Author Archives: Ethan Hill

The Starving Artist

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Several elements in Window to Paris were very interesting to me because, much like our previous two readings, they complicate previous soviet ideals. There is a line spoken early in the film made by the music teacher which criticizes the politics of education. He lambasts the school in which he work for seemingly lacking ideological integrity, since they before they trained communists and in his time trained capitalists for a similar effect. He seems to be drawing attention to the fact that the distinction is mostly meaningless at best and is, at worst, hypocritical.

The film at large seems to be more or less escapist in a sense. The main character is an eccentric art teacher who has no place in the present society which is focused on brutal practicality and progress rather than imagination or creativity. Compared to him, the rest of Russian society seems somewhat soulless and cold. Paris represents a welcome change in that it seems to, at least on an surface level, have a place with the teacher. Despite being drunk and stumbling into a studio where he didn’t belong, he still found a piano to fix. (This endearing little quirk was possibly my favorite thing about the character.)

I’ve gotten the sense that Russian culture lionizes its artists, so it seemed strange to me that art would be more be more readily accepted in Paris than in Russia itself. Of course, there is historical precedence for this, since many Russian artists remained in Paris rather than returning to the Soviet Union. Perhaps, its possible that the film is pointing out that, despite the move away from communism, art is still suffering in Russia.

The Shape of Madness

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As I read “Night,” it became clear to me that I wasn’t reading a story about a series of logical events but rather a story about a series of emotional ones. If “The Nose” and “Heart of the Dog” are low grade fever dreams, then “Night” can be rated at a temperature of 107.

Half of my time reading “Night” was spent trying to figure out what the characters in the story were. “Mommy” is clearly some kind of maternal entity, and Alexei clearly is her son. And though Alexei acts very much in line with a child (begging for sweets and becoming endearingly rowdy at times,) his appearance suggests otherwise. He is described as having a “bald spot” on his head (curiously like “mommy”), “yellow” teeth, hairy hands, and a “disfigured face.” In addition, he seems to be capable of sudden fits of violence, as shown when he “trampled” on what seemed to either be the money pieces he stole or possibly even the people attacking him.

Despite his strangeness and the fact that the the writing frequently and convincingly reflects his manic, childish mind, I was made to feel pity for him. The feverish way he is depicted going through life and the way he falls victim to a cruel society without the protection of “Mommy” seem to both critique dependency and social injustice. The world he lives in is depicted as being terribly cruel, so cruel that Alexei seems to be doomed at the end of the story to scrawl “night” over and over as a perverse fulfillment of his dream of being a writer. Alexi seems inspired (or driven insane) by a bad experience, and this is heartbreaking.

The Soviet-ness Vysotsky

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The frequently whimsical, though percussive,  instrumentation contrasted with Vysotsky’s heavy vocals in interesting ways. Artistically, Vysotsky seems to lean into the roughness of his voice as he sings. This makes songs like “Morning exercises” rather humorous, since Vysotsky  pronounces bits such as “tri, chetyre” with a jocular sort of bounce. It almost sounds like he’s reciting some kind of nursery rhyme, which is wonderfully entertaining.

The lyrics of “Morning exercises” were very interesting to me because they were describing a very common scene in daily life of a person. And yet, they describe the events with a suprising amount of gusto and excitement, and Vysotsky sings them with a similar sense of flamboyance. In fact, many of his lyrics describe common events in the lives of common people, and all paint these happenings as not mundane, but as epic and sometimes even a bit heroic.

Perhaps, Vysotsky’s work is paying respect to the lives of average, or proletariat, people. His style and subject matter both seem  ooze commonality as much as the ooze character. I recall in some previous class discussions that Russian poetry in the soviet age began to move towards a form more reflective of the Russian proletariat, away from lofty subject matters glorifying the natural world. Perhaps, Vysotsky’s work partakes in this movement.

The Perversion of the Natural World

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In Soviet times, there certainly does seem to be a tension between the natural world and human existence which was less apparent in pre-soviet literature and poetry. I first noticed this in the Mayakovsky Poem “Great Big Hell of a City,” where liquid is described as “oozing” from the “Sun’s hurt eye.” There is something terribly perverse about this image. The poet is applying a sense of illness, and therefore, imperfection to the natural world.

This is taken to a whole new level in the Kolyama tales. Here, the season of spring and the advent of natural life are described in beautiful, yet similarly visceral terms at certain point. The description of how “The slender fingers of the larch with their green fingernails seemed to grope everywhere” and how “the omnipresent, oily freweed carpeted the scenes of former forest blazes” both invoke intensely lively images with strangely sinister imagery. Nature is “omnipresent,” and “gropes.” It reaches about, glutting itself on the carnage of “former forest blazes.” In a sense life is being painted as a scavenger in the way it persists in the wake of a changing landscape, or worse, as being something cannibalistic.

Weirdly enough, the way nature is described here in subtly unnerving ways is actually reflected by the human characters in In The Night. They pull a dead body out from a pile of rock after dining of “breadcrumbs” which are described as being coated “greedily in thick layers of saliva.” They eat a meal which is described in dehumanizing, animal terms, and proceed to scavenge off of a dead human being. They, like the natural world, are being ensnared by the writer in a state of devolution.

I’m not sure what exactly these artistic choices mean. However, I did some research on Shalamov, and found that he spent time in the Gulag and was a supporter of Trotsky. Considering his political leanings, he couldn’t have been a fan of Stalin. Perhaps then that the way he depicts mother nature and human nature as being degraded into a state of scavenging could be a metaphor for the Stalanist regime reduces human beings to the state of frightened animals desperate to survive.

Russia’s Revolutionary War on Religion

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The second poem of Alexander Blok’s The Twelve was intensely chilling in the way it illustrated Russia’s revolutionary War with Religion. The repetition of “down with the cross” was a line which seems rather basic in the English Language (which is why I wish I could absorb the original Russian) but conveys an brilliant image with some strong symbolic meaning. The poem actually ties the old Russia in with religion, or at the very least, it illustrates how the revolutionaries tied old Russia with religion. It tells the story of how the revolutionary’s nail mother Russia to the cross before chopping it down.

What seemed a bit less clear upon first reading this poem (as well as the other twelve) was the profound sense of irony which was being injected into the narratives. There relatively very little direct criticism of the revolution itself, outside of painting pictures of its extremities. The narration of the poem almost seems to mockingly accept the anti religious and generally destructive tenants of the revolution, and it does so seemingly with a sort of self-aware blindness. The language is at times downright feverish in its narration of revolutionary fervor. In a sense, without questioning the revolution, it transforms it into a sort of perverse religion in and of itself. Poetry is one of the few things capable of such a feat.

*****I did not finish the movie before midnight, so I will be adding a second section to this journal once I do.*****

Dousing the Firebird

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Our study of the Mighty Five left me with the sense that the “Russian Sound” which composers such as Mussorgsky strove to attain seemed to include a strong directive towards melodic music. The music of the mighty five, especially Mussorgsky, seemed to sometimes shirk complexity in favor of powerful, emotional tunes which make sense to the ear and require little logical analysis or appreciation for the nuances of musical theory.

I have always been interested then in Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring because it does not make any immediate sense to the Ear. It is often atonal and, though it is explosive and brassy at times like some of the works of the quintessentially bombastic Mussorgsky, it is so complicated as to verge on utterly Alien. It truly is an “Avant Garde” piece of music, especially placed within the context of the evolution of Russian music. It seems to be a departure from the work of the mighty five just as much as the work of the Mighty Five were a departure from more “Western” music.

The Firebird seemed to be somewhere in between the Mighty Five and the Rite of Spring. It is doused in the best parts of both worlds. It has some atonal and elusive moments, and yet ends with a movement with a simple harmony that repeats over and over again, becoming more emotionally charged with each recursion. It was indeed Avant Garde, but still had a more profound sense of logic and direction. Indeed, unlike the Rite of Spring and mushc like some of the works of the Mighty Handful, the Firebird seems to be a tonal poem.

Two Soldiers, Two Russias

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The two characters featured in Prisoner of the Mountains seem to illustrate both the darker aspects of Russian culture as well as a potential domestic discomfort with these aspects. Sasha seems to be an archetypical, hardened Russian soldier. The first thing he is seen doing in the film is drinking before randomly firing off his weapon for fun. Despite being a soldier, Sasha oozes chaos. This marriage between discipline and unpredictability takes the shape of cunning. Indeed, As the film progresses, we see his ability to take advantage of people soar into the spotlight when, after escaping with Vanya, sneakily kills a Shepphard to get his weapon.

Vanya frequently seems somewhat uncomfortable with Sasha’s methods, and tells him that he had never killed anyone before. Despite claiming he is willing to learn, Vanya often seems disturbed at the sight of violence. He lacks Sasha’s hard edge, and, despite his incredible physical dexterity (employed to fix watches and pick locks,) Vanya lacks any real cunning, instead possessing the ability to sympathize with his enemies.

Sasha’s strength and guile represent some of the virtues which Russian culture seems to hold dear. But Vanya’s discomfort with them demonstrates that Russian culture has the ability to self critique. The movie reveals a sense of anxiety and tension between Russian cunning and Russian compassion. On one hand, the Russian character is aggrandized in its ability to outwit and overcome, represented by Sasha. On the other hand, Russian character is aggrandize in its supposed ability to save the world, represented by Vanya, who ends the movie with a desperate attempt to stop his own compatriots from obliterating the enemy village which he had grown to love.

Iconic Echos

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Based upon the background information, the work of Alexander Ivanov was particularly fascinating to me. The background information states that his “religious paintings gave impetus to the Slavophiles’ interest in Byzantine and Medieval Russian art.” I can indeed see the echos of the Byzantine style in Ivanov’s art.

Based upon my understanding of Byzantine artistic within and outside of this course, it is clear to me the a variety of icons we have been exposed to in fact epitomize it. Their focus on bright, traditionally heavenly colors is striking. Upon revisiting the Russian Icons of the third session of this class, I was awed by the how consistent and distinctive the red and gold chromatic schemes truly were. It became clear to me that these colors were repeated, over and over again, icon after icon.

These same color schemes are visible in Ivanov’s work. I noticed this to be particularaly appearent in Head of John the Baptist and Christ’s Apearence to Mary Magdeline. The surface upon which John’s head sits and the robes of Mary are both painted in an almost neon shade of orange-red, distinctive in the Byzantine icons. The incorporation of such a bold color is a bold move in a visual sense. Indeed, none of the other painters seemed to incorporate such colors into thier work with such consistancy, demonstarting a stylistic echo of Byzantine art unique to Ivanov’s work.

And despite their beauty, the background information of the third sessions states that they weren’t actually created to be physically beautiful, but rather to be spiritually moving. In a sense, they’re existence seemed to be religiously utilitarian. Its interesting then to me that Ivanov takes such an interest in the Byzantine style in his work. Of course, his religious paintings which incorporate the style may very well be made to invoke spiritual effects. But the the style is also clearly being repurposed for asthetic purposes. This is supported by the fact that it is appearent in the Ivanov’s non-religious paintings, such as Priam Asking Hector to Return Achilles’ Body.

The influence of Byzantine styles seems to go beyond painting. Indeed, though the Background information regarding the lacquer boxes states their visual style is German infleunced, but those flashing Byrantine reds in Couple in a Boat and Women and Hussar are hard to miss. This epidomizes a the constant combination and recomination of folk Russian and European traditions.

Oniegin’s Biggest Lie

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Previously, I have been under the impression that Russian culture values, or is at least deeply entertained, by the virtues of cunning and guile, as established by the Gogol reading. Eugene Onegin both subverts and promotes. It features a character who well and truly falls for what appears to be his own lie. At some time prior to the plot of the Opera, he has convinced himself he is unworthy of love, or is perhaps incapable of giving it. By the end, it is revealed that is is, on some level, a self deception when Onegin admits his love for Tatyana. And in the end, he pays the price.

The whole idea of the Russian mind imposing itself onto reality in the form of subterfuge of course can be seen in Boris Godunov, but here, such warping takes the shape of denial. This interested me because it affirms the link between deception and suffering. In the case of both Onegin and Godunov, truth is kicked around and mutilated with disastrous results. And yet, such tragedies act as affirmations of the Russian identity.

On a side note, I appreciated the musical bits we were assigned for this particular section. I noticed with many of them (especially with some of the gentler ones such as “I Loved you Once”) that the musicians (or composer) seemed to take great liberties with tempo. This isn’t too unusual for Romantic pieces of music in general, but it still interested me because these works also frequently contained rapid notes beneath the lethargic, changeable tempos. I was drawn the most to Evening Bells for this reason.