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 still cannot supplant.

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 famous writers as no other country has given. That is why the role of book graphics in fine arts I think it's especially important.

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

There would be no point in analyzing this type of art separately if it only had the role of decoration. Introducing the reader to a book and making it more attractive in appearance is not enough; in fact, its role is much deeper. This is a guide into the world of the writer, a path leading the reader through storyline works. The illustration complements the impression of what was read, ideologically and aesthetically enriches the reader. Transformed into the form of graphic art, the writer’s thought acquires, as it were, new strength, finds new paths to the heart and mind of a person.

Fortunately the majority greatest works Russian writers are studied in schools, so everyone considers them family, remembers and loves them. This type of book includes the novel by F.M. Dostoevsky “Crime and Punishment”, illustrated by D.A. Shamarinov. Children are brought up with this work, it instills a sense of responsibility for their own actions, develops the concept of honor and morals 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, in their own way. own life, without losing touch with the novel. Many illustrations are dedicated to the streets of St. Petersburg. Why are we fascinated by the old districts of St. Petersburg? Because, walking through this part of the city, we see many ancient buildings, each of which stands 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. For Shamarinov, the huge houses, narrow streets and dark, depressing staircases helped reveal the cold appearance of the city of that time, which was associated with the cold melancholy permeating the novel. The city hides the agonizing hopelessness of people who seem to have lost everything. The artist, without showing faces, only uses silhouettes to convey the atmosphere of the ruthless contradiction of the novel; the cruel heartlessness of some characters echoes the despair of others (Fig. 1).

Perhaps Shamarinov would not have achieved such mastery if not for the tips of A.M. Gorky. He became for young artist friend and mentor. Gorky was not only a master of the pen and word, he also knew how to perfectly see talent and reveal it, which is how he discovered Shamarinov, giving him unobtrusive advice. While the artist was working on the work “The Life of Matvey Kozhemyakin,” the writer guided the illustrator, helping with instructions. Gorky tried to direct Shamarinov to create not just descriptive paintings, but to use bright, poignant socio-psychological portraits in the illustration. Perhaps thanks to these tips, a picture appeared that cannot be ignored, especially the soul-stirring image of Sonya (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 conveyed through the oppressive, gloomy image of the home. Despite all this, the artist managed to convey the versatility of the heroine’s character using charcoal and paper. The girl’s horror, fear, defenselessness and resentment do not completely cover her inner strength and greatness of spirit.

A striking example The illustrator’s magnificent work is the drawings in the story “Taras Bulba” by Gogol. The writer describes Taras’s grief in connection with the death of his son Ostap: “And, putting down his gun, full of melancholy, he sat down on the seashore. He sat there for a long time, hanging his head and saying: “My Ostap! Ostap is mine! The Black Sea sparkled and spread out before him; a seagull screamed in the distant reeds; his white mustache turned silver, and a tear fell one after another.”

Wanting to capture this episode of E.A. Kibrik, a famous Soviet illustrator, interpreted the writer’s idea in a unique way. A drawing made in charcoal is doomed to a black and white existence, and you need to have talent to make it light up with emotions. The monolithic figure of Taras with his head mournfully lowered visually connects with the raging waves. A storm arises behind the hero’s back, just as grief arises in his soul. Big melancholy strong man 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 one believe what is depicted and feel a person’s grief (Fig. 3).

It would seem that the illustrator's skill is contained within the framework of a sheet of paper. This thought is shattered by the boundless talent of the older generation of artists, to which V.A. belongs. Favorsky. Few people in modern times knows the definition of the term - woodcut. That's what they call wood engraving, it's very complex look illustrations, which Favorovsky masterfully mastered. It was in this technique that the drawings for the tragedy of A.S. were made. Pushkin "Boris Godunov". The artist was able to express everything on the tree: the rebellious passions of the servants, the heavy thoughts of the main characters, the strength of the spirit of the people.

One cannot help but be amazed by the richness of the artist’s imagination, because he was able to revive the ornament. In his hands, the intricate graphic script came to life, helping to outline the diverse range of human characters. Each drawing was unique, reflecting different aspects of a person’s spiritual life. The ornament unobtrusively frames the picture, protruding somewhere imitating wooden carvings, somewhere the complex pattern framing the frame seems to sprout thin poisonous tentacles (Fig. 4), reminding the viewer of the pangs of conscience and the dark past of the main character.

Great books do not die with the author, they continue to live for him, perpetuating his memory. A work dies even after a generation, if the morality put into it by the author is really deep. Every person looks in the books of classics for an answer to their questions, a reflection of their experiences and thoughts.

A true artist will never “finish” or complement someone else’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. This difficult task everyone decides in their own way, which is why the same work can be illustrated by hundreds different artists and their drawings will never be identical, each will bring something new, highlighting 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 story, study the props and things of the described era. The artist is forced to rely on his impressions and have an amazing imagination, which will not be limited to the lines of a novel or story. He should be able to notice such situations in his life that will then help in his creative activity to clearly 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 all 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"

References:

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 USSR Academy of Arts: 1962. - 74 s.

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

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

For six years (1906-1912) he mastered the complex skill of a painter, four of them in the workshop of Professor D.N. Kardovsky.

In Kardovsky’s workshop, great importance was attached to working on location and with nature, high drawing techniques, and improving technological techniques.

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

V.I. 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:

"Queen of Spades" And "Boris Godunov" Pushkin,

"First Love" Turgeneva,

"Petersburg Tales" Gogol,

"The Enchanted Wanderer" Leskova,

"Hero of Our Time" Lermontov,

"Boring Story" Chekhov.

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

The illustrations for “The Queen of Spades” are regarded as “one of Shukhaev’s highest achievements in the field of book art.”

These illustrations are made using pen drawing technique with watercolor shading.

A 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-colored drawings in the style of the World of Art artists, the costumes and everyday details of the era are executed with special care, although there is a closeness to French engravings of the 18th century.

The absence of detailed “ready-made” characteristics of the characters, laconicism, simplicity, and “unvarnishedness” of Pushkin’s prose require the reader to attentive attitude by the word and activity of the recreating and creative imagination.

The tragedy of Pushkin’s hero is presented 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 make fun of him; throughout the story, a smile never appeared on his face.

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

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

V.I. Shukhaev illustrated Pushkin’s tragedy in an iconographic manner, i.e. in the stylistic key that is closest to the era of Boris Godunov.

"Pochoir"(French pochoir - “stencil”) - a method of manually stenciling an engraving or drawing through “windows” cut into 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 twentieth century, this method began to be often used when creating albums of original and reproduction prints.

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

False Dmitry and the boyar . Illustration for the tragedy of A. S. Pushkin “Boris Godunov”

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

During his apprenticeship, Shukhaev copied the frescoes of Dionysius in the Ferapontova Monastery. In 1925, while living in Paris, he and his friend A.E. Yakovlev received an order to paint concert hall in a private house on Pergoles Street.

Painting on the theme “Tales of A.S. Pushkin in music" was performed in the stylistic manner of a fresco and an icon. The artist’s appeal to ancient Russian painting in “Boris Godunov” is natural for illustrating a work that takes place at the beginning of the 17th century.

Archbishop Anastasy (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), especially noted 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 in bright and truthful colors, without allowing a single false note in the very tone of the story about this side of Russian life and not a single technically incorrect detail in its depiction.”

“Boris Godunov” was published by Pleiades in 445 copies. Of these, 18 copies were 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, people learned about Pushkin’s “Boris Godunov” mainly thanks to the opera of the same name by M.P. Mussorgsky. Illustrations by Shukhaev and translation of the text into French J. Shifrin became another wonderful interpretation of the tragedy, bringing it closer to the foreign reader.

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

Fate would have it that V.I. Shukhaev had the opportunity to fully learn what “ time of troubles”, into which he plunged, illustrating Pushkin’s 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 liberation, they settled in Tbilisi, but the torment did not end there: they were arrested and deported more than once.

Unfortunately, none of the encyclopedias, nor such a world-knowing source as the Internet, could tell who the artist V.A. Polyakov is. Therefore, we just 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 a two-volume full meeting works of Mikhail Yuryevich Lermontov, published in 1900. It included the poet's poems, poems and prose. In general, everything that was previously studied in our schools during the years of the existence of real education in the USSR, without interrupting the Tsarist era.

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

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

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

ANGEL

An angel flew across the midnight sky

And he sang a quiet song;

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

Listen to that holy song.

He sang about the bliss of sinless spirits

Under the bushes of the Gardens of Eden;

He sang about the great God, and praise

His was unfeigned.

He carried the young soul in his arms

For a world of sadness and tears;

And the sound of his song in the soul is young

Left without words, but alive.

And for a long time she languished in the world,

Full of wonderful desires;

And the sounds of heaven could not be replaced

She finds the songs of the earth boring.

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

PRISONER

Open the prison for me,

Give me the shine of the day

The black-eyed girl

Black-maned horse.

I'm a beauty when I'm younger

First I will kiss you sweetly,

Then I’ll jump on the horse,

I'll fly away to the steppe like the wind.

But the prison window is high,

The door is heavy with a lock;

Black-eyed is far away,

In his magnificent mansion;

Good horse in a green field

Without a bridle, alone, by will

Jumps cheerful and playful,

Spread the tail in the wind.

I am alone - there is no joy:

The walls are bare all around,

The ray of the lamp shines dimly

By dying fire;

You can only hear: behind the doors,

With resounding steps,

Walks in the silence of the night

Unresponsive sentry.

DAGGER

I love you, my damask dagger,

The comrade is bright and cold.

The thoughtful Georgian forged you for revenge,

The free Circassian was preparing for a formidable battle.

The lily hand brought you to me

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

And for the first time, it wasn’t blood flowing along you,

But a bright tear is a pearl of suffering.

And black eyes, stopping at me,

Filled with mysterious sadness

Like your steel in a flickering fire,

Sometimes they suddenly dimmed, sometimes they sparkled.

You were given to me as a companion, a silent pledge of love,

And the example for the wanderer in you is not useless:

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

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

DREAM

Midday heat in the valley of Dagestan

With lead in my chest I lay motionless;

The deep wound was still smoking,

Drop by drop my blood flowed.

I lay alone on the sand of the valley;

Rock ledges 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 land.

Between young wives crowned with flowers,

There was a cheerful conversation about me.

But without entering into a cheerful conversation,

I sat there alone, thoughtfully,

And in a sad dream her young soul

God knows what she was immersed in;

And she dreamed of the valley of Dagestan;

A familiar corpse lay in that valley;

There was a blackened wound in his chest, smoking,

And the blood flowed in a cooling stream.

They loved each other so long and tenderly,

With deep melancholy 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 only sometimes did we see a sweet image in a dream.

And death came: the date beyond the grave came...

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

PROPHET

Since the eternal judge

He gave me the omniscience of a prophet,

I read in people's eyes

Pages of malice and vice.

I began to proclaim love

And the truth is pure teachings:

All my neighbors are in me

They threw stones wildly.

I sprinkled ashes on my head,

I fled the cities as a beggar,

And here I live in the desert,

Like birds, God's gift of food;

Keeping the eternal covenant,

The earthly creature is submissive to me;

And the stars listen to me

Joyfully playing with rays.

When through the noisy hail

I'm making my way in a hurry

That's what the elders tell their children

With a proud smile:

“Look: here's an example for you!

He was proud and did not get along with us:

Fool, he wanted to assure us,

What God says through his lips!

Look, children, at him:

How gloomy and thin and pale he is!

Look how naked and poor he is,

How everyone despises him!

CANE

The fisherman sat cheerfully

On the river bank;

And in front of him in the wind

The reeds swayed.

He cut dry reeds

And he pierced the wells;

He pinched one end

It blew at the other end.

And as if animated,

And the reed sang sadly:

“Leave me, leave me;

Fisherman, wonderful fisherman,

You're tormenting me!

“And I was a girl,

She was a beauty

At the stepmother's in prison

I once bloomed

And many burning tears

Innocently I poured;

And an early grave

I called shamelessly.

THREE PALM TREES

(Eastern legend)

In the sandy steppes of Arabian land

Three proud palm trees grew high.

A spring between them from barren soil,

Murmuring, it made its way through a cold wave,

Kept under the shade of green leaves,

From the sultry rays and flying sands.

And many years passed silently;

But a tired wanderer from a foreign land

Burning chest to the icy moisture

I have not yet bowed down under the green tabernacle,

And they began to dry out from the sultry rays

Luxurious leaves and a sonorous stream.

And the three palm trees began to murmur against God:

“Is that why we were born to wither here?

We grew and blossomed uselessly in the desert,

Wavering with the whirlwind and heat of the fire,

Not pleasing to anyone's benevolent gaze?..

Yours is wrong, oh heaven, holy sentence!

And they just fell silent - in the blue distance

The golden sand was already spinning like a pillar,

There were discordant sounds of bells,

The carpeted packs were full of carpets,

And he walked, swaying like a shuttle at sea,

Camel after camel, blasting the sand.

Dangling, hanging between hard humps

Patterned floors of camping tents;

Their dark hands sometimes raised,

And the black eyes sparkled from there...

And, leaning towards the bow,

The Arab was hot on the black horse.

And the horse reared up at times,

And he jumped like a leopard struck by an arrow;

And white clothes have beautiful folds

Faris curled over the shoulders in disarray;

And, screaming and whistling, rushing along the sand,

He threw and caught a spear while galloping.

Here a caravan approaches the palm trees, noisily:

In the shadow of their cheerful camp stretched.

The jugs sounded filled with water,

And, proudly nodding his terry head,

Palm trees welcome unexpected guests,

And the icy stream generously waters them.

But darkness has just fallen to the ground,

The ax clattered on the elastic roots,

And the pets of centuries fell without life!

Their clothes were torn off by small children,

Their bodies were then chopped up,

And they slowly burned them with fire until the morning.

When the fog rushed to the west,

The caravan made its regular journey;

And then sad on barren soil

All that was visible was gray and cold ashes;

And the sun burned the dry remains,

And then the wind blew them away into 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 away,

Yes, the crested kite, the steppe unsociable,

The prey is tormented and pinched above him.

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.

Oh, her old Armenian

Proud!..

Around her there is crystal, rubies,

But how not to cry from sadness

The old man?

His hand

Caresses the maiden every day,

So what? -”

Beauty hides like a shadow.

Oh God!..

He fears betrayal.

Its walls are high and strong,

But everything is love

Despised. Again

The blush on the cheeks is alive

And sometimes pearls between the eyelashes

Didn't fight...

But the Armenian discovered treachery,

Treason and ingratitude

How to transfer!

Annoyance, revenge,

For the first time you are alone

I've tasted it!

And the corpse of the criminal to the waves

He betrayed.

TAMARA

In the deep gorge of Daryal,

Where the Terek rummages in the darkness,

The ancient tower stood

Blackening on a black rock.

In that tower high and cramped

Queen Tamara lived:

Beautiful as a heavenly angel,

Like a demon, insidious and evil.

And there through the fog of midnight

The golden light shone,

He threw himself into the traveler's eyes,

He beckoned for a night's rest.

He was all desire and passion,

He had an omnipotent spell,

There was an incomprehensible power.

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

FORGET-MENT

(Fairy tale)

In ancient times people were

Not at all like these days;

(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 ruined forever,

Then I am an exact example for you

I would like to finally introduce.

The moisture of the stream is cold,

Under the shadow of linden branches,

Without fear of evil eyes,

Once upon a time a noble knight

I sat with my dear...

Quietly with a young hand

She hugged the handsome man.

Full of innocent simplicity

The conversation flowed peacefully.

“Friend: do not swear to me in vain,

The maiden said: I believe

Your love is clear, pure,

Like this ringing stream,

How clear is this vault above us;

But how strong she is in you,

I don't know yet. - Look,

A lush carnation is blooming there,

A blue flower is barely visible...

Rip it off for me, my dear:

He's not that far away from love! B"

My knight jumped up, delighted

Her spiritual simplicity;

Jumping over the stream with an arrow

He's flying, a precious flower

Rip it off with a hasty hand...

The goal of his aspiration is already close,

Suddenly under him (terrible view)

The unfaithful earth trembles,

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

Throwing a glance full of fire

To your silent beauty,

"Sorry, don't forget me! B"

The unhappy young man exclaimed;

And instantly a destructive flower

He grabbed it with a hopeless hand;

And ardent hearts as a pledge

He threw it to the tender maiden.

The flower is sad from now on

Love is dear; heart beats

When the eye catches him.

He is called forget-me-not;

In damp places, near swamps,

As if afraid of touch,

He seeks solitude there;

And it blooms with the color of the sky,

Where there is no death and no oblivion...

This is the end of my story;

Judge: true or fable.

Is it the girl’s fault?

She said, right, her conscience!

TALE FOR CHILDREN

“When you sleep, oh my earthly angel,

And beats vigorously with virgin blood

Young breast under the night dream,

Know that it’s me, bending over the headboard,

I admire and talk to you;

And in silence, your mentor is random,

I tell wonderful secrets...

And there was a lot in my sight

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"

The book itself is an entertaining and interesting thing. However, in order to make it easier for the reader to endure three hundred pages of continuous text, great people came up with 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 we could use a drop of visual pleasure on the pages of our favorite book.

Colorful pictures from children's books immediately come to mind, but the more significant the book is in world culture, the more seriously and deeply the artists approach the task of creating images. And here no drawings of “Aibolit” will stand next to what people create under the influence of cult books. Today I want to show you 7 different views of illustrators on books created in different eras, but equally left their mark on world literature. They are located in chronological sequence. 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 – 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 shade gothic style- all this gives the images a taste of bitterness, and the paintings an atmosphere of truly “the saddest story in the world.”

“Don Quixote” – Salvador Dali

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

“The ABCs of Edgar Allan Poe” – Ero Nel

Poe's works themselves were clearly not famous for their positivity and cheerfulness. And if you remember his “Black Cat” and “Crow”, then in general from good mood The cat's tail will remain, and the body will be covered with trembling from the tickling of the nerves by the black feather “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 from the writer. Each capital letter is part of Allan Poe's alphabet.

B – “Berenice”

U – “Murder in the Rue Morgue”

Ch – “Black Cat”

“Jane Eyre” – Helen and Anna Balbusso

In order to create a contrast, after the gloomy and frightening Poe, I will introduce you to the “warm” Balbusso sisters. The work of Charlotte Brontë itself, although it contains frightening events in places, is, despite this, a touching and sincere novel, where the dark background is dominated by bright colors love. In the artists’ illustrations, it is the warm shades that play a big role, piercing with soulfulness 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 well-known story “The Metamorphosis.” The drawings, done in just three colors, were meant to capture and expose the dark humor and claustrophobic atmosphere of the story itself rather than its narrative.

“1984” – Andrey Zamura

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

“The Old Man and the Sea” – Slava Schultz

Student of the Kharkov Academy of Design and Arts Slava Shultz created impressive series illustrations for E. Hemingway’s story “The Old Man and the Sea,” which was difficult to pass by without admiring it. 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’ll still dilute the already created gloomy atmosphere 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 so full of colors, life and emotions. And it seems that, looking at them, any adult for a moment plunges into a fairy tale and feels this wild desire, taking a book and a flashlight, climb under the blanket and drown in the huge world created by the most brilliant writer John Tolkien.

Leviza Nikulina

Unfortunately, none of the encyclopedias, nor such a world-knowing source as the Internet, could tell who the artist V.A. Polyakov is. 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 Yuryevich Lermontov, published in 1900. It included the poet's poems, 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 of 1812.

Alexander Vasilievich Polyakov(1801-1835) - Russian artist. He was a serf of General A. Kornilov. Having heard about his talent, D. Doe in 1822 asked to appoint Polyakov as his assistant. His salary was 800 rubles a year. “But of this amount, Mr. Doe gives him only 350 rubles, leaving the remaining 450 to pay for the apartment and for the table, although he has this latter with his lackeys,” wrote the Committee of the Society for the Encouragement of Artists. In addition, with Polyakov, who was no different good health, the Englishman deducted amounts for days of illness, as a result the artist barely had one hundred rubles a year left for clothing and food.

But even in these enslaving conditions, A. Polyakov amazed everyone with his talent and hard work. Once, in six hours, he made such a skillful copy of N. Mordvinov’s portrait 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 Doe and completed dozens 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" for the serf artist appeared only a few years after the completion of work on art gallery portraits of heroes of 1812.

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

Alexander Vasilyevich’s health, despite his youth, was in extremely poor condition. 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 Vasilyevich Polyakov died on January 7, 1835, 34 years old. 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 costs of Polyakov’s funeral - 160 rubles 45 kopecks, including for commemoration according to custom - 20 rubles.”

The second document is an inventory of unfinished paintings and things left after the artist’s death: “A simple table, a simple wardrobe with a wooden bed, a dilapidated blanket, a robe with cotton wool, an old feather hat, two easels, 12 bottles of paint, three palettes:” And another 340 portraits - Gallery of heroes Patriotic War 1812, a true masterpiece of world art, created by the brush of the serf master Alexander Vasilyevich Polyakov.

Illustration for the novel "Hero of Our Time" - "Princess Mary"
“I feel bad,” she said in a weak voice.
I quickly leaned towards her and wrapped my arm around her flexible waist...

Portrait of Mikhail Yuryevich Lermontov from Collected Works 1900

Illustrations for poems

Angel

An angel flew across the midnight sky
And he sang a quiet song;
And the month, and the stars, and the clouds in a crowd
Listen to that holy song.

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

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

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

Prisoner

Open the prison for me,
Give me the shine of the day
The black-eyed girl
Black-maned horse.
I'm a beauty when I'm younger
First I will kiss you sweetly,
Then I’ll jump on the horse,
I'll fly away to the steppe like the wind.

But the prison window is high,
The door is heavy with a lock;
Black-eyed is far away,
In his magnificent mansion;
Good horse in a green field
Without a bridle, alone, by will
Jumps cheerful and playful,
Spread the tail in the wind.

I am alone - there is no consolation:
The walls are bare all around,
The ray of the lamp shines dimly
By dying fire;

You can only hear: behind the doors,
With resounding steps,
Walks in the silence of the night
Unresponsive sentry.

Dagger

I love you, my damask dagger,
The comrade is bright and cold.
The thoughtful Georgian forged you for revenge,
The free Circassian was preparing for a formidable battle.

The lily hand brought you to me
As a sign of memory, at the moment of parting,
And for the first time, it wasn’t blood flowing along you,
But a bright tear is a pearl of suffering.

And black eyes, stopping at me,
Filled with mysterious sadness
Like your steel in a flickering fire,
Sometimes they suddenly dimmed, sometimes they sparkled.

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

Dream

Midday heat in the valley of Dagestan
With lead in my chest I lay motionless;

The deep wound was still smoking,
Drop by drop my blood flowed.
I lay alone on the sand of the valley;
Rock ledges 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 land.
Between young wives crowned with flowers,
There was a cheerful conversation about me.
But without entering into a cheerful conversation,
I sat there alone, thoughtfully,
And in a sad dream her young soul
God knows what she was immersed in;
And she dreamed of the valley of Dagestan;
A familiar corpse lay in that valley;
There was a blackened wound in his chest, smoking,
And the blood flowed in a cooling stream.

They loved each other so long and tenderly,
With deep melancholy 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 only sometimes did we see a sweet image in a dream.

And death came: the date beyond the grave came...
But in the new world they did not recognize each other.

Prophet

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

I began to proclaim love
And the truth is pure teachings:
All my neighbors are in me
They threw stones wildly.

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

Keeping the eternal covenant,
The earthly creature is submissive to me;
And the stars listen to me
Joyfully playing with rays.

When through the noisy hail
I'm making my way in a hurry
That's what the elders tell their children
With a proud smile:

“Look: here is an example for you!
He was proud and did not get along with us:
Fool, he wanted to assure us,
What God says through his lips!

Look, children, at him:
How gloomy and thin and pale he is!
Look how naked and poor he is,
How everyone despises him!

Cane

The fisherman sat cheerfully
On the river bank;
And in front of him in the wind
The reeds swayed.
He cut dry reeds
And he pierced the wells;
He pinched one end
It blew at the other end.

And as if animated,
The reed spoke;
That's the voice of a man
And there was the voice of the wind.
And the reed sang sadly:
“Leave me, leave me;
Fisherman, wonderful fisherman,
You're tormenting me!

"And I was a girl,
She was a beauty
At the stepmother's in prison
I once bloomed
And many burning tears
Innocently I poured;
And an early grave
I called shamelessly.

Three palm trees
(Eastern legend)

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

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

And the three palm trees began to murmur against God:
“Are we born to wither here?
We grew and blossomed uselessly in the desert,
Wavering with the whirlwind and heat of the fire,
Not pleasing to anyone's benevolent gaze?..
Your holy sentence is wrong, O heaven!”
And they just fell silent - blue in the distance
The golden sand was already spinning like a pillar,
There were discordant sounds of bells,
The carpeted packs were full of carpets,
And he walked, swaying like a shuttle at sea,
Camel after camel, blasting the sand.

Dangling, hanging between hard humps
Patterned floors of camping tents;
Their dark hands sometimes raised,
And the black eyes sparkled from there...
And, leaning towards the bow,
The Arab was hot on the black horse.

And the horse reared up at times,
And he jumped like a leopard struck by an arrow;
And white clothes have beautiful folds
Faris curled over the shoulders in disarray;
And, screaming and whistling, rushing along the sand,
He threw and caught a spear while galloping.

Here a caravan approaches the palm trees, noisily:
In the shadow of their cheerful camp stretched.
The jugs sounded filled with water,
And, proudly nodding his terry head,
Palm trees welcome unexpected guests,
And the icy stream generously waters them.

But darkness has just fallen to the ground,
The ax clattered on the elastic roots,
And the pets of centuries fell without life!
Their clothes were torn off by small children,
Their bodies were then chopped up,
And they slowly burned them with fire until the morning.
When the fog rushed to the west,
The caravan made its regular journey;
And then sad on barren soil
All that was visible was gray and cold ashes;
And the sun burned the dry remains,
And then the wind blew them away into the steppe.

And now everything is wild and empty all around -
Leaves with a rattling key do not whisper:
In vain he asks the prophet for a shadow -
Only the hot sand carries it away,
Yes, the crested kite, the steppe unsociable,
The prey is tormented and pinched above him.

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.
Oh, her old Armenian
Proud!..

Around her there is crystal, rubies,
But how not to cry from sadness
The old man?
His hand
Caresses the maiden every day,
So what? —
Beauty hides like a shadow.
Oh God!..

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

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

Tamara

In the deep gorge of Daryal,
Where the Terek rummages in the darkness,
The ancient tower stood
Blackening on a black rock.

In that tower high and cramped
Queen Tamara lived:
Beautiful as a heavenly angel,
Like a demon, insidious and evil.

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

Forget-me-not
(Fairy tale)

In ancient times people were
Not at all like these days;
(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 ruined forever,
Then I am an exact example for you
I would like to finally introduce.
The moisture of the stream is cold,
Under the shadow of linden branches,
Without fear of evil eyes,
Once upon a time a noble knight
I sat with my dear...
Quietly with a young hand
She hugged the handsome man.
Full of innocent simplicity
The conversation flowed peacefully.

“Friend: do not swear to me in vain,
The maiden said: I believe
Your love is clear, pure,
Like this ringing stream,

How clear is this vault above us;
But how strong she is in you,
I don't know yet. - Look,
A lush carnation is blooming there,
But no: cloves are not needed;
Further, how sad you are,
A blue flower is barely visible...
Rip it off for me, my dear:
He’s not that far away from love!”

My knight jumped up, delighted
Her spiritual simplicity;
Jumping over the stream with an arrow
He's flying, a precious flower
Rip it off with a hasty hand...
The goal of his aspiration is already close,
Suddenly under him (terrible view)
The unfaithful earth trembles,
He is stuck, there is no salvation for him!...
Throwing a glance full of fire
To your silent beauty,
“Sorry, don’t forget me!”
The unhappy young man exclaimed;
And instantly a destructive flower
He grabbed it with a hopeless hand;
And ardent hearts as a pledge
He threw it to the tender maiden.

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

This is the end of my story;
Judge: true or fable.
Is it the girl's fault?
She said, right, her conscience!

Jumping for children

...“When you sleep, oh my earthly angel,
And beats vigorously with virgin blood
Young breast under the night dream,

Know that it’s me, bending over the headboard,
I admire and talk to you;
And in silence, your mentor is random,
I tell wonderful secrets...
And there was a lot in my sight
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"