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| Has the 20th century ended? Jānis Taurens, Philosopher | |
| “Elementary,” he replied. (Arthur Conan Doyle. The Crooked Man) For those readers whose experience has its roots in the culture of the Soviet period, the words ‘elementary’ and ‘Conan Doyle’ will immediately call to mind the popular phrase Elementarno, Vаtson! (“Elementary, Watson!”) from the series ‘The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson’, by the Russian director Igor Maslennikov. Although it seems that Conan Doyle himself actually uses the word ‘elementary’ only once, in the story ‘The Crooked Man’, thanks to the film script brought to the Lenfilm Studio in 1979 by scriptwriters Julij Dunskij and Valerij Frid, and the brilliant acting by Vasilij Livanov (as Sherlock Holmes) and Vitalij Solomin (as Doctor Watson), the phrase has passed into folklore, since it so aptly expressed the essence of the duo consisting of the extravagant interpreter of facts and the naive doctor who is incapable of drawing conclusions from them. The final two-part film in the series, which was completed in 1986, was called ‘The 20th Century Begins’. It showed a reorientation of Sherlock Holmes’s activities from the criminal world of London to the unmasking of a German spyring on the eve of the First World War. In accordance with the spirit of the new age, various technical aids were modernised, including the gas mask, which was actually invented only after the events described in the stories and which Mycroft, brother of the detective, had to wear in one scene. In the film, Sherlock Holmes is portrayed as a rural recluse practising beekeeping. The ironic view of the new century, contrasted with the passing Victorian Age, together with the brilliant interplay between Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson in analysing various events, seemed to me an appropriate model for reviewing the reverberations of the last century within the cultural space of Latvia. Accordingly, I decided against setting out my thoughts as a monologue, but made an effort instead to remember a recent conversation on this theme with my friend and translator from Russian, Vasilij Voronov, in the course of which he rhetorically exclaimed: “So has the 20th century finally come to an end?” (So much for the origin of the title of this article.) My choice was encouraged by the place where we had this conversation, namely Vasilij’s flat, which is in Old Riga – opposite the Baker Street home of the famous detective. (This location in Old Riga, behind the former restaurant Pūt vējiņi, is immediately recognised by tourists from the former Soviet Union who have, of course, seen the film by Igor Maslennikov.) However, I do hope that the division of roles in our exchange of views will not be as obvious as in the case of Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson. Let me start from the beginning. Vasilij had fallen ill, and so I came to see him after visiting an exhibition in the Riga Art Space.(1) The exhibition included paintings of the most diverse quality (including very poor ones), grouped by decade and forming what was quite literally a kind of labyrinth. The subterranean exhibition space was crammed with works, which had even prompted someone to write in the visitors’ book that art isn’t firewood (evidently meaning that paintings cannot be piled up like logs of firewood). I recalled this comment when, trying to step back in order to get a better view of a large painting, I tripped on the steps directly in front of the painting. And so I sat in Vasilij’s living room with my sprained leg on a pillow and, while sipping tea, recounted my impressions. Our state of health prompted us to adopt a resignedly ironic view. At the beginning of the conversation I mentioned the guiding principle of the exhibition: to cast a look at the art of the Soviet period without ideological prejudices, something which may have accounted for the varying quality of the exhibited works. | |
 The International Workers' Day parade along Komjaunatnes krastmala, Riga on 1 May, 1968. Foto: Jevgeņijs Fadejevs | |
| “I didn’t know that ideological prejudice or the lack of it could serve as a criterion of quality in art”, said Vasilij, scornfully. He then continued: “An ideological prejudice would be the phrase ‘decrepitude in music’, used to describe, for example, all the works written for the viola by Hindemith in a document of the Conservatoire of Soviet Latvia, as I discovered in an interesting work by Sergej Kruk.” He vaguely indicated some books piled up on a chair next to the sofa.(2) I added that actually this would be quite a good description for many works of art, so long as it were backed up by argument. Vasilij remarked that those who usually make judgements of this kind are incapable of arguing, because they’re used to relying on previous authoritative judgements. In the end, as far as I remember, we agreed that in assessing art, it is not only the criteria that are important, but also the ability to draw conclusions from them. However, the exhibition did also claim to be a general retrospective of four decades of the last century in Latvian art (or painting, in fact, which, according to the curator, had also been significant for “broadening the concept of contemporary art in the cultural space of Latvia”). Then our conversation turned to the written works which have realised this claim much better and were to be found in Vasilij’s improvised sick-bed library. As I pointed out to Vasilij, he seemed to have deliberately chosen large-format reading material that attempts to give a comprehensive view of a particular decade of the last century. “It’s interesting that precisely ten years of the new century had to pass before several interpretations of the art and cultural life of the last century should suddenly be published,” said Vasilij and added, “I mean the decades of the second half of the century.” I ventured that this may be connected with generational change and the current activity – in art, too – of a new generation that knows little even about the 90s, which are so recent. “Ortega y Gasset once suggested that a generation lasted 30 years, but was active for 15. By ‘generation’ he meant people of the same type, characterised by a similar perception of life.” As so often in our conversations, Vasilij displayed his erudition.(3) For my part, I recalled that Ortega y Gasset wrote of the late 1920s as a time when three different generations had existed side by side, and I asked what the present situation could be. Vasilij pointed out that it could be more complicated now, and, moreover, a ‘similar perception of life’ does not mean that people have to be the same age. I commented that, on the other hand, there could be completely different generations among people of the same age, for example, conformists and ‘the uncensored ones’. Saying this, I nodded towards the largest of the books, which supported the rest of the pile.(4) “No,” objected Vasilij, “if we accept the Spanish thinker’s idea of a generation, then it means that different strata of society, in spite of differences in views, are located in the same existential frame,(5) from which only individual geniuses can escape, and which only they can utilise.” “Should this be understood to mean that you and I wouldn’t even understand the ‘uncensored’ generation (as they described themselves) of the 1960s and 70s?” I asked Vasilij. “Yes, it’s difficult for us to understand the spirit of this construction, which was built on a generalised and somewhat mythologised notion of censorship,(6)” he agreed, “Maybe we would do better to turn our attention to the 90s or to the interpretations already written about them, which, once again, could be written by members of the same generation or by people from the outside.” I wanted to know what was meant by the words ‘from the outside’. Pondering for a moment, Vasilij answered: “This could mean, first, a view by someone outside a particular group. For example, censors could write about the uncensored, and vice versa.” He smiled and continued: “Secondly, these would be interpretations based on the assumptions of a different generation or a different existential framework.” I asked which of these interpretations should be regarded as the more objective, and Vasilij answered that the criteria of objectivity can vary between generations, but in every case it is possible to discover the arguments underlying the appraisal, how acceptable their premises are to us, and indeed whether there is any argumentation at all. I went to the kitchen to make some more tea, and we continued our conversation. I said that the 60s produce in me a sense of nostalgia, because only a few fragmentary moments remain my memory. I pulled out ‘The Uncensored’ from the bottom of the pile of books and looked up a picture showing vehicles carrying missiles. I remarked that before the parades these would stand on nearby Rūpniecības iela, where I lived at that time, as a boy just a few years old. “The word ‘nostalgia’ ”, Vasilij seemed to savour this word, “might be the key concept for this visually rich portrayal of the 60s and 70s. It is so unified in its existential feeling that the younger-generation authors who have commented the photographs, for example, explain that their locus of interpretation lies ‘outside’ of this feeling.” I agreed, and added that in fact I’m much more nostalgic about the 90s and the café M6 than about the 60s and Kaza. (Similarly - there’s a corresponding image of life at M6, where we see Oļegs Tilbergs and Kristaps Ģelzis playing chess, and in the background, at the next table, we see Gennadij Suhanov, now already departed.(7)) Having recalled the days of M6, I asked Vasilij how he – a person from approximately the same generation, though with a different view-point – regards these cultural facts, from which the picture of the 90s was constructed a decade later. “The term ‘constructed’ really is apt,” Vasilij began with satisfaction, “since who, if not you, should know that even the exceptionally abstract facts of the Tractatus do not exist of themselves, but instead, if one may say so, derive from the idea of the logical space of the Tractatus.” He continued after a short pause: “Only, in this case, the cultural space in which the various concepts, developments in art life and organisations exist, is not an apparently objective given, but instead has been constructed by the authors of various articles. You could even say that it is a construction formed from people who write and remember.” I asked how in this case he would regard the criteria of objectivity that we talked about previously. “Well, you would have to understand the argumentation in a wider context,” began Vasilij, “because it is not always the case that a paper presents an analysis of views that the author strives to compare, defend, rebut and so forth.” I said that the subjectivity of a viewpoint can also be emphasised, as done, for example, by Ilya Kabakov, writing about the unofficial art life of the 60s and 70s in Moscow,(8) and that there’s nothing wrong with this, because the material that appears in these notes is very interesting all the same. Vasilij agreed, but added that this sounds more like a fitting excuse. “In reality, every examination of phenomena in art,” he went on, “is undertaken within a wider field, which provides the space for possible argumentation, and is thus never entirely subjective.” He took up the book ‘The Nineties’ and went on: “In the limited ‘everyone knows everyone’ cultural space of Latvia there have been attempts to compare art with developments in the world. Yet initially this is done according to a simple principle: separating the ‘here’ and ‘there’.” I agreed, since I’d observed that the writings in ‘The Nineties’ utilise the pairs of terms ‘local’ and ‘global’, or ‘original’ and ‘borrowed’. “Yes, but what is most interesting is the framework of assumptions in which these concepts operate,” said Vasilij. “The number of articles in a collection of this kind should ensure that the ‘mythology’ – if we can call it that – on which they are based is placed in doubt. For example, the assumption that the Baltic States form the first broader context for considering any phenomenon in Latvia.”(9) I remembered that in an interview with Ojārs Pētersons, also included in the book, he used in his replies a whole string of words characterising a sceptical approach, such as ‘coincidence’, ‘mythology’, ‘suspicion’, ‘illusion’, ‘it can all be claimed as being’. For some reason not clear to myself, I’d written them down in my notebook. Now I took it from my jacket pocket and, having found the right page, read them out to Vasilij. Having pondered for a moment, he nodded: “Yes, the use of language shows very well the things we do not, or cannot, say precisely, in this case the restrictions imposed by preconceived views of which one is not entirely conscious. Yet sometimes this kind of ‘showing’ is much more effective than actual ‘saying’.” Smiling, I nod-ded, as a sign that I’d taken the hint.(10) However, I remembered that the concept of truth, seemingly incompatible with a sceptical attitude, was used in the interview in an affirmative sense, and that the interview itself, if I remembered correctly, was entitled “There is one truth”. Vasilij needed some time to formulate his answer, since he’d not read the interview yet. As far as I remember, his strand of thought was this: “In one sense art can be compared with what is written about art. But not in the obvious, tautological sense that art is the object of analysis of these writings. The assertions made in them about something, including art, do, at least in terms of form, make a claim to be true. Moreover, what is important are the new and unexpected assertions, rather than the repetition of universally known judgements and facts. It may be that these interpretations are subsequently regarded as erroneous, but their originality, in combination with their claim to be true, constitutes the aspect of truth in them. It is similar in art: there must be something new, rather than the unthinking repetition of previous artistic approaches (in whatever sense, be it simply the unthinking adoption of a medium, for example painting). And the new aspect claims to be more than just a whim or accident. Only in this way can we comprehend the application of the concept of the truth to art.” I knew that Vasilij, when discussing contemporary art, usually emphasises that the division of art into different media has lost its significance. So I asked him whether he’d read Helēna Demakova’s recently published collection of writings ‘They Wouldn’t Notice’ (and indeed I didn’t notice the book in the room), where in the afterword it is claimed that painting in Latvia in recent years has experienced a “mighty somersault of quality”.(11) I added that perhaps this is a cyclical phenomenon, similar as in the intellectual milieu, when movements that had lost their significance tend to regain it in a new quality. As an example, I mentioned a conversation I’d had with American literature researcher Kate Marshall, over a cup of coffee during an international conference a few days before.(12) We’d discussed formalism in art and literary criticism, and she said that over the past six or seven years neo-formalism had once again become topical in literary criticism, even though in literature studies of the 60s, as in visual art, formalism had receded from the foreground of the intellectual arena. Vasilij replied that he’d already read the book and put it back on the shelf, and added ironically that one article also mentioned my metaphorical, and in his view insufficiently analytical, remark – like the remark of mine about cyclicity – on contemporary art. Then, becoming serious, he went on: “Helēna’s afterword is an interesting attempt to dot all the i’s of the current situation in Latvian art, thinking about future developments as well. Accordingly, it mentions almost everything – including painting – that is worth mentioning, worth supporting and worth defending against the prevailing line of ‘thinking’ in politics(13) to ignore art and culture in the widest sense.” After a brief pause, Vasilij answered: “It’s a kind of political assessment of art, using the word ‘political’ in the most positive sense that it can possibly have.” I didn’t entirely agree with Vasilij, but I myself had not yet formed an attitude towards the latest developments in Latvian painting. That is why I wished to know how he regarded Helēna’s view in terms of the categories of the subjective, objective and ‘from the outside’ that we had examined in our conversation. Vasilij smiled and said: “My dear friend, I’ve said everything necessary in order that the term ‘objective’ might be used, and it’s so simple to do, but you’re asking for a fully-formed judgement. As regards a view from the outside, then the attitude of artists towards the critics and curators has generally been, how to put it more delicately, somewhat reserved. And that,” he quickly added in a louder voice, “is regardless of their often very close personal friendship. As far as I know, the critics themselves have reflected on this situation, whatever it may have been, only in ‘The Golden Book of Moscow Conceptualism’.”(14) Pondering for a moment, he continued: “The term ‘from the outside’ with regard to art criticism does not mean that the semantic space in which we place a phenomenon in art is in some way inferior or narrower. More likely, it’s quite the opposite. But you also have to take into account the different aims behind one conversation about art or another.” “And what could be the aims behind our conversation?” I asked, reminding Vasilij of his rhetorical exclamation when we’d met, concerning the end of the 20th century. Vasilij did not need to think long: “You see, my friend, we’ve unwittingly examined several retrospectives of the last decades of the history of 20th century culture and art in Latvia. The 80s, as you should know, have also been the subject of a small CD format publication,(15) but, this, of course, is compensated by the polyphonically saturated investigation of the 90s. The conceptualism of Moscow, in its self-reflection, in contrast to Western ‘neo-conceptualism’, ‘global conceptualism’ and other terms, does not distinguish any periods.(16) We distinguish too many. But, in spite of this, the 20th century has not really even begun here. The younger generation, to which we no longer belong,” Vasilij smiled with resignation, “has, circumventing the old century, leapt into, if I can use a worn metaphor, the train of the 21st century. Along with this, the division into what is or is not the art of Latvia belongs to the realm of cultural politics, but not to the current interpretation of art, if we wish it to have the flavour of truth.” The last phrase was one more parody of the usage of the metaphors I sometimes permit myself in my statements. At the time, I was not convinced of the correctness of Vasilij’s assessment, but, as is often the case in such situations, the paradoxical and rhetorical mode of expression of my conversation partner did not permit me to come up with any immediate objections, and I decided not raise them now, either, while writing down this conversation. (1 ) “Glezniecība Latvijā 1950.–1990. no Latvijas Mākslinieku savienības kolekcijas” / Painting in Latvia 1950–1990, from the collection of Latvian Artists’ Union, curator Inga Šteimane. (2 ) Kruks, Sergejs. “Par mūziku skaistu un melodisku!”: padomju kultūras politika, 1932–1964 / “Here’s to Music, Beautiful and Melodious!” Soviet Culture Policy, 1932-1964 – Rīga: Neputns, 2008. – 136. lpp. The document mentioned by Vasilij is in the appendix to the book and is entitled “Latvijas PSR Valsts konservatorijas priekšlikumi par aizliedzamajiem skaņdarbiem. 1948. gada februāris–marts [Proposals from the State Conservatoire of the Latvian SSR regarding musical compositions to be prohibited. February–March 1948”]. (In writing down the conversation, I tried to find in my library the books we’d mentioned and provide bibliographic information, although not attempting an exhaustive list.) (3) The concept of generation is used by José Ortega y Gasset in several works, the earliest of which seems to be “The Theme of Our Time”, published in 1923 andhe first of which seems to beis used by @to find in the library ding skaentitledr, in writing down this conversation. f art, if based on lectures read at the University of Madrid in 1921–1922; the concept of generation is also applied in the work “Why have we come back to philosophy?” (1930). He writes about the duration of a generation – lasting about 30 years and divided into two parts, during the first new ideas are promoted which come to dominate in the second half of the period – in one of the notes to Chapter 10 of the well-known book “The Revolt of the Masses”. A reader of my generation will still manage to find various translations of texts by Ortega y Gasset in Russian or English, for example, in libraries in Latvia, while a younger-generation reader will have no problem finding them on the internet. (4) Nenocenzētie. Alternatīvā kultūra Latvijā. XX gs. 60-tie un 70-tie gadi / The Unclassifiables. Alternative Culture in Latvia in the 1960-70s. Sast. Eižens Valpēters. – Rīga: Latvijas Vēstnesis, 2010. (5) Ortega y Gasset uses the term ‘existential mode’. (6) On a generalised use of the term ‘censorship’, see Briedis, Raimonds. Teksta cenzūras īsais kurss: prozas teksts un cenzūra padomju gados Latvijā / A short course of censorship: prose and censorship during Soviet period in Latvia – Rīga: LU Literatūras, folkloras un mākslas institūts, 2010. (7) This image is to be found in the book we discuss for the remainder of the conversation: Deviņdesmitie. Laikmetīgā māksla Latvijā / The Nineties. Contemporary Art in Latvia. Sast. un red. Ieva Astahovska. – Rīga: Laikmetīgās mākslas centrs, 2010. (8) Кабаков, Илья. 60–70-е... Записки о неофициальной жизни в Москве. – Москва: Новое Литературное Обозрение, 2008. In his brief foreword, Ilya Kabakov points out that “the judgements and characterisations in the text are exceptionally un-objective and for the most part unjust”, and “must be entirely put down to the author’s absolute subjectivity”. (9) This is discussed in the paper by Lolita Jablonskienė: “The common Soviet past and its immediate consequences are the only thing that unites these countries – the character of their art life and infrastructures are quite different.” (Deviņdesmitie. – p.191.) (10) Knowing that I’ve translated Wittgenstein’s Tractatus, in our conversations Vasilij sometimes likes to use concepts from this work, without referring to the source. The rules of the game demand that I give a discreet sign that I’ve noticed. (11) Demakova, Helēna. Lietišķs pēcvārds // Nepamanīs. Latvijas laikmetīgā māksla un starptautiskais konteksts. Rakstu izlase 2002–2010 / They wouldn’t Notice. Latvian Contemporary Art and the International Context. Collection of Writings 2002–2010. – Rīga: ¼ Satori, 2010. – pp. 302–347. (12) The international conference ‘Textures’, held in Riga on 15–19 June, was organised by SLSA (Society for Literature, Science, and Arts), together with our own organisation e-text+textiles. (13) In this case, I’ve put the term ‘thinking’ in inverted commas, because, although it signifies not the practice engaged in by some privileged caste of thinkers or philosophers, but instead simply the meaningful application of language, it is precisely the absence of meaning – as Vasilij has repeatedly asserted – that is very frequently one of the most characteristic signs of political discourse. (14) Vasilij is slightly mistaken: although in the book he himself brought me from Moscow, the colour gold has been used, and the term ‘golden book’ is used in the introductory article, the title of the work is simply ‘Moscow Conceptualism’. Московский концептуализм. Состав. Екатерина Дёготь, Вадим Захаров. – Москва: WАМ, 2005. (15) Robežu pārkāpšana. Mākslu sintēze un paralēles. 80. gadi / Trespassing. Synthesis and parallels of arts. The 1980s. Konferences rakstu krājums. Red. Ieva Astahovska. – Rīga: Laikmetīgās mākslas centrs, 2006. (16) In the paper ‘Moscow conceptualism: 25 years later’ (2005), commenting the idea that Moscow Conceptualism was connected with the Soviet period and lost its significance with the collapse of the regime, Boris Groys asserts that the role of the artist in the context of anonymous communication systems, which led to the development of conceptualism (the Soviet system being described as being just one such system) has not changed, so “it would evidently be premature to speak of overcoming conceptualism at the present day”. Московский концептуализм. – p. 23–25. /Translator into English: Valdis Bērziņš/ | |
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