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| A Labyrinth of Possibilities Sniedze Sofija Kāle, Art Historian Exhibition Paintings in Latvia 1950. – 1990. from collection of The Artists’ Union of Latvia 19.05.–15.08.2010. Riga Art Space | |
| The project Painting in Latvia 1950–1990 (curator Inga Šteimane, on show at Riga Art Space) is one of the most interesting artistic events of recent times in Latvia, raising a slew of problematic issues which deserve closer investigation. The author of this article belongs to the younger generation without any conscious memories of the unpleasant realities of Soviet life, and is therefore free from any prejudices regarding the art of this period. For a brief period it was evident that there were highly categorical interpretations of Soviet art. The first reaction was a logical negation of the past i.e. ignoring official and ideological art. In its place, with regard to the past, there was and often still is an exclusive emphasis on progressive art that flowed in line with the spirit of the age, thereby demonstrating Latvia as belonging to the Western European cultural space. The renewal of Latvia’s independence was an opportunity for art to be emancipated as a value in and of itself, and, freed of the strictures of formalism, to exercise its right to existence. Soviet-era historians and critics tried to prove the kinship of art from the said period to socialist realism, but today efforts are made to demonstrate that virtually the same material followed Western progressive trends. This first counter-reaction was followed by a revision of Stalinism, the most striking and potent stage of Soviet ideology. The most durable of these versions can be found in the studies conducted by art historian Igors Gološtoks, which allowed for an interpretation of the achievements of creative personalities as a constituent part of the mechanism propping up official ideology. For example, painting was used to perpetuate in society various myths: of prosperity, about the significance of revolutionary history etc. However, even a casual analysis of Soviet art reveals that this interpretative version exploits a number of exaggerations and emphasises just one strand. In contrast, the exhibition created by Inga Šteimane is a truly significant and courageous approach to the interpretation of Soviet art, because the curator has avoided the previous binary division and instead offers a view of our past as a body whole. The chosen conception whereby “the selection of works was based on the criterion of artistic quality” has inherent in it both positive and negative aspects. Taking into account the issue of cultural survival so relevant today, an ambitious plan had been aired in the public arena: to show Soviet-era artworks not seen in permanent displays since the 1990s and to attract thousands of viewers. However, despite a considerable advertising campaign, only the odd visitor can be detected among the labyrinthine walls of the exhibition space. If the aim of the exhibition was to attract hordes of viewers, then it can be considered to be a failure, taking into account a number of considerations. Firstly, Riga Art Space is excessively saturated with powerful canvases. While this may not be a barrier for seasoned art lovers, it may be a problem for the less experienced. Although the curator’s motivation in exhibiting over 500 works from the Artists’ Union of Latvia collection is clear, the initial criterion of quality is occasionally overshadowed by sheer quantity: that is, it is difficult to appreciate the uniqueness of works hung in such close physical proximity. The labyrinthine web of linen canvases and the dense layout of the works is a neat quotation from Soviet domestic life, when the popularity of art and public demand exceeded the capacity for exhibiting it, yet this conceptual approach does not make it any easier to appreciate the works. Secondly, while an art expert will find it highly interesting to follow the changes which are reflected in the paintings, the ordinary viewer will miss these observations because of the paucity of textual materials accompanying the exhibition. Only a viewer with prior knowledge will understand the highly generalised annotations, with concentrated wording encapsulating processes spanning many decades. Thirdly, if the exhibition aspires to achieve the status of being a permanent exhibition of Soviet painting, then, despite the conceptual aim of not separating official and unofficial art, it would be important to textually describe the context of the Soviet regime in which the Latvian Artists’ Union and its members were working. The curator’s selfless determination to correct some deficiencies in the presentation of Latvian art history is commendable. It is absurd that Latvian artworks from the second half of the 20th century and contemporary art cannot be viewed anywhere. Considering the government’s strategies, it would be foolish to speak of persons interested in art. However, in order to attract an important audience – tourists – fairytales are written on websites or at best the streets are decorated with little rubberised flags, but nobody has given any thought to the capital investments which would heighten Latvia’s cultural profile. Back in 2007, a plan was developed for the reconstruction of the Arsenāls exhibition space of the National Art Museum, which anticipated moving the collection to other premises, thereby freeing up space for a permanent display of contemporary art from the second half of the 20th century. However, in 2010 this plan is no longer in force. Meanwhile the leaking roof problem of the Creative Workshop has been patched over with plaster and white paint, with the highly-regarded ornamental rosettes of this architectural monument of national importance demurely crumbling into green safety nets. At a time when the other Baltic countries have built new facilities, specially constructed to serve as modern museums, our attempts to attract cultural tourists are risible – unless these tourists are interested in looking at Latvians sitting in trees. | |
 View from the exhibition. Photo: Martins Vizbulis | |
| For me as an art professional, the labours of Inga Šteimane offered an exciting opportunity to see ‘in the flesh’ a wide range of paintings which I had previously only seen in poor Soviet era reproductions, and to discover entirely new canvases, hitherto unseen. This brings us to another problem that the curator has successfully resolved: winning the right to display works held by the Latvian Artists’ Union. It seems unbelievable that an organisation created by the Soviet government and financed by the state enterprise ‘Māksla’ (‘Art’) and public funds, and its property as well, should suddenly belong to individual members of the Latvian Artists’ Union. While private ownership might be a positive factor in the preservation of property, part of the value of an artwork, unlike gold, resides in its circulation. As long as sculptures, paintings and graphics are kept hidden in storage, they remain objects gathering dust rather than works of art that inspire, generate research and promote understanding about the heritage of the past. The curator’s undertaking to display and popularise works held by the Latvian Artists’ Union – which, judging by its indolent exhibition policy, is not of pressing importance to its members – deserves the utmost respect. Apart from the aforementioned problematic considerations, which are not directly linked to the exhibition but must be noted in evaluating the overall scheme, the chronological treatment could be debated. In the text introducing the 1950s section, the curator mentions that the tradition of painting from Latvia’s first period of independence was important. But when selecting the chronology, it should be taken into account that 1950 also carries other associations. Until the late 1940s and early 1950s, painters really did continue with the previous school of painting which, in the words of art historian Andris Teikmanis, could be viewed as “the long 1930s” in the overall history of Latvian art. But from the early 1950s onwards artists increasingly began to work in line with the requirements of official ideology; this, however, is virtually ignored by the exhibition. The structure chosen for the exhibition, with the artworks arranged by decades, styles and subject matter, successfully demonstrates the interaction and convergence of official and freer painting. Only in a few of the labyrinth’s sections can the thematic imposition can be discerned. One of the most expressive sections, which brings together a number of canvases from the late 1960s and early 1970s, is devoted to the anti-war theme. Most works on the official subject are enhanced with a free painterly language, using eloquent means of expression in the colouring (‘Stolen Childhood’ by Velta Ozola (1968), ‘Comrades in Struggle’ by Valentīns Mironovs (1967)), or combining it with a dynamic compositional rhythm (‘Latvians’ by Arturs Mucenieks (1967), ‘Songmi will not help’ by Teodors Uldriķis (1971)). The examples mentioned clearly show the development of socialist realism: while continuing to depict officially sanctioned topics, artists made use of the opportunity to employ stylisation suitable to the composition, thus heightening the emotional tone. The universal human experience, best portrayed in the victims’ faces, was brought to the fore, rather than the idea of the evil enemy. It is interesting that the purest period for creating thematic works (the Stalin era), when even the means of painterly expression were strictly supervised so as to comply with the Peredvizhniki realistic tradition, left a great many works of optimistic mood. Khrushchev’s ‘thaw’ melted the formal approach, instead demanding from artists emotionally felt representations of themes, and many artists willingly did so by selecting appropriate forms of expression; painterly language was able to breathe relatively freely. It should be noted that a moderate degree of stylisation in landscapes was possible even under Stalin, because, for example, the industrial scenes extolling Soviet development were useful material for colourful expressiveness which artists continued to exploit later on (as in the superb painting ‘Also in the North’ by Henrijs Klēbahs (1963)). The most absorbing period which the exhibition’s democratic approach allows us to discover begins after artistic freedom was wrested during Khrushchev’s thaw, because it offers a glimpse of the complex relationship between approved topics and formal guidelines. We see, for instance, divergence from the prescribed subject when depicting ordinary everyday life. For example, ‘Still Life on the Windowsill’ by Jūlijs Viļumainis (1960) shows the construction of the Āgenskalna priedes residential project in the background, but this is only a part of what is observed, rather than the main focus. Or there may be a full-scale focus on observations of the artist’s personal space, which has no statute of limitations in art history (later examples are ‘Morning Callisthenics’ by Ilze Pauliņa and ‘Sunshine in the Hospital Ward’ by Ieva Iltnere (both works from 1989)). In some canvases the heightened formal expression became a value in itself. The artist, it seems, used the thematic guide-lines as camouflage for a daring raised surface of paint texture, as can be observed in ‘War’ (1970) by Gunārs Cilītis. Painters could focus on topics previously unexamined, thus as if avoiding repetition, for example by depicting hitherto ‘unsung’ professions, of which, it seems, the most popular were the militia [police] (‘The Discovered Collection’ (1975–1976) by Mihails Korņeckis, ‘Night Call’ (1977) by Konstantīns Andrejevs, ‘Identification of a Person’ (1981) by Aleksandrs Kotļarovs). In a number of canvases the artists have taken a retrospective approach, these forming the quirkiest group of works. One of the most striking examples is ‘In the Name of the Revolution’ (1982) by Mihails Korņeckis. The subject matter of the painting is plainly linked to the appropriation of property held by the previous rulers, and supposedly justified by the revolutionary idea. Despite the considerable passage of time between the creation of the work and the events it describes, the artist has selected an approach that revives the course of bygone events as comprehensively as possible. Possibly the motivation for such a work being produced may have been a desire to address forbidden chapters of history missing from the lists of approved topics, which at the time was not regarded favourably. A work by Nikolajs Kūlainis – ‘Riga Burning in 1941’ (1975), in spite of the seemingly neutral genre of landscape, can be viewed in this same context. During World War II, Latvian artists avoided reflecting on what was happening around them, so later there was an opportunity to return to the events of the past. The burning of Riga during the war, the subject chosen by Kūlainis, was probably selected with the aim reminding and remembering an already much-covered aspect of World War II or the Great Patriotic War from an apparently documentary standpoint, yet the passing of a considerable period of time changes the perception of the work and stops us from taking it seriously. In a number of canvases from the late 1970s and early 1980s the artists have repeated previously treated themes through highly focussed interpretations, where the only new contribution is the characteristic painterly language, for example ‘Against War’ (1985) by Vija Zariņa. While looking at canvases like this, one is most often led to think of the stubborn repetition of a theme without any thought to the particular meaning of it which is apparently being proclaimed, yet in reality turns out to be no more than an emperor with no clothes. The last of the approaches mentioned should be set aside when viewing, for example, the paintings of Igors Korti, because he takes a consistent approach to wartime memories, just as is manifested in ‘Those Touched by Eternity’ (1984) by Valters Uztičs and other artists’ canvases. In the works of these artists it can be seen that the approach seemingly linked to history or official propaganda is actually based on an enduring and, most importantly, genuine interest in certain motifs or the overarching idea of the events depicted. In order to reveal these ideas or motifs the artists have honed the expressiveness of their style just as they would have done if their subject matter was, say, still life. The liberal attitude of the exhibition concept allows a comparison of the various attitudes adopted by artists in the context of official requirements, uncovering a far more complex range of relationships than a radical for or against position. | |
 View from the exhibition. Photo: Martins Vizbulis | |
| The flowing transitions into stylistic divisions allow observant viewers to follow the development of the language of painting from the late 1940s to 1990. The roughly daubed canvas ‘Shepherding’ of 1945 by Uga Skulme also reveals the continuity of the 1930s tradition in which tonal painting and surface texture were so important. Later, in submission to the regime’s insistent demands, artists had to abandon expressive painterly language. But within a few years the enforced restraint of the early 1950s gave way to pronounced ‘revelry’. Artists hastened to use all the most diverse possibilities of the materials available for modifying the layers: palette knife impressions ( ‘Portrait of Nurse Vilcāne’ (1963), Leo Kokle), scratching into the paint (‘Warship Bay’ (1963), Jurijs Cirkunovs) and crescent formation (‘Landscape’ (1967), Boriss Bērziņš). A culmination in the use of colour and texture was reached in those paintings where the technique used (layers of putty, screws, string, pieces of fabric etc.) produced the effect of relief, forcing the plane of the painting to protrude into a third dimension (‘Short, Short Midsummer’s Eve (1968) by Lidija Auza, ‘Summer’ (1969) by Leonīds Mauriņš, ‘The War is Over’ (1975) by Ojārs Ābols). In parallel with demands for artistic freedom, a specific group of artists continued the tradition of nuanced colouring, making the transition from the grey typical of Latvia (‘Laundry Day’ (1974), Daiņa Riņķe) to brown (‘Brown Venice’ (1960s), Indulis Zariņš), dark (‘Night in the Park’ (1986), Rolands Gross) and gentle pearl (‘Autumn Storm’ (1967) by Albīns Dzenis, ‘Elegy’ (1978) by Skaidrīte Elksnīte) in a single work. Painterly values are also represented by other canvases in which colour has been employed particularly ‘deliciously’ by using honey-sweet, juicy composition and expressive texture (‘Spring’ (1968), Ansis Artums) or specially accented application (‘A New Liepāja is Emerging’ (1968), Matīss Zavickis). The opportunities for formal painting won at the change of decade 1960s to 1970s underwent a full-blown transformation into a decorative approach, permeating all genres (‘Luijs Smits Rehearsing’ (1967), Laimdonis Grasmanis) or boldly asserting their own value (‘Festive Fireworks’ (1977), Lidija Auza). Taking into account the particular nurturing of painterly language, it seems logical that some artists of the younger generation tried to purify and purposely make primitive its expression: they declined, for example, from modelling volume or constructing complex compositions, instead giving preference to a limited number of tones in a single work (‘The Green Dragon’ (1977), Rudīte Dreimane). Under freer conditions, classical modernist traditions ‘flared up’ of their own accord and created a certain succession, starting with ‘Oak tree near Padedze’ (1956) by Rūdolfs Pinnis and finishing with Helēna Heinrihsone’s canvases. The heightened colourfulness in some works occasionally produces the effect of deconstruction of the imagery and theme, for example in the work ‘Three Sisters’ by Gunta Grīva (Liepiņa) done in 1972. Although during the Cold War the separation between Soviet and Western bourgeois art was given prominence (and where the degenerative American influence was regarded as the most pernicious), the exhibition includes a number of works which hint at distinct influences from this very region. ‘Infinity’ (1966) by Jānis Pauļuks reveals the influence of abstract expressionism, while the paint spatters (‘The Park’ (1971), Henrijs Klēbahs), dribbles (‘The Forest’ (1969), Edgars Iltners) and splashes (‘Golden Autumn’ (1970), Jānis Pauļuks) which in the global consciousness are associated with the brand of Jackson Pollock can be observed in some landscapes. By hiding behind a neutral observation of life, it was possible to employ a smooth painterly language maximally close to an impression of reality, in line with the trends of hyperrealism (‘Bauska’ by Imants Lancmanis’ and ‘Portrait of Rūta Šteinerte’ by Maija Tabaka (both done in 1968), ‘Landscape’ (1969) by Bruno Vasiļevskis). The merging of figures to create associative visions (in the works of Rita Valnere and others) was quite widespread, however in some works there is an undeniable direct influence of surrealism, for example in Aldis Kļaviņš’s ‘Portrait with Rainbow’ (1975) or Maija Tabaka’s ‘The Event’ from the same year. Interestingly, other Western tendencies in painting were not as enthusiastically adopted. One of the few sources from other artistic currents can be seen in ‘The Painting ‘A Portrait of Time’ in the Workshop of Henri Matisse’ (1974) by Aivars Īzaks . This work displays a weakness for pop-art quotes, and the repetition of the image – an unusual portrait of time – engenders associations with the minimalist serialism. The curator’s selection rarely includes non-figurative art (‘Shadows. (Composition No. 12)’ (1977) by V. Cvetkovs), which affirms the closely supervised status of this type of art in the past. As with the approved topics, a recognisable figurativeness gave the artist a kind of alibi that the (stretched) boundaries of socialist realism were not being over-stepped, while artists in the Academy’s applied arts department had every opportunity to play with abstract fields and lines. The contents of the exhibition is extremely wide-ranging and rich, and the array of works is very diverse. All that one requires is an unhurried and energetic mood, so that the stroll through the subterranean art space should provide an enjoyable insight into works of Soviet Latvian painting which, in this period of independence, had not yet been seen. The liberal principle guiding the selection of the works allows every viewer to create an individual story and place the accents where he or she considers most appropriate. But most importantly, the exhibition as a whole lets us appreciate and see up close the various qualities of our painting heritage. /Translate into English: Filips Birzulis/ | |
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