Native landscapes Sergeya Basov!

Native landscapes Sergey Basov.

(Background music: Frolov, Ganeeva, Ziganshin - Nightingale)



Sergey Basov was born in Yoshkar-Ola in 1964. He graduated from Kazan
Aviation Institute, while studying which continued to take a great interest in painting - a favorite childhood pastime. Having no formal art education diplomas, Sergei honed their skills on their own. Now work Basov indispensable participants International artsalonov in the Central House of Artists and Art Manege. The artist continues the tradition of Russian classical landscape painting XIX veka.Iskusstvovedy Sergey Basov called one of the best representatives of modern Russian realism, noting his impeccable taste, amazing poetic perception of the world and a perfect painting technique.

Many of our compatriots go abroad for a long time, is taken to a foreign friends a gift or just as a souvenir piece of Russia, captured in landscapes bass. Indescribable beauty of nature over the Russian average strip artist conveys on his canvases in a fine, lyrical style, with surprising warmth and love. His quivering works deservedly compared with picturesque elegies, so they are poetic. According to critics, Basov - very sensitive artist who wants to get "maximum tone truth." (Maria Avvakumov)

Better Angels Red White & Blue

When, exhausted by work,
The fire of my soul dried up,
Yesterday I went reluctantly
In devastated birch.

On the smooth silk site
Whose tone was green and purple,
Stood in a slender mess
Rows of silver trunks.

Through the short distance
Between the trunks, through the foliage,
Heaven evening radiance
Throws shadows on the grass.

Was he tired the hour of sunset,
Dying hour, when
Total loss sadder us
Unfinished work.



Two of the world is a person:
One, which he did,
The other, from which we century
We create within our capabilities.

Inconsistencies are huge,
And, despite the interest,
Birch grove Kolomna
Do not repeat my miracles.

Soul wandering in the invisible,
His tales full,
Blind eye accompanied
The nature of the external it.

So, probably, thought naked,
Once thrown into the wilderness,
In itself exhausted,
My soul feels.

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