Beauty, we are told, lies in the eye of the beholder. Yet the Kenozero exhibition in Moscow invites visitors to discover the handcrafted splendour of the Russian North through the watercolours of Viktor Popkov, the celestial vault paintings of wooden chapels, and the domestic interiors of local homesteads alike.
Historians and ethnographers suggest that the flourishing of peasant pictorial art in the Kenozero region around the turn of the twentieth century was catalyzed by a rather prosaic domestic revolution: a shift in home heating. Prior to this innovation, peasant izbas were heated po-chernomu—literally ‘in the black-smoke manner’. There were no chimneys; smoke billowed directly from the stove, exiting through the doorway and small slitted windows fitted with wooden shutters. While this method warmed the dwelling with admirable expedition and perhaps discouraged certain uninvited six-legged tenants, it presented a distinct hazard of carbon monoxide asphyxiation—requiring frequent, teeth-chattering ventilation—and deposited a dense, unyielding layer of soot upon every available surface: walls, furniture, and Sunday best alike. Once proper brick chimneys were introduced, accompanied by glazed windows in place of murky peepholes, these newly scrubbed, light-flooded cottages positively begged to be adorned.
Ornamentation soon crept across every conceivable item of interior furniture, utensils, and implements. Presently, this decorative impulse burst outdoors, claiming roof-eaves, gables, doors, and shutters. According to local lore, itinerant craftsmen from Kostroma and Karelia plied their trade here, though homegrown talents were hardly in short supply.
Let us pause to admire this peasant artistry. Above, observe the roof-eaves and a decorated cupboard; below, the painted doors.
For reasons best known to themselves, the inhabitants of Kenozero developed an immense partiality for outlandish lions, which promptly occupied nearly every available door-panel. Naturally, no self-respecting master builder could resist depicting himself in all his hospitable glory: ‘Step right in, dear guests! My larder is stocked for your entertainment.’ And pray bear in mind: Pyotr Blinov is above, the lion is below. Do try not to confuse them!
Our initial encounter with the villages of Kenozero—with the hostesses of cavernous izbas beneath broad roofs whose eaves-soffits were painted with fantastical urns bursting with vibrant, succulent blossoms, and whose entrance doors were graced by rearing lions—utterly staggered the members of the expedition. (N. Maltsev, member of the Russian Museum’s expedition to Kenozero, 1963)
The history of the Kenozero murals stands as a supreme exemplar of how technical progress clears the stage for artistic creation in the most literal sense. Cottages that had accumulated impenetrable layers of black soot for centuries suddenly burst into fantastical, flourishing gardens thanks to nothing more miraculous than a brick chimney. It turns out that if one wishes to awaken the artist—or indeed the proud, heraldic lion—dormant within the human soul, one must occasionally scour the walls and throw open the windows to the wider world.
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