Russischer Reiter
circa 1902
It is strange that, having stared at this
work for years, it is still difficult to describe why it is so strong a piece. With
a voice made from its colours and contours, Kandinsky's illustration is able to
maintain a consistent degree of visual intensity all year round. It is not a
cliché image such as a bouquet of flowers (which, however attractive it may be,
risks losing strength with the change of season or when paired with another
group of flowers), but an image whose voice disguises and alters according to
mood and place - one whose voice acts as a shield against the effects of time.
Like the style of composition itself - with
objects slightly blurred in outline, blotched in pools of rich reds, greens or
black - it is an image who speaks the particular tongue of its viewer, one that
connects almost personally with him or her. It shape-shifts and moulds itself
to their tastes, sometimes depending on factors as small as the moment's
lighting or scent, all the while remaining the distinct landscape Kandinsky
painted it as. His rider tells them, us, to look
at that great blue reflective lake; to feel the
peeling birch trunks and the taut hide of the horse (as theatrical as it is,
almost like one belonging to a toy-soldier); and to listen for any chimes or chirps ringing from the gold onions and
the birds in the pines. The rider even turns on his saddle, imploring us to be
a part of his scene, to live with it and in it every day so as to know it as a
friend, as someone who lasts forever. With that said, who can really describe a
true friendship easily, in simple words?
