The Artist's Will

Pavel Korin’s life was the embodiment of the Russian samorodok – a self-made artist gifted with an indomitable talent, working with unequalled tenacity to attain his artistic goals.

Born Pavel Dmitrievich on June 25, 1892, in the village of Palekh (Vladimir region), Korin entered a family known in Palekh since the 17th century. Pavel’s father and grandfather were both icon painters—as were many Palekh residents—and that sealed Pavel’s fate. Korin would later note that Palekh boasted a wealth of local talent, but that Paleshans (as residents of Palekh are called) had very short life expectancies. They were hard drinkers and it was unusual for a local artist to drink less than one quarter of a bucketful of vodka (a bucket, or vedro, is 12.3 liters) over holidays. Needless to say, Korin proved an exception to the rule and led a sober lifestyle.

The Korin family house, which stands under beautiful old birch trees, survived the 20th century and now hosts a museum dedicated to the artist. It is a typical Russian izba. There is a huge Russian oven to the right, with a samovar on a copper tray; a hewed wooden divider separates the kitchen from the rest of the house, in which there is a simple table, benches along the walls and shelves with pots, filled with pieces of birch bark for drying mushrooms. Other rooms are decorated with wallpaper; the walls are hung with ancient oil paintings, icons of the Palekh and Stroganov schools, and many bookshelves.

Korin never forgot his roots. Palekh featured often in his watercolors, and until the end of his life, he would vacation there in his family house. “My soul takes a rest here,” he wrote. “For everything here is mine— both the domestic and the artistic.”

Korin made his first steps in art in 1903-1907, when he apprenticed himself to Yevgeny Styagov at the Palekh Icon School (his interest in icons spanned his entire life, and he amassed one of the most impressive collections of icons in Soviet Russia). Upon graduation, he walked all the way to Moscow (over 150 km) with just simple, peasant boots on his feet. He landed a job in the icon painting chamber at Donskoy Monastery, where artist Klavdiy Stepanov introduced him to reproductions of the works of famous Italian Renaissance masters. These works marked the young icon painter so deeply that he yearned to travel to Italy to see the originals.

In 1911, the most famous Russian painter of the time, Mikhail Nesterov (see Russian Life July-August 2002) was working on the frescoes of Moscow’s Sts. Martha & Mary Convent. Nesterov visited Donskoy in search of a talented young aide, which he found in Korin. And Korin, in Nesterov, found a mentor, who taught him that the life of a true artist must be a great exploit—which would become his artistic mantra. “You set fire to my soul; you are to blame for my being an artist,” Korin would later write to Nesterov.

From 1912-1916, Korin pursued further studies at the Moscow School of Art, Sculpture and Architecture (which even today trains the finest Russian realist artists). His teachers were Konstantin Korovoin, Sergei Malyutin and Leonid Pasternak (father of Nobel laureate Boris Pasternak). Yet his relations with his teachers were often less than optimal. Upon seeing Korin’s illustrations for Dante’s Divine Comedy, Pasternak said: “Your drawing is bad, but I do praise you for the theme.” As to Korovin, Korin felt the master’s artistic mind seemed a bit narrow.

In 1916, on an order from Elizaveta Fyodorovna, sister of the tsarina and founder of Sts. Martha and Mary Convent, Korin painted the frescoes in the underground crypt at the convent. This commission from the Royal Family, as prestigious as it was, did not bring Korin material well-being. He was still living from hand to mouth, spending just 21 kopeks a day on food. “Before the age of 40, I did not eat my fill of brown bread,” he later recalled. Nesterov was in fact the main “contractor” for the Sts. Martha & Mary project, and he was quite miserly toward his pupil. Still, Korin never condemned his teacher for his frugality. Yet, notably, Korin was ever more generous with his students.

On the personal front, Korin’s work at the convent proved fortuitous. For it was during his work there that he met his future wife, Praskovia Tikhonovna Petrova, a student at the school attached to the convent. Their love took a long time to ripen, however. “He asked me to become his lifelong aide, to share his exploit with him, for he said he wanted to devote his entire life to high art. He took as a role model the life-exploit of Alexander Ivanov, whom he idolized. He did not know how hard the life of an artist-hero was,” Praskovia later recalled. It took seven years, but Petrova finally accepted Korin’s offer; they were wed in 1926.

Throughout the years of
revolution and civil war, Korin, who was deeply religious and never hid the fact, chose not to sing praises to the revolution; he purposefully distanced himself from the new, leftist trends in art and did not rush to offer his palette to the new Soviet regime. This independence prompted at first a cautious, and later a hostile, attitude from his artist colleagues. It was as if Korin had taken the cloth in order to prepare himself for an all-consuming artistic deed—like his idol Alexander Ivanov, who devoted his life in art to a single canvas (“The Appearance of Christ before the People,” one of the pearls of the Tretyakov Gallery’s collection).

Thus, while adepts of the newly-born “leftist art” were painting dozens of quickly-concocted agitprop posters, Korin honed his drawing skills at the Anatomical Theater at the University, deepening his knowledge of the human body. He also spent time measuring sculptures in museums, copying classic works, and traveling to the ancient Russian cities of Kiev, Novgorod, Pskov, Vologda, Yaroslavl and Vladimir. There he studied the frescoes of long-dead Russian icon painters.

In these hungry years, Korin worked hard to improve his talent, and never idolized his own work, often using his sketches to heat his stove. In fact, during those difficult years of war and famine, many Russian artists, Korin included, survived on American food rations. They did not arrive regularly, but they did contain a culinary bounty: an entire leg of lamb, sacks with flour and corn meal, plus concentrated milk. So substantial was this humanitarian aid that in winter people would carry it on a sledge, in summer on a cart.

It was not until 1927, at age 35, that Korin participated in his first exhibition. There he displayed his watercolor “Palekh.” But in fact, he had found his great theme two years earlier, on April 12, 1925, during the funeral service for Patriarch Tikhon at Donskoy Monastery.

Tikhon was a fierce opponent of Soviet power and served time for his anti-Soviet activities. When he died, the whole of Orthodox Moscow gathered at his funeral—from vagabonds to church leaders. All gathered there had a presentiment of their doom, yet they still preserved their human dignity and inner sense of righteousness. Believers stood with lit candles, while the solemn funeral choir was accompanied by the unceasing sobs of parishioners. Deeply touched by the scene, Korin remembered the rest of his life the lyrics to the song sung there: “Let’s raise our hearts on spears!”

The sketches Korin drew during the Patriarch’s funeral laid the groundwork for what would become his great artistic pursuit. Korin decided to call it “Requiem” and to dedicate it to the Russian Orthodox Church, which was in a mortal battle with the new, atheistic powers. From 1929-1937 he painted a whole series of portrait-studies for the future canvas. “I felt the tragedy of my characters as if it were my own, personal disaster,” Korin said. Needless to say, it took no small measure of courage to side with the church at that time. But such integrity was a family trait, something Korin shared with his younger brother Alexander.

“… Korin, or the Korins – this is something special! This calibre of person is dying out, and, maybe, is doomed to extinction. And yet, as long as they exist, I won’t tire of admiring them. Admiring their moral, spiritual traits, admiring their ‘virgin land,’ as you write. Both brothers have been long giving me so much joy. And I wish their art did not remain just a shapka-nevidimka (“unseen magical hat”) … No matter how great are the forces of evil, the good too is mighty.”

— Mikhail Nesterov,

to P. Neradovsky, April 10, 1929.

In September of 1931 the Korin

brothers’ workshop on the Arbat was visited by such important personages as Maxim Gorky and Nikolai Bukharin (who had fallen from grace but still had influence in high places). Korin’s sketches stunned Gorky, who decided to help the artist and to defend him from expected attacks at the hands of the Powers That Be. Perhaps the greatest help he gave was through his suggestion that, in line with Soviet political correctitude, he rename his monumental canvas from “Requiem” to “Rus’ Ukhodyashchaya” (“Waning Rus”). While the change distorted the artistic concept, it also protected him from the sort of attacks that “Requiem” would have assured him. Nostalgia for Russia and its traditions was one thing (after all, Stalin’s regime often “borrowed” old Russian symbols), but an overt “mourning” over the death of Orthodoxy was a different thing altogether…

What is more, Gorky insisted on taking Korin and his brother Alexander to Italy (he lived on Capri) and even secured foreign passports for them, an impressive achievement. (Years earlier, at Nesterov’s suggestion, Korin had sought to travel to Italy, but his request for a passport had been denied.) So, in 1931-1932, Korin made his first trip abroad, visiting Italy, France and Germany, sketching and copying in watercolor the works of the masters. He also sent to Nesterov and others detailed letters with drawings depicting his impressions. Some of these were later published post mortem (in 1981), under the name Letters from Italy. In 1932, in Sorrento, Italy, Korin painted a huge portrait of Gorky—still considered the most expressive portrait of the writer.

Upon returning to Russia, Korin was made the head of the restoration workshop at Moscow’s Pushkin State Museum of Fine Arts (which position he held until 1959). With Gorky’s help, Korin received a separate one-floor building on Malaya Pirogovskaya street, which was overhauled into an apartment and workshop.

Meanwhile, in Leningrad, on a personal order from Gorky, a gigantic canvas was made for the future “Waning Rus”—it was to be three times as big as Ivanov’s “Appearance of Christ Before the People.” The empty canvas was delivered to Korin’s workshop, mounted on a huge frame and then everything was ready for Korin to set to work. Gorky constantly urged Korin on, saying: “Watch out, Pavel Dmitrievich! If you don’t paint it, I will point my fingers at you from the next world!” Gorky hoped to live to see the painting completed, but fate decided otherwise. On June 18, 1936, Gorky passed away in Gorky village, outside Moscow. Korin was immediately summoned by phone to do deathbed sketches. For five long hours he worked on his drawings, all the deceased writer’s relatives amazed at the likeness of the work.

With Gorky’s death, Korin’s

protection from the Powers That Be evaporated. On December 8, 1936, Stalin received an official document that contained political accusations—a de facto denunciation:

“Korin uses as models former princesses-turned-nuns, and priests of all ranks and categories, as well as deacons, yurodivys and other dregs of society ... He asserts, though rather hesitantly, that he has brought together this collection of obscure holdouts only to show they are doomed. Meanwhile, judging by his sketches, he does not create any impression of doom whatsoever. On the contrary, his sketches tell a different story. In reality, Pavel Korin renders the hatred of these people, who, according to his concept, are strong people with indomitable wills, ready to die for their religious ideas.

“Brilliantly painted, fanatics and dark personalities are manifestly turned into heroes, into Christian-martyrs, adepts who are persecuted yet do not give in. The appearance of the characters in P. Korin’s painting is distinguished by deliberate poverty, humiliation and filth, which underscores their state of oppression, while their internal visage ostensibly demonstrates
to the viewer their unique
fortitude, conviction and
intransigence.”

— From the Presidential Archives of the Russian Federation.

The document bears no marks made by Stalin, but doubtless the dictator had a say in the artist’s fate. Korin was not touched and his life was spared during the Great Terror. Yet, he was forced to interrupt his work on the monumental canvas—a painful torture in itself for an artist. For many years, Korin was attacked in the press and thus had to get by without any state commissions.

The eminence grise behind Korin’s persecution was Alexander Gerasimov, a former classmate at the Moscow School of Art, Sculpture and Architecture. From 1938-1940, Gerasimov was chairman of the Moscow section of the Union of Artists, from 1939-1954 he was chairman of the organizing committee of the Union of Soviet Artists, and from 1947-1957 he was president of the USSR Academy of Arts. Needless to say, he had the reins of Russian art firmly in his hands.

So it was that only in 1939 could Korin obtain an official order from the Committee on the Arts to begin working on portraits of outstanding personalities of Soviet culture: MKhAT actors Leonid Leonidov and Vasily Kachalov, writer Alexei Tolstoy, microbiologist and epidemiologist Nikolai Gamaleya, and pianist Konstantin Igumnov.

Korin said he was completely free in his choice of models, saying that he had, for 25 years, been “eradicating from within himself the icon painter.”

As a portrait artist, Korin poured his spiritual and physical energy into his work. His wife recalled how, after each session of portrait painting, she would squeeze the sweat from Korin’s shirts. But the results were worth the effort. Nesterov himself proclaimed that Russia had not seen this level of art since Karl Bryullov.

“Only people in whom I see
deep intellect and spiritual wealth could inspire me. I am indifferent to people who don’t have this, and thus cannot paint them …”

— Pavel Korin

Yet such acclaim did not stir Korin. Nor did it shake his resolve to create truly monumental works of art. From 1941-1947, never leaving Moscow, even during the heavy bombing of the war, Korin worked on a frieze, “March into the Future,” for the Great Hall of the Palace of Soviets. The Palace was to be raised on the site of the exploded Christ the Savior’s Cathedral, but the project never went beyond the foundation. Tragically, Korin never completed this work and the huge completed fragment of the mosaic was lost.

One may wonder why Korin—so at odds with Soviet power—would work on a piece of art glorifying that regime? The most plausible explanation is that, during the war, Korin set aside his personal claims and humiliations and saw in the war a reflection of his personal fight for the freedom of Rus, replenishing his inspiration at the well of Russian history and its heroes. “It was supposed to be a piece of art of titanic dimensions,” Korin wrote. “Mighty young figures moving in unison into the future appeared on my cardboard.”

At the same time, in 1942-1943, in the wake of the victory of the Soviet army at Stalingrad (see page 34), Korin executed the monumental triptych “Alexander Nevsky,” composed of “Northern Ballad” (page 49), “Alexander Nevsky” (page 1), and “Ancient Fairy Tale” (page 47). Korin used historical pieces from the State Historical Museum to provide authentic detail, like Nevsky’s chain mail. Working at a fever pitch, Korin completed the central part of the triptych in just three weeks. The canvas quickly earned wide acclaim. In February 1944, an enlarged copy of the triptych’s central work (“Alexander Nevsky”) was displayed at the entrance to liberated Novgorod. But this masterpiece received neither a state award, nor any prize money.

In 1945, Korin traveled to Berlin and painted the portrait of Georgy Zhukov (see page 39), who had just taken the city, ending the war. Zhukov was very pleased with the portrait and noted: “It is a battlefield face (litso polevoye),” Zhukov said. “It is just the kind of face a commander could have on the battlefield.” Numerous portraits of the great army general were done by other artists in subsequent years, but none approached the raw power of Korin’s interpretation.

After the war, Korin fell victim to yet another round of accusations and persecution. He was “exempted” from any state orders, nor was he allowed to teach students. He lived off what he made from restoration work—he and his colleagues (which included his brother Alexander and his wife Praskovia) at the Pushkin Museum were the ones charged with restoring 41 damaged canvasses brought to Moscow from Dresden as war booty. This despite the fact that they had their hands full restoring works from the Pushkin, some of which had been damaged when a German bomb hit the building during the war, and most of which had been hidden in Siberia for the duration of the Great Patriotic War.

Eyewitnesses recall, how when Rafael’s “Sistine Madonna” was brought to the museum, Korin went to see the work and took his hat off before the painting, paying tribute to this world-famous masterpiece. His entourage could only follow suit.

It was not until 1951-1952 that Korin realized his lifelong dream of creating a monumental work. His tile panneaus in the Moscow Metro’s “Komsomolskaya” ring station and the stained-glass windows at “Novoslobodskaya” earned Korin the prestigious Stalin Prize in 1952.

Not surprisingly, the thaw which followed Stalin’s death in 1953 had a beneficial impact on Korin’s fate, freeing him of the senseless denunciations and persecutions that hounded him for 20 years. Still, Korin did not resume work on “Waning Rus.” In a letter written September 25, 1958, Korin confessed: “My teacher – Mikhail Vasilievich Nesterov, at a very advanced age, told me, ‘I did what I could.’ And I will say on the threshold of my old age: ‘I did not do what I could.’”

This is not to say Korin was idle. In fact, during this period of his life he executed his marvellous portraits of the Armenian artist Martiros Saryan, of the group of satiricists Kukryniksy, of Italian artist Renato Guttuso, and of the director of the Vakhtangov Theater, Ruben Simonov.

Gradually, Korin began to receive well-deserved, yet very belated, awards and perks. In 1954 he was elected a corresponding member of the USSR Academy of Arts. Four years later he was promoted to full membership. In 1964, he received the title of People’s Artist of the USSR; the next year he was awarded The Lenin Prize, the most prestigious prize in the arts that was bestowed in the Soviet Union. In 1965, Korin held a personal exhibit in New York, at the gallery of Armand Hammer. The artist was truly impressed by America. On May 6, 1965, he wrote in his notepad: “Strolled the streets of New York. Stared at the architecture of glass and metal. How daring, light and beautiful these huge skyscrapers stand. These straight lines, the polished glass surfaces strewn with metal stripes. Beautiful, light, bold. I didn’t know about it. I was staring at all this mesmerized. This is fantastic, this is marvelous!!!”

He made his return trip to Russia by sea, stopping in Italy. He felt he did not have long to live and wanted to bid a farewell to the great works he had first seen 30 years before. A quote from his notepad at that time reads: “It is time to go … I don’t feel like it … but I have to ... Goodbye, Great Artists!”

When Pavel Korin was born, his father planted an acorn which grew with time into a mighty oak with three strong trunks. Shortly after Korin passed away in his Moscow residence at Donskoy Monastery, on November 22, 1967, the oak was felled by a hurricane.

It was quite a symbolic event. During his life, Korin’s will had been as fiercely strong as an oak tree. He said that he “never ever asked anyone for permission as to what and how” to paint. All his life he lived and painted freely, casting his artistic eye only on subjects and heroes he felt were worthy of his attention. Yet, regrettably, he failed to paint what he felt would have been his masterwork–the huge canvas on which “Requiem” was to be painted still stands in his museum. One of the final notes on Korin’s notepads bore the following inscription, which as well as any sums up this tenacious artist’s life.

“The artist must be absolutely free. Do not, just do not coerce the spirit. There will be no art where there is coercion ... To coerce the artist’s soul is a deadly crime! The soul dies as a result, and so does the art. There must be control, but only coming from the artist’s soul — that is, inner control. Yes, one can work in art as long as the artist is allowed to portray the man in all his beauty and truth.”