Myasoyedov was the son of a petty nobleman in the province of Tula, and made a lot out of his barefoot childhood, which hardly differed greatly from the childhood of his peers who did not differ in noble origins.
Observant, in love with the world around him, Myasoyedov watched and memorized significant and not too significant events from the life of the village. How they sow and how they reap, how they care for cattle, how they celebrate, when they have something to celebrate. Even after graduating from the Academy of Arts and making a small tour of European countries, Myasoedov did not forget about his own past. Many of his paintings narrate precisely about peasant life, while others depict historical events or historical figures and life scenes.
“The Road to the Rye” is one of the paintings of the past, captured on canvas. There is a boundless wheat field on it – among the ears you can see the stems of other plants, flowers, weeds, but this does not spoil the feeling that the field is as boundless as the sea. It stretches from horizon to horizon, and if you listen, you can hear the wind roaming among the poured ears of wheat. And almost in the middle of the canvas is a road.
Of course, not paved, just a country road, trodden by many people who passed through it. Small flowers and low grass grow on it, taking advantage of the opportunity to absorb sunlight unhindered, and a man in tattered clothes walks over it, carrying a bag on his shoulder, with a staff in his hands.
It is unlikely that he is a peasant – rather a traveler, a beggar or a pilgrim. He has been walking for a long time – this is evident from the slight inclination of the figure forward, along the bowed head – and I am used to it. His face is not visible, but if you look closely, you can see where he goes, the roofs of the village. And above it the sky rises – gray, most likely, it is already evening – and heavy clouds are crowded on the horizon that can bring rain.
The picture leaves a sense of unfinished path, constant, almost meaningless movement. But there is no despair or fear. Only peace and wind in the wheat.