environment that grown man gave him spirit and strength.

I asked Mikhail Vasilyevich, whether it is possible to write on the old canvas. He replied: "Only if the canvas believed to the soil, but it's better not to write. I had one case when the work was completely died, and the second case - when I managed to save. I wrote a portrait, I liked the man. This portrait praised V. Vasnetsov. Already he was old, as I am now, but I came to me. He liked the portrait. After a while, the portrait began to crush pieces. And nothing to do with him. He is on a roll, but it does not exist. Picture "Father Sergius" which is in the Russian Museum, written on the blasted canvas. I even worn to help good people. I put it on the exhibition "The World of Art". She was purchased for the Russian Museum. I paid well. Once I come to the exhibition, I touched my finger, so slightly , Before the corner of the picture. I see a piece fell off, then it hooked the nail - the paint is completely easily, it was going to send the picture to the World Exhibition to Paris. I told what's wrong - the picture could not be sent to Paris, neither to be sold museum. After Inspection I was answered that it would not be sent to Paris, but in the Russian Museum she should stay. After the exhibition "The World of Art" she was conveyed to restorers, they had a long time with her and transferred a picture to a new canvas. "Father Sergius" remained on another canvas. "

In 1941, the war began, I took the family to Tashkent, our meetings and conversations stopped, and on October 19, 1942, Mikhail Vasilyevich died. Before my departure from Moscow, when goodbye, he said about the war: "We must lose your head to attack Russia, you cannot defeat Russia."

Infinitely difficult to say a new word in art, find your language in painting. It is especially difficult to do it in the landscape. The canvas of Nikolay Romadina, at first glance, traditional. But the longer you look at the artist's paintings, the more and more comprehend the special Romadin handwriting.

One day, the writer Alexey Tolstoy came to the Mikhai Mikhailovich Mikhailovich Mikhailovich Mikhailovich. He really liked a small landscape, he removed him from the wall, he looked at him for a long time and then only one word said: "Witchcraft!"

The future artist was born in Samara, in the family of the railway worker. His father was not alien to painting, in moments of recreation took paints, the brushes - wrote pictures of the sea, which was never seen. But he really did not want the Son to become an artist, - this profession, according to his conviction, was a frivolous for a man. However, when the father was in departure, Kolya took his paints and brushes - then it was impossible to tear it from them. Father didn't like it, the conflict was in the family. In 1922, Nikolai gathered his simple belongings and went to Moscow to enter Vhutemas.

It was unlikely to assumed an angry father that his son would become the most famous artist that his modest picturesque experiences will make the worldwide heritage - in 1997 an unusual exhibition "Three generations of Russian Romadin artists" was held in the Spanish city of Seville, which, Mikhail Andreevich, paintings were exhibited His son Nicholas and the grandson of Mikhail. The exhibition was a great success.

Nikolai Romadin, being a passionate, temperamental and fondant person, rushed in painting from extreme to extreme, tried everything in it - and thematic canvases on "topical" topics, and a portrait in which he achieved great recognition. His "self-portrait", executed in 1948, is now in the Uffizi Gallery in Florence. Big honor!

In the late 1930s, Romadin unexpectedly refuses to all of them already created than could well be proud, and goes into a clean landscape. With easel, canvas, paints and brushes, with a small backpack, he disappeared in the northern, middle-Russian and other dala and weighs.

Exhibited at the first personal exhibition in 1940, his work was in domestic painting a new, original name. A big event was visiting the exhibition by Mikhail Vasilyevich Nesterov. The meeting was very important for the artist.

Unexpected and, perhaps, the highest award became a photo of Levitan, Mikhail Vasilyevich handed her Romadina with the words: "Levitan gave me a photo as the successor of the traditions of the Russian landscape. Keep it, and then, when you find it necessary, pass it on a young artist who, with honor May continue this line! "

During the Great Patriotic War, Nikolai Romanin created a large series of paintings "Volga - Russian River". Almost all she is now in the Tretyakov Gallery. Also, however, as the other significant picturesque series "Time of year", created under the influence of the music of Tchaikovsky and paintings by Claude Lorren.

The painting "Kergenets", written in 1946, became the stage in the work of the artist. The most characteristic for him, the most romantic and mysterious. Her plot, at first glance, is very simple. It's time for spring flood, a dense forest, as if growing from dark, dark water and frozen in some tricky waiting. And even the duck boat with two human silhouettes is not disturbing this magic, "Berendevo" kingdom.

And "Kergenets", and other most significant works - "Kudinskaya Lake", "Yaren Forest", "White Night" "Winter in Ostrovsky", "Senezh. Pink Winter", "Elegant winter", "Fog. Oka", " In Ryazan places, Yesenin are amazing in their emotional effects, according to their thinnest shaped magic.

Evgrap Konchanin (from the article "Walking Lake Nicholas Romadina")

One day, the writer Alexey Tolstoy came to the Mikhai Mikhailovich Mikhailovich Mikhailovich Mikhailovich. He really liked a small landscape, he removed him from the wall, he looked at him for a long time and then only one word said: "Witchcraft!"

The future artist was born in Samara, in the family of the railway worker. His father was not alien to painting, in moments of recreation took paints, the brushes - wrote pictures of the sea, which was never seen. But he really did not want the Son to become an artist, - this profession, according to his conviction, was a frivolous for a man. However, when the father was in departure, Kolya took his paints and brushes - then it was impossible to tear it from them. Father didn't like it, the conflict was in the family. In 1922, Nikolai gathered his simple belongings and went to Moscow to enter Vhutemas.

It was unlikely to assumed an angry father that his son would become the most famous artist that his modest picturesque experiences will make the worldwide heritage - in 1997 an unusual exhibition "Three generations of Russian Romadin artists" was held in the Spanish city of Seville, which, Mikhail Andreevich, paintings were exhibited His son Nicholas and the grandson of Mikhail. The exhibition was a great success.

Nikolai Romadin, being a passionate, temperamental and fondant person, rushed in painting from extreme to extreme, tried everything in it - and thematic canvases on "topical" topics, and a portrait in which he achieved great recognition. His "self-portrait", executed in 1948, is now in the Uffizi Gallery in Florence. Big honor!

In the late 1930s, Romadin unexpectedly refuses to all of them already created than could well be proud, and goes into a clean landscape. With easel, canvas, paints and brushes, with a small backpack, he disappeared in the northern, middle-Russian and other dala and weighs.

Exhibited at the first personal exhibition in 1940, his work was in domestic painting a new, original name. A big event was visiting the exhibition by Mikhail Vasilyevich Nesterov. The meeting was very important for the artist.

Unexpected and, perhaps, the highest award became a photo of Levitan, Mikhail Vasilyevich handed her Romadina with the words: "Levitan gave me a photo as the successor of the traditions of the Russian landscape. Keep it, and then, when you find it necessary, pass it on a young artist who, with honor May continue this line! "

During the Great Patriotic War, Nikolai Romanin created a large series of paintings "Volga - Russian River". Almost all she is now in the Tretyakov Gallery. Also, however, as the other significant picturesque series "Time of year", created under the influence of the music of Tchaikovsky and paintings by Claude Lorren.

The painting "Kergenets", written in 1946, became the stage in the work of the artist. The most characteristic for him, the most romantic and mysterious. Her plot, at first glance, is very simple. It's time for spring flood, a dense forest, as if growing from dark, dark water and frozen in some tricky waiting. And even the duck boat with two human silhouettes is not disturbing this magic, "Berendevo" kingdom.

And "Kergenets", and other most significant works - "Kudinskaya Lake", "Yaren Forest", "White Night" "Winter in Ostrovsky", "Senezh. Pink Winter", "Elegant winter", "Fog. Oka", " In Ryazan places, Yesenin are amazing in their emotional effects, according to their thinnest shaped magic.

Evgrap Konchanin (from the article "Walking Lake Nicholas Romadina")

Another Russian artist, whose name it was unknown.
Romadina N.M. Call an outstanding Russian artist, a master of lyrical Russian landscape.

Spring rain. 1967.

Memories of Venzianov

Thunderstorm, 1967
Formation of art N.M. Romadina, the son of an amateur artist, accounted for post-revolutionary years when the impact of the avant-garde gradually faded. Romadin, at the beginning by the author of portraits and paintings by the household genre, in the 1930s find himself in a lyrical landscape, where it remained to "hide" from the alien artist of the Patinity of socialist realism.

Cherry, 1971

Flood
The brightest period of the art of Romadina - 1940-1950s, when his paintings were perceived as the development of the landscape line of the largest masters of this genre of the first half of the century - M.V. Nesterova, I.E. Grabar, N.P. Crimean. But Romadine is a distinctive artist who can peer into the motive almost before dissolving in it - whether it is quite traditional species, as in the Volga series - Russian River (1949), "Seasons" (1953), or, on the contrary, fascinating, mysterious Corners ("Kergenets", 1946; "Flooded Forest", 1950s).

Kergenets, 1946

Flooded forest, 1970

Spring stream

Berendev Forest. 1978

Spring Forest, 1956
N. M. Romadin died on April 10, 1987. He was buried in Moscow at the Vagankovsky cemetery.

Spring Cup, 1972

Spruce, illuminated by the Sun, 1964

Forest River, 1956

Willow in flood

Pink Spring

Fresh breeze

Forest Lake, 1959

Kudinsky Lake

Village Khmelevka

In native places Yesenin, 1957

In the forest in winter. Specker.1956

Non-freezing river

Night Tosca, 1958

At the village council, 1957

Romadin Nikolai Mikhailovich (1903 - 1987)

May 19, 1903 Roman Nikolai Mikhailovich's birthday.
People's Artist of the USSR. Active member of the Academy of Arts of the USSR. Laureate of the Stalinist Prize for the series of landscapes "Volga - Russian River" (1946). Laureate of the Lenin Prize (1980).

Self-portrait N. M. Romadina. 1943. Gallery Uffizi. Florence.
Motherland Nikolai Mikhailovich Romadina on the Volga, Samara. As K.S. noted. Petrov-Vodkin: "Birth on the Volga already points to something. First of all, it immediately, since childhood, it establishes a human eye to natural beauty, on the beauty of a wide water space, hills ... No wonder Volga gave us many artists more or less close order" .Romadin, first the author of portraits and paintings by the household genre, in the 1930s, finds himself in a lyrical landscape, where it remained to "hide" from the alien artist of the pathoscope of socialist realism. His work is akin to high poetry, when a person gently loves nature. "You are gentle My beautiful land, "Romanin wrote, and these words are perceived today as an epigraph for his work.

N.M. Romadina "Willow in the flood"
The brightest period of the art of Romadina - 1940-1950s, when his paintings were perceived as the development of the landscape line of the largest masters of this genre of the first half of the century - M.V. S.Resterova, I.E. Rubar, N.P. Krymova. When Isaac Levitan presented Mikhail Nesterov with a photo with his signature and asked to give a young decent landscapeist. He kept her for many years, and then, seeing the work of Romadina, gave him. Nesterov visited the first personal exhibition of Romadina in 1940, supported him, and friendship began - despite more than a forty-year difference in age. Until the death of Nesterov, they communicated and corresponded. Thenesses introduced Romadina to the circle of their friends, among which Paul Corin, Ivan Efimov, Peter Konchalovsky, Singer Ksenia Derjanskaya, the famous doctor Vladimir Filatov, Pianist Svyatoslav Richter, famous writers, scientists, philosophers.


N.M. Romadin. Elegant winter. 1947
During the Great Patriotic War, N. Romadin worked on the famous cycle "Volga - Russian River", consisting of 12 canvases, 11 of which are presented in the collection of the State Tretyakov Gallery.


Village Khmelevka 1944 From the series "Volga - Russian River"
The painting "Kergenets", written in 1946, became the stage in the work of the artist. The most characteristic for him, the most romantic and mysterious. The artist so masterfully managed to convey the condition of nature at the time of the spring flood, that the household motive of the swim-boat with two fishermen is implemented in a poetic revelation.


Romadin N.M. Kergenetian. 1946.
In Kergents, the mystical charm of it is concluded.
The son of Nikolai Romadina - Mikhail recalls that his father somehow turned to him: "You know, I had a vision. ... The painting" Kergenets "stood on the easel in the workshop. I come back to the workshop from the house, I open the door and see. .. - The father moved to the whisper, - on a chair in front of the easel, a man sits in his hand and writing my "kergenetus." The man turned and looked at me, and after a moment I melt in the air. It was he! " "Who is he?" - I asked. Father closely brought his lips to my ear and cherished a loud whisper: "Nesterov!"
In the early 1950s, N. Romadin created a wonderful series of "seasons" under the influence of the music of P. I. Tchaikovsky and Pictures Claude Lorena.


N.M.romadin. Spring (landscape with goats), 1949


View of Rembrandt Hall in Hermitage, 1955.
Significantly in their emotional effects and other works of Romadina - "Kudinskaya Lake", "Yaren Forest", "White Night", "Winter in Ostrovsky", "Senezh. Pink Winter", "Elegant winter", "Fog. Oka." Romadin worldview, the poetic felt of the life of nature is close to Yesenin poetry.


Kudinsky lake. 1974-1978.


N. Romadin. White Night. 1947.
"White Night", amazing in its emotional impact, in its thinnest shaped magic.


N.M.romadin. Winter


N.M.romadin. Senezh. Pink Winter


In the scenery of the painter burns the pale dawns of the northern white nights, the crimson sunsets in the mighty sowing bows are flawed and the scarlet bonfires of shepherds are soaked, the cold stars flicker in the bottomless sky, the irrepressible spills are buried.
Rus ... Ordinary, clean, proud. Therdinsky worldview, the poetic feeling of nature of nature is close to Yesenin poetry. The cycle of paintings inspired by poet-lyrics is of particular interest and admires the amazing proximity and consignment of poetry Esenin.


N.M.romadin. In the native places Sergei Yesenin. 1957.


N.M.romadin. Yesenin evening.
It is hampered by some special, sounding silence, in which the slaughterhouse of something unknown, the hard joy of expectations of something unknown, desirable ... All complexity and versatility of the metaphorical poetic building is hidden in this monologue landscape. The artist's library voice penetrates the heart of the viewer , Forcing the most secret strings of his soul. In 1970, awarded the State Prize named behalf of the Repin for such landscapes as "Golden River", "at the village council", "Yesensky Evening", "Forest Kurgan".


N.M.romadin. Golden River, 1970s.
Your masterpiece - "Golden River" The artist was intended in the 1950s, and completed in the 1970s, almost two decades needed to create a picture that captured the incredible light, which, refracted in transparent water, turned the pebbles at the bottom of the river in the Gold Nuggets .


N.M. Romadin. At the village council 1957.


Romadin Nikolai Mikhailovich. Non-freezing river. 1969.
The works were written by him, as a rule, without preliminary drawing, were built by color, due to which the unique overflows of the palette, textures were created. Their image was determined primarily by expressive motive. In this sense, Romadin became one of the creators of the national landscape in the twentieth century. Famous writer K. Pouustovsky dedicated to the artist Essay, in which there are lines: "The labor of Romadina is not only the work of the painter, but also a genuine Patriot. His canvas - a poem about Russia." Anode once seen his work - a gentle pink dawn over the river or mysterious twilight - You can never forget them, because it is a true poetry of painting. Most works of the People's Artist of the USSR Nikolai Romadina is located in the Tretyakov art gallery, there is a good collection in the Russian Museum.


N.M. Romadin. Spring rain 1967.


Nikolai Mikhailovich Romadin. "On the shores of Karelia" (1964).


N.M. Romadin.Lesh Lake. "
Gray paws of firings spread over dark glass of water. A dense green lace of a dense forest Manites wander around more often, listen to Berendeva Bora whisper. Many large Russian painters wrote Bor. Victor and Apollinaria Vasnetsov, Nesterov, Shishkin. Everyone in its own way. And Romadina has a special language.


N.M. Romadin. Ate in a flood


N.M. Romadin. Definition ate. 1951.
Fragments from diaries of different years
Art does not depict the visible, but makes it visible.
I do not want anything from life, except for the feeling of joy and feeling of justice, the feasibility of life and love, which I am filled to everything: Russia, women, children, sorrow of human.
I have a debt to Russia, before your country, before the Russian best people. I separate the best, kind, loving Russian people. The best Those who give the gift of love. I myself do not get tired thanking life for this gift. My love for nature, to all these twigs, christmas trees, a deaf forest, a quiet water, a stormy-spring twitter Sparrows, Cark Raven, shouting the forties and the eternal murmur of the stream fills my heart to the meaning of the existing. I live on my trips uncomfortable, without any comfort, but joyfully. It seems to me that I fulfill honestly my duty, overcoming the capricious desire of calm, everyday well-being. I always tried to avoid it. Happiness and misfortune are not always distinguishable, often one of the other implies. Holding such a point of view on life, I am almost constantly happy. God gave the happiness to love the beauty of nature, her pure, chasing the soul, absorb and transmit his feelings for her. You are the only one, my beautiful land, is hardly there is a more beautiful living planet. Apparently, religion and ancient thinkers who considered the land of the Universe, more right than all the latest discoveries, assumptions and scientific hypotheses. So sorry will part with you, with the happiness you give, with the incomparable joy of life, with the great instincts - love, good, preservation of life and the extension of the kind. What awaits ahead? I know that I did not live in vain, worried, thought - as it were that they were preparing for new activities. Now the earth is sleeping. It is beautiful in its eternal uniqueness of autumn. The falling snow created a wonderful ornament on the Christmas trees, branches, bushes, created a fragile shape on gentle branches. And the mystery ...
The landscape opens the full opportunity to freely express his feelings.
Landscapes of Pushkin, Tyutchev, Turgenev, Yesenin, Levitan and others are amazingly consonant with a person and will constantly sound in our heart.
For details, see:

Nikolay Romadin

Not that you do not, nature:

Not blind, not a soulless face -

There is a push in it, there is

There is love in it, there is

F. Tyutchev

Russian landscape ...

He approved himself in the history of our art by the Spring Creek of Savrasovsky Graco.

How many wonderful artists contributed to the picturesque song about the Motherland!

"We certainly need to move to the light, paints and air," Kramskaya wrote in 1874, "but ... how to do not be confused on the way the precious quality of the artist - the heart!"

And the best Russian landscape players combined brilliant skill with high spirituality.

True Russian songs of Savrasov. Lyrical poems brush Levitan. Clean, gentle paints of ancient Russia Nesterov. Doves, full-bloodeds, Konchalovsky, Sergey Gerasimov, Sergey Gerasimov ... Strict Rhythms, Silhouettes of New in Daineki, Nissky, Pimentova, Chuikov.

Infinitely difficult to say a new word in art, find your language in painting.

It is especially difficult to do it in the landscape.

Among our contemporaries there is a master who said a new word in the Russian landscape.

Nikolay Romadin.

His canvas, at first glance, traditional. They are filled in the spirit of the best covenants of the Moscow School of Painting. But the longer you look at the artist's paintings, the more and more comprehend the special Romadin handwriting. Penetrate the feeling of the unique, the only thing, the thinnest foundation of nature.

The painter with his canvas solves the task set by Alexei Savrasov:

"On the landscape should be able to determine even an hour of the day, only then the landscape can be considered a real!"

Romadina, we see no longer canvas, not invented the plot, but we will compose life in all its subtlety and strength.

We believe the artist. We painfully remember the pages of your life. We burn and rejoice along with the painter.

In our memory there are bright zorities, pictures of fruitful autumn, Zyabko from the cold winter nights ... We leave the Romadina exhibition, as if we experienced a trip to Russia, deeply feeling their involvement of fraud.

The artist, who is able to make a brandy urban resident overnight move to the harsh shores of the White Sea, wander with sleepless white nights in CJSC, listen to the noise of pines in ancient Borzhenza, to breathe the aroma of early spring on Otomle, admire the quiet red river of the Tsarevna River ...

Make a haunted dormant lyrical strings of the heart.

Wake up poetry that lures almost every heart.

In this power of the landscapes of Romadina. For it sounds the soul of the painter - sensitive, trembling, complicated.

Poustovsky said:

"His canvas is a poem about Russia. Romadina has a lot in common with Yesenin, and, like Yesenina, he can say with a complete reason: "I will challenge the poet of the poet of the sixth of the land with a brief" Rus "."

High. Eleventh floor.

In the big workshop, the noise of the city is almost not heard. Smooth, soft light.

Little growth, crab. Very fast. In his gait, there is a special lightness that comes after many, many hundreds of seedy versts.

His cheeky dark face is open. Under the steep forehead - sharp light eyes, wary, attentive.

Cripples, crippled nature. Forests are burning, "the artist pronounces bitterly, and his eyes becomes evil, chain.

And suddenly he smiled.

Smile clear, sunny. Only eyes with the eyelids remain strict.

In it, something from the forester, the experienced, seen, and therefore, good, hearty, although not without peel. He is one of those people who will not spend on the punchry.

Everyone seemed and experienced.

He knows how much Pound Lich.

Its strong, grabbing hands all the time something busy: they are being delivered to fish food in aquarium, then clean the cutting of a long column brush, then shifting large monographs - Van Gogh, Delacroix, Renoir, Gaugugen, Alexander Ivanov.

I have the first edition of Pushkin and the first edition of Gogol. So ... - And again, quickly walking the workshop and sit down on a narrow tacht.

Romadine Skup on words. It is difficult to talk. He is all waiting for something, and you feel his sharp look.

Born in the outback, in Samara, in 1903. Soon seventy. Father Railwayman. As a child, a lot was driving around. Maybe therefore, especially with me, our edges are affectionate rivers, green meadows, forests.

Suddenly fell silent, the eyes went out on the moment.

Wondered.

Quiet. Cold light slides on the walls. Countless Etudes - Landscapes. Cabinets with books.

In the corner smiles at the mysterious "Vakh" Konenkova.

Nearby sparkles "Kupava" Vrubel. Bronze group Paolo Trubetsky. Originals.

My father wrote butter. Self-taught. Any scenery from yourself and copies. In the rooms tasty smelled butter, varnish. I usually stood behind, and he seemed to me in heavenly creature. And he will suddenly take and not looking around for a tassel to me straight on the nose. And he shuts me a moment on Earth.

Romadin laughs silently, and wrinkles are smoothed into the Luba and gather at the eyes.

I was like all the boys. Doves in the summer stuck on the Volga. Fishermen. Bathed. Slightly older - ran with the guys to Athos. There were wall on the wall. Came home with "lanterns".

Suddenly everything has changed.

Father got into a catastrophe, and we immediately shuffled.

Winter day.

At eleven years began selling newspapers. 1914. War. It was what shout.

Events have enough.

Suddenly Nikolai Mikhailovich jumps up and removes large cards with a leather quilted antique sofa. This brown big sofa seems to me insanely familiar.

Do you know? - says Romadin, smiling slyly. - This is a sofa from the Van Gogh Hall - the Museum of New Western Art, which we closed at one time.

The point is the past, and in vain.

And then I remembered how we are with Volodya Pereyaslavtz, young and forever hungry, as devils, we sat for hours and admired Van Gogh.

That was a long time ago.

I bought it in the commission, shortly after the closure of the museum.

He takes me under the elbow with his small energetic hand and leads to the sofa.

Who only I was! - continues Romadin. - a newspaper, a bullshit, a twist, and then left in 1919 to fight a volunteer.

I had two brothers cousins \u200b\u200b- Shurka and Vanya. They then went to Chapaev.

Vanya Belyaki shook. Good was the guy. He taught me on the harmonica to play.

Romadine springfully jumps up and after a moment he plays something sad on the lip harmonica. Samara sorts.

Sighs harmonica.

Yes, pity Vanya. And how many of them were litiently.

It is very noteworthy that Romadin, having passed, as, however, many of his peers, school of Vhowemas, after graduation found it necessary to make a serious study of the work of Alexander Ivanov, copying his work.

Thus, the artist at first joined high painting.

By the way, these copies attracted attention and highly spaced to the young Master Pavel Dmitrievich Korina, who since then becomes his older friend and the advisor.

It was Corin to introduce Romadina with great Nesterov - one of the last Mogicans of Russian classics.

This is how I remembers the first meeting with Mikhail Vasilyevich Nesterov Romadin:

Volga. Fragment.

I was opened in 1940 a personal exhibition on Kuznetsky Bridge. Corin under great secret announced that today Nesterov will be visited today, which is very rare when it appears in crowded.

But ... some somehow learned the secret, and when it appeared in the hall like a novice, all in black, in Corin's boots, to warn me about the arrival of Mikhail Vasilyevich, the hall was full of people.

I saw Nesterov.

Dry, tightened, he removed the cough with a sharp gesture and gave the Swiss.

Pensne flashed, I saw the hard face of Asklet and the sage.

He walked around the exhibition with County, carefully examining every work. I was walking by a side, listening.

But Nesterov was silent. Then suddenly said:

"Pavel Dmitrievich, Complete Once again."

He met me closer and invited to himself.

With trepidation, I entered a small apartment on the Sivz enemy who served him at the same time and the workshop. More than modestly furnished, only two small rooms.

I will never forget his words that have been told at this meeting:

"Go from nature, your work will be more valuable, your faith is stronger, and painting will be kinder ..."

Now I know that after the meeting with me, he said art historian Durylin:

"Talent is, just enough of the character ..."

Romadin wonders, something painfully remembering ... Finally, quickly gets up and disappears.

As suddenly he appeared.

In his hands, he has several postcards - old, yellowed, written by clear, solid handwriting.

I OBOMLEL ...

In my hands, I have ordinary penny postcards.

The handwriting is extremely clear, solid.

I look, the date is 1942, the year of the death of Nesterov, when he was already eighty years ...

Herd. Fragment.

Will, an increambable character glowing in this handwriting.

Here are these letters:

Dear Nikolai Mikhailovich!

Your letter from May 9 received the other day ... Your energy is pleased with me. As for the participation in exhibitions, I never loved them especially and did not accept them without the need for participation.

But this is a matter of taste, and I will not advise you.

The main thing is not to sit back, work in full swing and completely conscientious in front of yourself ...

We are healthy, continue to stay in the same obscure position, I'm more lying, I will soon get tired.

In short, my 80 years now I'm not joy.

The anniversary celebrations ended, there was a lot of noise A and all this was pretty tired.

Here the exhibitions alternate here, but since I don't go out of the house now and I do not see them, I should not talk about them.

"Noise" Peter Petrovich (Konchalovsky. - I. D.), he is talented, art loves!

I wish you good health and well-being.

Mich. Nesterov. "

"Dear Nikolai Mikhailovich!

I cordially thank you for congratulations and wishes. Last days were noisy. I'm still lying in bed, it is difficult to write, and you excuse me for a short letter - I get up.

Our greetings please give Nina Gerasimovna.

Like your hand.

Mich. Nesterov.

"Dear Nikolai Mikhailovich!

Thank you, Nina Gerasimovna, Ksenia Georgievna and Kirill Durzhinsky for good memory, for the "toast" ... for love ... Thank you for everything.

I am glad that you live "wow" there is "in the gazebo" (about it more than once mentioned in letters).

Provenian. Fragment.

We live in the old way, hopes for the imminent improvement of our affairs, but for now I'm walking, praising and only.

Whether you work?

Please work not to twist the hands: This is ours - "all" ... our salvation.

Be healthy and prosperous.

My all you send your hello.

I am looking for your hand.

Mich. Nesterov.

I read these precious lines.

Noble, solid, a little stern face of the teacher's image. Affective, straight to the end. After all, the last postcard is written three months before death.

Nesterov was all for me, - said Romadin, - and father, and teacher.

His words were the law, his life is an example of serving art. Forever I remembered a parting from which he said in a deep evening in front of my departure from Moscow. It was the last meeting with Nesterov. The apartment is not fan. The teacher sat, looked at the plaid ...

"Talent is not a pleasure," he told me. - Talent is a difficult duty. For the handed to you, the talent is responsible to Russia. "

… Kiev. The end of July 1970. Today on Repin Street in the Russian Museum there is an exhibition of painting Romadina.

Clock in front of the parking ... flickering amber parquet.

Desert.

Brought huge bouquets of roses - white, paley, scarlet. Set in vases through the halls. Roses are reflected in the mirror of the parquet.

He finally left. Masted ... All the days are all running, run, and not twenty years old, "says the museum employee.

On the walls of dozens of landscapes.

Before my hearing, a quiet music of nature is clearly coming - the noise of the forest, the singing of the wind, twitter birds ...

Dance sun glare in the glasses of dissolved windows.

Green rowan branches are burning thousands of payday stars.

Summary, noise Summer Kiev.

Run, run minutes. Halls are deserted.

Village Khmelevka.

Romadin appears. The face is dark, tired. The look is close, anxiously once again feels every canvas. In the hands of a simple pencil. He rapidly comes to the canvas and in the middle climbs him to one visible point - the paint flew off.

Corrects a thorough label.

He takes me at hand and quickly leads to a small canvase:

- "Khmelevka village". Here baked breads, hop raged, Cooking Bragu, they prepared all sorts of snack for a rain and his Vatagi. Here, behind the hill, in the Volga duct, Ataman put his stops away from the eyes of the tsaroy servants. The thick forest on the shores was covered by a violent brotherhood.

The sun has bloomed the Volga expanses.

The village was sticking to the shore of the Great River. Village as a village. But as in a new way, this uncomplicated landscape spoke in the rays of the old legend!

Many, many legends in themselves Russian land. And they sound in the names of the lakes, villages and rivers.

"River Tsarevna."

Flood. Favorite theme of the artist. Green floodplain. In quiet waters float lilac, pink clouds, fluffy coupling of flowering will. Landscape written on bird flight.

The impression is that we bet over the enchanted edge.

It once sailed Peter first. I was looking for a suitable northern way to fleet.

And it was here that he inspired the news of his daughter's birth.

On joys, the king commanded the name of the river Tsarevna.

So says legend.

We are felt over the bizarrely risen by the islands by the floodplain. Below is a lonely fisherman. The chims of the fire stretches to the sky. Barely trembling the branches of Osin. Spring.

Gulko sound our steps on empty halls.

"Pink evening."

Winter. Crop the crawling sled. Break up the rude horses.

Run along the pink shining snow lilac shadows.

On the pale green sunset sky rosy moon. Evening.

But pink - how is it burning? - asks Romadin. And suddenly takes out a white sheet.

In native places Yesenin. Fragment.

Folds it fourly. Out one corner. Then, smiling mysteriously, unfolds a piece of paper.

In the middle of the sheet - a smooth circle, the size of the nail. The artist, continuing to smile, brings him to the canvas and leans to the burning pink snow.

And ... oh, miracle! In the White Window - rough oil paint of the SIZOG, almost gray.

How? - Picks Romadin.

I'm silent. I heard a lot about the experiments of the artist Crimean - the Great Masters Tone.

He loved to show pupils to the light in his paintings. He lit a match and brought it to the canvas, comparing the power of the light of fire and the light of painting. But it was ...

And now I saw a new purely Romadan subject lesson - how the true color in the easel painting is complicated. As sometimes deep tone even in the seeming bright and light places. How unprecedented color is complex.

I emphasize machine painting, unlike decorative or monumental painting. Stank painting requires skill special ...

The color of this picture has nothing to do with local open paint.

Coloring machine-to-wear symphony. He is the fruit of unceasing labor and observations.

The hour of the supernisage is nearers. Romadin is worried ...

"Artist P.A. Fedotov ".

The sinister cruise sickle of the month looks into the dark semicircuit of the window. For a small easel, bent, sits Fedotov. In front of the canvas.

Far over midnight, cuts the candle, and he, forget about everything, writes, writes ...

A huge shadow on the wall repeats the movement of the master's hand. Flickering, the smoking light snatched a wretched bed from the darkness, gypsum dust antiques, non-hard utensils.

Fedovy Fedotov writes. From the hallway, the snoring of the faithful Korshunov is coming. In this poverty, chaos and darkness are born a new picture.

Contrary to the need, hunger, the upcoming darkness ...

True, the artist will be broken, he is waiting for insanity and death ... But he will forever live his creation. So we see it in the picture of Romadina.

Artist P. A. Fedotov.

Stank painting.

Alexander Ivanov, Fedotov, Surikov, Serov, Levitan. What inhuman effort requires sometimes from the artist! The benefits of the whole, without a residue, without compromise.

But how true happiness, what complete satisfaction she gives the Creator!

Umba River.

Lead, blue, evil. White. She is not in vain. It is difficult to overcome the thresholds on the way to the White Sea. And the sea is near. Roars the river, turns huge boulders, rumbled stones. The wind blows a fir, breaks down the shreds of foam with ridges of waves. On the shore of Umba village. On high opera, pine forest.

Wild places - says Romanin's approached. - Bear is full, and there are no wolves.

"Forest Lake".

Gray paws of firings spread over dark glass of water. A dense green lace of a dense forest Manites wander around more often, listen to Berendeva Bora whisper.

What are the beasts here just not! Of these, Lynx is the most dangerous. Not counting Toptygin ... And see what ate different. How the ripper is burning. In the undergrowth - the piping, alder. When I wrote etude, I needed everything to worry about me. Teased, zokal.

... Many big Russian painters wrote Bor. Victor and Apollinaria Vasnetsov, Nesterov, Shishkin. Everyone in its own way.

And Romadina has a special language.

No one, as he, does not know how to keep a lyrical state, perfectly feeling a picturesque environment, so jewelry writing intimate details, so characteristic of the nature of Russia.

Look at the golden rain of the leaves, on the lights of Ryabina's bush, on the barbed cheese of firs.

We continue our way through the halls.

"At the village council."

Night. The ash moonlight dissolved the blue darkness. In the snow-covered housing of the village council - two sinking.

Ponly horses frozen.

They have long been time to be in the warm stall. But the owners meet. It can be seen, they have urgent business.

Pale yellow windows burn. Corrects snow under the hooves of horses ...

Purl, flicker stars in the night sky.

Forest Lake.

See, the star fell. This is an eternity ... - said Romadin. - Different states in humans and nature too. Here is one of my favorite paintings ...

His face, immensely tired, becomes good, small wrinkles on the forehead are suddenly smoothed.

"Spring Air".

Kergenetian. Flood. Forest flooded. The little island has a Bortnik, droked from Osina.

An artist sailed on it.

So he sits under a huge umbrella and diligently writes. In the painting spill indescribable grace. Wet air trembles in the rays of the spring sun.

What happiness to wander around Russia, see a beautiful world. Work, write and try to convey this beauty to people ... True, not everyone accepts it.

Here the other day I told one figure:

"You do not have topics, Comrade Romadin."

Well, what can you do.

Master's eyes became sad. Deep wrinkles gathered at the transfer. Not the first time he heard such a speech.

Romadin - Stankovist.

This is a very ordinary in the recent past of the quality now acquires a new significant sound.

The fact is that today some artists lose the taste of easel painting.

They prefer her decorative painting, generalized.

There is no dispute, and this form of art can be beautiful.

But why did you suddenly have conversations about moving machine painting, about her alleged income?

Small cloth Romadina. The manner of his letter, thin, valer, inherent only by easel painting, is worshiped not only by the sophisticated connoisseurs of art, but also by the mass audience.

"Mill! - Can exclaim a strict critic. - What do you call for? Romadin - Stankovist. Well, God with him! Such were Savrasov and Queenji. His motifs of landscapes met Shishkin and Rylov. Where is the new one? "

However, despite the "old-fashionedness" of Romadina, I would like to emphasize the modernity and citizenship of his lira.

At the village council.

Because it is today that it is especially expensive and necessary art, chanting nature, brings up in people Love for the beautiful, to his homeland, to her funds and groves, lakes and forests.

In the soil science (and forgive me for a frank prose), there is a concept of erosion - weathelation.

This is not only a phenomenon of nature.

The phenomenon of erosion, that is, weathered, very typical and for the processes occurring in modern art and the culture of the West, where the erosion of the beautiful was the scorch of time, the curse of the XX century.

Destruction, weathered of the beautiful, cult of ugliness, cruelty, cynicism lead to the loss of love for beauty, to life, to nature, to their homeland.

This is the most terrible of erosion - erosion of the Spirit.

This is an epidemic phenomenon ...

It's time to return to painting.

To the great happiness, the roots of realistic traditions in our art are quite strong and there is every reason to assume a new takeoff of machine-based realistic painting. This lead the work of talented masters at exhibitions.

In the world of art, as, however, in the whole of the huge world, there is a fierce struggle of good and evil, light and darkness, beautiful and ugliness.

And so, such, at first glance, the peaceful and, it seemed, almost old-fashioned landscapes of Romadina were very modern, combat means of conducting a big battle for a person, for the beautiful, against decay and cynicism.

This is the vocation of true art.

Such is the difficult duty of the talent!

Nikolay Romadin is infinitely strong in his "nodal wound", in his hot, sublime love for his homeland, to her beautiful, majestic nature.

In the scenery of the painter, the pale dawns of the northern white nights are burning, the crimson sunsets in the mighty pine bodies are flawed, the scarlet bonfires of the shepherds, shimmer the cold stars in the bottomless sky, they will be buried by irrepressible spills of mighty rivers.

Rus ... Ordinal, clean, proud.

Transparent Eyes of the Tsarevna River, cornflower rivers, gold halfdes, deaf horses horses in the night, lace lungs of young birch groves, charming ripe rowan bushes.

Special, Romadin Charming, magical, one found the secret felt from all his canvases.

And not in the special wisdom of motives, the secret of the charm of Music Romadina.

Probrostny, singing with a painter Lira, but in her all the abyss of the abyss of poetry, sincere love and delight of knowledge. The faithful son looking for, Istovo gathering and capturing expensive signs of the face of the motherland, the owner of her favorite places proudly walks on the land of Nikolay Romadin, a gusty, irrepressible ...

Take a look at the canvas of the artist Romadina.

Peer, and the sea of \u200b\u200bpoetry will open in front of you ... it sparkles, shimmering the gemstones of the Milky Way. He discarded through all the sky, and Miriada shone flicker, illuminating the path to the poet, the artist - Eternal Ski ...

Then we zirm the lead rags of the Bogatyr our rivers, in which rage and kindness, strength and tenderness; That look like in the enchanted mirror, in the quiet rash window lakes, framed by the thin web of fragile branches with spins of rare inflorescences.

... crumpled pillows, dropped blanket, burns the lamp, ash, cold dawn looks out the window. "Insomnia" ... In this canvas - piercing sadness, loneliness and thought of the poet painter.

... The crustaceans of the spring evening, pink, Punchy rays of the dawn slide on the openwork woven of thin branches, cold blue, lilac shadows run on the molding snow, somewhere high in the golden pre-skill melts Punchy Pushka ...

"Yesensky Evening."

It is hampered by some special, sounding silence, in which both the slanting sadness, and the low joy of expectations of something unknown, desirable ... The whole complexity and the multifaceted metaphorical poetic system is hidden in this monologue landscape.

Yesenin evening.

Great ability to listen and memorize the music of the landscape and embody it in plastic images - the amazing property of the Romadin talent. Peer in the snow-white Razdar of his winter cloths, and you will hear the entire polyphony, the whole world music of frosty immense expanses, wherees and the singing of the mischievous wind, and the creaking of the polozovev, and the ringing of the buberers of a dashing troika. Rus ...

The country that is not equal to the faint of the attorney, in the height of the turquoise bellish, on the gigantic power of slowly floating white-dressed clouds, and all this witchcraft movement is concluded in the poems of the Romadina canvas. Looking at them, you begin to understand his personal reading by incomprehensible on the subtleties and strength of Gogol lyrics, Gogol's feeling of the motherland.

I sometimes, in front of the landscapes of Romadina, the sense of flight does not leave me, the magic crystal of fantasy wizard is so striking, so striking the Magic Crystal of the Master, who makes the world to become a bird and see the world, to sneak along with the painter and look at the entire incomprehensible beauty of our land, even sharper Feel a hot commitment to the depth.

Romadina's song is truly vast.

In it, induced, the virgin greens of May first-color, and the charming warm lights of the December evenings, when the lilac silence suddenly acquires the human sound of the foolishness and soulfulness.

Incredible in their penetration and complexity of the sensation of Romadin interiors - then fiery-thick with deep shadows, then silver-light and singers, which have to dream, to reading a new row of Tyutchev, Feta, Pushkin himself ...

The desire to understand poetry, read the poetry of our great poets is achieved by Romadin not the similarity of the story, not attempting to write an externally similar genre.

To this lyrical state, we call us a color, a picturesque row of craftsmen of the Association masters, metaphors - here is the element of the artist, and we involuntarily fall into captivity of his talent, powerful and thin, wise and childish enthusiastic.

No illustrative!

Only the world of high poetics is the verge of Romadin dating, so not similar to anyone.

The painter Romadin returns to us, city residents, the pristine charm of nature.

And we get a rare pleasure, admiring the landscapes of Romadina, we feel the rustle of spring foliage, inhale the bitter smell of smoke of the autumn bonfires, we admire the multi-taper of spicy fragrant meadows and fluffy and fluffy birch birch.

Looking at the artist's canvas, we involuntarily encounter the poetry of the Russian landscape, remember the immortal lines of Pushkin, Tyutchev, Yesenin, Turgenev, Gogol, Tolstoy, Chekhov, hearing the beautiful music of Glinka, Tchaikovsky, Rakhmaninov, in the word, we touch the original roots of our Russian ancient culture .

But Romadine is a child of his century.

It would be wrong to imagine the painter ink, wandering over the forest deafness and not seeing rapid changes in the appearance of our land, buzzing from the buildings, the roar of steel paths, not noting the new quarters of old cities.

Nikolai Mikhailovich is a peers and contemporaries of Deineki, Pimenova, Nis, masters who showed the transformed person in their paintings.

Romadin chose a noble and difficult path - to pick up the eternal beauty of our homeland, and today we feel the need to preserve the protected nature, which gives man health, spiritual freshness and strength, life itself ...

We really need true paintings, paintings-milestones, artistically comprehensive grand changes in our country, but this does not deny the education in our multi-million view of a high feeling of the feeling of beauty, love and respect for our national wealth - forests, fields, lakes, rivers, expressed In small machine canvases with such an intimate and spiritually close to each heart name - landscapes are fray.

Nikolay Ezhov March 10, 1939 in Moscow opened the XVIII Congress of the WCP (b). A sharp criticism was undergoing so-called beggars during "cleaning" in the party, the question was raised "On violations of socialist legality in law enforcement agencies". With a report on this

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