The current background situation is oppressive, particularly for an exhibition of Soviet art with a historical intent: on 9 May 2008, for the first time since 1990, heavy military equipment will roll over the Red Square for the traditional parade on the »Day of Victory«, tanks and an atomic intercontinental missile will be paraded past state leaders, and strategic bombers will thunder over Moscow’s city centre. There are questionable developments in historical discourses as well. In the past few months, revisionist tendencies have gained noticeably in influence. In connection with Andrezei Waida’s film »Katyn«, semi-official media even called into doubt the massacre carried out on Polish officers by the Soviet secret service in 1940. In 2007 the Russian Education Ministry approved a text book that tries at times to justify Stalinist repressions. And at the end of February/beginning of March, the state-run army TV station »Zvezda« (»Star«) stuck up Stalin posters all over Moscow: in the documentary made for the 55th anniversary of the Soviet party leader’s death, he didn’t come off badly at all.

But even in an exhibition for the 90th anniversary of the »Red Army« (1918-1948; subsequently »Soviet Army«), Stalin appears prominently – one could say, too prominently. The venue is a spacious location not far from the Lubyanka secret service headquarters: the cultural foundation »Ekaterina«, named after the wife of a real estate magnate, which has organised the exhibition in connection with the publishing programme of a metallurgy company.

But now to the content: in the section »Exercises/Manoeuvres«, the thematically structured exhibition displays three large paintings, each showing Stalin in the company of loyal subordinates. Inevitably, Dmitri Kardoski’s »I. V. Stalin and Members of the Politburo during Manoeuvres« (1933), Pyotr Malcev’s »The Meeting with the Heroic Crew« (1936) and Konstantin Vyalov’s »I. V. Stalin and K. E. Vorosilov at the cruiser ›Red Ukraine‹« (1933) are executed in the manner of socialist realism, which in the early thirties had become the prevailing style – partly as a result of the enforced conformity in the artistic sphere - and a central instrument of propaganda. Of the some fifty pictures and few dozen posters on display, socialist realism makes up around a third. And Iosif Stalin and the army commander Kliment Vorosilov (1881-1969), who is often depicted at his side, are the most frequently depicted historical figures. Vorosilov, who was People’s Commissar for Defence between 1925 and 1940, is accorded a central role in the discourse on army and art: he was one of the few leading Soviet politicians to be actively interested in the artistic process. One consequence of this was the creation of a studio for soldier-artists in the 1920s: »Red Army Studio« (1928) – the title of this painting by Serafima Rjagina gave the exhibition its title. And artists repaid Vorosilov with flattering portraits. For example, in 1937, the then »court painter« Isaak Brodkiz painted a flawless portrait of the army commander as a peaceful Nordic skier in a magnificent Breughel-esque winter landscape. But away from the pathetic 1930s, the curators Zelfira Tregulova and Iosif Bakstejn also showed art from before the time of social realist conformity, such as »Remembrance/Wake«, a picture by the famous symbolist Kuzma Petrov-Vodkin, who in »After the Battle« (1923) on no account tries to conceal his avant-garde roots. Post-war art is also on display, for example by Gelii Kozev, who, with pacifist impetus, has painted a face destroyed by war in »Soldier. From the series ›People Burnt by the Fire of War‹« (1957-60). Finally, there are also many works by the contemporary generation of artists, including Sergei Sutov’s psychedelic aeroplane picture »Sunset« (2003), sober works by Vladimir Kustov, who has photographed former tank trenches in his landscape pictures »Panorama of War« (2005) and Georgi Guryanov’s painting »Kronstadt« (1998-2003), in which the St. Petersburg neo-academist portrays a Soviet sailor of the 1920s with a complete lack of detachment.

But what perhaps remains invisible in the exhibition itself is a clear critical standpoint. For example, it is disturbing that the Russian civil war (1917-23) – the most frequently shown subject in the exhibition besides the Great Fatherland War (1941-45) -, in which war crimes were prevalent over long periods, is not scrutinised at all, thus perpetuating in uncritical fashion the official propagandistic version of the Soviets. This has to do with the inventories of Russian museums: even Leo Trotsky, the founder of the »Red Army«, who was frequently portrayed in the early twenties but later fell out of favour, is completely absent for this reason – his portraits were obviously removed from state collections. But references to problematic aspects of Soviet and recent Russian history are also lacking; the wars in Afghanistan and Chechnya do not get a look in at all. The texts put up in the exhibition space regarding the various military subjects also turn out to be problematic: the curators have sometimes displayed dictionary entries about »warrior/hero«, »victory/festival« etc., mostly taken from the arguably most Stalinist lexicon, »Dictionary of the Russian Language« by Dmitri Usakov. And, apart from rare disturbing exceptions – such as Sergei Bratkov’s photographic triptych »Landing Party« (2002), which shows the annually drunken paratroopers on August 2, Paratroopers’ Day – the exhibition seems a little like commissioned propaganda. This is an impression that the exhibition designer, Yuri Avvakumov, rejected. And, indeed, the matter is very complicated. For a long while, the exhibition looked like it would fall through – works from state collections are not allowed to be shown at other venues without political permission. For example, the ministry refused to permit »Aerial Photograph« (2003) by Alexandr and Olga Florenski to be put on – Avvakumov spoke publicly of »censorship«. In this seemingly harmless series of photographs, the two artists re-enacted military scenes with toy planes. This is probably why practically all the contemporary works in »Red Army Studio« come from private collections. Moreover, Avvakumov points to the catalogue article by the art historian Faina Balachovskaya, which critically examines the interplay between artist and army. However, the exhibition itself seems more or less to lack such an examination. In view of the contexts I have mentioned, the average viewer or even Mikhail Gorbachev, who visited the opening, will see the show as extremely affirmative. A situation that reminds one very much of past Soviet times. Back then, critical remarks by the intelligentsia were mostly concealed or made indirectly on the side, for example in footnotes. Now they do it in articles in the catalogue.

 

Translated by Timothy Jones

 

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