Karl Bryullov: Russia's First Master Painter

The year was 1834. At the Paris Art Salon, a new work by a young painter from Russia, Karl Bryullov, overshadowed all competing works. Even “The Martyrdom of St. Symphorian,” by the elder master, Jean-Auguste Dominique Ingres, paled in comparison.

Ironically, Bryullov’s family—named Bryullo—had fled France about a century and a half before. They, like many Protestants, felt threatened when, in 1685, Louis XIV rescinded the Edict of Nantes, which had granted non-Catholics important political rights. The family headed east, to Russia, where the upper classes embraced all things French. A century later, on December 23, 1799, Karl Pavlovich Bryullo was born into a thoroughly russified family. His father, Pavel Ivanovich, was a retired professor at the Academy of Arts and baptized Russian Orthodox. But it was not until the painter took his first trip abroad that he modified his family name to “Bryullov,” to make it sound more Russian.

So it was that Bryullov’s genealogy added an unintended taste of sweet revenge when his masterwork, “The Last Day of Pompei,” wowed both the public and the jury, taking the Paris Art Salon’s gold medal in 1834.

Karl Bryullov came from a family with a long artistic tradition. His great-grandfather was a craftsman at St. Petersburg’s porcelain factory and his grandfather was a sculptor. Bryullov’s father earned his fame as a master woodcarver who also excelled at decorating walls with silver and gold paint.

His father was highly influential—both on Bryullov’s character and on his art. Like his father, Bryullov was an uncompromising perfectionist. And, like his father, he had a nasty temper. Indeed, Bryullov’s father once slapped his son so hard in a fit of rage that the future painter’s hearing was impaired forever.

As a child, Bryullov was pensive and quiet. But later in life his impatience and fiery temper shone through—causing him to yell at his students when he was unhappy with their performances or to throw a boot at his own work if he didn’t like the results. On one occasion, when Tsar Nicholas I was 20 minutes late for a portrait sitting, the tempestuous painter simply packed up his paints and brushes and left.

At the age of nine, Bryullov entered a school attached to the Russian Academy of Arts. He displayed an unusual talent, bolstered by his father’s teachings on the basics of drawing and painting. In 1815, he graduated from the school and entered the Academy. There, his talent blossomed further, coupled with a drive to perfection. In one instance, he made 40 drawings of the famous scuplture based on Homer’s Odyssey, “Laocono”—each from a different angle.

Bryullov was widely recognized to have surpassed his teachers by the time of his graduation: everyone at the Academy expected something extraordinary from him. He delivered with his graduation work, “Abraham’s Vision of Three Angels.” For the painting, he was awarded the Great Gold Medal as well as a Certificate (and sword) of the First Degree, a token of his ascension to the rank of Russian nobility.

When he was offered a three-year grant by the Academy after his graduation, he refused it in favor of life as a “free” artist. For two years he toiled in Spartan conditions and in almost total solitude. But in 1822, together with his brother Alexander (who had just graduated from the academy’s architectural faculty), he accepted a four-year grant to study in Italy. The brothers left Russia on August 16. Karl would end up living in Europe for the next 13 years, Alexander for the next eight.

His time in Italy would prove one of the most productive periods of Bryullov’s life. He painted over 120 portraits in different media—oil, watercolor, pencil. There he also associated with other Russian artists and intellectuals living abroad, including Alexander Turgenev and Zinaida Volkonskaya (dubbed by Alexander Pushkin “the Tsarina of muses and beauty”).

In 1824, Bryullov painted “Italian Morning” and sent it as a “creative report” of his studies to St. Petersburg’s Society for the Promotion of Painters, which had awarded him his grant. It was painted in the classical style and the Society’s members loved it; they were captivated by the painting’s young Italian, bathing in the fountain. Later, the Society presented the painting to Emperor Nicholas I. But Bryullov’s next canvass, “Midday in Italy” (1827, see next page) was not as well received. The Society obviously expected Bryullov to present another example of classicism. Yet by this time the young painter was being influenced by the Romantics, particularly the French painter Eugene Delacroix.

The year 1827 was actually a turning point in Bryullov’s creative life. Early that year he met Countess Yulia Samoilova, nee von der Palen, daughter of the mastermind of the coup d’etat against Russian emperor Paul I. Considered to be the painter’s only true love, she appears in many of his paintings (e.g. Portrait of Yulia Samoilova; Fostering Giovanina Pacini; Blackamoor: Masquerade). She had a palace in Milan and Bryullov visited her there frequently.

In June of 1827, Samoilova and Bryullov took a fateful trip together to Naples. After seeing the remains of Pompei, Bryullov met Anatoly Demidov, a renowned patron of the arts and a descendant of the famous mine owners from the Urals. As a result, Demidov ordered a canvass from Bryullov on the theme of the destruction of Pompei (the Italian town destroyed by the eruption of Mt. Vesuvius in 79 AD).

For the next six years, Bryullov labored intensely on this immense painting. The last eleven months were particularly difficult and he pushed himself to the limits of his physical and emotional strength—at times his assistants had to physically carry him out of his workshop.

This is not to say Bryullov did no other work during this period. In fact, a 10,000 ruble commission from the Russian Embassy in Italy helped him sever his ties with the St. Petersburg Society in 1829 and become truly independent. The commission was for a copy of Rafael’s “School in Athens.” Up to this point, few had the temerity to copy the Italian master, but Bryullov’s replica was more than worthy. Stendhal, in his “Promenade in Rome,” admired the copy, predicting that Bryullov’s name would become an important one in European culture.

By the middle of 1833, the Pompei canvass was nearly completed. But, a perfectionist in everything, Bryullov still hesitated to show it to the public at large, agonizing over every angle of light. He later recalled: “At last it seemed to me that the lightning over the roadway was not strong enough. I added light to the stones at the feet of the warrior, but the warrior then stood out too much. I lit the entire roadway and now could tell my painting was completed.” The next day, he opened the doors of his workshop. Celebrity soon followed.

Though Bryullov painted many paintings on historical themes in future years, none garnered the breadth and depth of praise like “The Last Day of Pompei.” The painting made him immediately famous throughout all of Italy. Customs officers did not ask for his passport when he traveled from one Italian princedom to another. He made the front page of Italian newspapers; spectators staged standing ovations whenever he showed up in theaters; people who met him on the street would applaud on seeing him; the Art Academies of Bologna, Milan and Florence elected him a member.

“The Last Day of Pompei” was the first Russian painting to focus not on single historical figure—in the classical tradition—but on unknown common people. Sir Walter Scott called it, not a painting, but an epic. Nikolai Gogol called it “one of the brightest phenomena of the 19th century.” He hailed the painting as “the radiant resurrection of [Russian] painting which has been vegetating for so long in a  semi-lethargic state ... The strongest thing about Bryullov’s art is that his genius is broad and multi-faceted. He doesn’t neglect anything ... He attempts to embrace nature with the arms of a giant and holds that nature tight with the passion of a lover.”

For others, like the writer and critic Alexander Herzen, “The Last Day of Pompei” prophesied aristocratic Russia’s impending doom. The Decembrist Revolt nine years previous had rent a rift in society that was to be a focus of art and literature throughout the 19th century. “On the immense canvas,” Herzen wrote, “frightened people flock together in disorder. They are trying to find refuge, but in vain. They will be killed by the earthquake, by the eruption of the volcano and the storm of cataclysms. The wild, senseless and merciless force will destroy them, and nothing can resist it. This has been inspired by the atmosphere of St. Petersburg.”

But not everyone saw premonitions of social disaster in Bryullov’s masterwork. In fact, the painting’s owner, Anatoly Demidov, presented the canvas as a gift to Emperor Nicholas I, the reactionary emperor who put down the Decembrists.

In August 1834 the canvas arrived at the Winter Palace in St. Petersburg. In late September it was transferred to the Academy of Arts, which opened it for viewing to the public at large. Alexander Pushkin came to see the painting and copied two of the painting’s figures into a notebook, accompanying them with a poem that would remain unfinished, “Vesuvius Opens its Pharynx.”

Bryullov, now the first Russian painter to win fame in the West, had not returned to Russia with his painting. In 1835 he had set out on an expedition to the Ionic islands, then to Greece and Asia Minor. But he fell seriously ill in Athens and was forced to interrupt his cruise. He boarded the brig Themistocles, which was sailing via Smirna (modern day Efes, in Turkey) to Constantinople (now Istanbul). The ship’s  captain was Captain-lieutenant Vladimir Kornilov, the future hero of the defense of Sevastopol. On August 15, 1835 on board theThemistocles, Bryullov painted a water color portrait of the captain which was to become one of his most famous works.

Shortly after arriving in Constantinople, Bryullov was summoned to Russia by Tsar Nicholas I, to take a professorship at the Art Academy. In late fall, he left for Odessa, arriving in Moscow on December 25. At a special banquet held in his honor, one of the guests acclaimed the leading light of Russian art with verses that became proverbial:

èËÌeÒ Ú˚ ÏËpÌ˚Â ÚpÓÙÂË

ë ÒÓ·ÓÈ ‚ ÓÚ˜ÂÒÍÛ˛ ÒÂ̸,—

à ·˚Î ÔÓÒΉÌËÈ ‰Â̸ èÓÏÔÂË

—Îfl ÛÒÒÍÓÈ ÍËÒÚË ÔÂp‚˚È ‰Â̸!

For your Fatherland

You won those peaceful trophies so hard

And Pompei’s last day

Became the First Day for Russian Art!

In January, 1836 the Russian art patron Pavel Nashchokin recommended Karl Bryullov to poet Alexander Pushkin: “It’s been so long, I mean, so long that I can’t even remember, since I met such an easy, educated and intelligent man; I don’t have to say anything about his talent; he is known to the whole world and to Rome.” In May, Pushkin met with Bryullov in Moscow and shared his impressions in a letter to his wife, Natalya Nikolaevna. “I liked him so much. He suffers from a spleen, he shuns the Russian cold and other things too, he is longing for Italy and is very displeased with Moscow. I have seen some of his sketches in drawings, and I was thinking about you, honey. I can’t believe I won’t have a portrait of you by him! There is no way he wouldn’t want to draw you after he sees you ... For he is a true artist, and a good fellow on top of that, and is ready for everything.”

Legend has it that Pushkin visited Bryullov at his workshop in St. Petersburg the following year, on January 25, 1837 (shortly before the poet’s death). The story has it that Pushkin went down on his knee, imploring Bryullov to give him his drawing “A Ball Chez the Austrian Ambassador in Smirna.” Bryullov allegedly turned Pushkin down, only to regret his refusal a month later, when Pushkin died. (In 1849, Bryullov painted a rendition of “Bakhchysaray Fountain,” inspired by Pushkin’s poem of the same name).

Bryullov moved from Moscow to St. Petersburg in May of 1836. There, he was feted by the Academy and his “Last Day of Pompei” was hailed as one of the century’s best works of art. He went on to prove himself a gifted teacher, urging his students, not to “mimic me like monkeys.” He helped the Ukrainian poet and painter Taras Shevchenko to free himself from serfdom and later became his painting teacher. When another of his gifted pupils, Pavel Fedotov, showed him his creations “A Fresh Cavalier” and “The Picky Bride,” Bryullov was astonished. “I congratulate you!” he said. “I always knew I should expect it from you, but you have left me behind.” He came to realize that the new trend in Russian art was realism and that he no longer remained Russia’s best artist.

In June of 1836, Bryullov was introduced to Tsar Nicholas, who ordered him to paint a historical work on Ivan the Terrible’s seizure of Kazan. But the independent-minded Bryullov refused. Count Mikhail Buturlin recalled: “That’s the way he was: this independent and undaunted nature would not bow to gold nor to the idol of the court.”

As he toiled in St. Petersburg, awash in the acclaim of his countrymen, Bryullov struggled to recreate the grandeur of his masterwork. He continued to paint his wonderful portraits, many of which Russia (e.g. of General Perovsky and Nestor Kukolnik) are among his best works. But nothing could hold a candle to Pompei.

His one effort to undertake a new epic work was a painting on the Polish army’s seige of Pskov in 1581. “The Siege of Pskov” (Osada Pskova, in Russian) was never completed. In July 1843, Bryullov stopped work on the huge painting, dubbing it “Dosada ot Pskova” (Pskov’s Grievances). It was his first failure and it disturbed him greatly. Nonetheless, the painting did serve to begin a new, nationalist historical theme in Russian art that would continue for the next half-century.

During this same period, the painter’s personal life was also tinged with failure. In 1839, he had met and married Emilia Timm a talented pianist and the sister of a painter he worked with at the Academy of Arts. But their relationship suddenly cooled about the time countess Yulia Samoilova arrived in St. Petersburg to arrange problems with a legacy. After just two months of marriage, Bryullov and Timm divorced.

Bryullov slowly began losing faith in his unlimited potential. He saw himself as a flame that had burned brightly early on, and felt his creativity was dimming. Unfortunately, he (and those around him) had a flawed perception of his true talents: he saw himself first and foremost as a historical painter, while his portrait work was something secondary. Frustrated by his inability to recreate the inspired beauty of his monumental Pompei, he bided his time with portrait work. But, ever the perfectionist, he succeeded in evoking the heart and spirit of those he painted, leaving a rich legacy where he least expected it.

In the last few years of his life, Bryullov turned to monumental paintings, working on the frescoes of St. Isaac’s Cathedral in St. Petersburg, most notably on the large central painting of the Mother of God. He had begun his work in 1842, but work in the cold, unfinished cathedral damaged his health and caused a relapse of the tuberculosis that had plagued him on and off for 20 years. The artist Peter Basin completed the work, based on Bryullov’s sketches.

In April 1849, Bryullov left Russia to seek medical treatment. He set out for the island of Madeira, traveling via Belgium, England and Portugal. Everywhere he went, his fame preceded him. Later, he moved to his beloved Rome. But chronic illness prevented him from starting new work or completing earlier works unfinished. He lost his fight with tuberculosis on June 23, 1852, in Italy. He was buried near Rome.

As Galina Leontyeva writes in her book on Bryullov, 1852 was a difficult year for the Russian arts. But it was also a turning point. “In that year, Russia suffered bitter losses: Gogol’s death in February, Zhukovsky’s in April; in the fall, Fedotov, the most talented of Bryullov’s followers, ended his life at the age of thirty seven. That was the end of a whole epoch in Russian culture, when the foundations of  future Russian art were laid.”

Bryullov was a cornerstone of that foundation. As Russia’s first, internationally-renowned painter, he brought the romantic style of painting to a Russian art world stubbornly beholden to the classical styles imported by Peter I and Catherine II. His fame and talent allowed a blossoming of other talents, particularly among his students, opening the door to realism in all areas of the Russian arts, from Surikov and Repin to Chekhov and Tolstoy.  RL

Semyon Ekshtut is a historian specializing in 19th and early 20th century Russia. He is a frequent contributor to Russian Life. His article on Mikhail Lermontov was published in the Oct/Nov 1999 issue of Russian Life.