Reconstructing the House of Culture: Community, Self, and the Makings of Culture in Russia and Beyond 9780857452764

Table of contents :
CONTENTS
List of Figures
Editors’ Preface
A Note on Transliteration
Introduction. Cultivation, Collective, and the Self
Part I. The Siberian House of Culture in Comparative Perspective
1. From Collective Enthusiasm to Individual Self-Realization: History of and Experience in the House of Culture, Anadyr’ (Chukotka)
2. “Thank You for Being”: Neighborhood, Ethno-Culture, and Social Recognition in the House of Culture
3. Pokazukha in the House of Culture: The Pattern of Behavior in Kurumkan, Eastern Buriatiia
4. Three Houses of Culture in Kosh-Agach: Accounting for Culture Work in a Changing Political Setting
5. In the Face of Adversity: Shagonar’s Culture Workers Bear the Torch of Culture
6. Constellations of Culture Work in Present-Day Siberia
Part II. Expanding the Stage: The House of Culture in Broader Historical and Geographical Context
7. The Emergence of Soviet Houses of Culture in Kyrgyzstan
8. Palana’s House of Koryak Culture
9. Transformations of the House of Culture in Civil Society: A Case Study of Rural Women’s Culture Projects in Latvia
10. Heritage House Guarding as Sustainable Development: Community Arts and Architectures within a World Cultural Net(work)
Epilogue. Recognizing Soviet Culture
Appendix 1. Research Design and Methodology of the Comparative Research Project “The Social Significance of the House of Culture”
Appendix 2. Survey Form and Instructions
Appendix 3. Questionnaire 1 (Q1) and Instructions
Appendix 4. Questionnaire 2 (Q2) and Instructions
Appendix 5. Fieldwork Checklist
Notes on Contributors
Index

Citation preview

RECONSTRUCTING THE HOUSE OF CULTURE

RECONSTRUCTING THE HOUSE OF CULTURE Community, Self, and the Makings of Culture in Russia and Beyond


Edited By

Brian Donahoe and Joachim Otto Habeck

Berghahn Books New York • Oxford

Published in 2011 by Berghahn Books www.berghahnbooks.com ©2011 Brian Donahoe and Joachim O o Habeck

All rights reserved. Except for the quotation of short passages for the purposes of criticism and review, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without wri en permission of the publisher.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Reconstructing the house of culture : community, self, and the makings of culture in Russia and beyond / edited by Brian Donahoe and Joachim O o Habeck. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-0-85745-275-7 (hardback : alk. paper) — ISBN 978-0-85745-276-4 (ebook) 1. Ethnology—Russia (Federation) 2. Art and anthropology—Russia (Federation) 3. Art and society—Russia (Federation) 4. Art centers— Russia (Federation) 5. Community centers—Russia (Federation) 6. Postcommunism—Russia (Federation) 7. Russia (Federation)—Social life and customs. I. Donahoe, Brian. II. Habeck, Joachim O o. DK510.33.R4 2012 306.0947—dc22 2011006632

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

Printed in the United States on acid-free paper

ISBN 978-0-85745-275-7 (hardback) ISBN 978-0-85745-276-4 (ebook)


C

ONTENTS

List of Figures Editors’ Preface A Note on Transliteration Introduction. Cultivation, Collective, and the Self Joachim O o Habeck

vii ix xiii 1

Part I. The Siberian House of Culture in Comparative Perspective 1. From Collective Enthusiasm to Individual Self-Realization: History of and Experience in the House of Culture, Anadyr’ (Chukotka) Virginie Vaté and Galina Diatchkova

29

2. “Thank You for Being”: Neighborhood, Ethno-Culture, and Social Recognition in the House of Culture Joachim O o Habeck

55

3. Pokazukha in the House of Culture: The Pattern of Behavior in Kurumkan, Eastern Buriatiia István Sántha and Tatiana Safonova

75

4. Three Houses of Culture in Kosh-Agach: Accounting for Culture Work in a Changing Political Setting Agnieszka Halemba

97

5. In the Face of Adversity: Shagonar’s Culture Workers Bear the Torch of Culture Brian Donahoe 6. Constellations of Culture Work in Present-Day Siberia Joachim O o Habeck, Brian Donahoe, and Siegfried Gruber

117 137

Part II. Expanding the Stage: The House of Culture in Broader Historical and Geographical Context 7. The Emergence of Soviet Houses of Culture in Kyrgyzstan Ali F. İğmen

163

vi | Contents

8. Palana’s House of Koryak Culture Alexander D. King 9. Transformations of the House of Culture in Civil Society: A Case Study of Rural Women’s Culture Projects in Latvia Aivita Putniņa 10. Heritage House Guarding as Sustainable Development: Community Arts and Architectures within a World Cultural Net(work) Nadezhda D. Savova Epilogue. Recognizing Soviet Culture Bruce Grant

189

213

237 263

Appendix 1. Research Design and Methodology of the Comparative Research Project “The Social Significance of the House of Culture” B. Donahoe, J.O. Habeck, A. Halemba, K. Istomin, I. Sántha, and V. Vaté

277

Appendix 2. Survey Form and Instructions

293

Appendix 3. Questionnaire 1 (Q1) and Instructions

305

Appendix 4. Questionnaire 2 (Q2) and Instructions

309

Appendix 5. Fieldwork Checklist

313

Notes on Contributors

319

Index

323


L

IST OF

FIGURES

ILLUSTRATIONS xiv

I.1.

Seeing off the recruits (Kolyvan’)

I.2.

Locations of the cultural institutions described in this volume

1.1.

The new House of Culture of Anadyr’

32

1.2.

Consuming “culture” and cotton candy (Anadyr’)

50

2.1.

Certificates for participants of a lay-artists’ competition (Kolyvan’)

58

2.2.

Celebrating the Day of the City (Novosibirsk)

62

3.1.

The House of Culture of Kurumkan

76

3.2.

Selling perfume in the House of Culture (Kurumkan)

90

4.1.

Members of the Chuia dance group (Kosh-Agach)

107

4.2.

Blueprint for the projected new House of Culture in Kosh-Agach

113

Derelict construction site of the unfinished House of Culture in Shagonar

119

5.2.

Caravan of Shagonar’s culture workers leaving for Kyzyl

124

5.3.

Participants of the Tyva—Bisting Örgeevis competition in Kyzyl

125

6.1.

Performance of the agitbrigada (Kolyvan’)

155

7.1.

Likbez campaign in a Kyrgyz House of Culture

176

8.1.

The Okrug House of Culture building in Palana

193

8.2.

The uncompleted replacement for Palana’s Okrug House of Culture

194

Culture workers celebrating a successful string of shows (Palana)

196

Partying at the site of the long gone Okrug House of Culture (Palana)

196

Georgian dance group at a local holiday in Sigulda

218

5.1.

8.3. 8.4. 9.1.

3

viii | List of Figures

10.1. Folk dancing at the Bulgarian chitalishte (Bistritsa)

238

10.2. House-guarding heritage (Bistritsa)

243

10.3. Shaking the shekere at the Casa do Samba in Santo Amaro, Bahia

255

N.1. Final curtain call (Kolyvan’)

318

GRAPHS 6.1.

Frequency of visits to the House of Culture by location

139

6.2.

Frequency of visits to the House of Culture by occupational status

140

6.3.

“The House of Culture is important for our community”

148

6.4.

“The House of Culture hosts interesting events”

149

6.5.

“The House of Culture needs more support”

150

6.6.

“The House of Culture is a remnant of old times”

151

TABLES A1.1 Fieldwork sites and timing of the comparative research project

286


P

REFACE

This book—in a nutshell—is about the postsocialist condition of culture. A few words are in order to unpack these two key terms, so much contested in anthropology, and to explain how they play out in our story.

Postsocialist . . . All the chapters in this volume investigate the makings of public culture as exemplified by a particular institution: the House of Culture. There is one question that has consistently popped up throughout this research: to what extent can we identify lines of continuity that run from early-Soviet to late-Soviet and through to post-Soviet modes of cultural practice? Clearly, such labels as postsocialist and post-Soviet have been worn thin from unreflective overuse. In the last twenty years, states and people(s) have embarked upon very divergent trajectories; some social scientists talk about first-generation and second-generation change in erstwhile socialist societies, while in some states socialism is alive and very “real” even today. The explanatory clout of “transitology”—the scientific study of large-scale political and economic transformation towards market economy that was the approach du jour of the mainstream Western academic set in the 1990s—has been largely discredited because of its Eurocentrism, teleological and normative assumptions of unidirectional transition, and tendency to overgeneralize. “Postsocialist” as an a ribute can no longer do justice to the entangled political and social realities of present-day life in the countries that once were under the influence of the Soviet Union (nor for any other part of the world). And yet, some commonalities appear to have “survived,” like sublime leitmotifs that come up even though the tune, the language, and the orchestra have changed. Part of the story that we and the contributors to this volume want to tell is about how such seemingly small and peripheral phenomena linger on. The se ing of this story is the sphere of culture (more exactly, the public sphere of culture work and cultural production, as shall be specified below). This is not to say that the sphere of culture is the main or only sphere where the tenacity of

x | Preface

“old” habits and strategies can be observed. In fact, our approach here has been informed by numerous mentors who have uncovered the hybridity of old and new practices in many other domains of life. What we do want to stress is that the sphere of culture is a particularly intriguing place to look for persistence as well as for change—for several reasons. First, few people have done so; second, in socialist ideology culture was seen as a tool to induce social change; and third, culture comes with a certain sense of intimacy. This intimacy manifests itself in children’s early contact with songs and dances and other forms of aesthetic education, in the embodied dimension of such aesthetics, and also in the habitualization of “good manners” and style, something that many of the people we are writing about sincerely do try to accomplish. It is for this reason that the introduction to this volume starts with a discussion of “working on oneself” and the multiple ways that the self is perceived as part of a collective.

Culture . . . With Anne White, author of the book De-Stalinization and the House of Culture, we share the object of research and also her sense of relief that “[f]ortunately it is not the purpose of this book to define ‘culture’” (1990: 17). However, as we are operating with a specific notion of “culture,” we should say what we do not mean by this term. We do not use the term to denote something abstract, like an underlying grammar of behavior or values, something unnoticed by those whom we study. On the contrary, the culture that gives its name to the institution that is the focus of this book is very conscious, visible, audible, and palpable. At its brightest, “culture” is the performing arts; it is performance and esprit de corps and certain elements of material culture all rolled up in one tidy package. “Culture” stands for the a empt at edification through entertainment, leisure-time activity in a space provided by the state, communal self-presentation, and/or the musical and sartorial display of local “traditions.” In this volume Bruce Grant and Alexander King address this very palpable nature of culture most explicitly. The not-sobright aspects of culture are also described in several chapters of this book: conservatism, token commitment, boredom, inertia, and dissimulation. In spite—or perhaps, because—of the highly normative content of “culture,” people’s interest in it is not always so strong. Overly idealistic expectations about how “culture” can improve communal life go hand in hand with unrealistic expectations about the extent to which people want to get involved. “Culture” is undeniably a good thing to

Preface | xi

have. None of our interlocutors would question that—neither the members of staff, nor the visitors to the Houses of Culture.

Siberia . . . The case studies in this volume are from “Russia and beyond,” with Siberia providing the stage for two-thirds of the chapters. The pragmatic reasons behind this regional “bias” are laid out in the introduction and Appendix 1; however, there is something about Siberia that puts our study of the House of Culture into a specific light: namely, multiethnic coexistence. Siberia is part of Russia, and most of its inhabitants are ethnic Russians. However, Siberia is home to a large diversity of peoples, and in that sense, we do encounter the notion of “cultures” as a synonym for ethnic groups and their identities. As many of our case studies are located in regions with ethnic groups that constitute a significant ethnic minority and/or are the titular nations of the administrative units in which they live, the Houses of Culture are to propagate a formalized, picturesque version of the respective ethnic culture(s). In the past more strongly than in the present, Houses of Culture and their predecessors served as outposts for the Soviet mission civilisatrice, they were to confer Soviet culture and enlightenment upon the allegedly “unenlightened” peoples of Siberia and Central Asia (see Chapters 1 and 7; cf. the works of Yuri Slezkine). By the same token, the gradual inclusion of diverse ethnic groups into the socialist world-order meant that ethnic differences should no longer mark political, economic, or social differences; the only domain where ethnic difference was still permi ed to play out was in the sphere of culture. Displays of cultural diversity served to reaffirm political unity. Some scholars have likened this tendency to Stalin’s famous dictum, “The development of cultures national in form and socialist in content is necessary for the purpose of their ultimate fusion into one General Culture,”1 but we would argue that both form and content were socialist; national or ethnic diversity was expressed by different colors, dresses, tunes, etc., but the mold and format of performance stayed the same. It is for this reason that many displays of ethnicity come across as formalized and, indeed, politically sanitized.

And Finally, Recognition Another type of display that is o en ridiculed for its formalistic and perfunctory faux grandeur yet nevertheless is an enduring, and, yes,

xii | Preface

endearing function of the House of Culture is the public recognition of the accomplishments and contributions of community members. In a book on the House of Culture, then, we would be remiss not to follow suit and properly acknowledge those who have helped us throughout the entire process of this project. Individual authors make their own acknowledgements to research assistants, House of Culture employees, and others in their individual chapters; thus we limit ourselves here to publicly recognizing those who have been behind the project as a whole. The Max Planck Institute for Social Anthropology funded the initial comparative research project, “The Social Significance of the House of Culture in Siberia,” upon which this book is based, as well as the follow-up workshop, “Reconstructing the House of Culture,” in September 2007 that brought together all of the contributors to this volume. John Eidson, Chris Hann, Birgit Huber, and Deema Kaneff also actively participated in the workshop, but chose not to contribute to the edited volume. Nevertheless, their imprint remains as they have followed the progress of this project with keen interest and continued to provide encouragement and sage advice. Nadezhda Bazhenova, Tuba Bircan, Patrick Heady, Tat’iana Istomina, and Chaizu Kyrgys helped us design and improve the research instruments and database. Fieldwork would not have been possible without the organizational support of Yuri Popkov, Siberian Branch of the Russian Academy of Sciences, to whom we owe particular gratitude. Back in Halle, Georgi Dietzsch, Friedemann Ebelt, Ildiko Hufendiek, Julia Ismailowa, Katja Mahler, Stella Penkova, Alexander Seidel, Alia Shaybekova, and Claudia Ulbrich assisted in interview transcription, data analysis, and preparation of the manuscript of this volume. Siegfried Gruber took up the task of thoroughly analyzing the survey data. We thank the kollektiv at Berghahn Books, particularly Ann Przyzycki, who patiently guided us through this entire process, and two anonymous reviewers for their encouraging and constructive comments. To all of you and countless unnamed others who have helped bring this project to fruition, we say warmly, “Spasibo za to, chto vy est’” (“Thank you for being”). Notes 1. I.V. Stalin, Marksizm i natsional’no-kolonial’nyi vopros [Marxism and the national-colonial question, 1934], cited in Marina Frolova-Walker, “Musical Nation-Building in the Soviet Republics,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 51, no. 2 (1998): 331.


AN

OTE ON

TRANSLITERATION

Unless otherwise noted, throughout this book we use a simplified Library of Congress system (i.e., without diacriticals) for transliterating Russian terms and words from other languages normally rendered in Cyrillic. Common exceptions include words that are already widespread in English and therefore familiar to an English-language audience, such as Moscow (rather than Moskva), and yurt (rather than iurt). For the sake of accuracy, we follow the convention of using an apostrophe (’) to represent the Russian so -sign (ь). This may be visually confusing for readers, especially when it comes at the end of a word and therefore looks as if it could indicate possession or an incomplete contraction. The Russian form of pluralization (ending in -i or -y rather than -s) is usually maintained in transliteration of Russian plurals (e.g., metodisty rather than metodists). Translations are by the authors, unless otherwise noted.

Illustration I.1 | Seeing off the recruits: In the House of Culture of Kolyvan’, boys and girls aged between six and sixteen sing and dance for fellow villagers who are about to leave for the army. Photo: J.O. Habeck, April 2006.



I

Introduction NTRODUCTION

Cultivation, Collective, and the Self

Joachim OĴo Habeck1

We have to create ourselves as a work of art. —Michel Foucault

Let me start with an excerpt from the diploma thesis of a culture worker: At present, a significant proportion of the population suffers from a grave deficit of culture—the residents of many regions are starving on a meager cultural ration, and they are unable to satisfy their spiritual needs. Yes, we are suffering today from a syndrome of cultural deficit, to put it in sociological terms. Unique works of literature and art created by great artists are relegated to the margins of society, while there is a green light for “artistic mass consumption.” It is alarming that young people, zombified by the crassest examples of pop-music (estrada), so o en become the transmi ers of subcultures. They have no interest in the classics, folk songs and dances, nor indeed in anything national or patriotic (otechestvennoe). This is precisely where culture workers and cultural institutions can have an enormous mobilizing role, as they steer people toward moral deeds through disclosing to them the world of the beautiful. Each of these deeds is a fine and delicate action, commi ed at the behest of intellectual reason and originating from the virtuous and compassionate soul. (Kosintseva 2005: 4, original emphasis)

This book is about the House of Culture (dom kul’tury) and its current position in the public sphere of culture in Russia and a number of other countries.2 In this introduction, I seek to provide a brief outline of the House of Culture as object of anthropological inquiry, and then explore the relations between leisure and “work on oneself,” the self and the collective, between dissimulation and displays of creativity. I will portray the singing and dancing that is happening in the House of Culture as performative technologies of the self. I will also address the highly ideological, quasi-sacred role that “culture” (kul’tura) played in Soviet times and in many ways still does today, and the changing interpre-

2 | Joachim OĴo Habeck

tations of how culture3 should be enacted and promoted. The above quotation evocatively exemplifies some key tenets and tensions about kul’tura, and also the stages and actors involved in culture work. I got to know Liudmila Ivanovna Kosintseva, the author of the diploma thesis cited above, in spring 2006, when I asked her for permission to conduct scientific fieldwork in the House of Culture of Kolyvan’ near Novosibirsk (as part of the group endeavor that gave rise to this book). Kosintseva is the director of this House of Culture, renowned for its successful performance, especially when compared with its peers in the region of Novosibirsk. It was not by coincidence that the regional Department of Culture sent me to Kolyvan’, and I embarked on what would turn out to be a highly intriguing, vivacious, and enjoyable experience. There was no sign of any “cultural deficit” in this community. Kosintseva’s wri en statement, which I managed to read only a er the completion of fieldwork, puzzled me for its rather pessimistic and polarizing tone. It contains an appeal to “save our culture” and to “save our souls,” but it raises more questions than it answers: What concept of culture can be discerned here? What idea of culture does the House of Culture stand for? How does it differ from subcultures and from “artistic mass consumption”? Do culture workers really induce people to moral deeds? To what extent do such statements reflect existing social problems within the local community, and to what extent do they derive from strategic self-advertising, conveyed in an official rhetoric of social concern?

Reasons for Bypassing, Reasons for Studying the House of Culture “Social anthropologists may sometimes be a bit too quick to dismiss or ignore institutions like the House of Culture and the activities they support,” notes Alex King (Chapter 8). Notwithstanding its centrality, the House of Culture has been conspicuously neglected in anthropological research of Russia, with notable exceptions (White 1990; Grant 1995).4 Two reasons come to mind: First, the neglect of the House of Culture has been connected with the neglect of leisure in “transitology” research. During the last ten to fi een years, most social/cultural anthropologists of our generation who were conducting research in or about the former Soviet Union were interested in the study of transition, with economic and political transition from socialism to capitalism being the core theme. Many of their studies focused on the dismantling of state farms and collective farms, new forms of enterprises and

Illustration I.2

|

Locations of the cultural institutions described in this volume. Design: Georgi Dietzsch.

Introduction | 3

4 | Joachim OĴo Habeck

work arrangements, formal and informal economies, sources of household income, and survival strategies; in other words, they reflected the changes in the spheres of livelihood, work, economic production, and subsistence (for Siberia, see Gray, Vakhtin, and Schweitzer 2003: 200, 206). Less emphasis was put on changes in leisure pa erns. This follows the precedent set in the Soviet period when the aspect of leisure did not figure as prominently as the aspect of work, which took pride of place in Soviet ideology. Few non-Soviet scholars have published on leisure in the Soviet Union (Brine, Perrie, and Su on 1980; Stites 1992; White 1990). The first post-Soviet decade was all about “survival,” and the notion of leisure rarely figured in anthropological research on Siberia (it did figure, though, in sociological research on Russian cities, e.g. Oswald and Voronkov 2002; Pilkington 1994; Pilkington et al. 2002). To many of the people we were working with in our Siberian field sites, leisure appeared as a “luxury” problem. With the economic upsurge in the period from 2001 to 2008 and the improving financial situation of many (but by no means all) households, debates about leisure activities have gained more public legitimacy. Consequently, research on leisure activities is also more justified. Second, anthropologists generally neglected the House of Culture because they were looking for “authentic” culture in different locations. Many, being interested in the traditional life-ways of indigenous peoples, were heading for the tundra, the forest, and the mountains in order to study traditional forms of land use and everyday life in the camp as distant as possible from the impact of the Soviet modernization project. In earlier years of our fieldwork, before the start of this comparative research project, some of us (e.g., Habeck, Sántha) had rather ambivalent feelings about the presentations and representations of indigenous culture in the House of Culture of the community under study. It seemed as if native culture had been packaged in Soviet chocolate boxes, nice and sweet but always similar in format and o en a bit stale. The discomfort with this kind of presentation and the paradoxical outcomes are addressed in several chapters in this volume, but so are the possible motivations that “make” people act in this way. The House of Culture is centrally involved in local cultural production, and in regions inhabited by native peoples it is centrally involved in the expression of ethnic identity. These are good and important reasons why anthropologists should study the House of Culture rather than circumvent it. Here we are already ge ing into the discussion of the various functions and meanings of the House of Culture. A venue for creative leisure and relaxation, a place of cultural production, a stage for self-represen-

Introduction | 5

tation, the House of Culture performed the task of “carrying culture to the masses”; it is the symbol of the state’s a empt at “enlightenment” and edification. By perpetuating mainstream norms and values, it participates in stabilizing the ideological order. With the school system it shares the commitment to education and the virtuous upbringing of children. The implementation of certain social policies, e.g., the fight against alcoholism and other forms of substance abuse, are also on the agenda of many Houses of Culture. All these functions and meanings will be discussed in subsequent chapters. Here I just mention them in order to show that the House of Culture is at the nexus of manifold social interactions, and thus provides an outstanding object for scientific inquiry into practices and notions of leisure, education, representation, interpretations of culture, and the everyday business of cultural production. Sometimes the authors of this book have been confronted by the assumption on the part of colleagues that the House of Culture is a phenomenon of the past—it no longer occupies the central role that it had in Soviet times. This assumption, however, cannot be confirmed for all places and cases. To be sure, a large number of Houses of Culture in the cities and villages have either shut down completely or subsist with a bare minimum of activity. In other places, they have changed their profile considerably and now appear to be working quite successfully. It would be wrong to presume that the House of Culture as an institution has ceased to exist or is soon going to disappear. Local factors, such as economic conditions, political considerations, and also people’s demands and initiatives, greatly influence the current and future performance of any one House of Culture. Moreover, even though the ideological basis has obviously and thoroughly changed since the mid-1980s, the House of Culture continues to have a political mission. As several contributions to this volume show, state officials on various levels aim at restrengthening the House of Culture’s ideological commitment and at finding new forms and formats for promoting officially acknowledged norms and values. This book consists of two parts. The first part comprises chapters written by researchers who participated in the comparative research project “The Social Significance of the House of Culture in Siberia” (Donahoe, Habeck, Halemba, Sántha and Safonova, Vaté and Diatchkova). The second part complements the case studies of the comparative research project and broadens the scope of the book; it contains contributions of scholars who had been working on the House of Culture or related topics at some earlier stage in Siberia (Grant, King) or in regions other than Siberia (İğmen, Putniņa, and Savova).

6 | Joachim OĴo Habeck

An Entry Point for Comparative Research on Communal Life and Social Change Here I want briefly to sketch out the motivation behind the comparative research project and then explain why we decided to make the House of Culture the object of our investigation. Donahoe, Habeck, Halemba, Sántha, and Vaté were members of the first team of the Siberian Studies Centre at the Max Planck Institute for Social Anthropology and wanted to take this opportunity to simultaneously conduct fieldwork at five different sites in spring 2006 with a methodology designed jointly and a priori (see Appendix 1). Why did we choose the House of Culture as the object for a comparative research project? It is an institution in a very concrete sense and can be quite easily identified and defined. The House of Culture and its smaller and bigger variants existed in the Soviet Union in basically every community, from big cities to small villages. The House of Culture usually has its own building. It used to have, and has retained, a central position—in more than one sense. In many cases it is located prominently in the middle of the respective village, small town, or suburb. Moreover, it was and is intended to be a place for social interaction in the community, as will be illustrated in subsequent chapters, in which we discuss the different functions and meanings of the House of Culture. The House of Culture is a convenient window for observing community life and notions of culture. By using the House of Culture as the object of study, the researchers could relatively easily develop common research instruments and a ain a similar vantage point on processes of social change in various communities. Initially and most generally, the members of the comparative research project agreed to investigate the question: What is the sociopolitical significance of the House of Culture today for the local community, and how has it changed over time? Appendix 1 explains in detail how we then continued to break down this question into specific tasks and to develop the research instruments. Suffice it to say at this point that we used two different questionnaires for semistructured interviews—one for members of staff of the House of Culture in each field site, the other for its visitors and also nonvisitors—plus a survey, by which we sought to assess the normative and practical importance of the House of Culture for the inhabitants of the community in general. In addition, we participated alongside staff members in the day-to-day operations of the Houses of Culture, and conducted other activities such as archival research, analysis of documentation of celebrations, etc. We present answers to the research questions in Chapter 6. What follows here are

Introduction | 7

some thoughts on certain key themes and tenets that frequently came up during fieldwork and in subsequent discussions among the contributors to this book. First I will address incongruence and tensions in the priorities of the Houses of Culture and the events they organize. These in fact point to the ongoing public and internal debates about the makings of culture, the management of the public cultural sphere, and the changing institutional shape of this sphere.

Key Contradictions in the Public Sphere of Culture In our field research on five Houses of Culture we identified certain key contradictions in their agenda. On the one hand, they have inherited a state-defined mission of enlightenment and of “bringing culture to the masses”; on the other hand, local residents expect them to serve as a venue for entertainment for local people. This is a tricky balance to strike—from interviews with staff we know that ideally, cultural enlightenment happens through appropriate entertainment (see White 1990: 69, 130 for parallels in the late 1980s). Moreover, the staff also has to reconcile the conventional idea that culture is a state-funded domain with the necessity of engaging in commercial activities (White 1990: 94, 125). Due to financial constraints, as well as strategic decisions on the part of employees and local authorities, Houses of Culture operate with varying degrees of intensity, have diverse specializations, and fulfill very different functions for their communities. Simply put, the three key contradictions can be expressed as: • Enlightenment vs. entertainment; • State-funded mission (culture for the masses) vs. commercial orientation; • Officially reported vs. actually happening activities. These tensions hang together and are very much influenced by the location of the House of Culture under question. In small towns and villages, the average income is comparatively low, and few people earn a lot of money. Due to the modest earnings, people are likely to spend most of their money on what they deem essential (food, clothing, perhaps mobile phone cards) and only a small part on leisure and entertainment.5 Commercial venues such as gyms, cinemas, restaurants, and nightclubs are rare in the small towns and almost nonexistent in the countryside, except for canteens and cafeterias along main highways. Under these conditions, the House of Culture, if it works at all, maintains a central position as a venue for leisure activities, simply because

8 | Joachim OĴo Habeck

people can go there without spending much money and there are limited or no leisure-time alternatives. Small-town Houses of Culture also o en have the only venues large enough for sizeable gatherings and sometimes charge for the use of their premises for weddings, jubilees, and other social functions, but since incomes in such places are generally lower than those in the cities, there is a ceiling to the amount that can reasonably be levied. In the bigger towns and cities, Houses of Culture are more likely to develop commercial activities and to sharpen their profiles. In a place where people can choose from among many options for spending their free time, each House of Culture must find its own niche; it can no longer operate as a broad-band provider of “culture for the masses” as it used to do in Soviet times. In the big cities, the institutions of the public cultural sphere cover but a very small segment of the range of activities that people pursue in their free time. In the countryside, Houses of Culture provide the more classical range of activities, and there is no real need for specialization since there are few competitors in the arena of leisure activities. The situation of the Houses of Culture in the countryside is nonetheless highly problematic because financial support from the state (and/or the community, see the discussion on Federal Law 131 in Chapters 4 to 6) was very scarce throughout the 1990s, and usually it is still far from sufficient to cover the expenses for maintenance and events. Donahoe and Putniņa (this volume) illustrate that many members of staff are passionate about their work, even though they work for miserable pay. Even if a hard core of usually middle-aged women with relentless commitment to communal work (obshchestvennitsy) work without substantial payment and try to promote the village club or House of Culture as a community center, the lack of funding is nonetheless so grave that the building itself cannot be maintained. It is for these reasons that many a House of Culture in the Russian countryside has shut down permanently and is falling to pieces, and though on paper these public cultural institutions may still exist, they have ceased to operate and all the “work with people” happens in different venues and along different lines, if it happens at all. Whether a village club or House of Culture can survive depends on various factors, especially on the overall degree of social cohesion in a given community and on the skill of the local activists to finagle additional money. This then leads to the phenomenon of divergence between what the Houses of Culture report to their respective supervising authority— usually the local or regional Department of Culture—and what actually happens at the House of Culture. Bookkeeping entails regular (monthly and annual) submission of plans and activity reports in both textual and

Introduction | 9

statistical formats. The statistical report comprises, among other items, numbers of collectives (ensembles, “circles,” interest groups, etc., the generic Russian term for which is formirovaniia) and their participants, and numbers of events and people a ending. The number of collectives of each House of Culture is certified by a list of their names and the individuals responsible for them. Depending on the financial situation and the state of the building, the enthusiasm of the employees and visitors, and the “vibes” among people that participate, the actual activity of these collectives differs remarkably. Even in Houses of Culture that work successfully, there are a few collectives on the list that either no longer function or have never functioned. Some of them are considered to be existing potentially, so if somebody came along and really wanted to participate, the person in charge would actually start or restart the collective. The percentage of actually versus potentially existing collectives is not only different from case to case but also fluctuates over the months and years. During the fieldwork for the comparative project, my colleagues came across two examples where almost nothing that was announced took place in reality. Halemba describes the carefully designed plan of work of various collectives in the House of Culture that she studied, in stark contradiction to the fact that none of them even met during the time of her study. Sántha and Safonova report a similar situation. Quite in contrast, the Houses of Culture visited by Vaté and Diatchkova, Donahoe, and myself show comparatively high levels of activity. And even so, the reported numbers of collectives, events, and visitors look artificially augmented—a practice known from Soviet times (White 1990: 71–136) and perpetuated in the present. To account for the augmentation of activity on paper, we need to understand the way in which Houses of Culture are classified and evaluated. There are four different size categories of Houses of Culture (first, second, third, and “not classified,” vne kategorii). The category, the payroll (shtatnoe raspisanie), and the number of collectives (kolichestvo formirovanii) are interdependent. For example, a village House of Culture (sel’skii klub) with one full position should have at least three collectives—if it does not, the position is likely to be reduced to a half. The director’s salary is determined by the category of the House of Culture where he/she works and by personal qualifications and awards. The remuneration of the head of a collective (rukovoditel’ formirovaniia) depends on the quality of the collective’s performance. If a collective attains the status of narodnyi kollektiv (“People’s Collective”) or obraztsovyi kollektiv (“Exemplary Collective”), it also means that its head will receive more money. In addition, this status also results in be er chances that the payroll of the House of Culture will be enlarged. The local or

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regional Department of Culture checks the annual statistics and also conducts evaluations (aĴestatsiia) at regular intervals, and on the basis of these and the available financial means decides on increments in the pay, the payroll, and the category of the House of Culture. Understandably, the evaluations cause quite some unrest and concern among the employees, as is illustrated by Sántha and Safonova. Hence the importance of the statistics reported to the Department of Culture. Of course, professional, political, and personal relations between the staff of the House of Culture and the local Department of Culture and the local administration can also occasionally have a decisive influence on how the House of Culture fares, as we are reminded by Halemba and King.

Cultivated Sobriety Several of our authors have noticed that “their” House of Culture was closed most of the time and does not look a ractive or inviting to bypassers, and they provide different interpretations for this phenomenon. Halemba states that this void (as well as the mismatch between reported and actual activities) is a necessary precondition for local politicians to use the institution as a screen upon which to display their presentations of power. They require the resources of the House of Culture—staff, competence, equipment—to be at their disposal whenever need be. Emptiness is explained as “permanent availability” (Halemba, Chapter 4), a constant state of cultural stand-by duty. This observation, albeit based on a single case study, points to a particular mode of functioning that seems to apply to Houses of Culture in many other communities, too. This mode—cultural stand-by—is different from the one described by Mathijs Pelkmans (2003), who looks at unfinished (and therefore empty) public buildings in Ajaria, former USSR. Pelkmans shows how the infinitely delayed completion of a communal project helps to keep the promise of a be er future pending (also see SsorinChaikov 2003). What the two modes of functioning do have in common is that they both sustain the potentiality of cultured and civilized existence. Sántha and Safonova (Chapter 3) also mention that the local House of Culture is usually shut and empty, and awakens to life only when the commission comes to visit for evaluation. On such occasions, “everybody who could perform anything on stage” had to participate in the show, helping the members of staff pretend that the House of Culture is bustling with cultural activity throughout the year. In fact, however, the

Introduction | 11

frenzied activity soon abates and the House of Culture sinks back into lethargy. Being used infrequently in the course of the year, the House of Culture nonetheless symbolizes the solemn highlights of the annual cycle of events, much like an arena or a big stadium, or a church. The austerity of the House of Culture is also connected with its quasi-sacred character. Houses of Culture are o en located right in the center of the town or village, privileged through their proximity to the centers of power. Many of them were erected where churches used to be—in some cases, like in my fieldwork site Kolyvan’, the building of the church was turned into a House of Culture in the 1930s. They serve as a symbol of the unity of the community, and they stand for the aspiration for self-perfection and the achievement of a more decent life (through culture). The emptiness of the interior of the House of Culture resembles that of a temple, which, for lay people, is accessible only at certain times when service (in Latin: cultus) is held. To be sure, the austerity and inaccessibility of the rooms of many Houses of Culture are the result of more mundane factors, too: as these buildings were planned, constructed, and furnished in times when financial support was more generous, they now look oversized. When chairs, tables, and other pieces of furniture are damaged, they get stored in some half-lit corner or side room. Rooms are heated insufficiently and induce employees and visitors to shorten the amount of time they spend in the House of Culture. The sobering and at times dreary atmosphere of the House of Culture stands in strange contrast to its mission: to provide an ambiance of inspiration and cheerfulness. From a different perspective, though, it appears that sobriety engenders a certain sense of catharsis, and dreariness goes hand in hand with an ascetic experience that lay at the core of kul’tura as highbrow culture. Only in pu ing aside the interest in cheap and materialistic aspects of human existence can a person achieve access to “truly” important spiritual values. The sacredness of the House of Culture derives from making visitors enter a particular state of mind, a form of contemplation. It serves to establish a quite clear separation between the profane and the sacred (Durkheim 1957: 212), and thus to demarcate an extra-ordinary space for celebration (cf. Rolf 2006: 17).6

Leisure to What Purpose? The institutional accommodation of leisure was, and is, informed by a particular sense of social order that requires careful maintenance (as expressed by Savova, Chapter 10). Leisure is a not just a social phenom-

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enon but a topic of public concern. It was a concern in socialist times too. Anne White (1990: 21–23) demonstrated how Soviet sociologists were interested in the degree to which the free time of Soviet citizens could be “absorbed” by activities acknowledged as useful. The greater the amount of free time—as the outcome of optimal utilization of productive forces—the greater the need for the “creation of possibilities for rationally using it,” as Georgii Lukich Smirnov (1975 [1973]: 367) stated in his then authoritative book on the development of the socialist personality. Smirnov pointed out that a discrepancy between free time and the (collectively oriented) character of needs of the individual may be exacerbated “if one does not pay sufficient a ention to the organization of a cultured pastime, to the integration of people during their free time into useful activities, if one accepts that adolescent boys and girls ‘kill’ their time at parties, at house corners and in the courtyards, with playing cards, etc.” (1975 [1973]: 395).7 Politicians, officials, and the general public in contemporary Russia hold that, ideally, leisure should be spent in a constructive way. This ideal was pursued more fervently in Soviet times, but it is neither restricted to the socialist period nor to postsocialist countries. According to the ideal, people should not waste their time hanging around. Instead, they should try to improve themselves and their environment, for example, through reading, listening to good music, exercising, working in the garden, participating in a subbotnik (voluntary communal work), helping the elderly, and so forth. Young people in particular should do something useful lest they go astray.8 House of Culture employees, visitors, and local officials in different fieldwork sites more than once pointed out that culture work is necessary to prevent the youth from taking narcotics or ge ing involved in criminal activities. Leisure should be oriented toward a socially beneficial goal. Other forms of pastime activities smack of the ordinary, especially if alcohol is involved. They may seem however, in many everyday situations, especially a ractive as they promise dissipation, unrefined behavior, and bodily pleasures. While fulfilling the norms of cultivation and ignoring them are equally part of life, the House of Culture no doubt should work toward the former; its staff should try to “steer people a bit toward moral deeds,” as we know from the initial quotation. A visit to the House of Culture should reward the visitor with pleasure and relaxation, but not of the trivial kind. Noteworthy is the unease with which many House-of-Culture workers and elderly visitors look at disco events on their premises, as the disco potentially leads to drinking and lewd and violent behavior.

Introduction | 13

Part of our comparative research was devoted to the question of how frequently people visit the House of Culture. What emerged from the survey in five communities is a high and frequent a endance of those aged eleven to twenty (children under the age of eleven were not included in the survey) and a low, only occasional a endance of people older than twenty. Of the teenagers, about half of them indicated that they visit the local House of Culture some times per month or more o en. Of the older ones, only one in eight says so. Adults go to the House of Culture rather infrequently9; nonetheless about 90 percent of them agreed with the suggestion that the House of Culture is of importance for the community in which they live, and this agreement is high also among those who never go (see Chapter 6). The importance, some adult respondents say, lies in the orientation toward educating youth and providing them a space for creative leisure. When they are not at work or at school, our respondents spend their time watching TV, listening to music, shopping, and meeting friends. The importance of these activities is age dependent. For the teenagers among our respondents, listening to music and watching TV are the most frequent and time-intensive activities, whereas for those older than twenty years of age, watching TV and shopping are most important (see Chapter 6). TV and music provide forms of sensory input that do not restrict one from doing other things at the same time, such as homework, household duties, etc. Some also declare they read books and journals, or engage in sports. Most of them do not own a computer but may occasionally visit somebody who has one. Hence, we may conclude that most people in Russian small towns and rural areas are regular media and music consumers; they may simultaneously do other, “useful” things, though not consciously with the aim of “working on oneself.” Notwithstanding the ideals propagated by culture workers, our respondents appear to be quite “ordinary” people, who more o en than not appear to be unaware of the project of leisure as cultivation. However, young people spend much more free time at the House of Culture than adults, which resonates with many culture workers’ statements that young people are their main target group.

Performative Technologies of the Self In Russia, from what I have observed, there exists a particularly strong concern with the idea of proper conduct, morality and upbringing, and the question of how one ought to live. I see this as the result of

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a widespread feeling of confrontation with an imperfect social environment (Ries 1997). There is a pervasive appeal to “work on oneself,” and the House of Culture is among the zones especially designated for this work to happen. The things that we observe here can be read in different theoretical contexts. What I propose in this section is to interpret them in the light of Foucault’s ideas about technologies of the self and governmentality (Foucault 2000; cf. Zigon 2008: 42–45 for a recent interpretation concerning morality and technologies of the self). Further below, I will draw on the research of social anthropologist Alexei Yurchak, who uses performativity theory (2006: 18–29) to describe the “performative shi ” in late Soviet society. Starting from a Foucauldian approach, historian Oleg Kharkhordin (1999) has sought to show how technologies of the self in prerevolutionary Russian and Soviet society took a different course than those in other European countries, as analyzed by Foucault. Whether or not one agrees with Kharkhordin on the historical continuities that he traces, it is easy in any case to agree with him that the Soviet “self was made an object to care about, to reflect upon, to perfect. Peasants who became workers who became Communists started for the first time in their lives to think and write about themselves, to care about the possession and development of an individual self” (Kharkhordin 1999: 4–5; for an example of this writing process see Hellbeck 2000). The socialist person was an unfinished project, which resulted in the constant requirement to work on oneself (cf. Kharkhordin 1999: 231–264). I argue that in the subsequent abatement of socialist ideology, this appeal has changed tack but not form, and the socialist person has transfigured into a moral being that has to take care of herself or himself. Cultivation, the comprehension and embodiment of culture (kul’tura), is a performative technology of the self. What is going on in the House of Culture can be understood as one of “the various practices to which cultivation of self has given rise,” as Foucault notes (2000: 235). He then points out that with changing practices of cultivation of the self, the relation to self-knowledge changes too.10 I argue that socialist cultivation of the self went hand in hand with a distinct form of self-knowledge—and becoming aware of oneself. This normative link was established early on in Soviet pedagogy through the prominent practitioner-cum-writer, Anton Makarenko. His was the idea of cultivating the single personality (kul’tivirovat’ otdel’nuiu lichnost’) through the kollektiv (quoted and discussed by Kharkhordin 1999: 204–205), and the individual was supposed to recognize himself or herself through the kollektiv. Kharkhordin examines the process of revelation of self through the kollektiv in great detail (1999: 176, 214, 253–254).

Introduction | 15

Proper cultivation of self resulted in something that came to be known as “culturedness” or kul’turnost,’ a concept propagated since the mid 1930s (Dunham 1990; Volkov 2000) and commonly applied also in pedagogy and intellectual debates alike. Dunham claims that kul’turnost’ is more than just the “notion of how to be individually civilized. … It began to mean more important things than clean nails, abstinence from cursing and spi ing, a required minimum of good manners. It began to mean the only desirable conduct, the self-image of dignified citizens” (Dunham 1990: 22). Kul’turnost’ thus stands for proper comportment, for the legitimate performance of the self in the public. Simultaneously, it stands for how people come to see themselves ideally and for how they recognize that their selves require development and improvement. Improvement calls for giving up certain habits and desires; it is a conscious process of selective “disengagement with the past” (as İğmen writes in Chapter 7). There are specific situations and se ings wherein “work on oneself” seems appropriate, and the House of Culture is an important locale for this form of cultivation. Having proposed to interpret House-of-Culture-style cultivation as a specific and conspicuously performative technology of the self, I now turn briefly to the other concept that I borrow from Foucault: governmentality. Governmentality—in the context of the House of Culture—can be read as a one-word designation for the research question as to who and what makes people go to the House of Culture and participate in cultural activities. The embodiment of cultivated behavior is informed by a political project that is concerned with the whole of society. The House of Culture is meant to be the shop floor on which society shapes its subjects. Foucault’s statement (in Rabinow and Dreyfus 2000: 262) that “we have to create ourselves as a work of art,” though taken from a different context (namely, his explanation on how he differs from Sartrean existentialism), excellently mirrors the mission of the House of Culture: the worker achieves creative self-fulfillment through playing an instrument, or a role in the lay theater, and developing a personal sense of aesthetics and taste, to be employed in life more generally. The concept of governmentality, defined as a particular configuration of “technologies of domination of others and those of the self” (Foucault 2000: 225), almost unavoidably elicits the possibility of resistance, in this case resistance of some people against the social project of cultivation through performing culture. Looking at the House of Culture from the visitor’s point of view, the question would then be how the individual may manage to circumvent this institution altogether, or how he or she may use its space for “subversive” purposes that deviate from the officially promoted agenda; how he or she tries, alone or

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with others, to disengage from the cultivation project or to dissimulate (Kharkhordin 1997, 1999: 270–278). However, at this point I deem it necessary to bring in a different view of how individuals, groups, and society at large responded to the socialist state’s social projects and officially stated requirements of conduct and self-improvement.

Reproducing the Form, Ignoring the Meaning For Alexei Yurchak (1999, 2006) such a juxtaposition of compliance versus resistance is not helpful, since it reinvokes old dichotomies (oppressor vs. oppressed, truth vs. fallacy) that, from his point of view, cannot adequately capture the everyday life experiences of most people in the late Soviet period. Rather, deviation from what is officially required can be interpreted as the utilization of a space which has opened up as a result of what Yurchak calls “performative shi .” Yurchak (2006: 18–26), referring to the speech act theory of John Langshaw Austin, claims that authoritative language consists not only of constative statements, but always has a performative function too. When analyzing official discourse, in this case communist rhetoric, both the constative and performative dimensions of authoritative language need to be taken into account. He further argues that from the mid-1950s, in Soviet authoritative language the constative dimension lost its significance, so that the validity of official statements came to hinge on their performative dimension. In other words, communist rhetoric became hollow in terms of its content, but it continued to ma er in terms of its form. To reproduce the form of the official speech, the official text, or the official ritual was accepted as necessity, and most people accepted it because it facilitated social interaction, and even opened up spaces for interaction that were not envisaged by official ideology. “Reproducing the forms of this discourse while unanchoring and ignoring their constative meanings enabled creative production of new meanings and forms of life” (Yurchak 2006: 115). For example, Yurchak describes how rock concerts of underground bands were organized under the aegis of the Komsomol11 as “Komsomol cultural-mass activities” and even approved as such by unsuspicious regional party officials. “All of this became possible through intricate strategies of pretense on the part of both producers of nonofficial culture and local Komsomol activists, who frequently knew each other well” (Yurchak 1999: 84). Such practices of manipulation “involved not so much countering, resisting, or opposing state power as simply avoiding it and carving out symbolically meaningful spaces and identities

Introduction | 17

away from it” (Yurchak 1999: 80, his emphasis). Similar practices existed also in many Houses of Culture. White, in her exploration of the “limits of acceptability” of activities (1990: 69–95), establishes that the House of Culture, an institution of the public cultural sphere with a clearly stated official mission, was in fact subject to informal ways of reinterpretation and local forms of appropriation. Local people brought in their own ideas and initiatives, which were negotiated with the staff and other visitors (Yurchak 2006: 192). İğmen and Savova (both in this volume) give further evidence of processes of appropriation within certain limits. On another occasion, Yurchak reports that many young people enjoyed taking part in the 1 May and 7 November parades of the Soviet Union of the 1980s. By then, a long process of standardization and habitualization of the rituals had already taken place (Yurchak 2006: 59; also see Rolf 2006). Being indifferent to (or even unaware of) the ubiquitous slogans, banners, and placards, these people seemed to value the event for the “partying” rather than the Party bit of it. “Participating in these events reproduced the collectivity of belonging that was enabled by these slogans and portraits but no longer bound by their literal sense” (Yurchak 2006: 121). “On these occasions people had celebratory dinners at home, with collective drinking, eating, and singing with relatives, friends, and colleagues” (2006: 122). Compare this interpretation of public performances with that of Kharkhordin: “Always on stage, always in the limelight, Soviet citizens tended to irreproachably perform the public role ascribed by the general plot, with some adopting it as a real identity and living it out as truthfully as they could” (Kharkhordin 1999: 274). The individual that seeks to adopt the official rhetoric “as a real identity” has a severe problem with reality—from the point of view, at least, of those “ordinary people” of the last Soviet generation portrayed by Yurchak. That individual takes the constative dimension of authoritative language as true, whereas everybody else knows that only the performance ma ers, not the question whether “false” or “true.” Everybody else, Yurchak holds, agreed to comply with the form in order to carve out spaces where they could actually be social beings. To push the comparison yet a bit further, we may say that Kharkhordin’s Soviet citizen experiences his or her existence as potentially threatening and may develop paranoid or schizophrenic thoughts, while Yurchak’s citizen seems to be cheerfully ina entive to political brainwashing. Both authors accentuate different emotional modes, modes of being and agency. One may discuss at length such renderings of “intimidation” and psychologically “healthy ignorance” and

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their political ramifications. What I want to emphasize here is that they operate with different notions of “self.”12 The Soviet citizen portrayed by Kharkhordin is aware of the constant requirement of “revealing oneself” and may either comply or dissimulate, whereas the person that typically inhabits Yurchak’s ethnography realizes his or her “self” through a sensible engagement with people “like us” (svoi) and accepts officially promoted “work on oneself”—if at all—only on the performative level. The former person must be concerned, the la er must be inventive about the cultivation of self. I believe that both stances apply to the House of Culture visitors that I met, depending on the situation and individual perception. Again on the basis of his research on Komsomol practices, Yurchak recounts the practice of reporting activities—in this case, political information lectures—that in fact never took place.13 In doing so, the local branch of the organization could “fulfill, at the level of form only, the unrealistic assignments” required by the higher levels (Yurchak 2006: 100). Both the writers of the official reports and the recipients were aware that reports were to be submi ed and filed for the sake of form rather than content. When going through official documentation of the activities of the House of Culture in Kolyvan’, I feel strongly reminded of the “performative shi ” described by Yurchak. The actual activities at this House of Culture and the bureaucracy, though being interrelated, are not dependent on each other.

Discipline and Perform Particularly conspicuous is the fact (observed by some of us within the comparative research project) that among the people who sing and dance in the House of Culture, there are some that are visibly indifferent to their act or do not enjoy it at all. This observation, then, leads us straight into the debate on pokazukha, which has been one of the most fervent and intriguing issues discussed among the authors of this volume: On the basis of their case study, Sántha and Safonova (Chapter 3) postulate a nearly schizophrenic relation between feigned and authentic behavior of House of Culture staff and visitors, and use the word pokazukha (“pu ing on a false show”) as a shorthand for this. Here my intention is to discuss the reasons behind these pa erns of behavior in light of the considerations about “self” of Foucault, Kharkhordin, and Yurchak. One of the explanations that Sántha and Safonova offer is that visitors pretend engagement in official institutions and the state pretends en-

Introduction | 19

gagement in the maintenance of local infrastructure. I see in this a contractual element, which also comes to the fore in Kharkhordin’s notes on dissimulation: in postwar Soviet Union, dissimulators have become the unspoken majority and society has turned into a “collective of accomplices” (1999: 277). Kharkhordin explains such interaction of pretenders as “double dissimulation” (personal communication, 28 May 2009). “They pretend that they pay us and we pretend that we work.” This joke from socialist times, communicated by Yurchak (1999: 80), carries a very similar tune. However, while in Kharkhordin’s writings this attitude is likely to result in a split personality—which resonates with Sántha’s and Safonova’s interpretation—it in fact constitutes more a practical than a principal issue for Yurchak’s respondents. Take, for example, Andrei, a former Komsomol secretary (2006: 93–96). The split consisted in two different kinds of behavior (but not two different kinds of self): [P]erforming the pro forma enabled Andrei to engage with other types of work and meanings. … Andrei also learned how to minimize the pro forma so that it enabled meaningful work by not taking too much time or energy. … For him, these two types of sentiments were not in opposition but rather mutually constitutive. And he was clearly not the only one who felt this way. (Yurchak 2006: 93–95)

Moreover, Andrei received official recognition through honorary awards for that aspect of his work that seems meaningful to both him and his social environment. “Despite the formulaic nature of these awards, Andrei was proud to receive them and kept them on the wall in his office and later at home” (Yurchak 2006: 94). As I will show in Chapter 2, people who perform in the House of Culture are equally proud of honorary awards. Through the kollektiv the individual reveals himself or herself; however, it is also through the kollektiv that the individual receives recognition, solidarity, and a sense of belonging. For the teenagers mustered on the stage of the House of Culture when the commission from the capital comes to visit the small town, their participation in the show—whether they like it or not—is a strange ritual and a very bodily experience of self-disciplining, and definitely a case of publicatio sui (Foucault 2000: 244–245) in the affirmative sense: declaring oneself a member of a kollektiv. 14 Through the collective performance of cultivation as a technology of the self, the individual gives a public demonstration of the ability to play by the rules. This is not creation of a different reality but a certain mode of self-presentation, of showing oneself on stage (pokaz). Importantly, the performative relation between self and collective has changed in the last two decades, and more emphasis is now put

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on the individual (Vaté and Diatchkova, Chapter 1), at least in those Houses of Culture with higher levels of activity. While Makarenko’s idea of cultivating the individual through the kollektiv (see above) still has its repercussions in the work of the House of Culture, many visitors’ statements indicate that self-realization and self-expression are now motivated from “within” the person. More o en than not, singing and dancing bring pleasure and joy, even if they very obviously constitute forms of self-disciplining. The lyrics, tunes, and steps are already there, they are the givens, but the disciple who performs them derives pleasure and pride from “ge ing it right” (apart from the tactile and acoustic movements and positive emotions that come along with singing and dancing). Even if the performer did not define the form and must comply with the essentials of the discipline and keep to the rules of the game, he or she can “twist it” through creativity and virtuosity, and thus show that his or her performance is not about just technical mastery (see Chapters 2 and 8 in this volume). Foucault’s technologies of the self may at first sight bring about connotations of coercion and inward-turned aggression. But the ways in which people practice self-disciplining in the House of Culture depict technologies of the self in a much more cheerful light.15 In the House of Culture, “working on oneself” turns into pleasure (as is illustrated in Chapters 1 and 10). Bruce Grant also suggests complementing the concept of pokazukha with the concept of pokaz, though for other reasons. The House of Culture in Rybnoe (Sakhalin Island) demonstrated, despite its modest dimensions and cases of pokazukha, “that there was something, indeed, called Soviet culture” (Epilogue, this volume). This is a very tangible and stable form of culture, as Grant underlines: “‘Here is our culture, come and get it.’” It is tangible because it is housed in a locale specifically devoted to the purpose. Moreover, its tangibility lies in the fact that it can be acted out, performed, and experienced by the body. Its stability is conditioned by the idea that the cultivation project is unlikely to ever be finished (cf. Ssorin-Chaikov 2003: 134–139). It is for this reason that kul’tura should always be produced.

Cultural Salvation, Cultural Secularization As Kosintseva’s statement at the beginning of this introduction illustrates, culture (kul’tura) is supposed to help people lead a be er life but is itself a scarce resource. What is more, culture is under threat. This perception of cultural crisis is reminiscent of earlier days when it

Introduction | 21

was claimed that pop culture and “subculture,” enjoyed in high doses, are likely to lead to deviant behavior and distortion of one’s character (see Yurchak 2006: 172–202 for several examples, covering the time span 1949–1981). Those young people are “zombified” because allegedly they are consuming without thinking, they have lost their judgment and spirituality, they have turned into deadpan individualists, and show no interest in or concern for the society around them. It is this indifference that makes them appear dead. Real culture, which is good culture, can bring them back to life. Culture workers can help people to “work on themselves” as moral beings. Most people, however, know and accept that they are not perfect as moral beings, and that morality may differ from actual behavior. As I pointed out earlier, periods of “work on the self” and self-improvement are interspersed with periods of self-indulgence or self-oblivion. What is more, “work on the self” may either be enacted or simply remain a potential, a guideline and promise. One does not have to go to the House of Culture every so o en; it suffices to know that there is the possibility of visiting it. One does not have to send the child to the dancing circle every Thursday; what counts is the knowledge that in principle one could. The dancing circle is a potential but not necessarily a fact. This would explain why so many of our respondents find it good to know that there is a House of Culture in their town, even if they hardly ever go there. Again, there is a striking parallel with the church,16 an institution that requires in principle that the community members regularly take part in the service, and yet the factual power of this rule (in most European societies, at least) has been waning. We may ask, drawing on the concept of religious secularization, whether the current changes in and around the House of Culture can be called a “cultural secularization.” In the past, kul’tura and kul’turnost’ had a quasi-sacred appeal. There is an interesting parallel here to the French Revolution, when “things purely laïcal by nature were transformed by public opinion into sacred things. … A religion became established which had its dogmas, symbols, altars and feasts” (Durkheim 1957: 214). Similarly, the Soviet Union saw the emergence of a new religion. The House of Culture was the temple of this religion. Nowadays the makings of culture occasionally turn out to be a rather profane pursuit. Cultural activities become more diversified, the everyday work of the House of Culture staff becomes more of a business than a mission, and the notion of culture becomes more pragmatic than idealist in character. Clearly, this shi from a pious to a pragmatic understanding of culture is fraught with problems and conflicts. It does not happen at the

22 | Joachim OĴo Habeck

same pace everywhere, and in some cases it apparently does not happen at all. Authors of the chapters in this volume address this shi under various headings and connect it with divergent opinions: Putniņa sees the reemergence of civic activity in the public sphere of culture in Latvia as a positive and necessary process that is strengthening community cohesion, yet at the same time she quotes local people’s concerns about “loss of culture.” Donahoe expresses his Tyvan respondents’ concerns that culture nowadays is merely “about money and mindless entertainment.” Hence also Kosintseva’s complaint at the beginning of this introduction that “artistic mass-consumption” is abundant and good old kul’tura is scarce these days. Thus, while for some culture is everything that people do for themselves (and possibly for their neighbors), others keep being convinced that culture is a limited set of virtues and oeuvres, which has soul-saving capacity when evoked in its “proper” form and context. Owing to these contradictory opinions about culture, the management of culture work is a contested field, too. Vaté and Diatchkova speak of the shi “from collective enthusiasm to individual self-realization” but simultaneously suggest that the Soviet-era perfunctory formalism that waned in the early 1990s is currently reemerging. What makes the study of the House of Culture so interesting is the very in-betweenness of its staff in the process of negotiation, their watchful navigation among old and new bearings on the promotion of culture. By contextualizing culture work in diverse se ings of local, state, and global policies, the authors of this volume identify the motivations and incentives that make people go to the House of Culture, and in doing so they reveal changing configurations of governmentality and diverse technologies of the self. Notes 1. I am indebted to all research team members, Chris Hann, and two anonymous reviewers for their careful perusal and constructive comments on earlier dra s of this chapter. 2. Houses of Culture existed in nearly all countries of the Soviet-led Eastern bloc, but not only then and there: they exist at present, too; and they exist(ed) in countries not easily defined as “postsocialist,” e.g., Cuba, Brazil, and France. 3. Henceforward I use “culture” without quotation marks. This book is about how kul’tura (the Russian word for culture) is organized and enacted; it addresses culture work and the production of culture. 4. Anne White’s monograph (1990) is about cultural enlightenment policies in the Soviet Union, Poland, and Hungary, and how these policies can shed light on processes of “de-Stalinization” in the three countries. Bruce Grant’s

Introduction | 23

1995 monograph with the title In the Soviet House of Culture is an ethnohistorical study of the impact of state policies on the Nivkhi. Cogently exposing the drivers of change in the economic and social condition of a Sakhalin community, Grant uses the term “House of Culture” metonymically to index the state’s interventions. 5. To be sure, considerable amounts of money cross the shop counters for alcohol (beer, vodka, and wine). From my fieldwork observations I conclude that to date, very few people in small-town Russia allow themselves to buy and consume alcoholic beverages in a café, bar, or restaurant at a price higher than in the shop. 6. The rhythm of singing and dancing at performances, celebrations, and mass events has been described as “collective magic” (Miłosz quoted by Savova, Chapter 10 of this volume). With regard to public events and speeches, Durkheim speaks of an intense feeling of awe and respect (1957: 208–209) which has an “elevating” effect on individuals and is an indispensable ingredient of religious rituals. Occasionally, respondents drew direct parallels between going to the House of Culture and going to the church. 7. The title of Smirnov’s book in the Russian original, Sovetskii chelovek (1973), translates in Latin as Homo sovieticus. 8. Putniņa quotes in Chapter 9 a culture worker in Latvia complaining that “[y]oung people do not know what to do, how to fill their spare time.” 9. House of Culture staff also conduct celebrations, commemorations, etc. outside the House of Culture, in central squares or other locations. A endance at these events was not covered by our survey. 10. Foucault (2000) exemplifies concomitant changes with his Hellenistic, Greco-Roman, and early Christian materials. 11. Komsomol is the acronym of the All-Union Leninist Young Communist League (Vsesoiuznyi Leninskii kommunisticheskii soiuz molodezhi), the youth organization of the Soviet Union. 12. For a further elaboration on this point, see Yurchak 2006: 18, note 27. 13. See Grant (Epilogue, this volume) for a similar description of political lectures (not) taking place at the House of Scientific Atheism in Moscow. 14. Also compare Kharkhordin’s statement that in the Soviet Union, “the practices of group-formation intertwined with practices of self-development” (1999: 7). An additional explanation that comes to mind is Foucault’s characterization of Christian asceticism: “Most of the time the self is a part of a reality that must be renounced in order to gain access to another level of reality” (2000: 238). Renouncing the everyday reality of absence of cultural activities in the House of Culture leads to the consciousness of what is actually seen as really cultural. 15. For a similar assertion that bodily exercises may constitute “Discipline as Choice, Power, Desire, Agency,” see Kohn (2008: 100). 16. Kharkhordin seems commi ed to “conceiving Bolshevism as a religion” (1997: 335) with a canon of authoritative texts, reformation of manners, complex rites of conversion, and a saintly zeal directed to the whole of society: “[E]verybody was to become a Bolshevik saint. Thus, everybody had to be able to interpret sacred texts; and everybody was to behave in such a way that their

24 | Joachim OĴo Habeck

deeds would be revealing of the Bolshevik lichnost’ [personality], imbued with higher conscience” (1997: 352). Yet the pressure to always follow the right track and behave accordingly varied throughout the Soviet period, as Kharkhordin shows through his historical investigation, and at all times individuals could get away with minor cases of misconduct, because belonging to the collective was in and of itself grounds for forgiveness.

References Brine, Jenny, Maureen Perrie, and Andrew Su on, eds. 1980. Home, School and Leisure in the Soviet Union. London: George Allen & Unwin. Dunham, Vera. 1990. In Stalin’s Time: Middleclass Values in Soviet Fiction. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Durkheim, Émile. 1957. The Elementary Forms of the Religious Life, transl. Joseph Ward Swain. 4th impr. London: Allen & Unwin. Foucault, Michel. 2000. “Technologies of the Self.” In Michel Foucault, Ethics: Subjectivity and Truth, ed. Paul Rabinow, pp. 223–251. London: Penguin. Grant, Bruce. 1995. In the Soviet House of Culture: A Century of Perestroikas. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Gray, Pa y, Nikolai Vakhtin, and Peter Schweitzer. 2003. “Who Owns Siberian Ethnography? A Critical Assessment of a Re-Internationalized Field.” Sibirica 3, no. 2: 194–216. Hellbeck, Jochen. 2000. “Fashioning the Stalinist Soul: The Diary of Stepan Podlubnyi, 1931–9,” in Stalinism: New Directions, ed. Sheila Fitzpatrick, pp. 77–116. London: Routledge. Kharkhordin, Oleg. 1997. “Reveal and Dissimulate: A Genealogy of Private Life in Soviet Russia.” In Public and Private in Thought and Practice: Perspectives on a Grand Dichotomy, ed. Jeff Weintraub and Krishan Kumar, pp. 333–363. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. ———. 1999. The Collective and the Individual in Russia: A Study of Practices. Berkeley: University of California Press. Kohn, Tamara. 2008. “Creatively Sculpting the Self Through the Discipline of Martial Arts Training.” In Exploring Regimes of Discipline: The Dynamics of Restraint, ed. Noel Dyck, pp. 99–112. New York: Berghahn. Kosintseva, Liudmila Ivanovna. 2005. “Organizatsiia i upravlenie etnokul’turnoi deitatel’nosti sovremennogo klubnogo uchrezhdeniia (na primere RDK Iunost’, r. p. Kolyvan’ Novosibirskoi oblasti” [Organization and Management of Ethno-Cultural Activity of Contemporary Club Institutions (on the Example of the District House of Culture Iunost’ in the Se lement Kolyvan’, Novosibirsk Region]. Diploma thesis. Novosibirsk: Fakul’tet kul’tury i dopolnitel’nogo obrazovaniia Novosibirskogo gosudarstvennogo pedagogicheskogo universiteta. Oswald, Ingrid, and Viktor Voronkov, eds. 2002. Wandel alltäglicher Lebensführung in Russland: Besichtigungen des ersten Transformationsjahrzehnts in St. Petersburg [Changes in Everyday Management of Life in Russia: Inspections of the First Decade of Transformation in St Petersburg]. Hamburg: LIT.

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Pelkmans, Mathijs. 2003. “The Social Life of Empty Buildings: Imagining the Transition in Post-Soviet Ajaria.” Focaal 41: 121–135. Pilkington, Hilary. 1994. Russia’s Youth and its Culture: A Nation’s Constructors and Constructed. London: Routledge. Pilkington, Hilary, Elena Omel’chenko, Moya Flynn, Uliana Bliudina, and Elena Starkova. 2002. Looking West? Cultural Globalization and Russian Youth Cultures. University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press. Rabinow, Paul and Hubert Dreyfus. 2000. “On the Genealogy of Ethics: An Overview of Work in Progress” [Interviews with Michel Foucault]. In Michel Foucault, Ethics: Subjectivity and Truth, ed. Paul Rabinow, pp. 253–280. London: Penguin. Ries, Nancy. 1997. Russian Talk: Culture and Conversation During Perestroika. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Rolf, Malte. 2006. Das sowjetische Massenfest [Soviet Mass Celebration]. Hamburg: Hamburger Edition. Smirnov, Georgii Lukich. 1973. Sovetskii chelovek: formirovanie sotsialisticheskogo tipa lichnosti [The Soviet Man: Formation of the Socialist Type of Personality]. Moskva: Politizdat. Smirnow, G.L. [Smirnov, Georgii Lukich]. 1975. Die Herausbildung der sozialistischen Persönlichkeit [Formation of the Socialist Personality]. Berlin: Dietz. Ssorin-Chaikov, Nikolai. 2003. The Social Life of the State in Subarctic Siberia. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Stites, Richard. 1992. Russian Popular Culture: Entertainment and Society since 1900. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Volkov, Vadim. 2000. “The Concept of Kul’turnost’: Notes on the Stalinist Civilizing Process.” In Stalinism: New Directions, ed. Sheila Fitzpatrick, pp. 210– 230. London: Routledge. White, Anne. 1990. De-Stalinization and the House of Culture: Declining State Control Over Leisure in the USSR, Poland and Hungary, 1953-1989. New York: Routledge. Yurchak, Alexei. 1999. “Gagarin and the Rave Kids: Transforming Power, Identity, and Aesthetics in Post-Soviet Nightlife.” In Consuming Russia: Popular Culture, Sex, and Society since Gorbachev, ed. Adele M. Barker, pp. 76–109. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. ———. 2006. Everything Was Forever, Until It Was No More: The Last Soviet Generation. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Zigon, Jarre . 2008. Morality: An Anthropological Perspective. Oxford: Berg.

PART I




THE SIBERIAN HOUSE OF CULTURE IN COMPARATIVE PERSPECTIVE


1 FROM COLLECTIVE ENTHUSIASM TO INDIVIDUAL SELF-REALIZATION History of and Experience in the House of Culture, Anadyr’ (Chukotka) Virginie Vaté and Galina Diatchkova1

The House of Culture is not a survival [of Soviet times]. Where else can you go in a snowstorm? —Ivan, inhabitant of Anadyr’

Anne White has observed that cultural enlightenment, … as an activity organized by the regime in Soviet-type systems, … is an area of ideological work. It involves the socialization of adults and children in their spare time through participation in non-professional arts and other cultural activities. … Its three basic principles are belief in the need to equalize access to culture, belief that such access can change human behaviour, and belief that the party can and must control the nature of the culture which is created and provided. (1990: 1)

One might assume that, a er the end of the Soviet regime, such a definition of cultural enlightenment was no longer relevant in Russia. In this chapter, we test the validity of this assumption with reference to the House of Culture in Anadyr’, Chukotka. Does the institution of the House of Culture still play a role in contemporary Russia, and does it still serve to convey a particular ideology or to encourage particular practices?2 Located in the northeastern extreme of Siberia, Anadyr’, the capital of Chukotka,3 is one of the few towns in Russia (if not the only one) that can boast a completely new House of Culture. Its opening in June 2005 shows that neither the government nor the citizens of Anadyr’ consider this institution to be an anachronistic “remnant” of the Soviet period. On the contrary, as we show in this chapter, the House of Culture of Anadyr’ serves as a central indicator of how Soviet and post-Soviet changes have affected this region and how the activities of the House of

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Culture, in the various forms that it has taken over time, reflect changes in dominant political and economic ideologies as they have shi ed from the diffusion of communist propaganda to the expression of market values. This chapter is based largely on contemporary data gathered using anthropological methods during recent field research in Anadyr’. However, we also provide some historical background, drawing on archival materials and on interviews and questionnaire responses in which our informants compare past and present experiences. Starting with a general outline of the history of “cultural enlightenment” in Chukotka, this chapter presents chronologically the main issues at stake through time in the House of Culture in Anadyr’. Three phases have been delimited: the Soviet period, the post-Soviet 1990s, and the period since 2000.4 Each period is characterized by variations in ideological orientation and by varying degrees of formality or informality in cultural activities. Perhaps not coincidentally, the moving and reconstruction of Anadyr’s House of Culture have corresponded to some of the major ruptures that we have identified.

The Dissemination of Cultural Propaganda in Chukotka—A Historical Sketch The peoples inhabiting Chukotka, up to the Great October Socialist Revolution, were abandoned to themselves. … There was no cultural life in Chukotka whatsoever before the Bolsheviks’ arrival. The Tsarist government extorted a large quantity of fur in the form of iasak (tax) and did not bother to educate the local population, to enlighten the Chukchis, Eskimos, Yukagirs, and Chuvans. Instead of books, there was tobacco and vodka; instead of schools, churches and chapels. That was how Tsarist authorities “cared for” the culture of the population of Chukotka. —From an article by Miazin in the newspaper Sovetskaia Chukotka, 27 September 1950

In the Soviet Union, the education of the “masses” was a form of “ideological work” (White 1990: 1). That is, it was one of the most important ways in which communist ideology was diffused. In this respect, according to Soviet authorities, Chukotka deserved particular a ention for several reasons. First, at least at the beginning of the Soviet period, Chukotka was populated largely by indigenous peoples who were thought to epitomize backwardness (Nefedova 1971: 83, 102; Slezkine 1994: 144). Second, owing to its distance from Moscow, the size of its territory, the nomadic life of indigenous peoples, and its proximity to

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the United States, Chukotka was viewed by Soviet authorities as an especially challenging region, which, therefore, had the potential to serve as a “testing ground for experimental policies” (Gray 2005: 93; see also Nefedova 1971: 103). Finally, the region also acquired a special significance because its inhabitants had shown strong resistance to the installation of Soviet power (Bogdanov et al. 1975: 25).5 Beginning in the 1930s, several instruments were created to bring “culture” to the people of Chukotka and, in the process, to propagate communist ideology and to inculcate corresponding practices. These included the development of systems of writing for indigenous languages (for Chukchi and Eskimo, in 1932), the creation of schools and educational institutions for indigenous minorities, and the founding of local newspapers (such as Sovetskaia Chukotka) (Dikov 1974: 184–188, 211–214; Nefedova 1971: 111; Vdovin 1965: 384–386). Institutions of culture, which were at the center of this campaign, took on different forms at various times. From the end of the 1920s until the mid-twentieth century, there were kul’tbazy or kul’turnye bazy, i.e., “cultural bases,” which were supposed to eradicate illiteracy; introduce Western medical, zootechnical, and veterinary practices; and propagate party ideology. Other cultural institutions included izby-chital’ni, or “reading huts,” which contained literature for the public dissemination of Bolshevik decisions, and krasnye iarangi, or “red iarangi” (Bogdanov et al. 1975: 70; Dikov 1974: 184–185; Miazin 1950; Nefedova 1971: 87, 102, 127, 142–145). These la er institutions, which were named a er the traditional form of Chukchi nomadic housing, had the same function as the kul’tbazy, but were mobile, operating among nomadic peoples. Beginning in the 1970s, these earlier varieties of cultural institutions were replaced progressively by libraries, music schools, amateur collectives, and propaganda brigades (agitbrigady) (Bogdanov et al. 1975: 70). Among the various cultural institutions, however, the House of Culture was probably the most important. Since the beginning of the Soviet era, the city of Anadyr’ has had three Houses of Culture. The first was established in the early 1920s in what had previously been a chapel, located at what is today the southern fringe of the city.6 Originally, this building was named the People’s House (narodnyi dom), and it was used for citizens’ meetings and political activities. In the course of the 1920s, however, it was transformed into the House of Culture of NovoMariinsk, as Anadyr’ was called at that time (personal communication, I.G. Riga). Then, in 1963, a new, massive, concrete, Soviet-style House of Culture was built in the city center, opposite the regional administration building and the obligatory statue of Lenin (see the photograph in Gray 2005: 137). It was opened in 1964 with the official name “House of Folk

32 | Virginie Vaté and Galina Diatchkova

Artistic Creativity of Anadyr’” (Anadyr’skii dom narodnogo tvorchestva). Finally, shortly a er 2001, the House of Culture that had been built in the 1960s was deemed unsuitable and was torn down (see also Thompson 2008: 169-170). It was replaced in 2005 by a fanciful new building, designed to evoke the shape of a polar bear (see Illustration 1.1). While the official names of the three buildings that succeeded one another in the course of the twentieth century have varied, the inhabitants of Anadyr’ have, since the very beginning, referred to them all as the “House of Culture” (dom kul’tury) or, more colloquially, as the DK or the klub (“club”).

Life in the Soviet House of Culture, or, Self-Realization Limited A club institution (klubnoe uchrezhdenie) is an institution serving the purpose of communist education, [and] in which the massive work of political enlightenment is conducted systematically. —Document from the 1950s, Chukotka Autonomous Okrug State Archive (Fond R-54, delo 156, 1953–1991)

Illustration 1.1 | The new House of Culture of Anadyr’ opened in 2005. The building features a distinctive polar bear design. Photo: V. Vaté, April 2006.

History of and Experience in the House of Culture, Anadyr’ (Chukotka) | 33

In this section, we show briefly how “communist education” was implemented and experienced in the everyday life of the House of Culture in Anadyr’ during the Soviet period. Of course, a detailed and comprehensive account of this period would require an in-depth investigation and a full-length exposition. Nevertheless, the statements made by our interview partners provide insights that would seem to warrant their inclusion here. Taking the year in which the interviews were conducted and the age of the interviewees into account, it is clear that their testimonies refer to the House of Culture in the 1970s and 1980s. Citing the sociologist Vladimir Shlapentokh, Niobe Thompson (2008: 72) notes that, “by the 1980s, seventy percent of Soviet people had a regular hobby, and time devoted to hobbies rose by five times between 1963 and 1977.” Life in Chukotka is characterized by cold, dark winters and by small se lements. What is more, the inhabitants of Chukotka did not suffer from the material shortages that characterized other regions of the former Soviet Union; consequently, they spent less time queuing. For these reasons, as Thompson has noted, the inhabitants of the region had both the motivation and the free time to become involved in activities held in Houses of Culture (2008: 72). In addition, the life in the House of Culture was rich, thanks, apparently, to the efforts of local authorities to compensate for the harsh conditions—and thanks also to the initiative of the inhabitants, who voluntarily took part in the creation of new hobby “circles” (kruzhki) (2008: 72–73). Indeed, some people eagerly engaged in activities in the House of Culture. We recorded several enthusiastic testimonies, such as the following statement made by Vadim,7 a fi y-seven-year-old journalist: [The House of Culture] has played a role in my life for thirty-five years, because thirty-five years ago I came here [to Chukotka]. … I came to the House of Culture because I could find people there who were close to my heart (blizkikh po dukhu)—creative and artistic people (liudei tvorcheskikh). … During these thirty-five years, I found this institution to be important in my life, because it helped me to form myself (sformirovat’ samogo sebia).

For Thompson, people’s interest in the House of Culture might also be explained with reference to hobby circles, which “were outside formal supervision, and … were watched only at arm’s length. … Hobbies were a ractive precisely because of their non-ideological, non-political character” (Thompson 2008: 73; original emphasis). Clearly, people of this northern region were in a position to exercise agency in appropriating the possibilities offered within the House of Culture during the Soviet period; but a number of our interviewees emphasized that ideology was indeed present in the Houses of Culture in Chukotka and

34 | Virginie Vaté and Galina Diatchkova

that the activities in these institutions were subject to the control of the Communist Party. It was permissible to organize amateur collectives, such as theater groups or Native ensembles; but they were required to be devoid of any political content, with the exception of officially approved propaganda. Many activities within the House of Culture of Anadyr’ served to disseminate Communist Party propaganda. For example, an informant who worked in the House of Culture during the Soviet period remembers a cycle of lectures held in the 1970s entitled “The Triumph of Lenin’s National Policy” (triumf leninskoi natsional’noi politiki). Aleksandr, a forty-five-year-old musician who used to present films at the House of Culture, also recalls being put under political pressure: “I remember, before the film there was always a communist concert, and there were political lessons (politzaniatiia) with the population. They were ‘washing brains’ (promyvali mozgi). In fact, it was a terrible tragedy for all of Russia. … We could not speak freely at that time.” The ubiquity of Marxist-Leninist ideology in the activities of the Soviet-era House of Culture resulted in the production of events with a peculiarly formal character, which, elsewhere in this volume, Safonova and Sántha designate as pokazukha but which we prefer to call “perfunctory formalism.” As Alexei Yurchak notes, “During the Late Soviet period, the form of ideological representations—documents, speeches, ritualized practices, slogans, posters, monuments, and urban visual propaganda—became increasingly normalized, ubiquitous and predictable” (2006: 14). Indeed, according to one of our informants, who was an employee at the House of Culture at that time, “Everything was formal!” (Vse bylo formal’no!). In our data, there is much evidence to suggest that perfunctory formalism led to a loss of creativity and restricted opportunities for selfrealization. While self-realization was possible during the Soviet period, for instance, through the practice of hobbies (as noted earlier), this possibility could be realized only within limits, as several persons with whom we spoke suggested. We give here only one example, which is, however, representative of other statements that our informants made. Vadim, who, in the statement quoted above, reflected on thirty-five years of activities in the House of Culture, explained why he stopped going to the House of Culture for a period of about ten years, despite his active involvement and his obvious enthusiasm: [In the 1970s] we did not understand. … We were singing about the party and believed in it. But then irritation (razdrazhenie) emerged, and then comprehension (ponimanie) [of the situation] and protest (protest). … In

History of and Experience in the House of Culture, Anadyr’ (Chukotka) | 35

the 1980s it was a bit stifling (dushnovato), … [so] I le the House of Culture … and did not come back for ten years. … I will tell you on which basis I le . I le a wonderful academic choir, which was appreciated outside the region of Magadan [to which Chukotka belonged at that time]. … We were preparing the forty-fi h anniversary of the victory [of World War II]. A woman came, an instructor from the Regional Party Commi ee (okruzhkom partii), and she said to our leader: “You know, it is forbidden to perform these songs for people.” … We had prepared, among others, songs by composers of the Italian Renaissance. Her arguments were, first, which was understandable, “Why do you need religious composers?” But her second argument concerned the fact that these songs were Italian. “Do you remember,” she asked, “[whose side] Italy was [on] during the war?” We said, we did remember, … but we were singing songs of the Renaissance period, this is world heritage! … And the whole choir le , sixty people and the leader; and I did not come back for the next ten years.

Thus while the House of Culture was clearly an important institution in the lives of Chukotkan citizens during the Soviet period, the dominant ideology led some participants in the House of Culture to experience discomfort and to feel that their chances for self-realization were limited.

The 1990s: Building a New Collective in a Time of Corruption The 1990s are remembered today as the “time of Nazarov” (nazarovskie vremena)—named a er Aleksandr Nazarov, who was governor of the region from 1991 to 2000. With this expression, people refer to a period of extreme economic hardship, when corruption and a system of patronage, referred to as “Nazarovism” (Thompson 2008: 108), dominated the everyday life of Chukotkan citizens (see also Csonka 1998; Gray 2005; Krupnik and Vakhtin 2002). There is much to say about cultural life in Chukotka during the 1990s (see, for instance, Gray 2005 and Thompson 2008). Here, however, we will discuss only two aspects, which are directly related to the House of Culture in Anadyr’ but which represent two opposed trends. First, a period of relative freedom in the early 1990s saw the emergence of an informal meeting place, called the iaranga, which was a part of the House of Culture but was housed in separate quarters; and second, in the course of the decade, the House of Culture, like the local government, became engaged in the corruption that was typical of that period—or at least that is how it is remembered by our interview partners.

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The Iaranga, a Place for Informal Events I remember, there were always meetings and tea parties. Constantly, people would meet, drink tea, sing, and dance. These were creative evenings, with a particularly indigenous profile (imenno natsional’nogo profilia). … It was just great! It was a means of communication, such a pleasant means of communication. —Nadia, journalist, twenty-three years old

In the late 1980s and the early 1990s, in the last years of the Soviet Union and at the advent of the post-Soviet era, a more relaxed atmosphere favoring the development of social life emerged. Beginning in 1992, a small old wooden house, named the iaranga by its visitors (a er the traditional form of Chukchi nomadic housing), provided a space for all kinds of informal gatherings and exchanges (see also Gray 2005: 9–13). Officially called the “Center for Folk Culture” (tsentr narodnoi kul’tury), the iaranga was a part of the House of Culture but located in a separate building. The activities of the iaranga were oriented toward the revival of folk culture, including the cultural expressions of both the indigenous peoples of Chukotka and “newcomers” to the region, i.e., Russians, Ukrainians, and others. However, events were a ended mostly by members of the indigenous communities of Anadyr’. As Pa y Gray (2005: 11) has observed, official activities were planned once a month, but people would gather there almost every Friday. Events in the iaranga included theatrical productions in the Chukchi language, shows featuring Chukchi and Eskimo dances, and performances by local musicians. Since the space was small and not intended as a theater or concert hall (there was no stage), members of the audience were always close to the show, which created a very intimate atmosphere. What is more, each show was followed by informal socializing over a cup of tea—in contrast to the formal kind of tea drinking that characterized the main House of Culture. There may have been “scenarios” (stsenarii) at the iaranga, or evening programs with a series of planned events, as is generally the case in cultural institutions, but they seem to have been used to encourage people’s participation, rather than to supervise their discourse and behavior. While drinking tea, people could share memories, exchange personal songs and anecdotes, and speak openly about social or political issues related to indigenous peoples’ concerns. Those who a ended these evenings at the iaranga (who included, occasionally, the authors of this chapter) consistently describe the atmosphere of these evenings as informal, in contrast to the perfunctory formalism that they knew in the main House of Culture. As Grisha, a forty-seven-year-old policeman

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who had frequented the iaranga during its heyday, told us, “I remember, it was an old, half-broken-down building, but people would gather there with great pleasure, because relations were not formal.” According to those who participated in the iaranga in the 1990s, the creative and joyful atmosphere was made possible by the absence of communist propaganda. In an interview the former artistic leader (khudozhestvennyi rukovoditel’) confirmed that, in the nineties, the staff “gave up the ideological orientation in work.” It was also possible to use the space for events that were organized by members of other institutions. For example, Vaté remembers organizing a meeting with representatives of the French NGO “Doctors of the World” in order to discuss issues concerning health in Chukotka with those members of the indigenous community who were interested in taking part. Most of the local associations also met at the iaranga during this period (see also Gray 2005: 10). In the second half of the 1990s, the closing of the iaranga put an end to this process of social renewal. Already in poor condition when it was allocated to the Center for Folk Culture, the li le house in which the iaranga was located had become even more dangerous a er a few years of activities, including many well-a ended events. Everyone recalls that the floor would shake when people danced there (see also Gray 2005: 11). A er concerns for public safety led to the closing of the building, the activities of the center were relocated—supposedly temporarily— into the main building of Anadyr’s House of Culture. However, it was almost impossible to gather informally in the new quarters. The space that had been made available was much smaller, and the atmosphere was less free, less warm, and less comfortable. Authorities promised that the iaranga would be renovated, but funding was never provided, and the building decayed progressively. Gray (2005: 12–13) comments on the closing: There should be no implication here that the Russian-dominated administration has insidiously conspired to deprive the indigenous community of its only space to gather as an intimate and cohesive community. This was a difficult economic time for everyone. … However, it was abundantly clear that money could be found whenever a project was sufficiently interesting to the administration.

The cultural life of the iaranga reflected the enthusiasm that emerged at the beginning of the 1990s. Its activities were oriented less toward the notion of self-realization than toward creating the feeling of a collective, not through propaganda and perfunctory formalism but informally. Whatever the reason for closing the iaranga—be it an intention to deprive indigenous residents of Anadyr’ of a meeting space or simply

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a lack of interest—this turn of events was characteristic of the Nazarov era, when patronage networks were predominant (Thompson 2008: 91–112) and an indigenous movement, which might have been anticipated a er the collapse of the Soviet Union, failed to emerge or was prevented from emerging (Gray 2005; Thompson 2008: 102). Anadyr’s House of Culture in the 1990s: A Mirror of the Nazarov Era Actually, or most probably, the country was ill (bol’na), and everyone contributed to it. And the most dynamic people understood that it was possible to steal with impunity. —Vadim, journalist, fifty-seven years old

The inhabitants of Chukotka remember the 1990s as a “dark decade” (Gray 2005: xii). In the context of the economic crisis that Russia faced at that time, the critical situation of Chukotka was made worse by Governor Nazarov and the members of his administration, who were intent on embezzling local resources. In Thompson’s words, “a more general practice observed throughout Chukotka’s bureaucratic structures was the abuse of fixed state assets for personal enrichment” (2008: 109). “The thing is,” as one of Thompson’s informants explained, “everything was legal. The authorities just said ‘the more private property the be er, we have to sell everything off !’ So what happened is that anyone with connections appropriated anything of value and sold it off before leaving the okrug [the region]. Farewell! And nothing was created here, nothing was le behind that could make a profit—it was out-and-out robbery from the state by the people” (Thompson 2008: 109). While participants in the iaranga were a empting to foster a kind of collective cultural revival, the powers-that-be in the House of Culture opened a casino and a café at the back of the main building. The official designation of this establishment was “Casino at Irina’s” (Kazino u Iriny)—it was named a er the director of the House of Culture. Widely discussed by the citizens of Anadyr’, this issue was reported to us by several of our informants. According to one of them, who had been employed in the House of Culture in the 1990s, there was a lot of political in-fighting, and the focus in the House of Culture at that time was “not on creativity but on money-grubbing.” As Vadim told us, “the House of Culture was a good indicator of what was going on. … The previous director of the House of Culture is still wanted by the police (v rozyske). … That is to say, the was all that was characteristic of the transition period. We could go to the House of Culture and understand that we were ill.”

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Clearly, many employees of the House of Culture were sincerely involved in honestly carrying out the activities for which they were responsible. Our informants agree, however, that in the 1990s some people in management were involved in the corruption that was characteristic of that era. The Abramovich Era: The Construction of the Individual in the Market Economy The House of Culture is a movement toward the future. Where else can people spend their leisure in a “cultured” way (kul’turno)? —Volodia, lawyer, twenty-eight years old

A er the hardships of the 1990s, the election in December 2000 of Roman Arkad’evich Abramovich as governor of Chukotka marked a new era.8 Abramovich is one of the most famous Russian oligarchs.9 In Europe, Abramovich is best known as the owner of the Chelsea Football Club. Abramovich became interested in Chukotka in 1999, when he was first elected as a deputy for Chukotka in the Duma, Russia’s lower house of parliament. Abramovich’s activities as governor of Chukotka resulted in significant improvements in the material conditions of Chukotkan citizens. He managed to stabilize the economic situation of the region, rebuild the infrastructure (including housing) almost fully, and make Chukotka an a ractive place for foreign investment. Building a new House of Culture was one part of the restoration process that began with Abramovich’s accession to office. One of his first decisions a er being inaugurated in January 2001—in the Soviet-era House of Culture—was the demolition of that structure and its replacement with a new one (Thompson 2008: 169–170). Thompson suggests that Abramovich and his administration promoted a modernization project that was in accord with Russia’s long tradition of cultural enlightenment (Thompson 2008: 170–171; cf. White 1990): “In Abramovich’s time, the beskul’tur’e [absence of culture] prevailing in Chukotka’s se lements was … named and targeted as modernization’s most dangerous enemy” (Thompson 2008: 171). In this section, we provide a brief description of the new House of Culture, then analyze its social significance from the perspective of both the people working in it and those using it—the inhabitants of Anadyr’. Our analysis of the activities of the House of Culture in Anadyr’ is based on both official and unofficial sources, including documents provided by the administration of the House of Culture and the Department of

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Culture, formal interviews, and informal discussions with workers and users of the House of Culture. We suggest that the new House of Culture reflects some of the changes that were introduced in Chukotka during Abramovich’s tenure in office and that the House of Culture has been mobilized in Abramovich’s modernization project, serving to diffuse new values such as consumption, self-realization, and individual success. The New House of Culture Located in the center of Anadyr’, next to the new Orthodox church, the new House of Culture occupies a strategic position.10 People respond variably to its extravagant polar bear design, but most express general satisfaction. For instance, Volodia, the twenty-eight-year-old lawyer, told us, “To the old House of Culture, I would seldom go, because there were fewer things organized, fewer events. … The new House of Culture is a lot bigger. There is more space, and there are more possibilities, more people, more communication. … I like it very much. … The old House of Culture was a grey building in need of renovation, and now this is a gorgeous building.” Even if the building is obviously not adapted to the Chukotkan climate—it was built by a Turkish company, said to be owned in part by Abramovich—it is undeniably more a ractive than its predecessor and, once one is inside, provides a more comfortable atmosphere. It is modern, colorful, and light. It has a total area of 3,181 square meters and a concert hall with almost five hundred seats. Statistical data, confirmed by impressions gained during participant observation, reveal an active institution with sixty-three culture workers (kul’trabotniki) and thirty-five groups, most of which were active during our fieldwork.11 Events are organized regularly, and it is obvious that a great many inhabitants of the regional capital enjoy going there. In our questionnaire, we asked whether people considered the House of Culture a “survival” (perezhitok), a “remnant” of the Soviet past. Replies differed, but most of the time people insisted on the current necessity of having the House of Culture. As Grisha, the forty-seven-year-old policeman, said, “No [it is not a survival]. The name may change, but people need to meet somewhere.” As noted at the outset of this chapter, many interviewees mentioned the central role of the House of Culture in providing a venue for indoor leisure, which, they noted, is all the more important given the harsh climatic conditions of the region. For such purposes, there are few alternatives in Anadyr’, although some new opportunities have appeared under Abramovich.

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According to the director of the House of Culture, economic and social conditions in Chukotka make it impossible for local government to withdraw from the organization of leisure activities. The House of Culture, he said, “is a structure of the Soviet power artificially created in order to promote communist propaganda. But, still, we don’t have the right to give it up, because today in our se lement there is no other alternative. To leave people without anything would be the stupidest thing to do. In the end, these structures will die by themselves as soon as alternatives appear. … Today, members of the population are not in a position to pay for their leisure in the same way as citizens of France or Germany do.” The staff of the House of Culture has also been renewed. An important part of the new team of the House of Culture is made up of young specialists, several of whom have come recently from the Russian “mainland” or from other regions of Chukotka.12 For this new generation of culture workers, the “House of Culture may be a ‘remnant’ [of the Soviet past], but it is being modernized (idet osovremenovanie),” to use the words of Sergei, a twenty-six-year-old House of Culture worker responsible for the organization of large festivals. Workers at the House of Culture try to take the new aspirations of Anadyr’ citizens into account and to provide new, “modern” activities that were not offered previously. These include, for example, rock and roll music, hip-hop dance, and aerobics. Contemporary culture workers have also distanced themselves from Soviet times by “modernizing” their terminology. For instance, the group leaders with whom we spoke did not speak about kruzhki (“circles,” a loaded Soviet term, as discussed earlier in this chapter); rather, they called their groups studii (studio). Mariia, a twenty-three-year-old teacher of modern dance, says, “I don’t like the term kruzhok (circle) because it is associated with the term ‘amateur’ (samodel’ka), and it is [now] all different, the level is different.” Finally, new methods are used in the conception, organization, and improvement of culture work as well. For example, the workers of the House of Culture now check local Internet chat sites regularly to learn of people’s opinions about their work. Sasha, a twenty-eight-year-old leader of a children’s theater group in the House of Culture, explains as follows: “Anadyr’s chat [www.anadyr.org], it is such a spontaneous phenomenon. There is a special circle of people si ing there. … Their echoes are also very one-sided, either ‘bravo’ or it is bad. … Most of the time we are scolded, but not for all events. … I noticed the following trend: if an event was bad, comments appear at once, but if it was good—silence.”

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Limited Access to Culture? Despite the undeniable improvement in material conditions of the House of Culture and despite the dynamism of its new program, some of our informants complained about the difficulties that they experienced in gaining access to the building. For many of the respondents to our questionnaire, the ideal House of Culture should be an open space, a “public space” (obshchestvennoe zdanie and also publichnoe mesto). Here are some typical statements to this effect: The House of Culture should be for the masses (massovyi). Anybody should be able to go there and have a look. (Liudmila, nurse, forty years old) The ideal House of Culture, this is when all the people go there, be they locals (mestnyi) or newcomers (priezzhii), children or adults. The House of Culture is a place of meeting (mesto vstrech). (Evgenii, journalist, sixtyfive years old) It seems to me that the ideal House of Culture is a place where people could enter and look freely at the work of all the circles—where information would be available for all. (Nadia, journalist, twenty-three years old)

However, the doors leading to the area where activities take place are locked, and one needs a pass (beidzh, from “badge”) to get in. One must enter with the leader of one’s group, who meets his or her students before each meeting begins. When one arrives late, one must request admission from the guards standing in front of the doors. Why is this so? In the official explanation, this regulation is supposed to prevent or reduce the risk of terrorist a acks, and most of our respondents were convinced that it was a valid reason. One of them even said, “If it were not for Bin Laden, things would be simpler.” Since, however, none of our colleagues in the House of Culture Project has reported similar measures in other regions of Siberia, this explanation appears to us to be implausible. A er all, Anadyr’, a small city located at the extreme northeast of the Russian North, does not seem to be a more likely target of terrorist a acks than locations in other parts of Siberia. We suspect that guards have been posted to preserve the building and to protect its substance from possible damage and the ; but no one has given this explanation. Whatever the reason for the intense security and whether or not it is thought to be justified, several of those who responded to our questionnaire expressed their discomfort with it, as, for example, in the following statements: I was there [in the House of Culture] once. The guards (okhrana) stand there and they frighten many people, and not only me. “Where are you

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going?” “Why did you come?” “Who do you want to see?” And so on. But people don’t go to the House of Culture to answer questions about who they want to see. People know us, we are not terrorists. We go there for culture and to have some rest. … That’s what you call a culture of service at the level of the police station (kul’tura obsluzhivaniia na urovne zhandarmerii)! (Evgenii, journalist, sixty-five years old) I don’t like the fact that there are always guards and that it is not possible to just go there. Of course, it is only relatively limiting. They let everybody in, … but one has to say where one is going, and it creates an unpleasant psychological feeling. (Nadia, journalist, twenty-three years old) Sometimes, the guards are rude. They don’t want to let us in. (Tania, pupil, fi een years old) In response to the question, “Where are you going,” asked by the guards, I replied that I was going home, because as a ma er of fact, all these years, for thirty-five years, I used to go to the House of Culture as if I was going home, and not like a guest. (Vadim, journalist, fi y-seven years old)

The presence of guards and the absence of an open-door policy result in feelings of discomfort and in limited access to cultural activities. For some of our respondents, the presence of the guards in the House of Culture was symptomatic of more general changes in human relations that had occurred under Abramovich. Vadim phrased it as follows: “My formation (formirovanie) as a person occurred actually when doors were open. … It was this openness that a racted me. … In thirtyfive years, I don’t remember having seen locks on any doors. You could enter anybody’s house. … Each flat was hospitable to one who needed asylum. … Now different ideas about human relations (vzaimootnosheniia) have been introduced.” Although still young, Nadia, a twentythree-year-old journalist, also supports this statement: “It has become bad. … There is no accessibility as there was before, and everything has become too modern and more difficult. The simplicity that existed before in communication does not exist anymore.” As mentioned previously, Abramovich’s mandate has brought to Chukotka yet another generation of newcomers, as in the case of many of the new workers in the House of Culture. Thompson (2008, in particular his Chapter 7) has described the antagonistic relations that have developed between the new generation and previous generations of newcomers. The new ones consider themselves to be “modernizers” and look down on the old ones, calling them zamorozhennye (frozen) or zatormozhennye (slowed down) (Thompson 2008: 179–186). For their part, the older “newcomers,” those who arrived in Chukotka before the Abramovich era—in particular, those who have stayed in Chukotka for

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a long time and become rooted—o en speak nostalgically of an earlier time when there was a feeling of solidarity among the severiane, or northerners. Grisha, the forty-seven-year-old policeman quoted previously, described the earlier era by referring to the atmosphere in the iaranga: “At that time, there were more northerners. I consider a northerner to be somebody who has lived for a minimum of ten years in Chukotka. There were people who were even born and grew up here. That’s why the atmosphere was not formal at all. People met and helped each other.” Thus, whatever is the reason for the presence of guards at the entrance to the new House of Culture, it reflects, as several of our respondents have suggested, the discrepancies existing between the worldviews of different generations of newcomers, namely, the discrepancies between the “old” way of living in Chukotka, the way of the “northerners,” based on solidarity and openness, and the new way, the one brought by Abramovich and his team, based on “interest” and tight-fistedness. In Vadim’s words, “[Now] people are motivated by self-interest (korystnye).”

Functions of the House of Culture: Does the New House of Culture Still Have an Ideological Orientation? According to the “information card” (informatsionnaia karta) that we received from the director of the House of Culture in 2006, the functions of this institutions are as follows: (1) to develop the traditional culture of the indigenous peoples of Chukotka; (2) to organize leisure-time activities for the population; (3) to provide organizational help to the institutions of culture and leisure of the Chukotka Autonomous Okrug; and (4) to develop amateur (samodeiatel’nyi) artistic creativity. The dissemination of propaganda is conspicuous in its absence. Does that mean, however, that today’s House of Culture has no political functions? Most of our respondents answered this question in the affirmative. The director of the House of Culture even said that “the state must not interfere in [cultural] activity. If the state were to dictate what one should and should not do, it [would be the same as in] 1937.” He continued, saying that the House of Culture “has to provide the population of the city and of the region with the cultural values (kul’turnye tsennosti) that it wants.” In this respect, it seems, the population is in command. For two of our respondents, however, the relationship between the House of Culture and the state is not so distant. An employee of the Chukotkan Department of Culture, who is responsible for all Houses

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of Culture in the region (who calls herself a konsul’tant), said that “the tasks of the House of Culture should be defined by the staff of the House of Culture itself.” Then she added, however, that these tasks “must be consistent with the tasks that the state gives to them.” Later during our interview with this same employee, she elaborated on this point: With regard to the execution of the state’s commands, defined objectives are given by the state to the cultural institutions. They can be the organization of events with social content, contributing, for instance, to the struggle against antisocial phenomena (antisotsial’nye iavleniia), [such as] alcoholism, drug addiction, and smoking. Or patriotic education. This too is an objective: that our young people should love their fatherland (rodina).

Thus, according to this employee in the Chukotkan Department of Culture in Anadyr’, the House of Culture still has a number of definite functions that are provided by the state, and it still plays a role in promoting certain values. Learning to Love Russia One of the values mentioned by the state employee who is responsible for all Houses of Culture in the region is patriotism. The House of Culture is meant to spread positive views of and feelings about Russia. This idea is also supported by Sasha, the twenty-eight-year-old children’s theater group leader: This [i.e., the House of Culture] is the hearth (ochag) of that civilization, of that culture—one can say, Slavic, Russian (rossiiskaia)13—that we bring to the masses. … On one hand, we bring popular culture to the masses (my nesem v massy narodnuiu kul’turu), and, on the other hand, we bring the culture that comes to us from above, from Moscow. … We spread the culture that is needed at this time by the state.

Indeed, the House of Culture is still the place where official events promoting the nation and its cohesion take place—events celebrating occasions such as 9 May, the “Day of Victory” (Den’ Pobedy) in World War II. Developing the Traditional Culture of the Indigenous Peoples of Chukotka In a report on the activities of the House of Culture during the first quarter of 2006 (provided by the administration of the House of Culture), “the preservation and the development of the traditional culture of the indigenous peoples of the North” is said to be one of the “high-

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priority directions of the cultural politics of the Chukotka Autonomous Okrug.” According to the report in question, this consists primarily in supporting five folkloric ensembles, some of which were created quite recently. One of the ensembles is for children, which leads the authors of the report to conclude that the House of Culture enables the “transmission” of traditional culture “from one generation to the next.” During the first quarter of 2006, these folkloric ensembles gave seven concerts “with the aim of popularizing the traditional culture.” The relationship of folkloric ensembles to the “traditional culture” of indigenous groups is a complex topic worthy of a full-length study.14 In this chapter, we restrict ourselves to observing that, under Abramovich, activities that contribute, supposedly, to the preservation of “traditional culture” bear a resemblance to the treatment of various “nationalities” in Soviet Houses of Culture, where the emphasis on national forms such as dance and costume went hand in hand with an ideology of progress that negated most other aspects of indigenous ways of life (see, e.g., Slezkine 1994). The House of Culture Against “Antisocial Phenomena” As the consultant to the Chukotkan Department of Culture noted in the statement quoted above, one of the classic functions of the House of Culture is to prevent the development of “antisocial phenomena.” This discourse displays strong continuities with official conceptions of cultural enlightenment that were developed in the pre-Soviet and Soviet periods. According to White (1990: 3), “cultural enlightenment has a preventative and supervisory role: it is intended to ward off social problems. It is supposed to … contribute to the elimination of social evils such as crime, drunkenness and drug addiction in favor of more ‘cultured’ leisure activities.” The significance of activities in the House of Culture for a empts to deal with social problems was obvious to most of our respondents, including both culture workers and those who participate in their programs. The issue of alcoholism is particularly present in people’s minds when discussing the role of the House of Culture in Anadyr’. For example, the director of the House of Culture made the following statement: “The state may still have to support the clubs (kluby) for a long time, because what is the alternative in the villages? Vodka, ge ing drunk (spit’sia)?” As Sasha, whom we have quoted previously, said, “If there were no House of Culture, … phenomena such as alcoholism (p’ianstvo), drug addiction, and vagabondage (brodiazhnichestvo)” would worsen. Alcoholism, a central problem in Chukotka, seems to have been a par-

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ticular concern of Abramovich himself. “Please take measures,” he is known to have said. “Can’t you do something so that there were in the key posts, if not teetotallers, at least moderate drinkers?!” (quoted in Thompson 2008: 172). For this reason, among others, Abramovich charged his youngest deputy governor with developing “a program of bringing kul’turnye (cultured) forms of entertainment to Chukotka” (2008: 172). According to several workers in the House of Culture, special efforts are directed toward young people and their particular concerns. Indeed, as Thompson (2008: 176) notes, “the expansion of the role of the state in the lives of the young was a key innovation under Abramovich.” For instance, the leader of the rock club and several visitors to the House of Culture told us of rock concerts that were organized “against drugs” or “against AIDS,” with the aim to increase youth awareness of these issues. Activities intended for young people are not restricted to the House of Culture; rather, they are part of a wider program developed by the local administration for the purpose of creating an environment conducive to the healthy development of children and adolescents. Thus, the opening of the new House of Culture was accompanied by a number of other developments, such as the renovation of the old Palace of Pioneers, the cinema, and a gymnasium, and also the founding of an indoor ice rink, a fitness center, a health spa, and a new radio station (radio Purga, “snowstorm”) with a program intended for young people (Thompson 2008: 172–173). Leisure, Artistic Creativity, and Self-Realization under Improved Economic Conditions If it is to offer the inhabitants of Anadyr’ an alternative to the consumption of alcoholic beverages, the House of Culture must provide them with leisure (dosug). Leisure and artistic creativity are among the official functions of the House of Culture, cited above. For most of the people whom we interviewed, leisure, artistic creativity, and self-expression or self-realization are central aspects of involvement in the House of Culture. Zoia, a forty-three-year-old leader of a theater group, speaks for many when she observes that the House of Culture “is a place to spend one’s time and one’s leisure in a cultured way (mesto kul’turnogo vremiaprovozhdeniia dosuga) and to realize one’s artistic and creative potential.” To what extent can these notions of leisure, artistic creativity, and selfrealization be viewed as elements related to changes occurring during Abramovich’s mandate? Several workers at the House of Culture told

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us that people have become more interested in cultural activities with the improvement of their material conditions. Similarly, the director of the House of Culture noted that “the economic situation influences people’s mood. … These are things that are mutually linked—the social protection of people and their a raction to, their interest in culture.” Zoia, the theater group leader, said, “When they [people] have money, when they have something to buy and something to pay for it, it is already more cheerful, and everyone wants something more. Some want to sing, others want to play in theatrical productions.” Indeed, one of Abramovich’s main achievements was the stabilization of the economic situation. Particularly, and in strong contrast to the Nazarov era, salaries were—and still are—paid regularly. In addition, Abramovich helped to install a real market economy, where products of all sorts can be purchased. In that respect, Abramovich’s policies have increased levels of consumption in general, which may also have led to a greater willingness to consume more “cultural” or “cultured” leisure. In this context, it seems evident that greater emphasis is being put on the idea of individual success. Abramovich, a young billionaire, a “self-made man,” offers a sterling example of self-realization. In the Soviet period, belonging to a “circle” meant pursuing cultural activities in a collective, but today the House of Culture offers more ways of expressing one’s individuality. This is, for example, the case in studii or shou (shows), in which an increasing number of young soloists are trained to perform during important events in Chukotka. As Thompson (2008: 176) concludes, “the provision of education [under Abramovich] broadened to include concepts such as … realizing oneself (realizovat’ sebia).” A er noting that the inhabitants of Chukotka—and of Anadyr’ in particular—have increased their levels of consumption, we ask, in the following section, whether the House of Culture itself may be involved in diffusing habits of consumption. Consumption and the Market Economy in the House of Culture Until 2006, when we conducted our fieldwork, all events in the House of Culture—which is financed largely by the regional government—had been free of charge. In that same year, however, the administration of the House of Culture started to introduce fees for special events. There were also discussions about the possibility of having children pay to a end regular courses, but this was not the case yet. With the new regu-

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lations, people were not required to pay a lot of money.15 Nonetheless, such fees may make a significant difference for low-income families. On the topic of fees, there is no consensus among either culture workers or visitors. Some of the persons interviewed in 2006 were critical of the new fees, arguing that they might prevent poor children, who make up a large portion of visitors to the House of Culture, from attending. Others consider it to be normal that participating members of the larger public take part in funding House of Culture activities, since a show—making costumes, for example—costs money. Workers in the House of Culture explain that they are encouraged by local authorities to try to cover the costs of their groups or programs—to make them fit for self-financing (samookupaemost’), so to speak. However, everyone agrees that it is hardly possible for the House of Culture to cover its own costs. Several respondents said that the House of Culture would have to have a disco, a café, a restaurant, and so on, if it were to have a chance of being self-financing.16 And that, as the leader of the rock and roll club noted, would not leave much time or space for artistic creativity. Sasha, the children’s theater group leader, suggested that the introduction of entry fees serves less to cover costs of operation in the House of Culture than to educate members in the ways of consumer society and to diffuse the values of the market economy. “We are now starting to introduce fees for entry,” Sasha noted. “In the past,” he continued, “everything was free; but now we are starting to train (priuchat’) the population to get used to it. … On the Russian mainland (na materike), you have to pay for clubs and the like … because the state can’t take on all these expenses. On the other hand, the price is not high; it is symbolic.” For some people, the progressive transformation of culture into a product of consumption seems to be a normal process. Nadia, the twenty-three-year-old journalist, said, “Everyone will decide for himself or herself, like in a shop. If the quality is good, people buy it, and it is the same with services.” New forms of consumption are also present in shows that the culture worker, Sasha, organizes for children. In his view, it seems, the availability of culture should go hand in hand with the availability of products that children can or even should buy (Illustration 1.2). For some events in the House of Culture, particular shops or cafés are given a concession to sell goods, such as popcorn, co on candy, soda pop, and toys, which children may buy at the conclusion of the event—practices that had no equivalent in the previous House of Culture. Evidently, then, the consumption of culture is associated with the consumption of

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Illustration 1.2 April 2006.

|

Consuming “culture” and cotton candy. Photo: V. Vaté,

goods. And the association of culture and consumption is also present in other ways. By 2006, for example, some local businesses had started sponsoring shows and providing prizes for some events in order to advertise their products or services. The connection between Abramovich’s modernization project and the diffusion of habits of consumption through cultural activities has also been emphasized by Thompson (2008: 171), who writes, “What modernizer outsiders, and foremost Abramovich, considered proper forms of kul’tura were more consumerist and less involving than those to which older locals were accustomed. Modernizing forms of leisure

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reflected the new post-Soviet reality, which called for the rapid, obsessive pursuit of wealth and the consumption of an ever-widening array of devices and spectacles of distraction (razvlechenie)” (2008: 174).

Conclusion From Soviet times until today, the House of Culture of Anadyr’, in its various manifestations, has retained its position of importance in the lives of local inhabitants. Because it plays an important but changing role in people’s lives, it may also serve as an index of changes in dominant ideologies and practices. Our intention in this chapter has been to illustrate some of the changes that have occurred from the Soviet period to the first decade of the new millennium and to show how they have been experienced by citizens of Anadyr’ in the House of Culture. In the Soviet period, self-realization was expressed mainly by taking part in collective “circles.” Some limits were imposed on self-realization, however, by the political context. In the 1990s, the experience of the iaranga, a division of the House of Culture, represented an a empt to rebuild a kind of collective—in part, an ethnic collective, which was also subject to limitations in the Soviet period. The closing of the iaranga, the discouragement of the emergence of an indigenous movement (Gray 2005), and the involvement of administrators of the House of Culture in corrupt practices all seem to be characteristic of the Nazarov era. When we finally consider the most recent period in the history of Anadyr’s House of Culture, we would do well to look back at White’s discussion of the basic principles of cultural enlightenment, cited at the beginning of the chapter. Viewing the contemporary House of Culture in this light, two points stand out: First, in Abramovich’s House of Culture, activities are still intended to prevent social problems and change human behavior. Second, even though the “nature of culture” is no longer controlled by the Communist Party, it is still controlled by the state and the regional administration. Thus, under Abramovich, the House of Culture remained a tool for the diffusion of values that seemed important to state authorities. These were—and still are—patriotism, consumption, and individual self-realization. However, White’s first principle of cultural enlightenment—“the need to equalize access to culture”—seems to have suffered, at least to a degree, by the posting of guards who regulate and limit access to the House of Culture, and by the introduction of fees, which may prevent members of the lower classes from a ending cultural events. It is in this way that the new House of Culture distinguishes itself from its Soviet predecessors: by

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reflecting market economy practices and a new worldview introduced by Abramovich’s team and “his” new generation of newcomers into the far provinces of the post-Soviet Russian state.

Notes 1. The authors would like to thank Brian Donahoe, John Eidson, Pa y Gray, and Joachim O o Habeck for comments on the first dra of this text; and to thank John Eidson for editing this dra . Virginie Vaté wants to thank A.A. Oskin, Head of the Department of Culture of Chukotka, and I.E. Buzyko and E. Rogozina, who are officials within that department. Thanks also to the director and to the employees of the House of Culture in Anadyr’ for their help with this research. Vaté would also like to thank Zoia Tagrina-Weinstein and Tamara Korav’e for conducting the household survey for this study in 2006. Galina Diatchkova wants to express her gratitude to the Siberian Studies Centre of the Max Planck Institute for Social Anthropology in Halle, Germany, for inviting her for a month and a half in order to prepare this paper, in collaboration with Vaté, and to take part in the workshop entitled “Reconstructing the House of Culture” in September 2007. 2. In this chapter, we use the terms “culture” and “cultural” in the sense that they were used in the Soviet Union and continued to be used in post-Soviet Russia, where they are associated with the notions of education, civilization, and refinement and find expression especially in the arts and related activities. For a more lengthy discussion see Nielsen 1994 and Thompson 2008: 170–172. 3. Chukotka covers a territory that is one and a half times the size of France and, as of 2 January 2010, had 48,700 inhabitants. Indigenous peoples (Chukchis, Evens, Eskimos or Yupiget, Yukagirs, etc.) make up 20 percent of Chukotka’s population (according to h p://www.chukotka.org/ru/region/population/about_ pop and h p://www.chukotka.org/ru/region/population/national_composition, accessed on 29 July 2010). In 2009, the population of Anadyr’ was 11,754, including 6,824 Russians, 1,341 Chukchis, and 932 Ukrainians, among others (h p:// adm.anadyr.ru/invest-passport/population, accessed on 29 July 2010). 4. This chapter is based largely on research in local archives by Galina Diatchkova and on fieldwork by Virginie Vaté, carried out in March–April 2006 in the framework of the project entitled, “The Social Significance of the House of Culture” (see the introduction to this volume). The chapter has also benefited from the familiarity of the two authors with conditions in Anadyr’, which is based on long-term experience: Diatchkova is a citizen of Anadyr’, and Vaté made regular field trips to Chukotka between 1994 and 2006, always through the capital. Vaté bears most of the responsibility for the anthropological analysis of the current situation. 5. On the first revolution in Chukotka, headed by Mandrikov, see Dikov 1974: 150–154; Gray 2005: 88–93; Roshchupkin 1964. 6. This building was transformed back into a church in the 1990s. 7. In this text, all personal names have been changed, except for those of public figures.

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8. Abramovich‘s mandate ended in July 2008. 9. In 2007, at the age of forty, Abramovich was the richest person in Russia and, according to Forbes magazine, the sixteenth richest person in the world. In 2010, he was “only” the fourth richest man in Russia and fi ieth in the Forbes listing. His fortune comes mainly from the company SibneĞ’ (“Siberian Oil”), of which, until 2005, he was the main stakeholder. 10. The previous House of Culture was located on the same site. Still, it is noteworthy that, in the post-Soviet era, the House of Culture retains a “place of honor” in the urban landscape. 11. As Halemba shows in this volume, it is possible for groups to be registered at a House of Culture without really existing. 12. On the influx of newcomers to Chukotka in the 2000s, see Thompson 2008. 13. The term russkii refers only to ethnic Russians, whereas the term rossiiskii refers to the Russian nation-state and all of its citizens, regardless of their ethnicity. 14. On folkloric groups in Kamchatka, see King 2004, 2005, and his contribution to this volume. For varying perspectives on comparable phenomena in other parts of the world, see Bruner and Kirshenbla -Gimble 1994; Jackson 1995; Briggs 1996. 15. In April 2006, for example, a theater ticket cost 50 rubles or approximately US$1.80. At that same time in Chukotka, one needed at least 7,000 rubles per month for living expenses (prozhitochnyi minimum), according to government estimates. Officially, the average monthly salary during this period was 14,000 rubles per month, though this figure is probably overestimated. 16. In the new House of Culture, rooms or building segments were actually planned for use as a disco, a restaurant, and a café, but, during fieldwork in 2006, they were le unused or completely closed to the public.

References Bogdanov, A.D., N.L. Belova, I.S. Garusov, A.T. Khilobchenko, G.N. Kiselev, E.K. Kurtaev, F.N. Loviagin, M.R. Maksimenko, B.I. Mukhachev, and S.P. Nefedova. 1975. Istoricheskaia khronika Magadanskoi oblasti: sobytiia i fakty, 1917-1952 [Chronicle of Magadan Oblast’: Events and Facts, 1917–1952]. Magadan: Magadanskoe knizhnoe izdatel’stvo. Briggs, C.L. 1996. “The Politics of Discursive Authority in Research on the ‘Invention of Tradition.’” Cultural Anthropology 11, no. 4: 435–469. Bruner, E.M., and B. Kirshenbla -Gimble . 1994. “Maasai on the Lawn: Tourist Realism in East Africa.” Cultural Anthropology 9, no. 4: 435–470. Csonka, Y. 1998. “La Tchoukotka: Une illustration de la question autochtone en Russie.” Recherches amérindiennes au Québec 28, no. 1: 23–41. Dikov, N.N. 1974. Ocherki istorii Chukotki s drevneishikh vremen do nashikh dnei [Eassays on the History of Chukotka from the Earliest Times to Our Days]. Novosibirsk: Nauka. Gray, P.A. 2005. The Predicament of Chukotka’s Indigenous Movement: Post-Soviet Activism in the Russian Far North. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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Jackson, J. 1995. “Preserving Indian Culture: Shaman Schools and Ethno-Education in the Vaupés, Colombia.” Cultural Anthropology 10, no. 3: 302–329. King, A.D. 2004. “The Authenticity of Cultural Properties in the Russian Far East.” In Properties of Culture—Culture as Property: Pathways to Reform in PostSoviet Siberia, ed. E. Kasten, pp. 51–65. Berlin: Dietrich Reimer Verlag. ———. 2005. Genuine and Spurious Dance Forms in Kamchatka, Russia. Max Planck Institute for Social Anthropology Working Papers, no. 79. h p://www.eth .mpg.de/pubs/wps/pdf/mpi-eth-working-paper-0079.pdf (accessed 29 July 2010) Krupnik, I., and N. Vakhtin. 2002. “In the ‘House of Dismay’: Knowledge, Culture, and Post-Soviet Politics in Chukotka, 1995–96.” In Properties of Culture—Culture as Property: Pathways to Reform in Post-Soviet Siberia, ed. E. Kasten, pp. 7–43. Berlin: Dietrich Reimer Verlag. Miazin, K. 1950. “Kul’turno-prosvetitel’nye uchrezhdeniia Chukotki za dvadtsat’ let” [Cultural-Educational Institutions of Chukotka over Twenty Years]. Sovietskaia Chukotka, 27.09.1950, no. 189: 3. Nefedova, S.P. 1971. “Kul’turnoe stroitel’stvo na Chukotke” [Cultural Construction on Chukotka]. In Iz istorii promyshlennogo i kul’turnogo stroitel’stva Chukotki, Trudy Severo-Vostochnogo kompleksnogo nauchno-issledovatel’skogo instituta, no. 39, pp. 81–158. Magadan: Severo-Vostochnyi kompleksnyi nauchno-issledovatel’skii institut. Nielsen, F.S. 1994. “Soviet Culture—Russian kul’tura: Culture, Ideology and Globalization in the Soviet Union and Therea er, as Compared to Similar Western Phenomena.” Paper presented at the seminar Continuity and Change in Post-Soviet Societies, Skibotn, Norway, October 1994. h p://www.anthrobase .com/Txt/N/Nielsen_F_S_02.htm (accessed 10 April 2009). Roshchupkin, G.G. 1964. “Anadyr’skii uezdnyi revkom—pervyi organ vlasti sovetov na Chukotke” [The Revolutionary Commi ee of the Anadyr’ Uezd— the First Organ of Soviet Power in Chukotka]. Istoriia i kul’tura narodov Severo-Vostoka SSSR, Trudy Severo-Vostochnogo kompleksnogo nauchnoissledovatel’skogo instituta, no. 8, pp. 72–116. Magadan: Severo-Vostochnyi kompleksnyi nauchno-issledovatel’skii institut. Shlapentokh, V. 1989. Public and Private Life of the Soviet People: Changing Values in Post-Stalin Russia. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Slezkine, Y. 1994. Arctic Mirrors: Russia and the Small Peoples of the North. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Thompson, N. 2008. SeĴlers on the Edge: Identity and Modernization on Russia’s Arctic Frontier. Vancouver: University of British Columbia Press. Vdovin, I.S. 1965. Ocherki istorii i etnografii chukchei [Essays on the History and Ethnography of the Chukchis]. Moskva: Nauka. White, A. 1990. De-Stalinization and the House of Culture: Declining State Control Over Leisure in the USSR, Poland and Hungary, 1953-1989. New York: Routledge. Yurchak, A. 2006. Everything Was Forever, Until It Was No More: The Last Soviet Generation. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.


2 “THANK YOU FOR BEING” Neighborhood, Ethno-Culture, and Social Recognition in the House of Culture Joachim O o Habeck

We arrange many different nominations, in order to acknowledge a person as much as possible. The actual paper [of the certificate] costs just ten rubles, but it is morally valuable. It is morally highly valuable when you call somebody onto the stage, shake their hand, and tell them, “Thank you for being! Thank you for making your life beautiful even though you are so busy, for brightening up other people’s leisure time with your talent.” It’s for that that I thank them. And they are proud of it; at home they frame the certificates, hang them up their walls, and say: “I have got so and so many certificates.” … We have forty-five people on stage, and of these we reward ten or fifteen. Of these fifteen we select those who distinguished themselves most strongly. Be it for novelty, be it for artistic quality, some kind of nomination that … well, in terms of the creative level they may have been all alike, but well, say, this one here has been well executed, and that one touched people. And for that we give an honorary certificate. After all, it was the best one anyway. And people like it, they highly value it. —Head of the Committee for Culture of Kolyvan’ District, 26 April 2006

When conducting research in Houses of Culture, I was puzzled by the countless occasions when gratitude is expressed formally. O en this gratitude takes the material form of diplomas or certificates, sometimes of bunches of flowers or prizes. In this chapter, I identify important social functions of Houses of Culture, and I argue that the public expression of recognition is key to understanding many of them. A comparison of two case studies in and around Novosibirsk—the House of Culture “Tochmashevets” in a low-income suburb of Novosibirsk, and the House of Culture in Kolyvan’, a small town on the outskirts of Novosibirsk—provides the basis for this claim. DK1 “Tochmashevets” has a somewhat particular position in the cultural landscape of Novosibirsk: not only does it serve as a platform for activities within the neighborhood; it has also come to be a meeting point for the cultural organizations of various ethnic minorities in the city. For this reason,

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the particularities of ethno-cultural production and presentation play an important role in this chapter. A quite different case is the DK of Kolyvan’, where music, dance, and theater occupy much more time and space than “social networking” activities and ethno-cultural shows. Social networks in Kolyvan’ have remained quite intact, and they do not depend on the DK, since in a small town, personal encounters, even accidental ones, happen frequently. The activities of the DK are rather oriented toward artistic expression for an audience from both within and outside the community. The DK contributes to upholding the town’s image as a place with a rich cultural heritage, known as a trade center in the nineteenth century. DK activities in Kolyvan’ promote the identity of the community as a whole. Finally, the comparison of the two cases leads to a more general theme of social relevance: what unites these different functions is the public expression of social recognition and the multiple ways in which it is negotiated. Drawing on the conceptual groundwork prepared by Charles Taylor and Axel Honneth, I seek to explicate how the House of Culture is centrally involved in the management of social recognition.2

A Small Town Presenting its Public Face A typical example of the architectural make-up of the Russian House of Culture, the DK of Kolyvan’ features a stage with an auditorium for three hundred visitors, a foyer, a large room on the second floor called the disko-zal (discoteque room) and used as such on Saturday evenings, a special room for rehearsals, and various offices. The DK of Kolyvan’ is considered a success story when compared with other Houses of Culture in the region (oblast’) of Novosibirsk. At first sight, Kolyvan’ appears to be an average small town in western Siberia, although many of its 11,000 inhabitants would protest against the description of their home town as average. They point to the rich cultural heritage and architecture, dating back to the second half of the nineteenth century, when Kolyvan’ was a major station on the route from Moscow to Irkutsk and bustled with trade and other services. When in 1896–97 the Trans-Siberian Railway bridge over the River Ob’ was completed fi y kilometers south of Kolyvan’, the town was soon surpassed in every respect by the fast growing town of Novonikolaevsk (today’s Novosibirsk). The small town is a district center in a rural hinterland, yet since the late 1990s it has been turning into a remote suburb of Novosibirsk, with people commuting daily to Novosibirsk by bus or car. Jobs in Kolyvan’ are ge ing scarcer.

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Commuters have virtually no time to participate in any activities of the DK or even a end any of its events, except for the most important ones, such as the commemoration of Victory Day on 9 May on the square in front of the War Memorial. The employees of the DK are mainly responsible for organizing events: they prepare the scenarios, lead the programs, and set up and operate the technical equipment. Children and youth who take part in any of the DK’s several collectives (formirovaniia, groups of lay artists with their instructors) are expected to help and be part of the show. This procedure of organizing public festivities in Kolyvan’ is quite typical for culture work all over provincial Russia: the administration of the municipality provides some funding, the DK employees are to design and implement the event, and the people who spend their free time rehearsing songs and dances in the DK are supposed to perform them during the event. There are also other types of events, such as concerts by visiting collectives from other places, or competitions between lay people in the presence of DK employees. The la er sometimes travel to the countryside in order to conduct competitions, perform concerts, and provide vocational training in the small rural Houses of Culture and “clubs” (kluby). These visits have the character of an evaluation, owing to the fact that the head of the Kolyvan’ District Commi ee for Culture and several members of staff of the DK of Kolyvan’ constitute a jury that is to judge the performance(s) of the lay artists, and implicitly, the performance of the village Houses of Culture. The la er are officially subordinate to the Kolyvan’ District Commi ee for Culture.3 It was the head of the District Commi ee for Culture who time a er time thanked the lay artists with the words, “Spasibo za to, chto vy est’!” (“Thank you for being!”), quoted at the beginning of this chapter. Illustration 2.1 shows her handing over a certificate to an elderly couple from a remote village. In such situations the Kolyvan’ DK representatives skillfully display an air of nonchalance and superiority over their colleagues from the villages and the rural populace. On other occasions, when delegations from the higher echelons of the Ministry of Culture in Novosibirsk come to evaluate their work, the DK representatives themselves are put to the test. These visits cause considerable nervousness and extra rehearsals. Thirty individuals are officially employed by the DK of Kolyvan’ (in fact, many of them hold two or three positions both inside the DK and outside, mostly at pedagogical institutions). Some of the employees say that working in the DK is a passion rather than a profession, and that a person needs a certain level of creative madness to be able to work there. In addition to writing scenarios for all kinds of events, rehearsals with children and youth of different ages are among the main daily

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Illustration 2.1 | The head of the local Department of Culture awards a certificate to participants of a lay-artists’ competition in a village near Kolyvan’. Photo: J.O. Habeck, April 2006.

jobs. On an average work day, the sound of music (piano playing, singing, background music for the dancing classes) fills the corridors of the building from noon till evening. Officially the DK of Kolyvan’ has twenty-two collectives ( formirovaniia), even if only fourteen of them are in fact active. Of these, half are mainly for singing (vokal’noe) and the other half for dancing (tantseval’noe); there is also a very active circle of chess players. The most successful collectives receive special official acknowledgement: they are designated as “exemplary” (obraztsovyi) or “people’s” (narodnyi) collectives. Such official recognition enhances the employment status of the instructor. Kolyvan’ prides itself in hosting four such commendable collectives.4 Less splendid, though also part of the DK’s regular business, are the occasional film screenings. In the past, when people had no TV sets at home, they visited the DK more frequently to watch films, but now virtually every household has a TV and VCR or DVD player. The cinema “experience” in the DK, with its wooden seats and its somewhat

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austere ambience, is not the same as in the new shiny cinema palaces in Novosibirsk (where local experts speak of a cinema revival). If the DK is unable to a ract larger crowds of young people through cinema, it does manage to do so for the discos every Saturday evening, when up to two hundred visitors come together. The success of the discos points most explicitly to the conflicting goals of entertainment versus education and “enlightenment.” In the eyes of the DK employees, the disco has li le if any cultural value; on the contrary, young people are ge ing drawn into occasional scuffles, drinking (outside the building), and other “bad habits.” However, the disco continues to be one of the most popular activities of the DK. Many inhabitants of Kolyvan’ visit the DK occasionally, yet the number of lay people who participate actively in the DK’s collectives is rather small. However, even if their ranks are few, they fulfill a job highly regarded even by those who prefer to stay away.5 This job consists of keeping the communal spirit alive, and of representing the community’s high level of kul’turnost’ (culturedness) to the outside world. Occasions for that are manifold, yet they vary in terms of importance and urgency. Rehearsals for a big event with important outside guests do not have to be regular, but they have to be effective. It seems as if the community, or to be more precise, the political and intellectual leadership, has to muster as much local support for the performance of kul’tura and kul’turnost’ as possible when regional honoraries come to visit. The material incentives are prizes for the most skillful performers and more secure public funding for the community’s cultural institutions. The immaterial gain is the small town’s sustained reputation as a center of cultural heritage and competence. This mechanism of mustering social support is at work not only in Kolyvan’ but also in many other communities and regions. Some observers are inclined to describe this as pokazukha (a display of feigned commitment, cf. Sántha and Safonova in Chapter 3). Yet in Kolyvan’ it is more than a show being put on for outsiders; it also reaffirms the selfesteem of the community and the individual actors.6 The DK provides the space for action, but they create the place. The audience is supportive because it is made up mainly of supporters: notably, the relatives and friends of those on stage. And even if the screenplay, the gestures, or the costumes may come across as tacky or unintentionally comical, people in the audience kindly—some of them, cheerfully—pay respect because what is at stake is the public face of the community as a whole. Thus, the DK has retained its function as a meeting place and important point of reference in public life. It constitutes a site where the community is creating, negotiating, and asserting its public face.

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Mutual Support in a Suburban Neighborhood DK “Tochmashevets,” the second case that I studied, is located in the northeastern part of the city of Novosibirsk (1.5 million inhabitants). It is a small House of Culture with several rooms of different sizes, but without an auditorium or a stage for artistic performances. In many ways it can be described as a neighborhood community center. Many of the regular visitors have a marked interest in re-creating and maintaining the social networks that broke down when the big factories of the suburb had to lay off large numbers of workers. The suburb of Novosibirsk where the DK is located—Dzerzhinskii raion—still has a very industrial ambiance, owing to the larger and smaller factories where military airplanes, radio transmi ers, workbench equipment, and other technical instruments were produced. The factory with the name “Tochmash,” also known as “Kometa,” was one of the bigger of these enterprises, with thousands of employees in its best days. Its production profile was oriented mainly toward military demands, but also included tape recorders for civilian use. Around 1990, the production profile was first reduced to nonmilitary items, then within the next few years production shrank to zero and employees were laid off by the thousands. It is only now that production is likely to be resumed.7 Like Tochmash, many of the factories in this part of Novosibirsk have reduced the number of staff while others have shut down completely.8 In recent years, the municipality has “inherited” several Houses of Culture that in the past had been owned, financed, and maintained by factories (cf. White 1990: 111). This was also the case with DK “Tochmashevets.” Founded in 1943 and having undergone a complex series of organizational changes, it was reestablished by the present director in 1991 under the auspices of the factory Tochmash. In a continuation of Soviet practices, the link between enterprise and DK was through the trade union (profsoiuz). The DK was accountable to the factory’s profsoiuznyi komitet (trade-union commi ee) and to the Profsoiuz Council of Novosibirsk Region. As will become clear from what follows, the social and symbolic connections with the enterprise and its social support unit, the profsoiuz, resonate in the activities of the DK up to the present day. It was in 2002 that DK “Tochmashevets” was transferred to the jurisdiction of the municipality, the city of Novosibirsk, its Department of Culture, and the Administration of the Dzerzhinskii raion. This has meant that sources of financial support have changed and that accountancy has become more complex. Simultaneously, it has opened up new prospects for the future work of the House of Culture.

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DK “Tochmashevets” closely cooperates with the citizens’ council (territorial’noe obshchestvennoe samoupravlenie, herea er, TOS) of that part of the suburb in which it is located. The TOS, as a new player in the local polity, deserves some explanation. On the basis of the mayor’s initiative to strengthen local self-administration, the early 2000s saw the gradual formation of such councils. Their field of activity comprises plans for tower-block refurbishment, improvement of courtyards, organization of courtyard parties, and certain forms of social control (in Britain these would be done by “neighborhood watches”). Within the territory where the TOS operates, the chairperson ideally maintains close contacts with block representatives (starshie po domam). In Dzerzhinskii raion there now exists a number of such councils, but the TOS in the neighborhood of DK “Tochmashevets” was the first to be formed. The initiator and first chairperson of the TOS was the director of the DK, Mariia Ivanovna Korchagina. In an interview (7 June 2007) she stated that one of the reasons for the establishment of the TOS was to create a concrete audience for the activities of the DK. In fact, through the TOS, the DK has more intensive rapport with the local population, it can be er advertise its activities, and it can draw on the support of TOS activists when preparing celebrations and other social functions. The TOS, in turn, uses the DK as home base for its own activities. In short, there is an interesting symbiosis between the DK and the TOS. Together they aim at the integration of the neighborhood; together they organize and conduct events that the municipality officials expect them to celebrate on public holidays (Illustration 2.2); and together they have enhanced possibilities for a racting financial support from the municipality. The chairperson of the TOS, Liubov’ Dmitrievna Rodicheva, provided many clues to the close connection between the factory (in its times of glory), the neighborhood, and the DK. Factory anniversaries, commemorations, and other kinds of celebrations were o en held in the DK. According to Rodicheva (8 June 2007), “Our whole life, one may say, has been connected with the DK.” Even if such statements may reflect an overly idealistic view of a bygone reality, they nevertheless reveal very tellingly the social structure of everyday life in a typical urban environment in socialist times, centered on work and occupation. The work kollektiv was the main frame of reference for social interaction and identity, and celebrations served as formal acknowledgments of respect and social status within the kollektiv. The profsoiuz and the DK were deeply enmeshed in this social fabric. The profsoiuz was instrumental in the official displays of gratitude, the distribution of honors,

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Illustration 2.2 | On the occasion of the Day of the City (Novosibirsk), members of staff of DK “Tochmashevets” and people from the neighborhood celebrate and dance together. Photo: J.O. Habeck, June 2007.

and the management of claims to privileges, whereas the DK provided the stage for recognition of the individual, representation of the kollektiv, and representation of the factory as a whole (White 1990: 80). As there still appears to be a high social demand for such forms of recognition in this neighborhood in the present, the TOS and the DK jointly reproduce and perpetuate these practices: “We write them letters of gratitude. Family name, first name, patronym, we congratulate them during the celebrations. All this is done in the presence of the people (pri narode), and that’s pleasant. It’s as if there was a revival of the period when this existed in the factories. You know, honorary certificate, board of honor,” Rodicheva explained. With the decline of the factories and the dissolution of the kollektivy, important locales for the maintenance of sociality became defunct. The social fabric wore thin. Rodicheva, and along with her many of

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the elderly people in the neighborhood, complain that “people have become lonely.” The pensioners try to maintain and reconstruct old networks, as may with some probability be said about pensioners around the world. What is particular about this case is the constellation of the TOS, a “self-governmental” institution, and the DK, an institution in the sphere of culture. Both actively help to maintain the social networks and rituals of a society the main focus of which, the factory, has virtually ceased to exist. According to my observations, approximately 50 percent of the DK visitors are pensioners.9 Korchagina stated that the social structure of the neighborhood is quite clearly reflected in the profile of DK visitors: In general, here the audience is conditioned on the circumstance that these are people of the factory category (zavodskaia kategoriia liudei). And they have been coming to the DK since 1991 [when it was reestablished]; this was like a second home to them, for recreation. This category of people has got a ached to this DK. In general, these are elderly people. And in the public organizations there are people beyond the age of 45–50. Our Achilles’ heel is our youth. (Interview with M.I. Korchagina, 8 June 2007)

Clearly, DK “Tochmashevets” exerts a much stronger appeal to elderly people than to local youth. However, Korchagina can see various ways to a ract the youth. One of them might be a stronger emphasis on sports, but this would require substantial expansion of the premises and financial support for buying all the necessary equipment. Such plans belong to the realm of long-term planning (even the more so as a sports center already exists not too far away). Another possibility, she said, would be the creation of a politically active group of young people, which has already worked quite well in previous years: I have told the TOS Chairperson and the Council, “Here is a task: for the new work season please organize such a group of children who are qualified a bit as leaders, in order to then make a small … structure with influence on its peers with the help, of course, of the TOS. So that these young people could be useful in the neighborhood. (Interview with M.I. Korchagina, 8 June 2007)

Behind this endeavor stands, in my interpretation at least, the o mentioned need to give young people the opportunity to spend their leisure time in a way that is socially useful and personally rewarding at the same time. Houses of Culture should induce people to spend their leisure time in a cultured (useful) way, and the youth as a prominent “at-risk” group appear to be especially in need of guidance (cf.

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Omel’chenko 2003: 146). The DK and TOS are closely involved in the implementation of municipal youth policies. “Tochmashevets” serves as a venue for meetings of quite a large variety of collectives (formirovaniia), which can be characterized by their different age contingents. These groups meet quite regularly, usually once per week, except during the summer break from July to September, when there is generally very li le activity in this DK. It is possible to subsume these different groups under three categories. First, those collectives whose raison d’être is connected to some kind of social issue, and in many cases they are struggling for official recognition and financial compensation. This category includes veterans of war, work veterans, victims of political repression, “Children of the War” (i.e., children of those who have perished during wars), the local branch of the association of physically disabled people, and the association of those who have suffered from the Chernobyl’ disaster in 1986. The second category consists of collectives that are directly connected with individual hobbies, leisure activities, and lifestyles, such as gardeners, bikers and so-called avto-turisty (who participate in car rallies), the women’s club “Cherchez la femme,” and the local hunters’ association. Third, there are artistic collectives proper in the sense that they engage in the performance of music (a guitar class, a vocal group for young people, the children’s dance group “Assorti”, and the veterans’ choir).10 To sum up, “mutual support in a suburban neighborhood” characterizes the cooperation of the DK and the TOS, which aims at fostering the maintenance of social networks in this part of the city. Unlike the DK of Kolyvan’, “Tochmashevets” does not represent the public face of Novosibirsk as a city, and cannot aspire to do so; yet it does represent one important facet of the city’s social and political life, as will become clear in the next section.

Ethno-Culture In addition to the three categories of collectives that I have outlined above, “Tochmashevets,” by the order of the city council, came to provide a base of operations for the ethnically defined cultural organizations and “autonomies” (natsional’no-kul’turnye organizatsii and natsional’nokul’turnye avtonomii) in the city of Novosibirsk. In this sense, its work has been directed toward community coherence not only of the suburb but also of ethnic minorities in the city in general. “Tochmashevets” has thus come to represent the city’s multiethnic character. This component in the DK’s range of activities emerged comparatively recently,

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having commenced in autumn 2005. In spring 2007 there were six ethnically defined cultural organizations—Belorussian, Finnish, Ingush, Kazakh, Korean, and Polish—that more or less actively operated out of the DK. Buriats and Greeks were also listed, but seemed to show no activity. Ukrainians, Germans, and Tatars, who count among the largest national minorities of Novosibirsk, have their own cultural centers.11 I have chosen to dub this facet of cultural life “ethno-culture.” The showpiece of the DK’s involvement in ethno-cultural work was the Center of National Literatures (Tsentr natsional’nykh literatur). This library has had its rooms in the DK since 2005, yet the two belonged to different administrative structures (the library being a branch of the city’s library system). Both the director of the library and part of the DK management anticipated that eventually they would be merged into a new structure, the Center for National Cultures (Tsentr natsional’nykh kul’tur) of the City of Novosibirsk. Such a merger would have been in line with the administration’s stipulation that Houses of Culture sharpen their profiles and formulate specific directions of activity (napravlenie deiatel’nosti).12 The representation of ethnicity in the cultural sphere deserves to be discussed here in more general terms. There is a remarkably high degree of artificiality in the display of ethnicity in the sphere of public culture. As mentioned in the introduction, this artificiality invoked ambivalent feelings in me and fellow anthropologists who were on the lookout for “authentic” indigenous culture, to be found in people’s everyday lives and in the Siberian taiga and tundra, rather than in the local Houses of Culture. The la er provide a highly formalized and folklorized version of ethnic culture. Dances, songs, costumes, and other a ributes appear to be artificially flavored and enhanced. Dressing up and down is part of the transition between stage and real life. There are clearly defined formats wherein ethnic culture (and culture, more generally) should be enacted. These formats are built around the classic partition of genres in Russian and European high culture: vocal and instrumental music, dance, poetry, and theater. These are complemented by dress, cuisine, and applied arts (handicra s). The genres are quite rigid, and their range is set; moreover, any one ethnic culture should ideally be presentable across the whole range of genres (cf. Friedgut 1992: 198). The genres provide the mold for the packaging of ethnicity in the public. In Chapter 7 of this volume, Ali İğmen describes the creation of a distinct Soviet culture in the Kyrgyz SSR in the 1920s and 1930s. Distinctly Soviet about this culture is not only the integration of the Kyrgyz people into a larger political arrangement, but also the configuration of genres of artistic expression, rooted in early-twentieth-

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century European notions of (high) culture. Bourgeois European values of those days were ironically perpetuated in Soviet notions of culture, startig in the 1930s (Dunham 1990: 19–23; Fitzpatrick 1992: 216; Nielsen 1994; Volkov 2000: 216). The establishment of a cultural canon that continually evokes the classics of the nineteenth century has been interpreted by Timasheff as a “retreat” from the experimental and eccentric cultural production of the 1920s (1946: 264–284; cf. Kotkin 1997). Timasheff also sketches the rediscovery and public presentation of folk art in all parts of the Soviet Union in 1935–36 (1946: 272). This movement provided the bricks for the construction of ethno-culture in the later Soviet and post-Soviet eras. Going back a decade earlier, it appears that the folklorized and sanitized expression of ethnic identity in the public sphere had its roots already in Lenin’s nationalities policy of the early 1920s, when ethnically specific festivals and holidays were recast and reinterpreted with the aim of divesting them of their religious meanings (Martin 2001). This “show of diversity in unity” (Luehrmann 2005: 51) has remained a key ingredient in all ethno-cultural performances. It follows the socialist principles of equality, solidarity, and harmony, in other words, druzhba narodov (friendship of peoples), which continues to be the dominant principle in ethno-cultural production in postsocialist times. “We are all alike,” and “We all belong to one family,” as many culture workers state. To me it seems that the sweet sound of harmony silences a critical discussion of ethnic stereotypes (in fact, to some extent, it helps create them). Ethnoculture is shorn of all thorny political issues concerning interethnic relations. It is the expression of solely positive values and feelings. For the individual as well as the local community, the art of cultural production and presentation lies in the skill to show they are able to play by the rules, thereby asserting that they are entitled to belong to the Soviet/post-Soviet cultural community. The person on stage should fulfill the requirements of the genre—this is what the spectators expect. The ethno-cultural performance has symbolic meaning for the ethnic group—it expresses the “traditional culture” of that group in a readily recognizable shape and simultaneously demonstrates the ability to play the game and to present the group in a legitimate format and a favorable light. Ethno-cultural shows reflect and propagate “community narratives,” described by Ristolainen (2008: 75) in her study of cultural life in a small town in western Russia as “positive, conventional and future-oriented narratives that are ritualistically repeated” in and for the community. The rigidity of the format and the compatibility of the ethnic a ributes on display make it possible for a person with ethnic background

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“X” to perform on behalf of ethnic group “Y” or “Z.” When, for example, the DK “Tochmashevets” sent a Tatar folklore ensemble to the city of Bautzen, Germany, to participate in the Seventh “Łužica” Festival of Folklore in July 2007, the ensemble consisted of seven girls from Novosibirsk, of whom only one would self-identify as Tatar. This observation is not intended to malign the practices of make-do in culture work; rather, it shows that the production of ethno-culture happens quite independently of personally felt ethnic identity. Nor should there be grievances about the fabrication of “staged authenticity” (MacCannell 1973). As I point out in the introduction to this volume, authenticity of the content is seldom the concern of those who perform at the House of Culture; rather it is the (re-)presentation of the prescribed form (the genre), and I identify this with the term “performance” itself. What is being performed on the stages of local Houses of Culture can rightfully be called “artificial,” in two different connotations of the word. On the one hand, these shows are unnatural in the sense that they differ so much from “real” life. On the other hand, these shows are artistic in the sense that each performance is live and therefore unique. The performers can show their talents and skills by creatively modifying the elements and themes, and creating new motifs through the combination of old ones (cf. King, Chapter 8). Through variation, creativity, and virtuosity the performance becomes “authentic”—in the artistic rather than the ethnic sense. As King writes in a study on traditional Koriak dances (2005: 16), “Traditional dances in Kamchatka are more than mimesis; they are not really copies of anything, just as a jazz solo is not a copy, even if it contains iconic elements of the song’s melodic line and stays within the song’s harmonic structure.” Variation, virtuosity, and creativity are permi ed, but only within certain limits defined by the requirements of the genres that appear appropriate for use in Houses of Culture. Boundaries of what is and what is not acceptable as culture clearly exist, though they are shi ing and subject to negotiation and reinterpretation.

The Management of Social Recognition To conclude, let me summarize the main community-level functions of the two Houses of Culture under study (presented in the following list). They are fulfilled through both regular meetings (of the different interest groups, artistic ensembles, and ethno-cultural organizations with their weekly or monthly cycle of activities) and special events (on the occasion of public holidays and other key dates in the annual cycle

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of events). These functions are neither all inclusive nor mutually exclusive. They reflect what the House of Culture facilitates and “does,” within the field of its official duties and beyond: • The creation, negotiation, and assertion of the public face of the community (as a whole); • the provision of a meeting point, a base for people united either by their personal difficulties and biographical experiences, or their hobbies and forms of creative expression; • the maintenance of social networks, including those inherited from the socialist past; • the implementation of municipal social policies and, to a lesser extent, youth policies; • the propagation of positive values and a itudes (e.g., beauty, tidiness, self-respect, and mutual care) among the inhabitants of the neighborhood; • the representation of the neighborhood and assertion of a distinct identity within the anonymity of urban sprawl; • and the staging of ethnic identity in a distinct format. The combination of all these results in a specific kind of sociability: the maintenance of social networks in close surroundings, which feeds into cohesion of the local community, comes together with artistic performances on behalf of a small town or an ethnic group. Unlike the social networks of the bygone factories discussed in the first part, the ethnic group is an imagined community. The ethno-cultural performances do not serve to express respect and acknowledgment to personally known individuals and collectives, but to make a symbolic reference to larger, more abstract units with the aim of expressing that, on the grounds of their “culturedness” and loyalty to cultural conventions, they too deserve public respect and acknowledgment. Behind these motifs we can discern the need for recognition: one of the main functions of the House of Culture, in addition to those listed above, is to channel expressions of respect, gratitude, and recognition to different members and parts of society. At stake is the status of the individual within the collective or community, on the one hand, and the status of the collective or community within society, on the other. Both these levels of social recognition have been theorized: Axel Honneth, for example, deals mainly with the former (2000, 2003), while Charles Taylor (1994) dwells more strongly on the la er. Taylor provides a historical account of the emergence of “the modern preoccupation with identity and recognition” (1994: 26), connected

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with two processes: a transition in social valorization from the statusrelated claim to honor to the universalist claim to human dignity; and the growing acceptance in Western societies that the source of moral judgment “is deep within us” (1994: 28). Increasingly, it is the self that requires expression, development, and fulfillment. It also comes to be dependent on the explicit recognition by others. “What has come about with the modern age is not the need for recognition but the conditions in which the a empt to be recognized can fail. That is why the need is now acknowledged for the first time” (Taylor 1994: 35). Denial or withdrawal of recognition can afflict the person, as it can afflict people collectively (e.g., ethnic minorities). Following on from this outline, Taylor then exposes the dilemma between the politics of universalism, which recognizes the equal dignity of all humans, and the politics of difference, which recognizes the unique identity of people. Political debates on minority rights and multiculturalism are all predicated on this dilemma. Ethno-culture as it is engendered in the House of Culture, I argue, is the outcome of the state’s endeavor to deal with this dilemma. The friendly, family-like, apolitical “show of diversity in unity” (Luehrmann 2005: 51) is the necessary principle of the Soviet and post-Soviet national policy that asserts cultural difference in tandem with human equality. The dilemma is not specific to the erstwhile Soviet Union, of course, but there is a specifically Soviet response. With Taylor, we may describe this response as a distinct “mold,” and we are reminded by him that the mold has been powerful, regardless of the debate as to whose “hegemonic culture” this mold derived from (1994: 43). Through his analysis of three different forms of recognition, Honneth (2000) helps us to understand the character of social recognition enacted in and around the House of Culture from yet a different perspective: “Finally, where that form of recognition is concerned through which the value of individual abilities is affirmed, there are reciprocal obligations to solidary interest that apply to all members of the respective group sharing the same values (Wertegemeinscha ); what should come to mind here is that form of special consideration that we owe each other mutually, insofar as we jointly participate in the realization of a project” (Honneth 2000: 73). The cases presented above exemplify exactly this: publicly expressed recognition of the individual on the basis of his or her contributions to the neighborhood, the kollektiv, the imagined community of the ethnic group through shared ethnicity, or the community of the whole state through shared social values. Clearly, each of these has its own projects: the neighborhood is interested in the improvement of the living conditions in this part of town; the kollek-

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tiv pursues (or pursued) multiple projects at work and beyond, during free time; the ethnic group’s project consists in the expression of common descent and the maintenance of cultural legacy; and the state seeks to muster the support and loyalty of the population through appeals to citizenship (grazhdanstvennost’), statehood (gosudarstvennost’), and maintenance of social order. Honneth also states “that the self-consciousness of the human being depends on the experience of social recognition” and “that human subjects, in pursuing their lives, are dependent on the respect and appreciation of their interaction partners” (2000: 61).13 Thus, like Taylor, Honneth declares that identity is experienced through interaction and solidarity with others and, as I would add in view of the monetary and symbolic awards that are distributed widely yet unevenly, through a solidarity-engendering competition with others around oneself. Selfesteem is articulated in the claim to both membership and explicit recognition of this membership through the collective. Participation in collective activities is crucial for membership, and exposition of individual abilities, talents, and skills is crucial for defining one’s role, or place, in the collective. Being on stage as a participant in the show is part of the quest for recognition; “ge ing it right” and having that publicly acknowledged is the other one. With the end of socialism, the Wertegemeinscha (community with shared values) eroded, and the habitual pa erns of interaction, as exemplified by the factory “Tochmash,” became fragmented. Social recognition and self-esteem must now be reestablished on a different rationale. DK “Tochmashevets,” like many others, is engaged in exactly this project—the reconstruction of social networks, positions, and certainties. The House of Culture and other institutions, like earlier the profsoiuz, are centrally involved in the management of social recognition. If cultured behavior (kul’turnoe povedenie) may be defined as “paying respect to others,” as I was told on several occasions, then the House of Culture is indeed a central site for the enactment and transmission of cultured behavior. Respect and gratitude materialize in the large number of certificates, le ers of gratitude, and awards being handed out on every possible occasion. More o en than not, the recipients take pride in them. As the chairwoman of the TOS said, “All this is done in the presence of the people, and that’s pleasant.” As we push beyond the boundaries of the established postsocialist paradigm, perhaps it would be worthwhile to further pursue the idea of a distinct (post-)socialist “culture” of expressing gratitude and social recognition, distinct in its material and ritual aspects. This may grant novel perspectives on the old theme of the private versus the col-

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lective, the individual and his/her relation to the kollektiv. The House of Culture will prove to be a valuable site for further clues to such an investigation.

Notes 1. Henceforward in this chapter, I will use the abbreviation “DK” (Dom kul’tury, House of Culture) when speaking about “Tochmashevets” or the House of Culture in Kolyvan’. I will use “House of Culture” in all other cases, as a generic term. 2. I conducted fieldwork in Kolyvan’ from 9 April to 11 May 2006, using the methods and research instruments of the “Comparative Research Project Social Significance of the House of Culture in Siberia” (see Appendix 1). From 6 June to 6 July 2007, I carried out fieldwork in and around the DK “Tochmashevets” of Novosibirsk. The main goal of this fieldwork was to establish an urban field site in addition to the five field sites in rural and small-town communities studied by the team of researchers in 2006. The Novosibirsk study was based on the same methodology, but the survey data and interviews were analysed separately from those of the other field sites. In both places I relied on the help of the local assistant Svetlana Ivanova (Madiukova), Siberian Branch of the Russian Academy of Sciences. 3. The DK of Kolyvan’ itself is called “Raionnyi dom kul’tury” (District House of Culture), and as such its staff are to guide and assist the village Houses of Culture in their work. 4. These are: the veterans’ choir “Kolyvan’” (narodnyi kollektiv), the dance group “Kolyvanskie Prostory” (narodnyi kollektiv), the children’s dance group “Rovesnik” (obraztsovyi kollektiv), and the choir “Kolokol’chiki” (obraztsovyi kollektiv). 5. This is true for all five places that were studied in the comparative project. Of those who visit their local House of Culture o en (i.e., at least some times per month), 94 percent supported (“rather agreed” or “strongly agreed” to) the statement that the House of Culture plays an important role for the community. Of those who visit it seldom, 97 percent supported this statement. Of those who never go or have not been there within the last three years, still 87 percent supported this statement. 6. The percentage of respondents who supported (“rather agreed” or “strongly agreed” to) the statement that “there are interesting events in the House of Culture” (Question 21 in our survey) is higher in Kolyvan’—98 percent—than in any other community where we conducted our research (the average being 86 percent). 7. Data from my interviews with M.I. Korchagina, 7 June 2007, and L.D. Rodicheva, 8 June 2007. 8. The notable exception is the Chkalov factory, which has recently obtained a new order for military airplanes and consequently increased its number of employees. The Chkalov factory is also notable for the fact that it has kept its own House of Culture. DK “Chkalova,” which is just a few hundred meters

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away from DK “Tochmashevets,” is one of the few remaining enterprise-owned Houses of Culture (zavodskoi Dom kul’tury) in Novosibirsk. 9. Here the survey methodology (using a random sampling of ninth-grade students and surveying all their family members) resulted in a strong bias toward overrepresenting younger people, as my research assistant and I see as it. Only four of our 85 Novosibirsk respondents were in the age categories above 50. It seems that there are very few households in the city (at least in this part of the city) where school students and pensioners live together. As a result, participation of local pensioners in the DK is probably underrepresented. 10. Like other Houses of Culture, DK “Tochmashevets” and the DK of Kolyvan’ engage in the practice of artificially increasing the number of collectives ( formirovaniia) in their official accounts and reports (cf. the Introduction and Chapters 3 and 4). 11. Conspicuously unrepresented in 2007 were the ethnic groups with very high levels of migration into this suburb in recent years: Kyrgyz and Uzbeks. Concerning the status and level of integration of different ethnic groups as perceived by school students in the city of Novosibirsk, see Ushakov 2006. 12. This merger did in fact not happen. When I revisited DK “Tochmashevets” in May 2009, the Center of National Literatures, and with it, some of the ethno-cultural organizations, had moved to a building with more office space in another district of Novosibirsk. DK “Tochmashevets” currently functions first and foremost as a neighborhood center. The new director is also pu ing greater effort into a racting youth from the neighborhood. 13. Soviet social scientist Aret, who published an influential book on selftraining and self-knowing in 1961, observed that people (in this case, pupils) recognize and get to know themselves through the distribution of awards and punishments (reported by Kharkhordin 1999: 243).

References Dunham, Vera. 1990. In Stalin’s Time: Middleclass Values in Soviet Fiction, enlarged and updated ed. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Fitzpatrick, Sheila. 1992. The Cultural Front: Power and Culture in Revolutionary Russia. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Friedgut, Theodore. 1992. “Nations of the USSR: From Mobilized Participation to Autonomous Diversity.” In The Post-Soviet Nations: Perspectives on the Demise of the USSR, ed. Alexander J. Motyl, pp. 180–219. New York: Columbia University Press. Honneth, Axel. 2000. “Zwischen Aristoteles und Kant: Skizze einer Moral der Anerkennung.” In Moral im sozialen Kontext, ed. Wolfgang Edelstein and Gertrud Nummer-Winkler, pp. 55–76. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp. ———. 2003. Kampf um Anerkennung: zur moralischen Grammatik sozialer Konflikte. Extended edition. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp. Kharkhordin, Oleg. 1999. The Collective and the Individual in Russia: A Study of Practices. Berkeley: University of California Press.

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King, Alexander. 2005. Genuine and Spurious Dance Forms in Kamchatka, Russia. Max Planck Institute for Social Anthropology Working Papers 79. h p:// www.eth.mpg.de/pubs/wps/pdf/mpi-eth-working-paper-0079.pdf (accessed 29 July 2010). Kotkin, Stephen. 1997. Magnetic Mountain: Stalinism as Civilization. Berkeley: University of California Press. Luehrmann, Sonja. 2005. “Recycling Cultural Construction: Desecularisation in Postsoviet Mari El.” Religion, State and Society 33, no. 1: 35–56. MacCannell, Dean. 1973. “Staged Authenticity.” Journal of Sociology 79, no. 3: 589–603. Martin, Terry. 2001. The Affirmative Action Empire: Nations and Nationalism in the Soviet Union, 1929-1939. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Nielsen, Finn Sivert. 1994. “Soviet Culture—Russian kul’tura: Culture, Ideology and Globalization in the Soviet Union and Therea er, as Compared to Similar Western Phenomena.” Paper presented at the seminar Continuity and Change in Post-Soviet Societies, Skibotn, Norway, October 1994. h p://www .anthrobase.com/Txt/N/Nielsen_F_S_02.htm (accessed 29 July 2010). Omel’chenko, Yelena Leonidovna. 2003. “Kul’turnye praktiki i stili zhizni rossiiskoi molodezhi v kontse XX veka” [Cultural Practices and Life Styles of Russian Youth at the End of the 20th Century]. Rubezh: Al’manakh sotsial’nykh issledovanii 2003 no. 18: 145–166. h p://www.ecsocman.edu.ru/rubezh/ msg/141484.html (accessed 29 July 2010). Ristolainen, Mari. 2008. Preferred Realities: Soviet and Post-Soviet Amateur Arts in Novorzhev. Helsinki: Kikimora Publications. Taylor, Charles. 1994. “The Politics of Recognition.” In Multiculturalism: Examining the Politics of Recognition, ed. Amy Gutmann, pp. 25–73. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Timasheff, Nicholas 1946. The Great Retreat: The Growth and Decline of Communism in Russia. New York: Du on. Ushakov, Dmitrii V. 2006. Mezhnatsional’nye otnosheniia gorodskikh shkol’nikov [Interethnic Relations among Urban School Students]. Novosibirsk: Institut filosofii prava SO RAN: Meriia goroda Novosibirska. Volkov, Vadim. 2000. “The Concept of Kul’turnost’: Notes on the Stalinist Civilizing Process.” In Stalinism: New Directions, ed. Sheila Fitzpatrick, pp. 210– 230. London: Routledge. White, Anne. 1990. De-Stalinization and the House of Culture: Declining State Control Over Leisure in the USSR, Poland and Hungary, 1953-1989. New York: Routledge.


3 POKAZUKHA IN THE HOUSE OF CULTURE The Pa ern of Behavior in Kurumkan, Eastern Buriatiia István Sántha and Tatiana Safonova

In this chapter we analyze the strategies, options, and skills of representatives of local culture in the public sphere. On the basis of fieldwork in the House of Culture in Kurumkan, Republic of Buriatiia, we found that pokazukha constitutes the main pa ern of public behavior in this district. The Russian word pokazukha refers to pu ing on a false show to cover up the actual state of affairs. It is a strategy to manipulate the impressions and opinions of strangers. We address two research questions: (1) What is the context for pokazukha and how does it reflect and modify local relationships? and (2) Why do Russians and Buriats feel and behave differently during pokazukha in the Kurumkan House of Culture? These questions have emerged from our investigations into how pa erns of public behavior are shaped.

Kurumkan and its House of Culture Kurumkan District (Kurumkanskii raion), a rural district of Buriatiia with some fi een thousand inhabitants, could be characterized as an economically depressed and underdeveloped region, where people make a living on small-scale poaching and the limited number of such public-sector positions as doctors, teachers, and culture workers. Statefunded organizations such as the House of Culture, the House of Elders (Dom starikov), and the nature reserve, and state-funded projects (e.g., the construction of a new school) still exhibit characteristics of Soviet-type organizations that existed in times of the planned economy, but they no longer unite people and spread a sense of solidarity as they did in Soviet times. The only occasions on which all people come together are the days when commissions are sent from Ulan-Ude, the capital of Buriatiia, to the district with the official mandate of auditing and evaluating the work of these state-funded organizations. At these moments people

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pull together in an a empt to conduct pokazukha, to create the illusion that these organizations actually function effectively and are free of serious problems or defects, when in fact nothing functions properly or according to the plan. People are afraid that these islands of state could be cut off if they were to be evaluated on the basis of their real work or actual impact. These organizations give people a sense of stability and some, albeit very li le, income. In practice these organizations are akin to make-work welfare distribution schemes: they provide work and a salary, although in fact the salaries are so small and irregular as to be virtually useless. This a itude toward reality in frames of pokazukha affected most private interactions the same way it affected public events. We witnessed instances of it in everyday family life, during communal shamanic rituals, during public festivals, and on numerous other occasions. Any social interaction between local people and strangers (even those with a local background) takes on the form of pokazukha: something serious, indispensable, and illusory. Here we investigate the effect of pokazukha on the public life of the region through the example of the House of Culture, which is a central site of pokazukha practices. The House of Culture in Kurumkan was described by local residents as the biggest building in the village (Illustration 3.1). It is the one place where a large number of villagers can gather, and this is the essential purpose of its existence. The House of Culture is a building; as such, it is real. But problems begin when we start to think about the “of Culture” part of its name. It implies that this particular house is different from other buildings in the village, and this difference is connected Illustration 3.1 2006.

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The House of Culture of Kurumkan. Photo: I. Sántha,

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with something designated as “culture.” What we observed was the impossibility of finding the definition of this difference (which is designated as culture) in this case: it was everything and nothing. The appearance of the house and its interior could change suddenly from one of the dirtiest and coldest places in the village to one of the brightest and best-decorated places. This contrast is inherent in the structure of pokazukha, which requires a split between reality and illusion, everyday life and moments of festivity. As we shall explain in detail, the official evaluation is the moment when the House of Culture pretends to exist and work. During the rest of the year it is just the biggest building in the village, closed most of the time. The staff spends no more than a few hours per day at work, because they need to economize on electricity and firewood. The hobby groups, classes, and kruzhki (“circles” or interest groups) only exist on paper. All these formal organizations have their independent or institutional duplicates that really exist but usually have no connection with the House of Culture. During evaluations they all take part in the festival program and present themselves as products of the House of Culture. It is not clear why the local folk ensemble, for example, which practically never conducts rehearsals in the House of Culture (where it is too cold) and is not directed by a member of the staff of the House of Culture, takes part in the pokazukha show of the la er. Without a study of the structure of public life in the region, we cannot explain what interests other cultural organizations have in participating in this pokazukha and cooperating with the staff of the House of Culture. It seems that the only product of the House of Culture is the provision of the place and the decorations, and sometimes also the costumes for the pokazukha. It was remarkable that the image of the House of Culture was not really clear. We were never quite sure whether it exists or not; the answer to that question depends on whether or not one accepts pokazukha as reality. It was obvious that before the evaluation the House of Culture was only a phantom, because no specific activity was held within its walls. The yard was so full of rubbish that it was in fact impossible even to get to the outhouse. During the rare moments when staff members were at work, they were buying or selling various goods, such as perfume or clothes produced in China (see below). The staff assisted in selling tickets for the guest circus from Omsk, which conducted two performances in the auditorium of the House of Culture. The House of Culture leased the auditorium to the circus because it was good business for them, but they did not participate in organizing the disco following the circus performance, and did not even help when the electricity went out during the disco, because it was of no real profit for them.

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Enter the Commission We could say that during these ordinary times, the House of Culture as an institution did not exist. But during the evaluation its existence was also problematic. It was the moment when everybody in the village who could perform anything on stage was there. Simultaneously, all these performers made up the bulk of the audience as well. There were special Buriat and Russian sessions in the program, which were conducted by local folk ensembles. There were also numerous performances by schoolchildren, organized by their teachers. House of Culture staff members acted as moderators; they also sang in a choir together and were busy with the arrangement of the program and other organizational ma ers. They could not have staged the show without lay performers, but they played the leading part in organization. During the moment of evaluation, the House of Culture was a stage for villagers. The presence of the evaluation commission was important for the members of staff, but less so for other performers. The commission was made up of people who had taught the staff members during their professional training in Ulan-Ude, so in some ways the evaluation seemed to be more of an examination for the staff organized by their teachers. The lay performers were enthusiastic about the possibility of displaying their skills on stage before their colleagues, relatives, and friends. The presence of the commission from Ulan-Ude conferred public status on the event. Nobody but the staff knew who these people were and what the results of the evaluation would be. The show was staged as if it was a competition between different local Houses of Culture, though everybody knew in advance which House of Culture would come in which position in the competition. Nevertheless, all the participants were nervous about their performances, and the whole atmosphere surrounding the event caused a great deal of stress. When the commission le , everyone immediately started to drink and celebrate. The justification for this was not success in the competition, but the occasion itself and its final completion. Then there was once again no House of Culture at all, but groups of people who were happy that the stress of the public situation was over. They felt as if by participation in this pokazukha they earned the right to celebrate and to be as they are. The director of the House of Culture drank for several days in a row—we ran into him at the local canteen where he drank with everybody for the completion of the evaluation. This description invokes the metaphor of a switch in an electrical network, which we borrow from Gregory Bateson’s Mind and Nature

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(Bateson 1979: 95). In practice the switch is simply a gate that exists only at the moment of change. From the perspective of the electrical system the switch does not ma er when it is in the OFF position, and it also has no import when it is in the ON position. It has its effect on the network only during the moment when it changes from one position to the other. The switch requires some external energy from outside the electrical network to change its state. The staff of the House of Culture is busy with the accumulation of such external energy, as when it leases the premises either to a circus or a cosmetics fair. This external energy, in the form of money and activity, gives them a reason to show up at their workplace even if they do not have any official tasks to do. It keeps the walls of the House of Culture alive during the times when the main energy is not going through it. The main energy that circulates in the system itself, in which the House of Culture plays the role of switch, is the stream of public activity, which exists in the form of pokazukha. Through the House of Culture, Kurumkan is integrated into the system of public manifestations at the level of the republic, associated with the visitors from Ulan-Ude. Brightness of costumes, tidiness of the premises, the happiness and nervous excitement of people constitute this moment of Culture in whose honor the House of Culture is named. This stream of public activity flows through Kurumkan only on the occasion of the evaluation, and as soon as the commission leaves the House of Culture, this stream is redirected into other districts and the House of Culture becomes irrelevant in the system of circulated cultural energy of the Buriat Republic. The opportunity to participate in such a special occasion, characterized by an atmosphere of importance for the whole republic, motivates lay performers from the village to cooperate with the staff of the House of Culture. It is only one moment in the year; at other times there is no such cooperation. We can imagine a map of Buriatiia with the district centers symbolized by li le lights. At any given time only one light is lit, representing the place where the commission from the capital is performing its evaluation. Thus there is only one performing House of Culture in Buriatiia; it leads a nomadic existence, inasmuch as the commission pursues its nomadic circle from one district center to the next.1 The atmosphere during the evaluations is the product of the emotional work of the people involved. This work is devoted to the creation of the momentary illusion that something really depends on the performances on stage. What is particularly interesting about the structure of public life in Kurumkan District is the importance of momentary self-deception. People voluntarily throw themselves into creating illusions, and they do not do it spontaneously; rather, they prepare to get

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into this state. Then they finally get out of it through drinking and private celebration. This can be illustrated by one accident that happened in the Buriat yurt (nomadic felt tent) during the evaluation. We were asked to videotape the whole occasion because our presence with the camera conveyed an atmosphere of importance to the situation. However, a er the fact, nobody was interested in our recordings; it was the participation of the camera itself that was important for them because it highlighted the distance between the roles of guests and hosts. At an unexpected moment, when one of the panels of the yurt almost fell down on the commission, it was most interesting to witness the cognitive, interactive, and emotional work that participants put into not spoiling pokazukha. They tried hard to keep their own reactions in check, but the expressions of extreme concentration on their faces showed others that the accident was not as natural and insignificant as they tried to make it out to be. We argue that participation in pokazukha requires some degree of censorship of one’s personal sensations and rigid control over the spontaneous expression of emotions. From this point of view pokazukha is a special experience, and sometimes a very strong one, like participation in rituals or other collective events. The presence of presumably authoritative strangers and their cooperation in the presentation of pokazukha determine the context for such experiences. The pa ern of behavior that we call pokazukha and exemplify with the House of Culture can be learned only through socialization: it is not a direct learning of lexical knowledge, but an imitation, a learning of frames and contexts. Parents never explain to their children how pokazukha must be performed; rather, they demonstrate the situations in which pokazukha is accepted behavior. It was evident that many small children were involved in the pokazukha presentation. When children start going to school, at the age of six or seven, they have already been taught to conduct pokazukha. Their first experiences are usually connected with the activity of the House of Culture and are guided by the local intelligentsia, rather skillful performers of pokazukha in the village. Liuba, the elder daughter of a local nomadic family, already participated at the age of six as a talented singer in public events of the House of Culture. These occasions became her first personal experiences of being a representative of her culture.

Altargana Festival: Pokazukha and After-Party In 2006 the arrival of the evaluation commission was organized in the framework of the Altargana festival. This event was devoted to the cele-

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bration of “cultures” (in the sense of ethnic groups) of the Buriat Republic, composed of Russian, Buriat, and other elements. The main poster for this festival on the central square in Ulan-Ude depicted stereotypical images of Buriat, Evenki, and Russian men and women in traditional costumes. All Houses of Culture in the republic were involved in this event and were busy preparing for it. The House of Culture in Kurumkan was no exception. As usual, these preparations started just a few days before the festival, and the program to be presented was a combination of performances of local schoolchildren, singers from local Russian and Buriat traditional ensembles, and some other amateurs. People were worried that the performance would not be splendid enough, but there was no time to change anything. However, the commission did not come on the announced date, and the performance took place without it. It turned into a local event, where the participants were also the audience. A er the performance members of the House of Culture drank together and sang Russian drinking songs. But this turned out to be a rehearsal, because the commission came several weeks later and at that time everybody was much be er prepared. The commission always comes later than initially announced, to give people time to prepare for the show. That is partly a deliberate strategy because the commission is not expected to conduct a real examination of their activities, but only to contribute to the organization of an important event, which serves to structure the life-cycle of the organization. The financial support that central state institutions provide to the Houses of Culture is so minimal that nobody can seriously expect them to work properly, and that is why the commissions do not come to judge how successfully the House of Culture has worked; they come to do something very different. The arrival of the commission brings cohesion and order into the existence of the House of Culture. Members of the House of Culture and all creative and artistic lay people of the village come together to support the official assumption that the House of Culture is working the whole year around. In doing this they bring it into existence. They clean up the property, illuminate the rooms, and fill them with emotion and music. There is a genuine effervescence in the Durkheimian sense that people experience in the course of this collective action (Durkheim 1995 [1912]). And a er this event people have the chance to start a new cycle, a cycle of inertia and indifference that lasts until the next arrival of the commission from the republic’s capital. One of the most striking questions that arises from our observation is: Why does the presence of the commission have such an emotional effect on the staff members and the amateur performers? Everyone is aware that this commission itself has no power to cut the budget or to

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take any other sanctions against the House of Culture. The commission is part of pokazukha, like the falsifications presented to this commission. Yet people invest real and strong emotions into the whole event. To answer the question why they do so, we have to look in detail at the structure of the event and analyze which emotional resources (associations, hidden conflicts, and pleasures) are involved. The event comprises two phases: the official program for the commission, when pokazukha is conducted; and the informal a er-party, when both the commission and performers (together or not) celebrate the successful completion of pokazukha.

Hidden and Articulated Distinctions Distinctions have the power to anticipate relationships, as has been observed by social anthropologists describing indigenous epistemologies such as animism, or the distinction articulated in action (for example, gi -giving) that predisposes the configuration of the self, or the integration of a “dividual self,” to use Marilyn Strathern’s term (1988). This quality of distinctions is important when we deal with situations of manipulation, concealment, and articulation of distinctions. The image from the main poster of the Altargana festival is reminiscent of Soviet times and promotes the idea of friendship between cultures, notably Russian and Buriat. The festival is an official competition between different Houses of Culture, which are conceived as common projects of Buriats and Russians. In practice, the Houses of Culture in Kurumkan District did not present an agenda for collaborative projects. Instead of providing opportunities for collaboration, they stimulate separation between Russians and Buriats. The funding is enough to support only one of the two groups, which always creates a competition to prove which of them is worth funding as the presenters of cultures. The arrival of the commission and the performance of pokazukha aim to conceal the existing distinction between Russians and Buriats, and to articulate instead the distinctions between neighboring Houses of Culture. In everyday life the staffs of Houses of Culture of different regions rarely come across each other. The competition is faked and the outcome is known in advance. The distribution of prizes corresponds to the hierarchical positioning of the communities where the Houses of Culture are situated. Kurumkan is the district center, and as a result it took first place in the Altargana competition in Kurumkan District. This endeavor to manipulate and articulate distinctions constructs a very strong double-bind between real feelings and relationships and

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proclaimed ones.2 The high emotional tension of the event is partly explained by this double-bind. Psychologically people experience rather schizophrenic states. The commission that is associated with the course of this doublebind becomes a problem and target for local people’s emotions. All the interactions with the commission can be seen as a empts to resolve the double-bind situation. The mission of the commission is to resist all the efforts of locals, who try to maintain the tension and secure the outstanding status of the event. The commission itself is an example of what the House of Culture as an entity must look like. The commission that we happened to meet in Kurumkan consisted of one man and several women, one of whom was Russian while the others were Buriat. But the commission made sure to maintain its unity and not to present any opportunity for locals to appeal to individual commission members and to break through their indifference and presumed impartiality. The only criterion the commission permi ed itself to be identified by was its provenance—they were the guests from UlanUde, the capital of the Buriat Republic. This appearance of the commission was the product of intensive work and struggle of its members to avoid individual contact with local people and to maintain the unity of the commission throughout the entire occasion. Members of the commission always stayed together. They even avoided speaking, and no single member of the commission could be identified as the leading representative. During the whole event they kept silent and did everything together, without exception. Their efforts constructed the image of the House of Culture that they came to audit, which likewise should be unified and homogeneous. To resolve the existing double-bind situation of contradiction between imposed unity and experienced diversity, people constantly tried to break down the unity of the commission and seduce its members with expressions of hospitality. The first part of the greeting was such an a empt, when different groups representing the House of Culture performed different traditional welcoming ceremonies. Unofficially it looked like a competition between Russians and Buriats for the title of best host. Both host parties invited members of the commission to tables laden with traditional food. According to the existing code of pokazukha, these performances should not lead to sincere reactions, and that is why things that are presented should not be authentic. Both host parties were trying to violate these rules by presenting real objects such as food and drink. If the members of the commission were to accept these offerings, it would threaten the necessary illusion and risk throwing the entire situation into the realm of genuine interaction, thereby ren-

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dering their role as pokazukha makers untenable. The commission had to behave as if they did not notice the substitution and instead treated these objects as unreal—not edible, not drinkable, etc. In this sense the Buriats were more into “fair play,” as they presented local delicacies such as blood sausages, but did not supply the guests with plates and dinnerware. This made it impossible for the commission to actually partake of the food, and thereby the illusion could be maintained. The Russians also treated guests without such comforts, but they did present a bo le of wine and supplied all visitors with tiny glasses. This more symbolic than generous act was somewhat closer to the process of actual consumption and, as far as we observed, immediately made the atmosphere less formal. We could see that the Russian member of the commission was very pleased, but she immediately got a grip on herself and restrained her reactions. The members of the commission kept themselves reserved and formal. They drank only tiny sips of the tea and wine presented. They did not try to taste other things, but remained fixed on making toasts and performing traditional greetings. For them these situations were already part of the program of the festival—performances of pieces of culture—rather than the actual welcoming of concrete guests by concrete hosts. A er these a empts at seduction, the members of the commission were invited into the main auditorium, where they took seats in front of the stage on which all the performances were to be presented. Now it was time for the locals to leave behind their efforts to destroy the proclaimed unity of the commission, and to try to make a convincing display of their multiethnic unity. During this phase people were not trying to articulate ethnic distinctions, but were trying to hide them. All the performances were prepared either exclusively by Russians or exclusively by Buriats, because it would have been rather difficult for them to interact during rehearsals. But on stage, Russians and Buriats very frequently participated in each other’s performances. They took very minor roles: most of the time they just stood on the stage in their national costumes among the other performers. By pretending that the performances were the result of collaborative work, people were trying to resolve the double-bind situation, which they ultimately managed to do by the end of the very long performance. Towards the end of the show, people were bored and tired. This common experience of being fed up with pokazukha created common ground for them and in practice erased the existing ethnic distinction between them. Pokazukha is based on double-bind experiences and its form and content are always in contradiction with each other. The evaluation conducted by the commission was simultaneously erasing and per-

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petuating ethnic distinctions between Russian and Buriats. In practice pokazukha was a real instance of collaboration between Russians and Buriats, but the way these people behaved and felt during pokazukha was different. For Russians it was much more difficult than for Buriats to maintain the formality and not to establish individual relations with commission members. For Buriats the episodes of mistakes were much more painful (for example, when the panel of the yurt fell down) and they obviously were much more seriously concerned about the formalities. Russians were eager to drink together with all the participants of the festival (be they locals or commission members) during the a er-party. Buriats maintained the distinction between commission and locals and did everything they could to send the commission off somewhere a er the main performance was over. These differences indicate that the same double-bind situations are differently experienced by presenters of different ethnic groups, in this case Russians and Buriats. Different situations of socialization result in different associations, feelings, and strategies of resolution of tensions and contradictions. And here we come to the problem of the collision of Russian and Buriat ethoses (Bateson 1958), because, as pokazukha is a collaborative act, it is a form of “culture contact.”3

The Collision of Russian and Buriat Ethoses The idea of concealing distinctions and through this mutual process establishing relationships is very Russian in its sense. Pokazukha as a pa ern of communication in public was introduced by Russians in Buriatiia, and its structure illustrates the ambiguity that Russians feel about public interactions, which are associated with formal pa erns of behavior and frozen forms that cannot be adjusted to individual cases.4 This Russian frozenness in public and the need to conceal emotions have been observed by anthropologists in other se ings as well (e.g., Nielsen 2003 [1987]). The public sphere is not a place for personal and flexible relations, but a field of constraint that must first be transformed into something that can be used in structuring interactions. These transformations are a prerequisite for individuals to establish interpersonal relationships. If the mutual interest of the interaction is sufficiently clear, then it immediately takes on the informal pa ern, and such obstacles as rules and obligations are concealed or forgo en for the moment. A erwards the public frozenness can be restored as easily as it had been abandoned, and the intimacy that was built for the moment of interaction would play no further role. This situational ma-

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nipulation with commitments of different levels (either public obligations or face-to-face interactions) is part of the Russian ethos. There is a term that Russian people use to describe such situations. They say that there is a need to solve problems “humanly” (po-chelovecheski), meaning on the basis of face-to-face interaction and mutual sympathy. The distinction between public and private domains shapes the relationship between the domains and the inability to avoid informal moments in formal contexts. Pokazukha as a pa ern of self-deception is a strategy to avoid personal and informal involvement (to present a false reality in which you are not emotionally involved and which is made up for the situation), but it is simultaneously built upon work involving personal emotions and feelings, and to that extent is not public. There are several basic strategies that Russians use in everyday life to conduct these reversible leaps from public into private domains. Foremost among them is the strategy of suppressing or overcoming dominant frames at certain moments of interaction. This tendency to find intimacy in a public context sometimes comes to the fore in the methods of anthropological research.5 Russian ethnographers and social researchers very o en employ the possibilities of such leaps to conduct unstructured deep interviews about the most intimate questions with people immediately a er the initial acquaintance. This strategy is usually disregarded by Western scholars, whose concept of intimacy and privacy are incorporated into methodology and professional ethics, and who need several months of personal contact and involvement to initiate interviews on such private ma ers. In frames of Russian culture such strategies are not so effective, because if it is possible to establish intimate relations immediately a er the initial acquaintance, it is also possible to lose such relationships immediately a er the interest in them is gone. The reversibility of such leaps from public to private and back is a flexibility that is not very congruent with such Western concepts as rapport. Everything depends on moods, interests, and perspectives, and not on mapped structures that keep boundaries between public and private relations. This situated a itude helps Russians not to be overly serious about appearances and to play with different frames simultaneously. Intensified formality entails the possibility of intensified intimacy at a subsequent stage. As a result pokazukha is never an exclusive and solid pa ern, but always contextualized by the potential of informal communications. Russians are not so bored and exhausted by pokazukha presentations because they never accept them completely. During pokazukha performances Russians are already anticipating the informal party during which they will get the chance to overcome the distinction

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between public and private. The main instrument to reach this state is alcohol. The Russian way of drinking has its classical descriptions in literature and anecdotes. Insisting on drinking is a common feature, and it has its effect on public/private interactions. Unlike Buriats, who insist on drinking to take the drunken guest under control, Russians insist on drinking to get drunk together. This is a typical chain reaction, initiated in frames of suppression and then developing toward equalization. Here we can witness a configuration that is equally applicable to descriptions of drinking and the creation of collectivity in Russia. You cannot be equal with others if you control the resource distribution. The function of control already predetermines your unequal position. But in the frames of Russian ethos, caring about equality and being equal are two states closely associated with each other. By insisting on drinking and making others drink with them, Russians feel equal to their drinking partners. And by feeling equally drunk they may feel their dominant role in the organization of such wonderful equality. The same logic is at the core of Altargana pokazukha: the organization of equality between different cultures is possible because of the institutions of the Russian state. As a result Russians do not feel deprived during pokazukha performance, since the proclaimed equality and unity of Russians and Buriats are made possible by Russian cultural devices, including pokazukha itself. This adjustment of collective action to the Russian ethos through the device of pokazukha makes participation in it a rather pleasant and unproblematic endeavor for Russians. Buriats also had their chance to contribute their cultural devices to pokazukha, which shows that the Altargana festival entails elements of “culture contact.” We could witness that for Buriats this occasion was less entertaining and much more serious. Buriats were visibly concerned about the commission and establishing and avoiding contact with it. The same ambivalent a itude is typical of interactions with spirits during Buriat rituals. The main character of the Buriat ethos is a focus on self-control, and of not fully giving themselves away (cf. Empson 2007).6 For Buriats, maintaining self-control also means securing relationships with others. They would prefer not to share everything equally, but to keep their part asymmetrically bigger (even if the difference is negligible) so as to maintain the relationship with the partner. To share everything symmetrically for Buriats means to close the frame of interaction and to end the relationship.7 During pokazukha in the House of Culture, Buriats were especially concerned about the staging of welcoming rituals, because for them it was obvious that delicacies and traditional food that they offered to the commission should not be consumed. It was very important for them that the investments they made in the commu-

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nal pokazukha would be returned to them immediately a er the show (and thus, the meat was eaten by Buriats themselves a er the welcoming ceremony). The commission members were treated as if they were spirits, who can accept the sacrifice without actually consuming it. The Russians drank everything and spent all their resources during the after-party; they were pleased with the fact that the ceremony was over and there was no possibility to continue it. In contrast Buriat members of the House of Culture did not spend all their efforts and resources, but reserved them. Some of them continued drinking in the local pub and discussing the event the next day. They could not close this frame, like they cannot say goodbye when they leave somebody. Buriats were emotionally involved in the event much longer than Russians. This may be partly explained by the incompatibility of selfcontrol (which constructed commitments to stable frames of interaction) with the contextual maneuvers inherent in pokazukha. While Russians were already anticipating private interaction during the performance of public pokazukha, Buriats were fully involved in the pokazukha situation and for them there could be no leap from one frame of interaction into the other. In practice, for them the a er-party was the continuation of pokazukha, and they needed several days to leave this state. The only possibility of participating in a communal party with Russians was on the condition that the commission would go away, because in the presence of the commission Buriat members felt unable to get out of pokazukha mode and switch to consumption and leisure. Pokazukha in the Kurumkan House of Culture was transformed and adjusted to the Buriat ethos in such a way that there was no equalizing distribution in the end. And in this way Russians were constrained in their communicative pa erns—they could not realize their simultaneous position of major and equal partners. And though the whole structure of pokazukha was constructed according to Russian principles, its outcome was affected by Buriats, who prevented any possibility of private communication with commission members. The spontaneous and situational character of pokazukha performed by the Russians was combined with the formal and ritualistic staging of the Buriats. This collaborative performance was the result of a conglomerate of controversial elements. Even the most common features were performed with different intentions. There was no elaboration of a mutual code of behavior or reflection on the common collaborative experiences a erwards. The parties succeeded in coordinating their actions without transformation of each other’s ethoses. Their mutual action constructed neither a Russian nor a Buriat event, but a moment

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of “culture contact,” when both parties carried out their actions in accordance with their own ethos.

Alternative Uses of the House of Culture Pokazukha is a way of presenting unreal things as real. The question here is why people feel the need to fake activities and not to include into their reports accounts of real activities that are conducted in the House of Culture (see also Halemba, Chapter 4). There were plenty of events that were not reported, but were concealed or ignored by the House of Culture members. At the same time staff members created a lot of documents that certified the existence of several interest groups and courses that did not in fact exist. On paper the House of Culture looked like an educational institution with on-going educational programs, as if it was working the whole year round to prepare the Altargana festival program. However, as we already indicated earlier, the program consisted of performances prepared at other institutions, such as schools and centers of local culture that had nothing to do with the House of Culture. Formally these institutions looked identical, but in real life the House of Culture was different from them, and it was important to conceal this fact from the commission. Presenting itself as an educational institution, the House of Culture was a platform for local public events and supplied the community with a space for the realization of local initiatives, rather than the realization of the state’s cultural policy. As shall be illustrated below, the House of Culture was appropriated by locals, and the members of staff were the gatekeepers for this appropriation. Their main strategy was to keep this process of appropriation under control so as to have no problem with fabricating evidence of the proper functioning of the institution. Therefore, members of the House of Culture were excluded from this appropriation and did not use the space of the House for their own interests. Instead they seemed convinced that they were realizing the state’s cultural policy properly and that their work (which was only occasionally visible to us) was devoted to the support and development of culture. Their self-deception had profitable results, because during the evaluations they appeared to be quite convincing. In the House of Culture we witnessed activities that social anthropologists would unhesitatingly identify as cultural, though the members of the staff regarded them all as not cultural. Since these activities were not initiated by House of Culture members, they were not associ-

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ated with the House of Culture’s official activity. Paradoxically or not, the members of the staff did not initiate anything and, what is more, they were not expected to take any initiative. Several state-funded institutions in Kurumkan functioned in the same way—their employees’ job was to do nothing so as to keep options open, to leave space for local initiatives and at the same time to preserve the possibility of covering for these initiatives with the account of approved and officially supported activities. To identify something as not cultural was a strategy to move the activity out of the supervision of the state institution. This is reminiscent of an old tradition of resistance against the intrusion of the state into local affairs. There was a great diversity of such “noncultural” interactions, ranging from local market transactions to alternative subcultures. When we once came to a rehearsal at the House of Culture, a man that we had never seen before was si ing in the hall. He asked us whether we were interested in wild game trophies (such as deer heads with antlers). He was a poacher who was trying to sell his trophies to tourists. Very often the foyer of the House of Culture was used as a li le marketplace, where goods from China were being sold (Illustration 3.2). Sellers visited the House of Culture as one of the few locales where people have enough time to talk about and try out their merchandise, and enough money to purchase them. The spaces of the House of Culture were Illustration 3.2 I. Sántha, 2006.

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Selling perfume in the House of Culture. Photo:

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leased to artists on tour, for example to the circus artists from Omsk, or to a group of opera singers. Once or twice a week there was a disco at the House of Culture, organized by the daughter of the cleaner who worked in the House of Culture. These gatherings were conducted as if the management of the House of Culture did not know about them. There were always problems with electricity because the organizers could not apply for help and assistance to the House of Culture workers. In the backyard of the House of Culture there is a coal-fired boiler room (kotel’naia) in which several stokers work in shi s. There we often heard rock music and witnessed the lifestyle typical of Leningrad of the 1980s, when alternative musicians worked as stokers (Yurchak 2006). In this boiler room was a li le Buddhist altar which was used for private, not public, religious worship. The stokers were heavy drinkers and their alternative cultural practices were totally ignored by the other staff of the House of Culture. The execution of these activities was unproblematic for local residents, because the distinction between participants was not contradictory to the relationships as it was during pokazukha at the Altargana festival. Buyers and sellers need not pretend they are something they are not. Even the disrespected stokers did not have to prove to others that they are somebody else. People would rather keep these activities apart from state recognition and not report them in the official accounts, so as not to destroy the pleasure of the absence of a double-bind. For Kurumkan residents, the official forms of culture were connected with experiences of contradiction between the proclaimed identities and actual relationships. The House of Culture was the buffer zone that both created and limited these contradictory experiences through the fixed recognition of what is culture and what is not. People had to suffer from double-binds only once a year, namely, during pokazukha for the evaluation commission. At all other times only the members of the House of Culture lived in this illusory state. Their sufferings were compensated by their secure positions, salaries, and the absence of any tasks other than to keep doing nothing.

Conclusion As has been previously said, pokazukha is a collaborative practice of selfdeception, because not only do the members of the House of Culture have to believe for the moment in the true character of their reports, but also the members of the commission have to pretend convincingly that they accept this performance as real. Here we could ask why the

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commission participates in this and takes on the role of dupes. As far as we observed, pokazukha presentations were not limited to the House of Culture; they were abundant in all state-funded institutions in the region. At the same time that the Altargana festival took place, there were other commissions visiting the House of Elders and the local nature reserve. The chain of events—a welcoming ceremony, a pokazukha presentation, and an a er-party—was the same everywhere. These observations give us reason to generalize on the meaning and workings of pokazukha—not just in the House of Culture but in all parts of the public sphere of Kurumkan, and probably beyond. The everyday life of every state institution is full of smaller and larger evaluations that are conducted on different levels. There is a never-ending succession of encounters between the commissions and the presenters. The members of the commissions become themselves presenters, just as the presenters also take part in audits of their own subordinates. This interchangeability of roles predetermines a certain degree of solidarity between the commission and the presenters. And though they would never exchange their positions in frames of their relations, they both are acquainted with the perspectives of each other. For the same reason, the commission has an interest in the smooth execution of pokazukha because the positive completion of the exercise can be shown off in the commission’s own pokazukha show when its turn to be evaluated rolls around. In fact, the House of Culture’s smooth execution of pokazukha could serve as a template for the commission’s own pokazukha show. Here the example of one of the Evenki subdivisions of the nature reserve is instructive. This subdivision was also evaluated from time to time in a way rather similar to the House of Culture’s evaluation. There were several ways to check up on the work: one was for the authorities to visit the premises, another was to monitor the daily radio reports, and finally the documents recording daily weather conditions could be checked. All these measures were mainly aimed at keeping rangers under control and not allowing them to go into the taiga on their own without reporting to the authorities. This was done to prevent the rangers themselves from poaching. All these procedures were falsified and took the form of pokazukha. Rangers always reported that the condition of the roads was so bad that the auditing commission should not take the risk of physically going out to the subdivision for a visit. Daily radio sessions were not regular and not very informative because of the poor condition of equipment and the difficulty of establishing good radio contact. The weather-monitoring documents were filled in not by rangers but by their family members, so that rangers were free from these measuring duties. The authorities of the nature reserve accepted all

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these pokazukha-like presentations and did not make any effort to check whether these declarations were real or not. It was obvious that both parties supported these communication break-downs in order to avoid the prescribed interactions. When the time came for the nature reserve’s evaluation, authorities exploited Evenki rangers to present the image of peaceful coexistence and collaborative work between different ethnic groups. Communication break-downs were important to create the image of unity of cultures, the same as was expected from the House of Culture members. We also noticed that on some occasions culture not only existed but was presented, and specialists were obliged to create a static image of the culture in the course of this presentation. These people are designated as local intelligentsia. They are doing pokazukha, which turns into a kind of fantasy about what the culture would look like if stable patterns dominated. This image could be taken seriously, as with the Buriat participants at the Altargana festival, or as a joke (we once saw how some Evenkis who were obliged to participate in pokazukha made fun of the presentation a erwards). The reaction depends on the pa erns of communication acquired during socialization in childhood, which are different in Russian, Buriat, and Evenki cultures. The pokazukha show is appreciated by the bureaucratic institutions of the state, because the stable image of a culture and community gives the impression of controllability. This opportunity to create a stable and rather simple representation of one’s culture for other people helps to prevent conflicts between different ethnic groups such as Russians, Buriats, Evenks, Tartars, and Chinese in the research region. As anthropologists and strangers we also had to go through pokazukha presentations, and only through making pokazukha together did we have a chance to see other sides and forms of people’s lives in this region. This contrast helped us to become more reflexive about what culture is, and how differently it exists in practice and representation. The position of the anthropological discipline was also problematized for us during this project, because our efforts were recognized by local intelligentsia as homologous to their own, and we were also expected to work out and ultimately re-present the picture of a frozen culture. During evaluations they even perceived us as their competitors and assumed that our activities were contributing to the creation of stable images consisting of objects from museums and folklore pieces. If the local intelligentsia perceives our endeavor as close to pokazukha, then could we be sure that it is not? To understand our uneasiness with such a status and avoid the tooclose incorporation into pokazukha, we started to spend more time with

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other local residents or “simple people” (as they referred to themselves) who were excluded from pokazukha presentations. That was how we found out about the alternative uses of the House of Culture and the alternative culture that existed in the boiler room. We understood that if we wanted to keep working in the field and get our own impressions about the culture, we had to get into the same rhythm with these people. We needed to do something together with people, had to be flexible and free within rather wide limits and be a entive to the episodes of changes, when all participants switched from presentation to practice and back—from the pokazukha presentation on the stage for the commission to the a er-party for themselves.

Notes 1. All other Houses of Culture are waiting for their turn to represent their achievements to the commission (even if they are not all directly products of the House’s activity). In the time between evaluations, they may all look and function quite differently, and we are not presuming that all other Houses share the same strategy as in the Kurumkan case. However, because the standards of evaluation are the same for all of them, we suppose that for the moment of the commission’s visit, all of the Houses of Culture in the Buriat Republic perform the same pa erns and look just like the one in Kurumkan. This is the moment of synchronization of rather various activities conducted by the Houses of Culture that are very much dependent on local contexts, differing from one part of Buriatiia to another. 2. Double-bind is a paradox generated when information that relates to different levels of logical typing is confused and conflated in the mind of the recipient, as explained by Bateson: “Various sorts of ‘double binds’ are generated when A and B perceive the premises of the relationship in different terms” (1972: 323–324). The classical example of double-bind is the interaction between parents and child, where parents change the frame every time the child reacts, which leads to schizophrenia; the disintegration of the child’s self (Bateson 1972: 236). 3. The term ethos has not been much in fashion among anthropologists since the times of Ruth Benedict, Margaret Mead, and Gregory Bateson, mainly because it was associated with primordialism. But by dismissing it entirely, Bateson’s main point is missed. He used it to describe unique paĴerns that different people used, which formed the common and typical forms of characters and a itudes toward life. Ethos in this sense is not a description of the contents of national characters. This misleading interpretation excluded the term from anthropological debate for a while, because of the danger of stereotyping and essentializing. 4. Pokazukha as a pa ern of behavior and reporting is not exclusively Soviet, but has strong roots in the history of the Russian Empire and colonization, and was also very broadly used by newly established Soviet institutions. It is at

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least as old as the descriptions of Potemkin villages, which were purportedly constructed on orders from statesman Grigorii Potemkin along the main roads that Catherine the Great traveled during her tour through various parts of the Russian Empire. These phantom villages consisted only of facades, and were designed to create the illusion of success of state policies. Potemkin also orchestrated crowds of peasants dressed in their best clothes to give the impression of high living standards of the local population. Some historians say that Potemkin villages were a cultural myth, but the fact that the concept has become so strong and widely spread means that the term designates an important cultural phenomenon (Panchenko 1999). 5. The classic example is the culture of train communication. People can find the most comfortable relationships in a train, coming together from different parts of Russia. These journeys may take several days, and during this period people establish very intense emotional relationships with their fellow travelers. People tell very intimate details about their lives but will hardly ever try to contact each other a erwards. 6. Elsewhere we have discussed the issue of self-control in Buriat everyday and ritual life. For example, Buriat shamans help hunters to overcome the anxiety of losing self-control in situations of emergency and risk in unfamiliar taiga environments. They provide a special ritual that helps people concentrate on hunting and frees them from the need to worry about controlling their emotions and spontaneous reactions. There are other rituals devoted to relaxation and the release of self-control as well (Safonova and Sántha 2010). 7. This pa ern of avoiding frame closure by asymmetrical sharing is typical of the distribution of property between children (a pa ern that serves to keep the family integrated), sacrificial rituals (that serve to keep the community integrated), and any everyday-life situations in which sharing and distribution are involved.

References Bateson, Gregory. 1958. Naven: A Survey of the Problems Suggested by a Composite Picture of the Culture of a New Guinea Tribe Drawn from Three Points of View. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. ———. 1972. Steps to an Ecology of Mind. New York: Ballantine Books. ———. 1979. Mind and Nature: A Necessary Unity. London: Wildwood House. Durkheim, Emile. 1995 [1912]. The Elementary Forms of Religious Life. New York: Free Press. Empson, Rebecca. 2007. “Separating and Containing People and Things in Mongolia.” In Thinking Through Things: Theorising Artefacts Ethnographically, ed. Amiria Henare, Martin Holbraad, and Sari Wastell, pp. 113–140. London: Routledge. Nielsen, Finn Sievert 2003 [1987]. Glaz buri [The Eye of the Storm]. SanktPeterburg: Aleteia. Panchenko, A.M. 1999. “‘Potemkinskie derevni’ kak kul’turnyi mif” [‘Potemkin villages’ as a Cultural Myth]. In Russkaia istoriia i kul’tura: raboty raznykh let, ed. A.M. Panchenko, pp. 462–475. Sankt-Peterburg: Iuna.

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Safonova, Tatiana, and Istvan Sántha. 2010. “Different Risks, Different Biographies: The Roles of Reversibility for Buryats and Circularity for Evenki People.” Forum: Qualitative Sozialforschung/Forum: Qualitative Social Research 11, no. 1, art. 8, h p://nbn-resolving.de/urn:nbn:de:0114-fqs100111 (accessed 29 July 2010). Strathern, Marilyn. 1988. The Gender of the GiĞ: Problems with Women and Problems with Society in Melanesia. Berkeley: University of California Press. Yurchak, Alexei. 2006. Everything Was Forever, Until It Was No More: The Last Soviet Generation. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.


4 THREE HOUSES OF CULTURE IN KOSH-AGACH Accounting for Culture Work in a Changing Political Se ing Agnieszka Halemba

Respondent: “You are doing research on the House of Culture? But we do not have a House of Culture here. It has burned down.” A.H: “But there is one in the center! I go there every day!” Respondent: “Well, yes, there are celebrations there and so on, but there is nothing good there.”

On hearing that my research concerns the House of Culture in KoshAgach, a district center with approximately seven thousand inhabitants in the Republic of Altai, the initial reaction of many of the respondents to our survey was to declare quite simply that there is no House of Culture in Kosh-Agach. The above excerpt, from an interview with a man in his fi ies, is characteristic of this perceived absence. Furthermore, from his words we learn that there are kul’trabotniki (culture workers) in Kosh-Agach and there is a small, shabby building in which they work, but that this building is not really perceived as a House of Culture. Can this dark and dirty structure in the center of Kosh-Agach be a place where anything at all cultured (kul’turnoe) takes place? Still, virtually everyone with whom I talked remembered that there had been a time when there was a full-blooded House of Culture in Kosh-Agach, worthy of the name. I remember this place myself: a spacious building on the bank of a river that unfortunately burned down in May 2003, three years before this research took place. Only a fraction of the musical instruments, decorations, and costumes was saved from the fire. This building is remembered by visitors and culture workers alike as a vivid, cheerful, and pleasant place, where everyone liked to go because it was warm, full of light, and nicely decorated. In nostalgic narratives Kosh-Agach inhabitants recall that it was a House of Culture, of culturedness (kul’turnost’) and the cultured (kul’turnyi), a place where cleanliness, a festive atmosphere, and refined conversation reigned. Hence, we have the dilapidated building of the contemporary House of Culture in Kosh-Agach, which does not really, according to many

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people, deserve this name; and we have the bright and clean House of Culture of their memories. There is also a third House of Culture in Kosh-Agach, although its existence is not known to all Kosh-Agach inhabitants. In the desk of the head of the building department of the local administration lies a project for a future House of Culture that was designed a er the 2003 fire. It is an impressive building with a total area of 1,979 square meters, hosting a professional cinema, dance hall, bar, and wedding hall complete with separate rooms for the bride, the groom, and “important guests.” It also has rooms for culture workers and for interests groups, but the largest part of the new House of Culture is designated to provide comfortable space for hosting private events such as weddings, jubilees, and other celebrations. The divergent valuations that go with each of these three Houses of Culture and the conspicuous absence of a place where culture can be performed “properly” are perplexing and can only be understood through an analysis of form and meaning of cultural activities in changing political constellations. In this chapter, I will juxtapose the apparent stability of form and structure with the shi ing on-the-ground content, practices, and meaning of culture work in the district of Kosh-Agach. I argue that while the particular bureaucratic organization of culture work has provided continuity of the Soviet cultural project long beyond perestroika, it also obscures the shi s in meaning and actual practice of culture production in a way that is similar to processes described by Alexei Yurchak as “heteronymous shi ” (2003, 2006).

The Materiality of Culture Vadim Volkov writes in his analysis of cultural policy in the Stalinist period that the effects and tools of carrying out culture work (kul’turnaia rabota) were focused not only on education and providing refined entertainment, but also involved working with “the things that surrounded people—their material environment” (2000: 220). This material aspect of the House of Culture is important today for the people of Kosh-Agach. Despite the fact that in the present building, there are indeed culture workers who, to a lesser or greater extent, carry out work involving the organization of festivals and thematic evenings, the very environment in which they work makes their efforts largely futile. A er the House of Culture burned down in 2003, the workers were transferred to an old 1930s-era wooden structure that had formerly served as the kinoteatr (cinema). It is a cold, ramshackle building that my interlocutors o en compared to a podval—a cellar. Significantly, al-

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though the culture workers are still supposed to organize all kinds of festivities, thematic evenings, and interest groups, and they are referred to commonly as kollektiv Doma kul’tury (House of Culture collective), the building itself was officially renamed the Dom Dosuga i Otdykha—the “House of Leisure and Relaxation.” This change could be interpreted as an acknowledgement that the current shabby building does not really deserve to be called a House of Culture. One of my interlocutors, a woman in her late thirties, described what the ideal House of Culture should look like: I imagine the House of Culture to be big, beautiful, light, and clean. When a person goes there, s/he immediately understands: this is culture. Immediately this should be recognized: the floor should be level, the walls should be even. One should feel coziness (uiut) there, should feel the comfort of human hands (uiut chelovecheskikh ruk). Then one would be drawn there. If people spit there, if there are dirty papers everywhere, this all pushes one away, this dirt. Yes, it should be cozy and clean and, moreover, culture workers should be nice. One should be able to have a conversation with them on any subject; they should be interested in people; they should want to give warmth, goodness, interesting and useful things to people. Culture workers should be erudite, they should know a lot.

While it is clear that the material aspect of the present House of Culture in Kosh-Agach does not fulfill the expectations of its visitors, it would be interesting to compare the way in which culture work was carried out in the old, spacious building and the present, decrepit one. Was the former House of Culture as full of activities as it is remembered now? Were the culture workers more active, inviting, and imaginative than the present ones? Or was it as stagnant as the one that operates at present and the contemporary narratives of its beauty and vitality are indications of the importance of the physical manifestation of what culture is for the people of Kosh-Agach? Or is the above quote part of a nostalgic narrative indicating, as Finn Sivert Nielsen has suggested, that the concept of kul’tura “represented an elusive, ideal world outside the practical necessities of daily life: a dream of beauty, purity, and romance, of leisurely, endless conversations about the meaning of life, or of a happiness and wealth that would always remain out of reach, and whose very desirability perhaps depended on it remaining una ainable” (1994)? Unfortunately I cannot fully answer the questions regarding the work of the pre-2003 House of Culture. Even though I o en experienced what many anthropologists working in the former Soviet Union experience—upon arriving in a village or a li le town and introducing

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myself as an etnograf (ethnographer), I would instantly be directed to the House of Culture, with a message succinctly summarized by Bruce Grant in his contribution to this volume: “Here is our culture, come and get it”—my subsequent research took me far away from House of Culture buildings as well as far away from the district center of Kosh-Agach. The present research however, especially the interviews conducted both with culture workers and House of Culture visitors, indicates that the materiality of culture work is extremely important. In a sense, the present dilapidated building does not have a chance to become a center of culture work for Kosh-Agach, because the very state of the House of Culture building embodies everything that culture is not about: dirt, ugliness, lack of comfort, and decay.1

Exploring the Discrepancies Between Accounts and Activities While observing the daily work of the culture workers in Kosh-Agach, I was struck by an apparent paradox: almost nothing that was written in reports of the present House of Culture in Kosh-Agach actually took place in the building, nor was it carried out by the culture workers anywhere else. Moreover, nothing that actually took place in the House of Culture found its way into the wri en reports, with the exception of income-generating events such as discos or renting a room for private functions. This raises the question: Why is there such a discrepancy between the paper life and the actual day-to-day life of the House of Culture? In order to a empt an answer, one has to look more closely into the local politics of the Kosh-Agach district and the se lement of Kosh-Agach itself. Kosh-Agach is the capital of a district of the same name in the Republic of Altai. The district has approximately 18,000 inhabitants, while the se lement of Kosh-Agach officially has a population of approximately 7,000. In fact it is probably more populous because quite a few citizens of neighboring Mongolia working as pe y traders and builders live there on a more or less permanent basis but are not reflected in the statistics. Most of the inhabitants of the Kosh-Agach se lement are Kazakhs (65–70 percent). Altaians (Telengits) are the second largest ethnic group,2 and there are also a few Russians and representatives of various other nationalities. In the district overall the percentage of Altaians reaches approximately 40 percent of all inhabitants. The number of Kazakhs in Kosh-Agach has been steadily growing in recent years. This is related to a policy of the present district administration that encourages immigration of Kazakhs from Kazakhstan and Mongolia. Moreover,

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until 2008, Kazakhs occupied most major positions in the administrative center. Still, while at the end of the 1990s the situation was locally perceived as a competition for important resources between the two main ethnic groups, by the time the present research took place in 2006, both ethnic groups had split up into factions, which was reflected in local politics. Although ethnic divisions and competition still played a significant role in Kosh-Agach, the situation could no longer be viewed as a straightforward case of interethnic conflict. Rather, in order to get a budget position or run a private business without hindrances, one had to be related to or at least befriended by the family of the head of the district, Auelkhan Dzhatkambaev, whom I discuss in more detail below. During my 2006 fieldwork many people whom I knew long and well enough to form a relationship based on trust referred to Kosh-Agach as a “feudal state,” a “state in a state,” or—if they were Altaians—a “li le Kazakhstan.” Municipal Reform Applied In brief, such was the situation when, in October 2003, the Russian parliament passed the law “On general principles of organizing local self-administration in the Russian Federation.”3 This law, at that time expected to come into force in January 2006,4 introduced so-called municipal reform (munitsipal’naia reforma), which in principle should strengthen local structures of self-governance. However, the law did not describe in detail the relations between various levels of self-governance, in particular in those cases where different munitsipal’nye obrazovaniia (municipal formations) should in principle operate on the same territory, as in the case of municipal districts (raiony) and the different types of rural se lements located within those districts. While the principles of organization and self-governance of such formations as villages and towns, as well as the prerogatives of the federal organs, were well described in the law, the status and prerogatives of the districts became unclear. Hence, the reform of administration in the Russian Federation could potentially lead to polarization of administrative power. While on the one hand it centralizes some administrative structures and takes decision-making authority away from such regional administrative units as republics and autonomous districts and gives it to the centralized federal organs (e.g., in ma ers concerning land use or natural resource use), it also gives the smallest local administrative units (villages and other types of se lements) more prerogatives in self-governance. In the perception of local decision makers, this law can be very broadly and differently interpreted, and its implementation could lead to diminish-

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ing the significance of all kinds of intermediate administrative layers, including districts (raiony). As Vladimir Georgievich Filimonov, acting minister of culture of the Republic of Altai, told me in May 2006: The district level is very weakly described in this law. Well, now the Russian parliament accepted some corrections, they accepted them on 13 December last year. From the very moment that this law was published, many suggestions for corrections started coming from the local levels. This is because the system that was in place until now was satisfactory for the inhabitants: these Houses of Culture, centralized library systems, district Houses of Culture, village Houses of Cultures, and departments of culture, they worked according to a vertical principle of governance: straight from Moscow down to the smallest se lements. And now this all is cut at the district level. According to this law even a district Department of Culture could be abandoned.

Hence, the version of the municipal legislation that was expected to be in operation at the time of my research in Kosh-Agach was perceived as potentially weakening the position of the district administration—basically all rural se lements should have full control over their budgets and the organization of administrative work. The role of the district could be interpreted as unclear at best, or as lacking any real decision-making power at worst. In the cultural sphere it meant that the previous District House of Culture (raionnyi dom kul’tury) would lose its status and become the House of Culture of the Kosh-Agach se lement; the Department of Culture in the district administration could cease to exist altogether (leaving ma ers of culture work entirely in the hands of the administrations of particular se lements); and other institutions such as the library and the music school would be governed through the administration of the Kosh-Agach se lement and not the Kosh-Agach district. Importantly, the text of this law was known to the local administrators since its publication in 2003. It has been suggested by some of my friends among the culture workers that the fire in the old House of Culture in Kosh-Agach served as an excuse for the gradual introduction of structural changes in the sphere of culture work in such a way that the present district administration would lose as li le as possible of its control when the law was finally introduced in 2006.5 As noted above, at the time of the introduction of the municipal legislation, the district was governed with a strong hand by Auelkhan Dzhatkambaev. He was elected as head of the district in 1999 and he served two terms as such, until February 2008. Over the years I heard growing complaints from both Altaians and Kazakhs who did not belong to the circle of friends and relatives of Dzhatkambaev concerning

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the growing authoritarianism and injustice of his reign. He was widely feared and regarded as unapproachable. The municipal reform’s anticipated diminishment of district-level decision-making power was potentially threatening for Dzhatkambaev’s position.6 It is no surprise, then, that a er publication of the law the Kosh-Agach district instigated a series of organizational changes in preparation for the introduction of the new legislation. In the sphere of culture work the changes started with the liquidation of the district Department of Culture and the establishment of a Center for National Cultures (Tsentr Natsional’nykh Kul’tur) with Dzhatkambaev’s wife as its head, despite the fact that she had neither the education nor the experience to work in this sphere. The House of Culture, still a district one at that time (raionnyi dom kul’tury), acquired a new director—the husband of Dzhatkambaev’s sister. When in 2006 the municipal law was implemented, the influence of Dzhatkambaev’s family in the cultural sphere was secured. Although officially supervision of the House of Culture was transferred to the jurisdiction of the se lement administration, and officially the Center for National Cultures has only an advisory status, the Dzhatkambaev faction has retained influence and control over its activities. How did the work of the House of Culture look under such circumstances? Whose Public Events? One of the conditions of this comparative research project was that each field site would have a place that the local population referred to as the “House of Culture,” and that place was to be the focus of the research. For this reason, I spent most of my time in and around the place that was referred to as such (although, as noted above, it has officially been renamed the “House of Leisure and Relaxation”). As a personal aside, I must admit that at the beginning it was not the most exciting field experience. My most frequent interlocutor was a watchman, the only person who was there almost permanently. Officially the House of Culture had thirteen employees. Of those, seven were technical staff (cleaner, watchman, stoker). The remaining six were culture workers: the director, three metodisty (specialists), one designer (khudozhnikoformitel’), and a “culture organizer” (kul’torganizator). The culture organizer was introduced to me and commonly referred to as a DJ—he was responsible for running the disco and preparing technical equipment for House of Culture events. The designer was responsible for preparing posters and decorations. The three metodisty were responsible for organizing, coordinating, and preparing for events, but only two

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of them actually worked as such. The third one, a former member of the dance ensemble Chuia (see below), had only a supporting function. The House of Culture also hosted the fourteen-member traditional dance ensemble Chuia, which was officially a separate structure; therefore its members were not counted as House of Culture staff. During the weeks that I spent in the House of Culture, only the two metodisty and the DJ appeared more or less regularly at work, every day for a couple of hours. At the beginning of my visit, they showed me a schedule for their work, including member lists and timetables for multiple interests groups they were supposed to run. The director appeared at work very rarely and briefly and managed successfully to avoid my questions. I saw the designer only once during the five weeks of my stay. On the wall of the office in the House of Culture there was a carefully decorated plan of work, including yearly and monthly schedules, a list of commercial services, and a list of interests groups with a detailed schedule of meetings. The DJ refurbished the plan three times during the period of my research, although that was not one of his responsibilities—he just liked drawing. However, during the weeks I spent in the House of Culture not a single meeting of any interest group was held. According to the official plan, four events were to be organized by the House of Culture during my stay: • On 28 April there was to be an exhibition of handicra s and artistic works commemorating the 250-year anniversary of Altai’s inclusion in the Russian Empire; • On 30 April a special evening honoring new army recruits was to be held; • On 1 May (International Workers’ Day) a festival celebrating labor and springtime was planned; • On 9 May there was to be a Victory Day celebration, marking the anniversary of the end of World War II. The first three events were cancelled by the head of the Kosh-Agach se lement administration, who is the immediate supervisor of the House of Culture. The way in which they were cancelled, however, suggested tacit cooperation between the se lement and the district administration. While the first two events were cancelled completely, responsibility for the 1 May celebration was moved to the village of Zhanaul, for reasons that will soon become clear. As both Kosh-Agach and Zhanaul have official status as se lements, they should have organized their celebrations separately for the inhabitants of their respective se lements. Nevertheless, the decision was

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made that the Zhanaul House of Culture would organize the festival for the whole district. A horse race was organized on this day, with a token concert on the top of a hill in the middle of the steppe, which was difficult to hear and watch because of the strong wind and the noise made by the crowds cheering on the horses. Moreover, only people who owned cars, i.e., those relatively well off, could get to the celebration place, as no public transport was organized. The reason given for the cancellation of all three events in Kosh-Agach by all culture workers was lack of funds. This lack was in turn caused by the transfer of all available funds for culture work for this period, both from the district as well as from the Kosh-Agach se lement, to the village of Zhanaul, despite the fact that officially the budgets of the district’s municipality and of the se lement are separate and such a transfer of funds should not take place. Zhanaul is a new hamlet, built as a rese lement village that replaced the old se lement of Aktal, which had to be abandoned more than twenty years ago because of the rising levels of ground water. Auelkhan Dzhatkambaev was born in Aktal, and he was one of the main persons behind the establishment of the new village of Zhanaul, which celebrated its twentieth anniversary on 6 May 2006. There was not so much as a concert in Kosh-Agach to commemorate 1 May, and even the horse race arranged on this day was viewed as a pre-fest, a warm-up event for the main festivities in Zhanaul on 6 May, which were truly impressive, with dozens of performers involved. The House of Culture workers in Kosh-Agach met the cancellation of the 1 May celebration with stoicism, although some of them privately expressed their displeasure. It was only when a few days later the House of Culture director came with a message that the 9 May Victory Day celebration was also to be cancelled in Kosh-Agach and celebrated only in Zhanaul, that at least one of the metodisty decided to take action. She talked to the House of Culture director and convinced him to speak again with the local se lement administration, as such an important festivity should not be taken away from the inhabitants of Kosh-Agach, and especially from the veterans of World War II, who, because of their age and poor health, would not be able to travel to another village for the celebration. Still, although the metodist definitely regarded the end of World War II and the involvement of Soviet citizens in it as important and worth celebrating, I cannot be sure that her firm reaction was not influenced to some extent by my presence. By that time I had already spent more than a month in the House of Culture, and she definitely felt a li le uncomfortable with the fact that nothing that she introduced to me as part of their daily work had actually happened. She knew that

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I was planning to leave Kosh-Agach just a er the 9 May celebration, and she was also aware that my colleagues in Shagonar, Anadyr’, Kolyvan’, and Kurumkan would see and describe the celebrations there, so it was the last chance to show me how the House of Culture events were actually organized. Her efforts proved to be successful, and the 9 May celebration in Kosh-Agach took place. The celebration provided an interesting example of how events marked as “House of Culture events” are organized, and it bears some resemblance to the analysis provided by Sántha and Safonova in this volume.7 No preparations took place before 8 May. On this day the responsible metodist prepared a scenario and rehearsed it with a teacher of history from a local school, who agreed to be a second leading person, as well as with the DJ-cum-sound operator. Urgent phone calls to other institutions located in Kosh-Agach were made, and a program was arranged that included a performance of the Chuia dance ensemble; the overdue greeting of the new recruits carried out by the captain of the local border guards’ regiment; a greeting of war veterans by representatives of the local administration; a performance of kindergarten children, prepared by their teacher; and a waltz performed by a young and enthusiastic couple, whom I introduce in more detail below. The celebration was led by the House of Culture metodist, but the performers were not recruited from the various interests groups that the House of Culture allegedly runs. Instead, they were trained within other structures (school, kindergarten, Chuia) or self-taught. As the metodist explained to me, finding talented people and bringing them together in a performance is one of the main functions of the House of Culture. Still, this explanation, valid as it may be, did not explain why there is such a discrepancy between the paper life of the House of Culture and what actually happens on its premises. Why do House of Culture employees not actually work with at least some of the interested inhabitants of Kosh-Agach? Rehearsals, Paid Services, and Cases of Cultural Emergency This situation was becoming more puzzling the more time I actually spent in the House of Culture because, although the officially existing interest groups never met and planned events did not take place, the building itself was not always empty. Hanging around the House of Culture and drinking countless cups of tea with a watchman did sometimes pay off. One morning, for example, I came in to see a couple practicing ballroom dancing. These two young people, Zhana and Aleksei, were polishing their waltz skills. Aleksei, working then as a

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guard on the nearby Mongolia-Russia border, had spent some time in Novosibirsk where he worked with a modern dance theater. A er his return to Kosh-Agach, he missed dancing, found a partner, and used the House of Culture as a practice room. He complained that Kazakh and Altaian traditional dances dominate life in Kosh-Agach, and if you prefer waltz, you are le alone with your fascination and have to struggle to find a space to practice and perform. Another day I was surprised to find the choreographer of the local dance ensemble Chuia, a Uighur woman from neighboring Mongolia who was working on contract in Kosh-Agach, teaching some Uighur dances to a group of teenage girls. I was told that they met a few times a month, but they did not form any officially recognized structure. Moreover, I saw in the House of Culture the members of the Chuia dance group, who were sometimes rehearsing. This ensemble deserves special a ention as it is the sine qua non of any cultural event in KoshAgach. I saw Chuia performing seven times during my stay, and they performed more, touring through the villages of the district. Although respondents to our survey in Kosh-Agach expressed their pride at having such an active and widely recognized ensemble in their se lement,8 they also complained that Chuia’s performances are presented so o en Illustration 4.1 | The ensemble Chuia inviting visitors to the KoshAgach region. Photo: A. Halemba, 2006.

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and change so rarely that the spectators know them by heart. Not only did Chuia give their own performances in the House of Culture and in other places, the group was also called in for virtually all events, both those organized by the House of Culture employees and any other events in Kosh-Agach that required an artistic performance, such as openings of new office buildings, honoring a distinguished worker, and jubilees of local organizations. The ensemble also performs, either free of charge or for a fee, at private functions such as weddings and birthdays. Sometimes they are notified in advance about a concert, but at other times they are treated, especially by the ones in power in the local administration, as a cultural emergency service. Such emergency situations happened twice during my stay. Once they were given notice of forty-five minutes before they had to perform for an unexpected group of guests who arrived from Kazakhstan. The performance took place in the House of Culture. On the other occasion they were required to dance at the jubilee of an important member of the local administration and were notified one day before this event. During my stay the House of Culture was also rented out for private weddings—I was told that sometimes on such occasions technical equipment and services of House of Culture employees can also be rented. Out of all those activities that actually happen in the House of Culture, only the discos and the renting of the main room for weddings are reflected in House of Culture documentation. These events, however, are not listed under House of Culture activities, but rather in a separate section for “paid-for services.” The metodisty told me that this was a relatively new development, signifying to them that the sphere of culture work had to make compromises in a new era of market relations (rynochnye otnosheniia). The House of Culture led two lives: on paper it was a busy place organizing all kinds of events and interests groups free of charge for the local population. The life on the actual premises was not very active but nevertheless far from nonexistent: the House of Culture was earning money by renting its premises to private parties and it hosted, free of charge, people who just liked dancing or singing, but without including them into the official paperwork. The paper life and the actual life remained strictly separated.

The Separation of Cultural Form, Practice, and Meaning One of the arguments presented by Alexei Yurchak in his works (Yurchak 1997, 2003, 2006) follows the changing relationship between forms

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and meanings of representations in the period of late socialism. He writes that in this period, the acts of copying the precise forms of ideological representations became more meaningfully constitutive of everyday life than the adherence to the literal (“semantic”) meanings inscribed in those representations. In the Soviet case, this emerging relationship did not necessarily preclude Soviet people from continuing to be invested in the ideals and ethical values of socialism. It rather implied a more complex and shi ing relationship to Soviet ideological form, a form that claimed and was once seen to represent these ideals and values, but during Late Socialism decoupled from them. (2003: 481, original emphasis)

The question of whether people believed in the messages delivered by ideological speeches is for him irrelevant or wrongly stated. The form of official speeches and texts was immutable—as long as the Soviet discursive regime lasted—while at the same time reinterpretation of meanings was taking place. As Yurchak writes: “The act of the reproduction of form with the reinterpretation of meaning, which this paper theorizes as a heteronymous shiĞ, cannot be reduced to resistance, opportunism, or dissimulation; indeed, it allowed many Soviet people to continue adhering to Communist ideals and to see themselves as good Soviet citizens” (2003: 504, italics in original). A person who employed forms of the Soviet discursive regime could both adhere to basic principles of Communist ideas and, at the same time, reinterpret the meaning of them, especially in relation to the practices of everyday life. Yurchak’s approach can help us understand the situation in KoshAgach. There, the House of Culture operates using almost the same forms as during the Soviet era. I mean here literally the format and structure of actual documents, as well as the phrases used in writing, the gestures and tone of voice used by the culture workers, and basic schemas of events.9 At the same time, all the culture workers I talked to and most of the House of Culture visitors10 expressed a deep conviction that sustaining culture work in Kosh-Agach is very important. Of course, certain types of events (e.g., the anniversary of the October Revolution) have been replaced by other ones (e.g., celebrations of famous Kazakh and Altaian writers), but the formats of these events have remained stunningly similar. Although Yurchak associates stability of form with a “period of stagnation” during late socialism, and correlates Gorbachev’s perestroika with the collapse of the Soviet form—the moment when heteronymous shi became visible and publicly discussed (2003: 504)—I suggest that in the sphere of government-sponsored culture work, the meanings are still shi ing now while the form stays the same. The paper life of the House of Culture continues, the importance

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of the basic principle of “bringing culture to the masses” is appreciated, but no one is interested in recoupling the paper work with what actually happens. On the contrary, such recoupling is seen as unnecessary. Let us compare two conversations I recorded during my stay with employees of the House of Culture: Conversation 1. Metodist 1: Well, Agnieszka, why do you need all this paperwork?11 A.H.: Well, this is for me, so I would know what to expect, what kinds of documents you have. Metodist 1: This is understandable. But you see that we do have documents, don’t we? But for your research institute, what is the significance of those papers—just this paper—what is its role? A.H.: Well, you see, this has significance. … This (cultural) work is done differently in different places, yes? This is not to say what is wrong and what is right, but in some places work is done strictly according to papers.12 In other places it is carried out more … well, it can be deep work, but people know themselves what to do, they do not need papers. Metodist 2: And we are pleased that we do not need papers! A.H.: You do not need them. … So, this is what I need to know: here work is not done according to the papers. Metodist 2: We have direct contact with visitors. A visitor has to be satisfied and that is all. A.H.: Good then. Metodist 1: We could write beautifully, couldn’t we? A.H.: Yes. Metodist 1: Write beautifully and do nothing. Such things also happen. A.H.: Yes, there is such a possibility. Metodist 1: And in reality. … A.H.: No work is done. I understand fully.

Conversation 2. A.H.: How is the House of Culture work officially evaluated? Metodist 1: Officially? Through documentation. A.H.: Really? Metodist 1: Yes. Basically, what we do actually and what is in documents coincides. Our employer, this also depends on a person … for example, he saw this paper, this pasport13 … and he checks every le er against our actual activities. Fi een members? And he actually asks me: “Do you have fi een members? This family name, does she really participate?” “Yes.” You run an interest group every Thursday?” “Yes, every Thursday.” “Exactly from 2pm to 4pm?” “Exactly from 2pm to 4 pm.” “You are the leader?” “Yes.” And so it goes.

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At first sight those are puzzling statements. In the first conversation the metodist states that paperwork does not have any relation to actual practice. In the second conversation she claims that papers and actual work coincide. She says it right in the face of our common experience of fruitless waiting for events to happen during my stay in Kosh-Agach. Of course, one could interpret such an a itude toward paperwork as dissimulation or pokazukha (see Sántha and Safonova, this volume). Still, I prefer to go back to the approach suggested by Yurchak and concur with the interpretation of Bruce Grant (this volume), who suggests a shi from pokazukha to pokaz, which is in essence a shi from interpreting House of Culture activities as cases of empty dissimulation toward seeing them as generative and productive actions, demonstrating the continued importance of the Soviet cultural project. In Grant’s case of the House of Scientific Atheism in Moscow, this project goes on through the very existence of the institutions, materiality (the physical building in his case), and paperwork, despite the literal emptiness of the building and the fact that the lectures never actually happen. In the case of Kosh-Agach, however, something more is going on, as the local House of Culture is not really an empty building. Instead, it is an institution with a glaring discrepancy between what is planned and evaluated as House of Culture work and what actually happens on its premises. I suggest that under the present circumstances of fragility of democratic structures in the Russian Federation, the decoupling of form and meaning that was characteristic, as Yurchak claims, of late socialism, is still going on. In the sphere of state-sponsored culture production in KoshAgach, the form actually did not collapse with perestroika. It is still there and it still covers the shi s in meanings and aims of culture work, which at present has been appropriated by those powerful individuals within the local administration, for whom the House of Culture is kept free and available for service at any time. At the time of my research, although a state institution on paper and evaluated as such during official checkups, the House of Culture was privatized by the local bosses and used for variety of purposes, from private entertainment to the representation of the successes of local government. I suggest that this need for permanent availability is the main reason why the actual events and initiatives, such as Zhana and Aleksei’s practices or the dancing classes of the Uighur choreographer, were not recorded in documents. Formal documentation would give them legitimate status, and they could then potentially occupy the House of Culture premises at those times when the House of Culture was suddenly needed for other purposes, such as organizing an unplanned concert for the guests from Kazakhstan, as discussed earlier. One of my friends,

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a long-term culture worker, frequently complained that the culture workers were o en used as kitchen and serving staff at parties for local bosses—without any additional pay. This of course would be difficult if she had a plan of actual events that had to be carried out. Interesting and in line with my overall argument is also the fact that the only events that were apparently never cancelled14 were those that were organized at the republic level and to which the district of KoshAgach was required to send its representatives. For example, the AllRepublic Altaian celebration El-oiyn happens every two years and it is organized as a competition (of sports, singing, dancing, national dress) between various districts. For the local administration it is important that the district performs well—all human resources are thrown into organizing local-level El-oiyn, and the most impressive participants are sent to the republic-wide event. All other events that do not have consequences at the republic level can be and are frequently cancelled.

Conclusion: Three Houses of Culture—Continuity and Change There are three Houses of Culture in Kosh-Agach: the one of people’s memories, destroyed by fire in 2003; the physical dilapidated building in the center of the se lement; and the impressive project of the new House of Culture, si ing in a desk drawer in a local administration office. One can clearly trace a continuity between the first two in terms of the significance and character of culture work as expressed in documents; the third one is presented as their direct successor. Still, one has to look closely into the everyday life of culture workers in order to see where the heteronymous shi is taking the sphere of official culture production in contemporary Russia. The third House of Culture, the one that remains a project and is not as yet widely advertised among the inhabitants of Kosh-Agach, is the material manifestation of some of those tendencies. It has been designed more as a place that can be used for private functions and for displays of local power and influence for those who can afford to pay for using it or who can access it because of their position within the structure of local politics. Mathijs Pelkmans (2003) describes how in Batumi, the capital of the Autonomous Republic of Ajaria, one can see numerous luxurious, spacious buildings, apparently designed for public use (such as a kindergarten and a supermarket) that are in a permanent state of “being almost ready.” They stand there, executed according to the newest international building standards and appear to be ready for use—but they remain empty. There are no children in the new kindergarten,

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although all details seem to be completed, down to bed sheets in the bedrooms and towels in the bathrooms. Pelkmans interprets this initially surprising presence of empty buildings as the embodiment of an uncomfortable space between the reality and the discourse of “transition.” While on the one hand the transition discourse promises wellbeing and access to Western goods if only the remnants of the socialist era are removed, the reality generates growing inequalities and opaqueness of economic and political change. The buildings stand for Ajaria’s trajectory toward becoming a “‘modern region’ moving in the direction of Europe, reviving from its ashes and ready to join the world of ‘international standards’” (Pelkmans 2003: 132). At the same time, however, the emptiness of the buildings shows that modernity remains an unrealized dream. The project of the new House of Culture in Kosh-Agach still sits in a desk drawer, so there are no empty, impressive buildings there. Still, one could interpret the very existence of such a project either as a visualization of the dream of modernization, as would be suggested by Pelkmans, or as an example of the “poetics of unfinished construction,” in which each unfinished or unrealized project provides an argument Illustration 4.2 | The blueprint for the projected new House of Culture in Kosh-Agach. These plans have already been officially approved, but as of 2009 construction had not yet begun. Photo: A. Halemba, 2006.

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not for failure but for the need for more engagement on the part of the state, as argued by Nikolai Ssorin-Chaikov (2003). Still, the new House of Culture in Kosh-Agach is not only not built; the project itself is not widely distributed, and very few Kosh-Agach inhabitants have seen the plans at all. Even in paper form, it is not out there making material the dreams of modernity or showing off what could be done by the local administration. Instead, it lies hidden in a desk, although I was told that funds for the project had already been allocated at least once.15 I suggest that the design of the new House of Culture points too openly in the direction that the actual position of culture work in Kosh-Agach is shi ing; the interpretations that can be read from it are too straightforward to be displayed in the materialized form of a project available for public viewing. Pelkmans writes in his article that the dream of modernity and prosperity for all would be destroyed if the empty buildings in Ajaria were occupied because, most probably, they would be occupied only by the rich and the powerful, contradicting the dream of prosperity for all. The design of the new House of Culture in Kosh-Agach could accommodate local residents’ dreams of culture occupying modern, clean, light space, but with its main areas designed for private rental, this space would in fact not be available for all, and to make public the plans would be to destroy those dreams. The apparent continuity of the form of culture work in Kosh-Agach is a prime example of heteronymous shi , in which everything stays the same while changing dramatically at the same time. Notes 1. For a discussion of the concept of culture (kul’tura) in the context of Soviet culture work, see Volkov 2000 and Nielsen 1994. 2. As it is not important for the present argument, I will not analyze here the relation between Altaians and Telengits. For interested readers see Halemba 2006 and Donahoe et al. 2008. In the remainder of the article I will refer to all Altaian-language speaking inhabitants of Kosh-Agach as Altaians. 3. Federal law No. 131 of 10 June 2003 (available at h p://www.consultant .ru/popular/selfgovernment/). For the sake of conciseness I refer to this law as the “municipal law” in the rest of the article. 4. This law was changed several times since this first redaction. The latest changes came into force on 10 January 2009. 5. Actually there were important changes introduced to the municipal law at the end of 2005 (Federal Law No. 199 of 31 December 2005, “On the insertion of changes in various legal acts of the Russian Federation in connection with realizing the delimitation of authority”) that in effect strengthened the prerogatives of districts. Still, by then the preparation phase for the introduction of the law in 2006 was already well under way in Kosh-Agach.

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6. Auelkhan Dzhatkambaev planned to remain as the head of the district for a third term. He ran for the post again in 2008 but he lost to Leonid Efimov, a young Altaian lawyer. The election of Efimov was preceded by an unprecedented mobilization of Dzhatkambaev’s opponents and was followed by a number of spontaneous celebrations in local cafés and private homes, as well as by open displays of mourning on the part of Dzhatkambaev’s relatives, all of which I was able to witness during my next visit to Kosh-Agach in 2008. 7. As the term pokazukha was not used by the House of Culture workers themselves, and as it has clear negative connotations in the Russian language that I do not wish to emphasize, I do not use this term in my analysis. 8. Chuia has the official status of “People’s Ensemble” (narodnyi ansambl’), i.e., it is recognized by the Republic of Altai Ministry of Culture as part of Altaian cultural heritage. 9. Although, as it is clear from this chapter, I did not see many events organized by the House of Culture employees during my research in 2006, I saw events organized by local schools and by the Center for National Cultures. Moreover, I have been working in Kosh-Agach district since 1994, and over a period of years I have witnessed multiple House of Culture events in many villages of the region. 10. According to the results of our survey in Kosh-Agach, more than 86 percent of potential visitors to the House of Culture agreed that a House of Culture is important for the se lement, and more than 85 percent said it needs more financial support, regardless of how o en they actually visited the House of Culture. Still, almost 48 percent stated that they would go there more o en if the activities were more interesting. 11. As a part of our comparative approach, our research team decided to collect certain documents concerning the work of the House of Culture. I did not have any problems gaining access to the documentation I asked for, which was not the case for some of my colleagues. 12. My respondents were aware that my research in Kosh-Agach was part of a larger comparative project carried out at that time in Siberia with plans to widen its scope into other areas of the Russian Federation as well as to other socialist countries. The quoted conversation led us further toward a discussion of the different ways in which paperwork is treated in different countries. 13. She was showing me a form describing an interest group. 14. None of them was planned for the period of my 2006 research in Kosh-Agach. 15. There was still no sign of building a new House of Culture in KoshAgach as of my 2008 fieldwork.

References Donahoe, Brian, Joachim O o Habeck, Agnieszka Halemba, and István Sántha. 2008. “Size and Place in the Construction of Indigeneity in the Russian Federation.” Current Anthropology 48, no. 6: 993–1020. Halemba, Agnieszka. 2006. The Telengits of Southern Siberia. Landscape, Religion and Knowledge in Motion. London: Routledge.

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Nielsen, Finn Sivert. 1994. “Soviet Culture—Russian kul’tura: Culture, Ideology and Globalization in the Soviet Union and Therea er, as Compared to Similar Western Phenomena.” Paper presented at the seminar Continuity and Change in Post-Soviet Societies, Skibotn, Norway, October 1994. h p:// www.anthrobase.com/Txt/N/Nielsen_F_S_02.htm (accessed 29 July 2010). Pelkmans, Mathijs. 2003. “The Social Life of Empty Buildings: Imagining the Transition in Post-Soviet Ajaria.” Focaal 41: 121–135. Ssorin-Chaikov, Nikolai. 2003. The Social Life of the State in Subarctic Siberia. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Volkov, Vadim. 2000. “The Concept of Kul’turnost’: Notes on the Stalinist Civilizing Process.” In Stalinism: New Directions, ed. Sheila Fitzpatrick, pp. 210– 230. London: Routledge. Yurchak, Alexei. 1997. “The Cynical Reason of Late Socialism: Power, Pretense, and the Anekdot.” Public Culture 9, no. 2: 161–188. ———. 2003. “Soviet Hegemony of Form: Everything Was Forever, Until It Was No More.” Comparative Studies in Society and History 45, no. 3: 480–510. ———. 2006. Everything Was Forever, Until It Was No More: The Last Soviet Generation. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.


5 IN THE FACE OF ADVERSITY Shagonar’s Culture Workers Bear the Torch of Culture Brian Donahoe

Kul’tura is the face and the soul of a nation. —Kherel Sanchaevich Kyrgys, Head of the Ulug-Khem District Department of Culture

Background Shagonar is a town of about 11,700 on the banks of the Yenisei River in central Tyva (more commonly spelled “Tuva”).1 It was first established in 1888 as a trading post for Russian Cossacks coming in search of furs and gold. It was actually one of the first se lements in the territory now known as the Republic of Tyva, which at that time was still a remote outpost of the Manchu empire, known as the Uriankhai Territory. Even the present capital of Tyva, Kyzyl, was not founded until 1914. Il’ia Alekseevich Mokhov, a Khakass/Tyvan accordionist, has been working in the House of Culture since 1967. Over the years he has established a folk orchestra and was artistic director for the House of Culture, general director of the House of Culture three times, and head of the Department of Culture once. He is now one of the metodisty (“methodologists” or specialists—those trained in various aspects of culture work) in the newly established “District Organizational-Methodological Center” (Raionnyi organizatsionno-metodicheskii tsentr—ROMTs), which is responsible for organizing the activities of the Shagonar House of Culture as well as of the smaller Houses of Culture throughout the Ulug-Khem District, although at his age he is not as active as he once was. According to Mokhov, the House of Culture in Shagonar has a long and illustrious history. It was founded in 1929 in old Shagonar, in the building that had been the district Communist Party headquarters. The building was expanded and turned into a House of Culture that was quite impressive for its time and place. The first director of the Shago-

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nar House of Culture was Viktor Kök-ool, the most famous Tyvan dramaturge a er whom was named the national theater in Kyzyl. Mokhov becomes animated as he recalls the old House of Culture, which he refers to as the klub. It could seat up to 380 people (the current one only seats 300), and, as he recalls, the seats were much more comfortable than those in the current House of Culture. The House of Culture supported a choir of 120 people and a dance ensemble of 40 people. It was truly the center of Shagonar’s cultural and social life. But that was a different House of Culture, and in fact a different Shagonar, than the one this chapter is about. The history of the present-day House of Culture in Shagonar is intimately linked to the construction of the Saiano-Shushenskoe hydroelectric plant, the largest in Russia and the fourth largest in the world.2 In the 1970s plans were begun to build the Saiano-Shushenskoe dam and hydroelectric plant. The dam and hydroelectric plant themselves are in the Republic of Khakassia, but the main part of the reservoir is entirely within the Republic of Tyva, approximately 250 kilometers upstream from the dam. To make room for the reservoir, several villages and the town of Shagonar—a total of 35,000 people—had to be evacuated with the intention of rese ling them in a new Shagonar. Construction on the new town of Shagonar, seven kilometers upriver from the old one, began in the mid-1970s. In order to convince the population to move, the government of the Republic of Tyva embarked on a massive propaganda campaign, including promises of a gleaming new modern port city on the banks of a beautiful reservoir, with luxurious passenger ships plying its waters. The populations were gradually moved (albeit not without vigorous protests), and once the old villages and old Shagonar had been completely evacuated, they were burned to the ground, along with forests and woods that had covered the low-lying lands where the reservoir would be. Only one building remains—the public bathhouse from the village of Kök Chyraa adjacent to old Shagonar. According to local legend, the low stone structure was so well constructed that workers simply could not knock it down. The old town of Shagonar is now in late May an undulating plain of green sprouts of grass and wild marijuana, all of which will be under water again come late August. But the optimistic vision, whether genuinely expected or simply manipulative propaganda, has not come to fruition, and the current landscape of the town of Shagonar is a sad testament to that failure. The town’s central strip, including the government building, the post office, two schools, the House of Culture, and, further to the west, the hospital, was intended to be in the center of the new city, but it lies

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on the northern fringe of the town today. The part of the city that was planned for the northern half has never even been started. The same is true for the part of the city to the east, where plans called for streets of apartment blocks that have never been built. Today these areas are barren fields of wild marijuana on both sides of the paved road leading to Kyzyl. Yet neighborhoods of cher bazhyngnar (small wood-plank houses with gardens) lie on the far side of these empty fields, up to three kilometers away from the purported center. These were built in the late 1970s and 1980s as temporary housing for the relocated population, until the new city was ready for occupation, but they have become permanent homes. Abandoned construction sites of unfinished buildings bear further witness to the failed optimism. Next to the Ak Bazhyng (“White House”—housing the district government) is just such an abandoned brick building, now collapsing in upon itself. Construction began in 1989 and was abandoned a year later as the USSR was disintegrating. This building was intended to be the new House of Culture, but it was never finished. Instead, the House of Culture was first housed in the library, which burned down in 1997. Then it moved to the basement of one of the five-story brick buildings that serves as a boarding house. Finally, it was moved into the cinema building, where it has remained. Illustration 5.1 | In the shadow of the sacred mountain Khaiyrakan, the derelict construction site of the unfinished House of Culture in Shagonar serves as a reminder of unfulfilled dreams. Photo: B. Donahoe, May 2006.

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Local Politics I chose to conduct this research in Shagonar for two reasons: it was the right size for the study (recall that we had decided that everyone would conduct their research in towns with populations between 6,000 and 12,000); and I have close contacts there and nearby. There are, however, other factors that, while not influencing my decision directly, made Shagonar an intriguing choice of research sites. Like most of Tyva, it is economically depressed. Official unemployment hovers around 15 percent, but unofficial estimates are 40–50 percent, according to Nikolai Saryglar, the director of the Shagonar employment office. While such figures are not uncommon throughout Tyva, unemployment hits Shagonar a bit harder than other areas because Shagonar, located in a barren plain surrounded by treeless steppes, offers fewer opportunities than other regions of Tyva for such subsistence activities as hunting, fishing, and gathering. Moreover, many people in Shagonar live in apartment blocks. They have no gardens, so they cannot grow their own potatoes and other vegetables, as people who live in other economically depressed rural areas of Tyva can do. On the other hand, there are other forms of employment that go unrecorded in official statistics, such as using one’s private car as a taxi, and operating unregistered shops. In any event, it is not a prosperous town. Among Tyvans, Shagonar has the reputation of being not only one of the most economically depressed places in an economically depressed republic, but also of being the roughest and toughest town in the statistically most dangerous administrative unit in Russia. With equal parts pride and chagrin, people in Shagonar o en compare their town to the lawless Wild West, while throughout Tyva it is jokingly referred to as “Chicago,” because of the slight similarity in names and Chicago’s reputation as a violent, mob-ruled city during the Prohibition era. It is also remembered as the epicenter of the ethnic unrest in the early 1990s that a racted a bit of international a ention (see e.g., McMullen 1993 and Eismont 1996) and caused a significant exodus of the non-Tyvan population from Shagonar. Finally, Shagonar is the administrative center of the Ulug-Khem District, the district that had long been the most outspoken in its criticism of Tyva’s long-standing president, Sherig-ool Oorzhak (now deposed). Because of this, an antagonism developed between the Oorzhak-dominated republic-level administration and the local administration of Ulug-Khem District and Shagonar, leading to the perception that the republic administration actively neglected and discriminated against the district and the town.

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This more political aspect was brought home to me in my first meeting with the woman who was minister of culture at the time I conducted this research. I explained the research concept and methodology to her, and she was quite enthusiastic about it, but she clearly did not want me to conduct the research in Shagonar. She said that Shagonar would not be a good place to study “culture” because it does not have unique or interesting “culture,” and because the House of Culture there is not very active. She also said that since there is such high unemployment in Shagonar, people do not have money to spend, so the House of Culture cannot support concerts and other events. She emphasized how dangerous Shagonar is. She suggested several other possibilities (Bai Taiga, Süt Khöl, Erzin), places that, she said, have something unique to offer in terms of culture. But in the end my explanation of needing a town of similar size for all our studies convinced her, and she relented. Only then she told me that there had been some problems between the Shagonar administration and the republic administration. “Stick to your ‘science,’” she told me, “and stay away from politics.” For all these reasons, I was quite happy to pay some a ention to Shagonar, and people there were pleased to get the a ention. Given all these obstacles and negative impressions, I did not have high expectations for the House of Culture in Shagonar. I was expecting to find a depressed se ing both in terms of the physical facilities and in terms of the general feeling in the community about the House of Culture and its work (as has been presented by Halemba, and Sántha and Safonova in this volume). Yet when I got there, that was not at all the impression I got. Indeed there are many problems with the House of Culture that lead to some degree of frustration at times, and many local inhabitants are remarkably articulate about this. But the overall impression I got was that of a cadre of workers very commi ed to their work, and a community that values the work of the House of Culture and generally exhibits an overall sense of optimism that somehow things will get be er. Tyva—Bisting Örgeevis One reason for this positive impression is that I arrived at the Shagonar House of Culture at a particularly busy time—the entire town, it seemed, was actively involved in preparation for the single biggest event of the year, a talent competition called Tyva—Bisting Örgeevis. This means, “Tyva, Our Home,” which is a direct calque from Nash Dom Rossiia, the name of the Russian Federation-level competition that

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started all this off. This used to be a preliminary competition among all districts in Tyva, the champion of which would represent the republic at the federal-level competition. Although there is no longer a federallevel competition, the republic-level competition is still a huge event every year. It was to be held in Kyzyl that very first weekend of my field research, and everyone was frantically rehearsing their various musical and dance numbers. Two days a er my arrival in Shagonar, I sat in a hard wooden seat in the auditorium of the House of Culture, watching a choir of about one hundred people rehearsing. The conductor was highly competent, and a slave-driver to boot. She stopped the singers dead in their tracks with a clap of her hands and stomp of her foot, and then she would shout, “I CAN’T HEAR THE SOPRANOS!” or, “YOU BARITONES—YOU’RE MUFFLING THE SECOND SYLLABLE! SING CLEARLY!” Then she would demonstrate what they should be doing, changing register and voice with ease, and they would carry on. Kherel Sanchaevich Kyrgys, the head of the Department of Culture, stopped by to watch a bit of the rehearsal. When I commented on how good the choir director seemed to be, he said, “Yes. She used to be one of ours, but the money wasn’t good enough, so she le .” Until December, he had been the director of the Children’s School for the Arts, which is one of the Department of Culture’s establishments, and she had been one of the teachers there. But she le to teach in School No. 1 because the pay is be er. Then he said the same about the woman playing the piano for the choir, and about the talented young soloist. The inability of the Department of Culture to retain talented artists also affects the House of Culture. Nadezhda Chul’dumovna Barnakova, a choreographer who has been awarded the title of “People’s Artist” (Narodnyi artist in Russian) in recognition of her achievements, was very involved in all the dance numbers for the big Tyva—Bisting Örgeevis event. She said she would not even consider working regularly for the House of Culture because there is simply not enough financial support—they cannot pay people enough to make them want to work full-time. The next day was the dress rehearsal, which was open to the public for thirty rubles (US$1.20) per person. It was supposed to start at 6:00 p.m., but it did not in fact get underway until nearly 7:00. The house was completely packed, despite the cost, with approximately 350 people in a endance. Two extra rows of chairs had been squeezed in and still the aisles along the side of the theater were full of standing people—Standing Room Only! The dress rehearsal went surprisingly well, especially considering how rough the performances still were just a few hours earlier.

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A er the show, all the participants had to hang around to discuss the logistics of ge ing to Kyzyl the next day. Musicians waddled up the aisles bearing armloads of instruments, costumes, and equipment, and bounced back down to the stage empty handed, ge ing everything ready to load up the following morning. With everyone exhausted but upbeat a er the successful dress rehearsal, the meeting turned out to be more than an organizational meeting—it was also an inspirational meeting, with everyone ge ing psyched up to do his/her best. They weren’t out just to participate—they were going to win the whole thing! A lively discussion about transportation to Kyzyl broke out. “The bus isn’t working,” said one. “We need cars! Who can drive?” asked another. But the even bigger question was, “Who’s going to pay for gas?” Sholban Vladimirovich Byshtak-ool, the principal of School No. 2, stood up and announced that ticket receipts for the dress rehearsal amounted to 9,140 rubles, which was to be equally distributed among all performers. Everyone (including me) was to get sixty rubles (about US$2.40)! “If we have to, we can use that for gas,” suggested one. Just then, Kherel Kyrgys walked in with good news from the White House— a er a lot of wrangling and begging, the district governor has agreed to pay for the gas. A great cheer erupted from the assembled throng. When I arrived at the House of Culture the next morning, a large crowd had already gathered in the foyer, watching the videotape of the previous night’s performance, commenting on this and that, critiquing things, laughing, planning what to do differently. In the room of the metodisty, Urana, Sholban Byshtak-ool’s wife, was busy curling and styling the hair of the choreographer, Nadezhda Chul’dumovna Barnakova, and of her daughters Ailana and Regina, both dancers. The air buzzed with cha er and excitement. A er a lot of time trying to figure out who was going in which vehicle, and worries that we would not have enough vehicles, we finally set out. Our motley caravan of thirteen vehicles included five tabletki (four-wheel-drive minibuses), one minibus of the charity program Deti Rossii (Children of Russia), one UAZik jeep, a couple of regular cars, an ambulance, and, despite the previous evening’s report, not one but two brightly painted, creaky old buses—one garish orange, the other various shades of vibrant blue. The two-hour ride to Kyzyl was fun and lively, with lots of talk about music, passing around various traditional Tyvan instruments—an igil and a byzaanchy (two different types of horse-head fiddles), and a khomus (a mouth harp)—with demonstrations of how to hold the bow of the byzaanchy, how to stroke the tongue of the khomus, etc. One of the House of Culture’s metodisty, Oleg Dongakovich Mizhit-ool, is an ama-

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Illustration 5.2 | Kherel Kyrgys, head of the Ulug-Khem district Department of Culture, directs the motley caravan bearing Shagonar’s enthusiastic representatives to the republic-wide Tyva—Bisting Örgeevis competition in Kyzyl, the capital of Tyva. Photo: B. Donahoe, April 2006.

teur historian of Tyvan folk instruments, and was telling stories about the origins of the instruments, the meanings of their names, how they were originally constructed. Others told humorous stories about embarrassing incidents that had occurred on trips to Novosibirsk or Moscow or abroad. We arrived at the Dom Narodnogo Tvorchestva (“House of Folk Arts”) in Kyzyl at about 12:00 noon. Our performance was supposed to start at 1:00, but it became clear fairly soon that things were off schedule, as usual. We were directed to a large room on the ground floor, which was to serve as a dressing and prep room. When we got there, another district’s troupe was already there, so we had to squeeze in and share the space. There were at least two hundred people in there ge ing ready, talking, dressing, ironing clothes, pu ing on make-up, curling and combing hair, weaving artificial braids into the women’s hair for the traditional Tyvan dances, giggling nervously. In the process of changing clothes, everyone tried to be as modest as possible, forming li le circles to serve as human screens as women stripped down to their bras to change shirts, and men down to their underwear to change pants. The show went extremely well, much be er even than the dress rehearsal. Outside in the parking lot a er the show there was a sense of euphoria from being finished and having pulled it off, with a dawning realization, fueled by the enthusiastic comments of other teams, that maybe this year Ulug-Khem District will pull in the grand prize. There

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Illustration 5.3 | Ailana Tsyrenzhapova, the head metodist of the “District Organizational-Methodological Center,” weaves an artificial braid into the hair of one of the performers prior to the Tyva—Bisting Örgeevis competition in Kyzyl. Photo: B. Donahoe, April 2006.

was a lot of analysis of what could have been done be er, but overall everyone was very upbeat and optimistic of the chances of winning the brand-new, military-green UAZik jeep, on display in the parking lot, joking about how to divide it into 150 parts so each performer could get his/her piece of the pie.

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In the end, we came in third place out of fi een districts. There was some grumbling about how Ulug-Khem District is always discriminated against, but for the most part the euphoric mood carried us all the way back to Shagonar late that night. In some ways it was difficult to arrive at such a busy time—no one really had time for me, and I felt like I was in everyone’s way. But for the most part, it was a real stroke of luck. There was a lot of activity to observe and even to participate in, and through that I came to know all the principal people right away, and I think the very baptism-by-fire nature of it helped me integrate more quickly. Also the fact that I was incorporated into the variety show (much against my wishes) helped me to get known, and was really very much appreciated. This whole experience gave me a very positive impression of the House of Culture, of its workers, and of Shagonar as a close and functional (as opposed to dysfunctional) community. What I found particularly interesting was the way that so many different people from different organizations all worked together to pull this off, with the House of Culture as the hub of activity and House of Culture workers very involved. Throughout it all, I could discern no clear division between the work of the District House of Culture (Raionnyi DK) and the City House of Culture (Gorodskoi DK), and other organizations (School No. 1, School No. 2, the Children’s School of the Arts). The House of Culture coordinated the rehearsal times and provided the space, technical equipment, and expertise. But many of the principal people involved were not formally affiliated with the House of Culture, yet they were running around as if they owned the place. It was all a hectic but coordinated, cooperative, collaborative effort, and they all seemed to be very enthusiastic about it.

Law 131 and Funding Problems In addition to Tyva—Bisting Örgeevis, the major talk among the House of Culture workers when I arrived was Federal Law 131, “On general principles of organizing local self-administration in the Russian Federation” (see also Halemba, this volume). This complex and far-reaching law was passed in 2003, but it came into force and started being implemented at the beginning of 2006. Thus, just as I arrived in Kyzyl in mid-April, the Ministry of Culture held a workshop for culture workers and local administrators to discuss reforms being implemented as part of this law. The then Minister of Culture explained that the main point of the law had to do with devolving responsibility for financ-

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ing of activities onto the districts rather than having it come from the republic level. She said it was a time of big change and transition, and told me to expect major disruptions in the workings of the House of Culture. In April 2006, the Ministry of Culture issued a number of decrees (postanovleniia) designed to implement Law 131 in the sphere of cultural institutions in Tyva. These in effect mandated a restructuring of the House of Culture, separating out the functions of the metodisty and placing them in a separate establishment called the “District Organizational-Methodological Center” (Raionnyi organizatsionno-metodicheskii tsentr—ROMTs). The House of Culture was to be restructured into a “District Center of Culture and Leisure” (Raionnyi tsentr kul’tury i dosuga). In the law, local self-administration is presented as an important fundamental right, guaranteed by the Russian Constitution, that grants local administrations greater freedom and greater powers of self-realization. A er eighty years of Soviet vertical power structures and statecontrolled institutions, and especially the heavy-handed regulation of cultural institutions (White 1990), the state has finally decided to relinquish control over certain spheres and have the local-level administrations take more responsibility and control. However, Tyvans had become accustomed to the Soviet administrative and cultural institutions that were set up and built in their region mainly by Russians. Russians came in, established se lements, set up schools, clinics, clubs (the precursors of Houses of Culture), and local administrations, and trained a cadre of indigenous leaders to run these. Such institutions were always administered from the top down, with orders and plans (not to mention funding) coming down from the center through a fairly direct vertical chain of command. For the most part, this suited most local people just fine, especially in the more remote areas. In general, Tyvans still appreciate what their inclusion in the Soviet Union brought them, from education3 and health care to “culture” in all its manifold meanings (from kul’turnost’—everyday habits of courtesy, decorous behavior, and good manners [see Putniņa, this volume]—to tsivilizatsiia—a higher standard of living through access to modern institutions, infrastructural development, and creature comforts—to kul’tura—something akin to “high culture” as represented by the Houses of Culture [see Nielsen 1994 for an elaboration of the meanings of kul’tura]). In effect, House of Culture staff members in Shagonar did not want the additional responsibility and burden that came along with greater selfadministration. Anne White noted a similar reluctance at the very beginning of the perestroika period: “[P]erestroika also creates new problems: House of Culture directors do not like to be told by the ministry ‘decide

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for yourselves’ even if it is only to fix the price of membership for an amateur association” (White 1990: 115). Shagonar’s House of Culture workers likewise did not want to be told to “decide for themselves,” especially when it came to coming up with funding. Rather, they want and expect from the state the overarching institutional framework and structures that they have become accustomed to and within which they can express themselves without having to worry about funding issues. The formal bureaucracy and official institutional structures of the Soviet era provided a degree of security—a roof over people’s heads, so to speak—but locally people were able to “hollow it out from within” by ethnically and regionally based systems (Nielsen 1994), thereby making it their own. This is reminiscent of David Anderson’s discussion of “citizenship regimes” (1996). Anderson rejects the myth of the “complete absence of any kind of autonomously managed or socially meaningful public sphere” in Soviet times (1996: 99): “[Y]ears of resistance and negotiation with a rigid yet segmental bureaucratic structure also formed a tradition of civic practice which came to be experienced as varied citizenship regimes” (1996: 107). In this way, a form of civil society (o en assumed not to have existed during Soviet times) managed to percolate up from within the state-run institutions, including the Houses of Culture. Law 131 threatens the security that the roof of state-run institutions has provided. Moreover, in Tyva as well as many other parts of Russia, people complain that this law does not provide the necessary mechanisms for effectively realizing such local self-administration. As Gel’man et al. put it, while the concept of local self-administration is still in the official lexicon, it has been “emasculated” (2008: 91). In Shagonar in 2006, the law was experienced on the ground not as a tool of empowerment, but rather as a way for the higher levels of government (federal and republic) to slough off the financial responsibility for institutions such as the House of Culture, and put the burden on local administrations. This is the result of inherent contradictions between the 1990s decentralization and the recentralizing tendencies of the Putin era. The “restructuring” mandated by Law 131 in effect simply codified in law problems of financing that the House of Culture had been struggling with for some time. Gel’man et al. note that throughout Russia, “[t]he government’s striving for ever-greater concentration of financial resources in the Center, while at the same time striving to shi the burden of responsibility for the current state of affairs onto organs of local self-administration, has aggravated a multitude of problems for the municipalities” (Gel’man et al. 2008: 90). We heard above how Kherel Kyrgys, the director of the Department of Culture, could not afford to

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pay talented people enough to keep them, and how he had to beg for money for gasoline to get the performers to Kyzyl (and that was not the only time I saw him begging for money that should have been there as a ma er of course). He explained that money budgeted for the House of Culture and other cultural institutions simply does not materialize. Because of this, they have to beg for money all the time from the district administration, and they never know until the last minute whether it will come through or not. In fact, while I was there at least one event—a concert by House of Culture performers scheduled to take place in one of the smaller villages of the district—was canceled at the last moment for lack of money for gasoline. Kyrgys also mentioned that in the past, people and organizations that supported cultural events and cultural institutions got certain tax breaks for doing so. Now, however, they do not get those breaks, so they will only agree to provide financial support if they can use it for advertising purposes, by having their name wri en up on the sign on stage, or at least being announced as sponsors of an event. This gave rise to one of the main day-to-day activities for House of Culture workers that I observed while I was there: soliciting sponsorships for events. A few days a er the Tyva—Bisting Örgeevis show, I was si ing in the office of the metodisty, talking with Alevtina Krasinovna Dorzhukai, aged thirty-eight, who has been working for the DK for twenty years, since graduating from school. She explained that for the 9 May (Victory Day) celebrations, there would be several events: at about noon in the foyer, there would be a shailaashkan (luncheon, organized by her) for all frontoviki (veterans who saw active duty) who have served in wars past, including World War II, Afghanistan, and Chechnya; a concert to be held outside by the WWII monument; and a parade. She said the shailaashkan would cost 3,000 rubles, of which the city would pay half, and the other half she said had to come out of her pocket. Ailana Tsyrenzhapova (the head metodist), who was doing some paperwork at her desk, raised her head from her work and said, “Well, you wouldn’t have to pay for it if you had tried to find sponsors.” Alevtina acknowledged this, but said she did not really know where to look for sponsorship—she had already hit everybody up earlier for other events. I offered to put up the other half in the name of the Siberian Studies Centre of the Max Planck Institute, which she gratefully accepted. A couple of weeks later, Nadezhda Kara-Sal was working on the scenario for the Mini-Miss beauty pageant. She explained that she felt bad because people from the villages are coming with their daughters and spending huge amounts of money on the necessary clothes and cos-

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tumes, but thus far they had been having trouble ge ing sponsors to put up the prize money. She had already posted signs for the Mini-Miss pageant, asking parents of participants to help sponsor the event: “We request parents to step forward as sponsors of their own children.”4 She said she was hi ing up the head surgeon at the hospital, who had been her classmate in school, and people from various branches of government. She was making up special invitations to all current and potential sponsors, but she explained that she was not approaching commercial enterprises for this event, because other House of Culture employees were hi ing them up for money to sponsor the festivities for International Children’s Day (1 June). They have developed an informal but coordinated plan about who hits up whom for money and for which event, so as not to overstretch their relationships with potential sponsors. Another means the House of Culture has turned to recently to fund activities is to rent out the facilities for private affairs. So, for example, one day as I was leaving the theater, someone was se ing up tables in the foyer and laying them with food for some kind of ceremony. I asked Tolya, one of my acquaintances, what it was for. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “A funeral service or something.” But it looked too festive to be a funeral service, with balloons and painted banners. In turns out it was for a khylbyktaar, a Tyvan celebration for the first cu ing of a child’s hair at age three. I asked about such uses of the House of Culture, and Tolya said, “They’re always using it for one thing or another—of course, you have to pay for it.” While I was in Shagonar there were several such events, including a high school reunion, at least two khylbyktaar, a wedding reception, and birthday parties. According to Sasha Ondar, a young House of Culture worker who is a singer and o en operates the equipment for such functions, people pay 2,500 rubles (US$100) for use of the room and equipment. He said they o en ask him to sing as well. That’s not part of the package, he explains, but he’ll sing for a li le extra. So when they pay him to sing, he can get an extra 500–1,000 rubles per event, which is his money, not the House of Culture’s. But an even bigger funding problem than financing events was the issue of salaries for culture workers. Ailana Tsyrenzhapova, the head metodist and the daughter of choreographer Nadezhda Chul’dumovna Barnakova, gets only 2,900 rubles (US$115) per month; the director of the House of Culture, Tat’iana Mongush, gets about 4,000 (US$160). Salaries are not something that can be funded on an ad-hoc sponsorship basis, and Law 131 says nothing about mechanisms through which local administrations can raise revenues to cover such things as salaries for culture workers. But despite these low salaries, and in the case of

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people like Nadezhda Barnakova, no salaries at all, Shagonar’s culture workers sincerely worked their hearts out.

From the Visitors’ Perspective In this last section, I would like to change gears a bit and address the House of Culture from the perspective of its visitors rather than its workers. Of the five research sites, Shagonar exhibited the highest percentage of people who go to the House of Culture frequently (51 percent; the next highest was Kosh-Agach at 30 percent), despite the fact that it also had the highest percentage of respondents disagreeing with the statement “The House of Culture has interesting events,” and the highest percentage of people acknowledging that they would go more o en if events were more interesting. Three-quarters of teenagers in Shagonar said that they go frequently, while a quarter of adults go to the House of Culture frequently, which is twice the average of all locations. We can speculate that this more frequent a endance has to do with the socioeconomic status of Shagonar. In the first place, there is simply no other public place to spend one’s leisure time—no cinema, no restaurant, no internet café. Second, the unemployment rate in Shagonar is higher than in any of the other sites. Of survey respondents no longer in school but also not pensioners (i.e., those eligible to be in the work force), 33 percent identified themselves as “unemployed,” which is in line with the unofficial unemployment figure given by the Shagonar employment office. Fewer people in Shagonar said that they did not have time to go to the House of Culture (42 percent) than in any of the other field sites. Clearly, unemployment and limited opportunities for other leisure activities leave more free time in Shagonar than in the other places. Rather, the factors limiting a endance at the Shagonar House of Culture have more to do with a perceived lack of order, both in terms of other people’s behavior and in terms of the maintenance of general order in the House of Culture. The highest response to the statement “I would go to the House of Culture more o en if …” was “if things at the House of Culture were in be er order,” with 48 percent of respondents agreeing. In fact, the next highest was Kosh-Agach (Altai Republic) with 15 percent for this particular response. Four main problems were mentioned in this context: 1. The lack of upkeep, especially with the wood-and-aluminum frame seats in the auditorium, which were hard, broken down,

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very uncomfortable, and even dangerous, with sharp metal edges on the armrests that in the past had been covered with wood and padding; 2. The temperature in the auditorium was always freezing (and I was there in May and June), and people had to come all bundled up to sit through a performance. 3. The fact that nothing started anywhere near on time. The average amount of time major events were late was two hours; one event started a full three hours later than announced. 4. The fact that sometimes things that are announced do not happen, and sometimes things that are not announced happen without any notification. When I mentioned the difficulties I was having trying to figure out what was going on, Sasha Ondar laughed and said, “Yeah, sometimes we don’t do what’s on the plan, sometime we do things that aren’t on the plan. Hey, we’re spontaneous around here!” In addition to the abovementioned problems of order, the second highest response to the statement “I would go to the House of Culture more o en if …” was, “if people behaved be er.” In the Shagonar sample, 48 percent of respondents agreed with this statement. None of the other Houses of Culture had such high numbers (again, Kosh-Agach was next with 15 percent). This I believe reflects a reality of life in Tyva that has been confirmed in numerous studies showing that Tyva is one of the administrative units in Russia with the highest rates of homicide and other violent crimes, which are for the most part alcohol related.5 And as noted above, Shagonar has the reputation of being one of the most dangerous towns in Tyva. For this reason, most people choose to stay home a er dark. Several informants specifically noted the problem of fights and drinking as reasons why they do not go to the discos at the House of Culture (during the school year there are discos organized by the schools that are tamer). As one interviewee said about the discos at the House of Culture, “Basically everyone there is completely drunk and nothing good goes on there. It’s u erly criminal!” I asked Sasha Ondar, the House of Culture worker who organizes and supervises discos, about drinking and fights during the discos. He said, “Oh, yeah, of course … fights, knives, whatever.” When I asked whether there was a policeman on duty, he said, “Well, they’re supposed to be here. Sometimes they’re here, sometimes they’re not. Sometimes they themselves come drunk!” He said it was up to him to try to stop fights. A higher number of those surveyed in Shagonar than in other places mentioned that difficulty of ge ing to the House of Culture was an-

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other reason they did not a end frequently or at all. This was borne out in interviews, as respondents complained that the location of the House of Culture was not convenient for people living in the further reaches of the cher bazhyngnar. The House of Culture is located in the “center” of town, if one considers the center to be the main business area. It is on the same street as the “White House” and the post office; the gimnaziia (a selective secondary school) is right next door to the House of Culture, and School No. 1 is just down the street. One of the li le open-air markets is just up the street, and most of the shops and all of the ka”t bazhyngnar (five-story apartment blocks) are located there in the “center” as well. But in fact it is more on the edge of town. It was the first part of the new Shagonar that was built. The “temporary” houses were built fairly far to the south and east of this “center,” to leave room for all the anticipated city buildings. However, these buildings were never built, so there is a large expanse of empty space between the “center” and the neighborhoods of cher bazhyngnar. The furthest reaches of these neighborhoods are up to three kilometers away from the House of Culture on what are dry and dusty roads when there is no rain, and sloppy mud during rainy times. Moreover, there is absolutely no public transportation in Shagonar—not even marshrutnyi (share taxis that are the main form of public transportation in most Siberian cities). There are only private taxis that charge twenty to thirty rubles per ride, which is a lot of money relative to available income. So distance from the House of Culture, difficulty of transportation, and fear of walking outside a er dark (which really limits people during the short days and long nights of winter), all conspire to discourage people from visiting the House of Culture very o en, even if they were so inclined. Another issue that remains just below the surface is the ethnic distinction between Tyvans and non-Tyvans (mostly Russians). Overt tension was never evident in interactions I witnessed at the House of Culture or other institutions (e.g., schools); rather, a spirit of community and cooperation seemed to be the norm. However, in interviews with both Tyvans and Russians it became clear that the House of Culture was perceived as an almost exclusively Tyvan sphere, with Russians implicitly excluded. This is in contrast to the way it had been in the past. Shagonar itself was founded by Russian Cossacks in 1888, and throughout most of its history was a bit of a Russian stronghold in a republic numerically dominated by Tyvans. However, as noted earlier, ethnic tensions bubbled to the surface in the late 1980s and early 1990s, and Shagonar was at the center of these tensions. This led to an exodus of Russians from Shagonar in the early 1990s: whereas Russians made up between 40 and 50 percent of Shagonar’s population throughout the

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twentieth century up to and including the time of the 1989 census, by the 2002 census they represented only 15 percent. This rather abrupt demographic shi brought about changes in the overall character of the town: in Soviet times Russians had an equal if not leading role in most local institutions, including the House of Culture; now, however, they are no longer visible. One respondent, a seventeen-year-old Tyvan female, said, “Russians don’t go to the House of Culture because there’s nothing interesting there for them. For the most part only Tyvans gather there, and they only have concerts in Tyvan.” Another high school student, a male whose father is Russian and mother is Tyvan and who speaks Tyvan fluently and frequents the House of Culture, said, “All of my friends go to the House of Culture. Except for the Russians. They don’t go because there are never concerts in Russian, only in Tyvan.” Another seventeen-year-old Russian female said simply, “We Russians just don’t go to the House of Culture.”

Conclusion In her seminal work on socialist cultural policies in Hungary, Poland, and the USSR, Anne White observes that “cultural enlightenment” as an ideological project “has lost a great deal of legitimacy” (White 1990: 9). But in light of what has happened economically, socially, politically (especially with the changes wrought by Law 131), and, yes, culturally since the collapse of the Soviet Union, to many people in Tyva, and especially to the “culturites” (see King, this volume) working in Houses of Culture, state support of and even control over cultural enlightenment does not look like such a bad idea. Many respondents lamented the lack of a guiding principle, and while they would not have suggested a return to the enforced Marxist-Leninist ideology of Soviet times, at least there was a guiding principle. Nowadays it seems to be only about money and mindless entertainment. Il’ia Mokhov, the old accordionist, lamented the need for the House of Culture to support itself financially. He reminisced about past times when the Communist Party supported the work of the House of Culture. “I wasn’t a party member, but what they did was good,” he said. “But now the workers here are only thinking about raising money. There’s no emphasis on moral issues; moral-ethical norms are gone.” The overriding sense, especially among culture workers, is that this lack of emphasis on moral and ethical issues has led to a decline in the overall level of “culture” in all its various meanings.

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In this context, let us give the final word to Kherel Kyrgys, the head of the District Department of Culture: “If the government would put kul’tura higher on their list of priorities, then they would get rid of a lot of ‘uncultured’ aspects of life, like drunkenness, thieves, drugs, and suicide. Kul’tura is the face and the soul of a nation.” Notes I conducted fieldwork in Shagonar from 23 April to 12 June 2006. I would like to thank the kollektiv of the House of Culture, especially Ailana Tsyrenzhapova, Ale ina Dospan, Buian Kuular, and Tat’iana Mongush for welcoming me into their House and sharing very openly their hopes and disappointments. I would also like to thank Kherel Kyrgys for making sure I had complete access to all materials I needed and for being an excellent host in general. Finally, my thanks go to the family of Mergen, Nelli, Arzhaana, and Buian Damdyn for providing me with a warm house and hot meals throughout my stay in Shagonar. Nelli Damdyn also served as my research assistant. 1. The name Shagonar is the Russified version of the town’s Tyvan name, Shagaa Aryg, which comes from Mongolian and means “white forest” or “white canal,” depending on whom you ask. 2. In terms of energy production capacity, which is 6,400 megawa s. 3. The issue of boarding schools for children of nomadic families, however, is one aspect of the imposed educational system that many Tyvans have ambivalent feelings about (see Bloch 2003 for a discussion of the impact of boarding schools on Evenki). 4. Pros’ba roditelei vystupit’ v litse sponsora dlia svoikh detei. 5. Such statistics are regularly reported in Russian and Tyvan media, and can be readily found on the internet using a search engine. One such report asserts, “Every year for more than two decades Tyva has been the region with the highest level of crime” (h p://revolution.allbest.ru/law/00016306_0.html, accessed 20 July 2010). It should be noted, however, that since 2007 the Tyvan government has been reporting significant reductions in crime throughout the republic (see, for example, h p://www.tuvarsp.ru/news/news56290.php, accessed 20 July 2010).

References Anderson, David G. 1996. “Bringing Civil Society to an Uncivilized Place: Citizenship Regimes in Russia’s Arctic Frontier.” In Civil Society: Approaches from Anthropology, ed. Chris Hann and Elizabeth Dunn, pp. 99–120. London: Routledge. Bloch, Alexia. 2003. Red Ties and Residential Schools: Indigenous Siberians in a PostSoviet State. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Eismont, Maria. 1996. “The Republic of Tuva: Can’t Live With Russia, Can’t Live Without Her.” Prism, December. Jamestown Foundation.

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Gel’man, Vladimir, Sergei Ryzhenkov, Elena Belokurova, and Nadezhda Borisova. 2008. Reforma mestnoi vlasti v goradakh Rossii 1991-2006 [Reform of Local Power in the Cities of Russia 1991–2006]. Sankt-Peterburg: Norma. McMullen, Ronald. 1993. “Tuva: Russia’s Tibet or the Next Lithuania?” European Security 2, no. 3: 451–460. Nielsen, Finn Sivert. 1994. “Soviet Culture—Russian Kul’tura: Culture, Ideology and Globalization in the Soviet Union and Therea er, as Compared to Similar Western Phenomena.” Paper presented at the seminar Continuity and Change in Post-Soviet Societies, Skibotn, Norway, October 1994. h p://www .anthrobase.com/Txt/N/Nielsen_F_S_02.htm (accessed 29 July 2010). White, Anne. 1990. De-Stalinization and the House of Culture: Declining State Control Over Leisure in the USSR, Poland and Hungary, 1953-1989. New York: Routledge.


6 CONSTELLATIONS OF CULTURE WORK IN PRESENT-DAY SIBERIA Joachim O o Habeck, Brian Donahoe, and Siegfried Gruber1

The great variety in the preceding chapters represents the diversity not only of research sites, but also of approaches and visions of the individual anthropologists who conducted the research. This is to be expected from research that is broadly based on such qualitative methods as participant observation and interviewing techniques. However, the reader will recall from the introduction that one of the goals behind this research project was to do a comparative project with all researchers using the same research instruments that had been jointly developed prior to the fieldwork. While these instruments guided and structured the research in all field sites, they remain for the most part in the background of the individual chapters. Our goal in this chapter is to make the comparisons more explicit on the basis of the data gathered and to provide a comparative view of what happens in and around the Houses of Culture in the five Siberian field sites (Illustration I.2 in the Introduction shows their locations). The survey and interview data were collected by the authors of Chapters 1 to 5 of this volume: Brian Donahoe (in Shagonar, Republic of Tyva); Joachim O o Habeck (Kolyvan’, Novosibirsk Region); Agnieszka Halemba (in Kosh-Agach, Altai Republic); István Sántha and Tatiana Safonova (in Kurumkan, Republic of Buriatiia); and Virginie Vaté (in Anadyr’, Chukchi Autonomous Okrug).2 While the research instruments generated a vast quantity of data, space considerations limit us here to a sampling of the findings the authors deem most interesting and significant. Combining survey results with interview data, we can discern the multiple economic, social, and personal factors that determine the thematic profiles and actual levels of activity of each House of Culture. Here we organize and present these findings as a set of interconnected domains: visitors and nonvisitors; activities; expectations; public opinion; and organizational changes. We conclude by presenting the common traits that characterize the work of Houses of Culture in five different

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small towns against the backdrop of an earlier study on the subject (White 1990). Before we proceed, a word on the sampling method we used to select survey respondents is in order. Initially we had hoped to do a random sampling of each se lement so that the results would at least be generalizable to the town as a whole. However, the logistical difficulties of doing such a random sample (ge ing an accurate list of all households in the town, then going door-to-door to all those that fell into the sample, without any kind of entrée into the community, and other problems related to personal safety [dogs, drunks, irate people, etc.]), led to such a sense of discomfort among the researchers that this plan had to be abandoned. Instead, we decided to use the local schools as a point of entry.3 Our decision was to do a random sample of all students in a single grade, and then conduct the survey with them and all the people over the age of 11 who lived in the same household with them.4 Of course, by using this sampling method, we cannot pretend to have a sample that is representative of the entire community; rather, we have samples that are representative of all families in the community that include a ninth-grade student. This sampling method introduces certain biases, most clearly illustrated in the age breakdown of respondents: 47 percent of our respondents were between the ages of 11 and 20, while another 27 percent were between the ages of 36 and 45 (n=428)—in other words, we have a good sampling of the students’ generation, and of their parents’ generation. Our goal was to have sample sizes of at least 80 respondents in each community. In the final analysis, we managed to survey a total of 428 people. The breakdown by community is as follows: Anadyr’: 64; Kolyvan’: 101; Kosh-Agach: 73; Kurumkan: 93; Shagonar: 97. In our analysis, we have weighted responses where necessary so that communities with larger sample sizes will not be overrepresented (in actual fact, the difference between weighted and unweighted statistics was never more than 2 percent). In addition to the survey, we conducted a total of twenty-five interviews with members of staff of the Houses of Culture using a standardized questionnaire (referred to as “Q1,” see Appendix 3). A second questionnaire (“Q2,” see Appendix 4) was used for interviews with local inhabitants. Each researcher was to choose at least ten individuals from among members of the surveyed households with whom to conduct interviews, plus up to five individuals (nonmembers of staff ) encountered in or around the House of Culture. There were fi y-five total Q2 interviews. In addition, more than thirty interviews were conducted with heads of district departments of culture and other local experts.

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Who Goes to the House of Culture? The survey data provide a very clear message: frequency of visits to the House of Culture is highly dependent on age. Of all people interviewed, 76 percent visited the House of Culture at least once during “the last three years” (during the period June 2003 to May 2006, as the survey was conducted in May 2006). Of respondents in the 11-to-20year-old age group, 90 percent said they had visited the House of Culture at least once in the preceding three years, compared to 64 percent of the people more than 20 years of age. Among our respondents older than 20, women generally went to the House of Culture more o en than men. While these general tendencies hold true in all five field sites, we can discern significant differences between places. Grouping people into three categories—those who had not visited the House of Culture at all within these three years, those who occasionally visit the House of Culture, and those who go o en (at least several times per month)—we find that Anadyr’ exhibits the lowest a endance rate overall (61 percent

Graph 6.1 | Frequency of visits to the House of Culture by location. Black: visiting often (at least several times per month); checkered: visiting occasionally; grey: never visiting. Anadyr’: n=64; Kolyvan’: n=101; KoshAgach: n=73; Kurumkan: n=93; Shagonar: n=97; total n=428. 50

Number of respondents

40

30

20

10

0 Anadyr'

Kolyvan'

Kosh-Agach

Kurumkan

Shagonar

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visited the House of Culture at least once in the three years before the survey and only 16 percent reported “frequent” visits to the House of Culture), while Shagonar exhibits the highest a endance rate overall (88 percent visited at least once in the three years before the survey and 51 percent visited frequently).5 Graph 6.2 shows the differences in the frequency of visits to the House of Culture by the occupational status of the respondent. The first group of people—those still involved in formal education—is almost congruent with the 11-to-20 age group, while the other two represent people older than 20. There are certain differences between the population in the workforce and people outside the workforce, but they are very similar to each other when compared to young people still in education. With regard to what people actually do when they visit the House of Culture, the results clearly indicate that in the overwhelming majority of cases, people went there for concerts (70 percent) and organized festivities (54 percent). Visits to the disco, film screenings, exhibitions, and meetings also played a role, though they were much less prominent: 10 to 20 percent of all respondents participated in such activities. Most of these activities were a ended predominantly by the 11-to-20 Graph 6.2 | Frequency of visits to the House of Culture by occupational status. Black: visiting often (at least several times per month); checkered: visiting occasionally; grey: never visiting. “Still in education”: n=191; “working”: n=154; “not working”: n=82; total n=427. 120

Number of respondents

100

80

60

40

20

0 still in education

working

not working

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age group (especially the disco), whereas meetings with a political or social character a racted mostly people older than 20. Festivities and concerts were a ended by the younger and older age group to the same extent. It seems that the frequency of House of Culture visits also leads to more concrete ideas of how to improve the work and appearance of the House of Culture. While fully half of the respondents completed the sentence, “I would go to the House of Culture more o en …” with “if I had more spare time,” there was a wide range of different replies, with Shagonar showing both a high percentage of people frequently visiting the House of Culture and a very diverse range of suggestions how the House of Culture could perform be er (respondents were allowed to give more than one answer).

Nonvisitors: Who Does Not Go to the House of Culture? From the survey and the interviews, we obtained information about why people may not visit the local House of Culture. Survey respondents who did not go to the House of Culture during the last three years were asked about their reasons for not going. The main reason that was given in all fieldwork sites was lack of time (more than 60 percent). Other reasons with rates between 10 and 17 percent included: the person is not interested in what happens in the House of Culture; it is too far away; the person does not know about the activities there. Lack of time was particularly relevant in Anadyr’ (80 percent as compared to 42 percent in Shagonar).6 In Shagonar, on the other hand, were the highest rates for the other three reasons mentioned above. There were a few households (eight households [5 percent] with nineteen members [4 percent]) that can be said to have a “tradition” of not being interested in the House of Culture. In these households nobody visited the House of Culture during the three years before the survey. While these numbers are too small to make any valid generalizations, we can say that these respondents were more involved in “traditional” economic activities (hunting, fishing, and berry picking) than the other respondents. Eleven percent of these respondents answered that they would not go to the House of Culture more o en under any circumstances, which is much higher than the average of 2.4 percent of all respondents. Our interviews with members of staff and visitors to the House of Culture included a question about what people who do not go to the House of Culture have in common and/or why some people do not like

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to go there. Responses were diverse.7 Recurrent—particularly among the staff—was the assumption that this group is made up of individuals who lack the initiative to spend their free time in an active way, and that some of them are more interested in drinking than anything else. For example, the director of the House of Culture in Kurumkan characterized the nongoers thus: “They drink vodka and sit at home. Active people, those who live—those who live really well, they all happen to be at our place. But those who live poorly, such families exist, in general they live miserably. Poor families do not have money, yet they manage to drink.” For the House of Culture workers, lack of interest in cultural activities is clearly linked to poverty, alcohol abuse, delinquency, and other social problems. There were relatively few voices that assume that nongoers may simply have no time to participate in House of Culture activities, or prefer to do other things in their free time. Though the number of our interviews with actual nongoers is very small, they do suggest that “lack of time” is in fact the main reason that people give for not visiting the House of Culture. In contrast to the above characterization as “idle people without interest” or “drunkards,” many though not all nongoers appeared to be conscious of their leisure habits, but they personally preferred to spend their free time at home, in the forest, or in other places. Even among those who never go to the House of Culture, the majority stated that the House of Culture as such is important for the community (see below, “Public Opinion”). In other words, a House of Culture is a good thing to have even if one never goes there. The value lies in the possibility that one could go there.

Activities The above observation returns us to the question posed in the introduction to this volume: To what extent do people a end the House of Culture out of genuine interest, and to what extent out of habit, boredom, or the pressure of social expectations? There are certain formats of activities that provide an important clue to this question, namely, the more formulaic “artistic report” (tvorcheskii otchet) and formal recitals (smotr), on the one hand, and the various types of formirovanie (“circles,” interest groups, etc.), on the other hand. The artistic report and the recital are analogous to the annual concert in, say, a music school, where students must display their skills once a year before an audience. The best participants receive extra recognition and special support for their further advancement. In Houses of Culture in Soviet times, collectives of employees (e.g., factory workers,

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hospital staff, policemen) were expected to show their talents as lay artists. These collectives competed with each other in terms of best performance. Our interview material suggests that this practice appears to have survived in the Houses of Culture in Kosh-Agach and Shagonar, and in some residual form also in Kurumkan and Kolyvan’. Occasionally there were indications that members of staff of important local institutions (hospitals, schools) are more or less expected to appear on the stage of the House of Culture and represent their institution. Moreover, House of Culture employees state that they actually go to these institutions to advertise events and muster people’s active support. More generally, localities compete against each other. Four of the five Houses of Culture that we examined are located in district centers, and in at least three of them their staffs feel responsible for supervising the lay artistic activities (samodeiatel’nost’) not only in the district center but also in the local clubs of surrounding villages. The recitals enable the staff to decide which village, group, or individual should represent the district in important events, such as festivals or contests at the republic level (notably in Buriatiia and Tyva). To be sure, individuals may take pride in such displays of talent. Competitions and contests (sorevnovanie, konkurs) are highly popular; they cover the full range of talents from beauty (which exist in four of five Houses of Culture we studied) to wit and intellect (Klub veselykh i nakhodchivykh,8 in three of the five). Such talent seeking takes the form of tournaments: village against village and district against district. The incentive to participate goes well beyond the individual level. Ideally—if not always in practice—each village, important institution, or (in Kurumkan) ethnic group ought to be present and represented in major contests and festivals. Kul’tura is considered important for everybody and Houses of Culture pursue an inclusive approach, inherited from the mission “to bring culture to the masses.”9 It is for this reason that individuals are encouraged to participate, like it or not, because otherwise their collective (village, institution, ethnic group) may incur a certain loss of reputation. A er all, the Houses of Culture are also involved in a constant competition to prove their success and ability to a ract large numbers of participants. Big events, such as New Year’s Eve, International Women’s Day on 8 March, Victory Day on 9 May, International Children’s Day on 1 June, and regional/ethnic celebrations10 are testament to the local House of Culture’s performance and professional level. For these important events, the staff seek to muster active participation of local inhabitants and, in all the communities we studied, financial support from commercial organizations. These events (meropriiatiia) are the highlights and also the

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peak times of the House of Culture’s work. The director receives the order to conduct the event from the local or regional Department of Culture. Metodisty (trained specialists employed to work in the House of Culture) and other employees prepare scripts (stsenarii) for conducting the event. Standardized scripts are available from books or databases distributed through the centers for organization and methods (ROMTs, raionnyi organizatsionno-metodicheskii tsentr) and can be modified more or less substantially to suit the actual occasion. Seldom is a script written from scratch. When asked about their work routines, House of Culture employees (metodisty and other instructors) most frequently distinguish between events (meropriiatiia) and work with “circles.” The la er is o en called kruzhkovaia rabota, from the term kruzhok, meaning a group of people— usually children—that together learn to sing, dance, or act under the supervision of an adult instructor. In fact, circles aim at the extracurricular education of children. House of Culture workers cooperate with schools in this sphere. “Circles” and other collectives, e.g., interest groups and ensembles of adult lay artists, represent the most intensive type of activity that occurs in Houses of Culture (i.e., a genuine commitment to regular a endance and active participation, rather than a one-off activity such as a concert). As such, they can be seen as an index of genuine and voluntary a endance as opposed to the more passive, o en perfunctory participation in the artistic reports and recitals. Once again, a comparison between the Houses of Culture in Anadyr’ and Shagonar is instructive here. Despite the fact that the Anadyr’ House of Culture showed the lowest level of overall a endance of the five study sites, it had the highest percentage of people involved in interest circles (23 percent overall, 32 percent in the 11-to-20-year-old age group). At the other extreme, Shagonar featured the highest a endance rate overall, yet the lowest involvement in interest circles (only 4 percent overall, 6 percent of 11-to-20-year-olds). “Circles” and other collectives are carefully listed in elaborate annual plans and reports, but our fieldwork showed that in all cases (again with the exception of Anadyr’) their actual number and level of activity deviates significantly from what is wri en in the plans and reports. When asked about this phenomenon, House of Culture workers said that “circles” are more active during autumn and winter, i.e., a er the school year has begun and children feel interested in exploring some new activity (Shagonar); or that the formal existence of a “circle” is not the main criterion since the instructors work with children individually (Kolyvan’, Kurumkan); or that a “circle” can be understood as something that the House of Culture can potentially offer to people

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(Kolyvan’). In any case, by exaggerating the number of “circles” and participants in the official statistical reports, the Houses of Culture seek to maintain or enhance their official status (as explained in the introduction to this volume). Interviews with the staff members indicated that writing plans and reports is itself a tedious and time-consuming, but necessary, activity. Many employees and also older visitors perceived disco evenings as the most problematic type of event. Disco evenings were conducted regularly in all Houses of Culture we studied except in Anadyr’. These events were most popular among respondents of the 11-to-20 age group. However, members of staff and many other interviewees associated disco evenings with consumption of alcohol (in a few cases, also cannabis or other drugs). In accordance with the mission to encourage young people to spend their free time in a cultured way, there were occasional experiments on the part of the staff not simply to play song a er song, but to spice up the evening with a quiz or a thematic focus so that teenagers might learn something about the music they were listening to (cf. Ege 2009: 108–109; White 1990: 77–78). Such efforts, however, were o en to li le avail. As the director of the House of Culture in Kurumkan recollects: “We have tried, how many games and other things have we prepared. But they [the visitors] shout at the DJ, ‘Enough! We are sick of it. We don’t need your games. We don’t need your [thematic] focus. Just music—full volume. We need to dance!’” It is for this reason that House of Culture employees have doubts about the pedagogical value of the disco.

Expectations: What is the Purpose of the House of Culture, and How Can It Work Better? Evaluating the interviews, we can identify certain key expectations of staff and (non-)visitors, which mirror the multiple and sometimes contradictory missions ascribed to the institution. There was a general tendency of visitors to emphasize in our interviews that the House of Culture is a place where one can relax (otdykhat’), meet other people and socialize with them (obshchat’sia), attend concerts and celebrations (prazdniki), get to know new things, and spend one’s free time in creative ways. Some members of staff that we interviewed shared this view, whereas others emphasized the House of Culture’s educational mission, prevention of youth delinquency, and enhancement of the overall level of kul’tura through the development of lay artists’ talents. Hence we may conclude that the expectations of

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the visitors and those of the members of staff overlap to some extent, but are not fully congruent. Interestingly, the concept of (cultural) enlightenment (prosveshchenie) which was so central in earlier decades is nowadays of quite peripheral significance, though it was occasionally mentioned in interviews with staff and also visitors.11 Instead, the idea of leisure (dosug) has gained prominence and routinely figures in official documents.12 There was widespread agreement among respondents that the House of Culture is needed—as a venue for assemblies and elections, extracurricular education of children, preservation of local traditions, and spending one’s free time in a useful manner. The la er aspect—leisure to a purpose—was usually contrasted with “idle” forms of pastime and alcohol consumption. Ideally, visits to the House of Culture prevent people from ge ing drunk or engaging in “deviant” behavior. It has a prophylactic function. For example: This just depends on the education, on the person. Whether he enjoys si ing at home, drinking beer and falling facedown into the salad or goes to the Houses of Culture to see what’s happening there. All the more, it can be interesting here, performances, various shows. (Male visitor to the rock club at the House of Culture in Anadyr’) Houses of Culture … should differ from other institutions. It’s not an institution for amusement, not in the sense that you relax here with the help of alcohol. Instead, the nourishment should be somehow spiritual in order to receive some kind of moral satisfaction. Alcohol should not play any role here at all. (Female metodist at the House of Culture of Kolyvan’) The House of Culture is not only needed for the realization of different events and celebrations, but also for the socialization of the youth, since they visit the House of Culture and spend their free time there. This keeps them away from deviant, wrongful behavior. (Mother of three children, occasional visitor to the House of Culture in Shagonar)

We asked members of staff (Q1) and other inhabitants (Q2: visitors and nonvisitors) about how they imagine the ideal House of Culture. A few interviewees in Anadyr’ spontaneously stated that their House of Culture is quite close to the ideal one. All other statements can be taken as indirect suggestions about how the current situation of the local House of Culture could be improved. They reveal specific shortcomings in individual communities.13 • Being asked how they imagine the ideal House of Culture, many Q2 interviewees responded that the building should be larger, nicer, and/or more up to date (in all places except Anadyr’). However, others indicated that the House of Culture building in their

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•

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place of residence is actually large enough and it is more a matter of organizing that space in an efficient manner so that different kinds of work can take place in a suitable environment. For example, respondents said there should be designated areas for rehearsals, quiet zones for libraries, more office space, a larger stage, a café, etc. It should have a nice, a ractive, inviting interior (e.g., adequate furniture, plants), and the decoration should be designed with care. Such statements came up in all fieldwork sites, including Anadyr’. Many people replied that there should be be er technical equipment. They indicated that the equipment at “their” House of Culture is either insufficient, or not working, or both. Access to internet for visitors, however, is very rarely mentioned. Many Q2 respondents think that the overall level of activity (frequency of events and/or intensity of work) can or should be improved. In Kurumkan such statements came up somewhat more frequently than in other field sites. A smaller but still significant number of Q2 respondents think that the diversity of activities could or should be enlarged. This would make the House of Culture more a ractive. Respondents sometimes mention that the ideal House of Culture would have a large number of visitors. They usually mention this in connection with one or more of the above issues, implying that a large number of visitors is a result of good conditions and interesting activities. A considerable number of Q2 respondents state that the ideal House of Culture should be a place for everybody. By that they generally mean people of all ages, although in Kurumkan and Shagonar the statement more o en refers to inclusivity regardless of ethnicity (among other things).14 Obshchenie (spending time to together, talking to each other) seems to be important in some field sites: people say that in the ideal House of Culture, “one can socialize” (mozhno poobshchat’sia, notably in Anadyr’ and Kurumkan). This would point to the function of the House of Culture as a meeting point, a place where one can chat with one’s friends and neighbors. A significant number of respondents in Anadyr’ and Kurumkan spoke about the role of the House of Culture as an institution where people receive knowledge, education, can realize themselves and/or acquire new skills. Very few respondents envision the ideal House of Culture as a place where political issues and/or social problems are discussed,

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and where people can get advice in childrearing or in case of financial difficulties. (Compare Putniņa in Chapter 9, stating that in Latvia local initiatives seek to solve social problems and mend the social network in the countryside, but they do not see the House of Culture as a suitable base for doing so.)

Public Opinion Our survey respondents were asked about their agreement to four statements about the House of Culture: “The House of Culture is important for our community”; “The House of Culture hosts interesting events”; “The House of Culture needs more support”; and “The House of Culture is a remnant of old times.” There were four possible degrees of agreement to these statements: strongly disagree, rather disagree, rather agree, and strongly agree. More than 90 percent of the people agreed that the House of Culture is important for their community (Graph 6.3). Strong agreement even reached 75 percent in Kolyvan’ and Kosh-Agach, but only half of Graph 6.3 | Agreement to the statement “The House of Culture is important for our community” by location. Black: strongly disagree; checkered: rather disagree; light grey: rather agree; dark grey: strongly agree. Anadyr’: n=64; Kolyvan’: n=101; Kosh-Agach: n=73; Kurumkan: n=93; Shagonar: n=97; total n=428. 80

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the people in Anadyr’ and Kurumkan agreed strongly. Collapsing responses into agree/disagree, agreement reaches 93 percent. Only a few specific groups among our respondents showed less than 90 percent agreement: the lowest agreement was among that small group with a family tradition of not visiting the House of Culture (74 percent), followed by those who had not visited the House of Culture in the three years prior to survey (84 percent). Almost half of the respondents strongly agreed that the House of Culture hosts interesting events (Graph 6.4). In Kolyvan’ even threequarters strongly agreed, while in Kurumkan less than a third strongly agreed. In four of the five sites overall agreement (strongly agree plus agree) reaches 85 percent (in Kolyvan’ even 98 percent), while in Shagonar 23 percent disagreed. This result appears somewhat paradoxical in light of the earlier finding that Shagonar has the highest rates of attendance, but can be explained at least in part by the lack of alternative venues for leisure-time activities. Responses to the statement, “The House of Culture needs more support,” highlights some interesting differences between Anadyr’ and the other field sites (Graph 6.5): 36 percent of the respondents in Anadyr’ Graph 6.4 | Agreement to the statement “The House of Culture hosts interesting events” by location. Black: strongly disagree; checkered: rather disagree; light grey: rather agree; dark grey: strongly agree. Anadyr’: n=64; Kolyvan’: n=101; Kosh-Agach: n=73; Kurumkan: n=93; Shagonar: n=97; total n=428. 80

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Graph 6.5 | Agreement to the statement “The House of Culture needs more support” by location. Black: strongly disagree; checkered: rather disagree; light grey: rather agree; dark grey: strongly agree. Anadyr’: n=64; Kolyvan’: n=101; Kosh-Agach: n=73; Kurumkan: n=93; Shagonar: n=97; total n=428.

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disagreed with the statement, while only 18 percent strongly agreed. At the other extreme, only 12, 9, and 8 percent disagreed in Kolyvan’, Kosh-Agach, and Shagonar, respectively, while 59, 75, and 66 percent of the respondents in those communities strongly agreed. This clearly demonstrates the public perception of the relatively well-funded status of the Anadyr’ House of Culture, which has recently been rebuilt and furnished with generous financial and technical support. Half of the respondents disagreed strongly with the statement that the House of Culture is a remnant of old times (perezhitok starykh vremen) (Graph 6.6). Disagreement was strongest in Anadyr’ and KoshAgach (60 percent). In Kosh-Agach the population was more polarized in this question than in other field sites, having also the highest rate of strong agreement (21 percent). Overall about a quarter of the respondents agreed that the House of Culture is a remnant of old times; in Kolyvan’ even a third agreed. Our survey analysis shows that this is the statement with the highest variation in agreement/disagreement between different groups of the population. This ambivalence may result in part from some respondents interpreting “remnant” negatively, as

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Graph 6.6 | Agreement to the statement “The House of Culture is a remnant of old times” by location. Black: strongly disagree, checkered: rather disagree, light grey: rather agree, dark grey: strongly agree. Anadyr’: n=64; Kolyvan’: n=101; Kosh-Agach: n=73; Kurumkan: n=93; Shagonar: n=97; total n=428. 50

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something to be abolished, and other respondents interpreting the term positively, as something to be kept and cherished. From the interviews we can refine the survey analysis and discern several positions. Of the fi y-eight interviews in which House of Culture employees and other respondents (visitors and nonvisitors) responded to this question, forty-four claimed that they do not agree with the statement that the House of Culture is a remnant of old times. Typically, these respondents provided one or several of the arguments that follow: (1) Surely, in Soviet times, people were induced to go to the House of Culture, had to participate in ideological lectures, watch agitprop films, and a end old-fashioned dances, but nowadays the House of Culture is a very different institution; (2) the House of Culture has progressed with time (“v nogu s vremenem”) and implemented new activities and methods; (3) without Houses of Culture, where would people go for a concert, where would they spend their free time, where else would they go? A number of respondents even expressed surprise that someone would suggest that the House of Culture was a remnant of past times.15 Three individuals stated that the House of Culture is in-

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deed a remnant of the old times, but they expressed this not as a critique, but rather as a positive trait, reflecting the opinion that some things at least were be er and more orderly in Soviet times. Thus, a female culture worker in Anadyr’, born in 1963, explained with some bi erness: [Culture work] is not financed, there is now the slogan that it is a “remnant” (perezhitok). Instead we successfully build prisons, they are overcrowded, since we have many drug addicts. We grieve over this in newspapers, establish rehab centers, cure nineteen-year-olds from alcoholism, and establish some kind of commissions to deal with youth delinquency. I think it’s be er to return to that remnant—it’ll be cheaper and easier.

Only one individual, a male teenager from Kosh-Agach, expressed a clearly negative a itude toward the House of Culture’s role in society today: “In the old times all people went there. Well, during the old times of the Soviet Union, it was then, perhaps, more interesting. But now, what is there? Boozing, fighting. Well, and basically all people [here] think so.” Ten persons gave answers that cannot be grouped under either “yes” or “no.”

Organizational Changes and Funding As comes through most clearly in the chapters on Kosh-Agach (Halemba) and Shagonar (Donahoe), the restructuring of the Houses of Culture occasioned by the implementation of Federal Law 131 (“On general principles of organizing local self-administration in the Russian Federation”) was a major cause of concern for House of Culture staff members in most field sites. The law is intended to make a break from centralized, Soviet-style vertical principles of governance by devolving authority and responsibility for solving “problems of local significance” (voprosy mestnogo znacheniia) that immediately impact local communities down to local-level institutions of administration. Included in the long list of such problems detailed in the law is “the creation of conditions for the organization of leisure and the provision of services for the organization of culture for the local inhabitants” (article 14, paragraph 12). The law has been presented as an “opportunity” for greater local selfadministration, but in most places it is experienced as an unwanted burden. As Gel’man et al. note in their critical analysis of this reform, “In legal terms the scope of local self-administration in Russia does not differ much from that of local self-administration in the majority of Western European countries. But the political and economic condi-

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tions for its realization in Russia differ completely and essentially from Western European countries” (2008: 22). Implementation of the new law has caused a great deal of confusion between overlapping levels of governance (e.g., districts and se lements within districts) over jurisdiction and authority. In Kosh-Agach, the law appears to threaten the very existence of the district-level Department of Culture, and has provided the possibility for one opportunistic local leader to further consolidate his authoritarian control over local cultural institutions (see Halemba, Chapter 4). In Shagonar (Donahoe, Chapter 5), the new law is perceived as pu ing additional unwelcome pressure on an already overstretched, overburdened, and underpaid staff. Vladimir Miller, the head of the Department of Culture of Novosibirsk Oblast’, explained to Habeck that the main impact of this reform in the sphere of culture is to turn cultural services into a good to be traded on the market. The municipalities now formulate their “demands” in the sphere of culture (e.g., certain celebrations or public events) and call for “bids” (zakaz, grant). Cultural institutions are to become independent organizations in their own right (juridical persons) that formulate and offer their cultural services. Cultural organizations may consist of a single House of Culture or several: it is up to the directors of village clubs and Houses of Culture if and with whom they want to merge. They should fund themselves from different types of sources: (1) through the “bids” mentioned above; (2) through soliciting sponsorships from local businesses, organizations, and individuals; (3) through offering such services as internet access, disco evenings, or the musical arrangement and technical support for weddings and other ceremonies to the people and other organizations in the community and charging a fee for it (platnye uslugi); (4) through a mixture of the two, for example holding a concert on a public holiday and charging admission (chastichno platnye uslugi); and (5) through fixed sums that they receive from the municipality for certain basic operational expenses: salaries, heating, water, and electricity, and/or expenses for a minimal stock of books in a village library. Miller called these basic expenses obiazalovka (“the obligatory bit”) since they cannot be managed through “bids.” The question that arises in this (distorted) free-market situation, then, is: Which municipality (munitsipal’noe obrazovanie) should cover these basic expenses—the district or the village/small town? The answer is: the municipality where the cultural organization provides the bulk of its services. It is for this reason that many former district Houses of Culture have recently come to be affiliated with the village (sel’skoe poselenie) or small town (gorodskoe poselenie) in which they are located, and not the district (raion): the House of Culture, the logic goes, serves the

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cultural demands of the people in the district center—the small town— rather than the district (raion) as a whole. This has become a bone of contention in many cases, as Halemba’s case study illustrates. Federal Law 131 itself does not dictate to which municipality the House of Culture should affiliate; it provides the possibility for the district (raion) to “keep” the cultural organization and cover its basic costs, or for the small town (gorod, poselok) to take over. One further aspect of the restructuring is the fate of the district departments of culture (raionnyi otdel kul’tury) and other (higher) levels of administration that used to manage the Houses of Culture and libraries. With the new reforms, they stand to lose their executive role and take on a coordinating, “guiding” role. The restructuring of district departments of culture into “district organizational and methodological centers” (raionnye organizatsionno-metodicheskie tsentry) exemplifies this trend: they are supposed to provide methodological assistance rather than vertical control. The still-extant system of writing plans and reports and filling in statistical forms, a holdover from Soviet times, indicates that both supervisors and those they supervise cling to the vertical system of management. Culture workers in all five places do not want to forego state provisioning and thus do not oppose the pro forma control of state authorities. There is no real market for cultural services. Platnye uslugi (paid-for services) exist, in Kolyvan’ as well as elsewhere (Kurumkan), but they are “side lines,” a type of moonlighting for culture workers. It appears that the “culturites” want to keep the state-supported House of Culture as an umbrella organization and a front for their private commercial activities. They combine work for a very low salary in the public sector with their own activities outside to make a living.

Conclusion: A Precarious Existence, Continued Anne White’s book De-Stalinization and the House of Culture (1990) provided much inspiration for our comparative research project. We deem it suitable to conclude our comparative overview by responding to and addressing White’s main findings on the workings of cultural enlightenment and the public sphere of culture in the last decade of the Soviet Union. By linking our findings with those of White, we are able to present the commonalities of culture work in five Siberian small towns in a broader frame—broader time-wise and in terms of state-level political conditions.

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Illustration 6.1 | A performance of the agitbrigada of the House of Culture of Kolyvan’ in 1974. One of the main tasks of agitbrigady was to bring political education and entertainment to remote villages and camps. Courtesy of the Kolyvan’ Regional Museum.

White concludes her book with the question of whether one could speak of “the death of Communist cultural enlightenment” (1990: 151). She declares that Soviet-type cultural enlightenment is made up of three key principles (1990: 158): “These are belief in the need to equalize access to culture, belief that access to culture changes human behavior, and belief that the party should control both processes, deciding what constitutes suitable ‘culture.’” It is the third tenet, White holds, that is problematic and contradictory in itself. Since the 1960s, the leading role of the Communist Party in cultural enlightenment had gradually become fictional, and by the same token the authorities in charge of cultural enlightenment came to create “a fiction of public involvement” (1990: 156). Depicting the relation between state/party institutions and local communities in the light of antagonism, White draws the conclusion that the state might (and probably should) continue to support equal access to culture, but it should stay away from defining what “suitable culture” is. Only in that case can local cultural institutions really take into account the initiatives from the public and become a place where the local community can “return to local or national cul-

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tural traditions” and satisfy its cultural needs in an “authentic” way (1990: 154–155). Twenty years on, then, we are to ask: Is the idea of state-driven cultural enlightenment really dead? And what has happened to the Houses of Culture in Russia as the long-time promoters of this idea? The two first principles of cultural enlightenment—culture should be a common good, and culture is essential for becoming a good person—are alive and abundantly present in the interviews that we conducted and in the survey data, whereas the third principle appears to have gone into a state of limbo. On the one hand, the mission of the House of Culture has changed, and so have the names of many institutions. There is a perceptible discursive shi , away from “enlightenment” and toward “leisure,” even though old ideas about the mission and old strategies of public involvement are very much alive in some places. The call for some state-controlled authority to make sure that people consume “suitable culture” seems just around the corner. In particular, our research documents a ubiquitous concern about youth delinquency and alcohol abuse, and “suitable culture” (leisure to a purpose) is seen as a social remedy. The return to local cultural traditions was imminent in the Russian Federation of the early 1990s. In particular, ethnic “revival” (vozrozhdenie) was a theme of public debate in all republics and other administrative units named a er non-Russian titular nations (see, for example, contributions in Kasten 2005). Four of our five case studies are located in such regions (also compare King, Chapter 8). The House of Culture has o en been used as a stage upon which ethnic identities were enacted, debated, reshaped, and transformed. Vaté and Diatchkova (Chapter 1) depict the Iaranga, a branch of the House of Culture in Anadyr’, in a separate building, as a hotspot of revival of folk culture in the early 1990s. Interviewees remember the informal atmosphere of the Iaranga (White’s notion of “authentic” cultural involvement comes to mind here). However, already by the late 1990s the peak of the grassroots ethnic movements was over, and many of these movements were gradually coopted and formalized by state institutions. We may suppose that many culture workers in the titular republics have a complex relationship to ethnicity: displays of ethno-culture are their everyday business, but the multicultural, artistic aspect of such displays should not be tainted by political claims (see Chapters 2 and 8). On the other hand, in certain regions where ethnic relations are not so easy, the local House of Culture may well serve as a stage for ethnopolitical claims (see Chapter 4). Continuities in the state’s approach to the network of Houses of Culture can be identified with regard to both finances and legal/adminis-

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trative status. Lack of financial support for the public sphere of culture was a problem long before the difficult 1990s: there were always other spheres with higher priority. Leaving finances aside, the success of the House of Culture depended, and depends, on the goodwill of the regional and local heads of administration: as White noted, an “unpublished Soviet survey concluded that the interest of the regional leader was the only essential factor in determining the success of local culturalenlightenment institutions” (1990: 104, emphasis in original). The influence of the regional and district departments of culture was comparatively weak, and the heads of these departments were reported to be in a supplicant position vis-à-vis local administrators and companies, “running about from office to office. … By 1989, he or she was even dispensable, as cultural departments shut down” (1990: 107–108). In our case studies, the highly decisive influence of local political leaders comes to the fore most prominently in Halemba’s case study, but seems plausible also for other locations. Legal and administrative restructuring is nothing new in the public sphere of culture of the Russian Federation. Since early 2005, the state has tried to delegate some of its control over (and responsibilities in) the sphere of culture to the municipal level (see above, Federal Law 131). At first sight, this move seems to be very much in line with White’s conclusion that the state should give up its strategy of vertical power over the Houses of Culture. But their staff, local politicians, and visitors are o en wary of devolution of power without financial provisioning. Implementation of Federal Law 131 and concomitant changes in the public sphere of culture will probably lead to a reduction of cultural institutions (Houses of Culture, village clubs and libraries) in many regions of Russia, simply because rural municipalities with their very meager budgets will have to tackle other, more pressing, issues. In the Soviet past, high-ranking officials, members of staff, and visitors each had their own ideas about the mission of the House of Culture: the first group emphasized the importance of cultural enlightenment as ideological work, whereas members of staff were more interested in artistic aspects, and they were more prone to side with the third group, the local inhabitants with their “wish for entertainment” (White 1990: 123, 155). Judging from our own research, it seems that throughout the 1990s, the political leadership neglected House of Culture affairs, but is now a empting, to some extent and in some regions, to resume its influence in the public sphere of culture, especially as a remedy against social ills.16 Regarding the purpose of the House of Culture and the range of activities it should offer, we have discerned a partial congruence between staff and visitors, with the former pu ing stronger emphasis on

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education and talent seeking, and the la er on relaxation and social interaction. In the past, culture workers’ strategies to find out about people’s interests and to foster their involvement were most effective when informal (White 1990: 129, 145). In the small towns this strategy still applies today, as members of staff rely more strongly on personal contacts than on opinion polls and costly advertising campaigns. To be sure, the results of the survey and the interviews in the five communities may present an overly optimistic picture. The fact that people were aware of our research topic may have induced them to simulate a sympathetic, supportive a itude that they would not have expressed in other, less formal, situations. Each of the authors of the preceding chapters is aware that in many communities in the Russian countryside, the local House of Culture or village club no longer has any relevance, is physically shut, or may still exist on paper but does not a ract any visitors. But our research does show that most inhabitants of the Russian countryside, when asked whether they think the House of Culture is an important institution, will wholeheartedly agree for a number of reasons, both material and immaterial. One of the la er is the pervasive opinion that kul’tura is good in and of itself, and that the House of Culture is the place where kul’tura is supposed to reside, regardless of how the institution actually fares. Notes 1. Siegfried Gruber analyzed the survey data (using SPSS) and provided a textual report with the results of the analysis. Parts of the report have been used in this chapter. 2. In each of the five communities, field assistants helped to conduct the survey and the interviews, and many local authorities gave valuable support. 3. We express our gratitude to Patrick Heady for suggesting this idea as well as for valuable consultations on the organization of the survey. 4. We decided upon the ninth grade for two main reasons: first of all, ninthgraders are generally 15–17 years old, therefore old enough to understand the survey form and responsible enough to inform their families of our impending visit; second, all students in Russia are required to go to school through the ninth grade, therefore we would not be excluding from our sample people who dropped out of school (as we would if we had chosen tenth grade, and excluding those who had dropped out could significantly bias the sample). 5. We have to account for a possible variance in these data, as some researchers asked respondents about their a endance at events inside the House of Culture only, whereas others asked respondents about their a endance at events organized by the House of Culture, be they inside or in the surroundings of the House of Culture. For example, a popular event in Anadyr’—the

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Koriushkin Fest—is (co-)organized by the House of Culture, but a endance rates are not reflected in our survey. 6. According to Vaté and Diatchkova (Chapter 1), this can partly be explained by the occurrence of a new generation of incomers, some of whom emphatically declared their interest in the activities of the House of Culture, but have to work hard on well-paid, time-intensive jobs in order to return quickly from Chukotka to “mainland Russia.” 7. In Shagonar, for example, both Russian and Tyvan respondents said that in general Russians do not go to the House of Culture because “there is nothing there for them.” 8. Klub veselykh i nakhodchivykh (known under its abbreviation KVN) is a contest of two or more players or teams that compete in demonstrating their talents as stand-up comedians, in replying instantly and creatively to funny questions, in making up jokes, etc. KVN started in 1961 as a TV show, was disbanded in 1971, and has been on the air again since 1986. KVN became increasingly popular, and young people started to conduct their own KVN contests at schools, universities, and other venues. Social-scientific literature on this widespread game is scarce as of yet. The source of the above information is the Russian edition of Wikipedia (h p://ru.wikipedia.org/wiki/%D0%9A%D0%92%D0%9D, accessed 15 July 2010). 9. Habeck (Chapter 2) argues that small towns present themselves and their level of “culturedness” through their Houses of Culture. In addition, he concludes that the format—the contest—has its roots in a distinct practice of expressing social recognition in public. 10. Among these, the Koriushkin Fest in Anadyr’; Maslenitsa (Mardi Gras) in Kolyvan’; Chaga (Buddhist New Year), Maslenitsa, and Naadym in KoshAgach; Surkharban and Sagaalgan in Kurumkan; and Shagaa (Buddhist New Year) in Shagonar are the most popular ones. 11. Some older interviewees talked about cultural-enlightenment work (kul’turno-prosvetitel’skaia rabota, abbreviated as kul’tprosvet or KPR) in their reminiscences of their professional qualification and work in earlier decades. 12. The standardized forms used for statistical purposes have the title “Data on institution[s] of cultural and leisure type” (Svedeniia ob uchrezhdenii kul’turnodosugovogo tipa). 13. Responses to the interview question “How do you imagine the ideal House of Culture?” and responses to the survey question “I would go to the House of Culture more o en …” show similar pa erns with regard to what could be done to improve the performance of the local House of Culture. 14. Interestingly, the statement that the House of Culture should be a place for everybody is typical of Q2 respondents (visitors and nonvisitors), but less so of Q1 respondents (members of staff ). Visitors are more explicit about the allinclusive and egalitarian ideals of culture work. Compare White’s (1990: 1, 26, 158) claim that equal access to culture is a key tenet of cultural enlightenment. 15. We decided to confront our respondents with this statement because Habeck had previously found in fieldwork among youth in Novosibirsk that a sizeable proportion of his respondents stated that the House of Culture is an

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outdated institution and no longer of interest to them. In our 2006 fieldwork, researchers occasionally told respondents who asked “Why would anybody think that it is a remnant of old times?” about the closure of Houses of Culture in many communities of Russia and postsocialist countries. 16. Some of the Houses of Culture we studied are integrated into regional action plans such as “Preventive measures against offenses among minors” (profilaktika pravonarushenii sredi nesovershennoletnikh).

References Ege, Moritz. 2009. “Die Diskothek als moralische Anstalt” [The Discotheque as Moral Institution]. In Vergnügen in der DDR, ed. Ulrike Häußer and Marcus Merkel, pp. 101–122. Berlin: Panama Verlag. Gel’man, Vladimir, Sergei Ryzhenkov, Elena Belokurova, and Nadezhda Borisova. 2008. Reforma mestnoi vlasti v goradakh Rossii 1991-2006 [Reform of Local Power in the Cities of Russia 1991–2006]. Sankt-Peterburg: Norma. Kasten, Erich, ed. 2005. Rebuilding Identities: Pathways to Reform in Post-Soviet Siberia. Berlin: Reimer. White, Anne. 1990. De-Stalinization and the House of Culture: Declining State Control Over Leisure in the USSR, Poland and Hungary, 1953-1989. New York: Routledge.

PART II




EXPANDING THE STAGE The House of Culture in Broader Historical and Geographical Context


7 THE EMERGENCE OF SOVIET HOUSES OF CULTURE IN KYRGYZSTAN Ali F. İğmen

Tanabai examined the rusty fetters and admired the master’s handiwork. The craftsmanship on the fetters showed the talent and the legacy of the old Kyrgyz masters. This beautiful craft is forgotten now, all but lost. There is no one and no need to carry on the tradition. Many other valuable traditions have been lost too. Tanabai did not know whom to blame for the disappearance of his people’s handicrafts. After all, when he was young, he himself was the one who spoke against the small artisans. He was the one who, once at a Komsomol meeting, gave a long speech on abolishing the bozui [Kyrgyz nomadic dwelling or yurt], as he saw them as holdouts from the pre-revolutionary ways. He was the one who fought against those who defended the bozui. He was the one who yelled: “Down with the bozui, down with the old ways.” —Chingiz Aitmatov (1999: 168–169)

In this excerpt from the short story Gulsarat, Kyrgyz writer Chingiz Aitmatov’s (1928–2008) character Tanabai Bakasov, a former Kyrgyz Komsomol leader, kolkhoz worker, ardent believer in communist ideals, and war veteran, expresses his conflicting sentiments about his own heritage. Like many Kyrgyz people of his generation who matured during the Bolshevik Revolution, Tanabai believed in the Soviet Cultural Revolution.1 But like many of his countrymen, he was torn between the constructive and destructive effects of such a revolution. Aitmatov gives voice to Kyrgyz people like Tanabai who, while initially believing in the promises of the Cultural Revolution, eventually became ambivalent, if not conflicted, about its contradictory results. In fact, many Kyrgyz regional and ail (Kyrgyz village, from the word for nomadic encampment) leaders had been active participants in the process of replacing bozui with concrete houses, and locating collective farms in the center of the time-honored ail. They also helped the government build the “clubs” (klub, pl. kluby),2 in which contemporary Western arts were taught to both old and young in place of indigenous Kyrgyz cra s. Beginning in the 1960s and continuing to the end of the

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Soviet era, Kyrgyz revolutionaries like Tanabai started acknowledging that they themselves had played an important role in the destruction of their traditions. Most importantly, Aitmatov’s politically ambivalent story, wri en in 1966, demonstrated that Kyrgyz people responded to the Cultural Revolution in their country with a sense of reluctance. The visual, literary, and performing art works produced in the midtwentieth century, however, contradict the sentiments of this fictional character and his real-life counterparts. Paintings, sculpture, poetry, short stories, novellas (including Aitmatov’s work), and musical productions of the postrevolutionary period indicate that Kyrgyz traditions did not completely disappear during the so-called cultural transformation (preobrazhenie) (TsGAKSSR 1921: 70–72). For example, Kyrgyz metal workers continued producing fe ers for their horses, but learned to standardize their products in accordance with kolkhoz requirements. Their art had not disappeared; rather, it had changed into something that was more suitable to modern life. Old masters gave way to new workers. Workers also altered their familiar everyday customs and habits to fit postrevolutionary ways of living. Such interactions of Kyrgyz people with the state indicate that there was no clear dichotomy between the “developed” and the “backward” in the minds of the Kyrgyz.3 Though Kyrgyz were participants in the production of the Cultural Revolution that helped them fashion a contemporary community by Soviet standards, they did so without abandoning their Kyrgyzness. Cultural institutions such as kluby played an important role in eliciting ail populations’ participation in creating a Soviet-influenced community, but also in fashioning a new Kyrgyz community.4 This chapter examines the earliest stages in the creation of Houses of Culture: Red Yurts, Red Choikhonas (teahouses), workers’ clubs, and “reading huts.” It is based on an analysis of the correspondence between club administrators in various ails and cities, regional (oblast’) offices in republic capitals, and the central offices in Pishpek (later named Frunze, and now in the post-Soviet era, Bishkek, the capital of Kyrgyzstan) and Almaty (former capital of Kazakhstan). This correspondence, which includes manuals, resolutions, declarations, and reports, shows that while a empting to fulfill official requirements, club administrators constantly communicated to regional administrators that their localities had specific needs. Wri en records indicate that club officials did not simply implement the directives and policies of the regional administrators. On the contrary, they expressed their needs and grievances, and made specific requests.5 Club administrators and members manipulated the Soviet system within the limits the system allowed them, a empting to negotiate with

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the state about how a Kyrgyz cultural community should be defined. During the 1920s, titular nationalities (titul’nye natsional’nosti), denoting ethnic groups on whose names the titles of their respective autonomous Soviet entities were based, began to receive official a ention and resources from Moscow. Ethnic Kyrgyz cadres, like the political leaders of the titular nationalities of each republic, gradually gained access to higher positions (Gleason 1991: 332–353). Ironically, it was the static definition of ethnically based nationalities that gave Kyrgyz cadres mobility, allowing them to use their ail connections and their knowledge of Soviet political behavior to move up in the various levels of administration toward the end of the 1930s. This chapter, however, focuses on the 1920s and argues that it was during these early years that Kyrgyz cadres struggled to define, perform, and enforce Kyrgyzness—both as an ethnic identity and as the core of their cultural community—within this new system. In the process, a new, contested, and shi ing meaning of Kyrgyzness began to emerge. In the 1920s, Kyrgyzstan was home primarily to ethnic Kyrgyz, Uzbek, and Russian populations. Although other Soviet peoples resided in small numbers there, the discourse on nationalities mostly addressed the Kyrgyz-Uzbek coexistence. The cultural policies of the 1920s that included the creation of the House of Culture developed while the Soviet administration was trying to establish political power in Kyrgyzstan.6 When the first Soviet club opened its doors in the ail of Kyzyl Kyia in March 1920, Kyrgyz lands were still part of the newly established Turkestan Autonomous Soviet Socialist Republic (1918–1924).7 In October 1924, when the Kara Kyrgyz Autonomous Oblast’ (1924–1925) became a separate entity under the jurisdiction of the Russian Federation, there were thirty-five clubs in Kyrgyzstan.8

The Origins and Civilizing Mission of Kyrgyz Houses of Culture (Clubs) The year 1918 was a landmark year of many “firsts” for Central Asia’s clubs: the first drama circle in Frunze; the first jazz band in Kyzyl Kyia; and the first Tatar- and Uzbek-language stage performances in Karakol. In 1920, the first Kyrgyz-language play was staged in CholponAta. In 1925, the Kara Kyrgyz Autonomous Oblast’ had eight clubs, four drama circles, twenty Red Choikhonas (teahouses), and forty Red Yurts. At the beginning, ail clubs met in kolkhoz and sovkhoz halls, and Red Yurts and Choikhonas in assembly halls of factories and plants.9 In February 1918, a resolution of the First All-City Conference of Cultural

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Organizations in Moscow acknowledged the importance of newly established workers’ clubs, announcing, “The workers’ club must become a center for the workers’ whole cultural life by serving as a place of relaxation, sensible entertainment, and education” (Gorzka 1990: 29). The key phrases in this special resolution were “encouraging common activity,” “enhancing the feeling of solidarity,” “kindling the understanding of socialism,” and “fighting against the backward elements of the proletariat.” Club members were supposed to incorporate socialist education (teaching proletarian consciousness, Marxism, honoring the working people) with sensible entertainment (concerts, opera, plays, literary evenings, lectures, and discussions). During the New Economic Policy (decreed on 21 March 1921), following the era of War Communism (1918–1921), clubs a empted to emphasize more collective and political events within their activities.10 Club administrators, mostly member elected, began to organize political study circles (kruzhki), educational excursions, lectures, and plays on the ideological development of workers. As both John Hatch and Gabriele Gorzka have shown, however, the members of workers’ clubs during the period between 1917 and 1928 resisted the intended purpose of these clubs.11 Hatch’s study (1994: 91– 117) on the Moscow Workers’ Club has shown that, despite the efforts of the administrators to bring politics to the forefront, the activities of the politically oriented circles declined, and most of the specialized circles encouraged performing arts and physical culture. Club members organized the activities of clubs according to their byt (everyday living and habits). Gorzka notes that the people, taking advantage of the absence of state organization and control, integrated their own tastes and activities, such as vodka drinking or balalaika playing, into officially sanctioned functions (Gorzka 1990: 49–51). In fact, most young workers, including the nonmembers of clubs, began to a end clubs just to see feature films or take part in dances rather than to participate in political education. Gorzka has pointed out that the clubs became common places where workers “hung out” particularly because most were under the age of twenty-three (in some cases two-thirds of the members were younger than eighteen). Clubs offered their members “a second home,” away from the discomforts of their cold and cramped dwellings, and, most importantly, became a place they could call their own. In Kyrgyzstan, official regulations for the management of clubs and their activities did not differ from those in Russia or other parts of the USSR. They all received the same basic official correspondence regarding activities and goals. Requirements in club manuals reflect the official revolutionary education policy as it was to be applied in Central

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Asia. The first club activity manuals, which party administrators composed and regional and club administrators implemented, emphasized cultural and educational activities. These activities were to be initiated by three main institutions of the new Soviet regime: the educational organs of the Communist Party and all the relevant state institutions; the workers’ collectives and schools; and the institutions of leisure such as clubs, libraries, museums, cinemas, sports centers, sanatoria, excursion-tourism offices, and parks.12 The principal activities in these establishments were to include educating the Soviet people on communist ideals and principles, introducing “a scientific approach” to culture, acknowledging the cultural diversity of a given region and treating the populations accordingly, teaching the different populations to work collectively, working with individuals to instill an organized and group-conscious work ethic, and most importantly, integrating Kyrgyz culture with these new approaches. The discourse on activities of clubs indicates that the “civilizing” mission in Central Asia had an added dimension, however. Soviet regulations in general required sedentarization, women’s liberation, mandatory schooling, and party membership to be integral in the creation of clubs. Regional reports coming from Almaty or Pishpek added various activities specific to Central Asia and/or Kyrgyzstan. Girls’ education, nomads’ sedentarization, and shepherds’ transformation into more productive workers were a few of the activities that the state expected clubs to undertake. Kyrgyz clubs promised their members “improvement” and “development.” They rejected the “backward” and the “ignorant.” The language of club documents used the term “improvement,” which meant disengagement with the past. Club administrators specifically identified “Asianness”—i.e., Kyrgyz and Uzbek social and cultural traditions—as one of their primary targets for “transformation.” Regional administrators sent reports to ail clubs that a acked such age-old Kyrgyz customs and traditions as kalyng (bride-price) and kyz ala kachuu (bride stealing). These were considered “Asiatic,” “oriental,” “feudal,” and “patriarchal,” and therefore in need of reform or eradication. Other traditions seen as in need of reform included engagement, marriage, and funeral rites; recitation of national and ancestral myths; and oral narratives of legendary history. In addition to nomadism and “Asianness,” the administrators’ ba le with Kyrgyz culture had other “fronts”: Islam, Turkic community characteristics, and pre-Islamic traditions.13 Regional leaders’ insistence on eradicating these traditions meant that they realized nomadic, preIslamic, and pre-Soviet traditions died hard. In 1925, a report of the Kyrgyz ASSR Political Education Commi ee explicitly expressed that

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the clubs had already achieved such disengagement with the past: “By the first anniversary of the delimitation of the Kyrgyz Autonomous Oblast’ the Houses of Culture succeeded in erasing the dregs of the stagnant and old ancestral ways of living by engaging in mass cultural and educational work, and by penetrating into the rural masses, armed with knowledge, schooling, and daily education” (TsGAKSSR 1925d: 1–3). Nevertheless, the most important traditions such as circumcision, marriage pa erns and customs, and funeral rites persisted in somewhat changed forms to varying degrees of intensity throughout Kyrgyzstan. The distrust of indigenous customs and regional histories dominated the social and cultural objectives and policies of the Soviet clubs. Bruce Grant (1995: 3) has pointed out that the Soviets “charged into the modern” so that they could shed their own rural-oriented backward history and image. According to the Soviet discourse on modernity, the feudal social and cultural structures, tied to the peasantry, kept Russia backward. Furthermore, such backwardness was even more pronounced among the indigenous Siberian peoples and the Central Asian nomads. There was no place for their past and traditions. As Grant has suggested, the Soviets constructed a cultural and social transformation for these nationalities that “hinged on a willed negation of the past” (1995: 158).

Local Implementation of Soviet Culture Policies: Artists, Aksakals, and Akyns The establishment of clubs and Houses of Culture throughout the USSR during the 1920s represented an a empt to facilitate significant changes in social structure and to create new everyday practices that possessed both regional and revolutionary features. Participants of clubs forged an active movement that was an amalgamation of many cultural expressions, both indigenous and imported. The enormous task of revolutionary work in cultural and social spheres had another layer in Turkestan: club administrators were faced with the delicate act of introducing a new culture without alienating the ail populations. Even if the revolution could not take place as rapidly as Lenin might have liked, at least it was to appeal to regional populations. Ail leaders learned to translate, both literally and figuratively, sophisticated concepts and foreign words of the revolution into their own languages. In most ails, the new Soviet administrators came from the ranks of prerevolutionary leaders already established in the community. They were respectable men and, in a handful of cases, women. Ail popula-

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tions turned to the elderly and the wise, namely, aksakals (lit., “whitebeards”), when they needed to make a change in their traditional ways of living. One such aksakal was Ismail Mongkoev (1899–1976). Mongkoev, of Jerge Tal ail in Naryn Oblast’, served in the Red Army in 1918, became a Komsomol leader in 1920, and “enlightened his people” as an awardwinning teacher between 1922 and 1959 (Asanov 1998: 295). Revered men like Mongkoev were o en shepherds turned managers, or teachers and activists who helped to legitimize the new political system in the smallest ails. They petitioned the state for solutions to their ails’ problems and needs in exchange for assisting the state in creating institutions such as clubs. As a result, the administrators of ail clubs became the inventors of new and revolutionary traditions.14 These Kyrgyz shepherds who became educators moved from being implicit participants in mundane activities to active and conscious makers of Soviet Kyrgyz culture. My analyses of their process of learning are informed by the adult education theories of Antonio Gramsci and Paolo Freire (Mayo 1999; Crehan 2002). As Antonio Gramsci argues, political adult education enables learners to move from “common sense” to “good sense,” meaning gaining consciousness of their social and economic environment (Mayo 1999: 19). Paolo Freire furthers the ideal of “good sense” and argues that in an ideal adult education process, learners, once involved in the process, would be able to see the social problems in their own societies (Mayo 1999: 74). In Kyrgyz clubs, in other words, the ideal result would be that Kyrgyz nomads would learn to engage in an ongoing process of collective learning to remake their own communities (as part of a constant process of self-fashioning—see Hellbeck 2000). These clubs were also expected to encourage individual initiative among workers and peasants to educate their own ail populations. For example, a er a ending inspirational lectures at clubs, young Kyrgyz and Uzbek workers and peasants were to convince their elderly parents and younger siblings at home that socialist ideals were good for the whole family and the community. On the entertainment front, one of the activities involved the alteration of akyns’ (bards’) entertainment styles. Administrators knew that akyns were highly influential, and that ail populations took their words seriously. Their songs provided both entertainment and guidance. Traditionally, Kyrgyz did not have to leave their nomadic encampments to be entertained. For them, entertainment and education went hand-inhand. Aksakals of each ail educated the children and resident or traveling akyns (o en respected as much as elders) entertained them. Uzbeks living in Soviet Kyrgyzstan also relied on private and family gatherings

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for entertainment and celebrations. Uzbeks sent their sons to madrasas (Islamic schools) and educated their daughters at home (Abdyldaev 1975). In both Uzbek and Kyrgyz cases, the revered functions of aksakals and akyns overlapped, blurring the lines between entertainment and education, something the Soviet Houses of Culture perpetuated. This dual function of aksakals and akyns served the Communist Party’s efforts to assert political power. These leaders of Kyrgyz society may be called, in Gramscian terms, “organic intellectuals” who emerged from within ail communities.15 But more appropriately, in indigenous terminology, they are called myrza, whose role in society was that of teacher, mentor, and leader rolled into one. While gathering allies from the society to establish clubs as institutions of Cultural Revolution, the party often a empted to recruit elders. As a result, various myrza demonstrated, imposed, and implemented varying degrees of power in this process of revolutionizing Kyrgyz culture. The way in which these groups asserted power was not always clear, because, in small ails, the producers and receivers of club culture were o en the same people. In addition to akyns, other performers, artists, and artisans were also implicated in the project of Soviet social engineering. In an a empt to “civilize” the “Eastern people” of Kyrgyzstan, a resolution in June 1921 dictated that the “past achievements of Western European art” must be introduced in the area. But there was a remarkable and seemingly paradoxical caveat embedded within the resolution: Western European art must be introduced “without imposing alien forms” on existing social and cultural traditions and art forms. Examples cited by the commissars included sound harmony and popular theater. Revolutionary songs, posters, and plays were the most highly recommended ways of introducing the new art forms and the new socialist ideals (TsGAKSSR 1921: 70–72). The members of clubs were supposed to discover “abilities hidden” within their own populations and elevate talented amateurs to leading roles in various cultural activities of clubs. The resolution of June 1921 set out two clear objectives for cultural organizations in Turkestan: First, the organizations must “awaken and assist” enthusiastic amateurs (samodeiateli) in taking charge of “the creative forces” in their areas. Second, they must encourage these enthusiasts and amateurs to “revolutionize the existing creativity” of the populations (TsGAKSSR 1921: 70–72). The existing traditions included oral epic recitation, folk songs, carpet weaving, felt making and other textile arts, and po ery. The resolution insisted that the clubs were responsible for introducing new themes relating to the “dictatorship of the proletariat” to artists in all fields:

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Clubs must work in connection with the transformation of daily life, insert arts and industry into the society, and increase the artistic level of workers such as weavers, carpet-makers, and ceramic-makers alike. Clubs should encourage master artists to visit the largest industrial associations, schools, and worker unions, to organize problem-solving workshops, and send out outstanding workers as instructors. (TsGAKSSR 1921: 70–72)

In other words, the resolution demanded that the club administrators learn to combine indigenous art forms with new revolutionary ones. Artists’ and artisans’ traditionally solitary work needed to become the common property of the masses, and it was up to the clubs to provide a home for these new revolutionary art workshops and houses for this new culture. Clubs were to be the centers of distribution from which examples of revolutionary art would be disseminated to the masses. The ideal space for all these activities was the clubs and Red Choikhonas because they were located within a factory or a collective farm. In addition, tearooms would function as familiar venues where new ideas were introduced. The discourse of Kyrgyz club administrators showed that they were a empting to create a new culture that incorporated a multiplicity of experiences. They were trying to follow the orders of the Communist Party by observing and reporting the responses of their ail populations. Clubs participated in these experiments, shi ing their focus to facilitate the political changes. Club documents indicated that their primary concern was education and entertainment. They were, however, at the center of political and social activity and change. As we will now see, the issues that ail club administrators chose to address in their reports indicated that clubs were small laboratories that participated in and advanced changes in the economy, politics, and culture of the Soviet Union, but not without their share of problems.

Problems and Difficulties with Implementation The possibility of revolutionizing and improving the complex and diverse cultures of Turkestan was limited by the reality that there were very few ail members who were qualified to take on the task. Therefore, Communist Party leaders took seriously the hiring of each administrator or opening of each new club. The newspaper Izvestiia began reporting the opening of clubs in Turkestan as early as 1922. On 2 March 1922, it reported from Almaty that in Naryn, located in what is today northeastern Kyrgyzstan, workers initiated the first club of the region

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and began cultural, educational, and political work. Their task included finding artists to “introduce” Western European forms of art, finding revolutionaries to “revolutionize” existing art forms, and finding educators to “improve” the old culture. The commissars nominated volunteers from among the workers for this enormous job. These volunteers took on the task in ails and traveling workshops and exhibits. Ideally, all this was to take place at the initiative of the workers themselves (Izvestiia 2 March 1922: 5). The Pishpek Regional Political Education Commi ee report from 18 October 1925 revealed that there were serious problems to tackle (TsGAKSSR 1925c: 18). As in European regions of the Soviet Union, the education efforts of ail administrators encountered many obstacles in Kyrgyzstan. Newspapers and other types of literature such as manuals and regulations were in short supply.16 Many of the smaller versions of cultural institutions (reading huts and rooms, see below) were le empty. The “librarians” (or hut managers) did not earn sufficient wages to support their families. The educators in Kyrgyzstan were not alone in struggling with financial problems. In the context of antireligious education in Russia, Glennys Young (1997: 17–18, 138–140) has pointed out that the lack of financial support and resources such as paper were serious obstacles to the effective implementation of education policies (also see Kenez 1985; Holmes 1991). Furthermore, seasonal agricultural work, especially in the late summer and early autumn, kept families in the fields rather than the huts. Club managers were faced with the lack of sufficient resources and qualified personnel to confront illiteracy and such “pe y bourgeois activity” as acting as clan leaders (manaps and bais—the Kyrgyz equivalent of kulaki, or tight-fisted pe y bourgeois), or shepherding large tribal flocks. In fact, on the grounds of such accusations, several Red Choikhonas were shut down by the authorities. Female and male club and Komsomol members were expected to join the hunt for manaps and bais, which continued into the late 1920s. Komsomol members fought to establish class consciousness in the pastures. At Padysha-Ata, they made the decision to move the manaps and bais from the best pastures to other areas. At Sokukurgan, at the council’s request, the Komsomol members sent to court a manap who had not paid wages due to a peasant. The court required him to pay 836 rubles to the peasant. The population was said to have related compassionately to such undertakings of the Komsomol members (Sovetskaia Kirgiziia 1929: 5). Club managers needed to understand ail populations’ sentiments regarding revolutionary activities in the cultural sphere. The sacred

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markers of Kyrgyz “tradition” proved to be a challenge to clubs in their efforts to introduce the Cultural Revolution. Most rural Kyrgyz defined (and some still do) their native culture in terms of their ancestral connections to their homeland. The mountains that cover most of the territory of the modern Kyrgyz Republic were sacred to them, as were the horse, kymyz (fermented mare’s milk), komuz (a fretless stringed instrument), and, of course, the bozui.17 Kyrgyz revere their mountains so highly that they named their first Kyrgyz-language national newspaper, Erkin Too, a er their mountains. They depict their mountain ranges on handicra s, Soviet and post-Soviet monuments, flags, medals, and other national markers of honor. Kyrgyz songs and epics demonstrate that their horses, kymyz, komuz, and bozui are organically and spiritually connected to the mountains. Despite modernist demands to do away with the bozui (as demonstrated by the epigraph at the beginning of this chapter), it retained its strong symbolic significance. The bozui represented shelter (warmth in the winter and shade in the summer), home, and family unity (Diadiuchenko et al. 1986: 52–60). Daily family rituals such as distinct decoration of men’s and women’s sections of the bozui, and special celebrations such as creating a bride’s section following a wedding, signified that the bozui was a cultural anchor for both the family and the community. Familial and gender relations based on a nomadic past posed a considerable challenge for the club reformers. Even today, when Kyrgyz people tell the story of prerevolutionary times, they mention the pride Kyrgyz girls and women took in how swi ly they could dismantle and reassemble their dome-shaped bozui.18 They also talk nostalgically about the prerevolutionary times when both girls and boys freely rode their horses on the archa (juniper covered hills). To Kyrgyz, the horse represented freedom, mobility, food, medicine (kymyz was used regularly as medicine), mythical heroism (as in Manas—the national epic of Kyrgyz, named a er its hero), but most importantly gender equality. They revered their gender relations as unique among Central Asian Muslims. These well-established and reified identity markers posed problems for club administrators and other cultural reformers.

Regional and Club Administrators Respond The report of a club official named A. Rakhimov voiced the concerns of ail officials responding to these difficulties in “bringing culture to Kyrgyz ails.” Rakhimov’s report offers a window into the life of an early Red Yurt. In his correspondence with the political education commi ee,

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Rakhimov exemplified the discontented voices of the organizers and managers of Red Yurts and clubs. The sources of these managers’ discontent varied. Club administrators held the authorities responsible for failing to keep their promises, but also blamed the ails’ everyday living habits and customs. They noted that the way of life in the ail posed a threat for revolutionary work. As an organizer of Red Yurts in Karakol and Naryn, Rakhimov appealed to the authorities for more books, more newspapers, more teachers and, most strikingly, more understanding of ail culture and more sympathy for the needs of ail populations. He wrote that ail populations were trying their best to support cultural activities. They had no money, but donated whatever amount they could. According to Rakhimov, since materials for building Red Yurts never arrived, it was necessary to collect money from volunteers. In Tong, one of the regions under Rakhimov’s jurisdiction, each village donated one ruble, for a total donation of fi y rubles. With the thirty rubles that the Women’s Club donated, the women were able to buy some red and black satin for the interior of the Red Yurts. Ultimately, having been unable to collect enough funds to build a Red Yurt, they rented other yurts for ten days to carry out their work. In a 1925 le er of assessment to the Political Education Commi ee, Rakhimov noted that poor peasants who worked on the land all day long had no energy or desire to a end the activities of Red Yurts. He reported that nomadic and animal-herding peasants, on the other hand, tended to vanish, o en for days at a time. It was almost impossible for managers to gather even a small group to fill a Red Yurt. Rakhimov also pointed out that the seasonal migrations of pastoral nomadic Kyrgyz people interfered with the goals of clubs. He specifically referred to the summer months when the families and clans moved to the mountain pastures. His tone disappointed but pragmatic, Rakhimov was nevertheless resolute: “If there was idle time, plenty of people with interest were present” (TsGAKSSR 1925b: 16–17). According to his report, in the Tong Region in the month of June, six gatherings took place: 114 women and 195 men a ended these meetings. Significantly, only a small number of women a ended voluntarily; the majority was rounded up from their yurts. Rakhimov’s report suggests that he and other organizers “forced these women” (zhenshchiny nasil’no) to come to the meetings regarding hygiene and “Muslim customs such as kalyng for a bride” (the type of “force” is not mentioned in the report). Both urban and ail club administrators routinely responded to the human resource requirements of the regional commi ees. Nominating volunteers to work was one thing, pu ing them to work was another.

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Administrators o en conveyed the deficiencies, needs, complaints, and desires of their constituencies (TsGARK of the Alma-Ata Region 1923: 75). The Central Commi ee of the Communist Party in Moscow was impatient, demanding that the political education of ail populations continue regardless of the dire economic conditions in the rural areas. The commissars in top administrative positions provided very li le practical guidance to the regional leadership on how to finance the political and cultural education of their populations. On 11 February 1923, the party sent out a statement to the regional commi ees about clubs, requesting them to concentrate on the political education of their members. The statement requested that every communist become an active member of a club. Moreover, it demanded that communists who were particularly well organized take leadership positions in active clubs. The document also ordered clubs to report to the center the activities of those who did not belong to the party, an indication that one did not need to be a party member to participate in club activities. The same document listed an array of offices that must finance and manage the clubs. The Central Commi ee expected every oblast’ to use its own resources to manage and finance the clubs (TsGARK of the Alma-Ata Region 1923: 75). The party did not make clear or give specific instructions on the ways in which it expected the oblast’ administrations or the clubs to raise funds or organize all these processes. The districts took it upon themselves to select people and resources that they could obtain without much money. On 20 May 1923, the Pishpek District Narkompros (Narodnyi komissariat prosveshcheniia, or People’s Commissariat for Enlightenment) reported that a political education commi ee was being organized. The department assigned a chairman of political education who would make “the liquidation of illiteracy” his first mission. The Pishpek Narkompros also reported that the district had a building with its own stage, which would house club activities for the workers’ unions. Most interestingly, it reported the opening of a “house for peasants” especially reserved for Kyrgyz coming down from the steppes and the mountains. This two-story house had a courtyard where Kyrgyz travelers could tie their horses, but the report noted that the house needed more literature and an information desk. According to the report, the house already had 128 Russian and 2,136 “Muslim” books that, so far, had been used to educate the illiterate in various ail institutions, including the prison. In addition, twenty-four Muslim youths and thirty older illiterate persons were currently receiving preconscription military training with the help of three schools in the area (TsGAKSSR

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Illustration 7.1 | Likbez campaign in an unknown Kyrgyz House of Culture in 1929. Likbez is the acronym for likvidatsiia bezgramotnosti, “eradication of illiteracy.” From the author’s private photo archive.

1923: 51). The district let regional administrators know that they were trying their best despite the dearth of regional support. One of the main problems of establishing “proletarian class education” among Kyrgyz families was the lack of actual and political literacy. This problem is addressed in a report referring to two specific Red Choikhonas in Tokmok. According to this report, other organizations like the Komsomol and Pioneers took some of the responsibilities of “stamping out” pe y bourgeois activity and illiteracy (TsGAKSSR 1925c: 18). This report, like many others, mentioned that “communication between ail Komsomol and the reading huts was satisfactory.” Most reports coming from the district administrators made a point of showing collaboration between various ail branches of the Party, such as the Komsomol, Pioneers, reading huts, and workers’ corners. On 21 May 1924, the “District-Urban” Commi ee of the Turkestan Communist Party wrote that in Pishpek the field of political education remained weak in every respect. Following an extended session, the commi ee complained that educational work in this area lacked appropriate management to carry out “agitation” work, advanced staff to handle party organization, and a budget to support these activities on every level. The report also complained that the “cultural level” of the

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party members in both the nomadic encampments and sedentarized villages was very low. The report lamented that “in our organization, the percentage of uneducated persons is a great monstrosity,” and that the liquidation of illiteracy had not even begun. According to the report, the agitation and propaganda commi ee’s work seemed to be nonexistent (TsKPSS 1924: 6–7). This self-disparaging communiqué reflects the great disappointment of club administrators. It had been a year since the guidelines had been given out to the regional commi ees, and improvements were hard to come by. This report also makes a striking distinction among the populations in the region—it sets the “nonmembers of the party” apart, labeling them “poor peasants.” It points to this population as the target for education while admi ing that even the party members were not well educated or “cultured.” The regional administrators realized that it was still difficult to distinguish a party member from a nonmember, not to mention to distinguish a peasant from a nonpeasant. The recognition of the proletariat, therefore, must have been an alien task for all involved. Nevertheless, club administrators did not give up. They a empted to assert their own ideas. To take on the task of raising the general level of political literacy among nonparty masses, the District-Urban Commi ee of the Turkestan Communist Party issued several orders. The commi ee said Leninist ideals should be taught to the largest possible number of people. Agitation and propaganda work should become a priority of the political education commi ees in every region: the commi ees were to organize societies to advocate and impose an antiilliteracy campaign, called “Down with Illiteracy,” that targeted the poor peasants in particular (see Clark 2000). Women’s Departments were to be directly involved in agitation and propaganda work: they were expected to place the head of their department on the board of the Agitation and Propaganda Commi ee; and at least 25 percent of poor women were to be recruited to carry out such work. A “preparatory department” for national minorities was needed for future educational and political work among the minorities of the region (TsKPSS 1924: 6–7). In this way, the ail leadership would be able to identify the people in terms of their social status. For a long time, ethnic and tribal allegiances had defined everyday living habits and relations among Kyrgyz. Now, club administrators hoped that people would identify themselves as peasants, workers, literate people, students, party members, and agitators. These newly introduced revolutionary versions of community confronted age-old indigenous communities based on tribes and clans. Soviet administra-

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tors realized that they needed to a ack these indigenous allegiances if they were to introduce new Soviet communities. Their targets, however, changed over the course of the 1920s. In the late 1920s, regional leaders focused on the most immediate community issues in ails, o en related to dwelling habits and traditions. Their main concern was moving Kyrgyz to se led villages and providing communal places such as clubs for them to gather (TsGAKSSR 1925b: 16–17). Club administrators’ major concerns were practical, such as arranging a room for the tea-drinking rituals of Uzbek men. The administrators needed to recognize how best to approach ethnically different populations. Administrative reports indicate that club administrators learned, for example, that an Uzbek farmer would pay more a ention to a political speech held in a teahouse than one held in a bozui.

A First Step Toward Cultural Revolution: Reading Huts The regional administrators demanded that club leaders be more concerned about the everyday needs of their populations (Uzbek, Kyrgyz, or other) to a ract new members to the clubs and recruits to do the Communist Party’s revolutionary work. The regional party commi ees began the agitation and propaganda work that the Pishpek District-Urban Commi ee had outlined. In a le er full of directives, for example, the Jeti Suu region’s party officials ordered club administrators to focus on more “vigorous” and “locally conscious” work. This le er announced that the promotion of cultural education in poor farming and animal-herding communities was the “most important activity from the point of view of the victory of communism” (TsKPSS 1924: 6–7). The Communist Party in Turkestan, following the orders of the central party in Russia, concluded that “the agitation work had to begin from the bo om layers of Kyrgyz society.” This meant a racting poorer Kyrgyz to “revolutionary work.” A er the commi ees in each region evaluated the existing physical facilities and capabilities of the ails, they decided that reading huts (izby-chital’ni) would be the first logical and realistic step. In ethnically mixed areas, reading huts would provide a space for the adult ail population to learn to read and participate in various reading and theater circles. Paradoxically, these barren rooms, neutral and devoid of any ethnic significance, were expected to create an inclusive and friendly atmosphere among various nationalities. Public readings emerged as one of the most common cultural activities in clubs because they required li le in terms of funding or manpower. Volunteers enjoyed reading the

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news, articles, commentaries, and poetry from Soviet newspapers in front of crowds; some had the reputation of being good orators, while others wanted to show off their newly acquired reading skills. In remote regions where Red Yurts and Red Choikhonas were not yet opened, district administrators started smaller gathering places (reading huts and rooms). The Pishpek Regional Political Education Commi ee reported on 18 October 1925 that eight rural districts had carried out political education work (TsGAKSSR 1925c: 18). This important work took place in reading huts. The oblast’ administration sent out political education literature to all the rural districts for distribution. Thirty-one reading huts and eleven Lenin Corners (established in 1924, primarily in Red Army quarters to bring Lenin to the people) received and began using this literature under the tutelage of ail teachers and Komsomol members. Many such reports argued that the most important service these huts and corners provided was the “reading aloud” of newspapers to the illiterates (chitka gazet dlia negramotnykh). This type of service, according to official reports like this one, was a good example of combining cultural and political education. Illiterate listeners heard about cultural activities taking place in Pishpek, Almaty, or Moscow while taking in a dose of Bolshevik propaganda. In addition, the reading huts would post wall newspapers in Russian, Kyrgyz, and Uzbek languages to spark the curiosity of the adults and children who visited them, encouraging the people to learn to read. The Jeti Suu Commi ee’s le er requested that Red Choikhonas must be established where appropriate in place of the reading huts. This indicates that the commi ees had begun to understand the gathering traditions of ail populations; that Uzbek men preferred their Choikhonas, while Kyrgyz men did not usually mix with Uzbeks in the traditional gathering places of sedentary societies (TsGAKSSR 1924a: 13). In their correspondence, club managers stressed that they needed more a ention from regional offices in order to combine education with entertainment. Their correspondence points to a couple of main problems. In nearly every report and le er sent to the regional and central authorities, clubs complained about the lack of reading and educational materials. They also referred to the incompatibility of some of the reading materials: in many cases Kyrgyz clubs received Uzbek or Kazakh language books (TsGAKSSR 1924a: 13). Their complaints regarding the types of reading materials also indexed grievances between the ethnic groups. Sooner or later, administrators would have to address these issues. Club administrators were constantly frustrated by the empty promises of regional offices. Books did not arrive, or when they came, they

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were not in the Kyrgyz language. O en, club members complained to managers that the books were not interesting for Kyrgyz readers. Administrators begged for literature that addressed the interests and concerns of ail populations (TsGAKSSR 1924a: 13). They grumbled that they could not educate constituencies with materials that were alien to them, both in language and content. Both the ambiguous policy regarding national languages and the existence of a multiplicity of languages in the region made the clubs’ jobs difficult. The regional offices still had not learned to handle the language issue by 1925. A report of Karakol District’s educational commi ee asserted that the commi ee was on the right path in regard to the political education of Kyrgyz nomads. Nevertheless, they expressed their frustration, noting that there was a serious “lack of Kyrgyz-language literature.” They also protested that two hundred issues of Kyrgyzlanguage literature, promised to them by the regional political education commi ee, never arrived. According to Rakhimov, “There are no books in the Kyrgyz language except the ones about politics and economics. The population does not need such books.” He begrudgingly pointed out that all the interesting reading materials such as poems are “in the Kazakh language, of which one understands li le” (TsGAKSSR 1925a: 28). In addition to their complaints about unfulfilled promises, club administrators commented on the content of the articles in regional papers. A report from Karakol district remarked explicitly on the contents of the Erkin Too newspaper. The “legendary stories of Kara Kyrgyz people,” retold in Erkin Too, failed to spark any genuine interest among the people. He argued that club managers wanted to see articles that expanded the horizons of ail populations. He also argued that club members wanted to read about other Soviet heroes and see them on the screen in club cinemas. Appealing to higher authorities, the Karakol commi ee member expressed his disappointment about insufficient funds for showing films in their clubs (TsGAKSSR 1925a: 28). He concluded that if club managers were to teach their populations about socialism and the cultural superiority of the Soviet Union, they needed books and films that highlighted these themes. The ail leadership always wanted to demonstrate that they were doing their job correctly and working hard despite all the odds, so that they could demand more resources (both material and human) from the top levels of the regional party. Workers’ unions in various industries began sending their reports to the center in Pishpek. They wanted to demonstrate that the people of their regions took part in the work of cultural education. In a le er from the Karakol district, the union of

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forestry workers reported that the union deducted a percentage from their salaries to support culture work in their region that amounted to 89 rubles and 86 kopecks. The money supported a club in the YsykKol State Horse Stable that had nineteen members. It included a reading hut that welcomed visitors from other parts of the country at talks. The chairman of the Karakol Union of Forestry Workers, V. Slantenkov, noted that the reading huts also hosted musical, theatrical, and literary performances (TsGAKSSR 1924b: 28).

The Evolution of a New Soviet Kyrgyzness During the 1920s, clubs a empted to establish cultural development as one of the main revolutionary activities in Kyrgyz ails. Club administrators in even the smallest ails took their jobs seriously and communicated their findings and problems to the regional offices. Their reports reflected the ambiguity of the ail communities regarding revolutionary work in clubs, and demonstrated that there were serious obstacles standing in the way of cultural education. The reports also signaled that the regional leadership needed to be patient with the ail populations if they hoped for a significant change in ail traditions. Club administrators indicated that without more substantial material support from the regional offices, they could not implement their directives. This behavior showed that club administrators learned the meaning of revolutionary culture from the regulations, but they did not give up asserting what they knew about their own traditions. The early regulations lacked clarity regarding the meaning of revolutionary standards. Club administrators also learned that they had to manage with what they had, both in terms of material means and human power. In the meantime, these administrators a empted to implement significant but gradual changes in traditionally accepted behavior pa erns and belief systems. Club administrators also a empted to combine state-initiated cultural development with common community characteristics (such as the role of the akyns) in promoting a larger national Kyrgyz community over tribal alliances. A selected group of Kyrgyz cultural traditions eventually became the main representations of officially sanctioned Kyrgyzness. Kyrgyz clubs promoted behavior that was deemed national, such as national costumes, music, and other ethnic, regional, and ail traditions. Throughout the 1920s, Kyrgyz girls and women represented their nationality by donning “national costumes.” As the Kyrgyz constituted the titular nationality of the Kara Kyrgyz Autonomous Oblast’, they officially held the role of the “host” culture of this region,

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which did not provide much space for the expression of ethnic identity of the non-Kyrgyz minorities. Finding and educating talented and loyal national cadres required clubs to combine what Kyrgyz considered national with what was acceptable to the state. This search for the “true Kyrgyz community” necessitated that the cadres once again turn to their ethnic traditions. Clubs were to locate talented people who were both loyal to the state and to their ethnic roots. The irony is that all of this correspondence was in the Russian language, including those which encouraged the usage of the Kyrgyz language side-by-side with Russian. Beginning in the late 1920s, Tatar (one of the smaller minorities that was o en grouped in with the Russian minority) clubs in the city of Osh, for instance, staged Tatar song festivals but introduced the singers in Russian. Tatar-language songs and costumes symbolized their unique community, but speaking Russian instead of Kyrgyz demonstrated that they were Soviet citizens in Kyrgyzstan. This tradition survived until the end of the USSR. The Russian language was not only the language of bureaucracy but also the lingua franca of an emerging Soviet nationality. Club administrators and other authorities challenged the very basis of Kyrgyz culture, such as nomadism, but occasionally ended up compromising. Creative people such as Chingiz Aitmatov are products of a culture that emerged as a combination of the traditional and the modern. During the 1920s, their parents prepared a society for them in which official definitions of Kyrgyzness were constantly contested and unstable. The authorities altered their promises and policies as they went along. It was obvious that nomadism was not going to disappear overnight, as many se led families regularly visited nomadic relatives in the remote mountains, out of the reach of the authorities. The job of clubs in smaller distant ails was especially difficult, because the image of the Kyrgyz nomad (and some actual nomads) persisted even a er decades of Russian and Soviet cultural influences. For many Kyrgyz people, this image represented both the heroic Kyrgyz nomad and the backward and idle savage. For some, the Kyrgyz way of life outlived the revolution that outsiders tried to impose upon them. This blending of the indigenous with what is perceived to be modern remained one of the main issues discussed in club meetings that venerated the bozui, and where the horse, kymyz, and the komuz took center stage. It proved impossible for club administrators to separate nomadism from Kyrgyzness. For example, club managers routinely pointed out to the higher authorities that there were many Kyrgyz families who

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were not farming proletarians and as such did not believe in cultivating or living off the land beneath them. Instead of trying to impose a proletarian mentality among this nomadic population, they placed greater emphasis on national traditions, hoping to utilize them to enhance socialist messages. For example, they learned to manipulate Kyrgyz singers into incorporating official slogans into their improvised songs. For a decade or more, club administrators consistently referred to nomadic traditions as archetypal representatives of Kyrgyz culture and insisted on the improvement of Kyrgyz artistic expressions. More than a decade a er the establishment of the first clubs, club managers received resolutions such as this one on 8 March 1936, in which the Bureau of the Kyrgyz Oblast’ Commi ee of the Communist Party signaled that the national artistic traditions could not be ignored: The Bureau of the Kyrgyz Regional Commi ee of Communist Party of Bolsheviks noticed the unsatisfactory situation of cultural education establishments in ails. It orders the Kyrgyz Narkompros and the Kyrgyz Industrial Council to improve the manufacturing of the Kyrgyz national musical instruments: komuz, kyiak [a string and bow instrument], and choor [a side-blown flute]. The commi ee also orders ail clubs to organize drama, music, literature, art, military-sports, and chess circles, and leaves the management of these circles to talented national singers, story-tellers, and musicians. The clubs must supply them with the necessary musical instruments, and ideologically appropriate plays and literature. (Institut marksizma-leninizma pri TsK KPSS 1936: 138–140)

Like imperial Russian administrators, Soviet administrators feared Kyrgyz traditions and a empted to stamp them out. These administrators, however, did not have a clear and well-defined policy in place. Moreover, ail members challenged them by remaining indifferent to new cultural norms, participating apathetically, and by steering cultural programs under the guise of cooperation to fit their own tastes, traditions, and purposes. In the long run, the clubs in effect encouraged Kyrgyz to reassert their indigenous culture to create their Soviet community. Through the process of creating the Soviet clubs and Houses of Culture in the 1920s, a fluid and complex relationship emerged between those Kyrgyz who were involved in the clubs and the Soviet state. Although they were not always certain about the meaning and consequences of the activities of the Houses of Culture, the members of these institutions concluded that they had a great deal to benefit from the modernizing effects of such establishments. As a result, these institutions initiated and guided the Sovietization of Kyrgyz culture during the 1920s and indeed throughout the first half of the Soviet era.

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Notes 1. The definition of “cultural revolution” here is in agreement with that of Michael David-Fox (1999: 181–201): the intertwined project of fashioning Soviet individuals as revolutionary vanguards and conscious Soviet citizens. The project is to create Soviet citizens who internalize the Soviet cultural mission and begin to see themselves as “cultured and developed” people. 2. Clubs were small community centers that fulfilled the basic functions of Houses of Culture in villages that were too small to have Houses of Culture. 3. For an analysis of the process of colonization as a confrontation between the modern and traditional, see Mitchell (1991). 4. For a discussion on the limitations of power relations between the state and society, see Asad 1993. 5. Following anthropologist Talal Asad’s model, I use the terms “ail” or “indigenous” in place of “local.” For a discussion on the usage of the term “local,” see Asad (1993: 3, 7–9). 6. The first workers’ clubs emerged in 1918 in Moscow to serve the Soviet proletariat as centers of education and sensible entertainment. The first Kyrgyz amateur musical-drama circle called “Freedom” (samodeiatel’nyi muzykal’nodramaticheskii kruzhok “Svoboda”) was founded in 1918 in Frunze. 7. The Russian Empire’s expansion into neighboring Turkic and Muslim regions began in the sixteenth century, and the Tsarist Empire finally defeated the Central Asians in the nineteenth century. In March 1865, the imperial administration created the Turkestan Oblast’, which included the territories between the Aral Sea in the west and Ysyk-Kol in the east (a total of 1,738,928 square kilometers, with a population of five to seven million). 8. In 1924, the Central Executive Commi ee of the USSR inaugurated the reorganization of Central Asia into socialist republics. The Soviet Socialist Republics of Uzbekistan and Turkmenistan were the first two new republics. The creation of Tajikistan and Kazakhstan as autonomous republics followed. Kyrgyz, formerly called Kara Kyrgyz (Kara Kyrgyz Autonomous Oblast’—1924–1925), were not seen as worthy of their own autonomous republics. The commi ee gradually elevated Kyrgyz territory from an autonomous region or oblast’ in 1925 to an autonomous republic in 1926, and finally to “the ultimate honor” of Kyrgyz Soviet Socialist Republic (1936). See Ibraimov 2001: 311. 9. By 1953 there were a total of 704 Houses of Culture, city clubs, and Palaces of Culture, most of which had their own multifunctional buildings with large stages and movie theaters. By the end of the Stalinist era, every small se lement in the Kyrgyz Soviet Socialist Republic had at least one room where the “masses” were entertained while they were, in theory, educated. For more details, see Daniiarov 1972. 10. War Communism and the New Economic Policy were Lenin’s temporary measures to improve the economy during the civil war and in its a ermath, respectively. 11. For the concept of “everyday resistance,” see Sco 1985.

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12. For the dual nature of Soviet state and Communist Party structure see Kotkin 1995. 13. Sunni Islam reached Kyrgyz nomads from the west sometime in the ninth century, but most scholars believe that this dispersed population converted to Islam gradually and at different times. In the eighth century, Arab troops reached Fergana Valley and defeated Tang Emperor Xuanzong (r. 713–755) in Talas in 751. Muslim influence took hold and began to spread among sedentary populations in the region. See Fairbank 1994: 82. 14. For a discussion on how modern revolutionary and nationalist traditions have been invented see Hobsbawm and Ranger 1992. 15. For descriptions of adult education and organic intellectuals see Gramsci 1991. 16. Available newspapers included Erkin Too (first published in 1924), Ak Jol (White Path), Kazakhstan, and Uzbekistan. 17. The Kyrgyz Republic honored the bozui, placing the tunduk (the circular opening at the top of the bozui) on the national flag of the independent postSoviet Kyrgyzstan. 18. My main sources for these are my interviews with elderly Kyrgyz people in 1995 and 2002, but similar approaches to these conclusions may be found in Baltabaeva 1974; Erdem 2000; Fiel’strup 2002; and Umatov 1982.

References Abdyldaev, N. 1975. Azyrki ail madaniiaty [The Current ail (Rural) Civilization]. Frunze: Kyrgyzstan basmasy. Aitmatov, Chingiz T. 1999. Gulsarat. Bishkek: Sham. (First published in 1966 in Russian with the title Proshchai, Gulsary!). Asad, Talal. 1993. Genealogies of Religion: Discipline and Reasons of Power in Christianity and Islam. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. Asanov, U.A, ed. 1998. Naryn Oblusu Entsiklopediia [Encyclopedia of Naryn Oblast’]. Bishkek: Kyrgyz entsiklopediiasynyn bashky redaktsiiasy. Baltabaeva, T.M. 1974. Kyrgyzdyn eldik kenchi [Folk Treasures of Kyrgyzstan] (Russian title: Narodnye sokrovishcha Kirgizii). Frunze: Kyrgyzstan. Clark, Charles E. 2000. Uprooting Otherness: The Literacy Campaign in NEP-Era Russia. Selinsgrove, PA: Susquehanna University Press. Crehan, Kate. 2002. Gramsci, Culture and Anthropology. Berkeley: University of California Press. Daniiarov, Sanzharbek Seitovich. 1972. Оsushchеstvlеnie Lеninskоi prоgrаmmy kul’turnoi revoliutsii v Kirgizii [The Implementation of Lenin’s Program of Cultural Revolution in Kyrgyzstan]. Frunze: Kyrgyzstan. David-Fox, Michael. 1999. “What Is Cultural Revolution?” Russian Review 58: 181–201. Diadiuchenko, L., B. Usubalieva, B. Maksimov, and E. Sorokin, eds. 1986. Kyrgyz oimoloru [Kyrgyz Designs]. Frunze: Kyrgyzstan basmasy. Erdem, Mustafa. 2000. Kırgız Türkleri [Kyrgyz Turks]. Ankara: ASAM.

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Fairbank, John K. 1994. China: A New History. 4th edition. Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press. Fiel’strup, F.A. 2002. Iz obriadovoi zhizni kirgizov nachala XX veka [From the Ritual Life of the Kyrgyz at the Beginning of the Twentieth Century]. Moskva: Nauka. Gleason, Gregory. 1991. “The Political Economy of Dependency under Socialism: The Asian Republics in the USSR,” Studies in Comparative Communism 24: 332–53. Gorzka, Gabriele. 1990. “Proletarian Culture in Practice: Workers’ Clubs, 19171921,” in Essays on Revolutionary Culture and Stalinism, ed. John W. Strong. Columbus, OH: Slavica Publishers. Gramsci, Antonio. 1991. Selections from Cultural Writings. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Grant, Bruce. 1995. In the Soviet House of Culture: A Century of Perestroikas. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Hatch, John. 1994. “Hangouts and Hangovers: State, Class and Culture in Moscow’s Worker’s Club Movement, 1925-1928.” Russian Review 53: 97–117. Hellbeck, Jochen. 2000. “Fashioning the Stalinist Soul: The Diary of Stepan Podlubnyi, 1931-9,” in Stalinism: New Directions, ed. Sheila Fitzpatrick, pp. 77–116. London: Routledge. Hobsbawm, Eric, and Terence Ranger, eds. 1992. The Invention of Tradition. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Holmes, Larry E. 1991.The Kremlin and the Schoolhouse: Reforming Education in Soviet Russia, 1917-1931. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Ibraimov, Osmon. 2001. Kyrgyzstan entsiklopediia [Encyclopedia of Kyrgyzstan]. Bishkek: Tsentr gosudarstvennovo iazyka i entsiklopedii. Institut marksizma-leninizma pri TsK KPSS. 1936. “Resolution of the Bureau of the Kyrgyz Regional Commi ee of the Communist Party of Bolsheviks about the Situation of Cultural Public Work in Ails,” 8 March 1936, f. (fond)10, op. (opis’) 1, d. (delo) 1040. Kenez, Peter. 1985. Birth of the Propaganda State: Soviet Methods of Mass Mobilization, 1917-1929. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Kotkin, Stephen. 1995. Magnetic Mountain: Stalinism as a Civilization. Berkeley: University of California Press. Mayo, Peter. 1999. Gramsci, Freire and Adult Education: Possibilities for Transformative Action. London: Zed Books. Mitchell, Timothy. 1991 Colonising Egypt. Berkeley: University of California Press. Sco , James C. 1985. Weapons of the Weak. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Sovetskaia Kirgiziia. 1929. “A Report on the Work of the Osh Komsomol Members in the Red Yurts,” 19 August 1929, p. 5. TsGAKSSR (Central State Archive of the Kyrgyz Soviet Socialist Republic). 1921. “Resolution Theses of the Congress of Managers of the National Education Departments of Turkestan Republic,” 21 June 1921, f. ( fond) 653, op. (opis’) 1, d. (delo) 1417.

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———. 1923. “Report of Pishpek District, Department of National Education on Political Education Work in the District,” 20 May 1923, f. 653, op. 1, d. 268. ———. 1924a. “Circular Le er of the Jeti Suu Regional Communist Party of Turkestan to the District Commi ees of the Party about the Organization of Cultural Education Work in the Villages,” 8 October 1924, f. 651, op. 1, d. 70. ———. 1924b. “Report of the Karakol District Union of Forestry Workers on Culture Work among the Members of the Union,” 25 October 1924, f. 651, op. 1, d. 55. ———. 1925a. “Report of the Karakol District Political Education Commi ee on the Activities of Political Education,” 15 March 1925, f. 647, op. 1, d. 35. ———. 1925b. “Report of the Organizer of Red Yurts in Karakol and Naryn Regions, 1 June to 1 August 1925,” 12 August 1925, f. 651, op. 1, d. 95. ———. 1925c. “Report of the Pishpek Regional Political Education Committee,” 18 October 1925, f. 651, op. 1, d. 95. ———. 1925d. “The Report of the Political Education Commi ee of Kyrgyz Autonomous Oblast’ on the Accomplished Work in October and November of 1925,” 8 December 1925, f. 647, op.1, d.114. TsGARK of the Alma-Ata Region. 1923. “Statement of the Central Commi ee of the Russian Communist Party to all Regional Commi ees of the Party on the Transformation of Clubs into Centers of Party and Political Education Work,” 11 February 1923, f. 337, op. 1, d. 271. TsKPSS. 1924. “Resolution of the Second Session of the Pishpek District-Urban Commi ee of the Communist Party of Turkestan on Cultural-Educational Work,” 21 May 1924, f. 2, op. 1, d. 204. Umatov, Zhumabai. 1982. Kyial duinosundo [In the World of Ornaments] (Russian title: V mire ornamentov). Frunze: Kyrgyzstan. Young, Glennys. 1997. Power and the Sacred in Revolutionary Russia. University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press.


8 PALANA’S HOUSE OF KORYAK CULTURE Alexander D. King

One can find a House of Culture or klub in every town and village in Kamchatka, and most of these were active, fun places in the 1990s. Typically, the klub has a stage for theater, dance, and music performances, and other rooms for everything from children’s cra s and folk art to exhibitions of local painters’ and sculptors’ works. O en the library is a ached to or is located near the klub. In short, a town’s House of Culture is the place for everything concerning the creative arts (tvorchestvo). At first glance, this institutional community arts center seems to be no more than a banal holdover from Soviet kitsch, and one would tend to agree with Levin’s gloss as a “house of artistic do-it-yourselfism” (dom khudozhestvennoi samodeiatel’nosti) (Levin 1996: 58). However, a er some reflection on the people and activities in Palana, and even some of the smallest villages in Kamchatka, I realized that the ambition and creativity found in many northern Kamchatkan Houses of Culture produced art and performances that people were talking about twenty years later and continued to produce vibrant art in the difficult ten years following the breakup of the Soviet Union. The Okrug House of Culture (okruzhnoi dom kul’tury, o en referred to by its initials, ODK) in Palana is particularly a focal point for a remarkably vibrant arts scene in a town of 4,500 souls with only two paved streets. Palana was a small village of just 150 people when the famous Russian ethnographer and linguist Vladimir Bogoraz visited in 1901.1 This population included about twenty Russians and a church (Jochelson 1908: 444). In 1997 a native grandmother told me that her father had been the local priest, executed by the Soviets in the 1930s. The main point that she wanted to emphasize, however, was that even before the advent of Soviet universal schooling, indigenous Kamchatkans (or at least some) were literate and thus cultured. The village grew considerably under the Soviets a er the administrative center of the Koryak National Okrug (formed in 1930) was moved from the northern village of Kamenskoe to Palana in 1937 (Alatyrtseva 2000: 7).2 Particularly a er the war, Palana grew due to the consolidation of small villages in the area and increased se lement of nomadic herders. As an administra-

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tive center, it also benefited from a degree of infrastructural investment greater than its population would normally warrant. Thus it had a hospital, music school, cinema, regional library and House of Culture, and a driver/mechanic training college. The okrug was subordinated to neighboring Kamchatka Oblast’, but during the dynamic Yeltsin years, it moved toward greater autonomy and was formally recognized as one of the eighty-nine federal subjects. Although the 1990s saw a halt to the ambitious building program of the 1980s, the town continued to benefit from being a capital, and a teachers’ college was reestablished in 1990. To be sure, Palana is a provincial town, and sophisticates steeped in the art scenes of Berlin or San Francisco (for example) would have good cause to say unkind words about the conceptualization and execution of many of the projects and performances in the Palana arts scene. However, if we compare Palana to places like Barrow (the oil capital of Alaska’s North Slope), Iqaluit (capital of Nunavut), or even many Russian towns two or three times Palana’s size, the ambitions and realizations of local artists are impressive. This is all the more significant given the appalling economic conditions of 1995–2001, the time span of my research.3 I have remained in personal contact with friends, all of whom participate in the House of Culture in one way or another, and I can say that the arts scene in Palana is no less vibrant now, a er the merger of the okrug with neighboring Kamchatka Oblast’ into Kamchatka Krai in 2006, than it was then. Some had worried that okrug-level infrastructure such as the hospital and colleges might be withdrawn, but apart from closing the okrug radio and TV stations, mostly only okrug administration bureaucrats have le . Socially, Palana is diverse. At least half, if not more, of the residents are first- or second-generation newcomers from European Russia and Ukraine. There are many ethnic Koryaks from all over the okrug, as well as representatives of other indigenous groups: Alutors (Nymylans), Chukchi, Evens, Itelmens. The teachers’ college trains students in the Koryak, Even, and Itelmen languages. The House of Culture in Palana is an exciting place for art and artists. It is no coincidence that the people working in Palana’s House of Culture call themselves “culturites” (kul’turovtsy). Artists are specialists in Culture, which is to say they are especially adept at producing and manipulating complex symbols and metaphors. Roy Wagner (1981, 1986) has convincingly argued that there is no qualitative difference between the symbolic operations organizing kinship relations, cosmological foundations, or social power on the one hand, and the symbols behind poetry, music, and theater on the other hand. It’s all culture. The difference is one of consciousness. People are less conscious of the symbols of kinship as symbols, while the symbols in poetry and dance are

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the subject of more or less informed discussion, at least in Palana. Boas (1889), Sapir (1921, 1924, 1927, 1932), and Whorf (1956) all pointed out the continuity between linguistic symbols operating in the unconscious and the more explicitly “cultural” sorts of operations easily available to people’s conscious reflection. In Kamchatka, people make a distinction (sometimes consciously) between the Culture of art, music, poetry, etc. and the culture of ethnographic or folkloric inquiry in the conversations about activities at the House of Culture. Anthropologists working all around the world have found individuals of a certain contemplative intellectual disposition that leads them to a more critical stance towards symbols readily accessible to consciousness and a more conscious appreciation of symbols that most of their compatriots take for granted as part of the background of social reality. These people are o en referred to as key informants. One of my key informants, Andrei Kosygin, o en used the term “culturites” to refer to himself, his buddies, and the following generation of aspiring artists just out of school, whether they were working primarily in indigenous Kamchatkan traditions or not. Other people use the term simply to refer to employees of the Department of Culture, but its circulation seems to be limited to Palana. In my investigations on Koryak language and culture in northern Kamchatka, I found that many of my key informants (though not all) were closely associated with the House of Culture, whether the ODK in Palana or a klub in a small village. As specialists in culture, Kosygin and other employees, regular visitors, and artists associated with the ODK in Palana generated much fascinating discourse on Culture and Art as universal aspects of human beings, as well as discourses on Kamchatkan indigenous cultures and traditions. Artists and musicians in Palana understand themselves as engaging in global exchanges of ideas, art, and performances. Their performances o en drew upon indigenous Kamchatkan cultures, especially Koryak traditions, but this “ethnic art,” if it can be called that, was not about exclusion or the maintenance of social boundaries. Rather, as I discuss below, the use of indigenous cultural traditions in Palana’s House of Culture (ODK) was about portraying a particular perspective in these global conversations—conversations held through dance performances, singing, and theater (see Appadurai 1996; Urban 2001). Like Alexei Yurchak (2006: 18), my analysis of discourse about culture and tradition in Kamchatka situates the semiotic power of particular speech acts and discourse texts in larger sociological frames of power, which both enable and constrain action in particular ways. Although I prefer to draw upon Boasian anthropology and the semiotics of Charles Peirce rather than Foucault and Bourdieu, my analytic perspectives move in

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similar directions as those of Yurchak (2006) and Habeck (this volume). I found more than one individual in Kamchatka expressing sentiments very similar to Kosintseva’s call to arms, with which Habeck opens his introduction. Key people working in the House of Culture in Palana and in other villages express an idea of culture that is creative, embodied in particular individuals, and morally powerful (King 2011). Culture workers induce people to moral deeds to improve society, not through lectures and enlightenment, but through personal relationships that help to give people a sense of purpose that is larger than themselves. By that I mean that some culture workers, at least, understand that participation in a dance group or music ensemble can steer youth away from suicide and other destructive behaviors. The stakes are not pe y ones of countering idleness; they are all too o en life or death for indigenous Kamchatkan youth. Thus, I argue that the meaning, function, and impact of the House of Culture, at least in Palana, is the life-affirming, soul-filling power of genuine culture (Sapir 1949 [1924]).

A House for Culturites The ODK in Palana is funded wholly by the administration, with li le or no income from commercial activities. Palana also has a klub, which operates out of the town budget. Interestingly, the town klub (also known as SDK for sel’skii dom kul’tury or “village House of Culture”) is located in the sovkhoz (state farm) part of town, across a stream on the east side (“on the wrong side of the tracks,” if you will), which has the worst housing (o en without plumbing) and the greatest number of Koryak residents.4 The Koryak Okrug Department of Culture funds the ODK directly, as it does the regional museum, the okrug archives, library, and clubs (kluby) in all the villages of the okrug. Until 1998, the Okrug Department of Culture also funded the okrug’s professional dance ensemble, Mengo, which specializes in stage adaptations of native dance. The okrug music school is funded by the Department of Education, but House of Culture personnel were usually involved in the planning and execution of children’s music and dance performances at the school, which were well a ended by more than just parents. The music school building is just across the street from the ODK and has a good performance space. Although the stage is smaller than the one in the Okruzhnaia Duma (parliament) building, the music school seats a larger audience. Although there is a converted house on Fi y Years of Komsomol Street that served as the physical center for the House of Culture (see Illustration 8.1), the House of Culture was more of an idea and a com-

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Illustration 8.1 | The ODK building with offices, studios, and rehearsal space is a converted apartment building, originally built in the early 1970s. Photo: A. King, 2001.

plex of practices than a single place. The original building that housed the ODK burned down in the early 1980s, most likely due to an electrical fault.5 It had been an old wooden structure built during the initial boom that accompanied Palana’s reorganization into a “se lement of the urban type” in the early 1960s. Plans were made to build a larger, grander building on the central Lenin Square opposite the parliament building and adjacent to the hotel. A er most of the concrete block walls were finished, the foundation cracked (it was built partially on permafrost), and all construction halted a er 1989, when funds for such projects dried up (Illustration 8.2). Although the state had abandoned the Koryak Okrug House of Culture building as a partially built shell with a cracked foundation, sinking into the permafrost like the House of Usher, Palana “culturites” were busy ge ing on with their art and their performances. Thus, ODK offices and rehearsal spaces were in the Fi y Years of Komsomol Street building, but performances and rehearsals took place either in the small theater in the duma building or (less o en) on the music school’s stage. Other public spaces, such as Lenin Square and the large atrium of an office building, were also used for small performances, festivals, and displays of art and cra s. The ODK is a social nexus, more than a physical building, where artists of all kinds gather, collaborate, compete, and support each others’ work in all kinds of artistic endeavors.

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Illustration 8.2 | The uncompleted replacement for the Palana ODK was an icon of the Soviet Union as an unfinished project. It faced the main town square, opposite the okrug parliament building, which has Palana’s largest theater. Photo: Christina Kincaid, 2001.

In 1997, the Okrug House of Culture in Palana was combined with the Okrug Center for Applied Scientific Research (OMNTs—Okruzhnoi metodicheskii nauchnyi tsentr) and renamed the Okrug House of People’s (or Folk) Arts (Okruzhnoi dom narodnogo tvorchestva), which caused some anxiety among both folklorists and artists. The folklorists from the former OMNTs were concerned that their scholarly efforts would become diluted by, or subservient to, the artsy entertainment that is the purpose of the House of Culture. Likewise, some artists were concerned that the range of their art may be more constrained to reflecting indigenous traditions. However, the former ODK director was made director of the new organization, and he le people to get on with their jobs without dictating the content. Few people used the new name, continuing rather to refer to the organization and its activities by the more familiar terms dom kul’tury or ODK. The ODK and OMNTs were combined for many reasons: the two organizations already occupied the same spaces; the restructuring made administration more efficient; and personnel in the two organizations already worked with each other on folklore research, encouraged native carvers and seamstresses, and produced stage entertainment. Many of these stage productions drew upon indigenous traditions, but many were located within modern world culture—making use of Western rock or disco music, modern dance, and Russian theater. For example, my present of a Riverdance video by Michael Flatley in

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the fall of 1997 and his Lord of the Dance performance televised during the 1998 Oscars created much excitement among Palana artists. A dance concert consisting of Celtic, Spanish, and other world cultures was choreographed by Liza Yetneut to music composed by Andrei Kosygin. I was not present for the performance in 1999, but reports from several people indicated to me it was a popular success. The Koryak Okrug House of Culture benefited from its location in Palana in several ways. It was the general arts institution of the okrug. Thus, its employees were busy leading or assisting in all kinds of performances and projects, from Mengo’s professional dancing to student performances in the music school. As the okrug center, Palana was closer to the source of state funds that seemed to disappear as they filtered down to the raion centers and villages.6 Also, private businessmen in Palana sometimes helped to sponsor individual projects. Most importantly, as the administrative center, Palana continues to a ract a lot of interesting people from around the okrug, and even from other parts of Russia. As newcomers have been leaving Palana in the last ten years, many of their places are being filled by educated or experienced workers from the smaller villages, especially from the isolated villages near Penzhina Bay. Thus, even in the economically tumultuous Yeltsin years, Palana had a relatively low unemployment rate and people’s salaries were paid on time. This meant that people had a bit of disposable income, and ODK artists, especially musicians, could earn a bit of cash on the side from commercial disco nights with live music for the “over-thirty” crowd (komu za tridtsat’). Since Palana’s ODK has no performance venue, these discos were organized in the foyer of the town cinema, which rarely showed films. While I was in the small northern village of Middle Pakhachi in April and May of 1998, learning that without reindeer the Chukchi there had no culture and learning how to “walk your dog to the a erlife,” my wife Christina was in Palana working in the Koryak Okrug Regional Museum as an international coordinator and grants specialist.7 As our friends were mostly culturites, she was invited to the a erparty at the end of “culture week” in May (Illustration 8.3). The party got a bit wilder when someone suggested that they move to the site of the old House of Culture, where our friends and acquaintances continued dancing and drinking on all that remains, the concrete foundation. This moment (portrayed in Illustration 8.4) demonstrates the importance of the continuing relevance of the House of Culture as a social space that transcends any particular building. At the same time, working together in a shared space is a key ingredient in the continuing artistic success of ODK artists and their projects.

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Illustration 8.3 | Culture workers at a particularly lively (although by no means unique) party celebrating a successful string of shows during Culture Week 1998. These parties always included people playing music and singing. Photo: Christina Kincaid, 1998.

Illustration 8.4 | The Culture Week party has moved to the foundation of the long gone Okrug House of Culture, where people danced to celebrate their socially and artistically successful kooperativ. Photo: Christina Kincaid, 1998.

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I dwell on this scene of the culture workers’ bacchanalia because it represents an almost perfect antithesis of Bruce Grant’s experience of the House of Scientific Atheism in Moscow (Grant, this volume). Whereas Grant was confronted with an empty building pretending to host events, a structure marking a cynically Soviet absence of cultural content, I was time and again struck by vivacious performances of art and celebrations of Culture despite the absence of adequate structures. The tale of the ODK burning down was told to me more than once, and I heard about how everyone rushed to toss out of the windows musical instruments and equipment, books, and other materials in order to salvage something from a building that was going up in flames, ironically, next door to the fire department. Clearly, just as a wonderful building does not necessarily make for the best art, the lack of a building does not prevent good art, either. In fact, where artists lived was at least as, if not more important than, where they “worked.” My physical residence in Palana was organized through the Department of Culture and various ODK people. When I arrived for dissertation fieldwork in the spring of 1997, my friend Igor’ Dedyk had arranged for me to stay in the empty flat of his culturite friend, theater playwright and director Nikolai Bondarenko, while he was on vacation. When Bondarenko returned, the director of the Department of Culture, Raisa Avak (who in 1995 had been director of the Teachers’ College, where I studied during my first trip) agreed to let me live in the Mengo Building, which is a combination of small residential flats with offices and rehearsal spaces for the professional dance ensemble of that name. This seemed to make sense to everyone. Ethnographers were also apparently culturites, or at least presumed to be interested in the work of culturites, and through these living arrangements I made many friends and acquaintances who worked for the Department of Culture in one way or another. Culture workers lived and worked in several different buildings. I found that work (making art) happened as much in people’s homes as in more official workplaces such as the House of Culture building or the Mengo building. When I visited culturites in their apartments, I o en ran into other culturites already there, and many also visited my apartment to discuss art, culture, and ethnography with me. Much of my data comes from such informal conversations with people like Avak and Bondarenko, as well as Kosygin and Dedyk, who was a friend and fellow musician of Kosygin’s. Living in the Mengo Building, I also got to know several of the professional dancers. Mengo’s origins lie in the ODK in the 1960s, and although they were wholly separated from the ODK administratively and artistically, several Mengo artists were personal friends of ODK

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artists and participated in a common discourse about culture and tradition in Palana.8 These experiences lead me to believe that the vibrant arts scene in Palana is due in no small part to the strong and dynamic social relationships among people, quite independent of any building.

Valerii Yetneut and Andrei Kosygin: Two Larger-than-Life Culturites During my first trip in 1995 I had made the acquaintance of Valerii and Liza Yetneut, founders of the small but exciting ensemble of indigenous Kamchatkan dance, Weyem. Valerii’s tragic and scandalous death in September 1997 did not mean the end of Weyem, but it did require a shi in my research plan, which originally had Yetneut and Weyem as a key part of my study of how local Kamchatkans play with traditions and culture in creative ways. Valerii’s funeral, ironically or fi ingly, was where I first met Andrei Kosygin, who was a musical collaborator with Valerii and a talented composer, musician, artist, and raconteur. Kosygin was and is a key culturite, o en at the center of just about every performance with a musical element. I had heard about him during my first visit to Palana in 1995, but did not make his acquaintance until September 1997. Yetneut and Kosygin had been friends and musical collaborators for many years. First impressions of Kosygin contrast greatly with those from Yetneut. Valerii Yetneut was a small man but powerfully built. His lean, muscled body always did exactly what he wanted it do on the stage—spectacular leaps, kicks, and jumps characteristic of Koryak dancing—filling up a large space and making him seem big. Although tall, Kosygin’s flabby physique and gentle presence make him seem smaller than he really is. Yetneut’s mother, called Aunt Masha by most who knew her, was a respected elder who had grown up in the tundra and was knowledgeable in ritual and relationships with spirits and people from “the other world.” Although Yetneut did not have full fluency in the Koryak language, he could speak some and his Russian had the characteristically lilting, breathy accent of Koryaks. Kosygin, on the other hand, does not speak Koryak at all, and he has the playful relationship with Russian of a man of le ers. He carries a famous Kamchadal surname, descended from one of several brothers of that name who arrived in southern Kamchatka in the eighteenth century. His father, Vladimir Kosygin, is a famous politician and poet, having published many books of verse under the nom de plume Koyanto, which comes from the Koryak word for reindeer. His mother is a retired librarian and a Russian from Ukraine. She is a quintessen-

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tial educated Russian babushka (“grandmother”). The point I want to emphasize here is that, despite their differences, neither man is more or less Koryak or Russian. They are men, artists, and their art draws upon Koryak traditions and upon European traditions. Their art is good art because it exploits interesting tensions between tradition and innovation and transcends any parochial mode of operation. These two men, and several other men and women of various ethnicities, were at the center of many Okrug House of Culture activities. As I have wri en elsewhere (King 2009), ethnic identity in Kamchatka neither privileges nor disqualifies a person from performing or representing any particular cultural tradition. As a result of the merger of the OMNTs and the ODK mentioned earlier, work in the Koryak House of Culture is thought of as being of two sorts. The folklorists are interested in mestnaia (local) or fol’klornaia (folk) kul’tura, also referred to as natsional’naia (ethnic), or narodnaia (folk/people’s) in the local parlance. They are primarily conducting research and documentation of indigenous traditions. They write and publish. The artists talk about culture and the arts, primarily in the context of discussing music and dance. They perform. Artists are specialists in Culture with a big C, and they work in a global context of cultural production, following what they see as global fashions. People in Kamchatka o en talk about art, music, and other creative traditions within the framework of an implicitly universalist theory of Culture, understood as the uneven distribution of creative assets or civilization whereby some individuals have more Culture than others. People in Kamchatka, and especially Palana, talk about being part of civilization, if on the edge, and their performances assert a cultural value in Kamchatkan indigenous traditions that add to this global discourse of civilization. However, conversations about ethnic dances and other cultural traditions include an implicit anthropological notion of cultures (with a small c), whereby all peoples have fully developed albeit different cultures, and preferences for this or that culture are more a question of individual habit than of a universal hierarchy of human civilization (King 2004). Another continuity is that performing artists, such as Valerii Yetneut and Andrei Kosygin, are also very interested in folklore research, collecting their own material and that of others with considerable energy. Folklorists and some culturites were primarily interested in the documentation, preservation, and performance of mestnaia (that is, indigenous) Kamchatkan culture.9 Others, such as Andrei Kosygin and my friend Igor’ Dedyk, were primarily interested in playing music they liked, which is most easily described as rock ‘n’ roll, and only second-

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arily interested in Koryak music, dance, and other forms of artistic expression. By no means did they ignore Koryak traditions. Indeed, both were occasionally involved in video and audio production of various kinds of things, including my own field recordings. I le copies of much of my video material with Andrei Kosygin because he was interested in building up an ethnographic video archive.10 He considers himself both Koryak and Russian. He likes participating in multiple traditions, but as an artist, he is not beholden to any one way of working or organizing symbols. Innovation of new pa erns is his goal, and this always pulls him out of any single tradition or traditional way of creating. Kosygin, Dedyk, and other culture workers do identify as “native Kamchatkans” when quizzed by the anthropologist, but their actions indicate that their sense of self is more firmly connected to being a citizen of Rossiia and to being an artist in the world. This did not always play well in the Palana political scene, which was at a height of ethnic political consciousness in 1997–98 when the Itelmen Valentina Bronevich was governor of the okrug.11 Andrei Kosygin’s wife complained to me that the Department of Culture was being nasty to them, saying that Andrei was not an “ethnic” (natsional’nyi) artist, that he was not a Koryak composer, as opposed to Valerii Yetneut or the Mengo dance troupe. I asked why and for more details, and she explained that because he composes on the synthesizer and plays rock music, they did not want to consider him a “national artist.” I pointed out that Mengo and Yetneut also used synthesizers. “Of course,” was the answer. “We were just fighting with them all the time.” These problems stopped when a more reasonable (from my friends’ perspective) person was appointed head of the Okrug Department of Culture. Kosygin was very interested in Koryak traditions and sometimes used them in his music, but he made no claims to being Koryak in a deeper, ontological sense. One evening while I was at Kosygin’s apartment, watching a videotape of reindeer herders that I had made while we copied it onto his VHS deck, he told me about the first time he saw a reindeer butchered. This was during the Soviet era, and his ODK duties included performing in the AKB (agitkul’tbrigada), which took culture to the reindeer herders since their life in the tundra supposedly took them away from civilization: Back then we Culturites were required to fly around the okrug and entertain the reindeer herders. We had to do it. We took some goodies—tea, cigare es—and flew out there. We took some simple acoustic instruments, and one time there was also a Ukrainian film crew filming all sorts of stuff. The helicopter pilots always hated waiting for us to play. They wanted to get their meat and get out. One time, we were there playing,

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and they started up the helicopter and blew dust all over us. They got a call to transport a sick person to the city or something like that, but the film crew wanted to be taken to a great vantage point to film the landscape. They flew us up to the top of some cliffs, with a bunch of grandmas and a kid. They dumped us off there, and it was a gorgeous view. We played and entertained the grandmothers, who did not really understand what the hell we were up to. They played too, and the Ukrainians filmed everything, all the grandmothers, how they danced, their clothes, and everything. It was ge ing late and there was no helicopter. It was going to get dark soon, and we were hungry. They decided to slaughter a young deer, a yearling, but they didn’t have a real knife. The boy just had a small knife, like this teaspoon here. The deer was calmly standing there, and he was stabbing it, looking for the heart. I cried. It was terrible. The deer suffered, I could see, but it stood there and let itself be killed. The people and the deer have an agreement with each other. But that was the best meat. It was so juicy, and fresh, you know. But I cried. The grandmothers sent us off to get firewood, and I went crying. The next morning it was raining, and the grandmothers had a fire going, God knows how up there. It was a naked cliff. Off in the distance, down at the bo om of the cliffs, we saw the rest of the herd. They must have been at least fi een kilometers away. They saw us, wondering what the hell we were doing on the cliffs, and several of the herders walked up to us. That was such a sight. Real Koryaks. That is their home. Here I am, cold, wet, miserable, crying for home, tears running down my cheeks. The herder walks up like he just walked out of his house. He is carrying only essentials: binoculars, tobacco pouch and knife on his belt. He looked grand, right at home. That is where the real Koryaks are, out in the wild places like that. Everything is ruined, assimilated in town. There is nothing le in Palana. In those wild places, the Koryak herder is master. He is his own master, his own person. Those herders looked like pure Indians, in the best sense of the word. They were completely at home out there, in the wild.

I reproduce Kosygin’s story at length here in an a empt to represent his delicious skill in storytelling. He performs, always, and the forms are important. He acted out the deer slaughter with a teaspoon from the table in his living room. He went to great lengths to laugh at himself and his pitiful state of suffering, in great contrast to the reindeer herders, or even the grandmas! Elsewhere I have described how people in Palana have relegated Koryak culture to the tundra (King 2002a). The point that I want to elaborate here is that Andrei and others with similar stories emphasize the person’s unconscious dispositions as the key aspect of primary cultural identity. In the story above and other times, I found people in Kamchatka unconsciously expressing an anthropological sense of culture. Kosygin’s portrayal of the herder’s ease

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and sense of “at home-ness” in the reindeer herding camp (out on the land—the quintessential location of Koryak culture) emerges from a matrix of behaviors, a itudes, and other knowledge and skills (cf. Kerttula 2000: 22, 124ff.). Thus, knowledge of all kinds of things—music, dance, spirits, cra s, rituals—which is produced through interactions with people in the herding camp (or failing that direct experience, with elders who had spent most of their lifetime in the tundra) was guaranteed to be authoritative Koryak knowledge. However, he also identified with Koryak heritage and claimed kinship with people like those reindeer herders. Always the entertainer, Kosygin and other culture workers performed a complex ideology that distanced themselves from “real Koryaks” out in the tundra but at the same time identified with such people and their knowledge. While Kosygin, Yetneut, and other culture workers were rarely the type of people to have lived and worked in a herding camp, they all visited those places (especially summer fishing camps) and knew many indigenous elders (the embodiment of tradition) very well.

Scandals of the International Trade in Culture In the spring of 1998, the distinguished ethnographers Chuner Taksami and Yurii Chesnokov arrived in Palana with several hundred copies of the Russian translation of part two of Jochelson’s 1908 Jesup ethnography of the Koryak. There were formal presentations in the okrug library and the main theater, which were well a ended by culturites and local citizens. At several instances, Taksami railed against foreigners carrying off native culture. He primarily had archeologists and native cra traders in mind, especially two or three notorious Americans who had traveled around Kamchatka, buying family heirlooms cheaply in the economic crisis and importing them into America at a substantial profit. When one Itelmen scholar stood up and described the Jochelson collections in New York and her awe at the wonderful state in which century-old artifacts have been preserved “just like new,” Taksami responded that archeological work was “grave robbing … stealing things from Nivkh and other graves. If I were to do the same thing to Russian graves, I would be in jail immediately. We need to demand that they keep their hands off our sacred places: graves, sacred sites, cult places.” This was a sentiment shared by many in Kamchatka. Sacred places are powerful and best avoided; visiting them entails social relations with powerful nonhuman beings. However, Taksami found less sympathy in the audience when he railed against “foreign ethnographers” carrying

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off native culture and the wisdom of the elders more generally without leaving copies of what they have recorded. Vladimir Kosygin (Andrei’s father) answered that he agreed with Taksami’s words, but pointed out that there is a “big organization” in Moscow and here in Palana, which should be taking care of just that, but they are not doing anything.12 “It is our own fault,” he concluded. This exchange is one of the best examples of how culture as symbols (knowledge) is easily reified and made equivalent to things like parkas and sacred objects. This kind of reification is especially common in the House of Culture, where culture and symbols generally are thought of and treated like objects that can be juggled, connected together or separated, or manipulated in ways similar to the ways performers and artists manipulate props or other materials (e.g., paint, wood). This reification seems to be inherent in the translation of cultures into part of a universalist discourse of Culture. The contradictions between these two ways of thinking about culture peacefully coexist because they remain, for the most part, implicit and unconscious. I found this kind of reification less evident in smaller villages, where culturites were less likely to have formal training than those in Palana, and were less oriented towards an international arts scene. Elsewhere I have discussed the example of the dance ensemble Fakel, organized by Nina Nikolaevna Milgichil (a dance instructor at the music school) and later run by her husband Vasilii Borisovich in the village of Manily at Penzhina Bay (King 2011: 94–103). Milgichil was explicitly working to teach children and youth a Koryak way of being in the world, trying to provide them with a Koryak moral foundation through dance, which would support them more generally in a world that o en despises their Koryak identity. She did not talk about identity or politics or ethnicity, but about the importance of a meaningful life and soul with purpose. Learning Koryak dancing necessarily connects young people with elders, and these relationships also help build self-respect, confidence, and the inner well-being necessary to weather severe personal and social storms. Across Penzhina Bay from Manily, the House of Culture (or more properly, the village klub) in Upper Paren was the locus of a small ensemble performing dance and music. Muchigin Yayai (Our Drum) was organized in the mid-1990s by the village klub director to perform in a festival in Magadan Oblast’ (Upper Paren lies just across the border from Paren on the coast). The members of this small group had such fun and enthusiastic audiences that they decided to continue rehearsing and performing on the occasions of assorted national and local holidays. My arrival and that of a Japanese linguist in the same week was

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also a perfect opportunity for a performance for our benefit and that of a few children. Most of their performance was modeled on Mengo’s legendary repertoire—a mix of Koryak dances choreographed for the stage and comedic skits using Koryak language. Additionally, one young herdsman, Alek Tynav’i, played a Koryak skin drum and sang songs of his own composition in Russian. He did not actively command Koryak, but, like Kosygin or maybe more like Yetneut, he drew inspiration from Koryak traditions for music that followed a distinctly Western 4/4 beat. Tynav’i was a professional reindeer herder working at the reindeer herding camp for the local sovkhoz (although he was laid off by the administration while I was in the village), and was in the village on holiday (otpusk). He listened both to Russian pop music and elders singing traditional songs and hummed and sang as he walked the tundra herding deer. He sang a short song without prompting as I was interviewing him about his art. The assistant director of the village club and Muchigin Yayai later commented to me that he had only recently joined the group. She appreciated his ability to carry a tune, but regretted his lack of Koryak linguistic skills, which she implied would have been be er for performances in what was a Koryak folk ensemble. This kind of “ethnicization” by Siberian culture workers is most likely to be heard when they are talking to ethnographers, whom they understand as principally interested in authentic traditions and ethnic differences. However, such ideologies do not seem to exclude anyone from participating in the local klub or folk ensemble.

Conclusion Professionals in the House of Culture express a cultural ideology that reifies culture, pigeon-holing traditions into nationalistic categories, but their actions belie this discursive reification. At the end of the day, criticism that a performance was bad, dull, or unfaithful to a tradition was never primarily based upon such reified categories of ethnically coded symbols. Artists and performers mix it up, and a good performance is the main thing at the end of the day. A packed house, an enthusiastic audience, satisfied performers—these were the main criteria for evaluation when culturites talked of performances they thought particularly successful. Only when a performance was already being criticized for its poor quality, such as the grumbling about Mengo that I have discussed elsewhere (King 2004, 2009), was the sin of inauthentic representation of tradition also laid at the feet of the unfortunate performer(s).

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The period between my departure from dissertation field research in Kamchatka—September 1998—and my subsequent return in the summer of 2001 was possibly the bo om of the economic trough that Kamchatkans were struggling to climb out of, although the crisis and combined restructuring during the years 1993–97 may have been psychologically more traumatic. In any case, when I returned to Palana in 2001, my culturite friends were full of stories of performances great and performances not so great during the period of my absence. Money problems were o en brought up, but failures seemed to be a function of lack of talent or practice, rather than a lack of funds. Of course they were upset about not being paid, but there were others even more upset that they had to work other jobs to pay the bills. This interfered with their “real work”—ge ing on with their art. Lest anyone accuse me of avoiding the tough questions of power, oppression, and justice, I want to note the powerful symbol an American brings with his very presence and interest in “Koryak language and culture,” as I have always summarized my purpose in Kamchatka to officials and other curious locals. The scholarly a ention of an American seemed to be a point of pride among people in Kamchatka, at least in the 1990s, and more than one Russian asked why I did not study their culture. “Russians also have a very interesting language,” I was told on more than one occasion. Unless the speaker was an officer of the Border Guards, I usually replied cheekily that Russian was a Standard Average European language and not nearly as interesting as Koryak. I have found that one of the most politically effective activities I can contribute to Kamchatkan indigenous communities is the documentation of lives as lived, highlighting that which gives cause for pride. Recording, transcribing, analyzing, and publishing the many oral narratives that have been and still are told in Kamchatka, especially those told in Koryak, demonstrates to all who witness my work and its results that Koryaks have a culture, and it is a culture just as important and worthy of study as any other. While this may strike many of us as banal multiculturalism, such work and its implicit validation of Koryak culture as part of human Culture is far from banal in Palana. Since my data was gathered before the Max Planck Institute research project on the House of Culture, I did not gather comparable material. For example, I did not study the administration of the ODK or interview employees about the running of the institution. However, I certainly socialized with those people, and they can be seen in the photos above. In conversation with them and with others about them, I gleaned that the ODK director and the other culture administrators were li le interested

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in the performativity of empty forms. The Soviet agitation brigades, such as the one described by Kosygin above, and other such demonstrations of being busy with ideological agendas were gone by the time I arrived in Palana. To be sure, politics could be present in the work of culturites. Some indigenous-oriented staff in the okrug administration could harangue artists for not being “native enough,” but no one was fired. Mengo dancers were hired by incumbent governors during their reelection campaigns in 1996 and 2000 to add entertainment to their political rallies, although neither was reelected. Ethnic politics have never gained much traction in Kamchatka, even among indigenous communities themselves. Ethnic performing-arts ensembles, however, are very popular. This is still not an ethnicization of the House of Culture in terms of exclusion. In December of 1997, the Okrug House of Culture organized an okrug-wide singing festival in Palana as part of annual celebrations of the Koryak National Okrug’s founding on 10 December 1930. Individuals and ensembles from around the okrug performed in Palana, and they seemed to reflect okrug demographics, where the majority were Russian but a substantial proportion was native. However, some of the groups performing indigenous Kamchatkan material included people that looked Russian, and several Koryak people were singing in European rock, pop, or folk styles. Ethnic identity is only loosely connected to performance and the performing arts in the Houses of Culture of the okrug. The interesting thing I take from Palana is that a universalist theory of culture, more compatible with Ma hew Arnold’s idea of culture as an a ribute of civilization than Edward Tylor’s ethnographic definition of culture (see Handler 1998), is connected to a more truly tolerant and relativist a itude of inclusion and mutual participation in the joys of life than we see in most other parts of Siberia. The culture concept is often condemned as racist or at least inherently crippled by implicit generalizations that reify dynamic interrelations of people moving among unstable groups and multiple contexts. I have found in Kamchatka, however, that this is not necessarily the case. Implicit in the speech and actions of many Kamchatkans, culture is best understood to refer to a set of symbols, which may be realized in practices, ideas, things, habits, and persons, that are related to one another through frequency of co-occurrence and having at least a partially coherent style (they “fit” together) in ways that do not present sharp boundaries against neighboring, even overlapping cultures, but are nevertheless distinct from very distant or different cultures. The Okrug House of Culture in Palana is thus a home for culture(s) and Culture, an exciting place to play, where people young and old

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thrive and not just survive. Social anthropologists may sometimes be a bit too quick to dismiss or ignore institutions like the House of Culture and the activities they support. That would be a mistake, however, because the strength of anthropology lies precisely in valuing what the local people value. In Palana the House of Culture is at the core of a small group, but it is important to a wide audience, as a ested by the large crowds and many unfamiliar faces I saw at every event. I believe that my research is not a snapshot of a unique time. Andrei’s father Vladimir Kosygin (Koyanto) is famous as both poet and politician, and he is one of a generation of artists who came to Palana from other parts of Kamchatka and established the House of Culture as a place of exciting activity and innovation in the 1950s and 1960s. Others included the writer/musician Georgii Porotov, the painter Kirill Kipalin, the choreographer Aleksandr Gil’, the dancers Ekaterina Gil’ and Tat’iana Romanova, and many others. Thus, my informants were a second generation of culturites, and judging from the high numbers of excited young people taking part in ODK activities, I expect further generations of play and innovation in Palana’s House of Koryak Culture.

Epilogue A er this chapter was wri en, I returned to Palana for four weeks in April–May 2011 to begin new research on storytelling in Koryak. I was pleasantly surprised to see that the Palana House of Culture was as vigorous as ever even without an okrug. A week a er I arrived, I a ended the dress rehearsal of a play sponsored by the House of Culture. It was community theater of modest artistic ambition, to be sure, but the two performances in Palana were well a ended, as were the three performances the group put on in the main city of Petropavlovsk-Kamchatskii. Although Mengo had le Palana for be er facilities and commercial prospects in the southern Kamchatkan city of Viliuchinsk, another professional dance ensemble had risen to take its place: Angt (“festival” or “ritual,” in Koryak) survived post-okrug cuts and is funded from the Kamchatka Krai budget. It will be celebrating its tenth anniversary in October 2011. Weyem’s director Vasilii Barannikov is now an House of Culture employee to support his work with the amateur dancers in that ensemble. The local music school has a children’s dance ensemble performing indigenous and non-indigenous folk dances. A second youth dance group, “School Years” is also funded by the krai budget. Although the young dancers are not paid, they do travel abroad to perform. House of Culture employees were involved not only in the play,

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but also in public performances of these many groups for the Day of Dance on 25 April and the celebrations on 1 May and 9 May, the last of which combined a series of dance and song performances by locals with the usual congratulations of the last few surviving veterans. In the intervening ten years of my absence, Andrei Kosygin had attended an advanced course in Moscow on sound design and production for stage and recording, and he recorded another album of his rock music. Not only did the House of Culture organize the festivities on 1 and 9 May, Kosygin and others o en help the music school and the assorted dance ensembles with the technical side of stage productions. The population of Palana has dwindled to less than four thousand, but it now has two more paved streets and the crumbling, half-built house of culture building is gone. In its place is a lovely, brick paved square, where families and youths were gathering during the long arctic evenings of May. Physical space is still a problem for the Palana House of Culture, as their converted apartment building continues to rot, but they were making plans for School Years to move into the vacant TV and radio production building, which would clear space for the House of Culture staff to occupy the top floor of offices in the former duma building, where the town’s theater is located. While I was watching Andrei Kosygin set up his computer in the theater for the play’s sound effects and musical score, I noticed a large, black and white print of the burned down House of Culture tacked to a cork board in the theater’s sound and light control room. I took it down to photograph it, and Kosygin chuckled nostalgically and said, “nash domik” (our li le house). It seems clear to me that the Palana House of Culture will never be rebuilt, but its work in Culture is going as strong as ever and is even recruiting a new generation of artists.

Notes 1. Vladimir Bogoraz and Vladimir Jochelson were two key researchers investigating the Siberian part of Franz Boas’s ambitious Jesup North Pacific Expedition. They had been exiled to northeast Siberia for ten years for participating in socialist revolutionary activities. With recommendations from St. Petersburg scholars, they were permi ed to leave exile and participate in the international expedition, in the course of which they collected and published much valuable ethnographic and linguistic work on Chukchi, Koryak, Yukagir, and Itelmen peoples (Krupnik and Fitzhugh 2001). Along with Lev Shternberg, Bogoraz is generally thought of as a father of Russian and Soviet anthropology. 2. In writing names of Siberian places and peoples, I follow the model set by the Arctic Studies Center of the Smithsonian Institution. Names are spelled

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following the United States National Image and Mapping Agency (formerly the US Geographic Service). Hence, in this chapter I write “Koryak” instead of “Koriak,” which would follow the Library of Congress system. All transliterations of Russian words (marked in italics) and names of authors publishing in Russian are transliterated following a simplified version of the Library of Congress system, which facilitates digital searching for sources. 3. My data come from three visits to Palana: a month in 1995, about eight months in 1997–98, and three months in 2001. My entire time in Kamchatka was five months in 1995, 17 months in 1997–98, and three months in 2001. Funding for field research was provided by a Graduate Training Fellowship of the Social Science Research Council (SSRC), by a Boren Fellowship of the National Security Education Program, by the Wenner-Gren Foundation, and by an Individual Advanced Research Opportunities in Eurasia Fellowship from IREX. Additional research fieldwork was supported by a Summer Scholars Fellowship of the California State University, Chico, by a Summer Stipend of the United States’ National Endowment for the Humanities, a Carnegie Trust for the Universities of Scotland Research Grant, and a grant from the University of Aberdeen Principal’s Interdisciplinary Fund. 4. Most of these people have a heritage of reindeer herding and worked in the Palana sovkhoz. Anadyr’, the capital of Chukotka, has a similar demographic pa ern of indigenous people living in poorer conditions in a historically “native” area (Gray 2005: 131–36). 5. Electrical faults caused two fires in the okrug museum, the second of which forced its relocation in 1999. Fortunately, the damage was not total and most of the exhibits and stores survived. 6. There were four raiony (sing. raion, minimal administrative district encompassing several villages) in the Koryak Autonomous Okrug. 7. See King (2002b) for what I learned about reindeer herding practices and cultural identity in Middle Pakhachi and King (2006) on my lessons on dog walking to the next world. 8. I discuss Mengo fully in King (2011). 9. The Russian term mestnyi (“local”) is consistently used as a euphemism for “native” or “indigenous” in Kamchatka. Which indigenous tradition was meant depended on context, but o en Koryak traditions were implied, certainly in conversations with Kosygin, Dedyk, Yetneut, and others, although other acquaintances were primarily oriented toward Even or Itelmen traditions. Although whites born in the area or fully assimilated to Kamchatkan life may not be called “newcomer” (priezzhii), or only as an insult, they do not seem to earn the moniker mestnyi either. 10. I made copies of my audio and video recordings in Kamchatka for anyone who wanted them, supplying the blank tapes myself in most cases. Very li le of my audio-video material contained anything sensitive. 11. I should emphasize that even at its pinnacle, Koryak ethnic politics was and is a molehill compared to that in places like Yakutsk or Barrow. 12. The Palana organization Kosygin referred to must be the House of People’s Arts or the former OMNTs. The organization in Moscow could be a reference to the Academy of Sciences Institute of Ethnography or universities

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and museums in Moscow and St. Petersburg (Taksami was based at an anthropology museum in St. Petersburg) more generally.

References Alatyrtseva, B.I., ed. 2000. 70 let: Koriakskii avtonomyi okrug (atlas), 1930-2000 [Seventy Years: The Koryak Autonomous Okrug (Atlas), 1930-2000]. No city: Dal’nevostochnoe aerogeodezicheskoe predpriiatie. Appadurai, Arjun. 1996. Modernity at Large: Cultural Dimensions of Globalization. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Boas, Franz. 1889. “On Alternating Sounds.” American Anthropologist 2, no. 1: 47–53. Gray, Pa y. 2005. The Predicament of Chukotka’s Indigenous Movement: Post-Soviet Activism in the Russian Far North. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Handler, Richard. 1998. “Raymond Williams, George Stocking, and Fin-de-Siècle U.S. Anthropology.” Cultural Anthropology 13, no. 4: 447–463. Jochelson, Waldemar [Vladimir]. 1908. The Koryak. Memoir of the American Museum of Natural History, vol. 6. Leiden: Brill. Ker ula, Anna M. 2000. Antler on the Sea: The Yup’ik and Chukchi of the Russian Far East. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. King, Alexander D. 2002a. “Reindeer Herders’ Culturescapes in the Koryak Autonomous Okrug.” In People and the Land: Pathways to Reform in Post-Soviet Siberia, ed. E. Kasten, pp. 63–80. Berlin: Dietrich Reimer Verlag. ———. 2002b. “Without Deer There Is No Culture, Nothing.” Anthropology and Humanism 27, no. 2: 133–164. ———. 2004. “The Authenticity of Cultural Properties in the Russian Far East.” In Properties of Culture—Culture as Property: Pathways to Reform in Post-Soviet Siberia, ed. E. Kasten, pp. 51–65. Berlin: Dietrich Reimer Verlag. ———. 2006. “Koryak Necromantic Landscapes, or How to Walk Your Dog to the Next Life.” Paper presented at American Anthropological Association Meetings, San Jose, CA, 15 November. (Copy available from author). ———. 2009. “Dancing in the House of Koryak Culture.” Folklore: Journal of the Estonian Literary Museum (Special Issue on Generation P in the Tundra: Young People in Siberia) 41: 7–26. ———. 2011. Living with Koryak Traditions: Playing with Culture in Siberia. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press. Krupnik, Igor, and William W. Fitzhugh. 2001. Gateways: Exploring the Legacy of the Jesup North Pacific Expedition, 1897-1902. Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution. Levin, Theodore Craig. 1996. The Hundred Thousand Fools of God: Musical Travels in Central Asia (and Queens, New York). Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Sapir, Edward. 1921. Language: An Introduction to the Study of Speech. New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich. ———. 1949 [1924]. “Culture, Genuine and Spurious.” In Selected Writings of Edward Sapir in Language, Culture and Personality, ed. D.G. Mandelbaum, pp. 308–331. Berkeley: University of California Press.

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———. 1949 [1927]. “The Unconscious Pa erning of Behavior in Society.” In Selected Writings of Edward Sapir in Language, Culture and Personality, ed. D.G. Mandelbaum, pp. 546–559. Berkeley: University of California Press. ———. 1949 [1932]. “Cultural Anthropology and Psychiatry.” In Selected Writings of Edward Sapir in Language, Culture and Personality, ed. D.G. Mandelbaum, pp. 509–521. Berkeley: University of California Press. Urban, Greg. 2001. Metaculture: How Culture Moves through the World. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Wagner, Roy. 1981. The Invention of Culture. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. ———. 1986. Symbols That Stand for Themselves. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Whorf, Benjamin Lee. 1956. Language, Thought, and Reality: Selected Writings of Benjamin Lee Whorf. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Yurchak, Alexei. 2006. Everything Was Forever, Until It Was No More: The Last Soviet Generation. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.


9 TRANSFORMATIONS OF THE HOUSE OF CULTURE IN CIVIL SOCIETY A Case Study of Rural Women’s Culture Projects in Latvia Aivita Putniņa

They rush who knows where. There is no culture of [car] driving. No culture. And where can you find culture if a human has lost respect for himself? … There is a lack of upbringing. A human who respects others, who has grown up in a family with love, won’t be aggressive. Won’t drive around like mad. —Maiga, fifty-eight-year-old rural inhabitant reflecting on driving habits nowadays

This quote comes from a rural woman I interviewed a couple of years ago while I was investigating the meanings of masculinity. The “loss of culture” was blamed for virtually all social problems. It was held responsible for reckless driving habits, domestic violence, and political irresponsibility.1 Maiga, quoted above, reflected on isolation, the fragmentation of human relationships, and social insecurity that independence and freedom had brought to people’s lives in her village. Her village still had a House of Culture (in Latvian, kultūras nams) and a person employed to do culture work. However, life had changed profoundly. The local culture worker—Ieva—complained that the youth drank too much and village festivities o en ended with smashed windows. People were reluctant to a end cultural events. She had heard the most influential local businessman complaining that there was no demand for free tickets to an Ibsen play in a nearby city theater, and that people nowadays only wanted to see shallow, merry entertainment, not as before when heavily loaded buses brought villagers to theaters all around the country. The nostalgia for the “old times” is explicitly linked to the lack of an imagined or real control over people’s social lives that they reportedly possessed in Soviet times. As Ieva said, “I think parents and schools have not managed to convey the meaning of life. Young people don’t know what to do, how to fill their spare time. And these old drunkards si ing opposite the shop … they drink all day. Local society should be less tolerant of this.” Maiga’s and Ieva’s

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stories resonate with a widely felt concern about not only the “loss of culture” but the absence of institutions to get to grips with it. In this chapter, I explore the changing tasks and conditions for culture work in the public sphere of Latvia. Starting from the “People’s Houses” in the nineteenth century, I describe the development of cultural institutions, with a focus on the emergence of new forms of social and cultural activities in the 2000s. Many of these new forms seem to bypass the Houses of Culture and official cultural policy. My research findings are based on data from fieldwork that my colleagues and I conducted in 2001–2002 (Tisenkopfs et al. 2002) and on my recent analysis of NGO project proposals that seek funding for cultural and community-oriented projects. I also trace cultural policy and processes through official policy documents, looking for the interpretation of the role of culture and Houses of Culture in recent governmental policy. Documents and data from secondary sources of recent culture research reveal a gap between the official state cultural policy, which concentrates on state-recognized culture activities and preserving what is perceived as Latvian traditions, and community initiatives and demands that treat culture as a space for creativity and an essential element of civic activity. The la er requires modification of state cultural policy to meet the needs and demands of communities. Before analyzing the changes in cultural life in rural Latvia during the postsocialist period, I wish to outline the emergence of the House of Culture as a common cultural institution in Latvia. Though the name “House of Culture” was introduced in the Soviet period, the institution was well known in Latvia prior to the Soviet era. The “Program for Development of Culture Centers 2009-2013” chooses to use the generic term “culture center” instead of treating each specific type of institution—saieta nams (gathering or meeting house), tautas nams (People’s House), kultūras nams (House of Culture)—individually. This represents an acknowledgment that all of these have “developed as meeting places for local communities and centers for the preservation of national and local cultural tradition” (Kultūras centru 2009: 7). In fact this acknowledgment perfectly presents the ambivalent nature of current Houses of Culture as places where preexisting tenets about cultural traditions meet the real-life concerns of local communities. Two ways of seeing culture—either as established “tradition” or as current community activity—have been present in the official historiography and politics of Latvian culture. In her analysis of the national awakening period and the work of the Riga Latvian Society, Wohlfart (2006) argues against the local tendency to take national culture for granted and claims that the so-called national awakening was a new

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tradition, rigorously created and maintained, and was not the revival of an ancient nationalist past. Following Wohlfart’s claim, I want to make a complementary point—the prevalent state policy approach of preserving predefined “tradition” and the lack of community activity behind it in fact endangers the development of “tradition,” leading to a feeling of endangered culture, sketched out in the beginning of the chapter.

Historical Background: The Development of Cultural Associations in Latvia I take the names “House of Culture” and “People’s House” as a point of departure illuminating the notion of culture and its transformation through the post-Soviet period. The establishment of the first “people’s gathering houses” (the term “culture” was absent in conceptualizing the institution at that time) is linked to the national awakening period in the 1860s. It was a complicated period, with Latvians gradually accumulating wealth and acquiring education in a country ruled by the Russian Empire, and Baltic Germans exercising considerable political autonomy. Serfdom was abolished in 1817 in Kurzeme, in 1819 in Vidzeme, but in the easternmost part of Latvia (Latgale) only in 1861 (cf. Cedriņš 2009). It was the time when Latvian national literature, art, theater, and music were born. However, emerging nationalism was not institutionalized in the education curriculum as the la er underwent increasing Russification in the late nineteenth century. Alternative modes of communicating knowledge included popular-scientific lectures, discussion evenings, theater performances, choir singing, and Latvian newspapers. A er several unsuccessful a empts to officially register the national movement, the Latvian Charity Society for Needy Estonians (Latviska palīdzības biedrība priekš trūkumu ciesdamiem igauņiem) was established in 1868. It collected money for Estonians suffering from crop failure, held public lectures, and staged the first Latvian theater performance. This society developed into the Riga Latvian Society, which built a house in Riga and organized the first Latvian Song Festival in 1873. The Song Festival was recognized as a “national treasure,”2 and the theater was transformed into the Latvian National Theater. The history of the first house of the Riga Latvian Society is a symbol of Latvian history (cf. Rūmnieks and Mucenieks 2006; Wohlfart 2006). The house was designed by Latvian architect Baumanis, and built in 1869. It was expanded in 1897 to accommodate the burgeoning activity in the house. A er a fire in 1908, it was rebuilt by Latvian architects Laube and Pole, becoming the first neoclassical building in Riga.

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It kept its public function throughout the period of independent Latvia (1918–1940). Shortly a er Prime Minister Kārlis Ulmanis seized power in 1934, he became an honorary member of the Riga Latvian Society and had a reception room in the house. The state also financed renovation and enlargement of the house at that time. This needs to be understood within the context of the state’s greater involvement both in social life under the authoritarian political regime of Kārlis Ulmanis, and in economics with the nationalization of private enterprises as the response to the Great Depression in the 1930s. A er Soviet occupation, the Riga Latvian Society House became the House of the Soviet Army, which staged its own cultural events there. National symbols were replaced by Soviet symbols, but the interior was not altered significantly. A er Latvia regained independence in 1991, the Riga Latvian Society renewed its activities and managed to fight off a empts to privatize the house, despite the fact that many previously public buildings were privatized. The house was initially built and maintained with funds collected by local Latvians. The state gradually stepped in with some financial assistance during Ulmanis’s regime and then completely took over operation of the house during the Soviet period. Riga’s City Council now contributes to the renovation and maintenance of the house, which continues its amateur arts traditions and is a prestigious venue for various state and local events because of its history dating back to 1869. Presidents of Latvia are entitled to a special room in the house. Societies and houses like that of the Riga Latvian Society were created all across Latvia in the late nineteenth century. Riga workers founded the Spring Society (Pavasara biedrība) in 1872 and built its house in 1888 in the city’s Sarkandaugava district; Torņakalns Latvian Aid Society (Torņakalna Latviešu palīdzības biedrība) was established in 1880, and its house was erected in 1908 (Buks 2008). In rural areas, too, local societies began to build “People’s Houses” (in Latvian, tautas nams), e.g., in Mālpils in 1905, in Lielvārde in 1904, and in Jumprava in 1912 (Mālpils Pagasta Padome 2007; Lielvārdes Dome 2009; Jumpravas Pagasts 2009). The second wave of establishing societies and renovating houses built in the early years of national awakening continued in the 1920s. A “People’s Palace” was established in Rēzekne in 1925, with a theater, library, choir, and a separate club for enhancing Latgalian culture (Rēzeknes Pilsētas Dome 2008).3 People’s Houses functioned as ethnic cultural centers, too. For example, a Polish House was established in Daugavpils in 1930, financed by funds collected in the local Polish Society. Many more “People’s Houses” were opened during the 1930s when the emphasis on Latvian nationalism grew under the authoritarian political system.

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What is remarkable about the histories of the particular houses as presented on their web pages is the role of public participation not only in providing financial support for the houses, but also in the actual building process.4 The whole parish of Lielvārde jointly engaged in the construction work in 1926; people in Rēzekne jointly rebuilt their People’s Palace a er the town suffered heavy damage from bombing in 1944 (Lielvārdes Dome 2009; Rēzeknes Pilsētas Dome 2008).

Houses of Culture in Soviet Latvia There are several similarities throughout the Soviet Union and its zone of influence in how the Houses of Culture were organized and what they were to promote: they can be seen as a symbol of centralized and ideological organization of social life during the socialist regime. In postwar Latvia, People’s Houses were transformed into Houses of Culture, which promoted the state’s vision of “culture” and alienated people from the institution’s agenda. Such political and civic organizations as women’s commi ees disappeared, giving space to “proper” cultural activity—singing, dancing, music, and theater. Comparing the cultural policies in Poland, Hungary, and the USSR, Anne White (1990: 1) writes that the appropriation of the form of the House of Culture was about equal access to culture, change in people’s behavior through such equal access, and the Communist Party’s control over the nature of culture. However, she quickly adds that in practice, the party’s guidance was not an essential ingredient of culture organization; it had become weaker a er Stalin’s death, giving way to the informal cultural enlightenment practice that (as she observed) was more successful than the official one (White 1990: 2). Current policy documents view the Soviet period in an entirely negative light, referring to all cultural activity as ideological and Houses of Culture as instruments of Soviet propaganda (e.g. Kultūras centru 2009: 7). The only officially declared positive feature of the Soviet period according to the “Program for Development of Culture Centers 2009-2013” was the continuation of the Song and Dance Festival tradition, the largest and oldest amateur arts movement, which gave space for “flashing moments of national self-esteem” (2009: 7). This is one example in which cultural activity can be viewed as a kind of resistance movement against Soviet ideology. However, despite the negation of the Soviet period, several features of the field of culture originating in this period have survived. One of these is the dance component of the Song and Dance Festival, featur-

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Illustration 9.1 | A Georgian dance group about to perform at a local holiday in the Latvian town of Sigulda. Photo: J.O. Habeck, August 2007.

ing synchronic mass performances of dancers in the stadium, which was not part of the pre-Soviet content of the festival. Another important holdover from Soviet times is the centrality of the notion of culture itself in today’s official policy, which keeps culture as the key word describing House of Culture policy, but replaces the “old” notion of the “House of Culture” with the “new” one of “Culture Center” (Kultūras centru 2009: 7), without, however, returning to the civic orientation of the pre-Soviet People’s Houses. Amateur artists themselves, on the other hand, were nostalgic for the abundance of the Soviet-period cultural life, as research conducted on the Song and Dance Festival demonstrated (Tisenkopfs et al. 2002). Participants were paid for their artistic activities, freed from their work duties, and received various benefits. The official doctrine of mass culture during the Soviet period seems rather ambivalent in its form of implementation, as state authorities and enterprises resorted to mate-

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rial incentives and other rewards to make amateurs participate in ideologically important activities, yet amateur artistic activity was officially presented as the spontaneous and free creative expression of Soviet culture.

Post-Soviet Transformations Prior to describing the transformation of the Latvian cultural landscape in recent decades, I want to briefly deal with the notion of culture in the official and everyday parlance of the Soviet state. Nielsen (1994) shows the multilayered meanings of the Russian term for culture and its usage in the ideological, economic, and political context of the state, ranging from the official notion of mass culture (kul’tura) to everyday habits of polite communication or access to modern household amenities (kul’turnost’). A er their incorporation into the Soviet Union, the Baltic States were seen as “cultured” in terms of both kul’tura and kul’turnost’, so the task for them was not to a ain this status, but rather to maintain it. As a result, the cultural policy in Latvia was cardinally different from that designed for ethnic groups in Siberia—a cultural policy that sought to implant a certain set of “culture” elements and conventions in indigenous people (Grant 1995). Nonetheless, there are important similarities across the former Soviet space. The official recognition and the investments made throughout the Soviet sphere of culture offered control, stability, and predictability to people’s social lives. But the heavy infrastructure of the network of Houses of Culture developed in the Soviet period became too expensive for local governments as their economic engines—collective farms and state enterprises—fell apart. With collective farms dissolving, culture centers that relied on Soviet state support collapsed. The “Guidelines for State Cultural Policy” for the period 2006–2015 describe the situation: The culture infrastructure and material-technical base in most local governments is outdated and aesthetically appalling and therefore culture enterprises cannot compete with other commercially successful entertainment and leisure-time alternatives (night clubs, supermarkets, etc.). The infrastructure not only fails to meet the current needs of society, but is also nonrentable and hinders the availability and development of high-quality, diverse cultural products and services. (Latvijas Republikas Kultūras Ministrija 2006: 45)

The dual vision of culture both as a stable set of traditions and as the result of individual creative activity gives rise to tension between culture policy and practice. On the one hand, the state has inherited the

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rigid notion of culture from the Soviet period and sees it as a standard of sorts, even if ideological accents have changed. Tabūns et al. (2008: 5) note that the basic principles of the state’s role in supporting culture (for example, envisioning culture in terms of the management of separate branches of art, or supervising the quality of amateur art) have been inherited from the Soviet period and have not been reassessed since then. The authors assert that the state mostly supports those activities that “would not survive without state support,” positioning the supported branches of culture as marginal and vulnerable by definition. On the other hand, research conducted on actual cultural activities in recent years in Latvia (BISS 2007: 6; Tabūns et al. 2008: 65–66; Tisenkopfs et al. 2007) stresses the role of individual organizers or informal leaders in organizing local cultural lives. A survey conducted in 2007 by the Baltic Institute for Social Studies (BISS), for example, shows that experts of culture policy acknowledge the crucial role of formal and informal leaders in amateur arts collectives and Houses of Culture. It is interesting to note that the supply of enthusiastic personalities to engage in culture work is somewhat taken for granted even by researchers themselves, as is demonstrated in the BISS report: “The main motivation of these people [organizers of culture life] is their zeal and enthusiasm, as the remuneration is not competitive” (BISS 2007: 6). The alleged isolation and alienation of the local culture-life organizers, which goes hand-in-hand with the presumed marginal role of statesupported culture, is also assumed in the report: “Local governments can make the decision not to raise the salary for culture-life organizers or to raise it insignificantly because they take into account the fact that these people have invested a lot in their education and work and it would be difficult for them to change jobs. Some of them have acknowledged that they would not be able to find another job. They have headed the House of Culture and have participated in culture life for so many years” (2007: 43). The BISS study claims that House of Culture employees are the most vulnerable group of culture workers (2007: 48–49). Culture specialists were underpaid and did not possess “contemporary” knowledge—skills of culture management under marketeconomy conditions. This study portrays culture organizers as either extremely enthusiastic and capable personalities or marginal persons who stay in the House of Culture because they are not able to find another job, thus supporting the dual understanding of culture as civic activity on the one hand, and an ideologically loaded but marginal set of traditions that the majority of the local population avoids on the other. Analysis of the expert discussions held to produce the “Guidelines for State Culture Policy 2006-2015” showed that Houses or Centers of

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Culture lacked a future vision and clear status; the investments in infrastructure were fragmentary. The guidelines dealt with replacing the House-of-Culture concept with a more flexible, market-oriented term, “cultural-services basket,” which established the minimum of services required by communities of different sizes and viewed culture primarily as a function rather than as a particular space. Thus state-acknowledged cultural activities emerged in new spaces such as schools, libraries, and municipal buildings; they were no longer “contained” exclusively in the House of Culture.5 For example, communities with up to five hundred inhabitants were allowed to have a library with free public Internet access and a space for social and cultural activities such as amateur arts. Larger communities were entitled to more complex “minimums,” e.g., multifunctional public centers. Accreditation of directors and art directors of the Houses of Culture, as well as an inventory and evaluation of the services provided by the Houses of Culture (e.g., the number, variety, and quality of organized events and amateur arts), would allow a ranking of Houses of Culture and help establish a unified remuneration and investment system. The call for accreditation stems from the need to plan and monitor cultural activities throughout the country and to provide equal access to cultural events to the entire population. The Ministry of Culture has already created an interactive Internet map for cultural activities—www. kulturaskarte.lv—as a step towards seeing Houses of Culture as a unified system. Commencement of the accreditation process was planned for 2007 but was postponed until 2012 (Kultūras centru 2009: 15) due to budget cuts for culture in 2008 and 2009. The introduction of the “basket” is not possible until an inventory of the current situation is available. The obstacle to such an inventory is the fact that the financing and monitoring system of Houses of Culture is rather twisted in Latvia. The state provides salaries for the employees of the state cultural establishments—state museums, concert agencies, theaters, art and music vocation schools—as well as for leaders of amateur arts collectives that work within the scope of state-funded activities and with collectives that have passed evaluation procedures for their quality. The state also provides staff and culture inspectors to advise, coordinate, and supervise the amateur arts collectives and culture events. Local governments foot the bill for local culture institutions and other expenses that fall outside the activities of the abovementioned state-supported institutions. For example, the budget of a House of Culture could consist of funds from the state in the form of salaries for the leaders of amateur arts collectives; funding from various state programs and funding schemes (the la er depends on lobbying

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skills and alliances with the ruling political parties that are in control of distributing the funds); and the local government’s share, which covers the salaries of the director of the House of Culture and art director, maintenance expenses for the House, optional bonuses to the leaders of amateur arts collectives on top of their state salaries, and funding for local projects and activities. The “Guidelines for State Culture Policy 2006-2015” (Latvijas Republikas Kultūras Ministrija 2006: 13) mention that the state covers 70 percent of the total culture expenditure; however, this figure is somewhat misleading because the majority of the funding goes to professional arts and national culture institutions, not local ones. The local government input depends on the amount the state is investing and on locally formulated priorities.

Project Proposals Documenting New Demands in the Sphere of Culture The failure to start the accreditation process and a certain disregard in policy documents of local cultural activities obscures the view of life in local communities. To address this shortcoming, below I analyze the contents of 157 project proposals submi ed mostly by rural women’s organizations to a competition named Wake Up for Good Ideas!, supported by a popular women’s weekly journal and a private company. Before I do so, however, it is necessary to understand the position of women’s organizations in Latvia today because, as the project proposals show, there has been a rapid increase in women’s organizations in the countryside. Women’s organizations started to develop all around Latvia in the late 1990s and united in a single body—the Association of Latvian Rural Women—in 2000. Women came together for discussions, engaged in handicra s, learned to write project proposals, visited clubs in other villages across Latvia and abroad, and even started commercial and political activities. Women’s organizations form the largest NGO network in Latvia. They are usually the first (and in most cases the only) grassroots formations of local society. These organizations mostly reproduce the traditional role of women as those responsible for the family and community. Processes of post-Soviet transition have changed the overall social and economic structure, dissolving the once prestigious and well-paid male positions on collective farms. This change affected men in particular, as their social position depended on job prestige. The loss of this social capital turned much of the rural population to depression and alcohol abuse. Additionally, only recently has the average male life

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expectancy—sixty-two years—once again exceeded the retirement age. Social organizations with predominantly male or male-only membership did not change much, with hunting clubs being the main form of organization during the Soviet and post-Soviet periods.6 Official culture policy does not consider the activity of women’s groups as falling within the scope of the Ministry of Culture: “The program does not address those culture institutions who use the wording ‘center of culture’ in their self-identification but do not fulfill the functions of the centers of culture defined in this program, but rather orient themselves toward separate expressions of culture (leisure, various service provisioning) or are linked to specific social groups (youth, retired persons, etc.)” (Kultūras centru 2009: 7). The program’s list of functions orients local cultural activity towards a certain set of activities officially considered “traditional,” and concentrates on organizing “cultural and educational” events, preserving local intangible heritage, promoting the sustainability of traditional folk and dance festivals, providing “interest education” (continuing education for adults), making professional art available, and disseminating cultural information.7

The Competition Wake Up for Good Ideas! The Wake Up for Good Ideas! competition was held in December 2006, and finalists were interviewed in February 2007. The application texts varied from the formal and highly structured, reminiscent of EU structural-fund applications and the Latvian National Development Plan, to a more creative style incorporating poetry, prose, and drawings. The scope of the projects was open; they were evaluated on the basis of the creativity, commitment, sustainability, and social significance of the projects. Descriptions of proposed activities averaged seven to eight pages in length. Project proposals came from all over Latvia. The country comprises 423 local administrative units at the parish level and 60 urban administrative units (Latvijas Pašvaldību savienība 2010). Roughly one-quarter of local Latvian communities were targeted by projects, with large cities and the region of Latgale being less represented. Projects illustrate an understanding of culture quite different from the functions listed in the Ministry of Culture’s program; for these projects, community demand determined the list of functions. All activities proposed in the applications were geared towards the change of social space and cultural activities of local communities. New forms of social action and new demands have developed in the rural communities. As stated in one of the proposals:

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We have not got a café or any place where we can meet, talk, and celebrate. Yes, we have a House of Culture, but we need a different kind of space. We want to restore a room in the kindergarten of Piltene, so that Piltene inhabitants will have a place where parents can meet, spend time with their children, organize educational seminars and meetings, celebrate birthdays. … We currently meet in the House of Culture but it is not very convenient for support-group meetings where emotional questions are solved, while on a nearby stage a theater troupe is rehearsing a comedy. (Piltene project “Parents’ school”)

Projects show that women of retirement age come together to dance all-female dances (as men of that age are a scarce resource); younger women choose childcare and cultural activities linked to children; women of mixed-age groups come together to study, make art, and work on self-improvement. Some projects directly address the “loss of culture” or the “upbringing of youth,” which may be interpreted as a cry for a reestablishment of the former social solidarity and the continuity of local tradition. It should be remembered that projects were directed to a certain imagined audience, notably the experts and representatives of business, social sciences, media, and the women’s NGO network who evaluated the project proposals. Nevertheless, the content and the choice of activities suggested were free and reflected the needs and aspirations of the particular communities. The other notable deviation from official notions of culture was that, in these proposals, “culture” emerged as a series of projects rather than a given whole, as in the Soviet period. While the funding of cultural activity on a project-by-project basis is a regular practice of distributing the state budget for culture (through the State Fund for Culture Capital), these funds are still distributed according to deep-seated state priorities that support mostly traditional and “high-quality” art forms. However, only five of the applications asked for money to support such already established and previously state-funded amateur arts projects. Thus, while the state-dictated format of culture still has its ideological and political significance, it has lost its hegemony locally. The newly emerging plurality of cultural practice is still out of sight of cultural policy.

The Range of Proposed Activities Almost one-third of all project proposals—fi y-seven—were devoted to organizing leisure time through a mixture of festivities, excursions, educational seminars, meals, etc. All these activities were framed as maintaining and strengthening community cohesion and enlarging pos-

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sibilities for cultural life. Most of the projects contained a discursive formula describing the proposed activity as a breakout from “gray everyday-life reality.” The familial and work life of women was described as a field of problems, featuring low self-esteem and boredom. In contrast, public activity was seen as sunshine, “spring water,” and a kind of escape. This strongly coincides with research data on quality of life (Putniņa 2006a) that demonstrates that inhabitants of Latvia dream of such rather simple things as traveling, eating out, using cosmetics, and having access to health and wellness services. These dreams should be understood within their particular context. Research shows that traveling, for example, is not only a leisure activity but also an escape from everyday duties. It is especially precious because people cannot afford it in terms of money and spare time. By 2005 Latvians were the most hard-working people in the European Union, according to criteria used in official statistics (Hazans 2005). The project proposals usually envisage activities that lie beyond the scope of state-sponsored programs. Typical events were a common meal in the public space with a guest poet or popular artist; a lecture; an excursion to a theater, museum, or a women’s club in another part of Latvia for the opening of an art exhibition featuring the work of local artists; and a holiday camp for families or club members. Applicants required money for technical equipment or raw materials for artistic activities (audio centers, textiles, paint), and sometimes for project management. The topics mostly centered around folk healing, studies of sauna healing, holistic notions of health and beauty, strengthening of self-esteem through study circles and psychologists’ lectures, weaving, kni ing, silk-painting, flower-arranging, and other traditional and nontraditional forms of amateur art. Art activities were interwoven with other forms of social life—charity, festivals, and excursions. In these projects social life was conceived in a holistic manner, uniting people and fostering community cohesion: We are the generation that has survived the change of the state political and economic system, many successful and less successful reforms. … For some it is a time of great opportunities, for some there is confusion and uncertainty about lost jobs and all the consequences linked to that; some out of despair and hopelessness have gone abroad. We want to live full and worthwhile lives in Latvia, Latgale, Skaista. We realize the strength of our community and collaboration. (Skaista Women’s Project)

This dimension is absent in the old House of Culture paradigm and lies beyond the state-defined parameters of amateur art. It contains not only the aesthetic enjoyment present in culture policy documents, but also openly declares bodily enjoyment of the activity; not only art, but

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also personal commitment, collaboration, and entrepreneurship. One activity leads to another, proving the link between amateur art and economic activity sketched in Tisenkopfs et al. (2002): Five [members of] Zeltslotiņas [the applicants’ organization] sing in the rural women’s choir of Valmiera District, and during the winter season drive fi y kilometers every Tuesday to Matīši to sing. Other members of Zeltslotiņas study English on Thursdays and accountancy on Fridays. We also participate in the mentor movement8 and do it from the bottom of our hearts. We are also proud of having been highly evaluated [and nominated as] Mentor of the Year 2005. (Proposal submi ed by “Zeltslotiņas”)

Ten projects exclusively aimed at establishing facilities for sports or encouraging physical activities. However, similar to more general activities described above, these activities were linked to bodily and mental pleasure (of doing sports in an agreeable environment) and aimed at maintaining overall health and raising self-esteem. Six more projects asked for funds to build sports facilities and playgrounds for children. In official policy, sports come under departments of education, which may be why the evaluators did not select any of the sports-oriented projects. The projects also document the widespread interest in gardening as an aesthetic activity. Sixteen project proposals reflected the women’s interest in flowers and gardening and were devoted to education and decorating the public spaces in their communities. Some of the projects explicitly expressed the hope that common work (see note 11) would reinvigorate the social cohesion that was lost during the transition period. Aesthetics of nature is another powerful theme in the project descriptions. Gardening activities are expanding from private to public spaces, and projects included ideas of flowerbeds with the emblem of the local parish, flower cascades, and other designs. One of the projects proposed cleaning up a nearby river. Women saw culture emerging from the observation of nature and participation in the protection of the environment. Cleaning the river over several years, women have observed its change through the seasons and claimed that one need not travel far to see the diversity of nature.

New Social Spaces A certain kind of evolution of local cultural activities is visible in the project proposals. The Soviet-era structures crumbled, and their old grandeur came to contradict the new needs of inhabitants. Chorus and

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dance groups dissolved, leaving fewer possibilities for amateur arts, yet giving way to new forms of socialization: We used to come together as good friends in the times when our village had a chorus. When it dissolved, we searched for new opportunities to meet with people. At the beginning we were united by the passion of singing. We created a song and poetry program. … We all have flowers in our gardens and we exchanged the plants. Then the idea for staging regular meetings in the garden occurred. … We love handicra s and teach one another. We do not expect the old [Soviet] times back when amateurs received huge financial and material support and when the bus of the collective farm brought all the active people together. These are nostalgic moments only, as we think of the future. (Pastende women’s interest club “Harmony”)

The first step of groups interested in communal activities is usually finding a space. Compared to the large halls of Houses of Culture, the new spaces are smaller and more suitable for intimate meetings, seminars, and exhibitions. Seven projects exclusively dealt with building and/or refurbishment of the premises needed for their activities. Moreover, the demand for a new kind of social space emerges in the proposals. These are communal rooms with kitchens, showers, laundry and other facilities, and IT services where people can learn to use new domestic technologies. O en these rooms are used by poor families, the elderly, and handicapped citizens. These facilities are not available in the majority of rural homes. Nine projects were devoted to establishing such spaces and services for pensioners and children from at-risk families. In these cases “culture” has a “low profile” but constitutes the essentials of a “cultured” lifestyle as defined above in Nielsen’s (1994) discussion of kul’turnost’: Parents do not have time to raise their children, as they have to think about survival and work. They come home tired in the late evening and “forget” that the children have waited for them all day long. These families have daughters that do not know how to prepare meals or make preserves for winter. … Girls grow up without knowledge and start their family life too early and unprepared. There is a high percentage of young, single mothers whose partners have le for work abroad or have le their families and children. Young single mothers do not know how to raise children, how to dress, wash, and feed their children. They don’t know how to prepare meals for themselves. They walk around looking shabby, as if they have lost interest in life. (Project proposal “The Impossible Becomes Possible When You Believe In It,” submi ed by the women’s club “Gaisma”)

The turbulence brought about by the transition period becomes visible in the disintegrated social fabric of the village. Fragmentation has

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sca ered men, leaving women the main caretakers of family and village life: Six families have a total of twenty-nine children; two daughters have reached adult age and one of them has her own child now. From five of these families one or more children (fi een in total) have been taken away and transferred to host families. Three of them have not returned to their biological families. These children have twenty-one biological fathers; of those only two live with their families, so only five children live together with their fathers. Only one child was born in wedlock, and that union has recently dissolved, although the divorce has not been officially effected. (Katvari large-family support group “Something Is Needed!”)

All projects tried to address the rebuilding of communal social cohesion as a way to live their lives. An application from a senior women’s dance club pathetically stressed the shortcomings of the traditional women’s role and the collective as the solution to these shortcomings: The tragedy of age is loneliness—children have grown up and the house has emptied. Then it is u erly necessary to find friends and find mental power by doing things together. … We are farmers, teachers, pensioners, and civil servants. We have traveled all around Latvia. … The most important thing bringing us together is the wish to meet kind and dear friends. We learn together to face family problems, to find the good and the beautiful in the gray routine of everyday life. … We don’t have room for sorrow or quarrels, we have so much to do during our trainings—to celebrate birthdays, cheer up a friend fighting problems, share culinary secrets, and exchange opinions on raising grandchildren. It is so great to receive flower baskets from friendly warm hands, especially when it is the only form of recognition. (Vaidava women’s dance club “Feja”)

The dance club activities are of low profile when compared to statefinanced art activities. Most of the applications highlight two kinds of dancing—ladies’ dance that incorporates elements of ballroom dancing and requires special a ire for the collective, and line-dancing that also requires rather expensive country-style a ire. Both types of dance are group dances and do not depend on finding a partner of the opposite sex. Both styles have become popular in Latvian rural areas, revealing the tastes and social needs of the female population. State cultural policy sees amateur singers only as potential participants of Song and Dance Festivals. However, two of the collectives applying for money for their costumes sang primarily for the purpose of being together; they performed not at contests but funerals, weddings, and communal events. Seeing the growing need for such communityoriented “low” culture artistic expressions, the project evaluation commission sent a le er to the Ministry of Culture requesting a solution

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that would support this new kind of collective. The ministry replied that such activities were not covered by the state budget and forwarded the le er to the local councils. As a ma er of fact, most of the collectives received some financing there.

Marketing Culture Versus Preserving Tradition The final aspect I want to introduce in this chapter is the tension between increasing commercialization, decentralization of local culture practice, and the state cultural policy toward preserving the assumed “national traditions.” Altogether nine projects started building from scratch their district culture centers—creating spaces for learning cra s and a racting tourism. At the core of the proposed activities was the a empt to place local cultural demands in the context of a market economy. Two of these project proposals were explicitly business oriented—an education and entertainment park for children and a handicra group working not only for entertainment but also to supply souvenirs for tourists. These activities lie in between societal integration and commerce. Ownership and investments become important questions: Seeing our efforts even the local government has become more supportive and helped to install electricity and presented us with a ceiling lamp. We do not want to be in the role of beggars; we want to be independent and show it with our work. (“Open the House Door!” Aknīste women’s project for a cultural center in Sēlija offering local cra s)

This project benefits from an already established center in a house provided free of charge by the local council to the women’s initiative. A tourist center already operates there during public holidays and offers demonstrations of local bread-baking and weaving traditions. Tourists can participate in both cra s and buy the goods produced there. At the same time participants of the project hoped to a ract local people and youth to demonstrate the sustainability of combining hobbies with market demand. This helps to reposition cultural activity away from the marginal and bring it into the center of life, providing employment and development in the community. Tisenkopfs et al. (2002) predicted that cultural activities would increasingly become entrepreneurship oriented. The research data showed that with state ideological and material support weakening at the local level, individual members took on a greater role in organizing cultural life, with amateur arts collectives being transformed into units of civil society and outposts for community and business activ-

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ity. This largely corresponds with Putnam’s (1993) observations in Italy. However, as the research was focused on already established cultural activities, it does not sufficiently address to what extent these changes created entirely new practices. The follow-up research of Tisenkopfs et al. (2007) observes further extension of culture activity toward fields of economics and leisure. Noting that experts have already recognized the economic function of the Song and Dance Festival, the authors predict that the impact of this function will grow in the future, which will influence the form and content of the festival (2007: 44). Changes in funding mechanisms likewise alter the cultural landscape. The BISS survey (2007) finds that the ability to a ract local and EU funding is a crucial driver of local cultural life. Independent income can generate the desired stability and sustainability of cultural activity; therefore cultural activity is transformed into entrepreneurship and fundraising instead of relying on the low and unpredictable salary from the state or local council, as was done previously. As the BISS study states (2007: 44), those culture institutions that are not directly financed by the state or local councils (i.e., NGOs and independent agencies) are the most successful culture institutions in fundraising compared to those who rely on minimal state or municipal funding. Women’s projects o en imitated the style and content of EU project proposals, generating occasionally idealistic and highly implausible—but sometimes quite realistic—expectations for the economic sustainability of the project. Recent activities of culture policy also show a definite move toward positioning culture as a creative income-generating industry. This approach was formulated in the National Program “Culture” for 2000– 2010, which targeted cultural development and envisioned culture as a part of the state’s socioeconomic development project. This program rejected the notion of culture as an “inwardly oriented, consuming activity, a domain outside of vital human interests” (Latvijas Republikas Kultūras Ministrija 2001: 3). The “Guidelines for State Culture Policy 2006-2015” stress that “cultural policy should be understood in a broader sense than just the question of development of separate branches of culture, and should be integrated within the unified state development policy showing its added value for the economy, social security, societal integration, education and science, environmental and regional development, and foreign affairs, with each branch of culture acknowledging its role and participating in reaching the common targets” (Latvijas Republikas Kultūras Ministrija 2006: 3) However, economy and culture are positioned as secondary targets, a er the ideo-

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logically more important politics of identity and tradition preservation in the guidelines (2006: 33–35). It calls for rethinking cultural activity in terms of marketing (i.e., promoting it to particular audiences), tourism, and development of creative industries, which hitherto had generally been regarded as separate from culture. However, the ambition for the economic sustainability of cultural activity cannot be fully realized without the participation and dynamics of the cultural life of local communities. Preservation and development of a presumed “pure” tradition are precisely the factors that promote its alienation and marginalization and obscure the forces creating that very tradition.

Conclusion The analysis of the project proposals reveals important changes in the role of the House of Culture. Though the buildings are still landmarks of the Soviet past in many villages, they have already started to be transformed into more specific community spaces and activities. People themselves become the authors of and reason for their cultural activities. State cultural policy still views culture as a clearly defined set of activities that people can opt for; it expects high performance standards and certain officially recognized traditions. Although the notion of the “cultural-service basket” is replacing the old concept of the House of Culture, it nevertheless preserves the same vision of culture—culture interpreted as standardized cultural needs of citizens. The fragmentation of society causes nostalgia for holistic amateur culture as a symbol of sociability, but simultaneously it makes room for a new kind of social space where the restoration of the community seems possible. These new spaces, in contrast to Houses of Culture, are more intimate and centered on people’s individual needs and aspirations. These needs range from skills as trivial as the use of the new domestic and communications technologies that allow people to adapt to the new social and political environment, to aspirations to make individual and collective lives meaningful. From the viewpoint of “high-end” conventional culture, these activities would not qualify as “cultural enough”; however, they serve the community in that they mend the social fabric. In villages where virtually no men are available, different forms of ladies’ dance styles have developed, allowing elderly women to participate in cultural activities they would otherwise be excluded from because the popular folk dance (created in the Soviet period but easily accommodated in the Latvian Song Festival tradition) required two dancers of opposite sex in national costumes.

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Finally, commercially organized leisure—the main rival and demolisher of Houses of Culture—has entered the sphere of communal culture activity. Even if only a minority of the projects has embedded the market principle in creative activity, this has helped promote cultural activity as economically sustainable. This approach (even more than others) facilitates a return to the beginning of the history of Houses of Culture: to the time when they grew out of civic activity. Ironically, their work has become an icon of the re-creation of the Latvian nation—a nation whose cultural policy still widely disregards the very conditions of how culture is created through civic activity.

Notes 1. “Lack of culture,” as manifest in the lack of clear rules for conduct, disregard for norms, and the declining role of parental and state authorities, was considered the major cause of physical violence. At the level of daily practice it was perceived as the lack of sociality, which is mirrored by the shortage of time people spend together. See Putniņa 2007. 2. The phrase comes from the text of the Law on the Song and Dance Festival of 2005. The law defines the state’s obligations to “protect” the festival tradition, “develop” it, and “pass it on to future generations” (Latvijas Vēstnesis 2009). The Program for Preserving and Developing the Song and Dance Festival Tradition 2008–2013 was passed in 2008 (Demakova 2008). The Song and Dance Festival was included in the list of UNESCO Intangible Heritage in 2003 as a part of the Baltic Song and Dance Celebrations (cf. UNESCO 2010). 3. Though Latgalian is officially considered a dialect of Latvian, the Latgale part of Latvia is considered to have its own cultural identity partly because of the difference in language (which might not be comprehensible to people speaking standard Latvian) and a different history (for several centuries it belonged to a different administrative unit and had different laws). 4. There is a particular name for the joint work tradition in Latvia—talka. This is a special collective-organization form of work involving planting or collecting and processing crops. Later the name was used for socialist-era unpaid Saturday work, which took a variety of forms as people did whatever needed to be done in their workplaces for free. The idea of talka is that one helps one’s neighbors and neighbors help in return. It was also a form of sociality, as a collective meal and dance followed the work. The tradition was reborn in the 1980s as part of cleaning up places of cultural significance, churches, and old Latvian castle hills. In 2008, as part of the celebration of Latvia’s ninetieth anniversary, talka was staged all over Latvia with people making a present of their labor to their country. 5. For example the project Light-Network, which linked all libraries in a united net and provided free WiFi access points in libraries across Latvia. The project was continued with Trešais tēvs dēls (or 3td—the “third son of the father,” who is a wise hero of Latvian fairy-tales), which aimed at “developing librar-

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ies into centers for information and creation” (Kultūras Informācijas Sistēmas 2008, cf. Latvijas Nacionālā Bibliotēka 2009). Libraries replace cinemas in rural areas, granting free access to film archives via the internet. 6. See Putniņa 2006b. 7. Debates on artistic quality, the content of “tradition,” and people’s reallife interests have been largely present and described in research on cultural activity. First, Tisenkopfs et al. (2002, 2007) describe the debate on the repertoire of the Song and Dance Festival. Specialists tended to emphasize high artistic quality and a complex repertoire, while singers and dancers themselves o en gave preference to a simple and melodic repertoire they enjoyed singing and listening to. Second, research on culture consumption (BISS 2007) showed that Latvians preferred what is o en considered “low” culture—popular music, “schlager,” or country music concerts. Houses of Culture opposed this trend, o en offering free-of-charge events of “high” culture and trying to “enculture” the population threatened by popular culture (Latvijas Republikas Kultūras Ministrija 2006: 17; BISS 2007: 53). The BISS study describes the situation: “Local councils subsidize or provide free of charge ‘educating art’ events (classical music, for example) which [experts] consider necessary but which do not interest the society to such a degree that it is ready to spend the same amount of money it spends on leisure or popular music” (BISS 2007: 53). 8. The women’s mentor movement started in 2005 on the initiative of the Latvian NGO Līdere and the Finnish Women’s Enterprise Agency. During the mentoring, a more experienced entrepreneur supports the beginner in starting or developing a business. However, relations of mentoring are not hierarchical but based on equal collaboration and mutual support (Līdere 2010).

References BISS (Baltic Institute for Social Studies). 2007. “Kultūras pieejamība novados: aptauja un ekspertu intervijas” [Regional Access to Culture: Survey and Expert Interviews]. h p://www.km.gov.lv/lv/ministrija/petijumi.html (accessed 29 July 2010). Buks, Artis (ed.) 2008. “Torņakalna Latviešu palīdzības biedrība” [The Torņakalns Latvian Aid Society]. h p://vesture.eu/index.php/Tor%C5%86akalna_ Latvie%C5%A1u_pal%C4%ABdz%C4%ABbas_biedr%C4%ABba (accessed 29 July 2010). Cedriņš, Pēteris 2009. “Foreign Rule.” h p://www.li.lv/index.php?option=com_ content&task=view&id=70&Itemid=445 (accessed 29 July 2010). Demakova, Helena 2008. “Kopsavilkums: Dziesmu un deju svētku tradīcijas saglabāšanas un a īstības programmai 2008.-2013. gadam” [Summary: Program for the Safeguarding and Developing of the Song and Dance Festival Tradition]. h p://www.km.gov.lv/lv/doc/nozaru/tautas/R0800_8kops.doc (accessed 29 July 2010). Grant, Bruce. 1995. In the Soviet House of Culture: A Century of Perestroikas. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Hazans, Mihails. 2005. “Latvia: Working Too Hard?” h p://www.politika.lv/ index.php?id=111528&lang=lv (accessed 29 July 2010).

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Jumpravas Pagasts 2009. “Jumpravas kultūras nams” [Jumprava’s House of Culture]. h p://manajumprava.lv/jumpravas-kulturas-nams/ (accessed 29 July 2010). “Kultūras centru darbības a īstības programma 2009.-2013. gadam” [Program for Development of Culture Centers 2009-2013]. Cabinet of Ministers Regulation no. 223, 2 April 2009. Kultūras Informācijas Sistēmas 2008. “3td: ‘Trešais tēva dēls’” [3td: “Third Son of the Father”]. h p://www.3td.lv (accessed 29 July 2010). Latvijas Nacionālā Bibliotēka 2009. “Informācija par projektu ‘Trešais tēva dēls’” [Information on the Project “Third Son of the Father”]. h p://www .biblioteka.lv/Zinas/Lists/Posts/Post.aspx?ID=282 (accessed 29 July 2010). Latvijas Pašvaldību savienība 2010. “Latvijas Pašvaldību savienība” [Latvian Association of Local and Regional Governments]. h p://www.lps.lv/start .php?lang=lv&s1=2&id=44 (accessed 29 July 2010). Latvijas Republikas Kultūras Ministrija 2001. “Nacionālā programma ‘Kultūra’ 2000-2010” [National Program “Culture” 2000-2010]. h p://www.km.gov .lv/lv/dokumenti/planosanas_doc.html (accessed 29 July 2010). ———. 2006. “Valsts kultūrpolitikas vadlīnijas 2006.-2015. gadam: Nacionāla valsts ilgtermiņa politikas pamatnostādnes” [Guidelines for State Culture Policy 2006-2015: National Long-term Political Principles]. h p://www.km .gov.lv/lv/dokumenti/planosanas_doc.html (accessed 29 July 2010). Latvijas Vēstnesis 2009. “Dziesmu un deju svētku likums” [Law on the Song and Dance Festival]. h p://www.likumi.lv/doc.php?id=111203&menu_ body=KDOC (accessed 29 July 2010). Līdere 2010. “What Is Mentoring?” h p://www.lidere.lv/en_mentorings.html (accessed 29 July 2010). Lielvārdes Dome 2009. “Kultūras nams ‘Lielvārde’” [The “Lielvārde” House of Culture]. h p://www.lielvarde.lv/page/96 (accessed 29 July 2010). Mālpils Pagasta Padome 2007. “Mālpils novada vēsture” [History of the Mālpils Region]. h p://www.malpils.lv/pub/?id=45 (accessed 29 July 2010). Nielsen, Finn Sivert. 1994. “Soviet Culture—Russian kul’tura: Culture, Ideology and Globalization in the Soviet Union and Therea er, as Compared to Similar Western Phenomena.” Paper presented at the seminar Continuity and Change in Post-Soviet Societies, Skibotn, Norway, October 1994. h p:// www.anthrobase.com/Txt/N/Nielsen_F_S_02.htm (accessed 29 July 2010). Putnam, Robert, D. 1993. Making Democracy Work: Civic Traditions in Modern Italy. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Putniņa, Aivita. 2006a. “Laba dzīve Latvijā: skats uz dzimetes veidotu sociālu likteni” [Good Life in Latvia: A View on Gendered Destiny]. In Dzīves kvalitāte Latvijā. Rīga: Zinātne. ———. 2006b. “Men in Latvia. Situation Outline. Demographic Situation: Present and Future.” Strategic Analysis Commission under the Auspices of the President of Latvia 3, no. 4. Rīga: Zinātne. ———. 2007. “Vardarbība un veselība” [Violence and Health: Report on the Situation in Latvia]. Rīga: WHO, Ministry of Health.

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Rēzeknes Pilsētas Dome 2008. “Rēzeknes pilsētas kultūras nams” [The House of Culture of the City of Rēzekne]. h p://www.rezekne.lv/index.php?id=185 (accessed 29 July 2010). Rūmnieks, Valdis, and Edgars Mucenieks. 2006. Dzīvā upe: Rīgas Latviešu biedrība vakar, šodien … [River Alive: Riga Latvian Society Yesterday, Today … ] Rīga: Madris. Tabuns, Aivars, Anita Kalniņa, Jānis Daugavietis, Kristīne Liepiņa-Ozoliņa, Kaspars Vīgulis, and Nauris Grass. 2008. “Pētījums: Kultūrvides daudzveidības veicināšana un pārvaldība: nevalstiskās un privātās kultūras iniciatīvas. Latvijas Universitāte” [Research Project: Support for and Management of the Diversity of Cultural Life: Nongovernmental and Private Cultural Initiatives. University of Latvia]. h p://www.km.gov.lv/lv/ministrija/petijumi .html (accessed 29 July 2010). Tisenkopfs, Tālis, Olga Pisarenko, Jānis Daugavietis, Aivita Putniņa, and Kristīne Locika. 2002. “Dziesmu svētki mainīgā sociālā vidē” [Song Festival in a Changing Social Environment]. Rīga: Baltijas studiju centrs. h p://www .km.gov.lv/lv/ministrija/petijumi.html (accessed 29 July 2010). Tisenkopfs, Tālis, Jānis Daugavietis, Ilze Lāce, Laura Sūna, Kristīne Locika, and Līga Grundšteine. 2007. “Dziesmu un deju svētki mainīgā sociālā vidē” [Dance and Song Festival in a Changing Social Landscape]. Rīga: Latvijas Universitātes Sociālo un politisko pētījumu institūts. h p://www.km.gov .lv/lv/ministrija/petijumi.html (accessed 29 July 2010). UNESCO 2010. “Intangible Heritage Lists.” h p://www.unesco.org/culture/ ich/index.php?pg=00011 (accessed 29 July 2010). White, Anne. 1990. De-Stalinization and the House of Culture: Declining State Control Over Leisure in the USSR, Poland and Hungary, 1953-1989. New York: Routledge. Wohlfart, Kristine. 2006. Der Rigaer Le enverein und die le ische Nationalbewegung von 1868 bis 1905 [The Riga Latvian Society and the Latvian National Movement from 1868 to 1905]. Marburg: Herder-Institut.


10 HERITAGE HOUSE GUARDING AS SUSTAINABLE DEVELOPMENT Community Arts and Architectures within a World Cultural Net(work) Nadezhda D. Savova

I do not want my house to be walled in on all sides and my windows to be stuffed. I want the culture of all lands to be blown about my house as freely as possible. But I refuse to be blown off my feet by any. —Mahatma Gandhi

House Number One Puffs of dust escaped through the cracks in the wooden floor with every jump. The young men and women swirled in circles, tuning quotidian jokes to the beats, careful not to tumble over the two-year-old boy mimicking them on the side. A family and a few older women formed the improvised audience, commenting and keeping tempo with their walking sticks. Backstage, a faded piano served to hold two bo les of brandy and a box of chocolates. A er a few dances, everyone rushed to the other room: the tradition was to celebrate at the chitalishte, the community cultural center, when a member had a birthday. The group is the Bulgarian Bistritsa Babi, declared by UNESCO a Masterpiece of the Intangible Heritage of Humanity in 2005, listed next to the Brazilian samba de roda tradition. The Bistritsa Babi’s multiple generations of singers and dancers surrounded the table laid with food in the room where only two hours earlier a group of three retired babi (grannies), a teenage girl, and five working women had sung centuries-old polyphonies. On the wall hung a portrait of St. Cyril and Methodius, the two Bulgarian monks who created the Slavic (Cyrillic) alphabet that spread from Bulgaria to Russia. Their ideals of “enlightenment” through education and creativity were inscribed in various ways on the body of the chitalishte: on the walls cov-

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ered with posters from international festivals; on the piano keys worn by generations of players; in the blinking chat posts on the screen of the computer; in the used books on the library shelves. People talked about the low wages and daily struggles, and how the Ministry of Culture had cut the subsidy for the chitalishte, which lacked money for cultural activities or a good Internet connection. Suddenly, V. stood up and broke the chain of lamentations. “Ok, ok, there are many problems, but here … here we are a family and we know we can rely on one another. The chitalishte is our home, always a safe place to come together. … So come on, heads up. … Cheers!” The exhilaration in the room rose up again. And the Piana Vishna chocolates kept circulating around the table along with jokes and swallowed tears. Then one woman began to sing. A melody, so thin and so profound, spilled into every nook and cranny of the room, the table, the empty glasses, the watery eyes. Voice a er voice swerved on divergent paths, coque ed, played, and returned to the common rhythm; and then another set of voices responded on the other side of the table and entered this unique “three-voice” polyphony that now belonged to something

Illustration 10.1 | Mixed generations, from those learning to walk to those needing a cane, come together for leisurely folk dancing at the Bulgarian chitalishte. When the circles of dance, life, and politics intersect on the trembling earth, people compose a painfully musical way to move through hardships and hopes. Photo: N. Savova, August 2007.

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bigger outside the house, to “the heritage of humanity” that politicians supported globally at the UNESCO House in Paris. Two houses of different size, architecture, people, and politics, but participating together in a system of shared values about local cultural creativity as a catalyst of well-being.

House Number Two The house was freshly painted yellow, opened only four months ago, a spacious colonial mansion nestled in the shade of enormous trees. On a wall was a photograph from UNESCO’s first festival of the Masterpieces of Intangible Heritage of Humanity in China in 2006: there was the samba group and the Bulgarian Bistritsa Babi I had been with just a week earlier. I shared a few mangoes with the guards while waiting for Rosildo, the president of the Associação dos Sambadores and Sambadeiras do Recôncavo Bahiano. When the Casa do Samba (House of Samba) was still being built, it was conceptualized as the “mother house” (casa mãe)1 of a network of such casas in smaller communities where there are active samba de roda groups, part of a national network of community cultural centers or organizations called Pontos de Cultura (Points of Culture). The network of the Casas do Samba was the long-term strategy for heritage safeguarding that the Ministry of Culture came up with when the samba de roda was recognized in 2005 as a masterpiece by UNESCO’s 2003 Convention on the Safeguarding of the Intangible Heritage of Humanity, also known as the Intangible Cultural Heritage (ICH) Convention. But what has been the relationship between the informal samba association and the state? Who decides what activities the house will host? And who holds the keys? Rosildo took me around the small museum and the practice rooms, telling me the story of how the Samba Association came into being, when the practitioners got motivated to unite over the midterm strategies for samba safeguarding developed by IPHAN (the National Institute for Artistic Heritage) in the dossier presented to UNESCO. “The recognition by UNESCO pushed us to get more organized, and now we want to do so much, we want to have many more houses and those will serve their whole communities,” Rosildo explained, his face shining with enthusiasm. Rosildo is a math teacher—young, educated, energetic, and passionate about samba, which for him is much more than a set of steps and music. He calls it a “choreography of social values.” The a ernoon sun bathed his fingers as they pulled the strings of the viola machete guitar, suddenly awakened to life from the exhibit’s

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dust. Only one old man who knew how to make the viola machete has remained alive, and the house is planning to host workshops where he can transmit his knowledge to local youth. Then Rosildo took a metal plate and a fork and started marking the base samba beat: “You can play on anything … from the viola to the plate. Samba is about uniting people.”

From the Socialist House Society to the House-Guarding Society The term “house” has been used in many countries to denote community spaces for leisure and creativity. In particular, it is linked to the socialist cultural politics when, pushed by Soviet clout, networks of the so-called dom kul’tury (Houses of Culture) were built on a massive scale from Mongolia to Cuba. In Bulgaria, the socialist regime did not need to begin the creation of dom kul’tury, since it found an already existing and active network of such community cultural spaces: the chitalishte. They are recognized among the other national members of the European Network of Cultural Centers (ENCC) as the oldest and currently most extensive network of such centers in Europe, which also makes it in a sense the first European NGO—non-class-based, nongovernmental, civic organization—and certainly among the oldest community cultural-center networks (as distinct from isolated informal cultural associations) in the world. The “House of Culture” trend that the Soviet Union spread in the socialist world is therefore not a communist invention, since the prototype of these community-based cultural spaces was born in Bulgaria with the chitalishte centers in the 1850s. The previously independent, democratically organized network of chitalishte around the country was immediately adopted by the Bulgarian socialist regime, which applied its formal national “enlightenment” mechanism to upgrade the older chitalishte with larger premises and to build more so that there was one in almost every village. The network represented in the communist logic the perfect infrastructure to channel the imposition of the regime’s political doctrine of control and uniformity on leisure activities. The chitalishte thus represents an intriguing case of a flexible social infrastructure—a flexible house network—where the same physical buildings managed to cra at different times quite distinct political, social, and cultural agendas and relationships; yet the network with its name and core values of encouraging creativity for all has survived the multiple transitions and is still ripe with potentialities for contributing to community building.

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A crucial anthropological question emerging here is: Why were the Soviets so keen on calling the leisure centers as well as many other institutions “houses”: from “House of Culture” and “House of Justice” to “house of electrical devices” and “house of home supplies”? To understand the political dimensions of making the intimate space of the house so pompously and omnipresently public, one must first appreciate the importance that the home space holds for individuals and for society. Lévi-Strauss’s (1983) foundational work on Melanesian societies offers invaluable insights, as Janet Carsten and Stephen Hugh-Jones point out in their edited volume on Lévi-Strauss: The house and the body are intimately linked. The house is an extension of the person; like an extra skin, carapace, or extra layer of clothes, it serves as much to reveal and display as it does to hide and protect. … A ready-made environment fashioned by a previous generation and lived in long before it becomes an object of thought, the house is a prime agent of socialization. (1995: 2)

The socialist Houses of Culture were, indeed, “prime agents of socialization,” but agents strategically planned, structured, and imposed to serve as such in a fashion quite distinct from the informal, spontaneous, and in many ways organic form of organization of leisure in similar spaces before communism, such as the chitalishte. Whereas the presocialist House of Culture, the independent chitalishte, was built, physically and conceptually, by ordinary people to host and concentrate collective efforts at opening up and diversifying leisure, the socialist regime built such institutions as a tool of control, to locate and limit leisure within a particular social position and physical place. The Old French entretenir (to hold apart) refers to creating a special space for particular ludic activities (DaMa a 1991: 72), and as such takes us to the socialist strategy of enclosing leisure in a designated building in order to control it and make sure it does not get contaminated and “dirty” if “out of place.” Here I build on Mary Douglas’s (1966) seminal work Purity and Danger, whose key point that “dirt is ma er out of place” exposes the social construction of dirtiness not as a characteristic in and of itself, but contingent upon where elements stand in a system of categories. As long as leisure stayed within the walls of the house, many activities could still be considered acceptable, “clean,” and “moral,” but if activities were outside their designated place, they could start circulating in a system far more difficult to control, and thus be deemed dangerously “dirty.” It was the socialist politics of placing bodies, practices, and imaginations “in their place” that led to the practice of naming various institu-

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tions “houses.” These “houses” participate in a system of control that I have termed the socialist house society, adapting Lévi-Strauss’s characterization of Melanesian societies as “house societies” (1983). The socialist house society strategically reconstructed the notions of home and house that Marxist ideology found in place in the countries where it spread, adding to the new construction particular uniform colors, shapes, rooms, and directives for the activities to animate them. The regime, however, underestimated the propensity of ordinary people, in particular amateur artists, to remodel and open up the “house,” to animate it with their own spirit and not the dictated slogans. On the basis of her research on the Hungarian Houses of Culture, Anne White concludes that the project of the state to “organize selforganized leisure” was unsuccessful because “art is always an unsuitable subject for regulation” (1990: 94–95). The “open house” experiment in Hungary signaled a potential for free and open unity around creativity that White finds reflected in Czesław Miłosz, who compared the social importance of the House of Culture not to a machine of political control but to a space of moral ethic, the chapel in the Middle Ages: People who a end a “club” submit to a collective rhythm and so come to feel that it is absurd to think differently from the collective. The collective is composed of units that doubt; but as these individuals pronounce the ritual phrases and sing the ritual songs, they create a collective aura to which they in turn surrender. Despite its apparent appeal to reason, the “club’s” activities come under the heading of collective magic. (Miłosz 1980 [1953]: 198–199, italics added)

It was this “collective rhythm” that in many organized activities tried to control and silence people, and yet it was also the rhythm of a “philosophy of service” (White 1990: 76) that brought previously marginalized groups into the spectrum of political and social a ention: blind and handicapped people found in the rehearsal rooms and on the stage of the house a spot to become visible and be seen as also capable of contributing to public life (White 1990: 91). State propaganda dwelled in the houses side by side with the humanist ideals of socialist philosophy. A er the fall of socialism, the chitalishte were forced to adapt to drastic cuts in state subsidies and to reconfigure their operations to focus on submi ing grant proposals to private funding institutions. The new period saw the closure of many chitalishte, yet about 3,500 survived, and in 1998 the United Nations Development Programme and the Bulgarian Ministry of Culture established the Chitalishte Development Foundation. The goal of this foundation is to build the capacity of these spaces to serve the new social needs for access to information technologies, while also preserving their traditional cultural importance.

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Most recently, the community development direction of the chitalishte has been linked to the notion of “safeguarding the intangible cultural heritage,” both of local significance and of importance to global cultural diversity. The chitalishte as an institution were linked to the 2003 Convention a er UNESCO recognized a group connected to one of the chitalishte in 2005, and the Institute of Folklore subsequently asked all 3,500 of them to participate in the compilation of the National Inventory of Intangible Heritage by identifying locally the living Intangible Cultural Heritage (ICH) elements. Thus, from Houses of Culture operating within the socialist house society, the Bulgarian chitalishte became central cultural houses in a house-guarding society, defined by the new dynamic and globally “fashionable” model of ICH safeguarding under UNESCO’s 2003 Convention. Local heritage initiatives link in a network around UNESCO’s politics through the concept of heritage house-guarding, which explores the tangible places—community cultural centers or “Houses of Culture” generally in urban neighborhoods but also ever more in modernized villages—where intangible heritage is o en “safe-

Illustration 10.2 | A child’s palms clasped before her grandmother and a fellow folk-song singer. More than “safeguarding heritage,” the community chitalishte is house-guarding heritage as a lived, modern daily practice. Photo: N. Savova, August 2007.

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guarded” as leisurely community activities unconnected to traditional sociocultural and natural cyclical celebrations. House guarding examines the “where” of UNESCO’s 2003 ICH Convention. According to the guidelines elaborated at UNESCO’s Intergovernmental Commi ee to the Convention meeting I a ended in Istanbul in November 2008, ICH safeguarding is expected to promote holistic “sustainable development” due to its a ention to local cultural sensitivity. Here cultural sensitivity refers not only to a ention to the broad anthropological notion of “culture,” meaning local specificities such as cultural values, ways of seeing and doing things, and overall social organization that should be part of any “development” project in the anthropological understanding of “development.” ICH further enriches the notion of development by incorporating artistic creativity and local spiritual practices in the vision of integral community well-being. The concept of the “house” as a space not of closing inward but of opening outward relations and ge ing people together in dialogue and exchange gave birth to the “House Project” (“Къща,” Kashta) of the Bulgarian Ministry of Culture within the framework of the European Year of Intercultural Dialogue in 2008. More than one thousand institutional and individual participants carried out diverse activities, from cooking to sewing, at chitalishte and other cultural spaces around the country, all connected under the conceptual roof of the “House Project”. The project concluded with a multicultural food evening in December where representatives of twenty-one embassies shared food and politics around the same table. The name of the project is related to the house as a particularly powerful Bulgarian symbol: the house has been the focal point of unity and dialogue in a diverse society of ethnic Bulgarian, Greek, Turkish, Jewish, Armenian, and Roma groups, which have been interconnected for centuries within an exchange economy of products and values, problems and hopes, celebrations and painful memories, all circulated around and within the space of the house. The focus of the project is communication, but channeled through mainly nonverbal forms of expression such as music, theater, applied arts, and food. “The house is one of the symbols of integration,” the project claims, and its activities were spread thematically under titles that reflected the different spaces of the house, as its interior design, room arrangement, and decoration represent both Bulgarian intercultural coexistence and social separation: in the “library” were the media projects related to the popularization of the project; the “kitchen” hosted the revival of the culinary traditions of the different ethnic groups; in the “study/home office” the project included all research conducted on sociological and

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anthropological topics, art therapy, and educational movies; the “music room” housed a concert celebrating the cultural diversity of various ethnic minorities; the “dining room” with its round table was the home of debates on intercultural dialogue; the “living room” accommodated exhibitions of painters and humorists from eight countries, traveling exhibitions, photo essays, etc.; the “child’s room” united children’s educational programs on cultural heritage aimed at stimulating their creativity; the “garden” accommodated public cultural events; and “at the neighbor’s” were all the activities with the participation of visitors from the Southeast European Region.

Heritage House Guarding: Policy and Project Dynamics Rosildo and I moved to another part of the Casa do Samba: an empty, whitewashed room. “This will be the bedroom” he explained. “We wanted to have a space that for all feels like a house, not a museum, and that we all feel owners of, collective owners. This is why we insisted on having a kitchen and spaces to sleep, and when each group visits it naturally becomes the temporary guardian of the house and takes care of it. That’s how it works.” A bedroom and a kitchen in a cultural center! At first I was surprised, then I started to understand that his concept of the community House of Culture was, indeed, built on the belief in the living and livable house and home. The rooms had a long way to go before they could feel like “home,” and then, again, there was enormous interpersonal work to be done negotiating the use of space, decoration, shi ing guardianship, etc. Yet these house-guarding dynamics—how the House of Culture hosts heritage safeguarding—were all alive at the Casa do Samba and fertile with possibilities for conflict as much as cohesion. Rosildo confided that the day before, the volunteers who organize the community restaurant stayed for hours at the house, alternately arguing, fighting, and laughing: “It is normal. Everyone has their opinion, but there is a unity, the idea of the restaurant unites them, especially now that it is material and we just need to set it to work.” Rosildo’s emphasis on “ownership” and “coexistence” reminded me of my conversation with Nalva da Silva, who is in charge of the Intangible Heritage Department at the IPHAN Office in Salvador. Nalva had emphasized that the Casa do Samba presents “real safe-guarding, because there you not only save, but guard and help live in a building open to experiment with activities inside it.”2 The flexibility of the House of Culture as a physical place and symbolic space was demonstrated

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in the case of the Hungarian Open Houses of Culture movement discussed by White (1990: 94) and the current transformations within the Bulgarian chitalishte as they strive to become independent grant-winning institutions. The houses in this chapter build the foundations of the heritage house-guarding concept, which examines how physical architecture and symbolic places (of community cultural centers) produce conditions for collective engagement with heritage transmission and more broadly for the creative practice of citizenship. Heritage house guarding offers a vision of state “guardianship,” an approach that I call heritage house guarding as cultural policy. Heritage house guarding as cultural policy is a conceptual framework that examines and interprets state intervention in the creation, development, and promotion of cultural “housing projects,” developing networks of Houses of Culture or some other kind of community cultural spaces to promote local folklore and engagement with the arts. Such networks were extensively created across the former socialist countries starting in the 1950s, from Russia to Vietnam to some African and Latin American countries (notably, the Casas de Cultura network in Cuba), as well as in nonsocialist Latin American nations where they are still called Casas de Cultura. Networks of community cultural centers were also built around that time in Western Europe with the popularity of social democratic agendas in France (called Maisons de la Culture), the United Kingdom, and the Nordic countries, where some networks had already existed since the end of the nineteenth century. Heritage house guarding in these cases was unconnected with and is in most cases still unaware of UNESCO’s heritage work and 2003 Convention (with the exception of the Brazilian network discussed below), and I argue that it is precisely these networks that could potentially host the actual implementation of the 2003 Convention on the ground through their already historic work with heritage and community arts. In the case of the Brazilian Casa do Samba, cultural heritage house guarding as cultural policy evolved with the development of the national network of Pontos de Cultura. The Brazilian Pontos de Cultura network (some of which are Casas do Samba) has been the initiative of a cultural policy conceived within a neoliberal, social democratic system influenced by UNESCO’s promotion of intangible cultural heritage since 1999. While the Pontos de Cultura network resembles the national state-funded networks of Houses of Culture (Casas de Cultura) in other Latin American countries, most notably in Cuba, the Cuban network is the product of yet a different regime rooted in a centralized political system, where critical art and local interpretations of heritage have nevertheless won their own space within the Casas.

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Pontos de Cultura is the unifying title for a group of state-recognized community cultural centers, nongovernmental organizations, and civic associations that either were recognized by the Ministry of Culture for their work and awarded with additional funding for equipment and activities on a monthly basis, renewed annually, or were created by the program itself (such as the Casa do Samba) in areas where there was a perceived need for such cultural initiatives, in particular as a tool for social work with youth. The Pontos de Cultura Program was initiated in 2004 by the then Brazilian Minister of Culture Gilberto Gil as part of his innovative view of community development. It was conceptualized to “valorize popular culture and insert the local population in a cultural universe through activities in schools and in the communities themselves” (Ministério da Cultura). While the network of Casas do Samba (planned to be at least twenty) is still at its inception, the Pontos de Cultura are currently close to seven hundred and growing with each new nomination session, when NGOs or start-up cultural centers apply for recognition and financial support from the Ministry of Culture. This is the Ministry of Culture’s stated method of feeding the “transversality (transversalidade) of culture” as a baseline model for development that runs through all public-private partnerships (Ministério da Cultura; see also Rede dos pontos de cultura da Bahia). The civil Samba Association over which Rosildo is currently presiding was created with governmental encouragement and presents a model of fruitful public-private partnership. This model could be extended further through the cultural centers network if local cultural specificities continue to receive due consideration, and community authorities are recognized as guardians of their intangible heritage and are thereby entitled, according to the convention, to participation in cultural policy making. Within heritage house guarding as cultural policy, the Ministry of Culture has its own motives for effective safeguarding: to prove its compliance with international conventions and thereby garner the international symbolic capital that comes along with a favorable image before the other states party to the convention. Nevertheless, Rosildo acknowledged the importance of state support in the creation of the association as a catalyzing force to link previously dispersed groups and help them generate a sense of family and a sense of purpose for safeguarding of their own heritage (he o en emphasized community ownership). In Bulgaria, the chitalishte network of cultural centers has existed ever since the 1850s’ civil society movement for popular education and cultural enlightenment. Since the Ministry of Culture began to subsidize its activities at the beginning of the twentieth century, the network has been among the oldest examples of cultural heritage house guard-

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ing as cultural policy. At the same time, however, the chitalishte have always preserved their status as nongovernmental organizations, which turned them into a fertile field for heritage house guarding as nongovernmental (development) projects. Sponsored by the King Baudouin Foundation, the “Living Heritage in South East Europe Program” in the late 1990s aimed to “build human and social capital” by “linking heritage and community development,” as it sponsored different activities and programs in chitalishte across the country (King Baudouin Foundation). The foundation’s focus was on cultural heritage because, in the opinion of the British community-arts consultant Matarasso, “in situations that are o en thought of only in terms of their problems, local culture can be a very positive place to look” (Matarasso 2004: 5). In cultural heritage’s potential to generate “social capital” (as defined by the World Bank) across generations, Matarasso saw the metaphors of “bonding,” “bridging,” and “linking networks” (2004: 32–33) performed in the formation and connecting of new civic associations in chitalishte and other cultural institutions (in Bulgaria, these varied from beekeepers’ societies to poetry clubs whose members hang poetry and paintings on strings in the streets around the chitalishte). The question of the community centers’ role as spaces for the production of “social capital” is reflected in my development of the community creative capital concept (Savova 2007), which incorporates Bourdieu’s notions of “cultural capital” and “social capital” but in the frame of a theory and practice of amateur community-based arts, discussed below as a process of house animating. Community creative capital is a form of cultural production where “cultural capital” is produced not by elite circles, as in Bourdieu (1986), but by ordinary people, amateurs rather than professionals, who engage in cultural activities and heritage re-creation for reasons related mainly to the production of “social capital.” While in Bourdieu “social capital” relates to the ways in which people form and strategically employ networks of social connections for the a ainment of particular goals, I apply the term to designate how amateur/folk arts groups serve as a field for the production of both strategic mutual-aid systems (along the lines of Bourdieu’s definition of social capital) and structures of intimacy, friendship, and exchange that respond to deeper human needs for interaction and belonging within a fragmented capitalist order. Brazil and Bulgaria present two distinct and yet interrelated, mutually enriching comparative cases of heritage house guarding: in Bulgaria,3 as a recent nongovernmental project (“Living Heritage in South East Europe Program”) and as a new direction (the “House Project”) in the already established heritage house guarding as cultural policy

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(since the first quarter of the twentieth century); in Brazil, as a recently developed cultural policy (the Ministry of Culture’s Pontos de Cultura network) recognizing already existing nongovernmental initiatives and interweaving them in a network with newly created Casas, thus presenting a key return of the neoliberal state to high involvement in social policy. Both heritage house-guarding cases reveal that despite the distinct political, economic, social, and cultural contexts that created them, community arts and their collective houses have always managed to promote community creative well-being tailored to local needs, beyond the particular political agendas. Both heritage house-guarding cases also share a common agenda inspired by UNESCO’s ICH safeguarding recommendations and are run through the permanent structures of community cultural centers, even as activities spill outside into squares, streets, gardens, and beehives. Possibilities for “scaling up” the heritage house guarding as nongovernmental (development) projects lie in Article Nine of the 2003 ICH Convention, which foresees how NGOs will be able to advise cultural policy internationally: “To obtain advisory assistance, the Committee decided to call upon the opinion and expertise of specialized NGOs as well as of local, national and international experts, including those belonging to the communities of tradition-bearers and practitioners” (UNESCO 2008: 8). What the conceptualization of and debates on the role of NGOs will be in advising nation-states on heritage safeguarding is an issue that presents a rich sphere for further investigation.

House Animating The Casa do Samba provides a space for much more than samba alone: meetings, performances, teaching workshops, rehearsals, cooking, or simply cha ing in the yard. The house is not only physically but also socially in the process of construction and animation, and house guarding includes the processes of both house building and house animating. On the one hand, house building is physical—in the equipment of the kitchens, bedrooms, the mediateca (digital library), the recording studio called Big Point of Culture (Pontão de Cultura), which will be fully equipped through the Pontos de Cultura Program of the Ministry of Culture to produce CDs for local artists at low cost or free of charge. At the chitalishte, the pressing issues are acquiring computers and repainting and repairing the houses, whose dreary grey looks turn people away from them. On the other hand, house animating is the social construction of the house, best expressed by the French term for cultural revitalization:

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animation culturel. House animating is the interpersonal and intangible project that infuses the core of heritage house guarding with the vitality of those interactions through which “intangible heritage” is locally produced, disseminated, appreciated, consumed, sensed, and lived. House animating acquired texture and taste that same night of my first visit to the Casa do Samba, when it hosted three capoeira and maculele groups in honor of Santo Amaro’s city holiday. In the hot summer night, the yard of the Casa do Samba filled to the brim with dancers in white capoeira outfits whose bare feet and elegant bodies soon started rotating in three distinct rodas, three worlds side by side, three “rings of liberation” (Lewis 1992) away from generational and sex divisions: two- and three-year-olds played with parents and grandparents, girls proved more agile than boys, and even in moments of heated competition, the game continued spinning with the elegant principle of nonviolence. Rosildo was happy to have a local capoeira group train and perform weekly at the house. “It is called ‘House of Samba,’” he said, “but we want it to be a house for all local heritage, and for social life in general. This space is open for anyone, so people can be creative!” Brazilian Minister of Culture Gilberto Gil conceptualizes the Ponto de Cultura as “in-anthropological point” (ponto in-antropológico), which “identifies and acknowledges the living forces (forças vivas) that act in society” (Agência Brasil 2007). These “living forces” evolve into the very intimate impact that capoeira has on people’s bodies. Many Pontos de Cultura across Brazil have identified capoeira and traditional music as “living forces” that can be harnessed as a social therapy to engage troubled youth in health-related activities. My participant observation work in the favelas of Providencia and Mare in Rio de Janeiro over three months in 2007 and 2008 revealed how the infusion of physical exercise with discussions on civil behavior can transform the bodily practices into educational training of the senses—modes of sensing oneself, the others, the city, and the state that define “‘enskilment’ as an ‘enculturation’” (Downey 2005: 101), or the inculcation of a “culture of peace” and civic responsibility ingested in a particularly strong manner due to their bodily performance. A key question here is how “heritage” has served as a departure point for understanding how modern society learns to generate its lost social capital and how these social processes build the foundation for sustainable development. Intergenerational dialogue, creativity, escape from stress and economic insecurity, and an alternative to the rising social alienation are the processes that both Brazilians and Bulgarians try to facilitate in the networks of community spaces that a empt to

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build healthier communities. The production and circulation of community creative capital as discussed earlier is a central element of the house-animating process, where arts and heritage practices propel social coexistence.

Project Aesthetics and Program Kinaesthetics Ephemeral Internet networks and global traveling have come to obscure and make obsolete or irrelevant—almost “unfashionable”—the human yearning for “home” and “belonging” to physical places in the world. Yet humans are born and socialized in the connectedness to houses, streets, and gardens, where permanent structures propel memories and ongoing actions. In particular, community spaces dedicated to creativity importantly feed subjectivities within the experience of a community through regular commitment to dance, sport, play, and other leisurely, intellectual, cultural, and spiritual endeavors. The buildings and the operational principles of the chitalishte in their 150-year-long history have gone through all major forms of politicaleconomic orders, from complete authoritarian suppression under the O oman Empire to royal rule under the Bulgarian monarchy at the turn of the twentieth century, and from communism in the twentieth century to democratic neoliberalism since 1989. The permanence of the chitalishte, and also its transformations and dilemmas, reflect, on the one hand, the recurrent social need for community-based arts and, on the other, art’s particular responsiveness to shi s in the systems of moral values and senses. These and other community cultural houses around the globe define locales that share similar structure and name. These fixed community spaces defy a world topography that, in the current globalized system, is too o en perceived as deprived of the meaning of “place” and dominated by a cult of volatile circuits of information and people. The houses rather make us ask: “Where do these circuits cross and what architectures do they connect?” Global civil society networks operate within what Tsing (2000) calls “scale-making,” or the strategic process of enlarging local issues. The scale making involved in UNESCO’s “cultural heritage of humanity” title given to the groups in Brazil, Bulgaria, and Cuba (awarded to the Tumba Francesa group in Santiago de Cuba) assumes its architectural dimension in the Houses of Culture that sustain an international circulation of people and creative practice sharing at international festivals and exchange visits. Some Brazilian Pontos are part of the Latin American Network of Art for Social Change (www.artestransformador.org) together

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with five other countries in the region, and the Bulgarian chitalishte participate in the European Network of Cultural Centers (ENCC, www. encc.org). Both continental networks form part of a global umbrella organization for national and regional networks, the International Council for Cultural Centers, or I3C (www.international3c.org). I discovered that the dream of many community cultural centers and their national associations was to form among themselves a global network of active exchange and cooperation, and this is what gave birth to I3C, which developed during my work as a consultant at UNESCO and is now an independent international nongovernmental organization coordinating various national associations of community cultural spaces. The pulse of these architectural cultural net(work)s runs beyond the emails and sporadic events typical of most current virtual networks, and their houses add brick a er brick to social movement theory. For example, in the 1980s, the Cuban Casas de Cultura had regular exchange visits with the Bulgarian chitalishte, and although a er the dissolution of the USSR these links were severed, the institutions implement UNESCO’s Living Human Treasures Program separately but in a very similar way and through their similar community-based structures. In Bulgaria, the chitalishte nationally select individuals to be declared “Living Human Treasures” for their outstanding artistic skills and knowledge, and in Cuba the program promotes traditional healers (curanderos) to give workshops at the Casas de Cultura, which intriguingly channel alternative public health programs. These networks reveal the interplay between the external “aesthetics” of symbolic, transnational cultural capital—such as UNESCO’s international recognition and belonging to transnational networks like the ENCC and the Latin American Network—and the deeper internal “kinaesthetics” of regular movements of people, performances, ideas, and emails forming their own version of an international cultural gi economy: the kinaesthetics of the program thinking and of the networks’ work that operate simultaneously within the global formal aesthetics of recognition and belonging to international movements. In development work, the fashionable discourse on projects, both in policy and nongovernmental work, has assumed what I refer to as the aesthetics of the (temporary) project. It is crucial to examine critically the language of the “project” and its limited temporality—the dra ing of projects, their monitoring and evaluation, and the measurement of impact and the well-wri en (but rarely implemented) plans for sustainability—as the “project” becomes the fundamental unit in the language of social policy and work: the “development project” poses obstacles to sustainable development because of the precise definition of the term

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as a time-bound event rather than an ongoing process or program. A critical analysis of globalization as a set of temporary projects is useful in allowing us to note the controversies and hypocrisies of shallow interventionism covered in appealing titles but plagued by questionable sustainability of impact. As James Ferguson (2006) put it, international developmental NGOs and UN agencies—constituting “international civil society”—“‘span the globe,’ as is o en claimed, but they do not cover it. Instead, they hop over (rather than flowing through)” (14, emphasis added). It is against this backdrop of the “hopping,” short-lived aesthetics of the (temporary) project that I thus examine the kinaesthetics of the (long-term, regular) program that inhabits the Houses of Culture. In line with Harvey’s (2005) call for “permanent institutions” instead of “temporary contracts,” I focus on both the imagining/thinking and practicing of permanent community cultural centers and their networking, where the “scale-up” of projects into regular community programs speaks to the business goal of “idea scale ability,” defining the potential of an idea to grow and transform positively its surrounding (as Bulgarians say, the amount of “bread that an idea has inside”). “Connectedness” and “communication” animated Rosildo’s hopes for the future of the Casa do Samba. His eyes gli ered with the reflection of the picture from UNESCO’s festival in China. “I remember the Bulgarian group most vividly,” he smiled. “One night at the hotel they danced to our samba, and we also tried to catch the steps in their roda,” he said, applying the Brazilian term to the Bulgarian khoro circle dance. “The world is so interconnected now!” With a healthy sense of humor, he added, “I really wish your ‘grannies’ (babi) from Bistritsa could visit our samba ‘girls’ in Saubara!” (Raparrigas [“Girls”] was the name of the group, composed of both young and older women). The Bistritsa Babi also remembered the Brazilians with smiles. The hopes for cultural exchange they voiced on the two sides of the ocean are not impossible, in particular with the exchange of audiovisual material, which many Pontos de Cultura and chitalishte (see more at www. chitalishte.bg) have begun to upload to the Internet. For example, a dance group from a small village in a different part of Bulgaria managed to find a partner group via the Internet. With this partner group, located in Venezuela, they applied for funding within the frame of an exchange program. And in fact, the Bulgarians went for a visit to their partners in South America. These exchanges also have very physical dimensions embodied in the houses where the groups meet, which form quite similar nationwide networks. To be er understand the core of the houses, however, how can we visually imagine their connections to one another?

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The World Cultural Net(work): Who Shakes the Shekere? Metaphors can be crucial in studying locales in the anthropology of the global. In what image can we maintain the pulse of the living organism, as in Radcliffe-Brown’s (1957) metaphor of society,4 while at the same time allowing a spatial representation of translocal networks and cultural flows seen as rug pa erns and electronic matrices in Annelise Riles’s The Network Inside Out (2000)? Can we locate an object that unites without limiting in its body the metaphors that, on the one hand, anthropomorphize the globe, such as Tsing’s “aggressive globe, hurtling through space” in “its rush toward the future” (2000: 331), and those that graph it onto an abstract topography of deterritorialized, cosmopolitan “scapes” (Appadurai 1996)? I suggest expanding the twodimensional grids and stretching their net around the globe in order to understand the complexities of a real-life three-dimensional form. What we get as a shape is the African instrument shekere, made of a gourd wrapped in a loose net of beads, whose circular motion creates a rhythmic, pulsating percussion. Midway between the anthropomorphic and topographic images of globalization, Geertz saw the need to expand Wi genstein’s image of the “rope,” which was a single thread tying places in a whole. Instead, for Geertz the world is “overlappings of different threads, intersecting, entwined, one taking up where another breaks off, all of them posed in effective tensions with one another to form a composite body, a body locally disparate, globally integral” (2000: 227). I adopt and further develop Geertz’s image of the net of overlapping threads in the notion of the world cultural net(work) of community cultural centers: a net(work) embodied in the metaphor of the net around the shekere instrument. In this net(work), the disparities of the local—archaeological and historic sites and community cultural centers of dissonant heritages—interact, connect, exchange, sometimes quarrel, dance together at festivals, and meet at UNESCO’s assembly to try to negotiate a more peaceful, “globally integral” space of a responsibly shared “cultural heritage of humanity.” While heritage is a largely subjective concept and could thus be denominated “dissonant heritage” as argued by Ashworth and Tunbridge (1996), the politics of global heritage scale making, in Tsing’s terms, reveals how people bargain for the meaning of practices and values at different levels within UNESCO, the Ministry of Culture, the local administration, the cultural centers, and the community. Geertz criticized political theorists for conceptualizing away from the palpable daily realities, as if in a Montgolfier balloon above “a

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Illustration 10.3 | The Casa do Samba in Santo Amaro, Bahia, welcomes a boy with birimbau, made from the gourds used in the shekere shaken by the adults in the back. The shekere net illustrates the dynamic net(work) connecting the pontos de cultura centers across Brazil with their counterpart chitalishte network in Bulgaria and other national organizations around the world. Photo: N. Savova, January 2008.

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world of pressed-together dissimilarities variously arranged, rather than all-of-a-piece nation-states grouped into blocs and superblocs (the sort of thing that is visible from a balloon), there is nothing for it but to get down to cases, whatever the cost to generality, certainty, or intellectual equilibrium” (Geertz 2000: 226). I side with Geertz’s urge to find in the global “deep diversity” a “sense of connectedness,” “neither comprehensive nor uniform, primal nor changeless, but nonetheless real,” which is an exercise of imagining the world not as made of dots but as a set of cross-references and intertwinings (Geertz 2000: 226). The cross-references of beads along the shekere net exist as real houses/cultural centers and vibrate with the music inside and the circuits carrying through them people, politics, and moral principles: a “cultural traffic” in its widest and perhaps wildest sense. My goal here is not simply to create one more in a list of metaphors about globalization. What I hope to do is to offer a fairly useful image for visually and conceptually “teasing out those threads,” “probing the very compositeness of the composite body, its deep diversity” (Geertz 2000: 227). The composite body of the state is, in fact, what Brazilian Minister of Culture Gilberto Gil imagined when he drew a “cultural cartography” of Brazil (Gil 2006) as the body of the national social organism marked by special points concentrating creative energies—the Pontos de Cultura—an idea borrowed from Chinese acupuncture. Gil conceptualized cultural policy as the necessary sensitive massage or stimulus (through recognition, funding, and promotion of community structures), where the movement of energy can recharge the points and help them develop a more active, participatory a itude of the whole social body. But how did Brazilians outside the ministry’s offices conceptualize state policy and global cultural connections? What metaphors did they use? My insight came months later, during Carnival 2008. It was an a ernoon in February when in the sunset melting over Salvador de Bahia, close to two million people moved to the same beat: the beat of a small shekere. The shekere player was on top of the trio elétrico, a musical truck for the Filhos de Gandhi (Sons of Gandhi) Association whose followers infused the streets with the calm whiteness of their Indian-style robes. I was up on the trio, by the shekere player. He was exhilarated: Look around! All these people have come from around the world to be here, dancing to our samba and to my li le shekere [shekerezinho]. It is simple, you know, it really is not that complicated for people to connect. As if with the shekere I am now holding the world in my hand!

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What it meant for him to hold a tiny gourd and produce a rhythm followed by so many people from all over the world—a “rhythmic heritage of humanity,” indeed—goes beyond the semiotic and ritual analysis. Bristol showed how festivities are “animated with the strongest possible feeling of solidarity and community affiliation” (1985: 30), but the unity around the small shekere takes issues of “community affiliation” to two very distinct levels: the global level at the heart of UNESCO’s political ideals of “heritage of humanity,” and the very personal, human, tangible dimension of how one musician’s sensation of humanity gets awakened and defined by the touch of his palm. The shekere player did not use a pre y metaphor about world unity: many cultures were, indeed, dancing to the pulsations of his shekere. And beyond the few days of Carnival, the connections and the rhythm persisted in the bodies of small Pontos de Cultura stimulating artistic creativity all around the city of Salvador de Bahia, around Brazil in the national network of the Pontos Brazil, and beyond Brazil in the Maraca (Mesoamerican Community Arts) Network of Houses of Culture and across the ocean to Bulgaria and beyond. These houses are o en inhabited by controversial politics and the need to adhere to the aesthetics of projects and recognition, yet also animated by the pure human belief that art is inherently liberating. Departing from Geertz’s analysis of global interdependencies as a net of overlapping threads and resorting to the shekere net as a metaphor of the global network of community cultural centers—and, in general, of cultural policy projects—we see why the Maraca Network chose as their symbol the maraca instrument, the sister of the shekere, which instead of a net around has seeds inside producing the sound. Representing the network’s notions of accessibility of the arts, the maraca is the most widespread and least costly instrument in the region, and at the same time one that is easiest to play, thus connecting through art various generations and ethnic groups. From the maraca to the shekere, I develop the framework of the “3Ls”—lapse of time, looseness, and locality—as major factors in the world cultural net(work), where the shekere is an object through which to think social processes (see Henare, Holbraad, and Wastell 2007). The shekere as a metaphor of the world cultural centers network under construction reflects the opinions of heritage bearers, experts, and policy makers I have collected over the past four years. In shekere playing, once the hand (national/international cultural policy or nongovernmental projects) starts shaking the shekere, the net(work) moves and the beads (interconnected community cultural

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centers) vibrate and interact with one another, perpetuating the initial rhythm. Although a simple instrument, the shekere’s playing method is not obvious: the beads along the net must travel some distance before they hit the gourd, so the player needs to anticipate the rhythm. The lapse of time between action and effect shows the needed prospective vision for long-term and not immediate results—an understanding recurrently emphasized in the discussions at UNESCO’s Sessions on the Convention. To play the shekere, one can simply shake it, or roll it on the palm of the other hand, in which case the movement of the net is opposite to the rolling movement of the gourd. Here we observe the slippages and discrepancies between the movement of cultural policy and its resonance in the local soundscapes, as was the case of the chitalishte and the Hungarian Houses of Culture where people subtly inverted the controlled system. It is, nonetheless, a productive disjuncture that gives birth to a sound and to its negotiation and reworkings: the first and crucial step is to have a movement of political and/or civic will. The lapse of time between movement and sound is thus a lapse that can produce social harmony or dissonance, healing or destruction.5 The second important condition for the shekere’s sound is the right amount of looseness of the net in order to let the beads hit the gourd. This reflects the opinions I have collected among heritage bearers, community organizers, and government officials, who have agreed that cultural policy and projects—or heritage house-guarding programs—need to be loose enough that they do not rigidly control, but rather stimulate local initiative. Architecturally, house-guarding looseness relates to the importance for the cultural house’s space to be open and welcoming—as the Casa do Samba seems to be—and invite fresh air and new people in. The looseness of the net is explored by Richard Schechner’s “play net” concept in relation to performance in leisure, in particular amateur arts. “Work and other daily activities continuously feed on the underlying ground of playing, using the play mood for refreshment, energy, unusual ways of turning things around, insights, breaks, openings, and, especially, looseness,” Schechner argues, as he modifies Bateson’s “frame” of events outside ordinary everyday activities and replaces it with a “net” that is a “porous, flexible gatherer; a three-dimensional, dynamic, flow-through container” (Schechner 1993: 41). Such three-dimensionality of the net applies to the shekere, whose loose net affects how much space is le (and how much space can be created out of that state “organized” space) for the opening of, in Schechner’s words, “discrete ‘packets’ of energy and/or information,” where people can cra through art “systems of transformation of one reality to another” (1993: 28).

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The sound of the shekere also depends on the shape of the gourd, which correlates to how heritage house-guarding plans are specific to the particular cultural topography of a place. This defines the third factor: locality, or the local specificities of heritage house guarding, which cannot be useful as a one-size-fits-all model, but needs to be a tailor-made net(work). If the 3Ls of the world cultural net(work) strike a balance at a particular cultural house and within a slowly growing network, the net can extend from the beads, connect well to others, and sustainably produce music within an operational global network whose house-guarding strategy does not stop at an empty aesthetic network title but emphasizes regular local activities and exchange. The final crucial point about the shekere is that it is an instrument that anyone can play: it only takes a shake and a roll on the palm. As empirical evidence shows, with inspiration and sufficient will, anyone can create a community cultural center, even simply by turning one’s living room into a museum (see Kapchan 2007: 213), thus adding another bead to the net(work) around the gourd (globe). In the shekere, all surfaces and movements interact: no single element can produce a rhythm without the others. This, of course, holds when the shekere is played so that not only the one who plays—whether a government, an NGO, or an individual—but all around can enjoy its sound and participate in its production.

Terminals … or Starting Points? House to house, point to point, bead by bead, the networks of community arts organizations can be thought through the net of the shekere and the practical application in Brazil, Bulgaria, and Cuba of the 3Ls affecting the sound of the shekere and the development scripts of the world cultural net(work): lapse of time (strategic thought over longterm effects), looseness (the importance of loose control, care not to forge dependency), and locality (understanding the specificity of each place and people’s meaning-making of “heritage,” “community,” and “citizenship”). These factors impact heritage house guarding, as both a development project and cultural policy, which navigates through the multiple levels of symbolic capital accumulation in the economy of heritage safeguarding: (1) the international level at UNESCO, the European Union, and other continental unions and global nongovernmental organizations; (2) the national level at the respective Ministries of Culture (and/or Education and Tourism) and the national networks of community cultural centers and other cultural organizations; and

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(3) the local symbolic capital accumulation at the community cultural centers or in communities lacking and trying to develop their own houses for meeting and creation. House guarding links lasting community structures that ensure the sustainability of regular activities and mark a move from the aesthetics of the project thinking to the kinaesthetics of the program and networks’ work beyond the short lives of time-bound and unembedded (“hopping”) projects. I have argued that understanding “development” should start with and nurture the permanent sensation of a collective place—a house—and shared practices and values. One way out of skin-deep virtual aesthetics is a network kinaesthetics where movement runs deep through people’s skin and the walls of the house, and where the kinaesthetics of the regular programs engage people in the long run as an alternative to the aesthetics of the project. The national networks of cultural centers increasingly equipped with Internet and open source so ware add another perspective to Baudrillard’s criticism of new technologies when he argues that “we no longer exist as playwrights or actors but as terminals of multiple networks” (Baudrillard 1988: 16). When a network exists virtually—most community cultural centers are connected through open source in Brazil and Bulgaria and worldwide with others through email and web platforms—as well as firmly built on the ground in the architecture of community spaces, people tend to become, in fact, playwrights who operate at the terminals and make out of them starting points of networks: guest performances by groups from one chitalishte to another; international cultural exchanges between Cuba and Bulgaria; the current implementation of UNESCO’s Living Human Treasures Program with artisans in Bulgaria and in workshops with traditional healers at the Casas de Cultura in Cuba; and the network of Casas do Samba, where a kitchen and a bedroom create a distinct kind of cultural center where food and arts feed a much healthier community. When analyzed locally, tactile human interactions and social networks express a need and a dream to inhabit home-like community spaces: tangible houses that in their essence are intangible, moving, ever changing. Notes 1. Interview with Nalva Santos, Director of the Intangible Heritage Department at IPHAN’s Salvador Delegation, 25 August 2007. 2. Interview with Nalva Da Silva, 25 August 2007. 3. The chitalishte were linked with the particular “modern” concept of heritage and not the antiquated “folklore” through the King Baudouin Foundation grant and not through a state initiative, though they are state-funded

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institutions. Currently, house guarding is also developed as a cultural policy by the Ministry of Culture’s Department for Local Cultural Development, whose director is responsible for coordinating the chitalishte network’s virtual forum and is also a representative to UNESCO’s ICH Commi ee. 4. Though Radcliffe-Brown’s body analogy of society has been criticized for obfuscating the complicities of conflict, power, and historical change, I find it useful to transpose the image of the individual body on the social body and thus personalize various processes, which might seem external and alien but in reality do impact individual body techniques and mindsets in multiple ways that simply o en go by largely unnoticed, unless scrutinized critically by scholars. 5. In the Native American Gourd Dance, the rhythm of the shaking gourds is believed to be a prayer that heals the collectivity: “We want to help the people who may be in mourning and want to come back, or may be sick, or have troubles” (quoted in Hanna 2006: 112).

References Agência Brasil. 2007. “Salvador sedia encontro de representantes de pontos de cultura.” h p://agenciabrasil.ebc.com.br/noticia/2007-07-13/salvador-sediaencontro-de-representantes-de-pontos-de-cultura (accessed 29 July 2010). Appadurai, A. 1996. Modernity at Large: Cultural Dimensions of Globalization. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Ashworth, G., and J. Tunbridge. 1996. Dissonant Heritage: Management of the Past as a Resource in Conflict. London: John Wiley & Sons. Baudrillard, J. 1988. The Ecstasy of Communication, trans. B. Schutze and C. Schutze. New York: Semiotext(e). Bourdieu, P. 1986. “The Forms of Capital.” In Handbook of Theory and Research for the Sociology of Education, ed. J. G. Richardson, pp. 241–258. New York: Greenwood Press. Bristol, M. 1985. Carnival and Theater. London: Methuen. Carsten, J., and S. Hugh-Jones. 1995. “Introduction.” In About the House: LéviStrauss and Beyond, ed. J. Carsten and S. Hugh-Jones, pp. 1–46. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. DaMa a, R. 1991. Carnivals, Rogues, and Heroes: An Interpretation of the Brazilian Dilemma. Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press. Douglas, M. 1966. Purity and Danger: An Analysis of Concepts of Pollution and Taboo. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Downey, G. 2005. Learning Capoeira: Lessons in Cunning from an Afro-Brazilian Art. New York: Oxford University Press. Ferguson, J. 2006. Global Shadows: Africa in the Neoliberal World Order. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Fisher, M. 2003. Emergent Forms of Life and the Anthropological Voice. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Geertz, C. 2000. “The World in Pieces.” In Available Light, C. Geertz, pp. 218– 230. New York: Basic Books. Gil, G. 2006. “Cultural Cartography.” In Brazilian Intangible Heritage Preservation. Brasilia: Ministry of Culture, IPHAN.

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Hanna, J.L. 2006. Dancing for Health: Conquering and Preventing Stress. Lanham, MD: AltaMira Press. Harvey, D. 2005. A Brief History of Neoliberalism. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Henare, A., M. Holbraad, and S. Wastell, eds. 2007. Thinking Through Things: Theorising Artefacts Ethnographically. New York: Routledge. Kapchan, D. 2007. Traveling Spirit Masters: Moroccan Gnawa Trance and Music in the Global Marketplace. Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press. King Baudouin Foundation. “Living Heritage in South East Europe Program.” h p://www.living-heritage.org (accessed on 20 August 2009). Lévi-Strauss, C. 1983. The Way of the Masks, trans. S. Modelski. London: Jonathan Cape. Lewis, L.J. 1992. Ring of Liberation: Deceptive Discourse in Brazilian Capoeira. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Matarasso, F. 2004. Report on the Living Heritage Program in Bulgaria. Available at h p://www.kbs-frb.be/uploadedFiles/KBS-FRB/Files/EN/PUB_1533_Living_Heritage_Bulgaria.pdf (accessed 29 July 2010). Miłosz, C. 1980 [1953]. The Captive Mind. Harmondsworth, UK: Penguin. Ministério da Cultura. “Pontos de Cultura Program.” h p://www.cultura.gov .br/culturaviva/ponto-de-cultura/ (accessed on 29 July 2010). Radcliffe-Brown, A.R. 1957. A Natural Science of Society. New York: Free Press. Rede dos pontos de cultura da Bahia. h p://pontoapontobahia.wordpress.com/ (accessed 29 July 2010). Riles, A. 2000. The Network Inside Out. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Savova, N. 2007. “Community Creative Capital: UNESCO’s Intangible Heritage Politics Revisited at the Bulgarian Chitalishte.” International Journal of the Arts in Society 2, no. 6: 193–204. Also available at h p://ija.cgpublisher .com/product/pub.85/prod.171 (accessed 29 July 2010). Schechner, R. 1993. The Future of Ritual: Writings on Culture and Performance. London: Routledge. Tsing, A. 2000. “The Global Situation.” Cultural Anthropology 15, no. 3: 327–360. UNESCO. 2008. “Report on the Activities of the Commi ee.” Intergovernmental Commi ee for the Safeguarding of Intangible Cultural Heritage. Sofia, February 2008. h p://www.unesco.org/culture/ich/doc/src/00300-ENWORD.doc (accessed 29 July 2010). White, A. 1990. De-Stalinization and the House of Culture: Declining State Control Over Leisure in the USSR, Poland and Hungary, 1953-1989. New York: Routledge.




Epilogue

Recognizing Soviet Culture Bruce Grant

The Puzzle of Recognition Where do anthropologists look for culture? The British dean of the field, Edward Tylor, once eased the way by suggesting a rather mechanistic definition that many historians of the discipline could likely rehearse from memory: “Culture, or Civilization taken in its widest sense, is that complex whole which includes knowledge, morals, art, belief, law, custom, and any other capabilities and habits acquired by man as a member of society” (1920: 1). By Tylor’s program, one went on the hunt for distinctive trappings of material life and, in turn, extrapolated a program of belief to which all Kulturträger, or culture-bearers, were understood to subscribe. The induction of Herder into anthropological circles upped the ante: the mapping of Volksgeist, loosely defined as a collective esprit de corps, could be done without recourse to fieldwork on the basis of texts alone. But the reigning premise that was to se le into both social and cultural anthropologies across the twentieth century is that culture is, by definition, an elusive quarry. One could not walk up to a House of Culture, knock on the door, and simply find it. By most common methods, culture has been sought through a number of displacements: For Malinowski this meant the work of taking up the native’s point of view; for Lévi-Strauss, trained in both geology and psychoanalysis, it meant an archaeology of the mind, the uncovering of deep structure. But perhaps the apogee of this paradigm of elusiveness comes in Pierre Bourdieu’s concept of misrecognition. By Bourdieu’s rendering, for any number of culturally informed practices to operate, they may be semi-recognized, but only grudgingly, or be er, misrecognised entirely. “If the system is to work,” Bourdieu wrote, for example, about gi -giving in Outline of a Theory of Practice, “the agents must not be entirely unaware of the truth of their exchanges … while at the same time they must refuse to know and above all to recognize it” (1977: 5). “Systems of classification,” he continued, “make their specific contribution to the reproduction of power relations of which they are the

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product, by securing the misrecognition, and hence the recognition, of the arbitrariness on which they are based” (1977: 164). All of this leads to the famous line in Bourdieu’s classic work, Because the subjective necessity and self-evidence of the commonsense world are validated by the objective consensus on the sense of the world, what is essential goes without saying because it comes without saying. (1977: 167)

My point for this brief tour through the history of anthropology is to visit a fact not o en mentioned in studies of culture under state socialism (or more specifically, state cultures, the cultures of state socialism of which Houses of Culture were an integral part). By some contrast to a long history of assumption about culture’s elusive nature, from Tylor through Bourdieu, the USSR joined with many other modernizing powers over the course of the twentieth century in launching very explicit a empts to make socialist culture “said,” in effect, to render socialist culture immediately recognizable through a variety of scripts and forms. Socialist culture, in some contrast to many other worldcultural forms, very much then, “came with saying.” It is the puzzle of this recognition that I look to consider in this closing essay. Like many scholars of Soviet society, I once spent much time poring over the many volumes devoted to kul’turnoe stroitel’stvo, “culture building,” printed foremost from the 1930s onwards. These texts called upon culture both as a developmental project (harking back to the culture concept’s original etymologies in agriculture and cultivation), as well as a disciplinary project (given the etymological roots of colonization [Williams 1985: 87–93]). The la er was evidenced particularly in Russia where Montesquieu’s “civilizing mission,” literally the tsivilizatorskaia missiia so favored by Catherine the Great, was far more o en cra ed as a kul’turnaia missiia, a “cultural mission.” Both these senses of culture call up the normative labors of Houses of Culture across the former Soviet bloc. But these texts also called upon a notion of culture as a collective noun (like “furniture”), what Heidegger once called an “equipmental whole,” a package deal, something that consisted of multiple parts forming a whole, and without which no modernizing state, in this case, could be understood to operate without. Heidegger writes, Equipment—in accordance with its equipmentality—always is in terms of [aus] its belonging to other equipment: ink-stand, pen, ink, paper, blotting pad, table, lamp, furniture, windows, doors, room. These “things” never show themselves proximally as they are for themselves, so as to add up to a sum of realia and fill a room. What we encounter as closest to us … is the room; and we encounter it not as something “between four

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walls” in a geometrical spatial sense, but as equipment for residing. Out of this the “arrangement” emerges, and it is in this that any “individual” item of equipment shows itself. Before it does so, a totality of equipment has already been discovered. (1962: 97–98, original emphasis)

In this roundabout style Heidegger offers us something key, a chance to think about the cataloguing of culture—not simply in the Tylorean sense of culture as a complex set of objects fused by belief—but with a view to the very specific forms that containing culture under state socialism could take. With Heidegger in mind, the idea is not to look so much at the assemblage of “realia” but at culture’s “equipmentality,” as it were.1 Several decades later, the prevalence of those early Soviet documentary anthologies gave way to the programmatic texts of advanced socialism—books like The Communist’s Moral Ideal (Bychkova 1987), The Soviet Citizen’s Primer (Romanova 1980), or any of the dozens of works wri en by political philosophers such as Arnol’d Arnol’dov (1973, 1976a, 1976b, 1977, 1978, 1980, 1984a-d, 1987, 1988). For myself, it was not in Moscow, but on Sakhalin Island, in the spring of 1990, when I began collecting these books in earnest in a fishing community where I was doing research—gently surprised to find them piled up in outhouses, awaiting a sorry fate. When I turned to the librarian in the local House of Culture, and later to the manager of the village council office, to ask whether this might not be a quiet blasphemy, both women smiled, and said they would be happy to set aside any “double copies” they could find in their collections. I was soon loaded down by wellwishers happy to divest their long-ago acquired editions. Thus, while the early British school cra ed kinship charts of a complexity intelligible to few whose lives they were believed to map; while Lévi-Strauss created homologous pairs of binary oppositions that were destined for deep revelation; and while Bourdieu urged us all to swim upstream against the tides of the naturalizations of social life—with all three of these scholars, in effect, suggesting ways for us to decode the mysteries of inherently elusive cultural forms—I would underscore instead that, under state socialism, we encounter something of a different stripe. While perhaps no less mysterious than any other set of societies in the world, the socialist ambit offers something relatively distinct— systematic and voluble professions of cultural knowledges. Through Houses of Culture (among other institutions), alongside a myriad of texts and practices, the message is, in effect, “Here is our culture, come and get it.” This is to say, the Soviet cultural project was unabashedly public, reified, intended for mass consumption and intended most importantly to be widely shared.2

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Other states (many states, in fact, driven by market economies) undertook and continue to undertake public self-definitions: in fraught debates over national patrimony, as Richard Handler demonstrated for Quebec (1986); in finely tuned pageants and competitions in seemingly apolitical zones of the arts, as Virginia Dominguez documented for Israel (1988); and more commonly in tourism campaigns around the globe (see for example, Ivy 1995)—to mention only three anthropologists among a wide range of scholars and disciplinary approaches. One could add to this any number of works on Ministries of Culture (Fumaroli 1999; Lebovics 1992), monuments (Mosse 1990) or national museums (Karp and Lavine 1991). But I want to suggest that something different is going on under state socialism. The perceived social pluralisms of most market economies, I would argue, have conventionally held the government’s open control of the power to name, or the power to define the collective in cultural terms, at relative bay. Soviet society may not have been any less pluralist, but its government profile was. It had almost no competition in official pronouncements over the directions of social life. What stands out in the Soviet context therefore is the bravura of trying to capture a single cultural project under one roof, as it were: literally, in Houses of Culture, and metaphorically, in hundreds of efforts large and small to foster shared sensibilities across eleven time zones, some fi een national republics, and at least two hundred active language communities. Long before Hobsbawm and Ranger (1983) made “the invention of tradition” a commonplace in studies of national histories and nationalist movements, one of the world’s growing superpowers put culture at the forefront of its business. A significant part of the puzzle in studying such an eminently recognizable cultural enterprise is that so many scholars have insisted it is not worth the effort. Some who have ethnographically taken up cultural management by states emphasize the artificiality of state sponsorship, arguing that its preoccupations with Gesellscha over a more organically perceived Gemeinscha doom such efforts to skeptical receptions among diverse citizenries (Handler 1986; Lebovics 1992). In the Soviet context, such views found easy resonance in Cold War logics that portrayed the Soviet state as a Leviathan divorced from any actual or genuine participation. Yet as so many excellent studies have shown, we know that for be er and for worse, millions of lives were wholly invested in what came of this Soviet cultural engineering. To recall Katherine Verdery’s phrasing, socialism, in its extraordinary reach over concepts of power, time, and space, organized an entire “cognitive organization of the world” (1996: 4). So how does one best study

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places such as Houses of Culture, dismissed and embraced by so many in such tandem?

From Pokazukha to Pokaz The books on Soviet culture building by authors such as Arnol’dov and others surely might rank among the many kinds of texts and practices that long ago earned the title of pokazukha—that which only seems, that which is done purely for show, all form, no substance (see Sántha and Safonova, Chapter 3 of this volume). For many the very mention of Soviet culture, as such, is synonymous with dissimulation. One day in the Spring of 1989 I was walking past the House of Scientific Atheism in Moscow, on Ulitsa Radishcheva, not far from the Taganka Theater. It was a large, two-story, neoclassical, columned building from the early 1800s, and featured a poster advertising a series of lectures to be held throughout the spring on Soviet state ritual. A few weeks later, I showed up at one such event at the appointed time, wandered into the lavish but near empty building, and did not find a soul. I located the porter, who was squirreled away reading novels in a room behind the coat-check. When I told him I had come for the lecture, he looked very pleased. “I’ve worked here for two years,” he said, “and you’re the first person who’s ever come! They don’t really hold the lectures. The posters, you know, they’re just for show.” A few times later that season, I visited the library there to read about early Soviet campaigns against shamanism in the Russian Far East. As before, there was never anyone about (the extensive library had to be opened specially for my visits because it, too, rarely received any readers). And on at least two evenings following my library work, I sat with the porter, upstairs, in the leather-paneled director’s office. There was not a shred of paper about to suggest an ounce of activity, and I o en wondered if anyone but the porter and librarian ever set foot in the building to run its affairs. The spacious director’s office was most prominently outfi ed, instead, with a television, where we watched old movies and dined on potatoes. In this near-empty structure at the twilight of the socialist period, Soviet atheism was performed by li le more than the building’s very naming. By contrast, the House of Culture that I later came to know much better, in the small fishing village of Rybnoe on northwest Sakhalin Island’s Tatar Strait coast, home to some two hundred and fi y people, was a much busier place. It was, like many of its counterparts across the former USSR, simultaneously library, discotheque, cinema, town square,

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and club house. Yet it, too, like the House of Scientific Atheism I had once visited in Moscow, was prone to scenes of abiding absurdity, as on one occasion when a full orchestra on tour from Vladivostok arrived by helicopter without notice—all tubas and horns—one weekend morning. In theory their job was to bring high culture to the masses, but few masses could be found early on a Saturday a er a long work week at the height of the summer fish run. An impromptu concert on the steps of the House of Culture was performed before an audience of five—two grandmothers, two children, and a tired, bored-looking village council chairman. In the distance, passersby could be seen, darting from house to house, hiding behind fences so as not to be snared into a ending. I asked the village secretary later why the musicians bothered to perform at all, when it was obvious no one was interested. “They didn’t come to perform,” she said, “they came to shop.” And indeed, Rybnoe’s town store, normally a well-stocked paradise at the time by comparison with mainland shops, looked like it had been looted by vandals by the time the helicopters li ed off several hours later. The village’s bootleg caviar dealers fared all the be er. Clearly either of these illustrations could be wri en up as evidence of pokazukha’s past, if not its present, and for sound reason. In looking at the social lives of these physical spaces, it is incumbent upon us to distinguish the bustling from the simply bust. But the question I would ask in this context is: Is the empty city palace of atheism any less effective than its crowded village counterpart for purposes of advancing a perceived project of Soviet civilization, or in contemporary terms, a Russian state culture? As I would suggest, pokazukha, too, can be generative and productive in ways that are o en overlooked. One book for thinking along these lines is Alexei Yurchak’s felicitously titled, Everything was Forever, Until It Was No More (2006), where it is precisely the slippage of recognition in the socialist cultural project that Yurchak has on the table. The subject is late socialism, Soviet society from the 1950s to the 1980s, with a heavy tilt to the years immediately preceding perestroika that Yurchak knew best, when he was a student and later working as a manager for the Leningrad-based rock band AVIA. How is it that one can account for the perceived stability of the Soviet system, Yurchak asks, for the probity of Soviet culture’s edifice, and the shock felt by so many at the Soviet system’s collapse when at the very same time, he points out, so many Soviet citizens simultaneously found themselves entirely prepared for it? A first step comes in recognizing the efficacies of Soviet culture’s categories of experience, against the work of so many scholars in the Cold War tradition who see only fraud at work in a Soviet world defined by

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binary contrasts: “oppression and resistance, repression and freedom, the state and the people, the official economy and second economy, official culture and counterculture, totalitarian language and counterlanguage, public self and private self, truth and lie, morality and corruption, and so on” (2006: 5). Yurchak observes, What tends to get lost in the binary accounts is the crucial and seemingly paradoxical fact that, for great numbers of Soviet citizens, many of the fundamental values, ideals, and realities of socialist life (such as equality, community, selflessness, altruism, friendship, ethical relations, safety, education, work, creativity, and concern for the future) were of genuine importance. (2006: 8)

Thus we find recognition, on the one hand, of Soviet values, coupled with a readiness to see them slip away (as unexpectedly as they did) in the autumn of 1991. Borrowing both from Bakhtin and the contemporary French socialist writer Claude LeFort, Yurchak’s direction is to consider the key contrasts between the constative (that which was stated, the speech acts and scripts of Soviet life tracked in books such as Arnol’dov’s and at work in Houses of Culture, among other places), and the performative (which is to say, the Austinian effects of those u erances, scripts, and practices).3 Consider, therefore, the kinds of ritualized acts like voting at Komsomol meetings, or in municipal elections where only a single candidate runs. “It would obviously be wrong,” Yurchak writes, “to see these acts of voting simply as constative statements about supporting the resolution that are either true (real support) or false (dissimulation of support). These acts are not about stating facts and describing opinions but about doing things and opening new possibilities.” Indeed, “It became increasingly more important to participate in the reproduction of the form of these ritualized acts than to engage with their constative meanings” (2006: 25, original emphasis). To embrace such performative dimensions of seemingly “wooden discourse” need not, of course, dismiss the ideational struggles that motivated so many. As Caroline Humphrey found in her close reading of the memoirs of Georgii Smirnov, a party bureaucrat who began his career in the Komsomol in late 1930s and rose to some prominence as a party speechwriter across a succession of political epochs, what was said and what got wri en did have significant import: The Party bureaucracy was a way of life, with its own ideals and intimacies, its places, its habits, and its horizons. The woodenness of “wooden language” was one of its ways of performing the ideal of anonymous collective unanimity, but it could not, and did not, eliminate ideas. (2008: 30)4

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Engaging the work of Humphrey, Yurchak and others across this volume, it seems to me, obliges us to challenge an understanding of the labors of Sovietization undertaken in Houses of Culture as stultifying and predictable, as most accounts normally have it. As Ali İğmen (Chapter 7) demonstrates for Central Asia, to give just one example, Kyrgyz officials in the 1920s and 1930s may have been working within very set scripts, but what direction the acts they prescribed took, and how predictably they advanced the message advocated by planners in Moscow is quite another story. For all the necessity in tracking the successes and failures of the work of these Houses of Culture, we should very much see at work a fundamentally performative function that transcends the particular content of one event over another, of the success of one lecture over another, or the path of the civic group under its roof. This is to say, rather than just linger briefly over the masquerade of event planning, as was the case at the House of Scientific Atheism in Moscow, we might wonder instead how much it ma ers that the lectures never took place. Was there something effected simply by the presence of the House itself, even if it were near empty? Perhaps it was the very promise of the structure that ma ered. As one Evenk man remarked to Nikolai Ssorin-Chaikov in Siberia in 1995, “We are always busy building something. … we always live in an unfinished building” (2003: 207). Ssorin-Chaikov’s remarkable observation about the Sovietization of Evenk lives, in fact, was that the Soviet government routinely insisted that almost every expedition out to indigenous Evenk communities, even thirty years on a er the onset of the Soviet period, into the 1950s, was “the first Sovietization” (208). In this way, the emptiness of buildings both public and private came to stand in as a mimicry of the deferral of impossible-to-realize state forms.5 This is where I think we can productively shi our focus from pokazukha to pokaz. Take, again, the House of Culture I once knew in Rybnoe. It was a constant hub of activity that could by no means be wri en off as the cipher of a civilization built on false ideals. Some of what it generated was pokazukha, and some was not. But that is not the point. What Rybnoe’s House of Culture, a barn-like structure perched on stilts in the sand, some several thousand kilometers away from Moscow, could perhaps most powerfully demonstrate (more so than the village council office, and more so than the kolkhoz) was that there was something, indeed, called Soviet culture, gluing together the Soviet people (and Soviet peoples), “a new historical community,” as it was o en called (Kim 1974). Humble as the House of Culture may have been, everyone had one (and many still do).

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Consider a quite different example, from a very different part of the world. In 1994, Bill Keller, then a reporter for the New York Times in Johannesburg, wrote on the fate of parliaments in state-organized Bantustans. Bantustans were the territorial homelands created for the black populations of South Africa and Namibia under apartheid; each was outfi ed with what most considered to be, at best, Potemkin parliaments, puppet administrations of the coercive regime. The same year as the fall of the National Party government and the dissolution of the Bantustan territories, Keller asked, who would be interested in holding on to these kinds of relics? (One might ask the same, of course, of Houses of Culture whose culture appeared, at ready glance, to have been evacuated.) The answer in South Africa, as it turns out, was rather a lot of people. Both patrons and clients of these seemingly bankrupt institutions saw them as by no means evacuated of meaning. For be er or worse, they were among the few structures around which social relations in the former homeland territories had been formalized. Networks had been forged in and around them. Moreover, as Arjun Appadurai (1986) once wrote some years back about “the social life of things” more generally, their status was not immutable; they shi ed in meaning over time (1986). In a further context still, Michael Taussig had this same idea in mind when he wrote of colonized peoples of South America who turned to the artifacts of colonial life long a er colonial rule had ended. Thus, shamans in Colombia conjured visions of invading armies to suggest forces of healing for distressed souls (1986), and cra ed likenesses of General McArthur to ward off evil spirits (1993). These were, respectively, compromised political institutions and persons whose stock had long ago faded, but whose forms had been reappropriated and invested with fresh meanings. We can see this dynamic at work in several of the chapters in this volume where the form and in some cases, the function, of Houses of Culture have very much survived into the twenty-first century. We can also see this dynamic at work in more broadly normative contexts where Soviet-era practices have sustained themselves, transformed.6 In her studies of the Russian oil industry, contrasting the rise of Rosne ’ with the fall of Yukos, economist Nina Poussenkova argues that Rosne ’ thrived precisely because it reappropriated the semifeudal patron status of the Soviet enterprise, organizing sanatoria for its workers, day-care centers and summer camps for their children, on-site canteens, and even housing stocks. Yukos, by contrast, initially the more successful company, technically invested far greater sums in community life than Rosne ’, but did so in a perceived “Western”-style manner, through public char-

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ities or by sponsoring high-profile sports teams. When the government began turning the screws to increase its share of oil revenues, it was Rosne ’, not Yukos, who held the public’s support (2007). Shi ing the context back to Houses of Culture, this invites us to ask whether the task for Russian communities is really to perestroit’, to reconstruct these institutions, or to obustroit’ them (to use Solzhenitsyn’s choice of words for his famous 1990 book, Kak nam obustroit’ Rossiiu?), to refit them for new times.

Privatizing Public Culture So far I have dwelt on what I have been calling Soviet culture’s “recognizabilities,” its assemblage of books and beliefs, houses and heresies, codes and practices, the explicit and very concrete nature of which may set it apart in distinctive ways from cultural projects in nonsocialist, market economies. This made the fruits of the Soviet cultural project, for all its dimensions, a deeply public culture in the most literal sense, available to all. However one did or did not subscribe to all its tenets, Soviet culture, through these artifacts, was widely shared. Indeed, if one were sharing nothing else but a distaste for it, one could express this frustration from Vilnius to Vladivostok, and from Murmansk to Makhachkala, with a remarkable degree of uniformity (Kotkin 2007). In the absence of Houses of Culture—long one of the keystones of this ambitious project—community leaders today find themselves in an age where, for all the Putin administration’s efforts, gaining control over such a unified enterprise is not as easy as it used to be. Soviet culture, perhaps, gets “privatized,” certainly, in the sense found in many of the essays here where Houses of Culture are rented out to a variety of commercial clients or private groups, or indeed in Moscow, where my porter friend continued to work as a watchman in the House of Scientific Atheism. At first they rented out a few rooms to a commercial firm, then an entire floor, and finally sold off the building altogether. But this is only one way of doing it. The more telling privatization, it seems to me, is the parceling off of the Soviet internationalist project into ethnic units that were long at its heels. The largest House of Culture I know today, in Park Druzhby behind the Rechnoi Vokzal Metro in Moscow, once the site of a large Komsomol office, was recently home to a variety of Russian nationalist groups motivated (as most nationalist movements are) by exclusion rather than inclusion. The smallest House of Culture I know, in the predominantly Nivkh town of Nekrasovka on Sakhalin, similarly

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has foregone the collections of writers like Arnol’dov to focus on Nivkh language circles, native dance ensembles, and a native natural medicine club. While these kinds of indigenously focused groups existed throughout the Soviet period, one rarely encountered, at least on Sakhalin Island, the same degree of exclusivity. A world that turns inward to admire its own reflection is nothing new. But the question it leaves me with, to ask of those doing active fieldwork in Houses of Culture today, is whether we might still see Soviet-style efforts to sustain a federal discourse of a shared cultural project, whether we find the pursuit of things “Russian” in the sense of rossiiskoe, the civic project, or russkoe, the ethnic marker. If not, we move away from a socialist cultural formation—surprisingly explicit in its architecture, its scripts, its practices, and its locations—toward one that looks quite a bit more familiar. It was Fredrik Barth (1969) who years ago put it most simply: Most cultures spend a great deal of time policing their boundaries, announcing what they are not (and by extension, who does not belong). Few, by contrast, invest in definitive projects of who they are. By Barth’s rendering, culture, again, as in the brief tour of the history of anthropology by which I began, emerges elusively, with regular and clear efforts made by many to mark the boundaries, and yet seemingly no one found at the center. The Soviet cultural project, instead, with its Houses of Culture, Komsomol groups, and a robust rule of civil society taken to perhaps its greatest historical limit by the Communist Party, was one such example of profoundly public culture invested in articulating its centrality to the fullest. Houses of Culture were among its foremost sites of struggle, and its sites of performance. In recognizing the forms of this cultural enterprise, and not just its contents, I would contend, we can begin to do a be er job of grasping a Soviet project laid all too much to waste in Cold War–era caricatures, of understanding its force, its appeals, and its a erlives.

Notes 1. This concern for outfi ing Soviet culture on par with other modernizing states of western Europe is underplayed by Vadim Volkov, who saw the 1930s campaigns for the cultivation of “cultured” behavior as part of a broader, Stalinist law-and-order campaign (2000). While these two positions (Stalinist culture in step with western Europe; Stalinist culture as distinct unto its own Soviet logics) are not mutually exclusive, the point is to not overly functionalize the culture concept as it evolved across western and eastern Europe. See BuckMorss (2000).

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2. While legions of studies on Soviet mass culture outline a great deal of the country’s projects and predicaments (e.g. Cherednichenko 1994; Condee 1995; Von Geldern and Stites 1995), the goal here is somewhat different in aiming to consider the status of the Soviet culture concept as it played out in a variety of arenas. 3. The reference is to Austin (1962). Yurchak’s insistence that the constative and the performative are not, in fact, a new binary of the type he is eager to diminish, but are instead, “indivisible and mutually productive” (2006: 23) may not satisfy. But in trading one set of binaries for another in this instance, we get closer to the understanding of the form Houses of Culture advocated, rather than solely focusing on their content. 4. Humphrey’s essay provides a useful rejoinder to Yurchak, arguing that the propositional dimensions of official party discourse could be read quite differently across generations. 5. Pelkmans excellently makes a similar argument about “the social life of empty buildings” in postsocialist Georgia (2003). 6. In a fascinating study, Luehrmann demonstrates how atheist activists in a House of Culture in the Mari El Republic of the Russian Federation shi ed seamlessly to “desecularizing” work a er the fall of the Soviet Union (2005).

References Appadurai, A. 1986. “Introduction: Commodities and the Politics of Value.” In The Social Life of Things: Commodities in Cultural Perspective, ed. A. Appadurai, pp. 3–63. New York: Cambridge University Press. Arnol’dov, A.I. 1973. Kul’tura i sovremennost’ [Culture and Modernity]. Moskva: Novosti. ———. 1976a. Osnovy marksistko-leninskoi teorii kul’tury [Basic Principles of the Marxistic-Leninist Theory of Culture]. Moskva: Nauka. ———. 1976b. Sotsialisticheskii obraz zhizni i kul’tura [Socialist Style of Life and Culture]. Moskva: Akademiia nauk. ———. 1977. Kul’turnyi progress v razvitom sotsialisticheskom obshchestve [Cultural Progress in Advanced Socialist Society]. Moskva: Sovetskaia Rossiia. ———. 1978. Sotsialisticheskii obraz zhizni i novyi chelovek [The Socialist Way of Life and the New Man]. Moskva: Nauka. ———. 1980. Sotsialisticheskaia intelligentsiia i kul’turnyi progress [The Socialist Intelligentsia and Cultural Progress]. Moskva: Moskovskii rabochii. ———. 1984a. Sotsialisticheskaia kul’tura, teoriia i zhizn’ [Socialist Culture: Theory and Life]. Moskva: Politicheskaia literatura. ———. 1984b. Obraz zhizni v usloviiakh sotsializma: teoretiko-metodologicheskoe issledovanie [The Way of Life Under Conditions of Socialism: TheoreticalMethodological Analysis]. Moskva: Nauka. ———. 1984c. Kul’turnyi progress: filosofskie problemy [Cultural Progress: Philosophical Problems]. Moskva: Nauka. ———. 1984d. Kommunizm, kul’tura, chelovek [Communism, Culture, Man]. Moskva: Sovetskaia Rossiia.

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———. 1987. Struktura kul’tury i chelovek v sovremennom obshchestve [The Structure of Culture and the Person in Modern Society]. Moskva. ———. 1988. Chelovek i kul’tura v sotsialisticheskom obshchestve: sbornik obzorov [Man and Culture in Socialist Society: A Compilation]. Moskva: Akademiia Nauk. Austin, J.L. 1962. How To Do Things With Words. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Barth, F. 1969. “Ethnic Groups and Boundaries.” In Ethnic Groups and Boundaries: The Social Organization of Cultural Difference, ed. F. Barth, 9–37. Boston: Li le, Brown. Bourdieu, P. 1977. Outline of a Theory of Practice. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Buck-Morss, S. 2000. Dreamworld and Catastrophe: The Passing of Mass Utopia in East and West. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Bychkova, N.V., ed. 1987. Nravstvennyi ideal kommunistov [The Communists’ Moral Ideal]. Moskva: Politicheskaia literatura. Cherednichenko, T.V. 1994. Tipologiia sovetskoi massovoi kul’tury: Mezhdu “Brezhnevym” i “Pugachevoi” [Typology of Soviet Mass Culture: Between “Brezhnev” and “Pugacheva”]. Moskva: Kul’tura. Condee, N., ed. 1995. Soviet Hieroglyphics: Visual Culture in Late Twentieth-Century Russia. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Dominguez, V. 1988. People as Subject, People as Object: Sel ood and Peoplehood in Contemporary Israel. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press. Fumaroli, M. 1999. L’État culturel: une religion moderne [The Cultural State: A Modern Religion]. Paris: LGF. Handler, R. 1986. Nationalism and the Politics of Culture in Quebec. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press. Heidegger, M. 1962. Being and Time. New York: Harper and Row. Hobsbawm, E., and T. Ranger, eds. 1983. The Invention of Tradition. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Humphrey, C. 2008. “The ‘Creative Bureaucrat’: Conflicts in the Production of Soviet Communist Party Discourse.” Inner Asia 10: 5–35. Ivy, M. 1995. Discourses of the Vanishing: Modernity, Phantasm, Japan. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Karp, I., and S. Lavine, eds. 1991. Exhibiting Cultures: The Poetics and Politics of Museum Display. Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Press. Keller, B. 1994. “Apartheid Homelands: A Messy Inheritance.” New York Times (15 May). h p://www.nytimes.com/1994/05/15/world/apartheid-homelandsa-messy-inheritance.html (accessed 29 July 2010). Kim, M.P. 1974. The Soviet People: A New Historical Community. Moskva: Progress. Kotkin, S. 2007. “Mongol Commonwealth? Exchange and Governance across the Post-Mongol Space.” Kritika 8, no. 3: 487–531. Lebovics, Herman. 1992. True France: The Wars over Cultural Identity, 1900-1945. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Luehrmann, S. 2005. “Recycling Cultural Construction: Desecularisation in Postsoviet Mari El.” Religion, State and Society 33, no. 1: 35–56.

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Mosse, G. 1990. Fallen Soldiers: Reshaping the Memory of the World Wars. New York: Oxford University Press. Pelkmans, M. 2003. “The Social Life of Empty Buildings: Imagining the Transition in Post-Soviet Ajaria.” Focaal 41: 121–135. Poussenkova, N. 2007. “Lord of the Rigs: Rosne as a Mirror of Russia’s Evolution.” Paper of the James A. Baker III Institute for Public Policy, Forum on Energy Policy, Houston. h p://www.rice.edu/energy/publications/nocs .html (accessed 20 July 2010). Romanova, A.S. 1980. Azbuka sovetskogo grazhdanina [The Soviet Citizen’s Primer]. Moskva: Molodaia Gvardiia. Solzhenitsyn, A. 1990. Kak nam obustroit’ Rossiiu? Posil’nye soobrazheniia. Leningrad: Sovetskii pisatel’. Ssorin-Chaikov, N. 2003. The Social Life of the State in Subarctic Siberia. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Taussig, M.T. 1986. Shamanism, Colonialism, and the Wild Man: A Study in Terror and Healing. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. ———. 1993. Mimesis and Alterity: A Particular History of the Senses. New York: Routledge. Tylor, E.B. 1920. The Science of Culture. London: Murray. Verdery, K. 1996. What Was Socialism, And, What Comes Next? Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Volkov, V. 2000. “The Concept of Kul’turnost’: Notes on Stalinism as a Civilizing Process.” In Stalinism: New Directions, ed. S. Fitzpatrick, pp. 210–230. London: Routledge. Von Geldern, J. and R. Stites, eds. 1995. Mass Culture in Soviet Russia: Tales, Poems, Songs, Movies, Plays, and Folklore, 1917-1953. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Williams, R. 1985. Keywords: A Vocabulary of Culture and Society. New York: Oxford University Press. Yurchak, A. 2006. Everything Was Forever, Until It Was No More: The Last Soviet Generation. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.




APPENDIX

1

RESEARCH DESIGN AND METHODOLOGY OF THE COMPARATIVE RESEARCH PROJECT “The Social Significance of the House of Culture” Brian Donahoe, Joachim OĴo Habeck, Agnieszka Halemba, Kirill Istomin, István Sántha, and Virginie Vaté

Background This appendix details how this comparative research project came into being and how we designed the methodology and research instruments. Further, we describe the period of fieldwork, paying special a ention to the problems we experienced while applying the methodology and research instruments. Considering the trend in Western social-cultural anthropology towards individually designed research projects with a strong preference for qualitative methods, some of our team members at the Max Planck Institute for Social Anthropology expressed their intention to address what they perceived as a lack of methodological rigor in the discipline. Others sought to enhance their experience in quantitative research methods. All team members shared an interest in trying out a combination of qualitative with quantitative methods. We became convinced that by designing and conducting a comparative project with qualitative and quantitative methods defined a priori, we would be able to make a useful contribution to the further advancement of methodology in anthropology.

Methodological Preparation With this in mind, we started intensively planning the comparative research effort in late 2005. Our intention to undertake a comparative team-research project posed special requirements for and limitations on the methodology and research procedures to be used. First of all, the methodology and procedures had to be unambiguously understood

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and agreed upon by all members of the research team. Second, the results obtained should be easily comparable, which is possible only if they allow some degree of formalization and categorization in etic rather than emic terms. Indeed, as was noted already by Franz Boas (2006 [1940]), any comparison in cultural anthropology presupposes categories introduced by the researcher. In order to develop the appropriate methodology, we followed six standard steps of methodological preparation: (1) clarifying and defining the object of research; (2) formulating the aim of research in the form of general research question; (3) formulating the tasks of research in the form of specific questions; (4) choosing appropriate research methods to answer the specific (task) questions; (5) designing research instruments; and (6) planning the fieldwork. Defining the Object of Research In Russia today there is some discrepancy between colloquial and official usages of the term “House of Culture” (dom kul’tury). In colloquial usage, this term can refer to the building in which the House of Culture once used to be situated, rather than to the institution itself. Furthermore, sometimes the term is used to designate an institution that is now situated in the former House of Culture building but which is not actually a House of Culture. For example, a commercial nightclub with disco situated in the building once used as a House of Culture can be locally known as the “House of Culture.” Therefore, a common definition of the object of our research was necessary in order to make sure that all members of the team would be studying the same thing. Officially, the House of Culture is defined as a “noncommercial state organization created for organizing leisure-time activities for the population, satisfying its spiritual needs and developing and realizing its intellectual and creative potential” (Deriagina and Sventsitskii 1992: 7). This definition has survived from the Soviet period; it is still used by local and federal administrations and is incorporated into the official “typical statutes” (tipovoi ustav) of a House of Culture. For pragmatic reasons, we combined the colloquial and official understandings to arrive at the following working definition: The House of Culture is an organization that is (1) noncommercial; (2) is subordinated to and managed by state administration at the municipal or regional level; and (3) it is referred to by the local population as the “House of Culture” (dom kul’tury), “club” (klub), or the equivalent in the local language.

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Formulating the Aim and Tasks of the Research The second step of our methodological preparation was to formulate our general research question. A er comparing the research interests of all members of our team and taking into account the general focus of our discipline on understanding the functioning of and changes in the cultural and social fabric at the community level, we agreed upon the following overarching research question: What is the sociopolitical significance of the House of Culture today for the local community (and how has it changed over time)? We then defined concrete tasks or lower-level questions. We started by assuming that the significance of a social institution consists of and can be understood by clarifying its meaning, function, and impact. Therefore, our research question can be divided into three second-level questions: 1. What meaning is ascribed to the House of Culture in the given community? 2. What functions does the House of Culture realize in the given community? 3. How does the House of Culture influence the functioning of other social institutions/networks in the given community? These questions would require (1) an analysis of the House of Culture itself (its physical facilities, and the views and everyday work practices of its staff ); (2) an analysis of views of people using the House of Culture; and (3) an analysis of views of all members of the community regarding the House of Culture. The analysis of the House of Culture itself should be designed to answer the following questions: • What are the location and material facilities of the House of Culture (the physical premises, equipment, etc.)? • What is the organizational structure of the House of Culture? • What kinds of activities does it engage in? • How does it do this? • How does its staff think about its function and their work? • How does its staff define the targets of their work, and the target groups? • How does its staff see the ideal House of Culture? • What does its staff think about the role of the House of Culture in the future?

280 | Appendix 1

The analysis of the group of people using or a ending the activities of the House of Culture should answer the following questions: • Who are these people (what essential characteristics do they share)? • How frequently are they involved in House of Culture activities? • What activities do they participate in (and since when)? • What do they expect from these activities? • How do they see the function of the House of Culture? • How do they envision the ideal House of Culture? • How do they spend their leisure time (apart from participation in House of Culture activities)? • What role does the House of Culture play in their lives? • How is their participation in House of Culture activities related to their involvement in other social networks/activities? Finally, the analysis of all the members of the community should be conducted with the following questions in mind: • How frequently are they involved in House of Culture activities? • What are the factors that influence the degree of their involvement? • What possibilities for satisfying spiritual, intellectual, and creative needs exist in the community apart from the House of Culture? • What factors influence the degree of relying on these possibilities? Choosing Research Methods There are three basic types of research methods used in social sciences and capable of generating answers to the questions we posed: quantitative methods, qualitative methods traditionally used in social anthropology (participant observation and qualitative interviews), and the analysis of wri en data (statistics, reports, and other documentary materials). Qualitative research can yield rich, nuanced, and detailed answers to our questions. However, such qualitative research demands time, and the comparison of results with the ones of similar research in other places can o en be problematic. Quantitative methods have the advantage of providing easily comparable results and helping to structure the se ing within which qualitative data are embedded. In this way quantitative data can validate the representativeness of qualitative data; they provide the grounds on which to generalize and to support an assertion that a given quotation from an informant is (or is not) representative of

Appendix 1 | 281

a larger group of people. Finally, the value of documentary materials as well as comparability of its results greatly depends on the number and kind of materials available. This method, however, is extremely effective for diachronic research. The approaches complement one another. Taking these factors into consideration, we decided to combine qualitative and quantitative methods in our work. Many of the questions formulated in the previous section were to be answered two times—first by using the quantitative survey and then by the means of qualitative interviews and short-term participant observation. We hoped that this duplication would allow us to compensate for the shortcomings of one type of method with the advantages of the other. Thus the qualitative research was expected to fulfill the necessary lacunae in the results of the quantitative survey. On the other hand, the data obtained by the survey were expected to guide the interpretation and comparison of the results of qualitative research. The results of this two-pronged approach were to be supplemented by the analysis of documentary materials, which would also allow certain projection of these results into the past and, therefore, suggest some clues to the processes of change. Designing Research Instruments Before designing our research instruments, we defined a minimum data set that should be obtained by the team members. The minimum data set requirements were converted into a fieldwork checklist divided into four sections: location and infrastructure of the House of Culture; its organization, general history, and members of staff; the activities and events taking place there; and the view from the outside— participants and visitors. Apart from the description of the data, the checklist comprised methods and sources to be used for obtaining this data: the survey, the semistructured interviews with House of Culture staff and community members, the participant observation of certain events and places, the officials to be asked, and the documents to be found and copied. The documents consisted mostly of legal documentation and standard report forms that the Houses of Culture have to submit to the local or regional administration.1 The fieldwork checklist is given in Appendix 5. We then proceeded to design the instruments for quantitative and qualitative research. For the quantitative research this meant creating a survey form that would yield the data necessary to answer our questions. In order to create such a form, we analyzed the task questions and built up a list of hypothetical variables. In the final form, our list included three groups of variables: (1) personal variables; (2) variables

282 | Appendix 1

related to participation in the activities of the House of Culture; and (3) variables related to social relations and expectations. This list of variables was a product of informed speculation (null-hypotheses) as well as logical inference from the questions. A er the list of variables was compiled, we were able to produce a survey form that asks informants to ascribe a value for each variable. The lists of values for each variable was compiled partly on the basis of existing sociological and economic research on Siberia (e.g., age groups, variants for education, etc.) and partly on the basis of previous field experience of the team members (e.g., variants for sources of income, profession, obstacles to participation, etc.). In some cases, the informants were given the possibility to write in their own value (“Other. Please write: _____”) in case they could not find an appropriate value in the list. In one case, when informants were asked in which interest groups (kluby po interesam) or artistic circles (kruzhki) organized by the House of Culture they took part, the list of possible answers was to be compiled in the field, a er obtaining information about interest groups organized. For ethical reasons, informants were not identified by name on the survey forms. Rather, researchers identified informants by identification number, and maintained a separate list with the names and relationships of the informants. The survey form also included a text explaining the aims and tasks of the research, as well as the right of the informants to refuse to participate in the survey. The full text of the survey form can be found in Appendix 2. The instruments we created for the qualitative research included two sets of questions—one designed for the workers of the House of Culture (Q1), and the other for people in the community (Q2)—that were to guide the semistructured interviews. We anticipated that having a list of interview questions would guarantee at least some degree of comparability of fieldwork results obtained in different study sites. The interview questions were produced during several rounds of discussion between the team members. They consisted mainly of open-ended questions that were designed to get the respondents to expand upon information gathered with the survey and to provide fuller, richer, and more personal accounts of their interaction with the House of Culture. These discussions were to be taped for later analysis, with the informant’s consent. The sets of interview questions can be found in Appendices 3 and 4. Both the survey and the interview questions were translated into Russian2 and tested on a group of Russian speakers to check the adequacy of their understanding of the questions.

Appendix 1 | 283

Finally, we agreed that to make the data obtained during the participant observation comparable, participant observation should include: • Observation and description of the building and physical premises of the House of Culture; • Observation of a typical working day of its staff; • Participation in at least one (preferably more) interest group’s meetings; • Observation and preferably participation in the preparations for at least one event; • Observation and participation in an event. We also worked out guidelines for recording the information obtained from the participant observation. This was to include taking pictures and, if possible, video recordings of the House of Culture itself, the area surrounding it, its interior, a meeting of an interest group or artistic collective, and House of Culture event(s), as well as keeping field notes. Planning the Fieldwork The final step in the methodological preparation consisted of planning the concrete fieldwork. We had to determine the time period for the fieldwork, the actual study sites, and how best to organize the fieldwork to ensure comparability. For a variety of reasons, the possible length of our fieldwork was limited: the members of the team could spend only between six and eight weeks working in the field on the project. In an a empt to achieve maximum results in this limited period of time, we chose the period from the beginning of April to the beginning of June for our fieldwork. In Russia, this period has the greatest concentration of important social events: two state holidays (International Day of Workers’ Solidarity [1 May] and Victory Day [9 May]), several widely celebrated Orthodox religious holidays, and, in most places, a number of folk holidays and festivals. We believed that the Houses of Culture would be involved in these numerous and diverse events and that this would give us a be er possibility to study their activities in different spheres. We also planned to conduct all research projects at roughly the same time to eliminate the possible discrepancies that seasonal variation could introduce and so that all researchers would be able to observe some of the same national holidays and festivals, which would provide interesting comparative material.

284 | Appendix 1

In order to take advantage of researchers’ expertise, prior experiences, contacts, and language skills, it was decided that researchers would conduct the research in the administrative units that they were familiar with, but not necessarily in the actual field sites they were most familiar with. Thus, our study covered the following administrative units of the Russian Federation: the Altai Republic (Halemba), the Republic of Buriatiia (Sántha), the Republic of Tyva (Donahoe), the Chukotka Autonomous Okrug (Vaté), and the Novosibirsk Region (Habeck). While this produced a heavy focus on south-central Siberia in our research, we felt that language skills and existing contacts were more important to the success of the project than a more balanced regional distribution. Regarding the choice of concrete fieldwork sites, we expected that the role and functions of the House of Culture would depend on the size and type of the community that it served. Particularly, we anticipated significant differences in roles and functions of Houses of Culture situated in cities/larger towns, and villages. We had initially intended that each individual research project would include two communities—one in a large town or city and the other in a village. However, it became clear that this was not feasible in the limited amount of fieldwork time we could devote to the project, so we decided that each individual study should focus on only one community, and that all the communities should be of comparable size (between 6,000 and 12,000 residents).3 This population criterion severely limited the choice of study sites. For example, in the Chukotka Autonomous Area, the only se lement satisfying this criterion was its capital, Anadyr’. In the final analysis, population size may not have been the best criterion on which to select communities for study because administrative status (whether officially considered a “city” or not; whether a district center or not) is possibly more important than population size. Proceeding to the organization of conducting the actual fieldwork, the first step was to establish contact with the director and management of the targeted House of Culture, explain the purpose of the research, and request permission to conduct the research in the House of Culture. To facilitate this, the researchers were given le ers of introduction, signed by a director of the Max Planck Institute for Social Anthropology and addressed to the local officials. Researchers then had to concentrate on the administration of the survey, which we anticipated would be the most time- and labor-intensive part of our project. The validity and robustness of the results of a quantitative survey depend in part on the sampling method. A sample size of eighty was determined to be large enough for purposes of representativeness. Initially we had hoped to

Appendix 1 | 285

do a random sampling of the entire se lement, but, for reasons already discussed in Chapter 6, we decided to do a random sample of all ninthgrade students, and conduct the survey with them and all members of their families over the age of eleven. As a first step in this process, we planned to contact the local department of education and the heads of administration of all the schools in the community. Researchers were to obtain lists of all ninth-grade classes from all the schools in the community, number them, and use a computer-generated table of random numbers to select the students. They were then to gather all the randomly selected ninth-grade students of a single school together, explain the purpose of the research to them and administer the survey. Researchers then were to collect students’ contact information (addresses and telephone numbers) and set tentative times and dates for the researcher to visit the students’ homes in order to administer the survey to the remaining household members. The students were to be given the information sheet and requested to show it to their parents and other members of their households, and to tell them to expect a visit at the agreed-upon time and date. As has already been discussed in Chapter 6, this sampling method led to an overrepresentation of people in the students’ generation and the generation of their parents. Field assistants were engaged to help administer the surveys, either together with the researcher or, in some cases, on their own. As a rule, the field assistants were members of the community, which helped to increase trust in our research. A subset of those surveyed was to be interviewed. The qualitative interviews were to be conducted by researchers themselves in Russian or in the local language. Ideally, all researchers were to conduct the semistructured interviews with at least five people who go to the House of Culture and five people who do not go to the House of Culture. In addition, five more people of the researcher’s choice were to be interviewed, regardless of whether they had been part of the initial sample or not. These people were also to complete the survey forms, which, however, were kept separately from the data obtained in the course of the main survey. The second group to be interviewed was to consist of the staff of the House of Culture. Researchers were expected to conduct semistructured interviews with the director of the House of Culture, the head metodist, the leader of one of the activity groups (kruzhki, khudozhestvennye formirovaniia), and at least one more employee of the House of Culture, excluding technical and service personnel. Finally, the researchers were to conduct participant observation in accordance with the fieldwork checklist.

286 | Appendix 1

Fieldwork Our intention in structuring this research project was to try to eliminate as far as possible extraneous variables introduced by different research designs and methodologies. However, despite the best of intentions, anthropological fieldwork can never approximate the controlled experimental conditions of a laboratory, especially when the “experiments” are conducted by five different research teams in five diverse field sites, and our research is no exception. Some of the differences, of course, have to do with the se ing, and as such are exactly the data we are looking for. Other differences, however, are the result of difficulties we faced in implementing our common methodology in the field, and should be acknowledged in the interests of full disclosure. These difficulties are discussed here in order to illustrate the complexity of comparative research in anthropology and—as we hope—also to provide some advice to fellow anthropologists and social scientists who decide to embark on a similar endeavor. Fieldwork Timing The first part of the project that did not go exactly as planned was the timing of fieldwork visits. Initially we had hoped that all researchers would be in the field at approximately the same time, with significant overlap. As noted above, this was to eliminate seasonal variability, and to make sure that all researchers were able to observe at least one or two of the same major events. Unfortunately, personal availability and travel arrangements interfered with this objective a bit, forcing some researchers to postpone their fieldwork by a few weeks, and others to shorten their stays a bit. The actual time of overlap of all five researchers being at their fieldwork site was shorter than initially planned. Nevertheless, all of them stayed at least five weeks at their respective sites.

Table A1.1

|

Fieldwork sites and timing of the comparative research project

Researcher

Field Site

Period of Fieldwork

Sántha and Safonova

Kurumkan

14 March–10 May 2006

Vaté and Diatchkova

Anadyr’

19 March–27 April 2006

Halemba

Kosh-Agach

3 April–11 May 2006

Habeck

Kolyvan’

5 April–11 May 2006

Donahoe

Shagonar

23 April–12 June 2006

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The Survey Instrument Vaté experienced difficulties in Anadyr’ because local authorities refused to let her work through the schools. She eventually obtained the list of pupils but only through indirect channels, and had no permission to interview students at their schools. Also, in Anadyr’, a comparatively high percentage of individuals refused to take part in the survey. While we strived to make the survey instrument as simple, selfexplanatory, and easy to administer as possible, we realized only as we were administering it that certain questions posed more problems than others. Even with the best of surveys, the task of administering it can be complicated. In the first place, such a survey smacks of officialdom, and to many people in the former Soviet Union, that means information is being gathered to control, restrict, and otherwise use against people. Second, it was intimidating because of its length. Finally, some questions were simply difficult to complete correctly because of the forma ing (e.g., question 18). There was some variation in how the researchers conducted the survey with the respondents. In some cases it was administered by the researcher and/or research assistant (with the researcher filling in the survey form on behalf of the respondent); in other cases is was self-administered by the respondent (in the absence of the researcher); finally, in some cases it was administered in a hybrid form (respondent fills in the survey in the presence of the researcher and/or research assistant). Because of this lack of consistency in the administration of the survey, certain questions had to be excluded from the analysis of merged data from all sites (e.g., questions 24 and 25, which ask if the respondent has close friends or relatives who work at/go to the House of Culture, and if so, how o en does the respondent see that person. Many people who self-administered the survey appear to have misunderstood the question.) Despite these problems with the survey instrument, we are confident that, with the necessary caveats and qualifiers, the results are valid, valuable, and more legitimately comparable than are the results of ad hoc, ex post facto comparisons. Questionnaire 1 We found that generally the sheer number of questions in Questionnaire 1 was too much of a load for our interviewees. The questionnaire contained a total of forty-one questions broken up into six sections. While the interviews were long (sometimes taking two or three hours) and there was some redundancy built into the questions, overall we

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feel that Q1 worked out quite well in that the questions made sense to those being asked, and it generated a great deal of relevant data. Some researchers decided to conduct considerably more Q1 interviews than initially planned. All these interviews were recorded and transcribed. Questionnaire 2 Work with Questionnaire 2 turned out be more fruitful with those respondents who go to the House of Culture than with those who do not go. This is due not so much to the length as to the general tone of the questions, which was implicitly more geared toward those interviewees who do visit the House of Culture. What is more, the willingness of nongoers to participate in an interview was generally low. In fact, most of us had difficulties finding the minimum of five “not goers” who were willing to participate in the interview. The length of the interviews varied (between twenty and ninety minutes), depending on the interviewer’s follow-up questions and the interviewee’s desire to expand on their statements. Interviews were generally recorded and transcribed (except in those few cases where the respondent requested that the interview not be recorded). Participant Observation The fruitfulness of participant observation in everyday work, rehearsals, and events at the House of Culture varied from site to site. In sites where there was a fair amount of activity (Anadyr’, Kolyvan’, and Shagonar), participant observation was fun, interesting, and productive, although not completely without its tribulations. For example, Vaté was not allowed to a end certain preparations for a play, and found it awkward to observe the House of Culture director in his daily work. True participation in the collectives (kruzhki, khudozhestvennye kollektivy) proved difficult for a couple of reasons: first, they do not meet as o en or regularly as advertised; and second, for many of us it was simply not possible to jump right in and start participating in, for example, a modern dance group. In the fieldwork sites with a comparatively high level of activity, there were so many things going on that the commitment to participant observation conflicted sometimes with the requirements of interviewing and surveying. In the fieldwork sites with a comparatively low level of activity (Kosh-Agach and Kurumkan), researchers found that the place where they were supposed to conduct participant observation was shut most of the time. In these cases, they tried to find

Appendix 1 | 289

out what House of Culture employees do when they are not physically present in the House of Culture (which induced some employees to avoid personal contact with the researcher) or they tried to find out whether there are other institutions that have taken over key functions of the House of Culture. Generally it can be said that all researchers individually fine-tuned the balance between surveying, interviewing, archival work, and participant observation. If one instrument did not work out as well as hoped, they went on to spend more time with the others. To sum up, in all five places fieldwork was not without problems. Occasionally the entire fieldwork and project implementation hinged upon the caprice of the local authorities. In some places fieldwork was more tedious than in others due to the dearth of activities in the respective House of Culture and the resulting lack of interest on the part of local inhabitants. Depending on the place, some research instruments worked be er than others. Nonetheless, even though time was short, each of us managed to accomplish most tasks of the envisaged work program, and all researchers feel that the fieldwork was on the whole productive and successful.

Data Analysis Shortly a er the researchers returned from fieldwork, we held a twoday meeting in Halle (late June 2006). The purpose of this meeting was to “get a feel” for each researcher’s fieldwork site and the respective House of Culture; to get an overview of the quantity and quality of data obtained during fieldwork; to discuss the most pressing issues of how to process the data; and to discuss data exchange and intellectual property. For processing and analyzing the survey data, we used SPSS. Singling out all variables of the survey form, we compiled an SPSS matrix4 and a code sheet with all the values that the person entering the data would possibly come across. In a few cases (questions 16 and 18), we added fields for our assessment whether the respondent understood the question correctly and/or filled it in completely. Once the codesheet was ready and the SPSS matrix set up (spring 2007), we had student assistants enter the survey data. Habeck did a preliminary analysis of the descriptive statistics in early 2008. Siegfried Gruber was in charge of detailed SPSS data analysis, which he finished in August 2009. He checked the data for consistency, merged categories into groups rel-

290 | Appendix 1

evant for data analysis (e.g., collapsing age groups into larger, more relevant categories), and then analyzed—among other things—the frequency of visits to the House of Culture, relations between activities inside and outside the House of Culture, and respondents’ opinions about the institution. Transcribing all the interviews (both Q1 and Q2) and was a very work-intensive process.5 We decided to use Max QDA (qualitative data analysis so ware) because it can handle texts in Cyrillic as well as in Latin script. Habeck developed codes in line with the third-level research questions, screened the data for specific keywords,6 and analyzed the replies to certain subsets of questions in more detail. Drawing on both the quantitative (SPSS) and qualitative (interview) data, Chapter 6 of this book presents the main findings of our comparative research. These results also enable us to revisit the outcome of earlier research on the topic (White 1990) and make an assessment of how the conditions of work in the public sphere of culture have changed.

Conclusion Though there is general agreement that the research instruments were appropriate for finding answers to the third-level questions, we identified several ways in which these instruments could be improved. What is more important, five weeks were hardly sufficient to fulfill all the tasks we had set before us. In addition, notwithstanding the extensive preparation of the methodology a priori, there was still considerable variability in how definitions, tasks, and instructions were interpreted by the individual researcher and his/her field assistant in the specific local context. This variability comes to the fore in the different ways in which researchers handled the survey, which had been constructed as the “most standardized” of our research instruments. Needless to say, the “least standardized” method, participant observation, turned out to be highly contingent on local particularities and individual considerations of how to deal with them. We have tried to demonstrate both the feasibility and the difficulties of a research project with a standard methodology developed a priori. The development and testing of the methodology itself was of crucial importance for us. We hope the experiences that we have laid out in this appendix may provide some useful suggestions for future a empts at coordinated research in social/cultural anthropology.

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Notes 1. We would like to express our gratitude to Mrs. Tat’iana Istomina and Mrs. Nadezhda Bazhenova for providing us the list and blanks of these forms as well as literature on the organization of work of the House of Culture. 2. Chaizu Kyrgys helped in preparing and checking this translation. 3. With the aim of establishing an urban field site, Habeck conducted fieldwork in and around the DK “Tochmashevets” of Novosibirsk in June–July 2007. See Chapter 2 of this volume. 4. We would like to thank Tuba Bircan for advice on SPSS spreadsheet design. 5. Ildiko Hufendiek, Julia Ismailowa, Katja Mahler, Stella Penkova, and Alya Shaybekova transcribed the numerous interviews over many months. 6. Georgi Dietzsch helped with textual searches and coding.

References Boas, Franz. 2006 [1940]. “The Limitations of the Comparative Method of Anthropology.” In Anthropology in Theory: Issues in Epistemology, ed. Henrie a L. Moore and Todd Sanders, pp. 58–67. Malden, MA: Blackwell. Deriagina, S.A., and E.I. Sventsitskii. 1992. Organizatsionnaia i finanso-ekonomicheskaia deiatel’nost’ uchrezhdenii kul’tury v novykh usloviiakh khoziaistvovaniia (metodicheskie rekomendatsii i razrabotki) [Organizational and Financial-Economic Activity of Cultural Institutions under New Conditions of Management]. Sankt-Peterburg: Rossiiskii tvorcheskii soiuz rabotnikov kul’tury. White, Anne. 1990. De-Stalinization and the House of Culture: Declining State Control Over Leisure in the USSR, Poland and Hungary, 1953-1989. New York: Routledge.


 2 SURVEY FORM AND INSTRUCTIONS Instructions for Researchers and Research Assistants The survey requires a random sample of all ninth-grade students in your town. 1. Upon arrival in the community, find out how many schools there are with a ninth grade. 2. Compile a list with the names of all ninth-grade students. Simply put class a er class (it does not have to be in alphabetical order). 3. Use the random table to identify thirty students for surveying. 4. Contact the selected students via their teachers. 5. Ask the respective students for their help and co-operation. Ask him or her to fill in the survey form (with your own help or with the help of or your assistant). This should preferably be done in a quiet place at school. Tear off the first page of the survey form and give it to the student (it contains info on research ethics). 6. A er that, ask the student for an appointment at his or her flat or house. 7. Either you or the fieldwork assistant or both of you go to the flat and fill in one survey form for each person who lives there. Conduct the survey with all individuals living there, except for: a. anybody younger than 11 years of age; b. anybody who has lived less than a year in the community (village or town); c. and anybody who is employed by the House of Culture (because the survey is about DK visitors only). 8. Be persistent, don’t give up! It is important to conduct the survey with all people living there. The higher the response rate, the be er the results. However, it is also necessary to comply with research ethics and inform people about their right to refuse participation. Tear off the first page of one questionnaire and leave it with the household members (one info sheet per household should be enough).

294 | Appendix 2

9. It is necessary to get individual data. If people do not want to be interviewed individually then the only way is to work with more than one survey form simultaneously. This means that you ask several people one question and write down their replies on their individual survey forms. 10. Write a number in the right-hand top corner of the survey form. Use 1-1 for the first student you selected, 1-2 for another person in that flat, 1-3 for another person in that flat, etc. Use 2-1 for the second student you selected, 2-2 for another person in that flat, 2-3 for another person in that flat, etc. 11. On a separate sheet of paper, write down the address, the number of the interviewee, his or her name and his or her relation to the student (whereas the student is “ego”); for example: Pushkin Street, house no. 34, flat no. 12 5-1 Ivanov Ivan Ivanovich (ego) 5-2 Ivanov Ivan Akimovich (father) 5-3 Ivanova Larisa Klement’evna (mother) 5-4 Ivanova Nina Ivanovna (older sister) 5-5 Terent’eva Oksana Petrovna (ego’s Mo Mo Si) 5-6 Stepanov Stepan Stepanovich (unrelated) Keep this sheet of paper separate and in a safe place (in order to maintain anonymity). All data is to be treated as confidential. 12. If there are any members of the household with whom you have not been able to complete a survey form, make a note of the circumstances (e.g., “elder brother, age 18, in army”). 13. Once you have completed eighty surveys, you are finished (even if the number of students/households is fewer than thirty). But make sure that you have interviewed all members in the last household. (For example, if you have already done seventy-eight survey forms and now visit a household with five members, you conduct the survey with all of them and get eighty-three surveys in total.) If you want, you may conduct the survey with additional people (living in the flats of ninth-grade students selected by using the random table). If you have conducted the survey with thirty students and their household members but not reached the necessary number of eighty surveys, continue to identify students with the random table and proceed as described above.

Appendix 2 | 295

Survey Information Sheet What is this survey all about? This survey is a component of a research project carried out by the Siberian Studies Centre, Max Planck Institute for Social Anthropology. The purpose of the project is to conduct comparative scientific fieldwork on the significance and current situation of Houses of Culture in different parts of Siberia and the Far East [of the Russian Federation]. The project is supported by the Siberian Branch of the Russian Academy of Sciences [in Novosibirsk]. For our research project, we intend to conduct a survey with at least 400 inhabitants living in five different places, located in different regions of Siberia and the Far East. Your family has been selected for interviewing through a process of random sampling among the families in the village or town with at least one child in ninth grade. Participation in this survey is completely at your discretion, and of course you retain the right to refuse. However, the success of this research project depends essentially on your willingness—and also the willingness of your family members and all those who live with you at your place—to participate in the survey. Therefore we would highly appreciate it if you could take part and help our researcher fill in the survey form. Filling in the survey requires some thirty to forty minutes per person only. We need to know your first name and surname for data analysis; however, your name will not be indicated on the survey form and thus your replies will remain entirely anonymous. We promise that your identity will not be disclosed in any publication of the research results. We also promise to send a summary of the generalized research results to the local Department of Culture in the administration of the district where you live. Should you have any questions about the project, do not hesitate to contact the researcher—either now or in the future. The contact details are below. Thank you very much in advance for your help. [Names of researcher and research assistant(s), address of the research institute]

296 | Appendix 2

Survey Form Some information about you: 1 Are you . . . r male r female 2 How old are you? r 11–15 r 16–20 r 21–25 r 26–30 r 31–35 r 36–40 r 41–45 r 46–50 r 51–55 r 56–60 r 61–65 r 65–70 r older than 70 3 Do you have . . . r Husband or wife/a spouse (regardless of whether officially registered or not) r Children (how many? _____) r Grandchildren (how many? _____) r Mother r Father r Grandmother r Grandfather 4 How many people, including yourself, live in your flat or house? __________ 5 How long have you been living in this village/town? r I have already been living here for __________ years r I have been living here all my life 6 What is your educational background? r Completed middle school r Completed high school r Middle school with additional vocational training r Three-year postsecondary degree r Completed university 7 What is your nationality?

_________________

Appendix 2 | 297

8 What is your native language?

_________________

9 What language do you speak most commonly? _________________ 10 Have you visited the local House of Culture at least once in the last three years (i.e., the House of Culture in [Anadyr’/ Kolyvan’/ KoshAgach/ Kurumkan/ Shagonar])? r Yes, more or less o en ‡ continue with question 11 r No, I have not been there once in the last three years ‡ turn directly to question 17

If you answered “Yes” to question 10 11 When did you visit the local House of Culture the last time? In ___________ (month) ________ (year) 12 How o en do you visit this House of Culture? (One answer only, please) r Almost every day r A few times a week r A few times a month r A few times a year r Less than once a year r Difficult to answer 13 What did / do you do in the House of Culture? (Check all that apply) r I go there on public holidays r I participate in hobby groups [“circles,” kruzhki] r I go to concerts r I go to the disco r I watch movies r I go to the gym [at the House of Culture] r I go to gatherings and meetings r I go to exhibitions r I go to the library in the House of Culture r I a end meeting of organizations [and associations] r Other reply: ___________________________ r Difficult to answer

298 | Appendix 2

14 Which public holidays are celebrated in the House of Culture? Which holidays do take part in? Celebrated Participate New Year’s Eve r r 7 January r r 23 February r r 8 March r r 1 May r r 9 May r r 4 November r r Other: _____________ r r Other: _____________ r r Other: _____________ r r 15 Are there national [ethnically specific] holidays that are celebrated in the House of Culture? If so, which ones? Do you take part in them? Celebrated Participate Title: _____________ r r Title: _____________ r r Title: _____________ r r Title: _____________ r r Titlе: _____________ r r Titlе: _____________ r r National holidays are not celebrated in the House of Culture r 16 What hobby groups [“circles,” kruzhki] or artistic groups do you take part in? [The person conducting the survey provides a list of groups registered in the local House of Culture] Title: _____________ r Title: _____________ r Titlе: _____________ r Titlе: _____________ r Titlе: _____________ r Titlе: _____________ r I do not participate in any such groups r Continue ‡ turn to question 18

Appendix 2 | 299

If you answered “No” to question 10 17 Why did you never go to the House of Culture? (Check all that apply) r I was not in our village/town r I do not have spare time r If I am free, the House of Culture is usually closed r I do not know what is going on there r I am not interested in what is going on there r The House of Culture is located too far away from my house/place r I do not like the physical conditions at the House of Culture (heating, facilities, lighting, etc.) r I do not get along with some of the staff members of the House of Culture r I do not go to this, but to another House of Culture ‡ Which one? ___________________ r Other reason: ___________________ r Difficult to answer Continue ‡ question 18 All respondents to answer the questions below

very frequently

sometimes

seldom

never

r r r r r r r r r r r r

quite frequently

Listening to music Reading Si ing at home in front of a computer Going to an internet café Going to a gaming parlor [slot machines] Watching TV at home Going to the cinema Going to a café Meeting friends (at their or my place) Sports and training Fishing, hunting, collecting berries or mushrooms Shopping

almost continually

18 How o en do you pursue the activities listed below in your free time? Tick one box in each row, please.

r r r r r r r r r r r r

r r r r r r r r r r r r

r r r r r r r r r r r r

r r r r r r r r r r r r

r r r r r r r r r r r r

300 | Appendix 2

19 I would go to the House of Culture more o en if . . . (Check all that apply) r If I spent more time in our village/town r If I had more spare time r If the House of Culture was open more frequently r If I knew more about what is going on there r If people there organized more interesting activities and events r If it was easier to get to the House of Culture r If the physical conditions at the House of Culture (heating, facilities, lighting, etc.) were be er r If the House of Culture had a different collective of workers r If the price of tickets (for events) was lower r If it was easier to obtain tickets r If there was a disco with good music r If the visitors behaved be er r If in the House of Culture rules and regulations were be er observed and enforced r If there were more interesting hobby groups [“circles,” kruzhki]

I rather agree

I completely agree

I rather disagree

Tell us, please, to what extent you (dis-)agree with the following statements:

I completely disagree

r I would not go to the House of Culture under any conditions r Other reply: ___________________ r Difficult to answer

20 The House of Culture is important for our community

rrrr

21 The House of Culture hosts interesting events

rrrr

22 The House of Culture needs more support

rrrr

23 The House of Culture is a remnant of old times

rrrr

24 Is there anybody among your relatives or friends who goes to the House of Culture more frequently than once in a month? r No, there is nobody among my relatives and friends who goes to the House of Culture that frequently

Appendix 2 | 301

almost never

r r r r r r r r r

a few times a month

r r r r r r r r r

less than once a month

every day

Mother Father Spouse Son/daughter Brother/sister Grandfather/grandmother Grandson/granddaughter Friend Other(s) (who?) ______________

a few times a week

r If there is somebody, how o en do you talk with him/her?

r r r r r r r r r

r r r r r r r r r

r r r r r r r r r

25 Is there anybody among your relatives or friends who officially works the House of Culture?

almost never

r r r r r r r r r

a few times a month

r r r r r r r r r

less than once a month

Mother Father Spouse Son/daughter Brother/sister Grandfather/grandmother Grandson/granddaughter Friend Other(s) (who?) ______________

every day

r If there is somebody, how o en do you talk with him/her?

a few times a week

r No, there is nobody among my relatives and friends who officially works the House of Culture

r r r r r r r r r

r r r r r r r r r

r r r r r r r r r

26 What is your occupational status? (One answer only, please) r Student at school r Student, vocational r Student at university r Military r Employee r Entrepreneur/self-employed r Unemployed

302 | Appendix 2

r Unemployed, on the official unemployment register r Pensioner, but working r Pensioner, not working r Pensioner from disability r Other reply: _____________ r Difficult to answer 27 In which sector do you work? If you currently do not work, indicate the sphere of activity in which you were engaged most recently. (One answer only, please) r Agriculture r Industry r Transport and telecom r Trade and business r Culture and arts r Education and science r Medical services r Security and law r State official r Armed forces r I have never worked officially r Other reply: _____________ r Difficult to answer 28 What is the designation of your specific occupation? ________________________________________ 29 What are the main sources of your family’s income? (Check all that apply) r Salary/wages r Pension payments r Own plot of land/farm r Hunting and fishing r Other reply: _____________ r Difficult to answer 30 Who is/are the main breadwinner(s) of your family? (One answer only, please) r I myself r My spouse

Appendix 2 | 303

r My spouse and I together r Son/daughter r Mother/father r Grandfather/grandmother r Other reply: _____________ r Difficult to answer 31 Please indicate the approximate total income per month of your family. r less than 2000 rub. r 2000–4000 rub. r 4000–6000 rub. r 6000–8000 rub. r 8000–10000 rub. r more than 20000 rub.

r 10000–12000 rub. r 12000–14000 rub. r 14000–16000 rub. r 16000–18000 rub. r 18000–20000 rub.

Thank you very much for your help. Let us know, please, if you have any comments.




APPENDIX

3

QUESTIONNAIRE 1 (Q1) AND INSTRUCTIONS Instructions for Researchers and Research Assistants 1. Q1 is to be conducted with a. the Director of the House of Culture; b. one of the specialists (“methodologists,” metodisty); c. one of the heads/instructors of hobby groups/artistic collectives; d. plus one (or several) employees of the House of Culture under study, but not from among the technical staff. 2. Interviewees may want to see the interview questions before they agree to participate. Give them the printed version of the questionnaire (they may want to keep it). You do not have to fill in the questionnaire (nor do they). Ask them whether you may record the interview. If they do not agree, make sure that you write down their replies. 3. Before you start, write down the date and the time the interview started. When the interview is finished, write down the time the interview ended, whether there were major disturbances or people who interfered during the interview, and check whether the recording is OK. 4. As the interview is likely to be long, you may interrupt it and continue on another day.

Questionnaire 1 (Q1) Purpose and activities of cultural institutions 1. How would you describe what a House of Culture is? 2. What is the main purpose of the Houses of Culture? 3. How does the House of Culture where you work realize this purpose? 4. What are, in your opinion, the most important events that happen in the course of the week?

306 | Appendix 3

5. What are, in your opinion, the most important events that happen in the course of the year?’ 6. How do you define success of the House of Culture where you work? 7. What are the official criteria whereby the success of cultural institutions is determined? Visitors 8. What do visitors expect from the work of the local House of Culture? 9. Are there any mechanisms to find out their expectations and preferences? If so, what are they? 10. What are the House of Culture’s main groups of visitors? 11. How would you characterize those who do not visit the House of Culture? 12. What are the reasons for them not visiting the House of Culture? What do you think do they do instead? 13. How do you try to a ract people to the House of Culture? Are there any specific methods or strategies for that? 14. How, in your opinion, do the inhabitants of [Anadyr’/ Kolyvan’/ Kosh-Agach/ Kurumkan/ Shagonar] assess the work of the local House of Culture? 15. Do you think that the location of the House of Culture’s building within the village/town is appropriate? Regional particularities and social conditions 16. What nationalities live in [Anadyr’/ Kolyvan’/ Kosh-Agach/ Kurumkan/ Shagonar] and how is their presence reflected in the work of the local House of Culture? 17. How do you assess the influence of social and economic changes in your village/town over the last fi een years (the last five years) on the performance of the local House of Culture? 18. How can you and your colleagues respond to these changes? Everyday work 19. What are the problems that you have to grapple with in your everyday work? 20. Give a short description of a typical day at work, please. 21. Which aspects of your work do you like best? 22. Which aspects of your work do you find most unpleasant?

Appendix 3 | 307

23. Who are the people that you work with most intensively in your work? What positions do they have? Strategies and future prospects for Houses of Culture 24. What role should governmental (municipal) support play in the work of cultural institutions? 25. Should commercial organizations play any role in the work of cultural institutions? If yes, what role should they have? 26. What should the state policy vis-à-vis cultural institutions be? 27. Some people think that the House of Culture is a remnant of old times (i.e., a remnant of the cultural-enlightenment approach that existed in the Soviet period). What do you think about this? 28. What are the main tasks in the future work of the House of Culture where you work? 29. If you had enough money at your disposal, how would you improve the situation and work of the House of Culture where you work? 30. How would you imagine the ideal House of Culture in your village/town? Questions related to terminology 31. How do you understand the word “culture” (kul’tura)? (If you want, you may give examples.) 32. How do you understand the word “cultured behavior” (kul’turnoe povedenie)? (If you want, you may give examples.) Finally, some words about you: 33. Since when have you been working in this House of Culture? What positions have you had thus far? 34. Where did you work before you came here? 35. How and where did you obtain the training/skills that are needed for working in the sphere of culture? 36. What a racted you to work in the sphere of culture? 37. Where were you born? If you were not born here, when did you move here? 38. What is your year of birth? 39. What is your nationality? 40. What is your native language? 41. What language do you speak most commonly? Thank you very much for your help.




APPENDIX

4

QUESTIONNAIRE 2 (Q2) AND INSTRUCTIONS Instructions for Researchers and Research Assistants Once you are approximately halfway through with surveying, start interviewing people with Q2. 1. From among your survey respondents, select at least five people who have been to the House of Culture and five people who do not go there. 2. In addition, select at least five individuals that you find suitable as interviewees, for whatever reason (it is completely your choice). For example, you might ask individuals who take part in hobby groups, or your best friends, or your neighbor. It does not ma er whether or not they go to the House of Culture. Try to find people who you think will give thoughtful and detailed responses to the questions. a. Before you conduct Q2 with any individual of this group, conduct the survey with him or her (but not with the other household members). Since these five or more individuals do not belong to the random-based sample of people, their survey forms must be clearly marked. Give them numbers starting with zero: 0-1, 0-2, 0-3, 0-4, 0-5. Write down their names and addresses on a separate sheet. b. Make sure you know which recorded interview goes with which of the survey forms. 3. Do not select a. anybody less than 11 years of age; b. anybody who has lived less than a year in the community (village or town); c. or anybody who is employed by the House of Culture (because the survey is about DK visitors only). 4. Interviewees may want to see the interview questions before they agree to participate. Give them the printed version of the questionnaire … [henceforward, the instructions are the same as for Questionnaire 1].

310 | Appendix 4

Questionnaire 2 (Q2) 1. When were you born? 2. Where were you born? 3. If you have children, how old are they? 4. When you hear “House of Culture,” what comes to your mind in the first place? 5. Does the House of Culture play an important role in your life? Why (why not)? 6. Does the House of Culture play an important role in the life of your village/town? Why (why not)? 7. Are there interesting events at the local House of Culture? If yes, which ones? 8. How would you describe the atmosphere in the House of Culture? 9. How would you describe the collective of workers in the House of Culture? 10. Who goes to the House of Culture? How would you describe these people—do they have anything in common? 11. Does everybody in your village/town like to visit the House of Culture? If not, who likes to go there and who does not? For what reasons? 12. If you have children, how do they spend their free time? 13. To what extent do you think the House of Culture plays an important role as a venue for relaxation? Why do you think so? 14. Does the House of Culture play an important role as a place for education (enlightenment, prosveshchenie) of the local population? Why (why not)? 15. Does the House of Culture play an important role as a place for public life? Why (why not)? 16. Does the House of Culture play an important role in the social welfare and support of your village/town? Why (why not)? 17. Does the House of Culture play an important role as a place where people can get to know each other? Why (why not)?

Appendix 4 | 311

18. Does it happen that you meet your friends there? 19. What events and activities would you organize in the House of Culture in addition to those already taking place? 20. Can people who are not members of staff of the House of Culture organize any events on its premises? 21. Can one use the premises of the House of Culture for family functions (marriages, commemorations, etc.)? 22. Did you previously go to the House of Culture more frequently than now? Or on the contrary, do you now go there more frequently? 23. Has the House of Culture changed over the last five to ten years? If yes, how? 24. Do you remember what the House of Culture was like twenty years ago? 25. What, in your opinion, is the best thing about the House of Culture? 26. What is the worst? 27. What could the collective of workers in the House of Culture do in order to make more people go there? 28. Does the House of Culture need more financial support? 29. Do you think that the House of Culture is a remnant of the past? Why (why not)? 30. How do you imagine the ideal House of Culture? What would it look like? What would happen there? What would be its tasks? Thank you very much for your help.




APPENDIX

5

FIELDWORK CHECKLIST [Note: “DK” is the abbreviation of dom kul’tury, “House of Culture.” Q1 stands for Questionnaire 1, Q2 for Questionnaire 2.] Item

Section A: Location and infrastructure Description of the physical location of the DK Accessibility by public transport Outer appearance and surroundings (park) Number of buildings and their function Condition of building(s) When was the main building built? Which organization built it? Since when is there a DK in the community? Other organizations using and/or renting the main building Size and function of rooms • Overall size of space of main building • Overall size of space actually used for the activities of the DK • Auditorium, more than 100 seats • Large room, 50 to 100 seats • Number of smaller rooms • Arrangement of rooms • Function of rooms and their condition

Instrument/ source/ respondent Draw sketch Timetables, fares Photographs Photographs/ director Photographs/ director DK documents/ dir. DK documents/ dir. DK documents/ dir. Director DK documents, guided tour with DK workers, photographs

Draw sketch

OK ˛

314 | Appendix 5

Main (technical) equipment and facilities Official statistical • Means of communication, incl. Internet reports, • Library DK employees, • Collections of tapes, LPs, CDs, etc. photographs • Other media units for borrowing • Musical instruments • Speakers and other acoustic equipment • Projectors, cameras, video recorders, etc. • Stage and related equipment (lighting, etc.) Section B: Organization and general history, and members of staff Which organization is the DK subordinate Q1, DK to? documents ‡ Researcher to consult this organization Does the DK have a specific focus? Since Q1, DK when? documents Institutional history Q1, DK • Subordination documents, • Location prior to the current one other archival • Change over time in number of staff mat. • Change over time in other quantifiable criteria (what criteria are commonly used in the records?) • Change over time in the structure of the official DK reports Organizational structure as of spring 2006 Director, list (compile detailed organizational chart, of staff (if including technical staff ) accessible), other DK documents. Draw chart Staff (only the actual culture workers, not Ask DK the technical staff ) employees, list of • Age and gender of members of staff staff (if accessible) • Their professional backgrounds • Years of work experience in this sphere • How long have they worked in this DK • How long have they lived in this comm. • Age and sex of their family members (household members)

Appendix 5 | 315

Close noncommercial partners in the community • schools • music school • public organizations and associations (obshchestvennye organizatsii) • others Close commercial partners in the community • local enterprises as customers of the DK (e.g., arranging their festivities at the DK) • DK as customer of local enterprises (buying equipment and consumables) Section C: Activities and events List of groups (hobby groups [kruzhki], artistic collectives, interest groups, etc.) • Since when has the group existed • Age and sex of the current instructor • Professional background of the instructor • Is he/she member of staff or contractor • Number of participants (male/female) • Age range and average age of participants • Where do they meet, when, for how long • What do they actually do

Development of the groups • over the last three to five years • (over longer periods, if possible)

Director

Get initial list from director, insert in survey question 16. Details of posters and advertisements. Ask director and the instructor herself/ himself. Check if the group has compiled any reports. A end some of the groups Group reports (if they exist) and other DK documents. Ask instructors. Other archival mat.

316 | Appendix 5

List of events and festivities (other than group meetings, rehearsals, etc.) • planned DK Plan of Events • deviations from plan, if any (why?) Q1 • assessment of main target group Q1 • assessment of actual popularity Q2 Organizing and conducting certain events Select one or two major events and festivities in accordance • individual who is mainly responsible with the DK for organizing the event Plan of Events, • other individuals involved in then do in-depth organizing interviews and • guest performers participant • info about the planning process observation • scenario (stay with the • advertising the event individual who • implementation: rehearsals is the main • implementation: preparing the stage organizer of the • equipment, including dress event, as much as • expenses possible) • revenues from entrance fees etc. • security guards, sanctions against rude beh. • actual duration of event • number of visitors Section D: The view from the outside—participants and visitors Average salary in the region Check on the Internet or ask the local administration Spatial range of visitors/participants: To be compiled where do they come from? on the basis of survey participants’ residency Survey data Survey (read the instructions for the survey) Q2 data Q2 (read the instructions for Q2)

Illustration N.1 2006.

|

Final curtain call. Photo: J.O. Habeck, Kolyvan’, April



N

Introduction OTES ON

CONTRIBUTORS

Galina Diatchkova is a research fellow at the Central Museum of Sports and Tourism in Moscow. Previously she worked at the Regional Museum in Anadyr’ (Chukotka, Russia). She completed her studies at the Institute of Ethnology and Anthropology of the Russian Academy of Sciences in Moscow, and has focused predominantly on ethnocultural processes in Chukotka. She has participated in joint projects on indigenous aspects of Polar Law and the contemporary history of Alaska and Chukotka. She has published widely on politics related to the indigenous peoples of the Russian North, models of ethnic adaptation to the natural and social environment, indigenous media in Russia, and indigenous rights in Chukotka. Brian Donahoe (PhD Indiana University, 2004) is an independent researcher living in Kyzyl, Republic of Tyva (Russia). From 2004–2010 he was postdoctoral research fellow at the Max Planck Institute for Social Anthropology in Halle, Germany. His research interests include the politics of indigeneity in the Russian Federation; the interaction between mobility and land tenure among nomadic (or formerly nomadic) groups under different administrative regimes; institutional analysis; and the dynamics of constructing, maintaining, and performing ethnic identity and indigeneity through the idioms of “culture” and “tradition.” Bruce Grant is Professor of Anthropology at New York University, and looks at shi ing cultural politics across the former Soviet Union. He is the author of In the Soviet House of Culture: A Century of Perestroikas (Princeton 1995) and The Captive and the GiĞ: Cultural Histories of Sovereignty in Russia and the Caucasus (Cornell 2009). He is coeditor of Caucasus Paradigms: Anthropologies, Histories, and the Making of a World Area (LIT 2007) and The Russia Reader: History, Culture, Politics (Duke 2010). Siegfried Gruber earned a DPhil in history from the University of Graz (Austria) in 2004. His major research interests are household structures and historical demography in southeastern Europe, mainly Serbia and Albania. He was a member of the KASS (Kinship and Social Security)

320 | Notes on Contributors

project coordinated by the Max Planck Institute for Social Anthropology in Halle, Germany, and is now a research scientist at the Max Planck Institute for Demographic Research in Rostock (Germany). Joachim Otto Habeck is coordinator of the Siberian Studies Centre at the Max Planck Institute for Social Anthropology in Halle, Germany. He received his PhD from Cambridge University in 2004. He is author of What It Means to Be a Herdsman: The Practice and Image of Reindeer Husbandry Among the Komi of Northern Russia. Having earlier pursued research on mobile pastoralism in the Russian North, he is now investigating the public sphere of culture, gendered spaces of work and leisure, and the conditions and limitations of lifestyle plurality in Siberia. Agnieszka Halemba is a research fellow at the Centre for History and Culture of East/Central Europe at the University of Leipzig in Germany. She received her PhD in social anthropology in 2002 from the University of Cambridge. She is author of the book The Telengits of Southern Siberia: Landscape, Religion and Knowledge in Motion (Routledge 2006) and numerous articles on contemporary southern Siberia and Eastern/ Central Europe. She has published on transformations of religious life, transnational networks, ethnic identity, legal issues concerning ethnic categorizations, and the management of natural resources. Ali F. I˙g˘men is an assistant professor of Central Asian History, and the director of the Oral History Program at California State University, Long Beach. He received his doctorate from the University of Washington in Sea le, and taught at the University of Wisconsin-Madison as a visiting scholar. He has also taught at the Kyrgyz National University in Bishkek, and Osh State University in Osh, Kyrgyzstan. His forthcoming book, Speaking Soviet with an Accent: CraĞing Culture in Kyrgyzstan, will be published in the Central Asia in Context Series of the University of Pi sburgh Press. His current project is tentatively titled Daughters of Soviet Kyrgyzstan: Gender, Power and National Politics in TwentiethCentury Central Asia. Kirill Istomin grew up in Syktyvkar, currently the Komi Republic, Russian Federation. A er his graduation from the University of Tartu (Estonia) in 2001, he worked for the Komi Science Center, Ural Division, Russian Academy of Sciences, in Syktyvkar. In 2005 he earned his Candidate of Sciences degree (equivalent to a PhD) from the Institute of Ethnology and Anthropology, Russian Academy of Sciences, in Moscow. He has been working at the Max Planck Institute for Social

Notes on Contributors | 321

Anthropology in Halle, Germany, since 2005. His sphere of academic interests includes spatial orientation and other cognitive skills of nomads, ecology of the technology of reindeer herding, cultural psychology, and neuroanthropology. Alexander D. King is Senior Lecturer of Anthropology at the University of Aberdeen in Scotland. Previously he was a research fellow at the Max Planck Institute for Social Anthropology and Assistant Professor at California State University, Chico, a er earning his PhD in Anthropology at the University of Virginia. He has conducted over twenty-six months of fieldwork in Kamchatka, Russia, beginning in 1995 and continuing in 1997–98, 2001, and 2011. His book Living with Koryak Traditions: Playing with Culture in Siberia analyses local discourse on indigenous Koryak culture and tradition in the House of Culture and other contexts. He is now developing new research interests in oral narratives, storytelling, and literature in Koryak. Aivita Putnin̦ a received her PhD in social anthropology from Cambridge University in 1999. Currently she works at the University of Latvia, Faculty of Humanities and Faculty of Biology, where she is the director of BA and MA study programs in social and cultural anthropology. She is author of several articles and research reports on childbirth, reproductive and sexual health, gender, health and violence, biotechnologies and governance, families, and the situation of lesbians, gays, bisexuals and transsexuals in Latvia. She has consulted the Latvian government with regard to the National Development Plan, external communication, societal integration and culture policies. Tatiana Safonova defended her PhD at St. Petersburg State University, Department of Sociology, in 2009. She works at the Centre for Independent Social Research in St. Petersburg and is an associate member of the Siberian Studies Centre at the Max Planck Institute for Social Anthropology (Halle, Germany). Her research topics include problems of nature and culture conservation, indigenous peoples in post-Soviet Russia, the anthropology of Siberia, and ethnomethodological studies. She is currently visiting scholar at the Institute of Ethnology, Hungarian Academy of Sciences, in Budapest (2007–2011). She has conducted collaborative fieldwork among Evenkis in eastern Buriatiia (2008–2009) and has published several articles about Evenkis. István Sántha received his PhD from the Department of Inner Asian Studies, Eötvös Loránd University, Budapest, in 2004. He is a post-

322 | Notes on Contributors

doctoral researcher at the Institute of Ethnology, Department of Social Anthropology, Hungarian Academy of Sciences (supported by the Hungarian Scientific Research Fund in 2009–2012). His research topics include problems of modern hunter-gatherer peoples in Siberia and their culture contact strategies with hierarchical societies. He was a member of the Siberian Studies Centre at the Max Planck Institute for Social Anthropology (Halle, Germany) in 2003–2004. He participated in a collaborative project on Power and Emotions in Russia (2008–2010, supported by the Wenner-Gren Foundation). He has conducted longterm fieldwork among Western Buriats (since 2000) and Evenki in eastern Buriatiia (2008–2009), and has published several articles about the Buriats and Evenki of the Baikal region. Nadezhda D. Savova is a PhD candidate in Cultural Anthropology at Princeton University, and a research fellow at the Princeton Center for Arts and Cultural Policy Studies. She is currently conducting research on cultural policy and community development within a comparative study of the networks of community cultural centers in Bulgaria, Brazil, and Cuba. She also explores the practical implementation of UNESCO’s Conventions on Intangible Heritage (2003) and Cultural Diversity (2005) in the context of such community spaces. She is founder and current president of the International Council for Cultural Centers (I3C) (www.international3c.org), a global network of national networks of community cultural centers in fi y-six countries. Savova currently teaches Cultural Studies at Sofia University, Bulgaria. Virginie Vaté (PhD Nanterre University, 2003) is a researcher at the Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique (CNRS) in France. Since 1994 she has been conducting research in Chukotka (northeastern Siberia), particularly among Chukchi reindeer herders. Working mainly in the field of the anthropology of religion, she addresses issues such as human relations to “nature” (including human-animal relations), male and female roles in everyday life and in rituals, conversion to Evangelical Christianity, and interactions among various religious practices, especially shamanism-animism and Evangelical Christianity.


Index Abramovich, Roman, 39–40, 43–44, 46–48, 50–52, 53nn8–9 administrative reform. See “Law 131” administrative unit. See municipality advertisement, advertising, 2, 50, 61, 112, 129, 143, 158, 267, 288, 315–16 aesthetics, aesthetic, 15, 219, 225–26, 251–253, 257, 259–60 Africa, African, 246, 254, 271 age group, 139–45, 224, 282, 290 agitation and propaganda work (agitprop), 151, 176–79 brigade (agitbrigada, agitkul’tbrigada), 31, 155, 200, 206 Aitmatov, Chingiz, 163–164, 182 Ajaria, 10, 112–14 Aknīste, 229 aksakal (elder), 168–170 Aktal, 105 akyn (bard), 168–170, 181 alcohol. See drinking Almaty, 164 Altai, Altaian, 97, 100–2, 104, 107, 109, 112, 114n2, 115n6, 115n8, 131, 137, 284 Altargana (festival in Buriatiia), 80, 82, 87–93 Alutor (Nymylan), 190 amateur arts. See arts America, American, 202, 205, 261n5. See also Latin America; South America amusement. See entertainment Anadyr’, 29–42, 45–48, 51, 52n1, 52nn3–4, 106, 137–39, 141, 144–52, 156, 158n5, 159n10, 209n4, 284, 286–88, 297, 306

Anderson, David, 128 Angt (ensemble), 207 animating, animation, 242, 248–51, 253, 257 Appadurai, Arjun, 191, 254, 271 architecture, 56, 215, 237, 239, 246, 251–52, 258, 260, 273 Armenia, Armenian, 244 army. See military Arnold, Ma hew, 206 Arnol’dov, Arnol’d, 265, 267, 269, 273 arts amateur arts, 216–17, 220–24, 227, 229, 258. See also samodeiatel’nost’ community arts, 189, 237, 246, 248–49, 257, 259 See also dance; singing; theater Associação dos Sambadores. See Samba Association atheism, atheist, 23n12, 111, 197, 267–68, 270, 272, 274n6 a estation. See evaluation audience, 36, 56, 59, 61, 63, 78, 81, 142, 192, 203–4, 207, 224, 231, 237, 268 Austin, John Langshaw, 16, 269, 274n3 authenticity, authentic, 4, 18, 65, 67, 83, 156, 204 Avak, Raisa, 197 backwardness, backward, 30, 164–168, 182 Bai Taiga, 121 Bakhtin, Mikhail, 269 Baltic Institute for Social Studies, 220, 230, 233 Bantustans, 271

324 | Index

Barannikov, Vasilii, 207 Barnakova, Nadezhda, Ailana, and Regina, 122–123, 130–131 Barrow, 190, 209n11 Barth, Fredrik, 273 Bateson, Gregory, 78–79, 85, 94nn2–3, 258 Batumi, 112 Baudrillard, Jean, 260 beskul’ture. See cultural deficit Bishkek, 164 Bistritsa, Bistritsa Babi (ensemble), 237, 239, 253 Boas, Franz, 189, 208n1, 278 Bogoraz, Vladimir, 189, 208n1 Bondarenko, Nikolai, 197 boredom, 84, 86, 142, 225, 268 Bourdieu, Pierre, 191, 248, 263–65 Brazil, Brazilian, 22n2, 237, 246–251, 253, 256–57, 259–60 Britain, British, 61, 246, 248, 263, 265 Bronevich, Valentina, 200 Buddhism, Buddhist, 91, 159n10 budget. See House of Culture finances Bulgaria, Bulgarian, 237–260 bureaucracy, bureaucrat, 18, 38, 93, 98, 128, 190, 269 Buriatiia, Buriat, 65, 75, 78–88, 93, 94n1, 95, 137, 143, 284 Byshtak-ool, Sholban and Urana, 123 café, cafeteria, 7, 23n5, 38, 49, 53, 115, 131, 147, 224, 299 capital cultural, 248, 252 social, 222, 248, 250 capoeira (dance), 250 carnival, 256–57 Casa de Cultura, 246, 249, 252, 260 Casa do Samba, 239, 245–50, 253, 255, 258, 260 Center for Folk Culture, 36–37 Center for National Cultures, 65, 103, 115n9 Center of National Literatures, 65, 72n12

Central Asia, 165, 167–68, 173, 184nn7–8, 270 certificate. See gratitude Chechnya, 129 Chernobyl’, 64 Chesnokov, Yurii, 202 China, Chinese, 77, 90, 93, 239, 253, 256 chitalishte (cultural institution in Bulgaria), 237–55, 258, 260, 260–61n3 choikhona. See Red Choikhona Cholpon-Ata, 165 choreography. See dance Chuia (ensemble), 104–8, 115n8 Chukchi, 30–31, 36, 52n3, 137, 190, 195, 208n1 Chukotka, 29–47, 52nn1–5, 53n12, 53n15, 159n6, 209n4, 284 Chuvans, 30 cinema, 7, 47, 58–59, 98, 119, 131, 167, 180, 190, 195, 232n5 citizenship, 70, 128, 246, 259 civilization, 10, 15, 45, 52n2, 165, 167, 170, 199–200, 206, 263–264, 268, 270 club (institution). See klub collective amateur, 31, 34, 41, 81, 128, 170, 184n6, 207, 216–31, 242, 248, 258 dancing (tantseval’noe), 1, 20–21, 23n6, 58, 106–8, 111–2, 195, 198, 203, 217, 228, 238, 256–7 farm. See kolkhoz Exemplary Collective (obraztsovyi kollektiv), 9, 71n4 head of (rukovoditel’ formirovaniia), 9 and individual, 14 magic, 23n6, 242 number of collectives, (kolichestvo formirovanii), 9, 72n10 People’s Collective (narodnyi kollektiv, ansambl), 9, 58, 71n4, 115n8 singing (vokal’noe), 1, 17, 20, 23n6, 34–35, 58, 108, 112, 191,

Index | 325

196, 204, 206, 215, 217, 227, 233n7 Colombia, 271 commitment, 5, 8, 59, 86, 88, 144, 155, 223, 226, 251, 288. See also pokazukha Communist Party, 16, 29, 31, 34–35, 51, 117, 134, 155, 167, 170–71, 175–80, 183, 185n12, 217, 247, 269, 271, 273, 274n4 Communist Union of Youth (Komsomol), 16–19, 23n11, 163, 169, 172, 176, 179, 192–93, 269, 272–73 community “community creative capital”, 248, 251 imagined, 68–69 See also municipality comparison. See research, comparative competition, 57–58, 70, 78, 82–83, 101, 112, 121–25, 143, 222–23, 250, 266 computer, 13, 208, 238, 249 concert, 16, 34, 36, 40, 46–47, 57, 105, 108, 111, 129, 134, 140–45, 151, 153, 166, 195, 233n7, 245, 268, 297 consumption mass consumption, 1–2, 22, 265 of alcohol. See drinking of culture, 13, 21, 40, 48–51, 230, 233, 250, 265 costs. See House of Culture finances creativity, creative, 1, 4, 13–16, 20, 32–38, 44, 47, 49, 55, 57, 67–68, 81, 145, 159n8, 170, 182, 189, 192, 198–99, 214, 219, 223, 230–32, 237, 239–51, 256–57, 269, 278, 280 Cuba, 22n2, 240, 246, 251–52, 259–60 cultural base. See kul’tbaza cultural capital. See capital cultural deficit, 1–2, 232n1 cultural diversity, 167, 243, 245 cultural education. See education cultural engineering, 266 cultural enlightenment. See enlightenment cultural emergency, 106, 108

cultural heritage, 56, 59, 115n8, 239, 243–48, 251, 254 cultural level, 176 cultural mission. See mission cultural politics. See politics cultural production, 4–5, 56, 66, 199, 248 cultural project, 98, 111, 265–68, 272–73 cultural revolution, 163–164, 170, 173, 178, 184n1 cultural secularization, 20–21 cultural services, 153–54, 221, 231 cultural stand–by. See cultural emergency cultural tradition. See tradition cultural traffic, 256 cultural values (kul’turnye tsennosti), 44, 244 culture access to, 29, 42–43, 51, 155, 159n14, 217, 221 authentic. See authenticity concept of, 2, 114n1, 206 definition of, 199, 206, 263 lack of. See cultural deficit and the masses, 5–8, 42, 45, 110, 143, 168, 171, 184n9, 268 and materiality, 98–100, 111–14 notion of, 21, 199, 215, 218–20, 230, 264 sense of, 201, 264–65 socialist, 264 Soviet, 20, 65, 114n1, 168, 219, 263, 267–72, 273n1, 274n2 suitable, 155–56 worker. See culturite; kul’trabotnik See also kul’tura cultured behavior (kul’turnoe povedenie), 70, 273n1, 307 culturedness, 15, 59, 68, 97, 159n9. See also kul’turnost’ culturite (kul’turovets), 134, 154, 190–207 dance, dancing, 1, 18, 20–21, 23n6, 26–37, 41, 46, 56–58, 62, 64–67,

326 | Index

71n4, 98, 104, 106–8, 111–112, 118, 122–24, 144–45, 151, 166, 189–92, 194–204, 206–8, 217–18, 223–24, 227–31, 232nn2–7, 237–38, 250–57, 261, 273, 285, 288. See also capoeira; maculele; samba Daugavpils, 216 Day of Dance (25 April), 208 Dedyk, Igor’, 197,199–200, 209n9 Department of Culture, 2, 8, 10, 39, 44–46, 52n1, 58, 60, 102–3, 117, 122, 124, 128, 135, 138, 144, 153–54, 157, 191–92, 197, 200, 295. See also organizational-methodological center Department of Education, 192, 226, 285. See also Narkompros development project, 230, 244, 248–49, 252, 259 Diatchkova, Galina, 5, 9, 20, 22, 52n1, 52n4, 156, 159n6, 286 diploma. See gratitude dirt, dirty, 77, 97, 99–100, 241 disc jockey (DJ), 103–6, 145 disco, 12, 49, 53n16, 56, 59, 77, 91, 108, 132, 140–41, 145, 153, 194, 195, 267, 278, 297, 300 dissimulation, 1, 19, 109, 111, 267, 269. See also pokazukha documentation. See House of Culture report Dominguez, Virginia, 266 Donahoe, Brian, 5–9, 22, 29, 52n1, 114n2, 117, 119, 124–5, 137, 152–3, 277, 284, 286 Dorzhukai, Alevtina, 129 double-bind, 82–85, 91, 94n2 Douglas, Mary, 241 drinking (of alcohol), 12, 17, 23n5, 45–47, 59, 80–81, 84, 87–88, 132, 142, 145–46, 166, 195 and alcoholism, 5, 45–46, 59, 87, 152 Russian way of, 87 tea, 36, 84, 106, 178, 200 Duma (parliament), 39, 192–3, 208 Dunham, Vera, 15, 66

Durkheim, Emile, 11, 21, 23n6, 81 Dzhatkambaev, Auelkhan, 101–103, 105, 115n6 Dzerzhinskii District (of Novosibirsk), 60–61 education communist, 30–33, 127, 135n3 cultural, 5, 31, 48, 52n2, 59, 89, 98, 103, 127, 135n3, 144–45 patriotic. See patriotism political, 155, 166–67, 172–80 socialist, 166 effervescence, 81 Efimov, Leonid, 115n6 elder, 169–70, 202–4. See also aksakal El-oiyn (festival in Altai), 112 emptiness, empty, 10–11, 106, 111–14, 119, 123, 133, 172, 179, 197, 206, 238, 245, 259, 267–70, 274n5 enlightenment, enlightened, 5, 7, 22n4, 29–32, 39, 46, 51, 59, 134, 146, 154–57, 159n11, 159n14, 169, 175, 192, 217, 237, 240, 247, 307, 310 ensemble, 9, 34, 46, 67, 77–78, 81, 104, 106–8, 115, 118, 144, 192, 197–98, 203–8, 273 entertainment, 7, 22, 47, 59, 98, 111, 134, 155, 157, 166, 169–71, 179, 184n6, 194, 206, 213, 219, 229 enthusiasm, enthusiast, enthusiastic, 9, 22, 29, 33–34, 37, 78, 106, 121, 124, 126, 170, 203–4, 220, 239 Erzin, 121 Eskimo, 30–31, 36, 52n3 ethnicity, ethnic distinction, 84–85, 133 groups, 66–70, 72n11, 81, 85, 93, 100–1, 143, 165, 179, 219, 244, 257 identity, 4, 66–68, 156, 165, 182, 199, 206 minority, 55, 64, 69, 182, 245 organizations. See nationalcultural organizations ethno-culture, 55, 64–69, 156

Index | 327

ethnographer, ethnography, 18, 86, 100, 189, 191, 197, 200, 202, 204, 206, 208n1, 266 EU, Europe, European, 14, 21, 39, 65–66, 113, 152–53, 170, 172, 190, 199, 205–6, 223, 225, 230, 240, 244–48, 259, 273n1 European Network of Cultural Centers (ENCC), 240, 252 evaluation (aĴestatsiia), 10, 57, 77–80, 84, 89, 91–93, 94n1, 204, 221, 228, 252 Even (ethnic group), 190 Evenki, 81, 92–93, 135n3, 270 Fakel (ensemble), 203 Federal Law on Local SelfAdministration. See “Law 131” Ferguson, James, 253 festival, 41, 66–67, 76–77, 80–85, 87, 89–93, 98, 104–5, 143, 182, 193, 203, 206–7, 217–18, 223, 225, 228, 230–31, 232n2, 233n7, 238–39, 253–54, 283 Filimonov, Vladimir, 102 field field assistant. See research assistant field site, 4, 6, 71n2, 103, 131, 137, 139, 147–52, 284, 286, 289, 291n3 fieldwork checklist, 281, 285, 313–16 See also research; methodology finances. See House of Culture finances Finnish, 65, 233n8 fire. See House of Culture, destroyed Flatley, Michael, 194 folk, folklore, 1, 31, 36–37, 46, 53n14, 66–67, 77–78, 93, 117, 124, 156, 157, 189, 191, 194, 199, 204, 206–7, 223, 225, 231, 238, 243, 246, 248, 260n3, 283 formalism. See perfunctory formalism formation (formirovanie), 23n14, 43, 61, 101, 142, 222, 248, 273. See also

collective; ensemble; hobby circle; studio Foucault, Michel, 1, 14–15, 18–20, 23n10, 23n14, 191 France, French, 21, 22n2, 37, 41, 52n3, 241, 246, 249, 269 friendship, 66, 82, 248, 269 Frunze. See Bishkek Gandhi, Mahatma, 237, 256 Geertz, Clifford, 254–57 Gel’man, Vladimir, 128, 152 Gil’, Aleksandr and Ekaterina, 207 Gil, Gilberto, 247, 250, 256 globalization, global, 22, 191, 199, 239, 243, 251–59 Gorbachev, Mikhail, 109 Gorzka, Gabriele, 166 governmentality, governmental, 14–15, 22, 63, 214, 244, 247, 307 Gramsci, Antonio, 169–70 Grant, Bruce, 2, 5, 20, 22–23n4, 23n13, 100–11, 168, 197, 209n3, 219, 263 gratitude, 1–2, 24, 55–58, 61–62, 68, 70. See also prize Gray, Pa y, 4, 31, 35–38, 51, 52n1, 52n5, 209n4 Greece, Greek, 23n10, 65, 244 Gruber, Siegfried, 137, 158n1, 289 guard, guardianship, 42–44, 51, 239, 245–47, 316 Habeck, Joachim O o, 1, 4–6, 52n1, 55, 58, 62, 137, 153, 159n9, 159n15, 192, 218, 277, 284, 286, 289–290, 291n3 Halemba, Agnieszka, 5, 6, 9, 10, 53n11, 89, 97, 107, 113, 114n2, 121, 126, 137, 152–54, 157, 277, 284, 286 Handler, Richard, 206, 266 Heidegger, Martin, 264–65 Herder, Johann Go fried, 263 heritage house guarding, 237, 243, 245–50, 258–59. See also cultural heritage; Intangible Cultural Heritage heteronymous shi , 98, 109, 112, 114

328 | Index

hobby circle (kruzhok), 33, 41, 77, 144, 166, 184n6, 282, 285, 288, 297–300, 315 holiday, 61, 66–67, 153, 203–4, 218, 225, 229, 250, 283, 297–98 Honneth, Axel, 56, 68–70 House of Culture (dom kul’tury) agenda of, 5, 7, 15, 82, 206, 217, 240, 246, 249 a endance (frequency of visits), 13, 23n9, 122, 131, 139–41, 144, 149, 158n5, 159n5, 290 building (physical space), 100, 146, 193, 197, 208, 245, 249, 260, 268, 278 as a community center, 8, 60, 184, 248 definition of, 76–77, 278 destroyed (by fire etc.), 97–98, 102, 112, 197, 209n5, 215 director of, 2, 9, 38, 41, 44, 46, 48, 52, 60–61, 65, 72n12, 78, 103–5, 117, 127, 130, 142–45, 153, 194, 203, 205, 221–22, 284–85, 288, 305, 313–15 employees. See House of Culture staff finances, 7–11, 37–38, 46–49, 57, 60–64, 79–82, 105, 108, 114, 115n10, 121–22, 127–30, 134, 143, 148–50, 153–57, 175, 178, 180–81, 192–93, 205, 216–24, 229–30, 238, 242, 246–47, 253, 256, 261n3, 300, 307, 311, 316 function of, 44–47, 55, 67–68, 89, 106, 147, 184n2, 223, 271, 280, 284, 289 ideal, 42, 99, 146–47, 159n13, 279–80, 307, 311 location of, 6, 133, 193, 279, 281, 306, 313–14 management of, 65, 166, 284 mission of, 5, 7, 11, 15, 17, 143, 145, 156–57 payroll. See House of Culture staff

and potential, 10, 21, 47, 111, 142, 144, 242, 253, 278 profile of, 5, 8, 65, 137 purpose of, 15, 32, 40, 47, 76, 111, 145–48, 157, 166, 194, 268, 305 and organizational changes. See “Law 131” report (otchet), 7–10, 18, 45–46, 72n10, 89, 91, 100, 144–45, 154, 280–81, 314–15 role of, 40, 46, 79, 147, 214, 231, 279 as a shut building, 5, 8, 10, 158, 288 size categories, 9 staff, 6–10, 12, 17–18, 21–22, 23n9, 37, 41, 45, 57, 62, 71n3, 77–82, 89–91, 103–4, 127, 138, 141–46, 152–53, 157–58, 159n14, 208, 279, 281, 283, 285, 299, 305, 311, 314–15 success of, 2, 5, 9, 56, 78, 81, 143, 157, 196, 204, 270, 306 as a symbol of the community, 11 unfinished. See unfinished project visitors, 6, 9–12, 15, 17–18, 20, 36, 47, 49, 56, 59–60, 63, 79, 84, 97, 99–100, 109–10, 115n10, 131, 137, 141, 145–47, 151, 157–58, 159n14, 191, 281, 293, 306, 309, 316. See also nongoers See also Casa de Cultura, Center, chitalishte, People’s House House of Elders (Dom starikov), 75, 92 House of Folk Arts, House of People’s Arts, 31–32, 124, 194, 209n12 House of Scientific Atheism, 23n13, 111, 197, 267–72 House Project (“Kashta”), 244, 248 house societies Melanesian, 241–42 socialist, 240–43 housing, 31, 36, 39, 119, 192, 246, 271 Humphrey, Caroline, 269–70, 274n4

Index | 329

Hungary, Hungarian, 134, 217, 242, 246, 258 iaranga (meeting place in Anadyr’), 35–38, 44, 51, 156 ideal communist, 109, 163, 167, 169, 170, 265 socialist, 169–70 See also House of Culture, ideal ideology, ideological, 1, 5, 16, 29–30, 37, 44, 46, 51, 202, 204, 206, 219–20, 224, 229, 231 communist, 4, 14, 30–35, 109, 134, 151, 157, 166, 183, 217, 219, 242 socialist, 14 İğmen, Ali, 5, 15, 17, 65, 163, 270 illiteracy, 31, 172, 175–77 Indian, 201, 256 indigeneity, indigenous, 4, 36, 38, 46, 51, 82, 127, 163, 168, 170–71, 178, 182, 184, 191, 198–99, 206–7, 273 culture, 4, 65, 183, 191 languages, 31 minorities, 31 peoples, 4, 30, 36–37, 44–46, 52n3, 168, 177, 189–92, 202, 205–6, 209n4, 209n9, 219, 270 tradition, 194, 199, 209 See also ethnicity Ingush, 65 inspiration, 11, 123, 169, 204, 259 Intangible Cultural Heritage (ICH), 239, 243, 246 interest group. See hobby circle International Children’s Day (1 June), 130, 143 International Council for Cultural Centers (I3C), 252 International Women’s Day (8 March), 143, 298 International Workers’ Day (1 May), 17, 104–5, 208, 283, 298 internet, 41, 131, 147, 153, 221, 233n5, 238, 251, 253, 260, 299, 314

Irkutsk, 56 Islam, 167, 185n13. See also school Israel, 266 Istanbul, 244 Istomin, Kirill, 277 Italy, Italian, 35, 230 Itelmen, 190, 200, 202, 208n1, 209n9 izba-chital’nia. See reading hut Jerge Tal, 169 Jeti Suu, 178–79, 187 Jewish, 244 Jochelson, Vladimir, 189, 202, 208n1 Jumprava, 216 Kamchadal, 198 Kamchatka, 53n14, 67, 189–92, 198–201, 205–9, 209nn9–10 Kamenskoe (erstwhile center of Koryak National Okrug), 189 Karakol, 165, 174, 180–81 Kara Kyrgyz Autonomous Oblast’, 165, 181, 184n8. See also Kyrgyzstan Kara–Sal, Nadezhda, 129 Kashta. See House Project Katvari, 228 Kazakhstan, Kazakh, 65, 100–2, 107– 9, 111, 164, 179–80, 184n8, 185n16 Keller, Bill, 271 Khakassia, Khakass, 117–18 Kharkhordin, Oleg, 14, 16–19, 23n14, 23n16, 72n13 kinaesthetics, 251–53, 260 Kincaid, Christina, 194–96 King, Alexander, 2, 5, 10, 53n14, 67, 134, 156, 189, 192–93, 199, 201–4, 209nn7–8 King Baudouin Foundation, 248, 260, 262n3 Kipalin, Kirill, 207 klub (“club”) interest group or hobby circle, 143, 159n8, 282 veselykh i nakhodchivykh (KVN, competition), 143, 159n8

330 | Index

village hall, House of Culture, 9, 32, 46, 57, 118, 163–64, 189, 191–92, 203–4, 278 workers’ club, 164, 166, 184n6 Kök Chyraa, 118 Kök-ool, Viktor, 118 kolkhoz (collective farm), 2, 163–65, 171, 219, 222, 227, 270 kollektiv. See collective Kolyvan’, 2, 11, 18, 55–59, 64, 71nn1– 4, 71n6, 72n10, 106, 137–39, 143–51, 154–55, 159n10, 286, 288, 297, 306 Komsomol. See Communist Union of Youth Korchagina, Mariia, 61, 63, 71n7 Korean, 65 Koriak, Koryak, 67, 189–95, 198–207, 208n1, 209n2, 209n6, 209n9, 209n11 Kosh-Agach, 97–114, 114n2, 114n5, 115nn9–10, 115n12, 115nn14–15, 131–32, 137, 138–39, 143, 148–53, 159n10, 286, 288, 297, 306 Kosintseva, Liudmila, 1–2, 20, 22, 192 Kosygin, Andrei and Vladimir, 191, 195, 197, 198, 199, 200–8, 209n9, 209n12 krasnaia iaranga. See Red Tent kruzhok. See hobby circle kul’tbaza (cultural base), 31 kul’trabotnik (culture worker), 40, 97 kul’tura, 1–2, 11, 14, 20–22, 22n3, 43, 50, 59, 99, 114n1, 117, 127, 135, 143, 145, 158, 199, 219, 307 kul’turno-prosvetitel’skaia rabota (kul’tprosvet), 159n11. See also enlightenment kul’turnost’, 15, 21, 59, 97, 127, 219, 227. See also culturedness kul’turovets. See culturite Kulturträger, 263 Kurumkan, 75, 76, 79–83, 88–92, 94n1, 106, 137–39, 142–51, 154, 159n10, 286, 288, 297, 306 Kyrgys, Kherel, 117, 122–24, 128–29, 135, 135n

Kyrgyzstan, Kyrgyz, 65, 72n11, 163–83, 184n6, 184nn8–9, 185n13, 185nn17–18, 270 Kyzyl, 117–19, 122–26, 129 Kyzyl Kyia, 165 Latgale, 215, 223, 225, 232n3 Latin America(n), 246, 251–52 Latvia, Latvian, 213–33 National Development Plan, 223 Song and Dance Festival, 217–18, 228, 230–31, 232n2, 233n7 “Law 131”, 8, 103, 114n3, 114n5, 126–30, 134, 152, 154, 157 lay artist, 57–58, 143–45. See also samodeiatel’nost’ lay people, 11, 57, 59, 81 lay performer, 78–79 lecture, 18, 23n13, 34, 111, 151, 166, 169, 192, 215, 225, 267, 270 LeFort, Claude, 269 leisure, 1–2, 7–8, 11–13, 41, 44, 47, 50, 55, 63, 88, 99, 103, 131, 142, 146, 152, 156, 159n12, 167, 219, 223–24, 230, 232, 233n7, 240–42, 258, 280 activities, 7–8, 41, 44, 46, 64, 131, 149, 225, 240, 244, 278 pa erns of, 4–5 as cultivation, 13, 39, 47–48, 63, 127, 145–46 Lenin, Vladimir, 31, 34, 66, 168, 179, 184n10 Leningrad, 91, 268 Leninist, 23n11, 34, 134, 177 Lévi-Strauss, Claude, 241–42, 263, 265 library, 31, 65, 102, 119, 147, 153–54, 157, 167, 172, 189–92, 198, 202, 209n2, 216, 221, 232n5, 233n5, 238, 244, 249, 265, 267, 297, 314 Lielvārde, 216–17 likbez (literacy campaign). See illiteracy literature, 31, 65, 172, 175, 179–80, 183, 215 looseness, 257–59 Luehrmann, Sonja, 66, 69, 274n6

Index | 331

maculele (dance), 250 Magadan, 35, 203 Makarenko, Anton, 14, 20 Malinowski, Bronisław, 263 Mālpils, 216 Manily, 203 market, 30, 90, 108, 133, 153–54, 221, 229, 232 economy, 39, 48–49, 52, 220, 229, 266, 272 marketing, 229, 231. See also advertisement March 8. See International Women’s Day Marxism, Marxist, 34, 134, 166, 242 Matarasso, François, 248 materiality. See culture and materiality Matīši, 226 May 1. See International Workers’ Day May 9. See Victory Day Mengo (ensemble), 192, 195, 197, 200, 204, 206–7, 209n8 metodist (specialist in the House of Culture), 103–11, 117, 123, 125, 127–30, 144, 146, 285, 305 methodology, (research) method, 6, 30, 71n2, 72n9, 86, 121, 137–38, 277–90 Milchigil, Nina and Vasilii, 203 military, 60, 71n8, 175, 183, 301 Miłosz, Czesław, 23n6, 242 Ministry of Culture, 254, 259, 266 of Altai, 115n8, 102 of Brazil, 239, 247–50, 256 of Bulgaria, 238, 242, 244, 247, 261n3 of Latvia, 221, 223, 228 of Novosibirsk Region, 57 of Tyva, 121, 126–27 mission, 21, 175 civilizing, 165, 167, 264 cultural, 184n1, 264 See also House of Culture, mission of

modernism, modernity, modernization, 4, 39–43, 50, 68–69, 107, 118, 127, 113–14, 164, 168, 173, 182–83, 184n3, 185n14, 194, 219, 243, 250, 260n3, 264, 273n1, 288 Mokhov, Il’ia, 117–18, 134 Mongkoev, Ismail, 169 Mongolia, Mongol, 100, 107, 135n1, 240 Mongush, Tat’iana, 130, 135n morality, moral, 1–2, 12–14, 21, 55, 69, 134, 146, 192, 203, 241–42, 251, 256, 263, 265, 269 Moscow, 23n13, 30, 45, 56, 102, 111, 124, 165–66, 175, 179, 184n6, 197, 203, 208, 209–10n12, 265, 267–68, 270, 272 Muchigin Yayai (ensemble), 203–4 municipality administrative unit, 57, 60–61, 105, 153–54 municipal reform, 101, 103. See also “Law 131” music, 12–13, 34, 36, 56, 58, 64–65, 81, 91, 97, 122–23, 145, 153, 164, 181, 183, 184n6, 189–92, 194–204, 207–8, 215, 217, 233n7, 238–39, 244–45, 250, 256–59, 268, 299–300, 314 instrument, 15, 65, 97, 123–24, 173, 183, 197, 200, 254, 257–59. See also piano, shekere music school. See school pop music, 1, 204, 206, 233n7 rock music, 16, 41, 47, 49, 91, 194, 199–200, 206, 208, 268 Namibia, 271 Narkompros (People’s Commissariate for Enlightenment), 175, 183 Naryn, 169, 171, 174 nation, national titular 156, 165, 181 See also ethnic groups national–cultural organizations, 64–65, 103 Nazarov, Aleksandr, 35, 38, 48, 51

332 | Index

Nekrasovka, 272 network, 38, 63, 78–79, 232n5, 239–40, 243, 246–60, 261n3, 271, 279–80 of Houses of Culture, 156, 219, 240, 246, 257 of non–governmental organizations, 222, 224, 240 social, 56, 60, 63, 64, 68, 70, 148, 248, 250, 260, 280 Nielsen, Finn Sivert, 52n2, 66, 85, 99, 114n1, 127–28, 219, 227 Nivkh, 23n4, 202, 272–73 nomadism, nomadic, 30–31, 36, 79–80, 135n3, 163, 167, 169, 173–74, 177, 182–83, 189 nongoers, nonvisitors, 6, 137, 141–42, 146, 151, 159n14, 288 nongovernmental organization, project, 240, 247–49, 252, 257, 259 Northerners (severiane), 44 Novo-Mariinsk. See Anadyr’ Novosibirsk, 2, 55–67, 71n2, 72nn8–9, 72nn11–12, 107, 124, 137, 153, 159n15, 284, 291n3, 295 obshchenie. See socializing occupation (profession), 61, 140, 301 Omsk, 77, 91 Ondar, Sasha, 130, 132 Oorzhak, Sherig-ool, 120 Organizational-methodological center (OMNTs, ROMTs), 117, 127, 144, 194, 199, 209 Osh, 182 otchet. See House of Culture report Padysha-Ata, 172 Pakhachi, 195, 209n7 Palace of Pioneers, 47 Palace of Culture, 184n9. See also House of Culture Palace of Atheism, 268 Palana, 189–208, 209nn3–4, 209n12 Paren, 203 participant observation, 40, 137, 250, 280–85, 288–90, 316 party (celebration), 17, 86, 88, 195–96

a er the show, 80, 82, 85, 88, 92, 94, 195 See also Communist Party Pastende, 227 patriotism, patriotic, 1, 45, 51 Pelkmans, Mathijs, 10, 112–14, 274n5 People’s House (narodnyi dom), 31, 214–18 People’s Palace, 216–17 perestroika, 98, 109, 111, 127, 268 perezhitok. See remnant (of the past) performance, performativity, 2, 5, 9,14–20, 23n6, 36, 57–60, 64–68, 77–91, 106–8, 122–24, 132n2, 143, 146, 155, 159n13, 165, 181, 189–99, 204–8, 215, 218, 231, 249–52, 258, 260, 273, 306 perfunctory formalism, 22, 34, 36–37, 144. See also pokazukha Petropavlovsk-Kamchatskii, 207 piano, 58, 122, 237–38 Piltene, 224 Pishpek. See Bishkek pleasure, pleasant, 12, 20, 36–37, 62, 70, 78, 91, 97, 226 pokaz (showing oneself on stage), 19–20, 111, 267, 270 pokazukha (false show), 18, 20, 34, 59, 75–94, 94n4, 111, 115n7, 267–68, 270. See also perfunctory formalism Poland, Polish, 65, 134, 216–17 politics, political, 2, 12, 15, 17–18, 23n13, 30–36, 44, 51, 63–66, 69, 97– 98, 113, 121, 134, 141, 147, 153–56, 164–66, 169–72, 176–78, 180, 198, 200, 203–7, 213–19, 222, 225, 231, 238–46, 251, 254–58, 265–66, 269, 271, 279 cultural, 46, 240 education. See education, political local, 5–6, 10, 38, 59, 100–1, 112, 120, 157, 200, 206, 209n11, 222, 224, 249 Ponto de Cultura, 239, 246–53, 257, 261–62 Porotov, Georgii, 207

Index | 333

Poussenkova, Nina, 271 Potemkin, Grigorii, 95n4, 271 pride, proud, 19–20, 55, 58, 70, 107, 120, 143, 173, 205, 226 private business, company, enterprise, 38, 101, 154, 195, 216, 222, 242 event, function, 71, 75, 80, 86–88, 91, 98, 100, 105, 108, 111–12, 114, 115n6, 120, 130, 133, 169, 176, 226, 269–70, 272 privatization, 111, 216, 272 prize, 50, 55, 59, 82, 124, 130. See also competition Profsoiuz (trade union), 60–61, 70 proletariate, proletarian, 166, 170, 176–77, 183–84, 186 propaganda, 30–31, 34, 37, 41, 44, 118, 176–79, 217, 242. See also agitation protest, 34, 56 public opinion, 21, 137, 142, 148 public-private partnership, 247 public space, 42, 225 public sphere, 1, 7, 22, 66, 75, 85, 92, 128, 154, 157, 214, 290 Putin, Vladimir, 128, 272 Putniņa, Aivita, 5, 8, 22, 23n8, 127, 148, 213, 225, 232n1, 233n6 Quebec, 266 questionnaire, 6, 30, 40, 42, 138, 282, 287–88, 293, 305–13 Radcliffe-Brown, Alfred, 254, 261n4 radio, 47, 92, 190, 208 Rakhimov, A. (club official), 173–74, 180 reading hut (izba–chital’nia), 31, 178 recognition, 19, 62, 67–70, 91, 122, 142, 177, 228, 247, 256–57, 263–64, 268–69 management of, 56, 67–70 official, 19, 58, 64, 91, 219, 239, 252 social, 55–56, 67–70, 159n9 Red Choikhona (Red Teahouse), 237–55, 258, 260, 260n3

Red Tent, Red Yurt, 31, 164–65, 173–74, 179 remnant (of the past), 29, 40–41, 113, 148–52, 160, 300, 307, 311 rehearsal, 56–59, 77, 81, 84, 90, 106, 122–126, 147, 193, 197, 207, 242, 249, 288, 316 reification, 203–6, 265 reindeer, 195, 198, 200–4, 209n4, 209n7 report about Kyrgyz cultural institutions, 164, 167, 171, 173–81 See also House of Culture report research assistant, 72n9, 135n, 287, 293, 295, 305, 309 comparative, 4–6, 9, 13, 18, 71n2, 71n5, 103, 115nn11–12, 137, 154, 277–90, 295 on cultural activities (in Latvia), 220, 233n7 on folklore and indigenous traditions, 194, 199 instrument, 6, 71n2, 137, 277–78, 281–82, 287–90, 313 question, 6, 15, 75, 278–79, 290 See also field; methodology; participant observation; questionnaire; sample; survey respect, 23, 59, 61, 68, 70, 91, 168–69, 198, 203, 213. See also recognition Rēzekne, 216–17 rhetoric, 2, 16–17 rhythm, 23, 94, 238, 242, 254, 257–59, 261n5 Riga, 214–16 Riles, Annelise, 254 Rio de Janeiro, 250 Ristolainen, Mari, 66 ritual, 16–19, 23n6, 34, 63, 66, 70, 76, 80, 87–88, 95nn6–7, 173, 178, 198, 202, 207, 242, 257, 267, 269 rock ‘n’ roll. See music, rock Rodicheva, Liubov’, 61–62, 71n7 Roma, 244

334 | Index

Romanova, Tat’iana, 207 Rosildo (samba dancer), 239–40, 245, 247, 250, 253 Russians (as ethnic group), 36, 52n3, 53n13, 75, 82–88, 93, 100, 127, 133, 134, 159n7, 189, 205–6, 273 Rybnoe, 20, 267–70 sacredness, sacred, 1, 11, 21, 23n16, 119, 172–73, 202–3 safeguarding, 233, 239, 243–49, 259. See also heritage house guarding Safonova, Tatiana, 5, 9–10, 18–19, 34, 59, 75, 95n6, 106, 111, 121, 137, 267, 286 Sakhalin, 20, 23n4, 265, 267, 272–73 Salvador de Bahia, 245, 256–57, 260n1 samba, 237–40, 245–50, 253–60 Samba Association, 239, 247 samodeiatel’nost’, 44, 143, 170, 184n6, 189. See also lay artist; lay performer sample, sampling, 72, 138, 158n4, 284–85, 293, 295, 309 Sántha, István, 4–6, 9–10, 18–19, 34, 59, 75–76, 90, 95n6, 106, 111, 121, 137, 267, 277, 284, 286 Santiago de Cuba, 251 Santo Amaro, 255 Santos, Nalva, 260n1 Sarkandaugava District (of Riga), 216 Saryglar, Nikolai, 120 Saubara, 253 Savova, Nadezhda, 5, 11, 17, 23n6, 237–38, 243, 255 Schechner, Richard, 258 school, 5, 13, 30–31, 75, 80, 89, 106, 115n9, 118, 122–23, 126–33, 135n3, 138, 143–44, 158n4, 159n8, 167–68, 171, 175, 189, 191, 207–8, 213, 221, 224, 247, 265, 285, 287, 293, 296, 301, 315 children, 78, 81 Islamic school, 170 music school, 31, 102, 142, 190, 192–93, 195, 203, 207–8, 221 students, 72n9, 72n11, 134

self public and private self, 269 self-administration, 61, 101, 126–28, 152. See also “Law 131” self-deception, 79, 86, 89 self-esteem, 70, 217, 225–26 self-formation, 33, 43 self-improvement, 16, 21, 224 self-realization, 20, 22, 29, 32–37, 40, 47–48, 51, 127, 147 self-respect, 68, 203 See also technology of the self Shagonar, 106, 117–33, 135n, 135n1, 137–53, 159n7, 159n10, 286, 288, 297, 306 shaman, shamanism, 76, 95n6, 267, 271 shekere, 254–59 Shternberg, Lev, 208n1 Shlapentokh, Vladimir, 33 show, 10, 19, 36, 48–50, 56–57, 66–67, 69, 70, 78, 81, 84, 88, 123–26, 129, 146, 159n8, 180, 195–96 false show, 18, 59, 75, 77, 92–93, 267. See also pokazukha Siberian Studies Centre, 6, 52n1, 129, 295 Sigulda, 218 da Silva, Nalva, 245, 260n2 singing, 1, 17, 20, 23n6, 34–36, 57, 58, 64–67, 81, 108, 112, 145, 169–70, 173, 182–83, 191, 196, 204, 206, 208, 215, 217, 227, 233, 242–43 Skaista, 225 Slezkine, Yuri, 30, 46 Smirnov, Georgii, 12, 23n7, 269 smotr (recital), 142–44 socialism, socialist, 2, 12, 14, 16, 19, 22n2, 61, 66, 68, 70, 109, 111, 113, 115n12, 134, 166, 169–70, 180, 183, 184n8, 208n1, 217, 232, 240–43, 246, 264–69, 273 nonsocialist, 246, 272 postsocialist, 12, 22, 66, 70, 160, 214, 274n5 presocialist, 241

Index | 335

socializing (obshchat’sia, obshchenie), 36, 145, 147, 205 Sokukurgan, 172 solidarity, 19, 44, 66, 70, 75, 92, 166, 224, 257 Solzhenitsyn, Aleksandr, 272 soul, 1–2, 22, 117, 192, 203, 271 South Africa, 271 South America, 253, 271 Sovietization, 183, 270 Soviet period, 4, 16, 24, 29–30, 33–35, 46, 48, 51, 214, 216–20, 224, 231, 270, 273, 278, 307 Soviet Union, 2, 4, 6, 17, 19, 21, 22n4, 23n11, 23n14, 30, 33, 36, 38, 52n2, 66, 69, 99, 127, 134, 152, 154, 171–72, 180, 189, 194, 217, 219, 240, 274n6, 287 sovkhoz (state farm), 2, 165, 192, 204, 209n4 sponsor, sponsorship, 50, 129–30, 135n4, 153, 195, 225, 248, 266, 272 SPSS (so ware), 158n1, 289–91 Ssorin-Chaikov, Nikolai, 10, 20, 114, 270 staff. See House of Culture staff Stalin, Iosif, 22n4, 98, 154, 184n9, 217, 273n1 statehood (gosudarstvennost’), 70 Strathern, Marilyn, 82 stsenarii (script), 36, 144 studio (studii), 41, 48, 193, 249 subculture, 1–2, 21, 90 survey, 6, 13, 23n9, 52n1, 71n2, 71n6, 72n9, 97, 107, 115n10, 131–32, 137–41, 148–51, 156–58, 158nn1–5, 159n13, 220, 230, 281–90, 293–96, 298, 309, 315–16 Süt Khöl, 212 symbol, 5, 11, 190–91, 200, 203–6, 215–17, 231, 244, 257 Tajikistan, 184n8 Taksami, Chuner, 202–3, 210n12 talent, 55, 67, 70, 80, 106, 121–22, 129, 143, 145, 158, 163, 170, 182–83, 198, 205

Tatar, 65, 67, 165, 182, 267 Taussig, Michael, 271 Taylor, Charles, 56, 68–70 teacher, 41, 75, 78, 106, 122, 169–70, 174, 179, 190, 197, 228, 239, 293 technology of the self, 1, 13–15, 20, 22 Telengit, 100, 114n2 . See also Altai, Altaian television (TV), 13, 58, 159n8, 190, 195, 208, 267, 299 theater, 15, 34, 36, 41, 45–49, 53n15, 56, 65, 107, 118, 122, 130, 170, 178, 184n9, 189–91, 193–94, 197, 202, 207–8, 213–17, 221, 224–25, 244, 267 Thompson, Niobe, 32–35, 38–39, 43, 47–50, 52n2, 53n12 Timasheff, Nicholas, 66 Tisenkopfs, Tālis, 214, 218, 220, 226, 229–30, 233 Tochmashevets (House of Culture in Novosibirsk), 22, 55, 60–64, 67, 70, 71nn1–2, 72n8, 72n10, 72n12, 291n3 Tong, 174 Tokmok, 176 Torņakalns District (of Riga), 216 trade union. See Profsoiuz tradition, 4, 31, 36, 39, 44–46, 66–67, 81–84, 87, 90, 104, 107, 123–24, 128, 141, 146, 149, 156, 163–64, 167–71, 173, 178–83, 184n3, 185n14, 191, 198–204, 209n9, 214–25, 228–31, 232n2, 232n4, 233n7, 237, 242, 244, 249–52, 260, 266, 268, 280 cultural, 156, 167, 170, 181, 191, 199, 214, 209n9 indigenous, 194, 199 transport, transportation, 105, 123, 133, 201, 302, 313 Tsing, Anna, 251, 254 Tsyrenzhapova, Ailana, 125, 129, 130, 135n Turkestan, 165, 168, 170–71, 176–78, 184n7 Turkey, Turkish, 40, 244 Turkmenistan, 184n8 Tylor, Edward, 206, 263–65 Tynav’i, Alek, 204

336 | Index

Tyva, Tyvan, 22, 117–24, 127–34, 135n1, 135n3, 135n5, 137, 143, 159n7, 284 Tyva-Bisting Örgeevis (talent competition), 121–26, 129 Ukraine, Ukrainian, 36, 52n3, 65, 190, 198, 200–1 Ulan-Ude, 75, 78–79, 81, 83 Ulmanis, Kārlis, 216 Ulug-Khem District, 117, 120, 124, 126 UNESCO, 232n2, 237, 239, 243–46, 249–54, 257–60, 261n3 unfinished project, 14, 113, 194, 270 universalism, universalist, 69, 199, 203, 206 USSR, 10, 119, 134, 166, 168, 182, 184n8, 217, 252, 264, 267. See also Soviet Union Uzbekistan, Uzbek, 72n11, 165, 167–70, 178–79, 184n8 Vaidava, 228 Vaté, Virginie, 5–6, 9, 20, 22, 29, 32, 37, 50, 52n1, 52n4, 137, 156, 159n6, 277, 284–88 Venezuela, 253 Verdery, Katherine, 266 Victory Day of World War II (Den’ Pobedy, 9 May), 45, 57, 104–5, 129, 143, 283 video, 80, 123, 194, 200, 209n10, 283, 314 Vietnam, 246 Viliuchinsk, 207 Vladivostok, 268, 272 vocal music. See singing voice, 109, 122, 163, 238. See also singing Volkov, Vadim, 15, 66, 98, 114n1, 273n1

Wagner, Roy, 190 war, 64, 106, 129, 163, 184n10 Cold War, 266, 268, 273 War Communism, 166, 184n10 World War II, 35, 45, 57, 104–5, 129, 189 wedding, 8, 98, 108, 130, 153, 173, 228. See also private event WertegemeinschaĞ (community with shared values), 69–70 Weyem (ensemble), 198, 207 White, Anne, 2, 4, 7, 9, 12, 17, 22n4, 29–30, 39, 46, 51, 60, 62, 127–28, 134, 138, 145, 154–58, 159n14, 217, 242, 246, 290 working on oneself (rabotat’ nad soboi),1, 13–15, 18, 20–21, 224. See also self–formation Yakutsk, 209n11 Yeltsin, Boris, 190, 195 Yetneut, Liza, Mariia (Masha), and Valerii, 195, 198–202, 204, 209n9 youth, 13, 23n11, 57, 63–64, 68, 72n12, 146, 159n15, 175, 192, 203, 207–8, 223–24, 229, 240, 247, 250 and delinquency, 12, 47, 63, 145–46, 152, 156, 192, 213 Ysyk-Kol, 181, 184n7 Yukagir, 30, 52n3, 208n1 Yupiget, 52n3. See Eskimo Yurchak, Alexei, 16–19, 21, 23n12, 34, 91, 98, 108–9, 111, 191–92, 268–70, 274nn3–4 yurt (nomadic felt tent), 80, 85, 163, 174. See also Red Tent Zeltslotiņas (women’s organization), 226 Zhanaul, 104–5