Winter 1914

Konstantin Gorbatov's "Winter" seems to have been coaxed into being, with brushstrokes thick with longing and a palette of hushed violets and yellows. I can imagine him layering paint, scraping it back, maybe muttering to himself as the scene gradually appeared. You know, standing here, I start to feel his sense of place, that particular angle of light on the snow-covered roofs. The texture isn't smooth or blended. Instead, it's built up, almost like the snowdrifts themselves. And those bare trees, their branches are like scratchy lines across the sky. Each mark feels intentional, a deliberate choice to reveal something about the cold, the stillness, the quiet drama of winter. It puts me in mind of Pissarro's winter scenes, but Gorbatov brings his own sensibility. It's all part of a larger conversation, each painter chiming in with their take. Paintings like this remind me that art is never truly finished, that it keeps evolving through our gaze and imagination.