State Construction and Art in East Central Europe, 1918–2018 9781032195872, 9781032209005, 9781003265818

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State Construction and Art in East Central Europe, 1918–2018

This volume offers a comprehensive perspective on the relationship between the art scene and agencies of the state in countries of the region, throughout four consecutive yet highly diverse historical periods: from the period of state integration after World War I, through the communist era post 1945 and the time of political transformation after 1989, to the present-day globalisation (including counter-reactions to westernisation and cultural homogenisation). With twenty-three theoretically and/or empirically oriented articles by authors from sixteen countries (East Central Europe and beyond, including the United States and Australia), the book discusses interconnections between state policies and artistic institutions, trends and the art market from diverse research perspectives. The contributors explore subjects such as the impact of war on the formation of national identities, the role of artists in image-building for the new national states emerging after 1918, the impact of political systems on artists’ attitudes, the discourses of art history, museum studies, monument conservation and exhibition practices. The book will be of interest to scholars working in art history, cultural politics, cultural history, and East Central European studies and history. Agnieszka Chmielewska is Assistant Professor and Deputy Director of the Centre for Europe at the University of Warsaw. Irena Kossowska is Full Professor of Art History at the Nicolaus Copernicus University in Toruń and the Polish Institute of World Art Studies in Warsaw. Marcin Lachowski is Associate Professor at the Institute of Art History at the University of Warsaw.

Routledge Research in Art History

Routledge Research in Art History is our home for the latest scholarship in the field of art history. The series publishes research monographs and edited collections, covering areas including art history, theory, and visual culture. These high-level books focus on art and artists from around the world and from a multitude of time periods. By making these studies available to the worldwide academic community, the series aims to promote quality art history research. Posthumous Art, Law and the Art Market The Afterlife of Art Edited by Sharon Hecker and Peter J. Karol American Art in Asia Artistic Praxis and Theoretical Divergence Edited by Michelle Lim and Kyunghee Pyun Bauhaus Effects in Art, Architecture and Design Edited by Kathleen James-Chakraborty and Sabine T. Kriebel Art History at the Crossroads of Ireland and the United States Edited by Cynthia Fowler and Paula Murphy Nature and Imagination in Ancient and Early Modern Roman Art Gabriel Pihas Erasures and Eradication in Modern Viennese Art, Architecture and Design Edited by Megan Brandow-Faller and Laura Morowitz Egon Schiele and the Art of Popular Illustration Claude Cernuschi State Construction and Art in East Central Europe, 1918–2018 Edited by Agnieszka Chmielewska, Irena Kossowska, and Marcin Lachowski For more information about this series, please visit: www.routledge.com/RoutledgeResearch-in-Art-History/book-series/RRAH

State Construction and Art in East Central Europe, 1918–2018

Edited by Agnieszka Chmielewska, Irena Kossowska, and Marcin Lachowski

Cover image: Małgorzata Markiewicz, A Map, 2013. Object, 250 × 250 cm. Cracow, MOCAK Collection. Photo by Piotr Majewski. First published 2023 by Routledge 605 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10158 and by Routledge 4 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon, OX14 4RN Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2023 selection and editorial matter, Agnieszka Chmielewska, Irena Kossowska, and Marcin Lachowski; individual chapters, the contributors The right of Agnieszka Chmielewska, Irena Kossowska, and Marcin Lachowski to be identified as the authors of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A catalog record for this title has been requested ISBN: 978-1-032-19587-2 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-032-20900-5 (pbk) ISBN: 978-1-003-26581-8 (ebk) DOI: 10.4324/9781003265818 Typeset in Sabon by MPS Limited, Dehradun

Contents

List of Illustrations List of Contributors Introduction

viii xii 1

AGNIE SZKA C H MI E L E WS K A, I RE N A K O S S O W SKA, A ND M ARCI N L A C HO WS K I

PART I

Cultural Specificity of East Central Europe 1 History Too Fast

21 23

É VA FORGÁ C S

2 Universal or National? Making Art on the European Periphery

32

AGNIE SZKA C H MI E L E WS K A

3 The Concept of Eastern Art and Self-Historicisation: The Slovenian Case

42

NADJ A GNA MU Š

PART II

Nation- and State-Building Processes 4 Performing Everyday Activity, Creating Eternal: Ukrainian Art on the Fronts of the First World War

53

55

S OFIA KORO L ’

5 Civil War – Communist Upheaval – Attack of the White Slaughterers? The Civil Wars of 1917–1922 in Finnish and Soviet Karelian Literature THE KLA MUSÄ U S

65

vi Contents

6 The Archipenko Brothers: Discussions about National Art

74

V ITA SUSA K

PART III

Aestheticisation of Politics – Ideologisation of Aesthetics 7 In/Tolerance to Visual Anti-Semitism in Czechoslovakia 1918–1948

85

87

MILAN PE C H

8 Art History and State Reconstruction in Greece in the 1950s and Early 1960s

97

L EFTE RIS S PY R O U

9 Contesting Legitimacy: From the Photo Club to Fine Art Subjective Documentary―Andrejs Grants. Latvia: Changing and Unchanging Reality

107

PAMEL A M . B R O W N E

10 “Poles Forming Their National Flag”: Artistic Reflections on the Transformation of the Political System in Post-1989 Central and Eastern Europe

127

PIOT R M AJE W S KI

PART IV

Art Exhibitions as Political Instrument

139

11 Western Modern Art Exhibitions in the USSR in 1930s–1950s

141

KATARINA L O P A TK I N A

12 “The Lenin of Soviet Art Has Not Yet Been Born”: Nascent Socialist Realism in Warsaw of 1933

148

IRE NA KOS SO W S KA

13 From Hanoi and Havana to Paris and New York: Czecho-Slovak Cultural-Diplomatic Exhibitions during the Cold War

164

MÁRIA ORIŠ K O V Á

14 1956. Old Masters and the Ephemeral Borders

174

PATRICI A GA R CÍ A- MO N T Ó N GO N Z Á LE Z

15 Somewhere Something PAV LÍNA M O RG AN O V Á

185

Contents vii

16 Dreams and Nightmares: Nationalism in Art Exhibitions from Socialist Romania 1974–1989

195

CRIST IAN NAE

17 Local/Global Latvian Art at the Venice Biennale

209

S TE LL A PE L Š E

18 “Grey in Colour” – Observations on the Reconstruction of Modernity

218

M ARCI N L A C HO WS K I

PART V

Architecture as Vehicle for State Cultural Policy

231

19 Cities in Interbellum Lithuanian Republic (1918–1940)

233

PAUL IUS T AU T VY D AS L AU R IN A IT IS

20 About Two Gems in the Stadtkrone of Kaunas, the Provisional Capital of Interwar Lithuania

244

GIE D RĖ J ANK E VI ČI Ū TĖ

21 An Elite Place for the Masses: Prague Castle and its Role in the Legitimisation of Socialist Rule in Czechoslovakia (1948–1968)

260

V ERONI KA R O L L O VÁ

22 One Ideology, Two Visions: Ecclesiastical Buildings and State Identity in the Socialist Capital During the Post-War Rebuilding Decades 1945–1975, East Berlin and Warsaw

268

M ARCUS V AN D E R ME U L E N

23 Monument Preservation during Socialism: Restorations and Reconstructions of Hungarian Roman Catholic Churches in the 1960–70s

278

E RZSÉB E T URB Á N

Index

288

Illustrations

2.1 Stanisław Wyspiański, Girl in a Folk Costume, 1901. Pastel, 48.5 × 30 cm. National Museum in Warsaw 2.2 Tytus Czyżewski, Tatra Brigand, 1917–1918. Watercolour, 64.3 × 48.3 cm. National Museum in Warsaw 2.3 Władysław Skoczylas, Archer (Apollo), 1923. Woodcut, 17 × 22.2 cm. National Museum in Warsaw 3.1 A slogan on folders, catalogue lists and public announcements for museum’s new acquisitions for the collection Arteast 2000+. The Museum of Modern Art and The Museum of Contemporary Art Metelkova, Ljubljana 3.2 Arteast 2000+ exhibition view. A Selection of Works for the International and National Collections of Moderna Galerija Ljubljana, Moderna galerija, Ljubljana, 2004 3.3 Irwin, East Art Map, 2000–2005. Installation view of the exhibition The Present and Presence, Museum of Contemporary Art Metelkova, Ljubljana, 2011–2012 4.1 Osyp Kurylas, The Killed Rifleman near the Cross, 1916–1917. Oil on canvas, 37 × 54 cm. Lviv, Andrey Sheptytsky National Museum in Lviv 4.2 Osyp-Roman Sorokhtei, Portrait of Leontovych, 1916. Pencil on paper, 21 × 17 cm. Lviv, the artist’s family collection 4.3 Ivan Ivanets’, Attack! (Version 2), circa 1916–1920. Gouache on paper, 29.7 × 43.5 cm. Prague, the Kotecký’s family collection 6.1 Yevhen and Alexander Archipenko, early 1890s, Kyiv 6.2 Yevhen and Alexander Archipenko, January 31, 1959, Neu-Ulm 6.3 a, b. Postcard of Alexander to Yevhen Archipenko, February 4, 1959 7.1 Karel Rélink, Only a Jew Is a Neighbour of Jew, 1923. From Karel Rélink. 1925. Mirror of Jews: a Jew by Talmud. Prague: Karel Rélink 7.2 Karel Rélink, Book cover, 1925. From Karel Rélink. 1925 7.3 Dobroslav Haut, How Jews crippled Czech Culture, 1940. From Arijský boj 2. 18 January 1941: 1

37 38 38

43

45

47

59 60 62 75 80 81

89 90 94

Illustrations 8.1

8.2

8.3

9.1 9.2 9.3 10.1

10.2

10.3 12.1 12.2 12.3 13.1 13.2

13.3

14.1

14.2

14.3

Nikolaos Kounelakis (1829–1869), The Artist’s Family – Allegory of the Fine Arts and Liberal Arts, 1864–1865. Oil on canvas, 94 × 73 cm., Athens, National Gallery – Alexandros Soutsos Museum, inv. no.: Π.476 Konstantinos Parthenis (1878–1967), The Harbour of Kalamata, 1911. Oil on canvas, 70 × 75 cm., Athens, National Gallery – Alexandros Soutsos Museum, inv. no.: Π.488 Yannis Tsarouchis (1910–1989), Koundouriotissa or Woman from Eleusis, 1948. Tempera on wood panel (door), 191 × 70 cm., Athens, National Gallery – Alexandros Soutsos Museum, inv. no.: Π.2355 Andrejs Grants, from the collection “Around Latvia”, Jurmala, Bulduri. 1987. Original – B/W silver-gelatin print Andrejs Grants, from the collection “Around Latvia”, Mikeltornis. 1994. Original – B/W silver-gelatin print Andrejs Grants, from the collection “Around Latvia”, Ludza. 1987. Original – B/W silver-gelatin print Jarosław Modzelewski, View on an Unfinished House, 2000. Tempera on canvas, 150 × 250 cm. Warsaw, Collection of Zachęta National Gallery of Art Włodzimierz Pawlak, Poles Forming Their National Flag, 1997. Oil, pencil on canvas, 54 × 38 cm. Warsaw, Collection of Zachęta National Gallery of Art Małgorzata Markiewicz, A Map, 2013. Object, 250 × 250 cm. Cracow, MOCAK Collection Aleksandr Arkadjevic Labas, Imperialist Shark (The Anti-aircraft Defence), 1932, oil on canvas, 88 × 92 cm. Pavel Varfolomeevich Kuznetsov, Processing Artik Tuff, 1930, oil on canvas Konstantin Aleksandrovich Vialov, Motorcycle Race, 1923–1925, oil on canvas, 88,5 × 283 cm. “El Arte Eslovaco Contemporáneo”, Havana, 1964 (exhibition catalogue cover) “Paris-Prague 1906–1930. Les Braque et Picasso de Prague et leur contemporains tchéques”, Musée nationale d’art moderne, Paris, 1966 (exhibition view published in the catalogue) “Modern Treasures from the National Gallery in Prague”, Guggenheim Museum, New York, 1988 (exhibition catalogue cover) View of the room with photographic reproductions of Rembrandt paintings that belonged to Polish collections at the exhibition Rembrandt i jego krąg (1956) Stefan Kozakiewicz, Michel Florisoone, Michał Walicki, Germain Bazin, Władysław Tomkiewicz, André Chastel, Charles Sterling and Stanisław Lorentz at the main entrance of the Radziwiłł Palace in Nieborów, 1956 Stanisław Lorentz, director of the Muzeum Narodowe w Warszawie, staring at self-portrait of Rembrandt, workshop copy, at the painter’s exhibition in 1956

ix

102

103

104 111 114 116

129

131 135 152 154 155 168

170

171

176

178

179

x Illustrations 15.1 Běla Kolářová, Co se denně vytváří a mizí [What is Created Every Day and Disappears], 1969. View of the installation at “Někde něco” [Somewhere Something] exhibition. Prague, Václav Špála Gallery 15.2 Zorka Ságlová, Seno, sláma [Hay, Straw], 1969. View of the installation at “Někde něco” [Somewhere Something] exhibition. Zorka Ságlová on the right. Prague, Václav Špála Gallery 15.3 Zorka Ságlová, Seno, sláma [Hay, Straw], 1969. View of the installation at “Někde něco” [Somewhere Something] exhibition. Prague, Václav Špála Gallery 16.1 Dan Hatmanu, Aniversare [Anniversary], 1983, oil on canvas. National Museum of Contemporary Art, Bucharest 16.2 Dimitrie Gavrilean, Fisherman Amin [Pescarul Amin], 1979, oil on canvas. Private collection, Iasi 17.1 Inta Ruka, Ojārs Pētersons and Anita Zabiļevska, exposition “Stories, Storytellers”, 1999, photographs and video installations, Chiesa di San Giovanni Nuovo, Venice 17.2 Artists’ group Famous Five, comic of the unrealised exposition “Euphoria” 17.3 Krišs Salmanis and Kaspars Podnieks, exposition “North by Northeast”, 2013, kinetic object with a tree and motor, photographs, Arsenale, Venice 18.1 View of the exhibition “Grey in colour 1956–1970”, Zachęta National Gallery of Art, 2000 18.2 View of the exhibition “Grey in colour 1956–1970”, Room of the Galleries, Zachęta National Gallery of Art, 2000 18.3 View of the exhibition “Grey in colour 1956–1970”, Room of Foksal Gallery, Zachęta National Gallery of Art, 2000 19.1 Part of the general plan of Kaunas (city centre and Žaliakalnis district) by M. Frandsen and A. Jokimas, 1923. Kaunas City Museum, KMMGEK30684 19.2 Fragment of the planning project for Aukštieji Šančiai district, 1940. Kaunas City Museum, PEK16813 19.3 Planning project for the town of Šventoji by N. Mačiulskis, 1938. Archive of the Architecture and Urbanism Research Centre (Kaunas University of Technology) 20.1 Karolis Reisonas, A donation campaign poster to support construction of the Resurrection Church, 1929. Offset printing on paper, 70 × 45 cm. Lithuanian National Museum, Vilnius 20.2 The Resurrection Church as seen from Žaliakalnis district, ca 1938 20.3 Karl Kurt Perlsee, “Amicus amico”, a design proposal for the complex of the Palace of the State in Kaunas, 1940, cardboard, paper, pencil, India ink, watercolour, 126 × 67 cm. Lithuanian National Museum, Vilnius 21.1 Prague Castle is an architectural complex located on a hill dominated by St. Vitus Cathedral surrounded by palaces and gardens

188

189

190 202 204

210 212

214 220 221 222

237 240

241

248 249

253

261

Illustrations 21.2 21.3 22.1 22.2 22.3 23.1

23.2

23.3

Otakar Kuča, Jan Nováček and Jiří Ulman, Parkway of Socialism (unrealised study), 1961 Jiří Albrecht and Karel Prager, Parkway of Socialism (unrealised study), 1961 The House of the Teacher on Breiter Weg Magdeburg The Bethlehem Church in Berlin-Mitte in 1910 The Church of Saint Alexander in Three Crosses Square in Warsaw in 2021 Planning office of the National Monument Protection Agency (OMF), architect Ferenc Erdei and landscape designer Károly Örsi, 1970 Saint Andrew Roman Catholic church, Hidegség, Hungary. Archaeologists: Sándor Tóth, Imre Bodor; architects: Ilona Schönerné Pusztai, János Sedlmayr. Reconstruction: 1971–1972 Restoration of sacral buildings 1945–1989 according to the professional and church journals of the period. Data marking and diagram: Erzsébet Urbán, 2018

xi 265 265 270 271 274

280

283

284

Contributors

Pamela Browne is an active photographer and has a Ph.D. from Monash University, Australia where she specialized particularly in Baltic and Latvian Photography from 1956 until the present. She has widely published on various Latvian photographers and written extensively on photography for academic journals and periodicals. She has taught photography (theoretical and applied levels) and the History of Art at academic levels. Agnieszka Chmielewska, Ph.D., teaches at the Centre for Europe, University of Warsaw. Her academic interests focus on history and sociology of the 20th century Polish culture, especially Polish concepts of nation and national culture as well as Poles’ attitudes towards Europe, the West and modernity. She authored two books: W służbie państwa, społeczeństwa i narodu. “Państwowotwórczy” artyści plastycy w II Rzeczypospolitej (In Service of the State, Society and Nation: The “State-Supporting” Visual Artists at the Second Republic of Poland, 2006) and Wyobrażenia polskości: sztuki plastyczne II Rzeczpospolitej z perspektywy społecznej historii kultury (Polishness Imagined: Visual Arts of the Second Polish Republic from Socio-Cultural History Perspective, 2019). Éva Forgács teaches at Art Center College of Design in Pasadena, California. She taught at László Moholy-Nagy University in her native Budapest. She co-curated Monuments of the Future: Designs by El Lissitzky with N. Perloff at the Getty Research Institute in 1998. Her books include Malevich and Interwar Modernism – Russian Art and the International of the Square (Bloomsbury, 2022), The Bauhaus Idea and Bauhaus Politics (1995), Between Worlds: A Sourcebook of Central European Avant-Gardes, co-edited with T. O. Benson (2002). Patricia García-Montón González is Margarita Salas Postdoctoral Fellow at the Complutense University of Madrid and Researcher Affiliated to the University of Warsaw. She received her doctorate in Contemporary History with a thesis on the Prado Museum. Currently she conducts research on art historians’ networks in Cold War Europe through the CIHA. Nadja Gnamuš is an art historian, art critic and curator. She is the author of several articles and essays on modern and contemporary art and theory, among other of the monograph Slikovni modeli modernizma (Pictorial Models of Modernism). At present she is a part-time lecturer at the Academy of Theatre, Radio, Film and Television at the University of Ljubljana.

Contributors xiii Giedrė Jankevičiūtė is an art historian and exhibition curator based in Vilnius, Lithuania, and Rome, Italy. Main area of her professional interest is Central-East European art, architecture and design of long 19th and 20th century. She is a Leading Research Fellow at the Art History and Visual Culture Department of the Lithuanian Institute for Culture Research and professor of art history at the Vilnius Academy of Arts. She has published several monographs and numerous articles on Lithuanian modernism in Lithuanian, Latvian, Estonian, German, Polish, British, Ukrainian and USA academic press, curated exhibitions in Lithuanian, Polish, Italian, German and Indian museums and galleries, edited their catalogues. Currently she is working on the monograph on Lithuanian art and artistic scene on the eve and during World War II. Sofia Korol’ graduated from the department of theory and history of art of the Lviv Academy of Arts, Ukraine (1996). She completed her Ph.D. in the history of art at the Ethnology Institute, National Academy of Sciences of Ukraine, Lviv (2007). Since 2016 she has been the head of the Department of Art History at the same Institute. Her scientific interests cover the history of Romanticism and Modernism in Ukrainian art; selected formal issues of Ukrainian landscape painting as well as the history of ecclesiastical decoration in the churches of the West of Ukraine before and between two World Wars. Irena Kossowska is Full Professor of Art History at the Nicolaus Copernicus University in Torun, and at the Polish Institute of World Art Studies in Warsaw. She specializes in the field of 19th and 20th century visual arts, art theory and criticism. She has written extensively on Polish and European art, including Artystyczna rekonkwista. Sztuka w międzywojennej Polsce i Europie (Artistic Reconquest: Art in Interwar Poland and Europe, 2017), Symbolizm i Młoda Polska (Symbolism and Young Poland, 2010), Narodziny polskiej grafiki artystycznej, 1897–1917 (The Beginnings of Polish Original Printmaking, 1897–1917, 2000), Fin-de-siècle. Polnische Graphic 1890–1916 (1998). She is the recipient of several awards and fellowships from, among others, the National Humanities Center (RTP N.C.), Smithsonian Institution, Zentralinstitut für Kunstgeschichte, Institut national d’histoire de l’art, Henry Moore Institute, and the British Academy. Marcin Lachowski holds a post-doctoral degree (Ph.D. habil.) in art history, assistant professor at the Institute of Art History, University of Warsaw, also cooperates with the National Museum in Lublin. He deals with contemporary art and the history of art criticism. Marcin Lachowski published the books: Awangarda wobec instytucji. O sposobach prezentacji sztuki w PRL-u (Avant-garde and Institution: About Presentation of Art in Polish People’s Republic, 2006) and Nowocześni po katastrofie. Sztuka w Polsce w latach 1945–1960 (Modern Art After Catastrophe. Art in Poland in the Years 1945–1960, 2013). He is a co-editor of the publishing series Sztuka nowa. Źródła i komentarze (New Art: Sources and Comments) and co-author of a dictionary of Polish art criticism. Paulius Tautvydas Laurinaitis, Ph.D., is Junior Research Fellow at the Institute of Architecture and Construction, Kaunas University of Technology, where he has worked since 2012. His research focuses on history of urban planning and architecture of the 20th century and preservation of modernist heritage.

xiv

Contributors

Katarina Lopatkina, Ph.D., is an art historian and curator, based in Helsinki, Finland. She specializes in modern and contemporary art, global and transnational art and art history, history of censorship, and totalitarian state oppression in visual arts. Her articles were published in Russian, Polish, Lithuanian, and Romanian peerreviewed journals. The latest monography by Lopatkina is devoted to the history of international art exhibitions and artistic contacts in the USSR in the Stalin era (Bastardy kul’turnyh svjazej. Internacional’nyh hudozhestvennye kontakty SSSR v 1920-e–1950-e gody [Bastards of Cultural Relations. International Artistic Contacts of the USSR in the 1920–1950s], 2019). Piotr Majewski holds a post-doctoral degree (Ph.D. habil.) in art history, assistant professor at the Institute of Culture and at the Institute of Fine Arts of the Maria Curie-Skłodowska University, Lublin, Poland. His research interests include Polish art of the 20th and 21st century in the transnational context of artistic tradition, history and theory of images and the literature of art, especially art criticism. In recent years, his research interests have focused on artistic relationships between Poland and the Western countries, especially France, after the Second World War. The author of two books: La vague polonaise: migracje artystów i wędrówki dzieł sztuki nad Sekwanę w czasach żelaznej kurtyny (lata 1955–1969) (La Vague polonaise. Migrations of artists and works of art to Paris during the Iron Curtain, 2020) and Malarstwo materii w Polsce jako formuła “nowoczesności” (The Matter Painting in Poland as a Formula of Modernity, 2006). Pavlína Morganová, Ph.D., is an art historian and curator, based in Prague, Czech Republic. Works as a director of the Research Center at the Academy of Fine Arts in Prague. She specializes on the Central and Eastern European art history, performance art and exhibition histories, lectures on Czech Art of the 20th century, published number of books and texts in collected volumes, catalogues and professional journals. She has participated in several international conferences, was a member of the Getty Travel seminar Connecting Art Histories and worked as curator of exhibitions. Thekla Musäus has studied Slavonic and Finnish Philologies in Germany, Finland and Russia. She has written her Ph.D. thesis about the literary representation of Karelia in Finnish and Russian literature in the middle of the 20th century. Thekla Musäus is working as a senior research fellow at the Department of Finnish and Scandinavian Studies at the University of Greifswald, Germany. Cristian Nae is Associate Professor at “George Enescu” National University of the Arts in Iasi, Romania, where he teaches critical theory, exhibition studies and historiography of art history. He was senior advisor in the project “Periodisation in the History of Art and its Conundrums. How to tackle them in East-Central Europe” supported by the Getty Foundation as part of its Connecting Art Histories initiative. Among others, he edited the publication (In)Visible Frames. Rhetorics and Experimental Exhibition Practices in Romania 1965–1989 (2019). Mária Orišková is Associate Professor at the Trnava University, Slovakia. She has published widely on East Central European art history, critical museology, gender/ feminism and exhibition histories. Her recent publications include: Curating ‘Eastern Europe’ and Beyond: Art Histories Through the Exhibition (2013),

Contributors

xv

“Museums that Listen and Care?: Central Europe and Critical Museum Discourse”, in: Katarzyna Murawska-Muthesius – Piotr Piotrowski (eds.): From Museum Critique to the Critical Museum (2015) and “Looking from the Earth to the Moon”: US Art Through Czechoslovak Eyes 1947–1989, in: Claudia Hopkins – Iain Boyd Whyte (ed.): Hot Art, Cold War: Southern and Eastern European Writing on American Art 1945–1989 (2020). Milan Pech is member of the Institute of Christian Art History at the Catholic Theological Faculty, Charles University in Prague. In his research he focuses on how art and politics influence and shape each other, on psychology of art and generally on the Czech art of the 20th century. Recently he took part in two research projects: “Folk Art between Visual Culture and Politics in Bohemia and Moravia 1840–1960” and “Image of the Enemy. Visual Manifestations of AntiSemitism in the Czech Lands from the Middle Ages to the Present Day.” Stella Pelše is a leading researcher at the Art Academy of Latvia Institute of Art History. Her Ph.D. thesis was entitled History of Latvian Art Theory: Definitions of Art in the Context of the Prevailing Ideas of the Time (1900–1940). Her research interests focus on 20th century Latvian art and art theory, art criticism, aesthetics, contemporary art. Other fields of Stella Pelše’s activity are art criticism, translation of art-historical and theoretical texts. Since 2013 she has co-authored and translated a seven-volume publication Art History of Latvia. Veronika Rollová is an art historian based in Prague. In her research she focuses on art, architecture and design of the 20th Century in East Central Europe with a special regard to institutional history and relationship of art and politics under state socialism. She works at the Academy of Art, Architecture and Design in Prague. Her research there has been a part of a collaborative grant project entitled “Architecture and Czech Politics in 19th to 21st Century”. In 2021 she co-edited one of its outputs, a bilingual volume Budoucnost je skryta v přítomnosti. Architektura a česká politika 1945–1989 (The Future is Hidden in the Present. Architecture and Czech Politics 1945−1989). Lefteris Spyrou has studied philosophy (University of Athens) and history of art (University of Crete). His dissertation was on the history of the National Gallery in Athens and its contribution to the formation of art history in Greece during the period 1900–1971. He is currently working as a postdoctoral researcher on the project The Panhellenic Art Exhibitions, 1938–1987 (Institute for Mediterranean Studies – FORTH). His research interests include the history of state art institutions, the study of art-criticism and exhibition history. Vita Susak, Ph.D. in Art History, is Ukrainian independent researcher. In 1992–2016, Susak headed the Department of Modern European Art at the Lviv National Art Gallery, where she curated 28 exhibitions. She taught at the Ivan Franko National University in Lviv (2011–2015). She authored numerous publications, including two monographs: Ukrainian Artists in Paris, 1900–1939 (2010) and Alexis Gritchenko: Dynamocolor (2017). Since 2016, Vita Susak lives and works in Switzerland. Erzsébet Urbán is an architect, a specialised engineer in preservation of built heritage and a post-Ph.D. student at the Department of History of Architecture and

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Contributors

Monument Preservation, Faculty of Architecture, Budapest University of Technology and Economics. Earlier she was a teaching assistant at the Department (2012–2014). She is an assistant editor of the Architectura Hungariae online scientific journal (since 2016). Erzsébet Urbán is currently engaged in research on sacral architectural and monument preservation tendencies in Hungary from the interwar period up till now. Her scientific works observe the restoration, reconstruction, contemporary usage, transformation or, in certain cases, new utilization of the ecclesiastical architectural works. Marcus van der Meulen studied architecture at KU Leuven University (Campus St Lucas) and Monument Preservation in Ghent and is currently a researcher at RWTH University Aachen. In 2021–2022 he was a Fellow at the German Historical Institute Warsaw where he researched the post-war reconstruction of religious buildings in the Polish People’s Republic. Marcus van der Meulen has published widely about religious heritage and has spoken at several conferences including “Monument-Heimat-Identity” (Dresden, 2019), “Monuments and Monument Care during the second half the 20th Century” (Prague, 2021) and “Art and the State” (Zagreb, 2021).

Introduction Agnieszka Chmielewska, Irena Kossowska, and Marcin Lachowski

Relationships between the state and artists have intrigued philosophers, writers, poets and historiographers since antiquity. Plato’s reflection in the dialogues Republic and Laws is the most immediate reference. Contemporary scholars interpret the philosopher-poet’s dislike of poets as (auto)ironic and revealing his ambivalence towards the social role of poetry in the ideal polis (Annas 1981; Nadaff 2002; Rosen 2005; Zygmuntowicz 2011). The tumultuous recent history – on the one hand, plagued by nationalist, xenophobic and racist tendencies, religious fundamentalisms, authoritarianism and right-wing populism; on the other hand, with mass opposition against oppressive regimes, such as Orange Revolution in Ukraine, Arab Spring in the Middle East and North Africa or anti-regime protests in Belarus – assigns urgent relevance to the issue of tensions and conflicts between the state, artists, and society. Political reality, in which recurring waves of refugees from the territories under dictatorship or/and war become a central challenge, as does the growing wave of economic and climate-related migration, significantly impacts the domain of art. The latter is affected also by such phenomena as depreciation of postmodernist multiculturalism, the critique of post-nationalism or the identity policies pursued, although in substantially different manners, by both the left and the right of the political scene. What, however, has caught the attention of many artists in recent times, regardless of ideological options, is the unconditional defence of sovereign statehood by Ukrainians and the unprecedented integration of the entire society against the premeditated Russian aggression on the territory of Ukraine, launched on 24 February 2022. The resistance to this unprovoked invasion is seen as an exemplification of the crucial importance of political independence and a sense of national identity. In the globalised world of today, with its transnational mechanisms of power rooted in corporate interests, the state-society-arts relationships have undergone a dramatic diversification. Alongside globalising tendencies, there are approaches to art that view it as a scene of contesting power and articulating cultural identities that defy dominant cultural constructs and discursive practices. Besides communityoriented participatory activities that transcend the institutional system, there are growing tendencies for fostering the sense of national community originated in some countries by (pro)state agencies and political parties. Not only are these phenomena reflected in art but are also stimulated by it. There is a growing belief in the agency of art, in its power to affect the social and political reality, in the possibility a “new world order” to be enacted through antihegemonic and antinormative artistic mediation (Groys 2009; Enwezor 2010; Piotrowski 2015, 131, 132). Thus, the interaction between political power and art-making practices is one of the central issues of DOI: 10.4324/9781003265818-1

2 Agnieszka Chmielewska et al. contemporary culture that participates in the shaping of societal self-awareness (Piotrowski 2012). Research into the history of these relations allows for better understanding of the strategies of power and inspires to reflect on the potential of art to activate societies. The choice of “state construction and art” as the theme of the volume allows for a thorough exploration of: how cultural imperatives of the state change to adapt to the political situation; state interventionism in culture exercised through subsidies for cultural institutions and artistic activities; processes of instrumentalisation and misappropriation of art by the state for propaganda purposes; censorship and constraining artistic activities and the exclusion of non-compliant artists from the official art scene; the principles of memory politics and identity politics. The topic also encompasses the study of various strategies adopted by artists, under democratic, authoritarian or even totalitarian rule (Kiossev 2011, 652–653). In the broadest sense, an artist’s choices consist of cooperation, rejection or “playing the game” i.e. identifying and occupying the niches overlooked by the system and modifying the elements imposed by the regime. Those operating under democracy could also opt for working towards changing the system (Piotrowski 2009a, 2012).

Why East Central Europe? Despite the dominance of the global perspective in humanities, in their analyses of multilevel interrelations between state agencies and artistic life, authors of this anthology focus on East Central Europe. With postcolonial and anti-Eurocentric scholars recently severely criticising Europe for centuries-long cultural expansionism (Skórczewski 2008, 33–35; Mosquera 2010), why was the research limited to one region of the continent? First and foremost, because the region in question tends to be overlooked or misrepresented in the discourses of Global Art History and World Art Studies.1 Postcolonial studies prioritise areas outside Europe - Asia, Africa, Latin America and Australia (Bydler 2004). In the Global North vs. Global South cultural perspective that has dominated humanities after the collapse of the binary West–East division, East Central Europe is perceived as an integral part of colonising Europe, thus sharing in the responsibility for the European imperialist expansiveness. Meanwhile, the status of this part of the continent has been far more complex. Firstly, proponents of the postcolonial perspective claim that in the 19th and 20th centuries it was subject to intra-European colonisation, with many countries and nations of the region being subjected to and exploited by neighbouring hegemons – the Habsburg Empire (Feichtinger et al. 2003) German Empire (Ther 2006), tsarist Russia (Thompson 2000), the Soviet Union (Thompson 2000; Lisiak 2010; Piotrowski 2015, 120; Annus 2018) and during World War II by the Third Reich (Bernhard 2017). Some scholars also speak of the West’s neo-colonialism in the era of post-Cold War transformation (Lisiak 2010). Secondly, in some states and societies of East Central Europe, the heritage of earlier internal colonising processes has remained, often to this day. This fact is often quoted by the scholars analysing the approach of Poles to Ukrainians being the consequence of a centuries-old tradition of Polish nobility’s domination in the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth (Janion 2006, 165–175; Fiut 2006, 29–39). However, Polish society, like other neighbouring countries – Moldova, Romania, Slovakia and Hungary, engaged on an unprecedented scale in supporting Ukrainian refugees fleeing their homeland during the Russian invasion of Ukraine in February

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2022. Thirdly, there is the issue of self-colonisation strategies of East Central European elites that readily adopted values and intellectual patterns represented by the Western centre of the colonial world for the purpose of modernising their societies (Kiossev 1999). One of the consequences thereof is orientalising the countries and societies located East of the “orientaliser,” including even colonising hegemons such as Russia (Janion 2006, 213–256). Due to the complexity of the research field, the discussion about the relevance of postcolonial studies to the exploration of post-communist cultures is far from settled. The postcolonial condition does not necessarily imply the application of postcolonial theory and methodology (Araeen 2002). Scholars of the culture of East Central Europe have for years disputed what method would be the most relevant for analysing past and present artistic life in this multi-national, multi-ethnic and multi-religious territory with fluid social and political regimes, varying ideological dominants and unstable economic backgrounds. Furthermore, we believe that East Central Europe deserves to be studied by researchers interested in various relations between the state and art, because due to its troubled history, it offers a plethora of diverse cases. In the region in question, culture has played a particularly significant role in the formation of modern nations, across the structures of multi-ethnic imperial states. It was not until the end of World War I, the fall of Austro-Hungarian empire, Bolshevik revolution in Russia and – to a lesser extent – the defeat of Prussia and Turkey, that a drastic revamping of the map of the region was made possible, allowing for the formation of several independent nation states, mostly short lived, since they only survived for two decades. After World War II, a vast majority of East Central European states were subjected to the USSR, either as its republics or satellite states. The region waited for another period of sovereignty until the fall of communism in 1989–1991. Historical caesuras were simultaneously turning points in relations between ruling powers and the domain of culture. Lack of political stability, resulting from frequent changes of political, social and economic systems as well as shifting borders causes the complexity of interactions between the state and artistic milieux to become more extreme and pronounced than in the states that enjoy continuity of political structures. The modern history of East Central Europe was affected by the trauma of two world wars, racial and religious conflicts, exploitation of nations and ethnic groups and population migrations. In such difficult circumstances, the resilience of societies was manifested through dissident attitudes to totalitarian and authoritarian regimes, as well as the ability to rebuild structures of the state and human potential after regaining sovereignty. This political landscape was reflected in non-linear transformations in art, with abrupt breaks occurring in the moments of historical turning points. Controversy around the geopolitical and geocultural identifiers of the region continues. Its boundaries, and thus, configuration of the states within East Central Europe remain elusive – with no clear consensus with respect to the definition of the region as a whole. Indeed, there are a number of competing definitions. In The Uses of Adversity: Essays on the Fate of Central Europe Timothy Garton Ash lists as many as sixteen (Ash 1989). Meanwhile, in his most recent book titled Transformation. Art in East-Central Europe after 1989, Andrzej Szczerski postulates a very broad delineation of the territory. Szczerski believes East Central Europe is comprised of states that have adopted the identity of “members of the European community of free nations, which are united by the most basic values rooted in Greek philosophy,

4 Agnieszka Chmielewska et al. Roman law, and Judeo-Christian religious traditions.” In this vein, “Visegrad, Baltic and Balkan countries,” as well as former USSR republics – Moldova, Belarus, Ukraine, Armenia, Azerbaijan and Georgia belong to East Central Europe (Szczerski 2018, 20). To illustrate conceptual fluctuations in approaching the region, it should be noted that the notion of “Eastern Europe” is a product of the Enlightenment that replaced the Renaissance North vs. South division by West vs. East. As discussed by Larry Wolff in Inventing Eastern Europe: The Map of the Civilization on the Mind of the Enlightenment (1994), in order to define itself as a centre of civilisation, Western Europe needed an antithesis in the form of the barbaric East of the continent. The 18th-century idea of Eastern Europe was further instilled by consecutive generations of politicians, scholars and travellers. In the 20th century it was exploited by the Nazi ideology as well as the post-war paradigm of the Iron Curtain. Currently, the term “Eastern Europe” is mostly associated with the political and economic construct of the Eastern Bloc composed of the satellite states of the former USSR (Wolff 1994; see also Bideleux, Jeffries 1998). The term “Central Europe” was applied to the multinational and multiethnic Habsburg monarchy and later the states that emerged from the fall of AustroHungarian Empire in 1918. With it came the fall of Hohenzollern, Romanov and Osman dynasties (Clegg 2006, 1). Meanwhile, the German “Mitteleuropa” was used by 19th-century German writers (Meyer 1955) and was revived as a label in the expansionist pan-German ideology formulated in 1915 by Friedrich Naumann (Droz 1960; Rykiel 2006). The pan-German Reich was meant to encompass an economically and politically united Mitteleuropa ranging from the Baltic Sea to the Adriatic Sea. Hence, the long-lived negative connotation of the term. In historiography of art, “Mitteleuropa” with neutral connotation has appeared in literature only for the last three decades. Various uses of the term were presented in Mitteleuropa: Kunst, Regionen, Beziehungen (Passuth 1995), an anthology edited by Krisztina Passuth. The notion of Central Europe was understood differently by Milan Kundera. In his seminal essay Un Occident kidnappé ou la tragédie de l’Europe Centrale, Kundera claims that, although post-1945 politics placed Czechoslovakia, Poland and Hungary in Eastern Europe, as countries with western Christian traditions, they have culturally been a part of the West (Kundera 1983). Consequently, Kundera saw the use of “Central Europe” as a way to steer clear of the inaccurate “Eastern Europe.” Meanwhile, “Central Europe” and “Eastern Europe” emerge as complementary according to Christoph Brockhaus and Ryszard Stanisławski, curators of the grand retrospective of European avant-garde art displayed in Bonn in 1994, titled Europa, Europa: das Jahrhundert der Avantgarde in Mittel- und Osteuropa (Stanisławski, Brockhaus 1994). Due to the ideological connotations behind both Eastern and Central Europe, the authors of this volume, opted instead for East Central Europe, as more neutral and inclusive, and thus covering the entirety of the geographical area between Germany and Russia. Certainly, a more specific definition is not easy to achieve. Both the outline of this part of the continent as well as the socio-political referent of the term change, depending on historical circumstances and research goals (Paruch and Trembicka 2000, 12). The terminology is made yet less consistent by geopolitical and historical sub-divisions, such as South-East Europe and the Balkans, that imply the

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examination of self-identification processes within respective sub-regions (Todorova 2004; Lampe and Mazower 2004).2 When composing our volume, we adopted the definition of East Central Europe by Oskar Halecki, a Polish historian with Austrian aristocratic ancestry, German, Polish, Ruthenian and Croatian roots. According to Halecki, Europe comprises four regions: Western, Eastern, West Central – corresponding to the territories occupied by Germany and extensively described by historians, plus the usually neglected East Central Europe (Halecki 1950, 1952). The latter is a vast region located between Sweden, Germany, Italy, Turkey and Russia, or alternatively, three seas: Baltic Sea, Black Sea and Mediterranean. Because East Central Europe represents the Eastern frontier of the Western civilisation, it repeatedly served as its bulwark during Tartar and Turk invasions. It is geographically and ethnically varied (however, with the dominance of the Slavic component), has fluid political borders and has never been unified either politically or historically, as Halecki argued. Nevertheless, the experiences of peoples inhabiting the area have been largely similar – with periods of living in sovereign states and times when they were under the rule of powerful neighbours. It should be noted, that as in many other cases, while developing his concept, Halecki did not escape the influence of the current geopolitical situation. The bulk of his oeuvre on the theme was created around 1950 and intended to remind the public that free East Central Europe is indispensable for the balance of power on the continent and that lasting peace is not achievable without it (Halecki 1950). Similar definition of the region was proposed by Peter F. Sugar and Donald W. Treadgold, editors of the series “A History of East Central Europe” published in the 1990s by University of Washington Press. Although they eventually opted for including only territories between “the eastern linguistic frontier of German- and Italian-speaking peoples in the West, and the political borders of Russia/the former USSR in the East” (Sugar and Treadgold 1993: x), they had considered whether the category should not cover Fins, Estonians, Latvians, Lithuanians, Belarusians and Ukrainians. In art history, a similar map of East Central Europe has recently been proposed by Matthew Rampley in the editorial to a new journal, “Art East Central,” focusing on the art of East Central Europe after 1800. He remarked that the large region continues to remain underresearched. The territory proposed by Rampley is slightly larger than the East Central Europe of Halecki’s, Rampley’s version includes also Austria, as a centre of the Habsburg empire and the states of the Baltic littoral (thus including Sweden). Interestingly enough, while quoting Halecki as the originator of the term “East Central Europe,” Rampley, quite wrongly, criticised him for limiting the region to Hungary, Poland, Czechoslovakia and Yugoslavia – countries “whose historical experience had been shaped either by the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth or by Austria-Hungary” (Rampley 2021, 6).3

Cultural Distinctiveness Even more consequential than a uniform terminology and strictly defined geopolitical borders is the issue of cultural uniqueness of East Central Europe and its alleged collective identity. For some researchers cultural cohesiveness of the region, despite its national, ethnical and religious diversity, is a value of unquestionable primacy. In his article The Phenomenon of Blurring, Andrzej Turowski specified idiosyncratic

6 Agnieszka Chmielewska et al. features of the art in Central Europe, focusing on the radical avant-garde (Turowski 2002). To emphasise the cultural cohesiveness of this part of the continent, he cited Josef Kroutvor’s metaphor of the region’s uniqueness: “An odour of boiled cabbage and stale beer rises over Central Europe, one can smell overripe watermelons. This land has a characteristic smell. The frontiers are blurred and irrational, only the sense of smell allows one to trace them with absolute certainty” (Turowski 2002, 362). This approach is convergent with the concept of Central Europe as a cultural entity proclaimed by Milan Kundera in the previously mentioned article Un Occident kidnappé ou la tragédie de l’Europe Centrale (1983), the most resonant claim made in the unresolved dispute about the region. Kundera captured the enigmatic character of Central Europe, defining it as “an uncertain zone of small nations between Russia and Germany” as well as stressing that “[i]ts borders are imaginary and must be drawn and redrawn with each new historical situation” (Kundera 1984, 35). Yet, he perceived the region as “a realm inhabited by the same memories, the same problems and conflicts, the same common tradition” (Kundera 1984, 35). On the other hand, some scholars have treated Central Europe as an imaginary project, which does not have its factual signifiers, a space conceptualised in a geopolitical sense (Forgács 2002; Gryglewicz 2006; Kiss 2009; Škrabec 2013). They have recognised, however, certain cultural characteristics which mirror the dramatic political history of the region, and in this sense, they followed in the footsteps of Kundera. In the most general terms, the themes that emerge as region-specific are: national liberation tendencies which marked the 19th century, mobilisation to create nation-states after the Great War, annihilation in the times of World War II, resistance against the communist system imposed in the Eastern Bloc and, finally, efforts towards self-definition after the fall of the Berlin Wall. Some researchers of the European cultural landscape warn against focusing on a clearly delineated region, since, as they believe, it leads to overemphasis on its cohesiveness and fabricating distinguishing features (Skwara 2014, Hock 2018, 7). Some prefer to speak about art created in East Central Europe rather than the regionspecific idiosyncratic art, citing different cultural traditions in countries of the region. In spite of the Yalta order superimposed on the region, social and political specificities of Eastern Bloc states and the countries absorbed by the USSR translated into diverse artistic milieus, as argued by Piotr Piotrowski in his pioneering work In the Shadow of Yalta: Art and the Avant-garde in Eastern Europe 1945−1989 (Piotrowski 2009a; see also Éva Forgács 2003, 93). When discussing distinguishing features of East Central Europe, Piotrowski emphasised that the region was colonised culturally – to a varying degree – both by the East and the West (Piotrowski 2015, 122–123). In the years 1947–1948, the Soviet Union imposed communist ideology on Eastern Bloc states, which, until the death of Josef Stalin in 1953, entailed repression and full-fledged indoctrination of the societies. In the domain of culture, it resulted in the implementation of the doctrine of Socialist Realism. After the fall of the Iron Curtain, former satellite states and some former republics of the USSR began “catching up” and striving to adapt to Western models, a process perceived by scholars as self-imposed and readily embraced colonisation. Contesting the application of postcolonial perspective to the art of East Central Europe, Piotr Piotrowski stressed that the region belonged to the same episteme and cultural milieu as the West (Piotrowski 2015, 121). Following Bojana Pejić (Pejić 1999, 20), he used the term “Close Other(s),”4 as distinct from the “Others” – inhabitants of

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the overseas colonies, who were culturally remote from the colonising European powers (Piotrowski 2015, 121). On the other hand though, among the central tasks of the research into the art of East Central Europe is to re-evaluate the bipolar centre-periphery relationship (Kaufmann 2004). Viewed largely as tension between the centre and periphery, with a vector pointing towards the latter, the approach established in Westcentric historiography caused cultural marginalisation of regions such as East Central Europe. Proposed by Piotr Piotrowski, the theory of “horizontal art history” conceptualises the West as a region of historical importance equal to that of many other parts of the world, yet the most expansive one (Piotrowski 2012; see also Chakrabarty 2007). Piotrowski aimed at deprioritising trendsetting Western art centres and at erasing the centre–periphery dichotomy, ipso facto abolishing the hierarchical approach to cultures that depreciates the margins, thus giving primacy to the pluralism of cultural narratives (Piotrowski 2008a; 2009b, 5−14, 2009c, 49−58). The issue of the Western colonising vector and cultural supremacy of the West over East Central Europe was insightfully explored by Alexander Kiossev and Piotr Sztompka in their discussion of the post-1989 transformation of the region. The latter, a Polish sociologist who employed the term “cultural trauma” to analyse the condition of Polish society after the collapse of the Berlin Wall, explored the complexities and intricacies of the cultural transition in former satellite countries of the Soviet Union (Sztompka 2004). It would be a commonplace to say that the 1989 turning point was culturally beneficial for post-communist countries, and yet, Sztompka argues that the aftermath period brought a belated aftershock to the social and cultural tissue. “There cannot be any doubt that the collapse of Communism was a trauma-inducing change par excellence,” Sztompka assures us, naming the social disorder the “trauma of victory” (Sztompka 2004, 172). He claims that the traumatising process was due to the confrontation of two opposing cultures, i.e., the remnants of Communism and Western capitalist consumerism. As he explains: “Even when the spreading of alien culture is […] peaceful, by virtue of economic strength, technological superiority or the psychological attractiveness of cultural products, flowing from the core towards the periphery, the result is often the break of cultural stability, continuity, and identity of indigenous groups, a milder and yet resented form of cultural trauma” (Sztompka 2004, 172). It should be noted that Sztompka’s analyses were rebuked for implied domestic orientalism, in which the losers of transition are essentialised and constructed as Others. As remarked by the Polish anthropologist, Michał Buchowski, Sztompka divided the society into civilised, educated elites that successfully adapted to the democratic and free-market culture imported from the West, and “civilisationally incompetent” labourers, agricultural workers and peasants, unable to reject old mental habits. The latter represent the “legendary homo sovieticus” and thus, according to Buchowski, are identified with the East, Communism, primitivism and backwardness (Buchowski 2006). Hence, the process of liberation, emancipation and absorption of the Western-type globalisation and the instant embrace of cultural models imported from the West encapsulated a lack of cultural confidence and an inferiority complex, which Alexander Kiossev described as “self-colonisation.” “Self-colonising cultures import alien values and models of civilisation by themselves and […] lovingly colonise their own authenticity through foreign models,” claims Kiossev (Kiossev 1999, 114). The predominantly theoretical article on self-colonisation was published initially in 1995

8 Agnieszka Chmielewska et al. (Kiossev 1995). Later reprinted in the catalogue of the exhibition After the Wall. Art and Culture in Post-Communist Europe, presenting an overview of cultural trends of the first decade after the 1989 turning point (Stockholm Moderna Museet, 1999), it was interpreted as a diagnosis of the mental condition of East Central European societies in the times of transformation, indeed in line with the author’s intentions: “Aren’t we then forced to describe the historical rhythm of such traumatic, selfcolonising cultures as a constant repetition and return?” (Kiossev 1999, 117). Although heavily contested in the framework of the trauma discourse (András 2008, 7–9), Kiossev’s approach aimed to invite self-reflection in the deluge of diverging, contradictory and conflicting memories from the communist past (Kiossev 2011, 652–655) or to trigger a process of working through the maladaptive coping mechanisms of collective amnesia related to the communist regime (repression of troubling memories evolved in such countries of the region as the Czech Republic and Hungary). Evidence of social trauma is manifested in the art of East Central Europe in a proliferation of topics concerning post-1989 collective memory. How societies remember the communist past, a memory which has been gradually revived after a period of apparent amnesia, seems to be inherently troubled and conflicted. Paradoxically, among the new generations raised and habituated in post-communist conditions, “nostalgia” for the material wrapping of the communist system emerges as a consumer trend. Meanwhile, for the majority of witnesses of the era (especially those who resisted the Soviet dominance) it invokes a denial of the past political oppression and appears to be a haunting flashback (Groys 2004, 163–170; Sztompka 2004, 169; András 2008).

Art Exhibitions and Idioms of Identity in East Central Europe Numerous exhibitions held over the last decades in and outside East Central Europe presented various visions of the region’s cultural specificity. Some demonstrated that artistic trends and attitudes in the region were parallel to those in the West. Others, conversely, showed its art as idiosyncratic, rooted in a specific socio-political context and separate from the artistic discourse of the West. A significant number of exhibitions were politically neutral, while also many were politically loaded (Orišková 2013, 7–18). The latter, often following the principle of “strategic essentialism” (bringing multiple cultural phenomena to one common premise in order to highlight idiosyncratic qualities of the region) (Spivak 2006), did not explore systemic mechanisms of governance, instead stressing defensive, opposing and rebellious attitudes to indoctrination and political appropriation of culture. Exhibitions constructed along these lines became a convenient vehicle for connecting retrospective with contemporary art and for weaving distinctive original narratives of their curators. Numerous presentations that highlighted “other modernisms” developed simultaneously in East Central Europe also attempted to create a platform shared with the international artistic scene of contemporary art (Smith 2012, chap. 4). The wide social appeal of the exhibitions and accompanying large and insightful catalogues became the medium for curating information about the region, setting borders, developing identities, highlighting artistic outcomes of similar experiences determined by the shared communist heritage. Early exhibitions, held in the 1990s, immersed in the profound political and social transformation, shed light on

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cultural differences and pointed to historical determinants responsible for the absence of Eastern art on the international market. They also attempted to show how parallel artistic sequences were reflected in contemporary art – art rooted in the past, yet belonging to the universalised order of European culture. Later exhibitions aimed also at eliminating the dichotomies Western vs. Eastern Europe, cultural centre vs. periphery and showcased the potential of the culture produced “behind the Iron Curtain.” They also became an arena for the application of contemporary cultural theories to the study of region-specific interconnections relevant to subject, bodily and sexual perspectives. Exhibitions varied in terms of size – from intimate, local displays, through monumental festivals illustrating consequential interpretations (Kazalarska 2012, 131–140). The latter description applies to one of the largest exhibitions summing up the first decade of transformation, “After the Wall. Art and Culture in Post-Communist Europe” (Moderna Museet, Sztokholm, 1999–2000, Curators: Bojana Pejić, David Elliot). Displaying works by artists from East Central Europe, created in the new socio-political circumstances after 1989, it highlighted the specificity of the region, that determined the artists’ shared experience. The multi-section exhibition presented a model of art that is socially conscious and stresses the necessity to reflect on shared communist heritage against current cultural approaches and concepts referring to subjectivity, unclear identity and sexuality. This approach interpreted the period of transformation as a complex, dynamic structure that brings together local historical experiences with global general change taking place in culture. The exhibition was intended by its curator Bojana Pejić to bear witness to “normalisation,” transition from the local, politically stifled world of the Iron Curtain – to universal problems and projects recognising European standards (Nae 2013, 48–49). The theme of a historical gap, temporary exclusion from the European tradition, was mirrored in large projects of the first decade of 2000s. “Interrupted Histories” (Moderna galerija/Museum of Modern Art, Ljubljana, Slovenia, 2006) an exhibition curated by Zdenka Badovinac, offered insight into the artistic neo-avant-garde of East Central Europe of the 1960s and 1970s in the context of history and historicisation. The main vehicle of meaning was art that employed archives as a method of critical reflection. Artistic archives were presented against the backdrop of general history and deconstructed it through specific, individual narratives. The exhibition was an attempt at replacing the great communist narrative with individual histories, with personal choices and fragmented experience communicated through material evidence. “Interrupted Histories” pushed for challenging the bipolar narration rooted in the Cold War ideology and instead encouraged recognising “small narrations” that built a different picture through reviewing and rebuilding the West–East relations. The exhibition postulated constructing a platform for artistic and political contacts between the West and the East, through challenging the primacy of Cold War ideologies. It was an attempt at deconstructing a monolithic approach to histories that played out behind the Iron Curtain (Badovinac 2017). “Les promesses du passé, 1950–2010. Une histoire de l’art dans l’ex-Europe de l’Est” was another seminal exhibition that reflected on the history of East Central Europe. Displayed in Centre Pompidou, Paris (2010, curators: Christine Macel and Joanna Mytkowska), it was organised around an architectural design in the form of a geometric ribbon created by Monika Sosnowska. While coherent, the background was by no means homogenous or uniform. Quite the contrary, the space accentuated

10 Agnieszka Chmielewska et al. irregular divisions of the interior, with a variety of nooks, bends and niches instead of a central point. Sosnowska’s background was a projection screen for the works displayed in irregular, self-contained sets. The architectural form of the exhibition underscored complex relations between the art of the East and the artistic centre – Paris. With exhibits from the decades between 1950 and 2010, it illustrated how art developed against Paris modernity (with documented evidence of contacts between the artistic milieus displayed in the next exhibition hall). However, the curators focused largely on local identity determined by varying contexts and traditions. Reconstruction of cross-generational inspirations emerged as an important instrument that fostered the adoption of contemporary, new internationally recognised artistic practices. This served to coordinate two aspects: presenting the works of contemporary artists, active in the global artistic market but relying on local artistic idioms, inspired by the region-specific avant-garde of East Central Europe. The complex structure, comprising works of art and factual documentation was intended to reflect Walter Benjamin’s concept of history, based on the notion of disconnectedness and proposing continuous reworking of its order and hierarchy. The revision of historical structure consisted of questioning the linearity of history, through the use of dialogues between pictures, extracted from various artistic trends and experiences, revealing parallel developments of different artistic idioms. Monika Sosnowska’s architectural sculpture, incorporated into the exhibition space of Centre Pompidou, manifested dilemmas involved in the process of the West discovering the East. The space of Pompidou was enclosed in brackets and with it centralist narratives that determine its institutional position. Sosnowska’s zigzag ushered into the space of the gallery was intended to demonstrate the independent, auteur approach to discovering and presenting art, and more broadly, to the portrayal of the history of East Central European art, and to challenge its straightforward inclusion into the canon of Paris-centric narrative (Presutti 2013, 36–43). In artistic reconstructions, the theme of history negotiating the model of canon forming, shaping institutional formats, directing intergenerational relations, often steeped in nostalgia, adopted the form of a map of pan-European relations that also included complicated trajectories illustrating the East Central European experience. Without a doubt, the most notable example, long-lived and developed in various media formats, was a project of the Slovenian group IRWIN “East Art Map: A (Re)Construction of the History of Contemporary Art in Eastern Europe” launched in 2001 (Avgita 2013, 19–35). The “East Art Map,” while embracing transnational networking, resulted in a web-based platform www.eastartmap.org and an exhibition titled “East Art Museum” mounted in Hagen. East Central European artists, critics and art theorists invited to join the project were asked to nominate prominent events from their countries, inscribing the projects into a growing network of connections, associations, analogies and contrasts, thus filling the initially empty map of the region and symbolically leading the Western public to the discovery of unknown pieces of art. The artistic statement assumed the form of offering a new perspective – searching for internal hubs, connections, references, creating an ambitious, dynamic and changing model of art in East Central Europe, highlighting internal connections and removing the hierarchical relationship of the West influencing the East. Aimed at reformulating the narratives elaborating on Eastern art of the communist and postdependence periods (2001–2005), the project showcased the strategies of overidentification and subversive affirmation of the political system and state structures

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(Arns and Sasse 2006) adopted by artists in both eras, in order to reveal hidden mechanisms and imperatives of the state and expose their authoritarian nature. Aleš Erjavec described these critique tactics, employed in the late communist era, as methods which “consisted of the use of mimicry, of conscious and complete identification of the secondary discourse with the ideological discourse, thus paradoxically revealing inconsistencies in the latter, the voids in its purportedly impregnable discursive armour, and especially its ideological nature” (Erjavec 2003, 10). The emphasis on uncovering internal dynamics within the region was reflected in the exhibitions exploring the complex identity of East Central Europe, not only determined by a different history but also seen through a new lens such as the feminist perspective. The examples of projects exploring women’s position behind the Iron Curtain, involving the view of culture as an area of “interrupted histories” as well as histories documented through the specific situation of women are “Body and the East: From the 1960s to the Present” curated by Zdenka Badovinac (Moderna Galerija, Ljubljana 1998) or “Gender Check: Femininity and Masculinity in the Art of Eastern Europe” curated by Bojana Pejić (Museum Moderner Kunst Stiftung Ludwig Wien, 2009–2010). The latter shed light on the “double otherness” of East Central Europe – its historical distinctiveness and its complex structure of gender representations determined by changing circumstances from the 1960s to the present, further complicated by the later experience of systemic transformation driven by political and economic aspects. Such exhibitions also revealed hidden meanings, obscured by one-sided ideologies, thus putting strain on the Western artistic cannon. Introduction of the aspect of gender representation, of the spotlight on “women’s art,” places the East–West relations on a new plane. Disregarding the Cold War divisions allows for illustrating the relevance of the curator’s practice against global processes, not associated with regionalisms but instead determined by focus on “otherness” and “agency” as the essence of current research and curating activities (Wadstein MacLeod 2017, 170). The most recent among the exhibition models reconfiguring the past and present of East Central Europe is the tendency that discounts the binary order of the cultural heritage of the second half of the 20th century and presents it in a more complex alterglobalist context. This principle governed the exhibition presented in the Museum of Modern Art in Warsaw “The Other Transatlantic. Kinetic Art and Op Art in East Central Europe and Latin America” (2017–2018, curators: Marta Dziewańska, Dieter Roelstraete, Abigail Winograd). The idea behind the exhibition, dedicated to a clearly defined artistic phenomenon of op art, was to illustrate alternative cultural axes connecting Warsaw, Budapest, Zagreb, Bucharest, Moscow, Buenos Aires, Caracas, Rio de Janeiro and São Paulo, replacing the centralised organisation of artistic world, determined by the history of Paris–London–New York avant-garde and neo-avant-garde. Other points of reference were shared interest of artists from different parts of the globe in optics and new visual technologies. Fluid, moving interactions between art and its recipient allowed for observing ambivalent interpretations of the value of progress, with local utopias and unease caused by the expansion of technology. From the perspective of East Central European exhibitions, “The Other Transatlantic” sheds light on changing preferences of curators who shift established artistic borders and relations to explore different geographical parameters that place the experiences of East Central European artists in a global landscape without a clearly defined centre or determining reference points. In this approach, exhibitions of the recent thirty years, with their diverse views on East Central Europe, propose and document how narrations changed in the region. However,

12 Agnieszka Chmielewska et al. they place the main emphasis on the art that grew out of avant-garde and modernism. Seen from the current perspective, the art that often remained on the margins of the artistic life, limited to informal artistic interactions, completely fills the artistic field of vision. The history of neo-avant-garde, conceptual art emerges as a climax that defined the art of East Central Europe and the West. This optics also applies to exhibitions that link the past with present. The multi-aspect project of the Slovenian art group IRWIN serves as an excellent example again. Since it focused on East European modernisms, their social and political involvement, it sustained the dominant art historiographic perspective, disregarding other segments of the artistic domain. Meanwhile, not in all historical circumstances and not by all artistic milieus in East Central Europe the apparatus of power was treated as an instrument of oppression and exploitation of the society, a minority or an individual. This volume accounts also for the cases where creators voluntarily adopted the practices of state-driven instrumentation of art, because they saw benefits to the public and/or individuals in such a synergy. In the 1920s and 1930s, artists in newly formed nation states of East Central Europe often supported nation- and state-building efforts, going against the universal avant-garde aspirations. A number of creators became involved in the processes of integrating the society around the idea of national identity. They participated in the cultural policy implemented by government agencies, in creating the official propaganda rhetoric and were vocal supporters of the idea of creating state institutions for cultural patronage. In the communist period a defensive reaction against prolonged indoctrination and autocratic control within the Eastern Bloc entailed counterculture and dissident cultural trends active outside the parameters of officially sanctioned art. Nevertheless, not all creators assumed the opposition stand. Some were unwilling to risk marginalisation and being left on the outside of the official artistic stage. Indeed, many adopted conformist attitudes or engaged in a game that would ensure that their careers would not be threatened. Some of them were actively committed to the communist regime, thereby securing for themselves the state’s support. Opening of the global art space and art market in the 1990s substantially reduced the dependence of artists on state agencies and introduced the sponsoring of transnational corporations. In postcommunist societies various subversive narratives emerged in art discourses, questioning old and fostering new cultural identities, models and hierarchies. However, official cultural policies, state patronage and state institutions for art promotion have been maintained in the East Central European states. Depending on the political convictions and the profile of independent artistic organisations, response to state policies and institutions has ranged from complete rejection, through fervent criticism, to approval and participation in state-funded undertakings. On the other hand, in many cases critical art has lost its emancipating character, become commercialised and subject to the demands of global art markets. The intention of the authors of State Construction and Art was to shed light on the complexity and diversity of relations between artistic milieus and ruling political powers in East Central Europe.

Diversified Artistic Landscape and the Debates on Art in East Central Europe This volume reflects a vast diversity of research approaches. Some authors adopted the principle of “spatial turn” rooted in “horizontal history of art,” while others opted for the postcolonial approach, others yet chose the comparativist perspective.

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Along with a number of case studies, this anthology also provides a conceptual frame for rethinking the state-art relations in three consecutive historical periods. Division into five sections serves to present problems important to the shaping of interdependencies between the apparatus of power and the artistic milieu and how these relations were approached in countries of the region. Each section is organised along a diachronic axis, to avoid the impression that the chronology of artistic developments in East Central Europe is presented as delayed or “secondary time” against the “prime time” adopted by canon-setting centres. The first part, titled Cultural Specificity of East Central Europe comprises three articles that explore the specifics of the region and their impact on art. Éva Forgács points to the protracted instability of political structures, which produced far too frequent changes in artistic idioms, thus stunting their development. Agnieszka Chmielewska argues that the semi-peripheral location of the region was conducive to the dominance of art subjected to the postulates of national sovereignty. Meanwhile Nadja Gnamuš analyses the strategy of building a historical counter-narrative to the Western discourse on art, applied in the states of the former Eastern Bloc in the postcommunist era, with the intention to define the so called “Eastern art” and place it in the global space of art. The second part – Nation- and State-Building Processes – outlines the processes that affected a complete overhaul of the political map of East Central Europe after World War I. Sofia Korol’ discusses activities of the artists who served in the Legion of Ukrainian Sich Riflemen in World War I, the driving force and symbol of the Ukrainian national revolution; Thekla Musäus analyses the representations of Finnish and Karelian civil wars (1917–1922) in the Finnish-language literature by both sides of the conflict – Finnish conservatives and the Reds; Vita Susak presents an interesting case of Archipenko brothers: one – a Ukrainian nationalist, the other – member of international avant-garde, a rejector of the notion of national art. The following part, titled Aestheticisation of Politics – Ideologisation of Aesthetics presents different, less conspicuous examples of interrelations between art, state and its policies, from different times and countries. Milan Pech analyses manifestations of antisemitism in the visual culture of the interwar Czechoslovakia as an element of nation- and state-forming processes; Lefteris Spyrou discusses the impact of political situation in post-civil-war Greece on the emergence of the canon of Greek modern art; Pamela Browne examines unconventional ways of approaching socio-political issues in the broader context of national and local identity and the pressures of postwar totalitarianism in Latvian photography in the late Soviet period; meanwhile Piotr Majewski argues that in order to deal with the paradoxes of post-transformation reality Polish artists readily resorted to symbolic representations recalling earlier periods when national and historical themes were brought to the front. The fourth and largest part of the book – Art Exhibitions as Political Instrument – presents the yield of dynamically growing research in the field of “exhibition history,” a sub-trend of the art historiographic discipline that offers a new, intriguing perspective on the interconnections between state policies and art. The section opens with two chapters discussing cultural policies of the USSR in the Stalinist era, both domestic and foreign. Katerina Lopatkina discusses how modern art was exhibited and interpreted in the USSR and Irena Kossowska investigates the cultural diplomacy of the USSR on the example of the Soviet art exhibition staged in Warsaw in 1933, as well as the response of Polish critics to the emerging aesthetics of Socialist Realism.

14 Agnieszka Chmielewska et al. Authors of the following articles explore the intricacies of exhibition policies in communist countries in 1956–1989. Mária Orišková looks into the export exhibitions of Czechoslovak art as an element of the state’s cultural strategy. Patricia García-Montón González presents exhibitions of the old masters organised in Warsaw as an attempt at bridging a gap between Eastern and Western Europe and creating a common identity supported by the shared heritage; Pavlína Morganová reconstructs the last exhibition of Czech conceptual art – the expression of emancipation from the Russian dominance, held in 1969, shortly after the suppression of the Prague Spring. Cristian Nae analyses the role of state-organised large-scale art exhibitions in propagating Romanian nationalism under the political regime of Nicolae Ceaușescu. The exhibitions section closes with texts discussing the events that occurred after 1989. Stella Pelše details the exhibitions of Latvian art at the Venice Biennale as an attempt to manifest cultural sovereignty and distinctiveness of a new state and Marcin Lachowski analyses the exhibition dedicated to the rebuilding of modern visual culture in Poland in the times of the Thaw, which closed the first period of discussion on the legacy of the People’s Republic of Poland. The closing part – Architecture as Vehicle for State Cultural Policy – explores cultural policies in architecture in two historical periods: interwar and Cold War. In the former period the dominant theme was (re)construction of an independent state and its capital, which is illustrated by two articles about the Lithuanian Republic: Paulius Taudtvydas Laurinaitis discusses the challenges involved in infrastructure reconstruction and reorganisation of cities, including Kaunas, the capital of the new state, formerly a provincial city of the Russian empire; Giedrė Jankevičiūtė reconstructs the history of two most important projects that were to provide the capital with representational buildings epitomising the idea of the Lithuanian state. Meanwhile, authors writing about the Cold War era focus on various conceptions of reconstruction, transformation and conservation of the monuments of architecture, which allows for showing diverse approaches of various communist regimes to the troublesome heritage. In this vein, Veronika Rollová discusses the attempts to transform Prague Castle, the traditional seat of power of the Czech lands, into a socialist public space; Marcus van der Meulen compares the doctrines of reconstructing historical cities – in particular sacral architecture – in the GDR and Poland; Erzsébet Urbán presents the history of a large-scale and highly successful programme of reconstruction of historic churches, that required Hungarian state to cooperate with the Catholic Church hierarchy. In light of the extensive diversity of the subjects presented above, the volume editors opted against an all-embracing conclusion. Indeed, we are of the opinion that it is difficult if not impossible to recapitulate on the multifaceted topics explored in the book, all the more so that our goal is to expand rather than conclude the debate on the relations between art and state in East Central Europe, by adding topics disregarded so far in relevant discussions.

Discursive Blind Spots Regardless of whether East Central Europe is viewed as an idiosyncratic cultural unity or a mosaic of cultures brought together by the political history of the region, this volume was designed to stimulate exploration of unrevealed interconnections, telling parallels and startling contrasts among the constituents of the eastern expanse

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of Europe. The necessity to place the research into the art of East Central Europe in the context of relevant global studies is beyond question, irrespective of whether the methodological instruments derive from postcolonial theory or are based on the assumptions of glocalisation, indigenisation (Robertson 1992), geography of art or alter-globalism (Piotrowski 2015, 128–129). Nevertheless, in order to clearly determine the position of the region on the global map of artistic phenomena, it is necessary to further explore relations between transnational trends and the local and particular in East Central Europe. Authors of this volume are not convinced by the arguments of the prominent art critic Edit András who claims that, “The momentum for arguing for a regionalism with its specificity is simply gone” (András 2016, 75). We recognise too many blind spots, extensive gaps and untreated areas on the cultural map of the region, resulting from insufficient insight into autonomically developed hierarchies of artistic values, intraregional networks and institutions that determine how artistic discourse is articulated. There is also not enough research into the past and present cross-frontier entanglements, cross-regional and inter-continental circulations of artistic events and institutional connectedness to the wider world in the domain of art, initiated and maintained by state agencies in East Central Europe. As viewed by the authors of State Construction and Art, the relationship between the state and art, as observed in East Central Europe, and therefore from the position of “epistemic privilege” of the margins (Hock 2018, 7–8), is more multifaceted and nuanced than in Western democracies, relatively undisturbed by tumultuous history.

Notes 1 Among the rare exceptions is the recently published book by John J. Curley (2018). The author quotes the art of Central Europe as one of the links in the complex network of global relations and Cold War conflicts, involving North America and Western Europe, the Middle East, Asia and South America. 2 The exploration of military conflicts in the Balkans (1991−1995) and Balkan nationalisms was reflected in such exhibitions as: In Search of Balkania (Graz 2002), Blood and Honey: the Future’s in the Balkans (Vienna 2003) and In the Gorges of the Balkans: A Report (Kassel 2003). 3 Not only did Rampley neglect to reference Halecki’s major writings on East Central Europe (Halecki 1950, 1952), he also misquoted Halecki’s views from the only publication he did reference (Halecki 1943). While Halecki did write about four nations of East Central Europe, these were Poland, Czechoslovakia, Romania and Greece – at that point in time – “the whole group of four United Nations in the eastern part of central Europe.” (1943, 54). Halecki pointed out repeatedly that the region in question was far larger than the four mentioned countries and “[…] the ideal postwar organisation of that part of Europe would be a federation reaching from Finland in the north to Greece in the south” (1943, 57). 4 Edit András proposed the term “semi-other condition” as more relevant to the cultural status of East Central Europe (András 2016, 59).

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Introduction

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Robertson, Ronald. 1992. Globalization: Social Theory and Global Culture. London: SAGE Publications. Rosen, Stanley. 2005. Plato’s Republic: A Study. New Haven, London: Yale University Press. Rykiel, Zbigniew. 2006. Podstawy geografii politycznej. Warszawa: Polskie Wydawnictwo Ekonomiczne. Skórczewski, Dariusz. 2008. “Wobec eurocentryzmu, dekolonizacji i postmodernizmu. O niektórych problemach teorii postkolonialnej i jej polskich perspektywach.”, Teksty Drugie, nos. 1–2: 33–35. Škrabec, Simona. 2013. Geografia wyobrażona: koncepcja Europy Środkowej w XX wieku. Translated by Rozalya Sasor. Kraków: Międzynarodowe Centrum Kultury. [First published as L’atzar de lluita: El concepte d’Europa central al segle XX. València: Editorial Afers, 2005.] Skwara, Marta. 2014. Czy literatura polska może być po prostu literaturą europejską? (O konieczności przekraczania zadawnionych zależności). In Historie, społeczeństwa, przestrzenie dialogu: studia postzależnościowe w perspektywie porównawczej, edited by Hanna Gosk and Dorota Kołodziejczyk, 123–137. Kraków: Towarzystwo Autorów i Wydawców Prac Naukowych Universitas. Smith, Terry. 2012. Thinking Contemporary Curating. New York: Independent Curators International. Kindle. Spivak, Gayatri Chakravorty. 2006. In Other Worlds: Essays on Cultural Politics. London: Routledge. Stanislawski, Ryszard, and Christoph Brockhaus. 1994. Europa, Europa: das Jahrhundert der Avantgarde in Mittel‐ und Osteuropa. Vol. 1–4. Exhibition catalogue, Kunst‐ und Ausstellungshalle der Bundesrepublik Deutschland. Bonn: Stiftung Kunst und Kulture des Landes Nordrhein‐Westfalen. Sugar, Peter F., and Donald W. Treadgold. 1993. “Series Foreword.” In Paul Robert Magocsi, Historical Atlas of East Central Europe, x. Seattle, London: University of Washington Press. Szczerski, Andrzej. 2018. Transformation: Art in East–Central Europe after 1989. Translated by Sabina Potaczek-Jasionowicz, Kraków: Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Jagiellońskiego. [First published as Transformacja. Sztuka w Europie Środkowo-Wschodniej po 1989 roku, Kraków: Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Jagiellońskiego, 2018]. Sztompka, Piotr. 2004. “The Trauma of Social Change. A Case of Postcomunist Societies.” In Cultural Trauma and Collective Identity, edited by Jeffrey C. Alexander et al., 155–195. Berkeley, Los Angeles: University of California Press. Ther, Philipp. 2006. “Deutsche Geschichte als Imperiale Geschichte. Polen, slawophone Minderheiten und das Kaiserreich als kontinentales Empire.” In Das Kaiserreich transnational: Deutschland in der Welt 1871–1914, edited by Sebastian Conrad and Jürgen Osterhammel, 129–148. Göttingen: Vanderhoeck & Ruprecht. Thompson, Ewa. 2000. Imperial Knowledge: Russian Literature and Colonialism. Westport, CT, London: Greenwood Press. Todorova, Maria, ed. 2004. Balkan Identities: Nation and Memory. New York City: NYU Press. Turowski, Andrzej. 2002. “The Phenomenon of Blurring.” In Central European AvantGardes: Exchange and Transformation, 1910−1930, edited by Timothy O. Benson, 362–373. Exhibition catalogue. Los Angeles: Los Angeles County Museum of Art / Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press / Berlin: Martin-Gropius-Bau / München: Haus der Kunst. Wadstein MacLeod, Katerina. 2017. “The Resilience of the Periphery: Narrating Europe through the Curatorial Strategies.” In Europe Faces Europe. Narratives from Its Eastern Half, edited by Johan Fornäs, 153–177. Bristol: Intellect, Ltd. Wolff, Larry. 1994. Inventing Eastern Europe: The Map of Civilization on the Mind of the Enlightenment. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Zygmuntowicz, Dorota. 2011. Praktyka polityczna: od Państwa do Praw Platona. Toruń: Wydawnictwo Naukowe Uniwersytetu Mikołaja Kopernika.

Part I

Cultural Specificity of East Central Europe

1

History Too Fast Éva Forgács

One of the specific historical circumstances in Central and Eastern Europe had been that most of the political regimes in the last 100 years lasted for such short periods of time that it was never possible to work out a steady, or at least predictable relationship between the state and the concept of artistic creation regardless of the character of such a new relationship. With the “long 19th century’s” sense of eternity and perceived stability gone, the political regimes of the newly minted post-World War I states in Eastern Europe were short-lived and the ideologies they were grounded on were ephemeral. Gone also were the high standing of culture, the prestige of knowledge and the value attached to Bildung, or education and erudition. Before any degree of predictability could have been settled on, a war, a revolution or a fundamental regime change took place in every part of the region, if not always at the same time. Any definition of “culture” would describe the meaning of the word as an accumulation of intellectual and artistic achievements attained during a period of time and sustained by relative economic and social equilibrium. Whether loyal or rebellious, culture needs continuity and stability, preferably of several decades, to develop a reassuring and reliable body of creative work that will meet the approval or, at least, the understanding of the public. The state’s function is merely to warrant the stability necessary for creative work. In Eastern Europe however, political regimes changed much more frequently, making such cultural continuity impossible.

A Case in Point: Hungary In Hungary, for example, the fall of the Austro-Hungarian Empire in 1918 gave way to a short-lived republic, and then an equally short-lived Commune, followed by two decades of a right-wing “kingdom” without a king, led by an Admiral in a landlocked country that had no sea, who led the country into World War II on the side of Nazi Germany. World War II was followed by three years of parliamentary democracy before the iron curtain descended and the Yalta agreement was enforced, marking the Stalinisation of the country. This short but dramatic historical era ended in 1953, but de-Stalinised communism took another turn after the 1956 uprising that was defeated after two weeks. The Kádár regime, named after the Communist Party’s leader, started in 1957 with cruel retaliation for the uprising and was gradually consolidated by about 1963, opening the most stable if not homogenous historical periods that headed for economic and political reforms in 1968, and morphed back into a hardline system in 1972. It was weakened after the international oil-crisis in the late-1970s, and gradually crumbled throughout the 1980s until it collapsed in 1989. DOI: 10.4324/9781003265818-3

24 Éva Forgács If we only look at the list of Hungarian forms of state in the last hundred years in terms of numbers, we see how short-lived every period was: 1867–1918: Lands of the Crown of Saint Stephen 16 November 1918–1 March 1919: Hungarian Democratic Republic, presided by Count Mihály Károlyi 21 March 1919–1 August 1919: Hungarian Soviet Republic, led by Béla Kun 1 August 1919–6 August 1919: interim regime, led by Sándor Garbai, Gyula Peidl 7 August 1919–23 August 1919: Hungarian Republic of Archduke Joseph and István Friedrich After interim governments 1 March 1920–15 October 1944: Hungarian Kingdom headed by Admiral Miklós Horthy 16 October 1944–28 March 1945: Government of National Unity led by Ferenc Szálasi 1945–1946: Soviet-backed provisional governments 1 February 1946–3 August 1948: Hungarian Republic, presidents Zoltán Tildy; Then, 3 August 1948–23 August 1949: Árpád Szakasits 1949–1989: Hungarian People’s Republic; The most significant changes during this period: 14 August 1952–4 July 1953: Mátyás Rákosi’s Stalinist rule 4 July 1953–18 April 1955: Imre Nagy government, de-Stalinisation 18 April 1955–24 October 1956: András Hegedüs government, run-up to the 1956 uprising 24 October 1956–3 November 1956: Imre Nagy, Prime Minister of the Uprising 4 November 1956: János Kádár forms the Revolutionary Worker and Peasant Government, soon renamed the Hungarian Socialist Workers’ Party; till 1988, the Kádár regime had varying Prime Ministers that marked changes in the regime’s politics, including Jenő Fock 1967–1975, committed to relative economic and ideological liberalisation, the “New Economic Mechanism,” 1968; also overseeing the participation in the invasion of Czechoslovakia in 1968. 24 November 1988–23 May 1990: Miklós Németh, credited to opening Hungary’s Western borders in the Summer of 1989, precipitating the fall of the Berlin wall on 9 November, 1989. 1989–2010: Hungarian Republic, multiparty parliamentary system, elections every four years, alternating political parties at helm. 2010 to the present: dropping “Republic” the country is renamed Hungary, led by Fidesz.

History Too Fast 25 Every inner change in the power relations inside the ruling communist party during the long-lasting, apparently stable four decades of communist governance had modified the degree of restrictions on the culture and employed different censorial measures even when no visible political change was happening. Publication of books were, at various points of time, permitted but by the time the books went into print they were banned; exhibitions were authorised but often closed down a day after their opening; several films were shot and finished but then not allowed to be screened. Hardly any period of the relative stability between the early-1960s and 1989 featured actually reliable regulations that were predictable and could be trusted in the field of culture and artistic production. On the one hand, a culture of oppositional art – referred to as underground, or neo-avant-garde – was flourishing but it was kept away from the wider public during the communist decades. The state allowed a certain degree of venting to closely watched dissident artists and intellectuals rather than allowing too much and too strong rebellious impulse to accumulate. The venues of such oppositional art were limited, and state controlled. On the other hand, the state’s continuously shifting level of tolerance and control had paralysed a lot of creativity. Art criticism, for one thing, was stalled: Actual aesthetic critique between oppositional artists in public was tantamount to denunciation. Thus, the art world had to turn inside, engage in inner discourse and limit critique on the basis of solidarity.

In Hindsight: Historic Episodes On a more general level the compatibility and incompatibility of artistic freedom and state power have been much discussed in the discourse on the relationship of art and politics, but never settled. It is one of the nearly unresolvable issues: freedom of expression – a hard to define concept – is not only in opposition to direct state control: It is incompatible with any kind of institutional or pragmatic control. The state is not only a political entity that can enforce censorship to limit artistic freedom: It has a number of institutions that have diverse functions and interests that are likely to be incompatible with the unlimited liberty of artistic expression. On the other hand, freedom of expression cannot be exercised at the expense of any specific group or individual. For example, the economic necessity of the state revealed the almost full anatomy of such complications in the German Werkbund between 1907 and 1914. The Werkbund was organised by German industrialists, architects, designers and artists to achieve a common solution to the acute problem of mass production in Germany, necessitated by the flocking of tens of thousands of people – the new workforce – to the cities where the new jobs were (Schwartz 1996; Burkhardt 1977). Switching from manufacturing and small series production for the production line threatened to limit creativity and, by consequence, artistic freedom. The threat had not come from the political power of the state: It originated from the economic and social necessity of providing the exponentially growing urban population with much needed affordable goods so that Germany would not become a market of the United States where mass production had already flourished. Affordable goods could only be made by production line that would turn out objects specifically designed for the technology. This, as many German artists declared, contradicted artistic freedom and creativity as it subjugated the free imagination of the artist to the technical limitations of a machine, whereas mass production was in the interest of the state as well as most citizens.

26 Éva Forgács Even the avant-gardes, however, had been invented with a future state in sight, without the least respect to artistic freedom. The military term “avant-garde,” meaning an elite group of explorer-fighters, was originally meant to champion the romantically utopian ideas of an ideal state dreamed up by, among others, the count Saint-Simon and his friend Olinde Rodrigues in the early 19th century. Their concept of the new state included an artistic avant-garde deployed for the popularisation of the dominant ideas of a new state based on social equality. The avant-garde was meant to function as the propaganda task force of the new state. Saint-Simon and Rodrigues were aware that vanguard artists had to be directly instructed by the state to sell new values and the image of a better future to the populace, because of the time gap between the establishment of the new state and the redeeming of its promises (Calinescu 1987, 95–120). Artists had to evoke the bright future in order to keep up their spirits. The avant-garde was conceived of not as oppositional, not as an art in permanent progress or “permanent revolution” in a later Trotskyite or leftist sense, but as the official art of a future state. This understanding of the avant-gardes went into oblivion, as those 20th-century states that enforced their aesthetics as the sole officially tolerated and supported style were dictatorships mandating slightly different sorts of idealised figurative art. Therefore, the avant-gardes’ complicated relationship to the state and the fact that the issue of power is inscribed into their DNA has also been forgotten, and vanguard art has been understood as rebellious against its respective state. An example for an experiment to establish a modernist narrative in Hungary was the group of artists and art writers who called themselves the European School in Budapest between 1945 and 1948. Since the modernist tendencies in art did not gain ground in interwar Hungary, and intellectual developments such as psychoanalysis, ethnography, philosophy and sociology that had shaped the Western culture, art and the art discourse, had been kept out of interwar Hungary’s public intellectual life, the program of the European School was to make up for this delay, grafting European avant-garde styles such as Surrealism, Cubism and abstraction into Hungarian art along with all their relevant theories. Most of the 20th-century fundamental texts on contemporary art were not translated into Hungarian, from Wilhelm Worringer and Heinrich Wölfflin to Roger Fry to Walter Benjamin, and so on. The brief history of the European School demonstrates the fragmentary nature of the modernist narrative in Hungary and demonstrates that there was no time to unify it. After extensive debates, there was no achieved consensus. Both the champions of Surrealism based on Freud’s theories, and the representatives of abstraction had long been committed to their concepts and had waited to finally turn their ideas into the dominant modernist narrative. The European School was split along this fault line, but before a discourse could develop about the merits of the various competing modernist views and artistic tendencies, the entire modernist movement was discarded in several steps from 1947 to 1949. Modern initiatives were oppressed by state-enforced Socialist Realism starting in 1949, which began to loosen up after 1957–1960 – but this relative thaw was also a state-controlled process. This was a different, post-Stalinist and post-1956 state, and artists had to learn the new rules of the game, the new limits of modern artistic expression and the new boundaries. The Hungarian art of the 1960s unfolded in a period when national unification was the state’s policy. This policy was built on the suppression of the memory of the 1956 uprising, which became one of the taboo items vigilantly guarded by state censorship.

History Too Fast 27 The 1960s were, however, a rare period of flourishing in every field of the visual arts including cinema. But they were also a period of on-and-off restrictions, permits and bans and the sad statistics of the high number of émigré artists who left the country by, or after, the newly reinstated hard-line policies in 1972.

In the Concrete, and in General We can take two different points as examples to be examined regarding the relationship of the state and the arts in Central and Eastern Europe. One is a telling historical example from the history of the Hungarian avant-garde, the other pertains to one of the more general characteristics of the interconnections of the states and the arts. The first test of progressive artists in Hungary in their relation to the state and its power occurred soon after 1918, during the short-lived Hungarian Commune in Spring 1919. Lajos Kassák (1887–1967), an active member of the Hungarian Social Democratic Party, who was already the unquestioned leader of the Hungarian avantgarde art and literature, had great admiration for the 1917 Soviet Bolshevik revolution but did not know the Muscovite Hungarians who came, all of a sudden, to power in March 1919 in Hungary. He suspected them of not representing the real working classes to which he himself had belonged and took them for false prophets. It was also important for him to remain uncompromised and independent from any state power, even if the state was communist. This was impossible as his ideas were very close to that of the state, therefore he could not remain detached from the new leadership while it controlled all activities including the entire cultural life of the country, his own work included. Kassák consistently built an image of unfailing integrity. Independence of the state, however, was illusory. Documents prove that Kassák claimed for his journal Ma (Today) not only a leading position in the new communist state’s culture, but he actively sought for the journal to be the official cultural forum of that state. When the commune’s leader, Béla Kun, made a fleeting remark calling the Ma group “a vestige of bourgeois decadence” because of its modernist artistic language, Kassák responded in a furious open letter, in the full armour of the revolutionary avant-garde artist. He announced himself to be competent in matters of politics as well as art, and declared that Kun, in his capacity as a politician, did not have an understanding of art, so he had better refrain from commenting on the Ma group. He argued that art is beyond politics: “For us the purpose of life is not class warfare,” but “the absolute man whose sole way of life is revolutionary action” (Kassák 2002, 231). Teaching a lesson to the political leader of the country in the name of art as a higher principle involved the germ of tempestuous controversy with the communist state, but the 133 days of the Hungarian Commune’s existence was too short a time for the conflict to play out. Kassák’s stance betrays not only pride and a sense of superiority, but also naiveté and confusion about the actual goal of the avant-garde and its relation to the state. His experience in politics was limited as was his information of revolutionary Russia and the actual power of a Soviet style political leader like Kun, who had come back from Soviet Russia having been trained, or at least having gathered experience, about the operating mode of a communist politician. Kassák’s naiveté and confusion about the role of the artist versus the state is reflected in the responses he gave in the fall of 1920 to a set of questions from The Provisional International Moscow Bureau of Creative Artists addressed to the

28 Éva Forgács Hungarian Activists. The Bureau was a short-lived Russian organisation that collected information about the Activists’ views about the relationship of the artists to the proletariat and the proletarian state (The provisional International Moscow Bureau of Creative Artists’ questions to the Hungarian activists 2002). The answers to the questions, probably penned by Kassák himself for the group, reflect his belief that the socialist state was to be established and given to the people by its leaders, and consequently, art was also a gift to the population. He declared that only moral value could be attached to art works, not financial worth. Kassák said that “the distribution of artistic products should be in the hands of the state” operated by a jury “made up of artists of the most advanced views” and that “the sole determinant of the value of the artistic product is the degree of the artist’s revolutionary humanity.” (The provisional International Moscow Bureau of Creative Artists’ questions to the Hungarian activists 2002, 422). Sorting out the rights and duties of artists and the state, he came up with a surprising answer to the question directly inquiring about art and the state: We would be hard put to find two more diametrically opposed notions than art and the state. These are two contradictory elements, never to be reconciled with each other. Whereas one is a force that constantly breaks down and makes anew, the other is a permanently consolidating force. While one is the first to revolt against and to disrupt order, the other is a foremost solidifier and ever at work on increasing its dogmatic rule. One is dynamic, the other static. One incites revolt, the other oppresses it. One is a permanent revolution, the other is the sober conserver of the problems and solutions presented by any revolution. Thus, there can be no lasting conjunction between art and the state. We may only conceive of a one-sided compromise between them, enforced by the state. You feed us so we can fight against you. For you, the state is a machine and we are live human beings (The provisional International Moscow Bureau of Creative Artists’ questions to the Hungarian activists 2002, 423). No wonder Kassák could not come up with a more sensible answer. The events of 1918, when Hungary became an independent country as a Republic in October, and turned into a Communist Republic five months later, did not give him time to experience and to process the nature of the relationship of an artist and publishing editor to the state. He may have learned more about such relations had he not been forced into exile after the defeat of the Commune, early in 1920. A similar confusion was experienced in Hungary after the 1989 collapse of Communism, when newfound freedom did not come with instantly codified rules and there was no general agreement about what was legitimate, permitted and acceptable. In 1994, when the excellent post-1989 quarterly Nappali Ház (untranslatable title referring to the Moon, invisible during daytime, being nonetheless present), quite similarly to the Russian questionnaire of 1920, addressed many of us art writers and other authors if we thought that the liberal state that the new Republic of Hungary claimed to have become should, now at a time of freedom, engage with culture and the arts at all? (Questionnaire of the editors 1994, 73). This caught us unawares about as much as the questions of 1920 caught Kassák: Really, what was the answer? Can a country that had lacked experience with the rule of law create a culture entirely without state support? Or should the state, now a friend rather than enemy, be a

History Too Fast 29 partner in the freedom of expression? Some said no, the state has no business getting involved with the culture and the arts – we have had it. That was reasonable. However, considering the reality on the ground, that is, the relative poverty of the country and the lack of private wealth that could have been put to use for promoting independent art, I tended to stay in the middle of the road, suggesting that the state should function as sponsor, and should promote progressive and independent art. After all, a liberal state should promote liberal culture. On the other hand, principles and reality had to be measured against each other. It is easier to see now, in hindsight, how inadequate and irreal a concept that was: But again, we had no time to understand the new reality and had no time to come to terms with it.

State Malfunction in Central and Eastern Europe This brings me to my second point regarding the difference in the relationship of state and the arts in Eastern Europe from that of the West: the already mentioned lack of even temporary stability and predictability throughout the last 100 years. In opposition to the post-World War II history of Western democracies, which provided several decades of stability, the pace of historical changes and turmoil in Eastern and East-Central Europe was such that hardly any theoretical apparatus or artistic direction could be generated to navigate art, art history or art theory during those fast-changing historical eras. While in Western countries the changes of government affected the upper state apparatus only, and did not bring about changes in the culture, in Central and Eastern Europe even the change of a person in the ministry of culture, a new editor in a publishing house or a newspaper column had farreaching effects on what was permitted and what was not permitted in art and in the public discourse. This is particularly important to keep in mind now, when the topic of the “Cold War era” has become frequently discussed in publications and conferences as if it had been a homogenous historical period. Quite the contrary: It cannot be emphasised enough that this was a complicated period in each East Central European country divided into short, different periods, with frequent changes in state power, depending either on the Soviet Union, or local developments, or both. Changes in guidelines, censorship directives, relative tolerance and sudden restrictions followed each other without notice. There was no way – and no time – to get prepared for the next set of new rules. Expanding our inquiry into the entire region, if we consider only the post-1945 years, we can list a number of milestones: Hectic historical changes rattled life in Central and Eastern Europe during the postwar decades. In rough summary, three short years of recovery from the war were followed by Stalinisation – the enforcement of the Yalta Treaty – and the descent of the iron curtain in 1948, ushering in communist terror until Stalin’s death in 1953, when de-Stalinisation started a relative thaw, the illusory nature of which was revealed when Polish and Hungarian uprisings were defeated three years later, in 1956. Hardly a new thaw had started around 1960 when the Berlin Wall was erected in 1961 in the midst of new, more subtle forms of authoritarian rule, which was challenged by the Prague Spring with the program of “Socialism with a human face” and similar initiatives in the GDR and Hungary. The Czech attempt at establishing a humanistic version of socialism was brutally crushed in August 1968, introducing hardline Communism again. The systemic deficiencies of the economies, however, led to a new thaw and to the 1975 Helsinki Accords

30 Éva Forgács guaranteeing human rights and freedom of speech in the Warsaw Pact countries. Subsequently, a slow crumbling of State Socialism started, which was accelerated by the 1978 global oil-crisis, and then the system collapsed at the end of the 1980s. This very brief and necessarily superficial list demonstrates a series of profound changes, which are now bundled together as “the Cold War era” in many current essays on Eastern Europe. The list, however, shows that the typical duration of any one historical era in East-Central Europe lasted somewhere between three and six years: There was never a whole decade, let alone decades-long periods of stability – good or bad – in the region. Importantly, having experienced unpredictability and instability, it was general wisdom that no political establishment could be trusted: Even the duration of three or four or five years of a political setting that appeared established, could come to an end at any minute – as it did, several times. That means that none of the possible narratives could solidify and become consensual, neither the modernist, nor the conservative ones. It takes not only more time but also a historically secure environment to develop any one cultural or historical theory or narrative with a claim to relevance. The position of the theorist needs to have firm moral and intellectual ground and faith in the lasting power of the ideas to have them recognised as valid. In want of such underlying historical security no theory can be constructed, only short-lived ideology or propaganda can be generated and artists either try to turn away from the political reality or protest against it in ways that the moment makes possible. The frequent changes of political systems in Eastern Europe – that is, the all too frequent revisions of the state’s ideology and dominant cultural narrative – brought along all too rapid changes in cultural models, disqualifying existing artistic idioms and inventing or borrowing different ones. There is no single, generally accepted narrative of the history of the arts in any of the East European countries. The now frequently used term “politics of memory” captures the relativisation of the accounts of history and, related to it, the history of culture. Since there was never time to firmly establish a consensual artistic discourse, a generally accepted artistic language or a variety of such languages, the culture of debate about the country’s and the culture’s past, present or future, failed to develop. The position of the state, and the politics of the state with regard to the arts and culture being in constant flux, it is very difficult in Central and Eastern Europe to develop art, art discourse and art theory in a framework that aspires to independence from politics, and thus, from the current form of the state. Certain views that were banned or were oppositional in one era, such as, for example religion, or socialist outlook – become mainstream in another historical context or follow the opposite trajectory. At the same time, it cannot go unrecognised that advanced democratic states have a budget for art and culture, and, while recognising freedom of expression, award certain artworks, support certain curatorial and literary activities and fund international exposure of some of their artists. This leads us to the conclusion that the state, no matter how desirable its neutrality in issues of art may be, is, even in the best of cases, a partner whose support or discouragement of the culture goes a very long way.

References Benson, Timothy O., and Éva Forgács, eds. 2002. Between Worlds. A Sourcebook of Central European Avant-Gardes 1910–1930. Cambridge, Mass.: The MIT Press.

History Too Fast 31 Burkhardt, Lucius, ed. 1977. The Werkbund. History and Ideology 1907–1933. Translated by Pearl Sanders. Venice: Biennale di Venezia. Calinescu, Matei. 1987. Five Faces of Modernity. Modernism. Avant-Garde. Decadence. Kitsch. Postmodernism. Durham: Duke University Press. Kassák, Lajos. 2002. “Letter to Béla Kun in the Name of Art.” In Between Worlds. A Sourcebook of Central European Avant-Gardes 1910–1930, edited by Timothy O. Benson, and Éva Forgács. Translated by John Bátki. 230–233. Cambridge, Mass.: The MIT Press. Originally published as “Levél Kun Bélához a művészet nevében.” Ma 4, no. 7 (June) 1919: 146–148. “Questionnaire of the Editors.” 1994. Nappali Ház, no. 1: 73. Schwartz, Frederic J. 1996. The Werkbund. Design & Mass Culture before the First World War. New Haven and London: Yale University Press. “The Provisional International Moscow Bureau of Creative Artists” 2002. Questions to the Hungarian Activists. In Between Worlds. A Sourcebook of Central European Avant-Gardes 1910–1930, edited by Timothy O. Benson, and Éva Forgács. Translated by John Bátki. 420–424. Cambridge, Mass.: The MIT Press. Originally published as “Az alkotó művészek provizórikus, moszkvai internacionális irodájának kérdései a magyarországi aktivista művészekhez.” Ma 6, no. 1–2 (November) 1920: 18–20.

2

Universal or National? Making Art on the European Periphery Agnieszka Chmielewska

Two dominant strategies emerge from the studies of visual arts of the interwar period (1918–1939) in East Central Europe. One was the search for a universal modern art, with focus on formal innovation and trends set in the great European capitals of art: Berlin, Moscow and (predominantly) Paris. The other – spurred by World War I, the fall of multinational empires and the ensuing redrawing of the political map of East Central Europe – was the development of national arts. Since it could be argued that any possibilities of art making available in the region did not go beyond the two strategies, it seems justified to ask whether structural factors were involved. In this article, I approach the question by drawing on post-dependency cultural theory (Nycz 2014, 5–8), with The World Republic of Letters by the French literary critic, Pascale Casanova (2007), as my main reference. In her book, Casanova introduces the model of international literary space, a theory whose application to visual arts requires a discussion that I intend to open by examining it against the history of Polish art, my field of expertise.

Global Inequality of Cultures Post-dependency cultural theory draws inspiration from dependency and post-dependency theories that analyse the world as a global unit composed of a “core” – powerful, wealthy states and a “periphery” of weak, dominated ones. Underdeveloped countries of the periphery provide cheap labour, raw materials and agricultural products, while advanced economies of the centre have the means to transform them into finished goods to be sold at high prices. By purchasing these goods, the periphery depletes the capital that might otherwise be allocated to upgrading its own productive capacity. As Encyclopaedia Britannica concludes: “The result is a vicious cycle that perpetuates the division of the world economy between a rich core and a poor periphery” (Munro 2018). With the economic advantage, the core is able to dominate the political as well as the symbolic spheres by presenting itself as the only model of development and modernisation. Among major inspirations for post-dependency cultural studies are the writings of Immanuel Wallerstein, who dedicated a substantial part of his work to the study of intellectual foundations of the core’s domination (e.g. Wallerstein 2004; 2006). According to Wallerstein, in the first half of the 20th century the core was made up of the most developed states of the West, and the periphery – of all the others, including East Central Europe (Wallerstein 1976).1 I propose to classify The World Republic of Letters by Pascale Casanova as an example of post-dependency cultural theory. The author postulates a model of the DOI: 10.4324/9781003265818-4

Universal or National?

33

international literary universe composed of a centre – nations with rich and presti­ gious literatures, and a periphery – countries that have accumulated far less literary capital. While the centre exercises its power over the periphery as in post-dependency theory, according to Casanova, the global space of literature is relatively independent of politics and economy.2 To analyse centre-periphery relations, Casanova applies Pierre Bourdieu’s concepts of the field of power and symbolic capital (e.g. Bourdieu and Wacquant 1992; Bourdieu 1993, 1996, 1998). Casanova postulates that from a position of dominance, the centre presents its own patterns and values as universal and imposes them on the periphery. By doing so, it projects a vision of a literary world without borders – an open international space in which writers of excellence receive acclaim for universal qualities of their writing. Yet, a writer’s success depends largely on the literary capital of their nation, namely, literary prestige of the language, the number of canonical texts recognised as uni­ versal classics, the existence of professional milieu and literary institutions as well as a cultivated public. Thus, international authorities clearly favour the oldest and the most endowed national literatures of the centre. Since the periphery accepts the no­ tion of literary universality as the unquestioned truth, the centre’s domination is reinforced. Being the subject to “the invisible violence” from their dominant coun­ terparts, minor languages and literatures are at a disadvantage to produce universally acclaimed writers, concludes the author.

The World Republic of Letters Casanova argues that being rooted in language renders literature a matter of national interest. The expansion of vernaculars and literatures written in those vernaculars was instrumental in establishing and strengthening states in early modern Europe, making language political: […] both, the formation of states and the emergence of literatures derive from a single principle of differentiation. For it was in distinguishing themselves from each other, which is to say in asserting their differences (in the same sense in which phonetics speak of language as a system of differences), language evidently played a central role as a “marker” of difference. (Casanova 2007, 35) The processes of differentiation began in the 16th century, when France challenged the domination of Renaissance Italy. Subsequently, Spain, England and other coun­ tries of Europe entered into the competition, giving rise to the international literary space. The 19th century brought about the second stage in the formation of this space, fuelled mostly by nationalist movements in East Central Europe. The third stage started after World War II, with the period of decolonisation, when the newly established states of Africa and Asia staked their claim to literary existence. Rivalries among national literatures produced the structure of the world republic of letters, its economy, hierarchies and various forms of violence. The position of a particular literature within this space depends on the value of its national literary capital. The centre is made up of the oldest and best-endowed national literary spaces, which became relatively independent of politics. The accumulation of specifically literary resources (such as narrative techniques and formal solutions) enabled

34 Agnieszka Chmielewska writers to claim the autonomy of literary recognition grounded exclusively in aesthetic judgement. The richest began to characterise their literatures as non-national and ahis­ torical, relevant for setting a universally recognised standard. The result is the centre exercising its power over the global literary space not only by asserting that all literary works should be interpreted in terms of “pure” art but also by defining peripheries in terms of their aesthetic distance from the centre. Thus, authorities of the centre hold the sole prerogative of the consecration of literatures and writers. Because France managed to accumulate the largest capital, its literary space gained the most autonomy.3 France’s capital also gave it domination over the world republic of letters and the power to impose itself as the homeland of “pure” art and a universal model for all writers who aspired to autonomy (at least until the 1960s). Paris – the city that symbolised Revolution and artistic freedom – established itself as the world capital of modern literature. Not only did Paris gain the power to determine what is modern but also to consecrate writers, to denationalise them and make them uni­ versal. To conclude, Paris presented itself as the homeland of universal modernity, which enabled France to practice “imperialism of the universal,” employing its lit­ erary denationalised capital for national purposes. According to Casanova, the relatively new and poor literatures of the periphery had to devise different strategies. The most popular was invented by Johann Gottfried Herder in service of the German struggle for literary independence. Herder stressed the equal value of all ages and nations, arguing that each of them should be judged according to its own criteria. This idea challenged French hege­ mony, founded on universal standards rooted in Greco-Latin antiquity, and pro­ moted the cultural diversity stemming from linguistic and cultural differences between nations. Moreover, Herder proposed a new mode of accumulating literary capital that relied on popular tradition as the most “authentic” expression of the nation’s “soul.” Herder’s theories strengthened the structural bond between literature and nation. His affirmation of popular languages and literatures played a key role in the 19th-century national revival of politically dominated territories in East Central Europe (and later, the postcolonial world), encouraging them “to stake their claim to literary and political existence” (Casanova 2007, 75). Consequently, each battle for the recognition of a national literature became a part of a larger war against political domination, which – sooner or later – took the shape of a struggle for a sovereign nation-state. Rising from Herder’s ideas, the nationalisation of literatures brought about a new form of literary legitimacy based on total submission to political divisions. All literary spaces (including those located in the centre) were defined as national and thus not only separate but also non-comparable. Each of them would focus on cultivating national tradition and its peculiarities, closing in upon itself. The two opposing tendencies described earlier – unification and autonomisation on the one hand, national differentiation (in literature as well as in politics) on the other – shaped the international literary space that stretches as a continuum between two poles: the pole of autonomy (the centre) and the pole of heteronomy (the periphery). The centre usually defines this polarisation in terms of the opposition between universalism and parochialism, modernity and anachronism or innovation and imitation, thus employing orientalisation in defence of its domination (Said 1979).

Universal or National?

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National Literary Space on the Periphery Since Herder, each national literary space has been structured similarly to the world republic of letters, i.e. around the opposition between the poles of autonomy and heteronomy. Moreover, its position within the international structure depends on the degree of its autonomy, which in turn is a function of the age and volume of its literary capital. Thus, national literatures that entered global competition during the second or third stage in the formation of the international literary field were located on the periphery. Most of these new literary spaces emerged with a new nation as a substitute for a formally constituted state and were bound to adopt Herder’s strategy of accumulating literary capital. The invention and development of a national lit­ erature was a form of rebellion against political and cultural dependence and in­ evitably produced a heteronomic national literary space. However, at some point in history, political sovereignty and the growth of national literary capital enabled writers to pursue the ideal of “pure” art and to question the domination of politics. Consequently, the structure of a national literary space began to evolve, bringing about the emergence of the autonomous pole. The range of strategies available to writers expanded, the two main categories being assimilation and differentiation. The former assumes integration with the centre through erasing differences, the latter – conversely – asserts the difference, usually in the form of a national peculiarity. The proponents of integration recognise the consecrating authorities of the most autonomous spaces (the centre), which allows them to undermine the domination of heteronomy and to achieve creative freedom. In doing so, not only do they strengthen the autonomous pole of the international literary space, but they also contribute to the unification thereof. Meanwhile, national artists prefer to remain within national borders and cultivate a peripheral literary tradition as well as aesthetic canons im­ posed by the principle of heteronomy. Such conservatism enables them to produce national bestsellers and benefit from national literary institutions, such as national academia and canons. Casanova focuses on the strategies applied by those proponents of integration who attempt to enter international literary competition. While doing so, they usually learn that their national attachment to the unrecognised literary space gravely limits their possibilities. Therefore, some of them migrate to the centre in order to detach themselves from their native literary space and either assimilate to the universal norm or revolutionise it drawing on their relative deprivation (e.g. a lack of literary lan­ guage might result in linguistic innovations). Nevertheless, some proponents of in­ tegration remain within their national literary space, struggling to usher the rules of universal modernity into the periphery.

Casanova and Visual Arts: The Polish Case At last, we can proceed to the most interesting question: Is Casanova’s model relevant for the visual arts of East Central Europe? Let me explore it in the Polish context. Visual arts, unlike literature, are not closely connected with language (Piotrowski 2015, 123–124) and as such are less important for the creation of a distinctive na­ tional identity. Yet, painters played a substantial role in spreading national ideas, since they: “[…] were able to provide memorable images of abstract notions like

36 Agnieszka Chmielewska ‘nation’ and ‘national identity’, and translate them into palpable and widely acces­ sible ‘reality’,” as argued by Anthony D. Smith (2013, 5), one of the most influential theorists of nationalism. Polish artistic space emerged in the 19th century, during the period of partitions, as a part of the national struggle for political freedom. Since the national artistic capital was scarce (far lower than literary capital), artists readily resorted to Herder and his affirmation of cultural diversity as well as popular tradition. Works of art were judged not by the standards of classical art but according to their contribution to the national cause. History painting was expected to recall the national past, genre painting – focus on the specific features of the Polish people, while landscapes – reflect the distinctive national character of the land. In other words, in order to construct national art, artists focused on Polish tradition and expressing the nation’s “soul.” Total submission to the rule of heteronomy allowed them to assume the role of na­ tional bards and enjoy considerable prestige in the eyes of the national public. To sum up, Polish artistic space fits Casanova’s description of the periphery. Moreover, it could be argued that for Polish artists – especially from the 1880s on – Paris constituted the main capital of the world republic of art. While most of them studied in Kraków, St. Petersburg and Munich, a study trip to Paris was considered a crowning point of art education. The notion of autonomous art was first introduced to Poland around 1890 as an import from the Parisian centre. Its first advocate was a painter and influential art critic, Stanisław Witkiewicz, who formulated a compre­ hensive theory of modern art and promoted formal values over subject matter. The adoption of universal principles of modern art was to keep the national tradition alive by introducing it to the international artistic space.4 In 1897, the Society of Polish Artists “Sztuka” (“Art”) was founded in Kraków, the first group who preached the autonomy of art, namely artistic individualism, antiacademism and the priority of aesthetics in judgement. The Society’s main goal was to organise exhibitions promoting Polish modernism at home and abroad. Within a few years, “Sztuka” brought together all principal representatives of modern art from all three parts of partitioned Poland. Their exhibitions were praised for demonstrating high quality and the vitality of Polish culture to the world, thus supporting Poland’s claim to cultural and political independence. Moreover, in line with Witkiewicz’s writings, modernist ar­ tists and critics believed that by engaging in cultural commerce with the global artistic space, the Society supported the development of national art (Cavanaugh 2000, 59–76). A conclusion presents itself: Around 1900, the majority of Polish modernists aimed at combining universal rules of modernity with the principle of national art. By doing so, not only did they refuse to accept the opposition between the pole of autonomy and the pole of heteronomy, but also tried to subordinate the former to the latter (Figure 2.1). The Polish artistic space underwent another transformation at the end of World War I. Two groups emerged among the followers of the international avant-garde: the Formists (established in 1917 as the Polish Expressionists) and “Bunt” (“Revolt,” 1918). Members of both groups were strongly influenced by Expressionism and took revolutionary positions within the Polish artistic space. Nevertheless, the Formists continued efforts to combine universal modernity with national art to create a Polish national style, based on Cubo-Futurist form, but derived from popular traditions, such as folk and vernacular art5 (Figure 2.2). The pole of autonomy became fully constituted only after 1918, when Poland regained its political sovereignty. It was made possible by the fact that a growing

Universal or National?

37

Figure 2.1 Stanisław Wyspiański, Girl in a Folk Costume, 1901. Pastel, 48.5 × 30 cm. National Museum in Warsaw. Photo by Krzysztof Wilczyński.

number of artists felt liberated from any political duty and could therefore pursue the principle of autonomy. In the 20s, these were mostly avant-garde artists (Constructivists and some ex-Formists), while in the 30s – the Kapists, a group of painters strongly influenced by French post-impressionism, who returned to Poland after a few years of Paris education. At home, the Kapists promoted elementary truths about painting assimilated in Paris, primarily the concept of autonomous art. Simultaneously, the progressive fraction of national artists redefined their mission. Since the establishment of the independent Polish state, the purpose of visual arts was to support the state in integrating the nation made up of citizens brought up under the rule of three different empires, to assimilate national minorities and to promote the state and its national culture abroad. In return, artists hoped to benefit from national art in­ stitutions, created and controlled by the state. The most notable among national artists were the members of the eclectic group “Rytm” (“Rhythm”) who combined geometric stylisation with rural imagery and folk motifs in hope to modernise the national style (also labelled as Polish Art Déco, see: Huml 1991; Sieradzka 1996). In the 30s, this fraction of national artists engaged in fierce polemics with the Kapists, whom they accused of neglecting national issues in pursuit of outdated Parisian fashions. The Kapists retorted that national artists are afraid of confronting modern European art, thus reinforcing the parochialism of Polish art (Chmielewska 2005) (Figure 2.3).

38 Agnieszka Chmielewska

Figure 2.2 Tytus Czyżewski, Tatra Brigand, 1917–1918. Watercolour, 64.3 × 48.3 cm. National Museum in Warsaw. Photo by Piotr Ligier.

Figure 2.3 Władysław Skoczylas, Archer (Apollo), 1923. Woodcut, 17 × 22.2 cm. National Museum in Warsaw. Photo by Krzysztof Wilczyński.

Universal or National?

39

Conclusion I would argue that the model of international literary space conceived by Casanova can be applied to the visual arts. Moreover, it could serve as a theoretical foundation for a new, comparative method of interpreting works of art as well as artists’ stra­ tegies against the global context, thus challenging long-established national art nar­ ratives. National artistic spaces in East Central Europe were shaped by similar conditions, typical for peripheries: political dependence, the principle of differentia­ tion and the necessity to develop a national artistic capital. The Polish artistic space fits the aforementioned characteristics. Initially subordinated to the principle of na­ tionalism and relying heavily on Herder’s theory, it developed the pole of autonomy only with the advent of political independence. However, for it to be relevant to the study of visual arts in East Central Europe, Casanova’s framework requires an enhanced model of national artistic space that would include a variety of strategies employed by national artists. The theorist’s focus on the writers who managed to enter international literary space resulted in the marginalisation of those who remained national. Hence, the latter are portrayed as a homogenous group of anachronistic realists, which is not consistent with the model of continuum spread between the poles of autonomy and heteronomy. As illustrated by the Polish case, national art could come in various shapes. A number of Polish artists combined universal modernity with popular tradition to the acclaim of the liberal fraction of the national public. In the interwar period, a modernised national style approached the status of the official art of the Second Polish Republic (Huml 1991; Sieradzka 1996; Piotrowski 1993; 2007, 34–38). Why would national artists attempt to modernise national art? To answer this question, I propose to refer to the centre-periphery relations analysis by Tomasz Zarycki, a Polish post-dependency cultural theorist. Zarycki emphasises the im­ portance of a peripheral elite, whose members act as intermediaries between the periphery and the centre in all dimensions of social life. They describe the world of the periphery to the centre in a language that the latter can comprehend, and the world of the centre to the periphery in the periphery’s idiom (Zarycki 2009).6 In the light of Zarycki’s theory, a large number of East Central European artists of the era – aware of the trends popular in the centre – should be considered a part of the per­ ipheral elite. The proponents of universal modernism usually assumed the role of the centre’s representatives on the periphery, while national artists spoke for the per­ iphery in the centre – a task particularly important for establishing the nation, both artistically and politically. However, expressing peripheral identity in a way that is not only understood but also appreciated by the centre required demonstrating a national art that would match the standards of universal modernity.

Notes 1 More precisely, Wallerstein classified most of East Central Europe as a semi-periphery, i. e. an intermediary zone that acts as a periphery to the centre and as a centre to the periphery. Yet, the term is of little use for this article, since its focus is on the centre – (semi-)periphery relations only. 2 The question whether global culture and its hierarchies depend on the economic processes has been a subject of numerous debates. While discussing Casanova’s work, I would like to

40 Agnieszka Chmielewska

3 4 5 6

point out that the literary centre has always been located in one of the Western metropolises (Paris, London and New York). For a detailed analysis of the process, see also: Bourdieu 1993; Bourdieu 1996; Bourdieu 2017. For a concise characteristic of his stance in English, see: Cavanaugh 2000, 27. See also: Olszaniecka 1984. A similar interpretation of the history of Polish art can be found in: Piotrowski 2007. An earlier version of the article was published in English as: Piotrowski 1993. For a concise version in English, see: Zarycki 2007.

References Bourdieu, Pierre. 1993. The Field of Cultural Production: Essays on Art and Literature, edited by Randal Johnson. Cambridge-Oxford: Polity Press. Bourdieu, Pierre. 1996. The Rules of Art: Genesis and Structure of the Literary Field. Translated by Susan Emanuel. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Bourdieu, Pierre. 1998. Practical Reason: On the Theory of Action. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Bourdieu, Pierre. 2017. Manet: A Symbolic Revolution. Translated by Peter Collier and Margaret Rigaud-Drayton. Cambridge: Polity Press. Bourdieu, Pierre, and Loïc J. D. Wacquant. 1992. An Invitation to Reflexive Sociology. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Casanova, Pascale. 2007. The World Republic of Letters. Translated by Malcolm DeBevoise. Cambridge, London: Harvard University Press. Cavanaugh, Jan. 2000. Out Looking in: Early Modern Polish Art 1890-1918. Berkeley, Los Angeles, London: University of California Press. Chmielewska, Agnieszka. 2005. “Spory o polską sztukę narodową i polski styl narodowy w okresie międzywojennym.” Ikonotheka 18: 71–86. Huml, Irena. 1991. “Polish Art Deco: The Style of Regained Independence (the 1920s).” In The Art of the 1920’s in Poland, Bohemia, Slovakia and Hungary: October 19–22, 1989. Translated by Krystyna Malcharek, 11–19. Cracow: Institute of Art, Polish Academy of Science. Munro, André. 2018. “Dependency Theory.” In Encylopaedia Britannica. https://www. britannica.com/topic/dependency-theory Nycz, Ryszard. 2014. “Polish Post-Colonial and/or Post-Dependence Studies.” Teksty Drugie [Special Issue English Edition] 1, no. 5: 5–11. http://tekstydrugie.pl/en/special-issues-inenglish/ Olszaniecka, Maria. 1984. Dziwny człowiek (o Stanisławie Witkiewiczu). Kraków: Wydawnictwo Literackie. Piotrowski, Piotr. 1993. “Art and Independence: Polish Art in the 1920s.” Artium Questiones VI: 31–37. Piotrowski, Piotr. 2015. “From Global to Alter-Globalist Art History.” Teksty Drugie [Special Issue English Edition] 1, no. 7: 112–134. http://tekstydrugie.pl/en/special-issues-in-english/ Piotrowski, Piotr. 2007. “Od Melancholii do Żniwiarek.” In Piotr Piotrowski, Sztuka według polityki: od Melancholii do Pasji. 13–49. Kraków: Towarzystwo Autorów i Wydawców Prac Naukowych “Universitas.” Said, Edward W. 1979. Orientalism. New York: Vintage Books. Sieradzka, Anna. 1996. Art Déco w Europie i w Polsce. Warszawa: Oficyna Wydawnicza Volumen, Wydawnictwa Szkolne i Pedagogiczne. Smith, Anthony D. 2013. The Nation Made Real: Art and National Identity in Western Europe, 1600-1850. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

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Wallerstein, Immanuel. 2006. European Universalism: the Rhetoric of Power. New York: The New Press. Wallerstein, Immanuel. 1976. The Modern World-System: Capitalist Agriculture and the Origins of the European World-Economy in the Sixteenth Century. New York: Academic Press. Wallerstein, Immanuel. 2004. The Uncertainties of Knowledge. Philadelphia: Temple University Press. Zarycki, Tomasz. 2007. “An Interdisciplinary Model of Centre-Periphery Relations: A Theoretical Proposition.” Regional and Local Studies 8, no. 5 [Special Issue]: 110–130. Zarycki, Tomasz. 2009. Peryferie: nowe ujęcie zależności centro-peryferyjnych. Warszawa: Wydawnictwo Naukowe Scholar.

3

The Concept of Eastern Art and SelfHistoricisation: The Slovenian Case Nadja Gnamuš

The phenomenon of East European art1 emerged as a relevant art term (and ideo­ logical construction) at the time of already collapsed communist regimes and along with the processes of globalisation, transition to market economies and the political rhetoric of a unified Europe. Apart from its geopolitical and historical context, it also echoed a wider cultural perspective and new theoretical frameworks, particularly post-colonialist discourses, identity politics, multiculturalism and post-historicity, all of which demanded alternative views and a deconstruction of universalist historical hierarchical relations.2 Notwithstanding the notion that the consumer ideology of the West has been paralleled with the political ideology of the East (Erjavec 2003, 37), which also implied a critique of the the Western art system, the institutionalisation of Eastern art paradigm was (consciously or not) compatible with the demands of a global market economy and the capitalist colonisation of the East.3 Within this context, I will consider the example of the Museum of Modern Art in Ljubljana (Moderna galerija Ljubljana), which has since the late 1990s taken an active part in Eastern art discourse, particularly focusing on its relation with the West. The museum is known for several exhibitions dealing with the topic of cultural distinctiveness of Eastern art and particularly, by the establishment of the Arteast 2000+ collection. The primary aim of this project was to make the museum re­ cognisable, to internationalise local art and to place it within a wider historical context with emphasis on its Eastern identity. In this process, self-historicisation was introduced as a method of alternative historic systematisation and as a means to intervene in the construction of history (Figure 3.1). Under the directorship of Zdenka Badovinac, who held this position from 1993 to 2020, the Museum of Modern Art in Ljubljana changed its programmatic and strategic orientation. The museum gave priority to a reconsideration of local art production with a focus on conceptual practices4 and their historical predecessors. Western references were replaced by an interest in a more markedly politicised art of alternative culture, mainly the NSK collective, which reflected growing social tensions and political discomfort in the late 1980s and was – in contrast to other concurrent art tendencies – closer to politicised trends in other post-socialist countries. Neue Slowenische Kunst (NSK) was an art collective founded in Ljubljana (Slovenia) in 1984 at the time of the gradual demise of socialist Yugoslavia. It was comprised of several sections including a music and multi-media group Laibach, the Irwin art group, Scipion Nasice Sisters Theatre (later renamed as Red Pilot and Cosmokinetic Theatre Noordung), the graphic design department New Collectivism and a theore­ tical Department of Pure and Applied Philosophy. NSK’s activity was involved in DOI: 10.4324/9781003265818-5

Self‐Historicisation

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Figure 3.1 A slogan on folders, catalogue lists and public announcements for museum’s new acquisitions for the collection Arteast 2000+. The Museum of Modern Art and The Museum of Contemporary Art Metelkova, Ljubljana.

44 Nadja Gnamuš provocative representations of state ideology and related to current social and poli­ tical issues in former Yugoslavia. In the newly formed state, this art has gradually become regarded as a major agent of social and cultural change. A growing interest in the legacy of Eastern art, its socio-political context and identification with its com­ munist background became paramount issues in the late 1990s,5 which also corre­ sponded with a wave of exhibitions in the first years of the third millennium dedicated to the contemporary art of Eastern Europe.6 Through this perspective a transformed historical interpretation and evaluation of past events took place, turning its focus from the West to the East. During the time of Socialism Slovenia experienced a mild communist regime and could relatively early integrate concurrent modernist art tendencies which were supported by progressive art critics and historians. As a result, a rich and prolific artistic milieu was formed.7 However, in a retrospective view the constitutive historical role of modernist art became diminished since it was on the one hand considered as politically disinterested and on the other dismissed as a mere imitation of Western streams. Its local devel­ opments were often reduced to over-simplified “traffic-like” orientations applicable to the understanding of a Western viewer without paying attention to the specificities and distinctions of particular phenomena. According to Boris Groys’s thesis, Eastern isolation from the international art scene prevented the production of innovative art and consequently made it impossible to be original and authentic in international art context (Groys 2003, 56). This statement targeted modernist oriented artists of the East who could not avoid already having a predecessor, a sort of a role model ahead of them, that was ascribed to a geopolitically, economically and historically periph­ eral position. Furthermore, adoption of Western artistic models has been retro­ spectively considered as a sign of Western cultural domination and as something which was not authentically lived in the East. In Slovenia, artists of the Irwin group (also the founding members of NSK) declared eclecticism as a major feature of Slovenian cultural tradition and a “cultural inevit­ ability” and accordingly developed eclectic retrogardist principle8 as a central method of their art practice (Irwin 1991, 122−123). Irwin’s “original eclecticism” was con­ sciously endorsed through post-author(ial) and post-historical theoretical perspec­ tives and was presented as a self-reflexive model and a critical analysis of Slovenian art tradition. From the beginning of its artistic career, Irwin has used art history as a major subject of its work, has researched relations between culture and ideology and has been concerned with the principles of the creation of history. The latter has, particularly through the process of self-historicisation, become a constitutive element of Irwin’s art by means of which the artists contextualised, organised and controlled their art practice all the way to the present day (Zabel 2006, 319). The role, which Moderna galerija has taken in the project of an Eastern art canon, was a timely cultural and political choice. The establishment of a collection Arteast 2000+ (2000)9 and, later on, the setting of the project East Art Map (2002–2005) by Irwin were two key endeavours in locating Eastern art in relation to the West and inscribing it in global history. The idea of Eastern art epitomised the other, the overlooked side of European culture and the opposition to main­ stream narrative in favour of marginal histories. By means of this strategy a new “art brand” was simultaneously created which would define the cultural capital of Eastern European art and enter the international art market as a novelty, alterity and distinct entity.10

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11

The Arteast 2000+ international collection was the first museum initiative to focus on the works of Eastern European postwar avant-garde artists in a broader international context ranging from the 1960s to the present (Figure 3.2). The collection is said to have provided an extensive overview of art from the region. However, soon after its beginning, it was subjected to severe criticism on the grounds of the policy and criteria of acquisitions. The collection lacked and still lacks Slovenian artists and mainly targets an international audience.12 As Marina Gržinić argued “the whole situation of including some of the works in the collection was blurred, in terms of payment and regulations on displaying the work and the concept of the collection did not quite fit the description of a truly ethical act” (Gržinić 2004, 115). Such reconsiderations were and still are relevant since becoming a part of the collection of Eastern art, which declares its historical primacy and importance, means entering the Eastern art canon and subsequently also international history of art. When discussing historical relevance, Edward H. Carr’s classic introduction to modern historiography comes to mind, reminding us that there is no such thing as absolute objectivity in history since the “facts” of history are simply those which historians have selected for scrutiny. All historical facts come to us as a result of interpretations by historians influenced by the standards, criteria and values of their age and environment through which they consider and measure the facts. As Carr observed, values inform the facts and are an essential part of them and for that reason

Figure 3.2 Arteast 2000+ exhibition view. A selection of works for the international and na­ tional collections of Moderna Galerija Ljubljana, Moderna Galerija, Ljubljana, 2004. Photo by Dejan Habicht.

46 Nadja Gnamuš “historical truth” depends on interaction of facts and values which the historian cannot separate” (Carr 1964, 131−132). A similar observance is noted in Benedetto Croce’s famous notion that all history is contemporary history, meaning that all history was written from the point of view of contemporary preoccupations and that, inevitably, we look at the past through the eyes of the present. Hence, history is not a stable and total phenomenon but it changes through a dialogue between the events of the past, interpretations of the present and emerging future ends. Carr was well aware that the historian’s interpretation of the past and his selection of the significant and the relevant evolves with the progressive emergence of new goals (Carr 1964, 123−124). Drawing from that we can conclude there is no such thing as a disin­ terested history or rather disinterested histories.13 However, when judging the acts and methods of historicisation, we must always take into account who historicises and what is the purpose of the historicisation process. The method of self-historicisation emerged as a contemporary approach to reinterpretation of history as well as a desire for democratising and multiple readings of its material. In this context, it is usually carried out as an informal system of historicisation practised by artists, who act as archivists and curators and reflect the role, context and history of their own artistic practice.14 Such historicisation is an art project of (re)constructing history through art and contextualising and producing one’s position in history. Irwin’s East Art Map (2002–2005) is a representative case in point. Here, the goal was to “organise the fundamental relationship between Eastern European artists” and to fill in the lack in the sphere of serious comparisons between the Eastern and Western European context for art production (Irwin 2006, 12−14). Charting a map of Eastern art, edited by the Irwin group and empowered by a theoretical framework, was a way of marking the territory, not only geographically and politically but also ideologically. Irwin invited several experts and artists from different Eastern European countries and also from the West to cooperate with them on the project by proposing the most important artists from their own countries and designating the connections between local artists as well as their connections with Western artists. The organisers of EAM were aware that the art project was incomplete, stating that “the selection of some of the artists discussed could have been entirely different and is merely arbitrary” (Irwin 2006, 14). As a sign of their democratic endeavour, they even developed an internet platform to invite new contributions and additions. However, in spite of arbitrary mechanisms, marked by the subjectivity of the “speaking subject,” the EAM became a crucial reference point in the establishment of Eastern art canon (Figure 3.3). According to Zdenka Badovinac, self-historicisation “still represents an important, if not the only, form of historicization in less standardised non-Western places” (Badovinac 2006),15 i.e. spaces outside canonised history, where it is a result of the absence of any suitable collective history, modern art system and methods of his­ torical assessment. We should view this argument from a particular understanding of history and its relation to past events through the memory, organisation and inter­ pretation of these events. History is not concerned with any event, it only collects, scrutinises and presents those which are relevant in creating (social) changes and have consequences. This means that history more or less deals with historical ruptures and breaks. The relevance of a historical fact is measured by its effect on the future de­ velopment of events. From the perspective of great artistic events, changes and

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Figure 3.3 Irwin, East Art Map, 2000–2005. Installation view of the exhibition The Present and Presence, Museum of Contemporary Art Metelkova, Ljubljana, 2011–2012. Photo by Dejan Habicht.

influential people that define a “universal” stream of history, the Eastern art narrative is in the shadow of a Western gaze. Construction of a counter narrative by means of self-historicisation of Eastern art was a project to do away with this historical lack. Yet, it was not an all-encompassing project but a process of (self-)contextualisation and (self-)assessment undertaken by certain artists, who were motivated to system­ atise their own art or other local neo-avant-garde art that was previously ignored by institutions. In the rhetoric of self-historicisation and the absence of “any suitable collective history,” the notion of history has again been generalised (as if presenting a general lack), even though it has dealt with a particular set of events, histories and agents, who have through participation gained presence and visibility in history. In this regard, self-historicisation was used as a tool for creating history and a model for its strategic positioning with regard to current interests. Since facts are hardly separated from values, concerns and interests, self-assessment also cannot be independent from self-promotion. No matter how relevant selfhistoricisation was as a reaction against a total and one-sided narrative by bringing to the surface minor parallel histories, the issue became contentious as soon as it became a tool of institutionalisation of so-called alternative art. The art collective NSK as the major protagonist of dissident art scene and alternative culture in late Socialism has become the most venerable Slovenian art phenomenon and its major art export. Here, it is noteworthy to bring to mind that a formation of NSK imitated a “model of a state” and assumed all the organisational and ideological aspects as well as structural

48 Nadja Gnamuš elements of an institution as such. It formulated its own constitution defining its patterns of behaviour, laws and a set of rules by which the members should abide: it established different sections and departments and eventually (after the demise of federation of Yugoslav republics) even a virtual state with all the proper state in­ signia, passports, embassies and consulates.16 In its highly organised system, selfhistoricisation was a part of its own language, which the collective allegedly created as a replacement for a dysfunctional and disintegrating state and as a means to confront the absence of a suitable art infrastructure. In the 1980s, NSK’s activities were explained in terms of over-identification with the system refusing to take side or an overt critical stance and hence inhabited an ambiguous, unidentified and as such disturbing place without a clear identity (Šumič Riha 2007). The famous third rule of the Laibach covenant stated that “all art is subject to political manipulation, except for that which speaks the language of this same manipulation.” These radical, am­ biguous and provocative NSK gestures from the late 1980s targeted an entirely dif­ ferent social and political milieu and echoed loudly at the time of a shaky and disintegrating communist regime. In due course, NSK’s totalitarian art project was accomplished by becoming a firm symbolic capital and the most influential and re­ ferenced artistic phenomenon in Slovenian art, also owing to its international re­ cognition. NSK’s inventive appropriation of institutional form was a political and conceptual decision based on a disposition that artistic engagement with the institution would expose and undermine its ideological roots from within. However, from the per­ spective of the new world order, NSK’s antagonistic policy toward the system and the order that supported it – regardless of the collective’s new contextual strategies with respect to the changing social space – assumed a different and distorted shape, in which the understanding of art as ideological enterprise changed into mainstream art. The art project of linking art, politics and ideology was eventually embodied in the collective’s institutionalisation of its ideology. Once an ambiguous and subversive attempt was thus converted into an undisputed national icon.17 This brings to mind Foucault, who observed in his writings that many activities that may seem to oppose power are complicit with it, reinforcing rather than contesting its position. In the world of global capitalism, which swallowed and anaesthetised all the sites of critical resistance, this account becomes even more pertinent. In his introduction to Foucault’s interpretation of the mechanisms of power, Deleuze emphasised that power is less a property than a strategy, and its effects cannot be attributed to an appropriation but to dispositions, manoeuvres, tactics, techniques, functionings (Foucault 1977, 26). According to Deleuze, power has no essence but is simply operational (Deleuze 1986, 22). It is not a privilege, acquired or preserved by the domineering, “but the overall effect of its strategic positions” (Foucault 1977, 26) and social networking. Whatever mappings of art territory may be, they, regardless of their democratic tone, always exert a will for power and imply the production of knowledge wedded to the productive power of a map. In this light self-historicisation is also an attempt to reclassify documents and works according to the present context of use. However, in the process of new reconstructions of history several artists have been excluded from proper historical evaluation as they did not fit in either narrative of art, neither Western nor Eastern. From this standpoint, a counter narrative is again revealed as a selective history which is no less a history of exclusion than a historical corrective. Through endorsement of new

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power relations it has crafted collective memory and significantly affected reception of local history and its art legacy. In the combat against universal history, it has created another hegemonic space defined by new criteria of historical significance. Against this there are always other, different histories – that are parallel and minor stories of Eastern art. It has always been known that the reign over history is a reign over the future.

Notes 1 The concept of Eastern art is far from being a homogenous phenomenon with a common art history. It juxtaposes different regional characteristics with their unique historical, political and geographical backgrounds, artistic preferences and stylistic developments. However, there are several binding threads shared in the notion of Eastern art, particularly the experience of communist systems, declared linkage with the cultural heritage of the avantgarde and its political motivation, its non-conformism and opposition to official or state art and its lack of a proper art market. 2 Since the late 1980s and early 1990s, the Eastern art paradigm has been viewed as a specific modification of Western postmodernism drawing its content from socio-political transforma­ tion on the one hand and a general “cultural turn” on the other (marked by emergence of new media, new art practices and discursive frameworks). In his introduction to the study of Postmodernism and the Postsocialist Condition, Aleš Erjavec defined “late socialist period as one characterised by specific, politicised art in countries with a communist legacy, as well as a period globally marked with the primacy of visual culture over high art.” 3 One of the main objectives of this project – alongside the justified criticism of Western exclusionary art policy and its hegemonic narrative – was to put Eastern art on the in­ ternational map of art history and thus also implicitly pave its way to global art markets. According to Eva Forgacs (2003), the concept of Eastern art did not exist until the 1960s, when it was established through the gaze of the West and in consonance with the estab­ lishment of the contemporary art market. 4 Conceptual art has been generally considered to be the language of cultural opposition and a tool for dismantling the established art canon and theories since the 1970s. 5 As Marina Gržinić (2005) observed for the East, only one subject was topical: history and re-appropriation of history. She wrote: “At the discursive level, this was a struggle for the formation and interpretation of the history of Eastern Europe, for the reappropriation of the history of socialism by the East as well as by the West. What we are dealing now is a deconstruction and a renewed construction of the same history, but a history which is now augmented by thoughts, images and facts that have so far been inexpressible […].” 6 Whereas on the one hand a number of exhibitions presenting East art attempted to in­ corporate East-Central European art within artistic developments of the West by empha­ sising parallels and similarities between artistic trends on both sides of the two Blocs, on the other hand, opposition to a universal artistic canon was maintained by advocating for the distinctiveness of the art behind the Iron Curtain. The latter, eventually prevailing, featured Eastern art, which through its cultural and political otherness claimed its rightful place in the international art arena. Svetla Kazalarska (2012) discussed these two approaches to institutionalisation of Eastern art through an overview of major exhibitions of East-Central art and curatorial narratives since the end of the Cold War. 7 Socialist Realism, not only as an aesthetic doctrine but as a political and cultural style was a short-lived phenomenon, which has almost entirely disappeared from the art scene since the early 1960s when contemporary international artistic trends were more openly accepted and presented through a set of international exhibitions. The Ljubljana Biennial of Graphic Arts was founded in 1955 (the same year as Dokumenta in Kassel) with the aim of including recent trends, stylistic changes and present art in global terms as well as promoting exchange between regional artistic developments and international art currents. The overt pro-Western orienta­ tion of socialist Yugoslavia was a sign of progressive thought and freedom. 8 Retrogardist principle was in the 1980s a method shared by all sections of the NSK. It was based on the use of images, symbols and signs characteristic of either Slovene national

50 Nadja Gnamuš

9

10

11 12 13

14

15

16

17

emblematic, historical avant-gardes or “totalitarian aesthetics” in order to convert them into new ideological relations and interpretations. The conception of Arteast 2000+ international collection went hand-in-hand with the new role of the museum in the 1990s, with its strategy for specialisation, overt connection with capital and the demands of marketing. Behind the idea of its conception was also the awareness that the museum has become a self-reflexive institution, on the one hand, re­ flecting its position, means and functions within the art market and, on the other, showing its critical stance by supporting critical and socially engaged art and exercising a critique of the art system from within the institution. As the debate about the museum and institu­ tional critique developed, notions of the artist-as-curator and the artist-as-archivist came to the fore. As Piotr Piotrowski remarked “the hierarchical perception of geography will be undermined not so much by noting similarities but differences. The revisionist geographer of East-Central Europe should extract that which is distinct, different and other with respect to the Western idiom and construct his analysis from this foundation (Piotrowski 2009, 13−14). The collection was curated by Zdenka Badovinac with consultation from Viktor Misiano, Piotr Piotrowski, Harald Szeemann and Igor Zabel. The opening of Arteast 2000+ coincided with the opening of Manifesta exhibition in Ljubljana and overtly counted on increased international attention and numbers of visitors. In post-historic times, history has become an even more flexible and open excavation site. Within the process of perpetual change and obliterated traditions our understanding of history has been altered by a digitalised mass of momentary, unstructured and non­ hierarchical arrangement of information, personal stories and individual documents. It is not surprising, though, that the archive has become so prominent in contemporary art practice and academic discourse. Its meaning generally refers to “the stuff of history” and collective memorabilia that are not (yet) classified according to a pre-given scheme. The Interrupted Histories exhibition, with 27 participating artists and groups, focused primarily on the eastern half of Europe and, to some degree, on the Middle East. The exhibition aimed to establish a new relationship between art and its history and explained that “the participating artists acted in their works as archivists of their own and other artists’ projects or of various phenomena in the national history, as curators who research their own historical context and establish a comparable framework for various big and little histories, as historians, anthropologists, ethnologists etc.” (Badovinac 2006). In her introduction to the exhibition catalogue of Interrupted Histories, Badovinac wrote: “Self-historicization can be found in a number of different international contexts and should in no way be viewed as the exclusive domain of non-Western artists. Nevertheless, given the existing interests of the globalising art system, we need to draw special attention to the differences within a world that seems increasingly homogeneous – especially, the differences between regions that are less standardised and regulated and those that are more so. It is in this context that I view the significance of self-historicization, which in some places still represents one of the most important, if not the only, form of historicization.” The NSK State was created in 1992, only a year after Slovenia was declared an independent country. It was an abstract utopian formation having no physical territory, occupying, however, temporal embassies and consulates in various European cities including Moscow, Ghent, Berlin and Sarajevo. NSK State declared itself as the first global and transnational state, which issued passports to anyone who identified with its founding principles. Similar observance was at the core of Marina Gržinić’s and Jasmina Založnik’s (2015) critique of the retrospective NSK exhibition held in Moderna galerija Ljubljana in 2015 and the book published for the occasion From Kapital to Capital Neue Slowenische Kunst – an Event of the Final Decade of Yugoslavia.

References Badovinac, Zdenka. 1998. “Body and the East.” In Body and the East: From the 1960s to the Present, edited by Zdenka Badovinac, 9–18. Ljubljana: Museum of Contemporary Art, Moderna galerija.

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Badovinac, Zdenka. 2006. “Interrupted Histories.” In Prekinjene zgodovine/Interrupted Histories: ArtEast Exhibition. Exh. cat. 14 March – 28 May 2006. Ljubljana: Museum of Contemporary Art, Moderna galerija. Badovinac, Zdenka, Eda Čufer, and Anthony Gardner, eds. 2015. NSK from Kapital to Capital. Neue Slowenische Kunst – an Event of the Final Decade of Yugoslavia. Exh. cat. 11 May – 16 August 2015. Cambridge (Mass.), Ljubljana: Museum of Modern Art, Moderna galerija, The MIT Press. Carr, Edward H. 1964. What Is History? New York: Penguin Books. Deleuze, Gilles. 1986. Foucault. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Erjavec, Aleš, ed. 2003. Postmodernism and the Postsocialist Condition: Politicised Art Under Late Socialism. Berkeley, Los Angeles, London: University of California Press. Forgacs, Eva. 2003. “How the New Left Invented East-European Art.” Centropa 3, no. 2(May): 93–104. Foucault, Michel. 1977. Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison. New York: Pantheon. Groys, Boris. 2003. “The Other Gaze: Russian Unofficial Art’s View of the Soviet World.” In Postmodernism and the Postsocialist Condition: Politicised Art Under Late Socialism, edited by Aleš Erjavec, 55–89. Berkeley, Los Angeles, London: University of California Press. Gržinić, Marina. 2004. Situated Contemporary Art Practices. Art, Theory and Activism from (the East of) Europe. Frankfurt am Main: Založba ZRC, Revolver. Gržinić, Marina. 2005. “On the Re-politicisation of Art through Contamination.” Slovene Studies Journal 27, no. 1–2: 75–92. 10.7152/ssj.v27i1.4239 Gržinić, Marina, and Jasmina Založnik. 2015. “NSK – (ostanek) dogodka ali zgolj še (prazna) institucija.” Dialogi, 51, no. 10: 79–83. Irwin. 1991. “Interview.” In Neue Slowenische Kunst (NSK), edited by Milan Zinaić and New Collectivism, 120–125. Zagreb: Grafič ki zavod Hrvatske. Irwin. 2006. “General Introduction.” In East Art Map. Contemporary Art and Eastern Europe, edited by Irwin, 11–15. London, Cambridge (Mass.): The MIT Press. Kazalarska, Svetla. 2012. “Re-drawing the Art Map of “New Europe.” In Exhibiting the “Former East”: Identity Politics and Curatorial Practices after 1989. A Critical Reader,” edited by Catalin Gheorghe and Cristian Nae, 21–30. Iasi: University of Arts “George Enescu.” https://www. academia.edu/12339182/Re_drawing_the_Art_Map_of_New_Europe_ Piotrowski, Piotr. 2009. In the Shadow of Yalta: Art and Avant-Garde in Eastern Europe, 1945–1989. London: Reaktion Books. Šumič Riha, Jelica. 2007. “Jetniki Drugega, ki ne obstaja/Prisoners of the Non-Existent Other.” Filozofski vestnik 28, no. 1: 81−100. Zabel, Igor. 2006. “Recall.” In East Art Map. Contemporary Art and Eastern Europe, edited by Irwin, 318–320. London, Cambridge (Mass.): The MIT Press.

Part II

Nation- and State-Building Processes

4

Performing Everyday Activity, Creating Eternal: Ukrainian Art on the Fronts of the First World War Sofia Korol’

On the day of proclamation of the Independence of Ukraine on 24 August 1991, the state flag was solemnly brought into the hall of the Supreme Council of Ukraine. It was accompanied by one of the most famous songs of the Sich Riflemen – the Ukrainian soldiers of the First World War, “Oi, u luzi chervona kalyna pokhylylasia” (Oh, in the meadow, the red crescent bent down). During the Great War and in the 1920s the Sich Riflemen were the driving force and symbol of the Ukrainian national revolution. At the end of the 20th century Ukraine gained independence with the memory of those who fought at the beginning of the century and of the fiery songs on their lips. The Sich Riflemen have created a bridge throughout the 20th century between the heroic beginning and successful end in the struggle for an independent state in the process of forming a Ukrainian national identity. From the very beginning of World War I the Ukrainian army, known as the “Legion of the Ukrainian Sich Riflemen” (hereafter – USR) was involved and remained in force until the end of the war on its eastern front. Its formation began immediately after the publication on 6 August 1914 of the manifesto of the Chief Ukrainian Council and its military organisation – the Ukrainian Fighting Council – with the appeal to Galician Ukrainians to rise up against Russian domination in Ukraine (Dumin 2016, 34). Despite the fact that 28,000 volunteers had expressed the desire to serve in the Legion, the Austrian au­ thorities granted only 2,500 such permissions (Dumin 2016, 44, 46). As a result, many volunteers were accepted in the regular Austrian army. The most active and ideologically motivated part of the Legion was created by members of the military-sports sich-riflemen movement developing in Galicia in 1911–14, the members of the organisations “Sokil,” “Sich” and “Plast.” These so­ cieties were created not only to nurture physical form, endurance and discipline, but also to cultivate patriotism. It is symbolic that the shot in Sarajevo on 28 June 1914 coincided with the thousand-strong Sokil-Sich Youth manifestation in Lviv in honor of the centennial of the birth of Taras Shevchenko under the slogan “Vstavaite, kaidany porvite!” (Get up, break the shackles!) (Kis-Fedoruk 2007, 5). This was the demonstration of the Sich Riflemen movement’s readiness to lead the Ukrainian nation of Galicia to cultural, economic and political independence. Unfortunately, very soon they came to lead voluntary military formations that fought in the First World War on the side of the Central Powers. As a part of the Austro-Hungarian Army, the Legion was operated under the command of the general Ignaz Fleischman – commander of the 55th Infantry Division. Though the military units consisted of representatives of different nationalities at the front in Galicia, the Ukrainian Sich DOI: 10.4324/9781003265818-7

56 Sofia Korol’ Riflemen had the greatest fighting spirit. They not only fought in the armies of the Central Powers, but they also defended their land and hoped to win their own state. The first victories of the Sich Riflemen units were won due to the manifestation of their true heroism. In the course of the Carpathian military campaign, in particular during the battle on Mt. Makivka from 29 April to 3 May 1915, the units of the Russian army were stopped and repulsed. The Sich Riflemen have shown the capacity of a small but enthusiastic army, inspired by ideals of national liberation. For the courage shown in this campaign, the division commander Ignaz Fleischman presented the first military awards – Medals of Kindness (Second Class). There were two fe­ males among the awarded – Olena Stepaniv and Sofia Halechko. As the commander confessed himself, this was his first awarding of female soldiers (Bezhuk and Baidak 2017, 82). For eight months the Legion was fighting in the Carpathians with the Moscow invaders, and in June 1915 the Russians were driven back to Podillya. In July and August, the USR of the 55th division was quartered at the Golden Lipa River. A long break in operations at the front of the Southern Army gave the Sich Riflemen the opportunity to relax and experience a comfortable life for the first time (Dumin 2016, 154). It was at that time that the Press Room of the USR launched its activities. The idea of the establishment of this cultural and artistic center appeared in 1914. Its main task was to preserve and spread information about the USR, to support the fighting spirit of the Riflemen, and, as it was stressed in the statute, “to raise the Ukrainian people’s national consciousness and honor, to provide evidence of its effective par­ ticipation in the war before the court of history” (Kis-Fedoruk 2007, 6). The Press Room existed both at the front and in the reserves.1 It consisted of representatives of various artistic professions. Music and dramatic art were actively developed: there were as many as three orchestras, a choir and a theater. The unit encompassed a gymnasium, courses for illiterate Riflemen and a library in the Press Room (Yatskiv 1917, 96–99). Among the visual arts, the most widespread were photography, graphics and painting, as well as carving and even sculpture. Photography, both documentary and artistic, became the most prominent activity. In Vienna in 1916, more than 3000 photos were stored (Kryzhanivsky 2008, 42). These photos as well as other small pieces of art, weapons and everyday objects were presented in the Ukrainian pavilion which was formed at the Austrian Military Exhibition in May–October 1916 (Bobersky 1916). In the middle of summer 1915 the first Riflemen periodical, the satirical magazine “Samokhotnyk” was issued. Its goal was “to find and ridicule the mistakes of our political leaders, the officers and ordinary Riflemen, people who are funny because of their foolish deeds or innocence. The deeper goal was to eliminate these mistakes and make people real human beings” (Kryzhanivsky 2008, 35). At that time, such artists as Ivan Ivanets’, Ivan Starchuk, Osyp-Roman Sorokhtei, Lev Getz were very active with this Press Room. In the autumn of 1915, the military offensive began throughout the Austrian front from north to south. Nevertheless, the Russian army went on a counteroffensive. Strong battles lasted during September and October, with heavy losses on both sides. As a witness recalled, “the Muscovites pushed forward as locusts, thousands of them covered the bloodied black soil of Podillia, and on the Strypa River the dam of human bodies stopped the water” (Dumin 2016, 173). The Sich Riflemen courageously

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fought, although they suffered great losses. Particularly bloody was the battle for Semykivtsi lasting from 30 October to 8 November, where almost two divisions participated in the liquidation of the “Russian breakthrough.” The USR military feat was appreciated in a German message sent from the front to the command of the Southern Army in the following words: “Ukrainian volunteers went with us; it is probably the best unit in the entire Austro-Hungarian Army” (Dumin 2016, 176). After the battles on the Podillya, the Ukrainian regiment switched to its reserve and settled down at the Studenka River, and then in the village of Sosniv on a winter stand. The front was frozen until an offensive launched by Brusilov at the beginning of the summer of 1916. This was the time to take stock, assess achievements to date and make plans for the future. It was then that the Riflemen began to take an even more active part in the artistic and intellectual work, clearly setting themselves the task of using the experience gained to change the mentality of the whole generation. They regarded war from the standpoint of an opportunity to achieve higher goals. “In the war, a warrior man is reborn. Courage developed efficiency, creativity, in­ dependence of thought and action. It was under the influence of war that the Riflemen began to embody a new type of Ukrainian, with a new perception of the world, and an understanding of individual dignity, rights and responsibilities” (Dumin 2016, 178). “The Riflemen did not take anything tragically, they were not afraid of minute failures, but they were looking for opportunities to correct them” (Dumin 2016, 179). They approached all the events of personal and collective life with humor, as well as they liked to have fun and to enjoy themselves. The Riflemen also paid close attention to their appearance. Impeccably dressed and clean-shaven, they differed sharply from other soldiers. The lodgments occupied by the Ukrainian Legion were shining and stayed in exemplary order. “Our trenches were like apartments,” wrote one of the USR soldiers, “they were cleaned each morning, no one could find a match thrown in a trench, under penalty of punishment” (Ostroverkha 1933, 2). The quartering of troops in Tudynka and Sosniv was a turning point in the de­ velopment of the unanimous Riflemen worldview concerning national-political life. There were frequent discussions during friendly meetings on political, cultural and social issues. These discussions gave writers and artists the inspiration to create “the Riflemen’s tradition.” At that time the entire Press Room came to the quartering place. They actively gathered materials about the history of the Riflemen troops. Thanks to Ivan Ivanets’ and Teofil Moyseyovych a significant number of photos were collected, which remain a valuable document of front life. Artists Osyp Kurylas, Lev Getz and Ivan Ivanets’ created many portraits, landscapes and scenes from Riflemen life. Osyp Kurylas arranged the workshop for himself near the regimental point, where he was continually at work (Kryzhanivsky 2008, 6–7, 30, 31). Writers and artists prepared materials for the USR Shliahy periodical, which was issued in Lviv. Poets and musicians wrote new Riflemen songs, the regimental orchestra had concerts featuring a new repertoire every time and participated in national church festivals. The Russian offensive known as “Brusilov’s breakthrough” began in the early summer of 1916. On these lands one of the most dreadful and bloody battles took place – the battle of Berezhany on Mt. Lysonia and near the village of Potutory, where heavy artillery and new gas weapons were used. The victory was gained at the cost of the loss of over half of its soldiers – over 700 dead, wounded and captured. The remnants of the Riflemen formation, along with a carriage and their Press Room, relocated to Mykolayiv on the Dniester River.

58 Sofia Korol’ The beginning of 1917 was marked by major political changes that embraced the Russian Empire: the revolution broke out. Dnieper Ukraine began to build an in­ dependent state by creating the Ukrainian Central Council.2 The rise of a national spirit embodied in demonstrations, congresses and the Ukrainianisation of the army spread throughout the entire society. The Sich Riflemen greeted the awakening of Dnieper Ukraine joyfully, hoping that the legion’s mission was over, since the Ukrainian state was being formed. Such thoughts were too premature since the war for Ukraine had just begun. The Kerensky offensive in June 1917 was the last attempt undertaken by imperial Russia to conquer Galicia. The decisive victory was on the side of the Central States, but almost the entire Legion was captured. In the Ternopil’ region in the battle over Koniukhy at the beginning of July 1917 the front Press Room lost a number of prominent collaborators, and its work became unstable and frag­ mentary. When the West Ukrainian National Republic (WUNR)3 was formed and its regular army (Ukrainian Galician Army) was established, Ivan Ivanets’ appealed to the military minister of the Republic regarding the need to create its own Press Room in order to provide artistic, archival, commemorative and ideological materials. But in the whirlwind of historical events, no such initiative was implemented. Ivan Ivanets’ continued to work on his own. This was mainly composed of drawings and photographs, but the massive body of works was lost in the last battle of the army on the fields of Great Ukraine in October 1920 (Ivanets’ 2011, 453). The history of the Ukrainian Sich Riflemen and their heroic deeds would be sig­ nificantly impoverished if we did not have artistic works of the soldiers. These works represent their struggles and creativity, as well as the entire war in general in ex­ tremely valuable visual images. Moreover, they made an important contribution to the conceptualisation of Ukrainian art, essentially changing the visual sphere, influ­ encing the formal aspect of art and shifting its value-focus. Generally, with a few exceptions only, the pre-war Ukrainian art of Galicia was developing in the direction of moderate modernisation: the dominant aesthetic trends were adapted to the needs of national visual culture, which, in particular, practiced artistic stylisation along the lines of Symbolism and Secession. After WWI and to a large degree thanks to the Ukrainian Sich Riflemen, Ukrainian art gained more freedom and independence in finding its own expression. It was characterised by pluralism of formal solutions, and artistic quality and sincerity of expression became the criteria of its value. In addition, the experience of the war and the national lib­ eration movement prompted artists to seek their images in an expressive yet concise manner, with great attention to problems of rhythm, movement and colour. The interwar art, which reflected the influence of such important European trends as Expressionism, Cubism and Surrealism, was becoming a mature up-to-date instru­ ment for cultural construction and an expression of social changes. One of the most striking examples of that representative Riflemen art is the work of Osyp Kurylas (1870–1951). He was born in the small town of Shchyrets, studied at the Lviv Art and Industrial School (1886–90), Krakow Academy of Fine Arts, in the classes of Julian Fałat and Leon Wyczółkowski in 1895–1901. Kurylas was mobilised in the summer of 1915 (Kryzhanivsky 2008, 31). He joined the artistic group of the USR as a mature artist at age 45, while his brothers in arms were about 20-yearold boys. In the atmosphere of patriotic unity between military companions, Kurylas experienced a second youth and creative uplift. It is known that he created almost 200 portraits of Riflemen (Kis-Fedoruk 2007, 7). These are mainly heroic

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images, in which internal freedom, power and courage prevail. Therefore, the Soviet regime tried to destroy everything reminiscent of patriotism and struggle in the postWWII Ukrainian history: in 1952, more than 700 paintings, drawings and sketches by Ivanets’, Kurylas, Butsmanyuk, Sorokhtei and other sich-riflemen artists were removed from the National Museum in Lviv and burned (Arofikin and Posatska 1996; Hrechko 1993). The war stole people’s confidence and calm, leaving only a space that could be simultaneously filled with joy and suffering, beauty and disgust, life and death. Thus, in the painting The Killed Rifleman near the Cross (1916–17) there is a contrast between the sunny joyful green of nature and the dead Rifleman that fell under the cross (Figure 4.1). Or in another painting titled Riflemen Weekdays. The pig was killed, in fact, an everyday event is depicted. In a letter, the artist wrote about it. He stated: “I cover things from nature, alive events, although it is impossible to stick a trench, a bayonet or a grenade to it, however, all these things are taking place during the World War. From the cutters, the pig is killed and at the same time people are drinking warm blood. This is really disgusting, but the whole war is disgusting!” (Kryzhanivsky 2008, 40). Kurylas painted many open-air landscapes, with details telling that we have a picture of the front. Many among the images he executed show the front-line, e.g. Burned (1916), and The Explosion of Grenades in the House (1917). Landscape with Balloon (1916) would be simply a kind of natural view if we didn’t know that

Figure 4.1 Osyp Kurylas, The Killed Rifleman near the Cross, 1916–1917. Oil on canvas, 37 × 54 cm. Lviv, Andrey Sheptytsky National Museum in Lviv.

60 Sofia Korol’ Riflemen used a balloon pulled on laces to search out hostile positions. Most of all, Kurylas enriched the Riflemen narrative with satirical graphics. As a less labourconsuming technique, these enabled him to react promptly, openly and critically in images of people and events both at the front and in social-political life in general. His graphics manifest the themes of everyday life: friendship, solidarity, humor, creativity. War was the worst place for free expression of a creative personality, but it was a domain for telling the truth. Osyp-Roman Sorokhtei (1890–1941) was such a “truthful man.” Before the war he had just started to study successfully at the Krakow Academy of Fine Arts (1911–14) (Makoida 2018, 14–15). He was interested in human existence and individual feelings most of all, as well he was looking for the expression of the most acute, most characteristic human traits in his portraits. Sorokhtei utilised a language of caricature and the grotesque because of the im­ possibility to express the contradictions of existence. The art of Sorokhtei is far from simple humor or passionate satire, especially from didactic purposes, it is philoso­ phical and metaphorical. Simple at first glance, the form is actually exquisite and aesthetic, done with a delicate but unusually intense line. Such an observant and sensitive artist as Sorokhtei was not an illustrator of the heroic age. It is not external events that are reflected in his sketches, but the inner world of man, the ability of his soul and his intelligence to resist the destructive chaos of war (Figure 4.2). Before the war, Lev Getz (1896–1971) briefly studied at the Lviv Art and Industrial School at the Department of Architecture and Painting, and in the years 1913–15 – in the studio of the prominent Ukrainian artist Oleksa Novakivsky, as well as in the studio of the famous Lviv architect and businessman Ivan Levynsky (Kis-Fedoruk

Figure 4.2 Osyp-Roman Sorokhtei, Portrait of Leontovych, 1916. Pencil on paper, 21 × 17 cm. Lviv, the artist’s family collection.

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2007, 147). Nevertheless Getz felt himself lacking in confidence and benefitted from the help and advice of Kurylas at the front (Kryzhanivsky 2008, 40). But the entire situation, the environment and the war experience provided him with imagery of a certain character. Getz possessed a purity of line and soft drawing and therefore his images are formally close to the symbolist-secession style. This is evident from the compiled publication titled An Anthology of Rifle Creativity, in which live Riflemen art is reflected: poetry, songs, drawings (Hakh 2021). But beyond his visionary works, Getz fixed his gaze on his daily surroundings and reproduced them in fresh and subtle realistic images: refugees, battlefields, trenches, military orchestras and so on. It is clear that the war and the front did not facilitate the creative work of artists. However, even these objective difficulties did not interfere when it came to passionate artistic tension and inspiration, such as in the case of the sculptor Mykhailo Havrylko (1882–1920). As a Dnieper Ukraine resident he studied with Opanas Slastion at Myrhorod Art-and-Craft School, then at the Krakow Academy of Fine Arts with Konstanty Laszczka. Then he refined his artistic skills with Antoine Bourdelle in Paris. Being a passionate person, he selflessly fought in the ranks of the USR since 1915 (Khanko 2016). Here at the front, he managed to execute sculptural portraits in an expressive dynamic manner. Unfortunately, those works did not survive. Havrylko is also known for his caricatures, published in the almanac Chervona Kalyna. In his art he combined national-romantic realism with the monumental character of sta­ tuary and with a psychological deepening of the image of a model, glorifying its strength and might. Ivan Ivanets’ (1893–1946) was the most consistent creator of the Riflemen’s nar­ rative. Before the war in 1912–14 he studied painting in Lviv with Stanisław Batowski-Kaczor and attended courses at the Lviv Art and Industrial School. This short course of study also gave him the theoretical knowledge that formed the foundation of his understanding of art. As one of the organisers, and then the Chairman of the Press Room of the Ukrainian Sich Riflemen, Ivanets’ drew and photographed the fighting and everyday life of Riflemen, as well as arranged the war graves. Together with Lev Lepky, he completed the project of the Ukrainian Riflemen uniform, mazepynka hat and flag (Yatsiv 2019, 23–24). In his own works, Ivanets’ relied on the formal principles of Impressionism, but these were reinforced by his expressive vision. He had a deep poetic sense of nature and the laws of painting composition. The artist created images full of pulsating life. Therefore, he preferred dynamic motives and plots, which he interpreted in an ex­ pressive manner: cavalry, artillery, cart traffic (Figure 4.3). Ivanets’ was the first Ukrainian artist to revive the battle genre during the war. “War is the greatest strain of human effort and passion. In addition to its destructive traits, it has high positive ethical and aesthetic ones” (Kis-Fedoruk 2007, 15). Although in general, as Ivanets’ argued, “the World War did not find its equivalent in the plastic arts,” but with its “mechanization and motorisation helped to discover new plastic values: the rhythm of mass, the power of the machine, the mighty shape” (Ivanets’ 1936, 2). In fact, the artist outlined the main formal features which became relevant to the Ukrainian modernist art of Galicia of the interwar period. In the 1930s and 1940s, Ivanets’ played an important role in Lviv’s artistic life as an art critic, an active public figure, and a populariser of the Sich Riflemen. Therefore, the communist authorities also destroyed the works of Ivanets’ with particular zeal: from the

62 Sofia Korol’

Figure 4.3 Ivan Ivanets’, Attack! (Version 2), circa 1916–1920. Gouache on paper, 29.7 × 43.5 cm. Prague, the Kotecký’s family collection.

hundreds of the artist’s works, only a few dozen survived to the present day. Among the rescued ones were paintings from his only one-man exhibition held in Krakow in 1944, which are stored at the National Museum in Krakow (Kuzma 2010, 176). The artists mentioned here formed the core of the Ukrainian Sich Riflemen artistic bunch, but they were not the only ones. During the existence of the 2.5 thousand Ukrainian military formations, about 30 artists were active fighters and creative members. Some of them died early and had no time to develop their creativity, such as the talented student of the Krakow Academy of Fine Arts, Julian Nazarak (1893–1916). Others joined the art group of Riflemen already at the stage of the national revolution, that is, in the post-1918 period, during the time of WUNR and UNR.4 Among them were Pavlo Kovzhun (1896–1939), Leonid Perfetsky (1901–1977), Yuri Mahalevsky (1876–1935). There were also those who fought in the ranks of the Austro-Hungarian army, for example the outstanding master of sacred monumental painting and subtle colorist Modest Sosenko (1875–1920). Being just a small part of the Austro-Hungarian army at the beginning of WWI, the Ukrainian Sich Riflemen Legion became the vanguard of the national liberation re­ volution after the war. Riflemen artists have left us invaluable documents of that time. They captured images of brave Ukrainian soldiers, conveying both their everyday life and the pathos of combat fighting. Their artistic heritage was not only the result of the expression of creative spirit in the dehumanising conditions of the war, but also con­ tributed to the integration of social consciousness around the idea of building an

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independent nation state and influenced the artistic structure of Ukrainian culture of the coming decades. As Ivan Ivanets’ wrote in 1935: “The war for us has created an era in which we were not just living, but which was the starting point for the new Ukrainian nation, the impetus for change and a measure of achievements (Ivanets’ 1935, 1).”

Notes 1 In the rear it was called “The Artistic Handful.” 2 The term Dnieper Ukraine appeared after the division of Ukrainian ethnic territories between Russian empire and Austro-Hungarian empire. Dnieper Ukraine was referred to as the Russian controlled Ukraine. The Ukrainian Central Council - the revolutionary parliament of Ukraine, which led the Ukrainian national movement from March 4, 1917 until April 29, 1918. 3 WUNR – West Ukrainian National Republic was a short-lived Ukrainian state that existed from November 1918 to July 1919 in eastern Galicia. 4 UNR – Ukrainian National Republic proclaimed independence from the Russian Republic on 22 January 1918 in the Fourth Universal of the Ukrainian Central Council and existed until the Treaty of Riga signed on 18 March 1921.

References Arofikin, Volodymyr and Danuta Posatska eds. 1996. Kataloh vtrachenykh eksponativ Natsionalnoho muzeyu u Lvovi. Kyiv, Lviv: Triumph. Bezhuk, Olha and Baidak, Mariana. 2017. “Ukrainske zhinotstvo v roky Pershoi Svitovoi viiny: Spektr suspilnykh rolei.” In Ukrainski zhinky u hornyli modernizatsii, edited by Oksana Kis’, 78–105. Kharkiv: Klub Simeinoho Dozvillia. Bobersky, Ivan. 1916. “Z voiennoi vystavy u Vidny.” Zbruč, 9 October 1916. https://zbruc.eu/ node/56011. Dumin, Osyp. (1936) 2016. Istoriia lehionu Ukrainskykh Sichovykh Striltsiv. 1914–1918. Lviv: Chervona Kalyna. Reprint, Drohobych: Kolo. Hakh, Iryna. 2021. “Tvorchist’ sichovyh striltsiv: knyha, iaku chekaly 100 rokiv.” Accessed 12 November 2021. https://zbruc.eu/node/104530 Hrechko, Ivan. 1993. “Shche raz pro vtraty natsionalnoho muzeiu u Lvovi.” Mystetski studii, 2, no. 2–3: 23–28. Ivanets’, Ivan. 1935. “Rozhubleni striletski pamiatky.” Nazustrich, 2, no. 1 (January): 1. Ivanets’, Ivan. 1936. “Batalne malarstvo. Z nahody vidkryttia vijskovoho viddilu v Muzeiu Naukovoho tovarystva im. Shevchenka.” Nazustrich, 3, no. 21 (November): 1–2. Ivanets’, Ivan. (1934) 2011. “Presova Kvatyra U.S.S. (Z pryvodu dvadtsiatlittia ii osno­ vannia).” Istorychnyi kalendar-almanakh Chervonoi Kalyny na 1935 rik, 5–11. Lviv: Chervona Kalyna. In Ukraiinski mystetski vystavky u Lvovi. 1919–1939: Dovidnyk; anto­ lohiia mystetsko-krytychnoi dumky, edited by Roman Jatsiv, 449–453. Reprint, Lviv: Lvivska natsionalna akademiia mystetstv; Instytut narodoznavstva NAN Ukraiiny. Khanko, Vitalii. 2016. “Havrylko Mykhailo Omelianovych.” Encyclopedia of Modern Ukraine. Accessed 2 May 2019. http://esu.com.ua/search_articles.php?id=27991 Kis-Fedoruk, Olena. 2007. “Bo pora sia velykaia yest’.” In Ukrainski sichovi striltsi u boiakh ta mizhchassi. Mystetska spadshchyna, edited by Igor Zavalii, Olena Kis-Fedoruk, Taras Lozynskyi and Oksana Romaniv-Triska, 5–23. Lviv: Natsionalnyi muzei u Lvovi imeni Andreya Sheptytskoho, Instytut kolektsionerstva ukrainskykh mystetskykh pamiatok; Kyiv: Oranta. Kryzhanivsky, Andrii. 2008. Osyp Kurylas. Lviv: Zakhidnoukrainskyi informatsiinovydavnychyi tsentr. Kuzma, Liubomyr Roman. (1993) 2010. “Ivan Ivanets.” In Liubomyr Roman Kuzma (1913 – 2004): Maliarska I publicystychna spadshchyna, edited by Roman Yatsiv, 174–178. Lviv: Liha-Pres.

64 Sofia Korol’ Makoida, Orest. 2018. Osyp Sorokhtei. Lviv: Kvart. Ostroverkha, Mykhailo. 1933. “Vidkhid U.S.S. z nad Strypy.” Litopys Chervonoi Kalyny, 5, no. 6 (Cherven’): 2–3. Yatsiv, Roman. 2019. “Ivan Ivanets’: Znovu, cherez dvadtsiat’ rokiv.” In Ivan Ivanets’ (1893–1946). Striletski memuary, tvorcha spadshchyna, edit by Andriy and Roman Yatsiv, 15–65. Lviv: Kolir PRO. Yatskiv, Mykhailo. 1917. “Do istorii Kosha U.S.V.” In Tym shcho vpaly. Literaturnomystetskyi zbirnyk, edited by Mykola Holubets’, 95–111. Lviv: vydavnytstvo A. Goldmana.

5

Civil War – Communist Upheaval – Attack of the White Slaughterers? The Civil Wars of 1917–1922 in Finnish and Soviet Karelian Literature Thekla Musäus

Historical Outline In 2017, one year earlier than many states in Central and Eastern Europe, the Republic of Finland could celebrate its 100th jubilee of gaining independence. Having been part of the Swedish Kingdom since the Middle Ages, Finland had become part of the Russian Empire in the turmoils of Napoleonic pact-making and Russian imperial ambitions in 1809 (Jutikkala and Pirinen 1979, 153–154). On the 6th of December 1917, the Finnish Senate officially declared the independence of Finland, with its 3000000 inhabitants living on approximately 330000 square kilometres, from the Russian Empire (Haapala 2010, 26). Although independence was accepted by the ruling Russian Bolsheviks rather smoothly, a civil war ensued soon after. The war was to be rather short; it lasted only from 27th of January until 16th of May of 1918. After the initial success of socialist armed forces, especially in the South of Finland and in some bigger Finnish towns further north, conservative “white” forces defeated the “red” armed units swiftly and thoroughly. They had the support of the “Jägers,” Finnish officers, who had been trained in Germany, and German troops (Lackman 2010, 48–57; Hoppu 2010a, 199–207, 212–217). The number of victims in the actual fighting was small compared to the victims of the court-martials being led by the Whites during the civil war and to the high death toll in the White prison camps.1 The horror of the merciless treatment by the Whites overshadowed the political atmosphere throughout the first decades of the newborn Finnish state (Roselius 2014, 299). Nevertheless, Finland successfully adopted a democratic constitution in 1919 and has been an independent, democratically ruled state since that time. East of the emerging Finnish Republic, in the area of Northern and Eastern Karelia, the situation was less clear. These areas had always been part of the Russian sphere of influence, albeit diverse cultural and historical connections were made with Finland throughout the centuries, and the Karelian language is as a Balto-Finnic language closely linguistically related to Finnish.2 At the beginning of the 20th century, this region of less than half of the area of Finland was inhabited by around 100000 people. Around 60% of the inhabitants were of Karelian or other Balto-Finnic origin, the others mostly Russians (Kangaspuro 2000, 137). The struggle for everyday survival dominated the considerations of the poor rural population. Russian communist groupings, army-units of the Russian Whites, Finnish conservative volunteers and also to some degree Finnish communists and English forces tried to influence and support different political interests DOI: 10.4324/9781003265818-8

66 Thekla Musäus among the Karelian population. The brutal Karelian civil war lasted from 1918 until 1922.3 In 1923 the area became the Autonomous Karelian Socialist Soviet Republic (AKSSR) and part of the Soviet Union (s. Kauppala 2013, 163). The communist Finns, who had fled to Karelia during the Finnish civil war, were to lead an important role in the cultural and political life of this Soviet Republic (s. Takala 2009).4

The Civil Wars of Finland and Karelia in Literature: Literary Eye-Witnesses of the Finnish Civil War The confrontation between different political convictions – conservative, partly monarchist convictions versus socialist or communist, partly revolutionary beliefs – had already been a topic of debate in Finnish newspapers and in literature in the discussions foreshadowing the declaration of independence in 1917. Socialist and communist intellectuals were publishing in left-wing newspapers, while influential conservative intellectuals were openly supporting right-wing politics in their writings. One of the most active and creative writers of the Left, Maiju Lassila (1868–1918), was shot dead, after having been captured by the Whites in May 1918 (Hoppu 2010b, 446). For the writers supporting the conservative side, the socialist and communist Finnish groupings of the Civil war were endangering the newly won independence of Finland. As Communism was the winning force in the former rulers’ country, Russia, the Finnish Reds were seen as automatically allied with Russia and thus betraying Finland: GO AWAY RUSSIANS! WOE TO THE RED GUARDS! With devils one can not negotiate With robbers one can not shake hands! Oh my god, how much Are the Finnish lands bearing! […] When our brothers are uniting with bloodhounds, They shall deserve the fate of dogs! The ones, who have betrayed and stained their folk, They shall perish – as traitors of the land!5 (Kianto 1918a, 2) Ilmari Kianto (1874–1970), who published this poem in a booklet with the title Hit Them on their Head! in 1918, was one of the most polemic writers on the White side. In articles and in his poems and novels he took the stance of a merciless persecutor of all fighters on the Red side and their relatives. What is most striking in his texts of that time is the skilful use of metaphors and comparisons to demonise his ideological antagonists. The fighters of the Red guards are not only branded as non-patriots and identified with the Russians, they are even dehumanised as animals (“dogs” line 11) and devils (line 2). The political point of view of a conservative right-wing intellectual is hereby marked as the only possible position for a true human and Finn. Meanwhile, the demonisation of the enemies serves to justify the brutal warfare of the Whites:

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A horrendous catastrophe happened for the Reds Not any pardon was given! The wrath was bloody! The revenge was really terrible! Heads were smashed there with bombs!6 (Kianto 1918b, 39) In the literature of that time the idealisation of the conservative forces was commonplace. To obey the authorities, to observe the given rules and to fight against the Reds, was depicted as truly and patriotically Finnish: Even the hand of the poor farmer, which usually didn’t move to offer honour easily, rose to the rim of the hat to honour while passing by a Jäger-officer, “the upper power, given by god.”7 (Koskenniemi [1918] 1938, 38) In this poem, published first in 1918, the hero Young Anssi is secretly following his father into a battle against the Reds, although he is too young to be accepted into the white troops officially. When meeting his father at the battlefield again, the father is proud of Anssi. Both are dying as heroes in the battle. Only the grandfather of the family survives the fight. He proudly hands the gun of Anssi to his younger brother to teach him to shoot “[…] so that there should never/be a lack of men in Finland, when/the fatherland and home would call”8 (Koskenniemi [1918] 1938, 51). The author of the poem, Veikko Antero Koskenniemi (1885–1962) was a very influential conservative intellectual of his time. In his texts during the Civil War he associates the Finnish left fighters automatically with the Russians, as does Kianto: The time of Action had come, as traitors had already left to the side of the Russians, a herd of reds a gang, who had caught the disease from the east.9 (Koskenniemi [1918] 1938, 14) Communist ideas are clearly being depicted as opposed to Finnish nature, as evil and dangerous, when Koskenniemi calls them an Eastern illness that is not of Finnish origin. The deeds of the Whites on their part are depicted in metaphors of nature and vitality, pointing to a positive, vivid future of Finland: Men joined their army From every direction, like streams of water In springtime are joining one another As a foaming force getting stronger and stronger To prepare for the great time of summer.10 (Koskenniemi [1918] 1938, 20)

68 Thekla Musäus Though more subtle in the general tone, Koskenniemi, like Kianto, also makes use of rhetorical means, exclamation marks and appeals in a commanding tone to rise “against the devil and the Russian”11 (Koskenniemi [1918] 1938, 31, 51) to stress his proposition. Apart from these hostile voices there were doubtful and critical tunes to be heard even in works that did not offensively opt for the Red side immediately after the war. In his work Withered Apple Trees Joel Lehtonen (1881–1934) portrays the entrepreneur and landowner Aapeli Muttinen, who is fighting on the White side. Muttinen is appalled by the brutality of the war and begins to doubt: But freedom, for which prize can one get it? For blood… brother’s blood. How, how can ever arise stable peace from that? And how can the skull of a man understand that rage of brothers against one another?12 (Lehtonen [1918] 1995, 89) After having shot a captured red soldier Muttinen goes insane and is sent to an asylum. Frans Eemil Sillanpää (1888–1964), who was later to be awarded the Nobel prize in literature, depicted in Meek Heritage the unhappy fate of a poor and simpleminded farmhand Juha from his birth until the age of about sixty, when he was shot by a White court-martial despite his innocence (Sillanpää [1919] 1971). Without any pathos, Sillanpää sets the brutality of war in contrast with the unlucky fate of the common man in the turmoil of historical events, while subtly posing the question of the sense of life and the essence of humanity. Further east the Red side was winning. The Red Finns, who had managed to escape to Russia and Eastern Karelia felt fortunate to have saved their lives. Simultaneously they longed for the home country they had left behind: Cursing we are remembering the land […] where crime and the murder of the brother are bearing a crown. Blessing we are remembering the land, where we left the tomb of our brothers, with whom we once were standing shoulder to shoulder in one row fighting against the power of the slaughterers!13 (Mäkelä [1925] 1976, 29) In this poem, Fight and Death from 1919 by the communist poet Santeri Mäkelä (1870–1937), one can clearly feel the bitterness and hatred against the White winners on the Finnish side, who were called “slaughterers” by the Red rebels (Sadeniemi et al. 1967 s.v. “lahtari”).

Literary Comments on the Karelian Civil War Although the young, slowly consolidating Finnish Republic had its own affairs to deal with in the beginning of the 1920s, the situation on the eastern side of the Finnish-

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Russian border was a concern in Finland for more than one reason: Already in the 19th century Eastern Karelia had started to become a point of interest, when Finnish thinkers were forming the idea of Finland as a valuable independent nation. Connected with this was the image of Eastern Karelia as culturally closely related to Finland: Elias Lönnrot (1802–1884), the compiler of the Finnish national poem Kalevala had made the most important findings of ancient oral folklore for his work there, to the east of the Finnish-Russian border (Lönnrot 1849). This fact initiated an increasing interest into these areas, leading to a general admiration and romanticisation of Eastern Karelian folklore, architecture and nature in the era of “Karelianism” at the end of the 19th and the beginning of the 20th century. Karelians were seen as brother-people to the Finns (Sihvo 1998, 104). So the situation in Karelia after 1918 bore for the Finnish observer the possibility of drawing many parallels to the events in Finland. Eastern Karelia was in the eyes of Finnish conservatives an example of Russian subjugation of a people who deserved the same right to independence as Finland. Finland seemed to be the best ally for the struggling Karelians. The idea of a “Greater Finland” as a united Finno-Karelic country under the rule of Finland was the next step in this chain of thoughts: For a greater Finland – for a free White Sea Karelia! Now, if ever, it will happen! Now is the moment and now is the time! Now is the magic moment of great actions To move the boys of the North Now is the power of the kinship’s spirit […]!14 (Kianto 1918c, 58) In the novel The Virgin of White Sea Karelia by the same author, the ideal of a united Karelo-Finnish state culminates in the dramatic story of a Karelian girl in love with a White Finnish soldier betrayed by her own brother and, before dying herself, killing a Russian communist soldier who had tried to rape her. Russians are demonised as brutal, inhuman murderers. Karelians, who sympathise with them, are portrayed as ruthless renegades (Kianto 1920).

Depictions of the Civil Wars in the Following Decades In the following decades, glorification of the victorious Whites prevailed in Finland. Meanwhile, the political tension between the Stalinist Soviet Union and Finland was growing throughout the 1930s up until the Second World War. The leader of the Whites in the civil war, General Carl Gustaf Mannerheim (1867–1951) was again to play an important military and political role in that time. Conservatives viewed him as a hero, “[…] a man, ennobled by the years/and by great deeds and thoughts […]/who always grew stronger in front of oppressing danger”15 (Koskenniemi [1940] 1955, 84). The picture of the wise leader, standing calmly above the masses is very similar to the glorification of the European dictators of that time (s. Plamper 2004, 13, 20). The Whites were regarded as heroes and saviours of Finland, although moral difficulties of individuals and doubts about the oversimplification of “good” and “evil” began to be depicted in literature as well (Varpio 2010, 444–447). However, it

70 Thekla Musäus was not until the 1950s that the idealisation of the Whites came under general criticism. On the Soviet side the political situation did not leave much possibility for open critical statements. Stalinism and the aesthetic values of Socialist Realism dominated cultural life until the end of the 1950s (s. Slonim 1964, 293–310). As the Finns had been one of the opponents of the Soviet army in the Second World War, they also had to be depicted negatively in literature. This holds true also for Soviet Karelian literature written in Finnish. The Finnish White volunteers of the Karelian civil war of 1918–1922 are depicted as ruthless, immoral men, endangering the peaceful life in Karelian villages, while Finnish communists are welcomed with solidarity by the Karelians. The leaders of the Finnish Whites, be they in Karelia or in Finland, are characterised as alien to their own people, as non-Finnish: “Mannerheim didn’t know any Finnish at all. He was the descendant of an old Swedish noble family and proud of it”16 (Jaakkola 1957, 85). In Soviet Karelian stories the Whites of the civil wars are corruptly planning to sell Karelian wood to the Germans, although these forests do not even belong to Finland. The actors of the civil wars are thus anachronistically associated with the later Soviet enemy, the Germans, and characterised as fascist themselves. On the Finnish side the Soviet Karelian situation from the 1920s served foremost as an example of the dangers and the injustice of Communism. The Karelians were depicted as helpless victims, often surrounded by symbols of Christian martyrdom: He grew up on the other side of the border, a man of the sorely afflicted people, who lived lonely at the shores of a foreign country at the feet of the suppressor. When he saw his poor people suffering in pain and tears, he felt a holy vocation to become their comforter.17 (Jylhä 1937, 111) In this poem “Over the border” Yrjö Jylhä (1903–1956) is relating the fate of a Karelian Christian, who is successfully fleeing from Soviet deportation to Finland, “the land of the blood brothers”18 (Jylhä 1937, 113).

Conclusion: Rhetoric and Ideology – Belles-Lettres and Politics When analysing literature written in Finnish about the Finnish and Karelian civil wars, it becomes obvious that one can never strictly discern political rhetoric and literary metaphors, artistic freedom and ideological ulterior motives from one another. Neither the writers who opted for socialist or communist ideals nor conservative authors sympathising with the Whites refrained from using their creative capabilities to underline their political stance. From the distance of a century one is appalled by the brutality of the skilfully used metaphors, especially by the conservative right-wing writers. Meanwhile, in Finnish literature one can notice different undertones and critical voices from the very outbreak of the civil war. In Soviet

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literature, the ideology of Socialist Realism in Stalinist times rendered this kind of diversification impossible. Here one can see the anachronistic reevaluation of the Finnish and Karelian civil wars as fascist after the end of the Second World War. Only when political tensions between Finland and the Soviet Union became less acute after Stalin’s death did Soviet literature in Finnish slowly free itself from this ideological burden. Neither the literary work of the conservative writers in Finland nor the texts of leftwing Finnish and Soviet Karelian writers can be in a whole stigmatised as demagogic and ideologically overburdened. It is the reader’s task to discern creative freedom and mastery from the ideological abuse of an artwork’s power.

Notes 1 One third of approximately 36000 Finnish casualties of the war died in battles, one third was killed in court-martials and one third died of illnesses and malnutrition-caused diseases in the prison-camps of the Whites until 1921 (Tikka 2014, 116–118). 2 See Viitso 1998, 99–100. 3 For details, see Vitukhnovskaya-Kauppala 2012, 86–114. 4 An estimated number of 10000 Finns fled to Eastern Karelia in the time of the Finnish civil war (Kangaspuro 2000, 137, see also Takala 2009). 5 “POIS RYSSÄT! ALAS PUNAKAARTIT!/Pirujen kanssa ei neuvotella/Roistoille kättä ei antaa saa!/Voi herrajumala kuinka paljon/Kantaa päällänsä Suomen maa!/[…] Jos veljemme liittyvät verikoiriin,/He koirien kohtalon saakoot myös vaan!/Ken kansansa petti ja hurmeella tahras,/Se kaatukoon—kavaltajana maan!” (Words in italics are in the original text, all translations are by the author of the article, T. M.). 6 “Katastroofi kauhia punikeille pursui,/Amnestiaa annettu ei laisinkaan!/Viha oli verinen!/ Kosto aivan hirmuinen!/Päitä siellä pommiloilla murskattiin!” 7 “Körttisotilaankin käsi nousi,/vaikka muutoin kankea se oli/kunniahan, lakin reunaan, koska/jääkärupseerin hän ohi astui,/‘jumalalta säätyn esivallan’.” 8 “[…] jotta koskaan/puuttui Suomenmaassa miestä, milloin/kutsui isänmaa ja kotikontu […].” 9 “Tullut oli toimen aika, sillä/ryssäin puolelle jo pettureita/oli mennyt punaisista parvi,/idän taudin tartuttama joukko.” 10 “Yhtyi miestä heidän joukkohonsa/joka suunnalta kuin yhtyy puro/Kevättulvan aikaan toiseen puroon/kuohuvaista voimaa paisuvana/Valmistumaan suurta suvi-aikaa.” 11 “pirua ja ryssää vastaan.” 12 “Sillä vapaus, millä hinnalla se saadaankin? Verellä… Veljesverellä. Miten, miten tällaisesta voi koskaan tulla pysyvää rauhaa? Ja kuinka voi ihmisen kallo ymmärtää tämän veljesten raivon toisiaan vastaan?” 13 “Kiroten muistamme maata/[…] Missä on kruunattu rikos/Ja veljien murha./Siunaten muistamme maata,/Missä on veljiemme hauta,/Joidenka keralla kerta,/Nojaten olkahan olka/Riveissä seisoimme/Uhmaten lahtarivaltaa.” See also Soini, 2009, 210–216. 14 “Suomi suureksi – Viena vapaaksi!/Nyt, jos koksaan, se onnistaa!/Nyt on hetki ja nyt on aika!/Nyt on suurien suuntain taika/Pohjan Poikien ponnistaa!/Nyt on heimous-hengen ponsi […]!” 15 “[…] miehen vuotten aateloiman/ja suurten tekojen ja ajatusten […]/jok’ aina karttui vaaraa vastatusten.” 16 “Mannerheim ei osannut juuri laisinkaan suomea. Hän oli vanhaa ruotsalaista aatelissukua ja ylpeili siitä.” 17 “Rajan toisella puolen kasvoi hän,/mies heimon osattoman,/joka yksin rannalla vieraan maan/eli jaloissa sortajan.//Kun näki hän tuskaan ja kyyneliin/polon heimonsa nääntyvän,/ pyhän kutsumuksensa tuntien/nous lohduttajaksi hän.” 18 “veriveljien asuman maan.”

72 Thekla Musäus

References Primary Sources Jaakkola, Nikolai. 1957. Pirttijärven rantamilla ja muualla. Petroskoi: Karjalan ASNT:n valtion kustannusliike. Jylhä, Yrjö. 1937. “Rajan poikki.” In Risti lumessa, 36–38. Helsinki: Otava. Koskenniemi, Veikko Antero. (1918) 1938. Nuori Anssi. Runoelma Suomen sodasta 1918. Porvoo: WSOY. Koskenniemi, Veikko Antero. (1940) 1955. “Marski.” In Kootut teokset II, 84–85. Helsinki, Porvoo: WSOY. Kianto, Ilmari. 1918a. “Pois ryssät! Alas punakaartit!” In Hakkaa päälle! Sotarunoja valkoiselle armeijalle, 20. Jyväskylä: Sisä-Suomen kirjapaino. Kianto, Ilmari. 1918b. “Vapaussoturin valloituslaulu.” In Hakkaa päälle! Sotarunoja valkoiselle armeijalle, 36–40. Jyväskylä: Sisä-Suomen kirjapaino. Kianto, Ilmari. 1918c. “Suomi suureksi – Viena vapaaksi!” In Hakkaa päälle! Sotarunoja valkoiselle armeijalle, 58–62. Jyväskylä: Sisä-Suomen kirjapaino. Kianto, Ilmari. 1920. Vienan neitsyt. Korkeaveisu Karjalalle, sotasatu suomelle. Helsinki: Kustannusosakeyhtiö Ahjo. Lehtonen, Joel. (1918) 1995. Kuolleet omenapuut. Helsinki: Suomalaisen Kirjallisuuden Seura. Lönnrot, Elias. 1849. Kalevala. Helsinki: Suomalaisen Kirjallisuuden Seura. Mäkelä, Santeri. (1925) 1976. “Taistelua ja kuolemaa.” In Rakettu on raudalla, tulesta on tuotu. Neuvosto-Karjalan suomenkielistä runoutta vuosilta 1917–1940, edited by Taisto Summanen and Armas Mishin, 27–29. Petroskoi: Karjala-Kustantamo. Sillanpää, Frans Eemil. (1919) 1971. Hurskas kurjuus. Helsinki: Otava.

Secondary Sources Haapala, Pertti. 2010. “Jakautunut yhteiskunta.” In Sisällissodan pikkujättiläinen, edited by Pertti Haapala and Tuomas Hoppu, 18–31. Helsinki: WSOY. Hoppu, Tuomas. 2010a. “Valkoisten voitto.” In Sisällissodan pikkujättiläinen, edited by Pertti Haapala and Tuomas Hoppu, 199–223. Helsinki: WSOY. Hoppu, Tuomas. 2010b. “Algoth Untola eli Maiju Lassila (1868–1918).” In Sisällissodan pikkujättiläinen, edited by Pertti Haapala and Tuomas Hoppu, 446. Helsinki: WSOY. Jutikkala, Eino, and Pirinen, Kauko. 1979. A history of Finland. Espoo: Weilin & Göös. Kangaspuro, Markku. 2000. “Neuvosto-Karjalan suomalainen kausi.” In Yhtä suurta perhettä, edited by Timo Vihavainen and Irina Takala, 137–180. Helsinki: Aleksanteriinstituutti. Kauppala, Pekka. 2013. “Vom Hoffnungsträger zur Illusion: ostkarelische Sowjetautonomie, ihr Wiederaufstieg und Niedergang, 1920–2013.” In Autonomie – Hoffnungsschimmer oder Illusion, edited by Robert Schweitzer and Uta-Maria Liertz, 156–180. Helsinki: Aue-Stiftung. Lackman, Matti. 2010. “Jääkäriliike.” In Sisällissodan pikkujättiläinen, edited by Pertti Haapala and Tuomas Hoppu, 48–57. Helsinki: WSOY. Plamper, Jan. 2004. “Introduction: Modern Personality Cults.” In Personality Cults in Stalinism, edited by Klaus Heller and Jan Plamper, 13–42. Göttingen: V&R Press. Roselius, Aapo. 2014. “The War of Liberation, the Civil Guards and the Veterans’ Union: Public Memory in the Interwar Period.” In The Finnish Civil War 1918, edited by Tuomas Tepora and Aapo Roselius, 297–330. Leiden, Boston: Brill. Sadeniemi, Matti et al. 1967. Nykysuomen sanakirja. Helsinki: WSOY. Sihvo, Hannes. 1998. “Karjala Suomen historiassa – kiistakenttä, silta, myytti.” In Rajamailta, edited by Antero Heikkinen, Ilkka Savijärvi and Hannes Sihvo, 93–108. Joensuu: Universitas Joensuuensis.

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Slonim, Marc. 1964. Soviet Russian Literature. Writers and Problems. New York: Oxford University Press. Soini, Elena. 2009. “Poeziya-utopiia finskoy immigracii v Rossii. 1920–1930-e gody.” In Finskiy faktor v istorii i kul’tury Karelii XX veka. Vypusk 3, edited by Ol’ga Ilyuha, 208–231. Petrozavodsk: Karel’skyi nauchnyi centr RAN. Takala, Irina. 2009. “Finny sovetskoy Karelii i ih vklad v razvitie respubliki (1920-e pervaya polovina 1930-h godov).” In Finskiy faktor v istorii i kul’tury Karelii XX veka. Vypusk 3, edited by Ol’ga Ilyuha, 107–148. Petrozavodsk: Karel’skyi nauchnyi centr RAN. Tikka, Marko. 2014. “Warfare and terror in 1918.” In The Finnish Civil War 1918, edited by Tuomas Tepora and Aapo Roselius, 90–118. Leiden, Boston: Brill. Varpio, Yrjö. 2010. “Vuosi 1918 kaunokirjallisuudessa.” In Sisällissodan pikkujättiläinen, edited by Pertti Haapala and Tuomas Hoppu, 441–463. Helsinki: WSOY. Viitso, Tiit-Rein. 1998. “Fennic.” In The Uralic Languages, edited by Daniel Abondolo, 96–114. London & New York: Routledge. Vitukhnovskaya-Kauppala, Marina. 2012. “The Eastern Karelians in the Russian Civil War of 1917–1922.” In Nation split by the border, edited by Tapio Hämynen and Aleksander Paskov, 86–114. Joensuu: University Press of Eastern Finland.

6

The Archipenko Brothers: Discussions about National Art Vita Susak

This article could start as a fairy tale: once upon a time, in the late 19th century, in Kyiv, there lived Porfiry Arkhypenko1 who was the head of the mechanical technical workshop at Kyiv University; and his wife, Paraskeva, from the old Cossack family of Makhovs. They had two sons; the elder son was named Yevhen and the younger Alexander (Figure 6.1). They both studied in a gymnasium, then Yevhen (15(27).09.1884, Kaharlyk near Kyiv – 14.07.1959, Dornstadt, Germany) enrolled in the Kyiv School of Commerce. In 1904, Yevhen continued his studies at the Electrotechnical Institute in Petersburg, and in 1908-1910 he studied in the Moscow agricultural academy and obtained a degree. Later, he served in the Kyiv Government County Administration, where he initiated a peasant cooperative movement. He was enthusiastic about bees; he launched and published the magazines of Ukrayinske Bdzhilnytstvo (Ukrainian Bee Culture, 1906–1910), and Rillya (Plough Land, 1910–1914) (Tatarchuk 2018, 259–261). The younger Alexander (13(25).05.1887, Kyiv – 25.02.1964, New York) inherited artistic talent from the paternal family. There was one ancestor, the icon painter who decorated the Korsun monastery near Kaharlyk; Alexander’s mother’s uncle Stepan Makhov was also a self-trained painter.2 In 1902, Alexander entered Kyiv Art School, but during the 1905 student uprising he was expelled. Afterwards, he went to Moscow in 1906, and then to Paris in 1908. Presumably, the brothers saw each other for the last time before Alexander’s departure. The next meeting would come after half a century, in 1959, in Germany, in the year of Yevhen’s death. It would suffice to “try on” this fact in one’s own life to be able to feel the drama these people had to experience. The Archipenko family story is emblematic as it reflects the 20th century history of Ukraine. Separation and distance brought them to epistolary exchanges. Both brothers carefully kept the letters. Due to multiple transits, revolutions, and wars, not all of them survived, and there are gaps for several years. However, the letters extend far beyond the private domain. Eleven letters by Alexander Archipenko to his brother dated 1921 to 1925 were discovered in the Warsaw National Library by Halyna Svarnyk who examined the archives of the Shevchenko Scientific Society that was moved there from Lviv after 1945 (Svarnyk 2001). I found the other letters between the brothers for the period of 1928 to 1959 in the USA, during my stay there as a Fulbright scholar in 2009. Part of the correspondence is preserved in Yevhen Archipenko’s archives that Alexander brought to New York after his brother’s death (Arсhipenko Ye. Papers). Some letters stayed with Alexander, and they are currently DOI: 10.4324/9781003265818-9

The Archipenko Brothers 75

Figure 6.1 Yevhen and Alexander Archipenko, early 1890s, Kyiv. Source: Photo by unknown photographer. The Archipenko Foundation, Bearsville.

stored in the Archives of American Art in Washington D.C. While working with this “epistolary novel” I would like to focus on an aspect frequently mentioned in their exchanges – that of a national art. The First World War and the revolution crucially changed the life of the older Archipenko. His biography still contains many blurred spots. In 1919 he was Minister of Agriculture in the government of the Ukrainian People’s Republic (UNR) (Sydorenko 1999; Rudka 2001). After Kyiv was captured by the Bolsheviks, he took his father, his wife, and his two sons and left for Poland. They stayed there for some time in Tarnów, in a camp for the interned soldiers of the UNR. In 1921, his wife Anna and their children went to her brother to Romania, while Yevhen and his father stayed in Poland. They hoped they could meet again someday. First, they counted months, then years, and later, they were only looking forward to receiving letters. Anna lived in Romania until the end of the Second World War; later she managed to

76 Vita Susak move to her elder son Yuriy, to Brussels. They exchanged letters with Yevhen, and supported each other until the end of their lives. The father lived in Zdołbunów (near Rivne) until his death in 1930. The mother who stayed in Darnytsia outside Kyiv never saw her Zhenya and Sachenka again, and also died in 1930. In the interwar period, Yevhen was actively engaged in cooperative and publishing activities in Volhynia (Rivne, Lutsk), and in Lviv where he founded Bdzhola (The Bee) cooperative, and published the journals of Ukrayinske Pasichnytsvo (Ukrainian Bee Farming, 1922–1928), and Silskyi Svit (Village World, 1923–1931). In the 1930s, Yevhen returned to Volhynia. In 1936–1938, he was head of the village co­ operative Zakrzewszczyzna near Zdołbunów. The Polish authorities dismissed him from his post for his proactive pro-Ukrainian position, and ordered him to leave the border area. He moved to Warsaw, and as we can see from the letter to Alexander, this is where the Second World War found him. In 1942–1943, Yevhen had to visit his native Kyiv; during this time he started gathering information about the family of Archipenko-Borynych. Heraldry became the passion of his final years (Kuras 2006). Yevhen left Kyiv with the Germans, and came to Western Germany where he lived for many years in the Displaced Persons camps in Frankfurt, and later in Dornstadt, near Ulm. He led the political struggle against the Bolsheviks until his last day, with an unshakable confidence in the revival of the Ukrainian state. Alexander lived in Paris till 1914, where he plunged into the depths of Bohemian life to further soar to the heights of the world avant-garde. During the First World War, he stayed in Nice and later returned to Paris for a short time. The brothers must have exchanged letters in that period, but they have not been found and are most probably lost. The earliest preserved letters of Alexander come from Germany where he moved in 1921. Two years later, the sculptor and his wife Angelika left for the USA, and from that moment letters would be sent from across the ocean. “Dear brother” (Dorogoi brat) – this was the way Alexander would write to Yevhen, and send his letters in Russian. “Beloved brother” (Liubyi brate) – Yevhen would always answer in Ukrainian. Despite all the differences of their worldviews and values, they managed to maintain respect for each other’s positions. Above all, the letters are the evidence of the support, both financial and moral, that the brothers offered to one another. Alexander provided aid for his family throughout his life. In the early 1920s, when the sculptor had successful exhibitions in Germany, art col­ lectors and museums started buying his works. In the meantime, his father and brother found themselves in Poland, in a tough situation. This was when he even bought a car for them, and a big house for his mother in Darnytsia. After the Second World War, having found his brother again, Alexander continued helping him: al­ most every letter from Yevhen included gratitude for the money sent, for the food, and clothes, and he asked his brother not to buy any new items but to send his own old clothes. Politics and the global situation are some of the central topics in the letters, even though Alexander continually claimed he was not interested in those issues. After the First World War he wrote the following: “The artist can only be productive when away from the everyday hustle. The tempest will come sooner or later. But I am rather interested in the methods of painting zinc in multiple copies, than in the European madness.”3 After the Second World War, he asked Yevhen: “Please, do not write to me about any politics again.”4 At the same time, in every letter, he would share his panicky fear for the possible start of a new nuclear war:

The Archipenko Brothers 77 “I am thinking of going to Haiti, if I manage to save enough money, and if I am not too late.”5 “So, we are in for a looming terrible disaster. Nothing seems to be able to stop the deadly blow on the innocent victims from global political rascals.”6 Yevhen’s reply is much more serene. Looking back, we can see now that he was closer to the truth when he wrote: “I think the world will find some solutions to avoid the war. Great wars would repeat roughly every 25 years, that is why the new war could break out in about 1965. I also believe they would not use any nuclear weapons.”7 “But the Russian Empire is the last in the world, and it will soon be de­ stroyed. Instead, about 100 states will rise from the enslaved nations, as their national awareness is already high enough. In other words, Bolshevism will fortunately see its end soon. Ukraine will be liberated and we shall have a period of high cultural growth, and thus the flourishing of the arts.”8 As wrong as Yevhen was in 1950, as he turned out to be equally right about the prospects. It has already become standard to refer to Benedict Anderson’s Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism (1983), and the scholar’s described various options for nation building and establishment of nation states. It is also obvious that the intelligentsia was a driving force in the im­ plementation of these projects. In a well-written book by Anne-Marie Thiesse La Création des identités nationales. Europe 18e-20e siècle, the author compared the construction of the national identities with the “ІКЕА system” which allows for varied montages from the same elements. Thiesse compiled a certain “check-list” of these elements that necessarily include: history and renowned ancestors; language; cultural monuments; folklore; sacred sites and typical landscapes; peculiar mentality; official representation (anthem, flag); picturesque identification (national clothes, cuisine), and/or a symbolic animal (Thiesse 1999, 14, 224). One of such “constructors” of the Ukrainian nation was Yevhen Archipenko. In addition to his efforts to develop a peasant cooperative movement, he also largely contributed in terms of the first element – he searched for ancestors, constructed a genealogy of Ukrainian nobles, established the Ukrainian Heraldic Society in 1947, collected data on his own family of the Archipenko-Borynych, and continually re­ ferred to family links in his letters to Alexander. Correspondence between the Archipenko brothers is documentary evidence of how one brother was shaping the Ukrainian identity of another. “You keep writing in every letter that I should become a national painter and work on the national basis. We could debate this topic a lot. – replied Alexander, – Most regrettably but I cannot reject what I did in art, while I have done a lot, and all of the things I produced have nothing to do with my nationality. I am a European artist, and I should remain such. I was born Ukrainian, and I would be happy if they could treat me in Ukraine at least as they do in Germany. (…) I am not sure whether I am not advanced enough for Ukraine, or vice versa, but in any case, I will stay who I am.”9 Two years later, Alexander would repeat himself in his reply to Yevhen: “I’ll put it in brief – our major differences in positions (about art) is that you are a nationalist, and you understand art through the lens of nationality, while I am an artist and I un­ derstand nationality through the lens of art. I am searching for expression through art, and if there is anything of Ukrainian aesthetics (not the subjects) in my blood, it is reflected in my forms, too. I am familiar with Ukrainian art and I am in fond of it. But all of these are old works. Contemporary Ukrainian artists such as Novakivsky10 et al. have nothing Ukrainian in their art.”11

78 Vita Susak Eventually, in a catalogue of his exhibition of 1927 in New York, the sculptor would present his stance: “There is no nationality in my creations. In that respect, I am no more Ukrainian than I am Chinese. I am no one person.” (Bulliet 1927, 8). The statements seem to be sufficient for the brothers to be in conflict, and thus the sculptor’s contemporaries and later researchers did not try to “involve” his creations into the discourse of Ukrainian art. However, the reality is the opposite. For all of his life, Alexander engaged in a dialogue with Yevhen, and also contacted, debated, and conflicted Ukrainian emigration groups, offered support to them and received aid in return. In implementing national projects, it is very important to have internationally renowned personalities. This phenomenon is part of the domain of collective psy­ chology – the need of “imagined communities” to be proud of their representatives. They serve as the game changers in the national “pack of cards.” To a large extent, the need is bilateral. Alexander used to say that he was no more Ukrainian than he was Chinese, but when he came to Paris in 1909, he would immediately join the Ukrainian Hromada, not the Chinese (Popowycz 1977, 15). All of his further life is “saturated” with Ukrainian links: in 1922, Ukrainian art critic Mykola Holubets published a small book about the sculptor in Lviv; in 1923, in Berlin, the Ukrainske Slovo publishing house printed a monograph by Hans Hildebrandt in four languages (German, Ukrainian, English and French). In 1923, the Archipenko couple left for the USA with the passports issued by the Ukrainian mission in Switzerland. In New York, the sculptor was promoted by his fellow countryman David Burliuk who wrote an article for a newspaper Russkiy Golos in which he stated: “Archipenko is a typical Little Russian by mentality. At first sight, he has something “very Gallic” about him, as we say in Russia about the non-Russified khokhols” (Burliuk 1923). In 1933, at the world exhibition A Century of Progress in Chicago, Archipenko’s show was central in the Ukrainian pavilion (The Archipenko Exposition 1933). In 1934, Archipenko donated a bronze sculpture The Past for a lottery, while the revenues from its sale were planned to aid victims of the Holodomor (Pevny 1992, 138).12 In 1940, he made busts of Volodymyr the Great, Taras Shevchenko, and Ivan Franko for the Ukrainian Cultural Gardens in Cleveland, Ohio. After the Second World War, Alexander continued his contacts with the new wave of Ukrainian emigration, largely due to the links and solicitations of Yevhen. The relations are not equal: first the captivation (“New Ukrainian emigrants are mostly men of culture, they are intellectual, and professional”),13 later – suspicion about using his name to obtain money for other purposes (“I had a rather unpleasant ex­ periment with the Ukrainian Academy of Sciences in New York. The Head of the Academy and possibly a group of members wanted to use my name, well-known in the USA, to receive a subsidy from Ford’s Organization”),14 and then – complications in the publishing of his book (“I was willing to get closer to Ukrainians but I think I’d rather separate myself. You are not going to like it but what’s to be done. I’d rather avoid the trouble than mingle with them”).15 Indeed, the Ukrainian diaspora did not accept Archipenko’s avant-garde thinking and did not install his monument to Shevchenko in Washington D.C. At the same time, his book Alexander Archipenko. 50 Creative Years was published in 1960 due to a donation from a Ukrainian doctor Volodymyr Vozniak (Pevny 1992, 138). Numerous publications in the Ukrainian emigrant press were dedicated to the sculptor. As Archipenko wrote himself about national art in 1934: “Each nation un­ doubtedly has its own mental attributes; and since art reflects the spirit it is obvious

The Archipenko Brothers 79 that the national art does exist. (…) There are some forces in the nature that go beyond national feelings and ideas, such as Beethoven embraced and expressed in his Symphony No. 9: the extra array of energy and emotions that shattered all nations forever.” (Arkhypenko 1934, 8). This was the bar that Archipenko set for himself in his creations. Yevhen carefully followed his brother’s successes. He would ask him in almost every letter to send all the catalogues of exhibitions, and excerpts from newspapers, to be used for the Archipenko family archives. In 1948, he was trying to help with the publication of a monograph, and contacted a German art historian Erich Wiese (1891–1979) who published an essay about Archipenko back in 1923 (Wiese 1923). Yevhen forwarded to him the photos of sculptures and suggested the parallels be­ tween the modern sculpture of his brother and the ancient Neolithic figurines dis­ covered on the Mizyn encampment in the Chernihiv region in Ukraine. They were found by an archaeologist Lev Chykalenko (1888–1965), Alexander’s former gym­ nasium colleague who also landed in the emigration. When writing about it to Wiese, Yevhen was straightforward about the details: “I told you they bore some similarities to my brother’s works, but I never mentioned that my brother had ever seen them.”16 Yevhen also wanted to publish the monograph in the Ukrainian language. Alexander had a negative experience with the first edition, and asked him: “Please, postpone the Ukrainian edition until the German version comes out. I understand your patriotic feelings but this matter has a very different idea behind it.”17 Yevhen requested of the Ukrainian émigré architect and art historian Volodymyr Sichynskyi (1894–1962) that he write a text for the Ukrainian edition and highlighted the fol­ lowing: “The cause of publishing a Ukrainian monograph is only my concern. My brother does not have any initiative for it, and I want to surprise him.”18 At the time, neither of these ideas succeeded but Yevhen methodically continued to “ukrainise” his brother. He even dared to suggest a topic for the sculpture: “Let me suggest an idea for you. We do not have any monument to those persons who dedicated their lives or gave them to and for Ukraine. The monument would be named the Stabat Mater. It could be a stone made (concrete, granite) pedestal, some 1.50 metres high. On top, a female figure would bend over on one knee, leaning with her elbow on the lap, and propping up her head. The entire mourning figure would be wrapped in a shawl prompting the contours of a posture covered by the shawl. I think monuments like these would be much wanted in the villages in America. Whereas the little figurines would sell well to have in the house. Do you find this topic inter­ esting?”19 His brother never replied to this. Yevhen revered art but he was quite far from understanding the problems of avantgarde research. Alexander was not able to discuss his ideas with him about the world of abstract forms, as he used to do in prior times with Fernand Léger or László Moholy-Nagy. Similarly, Yevhen did not share any details with his brother about his political activities. They safeguarded the invisible borders of their worlds. The brothers finally met at the end of January, 1959, when Alexander came to Dornstadt (Figure 6.2). Thanks to Yevhen, in Neu-Ulm the editorial team of emigrant newspaper Ukrainski visti (Ukrainian News) organised a meeting with a famous sculptor, and shortly after that the large reportage Hours with Archipenko was published. The author quoted a brief dialogue: in saying goodbye one of the editorial board’s members told Archipenko: “Thank you very much for glorifying our (that is the

80 Vita Susak

Figure 6.2 Yevhen and Alexander Archipenko, January 31, 1959, Neu-Ulm. Source: Photo by unknown photographer. Rare Book & Manuscript Library at Columbia University, Yevhen Arсhipenko Papers.

Ukrainian) name in the world. Archipenko shrugged and replied: ‘Unless in clay.’” (IK 1959). Then, Alexander went to Rome from where he sent a postcard with a view of the Colosseum. There, he tried to write in Ukrainian: “Here I am in Rome. It’s very interesting, tomorrow I head for Venice. It was a pleasure to see you. I think you need to be more careful about your health. Greetings. Alexander”20 (Figure 6.3). Yevhen passed away in a few months’ time. Alexander managed to erect a high cross on his brother’s grave, and died five years later. The story of the Archipenko brothers is a bright illustration of the topic of this volume State Construction and Art in East Central Europe, 1918–2018 – it is the Ukrainian version of the subject. The process of creating nation states in the 20th century was happening not only within territorial boundaries but also in emigration, while involving not only conscious activists but also artists who were far from pol­ itics. It is noteworthy that the two brothers, each in his own way, made a con­ tribution to the creation of a Ukrainian state and its cultural narrative. Different

The Archipenko Brothers 81

Figure 6.3 a, b. Postcard of Alexander to Yevhen Archipenko, February 4, 1959. Source: Rare Book & Manuscript Library at Columbia University, Yevhen Arсhipenko Papers.

82 Vita Susak points of view on the question of national art did not cause conflict between them. The contribution of each deserves more detailed study and representation.

Notes 1 ‘Arkhypenko’ is the transliteration of a family name from Ukrainian. Alexander is known as ‘Archipenko,’ and such a spelling is preserved for both brothers in this text, although Yevhen himself always used the spelling ‘Arkhypenko.’ 2 Arсhipenko Ye. Papers, box 26. Letter of Yevhen to Alexander, December 9, 1953. 3 Svarnyk 2001: 62. Letter of Alexander to Yevhen, February 3, 1923. 4 Arсhipenko Ye. Papers, box 1: Letter of Alexander to Yevhen, February 25, 1946. 5 Arсhipenko Ye. Papers, box 1: Letter of Alexander to Yevhen, September 25, 1948. 6 Arсhipenko Ye. Papers, box 1: Letter of Alexander to Yevhen, February 3, 1948. 7 Arсhipenko Ye. Papers, box 40: Letter of Yevhen to Alexander, January 18, 1956. 8 Arсhipenko Ye. Papers, box 26: Letter of Yevhen to Alexander, September 30, 1950. 9 Svarnyk 2001: 57. Letter of Alexander to Yevhen, August 3, 1921. 10 Oleksa Novakivsky (1872–1935) – Ukrainian painter, studied in Cracow, had his own art school in Lviv. 11 Svarnyk 2001: 63. Letter of Alexander to Yevhen, December 20, 1923. 12 The Holodomor (the Terror-Famine) was a famine in Soviet Ukraine in 1932–1933, the intentional result of Stalinist policies that killed over four millions of Ukrainians. 13 Arсhipenko Ye. Papers, box 1: Letter of Alexander to Yevhen, May 1, 1952. 14 Arсhipenko Ye. Papers, box 1: Letter of Alexander to Yevhen, November 5, 1952. 15 Arсhipenko Ye. Papers, box 1: Letter of Alexander to Yevhen, April 21, 1957. 16 Arсhipenko Ye. Papers, box 1: Letter of Yevhen Archipenko to Erich Wiese, May 30, 1948. 17 Arсhipenko Ye. Papers, box 1: Letter of Alexander to Yevhen, January 30, 1948. 18 Arсhipenko Ye. Papers, box 1: Letter of Yevhen Archipenko to Volodymyr Sichynskyi, January 30, 1948. 19 Arсhipenko Ye. Papers, box 40: Letter of Yevhen to Alexander, April 27, 1955. 20 Arсhipenko Ye. Papers, box 40: Postcard of Alexander to Yevhen, February 4, 1959.

References Archipenko, Alexander. Papers. Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution. Washington DC. https://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/alexander‐archipenko‐papers‐7025 Archipenko, Yevhen. Papers. Rare Book & Manuscript Library at Columbia University. [Deposit from the Free Ukrainian Academy of Sciences in New York (UVAN), boxes 1, 26, 40]. New York. The Archipenko Exposition of Sculpture and Painting in Ukrainian Pavilion at a Century of Progress, Chicago, 1933. Arkhypenko, Oleksandr. 1934. “Natcionalne mystectvo.” Litopys Natcionalnoho muzeju, Lviv, no. 1: 8. Bulliet, Clarence Joseph. 1927. “Introduction.” Archipenko. Tour of the Exhibition of the Works. New York. Burliuk, David. 1923. “Aleksandr Prokofievich Archipenko” Russkiy Golos. New York, November 6, 1923. Hildebrandt, Hans. 1923. Alexander Archipenko. Berlin: Ukrainske slovo. Holubets, Mykola. 1922. Arkhypenko. Lviv: Ukrayinske mystetstvo. IK [Kostetsky, Ihor?]. 1959. “Hodyny z Arkhypenkom.” Ukrainski visti, Neu-Ulm, February 12, 1959. Kuras, Grygory. 2006. “V tini velykoho brata. Do zhyttepysu Eugena Arkhypenka” Svoboda. New Jersey, May 5, 2006: 23. Pevny, Bohdan. 1992. “Arkhypenkove korinnia.” Suchastnist, no. 9: 127–140.

The Archipenko Brothers 83 Popowycz, Volodymyr. 1977. “Arkhypenko u Frantsiyi.” Notatky z mystetstva [Philadelphia], no. 17: 5–18. Rudka, Bohdan. 2001. “Arkhypenko Yevhen Porfyrovych.” In Encyclopedia suchasnoi Ukrainy, edited by Ivan Dziuba, Arkady Zhukovsky et al., Kyiv: Instytut enzyklopedychnych doslidzhen NAN Ukrainy. http://esu.com.ua/search_articles.php?id=44796 Svarnyk, Halyna. 2001. “Lysty Oleksandra Arkhypenka do brata Yevhena Arkhypenka v Natcionalnii Bibliotetci u Varshavi.” In Oleksandr Arkhypenko i svitova kultura XX sto­ littia, 54–64. Materialy konferentcii. Natcionalny Khudozhniy Muzei, Kyiv. Sydorenko, Natalia. 1999. “Arkhypenko Yevhen.” Ukrainska zhurnalistyka v imenach, Lviv, no. 6: 5–6. Tatarchuk, Liudmyla. 2018. “Yvhen Porfirovych Archipenko (1884–1959) – osnovopo­ lozhnyk ukrainskoji periodyky z bdzhilnytstva.” Istoria nauky i biografistyka, no. 1: 256–269. http://inb.dnsgb.com.ua/2018-1/17.pdf Thiesse, Anne-Marie. 1999. La Création des identités nationales. Europe 18e–20e siècle. Paris: Edition du Seuil. Wiese, Erich. 1923. Alexander Archipenko. Junge Kunst, Band 40. Leipzig: Verlag von Klinkhardt & Biermann.

Part III

Aestheticisation of Politics – Ideologisation of Aesthetics

7

In/Tolerance to Visual AntiSemitism in Czechoslovakia 1918–1948 ∗ Milan Pech

Between 1925 and 1935, the writer Karel Čapek held talks with the first Czechoslovak president Tomáš Garrigue Masaryk. They touched upon Masaryk’s childhood in the Moravian countryside, where, according to his words, he had ab­ sorbed the popular anti-Semitism through his mother’s upbringing, which he actively resisted with common sense during his lifetime: “All my life I tried to be careful not to be unjust to Jews, that is why people said I was on their side. When did I overcome this popular anti-Semitism? Well, with the emotions probably never, just with common sense, after all, my mother kept me in a blood myth” (Čapek 2013, 19). At the end of the 19th century, Masaryk stood up in the trial with Leopold Hilsner against the myth of a ritual murder allegedly practised by Jews,1 he had sympathies towards the Zionist movement and he asserted recognition of Jews as an ethnic minority and their equal position in the Czechoslovak Constitution.2 Regardless of their president, the Czechoslovak state was not immune to anti-Semitism, as evi­ denced by the pogrom in the small town Holešov in December 1918, the formation of political groups with an open anti-Semitic program or various anti-Semitic printed materials. In the following text, I will focus on how Czech anti-Semitism manifested itself in visual culture between 1918 and 1948 in accordance with a changing cultural and political situation. According to Michal Frankl and Miloslav Szabó, the importance of anti-Semitic discourses and anti-Semitic practice within the framework of the building of the Czechoslovak nation state has been underestimated to date. According to them, it is not possible to analyse the inter-war Czech and Slovak anti-Semitism only as a concomitant phenomenon of social problems, destabilisation of state administration during the transformation of political systems or a momentary radicalisation after the establishment of the state. From their perspective, it is far more disturbing if the local inter-war anti-Semitism is understood as “a part and a significant feature of nationforming and state-forming processes” just after the establishment of Czechoslovakia (Frankl and Szabó 2015, 302). They consider unsustainable the division of racial and other (e.g. national, economic or religious) anti-Semitism because the “antiSemitisms” of that time were united by the efforts to construct the unity of the nation against Jews and the racial problematics served “to externalize the alleged negative phenomena and to overcome the political, world-view fission within their own na­ tion” (Frankl and Szabó 2015, 305). In the summer of 1919, e.g. a campaign was carried out in Czechoslovakia against Jewish refugees from Galicia and Bukovina, which indicates the ethnicisation of contemporary social conflicts. The anti-Semitic campaign backed by the agrarian DOI: 10.4324/9781003265818-11

88 Milan Pech party was mainly directed at the urban population trying to convince it that food supply problems were not caused by rural farmers who would block supply and raise prices in order to get greater profits, but allegedly because of usury practices of “Eastern Jews.” The stereotypical image of the Jewish trafficker, cheater and usurer served the agrarians in shifting responsibility for existing distribution problems to another group, to consolidate its shaken legitimacy in the urban environment and to further consolidate its own group. A specific example is a series of postcards from the beginning of the First Republic with drawings by Adolf Petříček, which label ste­ reotypically depicted figures of Jews in caftans as “keťas – usurer,” meaning traf­ fickers earning from scarce goods.3 The purposeful criminalisation of Galicia and Bukovina Jews, as we observe in the agrarian and nationalist press around the year 1920, did not apply only to the economic sphere, but also to the alleged anti-state activities (preventing the establishment of the Czechoslovak national currency, co­ operation with external enemies of the Czechoslovak Republic, etc.). From a broader perspective this was all “a part of the local and national community constructions in the context of creating a nation state” (Frankl and Szabó 2015, 183). Surprising examples of anti-Semitic drawings and caricatures at this time can be found in the nationally democratic satirical weekly of Josef Čapek Nebojsa, which was published between 1918 and 1920. In one of these, Rudolf Kremlička depicts figures of an older Jew and his wife with bundles on their backs who are banished from the paradise in the spirit of the traditional iconography the Expulsion from Paradise by the Archangel with a sword in his hand (Kremlička 1919, 10). In terms of content, it is not much different from the later election posters of Czech fascists using a similar motif. Apart from other topics, Nebojsa is concerned with alleged for­ eignness, disloyalty, Jews’ cunning or their influence on Czechoslovak culture or politics, as evidenced by the drawing of Josef Čapek which depicts a slender figure resembling President Masaryk, who is clenched by a worker from one side and from the other side by an entrepreneur or a banker who have stereotypical Jewish features: a corpulent build with a distinctive curved nose in a tailcoat and a cylinder clutching a bag full of money (Čapek 1919, 15). A certain test of the attitude of the Czech public and the Czechoslovak adminis­ tration towards the anti-Semitic manifestations was the exhibition called Mirror of Jews, organised by the painter and illustrator Karel Rélink, a graduate of the Prague Academy, in the Brandl Pavilion in Prague’s Park Gröbovka in 1925. Rélink ex­ hibited a series of drawings in which he scandalised not only the Jewish religion but also the Jewish character. The quotes of the main leaders of European anti-Semitism (Édouard Drumont – the initiator of the Anti-Semitic League of France, his successor Achile Plista alias A. Pontigny, Maxmilian de Larmarque, etc.) were supposed to provide authority to anti-semitic illustrations (Nemes and Unowsky 2014, 43). In addition to these, Rélink evidently relied primarily on the book Talmudjude (1871) by August Rohling, who, between 1876 and 1893, lectured on Catholic theology at the German University in Prague. Initially, the exhibition was forbidden by the police, but after the confiscation of some drawings, it was reopened in the refectory of the Archbishop’s seminary in Prague’s Klementinum (–dčl– 1925, 2). The drawings forced the viewers to believe that Jews were the source of social contradictions, merciless to the majority Christian community, heartless or that their aim was to decompose, spoil or destroy the community (the abuse of Christian girls, prostitution, usury, etc.). Most of the drawings had a universal character, but Rélink situated some

In/Tolerance to Visual Anti-Semitism in Czechoslovakia 1918–1948 89 of them in the local life to make it easier to identify with them, such as the figure of a daemon hovering over the Old New Synagogue in Prague, referring to the constant influence of the Talmud on the Jewish population or a Jew, dressed in a Czech folk costume holding bundles of money, behind whom the wretched representatives of the Czech nation are crouching, intending to document that Jewish assimilation in the Czech society was only pretended and Jews were basically indifferent to the destiny of the nation (Figure 7.1). Although the official manifestations of anti-Semitism in Czechoslovakia were subject to censorship, the press control was, from this point of view, exceedingly benevolent. Evidence of this is given by the fact that the mentioned Rélink “illus­ trations” of Talmud were published in 1925, even with obvious press censorship interventions (Figure 7.2). In the preface of Mirror of Jews: A Jew by Talmud Rélink foisted on his readers the assertion that his drawings are “just to underline the Talmud’s main ideas.” He wanted to awaken the Czech public to active opposition to the activity of the race

Figure 7.1 Karel Rélink, Only a Jew Is a Neighbour of Jew, 1923. From Karel Rélink. 1925. Mirror of Jews: A Jew by Talmud. Prague: Karel Rélink, no pagination.

90 Milan Pech

Figure 7.2 Karel Rélink, Book cover, 1925. From Karel Rélink. 1925. Mirror of Jews: a Jew by Talmud. Prague: Karel Rélink.

which, in his opinion, deliberately harmed Christians, “armoured by its immoral and cynical religious teaching,” handed down from generation to generation through Talmudic teaching. In Rélink’s view, the public should be led to that by “national feeling and simple self-preservation instinct”4 (Rélink 1925, 8). According to historical reports, representatives of the Jewish community protested to the Prague Mayor both against the exhibition and the publication of the book. The National Jewish Council and the Prague Associated Religious Communities even tried to press charges, though in vain, against Karel Rélink in which they referred to the Law for the Protection of the Republic, where Article 14 (the Interference of General Peace) states: “Those who publicly urge disgust against individual groups of

In/Tolerance to Visual Anti-Semitism in Czechoslovakia 1918–1948 91 the population for their nationality, language, race or religion, or because they are without religion, shall be punished for their offence and be imprisoned from fourteen days up to six months.”5 Unfortunately, nothing happened in response to the pro­ tests. When the National Jewish Council contacted the Ministry of Justice, they were told that the law was not applicable to this case because “according to the Jews themselves the Talmud is not a part of their religion” (Beneš 1926, 202–5). This is an absurd explanation if we consider that the Talmud is indeed an integral part of the Jewish religion and that Rélink built his entire defamatory anti-Semitic and antiJewish exhibition and the book on that fact. Despite the initial indifference of the Czechoslovak administration, the book was declared unsafe in a private trial in 1933 and its edition was liquidated. Unlike in Czechoslovakia, in 1935 Rélink succeeded with Mirror of Jews in neighbouring Nazi Germany at the exhibitions in Nuremberg, Munich or Cologne. In the following years, Karel Rélink published other anti-Semitic writings. His brochures World Salvation: Poor Persecuted Jews (Rélink 1926) or Growth of Jewish-Marxist (Rélink 1938) were no less demagogic. Both were based on the idea of a worldwide Jewish conspiracy, especially in connection with Russian Bolshevism and Freemasonry. Again, Rélink worked with typical stereotypes of a Jew, “who stinks, exploits poor Christians, is an intrusive and dishonest merchant, a Bolshevik, a coward soldier, a man with no sense of the country whose immorality is dictated by the Talmud, who is physically lazy, cruel, who abuses Christian girls and the national art” (Soukupová 2005, 45). President Tomáš Garrigue Masaryk did not deal deeply with anti-Semitism during World War I or during the interwar period. As Frankl and Szabó point out, Masaryk’s authority had rather an indirect effect in relation to anti-Semitism, without the president being actively engaged in these issues. The leaders of major political parties avoided explicit political anti-Semitism because it could be understood, with regard to Masaryk’s role during the already-mentioned Hilsner affair, as an attack on the president, or on the state. Apparently, it was the long-term interest of key parties in political consensus, which, on the one hand, limited parliamentary policy, but, at the same time, minimised a political conflict, and in principle limited the abuse of anti-Semitism as a means of political struggle between right-wing and left-wing groupings. Open anti-Semitic campaigns became the domain of parties opposed to the regime of the nation-state or the current political system in the time of a stabilised Czechoslovakia (Frankl and Szabó 2015, 306–7). In the 1930s, fascist organisations were increasing in number, such as Vlajka (Flag), which was a conservatively Czech, extremely anti-German and antiCommunist club that did not hide its admiration for German anti-Semitism6 (Soukupová 2005, 85). Others included the National Front, the National League, the National Unification or the National Fascist Community, in whose periodicals we repeatedly encounter seriously anti-Semitic manifestations. Anti-Semitism visually manifested itself, e.g. on the electoral poster of the National Fascist Community in 1938, where a Czech fascist banishes a Jew, depicted in stereotypical fashion, from the country. The poster is accompanied with a slogan: “With only a bag, they will leave again.” When Blanka Soukupová compared the similarities and differences between Czech and Slovak interwar anti-Semitic caricatures and “humorous” drawings, she con­ cluded that they were connected, e.g. by the motive of the supposed non-loyalty of

92 Milan Pech Jews towards Czechoslovakia (among other things, evidenced by the lack of knowledge of national languages, in Slovakia by the motive of Jewish-Bolshevism and the so-called “Hungarianism”), then a stereotypical portrayal of Jewish physiognomy and the application of other stereotypes (Jew as a usurer, a stinking Jew, Jewish dirt, etc.). Unlike Slovakia, where we can meet commentaries drawn from everyday life, in the Czech lands, Judaism is projected to some of the leading representatives of the Republic, the symbols of the state (especially Edvard Beneš, Tomáš Garrigue Masaryk in a more hidden form). In this respect, compared to the more emotional Slovak anti-Semitism, the Czech one was “more sophisticated” and therefore more dangerous, Soukupová claims (Soukupová 2019, 5–21).7 Anti-Semitism surged in connection with the forced withdrawal of the border re­ gions of Czechoslovakia to Hitler’s Germany in September 1938 (based on the Munich agreement), the period of the so-called Second Czecho-Slovak Republic, which ended with the German occupation in March 1939. Nevertheless, we also encounter criticism of anti-Semitism in September 1938, e.g. on the pages of the liberal daily Lidové noviny (People’s Newspaper), in which the illustrator Ondřej Sekora published the drawing “Ethnicity even with the cross-breed,” whose hero is a dog cross-breed who searches for his ancestors to prove its “pure origin” (Sekora 1938, 5). Sekora touched upon the inhumane racial laws in neighbouring Germany. The escalation of anti-Semitism in 1938 in the Czech lands and in Slovakia was not only a reflection of the deep disappointment with national humiliation, the loss of state border areas and the growing influence of Nazi ideology, but also the re­ verberation of the construction of the nation-state and national identity around the year 1920 (Frankl and Szabó 2015, 308). Shortly after the Munich Agreement was concluded and the border areas were lost, the former nationalist paper Štít národa (The Nation’s Shield) (1938–1940) was re­ newed in November 1938 and was given a strong anti-Semitic character, especially after the German occupation. Štít národa soon became the press authority of the National Action Committee bringing together active fascist politicians from the First Republic, which, among other things, set the following tasks: “Final solution of the Jewish question and purification of cultural life from all Jewish influences and di­ rections” (Pejčoch 2017, 41). Because of the lack of popular interest, the Committee united with the Anti-Jewish League in 1940. Štít národa featured in its title a monumental woman with a shield emblazoned with a cross who disperses small Jewish figures with her sword. The first of the illustrators who published in this periodical was Jan Tulla whose anti-Semitic drawings could subsequently be found also in the magazine Arijský boj (Aryan Struggle), which will be discussed. Like the aforementioned Karel Rélink, Tulla also discussed anti-Semitic themes based on conspiracy ideas about a worldwide Jewish conspiracy or motives in which Jews appear as those who annoy others with their bad smell in swimming pools, abuse Christian girls and Czech culture, or demonstrate indifference to the needy. Immediately after the occupation, when the Protectorate of Bohemia and Moravia was established, the Czech administration was pressured to issue its own variant of the Nuremberg racial laws, which they had boycotted. Finally, the German occu­ pation administration itself created these regulations in June 1939. During World War II, when anti-Semitism was an officially supported ideology in Bohemia and Moravia, a newly emerged magazine Arijský boj (Aryan Struggle, an analogy of a Nazi magazine Stürmer) published strongly anti-Jewish drawings and cartoons. The

In/Tolerance to Visual Anti-Semitism in Czechoslovakia 1918–1948 93 Aryan struggle was an ideological and in fact even personal continuation of the aforementioned Štít národa, which ceased to exist in April 1940 due to long-lasting conflicts among its editors. Other traditional humorist periodicals managed to avoid anti-Semitic manifestations up until 1941. Apart from the traditional motives started to emerge those which commented, for example, on the alleged connection of the origin of World War II with Jews, as well as the influence of Jews on politics and culture in the former Czechoslovak Republic or with anti-Nazi allies in England, the United States and the Soviet Union. This is clearly demonstrated in the drawing of Dobroslav Haut called “Businessmen going to fight!” published in the magazine Arijský boj in 1941. In the drawing, an obese knight on a horse with the Star of David on his armor and the shield and the American flag on his helmet is accompanied by a group of traders with stereotypical Jewish features and banners like “We want blood,” “We want to deliver,” “We want war profits” or “We want the Jewish U.S. of Europe!”, etc. (Haut 1941, 1). At the head of the procession stands Stydlín (Bashful) armed with a spear, the dwarf of Walt Disney’s Snow White. Haut, as in other similar periodicals, such as the infamous Fascist magazine Vlajka (Flag), em­ phasised the allegedly unfortunate influence of Jews on Czech culture, as is evident from Haut’s drawing entitled “How Jews crippled Czech culture” (Haut 1941, 1). In the gallery space, there is a figure of a Jew – an art critic, gallery owner or art dealer who speaks to the participants of the exhibition opening, where some cubo-surrealist paintings are presented on the walls, while a realistic Czech landscape painting lies on the ground upside down.8 As well, the aforementioned Karel Rélink did not remain in the background during the protectorate (Figure 7.3). On the contrary, in 1942, he organised his grand exhibition called “JewishBolshevism – the enemy of mankind.”9 With regard to the fact that the Czech population became practically resistant to Nazi German propaganda in the Protectorate of Bohemia and Moravia, the German State Ministry exploited novel methods to make it more receptive to the goals of the occupying power. Because the humour seemed to be an effective tool to manipulate public opinion, State Ministry founded a cartoon periodical entitled Ejhle (1944–1945) and sought to hide the fact that persons behind it were not Czech but German. Political content was hidden behind seemingly apolitical and sometimes saucy jokes and drawings. The picture magazine was primarily intended to address the Czech labour force, upon which the German military production depended on. As evidenced by Petr Karlíček and Volker Mohn in their study, the Prague German Security Service (Sicherheitsdienst) considered publishing Ejhle (Behold) as an “utter propaganda success” in the beginning of the year 1944 (Karlíček and Mohn 2013, 189). Because the journal was created at the end of the war, it often touched on foreign political issues, especially the activities of the exiled Czechoslovak president Edvard Beneš, whose statements were often written there in letters visually close to the Hebrew script, which was supposed to provoke the feeling that Beneš was just a puppet in the hands of the international Jewry. The magazine worked with antiSemitic stereotypes systematically. For example, in another issue, it persuaded readers that the Czech radio broadcasting office in London was dominated by Jews. The stereotypical representation of members of the editorial staff with large noses is complemented by edited names of the editors under the drawing so that they would sound “Jewish”: “Khopecký, Khoníček and Khon”.10 The content of the magazine was also affected by the already mentioned Dobroslav Haut. In agreement with

94 Milan Pech

Figure 7.3 Dobroslav Haut, How Jews crippled Czech Culture, 1940. From Arijský boj 2. 18 January 1941: 1.

Ejhle’s overall propagandistic strategy, he attempted to raise concerns about post-war development in the country in case the Third Reich lost. This was aptly illustrated by a drawing that was supposed to represent the arrival of the Red Army at Prague (Haut 1944, 7). On Wenceslas Square, instead of St. Wenceslas, Joseph Stalin sits on a horse skeleton, surrounded by primitive-looking soldiers and numerous Jewish figures. The scene is accompanied by symbols of the Soviet Union and the Star of David. To put it simply, all of the aforementioned drawings were to serve Nazi

In/Tolerance to Visual Anti-Semitism in Czechoslovakia 1918–1948 95 propaganda which used racist and anti-Semitic images of the enemy to cause fear on one hand, and, on the other hand, to match or reinforce readers’ existing stereotypical conceptions (Karlíček and Mohn 2013, 213). From the end of the war until 1948, visual manifestations of anti-Semitism prac­ tically disappeared, and after the communist coup in Czechoslovakia, they tended to take forms of anti-Zionism and anti-Israelism. The ability of Tomáš Garrigue Masaryk to suppress his own prejudices, as he did in the case of anti-Semitism, commands respect. Masaryk’s example is timely because anti-Semitism in various forms emerges again on the surface, not only in the Czech Republic but also in other countries.

Notes ∗ The work was supported by the Ministry of Culture of the Czech Republic; project “The Image of the Enemy: Visual Manifestations of Anti-Semitism in the Czech Lands from the Middle Ages to the Present day,” NAKI II, DG18P02OVV039 (2018–2021). 1 The response of the so-called Hilsneriad abroad played an important role in gaining sup­ port for the establishment of Czechoslovakia in the US administration during World War I. Masaryk appointed primarily a member of the US Supreme Court Louis Brandeis (an American of Czech-Jewish origin) who had close relations with President Woodrow Wilson. For more details, see Masaryk 1925, 261. Compare to Friedmann 1937 and Pojar 2016, 101–213. 2 The protection of minority rights was included in the Constitution of the Czechoslovak Republic on 29 February 1920 (§ 128), but the Jewish ethnic group is mentioned only in the annotated editions of the Constitutional Charter. See Borek 2003, 75–76. 3 See František Bányai’s collection of Jewish postcards, Prague. 4 In his book, Karel Rélink states that its preface was first confiscated and subsequently recognised in October 1925 as a “necessary accompaniment and explanation to the paintings by the author.” 5 “Zákon ze dne 19. března 1923 na ochranu republiky.” Sbírka zákonů a nařízení státu československého, no. 23 (31 March 1923): 210. http://ftp.aspi.cz/opispdf/1923/ 023–1923.pdf 6 Vlajka (Flag), together with the chauvinistic student magazine Průlom (Break) brought racial anti-Semitism in the Czech context in the 1920s unused. 7 Compare to Panczová 2016, 28–60. 8 The name of the author of one of the paintings is Ivo Progresso, which is undoubtedly an allusion to the Spanish painter Pablo Picasso. 9 Rélink, who in 1943 became the administrator of the collections and the caretaker of Křivoklát castle, commited suicide in May 1945. 10 Cartoon by anonymous artist, Ejhle 1, 2 February 1944, 4.

References Beneš, Karel Josef. 1926. “Umělec a antisemitismus.” Přítomnost 3, 8 April 1926. Borek, David. 2003. “Židovské strany v politickém systému Československa 1918–1938.” Moderní dějiny 11: 65–201. Čapek, Josef. 1919. “Mezi dvěma žernovy: Sociální vlnobití.” Nebojsa 2, 9 January 1919. Čapek, Karel. 2013. Hovory s T. G. Masarykem. Prague: Ústav T. G. Masaryka. –dlč–. 1925. “Pražské zprávy.” Našinec, 16 June 1925. Frankl, Michal, and Miloslav Szabó. 2015. Budování státu bez antisemitismu?: Násilí, diskurz loajality a vznik Československa. Prague: Nakladatelství Lidové noviny. Friedmann, František. 1937. Židé a židovství v životě a díle T. G. Masaryka. Prague: František Friedmann.

96 Milan Pech Haut, Dobroslav. 1941a. “Businesmeni táhnou do boje.” Arijský boj 2, 1 March 1941. Haut, Dobroslav. 1941b. “Jak Židé mrzačili českou kulturu.” Arijský boj 2, 18 January 1941. Haut, Dobroslav. 1944. “Buďme připraveni.” Ejhle 1, 1 January 1944. Karlíček, Petr, and Volker Mohn. 2013. “Naprostý propagandistický úspěch?: Humoristický časopis Ejhle (1944–1945).” Acta Universitatis Carolinae studia territorialia 13, nos. 1–2: 177–214. Kremlička, Rudolf. 1919. “Vyhnání z ráje.” Nebojsa 2, 2 January 1919. Masaryk, Tomáš Garrigue. 1925. Světová revoluce za války a ve válce 1914–1918. Prague: Orbis – Čin. Nemes, Robert, and Daniel Unowsky. 2014. Sites of European Antisemitism in the Age of Mass Politics: 1880–1918. Waltham: Brandeis University Press. Panczová, Zuzana. 2016. “Antisemitizmus na stránkách humoristickej tlače: Príklad časopisu Kocúr (1919–1945).” In Podoby antisemitismu v Čechách a na Slovensku ve 20. a 21. století, edited by Monika Vrzgulová and Hana Kubátová, 28–60. Prague: Karolinum. Pejčoch, Ivo. 2017. “Štít národa. Historie jednoho antisemitského periodika.” Paměť a dějiny 11, no. 2: 38–47. Pojar, Miloš. 2016. T. G. Masaryk a židovství. Prague: Academia. Rélink, Karel. 1925. Zrcadlo Židů: Žid podle Talmudu. Prague: K. Rélink. Rélink, Karel. 1926. Spása světa: Ubozí pronásledovaní Židé. Prague: J. S. Schořík. Rélink, Karel. 1927. Nenažranski, ministr, humanista-filistr. Prague: J. S. Schořík. Rélink, Karel. 1938. Vývin židomarxisty. Prague: K. Rélink. Rélink, Karel. Zrcadlo Židů: Žid podle Talmudu. Prague: Vlastenecká akce. Sekora, Ondřej. 1938. “Rasovost i u oříšků.” Lidové noviny 46, 12 September 1938. Soukupová, Blanka. 2005. Velké a malé českožidovské příběhy z doby intenzivní naděje. Bratislava: Zing Print. Soukupová, Blanka. 2019. “Sociálněhistorické kontexty českého antisemitismu a antiněmectví po vzniku Československé republiky a jejich odraz v dobové karikatuře.” Slovenský národopis 67, no. 1: 5–21.

8

Art History and State Reconstruction in Greece in the 1950s and Early 1960s Lefteris Spyrou

Introduction Dedicated to the memory of “the men of Greece, Britain, and the Dominions who fought and died for the cause of Liberty in Greece and the Greek Seas,” the Exhibition of Greek Art: 3000 BC–1945 AD opened on 15 February 1946 in the premises of the Royal Academy of Arts in London (Seltman 1946). The aim of the organising committee, as the exhibition title suggested, was to present a panorama of Greek art from Bronze Age Cycladic Sculpture to the work of contemporary Greek artists. Eighty hundred and fifty art objects were exhibited, most of which were an­ cient artefacts and dated from 3000 to 100 BC (including marble figures from the Cyclades, Minoan bronze figures, Mycenaean pottery, Corinthian vases, Attic le­ kythoi, coins et al.). A handful of Fayum mummy portraits produced in Egypt during the period of Roman imperial rule (40 to 250 AD) were also presented as “a bridge between Classical and Byzantine art” (Seltman 1946, Introduction). Byzantine icons and other religious objects were included in the exhibition’s Byzantine section, while six paintings by El Greco were also displayed in the same room in order to signify his association with the Byzantine and Cretan painters of his time. Embroideries (e.g. pillowcases, bed curtains) dating from 1600 to 1850 were put on display in the ad­ jacent hall and “stressed the continuity of the Greek design,” as, according to the organisers, patterns from the Attic black figure vases were also seen in the velvet and gold coats made in the northern part of Greece in the 18th century (Seltman 1946, Introduction). The last room of the exhibition was devoted to artistic production in Greece after its independence in 1830. It included seventeen paintings illustrating battles from the Greek War of Independence, dated between 1836 and 1839;1 se­ venteen paintings by five contemporary Greek artists; and examples of contemporary folk art. As I mentioned before, the exhibition at the Royal Academy aimed to demon­ strate the cultural continuity of the Greek nation from the Ancient Greek period to the Byzantine Empire and to modern Greece. At the same time though, the pre­ dominance of ancient and Byzantine art as well as folk art in the exhibition rooms revealed the orientation of the scientific research in Greece after its independence. During the first decades after the foundation of the Greek state in 1830, archae­ ology became the national discipline par excellence, taking over the responsibility of transforming the material traces of Greek antiquity into signifiers of continuity between ancient Greece and the new modern nation-state; and, therefore, legit­ imising its claim to the exclusive inheritance of Greece’s ancient glory (Voutsaki DOI: 10.4324/9781003265818-12

98 Lefteris Spyrou and Cartledge 2017; Damaskos and Plantzos 2008; Hamilakis 2007). In the second decade of the 20th century, Greek scholars of Byzantine archaeology and art, in line with the emerging interest of western intellectuals in the medieval past and its monuments, began to study the previously neglected Byzantine past and to accept its remnants as an integral part of Greece’s national heritage (Gratziou and Lazaridou 2006; Ricks and Magdalino 1998). In the interwar period, folk studies were also employed more systematically to prove the uninterrupted evolution of the Greek nation, as the foundation of the National Museum of Decorative Arts in 1918 indicates. On the other hand, Modern Greek artistic production (namely from 1830 onwards) remained neglected. This was also reflected in the Royal Academy exhibition, where only fifteen artworks by contemporary Greek painters were presented in the last section. This knowledge gap was addressed in the aftermath of World War II, by several Greek art historians, who had been dissatisfied about the lack of studies in this area as well as about the fact that the visual material remained inaccessible and the absence of relevant courses at Greek universities. This paper explores the shift in art historical research that occurred in the 1950s and early 1960s, when for the first time the canon of the history of Modern Greek art was constructed. I examine the content of the art-historical discourse and its association with key questions posed at that time, such as the definition of national identity and the political orientation of the country, as well as the influential role of art historians in the Greek political and cultural public sphere.

State Reconstruction in Greece in the Aftermath of World War II Greece’s liberation from the German occupation in October 1944 was succeeded by a brutal civil war between the communists and the anti-communist coalition formed during the period of the resistance.2 The latter, with the overwhelming military support of both Great Britain and the USA, managed to defeat the communist forces, which finally surrendered in 1949 after the battles in the mountains of the northern part of the country. As a result, thousands of communists were persecuted and sent to island camps, where they were subjected to extreme physical and psychological torture as a means of “recovering” from Communism. The prisoners had to recant their political views and to sign a declaration of repentance in order to be released. Thus in 1949, Greece’s economy and infrastructure lay in ruins, while the society was deeply divided. State reconstruction was one of the government’s priorities, and the financial aid of the American Marshall Plan helped Greece’s economic and social recovery in the 1950s. However, state reconstruction involved the reconstruction both of physical and of ideological and psychological elements in a divided society. The ideological conformity of the public sphere was secured through the official ideology of national-mindedness (the concept of “thinking nationally”, in accordance with the interests of the Greek nation). The defeated left-wing camp was portrayed as an enemy of the Nation, its supporters were accused of adhering to the ideology of bolshevism and the orders of Moscow, and they were excluded from the national body. For example, to apply for state employment, to study at the university, or even to get a driving licence, one was required to have a “loyalty certificate,” which was signed by local authorities and which confirmed that both the applicant and his/her relatives had ‘non-involvement’ with Communism. Thus, although the post-civil war

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political regime in Greece functioned as a parliamentary constituency, in reality it was a mixture of democracy and authoritarianism, an interlocking system of power centres, including right-wing politicians, the monarchy, army officers and American representatives (Close 2002, 83). Meanwhile, the position of the country in the international setting reinforced the anti-communist discourse and shaped the state’s internal and external policy. Greece’s neighbours to the north had fallen under communist control, which meant that the state had to establish close relations with the West, as an additional guar­ antee against Balkan Communism. In 1952, Greece joined the North Atlantic Treaty Organisation (NATO); in 1953, it signed the Military Facilities Agreement with the USA; and in June 1959 submitted its application for accession to the newly estab­ lished European Economic Community.

The Art-Historical Discourse between Ethnocentrism and Europeanism Both the ideology of national-mindedness and the country’s orientation towards the West were decisive elements in the debates taking place in the cultural public sphere in the 1950s and early 1960s. A coherent and systematic state cultural policy did not exist, since there was no institutional framework for its implementation. Until the establishment of the first national Ministry of Culture in 1971, state support for the arts was assigned to various special departments in the Ministry of Education (e.g. the Directorate of Letters and Fine Arts). Nevertheless, the key role of culture in shaping the nation’s identity had already been acknowledged during the devastating civil war, as was evidenced by the reopening of the National Archaeological Museum and the Byzantine and Christian Museum in 1948–1949. Apart from their considerable economic contribution to the state economy, as the field of cultural tourism was developing rapidly during the same period, both museums were regarded as im­ portant agents in the strengthening of the nation’s collective conscience and the cultural homogenisation of a deeply divided Greek society. Additionally, Greek scholars attributed to the exhibits the symbolic function of proving Greece’s con­ tribution to the formation of European values. Konstantinos Tsatsos (1899–1987), one of the most influential intellectuals and politicians in post-World War II Greece, underlined in 1947 that the decline of the European civilisation was rooted in the disenchantment of the European spirit with the ancient Greek concepts of “Reason” (Logos) and “Moderation” (Metron) and its orientation towards the Romantic Spirit of non-Moderation. Therefore, he added, the cultural duty of Greece was to restore these elements into European civilisation (Tsatsos 1947). Moreover, Byzantine art, as the director of the Byzantine Museum Manolis Chatzidakis (1909–1989) emphasised some years later, was “European, and the only art between East and West which kept alive the spirit of Greek humanism now recognised as preeminently the basis of European values” (Chatzidakis 1964, 11). Within this political and intellectual environment, the previously neglected material culture of Modern Greece acquired a new significance. It was now considered a sine qua non element in the national master narrative that demonstrated the eternal presence of a Hellenic-Greek spirit from ancient Greece to the Byzantine era and up to the 20th century. At the same time, it unveiled the country’s cultural integration in European civilisation in the 19th and 20th century. This shift is best exemplified by

100 Lefteris Spyrou the new orientations of the National Gallery in Athens. In 1949, Marinos Kalligas (1906–1985)3 was appointed as its new director and as soon as he took office, he transformed the museum into primarily a research centre on Modern Greek art.4 He established an archive of Greek artists, an archive of articles on Greek art published in newspapers and magazines, as well as a photographic archive of Greek paintings and sculptures. Moreover, he began enriching, through acquisitions and donations, the Greek part of the collection and he organised, between 1953 and 1959, its temporary exhibition at Zappeion Megaron. For the first time, both the public and the art-historical community were presented with a history of Modern Greek Art based on artworks that were previously unknown. Meanwhile, the publications on Modern Greek artistic production multiplied. Tonis Spiteris (1910–1986) focused on the research on artistic production in the Ionian Islands (late 17th century–early 19th century) and published numerous articles in the daily and periodical press, including the French-language newspapers Revue d’Athènes and Messager d’Athènes, as well as books on the subject (Spiteris 1952; Spiteris 1962). The painter Errikos Frantziskakis (1908–1958) edited in 1957, the book Greek Painters of the 19th century, which was published on the occasion of the 50th anniversary of the foundation of the Commercial Bank of Greece and which consisted of high quality coloured and black and white reproductions of until then unknown artworks (Frantziskakis 1957). In 1961, the book Contemporary Greek Painters was published with a prologue by the French academician René Huyghe (1906–1997) and an introduction by the art critic Eleni Vakalo (1921–2001). Vakalo was also working from 1950, as an art columnist for liberal newspapers, where she published many articles on Modern Greek art. Equally active in the cultural public sphere was the art critic and art historian Angelos Prokopiou (1909–1967), who published extensively in the right-wing press and taught art history at the School of Architecture at the National Technical University of Athens from 1962 to 1967. The analysis of these narratives on the history of Modern Greek art reveals the scholars’ dual objective. Firstly, they actively sought a distinct Greek expression in the artistic production of the 19th and 20th centuries. Kalligas had already defined the notion of “Greekness” (“Hellenikotita”) in his influential book The Aesthetics of Space in the Greek Church during the Middle Ages, published in 1946. His aim was to assert the “Hellenic Greek” character of Byzantine civilisation by analysing the “unchangeable Greek elements” that existed both in ancient sculpture and in Medieval Greek church architecture. In doing so he defined the “eternal and sub­ stantial aesthetic values” that determined Greek art through the centuries and led to the existence of a distinctive “Greek expression” in artistic production. According to the author, the main and timeless characteristics of authentic Greek art were anthropomorphism, clarity, plasticity, simplicity and variety, rule and proportion, and generalisation in the expression. In order to strengthen his argu­ mentation, he juxtaposed Greek art with northern European art, which was characterised by elements such as the irrational and the ecstatic. Therefore, Kalligas concluded, mysticism could not be rooted in the Greek soil and paintings by artists such as Matthias Grünewald (1470–1528), were not tolerated by the Greek Moderation (Metron) (Kalligas 1946, 111–113). Secondly, Greek art historians aspired to integrate Modern Greek art into the history of European art, in line with Western European intellectuals and politicians, who in the aftermath of World War II promoted the construction of a common European identity

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that transcended national and regional identities. For example, the Council of Europe (est. in 1949) aspired to create a sense of European belonging through common actions in cultural matters as well. The adoption of the European Cultural Convention (December 1954) was one of the very first institutional efforts to safeguard Europe’s shared cultural heritage and encourage its development. Furthermore, the series of Art Exhibitions organised under the CoE’s auspices from 1954 onwards, aimed at demon­ strating the universal character of the European spirit and the unity of its artistic heritage down the ages.5 Following these European trends, Greek scholars encouraged the for­ mation of a distinct national Hellenic-Greek identity that would be part of a wider European culture. Kalligas epitomised this new approach by writing that “we can be­ come perfect Europeans and at the same time remain excellent Greeks. These two terms are not conflicting; and it does not mean that the prevalence of one eliminates the other. European Greeks and not Ottoman-Turkish Greeks” (Kalligas 1951). As a result, the art historical discourse that was produced in the 1950s and early 1960s, constructed a new Greek artistic tradition, the main characteristics of which were: a) its break with the post-Byzantine and folk-art tradition still active at that time, and b) its orientation towards the Western European art. Some art historians placed the dawn of Modern Greek art in the Venetian-ruled Ionian Islands in the second half of the 18th century, when artists broke with the post-Byzantine art tra­ dition, both on the level of technique (egg tempera was replaced by oil painting) and of visual treatment, and instead followed the models of the Italian baroque.6 Spiteris (1955) for example, characterised this artistic production as an important stage in the history of Modern Greek art and stressed the fact that for the first time the artists introduced secular subjects in their paintings. He particularly praised bourgeois portraits, a genre that became the dominant branch of secular painting in the area after 1800. Other art historians, though, such as the Italian Sergio Bettini (1905–1986) or the Greek Andreas Xyngopoulos (1891–1979) considered this ar­ tistic production as merely Venetian and not Greek (Ioannou 2010). Most scholars, however, set the starting point of the history of Modern Greek art in 1830, the year that Greece became an independent state. Their priority was, firstly, to verify the high quality of these artworks and thereby, prompt the nation to feel proud about its modern cultural heritage. As Kalligas underlined, “if we compare the artistic endeavour of Greece with those of other countries forming a part of Western European civilisation and which are richer, larger and have not suffered as much, we realise that Greece holds one of the foremost places among them” (Kalligas 1950, 16). This phrase reveals also the second priority of the Greek art historians, namely to highlight the European orientation of this artistic pro­ duction. (Prokopiou 1967), for example, included in his book History of Art from 1750 to 1950, special chapters named “Romanticism in Greece”, “Realism in Greece”, “Impressionism in Greece” etc., where he linked the work of Greek artists with their contemporary European artistic trends. This association was further facilitated by the inclusion of artists, who had been trained and even pursued their careers outside Greece, such as Nikolaos Kounelakis (1829–1869) who lived in both Saint Petersburg and Florence (Figure 8.1). If both the high quality and the European orientation of this artistic production was unanimously accepted by the Greek art historical community, the “Hellenic Greek” character of the artworks remained a controversial issue. Spiteris (1955) used the pejorative term “Munich penetration” to express his disapproval of the fact that

102 Lefteris Spyrou

Figure 8.1 Nikolaos Kounelakis (1829–1869), The Artist’s Family – Allegory of the Fine Arts and Liberal Arts, 1864–1865. Oil on canvas, 94 × 73 cm., Athens, National Gallery – Alexandros Soutsos Museum, inv. no.: Π.476, © National Gallery – Alexandros Soutsos Museum.

after Independence, the Bavarian regency introduced to Greek art romantic-classical elements, which were foreign to the visual tradition of the Greek nation. Moreover, he ascribed the absence of the “Greek expression” in the artworks of the 19th century to the fact that Greek artists had deliberately disregarded the valuable lessons of both the Byzantine and the folk-art tradition. Frantziskakis, in contrast, argued that these artists, who had been active between 1830 and 1880, “despite their foreign educa­ tion, constituted a unified whole that no doubt had its root in Greece.” He even discerned their common element, not so much in the subject matter, but in “an un­ imaginable element in their technique,” which made them stand out in European art and form a special group, the “Greek School” (Frantziskakis 1957). The most negative criticism was directed towards the so-called “School of Munich”, i.e. the artists who had studied at the Munich Academy of Arts in the second half of the 19th century and returned to Athens to work as professors at the School of Fine Arts. Firstly, they were criticised for their inability to depict in their paintings the deeper characteristics of the Greek race and the true character of the

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Greek landscape (Spiteris 1955, 445). Secondly, the legacy of this School was con­ sidered detrimental for the course and evolution of Greek art, because it deprived Greek artists from following the impressionistic trends developed in France at the same time (Vassiliou 1956, 13). Therefore, the revitalisation of Modern Greek art was accredited to the painters who were active after 1900 and who had moved away from Munich academism due to their studies in France. Konstantinos Parthenis (1878–1967) was honoured by Kalligas (1962) as the pioneer artist who opened new horizons in Greek art by “seeking a more truly Greek expression” in his paintings (Figure 8.2). Parthenis’s generation, as Vakalo (1961) stressed, not only produced a corpus of neo-Hellenic art, but also developed a consciousness of Greek art. These artists understood the need to “root” the Greek expression “in the form, the sentiment and the spirit of the Greek reality” and at the same time, they drew from their contemporary European artistic movements the elements best suited for their goal. For example, Yannis Tsarouchis (1910–1989) was praised by Kalligas both for studying Matisse and for creating “human types and forms which were genuinely Greek”, and, therefore, for following a line which “began with ancient Greek vase painting and continued, although not consciously, in the Byzantine manuscripts” (Kalligas 1950) (Figure 8.3). Balancing the notions of ethnocentrism and Europeanisation, Greek art historians managed during the 1950s and early 1960s, not only to construct for the first time the canon of Modern Greek art, but also to interweave art history with state re­ construction. Through their publications and their institutional positions, they

Figure 8.2 Konstantinos Parthenis (1878–1967), The Harbour of Kalamata, 1911. Oil on canvas, 70 × 75 cm., Athens, National Gallery – Alexandros Soutsos Museum, inv. no.: Π.488, © National Gallery – Alexandros Soutsos Museum.

104 Lefteris Spyrou

Figure 8.3 Yannis Tsarouchis (1910–1989), Koundouriotissa or Woman from Eleusis, 1948. Tempera on wood panel (door), 191 × 70 cm., Athens, National Gallery – Alexandros Soutsos Museum, inv. no.: Π.2355, © National Gallery – Alexandros Soutsos Museum.

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contributed to key questions posed after World War II in Greece, operating not as passive recipients of state policy, but as active agents in the cultural public sphere.

Notes 1 The paintings, examples of popular art in Greece at that time, were commissioned by General Makrygiannis, painted by a self-educated artist and were part of the collection of Windsor Castle. 2 Active Greek resistance started immediately after the country’s occupation. The “National Liberation Front (EAM)” and its military branch, the Greek People’s Liberation Army (ELAS), conducted a quite successful guerrilla warfare. They were both controlled by the Communist Party of Greece (KKE), but they also managed to attract the massive partici­ pation of non-communist citizens. At the same time, a number of non-communist resistance groups were also formed, the most important of which was the National Republican Greek League (EDES). Despite their co-operation at the beginning, soon conflicts began to arise between those two major resistance groups, as the issue at stake was the formation of a government on the eventual liberation of the country. 3 Kalligas had studied law at the University of Athens (1928) and art history in Munich and Berlin (1930–1933). He obtained his PhD from the Julius-Maximilian-University of Würzburg in 1935 upon completion of his dissertation on the Byzantine church of Hagia Sophia in Thessaloniki. 4 The National Gallery in Athens was established in 1900 and until the eve of World War II, the museum’s collections consisted mostly of European artworks, due to donations by prominent members of the Greek diaspora. 5 “Past Council of Europe Art Exhibitions”, Council of Europe, https://www.coe.int/en/web/ culture-and-heritage/past-exhibitions (accessed November 10, 2021). 6 See for example the preparatory oil study for the decoration of the church of Faneromeni in Zakynthos by Nikolaos Doxaras (1710–1775), now at the National Gallery in Athens: The Assumption of the Virgin (oil on canvas, 45 × 34 cm.). https://www.nationalgallery. gr/en/all-collections/collection/collections/the-assumption-of-the-virgin.html (accessed November 10, 2021).

References Chatzidakis, Manolis. 1964. “Introduction.” In Byzantine Art: A European Art, 11–12. Athens: Office of the Minister to the Prime Minister of the Greek Government. Close, David Henry. 2002. Greece Since 1945: Politics, Economy and Society. London: Taylor & Francis Group. Accessed October 27, 2021. ProQuest Ebook Central. Damaskos, Dimitris, and Dimitris Plantzos. 2008. A singular antiquity: archaeology and Hellenic identity in twentieth-century Greece. Athens: Benaki Museum. Frantziskakis, Errikos ed. 1957. Ellines Zografoi tou 19ou aiona. Athens: Commercial Bank of Greece. Gratziou, Olga, and Anastasia Lazaridou. 2006. Apo ti Christianiki Syllogi sto Byzantino Mouseio, 1884–1934. Athens: Byzantine and Christian Museum. Hamilakis, Yannis. 2007. The Nation and its Ruins Antiquity, Archaeology, and National Imagination in Greece. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Ioannou, Panagiotis. 2010. “‘Ellinoitaliki’, ‘Venetiki’, ‘Neoelliniki’, ‘Metavyzantini’…: Orismoi – Ermineies gia tin eikastiki paragogi sta Eptanisa, 17os–19os aionas”. In The IX International Panionian Conference. Proceedings, edited by Aliki D. Nikiphorou, II, 175–192. Paxoi: Etaireia Paxinon Meleton. Kalligas, Marinos. 1946. I Aesthitiki tou Chorou tis Ellinikis Ekklisias tou Mesaiona. Athens: n.p.

106 Lefteris Spyrou Kalligas, Marinos. 1950. “Modern Greek painting and sculpture.” Continental Daily Mail, Supplement-Greece, March 14, 1950: 16. Kalligas, Marinos. 1951. “Emeis kai oi xenoi.” To Vima, November 3, 1951: 1–2. Kalligas, Marinos. 1962. “Modern art in Greece and some contemporary Greek painters.” The Connoisseur, cl., no 603 (May): 39–43. Prokopiou, Angelos. 1967. Istoria tis Technis, 1750–1850. 3 vols. Athens: Pechlivanidis. Ricks, David, and Paul Magdalino. 1998. Byzantium and the modern Greek identity. London: Routledge. Seltman, Charles. 1946. Exhibition of Greek art 3000 B.C.–A.D. 1945. London: Royal Academy of Arts. Spiteris, Tonis. 1952. L’évolution de la peinture post-byzantine dans les ȋles Ioniennes. Athens: n.p. Spiteris, Tonis. 1955. “I Elliniki Techni.” Nea Estia, 58, no 683 (Christmas): 435–457. Spiteris, Tonis. 1962. Introduction à la peinture néo-hellénique. Athens: n.p. Tsatsos, Konstantinos. 1947. “O mythos tis Neas Ellados.” Ι Kathimerini, August 24, 1947: 1. Vakalo, Eleni. 1961. “Eisagogi.” In Sygxronoi Ellines, edited by Frantzis Frantziskakis, IX–XIII. Athens: Zygos. Vassiliou, Spyros. 1956. “Prosanatolismoi tis neoellinikis zografikis.” Zygos, 1, no 11–12 (September–October): 13–16, 21. Voutsaki, Sofia, and Paul Cartledge. 2017. Ancient monuments and modern identities: a cri­ tical history of archaeology in 19th and 20th century Greece. London: Routledge.

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Contesting Legitimacy: From the Photo Club to Fine Art Subjective Documentary—Andrejs Grants. Latvia: Changing and Unchanging Reality Pamela M. Browne

In this paper, I discuss the photographs of Andrejs Grants. It combines selections from his ongoing series: Portraits, Around Latvia, Traveller’s Notes and Impressions. Grants acknowledges the influence of the late Latvian photographer Egons Spuris (1931–1990) and the magic realist writings of Latvian author Kārlis Skalbe (1879–1945) (Gaižiūnas 1999, 4).1 I argue that while Grants acknowledges he has appropriated elements from Spuris’ teachings and Skalbe, the major unacknowledged influences on him are from: the German philosopher Ernst Bloch’s (1885–1977) Principle of Hope and his concepts of utopia and the anticipatory consciousness; the Russian literary and cultural the­ orist Mikhail Bakhtin’s (1895–1975) notions of ambivalent carnival and dialogue; Sigmund Freud’s (1856–1939) The Uncanny; as well as the Zen Buddhist concepts of contemplation. Grants was born in 1955 in Latvia and began working in photography when he became a member of The Ogre Photo Club (1978–1990), which was established in 1967 by Spuris. Grants’ decision to become a photographer rather than practice law indicated his preference for creative inner freedom rather than acquiescing to the system of rigid laws and Soviet ideology.2 It also reflects his moral stance, principles and priorities. Grants refers to himself as an author, unlike many who indulged in salon photography and called themselves Latvian ‘photo-artists.’ According to Latvian writer and photographer Martinš Zelmenis, Grants used the word author to differentiate and distance himself from these self-styled photo-artists (Zelmenis 2006).3 By calling himself an author, he also accepts the responsibilities which, ac­ cording to American photography critic Abigail Solomon-Godeau, derive from up­ holding the ideology of the artist as the bearer of ‘modernist notions of autonomy, authenticity, originality, and self-referentiality’ (Solomon-Godeau 1982, 10). The series Impressions embraces fleeting moments where the photographer elevates the inessential and inconspicuous until it becomes the theme of the work and passing moments are retained for eternity. Portraits records Grants’ friends, colleagues and acquaintances. Traveller’s Notes documents Grants’ travel experiences and feelings. Around Latvia was conceived and maintains itself as a contemplative story about Latvia—about the people belonging to these places and the landscape. Grants’ photographs combine two seemingly polar opposites: the ordinary and chance. Grants is concerned with the ‘essence’ outside the time/place of the photograph. The photographer contemplates the similarities or differences between landscapes in DOI: 10.4324/9781003265818-13

108 Pamela M. Browne pictures and landscapes in reality (Slyusarev 1990, 1). He elects the term magic realism to describe his own work (Slava 2002, n.p.).4 An understanding of Latvia’s history of contradiction, servitude and struggle is pertinent to contextualising studies in Latvian arts in the period before 1991 when independence was achieved. Latvia’s geographical position, at the East-West cross­ roads, made it an important stronghold for various races and states. Each victor imposed economic and political control, as well as their own national identity; usually the Germans and their Western identity, or the Russians with their Eastern identity. Latvians, being forced to accede to the various rulers, including also Swedes and Poles, suffered internal shifts and confused loyalties about their real allies. Changes in power corresponded with religious shifts between Catholicism, Lutheranism and the Orthodoxy of the East.5 After the incorporation of Latvia into the Soviet Union, atheism was officially substituted for religion. To further put Grants’ lifetime into historical perspective, in 1944 the Russians marched into Latvia as the Germans retreated. The Russians refused to participate in the Marshall Plan (1947), so the Iron Curtain created two distinct economic and political blocs in early 1948. (Mason 1996, 9–10) From 1948 until his death in 1953, Stalin continued his tyrannical regime. In February 1956 Khrushchev’s secret speech at the Twentieth Congress of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union (CPSU) de­ tailed the crimes committed under Stalin’s regime and denounced Stalin’s cult of personality. (Medvedev 1982, 83–103) Yet Khrushchev’s thaw did not herald a new era of freedom. The people of the Soviet Union had to wait over thirty years (until 1989) for glasnost (openness) and perestroika (restructuring) and the tearing down of the Iron Curtain (Roberts 1994, 7).6 It is equally appropriate before approaching Grants’ photos to briefly mention Spuris and his work. He was Grant’s mentor, teacher and friend. He also set a pre­ cedent in the development of Latvian fine art photography. Spuris’ work reveals a subjective documentary approach to the photographic medium, a concern with formalism, experiments in visual expression and spiritual aestheticism.7 By focusing on the primacy of the photographer and the medium itself, Spuris detaches himself from the implications of the traditional role of the Soviet photograph—reflected reality—as evidence and/or propaganda. The former engineer8 exploited the Khrushchev-Brezhnev transition period, when legitimised participation in the com­ petitive international salon ‘art’ photography circuits9 allowed for the interchange of exhibitions inside and outside the Soviet Bloc during the Cold War.10 On the one hand, the so-called salon ‘art’ photography emerging from the photo clubs can be interpreted as a ‘form of resistance’ (Tifentāle 2012b, 4).11 On the other hand, it can be argued, as Latvian photo critic Alise Tifentāle states, that ‘these artists did not perceive their artistic activities as a way to fight the Soviet regime openly or even enter in any sort of dialogue with it’ (Tifentāle 2012b, 4). Salon art photography did, however, encourage subjectivity, individual expression and a certain level of creative freedom while keeping within the boundaries of legitimacy. Notwithstanding, Spuris’ personal philosophy and his approach to photography were a cat­ alyst for a new generation of fine art photographers in the Baltic States and Russia. Latvian photographer Vilhelms Mihailovskis and Grants both acknowledge Spuris’ generous spirit, sharing of knowledge, exchange of ideas and experience, and his encouragement of students to realise their full potential and to develop their own personal photographic style and vernacular through treatment, form, content, and

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meaning (Slyusarev 1990, 1). Grants and other photographers, inspired by Spuris’ teachings and work, formed Group A in 1985.

Hope and anticipation: artistic and political Grants acknowledges that the notion of anticipation underpins his thinking. Like many artists from the time, however, he is reluctant to admit that the source of an­ ticipation derives from the revisionist Marxist utopian writings of Bloch. But it was Bloch’s Romantic revisionism of Marxism that officially allowed the expression of subjectivity and explorations of individuality in all the arts.13 Bloch’s optimism made his philosophy extremely attractive to adopt,14 and his writings offered what Khrushchev promised but did not fulfil—socialism with a human face. Bloch’s Marxism was a doctrine of warmth where it was possible to find the homeland of one’s identity (Bloch 1995, 1375–76).15 Grants extracts the anticipatory essence of Bloch’s utopianism to suggest a new subjective (rather than critical) mode. Hope is the key to positive social change; it relates to wishful thinking (abstract utopia) that everyday life will improve and iron laws will relax. Photographers like Grants had little to lose by having a positive attitude to hope. An example of this is Grants’ photograph ‘River’ (Krāslava, 1983) of a boy swimming in the river. Grants’ image alludes to a Latvian daina (folktale) where Māra’s gate—the ancient pagan Latvian symbol of the Great Mother—symbolises the opening of the birth canal (VīķisFreibergs 1989, 13).16 The boy and river signify the birthing process, the rebirth of an independent Latvia. The image of the couple ‘Māris’ (Ādaži, 1987) in their bathing costumes with thick snow falling about them illustrates Bloch’s Not-Yet. She epitomises the strong, healthy, so-called proletarian woman; her body glows with health and happiness and she is laughing. He is fit, athletic and strong looking. The image, however, is not steeped in overt sensuality. Although this photograph has been shot in a seemingly public space, it appears, from the spontaneity of their pose and expressions, as if the photograph is a result of a private dare or perhaps an ironic comment on the ethos of the Socialist Realist image. The image pulses with an­ ticipation (concrete utopia) that relates to change and transformation (Bloch 1995, 57). For Bloch, the unfinished nature of reality locates concrete utopia as antici­ patory, a possible future within the real; it is both real and Not-Yet. Even ‘Tuva’ (1990), which lies in southern Siberia, relates to hope. It shows a man and his family standing on an empty road anticipating and hoping for something to turn up on the horizon to help them as their van has broken down, while the woman turns her face in the other direction and patiently waits.

Rehabilitation of Latvianness Bloch’s utopianism is pertinent to the development of Latvian photography.17 According to Bloch, utopianism requires distinguishing between the already ex­ isting and the possible. For Bloch, the future is Not-Yet (possibility or anticipation) and is based on the principle of hope and desire that Bloch locates as the essence of utopian art.18 Grants literally appropriates officially approved material and ex­ ploits it. Most importantly, Grants and the members of Group A refused to com­ promise in a political, ethical and aesthetic sense.19

110 Pamela M. Browne For Grants and other Latvian photographers, hope for an autonomous (rather than independent) Latvia became a real possibility after the Chernobyl disaster (April 1986). This began a watershed in Baltic history (1987–1988). Gorbachev tacitly approved of anti-nuclear and ecological protests.20 He also allowed the formation of groups calling for religious freedom and human rights. Documentary photographs of environmental concern became acceptable and were considered apolitical. This gave Grants and other photographers a chance to document the effects of Soviet in­ dustrialisation and Sovietisation (Mihailovskis 1992; Maivie 1981, 32–41).21 For example, ‘Rīga’ (1992) shows people fishing in an abandoned contaminated in­ dustrial port. Systematic documentation of heritage and restoration projects became an important concept in the archive to rehabilitate history and collective memory. Implicit apolitical ecological protests, which coincided with the emergence of groups advocating for autonomy, soon gave way to explicit political national ones pro­ moting independence (Muiznieks 1987, 64–8; Misiunas and Taagepera 1993, 304–305; Trapans 1988, 98; Dreifelds 1989, 81–82, 87).22 Grants’ work contributed to the Latvian archive and imparted cultural knowl­ edge.23 His photographs document and rehabilitate artefacts, traditions and events. For example, in ‘Travelling shop’ (Mantiņi 1984), the woman is hawking her wares, while ‘Madona’ (1991) shows an old bus and a wooden train carriage with a tra­ ditional rural house in the background. ‘Anita’ (Apšuciems, 1995) is wearing her folk costume with a pagan Jānis wreath on her head and ‘Iveta and Baiba’ (Sigulda, 1995) have dressed up in traditional style outfits. ‘Aizkraukle’ (1989) documents the first rehabilitation of Easter. Grants fuses culture with nature, heritage, ritual and history to emphasise Latvianness. In Grants’ staged portraits of rural folk, craftsmen and families, he not only enters into a Bakhtinian dialogic encounter, but also illustrates his interest in people as archetypes—as expressions of the wealth of humanity. His gaze is very compassionate and by naming each subject, he identifies his sitters and signifies respect. Examples of this are ‘Emīlija Karnisauka’ (Roja, n.d.) and ‘Līvija Grants, Aunt Velta and Laimonis Grants’ (Penkule, 2002). Grants’ archetypes demonstrate Bloch’s notion of nonsynchronism—the simulta­ neous coexistence of types (of experience, classes, qualities) in the present that belong to past moments of history (Baker 1996, 87; Bloch 1977, 22–38). The man pulling a rope in ‘Ruku Vectēvs’ (Cesvaine, 1998) looks like a scene in a Western movie or a tired soldier ringing a bell and in ‘Modris Stiliņš’ (Koknese, 2004) the stonemason is resting from his work, a now dying craft.

Borderland images Grants also makes tacit but shrouded political analogies. These were apparent in the late 1970s but became more common during the mid-1980s. When Grants took up photography, a grader would have passed along the seashore every evening to mark lines in the sand—a way to survey the point of entry to, or escape from, the bor­ derland. The act of marking the borders for surveillance shows how easy it is for governments to control information and erase the memory of history—loss of lan­ guage, history and culture. During the day in ‘Jūrmala’ (Bulduri, 1987), the paper tiger growls at passersby or allows participants to be photographed with the wild but harmless beast. In contrast to the daytime activity, at dusk the beach was deserted

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Figure 9.1 Andrejs Grants, from the collection “Around Latvia”, Jurmala, Bulduri. 1987. Original - B/W silver-gelatin print. Copyright Andrejs Grants and photograph courtesy of the photographer.

except for the graded marks as shown in Latvian photojournalist Uldis Briedis’ image (1987) (Figure 9.1).

Portraits In keeping with Bloch’s philosophy on human dignity, Grants portrays his subjects with the utmost sincerity, respect and dignity (Bloch 1988, 25; Ernst Bloch 1986). He photographs people in their private (as opposed to collective) space, where they are comfortable and familiar. He attempts to reveal the essence of their human character. Most of his subjects directly confront the camera, but he does not alienate his sub­ jects, rather he unites them. He also urges the viewer to consider the values of quality in human relationships. Although these portraits are premeditated and directorial, the end result appears natural—‘organic and unforced’ (Grants 1994). Colleagues, Friends, Acquaintances (Portraits) is an ever-growing collection of photographs of people Grants knows well. It has been created as a memory piece that combines the present continuous and present perfect tenses. As Grants says: ‘We are living together, we have lived together’ (Grants 1994, 114). The lighted figures in the middle of a dark open road ‘Egons and Inta’ (Rīga, 1987) also anticipate Bloch’s Not-Yet Conscious through the symbolism of light on dark which gives hope and opens possibilities to change. Grants’ portrait shows the couple centrally placed in the middle of a road, lit only by car headlights. Egons crouches

112 Pamela M. Browne down with his arms encircling his body in an open way while Inta stands tall with crossed arms. This image addresses not only their relationship, but also human re­ lationships in general (Linnap 1993, n.p.). In contrast to Inta’s dominant and strong appearance, Egons’ position makes him appear small and vulnerable. These polar opposites address the notion of mortality. Grants’ portrayals of ‘Laima’ (Rīga, 1986) and the couples ‘Gints and Dženeta’ (Rīga, 1987) and ‘Edijs and Zane’ (Koknese, 2004), impart sensibility and simplicity. As the wind plays with their hair, ‘Dace and Andra’ (Kandava, 1998) are like a human train, simultaneously confronting and in dialogue with the spectator. In ‘Aunt Olga’ (Madona, 1987) floral clothing blends in with the flowers in the garden. Whatever the complicity apparent between the photographer and the photographed, the ease in which the subjects have posed and the trust they have in Grants are confirmed by the pictures themselves.

Carnival images: the comic, the grotesque and ambivalence I contend that another influence on Grants’ work is Bakhtin, who was a member of the old privileged Russian intelligentsia. Bakhtin’s Rabelais and His World was published in the former Soviet Union in 1965 (Mihailovic 1997, 183).24 It explains his notions of carnival and dialogue. He believes carnival represents unofficial cul­ tural tradition with its potential to modify patterns of thought and behaviour in modern Soviet society (Pomerants 1972, 236–37); Mihailovic 1997, 196).25 By in­ dicating carnival’s ability to change the social order, Bakhtin challenged officialdom. According to Bakhtin, carnival dissolves the distinction between audience and performer. Everyone is an active participant in the carnival event, where inside and outside differentiations evaporate. Memory is emancipated from past orientation and fixed in the present. The author can choose invisibility or masquerade. Grants pictures a young girl ‘Jūrmala’ (Dzintari, 1987) on a swing in mid-winter. The scene is miserable; it looks cold. A young child plays nearby on metal rings. The playground is partially submerged, the tide is in, and the sea is rough. A father and son stand on the summer benches, also submerged in the water. While the scene exudes coldness and wretchedness, it also conveys carnivalesque playfulness and joy. For Bakhtin, the carnival celebrates in an uninhibited, outrageous but joyous fashion the essentially physical grotesque that refers to the body and bodily excesses. The grotesque body links beginnings and ends, birth and death, body and world in Grants’ photographs of ‘Andris and Inta’ (1985), a couple in bed and ‘Inta’ (Rīga, 1987), a woman with huge breasts, one abnormally large. Grants’ images are crowded with events and characters which embody the Bakhtinian comic and grotesque, the real and unreal. Carnival is a period of mas­ querade and playacting celebrating a transition of inversion.26 In ‘Ausma’ (Baldone, 1988) where the dog is on top of the woman, the two figures occupy the whole diagonal of the open stage—a Bakhtinian stage with no footlights. The woman’s hand attempts to cover her mouth and stifle her laughter. ‘Ausma’ represents Bakhtin’s grotesque face which is reduced to the gaping mouth. The gaping mouth relates to ‘swallowing, this most ancient symbol of death and destruction’ (Bakhtin 1968, 325). Eating, drinking, defecation (all forms of elimination), copulation and procreation all take place in this lower stratum, leading downward into the bodily underworld. They relate to the three main acts of the grotesque body: ‘sexual intercourse, death throes

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(in their comic presentation—hanging tongue, expressionless popping eyes, suffoca­ tion, death rattle), and the act of birth (Bakhtin 1968, 353). The photograph ‘Kārlis’ (Egļukalns, 2002) of a supine boy holding a domestic white hen in his upheld hands in a fertile field full of spring daisies, relates to Bakhtin’s birth act. It is as if the boy waits for the brooder to lay her egg. At the same time, the brooder hen recalls woman’s ambivalent nature and laughter, which is both parodying and destructive, yet joyfully reasserting and assuring her positive attitude. For Bakhtin, the mask represents the joy of change, reincarnation and negation of uniformity and similarity. Grants identifies ‘Rolands’ (Koknese, 2004) under­ neath his thick painted face with exaggerated features. It acts as a mask. His bul­ bous nose and his thick haired wig, along with his casual pose and lighthearted attitude, are spontaneous and youthful. The dog on his lap mirrors his master—the nose, the hair, the expression. Only upon closer examination does the viewer notice the loose skin of old age and realise that the man behind the mask is old. Within the context of advancing age or impending death, the still features of the mask not only signify Rabelais’ rebirth or death in the midst of life, but also heighten the ex­ perience of life by evoking death. The Bakhtinian grotesque is apparent in the ironic ‘Līvija, Māris Reinbergi and Nords’ (Koknese, 2004) family portrait where the bulldog substitutes for a human child. The portrait of ‘Aija’ (Roja, 2002) blowing a chewing gum bubble shows pure Bakhtinian ambivalence. The girl ‘Aija Kamisauska’ (Roja, 1998) wearing a checked shirt flirts precariously with the photographer and the camera. The expression of the girl in the floral dress with her arm over her head is unsettling. If one did not un­ derstand that Grants’ motives were pure, the girl’s expression and pose in ‘Inta Grīnberga’ (Nida, 1984) could be likened to a social outcast. Inta is set against a clear horizon, which is not the Socialist Realist horizon of human ambition, progress and ‘romantic optimism.’27 The sky and clouds, which occupy the main part of the image, increase the sense of apparent disturbance in this image. In Grants’ tragic-comic and ambivalent photographs, the real and the everyday are juxtaposed with the so-called magical or unreal. For example, ‘Jūrmala’ (1995) shows the back view of an old white-haired man, from the mid-back upwards, wearing an overcoat and sitting at a round plastic table under a round umbrella watching a monkey in a square cage. Two hanging toy worm-like creatures ac­ company the deserted bleak winter scene. Not only does Grants play with formal circles and grids, but he also juxtaposes unusual content to induce the surreal—a kind of tragic-comedy. Grants interacts with nature and the notion of the divine in the same unfaltering ambivalent dimension in the scene in ‘Kuldīga’ (1985). Here a middle-aged couple are outside a church admiring spring flowers in brass vases. In the Soviet Union churches were used for non-religious functions. It is difficult to determine the kind of function that the two ladies leaving the church doors have attended (Figure 9.2). Grant provokes ambivalence in ‘Miķeļtornis’ (1994). Fishermen sit back, relax and watch the performance of a bull mounting a cow. Most of the herd are also watching. People and animals are all part of the stage. The campsite photograph ‘Campsite’ (Vitrupe, 1984) is more a performance of lost souls. ‘Paris’ (1992), where the viewer sees the back of a boy aiming a toy fairground gun at a television target of a boy in a hat from a Western movie, invokes ambivalence. And in the photograph ‘Jūrmala’ (Dzintari, 1984), spectators are watching a performance, apparently in mid-winter.

114 Pamela M. Browne

Figure 9.2 Andrejs Grants, from the collection “Around Latvia”, Mikeltornis. 1994. Original B/W silver-gelatin print. Copyright Andrejs Grants and photograph courtesy of the photographer.

Swans have joined in but are indifferent to what is happening in the air. Apart from a white streak in the air, the expansive sky is empty. The spectators appear to be watching a performance of nothingness, yet their look is so focused.

Magic Realism: universal and particular Magic realism, which corresponds to Skalbe’s writings, is about fantasy and contains fantasy, but is not simply fantasy. Grants deals with complex questions to do with reality and one’s notions of reality. He explores the universal through the particular—personal and social history. The series Around Latvia depicts conventional people in ‘aimless poses’ and ‘si­ tuations’ (Linnap 1993, n.p.). Free from the obligations of daily routine, they wander on the seashore and use their senses to explore the possibilities of ‘existing differently’ (Linnap 1993, n.p.). The magic relates to the subjects in the picture who have a single aim—‘to accentuate the presence between… behind and above them.’ (Linnap 1993, n.p.) For example, the photograph of ‘Jūrmala’ (Bulduri, 1987), which shows a woman on the balcony with closed eyes, mirrors this sense of magic. (Linnap 1993, n.p.) Grants employs the formal elements of space, perspective and light, making his photographs appear to oscillate in rays of light. Strange moments of reality combine to create new shapes and structures that raise the work to unreal levels and unknown understandings, something that could also be termed super-real (Tifentāle 2011b, 24; Slava 1993, 32; Tifentāle 2010, 302).28 Surprising events are pictured without any

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expression of surprise, and comic events with a straight face. For example, in ‘Kauguri’ (1995) the boy in the water is using all his strength to hold the strong beast of a dog which wants to break free of his grip; ‘Jūrmala’ (Majori, 1999) expresses sheer joy and the magical moment of boys jumping into water. Likewise, the image titled ‘Istanbul’ (2008) from Traveller’s Notes of a cat stealthily walking on the soft tent roof at the outdoor fish market unbeknownst to the people below—where vendors are selling their goods and buyers are haggling over prices—captures a magical moment.

The threshold For Bakhtin, the threshold is a place to experience ‘crisis, make ultimate decisions, die or be reborn.’ (Bakhtin 1984, 171) For example, ‘Paris’ (1992) shows two painted Classical figures embracing and enclosed on the threshold juxtaposed by an embra­ cing couple on the left. For Grants, perfection turns into banality so he focuses on the non-banal side. He prefers the threshold between banality, and ‘superior reality’ which is a ‘very tiny’ area and ‘hardly differs in form’ (Slava 2006). Grants states: ‘The moment of incompleteness must always remain’ (Slava 2006). Coincidence characterises his photography. Grants’ statement parallels Bakhtin’s metaphor of the ‘grotesque unfinished body’—a body in the act of becoming but ‘never completed’ (Bakhtin 1968, 317). The tension that exists on the edge of a threshold is evidenced in ‘Liepāja’ (n.d.) A girl sits on a seawall and another girl’s face occupies the middle to right hand side of the foreground. Both are half smiling, returning the camera’s gaze. One girl appears to be semi-enclosed by an ominous dilapidated wooden window frame; both girls are photographed between the threshold of light and darkness. ‘Gita’ (Salaspils, 1983) is shot in the most exquisite light. Framed by a window shadow, half of her face and body is in light, the other in darkness; she mirrors Bakhtin’s threshold of anxiety. Anxiety is further reflected in ‘Kizyl’ (Russia, 1990) where the television screen has boxed in an image of a dying Christ surrounded by four figures juxtaposed with a banal butterfly wallpaper design. Grants’ framing device in ‘Kuldīga’ (1993) depicts the Bakhtinian conflict of the threshold, where everything revolves and nothing loses touch. Two heads of young children peep out of the sand while two boys actively participate in the live burial. Another boy, slightly distanced from the scene, seems to be watching what is going on. Ironically, the photographer excludes his head. The ‘head’ openings represent the pivotal points of action in life. Grants uses blur as a visual metaphor for the elu­ siveness of knowledge and his images appear to be caught between the past, present and future.

Uncanny images For Freud, utopian hope offers nothing. Heimat and childhood are not the sources of utopia. Rather, they are where anxiety begins (Freud 1963). In his psychoanalytic essay ‘The Uncanny’ (1919), Freud undermines hope by tracing the uncanny back to the childhood home—a place that was once agreeable and familiar (heimlich), but is no longer (unheimlich). Put differently, to feel anxious is to feel uncanny (un­ heimlich). Observing that heimlich simultaneously means ‘home-like’ or ‘intimate’ as

116 Pamela M. Browne well as ‘secret’ or something ‘withheld from others’, Freud concludes that heimlich implies the opposite (unheimlich) (Freud 1990, 345).29 Freud’s bodily interpretation of the uncanny includes elements such as the double, the repetition, the haunted, the doll and the mannequin, all of which are avatars of the uncanny. The fear of wounding the eye and the revelation that the beautiful girl is only an automaton also combine in Freud’s exegesis of the uncanny. In the photographs of the hackneyed theme of dolls and young children, I argue that these visual fictions, which date from 1984 to the present, demonstrate Freud’s uncanny or a lack. They show something that is simultaneously present and missing. I disagree that the doll/mannequin motif symbolises conspicuous Soviet puppetry (Freud 1990, 386) (Figure 9.3). Grant’s girl on the wall in ‘Luzda’ (1999) is an avatar of Freud’s uncanny through her own sense of inanimateness and her shadows that project animate qualities. She looks like an overgrown doll; she has two shadows, one on the wall and one on the door. The boy, however, on the upper left hand side looks like a normal boy. His presence exaggerates the sense of animation. Grants’ shows concern for the inner life of his subject in ‘Rīga’ (1987) where parents watch their young child go around on the swings, but this is countered by her outward doll-like appearance, the Freudian uncanny. Likewise, the image taken at an outdoor flea market, where a forsaken giant teddy bear is lying flat on his back on the top of a van, looks so uncanny as the people examine a lamp in ‘Rietavas’ (2001).

Figure 9.3 Andrejs Grants, from the collection “Around Latvia”, Ludza. 1987. Original – B/W silver-gelatin print. Copyright Andrejs Grants and photograph courtesy of the photographer.

Contesting Legitimacy 117 Freud likens uncanniness to infantile experience, the motif of fear of losing one’s eye—a metaphor for the fear of castration. ‘Rīga’ (1984) depicts three passersby with their eyes focused on a mannequin. The older woman is fascinated by what she sees. The viewer can see only one of the mannequin’s eyes. In the state of blindness/cas­ tration, the mannequin/girl is not only denied the power of fully returning their gaze, but also denied completeness of body. The ghost-like reflection that the viewer sees is uncanny, showing a Victorian nightdress without the body, like a haunted woman. The lighting in Grants’ portrait of ‘Elita, Anna and Zaiga’ (Koknese, 2004) is exquisite, but their expression belies this; there is something very uncanny. Grants’ image ‘Kandava’ (1986) shows anxiety as a presentiment. A woman waiting for an old woman to arrive imparts the tension of waiting and not feeling at home. In ‘Liepāja’ (n.d.) two people observe a woman who is unaware that she is caught be­ tween two giant wasps, and the viewer feels anxious. ‘In the Attic’ (1991) depicts an old wooden framed photograph of a young man wearing a peaked hat that is slightly placed off centre right. The framed picture leans against an old cracked wall. In contrast to the dark tones of the photograph, half of the boy’s face materialises or vaporises in a parallelogram of dazzling light. While this image addresses im­ mortality, the effect is dramatic and uncanny. (Freud 1990, 339–340) Likewise, the distorting features (literal and figural) apparent in this work appeal to the viewer’s psychological makeup, a kind of detached thought necessary for production and appreciation of the work. Additionally, the sense of uncertainty and suggestibility leads to other levels of understanding.

Zen images The photographs in these series combine two seemingly polar opposites: the ordinary and chance. This illustrates Zen’s antilogic of polarities. Grants, like Latvian author Kārlis Skalbe, formulated a three-level pyramid shaped methodology.30 The lower layer conveys documentary or factual information and relates to (photo)journalism. The middle layer is metaphorical or symbolic and connects with prose or fiction; it requires self-discipline and dedication (Tifentāle 2011b, 25; Demakova 1991, 56).31 The peak—what he terms the image layer—is suggestive, that which ‘cannot be verbally expressed.’ It alludes to poetry or Zen suggestibility and open-endedness which can only be contemplated or interpreted (Slyusarev 1990, 1). Grants’ works represent an East-West reworking of Zen philosophy and his no­ tions about photography coincide with Zen painting which, according to the Catholic-Buddhist theologian and Trappist monk Thomas Merton, give ‘enough to alert us to what is not and is nevertheless “right there.”’ (Merton 1968, 6) Contemplation and suggestion, as Zen teaches, is the secret to understanding art. The notion of repetition inherent in Grants’ series is, as Zen Master Shunryu Suzuki suggests, essential practice towards the mastering of one’s art (Suzuki 1975, 55).32 Grants’ Impressions series represents nature and the fluidity between objects and their inherent spiritual and natural energies. Impressions, constructed around form­ alism, also reflect moments that are fleeting while providing insights into others that are more lucid. In ‘Shore’ (Kuressaare, 1994) Grants consciously elevates the in­ essential and the inconspicuous until they become the theme of the work where passing moments are retained for eternity (Straka 1993, 23). For renowned Russian photographer Alexander Slyusarev (1944–2010), this series reflects Grants’ character,

118 Pamela M. Browne soul and spirit (Slyusarev 1990, 1). For instance, the eye is drawn into the blurry shadow in ‘Shadow’ (Barkava, 1979), where textured patterns of light and grey play. In ‘Inside a bus’ (n.d.), a curtain clearly divides the image into two where one part is blurry from the glass and the other part is clear and sharp. The branches of the tree in ‘Melluži’ (1985), for example, can be likened to Far Eastern calligraphy as well as an abstract expressionist painting. In ‘Linen’ (Rīga, 1987) the formal simplicity of hanging sheets allows the viewer to see beyond the image. The static apples on the ‘Apple tree at night’ (Salaspils, 1985) illustrate nature’s movement, energy and po­ tential growth in simple lines.33 The minimal sharpness in ‘Road’ (Sigulda, 1991) mirrors Zen ideas of contemplation on a single aspect of nature. ‘Swings’ (Kandava, 1992) shows the beauty of simplicity in the notion of swinging.

Conclusion Andrejs Grants employs the documentary tradition and records his subjects, com­ bining a detached stance with a subjective one. The photographs in ‘Latvia: Changing and Unchanging Reality’ exemplify the influences that have shaped Grants’ work. Grants readily acknowledges the influence of the late Egons Spuris as well as the writings of Skalbe’s magic realism. In addition to these acknowledged influences, there are, as detailed in this presentation, other major influences on the development of his work. In particular, Ernst Bloch and his notions of hope, utopia and antici­ patory consciousness and Mikhail Bakhtin’s notions of ambivalent carnival and dialogue are evident in much of Grants’ work. There is strong evidence of anxiety and the uncanny as described by Freud in his book The Uncanny. Grants’ pyramid methodology exemplifies the influence of Zen Buddhist notions of contemplation and interpretation, suggestibility and open-endedness. Zen philosophy frees Grants to follow his intuition. Grants deals with complex questions to do with reality and one’s notions of reality. He explores the universal through the particular—personal and social history. In Grants’ work, time condenses itself into a moment, but he is not trapped by the notion that a photograph should be sharp (Newhall 1980, 17).34 Addressing formal concerns (form and content), his work is often symbolic or metaphoric. However, contemplation and suggestion shape his sense of aesthetics and understanding of truth. In his work a dialogic interplay takes place on both psychological and physical levels.

Notes 1 Kārlis Skalbe was a Latvian writer renowned for his neo-romantic symbolic fairy tales, spiritual and aesthetic ideals. The notion of the heart and happiness underpins many of Skalbe’s characters. In order to secure happiness, Skalbe’s heroes serve and sacrifice. Happiness is the joy of travelling, seeing and meeting. It also means to forgive and to remain good in spite of anger. The philosophies underpinning Skalbe’s writings comprise: humans want to know the world as a universal entity; the fundamental laws of nature which strains them to the edge of the world; the Great Wisdom is expressed by small creatures (nightingale, mouse, cat), so all of them—kings and creatures—are one family, and the world is indivisible. 2 Grants graduated from the Faculty of Law, University of Latvia in 1978. 3 The‘word artist… was already usurped by persons who had little talent, but were ruthlessly building their own careers as masters of Latvian photographic art.’

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4 For Grants, surrealism is also realism in that sense. 5 Of course, forced religious conversions were not unusual, for example, in Italy, the Netherlands, and Spain etc. 6 In his book about George Costakis the Greek art collector of the Russian avant-garde, Peter Roberts points out the ‘Russian root of the word is golos, and the meaning of golos in English is “voice.” So the fundamental sense of glasnost is making things public by speaking out.’ 7 It is beyond the realm of this paper to go into detail and argument about the nature of the documentary photograph. For Alise Tifentāle, ‘Spuris’ work from the ‘60s is characterised by laconic composition and emphasised contrast, and his works stand out by their graphic visual language and the avoidance of any direct, literary subject’ (Tifentāle 2011a, 53). 8 Spuris worked as an engineer, which was a prestigious and secure profession, from 1960–1985. 9 Spuris’ work is included in the Nathan Lyons, Vision and Expression, exhibition catalogue, 1969 as well as the George Eastman House Collection. 10 Photographic competitions were first sponsored by the Photographic Society of America (PSA) from 1959-ca.1961 which allowed for initial cultural photographic exchanges be­ tween the USA and former Soviet Union. Spuris received the honoured title ‘People’s Studio of Photography’ in 1978. Like many Soviet and Baltic photographers, he won many medals from (PSA) (1971) as well as the title AFIAP (1975). Spuris, like photographers such as American photographers Ralph Eugene Meatyard and Frank Van Deren Coke, realised that the PSA were more responsive to conventional photojournalistic trends which were characterised by a sharp coherent narrative and so-called academic figure studies as op­ posed to his more spiritual approach. For example, Meatyard had joined the PSA in 1954 and taken part in their national shows. For further readings regarding interchange photoclub exhibitions see: Janaitis 1985, 302; Tifentāle 2012a; Tifentāle 2011c; May, 1989; Tannenbaum 1991, 15–16. 11 For further reading on salon art photography see: Kļaviņš 1999; Barkhatova 2004, 47–66; Svede Mark 2004, 229–246; Stigneev 2004, 67–73; Tifentāle n.d., 3–4; Tifentāle 2011b, 15–17; Tifentāle 2011d, 121–128; Tifentāle 2012a. 12 Grants, a member of Ogre (1978–1990), describes the weekly Thursday night meetings enthusiastically. Members’ works were displayed and collectively critiqued, and discussions addressed different aspects of photography (technical, aesthetic or genre). He also recalls Spuris’ ability to create an atmosphere of awe for fine art photography. Spuris also had a large collection of photography books which he generously lent out, giving people the opportunity to acquaint themselves with photography and photographers. He offered his views on picture interpretation or artists’ intentions and suggested which books required study. Furthermore, Spuris identified natural talent in young people and encouraged them to realise their full potential. For example, ‘One Day in Ogre’ (1988) some sixty-five photographers photographed what they considered representative or expressive of Ogre. This indicates the popularity and interactive nature of the club activities. The different backgrounds, professions of club members and individual photographic styles that are apparent through regular exhibitions and publications of their work indicate the sig­ nificance of diversity. See also: Sapožņikovs 1988, 1; Ziedonis 1988, 1; Klimane 1988, 1; Mihailovskis 1990a, 43; Mihailovskis 1990b, 71. 13 Bloch was a hard-line communist who supported the Soviet Union, classless society and socialism yet never became a Party member. He defended the Moscow Show Trials (1936–38), which he rationalised as a drastic measure to counter the advance of fascism in the East. He interpreted Khrushchev’s denunciations of Stalin (1956) in his own way: ‘How simply getting rid of something can enrich us.’ By detaching himself from the revelations of Stalinism, Bloch called for reforms within the Party itself and the rigid bureaucratic system (See also: Bloch 1988, 25). 14 Bloch spent a lifetime searching for Heimat on both a metaphysical and physical level. His own various migrations included; from West Germany to Prague, Paris, Vienna, the United States, The German Democratic Republic (GDR) and finally back to West Germany in­ dicates his hopes and disappointments. According to John Miller Jones, Bloch did not have much love for his well-to-do Jewish parents or his parental home. Bloch’s uneasy

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relationship with his father was further aggravated by his dependence on his father’s fi­ nances. His marriage (1913) to Else von Stritzky (d. 1921), the daughter of a wealthy German industrialist from Rīga, allowed the couple to live in comfort. Contrary to his writings on bourgeois materialism, Bloch’s letters to György Lukács, proudly mention the dowry that Else would bring him. See also: Bloch 1985, (Briefe letter 9, 42), (Briefe letter 10, 43–49), and (Briefe letter 10, 98); Zipes 1993, xiii-xiv; Miller Jones 1995, 41–42, 56, 61, 108, 186. Although his first contact with the proletariat—the feeling of which would later intensify—occurred in his birthplace, the industrial town of Ludwigschafen, he did not consider it as home. The I. G. Farben Trust had its central headquarters in Ludwigschafen (see Lowry 1976, 40.) Bloch left Germany due to the rise of the Fascist movement and went on to live in Zurich, Paris, Vienna and Prague before immigrating to the United States in 1938. After many of Bloch’s colleagues were called for questioning (1945) before the House Un-American Activities Committee (HUAC), Bloch (now an American citizen) left America, crudely criticising it as imperialist and fascist (1949). Similarly, Bertold Brecht had been investigated by the HUAC and left Los Angeles to return to East Berlin in 1948 (Kuehn 1997, 28). At the age of sixty-three, he accepted a philosophy post at the University of Leipzig, GDR, tasting Stalin’s communism at first hand. By 1958, the authorities could no longer close their ears to his revisionist Marxist ideas and deemed him as an enemy to be isolated. His students had to recant his teachings or emigrate, and Bloch himself was forced to retire. By coincidence, Bloch was in West Germany during the summer of 1961, when the Berlin Wall was built. This event, which was a watershed in GDR history because it signified stabilisation (labour force) and separation (from undesirable Western influences as well as stemming the exodus of people), prompted him to seek political asylum (Kuehn 1997, 72). With great difficulty, a visiting professorship in philosophy was obtained for him at the University of Tübingen, where he remained until his death. My remarks con­ cerning Bloch’s life are based on the readings of: Zipes 1997, 1–12; Hudson 1982; Zipes 1993, Neville Plaice et al. 1995, “Translator’s Introduction;” Kellner and O’Hara 1976, 11–34; Zipes 1988, 3–8; Kuehn 1997, 28. Bloch locates homeland: ‘But the root of history is the working, creating human being who reshapes and overhauls the given facts. Once he has grasped himself and established what is his, without expropriation and alienation, in real democracy, there rises in the world something which shines into the childhood of all and in which no one has yet been: homeland.’ The daina reads: ‘Māra, dearest mother, Give me your key, So that Māra’s gate should open, So that the sons and daughters can come forth.’ See also: Flood 1990, 11–12. The word utopia, which is a neologism coined by Thomas More, derives from nonexistence (Greek ου) and combined with topos it means ‘no place.’ See also: Ryan-Hayes 1995, 198; Bloch 1964, 3. This is not desire as in the Lacanian sense (Thompson 1977, 791). According to Tifendāle, the ‘priorities of Latvia’s 1980s “new photo wave” [consisted of]… “un-manipulated realism” or “uncompromised realism” and well as “technical ration­ alism”’ (Tifentāle 2011b, 19). Likewise, full frame printing was a ‘principal issue’ and it meant an ‘ethical choice, a statement of truthfulness related to the values maintained also by rhetoric glasnost’ (Tifentāle n.d., 8). Gorbachev did not apply glasnost in the initial Soviet response to Chernobyl. Official re­ action simply reverted to traditional means of handling highly sensitive and embarrassing news—a curtain of silence and denial, information blackouts and evasion. The Soviet delay to report the nuclear accident (until prompted by Sweden which had detected the radiation) and the subsequent low-key reassuring official coverage provoked a storm of criticism both in the West and at home. It took some time for Soviet officials to realise that the coun­ terproductiveness of silence only served to reinforce the argument of those who believed that the USSR could not be trusted. Combined with the suspicion that authorities at­ tempted to cover up health hazards, this created ideal conditions to promote glasnost’s freedom of public expression in the form of anti-nuclear (especially in Poland and the GDR) and ecological protests. Chernobyl not only underscored irresponsible economic development in planning and execution, but also demonstrated official incompetence at handling the fallout and cleanup operations on both physical and psychological levels.

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After Chernobyl, successful opposition to other projects such as the Siberian River diver­ sion project led them to be shelved. For reports on Chernobyl see: Jones and Woodbury 1986, 28–3; Kramer 1986, 40–58; Maples 1986, 17–27; Thorton 1986, 1–16; Misiunas and Taagepera 1993, 286; Muiznieks 1993, 190. Uldis Briedis’ photographs of ruined landscapes and neglected farmhouses addressed Stalin’s collectivisation policies. Aivars Liepiņš’ woodchipping series challenges Soviet-style economic growth. Vilhelms Mihailovskis’ response to environmental pollution is char­ acterised by polar opposites. His ‘Old Town’ series (started 1982) demonstrates his concern for Old Rīga’s architectural heritage. Vilnis Auzinš, and Vitaults Mihalovskis’ systematic documentation of heritage and restoration projects not only promoted pride and national consciousness, but also became an important component of the archive to rehabilitate history and collective memory. In an article published in Literatura un Maksla (October 14, 1988), the writers—enterprising journalist Dainis Ivans, who would later go on to become the President of the Latvian Popular Front, and Arturs Snips, a computer specialist who had had previous work experience at a hydroelectric station—questioned the value of the long-planned hydro-electric dam at Daugavpils on the Daugava River. The site for this project had been announced as early as 1958 and, at the time, had elicited protests. Construction began in 1976. During the summer of 1986, Ivans had noticed the height of the pegs at the new expected water line. Disturbed by what he had seen, Ivans and Snips investigated the project, gaining access to the project plans, documents and log­ books. In the official publication of the Writers’ Union, Ivans and Snips accused ‘the station’s planners of overly optimistic economic projections’ and overlooking the 2,280 hectares of arable land and 2,500 hectares of forest that would be flooded as economic losses as well as the historical, cultural and ecological (20 rare species of flora) losses. They proposed the area be designated as a national park. At the same time, they challenged the notion that technicians could determine the future of their ‘common home.’ ‘Common home’ seems to pun on Gorbachev’s familiar catch phrase ‘we are one family: we have one common home.’ At this stage, Latvia’s non-indigenous population hovered around the fifty percent mark and Latvians faced the possibility of becoming minorities in their own home. By 1989, this phrase was retrieved by the three Baltic Popular Fronts after they had declared their goals of economic independence, the de­ nunciation of genocide in the Baltics, the denunciation of Soviet policies in 1939 and 1940, and their aspirations for sovereignty in a neutral demilitarised Baltic-Scandinavia. They jointly proclaimed: ‘We have built the foundations for a common Baltic home, the home we will build in the future; and with the documents approved today we have undermined the foundations of another dwelling; this dwelling is called totalitarian imperialism.’ The evening of Ligo (June 23) is the day before Jāni Day—(Midsummer’s Eve). Jānis is a mythical figure and vegetative deity whose functions can be likened to Dionysus and the forces of Eros that he incarnates—Eros as the force of attraction which generates bio­ logical life. Jānis is likened to Dionysus because he returns every year at solstice time. Latvian-American literary critic Alfreds Straumanis confirms the evening of Ligo as ri­ tual: ‘For centuries [Ligo] has been celebrated by the Latvians with a ritual remaining in the Latvian traditions from the pre-Christian rites, is very similar to the Dionysian cel­ ebrations’ (Straumanis 1975, 156). On this night, the young people go out in pairs into the forest to look for the mythical fern that blossoms once a year, at midnight on midsummer night—a procedure similar to the initiation rites. Vīķis-Freibergs further explains the way to find the fern: ‘It can only be obtained after undergoing an ordeal in which assorted demons and evil spirits try to distract one’s attention. One must wait patiently without flinching or showing fear within a magic circle, until the silver, gold, or diamond flower blossoms forth in a blinding light accompanied by great noise’ (Vīķis-Freibergs 1989, 109). It was translated into French and English over the next few years. In 1964 Bakhtin am­ plified and revised Rabelais, which originally had been his dissertation (1947). Hélène Iswolsky’s English translation appeared in 1968. Samizdat is a system of clandestine publication of banned works of literature.

122 Pamela M. Browne 26 The carnival and masquerade is a tradition still prevalent especially in Catholic (Italy, Brazil) and Orthodox (Greece) cultures and takes place for the two weeks before Clean Monday—a preLenten celebration. 27 Roberts writes that the message in Socialist Realism had to be clear: ‘we are going forward from our bright present into the brightness of all possible futures’ (Roberts 1994, 48–49). 28 In her essay on ‘The Origin of Homo Novus in Latvian Photography’, Tifentāle states that ‘Andrejs Grants’s photography is described by the words “photography captures the mo­ ment, and this is real, more real than anything in other types of media” (Tifentāle 2011b, 24). In 1993, art historian Laima Slava wrote of Andrejs Grants’ photographs, “Photography captures an instant, and this instant is real, it is more real than that con­ tained in any other medium” (Slava 1993, 32). 29 Freud begins his description of the uncanny with an extended dictionary definition of heimlich and unheimlich to demonstrate that they are exactly alike. 30 Grants believes his methodology can be applied to artwork. 31 In ‘The Origin of Homo Novus in Latvian Photography’, Tifentāle refers to ‘the third “symbolic” level or hidden poeticism… which can’t be expressed in words’ without lo­ cating its origin or defining what she means. She goes on to write that 1980s new wave photographers, including Grants, followed ‘the dominating direction of the metaphysical photographic interpretation in Latvia [that] foresaw a search for the “meaning” or “message” in the photograph, the capture of a significant or full moment, a certain amount of positive emotion (sincerity, truth, honesty, openness etc.) without even permitting the possibility that completely different qualities could also be found in a photograph which should be analysed in different categories’ (Tifentāle 2011b, 25). 32 Suzuki writes: ‘if you lose the spirit of repetition your practice will become quite difficult.’ 33 These could be likened to Alfred Stieglitz’s Equivalents and Edward Weston’s rocks and trees—these series use natural objects to illustrate larger aspects of life and the unity of natural forms. 34 Western culture and the history of photography prize the clarity of vision and sharp focus. The notion that a photograph should be sharp relates to conventional onepoint perspective with which the camera sees. This legacy dates from the Renaissance. Onepoint perspective achieved not only a faithful imitation of nature, but also assured the viewer’s consciousness from doubt. Early practitioners of the medium, disappointed to find that ‘nature in motion cannot reproduce herself’, strove to overcome this problem. Indistinct blur was considered as a blemish, an obstacle to truth, and even today this fact tends to colour preconceptions about what makes a good photograph.

References Astahovska. Ieva. 2010. Nineties. Contemporary Art in Latvia. Rīga: The Latvian Center for Contemporary Art. Baker. George. 1996. “Photography between Narrativity and Stasis: August Sander, Degeneration, and the Decay of the Portrait.” October, 76, (Spring): 72–113. Bakhtin. Mikhail. 1984. Problems of Dostoevsky’s Poetics. Edited and translated by Caryl Emerson. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Bakhtin. Mikhail. 1968. Rabelais and His World. Translated by Helene Iswolsky. Cambridge Massachusetts: MIT Press. Barkhatova. Elena. 2004. “Soviet Policy on Photography.” In Beyond Memory: Soviet Nonconformist Photography and Photo-Related Works of Art, edited by Diane Neumaier, 47–65. New Brunswick, New Jersey and London: Jane Voorhees Zimmerli Art Museum and Rutgers University Press. Bloch. Ernst. 1985. Briefe: 1903–1975, (2 Vols.) edited by Karola Bloch, Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp. Bloch. Ernst. 1986. Natural Law and Human Dignity. Translated by D. J. Schmidt. Cambridge Massachusetts: MIT Press.

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Bloch. Ernst. 1977. “Nonsynchronism and The Obligation to Its Dialectics’. Translated by Mark Ritter” New German Critique, no. 11, (Spring): 22–38. Bloch. Ernst. 1995. The Principle of Hope, vols. 1, 2 & 3. Translated by Neville Plaice, Stephen Plaice and Paul Knight. Cambridge Massachusetts: The MIT Press. Bloch. Ernst. 1993. “Something’s Missing: A Discussion between Ernst Bloch and Theodor W. Adorno on the Contradictions of Utopian Longing.” (1964). In The Utopian Function of Art and Literature. Translated by Jack Zipes and Frank Mecklenburg, 1–17. Cambridge Massachusetts: MIT Press. Bloch, Jan Robert. 1988. “How Can We Understand the Bends in the Upright Gait?”, trans­ lated by Capers Rubin. New German Critique, no. 45, (Fall): 9–39. Demakova. Helēna. 1991. “Group A: Ideals and Reality—The Ideal and Real Space of Group A”, translated by Martinš Zelmenis. Māksla, no. 146, Rīga, (April): 56–63. Dreifelds. Juri. 1989. “Latvian National Rebirth”, Problems of Communism XXXVII, (July–August): 77–95. Flood Biruta, Līvija. 1990. Eve as a Trace of Baltic Origins: A Reassessment of the Meaning and Origins of a Twelfth Century Burgundian Relief-Fragment, BA Honours Thesis, Department of Visual Arts, Monash University. Freud. Sigmund. 1963. “Civilisation and its Discontents.” In The Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud, vol. 21. Translated by Joan Rivè re and edited by James Strachey. London: The Hogarth Press and the Institute of Psychoanalysis. Freud. Sigmund. 1990. “The “Uncanny.” Art and Literature, vol. 14. Translated by James Strachey, edited by Albert Dickson. London: Penguin Books. Gaižiūnas. Silvestras. “The Ideas and Ideals of H. C. Andersen in the Baltic Literatures.” In edited by Johan de Mylius, Aage Jørgensen and Viggo Hjørnager Pedersen, Hans Christian Andersen: A Poet in Time. Papers from the Second International Hans Christian Andersen Conference 29 July to 2 August 1996, The Hans Christian Andersen Center, Odense University Press, Odense, Denmark 1999). http:// www.andersen.sdu.dk/forskning/ konference/tekst_e.html?id=10920, 4/11). Grants. Andrejs. 1994. “Artist’s Statement”, Mesiac Fotografe, Bratislava: 114. Hudson. Wayne. 1982. The Marxist Philosophy of Ernst Bloch. London: The Macmillan Press. Janaitis. Gunars. 1985. “The Art of Photography in Latvia.” In Latvijas Fotomāksla: Vesture un Musdienas, edited by Peteris Zeile, Rīga: Liesma. Jones. Ellen and Benjamin L. Woodbury II. 1986. “Chernobyl and Glasnost,” Problems of Communism, XXXV, (November–December): 28–3. Kļaviņš. Eduards. 1999. “The Story of Inta Ruka and Her Photoportrait Stories.” In Stories, Storytellers, edited by Helēna Demakova, Republic of Latvia’s Exposition Catalogue, Venice Biennale 48th International Contemporary Art Exhibition. Rīga: Soros Centre for Contemporary Arts. Kellner. Douglas and O’Hara. Harry. 1976. “Utopia and Marxism in Ernst Bloch” New German Critique, no. 9, (Fall): 11–34. Klimane. I. 1988. “Viena Diena Pārdomān.” Padomju Ceļs 6372, no. 62, May 28. Kramer. John. M. 1986. “Chernobyl and Eastern Europe.” Problems of Communism XXXV, (November–December): 40–58. Kuehn, Karl Gernot. 1997. Caught: The Art of Photography in the German Democratic Republic. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press. Linnap. Peeter. 1993. “Notes by Andrejs Grants.” In Borderlands: Contemporary photo­ graphy from the Baltic States, edited by Martha McCulloch, exhibition catalogue, curated by Peeter Linnap with the assistance of Valts Kleins and Gintautas Trimakas, Street Level Photography Gallery and Workshop Glasgow: ‘The Cottier.’ Lowry. Michael. 1976. “Interview with Ernst Bloch.” New German Critique, no. 9, (Spring): 35–44.

124 Pamela M. Browne Lyons. Nathan. 1969. Vision and Expression, exhibition catalogue. Rochester New York: Horizon Press in collaboration with George Eastman House. Maivie. Josef. 1981. “Wilhelms Mihailovskis.” Fotografie, XXV, no. 1: 32–41. Maples. David. R. 1986. “Chernobyl and Ukraine.” Problems of Communism XXXV, (November–December): 17–27. Mason. John. W. 1996. The Cold War: 1945–1991. London and New York: Routledge. May. Robert. 1989. “The Lexington Camera Club 1936–1972.” The Kentucky Review IX, no. 2. (Summer): 3–47. Medvedev. Roy. 1982. “Khrushchev’s Denunciation of Stalin.” In Khrushchev. Translated by Brian Pearce. Oxford: Basil Blackwell. Merton. Thomas. 1968. Zen and the Birds of Appetite. New York: New Directions. Mihailovic. Aleander. 1997. “The Word Made and Unmade: Rabelais, Bakhtin and Stalin.” In Corporeal Words: Mikhail Bakhtin’s Theology of Discourse. Illinois: Northwestern University Press. Mihailovskis. Vilhelms. 1992. Veltījums Rīgai. Rīga: Avots. Mihailovskis. Vilhelms. 1990a. “Group A: Latvia.” Rodnik, translated by Helen Diakova, 46, no. 10, (Rīga): 32–43. Mihailovskis. Vilhelms. 1990b. “Noteikt sevi Pasaules Telpāp.” Māksla 2, no. 132, (Rīga): 71–78. Miller Jones. John. 1995. Assembling (Post)modernism: The Utopian Philosophy of Ernst Bloch. New York: Peter Lang Publishing Inc. Misiunas. Romuald and Rein Taagepera. 1993. The Baltic States: Years of Dependence 1940–1990. London: Hurst and Company. Muiznieks. Nils. 1987. “The Daugavpils Hydro Station and Glasnost in Latvia.” Journal of Baltic Studies XVIII, no. 1, (Spring): 64–68. Muiznieks. Nils. 1993. “Latvia: Origins, Evolution, and Triumph.” In Nations and Politics in the Soviet Successor States, edited by Ian Bremmer and Ray Taras, 182–205. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Newhall. Beaumont. 1980. Photography: Essays and Images, Illustrated Readings in the History of Photography. London: Secker and Warburg. Plaice. Neville, and Plaice. Stephen, and Knight. Paul. 1995. “Translator’s Introduction.” In Ernst Bloch, The Principle of Hope, vols. 1, 2 & 3 translated by Neville Plaice, Stephen Plaice and Paul Knight. Cambridge Massachusetts: The MIT Press. Pomerants. Grigory. S. 1972. “Neopublikovannoe. Bol’shie i malen’kie esse.” Publitsistika. Possev, Frank am Maim. Ryan-Hayes. Karen. L. 1995. Contemporary Russian Satire: a genre study. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Roberts. Peter. 1994. George Costakis: A Russian Life In Art. Ottawa: Carleton University Press Inc. Sapožņikovs. N. 1988. “Fotoakciju-atbalstām.” Padomju Ceļs, no. 9, 6319, (January 21). Slava. Laima. 2002. Andrejs Grants: fotogrāfijas. Rīga: Neptuns. Slava. Laima. 1993. “Andreja Granta fotoiztāde” (Andrejs Grants’ Photo Exhibition)” Atmoda Atpūtai, (12 June): 32. In Alise Tifendāle, 2010. “From Photographic Art to Photography in Art.” in Nineties. Contemporary Art in Latvia edited by Ieva Astahovska, Rīga: The Latvian Center for Contemporary Art. Slava. Laima. 2006. “Interview with Andrejs Grants.” http://:www.Andrejs Grants\Laima\ STUDIJA.htm, accessed 01.02.2006. Slyusarev. Alexandr. 1990. “Life Around Andrejs Grants.” translated by Helen Diakova, Sovietfoto, (December). Solomon-Godeau. Abigail. 1982. “Playing in the Fields of the Image.” Afterimage, (Summer): 10–13: Moscow.

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126 Pamela M. Browne Vīķis-Freibergs. Vaira. 1989. “The Major Gods and Goddesses of Ancient Latvian Mythology.” In Linguistics and Poetics of Latvian Folk Songs: Essays in Honour of the Sesquicentennial of the Birth of Kr. Barons, edited by Vaira Vīķis-Freibergs, 91–112. Kingston and Montreal: McGill-Queensland University Press. Ziedonis. I., 1988. “Es gribu ar tevi parunāt, Es gribu tev paskatities acis.” Padomju Ceļs, no. 58, 6368, (May 19). Zipes. Jack. 1997. “Traces of Hope: The Non-synchronicity of Ernst Bloch.”. In Not Yet: Reconsidering Ernst Bloch, edited by Jamie Owen Daniel and Tom Moylan, 1–12. New York, London: Verso. Zipes. Jack. 1993. “Introduction: Toward the Realization of Anticipatory Illumination”. In The Utopian Function of Art and Literature, translated by Jack Zipes and Frank Mecklenburg, xi–xliii. Cambridge, Massachusetts: MIT Press. Zipes. Jack. 1988. “Ernst Bloch and the Obscenity of Hope: Introduction to the Special Section on Ernst Bloch.” New German Critique, no. 45, (Fall): 9–18. Private correspondence (letter) from Andrejs Grants to the author, 15.4.1996. Artist’s statement, June 1998. Private correspondence (email) from Martinš Zelmenis to the author 19.2.2006.

10 “Poles Forming Their National Flag”: Artistic Reflections on the Transformation of the Political System in Post-1989 Central and Eastern Europe Piotr Majewski

This paper presents the reflections on the phenomenon of systemic transformation in art from a two-fold perspective. On the one hand, in the author’s opinion, these types of events bring certain specific types of imaging, which are convergent and common to different cultural circles. However, on the other hand – as the example of Poland shows – the phenomenon of transformation also introduces a form of art which is separate and unique to a given nation, one which cannot be understood without examining the context of a specific place and time in detail. Undoubtedly, the process of transition from authoritarianism to democracy, common to the whole Central and Eastern European region, entailed not only a change in the political and economic system, linked de facto with the breakdown of the post-war geopolitical constellation of power in this part of Europe, but also brought about social and cultural changes that concerned, among others, the lan­ guage and iconography of visual arts1. However, the Polish phenomenon of political transformation, developed its own means of artistic expression, the sources of which were deeply rooted and dated back to the 19th-century tradition of allegorising historical and national themes. They fundamentally defined the distinct Polish artistic interpretation of the political transformation process with its repertoire of “emble­ matic” themes and ways of constructing a symbolic message.

The Question of the Universal Nature Of The Transformation Experience The experience of political transformation in Central and Eastern Europe during the 1980s and 1990s, manifested itself in visual arts with a new iconography which described the process of political and cultural change2. When looking at this type of art from today’s perspective, its documentary dimension seems to be significant. Such art, seen in the frame of a theoretical approach which treated the works of art as documents, is a record of the complex political, social and cultural transformations that were triggered by systemic transformation. Reality brought with it the multi­ dimensional complexity of everyday life, a fact which is associated with the poly­ phonic shape of art, especially after 19893. In the 1990s, a so-called critical trend emerged in art, which referred to some extent to the negative experiences related to the transitional period, highlighting trauma, dazzling with obscenity and marked by DOI: 10.4324/9781003265818-14

128 Piotr Majewski formlessness – generally speaking, the poetic character of abject art underlined for example by Anna Markowska or Piotr Piotrowski in their research (Markowska 2012, 259–281). But at the same time, many of the paintings and photographic works or pieces of installation art and other forms of artistic expression that were created at that time may be interpreted in universal terms. They tell us something important about the process itself, in addition to the social and cultural consequences of this type of events, wherever they appear around the world. If we were to reverse the perspective and look at contemporary art referring to political transformation (not only on a European but also on a global scale), we would easily find similarities in its imaging, certain common types of representation that give it this universal character. The elements which are universal in this type of message do not exclude, however, the ones which are peculiar, unique in their own way and distinct to a given historical period and a specific geographical location. This fact was presented well in an ex­ hibition titled “Painter of Transformation” (Museum of Modern Art in Warsaw, June–May 2018) by the Albanian painter Edi Hila, an artist for whom commenting on the transformation in Albania by depicting everyday life appeared to be an im­ portant topic. Referring to themes such as street scenes or transformations of the urban landscape called by him “paradoxical situations,” the artist wrote: “Although they are the result of chaos, paradoxical situations generate optimism and the will to live. They are a testimony of the “victory” over the difficulties associated with a transformation. Here we are again, facing practical problems which people are trying to solve by improvising”4. When looking for a similar example of a “documentarist of everyday life” in the Polish painting from the transformation era, the work of Jarosław Modzelewski may be suggested. As is the case for Hila, similarly for Modzelewski – as Wojciech Włodarczyk puts it – “observation is the fundamental […] category of painting” (Włodarczyk 2002, 37). The painter treats art as a medium that allows the artist to not only describe but also to critically diagnose the reality. However, Włodarczyk saw something more than cold observation in Modzelewski’s painting from the late 1990s.5 He wrote: “The series Unfinished Houses says more about Polish reality than the media can do, the Caritas series – about the vastness of poverty and the fact of our indifference to it, the cycle of church interiors – about the character of our Catholicism” (Włodarczyk 2002, 37). The image from the Unfinished Houses series referred to an everyday situation and observation “from real life”, but the source theme was taken out of its original context by the artist, cleaned of unnecessary elements and placed in an architectural frame against the vibrating dark blue back­ ground, giving it a pronounced meaning – the house became a sign of an unfinished process, gained the rank of the symbol of a country in which a transformation was taking place. Włodarczyk’s interpretation seems quite universal, but at the same time, it introduces certain motifs (such as the Polish form of Catholicism), which cannot be understood without taking into account the local, Polish context (Figure 10.1).

Native Icons of the Transformation and Their Distinctiveness In the iconography of works of art from the transformation period in Poland, one may find numerous manifestations of their peculiar nature. A well-known example of a record of such a phenomenon in the form of paintings and with the use of the photorealistic convention is the work of Łukasz Korolkiewicz. From the visual plane

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Figure 10.1 Jarosław Modzelewski, View on an Unfinished House, 2000. Tempera on canvas, 150 × 250 cm. Warsaw, Collection of Zachęta National Gallery of Art, Creative Commons CC BY-NC-ND 3.0., https://zacheta.art.pl/pl/kolekcja/katalog/ modzelewski-jaroslaw-widok-na-niedokonczony-dom-2/galeria. Photo by Jerzy Jacek Gładykowski.

of the time when martial law was in effect in Poland, the artist chose and edited a number of times the characteristic motif of crosses made of flowers laid by people on the streets of Polish cities as a sign of a silent protest against the terror of martial law, and a meaningful symbol of resistance that united the nation in a joint effort leading to the longed-for moment of lifting the burden of dependence and overthrowing the totalitarian system. The rhetoric of the pars pro toto figure of speech, which appears in its universal dimension in the above-mentioned paintings by the Russian artist, reveals the specificity of Polish iconography from the transformation period in the case of Korolkiewicz. Furthermore, it indirectly emphasises the role of the Catholic Church in the process of systemic transformation in Poland. The Church’s consent to the use of the cross as a sign of a political struggle resulted from the Church’s full support for the process of changing the political order. Moreover, the Church adopted the role of an institutional “protective umbrella” for the activities of artists and in general for the functioning of artistic life (among other means, by organising exhibitions, providing newspaper columns for criticism, etc.) in the face of the creative communities’ boycott against the official cultural state institutions. Thus, the iconography of Deo et Patriae, appearing on a large scale in Polish art in the 1980s, but also the active exhibition initiative which included references to religious mys­ teries, had an additional dimension of ideological identification, developed in the spirit of a common front which, at that time, was formed by the majority of the Polish public, united in the great “Solidarity” movement and in the Catholic Church headed by the figure of the Polish Pope John Paul II6.

130 Piotr Majewski However, this movement of art dominated by religious symbols and martyrological references, which, incidentally, was being increasingly criticised for its low artistic quality in the mid-1980s7, did not exhaust the spectrum of artistic attitudes at that time. Leszek Sobocki developed an entirely new way of commenting on reality. It was existential pieces more so than religious ones that surfaced from the painter’s work. The artist did not attempt to become an objective observer of the signs of the ongoing breakthrough appearing in the public space, but rather reacted through the subjective filter of commentary often expressed with the use of irony, as in the case of the painting Duszno from 1984, emblematic for the years of martial law in Poland. In it, the figure of the painter appears in a space saturated with the national colours which, however, starts to run out of air, as is symbolised by the figure’s characteristic ges­ ture. The atmosphere of sublime national discourse becomes heavy and the claus­ trophobic space needs ventilating. Without a doubt, Włodzimierz Pawlak created one of the most interesting mani­ festations of the breakthrough in the context of Polish painting. The artist neither tried to be a documentarist of the transformation times like Korolkiewicz, nor did he refer to subjective existential experience like Sobocki. The first version of the painting Poles Forming Their National Flag (referred to in the title of the present considera­ tions) was created in 1989 at a crucial moment of the Polish transformation, when the first post-communist government under the leadership of Tadeusz Mazowiecki was formed. The artist used the motif of the national flag, with which he filled the canvas tightly. In order to answer the question about the actual meaning of this painting and go a bit beyond the stereotype of the title allegory, it is necessary to mention a few contexts that relate to using a flag in painting and the method of narration in the works of Włodzimierz Pawlak (Figure 10.2). The motif of a flag can easily be found in historical paintings, especially the ones which were created during groundbreaking or even revolutionary moments in his­ tory. In Liberty Leading the People by Eugène Delacroix, the flag is a symbol raised in the name of new revolutionary ideas. As an emblem of these values, it is also an element of the visual imaging of an allegory of the revolution. The theme of a flag depicted in isolation appears, as is known, in the works of Jasper Johns. In the painting Flag from the turn of 1954/1955, the image area is identical with the shape and appearance of the flag of the United States. The seemingly obvious theme of the painting increases in its importance when we have the opportunity to look at the details. They depict Johns’ early technique of painting, combining the expressive use of the painting surface with a collage made of found materials, such as a daily newspaper. As is known, the choice of news from the press was not accidental since the painter deliberately eliminated screaming political headlines, focusing on ev­ eryday matters of ordinary people. In dozens of the subsequent versions of the painting, the painter diversified the surface effects, among others by means of smudges, superimposing layers of paint, exposing clumps of it, diversifying the size of stars and other measures complicating the problems of representation and reference. The similarity of the works of Johns and Pawlak lies not only in the selection of the theme and in its multiple editing across various versions, but indeed in the attitude of both artists to detail. Similarly to Johns, Pawlak also retains the sublimity of the symbol, which might be seen clearly in comparison to the other two contemporary examples of reference to the motif of a flag. In a work from 1975, Jerzy Jurry Zieliński distorted the line of contact between the two colours of the Polish flag,

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Figure 10.2 Włodzimierz Pawlak, Poles Forming Their National Flag, 1997. Oil, pencil on canvas, 54 × 38 cm. Warsaw, Collection of Zachęta National Gallery of Art. Creative Commons CC BY-NC-ND 3.0., https://zacheta.art.pl/pl/kolekcja/ katalog/pawlak-wlodzimierz-polacy-formuja-flage-narodowa-2/galeria. Photo by Jerzy Jacek Gładykowski.

132 Piotr Majewski inscribing his signature there, thanks to which he gave it an individualised character. Paweł Susid, in his work created a year later than Pawlak’s painting, juxtaposed the Polish flag with similar flags of two other countries – Indonesia and Morocco. By rejecting their uniqueness in such a manner, he placed them in the passionless cate­ gory of conventional signs of national identification. Pawlak’s action is quite different from the aforementioned “procedures on the flag”. The flag is a pretext for creating a national allegory in which a reflection on the reconstructive function of transfor­ mation comes to the fore. It is worthwhile to consider this aspect of Pawlak’s work in two fundamental perspectives: one should take into account his painting method and the evident links to Roman Opałka’s conceptual design implemented in the so-called “counted paintings”.

Towards a Re-Constructive National Allegory By asking the fundamental question concerning the way in which the flag is formed, Pawlak addresses the issue of collective responsibility, which manifests itself in the shared experience. The motif of transformation is contained in the act of forming the flag-painting, which is an open process. The reflection on the na­ tion’s condition is supersaturated with typically Polish metaphors and a strong charge of feeling that is demonstrated through contact with the fleshy painting surface of the work. In the same year of 1989, Pawlak began a painting series entitled Dzienniki (“the Diaries”), which was made up of a collection of over one hundred and fifty paintings painted over the next several years. There appears in the paintings from this series the characteristic painting method which was also used by the artist in his works devoted to the flag. In both cases, the surface of the canvas was divided by narrow horizontal stripes, reminiscent of lines of text. They consist of smaller, repeated elements that might be called the basic modules of the painting’s structure. When we look at this basic painting module, its internal rhythm and order of tinier parts is revealed. The module consists of seven vertical lines most often drawn with a pencil, some other times made with a stylus or a brush, in the thick layer of paint. This gesture of carving refers to the practice of prisoners, who mark the passage of time in such a way. Pawlak repeats this gesture to – on the one hand – convey the temporary character of the painter’s work, and on the other – to emphasise its meditative nature. This peculiar vi­ sualisation of time contained in individual canvases, as well as the process of creating the series stretched over a longer span of years, resembles the painterlyconceptual project of Roman Opałka. In his most famous work (whose creation began in 1965), the artist recorded series of subsequent digits with white paint on a dark canvas, starting with number one. In this way, subsequent images of the same format, called “details”, were created. Opałka gradually brightened the ground, additionally, he recorded the counting process and after making each painting, he took a portrait photograph of himself. He carried out this project until his death in 2011, thus creating a record of the changing appearance of a man. The countdown process also appears in the painting method of Włodzimierz Pawlak but it takes on a graphical form. However, the intention is similar: it concerns the act of recording the passage of time. Therefore, when we apply the concept of Pawlak’s painting method to the matrix of images depicting the flag, then the temporal character of its titular formation will

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be revealed. It is also strengthened by the title of Pawlak’s series of paintings, which is an allegory. The phrase “Poles forming their national flag” has a metaphoric sense, it means the following: they are seeking for or reconstructing their national identity, they are defining it anew. Therefore, this search is not complete, it is an unfinished process. The open nature of the meaning of this rhetorical figure is used as a means of indirect expression through painting. What is more, it brings various ways of spe­ cifying it depending on the assumed interpretation or other contextual conditions. Ultimately, as is shown by the various interpretations of Pawlak’s work, a single explanation of its meaning does not exist. For example, a description of the work which can be found on the website of the Zachęta National Gallery of Art emphasises the time-consuming nature of the process: The tedious work of the artist on the texture of the painting may likely be compared to the efforts of a society willing to democratise their country. Lines carved with a pencil in the layer of paint refer to the manner of counting down time in prison cells. The next version of this theme is the painting from 1997, located in the collection of Zachęta in which Pawlak emphasises even more clearly that the process of “forming the national flag” requires continuous efforts of all Poles8. A much more critical message of Pawlak’s work (in reference to the same piece from 1997) resounds in the description of the painting from the exhibition “Motherland in Art”, presented in the first half of 2018 at the Museum of Contemporary Art in Krakow: The artist undertakes a bitter criticism of the nation. The lines carved in the messily painted canvas refer to the passivity of Poles, who condemn themselves to the fact that others decide about their fate. Like prisoners, they focus only on recording the passage of time. Democracy, meanwhile, requires effort on the part of the citizens and is not a privilege given once and for all9. Undoubtedly, by painting the flag as an allegory of creating a new state, Pawlak stressed the temporal character of the process, and at the same time depicted it as a collective work. The modules may be understood in two ways: as signs of the times or as symbols of anonymous individuals making up a collective – the nation. At the same time, the adopted method of repetitive, monotonous execution of modules, engraved in the thick matter of paint, symbolises the struggle, effort or even toil of this process. Pawlak does not allow us to look at transformation as a completed period, belonging to the historical “yesterday”. On the contrary, he presents it as an “unfinished revolution.”

Art in Times of Post-Transformation Life and art from times which are contemporary to us confirm Pawlak’s diagnosis. The discussions and politico-ideological disputes that have been developed since the 1990s are a consequence of the transformation in Poland, which may still be perceived as a current issue. What’s more, they are characterised by a sense of uncertainty, anxiety and emotional volatility. The “languages of art” have also

134 Piotr Majewski been transformed, which is clearly visible among the newer works commenting on the various aspects of transformation. The new language represents the afore­ mentioned critical art from the 1990s. Let’s look at some selected examples. Katarzyna Kozyra’s work titled Krzysztof Czerwiński dates from the middle of the decade. By photographing and subsequently digitally transferring the representa­ tion of a person met by chance onto the background of the flag, the author at­ tempted to create a new symbol of transformation times. The naked model, bruised, wounded and tattooed, depicted in three photographs creating the sub­ limed form of a triptych, according to the author’s words: “reflects the state of Poland in the mid-1990s.10” In a work entitled European Standards: Polish Version (1999), Jarosław Kozłowski created an installation in which he used wall hangings with the slogans of political and ideological disputes held in Poland at the turn of the century. He also used sleeping bags as a symbol of the transitional period and a film with the motif of cleaning shoes, which is interpreted as a metaphor for cutting off the communist past11. In turn, the object made by Małgorzata Markiewicz with the use of crocheting shows a map of an integrated Eastern and Western Europe made of homogeneous yarn, thus representing the utopia of unity and the positive effect of the transformation in the East: not only have the ties between postcommunist Europe and the West been strengthened, but also many of the old differences between them have been reconciled. On the other hand, new disputes arise. One of the questions of contemporary discourse was commented on in a profound, yet minimalistic manner by Jadwiga Sawicka, an artist who takes ad­ vantage of words in her paintings. In the diptych Motherhood/Fatherhood, on each of the two juxtaposed canvases, there appears only one word, on the one hand referring to the concept of the homeland and on the other to the issue of gender because it is used in two grammatical genders – the male and the female one. In Sawicka’s vision, identity discourse transcends the national dimension, but it tou­ ches upon the issue of gender, as if the artist demanded a new transformation, this time a mental and ideological one (Figure 10.3). To conclude, Poland is a country in which symbols play a very important role, especially when national and historical issues are being raised. It is characteristic of contemporary Polish artists that when regarding the paradoxes of the posttransformation reality, the political disputes and emotions associated with them, they search for a clear sign, a sharp comment and an effective shortcut. This pursuit prevails over the attempts to reflect the reality of post-transformation everyday life and to observe matters in detail. The proclivity towards the creation of symbolic representations, revealed in the times of the transformation, links Polish art from that time to earlier periods, when national and historical themes were being brought to the forefront. One might even point to its pedigree as originating back in the 19th cen­ tury. It was during this period that the peculiar genre of “national allegory” was formed. Its main feature – as Waldemar Okoń wrote – was “the supremacy of the idea over the visual or verbal shape – the idea was the starting point and the ultimate goal of artistic efforts” (Okoń 1971, 5). As such, when freedom of expression ap­ peared during the transformation period, the concept of allegorical imaging was also brought back. It turns out to be the most appropriate means of conveying meanings, perhaps not very complicated ones, but those emphasising the fact that Poland faces a tedious task aimed at “establishing” a national consensus on the shape of the state’s sovereignty.

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Figure 10.3 Małgorzata Markiewicz, A Map, 2013. Object, 250 × 250 cm. Cracow, MOCAK Collection. Photo by Piotr Majewski.

136 Piotr Majewski

Notes 1 On the subject of the political transformation itself, see Polanyi 2010; Krzemiński 2011. 2 On the continuity of the art from the 80s and 90s see Włodarczyk 2002, 27–39. 3 On the various dimensions of transformation in Poland and their impact on art, see Markowska 2012, 237–257; Piotrowski 2010, 15–55; Szczerski, 2018. 4 Quote by Edi Hila in: Museum of Modern Art in Warsaw. n.d. 5 The painter believed that reducing his painting from this period to the act of recording observations did not reflect the factual state. He said on the subject: “These are wise­ cracks made by critics… Is a woman getting on her bike and heading in the direction of Magdalenka an example of everyday life? It’s a revelation, a miracle! I was looking for such miracles and there were many of them around me. The events seen for a moment turned into monumental events”. Quote from: Bazylko and Masiewicz 2013, 184. 6 On the subject of religious art in Poland in the last three decades of the 20th century, see Rogozińska 2002. 7 See Czerni 1985, 52–58; see the discussion on the crisis of religious art by Czerni et al. 1986, 4–43. 8 Quote from: Zachęta National Gallery of Art. n.d. 9 An excerpt from the description of the work by Włodzimierz Pawlak, Poles Forming Their National Flag from 1997, located in the collection of the Zachęta National Gallery of Art, from the exhibition Motherland in Art, MOCAK, Cracow, April – September 2018. 10 Quote from: Katarzyna Kozyra. n.d. 11 Description of the work at the exhibition Motherland in Art, MOCAK, Cracow 2018.

References Bazylko, Piotr and Krzysztof Masiewicz. 2013. Jarosław Modzelewski. Wywiad-rzeka-Wisła. Warsaw: Stowarzyszenie 40 000 Malarzy. Czerni, Krystyna. 1985. “Antysacrum’, czyli o konflikcie sztuki z religią?” Znak, 367, no. 6: 52–58. Czerni, Krystyna, Jacek Woźniakowski, Mieczysław Porębski, Andrzej Osęka, Janusz Bogucki, Andrzej Kostołowski, Jacek Waltoś et al. 1986. “Kryzys sztuki zaangażowanej?” Znak, no. 2–3: 4–43. https://www.yumpu.com/xx/document/read/27697508/nr-375–376-luty-marzec1986-znak Katarzyna Kozyra. n.d. “Krzysztof Czerwiński. Wielkoformatowe fotografie barwne. 1995. Opis”. Accessed October21, 2018, http://katarzynakozyra.pl/projekty/krzysztof-czerwinski/ Krzemiński, Ireneusz ed. 2011. Wielka transformacja: zmiany ustroju w Polsce po 1989. Warsaw: Oficyna Wydawnicza Łośgraf. Markowska, Anna. 2012. Dwa przełomy. Sztuka polska po 1955 i 1989 roku. Toruń: Wydawnictwo Naukowe Uniwersytetu Mikołaja Kopernika. Museum of Modern Art in Warsaw. n.d. “Edi Hila. Painter of Transformation. Interactive guide.” Accessed October20, 2018, http://edihila.artmuseum.pl/pl/serie/paradoksy/ Okoń, Waldemar. 1971. Alegorie narodowe. Studia z dziejów sztuki polskiej XIX wieku. Wrocław: Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Wrocławskiego. Piotrowski, Piotr. 2010. Agorafilia. Sztuka i demokracja w postokomunistycznej Europie. Poznań: Dom Wydawniczy REBIS. Polanyi, Karl. 2010. Wielka transformacja. Polityczne i ekonomiczne źródła naszych czasów. Translated by Maria Zawadzka. Warsaw: Wydawnictwo Naukowe PWN. Rogozińska, Renata. 2002. W stronę Golgoty: inspiracje pasyjne w sztuce polskiej w latach 1970–1999. Poznań: Inne. Szczerski, Andrzej. 2018. Transformacja. Sztuka w Europie Środkowo-Wschodniej po 1989. Cracow: Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Jagiellońskiego.

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Włodarczyk, Wojciech. 2002. “Kiedy zaczęło się ‘dzisiaj’?”. In Sztuka dzisiaj, edited by Maria Poprzęcka, 27–39. Warsaw: Stowarzyszenie Historyków Sztuki. Wojciechowski, Aleksander. 1992. Czas smutku, czas nadziei. Sztuka niezależna lat osiemd­ ziesiątych. Warsaw: Wydawnictwa Artystyczne i Filmowe. Zachęta National Gallery of Art. n.d. “The Poles Forming Their National Flag, Włodzimierz Pawlak.” Accesed October 20, 2018, https://zacheta.art.pl/en/kolekcja/katalog/pawlakwlodzimierz-polacy-formuja-flage-narodowa-2

Part IV

Art Exhibitions as Political Instrument

11 Western Modern Art Exhibitions in the USSR in 1930s–1950s Katarina Lopatkina

Soviet cultural policy of the Stalin era cut off Western modern art from the Soviet people. The state’s desire for cultural isolation and, at the same time, the need for ideological exports created an extremely tense and contradictory field of Soviet cultural exchanges and international contacts, and also made any kind of import of modern art almost impossible by the early 1950s. Nevertheless, from 1917 to 1955 100 exhibitions were organised in the USSR with artists from behind the Iron Curtain. Several Soviet institutions were involved in coordinating exhibitions of foreign artists. Most active among them were The All-Union Society for Cultural Relations with Foreign Countries (Vsesoiuznoe Obshchestvo Kul’turnoi Sviazi s zagranitsei, VOKS), The State Museum of the Modern Western Art (Gosudarstvennyj muzej novogo zapadnogo iskusstva, GMNZI), The International Bureau of Revolutionary Artists (Mezhdunarodnoe byuro revolyucionnyh khudozhnikov, MBRH) and, later, The Art Affairs Committee (Komitet po delam iskusstv).

The All-Union Society for Cultural Relations with Foreign Countries From the mid-1920s to the 1940s, the all-Union society for cultural relations with foreign countries (VOKS) played a leading role in international cultural contacts of the USSR. Created in 1925, VOKS was a key institution of Soviet cultural diplomacy, controlling international cultural contacts. VOKS had the right to engage in direct contact with foreign cultural organisations and members of the artistic and scientific intelligentsia: librarians, journalists, scientists, writers, artists, musicians, actors and directors. VOKS managed a network of its own foreign branch offices, maintained contact with international publishers, organised exhibitions, prepared visits abroad of Soviet specialists and the reception of foreigners in the USSR, international book exchanges and so on. However, that great wealth of information and tremendous amount of effort were mainly aimed outward at the Western capitalist world in order to readily demonstrate Soviet cultural and scientific advances. Exhibitions were not the primary activity of VOKS but nevertheless, an Exhibitions Department existed within the VOKS. Its key function was to ensure participation of Soviet artists in international exhibitions and to organise Soviet exhibitions abroad. “Revolutionary art of the West” was the first exhibition “with foreign participation” in Moscow supported by VOKS and was organised by The State Academy of Artistic Sciences (Gosudarstvennaia akademiia khudozhestvennykh nauk, GAKhN). It opened on 16 May 1926 (Alyoshina and Yаvorskaya 1987, 118). Preparations DOI: 10.4324/9781003265818-16

142 Katarina Lopatkina began in the spring of 1925, when invitations were sent to foreign participants and within a few months, the Academy received about 3000 exhibits. Many of the invited artists such as Frank William Brangwyn, Frans Masereel, Bela Uitz, Peter Alma, George Grosz, Käthe Kollwitz, and Théophile-Alexandre Steinlen became perennial participants of art shows in the Soviet Union. For VOKS, exhibitions of Western artists were a byproduct rather than a desired result. Often they served as a diplomatic “deposit” for the subsequent display of Soviet artists abroad. This is how exhibitions of Dutch (1932), Polish (1933), and Finnish (1934) art were organised. The number of politically oriented exhibitions organised by VOKS steadily increased every year and starting in 1937 The Society began to coordinate exclusively political and informational, but not art, exhibitions.

The State Museum of the Modern Western Art From 1919 to 1948 the only Soviet museum professionally engaged with Western art of the XX century was The State Museum of the Modern Western Art (Gosudarstvennyj muzej novogo zapadnogo iskusstva, GMNZI). It had been established in Moscow on the basis of two nationalised private collections – those of Sergei Shchukin and Ivan Morozov. Both of them were well-known collectors of Western European art, mostly French painting and sculpture of the 1860s–1910s, including notable artworks by Manet, Renoir, Degas, Monet, van Gogh, Gauguin, Pisarro, Toulouse-Lautrec, Cézanne, Matisse, Picasso and Rodin. When in the early 1920s Boris Ternovets became its Director, the museum began researching collections as well as organising exhibitions with foreign participants. In 1924 a small exhibition of French drawings from the Moscow collections was organised, and later exhibitions of German art as well as solo shows of Paul Cézanne, Paul Gauguin, Vincent van Gogh, Louis Lozowick were arranged. A large exhibition of French modern art was opened as a result of collaboration between the French Ministry of Education and The People’s Commissariat for Education in the USSR. The exhibition featured 262 works by 75 artists, including painting, drawing, and sculpture. The works were divided into two sections – “French,” where the works of modern French masters were presented, and “Russian” – with the works of artists of Russian origin who had been living in Paris. Because of the international character of the Paris art scene, the separation was rather conventional – in the «French part» were Amedeo Modigliani, Giorgio de Chirico and Gino Severini (Italians), Brancusi (Romanian), Masereel (Belgian), Blanchard (Spanish), van Dongen (Dutch), Koyanagi and Fujita (Japanese). The “Russian part” was represented by a group of 30 “French artists with Russian origins” who had lived in France for many years, with names of Goncharova, Larionov, Exter, Chagall, Lipchitz, and Zadkine among them. Until the 1940s The State Museum of the Modern Western Art remained the most active facilitator of exhibitions, both from its own collection and in collaboration with other cultural institutions, but every year facilitation grew more difficult. From the late 1930s, the Museum staff had to organise exhibitions dedicated to the celebration of state and party anniversaries, but not related to the specialty of the Museum, for example the photo exhibitions “XX years of the Stalin-Lenin Komsomol” (1938), and “Art of the Armenian SSR” (1939). The last show held in the Museum was “Exhibition of fine arts of Western regions of Ukraine and folk art

Western Art Exhibitions in the USSR 143 of Hutsuls” (1940). During World War II, the Museum’s collections were evacuated, and after returning to Moscow in 1944, it was never opened to the public again. In March 1948, by order of the Committee on Art Affairs under the Council of Ministers of the USSR, the Museum was closed. Its collection was denounced as “unprincipled, anti-national, formalist works of Western European bourgeois art, devoid of any progressive educational value for the Soviet audience,” and the artworks labeled as “a hotbed of formalist views and worship to the decadent bourgeois culture of the era of imperialism and caused great harm to the development of Russian and Soviet art.” The collection was split between the Pushkin State Museum of Fine Arts and the State Hermitage Museum. The closing of The State Museum of the Modern Western Art had also a side effect – it was connected with a loss of the largest donation of Mexican artists’ works in Soviet Union. In the 1940s Mexican artists sent their works to the USSR several times – in 1940, 1942, 1947, and 1948 – but while proclaiming special relationships with Mexico, Soviet authorities of different levels blocked any possibility of displaying these works. In 1943 a new Soviet Ambassador, Konstantin Umansky, arrived in Mexico. Erudite, energetic and fluent in several languages, he was able to quickly establish connections with leading representatives from various circles – political, economic and artistic. As an ambassador, he believed that the exchange of artworks could serve as an important way of bringing two countries closer together. In order for such an exchange to take place, in 1944 he began direct negotiations with Mexican artists for them to offer their artworks as gifts to the Soviet Union, and later with the Institute of Mexican-Russian Cultural Exchange to aid in organising this process. In March 1947 the artworks collected by the MRI were conferred to the Soviet authorities. The donors’ names were Ignacio Aguirre, Raúl Anguiano, Luis Arenal, Alberto Beltrán, Ángel Bracho, Arturo García Bustos, Francisco Dosamantes, Frida Kahlo, Joaquín Clausell, Olga Costa, Lola Cueto, Leopoldo Méndez, Francisco Mora, José Chávez Morado, Isidoro Ocampo, Fernando Pacheco, Julio Prieto, José María Guadalupe Posada, Everardo Ramírez, Carlos Orozco Romero, Jesús Escobedo, Pablo O’Higgins, Ramón Sosamontes, Alfredo Zalce, Manuel Álvarez Bravo and Doris Heyden (Lopatkina 2017, 386). In December 1947 these pieces arrived in Moscow. The Mexicans assumed that the recipient of their donations would be the State Museum of New Western Art, but the Mexican gift was redirected to The All-Union Society for Cultural Relations (VOKS). At VOKS no one was prepared for the arrival of the artworks, and all the appertaining issues were raised and resolved after the fact. In order to reach a decision regarding the fate of the artworks, it was necessary to hold a discussion about them, but this was hampered due to everyone’s insistence that a list of the artists and “characterisations” of them be received first. Correspondence with the Mexican embassy in the USSR on the subject continued until January 1949. At the very end of 1949 a session of the Visual Arts Division of VOKS finally took place. Its chairman, Aleksandr Gerasimov, summarised the session’s conclusion as follows: “The Mexican paintings presented were formalist and surrealist in the method of their execution. Displaying them to the public was deemed impossible and the Visual Arts Division of VOKS proposed that the canvases be removed from their stretchers and handed over to the Pushkin Museum of Fine Arts for safekeeping. Let’s apologise to Pushkin, comrades!” (Lopatkina 2019, 84). The print collection from this collection of works

144 Katarina Lopatkina entered The Pushkin State Museum of Fine Arts in 1955. The fate of the rest of the donation still remains a mystery to this day, with one exception: Frida Kahlo’s The Wounded Table of 1940. Unlike the other works, Kahlo’s painting was periodically the object of official requests and subsequent correspondence and finally after her death in October 1954 Diego Rivera contacted the Soviet ambassador to Mexico with a request that he grant permission to display The Wounded Table at an exhibition of Mexican art in Warsaw in 1955. On 2 December 1954 the painting was shipped to Poland and since this time it is believed to have been lost.

The International Bureau of Revolutionary Artists In the early 1930s, the International Bureau of Revolutionary Artists (1930–1936) was established as one of the sections of the International Association of revolutionary writers (1925–1935), an organisation designed to unite the proletarian and revolutionary writers of the world. During the six years of its existence several exhibitions were held: collective exhibitions of the Bureau’s artists and the Association John Reed Club, as well as individual exhibitions of John Heartfield, Elios Gomez, Frantishek Bidlo and Albert Abramovich (Efros 1969, 610). The John Reed club (1929–1935) was an American Federation of leftist writers, artists, and intellectuals, named after the American journalist and activist John reed. The Association included such artists as Albert Abramovich, William Gropper, Eitaro Ishigaki, Louis Lozowik, Minna Harkavy, Fred Ellis, Mitchell Fields. Thanks to the Bureau works of John Reed Club artists in the USSR exhibited more often than others, they were shown at thematic, collective and personal exhibitions in various Soviet institutions from 1931 to 1936 almost continuously. The Bureau also ensured the presence of foreign artists at large jubilee exhibitions, such as “15 Years of the Red Army.” Mainly focusing on revolutionary art outlined in the name of the Association, the Bureau did not avoid contacts with bourgeois artists who were sympathetic to left-wing ideas. In 1933–1934, the Secretariat of the Buro corresponded with Ilya Ehrenburg, who lived in Paris, about the invitation of French artists to visit the USSR and participate in exhibitions – the candidacies of Maurice Vlaminck, André Derain, Amédé Ozanfan, Pablo Picasso, Fernand Leger, Paul Signac, Chaim Soutine were discussed. IBRH together with VOKS planned to show in Moscow in 1935 the exhibition “Bourgeois Masters of France,” but this project was never implemented. One of the most ambitious projects of The International Bureau of Revolutionary Artists was the individual exhibition of John Heartfield. German Communist Helmut Herzfeld, who took the English alias of John Heartfield in the late 1910s in protest against growing German military patriotic movement, actively contributed to various German left-wing satirical and political publications. Heartfield’s exhibition, jointly organised by The International Bureau of Revolutionary Artists, the Russian Association of proletarian artists (RAPH) and the Cooperative Union of Fine Arts Workers Vsekohudozhnik, was held from 20 November to 10 December 1931 in one of the first non-Museum exhibition spaces of the time – the former Passage of San Galli, owned by Vsekohudozhnik. Hartfield became the first foreign artist whose exhibition was held in the space of the former passage. Three exhibition halls with a total area of 400 square meters housed about 300 works – posters, book covers, photo montages for magazines. For Heartfield, this solo exhibition was a debut – he

Western Art Exhibitions in the USSR 145 never positioned himself as an artist and had never exhibited as such before (Gough 2009, 133–183).

The Art Affairs Committee The Art Affairs Committee started its work in January 1936 and was responsible for creating international exhibitions (The Art Affairs Committee was liquidated on 15 March 1953, and its functions were transferred to the Ministry of culture of the USSR). In 1937, the Committee organised two exhibitions: “Modern Belgian Art” and “Modern Czechoslovak art,” both in the halls of The State Museum of the Modern Western Art in Moscow and later in The State Hermitage Museum in Leningrad, which became the last major pre-war Western exhibition in the USSR. The direction of development of the exhibition policy of the Soviet state can be traced quite clearly: until the mid-1930s, most of the foreign exhibitions were organised on the personal initiative of artists or at the request of a particular association, but since the mid-1930s the trend had changed, and exhibitions were organised at the government level with the assistance of the Ministries of Education of the respective countries. It’s important to stress that the possibility of receiving works of the Western artists was available only to a few Soviet cities. Mostly they were held in Moscow, however some of the Moscow exhibitions then traveled to Leningrad, Kharkov, Kiev, Odessa, Baku, Тiflis/Tbilisi, and Yerevan, but the quantitative ratio was not in favor of the latter: in Moscow in the 1930s, about 40 individual and collective foreign exhibitions were shown, in Leningrad – eight, in other cities this number is five or less. Until 1933, most exhibitions of Western artists in the Soviet Union were mostly solo shows, of predominantly German artists. These were the exhibitions of “German Graphic Design” (1930), “The Bauhaus of Hannes Meyer” (1931), John Heartfield (1931), Heinrich Fogeler (1932), Käthe Kollwitz (1932), “Modern German Architecture” (1932), and Erich Borchert (1933). After 1933 exhibitions were mostly group shows and focused more on the national discourse than on individual themes, representing the art of Holland (1932), Poland (1933), Latvia (1934), Finland (1934), Estonia (1935), Belgium (1937), Czech Republic (1937), and Spain (1939). After the Second world war, continuing the pre-war series, the first exhibition of foreign art was “Art of Yugoslavia”, shown in Moscow and Leningrad (1947). In the late 1940s the fight against cosmopolitanism and formalism reduced international artistic contacts to a historical minimum. Gradually, even information about Western modernist artists became difficult to access. Only with the beginning of the process of de-Stalinisation did the situation began to change. The very first exhibition of the period was “Exhibition of French art of the XV–XX centuries from the collections of the museums of the USSR,” which opened in the fall of 1955 at The Pushkin State Museum of Fine Arts. For the first time in 15 years, paintings by Cezanne, van Gogh, Gauguin, Matisse and Picasso were publicly shown. More than two thousand exhibits, representing the evolution of French art from the 12th century to modernist painting, occupied almost the entire museum space; and later 56 rooms of the second and third floors of The State Hermitage Museum from April to November of 1956. The exhibition, which lasted for almost a year in two of the country’s largest museums, initiated a process of restoration of French modernist painting to its artistic rights.

146 Katarina Lopatkina In 1956, The State Hermitage Museum hosted 15 exhibitions. In the “Note to the State Hermitage report on the working plan for 1956,” it was mentioned that ten of them were not planned in advance. Seven of them showcased works of Western artists of the 20th century: “English art of XVI–XX centuries,” “Works of French art XII–XX century from the Soviet collections,” “Drawings, etchings and lithographs of contemporary artists of Italy,” “Belgian art of the late XIX–XX century. From Meunier to Permeke,” “Exhibition of works by Paul Cezanne. To the 50th anniversary of the artist’s death,” and “Exhibition of works by Picasso to the 70th anniversary of the artist.” Italian and Belgian exhibitions, as well as the exhibition of Cezanne, were not easy to work with for the Hermitage staff. They reported that “… thanks to the nature of the exhibits, which were mostly works of modern Western European art, unfamiliar to us, presentation was difficult, both in terms of their study and display, and in terms of educational work” (Matveev 2014, 231). Picasso’s exhibition, which opened on 24 October 1956 at The Pushkin State Museum of Fine Arts, and on 1 December 1956 at The State Hermitage Museum, triumphantly completed this series of the 20th-century art exhibitions. Most of the works stored in Moscow and Leningrad were exhibited, as well as 25 canvases, eight drawings and five ceramic dishes sent by the artist from France. Ilya Ehrenburg, a writer and chief Soviet coordinator of the show, added two drawings and 17 lithographs from his personal collection. There were no problems with the promotion of this exhibition. Artist Vladimir Slepyan recalled: “For two weeks, from early morning until closing, near the Pushkin Museum, a giant queue lined up – the police were forced to let people in in small groups, because those lucky few who entered the exhibition did not want to leave, and in the halls of the museum it was so packed one could hardly breathe. Across Moscow, young people gathered to discuss what they saw” (Kizevalter 2018, 131–132). Picasso’s exhibition and the new revelations that followed it – abstraction, forgotten experiments of avant-garde artists, became signs of a completely different time – the Thaw.

References Alyoshina, Lilya, and Nina Yаvorskaya. 1987. Iz istorii hudozhestvennoj zhizni SSSR: Internacional’nye svyazi v oblasti izobrazitel’nogo iskusstva, 1917–1940. Materialy i dokumenty. Moskva: Iskusstvo. Clark, Katerina. 2011. Moscow, the fourth Rome: Stalinism, cosmopolitanism, and the evolution of Soviet culture, 1931–1941. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press. David-Fox, Michael. 2012. Showcasing the Great Experiment: Cultural Diplomacy and Western Visitors to the Soviet Union, 1921–1941. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Efros, Nаtalia. 1969. “Mezhdunarodnoe byuro revolyucionnyh hudozhnikov: obzor” In Literaturnoe nasledstvo. T. 8. Iz istorii Mezhdunarodnogo obedineniya revolyucionnyh pisatelej, 605–622. Moskva: Nauka. Golubev, Alexander, and Vladimir Nevezhin. 2016. Formirovanie obraza Sovetskoi Rossii v okruzhayuschem mire sredstvami kul’turnoi diplomatii (1920-e – pervaya polovina 1940-h gg.). Moskva: IRI RAN; Centr gumanitarnyh iniciativ. Golubev, Alexander, and Vladimir Nevezhin. 2004. Vzglyad na zemlyu obetovannuyu: iz istorii sovetskoj kul’turnoj diplomatii, 1920–1930-h gody. Moskva: Institut rossijskoj istorii RAN. Gough, Maria. “Back in USSR. John Hartfield. Gustav Klucis and the Medium of Soviet Propaganda.” New German Critique. No. 107. Dada and Photomontage across Borders, 36, 2 (107). (Summer, 2009): 133–183.

Western Art Exhibitions in the USSR 147 Kizevalter, Georgii. 2018. Vremya nadezhd, vremya illyuzij. Problemy istorii sovetskogo neoficial’nogo iskusstva 1950–1960 gody. Stat’i i materialy. Moskva: Novoe literaturnoe obozrenie. Lopatkina, Katarina. 2017. “From Mexican artists to the Soviet State: the story of an unwanted gift” Studia Politica. Romanian Political Science Review XVII, no. 3: 379–397. Lopatkina, Katarina. 2019. Bastardy kul’turnyh svyazej. Internacional’nye hudozhestvennye kontakty SSSR v 1920–1950-e gody. Moskva: Muzej sovremennogo iskusstva “Garazh.” Matveev, Vladimir. 2014. Ermitazh «Uedinennyj», ili vystavochnaya mozaika. Materialy k istorii vystavochnoj deyatel’nosti muzeya: vystavki v Ermitazhe i v centrah Gosudarstvennogo Ermitazha. Sankt-Peterburg: Slaviya. Prignitz-Poda, Helga, and Katarina Lopatkina. “Frida Kahlo’s Lost Painting, The Wounded Table – A Mystery.” IFAR Journal, 18, no. 2&3, (December, 2017): 46–59. Smith, Stephanie J. 2017. The Power and Politics of Art in Postrevolutionary Mexico. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. Yavorskaya, Nina. 1978. K istorii mezhdunarodnyh svyazej gosudarstvennogo muzeya novogo zapadnogo iskusstva. Moskva: Sovetskij hudozhnik. Yavorskaya, Nina. 2012. Istoriya Gosudarstvennogo muzeya novogo zapadnogo iskusstva (Moskva). 1918–1948. Moskva: GMII im. A. S. Pushkina.

12 “The Lenin of Soviet Art Has Not Yet Been Born”: Nascent Socialist Realism in Warsaw of 1933 Irena Kossowska

This article discusses the exhibition of Soviet art organised in Warsaw in 1933, as seen through the lens of Polish art criticism. Due to a lack of detailed documentation, it is difficult to reconstruct the preparatory process and layout of the presentation. Nevertheless, a record of the artistic content thereof has been preserved in the ex­ hibition catalogue (Katalog wystawy sztuki sowieckiej 1933) and reviewers’ opi­ nions, both of which constitute meaningful material for a study of curatorial strategies and diverse idioms of the critical discourse in interwar Europe. A brief outline of the historical context, in which the Warsaw exposition took place, will allow us to better understand both the organisers’ intentions and the recipients’ at­ titudes. The trend that became significant in 1930s Europe was the effectively functioning circulation of art exhibitions of nation states – shows exemplifying the strategies of the cultural self-presentation of particular nations (Kossowska 2017, 67–318). International dissemination of these expositions depended, to a considerable ex­ tent, on political factors and the cultural policy of European states, reaching beyond national borders. The interwar decades were a time of searching for the roots of national identity and the idiosyncratic features of culture in the countries that were striving to establish or strengthen their position on the map of the continent, newly configured after the Great War.1 Organised by national agencies, export exhibitions and shows, which were mounted pursuant to bilateral and multilateral agreements concluded between countries, served to emphasise national distinctiveness, thus ful­ filling the role of cultural diplomacy. Paris, Vienna, Berlin, Brussels and Venice were not the only centres that were open to hosting presentations of the artistic output of other nations; Central and Eastern European metropolises, such as Warsaw, Prague, Budapest, Bucharest, Vilnius, Riga, Tallinn and Moscow, became the centres of ex­ change of the exhibitions arranged by the advocates of the national paradigm. Warsaw found itself at the core of self-promotional practices conducted by particular states in the eastern borderlands of the continent. The forum for the presentation of most of these expositions was the Instytut Propagandy Sztuki (IPS, Institute of Art Propaganda) in Warsaw, the major exhibition salon of the Second Republic of Poland.

Soviet Art in Warsaw The exhibition of Soviet art was inaugurated at IPS on 4 March 1933. The display featured 105 paintings, 9 sculptures and 133 drawings and prints. The exhibits were DOI: 10.4324/9781003265818-17

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brought from the 18th Biennale held in Venice in 1932. The proposal to show the exposition to the Polish audience was put forward by Boris Nikolaev, a representative of the All-Union Society for Cultural Relations with Foreign Countries (VOKS), es­ tablished in 1925 to coordinate cultural contacts between the USSR and the West and that was de facto an instrument of communist propaganda (David-Fox 2002, 7–32). Besides Niloaev, the organisation committee comprised Władysław Skoczylas (pro­ fessor of the Warsaw Academy of Fine Arts, co-founder of IPS and the former Director of the Department of Art at the Ministry of Confessions and Public Enlightenment) and Stanisław Woźnicki (Editor in Chief of the journal Południe (Noon) advocating the trend of neo-classicism in Vilnius). The exhibition did not occupy an important place on the state officials’ agenda, though (Bunikiewicz 1933, 8). The political situation in Poland was affected at the beginning of 1933 by the emerging diplomatic relations between the USSR and Nazi Germany (Słucz 2009, 27–31). The overriding objective of the foreign policy of the Second Republic of Poland was to maintain sovereignty, which was to be secured with the tactic of emphasising Poland’s neutrality in the international power play (Kamiński and Zacharias 1998). Warsaw’s stance on the inviolability of the country’s eastern border, provided for in the Treaty of Riga (1921) that ended the Polish-Soviet War, and Moscow’s fear that Poland would join the anti-Bolshevik policy of Western powers resulted in the signing of the Polish-Soviet Non-Aggression Pact on 25th July 1932 (Kamiński and Zacharias 1998, 103–126; Gregorowicz and Zacharias 1995, 51–52). Mutual relations between the signatories were to be improved by, among others, cultural initiatives that, at the same time, were carriers of propaganda meanings.2 The Warsaw exhibition enjoyed considerable interest among the audience3 who expected to see revolutionary, radically avant-garde art strictly connected with the socio-political Bolshevik overturn (Turowski 2004, 50–58). Instead, they were shown proletarian art4 that employed predominantly realist conventions of depiction to praise the greatness of the victorious communist regime. The exhibition was per­ ceived as an eulogy to the new socio-economic reality as well as to the dynamic process of the industrialisation and modernisation of the country. In order to explain this turning point in the artistic culture of the Soviet Union, critics referred to Igor Grabar’s article in which he quoted the words of Vladimir Lenin who postulated a return to traditional forms of representation. These words had the power of dogma: “We are too much of ‘destroyers’ in painting. Beauty must be kept and taken as an example, a foundation, even if it is ‘old’ […] I am not able to perceive the works of Expressionism, Futurism, Cubism and other ‘isms’ as supreme revelations of artistic genius. I do not understand them. I do not find any joy in them” (Grabar 1933; Husarski 1933, 229). While describing new tasks the communist regime expected an artist to perform, reviewers underlined the following passage from the introduction to the exhibition catalogue written by a collective author – Wszechzwiązkowe Stowarzyszenie Łączności Kulturalnej Z. S. R. R. z Zagranicą (VOKS): Art has faced the requirements of the only host of the country – the millions of working masses. […] In the Soviet state, art […] has received a great and serious social commission and become a necessary link in the general ideological work that developed all over the country […] there has arisen the need of a vivid, real

150 Irena Kossowska and, at the same time, strikingly social artwork. Painters took to the streets with the brush and paint. (VOKS 1933, 5–6) Despite the excitement generated among the audience confronted with the new paradigms of Soviet art, a vast majority of critics disapproved of the display at IPS (Winkler 1933a, 9; Sterling 1933, 6; Bunikiewicz 1933, 8; Strakun 1933, 12; Kleczyński 1933, 14). According to the commentators, the shape of the exhibition was determined by the totalitarian mega-machine put into operation pursuant to the Decree of the Central Committee of the All-Union Communist Party that, on 24th April 1932, dissolved all artistic groupings, associations and organisations to estab­ lish the Moscow Regional Union of Soviet Artists (James 1973, 120).5 The union of painters and sculptors was to play the role of the “ideological centre of the entirety of artistic life,” as postulated by the collective author of the introductory essay (VOKS 1933, 9). For the Polish reviewers, it became obvious that the year preceding the presentation in Warsaw clearly separated post-revolutionary art, whose avant-gardist experimentation co-created the socio-political breakthrough in the USSR, from Soviet art, which was based on the collectivisation of artistic activities and on codified thematic repertoire. The awareness of the in-depth ideologisation of Soviet art and the confrontation with the tenets of Socialist Realism6 provoked critics to expose the rhetoric used by communist ideologists. “Such art has not become profoundly permeated with the invigorating idea, but it has already possessed all bad facets of ‘servant art’, that is, it loses the virtues of form but does not replenish them with the virtues of idea,” was Mieczysław Sterling’s diagnosis of the current artistic phenomena in the USSR (Sterling 1933, 6). Similar to many proponents of the visual arts in Europe of the 1930s, Polish commentators did not doubt the purposefulness of state inter­ ventionism in the domain of culture (Chmielewska 2006, 34–38, 56–59, 115–121). Nevertheless, the degree of Soviet authorities’ interference in artistic issues aroused deep anxiety among them. According to them, morphological issues in Socialist Realist aesthetics - being in statu nascendi - became dominated with topics that were considered appropriate by the regime. Very few critics, such as Nela Samotyhowa and Tytus Czyżewski, believed in the objectivism of Soviet imagery, treating the artworks shown at IPS as representations of real life in the Soviet Union (Samotyhowa 1933, 270; Czyżewski 1933b, 19). However, according to other reviewers, the role of re­ flecting the socio-political reality of the USSR that was ascribed to art was postula­ tional in nature and falsified the real picture of everyday life of the working and peasant class (Bunikiewicz 1933, 8; Strakun 1933, 12; Kleczyński 1933, 14). In their understanding, the a priori specified role of art was to strengthen the persuasive and agitational efforts of the policy-makers. “In Russia, it [art – author’s note] became a tool of propaganda, art became a primer for ignorant masses, it was ripped-off inspiration, whereas artists were infused with the obligation to praise the new life not as it really is but as it should and could be had the Soviet regime been successfully implemented,” argued Witołd Bunikiewicz (Bunikiewicz 1935, 16). The essence of the instrumental treatment of artistic pro­ duction in the USSR was insightfully captured by Jan Kleczyński, who noticed that art had become an “auxiliary power of considerable significance, one of the wheels of the machine that was set in motion and moulded the human pulp mercilessly”

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(Kleczyński 1933, 14). A critic manifesting rightist sympathies, Leon Strakun, em­ phasised both the extreme ideologisation of the topics and the illustrative character of the artistic language. “Here, the formal pictorial features serve to promote commu­ nist ideology, or to visually render the a priori assumed or imposed theme, an ob­ viously revolutionary one,” concluded the reviewer (Strakun 1933, 12). Even the advocates of neo-realism in art, such as Tadeusz Pruszkowski, complained about the lack of emotional expression in the depiction of assigned motifs by Soviet artists (Pruszkowski 1934, 6).7 Most reviewers agreed that, in the Soviet Union, the artist paid the ultimate price for the opportunity to fulfil commissions from the state agencies – the price of artistic freedom. This is how Władysław Skoczylas described the contractual system com­ pulsory in the USSR: Artists are associated in one immense trade union, […] in some towns they share houses and […] they constantly carry out commissions from the state, factories, cooperatives and clubs. They are assigned studios and given materials on the basis of the needs voiced; groups of artists are often sent to certain industrial towns where they work on a contracted task. Allegedly, they can work on their own besides these public commissions, but the private consumer is almost nonexistent. Judging by the exhibits on display, painting materials are of very poor quality. (Skoczylas 1933b, 170) Nevertheless, Skoczylas, the main organiser of the Soviet exhibition on the part of IPS, also noticed positive aspects of the Soviet cultural policy: the scale of commis­ sions from state agencies was incomparable with the insignificant activity of the Polish government in the field of culture.8 Without treating the communist regime as an exemplar to follow, Skoczylas positively assessed the integration of state-oriented art with social life (Skoczylas 1933a, 3). Konrad Winkler also appreciated the re­ jection of the elitism of the visual arts in the USSR by making art available to the working class and involving it into the process of social transformation (Winkler 1936, 7). Thus, what was precisely the argumentation of the prevailing number of critics who negatively appraised the Soviet presentation?

Thematic Canon Several commentators found striking - apart from the ideological load of the material on display - the narrowness of the iconographic register demonstrated at IPS. A few thematic blocks can be distinguished on the basis of the reviewers’ opinions which would provide evidence to the thematic structuring of the display.9 Portraits of state dignitaries, party commissars and Stakhanovites were presented in a separate room (Aleksandr Deineka, Tkacz [Weaver]) (Strakun 1933, 12). Nevertheless, servile images of the nation’s leaders: Vladimir Lenin and Joseph Stalin were missing, an exception being the drawn portrait of Stalin by Issak Brodsky.10 The face of Lenin, the patron of industrial progress in the Soviet Union, depicted in the background of oil wells in the drypoint Azneft by Ignatiy Nivinskiy, was treated merely as an ac­ companiment to the main motif. One more artistic genre that was highly regarded by the ideologues of Communism

152 Irena Kossowska

Figure 12.1 Aleksandr Arkadjevic Labas, Imperialist Shark (The Anti-aircraft Defence), 1932, oil on canvas, 88 × 92 cms. Source: State Open-air Museum of History, Architecture and Art, Pskov/Bridgeman Images.

was not extensively presented at the exhibition – historical painting consisting of battle scenes from the period of October Revolution and the Russian Civil War (1917–1922). The motif of war was almost entirely monopolised by Aleksandr Labas with such works as Atak gazowy [Gas Attack] and Przeprawa na pontonach [Pontoon Bridge] (Figure 12.1). His Październik [October] series was supplemented with Wojna [War] painted by Aleksandr Deineka, the major bard of Communism (Kiaer 2005). The representation of the pantheon of revolution heroes also did not become a priority at the Warsaw exhibition even though this motif was present in Vasyl Kasiyan’s watercolour drawings (Bojownicy [Fighters]). In the perception of several Polish critics, the dominant topic of the exposition comprised the signs of the new “Soviet religion” – the cult of collective work for the state and the apotheosis of the machine: the crane, the tractor, or the seed drill – the technical achievements that stimulated the process of the country’s industrialisation (Samotyhowa 1933, 269; Winkler 1933b, 484). However, the apologetics for the working and peasant class was enclosed in a limited iconographic spectrum. Reviewers quoted the titles that persistently recurred in various variants: Zakłady metalurgiczne [Steel Plant], Wytwórnia cementu [Cement Factory], Wydobywanie soli [Salt Mining], Budowa dźwigu [Crane Construction]. The monotony of motifs was exemplified, among others, in the series of works by Victor Perelman: Likwidacja zastoju w cukrowni [Liquidation of Downtime in Sugar Refinery], Produkcja cukru [Sugar Production], W cukrowni [Sugar Refinery]. In order to emphasise the

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significance of the Bolsheviks’ civilisational achievements, the exhibition at IPS fea­ tured Dneprostroi (Dnieper Hydroelectric Station), an emblematic motif of Soviet art developed by Aleksei Kravchenko in three versions: as a woodcut, a copperplate and an etching. The thematic range of the artworks presented also encompassed a theme that was complementary to industry, namely representations of collective farming, kolkhozes and sovkhozes such as Amshey Nurenberg’s Kołchoz ‘Czerwony sztandar’ [‘Red Banner’ Kolkhoz] and Konstantin Vialov’s Szefowie kołchozu [Kolkhoz Leaders].11 The agricultural subject matter prevailed in the works of artists from Ukraine that was treated as the USSR farmland (Vasyl Sedlar, W kołchozie [In Kolkhoz]; Ivan Padalka, Sowchoz [Sovkhoz]). Anonymous images of the heroes of work and col­ lectivisation, pioneers, activists, and delegates to party assemblies were accompanied at IPS by portraits of athletes.12 The physical fitness and vigour of the builders of the communist regime were expressed in the representation of sports and sport-related competitions (Nikolai Nikonov, Zawody konno-narciarskie [Skiing and Equine Competition]) as well as in the images of male and female sport champions (Aleksey Pachomov, Pracownica w dziedzinie kultury fizycznej [Female Labourer in Physical Culture]).13 The depiction of enthusiastic work of laying the foundations of the new reality in the Soviet Union also contained scenes of education and eradication of illiteracy (Olga Yanovskaya, Likwidacja analfabetyzmu [Eradication of Illiteracy]). However, the significant participation of female artists in the exposition, who praised the political and social emancipation of the “new woman” in the communist system (Serafima Ryangina, Studentki na praktyce [Female Students’ Training]), remained unnoticed by the Warsaw critics. The set of exhibits for IPS was selected in such a manner as to illustrate the dis­ tribution of the civilisational achievements of Communism all over the USSR – in Russia, Ukraine, Georgia, Crimea, Armenia or Azerbaijan (Pavel Kuznetsov, Szyby naftowe w Baku [Oil Wells in Baku]) (Figure 12.2). However, the series of landscapes, which took a prominent place at the Warsaw exhibition, did not always depict industrial sites. The selection of landscapes by Vasily Rozhdestvensky, showing views of Tajikistan and Karelia, was meant to confirm the territorial vastness of the USSR and the geographical diversity of the republics annexed thereto.14 Moreover, the exhibition organisers strove to ensure that the exhibits should comprise images of “indigenous people” of various republics, demonstrating their involvement in the construction of the common communist state (Fedor Modorov, Pierwszy maja u Samojedów [May 1 at the Samoyeds]) and the implementation of the premises of Piatiletka (a five-year plan of the country’s eco­ nomic development) (Wallis 1933, 3).

A Search for a “Socialist Style of Proletarian Art” In the light of the declarations of Soviet ideologues, the issue of the style that would be appropriate for propaganda purposes and the form that would correspond with the perceptual capabilities of the proletariat was no less important than the topics addressed. “The question of artistic mastery became a priority on par with the social significance of the subject,” underscored the collective author of the introductory essay to the catalogue (VOKS 1933, 6–7). VOKS proclaimed the need to search for a “new monumental socialist style of proletarian art” (VOKS 1933, 10). Consequently,

154 Irena Kossowska

Figure 12.2 Pavel Varfolomeevich Kuznetsov, Processing Artik Tuff, 1930, oil on canvas. Credit: Private CollectionSputnik/Bridgeman Images.

Polish reviewers sought features of stylistic distinctiveness in the works displayed at the Warsaw exhibition. They were determined to discover whether the Soviet artist created an idiosyncratic interpretation of the communist regime (Podoski 1933a, 6). Critics immediately noticed that, despite the codified iconography, the plastic idioms employed by the Soviet artists were neither standardised nor free from foreign influences. They discerned the dependence of the exhibits on Western patterns, in­ dicating mainly French affiliations (Skoczylas 1933a; Winkler 1933b, 483; Czyżewski 1933a, 7). They realised that the search for a new socialist style did not erase the prerevolutionary impact on the artists of the older generation of a wide range of trends, from 19th-century French realism through Impressionism to Post-Impressionism.15 Even Stefania Zahorska, who was fascinated with the communist ideology, negatively assessed the self-awareness of Soviet painters who had not managed to create a visual paradigm that would be relevant to the dictatorship of the proletariat, oscillating between academic realism and Post-Impressionism (Piwowar 1935, 3). Tadeusz Pruszkowski, a proponent of neo-realism, also underlined the references to French art in the Soviet artistic production. “The art sent here by Russians was French art featuring its favourite textures,” wrote the displeased critic, who fought any emu­ lation of Post-Impressionism in Polish art (Pruszkowski 1934).

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The best exemplification of being embedded in Western European aesthetics was the painting of Pyotr Konchalovsky. During his many stays in France and Italy, the artist became enchanted with the landscapes of the South. Initially, his painterly approach was influenced by Vincent van Gogh and Paul Cézanne (Bird 1987, 197). The predominant genre in the vast collection of Konchalovsky’s works exhibited in Warsaw was landscape – views of Russia and Crimea as well as France and Italy. Chromatic intensity and rich texture in such paintings as Rynek rybny [The Fish Market] did not leave any doubt as to the origin of the attitude of Konchalovsky, who skillfully combined elements of modern artistic language with the affirmation of Soviet reality. Sketchy texture was also striking in the landscapes of Pavel Kuznetsov, painted from an elevated point of observation, and thus resembling Impressionist compositional patterns exemplary of Japonism (Budownictwo Armenii [Armenian Construction]).16 With its pictorial space resembling a stage set arrangement, and its accentuated compositional asymmetry, the painting Czerwoni marynarze [Red Sailors] by Konchalovsky exemplified the artistic syncretism which was peculiar to Post-Impressionism indebted to Japanese aesthetics. In another version of the motif of “red sailors,” Konstantin Vialov contrasted compact silhouettes of the seamen with an almost neutral surface of the water. The synthetism of Vialov’s pictorial language was of avant-garde origin. Taught at Vysshiye Khudozhestvenno-Tekhnicheskiye Masterskiye (VKhUTEMAS, Higher State Artistic and Technical Studios) by Vassily Kandinsky, Vladimir Tatlin and David Shterenberg, Vialov’s initial artistic experi­ mentation pertained to Constructivism and abstraction. Illustrating books, designing posters and stage sets in the 1920s, he created his own variant of modernised realism (Rosenfeld 2018, 24–30) (Figure 12.3). Apart from references to the vast trend of colourist painting, Warsaw reviewers did not overlook correspondences to Novecento Italiano and Neue Sachlichkeit, either (Wallis 1933, 3; Bunikiewicz 1933, 8; Strakun 1933, 12).17 They were intrigued by the magical aura evoked in the paintings of Aleksandr Deineka that connoted the poetics of Magic Realism. A graduate of VKhUTEMAS and a former avant-gardist, Deineka developed a unique idiom of figuration in the mature period of his work (Kiaer 2005, 323–345).18 His Dziewczynka na balkonie [Girl on the Balcony], re­ presenting a juvenile nude rendered in a classicising manner, emanates internal ten­ sion and eroticism. Still, Marxist critics treated the representations of female nudes in

Figure 12.3 Konstantin Aleksandrovich Vialov, Motorcycle Race, 1923–1925, oil on canvas, 88,5 × 283 cm. Credit: Tretyakov Gallery, Moscow, Russia/Bridgeman Images.

156 Irena Kossowska Deineka’s art as a depiction of morally and physically fit Soviet youth (Kiaer 2014, 56–77). The IPS galleries also featured works by Kuzma Petrov-Vodkin, an artist of Symbolist derivation (Luba 2004, 143–146). Trained by Valentin Serov and Isaac Levitan, not only did he perfectly master the drawing and pictorial techniques, but also developed his predilection for erotic subtexts, as reflected in the painting Kąpiące się [Bathing Women]. The idiom of figuration which was most often employed by Soviet artists akin to Western neo-classicists, was based on synthesised, sometimes even decorative plastic formulae. In Wytwórnia cementu [Cement Factory] by Yuri Pimenov both the ar­ chitectural segments in the foreground and the figures of workers gained a cardboardlike appearance analogous to the renderings achieved by some exponents of Novecento Italiano and Neue Sachlichkeit. Another exemplification of the adoption of the aesthetic norms peculiar to neoclassicist strands interwoven with neorealism was the painting Zbiór herbaty [Tea Picking] by David Shterenberg with its highly raised point of observation and simplified human silhouettes drawing upon early Renaissance models. A similar primitivist convention, minimising human figures seen from above, was used by the Armenian Martiros Sarian in his composition Roboty ziemne [Earthworks]. In the perception of Warsaw critics, the indebtedness of the plastic language em­ ployed by several Soviet artists to Western bourgeois models denied the search for a new, monumental socialist style as declared by VOKS. The adaptation of Western European trends for the purpose of art engaged in the communist cause was bitterly commented on by Wacław Husarski, who wrote: “The content of this art is, with few exceptions, definitely Soviet, whereas its form has been, so far, rather averagely European, Central European to be exact.” (Husarski 1933, 230)19. Karol Hiller, a constructivist promoting firm consolidation of art into social life, did not conceal his disappointment with the misappropriation of Soviet avant-garde ideals by the artists participating in the Warsaw exhibition. “I would like to even emphasise how inefficiently the seriousness of building of the USSR is reflected in the works presented,” he concluded (Hiller 1935, 2). “And it looks as if the whole im­ petus of modern art, which so strongly supported the revolutionary mission of the Soviets due to the importance of its plastic form, has not survived until the year this representative exhibition was shown,” Hiller aptly diagnosed the situation in the Soviet Union (Hiller 1935, 3). He was irritated with the dilettantism of the technique capabilities and the morphological traditionalism of the artists presented at IPS: It was not the subject matter of paintings or their orientation that were disconcerting – he realised – but the agreement of the exhibiting artists and some theoreticians of Soviet art as to the manner of representing contempor­ aneity, especially when they claimed that it was best to depict Soviet reality with the scarce resources of the trivial Naturalism of the Peredvizhniki of the turn of the previous century. (Hiller 1935, 3) On the other hand, some commentators suspected that it was the inability to identify with communist rule, particularly on the part of the older generation of artists, that resulted in the low artistic level and the lack of the expressive potential of the works displayed as well as in a deficit of technical perfection (Treter 1933b, 5).20

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“We understand […] that, from its point of view, Soviet art can consider delighting in the intricacies of technique inappropriate, but what it’s artists show in their works in this respect is […] sometimes sheer negligence,” complained Wiktor Podoski (Podoski 1933b, 5). The paintings on display were frequently criticised for being “poster-like”, which implied using a poorly modulated flattened colour patch closed with a contour, and a narrow range of chromatic tones applied against a neutral background; in other words: employing the visual language typical of propaganda graphic arts (Podoski 1933b, 5; Weinzieher 1933, 8; Treter 1933b, 5; Strakun 1933, 12).

Ideologisation of Aesthetics The majority of Warsaw reviewers noticed that it was in the domain of morphology that Soviet art failed most significantly. However, nobody denied that among the participants in the IPS exhibition there were talented professionals (Sterling 1933, 6; Weinzieher 1933, 8; Podoski 1933a, 6; Szczepański 1933, 6; Kleczyński 1933, 16). The names of Pyotr Konchalovsky, Aleksandr Deineka, Kuzma Petrov Vodkin, David Shterenberg, Martiros Sarian, Aleksei Kravchenko, Vladimir Favorsky and Rostislav Barto were mentioned with recognition. Władysław Skoczylas drew a very apt con­ clusion claiming that it was the imposed artistic formula – broadly-conceived realism – that translated into the low quality of artworks in the Soviet Union (Skoczylas 1933a, 3). Most critics realised that the tenets of Soviet aesthetics, depriving the artist of the right to individualism and self-expression, reduced art to utilitarian production (Skoczylas 1933b, 165–172; Treter 1933a, 8).21 “Soviet art did not create a formal equivalent of its new content, it did not provide us with any new and original form despite the fact the Russian Futurism and Expressionism were highly creative in the first years of the Red Revolution,” wrote Konrad Winkler (Winkler 1933b, 483). “Art was doomed to be a burnt offering” and “it was harnessed to the advertising cart of street propaganda,” maintained the critic (Winkler 1933b, 483). He under­ scored the paradox indicated by several commentators: it was the art of the time of revolutionary Russia: Cubo-Futurism, Constructivism, Productivism and Suprematism that created the idiosyncratic plastic idioms, whereas the extensive ideologisation of the visual arts in the USSR destroyed the artist’s inherent right to experimentation. The exhibition shown in Warsaw was prepared in the period when “formalists” – founders of the Proletkult organisation, which over the course of 1917–1932 was striving to educate and culturally activate the working class – were being eradicated from the Soviet art scene (Bennett 1986, 33; Mally 1990, 193–254; Rosenfeld 2018, 27–28).22 Various idioms of figurative art of Western provenance or affinity, in­ cluding critical realism, were gradually marginalised or expunged. In 1933, influential critic Adam Efros announced that the Soviet style had already become synonymous with Socialist Realism (Reid 2001, 154). The aesthetics of Socialist Realism estab­ lished the standard of a realism that idealised the surrounding socio-political reality and typified people and phenomena in order to illustrate the communist doctrine (Heller 1997, 51–75). The requirement to represent stabilised reality resulted from the assumption that all antagonisms and conflicts had been overcome in the Stalinist state (James 1973, 1–14; Gutkin 1999, 38–80; Kiaer 2005, 342). Some contemporary researchers emphasise the heterogeneous character of Soviet art of the 1920s and 1930s.23 This diversified – as they describe it – picture was

158 Irena Kossowska determined by the battle for dominance fought among the artistic factions and by the competition for art patronage observed among government agendas. The inner in­ consistency of the Socialist Realist aesthetics was also caused by the lack of con­ sequence in formulating top-down directives by administrative bodies and the deficiency of homogenous conceptual apparatus applied by Marxist critics. This formal diversity of the nascent Soviet style was noticed by Warsaw critics; however, their primary purpose was to capture the cultural distinctiveness of the Soviet Union by discerning artistic equivalents of the communist ideology. Konrad Winkler’s re­ mark: “The Lenin of Soviet art has not yet been born,” testified to the unfulfilled search for a style understood as an original formal and thematic unity expressive of the essence of the new regime (Winkler 1933a, 9).24 From the perspective of today’s historiography, the exhibition “Artists of the Russian Federation after Fifteen Years”, which was held in Leningrad and Moscow at the end of 1932 and the beginning of 1933, might serve as a major point of reference for the Warsaw presentation (Reid 2001, 155). On the one hand, the exposition proved that the avant-garde experimentation was extinguished, while, on the other hand, it revealed two antagonistic milieus: one referring to the tradition of Peredvizhniki and a faction of figurative art with Western affinities. Elements of both these segments of the art scene were included in the Warsaw show, yet in a way that neutralised the division that emerged. After all, the export exhibition was treated as a tool of “soft power”, which served to manifest the achievements of fully consolidated Communism internationally. Nevertheless, the strategy of promotion of the Soviet visual arts intertwined with political goals, adopted by VOKS did not convince the Polish critics. It can be con­ cluded that they rightly recognised the exhibition shown at IPS as a symptom of a breakthrough in the culture of the USSR – the replacement of the aspirations of Proletkult to revolutionise culture with aesthetics (though incoherent) glorifying stabilised Stalinism. In August 1934, Andrei Alexandrovich Zhdanov, the Secretary of the Central Committee of the Communist Party and Joseph Stalin’s right-hand associate, announced the doctrine of Socialist Realism at the First Congress of Soviet Writers in Moscow (Wood 1993, 321; Clark et al. 2007, 162–178). Sanctioned in 1936 by the Communist Party, the “campaign against Formalism and Naturalism” had a disastrous influence on the biographies of a plethora of Soviet artists (Silina 2016, 91, 97). Conducted within its framework, repressions affected not only “formalists” and artists “infected” with Western modernism (Clark et al. 2007, 229–230, 231; Dorontchekov 2009, 305–307), but also so-called naturalists, who were accused of representing the sociopolitical reality photographically, without capturing its sense that was compliant with the Marxist-Leninist ideology (Silina 2016, 97–100, 104). Exemplary of this offensive were the members of the Association of the Artists of Revolutionary Russia / Revolution, deeply involved in the building of Stalinism, the majority of whom were executed, imprisoned or discredited.

Notes 1 The major publications in this respect include: Willett 1984; Lucie-Smith 1985; Fer, Batchelor and Wood 1993; Golan 1995; Smith 1998; Stone 1998; Storr et al. 2000; Schmied 2001; Michaud 2004; Griffin 2007; Clair 2008; Geyer and Fitzpatrick 2008; Silver 2011.

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2 Within the framework of cultural exchange, the exhibition of Polish modern art was opened in the Tretyakov Gallery in Moscow on 12th November 1933 and in 1934 it was shown in Riga and Tallinn (Luba 2013, 153–170). 3 Władysław Skoczylas claimed that the total of visitors amounted to 20,000 (Skoczylas 1933b: 165); Włodarczyk 2004, 63–64. 4 The terms “proletarian art” and “proletarian realism” had been used in Soviet art-related literature since 1928 (Silina 2016, 95). As Aleksei Mikhailov claimed in 1932, proletarian art meant “proletarian content, a reflection of contemporary life from the point of view of the Marxist outlook” (cited after Rosenfeld 2018, 26–27). 5 The basic literature on Soviet art includes: Elliott 1986; Golomstock 1990; Günther 1990; Bown 1991; Taylor 1992; Groys 1992; Robin 1992; Elliott 1992; Bown and Taylor 1993; Lahusen and Dobrenko 1997; Bown 1998; Reid, 2001, 153–184; Ivanov 2007; Geyer and Fitzpatrick 2008; Ferré 2011; Bown et al. 2012. 6 The term “Socialist Realism” was first used in May 1932 in an article published in Litieraturna Gazieta (Bown 1991, 89). The norms of socialist art were set up by M. Bush and A. Zamoshkina in an article titled “The Path of Soviet Painting, 1917–1932” published in early 1933 (Rosenfeld 2018, 28). 7 A similar opinion was expressed in 1938 by Meyer Schapiro, an influential art historian of Marxist orientation (1999, 225). See also: Groys 2003, 109–11. 8 Skoczylas had an idealised picture of state patronage in the USSR, which in reality was dysfunctional (Reid 2001, 161–163). 9 While discussing Soviet exhibitions of the 1930s, Igor Golomstock presented a scheme based on such artistic genres as: “Soviet historical painting”, “Soviet portrait”, “Soviet genre painting” and “Soviet landscape” (Golomstock 1990, 216–217). Susan Reid in­ dicated that the exhibition Socialist Industry, which was initiated in 1935 but open as late as in March 1939 and which was of key importance for the Soviet art scene, was arranged thematically in 12 sections, from the October Revolution and the Russian Civil War, through the industrialisation of the country, to portraits of leaders and motifs of the emancipation of women, the modernisation of culture and satire of enemies (Reid 2001, 157–158). Yet, the material in the Warsaw exhibition catalogue was arranged in alpha­ betical order with artists’ last names classified in three disciplines: painting, graphic arts and sculpture. 10 Brodsky earned the reputation of an “artist with merits” owing to the numerous images of the leaders of the USSR, primarily to the iconic painting Vladimir Lenin in Smolny (1930) (Golomstock 1990, 230–231). 11 In time, the figure of peasant in Socialist Realist painting became the emblem of the native land, thus becoming more popular than the theme of industrial development. In the ico­ nography of the 1930s, the Soviet peasant used the tractor and the harvester instead of the plough and the sickle, consequently proving that technological progress did happen in the Soviet Union (Golomstock 1990, 255). 12 On the images of the new Soviet citizen see: Clark 1993, 33–50. 13 On the motif of physical regeneration of the “new man” in Socialist Realist iconography see: Laura Bossi 2008. 14 This question is analysed by Matthew Cullerne Bown in the chapter “Painting in the nonRussian republics” (Bown and Taylor 1993, 140–153). 15 Although they revealed kinship with Western modernism, certain idioms of figurative art were treated as an anticipation of Socialist Realist aesthetics by critics and authorities in the USSR of the late 1920s and the early 1930s (Bowlt 1982, 203–226). 16 On the significance of Impressionist tradition in the Soviet art of that period see: Hilton 2007, 202–203. 17 Contemporary research confirms the well-grounded knowledge of New Objectivity in the Soviet artistic circles (Silina 2016, 95). 18 Kiaer maintains that, involved in the building of the new regime, the artist willingly abandoned Constructivist aesthetics for figuration. Moreover, she extrapolates Deineka’s views onto other Soviet artists, claiming they were not deprived of the opportunity of free development. Nevertheless, she does not provide any documentation and facts about them (Kiaer 2005, 321, 325, 327, 328).

160 Irena Kossowska 19 The juxtaposition with Central European art evidenced Husarski’s conviction about the mostly French- and Italian-oriented character of the artistic production in the region. 20 Not all adherents of the communist ideology were convinced by the way of exercising power in the USSR in the early 1930. Moreover, many artists who derived from the avantgarde circles that were educated in the Proletkult era revealed a lack of technical skills when executing large-scale narrative compositions in the realist convention (Reid 2001, 164–165). 21 Some Marxist critics, such as Anatoly Lunacharsky, remarked on the low artistic quality of Soviet realist painting already in the 1920s (Silina, 2016, 94–95). American sculptor Emma Lu Davis was surprised with the lack of aesthetic qualities of the Socialist Realist pro­ duction despite her admiration for the state patronage she witnessed during her scholarship in the USSR in 1936 (Kiaer 2005, 344–345). 22 The term “formalism” acquired a pejorative meaning in the speech delivered by Osip Beskin, a prominent art critic, who addressed members of the Moscow Union of Soviet Artists in 1933. As of then, it became synonymous with modernism and Western European bourgeois art (Silina 2016, 94). 23 The most important publications in this respect include: Bown and Taylor 1993, 1–160; Castillo 1997, 102–103; Reid 2001, 154, 160–161; Kiaer 2005, 331–335; Lucento 2015, 401–428; Silina 2016, 93. 24 The inquisitiveness as to the national specificity of the presented artworks was typical of the critical discourse of the 1930s. An example of this may be the 13th International Congress of the History of Art held in Stockholm in 1933, which recognised the study of the “na­ tional character” of the art of particular countries as a priority for historiography (Bakoš 2013, 192).

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13 From Hanoi and Havana to Paris and New York: Czecho-Slovak Cultural-Diplomatic Exhibitions during the Cold War Mária Orišková This study examines the various formats of international exhibitions, and in par­ ticular how cultural exchange was conducted between the Czechoslovak Socialist Republic (hereafter CSSR) and the world during the Cold War, where exhibitions were sent, and with what purpose. The aim is to contribute to critical reflection on communist culture and to focus attention on issues of the politicisation and na­ tionalisation of art by means of state-produced exhibitions, and beyond that, the hidden economic interests of the Czechoslovak state and the entire Eastern bloc. Apart from the direct political implications (in terms of the politico-historical framework, conceived as bipolar, of the Cold War), I could not avoid consideration of how exhibition projects were bound up with the dominant art historical nar­ ratives. After World War II, irrespective of the social order, “national” exhibitions were universally predominant, and in the form of international travelling exhibi­ tions they were often one of the forms of media which effectively promoted the idea of the nation-state. Granted that there were two nations in one state in the CSSR, nonetheless the idea of Czechoslovakism (deriving from the First Czecho-Slovak Republic 1918–1938) continued unimpeded in the form of a Czechoslovak art. However, parallel to this was also a viable idea of independent Czech and Slovak art, and hence exhibitions conceived in that spirit. In the Soviet communist bloc, the expounded narrative of socialist internationalism took its point of departure from the unquestionable reality of national art. Undoubtedly, both the exhibitions of national art and the national art history were constructs which oversimplified art and facilitated its use or indeed abuse for various purposes. In certain instances, the exhibitions of national art became mere cloaks for other activities, or ultimately served to mask aggressive deeds. My primary aim will be to discuss state-sponsored cultural-diplomatic exhibi­ tions and the contradictions which have accompanied them to this day. Since the fall of the Berlin Wall, little attention has been devoted to these official state ex­ hibitions in Czechoslovakia, as if they had not been part of our communist past. One must, therefore, mention several projects in the past two to three years which have addressed these issues. In particular, there is the exhibition and publication project Budování státu. Reprezentace Československa v umění, architektuře a de­ signu (Building the State. Representations of Czechoslovakia in Art, Architecture and Design, 2015); furthermore, Art Beyond Borders. Artistic Exchange in Communist Europe 1945–1989, a publication by Bazin et al. (2016). A point which I regard as essential is that the authors cast doubt on the total isolation of countries behind the Iron Curtain, and “…they find clues about exchanges with other DOI: 10.4324/9781003265818-18

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countries—exchanges with other people’s democracies but also relations with the western democracies (with their official environments and the sympathisers of the communist cause)” (Bazin et al. 2016, 2). The introduction also recalls Martin Warnke’s provocative speech in 1995 about art in the GDR, where he wondered if artists from the socialist republic had a broader experience of the world than their Western counterparts (Warnke 1994, 40–47). Whether “Central and Eastern Europe appears to be a privileged terrain of the geography of art” (Bazin et al. 2016, 2) may be a subject of debate. However, from an archival mapping about communist Czechoslovakia’s official international exhibitions, it is truly surprising what a wide-ranging exchange there was at that time between Czechoslovakia and the rest of the world. Hence, it may seem that the concept of isolationism has no validity here. Nonetheless, I believe that this question needs to be more thoroughly researched. That is to say, the terrain of the geography of East European art was notably mutable and dependent on the politics of individual states, and equally on the specific changes which occurred in East–West relations during the 1945–1989 period. It is particularly striking how the official geography of art literally copied the political relationships between the CSSR and USSR and between the USSR and the USA, and furthermore the relationships of these two great powers to the former colonies. At the same time, one must note that apart from the brief period of liberalisation in Czechoslovakia in the 1960s, cultural contacts did not imply an absolutely free direct exchange between artists and curators. A closer examination of official international exhibitions shows that the refer­ ential frame for the production of exhibitions (export and import) consisted of the “geography of the bloc.” As historians have pointed out, the formation of the bloc can already be traced while World War II was in progress, when various treaties of alliance, involving friendship and cooperation, were concluded with the USSR and among individual countries. The Soviet Union was by then a Great Power, which not only supervised but actually intervened in discussions about treaties of alliance involving the states of East-Central and Southeastern Europe (Štefanský and Michálek 2015, 30). Let us remember also that on the USSR’s side what had greatest significance was the Czechoslovak-Soviet agreement of 1945 about ship­ ments of uranium ore from Czechoslovakia, which was the basic raw material for the Soviet atomic bomb. Strategic military significance, as an important component of the politics of the bloc, takes pride of place here. Power relationships therefore cannot be regarded as marginal: on the contrary, it is through the prism of power relationships that one must necessarily view the existing geography of art. As we shall see later on, it is essential to understand that in certain periods the network of cultural relationships, though at first sight liberal or indeed global, was sub­ ordinated, directly serving the propaganda of the bloc with its military and eco­ nomic interests. One may state categorically that throughout the Cold War the geography of the bloc was not static but expansive, growing accordingly as various countries attached themselves to the communist bloc (or at least became sym­ pathisers). These were mainly states which had freed themselves from colonial rule and gradually became part of the West or East’s spheres of influence. The East–West political dichotomy was thus geographically extended to various parts of the world, and in the field of cultural exchange also one can trace new, unexpected alliances.

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Exotic Communist Vietnam and the Exhibition of “Czechoslovak Visual Art” in Hanoi, 1956 The exhibition of “Czechoslovak Visual Art” in Hanoi in 1956 may serve as an example of intercultural contacts in the 1950s. This was one of the first foreign exhibitions staged during the years of expiring Stalinism. No catalogue was published, but the official Czech art newspaper Výtvarná práce published an ex­ tensive text entitled An Exhibition of Our Art in Hanoi (Diviš 1956, 12). The official, state significance of the exhibition was evidenced by a photograph of President Ho Chi Minh, representatives of the Czechoslovak diplomatic corps and the official Czechoslovak cultural delegation in the exhibition spaces. Notable, however, is the fact that the aforementioned text refers only very briefly to the concept of the exhibition or the exhibited works. One could read it rather as travel writing: the text first describes the train journey from Prague to Moscow, then through all of Asia including China, as far as distant Vietnam. In a chapter en­ titled Encountering the Tropics Vladimír Diviš, author of the article and organiser of the exhibition, makes detailed reference to all of the knowledge he has freshly acquired: He enthuses about tropical and subtropical Nature, the landscape, the fruit, the mode of life, etc. Although the curator’s journey to the distant tropics is accompanied also by fear of the unknown, he expresses the view that one can believe only the truthful information from Soviet sources, whereas other sources of information are to be regarded as false or as products of capitalist advertising (Diviš 1956, 12). Vietnam as a country of the Far East is presented as a geo­ graphically remote and exotic country, but despite that, for the Czech art critic it is not entirely alien. The concept of “the exotic that is not alien” (Slobodník and Pirický 2003, 8), because there is an identical (communist) social order, is typical of the expanding geography of the bloc. Questions of intercultural dialogue using an art exhibition afterwards acquire specific outlines, where what is involved is not an exchange of entirely different values but rather of ideological closeness. Or: Past cultural otherness and current communist co-belonging may share space under one umbrella. This travel account eventually uncovers the common denominator of cultural cooperation between Czechoslovakia and Vietnam: realistic art. During that period, the Soviet doctrine of socialist realism was slowly receding and preference was given to an art of various social realisms as a comprehensible universal language, which everywhere fulfilled the role of mediator, including in the Southeast Asian setting. The article notes that “the painting of China and Vietnam is realistic in all its wide traditional range.” A variety of realisms, thus, made it possible to integrate new (including exotic) countries into the geography of the bloc. What the report does not mention, however, is that in 1956 (the very time of the Czechoslovak exhibition) Vietnam was officially divided along the 17th parallel into two ideologically separated parts, North (VDR) and South Vietnam. From 1956, China, USSR and CSSR began providing VDR with military and economic aid, while the USA helped South Vietnam (Štefanský and Michálek 2015, 270). It is clear that this exhibition was an instrument of cultural diplomacy and played a role in the wider ideological conflict of the Cold War.

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The Iron Curtain Lifted: “L’art Ancien en Tchécoslovaquie” in Paris, 1957 Also part of our communist past, with all its intellectual, artistic and political complexity, are the exhibitions in western centres of art, of which Paris is un­ questionably one. Thus, in the 1950s, almost parallel to the exhibition in Hanoi, we can observe another event: “L’art ancien en Tchécoslovaquie” in the Paris Louvre (Musée des Arts Décoratifs), held in 1957. This was a large exhibition of originals (and a number of copies) of altar frame paintings, sculptures, craft works and Czech crown jewels from the 14th and early 15th centuries, drawn from the holdings of the National Gallery in Prague and the Slovak National Gallery in Bratislava. The curators of the national galleries extended the medieval range with a kind of “overture” of selected objects and models of the Great Moravian chur­ ches, so as to present the “antiquity” of our culture, or whatever is meant by the phrase “a long artistic tradition” (Novotný et al. 1957). Probably no one would describe this exhibition as propagandistic. However, it was held as an official exhibition on the basis of an international cultural agreement and financed by the Ministry of Culture, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and the Czechoslovak Embassy in Paris. The category of exhibition to which it belongs may be regarded as a “national treasure show”: that is to say, its aim is to affirm the cultural past of the country or advanced nation, using masterpieces which are thought of as national. It is understandable that at the given time the importance of this exhibition for Czechoslovakia might have been considerable, because it was a re­ affirmation of recognition of Czech and Slovak culture by Paris and its firm con­ nection with the culture of (western) Europe. Not only commissioned expert texts but also the high-level French press laid emphasis on “the unity of culture between East and West.” André Chastel in Le Monde actually wrote that “one end of the Iron Curtain has been lifted” and “the awe-inspiring greatness of Czechoslovak art” had been revealed (see in Peterajová 1957, 3). Contemporary postnational sensibility, however, induces a critical attitude and goes beyond the affective ties of nation, national identity and national heritage. The Paris exhibition referred to was in its own way a proud boast and an act of ac­ knowledgement, not only in the affirmation of Czech and Slovak Gothic as national schools, but especially in that here Czech Gothic was not derived from German but rather from French (Hoffmeister 1957, 1). In the words of the curators, then, this exhibition showed an art that was not epigonal but original, presenting its highest, independent national values: as such it was literally called a treasure. Certainly, treasure shows are favourite exhibition formats to this day. Brian Wallis has aptly called them “intricate and multilayered engines of global diplomacy de­ signed to sell the nation’s image” (Wallis 1994, 266). The national agenda, in the form of a survey exhibition as a condensed and edited national history, was naturally prepared for foreign consumption in the West, and this “repackaging” from the 1950s demonstrated that Czechoslovakia historically belonged to western culture, even if at present it was part of the Soviet bloc. During the period of communism, the format of the survey exhibition of national masterpieces was used repeatedly, and thus an almost identical model was produced entitled “Tradiciones y Arte Moderno de Checoslovaquia” in Mexico in 1968, in the Pushkin Museum in Moscow and in

168 Mária Orišková the Hermitage in Leningrad in 1971, and in the Grand Palais in Paris in 1975 entitled “Dix siècles d’art Tchéque et Slovaque.”

Revolution, Guns and Art: “El Arte Eslovaco Contemporáneo” in Havana, 1964 As of the early 1960s, the situation began to change. This changing picture did not mean, however, that exhibitions were now entirely without politico-economic con­ nections. Rather, one might describe the situation as follows: “New alliances, some of them with China, Latin America or the Arab world, built unexpected bridges. The ideological war shifted from Europe to the Third World, to cultural contexts where ‘modern states’ still had to be created, especially in Asia and Africa. Culture and the arts evolved along with economic interests. The bourgeois democracies exported a postcolonial paternalism, whereas communist countries endeavored to incorporate the independence struggles into a formal internationalist “ideology” (Bazin et al. 2016, 3–4) (Figure 13.1). “El Arte Eslovaco Contemporáneo,” an exhibition held in Havana in 1964, is one example of this situation. The concept of the exhibition, clarified in the catalogue text, was based on works which addressed the theme of the Slovak National Uprising and the struggle against fascism, with the assumption that these were common themes linking the Slovak and Cuban peoples (Gandl 1964). Cuba was conceived in the first instance as revolutionary Cuba, and therefore the Slovak exhibition set it as an aim to present works with a revolutionary ethos represented by the Slovak National

Figure 13.1 “El Arte Eslovaco Contemporáneo,” Havana, 1964 (exhibition catalogue cover).

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Uprising. The most fitting designation for this exhibition is certainly a “panorama” of official art in Slovakia as it was then, or what was called “socialist modernism” (Bazin et al. 2016, 15). By the mid-1960s, however, this art, which was altogether dependent on communist iconography, was in many ways exhausted. Despite this, it was shipped to the countries of the socialist bloc as an affirmation of a common line. Like socialist realism in the 1950s, socialist modernism in the 1960s and 1970s be­ came an instrument for the homogenisation of “socialist culture.” Cuba became part of the expanding geography of the bloc from 1960, though the Soviet Union had been supporting Castro since 1959, the moment when Cuba nationalised the USA’s refineries. The tense relations between the USA and USSR climaxed in 1962, when the Soviets began siting rockets in Cuba and the world found itself on the brink of nuclear catastrophe. At that time, Czechoslovakia began intensively developing relations with Cuba: in 1960, a Czechoslovak Embassy was established in Havana, and Czechoslovakia forged an economic agreement with Cuba and a military agreement on the supply of “special materials” (weapons). In that same year, Fidel Castro and Che Guevara visited Czechoslovakia and engaged in talks about co­ operation and loans. Apart from the aforementioned exhibition, many others were exported to Cuba from the 1960s to the 1980s.

The Prague Spring and Exhibitions of National Modern Art in Western Europe From the mid-1960s, there was a gradual build-up to an intensive circulation of exhibitions of Czech and Slovak art in Western Europe. Many of them were exchange and travelling exhibitions—e.g. from its collections the Slovak National Gallery prepared an exhibition of “Contemporary Czechoslovak Art,” which travelled across Western Europe well into the 1970s. A similar production was “Actual Grabado Eslovaco/Contemporary Slovak Graphics,” which travelled through Latin America states including Cuba and Mexico, but also went to India and Canada. The 1960s also saw the appearance of a specific model of the international ex­ hibition, represented by “Paris-Prague 1906–1930. Les Braque et Picasso de Prague et leur contemporains tchéques” at the Musée nationale d’art moderne in Paris in 1966. While the specialised concept of the exhibition was devised by the curators of the National Gallery Prague, the principal credit for its production belonged to Adolf Hoffmeister, the Czech ambassador in Paris, a writer, visual artist and organiser of cultural life. The 1966 exhibition was a reiterated affirmation of the cultural links between Prague and Paris, as the title itself testified. Unquestionably Paris was the Mecca of art during the first half of the 20th century and there was a long-term continuity in its relations with Prague. Hoffmeister liked to stress the concept of the dialogue of modern art, whether in the form of exhibitions or art collections (especially the Vincenc Kramář’s private collection of French cubism, which later became an important component of the National Gallery Prague col­ lections). In this instance, the concept of mutual friendship between two artistic centres – Hoffmeister also called it “joined vessels” ̶ did not have an ideological character: It existed rather on the level of mutual cultural cooperation, trans­ cending the purely official plane (Figure 13.2). “Paris-Prague,” like the following year’s exhibition of “Cubist Art from Czechoslovakia” (Tate Gallery London, 1967), represented an attempt to find

170 Mária Orišková

Figure 13.2 “Paris-Prague 1906–1930. Les Braque et Picasso de Prague et leur contemporains tchéques”, Musée nationale d´art moderne, Paris, 1966 (exhibition view published in the catalogue).

connecting points between the Western canon of art history and an interpretation of the art of the Central European region. Czech cubism was gradually becoming a “brand” (and article of export) and many Czech art historians staked their fortunes on it, from the 1960s to the 1990s. The curatorial concept of exhibiting the National Gallery collection, where a specifically nationally understood cubism (Beneš, Čapek, Filla, Gutfreund, Kubišta, Procházka, Špála, Zrzavý, Gočár, Hofman, Chochol and Janák) was exhibited together with works by Picasso, Braque and others, represented an attempt to return Czech art to the cultural map of Europe (Dorival et al. 1966).

Cultural Diplomacy and “Modern Treasures from the National Gallery in Prague” in the Guggenheim Museum, New York, 1988 The National Gallery in Prague maintained continuity until the end of the 1980s in its concept of exhibiting collections of French and Czech avantgarde art internationally. The director Jiří Kotalík, often characterised as a man “with organisational capacities and diplomatic adroitness” or “a successful cultural ambassador in both West and East” (Jaskmanický 1995, 17, 22), managed to balance the Western-orientated exhibition policy with exhibitions in communist countries, which were the first priority in the NG’s exhibition plans. In the field of international exhibitions, Kotalík was exceptionally active: It was he who coined the thesis of “art history in action” (Figure 13.3).

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Figure 13.3 “Modern Treasures from the National Gallery in Prague,” Guggenheim Museum, New York, 1988 (exhibition catalogue cover).

In 1988, as a kind of reciprocation for “Modern Art Treasures from the Collections of the Guggenheim Foundation” curated by Thomas Messer in Prague, the Czechoslovak exhibition “Modern Treasures from the National Gallery in Prague” curated by Kotalík was displayed at the Guggenheim Museum. The exhibitions ran almost simultaneously and both focused on modern masterpieces: the Guggenheim collection concentrated on European modern masters and Jackson Pollock, whereas the Prague National Gallery’s New York exhibition introduced modern European masters, including Czechs, who were little known in the United States. Even though the Czech exhibition in Guggenheim was received with mixed feelings, in Czechoslovakia (according to media coverage), both exhibitions, and the exchange between New York and Prague, were considered highly successful. Needless to say, on the one hand, the exhibition concept was too classical and hardly challenging for the New York public in the 1980s. On the other hand, in Czechoslovakia, the cur­ atorial concept based on established great modern masters represented exactly the diplomatic attitude of “not provoking” the Communist authorities. However, for a curated exhibition, it was not provocative enough. The changing ideological atmo­ sphere at the Cold War’s end, plus transformations in the globalised art scene, were already signalling radical shifts and the development of a different kind of interna­ tional collaboration and cultural circulation. Exhibitions of treasures or highlights of a collection assuredly were no critical innovations but, on the contrary, residual cultural elements that derived from a grand tradition. Yet despite the not very

172 Mária Orišková progressive curatorial format, travelling exhibitions that came from the United States to Eastern Europe during the period of Perestroika were extremely popular, and they opened up a transatlantic cultural dialogue on a threshold of the new era.

Concluding Remarks At the beginning of my essay, I posited a thesis of the multifarious nature of inter­ national exchange. With some simplification, one may say that in the period studied (1956–1988), there were at least two types of official or cultural-diplomatic inter­ national exhibitions: 1

2

Official exhibitions as an accompaniment and “decoration” of economic, commercial and military activities of the state, often as part of the wider political agenda of the Soviet bloc. These exhibitions had a propagandistic character, even if the curators and artists were not always aware of this. Czechoslovak art (on the basis of state exhibition commissions which came to the galleries, museums and Union of Artists from the Ministry of Culture and the Ministry of Foreign Affairs) circulated even to remote exotic destinations. Of their propagandist aims, and equally their political timing, there is not the slightest doubt. Official exhibitions of national art, extending the cultural prestige of the country and developing a certain independence from Moscow. One may say that the more curators of these exhibitions wished to free themselves from Soviet ideological dominance, the more they stressed the specific national character of the exhibited artworks. Thereby, they unquestionably created, and for a long time maintained, a concept of the national history of art which on the one hand emphasised the uniqueness of Czech and Slovak art, while on the other hand there were attempts to find points of connection between the Western canon and the East-Central European region. Mythologisation of a pure national manner or style was not, however, the happiest of solutions, especially as applied not only to older art but even to avant-garde art before Czechoslovakia existed. To speak of Czech and Slovak Gothic, or Czech cubism, meant applying a construction retrospectively, perhaps also pragma­ tically from the standpoint of current needs. Paradoxically, this concept did not integrate the art of Czechoslovakia into an international context: on the contrary, it created an effect of geographical separatism on the principle of nationality. Explicit proofs of this paradox are, above all, the exhibitions of the collections of modern art in the National Gallery in Prague, where not only the catalogue texts but the installations themselves (see Fig. 13.2) demonstrated the separate existence of “world” art and “domestic” national art (as a kind of center-periphery model). The art historical and exhibiting criteria did not examine relationships between works or extend their context. Quite the contrary, they directed attention to tried-and-trusted masterworks set in a static, closed system. Since the meaning and value we give art objects depends largely on the narrative structures within which we place them, Czechoslovak art has played at best a marginal role in the art historical narratives. Even if on numerous occasions, in various reviews, Czechoslovak art was described as unique or magnificent, that could only be a formal act, or an act of solidarity of the western countries with Czechoslovakia under Soviet domination.

From Hanoi and Havana to Paris and New York

173

References Bazin, Jérôme Bazin, Pascal Dubourg-Glatigny, and Piotr Piotrowski. 2016. Art Beyond Borders. Artistic Exchange in Communist Europe 1945–1989. Budapest-New York: CEU Press. Diviš, Vladimír. 1956. “Naše umění v Hanoi.” (Our Art in Hanoi). Výtvarná práce 5, no. 6: 12. Dorival, Bernard, Adolf Hoffmeister, Miroslav Lamač, and Jaromír Zemina. 1966. ParisPrague 1906–1930. Les Braque et Picasso de Prague et leur contemporaines tchéques. Exhibition catalogue. Paris: Musée National d’Art Moderne. Gandl, Ladislav. 1964. El arte eslovaco contemporáneo. Exhibition catalogue. La Habana, Bratislava: Zväz slovenských výtvarných umelcov. Hoffmeister, Adolf. 1957. “Československé umění v Paříži.” (Czechoslovak Art in Paris). Výtvarná práce 6, no. 13: 1. Jaskmanický, Jiří. 1995. Historik umění Jiří Kotalík (The Art Historian Jiří Kotalík). Praha: Galerie PAIDEIA. Kotalík, Jiří. 1988. Modern Treasures from the National Gallery in Prague. Exhibition cata­ logue. New York: Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum. Novotný, Vladimír, Albert Kutal, and Karol Vaculík. 1957. L’Art Ancien en Tchécoslovaquie. Exhibition catalogue. Paris: Musée des Arts Décoratifs. Peterajová, Ľudmila. 1957. “Kultúrny čin nedozierneho významu.” (A Cultural Feat of Incalculable Importance) Kultúrny život XII, no. 31: 3. Slobodník, Martin, and Gabriel Pirický. 2003. Fascinácia a (ne)poznanie: Kultúrne strety Západu a Východu (Fascination and (non-)Knowledge. Cultural Encounters of West and East). Bratislava: Chronos. Štefanský, Michal, and Slavomír Michálek. 2015. Míľniky studenej vojny a ich vplyv na Československo (Cold War Landmarks and Their Impact on Czechoslovakia). Bratislava: SAV-Veda. Vaculík, Karol. 1957. “Parížska výstava českej a slovenskej gotiky.” (The Paris Exhibition of Czech and Slovak Gothic). Výtvarný život 1–10: 176. Wallis, Brian. 1994. “Selling Nations: International Exhibitions and Cultural Diplomacy.” In Museum Culture: Histories, Discourses, Spectacles, edited by Daniel J. Sherman and Irit Rogoff, 265–281. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Warnke, Martin. 1994. “Gibt es den DDR-Künstler?.” In Auf der Suche nach dem verlorenen Staat. Die Kunst der Parteien und Massenorganisationen der DDR, edited by Monika Flake, 40–47. Berlin: Ars Nicolai.

14 1956. Old Masters and the Ephemeral Borders 1 Patricia García-Montón González

There is something arbitrary in all divisions of history, in the geographical perhaps even more than in the chronological. Oskar Halecki, The Limits and Divisions of European History (1950)

Few artists generate today as much expectation as Rembrandt. We are seeing it this year on the occasion of the 350th anniversary of his death. However, this interest in the Dutch painter is not a phenomenon of just our time. As early as 1910, the American collector, Henry Clay Frick, did not hesitate to purchase from Count Tarnowski one of the most emblematic Rembrandt’s masterpieces – The Polish Rider, which had belonged to Stanisław II Poniatowski. The fate of the only Rembrandt that the Museo del Prado possesses was markedly different. Bought by Carlos III, still belongs –in a manner of speaking– to the royal collections. And yet, both purchases have something very important in common, which is the influence of the art historical canon that we could describe as omnipresent in the history of two last centuries and that has also had a relevant impact on cultural diplomacy. To offer a recent example, let us remember the exhibition “Old Masters from the Hermitage. Masterpieces from Botticelli to Van Dyck,” held last summer in Vienna in order to celebrate 50 years of the gas supply agreement between the former Soviet Union and Austria. In this regard, it is worth pointing out that it was during the Cold War when the Old Masters’ exhibitions phenomenon soared, and these events started to function more than ever as a barometer of the international rela­ tions, according to the dominant geopolitics of that time.

European Art, a Controversial Label During that period, the Council of Europe began to organize its European art ex­ hibitions. What interests us the most is the third one, “Il Seicento europeo” (1956–57) (Marabottini and Salerno 1968), organized on the occasion of the Treaties of Rome, despite the fact that it aroused a significant amount of criticism because it reopened the terminological and geographical debate about the Baroque2; that is, it questioned what was Baroque and if a European baroque existed. At the same time, it pointed towards a new geographical dimension in historiography: a new history addressing an artistic European identity beyond the construction of national art histories (Nicolson 1961, 3; Metayer 2012, 59–61). However, if until that moment the art historical narrative, constrained by centuries, political geographies, national con­ sciousness, and formal styles, had been distorted, was it possible to gather all this art DOI: 10.4324/9781003265818-19

1956. Old Masters and the Ephemeral Borders 175 of such diverse personality under a broader cultural entity? The success of these exhibitions did not mean that discussion of “European art” was no longer a con­ troversial label.3 In any case, the main goal of this exhibition was to promote the unity of Western Europe. In other words, it sought to end with extreme nationalism and win the ideological fight against the Soviet Union. Hence, “Il Seicento europeo” was a con­ solidation of this new multilateral action of the cultural policy stemming from the Council of Europe. This is another reason why it was widely criticized4, not only for using art as a political and ideological tool, but for doing so poorly. For this reason, the Italian art historian Roberto Longhi underlined, for example, the absence of the painter Michael Willmann, known as “the Silesian Rembrandt” (Longhi 1957, 42–43). Why did the German curator exclude art from East Germany, which also included Silesia in the 17th century, if in that century all these territories were part of the Holy Roman Empire? Well, because after the Yalta Conference they were part of the new German Democratic Republic, while Silesia had joined the Polish People’s Republic. Obviously, this geographical anachronism was determined by the system of power during the 1950s. The same thing would happen paradoxically almost 40 years later in the exhibition “Europa, Europa. Das Jahrhundert der Avantgarde in Mittel- und Osteuropa” (1994), about the avant-garde in East-Central Europe during the Cold War, but in the opposite direction: East Germany was not included, as was denounced by Piotr Piotrowski (Piotrowski 2009, 17–20). Therefore, looking back to 1957, when the Italian painter Paolo Ricci wrote in Rinascita, the Italian Communist Party cultural magazine, that this exhibition left Poland, Hungary, Czechoslovakia, or Austria in the category of “nations-that-do-not-make-history”, he was somehow right (Ricci 1957, 37). The problem was that the Council of Europe exhibitions were renewing the European narrative, although maintaining a vertical, hegemonic and now suprana­ tional discourse. And, as Max Beloff pointed out, when applying this discourse to the European painting history it could put into question the frailty of borders (Beloff 1957, 108). Perhaps it is at this point, we should question why practically no one has ever wondered (at least in Western Europe) about the Old Masters’ exhibitions which took place on the other side of the Iron Curtain. Maybe we should transgress tra­ ditional discourse and write a history from centre to centre, transnational, about those exhibitions (Piotrowski 2009a, 14–16; Piotrowski 2009b, 53–58).

Dismantling Some Myths In this sense, the exhibitions held at the Muzeum Narodowe of Warsaw allows us to better understand the cultural exchanges that functioned in this period, as Polish specialists made an outstanding effort in “initiating relations with the West” through exhibitions, as Longhi underlined (Longhi 1969, 18). Such initiatives were possible thanks to the director, Stanisław Lorentz, who decided it was time that the museum focused on fulfilling its own tasks (Masłowska 2002, 57; Lorentz 1999, 9–13) and to the chief curator of the European Painting Collection, Jan Białostocki5, who extra­ ordinarily revitalised the museum’s international relations with his presence in in­ stitutions “of both worlds” and strived for “promoting wisely our common culture, but without forgetting his roots”, according to Chastel (Chastel 1991, 91–92)6.

176 Patricia García-Montón González In 1956, a fundamental year for the Eastern bloc (in Poland, because of the Poznań protests and Gomulka’s thaw in October), three exhibitions about Western art took place at the Muzeum Narodowe of Warsaw – three exhibitions that, compared to those celebrated during Stalinism, sought to undermine the East-West borders. There would be more exhibitions later. Nevertheless, it was in this year when art lovers, as the Polish painter Ignacy Witz wrote, felt a sense of renewal (Witz 1972, 83), because the old European masters westernized the museum. The first exhibition featured Rembrandt and his contemporaries on the 350th anniversary of the birth of the Dutch painter (Walicki et al. 1956). According to Witz, it generated great expectations because Poland was not a country where the works of the first league masters abounded. However, the most shocking room was that with twelve large photographs of his paintings, which had previously belonged to Poland (Figure 14.1); including The Polish Rider, one of the most painful losses because it was sold despite the protests of the public opinion (Witz 1972, 83–84; Chudzikowski 1958, 423–424). This installation, firstly, appealed to national sentiment in a delicate moment of the history of this country. Secondly, it strove to demonstrate that Poland, in matters of taste, was within the same cultural frame of reference as Western Europe. Even though “geographically Poland belongs and always has belonged to the East”, as Davies stated, “in every other sense, its strongest links have been with the West”. Consequently, “Poland’s Westernism is fundamental and compulsive” (Davies 2001, 300–303) facing an East, represented by Russia, with which it usually has not been identified. Lastly, this room and the entire exhibition were an example

Figure 14.1 View of the room with photographic reproductions of Rembrandt paintings that belonged to Polish collections at the exhibition Rembrandt i jego krąg (1956). Source: Rocznik Muzeum Narodowego w Warszawie, no. 3 (1958).

1956. Old Masters and the Ephemeral Borders 177 of its ambitions for being worthy of the circuits of that Western culture – that is, to play in the “first division” where the great museums played, celebrating the Old Masters anniversaries too, according to canonical art history –the Western one–, instead of questioning it. It was most likely for this reason that the magazine Szpilki satirized this installation (Masłowska 2002, 172) In fact, its absences were filled with contributions from other “friendly” museums such as the Szépművészeti Múzeum of Budapest, the Národní Galerie in Prague, the Staatliches Museum in Schwerin in the GDR and, of course, the Hermitage. It had not been the most important exhibition of that year, admitted the German-Dutch art historian Horst Gerson, but Polish col­ leagues deserved applause for having gathered “under such difficult conditions” en­ ough material to offer a true overview of Dutch art (Gerson 1956, 280). The next exhibition of Old Masters held at the Muzeum Narodowe of Warsaw in 1956 was devoted to the Venetian portrait (Valcanover 1956) and it opened during the spring, as the Italian Minister of Education Paolo Rossi had suggested7. All paintings came from Italy and important Italian art historians, such as Fiocco or Pallucchini, were involved in its preparations. The exhibition was the Italian gov­ ernment’s response after the success of the Bellotto and Gierymski’ exhibition held in Venice one year before (Lorentz and Kozakiewicz 1955), which had marked the beginning of this cultural exchange programme between Italy and Poland8. In fact, the official proposal, made in 1955, had been enthusiastically welcomed by Lorentz and Juliusz Starzyński, director of the State Institute of Art9. As a complement, an additional exhibition on Italian painting of the 17th and 18th centuries in the Polish collections was organized in the museum’s rooms (Białostocki 1956). This constituted proof that Polish historians wanted to be at the forefront of Western historiography, which was reevaluating the Seicento painting during those years. Both exhibitions closed in May and few weeks later the last Western Masters’ exhibition of 1956 opened. This exhibition was dedicated to French painting from David to Cézanne (Bazin et al. 1956) and curated by Germain Bazin, who personally travelled to Warsaw for the opening. Charles Sterling, Michel Florisoone and André Chastel were also invited to Poland at Lorentz’s suggestion (Figure 14.2). In addition, the Association of Art Historians invited Bernard Champigneulle, while the Polish Committee for Cultural Cooperation with Foreign Countries proposed Brianchon, Pignon, Oudot and Martin10. However, some days after the exhibition’s opening, Stanisław Gajewski, the Polish ambassador to France, drew attention to the fact that the French contingent had downplayed its political aspect. Although they had ac­ cepted the invitation, no official attended. The artists literally withdrew at the last moment, making use of very weak arguments. Moreover, the French press did not reproduce the official statement provided by the AFP. For a while, Gajewski assumed that the whole thing had been halted by the Quai d’Orsay11, even though an agreement for the exchange of major painting exhibitions had been agreed a year earlier12. In any case, the list of loans was extraordinary, especially those from the Musée du Louvre. At the explicit request of the Polish curators, the Louvre sent Liberty Leading the People by Delacroix (Lorentz 1991, 11–13), an icon of the French Revolution that graced the cover of the catalogue and seemed to invoke the remembrance of the poet Krystyna Krahelska, the young woman who had served as a model for the Mermaid on the Vistula and who had died during the Warsaw Uprising in 1944. The monu­ ment, however, survived, becoming a symbol of the resistance.

178 Patricia García-Montón González

Figure 14.2 Stefan Kozakiewicz, Michel Florisoone, Michał Walicki, Germain Bazin, Władysław Tomkiewicz, André Chastel, Charles Sterling and Stanisław Lorentz at the main entrance of the Radziwiłł Palace in Nieborów, 1956. Bibliothèque de l’Institut national d’histoire de l’art, collections Jacques Doucet, Archives 090, 076, 06. All rights reserved.

We might ask, at this point, if these exhibitions were a strategy of Westernization or if, on the contrary, the Muzeum Narodowe of Warsaw was an institution with a considerable power of attraction. These cultural exchanges are often interpreted as a relationship of inequality, in which we already imagine who loses. It is the problem of a history of museums written in the West and toured through the names of the Louvre –erected in the European museum par excellence–, the Prado, the Rijksmuseum, or the National Gallery – to the point where, after the fall of Communism, the ex­ hibition activity of Polish museums continued to imitate “Western models” (exhibi­ tions with masterpieces of world-renowned artists) for achieving the same popularity (Mazan 2011, 679–80). However, the scientific and exhibition activity of the Warsaw Museum was incessant and ambitious after 1945 and vertiginous in 1956. There was much interest in living up to what was happening on the other side, in overcoming an artificial wall, threatened inevitably by the existence of a common heritage (Figure 14.3). These historians found in art a sphere where they could rebuild their identity. Perhaps we should remind ourselves that many exhibitions were sent from Warsaw to the Western bloc. For these, there were two models: the classical one about treasures of Polish art and the one that was the most repeated: the Bellotto’s vedute. Why Bellotto? Because he had painted the most European and cosmopolitan Warsaw that played an important role in the Western stage of Enlightenment Europe. In addition, it was thanks to these vedute that Poles were rebuilding their capital

1956. Old Masters and the Ephemeral Borders 179

Figure 14.3 Stanisław Lorentz, director of the Muzeum Narodowe w Warszawie, staring at self-portrait of Rembrandt, workshop copy, at the painter’s exhibition in 1956. Source: Przeszłość przyszłości…: Księga Pamiątkowa ku czci Profesora Stanisława Lorentza w setną rocznicę urodzin, Warsaw: Muzeum Narodowe w Warszawie; Zamek Królewski w Warszawie, 1999.

(Kozakiewicz 1968, 83–87). Let us remember, as Faraldo has underlined, that the word odbudowa assumed a special meaning at that moment, not only as economical and material reconstruction, but as “a reaction against the vandalism of the Nazis and their attempt to delete representative elements of Polish history and culture”, that is, reconstruction as a requirement of the national self-identity (Faraldo 2001, 609–611). An exhibition is never neutral and even less so in a context of tension such as the Cold War. Thus, why were all these exhibitions organized? Was it not an aspiration to be “just like the West” (Piotrowski 2009a, 12)? Yes and no because, besides the desire of establishing cultural ties with the West, there was also a patriotic feeling that we can appreciate in the exhibitions of Polish art that the museum organized or sent to the Western bloc or the United States. In conclusion, they were building their identity in different directions, and, above all, they attempted to demonstrate on which side they were. In addition, in the case of those countries located in the centre of Europe their claim to a distinctive identity, its “central Europeanness” (although, to be more exact, we should talk about East-Central Europe, as Halecki proposed) (Halecki 1950, 105–141), was based on not being confused with other places further east, guaranteeing them a place on the “good” side of that division (Judt 2011, 45–83). That is why they bet on a transnational discourse, which undermined the Iron Curtain from the Soviet bloc itself. In the end, Eastern Europe was a political construction. Thus, there was nothing wrong with disassembling it.

180 Patricia García-Montón González If we take a leap forward in time, this desire of westernism was extrapolated to Poland’s membership in the Council of Europe in 1991 as well as its application to join the European Union. However, its admission in the EU, among other nine new member states, did not become effective until 2004, marking a historic Eastern enlargement of the EU (Fusi 2003, 269–270). Therefore, this decision was not “a consequence of a recent conversion to the idea of European unity”, as Lane and Wolański have stated, because “Poland’s links to Western Europe are deeply rooted in history and culture”. That is why “the Poles’ ideas on the future of Europe and Poland’s place in it were vigorously debated” after the outbreak of the Second World War (Lane and Wolański 2009, 1). However, if we read through the programme of the Hermitage and the Pushkin State Museum of Fine Arts during the 50s, we will discover that an exhibition about Rembrandt, another about French painting, as well as another about Italian Baroque painting in Russian collections were held in both museums. The Soviet Union, of course, was aware of the path undertaken by the European Communities. Hence, all these exhibitions could have been an instrument to counteract the “conspiracy” of the West by using the same means. In any case, what concerns us is the demonstration that cultural diplomacy at that time was much more complex than we suppose.

History and Geography in Flux There is no doubt that Rome and Warsaw in 1956 are a great starting point for studying the Old Masters’ exhibitions during the Cold War, because they represented an epochal change in the European exhibitions dynamic. They were pioneers in playing with fictional and ephemeral borders, questioning national art histories and the ideological background from both blocs. Thus, it is necessary to start drawing a wider map of this horizontal history and writing a new geography –dismantling some myths, if only to construct others. Because there were times when certain Europeanist expressions made headway, as we have seen for example in Poland, and this “cultural heritage belongs to the history of European unification too, and it should be analysed, valued and, of course, narrated” (Faraldo 2004, 218). That is why I would like to conclude with a current episode related to European history after World War II, the world of museums and the fascinating universe of identities. If experience has shown that organizing an exhibition focused on the ex­ istence of a European identity has been controversial, what could it mean to design a museum on purpose? That is exactly what the Belgium artist Thomas Bellinck tried to figure out in 2013 with his installation-performance Domo de Eŭropa Historio en Ekzilo. But let us step back just to 2017, when this museum opened its doors under the name of the House of European History13. As we can imagine, the criticisms did not take long to appear. The most talked-about critique came from the Polish Culture and National Heritage Minister, Piotr Gliński, of the ruling ultra-conservative party Prawo i Sprawiedliwość (PiS), who wrote quite outraged to the European Parliament President, because in his opinion this museum distorted historical truth, because Poland, France and Ukraine were “presented as states and nations complicit in the Holocaust”, Pope John Paul II “was not mentioned at all” or Józef Piłsudski “was falsely portrayed as a fascist”14. Only one person, who had initially been part of the HEH Academic Committee, reflected on these complaints. I refer to Norman Davies. “I think the mistake we make”, stated Davies, “is that national history was a very

1956. Old Masters and the Ephemeral Borders 181 central subject of concern in the 19th and 20th centuries” (Davies 2018)15. Therefore, events and words that invite us to rethink the ways in which the sense of time and the construction of identity always problematize the telling of history. This museum appears to have been a failed attempt to present a history of Europe, perhaps for privileging a pan-European approach (or its aspiration to Europeanize it (Correa Martín-Arroyo 2014, 11–12)) and the reminiscence of what Davies called the Allied scheme of history (Davies 1996, 39–42). However, let us not forget the harsh criticism of Judt to Davies precisely for blaming “the western imagination” and for holding on to that idea of the Allied myth in his Europe. A history (1996) in order to conceal his pro-Polish bias (Judt 2015, 47–64). The point is that European unity was, besides a political ideal, a historical imperative, caused by the discredit of nationalism and the exhaustion of war. Nevertheless, although its launch seemed to relieve the tensions of the Europe of nations, giving way to a supranational Europe of the common institutions, the fact is that national (and regional) realities continued to exist (Fusi 2003, 237–261). Thus, as Judt wrote, we cannot forget that Europe will always be unique “in the intensity of its internal differences and contrasts”, besides “more than a geographical notion” (Judt 2005, xiii; Judt 2015, 46). In any case, it is not our intention to take one particular side, nor even assess the validity of this project. What interests us, like Bellinck with his dystopian installation or Davies and Judt with their invitation to be opened to the realities that coexisted (and coexist) in contemporary Europe, is to show how the supposed existence of a European identity was not just a problem of seventy years ago16; nor will it cease to be. We have discussed a period whose narrative continues to be under construction. Thus, this topic will continue to be a matter of lively debates in the museum, a space in constant negotiation with reality, and in History, a discipline always subject to the relativity of the moment in which we write.

Notes 1 Conducting this research was possible thanks to a FPU Doctoral Fellowship from the Spanish Ministry of Education, Culture and Sports, and a PROM Grant from the Tadeusz Manteuffel Institute of History, Polish Academy of Sciences (IH PAN) and the Polish National Agency for Academic Exchange (NAWA). The subject of this paper has been partly addressed before in the author’s article “Europa y el Barroco por los viejos caminos de la unidad.” Locus Amoenus, n. 16 (2018), 273–295. 2 See Białostocki 1958, 12–36; Kaufmann 2011, 83–98. 3 See Rampley 2012, 233–240. 4 See Longhi 1957; Voss 1957; Brandi 1957; Francastel 1957, 222; Francastel 1964, 1; Longhi 1969, 18–23. 5 For his international training and academic career up to that date, see Archiwum Akt Nowych (AAN, Archive of New Records, Warsaw), Ministerstwo Edukacji Narodowej, 2/8249, Jan Białostocki, Życiorys i charakterystyka działalności naukowej, 25 XII 1956. 6 See Bałus 2012, 446. 7 AAN, Komitet Współpracy Kulturalnej z Zagranicą (KWKZ, Committee for Cultural Cooperation with Foreign Countries), 1.2/30, Wyciągi korespondencyjne Nr 14577 z Rzymu, 23 VIII 1955; Wyciągi korespondencyjne Nr 15940 z Rzymu, 24 IX 1955. 8 AAN, KWKZ, 1.2/29, Wyciągi korespondencyjne Nr 611 z Rzymu, 1 II 1955; Nr 431 z Rzymu, 10 VIII 1955; 6.1/272, Notatka z otwarcia wystawy Canaletto - Gierymski w Wenecji, 1955. 9 AAN, KWKZ, 1.2/30, Wyciągi korespondencyjne Nr 16538 z Rzymu, 26 IX 1955. 10 AAN, KWKZ, 1.2/32, Wyciąg korespondencyjny Nr 10428 z Paryża, 7 VI 1956.

182 Patricia García-Montón González 11 12 13 14

AAN, KWKZ, 1.2/30, Wyciąg korespondencyjny Nr 16299 z Paryża, 22 IX 1955. AAN, KWKZ, 1.2/32, Wyciąg korespondencyjny Nr 11352 z Paryża, 19 VI 1956. See Kaiser et al. 2014, 113–153; Hilmar 2016. Letter from Piotr Gliński to Antonio Tajani, President of the European Parliament, 2017, October 6. Accessed October 14, 2018. http://www.mkidn.gov.pl/pages/posts/wystawanarusza-prawde-historyczna-ndash-list-wicepremiera-glinskiego-7769.php 15 See Snyder 2018, 75–77. 16 See Castells 2018, 181–193.

References Bałus, Wojciech. 2012. “A marginalized tradition? Polish Art History.” In Art History and Visual Studies in Europe. Transnational Discourses and National Frameworks, edited by Matthew Rampley et al., 439–449. Leiden; Boston: Brill. Bazin, Germain et al. ed. 1956. Malarstwo Francuskie od Davida do Cézanne’a: 15 czerwca 31 lipca 1956: Muzeum Narodowe w Warszawie. Exhibition catalogue. Warsaw: Wydawnictwo Sztuka. Beloff, Max. 1957. Europe and the Europeans: An International Discussion. London: Chatto & Windus. Białostocki, Jan ed. 1956. Wystawa Malarstwo Włoskie w zbiorach polskich XVII–XVIII w.: Warszawa: 15 kwietnia - 31 maja: 1956: Muzeum Narodowe w Warszawie. Exhibition catalogue. Warsaw: Wydawnictwo Sztuka. Białostocki, Jan ed. 1958. “Barok. Styl - epoka - postawa.” Biuletyn Historii Sztuki 20, no. 1: 12–36. Brandi, Cesare. 1957. “Il problema delle esposizione.” Ulisse 5, no. 27: 1383–1391. Castells, Manuel. 2018. “The Achilles heel: the ambivalent identity of Europe.” In Europe’s Crises, edited by Manuel Castells, 178–195. Cambridge: Polity Press. Chastel, André. 1991. “Mort de l’historien d’art Jan Białostocki. Un maître de l’iconologie.” Rocznik Muzeum Narodowego w Warszawie, no. 35: 91–92. Chudzikowski, Andrzej. 1958. “Wystawa Rembrandtowska w Muzeum Narodowym w Warszawie.” Rocznik Muzeum Narodowego w Warszawie, no. 3: 417–458. Correa Martín-Arroyo, Pedro. 2014. ‘Histoeuropeanisation’: Challenges and implications of (re)writing the history of Europe ‘europeanly’: 1989–2015. Warsaw: College of Europe Natolin Campus. Davies, Norman. 1996. Europe: A History. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996. Davies, Norman. 2001. Heart of Europe: The Past in Poland’s Present. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Davies, Norman. 2018. “The Impossible task of presenting the past: History and Museums,” filmed 2018, June 25 at The House of European History, Brussels. Video. Accessed October14, 2018. https://historia-europa.ep.eu/en/file/norman-davies-lecture Faraldo, José M. 2001. “Medieval Socialist Artifacts: Architecture and Discourses of National Identity in Provincial Poland, 1945-1960.” Nationalities Papers 29, no. 4 (December): 605–632. Faraldo, José M. 2004. “Imaginar Europa. Concepciones de Europa en la Europa Centrooriental durante el periodo socialista: una aproximación.” Cuadernos constitucionales de la Cátedra Fadrique Furió Ceriol, no. 45–46: 211–218. Francastel, Pierre. 1957. “Baroque et classique: une civilisation.” Annales. Économies, Sociétés, Civilisations 12, no. 2: 207–222. Francastel, Pierre. 1964. “Poussin et l’homme historique.” Annales. Économies, Sociétés, Civilisations 19, no. 1: 1–18. Fusi, Juan Pablo. 2015. La patria lejana: El nacionalismo en el siglo XX. Madrid: Taurus. Gerson, Horst. 1956. “Rembrandt in Poland.” The Burlington Magazine 98, no. 641 (August): 280–283.

1956. Old Masters and the Ephemeral Borders 183 Halecki, Oskar. 1950. The Limits and Divisions of European History. London; NewYork: Sheed & Ward. Hilmar, Till. 2016. “Narrating Unity at the European Union’s New History Museum: A Cultural-Process Approach to the Study of Collective Memory.” European Journal of Sociology 57, no. 2 (August): 297–329. 10.1017/S0003975616000114 Judt, Tony. 2005. Postwar: A History of Europe Since 1945. New York: Penguin. Judt, Tony. 2011. A Grand Illusion? An Essay on Europe. New York; London: New York University Press. Judt, Tony. 2015. When the Facts Change: Essays, 1995–2010. New York: Penguin. Kaiser, Wolfram, Stefan Krankenhagen, and Kerstin Poehls. 2014. Exhibiting Europe in Museums: Transnational Networks, Collections, Narratives, and Representations. New York; Oxford: Berghan Books. Kaufmann, Thomas. 2011. “Discomfited by the baroque. A personal journey.” In Rethinking the Baroque, edited by Helen Hills, 83–98. Farnham: Ashgate. Kozakiewicz, Stefan. 1968. “Bellotto et l’art polonais.” Bulletin du Musée National de Varsovie 9, no. 3–4: 73–87. Lane, Thomas and Wolański, Marian S. 2009. Poland and European Integration: The Ideas and Movements of Polish Exiles in the West, 1939–91. Hampshire: Palgrave MacMillan. Longhi, Roberto. 1957. “Un’antologia alla rovescia.” L’Europeo, January 20, 1957, 42–43. Longhi, Roberto. 1969. “Mostre e musei (un avvertimento del 1959).” Paragone 20, no. 235: 3–23. Lorentz, Stanisław. 1991. “[In memoriam Jan Białostocki].” Rocznik Muzeum Narodowego w Warszawie, no. 35: 11–13. Lorentz, Stanisław. 1999. “Filozofia muzeów.” [1960] In Przeszłość przyszłości…: Księga Pamiątkowa ku czci Profesora Stanisława Lorentza w setną rocznicę urodzin, edited by Andrzej Rottermund, Dorota Folga-Januszewska and Ewa Micke-Broniarek, 9–23. Warsaw: Muzeum Narodowe w Warszawie; Zamek Królewski w Warszawie. Lorentz, Stanisław and Kozakiewicz, Stefan. 1955. Mostra di Bernardo Bellotto, 1720–1780. Alessandro Gierymski, 1850–1901. Opere provenienti dalla Polonia. Exhibition catalogue. Venezia, Milano: Alfieri. Marabottini, Alessandro and Salerno, Luigi ed. 1968. Il Seicento Europeo: realismo, classi­ cismo, barocco: mostra organizzata dal Ministero italiano della P.I. sotto gli auspici del Consiglio d’europa, Palazzo delle esposizioni, Roma, dicembre 1956 - gennaio 1957. Exhibition catalogue. Roma: De Luca. Masłowska, Anna. 2002. Kronika wystaw Muzeum Narodowego w Warszawie 1862–2002: Chronicle of Exhibitions at the National Museum in Warsaw 1862–2002. Vol. 1, 1862–1962. Warsaw: Muzeum Narodowe. Mazan, Kazimierz. 2011. “National museums in Poland.” In Building National Museums in Europe 1750-2010: Conference Proceedings from EuNaMus, European National Museums: Identity Politics, the Uses of the Past and the European Citizen, edited by Peter Aronsson and Gabriella Elgenius, 667–687. Linköping: Linköping University Electronic Press. http:// www.ep.liu.se/ecp_home/index.en.aspx?issue=064 Metayer, Myriam. 2012. Panoramas de l’art moderne: Manuels et synthèses en Italie et France (1950–1970). Rennes: Presses Universitaires. Nicolson, Benedict. 1961. “Council of Europe’ Exhibitions.” The Burlington Magazine 103, no. 694 (January): 3. Piotrowski, Piotr. 2009a. In the Shadow of Yalta: Art and the Avant-garde in Eastern Europe, 1945–1989. London: Reaktion Books. Piotrowski, Piotr. 2009b. “Toward a Horizontal History of the European Avant-Garde”. In Europa! Europa? The Avant-Garde, Modernism and the Fate of a Continent, edited by Sascha Bru et al., 49–58. Berlin: De Gruyter.

184 Patricia García-Montón González Rampley, Matthew. 2012. “The Construction of National Art Histories and the ‘New’ Europe”. In Art History and Visual Studies in Europe: Transnational Discourses and National Frameworks, edited by Matthew Rampley et al., 231–248. Leiden; Boston: Brill. Ricci, Paolo. 1957. “L’arte del Seicento in balia dell’U. E. O.” Rinascita 14, no. 1–2: 37–41. Snyder, Timothy. 2018. The Road to Unfreedom: Russia, Europe, America. New York: Tim Duggan Books. Valcanover, Francesco ed. 1956. Portret wenecki od Tycjana do Tiepola: Muzeum Narodowe w Warszawie: 15 kwiecień - 30 maj 1956. Warsaw: Wydawnictwo Sztuka, 1956. Exhibition catalog. Voss, Hermann. 1957. “La ‘Mostra del Seicento Europeo’ a Roma.” Paragone 8, no. 89: 56–64. Walicki, Michał et al. ed. 1956. Rembrandt i jego krąg: 15 marca - 30 kwietnia 1956: Muzeum Narodowe w Warszawie. Warsaw: Wydawnictwo Sztuka. Exhibition catalog. Witz, Ignacy. 1972. Przechadzki po warszawskich wystawach. 1945–1968. Warsaw: Państwowy Instytut Wydawniczy.

15 Somewhere Something Pavlína Morganová

I would like to devote this contribution to a single event, the exhibition “Někde něco” [Somewhere Something] that took place at the Galerie Václava Špály in Prague in 1969. This was exactly one year after the Soviet invasion, an event that marked a turning point in Czech history. I choose this exhibition not only because it was an outstanding event in its own right, but because it serves as a symbolic point of in­ tersection of the peaks and troughs of Czech art at the time. It is one of the most radical exhibitions of the sixties, and yet a portent of the way that gallery doors would be closed to progressive art at the start of the seventies. The exhibition was curated by Jiří Padrta and featured the work of four very different but equally out­ standing personalities comprising two married couples: Jiří Kolář, Běla Kolářová, Zorka Ságlová and Jan Ságl. These four artists both articulated their reactions to the latest tendencies and deliberately set out to interrogate the very boundaries of what had hitherto been deemed art. In a highly original way they explored an aesthetic landscape that included not only Duchamp’s conceptualism, but also pop art, en­ vironmental art and happenings. In a text written specially for the exhibition, Jiří Padrta made reference to the legendary exhibition “When Attitudes Become Form” (Kunsthalle Bern, 22 March – 27 April 1969) curated by Harald Szeemann, which had taken place several months previously. Before focusing on the form of the exhibition and what we can glean from it, I would like to offer a brief introduction to the exhibiting artists and the times in which they were operating. Today all four are famous. However, at the end of the sixties only Jiří Kolář enjoyed wider recognition. A respected poet, who in his late forties bade farewell to poetry and decided to become an artist, in his 1965 manifesto Snad nic, snad něco [Maybe Nothing, Maybe Something] (Kolář 1965, 6−7) Kolář pro­ fessed an allegiance to “evident poetry”, an art form that renounced the written word as the core constituent of creation and communication. In 1969, he published his last volume of poetry entitled Návod k upotřebení [Instructions for Use] (Kolář 1969), which draws on action and conceptual art in a highly original fashion (Morganová 2013, 35−57). This is a series of de-static poems that can be read as instructions for actions to take place in the reader’s mind. Kolář was the driving force of progressive art throughout the whole of the sixties in Czechoslovakia. It was around Kolář’s table at Café Slávia, where every day a select company drawn from literary and artistic circles would gather, that the Křižovatka [Crossroads] group was formed1 in order to lend their weight to the Neo-constructivist trends of that time. During the seventies, Kolář was not permitted to exhibit in Czechoslovakia and only exhibited abroad under taxing conditions. In 1980, he opted for exile in France. DOI: 10.4324/9781003265818-20

186 Pavlína Morganová Galerie Václava Špály was one of the most prestigious galleries in Czechoslovakia and from 1965 had been administered by a commission headed by Jindřich Chalupecký. Chalupecký put together an exclusive programme that ensured there was space for the best and most diverse aesthetic tendencies. Thanks to changes at the top, the Union of Czechoslovak Fine Artists pursued openly liberal policies during the latter half of the sixties, and the exhibition programme of individual galleries was placed in the hands of commissions that were permitted to formulate their own in­ itiatives without the threat of censorship. The abrupt end of this period of artistic effervescence is aptly illustrated by Kolář’s solo exhibition2 at Galerie Václava Špály a year prior to “Somewhere Something”. Even while the exhibition was still open, Warsaw Pact troops invaded Czechoslovakia and almost overnight dashed all the hopes the population had placed in the process of liberalisation known as the Prague Spring. The subsequent period, known paradoxically as “normalisation”, was a time when the atmosphere in society and the pressure exerted by the communist regime were reminiscent of the fifties, and this included the revival of the doctrine of socialist realism. However, these changes were introduced gradually and unobtrusively over a period of two years. After the shock wrought by the invasion, life in 1968 returned to relative normalcy and most galleries picked up where they had left off. At first it seemed that the cultural boom was set to continue. However, as we shall later see, this was simply an illusion, the outcome of a strategy pursued by those responsible for normalisation and based on a gradual twisting of the thumbscrews. Nevertheless, it did mean that exhibitions such as “Somewhere Something” were able to proceed. But let us return to the exhibition and the exhibiting artists. Běla Kolářová was a highly individual artist reacting to the methods of Eat Art, a concept associated above all with Daniel Spoerri, an Italian member of Nouveaux Réalisme. For the whole of her life Kolářová remained in the shadow of her husband, and it is only in the last two decades that she has received the recognition she so richly deserves.3 Her first solo exhibition was in 1966 at the Galerie Na Karlově náměstí (Vachtová 1966). In the early sixties she was very involved in photography and later conceptualised it in highly original ways within object-based assemblages featuring elements of the ev­ eryday, especially of women’s lives, such as snap fasteners, barrettes and hair. Zorka Ságlová was a recent graduate of the Academy of Arts, Architecture and Design and it is interesting to note that she was the only professionally trained artist of our quartet. At the end of the sixties, she sought a way forward in constructivism before moving more in the direction of action art. Along with Milan Knížák and Eugen Brikcius she was one of the first protagonists of action art in Czechoslovakia (Morganová 2014). Some of her first actions, e.g. Házení míčů do Průhonického rybníka Bořín [Throwing Balls into Bořín Pond] (1969), were documented by her husband, the photographer Jan Ságl, and presented at the exhibition. Ságl basically wallpapered the entire corridor of the gallery with black-and-white enlargements. Though he immortalised the form of the exhibition, including the final concert given by The Plastic People of the Universe, a very popular rock band at that time, Ságl did not document his own role in the exhibition. This is a great shame because as far as I am aware this was the first exhibition of the documentation of actions in Czechoslovakia. As is clear from the list of works featured in the extant catalogue manuscript, as well as documentation of Zorka Ságlová’s first action, there were records of the performances and actions of the psychedelic bands The Primitives Group and

Somewhere Something 187 The Plastic People of the Universe. Zorka and Jan Ságl collaborated closely with both bands and participated on the conception and stage design of their concerts.4 Two thematic concerts are particularly worth mentioning, Fish Feast5and Bird Feast,6 which the Ságls, working with Věra Jirousová and Ivan Martin Jirous, the latter a key figure of the Czech underground, conceived of as spectacular happenings. Thanks to this combination of different inputs, including a concert by The Plastic People of the Universe that took place on the last night in the gallery itself, the whole event attracted many visitors who would not normally set foot in a gallery. Thanks to the unique photographic record created by Jan Ságl the exhibition “Somewhere Something” can be reconstructed in great detail. If we imagine ourselves to be a visitor entering the galerie Václava Špály in the second half of August 1969, we would be greeted by what would even these days still be deemed a somewhat unusual sight. At the very entrance, Běla Kolářová had installed a herd of Easter lamb cakes and three crates of empty bottles. On the ground floor there were several ob­ jects and collages, e.g. Kolář’s Vykradený obraz [Stolen Image]. In the introduction to the catalogue, the typescript of which is preserved, Jiří Padrta writes: “Even the viewer accustomed to the diversity of contemporary art might be struck right from the start by some aspects of what they see: the absence of depiction, the indifference of all the artists to all a priori artistic forms, and perhaps the most striking feature, the presentation of the reality of things in a completely raw facticity of the ‘real’. Reality here is neither reproduced nor evoked by the resources of art, but simply seen, ex­ posed, detached from its original environment and transferred to a new context and submitted for seeing, feeling, hearing and manipulating, all of which can change the static fact of its existence by means of physical action. The artist simply invokes reality and lets the viewer react to it” (Padrta 1969, 1) (Figure 15.1). On the first floor there was a series of works by Běla Kolářová entitled Co se denně vytváří a mizí [What is Created Every Day and Disappears], featuring a table with a praline pyramid in its centre, a heap of pears on the floor (Hrušková pyramida [Pear Pyramid]), and a tower made of loaves of bread in the corner (Sloup náš vezdejší [Our Daily Bread Column]). Tacky cellophane-wrapped, gingerbread hearts hung on the wall ranging from the smallest to the largest (Narůstání srdce [Growing Heart]), and above all of this hovered inflated advertising bananas (Nafouknuté banány [Inflated Bananas]). Kolářová took all kinds of foodstuffs, using them to create playful com­ positions, objects and minor installations in the same way she used small utensils in her arranged photographs.7 On the first floor there was Kolář’s monumental environment listed in the catalogue as Chameleon. This was an installation made up of bathtub with washboard, metal bucket, a picture hanging on the wall, a laurel wreath and several other items. Looking back on the exhibition in 1975, Jiří Padrta wrote: “This drab scenery was supposed to change colour every day. One day the objects were to be painted white and the wall black, the next day both black, the third day the objects black and the wall white, and the fourth day both white. In the end only two of these variants were used, everything white or everything black” (Padrta 1993, 90). We see this in two photographs probably taken by Jan Ságl.8 Given that the exhibition took place during the first anniversary of the invasion of Warsaw Pact forces, one possible interpreta­ tion is that the procedural transformation of Chameleon during the course of the exhibition represented a political statement. We find the sources of this experiment in Kolář’s political engagement, evident in the phenomenal Týdeník 1968,9 but also in

188 Pavlína Morganová

Figure 15.1 Běla Kolářová, Co se denně vytváří a mizí [What is Created Every Day and Disappears], 1969. View of the installation at “Někde něco” [Somewhere Something] exhibition. Prague, Václav Špála Gallery. Source: Photo by Jan Ságl. Courtesy of Jan Ságl.

his interest in the most up to the minute trends of the time, which he followed with the aid of his wide range of contacts in the art world.10 Běla Kolářová’s works also explored the theme of transformation, and Zorka Ságlová worked in the gallery basement with a form of processual environment (Figures 15.2 and 15.3). The environment Seno, sláma [Hay, Straw] (1969) filled both basement rooms and attracted the most attention. Ságlová had a number of yellow bales of straw and green alfalfa brought into the gallery, which she distributed around one room in various different arrangements on which viewers could sit or recline. In the other room the straw was regularly tossed, raked and allowed to dry out throughout the exhibition. Viewers had the impression they were in a field, raking and stacking, taking a moment to stretch their bodies and relax, listening to the chirping of grasshoppers and taking in aromas that in the city centre, let alone in your average

Somewhere Something 189

Figure 15.2 Zorka Ságlová, Seno, sláma [Hay, Straw], 1969. View of the installation at “Někde něco” [Somewhere Something] exhibition. Zorka Ságlová on the right. Prague, Václav Špála Gallery. Source: Photo by Jan Ságl. Courtesy of Jan Ságl.

gallery, they had no chance of encountering. The artist’s inverted land-art gesture possessed a somewhat different character than the gallery presentations of American and British land artists and was basically the same presentation of reality that we saw in the case of Běla Kolářová. Zorka Ságlová’s action was radical in effect on the local art scene by not being placed within a logical connection to land art nor emerging from the revolt of Arte Povera.11 It was a masterful environment that connected with the most progressive trends in contemporary art at that time. Taken as a whole, the exhibition was essentially a kind of 3D collage, an en­ vironment spanning the reality of the quotidian experience and the world of art. Sources of inspiration can be found in Dadaism, surrealism, and unquestionably the neo-avant-garde trends of the sixties in the broadest sense of the term. From our

190 Pavlína Morganová

Figure 15.3 Zorka Ságlová, Seno, sláma [Hay, Straw], 1969. View of the installation at “Někde něco” [Somewhere Something] exhibition. Prague, Václav Špála Gallery. Source: Photo by Jan Ságl. Courtesy of Jan Ságl.

perspective today “Somewhere Something” can be seen as a Czech variation on New Realism. In addition, the exhibition was evidence of the emancipation of media that had yet to establish a foothold in Czechoslovakia. Leaving aside the collage pioneered by Jiří Kolář, the objects and installation, this included photography as deployed in a very individual way by Běla Kolářová, though not so much at the exhibition, where it was more used to document actions. Another important aspect of the exhibition was its emphasis on the processualism of installations, which became wrap-around environments. Though the exhibition was one of the high points of Chalupecký’s tenure at the Galerie Václava Špály, those present claim that even he was taken aback by the form the exhibition took. Exhibiting tacky gingerbread hearts, Easter lamb cakes and bales

Somewhere Something 191 of straw in the most prestigious Prague gallery of its time was a truly radical gesture. In his introduction to the exhibition, Jiří Padrta drew attention to the latest trends, stressing that “along with the new realists and pop artists, the artist no longer wants simply to evoke reality, but to create art by means of reality itself.” As I have already said, he even made reference to the legendary exhibition curated by Harald Szeemann “When Attitudes Becomes Form”. He also mentioned happenings, the Arte Povera movement and land art, the last of which was a characteristic feature of Zorka Ságlová’s work along with the documentary photography of her events exhibited by her husband Jan Ságl. Conscious of the influences from abroad on the exhibiting artists, Padrta emphasised that “Somewhere Something” was by no means only a “local illustration” of current trends, but an “attempt at their resolution” (Padrta 1969, 4). If we compare this exhibition with others that took place in the latter half of the sixties at Galerie Václava Špály, e.g. “Objekt” [Object] (1965), “Obraz a písmo” [Image and Letter] (1965−1966), “Gutai” (1967) or the intimate retrospective “Marcel Duchamp” (1969), it becomes clear that the Kolářs and Ságls were only developing principles that were actively being discussed on the Czechoslovak art scene at that time. However, their approach was uncompromising and shocked both the self-appointed guardians of culture12 and the more progressively-minded, some of whom went so far as to call for the exhibition to be closed since it did not conform to their idea of art appropriate to the cultural sanctuary of the Galerie Václava Špály (Ságl 2013, 151). This made the role of Jiří Padrta, the curator who lent his authority to the ex­ hibition as a whole, all the more significant. Padrta, in his thirties at the time, had entered the art scene as a historian with a special interest in the interwar avant-garde. In 1953, he became editor of the journal Výtvarná práce and in 1956 published a pioneering study entitled Umění nezobrazující a neobjektivní [Non-depictive and Non-objective Art] (Padrta 1957) in the journal Výtvarné umění. In 1957, he and Miroslav Lamač organised an important historical exhibition “Zakladatelé českého moderního umění” [The Founders of Czechoslovak Modernist Art],13 and in 1959 followed it up with another exhibition entitled “Moderní české malířství II. Léta dvacátá” [Modernist Czechoslovak Painting II: The 1920s].14 Padrta was Zorka Ságlová’s older cousin and a friend of Jiří Kolář, with whom he drew up the pro­ gramme of the neo-constructivists and established the Křižovatka group.15 He was also a friend of Jindřich Chalupecký, with whom he collaborated for many years. Notwithstanding its uniqueness, “Somewhere Something” was for a long time virtually forgotten. Documentation of the exhibition was only discovered thanks to research we carried out from 2015 to 2018 at the Research Centre of the Academy of Fine Arts as part of the project Médium výstavy v českém umění 1957−1997 [The Medium of the Exhibition in Czech Art 1957−1997]. From today’s perspective this is unquestionably one of the most radical exhibitions of the sixties, both in form and content. At the same time it symbolises the tragic climax of a dramatic period for Czechoslovakia. Even as the exhibition was still open a demonstration marking the first anniversary of the occupation of the country by Soviet forces was brutally suppressed. In Prague five demonstrators were killed during interventions by the army, police and People’s Militias and a law was passed on the preservation of public order popularly known as the truncheon act.16 These events left the population in no doubt that the treaty on the temporary stationing of Soviet troops in the country would simply be the start of other far more fundamental changes. Exhibitions in the

192 Pavlína Morganová Galerie Václava Špály headed by Jindřich Chalupecký would continue until the start of 1970, by which time all the protagonists of the Prague Spring had been forcibly removed and the art scene gradually sanitised so as to prepare it for the normalisation period. The exhibition participants suffered the fate of so many at that time. Jiří Kolář, Běla Kolářová and Zorka Ságlová were not officially permitted to exhibit from 1970 to 1989. Ságlová moved to the countryside where she was able to organise her events free of the all-seeing eye of the StB (State Security), as we see in two actions from 1970. Jan Ságl became an important documentarian of the Czechoslovak un­ derground, of which he and his wife perforce became members given the political situation in the official scene. Thanks to the support of foreign patrons, Jiří Kolář was able to exhibit at prestigious galleries abroad. In 1975 and 1978, for example, he had solo exhibition at The Guggenheim Museum in New York, though having opted for exile he was unable to return to his native Czechoslovakia from 1980 to 1989. Běla Kolářová was only allowed to follow her husband to France in 1985. She gradually became one of the most respected Czechoslovak artists and after 1989 exhibited around the world both on her own and with her husband. After closing down Výtvarné práce, which he had edited in 1968 and 1969, Jiří Padrta suffered two heart attacks. Having been diagnosed with a serious heart condition, he opted for internal emigration.17 It is difficult to say what direction the work of the four artists featured at “Somewhere Something” would have taken had they not been caught up in the dramatic historical events of that time. Undoubtedly they were precursors of the conceptual art of the seventies and evidence of its development and inter­ nationalisation in the latter half of the sixties. Their legacy reminds us to what extent the fluctuating fortunes of Central European artists were determined by state policy and painfully dependent on the agreements of world powers.

Notes 1 The Křižovatka group was established in 1963 and its members included Zdeněk Sýkora, Karel Malich, Vladislav Mirvald, Jiří Kolář and Běla Kolářová. Jiří Padrta was the in-house theoretician. 2 Jiří Kolář, Koláže, mec-arty, objekty, exh. cat. 1968. Prague: Galerie V. Špály. Leaving aside Kolář’s exhibition Depatesie at the Mánes Artists’ Club in 1962, this was the artist’s first solo exhibition in Prague, at which he presented a selection of his most recent work. See Mráz, Bohumír. 1968. “Dílo Jiřího Koláře.” Výtvarná práce, 15 (16−17): 8. 3 In 2015, Kolářová was the sole Czech female artist represented at the exhibition “Transmissions: Art in Eastern Europe and Latin America” at MoMA. 4 For example, the performance by the The Primitives Group at the 2nd Beat Festival at the Lucerna Music Bar (1968), or the legendary happenings-cum-concerts given by the band. At the end of the sixties the band broke up and the Ságls transferred their interest, under the influence of Ivan M. Jirous, Zorka’s brother, to the newly emerging rock band The Plastic People of the Universe. 5 Fish Feast (20 March 1968, Music F Club, Prague) was the first of four planned thematic concerts by The Primitives Group. Zorka Ságlová created green and blue costumes for the band members with motifs of fish and jellyfish, and the stage design featured shiny ma­ terials evoking the surface of water. On the podium there were both live and stuffed fish and a projection of ocean waves, while a fishing net was hung above the auditorium and the first row of seats were lightly sprinkled with water. At the end of the concert, the frontman Ivan Hajniš threw a live carp at the audience, who wrapped themselves in the fishing net and drenched themselves in water.

Somewhere Something 193 6 Bird Feast (17 January 1969 Music F Club, Prague) was also conceived on a grand scale. The Music F Club was lined with feathers so as to resemble a huge nest. A naked girl covered in feathers sat in the foyer and the stage was surrounded by balloons. The pro­ duction featured many audio and light effects. The Ságls, along with Věra and Ivan Martin Jirous, recorded birdsong at Prague Zoo and played it back in between songs along with projections of slides and films. Pigeons flew around the club, visitors found themselves up to their knees in feathers and gradually began to fling them all around. According to Jan Ságl the concert was attended by the French theorist of New Realism, Pierre Restany, accompanied by the painter Martial Raysse. 7 Kolářová described her journey from arranged photographs to real objects in the text Jedna z cest of 1968: “A shot of small items, their black-and-white image captured in a fraction of a second, cannot show how they shine, how they change in the light, what shadows they cast depending on the angle from which we look at them. So I began to paste them and that’s how my assemblages came into being. A commercial photographer is used to working with objects, and if he has to squeeze a number of them into a single frame, he has to construct, overlap and rearrange them. So why not look for non-commercial, unusual objects, why not try to form new series and structures and compositions out of them, different to those of commercial photography? Why not show that, beneath the objects whose shape corresponds to its function there is concealed another grotesque form of calligraphy, letter, numeral, why not mimic it using creative material? Why not attempt a different kind of arrangement! And this is what my arranged photographs represented. One day I was working on them and suddenly I had no use for the camera. It simply wasn’t equal to the human eye.” Běla Kolářová, exh. cat., Muzeum Kampa, Prague 2000, pp. 10‒11. (The text was repeatedly published in several different versions.) Kolářová wrote the text upon the suggestion of Anna Fárová for the catalogue Současná fotografie v Československu (Prague 1968). 8 The photographs are reproduced in an appendix to the monograph by Miroslav Lamač, Jiří Kolář, Obelisk, nakladatelství umění a architektury, Prague 1970, under the title Manifest kontinuitního umění I. a II. (1969). 9 Jiří Kolář, Týdeník 1968, a series of collages charting the personal and political events of 1968 on a weekly basis. 10 Pierre Restany regularly visited Prague between 1960 and 1970. From the mid-sixties onwards he brought information regarding the Fluxus movement and other experimental projects. Jiří Kolář participated at Spatial Poem no. 1 by Mieko Shiomi in 1965, Prague played host to the Fluxus Festival in 1966, and the book Slovo, písmo, akce, hlas, edited by Josef Hiršal ‒ Bohumila Grögerová published in 1967. 11 Zorka Ságlová was from a peasant family and haymaking had been one of her favourite activities (this information comes from the personal interview with the artist Morganová, Pavlína. 1999. Akční umění, 55. Prague: Votobia). 12 See Hlaváček, Luboš. 1972. “Dilema našeho výtvarnictví.” Tvorba 37 (5): 13. “Not so long ago a gallery named after one of our most distinguished modern painters, V. Špála, was transformed into a dumping ground for hay, which two hairy young men tossed from corner to corner utterly convinced (along with the theoretical organiser of this nonsensical “show”) of their non-conformity and sophistication.” 13 Zakladatelé moderního českého umění. 1957. Exhibition catalogue. Brno: Dům umění města Brna. The exhibition was reprised at the Prague Castle Riding School in 1958. After a prolonged silence, 200 works introduced the general public to the founding generation of Czech modernist art. 14 Moderní české malířství II. Léta dvacátá. 1959. Exhibition catalogue. Brno: Dům umění města Brna. 15 Padrta was curator of the Křižovatka’s group exhibitions as well as thematic exhibitions of neo-constructivism such as “Konstruktivní tendence” [Constructivist Tendencies] (Galerie Benedikta Rejta in Louny – Galerie výtvarného umění in Roudnici nad Labem – Oblastní galerie Vysočiny v Jihlavě, spring–autumn 1966) and “Nová citlivost” [New Sensitivity] (Dům umění města Brna – Oblastní galerie Karlovy Vary – Mánes, Prague 1968). 16 Statutory Act 99/1962 of 22 August 1969, which introduced harsh penalties for any action taken against government policy.

194 Pavlína Morganová 17 He made the most of his political and personal restrictions by writing a series of un­ published texts, some of which were posthumously released in 1989 (see, for instance, Padrta, Jiří. 1996. Kazimir Malevič a suprematismus. Prague: Torst).

References Bučilová, Lenka. 2009. Zorka Ságlová. Úplný přehled díla. Prague: Kant. Hiršal, Josef and Bohumila Grögerová ed. 1967. Slovo, písmo, akce, hlas. Prague: Československý spisovatel. Klimešová, Marie ed. 2006. Experiment, řád, důvěrnost: Ženské rastry Běly Kolářové. Exhibition catalogue. Olomouc: Muzeum umění Olomouc. Kolář, Jiří. 1965. “Snad nic, snad něco.” Literární noviny 14, no. 36: 6–7. Kolář, Jiří. 1969. Návod k upotřebení. Most: Dialog. Kolář, Jiří. 1993. Týdeník 1968. Prague: Torst. Lamač, Miroslav ed. 1968. Jiří Kolář, Koláže, mec-arty, objekty. Exhibition catalogue. Prague: Galerie Václava Špály. Lamač, Miroslav. 1970. Jiří Kolář. Prague: Obelisk. Machalický, Jiří ed. 2000. Běla Kolářová. Exhibition catalogue. Prague: Muzeum Kampa. Morganová, Pavlína. 1998. Akční umění. Prague: Votobia. Morganová, Pavlína. 2013. “Smysl slova spočívá v jeho použití. Jiří Kolář – Yoko Ono.” Sešit pro umění, teorii a příbuzné zóny 7, no. 15: 35−57, translated and published in 2019 as “The Meaning of a Word is its Use in the Language: Jiří Kolář – Yoko Ono.” In The Sešit Reader, The First Ten Years of Notebook for Art, Theory and Related Zones, 2007−2017, 202−227. Prague: VVP AVU. Morganová, Pavlína. 2014. Czech Action Art / Happenings, Actions, Events, Land Art, Body Art and Performance Art Behind the Iron Curtain. Prague: Karolinum Press in cooperation with University of Chicago Press. Motlová, Milada ed. 1993. Jiří Kolář. Prague: Odeon. Padrta, Jiří. 1957. “Umění nezobrazující a neobjektivní, jeho počátky a vývoj.” Výtvarné umění 7, no. 4: 175‒181, and Padrta, Jiří. 1957. “Umění nezobrazující a neobjektivní, jeho současný stav.” Výtvarné umění 7 (5): 214‒221. Padrta, Jiří ed. 1969. Někde něco. Typewritten exhibition catalogue. Prague: Galerie Václava Špály. Padrta, Jiří. 1993. “Básník nového vědomí.” In Jiří Kolář, edited by Milada Motlová, 65−96, Prague: Odeon. Ságl, Jan. 2013. Tanec na dvojitém ledě, 151. Prague: Kant. Vachtová, Ludmila ed. 1966. Běla Kolářová. Exhibition catalogue. Prague: Galerie Na Karlově náměstí. Valoch, Jiří. 2006. Běla Kolářová. Exhibition catalogue. Prague: National Gallery in Prague.

16 Dreams and Nightmares: Nationalism in Art Exhibitions from Socialist Romania 1974–1989 Cristian Nae

National Communism during Nicolae Ceaușescu’s regime On a blue background, history unfolds. In the central upper part of a large-scale composition, floating against the celestial background, the figure of Nicolae Ceaușescu waves to the people. He is surrounded by easily recognizable historical figures, stretching left to right, from the Dacian king Burebista to Alexandru Ioan Cuza, the first ruler of modern Romania in the 19th century. Ceaușescu is positioned as the apex of a historical development to which countless generations of nameless people contributed. These generations, past and present, are also positioned in two ascending rows, symmetrically located on the left and right side of the composition. They form the sides of a triangular space opened at the very core of the image. In the central lower part of the painting, at the basis of this imaginary pyramid, a group of young women wearing folk costumes and facing the viewer seem to perform a tra­ ditional Romanian dance – a hora.1 Above them, in the middle register, confident young women bring their offspring in their arms – sons and daughters of the nation from whom future leaders will be born. What is perhaps equally disturbing is that the painting, executed by Sabin Bălașa and entitled Song of Romania,2 bears composi­ tional similarities to the iconography of the last judgement. Marking the end of history and the entrance into mythical time, it portrays the development of the Romanian nation as a continuous historical thread, fusing facts and legends. This painting by Sabin Bălașa, a favorite of the political system during socialism who was praised for his style characterized as “cosmic romanticism”, is one of the many visual representations created in the late 1970s and 1980s along similar lines. They promoted the historical continuity of Romanian people on the current territory of Romania on ethnographic and linguistic grounds in a heroic and mythical fashion and celebrated the exceptional status of the Romanian nation and its leader, Nicolae Ceaușescu. Such paintings and sculptures are a defining aspect of the cultural politics of Ceaușescu’s regime in Romania. Despite the short period of cultural détente that lasted until 1971, his politics and cultural policy may rather be associated with a mature version of Stalinism (Tismăneanu 2003, 187–189), which replicated personal dictatorship, promoted cultural homogeneity and an extreme form of nationalism (Bialer 1980, 10). The birth of “national communism” within Ceaușescu’s politics is considered to take place in 1972 (Tismăneanu et al. 2007, 325), although its germs may be iden­ tified since 1968, when the slogan “The Party, Ceaușescu, Romania” is being forged (Tismăneanu 2003, 203). It becomes official dogma in 1974 with the approval of the DOI: 10.4324/9781003265818-21

196 Cristian Nae program of the Romanian Communist Party at the Eleventh congress, which stressed territorial continuity of Romanians since ancient times, as well as the unity of the Romanian people (Preda 2017, 147). It coincides with the year when Ceaușescu also becomes president, cumulating all other ruling functions – leader of the army, the Party, and the State Council – and propagating on large scale the phantasy of his own exceptional personality. The reasons behind the progressive manifestation of a strong nationalist tendency during Nicolae Ceaușescu’s regime are still open to debate. For instance, Katherine Verdery (1991) regards nationalism as the result of the colla­ boration between intellectuals and the power, explaining the integration of nation­ alism into cultural discourse as an attempt to maintain political legitimacy. According to Verdery, from the perspective of the artistic field, the nationalist discourse became a mechanism for controlling the means of artistic production, that become scarce in the 1970s and even more so in the 1980s. For its part, Dragoș Petrescu (2011, 37–52) explains the process of nation building during socialism as an incomplete project, inherited from the inter-war period. In accordance to Verdery, Petrescu regards this process as the main factor legitimizing Ceaușescu’s politics, strengthening authority and preventing public revolts. Building socialism and building the nation became synonymous. In what follows, inspired by Siniša Malešević’s theory of grounded nationalism (Malešević 2019), I will attempt to sketch out the main features (including icono­ graphic elements and visual propaganda) of nationalist discourse in Romanian visual arts during Ceaușescu’s regime, paying attention to the institutional structures and protocols regulating the artistic field, and in particular, to the system of large scale art exhibitions organized by the state, as well as to the top-to-bottom decisions through which nationalism was promoted. I understand large-scale exhibitions organized by the state not as autonomous cultural productions, but as “governmental assem­ blages” (Bennett 2015, 3–20), involved in multiple configurations of power. I believe that Malešević’s theory, according to which “successful nationalist projects are premised on the organizational translation of the ideological grand narratives into the micro-, family and friendship-based stories” (Malešević 2019, 14), may explain the persistence of nationalist discourse in Romanian everyday life, culture, and politics throughout the 1990s and until the mid-2000s,3 and its more recent resurrection in the form of anti-European, xenophobic, and neo-conservative political and cultural dis­ courses. However, a general theory of nationalism fails to grasp some historical con­ tingencies, such as the gap between the public enactment and celebration of the na­ tion, on the one hand, and the integration of nationalist symbols into everyday-life and actions, on the other hand. I argue that visual arts in Romania were asked to respond and help overcome difficulties in promoting an “imagined community” (Anderson 1983) by shaping and materializing the imaginary of the socialist nation in concrete symbolic forms. It is precisely the incomplete “grounding” of Ceaușescu’s discourse in the micro-social structures defining “grassroot nationalism” (the family, the circles of friends etc.) that generated the critical consciousness of the experimental artists of the 1980s, and of the young generations of artists acting in the 1990s and the early 2000s. This gap between pictured phantasy and its translation into everyday life is reminiscent of the loss of the symbolic power of language explained by his­ torian Alexei Yurchak (2006, 14–27) as a gap between the performative and con­ stative functions of ideological speech, including ritualistic public discourses,

Dreams and Nightmares 197 festivities, and celebrations, that Yurchack considered to be responsible for the in­ ternal collapse of Soviet socialism.

Song of Romania In the cultural field, nationalist discourse was already prepared by the political subordination and instrumentalization of the arts through the famous “July thesis”, a speech in 17 points issued by Nicolae Ceaușescu on July 6 1971 and published in November the same year, which contained measures to “improve the politicalideological activity and the Marxist-Leninist education of the party members and all workers”, among which, the requirements that art should have “a militant content” and “picture reality” (Ceaușescu 1971), that were immediately implemented by the Union of Fine Artists, but with uneven results (Mocănescu 2017, 207–230). The same document heralded the return to autochthonism (Petrescu 2011, 45). Among the effects of these thesis in visual arts, one may notice the revival of socialist realism, endorsed as “humanist socialism” and less stringent in terms of formal artistic ex­ pression, but highly instrumentalized from an ideological standpoint. Although these measures did not necessarily translate into an obvious instrument of historical pro­ paganda until 1974, they compelled the experimental art scene to find strategies of adaptation to what was perceived as a new Stalinist regime, and to become in­ creasingly isolated and marginalized during the 1980s. In a second speech, held in 1971, Ceaușescu also announced that “the man who does not write for the entire people is no poet” (Deletant 1995, 184). The nationalist underpinning of Ceaușescu’s populist demand for a return to a more conventional form of socialist realism expressed in the so-called “July thesis” was also supported by prescriptive theoretical writings. Published in 1974, the volume Art and Ideology offers valuable instructions and norms for the professional artists, written in the form of philosophical essays. One of its authors, Ion Rebedeu, writes that the authenticity of a nation and “the intimate pulsation of its spiritual life” is naturally transferred to the entire culture of a nation. (Rebedeu 1974, 101). In conjunction with these ideas, the normative function of art during the 1980s is defined in a text signed by Nicolae Ceaușescu, where he states that “art and contemporary literature should preserve and develop the national specificity of our culture” (Ceaușescu 1982, 1). The populist agenda of national culture is further elaborated in the same text, which also states that the artist should “preserve a permanent connection with the people, to know and identify with his way of living and thinking” (Ceaușescu 1982, 1). In 1983, Ceaușescu gave another speech, known as “the Mangalia thesis”, in which he reiterated some of the basic principles of the 1971 speech, mainly the importance of art as an instrument for reflecting socialist reality and progress and the heroics of the working class (Preda 2017, 148). By that time, Ceaușescu had already started his own micro-cultural re­ volution. The title of the above-mentioned painting by Sabin Bălașa coincides with that of the National Festival of Socialist Education and Culture “Song of Romania” (Cântarea României), initiated in 1976 by the socialist regime ruled by Nicolae Ceaușescu as a propaganda instrument deployed on a large social scale. The festival served multiple functions: it was used to gain political legitimacy and to support the cult of the leader’s personality that will dominate the cultural life in the following decade (Oancea 2015), as well as to promote the image of the “new man” (Mihăilescu 2008,

198 Cristian Nae 55–80). It comprised public celebrations, as well as artistic and scientific competitions designed for the masses, which promoted folklore as a means of establishing national identity and unity (Ceaușescu 1976, 50–53). Symbols of historical continuity and national unity were disseminated through a network of institutions towards the peasants, workers and pupils mobilized in the festival as amateur artists (Petrescu 1998, 239–251). The number of participants is mind-boggling: in 1978, it is reported that almost 400.000 creative minds took part in the festival (Petrescu 1998, 250). The topics of the cultural contests revolved around the praise of the socialist achievements under the guidance of Nicolae Ceaușescu as a party leader. The festival was also important because it staged the nation, changing the dynamics between professional artists and the masses. According to Constantin Claudiu Oancea, who noted that many contributions to the festival took on a com­ memorative stance, “Song of Romania” “took on the task of articulating the dis­ course of national commemorations through an extended series of cultural and artistic practices”, thus staging an “imagined” national history (Oancea 2015, p. 59). Relying on the authenticity of folklore as national cultural heritage, “Song of Romania” will also disseminate throughout the late 1970s and the 1980s sym­ bols of national identity, using its capacity to translate otherwise abstract symbols for the masses (Oancea 2015, 67). The festival also celebrated the natural “crea­ tivity of the Romanian people” (Preda 2017, 157). It is noteworthy that not only amateur artists participated in the festival. A yearly republican exhibition with the same title was organized, sometimes including re­ spectable professional artists such as Ion Bitzan or Vladimir Șetran, who were also teaching in the Bucharest Art Academy. These exhibitions celebrated the achieve­ ments of socialism in the first place, cementing it as a process of nation building.

Ethno-Nationalism and Archaism: Dacia on Display One of the most conspicuous instruments for promoting the nationalist agenda to­ gether with Ceaușescu’s personality cult was the revival of the historical painting genre. In 1980, art critic Mircea Deac already viewed history as “the space and time of art” (Deac 1980, 2). According to the new ideology, the socialist artist bears the responsibility of understanding and visually illustrating the past (Cozma 1986). Turning history into the preferred subject of artistic representation – by means of which artists understand better the present as an accomplishment of past symbols and desires (Ibidem) – also meant that artists produced art and participated in exhibitions with an increasingly commemorative character. They also took part in celebrations of Romania through the “Song of Romania” festival, and of Ceaușescu as the great visionary leader through a series of homage exhibitions organized in January each year on his birthday. The preferred topics were already sketched by the Romanian Communist Party program published in 1974, which mentions the four conceptual pillars that became the model for the writing of Romanian history until 1989: “the ancient roots of the Romanian people (2) the continuous existence of Romanians on the territory from ancient times to the present-day (3) the unity of the Romanian people throughout its entire history, and, (4) Romanians’ continuous struggle for independence” (Petrescu 2011, 45). They may be considered to become the pillars of historical representations in visual arts, too.

Dreams and Nightmares 199 Edgar Papu is responsible for one of the most exaggerated manifestations of the nationalist discourse during late socialism. He advocated the exceptional cultural qualities of the Romanian people throughout history. Papu’s theories asserted the historical primacy of Romanian culture and nation, retrospectively attributing uni­ versal value and importance to Romanian cultural productions (Verdery 1991, 152–203). Relying heavily on anachronisms and historical revisionism, interpreta­ tions of historical events and cultural productions from the past were considered to precede famous cultural or political trends on the international stage: for instance, instead of being regarded as one of the last great Romantic poets, “national poet” Mihai Eminescu was seen as a forerunner of existentialism, while Dimitrie Cantemir was considered to anticipate Romanticism (Papu 1977). Papu’s theories were meant to highlight the genius of the Romanian nation expressed through these productions or events. While discretely repudiated by the intellectuals, these ideas were never­ theless supported by the State and were influential in the construction of the National Festival “Song of Romania”. Crucially, they helped resurrect a Romanticized (and historically flawed) view of the uninterrupted historical genealogy of the Romanian people as descendants of the Dacians, that was already present in Romanian culture starting from the late 19th century linguist Bogdan Petriceicu Hașdeu and continued through intellectuals associated with the Far Right such as Mircea Vulcănescu or Simion Mehedinți, during the 1930s and 1940s. A telling example for this historical rhetoric is another mural painted by Sabin Bălașa in 1975 known as The Birth of the Romanian People (or The Warriors), which is currently located in the building of the University “Dunărea de Jos” from Galați. It evokes the wars between Romans and Dacians, depicting two young, marmorean white male figures resting on their knees at the basis of a blood-stained stone monolith in a last embrace, their backs pierced by arrows. Towards the top of the stone, a Roman legion and two Dacian war flags are also represented. In the right side of the painting, a large-scale young woman dressed in bridal white delivers from her arms two children that float against the celestial blue background, suggesting the ethnogenesis and the historical continuity of the Romanian nation. Dacian mythology was staged through various means. A sport competition for youth, built on the model of the Soviet Spartakiad and of the Olympic games, was inaugurated in 1976 bearing the name Daciada. In the artistic field, it was promoted through a series of large-scale exhibitions financed by the state such as “2050 years from the creation of the centralized and independent Dacian state”, which celebrated the historical continuity of the nation. Exhibited at Dalles Hall in 1980, featuring over 80 artworks in various genres, from sculpture and painting to the graphic arts, it continued the celebratory discourse enacted through the series of exhibitions com­ memorating important historical events, and represents a specific sub-genre of these exhibitions. All exhibitions deployed an ethnocentric, nationalist historical narrative, all artists and artworks being carefully selected based less on formal standards of representational quality and technical excellence, but rather on the degree of sub­ ordination to the ideological narrative. In the 1980 exhibition dedicated to the Dacians, the overall iconography revolved around several motives: archaeological relics (“sanctuaries’’, “tables” and “traces”), which generate varied forms of expression, flirting with abstraction, expressionism, and surrealism, or at least symbolism (in the works of Suzana Fântânariu or Constantin Blendea). Another recurring subject is the portraiture of ancient kings:

200 Cristian Nae one may find at least ten graphic, pictural and sculptural portraits of Burebista. Last, but not least, the exhibition presented genre scenes depicting the fights between Dacians and Romans, and various “homages” to and “evocations” of ancestors. It is noteworthy that respected and talented artists such as Ion Bitzan, Wanda Mihuleac or Ovidiu Maitec are found among the “usual suspects’’ – so-called “court-painters” such as Brăduț Covaliu, Sabin Bălașa or Traian Brădean, and alongside much lesser names of artists with a questionable quality, such as Dorin Dănilă, Viorel Fărcaș, Constantin Nițescu, Mihai Rusu etc. Portaits of Burebista already occur in the late 1970s: one may find a stone sculpture made by Izsak Martin in the 1979 Republican final exhibition organized in the “Song of Romania” Festival.

Commemorative Exhibitions Commemorative group exhibitions became the most important instrument for sta­ ging the nation in visual arts during the late 1970s and 1980s. They were organized by the Union of Fine Artists, sometimes in conjunction with the Council for Culture and Socialist Education to celebrate the the 1848 revolution, the Great Union of 1918, the 1877 Independence from the Ottoman domination, the change of alle­ giance from the 23rd of August 1944 (which became the National Day until 1989) and so on. Topics of commemoration included “125 years from the 1848 Revolution” (1973), the twentieth anniversary of the liberation from fascism (1975), “XXXV years of work and accomplishments” (the tile of the 1979 Republican ex­ hibition of Youth), “60 years from the formation of the Romanian Communist Party” (1981), social and national liberation (1984), thirty years from the victory of socialism over fascism (1985) or “The fight of the Romanian people for unity and independence, for the construction of socialism and communism in Romania” (The Art Museum of the Socialist Republic of Romania, 1988). Such exhibitions were monumental in size: for instance, in the exhibition commemorating 60 years from the formation of the RCP, there were almost 400 participant artists. These events were positioned on the top of the socialist exhibition system, which was structured hier­ archically on local, regional and national (republican) exhibitions, and presented in highly praised venues such as Dalles Hall or the National Museum of Art to ensure maximum visibility. Thus, these exhibitions consolidated the careers of many young artists and promoted the already established ones. The fight for independence became one of the central topics of commemorative exhibitions, fueling the existing xenophobic tendencies inspired by the myths of “the endangered country” and of the “evil conspiracy” put into circulation by the state propaganda to emotionally manipulate the masses (Tismăneanu et al. 2007, 328–330). They complement the ethno-nationalist stance implicit in the evocation of ancient history and the cultural production of Dacian ethnogenesis mythology. Once again, in such exhibitions thematic unity was more important than style or technique. One may find respectable artists depicting key historical situations in unusual ways that may be even considered subversive: for instance, Corneliu Brudașcu participates in the 1988 exhibition with a historical scene depicting the 1918 Union in his typical manner, with blurry shapes and soft edges, reminiscent of solarized photographs, which was contrary to the lessons of socialist realism and may suggest the imprecision of historical memory. In many artworks, Ceaușescu also appears as the contemporary defender of independence, anachronistically presiding over historical events, such as

Dreams and Nightmares 201 the 1918 Union in Corneliu Vasilescu’s tapestry project entitled Homage to the Great Union, exhibited in the 1988 commemorative exhibition. Other artworks, such as Bogdan Scărlătescu’s painting entitled Steps of the Union, in which, in stratified horizontal registers, the continuity of the nation’s struggle for unity is being portraited, stretching from the formation of the people through the union of the Romans and the Dacians (literally imagined as a wedding ceremonial) to the ac­ complishment of the socialist society as the highest form of national independence and unity.

“I am the State”: Homage Art Exhibitions The social role and the status of the “state artist”, created ever since the 1950s as dependent on the institutional mechanisms of the state and its commands, was consolidated during Ceaușescu’s regime (Preda 2017, 172-49). Images that glorified the historical past and celebrated the nation’s progress started to support the cult of Ceaușescu’s exceptional personality in the form of paintings – mainly portraits and genre scenes – that were often offered as anniversary gifts. They supported the cult of Ceaușescu’s personality that already started in 1974 and intensified on the occasions of his 1978 and 1980 anniversaries, when the formula “the Golden Age” was coined to depict the accomplishments of his regime in a heroic manner. Yearly, a com­ memorative exhibition was organized in January to celebrate the birth of Ceaușescu, while Arta magazine dedicated its first issue each year to the same topic, with blunt titles of articles such as “profound homage”, anonymously signed as “the journal”. Images intended to pay homage to the president and his wife were created by the artists favored by the system such as Gheorghe and Gabriela Manole Adoc, Sabin Bălașa, Ion Bitzan, Traian Brădean, Brăduț Covaliu, Ion Irimescu, Dan Hatmanu, Vasile Pop Negreșteanu, Constantin Piliuță and others, who participated in a delir­ ious and grandiloquent depiction of Ceaușescu as a messianic figure, a saviour, a prophet, an enlightened, a genius, a visionary guiding the workers, a hero, a defender of peace, a dynastic historical personality descendent of the great rulers of the past. The last hypostasis is conspicuously present in compositions such as the sculptural ensemble created by Gheorghe and Gabriela Manole Adoc and illustrated in the first number of Arta magazine issued in 1988, in which Ceaușescu is surrounded by al­ most the same historical figures that can be found in Bălașa’s Song of Romania painting, as well as in Constantin Piliuță’s 1977 homage painting entitled Heroes of the People: a Dacian king, usually, Burebista, considered as the first anti-imperialist fighter (Fischer-Galati 2019, chapter 5), Mircea the Elder, Stephen the Great, Michael the Brave, Alexandru Ioan Cuza. The choice of this cluster of historical characters to accompany Ceaușescu is justified by their heroic actions in supporting Romanian independence. Another exemplification of such dynastic association which denies historical time is the infamous painting by Dan Hatmanu in which Ceaușescu is greeted by Stephen the Great4, who stretches his arm out from a painting to toast with the beloved president and his wife. Often, history is falsified to evoke Ceaușescu’s revolutionary youth, portrayed leading the workers’ strikes from the 1930s (Figure 16.1). Homage paintings resurrected the aesthetics of Stalinist socialist realism of the early 1950s, presenting an idealized image of the leader and featuring typical scenes and characters. If Nicolae Ceaușescu was being often portrayed in the company of

202 Cristian Nae

Figure 16.1 Dan Hatmanu, Aniversare [Anniversary], 1983, oil on canvas. National Museum of Contemporary Art, Bucharest. Source: Photo credit: ⓒ Dani Ghercă, Nicu Ilfoveanu/MNAC, 2021.

great men, who act and shape history, Elena Ceaușescu was presented as the “first mother”, surrounded by loving young pioneers (for instance, by Constantin Nițescu), although ridiculous attempts to associate her image with Byzantine empress Theodora or with Mary Stuart are also noteworthy (Gabanyi 2000). Other typical representations of Ceaușescu presented in the homage exhibitions included his portrait as the great architect of socialism. In the 1980 Republican ex­ hibition entitled “The Thoroughfares of Socialism” (biannualy produced with the same title since 1976) he is imagined by Constantin Nițescu, Doru Rotaru, Ignat Ștefanov or Valentin Tănase leading workers and engineers on the building site and presiding over difficult decisions over a map or a printed building plan. It seems that many of these images used as primary sources photographs acquired from the journal Scânteia.

Dreams and Nightmares 203 Encomiastic paintings of the couple imagined them as beloved rulers, personifi­ cations of the nation, whose oversized effigies tower over the country’s landscape sketched in rough lines, accompanied by a joyful crowd of anonymous people, workers, peasants, or pioneers, and sometimes surrounded by their accomplishments such as a factory, a water dam, a new road, or fragments of urban development. In two tapestries signed by Ileana Balotă and published in the January issue of Arta magazine from 1983, their portrait is inserted in a flower bouquet. In the back­ ground, roughly suggesting a hilly landscape, one may find a chemistry factory – representative for Elena Ceaușescu’s achievements as a world-renowned scholar5 –, as well as high-tension electric poles. Other visual representations signed by Constantin Nițescu, Vasile Pop Negresteanu or Eugen Palade (from 1985) continue the identi­ fication of between the presidential couple and the nation. In Eugen Palade’s vision, they are projected against a monochrome background, in front of the national flag hanging down from the top of the painting. In Vasile Pop Negresteanu’s elaborate photorealist compositions reproduced in Arta magazine to celebrate Ceaușescu’s 70th birthday in 1988, cheering crowds of young pioneers on a parade, figured behind Ceaușescu and Elena in the lower part of the painting, impersonate the people. The phantasy of Ceaușescu’s popularity was supported by means of staged de­ monstrations carefully prepared in advance by the Party during their visits across the country, and kept alive by these homage paintings. In another diptych signed by PopNegreșteanu all social strata are condensed in the background of the painting, from musicians to workers, from scientists to peasants, left and right of the imposing figure of the two rulers, portraited standing on a small row of stairs in front of an arcade. Above their heads, another window bearing the effigies of the Romanian flag and of the Communist Party opens beyond the pictorial space towards a transcendental dimension, from where the white dove of peace spreads its wings and brings light to the people. The quasi-religious iconography of this painting, in which the presidential couple appear both as saviors and as harbingers of peace, is also emblematic for the deification of Ceaușescu started in 1980 (Gabanyi 2000, 35–45). It seems that artists were not forced to produce this type of art, but gained substantial financial benefits from producing such paintings, sold for up to 60.000 lei – 20 times more than the average monthly salary (Preda 2017, 176), apart from conserving their status within the art system. Besides censoring the creation and exhibition of art, the Union exercised its ideological control through financializa­ tion: either through public commands, or by buying some of the artworks awarded in the republican exhibitions or directly from the homage exhibitions, the state becoming the only beneficiary and buyer.

Ethnographic Art Exhibitions For Karnouch (2011), the project of nation building in modern Romania relied on the mythical representation of the peasant through institutions such as the ethnographic museum. In his view, ethnographic museums not only represented, but also ma­ nipulated archaic culture. During the 1980s, the spectacle of archaism was supported on multiple levels. It may be found not only in its most conspicuous form in the “Song of Romania” annual exhibitions, but also in its more subtle incorporation in paint­ ings with atypical styles and subjects. For instance, paintings produced by Iasi-based artists Dimitrie Gavrilean, Ioan Gânju or Liviu Suhar, whose work was regularly

204 Cristian Nae exhibited in republican exhibitions and in solo exhibitions in Iasi and Bucharest, were flirting with surrealism or with magical realism. The oneiric style of their paintings may be associated with literary “oneirism”, considered by Shafir (1983, 418–20) as the true intellectual dissidence during the 1970s, but their propensity towards folk­ lore as a rich source of legends, myths and popular customs legitimized them for the cultural authorities, who cunningly coopted them in the service of nationalist ideology by simply circulating them within the Union of Fine Artists’ art galleries network (Figure 16.2). The posthumous rehabilitation of Constantin Brâncuși after his death in 1957 was accomplished with the 1967 international colloquium dedicated to the sculptor. On this occasion, art critics like Petre Comarnescu or Ion Frunzetti po­ pularized interpretations of sculptural abstraction as an essentialization of folkloric motives from his native Oltenia region. The conjunction between modernism and archaism became an art critical consensus, supported by other art critics like Dan Grigorescu, Mircea Deac or Ionel Jianou and instrumentalized as a “Romanian sentiment of being” by the philosopher Constantin Noica (Nae 2014, 50–53).

Figure 16.2 Dimitrie Gavrilean, Fisherman Amin [Pescarul Amin], 1979, oil on canvas. Private collection, Iasi. Copyright: Bogdan and Dragoș Gavrilean.

Dreams and Nightmares 205 Brâncuși appeared as an enlightened peasant, able to translate traditional Romanian values in a universal visual language and became a model for much of the Romanian sculpture produced during the 1970s. It is telling, therefore, that the Romanian participation in the Venice biennial in 1976 (with a retrospective doc­ umentation of monumental sculpture), 1980 and 1982 evoked in various ways the legacy of Brâncuși. Curatorial selection prefered essentialized forms rooted in traditional rural culture. The participations of George Apostu in 1980 (1980) and Florin Codre in 1982 (1982) highlighted the trans-temporal qualities of wooden sculpture, presented by commissioner Ion Frunzetti as a reservoir of archaic knowledge translated in visual symbols, and the close relationship between art and nature as a national cultural matrix (Ghiu 2015, 175–190). A special category of art exhibitions which performed an actualization of auto­ chthonism comprise those ambivalent towards the ethno-nationalist discourse fa­ vored by the regime and its ideological constraints. According to Popovici (2019, 133–157) such exhibitions include “The Place – Fact and Metaphor” or “Vatra (The Hearth)”, organized by the otherwise reputed and respected art historian Anca Vasiliu at the Museum of the Peasant in Bucharest in 1983 and 1984. On the one hand, these exhibitions were taking advantage of the spaces situated outside the Union of Fine Artists such as the Museum of the Peasant, presenting art installations in artificially preserved but naturally built environments in the setting of the museum. Such artworks employed the experimental language of neo-avantgarde art, fusing the contemporary and the archaic. On the other hand, in what today we understand as the curatorial discourse of these exhibitions, one may find arguments supporting ethno-nationalism, which revolved around a problematic reading of locality, em­ ploying the Spenglerian ideas of Romanian philosopher Lucian Blaga about the Romanian cultural spatial matrix.

Conclusive remarks One may conclude that, during Ceaușescu’s regime, nationalism was manifested in visual arts along three axes. The first one is the celebration of the heroic struggles for independence and the consolidation of the national state, supported by the historical continuity of the Romanian people. The second axis celebrated the construction of the modern-day socialist nation under Ceaușescu and projected state socialism as the climax of historical evolution and of the long process of nation building, supporting these achievements by a plethora of visual re­ presentations. This gave rise to the encomiastic representations that identified Nicolae and Elena Ceaușescu with the destiny of the nation and personified it as mythical and sacred figures. The third one celebrated the creativity of the masses and the value of cultural heritage as a repository of authentic national spirituality, supporting ethno-nationalist discourse. State supported art exhibitions played a major role in diffusing nationalist ideas, literally staging the spectacle of the nation within a regime that combined the so­ vereign and disciplinary power regimes theorized by Michel Foucault (1977). In this respect, they should be treated as “exhibitionary apparatuses” along the lines of Tony Bennett’s analysis of the museum (Bennett 2015, 4–10) as an “exhibitionary com­ plex”. They addressed their subjects in a didactic manner, combining pedagogy and entertainment, and thus, becoming “sites for knowledge/power relations whose field

206 Cristian Nae of application was that of free subjects and whose modus operandi was oriented towards the production of a population that would not only be governable, but would freely assent to its governance” (Bennett 2015, 4), based on the rhetoric of socialism as the last stage of a developmental process of nation building. At the same time, looking beyond their primary function of display, they may also be interpreted as “governmental assemblages” (Bennett 2015, 14–17), and should be analyzed in conjunction with other forms of spectacle: parades, festivities, demon­ strations, and marches (organized on January 26 to celebrate Ceaușescu’s birthday, on the 1st of May or on the 23rd of August), as well as with different art forms such as literature, cinema and theatre. As such, they performed a ceremonial and ritual function. State-supported large-scale exhibitions were also complex technologies of visuali­ zation: they translated literary and scientific narratives into concrete images, re­ produced phantasies of historical processes of nation-building and were regarded as instrumental in communicating them to the educated masses in a more convincing manner. They showed people not only what to imagine, but rather how to imagine and to recognize themselves as part of an “imaginary community”. Last, but not least, they were effective instruments of censorship and control in the artistic field, acting in a prescriptive manner. The predictable or even regular character of com­ memorative, homage or celebratory exhibitions generated a horizon of expectations to the artists and basically functioned as a form of tacit public command for those willing to collaborate and enjoy the benefits of this collaboration. Nevertheless, the social results of these complex apparatuses were contrary to the expectations: the production of this nationalist imaginary through visual arts was primarily undermined by the association with a deified image of Ceaușescu in the 1980s (Gabanyi 2000, 35–39). To a certain extent, it was also undermined by several other internal factors: the delirious vision and grandiloquence of this visual rhetoric, its excessive formalization and reduction to stereotypes, the integration of kitsch through the promotion of “amateur art”, as well as by its overproduction and ex­ cessive public display.

Notes 1 The popular dance, which is usually a circular dance in which participants join arms and move synchronously, was also used as a symbolic element for the Union of the kingdoms of Moldavia and Wallachia in 1859, notably by the 19th century poet Vasile Alecsandri and inspired a unionist song composed by Alexandru Flechtenmacher. During socialism, “Union’s Hora” resurfaced as a patriotic song used to commemorate the so-called “small union” on January 24. 2 The English translation is ambiguous: it can be translated either with the dative Song to Romania, expressing the idea of an ode to socialist achievements, or with the genitive Song of Romania, which is used by more authors such as Verdery (1991) and Oancea (2015). For consistency, I have chosen here the latter translation, meaning that Romania, personified through the artistic collectives as agents of history, is singing. 3 It lasted roughly until the integration in NATO and the European Union in the mid-2000s, when a new, cosmopolitan identity discourse was taking over. 4 Stephen the Great ruled Moldavia and was known as a defender of the kingdom’s au­ tonomy from the Ottoman Empire, temporarily gained by emerging victorious from several battles that became the subject of numerous monumental art representations during the Ceaușescu era.

Dreams and Nightmares 207 5 Elena Ceaușescu controversially defended a Ph. D. thesis in chemistry and later received numerous honorary doctorates from respected Universities based on articles she was sup­ posed to have authored, even though she was not enrolled in a Ph.D. program, had no supervisor for her thesis, and had only basic notions of chemistry.

References Anderson, Benedict. 1983. Imagined Communities. Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism. London: Verso. Bennett, Tony. 2015. “Thinking (with) Museums. From Exhibitionary Complex to Governmental Assamblage” In Museum Theory, edited by Andrea Witcomb and Kylie Message, 3–21. Hoboken: Wiley-Blackwell. Bialer, Seweryn (1980). Stalin’s Successors: Leadership, Stability, and Change in the Soviet Union. Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press. Ceaușescu, Nicolae. 1971. Propuneri de măsuri pentru îmbunătățirea activității politicoideologice, de educare marxist-leninistă a membrilor de partid, a tuturor oamenilor muncii, 6 iulie 1971. București: Editura Politică. Ceaușescu, Nicolae. 1976. “Expunere cu privire la activitatea politico-ideologică și culturaleducativă de formare a omului nou, constructor conștient și devotat al societății socialiste, multilateral dezvoltate și al comunismului în România.” In Congresul educației politice și al culturii socialiste 2-4 iunie 1976, 50–53. Bucharest: Editura Politică. Ceaușescu, Nicolae. 1982. “Despre cultură”, Arta, no. 10-11, November–December: 1–2. Cozma, Gheorghe. 1986. Pictura Istorică Românească. Bucharest: Meridiane. Deac Mircea. 1980. “Istoria – spațiu și timp al artei”, Arta, no. 8, August: 1–2. Deletant, Dennis. 1995. Ceaușescu and the Securitate: Coercion and Dissent in Romania, 1965–1989. London: M.E. Sharpe. Fischer-Galati, Stephen. 2019. “Marxist Thought and the Rise of Nationalism” In Security Implications of Nationalism in Eastern Europe, edited by Jeffrey Simon and Trong Gilberg. New York: Routledge. Kindle. Foucault, Michel. 1977. Discipline and Punish: The Birth of Prison. London: Allen Lane. Gabanyi, Anneli Ute. 2000. The Ceaușescu Cult: Propaganda and Power Policy in Communist Romania. Bucharest: The Romanian Cultural Foundation Ghiu, Daria. 2015. În acest pavilion se vede artă. România la Bienala de la Artă de la Veneția (1907–2015). Cluj: Idea Design and Print. Karnouch, Claude. 2011. Inventarea poporului-națiune. Cronici din România și Europa Orientală 1973–2007. Cluj: Idea Design and Print. Malešević, Siniša. 2019. Grounded Nationalisms. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Mihăilescu, Vintilă. 2008. “A New Festival for the New Man: The Socialist Market of Folk Experts during the ‘Singing Romania’ National Festival.” In Studying Peoples in the People’s Democracies II. Socialist Era Anthropology in South-East Europe, edited by Vintilă Mihăilescu, Ilia Iliev and Slobodan Naumović, 55–80. Berlin: Lit Verlag Dr. W. Hopf. Mocănescu, Alice. 2017. “The ‘July Theses’ as a Game Changer: the Reception of the “July Theses” within the Romanian Artists’ Union.” In The State Artist in Romania and Eastern Europe. The Role of the Creative Unions, edited by Caterina Preda, 207–230. Bucharest: Bucharest University Press. Nae, Cristian. 2014. “Divergent Modernisms: Abstraction, Temporality and Cultural Politics in the Interpretation of Brancusi’s Pedestals”. In After Brâncuși., edited by Irina Cărăbaș and Olivia Nițis, 46–62. Bucharest: Unarte. Oancea, Constantin Claudiu. 2015. Mass Culture Forged on the Party’s Assembly Line Political Festivals in Socialist Romania, 1948-1989. Ph. D diss. European Cultural Institute. Papu, Edgar (1977). Din clasicii noştri. Contribuţii la ideea unui protocronism românesc. Bucharest: Editura Eminescu.

208 Cristian Nae Preda, Caterina. 2017. Art and Politics under Modern Dictatorship. A Comparison of Romania. London: Palgrave Macmillan. Petrescu, Dragoș. 1998. “400000 de spirite creatoare: ‘Cântarea României’ sau stalinismul naţional în festival.” In Miturile comunismului românesc, edited by Lucian Boia, 239–251. Bucharest: Nemira. Petrescu, Dragoș. 2011. “Communist Legacies in the New Europe. History, Ethnicity, and the Creation of a’Socialist’ Nation in Romania, 1945–1989.” In Conflicting Memories. Europeanizing Contemporary Histories, edited by Konrad H. Jarausch and Thomas Lindenberger, 37–54. New York: Berghan Books. Popovici, Veda. 2019. “Tradition and National Specificity. The Curatorial Discourse in the Exhibitions Studiul (The Study), Locul-faptă și metaforă (The Place – Fact and Metaphor) and Vatra (The Hearth).” In (In)Visible Frames. Rethorics and Experimental Exhibition Practices in Romanian Art Between 1965–1989, edited by Cristian Nae, 133–156. Cluj: Idea Design and Print. Rebedeu, Ion. 1974. “Arta și cultura națională. Fondul psihosocial al artei în perspectiva idealului estetico-ideologic.” In Artă și Ideologie, edited by Al. Tănase și Ion Rebedeu. Iasi: Junimea. Shafir, Michael. 1983. “Political Culture, Intellectual Dissent, and Intellectual Consent: The Case of Romania”, Orbis, 27, Summer: 393–420. Tismăneanu, Vladimir. 2003. Stalinism for All Seasons: A Political History of Romanian Communism. Berkeley: California University Press. Tismăneanu, Vladimir, Dorin Dobrincu and Cristian Vasile eds. 2007. Raport final. Bucharest: Humanitas. Verdery, Katherine. 1991. National Ideology Under Socialism: Identity and Cultural Politics in Ceausescu’s Romania, Los Angeles: University of California Press. Yurchak, Alexei. 2006. Everything Was Forever, Until it Was No More. The Last Soviet Generation. Princeton: Princeton University Press.

17 Local/Global Latvian Art at the Venice Biennale Stella Pelše

Latvian artists involved with contemporary developments have participated in ex­ hibitions and art projects outside Latvia since the nation regained independence in 1991. However, financial support was often difficult to find back then, the 1990s being a period of creative freedom with limited resources to exercise such freedom. The Latvian painters Eduards Kalniņš and Jānis Osis had already exhibited figural compositions with fisherman at the Venice Biennale as part of the USSR exposition in 1956 (Brasliņa 2004, 96; Konstante 2009, 204). However, this representation of Latvian art by a different state, and, moreover, an occupying power, did not con­ stitute Latvian participation in the fullest sense. The same applies to the Latvian artist in exile, post-modernist and appropriation master Imants Tillers, who represented Australia at the Venice Biennale in 1986 (Ansone and Williams 2018, 277, 287). Regular state-financed representation of Latvia1 at the Venice Biennales began in 1999. From the organisational viewpoint, Soros Centre for Contemporary Arts–Riga (founded in 1993, Latvian Centre for Contemporary Art since 2000) has played a major role there. Winners of competitions announced by the Ministry of Culture were usually selected by juries of art historians, critics and curators. Entering this presti­ gious international art event was seen as a reclamation of Latvia’s stolen place in Western culture, a sort of joining the “normal art scene” (Španjol 2012, 112), rather than the manifestation of Eastern European “otherness” as a deliberate agenda. Locally specific elements were rather perceived as natural and inescapably present. The first Latvian exposition “Stories, Storytellers” (1999, Chiesa di San Giovanni Nuovo, curator Helēna Demakova) included photographer Inta Ruka’s fascinating portraits of ordinary country dwellers framed by classical altar forms, video artist Anita Zabiļevska’s everyday reality moving under the feet of pedestrians, and in­ stallation master Ojārs Pētersons’ video with a speaker’s mouth, visualising the “story” theme. (Figure 17.1) The photographs by Ruka were from her collection My Country People (1983–1998), already recognised as treasures of Latvian contemporary art.2 These static black and white portraits produced with film and an ancient Rolleiflex camera lacked any bombastic social criticism, showing just sensitively observed rural people in their natural environment. Ruka’s conceptual anthropocentrism can be seen, ac­ cording to Latvian art historian Eduards Kļaviņš, as “Latvia’s identity tag on the map of world culture” (Demakova 1999b, 16). Both videos, on the other hand, clearly announced the advent of new media in the former Soviet space, with Zabiļevska’s sensual conceptualism3 and “Oranger” Pētersons’ ironically orange “story”4 that had to be imagined, like any art no longer simply representational and mimetic. Evidently, DOI: 10.4324/9781003265818-22

210 Stella Pelše

Figure 17.1 Inta Ruka, Ojārs Pētersons and Anita Zabiļevska, exposition “Stories, Storytellers”, 1999, photographs and video installations, Chiesa di San Giovanni Nuovo, Venice. Source: Latvian Centre for Contemporary Art archive / Photo by Gatis Rozenfelds.

Latvia’s debut in Venice reflected the general local art scene of the 1990s when tra­ ditional Soviet-period media – painting, sculpture, graphics – were rapidly ousted by experimentation in various media, including the electronic ones, and photography was accepted as a visual art, formerly relegated to either photojournalism or the formally aestheticised amateur club movement. An even more pronounced enthusiasm for moving, cinematographic images emerged in the exposition “Riga 800 Magic Flute” (2001, Chiesa di San Lio, curator Helēna Demakova). The film Papagena by the noted Latvian experimental film di­ rector Laila Pakalniņa captured the reactions of chance passers-by to hearing Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart’s music in earphones, resulting in an archive of emo­ tional responses. The second film in this exposition, by stage designer Ilmārs Blumbergs and film director Viesturs Kairišs, The Magic Flute, dealt with a sadder subject—the burial of anonymous persons in the cemetery at Jaunciems. Original set design images from the opera production mounted by both authors were integrated into the real environment of Riga’s surroundings. The title “Riga 800 Magic Flute” was derived from Riga’s eight-hundredth jubilee, also celebrated in 2001. The cata­ logue5 was a collection of articles on not just the involved artists but on other topics such as Riga’s architecture, urban planning, ability to generate ideas or its proximity

Local/Global Latvian Art 211 to the sea. In a sense, the project was an attempt to inscribe the Latvian experience in the classical European culture as epitomised by Mozart’s music. An odd case of political meddling in art occurred in 2003 when Latvia did not participate at all. The competition winners, the artists’ group F5, or the Famous Five (Līga Marcinkeviča, Ieva Rubeze, Mārtiņš Ratniks, Ervīns Broks, Fēlikss Zīders), were known largely for their digital video works and dubbed the “third wave” of contemporary art or the third-generation conceptualists. They were said to differ from both previous generations – poetic “installation artists” and conceptual pro­ vocateurs, as they had matured in the conditions of free information flow and a unified international art space6. Although their project “Euphoria” was approved, a minister of culture was appointed who urged artists “to face Latvia” instead of showing off abroad. In a perplexing interview, she excused the withdrawal of funds for the projects first by claiming that geniuses would always find ways to express themselves regardless. Then more pressing needs were listed, and, finally, the Venice Biennale was deemed too unpopular with ordinary people: “In my view, [participa­ tion in] the Venice Biennale would only gain ground if every country boy, making his childhood drawings or installations, were dreaming to go to Venice at some point later in life” (Rībena 2003). One is left to wonder how that popularity could occur without chances given to Latvian artists to go there. As a result of the ministry’s decision, the artists decided to abandon the work. Were this project to happen, it could have been the most provocative, dematerialised and innovative work presented by Latvia in Venice. Artists envisioned a performance during which they would re­ cline on sofas on Piazza San Marco and donate blood which would then be mixed with some flour or additives in a special machine, squeezing out pills resembling bird food that would be sold to tourists feeding pigeons. “So simple is the solution to the overproduction of art – also characteristic of the Venice Biennale – which, moreover, is accompanied by the slight euphoria that results from the loss of blood” (Taurens 2009, 22). Only the comic of this project was published in the Venice Biennale cat­ alogue (Bonami 2003, 555). (Figure 17.2) Politicians are referred to in the comic as little green men who sucked artists into their dirty-linen washing machine. The state in a sense refused to be represented with art seen as lacking some narrowly perceived “local” component. Thankfully, this kind of cultural isolationism was no more than a fleeting episode of political struggle. Efforts of the Famous Five group to reach the Biennale in a sense paid off when Latvia was represented again in 2005, this time by the multi-media project “Dark Bulb” (Palazzo Malipiero, project director Līga Marcinkeviča).7 The fictional story was centred on a scientist, an inventor of the electric dark bulb who perished since he could not find his way out of the laboratory. The work consisted of a rather frightening and fascinating passage through a dark spacious labyrinth where video clips were interspersed with touch and audio effects. However, critics’ opinions on the result varied, for instance, curator and researcher Māra Traumane concluded that the pavilion, although technically perfect, was deficient in laconism and clarity: “Confusing the spectator was left half-way between a clear resolution or, on the contrary, a persistent traumatic experience” (Traumane 2005, 38). Universal science-related themes proved attractive again when Latvia was re­ presented by the once scandalous artist Gints Gabrāns with his exposition “Paramirrors” (2007, Scuoletta di San Giovanni Battista e del SS Sacramento, project director Ieva Kulakova)8. In the 1990s, Gabrāns was known by installations, objects

212 Stella Pelše

Figure 17.2 Artists’ group Famous Five, comic of the unrealised exposition “Euphoria”. Source: Francesco Bonami, ed. 2003. Dreams and Conflicts: The Dictatorship of the Viewer: La Biennale di Venezia: 50th International Art Exhibition. Milan: Skira, 555.

and texts, synthesising Pop Art and Conceptualism in a provocative manner, for example, shocking viewers with showcases of mouldy food or a knife and a mirror with an instructive title Knife to Cut up Your Arse with. His later turn towards exploring the interplay of scientific and esoteric issues (“I am interested in the poetic mystical aspect of science” (Taurens 2008, 38)) is seen in this exposition. It included, for example, the object Beauty Mirror, said to improve facial skin by means of po­ larised light (the beauty industry has always been playing with scientific

Local/Global Latvian Art 213 achievements) and a collective session titled Parahypnosis, interpreting the ther­ apeutic effects of changes in states of consciousness. Viewers were quite fascinated also by the “live” magnetic fluid Spatial Membrane and the tunnel effect of a mirror opening a window to infinity with the change of lighting (Parallel Space. Psycholaser). The artist’s comments of these spectacular effects play on the con­ troversial torsion field theory that “permits us to speak of consciousness as a physical reality” (Astahovska 2007, unpaginated). This theory, born in the USSR in the 1980s, can be perceived as a regionally specific trend to be grouped with occultism, UFOs and other secular-age surrogates of religion but also as an invitation to rethink the boundaries between the possible and impossible, reason and imagination, or science and art. If Gabrāns is often categorised with second-generation conceptualists focused on a specific message in art, the next winners were younger, third-generation con­ ceptualists Miks Mitrēvics and Evelīna Deičmane (now Evelīna Vida) with the ex­ position “Fragile Nature” (2009, Spazio Ferrari, curators Līga Marcinkeviča and Norbert Weber). The contrast between the sun and snow was at the heart of a de­ licate and complicated installation and video. The work by Deičmane featured in­ dividuals buried in snow passively waiting for a thaw, a subject given added meaning by the economic crisis of 2008. The means employed by Mitrēvics to conjure up ephemeral sensations – sound of waves, wind gusts and bird songs – produced an environment conducive for reflecting on fleeting moments. Ecological overtones, al­ though suggested by the title, were not particularly strong, tending more towards more general contemplation of the human condition, according to curator Adam Budak: “Woven from melancholia and longing, Mitrēvics’ miniature universe mirrors the infinite on the edge of micro-sublime, between a thought and expression of the non-representable” (Marcinkeviča 2009, 11). The exposition “Artificial Peace” (“Contemporary Landscape”, 2011, Palazzo Albrizzi, curator Astrīda Rogule,) led to a reassessment of Kristaps Ģelzis, who had earlier gained reputation as a classic of contemporary art. The artist had once pro­ duced large-sized, expressive graphic works as well as countless witty objects and installations but then had recently turned to watercolours.9 The almost abstract paintings in Venice may have looked like an outdated modernist recidivism. Nevertheless, this series of luminescent acrylic paintings in a darkened space with ultraviolet light “manage to become ‘all over’ and envelop the viewer by means of light, like a spider entraps the fly with its filaments” (Fässler 2011, 36). Ģelzis’ works may surprise in the mainstream of conceptually critical pieces by daring to demand more imaginative activity from the viewer. Only the small catalogue10 explains that that these were actually panoramic urban views from the artist’s Riga apartment at various times of the day, adding a specific local accent, while the form of the paintings might suggest a myriad of remote analogies, from contemplative canvases by Mark Rothko to free-flowing, thin paint layers by Helen Frankenthaler. The 2013 exposition “North by Northeast” (curators Anne Barlow, Courtenay Finn, and Alise Tīfentāle) resulted from international cooperation between the New York-based art institution Art in General and Latvia’s kim? Contemporary Art Centre. The show can be variously interpreted in terms of local specificity, with its title already indicating Riga as a place situated north by northeast of Venice. According to photography researcher Alise Tīfentāle, photographer Kaspars Podnieks’ portraits of rural people mark a certain shift from Inta Ruka’s

214 Stella Pelše

Figure 17.3 Krišs Salmanis and Kaspars Podnieks, exposition “North by Northeast”, 2013, kinetic object with a tree and motor, photographs, Arsenale, Venice. Source: kim? Contemporary Art Centre archive / Photo by Valts Kleins.

documentary values in Latvia’s first debut towards “labour-consuming construction of the images” (Barlow et al. 2013, 25), as they appear dislocated and levitating above the ground. Krišs Salmanis’ real tree in perpetual oscillating movement, on the other hand, “has an air of Minimalist detachment as well as mysterious physical or even bodily connotations evocative of Arte Povera works” (Barlow et al. 2013, 20). (Figure 17.3) Besides these and other analogies carefully established by Tīfentāle, for instance, with Robert Smithson, Salmanis who belongs to the oft-awarded elite of Latvia’s contemporary artists11 is even more interesting from the viewpoint of the global circulation of ideas. Salmanis’ oscillating tree is reminiscent of a quote or paraphrase from German sculptor and ready-made artist Michael Sailstorfer’s kinetic trees12.

Local/Global Latvian Art 215 How to interpret such very close solutions in the present situation of overwhelmingly digital distribution of images and vanished quest for originality is left to the viewer. In any case, Salmanis’ art promises to be a very interesting material for comparative art history, his other works revealing similar language to such prominent artists as American Cecil Touchon and Briton Idris Khan. Regardless of certain aspects open to dispute, the 2013 exposition marks an im­ portant milestone in Latvia’s participation – since that time, the Latvian pavilion has been situated in the Arsenale building instead of in various rented venues scattered around Venice. The number of visitors having a chance to reflect on “the tension between location and dislocation, triggered by the ideological implications of poli­ ticised geography” (Barlow et al. 2013, 21) expressed through displacement and movement is certainly much greater than before. The exposition “Armpit” by Andris Eglītis and Katrīna Neiburga (2015, curator Kaspars Vanags) comprised a carefully crafted shrine-like large construction with built-in videos about the self-contained world of amateur auto mechanics. Eglītis and Neiburga have both received the Purvītis Prize, the highest art award in Latvia; if Neiburga is famous for her videos, Eglītis began his career as a painter, often using natural minerals instead of industrially produced paints, later turning to a sort of artistic carpentry of installations and objects. The project presenting “the story of garage men inhabiting the periphery of Europe” (Vanags and Astahovska 2015, 30) is interpreted as the pastoral of the digital age. It also inscribes Latvia in a wider postcommunist context in which “the emergence of Soviet garages was a part of the process of privatisation of private life in the country” (Vanags and Astahovska 2015, 87). The work is, however, also a woman’s look at men, thus reversing the usual pattern of woman as object for the male gaze. This tradition of “doing it yourself” emerges as a waning, nostalgic Soviet-time phenomenon, at the same time invoking alternative local lifestyles opposing feverish global consumption with an anticapitalist note. In 2017, the Latvian pavilion housed numerous narrative woodcuts, a light and sound installation and a painting on the theme of extraterrestrials by yet another second-generation conceptualist Miķelis Fišers. He has practiced painting alongside other media since the 1990s, mainly playing with the subject of human prejudices. The exposition’s title “What Can Go Wrong” (curator Inga Šteimane) “can be in­ terpreted in various ways – surprise, question or history” (Pietragnoli 2017, 200). Illustrations of conspiracy theories and esoteric adventures emerge, according to curator and critic Inga Šteimane, as just one example in a wider panorama of esoteric narratives in Latvian contemporary art that “have something to do with unnecessary hopes and unproductive longing for humanity” (Šteimane et al. 2017, 52). On the other hand, the rise of conspiracy theories also prompts consideration of the role of digital echo chambers exploited by populist politicians worldwide. Latvia’s representation in Venice in 2019 was rather different from all the previous biennials. The selected artist Daiga Grantiņa (project Sun Dog) has been residing and working in Paris for a long time; previously she lived in Germany and studied with Joseph Beuys’ former disciple. She is much more recognised abroad than at home; according to art critic Santa Hirša, “…interest in the work of a famous artist could attract attention to Latvia as a region, not vice versa” (Hirša 2018). Grantiņa’s spatial biomorphic abstractions in synthetic materials are reminiscent of post-minimalist sculptures by Eva Hesse. According to Grantiņa, her works evolve through the

216 Stella Pelše creative process, playing with light and materials, and are not merely implementa­ tions of an idea whose form is known in advance (Fišere 2016). Generally, Latvia’s representations in Venice have focused on the showcasing of most prominent artists’ works with more or less obvious references to local context. However, involvement with globally current themes and language increased the role of textual explanations aimed at anchoring the work to a Latvian background. Finding less specificity than perhaps expected, one can agree with art critic and philosopher Boris Groys that “today, artists from all over the world employ the same forms and procedures, but they use them in varying cultural and political contexts. Subsequently, our knowledge about these contexts is not an external feature of these works of art; instead, from the outset an artist can and must expect the viewer to regard the context in which he produces his art as an intrinsic dimension of his work” (Groys 2003, 323). Skilled craftsmanship and formal perfection are also present in these works. In comparison with the art of neighbouring Estonia, such as Kristina Norman’s politically charged work on Russian-Estonian relationships (After-War, 2009) or Jaanus Samma’s exploration of the Soviet-period gay life (A Chairman’s Tale, 2015), Latvian artists in Venice and at home have held on to rather universal messages, refraining from more direct, socially active or provocative gestures.

Notes 1 Latvia’s participation has been co-sponsored by various businesses and private patrons on a regular basis, as state funds were always insufficient. 2 For more details about Inta Ruka see: Demakova 1999a. 3 See: Demakova 1999b, 45–48. 4 On Ojārs Pētersons see: Demakova 1999b, 71–73; Demakova 2002, 71–93. 5 See: Demakova 2001. 6 For more information on the artists see: Demakova 2010, 35–105. 7 See: Astahovska 2005. 8 See: Astahovska 2007. 9 For more information see: Iltnere 2010. 10 See: Bišs et al 2011. 11 For more information see: Mičule 2018. 12 For example, Sailstorfer’s exhibition “Forst” (2012) (http://sailstorfer.de/exhibitions/forst, accessed 08.03.2019).

References Ansone, Elita and Marni Williams eds. 2018. Imants Tillers: Ceļojums uz nekurieni = Journey to Nowhere. Riga and Sydney: Latvian National Museum of Art & Power Publications, the University of Sydney. Astahovska, Ieva. 2005. Famous Five: Tumsas spuldze: Venēcijas biennāle: 51. starptautiskā mākslas izstāde = Dark Bulb: La Biennale di Venezia: 51st International Art Exhibition. Exhibition catalogue. Riga: Biennāle–2005. Astahovska, Ieva ed. 2007. Gints Gabrāns: Paramirrors = Paraspoguļi. Exhibition catalogue. Riga: Latvian Centre for Contemporary Art. Barlow, Anne, Courtenay Finn, Solvita Krese, Sigurds Rusmanis, Nils Sakss and Alise Tīfentāle. 2013. Kaspars Podnieks, Krišs Salmanis: North by Northeast: Pavilion of Latvia at the 55th International Art Exhibition La Biennale di Venezia. Exhibition catalogue. Riga: kim? Contemporary Art Centre. Bišs, Ģirts, Kristaps Ģelzis, Sergejs Timofejevs and Mark Svede. 2011. Republic of Latvia:

Local/Global Latvian Art 217 Kristaps Ģelzis: Artificial Peace (Contemporary Landscape). Exhibition catalogue. Riga: Indie. Bonami, Francesco ed. 2003. Dreams and Conflicts: The Dictatorship of the Viewer: La Biennale di Venezia: 50th International Art Exhibition. Exhibition catalogue. Milan: Skira. Brasliņa, Aija ed. 2004. Eduards Kalniņš. Riga: State Museum of Art. Demakova, Helēna ed. 1999a. Inta Ruka: My Country People = Mani lauku ļaudis = La mia gente di campagna. Riga: Soros Centre for Contemporary Arts–Riga. Demakova, Helēna ed. 1999b. Stories, Storytellers = Stāsti, stāstītāji = Storie, Narratori [cat­ alogue]. Riga: Soros Centre for Contemporary Arts–Riga. Demakova, Helēna ed. 2001. Rīgas astoņsimtgades burvju flauta = Riga 800 Magic Flute [catalogue]. Riga: Latvian Centre for Contemporary Art. Demakova, Helēna. 2002. Citas sarunas: Raksti par mākslu un kultūru = Different Conversations: Writings on Art and Culture. Riga: Visual Communication Department. Demakova, Helēna. 2010. Nepamanīs. Latvijas laikmetīgā māksla un starptautiskais konteksts = They Would’t Notice. Latvian Contemporary Art and the International Context. Riga: ¼ Satori. Fässler, Barbara. 2011. “177 Days of Running: Reflections of the Venice Biennale 2011.” Studija 79: 32–41. Fišere, Odrija. October 7, 2016. “Gaismas materializētāja Daiga Grantiņa [Materialiser of light Daiga Grantiņa].” Published. http://www.arterritory.com/lv/teksti/intervijas/5991-gaismas_ materializetaja_daiga_grantina Groys, Boris. 2003. “Back From the Future.” Third Text 17, no. 4: 323–331. Hirša, Santa. 2018. “Venēcijas sapņu bākas izteiksmes spēks [Power of expression of the Venice’s dream lighthouse].” Kultūras Diena un Izklaide: Laikraksta Diena Pielikums, August 23, 2018: 14–15. Iltnere, Anna. 2010. Kristaps Ģelzis. Riga: Neputns, 2010. Konstante, Ilze. 2009. Jānis Osis: 1926–1991. Riga: Neputns. Marcinkeviča, Līga ed. 2009. Miks Mitrēvics: Trauslā daba: Venēcijas biennāle: 53. Starptautiskā mākslas izstāde = Miks Mitrēvics: Fragile Nature: La Biennale di Venezia: 53rd International Art Exhibition. Exhibition catalogue. Riga: Biennāle–2005. Mičule (now Hirša), Santa. 2018. Krišs Salmanis. Riga: Neputns. Pietragnoli, Maddalena ed. 2017. Biennale Arte 2017: Viva Arte Viva: Short Guide. La Biennale di Venezia. Rībena, Ingūna. 2003. “Katrs lauku zēns Venēcijā [Every country boy in Venice].” Interview by Sarmīte Ēlerte, Māra Misiņa and Evita Prokopova. Diena, January 31, 2003: 11. Španjol, Igor ed. 2012. Igor Zabel: Contemporary Art Theory. Zurich: JRP Ringier. Šteimane, Inga, Ilmārs Šlāpins and Margus Tamm. 2017. What Can Go Wrong: The Pavilion of the Republic of Latvia at the 57th International Art Exhibition La Biennale di Venezia: Miķelis Fišers [catalogue]. Riga: Indie. Taurens, Jānis. 2008. Gints Gabrāns. Riga: Neputns. Taurens, Jānis. 2009. Famous Five. Riga: Neputns. Traumane, Māra. 2005. “Vārds pret valsti [Word against the state].” Studija 43: 36–38. Vanags, Kaspars, and Ieva Astahovska eds. 2015. Armpit: Latvian Pavilion: Biennale Arte 2015: Katrīna Neiburga: Andris Eglītis [catalogue]. Riga: Latvian Centre for Contemporary Art.

18 “Grey in Colour” – Observations on the Reconstruction of Modernity Marcin Lachowski

The prevalent practice for exhibitions in Poland in the 1990s engaged with revisions and reconstructions. The canon of Polish art history in the first years of the social and political transformation was organised and shaped by the evocation of the under­ ground art of the 1980s, which was not present in the official domain, and by monographic and thematic exhibitions on artists representing the consecutive artistic decades of the People’s Republic of Poland. Retrospective exhibitions were testimony and a key part of public debates. They manipulated the image of the past and for­ mulated judgments about the present, thus defining the position of art in past, and as well as its present ideological and social contexts. In the 1990s, the programme of artistic modernity in communist times became the subject of numerous exhibitions recreating the activities of galleries, conspicuous artistic phenomena, and marvels of design, urban planning and art, which attempted to recreate various traditions in the new political situation.1 Another measure of the approach to this historic period was the jubilee exhibition “Szare w kolorze 1956-1970. Kultura okresu gomułkowskiego” [Grey in Colour 1956–1970. The culture of the Gomułka period] (Zachęta, Warszaw 2000), which introduced a new quality to Polish exhibition models, treating the exhibition as a dy­ namic medium, reproducing the history of social life, and reconstructing the activities of artistic galleries and cultural institutions. I would like to treat it as a special case which eloquently debated the status of a past associated with an authoritarian legacy in the contemporary social consciousness of the first years of capitalism, and as an ex­ ample of the liberalisation of the cultural mechanism. Although the exhibition cannot really be regarded as representative of a variety of social and artistic phenomena, it played a part in debates on Polish and, more generally, Central European culture at the turn of the millennium. The exhibition, combining a documentary echelon with con­ temporary scenarios, was treated as a curatorial gesamtkunstwerk (a complete work of art). The holistic model for creating the historical narrative of the exhibition was based on an understanding of modernity as a reflection of culture and art related to social life, political ideology, and everyday life. As a symbolic culmination of the period of poli­ tical transformation in the 90s, it developed a strategy of reconstructing the cultural canon, presenting artistic phenomena as part of processes of fundamental change (Zientecka 2007). Therefore, it can be seen in the light of the discussion on the cultural heritage of the People’s Republic of Poland which pervaded the decade of the 1990s. Prepared by a team of curators led by Anda Rottenberg,2 the exhibition was a holistic view of the “thaw” years, and the culture of the 1960s, presenting a diverse spectrum of cultural events through various media. Although treated as a broad DOI: 10.4324/9781003265818-23

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presentation of various cultural phenomena, the “Grey in Colour” exhibition referred to the assumptions of modernity as a set of complex practices, including artistic ones, which defined the identity of the 1950s and 1960s. The reconstruction of these practices defined the scope of references for the culture, politics, and ideology of this period, affording an opportunity to enliven the debate taking place around the year 2000 on the legacy of modernity in Gomułka’s times during the transformation.3 The visual aspect of the Warsaw exhibition consisted of combining ephemeral, impermanent elements of the past and archives, with a mode of presentation em­ ploying the mechanisms of condensation, rescaling, and intensification, thereby giving the past the spectacular character of a contemporary exhibition. The exhibi­ tion was an outline of social life in the times of the Polish People’s Republic expressed by modern means of presentation derived from experimental art exhibitions. These means consisted of the search for a suitable visual syntax to delineate specific topics, sequences, spaces, and interiors. Balancing between documentary narrative, auton­ omous creation, and gesamtkunswerk, the display reconstructed modern space in various ways, and established an autonomy resulting from the spatial layout of its heterogeneous components. These methods of presentation combined the “icono­ clastic” practices of the avant-garde with the need to transform them in the domain of the iconophilia of contemporary exhibition practices.4 By building an extensive to­ pography of historical and imaginary places, and referring to archival accounts, the exhibition created its own topography, condensing a new constellation of relations and connections inside the Zachęta Gallery, which contrasted the programme of modernity with its scale of ideology and various dimensions of everyday life in the People’s Republic of Poland. ∗∗∗ The “Grey in Colour” exhibition was designed around characters and specific places. The main staircase was filled with monumental portraits of literary and film char­ acters, representatives of culture, and politicians – Maciej Chełmicki from Wajda’s film “Ashes and Diamonds”, Roman Polanski, Barbara Kwiatkowska, and the married couple Nina Andrycz and Józef Cyrankiewicz. However, the basic scheme of the exhibition related to the diverse social and cultural topography of the 1950s and 1960s, by showcasing the dimensions of public and private space, documenting specific places, and creating symbolic syntheses. Among the spaces reconstructed for the duration of the exhibition were a characteristic set of a milk bar, a street with shop windows, a housing estate arranged with enlarged photographs, a compart­ mentalised space of four rooms equipped with modular wall units and standardised furniture created according to the designs of the Ład Cooperative, and the interior of a café giving the opportunity to have a coffee, a doughnut, or a wuzetka cake, which recaptured the spirit and atmosphere of bygone times (Figure 18.1). Reconstructed culture enclaves, such as the Student Theatre of Satirists, and the Hybrydy [Hybrids] and Stodola [The Barn] jazz clubs, served as prototypes for an artificially directed space, generating the artistic atmosphere of the place, and creating a space filled with photographs of people associated with student culture (including Stanisław Tym, Kalina Jędrusik, Agnieszka Osiecka, and Jonasz Kofta). Other, more individualised, characteristics of art cellars were recreated by means of photographs and recorded sounds and music, recalling specific real-life places such as the art cellars: Piwnica pod Baranami [The Cellar Under the Rams], Krzysztofory, and

220 Marcin Lachowski

Figure 18.1 View of the exhibition “Grey in colour 1956–1970”, Zachęta National Gallery of Art, 2000. Source: Zachęta National Gallery of Art, phot. Anna Pietrzak-Bartos.

Wanda Warska’s Piwnica Artystyczna [Artistic Cellar]. Finally, a cinema room was added to the exhibition, presenting a changeable repertoire of films from the 1950s and 60s, which was recreated with the use of characteristic props and accessories, such as cinema seats, a jacquard-lined interior, a carpeted floor, a curtain covering the screen, photos of actors, and original repertoires displayed in showcases. Other im­ portant spatial elements of the exhibition included the reconstruction of the room of the International Press and Book Club (EMPiK), and an exhibition hall presenting the achievements of the Polish School of Poster Art. The artistic environment was ac­ centuated by documents and artworks situated in the niches of the Narutowicz Hall, which represented the activities of art galleries from the 1950s: Galeria Współczesna [Modern Gallery], the Krzywe Koło Gallery [Crooked Circle Gallery], the OdNowa Gallery [Renewal Gallery], the Krzysztofory Gallery; and the documentation of the

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Biennial of Spatial Forms. This area presented a range of variants and artistic circles of Polish post-thaw creativity, unified with a series of exhibition stalls5. A separate space was devoted to the 1: 1 scale reconstruction of the Foksal Gallery, where, by means of the presentation of its archive and slides showing selected exhibitions, emphasis was put on the link between Foksal’s history and the key theoretical ca­ tegories of a gallery perceived as “a place” and as “an archive”. The permanence and continuous presence of the gallery on the artistic stage was expressed by new works by artists associated with the gallery, and through an interpretation of its historical and current dimensions: Mirosław Bałka built a column from wooden staves from the gallery’s former equipment, Paweł Althamer placed white bus seats in the middle of the room, and Douglas Gordon used the inscription “It’s better to Know. Lepiej nie wiedzieć” (It’s better to Know. It’s better not to Know). A separate space was taken up by a contemporary installation, though archival in nature, entitled “Agregat au­ tobiograficzny” [An autobiographical aggregate] by Zofia Kulik and Przemysław Kwiek, which recalled activities, documentations, and performances of artists from the turn of the 1970s, recreating the history of a special gallery – Pracownia Działań, Dokumentacji i Upowszechniania [The Studio of Activities, Documentation and Dissemination] (Figure 18.2). The arranged areas of the exhibition functioned using various modes of re­ presentation. Sometimes, clarifying concrete reality was achieved by means of the material used – a sidewalk, a saturator, an enlarged photo of a blocks-of-flats estate, fabric lining the interior of a cinema hall, and a bar appealing to various senses. In

Figure 18.2 View of the exhibition “Grey in colour 1956–1970”, Room of the Galleries, Zachęta National Gallery of Art, 2000. Source: Zachęta National Gallery of Art, phot. Anna Pietrzak-Bartos.

222 Marcin Lachowski other cases, the theatralisation of the space gained a metaphorical character in its synthetic approach to the generally outlined space of a student club or EMPIK. Lastly, pragmatically separated niches were used to represent the interiors of art galleries. In its entirety, the exhibition showed components defining various dimen­ sions of modernity – from private spaces to the appearance of streets, differentiating the scale of references with private and official recollections. The fact that the ac­ tivities of the artistic institutions were exhibited at the same time in the two largest halls of the Zachęta emphasised the distinct place of art in relation to the emblems and props of everyday life. It also highlighted a clear and somewhat paradigmatic manifestation of modernity in abstract painting, and a modernly interpreted meta­ phor in the works of the artists of Group 55 and the Krakow group, as well as in exhibitions from the Współczesna Gallery and the OdNowa Gallery. Another mea­ sure was applied to the presentation of the Foksal Gallery, reconstructed on an actual real-life scale, which annexed the space of the Matejko Hall with contemporary ar­ tistic creations. Here the focus was not on the history of modern art but on the demand for the constant reconfiguration and reinterpretation of the ‘place’ category, which demonstrated its special position (Łabowicz-Dymanus 2009; Lachowski 2016, 108–115). In addition, Kwiek and Kulik’s work, resembling an open archive of ar­ tistic activities rooted in the late 1960s, defined the concept of “an archive” as a spatial visualisation and a fragmentary, partly defined past, with the rhyming slogan “It’s better to know. It’s better not to know” (Figure 18.3).

Figure 18.3 View of the exhibition “Grey in colour 1956–1970”, Room of Foksal Gallery, Zachęta National Gallery of Art, 2000. Source: Zachęta National Gallery of Art, phot. Anna Pietrzak-Bartos.

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These various creations were a development of the function of modern space, filled with events involving the audience. The exhibition appeared as a structured scenario filled with diverse topography and the arrangement of places, engaging the viewer in a directed sequence of events, services, and offerings. It constituted the conceptual and material equivalent of a rethinking of the principles of modernity and generated illusion, and shaped the parallel language of representation in re­ lation to the programme of modernity (Juszkiewicz 2013, 75–176). The exhibition directly referred to postulates describing modern space as a medium for moder­ nising society. It was an image of an artistic space combining modern designed objects with a programme characteristic of the various postulates of modernity, which demanded the modernisation of everyday life directly relating to the legacy of integrationist models6 (Hryniewiecki 1956, 5–9; Osęka 1957, 3; Wojciechowski 1959, 3–5; Bogusz 1965, 10; Czartoryska 1960, 367–368; Łagocki 1960, 75, Włodarczyk 2010, 11–27). It was conceived as a holistic treatment of space which revealed innovations in the field of designing utility forms and industrial design, and presented examples of new architecture, exhibitions, interior design, photo­ graphic experiments, and new means of artistic expression. This mode of synthesis inscribed in the distribution of the patterns of modernity became a clear message, which, on the one hand, was expressed by the presentation of specific places and objects, accentuating their everyday and widespread use (e.g. an interior equipped with furniture of the “Ład” Cooperative), but, on the other hand, also manifested itself through the arrangement of the exhibition, the materials used, the textures of objects, and recreated imitations of specific interiors designating specific places for the viewer. The exhibition contained visual messages and discussions describing the modern nature of artistic creativity as an element and a model of social change, by using the techniques of editing, discontinuation, juxtaposition, and confrontation, and by presenting different dimensions of historical everyday life in various emotional as­ sociations. This thread of expression, emancipation, freedom, and progress in the field of culture was connected with the ideological sphere of repression, characteristic of the authoritarian model of the state. This tension reached the point of radical manifestation in the events of March 1968, when emancipatory student movements clashed with the intensified violence and anti-Semitic propaganda of the political rulers. “Grey in Colours” was a kind of time machine, which appealed to its audience sensory scenography, and at the same time expressed distance marked in large-scale black and white photographic documentation. It produced concrete exhibition space while emphasising the conventionality of the created illusion, problematised aspects of the presence and continuity of the myth of modernity in contemporary political discourse, and allowed for a dual reading of nostalgia and broken ties as an integral part of the transformation process of the 1990s. The aspect of creating illusions was the focus of the critical and journalistic re­ ception of the “Grey in Colour” exhibition. Titles in the press accentuated the edu­ cational and historical dimensions of the exhibition, referring to stereotypical codes (Lessons in the history of everyday life, It is a pity that spoons are not on a chain, Like a time machine, Fish in jelly). Press accounts were also filled with discussions on the credibility of the message. The exhibition recalled the specific atmosphere of gastronomic establishments, and confronted viewers’ own recollections with the exhibited places and props: “A walk through the exhibition halls, thanks to their

224 Marcin Lachowski careful and ingenious arrangement, turns into a sort of journey in time. Here, sud­ denly, we walk on the crooked pavement of a small street, looking in shop windows. A milk bar, restored with reverence, is adjacent to the EMPIK reading room, where – with a cigarette in your mouth – you can browse newspapers from the era; a tiny cinema with projectors and a bar with a liquor licence.” (Jabłoński 2000). A diverse scope of opinions characterised the statements by professional critics, who also as­ sessed the value of the exhibition through its fictional and imitative structure. Andrzej Osęka drew attention to the folklore and mock-up nature of the reconstructed spaces, accusing curators of misrepresentation in the idealised way they showed the recreated places and used upmarket designer furnishings as symbols of interior design, which masked the actual pauperisation and existential hopelessness of the era. According to the critic, the scenographic character of the exhibition masked the authenticity of the People’s Republic of Poland as expressed not so much through modern and avantgarde art, but rather in the painting concepts of artists such as those from the “Wprost” group who were not represented in the exhibition (Osęka 2000). In his polemic, Bogusław Deptuła called the exhibition “impressionistic,” accousing it of shirking from “a full study of the culture, art and politics of that era” as it presenting a simplified picture of the past. Deptuła questioned the glitz and peculiar exclusivity of the presented design projects, also demanding a more accurate sense of proportion in the reproduction of artistic and historical meanings in reference to an imbalance in the presentation of the role of the Foksal Gallery and other galleries and art centres (Deptuła 2000). The task of adequately representing places and institutions was the focus of Bożena Kowalska’s critical assessment. Combining her own memories with the displayed equipment and the exhibition presentation, she emphasised the absence of important artists, expressive experiments, and the search for new formulas for artistic plein-air practices (Kowalska 2000). Lech Lechowicz also drew attention to the selectivity of the exhibition, and the inadequacy of recreating everyday patterns of the 1950s, 1960s and 1970s. “The exhibition also did not contain what, next to greyness, was one of the most-characteristic features of that reality – elements of the ubiquitous visual propaganda of the People’s Republic of Poland. It gives the im­ pression that everything was displayed in some isolated, artificial, reality, devoid of all the ideological and political pressure of the omnipresent communist state.” (Lechowicz 2000) According to critical opinions, the exhibition constituted a kind of time capsule, providing an opportunity for immersion in the specificity of space transferred from other times, equipped with gestures, customs, and props characteristic of various fields of social and everyday life in the 1950s and 1960s. It became the subject of confrontations of personal memories and “historical truth” in imaginary scenery. The discussion revolved around the appropriateness of representing the past, and in so doing shaping a certain model or canon of its perception. The voices of Osęka, Deptuła, and Lechowicz expressed various and generational perspectives and ex­ periences, and appealed for the supplementation of incomplete historical threads and the transference of emphasis placed on particular topics, thus disputing the modern, positivist, and avant-garde discourse promoted by the exhibition. These polemics alluded to the credibility of the exhibition, the authenticity of the message, and the truth of the story. The dominant effect of the reception of the exhibition, in its de­ scriptive, journalistic, and professional critiques, was its “sensory character,” parti­ cipation, and immersiveness. Acting upon its audience through direct experience, it

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made reference to individual experience and liberated memories, and introduced a diverse scale of autobiographical references (Sitzia 2016, 3–7). ∗∗∗ The exhibition at Zachęta summed up the process of the reception of modernity, lending it the monumental dimension of a participatory exhibition, while introducing the reconstruction of history and events as a process of remembering and forgetting. However, if the trail of modernisation justified the cultural roots and understanding of cultural space, then the logic of the exhibition’s layout drew its justification from later concepts of shaping space through the autonomous category of “place” pos­ tulated in the Foksal gallery. Its special location on the map of the exhibition recalled the legacy of theoretical reflection on the phenomenon of the exhibition. By con­ structing the heterogeneous arrangement of the exhibition and negating the utilitar­ ianism of modern space, the “place” was to direct attention to the intensification of experience as a transient fusion of the subject-participant with the environment. In the plan of the exhibition at Zachęta, the co-occurrence of places corresponded to the principle of heterotopy, a horizontal arrangement of fragments, which created a discontinuous arrangement of scenery (Olszewska 2010, 14–15). “Grey in Colour” appeared to be a journey into the past, albeit presented in an assembled structure and relationship of places, highlighting the contemporary, fragmentary, discontinuous, way of thinking about the past, consisting of clumsy details. The topography of the exhibition emphasised the variable description of space through its approximations and typifications, synecdoches (representations through the selection of works in galleries), simulations (in photographic terms and in the reflection of residential in­ teriors), and imitation (in the Foksal Gallery). It followed the example of large art exhibitions originating from artistic, rather than historical, exhibitions put on in the 1970s and 80s. These explored a wide range of correlations between art and history – from the series of historical exhibitions at the opening of the Pompidou Centre, which treated visual work as part of profound cultural changes with exhibitions intensifying the autonomous values of the visual arts (Zeitgeist) – to Harald Szeemann’s ahistoric exhibitions, which emphasised changeable visual relationships, and activated the spatial, rather than narrative, dimension of the exhibition (Poisont 1996, 39–65; Meijers 1996, 7–19). The exhibition at Zachęta replaced the historicism of exhibi­ tions subordinated to a linear structure of events and the relation of places real and imagined, recreated and created, and reconstructed and outlined according to the curator’s choice. “Grey in Colour” created a form of cartographic model based on the acquisition of historical data and its dissemination, and the creation of a visual schema consisting of identification, generalisation, synthesis, reference to a specific pattern, and its trans­ location. It had a different scale and a set of exhibits which operated on a symbolic level. It delivered a direct experience resulting from participation in a multifaceted exhibition scenario. It applied a series of actions and tactics to the diverse topography of the People’s Republic of Poland, determining how to navigate the exhibition, which reconciled the documentary dimension of the event with numerous exhibition devices and ideas. Illusively realistic imitations of places gained the status of equivalent symbolic representations, thus replacing the narrative based on the chronology set by the dates 1956–1968, with an arrangement of space projected on the Zachęta exhibition plan: Narutowicz’s Hall, Matejko’s Hall, and a suite of

226 Marcin Lachowski rooms. This, in turn, profiled and sorted the materials and knowledge, creating a spatial arrangement saturated with various records and objects. The past tense de­ termined the horizontal layout of the map as a multifaceted collection of facts, in­ formation, and creations. The exhibition took on the form of reconstruction and reconfiguration, which followed the tendency to present a past which shaped in­ dividual and social memory. It united the past with its narrative in a shared conceived space. Reesa Greenberg wrote about such a trend in exhibitions. “The emergence of the ‘remembering exhibitions’ is a manifestation of Western culture’s current fasci­ nation with memory as a modality for constructing individual or collective identities. How we remember exhibitions, and our need to remember them, are very much part of recent exhibition culture. ‘Remembering exhibitions’ also attest to a belief in a dynamic, rhizome-like, notion of history, in which past and present are interwoven. As such, ‘remembering exhibitions’ belong to the practice of spatialising memory, making memory concrete, tangible, actual, and interactive. ‘Remembering exhibi­ tions’ can be discursive events, dynamic cultural moments of active, widespread ex­ change and debate, which in turn are catalysts for changing perceptions and practices.” (Greenberg 2009, 1) By referring to these ways of giving substance to memory and its contextualisation, “Grey in Colour” followed the direction of changes in curatorial decisions which placed separate works and events in the same exhibition area, thus giving them the characteristics of a comprehensive arrangement, as well as those of a multifaceted story. In contrast to the linear structure of historical narrative7, it emphasised a to­ pographical arrangement of places, creating a discontinuous space in the exhibition. In this sense, the exhibition adopted an ambivalent form of myth creation and a historical reconstruction. It was both an illusion and a creation of dynamic relations between the fragment and the whole, which relied on both immersiveness and the discursiveness of the exhibition space, as well as on authenticity and mystification. The exhibition became part of the discussion on the assimilation and rejection of the heritage of the People’s Republic of Poland in times of transformation (Szczerski 2018, 7–23). In the Polish art exhibition in the 1990s, the Warsaw exhibition was one of the few examples of reconstruction and a comprehensive presentation of the position of visual culture in the People’s Republic of Poland. It fits within the revisory models describing complex relations between the past and the present, which comprised a variety of proposals – from clear-cut separation from the socialist past in the rightwing formula, to patterns of assimilation and emphasising continuity expressed in various aspects of everyday life. According to Przemysław Czapliński and other researchers, what was at stake was an assessment of the relationship between prosaic and creative gestures’ being part of a dense network of ideological con­ nections defining the oppressive reality of the People’s Republic of Poland. In this retrospective narrative there were either the heroic attitudes of steadfast heroes, setting a benchmark for the shape of the present, or deheroised, often opportu­ nistic, approaches to participating in reality which affected a positivist model of creating culture. Within the polar boundaries of culture, defined by the position of anti-communists and post-communists occupying the social and political scene of the 90s (subject to crises and reconfigurations in subsequent decades), there was a middle ground occupied by “nostalgics”. Czaplinski describes them. “Nostalgics said ‘no’ to both these concepts. To right-wing stereotypes, this art tried to show

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that one could be free without participating in the activities of the political op­ position, and that the socialist State failed to seize the entire sphere of everyday life. In turn, to post-communist stereotypes, the nostalgics responded that ‘good’ in those conditions was not a gift from the State, but a value hard-won by ordinary people” (Czapliński 2014, 251). By reconstructing this dimension of history, the exhibition at Zachęta emphasised the role of objects and the users of the culture of the 1950s and 1960s, which were part of a complex picture of tactics, actions, and quotidian activities, but ignored questions about the extent, anatomy, and infiltration of political authority. Modern culture, in a sense, became an instrument of resistance to the management system identified as inherent to the Gomułka era. The exhibition showed the process of the emancipation of places and the distinguishing of nodal structures in relation to the grey urban space of the People’s Republic of Poland. Due to its nostalgic dimension, and the evoking of colourful refuges of culture against the background of the greyness of the public space, the exhibition explored a non-heroic, individualised, portrait of the era like a mirror placed in front of a contemporary audience. Its intention was not a correctly recounted history, a mimetic reproduction of the past, or the creation of an illusionary simulacrum which would be subject to historical evaluation. It was an endeavour addressed primarily to contemporary recipients, which afforded them access to a specific narrative shaping the current discourse of culture, and presented them with a historical space which could be negotiated and constructed using co­ existing places on the exhibition map. The changing image of the past was expressed through nostalgia and creation, and through individualised memory and social myth, which constituted a constant transformation. From the fragmentally represented past, the curators chose a liberal positivism associated with the modern style of everyday life, which could prove to be an adequate model for promoting progressive and critical patterns in various areas of social life, and could also legitimise contemporary artistic practices by describing culture as an important aspect of debates about modernity. The “Grey in Colour” exhibition monumentalised the image of the cul­ ture of the People’s Republic of Poland, and reflected its sought-after visuality in everyday-life practices. It was one of the most spectacular examples of the re­ construction of the socialist era in Poland, which closed the first period of discussion on the legacy of the Social Republic. It replaced the historical meta-narrative with a lower angle of vision.

Notes 1 As part of the reconstruction of cultural heritage, retrospective exhibitions were organized mostly in Warsaw – at the Zachęta Gallery and the Centre for Contemporary Art – Ujazdowski Castle. They included works by such renowned artists as Magdalena Abakanowicz, Tadeusz Brzozowski, Jan Cybis, Józef Czapski, Jan Lebenstein, Jerzy Nowosielski, Alina Szapocznikow, and Andrzej Wróblewski, as well as presentations of artistic circles and phenomena, e.g. “Polish School of Poster Art 1956–1965,” Poster Museum, 1989; “Krzywe Koło Gallery,” National Museum in Warsaw, 1990; “The Thaw: art around 1956,” National Museum in Poznań, 1996; “Common things: Polish products 1899–1999,” National Museum in Warsaw, 2000, “Modern Artists 1948-1954,” Zachęta Gallery, 2000. 2 Besides Anda Rottenberg, the co-curators of the exhibition were: Barbara Dąbrowska, Anna Stepnowska, Hanna Wróblewska, Karolina Ziembińska, and Magdalena Kardasz.

228 Marcin Lachowski 3 This was also the intention of the curators, who strove to recreate the era of childhood for the audience by shaping the social and political characteristics of the last decade of the 20th century, and also aspired to a special educational function, cf. A. Rottenberg, Grey in Colour 1956–1970. The culture of the Gomułka period, exhibition gazette, Zachęta Gallery of Contemporary Art, Warsaw 2000, p. 1. 4 Boris Groys, who described a dialectic relation between the destruction of an image and its exhibition on this binary opposition, put a strong emphasis on the decisive role of curatorial practices. The role of the curator is ambivalent, because by making an authorial synthesis of the material, it deprives individual objects of their artistic aura at the same time, and plays a complex game with different visual strategies. An independent curator “abuses” the art, profanes it, but “it is this abuse that makes images visible.” Cf. Groys 2008, part 1, chapt. 3). 5 The period of the “Thaw” meant a radical break with the doctrine of socialist realism and was characterized by the liberalization of cultural policy; it ended in the late 1950s. The 1960s “Post-Thaw” period marked the development of neo-avant-garde art, shown in in­ dependent galleries, preferring the autonomous status of art, separated from ideological and political meanings. 6 Cf. Postulates formulated during the thaw in the articles: Osęka 1957, 3; Wojciechowski 1959, 8; Bogusz 1965, 10; Czartoryska 1960, 367–368; Łagocki 1960, 75. 7 On the subject of a narrative museum, cf.: M. Popczyk, Estetyczna przestrzeń ekspozycji muzealnych, Cracow 2008; A. Ziębińska-Witek, Totalitaryzm w nowych muzeach histor­ ycznych, in: Historia Polski od-nowa. Nowe narracje historii i muzealne reprezentacje przeszłości, ed. R. Kostro, K. Wóycicki, M. Wysocki, Muzeum Historii Polski, Warszawa 2014, pp. 26–44; D. Folga-Januszewska, Obraz, narracja, pamięć. Czy możliwe jest wyobrażenie przeszłości w muzeum, in: Historia Polski od-nowa., op. cit., pp. 71–87. (Popczyk 2008; Ziębińska-Witek 2014, 26–44; Folga-Januszewska 2014, 71–87).

References Bogusz, Marian. 1965. “I Biennale Form Przestrzennych.” Kultura, no. 32: 10. Czapliński, Przemysław. 2014. “Wojny pamięci.” In: Historia Polski od-nowa. Nowe narracje historii i muzealne reprezentacje przeszłości, edited by Robert Kostro, Kazimierz Wóycicki and Michał Wysocki. Warszawa: Muzeum Historii Polski. Czartoryska, Urszula. 1960. “Polska w fotografii artystycznej.” Fotografia, 89, no. 11: 367–371. Deptuła, Bogusław. 2000. “Kultura okresu gomułkowskiego w Zachęcie. Lata szare.” Tygodnik Powszechny, 2668, no. 35: 13. Folga-Januszewska, Dorota. 2014. “Obraz, narracja, pamięć. Czy możliwe jest wyobrażenie przeszłości w muzeum.” In: Historia Polski od-nowa. Nowe narracje historii i muzealne reprezentacje przeszłości, edited by Robert Kostro, Kazimierz Wóycicki and Michał Wysocki. Warszawa: Muzeum Historii Polskia. Greenberg, Reesa. 2009. “Landmark Exhibitions Issue ‘Remembering Exhibitions’: From Point to Line to Web.” Tate Papers, no. 12. https://www.tate.org.uk/research/tate-papers/12/ remembering-exhibitions-from-point-to-line-to-web Groys, Boris. 2008. Art Power. Cambridge-London: MIT Press. Kindle. Hryniewiecki, Jerzy (1956). “Kształt przyszłości”, Projekt, no. 1: 5–9. Jabłoński, Maciej. 2000. “Lata 60. w Zachęcie. Triumf koloru.” Życie Warszawy, no. 166: 11. Juszkiewicz, Piotr. 2013. Cień modernizmu. Poznań: Wydawnictwo Naukowe UAM. Kowalska, Bożena. 2000. “Szare w kolorze, czyli barwne lata sześćdziesiąte” Format, no. 37: 106–107. Lachowski, Marcin. 2016. “Could Gallery Space Become a Place? Remarks on Foksal Gallery.” In Galeria Foksal 1966–2016. Warsaw: Foksal Gallery. Lechowicz, Lech. 2000. “Szare podkolorowane” Format, no. 37: 106–107.

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Łabowicz-Dymanus, Karolina, ed. 2009. We see You. The Foksal Gallery Activities 1966–1989. Exhibition catalogue. Tallin: Kumu Art Museum. Łagocki, Zbigniew. 1960. “Nowoczesność – problem stale aktualny (uwagi o wystawach).” Fotografia, 81, no. 3: 75–76. Meijers, Debora J. 1996. “The Museum and the ‘Ahistorical’ Exhibition.” In Thinking about Exhibition, edited by Reesa Greenberg, Bruce W. Ferguson and Sandy Nairne. London-New York: Routledge. Olszewska, Marta. 2010. “O przestrzeni: na progu doświadczania” Anthropos, no. 14–15: 12–26. Osęka, Andrzej. 1957. “Los polskiej awangardy.” Przegląd Kulturalny, 233, no. 7: 3. Osęka, Andrzej. 2000. “Suweniry z Peerelu.” Gazeta Wyborcza, 3483, no. 182: 9. Poisont, Jean-Marc. 1996. “Large Exhibitions. A sketch of a typology.” In Thinking about Exhibition, edited by Reesa Greenberg, Bruce W. Ferguson and Sandy Nairne, London-New York: Routledge. Popczyk, Maria. 2008. Estetyczna przestrzeń ekspozycji muzealnych. Kraków: Universitas. Rottenberg, Anda. 2000. Grey in Colour 1956–1970. The culture of the Gomułka period. Exhibition gazette. Warsaw: Zachęta Gallery of Contemporary Art. Sitzia, Emilie. 2016. “Narrative Theories and Learning in Contemporary Art Museums: A Theoretical Exploration.” Stedelijk Studies, no. 4. https://stedelijkstudies.com/journal/ narrative-theories-learning-contemporary-art-museums-theoretical-exploration Szczerski, Andrzej. 2018. Transformacja. Sztuka w Europie Środkowo-Wschodniej po 1989 roku. Kraków: Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Jagiellońskiego. Włodarczyk, Wojciech. 2010. “Przestrzeń i własność.” In Grupa “Zamek”. Konteksty – wspomnienia – archiwalia, edited by Małgorzata Kitowska-Łysiak, Marcin Lachowski and Piotr Majewski. Lublin: Towarzystwo Naukowe KUL. Wojciechowski, Aleksander. 1959. “Sztuka zaangażowana.” Przegląd Artystyczny, no. 1: 3–5. Zientecka, Aleksandra. 2007. Działalność Zachęty w latach 1989-2001. Warsaw: Wydawnictwo Neriton. Ziębińska-Witek, Anna. 2014. “Totalitaryzm w nowych muzeach historycznych.” In: Historia Polski od-nowa. Nowe narracje historii i muzealne reprezentacje przeszłości, edited by Robert Kostro, Kazimierz Wóycicki and Michał Wysocki. Warszawa: Muzeum Historii Polski.

Part V

Architecture as Vehicle for State Cultural Policy

19 Cities in Interbellum Lithuanian Republic (1918–1940) Paulius Tautvydas Laurinaitis

On February 16th, 1918, Lithuania declared restoration of its independence. Like most of the new nation-states that emerged after World War I, the Lithuanian Republic had to balance between nation building and state development strategies and various social, economical and juridical problems that were symptomatic for these newly established or re-established states. Most of these had different starting positions in various fields that were the outcome of former imperial dependence and other historical factors. Lithuania had serious geopolitical problems, out of which the most strained one was its difficult relationship with the Second Polish Republic and the resulting fact that Vilnius, which was officially regarded as a historical capital, was not de facto part of Lithuania for the twenty years from 1919 to 1939. This meant that Kaunas, the largest city in the territory controlled by the state, became the so-called provisional capital and remained such for the entire period. This not only meant that considerable effort went towards the needs of making a comparatively small and unprepared city into one that could function as an administrative and representative centre of the state, but raised the question of how much of the development worthy of capital should go into a city that only temporarily had this status. As the rebuilding, developing and expansion of cities and towns and rethinking their roles became an important part of post-imperial nation-building across con­ temporary Europe, the aim of this short study is to chronologically examine1 some of the main points and traits of genesis of city planning in the particular case of inter­ bellum Lithuania – a state whose economical policies were strongly based on agri­ culture while the new, Lithuanian-speaking city culture was only in its zygotic phase. Without touching on the difficult subjects of national identities and peculiarities of its formation, the most important aspects need to be stated – historically Polish became the dominant language in the bigger cities and, as the preferred tongue of the nobility of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania, its influence in this regard remained strong throughout the tsarist era. In most towns there was also a sizeable Jewish minority or, in some cases, a Jewish majority in the town population, while the impact of more than hundred years of Russian dominance also left its demographic mark mainly in the largest urban areas. Meanwhile, the Lithuanian identity of the new Republic was linguistically grounded and its founding fathers had roots mostly in the Lithuanian speaking peasant class. This meant that from the beginning the question of cities in the newly founded state was a particular one. It must be stated that at the time Lithuanian cities were not very big – during the early 1920s, only Kaunas, Šiauliai and Panevėžys had 10.000 inhabitants DOI: 10.4324/9781003265818-25

234 Paulius Tautvydas Laurinaitis (“Lietuvos miestų-miestelių gyventojai” 1929), which, in the official sense, was the threshold for a settlement to be called a city and to have separate municipal rights. Until the change of the law in the 1931, Ukmergė and Marijampolė had also gained official city status as these towns reached the demographic quotas for selfgovernance. The port city of Klaipėda and its region became part of Lithuania in 1923 and while it was the second largest city in the country until it was ceded to Germany sixteen years later, it had autonomous status which included separate legislature and administrative structures. Like most of the newly independent states in East Central Europe, Lithuania had to deal with heavy war damages resulting in physical destruction, depopulation and a housing crisis. The aforementioned need to move all of the capital functions to the provisional capital Kaunas in 1919 resulted in even more urban problems. The city was unprepared for its new role in regard to both the quantity and quality of ad­ ministrative and residential spaces needed for those functions. This early period was marked by an optimistic paradigm about the perspectives of Lithuanian cities and towns, both in opinions found in the press and at official levels. This view soon started to fade as the administrative structure encountered many institutional, juridical and financial problems that were made worse by the unstable political situation. The primary institution to work on the reconstruction of the state was the Reconstruction Commissariat of Lithuania (RCL), which was formalized by law in 1921. Its functions were wide-encompassing, including building permissions, pre­ paration of construction personnel, managing building materials, and the social education on “rational building” through literature, lectures and other measures. In terms of city planning, its most important function was the preparation of plans for cities, towns and their parts; it was also responsible for the preparation of templates for public buildings, sewage, water line and street projects (“Lietuvos Atstatymo…” 1921). The main organ of the RCL was the Council of Reconstruction, while each municipality had its own Rebuilding Commission. Both city and regional munici­ palities employed technicians, paid half and half by the Central government and the Municipality. The technician title of the chief construction officer was used as an indicator of the lack of qualified personnel – only in the early 1930s did the potential personnel levels became sufficient to make an engineering degree a requirement for the position, and the title was renamed to municipal engineer. In the first edition of the official publication of the department, one if its engineers, Mykolas Songaila, stated that everything needed to be created from scratch, and that there was a hard time finding specialists (Songaila 1922, 6–7). This was only one of the problems of both the newly emerging planning dis­ cipline and construction in general: imperial Russian law was still the legal basis for all planning and construction. Introduced in 1868, it had a lacklustre basis of city planning, and while there were some amendments and proposals for additions that mostly weren’t accepted, one of its most criticised flaws, positioning private in­ terests over public ones, was not abolished until 1938. As the lack of specialists was wide-ranging, it was difficult to find someone that could both prepare the new construction law and integrate it into the law system in general, which became one of the causes of numerous problems that followed. Apart from this, it became apparent in the annual meeting of municipal technicians of 1922 that the situation with reconstruction was “critical” in other aspects too: there was a lack of finances,

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problems with inter-institutional dialogue, and even the poor living conditions of regional technicians (“Apskričių ir Miestų Technikų suvažiavimas” 1922). While the laws didn’t allow any buildings to be built in the absence of a coherent situa­ tional plans of cities and towns, the reality was that most towns either didn’t have any plans – many settlements never had the need to make them before the war – while others lost theirs during the German occupation or had ones that were deemed insufficient. Annual meetings of city and regional technicians (later engineers), the meetings of Lithuanian union of cities (LUC) which included administrative heads of the muni­ cipalities and the activities of the Union of engineers and architects (UEA) formed the basis of the idea exchange apparatus and tackled the problems of the cities in terms of both technical and administrative questions. There was a lack of regard for the re­ solutions of these organisations, and, arguably, only the LUC meetings had a larger influence on changes in policy, while it was often stated that opinions and even protests of UAE meetings weren’t investigated by the administrative organs. There was also participation in urban internationale organisations and events, with mem­ bers of LUC and UAE taking part in International federation of housing and town planning (IFHTP) congresses and LUC becoming a member of both IFHTP and Union des Villes (“Lietuvos miestų ir miestelių…” 1927). While the transnational participation of Lithuanian specialists is still a matter for further research, it is worth mentioning that there was also sporadic inter-Baltic interaction: for example, in 1934 the annual Baltic architect meeting in Riga saw the establishment of the Baltic Architect Union (“Techniškų įstaigų ir organizacijų gyvenimas” 1935). This comes as no surprise, as due to their historical background, all three Baltic states faced similar problems concerning cities. The land reform act of 1922 that divided old manor possessions can be regarded as one of the most emphasized economical and political strategies of the agriculturallyoriented state. While the nationalisation of Russian nobility possessions had begun even earlier, the new law also targeted the takeover of sizeable manor lands, which started redistributing the lands of a mostly Polish-speaking nobility to individual Lithuanian citizens. While the reform law also concluded that the land was intended to be used for city extensions and industrial needs (“Žemės reformos įstatymas” 1922), it mainly emphasized the redistribution of rural land and created template for dividing old settlements into so called single homesteads. Manor lands that were adjacent to the cities, towns and church-villages were planned as city extensions, mostly by the employees of the Land management department (LMD). Because local technicians in most cases lacked the technical abilities to prepare official city plans, in many cases these extensions were the only planning documents even into the 1930s. These extensions can be called the first large-scale planning campaign in cities, but they were mainly schematic, rectangular street plans that had to be fitted into the often random borders of newly annexed manor lands. The extensions were also subordinate to the urban structures of the older parts, which, as mentioned, had lacklustre or absent plans and had yet to be redeveloped according to contemporary city planning standards. Rare exceptions to these in terms of quality were both the extension and general plans prepared by the Swiss-born architect Eduard Peyer2, who worked at the central office of RCL. These often had traits of sittesque city aesthetic tradition and also envisioned better connections between old and new parts, regular parcels, emphasized greenery and, in some cases, integrated the popular trend of

236 Paulius Tautvydas Laurinaitis curving streets. Most of Peyer’s plans were either simplified or never implemented. Judging from both aerial photographs of World War II era and early post-war to­ pographic maps, the extensions of some smaller towns that lacked industry were not very popular with settlers and were scarcely built upon. Also, there were reports of foul play and speculation of land redistribution on behalf of LMD during the 1920s. In later decades it was scrutinised for both unprofessionally planned extensions and a lack of strategy in the territories adjacent to borders of the cities, which caused chaotic suburbs to form on the outskirts of industrial centres, mainly Kaunas (Landsbergis 1936, 885–89). The need for the regulation of larger cities was a big issue, but it clashed with the property-related problems of the old law. There were some instances of success – for example, the city of Šiauliai had a new plan prepared as early as 1920, but the fact of the high-scale destruction of the city during the war probably played a big role in this, while the plan itself was a fairly simplistic rectangular regularisation that en­ compassed the creation of some new streets, the widening and straightening of prominent older ones and the setting the new building lines3. The aims for Kaunas differed, because of its need to become a city that could be presented as the state capital, although provisional. Even though the creation of sketches for the new general plan was organised in 1922 and four local engineers presented their ideas for the city’s development, the city administration felt that it needed to consult an ex­ perienced expert. For this purpose the Danish engineer Marius Frandsen, who par­ ticipated in the famous Copenhagen city plan competition of 1909, was called in to give his opinion. Taking ideas from the materials prepared by the aforementioned local engineers and helped by Antanas Jokimas of the city construction department, he created a new general plan (Figure 19.1). Even though the lack of topographical basing rendered the plan more of a “schematic” that was intended to be used as a temporary blueprint for the further developments (Jokimas 1924, 6–9), it was regarded as an official plan for the city during the entire independence period and was the rough basis for several plans prepared in the 1930s for separate districts. Only one part of the master plan itself was implemented directly – the trapezoidal district in Žaliakalnis and from the en­ visioned plan, only the street layout was realized. Zoning wise, while this part of Žaliakalnis became the so-called villa district, it was originally envisioned as the new administrative centre of both the city and the country. There is also some evidence regarding the nationalistic aspect of the expansion of Žaliakalnis, which constituted a large chunk of upper part of the city territory. Kazys Kriščiukaitis, one of the Lithuanian city planning pioneers in the 1930s, later recalled that the formation of a new centre in Žaliakalnis was meant to counterbalance the old city centre located in the lower part of Neman valley in which a large portion of real estate was owned by national minorities (Kriščiukaitis 1948, 13–14). Kaunas also had yet another problem that was later a very important point of criticism regarding city development – the lack of either state or municipal owned land in the city centre meant that a good portion of important public and administrative buildings were placed “where pos­ sible”, rather than where it was fitting according to contemporary city planning principles (Kovalskis 1937, 873–79). Between 1924 and 1930 the RCL was reformed and renamed a few times (from 1927 on it was called the Inspectorate of Construction (IC)), while also seeing a reduced number of its positions and less standing power. During this period the most

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Figure 19.1 Part of the general plan of Kaunas (city centre and Žaliakalnis district) by M. Frandsen and A. Jokimas, 1923. Kaunas City Museum, GEK30684.

notable new law that stemmed from the body was the slum clearance act of 1929, which paved the way for the demolition of what was considered hazardous or un­ hygienic (“Statybos įstatymo pakeitimas” 1929), but the act lacked the strategy of new housing development which was often prepared alongside similar acts in other countries. While the wider planning was lacklustre, the second half of the decade and the beginning of the next can be seen as a period of infrastructure development in cities and towns – both hard (street paving, sewage system planning) and soft in cities, and the placement of soft infrastructure (e.g. schools and hospitals) in both cities and smaller towns. While physical changes of the cities during the 1920s were slow, contemporary city planning ideas were significantly discussed in theory. Throughout the decade, posi­ tions and opinions by both technical and administrative personnel reflected in their meetings and various mainstream and specialized publications borrowed heavily from the German planning tradition and also often emphasized concept of “garden city”, which, at the time, had already largely drifted away from the original model envisioned by Ebenezer Howard (Geertse 2012,148–150). There was also a strong current of ideas of expanding housing stock in the form of single-family houses with separate gardens, a concept which in the international city planning scene of the time competed with the multi-storey housing block solution, which was associated more with left-wing views. As early as 1919 and 1920, there were articles in the press emphasizing the need for recreational spaces, green areas, increase of hygiene and expressing strong opinions that propagated detached housing with separate gardens

238 Paulius Tautvydas Laurinaitis (Finkelšteinas 1920). While in industrialized countries the concept of garden city and its later transformations were seen as a way to solve overcrowding, traffic problems and other woes of industrial-era cities, thereby returning citizens to a more traditional environment, the Lithuanian version mostly lacked the middle component in this sequence, as there were few heavily industrialized towns. The rural character of low density housing with gardens within urban settlements were seen as appropriate for the “agricultural character” of Lithuanians (Kubilius 1920). These ideals were also present in the opinions of high-ranking officials – RCL archival files contains a document with a statement about the development of provisional capital by thenminister of interior Rapolas Skipitis from 1921: “[…] Kaunas has to rebuild not in the example of the large European cities […] but has to be in line with the character of the Lithuanian state, that is, the character of an agricultural nation […]”, with the added notion that the city has to expand “not upwards, but in width.”4 This kind of morphological ideals for city plans accompanied discussions about the development of a so-called “national” style, that often included suggestions for the use of tradi­ tional elements in contemporary architecture. While the 1920s were not particularly fruitful in the development of systematic town planning, the 1930s saw a lot of breaking points that caused the more rapid development of city planning, both as a paradigm and institutionally. This was mainly connected with the new generation of architects and engineers that returned from studies abroad, bringing new planning. The questions of “city planning” and “urbanism” were seen more and more often in the press, and the polemical field of the discipline was becoming more systematic and comprehensive. In 1931 there were two important changes. The new municipality law, while heavily centralizing the administration of the cities and diminishing municipal rights, transferred city plan­ ning competences to the municipalities and distinguished new criteria for the status of cities. According to these, twenty-nine cities and towns were distinguished, out of which ten were considered “first category” cities and had separate municipal rights from the surrounding region (“Vietos savivaldybės įstatymas.” 1931). The IC was reformed, and a new chief inspector, Antanas Novickis played a large role in ex­ panding the department while also emphasizing the importance of comprehensive city planning. The number of employees was increased, work on preparations of new laws commenced and the IC’s educational function returned – a separate section in the magazine of the Municipal Department was dedicated to construction and often included articles about various city planning questions (“Statybos Skyrius” 1933). While the discussion of cities and their planning was ever-increasing, the situation on both technical and administrative fronts were slowly changing too. In some cases, accidents acted as an incentives for change. In 1934 a fire ravaged the small town of Luokė and it became the first example of a small town with newly regulated streets and land parcel shapes: while the old law would potentially have made processes like this difficult, the local municipal engineer and representative of the new generation of specialists Steponas Stulginskis devised a plan, and almost all of the townspeople signed a collective agreement. Not only were streets straightened and parcels of land replanned (Stulginskis 1938, 56–58), the central part of the town also gained a uniform architectural appearance that represented modernist, yet conservative ideals of the time. The fire that destroyed a big portion of the central part of the principal resort of Palanga in 1938 can be seen as a symbolic beginning of the new era (Kriščiukaitis 1948, 17). As a result, the national congress of engineers and architects

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that was held that year had a strong emphasis on city planning (Antrasis Jubiliejinis Lietuvos inžinierių ir architektų kongresas 1938, 9–12) and the work on new City land regulation act was accelerated. The discourse of urban planning shifted from being mainly limited to the meetings of professionals and sporadic appearances in the press: the 1930s, especially the second half, saw the emergence of a larger expansion of the paradigm in both mainstream press and specialised technical, municipal and cultural magazines. The opinions, most often expressed by the young generation of architects and engineers, were wide ranging, but mainly based on German, and, to a lesser extent, Italian theoretical approaches which also reflected their academic background. As the German influence in the city planning discourse grew, the expressed opinions ever more increasingly reflected developments in the neighbouring state; judging from the dominant themes, the latest contemporary discourse expressed on IFHTP congresses was also closely followed. While there was slight divergence on some questions, there were still clear ideals of low density family housing, spacious green areas and what was now an even more mutated “garden city” concept. The slow evolution of the planning question of the first twenty years can be illu­ strated by the fact that in 1938 from 442 existing settlements that included 31 cities and 237 towns, only 208 had “some kind of” situational plans, which also often lacked a topographical base. That year the IC introduced the ambitious so-called “five year plan of city plan preparation” – using the already existing measurement documents of separate parts of towns and properties, while also initiating new geo­ detic and aero photographic work in larger settlements in order to complete all of the situational plans by 1943. By this time it was already decided to prepare the new construction law part by part, later integrating all of the separate laws into a final form (“Statybos inspektorius…” 1938). The first important step in this new scenario was the aforementioned City land regulation act of 1938, which fixed some of the main flaws of the old law regarding city planning: it enabled the redevelopment of cities, regularisation of city parcels and stated the amount of land that could be ex­ propriated for public interests without compensation; it also further emphasized that all of the planning should be carried out strictly according to the city plan (“Miestų žemių tvarkymo įstatymas” 1938). Even with the new act in place, there was still a problem with the lack of personnel: the surveyors of the LMD that were responsible for carrying out the technical part of regulations in cities were still busy with projects in the countryside, so the work was slow. Because of this, special geodetic courses were established that were intended to increase the human capital; as well, the mu­ nicipalities could hire private surveyors at their own expense (“Miestų žemės tvar­ kymo darbas” 1939). On the municipal level, in 1938 Kaunas became the first city to have a “city planner” as an official position in the municipal structure. Jonas Kovalskis, a grad­ uate of the École nationale supérieure des Beaux-Arts, was hired and began working on a new general plan of the city: by the time of the soviet occupation or at least the first part of it, a schematic plan of main transportation arteries was already prepared. As there were many problems in the city fabric that needed immediate action, some districts, streets and squares were made a priority and had plans prepared in advance (Landsbergis 1939, 97–100). The most distinct of those was the plan of the district of Aukštieji Šančiai that was a prime example of dominating ideals of the time and the prospective achievements by the new generation of planners. By the end of 1939 the

240 Paulius Tautvydas Laurinaitis

Figure 19.2 Fragment of the planning project for Aukštieji Šančiai district, 1940. Kaunas City Museum, PEK 16813.

first part of the general plan of Šiauliai was also being prepared by Steponas Stulginskis, who had recently became the head engineer of this city. As in the case of Kaunas, the proposal of the new transportation grid was prepared and the second phase was in the works, which was a plan for an extensive system of green areas (“Šiaulių miesto…” 1939) (Figure 19.2). 1939 was a year of big geopolitical changes: the ultimatum from Germany in March resulted in Lithuania losing the Klaipėda region, which left the country without its principal seaport and with around only 20 kilometres of seaside. After the Soviet invasion of eastern Poland, Vilnius was given to Lithuania in September as the

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Figure 19.3 Planning project for the town of Šventoji by N. Mačiulskis, 1938. Archive of the Architecture and Urbanism Research Centre (Kaunas University of Technology).

result of a political move. The small strip of Baltic coast that remained a part of the state from 1939 included Šventoji, formerly a small seaside village whose perspectives of becoming a seaport a decade earlier were cut short by the inclusion of Klaipėda into the territory of Lithuania. As early as 1936 it was envisioned as a new “ex­ emplary” town which was to function both as a fishing port and a resort. Maybe the sense of a changing political climate meant that in 1938, engineer Nikolajus Mačiulskis, who was working on the town plan, expanded the project and included a second, commercial port (Figure 19.3). Like the later plan of Aukštieji Šančiai, this plan represented the zeitgeist of urban planning with its low density, curving streets and integration of natural landscape. Although only partially implemented, Šventoji became the only sizeable new town of interbellum era Lithuania. World War II saw an influx of Polish refugees with a number of architects and urban planners being stationed in Lithuania. At the in­ itiative of the Lithuanian Red Cross organisation, their intellectual potential was used for the first large contest for the planning of the resort of Birštonas (Kriščiukaitis 1948, 23). Using research that was gathered earlier and some of the earlier, unim­ plemented plans as the material, ten specialists prepared visions that were exhibited in early spring of 1940 (“Koks turi būti Birštonas…” 1940). In the wake of Soviet occupation, a Polish architect, Wiktor Espenhan, also prepared a new plan for Šventoji that projected a larger settlement for 30.000 residents as well as an industrial seaport (Kriščiukaitis 1948, 24). In 1939 the Committee of State Planning (CSP) was founded, and while it marked another step in the ever-growing centralisation, it was also, among other aims, intended to introduce a more all-encompassing regional planning. The committee had the functions of researching the “juridical, economical, aesthetical and other” situation of construction in the whole country, mediating between different institutions and being a voice in the construction of planning, including strategies of manufacturing, import and use of construction materials, housing

242 Paulius Tautvydas Laurinaitis credit, researching and increasing manufacturing and businesses (“Krašto Statybos Komiteto statutas” 1939). And while the work of the CSP was intensive, their processes were cut short by the Soviet occupation the following year. It is worth mentioning that while administrative changes did happen during both the first Soviet (1940–1941) and Nazi (1941–1944) occupations, most of the per­ sonnel working on city planning issues remained the same. There were strong in­ stances of continuation: for example the work on Kaunas general plan was carried on and during period of 1941–1943, planners used the already available topographical materials to make more than thirty plans for cities that were damaged by the cam­ paigns of war. A great break with tradition occurred only in 1944, when most of the architects and engineers that had experience working with planning fled to the west. The Lithuanian school of national urban planning, which was already emerging by the outbreak of World War II, was split in two: the few remaining specialists needed to adapt themselves to the realities of Soviet town planning, while the exodus plan­ ners were optimistically working on strategies for a future that was bound to never happen. In 1948, a team assembled in a displaced persons camp and led by A. Novickis, finally finished the draft of the new construction law (Lietuvos Ūkio Atstatymo Studijų Komisija 1952), which integrated the latest ideas in both planning and administration of construction matters.

Notes 1 This is by no means a full historical study of the genesis of Lithuanian interwar urban planning – some of the important questions, like the housing issue and the wider context of the influences had to be omitted. The cases of autonomous Klaipėda region and the history of planning of Vilnius from when it again became part of Lithuania in 1939 would require seperate studies with the analysis of German and Polish planning contexts and thus are not subjects of this paper. 2 Known as Eduardas Peyeris in most Lithuanian documents. 3 Plan of Šiauliai, 1920. Lithuanian Central State Archives (further LCVA – Lietuvos centrinis valstybės archyvas), Collection 1622, Inventory 4, Folder 1094, 6. 4 Opinion of interior minister on Kaunas city planning, 1920. LCVA, Collection 377, Inventory 7, Folder 246, 10.

References Antrasis Jubiliejinis Lietuvos inžinierių ir architektų kongresas. 1938. Kaunas: V. Atkočiūno sp. “Apskričių ir Miestų Technikų suvažiavimas.” 1922. Statybos menas ir technika, no. 2: 14–17. Finkelšteinas, Ozeris. 1920. “Dėl sugriautų Lietuvos miestų ir miestelių statymo.” Lietuva, February 22, 1920. Geertse, Michel. 2012. “Defining the Universal City. The International Federation for Housing and Town Planning and Transnational Planning Dialogue 1913–1940.” PhD diss., Vrije Universiteit Amsterdam, https://research.vu.nl/en/publications/defining-the-universal-citythe-international-federation-for-hous Jokimas, Antanas. 1924. “Apie Kauno miesto planą.” Savivaldybė, no. 8: 6–9. “Koks turi būti Birštonas ateityje.” 1940. Lietuvos Aidas. February 13, 1940. Kovalskis, Jonas. 1937. “Kauno miesto varkymas.” Naujoji Romuva, no. 47: 873–879. “Krašto Statybos Komiteto statutas.” 1939, Vyriausybės Žinios, no. 640: 147–148. Kriščiukaitis, Kazys. 1948. “Lietuvos miestų bei miestelių atstatymas.” Alguvos Baras, May 21, 1948: 3–51.

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Kubilius, Eugenijus. 1920. “Lietuvos miestai, miesteliai ir jų atstatymas.” Lietuva, March 11, 1920. Landsbergis, Vytautas. 1936. “Urbanizmo klausimas Lietuvoje.” Naujoji Romuva, no. 45: 885–889. Landsbergis, Vytautas. 1939. “Kultūros politika”. Naujoji Romuva, no. 5: 97–100. “Lietuvos Atstatymo Komisariato įstatymas.” 1921. Vyriausybės Žinios. 1921, no. 56: 2–3. “Lietuvos miestų-miestelių gyventojai.” 1929. Savivaldybė, no. 10: 7–9. “Lietuvos miestų ir miestelių sąjungos atstovų III visuotinio suvažiavimo 1926 metais, rugsėjo mėn 5–6 d. svarbesni nutarimai.” 1927. Savivaldybių balsas, no. 5: 38–43. Lietuvos Ūkio Atstatymo Studijų Komisija. 1952. Lietuvos ūkio atstatymo studijų komisijos darbai. Vol. 5. Boston: Lietuvos Ūkio Atstatymo Studijų Komisija. “Miestų žemės tvarkymo darbas.” 1939. Lietuvos Aidas, January 13, 1939. “Miestų žemių tvarkymo įstatymas.” 1938. Vyriausybės Žinios, no. 614: 398–401. Songaila, Mykolas. 1922. “Lietuvos atstatymo klausimu.” Statybos menas ir technika, no. 1: 6–7. “Šiaulių miesto planavimo darbai ir sumanymai.” 1939. Lietuvos Aidas. 1939. October 17, 1939. “Statybos inspektorus apie miestelių išplanavimo penkmečio planą 1938.” Lietuvos Aidas. March 16, 1938. “Statybos įstatymo pakeitimas.” 1929. Vyriausybės Žinios, no. 304: 3–4. “Statybos Skyrius.” 1933. Savivaldybė, no. 2: 27–29. Stulginskis, Steponas. 1938. “Vieno miestelio parceliavimas be žemėtvarkos įstatymo pa­ galbos.” Savivaldybė, no. 2: 56–58. “Techniškų įstaigų ir organizacijų gyvenimas.” 1935. Technika ir Ūkis, no. 1. “Vietos savivaldybės įstatymas.” 1931. Vyriausybės Žinios, no. 356: 1–21. “Žemės reformos įstatymas.” 1922. Vyriausybės Žinios, no. 83: 1–6.

20 About Two Gems in the Stadtkrone of Kaunas, the Provisional Capital of Interwar Lithuania Giedrė Jankevičiūtė

The centenaries of European national states celebrated in 2018 encouraged archi­ tectural and art historians to rethink the relations between the state and art in the 20th century, especially in the interwar period. In this article the case of Lithuania or, more precisely, its provisional capital in the interwar period, Kaunas, will be ana­ lyzed. Two symbolic buildings that embody the idea of statehood and its evolution there have been chosen. They are Church of the Resurrection and the Palace of the State or, more specifically, the competition for the design of that building, which took place at the very beginning of World War II, immediately before the Soviet occu­ pation in 1940. This narrative extends beyond the limits of local history, if only for the fact that the construction of symbolic buildings with all the ensuing problems was characteristic of the development of all national states in the interwar period and, in post-Communist states, even after the fall of the Communist bloc. The case of Kaunas not only represents the general features of this process, but also has interesting local idiosyncrasies, which are relevant in order to understand the reality of post-imperial states both after World War I and nowadays.

Several Key Facts about the City of Kaunas The Grand Duchy of Lithuania, which was created in the 13th century, ceased to exist in the late 18th century, when Russia, Austria and Prussia partitioned the PolishLithuanian Commonwealth. Lithuania proclaimed the restoration of statehood on 16 February 1918. The historical capital of Lithuania, Vilnius, found itself in the epi­ centre of independence struggle and changed hands from one power to another, thus the government of the young republic temporarily took its seat in the safer city of Kaunas situated in the centre of the country. In 1920, Vilnius was occupied by the Polish army, and in 1922, it was annexed to Poland. Kaunas remained the capital of Lithuania until Poland was occupied by the Soviet Union and Nazi Germany on September, 1939. Situated at the confluence of Lithuania’s two largest rivers, the Nemunas and the Neris, Kaunas grew from a castle into a city at the end of the 15th century, when it became a hub of German merchants. From the middle of the 18th century, its development slowed, and in the early 19th century it became a derelict city on the fringes of the Russian Empire. The Warsaw–Saint Petersburg railway line laid through Kaunas brought some new life into the city in the second half of the 19th century, and one of the largest and most modern fortresses of the Russian empire built in 1882–1915 provided an impulse for growth. In the early 20th century, Kaunas became a garrison city with a DOI: 10.4324/9781003265818-26

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small old town and a new town whose urban structure was adapted for the army needs. It was neither large nor beautiful or comfortable. True, the railway connected it to Vilnius, Warsaw, Saint Petersburg and Königsberg, and in the years of World War I the Germans expanded the airport whose groundwork was laid by the Russians, but all that did not accelerate the city’s modernisation in the early 20th century. Thus, turning Kaunas into the capital of the young national state was quite a challenge. The city had to be modernised, and new symbolical centres had to be formed. Neither the Gothic Catholic cathedral in the old town nor the German-built late baroque town hall or, even more, the Eastern Orthodox neo-Russian style garrison church even though it was converted into a Catholic church, suited the purpose of embodying the symbols of statehood and nationality. The construction boom started in Kaunas in the late 1920s, as the state grew stronger and its citizens amassed enough funds for investment. During approximately twelve years before the outbreak of World War II, 12,000 building permits were issued in Kaunas. A city of ninety-seven thousand inhabitants before World War I, Kaunas intensely expanded: its population increased twice – in 1939, it already had one hundred fifty-five thousand inhabitants – and its area grew almost four-fold times. Residential houses, schools, hospitals and office buildings were built. At the same time, old tsarist buildings were adapted for the activity of public institutions, thus showing that their operation in Kaunas was only temporary until the historical capital Vilnius was regained. Interestingly, until the late 1930s Kaunas grew without a general master plan, and new buildings were fitted into the street network of the new city of the tsarist period. The sole exception was Žaliakalnis (Green Hill), which was developed as a district of villas and low-rise residential buildings according to a vision of a city-garden (Laurinaitis 2018; see also his article in this volume).

Symbolic Buildings in the Cityscape of Interwar Kaunas Opened in 1919, the War Museum and its garden with several monuments to the victims of the war for independence became the first symbolic centre of Kaunas (for more, see: Jankevičiūtė and Petrulis 2018a). It was in this garden that the first im­ portant monument, the so-called Angel of Freedom by Juozas Zikaras, an alumnus of the Saint Petersburg Academy of Fine Arts, was unveiled in 1928, celebrating the first decade of independence. The monument was an allegory more or less corresponding to the Western standards of this kind of monuments. In the next year, in 1929, the first representative building of Lithuania’s provisional capital – the National Bank – was opened. The bank epitomised the ambitions of young Lithuania, its growing economic power and, certainly, the idea of its deep historical roots. Classical forms were adapted for the building’s architecture, highquality and expensive materials were used for its décor, and artworks in the interior and the exterior symbolised the country’s financial and economic, as well as military and cultural power (Jankevičiūtė 2002, 222–23; Jankevičiūtė 2003, 75). In 1930, adjacent to the War Museum, which in eleven years became firmly es­ tablished on the city’s symbolic map, the construction of the national museum began. It had to accommodate two institutions: the War Museum memorialising the history of the independence struggles, and the Culture Museum with ethnographic, archae­ ological and art collections (Jankevičiūtė and Petrulis, 2018a). The museum named after the important medieval ruler Vytautas the Great became a major centre of

246 Giedrė Jankevičiūtė attraction, but just like the bank, it was situated in a Nemunas River valley and lacked visibility and monumentality. One did not have to be a savvy ideological strategist to understand that for a symbolic building to acquire an extraordinary semantic load, it had to dominate the cityscape. It is only natural that political and cultural figures thinking about national unity and patriotic education turned their gaze to Žaliakalnis or Green Hill, which flanked the easterly old town and served as a natural barrier from the northeast for the new downtown situated in the Nemunas valley. In the eyes of the creators of symbolic sites of Kaunas, the Žaliakalnis slope was of strategic importance, as this area could be seen from different points – not only from the city, but also from the Nemunas River and its opposite bank. Historians of architecture try to relate the Church of the Resurrection which began to rise on the Žaliakalnis slope starting from 1934 to the Stadtkrone conception by the avant-garde architect Bruno Taut, which he expounded in a study published right after World War I (Taut 1919). Taut hoped that modernist architecture would help to mitigate national and social differences by transforming post-war European cities. Yet the search for national identity led the architects of young countries of the in­ terwar period and their customers in another direction. The Church of the Resurrection and the Palace of the State were above all perceived as gems in the crown of the national state rather than points of reference in the urban plan of the democratic city. The function of an urban landmark had only to enhance their pri­ mary meaning, i.e. emphasise that these buildings were first of all a symbol of na­ tional vitality and power rather than universal symbols of future welfare. In the case of the Church of the Resurrection, the goal was achieved, while the project of the Palace of the State remained just a utopian dream – and an ambiguous dream at that, as on the one hand, it was never implemented, and on the other, it made it appear as if Lithuania publicly admitted its defeat and abandoned its intentions to reclaim the country’s historical capital Vilnius. Generally speaking, a vision of a palace testifying to the past achievements of a country or a ruler’s castle on a hilltop is a common topos from the period of ro­ manticism, which has been and still is of great importance for Europe obsessed by the search for collective identity, and not only for Europe anymore (Bakoš 2016; the number of publications on the subject is constantly growing). Lithuania is not an exception. Yet unlike many other countries, it did not succeed in materialising this vision. True, the construction of the Palace of the Grand Dukes of Lithuania in Vilnius was finished in 2018 (the building was already opened to the public in 2009), but a part of society does not trust and believe in this project, thus it cannot be considered totally satisfactory.1 Probably that is why on the occasion of the centenary of the state, a team of Vilnius-based architects tried to offer a new simulacrum – a complex of a magnificent castle on the site of the ruins of a medieval castle which was standing on Gediminas Hill in the centre of Vilnius.2 The new vision of the castle remains in the stage of a virtual project; however, PR campaigns insistently link its cartoon-like picture to the metaphor of the Homeland’s crown. This metaphor is popular as it holds a promise that the vision will satisfy an insatiable need for na­ tional pride, power and sense of worth. While observing this process, it seems quite likely that even unfulfilled, the project of the Palace of the State in Kaunas still lies somewhere deep in the collective subconscious.

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The Church of the Resurrection The first gem in the crown of Kaunas was the Catholic Church. However, first of all it was perceived as a national monument (for more, see: Jankevičiūtė and Petrulis 2018b, 103). The idea to build a monumental church that would symbolise the Resurrection of Jesus Christ alongside the Lithuanian nation, and would become a sign of gratitude to the Lord, i.e. perform the function of a religious votive, was born in 1922 (Būčys 1922). This initiative was prompted by the practice of building sanctuaries serving as votives, which was widespread in some Catholic countries, above all Austria and France, in the late 19th and early 20th century. Among the examples that inspired the initiators of the Church of the Resurrection were the Vienna Votivkirche (1879) and the Basilica of Sacré-Coeur in Paris, which rose on the top of the rapidly urbanised Montmartre hill in 1873–1914 and was meant to instil hope and confidence in the French people in the wake of the painful defeat in the war with Prussia and in the face of an incipient new war with Germany. There were plans to expand and deepen the symbolism of Lithuania’s memorial sanctuary by building a national mausoleum of tombs of highly distinguished figures of public and national importance in the church crypt. The competition for the Church of the Resurrection was announced in 1928 to mark the 10th anniversary of the state’s independence. The architects were tasked with fulfilling three basic requirements: to give the sanctuary the form of a monu­ ment, to design a space for a mausoleum, and to convey “the spirit of Lithuanian construction” (Spector 1929, 3). Correspondingly, the terms of the competition in­ cluded the criteria for the participants’ eligibility: it was open exclusively for “Lithuanian citizens, citizens of Lithuanian origin residing in foreign countries, and foreign citizens residing in Lithuania,”3 i.e. those who were familiar with the afore­ mentioned spirit or at least were capable of feeling it. The project of the third-place winner Karolis Reisonas, the head of the Kaunas Urban Construction Department at that time, was chosen to be implemented. Reisonas was a Latvian (he got Lithuanian citizenship only in 1932) and an Evangelical Reformer (even if later he converted to Catholicism). These two circumstances were used as a weighty argument by the project’s opponents. Here, an analogy with the opposition against the Slovenian architect Jože Plečnik, which appeared at a similar time in Prague, unwillingly pre­ sents itself (in English see: Berglund 2017). Reisonas gave free rein to his imagination and designed a spectacular eighty-threemetre spiral tower of reinforced concrete, which was to be crowned with a sevenmetre high statue of the Risen Christ (Figure 20.1). The stairs on the exterior of the tower had to be decorated with sculptures and marble columns with lamps, whose light would be visible from all over the city in the evening. It is obvious that the architect cast a glance at the neo-Gothic Votivkirche in Vienna, and was quite likely impressed by the spiral tower of Copenhagen’s Church of Our Saviour. Politicians and the majority of church and public figures were fascinated by this fantasy (Mulevičiūtė 2001, 27–8). Yet several more rationally thinking re­ presentatives of the cultural circles were opposed to this utopian proposal (Kairiūkštytė-Jacinienė 1929; Sruoga 1930a; Sruoga 1930b). The art historian Halina Kairiūkštytė-Jacinienė even brought the opinion of her professor and the interna­ tional authority on art Heinrich Wölfflin to bear in an attempt to persuade her

248 Giedrė Jankevičiūtė

Figure 20.1 Karolis Reisonas, A donation campaign poster to support construction of the Resurrection Church, 1929. Offset printing on paper, 70 × 45 cm. Lithuanian National Museum, Vilnius.

compatriots that it was essential to look for a more contemporary architectural idiom (Kairiūkštytė-Jacinienė 1930). Finally, the church builders became convinced that it would be difficult and per­ haps even impossible to implement the intricate project that captivated their imagi­ nation, due both to its technical complexity and its costliness. Reisonas redesigned the church, and on 21 April 1933, a project of a three-nave basilica of clear geometrical forms with a bell tower and a chapel on a flat roof was approved. The ceremony of laying the cornerstone of the church was planned to coincide with the First National Eucharistic Congress that took place in the summer of 1934. In 1936, the walls were built, in 1938, the roof was treated with concrete, and a bell tower began to rise. According to the construction documents, in 1939, two staircases leading to the roof were built, oak window frames adapted for stained glasses were installed (the artists Stasys Ušinskas and Liudas Truikys were commissioned to create

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Figure 20.2 The Resurrection Church as seen from Žaliakalnis district, ca 1938. Photo by unknown author. Giedrė Jankevičiūtės’ property.

stained glasses, and negotiations for their production were started with Franz Mayer’s workshop in Munich), wood for the doors was prepared, and interior plastering began.4 Plasterwork on the church exterior was not finished before the Soviet occupation (Figure 20.2). From 1940, the temple unexpectedly turned into a symbol of the loss of statehood. The Soviets nationalised the unfinished building in 1941. A year later, the Nazis converted it into a paper storage. In 1952, the church was adapted for the needs of a Soviet military complex and produced radio and, later, TV sets. In the process of creating the manufacturing facilities, the space of the church was partitioned with concrete slabs between the floors, and the redundant chapel on the terrace was pulled down. Equipment was installed in the newly-formed production departments, and auxiliary premises, a design department and other buildings were constructed in the churchyard. As the first signs of the imminent fall of the Soviet regime appeared in 1988, demands were made to move the factory out of the building and to return the church to believers. The massive redbrick structure dominated the Kaunas cityscape for fifty years as a reminder of the unfinished construction of a national symbol and the aim of the restoration of independence; it was not until the early 21st century that the church was plastered white, after having been returned to the Catholic Church. The re­ construction was finished in 2004 according to the project of the renowned Kaunasbased architect Antanas Algimantas Sprindys.

250 Giedrė Jankevičiūtė

The Palace of the State in Kaunas As the walls of the Church of the Resurrection went up, preparations for another grandiose project began (Jankevičiūtė and Petrulis, 2018c; Jankevičiūtė 2018, 25–34). In 1939, it was decided to build a complex of the Palace of the State on a designated plot less than a kilometre east of the church under construction, which was used for exhibitions of agriculture and industry. According to the plan, the complex was to house the President’s residence and chancellery, the Council of Ministers and the Parliament Palace with auxiliary buildings, a representational square, park and gardens. The choice of the location was determined by its good visibility and the fact that the land belonged to the city. The competition was held on the quiet, as the decision to build the Palace of the State was dictated not only by practical necessity, but also, and above all, by un­ pleasant political reality. Not a single public institution in Kaunas had adequate premises, as the entire interwar period was colored by anticipation of moving the capital of the state with all its institutions back to Vilnius. On the other hand, in the late 1930s, there were various signs, among them the boom of private construction, a revision of the city’s master plan, major repairs of buildings adapted for public in­ stitutions, and offers given to diplomats of foreign states to give up their leases and acquire plots of land for permanent diplomatic offices, that pointed to the fading expectations that the settling in Kaunas was only temporary (Akmenytė-Ruzgienė 2018, 41). Poland’s ultimatum to Lithuania on 17 March 1938 put an end to the hopes that Vilnius would be regained in the nearest future. The competition for the Palace of the State was an open acknowledgement that Kaunas was attempting to shed its temporary status and was turning into a real capital. Nobody dared to voice it. Be that as it may, an international competition for the Palace of the State was announced in the spring of 1939. Information about the competition was published in architectural magazines of various countries5 and disseminated by Lithuanian embassies abroad and foreign embassies in Lithuania. A brochure in three languages – Lithuanian, German and French – with the competition requirements was published and distributed (Valstybės rūmų eskizinio projekto konkurso … 1939). The inter­ nationally acclaimed Swedish architect Gunar Asplund was invited to sit on the jury.6 More than a hundred architects inquired about the terms of the project in greater detail, and asked for city plans and aerial photographs of Kaunas. Such vivid interest was mainly caused by the prestige of the future building and, of course, the size of the prizes. The total prize fund was 55,000 litas, and the winner of the first prize was to receive 20,000 litas for the design proposal. In 1938, 55,000 litas approximately equalled 11,000 US dollars. This was a vast sum of money. The interest in the competition was undoubtedly enhanced by the tense political situation, which caused quite many European countries to slow down new con­ struction and urged architects to look for commissions abroad. Architects from warridden Germany were looking for work, as well as specialists from Nazi-occupied Czechoslovakia, let alone the refugees, among which German and Czech Jews pre­ vailed, soon to be joined by Poles. Quite many inquiries about the terms and the course of the competition were received from Switzerland, Italy and France; there was also interest from Hungarians, Romanians, Bulgarians, Serbs, Slovenians, Slovaks, Danes, the Dutch and Belgians, and of course, Estonians and Latvians, who had not

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once taken part in architectural competitions held in Lithuania and had won them. Letters were received even from Palestine, Brazil and the USA. Some names were quite well known. Among those, the Swiss avant-garde architect and artist Max Bill could be mentioned. As was appropriate for a person from the Bauhaus environment professing democratic ideals in art and life, he sent to Kaunas a letter typewritten exclusively in lowercase.7 At least 51 projects were submitted for the competition. The jury, mainly com­ posed of representatives of the Lithuanian government and local architects (among the members were Antanas Jokimas, Jonas Krikščiukaitis, Antanas Novickis and Mykolas Songaila) with the only exception of the above-mentioned Swedish ar­ chitect Gunnar Asplund, decided not to award the first prize, and instead, three equal prizes of 15,000 litas were awarded to the Latvians Nikolay Bode and Nikolay Voit, Eugen Lutterklas from Rio de Janeiro, and the Poles Adolf SzyszkoBohusz and Jan Ogłódek from Kraków (“Valstybės rūmų eskizinio projekto kon­ kursas” 1940). Two more projects were acquired for the remaining money: by Marcel Chapey from Paris, and by the Austrian Roland Rainer and his wife Ilse Rainer, who were based in Berlin at that time. French and German architects regularly participated in architectural competitions in Kaunas, and several projects by them had already been implemented. At that time, the construction of the complex of university clinics according to the project by the French architects Urbain Cassan, Elie Ouchanoff and the Lithuanian Feliksas Belinskis, which was huge not only by Kaunas standards, was close to completion. Yet, as the compe­ tition for the Palace of the State was drawing to a close, France and Germany were already at war, and on June 8 it was already clear that “Berlin” was gaining an advantage over “Paris”… We know nothing either about the project by Lutterklas or its author, though we can presume that he was Jewish and had emigrated to Brazil from Europe, most likely Germany or Austria, on the eve of the war. His letter to the jury of the competition was written in German.8 The Latvians were quite a famous duo who had participated in an ambitious project of monumental architecture launched by the President of Latvia of that time, Kārlis Ulmanis, and had already won the competition to design the Latvian embassy to Lithuania in Kaunas in 1939. One of them, Voit, while preparing for the competition of the Palace of the State, headed a group of Riga’s architects entrusted with the project of designing a new grandiose building of the municipality office of Latvia’s capital (Martinsone 2016, 549–50). This experience undoubtedly enhanced the duo’s monumental aims in designing the Palace of the Lithuanian State. Yet an equally important source of inspiration for the Latvians might have been public buildings that were sprouting up all over Europe, epitomised by the Palais de Chaillot built on the occasion of the Paris International Exposition of 1937. There are similarities between the Kaunas project offered by the Latvians and the tentative French prototype. Unfortunately, the scarce surviving material of the competition does not allow us to reconstruct it in full; even the names of all the participants have not been identified. Interestingly, there were several women among the participants: besides Ilse Rainer, proposals were submitted by the Latvia-based Lithuanian Jonė Jasėnaitė9 and a team of three Latvian female architects consisting of Ilze Jēpe, Alma Dunga and Sofija Šimanskis.10 This is a notable fact as female architects were a rare exception in the Baltic countries.11

252 Giedrė Jankevičiūtė Even though the competition was supposed to be anonymous, certain suspicions about possible diplomatic games come to mind. The prizes assigned for the Polish and Latvian teams support this idea, even if the awarded projects had all the necessary features for the planned building complex.12 The title of the design proposal “To My Lithuania” by Szyszko-Bohusz, as well as the one by the Estonian team of Konstantin Böhlau, Anton Soans and August Tauk – “Trakai”, which was one of the Lithuanian capitals of medieval times – were in­ tended to move the hearts of Lithuanian patriots. In this case, another obvious proof of cultural diplomacy is a photograph held in the Anton Soans collection of the Estonian Museum of Architecture, capturing a company that gathered in the architect Tauk’s home in Tallinn on 28 April 1940 on the occasion of “the Lithuanian com­ petition,” as recorded by an inscription in Soans’ handwriting on the back. Besides the host and Soans, the photograph also features the artist Peet Aren holding a book about Lithuania by the linguist, polyglot, translator, critic and expert in Central and Eastern European culture Bernhard Linde, published in Estonian in 1935, and dis­ playing its cover.13 It is quite likely that the majority of the projects submitted for the competition were in line with the idiom of monumental neoclassicism. Visually this hypothesis is confirmed, as has been mentioned, by the photographs of the winning Latvian and Polish projects; the neoclassicist idiom was also represented by the projects of the Estonian team and Karl Kurt Perlsee – a photograph of the first one has survived in the Soans collection at the Estonian Museum of Architecture, and the originals of the second one are held at the National Museum of Lithuania. It is almost certain that Rainer, who was an alumnus of the Vienna Technische Hochschulle acclaimed in the Third Reich and the Berlin Academy of Urban Construction and Planning, aimed for modernised neoclassicism. The award-winning Parisian Chappey most probably of­ fered something similarly monumental and magnificent. He started to work during the period of art deco and in his early career was a typical representative of this style, but from the mid-1930s he moved to stricter forms and joined the ranks of neotraditionalists, was awarded the prestigious Prix de Rome and was even invited to teach at the citadel of French neo-traditionalism of that time, the École des BeauxArts in Paris. Due to unknown reasons, this architect was pushed by both Lithuanian and French diplomats into the competition. The archives contain a letter of the re­ presentative of France to Lithuania Georges Dulong to the head of the Chancellery of the Cabinet of Ministers, written on the eve of the jury’s decision14. Very politely but at the same time insistently, the author of the letter asserts having no doubts that the assessors noticed both Chappey’s ability to solve the problems of functional adap­ tation of buildings and the distinct aesthetic advantages of his project, and would draw the jury’s attention to the Frenchman’s work. The competition deadline was postponed several times at the participants’ requests. One of the later deadlines fell on 1 September 1939 (sic!). At the time of the attack on Poland launched by Germany and the USSR in that fatal September, i.e. the beginning of World War II, Lithuania still was a neutral state, but its destruction had already begun. Today we can hear statements that hardly anyone realised what was going on, but in fact, there were enough people who clearly saw that the result of the annihi­ lation of Poland – the return of Vilnius to Lithuania – actually meant “Greeks bearing gifts,” an unambiguous proof of the intentions of the Communist monster. The Soviets returned to Lithuania its historical capital in a considerably run-down state,

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and to boot, with an appendage – military garrisons set up in the entire region. So, why was the competition for the Palace of the State still continued? Was it blind adherence to the previously approved plan, or unwillingness to abandon the egoboosting dream? The participants themselves were also concerned as to why the competition was not stopped after the regaining of Vilnius, or at least why they were not offered a chance to consider the adaptation of the project in the historical capital (the second deadline was 1 November 1939, and the third and final one – 1 May 1940). On 14 October 1939, the already mentioned Perlsee wrote a letter to the organisers asking if the return of Vilnius was not going to change the purpose of the competition: could there be a possibility that the palace would be transferred to Vilnius?15 The Austrian ar­ chitect Walter Tragl from Innsbruck also inquired what should be expected from the competition after the return of Vilnius.16 This question remains open and conveys the atmosphere of uncertainty and turmoil that prevailed in Lithuania at that time. It is only from the stylistic viewpoint that the competition can be considered conceptually clear: its results confirmed that in the late 1930s, the artistic doctrine of neo-traditionalism had taken root in Lithuania as in the neighbouring countries.

Traces of the Expanding War in the History of the Palace of the State Competition The majority of the works submitted for the competition perished. The projects were presented for public viewing in an exhibition opened on 11 June 1940, i.e. four days before the Soviet occupation. Certainly, when the Soviet invasion started, nobody was concerned about the fate of the exhibition, the projects, and the vision of the Palace of the State. We can only imagine what happened to the exhibits. The only exception is five of eighteen sheets by the Prague-based engineer Karl Kurt Perlsee (Figure 20.3). They are almost the only ones to have survived into our times.

Figure 20.3 Karl Kurt Perlsee, “Amicus amico”, a design proposal for the complex of the Palace of the State in Kaunas, 1940, cardboard, paper, pencil, India ink, water­ colour, 126 × 67 cm. Lithuanian National Museum, Vilnius.

254 Giedrė Jankevičiūtė Perlsee’s case also illustrates the fate of Jewish architects at that time. His first letters to the organizers of the competition were written on the headed paper of the engineer’s studio from Prague.17 In the spring of 1940 Perlsee notified that his address had changed, and he was staying at Hotel Lion d’Or in Le Sentier, a small clockmakers’ town in the Swiss canton of Vaud.18 It was a short respite before a long journey to the other side of the Atlantic. Another letter from Perlsee already points to England, Cranbrook in Kent, ca. 60 km from London, where he took residence as a member of the Royal Institute of British Architects.19 Finally, the jury received Perlsee’s request that should his “Amicus amico” project win, the money was to be transferred to the USA at an intermediary’s address: Dr. Hans Mautner, 880 1/2 Mainstreet, Waltham Mass., U.S.A.20 Before long, the author of “Amicus amico” himself moved to the United States. Perlsee, who was Jewish, was com­ pelled to leave Prague and his studio to avoid persecution. His case makes us wonder what befell his colleagues from Prague or Brno, in whose letters to the jury, instead of Czechoslovakia, Protektorat Böhmen-Mähren is indicated as a return address. Or take the history of Szyszko-Bohusz’s project. Meticulously drawn pre­ sentation sheets – a project titled “Mano Lietuvai” (“To My Lithuania”) – reached Kaunas from Kraków’s Wawel, where the Governor General of the oc­ cupied Poland, Hans Frank, resided at that time. On 1 May 1940, when the application deadline expired, Poland had already been living under the arbitrary rule of the Nazis for nine months. The daily life of local inhabitants was highly restricted. Polish artists could not engage in public activity, hardly any architect was lucky to have a permanent paid auxiliary job in Nazi-run offices, and private practice was forbidden. It is difficult to imagine Polish architects, tormented by the fear of poverty and terror, drawing magnificent views of the Palace of the State in Kaunas with inspiration, calculating the area of reception halls, offices, dining rooms, kitchens, wardrobes and other rooms needed in the time of peace, looking for the best panoramic angles and arranging the décor, all the more so that other Poles who took part in the competition – Jerzy Wierzbicki, Mieczysław Prę czkowski and Jan Szurowski, and a team of four architects consisting of Wiktor Espenhan, Leonard Kario, Stanisław Płoski and Włodzimierz Wasilewski – informed the jury in their letters that their former addresses in Warsaw were no longer valid and they could be reached via the Red Cross sanatorium in Birštonas, Lithuania.21 Apparently, having found themselves in Lithuania together with an influx of war refugees, they tried to continue their professional career, as it happens, also expecting a financial award that would have eased the fate of homeless migrants. It is difficult to say how their projects measured up; we only know that in the jury’s opinion, they were inferior to Szyszko-Bohusz’s proposal, even though, for example, Wierzbicki also was a renowned architect, who had an architectural bureau in Warsaw and designed the new Mokotów district and some public buildings in Poland’s capital and other cities. The same could be said about Płoski, who designed several prominent buildings of modernist architecture in Poland, among them the house of a Swedish sailor and the building accommodating the Polskarob company offices and residential apartments in Gdynia.

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Prę czkowski graduated from the Warsaw Polytechnic as late as 1939 and just started an independent practice; in the war years he probably quit architecture, joined the resistance struggle, and was killed during the Warsaw Uprising in 1944. An alumnus of the Lviv Polytechnic, Espenhan is more known from his post-war activity in Warsaw, but before the war he worked at the Vilnius Urban Planning Bureau and thus had an interested specialist’s view of Lithuanian architecture. Quite possibly, it was he who encouraged his colleagues in exile to try their hand in the competition for the Palace of the State in Kaunas. Having graduated from the Warsaw Polytechnic, before the war Kario mostly worked in Warsaw, at the outbreak of war fled to Lithuania with other refugees, and in 1943, died in Vilnius. There is hardly any data about Wasilewski except for the fact that he was a graduate of the Warsaw Polytechnic and worked at Inco-Veritas, a company of home care products. We do not know if Szyszko-Bohusz was personally invited to take part in the competition, or if it was his sentiments towards the land of his ancestors that en­ couraged him to design the Palace of the State in Kaunas. He visited Vilnius already before World War I, took measurements of the Bernardine Church and made drawings of this church for the inventories of the Cracow Heritage Protection Department (Walanus 2016, 67); it is quite possible that while working in Wawel, he revived the memories of this visit. The sentimental title that he gave to his project, “To My Lithuania”, could most likely be explained by nostalgia and personal feel­ ings; otherwise, in the light of the recent struggles of Lithuanians and Poles for Vilnius, it would sound almost provocative. His proposal was well regarded by the competition jury, as it demonstrated high professionalism and longtime practice in designing buildings for state needs. Szyszko-Bohusz perhaps was officially one of the most recognized architects of the interwar Polish Republic. His situation was dif­ ferent from that of other Polish architects even during Nazi occupation years – it can be considered privileged. As he himself asserts in his memoirs, with the approval of the Polish anti-Nazi underground movement, he remained to work in Wawel (Gazur 2013). Having seized the castle, the Germans had all kinds of restructuring ideas, so they were in need of a specialist with extensive knowledge of the complex. The Governor General Hans Frank wanted to improve his new headquarters and had even made some alterations; as well, there were plans to furnish a suite for Hitler in case of his possible visit to Wawel. Szyszko-Bohusz’s official workplace was the German Kötthen and Horstmann’s bureau, which implemented architectural restructurings in Wawel, and his job was drawing sketches. According to the architect’s memoirs, he did not experience much difficulty in his job, and even managed to protect some valuable elements of early and modern architecture and art; among the latter, for example, he saved the works of the sculptor Xawery Dunikowski arrested by the Nazis and imprisoned in Auschwitz, from destruction (Cieślińska-Lobkowcz 2008, 166). Thus it seems that Szyszko-Bohusz had quite good work conditions and could calmly focus on the project of the Palace of the State in Kaunas. He meticulously took photographs of all his presentation sheets, and afterwards sent them to Lithuania without much trouble.22 The reconstruction of the Wawel Castle during the interwar period ravaged in the Austrian times is considered one of Szyszko-Bohusz’s greatest achievements, but the architect designed quite many modern public buildings, thus his design proposals for the Palace of State in Kaunas successfully combine the ele­ ments of modernism and historicism.

256 Giedrė Jankevičiūtė

Conclusions The term Stadtkrone by Bruno Taut used in the title of the article sounds optimistic. Unfortunately, in the presented narrative, optimism, hopes, considerable ambitions and self-confidence are intertwined with unexpected and unwanted dramatic con­ sequences, which were stronger than the powers of a single individual and even the entire state. Yet it is not only this that makes the Kaunas case distant from Taut’s idea. The Catholic church of modernist forms and the neo-traditionalist complex of the Palace of the State in no way matched the utopia of the German modernist, which had a communal centre at its core, even if it was modelled after a medieval cathedral or temple. On the other hand, it was this particular dichotomy of modernism and neotraditionalism that was the general keynote of the development of interwar archi­ tecture. We find it in symbolic buildings of the absolute majority of national states, be it Warsaw, Prague, or Tallinn that prides itself on a unique parliament building of expressionist architecture. Intense debates between modernists and neo-traditionalists even accompanied the preparations for the Paris Expo of 1937. As we know, neotraditionalism emerged the winner in that case. This is another proof that the nar­ rative about two public buildings in Kaunas is a significant contribution to the 20thcentury history of European architecture and aids in its more thorough reconstruc­ tion.

Notes 1 It was the subject of a great many discussions and manifestations, several articles, addresses of various groups of society etc. The phenomenon of the simulacrum of the Palace of Grand Dukes of Lithuania as a fruit of the collective consciousness of Lithuania’s contemporary society has been and still is analysed by historians, architecture and heritage specialists and sociologists. Among the most representative texts, we could mention the philosopher Arūnas Sverdiolas’s essay (Sverdiolas 2006, 168, 173–198); the internet commentary by Ernestas Parulskis (Parulskis 2009) in which he interprets the Palace of Grand Dukes of Lithuania referring to Umberto Eco’s essay Travels in Hyperreality (1975) and compares it to the Hearst Castle described by Eco; the early historiography of the problem is discussed by Eglė Rindzevičiūtė (Rindzevičiūtė 2010). Incidentally, in 2009, the Lithuanian Art Historians Society proclaimed the Palace of Grand Dukes the worst building of the year constructed in a historical territory (cf.: www.bernardinai.lt/straipsnis/2009-01-15-dailesistorikai-valdovu-rumai-neistorinio-mastymo-ir-kulturinio-avantiurizmo-pavyzdys/9294), thus provoking heated discussions and a new wave of texts both arguing for and against it. The Palace of Grand Dukes of Lithuania in Vilnius was discussed both in the academic and popular international press; one of many examples, which reveals the general character of the interpretations, could be the short essay by Feragus O’Sullivan (O’Sullivan 2013). 2 “Algirdo Kaušpėdo vadovaujama architektūros studija rodo, kaip atrodytų atstatyta Gedimino pilis” – “The architectural bureau headed by Algirdas Kaušpėdas demonstrates what the rebuilt Gediminas Castle would look like”, announced the Lithuanian internet news site 15min.lt on 5 July 2018 (www.15min.lt/verslas/naujiena/kvadratinis-metras/ nekilnojamasis-turtas/a-kauspedo-vadovaujama-architekturos-studija-rodo-kaip-atrodytuatstatyta-gedimino-pilis-973–997424; see also: www.vilniuje.info/news/2088370/antiskviecia-pazvelgti-i-atstatyta-vilniaus-aukstutine-pili). 3 Konkursas Lietuvos nepriklausomybės atgavimo paminklui – Prisikėlimo bažnyčiai statyti [sąlygos] (The competition for the construction of the Monument of Independence – the Church of the Resurrection), Lithuanian State Archive of Literature and Art, f. 81, ap. 1, b. 389, l. 2.

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4 Jankevičienė 1991, 350; Jankevičiūtė 2003, 278. Franz Mayer’s workshop was well known in Lithuania at the time; in 1938, it produced stained glass compositions by Liudas Truikys for the windows of the Gothic Church of St. Nicholas. For more on the workshop, see: Mayer 2013. 5 In their letters to the competition jury, German architects constantly referred to the German professional press, Italians mentioned the magazine Architettura, and American architects – the magazine of the American Institute of Architects Octagon (see: Letter of Lorenzo Chiaraviglio of 9 December 1939, Lithuanian Central State Archives (further LCVA – Lietuvos centrinis valstybės archyvas), f. 923, ap. 1, b. 1536, l. 15; Letter of Joshua D. Lowenfish of 30 May 1939, LCVA, f. 923, ap. 1, b. 1537, l. 56, etc.). These specialised publications published announcements about the competition and all the related updates. 6 Letter of Gunnar Asplund to the head of the jury, secretary of the Council of Ministers Mykolas Žilinskas of 18 February 1939, LCVA, f. 923, ap. 1, b. 1524, l. 150–151. 7 Letter of Max Bill of 16 January 1940 to the organisers of the competition, LCVA, f. 923, ap. 1, b. 1536, l. 78. 8 Letter of Eugen Lutterklas of 8 July 1939, LCVA, f. 923, ap. 1, b. 1536, l. 63. 9 Authors of the projects of the Palace of the State in Kaunas (pseudonyms, family names, addresses), LCVA, f. 923, ap. 1, b. 1585, l. 7. 10 LCVA, f. 923, ap. 1, b. 1585, l. 97–99. 11 Only one of them – Sara Mitkovskaitė – has been identified in Lithuania so far (Drėmaitė 2018, 6). 12 As the photographs of both projects survived, we are able to see and evaluate the pro­ posals. The photographs of the Latvian project are held in the Museum of Architecture of Latvia in Riga, and those of the Polish project – in the Museum of Architecture in Wrocław. 13 I am grateful to my colleague Mait Väljas from the Museum of Architecture in Tallinn for all the information and the scan of the photograph. The reproduction of the photograph was published in: Jankevičiūtė 2018, 33. 14 Letter of Georges Dulong of 27 May 1940, LCVA, f. 923, ap. 1, b. 1536, l. 16. 15 Letter of Karl Kurt Perlsee of 14 October 1939, LCVA, f. 923, ap. 1, b. 1536, l. 67. 16 LCVA, f. 923, ap. 1, b. 1537, l. 29. 17 LCVA, f. 923, ap. 1, b. 1537, l. 67, 84. 18 LCVA, f. 923, ap. 1, b. 1585, l. 22–23. 19 LCVA, f. 923, ap. 1, b. 1585, l. 65. 20 LCVA, f. 923, ap. 1, b. 1585, l. 65. 21 LCVA, f. 923, ap. 1, b. 1585, l. 46, 104–105, 108, 110. 22 Luckily, the photographs of all eight sheets have survived and now are held in the collection of the Wrocław Museum of Architecture.

References Akmenytė-Ruzgienė, Vilma. 2018. “Lithuania’s Loss and Kaunas’ Gain: The Phenomenon of the Provisional Capital.” In Architecture of Optimism, edited by Marija Drėmaitė, 36–47. Vilnius: Lapas. Bakoš, Ján. 2016. “A Corrupt Past: The Case of Bratislava Castle.” RIHA Journal 0141 (October 15, 2016). 10.11588/riha.2016.0 Berglund, Bruce R. 2017. Castle and Cathedral in Modern Prague: Longing for the Sacred in a Sceptical Age. Budapest–New York: CEU Press. Būčys, Pranciškus. 1922. “Pasimokykim iš prancūzų.” Laisvė, February 28, 1922. Cieślińska-Lobkowcz, Nawojka. 2008. “Walka w obronie polskich dóbr kultury w czasie wojny i okupacji hitlerowskiej.” Kronika Zamkowa, no. 1–2 (55–56): 159–177. Drėmaitė, Marija. 2018. “Migrant Modernists. Collective Architectural Power.” In Architecture of Optimism, edited by Marija Drėmaitė, 58–73. Vilnius: Lapas.

258 Giedrė Jankevičiūtė Gazur, Łukasz. 2013. “Adolf Szyszko-Bohusz: architekt który zaprojektował ‘wszystko’.” Dziennik Polski 24, October 5, 2013. www.dziennikpolski24.pl/artykul/3278460,adolfszyszkobohusz-architekt-ktory-zaprojektowal-wszystko,id,t.html Jankevičienė, Algė ed. 1991. Kauno architektūra. Vilnius: Mokslas. Jankevičiūtė, Giedrė. 2002. “Between Modernity and Tradition: Lithuanian Architecture and Its Decoration Between the Two World Wars.” Centropa. A Journal of Central European Architecture and Related Arts 2, no. 3: 221–229. Jankevičiūtė, Giedrė. 2003. Dailė ir valstybė. Dailės gyvenimas Lietuvos Respublikoje 1918–1940. Kaunas: Nacionalinis M. K. Čiurlionio dailės muziejus. Jankevičiūtė, Giedrė. 2018. “Lietuviškų rūmų epopėja: Valstybės rūmai Kaune.” Naujasis židinys-Aidai, no. 4: 25–34. Jankevičiūtė, Giedrė, and Petrulis, Vaidas. 2018a. “National Identity: The Vytautas the Great Museum.” In Architecture of Optimism, edited by Marija Drėmaitė, 82–101. Vilnius: Lapas. Jankevičiūtė, Giedrė, and Petrulis, Vaidas. 2018b. “The Nation’s Shrine: Resurrection Church.” In Architecture of Optimism, edited by Marija Drėmaitė, 102–113. Vilnius: Lapas. Jankevičiūtė, Giedrė, and Petrulis, Vaidas. 2018c. “An Unrealised Symbol of Statehood: The Palace of the State Complex.” In Architecture of Optimism, edited by Marija Drėmaitė, 150–159. Vilnius: Lapas. Kairiūkštytė-Jacinienė, Halina. 1929. “Dėl Prisikėlimo bažnyčios projekto.” Lietuvos aidas, November 4, 1929. Kairiūkštytė-Jacinienė, Halina. “Prisikėlimo bažnyčios reikalu.” Lietuvos aidas, March 8, 1930. Konkursas Lietuvos nepriklausomybės atgavimo paminklui – Prisikėlimo bažnyčiai statyti [sąlygos] (The competition for the construction of the Monument of Independence – the Church of the Resurrection), Lithuanian State Archive of Literature and Art (Lietuvos literatūros ir meno archyvas), f. 81, ap. 1, b. 389, l.2. Laurinaitis, Paulius Tautvydas. 2018. “Planning the New Capital.” In Architecture of Optimism, edited by Marija Drėmaitė, 162–177. Vilnius: Lapas. Lietuvos Respublikos ministrų kabinetas (Council of the Ministers of the Lithuanian Republic), Lithuanian Central State Archives (Lietuvos centrinis valstybės archyvas), f. 923, ap.1. Martinsone, Ilze. 2016. “Reflection of Authoritarianism in Latvian Architecture.” In Art History of Latvia, vol. 5, edited by Eduards Kļaviņš, 546–563. Rīga: LMA Mākslas vēstures institūts. Mayer, Gabriel. ed. 2013. Franz Mayer of Munich. Architecture, Glass, Art – Mayer’sche Hofkunstantalt. Munich: Hirmer Publishers. Mulevičiūtė, Jolita. 2001. Modernizmo link. Dailės gyvenimas Lietuvos Respublikoje 1918–1940. Kaunas: Nacionalinis M. K. Čiurlionio dailės muziejus. O’Sullivan, Feragus. 2013. “Beware the Pseudo-Historical Retrofit Craze Sweeping Over Europe.” Bloomberg CityLab, June 20, 2013. www.citylab.com/design/2013/06/bewarepseudo-historical-retrofit-craze-sweeping-over-europe/5963/ Parulskis, Ernestas. 2009. “Po kiek bilietas į rūmus?” TV3, 2009, www.tv3.lt/naujiena/ 248409/po-kiek-bilietas-i-rumus Rindzevičiūtė, Eglė. 2010. “Imagining the Grand Duchy of Lithuania: The Politics and Economics of the Rebuilding of Trakai Castle and the ‘Palace of Sovereigns’ in Vilnius.” Central Europe 8, no. 2 (November): 181–203. Spector [Bičiūnas, Vytautas]. 1929. “Prisikėlimo bažnyčia” 7 meno dienos, no. 47, December 26, 1929: 3–6. www.epaveldas.lt/object/recordDescription/LNB/C1C1B0000245754 Sruoga, Balys. 1930a. “Prisikėlimo bažnyčios statyba.” Lietuvos aidas, March 28, 1930. Sruoga, Balys. 1930b. “Atsikėlimo bažnyčios klausimu. Atviras laiškas p. A. Jakštui.” Rytas, April 29, 1930.

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Sverdiolas, Arūnas. 2006. Apie pamėklinę būtį ir kiti etiudai. Vilnius: Baltos lankos. Taut, Bruno. 1919. Die Stadtkrone. With contributions of Paul Scheerbart, Erich Baron and Adolf Behne. Jena: Eugen Diederichs. “Valstybės rūmų eskizinio projekto konkursas.” 1940. Lietuvos aidas, June 13, 1940. Valstybės rūmų eskizinio projekto konkurso sąlygos = Conditions du concours pour le project d’esquisse de la construction du palais présidentiel a Kaunas = Bedingungen für den Entwurfs-wettbewerb zum bau des Staatspalais in Kaunas. 1939. Kaunas: Spindulys. Walanus, Wojciech. 2016. “Z dziejów fotograficznej dokumentacji Polskiego dziedzictwa kul­ turowego: kampanie inwentaryzacyjne Adolfa Szyszko-Bohusza i Stefana Zaborowskiego.” Folia Historiae Artium 14: 59–89. http://pau.krakow.pl/FHA/FHA_14_2016_s_59_89.pdf Wiśniewski, Michał. 2013. Adolf Szyszko-Bohusz. Kraków: Instytut Architektury.

21 An Elite Place for the Masses: Prague Castle and its Role in the Legitimisation of Socialist Rule in Czechoslovakia (1948–1968) 1 Veronika Rollová Prague Castle has been a seat of power of the Czech lands for more than a thousand years. Even the first president of democratic Czechoslovakia, Tomáš Garrigue Masaryk, chose it as his official residence after 1918. The so called “Castle” con­ stitutes an architectural complex located on a hill: there are different sacral buildings including St. Vitus Cathedral, multiple palaces, houses and gardens that were con­ structed in the area throughout the centuries (Figure 21.1). The Hapsburgs did not reside in the complex, which needed to be modernized by Masaryk, who tried to transform it into a symbol of the young democracy (Prelovšek 1997). He cooperated with Slovenian architect Jože Plečnik, who used his unique vocabulary to renovate old rooms and to create dignified representational spaces. Plečnik’s student Otto Rothmayer was employed in the castle since 1920 and later he also cooperated with Plečnik’s successor Pavel Janák, who was appointed as the official architect of Prague Castle by the 2nd Czechoslovak president Edvard Beneš to continue its transformation. During World War II the complex served mostly as a storehouse for the Nazi rulers; Albert Speer’s intention to take advantage of the symbolic potential of the place and to promote it as a “Castle of German emperors” came too late to be implemented. In 1948 a Communist coup took place in Czechoslovakia and soon afterwards the first so called “worker’s president” Klement Gottwald began using Prague Castle as his official residence and a place of state representation. Also, the Central Committee of the Communist Party held its meetings there. In the following text I am going to focus on the ways in which the socialist presidents and the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia used the symbolic potential of Prague Castle and on their changing approach from the late 1940s through the late 1960s. I base my argumentation on the assertion that they tried to influence the masses through the image and the actual space of the Castle and I will explore the messages they tried to communicate and the strategies they implemented through planned architectural changes in this archi­ tectural complex. I am going to focus on both short- and long-term changes and on both the realised and never implemented ones. I am going to explore the shifting relationship of the authorities towards Socialist Realism and Modernism and focus on the importance of topics of national history, desacralization, celebration of labour and progressive use of technology. By the end of the 1940s almost all the buildings in the Castle area were ad­ ministered by the Office of the President of the Czechoslovak republic, which was responsible for all the reconstructions. In the late 1940s the Communist Party tried to address the masses with different travelling exhibitions or broadcasting. They DOI: 10.4324/9781003265818-27

An Elite Place for the Masses 261

Figure 21.1 Prague Castle is an architectural complex located on a hill dominated by St. Vitus Cathedral surrounded by palaces and gardens. Photo by Ludwig Schneider, edited by Yair Haklai (Licence: CC BY-SA 3.0).

used some of the symbols that were significant for the previous regime to keep continuity, but also slightly changed the reading of these symbols to better serve their purposes. So, it would be safe to presume that the Communist Party used the symbolic power of Prague Castle from the very first moment and in a way they did: the sole fact that the Castle was still the president’s residence served as tool of a legitimisation of Communist power. The need for symbolic continuity was very strong in the first years of the Communist rule and the promised revolutionary change did not apply to a new official seat of power. President Gottwald was de­ scribed as a “guy from a simple cottage”, who had opened the formerly remote seat of aristocrats to everyone. However, in reality the formerly accessible gardens were closed to the public completely, while most of the former palaces served as im­ provised offices of institutions or storages. The public could visit only two ex­ hibition spaces on the borders of the area and the Golden Lane, a famous short street of picturesque former workers buildings. What were the reasons behind this lack of use of the potential of Prague Castle for propaganda? The area needed renovation for sure – there were finances and material available, but they were used for the construction of a private house for the president in one of the gardens2 and for representational rooms, not accessible to the public. More likely, the president himself, whose position at this time is usually described as a cult of personality, stood behind this: he was famously scared for his life and did not want to let the public get close to his residence. In the early 1950s Socialist Realism culminated in Czechoslovakia and most in­ terwar architecture was rejected as cosmopolitan and formalist, including Plečnik’s

262 Veronika Rollová changes at the Castle. There was also a harsh campaign against the first President Masaryk taking place, which was also symbolically linked to the Castle’s re­ constructions. But still, we can find many continuities with the past era, but those facts were not made evident to the public. The current Office of the President fol­ lowed a plan created by the former president Beneš (Hnídková 2013). It re­ constructed the buildings chosen by Beneš, creating the institutions he planned to establish. The Office also cooperated with interwar Castle architects Otto Rothmayer and Pavel Janák, who continued to work according to their interwar plans (Krajči and Ryndová 1997). Did Rothmayer’s plans for the reconstruction of representa­ tional rooms during the 1950s conform to Socialist Realism? His ideas were certainly not radically modern: he created a set of monumental staircases and a coffered ceiling there, he also used marble and planned to decorate the place with historical furniture and tapestries. However, his realisation certainly lacked some of the most distinctive signs of Socialist Realism: the walls were white and smooth with rhythmically dis­ tributed windows, and there were no mosaics, sgraffiti, stuccos, or ledges. The head of the Office of the President even expressed some concerns that the President himself could be blamed for not applying the method of Socialist Realism in the renovations, so the Office established a committee to evaluate Rothmayer’s ideas.3 The committee did not make any objections against his plans, simply requiring him to use cheaper materials. Most importantly, it emphasized a preferred collective principle of decision-making, rather than implementation of one architect’s ideas. The rooms renovated by Rothmayer were supposed to be visited by the official visits only, not by the public at large: they were not even photographed for the papers. This is probably the reason, why they did not feature the typical vocabulary of Socialist Realism with its sculptures of workers and mosaics of partisans. On the other hand, this also re­ veals that even though representatives of the interwar Czechoslovakia wanted to present the state as modern and progressive, they did not apply a radically modern attitude in its architectural representation. For this reason, it was not problematic for the Communist authorities to continue the visual imagery established during the previous era, even though its use of historical elements was different from the ap­ proach of Socialist Realism. Mass propaganda at Prague Castle in the early 1950s concentrated on a newly established gallery located in the former Riding Hall. Former president Beneš planned this reconstruction and in the early 1950s, biennial exhibitions in the Riding Hall showed the best artworks of Socialist Realism and the master paintings of 19thcentury realism. Thus, Prague Castle became a model place for artists. In 1952 a new museum was established in the area: it presented gifts received by president Klement Gottwald from the people and other states. It was conceived as a small historical museum, which presented Czechoslovak history condensed in his personality as the “best son of nation” (Sommer 2011, 86–88). During the era of his personality cult, this museum displayed a symbolic transaction between Gottwald, who gave the people of Czechoslovakia the 1948 Communist revolution, and the nation, which returned the displayed gifts out of gratitude. In 1953 Klement Gottwald died – only nine days after Stalin – and a certain level of relaxation came to Czechoslovak society. His successor, Antonín Zápotocký, slowly started to support the idea of opening the Castle complex to the wide public. With Gottwald gone it became self-evident to use the symbolic potential of this gesture to indicate the inclusive, open nature of Socialism.4

An Elite Place for the Masses 263 The idea was to begin the opening with the so called “Old Palace” of the Castle and open its historical rooms to present a permanent exhibition of the archi­ tectural history of Prague Castle, which had already been suggested by former president Beneš. A committee of experts created the concept that emphasized the continuity of the current power with the long history of Czech lands. But then the year 1956 came, Stalin’s personality cult was rejected and even though there were hardly any protests in Czechoslovakia in comparison to Poland or Hungary, the Communist Party decided to take precautions for possible future resistance. They prepared a plan for the upcoming year of 1960 to please the masses: they an­ nounced, that Socialism had been successfully built in Czechoslovakia and that the country was ready to build Communism, which only happened in the USSR be­ fore. A new Constitution was issued that year to confirm this success, the moment was publicly celebrated and it was intended for Prague Castle to symbolically embody the moment: this was a plan to transform it into a monument of Socialism, which would show the masses a new version of the Socialist project, one more open and more appealing. In 1959 a new committee was established to accomplish this, with a new president Antonín Novotný as their leader and many important politics, architects, artists, art historians, archaeologists and other ex­ perts as members. Their main goal was to open the whole Castle complex and use it to educate and culturally cultivate the masses.5 The symbolic potential of Prague Castle was perceived in its full range by the authorities at last. Their strategy was to use the existing prominent interest of both Czechoslovaks and foreigners in the place and they attempted to symbolically connect the Castle with an idea of Socialism in such a way, that the people would not be able to think about one without the other. The Castle is visible from almost everywhere in the inner city so it could serve as a potent everyday reminder of this power. The Committee tried to apply the most important motives of propaganda (with a celebration of Labour at the centre) to the actual space by establishing different museums in most of the palaces and opening all the gardens. The archi­ tects planned to renovate the old buildings with visual emphasis on their historicity to show the Socialist State’s exemplary care of its historical sights. At the same time, the new architecture built in the area was supposed to be ostensibly modern and technologically progressive, because of that technology’s role in the building of a Communist Utopia. Even new representational rooms designed by the interwar functionalist architect Jaroslav Fragner were simple and modern. The Picture Gallery of paintings by great masters was installed in historical rooms, but these were redesigned in a very simple and modern manner by architects Josef Hrubý and František Cubr. Appealing to young people was a priority, so the so-called House of the Czechoslovak Children became the first and one of the few truly realized re­ constructions, finished in 1963. One of its main goals was to encourage children to choose a technical profession in the future, because the state needed professionals in an era of scientific and technological revolution. Hence numerous models of machines and devices were part of the interiors. Children could meet with politi­ cians there and because people older than fifteen were not allowed in the building, they were exposed to political education without a parental filter. School trips were organized to visit the House and pioneers made their pledges there. All the best drawings and handcrafted objects were displayed there for all children in the

264 Veronika Rollová country to see. The so-called Palace of Labour nearby was supposed to be a mirror of this concept for adults, but it was never constructed. It was conceived as a museum of Czechoslovak history after 1945, but at the same time, all of the pro­ totypes and machines produced in the former year would be displayed there and the president himself would honour the best workers of all fields in the Palace. It was intended to be the dream of all the people to see their work exhibited and admired there, which would motivate them to work even harder. Most of the projects were planned as a different types of exhibitions – Czechoslovakia had recently succeeded at the Brussels World fair (1958) (Kramerová and Skálová 2008) and a specialized national enterprise was estab­ lished in 1960 to create enticing installations for both domestic and foreign viewers. All the exhibitions in the area of Prague Castle were planned using pro­ gressive installation techniques with glowing maps and multimedia installations, and above all, a “polyecran”, a multi-screen audio-visual presentation admired by visitors of the Expo 1967 in Montreal, was about to become an important part of the Castle museums. The House of Czechoslovak Children used some of the pro­ gressive techniques, but it was not a museum per se; it was a place for children to participate in different type of activities in a specific setting, which used some of the new exhibition design methods. The two never built museums, which were intended to be technologically most innovative, were the above-mentioned Palace of Labour and also a Monument of the History of Czechoslovak People. The latter was es­ sentially a historical museum, which would narrate the history of Czech and Slovaks and also celebrate cooperation among Socialist nations (motive of Socialist Patriotism). The plan was for the Bohemian Crown Jewels to be moved to this new museum from their historical place in the Cathedral in order to remove an im­ portant privilege from the sacral place. The sacral identity of the multitude chur­ ches in the Prague Castle area was intentionally suppressed: the Cathedral was presented as the necropolis of Czech kings from that moment on, not as a church, and the relocation of Crown Jewels should have been a very important next step. The exposition of the historical museum followed a story of collective struggle, not the life of the “best son of Czechoslovak Nation” as was the case with the Museum of the Presents for Klement Gottwald, its predecessor. The Reform Process of Czechoslovak historiography of the 1960s is strongly visible in this shift. Some of the gardens surrounding Prague Castle were opened, but the main project, regarding these spaces was also never completed. The gardens and the area around the Castle would soon transform in the so-called Parkway of Socialism (Figure 21.2 and 21.3). The general liberalization of the 1960s in Czechoslovakia is illustrated nicely here: it started as a monumental project of a set of paths decorated with sculptures telling the history of Socialism in Czechoslovakia, but in the late 1960s it changed to a simple chain of parks providing a place to rest in the “green space” in the city, with abstract sculptures designed by young, progressive sculptors. The concept of so-called “free time” became increasingly more important and it was gradually conceived of not only as an opportunity for further education (offered by museums), but also as an opportunity to simply relax. What were the reconstructions of Prague Castle intended to communicate toward the masses in the time period we have followed in the paper? In the 1950s, the people were exposed to the model artworks of Socialist Realism and they were

An Elite Place for the Masses 265

Figure 21.2 Otakar Kuča, Jan Nováček and Jiří Ulman, Parkway of Socialism (unrealised study), 1961, © The Archive of Prague Castle, Collection of Architectural Studies and Competitions, sg. S 61, Inv. Nr. 7 (Photo by Ondřej Přibyl 2015).

Figure 21.3 Jiří Albrecht and Karel Prager, Parkway of Socialism (unrealised study), 1961, © The Archive of Prague Castle, Collection of Architectural Studies and Competitions, sg. S 54, Inv. Nr. 7 (Photo by Ondřej Přibyl 2015).

266 Veronika Rollová shown the historical continuity that “logically” led to Socialism. Propaganda be­ came more nuanced in the early 1960s and targeted different groups of visitors with different subjects and sophisticated exhibition installations. People were being motivated to build a Communist Utopia that was so close, according to president Novotný, that the children of that time were very likely to witness it. After the first half of the 1960s, thanks to the growing amount of so-called free time, the Prague Castle was conceived of more as a place of rest, where people could dwell in a truly Socialist public space, that was supposed to be highly cultivated, preserving the monuments and boldly designing the technologically advanced world of the Communist future. It was also gradually becoming to be understood as a place for the collective, celebrating the collective struggle – not from the end of the 1940s as we could have expected but only during the 1960s with their impending Reform Socialism. But in the end, Prague Castle failed to become the Monument of Socialism. The Castle was supposed to transform itself from an elite space of kings and aristocrats to a monument of the (nationally defined) masses, but its elite character was somehow still emphasized in the 1950s and 1960s. Even the President was not presented as a member of the group; in the late 1960s he still played the role of a patronizing monarch, honouring the best of his serfs here. The reconstructions were poorly planned and financially demanding and the state was not bureaucratically flexible enough to respond to the constant changes of plans, which is probably the main reason why both the Prague Castle project and Communist Utopia have never been successfully built in Czechoslovakia.

Notes 1 This paper is part of the project “Architecture and Czech Politics” realized by the Department of Art Theory and History at the Academy of Art, Architecture and Design in Prague, and supported by the Ministry of Culture of the Czech Republic in the Applied Research and Experimental Development of National and Cultural Identity (NAKI II, code DG18P02OVV041). 2 There has been an official presidential flat in the New Palace of Prague Castle used as a place of state representation, but there was a need for an actual home for the presidents some­ where in the complex. The house for presidents in the Royal Garden had been built for Edvard Beneš after World War I and it was finished during the reign of Klement Gottwald. 3 Letter from Bohumil Červíček to President Gottwald, February 5, 1953. Archive of Prague Castle, Office of the President of the Republic. File no. 400.000, 1948–1964, inv. no. 170, sg. 404 358. 4 There is one mention in Czechoslovak art magazine Výtvarné umění suggesting, that maybe even during Gottwald‘s life there was a motivation to open the Old Palace of Prague Castle to visitors, but there were not any specific steps taken until 1954 (Květ 1953, 131). 5 Archival documents on the activities of the “Ideological Committee for the Reconstructions of Prague Castle” are stored in the Archive of Prague Castle, Office of the President of the Republic. File no. 400.000, 1948–1964, inventory no. 176.

References Hnídková, Vendula. 2013. “Prague Castle as a Symbol of Political Representation”. In Challenge of the Object edited by G. Ulrich Großmann and Petra Krutisch, 480−481. Nürnberg: CIHA. “Ideological Committee for the Reconstructions of the Prague Castle” Documents. Archive of

An Elite Place for the Masses 267 Prague Castle, Office of the President of the Republic. File no. 400.000, 1948–1964, in­ ventory no. 176. Krajči, Petr, and Soňa Ryndová eds. 1997. Otto Rothmayer 1892–1966. Prague: Jaroslav Fragner Gallery – National Technical Museum. Kramerová, Daniela and Vanda Skálová eds. 2008. The Brussels Dream. Prague: Arbor Vitae. Květ, Jan. 1953. “President Gottwald a naše výtvarné umění” Výtvarné umění 3: 130−131. Prelovšek, Damjan. 1997. Jože Plečnik, 1872–1957. New Haven: Yale University Press. Sommer, Vítězslav. 2011. Angažované dějepisectví. Stranická historiografie mezi stalinismem a reformním komunismem (1950−1970). Prague: NLN – Nakladatelství Lidové noviny.

22 One Ideology, Two Visions: Ecclesiastical Buildings and State Identity in the Socialist Capital During the Post-War Rebuilding Decades 1945–1975, East Berlin and Warsaw Marcus van der Meulen Introduction The first three decades after the defeat of Nazi Germany are typified by the rebuilding of war-devastated Europe. This paper discusses the role of ecclesiastical buildings in the post-war reconstruction between 1945 and 1975 of the two capitals of the newly established socialist states, the Polish People’s Republic and the German Democratic Republic. This was a period of reconstruction and formation of these Socialist States. In 1975, the European Architectural Heritage Year contributed to an awareness of the significance of built heritage as common heritage,1 and in the GDR, the Monument Preservation Law was adopted.2 Reconstruction should not be under­ stood as a restoration to a pre-war condition, but as a transformative rebuilding according to Marxist/Leninist ideology. East Berlin and Warsaw were reconstructed as socialist cities. In architectural theory, the concept of the socialist city is an example of the ideal city, an architectural reflection of a utopian society (Rosenau 2006, 150–168). Plato in his Republic first explores the notion of the ideal city, and Thomas More introduces the notion of utopia in his eponymous book. The concept of the socialist-built utopia developed in the decades of the Interbellum in the Soviet Union and was heavily influenced by Modernist ideas. The socialist city or Socgorod seeks to shape society by design.3 This society is egalitarian and collec­ tive. It is a rational place and an objective place. Industrialisation is an essential part of its planning. Public buildings reflect the new society and the new order. Building the socialist city meant constructing an environment to accommodate the new society, which is atheist by nature and consequently has no place for religious buildings. The Traktorozavod district in Stalingrad, built in 1930 is an example. For existing cities, implementing the ideals of the socialist city implied a trans­ formation of the existing urban landscape towards the envisioned ideal. The de­ struction of World War II provided an opportunity to construct a socialist utopia. The post-war reconstruction of Minsk in modern-day Belarus and Magdeburg in modern-day Germany can be considered exemplary for the construction of socialist cities. Minsk was reconstructed as an industrial city with a central axis and a central square for political manifestations, celebrations and representation of the state (Smirnova 2016, 92–94). During this rebuilding, the Jesuit church and DOI: 10.4324/9781003265818-28

One Ideology, Two Visions 269 cathedral of the Holy Virgin was integrated in a new development: its towers were dismantled, its façade merged with new buildings and the former religious building was given a new purpose as a sports facility (Jarmusik 2006, 292). The Dominican church of Saint Thomas Aquinas was first adapted, its domes were removed and was ultimately demolished in 1950 to make place for the central square honouring Stalin. Ecclesiastical buildings were converted for new purposes, their appearance mutilated and were even demolished. Reconstructing Minsk as a socialist city decreased the presence of religious buildings in the urban landscape. The re-construction of Magdeburg in the GDR was similar: A new centre was developed in the core of the historic city. For the construction of the central square, two ecclesiastical buildings were destroyed, of which the Church of Saints Ulrich and Levin was the most significant (Van der Meulen 2020a, 167). Rebuilding the northern part of the historic centre included the demolition of its two most important churches, those of Saint Catherine’s and Saint James’, both of mediaeval origin (Krenzke 2000, 49–90). Saint Catherine’s in Broad Street, the historic main street, was razed in 1964 and replaced by the modernist House of the Teacher (Van der Meulen 2020a, 167) (Figure 22.1). The reconstruction of Minsk was considered a socialist achievement of post-war Soviet rebuilding and Minsk was represented abroad as a model city, e.g. in the booklet presented at the Soviet pavilion during the World Exhibition of Brussels in 1958.4 Post-war rebuilding in the socialist state is a redesign of the city centre re­ flecting state ideology. Religious buildings that had been dominant in the urban landscape for centuries were pushed away from their prominent place in the city to its edges. Socialist reconstruction was a secularisation of the existing urban space.

East Berlin: Capital of the German Democratic Republic East Berlin, the Soviet occupied sector of Berlin including Berlin Mitte, formally became the capital of the German Democratic Republic, a newly established socialist state, in 1949.5 Rebuilding the war damaged city was a necessity. This reconstruction constituted the shaping of a new city as a stage for representing the new state (Flierl 1998, 121–171; Van der Meulen 2020a, 167). The transformation of Berlin Mitte into the capital of the GDR found its theoretical foundation in The Sixteen Principles for Urban Development adopted by the GDR on 27 June 1950 ( Bolz 1951, 32–52; Van der Meulen 2020a, 161): 1. The city as a form of settlement did not arise by chance. The city is the richest economic and cultural form of community settlement, proven by centuries of experience. The city is in its structural and architectural design an expression of the political life and the national consciousness of the people. […] 6. The centre forms the veritable core of the city. The centre of the city is the political centre for its population. In the city centre are the most important political, administrative and cultural sites. On the squares in the city centre one might find political demonstrations, marches and popular celebrations held on festival days. The centre of the city shall be composed of the most important and monumental buildings, dominating the architectural composition of the city plan and determining the architectural silhouette of the city. […]

270 Marcus van der Meulen

Figure 22.1 The House of the Teacher on Breiter Weg in Magdeburg. Photo by the author.

9. The visage of the city-that is, its individual artistic form-shall be defined by squares, main streets, and prominent buildings in the centre of the city (in those largest cities containing skyscrapers). Squares and plazas shall serve as the structural basis for the planning of the city and for its overall architectural composition. (Die 16 Grundsätze…1951) The day after these principles for urban development were adopted, work on the reconstruction of the city centre began with the demolition of the City Palace. Existing dominant buildings that were not suitable for the anticipated appearance of the GDR were razed. This was part of the reconstruction of the socialist capital, with squares and main streets for celebrations and parades, as a showcase for the German Democratic Republic. A new design was superimposed on the existing fabric of the city. The new, prominent buildings of the socialist city represented the new society and political order (Flierl 1998, 121–171; Ricci 2004, 18–24). These were related to the common man, and ideally this common man is a non-religious man.

One Ideology, Two Visions 271 In the city centre of East Berlin, over a dozen churches were demolished. Including, in 1963, the Bethlehem church, built in 1735 to serve the congregation of Bohemian migrants, the Garrison church of 1720, demolished in 1962, and the Luisenstadt church of 1751 in 1964. Simultaneously in West Berlin, damaged churches were not only renovated, but over 60 new churches were constructed. As well, the Kaiser-WilhelmGedächtnis church redesigned by Egon Eiermann became a symbol for the city (Bernau and Voigt 2014, 52–56). A comparison of these two different approaches in West and East Berlin towards religious buildings illustrates the secularisation of the eastern sector where the dominant towers of Saint George’s Church adjacent to Alexanderplatz and that of Saint Peter’s Church in Spittelmarkt square were pulled down. In 1953, during the inauguration of Stalinstadt, today part of Eisenhüttenstadt, the First Secretary of the Socialist Unionist Party6 Walter Ulbricht declared: “Yes, we will have towers. For example a tower for the townhall and a tower for the house of culture. Other towers are not needed in the socialist city”7 (Figure 22.2).

Figure 22.2 The Bethlehem Church in Berlin-Mitte in 1910. Photo by Königlich Preußische Messbildanstalt. Public Domain.

272 Marcus van der Meulen The built environment was purified of its religious buildings as an intentional transformation of the historic centre. As symbols of the historic city were demolished, a new city emerged with new buildings such as the TV tower (1965–1969) and the Palace of the Republic (1973–1976), representing socialist society. In the vicinity of this new central area, the modest Saint Mary’s church is dwarfed by the enormous TV tower, an advocate for progress. Other historic churches near the Marx Engels Forum such as the Nikolai church and the Kloster Church were left in ruins. Reconstruction for reuse as a museum of the Nikolai Church only began in 1980 and Kloster Church is still in ruins (Goebel 2003, 297–303). Demolition of sacred architecture such as church towers was one way of shaping the socialist capital, others were intentional preservation in a ruined state and obstruction from view. Examples of both can be found in the vicinity of the Palace of the Republic. The demolished City Palace was replaced by this new palace of the people reflecting political life, as well as a vast, central square for public manifestations (Ricci 2014, 25–70). On the other side of this new square, however, opposite the Palace of the Republic, was Schinkel’s red brick Friedrichswerdersche Kirche, a neglected church no longer used for worship. Restored and reused as a museum gallery, the church only reopened its doors in 1987.8 A tall new building was placed in front of the church, obstructing it from view from the people’s palace. This is an example of how religious heritage was erased from sight, if not from memory. In the appearance of the new centre of socialist Berlin, this church was intentionally obstructed. Next to the Palace of the Republic was the Lutheran Berlin Cathedral. This building is symbolic for not only the dom­ inance of the Protestant faith in this part of Germany, but was also intended as a Lutheran counterpart of Saint Peter’s in Rome (Stolpe 2001, 211–219). The en­ ormous building was ruined during the war and remained visibly damaged as an object symbolic of the ruinous state of the Ancient Order. Gradual restoration of this building only began in 1975, after the demolition of the Memorial church (Stolpe 2001, 211–219). In the original plans for the redesign of the city by Herman Henselmann, state architect of the GDR, the TV tower is positioned in the location of the city palace and the Berlin Cathedral is erased entirely (Van der Meulen 2020a, 169).9 Ruined religious buildings in the urban space such as the Nikolai Church, the Friedrichswerdersche Church and the Berlin Cathedral can be considered trophies juxtaposed with structures representing the new socialist society. The transformation of East Berlin into the capital of the GDR constitutes the formation of a new image. As formulated in The Sixteen Principles, and again ex­ pressed in the Tower Speech, the urban design of the city in this socialist state meant the shaping of a built environment representing the new society and political order. Decreasing the presence of sacred architecture in the architectural landscape of the city included the removal of historic churches from the architectural composition by demolition or by blocking them from sight. In the new composition of the city, the church could only remain as a relic of the past, a ruin symbolic of the collapse of the Ancient Order. A new socialist identity was constructed.

Warsaw: Reconstructing the Polish Capital The rebuilding of the Polish capital followed its intentional demolition during Nazi occupation.10 Like the German Democratic Republic, the Polish People’s Republic was a newly created state, a socialist state of which Warsaw was the official capital

One Ideology, Two Visions 273 from its establishment in 1947. Before its total annihilation by the German occupier, plans to transform Warsaw from the capital of Poland to a German provincial town had been adopted (Dziewulski and Jankowski 1957, 212). The so-called Pabst Plan, which spoke of the dismantling of the Polish city and building of the German city, had already been presented in 1939 (Gutschow and Klain 1994, 28–40).11 The war did not develop as anticipated and in 1944 total destruction was now intended as the annihilation of the Polish capital rather than a stage in the transformation into a German provincial town. The Archcathedral of Saint John was bombed in August 1944 and what had remained was detonated a few months later (Van der Meulen 2020b, 107). The list of religious buildings that were annihilated is disturbing. Approximately, 90% of all historical monuments were destroyed (Ciborowski 1969, 142). The state of this heavily damaged city would have given planners an opportunity to develop a new capital according to socialist ideology. As previously mentioned, the transformative reconstruction of historic places into socialist utopias included erasing sacred architecture from urban space or mutilation and occasional preservation of ruined churches as trophies. The reconstruction of historic Warsaw, however, can be compared to that of Ypres, the mediaeval city in Flanders annihilated during World War I, which represented the rebuilding of a nation.12 UNESCO says of the reconstructed Warsaw on its website: The city was rebuilt as a symbol of elective authority and tolerance, where the first democratic European constitution, the Constitution of 3 May 1791, was adopted. The reconstruction included the holistic recreation of the urban plan, together with the Old Town Market, townhouses, the circuit of the city walls, the Royal Castle, and important religious buildings.13 These important religious buildings are the Archcathedral, the churches and mon­ asteries. However, churches were rebuilt not only in the historic centre. The establishment of two offices for rebuilding was noteworthy. The Office for the Reconstruction of the Capital was founded in 1945 (Ciborowski 1969, 66; Majewski and Markiewicz 2012, 32–45).14 A masterplan for the rebuilding of historic Warsaw was presented in 1949 (Majewski and Markiewicz 2012, 66–97), which included the rebuilding of Stare Miasto, Nowe Miasto and parts of the Royal Route. For the socialist regime in Poland, however, the reconstruction of ecclesiastical buildings remained problematic in the broader plan of rebuilding the Polish capital. This at­ titude of distrust is seen in the adapted reconstruction of profane buildings. Religious symbols were not reproduced (Majewski and Markiewicz 1998, 135–137; Van der Meulen 2020b, 105). The reconstruction of churches was not without complications, with discussions ranging from what purpose these buildings would have to the reerecting of crosses. In July 1947, the Primate Office for the Rebuilding of Churches was founded (Górski 1977, 411).15 This office aided the financing and coordinating of the reconstruction of the ecclesiastical buildings. The archiepiscopal cathedral was rebuilt between 1948 and 1956 (Walczak 2015, 170–176). Old photos show the neogothic exterior of the cathedral prior its destruction; however, architect Jan Zachwatowicz built an idealized new façade inspired by the Mazovian gothic style of the region. In 1957, the Jesuit church was rebuilt in a simplified version and the completion of St Martin’s church followed in 1958. St Casimir’s by Tylman van

274 Marcus van der Meulen Gameren (Tylman Gamerski) is a historic church in New Town Market square which was reconstructed, with a reduced interior, between 1947 and 1953 (Van der Meulen 2020b, 104–105). Exteriors of churches were typically scientific accurate evocations of the original with the cathedral as a significant exception, while interiors were re­ currently simplified versions of the predecessor (Van der Meulen 2018, 23). These aforementioned ecclesiastical buildings are part of the reconstruction of the historic centre. Saint Florian’s Cathedral is located in Praga, a district on the right bank of the river Vistula. This neogothic church, designed by Józef Dziekoński and associated with the Polish struggle against Russian rule, was dynamited in 1944 as an act of identity erasure. The church was rebuilt from the 1950s onwards and com­ pleted in 1972 (Rottermund 2000, 281). Its two spires dominate the area and can be seen from Castle Square. These ecclesiastical towers defy the tower doctrine postu­ lated by Walter Ulbricht. The most interesting of all reconstructions of religious buildings in Warsaw is that of Saint Alexander’s (Figure 22.3). This pantheon-inspired building clearly illustrates the value of a church as a symbol, a meaning exceeding that of the church as a place of worship (Van der Meulen 2020b, 108–110). Architect Jan Zachwatowicz pressed for the reconstruc­ tion of the church according to the original neoclassical design by Christian Piotr Aigner and not to its pre-war incarnation, a neo-renaissance edifice. For Warsaw, the

Figure 22.3 The Church of Saint Alexander in Three Crosses Square in Warsaw in 2021. Photo by the author.

One Ideology, Two Visions 275 neoclassical architecture once promoted by King Stanislas Poniatowski became an architectural style for national identity (Lorentz and Rottermund 1986, 42–49). The church of Alexander is associated with the Constitution of Third of May 1791, the first democratic constitution in Europe. To commemorate the adoption of this con­ stitution, Poniatowski planned the construction of a memorial, the Temple of Divine Providence, designed by Jakub Kubicki (Crowley 2003, 89; Van der Meulen 2020b, 100). Saint Alexander’s Church is regarded as the replacement for this never-executed temple project. The rebuilding of Warsaw by the socialist regime is an attempt to claim the role of hero, as Nicholas Bethell claimed (Crowley 2003, 31), as an act of patriotism (Van der Meulen 2020b, 110). Buildings such as the Church of Saint Alexander, in its neoclassical appearance, were fitting of what can be regarded as the desired image of the state capital. They represented the socialist regime as successor of the sovereign Polish state that had adopted the Third of May 1791 Constitution.

Conclusion After World War II, East Berlin and Warsaw were redesigned as capitals of newly established socialist states. A capital is a stage for state ideology, its architectural appearance a platform for manifestations and celebrations and its urban landscape a setting for social and political life. Both cities were severely damaged during the war and were reconstructed during the post-war decades. The official state ideology of the Polish People’s Republic and the German Democratic was similar and di­ rected from the Soviet Union; however, the approach towards ecclesiastical archi­ tecture in shaping the new capital was very different. In shaping the capital of the German Democratic Republic, church towers were pulled down and ecclesiastical buildings demolished or blocked from view. Creating a new, socialist identity for the new state capital, ecclesiastical buildings in East Berlin were erased from the urban landscape, disconnecting a nation from its heritage, or preserving them, preferably as ruins. In Warsaw, religious buildings were reconstructed as part of the shaping of state identity, while the spirit as capital city of an independent Polish nation was reconstructed. Saint Alexander’s Church is a perfect example. The re­ construction of this building to its state prior to its remodelling during the later 19th century must be understood as a premeditated act. The reconstruction of churches became an act of legitimizing the Polish People’s Republic as a the lawful successor of an independent Poland and an heir of the state that adopted the Third of May 1791 constitution.

Notes 1 An initiative of the Council of Europe, resulting in the European Charter of the Architectural Heritage encouraging the protection of architectural heritage. See https:// www.icomos.org/en/charters-and-texts/179-articles-en-francais/ressources/charters-andstandards/170-european-charter-of-the-architectural-heritage. 2 Denkmalpflegegesetz adopted on 19 June 1975. 3 Contraction of the Russian words socialisticeskij and gorod. 4 Construction in the USSR. USSR Section: Brussels Universal and International Exhibition 1958. 5 Die Verfassung der Deutschen Demokratischen Republik [vom 7. Oktober 1949] Artikel 2, (2) www.documentarchiv.de/ddr/verfddr1919.html.

276 Marcus van der Meulen 6 Sozialistische Einheitspartei Deutschlands. 7 ”Ja! Wir werden Türme haben, zum Beispiel einen Turm fürs Rathaus, einen Turm fürs Kulturhaus. Andere Türme können wir in der sozialistischen Stadt nicht gebrauchen.” An audio recording of the speech can be found in the RBB archive (D026648). 8 Die Wiederöffnung und erstmalige Nutzung durch die Staatlichen Museen zu Berlin erfolgte schließlich anlässlich der 750-Jahr-Feier Berlins im Jahr 1987. https://www.smb. museum/nachrichten/detail/wiedereroeffnung-der-friedrichswerderschen-kirche-am-27oktober-2020/. 9 Model by Henselmann “Zentrum der Hauptstadt Berlin” of 1959. 10 The razing of Warsaw was an act of anger following the failed Warsaw Uprising of 1944. 11 The plan “Die neue Deutsche Stadt” (The new German town) was presented on 6 January 1940. 12 Lecture called “One Ideology, Two Visions. Churches in the socialist city” by Marcus van der Meulen held in April 2019 at the Leibniz Institut für Geschichte und Kultur des östlichen Europa, Leipzig. 13 Historic Centre of Warsaw, inscribed in 1980. https://whc.unesco.org/en/list/30. (For copyrights, see https://whc.unesco.org/en/licenses/6.) 14 Biuro Odbudowy Stolicy. 15 Rada Prymasowska Odbudowy Kościołów.

References Bernau, Nikolaus, and Patrick Voigt. 2014. Beton und Glaube. Kirchen der Nachkriegsmoderne in Berlin. Berlin: Archimappublishers. New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston. Bolz, Lothar (1951). Von deutschem Bauen. Reden und Aufsätze. Berlin (Ost): Verlag der Nation. Ciborowski, Adolf. 1969. Warsaw A City Destroyed and Rebuilt. Warsaw: Interpress. Crowley, David. 2003. Warsaw. London: Reaktion Books. Dziewulski, Stanislaw and Stanislaw Jankowski. 1957. “The Reconstruction of Warsaw.” The Town Planning Review 28, no. 3: 209–221. Flierl, Bruno. 1998. Gebaute DDR – Über Stadtplaner, Architekten und die Macht. Berlin: Verlag für Bauwesen Berlin. Goebel, Benedikt. 2003. Der Umbau Alt-Berlins zum modernen Stadtzentrum. Planungs-, Bauund Besitzgeschichte des historischen Berliner Stadtkerns im 19. und 20. Jahrhundert. Berlin: Verlagshaus Braun. Górski, Jan. 1977. Odbudowa Warszawy w latach 1944-1949: wybó r dokumentó w i materiałó w, vol. 4. Warszawa: Pań stwowe Wydawnictwo Naukowe. Gutschow, Niels, and Barbara Klain. 1994. Vernichtung und Utopie. Stadtplanung Warschau 1939–1945. Hamburg: Junius. Jankowska, Marta. 1991. Świątynia Opatrzności ku czci Konstytucji 3 Maja. Warszawa: Wydawnictwo Sejmowe. Jankowski, Stanislaw. 1990. Warsaw: Destruction, Secret Town Planning, 1939–44, and Postwar Reconstruction in Rebuilding Europe’s Bombed cities. London: Palgrave Macmillan. 10.1007/978-1-349-10458-1_6 Jarmusik, Jedmund Stanislavovich. 2006. Katolicheskij Kostel v Belarusi v 1945–1990 godah. Grodno: GrGU. Majewski, Jerzy S., and Tomasz Markiewicz. 1998. Warszawa nie odbudowana. Warszawa: Wydawnictwo DiG. Majewski, Jerzy S., and Tomasz Markiewicz. 2012. Budujemy nowy dom: odbudowa Warszawy w latach 1945–1952. Warszawa: Dom Spotkań z Historią . Krenzke, Hans-Joachim. 2000. Kirchen und Klöster zu Magdeburg. Magdeburg: Büro für Öffentlichkeitsarbeit und Protokoll.

One Ideology, Two Visions 277 Lorentz, Stanislaw, and Andrzej Rottermund. 1986. Neoclassicism in Poland. Warsaw: Arkady. 10.11588/artdok.00005635 Ricci, Marianne. 2014. Funktion und Gestaltung von Plätzen in Ost-Berlin: Am Beispiel des Marx-Engels-Platzes und des Alexanderplatzes (1950–1970). München: Akademische Verlagsgemeinschaft. Rosenau, Helen. 2006. The Ideal City: Its Architectural Evolution in Europe. London: Routledge. 10.4324/9780203716656 Rottermund, Andrzej. 2000. Warsaw. Warsaw: Arkady. Smirnova, Aliaksandra. 2016. “The City as a Witness of Social and Political Changes. Analysis of Post-war Reconstruction of Minsk as a Soviet Urban Model.” plaNext-Next Generation Planning, Questioning Planning, Connecting Places and Times 3(December): 82–100. 10.24306/plnxt.2016.03.006 Stolpe, Manfred. 2001. “Die Evangelischen Kirchen in der DDR und der Wiederaufbau des Doms.ˮ In Der Berliner Dom. Zur Geschichte und Gegenwart der Oberpfarr- und Domkirche zu Berlin, edited by Helmut Engel and Wilhelm Hüffmeister, 210–219. Berlin: Jovis Verlag GmbH. Van der Meulen, Marcus. 2018. “Continuity in Purpose: Warsaw after World War II.” Sacred Architecture Journal 34(Fall): 21–24. Van der Meulen, Marcus. 2020. “Religious Buildings and the Post-war Construction of a Socialist Utopia in the German Democratic Republic.” In Mapping the Spaces of Modernist Cities within the Context of CIAM’s Athens Charter, edited by Katarina Mohar and Barbara Vodopivec, 158–172. Ljubljana: Založba ZRC. 10.3986/9789610504344 Van der Meulen, Marcus. 2020. “Rebuilding Religious Buildings in Warsaw. Building a Sense of Belonging and Identity.” In Denkmal-Heimat-Identität. Denkmalpflege und Gesellschaft, edited by Landeshauptstadt Dresden, Amt für Kultur and Denkmalschutz, 103–110. Dresden: Thelem Universitätsverlag und Buchhandel. Walczak, Marek. 2015. Kościoły gotyckie w Polsce, Kraków: Wydawnictwo M. Zachwatowicz, Jan. 1965. La protection des monuments historique en Pologne, Varsovie: Editions Polonia.

23 Monument Preservation during Socialism: Restorations and Reconstructions of Hungarian Roman Catholic Churches in the 1960–70s Erzsébet Urbán 1 Historic Survey after World War II After World War II a new social order emerged with the communist takeover in Hungary (Szabó 2003). Churches of the Eastern Bloc fought for relevance because of the surrounding strong political pressure (Pollack 2003). Their public and educa­ tional activities were quickly suppressed, and the new atheist state power hamstrung the social role of the Churches by fire and sword. The collectivization of property in 1945 fundamentally disabled the economic and financial background of the Church. As well, the ecclesiastical schools were nationalized in 1948, and the operation of the monastic orders was forbidden in 1950. The State Office for Church Affairs (Állami Egyházügyi Hivatal = ÁEH) was established in 1951, which inspected and controlled ecclesiastical activity and relations (Köpeczi Bócz 2004). Since that time, all national and international actions of the Churches had to be endorsed by this institution, “[…] each and every ecclesiastical-religious activity which aimed at preserving values and a way of life different from the logic of the system was seen as a sign of resistance. Therefore, the concept of religious resistance is an idea made up by the regime” (Fejérdy et al. 2018, 445).1

2 Changing Circumstances around the 1960s Cooperative Negotiations between the State and the Roman Catholic Church The Hungarian State sought the total oppression of the Churches in the 1950s, until federal cooperative negotiation started between the parties from the mid-1960s. The Catholic Committee of the Hungarian National Peace Council (Országos Béketanács Katolikus Békebizottsága = OBKB) was established in 1958, which tried to facilitate collaboration of the Catholic church leaders with the state power. The impulsive church leaders’ hands were tied and they were forced to take note that they could only reach their aims with small steps.2 However, cruel arrests against the clericals reoccurred, and cooperation with the Peace Council strongly divided the clerical order (Köbel 2005). The Second Vatican Council (11th October 1962 – 8th December 1965) fore­ shadowed the opportunity of a resumption of international communication for Hungarian Catholic church leaders, who could take part in later sessions with DOI: 10.4324/9781003265818-29

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the approval of the State. This event was the first chance for contact with foreign clerks in holy orders since the Soviet takeover in 1945 (Fejérdy 2016). By this time, the Holy See also saw that continuous communication with Soviet Bloc countries was required for the sake of the survival of the church in this region (Fejérdy 2015). Another big turning point was the announcement of János Kádár, the first se­ cretary of the Hungarian Socialist Workers’ Party, at the statutory meeting of the Parliament on 21st March 1963. According to the announcement, the defendants, who were accused of anti-state criminal acts during 1957–1963, received general amnesty. This remission process led to an official partial agreement between the Holy See and the Hungarian State confirming mutual cooperation (15th September 1964). The Soviet state power partly changed its church politics and tried to show compromised efforts: political steps were more predictable from the mid-1960s in both religious questions and questions of church architecture. In addition, an important event of the sustentation was Janos Kadar’s private audience with Pope Paul VI in 1977. Institutional Reorganization of the National Monument Preservation Authorities Not only were Church and State relations changed, but the national monument preservation system was also transformed. The Law-Decree No. 13 of 1949, which collectively regulated historical monuments and museums, placed a huge burden on churches because it entailed the preservation and comprehensive maintenance of the listed buildings by their owners. Simultaneously, state financial and institutional support was seriously reduced for non-listed ecclesiastical buildings, and the denominations were forced to furnish the money for the con­ struction works until the monument churches received subsidies. The State wanted total control over the operation of the Churches, so the permission of the ÁEH was necessary not only for professional but also budgeting purposes when it came to restoring works. 1957 was a turning point in monuments maintenance: by this time, the national monument protection was entirely reorganized. The new institution, the National Monument Protection Agency (Országos Műemléki Felügyelőség = OMF) ensured an academically rigorous and current approach to monument preservation. The requirement for an independent designer and construction department for the institution was born within a short time (Figure 23.1). From 1959, the ÁEH and the OMF worked together and collectively the cases. The Law-Decree No. 3 of 1964 concerned the construction act, and its third chapter directly regulated questions of monument preservation.3 Roman Catholic sacral heritage received considerable attention thanks to the Sacrosanctum Concilium (= SC), the Constitution on the Sacred Liturgy (4th December, 1963). The implementation of the reform was started within a few years, and it brought completely new challenges for professionals and made a significant effect on every single church (J. Schloeder 1998). As most of Hungarian historic churches are under monument protection, the OMF was highly desirous of overseeing renewal projects, so the most important interior transformations were made by the designers of the OMF. The Catholic Bench of Bishops established the Council

280 Erzsébet Urbán

Figure 23.1 Planning office of the National Monument Protection Agency (OMF), architect Ferenc Erdei and landscape designer Károly Örsi, 1970. Photo by Fortepan, Lóránt Szabó; image ID: 53034.

of National Church Art and Monuments (Országos Egyházművészeti és Műemléki Tanács = OEMT) in 1967 to help the professional implementation of the reform.4 From this time, well-structured working plans were made by laical and clerical experts, which also defined the accurate programmes of the church art and monumental con­ ferences. They organized study tours for the sake of effective building rehabilitations and ensured meeting opportunities for the community of designers and artists with the chiefs of the OEMT. The organizational activity of the OMF developed in the 1970s and cooperation with the Churches became more fluent. The advancement of the communication between the national monument protection system and the Churches brought a more coherent and logical enforcement for the professional-political aspects by the 1980s, and it resulted in better problem solving by the sacral buildings. New Recommendations and Principles Social changes around the world required the modernization of theology and practice of religion, and it was essential to translate these results to the daily routine and, finally, to the built environment. Chapter VII. Art. 122–130 of the SC addressed sacred art and sacred furnishings.5 In most cases, new liturgy necessi­ tates alterations in the interiors, and their implementation constituted a blow to

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sacral heritage. Architectural interventions were performed in significant number before the OEMT would be established, and thoughtless conversions led to the ill-advised removal of communion rails, altars and other valuable works of church art. After the Charter of Athens (1933), the charter that most determined the di­ rection of international heritage protection, the International Charter for the Conservation and Restoration of Monuments and Sites (the Venice Charter), was drawn up in 1964. Reconstruction projects reflecting the spirit of the Venice Charter can be found in Hungary from the end of the 19th century, thus the new direction of the document did not constitute a major turning point in Hungarian practice.6 From the standpoint of practical difficulties, there were technically detailed char­ acteristics, which require particular professional knowledge. The increased comfort requirements of the faithful also brought a new kind of hardship, such as the installation of new heating, lighting or public-address systems e.g. The abovementioned reasons meant that architects were busier with historic churches from the mid-1960s than they had been in former decades.7 Conventional church restorations were poorly paid projects – where the Church employed the architects – but the more complex reconstruction tasks were prestigious jobs for restorers and architects (Sedlmayr 1983, 128). These buildings were usually listed monuments, thus the planning and reconstruction tasks belonged directly to the OMF. The OMF and the Church paid greater attention to these urgent problems only from the late-1960s, and Hungarian interpretations of the liturgical reform happened very slowly (Urbán 2019b, 132–135), so the rushed interventions were acute problems. We can find several articles about these questions in the profes­ sional journals of the period intended to help avoid careless damages, but Ödön Dümmerling (architect-researcher and inspector general of the OMF) wrote the first meaningful Hungarian referential manual guide about liturgical space ar­ rangement in 1966 (Dümmerling 1966). The most important comprehensive handbook addressing the situation was published only in 1971. The book, Preservation of Ecclesiastical Buildings and Works of Art, was the successful result of the cooperation of the Hungarian Churches (essentially the OEMT) and the OMF (Cserháti and Esze 1971). Both clergy and monument preservation specialists (art historians and architects) can be found among its authors – the editors in chief were prominent ecclesiastic personalities (all of the Hungarian Christian de­ nominations participated in the entire editorial work), but a well-known national publisher produced it. The main goal of this manual was that it become accessible to both priests (as maintainers) and the professionals (the restorers), and it became a widely spread reference throughout the country.8

3 Value-Centred Preservation Planning Methodology – Case Studies The immovable estate of the Church became its tithe after the nationalizations, but the church buildings staved off secularization thanks to their fixed-plan system and space structure (Turányi 1988). Intensive and qualitative church construction dras­ tically fell during the communist era, thus the architectural activity of the Church was limited to the restoration of existing sacral buildings. Maintenance work occurred mainly immediately after World War II, later, partly thanks to the slowly change of

282 Erzsébet Urbán the political circumstances and the institutional reorganizations, comprehensive regional historic research programmes started.9 These investigations led to important new scientific achievements, numerous small parish churches were renewed within a short time, and a few complete reconstructions of some significant buildings occurred. The raison d’être for the reconstructions is a strongly contested question, and the differing priorities of the clericals and the professionals arises from their background. The following cases are based on extensive scientific research and archaeological excavations, and now all of them can be considered original, contemporary architectural artworks. A difficult theoretical problem is the simultaneous presentation of different periods. Definite differentiation of the surfaces and structures often caused material conflict, which can be observed at the Virgin Mary conceived without sin Roman Catholic church in Meszlen. The oldest part of the church was constructed during the 13th century, and later, it was extended in baroque style in the 18th century. Over the centuries, its vaulting had collapsed, but it was well documented in the historic records, so the schema of the destroyed vaults could be reconstructed, and a lightweight construction style was created for its initiation. This approach followed the recommendations of the Venice Charter,10 but the alteration created only a temporary appearance, so the faithful could not became fond of it. Liturgical reform supported the use of high-quality contemporary church arts and liturgical objects (OEMT 1968).11 Some of the most artistic new liturgical furnishings of the period can be found in the Saint Andrew Roman Catholic church in Hidegség (Figure 23.2). The church consists of two parts, and the older one, the rotunda, dates back to the late 12th century. Not only objective aspects play a part in modelling the building and its furnishings, but the religious feeling and experience of the individual are also considered. It is at this point that different experts had to start a dialogue with each other: beside the artistic point of view, theological opinion was also taken into consideration. Thus, the effects of archaeology and later reconstructive effects on the building usage informed important methodological decisions. The complete rebuilding of historic buildings was quite rare in Hungary, but a considerable reconstruction happened at the Saint Peter and Paul Roman Catholic church in Váraszó. The church became disused in 1912, then the roof structure burned down in 1948. Architect Ferenc Erdei had the baroque extensions pulled down, then the mediaeval form of the ruined building was reconstructed using an analogous method involving carved stone fragments. The existing original parts were installed in their assumed original locations and new elements were created from a different material than the historic parts. The result is a compact form with Gothic characteristics (in its general image), but upon closer inspection of the details, it is a unique architectural work. There is no regular mass in the church; it is mainly dor­ mant during the year. The researchers and designers were employed by the OMF in each case, and this national institution was responsible for the high-standard constructions, in addi­ tion, the OMF provided a significant part of the financial expenses. The final de­ cision maker in regard to clerical requirements was always the national monument inspectorate.12

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Figure 23.2 Saint Andrew Roman Catholic church, Hidegség, Hungary. Archaeologists: Sándor Tóth, Imre Bodor; architects: Ilona Schönerné Pusztai, János Sedlmayr. Reconstruction: 1971–1972. Photo by Erzsébet Urbán, 2017.

4 Summary It is instructive to examine the maintenance of church monuments in a period overloaded with communist-socialist ideology in an era when the original sym­ bolism of sacral buildings was absolutely in contradiction with the ideology of political power. After World War II and before Regime Change in Hungary (1989), the 1960–70s were the most meaningful internationally recognized years for national monument preservation (Urbán 2019a): the OMF worked spectacu­ larly efficiently in these decades, and statistically most of the recognized projects fell within this period, “The research-design-implementation process was devel­ oped and realized in practice as well, which incorporated the activities of the agency, and all of this together represented an interdisciplinary accomplishment” (Sedlmayr and Deák 2004, 146) (Figure 23.3). The implication of the liturgical and theological reform in historic churches was undoubtedly a significant challenge: the Church and the priests were quick to act, but the architects and the monument preservation specialist were not well enough prepared for the new requirements. Despite fundamental ideological contradiction, the collaboration of the Communist state and the Catholic Church seems ex­ emplary at first glance, but if we analyse the cases in detail, general theological mistakes can often be identified by the transformed interiors. Active State-Church

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Figure 23.3 Restoration of sacral buildings 1945–1989 according to the professional and church journals of the period. Data marking and diagram by Erzsébet Urbán, 2018.

interaction evolved relatively later and, moreover, value-centred preservation planning methodology often neglected adequate liturgical aspects. Spectacular restoration of church heritage implied increased or even independent operation of the Church. Although the state authorities created better conditions for the development of the Hungarian sacral monument preservation, the stakeholders had far from equal decision-making and the expectations of cultural heritage protection often overrode liturgical needs. A parish priest comment in one of the church journals sensibly sums up the real relation between the interested parties:

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“Thanks to God, our church is not a monument; we can make the paintwork and renovation without obstacles” (Márkus 1963, 6). The OMF concentrated less on the scientific researches of the sacral heritage in the last decades of the century, and it mostly organized only small-scale main­ tenance repairs. Finally, parallel with the disintegration of the national monument preservation authorities, the matter of historic sacral buildings has become overshadowed.

Acknowledgement The presentation of the research has been supported by the National Cultural Fund of Hungary (NKA).

Notes 1 This publication is a part of the three-year (2016–2019) international COURAGE project (“Cultural Opposition – Understanding the CultuRal HeritAGE of Dissent in the Former Socialist Countries”). “Project,” COURAGE, accessed December 12, 2021, http://culturalopposition.eu/ 2 “Arbor succisa virescit. / The disbranched tree will grow green again.” Famous phrase of László Lékai, the Hungarian Cardinal (24th May 1976–30th June 1986) and Archbishop of Esztergom (12th February 1976–30th June 1986). 3 It was unabrogated until January 1, 1998. 4 Besides the Roman Catholic Church, the other denominations also rearranged their church art organizations in order to engage in closer collaborations with the OMF. 5 Art. 128 refers to the “construction of sacred buildings, the shape and construction of altars, the nobility, placing, and safety of the eucharistic tabernacle, the dignity and suitability of the baptistery, the proper ordering of sacred images, embellishments, and vestments” (Paul VI 1963). 6 “[…] it may be stated that already in the 1950s our experts professed the same principles that the Venice Charter established in 1964 […] The practical realization of the principles had already been analyzed well by our 1959 exhibition in the National Salon […]” (Sedlmayr and Deák 2004, 145). 7 The Hungarian circumstances were similar to those in Croatia and other neighbouring countries: “In the 1960s, the social-political situation improved and so did the interven­ tions in sacred architecture. But the fear and the lack of cooperation between the architects and theologians often resulted in bad interventions or temporary solutions left as a task for the future” (Sokol-Gojnik et al. 2019, 127). 8 According to the English summary of the book: “In its introduction the book present the definition of historic monuments, works of art, as well as a description of the task to preserve them and manifold aspects of this task. The second chapter deals in general with organizing repairs and reconstruction and their preliminary works […] The third chapter specifies all tasks of building reconstruction […] In the second part of the book eccle­ siastical experts, theologians start speaking. Their approach of the problems is basically the same: churches and every object in churches have to go on serving ecclesiastical purposes and this is a rule so that repairs and reconstructions have to be carried out according to this main principle. Manifestations of Hungarian experts of Christian denominations may be extremely instructive for members of the Inspectorate of Historic Monuments in Hungary because they clearly explain the notion of church according to the content of their own religion and the functional role of churches in conformity with modern age requirements. Exactly here lies the point where the need for searching collaboration arose” (Cserháti and Esze 1971, 170). 9 From, 1959, the National Planning Commission provided financial backing from its annual budget for the thematic restoration of a region, a historic village, and a city.

286 Erzsébet Urbán The first regional project involved research on and reconstruction of the small mediaeval churches around Lake Balaton. 10 “Beyond the desire to protect existing historical values, there is a fundamental parallel between the need for modernity readable in the Venice Charter and the reform efforts aiming to be adequate for the age of the Vatican II. In both documents, we can talk about theoretical pursuits, and there is no mention of realization in practice or feasibility” (Urbán 2019b, 142). 11 “Remember that you are the guardians of beauty in the world. May that suffice to free you from tastes which are passing and have no genuine value, to free you from the search after strange or unbecoming expressions. Be always and everywhere worthy of your ideals and you will be worthy of the Church which, by our voice, addresses to you today her message of friendship, salvation, grace and benediction” (Paul VI 1965). 12 In some other cases, the rearrangement of the pews became necessary for the sake of the protection of the newly discovered and restored wall paintings. After all, the new arrangement was a disadvantage for the liturgy: thanks to it, the wall paintings became visible, but day-today liturgical usage suffered.

References Cserháti, József and Tamás Esze eds. 1971. Egyházi épületek és műtárgyak gondozása. Budapest: Képzőművészeti Alap Kiadó Vállalata. Dümmerling, Ödön. 1966. A Katolikus Egyház liturgikus reformjainak műszaki vonatkozású problémái. Budapest: Hittudományi Akadémia. Fejérdy, András ed. 2015. The Vatican ‘Ostpolitik’ 1958–1978: Responsibility and Witness during John XXIII and Paul VI. Rome: Viella. Fejérdy, András, ed. 2016. Pressed by a double loyalty. Hungarian attendance at the Second Vatican Council, 1959–1965. Budapest – New York: Central European University Press. Fejérdy, András et al. 2018. “Religious Resistance: Forms, Sources and Collections.” In The Handbook of COURAGE: Cultural Opposition and Its Heritage in Eastern Europe, edited by Balázs Apor, Péter Apor and Sándor Horváth, 445–471. Budapest: Institute of History, Research Centre for the Humanities, Hungarian Academy of Sciences. Köbel, Szilvia. 2005. “Oszd meg és uralkodj!” Az állam és az egyházak politikai, jogi és igazgatási kapcsolatai Magyarországon 1945–1989 között. Budapest: Rejtjel Kiadó. Köpeczi Bócz, Edit. 2004. Az Állami Egyházügyi Hivatal tevékenysége. Budapest: Akadémiai Kiadó. Márkus, László. 1963. “A műemlék templomok gondjai. Beszélgetés az OMF osztályvezetőivel.” Új Ember 19, no. 51: 6. OEMT ed. 1968. A liturgikus berendezési tárgyak és eszközök művészete. Budapest: Országos Egyházművészeti és Műemléki Tanács. Paul VI. 1963. Constitution on the Sacred Liturgy Sacrosanctum Concilium, December 4, 1963. https://www.vatican.va/archive/hist_councils/ii_vatican_council/documents/vat-ii_ const_19631204_sacrosanctum-concilium_en.html Paul VI. 1965. Closing of the Second Vatican Ecumenical Council: Address of Pope Paul VI to Artists, December 8, 1965. https://www.vatican.va/content/paul-vi/en/speeches/1965/ documents/hf_p-vi_spe_19651208_epilogo-concilio-artisti.html Pollack, Detlef. 2003. “Religiousness Inside and Outside the Church in Selected PostCommunist Countries of Central and Eastern Europe.” Social Compass 50, no. 3: 321–334. Schloeder, Steven J. 1998. Architecture in Communion. Implementing the Second Vatican Council Through Liturgy and Architecture. San Francisco: Ignatius. Sedlmayr, János. 1983. “Egyházi épületek helyreállítása.” In A műemlékvédelem Magyarországon, edited by László Császár, 128. Budapest: Képzőművészeti Alap Kiadó Vállalata.

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Sedlmayr, János and Zoltán Deák. 2004. “The Venice Charter and the Architectural Rehabilitation of Hungarian Historic Monuments (1964–2004–2044?).” Műemlékvédelem XLVIII (Supplement): 144–149. Sokol-Gojnik, Zorana, Igor Gojnik and Marija Banić. 2019. “Interventions in Heritage Sacred Architecture after the Second Vatican Council in Croatia.” Actas De Arquitectura Religiosa Contemporánea 6: 114–129. 10.17979/aarc.2019.6.0.6232 Szabó, Csaba. 2003. Die Katholische Kirche Ungarns und der Staat in den Jahren 1945–1965. München: Verlag Ungarisches Institut. Turányi, László ed. 1988. Magyar Katolikus Almanach II. Budapest: Apostoli Szentszék Könyvkiadója. Urbán, Erzsébet. 2019a. “Preservation of Sacral Heritage by Learning from the Past: Church Building Reconstructions in Hungary in the 1960s and 1970s.” In Professionalism in the Built Heritage Sector. Reflections on Cultural Heritage Theories and Practices, Vol. 4, edited by Koen Van Balen and Aziliz Vandesande, 147–154. London: CRC Press / Balkema (Taylor & Francis group). 10.1201/9780429397912-19 Urbán, Erzsébet. 2019b. “Requirements, Qualities and Solutions. Remodelling Liturgical Spaces after Vatican II in Hungary.” Actas De Arquitectura Religiosa Contemporánea 6: 130–143. 10.17979/aarc.2019.6.0.6233

Index

Page numbers followed by ‘n’ indicate notes.

Abakanowicz, Magdalena 227n1 Abondolo, Daniel 73 Abramovich, Albert 144 Aguirre, Ignacio 143 Aigner, Christian Piotr 274 Akmenytė-Ruzgienė, Vilma 250, 257 Albrecht, Jirí xi, 265 Alecsandri, Vasile 206n1 Alexander Jeffrey C. 19 Allas, Anu 17 Alma, Peter 142 Althamer, Paweł 221 Álvarez Bravo, Manuel 143 Alyoshina, Lilya 141, 146 Anca, Vasiliu 205 Andersen, Hans Christian 123 Anderson, Benedict 77, 196, 207 András, Edit 8, 15, 16 Andriy, Yatsiv 64 Andrycz, Nina 219 Anguiano, Raúl 143 Annas, Julia 1, 15n4 Annus, Epp 2, 15 Ansone, Elita 209, 216 Apor, Péter 286 Apor, Balázs 286 Apostu, George 205 Araeen, Rasheed 3, 16 Arbury, Stephen Andrew 125 Archduke Joseph August 24 Archipenko, Alexander viii, 13, 74–81, 82n1–20, 83 Archipenko, Angelika 76 Archipenko Anna 75 Archipenko, Yevhen viii, 13, 74–81, 82n1–20, 83 Aren, Peet 252 Arenal, Luis 143 Arkhypenko, Oleksandr 79, 82

Arkhypenko, Paraskeva (Makhovs) 74 Arkhypenko, Porfiry 74 Arns, Inke 11, 16 Arofikin, Volodymyr 59, 63 Aronsson, Peter 183 Arteast 2000+ viii, 18, 42, 43, 44, 45, 50n9, n12, 51 Ash, Timothy Garton 3, 15 Asplund, Gunar 250, 251, 257n6 Astahovska, Ieva 122, 124, 125, 213, 215, 216n7, 216n8, 217 Auzinš, Vilnis 121n21 Avgita, Louisa 10, 16 Badach, Artur 162 Badovinac, Zdenka 9, 11, 16, 42, 46, 50n11, n14, n15, 50, 51 Baidak, Mariana 56, 63 Baker, George 110, 122 Bakhtin, Mikhail 107, 110, 112–113, 115, 118, 121n24, 122, 124 Bakoš, Ján 160n24, 160, 246, 257 Bălașa, Sabin 195, 197, 198, 200, 201 Balotă, Ileana 203 Bałka, Mirosław 221 Bałus, Wojciech 181n6, 192 Banić, Marija 287 Bányai, František 95n3 Barkhatova Elena 119n11, 122 Barlow, Anne 213, 214, 216 Baron, Erich 259 Barto, Rostislav 157 Bas, Snelders 17 Batchelor, David 158n1 Bátki, John 31 Batowski-Kaczor, Stanisław 61 Bazin, Germain x, 177, 178, 182 Bazin, Jérôme Bazin 164, 165, 168, 169, 173 Bazylko, Piotr 136n5, 136

Index Behne, Adolf 259 Belinskis, Feliksas 251 Bellinck, Thomas 180 Bellotto, Bernardo (Canaletto) 177, 178, 181, 183 Beloff, Max 175, 182 Beltrán, Alberto 143 Beneš, Edvard 92, 93, 260, 262, 263, 266n2 Beneš, Vincenc 170 Beneš, Karel Josef 91, 95 Benjamin, Walter 10, 26 Bennett, Tony 157, 160, 196, 205, 206, 207 Benson, Timothy O. xii, 19, 30, 31 Berglund, Bruce R. 247, 257 Bernau, Nikolaus 271, 276 Beskin, Osip 160n22 Bethell, Nicholas 275 Bettini, Sergio 101 Beuys’, Joseph 215 Bezhuk, Olha 56, 63 Białostocki, Jan 175, 177, 181n2, 181n5, 182, 183 Bideleux, Robert 4, 16 Bidlo, Frantishek 144 Bill Max 251, 257n7 Bird, Alan 155, 260 Bišs, Ģirts 216n10, 216 Bitzan, Ion 198, 200, 201 Blaga, Lucian 205 Blakesley, Rosalind 161 Blanchard, Antoine 142 Blendea, Constantin 199 Bloch, Ernst 107, 109, 110, 111, 118, n14, 120n15, n17, 122, 123 Bloch, Jan Robert 111, 119n13, 123 Bloch, Karola 122 Blumbergs, Ilmārs 210 Bobersky, Ivan 56, 63 Bode, Nikolay 251 Bodor, Imre xi, 283 Bogucki, Janusz 136 Bogusz, Marian 223, 228n6 Böhlau, Konstantin 252 Boia, Lucian 208 Bolz, Lothar 269, 276 Bonami, Francesco 211, 212, 217 Borchert, Erich 145 Borek, David 95n2, 95 Bossi, Laura 159n13 Botticelli, Sandro 174 Bourdelle, Antoine 61 Bourdieu, Pierre 33, 40n3, 40 Bowlt, John E. 159n15, 160 Bown, Matthew Cullerne 159n5, n6, n14, 160n22, 160 Bracho, Ángel 143 Brădean, Traian 200, 201

289

Brăduț, Covaliu 200, 201 Brâncuși, Constantin 142, 204, 205, 207 Brandeis, Louis 95n1 Brandi, Cesare 181n4, 182 Brangwyn, Frank William 142 Braque, Georges x, 169, 170, 173 Brasliņa, Aija 209, 217 Brecht, Bertold 120n14 Bremmer, Ian 124 Brezhnev, Leonid 108 Brianchon, Maurice 177 Briedis’, Uldis 111, 121n21 Brikcius, Eugen 186 Brockhaus, Christoph 4, 19 Brodsky, Issak 151, 159n10 Broks, Ervīns 211 Browne, Pamela xii, 13, 107–126 Bru, Sasha 18 Brudașcu, Corneliu 200 Brusilov, Aleksei 57 Brzozowski, Tadeusz 227n1 Buchowski, Michał 7, 16 Bučilová, Lenka 194 Būcys, Pranciškus 247, 257 Budak, Adam 213 Bulliet, Clarence Joseph 78, 82 Bunikiewicz, Witołd 149, 150, 155, 160 Burebista, Dacian king 195 Burkhardt, Lucius 25, 31 Burliuk, David 78, 82 Butsmanyuk, Yulian 59 Bydler, Charlotte 2, 16 Calinescu, Matei 26, 31 Čapek, Josef 87, 88, 95 Čapek, Karel 87, 95, 170 Capers, Rubin 123 Cărăbaș, Irina 207 Carlos III 174 Carr, Edward H. 45, 46 Cartledge, Paul 98, 106 Casanova, Pascale 32–36, 38, 39, 40n2, 40 Cassan, Urbain 251 Castells, Manuel 182n16, 182 Castillo, Greg 160n23, 160 Castro, Fidel 169 Cavanaugh, Jan 36, 40n4, 40 Ceaușescu, Elena 202, 203, 205, 207n5 Ceaușescu, Nicolae 185–198, 200–203, 206, 207, 209 Červíček, Bohumil 266n3 Cézanne, Paul 142, 145, 146, 155, 177, 182 Chagall, Marc 142 Chakrabarty, Dipesh 7, 16 Chalupecký, Jindřich 186, 190, 191, 192 Champigneulle, Bernard 177 Chapey, Marcel 251

290 Index Chastel, André x, 167, 175, 177, 178, 182 Chatzidakis, Manolis 99, 105 Chávez Morado, José 143 Che Guevara, Ernesto 169 Chenal, Odile 17 Chiaraviglio, Lorenzo 257n5 Chmielewska, Agnieszka xii, 1–19, 32–41, 150, 160 Chochol, Josef 170 Chudzikowski, Andrzej 176, 182 Chykalenko, Lev 79 Ciborowski, Adolf 273, 276 Cieślińska-Lobkowcz, Nawojka 255, 257 Clair, Jean 158n1, 160, 161 Clark, Katerina 147, 158n12, 161 Clark, Toby 159, 161 Clausell, Joaquín 143 Clegg, Elizabeth 4, 16 Close, David Henry 99, 105 Codre, Florin 205 Collier, Peter 40 Comarnescu, Petre 204 Conrad, Sebastian 19 Correa Martín-Arroyo, Pedro 181, 182 Cosmokinetic Theatrenoordung; see Scipionnasice Sisters Theatre Costa, Olga 143 Costakis, George 119n5, 124 Cozma, Gheorghe 198, 207 Croce, Benedetto 46 Crowley, David 275, 276 Csáky, Moritz 16 Cserháti, József 281, 285n8, 286 Cubr, František 263 Cueto, Lola 143 Cullerne Bown, Matthew 159n14, 160, 161 Curley, John J. 15n1 Cuza, Alexandru Ioan 195, 201 Cybis, Jan 227n1 Cyrankiewicz, Józef 219 Czapliński, Przemysław 226, 227, 228 Czapski, Józef 227n1 Czartoryska, Urszula 223, 228n6 Czerni, Krystyna 136n7, 136 Czerwiński, Krzysztof 134, 136 Czyżewski, Tytus viii, 38, 150, 154, 161 Dąbrowska, Barbara 227n2 Damaskos, Dimitris 98, 107 Daniel, Jamie Owen 126 Dănilă, Dorin 200 David-Fox, Michael 146, 149, 161 Davies, Norman 16, 180, 181 de Chirico Giorgio 142 Deac, Mircea 198, 204, 207 Deák, Zoltán 283, 285n6, 287

DeBevoise, Malcolm 40 Degas, Edgar 142 Deičmane, Evelīna (now Vida) 213 Deineka, Aleksandr 151, 152, 155, 156, 157, 159, 162 Delacroix, Eugène 130, 177 Deletant, Dennis 197, 207 Deleuze, Gilles 48, 51 Demakova, Helēna 117, 123, 125, 209, 210, 216n2, n4, n5, n6, 217 Deptuła, Bogusław 224, 228 Derain, André 144 Diakova, Helen 124 Dickson, Albert 123 Diederichs, Eugen 259 Disney, Walt 93 Diviš, Vladimír 166, 173 Dobrenko, Evgeny 159n5, 160, 161, 162 Dobrincu, Dorin 208 Dorival, Bernard 170, 173 Dorontchekov, Ilia 158, 161 Dosamantes, Francisco 143 Doucet, Jacques x, 178 Doxaras, Nikolaos 105n6 Dreifelds, Juri 110, 123 Drėmaitė, Marija 257n11, 258 Droz, Jacques 4, 16 Drumont, Édouard 88 Dubourg-Glatigny, Pascal 173 Dulong, Georges 252, 257n14 Dumin, Osyp 55, 56, 57, 64 Dümmerling, Ödön 281, 286 Dunga, Alma 251 Dunikowski, Xawery 255 Dziekoński, Józef 274 Dziewańska, Marta 11 Dziewulski, Stanisław 273, 276 Dziuba, Ivan 83 Eastman, George 119, 124 Eco, Umberto 256n1 Efros, Adam 157 Efros, Nаtalia 144, 146 Eglītis, Andris 215, 217 Ehrenburg, Ilya 144, 146 Eiermann, Egon 271 El Greco 97 Ēlerte, Sarmīte 217 Elgenius, Gabriella 183 Elliott, David 17, 18, 159n5, 161 Ellis, Fred 144 Emanuel, Susan 40 Emerson, Caryl 122 Enwezor, Okwui 1, 16 Erdei, Ferenc xi, 280, 282 Erjavec, Aleš 11, 16, 42, 49n2, 51

Index Erzsébet, Urbán xi, xv–xvi, 14, 278–287, 286n10 Escobedo, Jesús 143 Espenhan, Wiktor 241, 254, 255 Esze, Tamás 281, 285n8, 286 Exter, Aleksandra 142 Fałat, Julian 58 Famous Five 211, 212, 216, 217 Fântânariu, Suzana 199 Faraldo, José M. 179, 180, 182 Fărcaș, Viorel 200 Fárová Anna 193n7 Fässler, Barbara 213, 217 Favorsky, Vladimir 157 Feichtinger, Johannes 2, 16 Fejérdy, András 278, 279, 288 Fer, Briony 158n1, 160, 163 Ferguson, Bruce W. 229 Ferré, Rosa 159n5 Fields, Mitchell 144 Filipovic, Elena 16, 18 Filla, Emil 170 Finkelšteinas, Ozeris 238, 242 Finn, Courtenay 213, 216 Fiocco, Giuseppe 177 Fischer-Galati, Stephen 201, 207 Fišere, Odrija 216, 217 Fišers, Miķelis 215, 217 Fitzpatrick, Sheila 158n1, 159n4 Fiut, Aleksander 2, 16 Flake, Monika 173 Flechtenmacher, Alexandru 206n1 Fleischman, Ignaz 55, 56 Flierl, Bruno 269, 270 Flood Biruta 120n16, 121, 123 Florisoone, Michel x, 177, 178 Fogeler, Heinrich 145 Folga-Januszewska, Dorota 183, 228n7, 228 Forgács, Éva xii, 6, 13, 16, 23–31, 49n3, 51 Foucault, Michel 48, 51 Fragner, Jaroslav 263, 276 Francastel, Pierre 181n4 Frandsen, Marius xi, 236, 237 Frank, Hans 254, 255 Frankenthaler, Helen 213 Frankl, Michal 87, 88, 91, 92, 95 Franko, Ivan 78 Frantziskakis, Errikos 100, 102, 105, 106 Freud, Sigmund 26, 107, 115, 116, 117, 118, 122n29, 123 Frick, Henry Clay 174 Friedmann, František 95n1, 95 Friedrich, István 4, 24, 272, 276 Frunzetti, Ion 204, 205 Fry, Roger 26 Fusi, Juan Pablo 180, 181, 183

291

Gabanyi, Anneli Ute 202, 203, 206, 207 Gabrāns, Gints 211, 213, 216, 217 Gaižiūnas, Silvestras 107, 123 Gajewski, Stanisław 177 Galerie Benedikta Rejta in Louny 193n15 Galerie na Karlově náměstí 186, 194 Galerie výtvarného umění in Roudnicinad Labem 193n15 Gameren Tylman (Tylman Gamerski) 274 Gandl, Ladislav 168, 173 Gânju, Ioan 203 Garbai, Sándor 24 García Bustos, Arturo 143 García-Montón González, Patricia xii, 14, 174–184 Gauguin, Paul 142, 145 Gavrilean, Dragoș x, 204 Gavrilean, Bogdan x, 204 Gavrilean, Dimitrie x, 203, 204 Gazur, Łukasz 256, 257 Geertse, Michel 237, 242 Ģelzis, Kristaps 213, 216, 217 Georgoulia, Aikaterini 125 Gerasimov, Aleksandr 143 Gerson, Horst 177 Getz, Lev 56 Geyer, Michael 158n1, 159n4, 161 Ghiu, Daria 205, 207 Gierymski, Aleksander 177, 181n8 Gilberg, Trong 207 Ginev, Dimitŭr 17 Gliński, Piotr 180, 182n14 Gładykowski, Jerzy Jacek ix, 129, 131 Gnamuš, Nadja xii, 13, 42–51 Gočár, Josef 170 Goebel, Benedikt 272, 276 Gojnik, Igor 287 Golan, Romy 158n1 Golomstock, Igor 159n5, 159n9–n11 Golubev, Alexander 146 Gomez, Elios 144 Gomułka, Władysław 176, 218, 219, 227, 228n3 Goncharova, Natalia 142 Gorbachev Mikhail 110, 120n20, 121n22 Gordon, Douglas 221 Gosk, Hanna 19 Gottwald, Klement 260, 261, 262, 264, 266n2, n3, n4, 267 Gough, Maria 145, 146 Górski, Jan 273, 276 Grabar, Igor 149, 161 Grantiņa, Daiga 215, 217 Grants, Andrejs ix, 107–118, 118n2, 119n4, 119n12, 122n28, 122n30, 124, 126 Grants’, Laimonis 110 Gratziou, Olga 98, 105

292 Index Greenberg, Reesa 226, 228, 229 Gregorowicz, Stanisław 149, 161 Griffin, Roger 158n1, 161 Grigorescu, Dan 204 Grīnberga’, Inta 113 Grögerová, Bohumila 193n10 Gropper, William 144 Großmann, Ulrich 266 Grosz, George 142 Group 55 222 Group A 124 Groys, Boris 1, 8, 17, 44, 51, 159n5, 159n7, 216, 217, 228n4 Grünewald, Matthias 100 Gryglewicz, Tomasz 6, 17 Gržinić, Marina 45, 49n5, 50n17 Günther, Hans 159n5 Gutfreund, Otto 170 Gutkin, Irina 157, 161 Gutschow, Niels 273, 276 Haapala, Pertti 65, 72 Habicht, Dejan 45, 47 Hajniš, Ivan 192n5 Hakh, Iryna 61, 63 Haklai, Yair 261 Halechko, Sofia 56 Halecki, Oskar 5, 15n3, 174, 179, 183 Hamilakis, Yannis 98, 105 Hämynen, Tapio 73 Harkavy, Minna 144 Hatmanu, Dan x, 201, 202 Haut, Dobroslav x, 93, 94, 96 Havrylko, Mykhailo 61, 63 Hayoz, Nicolas 17 Heartfield, John 144, 145 Hegedüs, András 24 Heikkinen, Antero 72 Heller, Klaus 72 Heller, Leonid 157, 161 Henselmann, Herman 272, 276 Herder, Johann Gottfried 34, 35, 36, 39 Herzfeld, Helmut 144 Hesse, Eva 215 Heyden, Doris 143 Hila Edi 128, 136n4 Hildebrandt, Hans 78, 82 Hiller, Karol 156 Hills, Helen 182 Hilmar, Till 182n13 Hilsner, Leopold 87, 91 Hilton, Alison 159n16, 161 Hirša, Santa 193n10, 215 Hiršal, Josef 193n10 Hjørnager Pedersen, Viggo 123 Hlaváček, Luboš 193n12 Hlavajova, Maria 17

Hnídková, Vendula G. 262, 266 Ho Chi Minh 166 Hock, Beáta 6, 15, 17 Hoffmeister, Adolf 167, 169, 173 Hofman, Vlastislav 170 Holubets’, Mykola 64, 78, 82 Hopkins, Claudia xv Hoppu, Tuomas 65, 66, 72, 73 Horst, Gerson 177, 183 Horthy, Miklós, Admiral 24 Horváth, Sándor 286 Howard, Ebenezer 237 Hrechko, Ivan 59, 63 Hrubý, Josef 263 Hudson, Wayne 120n14, 123, 161, 163 Huml, Irena 38, 39, 40 Husarski, Wacław 149, 156, 160, 161 Huyghe, René 100 Iliev, Ilia 207 Iltnere, Anna 216n9, 217 Ilyuha, Ol’ga 73 Ioannou, Panagiotis 101, 105 Irimescu, Ion 201 Irwin art group viii, 10, 12, 16, 42, 44, 46, 47, 51 Ishigaki, Eitaro 144 Iswolsky Helene 121n24, 122 Ivanets’, Ivan viii, 56–59, 61, 62, 63, 64 Ivans, Dainis 121n22 Jaakkola, Nikolai 70, 72 Jabłoński, Maciej 224, 228 James, Vaughan C. 150, 157, 162 Janaitis, Gunars 119n10, 123 Janák, Pavel 170, 260, 262 Janion, Maria 2, 3, 17 Jankevičienė, Algė 257n4, 258 Jankevičiūtė, Giedrė xiii, 14, 244–258, 257n4 Jankowska, Marta 276 Jankowski, Stanisław 272, 276 Jarausch, Konrad H. 208 Jarmusik, Jedmund 269, 276 Jasėnaitė, Jonė 251 Jaskmanický, Jiří 170, 173 Jasper, Johns 130 Jeffries, Ian 4, 16 Jēpe, Ilze 251 Jesień, Leszek 17 Jędrusik, Kalina 219 Jianou, Ionel 204 Jirous Ivan Martin 187, 192n4, 193n6 Jirousová Věra 187, 193n6 John Paul II, Pope 129, 181 John Reed Club 144 Johnson, Randal 40

Index Jokimas, Antanas xi, 236, 237, 242, 251 Jones, Ellen 121n20, 123 Jørgensen, Aage 123 Jowlewa, Lidia 163 Judt, Tony 179, 181, 183 Juszkiewicz, Piotr 223, 228 Jutikkala, Eino 65, 72 Jylhä, Yrjö 70, 72 Kádár, János 23, 24, 279 Kahlo, Frida 143, 144, 147 Kairišs, Viesturs 210 Kairiūkštytė-Jacinienė, Halina 247, 248, 258 Kaiser, Wolfram 182n13, 183 Kalligas, Marinos 100, 101, 103, 105n3, 105, 106 Kalniņš Eduards 209, 217 Kamiński, Marek K. 149, 162 Kamisauska’, Aija 113 Kandinsky, Vassily 155 Kangaspuro, Markku 65, 70, 71n4, 72 Kardasz, Magdalena 227n2 Kario, Leonard 254, 255 Karlíček, Petr 93, 95, 96 Karnisauka’, Emīlija 111 Karnouch, Claude 203, 207 Kasiyan, Vasyl 152 Kassák, Lajos 27–28, 31 Kaufmann, Thomas DaCosta 7, 17, 181n2, 183 Kauppala, Pekka 66, 72 Kaušpėdas, Algirdas 256n2 Kazalarska, Svetla 9, 17, 49n6, 51 Kellner, Douglas 120n14, 123 Kerensky, Alexander 58 Khan, Idris 215 Khanko, Vitalii 61, 63 Khrushchev, Nikita 108, 109, 119n13, 124 Kiaer, Christina 152, 155, 156, 157, 159n18, 160n21, n23, 162 Kianto, Ilmari 66, 67, 68, 69, 72 Kiossev, Alexander 2, 3, 7, 8, 17 Kis’, Oksana 63 Kis-Fedoruk, Olena 55, 56, 58, 60, 61, 63 Kiss, Csaba 6, 17 Kitowska-Łysiak, Małgorzata 229 Kizevalter, Georgii 146, 147 Klain Barbara 273, 276 Kļaviņš, Eduards 119n11, 123, 209, 258 Kleczyński, Jan 150, 151, 157, 162 Kleins, Valts 123, 214 Klimane I. 119n12, 123 Klimešová, Marie 194 Knight, Paul 123, 124 Knížák, Milan 186 Köbel, Szilvia 278, 288 Kofta, Jonasz 219

293

Kolář, Jiří 185–187, 190–192, 192n1, n2, 193n8, n9, n10, 194 Kolárová, Běla x, 185–192, 192n1, n3, 193n7, 194 Koleva, Daniela 17 Kollwitz, Käthe 142, 145 Kołodziejczyk, Dorota 19 Konchalovsky, Pyotr 155, 157 Konstante, Ilze 209, 217 Köpeczi Bócz, Istvan 278, 286 Korol’, Sofia xiii, 13, 55–64 Korolkiewicz, Łukasz 128, 129, 130 Koskenniemi, Veikko Antero 67–68, 69, 72 Kossowska, Irena xiii, 1–19, 148–162 Kostetsky, Ihor [?] 82 Kostołowski, Andrzej 137 Kostro, Robert 228n7, 229 Kotalík Jiří 170, 171, 173 Kotecký’s family collection viii, 62 Kounelakis, Nikolaos ix, 101, 102 Kovalskis, Jonas 236, 239, 242 Kovzhun, Pavlo 62 Kowalska, Bożena 224, 228 Kozakiewicz, Stefan x, 177, 178, 179, 183 Kozłowski, Jarosław 134 Kozyra, Katarzyna 134, 136n10 Krahelska, Krystyna 177 Krajči, Petr 262, 267 Kramář, Vincenc 169 Kramer, John M. 121n20, 123 Kramerová, Daniela 264, 267 Krankenhagen, Stefan 183 Kravchenko, Aleksei 153, 157 Kremlička, Rudolf 88, 96 Krenzke, Hans-Joachim 269, 276 Krese, Solvita 216 Krikščiukaitis, Jonas 251 Kriščiukaitis, Kazys 236, 238, 241, 242 the Křižovatka [Crossroads] group 185, 191, 192n1, 193n15 Kroutvor, Josef 6 Krutisch, Petra 266 Kryzhanivsky, Andrii 56, 57, 58, 59, 61, 63 Krzemiński, Ireneusz 136n1, 136 Kubátová, Hana 96 Kubicki, Jakub 275 Kubilius, Eugenijus 237, 243 Kubišta, Bohumil 170 Kuča, Otakar xi, 265 Kuehn, Gernot 120n14, 123 Kuhnke, Monika 162 Kulakova, Ieva 211 Kulik, Zofia 221, 222 Kun, Béla 24, 27, 31 Kundera, Milan 4, 6, 17 Kuras, Grygory 76, 82 Kurylas, Osyp 57, 58–61, 63

294 Index Kutal, Albert 173 Kuzma, Petrov-Vodkin 156, 157 Kuzma, Liubomyr Roman 62, 63 Kuznetsov, Pavel ix, 153, 154, 155 Květ, Jan 266n4, 267 Kwiatkowska, Barbara 219 Kwiek, Przemysław 221, 222

Lucie-Smith, Edward 158n1, 162 Lukács, György 120n14 Lunacharsky, Anatoly 160n21 Lutterklas Eugen 251, 257n8 Lyons, Nathan 119, 124 Łabowicz-Dymanus, Karolina 222, 229 Łagocki, Zbigniew 223, 228n6, 229

Labas, Aleksandr ix, 152 Lachowski, Marcin xii, 1–19, 218–229 Lackman, Matti 65, 72 Lahoda, Vojtìch 17 Lahusen, Thomas 159n5, 160, 161, 162 Laibach group 42, 48 Laima, Slava 112, 122n28, 124 Lamač, Miroslav 173, 191, 193n8, 194 Lampe, John 5, 17 Landsbergis, Vytautas 236, 239, 243 Lane, Thomas 180, 183 Larionov, Mikhail 142 Lassila, Maiju 66, 72 Laszczka, Konstanty 61 Laurinaitis, Paulius Tautvydas xiii, 14, 233–259 Lazaridou, Anastasia 98, 105 Lebenstein, Jan 227n1 Lechowicz, Lech 224, 228 Léger, Fernand 79, 144 Lehtonen, Joel 68, 72 Lékai, László 285n2 Lenin, Vladimir 142, 148, 149, 151, 158, 159n10 Lepky, Lev 61 Levitan, Isaac 156 Levynsky, Ivan 60 Liepiņš’, Aivars 121n21 Liertz, Uta-Maria 72 Ligier, Piotr viii, 38 Linde, Bernhard 252 Lindenberger, Thomas 208 Linnap, Peeter 112, 114, 123 Lipchitz, Jacques 142 Lisiak, Agata 2, 17 Līvija, Grants 110 Lloyd, Janet 162 Longhi, Roberto 175, 181n4, 183 Lönnrot, Elias 69, 72 Lopatkina, Katerina xiv, 13, 141–147 Lorentz, Stanisław x, 175, 177, 178, 179, 183, 275, 277 Lowenfish, Joshua D. 257n5 Lowry, Michael 120, 123 Lozowik, Louis 142, 144 Lozynskyi, Taras 63 Lu Davis, Emma 160n21 Luba, Iwona 156, 159n2, 162 Lucento, Angelina 160n23, 162

Ma group 27 Macel, Christine 9 Machalický, Jiří 194 Mačiulskis, Nikolajus xi, 241 Magdalino, Paul 98, 106 Magocsi, Paul Robert 19 Mahalevsky, Yuri 62 Mait, Väljas 257n13 Maitec, Ovidiu 200 Maivie, Josef 110, 124 Majewski, Piotr xiv, 13, 127–137, 229, 273, 276 Majewski, Jerzy S. 273, 276 Makhov, Stepan 74 Makoida, Orest 60, 64 Malcharek, Krystyna 40 Malešević, Siniša 196, 207 Malevič, Kazimir 194n17 Malich, Karel 192n1 Mally, Lynn 157, 162 Manet, Édouard 40, 142 Mannerheim, Carl Gustaf 69, 70, 71 Manole Adoc, Gabriela 201 Manole Adoc, Gheorghe 201 Maples, David R. 121n20, 123 Marabottini, Alessandro 174, 183 Marcinkeviča, Līga 211, 213, 217 Markiewicz, Tomasz 273, 276 Markiewicz, Małgorzata ix, 134, 135, 274, 276 Markowska, Anna 128, 136n3, 136 Márkus, László 285, 286 Martin, Izsak 177, 200 Martinsone, Ilze 251, 258 Mary, Stuart 202 Masaryk, Tomáš Garrigue 87, 88, 91, 92, 95n1, 96, 260, 262 Masereel, Frans 142 Masiewicz, Krzysztof 136n5, 136 Masłowska, Anna 175, 177, 183 Mason, John W. 108, 124 Matisse, Henri 103, 142, 145 Matveev, Vladimir 146, 147 May, Robert 119n10, 124 Mayer, Franz 249, 257n4, 258 Mayer, Gabriel 257, 258 Mazan, Kazimierz 178, 183 Mazower, Mark 5, 17 Mazowiecki, Tadeusz 130

Index Mazurkiewicz, Piotr 17 McCulloch, Martha 123 Meatyard, Ralph Eugene 119, 125 Mecklenburg, Frank 123, 126 Medvedev, Roy 108, 124 Mehedinți, Simion 199 Meijers, Debora J. 225, 229 Méndez, Leopoldo 143 Merton Thomas 117, 124 Message, Kylie 207 Meulen, Marcus van der xvi, 14, 268–277 Meyer, Hannes 145 Meyer, Henry Cord 4, 18 Michael the Brave 201 Michálek, Slavomír 165, 166, 173 Michaud, Éric 158n1, 162 Micke-Broniarek, Ewa 183 Mičule, Santa (now Hirša) 216n11, 217 Mihăilescu, Vintilă 197, 207 Mihailovic, Aleander 112, 124 Mihailovskis’, Vilhelms 108, 110, 119n12, 121n21, 124 Mihalovskis’, Vitaults 121n21 Mihály Károlyi, Count 24 Mihuleac, Wanda 200 Mikhailov, Aleksei 159n3 Miller Jones, John 119n14, 120n14, 124 Mircea the Elder 201 Mirvald, Vladislav 192n1 Misiano, Viktor 50n11 Misiņa, Māra 217 Misiunas, Romuald 110, 121n20, 124 Mitkovskaitė, Sara 257 Mitrēvics, Miks 213, 217 Mocănescu, Alice 197, 207 Modigliani, Amedeo 142 Modorov, Fedor 153 Modzelewski, Jarosław ix, 128, 129, 136 Mohar, Katarina 277 Mohn, Volker 93, 95, 96 Moholy-Nagy, László 79 Monet, Claude 142 Mora, Francisco 143 Morado, José Chávez 143 More, Thomas 120n17, 268 Morganová, Pavlína xiv, 14, 185–194, 193n11 Morozov, Ivan 142 Morris, William 125 Mosquera, Gerardo 2, 18 Motlová, Milada 194 Moylan, Tom 126 Moyseyovych, Teofil 57 Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus 210, 211 Mráz, Bohumír 192n2 Muiznieks, Nils 110, 121n20, 124

295

Mulevičiūtė, Jolita 247, 258 Munro, André 32, 40 Murawska-Muthesius, Katarzyna xv Musäus, Thekla xiv, 13, 65–73 Mylius, Johan de 123 Mytkowska, Joanna 9 Nadaff, Ramona 1, 18 Nae, Cristian xiv, 9, 14, 18, 51, 195–208 Nagy, Imre 24 Naiman, Eric 161 Nairne, Sandy 229 Naumann, Friedrich 4 Naumović, Slobodan 207 Nazarak, Julian 62 Neiburga, Katrīna 215, 217 Nemes, Robert 88, 96 Németh, Miklós 24 Neumaier, Diane 122, 125 Nevezhin, Vladimir 146 New Collectivism 42, 51 Newhall, Beaumont 118, 124 Nicolson, Benedict 162, 174, 183 Nikolaev, Boris 149 Nikonov, Nikolai 153 Nițescu, Constantin 200, 202, 203 Nițis, Olivia 207 Nivinskiy, Ignatiy 151 Noica, Constantin 204 Norman, Kristina 216 Nováček, Jan xi, 265 Novakivsky, Oleksa 60, 77, 82n10 Novickis, Antanas 238, 242, 251 Novotný Antonín 263, 266 Novotný, Vladimír 167, 173 Nowosielski, Jerzy 227n1 Nurenberg, Amshey 153 Nycz, Ryszard 32, 40 O’Hara, Harry 120n14, 123 O’Higgins, Pablo 143 O’Sullivan, Feragus 256n1, 258 Oancea, Constantin Claudiu 197, 198, 206n2, 207 Oblastní galerie Karlovy Vary 193n15 Oblastní galerie Vysočiny v Jihlavě 193n15 Ocampo, Isidoro 143 Ogłódek, Jan 251 Ogre Photo Club 107 Okoń, Waldemar 134, 136 Olinde, Rodrigues 26 Olszaniecka, Maria 40n4, 41 Olszewska, Marta 225, 229 Opałka, Roman 132 Orišková, Mária xiv, 8, 14, 16, 18, 164–173 Orozco Romero, Carlos 143

296 Index Örsi, Károly xi, 280 Osęka, Andrzej 136, 223, 24, 228n6, 229 Osiecka, Agnieszka 219 Osis, Jānis 209, 217 Osterhammel, Jürgen 19 Ostroverkha, Mykhailo 57, 64 Ouchanoff, Elie 251 Oudot, Roland 178 Øvstebø, Solveig 16, 18 Ozanfan, Amédé 144 Pacheco, Fernando 143 Pachomov, Aleksey 153 Padalka, Ivan 153 Padrta, Jiří 185, 187, 191, 192n1, 193n15, 194n17, 194 Pakalniņa, Laila 210 Pallucchini, Rodolfo 177 Panczová, Zuzana 95n7, 96 Papu, Edgar 199, 207 Parthenis, Konstantinos ix, 103, 104 Paruch, Waldemar 4, 18 Parulskis, Ernestas 256n1, 258 Paskov, Aleksander 73 Passuth, Krisztina 4, 18 Patrick, Bernhard 16 Paul VI, Pope 279, 285n5, 286n11, 286 Pawlak, Włodzimierz ix, 130–133, 136n9 Pearce, Brian 124 Pearl, Sanders 31 Pech, Milan xv, 13, 87–96 Peidl, Gyula 24 Pejčoch, Ivo 92, 96 Pejić, Bojana 6, 9, 11, 17, 18 Pelše, Stella xv, 14, 209–217 Perelman, Victor 152 Perfetsky, Leonid 62 Perlsee, Karl Kurt xi, 252, 253, 254, 257n15 Peterajová, Ľudmila 167, 173 Peteris, Zeile 123 Pētersons, Ojārs x, 209, 210, 216n4 Petrescu, Dragoș 196, 197, 198, 208 Petriceicu Hașdeu, Bogdan 199 Petříček, Adolf 88 Petrova, Evgenija 160 Petrulis, Vaidas 244, 245, 247, 250, 258 Pevny, Bohdan 78, 82 Peyer, Eduard (Eduardas Peyeris) 235, 236, 242n3 Picasso, Pablo x, 95n8, 142, 144, 145, 146, 169, 170, 173 Pietragnoli, Maddalena 215, 217 Pietrzak-Bartos, Anna 220, 221, 222 Pignon, Édouard 177 Piliuță, Constantin 201 Piłsudski, Józef 180 Pimenov, Yuri 156

Piotrowski, Piotr xv, 1, 2, 6, 7, 15, 17, 18, 35, 39, 40n5, 41, 50n10, 50n11, 51, 128, 136n3, 136, 173, 175, 179, 183 Pirický, Gabriel 166, 173 Pirinen, Kauko 65, 72 Pisarro, Camille 142 Piwowar, Lech 154, 162 Plaice, Neville 120n14, 123, 124 Plaice, Stephen 123, 124 Plamper, Jan 69, 72 Plantzos, Dimitris 98, 105 the Plastic People of the Universe 186, 187, 192n4 Plato 1, 15, 18, 19, 268 Plecnik, Jože 247, 260, 261, 267 Plista, Achile alias A Pontigny, Maxmilian de Larmarque 88 Płoski, Stanisław 254 Podnieks, Kaspars x, 213, 214, 216 Podoski, Wiktor 154, 157, 162 Poehls, Kerstin 183 Poisont, Jean-Marc 225, 229 Pojar, Miloš 95n1, 96 Polański, Roman 219 Polanyi, Karl 136n1, 136 Pollack, Detlef 279, 286 Pollock, Jackson 171 Pomerants, Grigory S 112, 124 Popnegreșteanu, Vasile 201, 203 Popczyk, Maria 228n7, 229 Popovici, Veda 205, 208 Popowycz, Volodymyr 78, 83 Poprzęcka, Maria 137, 163 Porębski, Mieczysław 136 Posada, José María Guadalupe 143 Posatska, Danuta 59, 63 Potaczek-Jasionowicz, Sabina 19 Prager, Karel xi, 265 Preda, Caterina 196, 197, 198, 201, 203, 207, 208 Prelovšek, Damjan 260, 267 Presutti, Kelly 10, 18 Prę czkowski, Mieczysław 254, 255 Přibyl, Ondřej 265 Prieto, Julio 143 Prignitz-Poda, Helga 147 the Primitives Group 186, 192n5 Procházka, Antonin 170 Prokopiou, Angelos 100, 101, 106 Prokopova, Evita 217 Pruszkowski, Tadeusz 151, 154, 162 Prutsch, Ursula 16 Rabelais, François 112, 113, 121n24, 122, 124 Rainer, Roland 251, 252 Rainer, Ilse 251

Index Rákosi, Mátyás 24 Ramírez, Everardo 143 Rampley, Matthew 5, 15n3, 18, 181n3, 182, 184 Ratniks, Mārtiņš 211 Raysse, Martial 193n6 Rebedeu, Ion 197, 208 Red Pilot; see Scipionnasice Sisters Theatre Reid, Susan E 157, 158, 159n5, n9, 160n20, n23, 161, 162 Reinbergi, Māris 113 Reisonas, Karolis xi, 247, 248 Rélink, Karel viii, 88–93, 95n4, n9, 96 Rembrandt Harmensz van Rijn x, 174, 175, 176, 177, 179, 180, 182, 183, 184 Renoir, Auguste 142 Restany, Pierre 193n6, n10 Rībena, Ingūna 211, 217 Ricci, Paolo 175, 184, 270, 272, 277 Ricci, Marianne 270, 272, 277 Ricks, David 98, 106 Rigaud-Drayton, Margaret 40 Rindzevičiūtė, Eglė 256n1, 258 Ritter, Mark 123 Rivera, Diego 144 Rivè re, Joan 123 Roberts, Peter 108, 119n6, 122n27, 124 Robertson, Ronald 15, 19 Robin, Régine 159n5, 162 Rodin, Auguste 142 Roelstraete, Dieter 11 Rogoff, Irit 173 Rogozińska, Renata 136n6, 136 Rogule, Astrīda 213 Rohling, August 88 Rollová, Veronika xv, 14, 261–267 Romaniv-Triska, Oksana 63 Roselius, Aapo 65, 72 Rosen, Stanley 1, 19 Rosenau, Helen 268, 277 Rosenfeld, Alla 155, 157, 159n4, n6, 162 Rossi, Paolo 177 Rotaru, Doru 202 Rothko, Mark 213 Rothmayer, Otto 260, 262, 267 Rottenberg, Anda 218, 227n2, 228n3, 229 Rottermund, Andrzej 183, 274, 275, 277 Rozhdestvensky, Vasily 153 Rubeze, Ieva 211 Rudka, Bohdan 75, 83 Ruka, Inta x, 123, 209, 210, 213, 216n2, 217 Rusmanis, Sigurds 216 Rusu, Mihai 200 Ryangina, Serafima 153 Ryan-Hayes, Karen L. 120n17, 124 Rybczyńska, Julita Agnieszka 18

297

Rykiel, Zbigniew 4, 19 Ryndová, Soňa 262, 267 Sadeniemi, Matti 68, 72 Ságl, Jan 185, 186, 187, 188, 189, 191, 192, 192n4, 193n6, 194 Ságlová, Zorka x, 185, 186, 188–192, 192n5, 193n11, 194 Said, Edward W. 34, 41 Sailstorfer, Michael 214, 216n12 Saint Stephen 24 Saint-Simon, Henri de 26 Sakss, Nils 216 Salerno, Luigi 174, 183 Salmanis, Krišs x, 214, 215, 216, 217 Samma, Jaanus 216 Samotyhowa, Nela 150, 152, 162 Santeri, Mäkelä 68, 72 Sapožņikovs, Nikolajs 119n12, 124 Sarian, Martiros 156 Sasor, Rozalya 19 Sasse, Sylvia 11, 16 Savijärvi, Ilkka 72 Sawicka, Jadwiga 134 Scărlătescu, Bogdan 201 Schapiro, Meyer 159n7, 162 Scheerbart, Paul 259 Schloeder, Steven J. 279, 286 Schmidt, D. J. 123 Schmied, Wieland 158n1, 162 Schneider, Ludwig 261 Schönerné Pusztai, Ilona xi, 283 Schwartz, Frederic J. 25, 31 Schweitzer, Robert 72 Scipionnasice Sisters Theatre 42 Sedlar, Vasyl 153 Sedlmayr, János xi, 281, 283, 285n6, 286, 287 Sejersted, Francis 17 Sekora, Ondřej 92, 96 Seltman, Charles 97, 106 Serov, Valentin 156 Șetran, Vladimir 198 Severini, Gino 142 Shafir, Michael 204, 208 Shchukin, Sergei 142 Sheptytsky, Andrey viii, 59 Sherman, Daniel J. 173 Shevchenko, Taras 55, 78 Shiomi, Mieko 193n10 Shterenberg, David 155, 156, 157 Sichynskyi, Volodymyr 79, 82n18 Sieradzka, Anna 38, 39, 41 Signac, Paul 144 Sihvo, Hannes 69, 72 Silina, Maria 158, 159n4, n17, 160n21, n22, n23, 162

298 Index Sillanpää, Frans Eemil 68, 72 Silver, Kenneth E. 158n1, 162 Šimanskis, Sofija 251 Simeonova, Kostadinka 17 Simon, Jeffrey 207 Sitzia, Emilie 225, 229 Skalbe, Kārlis 107, 114, 117, 118n1 Skálová, Vanda 264, 267 Skipitis, Rapolas 238 Skoczylas, Władysław viii, 39, 149, 151, 154, 157, 159n3, n8, 162, 163 Skórczewski, Dariusz 2, 19 Škrabec, Simona 6, 19 Skwara, Marta 6, 19 Šlāpins, Ilmārs 217 Slastion, Opanas 61 Slepyan, Vladimir 146 Slobodník, Martin 166, 173 Slonim, Marc 70, 73 Slyusarev, Alexandr 108, 109, 118, 124 Słucz, Siergiej 149, 163 Smirnova, Aliaksandra 268, 277 Smith, Anthony D. 36, 41, 158n1, 163 Smith, Stephanie J. 147 Smith, Terry 8, 19 Smithson, Robert 214 Snips, Arturs 121n22 Snyder, Timothy 182n15, 184 Soans, Anton 252 Sobocki, Leszek 130 Soini, Elena 71n13, 73 Sokol-Gojnik, Zorana 285n7, 287 Solomon-Godeau, Abigail 107, 124 Sommer, Vítězslav 262, 267 Songaila, Mykolas 234, 243, 251 Sorokhtei, Osyp-Roman viii, 56, 59, 60, 64 Sosamontes, Ramón 143 Sosenko, Modest 62 Sosnowska, Monika 9, 10 Soukupová, Blanka 91, 92, 96 Soutine, Chaim 144 Špála, Václav x, 170, 188, 189, 190, 193n12 Španjol, Igor 209, 217 Spector act. Bièiūnas, Vytautas 247, 258 Speer, Albert 260 Spiteris, Tonis 100, 101, 103, 106 Spivak, Gayatri Chakravorty 8, 19 Spoerri, Daniel 186 Sprindys, Antanas Algimantas 249 Spuris, Egons 107–109, 118, 119n7, n8, n9, n10, n12 Spyrou, Lefteris xv, 13, 97–106 Sruoga, Balys 247, 258 Stalin, Josef xiv, 6, 29, 71, 94, 108, 119n13, 120n14, 121n21, 124, 125, 141, 142, 151, 158, 160, 161, 163, 207, 262, 263, 269 Stanisław II Poniatowski 174, 275

Stanisławski, Ryszard 4, 19 Starchuk, Ivan 56 Starzyński, Juliusz 177 Ștefanov, Ignat 202 Štefanský, Michal 165, 166, 173 Šteimane, Inga 215, 217 Steinlen, Théophile-Alexandre 142 Stepaniv, Olena 56 Stephen the Great 201, 206n4 Stepnowska, Anna 227n2 Sterling, Mieczysław 150, 157, 163 Sterling, Charles x, 177, 178 Stieglitz, Alfred 122n33 Stigneev, Valerii 119n11, 125 Stiliņš’, Modris 110 Stolpe, Manfred 272, 277 Stone, Marla 158n1, 163 Storr, Robert 158n1, 163 Strachey, James 123 Straka, Barbara 117, 125 Strakun, Leon 150, 151, 155, 157, 163 Straumanis, Alfreds 121n23, 125 Stritzky, Else von 120n14 Stulginskis, Steponas 238, 240, 243 Sugar, Peter F. 5, 19 Suhar, Liviu 203 Šumiè Riha, Jelica 48, 51 Susak, Vita xv, 13, 74–83 Susid, Paweł 132 Suzuki, Shunryu 117, 122n32, 125 Svarnyk, Halyna 74, 82n3, n9, n11, 83 Svede, Mark Allen 119n11, 125, 216 Sverdiolas, Arūnas 256n1, 259 Sydorenko, Natalia 75, 83 Sýkora, Zdeněk 192n1 Szabó, Lóránt 280 Szabó, Miloslav 87, 88, 91, 92, 95 Szabó, Csaba 278, 287 Szakasits, Árpád 24 Szálasi, Ferenc 24 Szapocznikow, Alina 227n1 Szczepański, Stanisław 157, 163 Szczerski, Andrzej 3, 4, 19, 136n3, 136, 226, 229 Szeemann’, Harald 50n11, 185, 191, 225 Sztompka, Piotr 7, 8, 19 Szurowski, Jan 254 Szyszko-Bohusz, Adolf 251, 252, 254, 255, 258, 259 Taagepera, Rein 110, 121n20, 124 Tajani, Antonio 182n14 Takala, Irina 66, 71n4, 72, 73 Tamm, Margus 217 Tănase, Aleksander 208 Tănase, Valentin 202 Tannenbaum, Barbara 119n10, 125

Index Taras, Ray 124 Tarnowski, Zdzisław, count 174 Tatarchuk, Liudmyla 74, 83 Tate Gallery 169 Tatlin, Vladimir 155 Tauk, August 252 Taurens, Jānis 211, 212, 217 Taut, Bruno 246, 256, 259 Tautvydas, Laurinaitis Paulius xiii, 14, 233–243 Taylor, Brandon 159n5, 160, 161, 163 Tepora, Tuomas 72, 73 Ternovets, Boris 142 Theodora, empress 202 Ther, Philipp 2, 19 Thiesse, Anne-Marie 77, 83 Thompson, Edward P. 120n18, 125 Thompson, Ewa 2, 19 Thorton, Judith 121n20, 125 Tifentāle, Alise 108, 114, 117, 119n7, n10, n11, 120n19, 122n28, n31, 125, 213, 214, 216 Tikka, Marko 71n1, 73 Tildy, Zoltán 24 Tillers, Imants 209, 216 Timofejevs, Sergejs 216 Tismăneanu, Vladimir 195, 200, 208 Todorova, Maria 5, 19 Tomkiewicz, Władysław x, 178 Touchon, Cecil 215 Toulouse-Lautrec, Henri de 142 Tóth, Sándor xi, 283 Tragl Walter 253 Trapans, Jan Aveds 110, 125 Traumane, Māra 211, 217 Treadgold, Donald W. 5, 19 Tregulova, Zel’fira 160 Trembicka, Krystyna 4, 18 Treter, Mieczysław 156, 157, 163 Trimakas, Gintautas 123 Truikys, Liudas 249, 257n4 Tsarouchis, Yannis ix, 103, 104 Tsatsos, Konstantinos 99, 106 Tulla, Jan 92 Turányi, László 281, 287 Turowski, Andrzej 5, 6, 19, 149, 163 Tym, Stanisław 219 Uitz, Bela 142 Ulbricht, Walter 271, 274 Ulman, Jiří xi, 265 Ulmanis, Karlis 251 Umansky, Konstantin 143 the Union of Fine Artists 197, 200, 204, 205 Unowsky, Daniel 88, 96 Ušinskas, Stasys 249

299

Vachtová, Ludmila 186, 194 Vaculík, Karol 173 Vakalo, Eleni 100, 103, 106 Valcanover, Francesco 177, 184 Valoch, Jiří 194 Van Balen, Koen 287 Van Deren Coke, Frank 119 van Dongen, Kees 142 Van Dyck, Antoon 174 van Gogh, Vincent 142, 145, 155 Van Hal, Marieke 16, 18 Vanags, Kaspars 215, 217 Vandesande, Aziliz 287 Varpio, Yrjö 69, 73 Vasile, Cristian 208 Vasilescu, Corneliu 201 Vassiliou, Spyros 103, 106 Verdery, Katherine 196, 199, 206n2, 208 Vialov, Konstantin ix, 153, 155, 162 Vihavainen, Timo 72 Viitso, Tiit-Rein 71n2, 73 Vīķis-Freibergs, Vaira 109, 121n23, 125 Vitukhnovskaya-Kauppala, Marina 71n3, 73 Vlaminck, Maurice 144 Vodopivec, Barbara 277 Voigt, Patrick 271, 276 Voit, Nikolay 251 Volodymyr the Great 78 Voorhees Zimmerli, Jane 122, 125 Voss, Hermann 181n4, 184 Voutsaki, Sofia 98, 106 Vozniak, Volodymyr 78 Vrzgulová, Monika 96 Vulcănescu, Mircea 199 Vytautas the Great 245 Wacquant Loïc J. D. 33, 40 Wadstein MacLeod, Katerina 11, 19 Wajda, Andrzej 219 Walanus, Wojciech 255, 259 Walczak, Marek 273, 277 Walicki, Michał x, 176, 178, 184 Wallerstein, Immanuel 32, 40, 41 Wallis, Brian 153, 155, 163, 167, 173 Wallis, Mieczysław 153, 155, 163, 167, 173 Waltoś, Jacek 136 Warnke, Martin 165, 173 Wasilewski, Włodzimierz 254, 255 Weber, Norbert 213 Weinzieher, Michał 157 Weston Edward 122n33 White, Edmund 17 Whyte, Iain Boyd xv Wierzbicki, Jerzy 254 Wiese, Erich 79, 82n16, 83 Wilczyński, Krzysztof viii, 37, 39

300 Index Willett, John 158n1, 163 Williams, Marni 209, 216 Willmann, Michael 175 Winder, Jill 17 Winkler, Konrad 150, 151, 152, 154, 157, 158, 163 Winograd, Abigail 11 Wiśniewski, Michał 259 Witcomb, Andrea 207 Witkiewicz, Stanisław 36, 41 Witz, Ignacy 176, 184 Włodarczyk, Wojciech 128, 136n2, 137, 159n3, 163, 223, 229 Wojciechowski, Aleksander 137, 223, 228n6, 229 Wolański, Marian S. 180, 183 Wolff, Larry 4, 19 Wölfflin, Heinrich 26, 247 Wood, Paul 158n1, 163 Woodbury, Benjamin L. II 121n20, 123 Woodrow, Wilson 95n1 Worringer, Wilhelm 26 Woźniakowski, Jacek 136 Woźnicki, Stanisław 149 Wóycicki, Kazimierz 228n7, 229 the “Wprost” group 224 Wróblewska, Hanna 227n2 Wróblewski, Andrzej 227n1 Wyczółkowski, Leon 58 Wysocki, Michał 228n7, 229 Wyspiański, Stanisław viii, 37 Xyngopoulos Andreas 101 Yanovskaya, Olga 153 Yatsiv, Andriy 64

Yatsiv, Roman 61, 63, 64 Yatskiv, Mykhailo 56, 64 Yavorskaya, Nina 147 Yurchak, Alexei 196, 208 Zabel, Igor 16, 44, 50n11, 51, 217 Zabiļevska, Anita x, 209, 210 Zaborowski, Stefan 259 Zacharias, Michał Jerzy 149, 161, 162 Zachwatowicz, Jan 273, 274, 277 Zadkine, Ossip 142 Zahorska, Stefania 154, 162 Zalce, Alfredo 143 Založnik, Jasmina 50n17, 51 Zamoshkina, A. 159n6 Zápotocký, Antonín 262 Zarycki, Tomasz 39, 40n6, 41 Zavalii, Igor 63 Zelmenis, Martinš 107, 123, 126 Zemina, Jaromír 173 Zenderowski, Radosław 17 Zhdanov, Andrei 158 Zhukovsky, Arkady 83 Zīders Fēlikss 211 Ziedonis, Imants 119n12, 126 Zieliński, Jerzy Jurry 130 Ziembińska, Karolina 227n2 Zientecka, Aleksandra 218, 229 Ziębińska-Witek, Anna 228n7, 229 Zikaras, Juozas 245 Žilinskas, Mykolas 257n6 Zinaic, Milan 51 Zipes, Jack 120n14, 123, 126 Zrzavý, Jan 170 Zygmuntowicz, Dorota 1, 19