CREATIVITY OF GREAT RUSSIAN ILLUSTRATORS ON THE EXAMPLE OF FAMOUS LITERARY WORKS

Ismagilova Evgenia Pavlovna

3rd year student, Department of Urban Construction and Economy, Russian Federation, Orel

Books. A source of knowledge for the student and scientist, inspiration for the artist, entertainment for the weary. Many years ago, the cult of the book was born, a cult that even modern technology cannot supplant to this day.

A book can be a friend to both a child and an adult, Russian people do not know this well, since our land has given literature as many eminent writers as no other country has given. That is why I consider the role of book graphics in the visual arts to be especially important.

Book graphics are illustrations, plot drawings. This is one of the types of graphic art, which includes, first of all, illustrations, letters and vignettes. Graphics can be monochromatic and multi-colored, they can fill the book completely and depict certain stories, or they can decorate the binding and precede chapters, thereby making the book alive and unique. The most complex form is an illustration - a plot drawing.

It would not make sense to separately analyze this type of art if it carried only the role of decoration. To acquaint the reader with the book, to make it more attractive in appearance, is not enough; in fact, his role is much deeper. This is a guide to the world of the writer, a path leading the reader along the storyline of the work. The illustration complements the impression of the read, ideologically and aesthetically enriches the reader. Turned into a form of graphic art, the writer's thought acquires, as it were, new strength, finds new ways to the heart and mind of a person.

Fortunately, most of the greatest works of Russian writers are studied in schools, so everyone considers them native, remember and love. Such books include the novel by F.M. Dostoevsky "Crime and Punishment", illustrated by D.A. Shamarinov. Children are brought up on this work, it instills a sense of responsibility for their own actions, develops the concept of honor and mores of the time. Shamarinov's drawings for this book are especially noteworthy; in addition to their beauty, they are filled with the deepest meaning and seem to live separately, their own lives, while not losing touch with the novel. Many illustrations are dedicated to St. Petersburg streets. Why do we admire the old districts of St. Petersburg? Because, walking around this part of the city, we see many old buildings, each of which has been standing here for many years and creates an unforgettable, unique atmosphere of a book novel. For us, this is a memory, a symbol of the era, which is why these views are so dear to us. In fact, D.A. To Shamarinov, the bulk of houses, narrow streets and dark depressing stairs helped to reveal the cold appearance of the city of that time, which was associated with the cold longing that pervaded the novel. The city hides in itself the agonizing hopelessness of people who seem to have lost everything. The artist, without showing faces, only conveys the atmosphere of the ruthless contradiction of the novel in silhouettes, the cruel heartlessness of some characters echoes the despair of others (Fig. 1).

Perhaps Shamarinov would not have achieved such skill if it were not for A.M. Gorky. He became a friend and mentor for the young artist. Gorky was not only a master of the pen and words, he was also perfectly able to see talent and reveal it, and so he revealed Shamarinov, giving him unobtrusive advice. During the artist's work on the work "The Life of Matvey Kozhemyakin", the writer directed the illustrator, helping with instructions. Gorky tried to orient Shamarinov to create not just descriptive paintings, but to use bright, sharp socio-psychological portraits in illustration. Perhaps thanks to these tips, a picture appeared that cannot be ignored, especially the image of Sonya that sinks into the soul (Fig. 2). A fragile, thin girl, with huge sad eyes, seems completely defenseless. Her entire silhouette expresses fatigue, the inability to fight all the hardships of life, which are transmitted through the oppressive, gloomy image of the dwelling. Despite all this, the artist managed to convey the versatility of the character of the heroine with the help of charcoal on paper. The horror, fear, defenselessness and resentment of the girl do not completely obscure her inner strength and greatness of spirit.

A vivid example of the magnificent work of the illustrator are the drawings in the story "Taras Bulba" by Gogol. The writer describes Taras's grief in connection with the death of his son Ostap in this way: He sat there for a long time, bowing his head and saying all the time: “My Ostap! Ostap mine! The Black Sea sparkled and spread before him; a seagull was crying in the distant reeds; his white mustache was silver, and tears dripped one after another.

Wanting to capture this episode, E.A. Kibrik, a well-known Soviet illustrator, interpreted the writer's idea in a peculiar way. A charcoal drawing is doomed to a black and white existence and you need to have talent to make it catch fire with emotions. The monolithic figure of Taras with his head mournfully lowered visually connects with the raging waves. A storm is born behind the hero's back, just as grief is born in his soul. The longing of a big, strong man is associated with the power of the bottomless, boundless sea, the power of the raging elements. As a writer, the artist has his own means of making believe what is depicted, feel the grief of a person (Fig. 3).

It would seem that the skill of the illustrator is enclosed in the framework of a paper sheet. This idea is broken by the boundless talent of the older generation of artists, to which V.A. Favorsky. Few people in modern times know the definition of the term - woodcut. This is the name of woodcut, this is a very complex type of illustration, which Favorovsky masterfully mastered. It was in this technique that the drawings for the tragedy of A.S. Pushkin "Boris Godunov". The artist was able to express everything on the tree: the rebellious passions of servants, the heavy thoughts of the main characters, the strength of the spirit of the people.

It is impossible not to be amazed at the richness of the artist's imagination, because he was able to revive the ornament. In his hands, the intricate graphic tie came to life, helping to depict a versatile range of human characters. Each drawing was unique, reflecting different aspects of a person's spiritual life. The ornament unobtrusively frames the picture, acting somewhere imitating wooden carving, somewhere the complex pattern framing the frame seems to sprout with thin poisonous tentacles (Fig. 4), reminding the viewer of the pangs of conscience and the dark past of the protagonist.

Great books do not die with the author, they continue to live for him, perpetuating his memory. The work dies even after a generation, if the morality invested in it by the author is really deep. Each person is looking for in the books of the classics the answer to their questions, a reflection of their experiences, thoughts.

A true artist will never “finish”, supplement someone’s work, will not be a passive “translator” from the world of text to the world of colors, he will remain a full-fledged creator of these images, using the text of the work only as an inspired muse. Everyone solves this difficult task in their own way, which is why the same work can be illustrated by hundreds of different artists and their drawings will never be identical, each will bring something new, shading more and more new facets of the characters' feelings.

Who can love a book more than an illustrator? Only he can truly understand the author's intention, because it is not enough to carefully read the work, comprehend the idea and the story, study the props and things of the described era. The artist is forced to rely on his own impressions and have an amazing imagination that will not be limited to the lines of a novel or short story. He must be able to notice in the life around him such situations that will later help in his creative activity to vividly express the essence of the episode and the emotional experiences of the characters.

Figure 1. D.A. Shamarinov. Illustration for the novel by F.M. Dostoevsky "Crime and Punishment"

Figure 2. D.A. Shamarinov. Illustration for the novel by F.M. Dostoevsky "Crime and Punishment"

When working on a book, the artist must comprehend the essence of the work, feel the author's style of presentation and choose a special graphic style for this.

Figure 3. E. Kibrik. Illustration for the story by N.V. Gogol "Taras Bulba"

Figure 4. V. Favorsky. Illustration for the drama by A.S. Pushkin "Boris Godunov"

Bibliography:

1. Gogol N.V. Taras Bulba: textbook. allowance. M.: 1986. - 123 p.

2. Dostoevsky F.M. Crime and punishment: textbook. allowance. M.: 1980. - 383 p.

3. History of Russian art. Lecture notes Zhukovsky V. ISFU, 2007. - 397 p.

4. Pushkin A.S. Boris Godunov / Fig. V. Favorsky. Ed. 10th. M.: Det. lit., 1980 - 240 p.

5. Shantyko N.I. Creativity of illustrators. Publishing House of the Academy of Arts of the USSR.: 1962. - 74 p.

The book itself is entertaining and interesting. However, in order to make it easier for the reader to endure three hundred pages of solid text, great people invented such a thing as illustrations for them. Agree, the moral load on the brain is wonderful. But in order not to fall into boring monotony, sometimes a drop of visual pleasure on the pages of our favorite book will not hurt us.

Colorful pictures from children's books immediately come to mind, but the more significant the book in world culture, the more serious and deeper the artists approach the matter of creating the image. And here already no drawings of “Aibolit” will be next to what people create under the impression of cult books. Today I want to show you 7 different views of illustrators on books created in different eras, but equally leaving a mark on world literature. They are arranged in chronological order. Enjoy!

"Romeo and Juliet" - Savva Brodsky

And since I decided to follow the chronological sequence, the first on the list will be illustrations for Shakespeare's famous tragedy Romeo and Juliet. Sava Brodsky is a Soviet artist and book illustrator, whose work for the tragedy could not fail to attract attention. Each of them is literally permeated with the spirit of sad events: dark colors, pale faces and a hint of gothic style - all this gives the images a touch of bitterness, and the paintings - the atmosphere of a truly “sadest story in the world”.

Don Quixote - Salvador Dali

Salvador Dali is a restless genius who created as many as four diverse cycles of illustrations for the most famous book after the Bible - Don Quixote. But, perhaps, I will show you fragments to the very first cycle of Cervantes' novel, since it was Dali who loved him the most and admired him alone. These illustrations, unfortunately, are little known in the world, but they deliver aesthetic pleasure no worse than other famous works of the great artist.

The ABCs of Edgar Allan Poe - Ero Nel

Poe's works themselves were clearly not famous for their positivity and iridescence. And if you remember his "Black Cat" and "Raven", then in general, a cat's tail will remain from a good mood, and the body will be covered with trembling from the tickling of the nerves with the black feather of "Nevermore". It was this atmosphere that the young artist Anastasia Chernaya (Ero Nel) managed to convey in the so-called “ABC Po”. Each picture is a separate story of the writer. Each capital letter is part of Allan Poe's alphabet.

B - "Berenice"

U - "Murder on the Rue Morgue"

Ch - "Black Cat"

"Jen Eyre" - Elena and Anna Balbusso

In order to create a contrast, after the gloomy and frightening Po, I will introduce you to the “warm” Balbusso sisters. The very work of Charlotte Bronte, although it contains frightening events in places, is nevertheless a touching and sincere novel, where bright colors of love prevail against a dark background. In the illustrations of the artists, warm shades play an important role, which pierce with sincerity even the most frightening moments of the book.

"Transformation" - Eda Akaltun

Eda Akaltun is a contemporary illustrator who created a series of images for Franz Kafka's notorious novel The Metamorphosis. The drawings, filled with just three colors, were supposed to capture and denounce the dark humor and atmosphere of the claustrophobia of the story itself rather than its narrative.

"1984" - Andrey Zamura

Mint a step. Walk in formation. No, this is not the army, this is Orwell. It is not enough to say that the famous dystopia “1984” influenced art alone. No, she influenced the vision of the whole world. And how to depict it more clearly and “safer”, except in the image? This is exactly what the modern Russian illustrator Andrey Zamura tried to do. Rigid lines, abstract figures and a maximalist vision are the perfect recipe for an image inspired by George Orwell's 1984.

"The Old Man and the Sea" - Slava Schultz

Slava Schultz, a student of the Kharkov Academy of Design and Arts, created an impressive series of illustrations for E. Hemingway's novel "The Old Man and the Sea", which was difficult to pass by without admiring. The technique of oil painting on photographic paper, adding to this book graphics and, of course, cold colors that make the blood run cold - this is a near-ideal recipe for brilliant work, warmly received by the public.

The Lord of the Rings - Greg and Tim Hildebrandt

And finally, I will still dilute the already created gloomy atmosphere with fabulous illustrations by the Hildebrant brothers based on Tolkien's novel “The Lord of the Rings”. More vivid and impressive illustrations are hard to find. They are full of colors, life and emotions. And it seems that, looking at them, any adult person plunges into a fairy tale for a moment and feels this wild desire, taking a book and a flashlight, climb under the covers and drown in the vast world created by the brilliant writer John Tolkien.

Leviza Nikulin

Who is the artist V.A. Polyakov, unfortunately, could not be told by any of the encyclopedias, nor by such an all-knowing source in the world as the Internet. Although of course it's a pity, the drawings are quite interesting and very beautiful. They were performed for the two-volume complete works of Mikhail Yurievich Lermontov, published in 1900. It includes poems of the poet, poems and prose.

Perhaps we are talking about the artist Alexander Vasilyevich Polyakov, but I can’t say for sure. Alexander Vasilyevich Polyakov was a serf, his talent was noticed and the artist earned his freedom, he died early. At the time of his death, he was only 34 years old. His biography mentions the Gallery of Portraits of Heroes from 1812.

Alexander Vasilievich Polyakov(1801-1835) - Russian artist. He was a serf of General A. Kornilov. Having heard about his talent, D. Dow in 1822 asked to appoint Polyakov to be his assistant. He was entitled to a salary of 800 rubles a year. “But of this amount, Mr. Dow gives him only 350 rubles, leaving the remaining 450 in payment for the apartment and the table, although he has this last one with his lackeys,” wrote the Committee of the Society for the Encouragement of Artists. In addition, from Polyakov, who was not distinguished by good health, the Englishman deducted sums for the days of illness, as a result, the artist barely had a hundred rubles a year for clothes and food.

But even in these oppressive conditions, A. Polyakov amazed everyone with his talent and diligence. Once, in six hours, he made such a skillful copy of the portrait of N. Mordvinov that the admiral only entrusted him with making some corrections on the original portrait. Many decades later, experts came to the conclusion that it was Polyakov who restored two hundred (!) Blackened portraits by Dow and completed more than a dozen of his careless sketches from memory.

Having learned about the talented serf, Russian artists decided to petition for his release from serfdom. However, the "vacation" to the serf artist appeared only a few years after the completion of work on the picture gallery of portraits of heroes in 1812.

In the winter of 1833, at the request of the committee, the president of the Russian Academy of Arts, A. Olenin, signed a decree on the elevation of Alexander Polyakov to the rank of a free artist.

The health of Alexander Vasilyevich, despite his youth, turned out to be in an extremely deplorable state. From the Society for the Encouragement of Artists, he received a monthly salary of 30 rubles, but this amount was barely enough to buy canvas, paints and meager food.

The remarkable painter Alexander Vasilievich Polyakov died on January 7, 1835, at the age of 34. He was buried at the Smolensk cemetery in St. Petersburg.

Two documents have been preserved in the archives of the Academy of Arts. One of them is "Report on the cost of Polyakov's funeral - 160 rubles 45 kopecks, including 20 rubles for a customary commemoration."

The second document is an inventory of unfinished paintings and things left after the death of the artist: “A simple table, a simple wardrobe with a wooden bed, a shabby blanket, a cotton-lined dressing gown, an old downy hat, two easels, 12 paint vials, three palettes:” And another 340 portraits - Gallery of Heroes of the Patriotic War of 1812, a true masterpiece of world art, created by the serf master Alexander Vasilyevich Polyakov.

Illustration for the novel "A Hero of Our Time" - "Princess Mary"
"I'm sick," she said in a weak voice.
I quickly leaned towards her, wrapped my arm around her flexible waist...

Portrait of Mikhail Yurievich Lermontov from the Collected Works 1900

Illustrations for poems

Angel

An angel flew across the midnight sky
And he sang a quiet song;
And the moon, and the stars, and the clouds in a crowd
They listened to that song of the saint.

He sang about the bliss of sinless spirits
Under the bushes of paradise gardens;
He sang about the great God, and praise
His was unfeigned.

He carried a young soul in his arms
For a world of sorrow and tears;
And the sound of his song in the soul of a young
Remained - without words, but alive.

And for a long time she languished in the world,
Full of wonderful desire;
And the sounds of heaven could not be replaced
She bored the songs of the earth.

Prisoner

Open the dungeon for me
Give me the shine of the day
black eyed girl,
Black-maned horse.
I am young beauty
First kiss sweetly
Then I'll jump on a horse
In the steppe, like the wind, I will fly away.

But the prison window is high
The door is heavy with a lock;
Black eyed far away
In his magnificent chamber;
Good horse in a green field
Without a bridle, alone, at will
Rides cheerful and playful,
Tail spread in the wind.

I am alone - there is no consolation:
The walls are bare all around
Dimly shining lamp beam
Dying fire;

Only heard: behind the doors,
sonorous steps,
Walks in the silence of the night
Unanswered sentry.

Dagger

I love you, my damask dagger,
Comrade bright and cold.
The pensive Georgian forged you for revenge,
A free Circassian sharpened for a formidable battle.

Lily's hand brought you to me
As a sign of memory, at the moment of parting,
And for the first time, not blood flowed along you,
But a bright tear is a pearl of suffering.

And black eyes fixed on me
Filled with mysterious sorrow
Like your steel in a trembling fire,
Then they suddenly dimmed, then they sparkled.

You are given to me as a companion, a dumb pledge of love,
And the wanderer in you is not a useless example:
Yes, I will not change and I will be firm in soul,
How are you, how are you, my iron friend.

Dream

In the afternoon heat in the valley of Dagestan
With lead in my chest, I lay motionless;

A deep wound still smoking,
My blood dripped drop by drop.
I lay alone on the sand of the valley;
Ledges of rocks crowded around,
And the sun burned their yellow tops
And it burned me - but I slept like a dead sleep.
And I dreamed of shining lights
Evening feast in the native side.
Between young wives crowned with flowers,
There was a cheerful conversation about me.
But without entering into a cheerful conversation,
Sitting there alone thoughtfully
And in a sad dream her young soul
God knows what was immersed;
And she dreamed of the valley of Dagestan;
A familiar corpse lay in that valley;
In his chest, smoking, black wound,
And the blood was flowing in a cold stream.

They loved each other so long and tenderly
With deep longing and insanely rebellious passion!
But, like enemies, they avoided recognition and meeting,
And their short speeches were empty and cold.
They parted in silent and proud suffering,
And a cute image in a dream was only sometimes seen.

And death came: a date came after the coffin ...
But in the new world, they did not recognize each other.

Prophet

Since the eternal judge
He gave me the omniscience of the prophet,
I read in the eyes of people
Pages of malice and vice.

I began to proclaim love
And true pure teachings:
All my neighbors are in me
Rocks were thrown furiously.

I sprinkled ashes on my head,
From the cities I ran a beggar,
And now I live in the desert
Like birds, the gift of God's food;

Pre-eternal covenant,
The earthly creature is submissive to me there;
And the stars listen to me
Playing joyfully with rays.

When through the noisy hail
I'm rushing through
That the elders say to the children
With a selfish smile:

“Look: here is an example for you!
He was proud, did not get along with us:
Fool, wanted to assure us
That God speaks through his mouth!

Look, children, at him:
How gloomy and thin and pale he is!
See how naked and poor he is,
How they all despise him!

Cane

Cheerful fisherman sat
On the bank of the river;
And in front of him in the wind
The reeds swayed.
He cut the dry reed
And pierced wells;
He pinched one end
Blowed at the other end.

And as if animated
The reed spoke;
That is the voice of a man
And the voice of the wind was.
And the reed sang sadly:
“Leave, leave me;
Fisherman, beautiful fisherman,
You torment me!

"And I was a girl,
The beauty was
Stepmother's in the dungeon
I once bloomed
And a lot of burning tears
Innocently I lila;
And an early grave
I called shamelessly.

Three palm trees
(Eastern legend)

In the sandy steppes of the Arabian land
Three proud palm trees grew high.
A spring between them from barren soil,
Murmuring, breaking through a cold wave,
Stored, under the shade of green leaves,
From sultry rays and flying sands.

And many years silently passed;
But a tired wanderer from a foreign land
Burning chest to the cold moisture
I have not yet bowed under the green booth,
And they began to dry from the sultry rays
Luxurious leaves and a sonorous stream.

And three palm trees began to grumble at God:
“Is that what we were born for, to wither here?
Without use in the desert we grew and bloomed,
Shaken by the whirlwind and the heat of burning,
No one's benevolent, not pleasing to the eye? ..
Yours is not right, oh heaven, a holy sentence!
And only fell silent - in the distance blue
The golden sand was spinning like a pillar,
Bells were heard discordant sounds,
Packs covered with carpets were full of carpets,
And he walked, swaying like a boat in the sea,
Camel after camel, exploding sand.

Dangling, hung between hard humps
Patterned floors of camping tents;
Their swarthy hands sometimes raised,
And black eyes sparkled from there ...
And, leaning towards the bow,
The Arab heated the black horse.

And the horse reared up at times,
And he jumped like a leopard struck by an arrow;
And white clothes beautiful folds
On the shoulders of the Faris curled in disarray;
And, with a cry and a whistle, rushing along the sand,
He threw and caught a spear at a gallop.

Here a caravan approaches the palm trees, noisily:
In the shadow of their cheerful camp spread out.
Jugs sounding filled with water,
And, proudly nodding with a terry head,
Palm trees welcome unexpected guests,
And the cold stream generously waters them.

But as soon as dusk fell to the ground,
The ax pounded on the elastic roots,
And pets of centuries fell without life!
Their clothes were torn off by small children,
Their bodies were then chopped up,
And slowly burned them until the morning with fire.
When the fog rushed to the west,
The caravan made its own way;
And after the sad on barren soil
Only gray and cold ashes could be seen;
And the sun burned the dry remnants,
And then they were blown away by the wind in the steppe.

And now everything is wild and empty around -
Leaves with a rattling key do not whisper:
In vain does he ask the prophet for a shadow -
Only the hot sand carries it,
Yes, the kite is crested, the steppe is unsociable,
Prey torments and pinches over it.

Georgian song

There lived a young Georgian woman,
Fading in a stuffy harem.
Happened once:
From black eyes
Diamond of love, son of sorrow,
Rolled down.
Ah, her old Armenian
Proud!..

Around her is a crystal, rubies,
But how not to cry from the torment
At the old man?
His hand
Caresses the girl every day
And what? —
Beauty hides like a shadow.
Oh my God!..

He fears betrayal.
Its high, strong walls,
But everything is love
Despised. Again
The blush on the cheeks is alive
Appeared
And a pearl between the eyelashes sometimes
Didn't fight...

But the Armenian discovered insidiousness,
Change and ingratitude
How to transfer!
Annoyance, revenge,
For the first time you he alone
I've tasted it!
And the corpse of the criminal waves
He betrayed.

Tamara

In the deep gorge of Darial,
Where the Terek digs in the mist,
The old tower stood
Blackening on the black rock.

In that tower high and cramped
Queen Tamara lived:
Beautiful as an angel in heaven
As a demon is insidious and evil.

And there through the fog of midnight
Glittering golden light
He threw himself into the eyes of the traveler,
He beckoned for a night's rest.

forget-me-not
(Story)

In ancient times, people were
Not at all what it is today;
(If there is love in the world) loved
They are more sincere.
About ancient fidelity, of course,
Have you ever heard,
But like rumors
The whole thing will be spoiled forever,
Then I give you an exact example
I would like to present finally.
At the moisture of the brook cold,
Under the shade of linden branches,
Without fear of evil eyes,
Once a noble knight
Sat with my kind...
Quietly with a young hand
She hugged the beauty.
Full of innocent simplicity
The conversation was peaceful.

"Friend: do not swear to me in vain,
The maiden said: I believe
Clear, pure is your love,
Like this sonorous stream,

How clear is this vault above us;
But how strong is she in you,
Do not know yet. — Look,
There blooms a magnificent carnation,
But no: a carnation is not needed;
Further, how sad you are,
Slightly visible blue flower ...
Rip it off for me, my dear:
He is not so far away for love!”

My knight jumped up, admiring
Her spiritual simplicity;
Jumping through the stream, with an arrow
He flies precious flower
Rip off with a hasty hand...
The goal of his aspiration is near,
Suddenly under it (terrible view)
The unfaithful earth trembles,
He is stuck, there is no salvation for him! ...
Throwing a glance full of fire
To her voiceless beauty,
"I'm sorry, don't forget me!"
The unfortunate youth exclaimed;
And instantly a pernicious flower
Grabbed by a hopeless hand;
And an ardent heart as a pledge
He threw it to the tender maiden.

The flower is sad from now on
Love dear; heart is beating
When the eye catches it.
He is called forget-me-not;
In damp places, near swamps,
As if afraid of a touch,
He seeks solitude there;
And it blooms with the color of the sky,
Where there is no death and no oblivion...

Here is the end of my story;
Judge: true or fiction.
Is the girl guilty?
She said, right, her conscience!

Skaka for children

... "When you sleep, my earthly angel,
And it beats with virgin blood
Young breasts under the dream of the night,

Know it's me, leaning against the headboard,
I admire - and I talk to you;
And in silence, your random mentor,
Wonderful secrets to tell...
And there was a lot in my eyes
Accessible and understandable, because
That I am not bound by earthly ties,
And punished by eternity and knowledge...

Illustrations for poems

Poem "Angel of Death"

Three illustrations for the poem "Ishmael Bey"

Poem "Prisoner of the Caucasus"

Poem "Boyarin Orsha"

Poem "Treasurer"

Poem "Mtsyri"

Who is the artist V.A. Polyakov, unfortunately, could not be told by any of the encyclopedias, nor by such an all-knowing source in the world as the Internet. Therefore, we simply look at the illustrations without any knowledge about the artist himself. Although of course it's a pity, the drawings are quite interesting. They were performed for the two-volume complete works of Mikhail Yurievich Lermontov, published in 1900. It includes poems of the poet, poems and prose. In general, everything that earlier, during the years of the existence of real education in the USSR, was studied in our schools, without stopping the tsarist time.

Illustration for the novel "A Hero of Our Time" - "Princess Mary"

- I feel bad,” she said in a weak voice.

I quickly leaned towards her, wrapped my arm around her flexible waist...

ANGEL

An angel flew across the midnight sky

And he sang a quiet song;

And the moon, and the stars, and the clouds in a crowd

They listened to that song of the saint.

He sang about the bliss of sinless spirits

Under the bushes of paradise gardens;

He sang about the great God, and praise

His was unfeigned.

He carried a young soul in his arms

For a world of sorrow and tears;

And the sound of his song in the soul of a young

Remained - without words, but alive.

And for a long time she languished in the world,

Full of wonderful desire;

And the sounds of heaven could not be replaced

She bored the songs of the earth.

Illustration for the poem "Borodino" - "Yes, there were people in our time ..."

PRISONER

Open the dungeon for me

Give me the shine of the day

black eyed girl,

Black-maned horse.

I am young beauty

First kiss sweetly

Then I'll jump on a horse

In the steppe, like the wind, I will fly away.

But the prison window is high

The door is heavy with a lock;

Black eyed far away

In his magnificent chamber;

Good horse in a green field

Without a bridle, alone, at will

Rides cheerful and playful,

Tail spread in the wind.

I am alone - there is no consolation:

The walls are bare all around

Dimly shining lamp beam

Dying fire;

Only heard: behind the doors,

sonorous steps,

Walks in the silence of the night

Unanswered sentry.

DAGGER

I love you, my damask dagger,

Comrade bright and cold.

The pensive Georgian forged you for revenge,

A free Circassian sharpened for a formidable battle.

Lily's hand brought you to me

As a sign of memory, at the moment of parting,

And for the first time, not blood flowed along you,

But a bright tear is a pearl of suffering.

And black eyes fixed on me

Filled with mysterious sorrow

Like your steel in a trembling fire,

Then they suddenly dimmed, then they sparkled.

You are given to me as a companion, a dumb pledge of love,

And the wanderer in you is not a useless example:

Yes, I will not change and I will be firm in soul,

How are you, how are you, my iron friend.

DREAM

In the afternoon heat in the valley of Dagestan

With lead in my chest, I lay motionless;

A deep wound still smoking,

My blood dripped drop by drop.

I lay alone on the sand of the valley;

Ledges of rocks crowded around,

And the sun burned their yellow tops

And it burned me - but I slept like a dead sleep.

And I dreamed of shining lights

Evening feast in the native side.

Between young wives crowned with flowers,

There was a cheerful conversation about me.

But without entering into a cheerful conversation,

Sitting there alone thoughtfully

And in a sad dream her young soul

God knows what was immersed;

And she dreamed of the valley of Dagestan;

A familiar corpse lay in that valley;

In his chest, smoking, black wound,

And the blood was flowing in a cold stream.

They loved each other so long and tenderly

With deep longing and insanely rebellious passion!

But, like enemies, they avoided recognition and meeting,

And their short speeches were empty and cold.

They parted in silent and proud suffering,

And a cute image in a dream was only sometimes seen.

And death came: a date came after the coffin ...

But in the new world, they did not recognize each other.

PROPHET

Since the eternal judge

He gave me the omniscience of the prophet,

I read in the eyes of people

Pages of malice and vice.

I began to proclaim love

And true pure teachings:

All my neighbors are in me

Rocks were thrown furiously.

I sprinkled ashes on my head,

From the cities I ran a beggar,

And now I live in the desert

Like birds, the gift of God's food;

Pre-eternal covenant,

The earthly creature is submissive to me there;

And the stars listen to me

Playing joyfully with rays.

When through the noisy hail

I'm rushing through

That the elders say to the children

With a selfish smile:

“Look: here is an example for you!

He was proud, did not get along with us:

Fool, wanted to assure us

That God speaks through his mouth!

Look, children, at him:

How gloomy and thin and pale he is!

See how naked and poor he is,

How everyone despise him!

CANE

Cheerful fisherman sat

On the bank of the river;

And in front of him in the wind

The reeds swayed.

He cut the dry reed

And pierced wells;

He pinched one end

Blowed at the other end.

And as if animated

And the reed sang sadly:

“Leave, leave me;

Fisherman, beautiful fisherman,

You torment me!

"And I was a girl,

The beauty was

Stepmother's in the dungeon

I once bloomed

And a lot of burning tears

Innocently I lila;

And an early grave

I called shamelessly.

THREE PALMS

(Eastern legend)

In the sandy steppes of the Arabian land

Three proud palm trees grew high.

A spring between them from barren soil,

Murmuring, breaking through a cold wave,

Stored, under the shade of green leaves,

From sultry rays and flying sands.

And many years silently passed;

But a tired wanderer from a foreign land

Burning chest to the cold moisture

I have not yet bowed under the green booth,

And they began to dry from the sultry rays

Luxurious leaves and a sonorous stream.

And three palm trees began to grumble at God:

“Why were we born, to wither here?

Without use in the desert we grew and bloomed,

Shaken by the whirlwind and the heat of burning,

No one's benevolent, not pleasing to the eye? ..

Yours is not right, oh heaven, the holy sentence!

And they just fell silent - in the distance blue

The golden sand was spinning like a pillar,

Bells were heard discordant sounds,

Packs covered with carpets were full of carpets,

And he walked, swaying like a boat in the sea,

Camel after camel, exploding sand.

Dangling, hung between hard humps

Patterned floors of camping tents;

Their swarthy hands sometimes raised,

And black eyes sparkled from there ...

And, leaning towards the bow,

The Arab heated the black horse.

And the horse reared up at times,

And he jumped like a leopard struck by an arrow;

And white clothes beautiful folds

On the shoulders of the Faris curled in disarray;

And, with a cry and a whistle, rushing along the sand,

He threw and caught a spear at a gallop.

Here a caravan approaches the palm trees, noisily:

In the shadow of their cheerful camp spread out.

Jugs sounding filled with water,

And, proudly nodding with a terry head,

Palm trees welcome unexpected guests,

And the cold stream generously waters them.

But as soon as dusk fell to the ground,

The ax pounded on the elastic roots,

And pets of centuries fell without life!

Their clothes were torn off by small children,

Their bodies were then chopped up,

And slowly burned them until the morning with fire.

When the fog rushed to the west,

The caravan made its own way;

And after the sad on barren soil

Only gray and cold ashes could be seen;

And the sun burned the dry remnants,

And then they were blown away by the wind in the steppe.

And now everything is wild and empty all around -

Leaves with a rattling key do not whisper:

In vain does he ask the prophet for a shadow -

Only the hot sand carries it,

Yes, the kite is crested, the steppe is unsociable,

Prey torments and pinches over it.

GEORGIAN SONG

There lived a young Georgian woman,

Fading in a stuffy harem.

Happened once:

From black eyes

Diamond of love, son of sorrow,

Rolled down.

Ah, her old Armenian

Proud!..

Around her is a crystal, rubies,

But how not to cry from the torment

At the old man?

His hand

Caresses the girl every day

And what? -

Beauty hides like a shadow.

Oh my God!..

He fears betrayal.

Its high, strong walls,

But everything is love

Despised. Again

The blush on the cheeks is alive

And a pearl between the eyelashes sometimes

Didn't fight...

But the Armenian discovered insidiousness,

Change and ingratitude

How to transfer!

Annoyance, revenge,

For the first time you he alone

I've tasted it!

And the corpse of the criminal waves

He betrayed.

TAMARA

In the deep gorge of Darial,

Where the Terek digs in the mist,

The old tower stood

Blackening on the black rock.

In that tower high and cramped

Queen Tamara lived:

Beautiful as an angel in heaven

As a demon is insidious and evil.

And there through the fog of midnight

Glittering golden light

He threw himself into the eyes of the traveler,

He beckoned for a night's rest.

He was all desire and passion,

It had an omnipotent charm,

There was an incomprehensible power.

There was a warrior, a merchant and a shepherd...

FORGET-MENT

(Story)

In ancient times, people were

Not at all what it is today;

(If there is love in the world) loved

They are more sincere.

About ancient fidelity, of course,

Have you ever heard,

But like rumors

The whole thing will be spoiled forever,

Then I give you an exact example

I would like to present finally.

At the moisture of the brook cold,

Under the shade of linden branches,

Without fear of evil eyes,

Once a noble knight

Sat with my kind...

Quietly with a young hand

She hugged the beauty.

Full of innocent simplicity

The conversation was peaceful.

In "Friend: do not swear to me in vain,

The maiden said: I believe

Clear, pure is your love,

Like this sonorous stream,

How clear is this vault above us;

But how strong is she in you,

Do not know yet. "Look,

There blooms a magnificent carnation,

Slightly visible blue flower ...

Rip it off for me, my dear:

He is not so far away for love!

My knight jumped up, admiring

Her spiritual simplicity;

Jumping through the stream, with an arrow

He flies precious flower

Rip off with a hasty hand...

The goal of his aspiration is near,

Suddenly under it (terrible view)

The unfaithful earth trembles,

He is stuck, there is no salvation for him! ...

Throwing a glance full of fire

To her voiceless beauty,

"Sorry, don't forget me! B"

The unfortunate youth exclaimed;

And instantly a pernicious flower

Grabbed by a hopeless hand;

And an ardent heart as a pledge

He threw it to the tender maiden.

The flower is sad from now on

Love dear; heart is beating

When the eye catches it.

He is called forget-me-not;

In damp places, near swamps,

As if afraid of a touch,

He seeks solitude there;

And it blooms with the color of the sky,

Where there is no death and no oblivion...

Here is the end of my story;

Judge: true or fiction.

Is the girl to blame?

She said, right, her conscience!

TALE FOR CHILDREN

"When you sleep, my earthly angel,

And it beats with virgin blood

Young breasts under the dream of the night,

Know it's me, leaning against the headboard,

I admire - and I talk to you;

And in silence, your random mentor,

Wonderful secrets to tell...

And there was a lot in my eyes

Accessible and understandable, because

That I am not bound by earthly ties,

And punished by eternity and knowledge...

Illustrations for poems

Poem "Angel of Death"

Three illustrations for the poem "Ishmael Bey"

Poem "Prisoner of the Caucasus"

Poem "Boyarin Orsha"

Poem "Treasurer"

Vasily Ivanovich Shukhaev(1887-1973), portrait painter, theater artist, teacher, illustrator of works of Russian classics, well known to the general public, first of all, as one of the best domestic illustrators of A.S. Pushkin

In 1906, Vasily Ivanovich Shukhaev entered the Academy of Arts in St. Petersburg.

For six years (1906-1912) he comprehended the complex skill of the painter, of which four years in the studio of Professor D.N. Kardovsky.

Huge importance in Kardovsky's workshop was given to work on nature and with nature, high drawing technique, and the improvement of technological methods.

These principles Shukhaev carried through all his work - artistic and pedagogical.

Vasily Shukhaev (1921-1935) spent a significant part of his life in France.

During these years, he illustrated books by Russian writers for the Pleiada publishing house:

"The Queen of Spades" and "Boris Godunov" Pushkin,

"The first love" Turgenev,

"Petersburg stories" Gogol,

"The Enchanted Wanderer" Leskov,

"Hero of our time" Lermontov,

"Boring Story" Chekhov.

In 1922, V.I. Shukhaev created illustrations for the Paris edition of Pushkin's The Queen of Spades, which was published in French with a circulation of only 340 copies (Paris publishing house Pleiada; translated by Shifrin, Schletser and Andre Gide, 1923).

The illustrations for The Queen of Spades are regarded as "one of the highest achievements of Shukhaev in the field of book art."

These illustrations are made in the technique of pen drawing with watercolor highlights.

The researcher of his work, I. Myamlin, notes in the illustrations for The Queen of Spades "the artist's truly jewelry skill in conveying portrait characteristics, sometimes ironic and satirical."

In Shukhaev's hand-painted drawings in the style of the artists of the World of Art, costumes and everyday details of the era are made with special care, although there is a closeness to French engravings of the 18th century.

The absence of detailed "ready-made" characterizations of the characters, the laconicism, simplicity, and "unadornedness" of Pushkin's prose require the reader to be attentive to the word and to be active in the recreative and creative imagination.

The tragedy of Pushkin's hero is given in an ironic vein, although initially it seems to the reader that it affects all the characters except the main character: none of Hermann's friends allowed themselves to play a trick on him, throughout the story a smile never appeared on his face.

"Gambling House". In 1925, in Paris, V. Shukhaev created scenery for The Queen of Spades.

The drawings for the tragedy "Boris Godunov" are among the undoubted achievements of the artist.

IN AND. Shukhaev illustrated Pushkin's tragedy in an icon-painting manner, i.e. in the stylistic key that is closest to the era of Boris Godunov.

"Pochoir"(French pochoir - "stencil") - a method of manual stencil tinting of an engraving or drawing through "windows" cut in paper or other material.

If the stencil was made from a thin copper plate by etching it with acid, like an etching, then it became possible to obtain as a result not only local colored spots, but also rather thin lines.

At the beginning of the 20th century, this method often began to be used when creating albums of author's and reproduction prints.

The same technique was also used to create watercolor illustrations for bibliophile small-circulation books.

False Dmitry and boyar . Illustration for the tragedy by A. S. Pushkin "Boris Godunov"

Two years after Pushkin's The Queen of Spades, the Parisian publishing house Pleiada published a bibliophilic edition of Boris Godunov translated by J. Shifrin with illustrations by V.I. Shukhaev. In these illustrations, solemn and "laconic", the artist started from the icon-painting tradition of the 16th-17th centuries.

At the time of his apprenticeship, Shukhaev copied the frescoes of Dionysius in the Ferapontov monastery. In 1925, while living in Paris, he, together with his friend A.E. Yakovlev received an order to paint a concert hall in a private house on Pergolez Street.

Painting on the theme “Tales of A.S. Pushkin in Music" was performed in the stylistic manner of frescoes and icons. The artist's appeal to ancient Russian painting in "Boris Godunov" is natural for illustrating a work whose action takes place at the beginning of the 17th century.

Archbishop Anastassy (A.A. Gribanovsky) in the article “Pushkin’s spiritual insights in the drama “Boris Godunov””, published in the “Bulletin of the Russian Student Movement in Western Europe” (Paris, 1926), emphasized the correspondence of Pushkin’s tragedy to the spirit of the time described: “ The Orthodox spiritual element, which permeated the entire structure of Russian life in the era of Godunov, organically enters into all moments of Pushkin's drama, and wherever the author comes into contact with it, he describes it with bright and truthful colors, without allowing a single false note in the very tone. stories about this side of Russian life and not a single technically incorrect detail in its depiction.

"Boris Godunov" was published by "Pleiades" in the amount of 445 copies. Of these, 18 copies are printed on Japanese paper, 22 on Dutch paper, 390 on laid paper. 15 copies (5 on Japanese paper and 10 on laid paper) were not intended for sale. In France, as well as abroad in general, they learned about Pushkin's "Boris Godunov" mainly thanks to the opera of the same name by M.P. Mussorgsky. Shukhaev's illustrations and Zh. Shifrin's translation of the text into French became another remarkable interpretation of the tragedy, bringing it closer to a foreign reader.

The release of the book coincided with a significant event: it was from 1925 that Foreign Russia began to celebrate the Day of Russian Culture, a holiday dedicated to Pushkin's birthday.

Fate wanted V.I. Shukhaev fully had a chance to find out what the “time of troubles” was, into which he plunged, illustrating the Pushkin tragedy. In 1937, two years after returning from exile, the Artist and his wife were arrested and spent 10 years in exile in Magadan.

After their release, they settled in Tbilisi, but the torment did not end there: they were arrested and expelled more than once.