Free From Russia with Lunch by David Smiedt Page A

the iconostasis inside. These depictions were described by one guide book as being ‘rather more saccharine’ than those on the building’s exterior. I was equally moved by both so I guess one man’s saccharine must be another’s sugar.
    My next stop was equally uplifting. Lithuania’s burgeoning green movement has seen facilities such as the Echo of the Forest spring up like fungi in moss. An oak tree grows through the centre of this building and its walkways come oh-so-close to succeeding in giving visitors the promised illusion of ‘walking on air’. Imagine an indoor treetop walk and you’ll begin to get a picture of the Echo of the Forest. Although the space is relatively small, through cleverly detailed design, the use of recorded birdsong and wind, and an assiduous blend of living insects and plants, it’s an evocation that verges on the meditative.
    Mellowed by harnessed nature, I took a stroll to the Ciurlionis Memorial Museum to pay homage to Lithuania’s greatest artist. It’s a title which may at first glance seem tainted by hyperbole but is actually rather quite understated considering his achievements.
    Born close by in Verena in 1875, Mikalojus Konstantinis Ciurlionis spent his childhood in Druskininkai. The eldest of eleven children, his Polish peasant father played the organ at the local church while his Lithuanian mother entertained her brood with indigenous folklore. By the age of ten, his musical talents were undeniable and before his teens were over Ciurlionis was one of the most celebrated students at the Warsaw Institute of Music. A year after graduating, he wrote the tone poem In the Forest, the first ever symphonic composition by a Lithuanian. Featuring a melancholic nod to Chopin and Bach plus the repetitive bass figures which would become his trademark, this work holds the same place in the hearts of the locals that Waltzing Matilda does in the hearts of Australians.
    As the twentieth century rolled around, Ciurlionis – who had by then acquired some repute as a composer – decided to take up painting and drawing. It was the equivalent of Céline Dion deciding to star in a sitcom and could have led to the same disastrous career consequences. For Ciurlionis, however, reputation was negated by expression. His first images were produced in pastels, although he later switched to tempera. Classified as a symbolist – a tag which only applies to his early work – many Lithuanians believe Ciurlionis rather than Kandinsky was the first truly abstract artist. It’s a long bow but one which is plucked with grim determination.
    Rooted in the Lithuanian folk tradition, he then turned to creating designs for stained glass and book covers in the art nouveau spirit and in 1906 decided ‘to dedicate all past and future work to Lithuania’. If that wasn’t enough to earn him eternally beloved status, he helped organise the first exhibition of Lithuanian art in 1907. The combination of his prolific output across five media, savage depression and a lifetime of financial problems in which his talents rarely elicited monetary rewards saw Ciurlionis’ health spiral into decline. In 1910, broke and frail, he returned to Druskininkai. A year later he was dead at thirty-six.
    Imagine Mozart, Monet and James Dean rolled into one and a clearer picture emerges of what Ciurlionis means to Lithuanians. On the day I visited the four buildings that comprised his childhood home – whitewashed, wooden and with shingled roofs – several of his pastoral and romantic piano pieces were being performed. This is where things got a little wacky. Splayed out on the lawn beside one building were two dozen picnic blankets on which vodka-happy locals sat expectantly. I asked a guide where the concert was taking place. She said, ‘Here.’ I said, ‘Where?’ She said, ‘Here,’ again, only this time with what my mother would call