Sevastopol panorama from a drone's perspective
A reconstruction of the artist Franz Roubaud's life story, illustrated by his works.
Author: Sergey Tashevsky
The drone that didn't know the intricacies
As is well known, early in the morning of June 10, 2026, a Ukrainian drone struck the "Defense of Sevastopol 1854-1855" Panorama Museum and destroyed the artwork. It did its best. It burned the museum's interior. Fortunately, there were no casualties. Then the firefighters arrived and completed the destruction by flooding the 360-degree panorama with straight streams of water. This, of course, is nothing to celebrate. If only because Crimea clearly has far more suitable military targets, and the "Sevastopol Panorama" was originally the work of a French (later, admittedly, German) artist, not a Russian one. And a native of Odessa, at that. But the drone was clearly unaware of all these subtleties.
Whether the strike was intentional or accidental, we'll likely never know. No one will confess. The museum director claims to have clearly seen the drone aiming directly at the museum. And no one seems to have shot it down. But there are also electronic counter-drone techniques that alter their trajectories. They're probably using them in Sevastopol, too.
However, this doesn't matter to Russian propagandists. Maria Zakharova immediately declared that the destruction of this "symbol of Russian heroism" has profound, "sacred" (they like that word) significance for the Ukrainian Armed Forces. Rejecting any international institutions, these propagandists are now demanding that UNESCO condemn the "barbarity of the Ukrainian Armed Forces." As if Russian troops have never destroyed unique monuments in Ukraine (cathedrals in Odessa, the Gostiny Dvor in Kyiv, the Skovoroda Museum near Kharkiv, and so on—hundreds of attacks on cultural and historical sites).
But, incidentally, there was nothing "historical" left in the "Defense of Sevastopol" panorama; it was merely a remake, a high-quality reconstruction created by Soviet artists in the 50s. It will likely be quickly restored, since both the painting and its accompanying objects have been fully digitized. And it will once again become a "symbol of Russian heroism," better and more vibrant than before.
True, like most modern Russian symbols that have undergone the crucible of reconstruction, the history of the panorama itself and its creator, the artist Franz Roubaud, is full of awkward contradictions...
An Odessan from Marseille
Franz (François) Roubaud was born on June 17, 1856, to a bookseller and a dressmaker who had migrated from Marseille to Odessa. He was apparently the fourth child, but his mother was doing well (she even opened a studio on Deribasovskaya Street), so there was enough money for everything. This included his passion for painting, which had already manifested itself in early childhood. At the age of nine, his parents sent him to the newly opened Odessa Drawing School, where Franz's brilliant namesake, Academician Morandi, taught. There was literally everything needed for learning painting: paints from Holland, teaching aids and engravings from Milan, and, most importantly, an atmosphere of artistic creativity, which Roubaud immersed himself in. Very soon, his decision to become an artist became absolute.
At the age of 20 (shortly after his father's death), he moved with his mother and brothers from Odessa to Munich, Germany, where a couple of years later he entered the Royal Academy of Arts. This was in 1878. And around that time, Roubaud's "specialization," so to speak, was finally determined: battle painting. Naturally, he excelled at landscapes, portraits, and still lifes, but battle painting (even though he had never seen a single battle before) became his passion. At the same time, toward the end of his studies at the Academy, he became interested in dioramas and panoramas, fashionable among battle painters. But this art required money, which the budding artist could not afford.
Meanwhile, in those years, Russia became something of a mecca for battle painters. There was always something military going on there, worthy of the artists' attention. And most importantly, the paintings paid well! Therefore, Roubaud, who spoke excellent Russian and reached the pinnacle of his profession, was destined for success and fame in Russia. He likely understood this well, since immediately after graduating from the academy, he set off on a tour of the "hot spots" of the Russian Empire, primarily the Caucasus and Central Asia. Everywhere, he made sketches, which, upon his return to Munich, evolved into large canvases that enjoyed success both in Russia and Europe. As early as 1886, at the age of 30, Franz received his first major commission for a series of 19 paintings. about the Caucasian wars for the Tiflis museumHe soon became a regular participant in exhibitions at the Imperial Academy of Arts, and from that moment on, commissions and money began to flow. He even bought a house in his beloved Munich, and not just anywhere, but right there. on the lake shore, with a magical view from the windows. There, he set up a wonderful studio where he worked with his artist friends on new commissions. It was a dream come true!
His panoramas
It was then, in 1890, that Roubaud first turned to the art of panorama. He decided to produce his first experiment at his own expense: the panorama "Storming the Aul of Akhulgo," which he painted based on one of his own paintings for the Tiflis museum, was set up in a specially equipped pavilion in Munich. He planned to admit spectators by ticket. This was the era before the invention of cinema, and panoramas (and dioramas) were very fashionable in Europe. But German audiences had already been spoiled by such spectacles and didn't go to see some Dagestani village. So Roubaud dismantled the panorama and sent it by rail to Russia, to the Nizhny Novgorod Fair, where he expected greater success. And indeed, there she was noticedEven Nicholas II himself, visiting the fair, spent ten minutes in the pavilion and left a glowing review. Seizing on this opportunity, Franz immediately began writing letters to the Tsar, urging him to purchase the panorama "at public expense" for Russian museums. And he persuaded him, although they only settled on 15 rubles (barely half the cost). The dismantled "Storm of Akhulgo" was shipped to St. Petersburg, and after suffering wear and tear in freight cars, it disappeared somewhere in the storerooms of the Artillery Museum. Its fragments were found and displayed in the Dagestan Museum only 100 years later, in 1981.
However, the losses with his first panorama nevertheless turned into success and profit for Roubaud. Firstly, it earned him a professorship at the Munich Academy of Fine Arts. Secondly, he now had a reputation as an artist whose work was purchased by the Russian Emperor himself. So it's no surprise that when, a few years later, the idea of creating a panorama for the 50th anniversary of the defense of Sevastopol arose, the commission seemingly fell into Roubaud's lap. And it wasn't a cheap commission, to put it mildly.
The gigantic panorama, for which a stone pavilion was hastily built in Sevastopol, required the work of an entire studio, led by Franz in Munich. He and his "team" of artists (professors and students from the Munich Academy) made frequent trips to Crimea, surveying the city's environs. It was decided to depict the battle at Malakhov Kurgan in June 1855, even though the panorama building was being built on the site of the 4th Bastion. No matter, both were key heights. Roubaud meticulously pored over archives, examined uniforms and weapons, met with living witnesses and participants in the battles, and his assistants produced thousands of sketches and photographs. The gigantic canvas (115 meters long and 14 meters high!), which took three years to complete in Munich, constantly required revisions. Moreover, a 15-hectare "life plan" was located alongside the canvas—meaning the project was truly titanic. In the summer of 1904, everything was delivered to Sevastopol, and it took almost another year to install it in the newly built pavilion.
The first visitors in May 1905 were veterans of the defense of Sevastopol, and many of them were simply stunned by the panorama's authenticity. "It's exactly like this!" was heard here and there. But they were, of course, in vain. Only Nicholas II knew exactly how it all happened, immediately pointing out the artist's mistakes and shortcomings. To accommodate all these criticisms, the panorama had to be closed for another week. Nevertheless, its creators were fully rewarded, and from 1903 Roubaud became professor and director of the battle workshop at the Academy of Arts. True, he preferred to live and work, as before, in Munich, and visited St. Petersburg only occasionally. In both places, his fame reached its zenith. From time to time, he was awarded orders—sometimes the Prussian Order of the Crown II, sometimes (in Russia) the Order of Anna, also second class. Such is the symmetry.
Sometimes, however, the artist had to stay in Russia for long periods—especially after 1909, when Roubaud proposed creating a Borodino panorama, modeled on the Sevastopol panorama, for the anniversary of the 1812 War. Extensive preparations for the celebrations were made, no expense spared, and Roubaud's design was accepted. Armed with experience, the artist and his colleagues were now ready to produce Russian patriotic panoramas almost like an assembly line, provided they had the money. But money was always in short supply. Therefore, this time, the commissioners managed to build only a temporary pavilion for the panorama, on Chistye Prudy in Moscow, which was planned to be replaced with a permanent pavilion within a year or two. But "within a year or two," World War I began—and threw all plans into disarray.
The war found Roubaud at home, in his villa in Munich. He himself, at banquets at the Academy and in conversations with courtiers, often said that he considered himself a Russian artist, but he always retained his French citizenship, but now in Germany both were out of place. A week after the outbreak of hostilities, all French citizens were interned, and the same fate befell Roubaud's family. However, he was a professor, a recipient of government orders, and generally a prominent figure, so the authorities treated him with extreme leniency. And, to avoid further problems, they offered him German citizenship—to which Roubaud readily agreed. Thus, in September 1914, as Prussian shells shredded the bodies of Russian soldiers in Galicia, the author of two of the most famous patriotic panoramas suddenly became German. However, with the subsequent twists of history, everyone somehow forgot about this. They also forgot about Roubaud himself (who lived another 15 years in his house on the lake, continuing to teach and paint), and about battle panoramas, which had generally gone out of fashion in Europe.
Злой рок
In Russia, Roubaud's works seem to have been dogged by a cruel fate. From his first panorama, "The Storming of Akhulgo," which was immediately destroyed in freight cars after the Nizhny Novgorod Fair, to the "Borodino Panorama." For obvious reasons, it remained in a temporary pavilion, which had already begun to leak in 1916. Then came the Revolution, and panoramas were no longer in demand. The building was handed over to an electrical engineering school and "used for proletarian New Year's parties," and in 1918, it was completely demolished. The enormous canvas was somehow rolled up and carried to the theater basement of the Hermitage Garden, where it rotted almost to its foundations. So when the "patriotic upsurge" began in the USSR after World War II, and Stalin ordered its restoration, there was almost nothing left to restore. Only the canvas, with traces of paint, somehow survived, and over the course of a year and a half, restoration artists essentially repainted the panorama on it. But here's the problem: once again, no building was available in Moscow to display it, so the restored canvas was put back into storage for another 10 years. When, under Khrushchev, a round building was finally built to house the panorama for the 150th anniversary of the Battle of Borodino, the canvas was already falling apart, and the "Borodino Panorama" essentially had to be painted anew for the new museum. This means that on Kutuzovsky Prospekt in Moscow (if a Ukrainian drone were to fly there), it's not the original that might be damaged, but only a second copy of Roubaud's work. Or rather, a third: in 1967, Chinese students, supporters of the "Cultural Revolution" (and therefore opponents of Brezhnev and the Soviet Central Committee, despite having studied in the USSR) pelted the panorama with Molotov cocktails. Because of these Red Guards, who had been basking in Soviet soil, 60 percent of the canvas burned. The press, of course, didn't report this, and the panorama was restored secretly, around the clock, but relations with China deteriorated completely.
As for the ill-fated Sevastopol Panorama, it too suffered hardships after the Revolution: during the Civil War, part of the building's dome was shattered, the canvas became pitted and damaged by damp. In 1924, it was removed and mothballed, and in the early 30s, a major restoration began. However, it didn't suffer the same horrific damage as the Borodino Panorama, so the restoration was successful—and in 1940, Roubaud's masterpiece reopened to visitors. Alas, it was short-lived. In 1942, during another siege of Sevastopol, bombs hit the panorama building, starting a massive fire.
It must be said that the Sevastopol residents' attempt to save the panorama was truly heroic. And they almost succeeded. Soldiers rushed into the fire, tearing out huge fragments of canvas, beating the flames with their pea jackets (and sometimes simply with their bare hands), and carrying them out of the blaze. Through desperate efforts, more than two-thirds of Roubaud's canvases were saved in the besieged city. Rolled into enormous rolls, 86 fragments of the painting were loaded onto the destroyer Tashkent, which, under constant bombardment, broke out of the besieged city for Novorossiysk—delivering the precious cargo to the mainland. A few days later, on its next voyage, the Tashkent was hit by German bombs and sank, taking half its crew with it—but the panorama was saved. Alas, not entirely. It turned out that the Tashkent's holds were already filled with water, and the canvas had become soaked. It needed urgent conservation, but when and where? Fragments of the panorama were evacuated to Novosibirsk, then somewhere else, and somewhere else again... And finally, when it arrived at the Tretyakov Gallery in Moscow in 1943, the art commission unanimously declared that "the condition of the canvas completely precluded restoration."
But nothing is impossible if Stalin demands it. And he did. He wanted the panorama fully restored by the centenary of the defense of Sevastopol, that is, by October 1954. He was probably already preparing, like Nicholas II, to review the artists' work and offer them criticism (he, like no one else, knew a thing or two about monumental painting!). But it didn't happen. And both of Roubaud's restored panoramas were unveiled under Khrushchev.
However, even less of Roubaud's work remains in the Sevastopol panorama than in the Borodino panorama. Several miraculously preserved fragments of his work were not used in the main canvas at all, and were kept in storerooms or displayed in separate rooms (which is why, according to reports, they survived the Ukrainian attack). The panorama itself was recreated more or less freely, based on rare photographs and surviving sketches. The group of Soviet artists who worked on it even added several important details of their own, such as a field hospital and the figure of Dr. Pirogov, which were not present in the original panorama. Nevertheless, their work was quite striking and successful—so much so that a generation later, it no longer mattered whether it was an "original" or a copy. It was still something of the past. Wasn't it?
The symbol is obsolete.
But now it will be restored once again. And not because it is high art or a historical relic. But because it is a "symbol of Russian heroism."
But the symbol is outdated, almost parodic.
After all, these battle dioramas and panoramas come to us from the era when all Soviet children played with tin soldiers. Alas, Russia's current rulers are also from there. And perhaps that's why, in recent years, dozens of new dioramas and panoramas have suddenly begun appearing in various cities, mostly on "patriotic" themes about World War II. There are entire groups of artists, such as, for example, "Nevsky battle painter", producing high-quality "military installations" across the country, and even in neighboring Belarus. They have no problem with funding. They've mastered techniques that Roubaud and his colleagues couldn't even dream of: 3D printers, computer modeling, "Hollywood-style" expressiveness, precise texture reproduction. Neat and inspired "special officers" and "political officers" with revolvers lead soldiers into attack on the front lines. The heroic faces of the soldiers glow with a sense of foreboding. Schoolchildren watch all this. Tens, hundreds of thousands of them, brought here for "important conversations."
And who knows how many more drones it will take to finally stop all of this.
