MYKOLA PIMONENKO: The Artist Who Painted the Ukrainian Soul
Mykola Pymonenko in his Kyiv studio. Next to him is the painting Hopak, 1910 / facebook.com
A native of Kyiv’s Priorka district, Mykola Pymonenko was considered a nonconformist, while his own father-in-law called him a «complex» artist because he painted people, animals, and even floods with pumpkins with equal skill. In St. Petersburg, the Academy hesitated to grant him a diploma, dismissing his work as «rural trash» and accusing him of «smearing Little Russia». Yet, in time, he earned the title of Academician of Painting.
He excelled in depicting water — whether a puddle or melting snow — and had a masterful grasp of moonlit lyricism. He eagerly painted both townspeople and peasants, dressing Ukrainians in festive attire, which led people to say his canvases were tastefully «dressed». To ensure lifelike accuracy, he would even bring a calf or a sheep into his home as a model.
Pymonenko left behind nearly a thousand works.
SHUSTOV AND HIS “SPOTYKACH”
At one point, a loud scandal erupted around Mykola Pymonenko when his vibrant painting Going Home was transformed into a label and adorned bottles of vodka produced by the trading company Shustov & Sons. Outraged colleagues from the Peredvizhniki Society wrote him an angry letter: How could you stoop so low? They accused him of being so mercenary that he had sold out to advertise the «green serpent» for questionable money. You have disgraced our entire artistic community by selling yourself to a vodka manufacturer!
At that time, Pymonenko was living and working in Kyiv, completely unaware of what was happening in distant Moscow. As soon as he learned of the situation, he packed his suitcase and headed to the capital to confront the businessman.
Shustov, who owned a factory on Bolshaya Sadovaya Street employing 140 workers, produced nearly 100,000 buckets of liqueurs and tinctures annually. Among them were wormwood infusions for stomach ailments, pepper vodka essential for colds, as well as rowan, caraway, plum, cherry, and the bitterly strong Yefimovich, infused with anise, mint, and pomeranze nuts.
What set Shustov apart from his competitors was his original labels and shockingly bold advertising. He would hire impoverished students for mere kopecks and send them to taverns, where they would either arrive drunk or convincingly play the role, demanding Shustov vodka. If the establishment didn’t have it, they would start shouting and smashing furniture — but never causing damage over ten rubles. By the next morning, the incident would be in the newspapers, and intrigued Muscovites, along with bar owners, would start hunting for that notorious liquor. It must be truly remarkable if people are causing such a fuss over it!, they thought, and Shustov’s business skyrocketed.
The alcohol magnate welcomed the Ukrainian painter cordially and swore he had no idea who had created the painting. He claimed he had simply seen a reproduction on a postcard and taken an interest in it. Since my business is in a different field, I don’t study painting or visit exhibitions. How was I supposed to know that this particular image — where a furious barefoot woman confronts her drunken husband, waving a stick while the dog Brovko barks from the porch — belonged to some Pymonenko?
Let’s settle this amicably, Shustov suggested. I’ll compensate you, and we’ll shake hands. But Mykola refused — professional honor could not be bought. He took the businessman to court, won the case, and ensured that all bottles with the contested labels were pulled from the market.
As compensation for moral damages, he received a substantial sum. Without hesitation, he headed to Maliutynka, near Boyarka and Hlevakha, where he organized a celebration for the village youth. While they danced joyfully, he settled under an oak tree, sketching away — capturing the emotions of youth and happiness he so deeply cherished.
LIFE STORIES IN PAINTINGS
He painted with inspiration, and almost every painting has its own story. For instance, Before the Storm was born, he helped a village girl herd sheep into the barn as the sky turned wild. Just one more moment, and it would burst like old satin. The painting Victim of Fanaticism appeared after he read a newspaper article.
The article told the tragic story of a young Jewish woman who dared to fall in love with a Christian blacksmith and put on his cross. Never mind that both faiths worship the same God, read the same Old Testament, and believe in heaven and hell — their views on Jesus created an unbridgeable divide. The Jewish community was outraged, brutally beating the “infidel,” while her own parents disowned her. Mykola Pymonenko was deeply shaken and traveled to the town of Kremenets, where the drama had unfolded.
The locals met the man with brushes with hostility — What are you snooping around for? — but the painter persisted and made numerous sketches. Soon, a sorrowful young woman in a torn blouse appeared on the canvas, facing an enraged crowd armed with pitchforks, sticks, and umbrellas. A dilapidated fence, a swirl of crows, a tangled mass of storm clouds — it was pure apocalypse.
Later, the artist rented a small house in the now-familiar village of Maliutynka, where he immersed himself in the sights of Christmas carols, weddings, and festive fortune-telling. And so, his paintings emerged, filled with color and rhythm: young women in woolen coats, lads in straw hats, a niece with her geese. Courtship, matchmaking, Easter morning prayers, and Clean Thursday — a vivid tapestry of Ukrainian life.
BETWEEN ST. PETERSBURG AND TUBERCULOSIS
The artist always carried paper and pencils, afraid to miss even a single scene or event. This habit formed in childhood, as he grew up in a family of a bohomaz — his father painted icons and decorated churches and chapels. Over time, young Mykola was fortunate enough to be admitted to the Kyiv Drawing School, and even on a full scholarship, funded by the philanthropist Ivan Tereshchenko.
It was there that something remarkable happened. One day, a short man with a beard visited the classroom on Afanasiyivska Street. He walked down the corridor, glanced at every easel, and took particular notice of one student. The young man was struggling with the face of Christ when the distinguished visitor, without hesitation, grabbed a brush and deftly completed either an aura or a rebellious curl of hair. That visitor was none other than Illia Repin, who, with this gesture, blessed a future artistic star.
Later, the young man set off for St. Petersburg, having been accepted into the Academy of Arts. His father, bidding him farewell, shed a tear: See how God helps you — He gave you talent and sent the right people to guide it. Now, be prepared for trials. He was right.
Despite excelling in his studies and painting plaster busts with greater skill than his peers, Mykola struggled with the damp Baltic climate. He was constantly sick — bronchitis turned into pneumonia, and just as he recovered, obstructive bronchitis struck again. On top of that, he barely had enough money for food, clothes, or paints, forcing him to work as a porter and an errand boy. Eventually, another severe case of pneumonia became life-threatening, and doctors unanimously advised him to leave — otherwise, tuberculosis was inevitable.
Of course, basking in the sun at European resorts or, at the very least, in Crimea would have been ideal, but the student chose to return to his beloved Maliutynka. There, the dry, sunbaked sand, the mighty river, and fresh vegetables awaited him. And, of course, berries, milk, and honey — nature’s medicine.
LOVE IN KADETSKY LANE
Leaving his studies was difficult for the young artist. In just two years, he had earned several silver medals, and his professors were reluctant to let him go — they had great hopes for him and even allowed him to submit his works to ongoing exhibitions by mail. He did so for the next seven years.
Upon returning to Kyiv, he took a teaching position — and fell in love. His chosen one was Oleksandra, the daughter of the St. Petersburg academician Orlovsky. Mykola often visited her father, engaging in long and passionate discussions. Meanwhile, the young woman would serve tea and freshly baked pastries. He knew she had a fiery spirit — having already turned down several suitors — but when he proposed, she answered with a quiet yet firm yes.
The couple married and celebrated a grand wedding attended by nearly all of Kyiv’s artistic elite. For their honeymoon, they traveled to Germany. Upon their return, they settled with her father in the same house on Kadetsky Lane (now 28 Hoholivska Street), though in a separate wing. There, they had three children. Oleksandra took care of the household, doing everything possible to ensure her husband could paint with ease.
Pymonenko spent his summers in the countryside, where he set up a comfortable studio. It had large glass doors through which the sun entered uninvited. The village beekeeper, carpenter, and mower would occasionally peek inside. With such an atmosphere, work felt effortless and joyful.
In autumn, he returned to Kyiv, where he taught at Kyiv Polytechnic Institute, heading the department of descriptive geometry. He also painted murals in St. Volodymyr’s Cathedral and St. Cyril’s Church, created paintings, and exhibited his works in Berlin, Paris, London, and Munich.
In 1904, Pymonenko was awarded the title of Academician of Painting. As a teacher, he had little patience for objections but treated his students with great attention. He advised them always to paint from life and never to forget the simplicity of a pencil. There will be time for painting later, he would say.
HOW PAINTED THYME SMELLS
Pymonenko chose ordinary people as his subjects — mowers, flower sellers, and carolers. Matchmakers, rivals, plowmen. Those wading across a river, trading at the fair, bidding farewell. Drawing water, drying hay, blessing Easter bread, or carrying a Holy Week candle home. Chatting at Kyiv’s railway station or marveling at a chance encounter with a fellow countryman. And everything was vivid, authentic, and expressive. No wonder writer V. Korolenko once admitted: When I look at his paintings, I feel as if I can smell thyme or the unique scent of blooming cherry trees and sun-warmed steppe.
Then came illness. Strange and sudden. It started with pain in his right side — sharp and relentless. Doctors suspected an abscess or a tumor in the liver but hesitated to operate. Mykola endured that thorn until he could fight no longer. He passed away just weeks after his fiftieth birthday.
Upon hearing of his student’s death, Illia Repin wrote: What a loss! He was a true Ukrainian, and his homeland will never forget him for his sincere and endearing paintings — just like Ukraine itself. Oleksandra outlived her husband by forty years and never remarried. Their children did not become artists — the painter’s genes resurfaced only in a distant great-great-granddaughter.
To this day, in Maliutynka, the oak tree under which he sketched still stands, its leaves whispering memories. And we, gazing at his paintings, can still feel the warmth of a summer stove, the chill of autumn rain, or the rhythmic beat of a wedding drum, inviting us to a lively polka or a breathtaking hopak.
