Reclaiming and Redefining American Exhibitions of Russian Art [1 ed.] 9781003247692, 9781032157160, 9781032162430

Table of contents :
Cover
Half Title
Series Page
Title Page
Copyright Page
Contents
Preface and Acknowledgments
Abstract
Russian Names with Alternate Spellings in English Texts
Acronyms and their English meanings
List of Images
1. Introduction and Prelude
Creating an Exhibition History
Prelude
2. Reconsidering the 1920s
1923: Brinton and the Brooklyn Museum
1924: “Russian Art Show Opens at Palace”
Russian Art in Berlin and New York
Exhibitions Planned by Katherine Dreier and the Société Anonyme (SA)
3. New Curators and New Content: Theater Takes the Lead
4. The 1930s: Theater, Icons, and New Émigrés
5. Cultural Diplomacy and the World of Tomorrow
6. Legacies, Branding, and New Beginnings
Conclusion of Sorts
Index

Citation preview

Reclaiming and Redefining American Exhibitions of Russian Art

This book examines the history of American exhibitions of Russian art in the twentieth century in the context of the Cold War. Because this history reflects changes in museological theory and the role of governments in facilitating or preventing intercultural cooperation, it uncovers a story that is far more complex than a chronological listing of exhibition names and art works. Roann Barris considers questions of stylistic appropriations and influences and the role of museum exhibitions in promoting international and artistic exchanges. Barris reveals that Soviet and American exchanges in the world of art were extensive and persistent despite political disagreements before, during, and after the Cold War. It also reveals that these early exhibitions communicated contradictory and historically invalid pictures of the Russian or Soviet avant-garde. The book will be of interest to scholars working in art history, museum studies, and Russian studies. Roann Barris is an independent scholar of Russian art history and museum studies.

Routledge Research in Art Museums and Exhibitions

Routledge Research in Art Museums and Exhibitions is a new series focusing on museums, collecting, and exhibitions from an art historical perspective. Proposals for monographs and edited collections on this topic are welcomed. Curatorial Challenges Interdisciplinary Perspectives on Contemporary Curating Edited by Malene Vest Hansen, Anne Folke Henningsen and Anne Gregersen Liberalism, Nationalism and Design Reform in the Habsburg Empire Museums of Design, Industry and the Applied Arts Matthew Rampley, Markian Prokopovych, and Nóra Veszprémi The Venice Biennale and the Asia-Pacific in the Global Art World Stephen Naylor A History of Aboriginal Art in the Art Gallery of New South Wales Vanessa Russ Contemporary Curating, Artistic Reference and Public Reception Reconsidering Inclusion, Transparency and Mediation in Exhibition Making Practice Stéphanie Bertrand Exhibiting Italian Art in the United States from Futurism to Arte Povera ‘Like a Giant Screen’ Raffaele Bedarida Displaying Art in the Early Modern Period Exhibiting Practices and Exhibition Spaces Edited by Pamela Bianchi Cold War American Exhibitions of Italian Art and Design Antje Gamble

For more information about this series, please visit: https://www.routledge.com/Routledge-Research-in-ArtMuseums-and-Exhibitions/book-series/RRAM

Reclaiming and Redefining American Exhibitions of Russian Art

Roann Barris

Designed cover image: Alajalov, cover for Modern Art at the Sesquicentennial exhibition, Philadelphia, 1926. Courtesy of Katherine S. Dreier Papers/Société Anonyme Archive, Yale Collection of American Literature, Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library. First published 2024 by Routledge 605 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10158 and by Routledge 4 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon, OX14 4RN Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2024 Roann Barris The right of Roann Barris to be identified as the author of this Work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. ISBN: 9781032157160 (hbk) ISBN: 9781032162430 (pbk) ISBN: 9781003247692 (ebk) DOI: 10.4324/9781003247692 Typeset in Sabon by KnowledgeWorks Global Ltd.

Contents

Preface and Acknowledgments Abstract Russian Names with Alternate Spellings in English Texts  Acronyms and their English meanings List of Images 1 Introduction and Prelude

vi viii ix x xi 1

Creating an Exhibition History 1 Prelude 5

2 Reconsidering the 1920s

15

1923: Brinton and the Brooklyn Museum 17 1924: “Russian Art Show Opens at Palace” 24 Russian Art in Berlin and New York 31 Exhibitions Planned by Katherine Dreier and the Société Anonyme (SA) 37

3 New Curators and New Content: Theater Takes the Lead

58

4 The 1930s: Theater, Icons, and New Émigrés

87

5 Cultural Diplomacy and the World of Tomorrow

110

6 Legacies, Branding, and New Beginnings

130

Conclusion of Sorts 150

Index

155

Preface and Acknowledgments

My acknowledgments can only begin with people and events at the New York Public Library. Several years after completing my dissertation and still lost in the world of constructivist stage design, the topic of this book found me – or perhaps I should reverse that and say that I found this topic almost by accident while attending an NEH/NYPLsponsored workshop on Russian visual sources. At the time, I did not know that this would become a multi-year project and possibly end with a book (until I met the editor at another conference) but as I engaged with it and the research, I realized just how personally important it had become. That personal aspect has undoubtedly influenced which exhibitions are included and it has also made it hard to know what to leave out and where to end. Inevitably these become personal decisions but I should acknowledge suggestions made by my proposal reviewers about things I had overlooked at that time – their suggestions were helpful and I hope they will recognize my attempt to use their advice. (As we always say, if I did not, it is my fault alone and not theirs.) In addition to my first experience at the NYPL as a Humanities scholar (July 2008), I was fortunate enough to return to the NYPL in the summer of 2022 on a short-term research grant. Key individuals: Gabrielle Renfroe in the General research division and Dr. Deirdre E. Donohue, assistant director for the Wallach Division of Art, Prints and Photographs, along with Dr. Bogdan Horbal, curator for the Slavic and East European Collections and Dr. Ed Kasinec who filled this position when I attended in the summer of 2008 and who has remained an important source of ideas and suggestions. Of course, the wonderful collection in the library made it an excellent place to do research. I have also been lucky enough to have more than one research associate grant from the Russian and East European Center for Research at the University of Illinois where the Slavic Reference librarian, Dr. Joe Lenkart, Head of the Slavic Reference Service, and his assistants who found and sent me many of the materials I needed for my research, always made the grant important to me. In the realm of libraries, the Interlibrary loan librarians at Radford University were unfailingly helpful and went out of their way to track down obscure sources. Going back in time, I received a Fulbright research award in 2010, when I was still working on my constructivist theater project but even so, the opportunity to return to Moscow for a second time gave me access to archives I might not have expected to find relevant to this newer project. I also want to acknowledge the Bremen University workshops on Russian art historical issues where I was able to present my work in its earliest stages and made the acquaintance of Olga Olkheft, along with presentations at ASEEES conferences.

Preface and Acknowledgments vii Last but hardly least I want to thank three supportive colleagues at Radford University for their recurring willingness to write grant references for me and their friendship which was always needed: Dr. Suzanne Ament, Dr. Carlee Bradbury, and Professor Ken Smith. In a similar vein of support are the many colleagues who served on some of the committees that I committed to over the years: the Faculty Senate and the REAL Council – I could always count on these people, too many to name individually, for keeping up my spirits and sense of purpose over a fairly long period of time when writing and teaching and all the other things we do were likely to make me wonder if I would achieve my goals. Ten years is a long time – I apologize for inadvertently omitting people who had some role in my accomplishment. I hope it was worth it. Finally, although I am glad that my mother and brother missed the pandemic years, I am sad that I cannot share my major project with them. I know they would have been proud.

Abstract

When I first learned of an exhibition of Russian art at the Grand Central Gallery in 1924, I was inspired to investigate the surprisingly long history of American exhibitions of Russian art in the 20th century. At first, my questions were simple: when and how did Americans learn of Russian art? As I gathered data, I realized that this under-examined history was more complex than I imagined and has a lot to offer anyone who might be interested in questions of stylistic appropriations and influences and the role of museum exhibitions in promoting international and artistic exchanges. At first, I had planned to examine the role of books along with exhibitions, knowing that many people did acquire knowledge of Russian art from written materials. My decision to focus on exhibitions reflected a perception that exhibitions might reach a broader group of individuals than books. To be sure, there are important books that have become almost iconic in this field and some of the exhibitions may be less known than the books – but all the more reason to look at them, along with the reality that exhibitions planned in the early 20th century, may be quite different from those at the end of the century, and those changes were what attracted me to this topic. To date, my project reveals that Soviet and American exchanges in the world of art were extensive and persisted despite political disagreements and the Cold War. It also points to an important role played by Europe in shaping American exhibitions and shows how curatorial goals often determined which artists were associated with which movements, even when these associations may later contradict historical fact. To a large degree, official Soviet agencies and American commercial dealers were often more influential than curators or specialists in Russian and Soviet art. Whereas curators strove to associate the avant-garde with spirituality or to rouse public support for starving Russian artists, dealers, on the other hand, were often buying fakes or at the very least promoting their collections as representing periods and types of art incorrectly. The role of art as a political tool in shaping one country’s perceptions of another becomes surprisingly relevant, especially when government agencies control sales and loans of art works. Note that although this is a history (of exhibitions), it is not a survey history of Russian art. Nor is it a history of individual artists who have been honored by great exhibitions. Those invaluable books have already been written by other authors. Great artists like Bakst and Soudeikin and many others will show up but probably not in as much depth as you hope. Approach this book as a kaleidoscopic view of 20th century exhibitions of Russian art, mostly in the U.S.

Russian Names with Alternate Spellings in English Texts

Serge or Sergei Sudeikin, Soudeikine Balieff, Baliev, Balief Remizov, Remisoff, ReMi Sterenberg, Shterenberg Sayler, Saylor Grishkovskii, Grishkovsky Ekster, Exter Alexander, Alexandra, Aleksandr, Aleksandra Constantin[e], Konstantin, Umansky or i, Oumansky St. Petersburg’s name changed many times: Petrograd, Leningrad, and today, St. Petersburg. The chosen name usually reflects the date it was mentioned; as with other names, I try to use the name in the source I am working with. Footnote reminders will appear in the text. Note about transliteration: Whenever I used a source with Russian names that had not been transliterated, I followed the Library of Congress guidelines. In some cases, names will appear in the LC format and in a format used by another writer. For example: Tretiakov or Tretyakov Meierkhold or Meyerhold In both cases, both versions are correct. My preference is for the first version unless I was using a source which had already transliterated the name.

Acronyms and their English meanings

AKhRR Amtorg ARI OST VOKS

Association of Artists of Revolutionary Russia Corporation for trade between the US and the Soviet Union American Russian Institute Society of Easel Painters Union of Soviet Societies for Friendship and Cultural Relations with Foreign Countries

I use Soviet when historically appropriate and Russian when this is how the exhibition or critic refers to the artist and art work.

List of Images

2.1

2.2

2.3

2.4

2.5

3.1

3.2

Louis Lozowick: Modern Russian Art, 1925. 11-7/16 × 8-7/8″ (29 × 22.5 cm). The Museum of Modern Art Library, New York; Photo Credit: Digital Image © The Museum of Modern Art/Licensed by SCALA/Art Resource, NY38 El Lissitzky, Veshch (Thing), no. 3, 1922. Journal with letterpress cover. 12 3/16 × 9 1/4″ (31 × 23.5 cm). Publisher: Skify, Berlin. Edition: unknown. Gift of The Judith Rothschild Foundation. LOCATION: The Museum of Modern Art/New York, NY/U.S.A. Digital Image © The Museum of Modern Art/Licensed by SCALA/Art Resource, NY40 Alajalov, Cover of International Exhibition of Modern Art, Société Anonyme and Brooklyn Museum, 1926; courtesy of Katherine S. Dreier Papers/Société Anonyme Archive, Yale Collection of American Literature, Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library41 Alajalov, cover for second catalogue for the International Exhibition of Modern Art, 1926; courtesy of Katherine S. Dreier Papers/Société Anonyme Archive, Yale Collection of American Literature, Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library42 Alajalov, cover for Modern Art at the Sesquicentennial exhibition, Philadelphia, 1926; courtesy of Katherine S. Dreier Papers/Société Anonyme Archive, Yale Collection of American Literature, Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library43 Frederick Kiesler, Internationale Ausstellung neuer Theatertechnik [catalog cover], Vienna, 1924 Offset [International Exhibition of New Theater Technology]© 2023 Austrian Frederick and Lillian Kiesler Private Foundation, Vienna; catalogues seen in library: Internationale Ausstellung neuer Theatertechnik/unter Mitwirkung der Gesellschaft zur Förderung Moderner Kunst in Wien: im Rahmen des Musik und Theaterfestes der Stadt Wien, 1924: Katalog, Programm, Almanach herausgegeben von Friedrich Kiesler. (Wien: Würthle, 1924). Performing Arts branch of the New York Public Library, MWEP [RBS] 04-6216. Captions provided by Kiesler Foundation60 Kiesler, International Theatre Exposition, cover and interior showing portrait orientation of cover and landscape format of catalogue, New York, 1926; © 2023 Austrian Frederick and Lillian Kiesler Private Foundation, Vienna; catalogues seen in library: Internationale

xii  List of Images

3.3

3.4

3.5

3.6

4.1 5.1 5.2

6.1

6.2

Ausstellung neuer Theatertechnik/unter Mitwirkung der Gesellschaft zur Förderung Moderner Kunst in Wien: im Rahmen des Musik und Theaterfestes der Stadt Wien, 1924: Katalog, Programm, Almanach herausgegeben von Friedrich Kiesler. (Wien: Würthle, 1924). Performing Arts branch of the New York Public Library, MWEP [RBS] 04-6216. Captions provided by Kiesler Foundation60 Frederick Kiesler, Raumbühne (Space Stage) Internationale Ausstellung neuer Theatertechnik at the Wiener Konzerthaus, Vienna, 1924; photographer unknown; © 2023 Austrian Frederick and Lillian Kiesler Private Foundation, Vienna61 Fernand Léger, Machine-Age Exposition (Little Review, New York, 1927), New York, 1927. Museum: PRIVATE COLLECTION; Album: Alamy stock photo; © 2022 Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York/ ADAGP, Paris65 Signed by Soudeikine, “Balieff’s Chauve-Souris of Moscow,” cover, 1922, General Research Division, the New York Public Library Digital Collections, available online, https://digitalcollections.nypl.org/ items/666d032f-4a85-560c-e040-e00a18060c2573 Remisoff: sketch for Count Alexei Tolstoy’s “By the Gates of Judgment,” included in Oliver M. Sayler, “The Strange Story of Balieff’s Chauve-Souris” and the Remisoff archives in the University of Southern California libraries. Image in the public domain75 Lev/Léon Bakst, Costume design for the ballet Cleopatra by A. Arensky. Museum: State Museum of Theatre and Music Art, St. Petersburg. Credit: Album/Alamy stock photo103 Trylon and Perisphere, New York World’s Fair, 1939, Samuel H. Gottscho, credit: Artokoloro/Alamy Stock Photo119 Rudolf Bauer, The Holy One (Red Point), 1936. Oil on canvas. 51 3/8 × 51 3/8 inches (130.5 × 130.5 cm). Solomon R. Guggenheim Founding Collection, By gift. 37.170; photo credit: The Solomon R. Guggenheim Foundation/Art Resource, NY. © Copyright Weinstein Gallery, San Francisco, CA and ART Resource, NY120 Zaha Hadid’s exhibition design Tatlin Tower and Tektonik Worldwind, acrylic and watercolors on cartridge, 73 1/4 × 38 inches for The Great Utopia: The Russian and Soviet Avant-Garde, 1915–1932; September 25, 1992 to January 03, 1993, Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum, New York140 Exhibition view: The Great Utopia: The Russian and Soviet AvantGarde, 1915–1932; September 25, 1992 to January 03, 1993, Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum, New York. Photograph © Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum, New York141

1

Introduction and Prelude

Creating an Exhibition History Where does one start a history of a century of exhibitions of Russian art in the U.S.? And why does it matter – does it reflect the history of museums in the U.S.? Or tell us something about the meaning of exhibitions? Perhaps both, but before trying to answer those questions, it might be useful to know why the first question is more interesting than we might suspect. This project had two beginnings: this researcher’s attempt to explain the apparent influences of Russian art on late 20th century American art,1 when opportunities for those artists to encounter Russian art in English language publications and museums were still rare, and a more accidental beginning when a speaker at a workshop hosted by the National Endowment for the Humanities and the New York Public Library nonchalantly referred to an exhibition of Russian art at the gallery in the Grand Central Palace in 1924. On one level, I wanted to know whether the connection between Daniel Flavin and VladimirTatlin was deeper than the title of one of Flavin’s works. Or, in the same vein, why did artists like Alice Aycock and Miriam Schapiro make visual and conceptual references to Russian constructivist theater? Could it be argued that Camilla Gray’s book was not the only source of information about Russian avant-garde art for late 20th century American artists? The second motivation, the one that more directly culminated in this work, reflected my astonishment in learning about the relatively unknown 1924 exhibition. I was astounded on two counts: although a New Yorker, I did not know that there had ever been an art gallery in Grand Central station, and in my own study of Russian art, I was unaware of any exhibitions preceding the last quarter of the 20th century. As early as the 1920s? My opening question suddenly seemed to hold the key to knowing why it mattered. But this would involve more than simply chronicling the dates of these exhibitions. It would be necessary to know what art was included, where these exhibitions were located, who arranged them, who saw them, and what impact they had on the public. Clearly, my first question is not as straightforward as it might seem to be as it implies that the resources to do such a study exist. But do they? In search of an answer to at least one of these questions, I turned to the encyclopedic multi-volume work by Bruce Altshuler, Exhibitions that Changed Art History.2 Because volume one preceded volume two by several years and had an earlier chronological focus, the first volume Salon to Biennials seemed to be a good starting point. A unique compendium of exhibitions with archival sources and photographs when possible, it is unmatched as a history of exhibitions. The catch, however, is the phrase “that changed DOI: 10.4324/9781003247692-1

2  Introduction and Prelude art history.” That assessment might be difficult to make, if not too subjective and timelimited to attempt to make it, but it also tells us before we open the book that Altshuler will begin his history with exhibitions that did not take place in museums or even at the Salon or official expositions. The artist-organized, independent exhibition is the beginning of a change in how the institutionalized history of modern art will be told, a change that would have been much slower to come without the challenge to the Salon and the Academy of Art. Although a more monumental history than the one I seek to uncover, it does suggest that my early reluctance to look to international expositions in the mid-19th century may have been misguided. Were the palaces of art at these fairs the earliest stages of an attempt to use art to influence the American reception of Russian culture? If we return to Altshuler’s history of exhibitions, we find that it is premised on some basic changes in exhibition types.3 Traditionally, he observes, exhibitions were based on the collections of the founder of the museum. Over time, they began to be focused on movements or styles as someone, a critic or curator, wanted to make a statement about changes taking place in the world of art. It isn’t until the 1970s or thereabouts that exhibitions began to be organized by theme, selecting and using artworks to communicate an idea or concept that might not have been on the artist’s mind. The thematic exhibition driven by the curator’s conception becomes a driving force in the world of museums, biennials, and art fairs for several decades at the end of the 20th century. This will not be met favorably by many artists. As Daniel van Buren wrote, “More and more, the subject of an exhibition tends not to be the display of artworks, but the exhibition of the exhibition as a work of art.” Buren was not the only one to hold this view, and it wasn’t only artists who felt that their work was being misused. Critics also began to describe exhibitions in comparable terms. Thomas McEvilley wrote about an exhibition in Venice that it was “a kind of megapainting[sic] by the curator, incorporating the works of others as colors on its palette.”4 Will this description be true for some of the mega shows of Russian art mounted by the Guggenheim and the Metropolitan museums in the last decades of the 20th century? Perhaps less applicable to my exhibition history, these changes in the nature of the exhibition reflected another change in curatorial practices. Rather than selecting artworks to include in a show, curators were increasingly inviting artists to contribute. Although it is not clear that we can speak of curating when discussing expositions, the change from art works to artists as a method of selecting work may be notable. In either case, exposition or museum, the curator or organizer did not necessarily see the works until they were all delivered and the installation of the show may have become a collaborative event. Clearly, some artists were more comfortable with this approach than others. This development is accompanied by another one in which the exhibition may be taking place in multiple locations at once and lasting only for one day, and the catalog is the primary vehicle for experiencing the entirety of the exhibition. This last change is something we will observe as we follow Russian art exhibitions through the century. We will also observe some developments that did not enter into Altshuler’s overview: the intrusion of governmental organizations in determining what works can and will be exhibited, along with a decidedly political overtone to certain exhibitions. One incomparable resource for this feature of my exhibition history is unquestionably Treasures into Tractors: the Selling of Russia’s Cultural Heritage, 1918–1938.5 Without going into this development in depth at this point in my narrative, the one thing we want to note for future exploration is how the attempt of the Soviet government to create an international market for Russian art and antiques influenced, if not outright determined, what Russian art would be available for American exhibitions when my history reaches the 1920s.

Introduction and Prelude  3 But before reaching that part of my history, I return to one of my opening questions: the first exhibition of Russian art in the U.S.. Presumably not as complicated a question to answer as the more subjective question of where we start, especially if we can agree on the meaning and boundaries of exhibitions, but that, too, may not be as straightforward as one expects. Indeed, we may not even agree on the meaning of Russian art. As Rosalind Blakesley and Susan Reid ask in the introduction to Russian Art and the West, what is subsumed by the phrase “Russian art”?6 For my purposes, the first question that arose was the use of “Russian” versus the use of “Soviet,” especially when both can meaningfully be used in the same sentence. Whereas that question might be resolved by referencing the dates of the works in the exhibition or the name chosen by the curator or museum, doing so may have more value to art historians today than it did in the early years of this exhibition history. As the introduction to Treasures into Tractors tells us, after the revolution, the Soviet government’s concern was the creation of an international market for Russian arts and antiques. Exhibitions may have functioned primarily as a means of generating interest in items that could be sold, and the choice between calling something Soviet or Russian would probably have been based on something other than the date of the exhibition or the curator’s preference.7 The second question was more troublesome. Given that my initial focus was exhibitions of the avant-garde, a term which is not easily delimited and that excluded exhibitions of most pre-revolutionary art and religious art, and therefore many of the earliest exhibitions of Russian art, I had to determine whether my interest was the exhibitions themselves or artistic encounters with the avant-garde.8 After recognizing my true focus and having decided not to exclude art that wasn’t avant-garde, the question about Russian versus Soviet was still not resolved. Was it as simple as saying anything before 1917 would be called Russian and after that date Soviet, knowing that it might not correlate with how the Soviet government labeled art? Or do we decide to use the term that the artists, collectors or curators used when talking about their art, perhaps eliminating one source of confusion? What to do, then, with a collector like Christopher Brinton? He began his collection with a 17th century Russian icon, and because he believed that changes in art reflected an evolutionary process, rather than one of revolutionary change, it is not likely that he would have been inclined to change the name of his collection from Russian to Soviet. The distinction of concern to Brinton appeared to be one of nationality; thus, the artists who had emigrated to the U.S. were Russian émigrés, whereas the artists who remained in the Soviet Union were Soviet artists, a distinction that will be important in the exhibitions he helps curate.9 Whether émigrés or not, the artists themselves were not consistent in their use of Soviet or Russian, a decision that might reflect propagandist goals, reasons for emigration,10 and/or geographic location of the artist. Some of the artists traditionally called Russian were actually from regions that were now republics in the Soviet Union but had been provinces in the days of the Russian empire.11 Then, of course, there is the question of what does the term exhibition subsume. Should we, for example, include exhibitions in a Russian pavilion at a world’s fair in the U.S.? Does an exhibition of artworks that were somehow lost, stolen, and intended to be sold count? If the person illegally trying to sell art works calls his 1906 sale “Russia’s First Fine Arts Exposition in America,” does this count? Do we have any restrictions on genres or media in this comparison? Do the actual art works have to be present or are photographs and reconstructions acceptable? Even a question that would seem to be straightforward and easy to answer is as provocatively challenging as any study of exhibitions and museums. But when these exhibitions involve art from a country that was

4  Introduction and Prelude ruled by a tsar, until the revolution to overthrow him finally succeeded, and the country where these works will be displayed does not clearly acknowledge the existence of the country that presumably owned the art works, finding the answers may require rejecting any that at first seem to be obvious and correct. There is yet one more question that may be as challenging and potentially the most intriguing of all: What motivations lay behind these early exhibitions? What role does art play in promoting or instigating international dialogue, if that was ever a goal? To preview some of my findings, this research shows how curatorial goals often determined which artists were associated with which movements, even when these associations may be contradicted by historical fact. To a large degree, official Soviet agencies and American commercial dealers were often more influential than curators or specialists in Russian and Soviet art. Indeed, goals for the earliest exhibitions had less to do with the art works than with such issues as raising money for presumably starving artists and promoting a bridge between two cultures. To be sure, sales of Russian art were often written about in the newspapers, often included in a lengthy column that named several exhibitions and sales roughly occurring at the same time and in the same location. Whereas some curators strove to associate the avant-garde with spirituality or to rouse public support for starving Russian artists, dealers, on the other hand, were often buying fakes or at the very least promoting their collections as representing periods and types of art incorrectly. Collectors, of course, might do the same as dealers, albeit for different reasons. Robert C. Williams, in his research on the interactions between Russia and the U.S., observes that sales of Russian art, and in some cases European art owned by Russians, took place before the Russian revolution and continued long after, largely motivated by the monetary needs of either merchants or the government. By the 1920s, the goal of sales appeared to change slightly to a more diplomatic goal, although economic goals remained.12 Whether sales or exhibitions, these events received widespread newspaper coverage. The role of art as a political tool in shaping one country’s perceptions of another becomes surprisingly relevant, especially when government agencies control sales and loans of art works, as was the case in the Soviet Union. To be sure, the political use of art will not be as prevalent in the early 20th century as it will be later, although it might be an oversight to ignore the deliberate use of culture in shaping public opinion at any point in time. Other questions emerged as my study progressed. What role was played by magazines such as the Little Review and the graphic artists who worked for them? How did émigrés fit into this growing history? Despite Alfred Barr’s early travels to the Soviet Union, the newly formed Museum of Modern Art did not become a leader in the sphere of Russian art until recently, and even now, it might be said that its limited contribution to this exhibition history is perplexing. Thus, I ask, what goals and beliefs provided the groundwork for these exhibitions, and in particular, the early ones? How did this exhibition history shape American understanding of the Russian avant-garde, and one might boldly say, of Soviet and then Russian culture?13 Once again, it is unlikely that there will be a simple or single answer to questions such as these. For comparison, we might look to Eleonory Gilburd’s recent and provocative study of Soviet perceptions and interpretations of western culture primarily but not exclusively during the Thaw.14 In an interesting inversion of the 19th century American critical response to Russian art of the 19th century, Gilburd tells us how the Russian spectator and critic alike believed that abstract art of the mid20th century signified capitalist degeneration and American crudeness so serious it could only be considered a barbaric, viral infection. Gilburd and Kiril Chunikhin both show us

Introduction and Prelude  5 how the Soviet Union’s reception of the American artist Rockwell Kent was directly contrary to his reception in his home country.15 The dichotomous reactions to realism and abstraction in the late 20th century cannot of course be compared to American responses to realism in the 19th century, when, as we shall see, viewers believed that Russian art was seen to confirm the cultural backwardness and barbaric nature of the Russians, but the tendency to see in art a reflection of the level of culture in a foreign country may actually tell us more about spectator responses to art than about the country that produced the art.16 Still, we might want to reckon with the negative Soviet attitude toward abstraction, whether their own or from another culture, that doesn’t seem to go away. Before turning to the exhibitions, we should note that all of the previous questions will be problematized by the reality of changes in museological theory and the role of governments in facilitating or complicating intercultural cooperation. As a result, this story is far more complex than a chronological listing of exhibition names and art works. If, however, we choose the chronological beginning, and we don’t eliminate non-museum exhibitions, we begin with American expositions in the 19th century. One question can be answered: this is not a history of museums. They will be important but the earliest exhibitions in this history did not take place in museums. Prelude Russia participated in two world’s fairs held in the U.S. in the 19th century: the Philadelphia Centennial Exhibition of 1876 and the Columbian Exposition in Chicago in 1893. Unlike the rather more preposterous events we will find associated with the 1904 Louisiana Purchase Exposition in St. Louis, where Russia did participate although not on an official basis, these earlier fairs received art works that were primarily the works of the Peredvizhniki (the Wanderers) artists. The selection of works for international expositions was generally organized by the Imperial Fine Arts Academy. Initially, representatives of the Academy selected art works, rather than artists; by 1876, they were approaching artists and giving them the opportunity to select works of their own for the exhibition. By 1878, the year of the Universal Exposition in Paris, the Academy focused its invitations on the Peredvizhniki who refused to participate in that exposition. In their place, private collectors such as the Tretiakov family offered to lend works from their own collection. For the Chicago Columbian expo in 1893, Tsar Alexander III offered works from his collection. Sales of works were not the motivation behind Russia’s involvement as many of the works that were included already belonged to private or imperial Russian collectors who agreed to lend their works to the exhibition planning commission. Indeed, Russian participation in these expositions was not usually based on the belief that it would help business or trade, regardless of whether the involvement was in the area of machinery, agriculture, or art. In general, motivation for participation seemed to be the belief that this would help Russia’s image abroad. In the weeks leading up to the Philadelphia Centennial exposition in 1876, Russia was not prepared to participate but reversed its decision after receiving an invitation from President Grant (sent to all potential participating countries) and after Great Britain was seen to be encouraging the Ottomans to avoid a peaceful settlement with the Balkan Slavs, making participation a diplomatic step in building relations with the U.S.. Newspaper articles in popular papers along with the Ministry of Finance’s communication with the Tsar ensured in both cases that participation was not recommended as a means of helping industry but to provide evidence of Russia’s friendly attitude toward the U.S.17

6  Introduction and Prelude Of the three American expositions with Russian involvement, the number of Russian exhibitors in Chicago far exceeded those in Philadelphia or St. Louis. Although the international Paris expo of 1900 had the largest number of exhibitors, Chicago was the only American expo that approximated the numbers in the other European expos. However, it is not always possible to determine from the numbers of exhibitors if these refer to art exhibitors or other types of exhibitions in the fairs.18 Because the Philadelphia expo was recognized as a celebration of a national historical landmark, the Chicago expo may have more to tell us about the organization of fine arts at these expos. I will therefore proceed slightly out of chronological sequence. Although these are the earliest documented exhibitions of Russian art in the U.S., they were not the first occasions of Russian involvement in international expositions. In the period covered by David C. Fisher in his study of Russian involvement in worlds’ fairs, Russia participated in 11 international fairs during the period from 1851 to 1900, including the American expositions. In the case of both Philadelphia and Chicago, a member of the Council of the Ministry of Finance served as the general organizer for the Russian department at the fair, while the Fine Arts Academy was responsible for organizing the fine arts section. In fact, in the Fine Arts section of the Chicago Exposition catalog, the Russian section is titled “Russia. Exhibit of the Imperial Academy of Fine Arts.” Of 131 works listed on these pages, 15 were sculptures, 2 were carvings, and 3 were watercolors. This breakdown of media was apparently not different from earlier expos: oil paintings generally dominated the art works, while the number of art works largely outnumbered exhibitions of machinery. The fact that the Imperial Academy not only organized the Russian selection but considered it an exhibition of the Imperial Academy would explain the dominant presence of Wanderers in the 1893 exposition as they were leading artists and newly appointed professors in the Academy at that time.19 Of course, they may have regretted their refusal to participate in the previous Paris expo and wished to make up for that decision. When asked if they wanted to participate, artists were informed that they would have to deliver their art works to the Academy for a special exhibition prior to the selection of those works that would be sent to Chicago at the expense of the Academy. Anna Zavyalova, in a rare study devoted to the Chicago exposition, suggests that the art works sent to the fair were chosen to counter negative images and views of Russian life propagated by journalistic accounts such as those recently published in George Kennan’s 1921 book on Siberian exile.20 Without accessing and reading the correspondence of artists to the selection committee, it is difficult to know precisely why each artist chose the works they did and what might have been overlooked. The decision was largely in their hands and may have reflected little more than the artist’s ability to borrow a work from the present owner and get it to the Academy in time for shipping. Certainly, some of the letters and documents that Zavyalova read in the Russian archives do not point to a deliberate attempt to counter what was believed to be negative propaganda about Russia.21 Siemiradzky, a Polish artist who studied and became an academician at the Russian Imperial Academy, ranked his preferred paintings for the exhibition by value, based on size and subject, which in most cases was either classical or biblical. His first two choices were apparently deemed less valuable by him than the two paintings that were sent. Many of the works that did make it to Chicago featured historical events, but in some cases they were paintings that focused on the abolition of serfdom.22 The English language catalog prepared for the fair emphasized, when possible, how such paintings could be seen as displaying improvements that had been made in the lives of peasants.

Introduction and Prelude  7 The Russian commission’s goal of displaying a high level of Russian art along with an image of Russian life as not being uncultured and semi-barbaric may not have been precisely what American critics perceived. Critical responses were mixed, focusing in some cases on what could be intuited from the subject matter and in others on insulting comments about the artists’ techniques. These factors did, apparently, become intertwined as those critics who did not like the subject matter, finding it grotesque and uncivilized, did not like the paintings. All the same, before looking in greater depth at these reviews, it must be noted that the exposition as a whole, while a huge popular success, was not unambiguous about the place of non-American and non-western European cultures. Thus, although these expositions may have been among the earliest acquaintances of Americans with Russian art, they may have been clouded with biases that are somewhat less likely to predominate at a museum exhibition. Judging from the floor plan of the Palace of Fine Arts, France may have had more contributions to the Palace than any other country, including the U.S. The U.S., Great Britain, and Germany, all had a comparable amount of space. A block of the same size as those countries had was divided among Russia, Spain, Japan, and Holland. Thus, the long rectangular hall that displayed Russian art may have been crammed with paintings that were unjustly (or deservedly) accused of being excessive in size and were perhaps no larger than the paintings included in the more spacious rooms for art of the U.S. As noted previously, the catalog lists 131 art works, most of which were oil paintings, plus a smaller number of water colors, sculptures, and wood carvings in 2 galleries. The English-language Russian version of the catalog lists each artist with his works, identifying the present owner, and occasionally including a narrative explanation of the scene. In some cases, these were historical scenes but in others, the paintings with descriptions were landscapes or architectural monuments. More than a page is given to a detailed description of the history and architectural style of “interior view of the Cathedral of our Saviour[sic] in Moscow” by Feodor Andreievitch Klagess[sic].23 Of the critics cited most often for their comments on this exhibition, Hubert Howe Bancroft was inclined to focus largely on subject matter, often providing detailed descriptions of what he saw, with some additional comments about the artist’s palette and overall technique, which, for Bancroft, was closely tied to the descriptive commentary. He begins his discussion of the Russian section of his book with a critique of size and some relatively condescending remarks about how the Russians might judge quality: To say of a collection of paintings that it is marred by excess of strength may appear somewhat of a paradox; yet, if the truth be told, this is what must be said of the Russian paintings, another fault in which is their phenomenal dimensions, so that looking for the first time on these mammoth canvases, we are thankful the exhibit is a small one, for a few such should have exhausted the entire space at the disposal of the management. The best feature in the collection … is that it deals largely with national subjects, and if only it dealt with them in a true artistic spirit …. From a Russian point of view it is doubtless of excellent quality; but art is universal ….24 While seeming to imply that therefore, we should all agree on the artistic quality of a work, this did not appear to be the case as Bancroft continues to criticize modeling and color in many of the paintings while praising them for their realistic approach, devoting six pages to detailed descriptions often accompanied by reproductions of the art works. Indeed, perhaps we might question Bancroft’s approach to art criticism as relying too

8  Introduction and Prelude much on description. He could not write about each of the more than 100 works but did write about many, providing elaborate descriptions that included his reading of the narrative and the emotional quality that the artist was, according to Bancroft, trying to convey. Thus, some artists appeal to our sympathies, while other artists communicate a noticeable air of sadness even in those scenes that are portraying cheerful moments. He writes that “in ‘Sunday in a Village,’ by Dmietrieff Orenbursky, when peasants are trying to make merry, we can see that they are only trying, and with indifferent success.”25 This does not read as criticism from Bancroft but as praise. The Chicago exposition was large and important, particularly from the perspective of its architecture and implications for urban planning. It did not appear to be a failure with respect to the exhibition of fine arts, and it is likely that the Russian galleries were well visited. Popular magazines did have occasional articles about Russian art, and Bancroft was not the only American to write about the Russian art section, although it is difficult to track these materials today. More are available in Russian archives. Overall, Zavyalova’s article is probably the most complete discussion of Russian involvement at the Chicago expo that we have today – as she observes, Russian writers contributed to the various sections of the larger expo catalog, attempting to explain scenes to the American audience and probably romanticizing the narratives. Bancroft and several other American writers may have been influenced by this tendency to explain and romanticize, rather than analyzing the art work from a more complete art historical perspective, if one were desired. Marian Shaw was more concise than Bancroft but essentially provided a paragraph long, descriptive walk-through. Her comments begin by observing that “Russia’s display is a marvel and a revelation to those who have looked upon the vast empire of the Czar[sic] as but one remove from barbarism” and goes on to commend several paintings for their luminous and lovely effects. A journalist rather than an art critic, she defers to the critics’ assessments of the works in this “superb collection” from the Imperial Academy and one work (a painting by Repin) from the emperor, “pronounced by the critics the artistic gem of the collection.”26 At most fairs, fine arts were never as popular as machinery and other parts of the fairs. Among the arts, painting was the most important at all the fairs, although not always the most popular. At the earliest expos, the organizers for each country initially focused on living artists only, until they began receiving complaints from the owners of art works that were lent to the expos time and again. This was soon remedied by the inclusion of art by artists no longer alive making art the only part of these expos that sanctioned an exploration of the past – a factor that may have detracted from the interest of audiences who wanted to know the present-day worlds of the cultures included in the expositions. If not overwhelmingly popular with the average spectator, they were not more so with artists. Paul Greenhalgh suggests that the influence of the fine arts palaces at the world expositions on new and professional artists was very slight; this may have been the effect of including a large amount of recent academic art in comparison with a more limited amount of work by old masters; they did, however, introduce many artists to visual arts and ethnographic displays from countries that were not usually seen in museums.27 Philadelphia, an exceptionally large fair, had three buildings for art: the Art Gallery (Memorial Hall, the Philadelphia Art Museum today), the Art Annex, and the Photographic Hall. Apparently, the organization of the art gallery was unusual, seemingly not only using American art as the most central in the plan but giving space to foreign art works that were owned by American collectors. The floor plan for the main gallery was divided into numerous small rectangular spaces of which some countries received more than one. Russia is indicated in this plan, although not in the annex that was also

Introduction and Prelude  9 subdivided into more than 40 spaces. The first international exhibition of art in the U.S., 20 countries submitted work, not quite half of the total number of countries that participated in the fair. Several countries submitted several 100 works apiece; Russia submitted 91. Although Rydell does not discuss the layout of Memorial Hall, he does note that exhibits in the main building were organized by race. “The United States, England, France and Germany were given the most prominent display areas,” which does appear to be true of the art building as well. Remaining spaces in the main building were divided between countries and colonies representing the Latin races, Teutonic, and Anglo-Saxon. The division of space in the art gallery, with the exception of the large spaces in the central hall, appeared to be divided with no apparent reference to the races as described above. Kelsey Gustin attempts to account for the unorthodox lay-out of Memorial Hall giving more attention to it than Rydell does, eventually concluding that “the resulting plan for the Art Annex created an incidental equalizing effect between nations,” enabling visitors to pass easily from one country to another. This might appear to be true given that the Annex was divided into seven horizontal rows intersected by nine vertical rows, creating a large number of small spaces before some were joined together to give certain countries more space. Russia was not included in the annex, perhaps because it did seem to have a smaller number of works in the exposition than many of the other countries. Although Russian-applied arts and jewelry were highly praised in Philadelphia, it is difficult to find reviews or critical writing about the art works in the fine arts part of the 1876 exposition. One might guess that given the importance of the centennial date to the U.S., writers were more likely to address the overall importance of the event or works that likewise celebrated the centennial and the American spirit.28 The Louisiana Purchase Exhibition of 1904 was the largest international exposition yet, far surpassing Chicago. Rydell discusses the expression of themes of American imperialism at this fair but for a discussion of the unusual incident related to Russian art, a key source at this time is the work of Robert C. Williams. Russia’s participation in this exposition was disrupted to some degree by the Russo-Japanese war that prevented full and official Russian participation, although 600 works did arrive too late to allow for a well-planned installation. It contributes little to our exhibition history for several reasons. The collection of 600 paintings was large, focused primarily on the Wanderers but included some of the emerging World of Art and art nouveau artists, the space was again too small but in this case over-shadowed by the pavilion next door to the Russian pavilion. The events that followed the exposition complicate its place in this exhibition history. Edward Mikhailovich Grunwaldt, the Russian councillor of Commerce who had arranged the exhibition, guaranteeing complete coverage for any lost objects and the return to St. Petersburg of work that was not sold, subsequently arranged to have an exposition on Fifth Avenue in New York City for a sale he called “Russia’s First Fine Arts Exposition in America.” Due to the dishonest representation of this event that had been intended not as an exhibition but as a sale, the works were seized by the U.S. government and placed in storage where they languished as unclaimed merchandise for approximately six years. Before they were seized, some were auctioned off at low prices but no duties were paid. Eventually, a series of complicated transactions involving numerous people led to a few sales, many damaged paintings, and the placement of some of the art in museums. The upshot of this event was a contribution to the clogging of channels between American and Soviet traders and buyers and no further American exhibitions of Russian art until the 1920s.29 Williams identifies 1924 as the year when these exhibitions begin, although in fact the Brooklyn Museum exhibition of Russian art was held in 1923,

10  Introduction and Prelude as he also notes. Wiliams’ differentiation here appears to be between exhibitions or sales that were supported or initiated by the Soviet government or officials, and intended to encourage trade and recognition of the Soviet Union (the 1924 exhibition), as opposed to exhibitions and sales organized and promoted by Americans (1923). Despite the unfortunate circumstances surrounding the New York event, the so-called exposition was not ignored by all writers, one of whom (Keyser, as we have seen) wrote about the shipping problems faced by Russia and the art that may or may not have been in the exhibition since he wrote in advance of the opening. Coming at the same time as the exposition was a visit of the Russian Symphony Orchestra and other cultural groups. Taken together, Christian Brinton found this an auspicious moment to write “an informing and sympathetic article,” as the Literary Digest described it, for Appleton’s Booklovers’ Magazine.30 The suggestion by the unnamed author of the note in the Digest as to Brinton’s inspiration may need to be seen in light of the fact that Brinton had become acquainted with Grunwaldt, the Russian Commerce Minister who not only arranged the original St. Louis Event but had invited Brinton to a diplomatic dinner for the exhibition.31 Brinton began his article with a discussion of Russian literature, history, and an overview of the horrifying events that did not suppress the beauty and radiance of Russian art and life before he turns to an explanation of how the St. Louis exposition of Russian art found its way to New York. The substance of his article is more of a cultural history with occasional reference to some of the paintings in the exposition than a critique of the exposition itself. Some of the paintings received detailed descriptions of the scene and narrative as understood by Brinton, several are accompanied by reproductions of the art works, before he concludes his largely appreciative study of Russian culture by saying that the anarchy caused by the Mongol invasions of recent months will not suppress or obliterate the culture of the country. Although his motive appears to be other than that of acknowledging the legacy of the St. Louis expo, it did address the expo before proceeding to celebrate the realist tradition of Russian art and asserting its connection to the values and instincts of the Russian people. Near the end of his lengthy discussion, he writes that “the salvation of Russian art, as of all art, lies in a saving sense of nationalism. It is particularly true of Russia that her best expression flows direct from the sap of popular life and legend.”32 Brinton’s conclusions about the presumably or socalled first Russian exhibition of fine art in the U.S. may have more to tell us about his own theories of art than the exposition itself. Because Brinton did not have any involvement in the planning or installation of this exhibition, we cannot look at this as an example of how a collector may have influenced the picture of Russian art that is conveyed by the exhibition. But Brinton will have a hand in several exhibitions that come soon in the early period of actual exhibitions located in museums. What other conclusions can we take away from this event? Although some of the works were purchased, these purchases did not seem to be the start of a strong interest in Russian-American trade in the arts, and accurate valuation of the art works involved seemed less important than the avoidance or collection of tariffs. The Soviet government did want to cultivate American sales but the 1920s was disappointing in this respect. In contrast to the 1920s, when exhibitions in museums and galleries do take off, the period of world expositions can be ambiguous with respect to the interpretation of goals and the identification of which artists and art works were included. Whereas it may be too facile to assume that these questions will ever be easy to resolve, the abundance of reviews, paperwork, and relevant resources make the decade of the 1920s the true beginning to a history of American exhibitions of Russian and Soviet art. Thus, although the

Introduction and Prelude  11 prelude rightly ends in the first decade of the 20th century as we turn to the contributions of first, Christian Brinton, and second, Katherine Dreier, and then the Soviet government for what can truly be called the beginning of the history of a century of exhibitions of Russian and Soviet art in the U.S., another consequential factor has entered the picture: the role of governments in planning exhibitions and sales. Whereas the Soviet government did want to create an international market for Russian art and antiques, and did initially encourage exhibitions as a means of generating interest in these products, marketability is a different motive for exhibition planning than cultural relations. Many of the items chosen for sale were not necessarily Russian to begin with and rarely reflected avant-garde developments.33 The early interest of Soviet agencies in planning exhibitions for travel ends in the 1920s, although the interest in sales continues. Nonetheless, the lack of involvement of Russian museums in planning American exhibitions undoubtedly impacted the range of works that could be seen in this country, but was it exclusively for the worst? The answer to that question remains to be seen. Yet, it must be noted that through the efforts of VOKS, recognized as the USSR Society for Cultural Relations with Foreign Countries, the goals of scientific and cultural relations exceeded sales and led to a variety of exhibitions in the period between 1925 and 1928. Forty exhibitions in the arts were held, with an emphasis on posters, printing type, and books, among other media, but most of these were in European countries, with Germany and England recipients of more than other countries named in the report from October 1928. A Modern Art Exposition in America is also mentioned and the 1928 International Press Exhibition traveled from Cologne to four other cities, including New York.34 The role of VOKS and the friendship societies formed in other countries obviously is important and cannot be overlooked. Notes 1. The use of Soviet versus Russian is the subject of a later paragraph. On my use of “American,” I refer only to the United States. 2. Bruce Altshuler, ed., Salon to Biennial – Exhibitions that Made Art History, Vol. 1: 1863–1959 (New York and London: Phaidon Press, 2008). 3. Introduction, Biennials and Beyond – Exhibitions that Made Art History, Vol. 2: 1962–2002 (New York and London: Phaidon Press, 2013), 11–24. 4. Exhibitions, p. 15 for both quotations. 5. Anne Odom and Wendy R. Salmond, eds., Treasures into Tractors: The Selling of Russia’s Cultural Heritage, 1918–1938 (Washington, DC: Hillwood Estate and Seattle, WA: University of Washington Press, 2009). Treasures into Tractors preceded by only a few years the English language version of a comparable study of the disasters tracked in Odom and Salmond’s book: Natalya Semyonova and Nicolas V. Iljine, eds., Selling Russia’s Treasures. The Soviet Trade in Nationalized Art, 1917–1938, translation from Russian by Andrew Bromfield and Howard M Goldfinger (Paris: M.T. Abraham Center for the Visual Arts Foundation, 2013). It is perhaps most significant that the contributions of each book to understanding the extent of Russian cultural losses are unique and non-duplicative. 6. Introduction, “A Long Engagement: Russian Art and the ‘West’,” Blakesley and Reid, eds., Russian Art and the West (DeKalb, IL: Northern Illinois University Press, 2007), 3–20. 7. Preface to Treasures into Tractors, xiii–xv. 8. See an early article by John E. Bowlt, “Art in Exile: The Russian Avant-Garde and the Emigration,” Art Journal, 41: 3 (Autumn 1981), 215–221 for discussion of the various uses and meanings of avant-garde and why the term may be useful or obfuscating. 9. Brinton will be of interest later in this chapter, as will the tenuous distinction between Soviet and Russian. For his interest in evolutionary theories, see Mechella Yezernitskaya, “Christian Brinton: A Modernist Icon,” Baltic Worlds, XI: 1 (2018), 58–64, and Andrew J. Walker,

12  Introduction and Prelude “Critic, Curator, Collector: Christian Brinton and the Exhibition of National Modernism in America, 1910–1945,” dissertation, University of Pennsylvania, 1999. 10. Although emigration will obviously be an important and influential concept in my study, it will not be a major focus for my work as it deserves and has received book-length studies. These include Marilyn Rueschemeyer, Igor Golomstok, and Janet Kennedy, Soviet Emigré Artists: Life and Work in the USSR and the United States (Armonk, NY and London: M. E. Sharpe Inc., 1985); Christopher Flamm, Henry Keazor, and Roland Marti, eds., Russian Emigré Culture: Conservatism or Evolution? (Cambridge Scholars Publisher, 2013). 11. Irene R. Makaryk, April in Paris: Theatricality, Modernism, and Politics at the 1925 Art Deco Expo (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2018) addresses the confusions inherent in this distinction and how they played into the response to Russian and Soviet work at the expo. As far as I can tell, there is no single or simple answer to this question; whenever possible, I will use the terminology as it was used in the exhibition I am discussing. 12. Williams, Russian Art and American Money, 1900–1940 (Cambridge: Harvard University Press), 27. 13. In most cases, exhibitions after the 1917 revolution will refer to Soviet art but exhibitions of art made before 1917 will usually say Russian art. In some cases, the distinction is one that is made by the curator or museum and does not always have a clear reference to a date. I try to conform to the terminology used in the exhibition. 14. Eleonory Gilburd, To See Paris and Die; The Soviet Lives of Western Culture (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2018), see especially chapter 5, “Barbarians in the Temple of Art.” 15. K. Chunikhin, “At Home among Strangers; U.S. Artists, the Soviet Union, and the Myth of Rockwell Kent during the Cold War,” Journal of Cold War Studies, 21: 4 (Fall 2019), 175–207. 16. An unusual and very detailed article that focuses on the “infancy” of Russian artistic culture as an explanation for some disappointing art works was not based on an exhibition but written in anticipation of the forthcoming St. Louis exposition for a Chicago magazine that no longer exists: E. N. Keyser, “Russian Art: Its Strength and Its Weakness,” Brush and Pencil, 14: 3 (Jun 1904), 161–173. 17. David C. Fisher, “Exhibiting Russia at the Worlds’ Fairs, 1851–1900,” dissertation, Indiana University, 2003, 86–87. For a different approach to the role of World Fairs in establishing national identity, see Anthony Swift, “Russian National Identity at World Fairs, 1851–1900,” in Josephy Theodor Leerson and Eric Storm, eds., World Fairs and the Global Moulding of National Identities (Leiden, Boston: Brill, 2022), 107–143. Swift’s focus is on Russia’s use of the Russian style, rather than industrial advances to create its brand. 18. Fisher, “Exhibiting Russia,” p. 70. In a table of Russian participation, Fisher notes 648 exhibitors in Philadelphia, 1048 in Chicago, and fewer than 400 in St. Louis where other complications intervened. His numbers, we will see, do appear to include all types of exhibitors. The undeniable value of this work is its usefulness as a guide to resources on and responses to the fairs. Unfortunately, Swift focuses only on European expos and does not discuss the American fairs. 19. One source for Russian participation in Chicago is Anna Zavyalova, “Russian Fine Arts Section at the World’s Columbian Exposition 1893, Notes on Organization and Reception,” Online Journal MDCCC 1800, 6: 9 (2017) 119–130. Other writers have addressed Russia’s involvement in European expositions, but I have chosen not to include those as my focus is the United States. In fact, the literature on non-American exhibitions of Russian art, especially those in Great Britain, is more extensive. 20. Zavyalova, 123. Her valuable research used archival materials in Moscow. 21. To determine whether or not this was a goal of the artists who sent works would require studying the complete bodies of work done by each artist and the provenance of each work. A worthy study but somewhat outside the boundaries of this one. 22. Although I have been able to track down a copy of the exposition catalog for Chicago, I have not had that luck with Philadelphia. 23. Spelling as listed in the Official Catalogue, Part X, Department K, Fine Arts, for the World Columbian Exposition of 1893 (available online through Google and through HathiTrust MARC); description on 364–365 with the artist’s name spelled Klagess and in an earlier listing as Klagis. 24. Hubert Howe Bancroft, the Book of the Fair (Chicago, IL: Bancroft, 1893), volume 8 as digitized by the Smithsonian, 754.

Introduction and Prelude  13 5. Bancroft, Fair, 758. Spelling of artist’s name as in the book. 2 26. Shaw, World’s Fair Notes, A Woman Journalist Views Chicago’s 1893 Columbian Exposition (St. Paul, MN: Pogo Press Inc., 1992), 71. 27. Greenhalgh, Ephemeral vistas: The Expositions Universelles, Great Exhibitions and World’s Fairs, 1851–1939 (Manchester, UK: Manchester University Press and New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1988). 28. Gustin, “Building Babel: The 1876 International Exhibition at the Philadelphia Centennial” Sequitur, 2: 1 (2015), quotation p. 2; Robert W. Rydell, All the World’s a Fair: Visions of Empire at American International Expositions, 1876–1916 (Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press: 1984), 21. Gustin and Rydell disagree on the unusual system of arranging the galleries in Philadelphia and the degree to which they can be called racist. Rydell does not discuss the Art buildings, while Gustin does not discuss the main building, making the extent of their disagreement unclear. 29. Robert C. Williams, “America’s Lost Russian Paintings and the 1904 St. Louis Exposition,” chapter 13 in Williams, Russian Art and American Money, 1900–1940 (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1980), 87–213, is the most complete discussion of this event that I have located. 30. “The National Note in Russian Art,” The Literary Digest, xxxii: 5 (Feb 3, 1906), 157–158; Brinton, “Russia through Russian Painting,” Appleton’s Booklovers’ Magazine, 7 (1906), 151–172. 31. Andrew J. Walker, “Critic, Curator, Collector: Christian Brinton and the Exhibition of National Modernism in America, 1910–1945,” doctoral dissertation, University of Pennsylvania, 1999, 34–35 refers to Brinton’s friendship with Grunwaldt and his article for Appleton’s. He does not spend much time on this article as it comes somewhat before the period of Brinton’s career that interests him but he does see it as contributing to Brinton’s theory of national modernism. 32. Brinton, Russian painting, p. 173. 33. Odom and Salmond, preface to Treasures into Tractors, xv–xix. 34. Olga D. Kamenova, “Cultural Rapprochement: The US.S.R. Society for Cultural Relations with Foreign Countries,” Pacific Affairs 1: 5 (Oct 1928), 6–8.

Chapter 1 Sources Altshuler, Bruce, ed., Salon to Biennial – Exhibitions that Made Art History. Vol. 1: 1863–1959. Vol 2: Biennials and beyond, 1962–2002. New York and London: Phaidon Press, 2008–13. Bancroft, Hubert Howe, The Book of the Fair. Vol. 8. Chicago, IL: Bancroft, 1893. https://doi. org/10.5479/sil.780071.39088011387669 Barr, Jr., Alfred H., “Russian Diary,” October. Vol. 7 (Winter 1978), 10–51. Blakesley, Rosalind P. and Susan E. Reid, eds., Introduction, Russian Art and the West. Dekalb, IL: Northern Illinois University Press, 2007, pp. 3–20. Bowlt, John E., “Art in Exile: The Russian Avant-Garde and the Emigration,” Art Journal, 41: 3 (1981), 215–221. Brinton, Christian, “Russia through Russian Painting,” Appleton’s Booklovers’ Magazine, 7 (1906), 151–172. Chunikhin, Kiril, “At Home among Strangers; U.S. Artists, the Soviet Union, and the Myth of Rockwell Kent during the Cold War,” Journal of Cold War Studies, 21: 4 (Fall 2019), 175–207. Fisher, David C., “Exhibiting Russia at the Worlds’ Fairs, 1851–1900,” Ph.D. diss., Indiana University, 2003. Flamm, Christoph, ed. et al., Russian Émigré Culture: Conservatism or Evolution? Newcastle on Tyne: Cambridge Scholars Publisher, 2013; ProQuest Ebook Central. Gilburd, Eleonory, To See Paris and Die; The Soviet Lives of Western Culture. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2018. Gray, Camilla, The Russian Experiment in Art 1863–1922 (revised and enlarged edition). London: Thames & Hudson, 1986. Greenhalgh, Paul, Ephemeral Vistas: The Expositions Universelles, Great Exhibitions and World’s Fairs, 1851–1939. Manchester, UK: Manchester University Press and New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1988.

14  Introduction and Prelude Kamenova, Olga D., “Cultural Rapprochement: The U.S.S.R. Society for Cultural Relations with Foreign Countries,” Pacific Affairs, 1: 5 (Oct. 1928), 6–8. Keyser, E. N., “Russian Art: Its Strength and Its Weakness,” Brush and Pencil, 14: 3 (June 1904), 161–173. Makaryk, Irene R., April in Paris: Theatricality, Modernism, and Politics at the 1925 Art Deco Expo. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2018. Odom, Anne and Wendy R. Salmond, eds., Treasures into Tractors: The Selling of Russia’s Cultural Heritage, 1918–1938. Washington, DC: Hillwood Estate and Seattle, WA: University of Washington Press, 2009. Rueschemeyer, Marilyn, Igor Golomstock and Janet Kennedy, “Soviet Emigré Artists: Life and Work in the USSR and the United States,” International Journal of Sociology, XV: 1–2 (1985). Rydell, Robert W., All the World’s a Fair: Visions of Empire at American International Expositions, 1876–1916. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 1984. Shaw, Marian, World’s Fair Notes, A Woman Journalist Views Chicago’s 1893 Columbian Exposition. St. Paul, MN: Pogo Press Inc., 1992, p. 71. Swift, Anthony, “Russian National Identity at World Fairs, 1851–1900,” In Josephy Theodor Leerson and Eric Storm, eds., World Fairs and the Global Moulding of National Identities. Leiden, Boston, MA: Brill, 2022, pp. 107–143. Walker, Andrew J., “Critic, Curator, Collector: Christian Brinton and the Exhibition of National Modernism in America, 1910–1945,” Ph.D. diss., University of Pennsylvania, 1999. Williams, Robert C., Russian Art and American Money, 1900 – 1940. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1980. Yezernitskaya, Mechella, “Christian Brinton: A Modernist Icon,” Baltic Worlds, XI: 1 (2018), 58–64. Zavyalova, Anna, “Russian Fine Arts Section at the World’s Columbian Exposition 1893, Notes on Organization and Reception,” Online Journal MDCCC 1800, 6: 9 (2017), 119–130.

2

Reconsidering the 1920s

Chapter 1 took us to the beginning of the 20th century with its focus on three world expositions and the Louisiana Purchase Exposition of 1904 which seemed to bring an end to exhibitions of Russian art until the 1920s. Although it is relatively easy to find reasons for an interruption in foreign exhibitions during the second decade of the 20th century, it was not a complete interruption. Unlike the 1920s, the 1910s do not offer any major exhibitions of Russian visual arts although there is a one-year tour of the Ballets Russes in 1916.1 Opera singers, dancers and dance companies, and other forms of spectacle performances did not experience the same interruption that we find in exhibitions of the visual arts. The performing arts and the visual arts are rarely examined together making it difficult to compare the presence or absence of these events in terms that go beyond chronology and names. Yet, hypotheses regarding the “steady stream of Russian performers of ballet, vaudeville, and opera” point to such factors as impresarios and patrons, audience interests in novelty and exoticism, and the roles of company managers as playing important parts in the mostly continuous attraction and presence of these arts in the U.S.2 Nonetheless, the visual arts were here, not only in the form of émigré artists: gallery exhibitions of artists such as Nicholas Roerich, Boris Anisfeld, Natalia Goncharova, and others were held, often at the Kingore Gallery, the Knoedler, and others with greater or lesser longevity, and often traveling to galleries in Boston, Chicago, and other cities. Some of the early gallery shows were arranged by individuals who would later be putting together larger exhibitions, while in other cases, an artist’s association with a ballet or opera company may have led to the gallery’s interest in arranging an exhibition. Whether the 1910s or the 1920s, we encounter the growing appeal of Russian artists as trend setters in fashion, and the degree to which early newspaper reviews adumbrated the inability to define and differentiate between styles of Russian art. In many cases, as we will see, this was not the fault of gallery owners, and even when it was, newspaper critics tended to group exhibitions and media together in articles indicating what people could see, hear, or watch at a certain time and certain place. These descriptive reviews were often more concerned with the owner of the objects for sale, what was available to be seen (or bought) than aesthetic evaluation. Just as the 1920s will bring some large and major exhibitions, reviews will also begin to focus more on style and differences between the emotional use of color and varied styles or emotions versus realism (Anisfeld or Goncharova, for example, versus Repin and, in some cases, the “curious realism” of Roerich3). Some reviewers searched for but could not always find a quality that could be called “Russian” rather than French, Anglo-Saxon, or Teutonic, and in other cases DOI: 10.4324/9781003247692-2

16  Reconsidering the 1920s (perhaps easier to do in performances than paintings, especially when realism was so widely admired), comparisons were made, generally unfavorably for painters, to the work of Russian theater where rehearsals and practice culminated in perfection.4 It will also become clear as we move later into the 1920s that definitions of the avant-garde were unstable. Before then, Brinton, rarely writing as a critic, was more specific about the qualities that made Anisfeld, for example, an exemplar of Russian or Slavonic art although he did not limit his praise to Anisfeld: “‘You will fail to grasp the significance of temporary [sic] Slavonic art in all its color and complexity,’ declares Dr. Brinton, ‘if you do not remember the fact that it constitutes, first and foremost, a protest against realism, a triumphant renaissance of the ideal – or to be more explicit, of decorative idealism.’”5 For other viewers, however, realism was the key to recognizing Russian art if it depicted stereotypically Russian settings. That there are certain curators whose names recur in the larger exhibitions should not be a surprise. Yet, the interest of these several curators in Russian art does not arise for the same reasons. We find Christian Brinton and Katherine Dreier to be among the early leaders in planning exhibitions of Russian art, and although they worked together in more than one instance, they cannot be called collaborators. Brinton, in fact, may be seen to have collaborated with William Henry Fox, the director of the Brooklyn Museum, and in one case, all three worked together (the 1923 exhibition of Russian painting and sculpture). Dreier’s knowledge of Russian art never seems to be as thorough or committed as Brinton’s, given her goal of demonstrating that Paris was not the center of the art world and her belief that the Soviet Union should be thanked for creating a large émigré population of artists and thereby disseminating the “great spiritual contribution which Russia has to give.”6 Dreier was less likely than Brinton to work with specific museum directors as she planned to found her own museum of modern art. Despite their differences and the questionably phrased credit she gives to the Soviet Union, both Dreier and Brinton must be given credit for bringing Russian art to the attention of many Americans in the 1920s along with differing interpretations and judgments of this art. They each played a significant role in arranging gallery exhibitions, often at the Kingore, for such artists as Archipenko, Goncharova, Larionov, and others. A less familiar patron, Alice Garrett, made it possible for Leon Bakst to make two trips to the U.S. during which he had exhibitions in New York, Chicago, and Canada and gave lectures on fashion and design.7 In some respects, this history of exhibitions is also a history of competing interpretations of Russian art and of modernism, particularly between but not limited to Brinton and Dreier. We will see that the Dreier “school” is one which has a more personal, universalist, and theosophical interpretation at its heart; the Brinton “school” begins with a nationalist theory (called “racial” by Brinton) that evolves into a social theory. Louis Lozowick and Frederick Kiesler, both of whom are artists whose work shows an affinity with Russian constructivism, may be said in different ways to make this affinity important in their exhibition-related work, generally done with another curator; and Alfred Barr, whose exhibition ideology always seems to be more concerned with the evolution of his vision of modernism rather than an evolution of Russian art, initially contributes little to the development of exhibitions of Russian art despite growing a collection of Russian art for the Museum of Modern Art which he willingly loaned to others. Although Hilla von Rebay will later be denied sufficient credit for her role in creating the Guggenheim museum’s collection of abstract paintings – in particular the Kandinsky collection – and influencing the construction of the final building, despite her interest in Kandinsky and

Reconsidering the 1920s  17 other non-objective artists, she was not a dedicated collector of Russian art and cannot be seen to have played a strong part in the eventual development of the Guggenheim’s role in exhibiting Russian art.8 Exhibitions at the Guggenheim (before it was called that) rarely included enough examples of Russian art to be seen as Russian art exhibitions. By the end of the 20th century, the Guggenheim will have become a major force in mounting large Russian art exhibitions, an evolution that is not predictable from its origins as a museum of non-objective painting, as Rebay preferred to call it. Jane Heap, although better known as an editor and publisher, should be considered as yet another curator with an interest in the avant-garde and experimental art. Not a collector herself, her exhibitions did include Russian art and architecture, and her writing in the Little Review offers another perspective on the content and importance of the 1920s in this early phase of Russian art exhibitions. To be sure, we cannot overlook the gallery exhibitions that were frequently devoted to the work of one artist, sometimes through the efforts of Dreier and at other times Brinton: David Burliuk, for example, was promoted by both. Although he was widely known and wrote articles for magazines and newspapers about art and collected art, Brinton was never really a trained art critic. He promoted artists, especially the émigrés he met in NYC, making arrangements for them to exhibit their work. Not entirely altruistic, Brinton earned commissions for making these connections between artists and galleries. Anisfeld was one of the artists that Brinton helped, arranging an exhibition at what was the new Grant Kingore galleries (references to shows at this gallery begin to appear around 1920). He did the same for Roerich.9 Whereas Brinton and Dreier were important supporters of the emerging gallery scene in the 1920s, later in the 20th century artists themselves took the lead in forming artist-run galleries. Before that happened, however, galleries that may be little known today were taking shape. The New Gallery, for example, was founded in 1922, and although not dedicated to Russian art, it did show and sell the work of numerous Russians. Whether working alone or together, Dreier and Brinton fostered gallery shows of Burliuk, Anisfeld, Leon Bakst, Goncharova, Larionov, and others. Max Rabinoff, involved in the promotion of opera and ballet stars, worked with Brinton and Fox on Anisfeld’s first exhibition. The Kingore gallery was frequently used by Brinton to display the work of émigré artists. James N. Rosenberg, the author of the privately published booklet describing the New Gallery, was soon involved in many of the groups and associations that planned and installed exhibitions. As he wrote in the forward to New Pictures and the New Gallery, 1923, the goal of the gallery was captured precisely by the word “new” – the gallery was not claiming greatness or identifying styles in the works displayed but claiming only that the work was new. The list of artists, who had sold works through the gallery in its first year was international, included a variety of media and also included men and women. Neither Brinton nor Dreier was on the list of directors although they both supported the gallery.10 In her book about Burliuk, Dreier discussed the recent founding of the shortlived New Gallery at 600 Madison Avenue, using funds provided by members of the New Gallery art club (in most cases, previous exhibitors in the gallery). 1923: Brinton and the Brooklyn Museum Both Brinton and Dreier have been the focus of much research, generally more familiar in the case of Dreier and her Société Anonyme, and less so in the case of Brinton, although there are dissertations that focus on his work. Despite his relative unfamiliarity, his role in the early years of this exhibition history cannot be downplayed. Brinton is an

18  Reconsidering the 1920s enigmatic figure, not only as a collector of art but also as a writer and curator. His tastes were broad and not limited to Russia, and his earliest involvement in exhibitions goes back to the early 1910s and featured Scandinavian art. As Andrew J. Walker notes in his dissertation on Brinton, his engagement with art was so extensive and dominated his life in so many ways, it is difficult to fathom why so little reference is made to him in art historical literature. (Did he lack the entrepreneurial skills of someone like Sol Hurok, or was it his love for and focus on Russian art, just before and then after the Russian revolution?) As Robert C. Williams tells us, Brinton was a major promoter of Russian art, connecting with Russian émigré artists almost as soon as they arrived in New York.11 In addition to arranging exhibitions for Anisfeld and Roerich, before any group exhibitions of Russian artists were held, he connected with William Henry Fox, the director of the Brooklyn Museum, working with him on the Scandinavian art shows of the 1910s and the upcoming Russian art shows in the 1920s. Fox and Brinton may have met as early as the St. Louis Exposition where Fox served as the Secretary of the Fine Arts Department; both were involved with world’s fairs which is where the exhibition of Swedish art originated prior to moving it to the Brooklyn Museum. Fox become director of the Brooklyn Museum in 1914, a position he held until his retirement in late 1933 (announced in 1934). Curatorial collaboration with Brinton may have suited both Fox and Brinton as they shared a belief in the national identity of modernism, making the Swedish show a natural predecessor to the 1923 exhibition of Russian art.12 Brinton continued to work with Fox and the Brooklyn Museum while at the same time working with Dreier to arrange gallery exhibitions for Archipenko, Burliuk, and works of Suprematism, and planning for the 1924 exhibition at the Grand Central Palace (GCP). Walker argues that Brinton was developing an alternative theory of modernism which is not based on international or universal aesthetic goals but on the extent to which contemporary art is shaped by and reflects specific social conditions and national or racial characteristics of the people living in those societies. Quoting Brinton, his theory is summarized by his belief that “there is no greater fallacy than the pretension that art should strive to be international or cosmopolitan.”13 We will see this belief dominating much of Brinton’s published writing from the 1920s and 1930s. Walker proposes that Brinton’s ideology was central to the dissolution of his working relationship with Katherine Dreier, who was committed to a universalist theory of modernism.14 This does seem likely, although it also seems probable that in both cases, their highly personalized views of modernism and their individual collecting directions would have made an extended collaboration impossible. If possible, such collaboration would have necessarily been complicated by the fact that the end of the 1920s witnessed the emergence of new museums dedicated to modern and contemporary art, marshaled by directors who had their own distinctive theories. Brinton continued to have strong ties to the Brooklyn Museum, to Philadelphia, and to the American Russian Institute (ARI), factors that may also have complicated the working relationship between him and Dreier. As John David Angeline observes in a dissertation on Dreier, her ideas about museums were unconventional and may have had more in common with house museums such as Hillwood and the Barnes Foundation, than with other museums of modern art. Here the crux of her difference with Brinton becomes clear. To Dreier, contemporary art is tied to a particular time period and does not change (although there would by necessity be a variety of contemporaries if this definition holds); modern art, in contrast, was always looking to the future and to “new cosmic forces.”15 If it stopped changing, it would be moved to a different museum. Given Brinton’s growing interest in nationalist theories of art, it

Reconsidering the 1920s  19 does seem unlikely that the two collectors would have continued to collaborate. Brinton, meanwhile, had other connections that he maintained over time. The ARI may be unfamiliar to many readers. An American organization which provided information about the Soviet Union to American organizations, its existence spanned the years from 1916 to 1962 when it was declared a communist front that was spreading anti-American propaganda. Its relevance comes from a commitment to the arts in the form of providing a syllabus for teaching courses about the Soviet Union, supporting numerous exhibitions, and facilitating a multi-museum and multi-year tour of the Soviet loan exhibition of Russian icons (1930s). Brinton served as either the vicechairman or director of the ARI Art committee (both titles are seen in printed materials). His pro-Soviet positions probably preceded his involvement with the ARI although they may have been enhanced through that role.16 Perhaps the key moment to the dissolution of the Dreier and Brinton collaboration came shortly after the 1923 and 1924 exhibitions in which both were involved. Brinton was working on plans for the Philadelphia Sesquicentennial Exposition (1926) almost concurrently with another Société Anonyme show planned by Dreier. Taken together, the two shows might be seen as enacting a debate between the two curators over the meaning and sources of modernism that underlay both exhibitions, the catalogues, and undoubtedly the dissolution of the friendship between the two.17 Although both Dreier and Brinton were associated with the 1923 exhibition of Russian painting and sculpture at the Brooklyn Museum, neither can be accorded full responsibility for this exhibition.18 Williams suggests that Brinton played a singular role in urging William Henry Fox, then the director of the museum, to have a show of the work of Anisfeld, Roerich, Sergei Soudeikin, Mikhail Larionov, Natalia Goncharova, Kandinsky, Leon Bakst, and Archipenko, timed to coincide with a pending visit of the Moscow Art Theater to New York in 1923.19 Thus, Brinton wrote to the Brooklyn Museum in 1922, suggesting that the advantage of showing the work of émigrés was that “their art was immediately available here in America without the expense and delay entailed in bringing such a collection from abroad.”20 As director, Fox would have played the central role in organizing the exhibition which included works and assistance from private lenders such as Brinton, Dreier, and numerous others: the French government, the Worcester Art Museum, the Art Institute of Chicago, the Société Anonyme, and several galleries. Fox thanked Brinton for his input in the form of the catalogue and an introductory essay. Planned to run for little more than one month, the exhibition was announced in the New York Times a week before opening with some facts that may have been wrong in the press release or ultimately contradicted by last minute changes.21 Thus, the exhibition, emphasizing the fact that the 23 artists included in the show were living artists, was a rare opportunity, in what was becoming a tradition of the Brooklyn Museum – presenting Europe’s best contemporary art to the New York public – as Fox wrote. He went on to note that in this case, “for the first time is Russian art shown in the United States in anything approaching its true strength and unity.”22 Although this cannot be called the first exhibition of Russian art, it was certainly unique in that the artists were alive and their work would demonstrate to Americans “the significance of contemporary Russian art.”23 Most but not all of the artists were no longer living in the Soviet Union; most were living in France and several had emigrated to the U.S. or had work in American collections. The exhibition, as noted in one review, coincided with performances of the Moscow Art Theater and followed many smaller exhibitions of Russian art in Manhattan galleries, thereby “preparing the public mind” for

20  Reconsidering the 1920s the Brooklyn exhibition.24 Also noteworthy is that this show included scenic design work in the form of paintings and watercolor sketches by several artists who had worked with Diaghilev’s Ballets Russes and the Moscow Art Theater. Brinton’s introduction to the catalogue begins with an epigraph in French, “Il n’y a pas de style Russe; il y a l’ame Russe” (“there is no Russian style; there is a Russian soul”), that may perhaps be making reference to Gogol (previously acknowledged by Brinton as being the “unwitting father of contemporary Russian painting”25), Dostoevsky, or other Russian writers of the 19th century. No attribution is given but it is immediately clear that he will be arguing for understanding Russian art as the expression of the Russian spirit or soul, regardless of its style. This enigmatic epigraph may also make us think of the importance of icons to Brinton and his personal belief in the soulful life.26 Brinton then proceeds with a rather conventional start to the history he tells, beginning with the decision by several artists to leave the Imperial Academy of Arts as they rebelled against the “sterile formalism of routine instruction and demanded more vital themes from which to work.”27 Brinton initially disdains the aesthetic preferences of a younger generation led by Diaghilev and the Mir Iskusstva (World of Art) artists, whom he accuses of “de-russianizing” themselves as they pursued decoration rather than painting. Yet, in the next paragraph, he immediately praised Diaghilev for turning his attention away from an early journal to the stage and enabling the Mir Iskusstva artists to “achieve their chief successes in scenic production.” He names Bakst, Anisfeld, Roerich, and others who were included in the Brooklyn show.28 Are we privy to Brinton’s arguing with himself about the nature of Russian art? He continues his history with a discussion of the emergence of a French-influenced modernism that continued to ignore the Russian patrimony. In contrast, however, he finds that artists like Goncharova and Larionov do reach into the past and evoke memories of saints, Russian fables, provincial toys, and ultimately the “creative aspirations of the great mass of Russian people.” To be sure, by 1923, Larionov and Goncharova had both been working for the Ballets Russes and there had already been a show of their work in 1922 at the Kingore Gallery for which Brinton had written a positive introduction, praising their work for theater and ballet in much the same terms he then used in the Brooklyn catalogue.29 Brinton’s Brooklyn essay then describes the impact of war and revolution and fluctuations between conservatism and modernism in both those artists who are included and those not included in the exhibition, the latter seemingly because the work has not yet made it out of Russia. By the close of his essay, Brinton concludes that the Slavs (his word) produce a highly emotional art and it is this quality that makes it Russian. As he writes, “the art of France shows the dominance of intellect over imagination; that of Russia illustrates the ascendancy of imagination over intellect. In its every aspect Russian art epitomizes the eternal struggle toward freedom through sublimated creative expression. And the significant qualities of Slavic aesthetic aspiration are its conviction, and the power to convince.”30 In addition to his work on this exhibition, Brinton had already facilitated gallery shows for many of these artists in the previous year: Larionov and Goncharova, for example, had been seen at the Kingore Gallery (judging from reviews, a popular exhibition) and Boris Grigoriev’s drawings at the New Gallery, founded in 1922 and dedicated to contemporary or “new” art.31 The New Gallery lent quite a few works to this show. Apart from the catalogue and several reviews, and the occasional reference to a 1923 exhibition, very little has been written about this show, making it difficult to determine

Reconsidering the 1920s  21 the underlying goals of museum, curator, or lenders. One unusual and positive review can be found in Vogue magazine – the writer provides an overview of the variety of artists and media, either relating them or denying relationships to earlier styles, and concluding with discussion of the artists working in theater and their “happy mixture of Russian peasant and Persian art,” as she finds in the work of Goncharova.32 Fox’s foreword to the catalogue suggests that decisions about what art was included may not have been based on judgments of aesthetic value but on what was available, either in this country already or because private owners were willing to lend their work. It does not appear that sales were a goal; nor does it seem to have served as a showcase of any individual collections or the works of a single artist. In all, 23 artists were included, each with more than 1 work although not the same number for all artists, and the arrangement of the show was based on creating individual groupings of approximately 12 art works produced by 1 artist. Given that some artists had considerably more than 12 works while others may have had only 1, this was clearly not a geometric or mathematically planned arrangement. Without knowing more, one can intuit that the goal was a predecessor for an approach taken by Katherine Dreier in 1926 where she tried to create “living room” styles of installations, although, in this show, the goal may have had to do with making the more than 300 works appear accessible and less foreign than might have been assumed by visitors unfamiliar with Russian work. At the same time, prior to this exhibition, Russian ballet and theater had already been winning over many enthusiastic followers, not all of whom eventually agreed that Russian painting had the appeal or skill that was seen in performances by the Moscow Art Theater. Ultimately, this was the conclusion of several critics writing about this show and perhaps the reason for its lesser acclaim and fame than Russian art exhibitions a year or two later. With the exception of the Vogue review, several reviews were collected and published in the Brooklyn Museum Quarterly (BMQ) shortly after the exhibition opened. Whether in or out of the BMQ collection, several themes emerge. Americans were eager for anything Russian at that time, whether because of Nikita Balieff’s personality in his Bat cabaret (Chauve-Souris is the French name used in Paris and the U.S.) or because of the extraordinary Moscow Art Theater. Yet, perhaps this desire arose from neither of those reasons but from sympathy “with the tragic recent history of that land and from ardent faith in its future.” Although this feeling was certainly a good thing, could the paintings compare with the Russian theater?33 Many said no. Other reviews included in the BMQ focused on the comments made by Brinton before describing works of the artists they preferred and whom they saw as reflecting “the cataclysm that has submerged their country,” but most focused their reviews on comparisons between the paintings and the recent performances of the Russian ballet, the Russian vaudeville, and the Russian theater.34 Royal Cortissoz’s review was possibly the harshest as he heartily derided and insulted the painters who did not show the discipline of experience that could be seen in either the theater or in the work of other gallery shows at that time (the original article included names; the reprint did not). Prevalent themes in the 1923 reviews included the craze for Russian art – as Lester Lear wrote, the craze for Russian music, dancers, and theater which has swept the country has now been joined by paintings made by Russian artists, many of whom were now living in this country and whose work could be seen in Brooklyn. Lear, along with other critics, also differentiated between the meanings of Bolshevism and Communism, and the inability to explain the popularity of Russian arts by any reason other than how much of it had been seen in the country.35 Indeed, another enthusiastic article from 1923 began by discussing how “America has been gradually prepared, through the ever-increasing presentation

22  Reconsidering the 1920s of Muscovite genius in painting, sculpture, ballet, opera, and drama, for the galaxy of modern Russian art that now fills the galleries of the Brooklyn Museum.” Ralph Flint continues to focus not only on the many forms of Russian art that had been seen in New York but also the value of the Brooklyn Museum’s many exhibitions along with this one. Flint and Lear are not alone in acknowledging the recent wave of Russian arts – one year before the Brooklyn exhibition opened, Oliver M. Sayler, not clearly reviewing any specific event although Balieff and his Chauve-Souris gets a lot of attention, wrote about the “Russian cavalcade” and its circus-like qualities that were bound to awaken people out of their lethargy with respect to Russia.36 The continued reference to the fact that most of the art works in Brooklyn had never before been seen in this country suggests that exposure to the new was a primary factor in this exhibition, along with the opportunity to be part of what seemed a fashion trend at that time (see Sayler for his comments on the new Russian hobbies). Unlike some later exhibitions, it was not planned to raise money for émigré artists nor would it appear to have been part of a plan to brand the Brooklyn Museum as having a special commitment to Russian art. Indeed, based on previous international art exhibitions held at that museum, it might be concluded that at that point in time, Fox was interested in and succeeding in seeing the museum recognized for a willingness to embrace the art of Scandinavia, Europe, and America. Given the seemingly more influential and better known exhibition of 1924 along with another show in Brooklyn just a few years later, is the 1923 Brooklyn show fated to be a forgotten exhibition, the victim of “good” timing? What it might best be known for is that unlike the 1924 show which emphatically excluded “examples of the production of Cubo-futurist, Suprematist, Tatlinist and kindred exuberant searchers after new and startling phases of self-expression,”37 this show did include Cubo-futurism (works by Burliuk and Larionov), a small Kandinsky, two works by Goncharova, and a sampling of stage design. It is regrettable that so little has been preserved about this exhibition as it may deserve greater accolades than those it received – after all, it did include theater arts (at a time when Americans are becoming interested in experimental Russian theater), sculpture, and a diverse group of artists with respect to style and gender. If most of the included artists were émigrés, does this exhibition contribute to our understanding of an increasing émigré culture in the visual arts? Although Brinton did try to accommodate stylistic diversity in his introduction to the show, this feature may have worked against his nationalist theory and perhaps made him more reticent about this show in his later writing. In fact, in the foreword to the catalogue of the 1924 exhibition, Brinton appeared to go out of his way to emphasize the ways in which the later exhibition was superior to the 1923 exhibition. It is perhaps ironic that both the 1923 and 24 shows, along with a second Brooklyn show in 1926, were competing in an unstated manner with an American goal of that decade to develop a uniquely American style.38 This competition was more apparent in reviews of Dreier’s 1926 show than it was in the 1923 reviews. Existing reviews of the Brooklyn exhibition that can be found suggest that Brinton’s perspective was not the dominant response although some reviewers did share his dislike for the works he was eager to exclude from the 1924 show. Cortissoz in his Herald Tribune review of “an illuminating exhibition at the Museum in Brooklyn” names many of the artists, praises the palette of Anisfeld (one of the most frequently praised artists in the show), the effects of which he compares to stained glass windows, while criticizing the “baffling tricks of cubism and futurism” that he finds in much of the work, observing that while futurism everywhere is “sad,” it was much worse in Russia, “where it sank to the depths of dullness and ugliness.” In general, he did not find the discipline of experience

Reconsidering the 1920s  23 to be present in most of the work in the show. Striking a much different tone from Cortissoz, Ralph Flint, writing for the Christian Science Monitor (CSM), observes that the outstanding Brooklyn Museum exhibition enhanced the memories one might have held of the concerts, ballet, and Chauve-Souris (the Bat theater) performances and scenic design that had already taken place in the past year in New York City. (The Chauve-Souris, a Russian émigré theater under the direction of Nikita Balieff, with star scenic designers, had been part of the New York scene since 1922; it will receive more attention in the next chapter). Flint names and describes many of the works in the show and was especially impressed by the decorative and brilliantly colored canvases of David Burliuk whose work deserves “serious consideration.”40 Flint then went on to praise William Henry Fox for his direction in planning this show. An unsigned article several days later in the Tribune included a paragraph about the Brooklyn show in a kaleidoscopic overview of gallery exhibitions and art news. Of most interest in this short notice is the statement that the museum had received requests for evening hours and planned to be open late two nights a week.41 One month later, the Tribune’s “random impressions” column noted that more than 70,000 people had visited the Russian art exhibition. The unnamed author (possibly Cortissoz as he was the primary art critic for the Tribune) went on to note that works by some of the artists in the exhibition were also on view in various New York galleries at that time. A large show, it should probably not be surprising that reviewers’ responses varied, with some more favorably impressed by the range of work and the inclusion of modern examples, while others were less enthusiastic. To be sure, these different responses may have reflected different preferences on the part of the Tribune and CSM reviewers, both of whom were resident critics for their newspapers. One of the most interesting references to the exhibition was not actually a review but an interview with Sergei Soudeykin42 (sic) in his 67th street studio where he worked on sets for the Chauve-Souris “and expresses American jazz in terms of cubism.” Following a brief discussion of the works in the Brooklyn show, Soudeikine noted that he planned to have a show of his own work at Knoedler’s gallery, after the Brooklyn exhibition closed.43 In addition to the inclusion of émigré art and a range of media in a variety of styles, there may have been another outcome of this exhibition – impetus for New York galleries to stage exhibitions of art works by artists included in the Brooklyn exhibition. In fact, it may not be unreasonable to see the Brooklyn Museum exhibition as the beginning of a virtual expansion of the interest in Russian culture to the less familiar visual arts – fine arts, handcrafts, religious art, and fashion. Indeed, as we have already seen, the New Gallery was formed in New York in late 1922, with several Russian émigré artists on its roster.44 Was the 1923 show the inspiration behind the gift of the Shabelsky collection of “national Russian art” from the 17th through 19th centuries to the Brooklyn Museum in 1931?45 At the same time, it also brought significant attention to the work of David Burliuk who was then living in New York. As Dreier notes in her book about Burliuk, 44 of his paintings were included in the Brooklyn show. Dreier then observes that although the exhibition was a great success, “Burliuk’s paintings were still too vigorous for the average American public, so there were only a few sales made.”46 Dreier goes on to note that a year later, the Société Anonyme staged a one-man exhibition of 34 paintings by Burliuk with a catalogue written by Brinton, eliciting several intriguing and extremely positive reviews – praising both his fashion47 and his art – in local newspapers.48 Brinton’s introduction to the catalogue for the exhibition, while attempting to provide an overview of the history of Russian art, and the degree to which it successfully “offers a vivid epitome of 39

24  Reconsidering the 1920s the national consciousness” included a specific reference to the avant-garde exhibitions of artists such as Larionov and Burliuk prior to Brooklyn and in Moscow. The decade of the 1920s appears to be a major time for the development and execution of exhibitions related to Russian and Soviet art. The 1924 exhibition at the GCP is in the running to be remembered as the largest and most influential exhibition of Russian art in the 1920s but it was not the only one and may have to settle for second place after 1929 when the exhibition of Russian arts and handicrafts opened at the Palace. With the exception of the 1923 show at the Brooklyn Museum of Art, the subsequent exhibitions were not affiliated with established museums and although they were planned differently, both the 1924 and 1929 exhibitions did have some involvement from the Russian government. The 1924 exhibition was primarily planned by a group of artists, still living in Russia, a factor that will be emphasized by many of the reviews. Galleries will continue to be involved with smaller exhibitions at this time, often featuring the work of émigré artists; the Société Anonyme plays a major role in the exhibitions that follow the 1924 GCP exhibition, and the Philadelphia art museum, because of Brinton’s connections, will also be involved. This deceptively small nucleus of locations (most of the gallery shows traveled to other cities in the U.S.) will undergo substantial change by the end of the 1920s. Few will have the lasting impact of the 1924 exhibition. 1924: “Russian Art Show Opens at Palace”49 Several years in the planning, a group of eight Russians involved in publishing, medicine, collecting, and the arts (at least 6 were artists) began meeting possibly as early as 1921 to plan an exhibition in New York with the works of approximately 90 artists, either living in Russia or having emigrated to Europe although most were still in Russia at the time. The artists chose the works they wanted to include, and their choices were guided by the goal of sales and appealing to the tastes of Americans (without much first-hand knowledge, they expected these tastes to be conservative). The goal of sales that would result in money for starving and poor artists in Russia was always part of the plan and a central reason for choosing to exhibit in New York and the U.S. despite the challenges of getting the art there. In March of that year, an unsigned review in the New York Times led off with the straightforward headline, “Russian Art Show Opens at Palace.”50 Prior to the emergence of most of New York City’s large museums, the GCP was a premier and multipurpose space used for trade shows of all types. The 1924 Russian art show was considerably larger than the Brooklyn show or any other that had taken place outside of Russia by that time, including the First Russian Show in Berlin, 1922, which, based on catalogue entries, was about half the size of the New York show.51 Described in the newspaper as representing all schools with 600 brilliantly colored paintings, the short review was not entirely accurate in more than one respect. It was a good deal larger than the review noted – each source indicated a different size with the largest number (1000 works) cited in a recent Moscow Times article about a 2021 restaging of the Russian Art Show at the Museum of Russian Impressionism in Moscow.52 Nor did the show actually represent all schools, although it did include a variety of media and genres. This emphasis may have been necessary given that, at the same time, another exhibition of Russian art had previously opened in the galleries of the Société Anonyme. Although predominantly a Dreier show, Brinton did assist with this show which was not exclusively Russian art. Closer to Dreier’s long-held goal of exhibiting the work of Suprematist artists, and opening one

Reconsidering the 1920s  25 month before the GCP show, this one included the work of Malevich, Ioganson, Tatlin, and El Lissitsky,53 or, as announced in a February 24, 1924 ad in the New York Times, French Cubists, Russian Suprematists, and Constructionists, at the Société Anonyme Gallery on West 57th street.54 Of the two concurrent shows, the one at the GCP received the most attention and was treated as much as a political news event as an aesthetic one. Thus, newspaper articles documented the arrival of the art works, their passage through customs, and the presence of the Russian delegation, members of which were named with their official titles. In one of the first, “Russian Artists and Officials Arrive for National Art Exhibit,” the article identifies a purpose which is not entirely shared by the catalogue authors: “The purpose of the exhibition is to facilitate our better understanding of the soul and psychology of the Russian people, according to a statement made yesterday by Nicholas J. Grishkovsky[sic] … a representative of the Russian delegation.” Grishkovskii goes on to note that until now the works seen in the U.S. had been made by only a few artists who came to the country under their own initiative – in contrast, this exhibition about to open will provide a more complete view of contemporary Russian art from the last 10–15 years, beginning with some works from the end of the 19th century and other works from the revolutionary period and the years of WWI: “The exhibition will thus reveal many influences and will be thoroughly representative in character.”55 Although the author, perhaps Cortissoz, quoted Grishkovskii in one of his reviews, in a somewhat later review, he led off with a statement that might have had some civic goals: “An Art Untouched by Bolshevistic Excess” was this title. He goes on to say that only a few works were touched by the left wing but, overall, the show nicely represented conservatism and showed the influence of French painting (admired by critics who did not find Russian painting to demonstrate high levels of technique). He found it difficult to identify a specifically Russian quality although the dominance of realism presented an overview of Russian types. He concludes by saying that the purpose of the exhibition was an appeal for aid, and given the present conditions in Russia, they deserved public support.56 Despite mostly positive reviews and the occasional disagreement over numbers of art works and artists, most of the reviews were accurate in noting that the show consisted of paintings and sculpture selected by a committee of Russian artists and specialists and Americans working with the Russians. An especially informative discussion by Marie Turbow Lampard attributes the initiation of the exhibition to a planning committee consisting of a Russian doctor and art collector (Ivan Ivanovich Troianovskii)[sic], a publisher who was also the “former” owner of a Russian publication (I.D. Sytin), several artists, including Igor Grabar and Sergei Konenkov (also spelled Konyonkiev by Lampard), and eventually a committee of American luminaries who facilitated arrangements for the opening of the exhibition.57 Her identification of committee members is confirmed in other literature. At the time of the opening, the New York Times noted that the opening night included most of the artists and prominent guests, and that this show was an exception in being a Russian-planned show of Russian art in the U.S. A longer article followed in the same issue of the New York Times where more attention was given to styles included, several reproductions were provided, and some history of the evolving movements and groups of artists from the late 19th century into the early 20th is presented. Other members of the planning committee included Sergei Vinogradov who has been identified as the leader of the committee and Konstantin Somov. Although most of the members were artists, Troyanovskii was not. Grabar was not initially a member of the committee but upon becoming a member, his zealous participation made him central to the committee’s work and through his letters, ultimately an important source

26  Reconsidering the 1920s of information about the exhibition. Grabar tells us in his autobiography that the idea for the exhibition dated at least to 1921/22 but he did not know who initiated it. He also tells us that he was not initially on the planning committee but when added to it, his energetic involvement (his words) made him central.58 By 1923, a committee for the organization of foreign exhibitions was associated with the Society for Cultural Relations with Foreign Countries (commonly known by its Russian acronym of VOKS), directed by Olga Kameneva.59 In addition to Grabar’s memoirs and letters to friends, Nikolai (or Nicholas) O. Grishkovskii, not initially involved in planning the exhibition but because of his friendship and correspondence with most of the artists, his collection of letters formed a fond of Russian culture given to the Tretiakov Gallery, providing another source for information about this exhibition.60 Widely reviewed by American newspapers (primarily New York and Brooklyn papers, and often more than once in the same paper), most sources indicate a total number of works somewhere between 900 and 1000. Nine hundred fourteen were numbered and listed in the catalogue but a number of art works arrived after the catalogue was printed so that number is probably low.61 The catalogue supplement listed seven additional artists, all of whom were more progressive than the 93 artists in the main catalogue. Most of the artists in the show were late 19th century artists and all the work was pre-­revolutionary. Varying numbers of works were listed for each artist, and in some cases, each plate in a book of lithographs was listed separately, again making a count of the works in the exhibition variable. It is also interesting to note that the show included architects and etchings they had made for projects. Before a more detailed comparison of the 1922 Russian art show in Berlin to this show, it might be of interest to know that although Berlin was a smaller show, including a mixture of old and new styles, one floor of the exhibition in Berlin was devoted to Suprematism and constructivism. Evidently a significant difference from the GCP, this factor may account for its continued importance in the history of exhibitions of Russian art.62 The reproductions in the GCP catalogue generally supported the conservative ethos of the exhibition. This feature was emphasized by both Brinton and Grabar, the co-curators of the show, although it was not important to each for the same reason. In the foreword to the catalogue, Brinton opens by stating that this show “differs from the memorable display held last season” at the Brooklyn Museum. In this show, he says, one goal was that of providing a “generous perspective of Russian aesthetic activity” and the second goal was to “succour[sic] and sustain those native artists who are actually in need of material assistance.” He observes that the exhibition committee did not have prejudices or preferences to guide them (he does not say that some of the committee members were artists whose work was included in the show) but tried to include available art generally from living artists although not exclusively, including all groups other than “ultramodernists” which, as we have already seen, Brinton defines as Cubo-futurists, Tatlinists, Suprematists, and other “kindred exuberant searchers after new and startling phases of self-expression.” Walker makes the interesting suggestion that Brinton’s comment may not have been intended as criticism of the “ultramodernist” art but should be understood as having a more political goal in opposition to the aesthetic basis for Dreier’s concurrent show. With this modestly political tinge, it may have been easier to facilitate the goal of raising money to support Russian artists and to reassure Americans that more recent Russian art reflected pre-Bolshevik traditions. Grabar, in his introduction, supports this emphasis on continuity. Grabar refers to the new methods of self-expression as “unmistakably ephemeral.” Where the Brooklyn exhibition had a more European flavor, largely because most of the

Reconsidering the 1920s  27 work was loaned by European owners, this one is more indigenous, coming from Russian sources. He later concludes that revolution, suffering, and war did not prevent the Russian artists from continuing to work.63 In light of these statements, it is interesting to observe that the cover of the catalogue, designed by Sergei Chekhonin, primarily a graphic artist although he worked in other media, has the look of a colorful collage in an oval format with a decorative style that seems to evoke peasant or traditional arts rather than the styles in the exhibition or those styles that were excluded as too modern. Chekhonin’s only work in the show apart from the cover was a portrait painting. Neither Brinton’s nor Grabar’s perspective was inconsistent with the other individuals involved in planning the exhibition. Grishkovskii, for example, emphasized that the goal of the exhibition “is to give a more complete and comprehensive representation of contemporary Russian art.” He elaborates that in covering the last 10–15 years, some work will inevitably go back to the end of the 19th century, while other work was produced during the revolutionary period.64 What may not appear to be overtly political likely did have the ongoing diplomatic dialogue between the U.S. and the Soviet Union in mind as the exhibition attempted to emphasize, in Grishkovskii’s words, its “thoroughly representative character.” In this respect, we might note that Cortissoz, after quoting Grabar’s catalogue statement about not including the “unmistakably ephemeral,” notes that the show spoke well for conservatism, and although he did not find the school of Russian painters to be better than good, he did find “a Russian quality marking the exhibition. It is not one of thought, of style, of method; it is the quality of sheer nervous energy and force …” [he does not explain what this looks like although given his disdain for the artists’ technique, it may have more to do with their production rather than the look of the art and an oblique reference to Grabar’s catalogue statement about the resolution of Russian artists in putting together this exhibition]. “At a time of crumbling ideals they maintain old fidelities, old standards. For this, if for nothing else, they deserve public support.” After all, as his title confirmed, this art was not touched by Bolshevistic excess.65 Brinton follows a different path. He goes on to observe that whereas Slavic art appeared to be a fashion statement in Brooklyn, here it is the dominant focus – akin, he says, to the difference between the stormy Dostoevsky and the suave Turgenev. He then proceeds to describe and name some of the works in the show, emphasizing that the art comes directly from Russia, rather than from European owners, and that most of the artists were new to America. Brinton could not know at this time how significant this distinction was although clearly it mattered to him and to his theory of the relationship of art to the national culture. He goes on to emphasize that while not a “definitive presentation of contemporary Russian art,” it is an “appeal for sympathy and support.” Brinton concludes his essay by stating that the exhibition “indicates something of that larger sense of struggle and aspiration which seems fated to presage the unfolding of the Slavic soul.”66 Igor Grabar’s introduction followed Brinton’s essay. Grabar, then director of the National Tretiakov Gallery in Moscow, took primary responsibility for the arrangements and selection of art works, all of which received approval for travel and exhibition by the Soviet government. Grabar’s introduction to the catalogue emphasized common processes in the development of the Russian art work, while asserting that it did not copy any other work. But like the art of other countries, he noted, Russian artists were influenced by classicism, narrative, and history until the end of the 19th century when the anecdotal became more important. Ultimately, he wrote, all great art is driven by the artist’s desire to express an inner truth, and in this way, the work in the Russian exhibition was no different from any other. The conditions in which the artists worked might have been different: Grabar

28  Reconsidering the 1920s notes that despite cannon thunder, famine, cold, and other hardships, Russian artists did not cease to work and had resolved to make this work known to other parts of the world. It would seem that both Grabar and Brinton, along with Grishkovskii, were striving to reduce any trepidation about the Bolshevik revolution that might have prevented Americans from attending this show or buying art. By taking different approaches to this argument, they did not frame Russian art in either the tropes of style or of politics. More than once, Grabar alerts viewers that they will not see art that is similar to ancient or eastern art forms. This show is united with “universal European artistic cement”; yet, it is different from European art and has a distinct personality; he goes on to describe the appearance of art which featured Russian epics and history and the scenes of everyday life that were embraced by the Peredvizhniki or Wanderers (translated as Perambulatories in the catalogue). He proceeds to provide a history of the movements and groups that dominated the late 19th and early 20th centuries, making analogies to western European developments when appropriate or noting differences. Grabar’s essay seems to have been the source for many of the commentaries in the contemporary reviews of the show. Thus, Grabar’s introduction differs in tone from Brinton’s in that Grabar is more concerned with providing a historical overview that will ultimately connect the heart of Russian art to the universal goals of art and of artistic integrity. Grabar’s emphasis on parallel motives in the work of artists appears to resonate with a broader goal of using art to promote relationships with other countries and seems to anticipate the words of Katherine Dreier in the catalogue for her future exhibition of 1926. To Grabar, this is a show which establishes the equal value and virtue of Russian art, rather than the unveiling of the Russian soul.67 The catalogue continues with a listing of every work included in the exhibition (914 included in the list) and short bios of the artists, sometimes accompanied by portraits which appear to be paintings in some cases and photographs in others, followed by several pages of full-page reproductions of 27 art works. Most were painters of landscapes and portraits, although some books and costumes were also included. Léon Bakst (1868– 1924), Boris Kustodiev (1878–1927), Kuzma Petrov-Vodkin (1878–1939), and Zinaida Serebriakova (1884–1967) were among the artists listed. Ironically, and in contrast to what Brinton and Grabar wrote, several works by artists who might be said to have shown the international influences deplored by Brinton arrived only after the catalogue had been published. A supplement appended to the catalogue identified these late arrivals which included Natalia Goncharova (1881–1962) and Mikhail Larionov (1881–1964), both associated with the Bubnovyi valet [Jack of Diamonds] and Russian Cubo-futurism. The final page of the catalogue reiterates the goal of helping Russian artists, emphasizing that the artists themselves would directly receive any proceeds from the exhibition.68 Even the few examples included here (and in the catalogue) confirm the impression held by Grabar that the press was outstanding and surpassed the reviews of the 1905 Diaghilev performance.69 Despite the positive reviews and a one-week extension of the closing date, some key information is not available in those sources. Of particular relevance to our study of this exhibition is the fact, mentioned in recent literature, that the timing of this exhibition coincidentally overlapped with meetings of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee dedicated to the question of recognizing the Soviet government. Williams suggests that the goal of the exhibition was not to raise money (although this is contradicted by the catalogue and speakers at that time) but to “cultivate the broader economic and political relationship between Russia and America.” Walker concurs with this reading although Brinton was not evasive in his description of assisting Russian

Reconsidering the 1920s  29 artists by selling their art works (as seen, this goal was also confirmed by members of the Russian delegation).70 To be sure, the money did not go to the Soviet government despite its support of the exhibition but directly to the artists. The exhibition also raised money through the entrance fee and catalogue sales71 but not all of this money would have gone to artists given that the expenses of mounting the exhibition far exceeded their expectations. Financial support from wealthy Americans proved to be essential. Charles R. Crane, the owner of the Crane construction company in Chicago and a former ambassador to China, supported American recognition of Russia, attended more than once, bought several art works, and provided (or advanced – not interpreted in the same way by all parties) a substantial sum of money to underwrite the exhibition.72 His support was invaluable as the committee searched for a place in the center of the city that would be affordable, large, empty, and have light in the right places (not many windows near the ceiling). It was evidently well attended and slated to travel to the Maryland Institute of Art after leaving New York.73 The Palace gallery consisted of 12 rooms. Archival photographs of the Palace installation depict standard salon style installations with evenly spaced art works in one or two rows on the walls and a mixture of large, medium-sized, and smaller art works.74 Some sculpture can also be seen. One room is distinguished by the presence of a wicker bench, some chairs, and potted plants standing on the floor. Although most of the rooms seen in the photos are empty and hall like, the larger central room with seating and plants conveys a more informal and comfortable setting. Based on available statistics, the visitors were a mix of politically connected Americans, prosperous business people, and Russian émigrés living in NYC who appeared to be more likely to buy works from the show than the American visitors. Following the exhibition’s closing, several smaller traveling shows of about 30 works each were created. The largest of these were a northern show and a southern one. Some of the works from the exhibition were subsequently lent to the Carnegie Museum for its international exhibitions of 1925 and 1926.75 The Palace exhibition may not have instigated the cavalcade of Russian arts, but it did set the stage for expectations of large and diverse shows that were not necessarily fully representative of Russian art. Reviews in this early stage of exhibitions were more likely to focus on size and scale than aesthetics, possibly with good reason as it is unlikely that most reviewers would have had the background at this time to base their reviews on a history of Russian art. Most of the reviews erroneously emphasized the presumably representative nature of the exhibition and the goal of raising money for Russian artists who were having difficulties in obtaining supplies for their work. When history was included, it often bore overtones of Grabar’s catalogue essay.76 One unique attribute of this exhibition was its planning committee. This differed from the expositions of the 19th century and the 1923 Brooklyn exhibition. This show used a planning team that was mostly, but not entirely, made up of artists. They worked with other Russians to plan the exhibition and facilitate travel to the U.S. Although government approval was obtained and necessary, this was not a government-planned exhibition. Although Americans were not involved in the initial planning, they were involved in the installation and promotion of the exhibition. It appears that the original motivation for this exhibition came from that group of Russian artists and art patrons, previously identified, who provided the initial funding necessary to enable the venture. According to an article in the Tribune, the Russian delegation present at the opening reception consisted of most of this group although not all received their visas in time to travel. According to Sytin (and others), the goal of the exhibition was to benefit Russian artists by selling their art works to Americans. As Charles Ruud explains it, Troyanovskii approached Sytin in order to take

30  Reconsidering the 1920s his mind off the business losses he experienced after the revolution through involvement in and facilitation of the American exhibition and its goal of raising money through sales of art.77 To this end, there was also a committee of American or “prominent art patrons” as described by the Tribune author: Charles Crane (as already noted), Frank Crowninshield, William Henry Fox, William Randolph Hearst, John D. Rockefeller, and others.78 For Brinton, it is an ambiguous show: his foreword indicates his satisfaction with the show but it does not seem to have played a strong role in the evolution of his nationalistic theory or to have furthered his relationship with other museums or curators in the art world, despite the involvement of Fox. Grabar continued to have some involvement with exhibition planning although generally not in the realm of international exhibitions (the 1930 icon show is the exception). His own comments indicated some dissatisfaction with the scope of the exhibition but no indication of the cause for this limitation, which must, in some respect, have reflected his own involvement in the selection committee. Given the size, the press, the attendance, and its recent resurrection in Moscow, can it be called a success? The answer, as did the reviews, varies. Once the question of sales and visitors came up, it was judged a failure. Although Grabar was pleased with the success of the show, he did not believe it was a representative selection of Russian art. He confirmed 18,000 visitors, not all of whom paid the entrance fee, and the sale of 2400 copies of the catalogue. More than 10% of the art works had been bought.79 The Moscow Times article about the recent reinstallation of the exhibition at the Museum of Russian Impressionism states that at least 90 works were sold to buyers such as Louis Tiffany, Charles Crane, Chaliapin, and Rachmaninoff.80 Data provided by Walker and Williams largely agrees with what Grabar wrote. An article in the New York Times noted that the costs of the exhibition – monthly rental for the space and the framing of unframed paintings – had been handled by Charles Crane as an advance which the Russian delegation would not be able to repay. There was also a question of money advanced by the AllRussian Central Famine Relief Committee (Russian Red Cross) which the exhibition was not going to be able to return, an apparent condition for the advanced funds. Although the exhibition stayed open one week longer than planned, it seems that fewer than 10% of the works were sold and the exhibition earned praise but ended in debt. The evidence is somewhat contradictory. On April 6, 1924, an unsigned report in the New York Times led with the headline “Debts End Russians’ Vision of Gold Here.” It states that in addition to lacking funds of their own, they fell out of favor with the Soviet Government because they failed to give the Russian Red Cross a 10% commission that was presumably one condition for the exhibition. The artists’ committee said that they had made 20,000 but expenses had run to 30,000 but both figures were disputed by Paxton Hibben on behalf of the Red Cross. Another article in the same paper, two weeks later (April 18, 1924), claimed that the exhibition was still open (a week longer than expected) and had made more than $30,000 from sales of art works and paid admissions. This article does not mention the continued debts.81 Success of this show is questionable and may have to be judged in terms of several parameters, including but not limited to the goal of raising money for artists who could not afford to buy supplies. At this point in the history, the planning process and the fact that the art works were selected by Russian artists and the exhibition was not staged by the government or private owners may be of greatest significance. Most of the works in the exhibition, if not still in the personal collections of the artists themselves, were located in museums – many were in the Tretiakov collection. But a large gap remains in this discussion, not easily filled by the catalogue or the newspaper reviews – how did this exhibition relate to the presence of Russian art, either through

Reconsidering the 1920s  31 émigré art, performances, or gallery exhibitions, in the early 1920s? Did it contribute to the establishment or growth of an émigré culture which either replicated or departed from Russian values? And what about the installation of the exhibition in this period before museums dominated the art world? It may seem apparent that we cannot answer these questions without moving on to other exhibitions in this decade. Still, the wealth of information available from this decade can be surprising if we do not recognize that the presence of Russian arts and culture in the U.S. far exceeded visual arts and what could be seen in a single exhibition. Before moving on to the next exhibitions in the 1920s, it may be instructive at this point to engage in a brief comparison between the First Russian Show in Berlin (referred to as the van Diemen show) and the Russian exhibition at the GCP (to be referred to as the Palace show). Close in time and highly significant although not for the same reasons, examining their differences and various impacts may set the stage for what comes next in the exhibitions of the 1920s. Russian Art in Berlin and New York Although 1983 was the date of an exhibition held in commemoration of the 1922 First Russian Exhibition in Berlin, 2022 was the true centennial year. Rather than a second commemorative exhibition, the centennial date was marked one year early by a special issue of the Tretiakov Gallery Magazine, “Germany - Russia, On the Crossroads of Culture,”82 and a conference in Berlin. Natalia Avtonomova, author of the article and a respected curator and department head at the Pushkin Museum of Fine Arts in Moscow, provides a detailed discussion of the original Berlin exhibition, its contribution to the development of cultural ties between Berlin and Moscow, and includes in addition to an invaluable bibliography, a range of illustrations of works related to the first exhibition (both online and in the print version where they are larger and more are included). She concludes her informative article with a statement about a forthcoming 2022 centennial exhibition in Berlin.83 Although not an exhibition, 2021 did see a conference jointly planned by the Russian Art and Culture Group of Jacobs University of Bremen and members of the State Museum of Berlin dedicated to the presentation of new research and reconsideration of earlier research on the 1922 exhibition. Perhaps Avtonomova was referring to this collaborative event in the conclusion to her article from 2021. The conference did pull together leading international researchers who, as promised, did focus on questions about the 1922 exhibition that went beyond the more familiar discussions of the avant-garde art included in the original exhibition. A good starting point for an overview of the Berlin show in the van Diemen Gallery and its comparison with the Palace exhibition is with the essay that David Shterenberg84 wrote as a foreword to the catalogue of the Berlin Russian Art exhibition. At the start of his essay, he identifies the goal of the exhibition as one showing “western Europe everything that depicts the story of Russian art during the Revolution and the war years.” He continues to discuss the implications for artists of the revolution and the benefit of bringing new forms of creation, construction, and ways of working with people into culture. He concludes his foreword with an overview of the various movements and media to be included in the forthcoming exhibition.85 Two differences between the two shows are immediately apparent. The first impressive detail to note is that despite a goal of famine relief, the catalogue foreword focuses on the goal of reacquainting Europe with the continued work of Russian artists after years of a blockade, a goal that would not have applied to the Palace exhibition in New York. Second, based on catalogue descriptions and

32  Reconsidering the 1920s advance publicity, the planned range of styles and movements to be included in Berlin exceeded that of the show in New York although the Berlin show was the smaller of the two. Shterenberg noted not only that different movements would be included but also claimed that it was the leftist groups and their modes of experimentation that had promoted an artistic revolution. He followed this by naming the artists’ groups to be included – from the older Union of Russian Artists and the World of Art, to the newer Jack of Diamonds, and “finally the leftist groups (cubists, suprematists, and constructivists),” along with artists whose work was important while not fitting with any schools. Indeed, some of the artists included in the show were concerned that it would not succeed because more of the artists involved were experimental rather than conservative.86 Thus, no judgments were passed on any art as being ephemeral or startlingly new and therefore not included, as both Grabar and Brinton had written for the Palace catalogue. Certainly, these exclusions were not necessarily observed by all critics or commented on by members of the Russian delegation when they spoke to newspapers, but whereas we have already seen that Grishkovskii emphasized the “thoroughly representative character” of the exhibition, neither Grabar nor Brinton did the same.87 These differences, which invite further investigation, may reflect the curatorial teams or planning committees. But first, we should recall that 1921 when the Berlin show was being planned was essentially still the period of civil war in Russia. Conditions were beginning to change but in the years following WWI and the 1917 revolution, Russian artists had little contact with their European counterparts whose awareness of Russian art would have diminished a great deal when compared with the earlier exchanges of the pre-war years. Exhibitions of Russian art in Berlin galleries were not uncommon before the Russian revolution and often featured styles that were already popular in German artistic culture. Therefore, although we will see that a goal of providing aid did exist, it was probably not as dominant as a goal of demonstrating that the revolution had not disrupted the achievements of Russian artists who continued to work in styles that reflected pre-1917 art even as they moved in new directions.88 To use Shterenberg’s description of the planning committee’s principles, “Only works from varying artistic movements can show that kind of laboratory work that propels the construction of new art forms.”89 Most of the literature on the planning emphasized reasons for the show and the way art was selected; to the extent that a goal of raising money did influence the show, it may have done so by opening up the question of what to include to the members of the German International Workers’ Aid committee. Yet, before accepting that this played an important role in planning the 1922 exhibition, we may need to consider Ewa Berard’s argument that the Soviet Union did not have a policy for cultural diplomacy in the 1920s and that international famine appeals did encourage the exhibition project. Germany had other reasons for wanting to pursue this project but did eventually demand that the German Red Cross should handle the relief campaign and a new committee, established by Moscow in Berlin, Foreign Representatives of the Russian Famine Relief Committee, to be jointly led by the Soviet envoy, Nikolay[sic] Krestinsky and Willi Münzenberg of the Foreign Committee for Hunger Relief in Russia would handle contacts with Russia.90 It appears that more groups and likely more interests will eventually play a role in the implementation of the van Diemen show. Ultimately, both the Soviet Commissariat and the Workers’ Aid committee made decisions about what art would be included, albeit following proposals to focus on an exhibition of the achievements of the new social and economic order in Russia rather than displaying fine arts and crafts.91 This is a major difference between the two exhibitions: the Berlin exhibition involved both Russian and German artists and organizations in the

Reconsidering the 1920s  33 planning; although Americans were involved in arrangements for the Palace exhibition, their role did not extend to selecting art. This German-Russian collaboration existed before the van Diemen show took place, and as both Corinne Daniele Durant and Peter Nisbet tell us, one goal of this show was that of familiarizing the German public with “creativity in Russia during 1914-1921, with special emphasis on the last three years.”92 Unfortunately, the end result may have been the loss of visual homogeneity but we do not yet know if this was considered a lost goal or never intended. When initial planning began for this exhibition, most likely in 1918, Narkompros established an “International Bureau.” As Shterenberg and others tell us, the committee was led by Lunacharsky and included art historian Punin, and artists Tatlin and Kandinsky, along with Shterenberg.93 Proclamations and manifestoes written during the revolutionary period were the only means Russian artists had for contact until roughly 1921. By then, change was taking place, and as Andrei Nakov writes in the catalogue for the commemorative exhibition of 1983, the autumn of 1921 “marked the end of a period which had been defined by the programme and the return to a polymorphous aesthetic formula.”94 Yet, what Nakov describes as an ending may have been a beginning of a different kind – the end of the Russian period of revolutionary abstraction as it was replaced by two things: an international period of abstraction only possible because it united the Russian avant-garde with artists from the Netherlands, France, Germany, and eastern Europe, and a period of the social integration of art. Posters were to be included in this show although propaganda was not. These directions were of course as revolutionary as pre-1917 art but it was not necessarily a revolution with a readily accepted or understood name (Productivism was often used for socially utilitarian art and International Constructivism for the reincarnation of geometric values in a style that could not truly be called Russian constructivism), or even an iconic and widely accepted manifesto. But publications existed: the multi-­lingual journal Veshch (Object in French, Russian and German are all on the cover), which may have been the closest publication to a manifesto as the articles generally promote the interaction between Bauhaus principles and Russian constructivism, a German book by Konstantin Umansky (New Art in Russia), journals and publications by Dadaists, continued work from Tatlin, and the involvement of Russian and international artists in the recently opened Bauhaus in Weimar.95 When the 1924 exhibition, in contrast, made no claims about beginnings or endings but focused to a degree on the diversity of art in that period and efforts of artists to continue despite the hardships of the civil war, should this difference be attributed not to different descriptions of art but to the bigger difference between a show that has asserted its goal of reuniting Russian artists with the international art world of western Europe as opposed to a show that is trying to introduce a lesser known visual culture to one which has known more of Russian theater, music, and dance than it has known of its visual culture, to which we might add the significant difference in the size of émigré populations in both Germany and the U.S.? It seems evident that the different planning structures played a major role in the differences between the exhibitions although not all the differences can be attributed to that factor. Most sources agree that Lunacharsky, Sterenberg, and Kandinsky were involved in initiating plans for the van Diemen exhibition although not always at the same time or in the same manner. Peter Nisbet includes Punin and Kandinsky, while Eva Forgacs suggests that Kandinsky, Adolf Behne, Gropius, and Ludwig Baehr took the initial steps. Ewa Berard adds Willi Münzenberg to this group as he was the chair of Worker’s Relief for Russia. Nisbet does refer to Baehr as a former German army officer who had contacts with Russians and Germans and helped establish Russian-German exchanges of program

34  Reconsidering the 1920s and statements although he also points out that Baehr was arrested in 1919 for reasons unrelated to the 1921 exhibition. Important as a go-between, his arrest may have contributed to the interruption of communication between Germany and the Soviet government for one year, thereby slowing down the plans for the exhibition.96 His contributions continue, especially after Kandinsky offered the Germans a proposal for the exhibition of recent Russian art. Baehr communicated this proposal to the involved Germans. Eventually, other officials, both German and Soviet, are involved, and Lenin gives his approval to the plan as it stood in November 1921.97 Nisbet provides enough details about the organizing process for this exhibition to conclude that in the end, it “cannot be considered a thoroughly thought-out, accurate reflection of the current cultural situation in Russia.”98 Berard focuses more on Münzenberg’s initiatives, not all of which were positively received, and, ultimately, of more significance to her research is the continual debate between a goal of cultural diplomacy and therefore a focus on art, and economic diplomacy which she believes triumphed, despite the stunning success of the exhibition.99 To be sure, it might have been impossible to avoid all the connections, interruptions, and resumptions of the exhibition idea at this time in history. One of the more interesting pieces of information to emerge from these discussions of the exhibition was the one condition imposed by the Bolshevik government that no propaganda would be included in the show. Nisbet notes that many of the works in the show were purchased in advance of the exhibition specifically to be included in the exhibition; Forgacs notes most of the works in the show were pulled together quite quickly, and as a result, artists did not determine which of their works would be included and many were dissatisfied with the choices.100 In the end, it was not only the artists who expressed their dissatisfaction; even Lunacharsky, who was given credit for the selection of the art works, expressed his belief that the show had many shortcomings. Although most of the sources agree on the fact that the Bolshevik government did not choose the art works, the involvement of the artists themselves in planning the exhibition is not clear and somewhat contradictory. What is clear, however, is that many of the artists with work in the 1922 exhibition did not see their newest or most revolutionary work included, despite the fact that works by revolutionary artists were included. In this lies another major difference with the Palace exhibition: the works included in the 1924 show were selected by the artists themselves who also suggested the prices they would accept for their sale. The participants in the show were invited by the People’s Commissariat of Education to participate and to make their own decisions about which works they would lend. All of the artists were living and the goal was to reflect the range of Russian art from the years of about 1880–1925. The artists who participated were motivated by the opportunity to sell their works and selected work that they believed Americans would buy.101 Ultimately the planning committee for the Palace exhibition included both artists and patrons and arrangements with the Red Cross for fiscal support in exchange for a percentage of profits. American patrons did not participate in the selection of art works, unlike the German show which did involve some collaboration between Russians and Germans who supported the goal of the Russian exhibition and simultaneously a German exhibition in Russia. Indeed, as Nisbet notes, because Soviet cultural diplomacy was part of its overall foreign policy, the involvement of Kandinsky in the planning committee served to reassure both Germans and Russians about the goals of the exhibition. Although the Soviet government did not make stipulations about what would be included in the exhibition (apart from not including propaganda), work on the exhibition was ultimately tied to the Treaty of Rapallo, signed by both Germany and the Soviet Union in 1922, and establishing diplomatic relations

Reconsidering the 1920s  35 between the two countries. At this point, it might be worth remarking that despite the evident desire of German artists and galleries to host an exhibition of Russian art, this smaller show involved extensive German-Soviet interactions that far exceeded the level of international planning for the Palace exhibition. The motives may have been confused, as Nisbet assures us, but the outcome was less confused. Nonetheless, it may be realistic to conclude that a goal of introducing Russian art to a country where it was less known could be implemented with greater variety and size more readily than an exhibition that fused the goal of reintroduction with diplomatic policy development. Yet, it would be a mistake to overlook the great variety of media and the range of styles that were included in the van Diemen show and to a degree absent from the Palace show. Both shows were considered successes in their own ways. The catalogue for the van Diemen show listed just under 600 entries, although most sources indicate that more than 1000 works were included, some of which were series with numerous works included, complicating the count. Further complications may have come from the inclusion of theater sets and costumes, ceramics, toys, and other works which are made in sets but consist of individual pieces. According to a writer for the American Art News, because of the large immigrant population in Berlin, it was already possible to find examples of Russian art in Berlin and the van Diemen show expanded this possibility. The show included a range of styles, old and new, and “sterile” in the case of some of the abstraction. As this unidentified author writes, “Like the Bolshevik in politics, the ‘Suprematists’ make their own rules. Paintings such as white on white do not have any relationship to art but are interesting documents of a nation striving and struggling for its existence.”103 Other than the American or German writer for the Art News, reviews were very positive and the show attracted more than 15,000 visitors before traveling to Amsterdam as planned. Included among those visitors were Louis Lozowick, Alfred Barr, and Katherine Dreier who did add Malevich, Popova, Medunetsky, and others to her personal collection. The larger Palace collection ran somewhat longer than the van Diemen show and had about 3000 more visitors overall. Although a larger number of works were sold, most of the buyers were either American patrons or Russian emigrants. Both shows were popular, reviewers varied in their enthusiasm for abstraction although it seems likely that the European reviewers were more welcoming to this art as it reinforced directions that European modernists were already interested in. The responses of American artists who were not reviewers can be more accurately judged by influences on their art than by reviews. Russian émigré populations existed in both Berlin and New York, but given the size of these populations and the number of publications in Russian, the Russian emigrants in Berlin thought of that city as another Russia. The Russian population in New York was growing but as Natalie Zelensky writes in her study of the diaspora of Russian musicians in New York after the revolution, New York was not a second or new Russia for these émigrés as they initially tried to create an image of the Russia they wanted to remember and pass on to the future. This image will change as their traditional musical styles are not forgotten but infused with new influences such as American jazz.104 Although some literature on the emigration patterns of Russian visual artists exists, to date its focus has been on conditions for studying and practicing art in the U.S. as compared with Russia and the influence of Russian tastes and styles on American design. Numerous Russian publications existed in New York and Russian artists were included in gallery shows but research to date has not delineated goals of developing a “new Russia” or image of such as seemed important to the Russian émigré musicians. Perhaps this difference reflects the 102

36  Reconsidering the 1920s difference between an exhibition culture and a performance culture.105 It seems evident that the two exhibitions in this comparison would be welcomed differently by very different cultures with different expectations of the visiting artists just as it may not be surprising to find that artists associated with the Russian ballet and theatrical arts made lasting impressions on American viewers and artists, perhaps more quickly than artists encountered only in gallery exhibitions. Both can be called influential, although not necessarily in the same ways, and due to the confluence of time, they appear to mark a defining moment in the continued history of Russian art exhibitions. Major changes will follow, some reflecting the directions of van Diemen and others following the Palace achievements. Certainly, it is already possible to predict and recognize that the implications for the developing history of Russian art were not the same. The van Diemen show and Berlin in general were major nodes in the development of the international constructivist style. Of course, the Bauhaus played a major role in that as well but the presence of international visitors to the van Diemen show enabled Americans such as Dreier, Kiesler, and Barr to begin to develop familiarity with the art that neither Brinton nor Grabar included in the Palace show. On the other hand, although theater and stage design were included in the Berlin show, artists such as Anisfeld and Bakst, along with Goncharova and Larionov, may have stood out more in an environment that already embraced theater and ballet but where they did not have to compete with the extreme abstraction of Malevich, Lissitsky, or Doesburg. Eventually, the 1924 International Theatre Exposition of Vienna, which is transported to New York and reinstalled by Frederick Kiesler, may be even more significant in the long-term implications for the American relationship to Russian art. Another factor may be noteworthy in this case. In Berlin, because Russian artists had long been participating in the art culture associated with avant-garde movements such as expressionism, Russian work did not compete with the development of a national style. In America, we find that the 1920s is a decade when the goal of establishing an American style is quite important, and only some forms of Russian art will be considered relevant to this goal. For someone like Dreier, the most abstract forms will be admired in this respect; for someone like Heap, machineoriented forms such as Alexandra Exter’s constructivist-oriented costume styles will be relevant. At this point, we cannot really answer the question of identity for an émigré culture in the visual arts. The decade of the 1920s is historically perplexing as the beginning of the decade was characterized by fears of the impact of Bolshevism, or, as Lester Lear wrote in 1923, “We will wake up some morning and find the country in the hands of the Bolshevik!”106 before he, Cortissoz, and Sayler began writing about the infatuation with everything Russian. In addition to theater and music productions, beginning with the Brooklyn Museum’s 1923 exhibition, which, in retrospect, might be seen as the culmination of the numerous gallery shows of the previous decade, and continuing with the Palace show, another Brooklyn Museum exhibition and the many shows planned by Dreier, it was no exaggeration to think of the 1920s as the Russian season. To be sure, the initial invasion of Ellis Island by immigrant artists was not always viewed favorably by even those critics who quickly reversed their initial anathema into praise.107 Clearly, Brinton and Dreier played an important role in this change although they were undoubtedly helped by the artists themselves. Burliuk was an important ambassador in this respect: arriving in the U.S. penniless, soon making the acquaintance of Brinton, Fox, and Dreier, in addition to his participation in the major exhibitions of the 1920s and the many gallery shows dedicated to his work, he also wrote criticism for the Russky Golos (Russian Voice) and launched his own journal,

Reconsidering the 1920s  37 Color and Rhyme. His association with Dreier gave him several opportunities to deliver lectures to individuals attending the exhibitions arranged by Dreier. Perhaps as important as Burliuk’s writings and art works was the way he opened his studio to the many Russian émigrés living in New York City during his lifetime.108 Exhibitions Planned by Katherine Dreier and the Société Anonyme (SA) After 1924, a strictly chronological discussion would not be possible or even useful as several developments overlap. Dreier’s activities with respect to exhibitions of Russian art begin in 1921 and culminate with two exhibitions in the mid-1920s that include the work of Russian and other international artists who might have been considered avantgarde. In both cases, we will see that for Dreier, with the exception of her interest in Kandinsky, she was not definitively interested in Russian art but in a universal aesthetic of abstraction. When Dreier first became interested in planning an exhibition of Russian art, she had her hopes set on the work of Kandinsky. In 1921, she had written to Ludwig Martens, then representing Soviet trade in New York, and asked him to arrange contacts for her with Kandinsky and/or Anatoly Lunacharsky so that she would be able to learn more about modern Russian art, describing it as “this extreme movement” in her letter to him.109 This short quotation alerts us immediately to two things: Dreier will not reject “ultramodernism” and her plan is to use works obtained directly from the artists themselves whenever possible. Because Martens was not able to help her, she decided to travel to Berlin and investigate Russian art on her own, fortuitously arriving there when the First Russian Exhibition of Art was taking place. Having already laid out the importance of the van Diemen exhibition, here we should examine its value to Dreier, not only through her purchases of Russian art but through her exposure to what was becoming the language of the international constructivist movement, and last but not least, her acquaintance with Louis Lozowick who was also present.110 Dreier directly purchased several works from this show: El Lissitzky’s Proun 19D, a work by Alexander Drevin identified as “Suprematism” from 1921, Naum Gabo’s Construction in Relief, 1920; Kazimir Malevich’s Knife Grinder of 1913, a spatial construction by Medunetsky, two untitled painterly architectonics by Liubov Popova, and the cubist-inspired At the Piano by Nadezhda Udaltsova. Although these artists might all be described as avant-garde, they did not represent the same styles. As Tashjian observes, Dreier bought work that appealed to her and on which she could project her own theosophist beliefs.111 It is interesting that she purchased a pre-­Suprematist work by Malevich and did not include any of his Suprematist paintings. Tashjian speculates that Dreier bypassed these abstractions because she did not know of his theosophical statement which was not available in German until 1927. Before installing either of her “Russian art” exhibitions, Dreier would have seen both exhibitions in which Brinton had been involved: the 1923 Brooklyn exhibition of Russian painting and sculpture, which featured the work of expatriates who were living in the U.S., and the 1924 exhibition at the GCP. Thus, we might add two other goals: she did not reject the extreme modernism that was rejected by Brinton, and her exhibition would offer a dramatic contrast to Brinton’s 1923 and 1924 shows. In light of the competition between them which is revealed in their correspondence and disagreements over catalogue text when they do work together, perhaps this is the beginning of that rivalry. Although Dreier had arranged prior shows of the work of individual Russian expatriates, her 1924 show, Modern Russian Artists, is her first Russian art show. Some writers

38  Reconsidering the 1920s have identified this exhibition as the first show to include the work of Soviet avant-garde artists. Certainly, this was more deliberately done by Dreier than by Brinton. Yet, Dreier did not address the question of the Soviet Union versus the Russian heritage of the artists in her show as this was not her interest. Unlike Brinton’s interest in nationalism, Dreier, as we know, was interested in the aesthetic and spiritual meanings of abstraction. Dreier included artists who were living in the Soviet Union, addressed as Russian in her title, and most could be called avant-garde, but as others have noted, she combined artists who were associated with post-revolutionary developments, such as constructivism and Suprematism, with artists who were not, such as Chagall. She also included some work by French artists, apparently because her holdings of Russian art did not fill the gallery. Dreier included paintings and some constructions in this exhibition but did not include any of the applied arts that were so central to the goals of the constructivists at this time.112 The location for this exhibition was the home of the Société Anonyme, the Heckscher Building in Manhattan, barely four blocks from the future location of the Museum of Modern Art. This was perhaps the ultimate and unintentional irony since she advertised her exhibition as the work of the Museum of Modern Art. Although Dreier’s essays and writing on Russian art reveal confusion over the artists’ affiliations with styles and beliefs, she involved Lozowick, a Russian émigré who had been influenced by constructivist developments which he saw first-hand on a visit he had recently made to the Soviet Union, in the preparation of a flier and catalogue. Lozowick also gave a lecture at the exhibition on modern Russian art, soon published by the Société Anonyme as his positively reviewed book, Modern Russian Art (Figure 2.1).113 Lozowick, although not

Figure 2.1 Louis Lozowick: Modern Russian Art, 1925. 11-7/16 × 8-7/8″ (29 × 22.5 cm). The Museum of Modern Art Library, New York; Photo Credit: Digital Image © The Museum of Modern Art/Licensed by SCALA/Art Resource, NY

Reconsidering the 1920s  39 known as a curator, plays an important role in the introduction of Russian or Soviet art to the U.S. at this time. His contributions came in several forms: many publications in American journals, this book, inclusion of his work in several exhibitions, and designs for theater and department store windows. In addition to his prolific productivity, he was widely traveled, spending time in Paris, Berlin, and the U.S., sometime in Moscow, and in all the places he visited, he established friendships with leading artists. When in Europe or Russia, he communicated his impressions of an “American” style, and when in the U.S., he became a primary source for information about Russian art. In his review of Lozowick’s book, Drake had noted that any attempt to understand Russian contemporary art would require relating these movements to the revolution and the structure and goals of the country. This thesis was shared by Lozowick who made it central to his book. Early in the book he observes that modern Russian artists had largely rejected the messages and aesthetics of the Wanderers and the World of Art without rejecting aesthetics as a key to social value. Space, volume, and form remain important but imitation had to be abandoned as the artists removed barriers among themselves, their work, and life. Following a discussion of various movements, Russian and European, he dedicates the longest section of the book to constructivism which he considers the “most typical of the Revolution.”114 He continues with a discussion of the use of materials, the influence of industry, the love of the machine shared by the constructivists, and the utilitarian quality of their work. He concludes by observing that the New Economic Policy had impeded some of these changes by revitalizing the private status of art and calling for traditional types of paintings and subjects such as buyers wanted. Lozowick became involved in new periodicals dedicated to the political and social value of the arts, publishing in New Masses and Broom, working with Jane Heap and writing an entry for the catalogue of her Machine Age exposition of 1927, and continuing to create graphic works showing the influence of both constructivism and the American precisionist style, with which he recognized some similarities but denied as an influence.115 These graphic works, eventually referred to as “machine ornaments,” were influential design sources in Lozowick’s work graphic design and stage settings for American theater – his work for the 1926 production of Gas in a Chicago theater is a good example. Like Lozowick, Marion Gering, the producer of Gas, was also familiar with the work of Vsevolod Meierkhold and his production of The Magnanimous Cuckold with its stage design by the constructivist designer Liubov Popova.116 Lozowick’s wide range of work in a variety of media and locations would appear to make his role in this history of almost equal value to an exhibition in introducing American viewers to principles and styles of Russian art. In her essay for the catalogue of her 1926 International Exhibition of Modern Art and a book she wrote in 1923 on Western Art and the New Era, Dreier said little about the constructivist or Suprematist platforms, confusing the affiliations of the artists as well as their beliefs. To be sure, she was not the only one to do this, and it would not be unreasonable to attribute some of her confusion to the Berlin exhibition and trip. As Tashjian suggests, Dreier’s selection of art works, Lozowick’s comments, and the flier for her show may have contributed to the reframing of Russian constructivism as international constructivism. An interesting hypothesis, but given the parallels to the American precisionist style along with Lozowick’s references to Lissitzky’s graphic design and Popova’s stage design, is it the case that Lozowick was contributing to the Americanization of Russian constructivism? We might want to observe that Lozowick’s cover (Figure 2.1) for his book bore an almost uncanny resemblance to Lissitsky’s cover for the 1922

40  Reconsidering the 1920s

Figure 2.2 El Lissitzky, Veshch (Thing), no. 3, 1922. Journal with letterpress cover. 12 3/16 × 9 1/4″ (31 × 23.5 cm). Publisher: Skify, Berlin. Edition: unknown. Gift of The Judith Rothschild Foundation. LOCATION: The Museum of Modern Art/New York, NY/U.S.A. Digital Image © The Museum of Modern Art/Licensed by SCALA/Art Resource, NY

magazine Veshch (Figure 2.2) which would have been available in Berlin with the key difference being not in composition or text but Lozowick’s choice of the color red and the titles of the books. Both are based on the shape of the letter L reversed with the foot starting on the left rather than the right. Seeing them reproduced in black and white enhances the effect of the similar compositions. Certainly Dreier and Lozowick alone would not have achieved this renaming and reframing of constructivism but Dreier does continue to elide the differences between works made by Russians and non-Russians, especially in the International Exhibition where she included nearly equal numbers of prouns by Lissitsky, works by Moholy-Nagy, and works by Lozowick, along with a smaller number of works by Gabo and Pevsner. Her interest in constructivism is notably downplayed as she is not interested in the utilitarian possibilities of art – certainly not to the extent that Lozowick was. Both the 1924 show and the 1926 exhibition which was installed in the Brooklyn Museum expressed Dreier’s vision of an evolution of art responding to a “universal” force that exists independently of cultural and political contexts. Indeed, both Dreier and Brinton tended to minimize the influence of the Soviet government: Dreier did not mention the Soviets, referring to Russians, and Brinton not only saying that the revolution was the reason why so many artists had emigrated but also saying that its influences on art would be transitory. Lozowick, perhaps, connected the revolution to Russian art more strongly than the other two had done. On the other hand, because Dreier was less interested in cultural differences than in universal forces, her discussion of art did not reference differences between capitalism and communism in the art world. To do so would have been inconsistent with her long-held belief that “art is a Force within man to develop man.”117 It is this creative force that kept art fluid

Reconsidering the 1920s  41 and more than a technical copy of the past, no matter how excellent. Indeed, in this statement, we also find some justification for Dreier’s resistance to utilitarian arts such as constructivism. Brinton was planning a Sesquicentennial Exhibition at the same time as Dreier’s 1926 exhibition; Dreier sent him five Russian works, retaining the rest of her collection for her show. An interesting connection between the two contemporaneous shows is that the catalogue covers were designed by a Russian expatriate Constantin Aladjalov.118 There are three covers to compare as there were two versions of the catalogue for the Dreier exhibition: one which has a short introduction by Dreier and lists the art works and includes some photographs, and one which has a forward that is five-pages long (rather than two) and includes text descriptions of the achievements of the artists along with photos of the artist and in some cases a map indicating their home. It seems that this longer catalogue may have been one that Dreier made to establish this exhibition as a product of the Société Anonyme Museum of Modern Art, whereas the shorter catalogue centralizes the contribution of the Brooklyn Museum as the “owner” of the exhibition. Taken together, the three covers are quite different and do not communicate a recognizable style for either Aladjalov or the tenor of the two shows, apart from the limited palette and some of the typographies (see Figures 2.3 and 2.4). Because the red serves as little more than an accent in these covers, we focus more on the diagonal thrust of Figure 2.3 and the limited movement of the more Suprematist style of Figure 2.4. Yet this resemblance to either Malevich or Lissitsky is undercut by the writing around one square and within the other square. In contrast, the alternative cover for the same show is oriented on the diagonal

Figure 2.3 Alajalov, Cover of International Exhibition of Modern Art, Société Anonyme and Brooklyn Museum, 1926; courtesy of Katherine S. Dreier Papers/Société Anonyme Archive, Yale Collection of American Literature, Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library

42  Reconsidering the 1920s

Figure 2.4 Alajalov, cover for second catalogue for the International Exhibition of Modern Art, 1926; courtesy of Katherine S. Dreier Papers/Société Anonyme Archive, Yale Collection of American Literature, Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library

with letters running in both diagonal directions along with some words oriented horizontally, suggesting a collaboration between Dada and de Stijl, much as van Doesburg and Schwitters did in a 1922 poster for a collaborative event. Both covers deny legibility, much as Dada did. In short, it should probably not surprise us that both SA covers owe more to the international style of the late 1920s than to Suprematism or constructivism, and in this respect, both reflected the more international (and accidental?) mixture of art works found in this exhibition. Aladjalov’s cover for the Sesquicentennial Exposition appears to take some ideas from both covers for the SA catalogue (Figure 2.5). In this case, the boxes are outlined in heavy black with inner squares and a letter in the center of most of the squares. Although one might try to read either across, down, or on the diagonal, the words read in only one direction. It might be argued that the layout suggests a crowded wall in a gallery although the words do undercut reading it that way. Regardless of the introduction of an orange outline with the red and black squares, the letters stand out because they are bold, white and black, and they fill the squares. In the end, it does not seem as though the covers to these exhibitions are establishing a style or theme about the art that would be found in each show. Taken together, all three make an interesting contrast to the Léger Machine-Age expo cover which can be seen as an abstracted version of a ball-bearing. As difficult as it is to compare unseen exhibitions, Dreier has left us a great deal of informative material and the catalogue for Brinton’s Sesquicentennial is also informative. Dreier herself described the International Exhibition of Art as “one big painting.” Following from her belief that modern art embodied a “new cosmic force,” there was no

Reconsidering the 1920s  43

Figure 2.5 Alajalov, cover for Modern Art at the Sesquicentennial exhibition, Philadelphia, 1926; courtesy of Katherine S. Dreier Papers/Société Anonyme Archive, Yale Collection of American Literature, Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library

contradiction in her mind of treating the entire exhibition as a unified creative work.119 That a collection of slightly more than 300 works by artists from 23 countries would be discordant in any way did not seem to cross Dreier’s mind. Indeed, the diversity of the art was integral to the show and would, much like a kaleidoscope, require one to look at the show on more than one occasion. (Does the Brooklyn version of the cover [2.3] suggest a kaleidoscopic reordering of the contents?) The art works were united by date of origin, within the previous 10 years, but not by nationality of the artist or shared styles. The installation was not organized by chronology, nationality, or movements; however, Dreier did assert that it was not a haphazard installation. She was likely correct given her desire to arrange the show in a manner that would unite intimate viewing with the more traditional gallery installation of paintings arranged in a single line. Richard Meyer describes this show as the “Société Anonyme’s most ambitious curatorial undertaking.” He goes on to note that she “convinced the museum staff to present ‘four quaint small rooms’” in the museum’s galleries, with furniture purchased from a local department store being used to create an intimate background for the art works on the walls of these rooms.120 Meyer suggests that the fairly traditional furniture which reflected Dreier’s personal tastes may have served to make the modern art work appear more acceptable to the people visiting the show. This did not happen. The New York Times critic did not find the furniture and paintings to make an agreeable match.121 It is difficult to form any conclusions from available photographs other than the unusual sense of space with small “rooms” dividing the space and art works on the outside of the rooms as well as the inside, having little resemblance to a museum or a cozy room in someone’s home.

44  Reconsidering the 1920s Although Frederick Kiesler has not entered our discussion yet, he does make an early entrance in this exhibition where he found an opportunity to partially implement one of his ideas about the role of technology in viewing art. Dreier’s goals for this exhibition included the creation of a setting in which modernist themes would penetrate the core of society through the experience of living with it rather than visiting it in museums. She therefore planned to demonstrate how “four quaint small rooms” could serve as an intimate background for art works.122 Three of the four model rooms displayed at the exhibition approached this goal conservatively, hanging modern canvases amidst traditional furnishings purchased from a local department store. However, Kiesler’s room was more ambitious, incorporating automated advertising equipment that was used, as he explained it, to realize “an old idea of mine to show how I envision the future way of getting in contact with one’s pictures in one’s home.”123 Kiesler developed this idea more fully not much later in his 1930 book Contemporary Art Applied to the Store and Its Display.124 Dreier described Kiesler’s installation as a “small dark room” equipped with a Teleset: “in turning a button, the Mona Lisa from the Louvre would appear, or if I pressed again, Velasquez’s [sic] Venus from London, or a Rembrandt from the Rijks Museum would be lighted.” She continued to note that visitors were “enchanted playing with this expression of the future,” and to predict that “someday, all the important museums will have their real television rooms.”125 Bohan’s study of the critical responses to this show found that they were largely negative, primarily because abstract art was not well liked.126 Yet, we might ask whether the tendency to resist abstraction and modernism would have been exacerbated by the attempt to make it look homey and the use of an unconventional museum display which would undermine the quality of home. At the same time, it is worth noting that the exhibition attracted 48,000 visitors in less than two months and the museum extended the show’s closing date by one week. Dreier believed that the catalogue for the exhibition would be essential as it would facilitate navigation of a show that she herself had described as kaleidoscopic. Unlike the exhibition, the catalogue was arranged by geography with each country given its own introductory page, map and name, and artists from that country grouped together. William Henry Fox of the Brooklyn Museum wrote the foreword, stating that the public should have the opportunity to judge modernism for itself. As noted, there were two versions of the catalogue [2.3–2.4]; Fox’s foreword was the same in both. Dreier’s introduction was a short statement about the educational goals of the Société and a brief identification of “groups of importance” which identifies several artists by their presumed geographic association (Pevsner and Gabo are listed as being from Russia although they were no longer living there by 1926) and associated artistic movements. The two-page introduction is followed by a list of the art works grouped by country and artist with some photographs. The second catalogue doubles the length of the introduction as Dreier addresses a question that was related to the debate she was having with Brinton. She begins to discuss what is meant by primitive art and how it expresses tribal symbolism, whereas modern art is cosmic and “has nothing to do with the people for it is beyond the people, being still in the future for them.”127 On the fourth page of her foreword, she resolves the problem of two catalogues: “This book is the outgrowth of the International Exhibition of Modern Art held at the Brooklyn Museum.” She proceeds to thank the help she had from a range of artists in assembling the exhibition and the publisher who enabled the production of this “Special Catalogue,” thereby clarifying the fact that this second book is not really a catalogue for

Reconsidering the 1920s  45 the exhibition. She refers to cosmic forces more than once in her foreword and thanks Aladjalov for his design of the book. The arrangement of the catalogue, by nationality, cannot but strike us as a contradiction to the installation of the exhibition and even to Dreier’s foreword, but she worked with Aladjalov so it is not a question of his taking an initiative that she disagreed with. However, given the photographs of the artists and the biographical information that Dreier included, it might be thought that she was deliberately creating a scenario of individual versus nation. It also seems that with this book that is not really a catalogue she is taking ownership of the exhibition without denying that the Brooklyn Museum was in fact the owner. Dreier gave several lectures to clubs as they visited the exhibition; on one occasion she discussed the fact that because of WWI, artists from the varied countries included in the exhibition could not have been in contact with one another. Dreier therefore uses the presence of parallel developments in their works as one reason for her decision to install the show without following nationality. The show becomes visual proof of her thesis that this new artistic language did not have specific national origins, making this an ideological exhibition, whether that was her intention or not.128 In Kristina Wilson’s discussion of this exhibition, she asks why the Brooklyn exhibition left such a small imprint on the history of exhibitions of modern art (a question I have already asked about the 1923 Brooklyn exhibition). Her conclusion is that the Museum of Modern Art opened in 1929 and had far more resources to do what Dreier wanted to do. It is interesting to note that Wilson does not refer to Brinton’s exhibitions in her chapter but one might question whether, as Andrew Walker does, Brinton’s interest in associating artistic evolution with national origins and influences, so contrary to Dreier’s beliefs, might have been precisely what people were looking for in a period of continued abstraction and increasingly negative interchanges between European countries and the U.S.. If the ideological nature of Dreier’s exhibition was perceived, did that turn critics away? The numbers of visitors suggest that they were attracted to the exhibition and perhaps not overly concerned with the absence of nationalistic associations in the hanging. Perhaps we should withhold judgment until we have explored Brinton’s Sesquicentennial show, an exhibition that was certainly comparable in size and content and took place within months of Dreier’s Brooklyn exhibition. With respect to both exhibitions, we might ask whether both shows were serving goals that exceeded that of introducing viewers to Russian art. Modern Art at the SesquiCentennial Exhibition took place in Philadelphia, also in 1926. The Palace of Fine Arts was the home to a “great panorama of world art, presented to the public in a series of galleries,” as Dorothy Grafly wrote.129 It is evident from the large Sesquicentennial catalogue [2.5] that the display began with medieval art and progressed to the present, including art in a variety of media. Many of the works were reproduced in the black-and-white catalogue of the Palace of Fine Arts which contained no text other than the names of the individuals who worked on the exhibition, the artists’ names, and a small floor plan delineating the locations of each country’s art. Dreier and the Société Anonyme coordinated a smaller catalogue or pamphlet, as she described it, for modern art included in the larger exhibition. This catalogue included a 2-page introduction by Dreier and close to a 20-page text written by Brinton and accompanied by reproductions of many of the art works from the exhibition. Although Brinton was not solely responsible for the large Sesquicentennial Exhibition, he was appointed the Special Deputy for Foreign Art. In preparation, he arranged a trip to Russia the summer before the exhibition would open, despite knowing that he would not be able to obtain guarantees for loans of Russian art. The Russian art included in

46  Reconsidering the 1920s the exhibition came from the émigré community, some came from Dreier, although she lent more work for the German section than for the Russian. Although Dreier’s foreword to the catalogue reasserted her belief in underlying and fundamental principles of art, the organization of the exhibition was consistent with the strategy generally used in international exhibitions, that of grouping art by national origin. As Walker notes in his discussion of this exhibition, such a strategy had already been codified by the Carnegie Museum, earlier world’s fairs, and the Venice Biennale.130 Perhaps more critical to Brinton’s beliefs was the emphasis he was able to give in the rooms devoted to modernism where he reiterated his belief that Russian and German art, unlike French, was dominated by feeling and therefore more central to the modern direction. Brinton was offended by Dreier’s foreword which he felt undercut the points he was trying to make and she apparently felt free to edit Brinton’s much longer section. Brinton divided his text into three sections following an introduction on differences among progressives, radicals, and modernists in art. The body of the text, abundantly illustrated with work from the exhibition, follows a narrative structure reflecting growth and maturity: Sowing the Seed, the Harvest, and Garnered Grain. He makes points he had made elsewhere, especially with respect to the psychology of contemporary life entering the realm of aesthetic concerns, and concludes by noting that modernism is about more than the aesthetic. “… it is not less a new way of seeing than a new way of feeling … it is a rebirth of the spirit …” he writes on the next to last page of the catalogue which ends with a photograph of a torso by Archipenko. Walker, whose thesis concerns the evolution of Brinton’s nationalist or racial theory of art, devotes most of a chapter to a substantial analysis of the debate conducted in correspondence between Dreier and Brinton in which they argued with the opinions and edits of each. Despite the success of both 1926 exhibitions, the debate that emerged over the catalogue for the Sesquicentennial, whether for better or for worse, resulted in the severance of relationships between Dreier and Brinton, and Brinton and the Société Anonyme. 131 Ultimately, and like the Centennial of 1876, international expositions may not be the most consequential sources for tracing the growth of exhibitions of Russian art in the U.S. What can be said with certainty about this event is that the Russian art was a small percentage of the overall exhibition, and as previously noted, most of it was art already in this country, and if it already belonged to either Dreier or Brinton, it was likely that it would be seen again in later exhibitions curated by them individually. In Brinton’s case, his collection was eventually donated to the Philadelphia Museum of Art. It does not appear that either collector-curator altered their positions or developing theories of art, and neither does it appear that they significantly changed the direction of exhibitions with respect to the media included, the role of ideology and debate in the exhibition itself, and the introduction of new schools of thought. At this point in the history, we might observe that we have encountered two schools of thought: the Brinton “school” in its nascence and the Dreier school. Both versions will have followers before the decade of the 1920s closes. Indeed, the end of the decade may offer a substantial challenge to any of these schools. On the basis of these few exhibitions, what might we conclude thus far? Although there were occasional works from theater, three-dimensional works, or graphic arts, none of the shows at this time focused on one specific medium to the exclusion of others (painting did dominate) and none had a true thematic focus. If any questions can be discerned from these exhibitions, it might be the question of what, apart from the nationality of the artist, makes Russian art Russian? In some cases, this appeared to be sufficient

Reconsidering the 1920s  47 but, whereas, it might guarantee that the works of Russian artists were included, that fact alone did not appear to convey much information about the art. When the same art works were included in more than one show at this time, it was likely to be interpreted differently. There was little agreement in the 1920s about criteria for judging modernism, just as there was little agreement as to which artists and art works should be included. Certainly the question of whether art should be judged by universal standards or something more specific to the artist’s life or nationality has not been resolved even today but in the absence of an answer, how should an exhibition of something called Russian art hang together? With the exception of Dreier’s “rooms” in the Brooklyn Museum exhibition, the installations, whether organized by chronology, artist, or nationality were traditional. Goals of these exhibitions ranged from providing sustenance to the artists to increasing viewers’ familiarity with either universal aesthetics or the Russian soul, but that difference appeared to lie only in the curators’ analysis. With respect to political or intercultural goals, if these existed, it seemed to be more accidental than planned although it was not scorned as a goal. Another goal, like the last most clearly associated with the 1924 exhibition at the GCP, was the promotion of collecting new art. To a large degree, these common features, if we can call them that, will be upended by the exhibitions coming next in this discussion. Still in the 1920s, we will see that an important line of exhibitions, often less well-known than the Brinton or Dreier shows, focused on theater, theatricality, and a machine influence on art and architecture. The first exhibition of the next decade is unusual in several respects: it was planned in the Soviet Union and focused exclusively on religious icons. Also coming at the end of the 1920s will be a large and extremely popular show of peasant arts and a Russian-sponsored show that specifically references Soviet Russia in its name. Despite the meager evidence at this point, we are beginning to see a challenge to the prevailing belief that exhibitions of Russian art have generally conveyed an image of Russian art as bold and new in the 1920s until it was suppressed by Stalinization in the 1930s. Whereas historians have begun to revisit the notion of unilateral suppression in the arts, and at the same time to question a belief that modernism did not exist before 1917, this belief was the message of an exhibition review designed to emphasize the new and alternative visions of centennial exhibitions of Russian art in 2017–2019. Historical studies did convey this revised message, but did exhibitions convey it, or is this a case in which writers are applying historical interpretations to exhibitions that none of us living today could have seen?132 Dreier’s international approach to modernism, supplemented by a gallery show of Kandinsky’s work in a Société Anonyme gallery in 1923,133 and complemented by Brinton’s more eclectic and nationalistic approach to Russian art, offers enough evidence to contradict the all-or-nothing view of modernism in the 1920s. What they also support, along with the many gallery shows of the 1920s, is recognition of the inconsistent approaches to defining avant-garde and modern styles, a confusion that may well have contributed to the misleading image of the presence of modernism before, during and after the 1920s. Even with enough information, as I have just indicated, the next exhibitions we examine from this period will complicate any discernible patterns we have seen thus far. What were these patterns? By the mid-1920s, four reasons can be identified for exhibitions of Russian art: (1) raise money for Russian artists, sometimes émigrés and sometimes still living in Russia or the Soviet Union; (2) promote the belief that abstraction was a form of spirituality in art; (3) rather than using propaganda, use art to construct a bridge between two cultures; and (4) promote new art and the collection of this new art.

48  Reconsidering the 1920s It is clear that these motivations do not apply equally to all the exhibitions of this period or to the key curators of the period, whose attraction to Russian art did not necessarily derive from in-depth study of either Russia or Russian art, which is why we might ask not only if these reasons provide sufficient explanations for other leading exhibitions of the 1920s and 1930s and how curatorial knowledge and interests will develop. Whereas Dreier and Rebay best exemplify the second reason, apart from her influence on the Guggenheim Museum, Rebay’s influence on exhibitions is limited. Turning to the last few years of the 1920s, we find that the disparate themes and content of the earlier exhibitions in this decade will coalesce with long-term implications for future curatorial themes and strategies. Thus, a different but nonetheless important line of exhibitions at this time focused more on theater and theatricality and the influence of the machine on art and architecture. The impact of these exhibitions proved to be as farreaching as the work that was included in each. The leading international exhibitions of this period will be seen to express aesthetic goals, although not in an interpretive vein so much as implications for creative strategies. New curators are introduced along with new media and exhibition manifestos. Jane Heap, Frederick Kiesler, Lozowick, Nikita Balieff, and Amtorg (a Soviet-U.S. trading corporation) replace Dreier and Brinton as some of the leading names of the late 1920s. Notes 1. Hanna Järvinen, “Failed Impressions: Diaghilev’s Ballets Russes in America, 1916,” Dance Research Journal, winter 2010, v. 42: 2: 77–108. 2. Whereas Järvinen’s interest is largely related to how histories of performance reviews create fixed or hegemonic interpretations, a dissertation on relationships among artists, patrons, and Americans offers a significant if unusual approach to studying the networks that grew in the early 20th century. Witt’s conclusions may not be entirely applicable to museum exhibitions but they do raise intriguing questions. See Alexis L. Witt, Networks of Performance and Patronage: Russian Artists in American Dance, Vaudeville, and Opera, 1909–1947, doctoral dissertation presented to Indiana University, Jacobs School of Music, 2018; p. v for quotation. 3. Eleanor Jewett, “Art and Artists: Russian Artist Portrays Other Lands in Work,” Chicago Daily Tribune, July 1922, F10. The contrast between a more emotional style, usually dominated by color and references to southern (i.e., Spanish) traditions as opposed to a more realistic and northern approach with strong graphic skills was made by many critics. Brinton himself developed a theme in much of his work related to the difference between the French rational approach and the Russian expressive approach. Regarding Roerich, whose work becomes well known, he always remains something of an enigma, as we will see. 4. Royal Cortissoz tended to provide lengthy critiques of Russian art in his reviews for the Herald Tribune. One example of his negative comparison between the media of performing arts and painting is excerpted in an article that comprises excerpts from a variety of reviews: “Exhibition of Paintings by Contemporary Russian Artists,” The Brooklyn Museum Quarterly, 10: 2 (April 1923), 54. Although the Quarterly does not provide detailed references, the passage appears to be from Cortissoz, “Modern Russian Art: An Illuminating Exhibition at the Museum in Brooklyn,” New York Tribune, Jan 28, 1923, D7. 5. Brinton, quoted in “The Exotic Art of Boris Anisfeld,” special to The Christian Science Monitor, from its Eastern Bureau, Oct. 28, 1918, p 14. Brinton’s essay for the Anisfeld exhibition refers to contemporary Russian art, not “temporary.” See Brinton, “The Boris Anisfeld Exhibition,” The Brooklyn Museum Quarterly, 6 (January 1919), 6–9. 6. Dreier quoted in John David Angeline, Reassessing Modernism: Katherine S. Dreier and the Société Anonyme, doctoral dissertation presented to the City University of New York, 1999, p. 56. 7. Although the bibliography on Bakst is considerable, as are recent exhibitions, few sources provide detailed chronologies for Bakst’s trips to the U.S. A complete source is Elena Bespalova, “Leon Bakst’s Textile and Interior Design in America,” Studies in the Decorative Arts, 5

Reconsidering the 1920s  49 (fall-winter 1997–8), 2–28, and Yelena Terkel, “America in Leon Bakst’s Life and Art,” Tretiakov Gallery Magazine, special issue #2, USA-Russia: On the Crossroads of Cultures, 1–16. 8. Exhibitions and publications in the early 2000s have brought renewed attention to Rebay and the history of how her important contributions were minimized and denied for many years. See, for example, Edward Leffingwell, “Rehabilitating Rebay,” Art in America, 93 (December 2005), 120–160, and Eleanor Heartney, “Hilla Rebay: Visionary Baroness,” Art in America, 91 (September 2003), 112–117. 9. “From Russian Art to Soviet Propaganda: Christian Brinton,” chapter 3 in Robert C. Williams, Russian Art and American Money, 1900–1940 (Harvard University Press: Cambridge, 1980), p. 88–89 provides this money-making interpretation of Brinton’s work with émigré artists. His motives change although his involvement with Russian art does not. 10. New Pictures and the New Gallery 1923, foreword by James N. Rosenberg. Privately printed for the New Gallery. Includes a chronology of exhibitions and lectures, members of the New Gallery Art Club, and a list of paintings sold by the New Gallery. Most of the book consists of black and white reproductions of art works by the members. Dreier also refers to the existence of the New Gallery in her book about Burliuk, Burliuk (Société Anonyme, Inc. and Color and Rhyme, NY: 1944), p. 106. 11. Williams, Russian Art and American Money, 1900–1942 (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1980), 88. 12. Walker, Christian Brinton and the Exhibition of National Modernism in America, 1910–1945, pp. 98–100, on the Swedish exhibition and the importance of nationalism to both Fox and Brinton in their reading of modernism. 13. Brinton, cited in Walker, Christian Brinton and the Exhibition of National Modernism in America, 1910–1945, p. 31. 14. To date, Walker’s dissertation is the most extensive study of Brinton. Other writers, such as Yezernitskaya and Sandomirskaja, have addressed Brinton’s accomplishments in published articles. For Dreier, the most complete source is Jennifer R. Gross, ed., The Société Anonyme: Modernism for America (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2006). 15. Angeline, quoting Dreier, in Reassessing Modernism: Katherine S. Dreier and the Société Anonyme, dissertation (City University of New York, 1999), p. 25. He does not connect her “unconventional” views to house museums, possibly because Dreier did not have the SA located in a house for a long period of time, but the role of personal taste, whether good or bad, while unconventional for most modern museums, is not unconventional for a house museum. Likewise, the non-professional status of the leader of this museum was less conventional for typical museums than for house museums. Most important, however, is that Dreier’s definitions of modern and contemporary were the most unconventional components of her plans for a museum of modern art. 16. Liza Kirwin, Robert F. Brown, Marina Pacini, et al., Regional Reports, Archives of American Art Journal, 27: 4 (1987), 27–37; p. 35 specifically about Brinton’s activities. Online archives of the American Russian Institute provide historic information and an overview of the Institute’s collection of pamphlets produced in the years of its existence. 17. Walker, Christian Brinton, develops this argument in some detail, p. 186. Brinton’s theory continues to change although never in the direction of Dreier’s. We might also note here that Philadelphia was always important to Brinton who eventually gave his personal collection of Russian art to the Philadelphia Museum of Art. 18. It is interesting that Walker says very little about this exhibition in his dissertation. 19. Williams, Russian Art, 88–95. 20. Williams, citing Brinton, p. 94. 21. “ART Russian Paintings and decorative objects,” New York Times, Jan. 14, 1923, p. 142. The Russian exhibition was announced in an article that referred to several other art exhibitions; hence the unspecific title. According to the newspaper, there were 21 artists included and approximately 250 art works (paintings and sculpture). According to the catalogue, there were 23 artists, 279 paintings, and 48 sculptures. 22. Quotations from the foreword by William Henry Fox to the catalogue for Russian Painting and Sculpture, printed for the New Gallery (which lent many works to the show), in 1923. In addition to the foreword and an essay by Brinton, the catalogue contains a complete listing of all the works in the show and photographs of almost all.

50  Reconsidering the 1920s 23. W. H. Fox, Foreword to Russian Painting and Sculpture, with introduction and catalogue by Christian Brinton (printed by the New Gallery, 1923), page 1 of unpaginated text. 24. “The World of Art: Russian Art and the Architectural League,” New York Times, Jan 28, 1923. SM12. Not signed but excerpted in the previously referenced article in the Brooklyn Museum Quarterly where the review is attributed to Miss Cary in the New York Times Magazine. 25. Brinton, “Russia through Russian Painting,” Appleton’s Booklovers Magazine, 7 (February 1906), 156–174. 26. Brinton’s introduction to the catalogue directly follows after the foreword by Fox. No page numbers are used throughout. For discussion of Brinton’s interest in icons, see Mechella Yezernitskaya, “Christian Brinton: A modernist icon,” Baltic Worlds, XI (1918), 58–64. 27. Brinton, introduction to Russian Painting and Sculpture. The ten-page essay is not numbered; all quotations from Brinton’s introduction in this paragraph are found in catalogue essay. 28. Brinton introduction, third page. 29. Goncharova-Larionov exhibition at the Kingore gallery in New York, 1922; essay by Christian Brinton; original copy available at the Watson library in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. 30. Brinton, last page of his introduction to the catalogue. 31. In addition to Williams’ references to gallery shows in the previously noted discussion of the Brooklyn show, Katherine S. Dreier describes the origin of the New Gallery in her monograph on David Burliuk: see Burliuk (Société Anonyme, Inc. and Color and Rhyme, NY: 1944) p. 106. See also James N. Rosenberg, foreword, New Pictures and the New Gallery (privately printed in New York: 1923). 32. Gabrielle Chanler, “Features: The Trend of Modern Russian Art,” Vogue, New York, 61: 7 (April 1 1923), 86–7, 100. 33. Henry McBride, writing in the New York Herald, “Exhibition of Paintings by Contemporary Russian Artists,” included in an article by the same name and published in The Brooklyn Museum Quarterly, 10 (April 1923), pp 51–53. 34. Henry Tyrell for the World also included in the Brooklyn Museum Quarterly, 53–54, and Royal Cortissoz for the New York Tribune. 35. Lear, “Why Russian Art has Swept the Country,” Brooklyn Daily Eagle, Feb 11, 1923, p. 3. 36. Flint, “Russian Art at Brooklyn Museum Outstanding Event of the Season,” special from Monitor Bureau, The Christian Science Monitor Feb 5, 1923, p. 16; Sayler, with illustration by Carl Link, “The Russian Cavalcade: Dancers, Actresses, Novelist, Opera Stars...” New York Tribune July 30 1922, p. E4. 37. Brinton, foreword to The Russian Exhibition catalogue, New York City: Grand Central Palace, 1924, unpaginated. 38. Megan Fontanella, “Advancing the Art of the Future,” Yale University Art Gallery Bulletin (1920–1921), p. 116 in a discussion of correspondence between Dreier and Kandinsky regarding the 1926 exhibition. 39. Cortissoz, “Modern Russian Art: An Illuminating Exhibition at the Museum in Brooklyn,” New York Tribune/Herald Tribune, Jan. 28, 1923, p. D7. 40. Flint, “Russian Art at Brooklyn Museum Outstanding Event of the Season,” The Christian Science Monitor, Feb. 5, 1923, p. 16. 41. “News of Art and Drama: Random Impressions in Current Exhibitions,” Herald Tribune, Feb 18, 1923, p. D8. 42 In addition to this infrequent spelling of Soudeikine, his name is sometimes transliterated as Sudeikin. Soudeikine was used more often by the artist and critics after he emigrated. 43. Young Boswell, “Young Boswell interviews Soudeykin,” Herald Tribune, March 1, 1923, p. 13. As revealed in a Tribune article titled “Young Boswell interviews Young Boswell,” Boswell was a young columnist in New York, who took his name from a book about the older biographer, James Boswell. The younger one had been interviewing numerous artists in New York, June 8, 1923, p. 13. 44. Katherine S. Dreier, Burliuk, observes that this gallery was founded by a group of art lovers who each paid a sum of money that would be used to purchase paintings, but the gallery did not last long. It did have a show of the work of Burliuk (Société Anonyme Inc. and Color and Rhyme: New York, 1944), p. 106. 45. Brooklyn Museum Archives, Records of the Department of Public Information, Press Releases, 1931-1936, announcements made in April and June 1931. Available online.

Reconsidering the 1920s  51 6. Dreier, Burliuk, pp 105 and 106. 4 47. Dreier quotes a reviewer for the Brooklyn Eagle who was not alone in observing the impression made by Burliuk’s style of dress, his height, and his jade earring,” pp 107–108. The description is confirmed by photographs. 48. Burliuk, pp. 107–110, includes excerpts from the reviews and continues with further discussion of his exhibitions and reception throughout the 1930s. 49. Headline in the New York Times, March 9, 1924, Section S, p.5. Short reviews were generally unsigned and provided little information other than names of artists included in the show and the number of art works (often contradicted by the catalogue). A longer unsigned article from the same day compares work in the exhibition to works by artists associated with the Mir Iskusstva. 50. “Russian Art Show Opens at Palace,” New York Times, March 9, 1924, p. S5. 51. According to text in the commemorative catalogue, 593 entries were listed in the original catalogue. As in New York, some of the entries included multiple works that were part of a publication or series, making it difficult to determine the actual final number. See Andrei B. Nakov, “This Last Exhibition which was the ‘First,’” in 1st Russian Show, a Commemoration of the Van Diemen Exhibition Berlin 1922 (London: Annely Juda Fine Art, 1983): p. 21. 52. Peter Cheremushkin, “Other Shores, Russian Art in New York, 1924,” the Moscow Times, Oct. 6, 2021, online. Grabar’s letters are often cited for this information when reported in other accounts of the exhibition. 53 Eliazar Lissitsky is often written either as El Lissitsky or simply Lissitsky. In some publications, his name is spelled as Lissitzky. 54. Walker includes some information about the “suprematist” show, pp 160–161. Also known as “Modern Russian Artists,” Dreier’s show will be returned to later in the chapter. 55. Unsigned but probably Cortissoz, “Russian Artists and Officials Arrive,” New York Tribune/ Herald Tribune, Feb. 23, 1924, p. 11. 56. In addition to the probable article by Cortissoz of February 23, others appear in the Herald Tribune: “An Art Untouched by Bolshevistic Excess,” March 9, 1924, p. D8; and unsigned on March 4, 1924, p. 12, “Many Aid Russian Exhibit,” which provides a list of all the members of a committee of prominent art patrons. Edward Kasinec in his essay for the recent catalogue, Drugie Berega, “Russian Art on the Hudson: outline of sponsors, purchasers and New York Press,” pp 236–239, lists articles in the New York Times, the Brooklyn Daily Eagle, Brooklyn Life, Art News, and more. Papers from outside New York eventually included articles about the show as well, once it began its travels across the country. See additional sources in the next footnote. 57. Marie Turbow Lampard, “Sergei Konenkov and the ‘Russian Art Exhibition’ of 1924,” Soviet Union/Union sovietique, 7: 1 (1980), pp. 70–88, identifies most of the Russians involved with the arrangements and some of the early reviews of the exhibition. She does spell Konenkov’s name in two ways and justifies this in her footnotes. It is interesting that she does not mention Brinton by name until discussing his foreword to the catalogue which might suggest that his role in the organization of this exhibition was not as substantial as other sources imply. He did work with Grabar on the catalogue and it is clear that he supported this exhibition but it does appear that the Russian committee took the lead in identifying the art and planning the exhibition. Lampard’s identification of involved parties in planning this show has recently been confirmed and expanded in an essay by Edward Kasinec, “Russkoe iskusstvo na Gudzone: ocherk o popechiteliakh, pokupateliakh i Niu-yorkskoi presse,” prepared for the catalogue Drugie Berega: Russkoe Iskusstvo v Niu Yorke 1924 (Moscow: Museum of Russian Impressionism, 1921), 236–239. The names are also confirmed in newspaper articles of the day indicating little more than the arrival of painters and Russian art officials. In at least one, it is also noted that the idea for the exhibition went back at least two years, and the intervening time was spent selecting art works and securing funds. [“Russian Artists and Officials Arrive for National Art Exhibit,” New York Tribune, Feb. 23, 1924, p. 11.] 58. Olga Zemliakova and Viktor Leonidov, “Triumf v Amerike,” Russkoe Iskusstvo 2004, no.1, 27–37. This informative article is largely based on Grabar’s letters. 59. Publications related to the recent Moscow exhibition, Drugie Berega: Russkoe Iskusstvo v Niu Yorke 1924 (Other Shores: Russian Art in New York 1924) (Moscow: Museum of Russian Impressionism, 2021), were helpful as in most cases, the existing background information for this exhibition can either be found in letters written by Grabar or Somov and/or in newspaper reviews of the exhibition. See, for example, Elena Rubinova, “The Museum of Russian

52  Reconsidering the 1920s Impressionism brings back 1924 New York Russian Art Exhibition,” International Affairs article, online 22.09.2021; Olga Zemliakova and Viktor Leonidov, “Triumf v Amerike,” Russkoe Iskusstvo 1 (2004), 27–37; Olga Iurkina, “Amerikanskaia odisseia russkikh khudoxhnikov,” in Drugie berega, exhibition catalogue, 4-17. 60. Olga Zemliakova and Viktor Leonidov, “Triumph v Amerike,” Russkoe Iskusstvo, 1 (2004), 27–37 is an essential source for much of this information, especially about Grishkovskii whose name does not always turn up in other materials. 61. Reviews can readily be found in Brooklyn Life, Brooklyn Daily Eagle, the Art News, the Standard Union, the New York Times, and the New York Tribune. There may well have been others given the tendency of some newspapers and critics to group several exhibitions together in an article about what can be seen at a certain time and place and subsequent travel of components of the exhibition to areas outside of NYC. Between the essays by John E. Bowlt and Edward Kasinec published in Drugie Berega, it is possible to identify many of the sources that were published when the exhibition of 1924 took place. The catalogue also includes reproductions of most of the art works included in the original show. 62. Nakov, First Russian Show, p. 21 and other published commentary. 63. Quotations from Brinton in his “Foreword” to the catalogue, The Russian Art Exhibition, Grand Central Palace, 1924, pp 3–7, and Grabar’s “Introduction” in the same catalogue, 8–15. For Walker’s analysis, see his dissertation, pp 163–164. According to the microform copy, catalogue translations were provided by Isabel Florence Hapgood. 64. Grishkovskii, cited in “Russian Artists and Officials Arrive,” New York Tribune, Feb. 23, 1924, p. 11. 65. “An Art Untouched by Bolshevistic Excess,” Tribune, March 9, 1924, p. D8. 66. All quotations from the first 5 pages in the catalogue: Christian Brinton, “Foreword.” 67. Igor Grabar, “Introduction” to the Russian Art Exhibition. 68. The statement is signed by the Chairman of the Artist’s Committee, Sergie Vinogradoff (sic). 69. “Triumf v Amerika,” 29. Grabar tells us he can make this comparison because he also worked on the Diaghilev 1905 tour. 70. See Walker, Brinton, p. 164, and Williams, Russian Art, p. 27. 71. Referring to a letter written by Grabar to his brother, cited in Lampard, “Sergei Konenkov, p. 83. 72. Lampard provides information about the atmosphere in the gallery and some of the individual purchases made by visitors to the exhibition, pp 75–76. Zemliakova and Leonidov discuss the contributions of Crane, particularly in rental support. 73. “Russian Art to be Shown” Baltimore Sun, Nov. 16, 1924, p. T4. 74. Preserved in the Tretiakov Gallery archives, the photographs are reproduced in Olga Iurkina, “Amerikanskaia odisseia russkikh khudozhnikov” (American odyssey of Russian Artists) in Drugie Berega, pp 14–17. 75. Lampard, Williams and Walker offer brief assessments of the exhibition outcomes. 76. Kasinec, “Russian Art on the Hudson,” notes that Grabar also gave an interview with a radio station and with the mayor of New York at that time (John Francis Hylan). These events may have contributed to the tendency of reviewers to rely on Grabar’s catalogue essay. 77. For Sytin’s discussion of his involvement in this event and his complicated trip to New York, see Charles A. Ruud, Russian Entrepreneur: Publisher Ivan Sytin of Moscow (Montreal: McGillQueen’s University Press, 1990), chapter 10, “Naked I Will Depart,” pp 182–183 in particular. Ruud also describes the difficulties experienced by some of this group in getting to America. 78. Although many newspaper articles exist, they do not all provide the same information. In the Herald Tribune, an article without an author, “Many Aid Russian Exhibit” provides a complete list of the Americans involved (March 4, 1924, p. 12). An earlier article in the Tribune, on Feb. 23, 1924, p. 11, “Russian Artists and Officials Arrive for National Art Exhibit,” names most of the Russian delegation. On April 6, 1924, an article in the New York Times (“Debts End Russians’ Vision of Gold Here”) refers to Paxton Hibben’s report that he had suggested this exhibition in 1922 when it was taken up by Alexander Bukhariov (sic), representing the Commissariat for Education and expected to accompany it to New York. He was denied a visa by the U.S. Government because he was a Soviet official. See also Hibben, “Soviet Aid to Art: The Russian Exhibition in the Grand Central Palace, New York Tribune, April 2, 1924, p. 14. 79. Grabar’s statistics were reported in a letter to his brother, V.M. Grabar, and repeated in Lampard, p. 83. 80. Cheremushkin, p. 2.

Reconsidering the 1920s  53 81. “Debts end Russians’ Vision...” New York Times, April, 6 1924, p. 1; 4; “Russians’ Exhibition of Art is Continued,” New York Times, April 18, 1924, p. 19; Paxton Hibben, “Soviet Aid to Art: The Russian Exhibition in the Grand Central Palace,” New York Tribune, April 2, 1924, p. 14. Here Hibbin focuses mostly on the relationship with the Red Cross; reference to his statement about not meeting their debts is made in the April 6 article. Another article on p. 19 in the New York Times on April 18, announcing the extension of the show, claimed that sales amounted to 30,000 dollars. This figure must have been based on admissions paid by 9000 visitors and sales of 58 art works, but it does not match any of the other sources as it probably did not include the debts that were expected to be repaid. An article by Eleonora Paston in the Tretiakov Gallery Magazine, issue #4, 2011, bout sales of art works made by Polenov, indicated that whereas Polenov was the artist with the most sales, in general sales were low because the prices were too high. Polenov’s best sales went to Charles Crane. 82. Avtonomova, “Window to the West,” in the Tretiakov Gallery Magazine 70: 2021, #1, special issue: Germany-Russia. On the Crossroads of Cultures, 64–93, available online. 83. As of late 2022, I have not found evidence of such an exhibition. Any plans may have been complicated and prevented by the Russian invasion of Ukraine which continued throughout most of 2022. 84. The artist’s name is frequently transliterated as Shterenberg and as Sterenberg. I generally follow the use of the most immediate reference source when discussing him. 85. Shterenberg, “Foreword to the Catalogue of the First Exhibition of Russian Art, Van Diemen Gallery, trans. N. Ballock, in Stephen Bann, ed., The Tradition of Constructivism (Da Capo Press: New York, 1974), p. 70. 86. Avtonomova, “Window,” refers to this concern of the artists, a concern that was not indicative of the outcome. 87. Brinton and Grabar in The Russian Art Exhibition, and Grishkovskii cited in “Russian Artists and Officials Arrive.” 88. Peter Nisbet, “Some Facts on the Organizational History of the van Diemen Exhibition,” catalogue for The 1st Russian Show A Commemoration of the Van Diemen Exhibition Berlin 1922 (London: Annely Juda Fine Art, 1983), p. 71. 89. Cited in Avtonomova, “Window,” from an article in the Shterenberg archives, p. 74. He continues to discuss the emergence of a new art “using the forces unleashed by the Revolution for the benefit of art.” 90. Berard, “The ‘First Exhibition of Russian Art’ in Berlin: The Transnational Origins of Bolshevik Cultural Diplomacy, 1921-1922,” Contemporary European History (2021), 7–9. Although Berard’s interpretation is consistent with Nisbet, she develops in greater depth the connection between this exhibition and the eventual policy of cultural diplomacy and the numerous complications that delayed the start of the exhibition and contributed to some of the confusing discussions and omissions of who was involved in planning this exhibition. 91. Nisbet, “Facts,” 71; although Nisbet’s discussion is the most complete, Eva Berard names Lunacharsky and Willi Münzenberg, the chair of the Worker’s Relief for Russia as receiving credit for the exhibition, “The ‘First Exhibition of Russian Art’ in Berlin: The Transnational Origins of Bolshevik Cultural Diplomacy, 1921–1922,” Contemporary European History, 2021, 1–17; she also refers to Münzenberg’s alternative proposal. Kasper Brasken, another speaker at the Jacobs University conference, focuses on the transformation of the exhibition from its role of providing famine relief to one of contributing to the reconstruction of the image of Soviet Russia, abstract: “A Moral Victory for Soviet Russia,” printed materials available from 100 Years of German-Russian Cultural Exchange, conference in Berlin October 15–16, 2021, 92. Durant, Corinne Daniele. Chapter 8, “The First Russian Art Exhibition” in The Diffusion of Constructivist Ideas in Publications in Germany 1918–1925, thesis submitted to the University of St. Andrews (2001), citing Nisbet, p, 164. 93. Nisbet, “Facts,” p. 67. 94. Nakov, “Introduction,” catalogue for The 1st Russian Show, 4. 95. Avtonomova, Window to the West, discusses the interactions that took place in teaching and publications, 66–69. 96. Nisbet, “Facts,” 67–72. See also Forgacs, “The First Russian Exhibition in Berlin, 1922, and its Reception, in Forgacs, Malevich and Interwar Modernism (London: Bloomsbury Visual Arts, 2022), 131–145. Eva Berard, “Transnational Origins,” 1–17.

54  Reconsidering the 1920s 97. Nisbet, “Facts,” 68–69. Nisbet carefully documents this complicated planning process and the many transitions until art works were purchased for the show and the Treaty of Rapallo between Soviet Russia and Germany was signed in April 1922. This came at a point where the exhibition was on hold and resulted in the return of plans and its opening. 98. Nisbet, “Facts,” p. 71. 99. Berard, “Cultural Diplomacy,” 16–17. 100. Forgacs, “Russian Exhibition,” p. 139. 101. Eleonora Paston, “Vasily Polvenov: ‘I love the gospel tales beyond words...’” The Tretiakov Gallery Magazine #4, 2011 (33). 102. Nisbet, “Facts,” provides more discussion of the importance of this treaty for the continued implementation of the exhibition. p. 69. 103. F.T., “Berlin Sees Bizarre Russian Art Show,” American Art News, 21: 4 (Nov 4, 1922), 1–10. The author continues to deride the art although he did appear to be impressed by the posters and decorated sets of China. 104. Zelensky, Performing Tsarist Russia in New York: Music, Émigrés, and the American Imagination (Indiana University Press: Bloomington, 2019). 105. The most complete study of Soviet artists in the U.S. is Marilyn Rueschemeyer, Igor Golomshtock, and Janet Kennedy, Soviet Émigré Artists: Life and Work in the USSR and the U.S. (Armonk, New York and London: M. E. Sharpe Inc., 1985). See also John E. Bowlt, “Art in Exile: The Russian Avant-Garde and the Emigration,” Art Journal, 41: 3 (1981), 215–221; and Ivan Narodny, “The Russian Note in American Art,” The American Magazine of Art, 19: 3 (March 1928), 138–147. 106. Cited in Maureen Sheila Kalet, “David Burliuk: A Study in Color and Rhyme,” dissertation submitted to the University of Maryland, 1982, p. 290. 107. Kalet cites a bitter article by Cortissoz, “Ellis Island Art,” from 1923, p. 291. 108. Kalet concludes with a eulogy written by Raphael Soyer in the day of Burliuk’s death, describing the artist’s friends’ familiarity with his house and work, p. 312. 109. Dickran Tashjian, “‘A Big Cosmic force’: Katherine S. Dreier and the Russian/Soviet AvantGarde,” in Gross, ed., The Société Anonyme, p. 50. As I have already noted, this edited book is a primary source for Dreier and the Société Anonyme. 110. Peter Nisbet, Kristina Passuth, Christina Lodder, et al., The 1st Russian Show: A Commemoration of the Van Diemen Exhibition in Berlin 1922 (London: Annely Juda Fine Art, 1983). The exhibition is discussed in many other sources; this one provides a reproduction of the original catalogue pages in addition to essays by historians on key features of the exhibition. 111. Tashjian, p. 53 112. Tashjian refers to Dreier’s 1924 show as the “first New York exhibition to introduce the Soviet avant-garde to the American public,” a statement that is true if we remember that Brinton in 1923 focused on émigrés and in 1924 did not include many examples of the avant-garde. See page 61. For another description of Dreier’s show, see Barnaby Haran, “Constructivism in the USA: machine art and architecture at the Little Review exhibitions,” in Watching the Red Dawn (Manchester University Press, 2016), available online. With respect to her lack of interest in applied arts, we might note that the constructivists did not consider their goal to be applied art but utilitarian art. See Popova and the other constructivists for this distinction. Stated by Popova in 1921, and cited in Christina Lodder, “Liubov Popova: From Painting to Textile Design,” Tate Papers, no. 14, autumn 2010. Available online. 113. Louis Lozowick, Modern Russian Art (New York: Société AnonymeSociete Anonyme: 1925), reviewed by William A. Drake, “Russia’s New Art,” New York Herald Tribune, July 26, 1925, p. D4. 114. Lozowick, Modern Russian Art, p. 29. 115. Lozowick’s posthumously published memoirs, Survivors from a Dead Age, ed. Virginia Hagelstein Marquardt (Washington: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1967) includes descriptions of his meetings with artists in Europe, his interest in an American style, and his commitment to Russian constructivism about which he wrote for Broom and other journals. In addition to the extensive Lozowick files in the American Archives of Art, Marquardt’s dissertation, “Louis Lozowick: Development from Machine Aesthetic to Social Realism, 1922–1936,” University of Maryland, 1993, is a rich source of material about Lozowick.

Reconsidering the 1920s  55 116. Marquardt, “Louis Lozowick: From ‘Machine Ornaments’ to Applied Design,” Journal of Decorative and Propaganda Arts 8 (Spring 1988): 40–57. In addition to reproductions of his graphic arts, the article also contains photographs of the Gas stage set. He did have some work included in Dreier’s 1926 exhibition and Jane Heap’s Machine Age exposition in 1927, and his first solo exhibition of lithographs was held at the Weyhe Gallery in 1929. 117. Dreier, “‘Intrinsic Significance’ in Modern Art,” in Dreier, James Sweeney, and Naum Gabo, Three Lectures on Modern Art (The Philosophical Library, New York: 1949), p. 11, italics in original. 118 Aladjalov is often written as Alajalov although the artist used the d. 119. Kristina Wilson, “‘One Big Painting’: A New View of Modern Art at the Brooklyn Museum,” in The Société Anonyme, 75–95, quotation p. 75. 120. Richard Meyer, “Big Middle-Class Modernism,” October, 131 (winter 2010), 99–100. 121. Meyer, “Middle-Class Modernism,” 101. 122. Dreier, cited in Ruth L. Bohan, The Société Anonyme’s Brooklyn Exhibition (Ann Arbor: UMI Research Press: 1982): 59. 123. Kiesler to Dreier, November 2, 1926, qtd. in Bohan Brooklyn, p. 62. 124. Published by Brentano’s; to be discussed in Chapter 3 where Kiesler will be considered in more detail and contexts. 125. Dreier, “Acknowledgement,” in Collection of the Sociêtê Anonyme, p. xvii, cited in Bohan Brooklyn p. 62. 126. Bohan Brooklyn, “Critical response to the exhibition,” 97–113. 127. Dreier, Foreword, “Modern Art,” Société Anonyme: Selected Publications, vol. 1: Documents (NY: Arno Press, 1972), pages 3 and 4 in the foreword. 128. I am seeing the strategies of this exhibition as marking an early challenge to standard museological practices at that time and providing an early example of the role of the museum as a critical voice in culture. For this change in museums, see Katarzyna Murawaska-Muthesius and Piotr Piotrowski, “Introduction: From Museum Critique to the Critical Museum,” From Museum Critique to the Critical Museum (London and New York: Routledge: 2016), 1–12. 129. Dorothy Grafly, “The Palace of Arts, Sesquicentennial in Retrospect,” American Magazine of Art, 17: 12 (December 1926), 630. 130. Walker, “Brinton,” p. 172. 131. Clearly of more importance for Walker, I have abbreviated his unique and rare analysis of the arguments between these two influential collectors and curators of international art. Chapter II in Walker’s thesis, pp 121–196, covers both international exhibitions and their debate. The Sesquicentennial catalogue can be found online and is reproduced in part in the Société Anonyme: Selected Publications. 132. Although my objective here is not to provide a critique of a review, in 2018, a year of stunning exhibitions of revolutionary Russian art, one review began with a statement about exhibitions of the “visual culture of the Russian Revolution” that were “inflected with a Cold War perspective ....” Granted, it is difficult to write a review of exhibitions that cannot be seen, but are exhibition reviews propagating the myths that the exhibitions are trying to counter? And can we truly determine the role of exhibitions in this myth if we focus only on those exhibitions that emerged at the same time? I refer to a review by Vera Koshkina, “Revolution under Review,” Art in America, April 2018, 78–83. 133. Referenced by Fontanella in “Advancing Art,” p. 115.

Chapter 2 Sources Angeline, John David, “Reassessing Modernism: Katherine S. Dreier and the Société Anonyme,” Ph.D. diss., City University of New York, 1999. Avtonomova, “Window to the West,” in the Tretiakov Gallery Magazine 70: 2021, #1, special issue: Germany-Russia. On the Crossroads of Cultures, 64–93, available online. Berard, Ewa. “The ‘First Exhibition of Russian Art’ in Berlin: The Transnational Origins of Bolshevik Cultural Diplomacy, 1921–1922,” Contemporary European History (2021), 1–17. https://doi.org/10.1017/S0960777320000661

56  Reconsidering the 1920s Bespalova, Elena, “Leon Bakst’s Textile and Interior Design in America,” Studies in the Decorative Arts, 5 (Fall-Winter 1997–8), 2–28. Bohan, Ruth L., The Société Anonyme’s Brooklyn Exhibition: Katherine Dreier and Modernism in America. Ann Arbor, MI: UMI Research Press, 1982. Boswell, Young. “Young Boswell interviews Soudeykin,” Herald Tribune, March 1, 1923, p. 13. Brinton, Christian, “The Boris Anisfeld Exhibition,” The Brooklyn Museum Quarterly, 6 (January 1919), 6–9. Brinton, Christian, foreword. Igor Grabar, introduction and catalogue, The Russian Art Exhibition. Grand Central Palace, New York, 1924. Brooklyn Museum Archives, Records of the Department of Public Information, Press Releases, 1931–1936, announcements made in April and June 1931. Available online. Chanler, Gabrielle, “Features: The Trend of Modern Russian Art,” Vogue, 61: 7 (April 1 1923), 86–7, 100. Cheremushkin, Peter. “Other Shores, Russian Art in New York, 1924,” The Moscow Times, Oct. 6, 2021, online. Cortissoz, Royal, “Modern Russian Art: An Illuminating Exhibition at the Museum in Brooklyn,” New York Tribune, Jan 28, 1923, D7. Dreier, Katherine S. Burliuk. Société Anonyme, Inc. and Color and Rhyme, NY: 1944. Durant, Corinne Daniele. Chapter 8, “The First Russian Art Exhibition” in The Diffusion of Constructivist Ideas in Publications in Germany 1918–1925, thesis submitted to the University of St. Andrews (2001). Flint, Ralph. “Russian Art at Brooklyn Museum Outstanding Event of the Season,” The Christian Science Monitor, Feb. 5, 1923, p. 16. Forgacs, Eva, “International Reaction to the First Russian Exhibition in Berlin.” in Forgacs and Timothy O. Benson, eds. Between Worlds. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2002, out of print, 403–4. Fox, W.H. Foreword to Russian Painting and Sculpture, with introduction and catalogue by Christian Brinton. Printed by the New Gallery, 1923. Goncharova-Larionov exhibition at the KIngore Gallery. New York, 1922, with essay by Christian Brinton. Grafly, Dorothy, “The Palace of Arts, Sesquicentennial in Retrospect,” American Magazine of Art, 17: 12 (December 1926), 630. Gross, Jennifer R., ed., The Société Anonyme: Modernism for America. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2006. Heartney, Eleanor, “Hilla Rebay: Visionary Baroness,” Art in America, 91 (September 2003), 112–117. Järvinen, Hannah, “Failed Impressions: Diaghilev’s Ballets Russes in America, 1916,” Dance Research Journal, 42: 2 (2010), 77–108. Jewett, Eleanor. “Art and Artists: Russian Artist Portrays Other Lands in Work,” Chicago Daily Tribune, July 1922, F10. Kalet, Maureen Sheila. “David Burliuk: A Study in Color and Rhyme,” Ph.D. diss., University of Maryland, 1982. Kasinec, Edward, John E. Bowlt, and Olga Iurkina, essays and catalogue for Drugie Berega: Russkoe Iskusstvo v Niu Yorke 1924. Moscow: Museum of Russian Impressionism, 1921. Kiesler, Frederick, Contemporary Art Applied to the Store and Its Display. New York: Brentano’s, 1930. Kirwin, Liza, Robert F. Brown and Marina Pacini, et al., “Regional Reports,” Archives of American Art Journal, 27 (4), 1987, 27–37; p. 35. Koshkina, Vera. “Revolution under Review,” Art in America, April 2018, 78–83. Lampard, Marie Turbow, “Sergei Konenkov and the ‘Russian Art Exhibition’ of 1924,” Soviet Union/Union Sovietique, 7: 1 (1980), 70–88. Lear. “Why Russian Art has Swept the Country,” Brooklyn Daily Eagle, Feb 11, 1923, p. 3.

Reconsidering the 1920s  57 Leffingwell, Edward, “Rehabilitating Rebay,” Art in America, 93 (Dec. 2005), 120–160. Lozowick, Louis, Survivors from a Dead Age: the Memoirs of Louis Lozowick. In Virginia Hagelstein Marquardt, ed. Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1997. Lozowick, Modern Russian Art. New York: Museum of Modern Art, 1925. Lukach, Joan M., Hilla Rebay: in Search of the Spirit in Art. New York: George Braziller, 1983. Marquardt, Virginia Hagelstein. “Louis Lozowick: From ‘Machine Ornaments’ to Applied Design,” Journal of Decorative and Propaganda Arts, 8 (Spring 1988): 40–57. Meyer, Richard. “Big Middle-Class Modernism,” October, 131 (winter 2010), 99–100 Murawaska-Muthesius, Katarzyna and Piotr Piotrowski, “Introduction: From Museum Critique to the Critical Museum.” From Museum Critique to the Critical Museum. London and New York: Routledge, 2016, 1–12. Nakov, Andrei, ed., and essays by Krystina Passuth, Peter Nisbet, and Christina Lodder. Catalogue of The 1st Russian Show. A Commemoration of the Van Diemen Exhibition in Berlin 1922. London: Annely Juda Fine Art, 1983. Nisbet, Peter. “Some Facts on the Organizational History of the van Diemen Exhibition,” catalogue for The 1st Russian Show a Commemoration of the Van Diemen Exhibition Berlin 1922. London: Annely Juda Fine Art, 1983. Paston, Eleonora. “Vasily Polvenov: ‘I Love the Gospel Tales Beyond Words ….’” The Tretiakov Gallery Magazine #4, 2011. Rosenberg, James N., foreword, New Pictures and the New Gallery (privately printed, 1923). Rueschemeyer, Marilyn, Igor Golomstock and Janet Kennedy, “Soviet Emigré Artists: Life and Work in the USSR and the United States.” International Journal of Sociology, XV: 1–2 (1985), 1–170. Ruud, Charles A., Russian Entrepreneur: Publisher Ivan Sytin of Moscow. Montreal: McGillQueen’s University Press, 1990. Sayler, Oliver with illustration by author, “The Russian Cavalcade: Dancers, Actresses, Novelist, Opera Stars ….” New York Tribune, July 30, 1922, E4. Shterenberg, David., “Foreword to the Catalogue of the First Exhibition of Russian Art, Van Diemen Gallery.” In N. Ballock, trans., Stephen Bann, ed., The Tradition of Constructivism. New York: Da Capo Press, 1974, 70. Terkel, Yelena, “America in Leon Bakst’s Life and Art,” Tretiakov Gallery Magazine, special issue #2, USA-Russia: On the Crossroads of Cultures, 1–16. Walker, Andrew J., “Critic, Curator, Collector: Christian Brinton and the Exhibition of National Modernism in America, 1910–1945.” Ph.D. diss., University of Pennsylvania, 1999. Williams, Robert C., Russian Art and American Money, 1900–1940. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1980. Wilson, Kristina, “‘One Big Painting’: A New View of Modern Art at the Brooklyn Museum,” in Jennifer R. Gross and Ruth L. Bohan, ed., The Société Anonyme, New Haven: Yale University Press, 2006, 75–95. Yezernitskaya, Mechella, “Christian Brinton: A Modernist Icon,” Baltic Worlds, XI: 1 (2018), 58–64. Zelensky, Natalie K, Performing Tsarist Russia in New York: Music, Émigrés, and the American Imagination. Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 2019. Zemliakova, Olga and Viktor Leonidov, “Triumf v Amerike,” Russkoe Iskusstvo, 1: 1 (2004), 27–37.

3

New Curators and New Content Theater Takes the Lead

At one time, I was convinced that chronology would be a good approach to this history and that the 1920s could be described as phase one in this history of exhibitions. As my work has progressed, my desire to have orderly phases with easily plotted changes has been challenged more than once. The first challenge was my decision to look at exhibitions before the 1920s; my second challenge came in the decade of the 1920s which began to feel like more than one decade. We have reached 1927 and the contributions of several key exhibitions and curators remain to be discussed. In particular, Frederick Kiesler, Jane Heap, and Nikita Balieff raise major questions for this exhibition history and, in so doing, complicate chronology because some of their accomplishments connect to earlier events that have yet to be examined. Hallie Flanagan, whose contributions come a little later than the others, also gets her start in the 1920s. In this chapter, we continue to encounter new curators and organizers, exhibitions of peasant arts and religious art, and the role of theater as an alternative exhibition space. An important thread running through these changes will be the increasing numbers of émigré artists in the U.S. and the role of the Soviet government in setting limits on what can travel and be exhibited in other countries. Although these changes take us into the next decade, we will encounter exhibitions that unabashedly refer to the Soviet Union in their titles and introduce media that have rarely been seen in earlier exhibitions. In Chapter 2, we noted Frederick Kiesler’s contribution to Dreier’s 1926 exhibition layout. Like Lozowick, Kiesler was not a collector or curator but unlike Lozowick, his strong interest in theater and exhibition design becomes another route for introducing American audiences to Russian media and theories. Kiesler also suggests parallels to Flanagan: although she did not build or design theaters, she did produce plays (influenced by Russian constructivism) and wrote a great deal about Russian theatrical experiments.1 In 1926, the year of Dreier’s international art exhibition and Brinton’s work for the Philadelphia Sesquicentennial, we find Jane Heap, then the editor of the Little Review magazine,2 and Kiesler, a Viennese architect and designer with a strong interest in theater, planning and opening the New York International Theatre Exposition, a partial recreation of the 1924 Viennese International Theatre Exposition with work that was included in the 1925 Paris Art Deco exposition and some additional American work. This was followed a year later by the Machine Age Exposition, organized by Jane Heap. Both catalogues were initially published in the Little Review. Kiesler, believed to be Romanian by birth,3 moved to the U.S. in 1926. Before moving to the U.S., he was a peripatetic citizen of Europe familiar with the Bauhaus, leading De Stijl artists, and constructivism, bringing his wide range of interests and skills to designs DOI: 10.4324/9781003247692-3

New Curators and New Content  59 for theaters, architecture, and exhibition spaces. Prior to the Paris expo, Kiesler had also designed the Exhibition of New Theater Techniques at the International Music Festival in 1924 in Vienna.4 This work led to his involvement in the Paris Exposition. When Heap visited the 1925 Paris Expo, she met both Lunacharsky and Kiesler whose City in Space was on display. Numerous avant-garde artists who visited the Expo had the highest praise for Kiesler’s work, generally associating it with De Stijl architecture although occasionally referring to it as “De Stijl constructivism,” an infrequently used style name but likely referring to what is more commonly known as international constructivism. Heap’s enthusiasm for the Paris Expo inspired her to bring the foreign section of the exhibition of theatrical arts to New York. Kiesler expanded on this by including work from the Vienna Theatrical Exposition and later inviting an American jury of leading designers, including among them Lee Simonson, a designer already considered one of America’s leading modern designers, to select works from American designers. At the same time, it has been suggested that a large portion of the American section of the exposition was not selected by either Kiesler or the special committee and consisted of traditional, but popular, work.5 As with some of the earlier exhibitions in the 1920s, this cannot be called an exhibition solely dedicated to the display of Russian art. Nor was this the only time that American theater designers encountered or exhibited modern practices but there is little evidence that the American encounter with modern practices previously included Russian as well as modern European practices. The Art Institute of Chicago’s New Stage Craft exhibition of 1914–1915 did include work by Léon Bakst among its largely American exhibitors but, at that time, examples of Russian constructivism were not likely to have been known outside of Russia, making the 1926 Theatre expo an unprecedented opportunity for Americans to see photographs and maquettes of Russian productions.6 Although Kiesler shared organizational credit for the Theatrical Exposition with Heap, he designed its New York installation and a catalogue closely based on the Viennese catalogue.7 The Vienna show and catalogue were larger than the New York version, but in both installations, the range of maquettes and photographs was quite broad and included many experimental productions. The tri-color (red, black, and white) cover of the Viennese catalogue (Figure 3.1) used a design that abstractly alluded to the installation system designed by Kiesler (Kiesler used human analogies for the movements he envisioned in the installation), providing a degree of continuity between catalogue and exhibition, not always present in exhibitions. For example, if we look at the earliest cover, we might be inclined to see the vertical red form in the center of the black circle as a simple T with a straight-edged W on one side and an upside-down W on the other side. At the foot of the T, we see an F; these forms are white. But perhaps, we might consider the black circle to be the space of a gallery, the T to be a structure that has arms that move out from the spine of the structure and hold works to be examined, either right-side up or upside down. Thus, although it looks simple, it is an abstracted enactment of the display system that Kiesler is developing. In the next iteration of a catalogue, rather than focusing on the exhibition structure, the black circle has become a square containing useful information, and as such, it is the theater itself (Figure 3.2). The orientation which has the text running from bottom to top, contrary to the usual printing format, is now the sole reference to the unusual style of exhibition that Kiesler is promoting. Rather than the landscape format of the Viennese catalogue cover, for New York, Kiesler verticalized the landscape composition which makes it true to the Viennese format but subverted by its

60  New Curators and New Content

Figure 3.1  Frederick Kiesler, Internationale Ausstellung neuer Theatertechnik [catalog cover], Vienna, 1924 Offset [International Exhibition of New Theater Technology]© 2023 Austrian Frederick and Lillian Kiesler Private Foundation, Vienna; catalogues seen in library: Internationale Ausstellung neuer Theatertechnik/unter Mitwirkung der Gesellschaft zur Förderung Moderner Kunst in Wien: im Rahmen des Musik und Theaterfestes der Stadt Wien, 1924: Katalog, Programm, Almanach herausgegeben von Friedrich Kiesler. (Wien: Würthle, 1924). Performing Arts branch of the New York Public Library, MWEP [RBS] 04-6216. Captions provided by Kiesler Foundation

attachment to the catalogue as a portrait style cover which says little other than the exhibition name and date, leaving information about specific location (Steinway building), dates, and patrons on the inner covers where you do not have to rotate your head to read it. It appears that in both the covers and the installations, Kiesler has made the exhibition visitor a central component of the plan. He also added dark blue to the

Figure 3.2 Kiesler, International Theatre Exposition, cover and interior showing portrait orientation of cover and landscape format of catalogue, New York, 1926; © 2023 Austrian Frederick and Lillian Kiesler Private Foundation, Vienna; catalogues seen in library: Internationale Ausstellung neuer Theatertechnik/unter Mitwirkung der Gesellschaft zur Förderung Moderner Kunst in Wien: im Rahmen des Musik und Theaterfestes der Stadt Wien, 1924: Katalog, Programm, Almanach herausgegeben von Friedrich Kiesler. (Wien: Würthle, 1924). Performing Arts branch of the New York Public Library, MWEP [RBS] 04-6216. Captions provided by Kiesler Foundation

New Curators and New Content  61 tri-color of the Viennese version. Both international theater exhibitions were an important means of communicating ideas about the Russian avant-garde, some of whom (notably Meierkhold) visited Vienna but not New York. Work from Austria, Belgium, Czechoslovakia, France, and most of Europe was included in the form of marionettes, paintings, scenery plans, drawings, masks, photographs, and maquettes. Photographs of scenes from several Russian theatrical productions, including Meierkhold’s production of the Death of Tarelkin (with Varvara Stepanova as the “constructor”), Aleksandr Tairov’s production of the Man who was Thursday (stage construction by Aleksandr Vesnin), Lissitsky’s mechanical version of the Victory over the Sun, along with works by Aleksandra Ekster,8 Sergei Vakhtangov, and Nikolai Foregger were all represented. Several essays were included in the catalogue along with a lengthy essay by Kiesler on the “space stage,” as opposed to the “picture-stage,” or a theater in which illusion and illustration would no longer exist, having been replaced by multi-dimensional properties of space, the elimination of the curtain and the stage box, replaced by an elastic understanding of space. A construction of this space stage was included in the Vienna expo where it was used for performances, and in New York (Figure 3.3). The opening essay or foreword to the catalogue (both versions) was a manifesto beginning with the sentence, “The theatre is dead” and ending with that sentence followed by another: “We want to give it a splendid burial.”9 In between, the manifesto-poem elaborated what was not being done and what “we are working for,” reinforcing the idea that the goal of this exhibition was that of presenting the public with the new theater. Kiesler’s ideas were not unheard of – leading to debates about priority of the invention (was Kiesler the first?) – and did seem to prevail in much of the work in the exhibition. Even those reviews which preferred the American section of design generally singled out the space stage for recognition of some type.10 Kiesler’s design for the earlier installation of the 1924 International Theatre exhibition previewed much of his later work. Suggesting the influence of both De Stijl artists and El Lissitzky, the installation consisted of free-standing units to which drawings and models and other exhibits were attached. The system was modular and could be disassembled and reinstalled in other locations. One part of the unit was conceptualized as an “active”

Figure 3.3 Frederick Kiesler, Raumbühne (Space Stage) Internationale Ausstellung neuer Theatertechnik at the Wiener Konzerthaus, Vienna, 1924; photographer unknown; © 2023 Austrian Frederick and Lillian Kiesler Private Foundation, Vienna

62  New Curators and New Content component in that it could move and present a work of art to a viewer. Writing about this concept that he continued to use in later work, Kiesler said that this advanced position of the picture has two consequences: it is separated from the background and brought closer to the spectator. The picture seems to float freely. It ceases to be a decoration on the wall and becomes a small island in space. It is a world in itself which the painter has conceived and the architect has anchored.11 Whether we see them with or without color, both designs convey a modular approach to design. At the time of this installation, it is unlikely that Kiesler would have known Lissitzky’s exhibitions in Germany despite its suggestion of familiarity with Lissitzky’s ideas. Prior to the New York reinstallation, he might well have seen Rodchenko’s worker’s club design in Paris. His continued belief that both art works and viewers should be surrounded by space and consequently interact in those spaces as equal partners may have reflected familiarity with their work or, at the very least, Kiesler’s personal interpretation of constructivism. In 1924, however, Tatlin’s influence would most assuredly have been known (the term “Tatlinism” was widely used as was his “cult of materials”12) and it is likely that Kiesler would have had some familiarity with constructivist spatial constructions and with Lissitzky’s profound influence on Bauhaus instructors such as Herbert Bayer and Laszlo Moholy-Nagy.13 The impact of this show may have been felt in more than one direction. It is known that some of the Russian theater directors did travel to Vienna at the time of the show. Kiesler, however, may have played a role similar to that of Lozowick in the communication of Russian ideas to American artists and architects. Unlike Lozowick whose interest in theater was quite secondary to his interest in graphic arts and painting, Kiesler was interested in architecture, theater, exhibitions, and department store display windows, about which he published a short book. This book does refer to the Paris Exposition of 1925, includes a photograph of one of Malevich’s architectonic constructions, and refers to Meierkhold and other theater directors interested in new treatments of space. His text sounds like an uncanny American version of Aleksei Gan’s constructivist manifesto, although his predominant and subversive message is the theatrical use of store windows to create consumer demand.14 In his discussion of the new art of the machine and his proposal for theatrical window displays, he notes that the display window must attract customers without waiting for them to think they need something: “you must CREATE DEMAND. You must stimulate desire. That is why show windows, institutional propaganda, and advertising were created and why their importance is continually increasing. The art of the retailer depends on an ability to create demands by the proper display of desirable objects.”15 Better known for his later work for Peggy Guggenheim’s Art of the Century gallery in 1942 and to some extent for his interactions with Rebay in this project, his under-examined role as a conduit in the transmission of constructivist ideas, separated from the political and presumably non-economic groundwork of constructivism, makes him an important part of the exhibition network. The New York exhibition itself was an important moment in the communication of ideas about the Russian avant-garde as the exhibition was widely reviewed in New York newspapers and constructivist models were often singled out for particular commentary (not always positive). This show did not claim to be introducing new work or raising money for émigrés; it included the work of artists who were still living in Russia along with artists who had emigrated. It also featured work that came before and after the October revolution; whereas much of this

New Curators and New Content  63 would have been new to the American audience, it was included in the show because it exemplified important theatrical strategies in scenic design. Not limited to Russian work, the number of Russian works was significant and a quick look at the catalogue confirms that the largest number of works in the show did come from Russia. This fact was noted by most of the reviews. The headlined titles of some of these reviews are more indicative of the critic’s position than the text, ranging from the provocative “Stagecraft Shows its Newest Heresies” to “‘Constructivism’ Big Thing at Exposition.”16 As the reviews suggested, this show was unabashedly pointing to a new direction for theater; what could not be predicted at the time was not only the influence it would have on American designers but also the importance of including theatrical work in future exhibitions. Whether intentional or not, this exhibition previewed the future role of international exhibitions that were international in terms of venues as well as exhibited art works. Before moving on to his involvement in Heap’s Machine Age show, another challenge to my hypothetical chronology does come from theater and the constructivist influence. Although there is no existing history of the American interest in constructivism – a movement that came into existence during the 1917 Russian revolution – there are identifiable signs of the ongoing American interest in this movement. The earliest signs can be associated with the travels of American theater critics and directors who were both excited by the revolution and often had political motives for traveling. In addition to those critics who returned home and wrote reviews for American newspapers and magazines, Flanagan, as Valeri J. Hohman tells us, had received a Guggenheim fellowship to study European theater which gave her entry to the Soviet Union and enabled her to observe and photograph numerous theater performances and styles of alternative theater groups such as the Blue Blouse and Living Newspaper theaters, long before she became the director of the Federal Theater Project.17 Other travelers in the 1920s included Lozowick, as we have seen, Katherine Dreier who did not go to Russia but to Berlin, and Alfred Barr before becoming the first director of the Museum of Modern Art (MoMA). This was a complicated phase despite the many publications that were available to American readers: the increasingly negative response to communism and by extension to anything Russian combined with the difficulty of describing theater without having performances to view may have had a significant role in the delayed exhibition interest in theater.18 In addition to her descriptions of performances and audience responses, Flanagan eventually produces plays for which she identifies the influence of Meierkhold, among others, works out construction plans that, in their use of multiple levels on the stage and multiple points of entry and exit, along with the use of cinematic flash scenes and black-outs and the absence of a stage curtain, begin to sound like Meierkholdian images from wellknown Moscow productions.19 Not necessarily exhibitions of paintings, these performances did serve as exhibitions of experimental theater for audiences that may not have been likely to seek out museum exhibitions in order to meet the new theater. In addition to his upcoming involvement in Heap’s Machine Age exhibition and his later work with Rebay on a museum model, Kiesler’s influence extends beyond theater to the design of store windows and something that was hinted at in the installation he designed for Dreier’s 1926 exhibition: his belief in the use of televised technology as a means of bringing art out of the museum and into the home. Ultimately, however, Kiesler’s interests and models were eclectic and meant that he communicated a stylistic and technical fusion of ideas that went beyond constructivism and most importantly into the architectural design of theaters and commercial environments.20 It is worth considering that the viability and innovations of Kiesler’s internationalism may have contributed

64  New Curators and New Content to the acceptance of Russian or Soviet art at a time when relations between the U.S. and the USSR were not notably positive. Whereas Jane Heap was involved in bringing the theater exposition and Kiesler to the U.S., it may have impeded some of her plans at the time for a show on new architectural systems. As both Anne Blood and Barnaby Haran tell us, Heap transformed her plans for a stand-alone exhibition of modern architecture in 1927 into an exhibition of machines and architecture.21 The 1927 Machine Age exposition was undoubtedly one of the most significant demonstrations of new ideas in art and architecture. In 1932, MoMA had an exhibition of modern architecture which it followed in 1934 with its first exhibition of machine parts and fully functional objects, such as the ball bearing on the cover of its catalogue. Unlike MoMA, Heap invited submissions of architectural works that had been proposed but not yet built, and unlike Philip Johnson, she did not have a specific style in mind, decisions which clearly benefitted the inclusion of constructivist and utopian architectural works that had not been executed due to economic conditions. MoMA’s international exhibition of modern architecture, in contrast, only included photographs of built works and was planned to promote a new style along with the reassertion of American leadership in architecture. The catalogue text confirms that Russian architecture of the early 20th century would not have been included. As the foreword notes, the goal of the exhibition was promotion of the new international style which is described in terms of the materials used, the principles of regularity and flexibility, and others which at that time were best expressed in the works of Gropius, Oud, Le Corbusier, and Mies van der Rohe. Other architects were included but modern Russian architecture was judged as technically inferior.22 Heap’s exhibition was praised for its inclusion of photographs from Russia. Lozowick’s contribution to the catalogue, “The Americanization of Art,” in which he wrote that sharing architectural and technological knowledge between Russia and America would promote relations between the countries was disconcertingly illustrated by two of his own graphic works that do not really illustrate the industrialization that was his real theme, and a photograph of a Russian industrial plant rather than an American industrial plan.23 The connection between Heap’s exhibition and MoMA is more clearly seen in the 1934 exhibition. It is interesting to note that the cover of Heap’s Machine Age catalogue was a colorful and abstracted representation of a ball bearing made by Fernand Léger (Figure 3.4), whereas MoMA used a black-and-white photograph on its catalogue. The lineage was clear, although MoMA’s approach had less to do with artistic and architectural styles than Heap’s did. The ball bearing notably reappeared in the preface to the catalogue of the 1988 Deconstructivist Architecture exhibition, where Philip Johnson remembered it as an icon. As its cover implied, Heap’s exhibition included more than machine parts. All the same, Heap’s ostensible goal had less to do with bringing together an international survey of art (although this was important to her plans) than with a demonstration of the importance of engineering to emerging art and architecture, particularly in America. As a statement of purpose, her assertion in her catalogue essay could not have been clearer: There is a new race of men in America: the Engineer. He has created a new mechanical world, he is segregated from men in other activities … it is inevitable and important to the civilization of today that he make a union with the architect and artist. This affiliation will benefit each in his own domain, it will end the immense waste in each domain and will become a new creative force.24

New Curators and New Content  65

Figure 3.4 Fernand Léger, Machine-Age Exposition (Little Review, New York, 1927), New York, 1927. Museum: PRIVATE COLLECTION; Album: Alamy stock photo; © 2022 Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York/ADAGP, Paris

To make her point, Heap included examples of art, architecture, industrial products, and machines, either in the form of sketches for their production or as they appeared in works of art. From the Russians, she had intended to include work by Lissitzky, photographs of buildings by Vesnin and Melnikoff[sic] (only the Vesnin photo was in the catalogue with a note saying that the Melnikov was late), maquettes of costume design by Aleksandra Exter (for an unnamed “mechanical” production), a sculptural torso by Naum Gabo, and a photograph of “industrial architecture” with others expected (several works had not arrived in time for printing in the catalogue). The catalogue texts, including essays by Hugh Ferris, Enrico Prampolini, and Louis Lozowick, may have been as influential as the photographs in contributing to an understanding of this “new” machine aesthetic and its role in American art. Although Lozowick was the only writer to specifically refer to the Americanization of art, all the texts spoke to a new aesthetic informed by the machine and exemplified in the work of artists who attended the International Artists Congress in Dusseldorf – notably a gathering of the international constructivist movement, known at that time as Constructionists. Heap was less interested in identifying style than in exalting the machine influence. Following her praise of the engineer, she went on to note that it is the artist, and not the

66  New Curators and New Content engineer, who is inventing new forms, while the engineer uses the forms invented by the artist. “It is this ‘plastic-mechanical analogy’ which we wish to present.”25 Heap’s larger goal, not limited to this exhibition, related to the creation and promulgation of something which might eventually be called an American style. The attempt to claim machinery and industry as the basis for this style was not unique to Heap. Like some of the art exhibitions of this period, the goal was the promotion of a new art. A new goal should be added to the list of reasons for these early exhibitions which included Russian art: rather than spirituality, an art for the machine age and an American art were new goals. At this point, we might note that architecture was rarely a focus in any of the earlier exhibitions of Russian art, and even when architectural drawings were included, they served a purpose that had less to do with architecture than with some other trend or emerging interest affecting all the arts. It is also of interest that although some of the earliest visitors to the Soviet Union were theater critics and producers, the reinstallation of the Viennese International Theatre Exposition was an anomaly with respect to the subject of Russian theater until much later in the century, with the exception of Flanagan’s social interest as a producer and Lee Simonson at MoMA. However, whereas Heap’s Machine Age show outdid the MoMA exhibition of architecture in 1932 with its inclusion of Soviet examples, the MoMA exhibition of theatre art in 1934 did include a Soviet section. In both cases, the Russian section was large and included work from before and after the revolution. Heap’s show was an anomaly in another way: of the exhibitions discussed at this point, the only one which can be said to have been interested in new spatial solutions, whether for the stage or exhibition design, was the Viennese International Theatre exhibition and its subsequent New York installation. Whereas the theater exposition was also noteworthy for its innovative installations as done by Kiesler, the Machine Age exposition, likewise anomalous but in other respects, also introduced a new approach to installation. Herbert Lippmann’s review in a 1927 issue of The Arts provides an invaluable description of a decidedly innovative and austere approach to exhibitions: the setting of this exhibition itself had significant form. This was the unpainted white plaster finish of walls, columns, beams, girders, and floor slabs of an unpartitioned office floor of a common type of building erected for commercial renting. An amusing touch was the use of ordinary tin pails as reflectors in the place of lighting fixtures. Radio sets, valves, gears, propellers, metal cupboards, ventilators, aeroplanes, diving apparatus, rifles and machine guns, were among the exhibits. These stood like pieces of sculpture at an exhibition, on pedestals of a sort, numbered and catalogued.26 Yet it may have been the exhibits themselves, rather than the installation, that was the most significant contribution made by the Machine Age exposition. As E. B. White wrote in the May 21, 1927, issue of the New Yorker magazine, The Exposition is interesting because it makes you Think. Miss Jane Heap, instigator of the affair, told us that she didn’t want to be taken too seriously but hoped people would see the whimsical aspect of her amazing juxtapositions. Art, as long as this is a cock-eyed world, must be viewed from crazy angles, she believes. Fundamentally the show illustrates, if you look at it in the right light (as we did) that there is a relation between symmetry and efficiency, and that when a thing is built strong and well it has pure lines and is pleasing.27

New Curators and New Content  67 Both of Heap’s exhibitions were anomalous in yet another way: although the exhibited works represented a range of influences, the theater expo and the machine expo included examples of work by Russians who were associated with constructivist practices. For several reasons, Kiesler can be identified as a potential source of ideas about constructivism (although few artists and books identify him in that role), Heap played a role in the transmission of these ideas although style did not seem to be her primary concern, and Alfred Barr (eventually) did as well.28 In Kiesler’s case, those ideas may well have related to stage and exhibition design; in Barr’s case, the photographs of Rodchenko’s spatial constructions which he did share with numerous artists in the U.S. combined with his own interests in Russian art, expressed in writing, lectures, and personal interactions, were undeniably important although they come later than the period we have just examined.29 The influence of the Machine Age show extended beyond architecture and machines, playing an important role in the continued rise of the art deco style and the role of American style in creating a new age of design, and eventually a reassessment of the achievements of the late 1920s. Just as the influence of new theater technology continued beyond the exposition, that of the Machine Age expo likewise continued and was given a second chance to exert its spell in 1986 when the show was revived at the Brooklyn Museum and praised for reminding people of the style and aesthetic achievements of American artists during the machine age and the extent to which the original exhibition contributed to closing the gap between fine art and craft (long a goal of revolutionary Russian art).30 “Russian Exposition Opens Tomorrow”: 1928 literally began with the Exposition (also called Exhibition in some reviews) of Education, Handicrafts, Theatre, Science and Industry, and as the subheading noted, with “Displays to show progress of Soviet[sic] in Art, Education, and Industry in Ten Years.” Two things might catch your eyes at first glance: the titles refer to both Russia and the Soviet Union, suggesting that with respect to naming the originating country for the show, people were still more likely to recognize Russia, but Soviet Union (or Soviet) was now being used to refer to the last ten years of that country. The title of the catalogue is more explicit, stating “Russian Exposition of the Soviet Union, 1917-27.” The other eye-catching feature is the range of areas to be included in the expo: in the third subheading at the start of the article, it was noted that a “theatre collection, depicting futuristic developments” would be included. If we read on, we learn that the show had already been seen in Berlin, Brussels, and Paris (and plans were made to take it to Japan), and that music programs and discussions with guest speakers would take place while the show was open.31 The catalogue has a page listing the tentative program of speakers and concerts on all topics, twice daily for two weeks. Although travelers’ reports and propaganda had been prevalent in the first ten years of the Soviet Union, a few examples of visual evidence (with the exception of the occasional black-and-white photograph) had been available. It was believed and promoted that this show provided an answer to the question of what had taken place following the fall of the czar. This was stated in detail in the catalogue which specifically says that “the Revolution replaced the Old Russian Empire” with a “state built on totally new social, economic and cultural principles.” The foreword names the “USSR Society for Cultural Relations with Foreign Countries (VOX)” as the organizer with the associate involvement of two American groups. It also notes that similar exhibitions had been shown in Europe.32 The 27-page catalogue, including 2 pages of advertisements, is almost completely text descriptions of the 16 areas included in the show, with the occasional black-and-white photograph, unlabeled but seeming to relate to the group currently

68  New Curators and New Content being described. The floor plan map for the exhibition is vaguely reminiscent of floor plans used at world expos with the difference being that the path does not lead from one country to another but from one category to another based on a goal of enabling visitors to avoid confusion. Overall, the impact of this catalogue has more in common with a public education statement (or propaganda?) than an exhibition catalogue. The author of one detailed review observed that some of the work was less aesthetically pleasing than it was informative about tastes and trends, while other work, especially the porcelain, was “perfectly delightful.” The writer continues to explain the appeal of the numerous camels and elephants made of ivory (why were so many made – trade between republics appeared to be the answer), the modern ideas seen in the models and photographs of Russian theatre, and overall the extensive geographic range of locations from which the works in the exposition came. None of the things referred to in this review can be seen in the catalogue. The only regret named by this writer was the absence of paintings although it was probably for the best given that so much work was included in this show, and an exhibition of painting and sculpture was planned for the spring.33 Not as widely reviewed as some of the earlier shows (or the next expo of this type), most of the reviews focused on the guests (speakers and otherwise), the degree to which this American- and Russian-sponsored show provided images of cultural life in the Soviet Union, and the representation of several independent and some combined republics and numerous villages and cities. This may, however, have been a difficult show to review given the emphasis on text rather than art works (at least as seen in the catalogue). In this, it would seem to bear the influence of Soviet museum reform of the same period when it was proposed that “Soviet museums should be ‘entirely dedicated to the tasks of mass propaganda of the ideas of the Marxist worldview and the tasks of socialist construction.’” Masha Chlenova tells us that Soviet exhibitions prepared during this short-lived experimental and unpopular period were often known as “paper exhibitions.”34 Existing reviews of the 1928 exhibition tend to emphasize the novelty of finally seeing work from the changed Russia, the additional novelty of seeing examples of posters about the increased use of telephones, “queer wooden toys carved by peasant hands,” and numerous reproductions of the Great Bear of Russia. They also noted that prior to opening, there would be a private showing for 1,000 invited guests, including Lee Simonson (who was on the Art and Drama Committee), Max Eastman, Professor John Dewey (on the Exhibition Committee), and others. Some of the speakers at the opening were also named.35 Barely one year later, the Soviet Russian Art and Handicraft Exposition opened at the Grand Central Palace (GCP), billing itself as “the first to present to the American public the amazing wealth of the arts and crafts of the Union of Socialist Soviet Republics.” Not the first actually but only if we refer to the new name of the country from which these works came. Planned by the Amtorg Trading Corporation, the catalogue introduction emphasized the degree to which peasant handicrafts were part of daily life and the steps taken by the new government to “preserve and foster the creative force of peasant craftsmen.”36 Amtorg, with both Soviet and American connections and devoted to trade between the two countries, had also been involved in the Machine Age expo by lending photographs of American industrial architecture to the exposition.37 The catalogue for the Handicraft expo, richly illustrated in color and black-and-white, is organized by categories of crafts with one page for each category, beginning with Palekh38 painting and ending with Embroidery. Although not included in the catalogue, the exhibition did include paintings made by “noted Muscovite artists,” along with “rare ceramics from

New Curators and New Content  69 Leningrad Potteries,” and thousands of other products to be exhibited by “appropriately dressed” exhibitors, as one reviewer stated.39 Many of the reviews commented on the visual parallels to famous outdoor fairs (Nijni[sic] Novgorod being named) and the way this show provided insight into the Russian character. Indeed, the chairman of the Amtorg committee for this show, Saul G. Bron, specifically emphasized that this view into the Russian mind would improve and increase understanding between Americans and Russians. In fact, he said, Amtorg hoped to have a Russian exhibition that would bring American arts to Russians so that their insight would also expand. Mayor James (Jimmy) Walker of New York city wrote to apologize for not being present and to agree with Bron that exhibition works which demonstrate the creative spirit of Russian people would further friendship between the countries.40 One comment that may seem difficult to interpret emphasized that the work in this show would not still have been done in the U.S. in the present or previous century but was being encouraged in the Soviet Union at the time of this show. Walter Storey goes on to say that although American antique styles, if still popular, are made in modern factories, in Russia, handicrafts such as those in this exposition were representative of a “vigorous contemporary activity” and part of a complex and “complete view of Russian decorative art today.” In fact, given the millions of workers in peasant crafts, encouraging the continuation of this work rather than other arts was a valuable means of maintaining age-old traditions.41 One might naturally question Storey’s history which overlooks the importance of peasant arts under the czardom but his review is considerably more detailed than others at this time. Although there had in fact been peasant art shows quite a bit earlier in the century, the interest in both promoting and engaging with Russian handicrafts did appear to be a new part of the Russian cavalcade of arts and hobbies described several years previously by Oliver M. Sayler. Whether fueling this interest or merely benefitting from it, we will find that the new passion for peasant arts will create a strong connection to the increasingly popular Bat [Chauve-Souris] theater of Nikita Balieff. Sayler was a strong promoter of Russian events and performances in New York, seemingly because he was a press agent for both Morris Gest and Otto Kahn as well as a widely published theater historian.42 Prior to the establishment of major NYC museums, the GCP continued to be the location of almost all annual exhibitions of Russian and Soviet art when held in New York. Thus, in February 1929, we find another Amtorg sponsored show, the Exhibition of Contemporary Art of Soviet Russia, taking place in the GCP at the same time as the Art and Handicraft show. Although both are sponsored by Amtorg, there is almost no acknowledgment in the catalogues and reviews that there are two exhibitions taking place at the same time. Indeed, the comment made in the Handicrafts catalogue about how the work of the anonymous peasants is unique, related to, and often superior to the accomplishments of cultivated artists causes one to wonder if the pairing of these exhibitions was done in order to demonstrate the validity of that statement. In contrast, there is no equivalent type of comparison made in the Contemporary Art catalogue. While the GCP was certainly large enough to hold two exhibitions at the same time (and may have held some industrial shows without interfering with the art shows), two simultaneous Amtorg shows may raise a question: were these really separate shows? The second catalogue stakes its claim on the word “contemporary,” boasting that all the work was made in the last 12 years and the most diligent research did not unearth a single work made more than 12 years ago. The artists, it was noted, were not émigrés but were living in Russia. Brinton’s foreword to the catalogue emphasized that this show

70  New Curators and New Content would not remind viewers of the pre-revolutionary years as they would not find any hints of the “sultry splendours” of the Ballets Russes or “inhale the perfume” of the dilettantism that had characterized St. Petersburg (most of theWorld of Art artists had studied in St. Petersburg art academies). Rather than cubism or Cézannism, new personalities dominated this show: Sterenberg, Pimenov, and the less familiar Peter Williams. Brinton names several others before adding the names of two women: Olga Bebutova and Ekaterina Zernova. But more than new personalities, even the old masters included in the show reflect the new social and aesthetic outlooks, whether in painting, sculpture, or graphic arts. Brinton concludes the foreword by noting that the small art works on the first page of the foreword and then leading into the introduction illustrate the different functions of the two authors: Brinton is putting the house in order for the visitors, while Novitsky is ploughing the fields and completing the construction.43 The next section of the catalogue, “Pictorial Art in U.S.S.R.,” is eight pages of the history of Russian art since the revolution and the domination of the “left-wing artists” or “fantasists, utopians, experimentalists, non-subjectivists and analysts,” followed by the posters, pictorial arts, and theatrical constructivism of the civil war era, which is then followed by new groups, professional unions of city and provincial artists, and eventually the continued program of erecting a “significant and inspiring cultural structure.”44 Novitsky names many artists, provides many of the anagrams for the various artists’ groups that emerged in the decade of the 1920s, and concludes by listing and naming the current artistic tendencies or schools: Naturalism, AKhRR (1922 Association of Artists of Revolutionary Russia), Cézannist impressionism, the late Knave (or Jack) of Diamonds, academic monumentalism, the Four Arts, Soviet post-impressionism, OST (Society of Easel Painters). The catalogue then lists 140 paintings, 101 works of graphic art, and 37 works of sculpture. About 30 pages of black-and-white photographs follow the listings. The reproductions are largely conservative, post-impressionist in style, conveying the impression of an exhibition that was not dominated, as the writers noted, by revolutionary styles or the style that was soon to be the newest “revolutionary” style, socialist realism. With the exception of a review by Edward Alden Jewell, which does little more than to recap the content of Novitsky’s description of the show, reviews of this exhibition are hard to find.45 In addition to naming and describing some works, his overall theme appears to be the “Russianness” of this show, the avoidance of influences from Europe, and overall, a show that will not produce “gallery fatigue.” Jewell ends with praise for the catalogue essays. It is curious that the one review which refers to paintings and sculpture after describing the “imitation fair,” states that 800 examples of art and sculpture were included. It is not clear if this reviewer is referring to both shows or describing art that was included in the show of handicrafts.46 One other review refers to both shows without describing them as different exhibitions. The previously mentioned review, “Soviet Art Fair is Opened Here,” focuses largely on the handicrafts but eventually notes that the exhibition includes contemporary painting and sculpture and lists the names of several of the artists included in the show. The unnamed writer than proceeds to discuss the statements made by the Amtorg representative and the Mayor of New York city. Apart from these limited references to the presence of art in the handicrafts show, it is difficult to find reviews specifically dedicated to the Contemporary Art Show. Although existing reviews focused more on the Handicrafts show than the painting and sculpture show, as listed in the Soviet Information handbook of exhibitions between 1917 and 1932, this particular exhibition was not two separate exhibitions but one exhibition consisting of two independent parts: contemporary Soviet art and Applied Arts of

New Curators and New Content  71 Soviet Russia. It was also planned to travel from New York to Philadelphia, Boston, and Detroit.47 Thus, whereas we might question why more reviewers turned their attention to the applied arts, they may not have felt compelled to address both parts of the exhibition in their reviews. There will be more exhibitions of Soviet painting in the early 1930s, but apart from exhibitions of posters, books, and graphic arts, there are few subsequent exhibitions of the applied arts. Although not the first to take place in the U.S. (in addition to the applied arts included in world’s fairs, there had been some exhibitions in New York as early as 1905), theatrical performances may have introduced spectators to the styles of folk arts, and the expositions of 1928 and 1929 would likely have been perceived as more unusual events than displays of fine arts with artists whose work may have already been seen and who were becoming familiar names to the American public. In the first chapter, we encountered the peculiar “non-involvement” of Russia in the Louisiana Purchase exposition of 1904 and the subsequent sale of Russian art that had been sent to St. Louis before being moved to New York by Edward Grunwaldt. Less frequently discussed in the research that addresses this perplexing event is the fact that in addition to a presumed sale of fine art, there was another exhibition, courtesy of Grunwaldt, in New York, consisting primarily of peasant work. An article in the New York Tribune describes the range of objects, many made from wood and depicting scenes from life and work, along with dolls and a range of linens, tapestries, and lace work which would most assuredly appeal to women, as the critic emphasized, perhaps following in the footsteps of Grunwaldt who described the aristocratic women’s love for this work. Grunwaldt was hardly the first to make this observation. Following an exhibition of Russian kustar (handicrafts) in Paris in 1913, a Russian critic commented on the fact that these products were fashionable even in Paris where the “most elegant ladies” wore kustar lace.48 One month before Grunwaldt’s show opened, another show of both paintings and applied arts opened with the blessing, no less, of a priest of the Orthodox Catholic Church, and although it also owed its existence to Edward Grunwaldt, this show was “a good deal more than the usual overflows from the late World’s Fair at St. Louis.” The review not only emphasizes the range of work but also discusses a wide range of international influences, from Sweden to China and India.49 The discussion of this earlier show focuses not only on the range of work in the show but also on its potential use to create a market for the exchange of American and Russian products and to lower the tariffs that had already been raised against American products. As the article noted, a catalogue for this show was identical to what was used for the Russian fine arts section at the world’s fair a year ago. Although few articles appear to exist regarding these early shows, they do suggest that exposure to the applied arts and handicrafts was not new but may have been scarce enough to provoke widespread interest in the larger expositions of 1928 and 1929. It may also suggest some confusion about the role of handicrafts and peasant arts in Russia after the revolution with good reason, as Russian critics and politics displayed ambivalence toward the value and function of folk art.50 We might also want to consider the degree to which the fascination of the handicrafts expo is owed to the enduring popularity of Nikita Balieff, perhaps going so far as to describe the Bat theater as an exhibition of Russian folk arts in the guise of a changing repertoire of song, dance, and scenic designs. Oliver Sayler, in his oft-mentioned article “The Russian Cavalcade,” is a little more emphatic about the role of Balieff and his ChauveSouris in awakening Americans to the Russian cavalcade, calling them the calliope: “The general public … was apparently unaware that the Muscovite circus had come to town

72  New Curators and New Content until the Balieff calliope roused its attention. In the gay peasant songs, the extravagant humors and the colorful stage settings of the Chauve-Souris there was an arresting note like that of the calliope, which brought the populace to the windows.”51 Whereas Sayler goes on to describe the complete and endlessly growing fascination with Russian fads as of 1922, for our purposes here, it will be important to note the parallels that existed between Balieff’s theater and gallery shows occurring at much the same time. To be sure, Balieff’s artists worked for other theaters as well – we may be able to trace an influence to a particular artist more easily than to a particular theater. Although predominantly located in New York when in the U.S., the Bat theater also traveled to Boston and San Francisco often during a New York season. When not in the U.S., the Bat sojourned in Paris, a factor which worked to its advantage, making it difficult to accuse the company of Soviet propaganda, in contrast to the Moscow Art Theater which traveled between Russia and America.52 The Bat opens up additional lines of inquiry: were the Bat set designers (whoever they may have been) already known in the U.S. and, if so, through exhibitions or other theatrical productions? Because theater is a very different medium from painting or sculpture, will the aesthetics and styles of art and artists promoted by theater differ from what characterized the major exhibitions thus far in the Brooklyn Museum, the GCP, and other galleries? To preview at least one answer, abstraction, although important to Dreier but not to Brinton, is integral to the revolution in theater and will now be welcomed, albeit not as a spiritual medium; nor will it be rejected as an exuberant style that says little about the Russian soul: Russian constructivism, Russian theater, and Russian ballet will all have undeniable and varied influences on theatrical developments in the U.S. Another answer will tell us that there were some leading and admired scenic designers whose work had been included in exhibitions but who did not work for Balieff. As far as can be determined, Remisoff and Soudeikine were the most frequently employed artists, with occasional credits seen for the work of Dobuzhinsky, Roerich, and Benois. Before pursuing these developments in stage scenery more widely, we will turn to the Bat. The Chauve-Souris has been widely studied and generated a large body of literature for several reasons: a vaudeville theater with international popularity (from Moscow to Paris, London, and New York), its connection to its parent company, the Moscow Art Theater, the personality of Balieff, and the patronage of Morris Gest and F. Ray Comstock, at first, and Otto Kahn, later, the first-rate actors, singers and dancers in the performances, but perhaps not least of all, the introduction and formation of careers for its leading stage designers: Sergei Soudeikine53 and Nicolas Remisoff (both of whom have been variously identified as the leading artist when the theater was in Paris – this may not have reflected confusion among the artists so much as an understanding of the entire Bat performance as the work of an ensemble of artists involved in all the elements of performance).54 We might note further that as advertised, although all performances were in Russian, you did not need to speak or understand Russian to understand the program. The published programs themselves are perhaps the most informative source for understanding the degree to which the Chauve-Souris functioned as another gallery of Russian art although it is hardly the only theatrical setting to look at as another exhibition of more than theatrical performances. Of course, in a single performance, multiple scenic settings would be seen but they might not represent the work of more than one or two artists. One might choose a program because of a favorite number, such as the popular romantic polka Katinka, but would have been hard-pressed to choose a program because of a favorite artist.

New Curators and New Content  73 The programs naturally had similar information from one to another – advertisements, discussions of fashion, information about upcoming productions and the numbers that would be performed, floor, and seating plans (necessary because the theater moved several times in the space of a few years). The first 1922 program in the archived collection at the New York Public Library identifies Nicolas Remisoff as the artistic designer of all the productions with the exception of one that was designed by Sergei Soudeikine. The earliest programs had Remisoff’s caricatures of Balieff looking like a bat on the covers but after two or three with this image, the covers and artists alternated and became more evocative of the stage decorations associated with the performances, and an announcement of the theater’s present location. A cover designed by Soudeikine shows Balieff overlooking his theater, almost in the position of a puppeteer (Figure 3.5) as he looks down on a small, disproportionate stage into which marched the popular wooden soldiers, making the cover into a scene of peasant art and the present theater performance.55 The programs get larger over time, occasionally including full-page illustrations of work by the leading designers and announcements of exhibitions of their work and an essay by Oliver Sayler in the October 2 program. By the early 1930s, the program has changed and is now called the New Chauve-Souris. Some non-Russian numbers are included and

Figure 3.5 Signed by Soudeikine, “Balieff’s Chauve-Souris of Moscow,” cover, 1922, General Research Division, the New York Public Library Digital Collections, available online, https://digitalcollections.nypl.org/items/666d032f-4a85-560c-e040-e00a18060c25

74  New Curators and New Content new artists are named: Natalia Goncharova and Yuri Annenkov and Benois with varying first names (Nicholas and Alexander). Illustrations by Remisoff and Soudeikine continue to be seen. Morris Gest’s name eventually disappears to be replaced by Leon Greanin who briefly led the company after Balieff’s death in 1943. Some of the programs included quotations from newspaper reviews of the performances, while others included letters from well-known performers praising Gest for bringing Balieff to the U.S. (before he was replaced; he did not work alone but evidently enjoyed and pursued public attention56), and one issue included a two-page spread with thumb-nail sized portraits of audience members, artists who were not involved in the Bat scenic designs, and patrons, identifying all of them by name. Designed by Ralph Barton, it became the stage curtain at the new location, the Century Roof Theater. A regular feature called the “New Russian Garb” described the setting for the theater, murals on the walls, and any changes that may have occurred, specifically in the realm of scenery as the company moved to new theaters. The New Russian Garb also included mythological background information for understanding the theater. In a program from March 1923, when the theater had just moved from 49th street to the Century Roof Theater, the New Russian Garb begins with a little architectural history about presumably the first architect (Italian) to paint an interior ceiling in a Russian palace with the sun, moon, clouds, and stars. Although the program does include names of scenic and costume designers, along with English descriptions of the numbers in the performance, it does not include a signature for the author of the New Russian Garb. The unidentified writer goes on to tell us that Balieff’s artist (Remisoff in this case) in his murals for the Century Roof Theater “has enriched this familiar astrological subject with features borrowed from the Russian fairy tale.” He then identifies various figures in the mural and the fairy tales they generally live in. The author credits Remisoff with working in the style of Russian pictorial art of the 16th century, a style that combined Russian characteristics with religious icons. Balieff himself preferred styles up to and including the 18th century not only in painting but in content. The Russia he brought to the U.S. was a Russia of “high leather boots, lovely country maidens, sleighs hastening across the snow, carousing hussars,” and antique porcelain objects.57 Remisoff’s painting for the stage curtain is reproduced with a black-and-white photo in this issue along with many color reproductions of his stage curtains, costumes, and scenery for several numbers. Periodically, a list of the repertoire was included in the programs. In the earliest years in Paris, the program included gypsy songs, Russian peasant songs, Tchaikovsky, high art, and folk art forms mixed together.58 There is little change during the New York years when a list of numbers from the period of 1922–1927 includes many Russian peasant songs, dramatic poetry by Pushkin, some Chopin, the Katinka polka, marches of wooden soldiers, and much more. The collection of programs is illustrated with both black-andwhite and colorful reproductions, occasionally identifying the artist, always identifying the name of the number. Such reproductions familiarize us with the colorful palettes of the scenic artists, whether Remisoff, Soudeikine or Benois, the references to porcelain figures and wooden soldiers, the styles of peasant dress, and wood architecture that might have been seen in northern and rural Russia. They also suggest a variety of style influences from northern and western Europe as well as northern Russia. Remisoff’s sketch for Count Tolstoy’s “By the Gates of Judgment”59 (Figure 3.6) is dominated by orangered helmets and yellow highlights, an orange-bearded and green-robed man sitting in a throne that appears to be larger than a castle but does not block our view of throngs of helmeted people stretching to both sides of the sketch and a landscape in the background

New Curators and New Content  75

Figure 3.6 Remisoff: sketch for Count Alexei Tolstoy’s “By the Gates of Judgment,” included in Oliver M. Sayler, “The Strange Story of Balieff’s Chauve-Souris” and the Remisoff archives in the University of Southern California libraries. Image in the public domain

that may remind one more of Sienese Renaissance murals, as we are looking both across and down, than Russian painting, unless one is looking at painted wood carvings and Palekh painting. Palekh painting was so popular it was on the first page, following the forward, of the catalogue for the Russian Art and Handicraft Exposition of 1929. Here we might also want to note that Remisoff, who later designed sets for a 1933 production of Le Coq d’Or (Golden Cockerel, produced by Adolph Bohm), spoke of this work in terms that equally applied to his work for Balieff: “the designs are based upon those of the Russian ikon [sic] and peasant handicraft. They are not delicate, but broad, crude, full of violent contrasts. They aim to interpret the essential Russian.”60 In the early New York years of the Chauve-Souris, Remisoff was the artist most closely associated with the Bat. As the critic for the Christian Science Monitor wrote, apart from Balieff, “no one is more in evidence than Nicolas Remisoff, eminent as designer, portraitist, writer and caricaturist.”61 Although the article describes much that can be seen at current Bat performances, the evident reason for this article was the newly opened exhibition of Remisoff’s work at the Wildenstein Galleries in New York. The show did include many of his designs for costumes, scenery, and stage curtains.62 The 1923 exhibition of Russian art at the Brooklyn Museum included work by Remisoff and Soudeikine, among others (in the realm of theater, Anisfeld, Bakst, and Goncharova had work included). Although they escaped most of the negative comments, Royal Cortissoz, often dissatisfied with Russian painting, found both to be playful (by which he meant childlike) without really knowing how to apply paint and to lack discipline in their work. Although he did find their work for the Chauve-Souris to be engaging, he did not find it to be a genuine interpretation of life. Unlike a writer identified as Miss Cary for the New York Times Magazine, he did not discuss Soudeikine and Remisoff as

76  New Curators and New Content stage designers but as painters. Miss Cary’s review begins by observing that the art at this exhibition only has a fair chance if seen on the stage where it is imbued with space, light, and movement. Her appraisal of both Soudeikine and Remisoff is considerably more positive than that by Cortissoz.63 Both Remisoff and Soudeikine were emigrants, largely initiated through their work with Balieff in Paris. Sergei Soudeikine’s career in theater began in productions by Vsevelod Meierkhold when he was working for the Moscow Art Theater, early in his career. Although Meierkhold is correctly associated with innovative and radical reconceptualizations of theatrical space, what is less frequently discussed is his attraction to folk arts. In fact, one of the most famous constructivist productions, Magnanimous Cuckold with the stage design by Liubov Popova, makes a strong reference to popular people’s theater and fairground arts. This is worth considering in light of the fact that Soudeikine did work for Meierkhold and would have been aware of the influence of carnival and folk arts in Meierkhold’s Theater of the Revolution.64 Following successful work for Russian productions by Meierkhold and Alexander Tairov, Soudeikine was hired by Balieff first, to decorate the location for the Moscow Bat theater in 1915 and then, along with Remisoff, to work in the Parisian and New York versions of the Bat theater. Upon emigrating to New York, Soudeikine continued to work for Balieff and also for the Metropolitan Opera, on an almost annual basis, numerous Broadway productions with other theaters, Radio City Music hall, and private commissions for murals.65 Eventually he worked for motion pictures.66 Paintings and set designs by Soudeikine were included in the 1923 Brooklyn Museum exhibition of Russian artists; the MoMA International Exhibition of Theatre Art in 1934 included some of his early work in the section of pre-revolutionary work from the Union of Socialist Soviet Republics (two 1909 drawings for settings for Tales of Hoffman lent by the Bakhrushin Theatre museum). Whereas his scenic designs for cinema generally have a strong architectural reality to them, the examples of his work that are included in the Chauve-Souris programs demonstrate qualities that are similar to those of Remisoff’s designs – the bright palette, figures that often look like wooden dolls or rounded porcelain figures, and other connections to rural or peasant handicrafts. Similar qualities can be seen in work by Benois for the Chauve-Souris, and work that is not always identified with an artist’s name, leading to the impression that there is a ChauveSouris style that may have been shared by all the designers who worked for Balieff and in some cases by artists who also worked for the Ballets Russes which had its own share of folkloric ballet themes. The question I posed earlier regarding the association of folk arts with scenic designs done for theater led to a close look at the Chauve-Souris in part because its repertoire comprised folk performance arts that easily correspond to Russian handicrafts and also because it did become a permanent part of the U.S. cabaret scene for over 20 years. It would be an oversight to ignore the designers who worked for the Ballets Russes and other theaters whose work was also characterized by many of the same features of Russian folk arts: Goncharova, Larionov, Roerich, Anisfeld, and Bakst. Like Remisoff and Soudeikine, all were recent émigrés either to Paris or New York, and all began their careers as studio artists before becoming scenery and costume designers for the ballet and the theater. Often shared by these artists is a long history of exhibitions, devoted to both their work for theater and other aspects of their careers. One feature which is especially interesting in light of this study is that some of these designers’ approaches to costume design made them attractive to fashion design and magazines devoted to fashion. Due to the plethora of materials on these highly celebrated artists, I will not provide

New Curators and New Content  77 encyclopedic-like entries for each one. My purpose here is to demonstrate how they contributed to a recognizable folkloric (sometimes called primitive or neo-primitive) style of costume and scenic design which did become an exhibition theme that continues well beyond the 1920s. Boris Anisfeld is likely the least known of this group despite his eventual position as a professor at the Chicago School of the Art Institute. Neither a realist nor a constructionist, he was a symbolist who believed that the source of the work lay in the artist’s feelings. The musical qualities of his designs and use of color and form endeared him to the Metropolitan Opera and the Chicago Opera, in particular for its performance of The Love of Three Oranges. Initially he followed the principles of the Mir Iskusstva (World of Art) although he departed from them quickly. After the revolution, he got a visa to leave Russia and went to the U.S. where he met Brinton and Fox, along with the managing director of the Boston Opera, Max Rabinoff. All agreed that Anisfeld would have an exhibition at the Brooklyn Museum in 1918 and that it would travel to Canada.67 It received mixed reviews: the Brooklyn Quarterly Museum reprinted Brinton’s essay and extracts from a range of sources. Miss Cary again speaks of the need to see works of stage design on the stage. James Britton from the American Art News finds Anisfeld to be an artist of great vision offering an important contrast to the realism of contemporary American work; both Brinton and H. H. Moore from the Outlook speak of the decorative idealism in Anisfeld’s work; other writers focus on the Oriental influences in his style which some found pleasing but others described as “bewildering exotic splendor” which did lead some to describe him as a “fantast-mystic.”68 The reviews are largely positive and somewhat torn between admiration for the style of the landscapes and the more fantasy-oriented scenic designs. Most were also positive about Brinton’s sympathetic and scholarly essay in the catalogue where he wrote about decorative idealism. The year 1920 saw another exhibition of his work, arranged by Brinton, at the Kingore Gallery.69 In the 1920s, Anisfeld had shows in Boston, Maryland, and Chicago where reviewers again commented on his focus on emotional expression rather than realism, the thrill from his color and blending of styles from different historic periods (a quality that angered his mentor, Lev Bakst70), but they also noted that in these features he was quite different from the ever popular (realist) Repin. After the 1920s, Anisfeld’s work for theater decreased as he pursued his love of painting and became a long-term faculty member at the Art Institute. Although Anisfeld is not often named in the triumvirate of well-known Diaghilev designers (Bakst, Benois, and Roerich) and he worked for Diaghilev for a shorter period than the other noted designers, his unique style was very popular, not tied to the ethnographic impulses of his mentor, Bakst, but dominated by intense color and romantic exoticism, leading one reviewer to describe him as an “alchemist in color.”71 Natalia Goncharova may be the most familiar of this latter group of artists who temporarily transitioned from painting to theatrical design. In her case, she did work for both the Chauve-Souris and the Ballets Russes and her familiarity probably comes in part from her association with Mikhail Larionov as a neo-primitive futurist and her inclusion in a major late 20th century traveling exhibition dedicated to the work of six female Russian artists: Amazons of the Avant-Garde (from 1999 to 2000, destinations included Berlin, London, Venice, and New York). This show, which we will visit later in this book, is only one benchmark in a prodigious career which included paintings, sculpture, stage sets and costumes, fashion design, avant-garde styles, and the first one-woman show in Russia in 1913.72 Her output was so prodigious it is difficult to know where to start – perhaps with

78  New Curators and New Content her interest in folk art and icon painting and her determination to turn toward the East and “distance [herself] from the West.”73 These goals and characteristics emerge early in her career, in a pendant to the March 1913 “Exhibition of Original Icon Paintings and Lubki” that included early icons, lubki (peasant hand-colored cartoons), Chinese and Japanese prints, Persian miniatures, and archeological items. Next door to this show was a concurrent exhibition of contemporary work, called “Target” by its organizers, Larionov and Goncharova, and including other known and unknown painters, along with Larionov’s collection of lubki and children’s drawings. As Goncharova had declared, Larionov wrote in the introduction to this show that “we are striving toward the East and we turn our attention to national art.”74 Both artists were the core of the Russian neo-primitivist group which, like other European artistic groups at this time, looked to folk art, non-western sources, and forms of art that might reasonably be described as uncontaminated by the values of western civilization. In Larionov’s work, the influence of lubki prints and children’s drawings is most clearly seen; in Goncharova’s work, the influence of icon painting and French neo-impressionism (the simplification, heavy outlining, and peasant subjects of someone like Gauguin) tends to dominate. The allusion to icons is double: it is both stylistic – especially in the outlining and isocephaly of figural paintings – and it is also symbolic, because she endows her peasant scenes with an almost mystic exaltation. Although Goncharova briefly experimented with cubism, she tended to deny this influence and claim that comparable and earlier developments could be found in Scythian stone images and Russian wooden dolls. Also in 1913, Goncharova helped Diaghilev out of a crisis when he was searching for a new direction in light of the failure of Nijinsky’s Sacré du Printemps. After seeing Goncharova’s approach to the lubok, imbued with her personal style of painting, he found his solution in her work. As Bowlt tells us in his study of the Ballets Russes, rather than continuing with the work of designers who illustrated sets (Bakst and Benois), Diaghilev now turned to those who constructed sets. In his words: Goncharova and Larionov “transformed the Russian stage into primitive buffoonery” with their association to the lubok, peasant toys, and icons. Diaghilev continues to comment that the “bright colors, distorted perspectives and love of play…imbued the theater with an effervescence and vitality that reminded spectators of the balagan, the fairground and the circus.”75 He is referring to the 1914 performance of Le Coq d’Or. It is not difficult to imagine how this description easily fits the folkloric tendencies of the Chauve-Souris. By 1922, when Balieff arrived in New York, he would have been familiar with Goncharova and Larionov’s work for Diaghilev as well as an exhibition at the Kingore Gallery in 1922. Brinton wrote the introduction to the catalogue for the Goncharova-Larionov exhibition in which he states that “her chief energies have been devoted to the stage” and that her work both looks forward to an art of the future and backward to Orthodox ritual.76 The show was widely and positively reviewed. Although one can’t overlook Léon Bakst and his many exhibitions, along with his innovative and important work for Diaghilev, his fashion and textile designs, he doesn’t really fit into this chapter (we will meet him again). His first New York exhibition did come in 1914 and by the 1920s he was spending more time in the U.S. than elsewhere. In 2016–2017, there was a major celebration of the 150th anniversary of his birth which was marked by three exhibitions, all of which undoubtedly deserve a place in this history of exhibitions.77 Perhaps Nicolas Roerich will be a fitting conclusion to this chapter. Another designer for Diaghilev, for Balieff, and known for his mystic

New Curators and New Content  79 tendencies and his establishment of a museum named for himself in New York, in 1922, he had an exhibition at the Cleveland Museum of Art. Typically described as a northern Slav (in contrast to Anisfeld who was a southern Slav), he did a lot of work for opera productions, painted landscapes, and conveyed his “personal expression of a subtle and visionary temperament… [that was] essentially Russian.”78 A year before this he exhibited paintings at the Kingore Gallery in a praised exhibition planned by Brinton. Whereas Brinton writes about him in the introduction to the catalogue for the Brooklyn Museum exhibition of 1923, the list of artists and art works in the catalogue does not include him. Reviews of his other shows at that time, in the Christian Science Monitor, the Detroit Free Press, and other papers, labeled him as a northern mystic with a brilliant Byzantine style and unfettered imagination, “a mixture of mystic North emerging into gorgeous East or brilliant Byzantinum ….” The unnamed author continues to describe Roerich’s work in theater and his “impressive contributions to the contemporary renaissance in scenic art and costume design,” comparing him to Anisfeld and other “eminent compatriots.”79 Despite his prolific output, his work for Diaghilev, and his museum, Roerich is an enigma. This frequently stated characteristic may derive from the fact that despite many archival documents written either about him or by him, his widespread involvement in ballet and the riotous performance of Stravinsky’s Le Sacré du printemps, along with his mystical beliefs and travels to Tibet and India, and the existence of at least two biographies, studies of his work are perplexing and at least as puzzling as his life. Perhaps Ivan Narodny gets it right in his article about the “Russian Note in American Art” when he compares Roerich to Bakst and Anisfeld describing all three as the “conservative wing of the new primitive movement,” and following praise for Bakst and Anisfeld, he does not disdain the work of Roerich but sees in it an ecclesiastical style that will be at home in the Russian church: “his mystic paintings of late years betray more his conception of the divine idea than they do life subjects or nature.”80 In addition to working for Diaghilev and other ballets, Roerich was involved with the Chauve-Souris although it is difficult to locate examples of his work in the programs. Based on comments about his work in other exhibitions, it is easy to see how he would have fit with the other artists for Balieff although not as easy to see if he contributed to the emphasis on neo-primitivism that did seem to characterize the Chauve-Souris. As W.M.M. put it, Roerich’s work was modernist in its elimination of details “but it is in color that it makes the greatest appeal.” Although he belongs to the Russian decorative movement that Bakst and Benois also belong to, Roerich differs from them because he is a “mystic painter of North Russia.”81 As we turn from the 1920s to the 1930s, we see that several developments are taking shape. Emigration appears to be increasing although not always to New York – many of the artists come to the U.S. after spending time in Berlin and/or Paris, and in some cases, they will not remain in the U.S., as they travel to other parts of the world. In addition to beginning to describe Russian artists as coming from the Soviet Union, there is also a tendency to differentiate between artists from northern Russia and from southern. Exhibitions are planned in some cases by committees of people who work for government organizations, and in other cases by artists or designers who are not necessarily curators but are interested in using art, architecture, or other forms of design to make philosophical or aesthetic statements either about the American state of culture or the Russian state. By 1929, it is difficult to find any existing medium (and style) that has not been included in an exhibition. At the same time, it is probably not possible to define with any sense of certainty what the Russian style is.

80  New Curators and New Content Notes 1. She is best known for her role at the national director of the Federal Theater Project. For her contributions and publications, see the Library of Congress archives for the Federal Theater Project collection, 1932–1943, and the Hallie Flanagan Papers, 1923–1963, archival collection in the New York Public Library, Performing Arts Research Collection. 2. Jane Heap, ed., Machine-Age Exposition, Catalogue, May 6 to May 28, New York, 1927, published by the Little Review. 3. His birth place and in some cases the date of his birth have been disputed and presented variably in the many sources about Kiesler. Although a great deal of the information in Shirley Haines-Cooke, Frederick Kiesler: Lost in History (Cambridge Scholars: Proquest ebook, 2009) can be disputed, she provides a fairly complete compendium of the many varying “facts” about Kiesler’s life. 4. Although discussions of his artistic contributions are often hard to find, several sources do explore his life and the development of his interest in theatrical and exhibition design. See, for example, Shirley Haines-Cooke, Frederick Kiesler: Lost in History; Art of This Century and the Modern Art Gallery (Newcastle upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars Publisher, 2009), in particular, chapter 3 for an overview of his career. For a discussion of his work in Paris, see Irena R. Makaryk, April in Paris: Theatricality, Modernism and Politics at the 1925 Art Deco Expo (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2018). 5. Makaryk, April in Paris, identifies the American jury (pp. 166–167); Jeanne T. Newlin, “Part of the Cosmos: Kiesler’s Theatrical Art in America,” in Lisa Phillips, ed., Frederick Kiesler (NY: Whitney Museum and W.W./Norton, 1989), p. 88, discusses the American section of the International Theatre exposition. 6. On the New Stage Craft exhibition, see Newlin, p. 88, The Bulletin of the Detroit Museum of Art, 9:2 (May 1915), 21–23; and the Art Institute of Chicago, Exhibition of New Stage Craft, assembled by Sam Hume of Cambridge, MA, Dec. 212 1914 to Jan. 3 1915, AIC1915stagecraft_ comb.pdf. 7. Internationale Ausstellung neuer Theatertechnik/unter Mitwirkung der Gesellschaft zur Förderung Moderner Kunst in Wien: im Rahmen des Musik und Theaterfestes der Stadt Wien, 1924: Katalog, Programm, Almanach herausgegeben von Friedrich Kiesler. (Wien: Würthle, 1924). Viewed in the Performing Arts branch of the New York Public Library, MWEP [RBS] 04-6216. 8. Also written as Alexandra Exter. 9. In addition to the Vienna catalogue in the New York Public Library, New York International Theatre Exposition Theatre Guild, International Theatre Exposition, the New York catalogue, was published by the Little Review in New York in 1926. 10. A detailed discussion of the construction, measurements, and debates over the space stage can be found in chapter 2, “The European Context,” in Roger L. Held, ed., Endless Innovations: Frederick Kiesler’s Theory and Scenic Design (Ann Arbor, MI: UMI Research Press, 1982). 11. Dieter Bogner, “Staging Works of Art: Frederick Kiesler’s Exhibition Design 1924–1957,” in Peggy Guggenheim and Frederick Kiesler, eds., The Story of the Art of This Century (New York: Guggenheim Museum Publications, 2004), p. 36. 12. Tatlin was well known to the Dadaists and a book by Konstantin Umanskii, New Art in Russia, contributed to his renown among people who hadn’t seen his work in person. He did have a counter-relief in the Berlin show. 13. Several articles on international connections in Kiesler’s work are included in Lisa Phillips (and others), Frederick Kiesler (New York: Whitney Museum of Art, 1989). See also R. L. Held, Endless Innovations: Frederick Kiesler’s Theory and Scenic Design (Ann Arbor, MI: UMI Research Press, 1982), and Dieter Bogner, “Staging Works of Art.” 14. Kiesler. Contemporary Art Applied to the Store and Its Display (New York: Brentano’s, 1930). 15. Contemporary Art, p. 79, caps in original. For discussion of his innovative ideas about advertising, see also Laura M. McGuire, “Broadcasted Decorations: Television in Frederick Kiesler’s Architecture,” lecture delivered at the Austrian Frederick and Lillian Kiesler Foundation, 2010. 16. Many reviews from leading and familiar New York newspapers and magazines (including the two named in the text) are available on microfilm reels 127–128 included in the Frederick Kiesler Papers in the American Archives of Art. The reviews generally noted the broad range of artists and nationalities included in the exhibition, the new ideas, and their historic roots. Constructivism was often singled out for its radical ideas and demands on the actors’ physical skills.

New Curators and New Content  81 17. Valleri J. Hohman, “Revolutionary Theatre: From Russia to America,” part III in Russian culture and Theatrical Performance in America, 1891–1933 (Basingstoke: Palgrave-MacMillan, eboook), p. 116. 18. For one example, see Lee Strasberg, “The Magic of Meyerhold,” New Theatre, Sept. 1934, pp. 14–15; 30. Others exist, both primary sources and secondary. For Flanagan, in addition to her archives, secondary sources include Joanne Bentley, Hallie Flanagan: A Life in American Theatre (New York: Alfred Knopf, 1988) and Ray Allen Billington, “Government and the Arts: The W. P. A. Experience,” American Quarterly, 13: 4 (Winter, 1961), pp. 466–479; Lynn Mally, “Hallie Flangan and the Soviet Union: New Heaven, New Earth, New Theater,” in Choi Chattergee and Beth Holmgren, eds., Americans Experience Russia (Taylor and Francis Group: 2012; Proquest ebook), pp. 31–49. 19. Flanagan, Dynamo (New York: Duell, Sloan and Pearce, 1943), p. 74. Flanagan wrote this book about college theaters and was not shy about referring to Russian theater in her comments. Flanagan was eventually accused of “communistic” tendencies in her work with the Federal Theater Project. 20. See McGuire, “Broadcasted Decorations,” and Kiesler, Contemporary Art. For Kiesler’s international connections, see chapter 3 in Haines-Cooke, Lost in History. 21. Blood, “The Russian Section of the ‘Machine-Age Exposition’ (1927),” Burlington Magazine, 154: 1315 (Oct. 2012), 694–700; Haran, “Constructivism in the USA: Machine art and architecture at the Little Review Exhibitions,” chapter 1 in Watching the Red Dawn: the American Avant-garde and the Soviet Union (Manchester University Press, 2016), pp. 10–53. 22. Alfred Barr, Foreword to the catalogue of the Modern architecture: International Exhibition of 1932, Museum of Modern Art, and Historical Note by Philip Johnson. 23. Lozowick, “Americanization,” catalogue to Machine-Age Exposition (New York: The Little Review, May 1927), pp. 18–19; Blood, “Russian Section,” observes that many of the photos of Russian industrial plants were provided by the American Society for Cultural Relations with Russia; she also refers to a timely review in the New York Times; pp. 694–695. 24. Heap, p. 36, Machine-Age Exposition. 25. Heap, p. 36, conclusion to the Machine-Age Exposition. 26. Lippmann, cited in Blood, p. 696. 27. White, “Talk of the Town,” New Yorker, May 21, 1927, p. 16. Capital T in original. 28. Published artist interviews are more likely to mention Barr or exhibitions at either the Museum of Modern Art or the Guggenheim (these are usually New York artists). In a telephone interview with Alice Aycock (December 8, 2009), when I asked her about Kiesler, she was quick to say that he wasn’t a conscious influence. 29. In addition to the reprinted essays in Defining Modern Art, the Alfred Barr archives at the Museum of Modern Art contain letters, indications of meetings with artists and writers, and an extensive collection of newspaper and magazine clippings about Russian art. See, for example, AHB 7.14 and AHB 8.IV.C.1. 30. Alan Trachtenberg, “The Art and Design of the Machine Age,” New York Times Magazine, Sept. 21, 1986, p. 62. Unlike Anne Blood, Trachtenberg does not refer to the inclusion of Soviet examples of architectural experiments–the impact of this in 1927 may have been quite different from 1986. 31. “Russian Exposition Opens Tomorrow,” no author, The New York Times, Jan. 29, 1928, p. 35. The Herald Tribune and the Daily Worker also had articles announcing the show in the opening days of the show. Exhibition is sometimes written in place of Exposition. Note also that another show with a similar title opens precisely one year later but this time at the Grand Central Palace. 32. Three committees and their members are listed but no one is indicated as author or curator. Sometimes attributed to the American Society for Cultural Relations with Russia, Russian Exposition of the Soviet Union, New York Feb. 1928, Foreword begins on p. 5. 33. E. A. J. (Edward Alden Jewell), “Peasant Folk of Russia Send Their Handiwork,” New York Times, Feb. 5, 1928, p. 139. 34. Chlenova, “Soviet Museology during the Cultural Revolution: an Educational Turn, 1928–1938,” Histoire@Politique, 33 (September–December 2017), 3. [Available online in English.] 35. [unsigned] “Russian Crafts, Art Exhibit to Open Tomorrow; Examples of peasant Handiwork, Theater Models and Posters Illustrate all the Phased of Life in Soviet Union,” New York Herald

82  New Curators and New Content Tribune, Jan. 29, 1928, p. A3 (for quotation); [unsigned] “1000 See Russian Exhibit,” New York Times, p. 18 for one listing of names of visitors. 36. Peasant Art and Handicraft Department, Amtorg Trading Corporation, “Foreword,” Art and Handicraft Exposition of Soviet Russia (Amtorg: New York, 1929), first page. Interesting that the text said “the first” when an American organized show of similar proportions had taken place one year earlier. 37. Blood, “Russian Section,” provides this information, observing that inclusion of Russian industrial architecture in an exhibition designed to promote an American aesthetic, may have been out of place (p. 697). 38 A style of lacquer painting on wood associated with Palekh, a Russian village and district. 39. (unsigned) “Russian Exhibit of Peasant Art Begins Feb. 1,” New York Herald Tribune, Jan. 27, 1929, p. A5. 40. (unsigned) “Soviet Art Fair is Opened Here,” New York Times, Feb. 1, 1929, p. 24. Given his reputation, was his promotion of the exhibition a positive endorsement? 41. Walter Rendell Storey, “Viewing the Art of Russian Peasants,” New York Times, Feb. 17, 1929, p. 88. Storey’s positive review is packed with analysis of this type. 42. See Hohman, “The Russian Invasion of the American Theatre,” part II in Russian Performance and Theatrical Culture in America (Basingstoke: Palgrave MacMillan, 2011), available online. 43. Christian Brinton, Foreword to the catalogue of the Exhibition of Contemporary Art of Soviet Russia, Amtorg Trading Corp., 1929, unnumbered. 44. P. Novitsky, “Pictorial Art in the U.S.S.R.,” in Soviet Russia catalogue, approximately pages 3–11. 45. Jewell, “The Great Bear Sings and Very Sweetly, too, His Songs That are At once Nationalistic and Individual,” New York Times, Feb. 3, 1929, p. 116. 46. “Soviet Objects of Art Shown in Exhibition,” Herald Tribune, Feb. 1, 1929, p. 19. 47. [no single author: Information collected by a large committee of more than 20 individuals representing museums and also included information from archives, magazines, and other print sources] Vystavki, Sovietskogo izobrazitelnogo iskusstva. Spravochnik, tom 1, 1917–1932. (Moscow: Sovietskii Khudozhnik, 1965),pp. 334–335. The listing includes the names of all the artists with work in the exposition. 48. Mikhail Tugan-Baranovskii, cited in Ludmilla Peters-Hofmann, “Regulating Russian Arts and Crafts,” Experiment 25 (2019), 324. Certainly the timing of this statement about fashionability of Russian lace was made after Grunwaldt’s 1905 show but 1913 was not the first time Russian handicrafts had been seen in western European cities. 49. (unsigned) “Russian Handicrafts: Exhibit of Curious and Beautiful Work Held Here,” New York Herald Tribune, Oct. 8, 1905, p. C4; (unsigned) “Russian Arts and Crafts, Exhibition of Objects of Industrial Art as an Entering Wedge,” New York Times, Sept. 15, 1905. Another unsigned article on page 5 in the New York Times on Sept. 2 indicated that not all the works were present yet; the official opening of this exhibition would take place later in the month. This show was held at a building on 5th avenue and 27th street; the location of the Oct. 15 show was not identified. 50. Two recent studies reveal this ambivalence with respect to exhibitions of kustar work that took place in 1913: Anna Winestein, “Artists at Play: Natalie Erenburg, Iakov Tugendkhold, and the Exhibition of Russian Folk Art at the ‘Salon d’Automne’ of 1913,” Experiment 25 (2019), 328–345; and Peters-Hofmann, “Russian Arts and Crafts,” 310–327. Although both articles focus on the confusion of changing responses to folk arts on display in Russian cities and other European cities and two exhibitions in 1913, they emphasize the complexities of the government’s attitude toward peasant industries, the role of education and preservation of these crafts, and the involvement of fine artists in working with peasant arts. 51. Sayler, “The Russian Cavalcade,” New York Tribune, Jul. 30, 1922, p. E4. Chauve-Souris is the French name for the Russian Bat cabaret; it literally translates as the Flying Bald Mouse. 52. Alexis L. Witt, “Networks of Performance and Patronage: Russian Artists in American Dance, Vaudeville, and Opera, 19019–1947,” dissertation submitted to the Jacobs School of Music, Indiana University, 2018, p. 190. 53. Also written as Sudeikin and Sudeikine, varying with source. Remizof is often written as Remisoff and sometimes as ReMi. 54. In addition to the Chauve-Souris (Vaudeville revue) programs from 1922 to 1943, archival mix in the Performing Arts Research collections in the New York Public Library, publications

New Curators and New Content  83 include Lawrence Sullivan, “Nikita Baliev’s Le Théatre de la Chauve-Souris: An Avant-Garde Theater, Dance Research Journal, 18: 2 (Winter 1986–7), 17–29; Alma Law, “Nikita Balieff and the Chauve-Souris,” in Laurence Senelick, ed., Wandering Stars: Russian Emigré Theatre, 1905–1940 (Iowa City, IA: University of Iowa Press, 1992; and available as an Ebsco e-book), pp. 16–30; Hohman, Russian Culture and Theatrical Performance; Oliver M. Sayler, “The Strange Story of Balieff’s Chauve-Souris,” in F. Ray Comstock and Morris Gest have the honor to present Balieff’s Chauve-Souris, Bat Theatre, Moscow (publisher and date unknown). Sullivan’s article is the most informative about the early years of Soudeikine and the ensemble nature of the Bat company. To determine the roster of scenic artists, I read the captions of all reproductions in the program archives. The printed material about the theater says little about the specific artists working for Balieff. 55. Balieff’s Chauve-Souris of Moscow (cover by Soudeikine) in General Research Division, The New York Public Library. “Balieff's Chauve-Souris of Moscow” New York Public Library Digital Collections. https://digitalcollections.nypl.org/items/666d032f-4a85-560c-e040-e00a 18060c25 56. Hohman in part II of Russian Culture observes that Gest’s flamboyance and showmanship were key to the partnership of both Kahn and Gest in their pursuit of Russian theater and music companies. Following an overview of Kahn’s contributions, Hohman states that Gest was essential to “some of the most significant developments in the American theatre, particularly those involving cultural exchange with Russia,” p. 75. 57. John E. Bowlt, Nina and Nikita D. Lobanov-Rostovsky, and Olga Shaumyan, “The Bat,” in Russian Stage Design, 1880–1930, vol. I, pp. 158–162 on the Bat; quotation p. 160. 58. Sullivan, “Le Théatre,” provides a list of the Parisian repertoire. 59. This image by Remisoff is reproduced in Sayler, “The Strange Story” and is also found in the Remisoff archives at the University of Southern California. Due to publication in programs for the Chauve-Souris, it is in the public domain. 60. Cited in Oleg Minin, “Russian Artists in the United States,” Experiment 20 (2014), 238 and fn. 19. 61. (unsigned), “Remisoff and the Chauve-Souris,” Christian Science Monitor, May 16, 1922, p. 16. 62. Although brief references to Remisoff can be found in books and online, the most complete description of his various contributions to art comes in Minin, “Russian Artists in the United States.” Remisoff had a peripatetic career. After two years with the Bat in New York, he left for Chicago where he worked with Adolph Bohm in ballet, engaged in projects involving architectural murals for private homes and businesses, worked for Elizabeth Arden, produced magazine covers for Vogue and Vanity Fair (in his recognizable Chauve-Souris style), moved to San Francisco where he continued to work with Bohm, and eventually became involved in movies and television set design. Presently most examples of his work are in archival collections, leaving reproductions in the Chauve-Souris programs as the most accessible source of his art at this time and in the public domain. 63. Cortissoz and Cary excerpts included in “Exhibition of Paintings by Contemporary Russian Artists,” Brooklyn Museum Quarterly, 1923: 10 (April 1923), 51–60. In a later review (see “Press Comments on the Anisfeld Exhibition”), she is identified as Miss E. L. Cary. 64. See dissertation by R. Barris, “Chaos by Design: Constructivist Stage Design and Its Reception,” University of Illinois, Urbana-Champaign, 1994, and related publications on theatrical constructivism. 65. Lawrence Sullivan provides a list of Soudeikine’s scene designs from 1905 to 1946 in “Sergei Soudeikine (1882–1946): A Chronological Checklist and Bibliography,” Bulletin of Bibliography, 45: 2, (1989), 67–75. Unfortunately there is no complete list of his exhibition history due to the lack of research on his career. The Almanac of Russian Artists in America (edited and published by Nicholas Martianoff and Mark A. Stern, 1932) also provides some information about Soudeikine’s career. 66. Many of his cinematic set designs are archived at the NYPL: Sergei Soudeikine set designs for cinema, Billy Rose Theatre Division, the New York Public Library, has 22 drawings. 67. As plans to send the show to Canada were under discussion, Leila Mechlin, an editor for the American Art News, wrote an insulting letter in response to Brinton’s proposal for the traveling show and sent her insulting letter to several museums and published it in the American Art News in order to avert a national calamity. Brinton responded. His letter was published in the

84  New Curators and New Content journal. The show did take place and was successful. For catalogue, see Roger J. Mesley and Boris Anisfeld, “Fantast-Mystic” [12 paintings from the Tannenbaum collection]. (Toronto: Art Gallery of Ontario, 1989). 68. This was the name of the Mesley catalogue for the 1989 exhibition in Toronto. 69. Christian Brinton, “The Boris Anisfeld Exhibition,” The Brooklyn Museum Quarterly, 6:1 (January 1919), 6–9; the argument between Leila Mechlin and Christian Brinton is printed in American Art News XVII: 2 (October 19, 1918), 1–2; the Kingore exhibition is written about in AAN of Jan. 3, 1920, p. 2, and a traveling show (1918–20) which initiates at the Brooklyn Museum and goes to Boston, Buffalo, Detroit, Milwaukee, St. Louis, San Francisco and Chicago is listed in the exhibition listings for the online catalogue raisonné for Boris Anisfeld.   “Extracts from Press Comments on the Anisfeld Exhibition,” The Brooklyn Museum Quarterly, 6:1 (January 1919), 10–20 includes several critics, not all identified by full names or complete publication information for their reviews. 70. Although the spelling of his last name is consistent, his first name is sometimes shown as Léon and other times as Lev. 71. V. Berezkin cited by John E. Bowlt, “Boris Anisfeld, An Alchemist of Color,” in Dassia N. Posner and Kevin Bartig, eds., Three Loves for Three Oranges (Indiana University Press, 2021; Proquest ebook), pp. 374–392. See also the online catalogue raisonné for Anisfeld: https:// anisfeld.org/theater_design.html. In addition to essays reviewing his work in the theater and his career in general, there is a complete listing of his exhibitions in both Russia and the U.S. and a collection of images of work representing both his theater work and his painting. 72. Christina Lodder, “Natalia Goncharova: The Trailblazer,” Tate Etc. 46 (Summer 2019), published online. 73. The quotation says “distance myself” – cited in Jane A. Sharp, Russian Modernism between East and West: Natal’ia Goncharova and the Moscow Avant-Garde (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), p. 1. 74. Larionov, catalogue introduction, Moscow, 1913, p. 6. The introduction also describes the nature and history of the lubok. The Target show is discussed in chapter 4 in Anthony Parton, Mikhail Larionov and the Russian Avant-Garde (Princeton University Press, 1993). 75. Diaghilev cited in Bowlt, “Stage Design and the Ballets Russes,” Journal of Decorative and Propaganda Arts, 5 (Summer 1987), 37. Balagan refers to a type of demountable theater, built from wood and generally found on fairgrounds. The description here readily applies to the work of Remisoff for Balieff. 76. Brinton, introduction and catalogue, The Go charova-Larionov Exhibition (New York: Kingore Gallery, 1922). 77. Olga Medvedkova, “The Celebration of the 150th Anniversary of the Birth of Léon Bakst in Three Exhibition Catalogues,” Ars Judaica, 14 (2018), 127–130. 78. W. M. M., “Exhibition of Paintings by Nicolas Roerich,” The Bulletin of the Cleveland Museum of Art 9 (April 1922), 61–62. 79. “The Art of a Northern Slav,” special to the Christian Science Monitor, Jan. 3, 1921, p. 12; L. Bernheimer, “Roerich, Russian Painter, Steeped in Country’s Lore,” Detroit Free Press Jan. 23, 1921, p. D3. 80. Narodny, “The Russian Note in American Art,” The American Magazine of Art, 19: 3 (March 1928), 141. 81. “Exhibition of Paintings” in Cleveland, p. 61.

Chapter 3 Sources Bentley, Joanne, Hallie Flanagan: A Life in American Theatre. New York: Alfred Knopf, 1988. Billington, Ray Allen, “Government and the Arts: The W. P. A. Experience,” American Quarterly, 13: 4 (Winter, 1961), 466–479. Barr, Alfred, Foreword to the catalogue of Modern Architecture: International Exhibition of 1932. New York: Museum of Modern Art (1932). With historical note by Philip Johnson. ———Defining Modern Art. Selected Writings of Alfred H. Barr, Jr. Edited by Irving Sandler and Amy Newman. New York: Harry Abrams, 1986.

New Curators and New Content  85 ———Alfred Barr archives at the Museum of Modern Art contain letters, indications of meetings with artists and writers, and an extensive collection of newspaper and magazine clippings about Russian art. See, for example, AHB 7.14 and AHB 8.IV.C.1. Barris, R. “Chaos by Design: Constructivist Stage Design and Its Reception,” Ph.D. diss., University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign, 1994. Blood, Ann, “The Russian Section of the ‘Machine-Age Exposition’ (1927),” Burlington Magazine, 154: 1315 (Oct. 2012), 694–700. Bogner, Dieter, “Kiesler and the European Avant-Garde.” In Lisa Phillips, ed., Frederick Kiesler. New York: Whitney Museum of Art, 1989, pp. 46–55. Bowlt, John E. “Stage Design and the Ballets Russes,” Journal of Decorative and Propaganda Arts, 5 (Summer 1987): 28–45. ——— “Boris Anisfeld, An Alchemist of Color.” In Dassia N. Posner and Kevin Bartig, eds., Three Loves for Three Oranges. Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 2021, 374–392. ———Nina and Nikita D. Lobanov-Rostovsky, and Olga Shaumyan, “The Bat,” Russian Stage Design, 1880–1930, I, 158–162 on the Bat. Brinton, Christian, “The Boris Anisfeld Exhibition,” The Brooklyn Museum Quarterly, 6: 1(January 1919), 6–9. Chlenova, Masha, “Soviet Museology during the Cultural Revolution: an Educational Turn, 1928–1938,” Histoire@Politique, 33 (Sept.–Dec. 2017) [en ligne, www.histoire-politique.fr]. Flanagan, Hallie, Dynamo. New York: Duell, Sloan and Pearce, 1943. ———Hallie Flanagan Papers, 1923–63, archival collection in the New York Public Library, Performing Arts Research Collection. Gan, Aleksei, Konstruktivizm. Tver: Tverskoe Izdatelstvo, 1922. Haines-Cooke, Shirley. Frederick Kiesler: Lost in History; Art of This Century and the Modern Art Gallery. Newcastle upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars Publisher, 2009. Heap, Jane, ed., Machine-Age Exposition, Catalogue, May 6–May 28, New York, 1927, published by the Little Review. Held, Roger L., Endless Innovations: Frederick Kiesler’s Theory and Scenic Design. Ann Arbor, MI: UMI Research Press, 1982. Hohman, Valleri J., Russian Culture and Theatrical Performance in America, 1891–1933. Basingstoke: Palgrave-MacMillan, eboook, 2011 Internationale Ausstellung neuer Theatertechnik/unter Mitwirkung der Gesellschaft zur Förderung Moderner Kunst in Wien: im Rahmen des Musik und Theaterfestes der Stadt Wien, 1924: Katalog, Programm, Almanach herausgegeben von Friedrich Kiesler. (Wien: Würthle, 1924). Performing Arts branch of the New York Public Library, MWEP [RBS] 04-6216. Jewell, Edward A., “Theatre Art Show Links 13 Countries: Impressive Spectacle Offered in 700 Items of Costumes, Scenes and Lighted Models.” New York Times, Jan 16, 1934, 19. Kiesler, Frederick, Contemporary Art Applied to the Store and Its Display. New York: Brentano’s, 1930. ——— and Jane Heap, organizers, International Theatre Exposition New York 1926 and catalog for the International Theatre Exposition in Vienna, 1924; both viewed in the Performing Arts division of the New York Public Library archives. Makaryk, Irene R., April in Paris: Theatricality, Modernism, and Politics at the 1925 Art Deco Expo. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2018. Mally, Lynn, “Hallie Flangan and the Soviet Union: New Heaven, New Earth, New Theater.” In Choi Chattergee and Beth Holmgren, eds., Americans Experience Russia. Hoboken, NJ: Taylor and Francis Group, 2012, pp. 31–49; Proquest ebook. Minin, Oleg, “Russian Artists in the United States,” Experiment, 20 (2014), 229–259. MoMA Archives. Exhibition files and Alfred Barr collection. Narodny, Ivan, “The Russian Note in American Art,” The American Magazine of Art, 19: 3 (March 1928), 138–147. Peasant Art and Handicraft Department, Amtorg Trading Corporation. “Foreword,” In Art and Handicraft Exposition of Soviet Russia. New York: Amtorg, 1929.

86  New Curators and New Content Parton, Anthony, Mikhail Larionov and the Russian Avant-Garde. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1993. Peters-Hofmann, Ludmilla, “Regulating Russian Arts and Crafts,” Experiment, 25 (2019), 324. [unsigned] “Russian Crafts, Art Exhibit to Open Tomorrow; Examples of peasant Handiwork, Theater Models and Posters Illustrate all the Phases of Life in Soviet Union,” New York Herald Tribune, Jan 29, 1928, A3. Sayler, Oliver, “The Strange Story of Balieff’s Chauve-Souris,” In F. Ray Comstock and Morris Gest have the honor to present Balieff’s Chauve-Souris, Bat Theatre, Moscow (publisher and date unknown). New York: Dancey-Davis, 1923. Senelick, Lawrence, ed., Wandering Stars: Russian Emigré Theatre, 1905–1940. Iowa City, IA: University of Iowa Press, 1992. Sharp, Jane A., Russian Modernism between East and West: Natal’ia Goncharova and the Moscow Avant-Garde. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006. Simonson, Lee, “The Designer in the Theatre,” introduction to catalogue, Theatre Art International Exhibition. New York: Museum of Modern Art, 1934, 11–21. Soudeikine, Sergei, Archive of set designs for cinema, Billy Rose Theatre Division, the New York Public Library. Storey, Walter Rendell, “Viewing the Art of Russian Peasants,” New York Times, Feb 17, 1929, 88. Sullivan, Lawrence, “Nikita Baliev’s Le Théatre de la Chauve-Souris: An Avant-Garde Theater,” Dance Research Journal, 18: 2 (Winter 1986–7), 17–29.

4

The 1930s Theater, Icons, and New Émigrés

Unlike the 1920s, in the 1930s, we will rarely see large extravaganzas of Russian art, whether by émigrés or artists still living in Russia, and just as rarely, we will not see shows organized for the purpose of providing support to artists who lived through the revolution. Instead we will see institutionally organized exhibitions designed to bring less familiar art forms to the attention of the public, as a way of communicating or educating foreigners about the Soviet Union (due to the recent recognition of the Soviet Union, attempts were made to share information without sounding like negative forms of propaganda and reviewers tended to agree that the shows were not exercises in propaganda1); we will also see artists curating exhibitions for similar reasons with a focus on aesthetic and art education. Exhibitions will travel more, across and within countries, and the organizers and curators will be international and generally not the same as the prominent curators of the 1920s. Thus, we will see Russian citizens and Soviet agencies taking the lead in planning and exporting exhibitions that will travel not only from one European city to another but also from one American city to another. Brinton will curate his final exhibitions in the early 1930s, working now with Fiske Kimball, director of the Pennsylvania Museum of Art, rather than Fox at the Brooklyn Museum. The Museum of Modern Art (MoMA) exists in the 1930s and does plan some group shows based on media rather than nationality, such as Lee Simonson’s International Theatre Art Exhibition. We will also see some private collectors entering the picture as they develop collections for their own house museums that will later become known for their collections of Russian art. Throughout all of these changes or revisions to the exhibition history, there is one theme that ties some of these developments together and becomes the event that defines the 1930s as much as the Grand Central Palace defined the 1920s: the Soviet Loan Exhibition of Icons. Unlike the 1924 show, this show also tells us a lot about Soviet diplomatic policies and the role of religion in the USSR.2 Planning for a traveling exhibition of icons seriously began in 1929, initially intended to make stops in Berlin, Cologne, Hamburg, and Munich. It has long seemed surprising that a show of religious icons on this scale was planned at a time when a strong antireligious policy was in place but unlike other shows in the 1930s, this one did have a pecuniary motive to raise money for the starving Russian populace. Because so much property of the Russian Church had been confiscated, it was now more accessible than when it was located in churches. These religious objects were now placed in museums (when they weren’t destroyed) or storehouses where they languished. Grabar and other Russian scholars and employees of the Art Restoration Workshops began working on the restoration of ancient icons in preparation for a traveling exhibition which, DOI: 10.4324/9781003247692-4

88  The 1930s in Grabar’s conceptualization, would demonstrate the accomplishments of the Russian restoration process. Grabar was known as an artist, a historian, and for several years director of the Tretiakov Gallery. His interest in icons related to his interest in early or medieval forms of Russian art, which made him known as the “founding father of Russian medieval art history, as the discoverer and curator of Russian icon painting.”3 He is an enigmatic figure, in part because of his diverse accomplishments and the contradictions that existed in his roles. On one hand, he appealed to both Anatoly Lunacharsky and Mikhail Ivanovich Kalinin asking them to intervene in the takeover of church property, emphasizing in one case the loss of objects of high artistic value, and in the other that museum objects would be worth more in the market than scrap metals from which the gems and jewels had been removed. We might be inclined to agree that Grabar was protecting the cultural heritage but ultimately by denying its religious significance.4 It is here that we might also observe that Grabar has taken steps to remake the icon as an aesthetic and decorative object before famous icon collectors such as Marjorie Merriweather Post or the Hammer brothers have come along. In addition to Wendy Salmond’s landmark article on the icon exhibition of 1930 and her chapter in Treasures into Tractors, another source for a discussion of the exhibitions and market for Russian icons is Selling Russia’s Treasures: the Soviet Trade in Nationalized Art 1917–1938.5 Written notes and records generally establish the fact that Grabar had played a central role in changing the icon into an object that could be traded for currency and the use of an exhibition as a necessary step in creating market conditions for the sale of Russian icons which few people, Russians included, would have been familiar with. Western museums did not own many examples of ancient Russian icon painting. Interest in such work emerged in the 20th century when restoration began to remove the surface layers that had obscured the true colors of icons and artists took an interest in this style of painting. At the same time, the well-known attacks on church properties and subsequent looting were often the basis for stories about the inability of the church to protect its valuables; this became justification for the Bolshevik seizure of these properties and sales. Unfortunately, the truth of these accusations was rarely determined but this did not prevent attempts to save this art by selling it. In 1928, an exhibition in Brussels of ancient and modern Russian art was organized by Russian émigrés living there, along with two émigrés who owned an antiquarian gallery in Paris. Most of the work in the show came from their gallery and in some cases from private individuals. It was later established that the gallery owners had been active in the illicit and largely illegal trade of antiquarian goods from Soviet Russia.6 Private collectors before the 1920s had shown their collections in European locations but if the icons were unrestored, they were not widely admired. Because western collectors would not have been familiar with the look of restored icons, and in combination with the stories that were generally blaming the church for the look of the icons because of its inability to protect its valuables, it was believed that a promotional campaign would be necessary to sell the icons and thereby raise money for the government. According to Grabar, the idea of planning an exhibition of icons to send abroad, specifically to Germany, came about as early as 1921. Grabar was not immediately in favor believing that it would be a risky endeavor. However, following the 1924 exhibition of Russian art in New York City, and getting feedback from various museums in Europe that this exhibition would be welcomed, Grabar began to work on plans for an exhibition in 1927.7 His earliest contacts were with individuals in Germany and with a Swedish financier, Olof Aschberg. He communicated to Aschberg about some Germans who were prepared

The 1930s  89 to underwrite the extensive costs of packing, shipping, insurance, and paying personnel who would provide lectures and demonstrations of restoration methods. Grabar also notes that some work which did not belong to any museum collections and some firstclass work that did belong to private owners would be for sale although not everything in the show would be for sale; some works were planned to be used in exchange with western museums and some important monuments would be included as copies rather than as originals (Rublev’s Holy Trinity, for example). Although there is some ambiguity regarding Grabar’s goals of sales versus exchange versus exhibition, what is less ambiguous is his discussion of the inclusion of copies that could not be distinguished from the originals. The unfortunate implication of this statement is that Antikvariat8 may have been selling icons that were not authentic. Grabar was aware of the goal of using icons to trade for money and wrote about the strategies that would need to be used in order to make this a successful project that would not only be an exhibition of icons but also an exhibition of restoration achievements. As Yuri Pyatnitsky asserts in his discussion of the exhibition and Grabar’s role, “Without the slightest doubt, Igor Grabar fully understood from the first the purpose of the enterprise in which he was playing the part of ‘scholarly cover.’”9 But is this a fair interpretation of the historian who wrote, more than once, of the way in which the October Revolution freed the icon of its liturgical use, transforming it eventually into a “living and inexhaustible source of inspiration” and the “object of free aesthetic appreciation”?10 And how do we reconcile this with the part of the exhibition that was dedicated to displaying the techniques and equipment used in the restoration process? The Soviet loan exhibition traveled to eight cities, beginning in Europe with four stops in Germany, and from London went on to the U.S. All of the scholars involved in the exhibition arrangements paid for it professionally, either by being removed from their positions in the restoration workshops or other employment and in some cases, being arrested, exiled, or executed. Only Grabar was not arrested. Although the exhibitions were successful with the public and catalogues sold well, the goal of selling icons was a failure. The press appeared to be impressed by Russian art restoration processes but it has been suggested that many of the press notices were paid for by Soviet representatives. Following the exhibition, Russian trade organizations delivered icons to antiquarian markets in Europe and the U.S. but origins of the icons were falsified, shipments were confused and contained items intended for a different location with incorrect lists of works and invented inventory numbers when works were attributed to museums. Thus, it seemed that the large exhibition had succeeded in preparing the west for a new commodity, the Russian icon, although this was the icon as commodity not as a genuine work of ancient Russian art. This was accompanied by a new wave of attacks against the Orthodox church and religious art, along with reductions in financing to museums and the elimination of displays of icons or renaming them as something that was not religious. Smaller museums were pressured to give up their collections of icons and religious artifacts; only the large Moscow and Petersburg museums were spared. By the 1930s, Soviet authorities were encouraging diplomats and foreign businessmen to buy icons and ship them out of the country.11 We might want to note that the arguments raised by Vladimir Teteriatnikov (and dismissed by other critics) regarding the authenticity of icons in certain American collections, such as the famous collection of George Hann, often displayed in museums, will always be complicated by the belief of some restorers that the work should be returned to what was thought to be its original look, which was probably not known and which may have involved cracks added as part of the restoration.

90  The 1930s This was confirmed by Grabar in his plan to use copies of some of the icons rather than the originals as he believed that the originals should be returned to museums. By 1934, a Kremlin commission for the restoration of the Kremlin hired several icon painters to “prepare forgeries for sale to foreigners.”12 This notion of deliberate forgeries obviously complicates the interpretation of the icons as genuine or fake, the more so when Grabar tells us that unique specimens were not included in the exhibition and they were copied in a manner that would have made it hard to tell which was an original and which was not. Lee Simonson’s review of the exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art focused on the palette which involved black and white in addition to a range of colors used in a manner that would inevitably influence later developments in modernism.13 Other reviewers were as enthusiastic as Simonson and the four American venues (New York, Chicago, Cleveland, and Boston) all included a catalogue with an acknowledgment to the American Russian Institute (ARI) for making the exhibition possible.14 The catalogues often contained an introduction written by Grabar in which he discusses the sources of ruin facing icons in the north and south – weather, sunlight, dampness – and the various forms of ruin and repairs made but how they may transform the original image.15 When the exhibition traveled to Chicago, a review written before the show had opened noted that many fine icons cannot be sent out of Russia but “marvelous facsimiles, so alike in color, handling, and state of preservation that they cannot be told from the originals” are included in the exhibition.16 The same show also traveled to the Cleveland Museum of Art, and ten years later, the Carnegie Institute in Pittsburgh where it was reviewed in the College Art Journal. This writer, Wolfgang Born, describes Hann’s collection as splendid and refers to the valuable catalogue (written by Avinoff, who was also criticized by Teteriatnikov at a later time). Born praises the catalogue as providing a concise treatment of the subject of icon painting in English, something that had not been done previously, and perhaps might make one criticism when he accuses Avinoff of a kind of “esoteric journalism” on occasion but apart from several places of disagreement, he concludes that the introduction to the catalogue is “stimulating and challenging.” Born criticizes the selection of objects for the catalogue; since the show included decorative arts and icons, the objects in the catalogue were in some cases weak and eclectic, undermining the grandeur of the medieval enamels.17 For the most part, the loan exhibition was successful, if not in the goal of sales – it has been noted by Salmond and others that the unfortunate timing of the stock market crash may have contributed to the lack of sales – but Americans and Europeans were already involved in buying Russian art and visiting icon collections in the Soviet Union. Although Americans had long been interested in Russian decorative arts – these were exceptionally popular at the 19th-century world expositions in Philadelphia and Chicago – it is also true that in many cases purchases of art from Russian collections were not actually purchases of Russian art. Collectors such as Andrew Mellon, whose collection eventually went to the National Gallery of Art, focused on paintings by European “old masters” and French decorative arts. The Hammer brothers bought items largely for the purpose of eventually reselling them to American consumers, while Marjorie Post and Joseph Edward Davies were the dominant American collectors of Russian art bought directly from Soviet sources. Post did not acquire her entire collection in Moscow although Davies did. Both Post and Davies had more opportunities to make purchases than most other foreign visitors due to Davies’ ambassadorship and friendship with Franklin Roosevelt and Post’s genuine love of collecting which began prior to their life in Moscow and continued long after. Before diving into Post’s and Davies’ collections, it may be

The 1930s  91 useful to examine the critiques raised by Teteriatnikov, particularly in connection with the George Hann collection. In the opening to his three-volume book, he raises questions about the Hann collection of icon masterpieces from Russia – he questions the originality and authenticity of these icons because of several unanswered questions. For example, the similarity of many of the icons to icons in the Tretiakov; the appearance of these works such that they look fresh and clean and unlike the condition of other medieval work, the paint that was used in them and the fact that it appears to be the same paint regardless of the dates or locations of the original icons, the fact that so few show signs of age, and the similarity of figures in some of them to those found in much more recent icons are all issues raised by Teteriatnikov. He then lays out details for how he conducted his study, what he could see and could not see, and questions where the icons came from: the Tretiakov or one of the Russian trading organizations (Gostorg and Antikvariat). His book is disputed by other critics who do not necessarily critique his methods but disagree with his conclusions.18 The Teteriatnikov archives in the New York Public Library contain drafts and notebooks and gallery brochures but the overall organization is discouraging and renders it hard to disagree with the critics of his work. All the same, we will see that there are many legitimate reasons to raise questions about the authenticity of icons that were being auctioned or sold in the U.S., as well as in Moscow. Marjorie Merriweather Post and Joseph Edward Davies were the dominant American collectors of Russian art bought directly from Soviet sources. Post did not acquire her entire collection in Moscow although Davies did. Both Post and Davies had more opportunities to make purchases than most other foreign visitors largely due to Davies’ ambassadorship and friendship with Franklin Roosevelt and Post’s genuine love of collecting which began prior to their life in Moscow and continued long after. Before we look more closely at their collections, it is important to note that by the time the Davies family was living in Moscow, most of the state-run stores had been closed for people who were not diplomats. Both Davies believed that they were saving sacred objects from future destruction by buying them as it was general knowledge in the late 1930s that religious objects were not valued for their artistic properties but for the gems that had been included, usually in the covers of the icons, and they would be melted down in order to remove the gems.19 Joseph Davies’ collections consisted of paintings, predominantly socialist realist, and a smaller collection of icons. In 1937, Davies wrote to the Wisconsin governor, La Follette, about his desire to gift his collections to the University of Wisconsin. He described the paintings in his collection as being of more interest for their interpretation than their technique, while the icons he indicated were “exceptional and very unique … selected by the leading technical experts on icons connected with the Soviet government and particularly with the Tretyakov Museum [sic]. They are designed to cover the best types of the various periods.”20 Private icon collections contributed to a growing interest in Byzantine art manifested in major exhibitions at public museums in the early 20th century. Donations of icon collections to university museums were also not uncommon at this time, with Davies’ donation perhaps getting attention because he had been the ambassador to the Soviet Union and the husband for a few years of Marjorie Post. His gift to the University of Wisconsin actually preceded the existence of a museum on the Madison campus and provided the impetus for its formation as the Elvehjem Museum which then became the Chazen Museum. Davies’ gift was dominated by landscape and genre paintings; and 23 icons

92  The 1930s that were approximately less than one quarter of the collection. The provenance of many of the icons indicates that they were sold through Antikvariat or by the government of the USSR., and in several cases, it is indicated that the work was repainted in the 20th century. Although we tend to assume that Davies made his purchases in much the same way that his wife did, the catalogue of his collection indicates that his collection was assembled by unidentified Russian experts which was not true for Post’s collection. Davies also indicates that the descriptions and comments about the icons were from the Russian art experts but again, not only are names not provided, but neither are translators’ names. Both Davies and Post were aware of the Party’s commitment to the destruction of religious artifacts, and Davies made an official request to be allowed to acquire some relics that were still in a monastery. His request was granted and the unnamed museum specialists were given the task of selecting a collection for Davies and preparing a catalogue to accompany the icons they selected. Most of the icons appear to have been from the Chudov Monastery, the Tretiakov Gallery, and Kiev’s Monastery of the Caves.21 Although both Post and Davies were collecting icons, their knowledge of Soviet policies toward religious artifacts and of other things that were happening at the time did not influence their decisions to collect such objects; indeed, we might note that both collectors believed they were doing good by rescuing doomed religious objects. Both had access to Soviet storerooms, to some museum collections, to Soviet state-run stores that would not have been available to non-diplomatic consumers by the mid-1930s, and to commission stores, their tastes were not identical. In the few cases where they were, large works (diptychs) were on occasion divided between Post’s and Davies’ collections and continue to be included in both Hillwood and the Chazen Museum. Several works in Davies’ collection, including those icons that were repainted in the 19th or 20th centuries, have been attributed to the 15th and 16th centuries, either having been made then or being in the style of that period. Post, however, preferred icons from the 18th and 19th centuries. In this respect, Post had more in common with other American customers who generally did not prefer the more ancient items but were attracted by things that might have been owned by the Romanov family.22 The major difference between their collections, however, was Post’s interest in other types of religious objects, especially linens and robes and chalices. Whereas the Fabergé eggs and wedding crowns do not make Post’s tastes unique, the large number of religious artifacts sets her apart from the other collectors of Russian art at that time. Post began her collecting with decorative arts and a particular interest in French work. She began collecting long before owning Hillwood and prior to her marriage with Davies. By the time she married Davies, she had been collecting objects for most of her life, focusing on French furniture, tapestries, and Sèvres porcelain. With each marriage and each new house, she incorporated spaces for her collection. Although she received guidance from dealer-historians of the arts, and is not considered a collector who did little more than to accumulate things she knew nothing about, her aesthetic criteria can be summarized succinctly: “The objects had to have great beauty and design, be of extraordinary craftsmanship, and equally important, have aristocratic provenances.”23 Before going to Moscow, she may have had some Russian objects in her collection that were gifts from Russian royalty she had entertained in her home. Ultimately only a very small percentage of her Russian collection was acquired in Russia. Based on her enthusiastic descriptions of shopping in the official consumer shops, we might guess that the reason for only acquiring 20% of her collection in Moscow was related to the date and the fact that not much was still available and/or that her enthusiasm for Russian objects

The 1930s  93 was so great that she continued to pursue her search upon returning to the U.S. Post famously described not only the crowded shelves and boxes filled with china and glass and church robes but also the “filthy” chalices pushed under a table which she surmised correctly might not be pewter if they were cleaned.24 Post therefore had a collection of far more than icons, although she did have many, but her continuing interest in porcelain, in furniture, in clothing, and in orthodox liturgical artifacts of all types gives her collection a distinctive quality that, as Frederick Fisher notes, makes Hillwood a museum of her personal collection arranged in the manner preferred by Post. Although Post did have an icon room and tended to group like types of objects together, her aesthetic tastes merge with the decorative, making Hillwood at once a place where one can immerse oneself in a specific period and type of art but at the same time a place where the complete immersion is an aesthetic experience that might have fulfilled Grabar’s belief about the artistic value of the ancient Russian icon and the value of seeing it as a work of art of great beauty, outside of the framework of religion.25 Rescue can take a lot of forms – the trio under consideration here all saw themselves as engaged in a rescue mission although they did not perform this rescue in the same ways. Grabar’s rescue took the form of restoration methods he aimed to share with art historians and conservators, Davies’ rescue of icons he feared might be further destroyed did not save many but did make them available to future generations of college students; and Post’s rescue which ultimately seems to be the most self-centered of the three probably reaches many more people than Davies or Grabar. Hillwood is a good deal more than a museum or gallery of icons and Byzantine art. Indeed, as beautiful as it is, Hillwood can be confusing and Fisher’s delineation of house museums and a special genre he calls “the art collector’s personal museum” makes sense.26 His suggestion that the art collectors who created personal museums may look to other examples as their model of collecting and museum-making is intriguing. Hillwood is not the only estate that eventually housed an impressive collection of icons – Walters Art Gallery in Baltimore is another example, one which contributed to another traveling exhibition of Russian icons much later in the 20th century.27 Before moving on, there are several key points to make. Through the lens of icons, we see changes in Soviet attitudes toward religious art and its role in Russian history, along with a commitment to preserving and restoring this past. We also see the creation of exhibitions that are the product of Soviet and international organizations and museums, and as a result, travel throughout Europe, Canada, and the U.S. Despite the confusion between authentic originals and reproductions and contradictions between goals of sale and exhibition, this exhibition marks a significant change in the organization and extent of exhibitions of Russian art that will be seen in many countries. It also results in gifts to other museums and universities, ranging from the Metropolitan Museum to the University of Wisconsin Chazen Museum. As evidenced by a conference with the name of Collecting Orthodoxy in the West, held not long ago at the Museum of Russian Icons, collections, collectors, and researchers with an interest in Russian Byzantine and religious art continue to be prevalent and the topic commands broad interest. There is another way to look at the icon and its influence on Russian art before and during the 1920s. In our discussion of the seeming revival of handicrafts and a search for the primitive in the early 20th century, we did encounter Natalia Goncharova’s interest in icons and religious themes in her art. Larionov also shared this interest although he collected examples but did not paint them himself. Another artist whose name has not come up yet, Vladimir Tatlin, was trained in the restoration of icons and historians have

94  The 1930s observed the influence of those techniques on his own work. Other artists also show the influence of Byzantine styles and early icons in art that may have no relationship to religious values although Kuzma Petrov-Vodkin did paint icon frescos for a church even as he painted scenes of daily life for other settings. Petrov-Vodkin was influenced by what he described as the “spherical perspective” he saw in icon paintings while Tatlin was likewise interested in curving lines and the insertion of other materials besides paint into his paintings. Not to be too obvious about the icon influence, it is difficult to overlook Malevich’s placement of his Black Square in the corner of the room where an icon would be placed and to forget his belief that one would enter a new spiritual dimension through that painting. Clearly more examples of this way of thinking and making art could be found but for now, what better way to leave the legacies of the great icon show than by reminding us of its influence on modernism.28 Although the icon exhibition is probably and metaphorically the icon for exhibitions of the 1930s, there is another exhibition, perhaps not as well-known, that demonstrates many of the changes that characterize this decade. From the people involved in planning it to the venues and styles included, there is little about this exhibition that was anticipated in the 1920s other than the size. Sponsored by two new ambassadors (in their positions for one year) to promote official relationships between the Soviet Union and the U.S., Alexander Antonovich Troyanovsky and William Christian Bullitt were listed as the patrons of the Soviet Art exhibition of 1934–5. Sponsors included the Pennsylvania Museum of Art (located in Philadelphia and sometimes called the Philadelphia Museum) and the ARI with Christian Brinton listed as a vice-chair. The College Art Association exhibition director, Audrey McMahon, planned to send the exhibition on a national tour with Brinton as its director.29 For some of the people involved (Brinton, the CAA, Kimball, and Fox), in addition to diplomatic goals, another important goal was to present an alternative to the vision of Russian art presented by Alfred Barr and the newly formed Museum of Modern Art, considered by some as being oriented too strongly toward French modern influences. Brinton took the lead in promoting an exhibition of socialist realist art, the period that he saw as the natural and national evolution of Russian art. It was almost inevitable that he saw it this way, given that art critical trends with respect to modernism in the 1920s largely rejected the idea that modernism responded to national differences. Following his disagreements with Dreier over modernism and the development of Barr’s paradigm of modernism, Brinton devoted his energies to his personal collection of Russian art and the development of his theory of modernism. Given his continued and strong connections to Russian émigré communities in Paris and New York, his connections to museum directors and the American Russia Institute, and travels to Russia, he was in position to become an unofficial cultural diplomat for Soviet art, advising museums such as the Carnegie Museum of Art about what artists and works to include in international exhibitions.30 One of the first products of this change in Brinton’s perception of his role and of the evolution of art was the Exhibition of Contemporary Art of Soviet Russia that accompanied the Art and Handicraft Exposition of Soviet Russia of 1929. Following some projects of his in the early 1930s, he took the lead in promoting an exhibition of socialist realist art, initially trying to interest Fox in this plan but eventually working with Fiske Kimball of the Pennsylvania Museum of Art. This would be Brinton’s last exhibition and may have been the most personal; whatever goals it had that did not reflect Brinton’s desire to promote socialist realism as the natural evolution of Russian art did not concern providing food or aid to Russian artists

The 1930s  95 but may have related to diplomatic goals of promoting an image of Russia that would not be threatening to American citizens, a point made in many reviews of this show. Reviewers were positive, finding that the show communicated images of a healthy and peaceful lifestyle, and found similarities to the art of Thomas Hart Benton and Grant Wood. A design for a mural by Alexandre Deineka, featuring male and female workers, a tractor, a combine, horses, and fields, was the leading image for the exhibition. A detail was included in the catalogue and Deineka came to the U.S. along with more than 200 art works and a Soviet critic, Osip Beskin. Indeed, one early announcement, sent by cable from Moscow to the New York Times, described the exhibition as a new type of mission: “The Soviet Union has sent diplomatic, journalistic and theatrical envoys. Now for the first time it is sending one of its foremost artists, Alexandre Deineka” (along with 250 paintings and engravings and an art critic). Also advertised as the “first officially selected exhibition of Soviet Art,” it was coming to Philadelphia under the triple sponsorship of the Philadelphia Museum, the Russian American Institute, and the College Art Association.31 Edward Alden Jewell’s several reviews, one of which was apparently written at the request of Kimball, spanned the two-year period of the traveling exhibition. Several reviews were little more than announcements; more than one appeared prior to the opening of the exhibition. One emphasized that none of the artists in the show were émigrés or from the old regime and nothing like this show has been seen in this country before.32 Because plans for this exhibition were underway just as the Roosevelt-Litvinov agreement was being signed and normal diplomatic relations with the Soviet Union were being established, reviewers were often more concerned with acknowledging that this show was not propagandist and that it contained work made after the Russian empire had ended than they were in reviewing the show which in some cases had not opened yet.33 In one of Jewell’s early reviews, he argues against the possibility of thinking that this art is propaganda, and quotes from Brinton’s catalogue essay: “The story of contemporary art in Soviet Russia, like the art of modern France, begins amidst war, foreign and civil, revolution, and the throes of a mighty, farreaching social realignment. But there terminates our parallel. The forward reach of art activity in the Soviet Union has been away from emphasis upon the individualist viewpoint, and quite frankly in the direction of an organic, socially integrated expression.” Jewell notes that whereas we can surely agree with this, we will also find that the walls of the gallery in Philadelphia are “alive with the vigor and personality of individual artists.” Jewell continues with comments on many of the art works, several of which are reproduced in the newspaper (and catalogue).34 Brinton’s catalogue essay is worth looking at more closely. Before the statement that Jewell quoted, Brinton described Picasso, the “dominant personality of the extreme modernist movement,” as being remote and detached from the environment, like one of “his own enigmatic African figurines.” Following his point about the socially integrated expression of Soviet art, he provides an overview of Slavic modernism, noting similarities to French modernism but preferring the dynamism of the Slavic version which increasingly had no patience for Expressionism, Constructivism, and Suprematism: “by 1924, or just a decade ago, modernism as such was a dead issue” in the USSR. Although Brinton never professed to admiring extreme abstraction, he has now found a justification for

96  The 1930s his rejection of those movements. In part, this justification comes from the epitaph at the opening of his essay, a statement by Florent Fels confirming that the sole reason of art is to express the human.35 Brinton’s essay continues with his observation that the present exhibition is not a “dress parade” of work specially chosen from Russian museums; “nor is it a resumé of the Fifteen-Year Anniversary Exhibition seen by many recent visitors” to the USSR. There were, in fact, two such exhibitions in 1932 in Leningrad and Moscow. Brinton further notes that although some works by the older artists are included (Grabar, Petrov-Vodkin, Kuznetsov), overall this collection has the largest percentage of work by young talent with paintings dating to 1932 or even 1934. Whereas three works (by Bubnov, Lobanov, Sokolov-Skalya) relate their subject matter to the period of revolution, civil war, and industrialization, now the content that attracts young artists is the “‘living content’ of normal existence, the Soviet citizen at work, at play, at rest.”36 Despite the positive reviews, this show does not appear to have attracted the same degree of response that the larger shows of the 1920s did. Coming at almost the same time as the much larger icon show and only slightly after the popular handicrafts show, perhaps the show did not feel new enough to attract attention. Yet it may be of interest to compare this show to the “Soviet Art after 15 Years” exhibition that took place in the two Russian cities noted above. An article in the Soviet Culture Review by Igor Grabar tells us that the show opened at the Russian Museum of Leningrad on anniversary days with nearly 3000 works of art made almost entirely by artists who entered the art world during the Soviet years. The exhibition followed the theme of evolution with the exception of the first and last rooms: the first was devoted to Lenin and the earliest industrial achievements while the last was devoted to the most recent achievements. Works made during the early years were not the longed-for proletariat art but dead-end styles of the bourgeois culture from Europe; most of those artists no longer exist, either having died or emigrated, although some had changed their styles. Malevich was included in the show with samples of his work during the years of the revolution. Three rooms were devoted to the work of Society of Easel Painters (OST) artists, featuring Sterenberg and others (Williams, Pimenov, Deineka, and Adlivankin). Grabar then describes several paintings and notes that there is no stylistic uniformity in the OST group and although heterogeneous, of all the Muscovite groups, it is the most leftist, unlike the work of Deineka, Pimenov, and some others who are more “academic” in their styles. Nine halls were devoted to Association of Artists of Revolutionary Russia (AKhRR) painters who were generally more devoted to Soviet themes than to leftist painting; their art shows change over years, especially in terms of the palette which becomes less gloomy and dark. Following more descriptions, he moves on to Leningrad artists such as Samokhvalov who “interpret Soviet themes in realistic forms that are deliberately archaized and primitivized to resemble now ‘peasant,’ now ‘amateur,’ now ‘child’ art.” The show terminates with graphic productions focusing on the industrialization of Russia. Grabar concludes that both old and new artists have approached “the concrete solution of the problem of our time, which is that of socialist realism.” The art demonstrates a “distinct Soviet countenance, not only politically but also artistically.”37 Clearly this show can be called propaganda of a sort, and this show, along with “15 Years of the Red Army exhibition,” at almost the same time attracted large numbers of visitors with several thousand attending daily. Factories organized trips so that workers could attend and visitors complained about abstract, geometric works and paintings which did not show the new Soviet man in action.38

The 1930s  97 With the exception of the icon exhibition, this was not a decade of grand exhibitions that have generated anniversary exhibitions more recently. It was a decade of experiment with respect to exhibition content and the influence of Soviet culture. Several individuals took the lead in these areas: Lee Simonson in his organization of an international theater exhibition for the Museum of Modern Art, Hallie Flanagan with her many publications and subsequent leadership of the Federal Arts Theater – this short list of two individuals anticipates another short list: few exhibitions of relevance to the themes of this chapter until much later in the 20th century when they start to take off. Despite Alfred Barr’s interest in Russia and his travels there prior to assuming the directorship of the Museum of Modern Art, MoMA is slow to develop its collection of Russian and Soviet art, and its first exhibition which specifically references Soviet art does not come until 1944 with an exhibition of Soviet children’s art (done in collaboration with the National Council of American-Soviet Friendship). A small show (approximately 100 works), it featured watercolor paintings by children from Uzbekistan. It was up for little more than one month. It did get reviewed and Jewell, the writer, commented on the fact that in some of the work, there was a fairy tale quality while in other work, the topic was war itself. It was planned to send this show on tour.39 Approximately ten years earlier, much larger, and undoubtedly more significant for establishing the influence of exhibitions on an American understanding of Russian art, the museum’s traveling International Theatre Art Exhibition opened early in 1934. Scheduled for about six weeks, it drew record attendance in New York (more than 40,000 New Yorkers), and it was set to travel to eight cities in the northeast and midwest. Known for its size (more than 700 objects, including costumes and models of stage sets), it filled three floors of MoMA and had work from 13 countries, most of it selected and requisitioned by Simonson, who regretted that the few months he spent traveling through Europe in search of materials that were difficult to find (due to the indifference of scenic designers to keeping records of their productions) were not nearly enough – a year might have been enough, he notes in his catalogue essay.40 Simonson begins his essay with a discussion of the difference between a term he attributes to a former mayor of New York: “art-artist” and artist. The art-artist is guided by aesthetics in his creation of work which belongs in a museum as it does not serve any purpose other than aesthetic pleasure. In contrast, the “artist” makes work that is intentionally functional, such as the stage design. This is impure art, it is decorative, and it rarely finds a home in a museum or exhibition. As a result, the artist’s work – drawings, models, paintings – may be stored in cabinets and desk drawers where it may never be seen again. There is one exception to this rule: the Soviet Union. Simonson observes that most Russian theaters have their own museums to preserve models and watercolor designs of important productions. Simonson then discusses the features that differentiate between stages of scenic design and the qualities that make one set come alive while another appears to be laughing at its own death.41 The catalogue then has essays written by different authors about different periods and types of theaters; Oliver Sayler writes about the Russian theater and the designer as a collaborator. The catalogue then includes a detailed list of most of the work in the show, followed by photographs of many examples. Organized by period or country, the Russian section is divided into three parts: pre-revolutionary, post-revolutionary, and late arrivals (too late for inclusion in the catalogue). Jewell begins his laudatory review of this exhibition by describing it as “stimulating, entertaining, and instructive … one that, the reader should be warned, calls for several

98  The 1930s visits,” as the number of things to look at is staggering and everything is worthy of attention. He could not include Russia in his review as the Russian exhibits had not yet arrived but were expected.42 Other reviews tended to focus on the range of work included, the names of people in attendance (exhibition openings were social events), and the fact that a heavy downpour could not keep throngs of people away from the Chicago opening. This review did name the examples of Russian artists in the show (their work had arrived by this time) and remarked that the USSR stole the show.43 Oddly, the limited number of reviews of this show that can be found might suggest that when it comes to theater, people would rather visit the theater than an exhibition. Or that few protocols existed for writing about an exhibition of stage sets. This exhibition faced strong competition from the Soviet Art show that opened at almost the same time and may have had greater press support due to the direct involvement of two ambassadors and more than one museum and professional organization collaborating to put it together. However, as collectors begin to form private collections of costumes made for performances, and with the continued tours of the Moscow Art Theater and the Ballets Russes, along with a growing Russian Yiddish émigré community in New York, theater-oriented exhibitions do become major events not much later in the 20th century. To be precise, there had already been gallery shows featuring the work of stage designers (costumes and paintings of set designs more often than model constructions) and these continue, while MoMA and the Museum of Tel Aviv both had exhibitions in the 1940s of the work of Boris Aronson, a Soviet (Kievan) stage designer who emigrated to New York in 1923. At the same time, the increased number of articles about theater and the activities of Hallie Flanagan in developing a theater that will appeal to people will either bring more people to performances and/or arouse greater interest in theater exhibitions. Whereas we can hypothesize about the ways in which a theatrical performance may have an influence that is comparable to a museum exhibition, measures of influence in countries other than the Soviet Union (where theaters were charged with counting and keeping records of specific audience responses) are not often more specific than random comments made by visitors or the number of people who attended a performance or exhibition. During the years of the Federal Arts Program, these numbers may have been recorded as they attested to the value of this government program (but not directly to the degree of influence of the arts on such issues as attitudes toward the Soviet Union). Another potential measure of influence comes from visual analysis of images included in an exhibition or its catalogue. The 1934 MoMA exhibition, for example, does have examples of work that seem to show the influence of Russian constructivist stage design (a mobile set by Manuel Essman, for example) but without knowing more about the designer or production, it is difficult to be certain. Simonson has acknowledged a constructivist influence on his work and his set for Hamlet, included in the exhibition, along with work by the Stenberg brothers (from Moscow) and Irakli Gamrekeli (a Georgian designer) – included in the post-revolutionary Soviet section – do reflect the constructivist rejection of the naturalist stage with a flat painted backdrop. Several familiar Ballets Russes artists (Soudeikine and Bakst, for example) were also included in the show. Aronson, who will become a well-known award-winning designer with a solo MoMA exhibition in 1947 and work included in a 1944 exhibition of dance and theater design, followed by gallery and international exhibitions, emigrated to Berlin first and then to America after the Russian Revolution. He arrived in New York unable to speak English and found his first work as a stage designer for the experimental

The 1930s  99 Unser (our) theater in the Bronx. Ownership and the name of this theater changed while Aronson continued to work there before finding his way downtown to Maurice Schwartz’s Yiddish Art Theater.44 At first, he focused on applying and modifying the influence of Alexandra Exter’s45 constructivism (with whom he had studied prior to leaving Russia) and Marc Chagall’s Cubo-futurism. By the 1940s, in addition to his firm belief in the set’s ability to move and capture the complete play’s mood, to express “the profound essence of a piece of work,”46 he had developed an approach to projected scenery using colored slides. Before doing this, however, he designed constructivist sets with electronic logos included and dream sequences in which people in advertisements come to life. His fusion of constructivism and symbolism was perhaps best captured in the work he did for The Tenth Commandment where he depicted Hell as a sweatshop inside a man’s brain. The projected light structures were the focus of an exhibition at the Museum of Modern Art. Described as painting with light, it was possible to see the application of his technique in a miniature form in a basement gallery in the Museum. He also explained the possibilities for using and expanding on this technique were endless: “The Russian-born artist regards the model at the Museum of Modern Art as a suggestion of endless potentialities. For instance, by pouring molten glass into a bas-relief mold, the projection could be given another kind of dimension – what might be called a ‘sculptured projection.’”47 Shortly after his arrival in New York, Aronson began working, as already noted, in Yiddish theaters and his first exhibition took place at the Anderson Galleries in 1927. He continued to work in Yiddish theaters until the early 1930s when he began to work in Broadway theaters where his work became less stylized and more naturalistic, in part due to an increasingly realistic tendency developing in left-wing theaters as the Soviet government was promoting socialist realism and denouncing abstract formalism.48 Aronson has been described by some writers and himself as apolitical; if accurate, this period may have been the impetus for his experimentation with light and color and his move into a style that has been called “poetic realism.”49 His style did change often during his long career, suggesting that, as quoted earlier, he was more interested in capturing the essence of a play than in promoting his own style. And confirming some points made by Joseph Horowitz in his volume Artists in Exile: Aronson moved and studied in various theaters and Russian cities before emigrating, and by the time he reached New York, he had already worked with and absorbed a variety of styles. In New York, he would have encountered more as the theater had been going through many changes due to the presence of international émigrés.50 Aronson and the Yiddish theater bring up another theme of relevance to this chapter and exhibitions of Russian art: Russian Jewish artists in theater, in Russian life, and in all areas of work. This theme begins to play a significant role in exhibitions nearing the end of the 20th century, with the Jewish Museum in New York taking the lead although it is not the only museum to contribute. Its roots, however, lie in the beginning of a new émigré population in New York: Russian Jews, the history of which begins in Russia. There already was a large refugee population of Eastern European Jews living in Russia, and the 1917 revolution had as much of an effect on their lives as it did on the entire population. As the Jewish Museum exhibition catalogues make clear, this theme is worthy of its own books, but this should not stop us from taking a brief look at the development

100  The 1930s of different forms of Jewish culture after the revolution. Jews were granted legal status in 1918 when “the concept of ‘Jewish nationality’ in the Soviet Union was approved.”51 Two directions emerged: one that might be described as Zionist in its orientation toward the development of a secular Jewish nation, and one that may have been seen as less political as it sought the unity of Jewish and Russian folk culture with modernism. Each direction was characterized by a theater of its own. While both theaters were influenced by the latest experiments in theater and the fine arts, their content was not the same: Habima, known today as the National Theater of Israel and the first professional Hebrew theater in the world, was established in Moscow in 1918 with a goal of promoting the Hebrew language and Zionism. It focused more on folkloric plays and expressionism in its goal of reviving Jewish national life. Unfortunately, in its use of Hebrew which many Russian Jews did not speak, it alienated its desired audience. GOSET (the eventual acronym for the Moscow State Yiddish Theater) was more influenced by Meierkhold, Ekster, Chagall, Natan Altman, and Kazimir Malevich. Susan Goodman usefully points out that in Russian and Yiddish the same word means both Yiddish and Jewish.52 As Jeffrey Veidlinger writes, “these artists (and others) brought the aesthetics of the Russian avant-garde to Jewish art and Jewish artistic motifs to the Russian avant-garde”53 who brought it to America. Despite the extensive contributions made by these companies to theatrical arts, neither had a long existence. Habima was compelled to leave the USSR in 1926; GOSET was liquidated after many of its members were murdered in the 1940s as Stalin tried to eradicate the Jewish intelligentsia and culture. Sol Hurok, one of a small group of impresarios who focused on bringing Russian arts to the U.S., brought the Habima troupe to New York where it was a financial failure. Before this tour, however, several Americans with an interest in theater (Hallie Flanagan and Lee Strasberg, for example) had seen performances by this company on visits to Russia. Evgeny Vakhtangov, a director at the Habima theater until his death in 1922, through his training of Habima actors succeeded in communicating some of Meierkhold’s biomechanical theories of acting to American and Russian actors. His production of the Dybbuk (a wandering spirit, usually evil), with a Cubo-futurist stage design by Natan Altman and expressionistic acting style, reinforced by costume, was the memorable icon of the Habima theater to those audiences and actors who saw or participated in this performance.54 Although not involved with Habima, Aronson was a regular designer for Yiddish theaters in New York, beginning with the Unser theater and then with the Yiddish Art Theater, eventually creating an unforgettable fusion of experimental techniques for a production of The Tenth Commandment which led to his afore-mentioned 1927 exhibition at the Anderson Galleries. In 1995, the Jewish Museum launched a large thematic exhibition about Russian Jewish arts in theater. The exhibition described itself as a survey and as the first major museum exhibition to focus on Russian Jewish artists in all aspects of their work. Over 300 works of art from a range of media and documents related to artists who were both familiar and well-known and, in some cases, “surprising discoveries.” The art works and documents came from international private collections of Russian art along with museums and archives. Due to the post-perestroike changes, the availability of these objects was unprecedented. In addition to the lenders to the exhibition, eight historians and critics provided essays for the catalogue, covering the history of Russian Jewish artists, styles, key artists, and art works. Many of the works in the exhibition had never before been seen in the west. As a daunting exhibition, it did not necessarily lead to a single

The 1930s  101 overriding conclusion. If one could be found it was that the major events of the century did not have a single impact on Russian Jews or Russians of any type. The works did not point to a common response to the major changes. Following thematic essays by major scholars of Russian and Jewish art, there was a lengthy section of full-page color plates, black and white photographs, artist biographies, and a complete checklist for the exhibition. One unanswered question raised more than once was whether there is a specific difference between being identified as an artist who was a Jew versus identification as a Jewish artist. Although one of several major exhibitions related to Russia in the 1990s, it was the only one with a focus on Russian Jewish artists. The show generated interest abroad and in the U.S. One review, from the Jerusalem Post, called it the most important show at the Jewish Museum and a show that would be a major attraction in Jerusalem and Israel if it is brought there. The reviewer does criticize some of the assumptions about the artists’ connections to Judaism and observes that Boris Groys in his essay “gets it right” when referring to artists of Jewish descent. The review discusses several of the works in the show in detail and notes that the show not only includes artists from the years of the revolution and just after but also includes nonconformists and dissidents, some of whom are well-known outside of Russia. The review concludes with its expression of hope that the show will be kept together and transported to Jerusalem. The show was also reviewed in New York papers such as the Christian Science Monitor which focused on the question of degrees of assimilation, tolerance, and persecution. The show ends on an uncertain note as many of the contemporary artists now work outside the Soviet Union. The unanswered question: what does it mean to be a Russian Jewish artist?55 Slightly more than ten years later (2008), it was followed at the Jewish Museum by another major exhibition, Chagall and the Artists of the Russian Jewish Theater, 1919– 1949. Described by the museum as the first exhibition devoted to two decades of productions by Russian Jewish theaters in the Soviet Union, in addition to the history of the GOSET and Habima theaters, it also included Marc Chagall’s famous theater murals. Like the previous exhibition related to Russian Jewish artists, this one included work from international private collections, museums, and archives. A lengthy review in the New York Times begins by noting that the name of the show was misleading – it was less about Chagall than about the two Jewish vanguard theater companies in Moscow. Ken Johnson, the critic, describes the show as a “big, walk-in scrapbook presenting more than 200 pieces of art and ephemera including drawings, paintings, photographs, posters, sheet music, costumes and clips from vintage films.”56 An interesting but relevant variation involving the Jewish Museum and Chagall began with the Pompidou in Paris and focused on a people’s art school in Vitebsk: Chagall Lissitzky Malevich: The Russian Avant-Garde in Vitebsk, 1918–1922.57 After Chagall founded this school, Malevich and Lissitzky joined him and promoted “objectless” art which resulted in Chagall’s decision to leave. The exhibition is unusual in several respects: it covers a relatively unknown period with an educational experiment that did not last long, and the founding of an equally short-lived Museum of Contemporary Art. The show included a broad collection of work, featuring work by the three artists in the title but including many others as well. The focus in the text is on the principles of the educational system, debates among Chagall and Malevich, and changes over time. Although there are many reproductions in the catalogue, this is a catalogue that one would turn to for a deeper understanding of the educational system in development after the revolution, the meaning of “new” art to Chagall, Malevich, and Lissitzky, and what

102  The 1930s happened with these leaders after Vitebsk. Probably the first exhibition to focus on this period and venue, it is also one of several exhibitions to emerge in response to the 1979 Paris-Moscow exhibition which brought the Soviet avant-garde to the attention of many who had been unfamiliar with this period. The influence of the important Paris-Moscow and Berlin-Moscow exhibitions is a topic for a later chapter. Here, we return to an artist of the theater. Another theater artist who might be called an unwilling American émigré (or, like Aronson, describe himself as European), largely because he preferred France and spent half his life there, is the Russian Jewish artist whose work for the Ballets Russes made him an almost overnight success. Of all the artists whose exhibitions we encounter in this book, Léon Bakst may be the most difficult to include, largely because he was so popular, included in many private collections, and the subject of many solo exhibitions. Without devoting a complete book to him, it is hard to know where to begin. Perhaps a quotation from Bakst himself is the place to start: Look what happens: we live in homes built in the previous century, amidst antique furniture with ragged upholstery, amidst paintings valued for their ‘patina’ or yellowness; we look in dull and dim mirrors with charming stains and rust where we barely discern our shameful modern figures attired in dresses made of old fabrics. I must say that I can’t help thinking that everything around me was manufactured by the dead for the dead and that as a contemporary, I am in fact an intruder in this venerable and beautiful collection of things made by the dead.58 Bakst’s immediate success came with his work for the Ballets Russes which was performed in Paris in 1909/10 and led to many invitations to Bakst for commissions not only from France but also from Britain and America. In France, he was approached by fashion houses who were eager to have work from him with Oriental motifs. By 1910, he was considering a trip to America but could not work it into his schedule at that time due to commissions and exhibitions planned to take place in Paris. His first New York exhibition took place in 1914. Bakst could not be there for health reasons; another was planned to take place at the Knoedler Gallery in New York at the same time as a tour of Diaghilev’s company in 1916; eventually, it was organized by Scott and Fowles. Other companies and locations followed this exhibition. Bakst has several bouts of debilitating illness but did continue to have exhibitions and to accept commissions. By 1923, Arthur Selig asked Bakst to design textile patterns and it was at this time that Bakst became familiar with native American art; in addition to a commission from the Robinson Silk Co., an article and examples of his work were published in Vogue magazine. Bakst continued to design patterns based on native American themes but added to them work based on Russian folk art.59 Whereas all of these aspects of his career are intriguing, it is as a stage designer that most people know him. Several qualities of his work were intoxicating: his ability to “absorb the spirit of a culture and translate it into theatrical terms,” and his sense of rhythm and color. He used color not only to express emotions but also to create movement from one mood to another, and his costumes made use of pieces that appeared to flow freely from the basic outlines of the costume or that called on the dancer to lift them up (Figure 4.1) as the dancer moved.60 Not long ago, the 150th anniversary of Bakst’s birth was celebrated in several exhibitions in 2016. Catalogues from the exhibitions in Moscow, Paris, and Monaco are

The 1930s  103

Figure 4.1 Lev/Léon Bakst, Costume design for the ballet Cleopatra by A. Arensky. Museum: State Museum of Theatre and Music Art, St. Petersburg. Credit: Album/Alamy stock photo

reviewed by Olga Medvedkova who begins her essay by observing that together these catalogues provide a great deal of work that hasn’t been seen before – both fashion and other clothing projects and costumes.61 Many of the costumes had been in archives and if they had been seen before, they had not been shown together. The exhibitions created juxtapositions that allowed the work to be seen in new ways. Because Bakst’s writings had been published several years before, the catalogues also included essays by Bakst and by the curators. Many of the works came from private collections although Medvedkova observes that some of them raise questions about authenticity. This question about collections is explored in greater depth in one of the catalogues with an essay by a noted collector, Nina Lobanov-Rostovsky. Other essays, especially by John E. Bowlt and Nicolette Misler, focus on new ways of contextualizing Bakst’s work. Another exhibition, not associated with the centennial celebration, included writings by both Bakst and Alexandre Benois. This exhibition, Theater of Reason/Theater of Desire, included works from several institutions and provided a detailed history of both artists, the influence of Diaghilev and the World of Art on their work, and major conceptual differences between them. In addition to the historic essay, the remaining essays were largely personal reminiscences or reflections, followed by reproductions for each artist and detailed lists of work providing information about the context for each. The catalogue concludes with writings by each artist. Unlike many exhibition catalogues, this informative catalogue would be invaluable to researchers.62 In this chapter, we have encountered exhibition reviews, catalogue reviews, and implied references to theater reviews. The last category is interesting in light of two factors:

104  The 1930s first, American critics’ reviews of Russian and Soviet theater were initially an important way for Americans to find out about the Soviet experiments in theater, and second, the reviews in Russian newspapers were thematically quite different from reviews in American newspapers. Hallie Flanagan, in her collection of writings on the Russian theater, observed that the audience as a critic of a performance is quite different from a professional critic. She writes that “Russia demands of her dramatic critics, then, that he serve the state first and art second.” She then observes that performances were often divided into moments and charts were made of audience responses during each moment.63 The goal of this type of criticism was to determine what qualities were necessary for people’s theater – it was likely this aspect that interested Flanagan. Another notebook in the Flanagan papers focuses specifically on the Federal Theatre Project (FTP). Flanagan reiterates her point that FTP came into existence to provide work for the many unemployed individuals in show business, and that along with this, one of her goals was to create a core of American writers writing specifically about American subjects. She also notes that despite what might sound like similarities to the Russian experience, they may be the result of fortuitous conditions: “This outpouring of music, painting, writing, and acting had its source not in art theory but in economic necessity.”64 Flanagan’s point is important, not only because Flanagan’s Living Theater productions were accused more than once of communist sympathies but also because it isn’t always possible to separate the role of sources in the work of someone who did devote a great deal of time to studying Russian Living Theatres before founding her own. Flanagan in her writing does not focus on style other than to say that the styles are diverse. Archival pictures confirm this as we see the occasional constructivist form of a stage and at other times the more naturalistic setting that one would find in performances by the Moscow Theater of Art. Her interest in the experimental living theatres, and the acrobatic Blue Blouse groups, all of them agitprop theaters, makes her an essential figure in documenting the influence of Russian and Soviet art forms on American culture. It is not that it is hard to prove in Flanagan’s case but that the archives are rich with examples. What is lost from dipping into archival documents at random is a larger sense of the ways in which Russian theater fit into Flanagan’s goals of increasing employment and bringing theater to regions that did not have one and creating a theater that spoke to American life. Living Theater and Blue Blouse theaters are not always recognized as part of the constructivist family which too often leads writers to focus exclusively on Meierkhold, architectural sets, and biomechanics, all of which are fundamental to constructivism. But constructivism is the descendant of carnival or fairground arts, and just as Kiesler once compared display windows to a static theater which ignored the potential customer, Meierkhold and Kiesler alike strove to create a theater of the engaged spectator. To be sure, the spectator’s role is not scripted but through the presentation of multiple realities created by the moving set, the use of cinema and actors at the same time, and a text that reflects the everyday issues of the lives of the audience, the spectacle creates possibilities and the audience creates meaning. Obviously, Flanagan did not have to go to Russia to arrive at this conceptualization of theater, but the fact remains that she did, that she visited Meierkhold’s theater and Living Theater productions before she developed her proposal for the Federal Theater Project Living Theaters.65 The FTP Living Theaters, as Flanagan had planned, did take place across the country and attracted large audiences of diverse populations and people who had not traditionally attended theater. Overall, the FTP accomplished several valuable things: employment of many out-of-work arts and theater professionals; stimulation of the development of

The 1930s  105 plays with specific American themes; introduction to audiences of the Russian Living Theater (although it was not always called that); and the creation of an audience of millions.66 Before leaving this chapter, we should note that just as the 1920s did not seem to end in 1929, many of the developments of the 1930s continue, with the exception of a heavy exhibition schedule. The 1930s is a decade of the depression and a prelude to the next world war, two factors that inevitably impact planning for international exhibitions. Notes 1. See reviews of the Soviet At Exhibition later in this chapter. 2. Anastaia Lishnevskaya, “Russian Icons in Germany: The Exhibitions of 1929,” Tretiakov Gallery Magazine, 2021 (1) is rich with details about the planning and organization of the German version of this show. 3. Irina Sandomirskaja, “Scattering, Collecting, and Scattering Again,” Baltic Worlds XI: 1 (2018), 48. 4. Sandomirskaja, “Catastrophe, Restoration, and Kunstwollen: Igor Grabar, Cultural Heritage, and Soviet Reuses of the Past,” Ab Imperio, 2 (2015), 339–362, and also in “Scattering.” 5. It goes without saying that it would be impossible to write about the fate of Russian icons without referencing Wendy Salmond’s work, in particular “How America Discovered Russian icons, the Soviet Loan Exhibition of 1930–32,” in J. A. Catrall and Douglas Greenfield, eds., Alter Icons: The Russian Icon and Modernity (University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2010), pp. 128–143 and the work by both Salmond and Anne Odom in their co-edited volume Treasures into Tractors: The Selling of Russia’s Cultural Heritage 1918–1938 (Washington, DC: Hillwood Estate and Seattle, WA: University of Washington Press, 2009). Covering similar territory but without the Hillwood focus is a chapter by Yuri Pyatnitsky, “The Pillage of the Russian Church, and Russian Icons and the Art Market,” in Nataly Semyonova and Nicolas V. Iljine, eds., Selling Rusia’s Treasures: The Soviet Trade in Nationalized Art 1917–1938 (NewYork and London: Abbeville Press, 2013), pp. 60–95. 6. Pyatnitsky, Russian Icons, 74. 7. Anastasia Lishnevskaya, “Russian Icons in Germany: The Exhibitions of 1929,” special issue of the Tretiakov Gallery magazine, “Germany–Russia: on the crossroads of cultures,” 70: 1 (2021). 8. Established by Lenin under the Ministry of Trade to handle export and sales of items often held by museums and churches. 9. Pyatnitsky, “Russian icons,” p. 81. 10. Grabar wrote prefaces to several catalogues. I quote here from the preface to USSR: Early Russian Icons (Greenwich, CT: NewYork Graphic Society and UNESCO, 1958), p. 5. 11. Pyatnitsky is my primary source for this section. 12. Pyatnnitsky, p. 93. 13. Simonson, “Exhibition of Russian Icons,” Metropolitan Museum of Art Bulletin, 26: 1 (Jan 1931), 1–6. 14. As the exhibition traveled through the U.S., articles appeared in journals and magazines. A sample follows. Andrey Avinoff, “A Loan Exhibition of Russian Icons,” The Metropolitian Museum of Art Bulletin, New Series, 2: 8 (Apr 1944), 227–232; David Talbot Rice, “Russian Icons at Burlington House,” The Burlington Magazine, 101: 671 (Feb 1959), 42, 44, 45–47; Wolfgang Born, “Review of Russian Icons and Objects of Ecclesiastical and Decorative Arts from the Collection of George R. Hann,” College Art Journal 4: 2 (Jan 1945), 122–124. 15. Grabar, essay included in the Metropolitan Museum bulletin and other catalogues for the icon exhibition. 16. “Russian Icons,” Bulletin of the Art Institute of Chicago, 25: 9 (1931); 125; H.S.E., “Exhibition of Russian Icons Circulated by the American Russian Institute,” Bulletin of the Cleveland Museum of Art, 19: 2 (Feb 1932), 25–26. 17. Born, “Review of Russian Icons and Objects of Ecclesiastical and Decorative Arts from the Collection of George R. Hann,” College Art Journal 4: 2 (Jan 1945), 122–124.

106  The 1930s 18. Vladimir Teteriatnikov. Icons and Fakes. Trans. Richard David Bosley (New York: Teteriatnikov Art Expertise, Ltd., 1981). (3 volumes). A review of VT’s book by Katrina V. H. Taylor (in the Russian Review, Jan 1982, v. 41, pp. 113–114) is very dismissive of Teteriatnikov’s conclusions and methods; she criticizes his writing, his organization and numbering system, and the amount of research and first-hand examination that went into his conclusions. She does acknowledge that he himself faults some of his methods and evidence but her conclusion appears to be little better than Teteritnikov’s dismissal of Hann: “the author’s unbalanced and self-serving approach prevents this ‘book’ from making a reliable contribution of the objective, scientific study of icons.” Although the author does not appear to be affiliated with Hillwood today, when she wrote her review she did use Hillwood for her affiliation – is there any possibility that her affiliation made her a less than reliable reviewer? Did Post get any of her icons from the Hann collection? 19. Anne Odom, “American Collectors of Russian Decorative Art,” chapter 11 in Treasures into Tractors, is a good source for information about the collections formed in the 1920s and 1930s. Robert C. Williams is another good source: Russian Art and American Money, 1900– 1940 (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1980). 20. Excerpted from letter written by Davies on March 9, 1937 and included in the catalogue of the collection: The Joseph E. Davies Collection of Russian Paintings and Icons Presented to the University of Wisconsin, Alumni Association of the University of Wisconsin of the city of New York, 1938. Contains text, several illustrations and descriptions of work that is not illustrated. Unpaginated. 21. Calouste Gulbenkian, “Buyers, Collectors and Collections,” chapter 8 in Selling Russia’s Treasures, pp. 279–280. Additional information in Laura Jean Louise Sims, “Reflections on a Collection: Revisiting the UWM Icons Fifty years Later,” MA thesis in art history, UWM 2015. Information is confirmed but not clarified by the Alumni Association catalogue. 22. Salmond, “How America discovered Russian Icons,” cites a Hammer Galleries publication when she makes this assertion. 23. Quoted in Frederick J. Fisher, “Marjorie Merriweather Post,” Antiques, Mar 2003, p. 85. 24. Inge includes a passage from the Post family papers in the Bentley Historical Library in her thesis on page 51. 25. Grabar, USSR, p. 5. 26. Fisher, 84. 27. Gates of Mystery, The Art of Holy Russia, catalogue edited by Roderick Grierson (Cambridge: Lutterworth Press, 1994), began at the Victoria and Albert Museum in London and traveled to several U.S. museums. It was organized by Intercultura, the State Russian Museum, the Walters Art Gallery, and the Victoria and Albert museum; received support from the National Endowment for the Humanities and National Endowment for the Arts. 28. Margaret Betz, “The Icon and Russian Modernism,” Artforum, summer 1977, 1–20. 29. Christian Brinton, introduction and catalogue with foreword by Fiske Kimball, The Art of Soviet Russia (Pennsylvania Museum of Art, 1934). 30. In chapter III “National Modernism, Socialist Realism...” of his dissertation on Brinton, Walker develops in detail the many influences on Brinton’s changes in his personal theories of modernism as he slowly disengaged from curatorial activities. His detailed analysis is invaluable to those readers with a strong interest in Brinton. 31. Harold Denny, cable to the New York Times, “Soviet is Sending Art Mission to U.S.,” Dec 10, 1934, p. 12; Dorothy Grafly, “Soviet Art in Philadelphia,” Christian Science Monitor, Dec 22, 1934, p. 10. 32. A short special to the Herald Tribune, “Philadelphia plans 2 Winter Exhibits of Modernist Art: Works of Cézanne and of Soviet School will be Put on View,” Oct 22, p. 13. 33. See Roosevelt-Litvinov letters from 1933 in the National Security Archive and footnote 123, p. 254 in Walker dissertation. 34. Jewell, “Soviet Art in an Impressive Show,” New York Times, Dec 23, 1934, p. X9; citing from Brinton’s essay in the exhibition catalogue, The Art of Soviet Russia, “The Living Content in Soviet Art,” second page of unnumbered essay. Other reviews by Jewell include “Philadelphia sees Soviet Art Exhibit,” special to the New York Times, before the show opened (Dec 15, 1934), p. 11; and “Soviet Exhibition,” New York Times, indicating the New York location of the show, Nov 13, 1936, p. 21. “Art under the Soviets” also provided this information on Nov 22, 1936 (unsigned).

The 1930s  107 35. “L’art ne sert a rien autre qu’a exprimer l’humain.” Epitaph by Fels at beginning of Brinton’s essay, “Living Content.” All citations in this section are from Brinton’s essay. 36. All quotations from Brinton, “Living Content” (unpaginated). 37. All quotations from Grabar, “Soviet Art for 15 Years,” Soviet Culture Review, 1933, no. 3, 40–43. 38. B. Persov, “Art for the Masses,” Soviet Culture Review, 1933, 27–29. 39. Jewell, “Russian children to show art here: Works come largely from Tashkent training center,” New York Times, Sept 20, 1944, p. 18. 40. Lee Simonson, “The Designer in the Theatre,” introduction to Theatre Art International Exhibition (New York: Museum of Modern Art, 1934), p. 15. The difficulties of this search are related to his discussion about the tendency not to consider stage design work as art work. 41. Simonson, Designer, p. 20. 42. Jewell, “Theatre Art Show Links 13 Countries,” New York Times, Jan 16, 1934, p. 19. 43. Unsigned, “Society throng Opens Theater Art Exhibition: Show Gives History of Theater Design,” Chicago Daily Tribune, Aug 07, p. 15. 44. Many sources about Aronson are available; the most comprehensive discussion of his career, with ample illustrations: Frank Rich and Lisa Aronson, The Theatre Art of Boris Aronson (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1987). 45. Alexandra Exter is often written as Aleksandra Ekster. 46. Cited in “A Designer of Stage Settings Who Began at the Beginning,” New York Herald Tribune, Mar 17, 1929, p. F12; for Aronson’s exhibition history, see Guide to the Boris Aronson Papers and Designs, 1923–2000, Billy Rose Theatre Division of the New York Public Library for the Performing Arts. 47. John Beaufort, “Boris Aronson’s Projections called ‘Painting with LIght,’” The Christian Science Monitor, Jun 28, 1947, p. 14. Also written about in Jewell, “Aronson Stage Designs,” New York Times, Jun 29, 1947, p. X6. 48. Hohman, Part III, “Revolutionary Theatre: From Russia to America,” p. 127. Hohman uses this to lead into a discussion of the ARTEF, the Yiddish Workers’ Theatrical Alliance, and from there to the Workers’ Theater Movement (127–137). 49. Arnold Aronson, “American Scenography,” The Drama Review, 28 (Summer 1984), 3–22. 50. Horowitz, Artists in Exile (New York: HarperCollins, 2008), 366–369. 51. Susan Tumarkin Goodman, “Soviet Jewish Theater in a World of Moral Compromise,” Chagall and the Artists of the Russian Jewish Theater (New York: The Jewish Museum and Yale University Press, 2008), p. 3. In addition to Goodman’s detailed discussion of the formation of the Jewish culture in the Soviet Union, I have also relied on the introduction to Kenneth B. Moss, Jewish Renaissance in the Russian-Jewish Revolution (Harvard University Press and Proquest ebook: 2009), 1–22; and Hohman, Part III: Revolutionary Theatre. 52. Goodman, Note to the Reader, Chagall and the Artists, p. xiii. 53. Veidlinger, “Yiddish Constructivism: The Art of the Moscow State Yiddish Theater,” in Goodman, Chagall and the Artists, p. 51. 54. See reproductions of costume designs in “Habima and Goset: An Illustrated Chronicle,” in Goodman, Chagall and the Artists. 55. Meir Ronnen, “Under the Czar and Red Star: A new exhibit of Russian Jewish artists...” The Jerusalem Post, Nov 3, 1995, p. A18; second review from the Associated Press, unsigned, for the Christian Science Monitor: “After the Shtetl: NY Museum Showcases a century of Russian Jewish Art” Oct 4, 1995, p. 13. 56. The exhibition catalogue is again edited by Susan Tumarkin Goodman, with essays by experts and scholars in the subject, published by the Jewish Museum and Yale University Press in 2008. The cited review was by Ken Johnson, “When Modernism and Judaism Converged on the Moscow Stage,” New York Times, Nov 6, 2008, page number not provided. 57. Angela Lampe, ed., Chagall Lissitzky Malevich (Munich, London, New York: Prestel, 2018). 58. Cited in Yelena Terkel, “Léon Bakst: Dress up like flower!,” Tretiakov Gallery Magazine 2009, #4, p. 1. Her source is a 1914 article by Bakst, “On the art of today,” in Town and Country, no. 8, p. 18. 59. In addition to Terkel’s articles on Bakst, “Léon Bakst: Dress up like flower!” and “American in Léon Bakst’s Life and Art,” Tretiakov Gallery Magazine, special Issue No. 2, 2011, “USA– Russia On the Crossroads of Cultures,” see also Elena Bespalove, “Léon Bakst’s Textile and

108  The 1930s Interior-Design in America,” Studies in the Decorative Arts, 5 (Fall-Winter 1997–98,2–28; John E. Bowlt, “Haberdashery as Ethnography: The Case of Léon Bakst,” Experiment 22 (2016), 139–156. 60. “Léon Bakst–Design for the ballet,” Victoria and Albert Museum articles (online; author not provided) https://www.vam.ac.uk/articles/l%C3%A9on-bakst-design-for-the-ballet 61. Olga Medvedkova, “The Celebration of the 150th Anniversary of the Birth of Léon Bakst in Three Exhibition Catalogues”: Designing Dreams: A Catalogue of Léon Bakst (Monaco, 2017); Lev Bakst, Léon Bakst, K 150-lettiu so dnia rozhdeniya (Moscow, 2016); and Bakst: Des Ballets russes à la Haute couture (Paris, 2016), in Ars Judaica, 2018, 127–130. 62. John E. Bowlt, Thyssen-Bornemisza Foundation, Theater of Reason/Theater of Desire: The Art of Alexandre Benois and Léon Bakst (Thames and Hudson, 1988). 63. Article published in Theatre Guild Magazine, Jan 1930, 40–42, included in Series IV of the Hallie Flanagan papers, Box 22, bound book called “Russian Theatre by Hallie Flanagan,” in the New York Public Library for the Performing Arts, Billy Rose Theatre Division, T-Mss 1964–002 64. Box 25, Series IV, subseries 2, T-Mss 1964-002, “A Theatre for the People,” Jan 1937 reprint from The American Magazine of Art, Aug 1936. 65. Barris, “The Constructivist Engaged Spectator: A Politics of Reception,” Design Issues, 15: 1 (Spring 1999), 31–49. 66. Introduction to Elizabeth A. Osborne, Staging the people: community and identity in the Federal Theatre Project (New York: Palgrave-Macmillan, 2011), 1–14.

Chapter 4 Sources Aronson, Boris, Guide to the Boris Aronson Papers and Designs, 1923–2000. Billy Rose Theatre Division of the New York Public Library for the Performing Arts. Avinoff, Andrei, “A Loan Exhibition of Russian Icons,” The Metropolitan Museum of Art Bulletin, New Series, 2: 8 (Apr 1944), 227–232. Barris, Roann, “The Constructivist Engaged Spectator: A Politics of Reception,” Design Issues, 15 (Spring 1999), 31–49. Beaufort, John, “Boris Aronson’s Projections called ‘Painting with Light,’” Christian Science Monitor, Jun 28, 1947, 14. Bespalove, Elena, “Léon Bakst’s Textile and Interior-Design in America,” Studies in the Decorative Arts, 5 (Fall-Winter 1997–98), 2–28. Born, Wolfgang, “Review of Russian Icons and Objects of Ecclesiastical and Decorative Arts from the Collection of George R. Hann,” College Art Journal, 4: 2 (Jan 1945), 122–124. Bowlt, John E., “Haberdashery as Ethnography: The Case of Léon Bakst,” Experiment, 22 (2016), 139–156. Bowlt, John E. and Thyssen-Bornemisza Foundation, Theater of Reason/Theater of Desire: The Art of Alexandre Benois and Léon Bakst. Thames and Hudson, 1988. Brinton, Christian, Introduction, Essays and Catalogue with Foreword by Fiske Kimball, The Art of Soviet Russia. Pennsylvania Museum of Art, 1934 Flanagan Papers, Archival Collection in the New York Public Library, Performing Arts Research Collection, 1923–63. Gates of Mystery, The Art of Holy Russia, catalogue edited by Roderick Grierson. Cambridge: Lutterworth Press, 1994. Goodman, Susan Tumarkin, “Soviet Jewish Theater in a World of Moral Compromise,” In Goodman, Susan Tumarkin, ed. and curator, Chagall and the Artists of the Russian Jewish Theater. New York: The Jewish Museum and Yale University Press, 2008. Grabar, I. Preface, USSR: Early Russian Icons. Greenwich, CT: NY Graphic Society and UNESCO, 1958. Gulbenkian, Calouste, “Buyers, Collectors and Collections,” chapter 8, Selling Russia’s Treasures (2013), 279–280.

The 1930s  109 Inge, Lindsay T., “Culture and Diplomacy: Marjorie Merriweather Post and Soviet-American Relations, 1933-1939,” MA thesis, University of Maryland, 2016. Lishnevskaya, Anastasia, “Russian Icons in Germany: The Exhibitions of 1929,” special issue of the Tretiakov Gallery magazine, “Germany–Russia: on the crossroads of cultures,” 70: 1 (2021). Medvedkova, Olga, “The Celebration of the 150th Anniversary of the Birth of Léon Bakst in Three Exhibition Catalogues,” Ars Judaica, 14 (2018): 127–130. Moss, Kenneth B. Introduction to Jewish Renaissance in the Russian-Jewish Revolution. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press and Proquest ebook, 2009. Odom, Anne, “American Collectors of Russian Decorative Art,” chapter 11 in Treasures into Tractors, 2009. Odom, Anne and Wendy R. Salmond, eds., Treasures into Tractors: The Selling of Russia’s Cultural Heritage, 1918-1938. Washington, DC: Hillwood Estate and Seattle, WA: University of Washington Press, 2009. Osborne, Elizabeth A., Staging the People: Community and Identity in the Federal Theatre Project. New York: Palgrave-Macmillan, 2011, 1–14. Persov, Viktor., “Art for the Masses,” Soviet Culture Review, 4 (1933), 27–29. Pyatnitsky, Yuri, “The Pillage of the Russian Church, and Russian Icons and the Art Market,” Selling Russia’s Treasures (2013), 60–95. Rice, David Talbot, “Russian Icons at Burlington House,” The Burlington Magazine, 101: 671 (Feb 1959), 42, 44, 45, 47. Rich, Frank and Lisa Aronson, The Theatre Art of Boris Aronson. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1987. Salmond, Wendy, “How America Discovered Russian Icons, the Soviet Loan Exhibition of 1930-32.” In Jefferson J. S. Catrall and Douglas Greenfield, eds., Alter Icons: the Russian Icon and Modernity. University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2010, pp. 128.143. Sandomirskaja, Irina, “Catastrophe, Restoration, and Kunstwollen: Igor Grabar, Cultural Heritage, and Soviet Reuses of the Past,” Ab Imperio, 2 (2015), 339–362. Sandomirskaja, Irina, “Scattering, Collecting, and Scattering Again,” Baltic Worlds, XI: 1 (2018), 48. Semyonova, Natalya and Nicolas V. Iljine, eds., Selling Russia’s Treasures. The Soviet Trade in Nationalized Art, 1917-1938, translation from Russian by Andrew Bromfield and Howard M Goldfinger. Paris: M.T. Abraham Center for the Visual Arts Foundation, 2013. Simonson, Lee, “Exhibition of Russian Icons,” Metropolitan Museum of Art Bulletin, 26: 1 ( Jan 1931), 1–6. Simonson, Lee. “The Designer in the Theatre,” Introduction to Theatre Art International Exhibition. New York: Museum of Modern Art, 1934. Sims, Laura Jean Louise., “Reflections on a Collection: Revisiting the UWM Icons Fifty Years Later,” MA thesis in art history, University of Wisconsin-Madison, 2015. Terkel, Yelena, “America in Leon Bakst’s Life and Art,” Tretiakov Gallery Magazine, special issue #2, USA-Russia: On the Crossroads of Cultures, 1–16. Teteriatnikov, Vladimir, Vladimir Teteriatnikov Scrapbook Collection 1849-1997, New York Public Library, Humanities and Social Sciences, Rare Books Division. The Joseph E. Davies Collection of Russian Paintings and Icons Presented to the University of Wisconsin. Alumni Association of the University of Wisconsin of the city of New York, 1938.

5

Cultural Diplomacy and the World of Tomorrow

Major exhibition activities in the late 1920s and early 1930s revolved around theater (as a new theme for large exhibitions), the machine age and its influence on technology and art and architecture, and a transition from the art of Russia to the art of the Soviet Union. These changes were also accompanied by changes in exhibition centers: the Brooklyn Museum and the Grand Central Palace, the leading locations of the exhibitions we have discussed, cede their prominence to other museums that are founded in the early 1930s: the Museum of Modern Art (MoMA), the Whitney Museum of American Art, and eventually the Guggenheim Museum. As in the previous decade, galleries continue to be important, especially for exhibitions of the work of émigrés, and eventually, but for the most part not until after WWII, the expansion of museums exhibiting Russian/ Soviet art moves across the country. In the world of theater and cabaret, the Federal Theatre Project (FTP) Living Theatres was the theater to watch. Following Balieff’s death in 1936, attempts were made to keep the Chauve-Souris going but without the personality of Balieff, it was less successful. To be sure, more was happening in the world of theater: performances by the Moscow Art Theater, the Ballets Russes, and the Metropolitan Opera continued to seduce audiences with their spectacular stage settings and costumes, as we have seen in exhibitions that took place later in the 20th century. The decade of the 1930s began with the long-planned traveling icon exhibition and ended with the New York World’s Fair (NYWF) of 1939. In between, an international theater exhibition put together by the new MoMA toured the country. Two years prior to this, the museum put together an international modern architecture exhibition which did not include any Russian work. The influence of Russian constructivist architecture will not be acknowledged until 1988 with the Deconstructivist Architecture show at MoMA. As previously noted, Heap did include photographs of Russian architecture in her machine age exhibition, given her willingness to consider designs for buildings that were not complete at the time and her interest in industrial architecture. Less traditional exhibition environments, such as department store display windows and articles in journals tended to supplant large exhibitions as a means for keeping alive the growing interest in Russian and Soviet culture. The “Russian cavalcade,” as Saylor had described it, was definitely subdued but the 1939 exposition will change that. In addition to the new MoMA and the FTP, other museums, as named above, were founded in the 1930s. Founded by Gertrude Vanderbilt Whitney in 1930, the Whitney Museum has always been dedicated to the collection and exhibition of the work of American artists. Likewise, always committed to innovative work and living artists, the Whitney has recognized the pending impact of new work before the art world and public have. Juliana Force was the first director of the museum, beginning in 1930, and the museum began its well-known DOI: 10.4324/9781003247692-5

Cultural Diplomacy and the World of Tomorrow  111 biennial exhibitions in 1932. The large collection is diverse but does not shun abstraction or innovation when developed by contemporary American artists. It is not surprising that this museum plays an extremely small role in the exhibition and promotion of Russian art.1 In contrast, MoMA, similarly committed to contemporary developments, has an international focus in its collection development and exhibitions. Although not founded much before the Whitney, its history, and the history of Alfred Barr, is extensive and, in some respects, goes far beyond our concerns in this chapter. The question we are most concerned with here is the origin and extent of Barr’s interest in Russian art and how he brought that to MoMA. The story begins while he was teaching at Vassar College where he attended an exhibition in the art gallery. An “exhibition of modern European art” included work by Lissitzky, Kandinsky, and other artists – most of the work was lent from Dreier’s collection and other New York galleries. Not long after, Barr also saw the work of Archipenko. By 1927, Barr had purchased a copy of Lozowick’s book on Modern Russian Painting (written for a Dreier exhibition and published by the Société Anonyme). Just before becoming the director of the museum, Barr and Jere Abbott, an art historian, made a two-month trip to Moscow where he met Lissitzky, Rodchenko, Stepanova, Tatlin, and Tretiakov. His diary entries describe performances at various theaters, visits to museums and an icon collection, a visit to the Russian Museum with the artist and critic Ivan Punin, and much more. Following a visit to Rodchenko and Stepanova, he writes that “both are brilliant, versatile artists. R showed us an appalling variety of things–Suprematist paintings…woodcuts, linoleum cuts, posters, book designs, photographs, kino set, etc. … He has done no painting since 1922 … R’s wife is managing editor of Sovetskoe Kino … I arranged to get photographs of Rodchenko’s work for an article.” Several years later he made a visit to Hanover Landesmuseum in Hamburg where he met the former director, Alexander Dorner, and learned about the museum installation previously done by Lissitzky.2 Although Barr is memorably known for his exhibition of “Cubism and Modern Art” in 1936, he began using his Russian experiences before then. In addition to a series of lectures at the Farnsworth Museum (part of Wellesley), he also published articles on Russian art. One of the first of these was his article “The LEF and Soviet Art,” in the fall 1928 issue of Transition, in which he tries to define the leftist (LEF) artists, emphasizing their interest in a scientific objectivity which is more accurately their approach to give art “an important social function.”3 In an interesting article written in 1952 and published in the magazine section of the New York Times, Barr responded to the belief that modern art might be communistic. He lays out his argument by beginning with the observation that whereas previous presidents and leaders (and few people, in general) either liked or understood modernism, nonetheless they did not deny artistic freedom to people who lived in their countries. Unless, of course, they were leaders of totalitarian countries, and when this happened, the artists affected by such mandates began to leave their positions and homes. Near the end of his article, he notes that “Lenin personally disliked modern art, and so does Stalin, but Soviet art policies are based more on a dialectic of power than on personal feeling …. It is obvious that those who equate modern art with totalitarianism are ignorant of the facts. To call modern art communistic is bizarre as well as damaging to modern artists ….”4 Barr long championed artistic freedom, and throughout his career, he wrote letters and lectures protesting what he believed to be a black or gray list of artists thought to be associated with communism. His collection of articles and letters reveals his interest

112  Cultural Diplomacy and the World of Tomorrow in this issue along with the catalogue copies, newspaper reviews, and other materials about Russian art and public attitudes that he saved. In 1945, he wrote to Lozowick, presumably in response to a letter from Lozowick commenting on something Barr had said about Lenin’s attitude toward modern art. Barr admits that he may have confused Lenin’s attitude with Stalin’s and he is very sorry that Lozowick’s book was unpublished.5 With this background, we should turn to the 1936 exhibition, Cubism and Modern Art. In the catalogue introduction, Barr focuses on identifying the abstract tendency in art and its relation to subject matter and politics. In this respect, he notes that “after the Revolution, the Russian Futurists, Suprematists and Constructivists … came into their own.” He attributes a pre-revolutionary origin to all three movements and without saying this seems to imply that the three groups were similar in their goals (revolutionary artistic styles, abstraction). He goes on to note that after 1921 a “schism appeared … one faction wanted to maintain art for art’s sake; their opponents wanted to put art at the service of the new order.” These factions, in his terms, consisted of Gabo and Pevsner, who emigrate to Berlin, and Kandinsky, who goes to the Bauhaus, and Malevich, who goes to Leningrad. The constructivists and other Suprematists who remained in Moscow stayed in “left art, in the narrow sense of the word, for typography, photography, posters, movies, engineering, stage design, carpentry – anything but painting or sculpture. Today abstraction or stylization in art is still considered a ‘left deviation’ in the U.S.S.R. and is discouraged.” Barr then goes on to make a parallel between the division which characterized the constructivists and the later division which took place in surrealism, noting only that whereas Moscow artists who believed in the independence of art left Moscow, the surrealists of both persuasions remained in Paris. In Barr’s history, the influx of Russian constructivist impulses into Berlin, along with de Stijl aesthetics, created a style which was adopted by the National Socialist Party and laid the groundwork for the “International Style” as associated with housing developments authorized by the National Socialists. To the extent that this style was modern, it was eventually rejected by them; likewise, the USSR rejected modern architecture. What Barr does not say but does seem to imply is that abstraction is generally not associated with politics, except for those times when a political party promulgated its use to ill effect, but with one or two exceptions, these “philistines with political power” did not allow or permit abstraction. Important to Barr’s evolution of abstraction is the intermingling between de Stijl and constructivist tendencies in artists such as Lissitsky, and especially important to the development of German art is the influence of Lissitzky, Moholy-Nagy, and Gabo. In later parts of the book, when Barr discusses the combined de Stijl and Russian influence on Bauhaus developments, for example, he associates horizontal rectilinearity with de Stijl, the use of circle and diagonal and asymmetry with the Russians (generally Suprematism), and an interest in surface texture also with the Russians (probably relating this to Vladimir Tatlin who, he earlier noted, had made the collage construction into an interesting texture, rather than a surface of forms), and the development of faktura (texture is influenced by the properties of the materials chosen for that reason).6 Tatlin is included in the chapter on constructivism so this would appear to be one of the primary constructivist influences, although he is a little vague.7 In addition to artists who were painters or sculptors, there was also a theater section to the exhibition which included Alexandra Exter, Natalia Goncharova, Liubov Popova, Varvara Stepanova, and Tatlin. Many of the works that were not paintings were included as photographic reproductions,

Cultural Diplomacy and the World of Tomorrow  113 some of which had already been published in other books. Most of the artists had multiple works included, in some cases up to ten. Thinking back to the earlier exhibitions we have seen which did include some Russian work, this one would appear to be the first that recognized style distinctions, attempting to use the language of the artists, and also attempting to show how these styles built on earlier styles of abstraction. Thus, this work no longer is an extreme work that cannot be understood or related to the evolution of art, it is not removed from the present world and being made as a spiritual negotiation of the future; it has earned a place in a museum that is tracing developments in modernism largely for the sake of understanding art and eventually building a collection. Edward Alden Jewell, writing for the NewYork Times shortly after the exhibition opened, describes the show as bewildering, filling the entire museum with work in all media, suggesting relationships across media and artists through the arrangement of this “galvanizing” and dramatic evolution. Approximately half the review is filled with the names of all the artists included in the show and the many museums and galleries that lent work.8 This show was a major breakthrough although not one that yet establishes MoMA as a center for major exhibitions of Russian art. Its first bona fide exhibition of Russian art did not come until 1971, with an exhibition of the work of Rodchenko. The catalogue checklist identifies eight non-objective paintings, 15 photographs from the museum’s collection, some book covers and advertisements, and documentary photographs of lost works, including 5 space constructions and 8 costume designs. The brochure for the exhibition features an essay by the curator, Jennifer Licht. Some of the planned photographs were actually not in the museum at the time, having been used in another exhibition. Not a large exhibition but it might be marked as the beginning of an interest in Rodchenko that will continue throughout the remainder of the 20th century. Coming somewhat as a surprise, it was not the first exhibition that can be found to feature the work of Rodchenko. In 1931, the American-Russian Institute installed a show of posters by Alexander Lebedev, Vladimir and Georgii Stenberg, Rodchenko, and others. The rather short commentary described the posters as “plastic sermons,” using primary colors and type to warn people “against the evils of religion, capitalism and alcoholism.” The critic says little more other than to note that some of the posters were well designed and quite interesting.9 An early review directed specifically to the 1971 exhibition begins by calling this a “small but important exhibition” of one of the most important artists of the Russian avant-garde and the first time an exhibition of his work had ever been held outside the Soviet Union. The review provides some historical context and credits Barr’s foresight and travels with the museum’s collection, the sole source for this show. The review presents a clear discussion of Rodchenko’s involvement in the rejection of “fine art” and its replacement with photography and graphic design that embraced the ethos of the revolutionary society.10 In a second article, Kramer focuses more on the historical context and the range of work done prior to the time when constructivism became an enemy of the state. He concludes with a reiteration of his positive comments about the exhibition and indicates that some new exhibitions related to the revolution in Russian art are in the planning stages.11 One exhibition referred to by Kramer was located at the Hayward Gallery in London and focused on four artists: Tatlin, Malevich, Lissitzky, and Rodchenko and their contributions to the revolution. Called Art in Revolution: Soviet Art and Design since 1917, the exhibition was scheduled to last for a little more than one month and reviewed by Caroline Tisdall in the Guardian. In addition to the four artists named, the catalogue addresses architecture, constructivism in the theater, and several plays produced

114  Cultural Diplomacy and the World of Tomorrow by Meierkhold. Tisdall observes that the gallery is filled not only with art but also with news film, slogans, and music, and that Camilla Gray’s book, The Great Experiment, provided the idea for the show.12 The catalogue notes that the architectural part of the exhibition included reconstructions.13 Although not exclusively an architectural exhibition, the range of media for what appeared to be a short and small exhibition is unusual at that time. Yet another review reveals that there was a very different outcome to this exhibition. Anthony Lewis, in a review for the New York Times written on the same day as Tisdall’s review, says that one room in this exhibition was sealed at the insistence of Soviet officials. This room contained reliefs made by Lissitzky in a room he had based on his “proun” room design for an exhibition in Berlin in 1923. At the same time, officials removed abstract paintings and sculpture made by Tatlin, Popova, and Malevich from other spaces in the gallery. According to the Soviet Ministry of Culture, abstract works were decadent, yet they allowed other works by the same artists to remain.14 The reviews for this relatively small exhibition reveal an important development. Russian art is no longer being added as a representation of the work of émigrés or as an attempt to arouse support for artists whose work and lives suffered in the years of the revolution. The revolution itself is becoming a theme and exhibitions are dedicated to the work of those artists who committed to changing the nature and function of art. The events described by Lewis also reveal that the Soviet Union has not relinquished complete control over what can be seen outside of Russia. The Hayward gallery was a big one and a new one located next to the Royal Festival Hall and open to the public. The show had been sponsored by the British Arts Council. Perhaps the one place where it does not have the right to exert control is in small galleries that may be devoted to sales and that organize their own exhibitions without the involvement of any official organizations. Thus, we find also in 1971 an exhibition of the Russian Avant-Garde, 1908–1922 at the Leonard Hutton Galleries in New York from October 16 until December 18, 1971. The catalogue provided a short history of the avant-garde written by the architectural historian Frederick Starr and an essay by John E. Bowlt on the theme of how little of the avant-garde developments were due to western influences. The Hutton Gallery show took place at the same time as the New York version of the Hayward gallery show was installed in the Cultural Center. Although the review mentions that the Hayward show had been subject to restrictions by the Soviet government, it does not indicate that anything comparable happened in New York. The work in the Hutton show was mostly obtained from private owners which may be another reason for the lack of oversight although none was applied to the reinstallation of the Hayward show.15 Other critics also reviewed both shows together, emphasizing in some cases how much there was to be learned about Soviet art.16 Apparently, a major decade for continuing to learn about Soviet art, in 1978, the curator Magdalena Dabrowski wrote to the MoMA director of the department of Drawings, William S. Lieberman, with a proposal for an exhibition of Russian avant-garde art based on the holdings in the museum. She referred to a review of a recent exhibition at the Rosa Esman Gallery of Russian art in which Kramer wrote that there had not been a major museum with enough interest to organize a major exhibition of the Russian avant-garde. Since Barr had been the first person to take an interest in this subject, why not make MoMA the first museum to pioneer in this area?17 Following his approval, she prepared the catalogue and exhibition. The checklist for the show indicates that more than 100 works were included. It was an eclectic mixture of Russian art works that were already in the museum’s collection. Other than some work by Lissitzky, it did not appear

Cultural Diplomacy and the World of Tomorrow  115 to be focused on constructivism but the show was identified as the Russian avant-garde. Hilton Kramer, the erstwhile reviewer for the New York Times, begins his review of this show with a discussion of how curators on both sides of the Atlantic would like to have a show about the art of the revolution, now that it was 60 years past, and they were trying to arrange to borrow work from Russian museums. The Soviet Union was still refusing to lend most of these works making such an exhibition impossible. The relatively good news was that the Pompidou Center in Paris was planning to follow its Paris-Berlin exhibition with a Paris-Moscow exhibition merely a few months in the future. Even better news existed at the present moment: “Revolution: Russian Avant-Garde 1912-1930,” an illuminating exhibition, had just opened at MoMA where it would remain on view for two months. Also, in 1978, an exhibition of the work of Malevich and other Suprematists (Malevich and his Circle) took place at the Rosa Esman Gallery. The year was the centenary of his birth and the show was labeled an anniversary tribute. Kramer’s review is positive but also sad as he describes the changes that took place in Malevich’s work in the later 1920s.18 It is also interesting to see that an exhibition of Russian art was being planned for the University of Minnesota art gallery in October but as a prelude, it was now showing “Stage Design and the Russsian Avant-Garde,” featuring the work of more than 30 artists whose styles ranged from cubism to constructivism.19 It should be no surprise that the exhibition history thins out at this time and was temporarily interrupted by WWII; art continues and exhibitions after the war ends will make the art of the 1930s and 1940s come alive while demonstrating the impact of pre-war emigration and post-war diplomacy. Yet, although we haven’t visited many new exhibitions in the 1930s, one outstanding event did come at the end of the 1930s with implications for the role of cultural diplomacy, expectations about the integration of art with the natural external environment, and the role of architecture as an exhibition strategy: this can all be traced to the 1939 NYWF. Based on existing photos and written descriptions, along with the lively description provided by the adolescent narrator of E. L. Doctorow’s novel, World’s Fair,20 we can visualize an expansive setting in which few buildings match our standard rectangular expectations for buildings – many of the buildings curved in unusual ways and one building appropriately looked like a steam liner, the boulevards were populated with large statues of people dressed differently, along with a tree of life sculpted from a tree, and art deco style sculpture, fountains were everywhere, and everything was color coded. A 20th century and urban version of Wonderland or quite simply an exotic world’s fair that was probably the first one for most of the 1939 visitors? Then, of course, there was the auditorium with seats fixed to a track that rotated past a model view of the future with constructions of houses and streets and a world of tomorrow, miniaturized but looking enough like the world of then to be believable. More than anything else, this was a fair of hyperbole, a fair which, while pretending to exalt the future, really exalted size, or to be exact, numbers; thus, the large cash register ticking off the number of visitors. The NYWF perfectly embodied the presumed success of capitalism, which might make it difficult to believe that the Soviet Union agreed to participate, particularly after a period of abstention from world expositions imposed by Stalin when he assumed leadership. But the time was right to return to the international arena as European countries were intent on establishing a united front against Hitler.21 It appears that our first exhibition for this new decade – one which has far fewer exhibitions than previously – will be a large exposition in which capitalism and socialism, or more accurately democracy and communism, infused the fair experience with both cultural diplomacy and propaganda.

116  Cultural Diplomacy and the World of Tomorrow The fair’s hyperbole was essentially an affirmation of the American way of life to a world on the brink of war and to a country that had spent the past decade struggling out of its most severe depression. The ostensible theme of the fair, “the World of Tomorrow,” subsumed a more propagandist theme of showing the world that democracy – and capitalism – worked. What is remarkable about this fair is the way every aspect seemed coordinated to communicate this message, from the theme center’s “Democracity” to the exhibition of American Art Today. The art contributed to this message in several ways, not the least of which were the process of organization of the exhibition and the reactions of critics who hoped to find in the show proof of America’s coming of age in the arts. Ironically, the democratic spirit that infused the art exhibition, if not all the fair’s art, may have undermined the vitality and the viability of the art itself (in the eyes of some critics). Before we can fully engage with the art and architecture of the pavilions and sculpture of the fair, and examine the Soviet pavilion and its impact on visitors, several issues demand attention: the expansion of cultural diplomacy during the 20th century and the larger cultural context for the NYWF. The 1930s began with a loss of belief and ended on a brief note of optimism. The fair, in its celebration of capitalism and technology, mirrored this optimism as well as the 1930s’ emphasis on popular culture. At the same time, the fair, further reflecting the ambience of the 1930s, found itself caught in what Alice Goldfarb Marquis has described as the “Janus-vision” of the times – an apt description for the intertwined conflicts between high and mass culture, between a retrograde turning to the past in order to supply a vision of the future, and between a capitalist, individualist ethos and a communal, democratic version of Marxism.22 The decade of the “people,” as it was known, invested much of its intellectual spirit in the twin notions of culture and community.23 Culture did not imply a particularized view of American life so much as it did a picture of its patterns and norms. Thus, Warren I. Susman tells us that Gallup established the American Institute of Public Opinion in 1935 and the “American Dream” entered common language in that decade. And for better or for worse, mass culture became a reality in the 1930s. The technology versus culture debate became a debate about the quality of life and the loss of community – the yearning for community was neither radical nor conservative and was, in fact, shared by Marxists and conservatives alike.24 Ultimately, this becomes a quest for a usable past, or the features of a nation that could be found in handmade clothing, provincial politics, regional farming, and writers and artists who evoked the life of the common masses and the farms and the plains. In this light, it might not be surprising that the popularity of the Soviet expos of handicrafts at the end of the 1920s outweighed that of exhibitions of Soviet realistic art. For intellectuals such as Malcolm Cowley, Harold Stearns, and others, the search for a usable past led to a “rediscovery” of America, or at least of its folkways.25 This search may also help to explain the popularity not only of Bakst’s stage designs but also his textile designs with their incorporation of native American patterns. Of course, we cannot overlook the role of the Works Progress Administration (WPA) Federal Arts Project in documenting and recording the American heritage. Perhaps it is more surprising that museums such as the new MoMA abetted this search for roots, beginning in 1932 with an exhibition of American folk art (the Art of the Common Man in America 1750–1900) and continuing throughout the decade with shows of American “primitives.” This interest, however, would also make Soviet Socialist realism more popular, in particular because realism was popular among artists with communist affiliations (such as members of the John Reed Club who formed an organization of “unemployed” artists). Regardless of any commitment to communist

Cultural Diplomacy and the World of Tomorrow  117 ideals, the appeal of the socialist realist orientation in art was strengthening. Critics likewise began to crusade for an art that reflected “the flow of common experiences” without being so conservative that it overlooked modern tendencies.26 Here we find another Janus vision: if a regional art, such as American scene painting, celebrates the American landscape but ignores the advancements of modern European art, what does that say about the American style? Indeed, the machine age aesthetic placed American artists in a difficult position – whereas Heap described the engineer as the true artist of the late 1920s, sculptors rejected the look of machines and criticized machine technology as being responsible for the impoverishment of culture.27 Two events intervene and contribute to the re-envisioning of sculpture: the population of émigrés already living in New York, which was about to become much larger as increased numbers of Europeans emigrated to New York prior to the start of WWII, and the influence of art and architecture at the NYWF. It is tempting to look at the confluence of these factors as a form of unofficial cultural diplomacy. Generally enacted by national governments for the purpose of foreign policy, and defined as an “exchange of ideas, information, art and other aspects of culture between countries to improve mutual understanding,” there is a long history of official or formal cultural diplomacy,28 one that involves ambassadors or government officials, museums, artists, and traveling exhibitions. The question, of course, is who sets the agenda when both politics and art are involved? Why do museums get involved? We have already seen that the Russian and then Soviet governments played a major but changing role in determining what art might be shared with other countries. At the same time, it is not always possible for the exhibition visitor to know who has made the decision about what art can and will be shared, what is not being shared, and why that decision has been made. What power did the curator have? Russian artists already in this country prior to the NYWF and noted for abstract developments included Archipenko, Naum Gabo, Ibram Lassaw, Ilya Bolotowsky, and Saul Baizerman (among others), some of whom had work included in the 1926 Société Anonyme’s International Exhibition of Modern Art and were also included in a 1931 exhibition at the new Whitney Museum. In December 1927, Gallatin’s Gallery of Living Art opened, followed by MoMA in 1929, and the Whitney Museum of American Art in 1931. Whereas the latter two did not consistently take positions promoting American abstraction in their early years, they did not rule out the inclusion of abstract artists in exhibitions. In 1939, MoMA mounted a large exhibition in honor of its tenth anniversary, the opening of its new and permanent building, and the start of the NYWF. Organized chronologically and either by American or national origins, with photographs of all the work but no listing of all the artists’ names, it is possible to determine that while the emphasis is certainly on representational art, American and French artists are represented more than any others but quite a few abstract artists were also included. Russian-born artists in this exhibition included Kandinsky, Pavel Tchelitchew, Chagall, Baizerman, and Gabo. At this time, although Barr did have photographs of work by other Russian artists, it appears that he did not hold the originals yet. One of the first biennial exhibitions at the Whitney Museum (1933–1934) did include work by Boris Aronson, Baizerman, and Lozowick in a large biennial exhibition that was not juried.29 Gallatin was more committed to a focus on abstraction as was evident in 1936 with a show called “Five Contemporary American Concretionists: Biederman, Calder, Ferren, Morris and Shaw,” along with Calder’s art that he was purchasing for his gallery. That year, 1936, also marked the formation of the American Abstract Artists consisting of

118  Cultural Diplomacy and the World of Tomorrow both sculptors and painters.30 To be sure, other abstract artists from eastern and western Europe were already in this country and included in these shows, and their presence, along with the New Deal opportunities for artists to interact and share new techniques and styles, created a community that was likely to be receptive to the often radical and technological developments taking place in Soviet art at the time of the fair. Seemingly they already were receptive to these ideas but sometimes attributing them to international constructivism rather than Russian. In this light, it will be interesting to see what the USSR chose to send to the fair, and simultaneously, how the fair corporation communicated its goals. In late October 1935, an official NYWF Corporation existed with a board of directors consisting mostly of businessmen and bank presidents. Its composition clearly reflected the fair’s commercial priorities. However, the Corporation sought to cloak its priorities in a nobler message about democracy and the future. As one journalist optimistically noted before the fair opened, the theorists wanted “to show that democracy is the form of government best suited for maximum utilization, to stress the ‘interdependence of man,’ the necessity of cooperation between their separate special skills.”31 Praise for democracy now included praise for machines as well. By 1939, much of the negative feeling regarding machine technology had begun to dissipate as its critics realized its potential for improving the lifestyle of the average person. These same critics called for the fair to demonstrate the ways in which technology could be used for the improvement of humanity: Above all else the fair must stress the vastly increased opportunity and the developed mechanical means which this twentieth century has brought to the masses for better living and accompanying human progress. Mere mechanical progress is no longer an adequate or practical theme for a World’s Fair; we must demonstrate that super-civilization that is based on the swift work of machines, not on the arduous toil of men.32 The messages of democracy and the value of machines guided the planning of the fair. The theme committee agreed that central to the fair would be an examination of the role of the machine in human activity and in relation to “ideas of cultural lag and national character, and in terms of its place in the community of the future.”33 The fair was then organized by seven thematic sectors ranging from Production and Distribution to Education and Community Interests. It was also planned to have the neoclassical and geometric forms of a Perisphere and Trylon as symbols of the fair. According to Grover Whalen, the president of the Corporation, the Perisphere and Trylon represented “the Greek idea of beauty and harmony with the Gothic conception of reaching ever upwards for a better world.”34 This may seem an odd statement to make for a fair that was committed to building the future. It was a grandiose plan and vision but one intended for the average person as Robert Kohn, the theme chair, liked to reiterate. But is it possible that the iconic Perisphere and Trylon had another source besides classical Greek aesthetics and that the emphasis on common people was not solely a commercial emphasis but one with spiritual origins? Hilla von Rebay would have us believe that the answer to these questions is yes. A painting by Rudolf Bauer, the Holy One, made in 1936, is identified by Rebay as the inspiration for the NYWF theme center. The image is certainly convincing (Figures 5.1 and 5.2). The work was included in the Art of Tomorrow, the Fifth Catalogue for the Solomon R. Guggenheim Collection of

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Figure 5.1 Trylon and Perisphere, New York World’s Fair, 1939, Samuel H. Gottscho, credit: Artokoloro/Alamy Stock Photo

Non-objective Paintings (the first name for what would eventually be the Guggenheim museum and despite, the number on the catalogue, the first, albeit temporary, “temple of non-objectivity”).35 In her introduction to the catalogue, Rebay writes about the “power of spiritual rhythm” in the creation of non-objective art. She proceeds to explain the role of non-objectivity in the new “isms” of art before concluding with a statement about the development of a genius, Rudolf Bauer, many of whose works were included in the exhibition. The history of the Guggenheim Museum is as much of a conundrum as the actual building itself, and Rebay’s role in this evolution is no less confusing. Hilla von Rebay, a German-born artist member of an aristocratic family (therefore the von is legitimate), developed many contacts with European artists before moving to New York in 1927. Her interest in abstraction, or more accurately, non-objective art, stimulated her writing and interest in the works of Kandinsky, Bauer (who became her lover), and other artists whose work she would eventually encourage Guggenheim to include in his collection. One of her first accomplishments, prior to her work on founding a museum, was to advise Solomon R. Guggenheim to turn his collection away from old masters and toward non-objective painting or the “art of tomorrow.” She soon began developing a proposal for a temple, the word she preferred to museum, of non-objectivity. She had ideas for what it should look like, the colors to be painted on the walls, music that might be played in the gallery rooms, things that could be done besides looking at art, and interior lighting. This was developed before she had involved Guggenheim but his involvement was central to her plan, along with a location in New York, as she did not believe that any other location would be amenable to a collection of non-objective art. One of the earliest proposals for the museum came from Wallace K. Harrison who saw

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Figure 5.2 Rudolf Bauer, The Holy One (Red Point), 1936. Oil on canvas. 51 3/8 × 51 3/8 inches (130.5 × 130.5 cm). Solomon R. Guggenheim Founding Collection, By gift. 37.170; photo credit: The Solomon R. Guggenheim Foundation/Art Resource, NY. © Copyright Weinstein Gallery, San Francisco, CA and ART Resource, NY

the museum as part of a mall that would connect Radio City Hall to MoMA (Rockefeller plaza is part of this area today). At that time, the Rockefellers did not own the land in the plan and the plan was dropped. In the mid-1930s, Rebay and the Guggenheims planned an exhibition of his collection to take place in Charleston, South Carolina, at the Gibbs Memorial Art Gallery. The catalogue for this exhibition was referred to as the first catalogue, and it included her essay on non-objectivity as the art of the future and her belief that it was the destiny of humanity to move from the material to the spiritual. Kandinsky was included in this exhibition and in the second exhibition which took place in Philadelphia. By 1937, Guggenheim had officially established a foundation and named Rebay as the curator of this collection.36 Following these earliest exhibitions and the NYWF, the first temporary location of the museum was in a commercial building on East 54th street in NYC where it remained just short of ten years. Visitors such as Alfred Barr and Emily Genauer liked the space but not the collection, with the exception of the work of Kandinsky. After 1947, Rebay began to focus on the museum again given her desire to have it completed before Guggenheim’s death. Rebay approached architects and eventually believed that Kiesler would be good for this job. She also asked Edmund Körner to collaborate with Kiesler on the plan. After Kiesler designed the gallery for the Art of this Century for Peggy Guggenheim, Rebay felt betrayed (by Peggy) and no longer wanted him to be involved. At this point, she began to engage in an exchange of letters and ideas with Frank Lloyd Wright who did become the architect of the permanent building for the Guggenheim Museum.37 A final note here about Rebay and the museum: her contributions have long been overlooked and often seem contradictory. Her focus on spirituality set her apart from other developments in art history, especially when French modernism was central; her role in the Foundation was written out to some extent as the Foundation tried to make her less important and some of the work she collected for the Foundation was relegated to basement storage or deaccessioned. Although there were several Russian

Cultural Diplomacy and the World of Tomorrow  121 artists whose work interested her, when it came to the collection she worked on, Russian art apart from that of Kandinsky was a small part. In general, the earliest exhibition lists from the catalogues of the temple of non-objectivity do not support seeing the eventual Guggenheim Museum as having a strong interest in Russian art until the 1990s – when it will mount large shows of Russian art and basically brand itself as a giant in the world of Russian art exhibitions.38 Back at the NYWF: Democracity was especially planned for the “average person,” designed as it was to provide a panorama of the community of the future, made possible by the people themselves, who would be seen in projections working to build the new future as they marched to musical accompaniment, singing together.39 Whereas Kohn’s choral metaphor emphasized the collective, he might have chosen to emphasize process, a theme that humanizes machines since they must be operated by people and demonstrates that when corporations responded to what customers want, they have the illusion of participating in the development of the product. In addition to evoking Marx, this dual emphasis on process and collective reminds us of the complete Russian constructivist manifesto as written by Aleksei Gan – if not the Russian language version then its influence on Kiesler’s Americanized version. Gan’s manifesto was based on debates and discussions held by the First Working Group of Constructivists as they tried to define three concepts that would be a defining triad of principles for constructivism. The group met in 1921 and did not always arrive at full agreement on the definitions but Gan’s book is the most complete definition of the terms. Without reviewing all three definitions, the one I want to focus on here as being of most relevance to the events of 1939 is tektonika (tectonics, or ideological forces erupting in the artistic product). In its connection to social conditions in the real world, tektonika will be an essential part of the constructivist transition. This term has always been the most difficult to define in large part because Gan, the theorist who defined it, used a geological explanation related to violent eruptions from the earth.40 In non-geological terms, the concept strongly suggested that the development of media and products of any type must be connected to the social and ideological beliefs of the period in which they were made and the people who would use them. With respect to the fair, this would imply not only the themes of capitalism and democracy but also the approach to planning the buildings, their look and structures, and the complete social/aesthetic environment. Both the idea of process and the theme of the people pervaded the art programs at the fair which intended to incorporate art into its every aspect. This was an “art-minded” fair in which color would be united with functional architectural design, huge murals would compete with those in mosaic, sculptures would be seen along the esplanades, and trees, hedges, and flowers would accent the buildings and create vistas.41 This rather commanding attitude toward nature meant that flowers and plants had to be chosen on the basis not only of their colors but also what they faded to; it might remind us of the role of nature at Versailles, with a difference: this was a goal of making aesthetic use of the past and present as “stepping stones to a much better future.”42 Thus, we see that the Board of Design exerted a great deal of control, giving or denying approval for buildings, exhibits, and commissioned sculpture. However, it did not control a separate exhibition of American art because it did not plan to have one. This oversight was not favorable to artists or art critics or museums, especially when the Board indicated that New York museums should each plan separate exhibitions, rejected by the present museum directors. The Board did eventually capitulate “because the artists of America asked for it, fought to get it, and won it.”43 American Art Today was planned to be an exhibition

122  Cultural Diplomacy and the World of Tomorrow of as much of the artistic activity in the U.S. as possible, ranging from advanced to conservative schools, representing all regions, and democratically selected. Regional selection committees would receive and vote on art submitted to their region, and guidelines were provided for the number of votes to guarantee acceptance, reject something, or give it another chance. Voting was done using electronic machines. Of 25,000 submitted works, 1200 were accepted and most but not all of them were representational. Generally, critics’ responses to the exhibition tended to focus more on the process used than the art, whether or not they admired it. One positive response asserted that the democratic process produced a show that “looks like America itself,” while another claimed that the democratic aspect of the show allowed the committee to sidestep “the tyranny of academies, salons and art world politics.”44 Negative comments complained that it was no different from electing senators but in this case to the wall, and the show produced a dead “mean” level.45 In addition to art in the exhibition and on display in pavilions, sculptures were also commissioned for the grounds. Because the fair was commemorating the inauguration of George Washington in 1789, a large 60-foot tall statue of Washington ruled over Constitution Mall. Some works were more metaphorical and art deco dominated many of them but the most abstract or unusual works were commissioned by corporations. Ford Motor Company rejected a conventional fountain in favor of a chassis fountain designed by Isamu Noguchi. Calder designed a water ballet fountain for Con Edison. Five sculptors who were not accepted for American Art Today but submitted work to a plexiglass competition won with abstract entries that evoked international constructivism or the influences of Gabo, Pevsner, and Moholy-Nagy. Nonetheless, it should be noted that the most innovative work at the fair was the architecture. Due to land conditions, the buildings could not be very tall but they could make up for the weight limits with spires and towers of unusual shapes emphasizing the themes of their buildings. This discussion of the fair began with a reasonably enthusiastic description of the fair from the perspective of a visitor who was probably there for personal enjoyment. Not much later, but at the beginning of the fair’s second year, we find Wyndham Lewis writing a different sort of observation. He was in New York for a lecture tour and unable to return to Britain due to the outbreak of European hostilities. He commented on the incongruities of experiencing a world’s fair when a world war was beginning and how the knowledge of this contradiction would impact the visitor’s perceptions of what they were seeing or even thinking about – for a visitor who might have experienced another war, the sculptures and exhibits would evoke more than the first glance might suggest as some images morphed into memories of war and trauma. In short, would they experience a fair or relive a war?46 We recall that the fair began optimistically after the Great Depression had ended and it chose a utopian theme of the world of tomorrow which it attempted to communicate through everything at the fair. By year two, the world was changing but the fair continued although it attempted to offer a picture of the past, based on American identity and crafts, art, and folklore, and to promote peace and freedom.47 This change in the world could only impact the plans of the fair corporation but a few studies of the fair have addressed this. One of the most obvious changes is that not all the countries or corporations involved in year one returned for year two. The Soviet Union, in fact, did not return, which ironically brings us to the rather spectacular entrance made by the Soviet Union in the first year of the fair. On April 27, 1939, Vladimir Kokkinaki, a pilot, accompanied by a navigator, took off from Moscow heading for New York. They did not make it and had to crash-land in New

Cultural Diplomacy and the World of Tomorrow  123 Brunswick where Canadians rescued them and assisted them in getting to New York. There they were greeted by a large crowd, including the Soviet ambassador Konstantin Umanskii48 and American representatives from the fair corporation. The Soviet Union had committed quickly to the fair, in part because of the rising hostilities in western Europe and to communicate its intentions of promoting peace. It was also a diplomatic move in light of the relatively recent recognition of the USSR by the U.S. (in 1933).49 Numerous newspaper reviews commented on the Soviet pavilion and exhibitions. Without knowing the general ambience of the fair, it would probably be impossible to fairly judge the Soviet contributions without seeing them as ostentatious and overly propagandist. Before viewing the building, we might want to join in an event to which a hundred American architects were invited. Sponsored by the American-Russian Institute, the group was addressed by one of the two architects who had designed the pavilion: Karo S. Alabian was the speaker, and Boris Iofan was the other architect. Alabian reported that their challenging task was to design a building that would acquaint people who did not know much about the Soviet Union with the life, work, and achievements of that country.50 Several articles focused on the opening itself. Following a speech by ambassador Constantine Oumansky, at the official opening, visitors observed that this pavilion was one of the largest and most impressive structures, more than 100,000 square feet in area. The building was semicircular in plan and dominated in the front by a 250-foot tall shaft of red marble. This was the same marble that had been used for Lenin’s tomb in Moscow. At the top of the shaft stood a stainless steel statue of a Russian worker holding an illuminated red star. Because the height of the statue reached 79 feet, there was (at a later date) a debate about whether the red star was higher than the American flag at the fair. At this time, the writer observed a huge painting in the entrance hall, 30 by 53 feet, with scenes of contemporary Russian life. Also noted (here and in several other articles) was a map which weighed seven tons due to the minerals and stones on its surface. The next day was scheduled to have speeches by British and American speakers along with a chorus.51 The official opening by Oumansky made news in most papers, all of which generally commented on the “towering statue of a worker” and the impressive guests who attended the opening. The May 18 article in the New York Herald Tribune also included a photograph of the front of the pavilion and the statue.52 In addition to praise and excitement about the pavilion, some articles dwelled on interesting features of the Soviet exhibits. At least two articles referred to the models of theaters and stage settings that were included. This exhibition reflected the reality in Russia that theater was a mass movement. Models of 29 stage settings taken from plays performed by the most popular theaters in the Soviet Union, fully lit and with props, mechanized to demonstrate movement, and in some cases with miniaturized models performing, demonstrated the skills of people who worked in theater along with the aid these theaters received from the government.53 Another article stated that the Soviet pavilion, “with its massive and majestic splendor, is the epitome of the union of the Soviet Socialist Republics.” The article goes on to note that “the hundreds of exhibits describe in minute detail the rapid growth and progress of the U.S.S.R.” from the revolution up to the present. This article also observes that people who worked in the pavilion were well treated and could be seen enjoying themselves when not hard at work.54 The article opened with several photographs of people in uniforms, standing and looking like they were at work, or seated and eating with friends. In addition to the towering worker and red star, which did not rise higher than the flag, the Soviet pavilion also included a reconstruction of a subway station.

124  Cultural Diplomacy and the World of Tomorrow We have begun to consider a few exhibitions that come in the 1970s, an exhibition phase that will be very different from the patterns, themes, and goals of exhibitions up to WWII and especially in the 1920s. As we prepare to move on, some observations may provide a framework for the next part of our journey. The middle of the 20th century was dominated by the curatorial goals of American museums and collectors. It is impossible to overlook the contributions of Alfred Barr. In the late 1920s, before he became the director of the soon-to-be-founded MoMA, he traveled to Russia, met with numerous artists of the avant-garde, photographed or bought their work, and brought it back to the U.S. His collection became the basis for the initial MoMA collection of Russian art and the inspiration for numerous American artists and later exhibitions planned by MoMA curators. Although he was involved with MoMA from its beginning, his true contributions to this exhibition history come in the 1970s with first, a small exhibition devoted to Rodchenko in 1971 primarily consisting of photographs, non-objective paintings, some book covers, and advertisements. Although these early exhibitions at MOMA can hardly be called outstanding moments in the history, they do reveal the start of a new tendency: that of certain museums to begin branding themselves as holders of Russian art collections. Barr also anticipates some of the earliest attempts to plan loan exhibitions in which American art works would be lent to Soviet museums in exchange for Soviet art works traveling to American. An interesting history in its own right, most of these attempts failed for a variety of reasons, including agreement on which works would be exchanged, and guarantees that everything would be returned.55 At the same time, there is another development: the involvement of smaller, regional museums. One example is the 1978 exhibition called The Art of Russia 1800–1850 planned by the University Gallery of the University of Minnesota.56 Working with the support of the Ministry of Culture in Moscow, the Tretiakov Gallery in Moscow, the State Russian Museum, the Hermitage Museum in St. Petersburg, and other Russian museums, it also had support from the National Endowment for the Humanities, and Minnesota senators. The exhibition was planned in line with a concept developed at the University of Minnesota Gallery to coordinate exhibitions with courses and other events as part of a “humanistic” teaching program. In addition, there were outstanding cultural organizations in the Twin Cities that would be able to contribute to a festival of Russian arts made in conjunction with the involvement of Soviet designers, dancers, and so on. The complete catalogue included black-and-white photographs of almost all the works in the exhibition and several color plates, text articles in both English and Russian, and close to 150 works, including paintings and decorative arts. The 1970s are a puzzling period in this exhibition history. The Ministry of Culture was involved in most of the exhibitions at this time, as John E. Bowlt tells us in a review he wrote of an exhibition of Russian and Soviet Painting in the San Francisco Arts Museum and the Metropolitan Museum in NYC.57 A comprehensive show which spanned the period from the 15th century to the 1970s, museum officials from the American museums had to deal initially with a bureaucrat in the ministry before they could work with Russian museum staff. This was also a period of reconstructions of earlier shows that had taken place in European cities and in the growing involvement of galleries in sales that focused on avant-garde European and Russian artists. Galleries were not exempt from Ministry oversight which did on occasion object to the display of abstract art works, calling them decadent.58 The two most significant exhibitions of this post-war period span the coasts. One was held at the Guggenheim, perhaps unwittingly marking the beginning of what will be its new branding activities: Art of the Avant-Garde in Russia: Selections from the George

Cultural Diplomacy and the World of Tomorrow  125 Costakis Collection. As this was Costakis’ personal collection, no oversight was imposed. Held at the Guggenheim in 1981, its large and revised catalogue was published in 1983. The catalogue, and I assume the show as well, was divided into seven sections by style or artists’ associations. This meant that some artists were included in more than one section. In addition to paintings and drawings, the exhibition included textile designs and set designs by Ekster, Popova, and Vialov. The catalogue also contains historic photographs from early exhibitions and photographs of works that could not be included in the exhibition. Every movement was introduced by a detailed text, making this catalogue not only the first to establish the Guggenheim as the producer of large and important exhibitions of Russian art but also the home of the encyclopedic catalogue. The show was widely praised, in some cases for its inclusion of work that had been unknown in the west. The catalogue was praised, along with the exhibition, for synthesizing knowledge and focusing intensively on several key figures and issues. This observation was offered as a contrast between the exhibition of the Costakis collection and the other leading exhibition of almost the same time: an exhibition held first at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art and then at the Hirshhorn in Washington, D.C., The Avant-garde in Russia 1910–1930: New Perspectives (1980), a show that was criticized for being more of a survey with an extensive sweep that added little to what people already knew. 59 By the 1980s, several significant changes must be noted. The exhibition network had expanded to include the west coast and Los Angeles museums as well as museums in the center of the country. Exhibitions were generally planned to take place at more than one museum. These exhibitions reveal a new interest in defining the styles of the avant-garde, emphasizing the revolutionary nature of this art, and in some cases, including performances or reenactments of Russian revolutionary theater from the 1920s and 1930s. At the Guggenheim, for example, 1981 saw a one-day fashion show, including recreations of clothing designed by Popova, Ekster, and other designers, a film series featuring Protozanov and Vertov, and an evening of constructivist theater with a reenactment and reconstruction of Magnanimous Cuckold. Leading critics, art historians, novelists, artists, and other notables received complementary copies of the exhibition catalogue.60 It is also important to note that exhibitions at this time were now based on Russian works in western collections and were therefore not likely to be constrained by restrictions imposed by the Russian Ministry of Culture. Exhibitions were becoming more frequent, more accessible to different areas of the country and larger, and viewers’ expectations were increasing. Soviet ministries were not creating the image of Russia and the Soviet Union; these images were now in the hands of American museums and visitors. Simultaneous with this new tendency to include performances in these exhibitions, we also begin to see exhibitions devoted to theatrical costumes and scenery, as collected in the form of artists’ sketches and designs by several collectors who focus on Russian theater and reconstructions of stage sets. Theatre in Revolution: Russian avant-garde Stage Design 1913–1935 is a good example of this interest in theatrical design. Planned at the Fine Arts Museum of San Francisco in 1991, the Bakhrushin State Central Theatrical Museum of Moscow was involved in the planning. The exhibition traveled to the IBM Gallery of Science and Art in NYC and then to the Armand Hammer Museum of Art and Cultural Center in Los Angeles. The catalogue included articles by both Russian and American scholars on topics ranging from the merchant class and the revival of culture, to dance and eccentrism in theater and constructivism. Before immersing ourselves in the post-war period of exhibitions, we should note a few other things about cultural changes. Although much has been written about the cold

126  Cultural Diplomacy and the World of Tomorrow war, far less has been written about the differences between American and Russian interests at this time.61 In Russia, the avant-garde was still not of interest and did not become so until western scholars began to make it a focus. By the end of the 1970s, the avantgarde was gaining sufficient international recognition to be considered a possible tool in cultural diplomacy, although resistance to abstraction took a long time to dissipate. But increased opportunities for international scholars to access Russian archives and Soviet collections created interest in Russia and in other countries and certainly facilitated the large Moscow-Paris exhibition of 1979 which must surely have inspired other exchanges between Soviet museums and other international museums. In the 1980s, although large American exhibitions of Soviet and Russian art were still being planned without Soviet involvement, this was beginning to change and will continue to do so in the 1990s. Notes 1. Facts and dates are provided on the Whitney.org website. 2. Rona Roob, “Alfred H. Barr, Jr.: A chronicle of the years 1902-1920,” special issue of the New Criterion, summer 1987, “Alfred Barr at the MOMA,” 1–19; Roob, “From the archives: Rodchenko in Russia with Abbott and Barr,” MoMA, 1 (June 1998), 31. Barr, “Russian Diary,” October, 7 (Winter 1978), 10–51. 3. Alfred Barr, “The Lef and Soviet Art,” reprinted in Irving Sandler and Amy Newman, eds., Defining Modern at: Selected Writings of Alfred H. Barr, Jr. (New York: Harry Abrams, 1986), p. 140. 4. Alfred Barr, “Is Modern Art Communistic?” New York Times, Dec 14, 1952, begins p. 22. Reprinted in Sandler and Newton, 214–219. 5. MOMA archives, Records of the Department of Public Information, Exhibition #9053, materials for the 1971 Rodchenko exhibition, and other items. 6. Related but not identical to the English facture but the Russian word is spelled faktura. 7. Alfred Barr, introduction, Cubism and Abstract Art (New York: Museum of Modern Art, 1936), quotations from p. 17. 8. Jewell, “Cubist Show Opens with Private View: “Exhibition at the Museum of Modern Art,” New York Times, Mar 3, 1935, p. 19. 9. Unsigned, “ART: Polemics in Russian Paintings,” New York Times, Dec 30, 1931, p. 26. 10. Hilton Kramer, “In Rodchenko Art Show, Echoes of Russian History,” New York Times, Feb 5, 1971, p. 24. 11. Kramer, “Art in the Service of Revolution,” New York Times, Feb 14, 1971, p. D23. 12. “Agitarting: Caroline Tisdall reviews of the exhibition of Soviet art and design at the Hayward Gallery,” The Guardian, Feb 26, 1971, p. 10. 13. Robin Campbell and Norbert Lynton, directors, Art in Revolution (London: Hayward Gallery, 1971). 14. Lewis, “Soviet Scores Art at Show in London,” New York Times, Feb 26, 1971, p. 22 and seen in the MoMA archives: AHB 8.IV.C.1–other reviews of this exhibition were also in the same archive. 15. Louis Chapin, “Russia on display in New York,” Christian Science Monitor Nov 8, 1971, p. 4, does not provide detail about whether the Hayward show in New York was identical to the London installation. 16. Elisabeth Stevens, “Soviet Art: Still a lot to learn,” Wall Street Journal, Oct 6, 1971, p. 16. 17. Dabrowski, memo to Lieberman, in MoMA archives, CUR Exh #1232. 18. Kramer, “Art View: The Influence of the Suprematists,” New York Times, Jan 22, 1978, p. D23. 19. Mike Steele, entertainment reviews, Minneapolis Tribune, May 7, 1978, p. 75. 20. Doctorow, World’s Fair (New York: Random House, 1985), pp. 254–255. 21. Anthony Swift, “The Soviet World of Tomorrow at the New York World’s Fair, 1939,” The Russian Review, 57: 3 (1988), 364–379. 22. Marquis, Hopes and Ashes (New York: Free Press, 1980), p. 193. 23. Warren E. Susman, “The Thirties,” in Stanley Coben and Lorman Ratner, eds., The Development of an American Culture (Englewood Cliffs: Prentice Hall, 1970), 179–218.

Cultural Diplomacy and the World of Tomorrow  127 24. I am condensing an argument that was the subject of a great deal of literature attempting to explain that period; here I refer to Richard H. Pells, Radical Visions and American Dreams (1973; Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press, 1984), pp. 25–26. 25. Alifred Haworth Jones, “The Search for a Usable American Past in the New Deal Era,” American Quarterly, 23 (1971), 710–724; Charles C. Alexander, Here the Country Lies (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 1980), pp. 154–155; 177; Holger Cahill, “American Resources in the Arts,” in Francis O’Connor, ed., Art for the Millions (Greenwich, CT: New York Graphic Society, 1973), pp. 36–37. 26. Thomas Craven, Modern Art, rev. ed., (1934; New York: Simon and Schuster, 1940). 27. Jeffrey Wechsler, “Machine Aesthetics and Art Deco,” in Joan M. Marter, Robert N. Tarbel, and Jeffrey Wechsler, eds., Vanguard American Sculpture, 1913–1939 (New Brunswick: Rutgers University, 1979), pp. 86–88. 28. Milton Cummings, cited in Natalia Grincheva, “Museum Diplomacy then and now,” in Grincheva, ed., Global Trends in Museum Diplomacy: Post-Guggenheim Developments (1st ed., Oxon and New York: Routledge online, 2019). 29. First Biennial Exhibition of Contemporary American Sculpture, Watercolors and Prints, Dec 5, 1933 to Jan 11, 1934, Whitney Museum of American Art, foreword by Juliana Force, director. The museum website has information related to exhibitions beginning in 1933; the catalogues are available online. 30. Joan M. Marter, “Developments in American Abstract Sculpture During the 1930s,” in Vanguard American Sculpture, p. 120. See also Marter, “Constructivism in America: The 1930s,” Arts Magazine, 56: 10 (June 1982), 73–80. 31. Bruce Bliven, Jr., “Fair Tomorrow,” New Republic, 97 (December 7, 1938), 120. 32. Statement made by an ad hoc Fair committee, quoted in Joseph P. Cusker, “The World of Tomorrow: Science, Culture, and Community,” Dawn of a New Day, curator: Helen A. Harrison (New York: Queens Museum and NYU Press, October 1, 1980), p. 4. 33. Cusker, “World,” p. 5. 34. Quoted and analyzed in Francis V. O’Connor, “The Usable Future: The Role of Fantasy in the Promotion of a Consumer Society for Art,” Dawn, (1st edition, 1980) p. 59. 35. One source for Art of Tomorrow catalogue, published in New York in 1939, is the exhibition catalogue for Hilla Rebay and the Museum of Non-Objective Painting, curated by Gary Snyder (New York: DC Moore Gallery, 2005). Joan M. Lukach, Hilla Rebay: In Search of the Spirit in Art (New York: George Braziller, 1983) discusses the beginning of the “temple” at the NYWF. 36. Lukach, Hilla Rebay, is a very complete collection of chronologically oriented essays covering Rebay’s development as an artist and as a leader in the development of the Guggenheim museum. Quite a few sources on Rebay exist today but Lukach is the most complete. 37. Obviously much more can be said about the evolution and eventual construction of this museum but one excellent resource is Karole Vail, ed., The Museum of Non-Objective Painting (New York: Guggenheim Museum, 2009), and a chapter in this book by Don Quaintance, “Erecting the Temple of Non-objectivity: The Architectural infancy of the Guggenheim Museum,” 179–221. The book contains many photos of the early versions of the museum and diagrams for its further development. Lukach contains letters written between Rebay and Wright. 38. My assessment is based on several articles about Rebay: Eleanor Heartney, “Hilla Rebay: Visionary Baroness,” Art in America 91 (September 2003), 112–117; Edward Leffingwell, “Rehabilitating Rebay,” Art in America 93 (December 2005), 120–122; Thalia Vrachopoulos and John Angeline, Hilla Rebay, Art Patroness and Founder of the Guggenheim Museum of Art (New York: Edward Mellen Press, 2005). 39. From a statement made by Kohn and reprinted in the New York Herald Tribune, World’s Fair Section, Apr 30, 1939, p. 6. 40. Aleksei Gan, Konstruktivizm (Tver: Tverskoe Izdatelstvo, 1922) and my article where I discuss this in more depth: “The Life of the Constructivist Theatrical Object,” Theatre Journal, 65 (2013), 72. 41. Helen A. Harrison, “Art for the Millions, or Art for the Market?” Remembering the Future (New York: Rizzoli, 1989), p. 137; Fair News Release from 1938 describing overall plans for the fair, included in the Elizabeth McCausland Papers, New York World’s Fair collection, Archives of American Art. 42. Bruce Bliven, “Fair Tomorrow,” p. 119. 43. Stuart Davis, letter to the editor, Nation, 149 (July 22, 1939), 112.

128  Cultural Diplomacy and the World of Tomorrow 44. Emily Genauer, quoted in “Critics Bless and Damn the Fair’s Contemporary American Exhibition,” Art Digest, 12 (June 1, 1939), 29; McCausland, “Living American Art,” Parnassus, 11 (May 1939), 17. 45. Howard Devree, “Art and Democracy,” Magazine of Art, 32 (May 1939), 270; and Christopher Lazare, “American Art at the Fair,” Nation, 149 (July 1, 1939), 23. 46. Lewis in 1940, cited in Marco Duranti, “Utopia, Nostalgia and World War at the 1939-40 New York World’s Fair,” Journal of Contemporary History, 41: 4 (2006), 663. 47. This change from utopia to nostalgia in light of WWII is the theme of Duranti’s “Utopia.” 48. Often written as Constantine Oumansky. 49. Swift, “The Soviet World of Tomorrow” provides this information about Soviet reasons for deciding to participate in the fair. His article is one of the few sources to focus specifically on the Soviet pavilion although it will get a lot of coverage in newspapers. 50. Unsigned, “Architects Entertained at the Soviet Pavilion,” New York Herald Tribune, Aug 15, 1939, p. 8. 51. Unidentified correspondent, “Russia at the World Fair: Opening of an Impressive Pavilion,” Manchester Guardian, May 18, 1939, p. 6. 52. Unsigned, “World’s Fair Soviet Pavilion, with Towering Statue of Worker, Opened by Oumansky,” May 18, 1939, p. 17. 53. Unsigned, “Model Stage Sets of Famous Soviet Plays Displayed at U.S.S.R. Pavilion at Fair,” Daily Worker, Aug 3, 1939, p. 7. 54. Unsigned, “Soviet Pavilion is One of Finest Exhibits to be Seen at World’s Fair,” New York Amsterdam News, Jul 22, 1939, p. 20. 55. Simo Mikkonen, “Soviet-American art exchanges during the thaw from bold openings to hasty retreats,” Eesti Kustimuuseumi Toimetised. Proceedings of the Art Museum of Estonia. Art and Political Reality (Kumu: Tallinn 2013), 56–73. 56. John Bowlt, Barbara Shissler, Frederick M. Jackson, Lyndel King, The Art of Russia, 1800–1850. (Minneapolis, MN: University Gallery, University of Minnesota Press, 1978). This exhibition before it opened was actually alluded to in a brief review by Steele of another exhibition at the University of Minnesota. 57. Alfred Bowlt, “Russian and Soviet Painting at San Francisco,” Burlington Magazine, 119: 894 (September 1977), 671. 58. Anthony Lewis, “Soviet Scores Art at Show in London,” New York Times, Feb 26, 1971, p. 22 in the Museum of Modern Art Archives, AHB 8.IV. C. 1. 59. Gerald Janacek in particular makes this point in his review in the Slavic and East European Journal, 27 (Spring 1983), 124–126. 60. Exhibition 377: Russian Avant-Garde events, list included in the Guggenheim Archives, Box 373–377. 61. Olga Olkhoft, “Re-conception of Russian Avant-garde art in the context of Cultural Cold War (1960s–1980s), thesis proposal and ASEEES presentation, 2020.

Chapter 5 Sources Alexander, Charles C., Here the Country Lies. Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 1980, 154–155; 177. Angeline, John David, “Reassessing Modernism: Katherine S. Dreier and the Société Anonyme,” Ph.D. diss., City University of New York, 1999. Barr, “Introduction,” In Cubism and Abstract Art. New York: Museum of Modern Art, 1936. Barr, “Is Modern Art Communistic?” New York Times, Dec 14, 1952, begins p. 22. Reprinted in Sandler and Newton, 214–219. Barr, “Russian Diary,” October, 7 (Winter 1978), 10–51. Barr, “The LEF and Soviet Art,” reprinted in Irving Sandler and Amy Newman, eds., Defining Modern At: Selected Writings of Alfred H. Barr, Jr. New York: Harry Abrams, 1986, 140. Bowlt, John E., Barbara Shissler, Frederick M. Jackson and Lyndel King, The Art of Russia, 1800–1850. Minneapolis, MN: University Gallery, University of Minnesota, 1978. Cahill, Holger, “American Resources in the Arts.” In O’Connor Francis, ed., Art for the Millions. Greenwich, CT: New York Graphic Society, 1973, 36–37.

Cultural Diplomacy and the World of Tomorrow  129 Campbell, Robin and Norbert Lynton, directors, Art in Revolution. London: Hayward Gallery, 1971. Cusker, Joseph P., “The World of Tomorrow: Science, Culture, and Community,” Dawn of a New Day. New York: Queens Museum and NYU Press, 1981. Grincheva, Natalia, “Museum Diplomacy Then and Now,” In Grincheva ed., Global Trends in Museum Diplomacy: Post-Guggenheim Developments, 1st ed., Oxon and New York: Routledge online, 2019. Harrison, Helen A., “Art for the Millions, or Art for the Market?” In Remembering the Future. New York: Rizzoli, 1989, 137. Heartney, Eleanor, “Hilla Rebay: Visionary Baroness,” Art in America, 91 (Sept. 2003), 112–117. Jones, Alifred Haworth, “The Search for a Usable American Past in the New Deal Era,” American Quarterly, 23 (1971), 710–724. Leffingwell, Edward, “Rehabilitating Rebay,” Art in America, 93 (Dec. 2005), 120–160. Lukach, Joan M., Hilla Rebay: In Search of the Spirit in Art. New York: George Braziller, 1983. Marquis, Alice G.., Hopes and Ashes. New York: Free Press, 1980. Marter, Joan, “Constructivism in America: the 1930s,” Arts Magazine, 56: 10 (1982), 73–80. Marter, Joan M., “Developments in American Abstract Sculpture During the 1930s,” In Vanguard American Sculpture. New Brunswick: Rutgers University Art Gallery, 1979, 120. McCausland, Elizabeth, Elizabeth McCausland Papers, New York World’s Fair collection, Archives of American Art. Mikkonen, Simo, “Soviet-American art exchanges during the thaw from bold openings to hasty retreats,” Eesti Kustimuuseumi Toimetised. Proceedings of the Art Museum of Estonia. Art and Political Reality. Kumu: Tallinn, 2013, 56–73. MOMA archives, Records of the Department of Public Information, Exhibition #9053, materials for the 1971 Rodchenko exhibition and other items. Mudrak, Myroslava M., “Russian Artistic Modernism and the West: Collectors, Collections, Exhibitions, and Artists,” The Russian Review, 58 (Jul. 1999), 467–481. Mudrak, Myroslava M. and Virginia Hagelstein Marquardt, “Environments of Propaganda: Russian and Soviet Expositions and Pavilions in the West.” In Gail Harrison Roman and Virginia H. Marquardt, eds., The Avant-Garde Frontier: Russia Meets the West, 1910–1930. Gainesville, FL: University Press of Florida, 1992, 65–101. Olkheft, Olga, “Re-conception of Russian Avant-garde art in the context of Cultural Cold War (1960s–1980s),” thesis proposal and ASEEES presentation, 2020. Pells, Richard H., Radical Visions and American Dreams 1973. Middletown, CT: Wesleyan Univ. Press, 1984, 25–26. Roob, Rona, “Alfred H. Barr, Jr.: A chronicle of the years 1902-1920,” special issue of the New Criterion, (Summer 1987), “Alfred Barr at the MOMA,” 1–19. ——— “From the Archives: Rodchenko in Russia with Abbott and Barr,” MoMA, 1 (Jun. 1998), 31. Rowell, Margit and Angelica Zander Rudenstine, Art of the Avant-Garde in Russia: Selections from the George Costakis Collection. New York: Guggenheim Museum, exhibition, 1981, revised catalogue 1983. Snyder, Gary, curator, Hilla Rebay and the Museum of Non-Objective Painting. New York: DC Moore Gallery, 2005. Susman, Warren E., “The Thirties.” In Stanley Coben and Lorman Ratner, eds., The Development of an American Culture. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice Hall, 1970, 179–218. Swift, Anthony, “The Soviet World of Tomorrow at the New York World’s Fair, 1939,” The Russian Review, 57: 3 (1988), 364–379. Vail, Karole, ed., The Museum of Non-Objective Painting. New York: Guggenheim Museum, 2009. Wechsler, Jeffrey, “Machine Aesthetics and Art Deco,” In Joan M. Marter, Robert N. Tarbel, and Jeffrey Wechsler, eds., Vanguard American Sculpture, 1913–1939. New Brunswick: Rutgers University, 1979.

6

Legacies, Branding, and New Beginnings

At this point, we have tangled with almost a full century of exhibitions and new museums. In many cases, the exhibitions we have visited were largely controlled by government policies. As these policies began to change, new ones were put in place. Some of these exhibitions were international in their planning and travels, but overall, we haven’t reviewed many international exhibitions to this point. They were beginning to increase in number and size but ran into a world war. As we and the world emerge on the other side of this war, a lot has changed, both in the dynamics of cultural diplomacy, attitudes toward art styles, and what a museum should be. Not very long ago (2020), an exhibition with the name of the Avant-Garde Museum was curated by Agnieszka Pindera and Jaroslaw Suchan at the Museum Stzuk-Lodz. The accompanying web site begins by stating that this was the first exhibition in the world that focused on four “extraordinary” museum initiatives: the Russian network of Museums of Artistic Culture, the Hanoverian Cabinet of Abstraction, the Société Anonyme, and the International Collection of Modern Art of the Polish avant-garde.1 Both the web site and catalogue explore the meaning of museums to the avant-garde, who, it might have been expected, would not have been in favor of museums as they opposed art made only to hang on a wall rather than art that engaged with the lives of the public. Yet, some of these avant-garde artists had been the ones to make proposals for museums for avant-garde art. Such museums would be places that collected new work not in order to preserve the past but in order to stimulate new forms of creative thinking, activating spectators, future artists, and industry to make changes. Thus, we might recall that Kiesler (as well as Lissitzky) developed new mechanisms to display art, rather than hanging it on the wall, and Kiesler, after his small experiment at Dreier’s “living room” exhibition in Brooklyn, went on to create a complete “television” room in the Anderson Galleries, where a projector would project different images. Rodchenko proposed an archival corner in his model Workers’ Club at the 1925 art expo in Paris, not for the display and passive contemplation of archival documents but for a visual plethora of art works related to a single person or idea, inviting viewers to create their own memorial portrait of that person. I begin this chapter with an unusual exhibition because it raises many questions about what an exhibition can and should be and invites us to look more deeply into the developments that took place between the end of WW II and the beginning of the 21st century. We must leave behind our decade by decade organization at this point merely because the number of exhibitions in the remaining years of the 20th century is daunting. Rather than following decades, a more overtly thematic approach makes sense as exhibitions coming near the end of the last century raise more questions about the goals of an exhibition than they do about differences in style, media, or decades. It is not that these issues vanish, but DOI: 10.4324/9781003247692-6

Legacies, Branding, and New Beginnings  131 that as collectors become more active and collections become larger, collections rather than museums and curators may become the decisive factors in exhibition planning. Of course, there will always be exceptions as some curators pursue challenging questions that cannot be answered by using one collection. There is one other factor that will influence this last set of exhibitions: increased research, increased availability of Russian archives to foreign researchers, and increased publications as the result of this new research. What this means is that Camilla Gray’s 1962 book, The Russian Experiment in Art and long the only English language source for an overview of Russian art, with the exception of Lozowick’s slim volume made to accompany Dreier’s exhibition, will no longer be the only sources available as publications increase and the authors of these new books begin to curate exhibitions. This doesn’t of course mean that Gray’s influence will vanish – many artists and historians still refer to her book as their introduction to world of Russian art. Some of these artists add Lodder’s book on Constructivism to their list of critical sources which continues to grow in the 21st century.2 Related more to attempts to establish relationships between the USSR and the U.S., we find a rather unusual exhibition in New York in 1959. The catalogue opens with a floor plan that might remind one of the layout of the 1939 fair (or other world expos): the two floors of the exhibition are divided into 12 thematic areas from industry and agriculture to culture and the well-being of the people. Not an art exhibition, it was intended to provide a picture of life in the Soviet Union and the advancements made in technology, medicine, and other areas of life. Reviews of the exhibition are apparently no less propagandist than the show was – some report that nothing in the show was cause to worry about American defense systems, another stated that the Russians believed that a tour of the exhibition (installed at the Coliseum) would tell people more about life in the Soviet Union than a trip would. Vice-president Richard Nixon and First Deputy Premier Frol R. Kozlov made speeches at the opening; both were printed in the New York Times. Another article reported that Kozlov had made a record-breaking non-stop flight from Moscow to New York in order to arrive at the exhibition (a feat that might remind us of the 1939 fair but was more successful this time). The one negative comment that showed up in the newspapers referred to complaints by the Soviets about Americans who were picketing outside the exhibition. Other articles noted that plans were underway for a comparable exhibition to be sent from America to Moscow.3 Based on the previous chapter, we see that the interest in exhibitions of Russian art from before the revolution was quite strong in the 1970s and continues to grow during the next decades. Several developments will dominate this trend. Many of the upcoming exhibitions distinguished themselves by including translations of archival documents written by the artists included in the exhibition, making catalogues an essential part of the learning experience for visitors and library collections of books on the Russian avant-garde. At the same time, exhibitions moved into the realm of spectacles – this was not unique to art exhibitions but was definitely apparent as it became more common to include reconstructions of work that could not travel because of size or fragility, fashion shows with models wearing clothing designed by the artists in the exhibition, performances of reconstructed constructivist theater events along with reinstallations of exhibitions from the pre-Soviet years, and cinematic screenings. In fact, exhibitions were becoming so large and multimodal that in some cases, reservations had to be made for the special events, and not everyone was invited to make a reservation. Many of these more recent exhibitions involved numerous museums and curators working together, and they were often designed to travel to many national and international museums. Some of

132  Legacies, Branding, and New Beginnings the themes that characterize these exhibitions may concern the reclamation or reinterpretation of artists, often due to the involvement of a collector with a focus on that artist, the interchange and recognition of Soviet and American art in exhibitions with that as their purpose, historic overviews (such as the Hayward gallery show or the MoMA 1978 exhibition), the impact of exhibition and museum theory, exhibitions or history for a special audience (often media related – exhibitions focused on architecture, books, and Jewish theater, as we have seen), and historic reinterpretations that go beyond the interests of a single collector (Jewish theater also falls into this category, as do exhibitions about the nonconformists, and re-examinations of Malevich and the Black Square). It should be no surprise that 2017 saw a large number of commemorative exhibitions, even if they were not specifically reviving a 1917 exhibition. There was a parade in Moscow in Red Square, although it was not specifically clear as to what it was celebrating.4 Specific centennial exhibitions did take place in the U.S. Given the occasional thematic emphasis on collectors, an article by Myroslava M. Mudrak on collectors and collections proves to be useful.5 Her article was a review of seven books that accompanied exhibitions and several books that were dedicated to the act of collecting Russian art. She begins with George Riabov and his long commitment to collecting a wide range of Russian art works which he eventually donated to the Zimmerli Art Museum (part of Rutgers University). Before doing so, he planned an exhibition entitled Survey of Russian Painting, Fifteenth Century to the Present in 1967, at the Gallery of Modern Art in New York, described by Mudrak as the “first comprehensive review of old and new Russian art ever mounted in the United States.” The catalogue text also makes this claim although it is difficult to determine just how accurate this assessment is. Socialist realism is included, and so are designs from the Ballets Russes. It also seemed to have some drawings by avant-garde artists but the catalogue is difficult to obtain and the pamphlet-sized version is not detailed enough to determine how complete the exhibition was. In 1990, Riabov made his donation and a catalogue was also made, The George Riabov Collection of Russian Art, which Mudrak describes as containing essays that provide rarely discussed perspectives – she notes that this collection is entirely based on works that were obtained outside of Russia. It seems from her description that the works may have been made while the artists were in Russia but they were found by Riabov in other centers of Russian modernism, including New York but primarily European cities. Riabov himself was an emigrant. Together with the Norton and Nancy Dodge collection, donated to Zimmerli just a few years later, the two collections bring together works that were not only dispersed or hidden but also would have been lost, making the Zimmerli into a key point for exhibitions of Soviet and Russian nonconformist and dissident art. Riabov also collected stage and costume designs and his collection was united with the Lobanov-Rostovsky collection of stage and costume design as well as the Oenslager collection to create a traveling loan exhibition, Russian Stage and costume designs for the ballet, opera, and theater, in 1967; the International Exhibitions Foundation circulated it for two years. While Dodge and Riabov have together made the Zimmerli into a premier resource for studying Russian art since the years of the avant-garde, private collectors have rounded out the study of Russian art through collections of fine art objects. Mudrak continues to examine studies of Russian/Soviet collectors and books which enlighten our understanding of how their collections influenced Russian artists. Mudrak then discusses some exhibitions and catalogues related to individual Russian artists who were not fully studied for a variety of reasons until the 1990s.

Legacies, Branding, and New Beginnings  133 There is one exhibition that implicitly relates to many of the afore-mentioned themes (apart from the individual collector) and seems like a good entry into this discussion. The Deconstructivist Architecture exhibition is a particularly interesting part of the more recent years of this exhibition history. Like many of the exhibitions we have examined, this one was not really about Russian art and included it only in the space of a preview gallery. Unlike many of them, this one did have a focus on architecture, and that focus will not be hard to find in the next several exhibitions after this one. In fact, one of the significant contributions of this show is the attention it did bring to the constructivist movement and architecture more specifically. Yet, it may have confused rather than clarified understanding of constructivist architecture through its neologism fusing constructivism and deconstruction. In contrast to some of the other exhibitions already discussed, there is an extensive archive regarding the formation of this show, the selection of its name and participants. These debates are accompanied by an equally extensive body of reviews, many of which focused more on the name of the show than its actual substance. As an exhibition which tried to pull together the historic strand of constructivism and postmodern developments in architecture, and likewise because of MoMA’s prior interest in identifying new movements and naming them, this is a particularly interesting exhibition.6 Based on exhibition photographs and the museum archives, at least 21 Russian art works were included in the first room of the exhibition.7 Several things are apparent from these photographs and the list of works: first, the walls of the opening room were painted a darker color than the walls of the other galleries in the exhibition with the exception of the wall leading into the next gallery. As if signaling a transition, this wall was lighter than the remainder of the Russian room and more consistent with the walls of the rooms devoted to contemporary architectural projects. Second, this room appears to have focused on paintings, with very few three-dimensional constructions. One was a work by Rodchenko hanging over the entry into the second room and the other appears to be a model of a kiosk, designed by Gustav Klutsis. As far as can be determined from the photographs, many of the paintings were by Rodchenko, Malevich, or Popova. The provisional outline for the front room lists several Suprematist compositions, some Cubo-futurist paintings, and a few architectonic painterly compositions, confirming that this was a room of Russian art but not exclusively constructivism and perhaps also confirming that these seemingly different styles shared a lot of commonalities. What seems apparent from these photographs, and will be reinforced by the reviews, is that the first room in the exhibition sought a “look” that the curators associated with constructivism, even if the actual works in the show were not constructivist. They could legitimately be called examples of the Russian avant-garde although they cannot be attributed to a single style and not all had to do with architecture. Perhaps this ambiguity was symbolically appropriate to an exhibition about a new style of architecture with which most people were not familiar at that point in time. Or perhaps the ambiguity was unintentional and reflected the reality that even 1988 was early for solid reflective exhibitions on Russian constructivism. We do have solid evidence that by this time, collectors (Dreier comes to mind) and historians alike had become familiar with international constructivism, not always recognizing that despite fortuitous similarities in the look of both international and Russian constructivism, they were not the same movement. Books and subsequent exhibitions will shortly contribute to the differentiation of these movements to the extent that it matters. We will see in later exhibitions about an international influence on geometric compositions in paining, the

134  Legacies, Branding, and New Beginnings difference between Russian and international constructivism may have mattered more to historians than artists. The subsequent two galleries of the exhibition contained drawings, models, and photographs of projects by seven international and contemporary architects: Rem Koolhaas, Bernard Tschumi, Frank Gehry, Peter Eisenman, Coop Himmelblau, Zaha Hadid, and Daniel Libeskind were represented, generally with multiple images for one project. Gehry was represented by two projects and Coop Himmelblau by four. The two rooms consisted of framed and mounted diagrams, elevation drawings, and photographs, along with architectural models and three-dimensional constructions that might have suggested visual parallels to the room of Russian art, even as they were likely to puzzle the architectural novice who would probably not have known how to read some of the constructions as architectural visions. Indeed, taken as a whole, the exhibition might have communicated a painterly and sculptural vision of a future informed by science fiction rather than architecture. Ironically, the overlap between science fiction in the pre-revolutionary years and architecture was deliberate and quite strong although it is not clear that the exhibition intended to make this analogy. There was little text throughout the show, other than names of the architects in each room. The only room with a wall-text panel was the first room which explained that “the projects in this exhibition mark the emergence of a new sensibility in architecture.” The description of what this new sensibility consists of draws attention to an impure, skewed geometry with its twisted volumes, warped planes and clashing lines seen in new works in the exhibition as well as early examples of the Russian avant-garde.8 Indeed, this look was also apparent at the 1939 NYWF which might make us wonder if there is a meaning to it that wasn’t exploited in the exhibition text but that did come through in the visuals and installations. Conversely, one might ask how did the ideological principles of constructivism result in this look when the artists themselves (especially Stepanova) said that constructivism is not a recognizable style. The show was difficult to ignore by anyone with an interest in architecture, and even before the show had opened, there was a remarkable amount of correspondence between the show’s curators and architects who either felt wrongfully excluded from the show or believed that their ideas had been “borrowed” without their permission.9 The show was widely attended and reviewed and it did have an impact – although even now, it is difficult to pinpoint this influence. None of the architects and studios included in the show were unknown or newcomers, many of them did not truly reference constructivism in their work, and much of the work in the show could easily have been described without the use of the poorly defined “deconstructivist” label. The catalogue essay itself seems to anticipate what Anthony Vidler later described as the “architectural uncanny.”10 If deconstructivist architecture was a prelude to the uncanny, was this show an attempt to give an ideological and theoretical cachet to something soon to be described with the use of psychoanalytic terminology? Or was it a more calculated but admittedly subversive attack on formalism and postmodernism? In either case, what did it hope to gain from the conflation of deconstruction and constructivism? Without the explicit inclusion of models or architectural drawings of constructivist architecture in the show or in the catalogue (in fact, some of the examples in the catalogue cannot be called examples of constructivism), the show may have succeeded in redefining the historical discourse about constructivism, a discourse which had been directed toward claims of spiritual affinities and used, at times, to promote a form of consumerism that would have been highly incompatible with the movement inspiring it – a valuable, albeit unintended, outcome. And another outcome perhaps intended in this case was a veritable focus in literature and

Legacies, Branding, and New Beginnings  135 museums on the new style of architecture, regardless of the name given to it, although deconstructivism was widely used. The archives provide a lot of material regarding the initial proposals and claims of who had the idea first. Among the earlier names proposed for the show, we find “Violated Perfection,” “neo-constructivism” (which will be used at a later date for a different show), and “technomorphic architecture.” These came up at the Century Club planning dinner and none commanded unanimous agreement as some were already under consideration by individuals for work they were doing at the time. Although the “violated perfection” title might have served both Aaron Betsky (on the planning committee) and Philip Johnson (director of architecture at MoMA) and later Mark Wigley (associate curator), their goals and visions were not identical. Whereas Betsky does reference the Russian avant-garde in the theoretical portion of his forthcoming book at the time, he does not relate to deconstruction and does not appear to have chosen the exemplars in his book for any suggestion of a relationship to constructivism (or Suprematism). For Betsky, constructivism and Suprematism (taken together, as a single movement) are, much like the Bauhaus, the romantic successor to the arts and crafts movement, admirable for a utopian interest in building a new world. With few historic or practical differentiations, he groups Leonidov, Tatlin, Melnikov, and unspecified “others” as engaging in the description of “a possible constructivist architecture: one representing itself as something made, a bricolage of industrial materials, an enigmatic and therefore magical object able to map unseen realms, an anthropomorphic machine whose fragmentary nature challenged the city’s status quo.”11 Betsky’s interest, as his book and terminology reveal, lay in a romantic modernism, dominated by metaphors of machines and technology and a willingness to violate a modernism which, in its exclusion of metaphors and anthropomorphism, seemed intent on excluding humanistic uses of architecture. Despite the absence of any definitive statement by either of the co-curators, Johnson or Wigley, pointing to a clear starting point for the exhibition, the catalogue essays shed only a little light on the goals of both curators. Johnson’s preface begins with a reminder of the 1932 exhibition of International Architecture and its goal of searching for and identifying a new style. The present exhibition, however, has no such goal because “deconstructivist architecture is not a new style.”12 He goes on to speak of a confluence in the works of several architects since 1980 and observes that whether the architects themselves were aware of it, similarities to the projects of the Russian constructivists were “obvious.” More specifically, he observes that the “similarity, for example, of Tatlin’s warped planes and Hadid’s is obvious. The ‘lin-ism’ of Rodchenko comes out in Coop Himmelblau and Gehry, and so on.” The essay is short and does not get much more specific than that – the connection Johnson is making appears to be a visual connection, one that is not based on shared ideas or philosophy. Complicating matters further, he then relates the look of these works to a photograph by Michael Heizer of a Nevada spring house from the 1860s that he describes as disturbingly jagged and deformed. In contrast to the perfection of the ball bearing used on the cover of the 1934 Machine Art exhibition at MoMA, the spring house violates perfection, and this is the link that Johnson finds in the seven architects in the exhibition. His two references to earlier, important shows at the museum do suggest that he is trying to situate this show as a descendant to them. Wigley’s essay provides the constructivist context for the exhibition, and although he does not use the phrase “violated perfection,” he does begin by noting that in contrast to a history of creating purity with geometric forms, harmony, and unity, the architects

136  Legacies, Branding, and New Beginnings in the present show have disrupted this purity. “Form has become contaminated. The dream has become a kind of nightmare.”13 Wigley then adds that it is this quality of disturbing the way we think about forms that is deconstructive. He deliberately uses that term instead of deconstruction because the projects in question do not derive from the philosophy of deconstruction. Indeed, he notes that deconstruction has been misunderstood to imply the literal destruction of buildings and in contrast, what he is calling deconstructive architecture is a form of construction through the revelation of impurities. The unstated implication seems to be a negation of constructive tendencies by building the “contaminated” wound or violation of beauty. Unlike Johnson, his connection to Russian constructivism does not rest on formal similarity so much as strategy: the Russian architects questioned tradition, he says, and in so doing, they deliberately wounded the architectural object and placed its continued existence in doubt. But they did not follow their questioning to the radical conclusions they envisioned and returned to the “safe reality” of stable, ordered form, leaving instability to the media of typography, photomontage, and theater.14 The architects included in the MoMA exhibition, in contrast, deconstruct constructivism by returning instability to form, dislocating expected relationships between form and context, and in some unique way, which varies from one project to another, awakening the “sleeping monster” who assumes an uncanny and dynamic presence in works that centralize instability and imperfect form.15 Wigley’s interest is occasionally difficult to pinpoint but overall it appears to be an attempt to establish a connection that is based on ideas and strategies. The eventual selection of images, both for the catalogue and the introductory gallery area, appears to have been chosen for its ability to provoke visual comparisons. What might further strike one as ironic is the attempt, forced at best, to associate architecture which was unsettling at the time of the exhibition with a movement that most people believed to have failed and to make this association by saying that the earlier movement had not been sufficiently radical and subversive. The newer movement would succeed precisely because it was as follows: these architects had “reopened the wound” and did so in the real world of built projects. It may not be surprising to learn that the critics who reviewed the show were unable to make sense of it. Before turning to their reviews, it is worth commending Wigley and the exhibition for demonstrating precisely what an exhibition can do – without words, it pushes us to re-see and reconnect images and ideas with which we may have been unfamiliar. Indeed, rather than specifically bringing Russian art to Americans, this show asked them to find the connections themselves. Many of the exhibition reviews were bad, and some exulted in noting that it received bad reviews before going on to add their own; but it was clearly the exhibition event of the season as everyone appeared to have been waiting for it, everyone reviewed it, and almost everyone hated it. Hilton Kramer’s pithy comment captures the prevailing attitude: “Some exhibitions are more interesting to read about than to actually see, and the twerpy little show called ‘Deconstructivist Architecture’ at the Museum of Modern Art is certainly one of them.”16 (We have seen comments of this type before this one, making it into a reviewer’s trope.) Some of the reviewers, although no less negative, did engage in a more substantive approach, questioning both the assumption of a connection to constructivism and Johnson’s reasons for the exhibition (most reviewers treated this as Johnson’s show while acknowledging Wigley’s role as curator). Taken as a whole, the reviews suggest a larger view of the exhibition as an attempt to destabilize the continued dominance of modernism and to do so in a manner which had moved on from the anachronistic, ornamental postmodernism of the 1970s.

Legacies, Branding, and New Beginnings  137 Writing about exhibition strategies and not about a particular exhibition, Douglas Crimp criticized the museum for its policy of isolating media in separate galleries (years after he made this critique, the museum has reorganized its installations). This policy, he noted, contributed to its formalist history while it deprived artists such as Rodchenko of the full context necessary to understanding the fact that photography for him was not merely another formal possibility but a choice made for ideological reasons and one which came after he abandoned painting. He goes on to critique the museum’s design galleries and juxtaposition of posters by Soviet artists “with advertisements directly or indirectly influenced by them. Underneath Rodchenko’s poster for the Theater of the Revolution is an ad for Martini designed by Alexei Brodovich, a Russian émigré who had clearly absorbed his design lessons early and directly. On the opposite wall Gustav Klucis [sic] and Sergei Senkin’s agitprop ‘Let Us Carry Out the Plan of the Great Work’ and Lissitzky’s ‘USSR Russische Ausstellung’ announcement were hanging next to a recent advertisement for Campari.” Writing in 1984, Crimp could not comment on the deconstructivist show, but the use of Soviet art to validate advertisements is not far removed from the use of avant-garde art to validate an emerging style (or non-style, as Johnson claimed) of architecture.17 Validation, less of Johnson than of the new architecture, may have been the generally unspoken reason for the Deconstructivist Architecture exhibition. We might further build on Crimp’s critique by noting that for many design historians today, graphic design is one of the most significant contributions of Russian constructivism, even more so than architecture. Following from this, we might ask if another critic, Joshua Decter, was on the right track when he suggested that the recuperation of constructivism was one of the outcomes, if not formative goals, of the exhibition.18 Decter agrees with Crimp in his column on the point that the museum may not have fully realized the historical significance of this earlier movement. We might add to his observation that despite the long-known involvement of Alfred Barr with Russian art, this exhibition may have marked another turning point: one in which MoMA complies with what is being asked of it and more completely recognizes and acknowledges the legacy of Russian art. Although these are speculative outcomes, what can be said with certainty is that the show took place at a time when there was an interest in recuperating constructivism but that this interest probably came less from architects than from the minimalists of the 1970s, the environmental and performance artists of the 1980s, the blockbuster exhibitions soon to come in the 1990s, gift shops and restaurants (the Russian cavalcade continued) and art historians. In the case of the minimalists and other artists, the influence was not architectural and rarely spatial. More often than not, the so-called interest in constructivism was an attraction to the Shklovskian idea of ostraneniie (making strange), and in some cases, a personal rereading of the productivist ideology. Artists such as Alice Aycock, Dan Graham, and Suzanne Lacey were attracted to what they perceived as the social relevance of a movement that was formed during a period of social disequilibrium, a movement that had jettisoned the equilibrium of Renaissance art, and a movement that was seen as instigating a new relationship with the viewer. None of this is intended to deny the very real fact that Zaha Hadid was influenced by Malevich, and that Ladovskii’s rationalism and Rodchenko’s kiosks influenced architects in the 1980s and 1990s. But is an influence of form as convincing as an influence of process and ideology? Regardless of the answer, it is no exaggeration to say that the 1988 show was a turning point. The exhibitions of the 1990s were large, often traveled between Moscow and one or more points in the U.S., and more important, they staked out an interest in defining

138  Legacies, Branding, and New Beginnings and exhibiting documented examples of the Russian avant-garde. These were shows that anchored the art in social, political, and ideological conditions, and in some cases, such as the Guggenheim Great Utopia exhibition, attempted to recreate the original context of the art. They were generally accompanied by heavy catalogues, with essays attempting to define what makes constructivism different from other avant-garde movements, and attempting to do this by using the words of the constructivists themselves and providing translations of many of the archival documents that were now becoming available to researchers. Although this had been the case with some of the exhibitions of the 1980s, the Great Utopia show of 1993 was ambitious and large in a way that dwarfed all previous shows.19 It was also installed at the Tretiakov Gallery in Moscow after leaving the Guggenheim. The architecture of the locations ensured that it was a different exhibition in both museums although the works on display were the same. A brief synopsis of what comes next might indicate that in addition to media-specific exhibitions, there is more of a focus on individual artists. Curators were genuinely taking the lead in shaping shows that would either fill in overlooked absences or create a new understanding of the Russian avant-garde. Thus, we have briefly noted that the 1999 show, Amazons of the Avant-garde, focused entirely on six women: Goncharova, Rozanova, Stepanova, Exter, Popova, and Udaltsova. As some critics asked, what tied these women together apart from gender? Their styles were different, and in some cases, the works for which they were best known (stage design in some cases) were not included as the exhibition focused on painting. As an exhibition of the 1990s, we might say that the feminist drive was more fundamental to this exhibition than the new interest in constructivism. Constructivism was probably better served by exhibitions dedicated to Russian theater, although in this case, as magical as they may have been, they were guided more by the donor’s collection than by any attempt to determine an understanding of constructivism in the theater that went beyond a formal or visual analysis. Perhaps this was a symptom of something else that was happening: Russia had acquired the status of the exotic and exhibitions in the late 1990s and early 2000s were more likely to feature “Russian art” without making any claims as to whether the art was avant-garde. It was also the case that as exhibitions of the work of the great Ballets Russes designers became less frequent, with constructivist stage design taking their place, it may have been logical to look at these exhibitions through similar lenses that were used for the earlier exhibitions. Most recently, there have also been a few exhibitions of the “neo” type – suggesting a new version of constructivism.20 In retrospect, it is almost as though the 1988 Deconstructivist architecture show was a labyrinth that eventually opened all of these doors. One of those doors was a 1990 exhibition at MoMA of Architectural Drawings of the Russian Avant-Garde under the direction of Stuart Wrede, then director of the Department of Architecture and Design, with an essay by Catherine Cooke, one of the leading researchers and writers on Russian architecture and constructivism at that time. In fact, just one year prior to that exhibition, she was the guest editor of an issue of AD Architectural Design with the theme of Russian Constructivism and Iakov Chernikhov. The format of AD, with text and illustrations, makes it a good proxy for an exhibition, and a good research source.21 If 1988 was a turning point of sorts for MoMA and architectural exhibitions, 1990 was a turning point for the Guggenheim museum. The Guggenheim had been closed for a year and a half at the beginning of 1990. When it reopened in 1992, with the staggeringly large Great Utopia exhibition, it was seen by at least one writer as the museum’s

Legacies, Branding, and New Beginnings  139 attempt to move from its “fourth-place slot in the New York hierarchy [of museums] (behind the Museum of Modern Art, the Metropolitan and the Whitney) to a position of revivified cultural eminence and popular appeal.”22 Perhaps, but several things make this exhibition particularly unique. The size, the involvement of a large number of Russian museums and a mixture of both curatorial experts and scholars from several countries, and the invitation to an architect, familiar with leading exemplars of the art works in the exhibition, to design the exhibition in a manner which would unite the different spaces of the museum (Wright’s rotunda and the newer tower designed by Gwathmey Siegel and just completed). The Great Utopia was a monumental exhibition in several respects, not least because of the number of curators and` museums that were involved in planning this large exhibition. But of particular interest in this exhibition is the fact that the installation (throughout the Guggenheim Museum) was designed by the architect Zaha Hadid. It would not be unreasonable to suggest that she approached her installation as the creation of a Suprematist/constructivist work of art. We know from her statements and writing that her interest in those movements infused her work throughout her career. What has not been analyzed to any degree is the question of whether or how her work for that exhibition succeeds not only as an exhibition but also as a unique work of art, making clear some of the basic tenets of Suprematism and constructivism. To be fair, however, writers do focus on Hadid’s known attraction to the work of Malevich and especially to his ideas about painting and unjoined forms in space. As Joseph Giovanni writes in the catalogue for the earlier Hadid exhibition (also at the Guggenheim), Hadid takes images from the art world and transforms them into architecture; the original image is not rooted in reality or in the concreteness of architecture; this contributes to the relative sense of flow, liberation of form and imaginary quality of the architecture which communicates futurism as much as it reminds us of Suprematism.23 Although she generates her plans from paintings, her final buildings read as paintings and are often discussed that way. For Malevich, architecture was grounded not in ground but in air; he did not succeed in translating his architectons into three-dimensional structures – this became Hadid’s goal. Is it unrealistic to suggest that with the Great Utopia, Hadid is not creating a three-dimensional structure but a multi-dimensional exhibition that incorporates movement through space into its design? In short, this exhibition made a style of painting and an entire museum into a theatrical experience – something that the museum continues to do in the present day but with the involvement of dancers and performers, an element not present in Hadid’s redesign of the museum. In the end, the real question is how did Hadid’s installation reshape our understanding of exhibition design. Of course, it is undeniable that the Guggenheim incorporates the idea of a path and movement in more than one direction in all of its exhibitions – that is essentially the gift of Wright (and perhaps Rebay). But to reconfigure the use of the spiraling ramps, not as architecture but as a painting, cannot only be described as a new three-dimensional structure. Hadid herself tells us that the influence of Suprematism lay in “the whole idea of lightness, floating, structure, and how it lands gently on the ground.”24 In fact, in an interview with Hans Ulrich Obrist, she tells us more than this: We used the screens in the museum to show posters, which pushed you to the edge of the ramp. We wanted to use the spiral to tell a story, and the idea of moving seamlessly began to emerge. We wanted to see how you could interrupt that with obstacles. There was always opposition or tension between Suprematism and Constructivism, between Vladimir Tatlin and Malevich, which we brought out. And

140  Legacies, Branding, and New Beginnings

Figure 6.1 Zaha Hadid’s exhibition design Tatlin Tower and Tektonik Worldwind, acrylic and watercolors on cartridge, 73 1/4 × 38 inches for The Great Utopia: The Russian and Soviet Avant-Garde, 1915–1932; September 25, 1992 to January 03, 1993, Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum, New York

there was a connection between the two spirals. Tatlin’s spiral Monument to the Third International 1919, and the rotunda spiral. It connects back to Samarra and its spiral and minaret in Iraq, as well as to the Tower of Babel.25 Hadid did design a tower but it was not installed. The creation of a virtual spinning tower was important to her thinking about the overall installation as we can see from her working drawings. Figure 6.1 gives us a general idea of what she was trying to do – we can make out a tower form, elements of the museum disassembled and pulled apart, with everything set in spinning motion. This working drawing illustrates experience rather than the look of the museum. Another idea that was not installed was the bent tektonik.26 In contrast, Figure 6.2 is an exhibition view of ideas that were installed and do create a change in color and visitor’s movement in the Guggenheim. At the same time, we should add to this the quality of dissolution and the fading edges we see in paintings by Malevich and Olga Rozanova. Malevich called it the “dissolution of sensation” and the beginning of a world in which reality is not based on objects but on sensations that cannot be traced to a knowable source in the external world.27 The quality of dissolution is apparent in Hadid’s unusual shapes and the shape shifting forms of color in her work. The exhibition included works from large Moscow and St. Petersburg museums with a smaller number from smaller provincial museums. One critic (Kay Larsen) wrote that the show contained nearly 1000 objects (an incorrect figure) but despite some inaccuracy,

Legacies, Branding, and New Beginnings  141

Figure 6.2 Exhibition view: The Great Utopia: The Russian and Soviet Avant-Garde, 1915–1932; September 25, 1992 to January 03, 1993, Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum, New York. Photograph © Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum, New York

everyone commented on the scale of the show and generally made unfavorable comparisons to the smaller and seemingly more “focused” show of the work of Chagall held at the Soho branch of the Guggenheim. Not only the show but the Guggenheim’s stated goal of “providing a comprehensive overview of the avant-garde in Russia” was seen as ambitious, breathtaking, and a reflection of the Guggenheim’s “historical mission to validate abstract and ‘modernist’ art.”28 In addition to an implied progression in time and from one medium to another, the small galleries to the side of the ramp included restagings or representations, rather than reconstructions, as they were not necessarily striving for accuracy, of landmark exhibitions of Russian art in the 1920s. Despite a largely positive reception, two features of the exhibition were criticized as often as the entire show was praised: the design of the installation and the “stupefying” scale which was not necessary, given that access to Russian art was no longer as difficult as it once had been,29 and which, despite the scale, somehow managed to be a one-sided view of what was happening in the art of post-revolutionary Russia. The show was called overwhelming, gimmicky and self-indulgent, primarily because of Zaha Hadid’s design. Some of the complaints appeared to be more about the avant-garde – did their work look similar and doctrinaire because there was so much to see or was it as authoritarian as the old guard?30 This can only be seen as a reference to criticism being written at that time about similarities and continuities between the avant-garde and socialist realism by Boris Groys in particular. Another critique was less critical than others but this complaint was that the exhibition did not promote new understandings of the avant-garde, situate their goals correctly in history, or present the greater diversity of styles that existed after

142  Legacies, Branding, and New Beginnings the revolution. It is possible to find these complaints ironic if one looks back to and recalls the days of the Russian cavalcade when it seemed that everyone was fascinated by Russian culture and fashion and there could not be enough of it. Now that it was more accessible and historically accurate, was it too much? Had people moved beyond the carnival of the 1920s and 1930s? Two other complaints speak more to a trend in exhibitions that is highlighted by the Great Utopia: exhibitions that are planned by more than one or two curators. More than one critic commented on the fact that 14 curators had worked on this show and the result was the loss of a unifying vision without direction. The other emerging criticism concerned the installation. Despite the reality that the spiral ramps and slanted walls of the Guggenheim have always challenged traditional styles of hanging art, this exhibition was designed by a leading architect who was already associated with the infamous deconstructivist show at the Museum of Modern Art. Descriptions of her archived drawings observe their connections to and interpretations of various constructivist and Suprematist tenets. She herself noted that the connections to Suprematism came in “the whole idea of lightness, floating, structure” and how something lands on the ground, noting that floating and suspension had become the dominant theme in her design for the Great Utopia. From the photographs, we can see several interventions: the clear vitrines and mounts which do make the paintings appear to be floating in space, the angled or zig-zagging red partition walls, and perhaps most unusual of all was her solution to the standard system of preventing visitors from approaching too closely to hanging works such as Rodchenko’s. The mound that emerges from the floor would create an invisible spatial barrier. Without a first-hand visit, it might be possible to conclude that one of the takeaways is that Hadid entered and precipitated what will be the next stage of Russian exhibitions: exhibitions that create a new and non-Russian form of constructivism. But I also cannot help but wonder if some of the resistance to her design did hark back to her involvement in the Museum of Modern Art Deconstructivist Architecture show in 1988. A show that perhaps unintentionally made Russian art into something less exotic than it had seemed for nearly a century, and also made it into the source of an uncanny architecture, its theme of “violated perfection” may not have been beneficial to any of the architects in the show or to Russian art, although it did bring Russian constructivist architecture into the public eye at the same time that other exhibitions of constructivism were being staged. But when we consider that the Great Utopia united west and east in a manner which transcended any lingering overtones of the Cold War, that the few negative commentaries about the exhibition focused on its size and on the unusual installation – was this because Russia had finally arrived and occupied an equal place in the world of museums and public culture? If debate was either intentional or unintentionally implied by the Great Utopia, it was clearly the focus of the Art into Life exhibition of 1990, beginning in Seattle and traveling to Minneapolis. Dedicated to constructivism, the exhibition was not only praised for its attempt to provide a more complete overview of the movement than previous exhibitions had provided but it was also criticized for coming up short in this respect. Access to more of the original constructivist works, many of which had never been seen, was attributed to the changes made under Gorbachev. The catalogue was considered as important as the exhibition with its provocative essays on the history and legacies of the movement by leading American and Russian scholars, along with a section of Documents and Manifestoes translated into English. Or does it reflect a different emerging reality: the rejection of the museum as temple and the beginning of a museum that will eventually be dedicated to viewer interaction?

Legacies, Branding, and New Beginnings  143 In general, exhibitions of the unique collections of individual collectors are often not traveling exhibitions and may be less well known if the collector is not familiar to large audiences or if the exhibition takes place in another country. In many of these one-time only exhibitions, the catalogues are almost as valuable as visiting the exhibition. One which falls into this category is 0.10 Ivan Puni and Photographs of the Russian Revolution which was held in the Basel Museum in 2003. The introduction to the catalogue identifies Herman Berninger as both a friend to Puni and a collector of his work. Because of his collection, much of Puni’s work that had been thought to be lost was rediscovered. The exhibition and catalogue divide his career into three phases: Moscow, Berlin, and Paris. The exhibition had a two-pronged focus: the revolutionary developments that are the subject of many of Puni’s photographs, and a complete retrospective of his work. Because 2003 was also the 300th anniversary of St. Petersburg’s founding, the exhibition was both a retrospective and anniversary with a simply stunning catalogue. Filled with reproductions of his work in a variety of media, it is easy to see Puni’s overall contributions, from a political and futurist poster style to a German style of painting and then to a French period.31 This emphasis on rediscovery is not only related to interpretation: this was a period when post-revolutionary Russian artists were literally being found and rediscovered, along with large amounts of art works that had been deemed to be lost. Another exhibition of this type was dedicated to the Vladimir Tsarenkov collection and took place in Chemnitz.32 Tsarenkov was a major collector of Russian art from 1907 until 1930 with work in all media from paintings and sculpture to architectural models, stage designs, posters, porcelain, and more. The show included 400 works by 110 artists and used some works from other collections to fill gaps, in particular those caused by the loss of works during the National Socialist era. The text is concise and basic; each artist in the exhibition has a page about the artist and at least one full-page reproduction. The range of works reproduced in the catalogue is stunning with frequently unfamiliar works by familiar artists; it would seem that the Tsarenkov collection was not on view often. Yet, there isn’t a clear rationale, other than the collector’s taste, for the images in the exhibition which are seemingly his entire collection. Whereas the essays typically relate to the artist whose work comes next, the porcelain section is introduced by a longer essay on Soviet porcelain making that section seem like a catalogue within the catalogue and an exhibition that may have been independently attractive, given that as the catalogue notes, exhibitions of porcelain from this period had been rare and rarely included as many works as this collection contained. Some additional surprises in this collection included a stage design by Alexander Vasilevich Kuprin from 1918; Goncharova paintings, her Lives of the Sainted Martyrs, Floros and Lauros from 1912/13; and a Vladimir Davidovich Baranoff-Rossine Dance from 1914. An exhibition which is more or less a category of its own is NO! And the Conformists, Faces of Soviet Art of the 50s to 80s. This is a tri-lingual catalogue, in Polish, Russian, and English, with the exhibition located in Warsaw but then traveling to St. Petersburg. Everything appears in three languages so the first 113 pages of catalogue are pure text. One of the first things to stand out is that the text is written from the perspective largely of a Polish audience and how Poles would or would not have perceived or been familiar with the division in Russian art between acceptable and perhaps academic (sotsrealism existed by the time of this exhibition) and banned, unacceptable art which was probably abstract, avant-garde, conceptual, or expressionist – that these existed at the same time was important to the exhibition along with the knowledge that banned, nonconformist art might result in banishment of the artist to camps, hospitals, and the like but this did

144  Legacies, Branding, and New Beginnings not stop them. Nowicki concludes the introduction by noting that some people will be offended by an exhibition of this sort or shocked but “as a matter of fact all it does is show the irony of history.”33 The last 20 pages before the exhibition begins consist of excerpts from Soviet press reports about artistic events in the 1960s and 1970s, translated into English and Polish. The exhibition portion is separated from the text by a red plate with a symbol of the sickle and ax in gold; all the plates are introduced with a page with a red stripe down the left side; academic and sotsrealism are the first two sections; the third is introduced by a plate that may have been the same as the first one but it is whitewashed, covering the icon which can be glimpsed behind the white paint – this section is called avant-garde of the 1960s and the reviews are fairly uniform in insulting the abstract portion of the show because it is insulting to the people and the communist man; art should be made for the people. Clearly an exhibition with a point of view! From exhibitions already looked at, it has been possible to observe the ways in which exhibitions begin to change in the last decades of the 20th century. By the 1980s, several significant changes must be noted. Exhibitions reveal a new interest in defining the styles of the avant-garde, emphasizing the revolutionary nature of this art, and in some cases, including performances or reenactments of Russian revolutionary theater from the 1920s and 1930s. At the Guggenheim, for example, 1981 saw a one-day fashion show, including recreations of clothing designed by Popova, Ekster, and other designers, a film series featuring Protozanov and Vertov, and an evening of constructivist theater with a reenactment and reconstruction of Magnanimous Cuckold. Leading critics, art historians, novelists, artists, and other notables received complementary copies of the exhibition catalogue.34 The exhibition network had by then expanded to include the west coast and Los Angeles museums as well as museums in the center of the country. It is also important to note that exhibitions at this time were now based on Russian works in western collections and were therefore less likely than previously to be constrained by restrictions imposed by the Russian Ministry of Culture. A critique of the Los Angeles County Museum of Art exhibition for not doing more than skimming the surface and failing to move our knowledge forward indicates that not only were exhibitions becoming more frequent, more accessible to different areas of the country and larger, but also viewers’ expectations were increasing. Simultaneous with this new tendency to include performances in these exhibitions, we also begin to see exhibitions devoted to theatrical costumes and scenery, as collected in the form of artists’ sketches and designs by several collectors who focus on Russian theater and reconstructions of stage sets. Theatre in Revolution: Russian avant-garde Stage Design 1913–1935 is a good example of this development.35 Planned at the Fine Arts Museum of San Francisco in 1991, the Bakhrushin State Central Theatrical Museum of Moscow was involved in the planning. The exhibition traveled to the IBM Gallery of Science and Art in NYC and to the Armand Hammer Museum of Art and Cultural Center in Los Angeles. The catalogue included articles by both Russian and American scholars on topics ranging from the merchant class and the revival of culture, to dance, eccentricism in theater and constructivism. A wide range of artists were included in the exhibition. We have briefly encountered an exhibition with a focus on a special group of artists that featured Russian women, Amazons of the Avant-Garde.36 Seen in London at the Royal Academy of Art, at the German Guggenheim in Berlin, the Venetian Guggenheim and the New York location, this 1999 exhibition was truly international. It received a lot of attention, although not always positive. Several reviews focused more on the catalogue

Legacies, Branding, and New Beginnings  145 than the show and observed that the exhibition, featuring the work of Goncharova, Rozanova, Stepanova, Exter, Popova, and Udaltsova focused on their paintings although some of the artists were better known for their work in other media. Reviewers claimed that the exhibition was somewhat belated in its attempt to showcase the women artists who were integral to the Russian avant-garde but by and large not included in the increasing number of exhibitions of Russian art in the latter years of the 20th century. Coming about eight years after the Great Utopia, it did not appear that this show truly contributed to a greater understanding of the avant-garde as it did not attempt to provide a comprehensive examination of any of the women in the show. In addition to the focus on painting, the show did not really acknowledge that the women artists included were stylistically quite different from one another, making the single factor for grouping them together their gender. This of course will be a major exhibition issue raised by many other shows as museums attempt to become more inclusive of infrequently represented genders and races and must address the question of whether it is better to group women artists into a single show in order to bring attention to their work when their work is not similar or to continue with a standard that denied many women places in exhibitions. Another new exhibition issue might be the “what did it add” question, logical to ask when there is so much to choose from. The Aesthetic Arsenal: Socialist Realism under Stalin at the Institute for Contemporary Art, P.S. 1 Museum, New York is unusual at that time for its focus and its textual emphasis. The exhibition was organized with support from both the National Endowment for the Arts and the Ministry of Culture of the Russian Federation, although curated entirely by the Institute for Contemporary Art. The catalogue opens with a reprint (no source given) of the introduction to the Soviet Pavilion from the New York World’s Fair of 1939, follows with a reprinted essay by Igor Golomstock about totalitarian art and a reprinted essay by Vassily Rakitin, both from the same edited book, The Culture of Stalin from 1990; in fact, most of the catalogue appears to be previously published works or excerpts from those works, with no major argument or goal other than the collection of art which appears to fall under the rubric of socialist realism and articles addressing questions about socialist realism; 144 works, mostly in black and white, are reproduced in the catalogue; it is unclear as to how many were in the show or whether the show had any organization to it other than media, if even that was used as an organizational principle. It is not possible to review this exhibition without looking at the reproduced essays. In Rakitin’s essay, “The Avant-Garde and the Art of the Stalinist Era,”37 one interesting point which Rakitin makes is that following the “exile” of all avant-garde art in the 1930s (literally removed from museums and placed in reserves with plans, never enacted, to send the work to the Solovetsky Monastery in 1947), an attempt was made in the 1960s and 1970s to rehabilitate the avant-garde by showing that it had not been entirely incompatible with the ideology of socialist realism or at least with the principle and spirit of the Soviet communist party. By the 1980s, exhibitions in the west focused on artists like Malevich and Kandinsky, giving “the illusion of wide recognition of this art in the Soviet Union at a time when similar exhibitions were not being organized there, and books publicizing these artists were not being published.”38 For Rakitin, this rehabilitation was one which not only placed the avant-garde on an equal footing with first, agitational art of the revolution, and second, genuine Soviet art; it paved the way for an ideological equation between both forms of art such that both the avant-garde and Socialist Realism could be seen as “two sides of the same coin.” Note that Rakitin is not making this equation; he seems to be implying that this is the path followed by someone

146  Legacies, Branding, and New Beginnings like Groys although he does not name names with the exception of Mikhail Lifshits. Rakitin continues to deride the various attempts made by writers and critics in the 1980s to align the avant-garde with socialist realism, even if their art did not look the same – ultimately, he says that in fact, although not all of the avant-garde left Russia and not all of them died or were murdered in the 1930s, the art they made was more likely to be small and intimate and in its intimacy, a rejection of the Socialist Realist mandated and official thematic painting. He concludes by saying that the question of the avant-garde leads to a “new, interesting historical and cultural problem, that is, the theme and tradition of the outsider in the art of the Soviet period.”39 A second essay, “Totalitarian Ideology’s Path toward Painting,” by Galina Iakovleva, makes one intriguing point about the role of thematic content in architecture: if the 1930s witnessed large-scale projects for urban development, primarily in the form of paper projects or paintings, these projects were in reality the creation of a composition which might be called the city as a painting, and this painting, as did all others in the 1930s, had thematic content. Unlike the individual thematic painting, however, the painting of the city had different themes within it, with each theme corresponding to a different area of the city: “the Street of Proletarian Culture, the Square of the Soviet Press, the Square of the Revolutionary Theater, the Square of Defense of the USSR, etc.”40 These themes were expressed through groups of sculpture, monuments, and texts mounted in strategic areas; although these plans were never completely incarnated, their ideas might be embodied in the parks of rest and culture and in holiday decorations; likewise, exhibitions of projects could serve to embody the ideas as or more fully than actual construction projects following from this is the importance of exhibitions; the art works on display were less important than the themes they depicted and therefore represented. As the author notes, this was a form of thinking through images or “thinking by ‘painting images’”; creativity was not the criteria for success in this case – the ability to compose the correct image and to do so on a monumental scale marked the success of an artist, and should the artist not achieve the complete depiction of the theme, perhaps because the style used was too impressionistic, the artist was criticized as not having sufficient professionalism (was too subjective and not sufficiently dedicated to social goals). If the artist failed, he failed because he did not have adequate knowledge of reality, as Deineka stated in his confession of 1938. “From Factography to Mythography: The Final Phase of the Soviet Photographic Avant-Garde,” by Margarita Tupitsyn, argues that in contrast to Buchloh’s position, she asserts that factography continued to dominate the work of Rodchenko, Lissitzky, and Klutsis until 1932. Central to her argument is the work done by all three for the Visual Art Department of the State Publishing House (IZOGIZ) in 1932, with both Rodchenko and Lissitzky working for the periodical USSR in Construction (and Klutsis making posters for the IZOGIZ poster dept). Whereas Rodchenko provided photographs, Lissitzky was responsible for designing much of the magazine and this work consisted of “synthesizing and totalizing” as opposed to “fragmenting and de-framing” but in both cases, using the photomontage. Lissitzky himself described the work as “synthetic compositions” and Tupitsyn notes that although Lissitzky rejected the modernist creator that he had formerly celebrated in his self-portrait, The Constructor of 1924, he did not reject the authorial hand. In the case of these covers, however, the author was Stalin and not the artist. Tupitsyn goes on to describe double-page spreads Lissitzky made for the magazine, each one as “a theatrical stage with the grandiose imagery of industry, modern cities, lavish agriculture, and newly erected monuments presented with a powerful sense of

Legacies, Branding, and New Beginnings  147 illusionism and romantic ardor. This is not, however, Brechtian theater which ‘requires the viewer to constantly ask himself or herself questions, to doubt the assurance of his or her apprehension of the real;’ these compositions return us to the model of the theater as ‘an opiate, seducing its public’ by offering to it the only possible model of reality.”41 Tupitsyn tries to explain what might appear to be incongruities in Lissitzky’s career by suggesting that his commitment was not a commitment to the invention of new forms but to one of using forms in order to fulfill social or contractual expectations, whether the contract was with himself or with the government. She continues with discussions of Rodchenko and Klutsis and concludes her discussion by arguing that the 1930s did not mark the beginning of socialist realist photography although the transition was taking place (her definition of socialist realist photography is not entirely clear but seems to be based on the use of the work for one purpose only: “sheer adulation of totalitarian power,” a quotation she has taken from Buchloh, with whom she is arguing) – she concludes that “the avant-garde succumbed to Socialist Realism because the public no longer identified with the avant-garde or nonorganic representations. To the people, the latter provided no spaces ‘for the investment of desire.’”42 It is worth noting that this book pulls together some expert historians whose work is not always found in the same volume or exhibition – this too is one of the changes that results from the growth of exhibitions and research. Tupitsyn’s contributions go far beyond her essays in this exhibition in her continued work on Russian/Soviet photography and exhibitions of Sotsrealism. Apologies for this lengthy discussion of catalogue essays but they raise another issue that we haven’t acknowledged yet: exhibitions, as they increase in number, location, and themes, are another conversation that can be missed if one does not read the catalogues as well as visiting the exhibitions. Perhaps a different perspective to a similar topic was taken by Soviet dis-Union: socialist realist and nonconformist art, curated by Maria Bulanova and Alla Rosenfeld, at the museum of Russian Art in Minnesota, 2006. Although the catalogue does begin with statements about collecting this art, made by a noted collector such as Norton T. Dodge, most of the catalogue consists of reproductions of socialist realist and nonconformist art. It might be possible to note that as the century moved on, exhibitions were not solely interested in the avant-garde unless they were redefining avant-garde. In addition to socialist realism, unofficial art was becoming an exhibition theme along with exhibitions that were looking for parallels and exchanges between the USSR and the U.S. such as the next example: 10 + 10 Contemporary Soviet and American painters, jointly organized by the Soviet Ministry of Culture and Fort Worth Museum of modern art falls into this category. Its itinerary included several U.S. museums and Russian, 1989–90, jointly planned by a committee of both Americans and Russians. In all cases, the artists were unknown to one another and to the other country, making the act of introductions related to contemporary developments in art in each country central to the exhibition. There is another unique development that comes in the 21st century: exhibitions that rather than exhibiting Russian art choose to exhibit art that demonstrates the influence of Russian or Soviet styles. Constructivism is usually the focus. Exhibitions in this category include one that took place at the Newark Museum, focusing on the constructive spirit in south and north America, and another Newark exhibition naming a new style: neo-constructivism. As Mary Kate O’Hare states in both her introduction to the catalogue for The Constructive Spirit and an essay in the catalogue, the goal of the Newark Museum exhibition was the examination of the development of a non-European form of abstraction, largely geometric in its production, preceding the more gestural abstraction

148  Legacies, Branding, and New Beginnings of the abstract expressionist movement, and existing in both north and south America. The term “constructive” is not used to suggest an association with Russian constructivism so much as an association with international constructivism of the 1920s and 1930s and the belief that when the political associations of Russian constructivism are removed, what remains is likewise a tendency toward geometric abstraction; later she associates the photography of some of the artists in the show with the influence of the “Constructivist artists like Laszlo Moholy-Nagy.” One interesting work reproduced in this essay is by Charles Green Shaw, Polygon, 1936, which O’Hare (and Shaw himself) associates with the influence of NYC skyscrapers. O’Hare describes it as suggesting “the geometric shapes of flattened tall buildings” but what she doesn’t comment on is the simultaneous suggestion of depth created by the angled polygonal forms on the right and left sides of the painting. This suggestion of depth in flatness actually evokes the paintings of Klutsis (which obviously cannot have been an inspiration for Shaw but of interest is the potential for overlap among these artists without necessarily knowing their work and made apparent through seeing this work in the new exhibitions). Yet, by 1936, there were opportunities to see examples of constructivist styles in New York, especially on magazine covers.43 Another development that we have seen emerging in other chapters are exhibitions that focus in some depth on a single artist. These are often traveling exhibitions, put together by large museums drawing on works from a variety of other museums. Malevich, Kandinsky, and Chagall are three of the artists who receive exhibitions of this type and more can be named. In a similar vein, there is a series of exhibitions that were devoted to the “adventures” of one painting, the Black Square by Malevich. Iwona Blazwick edits the first.44 She opens her catalogue by stating that Malevich’s Black Square is the starting point for adventures in geometric abstraction which differs from the biomorphic form associated with surrealism, the gestural version of abstract expressionism, and emerges from Suprematism and constructivism although it may not share those movements’ interest in social change. [Just to note that one exhibition in 2008 called Neo-constructivism essentially took as its connection only the interest in social change.45 But this back and forth between a focus on ideology and a focus on form continues.] Ninety artists were included in Blazwick’s show. The catalogue is presented chronologically and divided into four thematic sections: utopia, architectonics, communication, and the everyday. In all cases, the argument is about the connection of abstraction with society and long essays are provided. Abstraction accomplishes several things immediately: as Mondrian wrote and others agreed, once representation is not used, colors and planes and shapes exist as themselves or in dynamic equilibrium. Frames are no longer necessary; the wall is part of the art work; genres are unnecessary; geometric abstraction was a break with history and the paragon of European art. Abstraction as a utopian form could become dystopian, mathematical, totalitarian, and amnesic. It does seem like an oversight not to mention the exhibitions and catalogues related to the Guggenheim and Rebay endeavors although they are not technically about Russian or Soviet art, exhibitions of books and graphic arts such as the ROSTA and TASS window exhibitions in Chicago, and of course, the ground-breaking Paris-Moscou and Berlin-Moskva exhibitions. In fact, there were four exhibitions of this type: ParisMoscow, Paris-Berlin, Paris-New York, and New York-New York, all under the direction of Pontus Hulten at the Centre Pompidou. There were also two more but not at the Pompidou although Hulten did have some input: Berlin-Moscow and Moscow-Berlin. They have several factors in common but for simplicity, we will focus on the ParisMoscou 1900–50 exhibition which took place in 1979. Pontus Hulten provides a single

Legacies, Branding, and New Beginnings  149 page overview in which he explains that the exhibition was the result of a collaboration between the USSR Ministry of Culture, museums of Soviet republics, and the Pompidou national center of art and culture in France. The Tretiakov, Pushkin, Lenin library, other museums participated. In a review essay and presentation draft,46 one speaker (who requested anonymity) focused on how in many cases the installation developed parallels or conversations between French and Soviet art; in both cases, it was designed to show trans-cultural influences on the two vanguards and how these developments during this period changed art and led to the emergence of modernism. The thesis of her review is that this exhibition, during the Cold War, is an example of cultural diplomacy in which the curator’s presentation of the works of art highlighted moments of cultural diplomacy. She then asks readers to consider the general setting of the exhibition. An exhibition between France and the USSR could only take place if strong and well-established political frames and diplomatic governmental structures existed. The Centre Pompidou and the French curatorial teams also played important roles as triggering elements. Second, the innovative aspect of this cultural alternative is embodied in the content of the exhibition and the art of placement itself. It culminated in a bold claim that relations among Russian, Soviet, and French artists between 1900 and 1930 were responsible for Modern Art itself. The exhibition was also installed in Moscow, in 1981. It marked a change in French exhibitions for the inclusion of the wide range of media, such as music and literature, which was not previously done in French exhibitions. In several places, she describes mirroring tactics to show how one country responded to the other; it is a detailed review that does take a position and develops a thesis about this exhibition. In light of the many exhibitions in this work, what is especially interesting here is the specific references to curatorial participation in diplomacy on one hand, and the manner in which the exchanged exhibitions influenced a native exhibition style. All of the exhibitions envisioned by Hulten and the two that were not demonstrate a pattern of interchange and exchange that was essentially new for the 20th century. Exhibitions had traveled but they did not have the goals of deliberately exchanging cultures and increasing the awareness of one culture of the other. Most people who had the good fortune to attend these exhibitions describe experiences of having their memories challenged, as they had lived through the periods included in the exhibitions, and in addition to those challenges, questioning the gaps in their memories. It is probably the case that all exhibitions can do that but in these specific exchange exhibitions, that would appear to be the goal and reviews attest to the fact that it unquestionably succeeded. Or maybe that conclusion is too facile. The Moscow-Berlin exhibition, more than ten years after the French exhibitions, was planned by the Pushkin Museum and the Berlin Gallery. At least one writer has observed that whereas the Moscow-Paris show is remembered as a landmark, the Berlin-Moscow show is not remembered.47 Should this be traced to the different positions of Paris and Berlin in the world of modern art? Or the declining interest in the Russian avant-garde by the mid-1990s? One exhibition emerged during the Cold War which contributed to the interest in the Russian avant-garde and to a picture of a heroic struggle engaged in by artists against the state. The Berlin-Moscow show in its planning stage overlapped with the ending of east Berlin (and the Soviet Union). There could be no nostalgic memories with this exhibition. That, of course, is an oversimplification but Oksana Bulgakowa lays out a detailed argument about the political change that characterized this period in both Berlin and Moscow and the context for this exhibition was quite different from the context for Paris-Moskva. In the end, the exhibitions with like-sounding names and similar developmental strategies were quite

150  Legacies, Branding, and New Beginnings dissimilar, especially in the outcomes. Choosing to stop here feels arbitrary but at the same time somewhat appropriate. Exhibitions are changing and not just exhibitions of Russian art. As we have already seen, research possibilities have increased and with them we find that the questions asked, whether in publications or in museums change. Is there a single exhibition that can capture the tenor of these changes? Certainly, conferences can do that more easily than an exhibition but it might be possible on the scale of an exhibition. Without describing them in detail, what exhibitions can we point to in the first two decades of the 21st century, that might suggest a new direction or revision to an old one. My arbitrary choice for one is called Lost vanguard found: a synthesis of architecture and art in Russia 1915–1935. The original installation of this exhibition was in Thessaloniki at the State Museum of Contemporary Art. It included photos and drawings from the Shchusev State Museum of Architecture in Moscow, drawings from the Costakis collection, and photographs by Richard Pare documenting the present situation of constructivist buildings in Russia. The catalogue text was in English and modern Greek. Several well-known writers contributed essays: Christina Lodder and Jean-Louis Cohen. One could approach this exhibition on several levels: as the recovery of historically important buildings now seen demonstrating the ravages of time, as an exhibition of architectural photography, and as another example of the creation and planning of exhibitions by multiple museums and curators. In the case of this exhibition, the individual parts could almost stand as independent exhibitions although the interaction between them undoubtedly enriched and updated the topic.48 Conclusion of Sorts Looking back, we see that my research has uncovered developments that may be specific to museums, to individuals, and others that reflect Soviet/American relations. This century of exhibitions reveals not only changes in the size of these exhibitions but also the more consequential change from a form of control by the Soviet government which placed serious limits on what could be shown abroad to exhibitions which involved the cooperation of multiple museums, both in the U.S. and throughout Russia. Changes in motivations and messages accompany changes in size and control. Although this volume only touches on the question of the Cold War, it is implicated by the span of years included and the changes observed in these exhibitions. When exhibitions changed from realism and Russian icons to theater costumes and stage sets and later changed to examples of avant-garde art and sotsrealism, it is not hard to recognize that this view of Russian life is not the same as the one that might have been communicated by the sales of icons. But, we may ask, did these exhibitions change western perceptions of the Soviet Union and Russia or just perceptions of art? And if the former, who was responsible for creating these new perceptions: the American curators and collectors, the Russian government, or the Russian museums lending the art? What, after all, was the message of the Great Utopia in 1992? Some questions specific to exhibition design are also worth trying to answer. Although it seems clear to me that reasons or motivations and subsequent narratives have changed over time, what isn’t clear is how these changes might have been reflected in exhibition design. Because intended audiences changed as the locations and content of these exhibitions changed, how was the American museum goer imagined for these exhibitions of Russian art? Is the catalogue, collection, or the exhibition the key to branding a museum in the contemporary world? And last but hardly least, has anyone determined the extent

Legacies, Branding, and New Beginnings  151 to which inauthentic objects were used in the earliest exhibitions, an issue that has come up more recently with museum collections of art from the 1920s, especially when it was lost and found? I leave these questions unanswered but believe that they may provide the direction for future work on this theme. But another direction is intriguing. This history began with a Moscow museum’s reconstruction of a 1924 exhibition of Russian art in New York. The research involved in tracing and finding the art included in the original show was nothing short of impressive. Sadly, it was not a traveling exhibition; those of us in the U.S. could only visit it through the equally impressive catalogue. But are there other exhibitions that deserve this reconstruction? Or is the appeal limited to specialized audiences? Not intending to answer that question but another point to make at this time is that New York, despite the collections of the Metropolitan, MoMA and the Guggenheim, and their histories of large and significant exhibitions of Russian art, may be losing its place as what seemed to be the center of the early exhibition network for Russian art shows. In addition to the increasing number of exhibitions of Russian art in Los Angeles, it is hard to overlook the fact that Chicago may be the new center. The Art Institute of Chicago is not the only Chicago museum with an interest in Russian art, but also its more recent exhibitions, from the ROSTA and TASS graphics to Revoliutsiia! Demonstratsiia! Soviet Art put to the Test, in late 2017 and early 2018, one that has been described as probably the largest exhibition of Russian art in the U.S. in the 25 years before it opened. Even if that is merely a museum boast, what is more impressive is the manner in which the Art Institute installed the exhibition with essentially ten thematic centers, creating environments of shopping, theater, clothing, factory work, and more. Some of the galleries are recreations of renowned, earlier exhibitions that took place in Moscow – most of this can be seen on the museum/exhibition web site. Surely we must recognize how this new asset will impact the planning and execution of future exhibitions along with the role of the visitor. Notes 1. Pindera and Suchan, eds. and curators, The Avant-Garde Museum (exhibition and catalogue) (Lodz: Museum Stzuk, 2020). The roster of artists is international with a large number of Russians included, and the works in the exhibition were borrowed from a range of international museums. It is not clear from the web site as to whether the exhibition traveled. 2. Gray, Russian Experiment; Christina Lodder, Russian Constructivism (New Haven and London: Yale University Press: 1985), and others could be identified by this prolific author. 3. Russell Porter, “McElroy says Soviet Exhibition shows Nothing to Upset Defense,” New York Times, Aug 1, 1959, p. 2; “Soviet Protests Pickets: Radio Says New York is Unable to Curb Groups At Exhibition,” New York Times, Jul 11, 1959, p. 2; “Text of speeches at opening,” New York Times, Jun 30, 1959, p. 16; Max Frankel, “Soviets Hopes on View,” New York Times, Jun 30, 1959, p. 17; and many others (almost daily). 4. Ivan Nechepurenko, “Communists Mark Russian Revolution Centenary in Moscow, New York Times, Nov 7, 2017. 5. Mudrak, “Russian Artistic Modernism and the West: Collectors, Collections, Exhibitions and Artists,” Russian Review, 56: 3 (July 1999), 467–481 quotation p. 463. See also A Survey of Russian Painting (New York: The Gallery of Modern Art and the Huntington Hartford Collection, 1967). 6. I first encountered this exhibition as an architectural history student and I was especially interested in the question of whether Eisenman could be related to constructivism. My answer was no: “Peter Eisenman and the Erosion of Truth.” Twenty/One, 1: 2 (1990), 20–37. He did not share the socially oriented goals of constructivism and that seemed important to me.

152  Legacies, Branding, and New Beginnings 7. The Proposal outline lists 21 works from the museum collection to be included. MoMA archives, Records of the Dept of Public Information II.B.2192 and CUR (Curatorial records) Box 1489 Deconstructivist Architecture, June 1988. 8. The panel text can be read in the archival photographs of the exhibition, available for viewing online at the Museum of Modern Art or in the Artstor digital collection. 9. Museum of Modern Art archives: Records of the Dept of Public Information II.B.2192 and CUR (curatorial records) Box 1489 Deconstructive Architecture, June 1988, General Correspondence. 10. See his The Architectural Uncanny: Essays in the Modern Unhomely (Cambridge: MIT Press, 1992) and his later development of some of these ideas in Warped Space: Art, Architecture, and Anxiety in Modern Culture (Cambridge: MIT Press, 2000). 11. Betsky, Violated Perfection, p. 27. Reading his book makes clear that Betsky did not look at constructivism as a visual or spatial model; he was attracted to the architects’ presumed willingness to violate convention – a good connection to make to deconstructivism. His definition is quite appealing even if it ignores historical accuracy. It strikes me that my students would relate to his definition a lot more readily than they do to Gan’s or Stepanova’s. 12. Johnson, preface to Deconstructivist Architecture, Philip Johnson and Mark Wigley (New York: Museum of Modern Art, 1988), p. 7. 13. Wigley, “Deconstructivist Architecture,” catalogue essay, p. 10. 14. Wigley, 11; 15. 15. Wigley, 18. 16. Hilton Kramer, “Twerpy MoMA Architecture Show; Another Nihilist Stunt by Johnson,” The New York Observer, July 4–11, 1988. When page numbers are not given, it is because I read the review in the archived collection: Deconstructivist Architecture exhibition, Records of the Dept of Public Information II.B.2192. 17. Crimp, “The Art of Exhibition,” October, 30 (Autumn 1984), 49–81, quotation p. 73. 18. Decter, “New York Review,” Arts Magazine 63 (Nov 1988), 111–114. 19. Russian avant-garde events, included in boxes 373–377 for exhibition #377 in 1981 and boxes 534–536 for the Great Utopia exhibition of 1992, Guggenheim archives. Brandon Taylor, review of the Great Utopia, in the Burlington Magazine, 135: 1078 (Jan 1993), 51–53; and Robert Hughes, “Russia’s Great Flowering,” Time, 140: 18 (Nov 2, 1992) (read online, page numbers not provided). 20. Neo-constructivism: Art, Architecture and Activism (Newark, NJ: Paul Robeson Galleries, Rutgers University, 2008). 21. Architectural Drawings of the Russian Avant-garde (New York: MoMA, 1990); AD, 59: 7/8, 1989. 22. John Loughery, “The Guggenheim Returns,” The Hudson Review, 45 (winter 1993), 646. 23. Giovanni, catalogue essay for Germano Celant, Zaha Hadid (New York: Guggenheim, 2006), pp. 23–32. 24. Hadid, Zaha Hadid and Suprematism (Zurich: Galerie Gmurzynska, 2010), pp. 46. 25. Hadid, Zaha Hadid and Suprematism (Zurich: Galerie Gmurzynska, 2010), p. 47. 26. These works can generally be found online rather than in publications. 27. Hadid, Zaha Hadid and Suprematism (Zurich: Galerie Gmurzynska, 2010), p. 89. 28. Brandon Taylor, review in Burlington Magazine, 135: 1978 (Jan 1993), 51–53. Larsen’s review was from New York magazine, 25: 40 (Oct 12, 1982), 78; 81 – these and many others were included in Boxes 534–536 in the Guggenheim archives where I first read them. 29. Robert Hughes called the scope of the exhibition and contents of the catalogue “stupefyingly long-winded,” and did not like Hadid’s design, “Russia’s great flowering,” Time, 140 (Nov 2, 1992). 30. Michael Kimmelman, “Review/Art: Russia’s fling with the future,” New York Times, Sept 25, 1992, p. C1. John Bowlt, “Utopia Revisited,” Art in America, May 1, 1993, from the online magazine archives. 31. Museum Jean Tinguely Basel, ed., Ivan Puni and Photographs of the Russian Revolution (Bern: Bentel Verlagz AG, 2003). 32. Ingrid Mossinger and Brigitta Milde, eds., Revolutionary! Russian Avant-Garde Art from the Vladimir Tsarenkov Collection (Kunshsammlungen Chemnits: Dresden, Sandstein Verlag, 2017).

Legacies, Branding, and New Beginnings  153 33. Ina Rozwadowska-Janowsk and Piotr Nowicki, exhibition commissioners, No! – and the Conformists (Warsaw Museum and Russian Museum, St. Petersburg, 1994), p. 13 [At this point, I do not think I have seen an exhibition that paired the banned and the official art or at least deliberately – are there any in the U.S. that have done this?] 34. Exhibition 377: Russian Avant-Garde events, list included in the Guggenheim Archives, Box 373–377. 35. Nancy van Norman Baer and John E. Bowlt, Theatre in Revolution (New York: Thames & Hudson, 1992). 36. John E. Bowlt and Matthew Druit, eds., Amazons of the Avant-Garde (New York: Abrams, 2000). Reviews by Christina Lodder, “Women Artists in Revolutionary Russia,” The Burlington Mazazine, 142 (Feb 2000), 118–119; Joan Marter, untitled review in Women’s Art Journal, 23 (Autumn 2002–Winter 2003), 42–44. 37. Rakitin, “The Avant-garde and the Art of the Stalinist Era,” in The Aesthetic Arsenal, catalogue for exhibition Stalin’s Choice (PS No. 1, New York, 1993), pp. 20–27. 38. Rakitin, p. 21. 39. Rakitin, p. 26. 40. Iakovleva, Galina N., “The path of totalitarian ideology toward painting,” in The Aesthetic Arsenal, 81–99; quotation p. 87. 41. Tupitsin, in Aesthetic Arsenal, 101–116; 104. 42. Tupitsin, 114. 43. O’Hare, “Constructive Spirit: Abstract Art in South and North America, 19202–30s,” in O’Hare, Constructive Spirit (Newark, NJ: Newark Museum, 2010), pp. 16–45. 44. Blazwick, Iwona, ed., Adventures of the Black Square, Whitechapel Gallery, London, 2015 (London, Munich, New York: Prestel Publishing, 2015). 45. Neo-constructivism: Art, Architecture, and Activism (Newark NJ: Robeson Galleries, Rutgers University, 2008). 46. Paper prepared for the Second Euroacademia International Conference, Re-inventing Eastern Europe, 2013. Available online. 47. Oksana Bulgakowa, “Moskva-Berlin, Berlin-Moskau, 1900–1950": Memory and Forgetting, The Russian Review, 80 (Oct 2021), 581–602. 48. Maria Tsantsanoglou, ed., David Sakisyan, and Hercules Papioannou, curators, Lost Vanguard Found (State Museum of Contemporary Art; State Museum of Architecture; Richard Pare, 2008).

Chapter 6 Sources The Henry Art Gallery with the Ministry of Culture of the USSR, Art into Life: Russian Constructivism 1914–1932. Seattle, WA: The Henry Art Gallery, University of Washington: 1990 Baer, Nancy van Norman and John E. Bowlt, Theatre in Revolution: Russian Avant-Garde Stage Design 1913-1935. New York: Thames & Hudson, 1992. Banks, Miranda, ed., The Aesthetic Arsenal: Socialist Realism under Stalin. Long Island City: P.S.1 Museum, 1993. Betsky, Aaron, Violated Perfection: Architecture and the Fragmentation of the Modern. New York: Rizzoli, 1990. Blazwick, Iwona, ed., Adventures of the Black Square: Abstract Art and Society 1915–201, Whitechapel Gallery, London, 2015. London, Munich, New York: Prestel Publishing, 2015. Bowlt, John E. and Matthew Druit, eds., Amazons of the Avant-Garde. New York: Abrams, 2000. Bulgakowa, Oksana, ““Moskva-Berlin, Berlin-Moskau, 1900–1950”: Memory and Forgetting,” The Russian Review, 80 (Oct 2021), 581–602. Crimp, Douglas, “The Art of Exhibition,” October, 30 (Autumn 1984), 49–81. Gray, Camilla, The Russian Experiment in Art 1863–1922 (revised and enlarged edition by Marian Burleigh-Motley). New York: Thames & Hudson, 1986. Guggenheim Museum Archives, Russian avant-garde, in boxes 373–377 for exhibition #377 in 1981 and boxes 534–536 for the Great Utopia exhibition of 1992 and reviews of exhibition. Hadid, Zaha, Zaha Hadid and Suprematism. Zurich Switz: Galerie Gmurzynska, Hatje Cantz Verlag, 2010.

154  Legacies, Branding, and New Beginnings Hulten, Pontus, curator, Paris-Moscow 1900–1930: Exhibition at the Centre Pompidou in Paris, 1979. Johnson, Philip and Mark Wigley, Deconstructivist Architecture. New York: Museum of Modern Art, 1988. Lodder, Christina, Russian Constructivism. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1983. Lodder, Christina, Constructive Strands in Russian Art 1914–1937. London: Pindar Press, 2005. Mossinger, Ingrid and Brigitta Milde, eds., Revolutionary! Russian Avant-Garde Art from the Vladimir Tsarenkov Collection. Chemnitz: Kunstsammlungen Chemnits; Dresden: Sandstein Verlag, 2017 Mudrak, Myroslava M., “Russian Artistic Modernism and the West: Collectors, Collections, Exhibitions, and Artists,” The Russian Review, 58 (July 1999), 467–481. Museum Jean Tinguely Basel, ed., 0, 10 Ivan Puni and Photographs of the Russian Revolution. Bern: Benteli, 2003. Museum of Modern Art, Deconstructive Architecture, MoMA archives: Records of the Dept of Public Information II.B.2192 and CUR (curatorial records) Box 1489 Deconstructive Architecture, June 1988, General Correspondence. Anonda Bell, Jorge Daniel Veneciano, Jacob T. McCall, Marek Bartelik, and artists, Neo-­ Constructivism: Art, Architecture, and Activism. Newark, NJ: Robeson Galleries, Rutgers University, 2008. O’Hare, Mary Kate, Constructive Spirit: Abstract Art n South and North America. Newark, NJ: Newark Museum, 2010. Pindera, Agnieszka and Jaroslaw Suchan, eds. and curators, The Avant-Garde Museum (exhibition and catalogue). Lodz: Museum Stzuk, 2020. Riabov, George and the Jane Vorhees Zimmerli Art Museum, The George Riabov Collection of Russian Art. New Brunswick, NH: Rutgers University Press, 1994. Rozwadowska-Janowsk, Ina and Piotr Nowicki, Exhibition Commissioners, No! – and the Conformists. Warsaw Museum and Russian Museum, St. Petersburg, Warszawa : Fundacja Polskiej Sztuki Nowoczesnej: Wydawnictwa Artystyczne i Filmowe, 1994. Tsantsanoglou, Maria, ed., David Sakisyan, and Hercules Papioannou, curators, Lost Vanguard Found. State Museum of Contemporary Art; State Museum of Architecture, 2008. Vidler, Anthony, The Architectural Uncanny: Essays in the Modern Unhomely. Cambridge: MIT Press, 1992. Vidler, Anthony, Warped Space: Art, Architecture, and Anxiety in Modern Culture. Cambridge: MIT Press, 2000. Wrede, Stuart, organizer, and Catherine Cooke, Architectural Drawings of the Russian AvantGarde. New York: MoMA, 1990.

Index

AKhRR 70, 96 Aladjalov 41, 42, 43, 45, Figures 2.3–2.5 Altshuler, Bruce 1–2 American Art Today 116, 121, 122; see also New York World’s Fair, 1939 American Russian Institute (ARI) 18, 19, 90, 94; see also Brinton Amtorg 48, 68, 69, 70 Anisfeld 15, 16; and Brinton 17, 18, 19, 20, 22, 36; and Ballets Russes 75, 76, 77, 79 Annenkov, Yuri 74 Antikvariat 89, 91, 92 Archipenko 16, 18, 19, 46, 111, 117 Art Restoration Workshops 87 Art Institute of Chicago 19, 59, 77, 151 Art of the Century Gallery 62 Baizerman, Saul 117 Bakst, Leon (Lev) 16, 17, 19, 20, 28, 36, 59; and Ballets Russes 75–79, 98, 102, 103 Balieff, Nikita and the Chauve-Souris 21, 23, 73, 75–79, 110 Ballets Russes 15, 20, 70, 76–78, 98, 102, 110, 112, 138; see also Diaghilev Bancroft, Hubert Howe 7 Barr, Alfred 4, 16, 35, 36, 63, 67, 94, 97, 111–114, 117, 120, 124, 137 Bat, the 71, 72, 74, 75, 76; see also ChauveSouris and Balieff Bauer, Rudolf 118, 119, Figure 5.2 Benois, Nicholas or Alexander 72, 74, 76–79, 103 Beskin, Osip 95 Black Square 42, 94, 132, 148 Bolotowsky, llya 117 Bowlt, John E. 78, 103, 114, 124 Brinton, Christian or Christopher 3, 10, 11, 16; and Brooklyn Museum 17–24; and the Palace show 26–31; and Katherine Dreier 36–48; artists in the late 1920s 56, 60, 70, 72, 77–79; catalogues in the 1930s 87, 94, 95, 96

Brooklyn Museum 1923 exhibition of Russian Art 9, 16, 17, 18–24, 75 Brooklyn Museum 26, 36, 40, 41, 44, 45, 47, 67, 72, 76, 77, 79, 87, 110; see also Fox and 1923 exhibition of Russian art Bubnovyi valet (Jack of Diamonds) 28 Bullitt, William Christian 94 Burliuk, David 17, 18, 22, 23, 24, 36, 37 Century Roof Theater 74 Chagall, Marc 38, 99, 100, 101, 117, 141, 148 Chauve-Souris 21, 23, 69, 72, 75, 76, 77, 78, 79, 110; see also the Bat and Balieff Chazen Museum 91–93 Chekhonin, Sergei 27 Chicago Columbian Exposition 1893 6, 8 Chudov Monastery 92 Collection of Non-objective Paintings 119; see also Rebay and Guggenheim Museum Comstock, F. Ray 72 Constructionists 25, 65 Constructivism (Russian and international) 16, 26, 33, 38, 39, 40–42, 58, 59, 62, 63, 70, 95, 99, 104, 112, 113, 115, 118, 121, 122, 125; and de-construction 131, 133–137; 138, 139, 142, 144, 147, 148 Constructivist Manifesto 62, 121 Cortissoz, Royal 21–23, 25, 27, 36, 75, 76 Crane, Charles R. 23, 29, 32 Crimp, Douglas 137 Cubism 22, 23, 70, 78, 115; Cubism and Modern Art 111, 112 Cubo-futurism 22, 28, 99 cultural diplomacy 32, 34, 110–129, 130, 149 Davies, Joseph Edward 90, 91 Death of Tarelkin 61 Deconstructivist Architecture show 110, 142 Deineka, Alexandr 95, 96, 106 Democracity 116, 121 Diaghilev 20, 28, 77, 78, 79, 102, 103

156 Index Dreier, Katherine 11, 16, 17, 18, 19, 21–24, 26, 28, 35, 36–44; see also Modern Russian Artists and Société Anonyme Exhibition of Contemporary Art of Soviet Russia 69 Exter, Alexandra 65, 99, 112, 138, 145 Federal Arts Program (FAP) 98 Federal Theatre Project (FTP) 63, 104, 110; see also Living Theatre and Hallie Flanagan First Russian Show in Berlin (van Diemen show) 24, 31–37 Flanagan, Hallie 58, 97, 98, 100, 104 Flavin, Daniel 1 Flint, Ralph 23 Foregger, Nikolai 61 Fox, William Henry 16, 18, 19, 23, 30, 44; see also Brooklyn Museum Gabo, Naum 65, 117 Gallatin’s Gallery of Living Art 117 Gan, Aleksei see Constructivist Manifesto Costakis Collection 125, 150 Gest, Morris 69, 72, 74 Gilburd, Eleonory 4 Goncharova, Natalia 15, 16, 17, 19, 20–22, 28, 36, 74, 75; and theater and Diaghilev 77, 78; Amazons 138, 143, 145 GOSET 100, 101 Grabar, Igor and GCP show 23, 26, 27–30, 32, 36; icon restoration 87, 88, 91, 93, 96 Grand Central Palace (GCP) 1, 18; Russian Art Show 24–31; Charles Crane 30, 37–47, 68, 69, 72 Grant Kingore Galleries 16 Gray, Camilla 1, 114, 131 Great Utopia 138–142, Figures 6.1–6.2, 145, 150 Greenhalgh, Paul 8 Grishkovski, Nicholas J. 25, 28, 32 Grunwaldt, Edward Mikhailovich 9, 10; see also Louisiana Purchase Guggenheim Museum 16, 48, 110, 119–121, 138–141 Guggenheim, Peggy 62, 120 Habima 100, 101 Hadid, Zaha 134, 137, 139; see also Great Utopia Hammer, Armand 125, 144 Hann, George 89, 91 Heap, Jane 17, 39, 48, 58, 64, 66 Hillwood 18, 92, 93

Imperial Fine Arts Academy 5, 6, 8 International Exhibition of Modern Art (1926) 39, Figures 2.3–2.4, 44, 117 Ioganson 25 Jewish Museum 99–101 Jewish Theater 101, 132 Johnson, Philip 64, 135 Kahn, Otto 60, 72 Kalinin, Mikhail lvanovich 88 Kandinsky 16, 19, 22, 33, 34, 37, 47, 111, 112, 117, 119, 120, 121, 145, 148 Kiesler, Frederick 16, 36; Contemporary Art applied to the Store and Its Display 44, 48, 58; New Theater Techniques 59, 60, 61, Figures 3.1–3.3; Machine Age 63, 64, 66, 67, 104; and Rebay and Guggenheim 120, 121, 130 Kimball, Fiske 87, 94, 95; see also Philadelphia Art Museum Kingore Gallery 15, 16, 17, 20, 77, 78, 79; see also Grant Kingore galleries Klutsis, Gustav, 133, 146, 147, 148 Knoedler Gallery 15, 23, 102 kustar (handicrafts) 71 Kustodiev, Boris 28 Larionov, Mikhail 16, 20, 22, 24, 28, 36, 76–78 Lassaw, lbram 117 Lear, Lester 21, 36 Léger, Ferdnand 42, 64, Figure 3.4 Lissitzky (Lissitsky) 25, 36, 39, Figure 2.2, 40, 41, 61, 112 Little Review 4, 58, Figure 3.4; see also Jane Heap Living Newspaper theater 63; see also Hallie Flanagan and FTP Louisiana Purchase Exposition of 1904 5, 9, 15, 71; see also Grundwaldt Lozowick, Louis 16, 35, 37, 38, Figure 2.1, 39, 40, 48, 54, 62, 63, 64, 65, 111, 112, 117, 131 Lunacharsky 33, 34, 37, 59, 88 Machine Age Exposition 39, 58, 64, 66 Magnanimous Cuckold 39, 76, 125, 144 Malevich 25, 35, 36, 37, 41, 62, 94, 96, 100, 101, 112–115, 132, 133, 137, 139, 140, 145, 148 Man who was Thursday 61 Medunetsky 35, 37 Meierkhold, Vsevelod 39, 61–63, 76, 100, 104, 114

Index  157 Mellon, Andrew 90 Metropolitan Museum 2, 90, 93, 124 Mir lskusstva 20, 77; see also World of Art Modern Russian Artists 1924 show 37 Moholy-Nagy, Laszlo 40, 62, 112, 122, 148 Monastery of the Caves 92 Moscow Art Theater 19–21, 72, 76, 98, 110 Museum of Modern Art (MoMA) Figures 2.1–2.2, 4, 16, 38, 41, 45, 63, 64, 66, 76, 87, 94, 97, 98, 99, 110, 111, 113–117, 120, 124, 132, 133, 135, 136–139, 142, 147, 151 Narkompros 33 New York World’s Fair of 1939 (NYWF) 33, 110, 115–118, 120, Figure 5.1, 121–123, 134 New Stage Craft Exhibition, 1914 59 New York International Theatre Exposition 58, 59–62, Figure 3.2 New Gallery 17, 20, 23 OST (Society of Easel Painters) 70, 96 Palekh 68, 75 Paris Universal Exposition 1878 5–6; Art Deco exposition of 1925 58 Peredvizhniki 5, 28; see also Wanderers Perisphere and Trylon 118, Figure 5.1; see also NYWF Petrov-Vodkin, Kuzma 20, 94, 96 Pevsner, Nikolaus 40, 44, 112, 122 Philadelphia Centennial Exposition 1876 5–8 Philadelphia Sesquicentennial exposition 1926 41, 42, Figure 2.5, 45, 46, 58 Philadelphia Art Museum 8, 24; see also Fiske Kimball Popova, Liubov 35, 37, 39, 76, 112, 114, 125, 133, 138, 144, 145 Post, Marjorie Merriweather 88, 90, 91, 92, 93 Puni, Ivan 143 Punin 111 Rabinoff, Max 17, 77 Rapallo, Treaty of 34 Rebay, Hilla von 16, 17, 48, 62, 63, 118, 119, 120, 139, 148 Remisoff, Nicolas 72–76 Repin 8, 15, 17 Revolution: Russian Avant-Garde 1912–1930 115, 125, 144 Riabov, George 112 Rodchenko, Aleksandr 62, 67, 111, 113, 124, 130, 133, 135, 137, 142, 146, 147 Roerich, Nicholas 15, 17, 18–20, 72, 76, 77–79

Rosa Esman Gallery 114, 115 Rosenberg, James N. 17 Rydell, Robert W. 9 Salmond, Wendy 88, 90 Sayler, Oliver M. 22, 35, 69, 71, 72, 73, Figure 3.6 Schapiro, Miriam 1 Serebriakova, Zinaida 8 Shaw, Marian 8 Simonson, Lee 59, 66, 68 socialist realism 70, 94, 96, 99, 116, 132, 141, 145–147 Société Anonyme 37, see Dreier Soudeikin, Sergei 8, Figure 3.5, 19, 23, 72, 73–76, 98 Handicraft Expositions, Soviet Russian Art and Handicraft Exposition 68, 69, 70, 75, 94, 116 Soviet Pavilion, NYWF 1939 116, 123, 145 Soviet Loan exhibition of Russian Icons 19, 87, 89 Stage design and the Russian avant-garde see individual artists such as Goncharova, Popova, Anisfeld, and others Stepanova, Varvara 61, 111, 112, 134, 138, 145 Sterenberg 33, 70, 96 Suprematism 18, 26, 38, 42, 95, 112, 135, 138, 142, 148 Sytin, I.D. 25, 29 Tairov, Aleksandr 61, 76 Tatlinist 22, 26 Tatlinism 62 Tatlin, Vladimir 1, 25, 33, 62, 93, 94, 111, 112–114, 135, 139, 140, Figure 6.1 Tektonika 121 Temple of non-objectivity 119, 121 Teteriatnikov, Vladimir 89–91 Treasures into Tractors 2, 3, 88 Tretiakov Gallery 26, 27, 31, 88, 92, 124, 138 Troyanovskii, Ivan lvanovich 25, 29 Udaltsova, Nadezhda 37, 138, 145 Umansky, Konstantin 33, 123 USSR Society for Cultural Relations with Foreign Countries 11, 67; see also VOKS Vakhtangov, Sergei 61, 100 van Diemen show 31–33, 35–37 Veshch (Object) Figure 2.2, 33, 40 Vesnin, Aleksandr 61, 65 Victory over the Sun 61

158 Index Viennese International Theatre Exposition 58, 59, 61, Figures 3.1–3.2 VOKS (VOX) 11, 26, 67 Walker, Andrew J. 18, 26, 28, 30, 45, 46 Walker, Mayor “Jimmy” 69 Wanderers 5, 6, 9, 28, 39 Whalen, Grover 118

Whitney, Gertrude Vanderbilt 110 Whitney Museum of American Art 110, 117 Wigley, Mark 135, 136 Williams, Robert C. 4, 9, 18 World of Art 2, 9, 20, 32, 39, 70, 77, 103 Wright, Frank Lloyd 120, 139 Yiddish Art Theater 99, 100