ERUSSIAN ART

AVANT GARDE

DEAS

THEORY AND CRITICISM

REVISED AND ENLARGED EDITION
EDITED BY JOHN E. BOWLT
 Digitized by the Internet Archive
in 2022 with funding from
Kahle/Austin Foundation

https://archive.org/details/russianartofavan0000unse_d6c5
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 Russian Art
of the Avant-Garde
Theory and Criticism
1902-1934
Edited and Translated
by John E. Bowlt

Revised and enlarged edition

with 105 illustrations

T&H

THAMES AND HUDSON

Acknowledgments: Harvard University Press and
Lund Humphries Publishers Ltd: ‘Realistic
Manifesto” from Gabo by Naum Gabo. Copyright
© 1957 by Lund Humphries. Reprinted by
permission.
Any copy ofthis book issued by the publisher as a
paperback is sold subject to the condition that it shall
not by way oftrade or otherwise be lent, resold, hired
out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s
prior consent in any form of binding or cover other
than that in which it is published and without a
similar condition including these words being
imposed on a subsequent purchaser.
© 1976 and 1988 John Bowlt
This revised and enlarged edition first published in
paperback in the United States in 1988 by
Thames and Hudson Inc., 500 Fifth Avenue,
New York, New York 10110
Originally published by The Viking Press in The
Documents of 20th-Century Art, 1976, General Editor
Robert Motherwell, Documentary Editor Bernard
Karpel, Managing Editor Arthur A. Cohen.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 88—50249
All Rights Reserved. No part ofthis publication may
be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any~
means, electronic or mechanical, including
photocopy, recording or any other information
storage and retrieval system, without prior
permission in writing from the publisher.
Printed and bound in the German Democratic Republic
This collection of published statements by Russian artists and critics is in-
tended to fill a considerable gap in our general knowledge of the ideas and
theories peculiar to modernist Russian art, particularly within the context of
painting. Although monographs that present the general chronological
framework of the Russian avant-garde are available, most observers have
comparatively little idea of the principal theoretical intentions of such move-
ments as symbolism, neoprimitivism, rayonism, and constructivism. In gen-
eral, the aim of this volume is to present an account of the Russian avant-
garde by artists themselves in as lucid and as balanced a way as possible.
While most of the essays of Vasilii Kandinsky and Kazimir Malevich have
already been translated into English, the statements of Mikhail Larionov,
Natalya Goncharova, and such little-known but vital figures as Vladimir
Markov and Aleksandr Shevchenko have remained inaccessible to the wider
public either in Russian or in English. A similar situation has prevailed with
regard to the Revolutionary period, when such eminent critics and artists as
Anatolii Lunacharsky, Nikolai Punin, and David Shterenberg were in the
forefront of artistic ideas. The translations offered here will, it is hoped, act
as an elucidation of, and commentary on, some of the problems encountered
within early twentieth-century Russian art.
The task of selection was a difficult one—not because of a scarcity of rel-
evant material, but on the contrary, because of an abundance, especially
with regard to the Revolutionary period. In this respect certain criteria were
observed during the process of selection: whether a given text served as a
definitive policy statement or declaration of intent; whether the text was
written by a member or sympathizer of the group or movement in question;

Vil
viii / Preface

whether the text facilitates our general understanding of important junctures

within the avant-garde. Ultimately, the selection was affected by whether
translation of a given text was available in English, although such previously
translated statements as Malevich’s ‘‘From Cubism and Futurism to Su-
prematism’’ and Naum Gabo and Anton Pevsner’s ‘Realistic Manifesto’’ have
been deemed too important to exclude. In some cases, specifically in those
of the symbolists and the ‘‘French’’ faction of the Knave of Diamonds, no
group declaration was issued so that recourse was made to less direct, but
still significant pronouncements.
Categorization presented a problem since some statements, such as David
Burliuk’s ‘‘The Voice of an Impressionist’’ or El Lissitzky’s ‘‘Suprematism
in World Reconstruction,’’ are relevant to more than one chronological or
ideological section. Similarly, the choice of part titles cannot be entirely sat-
isfactory. In the context of Part III, for example, it might be argued that
Olga Rozanova, in ‘‘The Bases of the New Creation,’’ was not advocating a
completely ‘‘abstract’’ art (as her own contemporaneous painting indicated)
and was merely developing the ideas of Nikolai Kulbin and Vladimir Mar-
kov; but it was precisely because of such a legitimate objection that the term
‘*nonobjective’’ rather than ‘‘abstract’’ or “‘nonrepresentational’’ was se-
lected, i.e., it denotes not only the latter qualities but also the idea of the
‘“subjective,’’ which, in the context of Rozanova and Malevich, is of vital
importance. Again, the inclusion of Pavel Filonov in the final part rather
than in an earlier one might provoke criticism, but Filonov was one of the
few members of the Russian avant-garde to maintain his original principles
throughout the 1930s—and hence his stand against the imposition of a more
conventional art form was a conclusive and symbolic gesture.
Unfortunately, many of the artists included here did not write gracefully
or clearly, and David Burliuk and Malevich, notably, tended to ignore the
laws of syntax and of punctuation. As the critic Sergei Makovsky remarked
wryly in 1913: “‘they imagine themselves to be writers but possess no quali-
fications for this.’ ' * However, in most cases the temptation to correct
their grammatical oversights has been resisted, even when the original was
marked by ambiguity or semantic obscurity.
Since this book is meant to serve as a documentary source and not as a
general historical survey, adequate space has been given to the bibliography
in order that scholars may both place a given statement within its general
chronological and ideological framework and pursue ideas germane to it in a
more detailed fashion. In this connection, it will be of interest to note that

* Superscript numbers refer to the Notes, beginning on p. 298.

 Preface | ix

photocopies of the original texts have been deposited in the Library of The
Museum of Modern Art, New York.
Apart from the rendition of the Russian soft and hard signs, which have
been omitted, the transliteration system is that used by the journal Soviet
Studies, published by the University of Glasgow, although where a variant
has already been established (e.g., Benois, not Benua; Burtiuk, not Burlyuk;
Exter, not Ekster), it has been maintained. Occasionally an author has made
reference to something irrelevant to the question in hand or has compiled a
list of names or titles; where such passages add nothing to the general dis-
cussion, they have been omitted, although both minor and major omissions
have in every case been designated by ellipses. Dates refer to time of publi-
cation, unless the actual text was delivered as a formal lecture before publi-
cation. Wherever possible, both year and month of publication have been
given. In the case of most books, this has been determined by reference to
Knizhnaya letopis [Book Chronicle; bibl. R11; designated in the text by
KL]; unless other reliable published sources have provided a more feasible
alternative, the data in Knizhnaya letopis have been presumed correct.
Many artists, scholars, and collectors have rendered invaluable assis-
tance in this undertaking. In particular, I would like to acknowledge my
debt to the following persons: Mr. Troels Andersen; Mrs. Celia Ascher; the
late Mr. Alfred Barr, Jr.; Mr. Herman Berninger; Dr. Milka Bliznakov;
Miss Sarah Bodine; Mr. and Mrs. Nicholas Burliuk; Miss Mary Chamot;
the late Lord Chernian; Professor Reginald Christian; Mr. George
Costakis; Dr. Charlotte Douglas; Mr. and Mrs. Eric Estorick; the late Mr.
Mark Etkind; the late Sir Naum Gabo; the late Mr. Evgenii Gunst; Mrs.
Larissa Haskell; Mr. and Mrs. Leonard Hutton; the late Mme. Nina
Kandinsky; the late Mme. Alexandra Larionov; Mr. and Mrs. Nikita D.
Lobanov-Rostovsky; Professor Vladimir Markov; M. Alexandre Polon-
ski; the late Mr. Yakov Rubinshtein; Dr. Aleksandr Rusakov and Dr.
Anna Rusakova; Dr. Dmitrii Sarabyanov; the late Dr. Aleksei Savinov;
Mr. and Mrs. Alan Smith; the late Mme. Anna Tcherkessova-Benois; and
Mr. Thomas Whitney. In addition, a number of people should be thanked
for their help in my revisions for the second edition: i.e. the late Frau
Antonina Gmurzynska; Mr. Vladimir Kostin; Mr. Aleksei Korzukhin; Dr.
Evgenii Kovtun; Professor Nicoletta Misler; and Mr. Aleksandr Parnis.
x / Preface

I am also grateful to the directors and staff of the following institutions for
allowing me to examine bibliographical and visual materials: British Mu-
seum, London; Courtauld Institute, London; Lenin Library, Moscow; Li-
brary of Congress, Washington, D.C.; Museum of Modern Art, New York;
New York Public Library; Radio Times Hulton Picture Library, London;
Royal Institute of British Architects, London; Russian Museum, Leningrad;
School of Slavonic and East European Studies, University of London; Solo-
mon R. Guggenheim Museum, New York; Sotheby and Co., London; Tay-
lor Institute, Oxford; Tretyakov Gallery, Moscow; Victoria and Albert Mu-
seum, London; Widener Library, Harvard.
Last but not least I would like to extend my gratitude and appreciation to
my two editors, Barbara Burm and Phyllis Freeman, for without their pa-
tience, care, and unfailing cooperation this book would not have been pos-
sible.

JOHN E. BOWLT
Contents

Preface Vii
List of Illustrations XV
Introduction xix

The Subjective Aesthetic: Symbolism and the Intuitive

ALEKSANDR BENOIS: History of Russian Painting in the Nineteenth Cen-

tury [Conclusion], 1902
(NIKOLAI RYABUSHINSKY]: Preface to The Golden Fleece, 1906 NW
DaviD BurRLIUK: The Voice of an Impressionist: In Defense of Painting
[Extract], 1908
NIKOLAI KULBIN: Free Art as the Basis of Life: Harmony and Dissonance
(On Life, Death, etc.) [Extracts], 1908
VASILIT KANDINSKY: Content and Form, 1910 17
VLADIMIR MarRKOy: The Principles of the New Art, 1912 23

Neoprimitivism and Cubofuturism

ALEKSANDR SHEVCHENKO: Neoprimitivism: Its Theory, Its Potentials, Its

Achievements, 1913
NATALYA GONCHAROVA: Preface to Catalogue of One-Man Exhibition,
1913
IVAN AKSENOV: On the Problem of the Contemporary State of Russian
Painting [Knave of Diamonds], 1913
Davip Bur iuk: Cubism (Surface—Plane), 1912
NATALYA GONCHAROVA: Cubism, 1912
xii / Contents

ILya ZDANEVICH and MIKHAIL LaRIONOv: Why We Paint Ourselves: A

Futurist Manifesto, 1913 Us;

Nonobjective Art

MIKHAIL LARIONOV and NATALYA GONCHAROVA: Rayonists and Fu-

turists: A Manifesto, 1913 87
MIKHAIL LaRIONOv: Rayonist Painting, 1913 gl

MIKHAIL LARIONOV: Pictorial Rayonism, 1914 100

OLGA Rozanova: The Bases of the New Creation and the Reasons Why
It Is Misunderstood, 1913 102

Suprematist Statements, 1915:

IVAN PuNI and KsENIYA BOGUSLAVSKAYA 112

KAZIMIR MALEVICH 113
IVAN KLYUN 114
MIKHAIL MENKOV 114
KAZIMIR MALEVICH: From Cubism and Futurism to Suprematism: The
New Painterly Realism, 1915 116
IVAN KLywun: Primitives of the Twentieth Century, 1915 136

Statements from the Catalogue of the ‘Tenth State Exhibition: Nonobjective

Creation and Suprematism,” 1919:

VARVARA STEPANOVA: Concerning My Graphics at the Exhibition 139

VARVARA STEPANOVA: Nonobjective Creation I4I
IvAN Kiyun: Color Art 142
KAZIMIR MALEVICH: Suprematism 143
MIKHAIL MENKOV 145
Lyusov Popova 146
OLGA ROZANOVA: Extracts from Articles 148
ALEKSANDR RODCHENKO: Rodchenko’s System 148
EL Lissirzky: Suprematism in World Reconstruction, 1920 151

IV. The Revolution and Art

NaATAN ALTMAN: ‘‘Futurism’’ and Proletarian Art, 1918 161

KomerutT: Program Declaration, 1919 164
Boris KUSHNER: “‘The Divine Work of Art’’ (Polemics), 1919 166
NIKOLAI PUNIN: Cycle of Lectures [Extracts], 1919 170
ALEKSANDR BOGDANOV: The Proletarian and Art, 1918 176
ALEKSANDR BoGDANOov: The Paths of Proletarian Creation, 1920 178
 Contents — | xill

ANATOLIT LUNACHARSKY and YUVENAL SLAVINSKY: Theses of the Art

Section of Narkompros and the Central Committee of the Union of Art
Workers Concerning Basic Policy in the Field of Art, 1920 182
DAVID SHTERENBERG: Our Task, 1920 186
ANATOLII LUNACHARSKY: Revolution and Art, 1920-22 190
VaSILI KANDINSKY: Plan for the Physicopsychological Department of
the Russian Academy of Artistic Sciences, 1923 196
Lef: Declaration: Comrades, Organizers of Life!, 1923
199

Constructivism and the Industrial Arts

VLADIMIR TATLIN: The Work Ahead of Us, 1920 205

Naum GaBo and ANTON Pevsner: The Realistic Manifesto, 1920 208
ALEKSE! GAN: Constructivism [Extracts], 1922 214
Boris ARvaTov: The Proletariat and Leftist Art, 1922 225
VIKTOR Pertsov: At the Junction of Art and Production, 1922 230

Statements from the Catalogue of the “First Discussional Exhibition of

Associations of Active Revolutionary Art,” 1924:

Concretists 240
The Projectionist Group 240
The First Working Group of Constructivists 241
The First Working Organization of Artists 243
Osip BRIk: From Pictures to Textile Prints, 1924 244
ALEKSANDR RODCHENKO: Against the Synthetic Portrait, For the Snap-
shot, 1928 250
YAKOV CHERNIKHOV: The Construction of Architectural and Machine
Forms [Extracts], 1931 254

Vi. Toward Socialist Realism

AKhRR: Declaration of the Association of Artists of Revolutionary Rus-

sla, 1922 265
AKhRR: The Immediate Tasks of AKhRR: A Circular to All Branches of
AKhRR—An Appeal to All the Artists of the U.S.S.R., 1924 268
AKhR: Declaration of the Association of Artists of the Revolution, 1928 DaTik
October—Association of Artistic Labor: Declaration, 1928 273
OST [Society of Easel Artists]: Platform, 1929 279
Four Arts Society of Artists: Declaration, 1929 281
PAVEL FILONOvV: /deology ofAnalytical Art [Extract], 1930 284
Central Committee of the All-Union Communist Party (Bolsheviks): De-
cree on the Reconstruction of Literary and Artistic Organizations, 1932 288
XIV / Contents

Contributions to the First All-Union Congress of Soviet Writers

[Extracts], 1934:

From Andrei Zhdanov’s Speech 292

From Maxim Gorky’s Speech on Soviet Literature 294
From Igor Grabar’s Speech 295
From the First Section of the Charter of the Union of Soviet Writers of
(HOS LES) SIR. 296

Notes 298
Notes to the Preface 298
Notes to the Introduction 298
Notes to the Texts 300
Bibliography 309
A: Works Not in Russian 309
B: Works in Russian 338
Index S59
List of Illustrations

Cover of the catalogue of the ‘‘Blue Rose’’ exhibition, 1907

Lev Bakst: Portrait of Aleksandr Benois, 1898
Aleksandr Benois: L’Orangerie, 1906
Nikolai Ryabushinsky, ca. 1912
Cover of Zolotoe runo [The Golden Fleece], no. 1, 1906
Pavel Kuznetsov: The Blue Fountain, 1905
Nikolai Kulbin: Portrait of David Burliuk, 1913
David Burliuk: Flowers, 1910 AN
woornn
Nikolai Kulbin: Illustration for Predstavlenie lyubvi [Presentation of
Love], 1910
Vasilii Kandinsky, ca. 1912
Vasilii Kandinsky: Cover of the catalogue of Izdebsky’s second
“*Salon,’’ 1910-11
Cover of Soyuz molodezhi (Union of Youth], no. 2, 1912
Cover of the catalogue of the first ‘‘Knave of Diamonds’”’ exhibition,
IQIO-II
Cover of Aleksandr Shevchenko’s Neo-primitivism, 1913
Aleksandr Shevchenko: Still Life in Signboard Style: Wine and Fruit,
1913
Natalya Goncharova, 1912
Natalya Goncharova: The Laundry, 1912
Natalya Goncharova: Apple Trees in Bloom, 1912
Aleksandra Exter: Cover of Aksenov’s Pikasso i okrestnosti [Picasso and
Environs], 1917
Ilya Mashkov: Self-Portrait, 1911
Aleksandr Kuprin: Still Life with a Blue Tray, 1914
Vasilii Rozhdestvensky: Still Life with Coffeepot and Cup, 1913
Aristarkh Lentulov: St. Basil’s Cathedral, Red Square, 1913
Petr Konchalovsky: Portrait of Georgii Yakulov, 1910
Robert Falk: Bottles and a Pitcher, 1912
xvi / List of Illustrations

Vladimir Burliuk: Portrait of David Burliuk, 1911

David Burliuk, ca. 1913
David Burliuk: The Headless Barber, 1912
Mikhail Larionov: Officer at the Hairdresser’s, 1909
Title page of ‘‘Why We Paint Ourselves,’’ from the journal Argus, De-
cember 1913
Page from *‘Why We Paint Ourselves’’
Title page of Oslinyi khvost i mishen {Donkey’s Tail and Target], 1913
Poster announcing ‘‘The Last Futurist Exhibition of Pictures 0.10,”’
IQI5-16
Mikhail Larionov: Rayonist Portrait of Goncharova, 1913
Natalya Goncharova: Portrait of Larionov, 1912
Mikhail Larionov: Red Rayonism, 1913
Olga Rozanova: Workbox, 1915
Photograph taken at the exhibition ‘‘o.10,”’ 1915
Ivan Puni, 1918
Ivan Puni: Suprematist Composition, 1915
Ivan Klyun, mid-1920s
Kazimir Malevich: Portrait of aBuilder Completed, 1913
Kazimir Malevich: Suprematist Painting: Black and Red Square, 1915
Cover of Kazimir Malevich’s book Ot kubizma i futurizma k suprema-
tizma, 1916
Ivan Klyun: Illustration for the booklet Tainye poroki akademikov [Secret
Vices of the Academicians], 1915
Varvara Stepanova and Aleksandr Rodchenko in their studio, Moscow,
1922
Lyubov Popova: Painterly Architectonics, 1917-18
Aleksandr Rodchenko: Painting, 1919
E] Lissitzky: The Constructor, 1924
El Lissitzky: Proun Study, ca. 1920
Vladimir Lebedev: Apotheosis of the Worker, 1920
Natan Altman: Self-Portrait, 1916
Natan Altman: Petrokommuna [Petrocommune], 1919
Cover of Iskusstvo kommuny [Art of the Commune], no. 8, 1919
Boris Kushner, ca. 1927
Nikolai Punin, 1921-22
Kazimir Malevich: Front cover of Nikolai Punin’s Tsikl lektsii [Cycle of
Lectures], 1920
Aleksandr Bogdanov, mid-1920s
Anatolii Lunacharsky, ca. 1925
David Shterenberg, ca. 1925
David Shterenberg: Composition, ca. 1918
Title page of Lef, no. 2, 1923
Design for the cover of the catalogue of the exhibition ‘‘5 x 5 =25,”’
1921
E] Lissitzky: Tatlin at Work on the Third International, ca. 1920
Vladimir Tatlin: Model for Letatlin, 1932
 List of Illustrations / XVil

Antoine Pevsner: Portrait of Marcel Duchamp, 1926 210

Aleksei Gan, mid-1920s 215
Cover of Aleksei Gan’s Konstruktivizm, 1922 216
Page from Konstruktivizm 216
Cover of Vestnik iskusstv [Art Herald], no. 1, 1922 DE)
Viktor Pertsov, 1927 232i
Georgii and Vladimir Stenberg: Poster advertising a ‘‘Negro Operetta’’ in
the second State Circus, 1928 237
Grigorii Borisov and Nikolai Prusakov: Poster for the movie The House
on Trubnaya Street, 1928 238
Galina and Olga Chichagova and Nikolai Smirnov: Page design for Smir-
nov’s book Kak lyudi ezdyat [How People Travel], 1925 239
Osip Brik, mid-1920s 245
Varvara Stepanova, photographed by Aleksandr Rodchenko, 1924 248
Lyubov Popova: Textile design, ca. 1923 248
Aleksandr Rodchenko: Photograph of Vladimir Mayakovsky, 1928 254
Yakov Chernikhov and a group of students in the early 1920s 256
Yakov Chernikhov: Illustration from his Konstruktsiya arkhitekturnykh i
mashinnykh form [The Construction of Architectural and Mechanical
Forms], 1931 257
Cover of the book /skusstvo SSSR [Art U.S.S.R. ], 1926 264
Evgenii Katsman: Listening (Members of the Communist Faction from the
Village of Baranovka), 1925 266
Isaak Brodsky: Lenin Giving a Farewell Speech to Detachments of the
Red Army about to Leave for the Polish Front on May 5, 1920, 1933 267
Cover of the book /zofront [Visual Arts Front], 1931 274
Cover of the journal Krasnaya niva [Red Field], no. 12, 1928 275
Cover of the exhibition catalogue of OST [Society of Easel Artists], 1927 280
Aleksandr Deineka: Defense of Petrograd, 1927 280
Yurii Pimenov: Give to Heavy Industry, 1927 280
Aleksandr Tyshler: Woman and an Airplane, 1926 280
Vladimir Favorsky: Lenin, 1917-1927, 1927 283
Pavel Filonov: Self-Portrait, 1909-10 285
Pavel Filonov: Untitled, 1924-25 287
Aleksandr Gerasimov: Stalin and Voroshilov in the Kremlin Grounds,
1938 289
Introduction

Although it is fashionable and convenient to accept the period 1890-1930 as

a cohesive unit in the history of Russian art and to regard it as encompassing
the birth, life, and perhaps premature death of the Russian modern move-
ment, these forty years of intense activity were essentially the culmination of
a cultural evolution that found its genesis in the first radical movements of
the 1850s. And however cursory, any survey of the achievements of the
Russian avant-garde must be carried out not in isolation, but against the
background of the key artistic attainments of the second half of the nine-
teenth century. This introduction, therefore, will examine briefly not only
the tendencies within the period with which the book is concerned, but also
the organic, evolutionary causes of their emergence and development.

‘*. . , an authentic Russian art. . . began only around the fifties.”’ ?

The decade of the 1850s marks a significant turning point in the process
of Russian culture and provides a justifiable date for establishing a division
between what might be called the ‘‘classical’’ and ‘‘modern’’ eras of the
Russian visual arts. Until the middle of the nineteenth century, the Russian
school of easel painting, as opposed to the Moscow and provincial schools
of icon painting, had been centered in St. Petersburg, where the Imperial
Academy of Fine Arts had engendered a neoclassical, idealist movement.
Divorced from the mainsprings of indigenous culture, Russian academism
remained imitative of the models of the Western masters and based its artis-
tic ideal on the technical skill and rigidity of canons inherent in the art of
classical antiquity.

xix
xx / Introduction

By the early 1850s, however, the academy was beginning to lose its
cohesion and supremacy as a combination of disturbing circumstances grad-
ually made itself felt. It became obvious that ecclesiastical and “‘salon’’ art,
for which the academy received and executed commissions, had become
moribund, devoid of inspiration. Students at the academy began to sense the
evident discrepancy between what they were expected to depict and what
they could depict—if they tumed their attention to contemporary social real-
ity. The advent of a democratic intelligentsia led by Nikolai Chernyshevsky
assisted significantly in the formation of a new artistic consciousness: Cher-
nyshevsky’s tract Esteticheskie otnosheniya iskusstva k deistvitelnosti [The
Aesthetic Relations of Art to Reality], published in 1855, attracted certain
already dissident artists, such as Vasilii Perov, who suddenly found their own
conceptions clearly mirrored in such tenets as “that object is beautiful which
displays life in itself or reminds us oflife.’’?
The practical extension of Chernyshevsky’s doctrine was the action under-
taken by fourteen students of the academy who, in 1863, protested against a
set piece for an annual competition and withdrew from its sphere of influ-
ence. Seven years later it was some of this group who formed the nucleus of
the famous Society of Wandering Exhibitions. Championed by the important
critic Vladimir Stasov and later patronized by the collector Pavel Tretyakov,
the Wanderers [from the Russian word peredvizhniki] erected a new artistic
code founded not on pure aestheticism, but on social and political attributes. In
this way, thanks particularly to such impressive painters as Ivan Kramskoi and
Vasilii Surikov, the realist movement came to dominate the artistic arena of the
1870s and 1880s.
The Wanderers, although compared sometimes to apparently similar
Western artists such as Courbet and Daumier, were a distinctive group
somewhat isolated from Europe. Indeed, their domination of the progressive
art scene in Russia, together with their own nonchalance toward, or even ig-
norance of, modern Western European trends, contributed, for example, to
the sudden but anachronistic recognition that French impressionism enjoyed
among Russian artists and collectors in the late 1890s. Conversely, their
isolation contributed to the West’s failure to recognize them, although their
formal and stylistic uninventiveness would, in any case, have found little
sympathy with a taste nurtured on the impressionists’ unprecedented effects
of light and color.
Because of their close affinities with their social and political environ-
ment, the Wanderers must be judged, inevitably, in such a context. One
critic, writing in 1915, was able to sense this in his appraisal of Ilya Repin,
perhaps the most famous of the realist Wanderers: ‘‘Repin outside Russia is
 Introduction / xxi

unthinkable. Accept him or reject him, he is outside personal evaluations, he

is from the people and is popular in the real sense of the word.’’ ? But
despite the revolutionary fervor of the initial Wanderers, their artistic system
soon lost its trenchancy of purpose. Their positivist conception of the ideals
of painting proved to be a double-edged weapon, since their attempt to ob-
serve and criticizeconcrete reality often discouraged individualistic superim-
position and hence reduced spirituality and artistic flexibility to a minimum.
By continually associating a picture with extrinsic factors, by aspiring to go
beyond the confines of the frame—often witnessed by figures moving or
pointing to something outside the canvas—the Wanderers neglected the pic-
ture as an independent work of art. The overall result was a noticeable
weakening of technique and of painterly effect, especially as the original
Wanderers were joined gradually by less gifted painters who reduced the
philosophy of their elders to badly executed sentimental views of nature.
This decline in easel painting with regard both to technique and to aes-
thetic value was matched by a similar degeneration within the context of the
applied and decorative arts. The impact of Russia’s rapid industrialization
after 1860 was felt appreciably in the countryside as peasants turned to the
towns for employment and abandoned their traditional way of life. One of
the consequences of this social transformation was the neglect of traditional
peasant art by the peasant himself, and his methods of wood carving, dye-
ing, embroidery, and /ubok making * were faced with extinction.
Aware of the impending crisis, a few people took measures to preserve
-and maintain the sources of peasant art. Paradoxically, the task of saving
this national cultural heritage was undertaken by the very classes that had
contributed to its erosion—industrialists and wealthy aristocrats. Chief
among these were Savva Mamontov and Princess Mariya Tenisheva, both of
whom were subsequently to contribute funds to Sergei Diaghilev’s famous
review, Mir iskusstva [The World of Art]. In 1870 Mamontov purchased an
estate, Abramtsevo, and there founded the artists’ colony of that name,
where so many of Russia’s fin de siécle artists lived and worked. Influenced
by the teachings of William Morris and deeply interested in Russian peasant
art, Mamontov aspired to revitalize the best traditions of his native culture
by applying them to the production of ceramics, woodwork, and theatrical
decor designed by professional artists, such as Viktor Vasnetsov and Mik-
hail Vrubei. Princess Tenisheva’s estate and art colony, Talashkino, near
Smolensk, was an enterprise essentially similar to Mamontov’s in its ideals
and output and was particularly active in the fields of furniture and fabric
design. But although Talashkino witnessed the sojourn of many important
artists and although its trading links stretched as far as London and Paris,
xxii / Introduction

Talashkino remained dominated by Abramtsevo—mainly because of Ma-

montov’s more expansive, more forceful personality. Nevertheless, with
both ventures we can perceive the beginning of a rapprochement between
Russian art and industry that would reach its creative zenith in the dynamic
designs and projects of the early and mid-1920s.
In spite of their vital inspiration, the artistic achievements of both colo-
nies, but more especially of Abramtsevo, were often versions of peasant art
adulterated either by an unprecedented mixture of local styles or by elements
of art nouveau that the artists of that age had inevitably assimilated. Such
features were particularly manifest in the theater and opera sets displayed at
performances of Mamontov’s private troupe in the 1880s and 1890s in Mos-
cow and other cities. Despite the difference in temperament, despite the fun-
damentally Muscovite character of Manontov and his colleagues, it was,
however, the St. Petersburg World of Art group that more than any other ab-
sorbed and developed this artistic heritage: the innumerable theater sets, cos-
tume designs, and indeed the whole decorative, aesthetic production of the
World of Art painters owed much of their stimulus to the stylization, formal
simplification, and bold color scale of the Abramtsevo artists. Witness to
this debt was the first issue of Mir iskusstva (November, 1898) which
contained a controversial series of reproductions of Vasnetsov’s work.
Indeed, Vasnetsov and Vrubel were but two of a great number of artists
whose peasant motifs, bright colors, simplified composition, and pictorial
rhythm heralded the marked tendency toward “geometrization,”’ styliz-
ation, and retrospective themes that figured prominently in both the World
of Art and the neoprimitivist movement.
Despite the restoration of certain values of traditional art forms that took
place at the instigation of Abramtsevo and Talashkino, the position of easel
painting as such in the 1880s and 1890s had reached a state of prostration”
quickened only by the powerful figures of Isaak Levitan, Repin, and the re-
markable Valentin Serov. The exhausted doctrines of both the academy and
the Wanderers created an impasse that bore the fruits only of weak technique
and repetitive theme. Just as forty years before, Russian art had needed,
above all, a thematic and stylistic resuscitation, so now, on the threshold of
the twentieth century, Russian art demanded a new discipline, a new school.
This was provided by the World of Art group, led by Aleksandr Benois and
Diaghilev, through its journal, its exhibitions, and its many general artistic
and critical accomplishments.
Contrary to accepted opinion, however, the World of Art was not an
avant-garde or radical group, and despite their dislike of the realists, such
members as Benois, Lev Bakst, and Konstantin Somov were traditionalists
 Introduction | xxiii

at heart, unready to accept the later achievements of the neoprimitivists and

cubofuturists. Nevertheless, the World of Art painters did, in several ways,
prepare the ground for the imminent progressive elements of Russian art—
primarily in their inclination to consider the picture as a self-sufficient work
rather than as a descriptive or tendentious essay. Even in their decorative
art—book illustration, costume design, etc.—their conceptions were strik-
ingly independent of extraneous functions, a principle maintained by the
second generation of World of Art artists such as Sergei Chekhonin. On the
other hand, their technical finesse in the art of depiction, however brilliant,
was indicative of their conservative discipline, of their respect for an
Alexandrine culture whose grace and symmetry did not allow for
revolutionary innovation. At the same time their cult of Versailles, whose
“theatricalization” of nature they counted as the eighth wonder of the
world, oriented them directly toward the decor and costume designs for
which they achieved renown. The fundamental doctrine, then, of World of
Art might be formulated as ‘art for art’s sake,” although it must be
emphasized that the group never published a manifesto or even a code of
conduct. The aestheticism of the World of Art artists, their alienation from
social and political reality (at least until 1905), and their flight to a sub-
jective and individualistic world linked them closely to the symbolist literary
movement, and this in turn stimulated that aspiration to synthesism so
characteristic of Russan art during the first quarter of the twentieth century.
But apart from technical mastery in painting and graphics, the World of
Art deserves recognition in other spheres, notably in those of ideological
propagation and of art criticism. Diaghilev’s series of exhibitions, which
demonstrated the latest trends in national art, touched off that incredible
boom in Russian art exhibitions that spanned the period 1900-30. Perhaps
the most impressive of the World of Art exhibitions was the first, in 1899, at
which not only group members, but also Western contemporaries such as
Degas, Monet, and Puvis de Chavannes were represented; and perhaps the
most avant-garde of the original series was the exhibition early in 1906 at
which Alexei von Jawlensky, Pavel Kuznetsov (leader of the Blue Rose
group), Mikhail Larionov, and other innovators were well represented—as
indeed they were in the Russian section organized by Diaghilev at the Paris
Salon d’Automne in the same year.
In its many theoretical and critical contributions, the World of Art merits
distinctive acknowledgment even though its aesthetic criteria differed pro-
foundly from those favored by the subsequent groups of the avant-garde.
The World of Art members were able to apprehend and communicate the
subtle changes not only in the art of their time, but also in their social and
xxiv / Introduction

cultural environment as.a whole, to which Benois’s many publications and

Diaghilev’s famous speech, ‘‘V chas itogov’’ [At the Hour of Reckoning],°
bear convincing testimony. The gift of rational and incisive criticism that the
World of Art members displayed was the result partly of their cultural uni-
versality and partly of their innate sense of measure; neither quality distin-
guished the theoretical contributions of the avant-garde, and in fact, it was
their very extremism, irrationality, and ebullience that created the explosive
and original ideas for which they are remembered. The moderns retained an
energy, a primitive strength that the World of Art, in its ‘‘weary wis-
dom,’’ © lacked desperately: it was the youthfulness, the wholehearted pas-
sion for painting, and the contempt for artistic norms possessed by the new
artists outside the World of Art that ensured the dynamic evolution of Rus-
sian art after 1900 and turned Moscow into a center of avant-garde activity
until well after 1917.

‘Artists of the world, disunite!’’ 7

Although at the very beginning of the twentieth century St. Petersburg

was still the focal point of Russian art, outside the capital—particularly in
Moscow and provincial centers in the south—a distinct movement opposed
to the ideals of the academy, the Wanderers, and the World of Art alike was
gathering momentum.
Indicative of this trend was the exhibition entitled the ‘‘Crimson Rose,”’’
which opened in Saratov in May 1904. This exhibition pointed to a new
approach to painting, almost to a new school, for in contrast to the precise,
refined works of the World of Art, it contained a series of pictures with
‘‘allusions to human figures’’ ® representing a ‘‘sharp departure from the
naturalistic study of nature into a world of fantasy and painterly fable.’’ 9
Among the leaders were Kuznetsov, Nikolai Sapunov, and Martiros Saryan,
who three years later were to form the nucleus of the ‘‘Blue Rose’’ exhibi-
tion in Moscow. The content of the ‘“Crimson Rose’’ show demonstrated the
direct influence of the symbolist painter Viktor Borisov-Musatov, whose re-
trospective fantasies of forgotten estates haunted by the illusive forms of
aristocratic ladies recalled, in turn, the canvases of Maurice Denis and Puvis
de Chavannes. It was the formal elasticity and emphasis on mass rather than
on line peculiar to Borisov-Musatov that was developed by those young art-
ists who in 1907 contributed to the “‘Blue Rose’’ exhibition. It is suggested
sometimes that Larionov was the organizing force behind the Blue Rose
group and its single exhibition, but this, in fact, was not the case, for al-
though a close colleague of Kuznetsov and his circle, Larionov did not
 Introduction | xxv

adhere to their principles of mystical symbolism. Undoubtedly, he was, like

them, influenced by Borisov-Musatov early in his career, as was his close
collaborator, Natalya Goncharova, but by 1907 he had broken with the mas-
ter’s traditions and had already embarked on the path of innovation that was
to lead him immediately to neoprimitivism. In any case, the essential direc-
tion had been given to the Blue Rose at the Saratov exhibition, to which, in-
cidentally, Larionov had not been invited, and the success of the future Blue
Rose members at major exhibitions of 1905 and 1906 in Moscow and St.
Petersburg pointed to their cohesion as a group—especially in the face of the
World of Art’s decline. Their financial organizer, the banker Nikolai Ryabu-
shinsky, although in no sense a paragon of taste, spared no effort to cham-
pion their cause and devoted much space in his journal, Zolotoe runo [The
Golden Fleece], to reproductions of their pictures; above all, it was thanks to
his generosity and enthusiasm in promoting them that the Blue Rose and,
later, the neoprimitivists made the impact that they did.
For the Blue Rose artists, art was a theurgic force by which to move per
realia ad realiora. Their resultant dismissal of concrete reality and their
concentration on the spiritual and the mystical led to the ‘‘trembling silhou-
ettes and blue diffusions’’ 1° of their delicate but distorted depictions. At the
same time—and because of their neglect of representational value—the Blue
Rose painters gave their attention to such intrinsic properties as color, mass,
tension, and rhythm; this new conception of artistic purpose, combined with
their conscious or unconscious neglect of technical accuracy, produced a
series of unprecedented abstracted visions. It was relevant, therefore, that
David Burliuk should praisethemso highly atthe “Link” exhibitionin Kievof
the following year at which extreme elements were already present, for it was
with the Blue Rose that the Russian avant-garde really began. But the ‘“‘Blue
Rose’’ exhibition itself marked the culmination of the group’s collective
search, and the very name, a horticultural fiction, proved to symbolize not
only its philosophical aspirations, but also its inability to exist alienated
from life.
The ideas and ideals of the Blue Rose, not formulated or published as
such,!! were quickly overshadowed as more assertive artists came to engage
public attention with their new and provocative achievements. This is not to
say that the highly subjective art of the Blue Rose provided no artistic
legacy; the little-known but important so-called Impressionist group,
supported by Nikolai Kulbin, Mikhail Matyushin, and others, and the more
famous St. Petersburg Union of Youth movement, shared many of the Blue
Rose tenets and favored a subjective, intuitive approach to art, as Kulbin’s
and Vladimir Markov’s essays emphasized so readily. Their concentration
xxvl_ / Introduction

on the irrational, psychological conditions of the creative process can be

linked, in turn, with a tentative, although untitled, expressionist movement
in Russia to which one might assign David Burliuk and, perhaps, Pavel
Filonov.
On a different level, the aspriation toward synthesism and the highly indi-
vidualistic interpretation of art germane both to the Moscow symbolists and
to the St. Petersburg ‘‘intuitivists’’ can, of course, be identified with Vasilii
Kandinsky. And while Kandinsky had no direct contact with the Blue
Rose—he was, in fact, nearer to the St. Petersburg stylists in the early and
mid-1900s—he sympathized unquestionably with their spiritual search, as
his essay ‘‘Content and Form’’ (see p. 17 ff.) would indicate. Furthermore,
Kandinsky was in communication with Kulbin and his circle, witness to
which was the fact that Kulbin read ‘‘On the Spiritual in Art’? on Kan-
dinsky’s behalf at the St. Petersburg All-Russian Convention of Artists at
the end of 1911; in addition, Kandinsky’s ideas on color and form had much
more in common with those of the Russian symbolists and, specifically, of
Kulbin. In this respect the whole problem of symbolist art and its influence
on the development of Russian abstract painting, particularly on the forma-
tion of synthetic/subjective abstraction (Kandinsky, Kazimir Malevich) as
opposed to analytical/objective abstraction (El Lissitzky, Vladimir Tatlin), is
one that deserves serious study.
Since the emergence of the Blue Rose group in the early 1900s (although
it was not named formally until 1907), it had become increasingly evident
that the evolution of Russian art would be maintained by provincial forces
rather than by a sophisticated ‘“‘capital’’ movement (to use David Burliuk’s
ironical term 1”). It is significant that most of the neoprimitivists and cubo-
futurists came from rural communities; and undoubtedly, their direct contact
with traditional peasant art shaped much of their theoretical and practical
work and instigated their discovery and advocacy of Russian national art and
of the Russian primitives, such as Niko Pirosmanashvili. It was, in fact, at
the regular Moscow Association of Artists’ exhibition in April 1907 that the
first definite tendencies toward a neoprimitivist style were presented: it was
immediately clear from the vigorous canvases of such contributors as Gon-
charova, Larionov, Malevich, Aleksei Morgunov, Vasilii Rozhdestvensky,
Aleksandr Shevchenko, and Georgii Yakulov (also, incidentally, Kan-
dinsky) that the trend was away from nebulous shapes and allusive subjects,
from subdued color scale and absence of narrative, toward new, vivid, and
dynamic conceptions of form, mass, and color. The predominance of still
lifes and portraits (the latter almost absent at the ‘‘Blue Rose’’) indicated
 Introduction | xxvii

further the choice of genres that was to be favored by the new Russian
painters at least until 1912.
These salient features of what came to be known as neoprimitivism domi-
nated Russian avant-garde art between 1908 and 1912, the period that wit-
nessed the sudden appearance of ‘‘wooden spoons instead of aesthetes’
orchids.’’ '? The recognition and impact of such art forms as the Jubok,
signboard painting, and children’s drawing had already been witnessed dur-
ing the 1880s and 1890s as a result of the Abramtsevo and Talashkino
activities, but the second wave of interest created a less stylized, less ‘‘nos-
talgic” product. The neoprimitivists, in fact, found in naive art a complex of
devices that had little in common with the basic aesthetic of Western idealist
painting, and these they emphasized often to the detriment of mimetic value.
Their disproportionate concentration on such specific artistic concepts as in-
verted perspective, flat rendition of figures, distinct vulgarization of form,
outline by color rather than by line, and consequently, the shift in visual
priorities began a process of reduction that one is tempted to relate ulti-
mately to Malevich’s White on White (1918).
In a lecture in 1938, the painter Kuzma Petrov- Vodkin summed up this
period of artistic fragmentation: ‘‘There was no school. . . . In Moscow,
Zolotoe runo was ending its days in languor . . . the banner raised by
Shchukin began its revolutionary course. Young artists bristled up... .
became anarchistic, and rejected any teaching.’’ '* The banner raised by
Sergei Shchukin—and, one should add, by Ivan Morozov—was a reference
to the two large collections of contemporary Western painting that both men
had accumulated by the mid-1900s.
The effect of canvases by Cézanne, Derain, Gauguin, Matisse, Van
Gogh, etc., on the young Moscow artists was considerable, although not
exclusive. The private showings of these collections undoubtedly influenced
the aims of certain movements within the Russian avant-garde, but there
was, after about'1910, an equally intense reaction against them, notably by
Goncharova and Larionov, who declared their allegiance to indigenous tradi-
tions—as Goncharova indicated in her speech on ‘‘Cubism’’ of 1912 (see p.
Pals
This dual attitude to the Western masters produced two distinct trends
within the Russian neoprimitivist movement, a phenomenon noticeable espe-
cially in the framework of the Knave of Diamonds group. This important
group, convoked by Larionov and Aristarkh Lentulov in 1910, divided
quickly into ‘‘Russian’’ and ‘‘French’’ factions after its first exhibition,
December 1910/January 1911. This inner divergence culminated in the de-
xxviii / Introduction

parture of Larionov and his sympathizers and their formation of the Don-
key’s Tail group later in 1911, while the more academic faction of the
Knave of Diamonds retained the original name and changed the organization
from a mere exhibition platform into a formal society. As such, the Knave
of Diamonds maintained a cohesive, although increasingly eclectic front
until 1918, and since it looked to Paris for inspiration, such highly compe-
tent members as Robert Falk, Petr Konchalovsky, Aleksandr Kuprin, Ilya
Mashkov, and Rozhdestvensky were labeled variously as Cézannists and
cubists. Larionov, on the other hand, attempted to base his new conception
of art on indigenous and Eastern stimuli and hence disowned any rela-
tionship with Western painting; but in fact, as his futurist and rayonist state-
ments reveal, Larionov was not averse to borrowing certain concepts from
Italian futurism, but they did not form the basic substance of his artistic
tracts. In contrast to the articulate Larionov, the ‘‘French’’ members of the
Knave of Diamonds were comparatively reticent, an attitude paralleled in
their more detached, more measured approach to painting. Although they
did not issue a joint statement of intent, we can accept Ivan Aksenov’s cri-
tique as their formal apologia and can summarize their artistic credo as the
“‘deliberate simplification and coarsening of form and the resultant conden-
sation of color and precision of line.’’ 1° Under the influence of cubism,
most members of the Knave of Diamonds moved from decorativeness and
polychromy toward a more acute analysis of form and a more architectonic
composition. But however distorted their pictorial interpretations, they never
lost contact with the world of objects and remained at a stage before nonre-
presentation. Even at the end of 1914, when French cubist infiuence was
most pronounced, the critic Yakov Tugendkhold could write of their current
exhibition that the “‘sense of reality . . . and the gravitation toward the
beautiful flesh of objects has again been found.’’ 1° Always opposed to
caprice and debilitating psychological connotations in art, the majority of the
‘‘French’’ Knave of Diamonds artists were among the first to accept the re-
alist principles of AKhRR [Association of Artists of Revolutionary Russia]
in the early 1920s.
One of the most recognizable characteristics of the more derivative can-
vases of the Knave of Diamonds members is their lack of movement, their
often monolithic heaviness. And it was this in particular that distinguished
them from the ‘‘Russian’’ tendency of neopriniitivism favored by Gon-
charova, Larionov, et al. The latter artists’ evident interest in the dynamic
qualities of the canvas—tension, rhythm, contrast—led them immediately to
the principles of Russian cubofuturism and rayonism. Although Filippo
Marinetti’s ‘‘Futurist Manifesto’’ was published in Russia in 1909, and ex-
 Introduction | xxix

tracts from similar Italian declarations appeared in the review Soyuz molo-
dezhi [Union of Youth] in 1912,!7 Italian futurism as a whole was in-
terpreted very freely by Russian artists and, while exerting a certain
influence, did not constitute a key element of the Russian avant-garde. Suf-
fice it to say that futurism in Russia came to embrace all extreme movements
in art and literature from neoprimitivism to suprematism. It was because of
this that Larionov managed to include both futurism and rayonism within a
single manifesto. To a limited extent, the Italian and Russian versions of fu-
turism did share one common essential, i.e., the concept of dynamism, of
mechanical movement, and it was this in part that gave impetus to the ex-
treme leftist painters, who quickly condemned the Knave of Diamonds as an
academic flower. Futurism and rayonism, however diverse, reflected the
new reality of urban civilization, of men dependent on machines: such
famous canvases as Goncharova’s Cats (1912), Larionov’s Glass (1912-13),
and Malevich’s Knife Grinder (1912) are linked closely to the concepts of
speed, light, and energy.
It is a curious paradox, however, that both Larionov and Malevich could
have reacted against their own dynamic, industrial conceptions of art and
subsequently have imbued rayonism and suprematism with spiritual, astral
qualities. In a letter to Alfred Barr in 1930, for example, Larionov could
describe rayonism in terms rather different from those in his ‘‘Rayonist
Painting’ (see pp. 91 ff.): ‘‘Ultimately, rayonism admits of the possibility
of a definition and a physical measurement of love, ecstasy, talent—those
spiritual qualities of the lyrical and epic state. . . .’’ 18 It was this marked
tendency toward an intuitive, mystical fourth dimension (and not toward
a Western, temporal one), this ‘‘painting of the soul’’ '® that formed the
genuine and original contribution to the international cubofuturist and ab-
stract movements.
As the old traditions collapsed, numerous groups arose, for the most part
intensifying the process of disintegration, while, inevitably, not always ad-
vancing valuable replacements. Such a criticism might be leveled at some of
David Burliuk’s theoretical and practical endeavors, which were often the
product of unbridled enthusiasm rather than of systematic thinking. But
Burliuk’s saving grace was his elemental vitality and unflinching organiza-
tional support of progressive art. Even after the Revolution, on his emigra-
tory journey to Japan and the United States, he found time to contribute to
exhibitions and discussions of the new art in central and eastern Siberia.?°
Sensitive critics such as Benois tended to dismiss his work outright and even
invented the verb burliukat, with its derogatory meaning of ‘‘to fool
around.’’ The verb was applied to many artists of the time who took advan-
xxx / Introduction

tage of the contemporary cultural atomization to produce works outrageous

and sensational, but capricious and ephemeral; on the other hand, there were
many who searched dutifully for a style, a system that they attempted to
base on definite, meaningful principles—such as Malevich and the neglected
Shevchenko.
In this respect it would be erroneous to assume that those who tended
toward complete abstraction were necessarily more gifted, more independent
than those who pursued a middle or more conventional course. One of the
distinctive features of post-1910 Russian art was its intricate complex of
groups and subgroups whose ideologies and creative output were by no
means always oriented exclusively toward abstract art. Apart from the
Knave of Diamonds, the Impressionists or ‘‘intuitivists’’ of St. Petersburg,
led by the ‘‘crazy doctor,’’ Kulbin, made a valuable contribution to the de-
velopment both of art theory and of actual creation without resorting to
complete abstraction. Kulbin’s theory of the triangle,”' his lectures on free
art (which, according to a contemporaneous observer, resembled a ‘‘fast
gallop along . . . all kinds of aesthetic conceptions’’ ?”) were an attempt to
regard art in nonliterary terms, i.e., to seek an aesthetic value system
founded on artistic properties other than mimetic accuracy. In this way, Kul-
bin, together with David Burliuk, Markov, and Olga Rozanova, were al-
ready anticipating Nikolai Punin’s call in 1919 for a purely “‘scientific’’ art
criticism (see pp. 170 ff.).
To some, the theory and practice of Kulbin and his associates, such as
Matyushin, were a fashionable gesture, an appendage to the postsymbolist
decadence of spiritualist séances, table tapping, and erotic mysticism that
had flowered on the heritage of the Blue Rose. Yet however controversial
they were, Kulbin and his circle, some of whom moved within the wider
context of the Union of Youth, played a considerable ideological and or-
ganizational role in the cultural arena as a whole: it was on Kulbin’s invita-
tion that Marinetti visited. Russia for the first time in 1914, it was with Kul-
bin’s encouragement that artists such as Filonov and Rozanova came to the
fore and that, in turn, the whole synthesist endeavor of the avant-garde
achieved its profound and permanent results.
The rapid development toward, and confirmation of, ‘‘art as an end in it-
self?’ was stimulated in particular by three exhibitions organized »y
Larionov—the. ‘‘Donkey’s Tail’’ (1912), the ‘‘Target’’ (1913), and ‘‘No.
4’’ (1914). Essentially, the first was a demonstration of Larionov’s and
Goncharova’s latest achievements in neoprimitivism and futurism, ex-
emplified by several of Larionov’s Soldier pictures, and left comparatively
little space for the no less exciting contributions of Marc Chagall, Malevich,
 Introduction | xxxi

Tatlin, and the painter and critic Markov. Organizing the ‘‘Donkey’s Tail’’
exhibition in direct opposition to the second ‘‘Knave of Diamonds’’ exhibi-
tion, which had just closed, Larionov voiced his disdain forcefully: ‘‘My
task is not to confirm the new art, because after that it would cease to be
new, but as far as possible to try to move it forward. After organizing the
Knave of Diamonds two years ago . . . I did not realize that under that
name would arise such a popularization of works that have nothing in com-
mon either with the new art or with the old. . . .”’ 23 The second exhibi-
tion, the ‘‘Target,’’ was more precise in its ideological proclamation and, in
visual terms, acted as the first public platform for the advocacy of rayonism.
Moreover, the latter was represented not only in its figurative stage, e.g.,
Larionov’s Rayonist Sausage and Mackerel (1912), but also in its abstract
development, e.g., Goncharova’s Rayonist Perception—Blue and Brown
(1913). A year later, shortly before he and Goncharova left for Paris,
Larionov staged the exhibition “‘No. 4,’’ which, although subtitled ‘‘Exhibi-
tion of Futurist, Rayonist, and Primitivist Pictures,’’ was primarily a display
of rayonist and so-called pneumorayonist works. Larionov’s preface to the
catalogue underlined the contemporaneous orientation toward painting for
painting’s sake, even though most of the exhibits were still representational
or at least thematic: ‘* ‘Exhibition No. 4’ is the fourth in the cycle of exhibi-
tions organized by a group of artists who have nothing in common except
youth, a forward striving, the solution of mainly painterly problems, and a
uniform mood of feeling and thought. . . .”’ 74 Apart from the ‘“‘electric’’
and rayonist pictures by Larionov and Goncharova—some of which, signifi-
cantly, were called ‘‘constructions’’ [postroeniya]|—the ferroconcrete poems
of Vasilii Kamensky and Shevchenko’s essays in dynamism exemplified the
fundamentals of cubofuturism.
Rayonism was again represented by Goncharova and Larionov during
their reappearance in Moscow at the grand ‘‘Exhibition of Painting. 1915”
in March of that year.2> However, their efforts were overshadowed by other,
more audacious contributions, and the whole exhibition proved to be a sen-
sational scandal: ‘‘the Burliuks hung up a pair of trousers and stuck a bottle
to them; . . . Mayakovsky exhibited a top hat that he had cut in two and
nailed two gloves next to it. . . . Kamensky asked the jury persuasively to
let him exhibit a live mouse in a mousetrap. . . .”’ ?® Such diverse artists as
Natan Altman, Chagall, and Kandinsky added to the pictorial kaleidoscope;
but perhaps the most original and valuable contribution was by Tatlin, an
artist who, together with Malevich, would exert a profound influence on the
remaining phases of the avant-garde movement. It was evident from Tatlin’s
exhibits, one of which consisted of a ‘‘leg knocked off a table, a sheet of
xxxii / Introduction

iron, and a broken glass jug,’’ 27 that he was concerned with constructing a
work of art by combining and contrasting the intrinsic properties of various
materials. This move away from the surface of the canvas to a three-dimen-
sional conception had, of course, already led Tatlin to the creation of his
reliefs and counterreliefs; two of his painterly reliefs were presented at the
parallel exhibition ‘‘Tramway V,’’ organized by Ivan Puni in Petrograd.
The year 1915, therefore, pinpointed two distinct tendencies within the
avant-garde movement: one toward volume, the other toward plane. Tatlin
and Malevich emerged as the respective leaders of these two fundamental
but contradictory concepts.
Although Malevich was represented at the ‘‘Exhibition of Painting.
1915,’ it is not known precisely which works he showed because his con-
tributions were not detailed either in the catalogue or in the reviews. It is
doubtful that he sent examples of suprematism since at the concur-
rent ‘‘Tramway V’’ his canvases, such as Portrait of M. V. Matyushin
(1913) and Englishman in Moscow (1913-14), were still representational.
Although in his writings Malevich dated his formulation of suprematism in
1913, there is little concrete evidence in the form of exhibition catalogues
and contemporaneous descriptions that would corroborate this assertion. On
the other hand, it is entirely possible that by 1914 Malevich was already
thinking in terms of the “‘new painterly realism,’’ since his paintings and
graphics of the time had definite alogical, abstract elements. In any case, the
idea of art as something beyond representational value was, of course, not
new and had been propounded by Kandinsky, Markov, and Rozanova at
least as early as 1913; undoubtedly Malevich relied on certain of their ideas,
particularly those of Markov, and expanded them into his theory of suprema-
tism, which saw its written and visual propagation at the very end of
1915. At the exhibition “‘o.10,’’ organized by Puni (December 1915/Jan-
uary 1916), Suprematist compositions occupied the center of attention, and
their effect was augmented both by collective manifestoes (see pp. 110 ff.)
and by a collective picture painted by Kseniya Boguslavskaya, Ivan Klyun,
Malevich, Mikhail Menkov, and Puni, presumably according to suprematist
principles. In addition, Malevich accompanied his own contribution by an
independent declaration in the catalogue: ‘‘In naming certain pictures, I do
not wish to show that I have regarded real forms as heaps of formless pain-
terly masses out of which a painterly picture was created having nothing
common with the model.’’ ** It should, however, be noted that although
many of the contributions were exercises in combinations of purely painterly
elements, the word ‘‘suprematist’’ did not accompany any of them.
The ‘‘o.10”’ exhibition was memorable for publicizing a second innova-
 Introduction | xxxili

tion—Tatlin’s artistic method: not only was a whole room devoted to his
reliefs, but a pamphlet on his reliefs and corner reliefs was published simul-
taneously. Unlike Malevich, however, Tatlin had previously exhibited his
abstract works several times since his one-man show in May 1914 and had
already influenced younger artists, such as Lev Bruni, so that their combina-
tions of materials and textures on surface and in space were the dominant
feature at the “‘Shop’’ exhibition, organized by Tatlin in February 1916.
This exhibition served essentially as a vehicle for advancing both painterly
and constructional reliefs (by Bruni, Klyun, Tatlin), but the ideological op-
ponents (Malevich, Lyubov Popova, and Nadezhda Udaltsova) were well
represented too, despite the fact that Malevich submitted no suprematist
works.
Although the ‘‘Shop’’ was the last major exhibition of the leftists before
the Revolution, Malevich, Tatlin, and their confréres did not diminish their
artistic activities. But however much the developments of suprematism and
the counterrelief constituted audacious advances in art and however far-
reaching their effect, ultimately they questioned the very legality of easel
art: it was felt that the absolute in art had been reached, and although
Malevich beckoned us to the zero of form, he provided no function for art,
no pragmatic justification. As early as 1909 Lentulov, in a letter to Benois,
had voiced his reservations as to the ultimate purpose of the avant-
garde: ‘‘You involuntarily ask yourself: ‘What next? What’s to be
done with it all? Does anybody need it?’ ’’ ?® A temporary answer to
such questions was provided by the Revolution of October 1917.

“‘Cubism and futurism were revolutionary movements in art,

anticipating the revolution in the economic
and political life of 1917.’’ 3°
The Revolution of October 1917 affected Russian art immediately in two
ways: on the one hand, it undermined or destroyed all cultural groupings; on
the other, it gave impetus to the leftist currents that, in certain governmental
circles, were accepted as both the herald and the mirror of the social meta-
morphosis.
This sudden formal recognition of such artists as Altman, Malevich,
Aleksandr Rodchenko, and Tatlin stemmed from a variety of reasons: most
of the leftists were convinced of their basic affinities with the Revolution it-
self; Anatolii Lunacharsky, head of the newly established Narkompros [Peo-
ple’s Commissariat for Enlightenment], was sympathetic to the radicals both
in art and in literature and hence acted as a vital link between them and
xxxiv / Introduction

Lenin; their numbers were swelled, albeit briefly, by the return of colleagues
from abroad—Chagall, Kandinsky, Naum Gabo, Anton Pevsner, David
Shterenberg, et al. Such favorable circumstances enabled many of the avant-
garde artists to take up positions of administrative and pedagogical authority
within the new cultural hierarchy, and consequently, the leftist dictatorship
in art became a definite, although ephemeral, reality. Specifically, the uto-
pian ideas of this leftist dictatorship were disseminated both on a theoretical
and on a practical level in three essential ways: through state exhibitions and
state acquisition of leftist works, through infiltration into the reorganized art
schools, and through the establishment of highly progressive research pro-
grams within various influential institutions. But because of this broad artis-
tic tolerance, many divisions and conflicts concerning the direction and
function of art arose among the leftists themselves. Some, like Altman,
believed that Communist futurism [Komfut] was the only doctrine that could
successfully transform all the ideological, creative, and organizational
aspects of art. Others, like Rozanova, a member of Proletkult (the proletar-
ian culture organization, led by Aleksandr Bogdanov), believed that only the
proletariat (i.e., not the peasantry) could create a proletarian art and that
much of Russia’s cultural inheritance could be ignored. Of all the major art
organizations, in fact, Proletkult was the only one that managed to maintain
a degree of independence, perhaps because it had been established as a for-
mal entity as early as February 1917—and this position worried Lenin con-
siderably. By 1919 Proletkult had a substantial sphere of influence, operat-
ing its own studios in all the main urban centers, and its emphasis -on
industry allied it immediately with the emergent constructivist groups. Con-
sequently, its formal annexation to Narkompros in 1922 and the automatic
restriction of its activities was a political move that presaged the increasing
government interference in art affairs during the mid- and late 1920s.!
Through the Visual Arts Section [IZO] of Narkompros,*? the now ‘‘of-
ficial’’ artists embarked on an ambitious program of reconstruction. In 1918,
under the auspices of Tatlin in Moscow and Shterenberg (general head of
[ZO) in Petrograd, the Moscow Institute of Painting, Sculpture, and Archi-
tecture and the Stroganov Art School were integrated to form the Free State
Art Studios [Svomas—later Vkhutemas/Vkhutein],?° and the St. Petersburg
Academy was abolished and replaced by the Petrograd State Free Art Educa-
tional Studios [Pegoskhuma—later Svomas, and then the academy again 34].
Such studios provided a further dynamic impulse to the development of
avant-garde art mainly because of their initially flexible structure and be-
cause of their radical teaching faculty: Klyun, Malevich, Rodchenko, Shev-
chenko, and Udaltsova were among those who worked at Svomas/Vkhu-
 Introduction | xxxv

temas; Altman, Puni, Shterenberg, and Tatlin (initially in Moscow) worked

at Pegoskhuma/Svomas. Symptomatic of the artistic license observed at
these art schools during the early days was the resolution carried by art
students at their conference in Petrograd in April 1918 that ‘‘art and artists
must be absolutely free in every manifestation of their creativity . . . art af-
fairs are the affairs of artists themselves. . . .”’ 35
This attitude was shared by the members of Inkhuk [Institute of Artistic
Culture], which during the short period of its autonomous existence attracted
many important artists and critics. Inkhuk was formed in May 1920 and was
based in Moscow originally under Kandinsky; later it had affiliations in Pet-
rograd (under Tatlin and Punin) and in Vitebsk (under Malevich) and at one
time boasted contact with Berlin (through Lissitzky and the journal
Veshch/Gegenstand/Objet [Object]), Holland, Hungary, and even Japan. Es-
sentially Inkhuk acted as a forum for the discussion and analysis of labora-
tory investigations into various properties and effects of art, and during its
early phase Kandinsky’s influence could be perceived in the institute’s ten-
dency to concentrate on the synthetic and psychological aspects of the artis-
tic disciplines. Kandinsky compiled a long and intricate program for Inkhuk
that was to have considered art from three basic standpoints: (1) the theory
of individual aspects of art; (2) the theory of the interrelationship of individ-
ual aspects of art; (3) the theory of monumental art or art as a whole.?® Kan-
dinsky himself had the opportunity to observe activities concerned with this
comparative approach: ‘‘musicians chose three basic chords, painters were
invited to depict them first of all in pencil, then a table was compiled, and
each artist had to depict each chord in color.’’ 37 However, Kandinsky’s
psychological approach to art led to disagreements with his colleagues, who
were more inclined to regard art as a material object devoid of subjective,
intuitive connotations. Consequently, the program was rejected, and Kan-
dinsky left Inkhuk at the end of 1920. After his departure, the Inkhuk
administration was reorganized by Rodchenko, Varvara Stepanova, the
sculptor Aleksei Babichev, and the musician Nadezhda Bryusova. To this
end, Babichev drew up a new and rational plan based exclusively on theoret-
ical and laboratory principles.2® In tum, however, there was a reaction
within Inkhuk against this pure ‘‘culture of materials,’’ culminating in the
fall of 1921 with the advocacy of industrial and applied art; and with the en-
rollment of supporters of industrial design, such as Boris Arvatov, Osip
Brik, Boris Kushner, Popova, and Nikolai Tarabukin, Inkhuk became iden-
tified with the productional-art movement. At the end of 1921 Inkhuk was
attached to the Russian Academy of Artistic Sciences, which had been
formed during the summer of that year. It was while the Academy of Artis-
xxxvi / Introduction

tic Sciences was being projected, in fact, that Kandinsky reworked his plan
for Inkhuk and presented it in abbreviated form as a proposal for the pro-
gram of the Physicopsychological Department within the academy (see pp.
196 ff.).
Equally innovative activities were being pursued by the Petrograd affilia-
tion of Inkhuk, called IKhK, which arose in 1922 as an extension of the Mu-
seum of Painterly Culture. IKhK was divided into four sections: Painterly
Culture, headed by Malevich; Organic Culture, headed by Matyushin; Mate-
rial Culture, headed initially by Tatlin; and General Ideology, headed by
Punin. Within their sections, Malevich and Tatlin devoted much time to the
study of ‘‘new forms for the new life and for art industry,’’ while Ma-
tyushin’s experiments remained purely in the laboratory realm, oriented to
such specific problems as ‘‘color fields’’ and ‘‘space and its significance for
aesthetic value.’’ *° Although IKhK was smaller than its Moscow counter-
part, it contained the most promising of Malevich’s students, especially
Ilya Chashnik and Nikolai Suetin, who had followed him from Vitebsk, as
well as Matyushin’s gifted assistants, led by Boris and Mariya Ender.
Despite constant criticism, IKhK, like Inkhuk, managed to take a very
active part in artistic affairs: it organized the large exhibition ““Union of
New Trends in Art” in 1922 and staged Velimir Khlebnikov’s Zangezi, with
sets by Tatlin, in 1923. IKhK was closed in 1926, and by 1929 Inkhuk,
which iost its autonomy in 1924, had also ceased to function.
Despite the enthusiasm and intense activity peculiar to the Revolutionary
period, comparatively little “‘pure art’’ was created between 1918 and 1920.
This was due, in the main, to the deliberate orientation of artistic energies
toward the so-called mass activities involving street decoration, designs for
mass dramatizations, and agit-transport, to the economic and material uncer-
tainty of the country (Tatlin, for example, experienced great difficulty in ac-
quiring appropriate metals and plaster), *° and to the underlying theoretical
obscurity of the role of art in a socialist framework. Such reasons accounted
for the large proportion of pre-Revolutionary works submitted to the sequence
of state exhibitions of 1918-21 and to the famous Berlin exhibition of 1922;
they accounted also for the temporary cessation of written manifestoes con-
cerned with easel art. At the same time, many of the articles and proclama-
tions that appeared in such journals as /skusstvo kommuny [Art of the Com-
mune] and /zobrazitelnoe iskusstvo [Visual Art] were rhetorical and florid,
but deficient in practicable ideas. In any case, since politics had become
suddenly an integral part of the artist’s world view, his statements of the
Revolutionary period were often correspondingly tendentious and extrinsic,
and not until about 1922 do we once more find manifestoes concerned
 Introduction /~ xxxvii

specifically with the aesthetics of art. It was then that a second, but weaker,
wave of interest in pure or easel art was voiced in declaration or in public
debate.
Indicative of this renewed interest was the exhibition ‘‘5 x 5 =25,”’
organized in Moscow in September 1921 under the auspices of Inkhuk. The
‘*five,’’ each with five contributions, were Aleksandra Exter, Popova, Rod-
chenko, Stepanova, and Aleksandr Vesnin, who Set as their task to examine
‘color, partially solving the problems of the interrelationships of color, its
mutual tension, its rhythmization, and to pass on to color construction based
on the laws of color itself.’’ 4" Rodchenko gave his farewell to pure painting
in three canvases painted respectively red, yellow, and blue. These he saw
as the culmination of a process that he described in the catalogue:
1918 At the exhibition ‘‘Nonobjective Creation and Suprematism’’ in
Moscow I proclaimed spatial constructions and, in painting, Black on
Black, for the first time.
1920 At the Nineteenth State Exhibition I proclaimed line as a factor of
construction for the first time.
1921 At this exhibition I have proclaimed three basic colors in art for the
first time.4?
But the 5 X 5 =25 group disintegrated quickly with the realization that art as
an end in itself had already run its course, a move that had been anticipated
by Stepanova’s statement that “‘technology and industry have confronted art
with the problem of construction not as contemplative representation, but as
an active function.’’ #2 At a plenary session of Inkhuk on November 24,
1921, the majority of the group, together with their associates, condemned
easel painting as outmoded and useless and advocated new artistic values in
the ‘‘absoluteness of industrial art and constructivism as its only form of
expression.’’ 44 In accordance with this declaration many entered the world
of industrial production: Popova and Stepanova turned to textile design,
Rodchenko to photography, Vesnin to architecture, etc.
Although this was an abrupt and extreme measure, the more so since the
majority of the artists concerned had been established painters, their action
had already been foreshadowed by a group of young artists from the Mos-
cow Svomas who were members of Obmokhu [Society of Young Artists].
As early as 1919, they had been provided with a studio equipped with metal-
cutting machines and stamping machines and with welding apparatus, which
indicated their fundamental conception of art as something applied and
extra-aesthetic. They designed and produced stencils for postcards and
badges, worked on theater sets, constructed traveling libraries, and de-
xxxvill / Introduction

corated streets and squares. Prominent members of Obmokhu were Konstan-

tin Medunetsky and the Stenberg brothers, Georgii and Vladimir, whose
achievements were shown at the four exhibitions between 1919 and 1923;
Rodchenko also joined the society in 1921. It was amid the ranks of Ob-
mokhu that dissatisfaction with the eclectic policy of Narkompros was first
voiced, for its members saw the grandiose Narkompros exhibitions, cul-
minating in the Berlin showing of 1922, as a sure sign of artistic drift and
debility. The reaction of the Obmokhu artists was to advance constructivism
as the guideline of socialist art, an endeavor in which they were assisted by
the propaganda resources of Lef [Levyi front iskusstv—Left Front of the
Arts]. The Stenberg brothers, who became famous for their movie posters,
and Medunetsky contributed as a constructivist group to the ‘‘First Discus-
sional Exhibition of Associations of Active Revolutionary Art’’ in 1924 (see
pp. 237 ff.), there confronting the ebullient Aleksei Gan and his rival group
of constructivists.
However rhetorical Gan’s formulation and apologia of constructivism
published in 1922, the movement emerged clearly as ‘‘antiart,’’ condemning
art as the individualistic manifestation of a bourgeois consciousness and as
alien to a collective society. The initial consequence for the early construc-
tivists, Medunetsky and Rodchenko among them, had been to construct ar-
ticles of ‘‘modern’’ materials such as aluminum, steel, and glass according
to the precise laws of mechanics. Essentially, such compositions were as ab-
stract and as ‘‘artistic’’ as the pre-Revolutionary achievements of Tatlin, and
the constructivists were, in turn, accused of bourgeois tendencies. Soon,
however, under pressure from Proletkult and Inkhuk, the ideas of construc-
tivism came to be applied to technological design, a move that Tatlin fore-
shadowed, of course, in his Tower or Monument for the Third International
of 1919-20; hence, in direct contrast to the purist pre-Revolutionary move-
ments and, of course, to Gabo and Pevsner’s arguments, constructivism
became utilitarian. The immediate result of this revision was the dynamic
development of architectural and mechanical projects, such as Grigorii Bark-
hin’s Izvestiya building (1927), Yakov Chernikhov’s industrial complexes
(late 1920s—early 1930s), and on a rather different level, Malevich’s experi-
mental constructions, the so-called arkhitektony and planity. To a consider-
able extent, constructivist concepts were incorporated into designs for tex-
tiles (Exter, Popova, Stepanova), the theater (Exter, Popova, Aleksandr
Vesnin), and typography (Rodchenko, Lissitzky).
What is often forgotten in this context is that not only artists but also art
critics were affected by the trend toward constructivism. Punin’s cycle of
lectures, delivered in 1919, demonstrated his belief in the need to discover
 Introduction | xxxix

the constant, rational laws of art so that art criticism, like constructivism,
would become a science and leave behind its intuitive, literary principles.
As Tugendkhold wrote in 1926: ‘‘The fundamental methodological aspira-
tion of Marxist art criticism is the affirmation of a scientific approach to
atte” 45

While in general, the most radical artists turned their attention to produc-
tional design and concentrated on this throughout the 1920s, some still con-
cerned themselves with easel painting but began to reverse the trend from
futurist to realist representations. This change in artistic thinking was in-
spired partly by the founding of several groups of easel artists in the early
1920s. One of these was NOZh [Novoe obshchestvo zhivopistsev—New So-
ciety of Painters], a group of former pupils of Exter, Malevich, and Tatlin
who were quick to respond to the new mass taste, as they indicated in their
declaration at their first exhibition in 1922: ‘‘We, former leftists in art, were
the first to feel the utter rootlessness of further analytical and scholastic aber-
rations. . . . We have not taken the road tramped by the theory of con-
structivism, for constructivism, in proclaiming the death of art, conceives
man as an automaton. ... We want to create realistic works of
art. . . .’’ 4® The force of such a declaration, diametrically opposed to
statements of the preceding decade, stimulated the rapid development of
similar organizations, especially AKhRR. The re-establishment of more con-
ventional artistic values, reflected also in the resurrection of pre-Revolu-
tionary associations such as the World of Art and the Union of Russian Art-.
ists, was strengthened by the declaration and creative output of AKhRR
demonstrated at its first official exhibition in June/July 1922. And it was the
1922 manifesto of AKhRR that, with certain modifications, came to serve as
the springboard for the formal advocacy of socialist realism in the early
1930s.
Although the AKhRR credo was the most influential and far-reaching
within the context of Russian art in the 1920s and thereafter, it did not, at
least initially, liquidate other artistic developments. With the establishment
of NEP [New Economic Policy] in 1921, the private art market was re-
opened and was soon flourishing. As a direct result, the new bourgeois pa-
tron stimulated the development of a peculiar and highly interesting visual
compromise between nonrepresentation and representation. This was no-
ticeable within the framework of the short-lived Makovets society, formed
in 1922, though the symbolic, apocalyptic visions of its greatest member,
Vasilii Chekrygin, have yet to be ‘‘discovered.’’ *” A more subjective con-
ception of reality was favored also by the members of OST [Society of Easel
Artists], such as Aleksandr Deineka and Aleksandr Tyshler, who at times
xl / Introduction

supported an almost expressionist presentation. Four Arts, too, was con-

cerned more with questions of form than with revolutionary, thematic con-
tent, as their provocative manifesto indicated (see p. 281). But none ap-
proached the stature and breadth of imagination possessed by Filonov, who
throughout the 1920s continued to paint his fragmented, tormented interpre-
tations of the proletarian city and other themes.
After 1925 increased attention was paid to the ‘‘realist’’ values of an art-
ist’s work, and nonrealist exhibitions, if staged at all, were reviewed harshly
and accused of ideological alienation.*® Experimental design in typography
and film supported by the October group also came to be seen as asocial
and, accordingly, was censured as ‘‘formalist’’—a term that came to be
applied indiscriminately to all art lacking in overt sociopolitical value, from
expressionism to suprematism. But although the resolution of 1932 de-
prived the unorthodox artist of material and spiritual support (Filonov, for
example, was represented at no official art exhibitions between 1933 and
1941), individual artists managed still to uphold the principles of their
own convictions: Tatlin returned to painting with original and valuable re-
sults; Filonov and some of his students continued to concentrate on every
formal detail of the canvas; Altman, Klyun, Shevchenko, Shterenberg, and
others never abandoned completely their essential artistic ideals.
The formal proclamation of socialist realism at the First All-Union
Writers’ Conference in 1934 established the direction that Soviet art and lit-
erature were to follow for at least the next twenty years. Socialist-realist art
with its depiction of society in its revolutionary, technological development
was immediately intelligible and meaningful to the public at large, so form-
ing a truly mass art. However autocratic and severe Stalin’s measures in the
early 1930s and however uniform their results, they did provide a sense of
direction and a definite artistic style to artists perplexed by the many con-
flicting ideas of the preceding thirty years and conscious of an aesthetic im-
passe. In 1902, at the beginning of the avant-garde period, Benois had writ-
en: ‘“‘Historical necessity . . . requires that an age that would absorb man’s
individuality in the name of public benefit. . . would again come to replace
the refined epicureanism of our time, the extreme refinement of man’s indi-
viduality, his effeminacy, morbidity, and solitude.’’ 4° Ironically, but inevi-
tably, Benois’s prophecy was proved by the advent of the monumental, syn-
thetic style of the Stalin era.
i.
The Subjective Aesthetic:
Symbolism and the Intuitive
Cover of the catalogue of the ‘‘Blue Rose’’ exhibition, Moscow,
March-April 1907. Designed by Nikolai Sapunov. The motif was
suggested by the symbolist poet Valerii Bryusov.
ALEKSANDR BENOIS
History of Russian Painting
in the Nineteenth Century
[Conclusion], 1902

Born St. Petersburg, 1870; died Paris, 1960. 1898: cofounder of the World of Art;
coeditor of its journal and of other art journals; 1900 and thereafter: active as a stage
designer; 1908: designed costumes and decor for Sergei Diaghilev’s production of
Boris Godunov in Paris, the first of many contributions to ballet and opera presenta-
tions in the West; 1918: director of the Picture Gallery at the Hermitage; 1927:
settled in Paris; author of many books and articles.

The translation is from Benois’s Istoriya russkoi zhivopisi v XIX veke (St. Petersburg,
June 1902), p. 274 [bibl]. R26]. Benois’s awareness of the disintegration of contem-
poraneous social and cultural values was shared by many members of the World of
Art group, not least by Diaghilev (see his ‘‘V chas itogov’’ [At the Hour of Reckon-
ing] in bibl. R44, 1905, no. 4, pp. 45-46) and by Lev Bakst [bibl]. R243]. But unlike
many of his colleagues, Benois was opposed to the cultivation of individualism (see
his “‘Khudozhestvennye eresi’’ [Artistic Heresies] in bibl]. R45, 1906, no. 2, pp.
80-88) and saw the regeneration of art to lie within a synthesist framework; hence
his interest in the theater and the ballet.

Although not a symbolist in the same sense as his associates in the World of Art—
Konstantin Balmont, Zinaida Gippius, Dmitrii Merezhkovsky, and later, Andrei
Bely—Benois shared certain of their basic ideas. His search for a cohesive’ style in
the face of his “‘spiritually tormented, hysterical time’’ [/storiya russkoi zhivopisi, p.
271], his aesthetic devotion to bygone cultures (particularly that of: seventeenth-
century France), his reaction against the sociopolitical tendencies of realist art, and
his very love of the theater and the ballet were elements central to the symbolist
world view within the framework both of the World of Art and, later, of the Golden
Fleece circles. In this respect, many of Benois’s early writings can be interpreted as
World of Art and even as symbolist declarations. Although Benois was quick to
sense the emergence of the ‘‘new art,’’ he was slow to accept it, as his censure of
cubofuturism demonstrated [see pp. 69-70 and 103 and bibl. R262]. Stylistically, this
piece demonstrates Benois’s articulate and lucid mode of critical presentation, an
ability not possessed by members of the avant-garde, such as David Burliuk and
Malevich.
Lev Bakst: Portrait of Aleksandr Benois, 1898. Pastel, watercolor, paper on cardboard,
64.5 x 100.3 cm. Collection Russian Museum, Leningrad.

Aleksandr Benois: L’Orangerie, 1906. Gouache, paper mounted on cardboard, 67 x 70 cm.

Collection Tretyakow Gallery, Moscow. The palace of Versailles, a frequent subject for World
of Art, artists, served to emphasize their innate concern with classical proportion and harmony.
 The Subjective Aesthetic: Symbolism and the Intuitive | 5

. . Generally speaking, the whole art of our time lacks direction. It is

very vivid, powerful, full of passionate enthusiasm, but while being entirely
consistent in its basic idea, it is uncoordinated, fragmented into separate in-
dividuals. Perhaps we only imagine this, perhaps the future historian will
see our general characteristics in perspective and will outline our general
physiognomy. But for the time being, this cannot be done; any unsuccessful
attempt would be pernicious because it would create a theory, a program,
where, essentially, there should not be one. Moreover, it is quite probable
that the future will not be on the side of individualism. Most likely a reac-
tion stands on the other side of the door. After a period of freedom, a period
of disorder, a new form of synthesis will ensue—although it will be equally
far removed from the two kinds of artistic synthesis that have hitherto been
dominant in Russian art: academism and social tendentiousness. Historical
necessity, historical sequence requires that an age that would absorb man’s
individuality in the name of public benefit or of a higher religious idea
would again come to replace the refined epicureanism of our time, the ex-
treme refinement of man’s individuality, his effeminacy, morbidity, and sol-
itude. It is but left to us to wish that in the years remaining to the art of our
generation, it be expressed as vividly and as loudly as possible. Then it
could only be expected that both the reaction and the subsequent, probably
contrasting, phase or art would be distinguished by strength and brilliance.
In art there is nothing worse than weakness and languor, indifference and its
concomitant ennui. But in fact, one of the most serious reproaches that can
be cast at Russian art up till now is precisely the reproach of languor and
indifference.
Although of course, the sin does not lie with the artists alone; it rests on
the deepest foundations, on the whole of Russian society’s attitude toward
art. However, one can hardly expect any improvement in this direction as
long as our drowsiness lasts, and this, in tur, arises from all the distinctive
conditions of Russian culture. Only with the gradual change of these condi-
tions can one expect the true awakening of our artistic life, the grand *‘Rus-
sian Renaissance’’ of which the finest Russian people have dreamed and still
dream. Hitherto Russian spiritual life has been illumined, it is true, by
dazzling lightning, sometimes menacing, sometimes wonderfully beautiful
lightning that has promised a joyful, bright day. But in any case, we are
now living not through this day, but through a grave, gloomy period of ex-
pectation, doubt, and even despair. Such an oppressive, suffocating atmo-
sphere cannot favor the flowering of art. We should be surprised only that in
spite of this situation, we can now observe, nevertheless, a kind of allusion
6 / RUSSIAN ART OF THE) GAR oe
AVANA-

to our future flowering, a kind of veiled presentiment that we will still utter
the great word within us.

[NIKOLAI RYABUSHINSKY]
Preface to
The Golden Fleece, 1906

Pseudonym: N. Shinsky. Born Moscow, 1876; died Céte d’Azur, 1951. Member of
a rich Moscow banking family and playboy of extravagant tastes; provided funds
for the Golden Fleece journal, of which he was editor; sponsored the **Blue Rose”
and ‘‘Golden Fleece”’ exhibitions; patron and friend of many of the early avant-garde
artists and a painter and poet in his own right; 1918: emigrated to Paris, where he
lived as an antique dealer.

The text of this piece appeared, untitled, in Zolotoe runo [The Golden Fleece], Mos-
cow, January 1906, no. 1, p. 4 [bibl. 99, R45]. The Golden Fleece was named after
the Greek legend and also in opposition to the Argonauts, another Moscow symbolist
group led by the writer Andrei Bely. Ryabushinsky was editor-in-chief of Zolotoe
runo, and he contributed occasional articles. This unsigned preface was probably by
him; it was printed in gold both in Russian and in French, but this practice of insert-
ing parallel translations ceased in 1908. The journal, the most luxurious of all the
Russian symbolist reviews, appeared regularly between 1906 and 1909, although the
last two issues for 1909 (no. 10 and no. 11/12) did not appear until January and April
IQIO, respectively, because of financial problems.

This preface, appearing just after the civil disorders of 1905 and the disastrous
Russo-Japanese War, expressed the general wish to escape the problems of social
and political reality and coincided with the cult of spiritualism that began to corrode
Moscow’s intellectual salons. Such terms as ‘‘whole’’ and ‘free impulse’’ were very
much part of the Russian symbolist aesthetic, especially among the so-called second
generation of symbolist writers and artists. In this respect, Zolotoe runo during 1906
and 1907 acted as the doctrinal platform for the Blue Rose artists, led by Pavel Kuz-
netsov, and this preface was in keeping with their essential ideas. [For details on the
formation of the Blue Rose and its relationship to Zolotoe runo see bibl. 87.]
 Nikolai Ryabushinsky, ca. 1912. ‘‘Tall, fair-
haired, a picture of health, a stalwart, self-as-
sured figure dressed in a dinner jacket or suit
from a stylish tailor—his pink face bordered
by a red beard could always be seen at all the-
ater premieres, at every preview, everywhere
that Moscow’s elite congregated’ [bibl.
R109, p. 179].

Cover of Zolotoe runo [The Golden Fleece], Pavel Kuznetsov: The Blue Fountain, 1905.
(Moscow), No. 1, 1906. Designed by Evgenii Tempera, 127 x 131 cm. Collection Tre-
Lancéray. Zolotoe runo was the most luxuri- tyakov Gallery, Moscow. This canvas, with
ous and ambitious of all the Russian symbol- its fountain, embryonic figures, and subdued
ist journals and played a vital role in the colors, was one of Kuznetsov’s most compel-
propagation of modernist ideas in art and lit- ling symbolist works.
erature, especially for the Blue Rose group.
8 /{/ RUSSIAN ART OF THE AVANT-GARDE

We embark on our path at a formidable time.

Around us, like a raging whirlpool, seethes the rebirth of life. In the
thunder of the fight, amid the urgent questions raised by our time, amid the
bloody answers provided by our Russian reality, the Eternal, for many,
fades and passes away.
We are in sympathy with all who work for the rebirth of life, we renounce
no task of our contemporaneity, but we believe that life without Beauty is
impossible, that together with our institutions we must attain a free and
brilliant art for our descendants, one that is illumined by the sun and induced
by tireless search; we believe that we must preserve for them the Eternal val-
ues forged by many generations. And in the name of this new life to come
we, the seekers of the Golden Fleece, unfurl our banner:
Art is eternal for it is founded on the intransient, on that which cannot be
rejected.
Art is whole for its single source is the soul.
Art is symbolic for it bears within it the symbol, the reflection of the Eter-
nal in the temporal.
Art is free for it is created by the free impulse of creation.

DAVID BURLIUK
The Voice of an Impressionist:
In Defense of Painting
[Extract], 1908

Born Kharkov, 1882; died Long Island, New York, 1967. 1898-1904: studied at
various institutions—Kazan, Munich, Paris; : 1907: settled in Moscow; soon be-
friended by most members of the emergent avant-garde; 1911: entered the Moscow
Institute of Painting, Sculpture, and Architecture but was expelled in 1913; Ca. 1913:
illustrated futurist booklets; 1910-15: contributed to the ‘*Triangle,’’ ‘‘Knave of
Diamonds,’’ *‘Union of Youth,’’ ‘‘Exhibition of Painting. 1915, and other exhibi-
tions; 1915: moved to the Urals; 1918-22: via Siberia, Japan, and Canada, arrived in
the United States; active as a painter and critic until his death.
 Nikolai Kulbin: Portrait of David Burliuk,
1913. Lithograph, 35 x 26 cm. From Kul-
bin’s Seriya litografii [Series of Lithographs]
(St. Petersburg, 1913) [bib]. R229]. David
Burliuk was closely associated with Kulbin
and contributed to two of his exhibitions,
““Contemporary Trends in Art’’ (St. Peters-
burg, 1908) and ‘‘The Triangle’’ (St. Peters-
burg, 1910).

David Burliuk: Flowers, 1910. Oil on canvas, 28 x 42

cm. Part of a larger canvas called The Garden of Life.
Collection Mr. and Mrs. Nicholas Burliuk, New York.
10 / RUSSIAN. ART OF THE AVANTGARDE

The complete text of this piece, ‘‘Golos Impressionista—v zashchitu zhivopisi,’’ ap-
peared with the catalogue to the ‘‘Link’’ exhibition, organized by David Burliuk in
Kiev, November 2-30, 1908 [see bibl. R249 and also bibl. 58, pp. 285-87 for
French translation of the catalogue list]. Part of the text was reprinted in the journal
V mire iskusstv [In the World of Arts] (Kiev), no. 14/15, 1908, p. 20 [bibl. R43] and
in the newspaper Kievlyanin [The Kievan], no. 332, 1908; this translation is made
from these sources. The ‘‘Link,”’ the first leftist exhibition staged by David Burliuk,
included contributions by Aleksandr Bogomazov, Aleksandra Exter, Natalya Gon-
charova, and Mikhail Larionov.

The importance of Burliuk’s text lies in its abrupt dismissal of conventional artistic
norms, especially in the form espoused by the Wanderers, and in its enthusiastic sup-
port of the Blue Rose artists. Indicative of Burliuk’s tendency to judge rashly and un-
reasonably is his condemnation of Mikhail Vrubel, an artist who exerted a definite
influence on the Blue Rose and Golden Fleece artists. The Russian impressionists
Burliuk has in mind are such painters as Exter, Goncharova, Larionov, Aristarkh
Lentulov (also at the ‘‘Link’’), and of course, himself—all of whom were still under
the distinct influence of the French postimpressionists. At this time there was a group
of so-called Moscow impressionists, which included the painters Igor Grabar and
Konstantin Korovin, but Burliuk was hardly referring to these artists since by then he
considered them academic and outmoded. Earlier in 1908 Nikolai Kulbin had
founded a group called the Impressionists (see p. 12), but it had nothing to do with
the French movement of the same name; Burliuk contributed to its first exhibition,
1.e., Sovremennye techeniya v iskusstve [Contemporary Trends in Art], in St. Peters-
burg in May 1908, and it is probable that he was thinking of it here. The grammati-
cal mistakes and semantic obscurities are typical of Burliuk’s literary style.

. . I see exhibitions of pictures packed with noisy crowds.

The priests of art go off in their motorcars, carrying away their gold in
tightly closed bags. Complacent bourgeois, your faces shine with the joy of
understanding. You have fathomed the profound meaning of the pictures!
I’m not worried for the true art burning in the canvases of geniuses. The
crowd does not see, it smells, but the fire of art does not burn and does not
exude the stench of lard. It burns lucidly just as the column of smoke blazes
up bearing the soul away to the blue of purgatory!
Bitter lard, fumes, and stench are in the works of those whom the crowd
loves and who have been fed so long with sweet praises that they have
ceased to resemble living creatures.
The art of the past amounts to all that painting in which time has passed
over with a delicate net of decrepit wrinkles!
 The Subjective Aesthetic: Symbolism and the Intuitive / 11

_ The works of genius and mediocrity—the latter are justified because they
have historic interest.
The painting of those who have long since decayed (who they were is
forgotten, a riddle, 2 mystery}—how you upset the nineteenth century. Until
the 1830s, the age of Catherine was enticing, alluring, and delightful: pre-
cise and classical.
Savage vulgarization. The horrors of the Wanderers—general deterio-
ration—the vanishing aristocratic order—hooligans of the palette 4 la Ma-
kovsky ’ and Aivazovsky,” etc.
Slow development, new ideals—passions and terrible mistakes!
Since the first exhibition of the World of Art, in 1899, there has been a
new era. Artists look to the West. The fresh wind blows away Repin’s
chaffy spirit, the bast shoe of the Wanderers loses its apparent strength. But
it’s not Serov, not Levitan, not Vrubel’s * vain attempts at genius, not the
literary Diaghilevans, but the Blue Rose, those who have grouped around
The Golden Fleece and later the Russian impressionists nurtured on Western
models, those who trembled at the sight of Gauguin, Van Gogh, Cézanne
(the synthesis of French trends in painting)—these are the hopes for the
rebirth of Russian painting... .

NIKOLAI KULBIN
Free Art as the Basis of Life:
Harmony and Dissonance
(On Life, Death, etc.)
[Extracts], 1908

Born St. Petersburg, 186%; died St. Petersburg, 1917. Professor at the St. Petersburg
Military Academy and doctor to the General Staff, taught himself painting; 1908:
organized the Impressionist group; lecturer and theoretician; 1909: group broke up,
dissident members contributing to the founding of the Union of Youth, opened for-
mally in February 1910; 1910 on: peripheral contact with the Union of Youth; close
to the Burliuks, Vladimir Markov, Olga Rozanova; ca. 1913: illustrated futurist
booklets and other publications; 1914: invited Filippo Marinetti to Russia.
12 / RUSSIAN ART OF THE AVANT
2Go eee

This piece, ‘‘Svobodnoe iskusstvo, kak osnova zhizni. Garmoniya i dissonans. (O

zhizni, smerti i prochem),’’ appeared in the miscellany Studiya Impressionistov [Stu-
dio of the Impressionists] (St. Petersburg, March 1910), pp. 3-14 [bibl. R224], and
these extracts come from pp. 3, 4, 8-10, 13-14. The volume appeared just after the
‘Impressionist’ exhibition [see bibl. R221] and at the same time as Kulbin’s exhibi-
tion the ‘‘Triangle’’ [bib]. R241] was opened in St. Petersburg (March 1910). It also
included poems by David and Nikolai Burliuk; Velimir Khlebnikov's famous poem
‘*Zaklyatie smekhom”’ [Incantation by Laughter]; a so-called monodrama, **Pred-
stavlenie lyubvi’’ [Presentation of Love], by Nikolai Evreinov (to which Kulbin con-
tributed three illustrations); an essay by Kulbin’s scientific colleague Aleksei Bori-
syak, ‘‘O zhivopisi muzyki’’ [On Musical Painting]; and Kulbin’s “‘Free Music”
(bibl. R227, a variant of which appeared in Der Blaue Reiter [The Blue Rider], bibl.
96). Essentially Kulbin was concerned with liberating art, literature, and music from
conventional patterns and replacing these with the ‘‘intuitive principle’’: in music he
followed closely the atonal theories of Amold Schoenberg and was obviously influ-
enced by the current interest in sound-color relationships manifested by Vasilii Kan-
dinsky, Aleksandr Skryabin, and the St. Petersburg theosophist Aleksandra Unkovs-
kaya; similarly, Kulbin later welcomed Aleksei Kruchenykh’s transrational language
(zaum) and in painting went so far as to presage the mandala theory by maintaining
that “‘painting is the spontaneous projection of conditional signs from the artist’s
brain into the picture”’ [bibl]. Rror, p. 151]. One of these conditional signs that Kul-
bin saw as recurrent in history was the triangle, a sign that we can identify, of
course, with theosophist philosophy, with Russian symbolist aesthetics, and with
Kandinsky’s On the Spiritual in Art. The triangle assumed such importance for Kul-
bin that he organized an artists’ group of that name and began to sign his writings
with its graphic representation. It was at the *‘Triangle’’ exhibition, in fact, and at
similar shows organized by Kulbin, such as Sovremennye techeniya v iskusstve [Con-
temporary Trends in Art], in St. Petersburg in May 1908, that experiments in auto-
matic or intuitive painting were presented: for example, a blind painter submitted
canvases to *“‘Contemporary Trends,’’ the peasant primitive Petr Kovalenko (*‘dis-
covered’’ by David Burliuk) contributed five canvases to the ‘‘Wreath’’ subsection at
the ‘‘Triangle,’’ where Kulbin himself was represented by several intuitive works
bearing such intriguing titles as Blue on White and White on Green.

The present text echoes the intuitive, symbolist tone of Kulbin’s Impressionist group
(not to be confused with the French or Moscow impressionists) and of some
members of the Union of Youth, one that can be perceived in the art and writings of
Pavel Filonov, Markov, Rozanova, and Kazimir Malevich. Before publication, Kul-
bin had delivered the text as a lecture to the Society of People’s Universities in St.
Petersburg in 1908, and on February 12, 1912, he gave a similar talk under the title
“The New Art as the Basis of Life’’ at a debate organized by the Knave of Dia-
monds [see pp. 69-70 and 77-78}. Part of the text is reprinted in bibl. R14, pp. 15-22.
 ae N \ ‘ \ ,
-
14 / RUSSIAN ART OF THE AVANT-GARDE

combinations of adjacent colors in the spectrum and combinations of ad-

jacent sounds in scales have for life and art. By scales I mean those with
small intervals.
At this point I may mention that by means of these phenomena that I call
‘“close combinations’’ ! and the processes of these close combinations, it is
possible to depict all kinds of pictures of nature and of subjective experi-
ences in painting, music, and other branches of art.*

The Meaning of the Theory of Art

Many people say:
‘The theory of art? What does that have to do with us? That’s something
dry and bookish. Does it claim to be something? I want art, not arguments.
The artist creates because there burns within him a sacred flame. He creates
without reasoning, and I want to enjoy art without reasoning. The mortify-
ing analysis of art kills art.’’
Those who say this do not notice that they have not departed from theory
and that what they have said is their own theory of art.
Away as far away as possible from the dry, the abstract, and the
mortifying!
We recognize only harmony, dissonance, rhythm, style, colors, joy, and
grief !
The theory of art is the artist’s song, his word, his music, his plastic art
(embodiment, depiction).
So perhaps we don’t need any theories then? We’ll simply read poems,
listen to symphonies, and look at pictures.
No! There are no poems, symphonies, or pictures that are devoid of ideas.
Pictures, words, music, and the plastic arts are the artist’s expression.
Works of art are the living, vivid epistles of art.
Not everyone has the gift of reading these hieroglyphics. Anyone can say
whether a photograph or an academic picture resembles his established con-
ception of ‘‘nature.’’ But there is no art in this.
In order that the spectator apprehend the real subjects of art and be able to
enjoy the poetry thatis inherent in them, the ideas of art must be aroused in
him. In order that the artist create the subjects of art, the poet must be
aroused in him. ’
The poetry of art is the theory of art.

* Incidentally, from my own experience I advise painters to depict light with the help of discords. The results
are convincing.”
 The Subjective Aesthetic: Symbolism and the Intuitive | 15

We, cells of the body of the living Earth, fulfill her desires, but not all of
us hear her voice.
It is difficult, very difficult, to read spontaneously the hieroglyphics of life
and of the structure of the crystal, the flower, and the beautiful animal.
Not everyone has the gift of reading the rudiments of the art created by
the most beautiful of animals—primitive man and our children—although it
is simpler.
There are few loving hearts capable of reading artistic ideas in the great
works of bygone art. While contrasting the old artists with the new, the mob
is still deaf to the ideas of the old artists. Those who love, think, and
desire—such are the flower of the Earth. They desire poetry and hear it in
the Good Book and in the thoughts of Leonardo da Vinci, Shakespeare,
Goethe, and other literati great and small: these are the real theory of art.
This theory of artistic creation is the key to happiness because art is hap-
piness. It is the philosopher’s stone, the magic wand that turns life into a
fairy tale. It is poetry.
This poetry represents the principles of life. Knowledge of them inspires
the mood of art, sharpens vision.
He who knows these principles sees poetry in works of sincerity depicted
by an artist—persecuted and, invariably, a newcomer; works about which
the ignorant say: ‘‘Rubbish, daubing!’’
Roger Bacon asks: which is better, to be able to draw an absolutely
straight line by hand or to invent a ruler with the help of which anyone can
draw a straight line?
For the artist this ruler is the theory of artistic creation. Without it every
artist would have to remake our creative culture. All his strength would be
spent on this, and he would have no chance of speaking his own new word.
But why, then, do we see certified “‘artists’’ every day—artists who study
anatomy, perspective, and the history of painting in the official academies—
remaining bureaucrats of art? Conversely, street urchins and shepherds are
sometimes artists and poets. The theory of art provides us with the answer:
The theory of artistic creation is not taught there.
Well-behaved bureaucrats and exhausted artists teach and learn there.
They are nice people, but they have no wings, they cannot fly. If a real artist
turns up in such an academy, then he suffers the fate of an eaglet amid a
brood of hens. Either they will peck him to bits before his beak has devel-
oped, or he will hurt somebody himself.
The shepherd Giotto reads the theory of art freely in nature herself, stud-
ies color and line while driving his flock from one beautiful picture to
another. Moving to the town, he examines works of art and takes from them
16/ RUSSIAN ART OFT Hib PA VAIN ore

their own particular guidelines; he reads, converses about art, and thirstily
imbibes the juice of the fruits of art, throwing away the peel and the mold.
In his own creations Giotto puts into practice artistic truth, the truth of art.
The eagle’s wings function not irregularly but by strict laws that represent
the theory of eagles.
This is the theory of artistic creation. It is essential both for talent and for
genius.
Tolstoi is the sun. But in his erudition disregards the sciences of Mephis-
tofeles. And so, to the surprise of many, there are spots on the sun.
Chekhov to a lesser extent, but he studied the sciences of life. A doctor’s
knowledge * not only did not hinder him from creating, but also lent his
creation an extraordinary force, a humaneness almost evangelical.
Ruisdael manifested artistic ability at fourteen years of age, but he first
became a doctor and only later a painter; this helped him to establish a great
new sphere of painting—the landscape.
The theory of artistic creation has taught man how to compose a poem, to
discover colors, and to discover living harmony. This theory is inherent in
pictures themselves and in discourses about pictures. . . .

I. Theory
Ideology. Symbol of the universe. Delight. Beauty and good. Love is grav-
ity. Process of beauty. Art is the quest for gods. Creation is the myth and
the symbol. Freedom. The struggle of Titans and Olympus. Prometheus and
Hercules. Painting and servitude.
A single art—of the word, music, and the plastic arts.

Creation. Thought is the word. Feeling. Will. Individuality. Child. Artist.

Talent. Temperament. Sensation. Contrast. Dynamic principle in
psychology. Growth and decline. Associations. Revelation and
consciousness. Search, imagination, realization. Artistic vision.
Mastery of unconscious creation. Accumulation of impressions,
processing of them (the throes of creation). Outbursts of creation
(inspiration). Interchange of creation and self-criticism. Har-
mony. Dissonance. Peace and life. Harmony of sequence.
Rhythm, Style. 7
Blue. Thought in word, sounds, and colors. Drawing is melody.

Artist,
picture,
and Red. Mood. The sounds of colors. The colors of the word.
spectator. The
colors of sounds. Scales. Ornament.
 The Subjective Aesthetic: Symbolism and the Intuitive | iy

Yellow. The plastic arts. Free creation. Illusion and form. The
psychology of depiction. Mutual creation of artist and spectator.
Cognition. Sight and blindness. The psychology of the spectator. Sympa-
thetic experience. Criticism.
Supplements. The life of the artist, of the picture, and of the spectator.

II. The History of Art

The sources of art. Nature. People. Nation.
Movement of the pendulum, realism—idealism. Ants. Spiders and bees.
Translational movement. Evolution and revolutions in art. Cycles of art. De-
struction, fertilization, decadence. Sowing. New styles. Flowers and fruits.
School. Academism. Degeneration.
The Past. Primitive art. The periods of antiquity. The Middle Ages. The lat-
est cycles.

The Present. Contemporary art trends.

New Tendencies. The revaluation of values.

VASILII KANDINSKY
Content and Form, 1910

Born Moscow, 1866; died Neuilly-sur-Seine, 1944. 1896: arrived in Munich; 1909:
with Alexei von Jawlensky et al. founded the Neue Kinstlervereinigung [New Art-
ists’ Association]; began Jmprovisations; 1909-10: Munich correspondent for Apol-
lon [bibl. R41]; 1910: contributed to the first ‘“‘Knave of Diamonds’’ exhibition;
1910 onwards: began to explore an abstract mode of painting; 191 I-12: exhibitions
of Der Blaue Reiter [The Blue Rider]; 1914-21: back in Russia; 1920: participated in
the organization of Inkhuk; 1921: participated in the organization of the Russian
Academy of Artistic Sciences; 1921: emigrated; 1922-33: taught at the Bauhaus.

The text of this piece, ‘‘Soderzhanie i forma,’’ is from the catalogue for the second
Salon exhibition, organized by Vladimir Izdebsky in Odessa, December 1910-
LSe 0/) eRAURSTSU L aeAN Ras
AGN Onan liatiok: AVANT-GARDE

Vasilii Kandinsky, ca. 1912. Photograph cour-

tesy the late Mme. Nina Kandinsky, Paris.

January 1911 [bibl. R133, pp. 14-16]. Apart from the list of exhibitors (French
translation in bibl. 58, pp. 309-13] and this text, the catalogue included articles by
Izdebsky, Nikolai Kulbin [bibl]. R225], a certain “‘Dr. phil. A. Grinbaum, Odessa’’
(perhaps the philosopher Anton Griinbaum), a discourse on ‘‘Harmony in Painting
and Music’’ by Henri Rovel, a long poem by Leonid Grossman (later to achieve
fame as a literary critic), and Kandinsky’s translation of Arnold Schoenberg’s ‘‘Par-
allels in Octaves and Fifths.’’ With such a synthetic composition and, moreover,
with a cover- designed after a Kandinsky woodcut, this catalogue might well have
formed the prototype for Der Blaue Reiter almanac itself. Although most contempo-
rary trends in Russian painting were represented at the exhibition—from neoprimi-
tivism (David and Vladimir Burliuk,; Mikhail Larionov, Vladimir Tatlin, etc.) to
symbolism (Petr Utkin), from the St. Petersburg Impressionists (Kulbin) to the
World of Art (Mstislav Dobuzhinsky)—the Munich artists (Jawlensky, Kandinsky,
Gabriele Minter, Marianne von Werefkin) constituted an impressive and compact
group. Indeed, the German contribution both to the exhibition and to the catalogue
was indicative of Izdebsky’s own interest in Kandinsky (he intended, for example,
 The Subjective Aesthetic: Symbolism and the Intuitive / 19

to publish a monograph on him in 1911; see bibl. 97, pp. 186-89) and, generally, in
the Neue Kinstlervereiningung.

Kandinsky’s text shares certain affinities with his article ‘‘Kuda idet ‘novoe’ iskusst-
vo’’ [Where the ‘“‘New’’ Art Is Going; bibl. R223], which was published a few
weeks later (also in Odessa) and in which he went so far as to assert that ‘‘any kind
of content is unartistic and hostile to art. . . . Painting as such, i.e., as ‘pure paint-
ing’ affects the soul by means of its primordial resources: by paint (color), by form,
i.e., the distribution of planes and lines, their interrelation (movement). . . .’’ Of
course, both this article and the text below constituted previews of Kandinsky’s On
the Spiritual in Art, which was given as a lecture by Kulbin on Kandinsky’s behalf at
the All-Russian Convention of Artists in St. Petersburg on December 29 and 31,
1911 [see bibl. R222]. The present text reflects both Kandinsky’s highly subjective
interpretation of art and his quest for artistic synthesism, attitudes that were identifia-
ble with a number of Russian artists and critics at this time, not least Kulbin, Alek-
sandr Skryabin, and of course, the symbolists. Kandinsky’s attempts to chart the
“artist’s emotional vibration” and to think in comparative terms still evident in his
programs for the Moscow Inkhuk and for the Russian Academy of Artistic
Sciences (see pp. 196-98). Part of the text is reprinted in bibl. 45, pp. 281--82. The
whole text is translated into English in bibl. 101x, pp. 87-90.

A work of art consists of two elements:

the inner and
the outer.
The inner element, taken separately, is the emotion of the artist’s soul,
which (like the material musical tone of one instrument that compels the cor-
responding tone of another to covibrate) evokes a corresponding emotional
vibration in the other person, the perceptor.
While the soul is bound to the body, it can perceive a vibration usually
only by means of feeling—which acts as a bridge from the nonmaterial to
the material (the artist) and from the material to the nonmaterial (the specta-
tor).
Emotion—feeling—work of art—feeling—Emotion.
As a means of expression, therefore, the artist’s emotional vibration must
find a material form capable of being perceived. This material form is the
second element, i.e., the outer element of a work of art.
A work of art is, of necessity, an indissolubly and inevitably cohesive
combination of inner and outer elements, i.e., content and form.
‘‘Fortuitous’’ forms scattered throughout the world evoke their own inher-
ent vibrations. This family is so numerous and diverse that the effect of
‘‘fortuitous’’ (e.g., natural) forms appears to us to be also fortuitous and in-
definite.
20. s/ VRIUIS SGA Ni AUR te ODF ayn HSE AVANT-GARDE

Vasilii Kandinsky: Reproduction after a woodcut for the cover of the cat-
alogue of Vladimir Izdebsky’s second ‘‘Salon’’ (Odessa, 1910-11). Col-
lection The Museum of Modern Art, New York.

In art, form is invariably determined by content. And only that form is the
right one which serves as the corresponding expression and materialization
of its content. Any accessory considerations, among them the primary one—
namely, the correspondence of form to so-called nature, i.e., outer nature—
are insubstantial and pernicious, because they distract attention from the
single task of art: the embodiment of its content. Form is the material
expression of abstract content. Hence the quality of an artistic work can be
appreciated in toto only by its author: content demands immediate embodi-
ment, and the author alone is permitted to see whether the form that he has
found corresponds to the content, and if so, to what extent. The greater or
 The Subjective Aesthetic: Symbolism and the Intuitive / 21

lesser degree of this embodiment or correspondence is the measure of

“beauty.” That work is beautiful whose form corresponds entirely to its
inner content (which is, as it were, an unattainable ideal). In this way the
form of a work is determined essentially by its inner necessity.
The principle of inner necessity is the one invariable law of art in its es-
sence.

Every art possesses one form that is peculiar to it and bestowed on it

alone. This form, forever changing, gives rise to the individual forms of in-
dividual works. Hence, whether or not the same emotions are involved,
every art will clothe them in its own peculiar form. In this way each art
produces its own work, and therefore, it is impossible to replace the work of
one art by another. Hence there arises both the possibility of, and the need
for, the appearance of a monumental art: we can already sense its growth,
and its color will be woven tomorrow.
This monumental art represents the unification of all the arts in a single
work—1in which (1) each art will be the coauthor of this work while remain-
ing within the confines of its own form; (2) each art will be advanced or
withdrawn according to the principle of direct or reverse contact.
Thus the principle of a work’s construction will remain the one that is the
single basis of creation in each individual art.
The great epoch of Spirituality is beginning, and even yesterday, during
the apparent climax of materialism, it had already emerged in its embryonic
state; it will provide, and is providing, the soil on which this monumental
work must mature. A grand transvaluation of values is now taking place as
if one of the greatest battles between spirit and matter were about to begin.
The unnecessary is being rejected. The necessary is being studied in all its
aspects. This is also taking place in one of the greatest spheres of the
spirit—in everlasting and eternal art.
The means of expression of every art have been prescribed and bestowed
on it from time immemorial and, essentially, cannot change; but just as the
spirit is being ‘‘refined’’ continuously, divesting itself of the soul’s ma-
teriality, so, correspondingly and partially beforehand, the means of art must
be ‘‘refined’’ also, inflexibly and irrepressibly.
Therefore (1) every art is eternal and invariable, and (2) every art changes
in its forms. It must guide the spiritual evolution by adapting its forms for
greater refinement and lead the way prophetically. Its inner content is invari-
able. Its outer forms are variable. Therefore, both the variability and the in-
variability of art constitute its law.
29) / T AU
RWISTS NeAGRSD GOUReaT Hor AVANT-GARDE

These means, fundamental and invariable, are for

music—sound and time
literature—word and time
architecture—line and volume
sculpture—volume and space
painting—color and space.

In painting, color functions in the shape of paint. Space functions in the

shape of the form confining it (‘‘painterly’’ form) or in the shape of line.
These two elements—paint and line—constitute the essential, eternal, in-
variable language of painting.
Every color, taken in isolation, in uniform conditions of perception,
arouses the same invariable emotional vibration. But a color, in fact, cannot
be isolated, and therefore its absolute inner sound always varies in different
circumstances. Chief among these are: (1) the proximity of another color
tone, (2) the space (and form) occupied by the given tone.
The task of pure painting or painterly form follows the first stipulation.
Painting is the combination of colored tones determined by inner necessity.
The combination is infinitely fine and refined, infinitely complex and com-
plicated.
The task of drawing or drawn form follows from the second stipulation.
Drawing is the combination of linear planes determined by inner necessity.
Its refinement and complexity are infinite.
The first task is, in fact, indissolubly linked to the second and represents,
generally speaking, the primary task in a composition of painting and draw-
ing; it is a task that is now destined to advance with unprecedented force,
and its threshold is the so-called new painting. It is self-evident that this in-
novation is not a qualitative one (fundamentally) but a quantitative one. This
composition has been the invariable law of any art of any period, beginning
with the primitive art of the “‘savages.’’ The imminent Epoch of the Great
Spirituality is emerging before our very eyes, and it is precisely now that
this kind of composition must act as a most eminent prophet, a prophet who
is already leading the pure in heart and who will be leading the whole world.
This composition will be built on those same bases already familiar to us
in their embryonic state, those bases that will now, however, develop into
the simplicity and complexity of musical ‘‘counterpoint.’’ This counterpoint
(for which we do not have a word yet) will be discovered further along the
path of the Great Tomorrow by that same ever-faithful guide—Feeling.
Once found and crystallized, it will give expression to the Epoch of the
Great Spirituality. But however great or small its individual parts, they all
 The Subjective Aesthetic: Symbolism and the Intuitive | 23

rest on the one great foundation—the PRINCIPLE OF INNER NECES-

SLY.

VLADIMIR MARKOV
The Principles
of the New Art, 1912

Pseudonym of Waldemars Matvejs. Born Riga, 1877; died St. Petersburg, 1914.
Studied under Yan Tsionglinsky (who was also the tutor of the poet and painter
Elena Guro and of Mikhail Matyushin); traveled widely in Western Europe;
1906-1907: edited Vystavochnyi vestnik [Exhibition Messenger], St. Petersburg;
1908: contributed to the ‘‘Link’’ exhibition; 1910 and after: close to the Union of
Youth, contributing to its first exhibition and editing its first and second booklets
[bibl. R237]; expecially interested in the art of China, Black Africa and Easter
Island, researching this with his companion, the artist Varvara Bubnova; 1912:
contributed to the ““Donkey’s Tail.”

The text of this piece, ‘‘Printsipy novogo iskusstva,’’ ,

is from the first and second
issues of Soyuz molodezhi [Union of Youth] (St. Petersburg), April and June 1912,
pp. 5-14 and 5-18 respectively [bibl. R237]. As a complement to Markov’s text,
both booklets carried Russian translations of Chinese poetry rendered by Markov’s
friend Vyacheslav Egorev (who, together with Markov, compiled a book of Chinese
verse [see bibl. R235]); moreover, the first issue contained reproductions of Oriental
art and an essay on Persian art, and the second issue carried a Persian miniature on
its cover. On a different level, although of direct relevance to Markov’s interests,
was the inclusion in the second issue of Henri Le Fauconnier’s statement in the cata-
logue of the second Neue Kiinstlervereinigung exhibition (Munich, 1910) in Russian
translation. This, in fact, pointed to the close connections maintained between St.
Petersburg and Munich: Nikolai Kulbin and Markov, for example, had been repre-
sented at Vladimir Izdebsky’s second Salon, Kulbin had read Kandinsky’s On the
Spiritual in, Art in St. Petersburg in 1911 [see p. 19], and Eduard Spandikov (a
founder of the Union of Youth) had translated Worringer’s. Abstraktion und Ein-
fiihlung [Abstraction and Empathy], which the Union intended to publish [see adver-
tisement in no. I, p. 24}.

Markov’s essay, in fact, while touching on the idea of construction in Occidental and
Oriental art, reached conclusions quite contrary to those of Worringer and attempted
24 {> RUSS TAN OAR OBO oH EVAN VAD NG = GeAGROpeTE:

Cover of Soyuz molodezhi [Union of Youth] (St. Petersburg), No.

2, June 1912. The Persian miniature on the front cover both indi-
cated the wide artistic concerns of this St. Petersburg ‘‘little mag-
”
azine’’ and emphasized the deep interest in Eastern art on the part
of Vladimir Markov, one of its most important contributors.

to establish the aesthetic value of primitive and Eastern art, where Worringer saw
”
little or none at all. ‘‘Intuition’’ and ‘‘fortuitousness’’ were key words of Markov’s
vocabulary and indicated his proximity to Kulbin, Olga Rozanova, and even Vasilli
Kandinsky, the more so since Markov was both a painter and a critic. His terminol-
ogy and metaphors, e.g., “‘boundless horizons,’’ recall the style of Kazimir Male-
vich, who undoubtedly was familiar with Markov’s writings. Markov’s recognition
of primitive and ‘‘nonconstructive’’ art was apparent in his other writings, particu-
larly in his book on Negro art [bibl]. R234] published posthumously.
Markov’s own art reflected a highly individualistic and apocalyptic vision, as indi-
 The Subjective Aesthetic: Symbolism and the Intuitive / 25

cated by such titles as Golgotha (at the first ‘‘Union of Youth’’ exhibition), Morning
of Life (at Izdebsky’s second Salon), and Spiritual Point of View (at the ‘‘Donkey’s
Tail’’). In the history of modern Russian art, Markov’s link with the Baltic countries
is not an isolated case. The painter and musician Mikalojaus Ciurlionis, who
achieved a certain reputation in St. Petersburg in the late 1900s, had been a native of
Lithuania, and in the general context of the Union of Youth, many ties were es-
tablished with Riga and Vilnius: not only were the Union of Youth members Markov
and Vasilii Masyutin natives of Riga, but also Kulbin’s ‘‘Impressionist’’ exhibition
traveled from St. Petersburg to Vilnius in late 1909, Izdebsky’s first Odessa Salon
opened in Riga in the summer of 1910, and the first ‘“‘Union of Youth’’ show moved
there from St. Petersburg in June of that year. It is tempting to propose that the pres-
ence of a Baltic influence within the St. Petersburg avant-garde acted as an immedi-
ate link with German and Nordic expressionism—and indeed, the darker, more Teu-
tonic quality of Markov’s drawings, Masyutin’s etchings, or even Kulbin’s paintings
has certain affinities with Edvard Munch, or, more relevantly, with the Estonian
Eduard Viiralt. Markov’s advocacy of an art of chance, of ‘‘a world of unfathomed
mystery” is therefore a logical outcome of this aesthetic ambience. For a French
translation see bibl. 1451, pp. 53-57.

Where concrete reality, the tangible, ends, there begins another world—a
world of unfathomed mystery, a world of the Divine.
Even primitive man was given the chance of approaching this boundary,
whefe intuitively he would capture some feature of the Divine—and return
happy as a child.
And he sought to introduce it into the confines of the tangible and to
secure it there while finding forms to express it; at the same time he at-
tempted to find ways by which he would be able to encounter and sense
once again an analogous beauty.
The more of such features man captures, the more familiar becomes the
Divine; the closer becomes the realization of some kind of religion.
Worldly beauty, created from ancient times by different peoples of both
hemispheres, is a reflection and expression of the Divine insofar as it has
hitherto revealed itself to people.
But, obliged for its origin to the intuitive faculties of the spirit, it reveals
within itself the presence of those fundamentals that can be elevated into im-
mutable truths, into the principles on which it is based.
These principles, these canons, which substantiate our intuitive percep-
tion, become the guide to all our actions in the achievement of beauty.
The more deeply and broadly mankind penetrates the divine principle of
beauty, the richer and pithier become the religions of beauty, the more het-
erogeneous and numerous their principles and canons.
26 | RUSSIA NAR IT ORY TH E PARA Nele-iGrAGRaDee,

Many peoples have identical religions, uniform principles and canons;

other peoples work out their own particular ones, but it often happens that
separate peoples work them out along the same lines.
Principles already found sometimes generate, in their application, new
principles that open up many beautiful possibilities that cannot be attained
by intuitive means. And the wider, the deeper the horizons revealed by these
principles, the higher, the more significant their inner value.
Without the love, often unconscious, of some principle, canon, or re-
ligion, there can be no national beauty.
Every impulse, every exploit, every movement of line and thought is
carried out not fortuitously and not aimlessly; it is conditioned by an inner
necessity, by a formulated principle, a canon, a religion. And it is these that
compel us to commit many completely incomprehensible acts—to fast, to
inflict torture on ourselves, to contort ourselves, to create idols, monstrous
forms, incomprehensible melodies, harmonies, other worlds.
All that is sincere, all that is in good faith, all passion is for many affecta-
tion. Any depiction of ideal beauty, purity, baseness, the terror of man’s
soul, any colorful and melodic rapture is for many affectation.
Just take a game of chess. Try to follow the players without knowing the
principles of the game, and you will see neither sense nor system in the
moves of the pieces.
But if you know its principles, you will be filled with a sense of attained
beauty.
There are principles with a very limited sphere of potential, and there are
principles that open up boundless horizons.
Many peoples descended from the arena of history lost themselves in the
obscurity and remoteness of the past; but their creative principles were
preserved, and we inherited them in their original, or in a processed, form.
We of the twentieth century occupy a particularly fortunate position in
being able to familiarize ourselves with all these principles and to evaluate
their significance.
Means of communication, the press, excavations—all provide us with the
opportunity of collecting together all man’s achievements in the field of
beauty, the achievements of all ages, countries, and nations. The range of
our observations has expanded and broadened extraordinarily and has ceased
to be confined to the art of our next-door neighbors.
All this prompts us to make comparisons, to contrast separate religions of
beauty, to establish the character of their beauty, their merits, and the ad-
vantages of these over those.
Generally speaking, it should be noted that contemporary Europe, which
 The Subjective Aesthetic: Symbolism and the Intuitive | 27

has made such major achievements in the field of science and technology, is
very poor in regard to the development of the plastic principles bequeathed
to us by the past.
It is quite striking that certain principles, especially the most worthless of
them, have been selected by many peoples. But despite the fact that they are
jejune in intrinsic content, they are being endlessly elaborated, they enclose
art—by their very nature—in a narrow, vicious circle. Other principles with
brilliant, infinite prospects, with inexhaustible potential, have appeared for a
moment, but not finding the soil necessary for development, they have
drooped and faded.

If we take a broad look at all the world’s art, there arise before us clearly
and vividly two diametrically opposed platforms, two basic trends hostile to
each other. These two worlds are constructiveness and nonconstructiveness.
The first of these is expressed most vividly in Greece and the second in
the East.
In Greek art and also in subsequent European art, everything is logical,
rational, and has a scientific basis; gradations and transitions subordinate to
the main factor are clearly expressed; in a word, everything is constructive.
And wherever Europe penetrates with its rigid doctrines, its orthodox real-
ism, it corrodes national art, evens it out, paralyzes its development.
China, Japan, Byzantium, and other countries lost their acuity a long time
ago and have been imbued to a greater or lesser extent with the ideals of the
Italian Renaissance. This caps the delight of the historians and archaeolo-
gists who see as the high-water mark of this art—alien though it be to them:
its assimilation of Hellenic canons and its analogous elaboration of them;
hence they are always glad to note the appearance in it of the first signs of
European constructiveness and its legitimated reality. .
The ancient peoples and the East did not know our scientific rationality.
These were children whose feelings and imagination dominated logic. These
were naive, uncorrupted children who intuitively penetrated the world of
beauty and who could not be bribed by realism or by scientific investigations
into nature.
As one German writer said, ‘‘Die Logik hat uns die Natur entgottert.”’ ?
And our prim nonchalance toward the ‘‘babble’’ of the East and our mis-
understanding of it are deeply offensive.
Modern Europe does not understand the beauty of the naive and the illogi-
cal. Our artistic taste, nurtured on severe rules, cannot reconcile itself to the
disintegration of our existing world view, cannot renounce ““this world,’’
surrender itself to the world of feeling, love, and dream, imbue itself with
28 -/ RIULSIS TAN “ACRT'O FT HOR AS Vy AUN De tGrAG ReaD TE

the anarchism that ridicules our elaborate rules, and escape into a noncon-
structive world.
There is rhythm in the constructive, and there is rhythm in the noncon-
structive, but which has more beauty is still to be investigated.
There is constructive ornament, and there is nonconstructive ornament;
which of them is the more beautiful we still have to find out.
There is a perspective that is scientific, mathematically verified and sub-
stantiated—constructive; and there is a perspective that is nonconstructive—
Chinese, Byzantine. But which of them displays more potential and more
beauty ts still a leading question.
The same can be said of lighting, relief, form, etc.
Europe’s scientific apparatus hampers the development of such principles
as the principle of weight, plane, dissonance, economy, symbols, dyna-
mism, the leitmotif, scales, etc., etc. .

Let us turn to the discussion of certain principles.

Let us take the principle of chance.
Can chance be beauty?
Yes, and a beauty that you will not reveal, find, or grasp by constructive
thought.
For example, in Chinese villages stand pagodas with many, many little
bells of various tones on them. Only a scarcely noticeable gust of wind need
spring up for their melodic music to softly waft over the village... .A
second gust of wind and a second sound sequence. . . . And so it goes on
time after time without end. . . . All these are accidental sound combina-
tions that cannot be created by a deliberate selection of sounds—it is the
beauty of chance.
Here is another example of the beauty of chance.
The Chinese liked to cover their vases with a glaze of copper oxide, but
the results of this operation were completely subject to chance. Depending
on how the gases circulated around the object, it could turn any color—from
white to bright red, blue, or black. Because of this, the most unexpected,
most beautiful combinations and distributions of colored areas sometimes
occur. No rational combinations could create such beauty; it is beyond the
means of rational, constructive creation.
The Chinese valued the beauty of chance very highly and reverently
cherished these works, among which could be encountered rare, unexpected,
and irresistibly charming specimens; even now they are objects of delight to
the cultured eye.
 The Subjective Aesthetic: Symbolism and the Intuitive / 29

And how much beauty is to be found in the fortuitous, unintelligible

collection of spots and lines of Chinese letters, in the motley crowd, or in
branches accidentally interlaced.
The Chinese likes the line to meander unconsciously and beautifully like a
gangliform plant. Even the fanciful forms of clouds appear bare to him, and
he tries still more to intensify their whimsicality. Unlike the Greek, the
Chinese cannot honestly and diligently repeat a meander or geometrical form
many times; once he takes hold of a form, he loosens it and repeats it in an
infinite number of fortuitous combinations—in complete contrast to our
academism, which organically does not tolerate chance in anything and is
now trying to abolish it.
Yes, the East loves the accidental—searches for it, catches it, and in
every way exploits it. The Chinese, for example, sings that the eyebrows of
a woman are black and long like the wings of black swallows in flight. In
the tree they encircle he sees a harp on whose strings sobs the wind. For him
the falling snow is a cloud of white butterflies dropping to the ground.
Chance opens up whole worlds and begets wonders. Many wonders,
unique harmonies and scales, the enchanting shades common to Chinese and
Japanese pictures owe their existence only to the fact that they arose by
chance, were appreciated by a sensitive eye, and were crystallized.
‘*That’s all charlatanism,’’ people will tell me. But I am not elevating
chance into the sole principle of artistic creaticn, I am merely stating its use
and reasonableness—qualities that do not permit it to be ignored and
repressed. ;
There is much that is accidental in our life, and I doubt whether anyone
would reject a fortunate and beautiful accident.
In any case, this principle of chance is applied much more frequently and
willingly than the public suspects. I know many artists who daub their
canvas just as God wills them to, and who then merely snatch from the
chaos what they think is most successful and, depending on their power of
fantasy, subject everything to their desires.
Those artists who devise scales, harmonies, and decorative motifs are
especially inclined toward this.
Others search for amusing ways of painting—by blobs and pointillés.
Some stick on paper before the work is dry;.the next day they tear it off and
discover accidental and sometimes beautiful patches on the work and at-
tempt to make use of them.
And the way in which they use this principle gives a clear indication of
the difference in spiritual structure between Europe and Asia.
30 / RUSSIAN ART OF THE AVANT-GARDE

For Europe, chance is a means of stimulation, a departure point for logi-

cal thought, whereas for Asia, it is the first step in a whole series of sub-
sequent, nonconstructive works of beauty.
So, essentially the principle of chance is not the result of rational pro-
cesses consciously oriented toward a certain aim and is not even a game
played by a hand ungoverned by the apparatus of thought, but is the conse-
quence of completely blind, extrinsic influences.

The Principle of Free Creation

The source of the beauty of chance can be found not only in blind, extrinsic,
purely external factors, but also in the inmost recesses of man’s very soul, in
the unconscious movements of the artist’s hand and thought. It is on this
faculty of man’s spirit, bestowed from above, that the principle of free cre-
ation is built.
How joyful it is, how good it is to set one’s soul at liberty, to sketch and
to work relying on fortune without constricting oneself by laws and rules,
and how good it is to advance blindly, aimlessly, to advance into the un-
known after complete surrender to free fulfillment, and to throw away, to
scatter all our achievements and all our quasi values.
How good it is to be wild and primitive, to feel like an innocent child who
rejoices equally at precious pearls and glittering pebbles and who remains
alien and indifferent to their established values.
I shall not be carrying out subtle researches into the origin of creation, of
beauty, etc.—into whether it is a game, a surplus of energy, the regulation
of vital forces, etc.
But there is no doubt that while we play, we by chance alight upon ex-
amples of precious beauty that are so fascinatingly beautiful that we don’t
know how to keep them, and it grieves us when we are forced to sacrifice
them to suit some principles or other that have received general recognition.
Playing a game compels us to forget about the direct, utilitarian purpose
of things, and the artist, in realizing the principles of free creation, has a
right to play with all worlds accessible to him: both the world of objects,
and the world of forms, lines, colors, and light. He has a right to play with
them as freely as a child who plays with pebbles, uxing them up and laying
them out on the ground.
Every individual has his own instinctive wisdom, his own gestures, his
own tuning fork.
What is more—every period in life has its own particular psychological
makeup, so let it be manifested without hindrance or prohibition.
 The Subjective Aesthetic: Symbolism and the Intuitive / 31

This is expressed most unconstrainedly and easily in children’s actions

and gestures, which enchant us generally because those hindrances and
prohibitions that embarrass us are absent at their initial source.
Of course, free proportions in figures and faces can create caricature as
well, but they can create a beauty too, prompted by an innate sense of
measure.
In playing, we express our ‘“‘I’’ more vividly and unconstrainedly and
emerge no longer as the masters of forces hidden within us, but as their
slaves.
And this free relation toward all that exists and surrounds us, this attrac-
tion and gracious relation toward the manifestations of our own ‘“‘I,’’ has
created many national arts, has marked out and posed many problems for us.
And all these nuances of individual creation—nuances such as heavy,
light, clumsy, graceful, cold, dry, vague, feminine, masculine, sharp, soft,
etc.—are products of instinctive work, and they should be preserved and
protected, and not persecuted and destroyed.

Why is the hand of man not given, as a photograph is, the ability to trans-
mit forms and reproductions of ‘‘this world’’ precisely?
Why does man not possess an apparatus that, by desire or act of will,
could be aimed at creation that would reflect neither the fortuitous, external
conditions surrounding the artist nor the individual features of his own
psychology?
Why does the art of so many peoples bear the character of apparent absur-
dity, coarseness, vagueness, or feebleness?
Art is like a two-edged weapon; it is like the two-faced Janus. One face
is, aS it were, coarse, absurd, and feeble; the other is, as it were, radiant
with grace, refinement, and delicate, careful trimmings.
In which of these two faces is there more beauty? Which of them is capa-
ble of giving more enjoyment to man’s soul? Or perhaps they are both, in
equal degree, the custodians of the concept of beauty, and thereby justify
their existence.
I shall not take the liberty of asserting that the art of primitive peoples is
characterized by the first face of Janus.
Suffice it to remember even the misty lines of Chinese pictures, Turkistan
frescoes, Egyptian reliefs, the surviving monuments of Cretan and Polyne-
sian cultures to reject this. In no way can we establish elements of the coarse
or vulgar in their lines and depictions. On the contrary, in appearance they
are all very refined and delicate.
32 fi REWS°SOAUNI OA ReT FOUR Ty HOE Al Vos Nels sG eA ReD SE

Monuments of the Stone Age, of hunting peoples, preserved in caves,

Negro art, etc., convince us of the same.
But there are peoples who profoundly loved the simple, the naive and ap-
parently absurd and who, throughout many centuries, persistently exploited
this world, discovering in it virgin deposits of beauty.
To be ugly and absurd externally does not mean to possess no inner
values.
So, the principle of free art affords its ardent and passionate protection to
all those absurd manifestations of man’s soul, to that coarse and vulgar face,
as it were, of art, which is so persecuted in Europe.
In general, one can say that this apparent coarseness, vulgarity, Jubok ”
quality appeared, and began to be exploited, quite late in time and that it is
the fate of only certain peoples.
For many peoples this is a completely closed area. However much they
may struggle, they will always remain graceful and delicate and will never
create that distinctive lyricism that is concealed beneath the cover of the ab-
surd and simple: the lyricism that Byzantium discovered after penetrating
this area and developing it in all directions.
And it was Byzantium that for many centuries guided the tastes of mil-
lions of people and dominated the artistic understanding in all Europe; it
ruled for many centuries with boundless strength.
And all this happened after the grace of Hellas, after the canons of beauty
of pure, mathematical proportions. All this happened not so long ago.
To be profoundly sincere is not so easy; artists are quite often accused of
an absence of sincerity. This is an audacious and stupid accusation. I have
met nobody who did not want to be sincere in his art.
The sincerity of idiots, fools, of underdeveloped and stupid people has no
artistic value and is therefore void of any artistic interest.
In general, I call in question the possibility of expressing our true ‘‘I’’ in
a pure form.
It often happens that the ‘‘I’’ that we have expressed turns out, after a
little reflection, to be not our ‘‘I’’ at all.
I had a friend who once bought a depiction of Christ for a few farthings
on the street. After he had arrived home, he went into raptures over his
purchase. This was a Russian man, brought up in an ecclesiastical family,
who from childhood had been surrounded by exclusively Russian impres-
sions and who had known no other language besides Russian. He had been
to a university.
In view of all these facts, his raptures seemed particularly strange to me,
 The Subjective Aesthetic: Symbolism and the Intuitive / 33

and I asked him how he, a man who had grown up in a Russian environment
with a Russian way of thinking, could go into raptures over a purely German
depiction a la Hoffmann.?
And only when I had pointed out to him the inimitable, unique, age-old
charm of the antique, tasteful Russian depictions of Christ, and all the vul-
garity of this outwardly elegant depiction, did an element of doubt creep into
his rapture, and he laid his purchase aside.
Now one asks, was he expressing his own opinion when he flew into rap-
tures over his purchase? I am inclined to think not. In his rapture he was sin-
cere, but in that superficial, shallow sense applicable to all the followers of
fashion—that epidemic, that tyrant of men’s opinions and tastes. I say in a
superficial sense, because his raptures were not founded on the inward order
of his soul created by the presence of all impressions from reality; they were
founded merely on a simple order of feelings from the conception evoked, a
conception that conceals and gradually corrodes the peculiar depths of the
soul.
Only this can explain the fact that more and more depictions a la Hoff-
mann have begun to appear in our schools and churches alongside the ar-
tistic charm of the antique icons. These depictions are taken from German
originals, and pictures are executed by the disciples of the academy along
the same lines.
And wherever fashion appears, it drives deep down into the soul that
which has grown and stratified over thousands of years and in its place foists
on people its cheap, marketplace conception of beauty.
All this indicates that the free expression of our “‘I’’ has dangerous ene-
mies, because of which it is very difficult for man to be sincere in the sense
of freely expressing his inner essence and not some surrogate evoked by
chance.
Hence it is interesting to ask: which expression of the “‘I’’ has more
value? The expression of the ‘‘I’’ that bursts from us spontaneously or the
‘*T’’ that is passed through the filter of thought?
I shall concern myself only with free art, i.e., the art in which chasing or
processing is absent—elements that completely destroy the initial mirage
and in which the artist has already ceased to be a creator and becomes more
a critic of his own “‘I.”’
It sometimes happens, and not so rarely, that man feels within himself an
influx of ideas, of sensations in his psychology that seem to him somehow
alien, not his own, appearing, as it were, from without by some miracle,
something unexpected but desired.
34 | RUSS AGUNG AORSIy (ORO (ELBE ACN cA Nalae GrAgR abs r:

In religious ecstasy, in moments of inspiration, and even in ordinary

moments of emotional peace, there occurs an influx of ideas that is not the
result of conscious thinking directed toward an aim.
And because of this many people say not, ‘‘I think,’’ but, ‘“‘It seems to
ies
Why do we think one thing, and not another, why does my glance slip
into one direction and not another, why does my hand do this and not that?
In all this there is sometimes no element of logic or actively directed will,
and an audacious galloping about, striking changes of stimuli are always
going on.
Thus, first, by some miracle a brilliant thought sometimes imprints itself
on the chaos of thinking, an intuitive solution to a task, a problem that had
beset us for such a long time. Where does it come from?
Second, there are occasions when ideas, colors, tones, melodies of a par-
ticular order simply thrust themselves on us, and we are unable to shake
them off because, like a volcano, they require an outlet.
And with dynamic force they appear at the first opportunity.
And we cannot be responsible for these phenomena, we cannot be ac-
cused of their appearance, just as we cannot be accused of our dreams and
fancies.
In the same way, we cannot be responsible for our ideas taking forms that
in their embodiment seem, as it were, absurd and coarse but that demand
their realization in precisely these forms.
Neither are we responsible for the fact that our soul demands ‘‘plagia-
rism,’’ that we repeat old things. We grew up on them, strive toward them,
vary them, elaborate them, and thereby afford ourselves enjoyment and
peace.
The course of the development of world art clearly shows that folk arts
have been created only by way of plagiarism.
Of course, plagiarism not in the sense of theft, robbery, or attempts to
pass off ideas and images previously created by others as one’s own per-
sonal creation. This suspicion should not arise of its own accord since the
beauty of the past is known and beloved by all, is common property, and so
the artist who draws on this rich treasure house must not be reproached with
deceit or theft. It is a great pity that society is not acquainted with antiquity
and is not fond of it—it therefore complains when artists do not present it
with innovations but lean on the past, apparently out of impotence, and, so
it seems, simply steal from it.
In China, a nation nurtured on art and educated in beauty, artists are im-
periously required to produce variations on the art of the past, which has ex-
 The Subjective Aesthetic: Symbolism and the Intuitive | 35

isted for three thousand years, and imitation and free copying are valued
very highly.
I would go so far as to say that there is no art without plagiarism, and
even the freest art is based on plagiarism in the above sense because beloved
forms of the past instilled in our soul unconsciously repeat themselves.
Hence the demands to be sincere and individual in any special sense of
the word are ridiculous.
It is not my task to analyze our ‘‘I’’ in all its diversity, in all its
nuances—that is the province of psychology; but I would like to distinguish
three characteristic stages in it that to a greater or lesser extent determine our
creative work.
First, the hidden, subconscious ‘‘I,’’ something that has appeared from
one knows not where, often completely alien and fortuitous but at the same
time, of course, individual, because in any case the right basis, whether
temporary or permanent, has appeared within it.
Second, the “‘I,’’ also hidden, but already mature, something that we are
aware of, which is organically inherent to the individuum and transmitted to
it atavistically: it is all those impulses, stimuli, that, like a ripe seed, de-
mand an outlet, torment and cramp it.
Third, the *‘I’’ that presents the outward manifestation of these two hid-
den, individual ‘‘I’’s mentioned above.
In free art, of course, it is the third ‘‘I’’ that interests us, but it does not
emerge as the direct echo of the two preceding ‘‘I’’s, it does not express the
aggregate of the impressions and mysteries that accumulated in them, be-
cause much is lost through the effect of many outside factors encountered in
the process of its manifestation that operate directly or indirectly.
Let us indicate just a few:
1. The outward function of the hands and, in general, of the body, which
transmit that rhythm of the soul that it experiences at the moment of cre-
ation.
2. The state of the will.
3. Wealth of fantasy and of memory, reflectiveness.
4. Associations.
5. Experience of life creeping into the process of creation, subordinating
it to its canons, laws, tastes, and habits and operating with a hand that finds
it so pleasant to reiterate stereotyped devices; this reduces art to the level of
handicraft, which has nowadays built itself such a warm and secure nest.
6. State of psychosis during creation; the interchange of feelings, joy,
hope, suffering, failure, etc.
7. Struggle with material.
36 / RUSSIAN ART OF THE AVANT-GARDE

8. Appearance of ‘‘sensing into,’’ desire to create style, symbol, alle-

gory, and illusion.
9. Appearance of criterion and thought, etc., etc.
Hence free creation is not the absolutely free and pure echo of our inner
worlds. It will always contain alien elements, surrogates.
Free creation is inherent to the artist not as a simple desire to be original,
to play pranks, or to demonstrate ridiculous affectation, but as one of the
means of satisfying the creative needs of man’s soul.
Since there are a great many factors that influence the ‘‘I,’’ it is difficult
to establish which to exclude and which to contend with.
But, in any case, those factors that impede the free manifestation of our
‘“‘T’? and choke it with alien surrogates should be acknowledged as un-
desirable.
We can distinguish an alien ‘‘I’’ and any factors that impede our full
manifestation of the ‘‘I’’ by criticism and other means.
Therefore those works that the public sees marked as free action painting
and about which they imagine that their little Peter could daub ten such
paintings at home are, as far as the artist is concerned, not works of overex-
uberant mischievousness or of a frolicsome brush; they are a product in
which not a single spot, not one shade can be altered, a product that has ap-
peared as a result of suffering, of long, persistent inner work, searching, and
experience.
Hence free creation contains the essentials of true creation and stands high
above simple infitation; in no way is it a game or mischief making, and by
no means can it be called the simple need to liberate the self from an inner
repletion of life-giving energy (dissimilation).
Forms attained by the application of the principle of free creation are
sometimes a synthesis of complex analyses and sensations; they are the only
forms capable of expressing and embodying the creator’s intentions vis-a-vis
nature and the inner world of his ‘‘I.’’ From the point of view of naturalism
they will appear as quite free and arbitrary, but this does not exclude the fact
that they can be strictly constructive from the point of view of aesthetic
requirements.
And it often seems that the absurd forms are not the echo and translation
of nature but the echo of the creator’s inner psychology.
“They are the swans of other worlds,’’ as thé Chinese sing.
The principle of free creation opens up the temple of art as widely and
deeply as many other principles.
Free creation is a general principle; it is inherent in other principles as
 The Subjective Aesthetic: Symbolism and the Intuitive | 37

their component part and is always giving rise to independent principles that
are wholly derived from it.
The principle of symbols is a vivid example. This supposedly weird non-
sense, this oppressive absurdity is life itself in its purest form, it is con-
densed life. The symbols that we find in Byzantine art, in the ubok, are
flashes of beauty and divinity.
The principle of rhythm, movement, grandiosity is possible only with free
creation, when the hand is held back in its impulse.
These examples will suffice.

The principle of free creation represents essentially the apogee in econ-

omy of resources and the least expenditure of technical devices; at the same
time it provides the truest and most powerful echo of the divine beauty that
man has sensed.
And all peoples used, are using now, and henceforth will use free
creation.
And only narrow-minded doctrinaires and dunderhead philistines can de-
mand that art should forever remain on safe, well-trodden paths, that it
should not burst the dam of realism and depart for the endless horizons of
free creation.
A man possesses an ocean of impressions. He often receives stimuli that
he does not see but only feels: in creating freely, obedient to his feeling, he
depicts an object quite contrary to how he sees it.
Behind the outer covering of every object, there hides its secret, its
rhythm—and the artist is given the ability to divine this secret, to react to
the object’s rhythm, and to find forms to manifest this rhythm.
The lost image, word, melody, verse have often irrevocably sunk into
oblivion, but the soul preserves and cherishes their rhythm, remaining in it
as their eternal and indelible echo. And this rhythm guides the hand when
the soul wishes to restore lost beauty. The outward expression is often com-
pletely unattained, but we hold it dear by virtue of its analogous rhythm, its
beauty equivalent to the forgotten object.
And often in objects seemingly absurd and coarse, there lies a wealth of
inner beauty, rhythm, and harmony that you will not encounter in objects
constructed by the mind on principles of pure proportion and practical truth.
Distance toward objects is established; practical, constructive aspects of
the object are forgotten.
Free creation is the mother of art. Free creation raises us above ‘‘this
world’’—this is its great prerogative.
38 | RUSSIAN ART OF THE AW AN TCA
eee

And the opinion is quite without ground that people have sought and
demanded illusions at all times. No, many peoples have not been satisfied
with such cheap tricks as deceiving the poor spectator.
The aspiration to other worlds is inherent in man’s nature. Man does not
want to walk, he demands dancing; he does not want to speak, he demands
song; he does not want the earth but strains toward the sky. The surest path
to this sky is free creation.
From time immemorial, free creation has been an art for itself; the specta-
tor, the public has been for it a completely fortuitous phenomenon. In olden
times, music and singing were like this, and only subsequently did they
become a means of gathering and entertaining an audience.
If in his attitude to art the artist becomes like the savage, then, like him,
he will think only of himself.
He has the right to tell the public and critics: ‘“‘Excuse me, but don’t pes-
ter me with your demands; let me create according to my own inner im-
pulses and criteria.’’
And he will be right because as soon as an artist begins to listen to extrin-
sic doctrines, he will be forced to violate the rhythms concealed within, the
motive energy inherent in him; he will have to restrain himself, he will have
to turn into a cart horse, he will grow dull.
Now let us turn to a discussion of the principle of texture.*
Hi.
Neoprimitivism
and Cubofuturism
 1910—1911 rr.
NEKABPb -AHBAPb.
reine
|a eee

KATANOMD BBIGTABRH
»DYBHOBLIN BaneTD".

Cover of the catalogue of the first ‘“‘Knave of Diamonds’’ exhibition

(Moscow, December 1910—January 1911). The restrained, conven-
tional design gave little indication of the historical importance of the
exhibition in the evolution of the Russian avant-garde.
ALEKSANDR SHEVCHENKO
Neoprimitivism:
Its Theory, Its Potentials,
Its Achievements, 1913

Born Kharkov, 1882; died Moscow, 1948. 1898-1907: enrolled at the Stroganov
Art School, Moscow; 1905-06: studied in Paris; 1907-09: studied at the Moscow
Institute of Painting, Sculpture and Architecture; 1910-14: influenced by peasant
art; close to Larionov; contributed to the “Donkey’s Tail,” “Target,” ‘No. 4, and
other avant-garde exhibitions; 1914-18: military service; 1918—30: professor at
Svomas/Vkhutemas/Vkhutein; continued to paint and exhibit throughout the
1930s and 1940s.

The translation is of Schevchenko’s Neo-primitivizm. Ego teoriya. Ego vozmozh-

nosti. Ego dostizheniva (Moscow, November 1913 [dated June in the text]), and is
one of two booklets written by Shevchenko in the same year, the other being Printr-
sipy kubizma i drugikh sovremennykh techenii v zhivopisi vsekh vremen i narodov
[The Principles of Cubism and Other Contemporary Trends in Painting of All Ages
and All Nations; bibl. R355]. The cover and text of Neoprimitivism were illustrated
with examples of his work.

Because of its comparatively late date, Shevchenko’s text shows considerable futurist
influence; it reads more like a futurist manifesto than a lucid apologia of the neoprim-
itivist movement. Shevchenko repeated many of his ideas on neoprimitivism in his
booklet on cubism, which included among its illustrations a child’s drawing.

Neoprimitivism was the only declaration as such of the neoprimitivists even though
the movement had been in existence since 1908. They were not, however, the first to
express interest in primitive art forms: at Abramtsevo and Talashkino professional
artists had already been assimilating certain devices from Russian peasant art, and
members of the World of Art, Lev Bakst and Aleksandr Benois among them, had
given attention to children’s drawings and to village crafts as art forms [see bibl.
R243, R244]. After 1908 Russian and primitive art forms began to enjoy a vogue
among Russian collectors and historians, and the year 1913, in fact, witnessed sev-
eral events that focused public attention on the Russian icon and folk art, e.g., the
“Second All-Russian Folk Art Exhibition’ in St. Petersburg, and the large exhibi-
tion of icons—including examples from the collections of Ilya Ostroukhov and Ste-
pan Ryabushinsky (brother of Nikolai)—organized by the Institute of Archaeology in
Moscow.

4I
 ASIEKCAHJPS WEBYEHKO.

EEO -UPHMUTUB ASM.

BIO TROP HCO BOR MOR MOOT It
EMO PLO eran Ease.

MOCK RA
1aLra

Cover of Aleksandr Shevchenko’s Neoprimitivism (Moscow,

1913). The picture reproduced is his Musicians (1913), now in the
Russian Museum, Leningrad. Photograph courtesy M. Alexandre
Polonski, Paris.
 Neoprimitivism and Cubofuturism / 43

Throughout his life Shevchenko retained an interest in certain of the pictorial analy-
ses he made during the years 1912-13, particularly with regard to the composition
and effect of color. In 1918-19 he attempted to combine a scientific study of color
properties with the results of his own observations on the /ubok and the icon. To this
end he established the group Color Dynamics and Tectonic Primitivism together with
the painter Aleksei Grishchenko (who was particularly interested in icons and Byzan-
tine art); this group, which held one exhibition in Moscow in 1919, sought to uphold
its three principles of ‘*structure, knowledge of the laws of color, and knowledge of
the material with which we operate in creating the easel painting’ (bibl. R16, p.
119]. Shevchenko’s precise, logical analyses of color and other painterly elements
anticipated the laboratory techniques of the Moscow Inkhuk and its affiliates in the
1920s. Although Shevchenko was not a formal member of this organization, he did
establish direct contact with Aleksandr Rodchenko and the architects Vladimir
Krinsky and Nikolai Ladovsky within the framework of the short-lived Zhivskulp-
tarkh [Kollektiv zhivopisno-skulptumo-arkhitekturnogo sinteza—Collective of Paint-
ing-Sculpture-Architecture Synthesis] founded in Moscow in 1919/20 and repre-
sented as a group at the ‘‘Nineteenth State Exhibition’? in Moscow in 1920. Shev-
chenko was not alone in his endeavor to apply scientific analysis to primitive art—
Vasilii Kandinsky, for example, proposed the establishment of a subsection within
the Academy of Artistic Sciences that would deal precisely with this (see pp. 196ff.).
For a French translation see bibl. 145i, pp. 71-80.

To Art
Free and Eternal

The artist should not be too

timid, too sincere, and should
not be too subservient to na-
ture.
—Paul Cézanne, painter

The artist should be a brave,

sincere fighter for the ideas
of. great Art, he should not be
subservient to nature, and only
by drawing material from it for
his experiences can he be
the creator and master of its
forms.
—A. S.
44 | RUSSIAN ART OF THE AVANT-GARDE

Aleksandr Shevchenko: Still Life in Signboard Style: Wine and Fruit,

1913. Oil on canvas, 82 x 86 cm. Collection Tretyakov Gallery, Mos-
cow. Although indebted to Cézanne and to the cubists, Shevchenko at-
tempted to combine these influences with a deliberate attention to the
form, color, and texture of primitive art.

WE WHO ADVOCATE NEOPRIMITIVISM AS THE ARTIST’S RE-

LIGION SAY:

The Earth and Nature no longer exist in their conventional sense. They
have been turned into building foundations, into asphalt for pavements and
roads. The Earth and Nature remain only a memory, like a fairy tale about
something beautiful and long past.
The factory town rules over everything.
The movement, the never-ending commotion, the obscure nightmares and
visions of the town are continually replacing each other. In the light of the
daytime sun darkened by houses, in the bright light of the electric suns of
night, life presents itself to us as quite different, replete with different forms
new to us.
 Neoprimitivism and Cubofuturism | 45

The world has been transformed into a single monstrous, fantastic, perpet-
ually moving machine, into a single huge nonanimal, automatic organism,
into a single gigantic whole constructed with a strict correspondence and
balance of parts.
We and the whole world are the parts of this whole.
We, like some kind of ideally manufactured mechanical man, have grown
used to living—getting up, going to bed, eating and working according to
the clock—and the sense of rhythm and mechanical harmony, reflected in
the whole of our life, cannot but be reflected in our thinking, and in our spir-
itual life: in Art.
We can no longer be satisfied with a simple organic copy of nature.
We have grown used to seeing it around us altered and improved by the
hand of man the creator, and we cannot but demand the same of Art.
Such is our age.
Naturalistic painting does not exist for us either, just as nature does not
exist without roadways swept clean and sprinkled with sand or spread with
asphalt, without plumbing and electric light, without the telephone and the
trolley.
We are striving to seek new paths for our art, but we do not reject the old
completely, and of its previous forms we recognize above all—the primi-
tive, the magic fable of the old East.
The simple, unsophisticated beauty of the /ubok,’ the severity of the
primitive, the mechanical precision of construction, nobility of style, and
good color brought together by the creative hand of the artist-ruler—that is
our password and our slogan.
Life without movement is nothing—and therefore we always aspire not to
enslave the forms of objects on one plane, but to impart their movement to
them by means of the depiction of intermediate forms.
Beauty is only in the harmony of simple combinations of forms and col-
ors. Recherché beauty is very close to the tawdry affectation of the market—
the product of the mob’s corrupted tastes.
Primitive art forms—icons, lubki, trays, signboards, fabrics of the East,
etc.—these are specimens of genuine value and painterly beauty.”
The words Art, i.e., invention, and nature, i.e., reality, are at a
crossroads called the ‘‘Creative Will of the Artist,’’ and diverge along dif-
ferent paths; that is why we do not pursue a naturalistic resemblance to na-
ture in our pictures.
Nature is the raw material that merely excites in our soul this or that
emotion that we experience when we fulfill our conception of the picture’s
surface.
46 / RUSSIAN ART OF THE AVANT-GARDE

It is not necessary to copy nature and life, but it is necessary to observe

and study them unceasingly. For Art, the observation and study of nature
must have a subject of Art itself for a departure point.
For the point of departure in our art we take the /ubok, the primitive art
form, the icon, since we find in them the most acute, most direct perception
of life—and a purely painterly one, at that.
We, like the primitivists and like Eastern artists, consider the most valu-
able and most productive work to be that which is guided by impression.
This provides a broader field for displaying one’s own world view and does
not distract attention with unnecessary details, which always occurs in work
done directly from nature.
But we also tolerate this kind of work as long as it is based on the
judicious will of the artist-creator and not on servile submission to nature.
In this case our art, although executed from nature, will, as it were, serve
us as a fulcrum.
For some this will seem like a copy of somebody else’s work of art; for us
this is a sketch of nature, a study of nature through the prism of Art.
In the literal sense of the word, there is no such thing as a copy; no artist
is able to produce two completely identical works, but only a more or less
exact imitation.
Painting is a visual art and, as such, can choose its object of imitation
freely, i.e., nature or another work already in existence.
One should not be afraid of copying other people’s pictures.
Painting is self-sufficient, and hence what the mob conventionally calls a
copy is, in fact, not that; in two works of art that resemble each other in sub-
ject, there will be a different kind of painting, different texture, and different
structure.
It’s easy to convince ourselves of this if we take two works not just of two
faces, but even done from the same model, from the same position: they are
two different works of painting.
Art is for itself and not for the execution of a subject, and if it does appear
to be the latter, then this is not the motive, but the consequence.
Neither can the primitive art form, like nature, restrict our freedom. We
are merely fascinated by its simplicity, its harmony of style, and its direct,
artistically true perceptiveness of life.*
We demand a good texture of our works, i.e., the visual impression from
a picture that is created by its surface, its painting—by brushstroke, density
of paint (color), character of the painted jayer of the painting—in a word, by
* Of life and not of nature. Nature is the aggregate of those things of which the world consists; life is the
aggregate of the forms of these things and of their movements.
 Neoprimitivism and Cubofuturism | 47

everything that we see on the surface of the picture and that is related to its
execution.
We demand good structure, i.e., a manner of execution that imparts a
good density to the paint and to its disposition.
We demand good style of a work of art, i.e., a style that expresses itself
in the composition of lines, masses, and colors.
Our art is free and electric—in this lies its contemporaneity.
We are not afraid of following the principles of this or that school of con-
temporaneity. They are inevitable in our scientific age.
The word neoprimitivism on the one hand testifies to our point of depar-
ture, and on the other—with its prefix, neo—reminds us also of its involve-
ment in the painterly traditions of our age.
But in saying this, we are not imposing on ourselves any obligations that
could bind us, or make us servile, to theory.
We are free, and in this lies our progress and our happiness.
Any attachment to a school, to a theory, already means stagnation, is al-
ready what in society is customarily designated by the word ‘‘academism.”’
The artist’s vitality is determined by his search, and in searching lies
perfection.
The mob says with reproach and even apparently with regret: ‘‘This artist
has not defined himself yet,’’ but in this lies his life, his authenticity. Of the
artist about whom people say, “‘He has defined himself, he has found him-
self,’’ one ought to say, ‘“‘He has died,’’ because ‘‘He has defined himself”’
means that he has no more experiences, that he is living by what, essen-
tially, he has already lived through, i.e., he is following a definite theory,
like a recipe. In this is stagnation, in this is death.
We are alive forever, young forever because we ignore the opinions of the
idle mob. We live and work not to please its stagnant, depraved tastes; we
work only in the name of Art—in this is our honor and our reward.
Cézanne said: ‘‘The artist’s labor, by means of which he achieves perfec-
tion, is adequate reward for fools’ misunderstanding of him.”’
We speak out harshly against the old school, the old academy, because it
did not know how to preserve the most precious (for the art of painting)
achievement of the ages—the traditions common to all genuine schools of
all times—and without realizing this, it now inculcates in their place crude
obviousness of manner and unnecessary, absurd ideological tendentious-
ness.
It forgets that subject is not the aim but merely a most insignificant
means, and that painting consists only of itself.
‘*Art is in form,’’ says Oscar Wilde, and in this he is right.
48 / RUSSIAN ART OF THE AVANT-GARDE

The very word neoprimitivism, as was said earlier, is a word that charac-
terizes the trend of painterly achievements, their point of departure from the
primitive, and also testifies to its relevance to our age.
There are, and can be, no phenomena that are born out of nothing.
There are no ideas that are born, only ones that are regenerated, and ev-
erything normal, of course, is successive and develops from preceding
forms.
Such is our school—taking its genesis from the primitive but developing
within contemporaneity.
Generally speaking, the word primitive is applied not only to the simplifi-
cation and unskillfulness of the ancients, but also to peasant art—for which
we have a specific name, the /ubok. The word primitive points directly to its
Eastern derivation, because today we understand by it a whole pleiad of
Eastern arts—Japanese art, Chinese, Korean, Indo-Persian, etc.
In our school this term points to the character of the painting (not the sub-
ject), to the means of execution, and to the employment of the painterly
traditions of the East.
But this does not involve simple imitation, i.e., something of which peo-
ple would normally say: ‘‘This was done in an Eastern style,’’ i.e., not
what, for example, is being done by Stelletsky,* whose works in no way
reveal old Russia, Byzantium, or icons. They are mere historicity—a resolu-
tion of high ideas by home-made, amateurish means, an imitation devoid of
perception—whereas icons are saturated with the East, with Byzantium, and
at the same time remain entirely original.
Neoprimitivism is a profoundly national phenomenon.
Russia and the East have been indissolubly linked from as early as the
Tatar invasions, and the spirit of the Tatars, of the East, has become so
rooted in our life that at times it is difficult to distinguish where a national
feature ends and where an Eastern influence begins.
The whole of man’s culture has, generally speaking, derived from Asia,
and not vice versa, aS some assert.
The whole of our culture is an Asiatic one, and foreign craftsmen, archi-
tects, weavers, artists, and people like them who came to our ‘‘barbaric’”’
country from the West bearing with them the spark of European civilization,
immediately fell under the influence of Tatar culture, of the East, of our
more distinctive, more temperamental spirit, and Western civilization crum-
bled to dust before the culture of the East. .
Let us take the painting of old Russia.
We have only to compare our grass writing * with Eastern carpets, our
‘‘spiritual-moral painting’’ and its direct continuation—folk pictures and
 Neoprimitivism and Cubofuturism | 49

lubki—with Indo-Persian painting, to see quite clearly their common origin,

their spiritual relationship.
In other countries the influence of the East is also no less obvious, no less
grandiose.
The forms of Western art were shaped entirely from the forms of Byzan-
tium, which adopted them, in its turn, from the more ancient art of Armenia
and Georgia.
In this way a rotation, as it were, a procession of arts has resulted—from
us, from the East, from the Caucasus to Byzantium, then to Italy, and
thence, adopting a little oil-painting technique and easel-painting technique,
it comes back to us.
That is where we obtain such epithets as ‘‘frenchified’’ painting, in
which, if we investigate a little more deeply, we will again sense the splen-
dor of our barbarity, the primitive of the East, more so than the West with
its simple, naturalistic, and at times quite absurd imitation of nature.
All this can serve in sufficient degree as the justification for our enthusi-
asm for the art of the East. It becomes clear that there is no longer any point
in using the products of the West, which has obtained them from the East,
the more so since after their long, roundabout journey, they wind up pretty
well deteriorated and rotted.
There is no point because we are daily in the most direct contact with
Asia.
We are called barbarians, Asians.
Yes, we are Asia, and are proud of this, because ‘‘Asia is the cradle of
nations,’’ a good half of our blood is Tatar, and we hail the East to come,
the source and cradle of all culture, of all arts.»
Hence, neoprimitivism, while deriving its genesis from the East, is never-
theless not the repetition or popularization of it—which always so debases
any art; no, it is entirely original. In it, to a great extent, is reflected the
East, for example, in interpretation and in traditions, but one’s own national
art also plays a large part, just as children’s art does—this unique, always
profound, genuine primitivism; art in which our Asiatic origin is evident in
its entirety.
Nor is neoprimitivism alien to Western forms, and we declare frankly:
Asia has yielded us all the depths of her culture, all her primitiveness, and
Europe has, in tur, supplemented this with certain features of her own
civilization.
Hence neoprimitivism was formed from the fusion of Eastern and Western
forms.
Now we shall turn to those elements on which we base our school.
50 | RUWUSSTAN ART) OF GiHE A WAN Df - GiAGR De

First and foremost, we demand of our works clear and well-balanced

drawing expressed in delineation and silhouette. Delineation is not the line
against which Cézanne warns *—delineation is the boundary between two
colors. But we are not afraid of using line, and while recognizing that draw-
ing and painting are indissoluble, we introduce line into the latter: not as a
graphic element, but as a purely painterly fundamental, because line is not
delineation (contour), but rather a narrow plane of greater or lesser length.
Delineation is invisible and therefore has no color. Line can be of greater
or lesser width and can be painted as is necessary in different colors.
We demand good form; this inheres in the whole composition’s harmony
of drawing and in the correct distribution of reliefs in accordance with the
weight of individual parts and colored quantities.
The depiction of objects is concrete but not naturalistic.
Realism consists of a conscious attitude to life and its understanding; nat-
uralism consists of an unconscious, sometimes even senseless, contempla-
tion of nature and copying of objects.
Realism is in the essence of objects; naturalism in painting is in the
outward imitation of their form.
Objects are created not by simple copying but by the sensation of their
forms and colors.
Chiaroscuro, like shading, does not exist, but serves merely as a pretext
for distributing light and dark colors.
In order to display the essence of objects, we resort to the depiction of
their intermediate forms. This enables us not to enslave them on the pic-
ture’s surface in their isolated form, in a motionless state, but to depict
them, as it were, at the moment of creation—in motion, i.e., in a more real,
more complete form.
We simplify form, as such, but at the same time we enlarge, complicate
the conception of it.
We destroy scientific perspective constructed, as it is, by looking at things
with one eye—which is therefore a compromise, a falsity, and a hin-
drance—and replace it by a new, free, nonscientific artistic perspective. It
allows us to introduce not one, but several points of linear contact so that it
is possible to show one and the same object immediately from several points
of view.
We consider that objects have not one, but several no less characteristic
forms.

* * More than anything beware of neoimpressionist underlining’’ (Cézanne, Letters).

 Neoprimitivism and Cubofuturism / 51

We introduce rhythmic periodicity of movements and resolve cubist dis-

placements.
We apply the name ‘‘free perspective’’ to any modification in the inscrip-
tion of figures on the surface depending on their location in space.
We completely reject aerial perspective since it is connected with space
and deprives the picture’s surface of its literal meaning. We replace it by
linear construction and distribution of masses and reliefs.
We demand good composition; this inheres in the distribution both of
movements and surfaces and of colored quantities, and in the inward content
of each object and of the whole. Without all this, monumentality—the
highest achievement of Art—is impossible.
We demand noble simplification but, at the same time, avoid synthetic
schematization.
We demand good style, which inheres in the picture itself, both in its con-
struction and coloring and in its texture and means of execution.
Style for any work of art is its very own, and we warn against confusing
the two terms stylism and historicity. The former is in the work itself and in
the whole work; the latter is only in the imitation of thematic character, of
method of execution, and of interpretation.
We advocate color as such, i.e., as coloration, and restore painting not to
impressionistic luminism or to the local colors of the academy, but to paint,
in all its luster, in its self-sufficient meaning.
Objects are painted arbitrarily, and the artist’s will imparts the primary
meaning. This occurs because the object in a given case may interest us only
by its form, and furthermore, its natural color may not suit our whole con-
ception, the whole composition; so without amy hesitation, we replace it by
one more essential, more expressive, and hence sacrifice an insignificant de-
tail in order to achieve the whole, general effect more fully.
In nature the colors of objects change because of reflections and light.
We abolish reflection, this academic bauble, and in place of it advance a
new principle, the principle of flowing color. Flowing color, methodically
reiterating the same color or its shade, indicates movement of color—and in
movement is life.
Flowing color is encountered for the first time, as a quite definite painterly
principle, in our icons, where it is expressed in the highlighting of the gar-
ments by colors flowing (passing) on into the background.
In the West this principle emerged in the art of the impressionists, but it
was not properly understood or, rather, was not sensed properly and was
diluted and, having lost its meaning, turned into the theory of supplementary
52 | REGESIS IEAUN> “ACR TH OFF) SISHeE eval VV AUNG GaAs PReD EE

color tones. It lost its meaning, because in moving away from the meaning
of color, as paint, it changed into a meaningless reflection—at first, into
some sort of colored decorativeness and subsequently into mere coloration
of insignificant bits of air.
We also recognize running color, i.e., color passing beyond the contour
of an object (see Russian Old Believers’ /ubki *); but this is expressed not in
a chaotic flow of paint, but in the form of a color’s iridescence, which is
based not on the theory of rayonism ® and not on reflective iridescence, but
on the iridescence of the bodies themselves at their intersections.
We oppose complementary color tones and replace their diversity—which
because of the variegation has a torpid effect on the eye—by a more effec-
tive aggregate of uniform color tones.
In other words, we apply cclors in practice not, for example, as the reflex
of yellow on blue, but as an aggregate of greens of greater or lesser density,
while distinguishing black from blue by a separate area; not as orange on vi-
olet, but as an aggregate of browns and yellows, while distinguishing red
and black.
Finally, we change the color of objects in order to manifest their spiritual
essence: for example, no one would paint a glass of poison some sort of
frivolous color such as pink or blue, but obviously in such a case a color
would be employed that had a more profound psychological effect.
We tolerate symbolism—as long as it is expressed in the construction and
color of a work, in the depths of its content, and not in tawdry cabalism and
cheap accessories.
We demand good texture and, while avoiding unnecessary obviousness of
manner, we are not afraid to omit details subtly if, of course, this is neces-
sary; thereby we achieve a great nobility of execution and, together with our
demand for good composition, greater persuasiveness and monumentality.
We stand for complete freedom of Art and for the advantages of eclec-
ticism as a renovating principle.
These are the theses from which our art, our craft, derives, but we use
them as need and meaning dictate, as possibilities and not as ready-made
recipes.

The meaning of painting is within painting itself. It is not inherent in the

subject matter, but has its own content of a purely painterly character; it is
inherent in texture, composition, and style.
These are the only demands that can be made of a picture.
Painting must not serve any or anyone’s ideas apart from its own—
 Neoprimitivism and Cubofuturism | 53

otherwise either it or the subject it serves, the idea, will destroy both, and
they will lose their meaning and strength.
We consider philistine demands of art to be naive and ludicrous, just as
the praise and censure of small-time critics who judge painting only from the
standpoint of its similarity or dissimilarity to nature are ludicrous and
absurd.
We reject the significance of any criticism apart from self-criticism. Only
the artist himself, who loves his art and concerns himself consciously with
it, can precisely and correctly determine the merits, defects, and value of his
work. The outsider, the spectator—if he falls in love with a certain work—
can, biased as he is, neither elucidate nor evaluate it on its true merits; if he
regards it impassively, indifferently, he therefore does not feel it or under-
stand it and hence has no right to judge.
Art is the artist’s experiences, his spiritual life, and nobody has the right
to interfere with someone else’s life.
People, like all other animals, can be divided into classes and species.
Art is for Art’s sake. It is useless but at the same time it is capable of ex-
citing sensations of the highest order in those people to whose class the artist
himself belongs.

We are accused of imitating Western art. But this, in fact, is not true.
If Cézanne, Gauguin, Rousseau have played a-role of no small importance
in the development of our Russian art, and if we pay due homage to them,
then it is precisely because they are not the type of contemporary Western
artist whose work is exemplified by the pictures at conventional salons; on
the contrary, they are the exception. :
Indeed, what do they share in common? Nothing, of course!
The art of the salons is a typical leftover, the decadence of European art.
Cézanne partly, Gauguin, and especially Henri Rousseau represent the as-
piration toward the East, its traditions and its forms.
They, like us, are in revolt, are searching, and in their own age were per-
secuted everywhere, just as we are.
We are accused of unnecessary academism, but the search for a more per-
fect style is not that at all; it is simply the aspiration toward monumentality.
And in general, no free, meaningful search can be called that since acade-
mism, strictly speaking, is applicable to narrow, soulless work, to the em-
ployment of conventional canons, to enslavement, and to the use of old
forms deprived of the traditions of craftsmanship.
Our achievement lies in the fact that by working out just the general
54 AON) ACR T OuR
jf. (RAUKSTSLI ST HE Dae
ARV, AUN Te GeASRe

theses for our school and without enslaving theory, we shall always concern
ourselves with the renewal of traditions, both by way of logical succession
and by personal experience.
We do not canonize forms, and by favoring eclecticism we are able con-
stantly to extend our conception of them.
Our theses afford the opportunity of perpetual existence and endless self-
perfection, whereas all existing theories inevitably lead to an impasse.
We have eternal life, eternal youth, and eternal self-perfection—and in
this lie our honor and reward.

NATALYA GONCHAROVA
Preface to Catalogue
of One-Man Exhibition, 1913

Born near Tula, 1881; died Paris, 1962. 1898-1902: studied at the Moscow Institute
of Painting, Sculpture, and Architecture, attending sculpture classes under Paolo
Trubetskoi; thereafter turned to painting; 1910: one-man exhibition at the Society of
Free Aesthetics in Moscow resulting in a scandal—works called pornographic [see
M.L. (Mikhail Larionov?): ‘‘Gazetnye kritiki v roli politsii nravov’’ (Newspaper
Critics in the Role of Morality Police) in bibl. R45, no. 11/12, 1909 (=1910), pp.
97-98]; ca. 1913: illustrated futurist booklets; 1910-15: contributed to the ‘‘Knave of
Diamonds,’’ ‘‘Donkey’s Tail,’’ ‘‘Target, Sere No. 4,’ ‘‘Exhibition of Painting.
1915,’ and other exhibitions; 1914: went to Paris with Larionov; after outbreak of
war, returned to Moscow briefly; 1915 joined Sergei Diaghilev in Lausanne; 1917
settled in Paris with Lanonoy.

The translation is of the preface to the catalogue of Goncharova’s second one-man

exhibition in Moscow, pp. 1-4 [bibl. R280]. This exhibition displayed 768 works
covering the period 1900-13 and ran from August until October 1913; at the begin-
ning of 1914 it opened in St. Petersburg, but on a smaller scale [see bibl. R281 and
reviews R325 and R334]. This Moscow exhibition did not create the scandal as-
sociated with the 1910 show, although Goncharova’s religious subjects were cri-
ticized as they had been at the ‘‘Donkey’s Tail’’ [for details see bibl. R310, p. go, or
bibl. 131, pp. 93-94]. The catalogue saw two editions. The text is reprinted in bibl.
R7, pp. 487-90, and translated into French in bibl. 114, pp. 114-16, and in bibl.
 Neoprimitivism and Cubofuturism | 55

thf, :

Natalya Goncharova, 1912. Photograph courtesy

the late Mme. Alexandra Larionov, Paris.

132, pp. 41-44. The preface was dated August 1913, Moscow. For reviews of this
exhibition see bibl. R261, R337, R344, R345. For details of the public awareness of
Russian and Eastern primitive art forms at this time see p. 41.

In appearing with a separate exhibition, I wish to display my artistic de-

velopment and work throughout the last thirteen years. I fathomed the art of
painting myself, step by step, without learning it in any art school (I studied
sculpture for three years at the Moscow Institute of Painting, Sculpture, and
Architecture and left when I received the small medal). At the beginning of
my development I learned most of all from my French contemporaries. They
stimulated my awareness and I realized the great significance and value of
the art of my country—and through it the great value of the art of the East.
Hitherto I have studied all that the West could give me, but in fact, my
country has created everything that derives from the West. Now I shake the
dust from my feet and leave the West, considering its vulgarizing signifi-
cance trivial and insignificant—my path is toward the source of all arts, the
East. The art of my country is incomparably more profound and important
56 / RUSSIAN ART OF THE AVANT-GARDE

Natalya Goncharova: The Laundry, 1912. Oil on canvas, 89 x 70 cm. Collection The Tate
Gallery, London. Goncharova’s concern with the machine aesthetic, derived to a large extent
from the Italian futurists, served as a brief point of transition between her neoprimitivist and
rayonist periods.

than anything that I know in the West (I have true art in mind, not that
which is harbored by our established schools and societies). I am opening up
the East again, and I am certain that many will follow me along this path.
We have learned much from Western artists, but from where do they draw
 Neoprimitivism and Cubofuturism | 57

their inspiration, if not from the East? We have not learned the most impor-
tant thing: not to make stupid imitations and not to seek our individuality,
but to create, in the main, works of art and to realize that the source on
which the West draws is the East and us. May my example and my words be
a good lesson for those who can understand its real meaning.
I am convinced that modern Russian art is developing so rapidly and has
reached such heights that within the near future it will be playing a leading
role in international life. Contemporary Western ideas (mainly of France; it
is not worth talking of the others) can no longer be of any use to us. And the
time is not far off when the West will be learning openly from us.
If we examine art from the artistic monuments we have at our disposal
without bearing time in mind, then I see it in this order:
The Stone Age and the caveman’s art are the dawn of art. China, India,
and Egypt with all their ups and downs in art have, generally speaking,
always had a high art and strong artistic traditions. Arts proceeding from this
root are nevertheless independent: that of the Aztecs, Negroes, Australian
and Asiatic islands—the Sunda (Borneo), Japan, etc. These, generally
speaking, represent the rise and flowering of art.
Greece, beginning with the Cretan period (a transitional state), with its ar-
chaic character and all its flowering, Italy right up to the age of the Gothic,
represent decadence. Gothic is a transitional state. Our age is a flowering of
art in a new form—a painterly form. And in this second flowering it is again
the East that has played a leading role. At the present time Moscow is the
most important center of painting.
I shake off the dust of the West, and I consider all those people ridiculous
and backward who still imitate Western models in the hope of becoming
pure painters and who fear literariness more than death. Similarly, I find
those people ridiculous who advocate individuality and who assume there is
some value in their ‘‘I’’ even when it is extremely limited. Untalented indi-
viduality is as useless as bad imitation, let alone the old-fashionedness of
such an argument.
I express my deep gratitude to Western painters for all they have taught
me.
After carefully modifying everything that could be done along these lines
and after earning the honor of being placed alongside contemporary Western
artists—in the West itself '—I now prefer to investigate a new path.
And the objectives that I am carrying out and that I intend to carry out are
the following:
To set myself no confines or limitations in the sense of artistic achieve-
ments.
58 / RUSST AIN ART OF PTD A VIN TG eee

To make continuous use of contemporary achievements and discoveries in

art.
To attempt to introduce a durable legality and a precise definition of what
is attained—for myself and for others.
To fight against the debased and decomposing doctrine of individualism,
which is now in a period of agony.
To draw my artistic inspiration from my country and from the East, so
close to us.
To put into practice M. F. Larionov’s theory of rayonism,” which I have
elaborated (painting based only on painterly laws).
To reduce my individual moments of inspiration to a common, objective,
painterly form.

In the age of the flowering of individualism, I destroy this holy of holies and
refuge of the hidebound as being inappropriate to our contemporary and fu-
ture way of life.
For art, individual perception can play an auxiliary role—but for mankind, it
can play none at all.
If I clash with society, this occurs only because the latter fails to understand
the bases of art and not because of my individual peculiarities, which no-
body is obliged to understand.

To apprehend the world around us in all its brilliance and diversity and to
bear in mind both its inner and outer content.
To fear in painting neither literature, nor illustration, nor any other bug-
bears of contemporaneity; certain modern artists wish to create a painterly
interest absent in their work by rejecting them. To endeavor, on the con-
trary, to express them vividly and positively by painterly means.

I turn away from the West because for me personally it has dried up and
because my sympathies lie with the East.
The West has shown me one thing: everything it has is from the East.*
I consider of profound interest that which is now called philistine vulgarity,
* The impressionists from the Japanese. The synthetists, Gauguin from India spoiled by its early renaissance.
From the islands of Tahiti he apprehended nothing, apart from a tangible type of woman. Matisse—
Chinese painting. The cubists—Negroes (Madagascar), Aztecs. As for the past—certain historians are
sadly mistaken in deducing a Romanesque influence, even a German influence, on our icons. This is so
only in isolated cases; generally speaking, what is the Romanesque style but the last stage of Byzantine de-
velopment? Romanesque style is based on Grecianized, Eastern, Georgian, and Armenian models. If East-
ern influence reached us in a roundabout way, then this does not prove anything—its path was from the
East, and the West, as now, served merely as an intermediate point. Suffice it to consider Arabian and In-
dian depictions to establish the genesis of our icons and of the art that has hitherto existed among the com-
mon people. :
 Neoprimitivism and Cubofuturism | 59

Natalya Goncharova: Apple Trees in Bloom, .1912. Oil on canvas, 105 x

84 cm. Collection Mrs. Morton E. Rome, Baltimore.

because it is untouched by the art of blockheads—their thoughts are directed

exclusively to the heights only because they cannot attain them; and also
because philistine vulgarity is predominant nowadays—contemporaneity is
characterized by this. But there is no need to fear it; it is quite able to be an
object of artistic concern.
Artistic vulgarity is much worse because it is inevitable; it is like the per-
centage of crime in the world, uniform at all times and in all arts.
My last word is a stone thrown at artistic vulgarity—ever aspiring to occupy
the place of an achievement of genius.

P.S.: My aspiration toward the East is not my last development—I mean

only to broaden my outlook; countries that value artistic traditions can help
me in this.
60. / RUS SWAIN, ART OF THeaeo AW ANG GrAGReDae

For me the East means the creation of new forms, an extending and
deepening of the problems of color.
This will help me to express contemporaneity—its living beauty—better
and more vividly.
I aspire toward nationality and the East, not to narrow the problems of art
but, on the contrary, to make it all-embracing and universal.
If I extol the art of my country, then it is because I think that it fully
deserves this and should occupy a more honorable place than it has done
hitherto.

IVAN AKSENOV
On the Problem
of the Contemporary State
of Russian Painting
[Knave of Diamonds], 1913

Born Putivl, Ukraine, 1884; died Moscow, 1935. 1905: finished Military Engineer-
ing Institute in Nikolaevo; 1910 and thereafter: close to the Knave of Diamonds
group, especially to Aleksandr Exter; 1912: began to publish poetry; soon became
known as a poet, critic, and translator; 1916: member of the Tsentrifuge group in
Moscow which included Sergei Bobrov and Boris Pasternak; interested in Robert
Delaunay and Pablo Picasso; 1921: rector of the State Higher Theater Workshop
under Vsevolod Meierkhold; 1923: member of the Moscow Parnassus group;
continued to publish until his death.

The text of this piece, “‘K voprosu 0 sovremennom sostoyanii russkoi zhivopisi,’’ is
from the collection of articles and reproductions Bubnovyi valet [Knave of Diamonds}
(Moscow, February 1913), pp. 3-36 [bibl]. R268]. Indicative of the Knave of
Diamonds’ orientation toward French cubism at this time was the fact that the collec-
tion also contained contributions by Henri Le Fauconnier and Guillaume Apollinaire.
Le Fauconnier’s essay, “‘Sovremennaya vospriimchivost i kartina’’ (pp. 41-51), was
a translation of his introduction to the catalogue of his one-man exhibition at the
Folkwang Museum, Hagen: Die Auffassung unserer Zeit und das Germdlde {Con-
temporary Perception and Painting] (Hagen, December 1912; Munich, 1913). Apol-
linaire’s essay, ‘‘Fernan Lezhe’’ (pp. 53-61), was a modified translation of his sec-
tion on Fernand Léger in Les Peintres Cubistes (Paris, 1913), pp. 64-68. The
 Neoprimitivism and Cubofuturism / 61

collection was illustrated by reproductions of works by Le Fauconnier and the Knave

of Diamonds group—Exter, Robert Falk, Petr Konchalovsky, Aleksandr Kuprin,
Aristarkh Lentulov, Ilya Mashkov, and Vasilii Rozhdestvensky. Aksenov’s text is an
elaborated version of his lecture entitled ‘‘On Contemporary Art,’’ which had been
read for him at a public session organized by the Knave of Diamonds on February
24, 1913, in Moscow (and at which David Burliuk and Mayakovsky also spoke). It
reflects Aksenov’s close personal ties with the central members of the Knave of
Diamonds at that time—none of whom issued any policy statement on behalf of the
group, although one of its secondary members, Aleksei Grishchenko, did publish a
long essay on it [bibl. R282; and see bibl. R156, bk. 6, 319-20, for short personal
statements by Knave of Diamonds members]. Aksenov wrote comparatively little on
painting, being more involved in literature [e.g., his book of poems with illustrations
by Exter, bibl. R257] and the theater [see bibl. R372], although his book on Picasso
is especially valuable [bib]. R258, cover by Exter].

The concept ‘‘the state of painting at a certain time’’ consists of ideas

concerning the activity of all painters who are united within a certain period
of time. However, the characteristics of painting within any specific period
are to be found in the work of those artists whose talent is in a state of de-
velopment. Hence, the state of Russian painting in the 1870s—80s was char-
acterized by the activity of the Wanderers; the state of Russian painting in
the 1900s by the art of the World of Art and later by the Golden Fleece; now
the most expressive art of the time is the work of the artists united by the
Knave of Diamonds society. The changes in artistic perception are, of
course, not fortuitous and, for the lover of generalizations, present a tempta-
tion to fall into the dogmatism of the theory ‘of dialectical development. But
although we are excluding this theory, it does, nevertheless, preserve its fas-
cination, and who knows, perhaps there will come a time when its apriority
will be recognized? In any case, it is hard to expect a complete rejection of
any preceding thesis; a thesis is too vital and has too great an influence on
those who aim at deposing it. Are there many contemporary artists, connois-
seurs of Derain or admirers of Picasso, who can honestly consider them-
selves unstained by a passion, albeit long past, for the World of Art? And
the representatives of this group—didn’t they in the days of their youth
revere the pictures of Repin and Yaroshenko? ! And one’s first love does not
pass without leaving its mark. With great passion the World of Art censured
the Wanderers for the literariness that had generally replaced painting and
drawing in their pictures. When this talented group was obliged to assert its
opposition to its predecessors’ literariness through action, it expressed this
opposition merely in more skillful drawing; literature remained the basis of
62 / RUSSIAN ART OF THE AVANT-GARDE

Aleksandra Exter: Cover of Ivan Aksenov’s Pikasso i okrestnosti [Picasso

and Environs] (Moscow, 1917). Aksenov was a great admirer of the work
of Exter, who undertook several designs for avant-garde publications.

art, and only the subject matter was changed. But anyone is free to argue
about the interest of the subject—without entering the realm of art; without
understanding anything about painting, you can find a moral satisfaction in a
visual interpretation of the problem of evil (a peasant being flogged) or of
the problem of good (a policeman being beaten), of the problem of theo-
machy (‘‘the demon is great and beautiful’’) or of the problem of eroticism
(‘‘women in the eighteenth century indulged in fornication’’). Literariness
forced artists to abandon painting. There have been exhibitions at which pic-
 Neoprimitivism and Cubofuturism / 63

tures were absent, and articles have been written on the obsolescence and
uselessness of pictures.
All this increases the significance that the work of the young artists of
today holds for the contemporary state of Russian painting; they are not only
contemporary but also, in the main, painters. True, the painterly aims that
they have pursued have not prevented them from displaying their activities
in the field of drawing: they have had the honor of liberating drawing from
stylized lifelessness. Utamaro evoked the uniform density of line in the
kakemono by the purely technical qualities of wood, of engraving plates; in
their water colors the Japanese often diversified linear texture, and there is
no need to go back to Ogata Korin for an example of this; it is enough to
turn to the silk painting of the masters of that same eighteenth century. The
Japanese line of European graphic artists, revived by the genius of Beards-
ley, is appallingly inexpressive in the works of all the various Secession art-
ists. We are approaching the acute question of independence: if artists’ tech-
nique in the preceding period was created by the influence of German
prototypes, then how strong must be the influence of French prototypes on
the work of artists of the present generation. There is no need to dispute the
importance of this influence, but the whole evolution of the visual arts in
Russia points to the inevitable appearance of problems that our contempo-
rary artists must solve. The problems contain their own solution within
themselves; the success or failure of the plastic expression of the results of
the process depends on the personal gifts of him who solves them. And who
would deny that our artists are talented? The rapid and brilliant development
of the new movement in Russian painting has long since been confirmed by
the clarity of its tasks. This organicness is» expressed in the distinct folk
character of the art of certain representatives of the movement—not the kind
of folk character that requires a whole arsenal of ethnographic material to
become manifest, but that direct sensation of folk character that penetrates
the works of architects of the classical period of the nineteenth century and
that leads Palladian traditions to the erection of fagades in a profound folk
tradition; certain of their motifs become the bases of new forms, of domes-
tic, handicraft art.
It is difficult to deny the folk character in the wide-ranging, vivid temper-
ament of Ilya Mashkov.? This artist is regarded as a version of Matisse;
perhaps he himself thinks that, but at any rate, nobody would find any traces
of that economical restraint, that geometrical deliberation of rhythm in
painted planes that Matisse inherited from the creator of Carnival.* The
monumental synthesis of colored bases, which are mutually intensified in a
visual dissonance of colors, is possible only thanks to an extraordinary tem-
Ilya Mashkov: Self-Portrait, 1911. Oil on canvas, 137 X 107 cm.
Collection Tretyakov Gallery, Moscow.

Aleksandr Kuprin: Still Life with a Blue Tray, 1914. Oil on can-
vas, 7I X 102.2 cm. Collection Tretyakov Gallery, Moscow.
 Neoprimitivism and Cubofuturism / 65

perament and an innate (or cultivated?) art of controlling it. The intricate
curvature of Matisse’s lines is not to be found in Mashkov’s pictures—he
solves the problem of contour differentiation of colored groups with the aid
of soft, lightly curved linear construction and curved, very simple combina-
tions. The softness of contour in Mashkov’s compositions does not threaten
to fall into flabbiness—a danger that the popular Van Dongen has not
avoided. Sharpness of line allows Mashkov to concentrate perceptions of the
most varied forms within the confines of very simple, graphic combinations
without destroying the general character or force of the coloristic rhythm.
An analogous problem is solved by A. Kuprin. His works reveal a very
strong susceptibility to the characteristics of color perception, a strength,
however, that does not cause any tendency toward conglomeration of con-
trasts or play on the symmetry of cold and warm tones. This applies to his
very late works—his early ones were, evidently, not without the influence of
painterliness, a sad reminder of the Pont-Aven school. Probably Kuprin and,
moreover, Rozhdestvensky were attracted to Van Gogh by a natural delicacy
of object perception. With Rozhdestvensky this delicacy develops more and
more distinctly at the expense of force; with Kuprin there is a reverse pro-
cess, and his pictures only gain from the concentration of this property. Del-
icacy and subtlety form the subbasis of these works, just as the brightly
painted sublayer intensified the highlights of the old Dutch still-life painters.
We do not see this unified division of perception in Lentulov’s pictures.
One cannot say that this is connected with the painterly merits of his works,
which, undoubtedly, are always significant precisely by virtue of their paint-
erliness.
Lentulov’s talent has matured and strengthened perhaps earlier than that
of the other members of the group, and at first glance it would seem that it is
precisely an excess of talent that harms his pictures. Too great a talent can
sometimes be an artist’s misfortune: an example from literature is Barbey
d’Aurevilly. Aware of being quite able to work in different directions, justi-
fiably confident of his ability to set himself the most varied tasks, and con-
scious of being in complete command of the technique essential. for this—for
Lentulov all this resembles those mirrors that can create artificial labyrinths
of panopticons.
So it might seem; in practice, however, an analysis of the individual frag-
ments of Lentulov’s painting and, similarly, research into the composition of
his pictures are powerless to disclose the reason for the elusiveness of their
visual center. The reason is not to be found in his pictures—it is in the spec-
tator’s inability to extend the works into appropriate space, constricted as
they are by their position.
66) 2) ROUUS’S THAGN) AURTT Osho Heb sAn ANN Cla kGeAG Rep pe:

An extreme concentration of colored planes leads to fragmentation of the

whole, but the blame for this impression passes from the artist to the specta-
tor and to those cultural conditions in which the men of modern art live. It is
to be regretted that most of our artists are denied access to mural painting.
Only certain lucky ones are given this opportunity.
To their small number belongs P. Konchalovsky: his decor for The Mer-
chant of Kalashnikov * called forth warm approval in that same press that re-
ported indignantly on the invitation of an ‘‘extreme’’ artist to decorate one
of the most conservative of theaters. Apparently these reviewers were un-
aware of Konchalovsky’s decorative painting for Markushev’s house (Mos-
cow Salon, 1911) ° and his wonderful decorative works for the ball ‘*A
Night in Spain.’’ © Partiality for intensity of color, which is common to al-
most all the members of the ‘‘young’’ exhibitions, has been replaced in this
artist by an aspiration toward potential depth of color foundation and toward
strength and value of the colors used. The deep scale of gray-brown colors
in the portrait of Yakulov 7 is, in its consistency and intensity, one of the
finest phenomena of our contemporary painting. Everyone is aware of the
role that light and atmospheric conditions play in our visual impressions of
painted objects; hence, the invariability of a picture’s color expressiveness,
when observed in different situations, is the best indicator of how absolute
its value is.
Konchalovsky conceived and painted Yakulov’s portrait in Moscow, but
although it was exhibited last year at the Indépendants in Paris, it lost none
of its coloristic force. This canvas, which opens up to Russian portrait paint-
ing a number of quite unexpected possibilities, shows that a lapidary limita-
tion of means can be combined with piquant characterization and powerfully
expressed coloristic rhythm—without in any way reducing the portrait’s re-
semblance. In this work Konchalovsky already showed himself to be an art-
ist in complete command of the means of his craft, decisively and joyfully
applying them to the fulfillment of the task he had set himself. The joy of
living is one of the most characteristic peculiarities of this artist’s painting,
and he never directs his activity into sharp polemics against the established
canons of art. It would have been natural to expect polemics (active ones, of
course—Konchalovsky is too much of a painter for literary ones), especially
from an artist standing so close to old trends, an artist who saw the forma-
tion of the World of Art group. ;
For an explanation of this fact we must search within the character of the
artist’s creative personality: its development took place too deeply in his
soul and came to be expressed in his art only when the painter’s relation to
the form of perception had been finally established. And confidence in one’s
 Vasilii Rozhdestvensky: Still Life with Cof- Aristarkh Lentulov: St. Basil’s Cathedral,
feepot and Cup, 1913. Oil on canvas, 82.5 x Red Square, 1913. Oil with gold paper on
71 cm. Collection Tretyakov Gallery, Mos- canvas, 107 x 163 cm. Collection Tretyakov
cow. Gallery, Moscow. Lentulov was one of the
most interesting members of the Knave of
Diamonds group. Under the influence of cub-
ism on the one hand, and of the traditional
Russian arts on the other, he developed an
acute sense of pictorial construction based on
architectonic forms and color planes.

Petr Konchalovsky: Portrait of Georgii Yaku-

lov, 1910. Oil on canvas, 178 x 143 cm. Robert Falk: Bottles and a Pitcher, 1912. Oil
Collection Tretyakov Gallery, Moscow. In on canvas, 71 x 67 cm. Private collection,
this portrait, Konchalovsky wished to ‘‘op- Moscow.
pose the pretty, well-groomed, smarmy por-
trait beloved by many artists with what was
commonly regarded as ugly but what was ac-
tually extremely beautiful. I wanted to show
the real character of Yakulov’’ [bibl. R103,
vol. 2, p. 62].
68 / RUSSIAN ART 'O FL TH EVA AGRt DE
VAN TG)

command of knowledge removes the possibility of polemics: one enters into

the sharpest polemics with oneself. The ‘‘I’’ of the polemicist is his ideal
opponent, and this opponent has still not been conquered by Falk, who is
mounting an intense search for a convincing solution of the problem of paint-
erly form. Falk’s polemics rise sometimes to the sharpness of an Alcaeus,
but his fervent efforts and the distinctiveness of his self-imposed conditions,
coupled with an extensively developed technique, force the spectator to wish
for as long an argument as possible. Evidently these wishes are destined to
be realized: Falk is constantly extending his problem, making its final solu-
tion more distant, and would seem to be disposed toward Mazzini’s
choice 8—the most perfect way of defining a search for principles.
As far as A. Exter’s art is concerned, its polemical period is apparently
over: its composition has acquired a positive calmness in spite of an in-
creased complexity; the colors have become lighter, the quality of her paint-
ing has achieved a delicacy rarely encountered in the pictures of our artists.
If the question of combining the surface characteristics of forms with color-
istic modeling seems irrelevant, then the reason for this opinion is the erro-
neous view that most people have about the essence of the conception of
color. Of course, the problems of easel painting demand methods of solution
other than the questions that decorative work raises, and when judging an
easel artist, we should change our criteria. It’s high time we got used to
operating in this way—a viewpoint must be changed depending on what is
being examined; Exter’s compositions are very instructive precisely in this
aspect. As for the device itself of combined contours and displaced construc-
tion, well, of course, it would be more relative to call a method new that
was widely practiced in paleolithic art; the regeneration of these methods
shows that the basic views on the fundamental meaning of form are inherent
to the same degree in the painters of the twentieth century as in the artists of
Brassempouy.?
The return to such an ancient tradition testifies to a deep analysis, to an
organicness of synthesis. The postulate of a religious generalization is inevi-
tably felt in such a synthesis, and in their reverential treatment of chiaroscu-
ro, certain of Exter’s still lifes are reminiscent of a depiction of the Holy
Night.
Generally speaking, contemporary painting is confronted with a new in-
vestigation into the relationships of illuminated surfaces. The rejection of
chance, a rejection that is percolating more and more through the activities
of the groups of young artists, has compelled them to reject the joke of ‘‘il-
Jumination,’’ but negative solutions are unable to give lasting satisfaction to
those whose individuality is manifested in their work. Impressionism
 Neoprimitivism and Cubofuturism / 69

perished because of a negative and exclusive solution to the question of

shading.
Our age is obliged by force of circumstances to finish what our predeces-
sors passed on to us. The path of search in this direction is broad, its bends
are diverse, its forks numerous; the solutions will be many. Among them,
those connected in our art with the name of A. Exter will remain as an ex-
ample of courage, freedom, and subtlety. The upsurge of strength and
courage in the plastic arts wanes neither beyond the Rhine nor at home, and
it is expressed in the high level of pure painting unprecedented in our coun-
try, a phenomenon that is characteristic of its contemporary state.

DAVID BURLIUK
Cubism (Surface—Plane), 1912

For biography see p. 8.

The text of this piece, ‘‘Kubizm,’’ is from an anthology of poems, prose pieces, and
articles, Poshchechina obshchestvennomu vkusu [A Slap in the Face of Public
Taste] (Moscow, December 1912 [according to bibl. R350, p. 17, although January
1913, according to KL], pp. 95-101 [bibl. R275]. The collection was prefaced by
the famous declaration of the same name signed by David Burliuk, Velimir Khlebni-
kov, Aleksei Kruchenykh, and Vladimir Mayakovsky and dated December 1912.
The volume also contained a second essay by David Burliuk on texture [bibl. R269],
verse by Khlebnikov and Benedikt Livshits, and four prose sketches by Vasilii Kan-
dinsky [for further details see bibl. 133, pp. 45-50]. Both the essay on cubism and
the one on texture were signed by N. Burliuk, although it is obvious that both were
written by David and not by Nikolai (David’s youngest brother and a poet of some
merit). David Burliuk was deeply interested in the question of cubism and delivered
several lectures on the subject: on. February 12, 1912, he gave a talk ‘“‘On Cubism
and Other Directions in Painting’’ at a debate organized by the Knave of Diamonds
in Moscow [see pp. 12 and 77-78], and on the twenty-fourth of the same month, again
under the auspices of the Knave of Diamonds, he spoke:on the same subject under
the title ‘‘The Evolution of the Concept of Beauty in Painting’’; on November 20,
1912, he spoke on ‘‘What Is Cubism?’’ at a debate organized by the Union of Youth
in St. Petersburg, which occasioned a scornful response by Aleksandr Benois [see
70 / RUSSIAN ART OF THE AVANT-GARDE

bibl. R262], which, in turn, occasioned a reply by Olga Rozanova [see p. 103].
Burliuk’s references to the Knave of Diamonds members Vladimir Burliuk, Alek-
sandra Exter, Kandinsky, Petr Konchalovsky, and Ilya Mashkov, all of whom had
contributed to the first and second ‘‘Knave of Diamonds’’ exhibitions (and Mikhail
Larionov and Nikolai Kulbin, who had been at the first and second exhibitions, re-
spectively), would indicate that the text is an elaboration of the Knave of Diamonds
lecture; moreover, the Knave of Diamonds debate had been chaired by Koncha-
lovsky, and it had witnessed a heated confrontation between the Knave of Diamonds
group as such and Donkey’s Tail artists [see p. 77-78]. As usual with David Burliuk’s
literary endeavors of this time, the style is clumsy and does not make for clarity;in
addition, the text is interspersed somewhat arbitrarily with capital letters. For a
French translation see bibl. 1451, pp. 57-66.

Painting is colored space.

Point, line, and surface are elements
of spatial forms.
the order in which they are placed arises
from their genetic connection.
the simplest element of space is the point.
its consequence is line.
the consequence of line is surface.
all spatial forms are reduced to these three
elements.
the direct consequence of line is plane.

It would perhaps not be a paradox to say that painting became art only in
the twentieth century.
Only in the twentieth century have we begun to have painting as art—
before there used to be the art of painting, but there was no painting Art.
This kind of painting (up to the twentieth century) is called conven-
tionally—from a certain sense of compassion toward the endless sums spent
on museums—Old Painting, as distinct from New Painting.
These definitions in themselves show that everyone, even the most Igno-
rant and those with no interest in the Spiritual, perceives the eternal gulf that
has arisen between the painting of yesterday and the painting of today. An
eternal gulf. Yesterday we did not have art.
Today we do have art. Yesterday it was the means, today it has become
the end. Painting has begun to pursue only Painterly objectives. It has begun
to live for itself. The fat bourgeois have shifted their shameful attention
 Neoprimitivism and Cubofuturism | 71

Vladimir Burliuk: Portrait of David Burliuk, David Burliuk, ca. 1913. Photograph cour-
1911. Etching. Location unknown. Repro- tesy Mr. and Mrs. Nicholas Burliuk, New
duced from B. Livshits: Polutoraglazyi stre- York. In his futurist campaigns David Burliuk
lets [The One-and-a-Half-Eyed Archer] (Len- used to wear a top hat, just as Malevich used
ingrad, 1933). David Burliuk was, in fact, to wear a wooden spoon and Mayakovsky a
blind in his left eye. yellow waistcoat.

from the artist, and now this magician and sorcerer has the chance of escap-
ing to the transcendental secrets of his art.
Joyous solitude. But woe unto him who scorns the pure springs of the
highest revelations of our day. Woe unto them who reject their eyes, for the
Artists of today are the prophetic eyes of mankind. Woe unto them who trust
in their own abilities—which do not excel those of reverend moles!
Darkness has descended upon their souls!
Having become an end in itself, painting has found within itself endless
horizons and aspirations. And before the astounded eyes of the casual spec-
tators roaring with laughter at contemporary exhibitions (but already with
caution and respect), Painting has developed such a large number of dif-
ferent trends that their enumeration alone would now be enough for a big
article.
It can be said with confidence that the confines of This art of Free Paint-
72 [> EREWSSIS) IVAGNGWAQR lam OlHan Dakar: AVANT-GARDE

David Burliuk: The Headless Barber, 1912. Oil on canvas, 53.5 X 61 cm. Collection Mr. and
Mrs. Max Granick, New York. Burliuk offers his own interpretation of Larionov’s “‘barber”’
theme in a more cubist, analytical fashion, while maintaining the spontaneity and illogicality
peculiar to Russian cubofuturism.

ing have been expanded during the first decade of the twentieth century, as
had never been imagined during all the years of its previous existence!
Amid these trends of the New Painting the one that Shocks the spectator’s
eye most is the Direction defined by the word Cubism.
The theoretical foundation of which I want to concentrate on now—
thereby Placing the erroneous judgment of the contemporary ‘‘admirer’’ of
art on a firm, more or less correct footing.
In analyzing the art of former painters, e.g., Holbein and Rembrandt, we
can infer the following tenets. These two artistic temperaments comprehend
Nature: the first chiefly as line.
The second as a certain complex of chiaroscuro. If for the first, color is
 Neoprimitivism and Cubofuturism | 73

something merely, but with difficulty, to be abolished—traditionally by the

help of drawing (contour)—then for the second, drawing (contour) and line
are an unpleasant feature of the art of his time. If Rembrandt takes up the
needle, his hand hastens to build a whole forest of lines so that ‘‘the shortest
distance between two points’’ would vanish in this smokelike patch of etch-
ing. The first is primarily a draftsman. Rembrandt is a painter.
Rembrandt is a colorist, an impressionist, Rembrandt senses plane and
colors. But of course, both are the Blind Instruments of objects—both com-
prehend art as a means and not as an aim in itself—and they do not express
the main bases of the Modern New Painting (as we see in our best modern
artists).
The component elements into which the essential nature of painting can
be broken down are:

I. line
II. surface
(for its mathematical conception see epigraph)
II. color
IV. texture (the character of surface)
see article on texture '

To a certain extent Elements I and III were properties, peculiarities of old

painting as well. But I and IV are those fabulous realms that only our twen-
tieth century has discovered and whose painterly significance Nature has
revealed to us. Previously painting only Saw, now it Feels. Previously it
depicted an object in two dimensions, now wider possibilities have been
disclosed. . . .* I am not talking about what ‘the near future will bring us
(this has already been discovered by such artists as P. P. Konchalovsky)—a
Sense of Visual ponderability—A Sense of color Smell. A sense of duration
of the colored moment. . . (I. I. Mashkov).
I shall avoid the fascinating task of outlining the plan of this inspired
march along the path of secrets now revealed. Instead, I shall return to my
subject.
In order to understand Painting, the art of the New Painting, it is essential
to take the same standpoint vis-a-vis Nature as the artist takes. One must
feel ashamed of the fatuous adolescent’s elementary view of Nature—an ex-
tremely literary, narrative standpoint. One must remember that Nature, for
* The Painting of Aleksandra Exter—hitherto little noticed by the Russian critics—provides interesting at-
tempts at widening the usual methods of depiction.
The questions she raises with such conviction—how to solve color orchestration, how to achieve a sense
of plane—and her unceasing protest against redundant forms, place her among the most interesting of mod-
ern artists.
7 | RUSSTAN ART OF THEVAVAN ToGAR DE

the Artist and for painting, is Exclusively an object of visual Sensation. In-
deed, a visual sensation refined and broadened immeasurably (compared
with the past) by the associative capacity of the human spirit, but one that
avoids ideas of the coarse, irrelevant kind. Painting now operates within a
sphere of Painterly Ideas and Painterly Conceptions that is accessible only to
it; they ensue and arise from those Elements of visual Nature that can be
defined by the 4 points mentioned above.
The man deprived of a Painterly understanding of Nature will, when look-
ing at Cézanne’s landscape The House,” understand it purely narratively: (1)
‘‘house’’ (2) mountains (3) trees (4) sky. Whereas for the artist, there ex-
isted I linear construction II surface construction (not fully realized) and III
color orchestration. For the artist, there were certain lines going up and
down, right and left, but there wasn’t a house or trees. . . there were areas
of certain color strength, of certain character. And that’s all.
Painting of the past, too, seemed at times to be not far from conceiving
Nature as Line (of a certain character and of a certain intensity) and colors
(Nature as a number of colored areas—this applies Only to the Impres-
sionists at the end of the nineteenth century). But it never made up its mind
to analyze visual Nature from the viewpoint of the essence of its surface.
The conception of what we see as merely a number of certain definite sec-
tions of different surface Planes arose only in the twentieth century under the
general name of Cubism. Like everything else, Cubism has its history.
Briefly, we can indicate the sources of this remarkable movement.

I. If the Greeks and Holbein were, as it were, the first to whom /ine (in
itself) was accessible
II. If Chiaroscuro (as color), texture, and surface appeared fleetingly to
Rembrandt
III. then Cézanne is the first who can be credited with the conjecture that
Nature can be observed as a Plane, as a surface (surface construction). If
line, Chiaroscuro, and coloration were well known in the past, then Plane
and surface were discovered only by the new painting. Just as the whole im-
measurable significance of Texture in painting has only now been realized.

In passing on to a more detailed examination of examples of a surface

analysis of Nature in the pictures of modern artists, and in passing on to cer-
tain constructions of a theoretical type that ensue from this view of Nature—
as plane and surface—I would like to answer the question that should now
be examined at the beginning of any article devoted to the Theory of the
New Painting: “‘Tell me, what is the significance of establishing definite
 Neoprimitivism and Cubofuturism | 75

names for Definite Painterly Canons, of establishing the dimensions of all

you call the Establishment of Painterly Counterpoint? Indeed, the pictures of
modern artists don’t become any better or more valuable because of this.
. ..” And people like to add: ‘‘Oh, how I dislike talking about Painting’
or ‘‘I like this art.”’
A few years ago artists wouldn’t have forgiven themselves if they’d talked
about the aims, tasks, and essence of Painting. Times have changed. Nowa-
days not to be a theoretician of painting means to reject an understanding of
it. This art’s center of gravity has been transferred. Formerly the spectator
used to be the idle witness of a street event, but now he, as it were, presses
close to the lenses of a Superior Visual Analysis of the Visible Essence sur-
rounding us. Nobody calls Lomonosov ? a crank for allowing poetic meter
in the Russian language. Nobody is surprised at the ‘‘useless’’ work of the
scientist who attempts in a certain way to strictly classify the phenomena of
a certain type of organic or inorganic Nature. So how come you want
me—me, for whom the cause of the New painting is higher than anything—
as I stroll around museums and exhibitions looking at countless collections
of Painting, not to attempt to assess the specimens of this pretty, pretty art
by any means other than the child’s categorization of pictures: Genre, por-
trait, landscape, animals, etc., etc., as Mr. Benois does? Indeed in such
painting, photographic portraits should be relegated to the section with the
heading “‘unknown artist.’’ No, it’s high time it was realized that the clas-
sification, the only one possible, of works of painting must be according to
those elements that, as our investigation will show, have engendered paint-
ing and given it Life.
It has been known for a long time that whaf is important is not the what,
but the how, i.e., which principles, which objectives, guided the artist’s cre-
ation of this or that work! It is essential to establish on the basis of which
canon it (the work) arose! It is essential to reveal its painterly nature! It must
be indicated what the aim in Nature was that the artist of the given picture
was So attracted by. And the analysis of painterly phenomena will then be a
Scientific criticism of the subject. And the spectator will no longer be the
confused enemy of the new art—this unhappy spectator who has only just
broken out of the torture chamber of our newspapers’ and magazines’ cheap,
presumptuous, and idiotic criticism, a criticism that believes that its duty is
not to learn from the artist butto teach him. Without even studying art,
many critics seriously believe that they can teach the artist What he must do
and how he must do it! . . . I myself have personally encountered such
blockheaded diehards.
Line is the result of the intersection of 2 planes... .
76 |. “RUUS\S ASN Re
AG TOF TH, Bon AnVireA aome!
NG MitcnGe \mRa

One plane can intersect another on a straight line or on a curve (surface).

Hence follow: I Cubism proper—and II Rondism.
The first is an analysis of Nature from the point of view of planes inter-
secting on straight lines, the second operates with surfaces of a ball-like
character.

Disharmony is the opposite of harmony.

dissymmetry is the opposite of symmetry.
deconstruction is the opposite of construction.
a canon can be constructive.
a canon can be deconstructive.
construction can be shifted or displaced
The canon of displaced construction.

The existence in Nature of visual poetry—ancient, dilapidated towers and

walls—points to the essential, tangible, and forceful supremacy of this kind
of beauty.
Displacement can be linear.
Displacement can be planar.
Displacement can be in one particular place or it can be general.
Displacement can be coloristic—(a purely mechanical conception).
The canon of the Academy advocated: symmetry of proportion, fluency,
or their equivalent harmony.
The New painting has indicated the existence of a second, parallel canon
that does not destroy the first one—the canon of displaced construction.

1) disharmony (not fluency)

2) disproportion
4) coloristic dissonance
3) deconstruction

All these concepts follow from the examination of works of the New
painting. Point 3) I placed out of sequence, and it has already been exam-
ined above. Both Cubism and Rondism can be based on all these four basic
concepts of the Canon of Displaced Construction.
But Cubism and Rondism can also live and develop in the soil of the Aca-
demic Canon. .
Note. In the past there was also a counterbalance to the Academic Canon
living on (fluency) harmony, proportion, symmetry: all barbaric Folk arts
were based partly on the existence of this second canon (of displaced Con-
 Neoprimitivism and Cubofuturism | 77

struction *). A definitive examination of our relation to these arts as raw ma-
terial for the modern artist’s creative soul would take us out of our depth.

* Note to above note. In contrast to the Academic Canon, which sees draw-
ing as a definite dimension, we can now establish the canon—of Free draw-
ing. (The fascination of children’s drawings lies precisely in the full exposi-
tion in such works of this principle.) The pictures and drawings of
V. V. Kandinsky. The drawings of V. Burliuk.
The portraits of P. Konchalovsky and I. Mashkov, the Soldier Pictures of
M. Larionov, are the best examples of Free drawing . . . (as also are the
latest works of N. Kulbin).

In poetry the apology is vers libre—the sole and finest representative of

which in modern poetry is Viktor Khlebnikov.
Note IT. The examination of the wide field of (painting’s) concepts does not
fall into the scope of this article:
Line
Color orchestration
which ought to be the subject
of separate investigations.

NATALYA GONCHAROVA
Cubism, 1912

For biography see p. 54.

The text of this piece, ‘‘Kubizm,”’ is part of an impromptu speech given by Gon-
charova at the Knave of Diamonds debate of February 12, 1912 [see pp. 12 and
69-70]. The text is from Benedikt Livshits, Polutoraglazyi strelets [The One-and-a-
Half-Eyed Archer] (Leningrad, 1933), pp. 80-81 [bibl. R310; French translation in
bibl. 131, p. 88]. Livshits mentions that Goncharova composed a letter on the basis
of this speech and sent it the day after the debate to various newspaper offices in
Moscow, but it was not published until the French translation in bibl. 132, pp.
18 {| RUSSIAN ART OF THE AVANTGARDE

21-23.Eli Eganbyuri (Ilya Zdanevich) in his book on Goncharova and Mikhail

Larionov [bibl]. R356, pp. 18-19] quotes a very similar text and states that its source
is a letter by Goncharova, obviously the unpublished one to which Livshits refers [a
French translation of the Eganbyuri version is in bibl. 114, pp. 113-14]. Goncharova
spoke at the debate in answer to David Burliuk’s presentation on cubism; Larionov
also spoke but was booed down. The tone of the speech reflects the rift that had oc-
curred between Larionov/Goncharova and Burliuk/Knave of Diamonds and that had
resulted in Larionov’s establishment of the Donkey’s Tail in late 1911. Two sources
[bibl. 58, p. 205, and bibl. 132, p. 20] put the date of the debate at February 12,
1911, although more reliable evidence points to 1912 [bibl. R310, pp. 58ff.; bibl.
131, pp. 71ff.; bibl. 114, p. 114]. The actual letter by Goncharova is preserved in
the manuscript section of the Lenin Library, Moscow.

Cubism is a positive phenomenon, but it is not altogether a new one. The

Scythian stone images, the painted wooden dolls sold at fairs are those same
cubist works. True, they are sculpture and not painting, but in France, too,
the home of cubism, it was the monuments of Gothic sculpture that served
as the point of departure for this movement. For a long time I have been
working in the manner of cubism, but I condemn without hesitation the posi-
tion of the Knave of Diamonds, which has replaced creative activity with
theorizing. The creative genius of art has never outstripped practice with
theory and has built theory on the basis of earlier works. If religious art and
art exalting the state had always been the most majestic, the most perfect
manifestation of man’s creative activity, then this can be explained by the
fact that such art had never been guilty of theoreticalness. The artist well
knew what he was depicting, and why he was depicting it. Thanks to this,
his idea was clear and definite, and it remained only to find a form for it as
clear and as definite. Contrary to Burliuk, I maintain that at all times it has
mattered and will matter what the artist depicts, although at the same time it
is extremely important how he embodies his conception.
 ILYA ZDANEVICH AND
MIKHAIL LARIONOV
Why We Paint Ourselves:
A Futurist Manifesto, 1913

Larionov—Born Tiraspol, 1881; died Paris, 1964. 1898: entered the Moscow Insti-
tute of Painting, Sculpture, and Architecture; 1906: went to Paris at Sergei Diaghi-
lev’s invitation for the Salon d’Automne; 1910: mainly responsible for establishment
of the Knave of Diamonds, which he soon rejected; 1912-15: contributed to the
‘“‘Donkey’s Tail,’’ ‘*Target,’’ ‘‘Exhibition of Painting. 1915,’’ and other exhibitions;
ca. 1913: illustrated futurist booklets; 1914: went to Paris to work for Diaghilev; at
the outbreak of the war was forced to retum to Moscow; 1915: wounded on the East
Prussian front and hospitalized in Moscow; 1915: left Moscow to join Diaghilev in
Lausanne; 1918: settled in Paris with Natalya Goncharova.

Zdanevich— Born Tiflis, 1894; died Paris,'1975. Brother of the artist and critic
Kirill; 1911: entered the Law School of the University of St. Petersburg; 1912: with
Kirill and Mikhail Le-Dantiyu discovered the primitive artist Niko Pirosmanash-
vili; 1913: under the pseudonym of Eli Eganbyuri (the result of reading the Russian
handwritten form of Ilya Zdanevich as Roman characters) published a book on
Goncharova and Larionov [bibl. R356; for his own comments on this book, see
bibl. Rro1, p. 197]; 1914: met Marinetti in Moscow; 1917-18: with Kirill, Aleksei
Kruchenykh, and Igor Terentev organized the futurist group 41° in Tiflis; 1921:
settled in Paris. ‘

The text of this piece, ‘‘Pochemu my raskrashivaemsya,’’ appeared in the magazine

Argus (St. Petersburg), Christmas number, 1913, pp. 114-18. The text is similar in
places to the Italian futurist manifestoes La pittura futurista and Gli espositori al
pubblico, both of which had appeared in Russian translation in Soyuz molodezhi
(Union of Youth] (St. Petersburg), no: 2, 1912, pp. 23-28 and 29-35 [bibl. R339].
The text is reprinted in bibl. R14, pp. 173-74. The original text in Argus contains
photo portraits of Goncharova, Larionov, Mikhail Le-Dantiyu, and Ilya Zdanevich
with their faces decorated with futurist and rayonist designs, a practice that they and
others (including David Burliuk) engaged in during some of their public appearances
in 1912 and 1913. Several of these photographs had been reproduced already in con-
nection with a court case involving Le-Dantiyu [see the journal Zhizn i sud (Life and
Court) (St. Petersburg), May 9, 1913, p. 10]. Argus was by no means an avant- garde
publication, and this piece was included evidently to satisfy the curiosity of its
middle-class readers.

12
86. /) IDA LN) AV RUT
-ROULS'S Ouk® Hp Es VARY CARNE GFACRED EE

Mikhail Larionov: Officer at the Hairdresser’s. 1909. Oil on canvas, 117

x 89 cm. Private collection, Paris. Larionov modeled his subject on the
well-known eighteenth-century /ubok entitled Barber Cutting Off the
Beard of an Old Believer.

To the frenzied city of arc lamps, to the streets bespattered with bodies, to
the houses huddled together, we have brought our painted faces; we’re off
and the track awaits the runners.
Creators, we have not come to destroy construction, but to glorify and to
affirm it. The painting of our faces is neither an absurd piece of fiction, nor
a relapse—it is indissolubly linked to the character of our life and of our
trade.
 Neoprimitivism and Cubofuturism / 81

The dawn’s hymn to man, like a bugler before the battle, calls to victories
over the earth, hiding itself beneath the wheels until the hour of vengeance;
the slumbering weapons have awoken and spit on the enemy.
The new life requires a new community and a new way of propagation.
Our self-painting is the first speech to have found unknown truths. And the
conflagrations caused by it show that the menials of the earth have not lost
hope of saving the old nests, have gathered all forces to the defense of the
gates, have crowded together knowing that with the first goal scored we are
the victors.
The course of art and a love of life have been our guides. Faithfulness to
our trade inspires us, the fighters. The steadfastness of the few presents
forces that cannot be overcome.
We have joined art to life. After the long isolation of artists, we have
loudly summoned life and life has invaded art, it is time for art to invade
life. The painting of our faces is the beginning of the invasion. That is why
our hearts are beating so.
We do not aspire to a single form of aesthetics. Art is not only a monarch,
but also a newsman and a decorator. We value both print and news. The
synthesis of decoration and illustration is the basis of our self-painting. We
decorate life and preach—that’s why we paint ourselves.
Self-painting is one of the new valuables that belong to the people as they
all do in our day and age. The old ones were incoherent and squashed flat by
money. Gold was valued as an ornament and became expensive. We throw
down gold and precious stones from their pedestal and declare them value-
less. Beware, you who collect them and horde them—you will soon be
beggars. y
It began in ’05. Mikhail Larionov painted a nude standing against a
background of a carpet and extended the design onto her. But there was no
proclamation. Now Parisians are doing the same by painting the legs of their
dancing girls, and ladies powder themselves with brown powder and like
Egyptians elongate their eyes. But that’s old age. We, however, join con-
templation with action and fling ourselves into the crowd.
To the frenzied city of arc lamps, to the streets bespattered with bodies, to
the houses huddled together, we have not brought the past: unexpected
flowers have bloomed in the hothouse and they excite us.
City dwellers have for a long time been varnishing their nails, using
eyeshadow, rouging their lips, cheeks, hair—but all they are doing is to imi-
tate the earth.
We, creators, have nothing to do with the earth; our lines and colors ap-
8970) ROUCSISNIUANie ACR TO (OFRieTeH eRe CACY AGN Gl caGeAmRoDEr,

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Title page of ‘‘Why We Paint Ourselves,’ |Page from ‘‘Why We Paint Ourselves,” from
from the journal Argus (St. Petersburg), the journal Argus (St. Petersburg), December
Christmas issue, December 1913. It shows 1913. The photograph shows Ilya Zdanevich
rayonist designs for cosmetic application. and Mikhail Larionov with faces painted after
rayonist designs by Larionov.

peared with us. If we were given the plumage of parrots, we would pluck
out their feathers to use as brushes and crayons.
If we were given immortal beauty, we would daub over it and kill it—we
who know no half measures.
Tattooing doesn’t interest us. People tattoo themselves once and for al-
ways. We paint ourselves for an hour, and a change of experience calls for a
change of painting, just as picture devours picture, when on the other side of
a car windshield shopwindows flash by running into each other: that’s our
faces. Tattooing is beautiful but it says littkk—only about one’s tribe and
exploits. Our painting is the newsman.
Facial expressions don’t interest us. That’s because people have grown
accustomed to understanding them, too timid and ugly as they are. Our faces
are like the screech of the trolley warning the hurrying passers-by, like the
drunken sounds of the great tango. Mimicry is expressive but colorless. Our
painting is the decorator.
 Neoprimitivism and Cubofuturism | 83
Mutiny against the earth and transformation of faces into a projector of
experiences.
The telescope discerned constellations lost in space, painting will tell of
lost ideas.
We paint ourselves because a clean face is offensive, because we want to
herald the unknown, to rearrange life, and to bear man’s multiple soul to the
upper reaches of reality.

Title page of Oslinyi khvost i mishen [Donkey’s Tail and

Target] (Moscow, 1913). Designed by Mikhail Larionov.
Photograph courtesy Mr. Thomas Whitney, Connecticut.
This title derived from the notorious incident of 1910 when
one Joachim-Raphael Boronali submitted a picture entitled
Et le soleil s’ endormit sur I’Adriatique [And the Sun Went
Down over the Adriatic] to the Salon des Indépendants.
Boronali turned out to be a donkey to whose tail art stu-
dents had tied a paintbrush.
 . |
Pe
GRE.
Nonobjective Art
 = MAPCOB
ye :
cbYTYPHC
ere

Gpa,
Hoop, uate &
4 yac, MHA fo 8 yac,
Bb fleHb SOE M Mpoule aH oeYj, 0 4. 1O

Poster announcing ‘‘The Last Futurist Exhibition of Pictures 0.10’’ (Pet-

tograd, December 19, 1915—January 19, 1916). Photograph courtesy
Mr. Herman Berninger, Zurich. The poster mentions that the exhibitors
are those who showed at *‘Tramway V”’ (not altogether true) and that 50
percent of any clear profit will go toward a field hospital for art workers.
MIKHAIL LARIONOV AND
NATALYA GONCHAROVA
Rayonists and Futurists:
A Manifesto, 1913

For biographies see pp. 79 and 54.

The text of this piece, ‘‘Luchisty 1 budushchniki. Manifest,’’ appeared in the miscel-
lany Oslinyi khvost i mishen [Donkey’s Tail and Target] (Moscow, July 1913), pp.
9-48 [bibl]. R319; it is reprinted in bibl. R14, pp. 175-78. It has been translated into
French in bibl. 132, pp. 29-32, and in part, into English in bibl. 45, pp. 124-26].
The declarations are similar to those advanced in the catalogue of the ‘‘Target’’
exhibition held in Moscow in March 1913 [bibl]. R315], and the concluding para-
graphs are virtually the same as those of Larionov’s ‘‘Rayonist Painting.’’ Although
the theory of rayonist painting was known already, the ‘‘Target’’ acted as the formal
demonstration of its practical achievements. Because of the various allusions to the
Knave of Diamonds, ‘‘A Slap in the Face of Public Taste,’’ and David Burliuk, this
manifesto acts as a polemical response to Larionov’s rivals. The use of the Russian
neologism budushchniki, and not the European borrowing futuristy, betrays
Larionov’s current rejection of the West and his orientation toward Russian and East-
er cultural traditions. In addition to Larionov and Goncharova, the signers of the
manifesto were Timofei Bogomazov (a sergeant-major and amateur painter whom
Larionov had befriended during his military service—no relative of the artist Alek-
sandr Bogomazoy) and the artists Morits Fabri, Ivan Larionov (brother of Mikhail),
Mikhail Le-Dantiyu, Vyacheslav Levkievsky, Vladimir Obolensky, Sergei Romano-
vich, Aleksandr Shevchenko, and Kirill Zdanevich (brother of Ilya). All except Fabri
and Obolensky took part in the ‘‘Target’’ exhibition, and Oslinyi khvost i mishen
carried reproductions of some of their exhibits. For a French translation see bibl.
145Xx, pp. 74-78.

We, rayonists and futurists, do not wish to speak about new or old art,
and even less about modern Western art.
We leave the old art to die and leave the ‘‘new’’ art to do battle with it;
and incidentally, apart from a battle and a very easy one, the ‘‘new”’ art
cannot advance anything of its own. It is useful to put manure on barren
ground, but this dirty work does not interest us.
People shout about enemies closing in on them, but in fact, these enemies
are, in any case, their closest friends. Their argument with old art long since

87
8800 / RWS SUA N) ACR? TOLBy Dea Aa VaAGIN Mla Gm sake nee

Muxauae Jlaplonos.

Mikhail Larionov: Rayonist Portrait of

Goncharova, 1913. Location and dimen-
sions unknown. Reproduced from Mikhail Natalya Goncharova: Portrait of Larionov, 1912.
Larionov: Luchizm [Rayonism] (Moscow, Oil on canvas, 105x78 cm. Collection Centre
1913). Georges Pompidou, Paris.

departed is nothing but a resurrection of the dead, a boring, decadent love of

paltriness and a stupid desire to march at the head of contemporary, philis-
tine interests.
We are not declaring any war, for where can we find an opponent our
equal?
The future is behind us.
All the same we will crush in our advance all those who undermine us and
all those who stand aside.
We don’t need popularization—our art will, in any case, take its full place
in life—that’s a matter of time.
We don’t need debates and lectures, and if we sometimes organize them,
then that’s by way of a gesture to public impatience.
While the artistic throne is empty, and narrow-mindedness, deprived of its
privileges, is running around calling for battle with departed ghosts, we push
it out of the way, sit up on the throne, and reign until a regal deputy comes
and replaces us.
We, artists of art’s future paths, stretch out our hand to the futurists, in
 Nonobjective Art / 8g

spite of all their mistakes, but express our utmost scorn for the so-called
egofuturists ' and neofuturists, ? talentless, banal people, the same as the
members of the Knave of Diamonds, Slap in the Face of Public Taste, and
Union of Youth groups.*
We let sleeping dogs lie, we don’t bring fools to their senses, we call triv-
ial people trivial to their faces, and we are ever ready to defend our interests
actively.
We despise and brand as artistic lackeys all those who move against a
background of old or new art and go about their trivial business. Simple, un-
corrupted people are closer to us than this artistic husk that clings to modern
art, like flies to honey.
To our way of thinking, mediocrity that proclaims new ideas of art is as
unnecessary and vulgar as if it were proclaiming old ideas.
This is a sharp stab in the heart for all who cling to so-called modern art,
making their names in speeches against renowned little old men—despite the
fact that between them and the latter there is essentially not much difference.
These are true brothers in spirit—the wretched rags of contemporaneity, for
who needs the peaceful renovating enterprises of those people who make a
hubbub about modern art, who haven’t advanced a single thesis of their
own, and who express long-familiar artistic truths in their own words!
We've had enough Knaves of Diamonds whose miserable art is screened
by this title, enough slaps in the face given by the hand of a baby suffering
from wretched old age, enough unions of old and young! We don’t need to
square vulgar accounts with public taste—let those indulge in this who on
paper give a slap in the face, but who, in fact, stretch out their hands for
alms. ;
We've had enough of this manure; now we need to sow.
We have no modesty—we declare this bluntly and frankly—we consider
ourselves to be the creators of modern art.
We have our own artistic honor, which we are prepared to defend to the
last with all the means at our disposal. We laugh at the words “‘old art’’ and
‘*new art’’—that’s nonsense invented by idle philistines.
We spare no strength to make the sacred tree of art grow to great heights,
and what does it matter to us that little parasites swarm in its shadow—let
them, they know of the tree’s existence from its shadow.
Art for life and even more—life for art!
We exclaim: the whole brilliant style of modern times—our trousers,
jackets, shoes, trolleys, cars, airplanes, railways, grandiose steamships—is
fascinating, is a great epoch, one that has known no equal in the entire his-
tory of the world.
90 J “ROU'S'S
TAGN PAIRED) O;E UT] HUE A aVeAg Nias GrAgkeDee

We reject individuality as having no meaning for the examination of a

work of art. One has to appeal only to a work of art, and one can examine it
only by proceeding from the laws according to which it was created.
The tenets we advance are as follows:
Long live the beautiful East! We are joining forces with contemporary
Eastern artists to work together.
Long live nationality! We march hand in hand with our ordinary house
painters.
Long live the style of rayonist painting that we created—free from con-
crete forms, existing and developing according to painterly laws!
We declare that there has never been such a thing as a copy and recom-
mend painting from pictures painted before the present day. We maintain
that art cannot be examined from the point of view of time.
We acknowledge all styles as suitable for the expression of our art,* styles
existing both yesterday and today—for example, cubism, futurism, orphism,
and their synthesis, rayonism, for which the art of the past, like life, is an
object of observation.
We are against the West, which is vulgarizing our forms and Eastern
forms, and which is bringing down the level of everything.
We demand a knowledge of painterly craftsmanship.
More than anything else, we value intensity of feeling and its great sense
of uplifting.
We believe that the whole world can be expressed fully in painterly
forms:
Life, poetry, music, philosophy.
We aspire to the glorification of our art and work for its sake and for the
sake of our future creations.
We wish to leave deep footprints behind us, and this is an honorable
wish.
We advance our works and principles to the fore; we ceaselessly change
them and put them into practice.
We are against art societies, for they lead to stagnation.
We do not demand public attention and ask that it should not be de-
manded from us.
The style of rayonist painting that .we advance signifies spatial forms aris-
ing from the intersection of the reflected rays of various objects, forms
chosen by the artist’s will.
The ray is depicted provisionally on the surface by a colored line.
That which is valuable for the lover of painting finds its maximum expres-
sion in a rayonist picture. The objects that we see in life play no role here,
 Nonobjective Art / 91

but that which is the essence of painting itself can be shown here best of
all—the combination of color, its saturation, the relation of colored masses,
depth, texture; anyone who is interested in painting can give his full atten-
tion to all these things.
The picture appears to be slippery; it imparts a sensation of the extratem-
poral, of the spatial. In it arises the sensation of what could be called the
fourth dimension, because its length, breadth, and density of the layer of
paint are the only signs of the outside world—all the sensations that arise
from the picture are of a different order; in this way painting becomes equal
to music while remaining itself. At this juncture a kind of painting emerges
that can be mastered by following precisely the laws of color and its trans-
ference onto the canvas.
Hence the creation of new forms whose meaning and expressiveness
depend exclusively on the degree of intensity of tone and the position that it
occupies in relation to other tones. Hence the natural downfall of all existing
styles and forms in all the art of the past—since they, like life, are merely
objects for better perception and pictorial construction.
With this begins the true liberation of painting and its life in accordance
only with its own laws, a self-sufficient painting, with its own forms, color,
and timbre.

MIKHAIL LARIONOV
Rayonist Painting, 1913

For biography see p. 79.

The text of this piece, ‘‘Luchistskaya zhivopis,’’ appeared in the miscellany Oslinyi
khvost i mishen [Donkey’s Tail and Target] (Moscow, July 1913), pp. 83-124 [bibl.
R319} and was signed and dated Moscow, June 1912. It has been translated into
French in bibl. 145x, pp. 65-73 (and without the Whitman quotations in bibl. 121,
pp. 110-12), and into German [ibid., German edition, pp. 111-13]. A similar text
had been published as a separate booklet in Moscow in April of the same year [bibl.
R361; reprinted in bibl. R7, pp. 477-83]; this alternate version lacked the Whitman
quotations and the short conclusion on pneumorayonism and omitted, inter al., the
G20] PA NGA RCO?
RUSS TIES AVANT-GARDE

Mikhail Larionov: Red Rayonism, 1913. Gouache on cardboard, 27 x 33 cm. Private collection,
Paris. Although to all intents and purposes this is a nonrepresentational work, it must not be
forgotten that Larionov’s rayonist theory retained a representational meaning: “‘in the space be-
tween them [objects] a certain form appears, and this is isolated by the artist’s will.”’

curious references to Guillaume Apollinaire as an “artist” and to Natalya

Goncharova as a “realist cubist.”’ Both Oslinyi khvost i mishen and the booklet
contained rayonist illustrations by Larionov and Goncharova, although the former
also contained several lithographs mounted separately, as well as photographic
reproductions of works by Mikhail Le-Dantiyu, Aleksandr Shevchenko, et al. (see
p. 83, 88).

Larionov seems to have formulated rayonism in 1912, not before; no rayonist works,
for example, figured at his one-man exhibition at the Society of Free Aesthetics in
Moscow in December 1911, at least according to the catalogue and to contempo-
raneous reviews. According to bibl. 132, p. 28, Goncharova was the first to use the
term rayonism, although Larionov’s interest in science (manifested particularly while
he was at high school) had obviously stimulated his peculiarly refractive conception
of art. While rayonism had apparent cross-references with Franz Marc, the Italian fu-
turists, and later, with Lyonel Feininger, the upsurge of interest in photography and
cinematography in Russia at this time provided an undoubted stimulus to Larionov’s
concern with light and dynamics. It is of interest to note that in 1912/13 the Moscow
 Nonobjective Art / 93

photographer A. Trapani invented the photographic technique of ‘tray gum’? [luchis-

tyt gummi|—a version of the gum-arabic process—which enabled the photographer
to create the illusion of a radial, fragmented texture. Larionov himself exhibited sev-
eral “‘photographic studies’’ at the *‘Donkey’s Tail’’ in 1912, and his famous picture
Glass (1912-13) at the Guggenheim Museum demonstrates an obvious interest in op-
tics. Of possible relevance to Larionov’s derivation of rayonism was the peculiarly
“‘broken’’ texture that Mikhail Vrubel favored in so many of his works in the 1890s
and 1900s—a technique admired by a number of young Russian artists. Moreover,
Vrubel’s theory of visual reality came very close to Larionov’s formulation, as the
following statement by Vrubel would indicate: ‘‘The contours with which artists nor-
mally delineate the confines of a form in actual fact do not exist—they are merely an
optical illusion that occurs from the interaction of rays falling onto the object and
reflected from its surface at different angles. In fact, at this point you get a ‘comple-
mentary color—complementary to the basic, local color . . .”’ (quoted in Nikolai
Prakhov, Stranitsy proshlogo [Pages of the Past] [Kiev, 1958], pp. 159-60, where
neither source nor date is given). Goncharova shared Larionov’s interest in radiation
and emanation and at her one-man exhibition in 1913 presented several works based
on the “‘theory of transparency’’ formulated by her fellow artist Ivan Firsov.

Painting is self-sufficient;
it has its own forms, color,
and timbre.
Rayonism is concerned with
spatial forms that can
arise from the intersection
.of the reflected rays of
different objects, forms
chosen by the artist’s
will.

How they are provided for upon the earth, (appearing at intervals),
How dear and dreadful they are to the earth,
How they inure to themselves as much as to any—what a paradox appears
their age,
How people respond to them, yet know them.not,
How there is something relentless in their fate all times,
How all times mischoose the objects of their adulation and reward,
And how the same inexorable price must still be paid for the same great
purchase.
—Walt Whitman
94°./ RUSSTAN ART OF THE AVANT} GARDE

I hear it was charged against me that I sought to destroy institutions,

But really I am neither for nor against institutions,
(What indeed have I in common with them? or what with the destruction of
them?).
—Walt Whitman '

Throughout what we call time various styles have emerged. A temporal dis-
placement of these styles would in no way have changed the artistic value
and significance of what was produced during their hegemony. We have
inherited Egyptian, Assyrian, Greek, Cretan, Byzantine, Romanesque,
Gothic, Japanese, Chinese, Indian styles, etc. There is a great deal of such
classification in art history, and in fact, there are infinitely more styles, not
to mention that style that is peculiar to each work outside the general style of
the time.
Style is that manner, that device by which a work of art has been created,
and if we were to examine all art objects throughout the world, then it would
transpire that they had all been created by some artistic device or other; not a
single work of art exists without this.
This applies not only to what we call art objects, but also to everything
that exists in a given age. People examine and perceive everything from the
point of view of the style of their age. But what is called art is examined
from the point of view of the perception of artistic truths; although these
truths pass through the style of their age, they are quite independent of it.
The fact that people perceive nature and their environment through the style
of their age is best seen in the comparison of various styles and various
ages. Let us take a Chinese picture, a picture from the time of Watteau, and
an impressionist picture—a gulf lies between them, they examine nature
from completely different points of view, but nevertheless the people who
witnessed their creation understood them, just as the artists themselves did,
and did not doubt for a moment that this was the same life and nature that
surrounded them (at this juncture I am not concerned with connoisseurs of
art as such). And often the artist Utamaro, whose age coincided with that of
Watteau, is spurned by those who reject the age of Watteau, but who cannot
surmount the difference of style between Japan and our eighteenth century.
There are ages that are completely rejected, and even those who are inter-
ested in art ignore them. These are eras that are very remote, for example,
the Stone Age. There are styles that are in the same position because of a
considerable difference between the cultures of the people who created them
and those who have to respond to them (Negro, Australasian, Aztec, Kolu-
 Nonobjective Art / 95

shes, etc.)—despite the fact that whole nations have apprehended and em-
bodied life only in that way, age after age.
Any style, the moment it appears, especially if it is given immediate,
vivid expression, is always as incomprehensible as the style of a remote age.
A new Style is always first created in art, since all previous styles and life
are refracted through it.
Works of art are not examined from the point of view of time and are es-
sentially different because of the form in which they are perceived and in
which they were created. There is no such thing as a copy in our current
sense of the word, but there is such a thing as a work of art with the same
departure point-served either by another work of art or by nature.
In examining our contemporary art we see that about forty of fifty years
ago in the heyday of impressionism, a movement began to appear in art that
advocated the colored surface. Gradually this movement took hold of people
working in the sphere of art, and after a while there appeared the theory of
displaced colored surface and movement of surface. A parallel trend arose of
constructing according to the curve of the circle—rondism. The displace-
ment of surfaces and construction according to the curve made for more con-
structiveness within the confines of the picture’s surface. The doctrine of
surface painting gives rise naturally to the doctrine of figural construction
because the figure is in the surface’s movement. Cubism teaches one to ex-
pose the third dimension by means of form (but not aerial and linear per-
spective together with form) and to transfer forms onto the canvas the mo-
ment they are created. Of all techniques, chiaroscuro, in the main, is
adopted by cubism. For the most part this trend has decorative character-
istics, although all cubists are engaged in easel painting—but this is caused
by modern society’s lack of demand for purely decorative painting. A move-
ment parallel to cubism is spherism.
Cubism manifests itself in almost all existing forms—classical, academic
(Metzinger), romantic (Le Fauconnier, Braque), realist (Gleizes, Léger, Gon-
charova)—and in forms of an abstract kind (Picasso). Under the influence of
futurism on the cubists, there appeared a transitory cubism of futurist char-
acter (Delaunay, Lévy, the latest works of Picasso, Le Fauconnier).
Futurism was first promoted by the Italians: ? this doctrine aspires to
make reforms not merely in the sphere of painting—it is concerned also with
all kinds of art.
In painting, futurism promotes mainly the doctrine of movement—
dynamism.
Painting in its very essence is static—hence dynamics as a style. The fu-
96 {/ RUSSIAN ART OF THE Ripe
A WAN TGA

turist unfurls the picture—he places the artist in the center of the picture; he
examines the object from different points of view; he advocates the translu-
cency of objects, the painting of what the artist knows, not what he sees, the
transference of the sum total of impressions onto the canvas and the transfer-
ence of many aspects of one and the same object; he introduces narrative
and literature.
Futurism introduces a refreshing stream into modern art—which to a cer-
tain extent is linked to useless traditions—but for modern Italy it really
serves as a very good lesson. If the futurists had had the genuine painterly
traditions that the French have, then their doctrine would not have become
part of French painting, as it now has.
Of the movements engendered by this trend and dominant at present, the
following are in the forefront: postcubism, which is concerned with the syn-
thesis of forms as opposed to the analytical decomposition of forms; neofu-
turism, which has resolved completely to reject the picture as a surface cov-
ered with paint, replacing it by a screen—on which the static, essentially
colored surface is replaced by a light-colored, moving one; and orphism,
which advocates the musicality of objects—heralded by the artist
Apollinaire.
Neofuturism introduces painting to the problems posed by glass * and, in
addition, natural dynamics; this deprives painting of its symbolic origin and
it emerges as a new kind of art.
Orphism is concerned with painting based on this musical sonority of col-
ors, on color orchestration; it is inclined toward a literal correspondence of
musical to light waves, which stimulate color sensation—and it constructs
painting literally according to musical laws. In fact, painting must be con-
structed according to its own laws—just as music is constructed according to
its own musical laws; the laws germane only to painting are:
Colored line and texture.
Any picture consists of a colored surface and texture (the state of this col-
ored surface is its timbre) and of the sensation that arises from these two
things.
Nobody would begin to assert that the art connoisseur turns his primary
attention to the objects depicted in a picture—he is interested in how these
objects are depicted, which colors are put on the canvas, and how they are
put on. Therefore, he is interested in the one artist and appreciates him, and
not another, despite the fact that both paint the same objects. But the major-
ity of dilettanti would think it very strange if objects as such were to disap-
pear completely from a picture. Although all that they appreciate would still
remain—color, the painted surface, the structure of painted masses, texture.
 Nonobjective Art / 97

They would think it strange simply because we are accustomed to seeing

what is of most value in painting in the context of objects.
In actual fact, all those painterly tasks that we realize with the help of ob-
jects we cannot perceive even with the help of tangible, real objects. Our
impressions of an object are of a purely visual kind—despite the fact that we
desire to re-create an object in its most complete reality and according to its
essential qualities. The aspiration toward the most complete reality has com-
pelled one of the most astonishing artists of our time, Picasso, and others
with him, to employ types of technique that imitate concrete life, create sur-
faces of wood, stone, sand, etc., and change visual sensations into tactile
ones. Picasso, with the aim of understanding an object concretely, stuck
wallpaper, newspaper clippings onto a picture, painted with sand, ground
glass; made a plaster relief—modeled objects out of papier-maché and then
painted them (some of his ‘‘violins’’ are painted in this manner).
The painter can be expected to possess complete mastery of all existing
types of technique (tradition plays a very important role in this) and to
work according to the laws of painting, turning to extrinsic life only as a
stimulant.
Chinese artists are allowed to take examinations only after they have
learned to master the brush so well that brushstrokes in Indian ink on two
transparent sheets of paper of the same size coincide when one sheet is
placed on the other. From this it is obvious just how subtly the eye and hand
must be developed.
The first to reduce a story to painterly form were the Hindus and Per-
sians—their miniatures were reflected in the work of Henri Rousseau, the
first in modern Europe to introduce a.story into painterly form.
There are reasons to suppose that the whole world, in its concrete and
spiritual totality, can be re-created in painterly form.
Furthermore, the qualities peculiar to painting alone are what we value in
painting.
Now; it is necessary to find the point at which—having concrete life as a
stimulant—painting would remain itself while its adopted forms would be
transformed and its outlook broadened;. hence, like music, which takes
sound from concrete life and uses it according to musical laws, painting
would use color according to painterly laws.
In accordance with purely painterly laws, rayonism is concerned with in-
troducing painting into the sphere of those problems peculiar to painting
itself.
Our eye is an imperfect apparatus; we think that our sight is mainly
responsible for transmitting concrete life to our cerebral centers, but in fact, it
98 / RUSSTAN’ ART OF THE AVANT“GARDE

arrives there in its correct form not thanks to our sight, but thanks to other
senses. A child sees objects for the first time upside down, and subsequently
this defect of sight is corrected by the other senses. However much he
desires to, an adult cannot see an object upside down.
Hence it is evident to what degree our inner conviction is important with
regard to things existing in the outside world. If with regard to certain
things, we know that they must be as they are because science reveals this to
us, we do remain certain that this is as it should be and not otherwise despite
the fact that we cannot apprehend this directly by our senses.
In purely official terms, rayonism proceeds from the following tenets:
Luminosity owes its existence to reflected light (between objects in space
this forms a kind of colored dust).
The doctrine of luminosity.
Radioactive rays. Ultraviolet rays. Reflectivity.
We do not sense the object with our eye, as it is depicted conventionally
in pictures and as a result of following this or that device; in fact, we do not
sense the object as such. We perceive a sum of rays proceeding from a
source of light; these are reflected from the object and enter our field of
vision.
Consequently, if we wish to paint literally what we see, then we must
paint the sum of rays reflected from the object. But in order to receive the
total sum of rays from the desired object, we must select them deliber-
ately—because together with the rays of the object being perceived, there
also fall into our range of vision reflected reflex rays belonging to other
nearby objects. Now, if we wish to depict an object exactly as we see it,
then we must depict also these reflex rays belonging to other objects—and
then we will depict literally what we see. I painted my first works of a
purely realistic kind in this way. In other words, this is the most complete
reality of an object—not as we know it, but as we see it. In all his works
Paul Cézanne was inclined toward this; that is why various objects in his
pictures appear displaced and look asquint. This arose partly from the fact
that he painted literally what he saw. But one can see an object as flat only
with one eye, and Cézanne painted as every man sees—with two eyes, i.e.,
the object slightly from the right and slightly from the left.
At the same time, Cézanne possessed such keenness of sight that he could
not help noticing the reflex rubbing, as it were, of a small part of one object
against the reflected rays of another. Hence there occurred not the exposure
of the object itself, but as it were, its displacement onto a different side and
a partial truncation of one of the object’s sides—which provided his pictures
with a realistic construction.
 Nonobjective Art / 99

Picasso inherited this tradition from Cézanne, developed it, and thanks to
Negro and Aztec art, turned to monumental art; finally, he grasped how to
build a picture. out of the essentia! elements of an object so as to ensure a
greater sense of construction in the picture.
Now, if we concern ourselves not with the objects themselves but with the
sums of rays from them, we can build a picture in the following way:
The sum of rays from object A intersects the sum of rays from object B;
in the space between them a certain form appears, and this is isolated by the
artist’s will. This can be employed in relation to several objects, e.g., the
form constructed from a pair of scissors, a nose, and a bottle, etc. The pic-
ture’s coloration depends on the pressure intensity of dominant colors and
their reciprocal combinations.
The high point of color tension, density, and depth must be clearly
shown.
A picture painted in a cubist manner and a futurist picture provide a dif-
ferent kind of form (a rayonist one) when they radiate in space.
Perception, not of the object itself, but of the sum of rays from it, is, by
its very nature, much closer to the symbolic surface of the picture than is the
object itself. This is almost the same as the mirage that appears in the
scorching air of the desert and depicts distant towns, lakes, and oases in the
sky (in concrete instances). Rayonism erases the barriers that exist between
the picture’s surface and nature.
A ray is depicted provisionally on the surface by a colored line.
What has most value for every lover of painting is revealed in its most
complete form in a rayonist picture—the objects that we see in life play no
role here (except for realistic rayonisny, in which the object serves as a point
of departure); that which is the essence of painting itself can best be revealed
here—the combination of colors, their saturation, the interrelation of colored
masses, depth, texture; whoever is interested in painting can concentrate on
all these things to the full.
The picture appears to be slippery; it imparts a sensation of the extratem-
poral, of the spatial. In it arises the sensation of what could be called the
fourth dimension, because its length, breadth, and density of the layer of
paint are the only signs of the outside world—all the sensations that arise
from the picture are of a different order; in this way painting becomes equal
to music while remaining itself. At this juncture a kind of painting emerges
that can be mastered by following precisely the laws of color and its trans-
ference onto the canvas. Hence the creation of new forms whose signifi-
cance and expressiveness depend exclusively on the degree of intensity of
tone and the position that this occupies in relation to other tones. Hence the
100: / RWIS SMA NGA RD OR) THB yvA VA NG GaAS REDE

natural downfall of all existing styles and forms in all the art of the past—for
they, like life, are merely objects for the rayonist perception and pictorial
construction.
With this begins the true liberation of painting and its own life according
to its own rules.
The next stage in the development of rayonism is pneumorayonism, or
concentrated rayonism; this is concerned with joining elements together into
general masses between spatial forms present in a more sectional, rayonist
background.4

MIKHAIL LARIONOV
Pictorial Rayonism, 1914

For biography see p. 79.

The text of this piece, ‘‘Le Rayonisme Pictural,’’ appeared in French in Montjoie!
(Paris), no. 4/5/6, April/May/June, 1914, p. 15. This was Larionov’s first contribu-
tion to the French press and was printed just as the “*Exposition de Natalie Gont-
charowa et Michel Larionow’’ opened at the Galerie Paul Guillaume, Paris [see bibl.
119], at which rayonist works by both Goncharova and Larionov were presented. In
places the text is similar to that of Larionov’s ‘‘Rayonist Painting’’; however, the oc-
casional repetitions have been retained in order to preserve the original format of
this, the first elucidation of rayonism to be published in the West. For a French
reprint see bibl. 145x, pp. 83-85.

Every form exists objectively in space by reason of the rays from the
other forms that surround it; it is individualized by these rays, and they
alone determine its existence.
Nevertheless, between those forms that our eye objectivizes, there exists a
real and undeniable intersection of rays proceeding from various forms.
These intersections constitute new intangible forms that the painter’s eye can
see. Where the rays from different objects meet, new immaterial objects are
created in space. Rayonism is the painting of these intangible forms, of
these infinite products with which the whole of space is filled.
Rayonism is the painting of the collisions and couplings of rays between
 Nonobjective Art / tot

objects, the dramatic representation of the struggle between the plastic ema-
nations radiating from all things around us; rayonism is the painting of space
revealed not by the contours of objects, not even by their formal coloring,
but by the ceaseless and intense drama of the rays that constitute the unity of
all things.
Rayonism might appear to be a form of spiritualist painting, even mys-
tical, but it is, on the contrary, essentially plastic. The painter sees new
forms created between tangible forms by their own radiation, and these are
the only ones that he places on the canvas. Hence he attains the pinnacle of
painting for painting’s sake inspired by these real forms, although he would
neither know how to, nor wish to, represent or even evoke them by their
linear existence.
Pictorial studies devoted to a formal representation by no matter what
kind of geometrical line—straight, curved, circular—still regard painting, in
my opinion, as a means of representing forms. Rayonism wishes to regard
painting as an end in itself and no longer as a means of expression.

Rayonism gives primary importance only to color. To this end, rayonism

has come naturally to examine the problem of color depth.
The sensation a color can arouse, the emotion it can express is greater or
lesser in proportion as its depth on the plane surface increases or decreases.
Obviously, a blue spread evenly over the canvas vibrates with less intensity
than the same blue put on more thickly. Hitherto this law has been applica-
ble only to music, but it is incontestable also with regard to painting: colors
have a timbre that changes according to the quality of their vibrations, i.e.,
of their density and loudness. In this way, painting becomes as free as music
and becomes self-sufficient outside of imagery.
In his investigations the rayonist painter is concerned with variety of den-
sity, i.e., the depth of color that he is using, as much as with the composi-
tion formed by the rays from intervibrant objects.
So we are dealing with painting that is dedicated to the domination of
color, to the study of the resonances deriving from the pure orchestration of
its timbres.
Polychromy is not essential. For example, in a canvas painted in one
color, a street would be represented by one flat, very brilliant and lacquered
surface between houses depicted in relief with their projections and indenta-
tions; above would be a very smooth sky. These different masses would be
combined by the intersections of the rays that they would reflect and would
produce a supremely realistic impression—and just as dynamic—of how the
street appeared in reality.
102) / RUSSIAN ART OF THE AVANT-GARDE

This example is actually rather clumsy and serves only to elucidate the
question of color timbre, since in a rayonist canvas a street, a harvest scene,
a sky exist only through the relationships between their intervibrations.

In rayonist painting the intrinsic life and continuum of the colored masses
form a synthesis-image in the mind of the spectator, one that goes beyond
time and space. One glimpses the famous fourth dimension since the length,
breadth, and density of the superposition of the painted colors are the only
signs of the visible world; and all the other sensations, created by ‘mages,
are of another order—that superreal order that man must always seek, yet
never find, so that he would approach paths of representation more subtle
and more spiritualized.
We believe that rayonism marks a new stage in this development.

OLGA ROZANOVA
The Bases of the New Creation
and the Reasons
Why It Is Misunderstood, 1913

Born Vladimir Province, 1886; died Moscow, 1918. 1904-10: studied at the Bolsha-
kov Art College and Stroganov Art School in Moscow; 1911: in St. Petersburg; close
to the Union of Youth; 1911-17: contributed to the *‘Union of Youth,”’ ‘‘Tramway
V,”* “‘o.10,”" ‘“*Knave of Diamonds,”’ and other exhibitions; ca. 1913: illustrated fu-
turist booklets; married Aleksei Kruchenykh; 1918: member of IZO Narkompros and
of Proletkult.

The text of this piece, *‘Osnovy novogo tvorchestva i prichiny ego neponimaniya,”’
is from the third issue of Soyuz molodezhi (Union of Youth] (St. Petersburg), March
1913, pp. 14-22 [bibl. R339: part of the text is reprinted in the catalogue to the
“Tenth State Exhibition,’ 1919 (see pp. 138ff.), and in bibl. Rr4, pp. 168-72]. This
issue had been scheduled to appear in September 1912 (according to the back cover
of the second issue), which might indicate that'Rozanova wrote her essay earlier than
1913. As illustrations to Rozanova’s text, the issue contained six of her drawings (as
well as five by losif Shkolnik). Rozanova’s emphasis on the intuitive element of the
creative process was maintained by Mikhail Matyushin in his illuminating review
 Nonobjective Art / 103

of Albert Gleizes and Jean Metzinger’s Du Cubisme [ibid., pp. 25-34, in which
he made frequent reference to Petr Uspensky’s Tertium Organum and hence to
the ‘‘fourth element and the highest—Intuition.’’ As a member of the St. Petersburg
avant-garde, Rozanova was a colleague of Nikolai Kulbin, Vladimir Markov, and
Matyushin, whose ideas undoubtedly influenced her; to a certain extent, her thesis
acted as an organic link between the somewhat nebulous ideas of the early Vasilii
Kandinsky and Kulbin and the more definite, more emphatic theories of Kazimir
Malevich. In fact, some of the ideas to be found in Malevich’s ‘‘From Cubism and
Futurism to Suprematism’’ (see pp. 116ff.)—e.g., the conventional artist as a pris-
oner of nature and intuitive reason—rely heavily on Rozanova’s essay. Rozanova’s
more disciplined and more cerebral approach to the question of nonrepresentation
was expressed above all in her own analytical painting, in which she reached a
suprematist conclusion, and in her poetical experiments [see bibl. R332]. The text
was written as a polemical response to Aleksandr Benois’s article ““Kubizm ili
kukishizm?” [Cubism or Ridiculism?]—see p. 69—70. For a French translation see
bibl. 1451, pp. 66-70.

The art of Painting is the decomposition of nature’s ready-made images

into the distinctive properties of the common material found within them and
the creation of different images by means of the interrelation of these prop-
erties; this interrelation is established by the Creator’s individual attitude.
The artist determines these properties by his visual faculty. The world is a
piece of raw material—for the unreceptive soul it is the back of a mirror, but
for reflective souls it is a mirror of images appearing continually.
How does the world reveal itself to us? How does our soul reflect the
world? In order to reflect, it is necessary to perceive. In order to perceive, it
is necessary to touch, to see. Only the Intuitive Principle introduces us to the
World.
And only the Abstract Principle—Calculation—as the consequence of the
active aspiration to express the world, can build a Picture.
This establishes the following order in the process of creation:
1. Intuitive Principle
2. Individual transformation of the visible
3. Abstract creation
The fascination of the visible, the charm of the spectacle, arrests the eye,
and the artist’s primary aspiration to create arises from this confrontation
with nature. The desire to penetrate the World and, in reflecting it, to reflect
oneself is an intuitive impulse that selects the Subject—this word being un-
derstood in its purely painterly meaning.
In this way, nature is a ‘‘Subject’’ as much as any subject set for painting
in abstracto and is the point of departure, the seed, from which a Work of
Olga Rozanova: Workbox, 1915. Oil, paper collage, lace on canvas, 58 x
33 cm. Collection Tretyakov Gallery, Moscow. Rozanova’s analytical
approach to the pictorial surface, stimulated in part by her awareness of
Italian futurism and of Malevich’s alogism, enabled her to reach her
own version of suprematism in 1916.
 Nonobjective Art / 105

Art develops; the intuitive impulse in the process of creation is the first psy-
chological stage in this development. How does the artist use the phenomena
of nature, and how does he transform the visible World on the basis of his
relationship with it?
A rearing horse, motionless cliffs, a delicate flower, are equally beautiful
if they can express themselves in equal degree.
But what can the artist express if he repeats them?
At best, an unconscious plagiarism of nature, for which the artist, not
knowing his own objectives, could be forgiven; at worst, a plagiarism in the
literal sense of the word, when people would refuse to reject it merely out of
creative impotence.
—Because the artist must be not a passive imitator of nature, but an active
spokesman of his relationship with her. Hence the question arises: to what
extent and to what degree should nature’s influence on the artist be
expressed?
A servile repetition of nature’s models can never express all her fullness.
It is time, at long last, to acknowledge this and to declare frankly, once
and for all, that other ways, other methods of expressing the World are
needed.
The photographer and the servile artist, in depicting nature’s images, will
repeat them.
The artist of artistic individuality, in depicting them, will reflect himself.
He will reveal the properties of the World and erect from them a New
World—thé World of the Picture, and by renouncing repetition of the visi-
ble, he will inevitably create different images; in turning to their practical re-
alization on the canvas, he will be forced to reckon with them.
The Intuitive Principle, as an extrinsic stimulus to creation, and individual
transformation—the second stage in the creative process—have played their
role in advancing the meaning of the abstract.
The abstract embraces the conception of creative Calculation, and of ex-
pedient relations to the painterly task. It has played an essential role in the
New Art by indissolubly combining the conception of artistic means and the
conception of artistic ends. Modern art is no longer a copy of concrete ob-
jects; it has set itself on a different plane, it has upturned completely the
conception of Art that existed hitherto.
The artist of the Past, riveted to nature, forgot about the picture as an im-
portant phenomenon, and.as a result, it became merely a pale reminder of
what he saw, a boring assemblage of ready-made, indivisible images of na-
ture, the fruit of logic with its immutable, nonaesthetic characteristics. Na-
ture enslaved the artist.
TOG. {2 RU SSH AUN BA RYT OFF ROE VARY (Au Neiin GaleLe:

And if in olden times, the individual transformation of nature found oc-

casional expression when the artist changed it according to his individual
conception (the works of archaic eras, of infant nations, the primitives), it
was, nevertheless, an example of an unrealized property, attempts at free
speech, and more often than not, the ready-made images triumphed as a
result.
Only now does the artist create a Picture quite consciously not only by not
copying nature, but also by subordinating the primitive conception of it to
conceptions complicated by all the psychology of modern creative thought:
what the artist sees + what he knows + what he remembers, etc. In putting
paint onto canvas, he further subjects the result of this consciousness to a
constructive processing that, strictly speaking, is the most important thing in
Art—and the very conception of the Picture and of its self-sufficient value
can arise only on this condition.
In an ideal state of affairs the artist passes spontaneously from one cre-
ative state to another, and the Principles—the Intuitive, the Individual, the
Abstract—are united organically, not mechanically. I do not intend to ana-
lyze the individual trends of modern art but wish merely to determine the
general character of the New creative World View. I shall touch on these
trends only to the extent that they are the consequence of this New creative
psychology and evoke this or that attitude in the public and critics nurtured
on the psychology of the old conception of art. To begin with, the art of our
time will be fatally incomprehensible to such people unless they make the
effort to accept the required viewpoint.
For the majority of the public nurtured by pseudo artists on copies of na-
ture, the conception of beauty rests on the terms ‘‘Familiar’’ and ‘‘In-
telligible.’’ So when an art created on new principles forces the public to
awaken from its stagnant, sleepy attitudes crystallized once and for all, the
transition to a different state incites protest and hostility since the public is
unprepared for it.
Only in this way can the enormity of the reproaches cast at the whole of
the Young Art and its representatives be explained.
—Reproaches made from self-interest, self-advertisement, charlatanism,
and every kind of mean trick.
The disgusting roars of laughter at exhibitions of the leading trends can be
explained only by a reluctance to be educated.
The bewilderment at pictures and titles expressed in technical language
(directrix, color instrumentation, etc.) can be explained only by crass
ignorance.
Undoubtedly, if a person came to a musical evening, read in the program
+
 Nonobjective Art / 107

the titles of the pieces—‘*Fugue,’’ ‘‘Sonata,’’ ‘‘Symphony,’’ etc.—and sud-

denly began to roar with laughter, indicating that these definitions were
amusing and pretentious, his neighbors would shrug their shoulders and
make him feel a fool.
In what way does the usual kind of visitor to current ‘‘Union of Youth’’
exhibitions differ from this type as he creases up with laughter when con-
fronted with specific artistic terms in the catalogue and does not take the
trouble to ascertain their true meaning?
But if the attitude of a certain section of the public is tactless, then that of
the critics and their confréres in art toward its Young representatives is, un-
fortunately, not only no less tactless and ignorant, but is often even careless.
Everyone who follows the art scene is familiar with A. Benois’s articles on
cubism:
‘“‘Cubism or Ridiculism?’’ } is a shameful stain on Russian criticism.
And if such a well-known art critic displays complete ignorance of ques-
tions of a specialized nature, then what can we expect from the newspaper
judges who earn their bread and butter by looking for truths to please the
mob’s bigoted opinions!
When there is no possibility of averting your opponent’s victory by dis-
arming him, there is only one thing left—to depreciate his significance.
The opponents of the New Art resort to this onslaught by rejecting its self-
sufficient significance, declaring it to be “‘transient’’; they do not even un-
derstand properly the conception of this Art and dump cubism, futurism, and
other manifestations of art life onto the same heap. Hence they elucidate nei-
ther their essential difference, nor their common cohesive theses.
Let us turn to the concepts transient and self-sufficient. Do these words
denote a qualitative or a quantitative difference? In all the manifestations of
cultural life and hence in art as well, only an epoch of Senility and Imita-
tion—a period of life’s mortification—can, according to the only correct
definition, be called a ‘‘transient epoch.”’
Every new epoch in art differs from the preceding one in thatit introduces
many new artistic theses into its previously cultivated experience, and in fol-
lowing the path of this development, it works out a new code of artistic
formulas. But in the course of time, creative energy begins inevitably to
slacken.
New formulas cannot be cultivated—on the contrary, those cultivated
previously develop artistic technique to an extraordinary level of refinement
and reduce it to prestidigitation of the paintbrush; the extreme expression of
this is a crystallization into the conditioned repetition of ready-made forms.
And in this soil the putrid flowers of imitation thrive. Without going into the
108 / RUSSIAN ART OF THE AVANT-GARDE

depths of art history, we can cite examples of imitation from the not too dis-
tant past (it, too, has grown obsolete), namely, the exhibitions of the
‘‘World of Art’’ and especially the ‘‘Union of Russian Artists’’ ? as they
now stand: they give nothing to the treasure house of art and essentially are
merely the epigones of the Wanderers. The only difference is that the servile
imitation of nature with a smattering of Social-Populist ideology (the Wan-
derers) is replaced in this case by the imitation of an intimate aristocratic life
with its cult of antiquity and sentimentality of individual experience (the
cozy art of the ‘‘Worid of Art’’ exhibitions and their like).
I pointed out above that all previous art had touched on problems of a
purely painterly nature only by allusion and that it had confined itself gener-
ally to the repetition of the visible; we can say therefore that only the nine-
teenth century, thanks to the school of the impressionists, advanced theses
that had been unknown previously: the stipulation of a locale of air and light
in the picture and color analysis.
Then followed Van Gogh, who hinted at the principle of dynamism, and
Cézanne, who advanced the questions of construction, planar and surface
dimension.
But Van Gogh and Cézanne are only the estuaries of those broad and im-
petuous currents that are most well defined in our time: futurism and
cubism.
Proceeding from the possibilities to which I alluded (dynamism, planar
and surface dimension), each of these currents has enriched art with a series
of independent theses.
Moreover, although initially they were diametrically opposed to each
other (Dynamics, Statics), they were enriched subsequently with a series of
common theses. These have lent a common tone to all modern trends in
painting.
Only modern Art has advocated the full and serious importance of such
principles as pictorial dynamism, volume and equilibrium, weight and
weightlessness, linear and plane displacement, rhythm as a legitimate divi-
sion of space, design, planar and surface dimension, texture, color correla-
tion, and others. Suffice it to enumerate these principles that distinguish the
New Art from the Old to be convinced that they are the Qualitative—and not
just the quantitative—New Basis that proves the ‘‘self-sufficient”’ signifi-
cance of the New Art. They are principles hitherto unknown that signify the
rise of a new era in creation—an era of purely artistic achievements.
—The era of the final, absolute liberation of the Great Art of Painting
from the alien traits of Literature, Society, and everyday life. Our age is to
 Nonobjective Art / 109

be credited with the cultivation of this valuable world view—an age that is
not affected by the question of how quickly the individual trends it has
created flash past.
After elucidating the essential values of the New Art, one cannot help not-
ing the extraordinary rise in the whole creative life of our day, the unprece-
dented diversity and quantity of artistic trends.
Messrs. art critics and veterans of the old art are being true to themselves
in their fatal fear of what is beautiful and continually renewing itself; they
are frightened and tremble for the little caskets of their meager artistic
achievements. In order to defend publicly this pitiful property and the posi-
tions they occupy, they spare no effort to slander the Young Art and to ar-
rest its triumphant procession. They reproach it further with frivolity and
instability.
It is high time that we realized that the future of Art will be assured only
when the thirst for eternal renewal in the artist’s soul becomes inexhaustible,
when wretched individual taste loses its power over him and frees him from
the necessity of continually rehashing.
Only the absence of honesty and of true love of art provides some artists
with the effrontery to live on stale tins of artistic economies stocked up for
several years, and year in, year out, until they are fifty, to mutter about what
they had first started to talk about when they were twenty.
Each moment of the present is dissimilar to a moment of the past, and
moments of the future will contain inexhaustible possibilities and new
revelations!
How can one explain the premature spiritual death of the artists of the Old
Art, if not by laziness? :
They end their days as innovators before they are barely thirty, and then
turn to rehashing.
There is nothing more awful in the World than repetition, uniformity.
Uniformity is the apotheosis of banality.
There is nothing more awful in the World than an artist’s immutable Face,
by which his friends and old buyers recognize him at exhibitions—this ac-
cursed mask that shuts off his view of the future, this contemptible hide in
which are arrayed all the ‘‘venerable’’ tradesmen of art clinging to their ma-
terial security!
There is nothing more terrible than this immutability when it is not the
imprint of the elemental force of individuality, but merely the tested guaran-
tee of a steady market!
It is high time that we put an end to the debauch of critics’ ribaldry and
TLO. Ue RIUNS ScIwAUNievAURTr (O) RadeEye An VivAUN eis Ge ons Dak

confessed honestly that only ‘‘Union of Youth’’ exhibitions are the pledges
of art’s renewal. Contempt should be cast on those who hold dear only
peaceful sleep and relapses of experience.

SUPREMATIST STATEMENTS,
T9I5

The texts that follow were published on the occasion of the opening of the ‘‘Last Fu-
turist Exhibition of Pictures 0.10’’ organized by Ivan Puni in Petrograd (December
19, 1915—January 19, 1916) [bibl. R364] and were distributed gratis as two separate
leaflets (Puni/Kseniya Boguslavskaya as one, Kazimir Malevich/Ivan Klyun/Mikhail
Menkov as the other) while the exhibition was in progress. [The texts are reprinted in
bibl. 33, pp. 52-53; French translation, ibid., pp. 153-54.] The written contribution
by Malevich was virtually the same as the first eight paragraphs of his book From
Cubism and Futurism to Suprematism (see p. 118-19), the first edition of which was
on sale at the exhibition.

The exhibition itself was the first public showing of suprematist works and judging
by the newspaper Obozrenie teatrov [Theater Observer] (Petrograd) for January 9,
1916, this was the first time that suprematism as an art movement had been heard of.
‘“*o.10°’ witnessed the debut of Malevich’s Black Square on a White Background
(called Square in the catalogue, no. 39) and also of his Red Square on a White
Background (called Painterly Realism of Red Masses in Two Dimensions in the cata-
logue, no. 47), a canvas that he contributed to many of his exhibitions. These, how-
ever, were not the only monochromatic paintings at the exhibition: according to one
review (in Vechernee vremya [Evening] [Petrograd], January 20, 1916), Puni also
submitted a “‘board . . . painted green’’ (no. 107 in the catalogue). Vladimir Tatlin
was also represented at the exhibition, and his own manifesto [bibl. R447] had been
published on the occasion of its opening, but in contrast to Malevich and Puni, he
received little critical attention.

Malevich and Puni expanded the ideas set forth in their manifestoes at a public
presentation that they organized at the Tenishev Institute, Petrograd, on January 12,
1916. Malevich expressed ideas similar to those in his book, illustrating his talk with
his own pictures and with an ‘‘experimental demonstration . . . of a sketch accord-
ing to the principle of cubofuturism’’ (from the poster advertising the event); Puni
delivered a lecture that encompassed ‘‘academic trends . . . cubofuturism .. .
 Nonobjective Art / 111

suprematism, and the fall of futurism’’ (ibid.); and Boguslavskaya read some of her
own poetry. Both the manifestoes and the lectures underlined basic differences be-
tween Malevich and Puni: Malevich emerged as more individualistic, more irratio-
nal, yet more imaginative, whereas Puni tended toward a more impersonal, more ra-
tional, and more scientific conception. But whatever their differences, it was clear
that thanks to their “‘philosophy of savagery and bestiality’? (A[leksandr] Benois,
‘*Poslednyaya futuristicheskaya vystavka’’ [The Last Futurist Exhibition], in Rech
[Discourse] [Petrograd], January 9, 1916), they had indeed ‘‘conquered Raphael, Ti-
tian, and Michelangelo’’ (I[gor] Gr[abar]: ‘‘O skuchizme’’ [On Boringism] in Den
[Day] [Petrograd], January 14, 1916). Apart from the Benois, alt the above reviews
are reproduced in bibl. 33, pp. 68-85. For a German translation of the Puni/
Boguslavskaya, Kliun and Menkov texts see bibl. 209viii, pp. 73, 74.

Photograph taken at the exhibition ‘‘o.10,’’ 1915. Left to right: Olga Rozanova, Kseniya
Boguslavskaya, Kazimir Malevich. The paintings hanging behind them are part of Malevich’s
contribution. Photograph courtesy Mr. Herman Berninger, Zurich.
IVAN PUNI AND
KSENIYA BOGUSLAVSKAYA

Puni—Also known as Jean Pougny. Born Kuokkala, 1894; died Paris, 1956. Re-
ceived early education in St. Petersburg; 1909: first trip to Paris; 1912: back in St.
Petersburg; contact with the Burliuks, Kazimir Malevich, and other members of the
avant-garde; 1912-16; contributed to the ‘‘Union of Youth,’’ organized “‘Tramway
V’’ and ‘‘0.10’’; 1913: married Boguslavskaya; 1918: professor at Pegoskhuma/Svo-
mas; taught at Vitebsk; 1920: moved to Berlin; 1923: settled in Paris.

Xana Boguslavskaya—Bom Kuokkala, 1892; died outside Paris, 1972. 1911-12: in

Italy; 1912: in Paris; 1913; married Puni; 1915-16: contributed to ‘‘Tramway V”’
and ‘‘o.10’’; student at Pegoskhuma/Svomas while Puni taught there; did street deco-
ration; 1920: moved to Berlin; 1923: settled in Paris.

1) An object is the sum of real units, a sum that has a utilitarian purpose.
(Utility is the purpose of the sum of real elements to depict something.
Example: a certain sum of elements is a stone, another a man, etc.)
2) The substance of an object (reality) and the being of an object like a
chair, a samovar, a house, etc., are not the same thing.
A) Freedom of the object from meaning, the destruction of utility.
B) A picture is a new conception of abstracted real elements, deprived of
meaning.
3) 2 X2 is anything you like, but not four.
C) (The aesthetic thing in itself.)
An object (a world) freed from meaning disintegrates into real ele-
ments—the foundation of art.
B. 2) The correlation of elements discovered and revealed in a picture is a
new reality, the departure point of the new painting.

D2
Ivan Puni, 1918. Photo-
graph courtesy Mr. Her-
man Beringer, Zurich.

Ivan Puni: Suprematist

Composition, 1915. Oil on
canvas, 86.5 x 56.5 cm.
Collection Mr. and Mrs.
Herman Berninger, Zurich.
This was exhibited at
OUOnn

KAZIMIR MALEVICH

For biography and text see pp. 116ff.

IVAN KLYUN

Also known as Klyunkov. Born Kiev, 1873; died Moscow, 1942. Studied in Kiev,
Moscow, and Warsaw; early rgoos: attended the private studios of Fedor Rerberg
and Ilya Mashkov in Mosocow; 1910: cofounded the exhibition society Moscow
Salon; close contact with Aleksei Kruchenykh, Kazimir Malevich, and Mikhail
Matyushin; 1913-14: contributed to the last exhibition of the Union of Youth in St.
Petersburg; 1915: supported Suprematism; 1916: joined the Knave of Diamonds;
1915-17: contributed to the “Tramway V,” “o.10,” “Shop,” “Knave of
Diamonds,” and other exhibitions; 1918-21: professor at Svomas/Vkhutemas;
1921: member of Inkhuk; 1925: member of Four Arts; continued to exhibit during
the 1930s.

Before us sculpture was a means of reproducing objects.

There was no sculptural art, but there was the art of sculpture.
Only we have become fully aware of the principle: Art as an end in itself.
Michelangelo carved a beautiful David out of marble—but in a purely
sculptural sense this work is insignificant.
In it is the beauty of youth, but no beauty of sculpture. Our sculpture is
pure art, free from any surrogates; there is no content in it, only form.

MIKHAIL MENKOV

Also known ,as Minkov. Born Moscow, dates unknown. 1915-16: contributed to
**0.10"'; 1917: contributed to the ‘“*Knave of Diamonds”’; 1919: at the *‘Eighth State
Exhibition’ and *‘Tenth State Exhibition’’; after 1919: stopped exhibiting in Russia.

Every art that is valued by its ability to repeat the visible is a defective
art.
Color must live and speak for itself. Hitherto there was no such thing as
pure painting; there were just copies of nature and of ideas.

114
Ivan Klyun, mid-1920s.

Kazimir, Malevich: Portrait of a Builder Completed.

Lithograph illustration for Zina V. and Aleksei Kruchen-
ykh: Porosyata [Piglets] (St. Petersburg, 1913). This
lithograph is, in fact, a version of Malevich’s Portrait of
Ivan Klyun (1912), now in the Russian Museum, Lenin-
grad. Courtesy Leonard Hutton Galleries, New York.
KAZIMIR MALEVICH
From Cubism and Futurism
to Suprematism:
The New Painterly Realism, 1915

Born near Kiev, 1878; died Leningrad, 1935. 1903: entered the Moscow Institute of
Painting, Sculpture, and Architecture; ca. 1910: influenced by neoprimitivism; 1913:
took part in a futurist conference in Uusikirkko, Finland [see bibl. R306]; designed
decor for the Aleksei Kruchenykh—Mikhail Matyushin opera Victory over the Sun,
produced in December in St. Petersburg; illustrated futurist booklets; 1914: met
Filippo Marinetti on the latter’s arrival in Russia; 1915-16: first showing of
suprematist works at “‘o.10”; 1911-17: contributed to the “Union of Youth,”
“Donkey’s Tail,” “Target,” “Tramway V,” “Shop,” ““Knave of Diamonds,” and
other exhibitions; 1918: active on various levels within Narkompros; 1919-22: at
the Vitebsk Art School, where he replaced Marc Chagall as head; organized Unovis
(Uniya novogo iskusstva/Utverditeli novogo iskusstva— Union of the New Art/
Affirmers of the New Art]; 1920 to late 1920s: worked on his experimental
constructions—the so-called arkhitektony and planity; 1922: joined IKhK; 1927:
visited Warsaw and Berlin with a one-man exhibition; contact with the Bauhaus;
late 1920s: returned to a more representational kind of painting.

The translation is of Malevich’s Ot kubizma i futurizma k suprematizmu. Novyi

zhivopisnyi realizm (Moscow, 1916). This text, written in its original form in 1915,
saw three editions: the first appeared in December 1915 in Petrograd under the title
Ot kubizma k suprematizmu. Novyi zhivopisnyi realizm [From Cubism to Suprema-
tism. The New Painterly Realism] and coincided with the exhibition ‘‘o.10’’; the
second followed in January 1916, also in Petrograd; the third, from which this
translation is made, was published in November 1916, but in Moscow, and is signed
and dated 1915. The text has already been translated into English but with some
inaccuracies [bibl. 159, vol. 1, 19-40] and into French [bibl. 163, pp. 45-73; and bibl.
176xvilil, pp. 185-203] and Italian [bibl. 176xix, pp. 173-90]. The first eight
paragraphs of the text are similar to Malevich’s statement issued at “‘o.10” (see p.
110ff.). The style is typical of Malevich’s writings, and the grammatical eccentric-
ities and somewhat arbitrary italicizing create occasional ambiguities. Certain ideas
and expressions used in the text recall the writings of Nikolai Kulbin, Vladimir
Markov, and Olga Rozanova, which Malevich undoubtedly knew.

116
Kazimir Malevich: Suprematist Painting: Black and Red Square, 1915. Oil on can-
vas, 71.4 x 44.4 cm. Collection The Museum of Modern Art, New York. This was
exhibited at ‘‘o.10.””
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Cover of Kazimir Malevich’s book Of kubizma ifu-

turizma k suprematizmu [From Cubism and Futurism to
Suprematism], third edition. (Moscow, 1916).

Only when the conscious habit of seeing nature’s little nooks, Madonnas,
and Venuses in pictures disappears will we witness a purely painterly work
of art.

I have transformed myself in the zero of form and have fished myself out
of the rubbishy slough of academic art.

I have destroyed the ring of the horizon and got out of the circle of ob-
jects, the horizon ring that has imprisoned the artist and the forms of nature.
This accursed ring, by continually revealing novelty after novelty, leads
the artist away from the aim of destruction.
And only cowardly consciousness and insolvency of creative power in an
artist yield to this deception and establish their art on the forms of nature,
afraid of losing the foundation on which the savage and the academy have
based their art.
 Nonobjective Art / 119

To produce favorite objects and little nooks of nature is just like a thief
being enraptured by his shackled legs.

Only dull and impotent artists veil their work with sincerity. Art requires
truth, not sincerity.

Objects have vanished like smoke; to attain the new artistic culture, art
advances toward creation as an end in itself and toward domination over the
forms of nature.

The Art of the Savage and Its Principles

The savage was the first to establish the principle of naturalism: in drawing a
dot and five little sticks, he attempted to transmit his own image.
This first attempt laid the basis for the conscious imitation of nature’s
forms.
Hence arose the aim of approaching the face of nature as closely as
possible.
And all the artist’s efforts were directed toward the transmission of her
creative forms.
The first inscription of the savage’s primitive depiction gave birth to col-
lective art, or the art of repetition.
Collective, because the real man with his subtle range of feelings, psy-
chology, and anatomy had not been discovered.
The savage saw neither his outward‘image nor his inward state.
His consciousness could see only the outline of a man, a beast, etc.
And as his consciousness developed, so the outline of his depiction of na-
ture grew more involved.
The more his consciousness embraced nature, the more involved his work
became, and the more his experience and skill increased.
His consciousness developed in only one direction, toward nature’s cre-
ation and not toward new forms of art.
Therefore his primitive depictions cannot be considered creative work.
The distortion of reality in his depictions is the result of weak technique.
Both technique and consciousness were only at the beginning of their
development.
And his pictures must not be considered art.
Because unskillfulness is not art.
He merely pointed the way to art.
120 / RWSSLAN: ART*OF THE AVANT-GARDE

Consequently, his original outline was a framework on which the genera-

tions hung new discovery after new discovery made in nature.
And the outline became more and more involved and achieved its flower-
ing in antiquity and the Renaissance.
The masters of these two epochs depicted man in his complete form, both
outward and inward.
Man was assembled, and his inward state was expressed.
But despite their enormous skill, they did not, however, perfect the sav-
age’s idea:
The reflection of nature on canvas, as in a mirror.
And it is a mistake to suppose that their age was the most brilliant fiower-
ing of art and that the younger generation should at all costs aspire toward
this ideal.
This idea is false.
It diverts young forces from the contemporary current of life and thereby
deforms them.
Their bodies fly in airplanes, but they cover art and life with the old robes
of Neros and Titians.
Hence they are unable to observe the new beauty of our modern life.
Because they live by the beauty of past ages.

That is wny the realists, impressionists, cubism, futurism, and suprema-

tism were not understood.
The latter artists cast aside the robes of the past, came out into modern
life, and found new beauty.
And I say:
That no torture chambers of the academies will withstand the days to
come.
Forms move and are born, and we are forever making new discoveries.
And what we discover must not be concealed.
And it is absurd to force our age into the old forms of a bygone age.

The hollow of the past cannot contain the gigantic constructions and
movement of our life.
As in our life of technology:
We cannot use the ships in which the Saracens sailed, and so in art we
should seek forms that correspond to modern life.

The technological side of our age advances further and further ahead, but
people try to push art further and further back.
 Nonobjective Art / 121

This is why all those people who follow their age are superior, greater,
and worthier.
And the realism of the nineteenth century is much greater than the ideal
forms found in the aesthetic experience of the ages of the Renaissance and
Greece.
The masters of Rome and Greece, after they had attained a knowledge of
human anatomy and produced a depiction that was to a certain extent
realistic:
were overrun by aesthetic taste, and their realism was pomaded and pow-
dered with the taste of aestheticism.
Hence their perfect line and nice colors.
Aesthetic taste diverted them from the realism of the earth, and they
reached the impasse of idealism.
Their painting is a means of decorating a picture.
Their knowledge was taken away from nature into closed studios, where
pictures were manufactured for many centuries.
That is why their art stopped short.
They closed the doors behind them, thereby destroying their contact with
nature.

And that moment when they were gripped by the idealization of form
should be considered the collapse of real art.
Because art should not advance toward abbreviation or simplification, but
toward complexity.
The Venus de Milo is a graphic example of decline. It is not a real
woman, but a parody.

Angelo’s David is a deformation:

His head and torso are modeled, as it were, from two incongruent forms.
A fantastic head and a real torso.

All the masters of the Renaissance achieved great results in anatomy.

But they did not achieve veracity in their impression of the body.
Their painting does not transmit the body, and their landscapes do not
transmit living light, despite the fact that bluish veins can be seen in the
bodies of their people.
The art of naturalism is the savage’s idea, the aspiration to transmit what
is seen, but not to create a new form.
His creative will was in an embryonic state, but his impressions were
more developed, which was the reason for his reproduction of reality.
122: / RUSSTAN ART OF THE AVANT
3G ee oe

Similarly it should not be assumed that his gift of creative will was devel-
oped in the classical painters.
Because we see in their pictures only repetitions of the real forms of life
in settings richer than those of their ancestor, the savage.

Similarly their composition should not be considered creation, for in most

cases the arrangement of figures depends on the subject: a king’s procession,
a court, etc.
The king and the judge already determine the places on the canvas for the
persons of secondary importance.

Furthermore, the composition rests on the purely aesthetic basis of nice-

ness of arrangement.
Hence arranging furniture in a room is still not a creative process.

In repeating or tracing the forms of nature, we have nurtured our con-

sciousness with a false conception of art.
The work of the primitives was taken for creation.
The classics also.
If you put the same glass down twenty times, that’s also creation.
Art, as the ability to transmit what we see onto a canvas, was considered
creation.
Is placing a samovar on a table also really creation?
I think quite differently.
The transmission of real objects onto a canvas is the art of skillful repro-
duction, that’s all.
And between the art of creating and the art of repeating there is a great
difference.

To create means to live, forever creating newer and newer things.

And however much we arrange furniture about rooms, we will not extend
or create a new form for them.
And however many moonlit landscapes the artist paints, however many
grazing cows and pretty sunsets, they will remain the same dear little cows
and sunsets. Only in a much worse form.
And in fact, whether an artist is a genius or not is determined by the
number of cows he paints.

The artist can be a creator only when the forms in his picture have nothing
in common with nature.
For art is the ability to create a construction that derives not from the in-
terrelation of form and color and not on the basis of aesthetic taste in a con-
 Nonobjective Art / 123

struction’s compositional beauty, but on the basis of weight, speed, and di-
rection of movement.
Forms must be given life and the right to individual existence.
Nature is a living picture, and we can admire her. We are the living heart
of nature. We are the most valuable construction in this gigantic living
picture.
We are her living brain, which magnifies her life.
To reiterate her is theft, and he who reiterates her is a thief—a nonentity
who cannot give, but who likes to take things and claim them as his own.
(Counterfeiters. )

An artist is under a vow to be a free creator, but not a free robber.

An artist is given talent in order that he may present to life his share of
creation and swell the current of life, so versatile.
Only in absolute creation will he acquire his right.
And this is possible when we free all art of philistine ideas and subject
matter and teach our consciousness to see everything in nature not as real
objects and forms, but as material, as masses from which forms must be
made that have nothing in common with nature.
Then the habit of seeing Madonnas and Venuses in pictures, with fat, flir-
tatious cupids, will disappear.
Color and texture are of the greatest value in painterly creation—they are
the essence of painting; but this essence has always been killed by the sub-
ject.
And if the masters of the Renaissance had discovered painterly surface, it
would have been much nobler and more valuable than any Madonna or
Gioconda.
And any hewn pentagon or hexagon would have been a greater work of
sculpture than the Venus de Milo or David.
The principle of the savage is to aim to create art that repeats the real
forms of nature.
In intending to transmit the living form, they transmitted its corpse in the
picture.
The living was turned into a motionless, dead state.
Everything was taken alive and pinned quivering to the canvas, just as in-
sects are pinned in a collection.
But that was the time of Babel in terms of art.
They should have created, but they repeated; they should have deprived
124 / RUSSTANUART OF THEA VAN
PS GAg DE

forms of content and meaning, but they enriched them with this burden.
They should have dumped this burden, but they tied it around the neck of
creative will.
The art of painting, the word, sculpture, was a kind of camel, loaded with
all the trash of odalisques, Salomes, princes, and princesses.
Painting was the tie on the gentleman’s starched shirt and the pink corset
drawing in the stomach.
Painting was the aesthetic side of the object.
But it was never an independent end in itself.
Artists were officials making an inventory of nature’s property, amateur
collectors of zoology, botany, and archaeology.
Nearer our time, young artists devoted themselves to pornography and
tured painting into lascivious trash.
There were no attempts at purely painterly tasks as such, without any ap-
purtenances of real life.
There was no realism of painterly form as an end in itself, and there was
no creation.

The realist academists are the savage’s last descendants.

They are the ones who go about in the worn-out robes of the past.
And again, as before, some have cast aside these greasy robes.
And given the academy rag-and-bone man a slap in the face with their
proclamation of futurism. !
They began in a mighty movement to hammer at the consciousness as if at
nails in a stone wall.
To pull you out of the catacombs into the speed of contemporaneity.
I assure you that whoever has not trodden the path of futurism as the ex-
ponent of modern life is condemned to crawl forever among the ancient
tombs and feed on the leftovers of bygone ages.

Futurism opened up the “‘new’’ in modern life: the beauty of speed.

And through speed we move more swiftly.
And we, who only yesterday were futurists, have reached new forms
through speed, new relationships with nature and objects.
We have reached suprematism, abandoning futurism as a loophole
through which those lagging behind will pass.
We have abandoned futurism, and we, bravést of the brave, have spat on
the altar of its art.

But can cowards spit on their idols—

As we did yesterday!!!
 Nonobjective Art / 125

I tell you, you will not see the new beauty and the truth until you venture
to spit.
Before us, all arts were old blouses, which are changed just like your silk
petticoats.
After throwing them away, you acquire new ones.
Why do you not put on your grandmothers’ dresses, when you thrill to the
pictures of their powdered portraits?
This all confirms that your body is living in the modern age while your
soul is clothed in your grandmother’s old bodice.
This is why you find the Somovs, Kustodievs,2 and various such rag
merchants so pleasant.

And I hate these secondhand-clothes dealers.

Yesterday we, our heads proudly raised, defended futurism—
Now with pride we spit on it.
And I say that what we spat upon will be accepted.
You, too, spit on the old dresses and clothe art in something new.

We rejected futurism not because it was outdated, and its end had come.
No. The beauty of speed that it discovered is eternal, and the new will still
be revealed to many.
Since we run to our goal through the speed of futurism, our thought
moves more swiftly, and whoever lives in futurism is nearer to this aim and
further from the past.
And your lack of understanding is quite natural. Can a man who always
goes about in a cabriolet really understand the experiences and impressions
of one who travels in an express or flies through the air?
The academy is a moldy vault in which art is being flagellated.
Gigantic wars, great inventions, conquest of the air, speed of travel, tele-
phones, telegraphs, dreadnoughts are the realm of electricity.
But our young artists paint Neros and half-naked Roman warriors.
Honor to the futurists who forbade the painting of female hams,* the
painting of portraits and guitars in the moonlight.
They made a huge step forward: they abandoned meat and glorified the
machine.
But meat and the machine are the muscles of life.
Both are the bodies that give life movement.
It is here that two worlds have come together.
The world of meat and the world of iron.
126 / RUSS DA‘N: -A Ru OFT Hae Dee
eA RV AUN al GArRE

Both forms are the mediums of utilitarian reason.

But the artist’s relationship to the forms of life’s objects requires
elucidation.
Until now the artist always followed the object.
Thus the new futurism follows the machine of today’s dynamism.
These two kinds of art are the old and the new—futurism: they are behind
the running forms.
And the question arises: will this aim in the art of painting respond to its
existence?
No!
Because in following the form of airplanes or motorcars, we shall always
be anticipating the new cast-off forms of technological life. . . .
And second:
In following the form of things, we cannot arrive at painting as an end in
itself, at spontaneous creation.
Painting will remain the means of transmitting this or that condition of
life’s forms.
But the futurists forbade the painting of nudity not in the name of the
liberation of painting and the word, so that they would become ends in
themselves.
But because of the changes in the technological side of life.
The new life of iron and the machine, the roar of motorcars, the brilliance
of electric lights, the growling of propellers, have awakened the soul, which
was suffocating in the catacombs of old reason and has emerged at the inter-
section of the paths of heaven and earth.
If all artists were to see the crossroads of these heavenly paths, if
they were to comprehend these monstrous runways and intersections of our
bodies with the clouds in the heavens, then they would not paint
chrysanthemums.

The dynamics of movement has suggested advocating the dynamics of

painterly plasticity.
But the efforts of the futurists to produce purely painterly plasticity as
such were not crowned with success.
They could not settle accounts with objectism,* which would have made
their task easier. ‘
When they had driven reason halfway from the field of the picture, from
the old calloused habit of seeing everything naturally, they managed to make
a picture of the new life, of new things, but that is all.
 Nonobjective Art / 127

In the transmission of movement, the cohesiveness of things disappeared

as their flashing parts hid themselves among other running bodies.
And in constructing the parts of the running objects, they tried to transmit
only the impression of movement.
But in order to transmit the movement of modern life, one must operate
with its forms.
Which made it more complicated for the art of painting to reach its goal.

But however it was done, consciously or unconsciously, for the sake of

movement or for the sake of transmitting an impression, the cohesion of
things was violated.
And in this breakup and violation of cohesion lay the latent meaning that
had been concealed by the naturalistic purpose.

Underlying this destruction lay primarily not the transmission of the

movement of objects, but their destruction for the sake of pure painterly es-
sence, i.e., toward attainment of nonobjective creation.

The rapid interchange of objects struck the new naturalists—the fu-

turists—and they began to seek means of transmitting it.
Hence the construction of the futurist pictures that you have seen arose
from the discovery of points on a plane where the placing of real objects
during their explosion or confrontation would impart a sense of time at a
maximum speed.
These points can be discovered independently of the physical law of natu-
ral perspective.
Thus we see in futurist pictures the appearance of clouds, horses, wheels,
and various other objects in places not corresponding to nature.
The state of the object has become more important than its essence and
meaning.

We see an extraordinary picture.

A new order of objects makes reason shudder.
The mob howled and spat, critics rushed at the artist like dogs from a
gateway.
(Shame on them.)
The futurists displayed enormous strength of will in destroying the habit
of the old mind, in flaying the hardened skin of academism and spitting in
the face of the old common sense.

After rejecting reason, the futurists proclaimed intuition as the subconscious.

128) [| RU: SISHITASN MAURTD) POLP ST Hebe vAGV (AG INade Grae Reber)

But they created their pictures not out of the subconscious forms of intu-
ition, but used the forms of utilitarian reason.
Consequently, only the discovery of the difference between the two lives
of the old and the new art will fall to the lot of intuitive feeling.
We do not see the subconscious in the actual construction of the picture.
Rather do we see the conscious calculation of construction.
In a futurist picture there is a mass of objects. They are scattered about
the surface in an order unnatural to life.
The conglomeration of objects is acquired not through intuitive sense, but
through a purely visual impression, while the building, the construction, of
the picture is done with the intention of achieving an impression.
And the sense of the subconscious falls away.
Consequently, we have nothing purely intuitive in the picture.
Beauty, too, if it is encountered, proceeds from aesthetic taste.
The intuitive, I think, should manifest itself when forms are unconscious
and have no response.
I consider that the intuitive in art had to be understood as the aim of our
sense of search for objects. And it followed a purely conscious path, blazing
its decisive trail through the artist.
(Its form is like two types of consciousness fighting between themselves.)
But the consciousness, accustomed to the training of utilitarian reason,
could not agree with the sense that led to the destruction of objectism.
The artist did not understand this aim and, submitting to this sense, be-
trayed reason and distorted form.
The art of utilitarian reason has a definite purpose.
But intuitive creation does not have a utilitarian purpose. Hitherto we
have had no such manifestation of intuition in art.
All pictures in art follow the creative forms of a utilitarian order. All the
naturalists’ pictures have the same form as in nature.
Intuitive form should arise out of nothing.
Just as reason, creating things for everyday life, extracts them from noth-
ing and perfects them.
Thus the forms of utilitarian reason are superior to any depictions in
pictures.
They are superior because they are alive and have proceeded from mate-
rial that has been given a new form for the new life.
Here is the Divine ordering crystals to assume another form of existence.
Here is a miracle.
There should be a miracle in the creation of art, as well.
 Nonobjective Art / 129

But the realists, in transferring living things onto the canvas, deprive their
life of movement.
And our academies teach dead, not living, painting.
Hitherto intuitive feeling has been directed to drag newer and newer forms
into our world from some kind of bottomless void.
But there has been no proof of this in art, and there should be.
And | feel that it does already exist in a real form and quite consciously.

The artist should know what, and why, things happen in his pictures.
Previously he lived in some sort of mood. He waited for the moonrise and
twilight, put green shades on his lamps, and all this tuned him up like a
violin.
But if you asked him why the face on his canvas was crooked, or green,
he could not give an exact answer.
“*T want it like that, I like it like that.
>

Ultimately, this desire was ascribed to creative will.

Consequently, the intuitive feeling did not speak clearly. And thereafter
its state became not only subconscious, but completely unconscious.
These concepts were all mixed together in pictures. The picture was half-
real, half-distorted.

Being a painter, I ought to say why people’s faces are painted green and
red in pictures.
Painting is paint and color; it lies within our organism. Its outbursts are
great and demanding.
My nervous system is colored by them.
My brain burns with their color. .
But color was oppressed by common sense, was enslaved by it. And the
spirit of color weakened and died out.
But when it conquered common sense, then its colors flowed onto the
repellent form of real things.

The colors matured, but their form did not mature in the consciousness.
This is why faces and bodies were red, green, and blue.
But this was the herald leading to the creation of painterly forms as ends
in themselves.
Now it is essential to shape the body and lend it a living form in real life.
And this will happen when forms emerge from painterly masses; that is,
they will arise just as utilitarian forms arose.
Such forms will not be repetitions of living things in life, but will them-
selves be a living thing.
130 / RUSSIAN- ART OF THE AVANT-GARDE

A painted surface is a real, living form.

Intuitive feeling is now passing to consciousness; no longer is it subcon-
scious.
Even, rather, vice versa—it always was conscious, but the artist just
could not understand its demands.
The forms of suprematism, the new painterly realism, already testify to
the construction of forms out of nothing, discovered by intuitive reason.
The cubist attempt to distort real form and its breakup of objects were
aimed at giving the creative will the independent life of its created forms.

Painting in Futurism
If we take any point in a futurist picture, we shall find either something that
is coming or going, or a confined space.
But we shall not find an independent, individual painterly surface.
Here the painting is nothing but the outer garment of things.
And each form of the object was painterly insofar as its form was neces-
sary to its existence, and not vice versa.

The futurists advocate the dynainics of painterly plasticity as the most im-
portant aspect of a painting.
But in failing to destroy objectivism; they achieve only the dynamics of
things.
Therefore futurist paintings and all those of past artists can be reduced
from twenty colors to one, without sacrificing their impression.
Repin’s picture of Ivan the Terrible could be deprived of color, and it will
still give us the same impressions of horror as it does in color.
The subject will always kill color, and we will not notice it.
Whereas faces painted green and red kill the subject to a certain extent,
and the color is more noticeable. And color is what a painter lives by, so it
is the most important thing.
And here I have arrived at pure color forms.
And suprematism is the purely painterly art of color whose independence
cannot be reduced to a single color.
The galloping of a horse can be transmitted with a single tone of pencil.
But it is impossible to transmit the movement of red, green, or blue
masses with a single pencil.
Painters should abandon subject matter and objects if they wish to be
pure painters.
 Nonobjective Art / 131

The demand to achieve the dynamics of painterly plasticity points to the

impulse of painterly masses to emerge from the object and arrive at color as
an end in itself, at the domination of purely painterly forms as ends in them-
selves Over content and things, at nonobjective suprematism—at the new
painterly realism, at absolute creation.
Futurism approaches the dynamism of painting through the academism of
form.
And both endeavors essentially aspire to suprematism in painting.
If we examine the art of cubism, the question arises what energy in ob-
jects incited the intuitive feeling to activity; we shall see that painterly
energy was of secondary importance.
The object itself, as well as its essence, purpose, sense, or the fullness of
its representation (as the cubists thought), was also unnecessary.
Hitherto it has seemed that the beauty of objects is preserved when they
are transmitted whole onto the picture, and moreover, that their essence is
evident in the coarseness or simplification of line.
But it transpired that one more situation was found in objects—which
reveals a new beauty to us.
Namely: intuitive feeling discovered in objects the energy of dissonance,
a dissonance obtained from the confrontation of two constrasting forms.
Objects contain a mass of temporal moments. Their forms are diverse,
and consequently, the ways in which they are painted are diverse.
All these temporal aspects of things and their anatomy (the rings of a tree)
have become more important than their essence and meaning.
And these new situations were adopted by the cubists as a means of con-
structing pictures. ‘
Moreover, these means were constructed so that the unexpected confron-
tation of two forms would produce a dissonance of maximum force and
tension.
And the scale of each form is arbitrary.
Which justifies the appearance of parts of real objects in places that do not
correspond to nature.
In achieving this new beauty, or simply energy, we have freed ourselves
from the impression of the object’s wholeness.
The millstone around the neck of painting is beginning to crack.
An object painted according to the principle of cubism can be considered
finished when its dissonances are exhausted.
Nevertheless, repetitive forms should be omitted by the artist since they
are mere reiterations.
132 ; RUSSIAN ART OF THE AVY AGN DG ARODie

But if the artist finds little tension in the picture, he is free to take them
from another object.
Consequently, in cubism the principle of transmitting objects does not
arise.
A picture is made, but the object is not transmitted.
Hence this conclusion:
Over the past millennia, the artist has striven to approach the depiction of
an object as closely as possible, to transmit its essence and meaning; then in
our era of cubism, the artist destroyed objects together with their meaning,
essence, and purpose.
A new picture has arisen from their fragments.
Objects have vanished like smoke, for the sake of the new culture of art.

Cubism, futurism, and the Wanderers differ in their aims, but are almost
equal in a painterly sense.
Cubism builds its pictures from the forms of lines and from a variety of
painterly textures, and in this case, words and letters are introduced as a
confrontation of various forms in the picture.
Its graphic meaning is important. It is all for the sake of achieving
dissonance.
And this proves that the aim of painting is the one least touched upon.
Because the construction of such forms is based more on actual superim-
position than on coloring, which can be obtained simply by black and white
paint or by drawing.
To sum up:
Any painted surface tured into a convex painterly relief is an artificial,
colored sculpture, and any relief turned into surface is painting.
The proof of intuitive creation in the art of painting was false, for distor-
tion is the result of the inner struggle of intuition in the form of the real.
Intuition is a new reason, consciously creating forms.
But the artist, enslaved by utilitarian reason, wages an unconscious
struggle, now submitting to an object, now distorting it.

Gauguin, fleeing from culture to the savages, and discovering more free-
dom in the primitives than in academism, found himself subject to intuitive
reason. :
He sought something simple, distorted, coarse.
This was the searching of his creative will.
At all costs. not to paint as the eye of his common sense saw.
He found colors but did not find form, and he did not find it because com-
 Nonobjective Art / 133

mon sense showed him the absurdity of painting anything except nature.
And so he hung his great creative force on the bony skeleton of man,
where it shriveled up.
Many warriors and bearers of great talent have hung it up like washing on
a fence.
And all this was done out of love for nature’s little nooks.
And let the authorities not hinder us from warning our generation against
the clothes stands that they have become so fond of and that keep them so
warm.
The efforts of the art authorities to direct art along the path of common
sense annulled creation.
And with the most talented people, real form is distortion.
Distortion was driven by the most talented to the point of disappearance,
but it did not go outside the bounds of zero.
But I have transformed myself in the zero of form and through zero have
reached creation, that is, suprematism, the new painterly realism—nonob-
jective creation.
Suprematism is the beginning of a new culture: the savage is conquered
like the ape.
There is no longer love of little nooks, there is no longer love for which
the truth of art was betrayed.
The square is not a subconscious form. It is the creation of intuitive
reason.
The face of the new art.
The square is a living, regal infant.
The first step of pure creation in art.‘ Before it there were naive distortions
and copies of nature.
Our world of art has become new, nonobjective, pure.
Everything has disappeared; a mass of material is left from which a new
form will be built.
In the art of suprematism, forms will live, like all living forms of nature.
These forms announce that man has attained his equilibrium; he has left
the level of single reason and reached one of double reason.
(Utilitarian reason and intuitive reason.)
The new painterly realism is a painterly one precisely because it has no
realism of mountains, sky, water.
Hitherto there has been a realism of objects, but not of painterly, colored
units, which are constructed so that they depend neither on form, nor on
color, nor on their position vis-a-vis each other.
134 [VARIG SISM AON} RALRED 1OP |THE AL VaA ING a GrAaReDae,

Each form is free and individual.

Each form is a world.
Any painterly surface is more alive than any face from which a pair of
eyes and a smile protrude.
A face painted in a picture gives a pitiful parody of life, and this allusion
is merely a reminder of the living.
But a surface lives; it has been born. A coffin reminds us of the dead; a
picture, of the living.
This is why it is strange to look at a red or black painted surface.
This is why people snigger and spit at the exhibitions of new trends.
Art and its new aim have always been a spittoon.
But cats get used to one place, and it is difficult to house-train them to a
new one.
For such people, art is quite unnecessary, as long as their grandmothers
and favorite little nooks of lilac groves are painted.
Everything runs from the past to the future, but everything should live in
the present, for in the future the apple trees will shed their blossoms.
Tomorrow will wipe away the vestige of the present, and you are too late
for the current of life.
The mire of the past, like a millstone, will drag you into the slough.
This is why I hate those who supply you with monuments to the dead.
The academy and the critics are this millstone round your neck. The old
realism is the movement that seeks to transmit living nature.
They carry on just as in the times of the Grand Inquisition.
Their aim is ridiculous because they want at all costs to force what they
take from nature to live on the canvas.
At the same time as everything is breathing and running, their frozen
poses are in pictures.
And this torture is worse than breaking on the wheel.
Sculptured statues, inspired, hence living, have stopped dead, posed as
running.
Isn’t this torture?
Enclosing the soul in marble and then mocking the living.
But you are proud of an artist who knows how to torture.
You put birds in a cage for pleasure as well.
And for the sake of knowledge, you keep aniinals in zoological gardens.
I am happy to have broken out of that inquisition torture chamber,
academism.
 Nonobjective Art / 135

I have arrived at the surface and can arrive at the dimension of the living
body.
But I shall use the dimension from which I shall create the new.
I have released all the birds from the eternal cage and flung open the gates
to the animals in the zoological gardens.
May they tear to bits and devour the leftovers of your art.
And may the freed bear bathe his body amid the flows of the frozen north
and not languish in the aquarium of distilled water in the academic garden.
You go into raptures over a picture’s composition, but in fact, composi-
tion is the death sentence for a figure condemned by the artist to an eternal
pose.
Your rapture is the confirmation of this sentence.
The group of suprematists—K. Malevich, I. Puni, M. Menkov, I. Klyun,
K. Boguslavskaya, and Rozanova *—has waged the struggle for the libera-
tion of objects from the obligations of art.
And appeals to the academy to renounce the inquisition of nature.
Idealism and the demands of aesthetic sense are are the instruments of torture.
The idealization of the human form is the mortification of the many lines
of living muscle.
Aestheticism is the garbage of intuitive feeling.
You all wish to see pieces of living nature on the hooks of your walls.
Just as Nero admired the torn bodies of people and animals from the zoo-
logical garden.
I say to all: Abandon love, abandon aestheticism, abandon the baggage of
wisdom, for in the new culture, your wisdom is ridiculous and insignificant.
I have untied the knots of wisdom and liberated the consciousness of
color!
Hurry up and shed the hardened skin of centuries, so that you can catch
up with us more easily.
I have overcome the impossible and made gulfs with my breath.
You are caught in the nets of the horizon, like fish!
We, suprematists, throw open the way to you.
Hurry!
For tomorrow you will not recognize us.
IVAN KLYUN
Primitives
of the Twentieth Century, 1915

For biography see p. 114.

The text of this piece, ‘‘Primitivy XX veka,’’ appeared in the collection of articles
Tainye poroki akademikov [Secret Vices of the Academicians] (Moscow, August
1915 but dated on the cover 1916), pp. 29-30; the volume was subtitled Sonnye svis-
tuny [Sleepy Whistlers; bibl. R304]. It also contained a forceful attack on symbolism
by Aleksei Kruchenykh and an untitled piece by Malevich [see bibl. 159, vol. 1,
17-18, for English translation] in which he rejected reason as an artistic ingredient—
an ideological parallel to his alogical paintings of the same time. Malevich’s ideas of
1914-15 exerted a considerable influence on Klyun, and he owed many of his theo-
retical and pictorial ideas to Malevich’s proximity. While containing an obvious and
pejorative reference to the neoprimitivists, the title of Klyun’s essay demonstrates the
realization by so many of the avant-garde at this time that art should “‘begin again.”’
Klyun’s advocacy of the ‘‘straight line as a point of departure’ betrayed his wish to
create a supremely logical and rational art form, a move whereby he very soon
clashed with Malevich. Yet despite Klyun’s scientific analyses of painting [e.g., bibl.
R289] and his condemnation of what he considered to be Malevich’s thematic
suprematism (see pp. 142 ff), he himself evolved toward ‘“‘cosmic abstraction” in the
1920s before returning to a more representational kind of painting after 1930.

To turn back is to acknowledge one’s impotence in creative work.

We think that, at last, in the twentieth century, the time has come to
finish with the principles of Hellenic art for good and to begin to create a
different art on completely new bases.
We are striving to dislodge art from its dead position.
We are extending and deepening the conception of concrete reality.
In our artistic communication we do not halt life, as has been done
hitherto, but all phenomena and ideas in our depictions move within a
prism, interweaving and self-refracting. Hence our art is many-faceted and
universal.
But since any change in an artistic idea results, of necessity, in a change
of its form, so for us, its previous form becomes unsuitable.
In constructing our new art form we did not wish to repeat the fateful mis-

136
 Nonobjective art / 137

Ivan Klyun: Illustration for the booklet Tainye poroki akademikov [Secret
Vices of the Academicians] (Moscow, 1915).

take of all art revivals and restorers—we did not turn to the Old Masters and
to the principles of antiquity that, quickly and inevitably, have always led
art into an impasse. Neither did we wish to return to the /ubok,' to the
primitives of old, or to feign near illiteracy; before us in all its grandeur the
great task has arisen of creating a form out of nothing.
After accepting the straight line as a point of departure, we have arrived at
an ideally simple form: straight and circular planes (sounds and letters in
words). The depth and complexity of our tasks also dictates simplicity of
form.
Those who suppose that we are working (in our own way, of course)
within the artistic framework of a given period are profoundly mistaken. No,
we have left this framework behind and already stand on the threshold of a
new era, of new ideas; in our works you will no longer find a single familiar
feature. For you they are enigmatic pictures, but for us they are an entirely
real language for expressing our new sensations and ideas.
8° | RUSSTANTART OF SHE A VAIN Se

WE ARE PRIMITIVES IN THE TWENTIETH CENTURY

And while the whole of society experiences a supreme crisis and while its
art remains flabby and hysterical, we are filled with the greatest enthusiasm
and creativity. The attacks of the orthodox critics, who obviously no longer
believe in what they themselves are defending, the taunts of the crowd, only
increase our strength and energy tenfold; conscious of the grandeur of our
tasks and knowing that the path we have chosen is the correct one, we are
governed by a profound belief in our work, surrounded, as we are, by
unbelievers.

STATEMENTS FROM THE

CATALOGUE OF THE
“TENTH STATE
EXHIBITION:
NONOBJECTIVE CREATION
AND SUPREMATISM,”’ 1919

The texts of the pieces that follow are from the catalogue of “‘X Gosudarstvennaya
vystavka. Bespredmetnoe tvorchestvo i suprematizm’’ (Moscow, 1919) [bibl. R358;
the texts are reprinted in bibl. R16, pp. 110-17; extracts from Malevich’s statement
are translated into English in bibl. 45, pp. 282-84; the catalogue name list is re-
printed in bibl. R152, p. 43]. The ‘‘Tenth State Exhibition’’ opened in January 1919
in Moscow. The nine contributors, in addition to those mentioned here, included
Natalya Davydova who did not contribute a statement. Two hundred twenty works
were shown, all purporting to be abstract. Although this was one of the last major
collective avant-garde exhibitions, its influence was considerable, for example,
inspiring El Lissitzky to create his first Prouns (see p. 151-53). The tone of most of
the statements, with their emphasis on analysis rather than on synthesis,
demonstrated a fundamental deviation from Malevich’s more intuitive, individual-
istic conception of abstract art; moreover, the linear and architectonic qualities of
the works themselves pointed to the imminent concern with construction and
constructivism, at least on the part of Aleksandr Rodchenko, Varvara Stepanova,
and Aleksandr Vesnin. The precise, mathematical formulation of the pictorial art,
favored especially by Lyubov Popova, was indicative of the general trend toward
formalism in literary and artistic evaluation— which was supported by such critics
 Nonobjective Art / 139

as Nikolai Punin (see pp. 170ff.) and developed within the framework of Inkhuk
especially during 1920-22. All the texts have been translated into German in bibl.
209vill, pp. 75-82. The Malevich text has been translated into French in bibl.
176xvill, pp. 213-15, and into Italian in bibl. 176xix, pp. 191-93.

VARVARA STEPANOVA !
Concerning My Graphics
at the Exhibition

Born Kovno, 1894; died Moscow, 1958. Studied at the Kazan Art School, where she
met Aleksandr Rodchenko, whom she married subsequently; 1912: moved to Mos-
cow; studied under Konstantin Yuon; 1913-14: worked at the Stroganov Art School;
gave private lessons; 1914: contributed to the Moscow Salon; 1920-25: closely in-
volved with IZO Narkompros; member of Inkhuk; contributed to ‘‘5 x 5 =25’’; with
Lyubov Popova and Rodchenko entered the First State Textile Print Factory, Mos-
cow, as a designer; designed costumes for Aleksandr Sukhovo-Kobylin’s Death of
Tarelkin, produced by Vsevolod Meierkhold; 1923-28: closely associated with Lef
and Novyi lef; 1924: professor in the Textile Faculty at Vkhutemas; late 1920s and
1930s: worked on typography, book design, posters.

I am linking the new movement of nonobjective poetry—sounds and let-

ters—with a painterly perception that instills a new and vital visual impres-
sion into the sound of poetry. I am breaking up the dead monotony of inter-
connected printed letters by means of painterly graphics, and I am advancing
toward a new kind of artistic creation.
On the other hand, by reproducing the nonobjective poetry of the two
books Zigra ar and Rtny khomle * by means of painterly graphics, I am in-
troducing sound as a new quality in graphic painting, and hence I am in-
creasing its quantitative potentials (i.e., of graphics).
Varvara Stepanova and Aleksandr Rodchenko in their studio, Moscow,
1922. Photograph courtesy Fratelli Fabbri, Milan.
VARVARA STEPANOVA
Nonobjective Creation

The text below is one of several statements that Stepanova compiled on

nonobjective creativity in 1919-21, including “‘Nonobjectivity in Painting,” “On
the Possibilities of Understanding Art,” and “On Texture.” Concentrating on
collage and visual poetry at this time, Stepanova was especially interested in the
correlation and combination of formal elements—rhythm, color, linear
intersection—on the picture surface. To a considerable extent, Stepanova’s analysis
of such components anticipated the emphasis on geometric, abstract forms in her
textile and painting designs ofthe 1920s.

The stage after cubofuturism in the world art movement was revealed by
nonobjective creation; this should be regarded as a world view—and not
simply as a painterly trend—that has embraced all aspects of art and life it-
self. This movement is the spirit’s protest against the materialism of modern
times. Painters apprehended it before others did. In passing, I would note
that in spite of all the ‘‘funeral dirges’’ with which ‘‘avowed critics’’ ac-
company painting, it is occupying an ever greater place in world culture.
The first slogans of nonobjective creation were proclaimed in 1913.°
From the yery beginning, nonobjective creation has proceeded along the
path of analysis and, a new movement, has not yet revealed its own synthe-
sis. In this lies its value at the present moment—a moment of terrible dis-
severance, when art having lost its old traditions, is ready to sink into
academism for the sake of providing a new synthesis. But it is not synthesis
that will open up the new path, but analysis and inventiveness.
If we investigate the process of nonobjective creation in painting, we will
discover two aspects: the first is a spiritual one—the struggle against subject
and ‘‘figurativeness’’ and for free creation and the proclamation of creativity
and invention; the second aspect is the deepening of the professional de-
mands of painting. After losing its literary subject matter, nonobjective
painting was obliged to raise the quality of its works, which, in those of its
predecessors, was often redeemed by the picture’s subject matter. The
painter came to be presented with high—and, I would say, scientific, profes-
sional—demands with regard to texture, craftsmanship, and technique. It is

141
142 /P PRAGUSVSA-ANS AUR)T ODE) THE. (AL VGA NG deoiGeAsRebae

by virtue of these that the picture in nonobjective creation is placed on the

famed pedestal of painterly culture.
Of course, the ordinary ‘‘cultured’’ spectator who is slow to evolve in his
understanding of new achievements finds it difficult to keep up with the de-
velopment of the nonobjectivists, for they move along a revolutionary path
of new discoveries and have behind them the transitional attainments of fu-
turism and cubism. But if we accept ‘‘continuity’’ as an axiom, then nonob-
jective creation becomes the logical and legitimate consequence of the pre-
ceding stages of painterly creation. However, the same spectator—not being
corrupted by pictorial subject matter and not being “‘cultured’’ enough to
demand always and everywhere figurativeness in art—should, through his
feeling and uncorrupted intuition, conceive this creation as a new beauty,
the beauty of explosion, the beauty of painting’s liberation from the age-old
curse: from subject and depiction of the visible.
’
In nonobjective creation you will not find anything ‘‘familiar,’’ anything
‘‘comprehensible,’’ but don’t be put off by this, grow fond of art, under-
stand what it is to ‘‘live art,’’ and don’t just investigate it and analyze it,
don’t just admire it casually, don’t just search for intelligible subjects in it or
depictions of themes you like.
Nonobjective creation is still only the beginning of a great new epoch, of
an unprecedented Great Creation, which is destined to open the doors to
mysteries more profound than science and technology.
In passing, one should note that nonobjective creation has not created its
own doctrinal system and perhaps, as distinct from its forebears, will never
create it; ii contains within itself numerous possibilities and great scope for
ever new achievements.

IVAN KLYUN
Color Art !

For biography see p. 114.

The painterly art, which for centuries has delighted the spectator with
views of nature’s cozy nooks, with a repeat experience of passions already
experienced, has at long last died.
 Nonobjective Art / 143

After beginning with the savage’s depictions of the deer, the lion, and the
fish, painting resolutely preserved the savage’s testament and, throughout a
whole series of continuously changing trends, aspired to express nature as
pictorially as possible (hence the name ‘‘picture’’); and the forms of this art
changed in accordance with the demands made of nature by the culture of a
given time.
After exhausting realism, naturalism, all kinds of stylization, various
syntheses, nature’s moods and artists’ experiences—painting reached a state
of decrepitude and found its end in suprematism.
The nature that was ornamented by the neorealists and neoimpressionists
was torn to pieces by futurism. Suprematism has carefully painted these
benumbed forms with different colors and presents them as new art (Boy
with Samovar *).
Now the corpse of painterly art, the art of daubed nature, has been laid in
its coffin, sealed with the Black Square of Suprematism, and its sarcophagus
is now exhibited for public view in the new cemetery of art—the Museum of
Painterly Culture.?
But if the art of painting, the art of expressing nature, has died, then
color, paint, as the basic elements of this art, have not died. Liberated from
the centuries-old bond of nature, they have begun to live their own life, to
develop freely, and to display themselves in the New Art of Color—and our
color compositions are subject only to the laws of color, and not to the laws
of nature.
In Color Art the colored area lives and moves, affording color the utmost
force of intensity.
And the congealed, motionless forms of suprematism do not display a
new art but reveal the face of a corpse with its eyes fixed and dead.

KAZIMIR MALEVICH
Suprematism

For biography see p. 116.

A plane in the form of a square was the ancestor of suprematism, of a

new color realism—of nonobjective art (see first, second, and third editions
of the booklet Cubism, Futurism, and Suprematism, 1915 and 1916 ').
144 / -RUSSTAN*“ART OF THE AVANT=GARDE

Suprematism appeared in 1913 ? in Moscow, and its first works were

shown at an exhibition of painting in Petrograd; * it provoked the indigna-
tion of the ‘‘venerable newspapers of those days’’ and of the critics, and
also of professional people—the masters of painting.
In mentioning nonobjectivism, I wanted merely to point out that suprema-
tism does not treat of things, of objects, etc., and that’s all; nonobjectivism,
generally speaking, is irrelevant. Suprematism is a definite system, and
within this system, color has made its substantial development.
Painting arose out of a mixture of colors and changed color into a chaotic
confusion of tones of aesthetic warmth, and with great artists, objects them-
selves served as painterly frameworks. I have found that the closer the
framework to the culture of painting, the more it loses its system, breaks
down, and establishes a different order, which painting then legitimizes.
It became clear to me that new frameworks of pure color painting should
be created that would be constructed according to the needs of color; sec-
ond, that color in its turn should proceed from a painterly confusion into an
independent unit—into construction as an individual part of a collective sys-
tem and as an individual part per se.
A system is constructed in time and space independent of any aesthetic
beauty, experience, or mood, and emerges rather as a philosophical color
system of realizing the new achievements of my imagination, as a means of
cognition.
At present, man’s path lies across space—across suprematism, the sema-
phore of color in its fathomless depths.
The blue of the sky has been conquered by the suprematist system, has
been breached, and has passed into the white beyond as the true, real con-
ception of eternity, and has therefore been liberated from the sky’s colored
background.
This system, cold and durable, is mobilized unsmilingly by philosophical
thought, or at least, its real force is already moving within that system.
All colorations of utilitarian purpose are insignificant, are of little spatial
value, and contain a purely applied, accomplished aspect of what was dis-
covered by the cognition and inference of philosophical thought within the
compass of our view of those cozy nooks that serve the philistines’ task or
create a new one.
Suprematism at one stage has a purely philosophical movement cogniza-
ble through color; at a second stage, it is like form that can be applied and
that can create a new style of suprematist decoration.
But it can appear in objects as the transformation or incarnation in them of
space, thereby removing the object’s intactness from consciousness.
 Nonobjective Art / 145

Suprematist philosophical color thought has demonstrated that the will can
manifest its creative system precisely when the object has been annulled as a
painterly framework in the artist; and while objects serve as the framework
and means, the artist’s will moves in a compositional circle of object forms.
Everything we can see has arisen from a colored mass that has been trans-
formed into plane and volume: any car, house, man, table—they are all
painterly volumetrical systems destined for definite objectives.
The artist should also transform painterly masses and form a creative sys-
tem, but he should not paint nice pictures of sweet-scented roses because
that would be a dead depiction reminiscent of the living.
And even if his depiction is constructed abstractly, but based on color in-
terrelations, his will will be locked up amid the walls of aesthetic planes, in-
stead of being able to penetrate philosophically.
I am free only when—by means of critical and philosophical substantia-
tion—my will can extract a substantiation of new phenomena from what al-
ready exists.
I have breached the blue lampshade of color limitations and have passed
into the white beyond: follow me, comrade aviators, sail on into the
depths—I have established the semaphores of suprematism.
I have conquered the lining of the colored sky, I have plucked the colors,
put them into the bag I have made, and tied it with a knot. Sail on! The
white, free depths, eternity, is before you.

MIKHAIL MENKOV

For biography see p. 114.

One should not look at a picture with the preconceived aim of gaining a
definite impression from it. Its painted surface gives us a visual sensation
that at first glance is hardly perceptible. One should not ask for more.
When you have cultivated your taste for the colored surface, then your en-
joyment of it will become more definite.
LYUBOV POPOVA

Bom near Moscow, 1889; died Moscow, 1924. 1907-1908: attended the studio of
Stanislav Zhukovsky in Moscow; 1912-13: worked in Paris in the studios of Henri
Le Fauconnier and Jean Metzinger; met Nadezhda Udaltsova there: 1913: returned to
Russia; close to Vladimir Tatlin, Udaltsova, and Aleksandr Vesnin; 1915-16: con-
tributed to ‘‘Tramway V,’’ ‘‘o.10,’’ and the ‘‘Shop’’; 1918: joined the faculty of
Svomas/Vkhutemas; 1921: member of Inkhuk; gave up easel painting; 1922: did the
set and costume designs for Vselovod Meierkhold’s production of Fernand Cromme-
lynck’s Magnanimous Cuckold; 1923-24: worked at the First State Textile Print Fac-
tory, Moscow.

(+) (=)
Painting Not painting but
the depiction of reality
I. Architectonics
(a) Painterly space
I. Aconstructiveness
(cubism)
(a) Illusionism
(b) Line
(c) Color (suprematism)
(b) Literariness
(d) Energetics (c) Emotions
(futurism) (d) Recognition
(e) Texture

II. The necessity for

transformation by
means of the
omission of
parts of
form
(began in
cubism)

Construction in painting = the sum of the energy of its parts.

146
 Nonobjective Art | 147

fue
Lyubov Popova: Painterly Architectonics, 1917-18. Oil on canvas, 105.5
x go cm. Private collection, Moscows

Surface is fixed but forms are volumetrical.

Line as color and as the vestige of a transverse plane participates in, and
directs the forces of, construction.

Color participates in energetics by its weight.

Energetics = direction of volumes + planes and lines or their vestiges + all

colors.

Texture is the content of painterly surfaces.

Form is not of equal value throughout its whole sequence. The artistic con-
sciousness must select those elements indispensable to a painterly context, in
which case all that is superfluous and of no artistic value must be omitted.
148 / RUSSIAN ART OF THE AVANT-GARDE

Hence depiction of the concrete—artistically neither deformed nor trans-

formed—cannot be a subject of painting.
Images of ‘‘painterly,’’ and not ‘‘figurative,’’ values are the aim of the
present painting.

OLGA ROZANOVA (1918)

Extracts from Articles !

For biography see p. 102.

We propose to liberate painting from its subservience to the ready-made

forms of reality and to make it first and foremost a creative, not a reproduc-
tive, art.
The aesthetic value of an abstract picture lies in the completeness of its
painterly content.
The obtrusiveness of concrete reality has hampered the artist’s work, and
as a result, common sense has triumphed over visions fancy free; but visions
fainthearted have created unprincipled works of art—the mongrels of contra-
dictory world views.
—Supremus magazine, no. I ?

ALEKSANDR RODCHENKO
Rodchenko’s System

Born St. Petersburg,1891; died Moscow, 1956. 1910-14: attended the Kazan Art
School, where he met Varvara Stepanova, whom he married; 1916: contributed to
 Nonobjective Art / 149

the *‘Shop’’; 1917: worked with Vladimir Tatlin and Georgii Yakulov on designs for
the Café Pittoresque, Moscow; 1918: occupied several positions within Narkompros;
1920: founding member of Inkhuk; 1921: gave up easel painting and turned to textile
and typographical design; 1923-28: closely associated with Lef [Levyi front is-
kusstv—Left Front of the Arts] and Novyi lef [New Lef], which published some of
his articles and photographs; 1925: designed a workers’ club for the Soviet Pavilion
at the Exhibition of Decorative Arts, Paris [bibl. 237]; 1930: professor and dean of
the Metalwork Faculty at Vkhutein; subsequent work concentrated on typography,
photography, and book design.

At the basis of my cause I have placed nothing.

—M. Stimer, “‘The Sole One” ?

Colors disappear—everything merges into black.

—A. Kruchenykh, Gly-Gly.”

Muscle and pluck forever!

What invigorates life invigorates death,
And the dead advance as much as the living advance.
—Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass 3

Murder serves as a self-justification for the murderer; he thereby aspires to

prove that nothing exists.
—Otto Weininger, Aphorisms 4

_ . I devour it the moment I advance the thesis, and I am the “‘I’’ only
when I devour it.

. . The fact that I devour myself shows merely that I exist.

—-M> Stier *

Gliding o’er all, through all,

Through Nature, Time, and Space,
As a ship on the waters advancing,
The voyage of the soul—not life alone,
Death, many deaths I’ll sing.
—Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass °

The downfall of all the ‘‘isms’’ of painting marked the beginning of my

ascent.
150 [i GREULSESUICAUNO PAU Ree OnE el gee: AVANT-GARDE

Aleksandr Rodchenko: Painting, 1919. Formerly in the Museum of Paint-

erly Culture, Petrograd; present location unknown. (Photograph courtesy
Mr. Alfred H. Barr, Jr., New York).

To the sound of the funeral bells of color painting, the last ‘‘ism’’ is ac-
companied on its way to eternal peace, the last love and hope collapse, and I
leave the house of dead truths.
The motive power is not synthesis but invention (analysis). Painting is the
body, creativity the spirit. My business is to create something new from
painting, so examine what I practice practically. Literature and philosophy
are for the specialists in these areas, but I am the inventor of new discover-
ies in painting.
 Nonobjective Art / 151

Christopher Columbus was neither a writer nor a philosopher; he was

merely the discoverer of new countries.

EL LISSITZKY
Suprematism in
World Reconstruction, 1920

Real name Lazar M. Lisitsky. Born near Smolensk, 1890; died Moscow, 1941.
1909-14: at the Technische Hochschule in Darmstadt; also traveled in France and
Italy; 1914: returned to Russia; 1918-19: member of IZO Narkompros; professor at
the Vitebsk Art School; close contact with Kazimir Malevich; 1920: member of
Inkhuk; 1921: traveled to Germany; 1922: in Berlin, edited Veshch/Gegenstand/Objet
{Object] with Ilya Ehrenburg [bibl]. R61]; 1925: returned to Moscow; taught interior
design at Vkhutemas.

The text of this piece is from a typescript in the Lissitzky archives and, apart from
the notes, is reproduced from Sophie Lissitzky-Ktippers, E/ Lissitzky (London and
Greenwich, Conn., 1968), pp. 327-30 [bibl. 247], with kind permission of Thames
and Hudson and New York Graphic Society. Despite its title, this essay acts as a re-
trospective commentary on Malevich’s original formulation of suprematism and ad-
vances a far wider concept with its emphasis on such ideas as visual economy and
the universal application of suprematism (ideas also developed by Malevich in his O
novykh sistemakh v iskusstve [On New Systems in Art] [Vitebsk, 1919]; English
translation in bibl. 159, vol. 1, 83-119).

Both for Lissitzky and for Malevich, but more so for the former, the architectural
discipline presented itself as an obvious vehicle for the transference of basic suprem-
atist schemes into life itself. In this respect, Lissitzky’s so-called Prouns [proekty us-
tanovleniya (utverzhdeniya) novogo—projects for the establishment (affirmation) of
the new], which he designed between 1919 and 1924 were of vital significance since
they served as intermediate points between two- and three-dimensional forms or, as
Lissitzky himself said, ‘‘as a station on the way to constructing a new form’’ [bibl.
R450, p. 85].
1§2 / RAG Nee AGRe TO
PEREUESTS Hig lates AVANT-GARDE

E] Lissitzky: The Constructor, 1924. A triple-exposure self-portrait.

In a wider context, the spatial graphics of Petr Miturich, the linear paintings of Alek-
sandr Vesnin, and the mono- and duochromatic paintings of Aleksandr Rodchenko, all
done about 1919, symbolized the general endeavor to project art into life, to give
painting a constructive dimension. More obviously, the suprematist constructions—
the so-called arkhitektony and planity—modeled as early as 1920 by Malevich
and the unovisovtsy (members of the Unovis group organized by Malevich in
Vitebsk) also supported this trend, thereby proving Ilya Ehrenburg’s assertion that
the ‘‘aim of the new art is to fuse with life’ [bibl. R450, p. 45]. Lissitzky’s descrip-
tion of the radio transmitting tower as the “‘centre of collective effort’’ is therefore in
keeping with this process and anticipates the emergence of constructivism and the
emphasis on industrial design a few months later. In this context, Lissitzky’s refer-
ences to the “‘plumbline of economy” and the “‘counterrelief’’ remind us of Naum
Gabo and Vladimir Tatlin, respectively (see their declarations, pp. 208ff. and 2o05ff.),
and of course, reflect the general concern with veshch [the object as such] on the one
 Nonobjective Art / 153

hand, and the contrary call for its utilitarian justification on the other, manifested in
Inkhuk in the course of 1920.

at present we are living through an unusual period in time a new cosmic

creation has become reality in the world a creativity within ourselves which
pervades our consciousness.
for us SUPREMATISM did not signify the recognition of an absolute form
which was part of an already-completed universal system. on the contrary
here stood revealed for the first time in all its purity the clear sign and plan
for a definite new world never before experienced—a world which issues
forth from our inner being and which is only now in the first stages of its
formation. for this reason the square of suprematism became a beacon.
in this way the artist became the foundation on which progress in the
reconstruction of life could advance beyond the frontiers of the all-seeing
eye and the all-hearing ear. thus a picture was no longer an anecdote nor a
lyric poem nor a lecture on morality nor a feast for the eye but a sign and
symbol of this new conception of the world which comes from within us.
many revolutions were needed in order to free the artist from his obligations
as a moralist as a story-teller or as a court jester, so that he could follow
unhindered his creative bent and tread the road that leads to construction.
the pace of life has increased in the last few decades just as the speed of
the motor bicycle has been exceeded many times over by the aeroplane.
after art passed through a whole series of intermediate stages it reached
cubism where for the first time the creative urge to construct instinctively
overcame conscious resolve. from this,point the picture started to gain stat-
ure as a new world of reality and in this way the foundation stone for a new
representation of the shapes and forms of the material world was laid. it
proved to be essential to clear the site for the new building. this idea was a
forerunner of futurism which exposed the relentless nature of its motivating
power.
revolutions had started undercover. every thing grew more complicated.
painting economical in its creative output was still very complicated and
uneconomical in its expression. cubism and futurism seized upon the purity
of form treatment and colour and built a complicated and extensive system
with them combining them without any regard for harmony.
the rebuilding of life cast aside the old concept of nations classes patrio-
tisms and imperialism which had been completely discredited.
the rebuilding of the town threw into utter confusion both its isolated
is4 [RUSS TANYA RT OF ATE ANCINO

EI Lissitzky: Proun Study, ca. 1920. Watercolor, 18.1 x 22.9 cm. Collection Grosvenor Gal-
lery, London. ‘‘Proun’’ is an abbreviation of ‘‘proekt ustanovleniya (utverzhdeniya) novogo (Vv
iskusstve)’’ [project for the establishment (affirmation) of the new (in Art)]. This was one of
Lissitzky’s earliest Prouns.

elements—houses streets squares bridges—and its new systems which cut

across the old ones—underground metro underground monorail electricity
transmitted under the ground and above the ground. this all developed on
top of a new powerhouse whose pumps sucked in the whole of creation.
technology which in its achievements took the most direct route from the
complexity of the train to the simplicity of the aeroplane from the basic
primitiveness of the steam boiler to the economy of the dynamo from the
chaotic hubbub of the telegraphic network to the uniformity of radio was
diverted by the war from the path of construction and forced on to the paths
of death and destruction. :
into this chaos came suprematism extolling the square as the very source
of all creative expression. and then came communism and extolled work as
the true source of man’s heartbeat.
 Nonobjective Art / 155

and amid the thunderous roar of a world in collision WE, ON THE LAST
STAGE OF THE PATH TO SUPREMATISM BLASTED ASIDE THE OLD WORK OF ART
LIKE A BEING OF FLESH AND BLOOD AND TURNED IT INTO A WORLD FLOAT-
ING IN SPACE. WE CARRIED BOTH PICTURE AND VIEWER OUT BEYOND THE
CONFINES OF THIS SPHERE AND IN ORDER TO COMPREHEND IT FULLY THE
VIEWER MUST CIRCLE LIKE A PLANET ROUND THE PICTURE WHICH REMAINS
IMMOBILE IN THE CENTRE.
the empty phrase ‘‘art for art’s sake’’ had already been wiped out and in
suprematism we have wiped out the phrase ‘‘painting for painting’s sake’’
and have ventured far beyond the frontiers of painting.
first of all the artist painted the natural scene which surrounded him. then
this was obscured by towns roads canals and all the products of man for this
reason the artist began to paint artificial nature—but involuntarily he referred
in his works to the method for depicting this new nature. suprematism itself
has followed the true path which defines the creative process consequently
our picture has become a creative symbol and the realization of this will be
our task in life.
when we have absorbed the total wealth of experience of painting when
we have left behind the uninhibited curves of cubism when we have grasped
the aim and system of suprematism—then we shall give a new face to this
globe. we shall reshape it so thoroughly that the sun will no longer recog-
nize its satellite. in architecture we are on the way to a completely new con-
cept. after the archaic horizontals the classical spheres and the gothic ver-
ticals of building styles which preceded our own we are now entering upon a
fourth stage as we achieve economy and spatial diagonals.
we left to the old world the idea of the individual house individual bar-
racks individual castle individual church. we have set ourselves the task of
creating the town. the centre of collective effort is the radio transmitting
mast ! which sends out bursts of creative energy into the world. by means of
it we are able to throw off the shackles that bind us to the earth and rise
above it. therein lies the answer to all questions concerning movement.
this dynamic architecture provides us with the new theatre of life and
because we are capable of grasping the idea of a whole town at any moment
with any plan the task of architecture—the rhythmic arrangement of space
and time—is perfectly and simply fulfilled for the new town will not be as
chaotically laid out as the modern towns of north and south america but
clearly and logically like a beehive. the new element of treatment which we
have brought to the fore in our painting will be applied to the whole of this
still-to-be-built world and will transform the roughness of concrete the
156 ‘/ RUSSIAN “ART OFCTHE AVANT
Gia De

smoothness of metal and the reflection of glass into the outer membrane of
the new life. the new light will give us new colour and the memory of the
solar spectrum will be preserved only in old manuals on physics.
this is the way in which the artist has set about the construction of the
world—an activity which affects every human being and carries work
beyond the frontiers of comprehension. we see how its creative path took it
by way of cubism to pure construction but there was still no outlet to be
found here. when the cubist had pressed forward and reached the very limits
of his canvas his old materials—the colours on his palette—proved to be too
pale and he put into his picture cement and concrete and home-made iron
constructions. not content with that he started to build a model of the struc-
ture he had depicted on canvas and then it was only a short step to transform
the abstract cubistic still-life into a contre-relief which was complete in itself.
the short step then required to complete the stride consists in recognition
of the fact that a contre-relief is an architectonic structure. but the slightest
deviation from the plumbline of economy leads into a blind alley. the same
fate must also overtake the architecture of cubist contre-relief. cubism was
the product of a world which already existed around us and contre-relief is
its mechanical offspring. it does however have a relative that took the
straight path of economy which led to a real life of its own. the reference is
to the narrow technical discoveries for example the submarine the aeroplane
the motors and dynamos of every kind of motive power in each part of a
battle-ship. contre-relief is instinctively aware of their legitimate origin their
economy of form and their realism of treatment.
by taking these elements FROM THEM for itself it wants to become equally
entitled to take its place alongside them as a new creation. it seeks to dem-
onstrate its modernity by surrounding itself with all the devices of modern
life although this is really nothing other than a decoration of its own self but
with intestines stomach heart and nerves on the outside.
in this fragment of TECHNICAL INVENTIVENESS we can see the construc-
tion of these pattern systems in the artist’s materials. there is iron and steel
copper tin and nickel glass and guttapercha straight and curved areas and
volumes of every description and colour nuance. it is being made by several
master-craftsmen who well know the work of their colleagues but not the
beauty of their materials. this complicated structure taken as a whole repre-
sents a UNIFIED Organism. is it not therefore for that very reason ‘‘artistic’’?
there is one element to which special importance attaches—scale. the
scale gives life to relationships in space. it is that which determines whether
every organism remains whole or is destroyed—it holds all the parts
together. the index for the growth of modern man is the ability to see and
 Nonobjective Art / 157

appreciate the relative scales of everything that has been made. it is right
that this perceptivity shall pass judgment on man’s concept of space on the
way he reacts in time. cubism demonstrated in its constructions its moder-
nity in relation to scale. but in painting and contre-relief we have in front of
us an absolute scale which is this—forms in their natural size in the ratio
I : I. if however we wish to transform the contre-relief into an architectural
structure and therefore enlarge it by one hundred times, then the scale ceases
to be absolute and becomes relative in the ratio of 1 : 100. then we get the
american statue of liberty in whose head there is room for four men and
from whose hand the light streams out.
seven years ago suprematism ? raised aloft its black square but no one
sighted it for at that time a telescope for this new planet had not yet been in-
vented. the mighty force of its movement however caused a succession of
artists to focus on it and many more were influenced by it. yet neither the
former nor the latter possessed sufficient inner substance to be held fast by
its attractive power and to formulate a complete world system from the new
movement. they loosed their hold and plunged like meteorites into irrele-
vancy extinguishing themselves in its chaos. but the second much-improved
phase is already following and the planet will soon stand fully revealed.
those of us who have stepped out beyond the confines of the picture take
ruler and compasses—following the precept of economy—in our hands. for
the frayed point of the paintbrush is at variance with our concept of clarity
and if necessary we shall take machines in our hands as well because in
expressing our creative ability paintbrush and ruler and compasses and ma-
chine are only extensions of the finger which points the way.
this path into the future has nothing in common either with mathematics
and scientific studies or with raptures over sunset and moonlight—or indeed
with the decline of the subject with its plague-ridden aura of individ-
ualism—trather is it the path leading from creative intuition to the increased
growth of foodstuffs for which neither paintbrush nor ruler neither com-
passes nor machine were required.
we must take note of the fact that the artist nowadays is occupied with
painting flags posters pots and pans textiles and things like that. what is re-
ferred to as ‘‘artistic work’’ has on the vast majority of occasions nothing
whatever to do with creative effort: and the term ‘‘artistic work’’ is used in
order to demonstrate the ‘‘sacredness’’ of the work which the artist does at
his easel. the conception of ‘‘artistic work’’ presupposes a distinction be-
tween useful and useless work and as there are only a few artists buyers can
be found even for their useless products.
the artist’s work lies beyond the boundaries of the useful and the useless.
158 [| -ROUS'SIAN] ACR T 7OUR “THOR E@
= GyAGR
AG“APN ODT

it is the revolutionary path along which the whole of creation is striding

forward and along which man must also bend his steps. ‘‘artistic work’’ is
but an obstacle on this path and in consequence a counter-revolutionary con-
cept. the private property aspect of creativity must be destroyed all are cre-
ators and there is no reason of any sort for this division into artists and
nonartists.
by this reckoning the artist ceases to be a man who is not producing useful
things and must not strive to attain his title to creative activity by painting
posters in the prescribed form and colour on which any attempt to pass judg-
ment shows a GROSS LACK OF FEELING. such work now belongs to the duty
of the artist as a citizen of the community who is clearing the field of its old
rubbish in preparation for the new life.
therefore THE IDEA OF ‘“‘ARTISTIC WORK’? MUST BE ABOLISHED AS A
COUNTER-REVOLUTIONARY CONCEPT OF WHAT IS CREATIVE and work must
be accepted as one of the functions of the living human organism in the
same way as the beating of the heart or the activity of the nerve centres so
that it will be afforded the same protection.
it is only the creative movement towards the liberation of man that makes
him the being who holds the whole world within himself. only a creative
work which fills the whole world with its energy can join us together by
means of its energy components to form a collective unity like a circuit of
electric current.
the first forges of the creator of the omniscient omnipotent omnific con-
structor of the new world must be the workshops of our art schools. when
the artist leaves them he will set to work as a master-builder as a teacher of
the new alphabet and as a promoter of a world which indeed already exists
in man but which man has not yet been able to perceive.
and if communism which set human labour on the throne and suprema-
tism which raised aloft the square pennant of creativity now march forward
together then in the further stages of development it is communism which
will have to remain behind because suprematism—which embraces the total-
ity of life’s phenomena—will attract everyone away from the domination of
work and from the domination of the intoxicated senses. it will liberate all
those engaged in creative activity and make the world into a true model of
perfection. this is the model we await from kasimir malevich.
AFTER THE OLD TESTAMENT THERE CAME THE NEW—AFTER THE NEW THE
COMMUNIST—AND AFTER THE COMMUNIST THERE FOLLOWS FINALLY THE
TESTAMENT OF SUPREMATISM.
iV.
The Revolution
and Art
Viadimir Lebedev: Apotheosis of the Worker, 1920. Powder paint, 72 x 68 cm. Collection
Saltykov-Shchedrin Library, Leningrad. This was one of many posters executed by Lebedev for
the Okna ROSTA (the display windows of the Russian Telegraph Agency) in Petrograd. Vladi-
mir Kozlinsky, Aleksei Radakov, and others were also involved in poster work for the Pet-
rograd Okna ROSTA; Vladimir Mayakovsky worked for the Moscow branch.
NATAN ALTMAN
‘*Futurism’’
and Proletarian Art, 1918

Born Vinnitsa, 1889; died Leningrad, 1970. 1901-1907: studied painting and sculp-
ture at the Odessa Art School; 1910-12: in Paris; attended Vasileva’s Académie
Russe; 1912-16: contributed to the ‘‘Union of Youth,’’ ‘‘Exhibition of Painting.
1915,’ “‘o.10,’’ ‘‘Knave of Diamonds,’’ and other exhibitions; 1912-17: contrib-
uted to the satirical journal Ryab [Ripple] in St. Petersburg; 1918: professor at
Pegoskhuma/Svomas; member of IZO Narkompros; designed decoration for Uritsky
Square, Petrograd; 1919: leading member of Komfut; 1921: designed decor for
Vladimir Mayakovsky’s Mystery-Bouffe; 1922: member of Inkhuk; 1929-35: lived in
Paris; 1935: returned to Russia; 1936: settled in Leningrad.

The text of this piece, ‘‘ ‘Futurizm’ i proletarskoe iskusstvo,’’ is from the journal
Iskusstvo kommuny [Art of the Commune] (Petrograd), no. 2, December 15, 1918,
p. 3 [bibl. R73]; the text is reprinted in bibl. R16, pp. 167-68. /skusstvo kommuny
was the weekly journal of IZO Narkompros [Visual Arts Section of Narkompros],
and during its short life (December 1918—April 1919) it published many radical ar-
ticles by such artists and critics as Altman, Osip Brik, Boris Kushner, and Nikolai
Punin [see bibl. R499, p. 509, for some bibliographical details]. The futurists—and,
as Altman indicates in his note to the title: ‘‘I am using ‘futurism’ in its everyday
meaning, i.e., all leftist tendencies in agt,’’ the term is a general one here—con-
sidered themselves to be at one with the revolutionary government. Like many other
avant-garde artists at this time, Altman believed, albeit briefly, that individual easel
painting was outmoded and that art should have a collective basis; essentially this
meant that the artist was to turn to mass art forms such as monuments and bas-reliefs,
to social and cultural heroes, street decoration, and book, postage-stamp, and stage
design. Apart from Altman’s futurist panels and his decorations for Uritsky Square,
perhaps the finest example of his mass art was his album of sketches of Lenin
published in Petrograd in 1920. For a German translation see bibl. 209viii, pp. 47,
48.

Certain art circles and private individuals who not so long ago abused us
in various ‘‘cultural publications’ for working with the Soviet government
and who knew no other name for us than ‘‘bureaucrats’’ and ‘‘perfunctory
artists’? would now rather like to take our place.
And so a campaign has begun against futurism, which, they say, is a mill-

161
162 | RUSSIAN ART OF THE AVANT-GARDE

Natan Altman: Self-Portrait, 1916. Natan Altman: Petrokommuna [Petrocommune], 1919.

Plaster of Paris, wood, bronze, 48 x Oil on canvas with enamel, 104.5 x 88.5 cm. Private
29 x 22 cm. Collection Russian Mu- collection, Leningrad. During the Civil War period,
seum, Leningrad. Petrograd was also called Petro[grad]commune. In his
painting, Altman attempted to synthesize easel and
poster art by resorting to mimetic detail (the depiction
of the Neva in the semicircle) and to symbolic detail
(the Russian characters for R.S.F.S.R.—Russian So-
viet Federated Socialist Republic—on a red ground in
the upper right).

stone around the worker’s neck and whose claims to ‘‘being the art of the
proletariat’’ are ‘‘ridiculous,”’ etc.
But are they so ridiculous?
Why did it need a whole year of proletarian government and a revolution
that encompassed half the world for the ‘‘silent to speak up’’?
Why did only revolutionary futurism march in step with the October Rev-
olution?
Is it just a question of outward revolutionary fervor, just a mutual aver-
sion to the old forms, that joins futurism with the proletariat?
 The Revolution and Art / 163

Not even they deny that futurism is a revolutionary art that is breaking all
the old bonds and in this sense is bringing art closer to the proletariat.
We maintain that there is a deeper link between futurism and proletarian
creation.
People naive in matters of art are inclined to regard any sketch done by a
worker, any poster on which a worker is depicted, as a work of proletarian
art.
A worker’s figure in heroic pose with a red flag and an appropriate
slogan—how temptingly intelligible that is to a person unversed in art and
how terribly we need to fight against this pernicious intelligibility.
Art that depicts the proletariat is as much proletarian art as the Chernoso-
tenets ' who has gotten into the Party and can show his membership card is
a Communist.
Just like anything the proletariat creates, proletarian art will be collective:
The principle that distinguishes the proletariat as a class from all other
classes.
We understand this, not in the sense that one work of art will be made by
many artists, but in the sense that while executed by one creator, the work
itself will be constructed on collectivist bases.
Take any work of revolutionary, futurist art. People who are used to
seeing a depiction of individual objects or phenomena in a picture are bewil-
dered. You cannot make anything out. And indeed, if you take out any one
part from a futurist picture, it then represents an absurdity. Because each
part of a futurist picture acquires meaning only through the interaction of all
the other parts; only in conjunction with them does it acquire the meaning
with which the artist imbued it.
A futurist picture lives a collective life:
By the same principle on which the proletariat’s whole creation is con-
structed.
Try to distinguish an individual face in a proletarian procession.
Try to understand it as individual persons—absurd.
Only in conjunction do they acquire all their strength, all their meaning.
How is a work of the old art constructed—the art depicting reality around
us?
Does every object exist in its own right? They are united only by extrinsic
literary content or some other such content. And so cut out any part of an
old picture, and it won’t change at all as a result. A cup remains the same
cup, a figure will be dancing or sitting pensively, just as it was doing before
it was cut out.
164.:]/ RUSSIAN ART‘OF THE AVANT? GARDE

The link between the individual parts of a work of the old art is the same
as between people on Nevsky Prospekt. They have come together by
chance, prompted by an external cause, only to go their own ways as soon
as possible. Each one for himself, each one wants to be distinguished.
Like the old world, the capitalist world, works of the old art live an indi-
vidualistic life.
Only futurist art is constructed on collective bases.
Only futurist art is right now the art of the proletariat.

KOMFUT
Program Declaration, 1919

Komfut (an abbreviation of Communists andfuturists) was organized formally in Pe-

trograd in January 1919 as an act of opposition to the Italian futurists, who were as-
sociating themselves increasingly with Fascism. According to the code of the organi-
zation [bibl]. R73, no. 8, January 26, 1919, p. 3; reprinted in bibl. R16, p. 160],
would-be members had to belong to the Bolshevik Party and had to master the princi-
ples of the ‘‘cultural Communist ideology’’ elucidated at the society’s own school.
Prominent members of Komfut were Boris Kushner (chairman), Osip Brik (head of
the cultural ideology school), Natan Altman, Vladimir Mayakovsky, and David
Shterenberg. Komfut prepared for publication several brochures including ‘‘The Cul-
ture of Communism,”’ ‘‘Futurism and Communism,’’ “‘Inspiration,’’ and ““Beauty,”’
but none, apparently, was published.

The text of this piece, “‘Programmnaya deklaratsiya,’’ is from /skusstvo kommuny

{Art of the Commune] (Petrograd), no. 8, January 26, 1919, p. 3 [bibl. R73; the text
is reprinted in bibl. R16, pp. 159-60]. A second Komfut statement giving details of
proposed lectures and publications was issued in /skusstvo kommuny, no. 9, February
2, 1919, p. 3. The destructive, even anarchical intentions of Komfut, while sup-
ported just after 1917 by many of the leftist artists, including Kazimir Malevich,
were not, of course, shared by Lenin or Anatolii Lunacharsky, who believed, for the
most part, that the pre-Revolutionary cultural heritage should be preserved. In its
rejection of bourgeois art, Komfut was close to Proletkult (see pp. 176ff.), although
the latter’s totally proletarian policy excluded the idea of any ultimate ideological
consolidation of the two groups. Altman’s, Kushner’s, and Nikolai Punin’s articles
of 1918-19 can, in many cases, be viewed as Komfut statements.
 The Revolution and Art / 165

Msqanne Orgeaa Hso6pasnteabuex Wcxyccrs Homuccapwata Hapaauoro Npoceewensn,

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Cover of Iskusstvo kommuny [Art of the Commune] (Moscow), no. 8,

January 26, 1919. Designed by Natan Altman. Photograph courtesy The
Library, Hermitage, Leningrad.

A Communist regime demands a Communist consciousness. All forms of

life, morality, philosophy, and art must be re-created according to Commu-
nist principles. Without this, the subsequent development of the Communist
Revolution is impossible.
In their activities the cultural-educational organs of the Soviet government
show a complete misunderstanding of the revolutionary task entrusted to
them. The social-democratic ideology so hastily knocked together is incapa-
106) /° RASS DAGN] AURTD Our (lioE ACV A NED G AGRe De,

ble of resisting the century-old experience of the bourgeois ideologists, who,

in their own interests, are exploiting the proletarian cultural-educational
organs.
Under the guise of immutable truths, the masses are being presented with
the pseudo teachings of the gentry.
Under the guise of universal truth—the morality of the exploiters.
Under the guise of the eternal laws of beauty—the depraved taste of the
oppressors.
It is essential to start creating our own Communist ideology.
It is essential to wage merciless war against all the false ideologies of the
bourgeois past.
It is essential to subordinate the Soviet cultural-educational organs to the
guidance of a new cultural Communist ideology—an ideology that is only
now being formulated.
It is essential—in all cultural fields, as well as in art—to reject emphatic-
ally all the democratic illusions that pervade the vestiges and prejudices of
the bourgeoisie.
It is essential to summon the masses to creative activity.

BORIS KUSHNER
‘*The Divine Work of Art’’
(Polemics), 1919

Born Minsk, 1888; died 1937. 1914: made his literary debut with a book of verse,
Semafory [Semaphores]; 1917-18: wrote several articles and futurist prose; 1919:
leading member of Komfut; 1923: on the editorial board of Lef; close to construc-
tivists and formalists; mid- and late 1920s: wrote a series of sketches on Western
Europe, America, and the northern Caucasus; died in a prison camp.

The text of this piece, ‘t ‘Bozhestvennoe proizvedenie,’ ’’ is from Iskusstvo kom-

muny [Art of the Commune] (Petrograd), no. 9, February 2, 1919, p. 1 [bibl. R73;
the text is reprinted in bibl. R16, pp. 169-71]. Kushner’s anarchical tone betrays his
keen support of the general ideas of Komfut (see pp. 164ff.) and his ideological
proximity to Natan Altman, Osip Brik, Vladimir Mayakovsky, and Nikolai Punin at
 The Revolution and Art / 167

this time. Kushner’s rejection of the subjective and idealist interpretation of art was
shared by many critics and artists just after the Revolution and was an attitude iden-
tifiable particularly with Jskusstvo kommuny; moreover, Kushner’s conclusion (reiter-
ated in many articles in that journal) that the work of art was no more than an object
produced by a rational process prepared the ground for the formal advocacy of indus-
trial constructivism in 1921/22.

They used to think that art was beauty.

They defined art as divination.
Revelation, incarnation, transubstantiation.
Art ensconced itself like a great, unshakable god in their heads, empty
and bemused.
It was served by the trivial godlings of ecstasy, intuition, and inspiration.
During the whole historical process endured by mankind, when the power
of violence and oppression was being transferred constantly from one kind
of democracy, aristocracy, and bourgeoisie to another, nobody dreamed of
assuming that art was simply work: know-how, craft, and skill.
To King Solomon, art appeared in the guise of his regal wisdom.
To the iron feudal lord, art served as a kind of Roland’s trumpet of vic-
tory. Or it frightened him in the form of the black monk armed mightily
with his weapon—but a weapon not made with iron.
To the romantics and theoreticians of the young, contemplative bourgeoi-
sies—sentimental and afraid of the devil and brimstone—to create works of
art seemed to be an affair of mystery like medieval alchemy.
In the bloom of its strength the bourgeoisie scorned wisdom, victory, and
mystery.
Amid the glitter of power and glory it was tormented by an insatiable
greed, by an eternal mania for acquisition and accumulation.
The merchant and the industrialist entwined themselves greedily around
the whole earthly globe like boa constrictors bloated with the whole brilliant
visible world of objects.
The bourgeoisie acquired.
Everything that became its property bowed to it.
But suddenly on its fabulous path of advance, it came across a certain ob-
stacle.
It could not buy nature, the invisible world, the world in its immensity,
the sky, the stars, eternity.
They are not available for personal possession; they are nontransferable
into private property.
168 | RUSSIAN ART OF THE AVANT-GARDE

Boris Kushner, ca. 1927.

And a feeling of dissatisfaction, of a cold vacuum, stole into the sensitive

heart of the bourgeoisie. It was consumed by a feeling of insatiable hunger.
Tormented by the grief of the property owner who has been unjustly in-
sulted, tortured by the bitter disappointment of the industrialist who has
realized that his business cannot encompass everything, the bourgeoisie
sought ways to oblivion.
Narcotics became a must.
Refreshing illusion was required.
They thought of a surrogate, of their own creation of genius, of their fa-
vorite Wunderkind of industrial ingenuity. They examined the world from all
sides. Nowhere did they find the protective label, ‘‘made in eternity.”’ So
fakes were not prohibited and were not prosecuted by the law. They decided
to prepare a surrogate for the universe.
And so, to this end, a very chic and remarkable theory was made and
elaborated that saw the real and the unreal worlds, the visible and the invisi-
ble worlds, as incarnated in the divine work of art.
Aesthetes and poets (those who could not mind their own business) vied
with each other in their endeavors to dramatize the mystery of this incarna-
tion.
They dressed up the artist in the dunce’s cap of the medieval magician,
wizard, and alchemist. They forced him to perform a kind of sorcery, a su-
pernatural divination, a magic transubstantiation.
 The Revolution and Art / 169

And an ulterior force was ascribed to all the things that were made by this
kind of duped artist.
They asserted and professed conscientiously:
‘The eternal harmony of the builder of the universe is reflected in the
eternal beauty of artistic forms. Works of art reflect the world, the outer,
material, inner, spiritual, and ideal nature of things, the essence and latent
meaning of things.”’ |
This splendid theory was elaborated beautifully by the great experts. The
ends were carefully concealed. All contradictions were hidden. It did not
occur to anybody that this was not the genuine product, but merely a surro-
gate, and a jolly good fake.
The highest goal of bourgeois aspirations had been attained.
The philosopher’s stone had been found.
The right of private property had been extended to the extreme limits of
eternity. It crawled all over the planets, all over the stars near and far. It
flowed throughout the Milky Way. Like sugar icing, it glossed all over the
belly of eternity.
An unprecedented, world-wide achievement had been wrought.
The bourgeoisie had colonized the “‘ulterior world.”’
The ecstatic triumph of world imperialism had been achieved. Henceforth
everyone who acquired a work of art prepared by the firm of the appropri-
ately patented artist would acknowledge and feel himself the happy and as-
sured possessor of a solid piece of the universe—moreover, in a pocket edi-
tion, very convenient and portable.
And the bourgeoisie coddled and warmed itself in the soft and gentle
pillows of its consciousness of total power.
Such, briefly, is the history of the prostitution of art, solicited to serve all
the incorporeal forces of religion and mythology.
Step by step we are depriving the imperialist bourgeoisie of its global an-
nexations. Only so far the proletariat has not lifted its hand against this most
wonderful annexation of the spirit.
Because the bourgeoisie had put this valuable and prosperous colony
under the lock and key of mysterious, mystical forces, and even the revolu-
tionary spirit of our time retreats before them.
It is time to shake off this shameful yoke.
Are we going to endure the interference of heavens and hells in our inter-
nal, earthly affairs?
I think it is time to tell the gods and devils:
Take your hands off what is ours, what belongs to mankind.
170 / RUSSIAN ART OF THE AVANT-GARDE

Socialism must destroy the black and white magic of the industrialists and
merchants.
Socialism will not examine things exclusively from the point of view of
the right to ownership.
It can afford the luxury of leaving nature and the world in peace, can be
content with them the way they are, and will not drag them by the scruff of
the neck into its storerooms and elevators.
To the socialist consciousness, a work of art is no more than an object, a
thing.

NIKOLAI PUNIN
Cycle of Lectures
[Extracts], 1919

Born St. Petersburg, 1888; died Leningrad, 1953. 1899-1907: attended the Classical
Gymnasium at Tsarskoe Selo; 1907: entered University of St. Petersburg to study
law, then history; 1913 onwards: close to the Apollon circle [see bibl. R41 for his
published contributions]; 1918: member of IZO Narkompros [Visual Arts Section
of Narkompros]; 1918-30: many lectures and articles on modern art; 1918-19:
coeditor of Iskusstvo kommuny [Art of the Commune, bibl. R73]; 1919: coeditor of
Izobrazitelnoe iskusstvo [Visual Art, bibl. R66]; leading member of Komfut; 1921:
founder member of the Museum of Painterly Culture and of IKhK; 1919-25: taught
at Svomas/Academy of Arts; ca. 1925-38: married to the poetess Anna Akhmatova
[for a letter to her in translation see Russian Literature Triquarterly (Ann Arbor),
no. 2, 1972, pp. 453-57]; 1932: coorganized the exhibition “‘Artists of the RSFSR
over the Last XV Years” at the Russian Museum, Leningrad; 1935: arrested and
briefly detained; 1944: appointed head of the Department of Russian Art History at
the University of Leningrad; 1949: arrested and imprisoned for three years;
throughout the 1930s and 1940s he continued to write, concentrating on the work of
Aleksandr Ivanov and on his own memoirs.

The extracts ate part of the fifth and sixth lectures in a series that Punin gave in Pet-
rograd in the summer of 1919 at a crash course for student teachers of drawing. In
May of the following year the lectures were published in Petrograd in a booklet
called Pervyi tsikl lektsii [First Cycle of Lectures], with covers designed by Kazimir
Malevich [reproduced in bibl. 160, p. 154]. The extracts are from this booklet, pp.
44-46, 54, 57-58.
 The Revolution and Art / 171

N. N. Punin, 1921/2 Private collection, Lenin-

grad.

Punin’s assertion that ‘‘modern art criticism must be . . . a scientific criticism’’

served as a logical conclusion to a process evident in avant-garde theory and criti-
cism since about 1910 whereby the aesthetic balance had shifted increasingly from a
narrative, literary criterion to a formal, medium-oriented one. The emphasis on mate-
rial and on the work of art as an éntity that we encounter in the writings of David
Burliuk, Malevich, Vladimir Markov, Lyubov Popova, Ivan Puni, et al., therefore
acted as an important precedent to Punin’s conception. The general tone of Punin’s
lectures betrays his tentative support of the formalist method in literary and art
criticism, which was identifiable with many of the theoretical discussions of Inkhuk
and Lef. Much in the formalist spirit, Punin even succeeded in reducing the creative
process to a mathematical formula:
S (Pict Pir APs e wba) el

where S equals the sum of the principles (P), Y equals intuition, and T equals artistic
creation [Punin, op. cit., p. 51, and see bibl. 189 for some commentary]. In this re-
spect it is logical that Punin should have preferred the ‘‘engineer’’ Vladimir Tatlin to
the artist Malevich, concluding that Malevich was far too subjective to examine ma-
terial in a scientific and impartial manner [see bibl. R418]. Although perhaps the
most radical and innovative of the early Soviet art critics, Punin was not alone in his
analytical approach to art; similar methods can be found in the writings of Nikolai
Tarabukin and, to a much lesser extent, in those of Boris Arvatov and Osip Brik.
172 Sols AONERAPR GO) Ham leek:
[ES REWUS AUV ALN 7 = GAL RODIE

Kazimir Malevich: Front cover of Nikolai Punin’s Tsik/ lektsii [Cycle of

Lectures] (Petrograd, 1920). This is one of the few examples of Malevich’s
application of suprematism to book design.

From Lecture 5
... to speak of an artist’s world view means either to speak all sorts of
subjective trash, to acquaint you with my various personal impressions, ex-
periences, emotions apropos of this or that work of art, or to speak of the
 The Revolution and Art / 173

general socioeconomic, material, and cultural conditions of artistic creation.

We will speak of the latter, and inasmuch as we will concern ourselves with
these general conditions on which this or that individual world view is
based, we will be able to speak of the new artists’ world view: to do this, we
will first of all have to proceed once more from the purely material aspect of
the issue at hand.
The closer the link between material and creative consciousness, the more
lasting the work of art, the more beautiful it is—and the less popular: that is
how one of our young critics (Aksenov) defines the interdependence of the
material and spiritual aspects of works by this or that artist; he places this in-
terdependence within a certain set of conditions vis-a-vis the durability and
even the popularity of works of art. And indeed, when we come to study art
history, when we study our contemporary life and art, we convince our-
selves time and again that the material aspect of life is joined closely to the
spiritual, and this the mob cannot forgive the artist. The mob cannot endure
this close interdependence, the mob strives continuously to escape this pu-
rity of method—pure insofar as the artist’s whole spiritual essence is ex-
pressed by distinct material elements; the mob does not like purity and
comprehends better works of art whose material construction is diluted by
all kinds of other elements not deriving directly from the sensation of paint-
ing or the sensation of plasticity. For the mob, painting as a pure art form,
painting as an element, is unintelligible unless it is diluted with literary and
various other aspects of artistic creation. That is why works of mixed com-
position, works that are impure, are so successful with our contemporaries,
and often this success lasts for many years until, ultimately, some expert or
other discloses the essence of this success and shows—what this or that art-
ist could have become or what he has become in the historical perspec-
tive. . . . In this respect the critics’ role is extremely important and ex-
tremely pernicious, because first and foremost, critics are essentially literary
people. Generally speaking, the critic throughout art history has been an art-
ist or a writer manqué. But unfortunately, in the fields of painting, sculp-
ture, and often architecture, critics are normally not artists manqués, but li-
terati manqués. They introduce into their appreciation of works of art the
sum total of their literary convictions that one way or another they did not
manage to realize in works of literature. Hence we can understand that
works of art that contain some literary elements or pseudo literature in gen-
eral are glorified most by critics, since these are the works that are, above
all, intelligible to these literati manqués. Almost always critics pass judg-
ment not on the work of art but in connection with it, even in those cases
where these critics are gifted representatives of their profession. That is why
174,'/ RUSSIAN ART OF THE, AVANT~GARDE

among our new men of art we see and often hear the most extraordinary and
biting attacks on art critics. Artists, of course, are not always right in this re-
spect. Their immediate task, their immediate interest, is to cleanse them-
selves of these literary critics, but artists would find it useful to have near
them professional art scholars, i.e., people who would approach works of
art not by virtue of their literary incentives, but from the point of view of
those theoretical data with which modern science has provided them. And
that is why modern art criticism must be, and probably will become, first
and foremost a scientific criticism. This will not consist of those popular
little articles with their various attacks and personal impressions with which
we are familiar in most of our art journals, but it will consist of very careful,
very objective studies of works of art, models for which we can find in our
so-called leftist literature.

From Lecture 6
First and foremost—we consider science to be a principle of culture. I have
already spoken of science: I said that modern art criticism in general and any
modern judgment on art must once and for all finish with those arbitrary, in-
dividual, and often capricious impressions that spectators get from a work of
art. If modern man wants to assimilate fully all the forces affecting the cre-
ation of this or that work of art, he must approach the work by studying and
analyzing it by means of scientific method. Science is not a symptom but
precisely a principle. There have been many brilliant civilizations, including
our European one of the last century, when the sciences prospered and de-
veloped. But the prosperity and development of the sciences is one thing,
and the construction of the whole social, communal, and cultural life on the
principles of science is another. We do not strive for science to develop and
prosper in our world; we strive primarily in order that our whole world
view, Our social structure, and our whole artistic, technological, and com-
munal culture should be formed and developed according to a scientific prin-
ciple. In this lies the characteristic difference between culture and civiliza-
tion. .
We should dwell on one other factor, namely, the principle of organiza-
tion. Understandably, as soon as we stop wanting to act individually and
take into consideration the whole latitude of mass sentiments, the whole lati-
tude of elemental movements from below, we must stop applying these or
those forces casually and organize them so that individual persons will not
be afforded the opportunity of caprice or arbitrary rule. We must create a
cohesion and reciprocity between the individual person and individual
 The Revolution and Art / 175

groups of people so that relations between them will be organized. Besides,

organization is a new factor on which the conception of culture is founded.
First and foremost—mechanization, i.e., the transference of attention to
mechanical production in the creative process. Man is a technological ani-
mal, i.e., in the new arrangement of European society—which has not yet
come about, but which is in evidence—man must as far as possible econo-
mize his energy and must in any event coordinate all his forces with the
level of modern technology. In this respect the role of the machine, as a fac-
tor of progress, is, of course, immense in the modern artist’s development.
The effect of the machine shows not only in the change of his psychical
complex, in this or that digression of his interests, but also in the artist’s as-
piration to regulate his own artistic, creative forces. The machine has re-
vealed to him the possibility of working with precision and maximum en-
ergy; energy must be expended in such a way that it is not dissipated in
vain—this is one of the basic laws of contemporaneity that Ernst Mach
formulated; ' the economy of energy and the mechanization of creative
forces—these are the conditions that guarantee us the really intensive growth
of European culture. The artist cannot avoid these new factors of our world;
he must reckon with them, react upon them in this or that way, transform
them in his consciousness. Insofar as the artist strives to approach the ma-
chine in his creative process, insofar as he wishes to regulate, to mechanize
his forces in accordance with the contemporary order, with the contempo-
rary trends of progress, mechanization becomes the general stimulus for
creating a new artistic culture. Hence naturally, there arises the acute ques-
tion of the new artist’s attitude toward nature, because nature is something
that contradicts mechanization. Nature is something that introduces into the
modern world that peculiarity, that fortuity which is inherent in herself.
Hence, the new artist’s attitude toward nature is the touchstone of his world
view.
None of us is surprised that music is music, but many are surprised that
painting is painting because many of you are accustomed to seeing in paint-
ing literature, philosophy, mysticism, religion, journalism—everything that
from time immemorial has accompanied man on his paths of creation. Music
is music because it is concerned with a single definite material—sound. One
would wish that henceforth painting would be only painting, that it would be
concerned only with a single material—the painterly element. People say:
there is limited content in modern art. How can a painter’s content be lim-
ited when he is possessed by the elemental feeling of painting? How can a
painter’s content be limited when he has grasped with such fullness and
diversity the distinctions of character in the painterly elements? How can an
176 / RUSSIAN ART OF THE AVANT-GARDE

artist’s content be limited if he has discovered and shown the whole wealth
of the painterly element? It is quite possible that many of you would like to
read something more in modern artists’ pictures than they can and should
give. That is understandable because there still dwells in you, and probably
will dwell for a long time yet, the desire to see in the artist a man of letters,
a philosopher, and a moralist. . . . And often, when critics are examining
modern works of art by the leftists artists, they begin to discover in them
mystical abysses that not one of these artists intended. I have quite often had
dealings with spectators of this kind. On the surface of a Picasso canvas,
which contains only what is put on to it, 1.e., pure painterly elements, they
look for goodness knows what kind of religious, mystical ideas. . . . We
are formal.” Yes, we are proud of this formalism because we are returning
mankind to those peerless models of cultural art that we knew in Greece.
Isn’t that sculptor of antiquity formal, doesn’t he repeat in countless, diverse
forms the same gods who ultimately for him are equally alien, equally
remote, inasmuch as he is an artist? And nonetheless, we love these antique
statues and delight in them—and we do not say they are formal. This for-
malism is that of a classical, sound organism rejoicing in all forms of reality
and aspiring only to one thing: to reveal all its wealth, all the tension of its
creative, elemental forces in order to realize them in works of art that would
contain only signs of great joy—of that great creative tension that is latent in
us and bestowed on each of us, each of those who are born to be, and must
be, artists.

ALEKSANDR BOGDANOV
The Proletarian and Art, 1918

Pseudonym of Aleksandr Aleksandrovich Malinovsky. Born Grodno Province, 1873;

died Moscow, 1928. 1896: joined the Social-Democratic Party; 1899: graduated from
the medical faculty of Kharkov University; 1903: joined the Bolsheviks; 1905: took
an active part in the first revolution; 1907: arrested and exiled to Western Europe;
1909: with Anatolii Lunacharsky and Maxim Gorky organized the Vpered [Forward]
group; with Gorky and Lunacharsky organized the Bolshevik training school on
Capri; 1914-18: internationalist; 1917 on: played a major role in the organization and
 The Revolution and Art / 177

propagation of Proletkult; member of the Central Committee of the All-Russian

Proletkult and coeditor of Proletarskaya kultura [Proletarian Culture] [bibl. R8o];
maintained close contact with Proletkult in Germany, where several of his pamphlets
were published; 1921: became less active in politics and returned to medicine; 1926:
appointed director of the Institute of Blood Transfusion, Moscow; 1928: died there
while conducting an experiment on himself.

The text of this piece, ‘‘Proletariat i iskusstvo,’’? is from Proletarskaya kultura

[Proletarian Culture] (Moscow), no. 5, 1918, p. 32 [bibl. R80; it is reprinted in bibl.
R16, p. 187]. The text formed a resolution proposed by Bogdanov at the First All-
Russian Conference of Proletarian Cultural and Educational Organizations (i.e., Pro-
letkult) in Moscow in September 1918 and, as such, presented a succinct statement
of Proletkult policy. Its basic ideas—that concrete reality could be changed by art
and hence by the artistic will and that the art of the past was of little or no value to
the new proletarian order—were ultimately unacceptable to many Marxists, Lenin
and Anatolii Lunacharsky among them. By 1920 Lenin was openly criticizing Prolet-
kult for its rejection of the pre-Revolutionary cultural heritage and for its ideological
separatism.

1. Art organizes social experiences by means of living images with

regard both to cognition and to feelings and aspirations. Consequently, art is
the most powerful weapon for organizing collective forces in a class so-
ciety—class forces.
2. To organize his forces in his social work, his struggle and construc-
tion, the proletarian needs.a new class art. The spirit of this art is collec-
tivism of labor: it assimilates and reflects the world from the viewpoint of
the labor collective, it expresses the relevance of its feelings, of its fighting
spirit, and of its creative will.
3. The treasures of the old art should not be accepted passively; in those
days they would have educated the working class in the cultural spirit of the
ruling classes and thereby in the spirit of subordination to their regime. The
proletarian should accept the treasures of the old art in the light of his own
criticism, and his new interpretation will reveal their hidden collective prin-
ciples and their organizational meaning. Then they will prove to be a valu-
able legacy for the proletarian, a weapon in his struggle against the same old
world that created them and a weapon in his organization of the new world.
The transference of this artistic legacy must be carried out by proletarian
critics.
4. All organizations, all institutions, dedicated to developing the cause of
the new art and of the new criticism must be based on close collaboration,
one that will educate their workers in the direction of the Socialist ideal.
178 / RUSSIAN ART OF THE AVANT-GARDE

Aleksandr Bogdanov, mid-1920s.

ALEKSANDR BOGDANOV
The Paths of
Proletarian Creation, 1920

For biography see pp. 176-77.

The text of this piece, ‘‘Puti proletarskogo tvorchestva,’’ is from Proletarskaya kul-
tura [Proletarian Culture] (Moscow), no. 15/16, 1920, pp. 50-52 [bibl. R80; it is
reprinted in bibl. R4, pp. 136-41]. This text demonstrates Bogdanov’s ability to
argue in terms both of art and of science and testifies to Proletkult’s fundamental as-
piration to conceive art as an industrial, organized process. The text also reveals
Bogdanov’s specific professional interest in neurology and psychology. He wrote
several similar essays.
 The Revolution and Art / 179

I. Creation, whether technological, socioeconomic, political, domestic,

scientific, or artistic, represents a kind of labor and, like labor, is composed
of organizational (or disorganizational) human endeavors. It is exactly the
same as labor, the product of which is not the repetition of a ready-made ste-
reotype, but is something ‘‘new.’’ There is not and cannot be a strict delin-
eation between creation and ordinary labor; not only are there all the points
of interchange, but often it is even impossible to say with certainty which of
the two designations is the more applicable.
Human labor has always relied on collective experience and has made col-
lective use of perfected means of production; in this sense human labor has
always been collective; this was so even in those cases where its. aims and
outer, immediate form were narrowly individual (i.e., when such labor was
done by one person and as an end in itself). This, then, is creation.
Creation is the highest, most complex form of labor. Hence its methods
derive from the methods of labor.
The old world was aware neither of this social nature germane to labor
and creation, nor of their methodological connection. It dressed up creation
in mystical fetishism.
2. All methods of labor, including creation, remain within the same
framework. Its first stage is the combined effort and its second the selection
of results—the removal of the unsuitable and the preservation of the suit-
able. In ‘‘physical’’ labor, material objects are combined; in ‘‘spiritual’’
labor, images are combined. But as the latest developments in psycho-
physiology show us, the nature of the efforts that combine and select are the
same—neuromuscular. d
Creation combines materials in a new way, not according to a stereotype,
and this leads to a more complicated, more intensive selection. The combi-
nation and selection of images take place far more easily and quickly than
those of material objects. Hence creation takes place very often in the form
of ‘‘spiritual’’ labor—but by no means exclusively. Almost all ‘‘fortuitous’’
and ‘‘unnoticeable’’ discoveries have been made through a selection of ma-
terial combinations, and not through a preliminary combination and selec-
tion of images.
3. The methods of proletarian creation are founded on the methods of
proletarian labor, i.e., the type of work that is characteristic for the workers
in modern heavy industry.
The characteristics of this type are: (1) the unification of elements in
‘‘physical’’ and ‘‘spiritual’’ labor; (2) the transparent, unconcealed, and un-
masked collectivism of its actual form. The former depends on the scientific
character of modern technology, in particular on the transference of mechan-
TSO" 1] URUUUS SLAIN eAURoD fOLb ©DebeEAN VeAn Naima G ena aD Be

ical effort to the machine: the worker is turning increasingly into a ‘‘master’’
of iron slaves, while his own labor is changing more and more into “‘spiri-
tual’? endeavor—concentration, calculation, control, and initiative; accord-
ingly, the role of muscular tension is decreasing.
The second characteristic depends on the concentration of working force
in mass collaboration and on the association between specialized types of
labor within mechanical production, an association that is transferring more
and more direct physical, specialist’s work to machines. The objective and
subjective uniformity of labor is increasing and is overcoming the divisions
between workers; thanks to this uniformity the practical compatibility of
labor is becoming the basis for comradely, i.e., consciously collective, rela-
tionships between them. These relationships and what they entail—mutual
understanding, mutual sympathy, and an aspiration to work together—are
extending beyond the confines of the factory, of the professions, and of
production to the working class on a national and, subsequently, a universal
scale. For the first time the collectivism of man’s struggle with nature is
being thought of as a conscious process.
4. In this way, methods of proletarian labor are developing toward mon-
ism and collectivism. Naturally, this tendency contains the methods of prole-
tarian creation.
5. These aspects have already managed to express themselves clearly in
the methods peculiar to those areas in which the proletariat has been most
creative—in the economic and political struggle and in scientific thought. In
the first two areas, this was expressed in the complete unity of structure in
the organizations that the proletariat created—party, professional, and coop-
erative organizations: one type, one principle—comradeship, i.e., conscious
collectivism; this was expressed also in the development of their programs,
which in all these organizations tended toward one ideal, namely, a socialist
one. In science and philosophy Marxism emerged as the embodiment of
monism of method and of a consciously collectivist tendency. Subsequent
development on the basis of these same methods must work out a universal
organizational science, uniting monistically the whole of man’s organiza-
tional experience in his social labor and struggle.
6. The proletariat’s domestic creation, inasmuch as it derives from the
framework of the economic and political struggle, has progressed intensely
and, moreover, in the same direction. This is proved by the development of
the proletarian family from the authoritarian structure of the peasant or
bourgeois family to comradely relationships and the universally established
form of courtesy—‘‘comrade.’’ Insofar as this creation will advance con-
sciously, it is quite obvious that its methods will be assimilated on the same
 The Revolution and Art / 181

principles; this will be creation by a harmonically cohesive, consciously col-

lective way of life.
7. With regard to artistic creation, the old culture is characterized by its
indeterminate and unconscious methods (‘‘inspiration,’’ etc.) and by the
alienation of these methods from those of labor activity and of other creative
areas. Although the proletarian is taking only his first steps in this field, his
general, distinctive tendencies can be traced clearly. Monism is expressed in
his aspiration to fuse art and working life, to make art a weapon for the ac-
tive and aesthetic transformation of his entire life. Collectivism, initially an
elemental process and then an increasingly conscious one, is making its
mark on the content of works of art and even on the artistic form through
which life is perceived. Collectivism illuminates the depiction not only of
human life, but also of the life of nature: nature as a field of collective labor,
its interconnections and harmonies as the embryos and prototypes of orga-
nized collectivism.
8. The technical methods of the old art have developed in isolation from
the methods of other spheres of life; the techniques of proletarian art must
seek consciously to utilize the materials of all those methods. For example,
photography, stereography, cinematography, spectral colors, phonography,
etc., must find their own places as mediums within the system of artistic
techniques. From the principle of methodological monism it follows that
there can be no methods of practical work or science that cannot find a direct
or indirect application in art, and vice versa.
g. Conscious collectivism transforms the whole meaning of the artist’s
work and gives it new stimuli. The old artist sees the revelation of his indi-
viduality in his work; the new artist will understand and feel that within his
work and through his work he is creating a grand totality—collectivism.
For the old artist, originality is the expression of the independent value of
his ‘‘I,’’ the means of his own exaltation; for the new artist, originality de-
notes a profound and broad comprehension of the collective experience and
is the expression of his own active participation in the creation and develop-
ment of the collective’s life. The old artist can aspire half-consciously to-
ward truth in life—or deviate from it; the new artist must realize that truth,
objectivity support the collective in its labor and struggle. The old artist
need or need not value artistic clarity; for the new artist, this means nothing
less than collective accessibility, and this contains the vital meaning of the
artist’s endeavor.
10. The conscious realization of collectivism will deepen the mutual un-
derstanding of people and their emotional bonds; this will enable spontane-
ous collectivism in creation to develop on an incomparably broader scale
ESQ a) AGNias AURon
|S S
ReWie OW Ronni sean AN (AUN; -'GrASReDE

than hitherto, i.e., the direct collaboration of many people, even of the
masses.
11. In the art of the past, as in science, there are many concealed collec-
tivist elements. By disclosing them, the proletarian critics provide the oppor-
tunity for creatively assimilating the best works of the old culture in a new
light, thereby adding immensely to their value.
12. The basic difference between the old and the new creation is that
now, for the first time, creation understands itself and its role in life.

ANATOLI] LUNACHARSKY and

YUVENAL SLAVINSKY
Theses of the Art Section
of Narkompros and the
Central Committee of the Union
of Art Workers Concerning Basic
Policy in the Field of Art, 1920

Lunacharsky—Born Poltava, 1875; died France, 1933. 1892: joined a Marxist group;
entered Zurich University; 1898: returned to Russia; joined the Social Democrats;
1899: arrested for political activities; 1904: in Geneva; met Lenin; joined the Bolshe-
viks; 1905: in St. Petersburg; 1906: arrested, again on political grounds; 1908: with
Maxim Gorky, on Capri; 1909: with Aleksandr Bogdanov and Gorky organized the
Vpered [Forward] group; 1911-15: in Paris; 1917: returned to Russia; 1917-29: Peo-
ple’s Commissar for Enlightenment; 1933: appointed Soviet ambassador to Spain but
died en route to the post.

Slavinsky—Born 1887, died 1936. 1911-18: conductor of the Moscow Grand

Opera; 1916: founded the Society of Orchestral Musicians; 1917: member of the
Bolsheviks; 1919: president of the Soyuz rabotnikov iskusstv [abbreviated to
Sorabis or Rabis—Union of Art Workers]; 1929: founded Vsekokhudoznik
[Vserossiiskii kooperativ khudozhnikov—All-Russian Cooperative of Artists];
1930s: active as an administrator and critic.
 The Revolution and Art | 183

Anatolii Lunacharsky, ca. 1925. Photograph courtesy Radio Times Hulton Picture Library,
London.

The text of this piece, ‘‘Tezisy khudozhestvennogo sektora NKP i TsK Rabis ob os-
novakh politiki v oblasti iskusstva,’’ is from Vestnik teatra [Theater Herald] (Mos-
cow), no. 75, November 30, 1920, p. 9. [The text appears also in bibl. R60, no. 2/3,
1920, pp. 65-66; R68, no. I, 1921, p. 20; and R16, pp. 57-58]. Rabis, founded in
May 1919, acted as a trade union for workers connected with the arts, concerning it-
self with such problems as social security, education courses, accessibility of li-
braries, etc. [for details see bibl. R60, especially no. 4/5, 1921]. The significance of
the ‘‘Theses’’ was twofold: on the one hand, they stated very clearly certain basic
principles of artistic policy, and on the other, they constituted an attempt to find
common agreement on such matters between the various organizations within the
cultural hierarchy, in this case between Narkompros and Rabis. The program ad-
vanced here shares certain ideas with Proletkult (e.g., the desire to create ‘‘purely
proletarian art forms’’ and to ‘‘open workers’ departments in all higher institu-
tions’’), of which Lunacharsky was an active member, although a dissident one,
especially after 1920. If anything, the text betrays Lunacharsky’s attempt to steer a
middle course between the extreme right and the extreme left, between, broadly
speaking, preservation and destruction—a course difficult to maintain in view of the
inordinate number of radicals in IZO Narkompros [the Visual Arts Section of Nar-
184° / RUSSIAN ART.OF THE AVANT? GARVE

kompros]. Certain sections of this policy, therefore, appear to be formulated in a de-

liberately rhetorical and imprecise fashion: the ambiguities of the first stipulation, for
example, found their tangible result in the slow and unsuccessful implementation of
Lenin’s famous plan of monumental propaganda (1918 onwards); furthermore, the def-
inition of a proletarian art is sufficiently vague as to allow a very free interpretation.
Of course, it was thanks to the flexible and eclectic policies of IZO Narkompros that,
paradoxically, the dictatorship of leftist art could exist in the early years and that
even in the mid-1920s a large number of conflicting tendencies and groups could still
dominate the artistic arena. Lunacharsky was convinced that the ‘‘Theses’’ consti-
tuted an important document and regretted that they had not been publicized more
widely [for his own comments see bibl. R402, vol. 7, 501]. For a German translation
see bibl. 209viii, pp. 62, 63.

While recognizing that the time for establishing indisputable principles of

a proletarian aesthetics has not yet come, the Art Section of Narkompros and
the Central Committee of All Art Workers consider it essential, neverthe-
less, to elucidate adequately and accurately the basic principles by which
they are guided in their activities.
1. We acknowledge the proletariat’s absolute right to make a careful re-
examination of all those elements of world art that it has inherited and to af-
firm the truism that the new proletarian and socialist art can be built only on
the foundation of all our acquisitions from the past. At the same time we ac-
knowledge that the preservation and utilization of the genuine artistic values
that we have acquired from the old culture is an indisputable task of the So-
viet government. In this respect the legacy of the past must be cleared
ruthlessly of all those admixtures of bourgeois degeneration and corruption;
cheap pornography, philistine vulgarity, intellectual boredom, antirevolu-
tionary ' and religious prejudices—insofar as such admixtures are contained
in our legacy from the past—must be removed. In those cases where dubi-
ous elements are linked indissolubly with genuine artistic achievements, it is
essential to take steps to ensure that the new young, mass proletarian public
evaluate critically the spiritual nourishment provided it. In general, the pro-
letariat must assimilate the legacy of the old culture not as a pupil, but as a
powerful, conscious, and incisive critic.
2. Besides this, our Soviet and professional cultural and artistic activities
must be directed toward creating purely proletarian art forms and institu-
tions; these would, in every way, assist the existing and emergent workers’
and peasants’ studios, which are seeking new paths within the visual arts,
music, the theater, and literature.
3. In the same way all fields of art must be utilized in order to elevate and
illustrate clearly our political and revolutionary agitational/propaganda work;
 The Revolution and Art / 185

this must be done in connection with both shock work demonstrated during
certain weeks, days, and campaigns, and normal, everyday work. Art is a
powerful means of infecting those around us with ideas, feelings, and
moods. Agitation and propaganda acquire particular acuity and effectiveness
when they are clothed in the attractive and mighty forms of art.
However, this political art, this artistic judgment on the ideal aspirations
of the revolution can emerge only when the artist himself is siricere in sur-
rendering his strength to this cause, only when he is really imbued with rev-
olutionary consciousness and is full of revolutionary feeling. Hence, Com-
munist propaganda among the actual votaries of art is also an urgent task
both of the Art Section and of the Union of Art Workers.
4. Art is divided up into a large number of directions. The proletariat is
only just working out its own artistic criteria, and therefore no state author-
ity or any professional union should regard any one of them as belonging to
the state; at the same time, however, they should render every assistance to
the new searches in art.
5. Institutions of art education must be proletarianized. One way of doing
this would be to open workers’ departments in all higher institutions con-
cerned with the plastic, musical, and theatrical arts.
At the same time particular attention must be given to the development of
mass taste and artistic creativity by introducing art into everyday life and
into industrial production at large, i.e., by assisting in the evolution of an ar-
tistic industry and in the extensive development of choral singing and mass
activities.
In basing themselves on these ‘principles—on the one hand, under the gen-
eral control of Glavpolitprosvet 7 and through it of the Communist Party
and, on the other, linked indissolubly with the professionally organized pro-
letariat and the All-Russian Soviet of Unions—the Art Section of Narkom-
pros and the All-Russian Union of Art Workers will carry out in sympathy
and in concord its work of art education and artistic industrialism throughout
the country.
DAVID SHTERENBERG
Our Task, 1920

Born Zhitomir, 1881; died Moscow, 1948. 1903: entered the Bundist Party; 1906:
went to Paris; 1912: began to exhibit regularly at the Salon d’Automne; contact with
Guillaume Apollinaire and many others of the French avant-garde, especially of the
Café Rotonde; 1917: returned to Russia; 1918-21: head of IZO Narkompros [Visual
Arts Section of Narkompros]; held special responsibility for the preservation and res-
toration of works of art in Moscow and Petrograd; 1919: leading member of Komfut;
1920: professor at Vkhutemas; 1921: head of the Art Department in Glavprofobr
[Glavnoe upravlenie professionalnogo obrazovaniya—Chief Administration for Pro-
fessional Education] within Narkompros; 1922: helped to organize the Russian art
exhibition in Berlin at the Van Diemen Gallery [see bibl. 197, 206]; 1925: founding
member of OST (see p. 279ff.); 1927: one-man show in Moscow [bibl. R434]; 1930
and after: active as a book illustrator, especially of children’s literature.

The text of this piece, ‘‘Nasha zadacha,’’ is from Khudozhestvennaya zhizn [Art
Life] (Moscow), no. 1/2, January/February 1920, pp. 5—6 [bibl. R86]. This journal
was published by the Art Section [Khudozhestvennaya sektsiya] of Narkompros.
Like many other expatriates who returned from Western Europe to Russia in 1917,
Shterenberg welcomed the Revolution enthusiastically and felt that, among other
things, it would make art education universally accessible. As an artist and an art
teacher in his own right, Shterenberg was particularly interested in the problems of
art instruction and was closely involved in the reorganization of the country’s art
schools. His conception of the ‘‘new art’’ was, however, a very indefinite one, and
like many of his colleagues, he failed to determine what a ‘‘proletarian art’’ should
stand for or even whether it should exist.

Shterenberg’s own painting was representational, although influenced by cubism—a

fact that did not detract from its originality—and his agit-decorations for Petrograd in
1918 were highly successful. In the 1920s Shterenberg was particularly inter-
ested in “‘objectness,’’ or the essential matter of each separate object, and hence
painted isolated objects on a single plane, often resorting to primitive forms and em-
phatic colors. But there was, of course, little sociopolitical significance in such aes-
thetic works. Lunacharsky thought very highly of Shterenberg both as an artist and as
an administrator, and their friendship, which had begun in the Paris days, ended only
with Lunacharsky’s death.

186
 The Revolution and Art | 187

David Shterenberg, ca. 1925. Photograph cour-

tesy Mrs. Louis Lozowick, New Jersey.

The artistic culture of Soviet Russia is developing in breadth and depth

despite the difficult conditions of the present time. The dead academy of art,
which both during tsarism and in the subsequent Kerensky ! period con-
sisted of talentless art officials, remained apart from artistic life and neither
reflected nor influenced our country’s art. Despite the vast reserves of cre-
ative strength inherent in the Russian people, art education in Russia and the
connected development of artistic industry were benumbed by this handful
of individuals who took advantage of the academy’s celebrated name. And
for Russian art to be emancipated, it required only the removal of prestige
and power from this group of people. This was done by the decree of the
Soviet of People’s Commissars at the beginning of the Revolution, and
the business of art education rapidly moved forward.” In the field of art, the
slogan of the People’s Commissariat for Enlightenment was equality of all
artistic trends. The elimination of all forms of coercion in art at the time of
the Revolution was the best possible decision, and now we can already see a
definite result. Western art had experienced this process long ago and, de-
spite the existence there of official and dead academies, had embarked on a
new life, thanks to public support. It is characteristic that the official mu-
seums of Paris do not have such valuable collections of Western art as our
Shchukin and Morozov museums ? or similar collections in Germany. The
same thing happened with us: the best young artists and the young Russian
188 / RUSSIAN ART OF THE AVANT-GARDE

David Shterenberg: Composition, ca. 1918. Water color and India ink, 24 x 33 cm. Collection
Grosvenor Gallery, London. This piece has a formal and thematic rssemblance to Shterenberg’s
agit designs for Petrograd in 1918, and may have been: one of his projects for the facade of the
Hermitage.

art were valued abroad, whereas our museum workers recognized them only
after their death, living artists not being represented in museums.
New ideas in the field of schoolteaching also remained outside the official
academic schools and found refuge in the private schools of certain young
artists. Paris owes its extremely rich development in the arts mainly to such
schools, a development that made it the only city in Europe that virtually
dictates new laws to the whole of Europe and exerts an immense influence
on the art of all nations. England, Germany, and America, despite the high
standard of their material culture, hardly possess their own art in the broad
sense of the word. But Russia, thanks to the peculiar position it occupies in
relation to the East and thanks to ali the untapped resources of its culture, as
yet in an embryonic state, has its own definite path on which it has only just
embarked. That is why the new art schools, the State Free Studios and the
art institutes that draw most of their students from among the workers and
peasants, have developed with extraordinary speed. The new artistic forces
 The Revolution and Art / 189

that introduced new methods of teaching into schools have yielded quite dis-
tinctive results that will now—at the end of the civil war and at the begin-
ning of our life of labor and Communist construction—provide us with new
instructors and new artists for our artistic-industry schools and enterprises.
Of the fifty schools in our section, almost half are working very well,
despite the cold and hunger and neediness of the students; if our transport
and Russia’s general economic situation can right themselves even just for a
while, then our schools will very shortly be in a splendid position. At the
same time the new body of Russian artists will differ significantly from the
old one because—and there is no use hiding it—nowhere is competition so
developed as among artists; there are substantial grounds to assume that the
State Free Studios will provide us with new artists linked together by greater
solidarity—which significantly lightens the task of the cultural construction
of the arts. The students’ trying position during the civil war cleared their
ranks of untalented groups. Only those remained who live for art and who
cannot exist without it, such as the students of the First and Second State
Free Studios in Moscow: during the present fuel crisis they used to go on
foot into the woods, chop down firewood, and bring it back themselves on
sledges so as to heat the studios where they could devote themselves to artis-
tic work. These hardened workers are already serving the provinces now—in
fact, the demands of various local Soviets and cultural organizations are
growing, and we are having to take the best students out of our schools in
order to send them to different places as instructors. At present the section’s
task consists mainly of putting the social security of our schools on a proper
footing. From towns everywhere we receive letters from young artists, al-
most always talented (judging by models and drawings), with requests to be
sent to our art schools, but not being able to provide for their subsistence,
the section has to advise them to wait a little longer. I think that our present
task is to give food allowances to all students, not only of art schools, but
also of all schools of higher education throughout the Republic. This is es-
sential, as essential as it was to create the Red Army. It must not be post-
poned because it will be the same Red Army—of Culture. Similarly, spe-
cialists who work with them in schools of higher education should be given
food allowances; only in this way will we rehabilitate our industry by
enriching it with the cultural element of the workers and peasants.
These new forces will give us the chance to carry out those mass art cre-
ations that the state now needs. Objectives of an agitational and decorative
nature (it is essential to transform the whole face of our cities and the fur-
nishings of our buildings) are creating that basis without which no art can
exist.
190 | S'S TLAGN
PRU “AURTD OCP ST CHEE GA VeAUN GDOE
1) GEAGRI

The old art (museum art) is dying. The new art is being born from the
new forms of our social reality.
We must create it and will create it.

ANATOLI] LUNACHARSKY
Revolution and Art, 1920-22

For biography see p. 182.

The first half of this text, ‘‘Revolyutsiya i iskusstvo,’’ was written in October 1920
and published in Kommunisticheskoe prosveshchenie [Communist Enlightenment]
(Moscow), 1920, no. I; the second half was the result of an interview given in Pet-
rograd on the occasion of the fifth anniversary of the October Revolution and was
published in Krasnaya gazeta [Red Newspaper] (Moscow), no. 252, November 5,
1922. Both pieces appeared in a collection of Lunacharsky’s articles on art, /skusstvo
i revolyutsiya [Art and Revolution] (Moscow, 1924), pp. 33-40, from which this
translation is made. [They are reprinted in bibl. R402, vol. 7, 294—99.] The text, of
course, reflects certain topical events, not least the enactment of Lenin’s plan of
monumental propaganda (based substantially on the measures of the revolutionary
government in France in the early 1790s—hence the reference to the French Revolu-
tion) and the renewal of the private art market in 1921. Lunacharsky’s personal artis-
tic tastes are also evident in the text, e.g., his love of music and the theater.

Wg

For a revolutionary state, such as the Soviet Union, the whole question of
art is this: can revolution give anything to art, and can art give anything to
revolution? It goes without saying that the state does not intend to impose
revolutionary ideas and tastes on artists. From’a coercive imposition of this
kind only counterfeit revolutionary art can emerge, because the prime qual-
ity of true art is the artist’s sincerity.
But there are other ways besides those of coercion: persuasion, encour-
agement, and appropriate education of new artists. All these measures
 The Revolution and Art / 191

should be used for working, as it were, toward the revolutionary inspiration

of art.
Complete absence of content has been very characteristic of bourgeois art
of recent times. If we still did have some sort of art then, it was, so to say,
the last progency of the old art. Pure formalism was exuberant everywhere:
in music, painting, sculpture, and literature. Of course, style suffered as a
result. In fact, the last epoch of the bourgeoisie was unable to advance any
style at all—including a life style or a style of architecture—and advanced
merely a whimsical and absurd electicism. Formal searches degenerated into
eccentricities and tricks or into a peculiar, rather elementary pedantry tinged
with various, puzzling sophistications, because true perfection of form is de-
termined, obviously, not by pure formal search, but by the presence of an
appropriate form common to the whole age, to all the masses, by a charac-
teristic sensation, and by ideas.
Bourgeois society of the last decades has seen no such sensations and
ideas worthy of artistic expression.
The Revolution is bringing ideas of remarkable breadth and depth. Every-
where it kindles feelings—tense, heroic, and complex.
Of course, the old artists have not the slightest understanding of this con-
tent and stand quite helplessly before it. They even interpret it as a kind of
barbaric torrent of primitive passions and small ideas, but they think that
only because of their own myopia. To many of them, especially the talented
ones, this can be explained, and they can be, so to say, disenchanted; their
eyes can be opened. But in particular, we must count on the young people,
who are much more receptive and who can be, so to speak, nurtured in the
very waves of the Revolution’s fiery torrent. Hence I anticipate a great deal
from the influence of the Revolution on art; to put it simply, I expect art to
be saved from the worst forms of decadence and from pure formalism by its
aspiration toward the real objective and by its infectious expression of great
ideas and great experiences.
But in addition to this the state has another continuous task within its cul-
tural activity, namely, to diffuse the revolutionary image of ideas, sensa-
tions, and actions throughout the country. From this standpoint the state asks
itself: can art be of use to it in this? And the answer inevitably suggests it-
self: if revolution can give art its soul, then art can give revolution its
mouthpiece.
Who is not aware of the full force of agitation? But what is agitation, how
is it distinguished from clear, cold, objective propaganda in the sense of
elucidating facts and logical constructions germane to our world view? Agi-
tation can be distinguished from propaganda by the fact that it excites the
192 jo REWeS STA Ne APR) OOF Te OE ANA ARNE TEIGyAGRaDEE

feelings of the audience and readers and has a direct influence on their will.
It, so to say, brings the whole content of propaganda t6 white heat and
makes it glow in all colors. Yes, propagators—we, of course, are all propa-
gators. Propaganda and agitation are simply the ceaseless propagation of a
new faith, a propagation springing from profound knowledge.
Can it be doubted that the more artistic such propagation, the more pow-
erful its effect? Don’t we know that the artistic public speaker or journalist
finds his way to the people’s hearts more quickly than those lacking in artis-
tic strength? But the collective propagandist is the collective propagator of
our age; the Communist Party, from this point of view, should arm itself
with all the organs of art, which in this way will prove itself to be of great
use to agitation. Not only the poster, but also the picture, the statue—in less
volatile forms and with more profound ideas, stronger feelings—can emerge
as graphic aids to the assimilation of Communist truth.
The theater has so often been called a great tribune, a great rostrum for
propagation, that it is not worth dwelling on this. Music has always played
an enormous role in mass movements: hymns, marches, form an indispens-
able attribute of them. We have only to unfurl this magic strength of music
above the hearts of the masses and to bring it to the utmost degree of defini-
tion and direction.
For the moment we are not in a position to make use of architecture on a
wide scale for propaganda purposes, but the creation of temples was, so to
say, an ultimate, maximum, and extremely powerful way of influencing the
social soul—and perhaps, in the near future, when creating the houses of our
great people, we will contrast them with the people’s houses of the past—
the churches of all denominations.
Those art forms that have arisen only recently as, for example, the cinema
or rhythmics, can be used with very great effect. It is ridiculous to enlarge
upon the propaganda and agitational strength of the cinema—it is obvious to
anyone. And just think what character our festive occasions will take on
when, by means of General Military Instruction,’ we create rhythmically
moving masses embracing thousands and tens of thousands of people—and
not just a crowd, but a strictly regulated, collective, peaceful army sincerely
possessed by one definite idea.
Against the background of the masses trained by General Military Instruc-
tion, other small groups of pupils from our rhythm schools will advance and
will restore the dance to its rightful place. The popular holiday will adorn it-
self with all the arts, it will resound with music and choirs and that will
express the sensations and ideas of the holiday by spectacles on several
 The Revolution and Art / 193

stages, by songs, and by poetry reading at different points in the rejoicing

crowd: it will unite everything in a common act.
This is what the French Revolution dreamed of, what it aspired to; this is
what passed by the finest people of that most cultured of democracies—
Athens; this is what we are approaching already.
Yes, during the Moscow workers’ procession past our friends of the Third
International, during the General Military Instruction holiday declared after
this,” during the great mass action at the Stock Exchange colonnade in Pet-
rograd,* one could sense the approach of the moment when art, in no way
debasing itself and only profiting from this, would become the expression of
national ideas and feelings—ideas and feelings that are Revolutionary and
Communist.

Ze

The Revolution, a phenomenon of vast and many-sided significance, is con-

nected with art in many ways.
If we take a general look at their interrelation before the Revolution and
now, in the fifth year of its existence, we will notice its extraordinary influ-
ence in many directions. First and foremost, the Revolution has completely
altered the artist’s way of life and his relation to the market. In this respect,
certainly, artists can complain about, rather than bless, the Revolution.
At a time when war and the blockade were summoning the intense force
of military Communism, the private art market was utterly destroyed for art-
ists. This placed those who had a name and who could easily sell their
works in such a market in a difficult position and made them, along with the
bourgeoisie, antagonistic toward the Revolution.
The ruin of the rich Maecenases and patrons was felt less, of course, by
the young, unrecognized artists, especially the artists of the left who had not
been successful in the market. The Revolutionary government tried immedi-
ately, as far as possible, to replace the failing art market with state commis-
sions and purchases. These commissions and purchases fell, in particular,-to
those artists who agreed willingly to work for the Revolution in the theater,
in poster design, in decorations for public celebrations, in making monu-
ments to the Revolution, concerts for the proletariat, and so forth.
Of course, the first years of the Revolution, with their difficult economic
situation, made the artist’s way of life more arduous, but they provided a
great stimulus to the development of art among the young.
194 / RUSSIAN ART OF THE AVANT-GARDE

More important, perhaps, than these economic interrelationships were the

psychological results of the Revolution.
Here two lines of observation can be made. On the one hand, the Revolu-
tion as a grand, social event, as a boundless and multicolored drama, could,
of itself, provide art with vast material and to a great extent could formulate
a new artistic soul.
However, during the first years of the Revolution, its influence on art in
this respect was not very noticeable. True, Blok’s The Twelve * was written
and other things such as, say, Mayakovsky’s Mystery-Bouffe; ° many fine
posters, a certain quantity of quite good monuments, were produced, but all
this in no way corresponded to the Revolution itself. Perhaps to a great ex-
tent this can be explained by the fact that the Revolution, with its vast ideo-
logical and emotional content, requires a more or less realistic, self-evident
expression saturated with ideas and feelings. Whereas the realist artists and
those following similar trends—as I observed above—were less willing to
greet the Revolution than those following new trends, the latter—whose
nonrepresentational methods were very suitable for artistic industry and or-
nament—proved to be powerless to give psychological expression to the
new content of the Revolution. Hence we cannot boast that the Revolu-
tion—and, I repeat, in the first years when its effect was strongest and its
manifestation most striking—created for itself a sufficiently expressive and
artistic form.
On the other hand, the Revolution not only was able to influence art, but
also needed art. Art is a powerful weapon of agitation, and the Revolution
aspired to adapt art to its agitational objectives. However, such combina-
tions of agitational forces and genuine artistic depth were achieved compara-
tively rarely. The agitational theater, to a certain extent music, in particular
the poster, undoubtedly had, during the first years of the Revolution, a great
success in the sense that they were disseminated among the masses. But of
this only very little can be singled out as being entirely satisfactory artis-
tically.
Nevertheless, in principle, the thesis had remained correct: the Revolution
had a great deal to give artists—a new content—and the Revolution needed
art. Sooner or later a union had to come about between it and the artists. If
we now turn to the present moment, we will notice a significant difference
in a comparison of 1922 with 1918 and 19109. First of all, the private market
appears again. The state, compelled to finance art on a niggardly, systematic
budget, has virtually ceased buying and ordering for about the next two
years. From this point of view, because of NEP,® the wheel appears to have
turned full circle; and in fact, we can see, almost side by side with the
 The Revolution and Art / 195

complete disappearance of the agitational theater, the emergence of a cor-

tuptive theater, the emergence of the obscene drinking place, which is one
of the poisons of the bourgeois world and which has broken out like a
pestilential rash on the face of Russia’s cities together with the New Eco-
nomic Policy. In other fields of art, albeit to a lesser degree, this same return
to the sad past is noticeable.
However, there is no need to be pessimistic, and we should turn our atten-
tion to something else. Indeed, together with this, the improvement in living
conditions, which has come about during the calm time of late, reveals how
powerfully the Revolution has affected the artist’s soul. The Revolution ad-
vanced, as we now see, a whole phalanx of writers who, in part, call them-
selves apolitical, but who nonetheless celebrate and proclaim precisely the
Revolution in its Revolutionary spirit. Naturally the ideological and emo-
tional element of the Revolution is reflected primarily in the most intellec-
tual of the arts—in literature—but it does, of course, aspire to spread to
other arts. It is characteristic that it is precisely now that magazines and
anthologies are being created, that societies of painters and sculptors are
being organized, and that work of architectural conception is being under-
taken in the area where previously we had only demand and almost no
supply.
Similarly, the second thesis, that the Revolution needs art, will not force
us to wait long for its manifestation. Right now we are being told about an
all-Russian subscription to the building of a grand monument to the victims
of the Revolution on the Field of Mars” and about the desire to erect a
grand Palace of Labor in Moscow.® The Republic, still beggarly and un-
clothed, is, however, recovering economically, and there is no doubt that
soon one of the manifestations of its recovery will be the new and increasing
beauty of its appearance. Finally, the last thing—what I began with—the
artists’ living conditions and economic position. Of course, with the rise of
NEP, the artist is again pushed into the private market. But for how long? If
our calculations are correct, and they are, then will the state, like a capital-
ist, with its heavy industry and vast trusts in other branches of industry, with
its tax support, with its power over issue of currency, and above all, with its
vast ideological content—will the state not prove ultimately to be far
stronger than any private capitalists, big or small? Will it not draw unto it-
self all that is vital in art, like a grand Maecenas, truly cultured and truly
noble?
In this short article I could sketch only with a couple of strokes the
peculiar zigzag line of the relationships between revolution and art that we
have hitherto observed. It has not been broken off. It continues even further.
196 | RUSSIAN ART OF THE AVANT-GARDE

As for the government, it will endeavor as before, as far as possible, to

preserve the best of the old art, because recognition of it is essential to the
further development of our renewed art. Besides this, it will endeavor to
give active support to any innovation that is obviously of benefit to the
masses, and it will never prevent the new—albeit dubious—from developing
so as to avoid making a mistake in this respect by killing off something
worthy of life while it is still young and weak. In the very near future, art in
revolutionary Russia will have to live through a few more very bitter mo-
ments because the state’s resources are still small and are growing slowly.
We cannot allow ourselves the luxury of widespread artistic plenitude, but
these difficult times are coming to an end. My predictions in this article of
the Revolution’s increased influence on art, the Revolution’s increased de-
mands on artists, and the increased coordination between the two will
shortly begin to be justified.

VASILII KANDINSKY
Plan for the Physicopsychological
Department of the Russian Academy
of Artistic Sciences, 1923

For biography see p. 17

The text of this piece, untitled on its original publication, is from /skusstvo. Zhurnal
Rossiiskoi Akademii khudozhestvennykh nauk [Art. Journal of the Russian Academy
of Artistic Sciences] (Moscow), no. 1, Summer 1923, pp. 415-16 [bibl. R69]. The
manuscript of this text is in the Central State Archive of Literature and Art,
Moscow (f. 941. op. I, ed. khr. 3). Kandinsky presented his plan for the
Physicopsychological Department of RAKhN [Russian Academy of Artistic
Sciences; later GAKhN or Gosudarstvennaya Akademiya khudozhestvennykh
nauk—State Academy of Artistic Sciences] in June of 1921, and it was accepted by
the academy commission on July 21 although the academy itself was not formally
established until October 7, under the presidency of Petr Kogan and the general
auspices of Narkompros. The academy was divided into three main sections: the
Physicomathematical and Physicopsychological Department, headed by Kandin-
sky; the Philosophical Department, headed by Gustav Shpet; and the Sociological
Department, headed by Vladimir Friche. Within these basic divisions functioned
 The Revolution and Art / 197

subsections devoted to literature, music, the theatre, the visual arts (toward which
Kandinsky’s plan was oriented), architecture, etc. The broad basis of the academy
encouraged interest in extremely diverse topics, and between June 16, 1921, and
January I, 1923, for example, no less than forty-seven lectures were given at plenary
sessions—including such stimulating titles as ‘‘Style and Stylization as Socio-
organizational Phenomena” (Boris Arvatov), “The Organizational Role of Art”
(Aleksandr Bogdanov), and “The Basic Elements of Painting” (Kandinsky).

Kandinsky’s plan was an abbreviated version of the comprehensive program that he

had drawn up for Inkhuk and its own proposed Psychophysiological Laboratory but
that had encountered hostile opposition from the supporters of veshch (the object
as such). Moreover, with Kandinsky’s departure for Berlin at the end of 1921, the
plan was not put into effect—at least not without substantial changes—although
Shpet, Leonid Sabaneev, et al., set up a Psychophysical Laboratory in GAKhN
in September 1924, thereby drawing on Kandinsky’s experience. Despite the con-
cise format of Kandinsky’s plan, its aims were ambitious. To a certain extent its
wide coverage can be seen as rivaling the broad scope of research interests main-
tained within the Inkhuk organization, particularly at the Petrograd IKhK; in fact,
Mikhail Matyushin’s investigations into the ‘‘perception of painterly elements by the
human organism’’ [bibl. R21, p. 25], which he instigated at IKhK in 1923, had
much in common with Kandinsky’s own ideas and proposals. Kandinsky, of course,
later implemented at least part of his Inkhuh/RAKRN plans within the framework of
the Bauhaus. [For the text of the Inkhuk plan see bibl. R16,. pp. 126-39, for further
ideas connected with Kandinsky’s proposal for RAKHhN see bibl. R393; for published
results of Matyushin’s research based on IKhK see bibl. R404—405; for details of
RAKREN consult R69, especially no. 1, 1923, and R385.]

The department sets as its task to disclose the inner, positive laws on the
basis of which aesthetic works are formed within every sphere of art and, in
connection with the results obtained, to establish the principles of synthetic
artistic expression. This task can be reduced to a number of concrete objec-
tives: (1) the study of artistic elements as the material from which a work of
art is formed, (2) the study of construction in creation as a principle whereby
the artistic purpose is embodied, (3) the study of composition in art as a
principle whereby the idea of a work of art is constructed.
The work of the department must be carried out in two directions: (a) a
series of lectures based on the established program and (b) experimental
research. We have not managed to pursue this experimental research owing
to a lack of funds essential for the organization of laboratories:
The series of lectures ‘‘Elements of Art’’ has been given, and now certain
of their materials, observations, and ideas are being processed. The series of
198 / RUSSIAN ART OF THE AVANT-GARDE

lectures on construction in nature, art, and technology is being developed.

The series ‘‘Composition’’ is being prepared.
In accordance with these aims and tasks, the department’s scientific plan
for 1922-23 consists of the following:
I. The completion of a session of preliminary research work concerning
the problem of construction in art. To this end, the following lectures on the
problem of construction should be given at plenary meetings: (a) construc-
tion in extraaesthetic creation (utilitarian-productional construction), (b) ar-
chitecture, (c) sculpture, (d) painting, (e) printing industry, (f) music, (g)
plastic rhythm, (h) literature, (i) theater, (j) productional art.
II. Research into primitive art and into all the aesthetic concepts that give
primitive art its style. In this respect a number of specific tasks have been
formulated: (1) Research into the laws of the statics and dynamics of primi-
tive art: (a) in an individual or typical/group context; (b) in the evolution of
one form from another. (2) Methods: (a) a formal, positive, art historians’
approach, inasmuch as the research is connected with the formal and de-
scriptive study of art objects; (b) a psychological approach, inasmuch as the
research will concern the psychology of artistic creation and perception. (3)
Materials: children’s art, the art of primitive and backward peoples, primor-
dial art, the primitives of early Christian and medieval art; primitivism in
modern art; aesthetic concepts that characterize primitive art found, for the
most part, in the art of the ancient East. (4) The materials can be developed
with regard to (a) specific branches of art and (b) artistic groupings organi-
cally interconnected, and (c) they can be directed toward a synthetic sum-
mary of general inferences.
The research plan concerning the problem of primitive art and the aes-
thetic concepts that give art its style in the sphere of the spatial (visual) arts
and vis-a-vis the material mentioned and outlined above can be defined thus:
(1) Art that develops a plane or surface (so-called painting): (a) color, (b)
line, (c) spatial expression, (d) material, (e) means of processing the sur-
face, (f) laws of construction, (g) concept. (2) Art that organizes volumes
(so-called sculpture): (a) material, (b) mass, (c) volume, (d) chiaroscuro, (e)
color, (f) line, (g) surface, (h) laws of construction, (i) concept. (3) Art that
organizes actual three-dimensional space (so-called architecture): (a) archi-
tectural mass, (b) space, (c) light and shade, (d) line, (e) surface, (f) color,
(g) construction, (h) concept. (4) Types and phases of development of the
general artistic concept in primitive art, their positive and aesthetic. bases.
(5) The psychology of aesthetic expression and perception (within the frame-
work of primitive art).
Lef
Declaration: Comrades,
Organizers of Life!, 1923

The journal Lef [Levyi front iskusstv—Left Front of the Arts] existed from 1923 until
1925 and then resumed as Novyi lef [Novyi levyi front iskussty—New Left Front of
the Arts] in 1927 and continued as such until the end of 1928 [bibl. R76]. Among the
founders of Lef were Boris Arvatov, Osip Brik, Nilolai Chuzhak, Boris Kushner,
Vladimir Mayakovsky, and Sergei Tretyakov. Its editorial office was in Moscow. In
1929 the group changed its name to Ref [Revolyutsionnyi front—Revolutionary
Front]. In 1930 the group disintegrated with Mayakovsky’s entry into RAPP [Ros-
siiskaya assotsiatsiya proletarskikh pisatelei— Revolutionary Association of Pro-
letarian Writers; see p. 288] and with the general change in the political and cultural
atmosphere. Lef was especially active during its early years and had affiliates
throughout the country, including Yugolef [Yuzhnyi lef—South Lef] in the Ukraine.
As a revolutionary platform, Lef was particularly close to the constructivists and
formalists; Novyi lef devoted much space to aspects of photography and cinematogra-
phy, Aleksandr Rodchenko playing a leading part. [For comments and translations
see Form (Cambridge, Eng.), no. 10, 1969, pp. 27-36, and Screen (London), vol.
12, no. 4, 1971-72, 25—-100.]

The text of this piece, ‘‘Tovarishchi, formovshchiki zhizni!,’’ appeared in Lef (Mos-
cow), no. 2, April-May 1923, pp. 3-8, in Russian, German, and English [bibl.
R76]. This translation is based on the English version, pp. 7-8. This was the fourth
declaration by Lef, the first three appearing in the first number of the journal: ‘‘Za
chto boretsya Lef?’’ [What Is Lef Fighting for?,’’ pp. 1-7], ““V kogo vgryzaetsya
Lef?’’ [{‘‘What Is Lef Getting Its Teeth into?,’’ pp. 8-9] and ‘‘Kogo predosteregaet
Lef?’’ [‘‘Whom Is Lef Warning?,’’ pp. 10-11]. However, they were concerned
chiefly with literature and with history and had only limited relevance to the visual
arts. [The first and fourth declarations are reprinted in bibl. R16, pp. 291-95, and all
of them are translated into French in bibl. 139, pp. 61-78.] For a German
translation of this text see bibl. 209viii, pp. 213-18. This declaration sets forth the
utilitarian, organizational conception of art that Lef/Novyilefattempted to support
throughout its short but influential life.

Today, the First of May, the workers of the world will demonstrate in
their millions with song and festivity.
Five years of attainments, ever increasing.
Five years of slogans renewed and realized daily.

199
200 | RUSSIAN ART OF THE AVANT-GARDE

MY PHA

EBOTO PORTA
HCKYCCTB
No ANPEJIb }
- MAH
OTBETCTBEHHbIM PEDAHTOP
B. B. MAAKOBCHKHMKM
Fe
eae Te ea
rocyAAPCTBEHHOE K3SPATENLCTBO
MOCKBA 1923 NETPOrPAD

Title page of Lef, (Moscow), no. 2, 1923. Designed by Aleksandr Rod-

chenko.

Five years of victory.

And—
Five years of monotonous designs for celebrations.
Five years of languishing art.

So-called Stage Managers!

How much longer will you and other rats continue to gnaw at this theatri-
cal sham?
Organize according to real life!
Plan the victorious procession of the Revolution!
 The Revolution and Art / 201

So-called Poets!
When will you throw away your sickly lyrics?
Will you ever understand that to sing praises of a tempest according to
newspaper information is not to sing praises about a tempest?
Give us a new Marseillaise and let the Internationale thunder the march
of the victorious Revolution!

So-called Artists!
Stop making patches of color on moth-eaten canvases.
Stop decorating the easy life of the bourgeoisie.
Exercise your artistic strength to engirdle cities until you are able to take
part in the whole of global construction!
Give the world new colors and outlines!
We know that the ‘‘priests of art’’ have neither strength nor desire to meet
these tasks: they keep to the aesthetic confines of their studios.

On this day of demonstration, the First of May, when proletarians are

gathered on a united front, we summon you, organizers of the world:
Break down the barriers. of ‘‘beauty for beauty’s sake’’; break down the
barriers of those nice little artistic schools!
Add your strength to the united energy of the collective!
We know that the aesthetics of the old artists, whom we have branded
‘‘rightists,’’ revive monasticism and await the holy spirit of inspiration, but
they will not respond to our call.
We summon the ‘‘leftists’’ the revolutionary futurists, who have given the
streets and squares their art; the productivists, who have squared accounts
with inspiration by relying on the inspiration of factory dynamos; the con-
structivists, who have substituted the processing of material for the mys-
ticism of creation.
Leftists of the world!
We know few of your names, or the names of your schools, but this we
do know—wherever revolution is beginning, there you are advancing.
We summon you to establish a single front of leftist art—the ‘Red Art In-
ternational.”’

Comrades!
Split leftist art from rightist everywhere!
With leftist art prepare the European Revolution; in the U.S.S.R.
strengthen it.
Keep in contact with your staff in Moscow (Journal Lef, 8 Nikitsky
Boulevard, Moscow).
202 / RUSSIAN ART OF THE AVANT-GARDE

Not by accident did we choose the First of May as the day of our call.
Only in conjunction with the Workers’ Revolution can we see the dawn of
future art.
We, who have worked for five years in a land of revolution, know:
That only October has given us new, tremendous ideas that demand new
artistic organization.
That the October Revolution, which liberated art from bourgeois enslave-
ment, has given real freedom to art.
Down with the boundaries of countries and of studios!
Down with the monks of rightist art!
Long live the single front of the leftists!
Long live the art of the Proletarian Revolution!
V.
Constructivism and the
industrial Arts
e

Design for the cover of the catalogue of the exhibition “5 xX 5 =25’’ (Moscow, Sep-
tember 1921). Designed by Varvara Stepanova. Oil on canvas, 17.5 x 14 cm. Photo-
graph courtesy ofthe late Mr. Alfred H. Barr, Jr., New York. Since each catalogue of
“5 x § = 25” was handmade, with typed text, the cover varied: sometimes it was by
Aleksandr Rodchenko, sometimes by Stepanova. In addition, each of the participants
contributed an original work of art to the catalogue—Lyubov Popova, a collage;
Rodchenko, a drawing; etc.
VLADIMIR TATLIN
The Work Ahead of Us, 1920

Born Moscow, 1885; died Moscow, 1953; 1902-03: attended the Moscow Institute
of Painting, Sculpture and Architecture; 1904-10: attended the Penza Art Institute;
1904-ca. 1908: made several voyages as a sailor through the Mediterranean
countries; 1909-10: again attended the Moscow Institute of Painting, Sculpture and
Architecture; 1908-11: close to the Burliuk brothers, Mikhail Larionov and other
members of the nascent avant-garde; 1911: with Mikhail Le-Dantiyu et al.,
designed costumes for the play Emperor Maximilian and His Disobedient Son
Adolph; close to the Union of Youth; 1914: traveled to Berlin and Paris, where he
met Picasso; on his return to Russia began to work on his reliefs; at this time worked
closely with Aleksei Grischchenko, Lyubov Popova, Nadezhda Udaltsova, and
Aleksandr Vesnin; 1912-16: contributed to the “Donkey’s Tail,” “Union of
Youth,” “Tramway V,” “‘o.10,” “Shop,” and other exhibitions; 1918: head of IZO
Narkompros [Visual Arts Section of Narkompros] in Moscow; 1919: head of the
Painting Department at Svomas, Moscow; then moved to Svomas, Petrograd;
1919-20: worked on the model of his Monument for the Third International; 1921:
close to Inkhuk; cofounder of IKhK; 1925-27: headed the Department of Theater
and Cinema at the Kiev Art Institute; 1929-32; designed and exhibited his Letatlin
glider; 1930s and 1940s: worked on theater decor and turned back to easel painting.

>
The text of this piece, ‘““Nasha predstoyashchaya rabota,” is from Ezhedneynyi
byulleten VIII-go sezda sovetov {Daily Bulletin of the Eighth Congress of Soviets]
(Moscow), no. 13, January I, 1921, p. 11. Cosignatories with Tatlin were Tevel
Shapiro, Iosif Meerzon, and P. Vinogradov, who assisted him on the project. The
text, which was dated December 31, 1920, has been translated into French in bibl.
145i, and English in the catalogue to the exhibition Vladimir Tatlin (Stockholm,
1968), p. 51 [bibl. 230], and except for the notes, which have been added, this
translation is reproduced here with the kind permission of the Modern Museet,
Stockholm. The text acts as a commentary on the model of Tatlin’s Monument for
the Third International, which had been transferred from Petrograd and erected in
Moscow on the occasion of the Eighth Congress of Soviets, in December 1920; in
general terms, the text provides an elucidation of, and justification for, the
construction of such an innovative and provocative project. Tatlin’s Monument (or
Tower), like Lissitzky’s Prouns (see p. 151), signalized a new constructive
conception by presenting an “organic synthesis of architectural, sculptural, and
painterly principles” [bibl. R444, p. 1] and, of course, provided an essential stimulus

205
206 [RUSS TAN ART OF CTIME AWis tereteDe

to the development of a constructivist architecture. While Tatlin’s Monument

stood at a crossroads between the purist art of his reliefs and counterreliefs and the
practical application of his ideas to productional design (clothes, furniture, his
domestic stove, etc.), the interest in the object as such remained, at least among his
fellow artists and critics: Aleksandra Exter and Ignatii Nivinsky, for example, used
counterreliefs in their decorations for the “First Agricultural and Handicraft-
Industrial Exhibition,” in Moscow in 1923, and in December 1925 GAKHN (see p.
196ff.) organized a lecture and discussion entitled “On the Counterrelief.” Tatlin
himself, however, became convinced of the need for art to be utilitarian and
functional, a view that was at least implicit in the closing lines of the present text and
was emphasized clearly in his essay ““Art Out into Technology”of 1932 [in bibl. 230,
pp. 75-76].

The foundation on which our work in plastic art—our craft—rested was

not homogeneous, and every connection between painting, sculpture and ar-
chitecture had been lost: the result was individualism, i.e. the expression of
purely personal habits and tastes; while the artists, in their approach to the
material, degraded it to a sort of distortion in relation to one or another field
of plastic art. In the best event, artists thus decorated the walls of private
houses (individual nests) and left behind a succession of ‘‘ Yaroslav Railway
Stations’ ' and a variety of now ridiculous forms.
What happened from the social aspect in 1917 was realized in our work as
pictorial artists in 1914,” when ‘‘materials, volume and construction’’ were
accepted as our foundations.
We declare our distrust of the eye, and place our sensual impressions
under control.
In 1915 ° an exhibition of material models on the laboratory scale was
held in Moscow (an exhibition of reliefs and contre-reliefs). An exhibition
held in 1917 7 presented a number of examples of material combinations,
which were the results of more complicated investigations into the use of
material in itself, and what this leads to: movement, tension, and a mutual
relationship between. h
This investigation of material, volume and construction made it possible
for us in 1918, in an artistic form, to begin to combine materials like iron
and glass, the materials of modern Classicism, comparable in their severity
with the marble of antiquity.
 El Lissitzky: Tatlin at Work on the Third International, ca. 1920. Pencil,
gouache, photomontage, 33 x 24.5 cm. Collection Grosvenor Gallery,
London.

In this way an opportunity emerges of uniting purely artistic forms with

utilitarian intentions. An example is the project for a monument to the Third
International ° (exhibited at the Eighth Congress).
The results of this are models which stimulate us to inventions in our
work of creating a new world, and which call upon the producers to exercise
control over the forms encountered in our new everyday life.
208 jf SREUTSST-AUN) OAURGT OuRy aly EeGAgY GAC ili Ge am Rages

Vladimir Tatlin: Model for Letatlin (without sheathing fabric), 1932. Letatlin was a one-man
glider designed by Tatlin and so called from the combination of the verb lerar [to fly] and
Tatlin. Tatlin was not the only Soviet artist to think in terms of aerospace engineering; Petr Mi-
turich, for example, designed an ‘‘undulating dirigible’’ in 1931. Photograph courtesy_ private
collector, Moscow.

NAUM GABO and

ANTON PEVSNER
The Realistic Manifesto, 1920

Gabo—Pseudonym of Naum Neemia Pevzner. Born Briansk, 1890; died Connect-

icut, 1977. Brother of Anton. 1910: graduated from Kursk Gymnasium; entered the
medical faculty of Munich University; 1912: transferred to the Polytechnicum
Engineering School, Munich; 1913: traveled in Italy; 1913-14: visited Paris where
his brother Anton was studying; 1914: traveled to Scandinavia; 1915: first
constructions; 1917: returned to Russia; 1920: with Anton published his Realist
Manifesto in Moscow; 1922: left Russia for Berlin; 1926-27: with Anton designed
the decor for Sergei Diaghilev’s production of La Chatte; 1932: moved to Paris;
1946: settled in the United States; 1971: knighted by Queen Elizabeth II.

Pevsner—Real name Noton Pevzner. Born Orel, 1886; died Paris, 1962. Brother of
Naum. 1902-1909: attended the Kiev Art School; influence of Isaak Levitan and
Mikhail Vrubel; 1909-11: attended the St. Petersburg Academy; 1911-14: worked in
Paris; contact with Alexander Archipenko and Amedeo Modigliani; 1914-15: in
 Constructivism and the Industrial Arts | 209

Moscow; 1917-22: professor at Svomas/Vkhutemas; 1923: emigrated to Paris;

1926-27 with Gabo designed the decor for Diaghilev’s production of La Chatte.

The text of this piece, Realisticheskii manifest, was published in August 1920 in
Moscow. An open-air exhibition of Gabo’s and Pevsner’s work was organized simul-
taneously. The term ‘‘realistic,’’ of course, does not imply a concern with realist,
representational depiction, but with the essential or absolute quality of reality—a
meaning that many Russian artists had favored (see, for example, the use of the term
by Larionov in his ‘‘Rayonist Painting’? or by Puni and Boguslavskaya in their
‘*Suprematist Manifesto’’). It might be argued, in fact, that the main function of
‘*The’ Realistic Manifesto’’ was to consolidate various ideas that had been supported
by the Russian avant-garde long before 1920, rather than to advance totally new
ones; furthermore, the manifesto itself exerted little influence on the actual develop-
ment of Russian constructivism or of Russian art in general and had much more sig-
nificance in the context of Western constructivisim. The text has been translated into
English by Gabo in Gabo (London: Lund Humphries; Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard
University Press, 1957), pp. 151-52 [bibl. 216]; except for the notes, which have
been added, this translation is reproduced here with kind permission of Naum Gabo,
who requested that I insert the following statement: ‘‘I am the sole author of this
Manifesto. The translation of it into English was also done by me. My brother, An-
toine Pevsner, asked permission to add his signature to it, to which I agreed.”’
Another English translation of the manifesto was published by Camilla Gray in The
Structurist (Saskatoon), no. 8, 1968, pp. 43-47. For a modern Soviet discussion of
this manifesto see V. Tasalov, Prometei ili Orfei [Prometheus or Orpheus] (Moscow,
1967), pp. 237-45.

Above the tempests of our weekdays,

Across the ashes and cindered homes of the past,
Before the gates of the vacant future,
We proclaim today to you artists, painters, sculptors, musicians, actors,
poets . . . to you people to whom Art is no mere ground for conversation
but the source of real exaltation, our word and deed.
The impasse into which Art has come to in the last twenty years must be
broken.
The growth of human knowledge with its powerful penetration into the
mysterious laws of the world which started at the dawn of this century,
The blossoming of a new culture and a new civilization with their unpre-
cedented-in-history surge of the masses towards the possession of the riches
of Nature, a surge which binds the people into one union, and last, not least,
the war and the revolution (those purifying torrents of the coming epoch),
have made us face the fact of new forms of life, already born and active.
210 | RUSSIAN ART. OF, THE AVANT-GARDE

ix
Antoine Pevsner: Portrait of Marcel Duchamp, 1926. High relief con-
struction, celluloid on copper (zinc), 65.4 x 94 cm. Yale University Art
Gallery, gift of Collection Société Anonyme.

What does Art carry into this unfolding epoch of human history?
Does it possess the means necessary for the construction of the new Great
Style?
Or does it suppose that the new epoch may not have a new style?
Or does it suppose that the new life can accept a new creation which is
constructed on the foundations of the old?
 Constructivism and the Industrial Arts / 211

In spite of the demand of the renascent spirit of our time, Art is still
nourished by impression, external appearance, and wanders helplessly back
and forth from Naturalism to Symbolism, from Romanticism to Mysticism.
The attempts of the Cubists and the Futurists to lift the visual arts from
the bogs of the past have led only to new delusions.
Cubism, having started with simplification of the representative technique
ended with its analysis and stuck there.
The distracted world of the Cubists, broken in shreds by their logical
anarchy, cannot satisfy us who have already accomplished the Revolution or
who are already constructing and building up anew.
One could heed with interest the experiments of the Cubists, but one can-
not follow them, being convinced that their experiments are being made on
the surface of Art and do not touch on the bases of it seeing plainly that the
end result amounts to the same old graphic, to the same old volume and to
the same decorative surface as of old.
One could have hailed Futurism in its time for the refreshing sweep of its
announced Revolution in Art, for its devastating criticism of the past, as in
no other way could have assailed those artistic barricades of ‘‘good taste’’
. . powder was needed for that and a lot of it. . . but one cannot con-
struct a system of art on one revolutionary phrase alone.
One had to examine Futurism beneath its appearance to realize that one
faced a very ordinary chatterer, a very agile and prevaricating guy, clad in
the tatters of worn-out words like ‘‘patriotism,’’ 99
‘‘militarism,’’ ‘‘contempt
66

for the female,’’ and all the rest of such provincial tags.
In the domain of purely pictorial problems, Futurism has not gone further
than the renovated effort to fix on the canvas a purely optical reflex which
has already shown its bankruptcy with the Impressionists. It is obvious now
to every one of us that by the simple graphic registration of a row of
momentarily arrested movements, one cannot re-create movement itself. It
makes one think of the pulse of a dead body.
The pompous slogan of ‘‘Speed’’ was played from the hands of the Fu-
turists as a great trump. We concede the sonority of that slogan and we quite
see how it can sweep the strongest of the provincials off their feet. But ask
any Futurist how does he imagine ‘‘speed’’ and there will emerge a whole
arsenal of frenzied automobiles, rattling railway depots, snarled wires, the
clank and the noise and the clang of carouselling streets . . . does one re-
ally need to convince them that all that is not necessary for speed and for its
rhythms?
Look at a ray of sun. . . the stillest of the still forces, it speeds more
than 300 kilometres in a second. . . behold our starry firmament. . . who
212) / RUSSTAIN ART: OF THE AVANTGARDE

hears it. . . and yet what are our depots to those depots of the Universe?
What are our earthly trains to those hurrying trains of the galaxies?
Indeed, the whole Futurist noise about speed is too obvious an anecdote,
and from the moment that Futurism proclaimed that ‘‘Space and Time are
yesterday’s dead,’’ it sunk into the obscurity of abstractions.
Neither Futurism nor Cubism has brought us what our time has expected
of them.
Besides those two artistic schools our recent past has had nothing of im-
portance or deserving attention.
But Life does not wait and the growth of generations does not stop and we
go to relieve those who have passed into history, having in our hands the
results of their experiments, with their mistakes and their achievements,
after years of experience equal to centuries. . . we Say .
No new artistic system will withstand the pressure of a growing new cul-
ture until the very foundation of Art will be erected on the real laws of
Life.
Until all artists will say with us .
All is a fiction. . . only life and its laws are authentic and in life only the
active is beautiful and wise and strong and right, for life does not know
beauty as an aesthetic measure . . . efficacious existence is the highest
beauty.
Life knows neither good nor bad nor justice as a measure of morals .
need is the highest and most just of all morals.
Life does not know rationally abstracted truths as a measure of cog-
nizance, deed is the highest. and surest of truths.
Those are the laws of life. Can art withstand these laws if it is built on ab-
straction, on mirage, and fiction?.
We say .
Space and time are re-born to us today.
Space and time are the only forms on which life is built and hence art
must be constructed.
States, political and economic systems perish, ideas crumble, under the
strain of ages . . . but life is strong and grows and time goes on in its real
continuity.
Who will show us forms more efficacious than this . . . who is the great
one who will give us foundations stronger than this?
Who is the genius who will tell us a legend more ravishing than this
prosaic tale which is called life?
The realization of our perceptions of the world in the forms of space and
time is the only aim ofour pictorial and plastic art.
 Constructivism and the Industrial Arts | 213

In them we do not measure our works with the yardstick ' of beauty, we
do not weigh them with pounds of tenderness and sentiments.
The plumb-line in our hand, eyes as precise as a ruler, in a spirit as taut
as a compass . . . we construct our work as the universe constructs its
own, as the engineer constructs his bridges, as the mathematician his for-
mula of the orbits.
We know that everything has its own essential image; chair, table lamp,
telephone, book, house, man . . . they are all entire worlds with their own
rhythms, their own orbits.
That is why we in creating things take away from them the labels of their
owners . . . all accidental and local, leaving only the reality of the constant
rhythm of the forces in them.
1. Thence in painting we renounce colour as a pictorial element, colour is
the idealized optical surface of objects; an exterior and superficial impres-
sion of them; colour is accidental and has nothing in common with the in-
nermost essence of a thing.
We affirm that the tone of a substance, i.e. its light-absorbing material
body is its only pictorial reality.
2. We renounce in a line, its descriptive value; in real life there-are no
descriptive lines, description is an accidental trace of a man on things, it is
not bound up with the essential life and constant structure of the body.
Descriptiveness is an element of graphic illustration and decoration.
We affirm the line only as a direction of the static forces and their rhythm
in objects.
3. We renounce volume as a pictorial and plastic form of space; one cannot
measure space in volumes as one cannot measure liquid in yards: look at
our space . . . what is it if not one continuous depth?
We affirm depth as the only pictorial and plastic form of space.
4. We renounce in sculpture, the mass as a sculptural element.
It is known to every engineer that the static forces of a solid body and its
material strength do not depend on the quantity of the mass . . . example a
rail, a T-beam etc.
But you sculptors of all shades and directions, you still adhere to the age-
old prejudice that you cannot free the volume of mass. Here (in this exhibi-
tion) we take four planes and we construct with them the same volume as of
four tons ® of mass.
Thus we bring back to sculpture the line as a direction and in it we affirm
depth as the one form of space.
5. We renounce the thousand-year-old delusion in art that held the static
rhythms as the only elements of the plastic and pictorial arts.
214 / RUSSIAN ART OF THE “AVANT
~G AR Die

We affirm in these arts a new element the kinetic rhythms as the basic
forms of our perception of real time.
These are the five fundamental principles of our work and our construc-
tive technique.
Today we proclaim our words to you people. In the squares and on the
streets we are placing our work convinced that art must not remain a sanctu-
ary for the idle, a consolation for the weary, and a justification for the lazy.
Art should attend us everywhere that life flows and acts. . . at the bench,
at the table, at work, at rest, at play; on working days and holidays. . . at
home and on the road . . . in order that the flame to live should not extin-
guish in mankind.
We do not look for justification, neither in the past nor in the future.
Nobody can tell us what the future is and what utensils does one eat it
with.
Not to lie about the future is impossible and one can lie about it at will.
We assert that the shouts about the future are for us the same as the tears
about the past: a renovated day-dream of the romantics.
A monkish delirium of the heavenly kingdom of the old attired in contem-
porary clothes.
He who is busy today with the morrow is busy doing nothing.
And he who tomorrow will bring us nothing of what he has done today is
of no use for the future.
Today is the deed.
We will account for it tomorrow.
The past we are leaving behind as carrion.
The future we leave to the fortune-tellers.
We take the present day.

ALEKSEI GAN
Constructivism [Extracts], 1922

Born 1893; died 1942. 1918-20: attached to TEO Narkompros [Teatralnyi otdel Nar-
komprosa—Theater Section of Narkompros] as head of the Section of Mass Presenta-
tions and Spectacles; end of 1920: dismissed from Narkompros by Anatolii Luna-
 Construction and the Industrial Arts / 215

Aleksei Gan, mid-1920s. Riding a motorcycle,

wearing cyclist’s goggles, was Gan’s favorite
pastime.

charsky because of his extreme ideological position; close association with Inkhuk;
cofounder of the First Working Group of Constructivists; early 1920s: turned to
designing architectural and typographical projects, movie posters, bookplates;
1922-23 editor of the journal Kino-fot [Cine-Photo]; 1926-30: member of OSA
[Obedinenie sovremennykh arkhitektorov—Association of Contemporary Archi-
tects] and artistic director of its journal, Sovremennaya arkhitektura [SA—
Contemporary Architecture; bibl. R84]; 1928: member of October group; during
1920s: wrote articles on art and architecture; died in a prison camp.

The translation is of extracts from Gan’s book Konstruktivizm (Tver, October—

December 1922 [according to KL, advertised as appearing in May in bibl. R59,
no. 5, p. 26]). The first extract, ‘“Revolutionary Marxist Thought,’’ is from pp.
13-19; the second, “‘From Speculative Activity,’’ is from pp. 48-49; and the third,
“Tectonics, Texture, Construction,’ is from pp. 55—56. [Part of the text has been
translated into English in bibl. 45, pp. 284—87.] The book acted as a declaration of
the industrial constructivists and marked the rapid transition from a purist conception
of a constructive art to an applied, mechanical one; further, it has striking affinities
with the enigmatic ‘‘Productivist’’ manifesto published in bibl. 216, p. 153. It is log-
ical to assume that the book’s appearance was stimulated by the many debates on
construction and production that occurred in Inkhuk during 1921 and in which Boris
Arvatov, Osip Brik, El Lissitzky, Aleksandr Rodchenko, Varvara Stepanova, Niko-
lai Tarabukin, et al., took an active part, and also by the publication of the influential
collection of articles Jskusstvo v proizvodstve [Art in Production] in the same year
[bib]. R454]. Moreover, the First Working Group of Constructivists, of which Gan
D161 ne SiS RAUNT
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Cover of Aleksei Gan’s Konstruktivizm [Con- Page from Konstruktivizm. Designed by

structivism] (Tver, 1922). Designed by Gan. Gan.

was a member, had been founded in 1920 (see p. 241ff). However, the book, like
Gan himself, was disdained by many contemporary constructivists, and the signifi-
cance of the book within the context of Russian constructivism has, perhaps, been
overrated by modern observers.

In keeping with its tenets, the book’s textual organization and imagery are highly
“‘industrial’’: the elaborate typographical layout designed by Gan and the book’s
cover (desigred allegedly by Gan but suggested probably by Rodchenko [cf. the
definitive cover with the project by Rodchenko illustrated in bibl. R76, no. 1, 1923,
p. 106]) were intended, of course, to support the basic ideas of the text itself. Such
terms as tektonika [tectonics], faktura [texture], and konstruktsiya [construction]
were vogue words during the later avant-garde period, especially just after the Revo-
lution, and implied rather more than their direct English translations. The concepts of
texture and construction had been widely discussed as early as 1912-14, stimulating
David Burliuk and Vladimir Markov, for example, to devote separate essays to the
question of texture [see bibl. R269, R233]; and the concept of construction was, of
course, fundamental to Markov’s ‘‘The Principles of the New Art’’ (see pp. 23ff.).
The term ‘‘texture’’ was also used by futurist poets, and Aleksei Kruchenykh pub-
lished a booklet entitled Faktura slova [Texture of the Word] in 1923 [see bibl. 133,
p. 341, for details]. The term ‘‘tectonics’’ was, however, favored particularly by the
constructivists and, as the so-called ‘‘Productivist’’ manifesto explained, ‘‘is derived
from the structure of communism and the effective exploitation of industrial matter’’
 Constructivism and the Industrial Arts | 217

{bibl. 216, p. 153]. But nonconstructivists also used the term; to Aleksandr Shev-
chenko, for example, a tectonic composition meant the ‘‘continual displacement and
modification of tangible forms of objects until the attainment of total equilibrium on
the picture’s surface’ [bibl. R16, p. 119]. To confuse matters further, Gan’s own
explanation of tectonics, texture, and construction was not at all clear: ‘‘Tectonics is
synonymous with the organicness of thrust from the intrinsic substance. . . . Tex-
ture is the organic state of the processed material. . . . Construction should be un-
derstood as the collective function of constructivism . . .”’ (Konstruktivizm, pp.
61-62). Nevertheless, despite Gan’s rhetoric and obscurity, the value of his book lies
in the fact that it crystallized, as it were, certain potential ideas in evidence since at
least 1920 and presented them as what can be regarded as the first attempt to formu-
late the constructivist ideology. The inconsistencies and pretentiousness of Gan’s
style of writing leave much to be desired. For extracts in French translation see bibl.
1451, pp. 205-II.

From ‘‘Revolutionary Marxist Thought in Words

and Podagrism in Practice’’
Year in year out, like a soap bubble, Narkompros fills out and bursts
after overloading its heart with the spirits of all ages and peoples, with
all systems and with all the ‘‘sinful’’ and ‘‘sinless’’ values (!) of the liv-
ing and the dead.

And under the auspices of the quasi Marxists work the black
thousands of votaries of art, and in our revolutionary age the
‘‘spiritual’’ culture of the past still stands firmly on the stilts of
reactionary idealism.

Artistic culture—as one of the formal exponents of the ‘‘spiritual’’—does

not break with the values of Utopian and fanciful visions, and its fabricators
do not reject the priestly functions of formalized hysterics.
QS. | LPAGNI
TRAUISIS AGRE DO be els HE aAG Vala Niele GEAGK aD EE

The Communists of Narkompros in charge of art affairs are hardly dis-

tinguishable from the non-Communists outside Narkompros. They are just
as fascinated by the beautiful as the latter are captivated by the divine.

Seduced by priestliness, the transmitters and popularizers reverently

serve the past, while promising the future by word of mouth. This impels
them toward the most reactionary, déclassé maniacal artists: of painting,
sculpture, and architecture. On the one hand, they are Communists ready to
fall in open battle with capitalism at the slightest attempt at restoration; on
the other hand, like conservatives, they fall voluntarily, without striking a
blow, and liturgically revere the art of those very cultures that they regard
so severely when mentioning the theory of historical materialism.
Our responsible, very authoritative leaders are unfortunately dealing
confusedly and unscrupulously with the art not only of yesterday, but also of
today; and they are creating conditions in which there can be no possibility
of putting the problems of intellectual-material production on the rails of
practical activity in a collective and organized fashion.
And no wonder; they are of one flesh with those same putrid aesthetics
against which the materialist innovators of leftist art rebelled.
That is why a campaign is being waged both in the open and in secret
against the “‘nonideaists’’ and the ‘‘nonobjectivists.’’ And the more thema-
tic the latter, the more graphically reality supports them, the less stringently
the priests of the old art carry on the struggle with them.
Now officially they are everything; they set the tone and, like clever ac-
tors, paint themselves up to resemble Marx.
It is only the proletariat with its sound Marxist materialism that does
not follow them, but for all that, the vast masses do: the intellectuals,
agnostics, spiritualists, mystics, empiriocritics, eclectics, and other po-
dagrics and paralytics.
 Constructivism and the Industrial Arts | 219

The priest-producers of these ‘‘artistic values’’ understand this situation

and take it into account. It is they who are weaving the threads of falsehood
and deception. Like the rotten heritage of the past, they continue to parasi-
tize and ventriloquize, using the resources of that same proletariat that,
writhing in agony, heroically, implements the slogans, the promises of
mankind’s liberation from every supernatural force encroaching on his
freedom.

, ial
ctual-materla
of the inte communist
a
The proletariat and the proletarianized peasantry take absolutely no part in.
art.
220 | RUSSTAN ART OF THE AVANTGARDE

The character and forms in which art was expressed and the “‘social’’
meaning that it possessed affected them in no way whatsoever.
The proletariat developed and cultivated itself independently as a class
within the concrete conditions of the struggle. Its ideology was formulated
precisely and clearly. It tightened the lower ranks of its class not by play-
acting, not by the artificial means of abstraction, not by abstruse fetishism,
but by the concrete means of revolutionary action, by thematic propaganda
and factual agitation.
Art did not consolidate the fighting qualities of the proletarian revolu-
tionary class; rather it decomposed the individual members of its vanguard.
On the whole it was alien and useless to a class that had its own and
only its own cultural perspective.

The more vividly the artistic-reactionary wave of restoration manifests it-

self—the more distinctly will the sound, authentic elements of the proletariat
dissociate themselves from this sphere of activity.

During the whole time of the proletarian revolution, neither the depart-
ment in charge of art affairs, nor organizations, nor groups have justified
their promises in practice.
From the broadcast of revolutionary calls to the future, they turned off
into the reactionary bosom of the past and built their practice on the theory
of ‘‘spiritual’’ continuity.
But practice showed that ‘‘spiritual’’ continuity is hostile to the tasks of a
proletarian revolution by which we advance toward Communism.

THE COUNTERREVOLUTIONISM OF THE BOURGEOIS VOTARIES OF ART WHO

HAVE WANDERED CASUALLY FROM ART TO REVOLUTION HAS CREATED AN
INCREDIBLE CONFUSION IN ITS VAIN ATTEMPTS TO ‘‘REVOLUTIONIZE”” THE
FLABBY SPIRIT OF THE PAST BY AESTHETICS.

BUT THE SENTIMENTAL DEVOTION TO THE REVOLUTION OF THE IDEOL-

OGISTS OF THE PETIT-BOURGEOIS TENDENCY HAS PRODUCED A SHARP CRACK
IN THE ATTEMPTS TO DECAPITATE THE MATERIALISM OF REVOLUTIONARY
REALITY BY THE OLD FORMS OF ART.
 Constructivism and the Industrial Arts / 221

But the victory of materialism in the field of artistic labor is also on

the eve of its triumph.
The proletarian revolution is not a word of flagellation but a real whip,
which expels parasitism from man’s practical reality in whatever guise it
hides its repulsive being.
The present moment within the framework of objective conditions obliges
us to declare that the current position of social development is advancing
with the omen that the artistic culutre of the past is unacceptable.
The fact that all so-called art is permeated with the most reactionary ideal-
ism is the product of extreme individualism; this individualism shoves it in
the direction of new, unnecessary amusements with experiments in refining
subjective beauty.
Art

is indissolubly linked:

with theology,

metaphysics,

and mysticism.

It emerged during the epoch of primeval cultures, when technique existed

in ‘‘the embryonic state of tools,’’ and forms of economy floundered in utter
primitiveness.
It passed through the forge of the guild craftsmen of the Middle Ages.
It was artificially reheated by the hypocrisy of bourgeois culture and, fi-
nally, crashed against the mechanical world of our age.
Death to art!

It arose naturally

developed naturally

and disappeared naturally.

Ee)

MARXISTS MUST WORK IN ORDER TO ELUCIDATE ITS DEATH SCIEN-

TIFICALLY AND TO FORMULATE NEW PHENOMENA OF ARTISTIC LABOR

WITHIN THE NEW HISTORIC ENVIRONMENT OF OUR TIME.
222 ff RUS STAN (ARTO Fol HOES AtvcACNGD
= 1GeAeR eae

In the specific situation of our day, a gravitation toward the technical

acme and social interpretation can be observed in the work of the masters of
revolutionary art.
Constructivism is advancing—the slender child of an industrial
culture.
For a long time capitalism has let it rot underground.
It has been liberated by—the Proletarian Revolution.
A new chronology begins

with October 25, 1917.

From ‘‘From Speculative Activity of Art

to Socially Meaningful Artistic Labor’’
. . When we talk about social technology, this should imply not just one
kind of tool, and not a number of different tools, but a system of these tools,
their sum total in the whole of society.
It is essential to picture that in this society, lathes and motors, instruments
and apparatuses, simple and complex tools are scattered in various places,
but in a definite order.
In some places they stand like huge sockets (e.g., in centers of large-scale
industry), in other places other tools are scattered about. But at any given
moment, if people are linked by the bond of labor, if we have a society,
then all the tools of labor will also be interlocked: all, so to say, ‘‘technolo-
gies’ of individual branches of production will form something whole, a
united social technology, and not just in our minds, but objectively and
concretely.
The technological system of society, the structure of its tools, creates
the structure of human relationships, as well.
The economic structure of society is created from the aggregate of its
productional relationships.
The sociopolitical structure of society is determined directly by its eco-
nomic structure. }
But in times of revolution peculiar contradictions arise.
We live in the world’s first proletarian republic. The rule of the workers is
realizing its objectives and is fighting not only for the retention of this rule,
but also for absolute supremacy, for the assertion of new, historically neces-
sary forms of social reality.
 Constructivism and the Industrial Arts | 223

In the territory of labor and intellect, there is no room for speculative

activity.
In the sphere of cultural construction, only that has concrete value
which is indissolubly linked with the general tasks of revolutionary actu-
ality.
Bourgeois encirclement can compel us to carry out a whole series of stra-
tegic retreats in the field of economic norms and relationships, but in no way
must it distort the process of our intellectual work.
The proletarian revolution has bestirred human thought and has struck
home at the holy relics and idols of bourgeois spirituality. Not only the ec-
clesiastical priests have caught it in the neck, the priests of aesthetics have
had it too.
Art is finished! It has no place in the human labor apparatus.
Labor, technology, organization!
THE REVALUATION OF THE FUNCTIONS OF HUMAN ACTIVITY, THE LINKING
OF EVERY EFFORT WITH THE GENERAL RANGE OF SOCIAL OBJECTIVES—

that is the ideology of our time.

And the more distinctly the motive forces of social reality confront our
consciousness, the more saliently its sociopolitical forms take shape—the
more the masters of artistic labor are confronted with the task of:
Breaking with their speculative activity (of art) and
of finding the paths to concrete action by employing
their knowledge and skill for the sake of true living and
purposeful labor.
Intellectual-material production establishes labor interrelations and a
productional link with science and technology by arising in the place of
art—art, which by its very nature cannot break with religion and phi-
losophy and which is powerless to leap from the exclusive circle of ab-
stract, speculative activity.

From ‘‘Tectonics, Texture, Construction’’

A productive series of successful and unsuccessful experiments, discoveries,
and defeats followed in the wake of the leftist artists. By the second decade
224 | “RUSIST
AWN @A RIT) O}R eit HE MAgY AGNGT
<1GrAgR DIE

of the twentieth century, their innovational efforts were already known.

Among these, precise analysis can establish vague, but nevertheless persis-
tent tendencies toward the principles of industrial production: texture as a
form of supply, as a form of pictorial display for visual perception, and the
search for constructional laws as a form of surface resolution. Leftist paint-
ing revolved around these two principles of industrial production and persis-
tently repulsed the old traditions of art. The suprematists, abstractionists,
and ‘‘nonideaists’’ came nearer and nearer to the pure mastery of the artistic
labor of intellectual-material production, but they. did not manage to sever
the umbilical cord that still held and joined them to the traditional art of the
Old Believers.?
Constructivism has played the role of midwife.
Apart from the material-formal principles of industrial production, i.e., of
texture and of constructional laws, constructivism has given us a third prin-
ciple and the first discipline, namely, tectonics.
We have already mentioned that the leftist artists, developing within the
conditions of bourgeois culture, refused to serve the tastes and needs of the
bourgeoisie. In this respect they were the first revolutionary nucleus in the
sphere of cultural establishments and canons and violated their own sluggish
well-being. Even then they had begun to approach the problems of produc-
tion in the field of artistic labor. But those new social conditions had not yet
arisen that would have allowed for their social interpretation and thematic
expression in the products of their craft.
The Proletarian Revolution did this.
Over the four years of its triumphant advance the ideological and intellec-
tual representatives of leftist art have been assimilating the ideology of the
revolutionary proletariat. Their formal achievements have been joined by a
new ally—the materialism of the working class. Laboratory work on texture
and constructions—within the narrow framework of painting, sculpture, and
senseless architecture unconnected with the reconstruction of the whole of
the social organism—has, for them, the true specialists in artistic produc-
tion, become insignificant and absurd.

AND WHILE THE PHILISTINES AND AESTHETES, TOGETHER WITH A CHOIR

OF LIKE-MINDED INTELLECTUALS, DREAMED THAT THEY WOULD ‘‘HAR-
MONICALLY DEAFEN’’ THE WHOLE WORLD WITH THEIR MUSICAL ART AND
TUNE ITS MERCANTILE SOUL TO THE SOVIET PITCH,
WOULD REVEAL WITH THEIR SYMBOLIC-REALISTIC PICTURES OF ILLITER-
ATE AND IGNORANT RUSSIA THE SIGNIFICANCE OF SOCIAL REVOLUTION, AND
 Constructivism and the Industrial Arts | 225

WOULD IMMEDIATELY DRAMATIZE COMMUNISM IN THEIR PROFESSIONAL

THEATERS THROUGHOUT THE LAND—
The positive nucleus of the bearers of leftist art began to line up along
the front of the revolution itself.
From laboratory work the constructivists have passed to practical ac-
tivity.

Tectonics
Texture EES
ii

and Construction es

—these are the disciplines through whose help we can emerge from
the dead end of traditional art’s aestheticizing professionalism onto the
path of purposeful realization of the new tasks of artistic activity in the
field of the emergent Communist culture.
WITHOUT ART, BY MEANS OF INTELLECTUAL-MATERIAL PRODUCTION, THE
CONSTRUCTIVIST JOINS THE PROLETARIAN ORDER FOR THE STRUGGLE WITH
THE PAST, FOR THE CONQUEST OF THE FUTURE.

BORIS ARVATOV .
The Proletariat
and Leftist Art, 1922

Bom Kiev, 1896; died Moscow, 1940. Ca. 1908: attended high school in Riga;
1911: member of the Union of Social Democratic Youth; ca. 1915: attended Pet-
rograd University, studying physics and mathematics; 1918: member of Proletkult;
1920: member of theCommunist Party; 1921: commissar on the Polish front; early
1920s: member of Proletkult; member of Inkhuk and the Russian Academy of
Artistic Sciences; closely associated with Lef [Levyi front iskusstv—Left Front of
the Arts], with the constructivists and formalists; author of books and many articles
on modern art and literature; died in a prison camp.

The text of this piece, ‘‘Proletariat i levoe iskusstvo,”’ is from Vestnik iskusstv [Art
Herald] (Moscow), no. 1, January 1922, pp. 10-11 [bibl. R59]; no. 2, pp. 3-5,
B26 1/1 UROU SISTIPAUNE NR age
AU Rudi ©, Beanie vee ACy aAUN lie

carried an answer to Arvatov by one V. T. entitled ‘‘Eshche 0 levom iskusstve’’

[More on Leftist Art]. Vestnik iskusstv was the journal of the Art Section of Glavpo-
litprosvet/Glavnyi politiko-prosvetitelnyi komitet [Central Committee of Political
Enlightenment], a department established within Narkompros in November 1920 to
take charge of adult education; it lasted until 1930 and compiled several publications,
e.g., Glavpolitprosvet: rabota i teatr [Glavpolitprosvet: Work and Theater] (Mos-
cow, 1927). This text by Arvatov, who was a member of Glavpolitprosvet, reflects
his ambiguous attitude to leftist art: from an aesthetic standpoint he supported nonob-
jective art, but from a social standpoint he voiced a preference for utilitarian art. A
similar division of loyalties is evident in Arvatov’s general literary and artistic cri-
tiques of the early and mid-1920s—in which he artfully managed to combine strict
formalist analysis and sociopolitical commentary.

Proletarian art, of which so far there is no trace, is possible only as an art

that is socially useful and, moreover, consciously useful; an art that, to its
very marrow, is bound indissolubly with life, evolving with it and deriving
from it—whereas the basic feature of bourgeois art lies in the fact that its
forms live and move outside and above concrete reality in a rigidly fixed,
‘feternally’’ established form.
It is therefore quite obvious that to proceed from these individualistic
forms irrelevant to life is to cut oneself off completely from the road to pro-
letarian art. On the contrary, only their destruction, their pulverization into
discrete elements, and their liberation from the fetishism of aesthetic self-
sufficiency can build the sole path to organic artistic creation.
It is leftist art that is blazing this trail. Beginning with Cézanne and
Picasso and ending, via Carra, with Tatlin, modern artists have uncon-
sciously been cleaning up the fields of old art and have plowed them ready
for the proletarian sowing.
People maintain that such artists represent the ultimate end and death of
bourgeois art. Yes, of course—but does that really exclude their historical,
social role? Does Marxism not teach us that it is capitalism that, in digging
its own grave, throws up right beside it the mound of Socialist society?
It is said that the leftist artists consider their abstract work to be an end in
itself. Well, so what? . . . That’s what they are supposed to do, that’s what
they have brains for—but of what concern to the proletariat are their subjec-
tive views? . . . Do workers not destroy machines just because they have
been installed for the aim of exploitation?
It is declared that the leftists’ work has no ‘‘content.’’ But content, in
fact, is nothing other than the social aim of form. Use this form pur-
posefully; and it will fill itself with content.
 Constructivism and the Industrial Arts | 227

BECTHHR.
HCRYCCTB
a |
WEATP, AY3UIKA, RHBONHCL » AKTEPATYPA
ea

OPTAH XYAOKECTBEHHOFO OTAEAA

TAABNOAMTHPOCBETA

RE Ae
’

Cover of Vestnik iskusstv [Art Herald] (Moscow), no. 1, 1922. Artist un-
known.

It is shouted that the working class does not understand the leftist artists. I
should think so! . . . If you have been brought up on the vulgar, cheap, bad
taste of oleographs and postcards, you will not find it very easy to cross over
to the latest achievements of a superior culture. Anyway, is this really an
argument? Did the Marxists not at one time fight for their own ideas while
the proletariat firmly supported different ones?
All these objections stem entirely from a subjective nonacceptance of left-
ist art by our ‘‘ideologists’’ and their disciples, contaminated as they are by
old forms. Fetishists to the marrow of their bones, they behave toward in-
228 / RUSSIAN ART OF THE AVANT-GARDE

novators in a way absurdly like that of a bourgeois public. It is no secret that

all art reformers from Delacroix to the futurists were greeted by the critics
with the same senseless howl of resentment: ‘‘lunatics,’’ ‘‘charlatans,”’
‘‘hangmen of art.’’ You would think that the Marxists would act differently:
investigate, elucidate the social and historical significance, discover the
roots, and look for the fruits. Not likely! Our intellectual, individualistic
psychology is too strong and its essential feature, as far as artistic apprecia-
tion is concerned, is a benumbed conservatism. To renounce the conven-
tional, the customary, the historically sanctified is to make a sacrifice that
the individual’s consciousness is incapable of doing.
Whereas leftist art (whether it be the end, death, disintegration, an end in
itself, or not) is the historical bridge over which the working class must
inevitably pass to reach the shore of its own art. The point is that we can
build socially purposeful forms—not benumbed, but alive and growing—
only by proceeding from the material itself and the methods of its process-
ing. But to do that, we must first of all give up the fetishism of ready-made
forms. This is just what the abstractionists did. They decomposed the abso-
lute figurativeness of the old art and gradually arrived (via cubism and fu-
turism) at constructions of pure materials. They tore off all formal costumes
from the body of art and laid bare its material. They were the first to show
that material has its own laws and that to know them is the artist’s primary
obligation. They, and they alone, advocated the idea of constructivism,
ceased to violate material, and raised the question in practical terms of its
purposeful (constructivist) utilization. Is it not thanks to them that we now
know that form is not a point of departure but a result? . . . Was it not their
art that showed that objective and material alter form in any direction?. . .
Did it not become possible, beginning with them, to build a form appropri-
ate to every occasion? . . .
And this is, in fact, the central problem of proletarian art. To build not ac-
cording to form, but according to social objective—that is what the proletar-
iat wants. But such construction demands the rejection of the ready-made
stereotype: you would not put a shopwindow mannequin’s wig on your
head.
Here is a simple example.
A proletarian artist receives an order for a poster. What should he do to
make it effective? To make it correspond to the place where it will be hung
(e.g., on the surface of a wall), to the spectators to whom it will be shown,
to the distance from which they will look at it, to the subject that will be
depicted on it (if the poster is figurative), to the ideological influence for
which it is intended, etc., etc. . . ? All this can be accomplished on one
 Constructivism and the Industrial Arts | 229

condition: that the artist knows how to make free use of those materials that
go to make up the poster as an expressive and actively organizational form;
and moreover, not to use them—as was done previously—in one definite di-
rection (in such and such a ‘‘style’’), but in any way, as a given concrete oc-
casion dictates. Inevitably this command of material presupposes an abstract
laboratory or, in other words, a laboratory in which the apprentice would
learn to experiment with raw materials in all sorts of ways by applying them
to any kind of direction and solving all kinds of problems with their help.
This laboratory would become the focal point where the paths of art,
science, practice, and theory would come together. And in this is to be
found the cardinal difference between contemporary abstraction and prole-
tarian abstraction (still to come). While the problems resolved by the former
are posed quite subjectively, are planned haphazardly, and depend ulti-
mately on the personal desires of the individual artist, the comradely collab-
oration of artists and theoreticians in the proletarian laboratory will create an
atmosphere in which each problem will emerge indispensably and objec-
tively from practical and conscious premises.
However, the significance of abstraction is in no way confined to this.
There is no need to explain that it is a direct step toward industrial art. A
decisive dissociation from applied art, from the invention of ‘‘nice motifs’’
for objects, from the ‘‘application’’ of art to technology is possible only
through an organic fusion of the industrial process with the process of artis-
tic design. But there are three points in the industrial process: the raw mate-
rial, the method of processing, and the purpose of the product. That is why
it is quite inconceivable for any artist who is incapable of mastering the raw
material, i.e., material used abstractly, to be in a factory. If he does happen
to turn up there, then the only results of his ‘‘creativity’’ will be fabrics ‘‘a
la impressionism,’’ cubist glasses, and futurist plates; ' that’s, at best—at
best, because all these articles will be original, albeit senseless; at worst
(and this is the predominant case in a bourgeois society), the artist will
devote himself to imitations of Egypt, the Renaissance, etc. Because where
can he get his originality from, if this ‘‘originality’’ has to be not his own
but simply expedient—and if expediency excludes preconceived form (i.e.,
‘‘originality’’)? . . . Hence only abstractionists are suitable for industry.
But if our contemporary artists and intellectuals arrive at the factory from
the polytechnic, i.e., become engineers, this will be the first historic ad-
vance—but only the first. The organizer and producer would, as before,
remain severed; the design of articles would, to a great extent, be fortuitous
and fragmented. And only the proletariat will overcome this—the proletar-
iat, which is destined by history to make the second advance: to fuse the
230 1 ROS SeVAUNGWAGRG IL (Oph ein GENE AVANT-GARDE

supervisor and the producer and thereby to subordinate the industrial

process—and at the same time the process of artistic design—to the collec-
tive’s socially conscious and free will, a will that knows not chaos and blind
anarchy and that therefore guarantees against the fortuities of the individual.
Integralness and organization are the premises of industrial art; pur-
posefulness is its law. Both quite obviously point to the abstractionist as the
immediate precursor of the proletarian artist. From the organizational engi-
neer to the organizational worker—this is the path of social development in
general and of art in particular.

VIKTOR PERTSOV
At the Junction
of Art and Production, 1922

Born 1898; died Moscow, i980. Ca. 1920: worked in Ukrainian Narkompros;
moved to Moscow, where hejoined TsIT (see p. 307, n. 4, to “First Discussional’”’);
member of Moscow Proletkult; 1927-29: active in Novyi lef [New Left Front of the
Arts]; author of books and many articles dealing with Russian literature, especially
poetry; known for his studies of Vladimir Mayakovsky, as well as for his own verse.

The text of this piece, ‘‘Na styke iskusstva i proizvodstva,’’ is from Vestnik iskusstv
[Art Herald] (Moscow), no. 5, May 1922, pp. 22-25 [bibl. R59; for details on the
journal see pp. 225-26]. It is one of Pertsov’s few articles on art, the bulk of his criti-
cal writing being devoted to literature, but it demonstrates his immediate awareness of
the central problems of productional art. Amid the general enthusiasm for construc-
tivism and industrial design shared by his colleagues, Pertsov was one of the first of
the new critics to indicate the dangers of such an attitude, and his obvious concern
for the continued independence of art as an activity outside industry (although not
necessarily alien to it) distinguishes his position from that of such figures as Osip
Brik and Aleksandr Rodchenko. Indeed, Pertsov is clearly resisting El Lissitzky’s
contemporaneous formulations, e.g., of “‘composition’’ and ‘‘construction’’ (cf.
bibl. 246 and bibl. 247, p. 36), and Aleksei Gan’s “‘algebraic’’ terminology (see pp.
214ff.), as well as the authoritarian attitudes of Kazimir Malevich and Vladimir
Tatlin. Pertsov’s maxim ‘‘Not Ideas but People’’ anticipates Yakov Chernikhov’s
 Constructivism and the Industrial Arts / 231

Viktor Pertsov, 1927. He was then working for

the journal Novyi lef [New Left] in Moscow.

later call for a more human, more “‘artistic’’ interpretation of constructivism (see pp.
254ff.).

The productional view of art has come to occupy our artistic conscious-
ness as a broad but obtuse issue. From this has arisen a sensation of mental
noise—an echo, undoubtedly, of the commotion that ensued after theore-
ticians and artists everywhere had felt a certain guilt before contempo-
raneity, technology, and other weighty pheonomena. Although all the opin-
ions of artists on production share the tone of an apology to somebody and
even of some sort of historical repentance, they do have one good conse-
quence: no longer will anyone be surprised that art can be linked in some
way with production and no longer is there any mention of stupid conversa-
tions about art and craft.

The Organization of an Artistic

and Productional Rapprochement
Hitherto, production and art have not known each other and have lived nur-
tured on the haziest rumors. Despite the fact that history, by its very nature
232 / RUSSIAN ART OF THE AVANT-GARDE

an incomparable matchmaker, has done everything possible over recent

years to bring them together, they have, nevertheless, remained
‘‘strangers.’’ The state, in the person of the People’s Commissariat for
Enlightenment, created for them innumerable rendezvous in the form of all
kinds of artistic-technological workshops, but many of these have sub-
sequently been closed down. Nevertheless, despite all these efforts, produc-
tion remained a complete sphinx for art, and vice versa—with the only dif-
ference that art was active and production passive. Without having any
positive facts, artists began to engage in wild fantasies about their future life
together with industry. And we ought to be still more surprised that artists—
who had literally invented their information on technology—could formulate
their assumptions more or less diversely and even contrived to argue with
each other.

Fashion and Necessity

These arguments were the reflection not so much of fashion as of necessity,
thanks to which technology and art now gravitate toward each other. In this
case, we are terming fashion that aggregate of new words applied to art that
has been put into circulation by the industrial slang of the working class.
When the verbal inventions of the Revolution have been taken into account,
this baggage will be considered in detail; meanwhile, specimens of this new
terminology—‘‘assembled poetics,’’ ‘‘constructed theater show,’’ etc.—
tit

should be examined only as symptoms and not as motives.

And in fact, the problem of the artist’s and engineer’s interrelations is ob-
viously becoming much more than a topical craze. How is a link to be es-
tablished between them, not only with regard to an object of mutual profes-
sional use, but also in the general layout of social construction? What does
this symbiosis consist of, and how can it be socially utilized? What organic
regenerations does art undergo as a result of it—or maybe the results are cat-
astrophic for it, and its death knell has been sounded already?
These are questions that give grounds for unease, not only on a narrow,
national scale, but, apparently, throughout Europe, throughout the whole
world—because together with the system of political changes throughout the
whole world, art has taken an abrupt, new course toward technology.

Our Perception of Industry

Before the very eyes of Russian artists, industry has suddenly taken on huge
and disproportionate dimensions, thanks to the particularly auspicious exter-
nal social conditions created by the Revolution.
 Constructivism and the Industrial Arts / 233

Something unexpected has happened—as if a man had been forced to look

through a magnifying glass and believe that the bit of reality many times
magnified by the glass was the direct, immediate continuation of it. Even the
poorest imagination would be bound to be shaken by the picture revealed.
But in this case, it would seem that the resultant disruption of the harmony
of the parts of reality has been advantageous, i.e., it has proved to be peda-
gogically reliable, useful. In the search for a stable equilibrium, the artist’s
psychology was bound to arrive at the new position whereby an aspect
previously obscured would acquire its essential efficacy.

Productional Art
However, certain artists grew despondent and rejected art as the inevitable
result of this abnormal perception. The straightforward naiveté of these peo-
ple incited in their hearts a candid envy of the industrial proletariat. An ob-
ject’s direct usefulness and its technological value appeared to them the im-
mediate ideal and legitimate measure of artistic work. As in industry, one
must present objects that are obviously practical, and then the artist’s efforts
will be socially justified and utilized. This diminutive philosophy of art had,
willy-nilly, to confine the sphere of its bold activities to a consistent, evolu-
tionary transformation of, so to say, the subsidiary parts of our everyday re-
ality, its appurtenances. Apparently, all this was sparked off by the fact that
the windows and doors of our homes, the tables and chairs of our rooms, are
quite wietched, and the utensils we use every day, our clothes, etc., in no
way gladden the eye. i
History and technology have brought all this into the world without asking
the artist’s permission, but now ‘‘productional art’’ has been called upon to
improve these objects or to remake them afresh.
This is what the rejection of art came to mean, and essentially, this admi-
rable enthusiasm should not have encountered anything but obvious sympa-
thy.

Constructivism
Efficiently and smoothly—quite incomprehensible considering the discontent
that everyone had retained—a new conception of these problems was formu-
lated in Moscow under the name ‘‘constructivism.’’ This is what has hap-
pened. The scale of work that art-productional workers have set themselves
has been extended. If the latter are prepared to help in the production of
small articles, then the constructivists are ready to act as counselors to the
234 [i ORYU-S°S ISAUN OAURUT) (OLR DE
TPE EB AGY AUN GeALRE

state on all questions of its material installations. They are mesmerized by

the monumental construction projects of the Revolution’s honeymoon
(1918-19), and after stuffing themselves on it then, they now talk about it
with their mouths full. However, it is easy to talk about an artist’s construct-
ing a ‘‘material installation’ (an algebraic sign that means heaven knows
what), but it is difficult and scandalous to set about building a viaduct or a
station when your head is full of impressionisms and suprematisms and such
technological authorities as Tatlin and Malevich. Such are the “‘good inten-
tions’’ of the constructivists.

What Remains to Art

Both productional workers and constructivists, although differing in temper-
ament, recognize the role of artistic tradition. ‘‘Meanwhile,’’ it is essential
to do at least something with the art that we are accustomed to and familiar
with—by the tested means of paint, sound, and gesture. Obviously, from the
nature of these means, in different kinds of art, there emerge various degrees
of susceptibility to the idea of the orientation of art toward production. This
idea has been given its most concrete expression in painting.
The kernel of the matter in question can best be grasped by contrasting the
two-dimensional canvas with the three-dimensional world. In particular, to
the eye of mass-instructional constructivism, the artist’s move away from
surface to space (Tatlin’s work) and the application of new instruments for
textural processing, apart from the commonly recognized paintbrush, al-
ready represent elements of constructivism in painting. In such a case, it is
usual to contrast ‘‘composition’’ and “‘construction’’: composition is taken
as a surface concept in the sense that material is distributed on a surface, and
construction implies a distribution of volumes.
At first glance, however, it is clear that to create a purely artistic work
(cf. sculpture), the artist attains maximum potential by dealing with volumes
and not by distributing material on a surface. Death of the picture by no
means signifies the death of art. But the work of such an artist-constructivist
has, unfortunately, only one thing in common with the work of the turner or
the metalworker—namely that they both produce it in three dimensions.

The Flaw in the Equation Art = Production

It can be contended that the designs of ‘‘productional art’’ and construc-
tivism have been born of the artist’s poor material situation.
Every industry caters to a certain market. Artists’ dreams of a steady and
 Constructivism and the Industrial Arts / 235

secure market for the products of their labor—which, as a rule, sell badly—
would come true if productional art became ‘‘a reality.’’ Not everyone will
buy a book or picture, but everyone needs a convenient and elegant table or
chair. While people are uncultured enough to prefer an ax to its symbol in
the abstract world, and a pot of geraniums to a Cézanne still life, it is impos-
sible to talk of aesthetic needs as a mass fact, the more so since the ““good
taste’ of modern aesthetics forbids this.
Against this background the problem of the interrelations of art and pro-
duction could not be solved, but merely be dissected. This is what has hap-
pened to the now dominant views quoted above, not counting the vast flow
of words that have given spice to their little practical content.
Before the very eyes of those thinkers who had attempted to overcome the
above problem, objects of art and objects of industry stood in isolation—in
the forms that the uninitiated had perceived and distinguished most easily.
From these two sorts of lumber dumped together in one pile, common fea-
tures were abstracted; in this way, a fusion was produced all along the line.
The drawback lies in the fact that the methodology of orienting art to
production was sought for in an outdated, isolated, and mechanically sealed
inventory—with regard both to art an. to production.

Not Ideas But People

In the meantime, it transpired that the principal characters had been left out
of all this occupation with ideas. The problem of combining the methods of
art and industry could be solved, not in a logical and abstract way, but in a
pedagogical and evolutionary way.
The center of gravity lay not in how, at the wave of a magic wand, to
draw a Satisfactory picture of the coexistence of production and art, but in
how to build up a system of educating the engineer and artist by following
the objective directions of both art and industry.
These two educational aggregates served as the point of departure for all
the opinions of the theoreticians, aggregates accepted as exclusive facts.
If the problem of fusing technology with art is taken not as a subject of
topical dispute, but seriously, as a social problem, then it should not be
doomed to the amateurish solution of the artist who understands absolutely
nothing about production, or of the engineer who, correspondingly, has no
artistic training.
It is essential to realize that the enigmatic phenomena of contemporary ar-
tistic culture with their ramifications of cubism, suprematism, transsense,'
etc.—brilliant material for witty rapprochements with the tendencies of con-
236 / RUSSIAN ART OF THE AVANT-GARDE

temporary technology—do not in themselves bring us any nearer to a solu-

tion of the concrete problem. Moreover, they should be taken only as a sign,
as the consolidation in artistic experience of the teeming industrial impres-
sions of contemporaneity, as a call to practical reform.
The effect of industry on the art of our century is a fact that has been es-
tablished many times.
One cannot keep on establishing it, by producing the most piquant con-
trasts and details, without some authoritative, practical inference. And it is
all the more barbaric and uncultured to abolish art before its time and, after
burying it alive, to throw reckless conjectures into a void.

The Experience of Creating

an Artist-Engineer
In order not to remain the dubious observers of the curiosities of ‘‘art and
life,’’ we must make this tendency of art, noted above, the subject of a de-
liberate culture.
The latter can be achieved after we have attempted to re-create the sys-
tems of educating the artist and the engineer, and after we have given them
unity in accordance with their new aims. At first this can be done roughly by
supplementing the present curricula with missing subjects. Suffice it to re-
member in this connection that our ordinary engineer-architect, besides the
principles of mechanics and practical technology, also used to learn the his-
tory of art styles. In this case nobody was surprised at the combination of
technological/mathematical abilities and artistic flair and talent.
The historical example of their brilliant combination in Leonardo da Vinci
is particularly striking to our age, more than any other.
A broad-based and accurate familiarity with technology should be in-
troduced as an integral part of the system of educating the modern artist.
What will he be called in this case? An engineer—of words, an engineer-
musician, an engineer-decorator, etc.—it is not important. Which should be
taken as the basis of the new educational establishment—the art school or
the technological institute? Where will this new kind of social builder draw
the necessary people? Will art or industry, in their former appearance, send
their delegates here? The future will show us.
But we can already believe that the culture before us will be an unprece-
dented triumph for principles at present still disparate.
The enviable destiny of this day is to reveal its perspicacity by practical
work.
 Constructivism and the Industrial Arts / 237

STATEMENTS FROM THE CATALOGUE OF THE

**FIRST DISCUSSIONAL EXHIBITION
OF ASSOCIATIONS OF ACTIVE
REVOLUTIONARY ART,”’ 1924

The exhibition opened in Vkhutemas, Moscow, on 11 May 1924 and comprised

eight sections, of which four advanced independent declarations; those without
declarations were: the Byt [Life] group, consisting of the artists Ivan Pankov and

EErOdHA M EMEQHEBHO
POCUMBKE
vv

OB cies

HEF AO-ONEBETTA
Georgii and Vladimir Stenberg: Poster advertising a ‘‘Negro
Operetta’” in the second State Circus, 1928. One of many
posters the Stenberg brothers designed for the circus, the the-
ater, and the cinema in the late 1920s and early 1930s.
= HA TPSBHOM

Grigorii Borisov and Nikolai Prusakov: Poster for the movie The House on Trubnaya Street,
produced by Boris Barnet in 1928.

Konstantin Parkhomenko; the Association of Three— Aleksandr Deineka, Andrei

Goncharov, and Yurii Pimenov; a group called the Constructivists—including Kon-
stantin Medunetsky and the Stenberg brothers; and a small one-man show of the
sculptor Iosif Chaikov. Most of the contributors were young and had recently gradu-
ated from the new art schools, and some of them, e.g., Deineka, Goncharov,
Pimenov, Konstantin Vyalov, and Petr Vilyams became founding members of OST
(see pp. 270ff.) at the beginning of 1925.

Despite their specific titles, there was little difference between the Concretists and
the Projectionists, both of whom favored easel painting and not, as their declarations
would imply, applied art. The canvases that they presented were, however, highly
imaginative and subjective, betraying the influence of German expressionism and
even surrealistic tendencies—particularly in the work of Goncharov, Sergei Luchish-
kin, Aleksandr Tyshler, and Vilyams. Most members of the seventh section, the
First Working Organization of Artists, shortly disappeared from the art scene, al-
though Nikolai Prusakov (formerly a member of Obmokhu—Society of Young Art-
ists) later achieved a reputation as a book and poster designer.

The First Working Group of Constructivists was founded in December, 1920 (judg-
ing by Gan’s Konstruktivizm, p. 3, by an announcement in Ermitazh, [Moscow],
1922, No. 13, p. 3, and by the group’s own statement in the catalogue to this
exhibition, p. 14), and its declaration quoted here repeated some of the ideas in its
initial so-called *‘Productivist’’ manifesto [see bibl. 216, p. 153] and in Gan’s book.
 Constructivism and the Industrial Arts / 239

According to one source [bibl. R21,.p. 196], Lissitzky took the program of the First
Working Group with him when he went to Germany in 1921, thus disseminating
constructivist ideas in the West; some Western observers, including Hans Richter,
even acknowledged that constructivism had first arisen in Russia [ibid.]. The First
Working Group was not fully represented at this exhibition, which did not include
the group’s productional cell Mass Action and the Kinophot [Cinematography and
Photography] cell. Of the First Working Group represented at this exhibition, the
Chichagova sisters, Grigorii Miller, and Aleksandra Mirolyubova achieved some rec-
ognition in later years, contributing bookplate and other small graphic designs to
exhibitions.

Essentially, the exhibition acted as a junction of artistic interests: easel art versus in-
dustrial art. The exhibition’s title indicated also the quandary in which many artists
were finding themselves: the word ‘‘discussional’’ [diskussionyi] has the meaning in
Russian not only of “‘concerned with discussion or debate,’’ but also of ‘‘open to
question, debatable.”’

The texts of these pieces are from the catalogue of ‘‘l-ya Diskussionaya vystavka
obedinenii aktivnogo revolyutsionnogo iskusstva’’ (Moscow, 1924). The whole cata-
logue is reprinted in Sovetskoe iskusstvo za 15 let [Soviet Art of the Last Fifteen
Years], ed. Ivan Matsa et al. (Moscow-Leningrad, 1933), pp. 313-18 [bibl. R16],
from which this translation 1s made. The catalogue name list is reprinted in bibl.
R152, p. 132, and extracts from the Constructivist declaration together with some
comments are in bibl. R22, p. 66. A detailed review of the exhibition is in bibl. R79,
1924, no. 4, pp. 120-29. Parts of the texts have been translated into German in bibl.
20QVill, pp. 143-45.

Cry Ae ee ee eC Ter | TTP

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Galina and Olga Chichagova and Nikolai Smirnov: Page design for Smir-
nov’s book Kak lyudi ezdyat [How People Travel] (Moscow, 1925).
Concretists

I. Concreteness is the object in itself.

II. Concreteness is the sum of experience.
III. Concreteness is form.
Preconditions for objects:
1. Contemporaneity
2. Clarity of objective
3. Accuracy of execution
Participants in the group: Petr Vilyams, B. Volkov, Konstantin Vyalov,
V. Lyushin, Y. Merkulov (18 different items exhibited)

The Projectionist Group

Our primary slogans:

1. Industrial production regulates social attitudes.
2. I, 2, Or 100 artists cannot organize the environment—only industrial
production can.
3. The artist is the inventor of new systems of objects and works with ob-
jective meaning.
4. Painting and volumetrical constructions are the most convincing means
of expressing (projecting) the method of organizing materials.
4a. It is essential and very opportune to be actively engaged in art.
5. The artist is not the producer of consumer objects (cupboard, picture),
but (of projections) of the method of organizing materials.
5a. Millions of producers will be making normalized objects for everyday
life.
6. Art is the science of an objective system of organizing materials.
7. Every organization is materialized through method.

240
 Constructivism and the Industrial Arts / 241

Participants in the group: S. Luchishkin, S. B. Nikritin, M. Plaksin, Kli-

ment Redko, N. Tryaskin, A. Tyshler (90 various works exhibited: Lu-
chishkin’s ‘‘analytical painting,’’ Nikritin’s ‘‘tectonic researches”’
[“‘drafts’’], painting, maquettes, models, drawings)

The First Working Group

of Constructivists

1. By taking part in this exhibition, the Constructivists are not rejecting

the basic tenets of revolutionary constructivism, which defends the factual
rationalization of artistic labor as opposed to the now dominant cultivation
of the artistic creation of idealistic art.
By appearing in this instance beneath the slogan ‘‘Associations of Active
Revolutionary Art,’’ the Constructivists are pursuing only agitational aims:
to contribute objects they have made and thereby to participate in the de-
monstrative discussion between the new groups and associations that have
arisen within a proletarian society.
This does not mean that we are turning back to art, or that we are retreat-
ing from those positions that the First Working Group of Constructivists oc-
cupied when, as early as 1920, they shouted forth the slogan ‘‘We declare
implacable war on art.’’
2. The Constructivists’ rationalization of artistic labor has nothing in
common with the travails of art makers who are striving, as it were, to ‘‘so-
cialize’’ the flowering branches of art and to compel the latter to apply itself
to contemporary social reality.
In rationalizing artistic labor, the Constructivists put into practice—not in
verbal, but in concrete terms—the real qualifications of the object: they are
raising its quality, establishing its social role, and organizing its forms in an
organic relationship with its utilitarian meaning and objective.
The Constructivists are putting into practice this rationalization of artistic
labor by means of material labor—that labor in which the workers them-
selves are directly involved.
The Constructivists are convinced that, with the growing influence of the
242 ) ROUPS|SAVATN ACRET Otel) EEA RVOAGN]
In=tG -AuREDLE

materialist world view, the so-called ‘‘spiritual’’ life of society, the emo-
tional qualities of people can no longer be cemented by abstract categories
of metaphysical beauty and by the mystical intrigues of a spirit soaring
above society.
The Constructivists assert that all art makers without exception are
engaged in these intrigues, and no matter what vestments of realistic or natu-
ralistic art they are invested in, they cannot escape essentially from the
magic circle of aesthetic conjuring tricks.
But by applying conscious reason to life, our new young proletarian soci-
ety lives also by the only concrete values of social construction and by clear
objectives.
While constructing, while pursuing these aims not only for itself, but also
through itself, our society can advance only by concretizing, only by realiz-
ing the vital acts of our modern day.
And this is our reality, our life. Ideologically, as it were, consciously, we
have extirpated yesterday, but in practical and formal terms we have not yet
mastered today’s reality.
We do not sentimentalize objects; that is why we do not sing about ob-
jects in poetry. But we have the will to construct objects; that is why we are
developing and training our ability to make objects.
3. At the ‘*First Discussional Exhibition of Associations of New Groups
of Artistic Labor,’’ the Constructivists are showing only certain aspects of
their production:
I. Typographical construction of the printed surface
II. Volumetrical objects (the construction of an armature for everyday
life)
III. Industrial and special clothing
IV. Children’s books
The First Working Group of Constructivists consists of a number of pro-
ductional cells.
Of those not represented, mention should be made of the productional cell
Kinophot (cinematography and photography), the productional cell of mate-
rial constructions, and the productional cell Mass Action.
The First Working Group of Constructivists states that all other groups
that call themselves constructivists, such as the ‘‘Constructivist Poets,’’ }
the ‘‘Constructivists of the Chamber Theater,’’ 2 the ‘‘Constructivists of the
Meierkhold Theater,’’ 3 the ‘‘Lef Constructivists,’’ the ‘‘TsIT Construc-
tivists,’’ * etc., are, from this group’s point of view, pseudo constructivists
and are engaged in merely making art.
 Constructivism and the Industrial Arts / 243

THE FIRST WORKING GROUP OF CONSTRUCTIVISTS

a. The FWGC productional cell for an armature for everyday life:
Grigorii Miller, L. Sanina, and Aleksei Gan

b. The FWGC productional cell for children’s books:

Olga and Galina Chichagova and N. G. Smirnov
c. The FWGC productional cell for industrial and special clothing:
A. Mirolyubova, L. Sanina, and Grigorii Miller

d. The FWGC productional cell for typographical production:

Aleksei Gan and Gr. Miller

The First Working Organization

of Artists

Basic Tenets
Workers of the World, Unite!
1. The First Working Organization of Artists is striving to make the artist
a socially indispensable element of modern life.
2. By organizing our personal and professional qualities, we organize the
production of artistic values as part of the normal relationship between the
artist and life.
3. By personal qualities we mean that spiritual, cultural level of con-
sciousness that is oriented toward the development of new social forms.
4. By professional qualities we mean that level of artistic culture and ar-
tistic consciousness that, while being closely bound up with contempo-
raneity, is oriented toward the development of new forms in art.
5. Through our practical and cultural activity we are organizing our psy-
chology in accordance with the basic principles of our organization.
Participants in the group: G. Aleksandrov, Petruzhkov, A. Vanetsian,
M. Sapegin, I. Korolev, K. Loginov, N. Menshutin, I. Yakovlev, N.
Prusakov (models, maquettes of architectural constructions and monu-
ments, montages, and paintings)
OSIP BRIK
From Pictures
to Textile Prints, 1924

Born St. Petersburg, 1888; died 1945. Ca. 1910: attended law school in St. Peters-
burg; 1916: member of Opoyaz [Obshchestvo poeticheskogo yazyka—Society of Po-
etical Language] in Petrograd; husband of Lilya Brik, famous for her association
with Vladimir Mayakovsky; 1918: member of IZO Narkompros [Visual Arts Section
of Narkompros]; 1919: leading member of Komfut, 1921: member of Inkhuk; 1923:
member of Lef [Levyi front iskusstv—Left Front of the Arts] and close to the con-
structivists and formalists; 1927: cofounder of Novyi lef [New Lef]; interested in
photography and film; 1929: wrote scenario for Wsevolod Pudovkin’s Heir of
Genghis Khan; late 1920s: contributed to many literary miscellanies, e.g., Literatura
fakta: pervyi sbornik materialov rabotnikov Lefa (Literature of Fact: First Collection
of Materials by Lef Workers] (Moscow, 1929).

The text of this piece, ‘‘Ot kartiny k sitsu,’’ is from Lef (Moscow), no. 2, 1924, pp.
27-34 [bibl]. R76; for details of the journal see pp. 199ff.]. The same number con-
tained an obituary of Lyubov Popova, who had been one of the first of the avant-
garde to concentrate on textile design [see bibl. R475, pp. 82-102; the text is
reprinted in bibl. R16, pp. 301-15]. Brik wrote mainly on questions of literature, but
his proximity to such artists as Aleksandr Rodchenko and Varvara Stepanova during
the 1920s stimulated his interest in applied art. Many others wrote about art in
production, but Brik was among the first to indicate the necessity for special training
in this area: of the many avant-garde artists who turned from easel work to applied
art in the early 1920s, only Stepanova had had professional instruction as a designer
(in her case as a clothing designer). Brik’s statement can be taken as an expression of
Lef policy, and it amplified the statements on textiles and design issued a few months
before by Aleksandra Exter and Stepanova [bibl. R449, R463).

The propaganda of productional art is being crowned with success.

It is becoming obvious that artistic culture is not confined to objects at
exhibitions or in museums, that painting, in particular, is not ‘‘pictures,”’
but the sum total of the painterly design of our everyday life.
The textile print is the same product of artistic culture as the picture
is—and there is no basis for advancing a dividing line between them.
Moreover, the conviction is gaining ground that the picture is dying, that

2d
 Constructivism and the Industrial Arts | 245

Osip Brik, mid-1920s.

it is indissolubly linked with the forms of the capitalist regime, with its cul-
tural ideology, that the textile print is now becoming the center of creative
attention, and that the textile print and work on it are the apex of artistic
labor. ’
And in fact, our cultural creation is founded wholly on a specific purpose.
We do not conceive of a cultural and educational work unless it pursues
some kind of definite, practical aim. The concepts of “‘pure science,’’ “‘pure
art,’’ ‘‘independent truth and beauty’’ are alien to us. We are practitioners—
and in this lies the distinctive feature of our cultural consciousness.
There is no place for the easel picture in this consciousness. Its force and
meaning lie in its extrautilitarianism, in the fact that it serves no other aim
than delighting, ‘‘caressing,’’ the eye.
All attempts to turn the easel picture into an agitational picture have been
fruitless. And this was not because there was no talented artist around, but
because this is essentially inconceivable.
The easel picture is calculated to exist a long time, for years and even
centuries. But what agitational subject would last that long? What agit-pic-
ture doesn’t grow old within a month? And if the subject of the agit-picture
grows old, then what remains?
246 / RUSSIAN ART OF THE AVANT-GARDE

A subject of short-term efficacy cannot be processed by devices calculated

to exist a long time.
A one-day show cannot be put on for centuries.
That is why the agit-picture does not stand up to competition from the
agit-poster; that is why there are no good agit-pictures.
The ‘‘pure’’ easel painters reason correctly in rejecting agit-subjects.
They realize that the easel picture would perish on such a path, that it would
lose its basic value—its ‘‘extra temporal,’’ ‘‘extrautilitarian’’ meaning, that
the poster would outdo it. Therefore they carry out desperate attacks to save
it by other means: to impress on everyone that the easel picture in its formal
meaning is a great cultural fact and that no artistic culture is conceivable
without it.
They affirm that if easel pictures were not made, artistic culture would
perish, that the ‘‘creative’’ freedom manifested in the concoction of these
easel pictures should not be extinguished for one second—otherwise that is
the end of art.
Let the picture’s subject be insignificant, let it be nonobjective or a
‘‘free’’ play of painterly forms—that is not important; what is important is
the fact that this timeless, extrautilitarian, “‘purely aesthetic’ value will
exist, that people will be able to look at it, to instill it in themselves—and
artistic culture will be saved.
That is how the monks reason. Their pious life outside the world saves the
world.
However, the easel painters are right. If the picture can be saved only in
that way.
If it is true that the easel picture is essential to the existence of artistic cul-
ture, that artistic culture will perish without it, then, of course, all measures
must be taken to ensure its development and prosperity.
But this is not true. The easel picture is not only unnecessary to our con-
temporary artistic culture, it is also one of the most powerful brakes on its
development. And this is why:
Of course, the main evil is not in the monastic reasoning of the ‘‘pure’’
easel painters. That is easily dispersed by the light of antireligious, an-
tiaesthetic propaganda. What is bad is that these monastic dogmas are trans-
formed into productional and pedagogical principles.
The point is that easel painters do not deny the importance and necessity
of other forms of artistic culture. They fuily tolerate the existence of agit-
posters, sketches for textile prints and book covers; they simply affirm that
all these “‘subsidiary’’ forms are inconceivable without easel painting, that
easel painting is the creative base on which painterly culture is built.
 Constructivism and the Industrial Arts | 247

Hence the conclusion: if you want to make good textile prints, learn to
paint landscapes.
The easel painters say: the artist, no matter where he works or what he
does, must master artistic culture, must be artistically educated. And it is
easel painting that gives him this artistic culture, this artistic education.
After mastering the ‘“‘secrets’’ of easel painting, he thereby masters the
“‘secrets’’ of any painterly work, whether it is a textile print, a book cover,
a poster, or theatrical decor.
And in this the easel painters are deeply mistaken.
A picture is the product of a specific kind of artistic labor. In order to
make a picture, a certain number of technical devices and skills have to be
employed. Precisely those devices and skills with which a picture can be
made. So how does it follow that these devices and skills are universal?
How can it suddenly transpire that devices and skills suitable for one craft
are also suitable for another?
Let us assume that partial coincidences are possible, that some of the
devices can prove to be general; why should one craft prove to be fun-
damental vis-a-vis another? Why should the making of a still life be more
‘‘fundamental’’ than that of a textile print? Why should one first of all learn
how to do a still life and then undertake textile prints, and not vice versa?
The easel painters love to compare pure easel painting with pure mathe-
matics. They say that both provide general principles, general tenets that are
then applied in practice.
But the easel painters forget that the picture is not science, but practice,
and that it establishes no ‘‘general’’ tenets. The experience of the easel
painter is not that of the artist in general, but is only the experience of a
single, individual case of painterly labor.
The easel painters want to uphold their right to exist.
If easel painting has died as a kind of socially necessary art craft, then let
it be revived as a universal artistic method, as the high school of every artis-
tic practice.
That is how the zealots of classical antiquity advocated the necessity of
Greek and Latin in secondary schools.
However, the pedagogical universality of easel painting is overthrown not
only by theoretical reasoning but also by everyday practical experience.
We know well the sad fate of artists who finish the easel-painting school
and try to apply their knowledge and skill in industry. Nothing comes of
their endeavors.
Anyway, easel painters in the main do not care a damn for industry. Rec-
ognition of industrial art is an empty phrase on their lips.
248 / RUSSIAN. ART OF THE VAVANT=GARDE

&
&
Lyubov Popova: Textile design,
{ ‘4 -ca. 1923. Gouache on paper.
Private collection, Moscow.
Some of Popova’s designs, in-
Varvara Stepanova, photographed by Aleksandr Rod- cluding this one, were applied to
chenko, 1924. She is wearing a dress of her own design. women’s dresses.

All the same, work in industry will always be inferior for the easel
painter. That is why it is not the easel painters who will discover the
methods of this work, and not from easel painting that the solution of
productional art problems will ensue.
Only those artists who once and for all have broken with easel craft, who
have recognized productional work in practice, not only as an equal form of
artistic labor, but also as the only one possible—only such artists can grap-
ple successfully and productively with the solution to the problems of con-
temporary artistic culture.
Among these artists, still not very numerous, are the Inkhuk members—
Rodchenko, Lavinsky, Vesnin, Stepanova, Ioganson, Senkin, Klutsis, and
Lyubov Popova (recently deceased).!
There is one very serious objection that easel painters make to the produc-
tional workers. They say: “‘In no way does your work differ from the most
primitive kind of applied art; you are doing what applied art workers always
did when ‘applying’ easel sketches to objects of factory production. And
what would you do if there weren’t any easel works? What would you
supply?”’
Indeed, artistic labor and factory work are still disunited. The artist is still
an alien in the factory. People treat him with suspicion. They do not let him
come too close. They do not believe him. They cannot understand why he
 Constructivism and the Industrial Arts | 249

needs to know technological processes, why he needs information of a

purely industrial nature. His job is to draw, to make drawings—and the fac-
tory’s job is to select suitable ones and to stick them onto the ready-made,
finished product.
The basic idea of productional art—that the outer appearance of an object
is determined by the object’s economic purpose and not by abstract, aes-
thetic considerations—has still not met with sufficient acceptance among our
industrial executives; they think that the artist who aspires to penetrate the
‘““economic secret’’ of an object is poking his nose into somebody else’s
business.
Hence the inevitable applied art—the result of the artist’s alienation from
industry. Not receiving the necessary economic directives, he resorts, willy-
nilly, to aesthetic stereotypes.
But what is the conclusion from this?
Forward! To overcome this alienation.
Forward! To the union of the artist and the factory.
And by no means back to pure easel painting, back to pictures.
The progressive artists are already under way—from the picture to the
textile print, and of course, they will not turn back. But that is not enough.
It is essential that the whole mass of our young artists should realize that this
is the only true path and that it is precisely by this path that artistic culture
will develop.
It is essential that our industrial executives should understand their role in
this matter because the acceleration of our historical process depends on
this. -
The initiative shown by the director of the First Textile Print Factory in
Moscow (formerly Tsindel’s), Comrade Arkhangelsky, and by Professor
Viktorov, who invited the artists Stepanova and Popova to work there,
deserves every attention and praise.
And if it is too early to speak of the results of this first experiment, then it
is essential to speak of its immense cultural value.
The artistic culture of the future is being created in factories and plants,
not in attic studios.
May the young artists remember this—aunless they wish to turn up prema-
turely in the archives, together with the proud easel painters.
ALEKSANDR RODCHENKO
Against the Synthetic Portrait,
For the Snapshot, 1928

For biography see p. 148.

The text of this piece, ‘‘Protiv summirovannogo portreta za momentalnyi snimok,”’

is from Novyi lef [Novyi levyi front iskusstv—New Left Front of the Arts] (Mos-
cow), no. 4, April 1928, pp. 14-16 [bibl. R76; for details of the journal see p. 199].

Rodchenko’s first experiments with photography were in photomontage, the most.

celebrated example of which is his design for Vladimir Mayakovsky’s book of
poems Pro eto [About That], published in 1923. In 1924 Rodchenko turned his atten-
tion to photography as a medium, concentrating on urban and social scenes from
contemporary Russia and on portraits, of which perhaps the finest example is the
close-up of his mother taken in that year—although his masterful renditions of such
diverse figures as Nikolai Aseev, Osip Brik, Mayakovsky, Vsevolod Pudovkin, and
Sergei Tretyakov (himself a competent photographer) taken during the 1920s deserve
every praise. However, Rodchenko did not neglect montage and design and contrib-
uted a great deal to the layout and compilation of various publications in the 1920s
and 19308, not least his Istoriya VKP (b) v plakatakh (History of the All-Union Com-
munist Party (Bolsheviks) in Posters], published in Moscow in 1927, his several
covers for Novyi lef, and his anti-Fascist montages in the journal Za rubezhom
[Abroad].

Although in transferring his energies to photography, Rodchenko was endeavoring to

support a ‘‘nonartistic,’’ utilitarian medium, he did not cease to experiment with the
purely formal aspects of his new profession. ‘‘Rodchenko perspective’’ and ‘‘Rod-
chenko foreshortening’’ therefore became current terms in the 1920s, and there is no
doubt that his innovative use of light and shadow exerted a certain influence on
such filmmakers as Sergei Eisenstein, Lev Kuleshov, and Dziga Vertov. In a con-
structivist way Rodchenko, at least in the 1920s, attempted to expose the mechanism
of the camera and to exploit the photographic method to its maximum, a process in
which he was accused of plagiarizing from Laszlo Moholy-Nagy (see Rodchenko’s
reply to this criticism in Novyi lef, no. 6, 1928, pp. 42-44) and of presenting reality
‘“‘upside down and downside up’’ (see his polemics with Boris Kushner in Novyi lef,
no. 9, 1928, pp. 31-39). In the 1930s and 1940s Rodchenko’s photographic work
became less adventurous, and he and his wife, Warvara Stepanova (who had

250
 Constructivism and the Industrial Arts / 251

achieved interesting results in her own photomontage work), concentrated on book

and poster design, although Rodchenko also retumed to easel painting.

I was once obliged to dispute with an artist the fact that photography can-
not replace painting in a portrait. He spoke very soundly about the fact that a
photograph is a chance moment, whereas a painted portrait is the sum total
of moments observed, which, moreover, are the most characteristic of the
man being portrayed. The artist has never added an objective synthesis of a
given man to the factual world, but has always individualized and idealized
him, and has presented what he himself imagined about him—as it were, a
personal summary. But I am not going to dispute this; let us assume that he
presented a sum total, while the photograph does not. ;
The photograph presents a precise moment documentarily.
It is essential to clarify the question of the synthetic portrait; otherwise the
present confusion will continue. Some say that a portrait should only be
painted; others, in searching for the possibility of rendering this synthesis by
photography, follow a very false path: they imitate painting and make faces
hazy by generalizing and slurring over details, which results in a portrait
having no outward resemblance to any particular person—as in pictures of
Rembrandt and Carriere.
Any intelligent man will tell you about the photograph’s shortcomings in
comparison to the painted portrait; everyone will tell you about the character
of the Mona Lisa, and everyone forgets that portraits were painted when
there was no photography and that they were painted not of all the intelligent
people but of the rich and powerful. Even men of science were not painted.
You need not wait around, intelligentsia; even now AKhRR artists will
not paint you. True—they can’t even depict the sum total, let alone .oo1 of
a moment.
Now compare eternity in science and technology. In olden times a savant
would discover a truth, and this truth would remain law for about twenty
years. And this was learned and learned as something indusputable and im-
mutable.
Encyclopedias were compiled that supplied whole generations with their
eternal truths.
Does anything of the kind exist now? . . . No.
Now people do not live by encyclopedias but by newspapers, magazines,
card catalogues, prospectuses, and directionaries.
Modern science and technology are not searching for truths, but are open-
ing up new areas of work and with every day change what has been attained.
252 | RUSSIAN ART OF THE AVANT-GARDE

Now they do not reveal common truths—‘‘the earth revolves’’—but are

working on the problem of this revolution.
Let’s take: aviation
radio
rejuvenation,’ etc.
These are not mere platitudes but constitute areas that thousands of work-
ers are expanding in depth and breadth, thanks to their experiments.
And it is not just one scientist, but thousands of scientists and tens of
thousands of collaborators.
And hence there will never be eternal airplanes, wireless sets, and a single
system of rejuvenation.
There will be thousands of airplanes, motorcars, and thousands of
methods for rejuvenation.
The same goes for the snapshot.
Here is an example of the first big collision between art and photography,
a battle between eternity and the moment—moreover, in this instance photo-
graphs were taken casually, but painting attacked photography with all its
heavy and light artillery—and failed miserably.
I mean Lenin.
Chance photographers took his picture. Often when it was necessary,
often when it was not. He had no time; there was a revolution on, and he
was its leader—so he did not like people getting in his way.
Nevertheless, we possess a large file of photographs of Lenin.”
Now for the last ten years artists of all types and talents, inspired and
rewarded in all sorts of ways and virtually throughout the world and not just
in the U.S.S.R., have made up artistic depictions of him; in quantity, they
have paid for the file of photographs a thousand times and have often used it
to the utmost.
And show me where and when and of which artistically synthetic work
one could say: this is the real V. I. Lenin.
There is not one. And there will not be.
Why not? Not because, as many think, ‘‘We have not yet been able to,
we haven’t had a genius yet, but certain people have at least done
something.’’
No, there will not be—because there is a file of photographs, and this file
of snapshots allows no one to idealize or falsify Lenin. Everyone has seen
this file of photographs, and as a matter of course, no one would allow artis-
tic nonsense to be taken for the eternal Lenin.
True, many say that there is no single snapshot that bears an absolute re-
semblance, but each one in its own way resembles him a bit.
 Constructivism and the Industrial Arts | 253

I maintain that there is no synthésis of Lenin, and there cannot be one and
the same synthesis of Lenin for each and everyone. . . . But there is a syn-
thesis of him. This is a representation based on photographs, books, and
notes.
It should be stated firmly that with the appearance of photographs, there
can be no question of a single, immutable portrait. Moreover, a man is not
just one sum total; he is many, and sometimes they are quite opposed.
By means of a photograph or other documents, we can debunk any artistic
synthesis produced by one man of another.
So we refuse to let Lenin be falsified by art.
Art has failed miserably in its struggle against photography for Lenin.
There is nothing left for it but to enlarge photographs and make them
worse.
The less authentic the facts about a man, the more romantic and interest-
ing he becomes.
So that is why modern artists are often so fond of depicting events long
past and not of today. That is why artists have enjoyed less popularity when
they have depicted contemporaneity—they are criticized, it is difficult to lie
to their faces. . . and they are acknowledged afterward when their contem-
poraries have died off.
Tell me frankly, what ought to remain of Lenin:

an art bronze,
oil portraits,
etchings, 3
water colors,
his secretary’s diary, his friends’ memoirs—

or

a file of photographs taken of him at work and rest,

archives of his books, writing pads, notebooks,
shorthand reports, films, phonograph records?

I don’t think there’s any choice.

Art has no place in modern life. It will continue to exist as long as there is
a mania for the romantic and as long as there are people who love beautiful
lies and deception.
Every modern cultured man must wage war against art, as against opium.
Photograph and be photographed!
254 | RUSSIAN ART OF THE AVANT-GARDE

Crystallize man not by a single ‘‘synthetic’’ portrait, but by a whole lot of

snapshots taken at different times and in different conditions.
Paint the truth.
Value all that is real and contemporary.
And we will be real people, not actors.

Aleksandr Rodchenko: Photograph of Vladimir

Mayakovsky, 1928. Collection The Museum of
Modern Art, New York, The Parkinson Fund.

YAKOV CHERNIKHOV
The Construction of
Architectural and Machine
Forms [Extracts], 1931

Born Pavlograd, 1889; died Moscow, 1951. 1906: moved to Odessa, where he en-
tered the Odessa Art School; 1914: entered the St. Petersburg Academy, where he
 Constructivism and the Industrial Arts | 255

studied painting and architecture; 1922-33: contributed graphics and designs to many
exhibitions in Moscow, Leningrad, and other towns; 1925: finished his academy
course with the title of architect-artist; 1926-36: taught in various Leningrad insti-
tutes; designed many buildings, especially industrial complexes; 1932:- appointed
professor at the Leningrad Institute of Railroad Transport Engineers and Academy of
Transport; 1935: received the degree of Candidate in Architectural Sciences; moved
to Moscow, where he headed the Department of Descriptive Geometry and Graphics
at the Institute of Engineering Economy; appointed head of the Department of Archi-
tecture of the Mossovet Building Institute.

The translation is of extracts from Chernikhov’s book Konstruktsiya arkhitekturnykh

1 mashinnykh form (Leningrad, 1931). The first extract, ‘‘The Constitution of Con-
struction,”’ is from pp. 79-87, and the second, ‘‘The Formations of Construction,”’
is from pp. 214-21. Part of the text has appeared in English translation in bibl. 2235;
p. 154, and bibl. 211, pp. 153-69. The book was published under the auspices of the
Leningrad Society of Architects, which, while acknowledging the general value of
the book, did not hesitate to pronounce in the first preface, dated July 1930, that it
was not in ‘‘complete agreement with the method and character of the elucidation.’’
There were a second and a third preface, both by Chernikhov, and an introduction by
the critic Erik Gollerbakh. Although ostensibly the book was issued as a textbook for
students of engineering and architecture, it emerged as the first full explanation of the
principles of constructivism (at least, as understood by Chernikhov) and hence was
his most important theoretical work. The book achieved some recognition in the
West since it was advertised by a prospectus in English with a listing of the contents
and a two-page text by Gollerbakh [bibl. 217]. The title page of the book itself was
in Russian, French, and German, and the text was complemented by many mono-
chrome illustrations both for specific problems and for full-scale constructions. Cher-
nikhov’s plea for the retention of inspiration, intuition, and fantasy within the con-
Structivist world view was extended to his preface in his next (and last published)
book Arkhitekturnye fantazii [Architectural Fantasies] (Leningrad, 1933) [bibl.
R485], in which, significantly, the word constructivism was already absent.

Chernikhov’s text betrays the close tie among painting, sculpture, and architecture
maintained during the 1920s and, more specifically, the debt of constructivist archi-
tecture to Kazimir Malevich’s suprematism, to Lyubov Popova’s, Aleksandr Rod-
chenko’s, and Aleksandr Vesnin’s last paintings and drawings, and of course, to El
Lissitzky’s Prouns. Chernikhov’s own pedagogical and aesthetic theories owe a great
deal to the early researches carried out by the Zhivskulptarkh group (see p. 43), in
Inkhuk, and in Vkhutemas/Vkhutein. Chernikhov’s attribution of certain emotive
qualities to certain architectural forms, for example, derived its ultimate inspiration
from Vesnin’s initial endeavors to create color compositions that would produce in-
variable, predetermined psychological effects or from Nikolai Ladovsky’s categories
of ‘‘(a) Power and weakness; (b) Grandeur and abasement; (c) Finitude and infinity”’
256 | RUSSIAN ART OF THE AVANT-GARDE

Yakov Chernikhov (second row from bottom, second from right) and a
group of students in the early 1920s. Because of his dark, ominous ap-
pearance, Chernikhov was nicknamed Mephistopheles by students. Pho-
tograph courtesy Mr. Vsevolod Dobujinsky, New York.

[‘‘Osnovy postroeniya teorii arkhitektury’’ (Bases for the Formulation of a Theory of

Architecture) in Izvestiya ASNOVA (Moscow), no. I, 1926, p. 3]. Chernikhov’s
more emotional, more subjective interpretation of these early systems suggests the
conclusion that Russian constructivism both began and ended as art. Parts of his
text have been translated into English in bibl. 252ix, pp. 41-88.

From ‘‘The Constitution of Constructivism’’:

The Laws of Construction
Hitherto all those who have been interested in the problems of construc-
tivism have run up against the many unresolved problems concerning which
rules, norms, and laws exist or should exist for the interconstruction of
solids. Despite the absence of these rules and laws, one can see that at all
times people have constructed and continue to construct. There is no doubt
that laws of construction do exist and will be deciphered, just as music has
been deciphered in all its forms. The force ofa blow, the force of a sound,
the most subtle changes of musical vibrations, have today been given an ex-
planation. Throughout the ages man has accumulated methods and knowl-
edge in order to construct buildings and machines that are extremely compli-
cated both in their graphic resolution and in their natural visual images. To
 Constructivism and the Industrial Arts / 257

164
Saas
Bewaunen apzavenry
pe (auvasua). Npe
OCTPaHOTeeNnNe- nen
OTpyHTeeHan Hemnese
una msernyytux ane
0S) er Seraa

Ale satuA 3aKkOH. Bcrxoe KOHCTPyHTHBHOS PEWEHHE AONMHO HMOTb

NPHYHHYy, Ha OCHOBAHHH KOTOPOA MeNaeTCA NOCTPOEeHHe,

AecatwaA 3axKon. Ana toro yto6e Co3qatb KOHCTpyKTHBHYIA O6pa3,

HeEOGxOAHMO aGBCONWTHOS 3HAHHE HE TOMbKO OCHOB KOH
CIPyXKTHBH3Ma, HO H OCHOB BOCNPOHSBEeAEHHA.

it ae
168

Boemonnan epunveary
pe (dan oa) Bor
asnense yAepmacae
mon younndé, e6zusarTe
2 A2emenon apomase

B4 ‘
Yakov Chernikhov: Illustration from his Konstruktsiya ark-
hitekturnykh i mashinnykh form [The Construction of Archi-
tectural and Mechanical Forms] (Leningrad, 1931). All the
illustrations in this book were devoted to specific problems
of structural composition and design, although the subjects
themselves were often fanciful and rhetorical. The theme here
is ‘‘machine architecture.’’

obtain a construction, we have at our disposal either very simple objects,

such as line (graphic or material), plane (graphic or material), surface
(graphic or material), volume, or more complex objects that can be utilized
for the aims of construction. But in order to reduce the above elements to a
state of constructive interconnection, certain motives are required to create
this state. At this juncture it stands to reason that in the first place we should
advance the basic laws of construction as such.
258 |, RUS:SHIA.N (ARTO RTT Bey Ay tie Aree

First law: Everything that can be unified on the principles of constructivism

can be material and nonmaterial, but it is always subject to the
recording action of our brain by means of sight, hearing, and touch.
@

Second law: Every construction is a construction only when the unification

of its elements can be rationally justified.

Third law: When elements are grouped together on a basis of harmonic cor-
relation with each other, a complete constructive combination is ob-
tained.

Fourth law: Elements unified in a new whole form a construction when they
penetrate each other, clasp, are coupled, press against each other,
1.e., display an active part in the movement of the unification.

Fifth law: Every constructive unification is the aggregate of those percussive

moments that in varying degree contribute toward the wholeness of
the impression.
@

Sixth law: Every new construction is the result of man’s investigations and
of his inventive and creative needs.
2

Seventh law: Everything that is really constructive is beautiful. Everything

that is beautiful is complete. Everything that is complete is a con-
tribution to the culture of the future.
e

Eighth law: In every constructive unification the idea of the collectivism of

mankind is inherent. In the close cohesion of the elements the con-
cord of all man’s best aspirations is reflected.
®

Ninth law: Every constructive resolution must have a motive on the basis of
which the construction is made.
 Constructivism and the Industrial Arts | 259

Tenth law: In order to create a constructive image, it is essential to have

absolute knowledge, not only of the bases of constructivism, but also
of the bases of economic reproduction.

Eleventh law: Before assuming its definite form, a constructive represen-

tation must pass through all the necessary and possible stages of its
development and construction.

Observance of laws in all constructive buildings is based further on the

fact that we can prove simultaneously the truth and correctness of the chosen
resolution by analytical means. The justifiability of the approach serves as a
criterion for the legalization of the elaborated form.
In all cases of construction we encounter the necessity of giving founda-
tion to and, thereby, as it were, legalizing the construction that we have ac-
cepted. We must prove that the construction that we are proposing is correct
and corresponds to the given case.

From ‘‘The Formations of Construction’’:

Conclusion and Inferences
The abundance, variety, and many-sidedness of the phenomena of construc-
tivism prove that it is not some kind of abstract method having limited appli-
cability. On the contrary, we are convinced that constructivism encompas-
ses, and penetrates into, an extremely wide area of man’s creative work.
Consequently, it is possible to speak of constructivism as a world view.
What are the basic characteristics of this world view? The mechanization
of movement and building in life peculiar to our time, the intense develop-
ment of industrial production and of technology in general have radically
changed our way of life and generated new needs, new habits, and new
tastes. One of the most urgent needs of our time is the rational organization
of objects, their functional justification. And this is the rejection of every-
thing that is superfluous, everything that does not bear on the aim and pur-
pose of the object. In this sense one can say that despite the extreme com-
plexity of our life, despite the diversity of its structure, it is in certain
respects being simplified through the perfection of technological achieve-
ment. In other words, many processes that previously were complicated and
260 / RUSSIAN ART OF THE AVANT-GARDE

slow are now being simplified and speeded up. Hence the principles of
simplification, acceleration, and purposefulness emerge as the constant at-
tributes of a constructivist world view.
It is characteristic of constructivism that it forms a new understanding of
the object and a new approach to the creative process; namely, without
denying the value of such forces as inspiration, intuition, fantasy, etc., it
places the materialistic point of view in the foreground. This point of view
unites phenomena that were previously considered quite separate and dis-
parate: the phenomena of engineering and technology and the phenomena of
artistic creation. It is true, we know, that in former times these phenomena
sometimes came into contact with each other and appeared together in a har-
monic synthesis, as, for example, in the best works of architecture, which
satisfy both constructive requirements and the demands of good taste, our
aesthetic sense. However, the durable, firm, and logical link between these
phenomena envisaged by constructivism was lacking. Only by the absence
of this link can we explain the widespread development of decorative motifs
devoid of any functional justification (especially in baroque and art nouveau
architecture).
In former times machinery was considered something profoundly inartis-
tic, and mechanical forms were excluded from the province of beauty as
such; people did not talk about them as forms of artistic creation. But now
we know and see, thanks to the development of the constructivist world
view, that machinery not only lies within the confines of artistic conception
but also has its own indubitable and convincing aesthetic norms and canons.
These norms and canons are to be found in the fundamentals of construc-
tivism, which—for the first time in the history of man—has been able to
unite the principles of mechanical production and the stimuli of artistic cre-
ation. One must not consider constructivism something absolutely new, un-
precedented, and unheard of. It could be said that in its elementary princi-
ples constructivism is as ancient as the building art, as man’s creative
abilities. Primordial man, in building his dolmens, triliths, crypts, and other
edifices was unconsciously a constructivist. These initially primitive trends
of constructivism gradually become complex and crystallized in the course
of man’s centuries-long cultural development. The forms of constructivism
differentiated in proportion to the differentiation of culture.
The disunity of artistic and technological forms of which we spoke earlier
is gradually taking the shape of a common, integral aspiration toward ratio-
nal construction, or one could say that we are gradually uniting artistic con-
struction and machine construction; the boundary dividing them is being
erased. A new conception of the beautiful, a new beauty, is being born—the
 Constructivism and the Industrial Arts / 261

aesthetics of industrial constructivism. If in its general, primary fundamen-

tals its origin is very ancient, it is indebted for the concrete definition of its
principles mainly to the artistic and technological research of the last de-
cades in almost all the cultured countries of the world.
It must be recognized that their last role has by no means been played by
the achievements of the so-called leftist artists, the revolutionaries of art
who are often repudiated and ridiculed. Undoubtedly constructivism has to a
certain extent employed the formal and methodological results of modern
trends. These directions have contributed a great deal to the understanding
of modern architecture and mechanical forms. They have indicated the use-
fulness of laboratory research and the value of the study and analysis of
form connected with contemporary, industrial technology. It is thought that
constructivism has significance only as a means of overcoming eclecticism
and technological conservatism. In fact, its role is much wider; it is not only
destructive in relation to the old, but it is also creative in relation to the new.
Furthermore, constructivism by no means denies art or supplants it by tech-
nology and engineering, nor does it ignore artistic content and the means of
artistic effect, as is maintained by certain art historians of our time. Formal
and technological functionalism, as a method of architectural work and anal-
ysis, does not exclude the possibility of a harmonic interrelation of the prin-
ciples of form and content, nor does it exclude the possibility of the coor-
dination of practical, utilitarian tasks and aesthetic attractiveness.
Constructivism does not renounce critical utilization of experiment; it does
not seek an isolated resolution of the particular aspects of this or that task
but aims at the best utilization of, all possibilities both formal-compositional
and technological-constructional, by linking them together in a creative,
synthesizing process.
We are convinced that the correct solution of the problems of constructive
forms is equally important for all branches of man’s creation—for architec-
ture, mechanical engineering, applied art, the printing industry, etc. Con-
structivism can, and must, take into consideration all the concrete needs of
contemporary life and must answer in full the needs of the mass consumer,
the collective ‘‘customer’’—the people.
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Vi.
Toward Socialist
Realism
_ACKYCCIBO

A X.— Poe
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ss

Cover of the book /skusstvo SSSR [Art U.S.S.R.], published by AKhRR,

Moscow, 1926. Designed by Boris Titov.
AKhRR
Declaration
of the Association of Artists
of Revolutionary Russia, 1922

Shortly after the forty-seventh exhibition of the Wanderers, in January 1922, a group
of artists, among them Aleksandr Grigorev, Evgenii Katsman, Sergei Malyutin, and
Pavel Radimov, organized the Assotsiatsiya khudozhnikov, izuchayushchikh revo-
lyutsionnyi byt [Association of Artists Studying Revolutionary Life], which was
shortly rechristened Obshchestvo khudozhnikov revolyutsionnoi Rossii [Society of
Artists of Revolutionary Russia]. After their first group show, ‘‘Exhibition of Pic-
tures by Artists of the Realist Direction in Aid of the Starving,’’ in Moscow (opened
May 1), the Society was renamed Assotsiatsiya khudozhnikov revolyutsionnoi Ros-
sii [AKhRR—Association of Artists of Revolutionary Russia]. The primary aim of
its members was to present Revolutionary Russia in a realistic manner by depicting
the everyday life of the proletariat, the peasantry, the Red Army, etc. In restoring
tendentious theme to the picture, they returned to the traditions of the nineteenth-cen-
tury realists and declared their opposition to the leftists. In addition to older realists,
such as Abram Arkhipov, Nikolai Kasatkin, and Konstantin Yuon, AKhRR attracted
many young artists, such as Isaak Brodsky, Aleksandr Gerasimov, and Boris logan-
son. In order to acquaint themselves with proletarian reality, many of the AKhRR
members visited factories, iron foundries, railroad depots, shipyards, etc. By the
mid-1920s AKhRR was the most influential single body of artists in Russia, having
affiliates throughout the country, including a special young artists’ section called
OMAKhR [Obedinenie molodezhi AKhR—Association of AKhR youth], its own
publishing house [see bibl. R513], and of course, enjoying direct government sup-
port. In 1928 AKhRR changed its name to Assotsiatsiya khudozhnikov revolyutsil
{AKhR—Association of Artists of the Revolution], and in 1929 it established its own
journal /skusstvo v massy [Art to the Masses] [bibl. R70]. In 1932, together with all
other formal art and literary groups, AKhR was dissolved by the decree ‘‘On the
Reconstruction’ (see pp. 288ff.).

The text of this piece, ‘‘Deklaratsiya Assotsiatsii khudozhnikov revolyutsionnoi Ros-

sli,’’ was published in the catalogue of the AKhRR ‘‘Exhibition of Studies,
Sketches, Drawings, and Graphics from the Life and Customs of the Workers’ and
Peasants’ Red Army,”’ in Moscow in June and July 1922, p. 120. It is reprinted in
Sovetskoe iskusstvo za 15 let [Soviet Art of the Last Fifteen Years], ed. Ivan Matsa et
al. (Moscow-Leningrad, 1933), p. 345 [bibl. R16], from which this translation is
made, and also in bibl. R493, p. 289. For a German translation see bibl. 209viii, pp.
269, 270.

265
2OOm | RAUUSTS leAy NesAGRaT Our amlgrise AVANT-GARDE

Evgenii Katsman: Listening (Members of the Communist Faction from the

Village of Baranovka), 1925. Charcoal. Collection Tretyakov Gallery,
Moscow. Katsman’s classical approach to anatomy and perspective en-
abled him to record many everyday scenes of workers and peasants in a
highly intelligible if rather static manner.

The Great October Revolution, in liberating the creative forces of the peo-
ple, has aroused the consciousness of the masses and the artists—the spokes-
men of the people’s spiritual life.
Our civic duty before mankind is to set down, artistically and documen-
tarily, the revolutionary impulse of this great moment of history.
We will depict the present day: the life of the Red Army, the workers, the
peasants, the revolutionaries, and the heroes of labor.
We will provide a true picture of events and not abstract concoctions
discrediting our Revolution in the face of the international proletariat.
The old art groups existing before the Revolution have lost their meaning,
the boundaries between them have been erased in regard to both ideology
and form—and they continue to exist merely as circles of people linked
together by personal connections but devoid of any ideological basis or
content. :
It is this content in art that we consider a sign of truth in a work of art,
and the desire to express this content induces us, the artists of Revolutionary
Russia, to join forces; the tasks before us are strictly defined.
 Toward Socialist Realism / 267

Isaak Brodsky: Lenin Giving a Farewell Speech to Detachments of the Red Army about to
Leave for the Polish Front on May 5, 1920, 1933. Oil on canvas, 280 x 422 cm. Collection
Central Lenin Museum, Moscow.

The day of revolution, the moment of revolution, is the day of heroism,

the moment of heroism—and now we must reveal our artistic experiences in
the monumental forms of the style of heroic realism.
By acknowledging continuity in art and by basing ourselves on the con-
temporary world view, we create this style of heroic realism and lay the
foundation of the universal building of future art, the art of a classless
society.
AKhRR
The Immediate Tasks of AKhRR:
A Circular to All Branches of
AKhRR—An Appeal
to All the Artists
of thes UeSss Ra 1924

The text of this piece, ‘“Ocherednye zadachi AKhRRRa,”’ was issued as a circular
letter in May 1924, after the February exhibition ‘‘Revolution, Life, and Labor,”’
and was then published in a collection of articles edited by an AKhRR member,
Aleksandr Grigorev, Chetyre goda AKhRRa [Four Years of AKhRR] (Moscow,
1926), pp. 10-13. The text is reprinted in Sovetskoe iskusstvo za 15 let [Soviet Art of
the Last Fifteen Years], ed. Ivan Matsa et al. (Moscow-Leningrad, 1933), pp.
345-48 [bibl. R16], from which this translation is made, and in bibl. R493, pp.
300-302.

The presidium of AKhRR and its Russian Communist Party (Bolsheviks)

faction consider it essential—on the second anniversary of the Association
of Artists of Revolutionary Russia (May I, 1924)—to sum up its artistic and
social activities and to define its ideological policy in its subsequent practical
work, once the immediate tasks facing AKhRR have been solved.
From the very beginning of AKhRR’s existence, when it proclaimed in its
declaration the need for a creative response to the October Revolution and
for a new reality in visual art, it has been quite clear that AKhRR should
take the organization of the new elements of social art organically linked to
our revolutionary epoch as the basis of its artistic work, and that it should do
this by regenerating art on the foundation of a high and authentic level of
painterly skill.
The creation of the elements of a social art in the Russian school acted, by
the very fact of its existence, as a logical balance to the development of, and
enthusiasm for, the extreme, so-called leftist trends in art; it displayed their
petty-bourgeois, pre-Revolutionary, decadent substance, which was ex-
pressed in their attempt to transfer the fractured forms of Western art—
mainly French (Cézanne, Derain, Picasso)—tto a soil alien both economi-
cally and psychologically.

268
 Toward Socialist Realism | 269

In no way does this signify that we should ignore all the formal achieve-
ments of French art in the second half of the nineteenth century and to a cer-
tain extent in the first quarter of the twentieth within the general treasury of
world art (the careful, serious study and assimilation of the painterly and
formal achievements of modern art is an essential obligation of every serious
artist who aspires to become a master). AKhRR objects only to the aspira-
tion to reduce the whole development of art to the imitation and repetition of
models of the French school, a school that is nurtured, in turn, on the
sources of old traditions in art.
After their two years of work in factories and plants, after the many
exhibitions they organized—which laid the foundation for the Museum of
the All-Union Central Council of Trade Unions and for the Red Army and
Navy Museum—the main group of AKhRR members felt convinced that
subject matter, thematic method in the study and conversion of reality, was
the main element in organizing form.
It became clear to the AKhRR aartists that the factory, the plant, the
production worker, electrification, the heroes of labor, the leaders of the
Revolution, the new life of the peasants, the Red Army, the Komsomol and
Pioneers, the death and funeral of the Revolution’s leader—all this con-
tained a new color of unprecedented power and severe fascination, a new in-
terpretation of synthetic form, a new compositional structure; in a word,
contained the aggregate of those conditions whose execution would regener-
ate easel and monumental painting.
For the expression of these new forms created by the Revolution, the
frayed, lost forms and lacerated color hired from the masters of the French
school are absolutely useless.
For the expression of these new forms created by the Revolution a new
style is essential, a strong, precise, invigorating style that organizes thought
and feeling, the style that in our short declaration is called heroic realism.
The difficulty of solving and realizing the above tasks lies in the fact that,
while aspiring toward content in art, it is very easy to lapse into feeble,
simple imitation of a host of outdated art schools and trends.
Those artists, those young artists who wish first and foremost to be sin-
cere, who wish to shake off the yoke of vacuous philosophizing and inver-
sion of the bases of visual art decomposed through the process of analysis,
fully realize the necessity to regenerate the unity of form and content in art;
and they direct all their strength, all their creative potential, to the ceaseless
scientific and completely professional study of the new model, giving it the
acutely realistic treatment that our epoch dictates.
The so-called indifference to politics of certain contemporary groups of
270 1 OREUISTS AGN) AUR UD SO0Rn, THE WAG VaAG Nie tGnAckeDits

artists is a well or badly concealed aversion to the Revolution and a longing

for a political and moral restoration.
The harsh material conditions that surround the present-day artist on the
one hand deprive the artist of the protection of his professional interests and
the safeguarding of his work and on the other hand determine his view of art
as a weapon for the ideological struggle and clearly aggravate the difficulty
of this path; but if the Revolution has triumphed, in spite of the innumerable
obstacles, then the will to express the Revolution creatively will help the
contemporary realist artist to overcome all the difficulties he encounters on
his path.
It is essential to remember that a creative artistic expression of the Revo-
lution is not a fruitless and driveling sentimentality toward it but a real ser-
vice, because the creation of a revolutionary art is first and foremost the cre-
ation of an art that will have the honor of shaping and organizing the
psychology of the generations to come.
Only now, after two years of AKhRR, after the already evident collapse
of the so-called leftist tendencies in art, is it becoming clear that the artist of
today must be both a master of the brush and a revolutionary fighting for the
better future of mankind. Let the tragic figure of Courbet serve as the best
prototype and reminder of the aims and tasks that contemporary art is called
on to resolve.
The reproaches of formal weakness and dilettantism that were cast at the
Wanderers by other art groups can by rights be repaid to those who made
them, for if we remember the formal achievements of the best Wanderers
(Perov, Surikov, Repin), we can see how much more profound, sincere, and
serious they were than their descendants poisoned by the vacuous decora-
tivism, retrospectivism, and brittle decadence of the prerevolutionary era.
Kramskoi’s prediction that the ideas of a social art would triumph under a
different political regime is beginning to be brilliantly justified; it is con-
firmed by the mass withdrawal from all positions of the so-called leftist front
observable in contemporary art.
Give particular attention to the young artists, organize them, turn all your
efforts to giving polish to those natural artists from among the workers and
peasants who are beginning to prove their worth in wall newspapers; and the
hour is not far off when, perhaps, the Soviet art school will be destined to
become the most original and most important factor in the renaissance of
world art.
Ceaseless artistic self-discipline, ceaseless artistic self-perfection, unre-
mitting effort in the preparations for the next AKhRR exhibition—this is the
only path that will lead to the creation of a genuine, new art on whose
 Toward Socialist Realism / 271

heights form will fuse with content. And the presidium of AKhRR and its
Russian Communist Party (Bolsheviks) faction appeal to all artists who hold
near and dear the behests and aims set before AKhRR to rally around the as-
sociation in a powerful, united, artistic, and revolutionary organization.

AKhR
Declaration
of the Association of Artists
of the Revolution, 1928

For details on AKhR see p. 265.

The text of this piece, ‘‘Deklaratsiya Assotsiatsii khudozhnikov revolyutsii

(AKhR),’’ was published in the Bulletin of the AKhR Information Office dedicated
to the First All-Union Convention of AKhR. This convention was held just after the
tenth exhibition of AKhRR/AKhR in Moscow, February 1928, which was devoted to
ten years of the Workers’ and Peasants’ Red Army. The text is reprinted in Sovetskoe
iskusstvo za 15 let [Soviet Art of the Last Fifteen Years], ed. Ivan Matsa et al.
(Moscow-Leningrad, 1933), p. 356 {bibl. R16], from which this translation is made;
the text is reprinted also in bibl. R493, pp. 320-21. For a German translation see
bibl. 209vili, pp. 305, 306.

The Great October Revolution, having emancipated the forces of the

worker and peasant masses, has summoned artists to participate in the class
struggle and Socialist construction in the ranks of the proletariat and toiling
peasantry.
‘*Art belongs to the people. With its deepest roots it should penetrate into
the very thick of the toiling masses. It should be understood by these masses
and loved by them’’ (Lenin).
As artists of the Proletarian Revolution, we have the duty of transforming
the authentic revolutionary reality into realistic forms comprehensible to the
broad masses of the workers and of participating actively in Socialist con-
struction by our socioartistic work.
The tasks of artistically designing everyday life (architecture, clubs, lei-
272 [/ RUSSIAN ART OF THE AVANT-GARDE

sure, mass celebrations) and also of artistically finishing articles of mass

consumption (duplicating designs, textiles, ceramics, the processing of
wood, metal, etc.) confront the artists of the Proletarian Revolution as
urgent, present-day tasks.
The heroic class struggle, the great workdays of construction, should be
the mainsprings of the content of our art. The subjects of our immediate
work are not only. the past and present of the struggle, but also the prospects
created by the Proletarian Revolution. We consider this profound content—
invested in an artistically perfect, realistic form organically engendered by
it—a sign of truth in a contemporary work of visual art.
In actively realizing the slogans of the cultural revolution on the visual-
arts front, in organizing the feelings, thoughts, and will of the toiling masses
by our artistic and social work, we set as our primary objective: to assist the
proletariat in the realization of its class objectives.
In national cultures, October is creating a diverse but united current of
revolutionary, realistic art of all republics and autonomous provinces of the
U.S.S.R. This is also true of the art of revolutionary artists of other coun-
tries; } and in setting as our task the development of keen artistic interaction
between peoples liberated and those being liberated, we aspire to unite the
revolutionary artists of all countries in a single organization—
INTERNAKhR.
‘‘Proletarian culture is not something that has come out of the blue; it is
not the invention of people who call themselves specialists in proletarian
culture. . . . Proletarian culture should be the legitimate development of the
reserves of knowledge that mankind produced under the yoke of capitalist
society, landowner society, and bureaucratic society.”’
With these words of V. I. Lenin in mind, and on the basis of continuity
and critical assimilation of world artistic culture, we will come to the creation
of a proletarian art.
Advancing along this path, perfecting the forms of our language with per-
sistent work and labor, we will come, by means of a new content, to the cre-
ation of a monumental style—the expression of our epoch, the style of
heroic realism.

Art—to the masses.

October—Association
of Artistic Labor
Declaration, 1928

October was founded in 1928, but its one exhibition did not open until June 1930, in
Moscow. October encompassed various artistic activities, although it concentrated on
the industrial and applied arts—and this, together with its emphasis on the proletariat
and on contemporaneity, recalled the ideas of Proletkult and constructivism. This is
confirmed by the association’s list of members and by the cosignatories of this decla-
ration, who included: representing poster art and book design—Aleksandr Alekseev,
Mecheslav Dobrokovsky, Vasilii Elkin, Paula Freiberg, Paul Irbit, Gustav Klutsis,
Alois Kreichik, Nikolai Lapin, El Lissitzky, Dmitrii Moor, Diego Rivera (in Mos-
coW 1927-28), Nikolai Sedelnikov, Sergei Senkin, Solomon Telingater, Béla Uitz,
Vikor Toot and, temporarily, Aleksandr Deineka; representing architecture—Aleksei
Gan, Moisei Ginzburg, Pavel Novitsky, and two of the Vesnin brothers, Aleksandr
and Viktor; representing film and photography—Sergei Eisenstein, Aleksandr Rod-
chenko, and Esfir Shub; and Alfred Kurella, Ivan Matsa, and Aleksei Mikhailov—
theorists of the group.

Deineka, Klutsis, Lissitzky, Rodchenko, Senkin, and Varvara Stepanova were repre-
sented at its sole exhibition [for review see bibl. R70, no. 7, 1930, pp. 9-16]. A
collection of October declarations and articles by members entitled /zofront. Klas-
sovaya borba na fronte prostranstvennykh iskusstv [Visual Arts Front. The Class
Struggle on the Spatial Arts Front; bibl. R500] was scheduled to appear at the same
time as the exhibition, but the adverse political and artistic climate dictated a number
of prepublication changes. When the collection finally appeared in late 1931, the
publishers were careful to emphasize in their separate insert and apologetic preface
that the collection was being published as ‘‘material for creative discussion’’ despite
its numerous ‘‘vulgar, materialistic mistakes.’’ In 1932 October was accused of
‘‘abolishing art’’[see responses of RAPKh (Rossiiskaya assotsiatsiya proletarskikh
khudozhnikov—Russian Association of Proletarian Artists) to the decree ‘‘On the
Reconstruction’’ (pp. 288ff.) in Za proletarskoe iskusstvo [For Proletarian Art] (Mo-
scow), no. 9/10, 1932; reprinted in bibl. R16, p. 650]; in the same year October
was, in any case, dissolved as a result of the above decree.

The text of this piece, ‘‘Oktyabr. Obedinenie khudozhestvennogo truda. Deklarat-

siya,’’ was first published in Sovremennaya arkhitektura [SA—Contemporary Archi-
tecture] (Moscow), no. 3, March 1928, pp. 73-74 [bibl. R84]. In 1931 a second gen-
eral declaration, entitled Borba za proletarskie pozitsii na fronte prostranstvennykh

273
274 | RUSSIAN ART -OF THEYAVAN ToGAR DE

Cover of the book /zofront [Visual Arts

Front] (Moscow-Leningrad, 1931). De-
signed by Gustav Klutsis. This was one of
the last constructivist book designs to be
published in the Soviet Union.

iskusstv [The Struggle for Proletarian Class Positions on the Spatial Arts Front], was
published as a separate pamphlet in Moscow. Apart from this, there were three other
specific declarations: one by the National Sector of October (dated 1929), which
rejected the idealization of pre-Revolutionary art forms and cultures, thereby oppos-
ing AKhR’s support of nineteenth-century realist traditions; the Program of the Photo
Section of October (dated 1930), which rejected the ‘‘abstract’’ photography of such
artists as Laszl6 Moholy-Nagy and saw the value of photography to lie in its ‘‘actual-
ity,’ stipulating, moreover, that all members should be linked with industrial pro-
duction or with collective farms; and an Open Letter (dated 1930) from the young
artists’ section of October—Molodoi Oktyabr [Young October]—to the central presi-
dium of OMAKRhR (see p. 265) criticizing the latter’s passive, documentary interpre-
tation of proletarian reality. [These three declarations, together with the first, were
published in. bibl. R500, pp. 135-60, and are reprinted in bibl. R16, pp. 608-16,
619-23; the first declaration and that of the National Sector are reprinted in bibl.
R22, pp. 117-18, 121-22]. For a German translation see bibl. 209viii, pp. 180-83.

At the present time all art forms must define their positions at the front of
the Socialist cultural revolution. ;
We are profoundly convinced that the spatial arts (architecture, painting,
sculpture, graphics, the industrial arts, photography, cinematography, etc.)
can escape their current crisis only when they are subordinated to the task of
 Toward Socialist Realism | 275

usta ¥KPRCHOU HABM” nogctons BO, ae Konysi Opnc, pyc asa aKoacua Hovas xy aosocmna nero Pasepa,
2 AL SSRN L ANAS OY tas Bagh ia,

Cover of the journal Krasnaya niva [Red Field] (Moscow), no. 12, 1928.
Designed by Diego Rivera. Rivera was in Moscow in 1927 and 1928 and
was a member of the October group. Photograph courtesy of the late
Mr. Alfred H. Barr, Jr., New York.

serving the concrete needs of the proletariat, the leaders of the peasantry,
and the backward national groups.
In participating consciously in the proletariat’s ideological class struggle
against hostile forces and in supporting the rapprochement of the peasantry
and the nationalities with the proletariat, the spatial arts must serve the pro-
letariat and the working masses in two interconnected fields:
in the field of ideological propaganda (by means of pictures, frescoes,
printing, sculpture, photography, cinematography, etc.);
276 | RUSSIAN ART OF THE AVANT-GARDE

in the field of production and direct organization of the collective way of

life (by means of architecture, the industrial arts, the designing of mass fes-
tivals, etc.).
The main task of this artistic service to the proletarian needs of the Revo-
lution is to raise the ideological, cultural, and domestic level of the back-
ward strata of the working class and of those workers who are undergoing an
alien class influence; their level would be raised to that of the avant-garde,
revolutionary industrial proletariat, which is consciously building the Social-
ist economy and culture on the bases of organization, planning, and highly
developed industrial technology.
These principles have already been stipulated as the basis of the whole so-
cioeconomic structure of our government, and only art has remained behind
in this respect, because of the narrow, professional artisan traditions it has
preserved. The most pressing task today is to eliminate this disproportion
between the development of art and the socioeconomic development of our
country.
For those artists who are fully aware of these principles, the following im-
mediate. tasks await:
1. The artist who belongs to the epoch of the proletarian dictatorship
regards himself not as an isolated figure passively reflecting reality, but as
an active fighter at the ideological front of the Proletarian Revolution; this is
the front that, by its actions, is organizing mass psychology and is helping to
design the new way of life. This orientation compels the proletarian artist to
take stock of himself continually in order to stand with the revolutionary
proletarian avant-garde at the same high ideological level.
2. He must submit to critical examination all formal and technical artistic
achievements of the past. Of especial value to proletarian art are the
achievements of the last decades, when the methods of the rational and con-
structive approaches to artistic creation, which had been lost by the artists of
the petty bourgeoisie, were restored and developed considerably. It was at
this time that artists began to penetrate the creation of dialectical and materi-
alist methodology, of which artists had not been aware previously, and of
the methods of mechanical and laboratory scientific technology; this has
provided a great deal that can and must serve as material for the develop-
ment of proletarian art. However, the fundamental task of the proletarian
artist is not to make an eclectic collection of old devices for their own sake,
but with their aid, and on new technological ground, to create new types and’
a new style of the spatial arts.
3. The ultimate orientation of the artist who would express the cultural
interests of the revolutionary proletariat should be to propagate the world
 Toward Socialist Realism | 277

view of dialectical materialism by the maximum means of expression within

the spatial arts, and to design materially the mass, collective forms of the
new life. In the light of this, we reject the philistine realism of epigones; the
realism of a stagnant, individualistic way of life; passively contemplative,
static, naturalistic realism with its fruitless copying of reality, embellishing
and canonizing the old way of life, sapping the energy and enervating the
will of the culturally underdeveloped proletariat.
We recognize and will build proletarian realism that expresses the will of
the active revolutionary class; a dynamic realism that reveals life in move-
ment and in action and that discloses systematically the potentials of life; a
realism that makes things, that rebuilds rationally the old way of life and
that, in the very thick of the mass struggle and construction, exerts its influ-
ence through all its artistic means. But we simultaneously reject aesthetic,
abstract industrialism and unadulterated technicism that passes itself off as
revolutionary art. For art to affect life creatively, we emphasize that all
means of expression and design must be utilized in order to organize the
consciousness, will, and emotions of the proletariat and of the working
masses with maximum force. To this end, the organic cooperation of all spa-
tial art forms must be established.
4. Proletarian art must overcome individualistic and commercial rela-
tionships, which have dominated art up until now. While we reject the bu-
reaucratic concepts of the 66 ‘‘social commission,’’ which has gained ground
over recent years, we do seek social commissions from consumer collec-
tives; these order works of art for concrete objectives and participate collec-
tively in the preparation of artistic objects. In this respect the industrial arts
are assuming more importante, since they are proving to be durable and ef-
fective in collective production and consumption.
5. In order to obtain maximum results we are attempting to concentrate
our efforts on the following vital points:
a) rational construction, problems of new residential accommodation,
social buildings, etc.
b a artistic design of objects for mass consumption manufactured by in-
dustry
lant am artistic design of centers for the new collective way of life: workers’
clubs, reading rooms, canteens, tearooms, etc.
d) organization of mass festivals
e) art education
We are firmly convinced that the paths we have indicated will lead to the
intensive development of creative strength among the masses. We support
this development of mass creative aspiration, since we know that the basic
278° | RUSSTAN ARTOF THE AV AN Gtk De

process of the development of the spatial arts in the U.S.S.R. is advancing

because of the proximity of the independent art of proletarian art circles,
workers’ clubs, and peasants to highly qualified professional art, and is
maintaining the level of artistic technology identifiable with the industrial
epoch.
In advancing along these paths, proletarian art leaves behind the slogan of
the transitional period—‘‘Art to the Masses’’—and prepares the ground for
the art of the masses.
In acknowledging organization, rationality, and collectivism as the basic
principles of the new artistic and cultural construction in the country of the
proletarian dictatorship, the October Association establishes a definite work-
ing discipline for bringing together its members on the basis of the above
principles. These principles will need a more thorough elaboration in. the as-
sociation’s subsequent creative, ideological, and social activity.
In issuing the present declaration, we disassociate ourselves from all ex-
isting art groups active in the field of the spatial arts. We are prepared to
join forces with some of them as long as they acknowledge the basic princi-
ples of our platform in practical terms. We greet the idea of a federation of
art societies ! and will support any serious organizational steps in this
direction.
We are embarking at a time of transition for the development of the spa-
tial arts in the U.S.S.R. With regard to the basic forces active in modern So-
viet art, the natural process of artistic and ideological self-determination is
being hampered by a number of unhealthy phenomena. We consider it our
duty to declare that we reject the system of personal and group patronage
and protection for individual artistic trends and individual artists. We sup-
port wholly the unrestricted, healthy competition of artistic directions and
schools within the areas of technical competence, higher quality of artistic
and ideological production and stylistic researches. But we reject unhealthy
competition between artistic groups for commissions and patronage of influ-
ential individuals and institutions. We reject any claim by any one associa-
tion of artists to ideological monopoly or exclusive representation of the ar-
tistic interests of the working and peasant masses. We reject the system that
can allow an artificially created and privileged position (moral and material)
for any one artistic group at the expense of other. associations or groups; this
is a radical contradiction of the Party’s and the government’s artistic policy.
We reject speculation on ‘‘social commissions,’’ which occurs beneath the
mask of revolutionary theme and everyday realism, and which replaces any
serious effort to formulate a revolutionary world view and world perception
with a simplified interpretation of a hurriedly invented revolutionary subject.
 Toward Socialist Realism / 279

We are against the dictatorship of philistine elements in the Soviet spatial

arts and for the cultural maturity, artistic craftsmanship, and ideological con-
sistence of the new proletarian artists, who are quickly gaining strength and
advancing to the fore.
The ranks of the proletariat, progressive, active, and artistically con-
cerned, are growing before our very eyes. Mass art summons the vast
masses to artistic involvement. This involvement is linked to the class strug-
gle, to the development of industry, and to the transformation of life. This
work demands sincerity, high qualifications, cultural maturity, revolutionary
awareness. We will dedicate all our strength to this work.

OST [Society of Easel Artists]

Platform, 1929

OST [Obshchestvo khudozhnikov-stankovistov—Society of Easel Artists] arose as an

untitled group just after the ‘‘First Discussional’’ (see pp. 237ff.), in late 1924, and
was established formally in 1925. Founding members included Yurii Annenkov,
Aleksandr Deineka, Yurii Pimenov, David Shterenberg (chairman), and Petr Vil-
yams, and its membership soon came to encompass many leading figures of young
Soviet art. OST had four exhibitions from 1925 to 1928, all in Moscow (Deineka
contributed only to the first two, leaving the society early in 1927) before it closed in
1931. Although OST supported easel painting as opposed to industrial design (one
reason that Deineka left), it did not reject the achievements of the old avant-garde;
Ivan Klyun, for instance, was invited to contribute to the first OST exhibition.

The text of this piece, ‘‘Platforma OSTa’’ (part of the society’s code), was formu-
lated in 1929 but not published until 1933 in Sovetskoe iskusstvo za 15 let [Soviet Art
of the Last Fifteen Years], ed. Ivan Matsa et al. (Moscow-Leningrad), p. 575 [bibl.
R16}, from which this translation is made. It was based probably on Shterenberg’s
lecture at the Communist Academy in Moscow in May 1928, entitled ‘‘Teore-
ticheskaya platforma i khudozhestvennaya praktika OSTa’’ [The Theoretical Plat-
form and Artistic Practice of OST]. OST contributed a great deal to the renewal of
easel activity and achieved very interesting results, particularly in the initial work of
Pimenov, Aleksandr Tyshler, and Vilyams. In some cases, as in Pimenov’s war pic-
tures, the influence of German expressionists such as Otto Dix and George Grosz
Cover of the exhibition catalogue of OST Aleksandr Deineka: Defense of Petrograd, 1927.
[Society of Easel Artists] (Moscow, 1927). Oil on canvas, 218 x 359 cm. Collection Central
Artist unknown. Museum of the Soviet Army, Moscow. Although
regarded as an important precusor of Socialist Real-
ist painting, this picture derives its subject and
CS AVS BOSH eh Ape Ree Heataelt
XYAOMECTBEHHDAOTAEA composition directly from Ferdinand Hodler’s The
Departure of the Volunteers in 1813, 1908, Fried-
rich Schiller University, Jena.

Nie Obra Cae Ninae meeA etme tee? 17

MYZEA HMBONMCHOH KyYAbTYPob

Yurii Pimenov: Give to Heavy Industry, 1927

Oil on canvas, 260 x 212 cm. Collection Tre-
tyakov Gallery, Moscow. The graphic linear
quality of this work was typical of Pimenov’s
industrial and athletic scenes of the mid-1920s, |Aleksandr Tyshler: Woman and an Airplane,
and revealed his interest in later German 1926. Oil on canvas, 89 x 71 cm. Private col-
expressionism, especially as interpreted by lection, Moscow. Tyshler’s work, especially of
Otto Dix. the mid- and late 1920s, possessed a distinctly
surrealist quality—one shared by other
members of OST, such as Rostislav Barto and
Sergei Luchishkin.
 Toward Socialist Realism / 281

was especially noticeable, although this angular, skeletal quality was also effective in the
young Soviet artists’ depictions of industrial and mechanical scenes. OST members displayed
a technical competence and an intellectual energy lacking in the ‘“‘sketchy” studies of Four
Arts or the academic work of AKhRR. For a German translation see bibl. 209viii, pp. 342,
343.

On the basis of the following program, the Society of Easel Artists aims
to unite artists who are doing practical work in the field of the visual arts:
1. In the epoch of Socialist construction the active forces of art must be
participants in this construction; in addition, they must be one of the factors
in the cultural revolution affecting the reconstruction and design of our new
way of life and the creation of the new Socialist culture.
2. Bearing in mind that only art of high quality can envisage such tasks,
we consider it essential, within the conditions of the contemporary develop-
ment of art, to advocate the basic lines along which our work in the visual
arts must advance. These lines are:
a) The rejection of abstraction and peredvizhnichestvo ! in subject
matter
b) The rejection of sketchiness as a phenomenon of latent dilettantism
c) The rejection of pseudo Cézannism as a disintegrating force in the
discipline of form, drawing, and color
d) Revolutionary contemporaneity and clarity of subject matter
e) Aspiration to absolute technical mastery in the field of thematic
easel painting, drawing, and sculpture as the formal attainments of
the last few years are developed further
f) Aspiration to make the picture a finished article
g) Orientation toward young artists

Four Arts Society of Artists

Declaration, 1929

The Four Arts Society was founded in Moscow in 1924 by, among others, Lev
Bruni, Vladimir Favorsky, Pavel Kuznetsov, Vladimir Lebedev, Petr Miturich,
Kuzma Petrov-Vodkin, and as these names would indicate, the society was espe-
282), fo WA NVA
RUSS RUD» OUP T HOE RDA
ARV VAIN a -GeAS

cially interested in the decorative and lyrical aspects of art. Four Arts, however, was
eclectic and, apart from the above artists, represented at its four exhibitions
(1925, 1926, 1929, in Moscow; 1928, in Leningrad) such diverse artists as Ivan
Klyun (1926), El Lissitzky (1926), and unexpectedly, Ivan Puni (1928), and it even
numbered architects among its members. A history of Soviet architecture published
in 1970 [bibl. R22, p. 115] refers to five state exhibitions and one foreign one, but a
1965 Soviet publication on exhibitions of the visual arts [bibl. R152] does not sup-
port this. According to Ivan Matsa’s 1933 volume [bibl. R16, p. 338] and Troels An-
dersen’s catalogue of the Malevich collection in Amsterdam [bibl. 160, p. 163], Kazi-
mir Malevich was also represented at one of the Four Arts exhibitions, but the 1965
Soviet book [bib]. R152] does not corroborate this. Already in a state of decline in
1930, Four Arts underwent further disruption when some of its members left to join
AKhRR [see bibl. R16, pp. 581-82]; it was, in any case, dissolved by the decree
“On the Reconstruction’’ (see pp. 288ff.).

The text of this piece, ‘‘Obshchestvo 4 iskusstva. Deklaratsiya,’’ is from Ezhegodnik

literatury i iskusstva [Annual of Literature and Art] (Moscow), October 1929, pp.
551-52 [bibl. R15; it is reprinted in bibl. R16, pp. 321-22]. Despite its late date, the
declaration indicates that Soviet artists could still enjoy a certain independence from
the Party machine. However, the more individualistic conception of art and the gen-
eral concern with formal rather than with thematic value favored by members of Four
Arts gave the society a distinctive and unconventional stance soon criticized both by
the political administration and by fellow groups such as OST and AKhR. in general,
the Four Arts members favored an art form more delicate and refined than that of
OST or AKhR members, and graphics and water colors were their most frequent
media. This ethereal quality in the washes of Bruni and Kuznetsov, Petr Lvov, and
Nikolai Tyrsa, to mention but a few, prompted comparisons with the French impres-
sionists and symbolists, and it is relevant to note that some of the older members—
Nikolai Feofilaktov, Kuznetsov, Martiros Saryan—had been members of the symbo-
list Blue Rose group in 1907. The code of the society has recently been published in
bibl. R515, pp. 169-75.

What the artist shows the spectator above all is the artistic quality of his
work.
Only in this quality does the artist express his attitude to the surrounding
world. -
The development of art and of artistic culture has reached the stage when
the most profound characteristic of its specific element is to be found in its
simplicity and closeness to human feeling.
Within the conventions of the Russian tradition, we consider painterly re-
alism to be most appropriate to the artistic culture of our time. We consider
 Toward Socialist Realism | 283

Vladimir Favorsky: Lenin 1917-1927, 1927. Woodcut, 17.5 x 12.5 cm.

the French school, a school that is most fully and most universally develop-
ing the basic qualities of the painterly art, to be of the greatest value to our-
selves.

On the Artist’s Tasks

The content of our work is not characterized by subject matter, and there-
fore, on no account do we give titles to our pictures. The choice of subject
characterizes the artistic tasks with which the artist is concerned. In this
sense the subject is merely a pretext for the creative transformation of mate-
rial into artistic form. The spectator perceives confirmation of artistic truth
284 | RUSSTANSART OF THEVA VA ay ee
lsN

in the transference undergone by visible forms, when the artist takes their
painterly meaning from life and constructs a new form—the picture. This
new form is important not because of its similarity to the living form, but
because of its harmony with the material out of which it is constructed. This
material—the picture’s surface and its color—consists of paint, canvas, etc.
The effect of an artistic form on the spectator derives from the nature of a
given medium, from its qualities and basic elements (music has its own,
painting its own, literature its own). The organization of these qualities and
the mastery of material for the attainment of this goal comprise artistic
creation.

PAVEL FILONOV
Ideology of Analytical Art
[Extract], 1930

Born Moscow, 1883; died Leningrad, 1941. 1897: moved to St. Petersburg;
1897-I901: engaged in house painting, decorating, and restoration work;
1903-1908; at the private studio of the academician Lev Dmitriev-Kavkazsky;
1908-10: attended the St. Petersburg Academy; 1910 and thereafter: close to the
Union of Youth, contributing to three of its exhibitions; 1912: traveled to Italy and
France; 1913: with Iosif Shkolnik designed decor for Vladimir Mayakovsky’s trag-
edy Vladimir Mayakovsky; 1914-15: illustrated futurist booklets and published a
long, neologistic poem with his own illustrations [bibl]. R347]; propounded the first
ideas of his theory of analytical art and his system called ‘“‘Mirovoi rastsvet’’ [Uni-
versal Flowering]; published his first manifesto, Sdelannye kartiny [Made Paint-
ings]; 1916-18: military service; 1923: briefly associated with the Petrograd Institute
of Artistic Culture (IKhK); 1925: established the Collective of Masters of
Analytical Art (the Filonov School); 1929-30: one-man exhibition planned at the
Russian Museum, Leningrad; 1930s: continued to paint according to his theories.

The text of this piece, ‘‘Ideologiya analiticheskogo iskusstva,’’ is from P. Filonov.

Katalog proizvedenii nakhodyashchikhsya v Russkom muzee [P. Filonov. Catalogue
of Works in the Russian Museum] (Leningrad, 1930), pp. 41-52 [bibl. R507]. The
catalogue was printed in 1929 and issued in 1930, and although the preparations for
 Toward Socialist Realism |/ 285

Pavel Filonov: Self-Portrait, 1909-10. India ink, 6.8 x 10.5 cm. Collec-
tion Russian Museum, Leningrad.

the exhibition reached their final stage, it was not opened ultimately for political
reasons and because of pressure from the AKhR artists. The catalogue contained a
preface by the critic Sergei Isakov (pp. 3-28), who criticized Filonov for his visual
distortion of workers and for his individualism. Filonov wrote the first draft of his
theory of analytical art in 1914-15, a second in 1923 (published as *‘The Declaration
of Universal Flowering’’ [bibl]. R508]), and thereafter several versions, but as such it
did not appear under the specific title ‘‘Ideology of Analytical Art’’ until the publica-
tion of this catalogue (which, in any case, carried only the short extract translated
here). The tension between the concepts of the intellect and the psyche, analysis and
intuition, central to Filonov’s theory was nowhere more evident than in his frequent
recourse to scientific terminology, paralleled in pictorial terms by his application of
concrete titles to highly subjective and abstract themes. Both the biological and intui-
tional concepts favored by Filonov betrayed the influence of Nikolai Kulbin on the
one hand, and of Vladimir Markov and perhaps even of Olga Rozanova on the
other—all of whom Filonov had known in St. Petersburg. Filonov’s theory had a cer-
tain following during the mid- and late 1920s, through his students, such as Yuliya
Arapova and Alisa Poret, and the Filonov School continued to exist during the early
1930s, contributing, inter al., to the remarkable edition of the Finnish Kalevala in
1933 [bibl]. R512]. Filonov’s proposed exhibition, his unflinching belief in his own
system, and the activity of his students constituted a last open stand against the of-
ficial and exclusive imposition of realism and socialist realism after about 1930. It
was a tragic paradox that Filonov, so deeply concerned with the formulation of a pro-
286. | RUS'SIAN-ART OF THEVA AN TGA
R DE

letarian art, should have been censured during his last decade as a ‘‘monstrous hybrid
of metaphysics and vulgar materialism . . . manifesting complete confusion in the
face of reality” [bibl. R491, p. 60]. For an English translation of similar texts see
bibl. 272111.

A work of art is any piece of work made with the maximum tension of an-
alytical madeness. !
The only professional criterion for evaluating a piece of work is its
madeness.
In their profession the artist and his disciple must love all that is ‘“made
well’’ and hate all that is ‘‘not made.’’
In analytical thought the process of study becomes an integral part of the
creative process for the piece being made.
The more consciously and forcefully the artist works on his intellect, the
stronger the effect the finished work has on the spectator.
Each brushstroke, each contact with the picture, is a precise recording
through the material and in the material of the inner psychical process taking
place in the artist, and the whole work is the entire recording of the intellect
of the person who made it.
Art is the reflection through material or the record in material of the
struggle for the formation of man’s higher intellectual condition and of the
struggle for existence by this higher psychological condition. Art’s efficacity
vis-a-vis the spectator is equal to this; i.e., it both makes him superior and
summons him to become superior.
The artist-proletarian’s obligation is not only to create works that answer
the demands of today, but also to open the way to intellect into the distant
future.
The artist-proletarian must act on the intellect of his comrade proletarians
not only through what they can understand at their present stage of develop-
ment.
Work on content is work on form and vice versa.
The more forcefully form is expressed, the more forcefully content is
expressed.
Form is made by persistent line. Every line must be made.
Every atom must be made; the whole work must be made and adapted.
Think persistently and accurately over every atom of the work you are
doing. Make every atom persistently and accurately.
Introduce persistently and accurately into every atom the color you have
 Toward Socialist Realism | 287

a,
Ne sa
ye

Pavel Filonov: Untitled, 1924-25. India ink, 30.5 x 27 cm. Collection

Russian Museum, Leningrad. Executed according to his theory of analyti-
cal art, this work introduced ‘‘all the predicates of the object and its
sphere: objective reality, pulsation and its sphere, biodynamics, intellect,
emanations, interfusions, geneses, processes of color and form—in a
word, life as a whole’’ [bibl. R508, p. 13].

studied—-so that it enters the atom just as heat enters the body or so that it is
linked organically with the form, just as in nature a flower’s cellulose is
linked with its color.
Painting is the colored conclusion of drawing.
Central Committee of the
All-Union Communist Party
(Bolsheviks)
Decree on the Reconstruction
of Literary and
Artistic Organizations, 1932

This decree, passed April 23, 1932, marked the culmination of a series of measures
that had been curtailing the artist’s independence (e.g., the decrees ‘‘On the Party’s
Policy in the Field of Artistic Literature,’’ 1925, and ‘‘On the Production of Poster
Pictures,’’ 1931). Before the 1932 decree there had been attempts to consolidate ar-
tistic forces by establishing umbrella societies, such as Vsekokhudozhnik [Vseros-
siiskii kooperativ khudozhnikov—All-Russian Cooperative of Artists] in 1929,
FOSKh in 1930 [see n. 1 to the October ‘*Declaration,’’ p. 308], and RAPKh in
1931 [see ibid.], but such organizations had retained a certain independence of the
political machine. The direct result of the 1932 decree was to dissolve all official art
groups immediately; and although the proposed single Union of Soviet Artists (i.e.,
Soyuz khudozhnikov SSSR [Union of Artists of the U.S.S.R.]) was not convoked until
1957, a special committee was organized in 1936 to take charge of all art affairs ex-
cept those involving architecture and the cinema—Komitet po delam iskusstv pri
Sovete ministrov SSSR [Committee for Art Affairs Attached to the Council of
U.S.S.R. Ministers]; in turn, the decree prepared the ground for the conclusive ad-
vocacy of socialist realism at the First All-Union Congress of Soviet Writers in 1934
(see pp. 290ff.). For reactions to the decree see bibl. R16, pp. 645-51.

The text of this piece, O Perestroike literaturno-khudozhestvennykh organizatsii, ap-

peared as a separate pamphlet in 1932; it is reprinted in Sovetskoe iskusstvo za 15 let
{Soviet Art of the Last Fifteen Years], ed. Ivan Matsa et al. (Moscow-Leningrad,
1933), Ppp. 644-45 [bibl. R16], from which this translation is made; it has been
reprinted several times since Matsa, e.g., in bibl. R493. For a German translation
see bibl. 209viil, p. 408.

The Central Committee states that over recent years literature and art have
made considerable advances, both quantitative and qualitative, on the basis
of the significant progress of Socialist construction.
A few years ago the influence of alien elements, especially those revived
by the first years of NEP,’ was still apparent and marked. At this time,
when the cadres of proletarian literature were still weak, the Party helped in

288
 Toward Socialist Realism | 289

Aleksandr Gerasimov: Stalin and Voroshilov in the Kremlin Grounds,

1938. Oil on canvas, 300 x 390 cm. Collection Tretyakov Gallery, Mos-
cow. Gerasimov was Stalin’s favorite Soviet artist.

every possible way to create and consolidate special proletarian organs in the
field of literature and art in order to maintain the position of proletarian
_ writers and art workers.
At the present time the cadres of proletarian literature and art have man-
aged to expand, new writers’ and artists have come forward from the facto-
ries, plants, and collective farms, but the confines of the existing proletarian
literature and art organizations (VOAPP, RAPP, RAPM,? etc.) are becom-
ing too narrow and are hampering the serious development of artistic crea-
tion. This factor creates a danger: these organizations might change from
being an instrument for the maximum mobilization of Soviet writers and art-
ists for the tasks of Socialist construction to being an instrument for cultivat-
ing elitist withdrawal and loss of contact with the political tasks of contem-
poraneity and with the important groups of writers and artists who
sympathize with Socialist construction.
Hence the need for the appropriate reconstruction of literary and artistic
organizations and the extension of the basis of their activity.
Following from this, the Central Committee of the All-Union Communist
Party (Bolsheviks) decrees:
1. Liquidation of the Association of Proletarian Writers (VOAPP,
RAPP).
290 J REWIS'ST AUNSSACRD SOnb eT UH ENCAsV ASNi te Gran Reber

2. Integration of all writers who support the platform of the Soviet

government and who aspire to participate in Socialist construction in a sin-
gle union of Soviet writers with a Communist faction therein.
3. Execution of analogous changes with regard to the other arts.
4. Charging of the Organizational Bureau with working out practical
measures for the fulfillment of this resolution.

CONTRIBUTIONS TO THE
FIRST ALL-UNION
CONGRESS OF SOVIET
WRITERS [EXTRACTS], 1934

The Union of Soviet Writers, founded in 1932, held its first congress in Moscow
August 17 to September 2, 1934. The minutes were published as Pervyi Vsesoyuznyi
sezd sovetskikh pisatelei 1934. Stenograficheskii otchet [First All-Union Congress of
Soviet Writers 1934. Stenographic Report] (Moscow, November 1934) [bibl. R498;
English version bibl. 272]. This congress, under the chairmanship of Maxim Gorky,
played a major role in the history of Soviet culture not only because it constituted an
impressive symbol of solidarity (almost six hundred delegates from almost fifty So-
viet nationalities were present), but also because it advocated socialist realism as the
only viable artistic medium for Soviet literature and art. Throughout the 1920s, the
ideas of realism and, more specifically, heroic realism had been supported by Party
officials as well as by a number of Soviet writers and artists (the latter especially in
the context of AKhRR). Although the term socialist realism was coined in the
spring of 1932, its meaning remained imprecise as Lunacharsky, for example, in-
dicated: ‘‘Socialist realism is an extensive program; it includes many different
methods—those we already possess and those we are still acquiring’ [from ‘‘Sot-
sialisticheskii realizm’’—Socialist Realism—in bibl. R402, vol. 8, 501]. The 1934
congress, particularly in the persons of Gorky and Andrei Zhdanov, attempted to
explain the concept of socialist realism and to advance principles such as typicality,
optimism, “‘revolutionary romanticism,” “‘reality in its revolutionary development,’’
as fundamental to the understanding the new doctrine. In literature, in fact, Gorky
was regarded as the founder of socialist realism since these qualities could be iden-
tified with much of his work, particularly with his plays and with his famous novel
Mat [Mother] (1906). Within the framework of the visual arts, there was no precur-
sor of Gorky’s stature, although the very strong realist movement of the second half
of the nineteenth century provided a firm traditional basis, and later realists such as
 Toward Socialist Realism / 291

Abram Arkhipoy and Nikolai Kasatkin acted as vital links between the pre-and post-
Revolutionary periods. While the emphasis of the congress was, of course, on litera-
ture, its general tenets were applicable to all the Soviet arts, especially to the visual
arts. Igor Grabar, once a peripheral member of the World of Art but never a radical
artist, made this quite clear in his speech: not only did he accept the Party’s jurisdic-
tion in matters of art, but also his description of the ‘‘distant past’’ as ‘‘dismal’’
echoed Gorky’s condemnation of the period 1907-17 as the ‘‘most disgraceful and
shameful decade in the history of the Russian intelligentsia’’ [bibl. R498, p. 12].
Grabar, already an Honored Art Worker and famous for his several pictures of
Lenin, was the only professional artist who spoke at the congress. However, some of
the literary speakers had been in contact with the more progressive forces of Russian
and Soviet art. Viktor Shklovsky and Sergei Tretyakov, for example, once associated
with Lef and with the constructivists, made substantial contributions to the congress,
although Shklovsky was quick to criticize his former artistic sympathies: ‘‘we,
former members of Lef, took what was useful from life, thinking that this was aes-
thetic; we constructivists created a construction that proved to be nonconstructive
... fibid., p. 155]. Such artists as Filonov, Malevich, and Tatlin were not, of
course, present at the congress. What became patently clear there was the degree to
which artistic policy in the Soviet Union relied on the political machine, a fact
expressed explicitly and implicitly in one of the opening speeches, by Andrei
Zhdanov, then secretary of the Communist Party of the U.S.S.R. Although Stalin
himself did not speak at the congress, the numerous references to his leadership
strewed throughout the speeches, and the formal addrésses to Stalin and Marshal
Voroshilov that concluded the congress, indicated the power that the governmental
hierarchy already exerted in the field of art and literature. The effect of the congress
on the evolution of Soviet art was decisive. The ratification of socialist realism as the
only artistic style acceptable toxa Socialist society and, hence, as an international
style, together with the several subsequent decrees that attempted to abolish *‘forma-
lism’’ in the arts, led directly to its exclusive application in the U.S.S.R.; and al-
though this led, in turn, to a standardization of form and content, there is no doubt
that the portraits of official celebrities, the industrial and collective farm landscapes,
the scenes of the Red Army and Navy were immediately intelligible and achieved a
lasting popularity among the masses. A parallel is drawn sometimes between Soviet
socialist realism and American social realism of the 1930s and 1940s. While there
are similarities in method, it should be remembered that the city scenes of Philip
Evergood or Louis Lozowick, for example, were much more ‘‘actual’’ than their So-
viet counterparts, i.e., they were concerned with a given scene at a given time and
not with the potential of reality, with what Zhdanov called ‘“‘revolutionary roman-
ticism.’’ It was precisely this quality that lent a certain vigor and imaginativeness to
the Soviet work of the 1930s, evident, for example, in the scenes of factories under
construction, of harvesting, of shipyards, i.e., optimistic scenes that contained a
‘glimpse of tomorrow’’ (Zhdanov). Unfortunately, the postwar period has witnessed
an adulteration of the original socialist realist principles—revolutionary romanticism
292 | RUSSTANCART 0. THE fy AN Ge kp

has been replaced often by sentimentalism, optimism by overt fantasy—and few

modern works in this idiom still maintain the intensity and single-mindedness of the
initial socialist realist work.

There were twenty-six separate sessions at the congress, dedicated to various areas of
interest, and there were almost three hundred spoken contributions. Among the So-
viet speakers, many famous names figured, such as Isaak Babel, Demyan Bednyi,
Kornei Chukovsky, Ilya Ehrenburg, Konstantin Fedin, Fedor Gladkov, Vera Inber,
Boris Pasternak, Marietta Shaginyan, and Aleksandr Tairov. In addition, there were
also forty-one non-Soviet participants, including Louis Aragon, Robert Gessner,
André Malraux, Klaus Mann, Karl Radek, Ernst Toller, and Amabel Williams-Ellis.

The full texts of the above pieces were published in the collection of reports,
speeches, and resolutions entitled Pervyi Vsesoyuznyi sezd sovetskikh pisatelei 1934.
Stenograficheskii otchet [First All-Union Congress of Soviet Writers 1934. Steno-
graphic Report], ed. Ivan Luppol et al. (Moscow, November 1934) [bibl. R498], and
the translations are from pp. 2-5, 13-14, 545-46, and 716 respectively. A version of
the proceedings appeared in an English translation as Problems of Soviet Literature
(New York, 1935) [bibl. 272]; although much abridged it contains the full texts of
the Zhdanov and Gorky speeches as well as of Karl Radek’s ‘‘Contemporary World
Literature and the Tasks of Proletarian Art’? and Nikolai Bukharin’s ‘‘Poetry, Poetics
and the Problems of Poetry in the USSR.’’ For details on the general artistic climate
of the 1930s, including commentary on the congress, see bibl. 256, 265, R494,
R497, R503.

From Andrei Zhdanov’s Speech

Comrades, in the name of the Central Committee of the All-Union Commu-

nist Party of Bolsheviks and the Soviet of People’s Commissars of the Union
of Soviet Socialist Republics, allow me to present our warmest greetings to
the first congress of Soviet writers and thereby-to all the writers of our So-
viet Union—headed by the great proletarian writer Aleksei Maksimovich
Gorky [Loud applause].
Comrades, your congress is meeting at a time when the basic difficulties
confronting us on the path of Socialist construction have already been over-
come, when our country has laid the foundation of a Socialist economy—
 Toward Socialist Realism / 293

something that is bound closely to the victorious policy of industrialization

and the construction of state and collective farms.
Your congress is meeting at a time when the Socialist way of life has
gained final and complete victory in our country—under the leadership of
the Communist Party and under our leader of genius, Comrade Stalin [Loud
applause]. Consequently, advancing from milestone to milestone, from vic-
tory to victory, from the time of the Civil War to the reconstruction period,
and from the reconstruction period to the Socialist reconstruction of the en-
tire national economy, our Party has led the country to victory over capitalist
elements, ousting them from all spheres of the national economy.
In our hands we hold a sure weapon, thanks to which we can overcome
all the difficulties besetting our path. This weapon is the great and invincible
doctrine of Marx-Engels-Lenin-Stalin, a doctrine that has been put into prac-
tice by our Party and by our soviets.
The great banner of Marx-Engels-Lenin-Stalin is victorious. It is thanks
precisely to this victorious banner that the first congress of Soviet writers has
met together here. If there had been no such victory, then there would have
been no congress. Only we Bolsheviks, no one else, could have convoked
such a congress as this.
Comrade Stalin has called our writers ‘‘engineers of human souls.’ }
What does this mean? What obligations does this title impose on us?
First of all, it means that we must know life so as to depict it truthfully in
our works of art—and not to depict it scholastically, lifelessly, or merely as
“‘objective reality’’; we must depict reality in its revolutionary development.
In this respect, truth and historical concreteness of the artistic depiction
must be combined with the task of the ideological transformation and educa-
tion of the working people in the spirit of Socialism. This method of artistic
literature and literary criticism is what we call socialist realism.
To be an engineer of human souls means to stand with both feet on the
ground of real life. And this, in turn, denotes a break with the old-style
romanticism that depicted a nonexistent life with nonexistent heroes and that
spirited the reader away from the contradictions and oppression of life to an
unreal world, to a world of utopias. Romanticism cannot be alien to our lit-
erature, which stands with both feet on the firm basis of materialism; but it
must be a romanticism of a new kind, a revolutionary romanticism. We say
that socialist realism is the basic method of Soviet artistic literature and liter-
ary criticism, and this presupposes that revolutionary romanticism must
enter literary creativity as an integral part, because the whole life of our
Party, of our working class and its struggle consists of a combination of the
most severe, most sober practical work with supreme heroism and grand
2904 | RUSSIAN*ART- OF THE AVANT-GARDE

prospects. Our Party has always derived its strength from the fact that it
united—and continues to unite—particular activity and practicality with
grand prospects, with a ceaseless aspiration onward, with the struggle for
the construction of a Communist society. Soviet literature must be able to
show our heroes, must be able to catch a glimpse of our tomorrow. This will
not be a utopia, because our tomorrow is being prepared today by our sys-
tematic and conscious work.
Create works with a high level of craftsmanship, with high ideological
and artistic content!
Be as active as you can in organizing the transformation of the human
consciousness in the spirit of Socialism!
Be in the vanguard of the fighters for a classless Socialist society! [Loud
applause}.

From Maxim Gorky’s Speech

on Soviet Literature

. All of us—writers, factory workers, collective-farm workers—still

work badly and do not even grasp in toto everything created by us, for us.
Our working masses still do not fully comprehend that they are working for
themselves and in their own interests. This realization is slowly awakening
everywhere, but it has still not burst into a powerful and joyful incandes-
cence. But nothing can burst into flame until it has reached a certain temper-
ature, and nothing has ever raised the temperature of working energy so
splendidly as the Party—organized by the genius of Vladimir Lenin—and
the present leader of this Party.
We must choose labor as the central hero of our books, i.e., man organ-
ized by the processes of labor, who in our country is armed with all the
might of modern technology, man who, in turn, is making labor easier,
more productive, raising it to the level of art. We must learn to understand
labor as creativity. Creativity is a term that we writers use too often—while
scarcely having the right to do so. Creativity comes about at that degree of
intense mental work when the mind, in its rapidity of work, extracts the
more salient and characteristic facts, images, and details from the reserves
 Toward Socialist Realism / 295

of knowledge and transposes them into very precise, vivid, and intelligible
words. Our young literature cannot boast of this quality. Our writers’ re-
serves of impressions, their depths of knowledge are not great, and one
does not feel that they care much about expanding and deepening their
reserves.

From Igor Grabar’s Speech

Comrades, we, visual arts workers, have come here to give the congress our
warmest proletarian greetings in the name of the entire army of the visual
arts front.
Comrades, there are no realms more closely linked than those of Soviet
literature and Soviet art. Comrade writers, you depict life as you see it, un-
derstand it, and feel it, and we depict it in the same way. You use the
method of socialist realism, and we too use this well-tested method—the
best of all existing ones.
I don’t have to remind you that we are not merely the illustrators of your
books; we are also your comrades in arms. We together have fought, are
fighting, and will fight our common class enemy [Applause]. We both have
the same class aspiration. We both have a common past, a common present,
and a common future.
It is not worth dwelling on the distant past. It is dismal enough. In those
days there did not exist the Socialist direction that emerged only with the
Revolution and that alone rouses us to perform real, heroic deeds.
But even in the recent past, in the first years of the Revolution, not every-
thing went smoothly from the start. Our ranks were thin. Slowly but surely
they began to expand as decisive progress was made on the front of Socialist
construction, and with this gradual expansion these ranks came to assume an
impressive force.
Comrade writers, we share with you one very important date—April 23,
1932—the day when the fact of our inclusion in the great edifice erected by
the Party was recognized, an inclusion unconditional and unreserved. In this
the Party displayed its trust in us and rendered us a great honor.
Comrades, hitherto we have not fully justified this trust and honor, but we
296 / RUSSIAN ART OF THE AVANT-GARDE

have come here to take a solemn oath that we will justify this trust and
honor in the very near future.
Comrades, we have paid great heed to everything that has gone on within
these walls over the past weeks. We have listened to so many of you state
that this congress has taught you much. Comrades, this congress has taught
us a great deal too. We hope to make good use of your experience and of the
ideas that you have expressed here at our own congress, which will take
place in the near future—a congress of visual arts workers [Applause].”
For the moment, allow me to state that your congress has already redou-
bled our belief in the proximity of the final victory of Socialism, that this
congress has trebled our conviction and our will to give over our pencil and
our chisel to the great creator of Socialism and a classless society—to the
mighty Party of Lenin and to its leader, Comrade Stalin [Applause].
Comrades, as a sign of our strength of will, allow me to present this
congress with a portrait of our leader—done by one of the representatives of
our younger generation, Comrade Malkov [Long applause}.°

From the First Section of the

Charter of the Union of
Soviet Writers of the U.S.S.R.

The great victories of the working class in the struggle for Socialism have
assured literature, art, science, and cultural growth as a whole of exceptional
prospects for their development.
The fact that non-Party writers have turned toward the Soviet regime and
that proletarian artistic literature has achieved gigantic growth has, with
urgent insistence, demonstrated the need to unite writers’ forces—both Party
and non-Party—in a single writers’ organization.
The historic resolution of the Central Committee of the All-Union Com-
munist Party (Bolsheviks) on April 23, 1932, indicated that the organiza-
tional form of this unification would be the creation of a single Union of So:
viet Writers. At the same time, it pointed to the ideological and creative
paths along which Soviet artistic literature would advance.
 Toward Socialist Realism / 297

A decisive condition for literary growth, for its artistic craftsmanship, its
ideological and political saturation, is the close and direct link of the literary
movement with the topical issues of the Party’s policies and the Soviet
regime, the inclusion of writers in active Socialist construction, and their
careful and profound study of concrete reality.
During the years of proletarian dictatorship, Soviet artistic literature and
Soviet literary criticism, hand in hand with the working class and guided by
the Communist Party, have worked out their own new creative principles.
These creative principles have been formulated on the one hand as a result
of critical assimilation of the literary heritage of the past and, on the other,
on the basis of a study of the experience gained from the triumphant con-
struction of Socialism and the development of Socialist culture. These cre-
ative bases have found their chief expression in the principles of socialist re-
alism.
Socialist realism, as the basic method of Soviet artistic literature and liter-
ary criticism, requires of the artist a true, historically concrete depiction of
reality in its Revolutionary development. In this respect, truth and historical
concreteness of the artistic depiction of reality must be combined with the
task of the ideological transformation and education of the workers in the
spirit of Socialism.
Socialist realism assures artistic creation of exceptional prospects for man-
ifesting creative initiative, of a choice of diverse forms, styles, and genres.
The victory of Socialism, the intense growth of production forces unprece-
dented in the history of mankind, the growing process of class liquidation,
the abolition of any possibility of man exploiting man and the abolition of
the opposition between town and country, and finally the unprecedented
progress in the growth of science, technology, and culture—all these factors
create limitless opportunities for the qualitative and quantitative growth of
creative forces and the flowering of all species of art and literature.
Netes

NOTE TO THE PREFACE

Ls Sergei Makovsky, ‘‘ ‘Novoe’ iskusstvo i ‘chetvertoe izmerenie’ (Po povodu sbornika

‘Soyuza molodezhi’),’’ Apollon (St. Petersburg), no. 7, 1913, P. 53-

NOTES TO THE
INTRODUCTION

_ V. Stasov, ‘‘Dvadtsat pyat let russkogo iskusstva,’’ Izbrannye sochineniya (Moscow-

Leningrad, 1937), vol. 2, 27.
. Esteticheskie otnosheniya iskusstva k deistvitelnosti (Moscow, 1948), p. IO.
. S. Yaremich on Ilya Repin, in Birzhevye vedomosti (St. Petersburg), no. 14983, June 24,
1915; quoted in I. Vydrin, ‘‘S. Yaremich o Repine-portretiste,’’ [skusstvo (Moscow),
1969, no. 9, p. 60.
. The lubok (plural, Jubki) was a cheap popular print or woodcut similar to the English
broadsheet of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.
. Vesy (Moscow), no. 4, 1905, pp. 45-46 [bibl. R44].
fae (0)(0 a oY Loe
. V. K{aratygin], ‘‘M. Reger,’’ Zolotoe runo (Moscow), no. 2, 1906, p. 97 [bibl. R45].
. Exhibition review by S. Gri[shi]n, Saratovskii listok (Saratov), no. 101, May 11, 1904
(bibl. Rigg].
M. Saryan, ‘‘Avtobiografiya,’’ Sovetskie khudozhniki (Moscow, 1937), vol. 1, 294 [bibl.
R177].
. S. Makovsky, “‘Golubaya roza,’’ Zolotoe runo, no. 5, 1907, p. 27 [bibl. R206].
. The nearest approach to a group declaration was the preface to Zolotoe runo, no. 1, 1906
(see pp. 6ff.). Some statements by former Blue Rose artists appeared in the miscellany
Kuda my idem? [Where Are We Going?] (Moscow, 1910).
. He used the term in his polemical tract Galdyashchie ‘‘benua’’ i novoe russkoe natsional-
noe iskusstvo [The Noisy ‘“‘Benoises’’ and the New Russian National Art] (St. Petersburg,
1913), pp. 4ff. [bibl. R270].
183}. A. Osmerkin, ‘‘Avtobiografiya,’’ Sovetskie khudozhniki, vol. 1, 234. As a challenge to
public taste, David Burliuk wore a wooden spoon at some of his lectures; Malevich is
reputed to have stuck a wooden spoon to his picture Englishman in Moscow (1913/14,
Stedelijk Museum, Amsterdam).
14. Quoted in L. Dyakonitsyn, /deinye protivorechiya v estetike russkoi zhivopisi kontsa 19-
nachala 20 vy. (Perm, 1966), p. 145 [bibl. Rror].

298
 Notes / 299

- Quoted in V. Lobanov, Khudozhestvennye gruppirovki za 25 let (Moscow, 1930), p. 62

[bibl. R108}.
. Rech (St. Petersburg), November 13, 1914.
. For details see p. 79.
. Letter from Larionov to Alfred H. Barr, Jr., in the Victoria and Albert Museum, London.
Letter is undated but was probably written in 1930.
. A. Efros, *“‘N. Sapunov,”’ Profili (Moscow, 1930), p. 140 [bibl. R186].
. N. Aseev, *‘Oktyabr na Dalnem,”’ Novyi lef, no. 8—9 (1927), pp. 38-49 [bibl. R76].
. For details see Dyakonitsyn, /deinye protivorechiya, pp. 146ff. Kulbin’s ideas on the trian-
gle and on the symbolism of colors had close affinities with those of Kandinsky [see bibl.
R224; R230].
. A. R{ostislavo]v, ‘‘Doklad N. I. Kulbina,’’ Apollon (St. Petersburg), no. 3, 1910, p. 17
(bibl. R4r].
- Quoted in V. Parkin, ‘‘Oslinyi khvost i mishen,’’ Oslinyi khvost i mishen (Moscow, 1913),
Pp 54 (bibl. R319].
. Catalogue of the exhibition ‘“‘No. 4’’ (Moscow, 1914), p. 54 [bibl. R318).
. Larionov was wounded at the front at the end of 1914 and recuperated in Moscow; Gon-
charova returned from Paris (where she and Larionov had gone in May at Diaghilev’s invi-
tation) for the production on January 27, 1915, of The Fan at the Kamerny Theater, Mos-
cow (for which she designed the costumes and scenery and to which Larionov contributed
also); both left Moscow again in the summer of 1915.
. A. Lentulov, ‘“‘Avtobiografiya,’’ Sovetskie khudozhniki, vol. 1, 161.
. N. Ya[nychenk]Jo, ‘“‘Vystavka 1915 god,’’ Mlechnyi put (Moscow), no. 4, 1915, p. 63
(bibl. R54].
. “Poslednyaya futuristicheskaya vystavka kartin. 0.10’’ (Catalogue; Petrograd, 1915), p. 3
[R364].
. Quoted in Dyakonitsyn, /deinye protivorechiya, pp. 143-44.
. K. Malevich, O novykh sistemakh v iskusstve (Vitebsk, 1919), p. 10.
. Proletkult exerted wide authority from February 1917 until 1925 and was especially active
between 1918 and 1921. During these three years, in fact, it ran a network of 1,000 studio-
workshops throughout the country and had a membership of more than 400,000. Proletkult
published several journals, the most important of which were Gorn [bibl. R62], Gryadush-
chee [R63], and Proletarskaya kultura (bibl. R80]. The ideological leader of Proletkult
was Aleksandr Bogdanov (see pp. 176ff.), and Anatolii Lunacharsky was at least sympa-
thetic to some of his tenets. For further details see the above journals and bibl. 179 and
199.
32. IZO was established within Narkompros in January 1918. For details see bibl. 199, R16,
R402, R420.
33. All art schools: subsidized by the state were renamed Svomas. The Moscow Svomas were
renamed Vkhutemas [Higher State Art-Technical Studios] in 1920 and Vkhutein [Higher State
Art-Technical Institute] in 1926; in 1930 this was changed to the Moscow Art Institute. For
details on the structure of Svomas see bibl. R420; on Vkhutemas/Vkhutein see bibl. R16, R21,
R390, R419, R431. For a full discussion of Svomas see bibl. 230ix.
34- In 1921. For details see bibl. R2, R16.
35- Quoted in Sovetskoe iskusstvo za 15 let, ed. 1. Matsa et al. (Moscow-Leningrad, 1933), p. 156
[bibl. R16].
36. For the text of the full program see Matsa, Sovetskoe iskusstvo, pp. 126-39. Also see
Kandinsky’s plan for the Russian Academy of Artistic Sciences (pp. 196ff.) and consult bibl.
R393, R394. For translation of the program and other relevant statements see bibl. 101x.
37. V. Kandinsky, ‘‘Doklad,’’ Vestnik rabotnikov iskusstv (Moscow), no. 4-5, 1921, p. 75 (bibl.
R60].
38. For the text of Babichev’s plan see Matsa, Sovetskoe iskusstvo, p. 139.
39. The words are Malevich’s and Matyushin’s respectively. Quoted in V. Khazanova,
300 / Notes

Sovetskaya arkhitektura pervykh let Oktyabrya 1917-1925 (Moscow, 1970), p. 25 [bibl.

Raq].
. For details see A. Ya[nov], ‘‘Krizis krasok,’’ Zhizn iskusstva (Petersburg, no. 45, 1923, Pp.
15 [bibl. R65].
. Statement appended to Exter’s contribution to the catalogue of the exhibition “‘5 x 5 = 25”’
(Moscow, 1921), n.p. (bibl. R446].
. Statement appended to Rodchenko’s contribution, ibid. The exhibition ‘“‘Nonobjective Cre-
ation and Suprematism’’ opened, in fact, in January 1919, not 1918 (see p. 138). At the
1920 exhibition in Moscow (‘‘Nineteenth State’’) Kandinsky, Shevchenko, and Varst
(Stepanova) were also among those represented. Despite Rodchenko’s assertion that he
‘‘proclaimed three basic colors’’ at ‘‘5 X 5 =25,’’ Kulbin had shown works with the titles
Blue on White and White on Green as early as 1910, at the ‘“Triangle’’ exhibition in St. Pe-
tersburg [bibl. R241; and see p. 12]. In any case, Malevich, had, of course, painted his
White on White in 1918.
. Statement appended to Varst’s (Stepanova’s) contribution, ibid.
. Quoted in Lobanov, Khudozhestvennye gruppirovki, p. 101. Although purist art had still
been supported at the constructivists’ first session within Inkhuk on March 18, 1921, at-
tended by V. Ioganson, Konstantin Medunetsky, Aleksandr Rodchenko, Varvara Stepan-
ova, and the Stenberg brothers, an industrial approach soon came to be favored. As early
as August 1921 Nikolai Tarabukin delivered a lecture at Inkhuk entitled ‘“The Last Picture
Has Been Painted’’ [for details see bibl. 252]. In December of the same year Stepanova
gave a talk on constructivism in which she emphasized the value of industrial design.
45. In Na putyakh iskusstva, ed. V. Blyumenfeld et al. (Moscow, 1926), p. 3 [bibl. R381].
46. Quoted in Matsa, Sovetskoe iskusstvo, p. 310.
47: The Makovets society was named after the hill on which Sergii Radonezhsky built the
Troitse-Sergieva Lavra (now the Zagorsk monastery and museum complex) in the four-
teenth century, a gesture that expressed its members’ emphasis on the spiritual, religious
quality of art. This was immediately apparent in the society’s manifesto, issued in the jour-
nal Makovets (Moscow), no. I, 1922, pp. 3-4 [bibl. R77]. For details on Chekrygin see
the catalogue of his recent retrospective [bibl. R163].
48. See, for example, Aleksei Fedorov-Davydov’s introduction to the catalogue of Kazimir
Malevich’s one-man exhibition at the Tretyakov Gallery, Moscow, 1929 [bibl. R366]; see
also Sergei Isakov’s introduction to the catalogue of the unrealized Pavel Filonov exhibi-
tion at the Russian Museum, Leningrad, 1930 [bibl. R507, and see p. 284].
49. Istoriya russkoi zhivopisi v XIX veke (St. Petersburg, 1901-1902), p. 274. And see p. 5.

NOTES TO THE TEXTS

BURLIUK, pp. 8-I1

Le Member of the Wanderers. His initially tendentious exposés of Russian rural life degen-
erated into sentimental, historical scenes.
2. Famous for his innumerable seascapes.
ae Regarding Isaak Levitan, Valentin Serov, and Mikhail Vrubei, see Introduction.

KULBIN, pp. 11-17

As In December 1911, at the All-Russian Convention of Artists, in St. Petersburg, Kulbin gave
a lecture entitled *‘Harmony, Dissonance, and Their Close Combinations in Art and Life,”’
which was later published [bibl. R230].
. Kulbin was interested in microtone music (what he called ‘‘free music’’) and in the associa-
 Notes / 301

tions between the color spectrum and the conventional seven-tone scale. The second article
in Studio of the Impressionists was, in fact, a piece by Kulbin on ‘‘Free Music: The Results
of Applying a Theory of Artistic Creation to Music’’ [bibl. R227]; the main ideas of this ar-
ticle had already appeared in Kulbin’s booklet Free Music [bibl. R226}, and later appeared
in German as ‘‘Die freie Musik’’ [bibl. 96].
3. By profession both Chekhov and Kulbin were doctors.
MARKQYV, pp. 23-38
Le “Logic has deprived Nature of the divine.’’ Reference not traced. Probably a quotation from
Novalis or the early Hegel.
PE For explanation of lubok see n. 4 to Introduction, p. 298.
3; Presumably a reference to the writer, composer, and painter E. T. A. Hoffmann. Like
Novalis and other German romantics, Hoffmann enjoyed a vogue in Russia in the 1900s.
4. Markov’s ideas on “‘texture’’ [faktura] were scheduled to appear in a subsequent issue of
Soyuz molodezhi (Union of Youth], but since the journal ceased publication after the third
issue (March 1913), Markov’s essay was published separately (bibl. R233]. At the end of
his text Markov also indicated that lhe would be writing on other principles, such as gravity,
surface, dynamism, and consonance, but these essays were never published.

SHEVCHENKO, pp. 41-54

I. For explanation of /ubok see n. 4 to Introduction, p. 298.
2. Signboards and trays were particularly prized by David Burliuk, who had a large collection
of them. Mikhail Larionov was very interested in the /ubok and in 1913 organized an exhibi-
tion of them [see bibl. R252 and bibl. 132, pp. 33-37, where part of the catalogue, includ-
ing Larionov’s and Natalya Goncharova’s prefaces, is translated into French]. Shevchenko
collected children’s drawings, some of which were shown at the ‘“‘Target’’ in 1913, together
with signboards and naive paintings by the Georgian primitive Niko Pirosmanashvili.
Painter, wood sculptor, and stage designer known for his highly stylized depictions of pre-
Petrine Russia.
“‘Grass writing’’ is presumably a reference to the Chinese ts’ao shu, a hieroglyphic style
used in the first and second centuries A.D. In appearance ts’ao shu resembles intertwined
leaves of grass.
. The title ‘‘Old Believers’’ refers to those members of the Russian Church who disagreed
with ecclesiastical reforms instituted by the Patriarch Nikon in the mid-seventeenth century.
Among the first to condemn Nikon’s preference for the Greek Orthodox and hence more
Western conception of Christianity was the famous Petrovich Avvakum, traditionally re-
garded as the founder of the Old Believers. The general policy of the Old Believers, who
were from all classes, was, despite forceful opposition, to maintain the rich, Byzantine tradi-
tions of the Church; this affected considerably the outward appearance of their dress, icons,
lubki, etc.
6. See Larionov’s articles, pp. 87ff.

GONCHAROVA, pp. 54-60

Ic Goncharova was represented at the first and second exhibitions of ‘*‘Der, Blaue Reiter’’ in
I9I1I—12; she also contributed to Roger Fry’s ‘‘Second Post-Impressionist Exhibition’’ in
London in 1912 [bibl. 106, 107, 142].
2s See Larionov’s articles, pp. 87ff.

AKSENOV, pp. 60-69

1. Member of the Wanderers. Known for his scenes of factory and prison life. Regarding
Repin see Introduction.
2. For further details regarding the Knave of Diamonds members whom Aksenov mentions, the
following references may be consulted: Mashkov [bibl. R323], Kuprin (bibl. R324, R331],
Rozhdestvensky (bibl. R343], Lentulov [bibl. R309, R322], Konchalovsky [bibl. R316,
R317], Falk (bibl. 105, R260, R346], Exter [bibl. 61, 80, R181].
302 / Notes

Aksenov means, presumably, Cézanne’s Mardi Gras of 1888, which was in the Sergei
Shchukin collection. It is now in the Pushkin Museum, Moscow.
Anton Rubinstein’s opera The Merchant of Kalashnikov was staged by Sergei Zimin’s com-
pany in Moscow in the winter of 1912/13.
In 1909 Petr Konchalovsky was commissioned by the merchant Markushev to execute
panels and ceiling decorations for his Moscow villa. The Moscow Salon was the name of an
important exhibiting society that held regular shows between 1910 and 1918. Koncha-
lovsky’s contribution to the first show in the winter of 1910/11, included his designs for the
Markushev villa—Gathering Olives, Gathering Grapes, Harvest, and The Park.
In November 1911 Konchalovsky, together with Georgii Yakulov, designed the decor for a
charity ball called ‘‘A Night in Spain’’ at the Merchants’ Club, Moscow.
. The portrait of the artist Yakulov was executed in 1910 and at present is in the Tretyakov
Gallery, Moscow. For Konchalovsky’s own description of the work see bibl. R103, vol. 2,
pp. 434ff.
Italian patriot and revolutionary. The reference, presumably, is to Mazzini’s almost constant
exile from Italy, during which he never ceased to believe in his dogmatic and utopian princi-
ples of Italian nationalism and working-class solidarity—despite the fact that for much of his
life he was out of touch with the real moods of the Italian populus.
9. A reference to the prehistoric ivory figures of Brassempouy in southern France.

BURLIUK, pp. 69-77

T ‘Texture’ [faktura] in ‘‘A Slap in the Face of Public Taste.’’ See p. 69 and bibl. R269.
2. Which Cézanne landscape Burliuk has in mind is not clear, perhaps La Montagne Sainte-
Victoire (1896-98), which was in the Ivan Morozov collection, and is now in the Hermit-
age.
a. Poet, philosopher, and lexicographer.
4. Leading futurist poet, cosigner of ‘‘A Slap in the Face of Public Taste.”’

LARIONOV and GONCHAROVA, pp. 87-91

i The egofuturists were primarily a literary group, formed in 1911 and led by Igor Severyanin.
2. The neofuturists were an imitative and derivative group active in 1913. Their one publica-
tion, Vyzov obshchestvennym vkusam [A Challenge to Public Tastes] (Kazan, 1913), con-
tained parodies of futurist poems and rayonist drawings.
Goncharova and Larionov broke with the Knave of Diamonds after its first exhibition in
1910/11, thereby alienating themselves from David Burliuk—and condemning ‘‘A Slap in
the Face of Public Taste.’’ Larionov regarded the Union of Youth as a harbor of outdated
symbolist ideas, an attitude shared by several artists and critics, although Larionov still con-
tributed to its exhibitions.
An allusion to vsechestvo [literally, ‘‘everythingness’’], i.e., the concept that all styles are
permissible—an attitude shared by Shevchenko [e.g., see bibl. R355].

LARIONOV, pp. 91-100

ie The Whitman extracts are from Leaves of Grass: the first from ‘‘Beginners,’’ in ‘‘Inscrip-
tions’’; the second from ‘‘I Hear It Was Charged Against Me,”’’ in ‘‘Calamus.’’ Larionov’s
choice of author is significant: Whitman was known and respected in Russia particularly
among the symbolists and futurists, and his Leaves of Grass had become popular through
Konstantin Balmont’s masterful translation (Moscow, 1911). For contemporaneous attitudes
to Whitman in Russia, see Balmont, ‘‘Pevets lichnosti’’ in bibl. R44, no. 7, 1904, pp.
11-32; Chukovsky, “‘O polze broma’’ in bibl. R44, no. 12, 1906, pp. 52-60, and Chu-
kovsky, Uot Uitmen: Poeziya gryadushchei demokratii (Moscow-Petrograd, 1923). Also see
nn. 3 and 6 to ‘‘Rodchenko’s System,”’ p. 305.
. Undoubtedly Larionov owed some of his ideas, both in his theory and in his practice of
rayonism, to the theories of the Italian futurists. He would, for example, have seen the Rus-
sian translations of La pittura futurista and Gli espositori al pubblico (see p. 79).
 Notes / 303

3. The actual word Larionov uses is vitro; this, presumably, is a corruption of the French word
vitraux (plural of vitrail), meaning leaded- or stained-glass windows.
4. Larionov did not, in fact, develop this theory, although a booklet devoted to the subject of
pneumorayonism was scheduled for publication, according to an advertisement in the mis-
cellany Oslinyi khvost i mishen [Donkey’s Tail and Target]; among Larionov’s contributions
to his exhibition “‘No. 4,’’ in 1914, one work, Sunny Day, was subtitled ‘‘Pneumorayonist
Color Structure” [bibl. R318]. A further development was ‘‘plastic rayonism,’’ which ap-
peared as a subtitle to two still lifes shown by Larionov at the ‘Exhibition of Painting.
1915’ [bibl. R277]; one review of this exhibition also referred to it [bibl. 230, Das

ROZANOVA, pp. I02-I10

Ps See pp. 69-70.
2s Rozanova has in mind the first cycle of ‘“World of Art’’ exhibitions (1899-1906) rather than
the second (1910-24), since many radical artists—Natan Altman, Natalya Goncharova,
Mikhail Larionov, et al.—were represented in the latter. The Union of Russian Artists was a
moderate exhibiting society based in Moscow that espoused the ideas of realism and natural-
ism, although, unexpectedly, the Burliuks and Larionov were represented at its 1906/1907
session in St. Petersburg, and Larionov and Aristarkh Lentulov were at its 1910 session. It
held regular exhibitions between 1903 and 1917, and 1922 and 1923.

MALEVICH, pp. 116-35

cir Malevich is referring to ‘‘A Slap in the Face of Public Taste.’’ See p. 69.
2s Konstantin Somov: member of the World of Art (see Introduction). Boris Kustodiev:
member of the second World of Art society. Known for his colorful scenes of Moscow
merchant life.
Malevich has in mind the rejection of the nude in painting by the Italian futurists, one of the
main points of their La pittura futurista: Manifesto tecnico [see bibl. 120, pp. 65-67], which
had been translated into Russian and published in Soyuz molodezhi (Union of Youth] (St.
Petersburg), no. 2, 1912, pp. 23-28 [bibl. R339].
The word Malevich uses is predmetnost (from the noun predmet, which means ‘‘object’’; cf.
bespredmetnyi, “‘nonobjective’’). ‘“Objectism’’ or ‘‘objectness’’ would’ therefore render the
meaning of the Russian.
Se All contributed to the ‘‘o. 10”” exhibition.

KLYUN, pp. 136-38

I. For explanation of Jubok see n. 4 to Introduction, p. 298.

‘“TENTH STATE EXHIBITION,’’ pp. 138-58

STEPANOVA, pp. 139-42

1s Stepanova contributed under the pseudonym V. Agarykh.
2. These were titles of unpublished transrational poems by Stepanova herself, or by
Olga Rozanova. For examples of Rozanova’s verse see bibl. R332. For some details on
Stepanova’s graphics and poetry see Evgenii Kovtun. ‘Varvara Stepanova’s Anti-Book.’
From Surface to Space. Russia 1916-24. Cologne: Galerie Gmurzynska, 1974. Exhibition
catalogue, pp. 57-63 (text in English and in German).
. It is not clear what exactly Stepanova has in mind—perhaps Rozanova’s essay ““The Bases
of the New Creation’’ (pp. 1o2ff.).

KLYUN, pp. 142-43

i Klyun, a friend and one-time disciple of Kazimir Malevich, is here objecting both to Male-
vich’s occasional recourse to ‘‘objective’’ titles for suprematist paintings (e.g., Painterly Re-
alism of a Football Player) and to his aerial, more representational phase of suprematism.
2: Klyun means Malevich’s Lackey with a Samovar (exhibited at the ‘‘Shop’’ in 1916).
304 / Notes

3. In 1918 IZO Narkompros established a Museum Bureau and Purchasing Fund with the aim
of acquiring works of art and theoretical materials for a complex of diverse museums,
among them five so-called Museums of Painterly (sometimes called Artistic or Plastic) Cul-
ture in Moscow, Petrograd, Nizhnii-Novgorod, Vitebsk, and Kostroma. Aleksandr Rod-
chenko was head of the Museum Bureau and by mid-1920 the Bureau had acquired 1,200
paintings and drawings and 106 sculptures, which it dispersed among the museums men-
tioned above and other provincial museums. The Museums of Painterly Culture were ‘‘col-
lections of works of painting, sculpture, applied art, popular art, spontaneous art, and works
done by experimental painterly and plastic techniques. These Museums are constructed on
the principle of the evolution of purely painterly and plastic forms of expression. . .”
(bibl. R420, p. 80]. The largest was the one in Moscow—housed in the same building as
Svomas/Vkhutemas. It contained examples of most of the avant-garde, including Aleksandr
Drevin (three works), Vasilii Kandinsky (six), Kazimir Malevich (nine), Lyubov Popova
(two), Rodchenko (five), Olga Rozanova (six), Vladimir Tatlin (one), and Nadezhda Udalt-
sova (four); Klyun was represented by two canvases and by a small collection of his research
writings and tabulations on color. Although initially the Museum Bureau included Derain
and Picasso on its list of wants and stipulated that acquisitions should cover all periods, it
concerned itself almost exclusively with Russian art of the early twentieth century. Each mu-
seum was divided into four sections—(1) experimental technique, (2) industrial art, (3)
drawings and graphics, (4) synthetic art. The museums worked in close conjunction with the
local Svomas and, in the case of Moscow, Petrograd, and Vitebsk, with Inkhuk. For further
details see bibl. R16, R66, R420. The artist Aleksei Grishchenko presented a list of pro-
posals concerning the museums in February 1919—see bibl. R16, p. 83.
MALEVICH, Pp. 143-45
I. I.e., From Cubism to Suprematism. See pp. 116ff.
2. Malevich saw the genesis of suprematism in his 1913 decor for the futurist opera Victory
Over the Sun (see p. 116), one backdrop of which was an apparently abstract composition
{reproduced in bibl. 45, pl. 99; bibl. 83, p. 383].
3. Le., at ‘‘o.10,’’ December 19, 1915—January 19, 1916.
ROZANOVA, Pp. 148
i An extract from Rozanova’s ‘‘The Bases of the New Creation’’ (pp. 102ff.) was also in-
cluded in this section of the catalogue. Rozanova had died a few months before, and the
“First State Exhibition’ had been devoted to a posthumous showing of her works; works at
the ‘‘Tenth State Exhibition’’ by Ivan Klyun, Aleksandr Vesnin, and others were dedicated
to her.
. The journal Supremus never actually appeared, although it was prepared for publication in
Moscow early in 1917 under the editorship of Kazimir Malevich. Apart from Rozanova’s
piece, a contribution by Malevich [bibl. 160, p. 148] and an essay on music by Mikhail Ma-
tyushin and the composer Nikolai Roslavets were scheduled.
RODCHENKO, pp. 148-51
If This is the title of the first section, and the closing line, of Max Stirner’s Die Einzige und
sein Eigenthum [The Ego and His Own], first published in Leipzig in 1845. Max Stirner
(pseudonym of Joseph Kaspar Schmidt) had achieved a certain popularity in Russia in the
1900s because of the more general interest in individualism and intuition generated by such
varied influences as Bergson, Nietzsche, and Steiner. Stirner’s philosophy of extreme indi-
vidualism had appealed in particular to the symbolists; a Russian translation of Die Einzige
und sein Eigenthum appeared in St. Petersburg in 1910 under the title Edinstvennyi i ego
dostoyanie. Just after the Revolution, there was a renewal of interest in Stirner, albeit from a
highly critical standpoint, mainly because Marx and Engels had treated him in some detail
[see their “‘Sankt Max,’’ in Dokumente des Sozialismus, ed. Eduard Bernstein (Berlin:
Verlag der Sozialistischen Monatshefte, 1905), vol. 3, 17ff.].
 Notes | 305

. The reference is from a play by the futurist Aleksei Kruchenykh called Gly-Gly (a transra-
tional title). Part of the text was published in Kruchenykh’s book Ozhirenie roz [Obesity of
Roses]; this book carries no publication details, although it dates probably from 1918 and
was printed in Tiflis. Among the play’s motifs are those of painting and the color black, and
among the dramatis personae Kazimir Malevich and Kruchenykh figure.
. The Whitman extract is from Part Four of ‘‘Song of the Broad-Axe’’ (Leaves of Grass). For
the significance of Whitman in Russia, see n. I to Larionov’s ‘‘Rayonist Painting,’’ p. 302.
. This is from Otto Weininger’s ‘‘Aphoristisch Gebliebenes, ” in Uber die letzten Dinge
”
(‘Remaining Aphoristic,’’ in On the Latest Things], first published in Vienna in 1907 (the
present quotation can be found on p. 56 of the sixth edition, Vienna, 1920). Like Max Stir-
ner, Weininger was known in Russia especially during the 1900s, and his famous treatise
Geschlecht und Charakter [Sex and Character] had been translated into Russian in 1909, ac-
companied by several articles in the Russian press [see, for example, Boris Bugaev, ‘‘Na
perevale. Veininger o pole i kharaktere,’’ in bibl. R44, no. 2, 1909, pp. 77-81].
Quotation not traced. Possibly a paraphrase of a passage from Stirner’s Die Einzige und sein
Eigenthum. See n. 1 above.
. The Whitman extract is from ‘‘Gliding O’er All,’’ from ‘‘By the Roadside’ (Leaves of
Grass). See n. 1 to Larionov’s ‘‘Rayonist Painting,’’ p. 302.

LISSITZKY, pp. 151-58

Is Several artists and architects, among them Naum Gabo, directed their energies into design-
ing radio masts. One of the functions of Vladimir Tatlin’s Tower was to act as a transmitting
and telegraph station. The Moscow radio tower, erected in 1926 after a design by Vladimir
Shukhov, is perhaps the most famous.
If Lissitzky wrote this essay in 1920 (as indicated by the source from which this text is
taken), then Kazimir Malevich’s Black Square, to which he refers here, would have been
painted in 1913, but we have no strong documentary evidence to support this date. The first
time that the Black Square was exhibited was, apparently, at “o.10” in 1915/16 (see p. 110;
also see n. 2 to Malevich, p. 304).

ALTMAN, pp. 161-64

I. The Chernosotentsy, or Black Hundreds, were members of a secret-police and monarchist
organization set up to counteract the revolutionary movement in 1905-1907. Chernosotenets
soon became identified with the more general concepts of ‘‘rightist’’ and ‘‘extreme conser-
vative.””

PUNIN, pp. 170-76

f. Physicist and philosopher.
2. The Russian formalist school was concerned primarily with literature, although critics such
as Nikolai Chuzhak, Nikolai Punin, and Sergei Tretyakov might be regarded as supporters
of a formalist approach within the sphere of the visual arts: like the industrial constructivists,
they aspired to reduce art to a rational, exact aesthetics.

LUNACHARSKY and SLAVINSKY, pp. 182-85

I. The actual word is chernosotennye, adjective from Chernosotenets. See n. 1 to Altman,
above.
25 Glavpolitprosvet (Central Committee of Political Enlightenment): see p. 226.
SHTERENBERG, pp. 186-90 ' ;
1. Aleksandr Kerensky was head of the provisional government during the revolutionary period
from July to November 1917. His moderate Socialism did not satisfy the demands of the
Bolsheviks, and he emigrated when they came to power.
Zs In the summer of 1918, the Petrograd Academy was abolished, and its teaching
faculty was
dismissed; on October 10, Pegoskhuma was opened and was replaced in turn by Svomas in
306 / Notes

1919; on February 2, 1921, the academy was reinstated. See Introduction for other details.
3 . In 1918, both collections were nationalized and became the First and Second Museums of
New Western Painting; in 1923 both were amalgamated into a single Museum of New West-
ern Painting; in the early 1930s many of the museum’s works were transferred to the Her-
mitage in Leningrad, and in 1948 all the holdings were distributed between the Hermitage
and the Pushkin Museum in Moscow. The idea of establishing a museum of modern painting
was not new in Russia: as early as 1909, a group of artists and critics including Ivan Bilibin,
Nikolai Rerikh, and Vselovod Meierkhold had favored such a proposal. See Filippov,
‘“‘Gallereya sovremennykh russkikh khudozhnikov’’ [A Gallery of Modern Russian Artists]
in bibl. R43, no. 4/6, 1909, p. 45; the Union of Youth had also supported the idea—see
Shkolnik, ‘‘Muzei sovremennoi russkoi zhivopisi’? [A Museum of Modern Russian Paint-
ing] in bibl. R339, no. 1, 1912, pp. 18-20.

LUNACHARSKY, pp. 190-96

tx Vsevobuch [Vseobshchee voennoe obuchenie—General Military Instruction] was an inclu-
sive title for all bodies concerned with military training of workers. By a decree of 1918, all
Soviet citizens, from schoolchildren to the middle-aged, were to receive military instruction.
. The Second Congress of the Third International opened in Petrograd June 19, 1920, and
June 27 was declared a public holiday in honor of it; a paradeand procession with represen-
tatives of Vsevobuch took place in Moscow.
Ww. On June 19, 1920, a mass dramatization, Toward the World Commune, took place at the
former Stock Exchange in Petrograd; Natan Altman was the artistic designer.
. The Twelve, written in 1918, was pernaps Aleksandr Blok’s greatest poetic achievement.
Ostensibly it was a description of the revolutionary force represented by twelve Red Guards.
. Lunacharsky was present at Vladimir Mayakovsky’s first private reading of the play Mys-
tery-Bouffe, September 27, 1918. He was impressed with the work and promoted its
production at the Theater of Musical Drama in November of that year. It was taken off after
three days and was revived only with -Vselovod Meierkhold’s production of it in May 1921.
. Le., New Economic Policy. The period of NEP (1921-29) was marked by a partial return to
a capitalist economic system.
. This simple yet spacious monument in Petrograd to the victims of the February Revolution
was designed by Lev Rudnev in 1917-19 and was landscaped later by Ivan Fomin.
oo. In the early 1920s several designs were submitted for a Moscow Palace of Labor—among
them one by the Vesnin brothers—but none was executed.

TATLIN, pp. 205-206

I . The reference is to the Yaroslavl Station, Moscow, built in 1903-1904 after a design by
Fedor Shekhtel. Its frieze and majolica details were designed by artists who had been close
to Abramtsevo, including Konstantin Korovin. Similarly, several moderate artists, including
Aleksandr Benois, submitted interior designs for the adjacent Kazan Station between 1914
and 1917 (designed by Aleksei Shchusev, built 1913-26).
. From May 10 to 14, 1914, Tatlin held a one-man show of synthetic-static compositions in
his studio.
Documents indicate that the only Moscow exhibition of 1915 to which Tatlin contributed
some relief collages (hardly ‘‘on the laboratory scale’) was the ‘‘Exhibition of Painting.
1915’’ (ex catalogue), although he may have opened his studio to the public at the same
time (March—May). In March 1915, he exhibited severr painterly reliefs at ‘Tramway V,’’
in Petrograd, and in December 1915/January 1916, he contributed reliefs and counterreliefs
to “‘o.10,’’ also in Petrograd. According to bibl. R447, Tatlin showed counterreliefs at a
Moscow “‘sbornaya’’ [mixed] exhibition in 1915 but this, presumably, was a reference to
the ‘Exhibition. . . 1915.”
No contribution by Tatlin to a 1917 exhibition has been recorded. It is possible that he
means the “‘Shop’’ of 1916, which he organized and to which he sent seven reliefs and
counterreliefs.
 Notes / 307
5. I.e., Tatlin’s Tower. Iosif Meerzon and Tevel Shapiro helped Tatlin build the first model in
Petersburg; P. Vinogradov joined them when the Tower was re-erected in Moscow.

GABO and PEVSNER, pp. 208-14

ba The measurement used in the original Russian is arshin (= 28 inches).
2. The measurement used in the original Russian is pud (= 36 lbs.).

GAN, Pp. 214-25

I. For explanation of Old Believers, see no. 5 to Shevchenko, p. 301.

ARVATOV, pp. 225-30

I. As early as 1918 the State Porcelain Factory had produced items decorated by Natan Alt-
man. In the early 1920s cups, saucers, plates, and pots were being produced with suprema-
tist designs by Ilya Chashnik and Nikolai Suetin.

PERTSOV, pp. 230-36

T; ““Transsense’’ or ‘‘transrational’’ translates the word zaum, a new linguistic medium formu-
lated by Aleksei Kruchenykh [see bibl. R284, R295]. Kazimir Malevich, Olga Rozanova,
Varvara Stepanova, et al., also wrote zaum occasionally. Zaum lines, for example, occur at
the end of Malevich’s essay ‘‘O poezii’’ [On Poetry] in bibl. R66, no. 1, 1919, p. 35
(English translation in bibl. 159, vol. 1, 82]. For Rozanova’s transrational verse, see bibl.
R332. =

“First Discussional,’’ pp. 237-43

|
is The Constructivist Poets such as Vera Inber, Ilya Selvinsky, and Kornelii Zelinsky were
members of the so-called Literary Center of the Constructivists [Literaturnyi tsentr konstruk-
tivistov, or LTsK], founded in Moscow in 1924 [see bibl. R441] A translation of their
manifesto appears in bibl. 211, pp. 123-27.
. Constructivists of the Chamber Theater (Aleksandr Tairov’s Kamernyi teatr) included Alek-
sandra Exter, the Stenberg brothers, Aleksandr Vesnin, and Georgii Yakulov [see bibl.
R187]. ‘
. Constructivists who worked for Vselovod Meierkhold’s State Higher Theater Workshop in
Moscow included Lyubov Popova and Varvara Stepanova; as director of the Workshop,
Meierkhold developed his constructivist theory of so-called biomechanics. [For details see
bibl. 190, pp. 183-204; bibl. 193, p. 70; R17 (bk. 2), pp. 486-89.]
. The Central Institute of Labor [Tsentralnyi institut truda, or TsIT], run by Aleksei Gastev in
Moscow, acted as a laboratory for the analysis of the ‘‘rhythmic rotation of work’’ and
aspired to create a machine man, an artist of labor. Among the institute’s members were the
critic Viktor Pertsov and the artist Aleksandr Tyshler [see bibl. 42, pp. 206-14].

BRIK, pp. 244-49

1 For details of Inkhuk see Introduction and bibl. 230ix, R16, pp. 126-43. Lyubov Popova,
Aleksandr Rodchenko, and Varvara Stepanova had turned to productional art soon after
the conclusive exhibition “5 x 5 = 25,” in September 1921 [see bibl. R446]. Popova and
Stepanova became particularly interested in textile design, as Stepanova demonstrated in
her lecture “Kostyum segodnyashnego dnya—prozodezhda” [Today’s Dress Is Productional
Clothing], delivered at Inkhuk in the spring of 1923 and published in Lef [bibl. R463].
Rodchenko turned to poster art, typography, and photography; Anton Lavinsky to poster art
and small-scale construction projects; Gustav Klutsis and Sergei Senkin also favored poster
art and typography and later were active in the October group [see pp. 273ff. and bibl.
R421, R500].
308 / Notes

RODCHENKO, pp. 250-54

1. The term ‘‘rejuvenation’’ refers to the Soviet emphasis on mass gymnastics and health exer-
cises—particularly stressed during the 1920s and 1930s. Rodchenko himself was a keen
sportsman and photographed many scenes from sporting life, especially athletics.
2. Lenin was a favorite subject for photographers. The file that Rodchenko has in mind was
probably the Albom Lenina. Sto fotograficheskikh snimkov (Lenin Album. A Hundred Snap-
shots], compiled by Viktor Goltsev and published by the State Press in 1927. Rodchenko
himself also photographed Lenin, and one of his portraits served as the cover to Novyi lef,
no. 8-9, 1927.

AKhRR, pp. 265-67

1. Partly as a result of this propaganda measure, several of the old Knave of Diamonds group,
including Robert Falk, Aristarkh Lentulov, Ilya Mashkov, and Vasilii Rozhdestvensky,
joined AKhRR.

AKhR, pp. 271-72

1. In 1928 a German affiliation was established in Berlin.

October, pp. 273-79

1. The reference is to FOSKh [Federatsiya obedineniya sovetskikh rabotnikov prostranstven-
nykh iskusstv—Federation of the Association of Soviet Workers in the Spatial Arts],
founded in June 1930. This was an organization that sought to unite the many, often contra-
dictory, art groups still active, and it managed to encompass AKhR, OST, and RAPKh (see
Pp. 273), as well as two architectural societies, OSA [Obedinenie sovremennykh arkhitek-
torov—Association of Contemporary Architects} and VOPRA [Vsesoyuznoe obedinenie
proletarskikh arkhitektorov—All-Union Association of Proletarian Architects]. FOSKh is-
sued its own journal—Brigada khudozhnikov [Artists’ Brigade] [bibl. R58].

OST, pp. 279-81

1. A derogatory reference to the art of the Peredvizhniki [Wanderers]. The word might be
translated as ‘‘hack realism.’ For details on the Wanderers see Introduction.

FILONOV, pp. 284-87

1. The Russian is sdelannost, a noun that Filonov formed from the verb sdelat—‘‘to
make/do.”’

‘“Decree On the Reconstruction,’’ pp. 288-90

1. NEP: see n. 6 to Lunacharsky, p. 306.
2. VOAPP: Vsesoyuznoe obedinenie assotsiatsii proletarskikh pisatelei [All-Union Association
of Associations of Proletarian Writers]; RAPP: Rossiiskaya assotsiatsiya proletarskikh pisatelei
{Russian Association of Proletarian Writers]; RAPM: Rossiiskaya assotsiatsiya proletarskikh
muzykantov [Russian Association of Proletarian Musicians].

First All-Union Congress, pp. 290-97

1. Stalin called Soviet writers ‘engineers of human souls’’ in conversation with Gorky and
other writers on October 26, 1932. See I. V. Stalin, Sobranie sochinenii [Collected Works],
vol. 13 (Moscow, 1951), 410.
2. Such a congress did not, in fact, take place until 1957, although an All-Union Congress of
Architects was held in 1937.
3. Pavel Vasilevich Malkov, a former pupil of Dmitrii Kardovsky, achieved a certain reputa-
tion during the 1930s and 1940s for his paintings and graphics on themes such as Soviet in-
dustry and the Red Army. The present whereabouts of the portrait in question is not known.
Bibliography

The Bibliography contains only published items and makes no reference to the many
archives relevant to modern Russian art that are in public and private hands. Al-
though the Bibliography is not exhaustive, particular attention has been paid to recent
Western and Soviet publications concerned with subjects under discussion. Where
sources contain comprehensive bibliographies, this is indicated, and therefore, many
titles already listed in these bibliographies, as well as all the texts translated in the
main part of the book, are omitted below.
The Bibliography is divided into two sections: A, works in languages other than
Russian, and B, works in Russian. Bibliographical information on each contributor
will be found in the appropriate division of section A, unless indicated otherwise.
For obvious reasons the many minor references to contributors are not given, but for
further information on a given artist, critic, or movement, the reader is urged to con-
sult listings within the corresponding theoretical or chronological framework—
especially the periodicals.
Asa general rule, 1972 was set as the final date for bibliographical entries.
Since the publication of the American edition of this book in 1976, a very large
amount of literature, both Western, Japanese and Soviet, has appeared pertaining
to the Russian avant-garde. A selection of the more important titles from these
many monographs, exhibition catalogues and collections of articles has been added
to the original Bibliography below in the form of supplements identified by lower
case Roman numerals, e.g. 26i, R23i, etc. As a general rule, 1985 was set as the final
date for these supplements.

A: Works Not in Russian

i. General Works on the History of Russian Art (1-26)

ii. General Works Covering the Period ca. 1890—ca. 1930 (27-84)
I. The Subjective Aesthetic: Symbolism and the Intuitive (85-101)
IJ. Neoprimitivism and Cubofuturism (102-45)
III]. Nonobjective art (146-76)
IV. The Revolution and Art (177-209)
V. Constructivism and the Industrial Arts (210-52)
VI. Toward Socialist Realism (253-72)

309
310 / Bibliography

i. General Works on the History of Russian Art

. Alpatov, Mikhail. Russian Impact on Art. Edited and with a Preface by Martin
L. Wolf. Translated from the Russian by Ivy Litvinov. New York: Philosophical
Library; Toronto: McLeod, 1950.
. L’Art russe des Scythes a nos jours. Paris: Grand Palais, 1967-68. Exhibition
catalogue.
. Benois, Alexandre. The Russian School of Painting. Translated by Abraham
Yarmolinsky. New York: Knopf, 1916; London: Laurie [1919].
. Billington, James H. The Icon and the Axe: An Interpretive History of Russian
Culture. New York: Knopf; London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1966.
. Braikevitch, Tatiana. An Outline of Russian Art Leading to the Period Known as
“Mir Iskusstva.’’ London: Woman’s Printing Society, 1950.
. Bunt, Cyril. Russian Art. From Scyths to Soviets. London and New York: Stu-
dio, 1946.
. Chamot, Mary. Russian Painting and Sculpture. London: Pergamon, 1969.
. Eliasberg, Alexander. Russische Kunst. Munich: Piper, 1915.
\o
on . Fiala, Vladimir. Russian Painting of the 18th and 19th Centuries. Prague: Artia,
1955.
. Froncek, Thomas, ed. The Horizon Book of the Arts of Russia. Introductory
essay by James H. Billington. New York: American Heritage, 1970.
. Gibellino Krasceninnicowa, Maria. L’ Arte russa moderna e contemporanea: pit-
tura e scultura. Rome: Palombi, 1960.
. Gibellino Krasceninnicowa, Maria. Storia dell’arte russa. Rome: Maglione,
1935-37.
. Grabar, Igor, ed. Geschichte der russischen Kunst. Translated from Russian by
Kurt Kuppers. Dresden: VEB Verlag der Kunst, 1957-65. Bibl.
. Hamilton, George Heard. The Art and Architecture of Russia. Baltimore:
Penguin, 1954. Bibl.
. Hare, Richard. The Art and Artists of Russia. London: Methuen, 1965.
. Matthey, Werner von. Russische Kunst. Zurich-Einsiedeln: Benziger, 1948.
. Muther, Richard (in collaboration with Alexander Benois). ‘‘Russia.’’ In
Muther, Richard. The History of Modern Painting. Vol. 4. London: Dent; New
York: Dutton, 1907, pp. 236-85.
. Nemitz, Fritz. Die Kunst Russlands. Baukunst. Malerei. Plastik. Vom 11 bis 19
Jahrhundert. Berlin: Hugo, 1940.
. Newmarch, Rosa. The Russian Arts. London: Jenkins; New York: Dutton, 1916.
. Réau, Louis. L’Art russe des origines a Pierre te Grand. Paris: Laurens, 1921.
Bibl.
. Réau, Louis. L’Art russe de Pierre le Grand a nos jours. Paris: Laurens, 1922.
Bibl.
Bibl. 20 and 21 updated and reprinted as: L’Art russe. 3 vols. Paris: Mara-
bout Université, 1968. Bibl.
 Bibliography / 311

22. Rice, Tamara Talbot. A Concise History of Russian Art. London: Thames and
Hudson; New York: Praeger, 1963. Bibl.
23. Rubissow, Helen. The Art of Russia. New York: Philosophical Library; London:
Crowther, 1946.
24. A Survey of Russian Painting. 15th Century to the Present. New York: Gallery
of Modern Art Including the Huntington Hartford Collection, 1967. Exhibition
catalogue.
25. Woinow, Igor. Meister der russischen Malerei. Berlin: Diakow, 1924.
26. Wulff, Oskar. Die neurussische Kunst im Rahmen der Kulturentwicklung Russ-
lands von Peter dem Grossen bis zur Revolution. Augsburg: Filser, 1932.
26i. Alpatov, Michail. Uber Westeuropdische und russische Kunst. Dresden: VEB,
1982.
2611. Auty, R. and Obolensky, D., eds. Companion to Russian Studies. 3. An
Introduction to Russian Art and Architecture. Cambridge: Cambridge Univer-
sity Press, 1980, Bibl.
26111. Bowlt, John E. Russian Art 1875-1975. A Collection of Essays. New York:
MSS, 1976.
26iv. Jernakoff, Nadja and Bowlt, John E., eds. Transactions of the Association of
Russian-American Scholars in USA. New York, 1982,. vol. 15. Special issue
devoted to Russian art.
26v. Kemenoy, Vasilii. The USSR Academy of Arts. Leningrad: Aurora, 1982.
-26vi. Massie, Susan. Land of the Firebird. The Beauty of Old Russia. New York:
Simon and Schuster, 1980.
26vii. Russian and Soviet Painting. New York: Metropolitan Museum, 1977.
Exhibition catalogue.
26viii. Williams, Robert: Russian Art and American Money. Cambridge, Mass.:
Harvard University, 1980.

ii. General Works Covering the Period ca. 1890-ca. 1930

27. Andersen, Troels. Moderne russisk kunst 1910-1930. Copenhagen: Borgen,

1967.
Annenkov, Georges. See 68.
28. Apollo (London), n.s., vol. 98, no. 142 (December 1973).
Whole issue devoted to Russian art of the Silver Age.
29. L’Art d'avant-garde russe. Paris: Musée d’Art Moderne, 1968. Exhibition
catalogue.
30. Aspects de l’avant-garde russe. 1905-1925. Paris: Galerie Jean Chauvelin,
1969. Exhibition catalogue.
31. Avantgarde Osteuropa 1910-1930. Berlin: Die Deutsche Gesellschaft fur Bil-
dende Kunst und die Akademie der Kiinste, 1967. Exhibition catalogue.
312 / Bibliography

ao Benois, Alexandre. Memoirs. Translated from the Russian [R92] by Moura Bud-
berg. London: Chatto and Windus; Toronto: Clarke, Irwin, 1960.
33- Berninger, Herman, and Cartier, Jean. Jean Pougny (Ivan Puni). Catalogue de
l’oeuvre. Tubingen: Wasmuth, 1972. Vol. 1, Les années d’ avant-garde. Russie-
Berlin, 1910-1923. Bibl.
34. Besangon, Alain. ‘‘La dissidence de la peinture russe (1860-1922).’’ Annales
(Paris), vol. 2, March/April 1962, 252-82.
Reprinted in English as ‘‘The Dissidence of Russian Painting.’’ In The
Structure of Russian History, ed. by Michael Cherniavsky, pp. 381-411.
New York: Random House, 1970.
Bojko, Szymon. See 65.
35. Bowlt, John E. ‘‘The Failed Utopia. Russian Art 1917-32.’’ Art in America
(New York), vol. 59, no. 4 (July/August 1971), 40-51.
Bowlt, John E. See 40, 67.
Brinton, Christian. See 66.
36. Carter, Huntly. ‘‘Russian Art Movements Since 1917.’’ Drawing and Design
(London), vol. 4, February 1928, 37-42.
Cartier, Jean. See 33.
37. Chatwin, Bruce. ‘‘Moscow’s Unofficial Art.’’ The Sunday Times Magazine
(London), May 6, 1973, pp. 36-54.
38. Cimaise (Paris), vol. 15, no. 85/86 (February/April 1968).
Whole issue devoted to the Russian avant-garde.
39. Il Contributo russo alle avanguardie plastiche. Milan and Rome: Galleria del
Levante, 1964. Exhibition catalogue.
40. Diaghilev and Russian Stage Designers: A Loan Exhibition of Stage and Cos-
tume Designs from the Collection of Mr. and Mrs. N. Lobanov-Rostovsky. In-
troduction by John E. Bowlt. Washington, D.C.: International Exhibitions Foun-
dation, 1972. Exhibition catalogue.
Circulated by the International Exhibitions Foundation, 1972-74.
4. Dreier, Katherine S., and Duchamp, Marcel, comps. Collection of the Société
Anonyme: Museum of Modern Art, 1920. New Haven: Yale University Art
Gallery, 1950. Exhibition catalogue.
Duchamp, Marcel. See 41.
42. Fueloep-Miller, René. The Mind and Face of Bolshevism: An Examination of
Cultural Life in Soviet Russia. London and New York: Putnam, 1928. Rev. ed.:
New York: Harper, 1965. Bibl.
43. Gray, Camilla. “‘The Genesis of Socialist Realist Painting: Futurism, Suprema-
tism, Constructivism.’’ Soviet Survey (London), no. 27 (January/March 1959),
Pp. 32-39.
44. Gray, Camilla. “‘The Russian Contribution to Modern Painting.’’ The Burling-
ton Magazine (London), vol. 102, no. 686 (May 1960), 205-11.
45. Gray, Camilla. The Great Experiment. Russian Art 1863-1922. London:
Thames and Hudson; New York: Abrams, 1962. Reissued as: The Russian Ex-
 Bibliography / 313

periment in Art: 1863-1922. London: Thames and Hudson; New York: Abrams,
1970. Bibl.
46. Grohmann, Will. Wassily Kandinsky: Life and Work. New York: Abrams,
[1958]. Bibl.
47. Guercio, Antonio del. Le Avanguardie russe e sovietiche. Milan: Fabbri, 1970.
48. Guercio, Antonio del. ‘‘Pour une histoire qui reste a écrire: |’avant-garde
russe.’’ Opus International (Paris), no. 24/25, May 1971, pp. 20-25.
49. Haskell, Larissa. ‘“‘Russian Paintings and Drawings in the Ashmolean Museum
Oxford.’’ Oxford Slavonic Papers (Oxford), n.s. vol. 2 (1969), 1-38.
50. Haskell, Larissa. “‘Russian Drawings in the Victoria and Albert Museum.”’ Ox-
ford Slavonic Papers (Oxford), n.s. vol. 5 (1972), I-51.
51. Hilton, Alison. ‘‘When the Renaissance Came to Russia.’’ Art News (New
York), vol. 70, no. 8 (December 1971), 34-39, 56-62.
52. Jar-Ptitza (Firebird) (Berlin), 1921-26.
This was an émigré journal devoted mainly to the Russian arts. Summaries
of the Russian text appeared variously in English, French, and German.
53. Karpfen, Fritz. Gegenwartkunst: 1. Russland. Vienna: Verlag Literaria, 1921.
54. Leyda, Jay. Kino: A History of the Russian and Soviet Film. London: Allen and
Unwin; New York: Macmillan, 1960.
55. Loukomski, George. History of Modern Russian Painting (1840-1940). London:
Hutchinson; Toronto, Ryerson, 1945.
56. Lozowick, Louis. Modern Russian Art. New York: Museum of Modern Art—
Société Anonyme, 1925.
57. Lwoff, Lolly. L’Art russe a Paris. Paris: La Russie et le Monde Slave, 1931.
Text in French and Russian.
58. Marcadé, Valentine. Le Renouveau de l'art pictural russe. Lausanne: L’ Age
d’Homme, 1971. Bibl.
59. Meyer, Franz. Marc Chagall. New York: Abrams; London: Thames and Hud-
son, 1964. Bibl.”
60. Miliukov, Pavel Nikolaevich. Outlines of Russian Culture. Edited by Michael
Karpovich. Translated from the Russian by Valentine Ughet and Eleanor Davis.
Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania; Oxford: Oxford University, 1942.
Vol. 3, 59-100. Translation of R116.
61. Nakov, Andrei. Alexandra Exter. Booklet issued for the Exter exhibition at
Galerie Jean Chauvelin, Paris, 1972.
62. Osteuropdische Avantgarde (bis 1930). Cologne: Galerie Gmurzynska-Bargera,
1971. Exhibition catalogue.
63. Pleynet, Marcelin. ‘‘L’ Avant-garde russe.’’ Art /nternational (Lugano), vol. 14,
no. I (January 20, 1970), 39-44.
64. Pougny, Jean. L’Art contemporain. Berlin: Frenkel-Verlag, 1922. Published
also in Russian: R172.
65. Progressive russische Kunst. Preface by Szymon Bojko. Cologne: Galerie
Gmurzynska, 1973. Exhibition catalogue.
314 / Bibliography

66. The Russian Art Exhibition. Introduction by Christian Brinton. New York:
Grand Central Palace, 1924. Exhibition catalogue.
67. Russian Avant-Garde 1908-1922. New York: Leonard Hutton Galleries, 1971.
Exhibition catalogue. Essays by S. Frederick Starr and John E. Bowlt.
68. Russian Stage and Costume Designs for the Ballet, Opera and Theatre: A Loan
Exhibition from the Lobanov-Rostovsky, Oenslager, and Riabov Collections. In-
troduction by Georges Annenkov. Washington, D.C.: International Exhibitions
Foundation, 1967. Exhibition catalogue.
Circulated by the International Exhibitions Foundation, 1967-69.
69. Russische Kiinstler aus dem 20 Jahrhundert. Cologne: Galerie Gmurzynska-
Bargera, 1968. Exhibition catalogue.
70. Salmon, André. L’Art russe moderne. Paris: Laville, 1928.
71. Schmidt, Werner. Russische Graphik des XIX und XX Jahrhunderts. Leipzig:
VEB Seemann, 1967.
This is an enlarged version of 150 Jahre russische Graphik 1813-1963.
Katalog einer Berliner Privatsammlung. Prepared by Winifried Dierske,
Glaubrecht Friedrich, and Werner Schmidt. Dresden: Staatliche Kunst-
sammlungen, 1964.
72 Seuphor, Michel. *‘Au temps de |’avant-garde.’’ L’Oeil (Paris), no. 11, Novem-
ber 1955, Pp. 24-39.
73- Sjeklocha, Paul, and Mead, Igor. Unofficial Art in the Soviet Union. Berkeley
and Los Angeles: University of California, 1967; London: Cambridge Univer-
sity, 1968.
74. Sotheby and Co. Catalogue of 20th Century Russian Paintings, Drawings and
Watercolours. Sold July 1, 1970, London.
75 Sotheby and Co. Catalogue of 20th Century Russian Paintings, Drawings and
Watercolours. Sold April 12, 1972. London.
76. Sotheby and Co. Catalogue of 20th Century Russian Paintings, Drawings and
Watercolours 1900-1930. Sold March 29, 1972, London.
Starrs, Frederick. see.67:
17: Steneberg, Eberhard. *‘Die Ungeduldigen. Zum Verstandnis der Ecole Russe.”’
Das Kunstwerk (Baden-Baden), vol. 13, no. 2/3 (August/September 1959),
3-26.
78. Steneberg, Eberhard, ed. Beitrag der Russen zur modernen Kunst. Diisseldort:
Wintersheidt, 1959.
79. Steneberg, Eberhard. Russische Kunst, Berlin 1919-1932. Berlin: Mann, 1969.
Bibl.
80. Tugendhold, Jakob. Alexandra Exter. Translated from the Russian [bibl]. R181]
by Count Petrovsky-Petrovo-Solovovo. Berlin: Sarja, 1922.
81. Two Decades of Experiment in Russian Art (1902-1922). London: Grosvenor -
Gallery, 1962. Exhibition catalogue.
82. Umanskij, Konstantin. Neue Kunst in Russland, 1914-1919. Potsdam/Munich:
Kiepenheuer/Goltz, 1920.
 Bibliography / 315

83. Vytvarné uméni (Prague), no. 8/9, 1967.

Whole issue devoted to the Russian avant-garde. Partial translation in Rus-
sian, English, German, and French.
84. Woroszylski, Wiktor. The Life of Mayakovsky. Translated from the Polish by
Boleslaw Taborski. New York: Orion, 1970.
84i. L’altra meta dell’avanguardia 1910-1940. Milan: Comune di Milano, 1980.
(French version: L’Autre moitié de l’avant-garde 1910-1940). Exhibition
catalogue.
84ii. Amiard-Chevrel, C. Le Thédtre Artistique de Moscou 1898-1917. Paris:
CNRS, 1979, Bibl.
84iii. Art and Revolution. Japan: Seibu Museum of Art, 1982 (in Japanese).
84iv. Art of the Avant-Garde in Russia. Selections from the George Costakis
Collection. New York: Guggenheim Museum, and other cities, 1981.
84v. The Avant-Garde in Russia 1910-1930. New Perspectives. Los Angeles: Los
Angeles County Museum, 1980. Exhibition catalogue.
84vi. L’Avant-Garde au Féminin. Moscou, Saint-Pétersbourg, Paris (1907-1930).
Paris: Artcurial, 1983.
84vii. Bowlt, John E., ed. Russian History. Tempe: Arizona State University, 1981,
vol. 8, parts 1-2. Special issue devoted to 20th-century Russian stage design.
84vill. Bowlt, John E. Russian Stage Design. Scenic Innovation 1900-1930 from the
Collection of Mr. and Mrs. Nikita D. Lobanov-Rostovsky. Jackson: Mississippi
Museum of Art, and other cities, 1982. Exhibition catalogue.
84ix. 100 oeuvres du Musée Trétiakov de Moscou. Geneva: Petit Palais, 1983.
Exhibition catalogue.
84x. Contrasts of Form. Geometric Abstract Art 1910-1980. New York: Museum of
Modern Art, 1985. Exhibition catalogue.
84x1. Cooke, Catherine,*ed. Russian Avant-Garde. Art and Architecture. Special
issue of Architectural Design, London, 1983, vol. 53.
84xii. Invention and Tradition. Selected Works from the Julia A. Whitney Founda-
tion and the Thomas P. Whitney Collection of Modernist Russian Art.
Charlottesville: University of Virginia, and other cities, 1980.
84xiii. Janecek, Gerald. The Look of Russian Literature. Avant-Garde Experiments
1900-1930. Princeton: Princeton University, 1984. Bibl.
84xiv. Kean, Beverly. All the Empty Palaces. London: Barrie and Jenkins, 1983.
84xv. Kleberg, Lars. Teatern som Handling. Sovjetisk avantgard-estetik 1917-27.
Stockholm: Kontrakurs, 1980.
84xvi. Kowtun, Jewgenij. Die Wiedergeburt der ktinstlerischen Druckgraphik.
Dresden: VEB, 1984.
84xvii. Livshits, Benedikt. The One and a Half-Eyed Archer. Newtonville: ORP,
1977. English translation of bibl. R310.
84xvili. Misler, Nicoletta. Pavel Florenskij. La prospettiva rovesciata e altri scritti.
Rome: Casa del libro, 1984.
84xix. Nakov, Andréi B. L’Avant-Garde Russe. Paris: Hazan, 1984.
316 / Bibliography

84xx. Omuka, Toshiharu, ed. Art Vivant. Tokyo, 1982, No. 7-8. Special issue
devoted to Russian art 1900-1930 (in Japanese).
84xxi. Paris-Moscou. Paris: Centre Georges Pompidou, 1979. Exhibition
catalogue.
84xxii. Pasternak, Josephine (introd). The Memoirs of Leonid Pasternak. London:
Quartet, 1982.
84xxiii. Rudenstine, Angelica et al. Russian Avant-Garde: The George Costakis
Collection, New York: Abrams; London: Thames and Hudson, 1981.
84xxiv. Russische Kunst des 20 Jahrhunderts. Sammlung Semjonow, Esslingen am
Neclear: Galerie der Stadt, 1984. Exhibition catalogue.
84xxv. Russische Malerei 1890-1917. Frankfurt: Stadelsches Kunstinstitut, 1976.
Exhibition catalogue.
84xxvi. Russische und sowjetischer Kunst. Tradition-Gegenwart. Disseldorf: Stadt-
ische Kunsthalle, and other cities, 1984. Exhibition catalogue.
84xxvil. Russisk malerei fra slutten av det 19. og begynnelsen av det 20 arhundre.
Oslo: Munch-Museet, 1983. Exhibition catalogue.
84xxvill. Sammlung Costakis. Dusseldorf: Kunstmuseum, 1977. Exhibition
catalogue.
84xxix. Sieben moskauer Kuinstler/Seven Moscow Artists 1910-1930. Cologne:
Galeria Gmurzynska, 1984. Exhibition catalogue.
84xxx. Vom Klang der Bilder. Stuttgart: Staatsgalerie, 1985. Exhibition catalogue.
84xxxi. Zelinsky, Bodo. Russische Avantgarde, 1907-1921. Bonn: Grundmann,
1983.

I. The Subjective Aesthetic: Symbolism and the Intuitive

Benois, Aleksandr. Autobiography: 32, Rg2.

Other works by: 3, R26, R27, R28, R1451, R159, R193, R218, R244, R261,
R262.
Biography: R216.
Other works on: 28, 101i, FOItil, 1O1ix, R194.
Bibl. information: R216.
85. Bowlt, John E. *‘The World of Art.’’ Russian Literature Triquarterly (Ann
Arbor), Fall 1972, pp. 183-218.
86. Bowlt, John E. ‘‘Symbolism and Synthesism: The Russian World of Art Move-
ment.’’ Forum (St. Andrews, Scotland), vol. 9, no. 1 (January 1973), 35-48.
87. Bowlt, John E. ‘‘Russian Symbolism and. the. Blue Rose Movement.’’ The
Slavonic and East European Review (London), vol. 51, no.-123 (April 1973),
161-81.
88. Bowlt, John E. ‘*Nikolai Ryabushinsky: A Moscow Maecenas.’’ Apollo (Lon-
don), vol. 98, no. 142 (December 1973).
Burliuk, David. For bibl. references see II.
 Bibliography / 317

89. Guenther, Johannes von. Ein Leben im Ostwind. Zwischen Petersburg und Mun-
chen. Erinnerungen. Munich: Biederstein, 1969.
go. Hahl-Koch, Jelena. Marianne Werefkin und der russische Symbolismus. Munich
Sagner, 1967. Bibl.
QI. Jullian, Philippe. Dreamers of Decadence: Symbolist Painters of the 1890's.
Translated by Robert Baldick. New York: Praeger, 1971.
92. Kalmakoff. Paris: Galerie Motte, 1965. Exhibition catalogue.
93. Kalmakoff. London: Hartnoll and Eyre, 1970. Exhibition catalogue.
94. Kandinsky, Wassily. Uber das Geistige in der Kunst. Munich: Piper, 1912.
First English translation: The Art of Spiritual Harmony. London: Constable;
Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1914. Several subsequent editions, under vary-
ing titles, e.g., On the Spiritual in Art, Concerning the Spiritual in Art.
95: Kandinsky, Wassily. ‘‘Uber die Formfrage.’’ In Der Blaue Reiter, edited by
Kandinsky and Franz Marc, pp. 74-100. Munich: Piper, 1912.
Several subsequent editions.
English translation: *‘On the Question of Form.’’ In The ‘“‘Blaue Reiter’
Almanac, edited and with an Introduction by Klaus Lankheit. Translated by
Henning Falkenstein with the assistance of Manug Terzian and Gertrude
Hinderlie, pp. 147-87. The Documents of 2oth-Century Art. London:
Thames and Hudson; New York: Viking, 1974.
Kandinsky, Vasilii. Works by: 94, 95, R222, R223, R392-94.
Biography: 46.
Other works on: 97, 100.
Bibl. information: 46.
Kandinsky, Vasilii, Works by: 94, 95, I0IVv, IOIX, IOIXxili, 101xiv, R217IVv,
R222, R223, R392-94.
Biography: 46 «
Other works on: 84xxiii, 97, 100, IOIVi, IOIVii, IOI Vili, IOIXi, IOIxi,
IOIXV, IOIXVi, IOIXVil.
96. Kulbin, Nikolai. ‘‘Die freie Musik.’’ In Der Blaue Reiter, edited by Wassily
Kandinsky and Franz Marc, pp. 69-73. Munich: Piper, 1912.
Apart from the Russian versions of this essay [R226-27], it had also ap-
peared in French: Nicolas Koulbine. La musique libre. Application a la
musique de la nouvelle théorie de la création. St. Petersburg: Voennaya
tipografiya, 1910. Several subsequent editions.
English translation: ‘Free Music.’’ In The ‘‘Blaue Reiter’’ Almanac, pp.
141-46. See under bibl. 95.
Kulbin, Nikolai. Works by: 96, R224-31, R307.
Biography: R240.
Other works on: R102, R217iv, R218, R220, R239.
Some bibl. information: 133, R240.
Book illustrations: R219, R229, R291, R292, R340.
Marc, Franz. See 95.
318 / Bibliography

Markov, Vladimir. Works by: R232-35.

Biography: 98.
Works on: R217iii, R217v, R217Vi.
97. Roethel, Hans Konrad. Kandinsky. Das graphische Werk. Cologne: DuMont
Schauberg, 1970.
Ryabushinsky, Nikolai. Works by: R214, R215, R251.
Biography: 88.
Other work on: R218.
98. 60 Jahre lettischer Kunst. Introduction by Roman Suta. Leipzig: Pandora, 1923.
Exhibition catalogue.
99. La Toison d'or. (Moscow), vol. 1, no. 1-6, (1906).
The first six numbers of Nikolai Ryabushinsky’s Zolotoe runo [The Golden
Fleece] appeared both in Russian and in French. See R45.
100. Washton Long, Rose-Carol. ‘‘Kandinsky and Abstraction: The Role of the
Hidden Image.’’ Artforum (New York), vol. 10, no. 10 (June 1972), 42-49.
101. Woloschin, Margarite. Die griine Schlange. Stuttgart: Deutsche Verlag-An-
stalt, 1956.
101i. Alexandre Benois. London: Hazlitt, Gooden and Fox, 1980. Exhibition
catalogue.
1olii. Barnett, Vivian Endicott. Kandinsky at the Guggenheim. New York:
Abbeville, 1983.
101i. Bowlt, John E. et al. Mir iskusstva. Rome: E/O, 1984.
1oliv. Bowlt, John E. The Silver Age. Russian Art of the Early Twentieth Century
and the “World of Art’ Group. Newtonville: ORP, 1979.
1oIv. Bowlt, John E. and Washton Long, Rose-Carol. The Life of Vasilii
Kandinsky in Russian Art. Newtonville: ORP, 1980. Bibl.
1olvi. Hahl-Koch, Jelena, ed. Arnold Schénberg—Wassily Kandinsky. Briefe,
Bilder und Dokumente einer aussergewohnlichen Begegnung. Salzburg and
Vienna: Residenz, 1980.
101vii. Kandinsky. Oeuvres de Vassily Kandinsky (1866-1944). Paris: Centre
Georges Pompidou, 1984. Exhibition catalogue.
101vili. Kandinsky. Trente peintures des Musées soviétiques. Paris: Centre Georges
Pompidou, 1979. Exhibition catalogue.
101ix. Kennedy, Janet. The “Mir iskusstva’’ Group and Russian Art, 1898-1912.
New York: Garland, 1977.
101x. Lindsay, Kenneth C. and Vergo, Peter, eds. Kandinsky. Complete Writings
on Art. Boston: Hall, 1982 (2 vols.).
1o1xi. Poling, Clark V. Kandinsky. Russia and Bauhaus Years 1915-1933. New
York: Guggenheim, 1983. Exhibition catalogue. Bibl.
1o1xii. Poling, Clark V. Kandinsky. Unterricht am Bauhaus. Weingarten: Weingar-
ten, 1982. Bibl.
IO1xili. Roethel, Hans K. and Benjamin, Jean K. Kandinsky. Catalogue Raisonné
of the Oil- Paintings. Vol. 1, 1900-1915. Ithaca: Cornell, 1982.
 Bibliography / 319

101xiv. Roethel, Hans K. and Benjamin, Jean K. Kandinsky. Catalogue Raisonné

of the Oil-Paintings. Vol. 2, 1916-1944. Ithaca: Cornell, 1984.
1o1xv. Washton Long, Rose-Carol. Kandinsky. The Development of an Abstract
Style. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1980. Bibl.
101xvi. Weiss, Peg. Kandinsky in Munich. The Formative Jugendstil Years.
Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1979. Bibl.
1o1xvil. Zweite, Armin. Kandinsky und Miinchen. Begegnungen und Wandlungen
1896-1914. Munich: Prestel, 1982.

II. Neoprimitivism and Cubofuturism

Aksenov, Ivan. Works by: R257, R258, R372, R452.

Some bibl. information: 133.
Biography: R23i.
Apollinaire, Guillaume. See 119.
102. Arts Council Exhibition: Larionov and Goncharova. London, Bristol, Leeds,
1961. Exhibition catalogue compiled by Mary Chamot and Camilla Gray.
103. Ausstellung Der Sturm: Larionov und Gontcharova. Berlin, 1914. Exhibition
catalogue.
104. Barr, Alfred H., Jr. Cubism and Abstract Art. New York: Museum of Modern
Art, 1936. Reprinted: New York: Arno, 1966; London: Cass, 1967. Bibl.
105. Besangon, Alain. “Robert Falk.” Cahiers du monde russe et soviétique (Paris),
vol. 3, no. 4 (1962), 564-81.
106. Der Blaue Reiter. Munich: Galerie Thannhauser, 1911. Exhibition catalogue.
107. Der Blaue Reiter. Munich: Galerie Hans Goltz, 1912. Exhibition catalogue.
108. Der Blaue Reiter. Almanac: see 95.
Brinton, Christian. See 122.
109. Burliuk, David, ed. Color and Rhyme (Hampton Bays, N.Y.), 1930-66.
Burliuk, David. Works by: 108, 109, 258, R269—76.
Biography: 117.
Other works on: 1451x, R102, R256iii, R278.
Bibl. information: 133.
Book illustrations: 1451v, R272, R274, R312.
110. Bowlt, John E. ‘‘Neo-primitivism and Russian. Painting.’’ The Burlington
Magazine (London), vol. 116, no. 853 (March 1974), 133-40.
111. Calvesi, Maurizio. L’Arte moderna. II futurismo russo. Milan: Fabbri, vol. 5,
no. 44 (1967).
Whole issue devoted to the subject.
112. Carrieri, Raffaele. // Futurismo. Milan: Edizioni del milione, 1961; English
edition: Futurism. Milan: Edizioni del milione, n.d. Bibl.
113. Chamot, Mary. ‘‘The Early Work of Larionov and Goncharova.”’ The Burling-
ton Magazine (London), vol. 97, no. 627 (June 1955), 170-71.
320 / Bibliography

114. Chamot, Mary. Gontcharova. Paris: La Bibliotheque des arts, 1972. Bibl.
Chamot, Mary. See 102.
115. Cooper, Douglas. The Cubist Epoch. London: Phaidon, 1971.
Exhibition catalogue: Los Angeles County Museum and Metropolitan Mu-
seum of Art, 1971.
116. Davies, Ivor. ‘‘Primitivism in the First Wave of the Twentieth-Century Avant-
Garde in Russia.’’ Studio International (London), vol. 186, no. 958 (Sep-
tember 1973), 80-84.
ite Dreier, Katherine S. Burliuk. New York: Museum of Modern Art—Société
Anonyme, 1944.
118. Erster deutscher Herbstsalon. Berlin: Galerie Der Sturm, 1913. Exhibition cat-
alogue.
119. Exposition de N. Gontcharova et M. Larionov. Compiled by Guillaume Apol-
linaire. Paris: Galerie Paul Guillaume, 1914. Exhibition catalogue.
Fry, Roger. See 142.
120. Gambillo, Maria Drudi, and Fiori, Teresa, eds. Archivi del futurismo. Rome:
De Luca, 1958.
Selected translations in: Apollonio, Umbro, ed. Futurist Manifestos.
Translated from the Italian by Robert Brain, R. W. Flint, J. C. Higgitt,
Caroline Tisdall. The Documents of 20th-Century Art. London: Thames
and Hudson; New York: Viking, 1973. ‘‘Futurist Painting: Technical
Manifesto”’ appears on pp. 27-31.
121. George, Waldemar. Larionov. Paris: La Bibliotheque des arts, 1966. Bibl.
German edition: Lucerne and Frankfurt: Bucher, 1968.
122.The Goncharova-Larionov Exhibition. Introduction by Christian Brinton. New
York: Kingore Gallery, 1922. Exhibition catalogue.
133 Gonjarova-Larjonov-Mansourov. Bergamo: Galleria Lorenzelli, 1966. Exhibi-
tion catalogue.
Goncharova, Natalya. Works by: 149, R252.
Biography: 114.
Other works on: 84xxili, 102, 103, 113, 119, 122, 123, 127, 132, 137, 145ill,
145Xi, 145xii, 146, 148, 150, 1761x, 176xvii, R264, R335, R349, R354,
R356, R357.
Bibl. information: 114, 132.
Book illustrations: 1451v, R272, R279, R292, R296, R299, R306, R319.
Gray, Camilla. See 102.
124. Jensen, Kjeld Bjornager. ‘‘Marinetti in Russia—1g10, 1912, 1914?’’ Scando-
Slavica (Copenhagen), vol. 15 (1969), 21-26.
125. Khérumian, Raphaél, et al. Notes et Documents. Paris: Société des amis de
Georges Yakoulov, no. 1, 2, 3 (1967, 1969, 1972). Bibl.
126. Kriz, Jan. ‘‘Pawel Nikolajewitsch Filonow. Mitbegriinder und Kritiker der rus-
sischen kiinstlerischen Avantgarde.’’ Alte und Moderne Kunst (Vienna), vol.
96 (1968), 32-39.
 Bibliography | 321

. Larionov-Gontcharova. Basel: Galerie Beyeler, 1961. Exhibition catalogue.

. Michel Larionov. Lyon: Musée de Lyon, 1967. Exhibition catalogue.
. Michel Larionov. Introduction by Frangois Daulte. New York: Acquavella Gal-
leries, 1969. Exhibition catalogue.
. Larionov. Paris: Galerie de Paris, 1969. Exhibition catalogue.
A slightly larger version of this exhibition opened in Nevers et la Niévre,
Maison de la Culture de Nevers et la Niévre, 1972. Separate catalogue
with an Introduction by Jean Goldman.
Larionov, Mikhail. Works by: 145ix, 149, R252, R361.
Biography: 121.
Other works on: 84xxili, 102, 103, 113, 119, 122, 123, 127-30, 132, I41,
144, 145X1, 145xli, 146, 147, 148, 150, R135, R253, R256iv, R286,
R319, R321, R349, R356, R357.
Book illustrations: 145iv, R272, R296, R297, R298, R300, R319.
P3L;_ Livchits, Benedikt. L’Archer a un oeil et demi. Translated from the Russian
[bib]. R310], prefaced, and annotated by Emma Sébald, Valentine and Jean-
Claude Marcadé. Lausanne: L’Age d’Homme, 1971.
132. Loguine, Tatiana. Gontcharova et Larionov. Paris: Klincksieck, 1971.
P33 Markov, Vladimir. Russian Futurism: A History. Berkeley: University of Cali-
fornia, 1968; London: MacGibbon and Kee, 1969. Bibl.
134. Neue Kiinstlervereinigung. Munich: Moderne Galerie Thannhauser, 1909. Ex-
hibition catalogue.
135% Neue Kiinstlervereinigung. Munich: Moderne Galerie Thannhauser, 1910. Ex-
hibition catalogue.
136. Neue Kunstlervereinigung. Munich: Moderne Galerie Thannhauser, 1911. Ex-
hibition catalogue.
137: Rétrospective Gontcharova. Bourges: Maison de la Culture de Bourges, 1973.
This was a condensed and modified version of the exhibition ‘‘Nathalie
Gontcharova’’ in Lyon, Musée des Beaux-Arts, 1969.
138. Ripellino, Angelo. Majakovskii e il teatro russo d’avanguardia. Turin: Ein-
audi, 1959.
French, translation: Maiakovski et la thédtre russe d’ avant-garde. Paris:
L’ Arche, 1965.
139. Robel, Léon, trans. Manifestes futuristes russes. Paris: Editeurs Frangais
Réunis,1972.
140. Rye, Jane. Futurism. London: Studio Vista; New York: Dutton, 1972.
141. Schafran, Lynn. ‘‘Larionov and the Russian Vanguard.’’ Art News (New
York), vol. 68, no. 3 (May 1969), 66-67.
142. The Second Post-Impressionist Exhibition. London: Grafton Galleries, 1912.
Organized by Roger Fry. Exhibition catalogue.
Shevchenko, Aleksandr. Autobiography: R177 (vol. 1).
Other work by: R355.
Biography: R283.
322 / Bibliography

Other works on: R254, R256.

143. Tschizewskij, Dmitrij. Anfdnge des russischen Futurismus. Wiesbaden: Harras-
sowitz, 1963.
144. Vergo, Peter. ‘‘A Note on the Chronology of Larionov’s Early Work.’’ The
Burlington Magazine (London), vol. 114, no. 832 (July 1972), 476-79.
Yakulov, Georgii. See 124.
145. Zdanévitch, Cyrille. Niko Pirosmani. Translated from the Russian by Lydia
Delt and Véra Varzi. Paris: Gallimard, 1970.
Zdanevich, Ilya. Works by: R356, R357.
Some bibl. information: 133.
Works on: 145Vi, 145vii.
145i. Andersen, Troels et al., eds. Art et poésie russes 1910-1930. Paris: Centre
Georges Pompidou, 1979.
14511. Bauermeister, Christiane, ed. Sieg uber die Sonne. Aspekte russischer Kunst
zu Beginn des 20. Jahrhunderts. Berlin: Frolich and Kaufman, 1983. Bibl.
14511. Chamot, Mary. Goncharova. Designs and Paintings. London: Oresko, 1979.
Bibl.
1451v. Compton, Susan. The World Backwards. Russian Futurist Books 1912-1916.
London: The British Library, 1978, Bibl.
145v. Futurismo e futurismi. Venice: Palazzo Grassi, 1986. Exhibition catalogue.
145vi. /liazd. Paris: Centre Georges Pompidou, 1978. Exhibition catalogue.
¥45vii. Iliazd. Maitre d’oeuvre du livre moderne. Quebec: Galerie d’art de
l'Université, 1984. Exhibition catalogue. Bibl.
14$viii. Khardzhiev, Nikolai and Trenin, Vladimir. Culture poétique de Maiakov-
ski. Lausanne: L’Age d’ Homme, 1982. French translation of R350.
145ix. Ladurner, H. ‘David D. Burljuks Leben und Schaffen 1908-1920,” Wiener
Slawistischer Almanac. Vienna. 1978, vol. 1, pp. 27-55.
145x. Marcadé, Jean-Claude, ed. Michel Larionov. Une Avant-Garde Explosive.
Lausanne: L’Age d’ Homme, 1978.
145x1. Nathalie Gontcharova. Michel Larionov. Milan: Arte Centro, 1984. Exhi-
bition catalogue.
145xil. Pospelow, Gleb. Moderne russische Malerei. Die Kiinstlergruppe Karo-
Bube. Berlin: Kohlhammer, 1985.

III. Nonobjective Art

RAYONISM

146. Berlewi, Henryk. ‘‘Michael Larionoff, N. Gontscharova und der Rayonnis-

mus.’’ Werk (Zunch), October 1961, pp. 364-68.
147. Daulte, Frangois. ‘Larionov, le rayonniste.’’ Connaissance des Arts (Paris),
no. 179 (January 1967), pp. 46-53.
 Bibliography / 323

148. Degand, Léon. ‘‘Le Rayonnisme: Larionov—Goncharova.’’ Art d’ aujourd’ hui

(Paris), série 2, no. 2 (November 1950), pp. 26-29.
149. Larionow, Michele, and Gonciarova, Natalia. Radiantismo. Translated from
the Russian by Nina Antonelli. Rome, 1917.
Larionov, Mikhail. For bibl. references see II.
150. Steneberg, Eberhard. ‘‘Larionov, Gontscharowa und der Rayonnismus.’’ Das
Kunstwerk (Baden-Baden), vol. 16, no. 8 (February 1963), 11-22.

SUPREMATISM

(Note: entries in this section are highly selective; the reader is referred to 33,
159, and 160 in particular for comprehensive bibliographies. )
ISI. Andersen, Troels. ‘‘Malevich on ‘New Art.’ ’’ Studio International (London),
vol. 174, no. 892 (September 1967), 100-105.
Andersen, Troels. See 27, 159, 160.
Boguslavskaya, Kseniya. Some biographical information: 33
Work by: R382.
Book illustration: R406.
152. Bowlt, John E. ‘‘Malevich’s Joumey into the Non-Objective World.”’ Art
News (New York), vol. 72,.no. 10 (December 1973), 16-22.
Gray, Camilla. See 43, 44, 45, 161.
153. Habasque, Guy. ‘‘Documents inédits sur les débuts du Suprématisme.’’ Art
d’aujourd hui (Paris), no. 4, September 1955, pp. 14-16.
Klyun, Ivan. Works by: R289, R290.
Book illustrations: R304
Works on: 84xx, I76iv.
154. Koudriachov. Paris:. Galerie Jean Chauvelin, 1970. Exhibition catalogue.
SS: Kovtun, E. ‘‘Malevi¢ova myslenka plastické beztize.’’ Vytvarné pracé
(Prague), no. 2, 1967, p. 10.
156. Lamaé, Miroslav. ‘*‘Malevié a jeho okruh.’’ Vytvarné uméni (Prague), no. 8/9,
1967, pp. 365ff. See also 83.
Lissitzky, El. For bibl. references see V.
157. Malevich, Kazimir. Die gegenstandslose Welt. Bauhausbicher no. 11. Munich:
Langen, 1927.
English edition: The Non-Objective World. Translated by Howard Dear-
styne. Chicago: Theobald, 1959.
158. Malevich, Kazimir. ‘‘Autobiographical Fragment.’ Studio International (Lon-
don), vol. 176, no. 905 (October 1968), 129-33.
159. Malevich, K. S. Essays on Art 1915-1928. Edited by Troels Andersen. Trans-
lated by Xenia Glowacki-Prus and Amold McMillin. 2 vols. Copenhagen:
Borgen, 1968; London, Rapp and Whiting, 1969; et al.
160. Malevich. Compiled by Troels Andersen. Amsterdam: Stedelijk Museum,
1970. Catalogue. Bibl.
324 / Bibliography

161. Kasimir Malevich, 1878-1935. Introduced by Camilla Gray. London:

Whitechapel Art Gallery, 1959. Exhibition catalogue.
162. Casimir Malevic. Rome: Galleria Nazionale d’ Arte Moderna, 1959. Exhibition
catalogue.
163. Kasimir Malevic. Milan: Galleria Breton, 1971. Exhibition catalogue.
164. Malevitch: Dessins. Paris: Galerie Jean Chauvelin, 1970. Exhibition catalogue.
165. Kasimir Malewitsch. Braunschweig: Kunstverein, 1958. Exhibition catalogue.
166. Kasimir Malewitsch. Suprematismus—Die gegenstandslose Welt. Edited by
Werner Haftmann. Translated from the Russian by Hans von Riesen. Cologne:
DuMont Schauberg, 1962.
Malevich, Kazimir. Autobiography: 158, R187iv.
Other works by: 157, 159, 163, 166, I7I, 176, 176xii, 176xili, 176iVv,
176xvill, 176X1x.
Biography: 160.
Other works on: 84xxiil, 151, 155, 156, 161, 162, 164, 165, 170, 17611,
176ili, 176vi, 176vii, 176xi, 176xxiv, 176xxv, R360, R363, R366.
Bibl. information: 159, 160.
Book illustrations: 145iv, R284, R292, R293, R303, R304, R306,
R351-53-
167. Nakov, Andréi. ‘‘Destination |’infini: la théorie du suprématisme.’’ XX Siécle
(Paris), n.s., no.33 (December 1969), 171-72. Also see 173.
168. The Non-objective World, 1914-1924. London: Annely Juda Fine Art; Paris:
Galerie Jean Chauvelin; Milan: Galleria Milano, 1970. Exhibition catalogue.
Editions in English, French, and Italian.
169. The Non-objective World, 1924-1939. London: Annely Juda Fine Art; Paris:
Galerie Jean Chauvelin; Milan: Galleria Milano, 1971. Exhibition catalogue.
Editions in English, French, and Italian.
170. Penkula, Eduard. *‘Malewitschs Oeuvre geborgen.’’ Das Kunstwerk (Baden-
Baden), vol. 11, no. 10 (April 1958), 3-16.
Popova, Lyubov. Some biographical details: 45, R184, R435, R475.
Works on: 84xxill, 1761, 176ix, 176xX, I76xvii, 176xxiii.
i qpite Pugh, Simon. *‘An Unpublished Manuscript by Malevich.’’ Studio Interna-
tional (London), vol. 183, no. 942 (March 1972), 100-102.
Puni, Ivan (Pougny, Jean). Works by: 64, 176, R172, R365, R412.
Biography: 33.
Other works on: 84xxiii, 176v, R359.
Bibl. information: 33.
Book illustrations: 1451v, R273, R406.
Rodchenko, Aleksandr. For bibl. references see V.
Rozanova, Olga. Work by: R 332.
Works on: R186, R290.
Book illustrations: R273, R291-96, R300, R301, R302, R306, R313,
R333, R339, R340.
 Bibliography / 325

172. Seuphor, Michel. ‘‘Suprématisme et Néo-plasticisme.”’ Art d’aujourd

hui
(Paris), no. 7/8 (September 1950), pp. 22-24.
Stepanova, Varvara. For bibl. references see V.
173. Tatlin's Dream. Russian Suprematist and Constructivist Art 1910-1923. Lon-
don: Fischer Fine Art Limited, 1973. Essay by Andrei Nakov. Exhibition cata-
logue.
174. Vallier, Dora. ‘*L’Art abstrait en Russie: ses origines, ses premiéres manifesta-
tions 1910-1917.” Cahiers d’Art (Paris), vol. 33-35, (1960), 259-85.
175. Veronesi, Giulia. Suprematisti e construttivisti in Russia. L’Arte moderna, vol.
6, no. 48. Milan: Fabbri, 1967.
176. Westhein, Paul, ed. Kuinstlerbekenntnisse. Briefe, Tagebuchblatter, Be-
trachtungen heutiger Kunstler. Berlin: Propylaen- Verlag, 1925.
Contains statements by Natan Altman, El Lissitzky, Kazimir Malevich,
Ivan Puni, et al.
1761. Bowlt, John E. “Liubov Popova, Painter” in bibl. i 26iv, pp. 227-51.
17611. Bowlt, John E. and Douglas, Charlotte, eds. Soviet Union. Tempe: Arizona
State University, 1978, vol. 5, part 2. Special issue devoted to Kazimir
Malevich. Bibl.
176ii1. Douglas, Charlotte. Swans of Other Worlds. Ann Arbor: University
Microfilms International, 1980. Bibl.
176iv. Ivan Vasilievich Kliun. New York: Matignon Gallery, 1983. Exhibition
catalogue.
176v. Iwan Puni (Jean Pougny) 1892-1956. Berlin: Haus am Waldsee, 1975.
Exhibition catalogue.
176vi. Kasimir Malewitsch. Cologne: Galerie Gaines 1978. Exhibition
catalogue.
176vii. Kasimir Malewitsch (1875-1935). Werke aus sowjetischen Sammlungen.
Dusseldorf: Kunsthalle, 1980.
176viii. Die Kunstismen in Russland/The Isms of Art in Russia. Cologne: Galerie
Gmurzynska, 1977. Exhibition catalogue.
176ix. Kiinstlerinnen der russischen Avantgarde/Women-Artists of the Russian
Avant-Garde 1910-1930. Cologne: Galerie Gmurzynska, 1979. Exhibition
catalogue.
176x. Liubov Popova. New York: Rachel Adler Gallery, 1985. Exhibition
catalogue.
176xi. Malévitch. Oeuvres de Casimir Severinovitch Maleévitch (1878-1935). Paris:
Centre Georges Pompidou, 1980.
176xii. Marcadé, Jean-Claude, ed. K. Malévitch. Le miroir suprématiste. Lausanne:
L’Age d’Homme, 1978.
176xiii. Marcadé, Jean-Claude, ed. Malévitch. Colloque international Kazimir
Malévitch. Lausanne: L’Age d Homme, 1979.
176xiv. Marcadé, Jean-Claude (ed.): K. Malévitch. La lumiere et la couleur,
Lausanne: L’Age d’Homme, 1981.
326 / Bibliography

176xv. Masterpieces of the Avantgarde. London: Annely Juda Fine Art/Juda

Rowan Gallery, 1985. Exhibition catalogue.
176xvi. Meisterwerke russischer Malerei. Cologne: Josef-Haubrich-Kunsthalle,
1984. Exhibition catalogue.
176xviil. Nakov, Andréi B. Abstrait/Concret. Art Non-Objectif russe et polonais.
Paris: Editions de minuit, 1981. Bibl.
176xvili. Nakov, Andréi B., ed. Malévitch. Ecrits. Paris: Champ Libre, 1975. Bibl.
176xix. Nakov, Andréi B., ed. Kazimir S. Malevic. Scritti, Milan: Feltrinelli, 1977.
Bibl.
176xx. Plastyka radziecka. Sztuka okresu pazdziernika 1917-1930. Warsaw:
Zacheta, 1982. Exhibition catalogue.
176xxi. Russian Pioneers at the Origins of Non-Objective Art. London: Annely Juda
Fine Art, 1976. Exhibition catalogue.
176xxil. Russian Suprematist and Constructivist Art 1910-1930. London: Fischer
Fine Art, 1976.
176xxili. Sarabianov, Dmitrii. “The Painting of Liubov Popova” in bibl. 11 84v, pp.
42-45.
176xxiv. Shadowa [Zhadova, Zsadova], Larissa: Suche und Experiment. Russische
und sowjetische Kunst 1910 bis 1930. Dresden: VEB, 1978. English translation:
Malevich, Suprematism and Revolution in Russian Art 1910-1930. London:
Thames and Hudson, 1982. Bibl.
176xxv. The Suprematist Straight Line. Malevich, Suetin, Chashnik, Lissitzky.
London: Annely Juda Fine Art, 1977. Exhibition catalogue.
176xxvi. Vanguardia Rusa 1910-1930. Museo y coleccion Ludwig. Madrid: Fun-
dacion Juan March, 1985. Exhibition catalogue.
176xxvil. Vesnin, Aleksandr. For bibl: references see V.
176xxviil. Von der Flache zum Raum/From Surface to Space. Russland/ Russia
1916-1924. Cologne: Galerie Gmurzynska, 1974. Exhibition catalogue.

IV. The Revolution and Art

PROLETKULT

177. Bogdanow, Alexander. Die. Kunst und das Proletariat. Leipzig: ‘‘Der Ken-
taur,’’ 1919.
Bogdanoy, Aleksandr. Works by: 177, 180, 209x, R367.
Biography: 179.
Bibl. information: 179. =
178. Eastman, Max. Education and Art in Soviet Russia in the Light of Official
Decrees and Documents. New. York: Socialist Publication Society, 1919.
179. Grille, Dietrich. Lenins Rivale. Bogdanov und seine Philosophie. Cologne:
Wissenschaft und Politik, 1966. Bibl.
180. Lorenz, Richard, ed. Proletarische Kulturrevolution in Sowjetrussland
 Bibliography | 327

1917-1921. Dokumente des ‘‘Proletkult.’’ Translated from the Russian by Uwe

Brugmann and Gert Meyer. Munich: Deutscher Taschenbuch, 1969.
181. Paul, Eden, and Paul, Cedar. Proletcu/t. London: Parsons, 1921.

GENERAL ASPECTS

Altman, Natan. Work by: 176.

Biography: R185, 209v.
Other works on: R186, R259, R434v.
Bibl. information: R185.
182. Art in Revolution: Soviet Art and Design since 1917. London: Arts Coun-
cil/Hayward Gallery, 1971. Exhibition catalogue.
Shown in Bologna, New York, Ontario, 1971-72, under same title; in
Frankfurt, Stuttgart, and Cologne as Kunst in der Revolution, 1972-73.
Texts in English catalogue by Camilla Gray-Prokofieva et al.
183. Arte nella Russia dei Sovieti; il padigloione dell’U.R.S.S. a Venezia. Text by
Vinicio Paladini. Roma: La Bilancia, 1925. Exhibition catalogue. See 198.
184. Barooshian, Vahan. ‘‘The Avant-garde and the Russian Revolution.’’ Russian
Literature Triquarterly (Ann Arbor), Fall 1972, pp. 347-60.
185. Barr, Alfred H., Jr. ‘‘The ‘LEF’ and Soviet Art.’’ Transition (New York), no.
14, (Fall 1928), pp. 267-70.
Bodine, Sarah. See 205.
186. Bojko, Szymon. ‘*L’Affiche révolutionnaire.’’ Opus International (Paris), no.
5, (February 1968), pp. 29-33.
187. Boyko, Szymon. New Graphic Design in Revolutionary Russia. Translated
from the Polish by Robert Strytel and Lech Zembrzuski. London: Lund
Humphries; New York: Praeger, 1972. Bibl.
188. Bowlt, John E. ‘‘Russian Art in the 1920s.’’ Soviet Studies (Glasgow), vol. 22,
no. 4 (April 1971), 574-94.
189. Bowlt, John E. ‘‘Russian Formalism and the Visual Arts.’’ 20th Century Stud-
ies (Canterbury), no. 7/8, December 1972, pp. 131-46.
190. Braun, Edward, trans. and ed. Meyerhold on Theatre. New York: Hill and
Wang; London: Methuen, 1969.
IQ. Bringas, Esperanza Velazquez. El Arte en la Rusia actual. Mexico City: 1923.
192. Carter, Huntly. The New Theatre and Cinema of Soviet Russia. London: Chap-
man and Dodd, 1924; New York: International, 1925.
193. Carter, Huntly. The New Spirit in the Russian Theatre, 1917-1928. London:
Brentano’s, 1929.
194. Congrat-Butler, Stefan, comp. Russian Revolutionary Posters, 1917-1929.
New York: Grove Press, 1971.
195. Cossio del Pomar, Felipe. ‘‘E] arte ruso y la revolucién.’’ In La rebelion de los
pintores, pp. 271-328. Mexico City: Editorial Leyenda, 1945.
196. ‘Dans la foulée d’Octobre: Les arts soviétiques des premiéres années.’’ Les
328 / Bibliography

Lettres frangaises (Paris), no. 1207 (November 8-14, 1967), pp. 22-26.
197. Erste Russische Kunstausstellung. Introduction by David Shterenberg. Berlin:
Galerie van Diemen, 1922. Exhibition catalogue.
198. Esposizione internazionale d’arte. XIV biennale internazionale d’arte della citta
di Venezia. Catalogue of the Russian section. Text by Boris Ternovetz. Ven-
ice, 1924.
See also 183.
199. Fitzpatrick, Sheila. The Commissariat of Enlightenment. Soviet Organization of
Education and the Arts Under Lunacharsky, October, 1917-1921. Cambridge:
Cambridge University, 1971. Bibl.
Gray-Prokofieva, Camilla. See 43, 44, 45, 182.
200. Gregor, Joseph, and Fueloep-Miller, René. Das Russische Theater. Mit beson-
derer Berticksichtigung der Revolutionsperiode. Vienna: Amalthea, 1927.
English edition: The Russian Theatre. Translated by Paul England. Lon-
don: Harrap; Philadelphia: Lippincott, 1930.
201. Higgens, Andrew. ‘‘Art and Politics in the Russian Revolution.’’ Studio Inter-
national (London), vol. 180: no. 927 (November 1970), 164-67; no. 929
(December 1970), 224-27.
202. Jelenski, K. A. ‘‘Avant-garde and the Revolution.’’ Arts (New York), vol.
35, no. 1 (October 1960), 36-41.
Komfut. Works by: consult R73 and references to Osip Brik, Boris Kushner,
and Nikolai Punin.
Works on: R497, R499.
Kushner, Boris. Works by: R395-97, R470, and consult R73, R76.
Some bibl. information: 133.
Lef. Works by: R76.
Works on: consult 84, 133, R16, R341.
203) Lunacharski, Anatoli Vasilievich. Las Artes plasticas y la politica artistica de
la Rusia revolucionaria. Translated by José M. Giiell. Barcelona: Editorial
Seix y Barral, 1969.
Russian texts in R402-403.
204. Lunatscharski, Anatoli. Die Revolution und die Kunst: Essays, Reden, Notizen.
Selected and translated by Franz Leschnitzer. Dresden: VEB Verlag der Kunst,
1962.
Russian texts in R402—403.
Lunacharsky, Anatolii. Works by: 203-204, R402-403, R434i, R471.
Biography: 199, 209xv:
Bibl. information: 199, R402-403.
Pertsov, Viktor. Work by: R434xi.
Punin, Nikolai. Works by: R253, R410, R413-19, R444—45, and consult R66,
R73, R82, R434Vvi.
Some biographical information: 230ix, R435:
205. Russian Art of the Revolution. Compiled by Sarah Bodine. Cornell: Andrew
 Bibliography / 329

Dickson Museum of Art; Brooklyn: Brooklyn Museum of Art, 1971. Exhibi-

tion catalogue.
206. Shterenberg, David. ‘‘Die kiinstlerische Situation in Russland.’’ Das Kunst-
blatt (Berlin), no. 11, November 1922, pp. 485-92.
Shterenberg, David. Autobiography: R177 (vol. 1).
Other works by: 197, 206, and consult R66, R73, R489.
Works on: R186, R434, R434ix.
Ternovetz, Boris. See 198.
207. Umanskij, Konstantin. ‘‘Die neue Monumentalskulptur in Russland.’’ Der
Ararat (Munich), no. 5/6, 1920, pp. 29-33.
Reprinted in modified form in bibl. 82.
208. Westheim, Paul. ‘‘Die Ausstellung der Russen.’’ Das Kunstblatt (Berlin), no.
11, November 1922, pp. 493-98.
209. Wollen, Peter. ‘‘Art in Revolution: Russian Art in the Twenties.’’ Studio Inter-
national] (London), vol. 181, no. 932 (April 1971), 149-54.
2091. Art for the Masses. Russian Revolutionary Art from the Merrill C. Berman
Collection. Williamstown: Williams College Museum of Art, and other cities,
1985. Exhibition catalogue.
20911. Bowlt, John E., ed. Soviet Union. Tempe: Arizona State University, 1980,
vol. 7, parts 1-2. Special issue devoted to Soviet art of the 1920s.
209iii. Dada Constructivism. London: Annely Juda Fine Art, 1984. Exhibition
catalogue.
209iv. Dragone, Pier Giorgio et al., eds. Arte e rivoluzione. Documenti delle
avanguardie tedesche e sovietiche 1918-1932. Milan: Unicopli, 1978.
209v. Etkind, Mark. Nathan Altman. Dresden: VEB, 1984. Bibl.
209v1i. The First Russian Show. London: Annely Juda Fine Art, 1983. Exhibition
catalogue. *
2o09vii. Flaker, Aleksandr et al., eds. Knijevnost avangarda revolucija. Zagreb:
University of Zagreb, 1981.
209viii. Gassner, Hubertus and Gillen, Eckhart, eds. Zwischen Revolutionskunst
und Sozialistischen Realismus. Dokumente und Kommentare. Kunstdebatten in
der Sowjetunion von 1917 bis 1934. Cologne: DuMont, 1979. Bibl.
209ix. Gleason, Abbott et al., eds. Bolshevik Culture. Bloomington: Indiana
University Press, 1985.
209x. Graham, Loren R. and Stites, Richard, eds. Red Star. The First Bolshevik
Utopia by Alexander Bogdanovy. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1985.
209xi. Guerman, Michail. Art of the October Revolution. New York: Abrams,
1979. Editions also in Russian, German and French.
209xii. Magarotto, Luigietal., eds. L’Avanguardia a Tiflis. Venice: Universita degli
Studi, 1982.
209xiii. Milner, John. Russian Revolutionary Art. London: Oresko, 1979.
209xiv. Nilsson, Nils Ake, ed. Art, Society, Revolution. Russia 1917-1921.
Stockholm: Almqvist and Wiksell, 1979.
330 | Bibliography

209xv. O’Connor, Timothy Edward. The Politics of Soviet Culture. Anatolii

Lunacharskii. Ann Arbor: University Microfilms International, 1983. Bibl.
209xvi. Peters, Jochen-Ulrich. Kunst als organisierte Erfahrung. Munich: Fink,
1980.

V. Constructivism and the Industrial Arts

(Note: in addition to the specific titles listed below and in the Russian section
of the Bibliography, the reader is advised to consult the journals R61, R71,
R76, and R84.)

CONSTRUCTIVISM

Andersen, Troels. See 27, 230.

210. Architectural Design (London), vol. 40, no. 2 (February 1970).
Whole issue devoted to constructivist architecture in the U.S.S.R.
PII Bann, Stephen, ed. The Constructivist Tradition. New York: Viking, 1974.
Bibl.
2E2) Elderfield, John. ‘‘Constructivism and the Objective World: An Essay on Pro-
duction Art and Proletarian Culture.’’ Studio International (London), vol. 180,
no. 923 (September 1970), 73-80.
PNB. Elderfield, John. ‘‘Line of Free Men: Tatlin’s ‘Towers’ and the Age of Inven-
tion.’’ Studio International (London), vol. 178, no. 916 (November 1969),
162-67.
214. Elderfield, John. ‘‘On Constructivism.’’ Artforum (New York), vol. 9, no. 9
(May 1971), 57-63.
215: Gabo, Naum. ‘‘The Constructive Idea in Art.’’ In Circle, edited by J. L. Mar-
tin, Ben Nicholson, N. Gabo, pp. 1-10. London: Faber and Faber, 1937.
Reprint; 1971; also New York: Praeger, 1971.
216. Gabo, Naum. Gabo: Constructions, Sculpture, Paintings, Drawings, Engrav-
ings. London: Lund Humphries; Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press,
1957.
Essays by Herbert Read and Leslie Martin.
Gabo, Naum. Works by: 211, 215, 216.
Biography: 222.
Other works on: 216, 221, 23piii.
Bibl. information: 216, 226.
Gan, Aleksei. Some biographical information 230ix.
Works by: 211, R372, R437, R438, R465. R466.
DICH Gollerbakh, Erich. Prospectus. The Construction of Architectural and Machine
Forms by Jacob Tchernikhov. Leningrad: Society of Architects of Leningrad,
1931.
 Bibliography | 331

218. Kallai, Ernst. ‘‘Konstruktivismus.’’ Jahrbuch der Jungen Kunst (Leipzig), vol.
5, 1924, 374-84.
219. Massat, René. Antoine Pevsner et le Constructivisme. Paris: Caractéres,
1956.
220. Matsa, Ivan. *‘Constructivism: an Historical and Artistic Appraisal.’’ Studio
International (London), vol. 183, no. 943 (April 1972), 142-44.
Shortened translation of R442.
ae ke Olson, Ruth, and Chanin, Abraham. Naum Gabo—Antoine Pevsner. New
York: Museum of Modern Art, 1948.
222: Pevsner, Alexei. Naum Gabo and Antoine Pevsner: A Biographical Sketch of
My Brothers. Amsterdam: Augustin and Schoonman, 1964.
Pevsner, Antoine. Biography: 222.
Other works on: 219, 221.
Bibl information: 226.
223 Quilici, Vieri. L’Architettura del construttivismo. Bari: Laterza, 1969.
224. Rathke, Ewald. Konstruktive Malerei, 1915-1930. Hanau: Peters, 1967.
Reprint of catalogue for exhibition at Frankfurter Kunstverein, November
1966—January 1967. With introduction by Eckhard Neumann.
22S. Rathke, Ewald, and Neumann, Eckhard. ‘‘Constructivism 1914-1922.’’ Art
and Artists (London), vol. 5, no. 4 (July 1970), 12-15.
226. Rickey, George. Constructivism: Origins and Evolution. New York: Braziller;
London: Studio Vista, 1967. Bibl.
DOG Rodtchenko, Alexandre. ‘‘ Vladimir Tatlin.’’ Opus International (Paris), no. 4,
December 1967, pp. 15-18.
228; Sharp, Dennis, ed. ‘‘Constructivism.’’ RIBA Journal (London), vol. 78, no. 9
(September 1971), 382-92.
229. Sprague, Arthur. «‘Chernikov and Constructivism.’’ Survey (London and New
York), no. 39, December 1961, pp. 69-77.
230. Vladimir Tatlin. Compiled by Troels Andersen. Stockholm: Moderna Museet,
1968. Exhibition catalogue. Bibl.
Tatlin, ‘Vladimir. Works by: 211, R447.
Biography: 230.
Works on: 213, 227, 230, 230ii, 230X, 230xiii, R184, R444, R445, R4501.
Bibl. information: 230.
Book illustrations; R296, R312.
230i. Bowlt, John E., ed. Soviet Union. Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh, 1976,
vol. 3, part 2. Special issue devoted to Constructivism.
23011 . Bowlt, John E. “Un voyage dans l’espace: l’oeuvre de Vladimir Tatlin,”
Cahiers du Musée d’Art Moderne. Paris, 1979, no. 2, pp. 216-27.
230iii. Gabo. Dallas: Dallas Museum of Art, 1985. Exhibition catalogue. Bibl.
230iv. Goheen, Ellen, ed. The Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art Bulletin. Kansas City:
Nelson-Atkins Museum, 1982. Special issue devoted to Constructivism and
the geometric tradition.
332 | Bibliography

230v. Griibel, Rainer Georg. Russische Konstruktivismus. Wiesbaden: Harrassow-

itz, 1981. Bibl.
230vi. Harrison, Gail. Ex Libris 6. Constructivism and Futurism in Russian and
Others. New York: TJ Art, 1977. Bibl.
230vii. Kopp, Anatole. Constructivist Architecture in the USSR. London: Acad-
emy Editions, 1985. Bibl.
230viii. Leclanche-Boule, C. Typographies, Photomontages Constructivistes. Paris:
Papyrus, 1984.
230ix. Lodder, Christine. Russian Constructivism. New Haven: Yale University,
1983. Bibl.
230x. Milner, John. Vladimir Tatlin and the Russian Avant-Garde. New Haven:
Yale University, 1983. Bibl.
230xi. 2 Stenberg 2. The “Laboratory” Period (1919-1921) of Russian Constructiy-
ism. Paris: Galerie Jean Chauvelin, 1975. Exhibition catalogue.
230xii. Tellini, Anna, ed. //’ja Erenburg. Eppur si muove! Per una internazionale
construttivista. Rome: Officina Edizioni, 1983.
230xili. Zsadova, Larisza et al. Tatlin. Budapest: Corvina, 1984. Bibl.

THE INDUSTRIAL ARTS AND ARCHITECTURE

Arvatov, Boris. Works by: 211, R259, R373-77, R455—-58, R490, and consult
R76, R79.
Some biographical details: 2301x, R435.
231. Badovici, Jean, et al. L’Architecture russe en URSS. 1ere et 2me séries. Paris:
Albert Morancé, n.d.
232. Birnholz, Alan. ‘*‘E] Lissitzky.’ Artforum (New York), vol. 11, no. 1 (Sep-
tember 1972), 70-76.
233. Birnholz, Alan. “‘Lissitzky’s Writings on Art.’’ Studio International (London),
vol. 183, no. 942 (March 1972), 90-92.
234. Bojko, Szymon. ‘“‘Collages et. photomontages oubliés de A. Rodtchenko.”’
Opus International (Paris), Fall 1970, pp. 30-35.
Brik, Osip. Works by: R383, R460, R461, and consult R73, R76.
Biography: 252v.
Chernikhov, Yakob. Works by: 235, R483-85.
Work on: 229.
235. Conrads, Ulrich, and Sperlich, H., eds. The Architecture of Fantasy. Trans-
lated from the German by Christiane Crasemann Collins and George R. Col-
lins. New York: Praeger, 1962; London: Architectural Press, 1963.
German edition: Phantastische Architektur. Stuttgart: Hatje, 1960.
236. dal Co, Francesco, et al. ‘‘L’Architecture et l’avant-garde artistique en URSS
de 1917 4 1934.’ VH ror (Paris), no. 7/8, Spring 1972.
Whole issue devoted to early Soviet architecture.
237. Exposition Internationale des Arts décoratifs et industriels modernes: Section
 Bibliography | 333

russe: l'art décoratif et industriel de l'URSS. Paris: Ministére du Commerce et

d’Industrie des Postes et des Telegraphes, 1925. Exhibition catalogue.
238. de Feo, Vittorio. URSS. Architettura 1917-1936. Rome: Editori Riuniti, 1963.
239. Fiz, Simon. ‘‘El Lissitzky (1890-1941): de la pintura a la arquitectura.’’ Goya
(Madrid), no. 108, 1972, pp. 362-69.
240. Frampton, Kenneth. ‘‘Notes on a Lost Avant-Garde: Architecture, U.S.S.R.,
1920-30.’’ In Avant-Garde Art, edited by Thomas B. Hess and John Ashbery,
pp. 107-24. New York and London: Collier-Macmillan, n.d.
Volume based on: The Avant-Garde. Art News Annual, no. 34. New
York: Macmillan, 1968.
241. Jadova, L. ‘‘Rodtchenko.’’ Les Lettres frangaises (Paris), no. 1162 (December
22-29, 1966), pp. 17-19.
242. Khan-Mahomedovy, Selim. ‘‘Creative Trends 1917-1932 in Russia.’’ Architec-
tural Design (London), no. 40, February 1970, pp. 71-76.
243. Kopp, Anatole. Town and Revolution: Soviet Architecture and City Planning
1917-1935. Translated from the French by Thomas Burton. London: Thames
and Hudson; New York: Braziller, 1970. Bibl.
French edition: Ville et Révolution. Paris: Anthropos, 1967.
244. Licht, Jennifer. ‘‘Rodchenko, Practicing Constructivist.’”” Art News (New
York), vol. 70, no. 2 (April 1971), 60-63.
245. Linhart, Lubomir. Alexander Rodéenko. Prague: Statni nakladatelstvi krasne li-
teratury a uméni, 1964.
246. Lissitzky, El. ‘‘New Russian Art—a Lecture Given in 1922.”’ Studio Interna-
tional (London), vol. 176, no. 904 (October 1968), 146-51.
247. Lissitzky-Kiippers, Sophie. El Lissitzky: Life, Letters, Texts. Translated from
the German by Helene Aldwinckle and Mary Whittall. London: Thames and
Hudson; Greenwieh, Conn.: New York Graphic Society, 1968. Bibl.
German edition: El Lissitzky—Maler, Architekt, Typograf, Fotograf.
Dresden: Verlag der Kunst, 1967.
248. Lissitzky, El. An Architecture for World Revolution. Translated from the Ger-
man by Eric Dluhosch. Cambridge, Mass.: MIT, 1970. This edition also con-
tains an appendix of reports concerning architecture and urbanism, 1928-33.
German edition: Russland. Die Rekonstruktion der Architektur in der Sow-
jetunion. Vienna: Schroll, 1930. Reissued as: Russland: Architektur fur
eine Weltrevolution. Berlin: Ullstein, 1965.
Lissitzky, El. Works by: 176, 211, 246, 247, 248, 252xill.
Biography: 247.
Works on: 232, 233, 239, 247, 252XIV, 252xvVi.
Bibl. information: 247.
249. Nakov, Andrei. ‘‘Alexander Rodcenko. Beyond the Problematics of Pic-
torialism.’’ Arts Magazine (New York), vol. 47, no. 6 (April 1973), 26-33.
Nakov, Andréi. See 249, 252.
Rodchenko, Aleksandr. Work by: 227, R489vi.
334 | Bibliography

Biography: 245, 252x.

Other works on: 234, 241, 249, 252Xii, 252Xvii, 252XVili, 252xix, 252xx,
252xxii, R451, R452, R463, R474, R488.
250. Rosa, Alberto, et al. Socialismo, citta, architettura URSS 1917-1937. Rome:
Officina, 1971.
Stepanova, Varvara. Works by: R436, R463.
Some biographical information: R475.
Works on: 176ix, 176Xvii, 252X1, 252Xxii.
251. Shidkovsky, Oleg, et al. Building in the USSR, 1917-1932. London: Studio
Vista, 1971.
252. Taraboukine, Nikolai. Le Dernier Tableau. Presented by Andréi Nakov; trans-
lated from the Russian by Andréi Nakov and Michel Peétris. Paris: Editions
Champ Libre, 1972.
Vesnin, Aleksandr. Works by: R489i, R489i1.
Works on: 252Vi, 252xxiv, R489vi1, R489viii.
252i. Architettura nel paese dei Soviet 1917-1933. Rome: Palazzo dell ’Esposizioni,
1982. Exhibition catalogue.
252ii. Art into Production. Oxford: Museum of Modern Art, 1984. Exhibition
catalogue.
25§2iii. Bablet, Denis. Revolutions in Stage Design of the XXth Century. Paris and
New York: Ameil, 1977.
252iv. Bablet, Denis, ed. Les Voies de la Création Théatrale. Mises en scéne années
20 et 30. Paris: CNRS, 1979. Bibl.
252v. Barooshian, Vahan. Brik and Mayakovsky. The Hague: Mouton, 1978.
Bibl.
252vi. Chan-Magomedov, Selim. Pioniere der sowjetischen Architektur. Dresden:
VEB, 1983. Bibi. English translation: Pioneers of Soviet Architecture.
London: Thames and Hudson, 1987. Bibl.
252vil. Chernikhov, Andrei: “Artist Show Us Your World. Iakov Chernikhov
1889-1951” in Catherine Cooke, ed. Russian Avant-Garde. Art and Architec-
ture. London: Academy Editions, 1983.
252vill. La.Citta Macchina. Progetti di Sant’Elia e Tchernikov. Vicenza: Assesso-
rato Cultura, 1973.
2521x. Cooke, Catherine. Chernikhov. Fantasy and Construction. London: Archi-
tectural Design Profile, 1984. Bibl.
252x. Karginov, German. Rodcsenko, Budapest: Corvina, 1975 (and subsequent
editions in Fench and English). Bibl.
252x1. Lavrentiev, Alexander. “The Graphics of Visual Poetry in the Work of
Varvara Stepanova” in Grafik. Budapest, 1982, no. I, pp. 46-51.
252xii. Lavrentjev, Aleksandr and Gassner, Hubertus. Rodéenko. Fotografien.
Munich: Schirmer/Mosel, 1982. Bibl.
252xiil. Lissitzky, El: Proun und Wolkenbiigel. Dresden: VEB, 1981.
2§2x1v. Lissitzky. Cologne: Galerie Gmurzynska, 1976. Exhibition catalogue.
 Bibliography | 335

252xv. Maiakovski. 20 ans de travail. Paris: Centre Georges Pompidou, 1975.

Exhibition catalogue.
252xvi. Mansbach, Steven. Visions of Totality. Ann Arbor: University Microfilms
International, 1980. Bibl.
252xvil. Rodchenko and the Arts of Revolutionary Russia. Oxford: Museum of
Modern Art, 1978. Exhibition catalogue.
252xvill. Rodcenko/Stepanova. Perugia: Palazzo dei Priori, and elsewhere, 1984.
Exhibition catalogue.
252xix. Rodtschenko. Fotografien 1920-1938. Cologne: Museum Ludwig, 1978.
Exhibition catalogue.
252xx. Rodtschenko, Warwara and Lawrentjew, Alexander. Alexander Rodt-
schenko. Dresden: VEB, 1983.
252xxi. Sasaki, Hiroshi. “The Best of the Constructivists. Tchernykhov and His
Design” in Process. Architecture. Tokyo, 1981, no. 26, pp. 7-22. Bibl. (In
Japanese).
252xxil. Von der Malerei zum Design/From Painting to Design. Cologne: Galerie
Gmurzynska, 1981. Exhibition catalogue.
252xxill. Die 20er Jahre in Osteuropa/The 1920s in Eastern Europe. Cologne:
Galerie Gmurzynska, 1975. Exhibition catalogue.
252xxiv. Khan-Magomedoy, Selim. Alexander Vesnin and Russian Constructivism.
New York: Rizzoli, 1986.

VI. Toward Socialist Realism

(Note: for detailed references to the development of socialist realism in the vi-
sual arts, the reader is advised to consult the Soviet art publications of the
1930s, 1940s, and 1950s that deal specifically with the history and interpreta-
tion of Russian and Soviet painting and sculpture, particularly the journals
Iskusstvo [Art] (Moscow), 1933- and Tvorchestvo [Creation] (Moscow),
1934-. For an interesting perspective on the formation and advocacy of social-
ist realism, the reader is advised further to consult the catalogues of Soviet art
exhibitions not only in the U.S.S.R., but also in Western Europe and the
United States, of which there were many during the late 1920s and early 1930s;
references to such exhibitions can be found in bibl. R152, vols. 1, 2, and 3.)

AKhRR. Works on: R493, R496, and consult 264, R16, R58, R70.
Bibl. Information: R493.
253. Alpetin, M., ed. ‘‘Painting, Sculpture and Graphic Art in the USSR.”’ VOKS.
Bulletin of the USSR Society for Cultural Relations with Foreign Countries
(Moscow), vol. 9/10, 1934.
Whole issue devoted to the subject.
336 | Bibliography

254. Andersen, Troels. ‘‘Pavel Nikolajevi¢ Filonov.’’ Signum (Gyldendal), no. 4,

1963, pp. 20-31.
255. Annenkov, Yun. ‘‘Soviet Art and Socialist Realism.’’ Studies on the Soviet
Union (Munich), vol. 7, no. 2 (November 1967), 152-57.
256. Bowlt, John E. ‘‘The Virtues of Soviet Realism.” Art in America (New York),
vol. 60, no. 6 (November 1972), 100-107.
257. Bowlt, John E. ‘‘Pavel Filonov.’’ Studio International (London), vol. 186, no.
957 (July/August 1973), 30-36.
258. Burliuk, David. ‘‘Filonov.’’ Color and Rhyme (Hampton Bays, N.Y.), no. 28,
1954.
Whole issue devoted to Filonov.
259. Davies, Ivor. ‘‘Red Art 1917-1971.’ Art and Artists (London), vol.6., no. I
(April 1971), 10-15.
Filonov, Pavel. Works by: 257, 272111, R508, R509.
Biography: 263, 272ili.
Bibl. information: 263.
Book illustrations: R273, R347, R353.
Four Arts Society. Some details: R22, R108, R515.
260. Hiepe, Richard. Die Kunst der neuen Klasse. Munich: Bertelsmann, 1973.
261. Higgens, Andrew. ‘‘The Development of the Theory of Socialist Realism in
Russia, 1917 to 1932.’’ Studio International (London), vol. 181, no. 932
(April 1971), 155-59.
262. Holme, Charles, ed. Art in the USSR. London: Studio Special, 1935.
263. Kfiz, Jan. Pavel Nikolajevic Filonov. Prague: Nakladatelstvi Ceskoslovenskych
vytvarnych umélct, 1966. Bibl.
264. Lama¢, Miroslav. ‘‘Filonov a jeho Skola.’’ Vytvarné uméni (Prague), no. 3,
1967, pp. 126-45.
265. Lehmann-Haupt, Hellmut. Art Under a Dictatorship. New York: Oxford Uni-
versity, 1964.
266. London, Kurt. The Seven Soviet Arts. London: Faber and Faber, 1937; New
Haven: Yale University, 1938.
October Association. Works by: R500, R501.
Some details: R16, R22.
Society of Easel Artists (OST). Some details: R108, R182.
Works on: 272i, R51Siii.
267. Soviet Painting. 32 Réproductions of Paintings by Soviet Masters. Moscow and
Leningrad: State Art Publishers,. 1939.
268. Vaughan James, C. Soviet Socialist Realism: Origins and Theory. London:
Macmillan, 1973. Bibl.
269. Weidle, Vladimir. ‘‘Art Under the Soviet Régime.’’ Studies on the Soviet
Union (Munich), vol. 7, no. 2 (November 1968), 135-51.
270. Winter, Ella. ‘*Art under Communism Today.’’ Art News (New York), vol.
57, no. 8 (December 1958), 34-37, 58-59.
 Bibliography | 337

271. Wright, A. ‘‘Some Aspects of Twentieth Century Russian Painting.’’ Cana-

dian Slavonic Papers (Ottawa), vol. 11, no. 4 (1969), 407-23.
272. Zhdanov, Andrei, et al. Problems of Soviet Literature. Reports and Speeches at
the First Soviet Writers’ Congress. Edited by H. G. Scott. New York: Interna-
tional Publishers, 1935.
This is a much abridged version, in translation, of bibl. R498.
272i. Bowlt, John E. “The Society of Easel Artists (OST)” in Russian History.
Tempe: Arizona State University, 1982, vol. 9, parts 2-3, pp. 203-26.
27211. Fitzpatrick, Sheila, ed. Cultural Revolution in Russia, 1928-1931. Blooming-
ton: Indiana University Press, 1978.
272111. Misler, Nicoletta and Bowlt, John E. Pavel Filonoyv. A Hero and His Fate.
Austin: Silvergirl, 1983. Bibl.
2721v. Koch, Hans. Zur Theorie des sozialistischen. Realismus, Berlin: Dietz, 1974.
272v. Willett, John. L’A vanguardia europea. Anni ventia Moscae a Weimar. Rome:
Editori Riuniti, 1983 (a translated version of The New Sobriety. London:
Thames and Hudson, 1978). Bibl.
338 / Bibliography: Works in Russian

Bu6nuorpadua: BTopou oTses

. Mctounuku. Bu6norpadua. (RI-R23)
. O6uwe TpyzbI NO ucTOpuu pyccKoro ucKyccTBa. (R24—-R40)
iii. KypHanpr no ucxyccTBy: 1890-1917, 1917-1930 rr. (R41-R87)
. OGuwe TpyAbI No nepnogy 1890-1930: 1890-1920, 1910-1930 rr (R88-R187)
I]. CumBonu3M vw MHTyHTHBH3M. (R188-R241)
. Heo-npumutTusy3Mm, Ky60-cdytypu3m. (R242-R357)
. Becnpeametuoe TBopyectBo. (R358-R366)
. Pepomounua uv ucKyccTBo. (R367—R434)
. KouncTpykTHBH3M MW MpOvM3BOACTBeHHbIe HCKyCCTBa. (R435-R489)
. Tlo nyTu kK couManuctuyecKkomMy peanusmy (R490-R514)

i. Mcrounuku. BuOmnorpadua.
Reis Apxun. JI. u ap. (pea.): «Mactepa uckyccTBa 06 ucKyccTBe; H36paHHble
OTPbIBKH M3 MHCeM, AHEBHUKOB, peyelt MU TPakTaTOB B 4 TOMAax>, T. 4, M.,
1937.
Rez Benoycospa, H. u ap.: «Matepvanpt K Ou6sMorpadun no uctopuu Axaje-
MMH XyfoxKecTB. 1757-1957», JI., 1957.
R:3: Beases, JI. uv ap.: <Bu6anorpadua nepvosuyeckux u3nqaHun Poccuu, 1901-
1916», JI., 1958-1961.
R 4. Bpogcxuh, H. (peg.): «JIurepatypHpre MaHudects! (OT CHMBOH3Ma K
Oxta6pro)». COopHuk matepuanos. M., 1929; Paara, Tonnangua, 1969.
Rod: Bonpuen6ypr, O.: «<Bu6anorpadua u3s06pa3uTesbHbIx MCKyCccTB», IIr. 1923.
R 6. Bonpuen6ypr, O. u ap. (pea.): «Xygoo#KHuKUH HaposzoB CCCP. Buobu6uno-
rpaduyeckuH cnioBapb B wecTH Tomax», T. | (AABMK-BOMKO), M.,
1970; Tt. 2 (BOMYEHKO-TEOHJDKUWAH), M., 1972.
. Ty6ep, A. uw ap. (pen.): «Mactrepa uckyccTBa 06 ucKyccTBe», KH. 7 (Uc-
KycCCTBO HapogzoB CCCP, XIX-XX ss.), M., 1970.
. Ayapcxun, I].: «O630p x ypHan0B no ucKyccTBy», Kasans, 1914.
. Kesepxees, JI.: «<Onucb namatu pyccKoro Teatpa» (c 6uorpacbuamn xy-
O#KHHKOB), IIr., 1915.
. Spikuu, B. (peg.): «Jleronuch neyaTHbIx npousBexeHHit u306pa3HTeNbHOrO
vuckyccTBa», M., 1934- (4 pasa B ron).
«KuwxKHad seTonucb Taasyoro YnpaBrenua no fenam neyatu», CII6.,
1908 + Hocne uous, 1917 Bropaa yacTb Ha3BaHHA NepeMmMeHOBbIBAeTCA;
nocie aprycta, 1920 BrixoguTt B M.
JIappcxuu, H.: «<Yka3aTenb KHur M CTaTeit NO BONpocaMm ucKyccTBa», M.,
1K)
. Jle6exes, Tl. (peg.): «<Bopp6a 3a peanu3m B u306pa3suTeIbHOM WCKyCCTBe
‘20x rogos». Matepvasbl, AOKyMeHTbI, BOCNOMMHaHHA, M., 1962.
. Mapxos, B. (peg.): «<Manucects: 4 nporpammpt PyccKux yTypucToB»,
Mrouxeu, 1967.
Mauna, VM. u ap. (pea.): «Exkerogunk anTepatypbi uM ucKyccTBa», M., 1929.
Maua, HU. wu ap. (pea.): «CopetcKoe uckyccTBo 3a 15 set», M.-JI., 1933.
Mefiepxonba, B.: «CtaTpu, mucbMa, peyn, Gecegni. [Be KHurn, M., 1968.
 Bibliography: Works in Russian / 339

R18. Mypartosa, K.: «Iepuoguxa no AMTepatype WM HCKYCCTBy 3a Obl PeBO-

mouuu, 1917-1932», JI., 1933.
R19. Octponm, O.: «Pycckue cnpaBoynbie u3faHna m0 H300Pa3MTebHOMY H MpH-
KaqOMy uCKyccTBy», M., 1972.
R20. «Lentpanbubiit rocyqapcTBeHHbI apxuB JMTepatypbi MW uCKyccTBa CCCP»,
BbImyCK 1 (TeaTp, My3bIKa, KHHO, %MBONHCH), M., 1960; Bbinyck 3 (nuTe-
PaTypa, #uBonuCch, TeaTp), M., 1968.
R21. Xasanopa B.: «Copetckad apxutektypa nepppix set Oxta6pa 1917-
1925 rr.», M., 1970.
R22. Xasanosa, B. (coct.): «M3 uctopuu coBeTcKoit apxuTeKTypbi, 1926-1932».
JlokymMexTbt uM Matepuani, M., 1970. Bu6a.
Take cm. «M3 uctopuu copetcKort apxuTektyppr 1917-1925», M
Pe

1963, kKoTOpasa aBaaetTca ocHOBOH R21].

R23. tOcun, A. (peg.): «Pyccxuit copetcKuit TeaTp». JJOKyMeHTEI HU MaTepna.iEl,
1917-1921, JI., 1968.
R23i. AOgzycamatos, LI. u ap. (peg.): «KpatKaa JIMTepaTypHad SHUMKIONe DMA».
M., 1978. Ilo6. Tom.
R23ii. Dexucosa, JI. u Becnanos, H. (peg.): «Pycckaa copeTcKaa XYOKeCTBEHHaa
KpuTuKa 1917-1941». M., 1982.

ii. O6ulne Tpyabl MO ucTOpHU pyccKOrO UCKyCCTBa

Rees Avuanos, J.: «Acropua pycckon »KuBonucn oT 16-ro Beka», Cn6., 1913.
R25. Acadpes, B.: «Pycckaa »*uBonucp», JI.-M., 1966.
R26. Benya, A.: «Actopua *uBonucu B XIX Bexe: Pycckaa »#uBOonHCD», CII6.,
1901. IIpogonwenue: «<Uctopua pycckouw »uBonucu B XIX Bexe>», CII6.,
1902. Bu6éu.
R27. Benya, A.: «Pyéckaa wkona *uBonucu», Cn6., 1904.
R28. Benya, A.: «Mctopua »*«uBonucH BCeX BpeMeH Hv HapogoB», CII6., 1912
(-17).
R29. Puaronp, C.: «Ovepk uctopuu ucKkycctBa B Poccuu», M., 1913.
R30. Tonnep6ax, 9.: «MActopua rpaBioppl u auTorpaduu B Poccuu»y, M.-IIr.,
1923; Aun Ap6op, CLUA., 1948. Bu6éu.
R31. [paOapp, U.: «Mctopua pycckoro ucKycctBa», TT. 1-6, M., 1910-1915.
R32. Tpa6Oapp, VU. (peg.): «Mctopua pycckoro ucKycctBa», TT. 1-13, M., 1953-
1969. Buéu.
R33. 3oTos, A. 1 Conounnckun, O.: «Pycckoe uckyccTBo. Actopuyeckun O4epK»,
M., 1963.
R34. Vioddbe, V.: «Cuntetuyeckaa uctopua ucKyccTB», JI., 1933.
R35. Huxoupcxun, B.: «PycckKaa HauMoHaabHaa *KuBONHCE®, IIr., 1916.
R36. Huxonpcxun, B.: «Mctopua pyccxoro ucKkyccTBa», Bepaun, 1923. Bu6u.
R37. Hosuukun, A.: «<Mctopua pycckoro MCKyCCTBa C ApeBHeMWIMX BPeMeH>.
B aByx Tomax, M., 1903. Bus.
R38. Muxyues, W.: «Kpatkaa ucropua pyccKOro u300pa3HTeAbHOrO UCKYCCTBa>,
M., 1962.
R39. Tarep, E.: «Pycckoe uckycctTBo», M.-JI., 1938.
R40. Qdpoc, A.: «J|[Ba Beka pycckoro ucKyccTBa», M., 1969.
R40i. Munotsopcxas, M. (peg.): «Acropua pycckoro ucKycctBa». M., 1981. 2 TT.
340 / Bibliography: Works in Russian

R40ii. Chipkuna, ®. n Koctuna, E.: «PyccKkoe TeaTpasIbHO-eKOpauUNOHHOe HCKYC-

cTBo». M., 1978.

iii. 2XypHasbl NO HCKYCCTBY:

1890-1917 rr.
R41. Anonnon, Cn6., 1909-1917 (1918).
R42. Basan, M., 1914.
R43. B mupe ucxyccts, Kues, 1907-1910.
R44. Becp, M., 1904-1909.
R45. 30n0T0e pyHo, M., 1906-1909 (1910).
R46. Ucxyccrso, M., 1905.
R47. Ucxyccrso. (xkuBonuch, rpacbuKa, xyqOKeCTBeHHaA NeyaTb), Kues, 1911-
1912.
R48. VUckyccrso, IIr., 1916.
R49. UckyccTBo B wxKHOM Poccuu, Kues, 1913-1914.
R50. UckycctBo wu «xu3Hb, IIr:, 1915-1916.
R51. UckycctBo u neyatHoe geno, Kues, 1909-1910.
R52. UckyccTBo uv xyfoxwKecTBeHHaA NPOMbIWeHHOCTB, Cn6., 1898-1902.
R53. Mup uckycctBa, Cn6., 1898-1904.
R54. Maeynpi nytb, M., 1914-1916.
R55. Mocxoscxue mactepa, M., 1916 (ogMH HOMep).
R56. Tlepepan, M., 1906-1907.
R57. Codua, M., 1914.

1917-1930 rr.
R58. Bpuraga xygZoxuuKos, M., 1931-1932.
R59. BectHuk ucKkyccts, M., 1922.
R60. BectHuk pa6oTHukoB ucKyccTB (PABUC), M., 1920-1934.
R61. Beub, Bepnun, 1922.
R62. Topu, M., 1918-1923.
R63. [pagyumee, Tr., 1918-1921.
R64. 2Kap ntuua, Bepaun, 1921-1926.
R65. )Ku3Hb ucKycctBa, M., 1921-1922; JI., 1923-1929.
R66. U3s06pa3utenbuoe uckycctTso, Ilr., 1919.
R67. UckycctBo (Bectuuk oTtgena V30 Hapxomnpoc), M., 1919.
R68. UckycctBo, Bute6ck, 1921.
R69. UckycctBo OKypnaa Toc. Akag. Xya. WERES M:, 1923-1928.
R70. UckycctBo B maccp, M., 1929-1930.
R71. UckycctBo u npoweaiinenhoork, M., 1924.
R72. Uckyccrso u tpyg, M., 1921-1922.
R73. UckycctBo KomMMyubl, IIr., 1918-1919.
R74. UckycctBo tpyasuuxca, M., 1924-1926.
R75. Kypautai, Tudanuc, 1919.
R76. Jled, M., 1923-1925. Hospi aed, M., 1927-1928.
R77. Maxoseu, M., 1922.
R78. Hoga renepauna, Xappkos, 1927-1930 (Ha yKpaHHCKOM 33.).
 Bibliography: Works in Russian / 341

R79. Tleyatb wu peBosmiouns, M., 1921-1930.

R80. IIponetapckas kyabtypa, M., 1918-1921.
R81. Pepomouns Hu Kyabtypa, M., 1927-1930.
R82. Pycckoe uckyccrBo, M.-JI., 1923.
R83. Copertckoe uckyccrso, M.-JI., 1926-1928.
R84. Coppemenuaa apxutextypa, (CA), M., 1926-1930.
R85. Tsoptectso, M., 1918-1922.
R86. XyOKECTBEHHAA 2%KU3Hb, M., 1919-1920.
R87. XyAOwKecTBeHHBIM Tpyaz, M., 1923.

iv. OOuHe Tpyabl no nepvogzy 1890-1930 rr:

1890-1920 rr.
R88. «Uctopua pycckoro ucKyccTBa», TOM X (PyccKoe uckyccTBO KOHUa XIX-
Hay. XX Beka), Akagemua Hayk, KH. 1, M., 1968; KH. 2, M., 1969. Bu6a.
R89. Anagxanos, C.: «<Peopruu Akynos», Epespan, 1971.
R90. Anpdoucos, B.: «Caopa u Kpacku», M.-JI., 1966.
R91. Autouosa, A. u [Ipyxan, HU. (coct.): «Pycckui u COBETCKHH HaTIOpMOpT»,
Katasor BpictaBKH, JI., 1969.
R92. Benya, A.: «<)Kv3Hb xyqox%KHUKa. Bocnomuuanns», TT. I u II, Hbw-Mopk,
1955:
R93. Bepases, H.: «Kpu3uc uckycctBa», M., 1918.
R94. Bounos, B.: «<Pycckaa autorpadua 3a 25 net», I16., 1923.
R95. Tonosun, A.: «<Bctpeyu uv Bneyataenua. TIucbma. Bocnomunanua o Tono-
BuHe» (coct. A. Moswexcon), JI.-M., 1960.
R96. Tom6epr-BepxO6unckaa, 9.: «Pycckoe uckyccTBo u peBomtouna 1905 r.»,
JI., 1960. t
R97: [pa6app, W.: «Moa x#*u3Hp. ABTOMOHOrpaduay, M.-JI., 1937. Bu6éas.
R98. Tpumenko, A.: «<O cBa3ax pycckoH »xuBonucuH Cc Bu3antueH u 3anazom
XIII-XX Bs. Mpicau *xuBonucia», M., 1913.
R99. Ipuuexuko, A.: Bonpocs: *xuBonucu. Boin. 2. «Kak y Hac npenosarwT *KH-
BOMMCb HW YTO NOZ HEH HagO pasymertb», M., 1915.
R100. Tpuwexko, A.: Bonpocst xxuBonucu. Boin. 4. «‘Kpu3uc ucKyccTBa’
COBpemMeHHasx %*KuBONMCb. Ilo noBogy sekunn H. Bepgzsesa», M., 1917.
R101. Jipakounubin, JI.: <AgenHbie npoTuBopeyna B 9CTETHKE PyCCKOM 2KUBO-
nucw KOHUa 19-Hay. 20 BB.», Tlepmb, 1966.
R102. Espenuos, H.: «Opurunan o noptpepuctax. K npoOseme cyObeKTHBH3Ma
B ucKyccTBe», M., 1922.
Orgenbt o JI. Bypstoxe, Jo6yxunckom, KyabOnue uw ap.
R103. 3unb6eputenH, VU. uv Camxos, B.: «BanentuH CepoB B BOCNOMMHAaHHAX,
JHEBHUKAaX MW MepenvcKe COBpeMeHHHKOB>, JI., 1971 (2 TT.).
R104. Kospanenckas, T.: <AckyccTBo BTOpow nonoBnHE! XIX-Hayana XX Beka»,
M., 1970.
R105. Koposun, K.: «)Ku3Hb uv TBOpYecTBO. IIncbmMa. JoKyMeHTbI. Bocnomuua-
Hua» (coct. H. Monepa), M., 1963.
R106. Komapgenkos, B.: «/[Hu MuHyBume. Bocnomunauna», M., 1972.
R107. Jlaspcxuu, H.: «<MckycctBo u espen», M., 1915.
342 / Bibliography: Works in Russian

R108. Jlo6anos, B.: «XygoxwecTBeHHbIe rpynnHpoBKH 3a NOcHegHHe 25 eT»,

M., 1930.
R109. Jlo6anos, B.: «Kanye. U3 xygoxKecTBeHHOH 2#Ku3HH MOCKBbI B Nnpes-
peBomrounoHHble rogbi», M., 1968.
R110. Maxoscxun, C.: «CTpaHvubl XyOKeECTBEHHOM KpUTHKH», KH. II, Cn6.,
1909; Ku. III, CNB., 1913.
R111. Maxoscxuu, C.: «Cunyatbt pycckux xyfZOxKHHKOBY, IIpara, 1922.
RUZ: Maxoscxkun, C.: «Moprpetb: cCoBpemeHHUuKOB», Hbro-Mopk, 1955.
R113. Maxoscxkuu, C.: «Ha napHace cepeOpsHoro Beka», Mronxen, 1962.
R114. Maxosckun, C. (peg.): «CoppemeHHas rpaduKka. COopHuk», IIr., 1917.
Rut: Maukosues, H. u Coxonosa, H. (peg.): «Ovepku no ucTtopuu pyccKoro
noptpeta KoHWa XIX-Hayana XX Beka», M., 1964.
R116. Muosoxos, II.: «<Ovepku no ucTropuu pycckow KysbTypbm, T. II, 4. Il,
Tapux, 1931, crp. 533-602.
Anrauiickun nepepoxz — 60.
R117. «Mup wckyccTBa». Baictasku. Katasoru, CI16. u M., 1899-1906.
R118. Mouesa, H. u Bemotuu, 9.: «Pycckaat xyOKeCTBeHHad WKONa BTOpOH
NOMOBHHbI XI X-Hay. XX Beka», M., 1967.
R119. «MOCKOBCKO€ TOBapHeCTBO XyO#KHUKOB». BaictaBKu. Katanoru, M.,
1894-1924.
R120. «Hosoe o6mectBo xyJO.%KHUKOB». BaicraBku. Katanoru, CI16., 1904-1915.
R121. Mepuos, I].: <JIurepatypHpie BocnomuHaHua, 1890-1902», M.-JI., 1933.
R122. Tlogo6enosza, O.: «Mropb Tpa6bappy, M., 1964.
R123. TloxkapcKxaa, M.: «Pycckoe TeaTpabHO-ZeKOPaWHOHHOe UCKYCCTBO KOHUA
XIX-Hayana XX Beka», M., 1970.
R124. TIpyxan, U.: «K. A. Comosy, 1972.
R125. IIpyxan, VU. u Ilymxapes, B.: «HaTiopMmopT B pycCKOH WM COBETCKOM KH-
Bonucu», JI., 1971.
R126. Ilywkapes, B. u gap.: «Pycckui scramn Konya XIX-Hayana XX BB.»
Katasor BpictaBKn, JI., 1967.
Re Iact, B.: «Bcrpeyn>, M., 1929.
R128. Pagnos, H.: «Or Penuua go Ipuroppesay, I16., 1923.
R29: Paxosa, M. (aBtop BcTyn. cTaTbuv): «Pycckui HaTIOpMOpT KOHUAa 19-Ha-
yana 20 Beka», M., 1970.
R130. Pegpko, A.: «<JluTepaTypHO-xyJO.KeECTBEHHBIC HCKAHHA B KOHUe XIX-
Hayane XX Beka», JI., 1924.
R131. Poitos, A.: <BocnomuHanua>, JI., 1960.
R132. «Canon». Karanor UntrepHaunoHanbHOM BbICTaBKH KapTHH, CKYJIbNTypbI,
rpaBiopbi M prcyHKos. Bpicrasxa opr. B. U3ge6ckum, Onecca u gp. ropo-
na, 1909-1910. :
R133. «CajloH 2>. MexkayHapoguad XyO%KeCTBeHHaA BbICTaBKa opr. B. N3pe6-
ckum. Katasor, Ogecca, 1910-1911.
R134. «Canon». Opr. C. Makoscxum. Katanor, CI16., 1909.
R135. Capa6Opsanos, J].: «Ovepku pyccKom »xuBonucu Kona 1900-x-Ha¥y. 1910-x
rr.>, M., 1971
Orzenbt o B. Cepose, Merpos-Bogknue, Il. Ky3Heyose, Cappaue,
JlapnoHose u Panpke.
R136 . Cappau, M.: «<H3 moet xxu3Hu», M., 1970.
 Bibliography: Works in Russian / 343

R137. Cugopos, A.: «<Sanucku co6upatensa», M., 1969.

R138. Cunopos, A.: «<Pycckaa rpaduka Hayana XX sBexa», M., 1970. Bu6éa.
R139. Cokososa, H. u ap.: «IyTw pasBuTua pycckoro ucKyccTBa KOHUa XIX-
Havana XX Beka», M., 1972.
R140. «Coro3 pycckux xyZoKHuKOB». BoictasKu. Katasoru, M., CI6. u Kues,
1903-1923.
R141. Crepuuu, T.: «XygoxwectBeHHaa %u3Hb Poccuu Ha pybexe XIX-XX
BeKOB», M., 1970.
R142. «Tpyge: Bcepoccumckoro cbe3qa xyO.%KHUKOB B Ilerporpage. Jlex., 1911-
AHB., 1912», TIr., 1914-1915, tr. I-III.
R143. ®exopos-JjaBergos, A.: «Pycckoe uCKyCCTBO MpOMbILUeHHOrO KamnuTa-
nu3ma», M., 1929. Buon.
R144. Uep6atos, C.: «Xyfo%#*HHK B ywegmen Poccuu», Hbrwo-Mopk, 1955.
R145. OtKung, M.: «Pycckoe uckyccTBo kOHUa XIX-Hayana XX Beka», M., 1968.
R145i. Anexcanoposa, H. (pen.): «Anexcanop Benya. Mou socnomMuHaHHa». M.,
1979S 27:
R145ii. Boacopa, P.: «Pycckoe TeaTpasIbHO-eKOpallMOHHOe MCKYCCTBO Hauyasa
XX Beka». JI., 1984.
R14Siii. To6yxnuckua, M.: «Bocnomunanua». Hpio-Mopx, 1976.
R14S5iv. 3unp6epmuitenu, UW. u Camxos, B. (coct.): «Cepren J[arunes. JIurepatyp-
Hoe Hacuenne». M., 1982. 2 Tr.
R145v. Kaxgan, T. wu gp. (coct.): «Mropp Tpabapb. Tucbma». M., 1974, 7. I,
1891-1917; 1977, 7.2, 1917-1941; 1983, 7.3, 1941-1960.
R145vi. [lacrepuax, JI.: «Sanmucu pa3Hpix eT. M., 1975.
R145vii. Tlomkomaexpa, FO. u gp. (coct.): «KoncTaHTuH AHapeepuy ComMoB». M.,
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1910-1930 rr.
R146. «<Mctopua pycckoro uckycctBa», T. Il (AckyccrBo 1917-1920 rogos;
UcxycctBo 1921-1934 rogos), Akagemusa Hayk, M., 1957. Bua.
R147. Annenkos, 1O.: <Ioprpetsi» (texct E. 3amatuna), [r., 1922.
R148. Annenxos, IO.: «17 noptpetos» (mpeg. A. JlyHayapcxoro), M.-JI., 1926.
R149. By6xosa, JI. (peg.): «<[Metp Mutypuy», M., 1973.
R150. Byw, M. u 3amowkun, A.: <IyTb COBeTCKOM 2KHBONKCH, 1917-1932», M.,
1933.
R151. Bounos, B. (uw ap.): «<Mpaduyeckoe ucxycctBo B CCCP., 1917-1927».
C6opuuk craten, JI., 1927. Bu6u.
R152. «BpicTaBKH COBETCKOrO M30OPa3HTeAbHOrO HCKYCCTBAa>, T. 1, 1917-1932,
M., 1965.
R153. Puaaposcxas, H.: «TeatpambHo-eKopalMOHHOe HCKYCCTBO 3a 5 eT»,
Ka3aub, 1924.
R154. Tonnep6ax, 9.: «<Pycckaax COBpemMeHHasd rpaBropa>, I16., 1922.
R155. Ponanep6ax, 9.: «Coppemennaa o610%KKa>, JI., 1927.
R156. Poanep6ax, 9. uv ap.: <Mctopua ucKyccTB BCex BpemMeH MH HapOJOB>, JG.
1929, ku. 5 u 6.
344 / Bibliography: Works in Russian

R157. Toxyyaesa, B.: «Mruatuit Uruatpesuy HusuucKui>, M., 1969.

R158. 3arancxaa, I.: «Aptyp Poususen», M., 1970.
R159. 3uab6epuitein, WV. u Capnnos, A. (pea.): <Anexcangp Benya pa3mpiu-
aet...» (auTepaTypHoe wu 9nucTOnApHoe Hacsenue Anexcangpa Benya
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R160. Vode, U.: «Kpusuc coppemenHoro uckyccTBa», JI., 1925.
R161. Kocruna, E. (aBtop sBctyn. ct.): «50 meT COBETCKOrO UCKyCCTBa: XyOXK-
HHKH TeaTpa», M., 1969.
R162. Kpacuonospckuit, O.: «<A6CTPpakTHBH3M B MCKYCCTBe HOBAaTOPOB (NOCTHM-
TIPECCHOHH3M HM HEOPpOMaHTH3M)>», M., 1917.
R163. Jlesutun, E. wu ap.: «<Bacusui Hukonaespuy Yexppirun». BeictaBKa. Ka-
tanor, M., 1969. Bu6..
R164. Maxoscxun, C.: «HoBoe uckyccTBO uv 4eTBeEpTOe H3MepeHHe» — Ano.0H,
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R165. Maxoscxun, C.: «IocnaenHue uToru *uBOnUCH>, Bepann, 1922.
R166. Maua, VU.: «TBopyeckue Bonpocb copetcKoro ucKyccTBa», M., 1933.
R167. Muaawescxun, B.: «<Buepa u mo3apyepa. BocnomuHaHua XyOXKHuKa>,
M., 1971.
R168. Hescxun, B.: «CoppemenHas *KuBonuch>, M., 1922.
R169. Hosoxunosa, JI.: «Counonorua uckyccTBa» (u3 UucCTOpHu COBeTCKOH
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R170. lerpos, B.: «Baagumup Bacuapesuy Jle6enes>, JI., 1972. Bu6a.
R171. Tlononcxuu, B. (pen.): «Mactepa COBpeMeHHOM rpaBiopbl HW rpadHKn».
C6OopuHuk Matepnanos, M.-J1., 1928.
R172. Ilyuu, W.: «Coppemenuan’ *KuBOnKCb», Bepaun, 1923.
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R174. PyOunwtenn, A.: <«Katanor BbicTaBKH KaPpTHH, PHCyHKOB HW akBapeen
PyCCKMX XyQOKHHKOB v3 COOpanna A. E. PyOunwretna», Tanann, 1966.
C npegucnosuem J]. CapaOpaHoBa Ha 9CTOHCKOM HW PyCCKOM AB3bIKaXx.
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R176. Cugopos, A.: «CoppemeHHaan #*XuBONuCb», M.-IIr., 1923.
R177. «Copetckne xyoxKHUKH. ABTOOMOrpaduny, M., 1937, Tr. 1-2.
pesun, Tl. Ky3Heyos, Kynpwu, Mauikos, Ocmepxuu, Iletpos-Bog-
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R178. Cre6nnukui, T., Ponnep6ax, 9. (uw ap.): «TearpanbHo-zexopaynonHoe
uckyccTBo B CCCP., 1917-1927», JI., 1927.
R179. TapaOykun, H.: «Hoppe Teyenua B pyccKoH >xXuBONHCH», M.-IIr., 1923.
R180. Tapa6yxun, H.: «Coppemenupie pHcoBabuMku vu rpaBeppi», M.-IIr., 1923.
R181. Tyrenaxonba, .: <TsBopyecrso Anexcansppt Sxctep», Bepann, 1922.
R182. Tyrengxonba, A. w ap.: «<AckycctBo oKTAOppcKoH snoxu», JI., 1930.
R183. Tapcton, JIl.: <«<Mnrepec k aBaHrapgHOMy wucKyccTBy npowmoroy —
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R184. Xa3anosa, B. u ap.: <Bonpocsi copeTcKoro u306pa3uTeabHoro WCKYCCTBa
MW apxuTektypbi>, M., 1973. (BKsmoyaet cr. A. Crpuranepa «O npoexte
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R185. Otkunz, M.: «Hatan Anptman>, M., 1971. Bua.

R186. Sdpoc, A.: «Mpoduany, M., 1930.
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MCKyccTB uM. A.C. Ilyurkuna, M., 1981.
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R187iv. Xapmoxues, H.: «K ucropuu pyccKkoro aBaurapya». CroxrombM, 1976.

I. CuMBOM3M HW HHTYHTHBK3M.
CUMBOUIN3M.

R188. Anexcees, A. u Op. (pen.): «PyccKaad xyloxKecTBeHHad KyJIbTypa KOHIa

XIX — Hauana XX Beka (1895-1907), ku. 1; M., 1968; kH.2, M., 1969; ku.3,
M., 1977; xu. 4, M., 1980.
R189. «Anaa po3a». BricraBKa. Katanor, Capatos, 1904.
R190. Bess, A.: «CumBoan3m>», M., 1910.
R191. Besasm, A.: «Ha py6exe gzByx cTonetun»y, M.-JI., 1930.
R192. Bens, A.: «Hayano Beka», M.-JI., 1933.
R193. Benya, A.: «<Bo3HukHoBenne ‘Mupa uckycctBa’», JI., 1928.
R194. Bepuanat, T.: «Anexcanzp Berya u my3pika», M., 1969.
R195. Baox, A.: <ABTroO6uorpadua» (1915), «<HeBuuku, 1901-1921», B Coop.
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R196. Bprocos, B.: «]{Hesuuku, 1891-1910», M., 1927.
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R201. Umrapgt, J.: «<)Kuponucb u peBomouna» — 3onoroe pyxo, M., 1906,
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R202. Kotpancxui, A.: «<Boictapka KapTuu, ‘Tony6aa posa’», — /Tepesaa, M.,
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R203. Koctuu, B.: «K. C. Metpos-BozKun», M., 1966. Bu6a.
R204. JI., B. (JImnkun, B.): «<Qmounanu3m B xXMBONMCH> — McxyccrTBo, M.,
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R205. Jlammun, H.: «Mup ucxycctBa», M., 1977.
R206. Maxoscxui, C.: <Pony6aa po3sa>, — Soaoroe pyxo, M., 1907, Ne 5,
cTp. 25-28.
R207. Mugusep, B. (astop sctyn. ctatpu): «Mactepa ‘Tony6on po3p’», Kata-
nor BpictaBKu, M., 1925.
R208. Myparos, I1.: «Bricraska Kaptun, ‘Tony6aa po3a, — «Pycckoe CI0BO>,
M., 1907, 1 anpeas, Ne 75.
R209. Merpos, B.: «Mup uckycctBa>» — cm. Ne R88, ku. I, crp. 341-485.
R210. Pycaxosa, A.: «<B. 3. Bopucos-MycarTos, 1870-1905», JI.-M., 1966. Bu6..
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R211. C-n, A. (Ckanon, A.): «BoictaBKa «<Pony6on po3bi»» — Pyccxue Bego-

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R214. WWuuyckun, H.: «Ctruxu», M., 1907.
R215. Luuckui, H.: «<AckycctBo, ero Apy3ba u Bparn» — BonoToe pyxo, M.,
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R216. OtKuHg, M.: «Anexcanazp Benya», JI.-M., 1965. Buon.
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R217ii. «Katanor wO6unenHOH BbICTaBKH». 90 MeTHe CO DHA poxKTeHHA Bonpze-
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KyccTBa» — J]amamuuku kyaomypol. Hoéesie omxKpoimua. JI., 1980, spin. 7,
cTp. 411-16.
R217iv. Kostyn, E.: «IIucbMa B.B. Kanguucxoro k H.W. Kynp6uny» — Jlamam-
HUuKU KyAomypol. Hoeoie omxkpoimua. JI., 1980, spin. 7, cTp. 399-410.
R217v. Koxkesuukosa, VW.: «Bappapa Bby6Hospa. PyccKuM xyQOX%XHUK B ANOHUMM».
M., 1984.
R217vi. Jlozopon, A.: «Bappapa By6HoBa». M., 1984.

MHTYUTUBIM3M.

R218. Benya, A.: «<Bocropxkenubie rnynocTu» (no noBogy BbiICTaBOK KyzbOnHa

uv Pa6yumucKkoro) — Peys, CI16., 1912, 12 oxr.
R219. Espennos, H.: «Teatp Kak TakoBow. O6o0cHOBaHHe TeaTpambHOCTH B
CMbIC€ NONOMKMTEMbHOrO Havasa CUeHHYeCKOrO HCKyCCTBa B >KH3HH>,
CII6., 1913 (c una. Kyab6una).
Kuyura 6bia NepesenaHa WM NOTOM Bblllla Kak: «leaTp ana ce6sa»
(B Tpex 4acTax, C win. KynbOuna B YY. I u II] uc uaa. AHHEHKOBa B
y. II), Mr., 1915-1916).
R220. Urnatses, W.: «BeicraBka KapTuH KysbOuHa» — /Jerep6yprckxui raa-
waran, CIl6., 1912, 14 Hos6pa.
R221. «<AmnpeccnouucToi». BeicraBka. Katanor, CI16., 1909; Buzpuroc, 1909/
1910.
R222. Kanguncxui, B.: «O zyxoBHom B ucKyccTBe» — Tpygs Bcepoccuicxoro
Cbe34a XYAOWKHHKOB B Ilerporpage, gex. 1911 — ans. 1912 rr., Mr.,
1914, t. I, crp. 47-76.
R223. Kanaunckni, B.: «Kyna uzeT «HOBOe» UCKy¥CCTBO» — OgeccKue HOBOCTH,
1911, 9 cesp.
R224. KyapOun, H. w ap.: «Cryaua umnpeccvouncTos», CII6., 1910.
R225. KyabOun, H.: Cratba B katanore «Canona», Onecca u ap. ropoga, 1910-
LOI; erp. 9:
R226. KyabOun, H.: «CBo6oquaa Mys3bika», CI16., 1909 (Bropoe, nonomHeHHOe
u3q., 1911). (cp. 96).
R227. Kyap6un, H.: «CBo6oquaa My3bika» — Crygqua umnpeccuonucros, CI6.,
1910, cTp. 15-26. (cp. 96).
 Bibliography: Works in Russian / 347

R228. Kyab6un, H.: «<Bpema u Harota B MCKyCCTBe» — C6opxHux. Harorta na

cyene, CI16., 1911, crp. 125.
R229. Kyap6un, H.: «Cepua auTorpadun», CII6., 1913.
R230. Kyab6un, H.: «Papmonus, qucconaHc u TecHbIe CoueTAaHHA B MCKyCCTBe M
%*Ku3sHH> — Tpyast Bcepoccuiicxoro cbe3qa XyMOKHMKOB B Tlerporpaze,
Rex. 1911 — ans. 1912 rr., Vr., 1914, vr. 1, cTp. 35-40.
R231. Kyab6un, H.: «Yto ectb cnoBo», CI6., 1914.
R232. Mapxos, B.: «UckycctBo ocrposa Macxn», CII6., 1914.
R233. Mapxos, B.: «IpwxHyunsi TRopyectBa B mmlaCTHYeCKUX WHCKyCCTBax. Pak-
Typa», CII6., 1914.
R234. Mapxos, B.: «AckyccTBo Herpos», CI16., 1919.
R235. Mapxos, B. u Eropses, B.: «CBupeas Kutaa», CI16., 1914.
R236. «Cow3 Mon0ZeKu». BeictasKu. Katanorn, Ci6., Pura u M., 1910-1914.
R237. «Cows Monogexu». Ku. 1-8, CI6., 1912-1913.
R238. Cnangukos, 9.: <Jla6upunt uckycctBa» — Co13 mosonexu, CII6., 1913,
Ne 3, cTp. 6-9.
R239. Cnanankos, 9.: «<AHapxucT B ucKyccTBe» (o KyabOune) — McxyccrBo
Kommyubl, IIr., 1919, Ne 18, crp. 2-3.
R240. Cygevixun, C. u ap.: «Kyab6un. Katanor — kuura», CI16., 1912.
R241. «TpeyroabHuk». BaictasKa. Katanor, CII6., 1910.

Il. Heo-npumMutuBu3M, Ky60-dytypH3aM.

HEO-TPUMUTUBI3M.

R242. AmupaHausuan, LU.: «Huxo IIupocmanamsuau»y, M., 1967.

R243. Baxct, JI.: «<Ilytu Knaccuuu3ma B ucKyccTBe» — Anosaon, CII6., 1909-
1910, Ne 2, erp. 63-78; Ne 3, crp. 46-61.
R244. Benya, A.: <Ilopopot k ny6xy» — Peuys, CII6., 1909, 18 mapta.
R245. «Beuox-Ctedanoc». Brictapka. Katanor, M., 1907 (-1908).
R246. «Benox». BaictaBKa. Katasor, CI16., 1908.
R247. «Benokx-Ctedbauoc». BaicraBka. Katanor, CI16. u Xepcon, 1909.
R248. Tepuyk, ¥O.: «)Kuspre Beumm» — lexoparusBuoe ucKxyccrBo, M., 1972,
Ne 4, cTp. 20-27.
R249. «3peHo». BrictaBka. Katanor, Kues, 1908.
R250. Saauesuy, K.: «<Huxo [lnpocmaHauBuan», TOunucu, 1965.
R251. «3on0Toe pyHo». BpictaBKa. Katanor, M., 1909 (c npegucnoBuem H.
Pa6yumucKoro) u 1909 (-1910).
R252. Jlapvouos, M.: «BsicraBkKa MKOHONUCHBIX NOAJMHHUKOB UM JYOKOB Opra-
Hu30BaHHaad M. ®. JIapnouxoBpim». Katanor, M., 1913.
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Ba» — Marepuaabi no pycckomy uckyccrTBy, JI., 1928, 7. |, crp. 287-291.
R254. Pooun, A.: «<Anexcangp Wlesuexxo» — Mcxyccrso, M., 1973, Ne 5,
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R255. «Canon «30n0TOro pyHa»». BaictaBKa. Katanor, M., 1908.
R256. lWesyenxo, A.: «BpictaBka nponv3Befenui Anexcanapa Bacnapesuya
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R256ii. Karanckasa, 2K. u gp. (coct.): «A. B. Wlepuenxo. COopHuk MaTepuasoB».

M., 1980.
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KYBO-®YTYPU3M.

R257. Axcenos, V.: «HeyspaxkuTenbupie ocHoBbil>, M., 1916 (2 odopta A.

Oxctep).
R258. Axceuos, M.: «IuKacco u oxpectuoctu», M., 1917 (062. A. OKcTep).
R259. Apsatos, B.: «Hatan AsbTmMaH», Bepaun, 1924.
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R261. Benya, A.: «<][HepHuk xyfowKHuKa» — Peys, CI16., 1913, 21 oxt. (0
Toryaposon).
R262. Benya, A.: «Ky6u3m wan KyKuwM3M?» — Peyp, 1912, 23 HosOpa.
R263. Bo6pos, C.: «OcHoBbl HOBO pyccKOH »XuBONUcCH» — Tpygsr Bcepoccui-
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1914, r. I, crp. 41-43.
R264. B., C. Tl. (Bo6pos, C.): «Hatanua Pouyaposa. Boma I. 14 autorpaduny.
Peuen3ua — Bropox cOopHuk uextpugdyru, M., 1916, crn6. 92.
R265. «By6HoBpii BaneT». BoicrasKu. Katanoru, M. u CII6., 1910-1918.
R266. «ByOHoBbIM BaneT». Anb6om, M., 1911.
R267. «By6HoBbiM BaneT». YcTaB OOuwecTBa XyLOKHUHKOB, M., 1911.
R268. «By6HoBbIM BaneT». COOpHuK cTaTeH no ucKyccTBy U3qanua O6bmectBa
XyJOKHMKOB «<ByOHOBbIM BateT». BpinycK I, M., 1913.
R269. Bypatok, J.: «@axtypa» — /lowmeyuua o6mectBeHHomy Bxycy, M., 1912,
cTp. 102-110.
R270. Byparok, J].: <Pangaume «6enya» uv HOBOe PyCCKOe HALMOHAbHOe HCKyC-
cTBo», CII6., 1913.
R271. Bypsok, J.: <Moacnenua k KaptuHam JlaBuga Bypawka, HaxOMAUMMCcA
Ha BbICTaBKe, 1916, MockBa», Yada, 1916.
R272. Bypatok, J., Typo, E. u ap.: «Cagox cygzen», CI16., 1910; «Cagox cygzen
II>, CIT6., 1913 (c nan. Bypatoxos, Tounyaposon, Typo, Jlapnonosa, Ma-
TIOWMHA).
R273. Bypawk, Jl. w ap.: «Ppikatownn Tapuacy, M., 1914 (c uaa. Tynu,
Po3aHoBow u Pun0HoBa).
R274. Bypmox, JI., Bypaox, B. w ap.: «COopHuk eaMHCTBeHHbIX cbyTypHCTOB
mupa no3stToB», M., 1914 (c uaa. B. u J. Bypmtoxa).
R275. Bypatwox, J, Kpyyenpix, A., Kanauuckuu, B. u ap.: «Mouewuna o6ue-
CTBeHHOMy BKycy», M., 1912.
R276. Bypaox, H.: «<Baagumup Jlasuzosuy Bypstox» — Cow3 mosogexu, CI6.,
1913, Ne 3, crp. 35-38.
R277. «BpictaBka *KuBonuCH. 1915 roa». Katanor, M., 1915.
R278. PonnepOax, 9.: «<Ackycctso JJasuga JI. BypsoKa», Hpw-Mopx, 1930.
R279. Touyaposa, H.: «Muctuyeckue o6pa3p BorHbI. 14 autTorpadun», M et)

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R281. «H. C. Touyaposa. BsictaBKa KaptuH 1900-1913». Katanor, CI6., 1914.

R282. [pumenko, A. «<O rpynne xygoxKuuKoB <By6noBpiit Barnet» — Ano.son,
CI16, 1913, Ne 6, crp. 31-38.
R283. Tpuwexrko, A. u Jlappcxuu, H.: «A. Wlesyenxo. Tloucku u socTwKeHHaA
B OOmacTH CTaHKOBOH *KuBOonHCH»Y, M., 1919.
R284. Typo, E., Kpyyenprx, A wu Xae6uuKos; B.: «Tpoe», CII6., 1913 (c uaa.
Manesuya).
R285. Snanesuy, K.: «A. Kpyyenpix kak xyqoxKHUK» — Kypaurtsi, 1919, Tud-
auc, 1919, Ne 3-4.
R286. Ucapunos, T.: «M. ®. Jlapnonop» — Kap ntuya, Bepann, 1923, Ne 12,
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R287. Kamencxun, B.: «Ilyth sHTy3nacta», M., 1931.
R288. Kamenckun, B.: «)Ku3Hb Cc MaakoscKum>, M., 1940.
R289. Katou, W.: «Ky6u3m Kak 2KMBONHCHBIM MeToA» — CA, M., 1928, Ne 6,
cTp. 194-199.
R290. Koon, VU.: IIpequcnopue k «KatTanory mocMepTHOM BbICTaBKH KapTHH,
3TIOLOB, 3CKH30B M pucyHKoB O. B. Po3aHosony, M., 1919.
R291. Kpyuyeupix, A.: «Byx mecuHHpin», CI16., 1913 (c uaa. KynbOuna, Kpyyenpix
vu Po3aHOBon).
R292. Kpyyenpix, A.: «<B30psanb», Cn6., 1913 (c wan. Pouuaposon, Kyap6uua,
Maszesuya uv Po3aHoson).
R293. Kpyyeupix, A.: «<Bo3ponusem», CI16., 1913 (c uaa. Manesuya u Posa-
HOBOH).
R294. Kpyyenpix, A.: «Botua», Mr., 1915 (c uaa. Posanoson). pyro sa-
puanT: «Bceneuckaa BonHa>, IIr., 1916 (c una. Po3anoson).
R295. Kpyyeupix, A.: «<Saymuas ruura», M., 1915 (c uaa. Po3aHoson).
R296. Kpyyeupix, A.: «Mupckouua», M., 1912 (c uaa. Ponyaposon, Jlapnouosa,
Porosuua, Ro3sanopou u Tatauna).
R297. Kpyyenpix, A.: <IloayxuBon», M., 1913 (c uaa. JIapnonosa).
R298. Kpyyenpix, A.: <Ilomaga», M., 1913 (c waa. Jlapwouosa).
R299. Kpyyenpix, A.: «<IlyctstqHuku», M., 1913 (c uaa. Pouyaposon).
R300. Kpyyenpix, A.: «<CTapuHHaa s60Bb», M., 1912 (c nan. JlapHoHoBa uv
Po3aHoBon).
R301. Kpyyenpix, A.: <T9 Jiu Jla», Cn6., 1914 (c uaa. Posanoson).
R302. Kpyyeupix, A.: «<YTHHOe rHe3AbILIKO AypHbIX cioB», CII6., 1914 (c maz.
Po3aHOBOn).
R303. Kpyuenpix, A.: <Iopocata», CI16., 1913 (c wan. Manesnua).
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R305. Kpyuenpix, A. u Manesuy, K.: «IMepspit Bcepoccuiickun cpe3y Oanuen
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R306. Kpyyenpix, A. uv Xae6uukos, B.: «Urpa B agy>, M., 1912 (c wan. Tou-
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Tepens. 8 CI6. B 1914 c uaa. Masesuya uw Posanoson.
R307. Kyap6un, H.: «<Ky6usm» — Crpeaeu, IIr., 1915, Ne I, ctp. 197-216.
R308. Jlanwun, B.: «Maskoscxuli — xygouwnuk» — Mcxyccrso, M., 1963, Ne 7,
ctp. 43-53.
350 / Bibliography: Works in Russian

R309. JlentyoBpa, M.: «<Xygqomwuuk Apuctapx Jlentyn0B», M., 1969.

R310. JIupuinu, B.: <IMonzyroparnaseim crpeneu», JI., 1933.
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R313. Masaxkoscxuu, B.: «Ctuxu B. Masxoscxoroy, CII6., 1914 (c umn. Posa-
HOBOM).
R314. Muanep, B. (npegucnosue):° «BpictaBka MpoOM3BefqeHHH XyJOKHUHKOB
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R315. «Muuenb». Katanor BeictaBKn, M., 1913.
R316. Mypartos, I1.: «<Xusonucb Konyanoscxoroy, M., 1923.
R317. Hewman, M.: «Il. I. Konyanosckuny, M., 1967.
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R321. Ouyn, H.: «O Jlapnonope» —Yucua, Mapu, 1931, ku. 5, crp. 183-186.
R322. Tlapanos, Il.: «<CtaHxopaa »«uBonuch Apuctapxa Jlextyn0Ba> — McKyc-
cTBo, M., 1972, Ne 5, ctp. 27-37.
R323. Tlepenpman, B.: «A npa Mawxos», M., 1957.
R324. Toneson, B.: «Kynpun», M., 1962.
R325. P. (=Paxkoscxuuh, M.): «BpictaBka kaptuH H. C. ToxyapoBson» — /le-
TepOyprcxaa raseta, 1914, 18 mapta.
R326. Pagun, H.: «@ytypu3m u 6e3ymue. Ilapannenu TBOpyecTBa WM aHaJOrHM
HOBOrO A3bIKa KyOodytypucroB», CI16., 1914.
R327. Paganos, H.: «Byzyujaa wkONa *XuBONMCH» — Anowzon, CII6., 1915, Ne I,
cTp. 14-23.
R328. Pagnos, H.: «O dytypu3me u «Mupe uckyccTtBa»» — Anosazo#, IIr.,
1917, Ne I, erp.1-17.
R329. Pagnos, H.: «O dytypu3mes, Tr., 1923.
R330. Paxutun, B.: «Jles AnexcaHaposuy Bpyun», M., 1970.
R331. Paccyguua, P. (aBprop sctyn. ctatpu): «A. Kynpux», M., 1971.
R332. Posanosa, O.: Ctuxu — McxyccrBo, BecTHuK MOCKOBCKOrO OTJeNa K306-
pa3uTenbHbIxX HCKyCCTB Hapkomnpoca, M., 1919, Ne 4, crp. 1.
R333. Po3anosBa, O. u Kpyyeupix, A.: «<Banoc», Tudanc, 1917.
R334. PoctucnaBos, A.: «CBepkatoumi TanaHT» (BpictaBKa Kaptuu H. C. Tou-
yaposon), Pey, CI16., 1914, 23 mapra.
R335. Capa6panos, J].: «Heckonbko cnoB 0 H. Touuaposor» — JTpomered, M.,
1969, KH. 7, 201-203.
R336. Caxapos, B.: «Connuenocuan actetuka» — JexopaTuBHoe HCKYyCCTBO,
M., 1970, Ne 6, ctp. 44-47.
O I. Axyazose.
R337. Couraiao, B.: «O BeictaBKke kaptun H. Tonyaposony, M., 1913.
R338. «Cow3 mosogexku». Bercrapku. Katanoru, CI16., Pura u M., 1910-1914.
R339. «Cows MononeKu». Kyu. NeNe 1-3, CIT6., 1912-1913.
R340. «CTpeneu». COopHuk cratew no uckyccTBy, KH. 1, TIr., 1915; Ku. 2 ,
Tite LONG KHeeS elOr 9228
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. Tepentnes, H..u Kpyyennix, A.: «15 ner pycckoro dytypu3ma», M., 1928.
. <TpamBah B.» BuictasKxa. Katanor, Ir., 1915.
. Tpetpaxos, H.: «B. PookgectBenckuiiy, M., 1956.
. Tyrenaxonpa, A.: «Beictapka Kkaptun Hataanu Touyaposon. Tlucbmo u3
Mocxsbi> — Anoszon, CI6., 1913, Ne 8, crp. 71-73.
. Tyrenazxoapg, A.: «CoBpemenHoe ucKyccTBO 4 HaposHOCTDy — Cesepuple
sanuckn, CI16., 1913, Ne 11, crp. 153-160.
. P. @anpx. «BeictasKka mpoussegennit». Katanor, M., 1966. Craten M.
Cappsana, C. Uyiixopa, J]. Capa6panosa.
- @unoxos, II.: <ITponosexb 0 npopocau mupoBott» (c uaa. aBTopa), ig
TOT:
. Xapmxues, H.: «MaskoscKnit uv xKuBONMCh> — Masxoscxud. Marepuaasi
vw HCCAeQoBaHuA, M., 1940, cTp. 337-400.
. Xapmxues, H.: <Iamatu H. Pouyaposon u M. Jlapuonopay — McxycerBo
KHurH, M., 1968 (Bpinyck 5, 1963-1964), crp. 306-318.
. Xapgoues, H. u Tpenun, B.: «Moatwyeckaa KyabTypa MasKkoscKoro»,
M., 1970.
. XneOuukos, B. u Kpyyenpix, A.: «Ca0Bpo Kak TakoBoe», CII6., 1913
(c van. Manesuya).
. Xne6uuKos, B.: «Pas. Mepyarku», CI16., 1914 (c una. Manesuya).
. Xae6uukos, B.: <M360pHux ctTuxos», CII6., 1914 (c una. Manesuya u
@yn0HoBa).
. Liperaespa, M.: «H. TouyapoBa» — /7pomeren, M., 1969, crp. 144-201.
. Wesyenxo, A.: <I punyunst KyOu3mMa u Apyrux COBpeMeHHbIX TeYeHHH
B .KHBOMMCH BCeX BpeMeH HM HapogzoB», M., 1913.
. QranH6ropu, 9. (= 3yzanesuy, VU.): «Muxaun Jlapnwonos uv Hataapa Tou-
yapoBa», M., 1913.
. SJran61opu, 9.: <Pounyaposa u JIapnonosp» — Kap nruua, Bepaun, 1922,
Ne 7, ctp> 39-40.

III. BecnpeaqmMetHoe TBOpyecTso.

(UcTouHHKH B 3TOM OTAeENe BeECbMa BbIOOPHbIe: AIA Oonee nNONHbIX On6-

aMorpadun cTyfzeuTy copetyetca cocnatpca Ha NeNe 33, 159, 160.)

R358. «BecnpeameTHoe TBOpYeCTBO u CynpemMaTu3M» (X TocygapcTBeHHaa

BbicTaBKa). Katasor, M., 1919.
R359. Boyar, J.: «<MBau TlyHu» — Pyccxaa mbicab, Mapwx, 1972, Ne 2910,
CEP:
R360. Kopuuuxkui, V.: «K. Manepuy: Or Ce3aHxa go cynpematu3ma. Peuex-
3ua» — ITeyaTb uv peBostouus, M., 1921, ku. 2, cTp. 211-212.
R361. Jlapvouos, M.: «Jlyyu3m», M., 1913.
R362. «Mara3uuH». BricraBka. Katasor, M., 1916.
R363. Mariouwmn, M.: «O BbicTaBKe mocneqHux cbyTypuctoB» — Oyaposauubili
CTpaHHuK, AnbMaHax BeceHHuh, IIr., 1916, crp. 16-18.
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R365. Tynan, VW.: «<AckycctBo *xu3HH» — Cnosoxu, Bepasun, 1921, Ne 1, cTp.

36-38.
R366. dexopos-Jlapsigos, A.: Bctynaenve. Katanor BbicTaBKu npou3sBexeHHi
K. C. Manesuya, M., 1929.

IV. PeporouunA WH HCKYCCTBO.

TIPOJETKYIIbT.

R367. Borgauos, A.: <UAckyccrBo u pabounk kaacc», M., 1918.

R368. JlyHayapcxun, A.: «[Mponetapnat u ucKkyccTBo» — /]poaerapcKas” Ky Ab-
Typa, M., 1918, Ne 2, crp. 23.
R369. Jlasposa, H.: «Iponetkyabt. Pa6boune cTyauu u «Teopux»» — Tsop-
yecTBo, M., 1971, Ne 1, erp. 14-15.

OBINME ACITEKTSI.

R370. A6onuna, P.: «CoBetckoe uCcKycCCTBO nepvHoOfa rpakKaHCKOM BOHHbI U

NepBbIxX 1€T CTPOMTeAbCTBa COUManu3Ma, 1917-1932», M., 1962.
R371. «ArHTauMOHHO-MaCCOBOe UCKYCCTBO Me€pBbIX €T OKTAOPbCKOM peBosmWw-
uuu». BeictaBKa. Katanor, M., 1967.
R372. Axceuos, V., Appartos, B:, Tan, A., u ap.: «O TeatTpe». C6opHuk, TBepb,
1922.
R373. Apsatos, B.: «M306pa3utTeapHpie ucKyccTBa» — /]eyaTb wu peBosouHA,
M., 1922. xH.:7, crp. 140-146.
R374. Apsatos, B.: «fMponetapuat u sepoe ucKkyccTBo» — BecrHuk HCKYCCTB,
M., 1922, Ne 1, crp. 10-11.
R375. Apsatos, B.: «Ha nytax K nponetapcKomMy TBOpYecTBy» — /]eyaTb Uu
peso.mouns. M., 1922, ku. 1, cTp. 65-75.
R376. Apsatos, B.: «AckyccrBo u Kaaccpi», Ir.-M., 1923.
R377. Apsatos, B.: «Ytronua uu HayKa?» — Jled, M., 1924, Ne 4, cTp. 16-21.
R378. Becxun, 9.: «<Mckycctso wu Kaacc> — BectHuk pa6oTHHKOB HCKYCCTB,
M., 1920, Ne 1, ctp. 6-9.
R379. Beckun, 2.: ««CBo60fa» u «npaBsa» ucKycCTBa» — Becruuk paboTHuKkoB
ucxyccTB, M., 1921, Ne 4/6, cTp. 8-14.
R380. Bu6uxosa, VU.: «Kak npa3sqHoBanu fecaTuneTHe OKTABpA» — exopa-
THBHOe ucKyccTBO, M., 1966, Ne 11, ctp. 5-9.
R381. Baromendenba, B. u ap. (pea.): «Ha nytax uckycctBa». COopHuK ctTa-
teu, M., 1926.
R382. Borycaasckxas, K.: «Mapx Laran» — Cnoasoxu, Bepaun, 1921, Ne 2,
cTp. 33-34. P
R383. Bpuk, O.: «<XyOoxwKHHK WH KOMMyHa>» — HM306pa3uTembHoe HuCKYCCTBO,
TIr., 1919, Ne 1, erp. 25-26.
R384. Tanywkuua, A. w Ap. (peg.): <ArHTauMOHHO-MaccoBoe UMCKyCCTBO nep-
BbIX eT OxtsaOpa», M., 1971.
R385. TAXH Oruer 1921-1925, M., 1926.
R386. TocygapcTBenuple BeiIcTaBKH B Mockse. (1-21). Katanoru, M., 1918-1921.
R387. Tyugun, A.: <«M30-uckyccTBO B MaCCOBbIX Mpa3qHeECTBax MW JeMOHCTpa-
unax», M., 1930.
 Bibliography: Works in Russian / 353

R388. Tyuuy, A.: «Odopmaenue maccosbix npa3qHectTB 3a 15 eT AUKTAaTypbl

nposetapnata», M., 1932.
R389. «Jlexpet Ne 1 0 nemOKpaTu3auMn uCKyccTBa>. Manudect netyyel de-
Aepauun dytypuctos — [a3era g@yrypucros, M., 1918, Ne 1.
R390. dKagosa, JI.: «Bxytemac — Bxyteun» — Jlexoparusnoe ucKyccTBo,
M., 1970, Ne 11, crp. 36-43.
R391. Vodde, H.: «Kyabtypa u ctuap», JI., 1928.
R392. Kanguuckni, B.: «My3ei »%xuBONMCHOH KyJbTypblI» — XygZomecTBeHHaAR
2#H3Hb, M., 1920, Ne 2, crp. 18-20.
R393. Kaygnuckun, B.: «O Beaukow yTonuu», — XygoxecTBeHHaa xKu3Hb, M.,
1920, Ne 3, crp. 2-4.
R394. Kanguuckun, B.: «K pedbopme xyfo%KecTBeHHOM wKONbI>, M., 1923.
R395. Kywnxep, B.: «Cro tpu gua Ha 3anage, 1924-1926 rr.», M., 1928.
R396. Kywuep, Bb. «Jlemoxpatu3auma uckyccTBy». Te3ucbl, npefzaraembie B
KayeCTBe OCHOBaHHA 1A NpOrpaMMb! O10Ka eBbIX AeATeNeH UCKYyCCTBa,
Diver lone
R397. Kywxep, B. u gap.: «MckycctBo u Hapog». COopHuk ctatei, IIr.,
1922.
R398. Jlapposa, H.: «CrpaHnubi xyoOxKeCTBeEHHOH KpHTHKH (1918-1920)» —
TBopyecrBo, M., 1970, Ne 11, crp. 5-6 u TpeTba o6u.
R399. Jlanuimu, B.: «CTpaHuupl xyZoxKecTBeHHOH #Ku3HH MockBpi u Iletporpagza
B 1917 rony». — HcxyccrBo, M., 1969, Ne 4, crp. 32-42.
R400. «B. VU. JlenuH o muTepatype u ucKkyccTBe». (Coct. H. Kpytuxosa. Beryn.
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R401. Jlykomexui, T.: «XyOwKHUK B PyCCKOH peBosmouMH. 3anucKu xyoxKecT-
BeHHOrO feaTena», Bepaun, 1923.
R402. JlyHayapcxuu, A.: «Co6panue counHeHH B BOCbMH TOMax>, M., 1963-
1967 (peg. HW. AHuCHMOB H Jp.).
R403. JlyHayapcexun, A.: «<O6 n306pa3uTenbHOM UCKyccTBe», TT. 1-2, M., 1967.
R404. Matiowmnn, M.: «Cnpo6a HoBoro BuszyTTA MpocTtopHu» — Hosa rexHepa-
una, XappKos, 1928, Ne 1], crp. 311-22. (Ha yKpavHCKOM 33.).
R405. Matiowmun, M.: <3akKOHOMepHOCTb H3MeHACMOCTH LBETOBbIX CO¥eTAHHH.
Cnpapounuk no uBety», M.-JI., 1932.
R406. Masxkoscxui, B. (aptop texcta): <epou u xepTBbI peBosouHnH», IIr.,
1918.
C pucyukamu Borycaascxon, Ko3smuncxoro, Makneuosa wv Ilyxn.
R407. Muxaawescxun, K.: «<Muneptpodua uckycctBa>, [Ir., 1924.
R408. Muxaiinos, A.: <B. VU. Jlenvn u Oopp6a c nponeTKyAbTOBCKMMH UM SyTy-
PpHCTHYeCKUMM Uu3sBpaueHHAMH, 1919-1920>, — McxyccrBo, M. 1970,
Ne 9, ctp. 32-40.
R409. Hescxuu, B.: «XyOKeCTBeHHbIE BbICTABKH MW O3HAKOMJIEHHE LUMPOKHX
HapOJHbIxX macc C »#KMBOorMCbIO», Koctpoma, 1920.
R410. Tonetaes, E. u Mynun, H.: «<IMporus unsunnsaunn>, IIr., 1918.
R411. Mononcknit, B.: «<Pycckui pesomounonHpi naaxat>, M.-JI., 1925.
R412. Tyuu, V.: <Taopyectao »xu3HH» — McxyccrBo Kommyubl, IIr., 1919,
Ned5, 5 aHBaps.
R413. Tynun, H.: <BomOometanue nu opranusaumMa» — McK ycCTBO KOMMYHBI, Ir,.
1918, Ne 2, 15 mek., cTp. 2-3.
354 / Bibliography: Works in Russian

R414. Tlyuuu, H.: «Hospoe u Hopenbkoe» — Mcxyccrso Kommyunoi, IIr., 1919,

Ne 5, 5 aHB., cTp. 1.
R415. Tlyuuun, H.: «<Mpomerapcxoe uckycctBo» — Mcxyccrso xommyuobl, [Ir.,
1919, Ne 19, 13 anpensa, cTp. 1.
R416. IlyHuu, H.: «AckycctBo u nponetapuat» — H306pa3zutembHoe HcKyc-
cTBo, IIr., 1919, Ne 1, cTp. 8-24.
R417. WyxHun, H.: «<Pycckuu naakat, 1917-1922», Ir., 1922.
R418. IlyHuu, H.: «<O630p HoBbix TeyeHHH B ucKyccTBe B IleTepOypre» —
Pyccxoe ucxycctBo, M.-I16., 1923, crp. 17-23.
R419. Pakutun, B.: «Bxytemac. Tpaguuun uv 3kcnepHMeHTEI>y — TBopyecTBo,
1970, Ne 12, crp. 7-8.
R420. PC®CP. Cnpasoynux H30. Hap. Kom. IIpoc., M., 1920.
R421. Cenxun, C. u Kayunc, I.: «Mactepcxaa pesomouna» — Jled, M., 1924,
Ne 1 (5), erp. 155-159.
R422. Cugopos, A.: «PeBomrouna u ucKyccTBO», M., 1918.
R423. Cugopos, A.: «Pycckaa rpaduka 3a rogpr peBomounu», M., 1923.
R424. Cugopos, A.: «Ppaduxa nepsoro gecatunetua, 1917-1927», M., 1967.
R425. Crpuranes, A.: «<I]pousBegenua aruTauMOHHOrO ucKyccTBa ’20-x roxOB»
— Mcxyccrso, M., 1968, Ne 5, cTp. 29-30.
R426. Cypuc, B.: «CTrpanuya xyqOKecTBeHHOM #Ku3HH Poccun B 1917 rony» —
Hcxyccrso, M., 1972, Ne 4, crp. 62-67.
R427. Tpetpaxos, C.: «UckyccTBo B peBOJIOLMH M PeBOJHOLMA B MCKYCCTBe»
Topu, M., 1923, Ne 8, crp. 111-118.
R428. Tpetpsaxos, C.: «OTkyna u kya?» (TlepcnextTuser dytypu3sma) — Jed,
M., 1923, Ne 1, ctp. 192-203.
R429. Tyrenazxonpa, A.: «Coppemenupii nnaKkat» — JJeyaTb vu peBoarouna, M.,
1926, ku. 8, cTp. 56-74.
R430. ®panues, M.: «PeBomwuHOHHbIe 3amqayu uCcKyccTBa», Open, 1923.
R431. Xae6uukos, JI.: <Bopp6a peanuctoB u dytypuctoB Bo BxyTemace» —
JIurepatypHoe HacaegcrBo, M., 1971, T. 80, cTp. 704-719.
R432. Uyak, H.: «Yepe3s ronoBbl KpuTuKoB», Yuta, 1922.
R433. Wumas0, B.: «Yanupt pesomounn» — JexopatuBxoe ucKyccTBo, M.,
1970, Ne 3, crp. 4-12.
R434. «JJ. P. Wrepen6epr. Brictaska KapTuH». Katasor, M., 1927.

Heo-npHMuTHBu3M, KyO0-dyTypu3M.

R434i. Epmaxos, A. wu Can, H. (pen.): «A. B. JlyHauapcKuH 06 ucKyccTBe». M..,

1982. 271.
R434ii. 3onotHuyxun, J].: «AKayemMuyeckue TeaTpbl Ha myTax Oxts6pa». JI
Or}
1982. :
R434iii. ZonotrHuyKun, J.: «Sopu rearpanbuoro Oxra6pa». JI., 1976.
R434iv. Jlamumu, B.: «XyqoxecTBeHHad *KM3Hb MockBbI Hu Iletporpana B 1917».
r., M., 1983.
R434yv. «Haran AnbTMan». BicrasKu. Katanor, M., 1978.
R434vi. Iynuna, WM. (peg.): «H. H. ynun. Pyccxoe nu copetcKoe MCKYCCTBO».
M.,
1976.
R434vii. Toncrom, B. (pen.): «1917-1932. ATHTallMOHHO-MaCCOBOe HCKYCCTRO.
OdopmsieHve mpa3qHects». M., 1984. 2 rr.
 Bibliography: Works in Russian / 355

R434viii. Toncton, B.: «Y ucToKoB coBeTcKoro MOHYMeHTAaJIbHOrO MCKYCCTBa

1917-1923». M., 1983.
R434ix. «aspug. Terpopuy UlrepenOepr, 1881-1948». Karanor spictapKu, M.,
1978.
R434x. FOdurt, A.: «Pepomrouusa u Teatp». JI., 1977.
R434xi. [lepuos, B.: «CoppemeHHukn», M., 1980.

V. KoxcTpyTHBH3M H MpOH3BOACTBeHHbIe HCKYCCTBA.

KOHCTPYKTUBU3M.
R435. Aurenos, B.: «KOHCTPyKTHBH3MbM B H300OPa3HTeAHOTO W3KYCTBO HU ap-
xuTeKTypata», Codua, 1972 (Ha OonrapcKoOM 33.).
R436. Bapcr (= Cremanosa, B.): «O pa6OoTax KOHCTpyKTMBHCTCKOM MOuOze-
wu» — Jed, M., 1923, Ne 3, crp. 53-56.
R437. Tau, A.: «KOHCTpykTHBH3M B THNOrpaduyeckKoM Npou3sBo_cTBe» —
AjabmaHax nponetKyabta, M., 1925, crp. 116-119.
R438. Tan, A.: «UToO Takoe KOHCTpyKTHBH3M?» — CA, M., 1928, Ne 3, crp. 79.
R439. [ux36ypr, M., <CTruab u anoxa», M., 1924.
R440. Puu36ypr, M.: «KoucTpykTHBu3M Kak MeTOA maOOpaTOpHON u nesaro-
ruyecKkoH pabotp, B XypH. CA, M., 1927, Ne 6, crp. 160-166.
R441. 3enuuckuu, K. u VW. Cenppunckun (peg.): <Pocnaan autrepatyppi». C6op-
HuK JIMTepaTypHOrO WeHTpa KOHCTpyKTuBuCcTOB (JI.L.K.), M., 1924.
R442. Maua, I.: «<O Kounctpyxtusu3sme» — Mcxyccrso, M., 1971, Ne 8, crp.
40-47.
Aurauiickun nepesog — 220.
R443. «<O6moxy» (O6urecTBO MONOZbIX XyZOKHHKOB). Katanoru BbICTAaBOK,
M., 1919, 1920, 1921, 1923.
R444. Tynun, H.: <Mamatuux II] MntepHaunonasa. Ipoext B. Tataunay, I16.,
1920.
R445. Tlyuun, H.: <Tataun (npotus ky6nsma)>», I16., 1921.
R446. «5 & 5 = 25». Katanor BpictaBKn, M., 1921.
R447. Tatanu, B.: <Baagumup Esrpadosuy Tataun», IIr., 1915.
R448. Yuuarospa, O.: «KouctpyKkTusu3m>» — Kopa6ab, Kanyra, 1923, Ne 1-2,
cTp. 44.
R449. Oxctep, A.: «<B KOHCTpyKTHBHOM ofexme», B XypH. ATembe, M., 1923,
Ne 1, crp. 4-5.
R450. Spen6ypr, U.: «A Bce-Taku ona BepTuTca», bepanu, 1922.
R450i. Crpuranes, A.: «O mpoexte Ilamatuuxa II] UntepHauMonama xyO*xHMKAa
B.Tatnuna» — Bonpocel cogemckoeo u3z06pa3sumerbxoeo uckyccmea. M., 1973,
cTp. 409-52.

TPOUSBOICTBEHHBIE MCKYCCTBA.
TIPUKIIATHBIE MCKYCCTBA. APXUTEKTYPA.

R451. A6pamosa, A.: <A. M. Pogyenxo» — Mexyccrso, M., 1966, Ne 11, crp.
51-59.
R452. Axcenos, H.: <IpocrpaHcTBeHHbIi KOHCTpyKTHBH3M Ha cueHe» — Te-
aTpaabubii OxTa6pp. C6. 1, M.-JI., 1926, crp. 31-37.
356 / Bibliography: Works in Russian

R453. «AnexcaHgp Pogyenko». Katanor spictaBKu, M., 1968.

R454. Anexcangpos, I1.: «<MBan JleonuzoB», M., 1971. Buéu.
R455. Apsatos, B.: «<MAckycctBo u npousBogcTBo» — Topu, M., 1923, Ne 8,
cTp. 119. ;
R456. Apsatos, B.: «Bbit uv KyabTypa BewwM> — AwbmMaHax npoazeTKyabTa, M.,
1925, crp. 75-82.
R457. ApsBatos, b.: «CeroqHauHue 3aayw UCKyCCTBa B MpOMbILIeHHOCTH> —
CosBetcxoe uckyccTBo, M.-JI., 1926, Ne 1, crp. 83-89.
R458. Apsatos, B.: «O6 arut- u mposuckyccTBe», M., 1930.
R459. Apxuu, J].: «MckyccTBo Beutw» — ExeroqHHK JMTepaTypbl WH HCKYCCTBA
Ha 1929, M., 1929, crp. 428-471.
R460. Bpuk, O.: «<B npousBogctBo!» — Jle@, M., 1923, Ne 1, crp. 105-108.
R461. Bpuk, O.: «OT KaptuHp K oto» — Hossik sed, M., 1928, Ne 3, cTp.
29-33.
R462. Bytuuk-Cusepcxun, B.: «Copetckui niiakaT 3nOxu rpadKaHCKOM BOHHBI,
1918-21», M., 1960.
R463. Bapct (= Crenanosa, B.): «KoctTiom ceroqHAUIHeroO AHA — Npo3s0Lex La»
— Jleg@, M., 1923, Ne 2, cTp. 65-68.
R464. Boankos-JlanHunt, JI.: <A. Poguenko pucyet, dotorpadupyet, cnopuT»,
M., 1968.
R465. Tau. A.: <HoBomy TeaTDy — HOBOe 3naHve» — CA. M., 1927, Ne 3,
Crpasole
R466. Tau, A.: «CnpasBka 0 Kasumupe Manepuye» — CA, M., 1927, Ne 3, cTp.
104-106.
R467. Semenkos, B.: «<Ocbopmaenue coBeTCKUX KaPHaBaJIOB HW JeEMOHCTpauHi»,
M., 1930.
R468. Vinpun, M.: «Becuunpiy>, M., 1960.
R469. Kupuaios, B.: <IlyTh moucka wu 9KCNepHMeHTa (M3 HCTOPHH COBETCKOM
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R486. Yunsakos, A.: «<Bpatpa Becuuupiy, M., 1970. Buda.
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VI. Ilo mytTuw K couMamMcTHYeCKOMy peamH3mMy

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COBeETCKMM NyOsuKauHaAM 30-bIx, 40-bIx uw 50-bIX rr., KOTOPbIe NOCBALLEHbI
PyCCKOH MW COBETCKOM KHBONUKCH U CKYJbMType, B YACTHOCTH K KyYPHasam
«UcxycctBo» [M., 1933- ] u «TBopyecrso» [M., 1934- ]}. 3a cBegenua-
MH OTHOCHTeAbHO CO3AaHHA UW MpONaraHAbl COUMAMMCTHYeCKOrO peasn3ma
CTyYMeHTy Cl€syeT MPOKOHCyIbTHPOBaTb KaTaNOrH COBETCKUX XyOKe-
CTBEHHbIX BbICTaBOK He TOMbKO B CCCP., HO u B SanagHouw Exspone u B
CLUA, MHoruve “3 KOTOpbIX uMeNH MeCTO BO KOHUe 20-bIX uM B Hayane
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R491. Beckun, O.: «®opmanu3m B ucKyccTBe», M., 1933.
R492. Benane, B.: «AckyccTBo npu copeTcKon BaacTH» — Be3simanHag cTpana,
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R493. Tpoucxun, VU. u Mepenpman, B. (coct.): «Accounauna XyO*KHHKOB Pe-
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R496. Kuas3esa, B.: «AXPP», JI., 1967.
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3peHHi Mu 9CTeTHYeCKOrO BOCNUTaHHA B CoBeTCKOH Poccun, M., 1971.
R498. Jlynnoa, W., Posentans, M. u Tpetpaxos, C. (peg.): «Mepsei Bcecows-
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CTPaHCTBeHHBIX HCKyCCTB>. COopHHK OObenuHeHHA, <OKTAOpE», M.-JI.,
LOSAe
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R503. Conounnckun, O. uv ap.: «CTaHOBNeHHe COWMAIMCTHYeECKOrFO peatH3Ma B
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R504. Tyrenaxonba, A.: «<)KuBonucb» — /Teyars u peBosmuua, 1927, KH. 7,
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R505. Penzopos-JlaBpizoB, A.: «TeHgeHunu COBPeMeHHOM PyCCKOM KMBONUCH B
cBeTe COWUMaIbHOrO aHanu3a» — Kpacnaa Hoss, M., 1924, Ne 6 (23),
cTp. 329-348. ;
R506. @enopos-JjapprgoB, A.: «Mapkcuctckas ucTropua ucKyccTB», NBaHoBo-
Bosnecenck, 1925.
R507. «Il. ®unonos. Katanor npousBeszenni Haxogauuxca B Pycckom my3ee
C OObACHUTENbHEIM TeKCTOM C. Ucakosa>, JI., 1930.
R508. @unonos, II.: <exnapauua Muposoro paucseta» — /Ku3Hb HCKYCCTBQ,
M., 1923, Ne 20, crp. 13. (mepeney. B xypH. Vitvarné uméni, Prague,
1967, No. 3).
R509. ®uaonos, II.: «<O npwynnax tTBopyectBa» — Vy¥tvarné uméni, Prague,
1967, No. 3.
R510. @unonos, I.: <MMasen uazonos. Mepspaa nepconanbyHaa BbiCTaBKa».
Katanor, Hospocu6upcr, 1967 (2 u3qanua).
R511. @puye, M. u ap.: «<AckycctBo B CCCP u 3aga4un xyOKHHKOB>, M., 1928.
R512. IWkona Punonopa (nox ynpaBneHuem @ynoHoBa): «KaneBana», M
1933 (c uaa. Bopuosok, Ponert u ap.).
R513. Ulexotos, H.: «Acxycctso CCCP. Hosas Poccna B uckycctBe», M., 1926.
R514. fOuxesny, IT. 1 Croanuep, B. (peg.): «UckyccTBO u aMTepaTypa B MapK-
CHCTCKOM OCBeleHHM». COopHuK ctaten, M., 1931.
Rolo: AOnonckas, M.: «KounctaytuH Hukonaesuy Uctomun», M., 1972.
RS15i. Bancnos, B. u exucopa, JI. (pen.): «A3 ucropun copetcKoro HMCKYCCTBOBe-
HHA M 9CTeTHYeECKON mBICIM». M., 1977.
RS15ii. Bacunenkxo, B. u gp. (pen.): «Coperckoe weKopaTuBHoe HCKYCCTBO
1917-1945». M., 1984.
RS15iii. Kocrun, B.: «OCT». JI., 1976.
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M., 1982.
Abramtsevo, xxi, xxii, xxvii, 41 Altman, Natan Isaevich (1889-1970), xxxi,
Academy of Artistic Sciences (Moscow). See XXXill, XXXiV, XXXV, Xl, 161-64, 165, 166
Moscow, RAKhN Annenkovy, Yurii Pavlovich (1889-1973), 279
Academy of Fine Arts (St. Petersburg). See Apollinaire, Guillaume (1880-1918), 60, 92,
Leningrad 96, 186
Affirmers of the New Art. See Unovis Apollon (Apollo), 17, 170
Agarykh. See Stepanova, Varvara Fedorovna Aragon, Louis (1897-1966), 292
Aivazovsky, Ivan Konstantinovich (1817- Arapova, Yuliya Grigorevna (1890-1976),
1900), II 285
Akhmatova, Anna Andreeva, pseudonym of Archipenko, Alexander (Aleksandr Porfirevich
Anna Andreevna Gorenko (1889-1966), Arkhipenko) (1887-1964), 208
170 Argonauts, 6
AKhR (Assotsiatsiya khudozhnikov revolyut- Argus, 79
sil) [Association of Artists of the Arkhangelsky, 249
Revolution], 265, 271-72, 274, 282, 285 Arkhipov, Abram Efimovich, pseudonym of
AKhRR_ (Assotsiatsiya khudozhnikov _ re- Abram Efimovich Pyrikov (1862-1930),
volyutsionnoi Rossii) [Association of Ar- 265, 291
tists of Revolutionary Russia], xxviii, Art of the Commune. See Iskusstvo kommuny
XXXIX, 251, 265, 266-71, 280, 282, 290 Art to the Masses. See Iskusstvo v massy
Aksenov, Ivan Aleksandrovich (1884-1935), Artists’ Brigade. See Brigada khudozhnikov
Xxix, 60-69, 173 ' Arvatov, Boris Ignatevich (1896-1940), Xxxv,
Alcaeus (ca. 620 B.C.-ca. 580 B.C.), 68 171, 197, 199, 215, 225-30
Aleksandrov, Grigorii Grigorevich (b. 1897), Aseev, Nikolai Nikolaevich (1899-1963), 250
243 Asnova (Assotsiatsiya novykh arkhitektorov)
Alekseev, Aleksandr Gavrilovich (1911-41), {Association of New Architects], 256
273 Association of Actors, Artists, Writers and
All-Russian Convention of Artists, St. Peters- Musicians in Terioki, 13
burg, 1911-12. See Second All-Russian Association of AKhR Youth. See OMAKhR
Convention of Artists, St. Petersburg, Association of Artists of Revolutionary Russia.
IQII-I2 See AKhRR
All-Russian Co-operative of Artists. See Vse- Association of Artists of the Revolution. See
kokhudozhnik AKhR
All-Union Association of Associations of Pro- Association of Artists Studying Revolutionary
letarian Writers. See VOAPP Life, 265
All-Union Association of Proletarian Ar- Association of Contemporary Architects. See
chitects. See VOPRA OSA

359
360 / Index

Association of New Architects. See Asnova Borisov-Musatov, Viktor Elpidiforovich

Association of Three, 238 (1870-1905), XXiV, XXV
Aurevilly, Jules Barbey de (1808-89), 65 Borisyak, Aleksei Alekseevich (1872-1944),
Avvakum, Petrovich (1620-82), 301 12
Braque, Georges (1882-1963), 95
Babel, Isaak Emmanuilovich (1894-1941), Brigada khudozhnikov (Artists’ Brigade), 308
292 Brik, Lilya Yurevna (1891-1978), 244
Babichev, Aleksei Vasilevich (1887-1963), Brik, Osip Maksimovich (1888-1945), Xxxv,
XXXV 1614 1645 |k665) 1-715) 100,225,230;
Bacon, Robert (ca. 1220-ca. 1292), 15 244-49, 250
Bakst, Lev Samoilovich, pseudonym of Lev Brodsky, Isaak Izrailevich (1884-1939), 265,
Samoilovich Rozenberg (1866-1924), 267
Koes AeA Bruni, Lev Aleksandrovich (1894-1948),
Balmont, Konstantin Dmitrievich (1867- XXxili, 281, 282
1942), 3 Bryusov, Valerii Yakovlevich (1873-1924), 2
Barkhin, Grigorii Borisovich (1880-1969), Bryusova, Nadezhda Yakovlevna (1881-
XXXVill 1951), XXXV
Barnet, Boris Vasilevich (1902-65), 238 Bubnova, Varvara Dimitrievna (1896-1983),
Barr, Alfred Hamilton, Jr. (1902-81), xxix, 23
150, 204, 275 Bugaev, Boris Nikolaevich. See Bely, Andrei
Barto, Rostislav Nikolaevich (1902-74), 280 Bundist Party, 186
Bauhaus, 17, 116, 197 Burliuk, David Davidovich (1882-1967), xxv,
Beardsley, Aubrey (1872-98), 63 XXVi, XXIX, XXX, XXX, 3,,S-Ihy 12, 18,01,
Bednyi, Demyan, pseudonym of Efim Alek- 69-77, 78, 79, 87, 112, 171, 205, 216
seevich Pridvorov (1883-1945), 292 Burliuk, Nikolai Davidovich (1890-1920),
Bely, Andrei, pseudonym of Boris Nikolaevich 11, 12, 69, 112, 205
Bugaev (1880-1934), 3, 6 Burliuk, Vladimir Davidovich (1886-1917),
Benois (Benua), Aleksandr Nikolaevich RXR MLO. On ple fjord tecO5
(1870-1960), Xxil, XxiV, xxix, xXxxill, xl,
3-6, 41, 69, 75, 103, 107, III Café Pittoresque. See Moscow
Bergson, Henri (1859-1941), 304 Café Rotonde (Paris), 186
Bilibin, Ivan Yakovlevich (1872-1942), 306 Carra, Carlo (1891-1966), 226
Black Hundreds (Chernosotentsy), 163 Carriére, Eugéne (1849-1906), 251
Blaue Reiter, Der (The Blue Rider), 12, 17, Carriere, Eugene (1849-1906), 251
18 Catherine II (empress of Russia) (1729-96),
Blok, Aleksandr Aleksandrovich (1880-1921), II
194 See Glavpolitprosvet
Blue Rose (Golubaya roza), xxiii, xxiv, xxv, Central Institute of Labor. See Moscow, TsIT
XXVIEEXK KOR OMT aml Onmiten a Se Centrifuge. See Tsentrifuga
Blue Rider, The See Blaue Reiter, Der Cézanne, Paul (1839-1906), xxvii, II, 43, 44,
Blyumenfeld, Veniamin Matveevich (b. 47, 50, 53,74, 98, 99, 108, 226, 235, 268
1889), 300 Chagall, Marc (Mark Zakharovich Shagal)
Bobrov, Sergei Pavlovich (1889-1971), 60 (1887-1985), XXX, XXXI, XXXIV, 116
Bogdanov, Aleksandr Aleksandrovich, pseudo- Chaikov, losif Moiseevich (1888-1979), 238
nym of Aleksandr Aleksandrovich Malin- Chamber Theater, Moscow. See Moscow,
ovsky (1873-1928), Xxxiv, 176-82, 197 Kamernyi Theater
Bogomazov, Aleksandr Konstantinovich Chashnik, Ilya Grigorevich (1902-29),
(1880-1930), 10, 87 XXXVI, 307
Bogomazov, Timofei N., 87 Chekhov, Anton Pavlovich (1860-1904), 16
Boguslavskaya, Kseniya Leonidovna (Bogou- Chekrygin, Vasilii Nikolaevich (1897-1922),
slavskaya, Xana) (1892-1972), xxxli, I10, XXXI1X
TDM hr2p 135 56200 Chernikhov, Yakov Georgievich (1889-1951),
Bolshakov Art College, Moscow. See Moscow XXXVill, 230, 254-61
Borisov, Grigorii Ilich (b. 1899), 238 Chernosotentsy. See Black Hundreds
 Index / 361

Chemyshevsky, Nikolai Gavrilovich (1828— Dobuzhinsky, Mstislav Valerianovich (1875-

89), xx 1957),18
Chichagova, Galina Dmitrievna (1891-1967), Donkey’s Tail, xxviii, xxx, xxxi, 23, 25, 41,
239, 243 54, 70, 78, 79, 87, 91, 93, 116, 205
Chichagova, Olga Dmitrievna (1892-1956), Drevin, Aleksandr Davidovich (1889-1938),
_ 239, 243 304
Chief Administration for Professional Duchamp, Marcel (1887-1968), 210
Education. See Glavprofobr Dyakonitsyn, Lev Fedorovich (b. 1931), 298,
Chukovsky, Kornei Ivanovich (1882-1969), 299
292
Chuzhak, Nikolai Fedorovich, pseudonym of Efros, Abram Markovich (1888-1954), 299
Nikolai Fedorovich Nasimovich (1876— Eganbyuri, Eli. See Zdanevich, Ilya
v 1939), 199 Egorev, Vyacheslav Aleksandrovich (1874-
Ciurlionis, Mikalojaus Konstantinas (1875- 19??), 23
IQII), 25 Ehrenburg (Erenburg), Ilya Grigorevich
Claudel, Paul (1868-1955), 141 (1891-1967), 151, 152, 292
Collective of Painting-Sculpture-Architecture “Eighth State Exhibition’’, Moscow, 1919, 14
Synthesis. See Zhivskulptarkh Eisenstein (Eisenshtein), Sergei Mikhailovich
Color Dynamics and Tectonic Primitivism, (1898-1948), 250, 273
43 Elkin, Vasilii Nikolaevich (b. 1897), 273
Columbus, Christopher (1451-1506), I51 Ender, Boris Vladimirovich (1893-1960),
Comintern (Third Communist International), XXXVI
XXXVIli, 205, 206 Ender, Mariya Vladimirovna (1897-1942),
Committee for Art Affairs Attached to the XXXVI
Council of USSR Ministers, 288 Engels, Friedrich (1820-95), 293
Communist Futurism. See Komfut “Erste Russische Kunstausstellung, Die,’’ Ber-
Concretists, 238, 240 lin, 1922, Xxxvi, Xxxvili, 186
Constructivists, 238 Evergood, Philip (1901-73), 291
Contemporary Architecture. See SA Evreinov, Nikolai Nikolaevich (1879-1953),
“‘Contemporary Trends in Art,’’ St. Peters- 12,13
burg, 1908, 9, 10, 12 “Exhibition of Painting 1915,” Moscow,
Courbet, Gustav (1819-77), xxli, 270 XXXi, XXXli, 8, 54, 79, I6I
““Crimson Rose,’’ Saratov, 1904, xxiv Exter (Ekster), Aleksandra Aleksandrovna
Crommelynck, Fernand (18881970), 146 (1884-1949), XXXVii, XXXVili, XXxIX, IO,
60, 61, 62, 68, 69, 70, 73, 206, 244
Darmstadt
Technische Hochschule, 151 Fabri, Morits, 87
Daumier, Honoré Victorin (1808-79), xx Falk, Robert Rafailovich (1886-1958), xxvii,
Davydova, Natalya Mikhailovna, 138 61, 67, 68
Degas, Edgar (1834-1912), xxiil Favorsky, Vladimir Andreevich (1886-1964),
Deineka, Aleksandr Aleksandrovich (1899- 281, 283
1969), xli, 238, 273, 279, 280 Federation of the Association of Soviet Work-
Delacroix, Eugéne (1798-1863), 228 ers in the Spatial Arts. See FOSKh
Delaunay, Robert (1885-1941), 60, 95 Fedin, Konstantin Aleksandrovich (b. 1892),
Denis, Maurice (1870-1943), XXIV 292
Derain, André (1880-1954), xxvii, 61, 268 Fedorov-Davydov, Aleksei Aleksandrovich
Diaghilev (Dyagilev), Sergei Pavlovich (1900-69),
300
(1872-1929), XXi, XXli, XxXill, XXVi, 3, 54, Feininger, Lyonel (1871-1956), 92
79, 208, 209 Feofilaktov, Nikolai Petrovich (1878-1941),
Dix, Otto (1891-1969), 279, 280 282
Dmitriev-Kavkazsky, Lev Evgrafovich (1849— Filonov, Pavel Nikolaevich (1883-1941),
1916), 284 XXVi, Xxx, Xl, 12, 284-87, 291
Dobrokovsky, Mecheslav Vasilevich (1895- Firsov, Ivan M., 93
‘First Agricultural and Handicraft-Industrial
1937), 273
362 / Index

Exhibition,’” Moscow, 1923, 206 . Giotto di Bondone (12667-1337), 15, 16

First All-Russian Conference of Proletarian and Gippius, Zinaida Nikolaevna (1869-1945), 3
Educational Organizations, Moscow, Gladkov, Fedor Vasilevich (1883-1958), 292
1918, 177 Glavpolitprosvet (Glavnyi politiko-proveti-
First All-Union Congress of Soviet Writers, telnyi komitet) [Central Commit-
Moscow, 1934, xl, 288, 290-97 tee of Political Enlightenment], 185, 226
‘‘First Discussional Exhibition of Associations Glavprofobr (Glavnoe upravlenie profes-
of Active Revolutionary Art,’’ Moscow, sionalnogo obrazovaniya) [Chief Ad-
1924, XXXVili, 230, 237-43, 279 ministration for Professional Education],
First State Textile Print Factory, Moscow. See 186
Moscow Gleizes, Albert (1881-1953), 95, 103
First Working Group of Constructivists, 215, Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von (1749-1832),
238, 239, 241-43 15
First Working Organization of Artists, 238, Golden Fleece. See Zolotoe runo
243 Gollerbakh, Erik Fedorovich (1895-1942),
“Ss X 5 =25,’’ Moscow, 1921, Xxxvii, 139, 2
204 Gui Viktor Viktorovich (1901-55), 308
Folkwang Museum, Hagen, 60 Goncharov, Andrei Dmitrievich (1903-79),
Fomin, lvan Aleksandrovich (1872-1936), 238
306 Cochte Natalya Sergeevna (1881-1962),
For Proletarian Art. See Za proletarskoe iskus- XXV, XXVi, XXVil, XXVIii, XXIX, XXX, XXX],
stvo 41°, 79 10, 54-60, 77-78, 79, 87-91, 92, 95, 100
Forward. See Vpered Gorky, Maxim, pseudonym of Aleksei Mak-
FOSKh (Federatsiya obedineniya sovetskikh simovich Peshkov (1868-1936), 176,
rabotnikov prostranstvennykh iskusstv) 182, 290, 292, 294-95
[Federation of the Association of Soviet Grabar, Igor Emmanuilovich (1871-1960), 10,
Workers in the Spatial Arts], 288 III, 291, 295—96
Four Arts, xl, 114, 281-84 Gray (Gray-Prokofieva), Camilla (1936-72),
Free State Art Studios, Moscow. See Moscow, 209
Svomas Grinbaum, A. See Grinbaum, Anton Abraham
Free State Art Studios, Petrograd. See Lenin- Grigorev, Aleksandr Vladimirovich (1891-
grad, Svomas 1961), 265, 268
Freiberg, Paula Fritsovna (b. 1890), 273 Grishchenko, Aleksei Vasilevich (1883-
Friche, Vladimir Maksimovich (1870-1929), 1977),
43, 61, 205
196 Grossman, Leonid Petrovich (1888-1965), 18
Fry, Roger Eliot (1866-1934), 301 Grosz, George (1893-1959), 279
Griinbaum, Anton Abraham (b. 1885), 18
Guillaume, Paul (1893-1934), 100
Gabo, Sir Naum (Pevzner, Naum Neemia, Guro, Elena Genrikhovna, pseudonym of
(1890-1977), XXXIV, XXXVI, 152, 208— Eleonora Genrikhovna Notenberg (1877-
214 1913), 23
GAKhN. See Moscow
Gan, Aleksei Mikhailovich (1889-1942), Hermitage, Leningrad. See Leningrad
XXXVIll, 214-25, 230, 238, 239, 243, Higher State Art-Technical Institute. See Mos-
273 cow, Vkhutein
Gastev, Aleksei Kapitonovich (1882-1938), Higher State Art-Technical Studios. See Mos-
307 cow, Vkhutemas
Gauguin, Paul (1848-1903), xxvii, II, 53, 58 Hodler, Ferdinand (1853-1918), 280
General Military Instruction. See Vsevobuch Hoffman, Ernst Theodor Amadeus (1776-
Gerasimov, Aleksandr Mikhailovich (1881- 1822), 33
1963), 265, 289 Holbein, Hans (the elder) (1460-1524), 72, 74
Gessner, Robert (b. 1907), 292
Ginzburg, Moisei Yakovlevich (1892-1946), IKhK. See Leningrad
273 Imperial Academy of Fine Arts (St. Peters-
 Index / 363

burg). See Leningrad, Academy of Fine Kasatkin, Nikolai Alekseevich (1859-1930),

Arts 265, 291
Impressionists, xxv, XXX, IO, II, 12, 13, 18, Katsman, Evgenii Aleksandrovich (1890—
25 1976), 265, 266
Inber, Vera Mikhailovna (1890-1972), 292 Kazan Art School, 139, 148
Inkhuk. See Moscow Kerensky, Aleksandr Fedorovich (1881-
Institute of Archaeology, Moscow. See Mos- 1970), 187
cow Kharkov University, 176
Institute of Artistic Culture, Moscow. See Khlebnikov, Velimir (Viktor) Vladimirovich
Moscow, Inkhuk (1885-1922), xxxvi, 12, 69, 77
Institute of Artistic Culture, Leningrad. See Kiev Art School, 208
Leningrad, IKhK Klutsis, Gustav Gustavovich (1895-1944),
Institute of Blood Transfusion, Moscow. See 248, 273, 274
Moscow Klyun, Ivan Vasilevich (1873-1942), xxxil,
InternAKhR (Internatsionalnaya Assotsiatsiya XXXlil, Xxxiv, xl, IIO, II4, I15, 135,
khudozhnikov revolyutsii) [International 136-38, 142-43, 279, 282
Association of Artists of the Revolution], Knave of Diamonds, xxvii, xxviii, Xxix, XXX,
272 XXXi, 8, 12, I7, 40, 54, 60-69, 70,77, 78,
Ioganson, Boris Vladimirovich (1893-1973), 79, 87, 89, 102, 114, 116, 161
265 Kogan, Petr Semenovich (1872-1932), 196
Ioganson, Karel (Karl Valdemarovich, ca. Komfut (Kommunisticheskii futurizm) [Com-
1890-1924), 248 munist Futurism], xxxiv, I61, 164-
Irbit, Paul Yanovich (1890-1940), 273 66, 170, 186, 244
Isakov, Sergei Konstantinovich (1875-1953), Konchalovsky, Petr Petrovich (1876-1956),
285 XxVill, 61, 66, 67, 70, 73, 77
Iskusstvo kommuny (Art of the Commune), Korin, Ogata (1658-1716), 63
XXXVi, 161, 164, 165, 166, 167, 170 Korolev, Ivan Pavlovich (1899-1942), 243
Iskusstvo v massy (Art to the Masses), 265 Korovin, Konstantin Alekseevich (1861-—
Ivan IV (the Terrible) (tsar of Russia) 1939), 10
(1530-84), 130 Kovalenko, Petr Timofeevich (b. 1888), 12
Izdebsky, Vladimir Alekseevich (1882-1965), Kozlinsky, Vladimir Ivanovich (1891-1967),
175 185,205.23, 25 160
IZO Narkompros (Otdel izobrazitelnykh iskus- Kramskoi, Ivan Nikolaevich (1837-87), xx,
stv pri Narodnom komissariate pros- 270
veshcheniya) [Department of Visual Arts Kreichik, Alois Vikentevich (1893-1937),
in the People’s Commissariat for 273
Enlightenment], xxxiv, 102, 139, I51, Krinsky, Vladimir Fedorovich (1890-1971),
161, 170, 182, 183, 184, 186-90, 205,
244 Kricheagic: Aleksei (Aleksandr) Eliseevich,
Izobrazitelnoe iskusstvo (Visual Art), Xxxvi, (1886-1969), 12, 69, 79, 102, 115, 116,
170 136, 149, 216
Kulbin, Nikolai Ivanovich (1868-1917), xxv,
Jack of Diamonds. See Knave of Diamonds XXVi, XXX, 9, IO, II-1I7, 18, 19, 23, 24,
Jawlensky, Alexei von (Yavlensky, Aleksei 25, 70, 77, 103, 116, 285
Georgievich, 1864-1941), xxili, 17, 18 Kuleshov, Lev Vladimirovich (1899-1970),
250
Kamensky, Vasilii Vasilevich (1864-1961), Kuprin, Aleksandr Vasilevich (1880-1960),
XXx] XXVill, 61, 64, 65
Kamernyi Theater. See Moscow Kurella, Alfred (1895-1975), 273
Kandinsky, Vasilii Vasilevich (1866-1944), Kursk Gymnasium, 208
XXVi, XXXi, XXXii, XXXIV, XXXV, XXXVI, I2, Kushner, Boris Anisimovich (1888-1937),
17-23, 24, 43, 69, 70, 77, 103, 196-98 XXXV, 161, 164, 166-70, 199, 250
Karatygin, Vyacheslav Gavrilovich (1875- Kustodiev, Boris Mikhailovich (1878-1927),
1926), 298 125
364 / Index

Kuznetsov, Pavel Varfomoleevich (1878-— masterskie) [Petrograd State Free Art

1968), xxiii, xxiv, 6, 7, 281, 282 Educational Studios], xxxiv, xxxv, I12,
161
Russian Museum, 42, 115, 161, 170, 284,
L’ Académie Russe (Paris), 161 287
Ladovsky, Nikolai Aleksandrovich (1881- Saltykov-Shchedrin Library, 160
1941), 43, 255 Society of People’s Universities, 12
Lancéray (Lansere), Evgenii Evgenevich Svomas (Svobodnye gosudarstvennye
(1875-1946),7 khudozhestvennye masterskie) [Free State
Lapin, Nikolai Fedorovich (1891-1960), 273 Art Studios], xxxiv, xxxv, 112, 161, 170,
Larionov, Ivan Fedorovich (1884-1919), 87 205
Larionov, Mikhail Fedorovich (1881-1964), Tenishev Institute, 110
XXiii, XXIV, XXV, XXVi, XXVil, XXVIIl, XXIX, University of St. Petersburg, 79, 170, 225
XKXG KKXI LON LOAN 54s Son TOs eng is Lentulov, Aristarkh Vasilevich (1882-1943),
78, 79-83, 87-91, 91-100, 100-102, 205, XXVii, XXXill, 10, 61, 65, 67
209 Levitan, Isaak Ilich (1861-1900), xx1l, I1, 208
Lavinsky, Anton Mikhailovich (1893-1968), Levkievsky, Vyacheslav Vyacheslavovich
248 (1895-1919?), 87
Lebedev, Vladimir Vasilevich (1891-1967), Lévy, Rudolf (1875-1943), 95
160, 281 “L’Exposition Internationale des Arts
Le-Dantiyu, Mikhail V-asilevich (1891-1917), Décoratifs et Industriels Modernes,”’
79, 87, 92, 205 Paris, 1925, 149
Lef (Levyi front iskusstv) [Left Front of the Life (Byt), 237
Arts], Xxxvill, 139, 149, 166, 171, ‘“*Link,’’ Kiev, 1908, xxv, 10, 23
199-202, 225. 242, 244, 291 Lissitzky, El (Lazar Markovich, Lisitsky
Le Fauconnier, Henri Victor Gabriel (1890-1941), XXV1, XXXV, XXXVIIl, 138,
(1881-1946), 23, 60, 61, 95, 146 151-58, 205, 207, 215, 230, 239, 255,
Left Front of the Arts. See Lef 2G PX, PX)
Léger, Fernand (1881-1955), 60, 95 Literary Center of the Constructivists. See
Lenin, Vladimir Illich, pseudonym of Vladimir LTsK
Ilich Ulyanov (1870-1924), xxxiv, 161, Livshits, Benedikt Konstantinovich (1886—
164, 177, 182, 184, 190, 252, 253, 271, 1939),
69, 71, 78
272. 291, 293, 294, 296 LOA. See Leningrad
Lenin Library. Moscow. See Moscow Lobanov, Viktor Mikhailovich (1883-1970),
Leningrad 299, 300
Academy of Fine Arts, xix, xxxiV, 208, 254, Loginov, Konstantin Fedorovich, 243
284 Lomonosov, Mikhail Vasilevich (1711-65),
Academy of Transport, 255 75
Hermitage, 3, 165, 188 Lozowick, Louis (1892-1973), 291
IKhK (Institut khudozhestvennoi kultury) LTsK (Literaturnyi tsentr konstruktivistov)
{Institute of Artistic Culture], xxxvi, 116, {Literary Center of the Constructivists],
170, 197, 284 307
Institute of Railroad Transport Engineers, Luchishkin, Sergei Alekseevich (b. 1902),
255 238, 241, 280
LOA (Leningradskoe obshchestvo arkhitek- Lunacharsky, Anatoli: Vasilevich (1875-
torov) [Leningrad Society of Architects], 133). XXX OAs eT 7O le l7eeeoe =
255 185, 190-96, 214, 290
Monument to the Victims of the Revolution, Luppol, Ivan Kapitonovich (1896-1943), 292
195 Lvov, Petr Ivanovich (1882-1944), 282
Museum of Painterly Culture (also called Lyushin, Vladimir Ivanovich (1898-1970),
Museum of Artistic Culture), xxxvi, 240
150, 170
Pegoskuma (Petrogradskie gosudarstvennye
svovodno-khudozhestvennye uchebnye Mach, Ernst (1838-1916), 175
 Index | 365

Makovets, xxxix Menshutin, Nikolai Aleksandrovich (1899

Makovsky, Konstantin Egorovich (1839
1951), 243
1915), II Merezhkovsky, Dmitrii Sergeevich (1866—
Makovsky, Sergei Konstantinovich (1877- 1941), 3
1962), 298 Merkulov, Yurii Aleksandrovich (b. 1901),
Malevich, Kazimir Severinovich (1878-1935), 240
RXVE,, MXVIL) XXIXG) KK, XKKIL,) KXAN, Metzinger, Jean (1883-1956), 95, 103, 146
XXXIV, XXXV, XXXVI, XXXVIli, XXXiX, 3, 12, Michelangelo (Michel Angelo Buonarroti,
DAS TU TOS polOAGR 11052 Vln ht. 13s 1475-1564), III, 114, 121
114, 115, 116-35, 136, 138, 143-45, Mikhailov, Aleksei Ivanovich (1904-85),
ESTs W52, 1645, 170) 17.17 25.2308 234, 273
255, 282, 291 Miller, Grigorii Lvovich (1900-58), 239, 243
Malinovsky, Aleksandr Aleksandrovich. See Minkov, Mikhail Ivanovich. See Menkov,
Bogdanov, Aleksandr Aleksandrovich Mikhail Ivanovich
Malkov, Pavel Vasilevich (1900-53), 296 Mir iskusstva. See World of Art
Malraux, André (b. 1901), 292 Mirolyubova, Aleksandra Alekseevna (b.
Malyutin, Sergei Vasilevich (1859-1937), 265 1898), 239, 243
Mamontov, Savva Ivanovich (1841-1918), Miturich, Petr Vasilevich (1887-1956), 152,
XXi, XXil 208, 281
Mann, Klaus (1906-49), 292 Modigliani, Amedeo (1884-1920), 208
Marc, Franz (1880-1916), 92 Moholy-Nagy, Laszlo (1895-1946), 250, 274
Marinetti, Filippo Tommaso (1876-1944), Monet, Claude-Oscar (1840-1926), xxiii
XXVili, XXX, II, 116 Moor, Dmitrii Stakievich, pseudonym of
Markov, Vladimir Ivanovich, pseudonym of Dmitrii Stakievich Orlov (1883-1946),
Waldemars Matvejs (1877-1914), xxv, 273
XXX, XXXI, XXXil, II, 12, 23-38, 103, 116, Morgunov, Aleksei Alekseevich (1884-1935),
216, 285 XXV1
Markushev, 66 Morozov, Ivan Abramovich (1871-1921),
Marx, Karl (1818-83), 218, 293 XXVll, 187
Mashkoy, Ilya Ivanovich (1881-1944), xxix, Morris, William (1834-96), xxi
61, 63, 64, 65, 70, 73, 77, 114 Moscow
Masyutin, Vasilii Nikolaevich (1884-1955), Bolshakov Art College, 102
25 Café Pittoresque, 149
Matisse, Henri (1869-1954), xxvii, 58, 63, 65 Central Lenin Museum, 267
Matsa, Ivan Lyudvigovich (1893-1976), 239, Central Museum of the Soviet Army, 280
265, 268, 271, 273, 279, 282, 288 Communist Academy, 279
Matvejs, Waldemars. See Markov, Vladimir First State Textile Print Factory (formerly
Ivanovich Emil Tsindel’s Manufactory), 139, 146,
Matyushin, Mikhail Vasilevich (1861-1934), 249
XAKV, SAX, KAKI, RXV 23, 102, 114, -116, GAKhN_ (Gosudarstvennaya Akademiya
197 khudozhestvennykh nauk) [State Acad-
Meron Vladimir Vladimirovich (1893- emy of Artistic Sciences]. See
1930), xxxi, 61, 69, 71, 160, 161, 164, RAKhN
166, 194, 199, 230, 244, 250, 254, 284 Inkhuk (Institut khudozhestvennoi kultury)
Mazzini, Giuseppe (1805-72), 68 [Institute of Artistic Culture], xxxv, xxx-
Medunetsky, Konstantin Konstantinovich (b. Vii, XXXVill, I7, 19, 43, I14, 139, 146,
1899), XXXVili, 238 149, I5I, 153, I71, 197, 205, 215, 225,
Meerzon, Iosif Aizikovich (1900-41), 205 244, 248, 255
Meierkhold Theater. See Moscow, State Institute of Archaeology, 41
Higher Theater Workshop Institute of Blood Transfusion, 177
Meierkhold, Vsevolod Emilevich (1874- Institute of Engineering Economy, 253
1940), 60, 139, 146 Institute of Painting, Sculpture and Architec-
Menkov, Mikhail Ivanovich, xxxii, 110, I11, ture, xxxiv, 8, 41, 54, 55, 79, I16,
114, 135, 145 205
366 / Index

Moscow (continued) Museum of the Red Army and Navy, Moscow.

Kamernyi Theater (Chamber Theater), 242 See Moscow
Kazan Railroad Station, 306
Lenin Library, 78 Narkompros (Narodnyi komissariat pros-
Mossovet Building Institute (Building Insti- veshcheniya) [ People’s Commissariat for
tute for the Moscow Soviet of Workers’, Enlightenment], xxxiii, XXXIV, XXXvVill,
Peasants and Soldiers’ Deputies), 255 116, 149, 182-85, 186, 187, 196, 217,
Museum of Painterly Culture (also called 2185 226031230, 9232
Museum of Artistic Culture), 143 NEP (Novaya ekonomicheskaya politika)
Museum ofthe All-Union Central Council of (New Economic Policy], xxxix, 194, 195.
Trade Unions, 269 288
Museum of the Red Army and Navy, 269 Nero (emperor of Rome) (37-68), 125, 135
Palace of Labor, 195 Neue Kiinstlervereinigung, Die (The New Ar-
RAKhN_ (Rossiiskaya Akademiya khu- tists: Union). 17. 18. 23
dozhestvennykh nauk) [Russian Acad- New Artists’ Union, The. See Neue
emy of Artistic Sciences], xxxv, 17, 19, Kunstlervereinigung, Die
43, 196-98, 206, 225 New Economic Policy. See NEP
Society of Free Aesthetics, 54, 92 New Left Front of the Arts. See Novyi lef
Society of Orchestral Musicians, 182 New Society of Painters. See NOZh
State Higher Theater Workshop (Meierkhold Nietzsche, Friedrich (1844-1900), 304
Theater), 60, 242 Nikon, Patriarch (Minov, Nikita) (1605-81),
Stroganov Art School, xxxiv, 102, 139 301
Svomas (Svobodnye gosudarstvennye Nikritin. Solomon Borisovich (1898-1965).
khudozhestvennye masterskie) (Free State 241
Art Studios], xxxiv, 41, 114, 146, 189, ‘Nineteenth State Exhibition,” Moscow,
205, 209 1920, XXXVI, 43
Tretyakov Gallery, 44, 64, 67, 104, 266, Nivinsky, Ignatii Igantevich (1880-1933), 206
280, 289 “*No. 4,’ Moscow, I914, XXX, XXX1, 41, 54
TsIT (Tsentralnyi institut truda) [Central ‘“‘Non-Objective Creation and Suprematism.”’
Institute of Labor}, 230, 242 See ‘‘Tenth State Exhibition,’’ Moscow,
Vkhutein (Vysshii gosudarstvennyi 1919
khudozhestvenno-tekhnicheskii institut) Novitsky, Pavel Ivanovich (1888-1971), 273
(Higher State Art-Technical Institute], Novyi lef (Novyi levyi front iskusstv) [New Left
XXXIV, 41, 149, 255 Front of the Arts], 139, 149, 199, 230,
Vkhutemas (Vysshie gosudarstvennye 231, 244, 254
khudozhestvenno-tekhnicheskie masters- NOZh (Novoe obshchestvo zhivopistsev) [New
kie) (Higher State Art-Technical Studios], Society of Painters], xxxix
XXXIV, 41, 114, 139, 146, 186, 209, 237,
255 “‘o.10,’’ Petrograd, 1915-16, xxxii, 86, 102,
Yaroslav Railroad Station, 206 110, 112, 114, 116, 146, 161, 205
““Moscow Association of Artists,’’ xxvi Obmokhu (Obshchestvo molodykh khudozh-
““Moscow Salon,’ 66, 139 nikov) [Society of Young Artists], xxxvii,
Munch, Edvard (1863-1944), 25 XXXVili, 238
Munich Obolensky, Wladimir Andreevich (1890-
Polytechnicum Engineering School, 208 1954), 87
University, 208 October, xl, 215, 273-79, 288
Munter, Gabriele (1877-1962), 18 Odessa Art-School, 161, 254
Museum of Artistic Culture. See Museum of OKhRR (Obshchestvo khudozhnikov revolyut-
Painterly Culture sionnoi Rossii) [Society of Artists of
Museum of Painterly Culture. See Leningrad, Revolutionary Russia], 265
Moscow Okna ROSTA (Okna Rossiiskogo telegrafnogo
Museum of the All-Union Central Council of agentstva) [Display Windows of the Rus-
Trade Unions, Moscow. See Moscow sian Telegraph Agency], 160
 Index / 367

OMAKhR (Obedinenie “molodezhi AKhR) Proletkult (Proletarskaya kultura) (Proletarian

[Association of AKhR Youth], 265, 274 Gulture]}) XXXIV XXXVI, 1025 1645
Opoyaz (Obshchestvo poeticheskogo yazyka) 176-82. 183. 225. 230. 273
[Society of Poetical Language]. 244 Prusakov, Nikolai Petrovich (1900-54), 238.
OSA (Obedinenie sovremennykh arkhitek- 243
torov) [Association of Contemporary Pudovkin, Vsevolod Illarionovich (1893—
Architects], 215 1953). 244. 250
Osmerkin, Aleksandr Aleksandrovich (1890- Puni, Ivan Albertovich (Jean Pougny)
1953), 298 (1894-1956), XXXIl, XXXV, I10, IIT,
OST (Obshchestvo khudozhnikov-stan- Pie DUS Slss. lls 200 nw252
kovistov) [Society of Easel Artists], Punin, Nikolai Nikolaevich (1888-1953), Xxx,
XXXIX, 238, 279-81, 282 XXXV, XXXVI. XXXVII1, 139. 161, 164, 166,
Ostroukhov, Ilya Semenovich (1858-1929), 41 170-76
Puvis de Chavannes, Pierre (1824-98). xxiii,
Pankov, Ivan (b. 1889), 237 XX1V
Parkhomenko, Konstantin Kondratevich
(1897-1952), 238 Rabis. See Sorabis
Parkin, Varsonofii (Presumed pseudonym of Radakov, Aleksei Aleksandrovich (1879-
I. M. Zdanevich). 299 1942). 160
Pasternak, Boris Leonidovich (1890-1960), Radek, Karl (1885-1939), 292
60, 170, 292 Radimov, Pavel Aleksandrovich (1887-1967),
Pegoskhuma. See Leningrad 265
Penza Art Institute, 205 Radonezhsky, Sergii (Varfolomei Kirillovich)
People’s Commissariat for Enlightenment. See (d. 1391),
Narkompros RAKHN. See Moscow
Perov, Vasilii Grigorevich (1833-82), xx, 270 Raphael (Sanzio Raffaele) (1483-1520),
Pertsov, Viktor Osipovich (1898-1980), III
230-36 RAPKh (Rossiiskaya assotsiatsiya proletars-
Petrograd State Free Art Educational Studios. kikh khudozhnikov) [Russian Association
See Leningrad, Pegoskhuma of Proletarian Artists], 273, 288
Petrov-Vodkin, Kuzma Sergeevich (1878- RAPM (Rossiiskaya assotsiatsiya proletarskikh
1939), XXVii, 281 muzykantov) [Russian Association of Pro-
Petruzhkov, 243 letarian Musicians], 289
Pevsner, Antoine (Noton Pevzner) (1886— RAPP (Rossiiskaya assotsiatsiya proletarskikh
1962), XXXIV, XXXVlli, 208-14 pisatelei) [Russian Association of Pro-
Pevzner, Naum Neemia. See Gabo, Sir Naum letarian Writers], 199, 289
Picasso, Pablo (1881-1973), 60, 61, 62, 95, Read, Sir Herbert Edward (1893-1969), 208
97, 99, 176, 205, 226, 268 Redko, Kliment Nikolaevich (1897-1956),
Pimenov, Yurii Ivanovich (1903-77), 238, 241
279, 280 Ref (Revolyutsionnyi front) (Revolutionary
Pirosmanashvili, Niko (1862-1977), xxvi Front], 199
Plaksin, Mikhail (1898-1977), 241 Reger, Max (1873-1916), 298
Popova, Lyubov Sergeevna (1889-1924), Rembrandt, Harmenszoon van Rijn (1606-69),
XXXill, XXXV, XXXVil, XXXVill, 138, 139, 72, 73, 74, 251
146-48, 171, 204, 205, 244, 248, 249, Repin, Ilya Efimovich (1844-1930), Xx, XXII,
[il uOls 1305 270
255
Poret, Alisa Ivanovna (1902-84), 285 Rerberg, Fedor Ivanovich (1865-1938), 114
Pougny, Jean. See Puni, Ivan Albertovich Rerikh (Roerich), Nikolai Konstantinovich
Prakhov, Nikolai Adrianovich (1873-1957), 93 (1874-1947),
306
Projectionists, 238, 240-41 Revolutionary Front. See Ref
Proletarian Culture. See Proletarskaya kultura Richter, Hans (1888-1976), 239
Proletarskaya kultura (Proletarian Culture), Rivera, Diego (1886-1957), 273, 275
177, 178 Rodchenko, Aleksandr Mikhailovich (1891-
368 / Index

1956), XXxiii, XXXIV, XXXV, XXXVii, Sapunov, Nikolai Nikolaevich (1880-1912),

XXXVIIl,
43, 138, 139, 140, 148-51, 152, XXiVv, 2
199, 200, 204, 215, 216, 230, 244, 248, Saryan, Martiros Sergeevich (1880-1972),
250-54, 255, 273 XxiV, 282
Roerich, Nikolai. See Rerikh (Roerich), Schoenberg, Arnold (1874-1951), 12, 18
Nikolai Konstantinovich Second All-Russian Convention of Artists, St.
Romanovich, Sergei Mikhailovich (1894- Petersburg, 191 I-12, xxvi, 19
1968), 87 “Second All-Russian Folk Art Exhibition,”’
Roslavets, Nikolai Andreevich (1881-1944), St. Petersburg, 1913, 41
304 “Second _ Post-Impressionist Exhibition,”’
Rostislavov, Aleksandr Aleksandrovich (1860— London, 1912, 301
1920), 299 Sedelnikov, Nikolai Aleksandrovich (b. 1905),
Rousseau, Henri-Julien (le Douanier) 273
(1844-1910), 53, 97 Selvinsky, Ilya Lvovich (1899-1968), 307
Rovel, Henri, 18 Senkin, Sergei Yakovlevich (1894-1963),
Rozanova, Olga Vladimirovna (1886-1918), 248, 273
XXK EX NTI XRRIV eed TO Serov, Valentin Aleksandrovich (1865-1911),
102-110, III, 116, 135, 148, 285 KXii5 10
Rozhdestvensky, Vasilii Vasilevich (1884- Severyanin, Igor Vasilevich, pseudonym of
1963), XXVi, XXvili, 61, 65, 67 Igor Vasilevich Lotarev (1887-1941),
Rubinstein (Rubinshtein), Anton Grigorevich 302
(1829-94), 302 Shaginyan, Marietta Sergeevna (1888-
Rudnev, Lev Vladimirovich (1885-1956), 1982), 292
306 Shakespeare, William (1564-1616), 15
Ruisdael, Jacob Izaakszoon van (1628?—1682), Shapiro, Tevel Markovich (b. 1898), 205
16 Shchukin, Sergei Ivanovich (1854-1937),
Russian Academy of Artistic Sciences. See XXVil, 187
Moscow, RAKhN Shchusev, Aleksei Viktorovich (1873-1949),
‘*Russian Art Exhibition,’’ Berlin, 1922. See 305
“Erste Russische Kunstausstellung, Shekhtel, Fedor Osipovich (1859-1926), 306
Die,’’ Berlin, 1922 Shevchenko, Aleksandr Vasilevich (1882-
Russian Association of Proletarian Artists. See 1948), XXVi, XXX, XXxi, Xxiv, xl, 41-54,
RAPKh 87, 92, 217
Russian Association of Proletarian Musicians. Shinsky, Nikolai. See | Ryabushinsky
See RAPM (Shinsky), Nikolai Pavlovich
Russian Association of Proletarian Writers. See Shklovsky, Viktor Borisovich (1893-1984),
RAPP 291
Russian Museum, Leningrad. See Leningrad Shkolnik, Iosif Solomonovich (1883-1926),
Ryabushinsky (Shinsky), Nikolai Pavlovich 102, 284
(1876-1951), xxv, 6-8 “‘Shop,’’ Moscow, 1916, xxxill, 114, 116,
Ryabushinsky, Stepan Pavlovich (1874-1943), 146, 148, 205
4! Shpet, Gustav Gustavovich (1879-1940), 196,
197
SA (Sovremennaya arkhitektura) [Contem- Shterenberg, David Petrovich (1881-1948),
porary Architecture], 215, 273 XXXIV, XXXV, xli, 164, 186-90, 279
Sabaneev, Leonid Leonidovich (1881-1967), Shub, Esfir Iinichna (1894-1959), 273
197 Shukov, Viadimir Grigorevich (1853-1939),
“Salon 1 and 2,’’ Odessa and other cities Skryabin, Aleksandr Nikolaevich (1871I-
1909-10, Odessa,iI910-11, 17, 20, 23,25 1915), 12, 19
“‘Salon d’automne,”’ xxiii, 79, 186 Slavinsky, Yuvenal Mitrofanovich (1887-
“‘Salon des indépendants,’’ 66, 83 1936), 182-85
Sanina, Lidiya Mikhailovna (b. 1889), 243 Smirnov, Nikolai Grigorevich (1890-1933),
Sapegin, Mikhail Mikhailovich (1895-1953), 239, 243
243 Society of Artists of Revolutionary Russia. See
 Index | 369

OKhRR Aleksandr Yakovlevich Kornblit

Society of Easel Artists. See OST (1885-1950), 292
Society of Free Aesthetics, Moscow. See Mos- Talashkino, xxi, xxii, xxvii, 41
cow Tarabukin, Nikolai Mikhailovich (1899
Society of Orchestral Musicians, Moscow. See 1956),. XXXV, I7I, 215
Moscow ““Target,’’ Moscow, 1913, XXX, XXXi, 41, 79,
Society of Poetical Language. See Opoyaz 87, 91, 116
Society of Wandering Exhibitions. See Wan- Tatlin, Vladimir Evgrafovich (1885-1953),
derers XXV1, XXX, XXXIl, XXXill, XXXIV, XXXV,
Society of Young Artists. See Obmokhu XXXVI, XXXVili, XXxxix, xl, 18, I10, 146,
Solomon (king of Israel) (ca. 986 B.C.-ca. 149, 152, I7I, 205-208, 226, 230, 234,
933 B.C.), 167 291
Somov, Konstantin Andreevich (1869-1939), Telingater, Solomon Benediktovich (1903-
AKT eL25 69), 273
Sorabis (or Rabis) (Soyuz rabotnikov iskusstv) Tenishev Institute, St. Petersburg. See
(Union of Art Workers], 182-85 Leningrad ;
South lef. See Yugolef Tenisheva, Princess Mariya Klavdievna
Sovremennaya arkhitektura (Contemporary (1867-1928), xxi
Architecture). See SA “Tenth State Exhibition’’ (Non-Objective Cre-
Spandikov, Eduard Karlovich (1875-1929), 23 ation and Suprematism), Moscow, 1919,
Stalin, Iosif Vissarionovich, pseudonym of XXXVil, 102, 114, 138-51
Iosif | Vissarionovich Dzhugashvili TEO Narkompros (Teatralnyi otdel pri Narod-
(1879-1953), Xl, 289, 291, 293, 296 nom komissariate _ prosveshcheniya)
Stasov, Vladimir Vasilevich (1824-1906), xx [Department of Theater in the People’s
State Academy of Artistic Sciences. See Mos- Commissariat for Enlightenment], 214
cow, GAKhN Terentev, Igor Gerasimovich, 79
State Higher Theater Workshop. See Moscow Theater Section of Narkompros. See TEO
Steiner, Rudolf (1861-1925), 304 Narkompros
Stelletsky, Dmitrii Semenovich (1875-1947), Third (Communist) International. See
48 Comintern
Stenberg, Georgii Avgustovich (1900-33), Titian (Tiziano Vecellini) (1477-1576), 111
XXXVill, 237, 238 Titov, Boris Borisovich (1897-1951), 264
Stenberg, Vladimir Avgustovich (1899- Toller, Ernst (1893-1939), 292
1982), XXXVili, 237, 238 Tolstoi, Lev Nikolaevich (1828-1910), 16
Stepanova, Varvara Fedorovna (also known by Toot (Tott or Tuot), Viktor Sigizmundovich
the pseudonyms Agarykh and Varst) (1893-1963), 273
(1894-1958), XXXV, XXxxVil, XxxvVili, 138, ‘‘Tramway V,’’ Petrograd, 1915, Xxxli, 86,
139-42, 148, 204, 215, 244, 248, 249, 102, 112, 114, 116, 146, 205
250, 273 Trapani, A., 93
Stirner, Max, pseudonym of Joseph Kaspar Tretyakov Gallery, Moscow. See Moscow
Schmidt (1806-56), 149 Tretyakov, Pavel Mikhailovich (1832-98), xx
**Store.’’ See ‘*‘Shop”’ Tretyakov, Sergei Mikhailovich (1892-1939),
Stroganov Art School, Moscow. See Moscow 199, 250, 291
Suetin, Nikolai Mikhailovich (1897-1954), Troitse-Sergieva Lavra, Zagorsk. See Zagorsk
XXXVI, 307 Trubetskoi, Prince Paolo Petrovich (1867-
Sukhovo-Kobylin, | Aleksandr Vasilevich 1938), 54
(1817-1903), 139 Tryaskin, Nikolai Andrianovich (b. 1902), 241
Supremus, 148 Tsentrifuga (Centrifuge), 60
Surikov, Vasilii Ivanovich (1850-1921), xx, Tsindel’s Textile Factory or Manufactory. See
270 Moscow, First State Textile Print Factory
Svomas, Moscow. See Moscow Tsionglinsky, Yan Frantsevich (1858-1912),
Svomas, Petrograd. See Leningrad 23
TsIT. See Moscow
Tairov, Aleksandr Yakovlevich, pseudonym of Tugendkhold, Yakov Aleksandrovich (1882-
370 / Index

1928), XXviii, xxxix Visual Arts Section of Narkompros. See IZO

Tyrsa, Nikolai Adrianovich (1887-1942), 282 Narkompros
Tyshler, Aleksandr Grigorevich (1898— Vitebsk Art School, 116, 151
1980), XXxIx, 238, 241, 279, 280 Vkhutein. See Moscow
Vkhutemas. See Moscow
Udaltsova, Nadezhda Andreevna (1885- VOAPP (Vsesoyuznoe obedinenie assotsiatsii
1961), XXXili, XXXiV, 146, 205 proletarskikh __ pisatelei) [All-Union
Uitz, Béla (1887-1969), 273 Association of Associations of Proletarian
Union of Art Workers. See Sorabis Writers], 289
Union of the New Art. See Unovis Volkov, Boris Ivanovich (1900-70), 240
‘Union of New Trends in Art,’’ Petrograd, VOPRA (Vsesoyuznoe obedinenie proletars-
1922, XXXVi kikh arkhitektorov) [All-Union Associa-
‘Union of Russian Artists,’’ 108 tion of Proletarian Architects], 308
Union of Soviet Artists, 288 Voroshilov, Kliment Efremovich (1881-
Union of Soviet Writers, 290, 296 1969), 289, 291
Union of Youth, xxv, xxix, xxx, 8, II, 12, 23, Vpered (Forward), 176, 182
24, 25; 69; 79, 89, 102, 107, 110, 112, Vrubel, Mikhail Aleksandrovich (1856-1910),
114, 116, 161, 205, 284 xxi, XXii, IO, II, 93, 208
University of St. Petersburg. See Leningrad Vsekokhudozhnik (Vserossiiskii kooperativ
Unkovskaya (Zakharina-Unkovskaya), Alek- khudozhnikoy) [All-Russian Co-operative
sandra Vasilevna.(1859-19??), 12 of Artists], 182, 288
Unovis (Uniya novogo iskusstva OR Utver- Vsevobuch (Vseobshchee voennoe obuchenie)
diteli novogo iskusstva) [Union of the (General Military Instruction], 192
New Art OR Affirmers of the New Art], Vyalov, Konstantin Aleksandrovich (1900—
116, 152 76), 238, 240
Uspensky, Petr Demyanovich (1878-1947),
103 Wanderers, xx, xxi, XxiV, 10, II, 61, 108, 132,
Utamaro, Kenkyukai (1753?-1806), 63, 94 265, 270
Utkin, Petr Savvich (1877-1934), 18 Watteau, Antoine (1684-1721), 94
Weininger, Otto (1880-1903), 149
Werefkin, Marianne von (Marianna
Van Dongen, Kees (1877-1968), 65 Vladimirovna Verevkina (1860-1938), 18
Vanetsian, Aram Vramshapu (1901-71), 243 Whitman, Walt (1819-92), 91, 93, 94, 149
Van Gogh, Vincent (1853-90), xxix, II, 65, Wiiralt, Eduard. See Virralt, Eduard
108 Wilde, Oscar (1854-1900), 47
Varst. See Stepanova, Varvara Fedorovna Williams-Ellis, Amabel (1894-1984), 292
Vasileva, Mariya Ivanovna (1884-1957), 161 World of Art (Mir iskusstva), xxi, xxii, xxiii,
Vasnetsov, Viktor Mikhailovich (1848-1926), XXIV,XXV, 3,4, 11,18, 41,61, 66, 108, 291
xxi, Xxii Worringer, Wilhelm (1881-1965), 23, 24
Vertov, Dziga, pseudonym of Denis Arkade- ““Wreath,’’ 12
vich Kaufman (1896-1954), 250
Veshch/Gegenstand/Objet, xxxv, 151 Yakovlev, Ivan Pavlovich, 243
Vesnin, Aleksandr Aleksandrovich (1883- Yakulov, Georgii Bogdanovich (1884-1928),
1959), XXXVii, XXxix, 138, 146, 152, Xxvi, 66, 67, 149
205, 248, 255, 273 Yaremich, Stepan Petrovich (1869-1939), 298
Vesnin, Viktor Aleksandrovich (1882-1950), Yaroshenko, Nikolai Aleksandrovich (1846—
273 98), 61
Viiralt (Wiiralt), Eduard (1898-1954), 25 Young October, 274
Viktorov, 249 Yugolef (South lef), 199
Vilyams, Petr Vladimirovich (1902-47), 238, Yuon, Konstantin Fedorovich (1875-1958),
240, 279 139, 265
Vinci, Leonardo da (1452-1519), 15, 236
Vinogradov, Pavel Mikhailovich, 205 Za proletarskoe iskusstvo (For Proletarian Art),
Visual Art. See Izobrazitelnoe iskusstvo 273
 Index “{- 371

Zagorsk. Troitse-Sergieva Lavra, 300 Zhivskulptarkh (Kollektiv zhivopisno-

Zdanevich, Ilya (Ilyazde) Mikhailovich (also skulpturno-arkhitekturnogo sinteza)
known by the pseudonyms Eli Egan- [Collective of Painting-Sculpture-
byuri and Varsonofii Parkin) (1984- Architecture Synthesis], 43, 255
1975), 78, 79-83, 87 Zhukovsky, Stanislav Yulianovich (1873-
Zdanevich, Kirill Mikhailovich (1892- 1944), 146
1970), 79, 87 Zimin, Sergei Ivanovich (1875-1942), 302
Zelinsky, Kornelii Lyutsianovich (1896— Zolotoe runo (Golden Fleece), xxv, xxvii, 3,
1970), 307 TO; E1,,01
Zhdanov, Andrei Aleksandrovich (1896- Zurich University, 182
1948), 290, 291, 292-94
 Is
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a RUSSIAN ART
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AVANT GARDE®
THEORY AND CRITICISM 1902-1934

EDITED AND TRANSLATED BY JOHN E. BOWLT

REVISED AND ENLARGED EDITION

During the first third of the twentieth century, Russian art went through a
series of dramatic changes, reflecting the political and social upheavals of the
country and producing — for a brief, exciting period — a body of avant-garde
work whose influence would eventually be felt throughout the rest of the
world. A new generation of young artists arose. Eagerly breaking with the past
and absorbing the innovations of Europe — Fauvism, Cubism and Futurism —
they developed a host of fresh ideas and original styles, such as Neo-
primitivism, Rayonism, Suprematism and Constructivism.
Although the revolutionary years saw much support of the new art and its
application to graphic and industrial design, many artists felt the increasingly
oppressive attitudes of political officials and left for Western Europe, taking
their ideas with them. Kandinsky, Malevich, Gabo, Pevsner and others are well
known for their important contribution to the history of modern Western art,
but there were many lesser-known artists whose individual and group state-
ments have never been read outside their own country.
This stimulating anthology will be indispensable for everyone interested in
contemporary Russian art. John Bowlt has collected and translated manifes-
tos, articles and declarations by the principal artists and critics of the Russian
avant-garde— including Kandinsky, Lissitsky, Malevich, Goncharova and Rod-
chenko, to name only a few. Illustrated with more than 100 rare photographs
and facsimiles and supplemented by clear introductory essays, up-to-date
bibliographical information and copious notes, this is the essential source-
book for a clear understanding of the motivations and struggles that produced
an extraordinary, seminal epoch in Russian art.
John Bowlt is internationally renowned for his extensive publications on
Russian art and culture ofthis period. He is Professor of Russian Language and
Literature and Director of the Institute of Modern Russian Culture at the Uni-
versity of Southern California, Los Angeles.

With 105 i//ustrations

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On the cover: Beat the Whites with the Red Wedge.
Poster by El Lissitsky, 1919. Lenin Library, Moscow.

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