5 April 2014
We must take a good, long look at the fluctuations of the horizon around us, at the bushes, at the gaps in the brickwork, at how the clouds sail over beheaded Moscow poplars. It seems that we can do this in two ways.
The first, chosen by Boris Matrosov, is to get as close as possible to what the artist is trying to depict: to tear the reading glasses from one’s nose, to lose one’s orientation in space and to batter one’s forehead up against the cement wall of the Russian landscape.
The second, which Nikita Alexeev has risked, is to optically shift away from Russia’s landscape, to view it from on high, from a point where there is no difference between South Butovo and the Alps. This farsightedness unavoidably turns into a mouse hunt, an attempt at escape and further wanderings in the air flows.
But the risk has to be taken. Otherwise, landscape painting in Russia may be left as the mere servant of an anecdotal-genre art offered to those who have the opportunity to engage in karaoke among the birches and the concrete fences.
Nikita Alexeev. Boris Matrosov