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TITLE: 'Art that Bows and Scrapes: On the Annual Exhibition at the Academy of Arts' (1863) (1)
AUTHOR: I.I. Dmitriev
THIS VERSION: Copyright © 2002 Carol Adlam; all rights reserved. Notes by Carol Adlam and Robert Russell.
Redistribution, or republication of this text in any medium requires the consent of the
translator.
The saying 'neither Bogdan in the town, nor Selifan in the village' may still be perfectly well applied to our artists. (2) In the town they are still, to some extent, Bogdans: a small need for them is perceptible, at least for those who have managed to earn a certain reputation, to make a career for themselves. Those other, insignificant, unrecognised artists in the cities have no option but glumly to sing a saccharine ditty for their supper: How can I be happy, so lowly and obscure? I'm neither clever nor amusing, but oh, whom can I lure! For some time now famous people have been fashionable, which is why chartered artists gain easy access to the most luxurious of drawing-rooms. There is supreme satisfaction to be gained by some portly tax-farmer or other in leading a chartered artist up to a prominent aristocrat after a banquet and saying: "I beg to draw your Excellency's gracious attention to Mr Kartoshin, (3) the crowning glory of Russian art: he has painted a picture of the building of the Tower of Babel...". [...] Many such artists so relish these 'post-banquet' introductions that they make it the chief aim of their activity to win the favour of various aristocrats as often as possible. From then on all their work is oriented towards this seductive goal. This idea is clearly perceptible in every painting, however diverse the subject-matter: whether in the warlike figure of a hussar leaning on a sabre, or a naked woman in voluptuous abandon, one fundamental, importunate theme clamours for attention: "I beg your Excellency's favour, which for me is more precious than anything in the world..." Thus the initial attempt by artists to try to formulate at least some sort of meaning with regard to their work has failed utterly. Art has become well-known as a functionary, servile practice, a sort of poorly-composed memorandum in form, an extremely fruitless, insignificant affair comprising a multitude of senseless reports, references, letters, transactions and so forth. Despite this, many artists have stopped at this point, believing their mission to have been accomplished. It was sufficient for them that they had become interesting personalities, that their pictures were bought at a high price and perfunctorily displayed on the walls of aristocratic drawing rooms and galleries [...]. Dazzled by these honours, artists ceased to work, and in their complacency they began proudly to recite Pushkin's lines to themselves: I have erected a monument to myself not built by hands; the track to it, trodden by the people, shall not be overgrown. (4) But clearly the path to their frequently pretentious monuments has never been trodden by the people: the people did not know and did not even want to know these servile chartered artists. And if artists in the cities are 'Bogdans' to a certain extent, then by no means are they 'Selifans' in the villages. Selifan is close to the people in spirit, bone-deep, he is flesh of their flesh and blood of their blood, he identifies with their needs; he helps the people because he understands that what benefits the people benefits him, that the people's wellbeing is his wellbeing. But the people have not the slightest need for the work of our artists in its present condition. The peasant has had his fill of these aristocrats' flirtations with their 'little brothers', their inappropriate and insulting endearments, their endless variations on the theme that, 'you, peasant, are stupid, you live in misery, your lot is hard and your suffering is great, and therefore I want to ease your grief, to introduce you to tender and sweet feelings, and you, barbarian, must understand what a great sacrifice I am making for you...'. These aristocrats do not understand and do not want to understand that a person must first of all be given a piece of bread, must be fed, before he is taken to the ballet, for instance, and expected to be satisfied by watching how masterfully the dancers stand on one foot while tracing various patterns in the air with the other. But few artists share such objectionable attitudes, progressive though they were in comparison with those that preceded them insofar as they at least articulated an (unsuccessful) attempt to make art a useful rather than trivial activity. Most artists still adhere to the time-honoured view of art and of the significance of artistic activity inherited from their predecessors; i.e., that art must give the highest aesthetic pleasure to the nobility and to the rich who have the means to buy works of art. Therefore art must be modest, respectful of its superiors, and obedient to the powerful; furthermore, because de gustibus non est disputandum, (5) art must for the most part aim to ingratiate itself with the taste of connoisseurs and experts, whatever the dubious qualities of this taste. Thus it is not only expected, but openly suggested, that artists should poeticise motives of the most reprehensible kind if this is what pleases their superiors - the most precious patrons of whom are mainly tax-farmers. Further, they should avoid depicting scenes which may provoke reflection about the dangers of a civilisation based upon the principle that 'might is right', or about the precariousness of undeserved prosperity and of arbitrary force. (6) But, most importantly, an artist must by all means possible listen for, watch for and sniff out those subjects which arrest the enlightened attention of the connoisseurs and experts of the moment, and must reflect their feelings and sympathies in his works, constantly introducing them at the heart of his creation... [...] Connoisseurs and experts demanded that the artists infuse their works with a fresh spirit, in order somehow to stir their dull feelings, to move them, to compel them to sympathise with something and to shed their precious - yet worthless - tears. As expected, artists paid sincere and respectful heed to this suggestion, and with an equal devotion and zeal began to draw pictures depicting human calamities and sorrows, but only such calamities and sorrows that would make hearts melt with a most pleasing sympathy, rather than arouse energetic protest or indignation. Hence we have a series of pictures depicting the woes of humble peasants because of poverty and laziness, officials' misfortunes because of their drunkenness, proletarians' hunger because of their inability rigorously to perform the service of the state and to obey their superiors... Touching pictures of death from the common cold or from carelessness in not wearing galoshes and flannel jerseys were drawn, as well as other miseries. In short, a wide variety of human grief, sorrow and misery was depicted, but they were depicted somehow too unctuously, too sweetly, so that it became sickening to look at these miserable unfortunates. [...] Satire also appears, albeit satire that is both harmless and loyal, and which cannot compete with the power of the police in weeding out ill-doing. Rather, this satire has extended an amicable hand to the police, has immersed itself in the point of view of the petty local police officer, and has then turned its attention to petty and not-so petty criminals. Satire should not cast vulgarity and nonsense, in whatever social stratum they might appear, in a bad light: satire is instead no more than a witty, harmless joke made by a witty and loyal gentleman. It must show, in an amusing form, the tiny flaws of tiny people, from a district police-officer to, perhaps, a town governor: any further advance behind the scenes, however, is strictly prohibited. And this advance is prohibited because behind that district police-officer and that town governor stand the art connoisseurs and experts, i.e., the buyers. District police-officers and town governors do not buy pictures, or even if they were to do so, then they would buy a cheap popular print showing Pentefrii's beautiful wife, (7) or crooked-nosed, big-breasted women in a seraglio, or a satire on a secretary or recorder in the local magistrate's court. And in any case, it is unpleasant for a tax-farmer, for example, to buy a picture for a fairly large price which clearly shows the perils of drunkenness and the evil of the systematic poisoning of the orthodox people by drink that is saturated with the most dangerous of spices. Not everyone would dare to make such a brave purchase; for then it would turn out that not only is my tongue my enemy, so to speak, but so too is my money. [...] So here they are: our art and its agents. One might ask: what benefit has this art, which has rarely progressed beyond the ability to draw eyes, ears and noses, brought to society and the people? What have the Russian people gained from the Academy of Arts in its century of existence? Where might one find even the smallest useful results or even just hints of such results, that have been borne by our art? The answer is a negative one. Art has not brought any benefit to the people, has not given any content, because it has itself been empty, and has not brought any element of education into life. Here, from the beginning, it was a plaything for the rich and the powerful and it has remained as such to this day: neither a real activity, nor a vital necessity, but only a pernicious triviality... And these unattractive features will remain in art until at last it begins to follow a straight and honest path, until it stops 'burning incense' and being idle. Art must benefit the people and must be needed by the people, and clearly it will not achieve this by means of its useless, ancient ways. |