Russian Art

[The Bus Station]

is where it's at, y'all

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

[Deus te Amat]

This is more my style:

 

[The Bus Station]

Hey, mad respect for Caravaggio.  He may have been divinely inspired :)  My melancholic just really digs that 19th century Russian moody realism.  But Caravaggio is what I would want to see in a church, for sure

[Deus te Amat]

What about this guy?

 

 

Big fan of Dutch art.

Edited September 29, 2013 by Deus_te_Amat

[The Bus Station]

Lovely use of lighting, very calming. Thanks for sharing that one.   When are the neo-neoclassicists going to rise up and take back the art world? :)

Edited September 29, 2013 by The Bus Station

[Deus te Amat]

As soon as people realize that this:

 

is creepy.

[The Bus Station]

[Deus te Amat]

You know, this thread is both lame AND serious. I think we're winning.

[Anastasia13]

Russian art, especially folk art, is lovely.

 

 

  

 

Edited September 29, 2013 by Light and Truth

[The Bus Station]

Thanks for sharing that Light and Truth!  Very interesting, especially the last one.  Something Japanese samurai-esque about it :)

[Anastasia13]

The last one reminded me of native American, but I can see Japanese in the figure.  We think of Russia as very European because of exposure and higher population in western Russia, but Siberia can be very Asian. I like the warmth of Russian folk art.

Edited September 29, 2013 by Light and Truth

[Anastasia13]

The blue church one I posted reminds me of one of my favorite Russian poems.

 

A Girl was Singing by Alexander Blok

 

A girl was singing in the choir with fervour
of all who have known exile and distress,
of all the vessels that have left the harbour,
of all who have forgotten happiness.

 

Her voice soared up to the dome. Glistening,
a sunbeam brushed her shoulder in its flight,
and from the darkness all were listening
to the white dress singing in the beam of light.

 

It seemed to everyone that happiness

would come back, that the vessels were all safe,
that those who had known exile and distress
had rediscovered a radiant life.

 

The voice was beautiful, the sunbeam slender,
but up by the holy gates, under the dome,
a boy at communion wept to remember
that none of them would ever come home.