THE ART OF THE BATTLE

Today I would like to  share with you a story about one of many wonderful days I had  years ago in a place just outside Moscow, called Borodino.

I travelled to the former U.S.S.R from the age of six, till I was in my early twenties, and whilst

Suffering painful treatment to try to save my eyesight, I had afternoons of free time, where I could forget the excruciating needles that had been placed in my body that morning as well as the electric shock treatment and the inhumane conditions that I was faced with on a daily occurrence.

 

One day, our interpreter asked if we would like to go to the expedition of Borodino? I thought, “Oh, no, not another museum?” But this one was amazing. I was not sure what to expect, thought that it would involve boring artwork that I could not really see, as in those days, I could see a bit, but not enough to see paintings.

 The Battle of Borodino Panorama, is so unique, or it was to me, at the time an eleven year old impressionable girl.

Late August of 1912, Franz Roubaud's panorama "Battle of Borodino was first displayed in Moscow. Paradoxically, the greatest painting of the major battle of the Russian Patriotic War which was created by a Russian born in Odessa who came from a family of a French merchant.

. The Panorama "Battle of Borodino" had Russian artists involved in its creation. This work of art has quite an unusual, fate. Despite the fact that the painting, is now  100 years old, it was unavailable to the public, for nearly half of its creative life.

The giant canvas was commissioned to a famous artist Franz Roubaud by Tsar Nicholas II on the eve of the 100th anniversary of the War of 1812. The emperor's choice was logical, as Roubaud earlier directed the development of other large scale panoramic paintings

We went into the round building. It was dark and the history was explained. Five painters from all around the world painted this marvellous peace of art. The round panoramic building was covered floor to ceiling with art that combined  past,  present and real life works. The art was lit in a discrete manner, as though to replica daylight.

As a young girl, I refused to believe that I was not looking through a window. The painting was too realistic. There was even a fire burning close to the picture of a fence, what was real? The fire? The fence or the painting? Was the fence painted, or real? We were told that was the illusion. Oh it was so amazing. It blew my mind. Down to the expressions of the faces of the   people, which were so perfectly, painted with pain.

The art joined the earth. Soil met with the hours of paint work. A rope prevented the public from getting too close to the art and we were looked at by ladies in headscarves, watchfully, waiting to whip out weapons of torture, if you were to dare to do anything out of place, rightfully so, with such a  master peace greeting us.   

Our interpreter arranged for us to go to visit the actual place Borodino.

We had to get permission to do so, as it was outside of Moscow and it was the days when Russia was not as free as the west was then, not saying now!

We took a car and off we went. We drove forever and the road to all day. Well as the car slowed down, I looked out of my side of the car window to see nothing but trees of strong white birch, standing so tall and strong. So streight, baring few leaves, as though starving from care and nourishment. Trees what whispered secrets of days gone by. Their poor past, painfully tortured by the proximity of war!

 

The place looked so boringly baron. Our car pulled up and out we got.

This was where the war took place. The air was still, the sun had a filter of misty yellow clouds, and all that sheltered us was the vast amount of trees. Death for sure showed its ugly head at Borodino and the tragic knowledge of the battle, thanks to the panorama, came flooding back to me.

There was a wooden dilapidated building. We went to it. We were met by a huge Alsatian and went into the peasants parlour.

We were shown to a table, with its plastic cover on. The place had that smell of dampened wood, an yet, warm with smiles and sounds of the old copper, miracle that is lovingly known as the  Samovar boiling the water, for our tea.

 

Cheese was given to us on a rustic chopping board, before it became fashionable to present such food  over here in Europe! The lady with her plump Motherly frame, proudly announced that the cheese like everything from the cool plates, were all homemade. The butter was delightful, as were the jams. We were served nuts from a silver coloured dish and homemade soup, as well as the delicious crusty bread, still warm from the aga. We drank tea with lemon from the traditional cups, orange, with white spots, served from the huge matching tea pot.

The lights were dull, like church candles and the wooden framed artwork, depicting peasants picking potato’s and tea, dressed the wooden walls.

There was a ambience of sadness, an yet I felt so at home and at peace with the world.

It was a warm sunny day and we walked through the woods, our interpreter picked berries for her home. Berry’s we would leave in the U K. for the birds. There were wild mushrooms again, we, would not chance them, but our girl was delighted she had provided platters of offerings from the outskirts of the fine deprived city. Fine with culture and soul. Fine with the masterful presence the vast city offered, an yet full of darkness, from the past.