Третьяковская Галерея
The other day I went with some of my friends to the Tretyakov Gallery in Russia. Now, I'll be the first to admit that a year ago, if someone told me they'd gone to the Tretyakov Gallery, I would have had no idea what they were talking about. But after studying Russian history and culture at BYU this past year, my exposure to great Russian works of are has increased. My professor--a native Russian--introduced us to the wonders of Ivanov, Rublov, Kramskoy, Rapin, and others. And I grew to love Russian art. Thus, I was excited to see for myself the wonders of this, the most prominent of all Russian art galleries which contained most of the art I had studied. But I still didn't quite grasp what the gallery was. What the paintings were. Who the artists were.
I didn't understand, that is, until I turned the corners in the gallery for myself and suddenly saw the entire wall covered by the paintings I had studied. In my mind, they had not been that big. They had not been that magnificent. By turns Boyarynya Morozova, Bogatiri, and (my personal favorite) Christ in the Wilderness all took my breath away. I marveled over portraits of Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, kings, peasants, my brothers and sisters. I felt the joy and peace of beautiful Russian landscapes. I felt the importance of historical events through Rapin's works. I was awed by the age and magnificence of ancient Russian icons, particularly Troitsa.
That museum quickly became a sacred place for me, as I stood in front of countless paintings, pondering what it means to be human. I felt the history and culture and tradition of thousands of Russians pass through the centuries from them into my soul. And through their works--through their insights into life and human nature--I came to better grasp what life is. I doubt those artists knew that hundreds of years after they put their brushes to canvas they would be inspiring and edifying one little inconsequential girl from America. They didn't know that their experience on this globe would influence mine and teach me more of how to live. Of how to seek the Lord. Of how to find peace. But that's what they did. And I am beyond grateful to them for that.
I didn't understand, that is, until I turned the corners in the gallery for myself and suddenly saw the entire wall covered by the paintings I had studied. In my mind, they had not been that big. They had not been that magnificent. By turns Boyarynya Morozova, Bogatiri, and (my personal favorite) Christ in the Wilderness all took my breath away. I marveled over portraits of Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, kings, peasants, my brothers and sisters. I felt the joy and peace of beautiful Russian landscapes. I felt the importance of historical events through Rapin's works. I was awed by the age and magnificence of ancient Russian icons, particularly Troitsa.
That museum quickly became a sacred place for me, as I stood in front of countless paintings, pondering what it means to be human. I felt the history and culture and tradition of thousands of Russians pass through the centuries from them into my soul. And through their works--through their insights into life and human nature--I came to better grasp what life is. I doubt those artists knew that hundreds of years after they put their brushes to canvas they would be inspiring and edifying one little inconsequential girl from America. They didn't know that their experience on this globe would influence mine and teach me more of how to live. Of how to seek the Lord. Of how to find peace. But that's what they did. And I am beyond grateful to them for that.
Sharisa your posts are so great.
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