The Photo Club “Cadre”

The photography club “Cadre” was informally formed in Moscow in 1965 when R. Krupnov, the permanent chairman of the club, began gathering almost daily to discuss their photographs and read articles about photography. In October 1971, Krupnov was interviewed by photography critic Lydia Dyko, and the article was subsequently featured in the journal Sovetskoe foto. Krupnov’s interview provides a description of club activities, but also demonstrates the potential for photography clubs to become exclusionary.

“The strength of our organization was facilitated by the fact that the club brought together like-minded people who share common (creative) views and understand the aims and objectives of art photography equally. The methodology of our work, and manner of artistic reflection and cognition of life was reportage, a reportage way of creating photographs. It is this approach to photography that gives us the opportunity to capture a real life, not a fiction, and this determined the creative direction of the club.”[1]

While it is not uncommon for groups to share like-minded ideas, Krupnov’s interview shows that “Cadre” was not particularly interested in creative diversity or artistic inclusivity. Stylistically the group adhered to reportage, which was supported by critics and theorists. Krupnov went on to say that “Over time, serious requirements of the subject and the plot of photographs were added,” further limiting the images circulated in the club.[2] Yet, Krupnov noted that these requirements were the result of the size of the group, which at the time of the interview’s publication, was around 30 members. But he also reveals that the conditions of club membership were strict, and if a member was not producing enough “actively creative” works, that this was a valid reason for their expulsion.

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K. Kolochkin, Udarnaia komsomol’skaia

Interestingly, in his interview Krupnov questioned the categorization of amateur and professional photographers and what exactly distinguished one group from the other. He acknowledged that the simple answer corresponded to skill level, but this didn’t necessarily measure the aesthetic quality of images – an amateur with fewer technical skills could still produce an artistic photograph. Similarly, he points out that the purpose of the photographer is to perform a socially significant service and draw the attention of the viewer to certain events and civil problems. Referencing the Union of Cinematographers of the USSR special commission for film enthusiasts, Krupnov requested that All-Union Central Council of Trade Unions compel the Union of Journalists to organize a commission for the development of a branch of the organization to specifically address amateur interests and facilitate interaction between journalists and photographers.[3]

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V. Krupinskii, Matrosskii Marsh

Krupnov’s 1971 interview shows that nearly two decades later, the most basic desires of amateur photographers and photography clubs had not yet been met by cultural authorities or the Union of Journalists. From the very beginning amateur clubs had pushed for further official involvement and interaction between amateurs and professionals in the form of some sort of union that recognized and formally accepted that amateur photographers were part of the same cultural community as professionals. Given the organic and persistent attitude of amateur club members who wanted to extend official involvement in their hobby, it is remarkable that authorities did not take the opportunity to incorporate amateur activities into any already established union or provide them one of their own because it would have facilitated gathering information about club activities and provide the opportunity to censor problematic works and root out dissident or anti-Soviet activities. Yet, the baffling question is why a government so intently interested in monitoring the activities of its citizens and the information they had access to, passed up the opportunity to extend its reach into amateur photography even when amateur clubs themselves were petitioning for further intervention.

[1] L. Dyko, “Na puti k masterstvy,” Sovetskoe foto, 1971 no. 10, 26.

[2] Ibid, 26.

[3] Ibid, 29.

The Odessa Regional Photography Club

In the past, I have written about the organizational structure of photography clubs. The Odessa Regional Photography club represents an interesting instance of how fractious amateur photography clubs could be.

When the club was founded in 1971, Odessa already had a history tied to photography organizations. The first exhibition organized by Odessa area photographers was held in 1896, and the Odessa Photographic Society was founded in 1915. After the revolution, the Society was transformed into an association of professional photographers, which included members of the Society who worked in the press. The association was later liquidated.

The first post-war exhibition held in Odessa that was open to amateur submissions was held in 1956. Afterwards, regional exhibitions were held on a regular basis, but amateurs and professionals struggled to form a permanently functioning photography club in the region. The reason behind this failure is representative of the quandary faced by many photography clubs in the Soviet Union, and relates to differing ideas about the express purpose of photography clubs themselves and how exclusionary they should be. Many Odessa amateurs feared that “select amateur photographers, indispensable participants in exhibitions, whose works were printed in photo albums and illustrated editions” would “jealously guard their associations from ‘encroachments’ of beginning amateurs.”[1] Chief amongst their concerns was that these prominent amateurs would selfishly engross themselves in their own work, rather than provide  “creative assistance to beginners, popularize photography, and actively participate in the social and cultural life of the city and the region.”[2] Instead, the Odessa Regional Photography Club thought of itself as a methodological center for the “guidance and provision of practical assistance to all amateur photographers, photo circles and photo sections of Odessa region,” prioritizing the needs of beginners.[3]

The club, once established and approved by the Odessa Regional Committee of the CPU, had a fairly common solution to this problem. Beginners were initiated into the club as candidate members. Each month, the work of candidate members was evaluated by the club and the strongest photographs were entered into a monthly contest “The Best Work of the Month.” The winning photographs were publicly exhibited. The club also partnered with the Odessa branch of the Union of Journalists of Ukraine. The club was also the foundation of the Regional Art Council for Photography, which was approved by the Culture Department of the Regional Executive Committee. The Council, though approved on the basis of the club, operated as a partner organization and was responsible for the selection of photographs for exhibitions, the confirmation of expositions… and also creative control over all photographic products that appear on the streets and in the entertainment enterprises” inside and outside of the city.[4]

This level of participation and attention from local cultural authorities was not a foregone conclusion. It did, however, help with financing club events and exhibitions in Eastern Europe, the Soviet Republics and the RSFSR. The club, which met at the House of Folk Art, had its own photography lab, a photography methodologist for working with amateurs, and travel funds for the strongest members to attend creative workshops and exhibitions. In this way, the Odessa Regional Photography club effectively formed its own local photography union very similar to the Lithuanian SSR Society of Art Photography. This type of organization was not replicated on the Republican or All-Union levels, despite the efforts of amateurs and professionals. It does, however, demonstrate that it was theoretically possible to replicate this structure on a larger scale for the material and technical benefit of amateur club members.

Despite the noble aspirations of the club, members including V. Shulga, E. Stepaniuk, V. Shishin, L. Paruzin, and A. Kotlyiarevskii left the group in 1973 and founded the Odessa based photography club Photon, which was organized around the Odessa House of Scientists.[5] This fissure was the result of differing views about photography, but also generational gaps amongst members and internal conflict. In 1975, the regional club, which was then known as “Odessa,” lost N. Bondarenko, G. Demin, S. Alekian, D. Zuubritskii, V. Tsvetkov and A. Sokolov who subsequently founded the club “Monsoon.”[6] Without an All-Union or republican structure to mediate disputes between divisive personalities, the splintering of the Odessa Regional Photography Club, despite the support network it provided and the initial concerns of potential members, demonstrates the fragility of the amateur club environment.

[1] N. Brygin, “Zaboty odesskikh fotoliubitelei,” Sovetskoe foto no. 9 (1971): 33.

[2] Ibid, 33.

[3] Ibid, 33.

[4] Ibid, 33.

[5] Igor’ Panasiuk, “Otpechatki c sokhranivshikhsia negativov,” Doksa (2010): 532-533.

[6] Ibid, 533.

The Lithuanian SSR Society of Art Photography, Part 2

As I have mentioned in previous blog posts, the Lithuanian Society of Art Photography was a remarkable and unique development in the history of Soviet photography. Lithuania was the only republic that organized a union for photographers outside of the Union of Journalists, and was formed in 1969. Despite popular support amongst professional and amateur photographers in other republics, efforts at unionization never materialized.

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Romualdas Rakauskas, from the series Tenderness, 1962 – 1971

The charter of the Lithuanian Society of Art Photography (FMD) is remarkably comprehensive, and reveals the level of professionalism and bureaucratic detail present in other union charters. Similarly, it directly addressed the major topics and problems that had been discussed in the journal Sovetskoe foto for over a decade, as to why unionization was an absolute necessity for professional and amateur photographers.

“The tasks of the Soviet of Photography of the Lithuanian SSR: a) to unite in a single organization of photographers all genres [of photography], both professionals and amateurs; educate their members…on the basis of Marxist aesthetics [and] to develop their artistic taste and abilities”[1]

The Society “directs the entirety of photo art in the Republic, renders creative, methodological and material assistance to its members.”

The Society “creates its own production sector…organizes a photographic library, creative and production studios and photo laboratories provided with all necessary equipment.”

“Members of the Society can be both professionals and amateurs who have reached creative maturity and recognition, as well as persons who do not create photo works, but actively support and promote photo art – theorists, critics, historians, and persons who actively promote photo art. Candidate members of the Society can be both professionals and amateurs who have not yet reached the artistic level of actual members. The society promotes their creative growth, and sends their work to All-Union and international exhibitions.”

Full membership included a number of perks, including funding to attend exhibitions, lectures and meetings organized by the FMD both in the Soviet Union and abroad.

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Antanas Sutkus, Young Doctor, 1970

What is so extraordinary about the FMD is that it controlled all levels of photographic production in the LSSR. It controlled the publication of its own books, albums, pamphlets and exhibitions. It completely controlled the circulation and censorship of its own images. In other republics, this was ostensibly the responsibility of a variety of state agencies, Glavlit (The General Directorate for the Protection of State Secrets in the Press), for example, was responsible for approving images circulated in the press and their publication (though my research has revealed that state censors generally left photographers to their own devices anyway). In unionizing, Lithuanian photographers were technically a part of the republican government, BUT, as opposed to other republics, it was the only organization in which photographers themselves completely controlled exhibitions and published images and content about photography, rather than outside bureaucratic organs. In this respect, the FMD wielded enormous and almost autonomous power over the circulation of the images of its members. This was of course tempered by outside institutions, and if images were to be selected for publication or exhibition outside of Lithuania, they needed to conform to the standards of the organizers; the Ministry of Culture of the Lithuanian SSR or the Republican Council of Trade Unions could liquidate the Society at any time. Nevertheless, that the FMD was able to independently evaluate the social utility and aesthetic value of its members’ images is remarkable and a development that was largely supported by photographers and amateurs across the Soviet Union.

Despite discussing a photographer’s responsibility to uphold Marxist aesthetics, the term Socialist Realism is oddly absent from the document. While the drafting members of the charter mention aesthetic and creative education multiple times throughout the document, the absence of references to Socialist Realism is puzzling because its omission implies that photographers of the Society had no responsibility to conform to the only acceptable representational style in the Soviet Union. This is perhaps a stretch, but, given that professional and amateur photographers across the Soviet Union had spent the better part of the last decade forcefully declaring that photography was a Socialist Realist art form, to the deaf ears of the Ministry of Culture, that Socialist Realism is not included in the charter perhaps indicates that for Lithuanian photographers, this moniker was no longer necessary to prove the value of the medium once they achieved their goal of unionization.

[1] The Charter of the Lithuanian Society for Art Photography was published in Sovetskoe foto’s October issue in 1971, pp.30-1.

The Curious Criminal Case of Iosif Aleksandrovich Schneider

Disclaimer: this post includes nude images. Similarly, this project is a work in progress and I will update accordingly.

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Various documents confiscated from Iosif A. Schneider

On a recent research trip to Riga, a very helpful archivist suggested that I look at the arrest and personnel files of Iosif Aleksandrovich Schneider. Schneider was a member of the Latvian Communist Party, born in Riga in 1927 and from 1944 had been an active member of the Komsomol. He was 31 years old at the time of his arrest in 1957, working as a photographer at the Rigas Foto photography studio.

He was detained, questioned and arrested by the Latvian KGB under Article 58, Section 10 of the RSFSR Penal Code, for anti-Soviet and counter-revolutionary propaganda and agitation. This article could be widely interpreted, and carried a sentence of anything from six months in prison up to a death sentence. He was also charged under Article 182 in relation to the refusal of a witness to present expert testimony in court.

In the initial reports filed by KGB investigators, Schneider was accused of the following, based on the testimony of S.S. Sergeev (it is unclear who this particular witness was or why he had brought forward allegations against Schneider):

“Systematically listening to the broadcasts of the “Voice of Israel” radio station, making notes of slanderous fabrications against the Soviet Union transmitted by this station, and keeping these records in his apartment. Having established a written connection with his uncle Gribov, who lives in the State of Israel and is the conductor of Israel’s military orchestra. Schneider, in his letters to Gribov, expounded slanderous, anti-Soviet fabrications. Gribov, in turn, sent Schneider clippings from nationalist newspapers and magazines. Schneider sought opportunities for illegal departure from the Soviet Union to Israel.”

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Image 105 from Schneider’s arrest file

After KGB officers conducted their initial questioning, they searched Schneider’s apartment. In doing so, agents uncovered several letters from Gribov, “nationalist” newspaper clippings, three unregistered small caliber rifles, 246 rounds of live ammunition, several medals and decorations from WWII (which were not awarded to Schneider or his relatives), and multiple pornographic photographs.

In subsequent interrogations, Schneider admitted his connections to Israel, stating ultimately that contact with his uncle as well as the opinions articulated by the “Voice of Israel” led him to adopt anti-Soviet sentiments and that, at the time, he believed some of the “slanderous fabrications against the Soviet Union,” though he himself never held “hostile attitudes towards the Soviet Union.” He admitted that he did indeed possess the illegal firearms and ammunition, but the records do not contain any information as to how or why he acquired them. Regarding the medals, Schneider did not reveal how he had obtained them, but insisted they were part of a personal collection and that he never wore them or pretended that he had been the recipient of said awards. Finally, about the “pornographic” photographs Schneider said: “I admit that I photographed my wife and that this is pornography.”

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Image 108 from Schneider’s arrest file
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Image 109 from Schneider’s arrest file

Interestingly, Schneider’s admission about the photographs cannot be entirely truthful (not that one would expect it to be). It appears unlikely that the photographs are only of his wife, based partially on looks and body type. Admittedly, without an accurate account from Schneider himself, unmitigated by the circumstances of interrogation, this is speculative. Weight and body type can change over time, and differences in lighting, whether or not the subject is wearing make-up etc. can alter appearances.  But there are other indicators of difference: the images were clearly taken in two different and distinct settings. Image 109 is of an unnamed woman, and was likely shot in a studio location. It is more formal: akin to glamour shots and reminiscent of photographic pornography from the 1900s-1920s. In contrast, the photographs Schneider took of his wife are amateurish and playful. They are not overtly staged or posed, but rather relaxed and casual. Based on style, the images Schneider took of his wife were personal, whereas the staged aspects of image 109 were more in keeping with nude images intended for distribution. The photographs of Ms. Schneider (images 108 and 110 through 113) were far more graphic than the other nudes included in the confiscated portfolio, suggesting her level of trust, but also intimacy. Even if one were to believe the unlikely scenario where Ms. Schneider (her forename is not listed in the KGB files) is the woman in image 109, the photograph was clearly taken at a different point in time than images 110 through 113, indicating that this was not a single moment of “moral indifference” or “deviance” (from the perspective of law enforcement), but rather a protracted interest that precipitated events on at least two given occasions.

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Image 111 from Schneider’s arrest file

Admittedly, the version of events, as reported in the KGB files, is entirely one-sided and can hardly be interpreted as an accurate or impartial. What is astonishing about the case, however, is that despite Schneider’s possession of these photographs, he was never formally charged with creating pornography. Putting aside moral objections or conceptions of what constitutes pornography, Article 185 of the contemporary Soviet Criminal Code provided no sanction for if pornographic images were published or distributed, as opposed to simple possession. These charges, therefore, could easily have been tacked on to Schneider’s case (along with charges associated with Article 190 regarding violations of “rules concerning the procedure required for the opening and running of printing shops, lithographic, and similar establishments,” based on his employment at Rigas Foto). This changed in 1960, when the Criminal Code was revised to ostensibly cover only those materials that were published or circulated publicly, making the possession of pornography technically legal, though “offenders” could be prosecuted under Articles 70, 75, 228, and, arguably at a stretch, 190, Section 1, depending on the individual case.[1]

Though I continue to parse through this massive file, there is apparently no discernible reason why the Latvian authorities overlooked this infraction. While the photographs were confiscated, and they were worthy of mention in the KGB’s reports, no additional charges were added based on their existence.[2] Thus, the inclusion of the images in the case against Schneider appears to be a bit of a non sequitur. While they were deserving of reference, they ultimately had little impact on the fate of their creator.

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Image 112 from Schneider’s arrest file

*For the sake of decency (i.e. not being kicked off the wordpress platform), I have not included any of Schneider’s graphic pornographic images.

[1] Dietrich A. Loeber, “Samizdat under Soviet Law,” Index on Censorship, vol. 2, 3, (1973), 20.

[2] Though the 1960 Criminal Code states that the distribution of pornographic material was punishable by up to three years in prison and/or a 300-ruble fine, I have been unable to determine the sentence length based on the previous Criminal Code.

Revolutsiia! Demonstratsiia! The (Continuing) Influence of Soviet Revolutionary Photography

In conjunction with the annual Association for Slavic, East European and Eurasian Studies Convention and the centenary of the Russian Revolution, the Art Institute of Chicago’s current exhibition “Revolutsiia! Demonstrtsiia! Soviet Art Put to the Test” provides a superb look into the visual and material culture of the Russian Revolution and the artistic developments up until the 1930s. So much of the revolutionary art and design of this period is bound to photography. The fervor of the revolution created a new visual reality in conjunction with the ideological and political paradigm shift. Visual innovations in what is commonly referred to as the Soviet “avant-garde,” (though these modernist trends were also present in other European art movements at the time), were claimed by Soviet photographers as unique to their past and continued to inform photography, photojournalism, and photographic theory for the next 40-50 years particularly in the RSFSR, but also in the Soviet Republics.

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Aleksandr Rodchenko, Cover for Novyi lef (New Left), No. 5 1927

Many of the photographs included in the “Revolutsiia! Demonstratsiia!” exhibition were shot by photographers who were associated with either of two sparring photography groups in the early Soviet period. In the 1920s and 1930s, the photography section of the group Oktiabr was led largely by Aleksandr Rodchenko but Gustav Klutsis, Eleazar Langman, Dmitri Debabov, and Boris Ignatovich identified with the group. The ROPF (Union of Russian Proletarian Photographers) was spearheaded by Leonid Mezhericher, Arkadii Shaikhet, Semyon Friedland, Mark-Markov-Grinberg and Maks Alpert and favored “straightforward, supposedly unmanipulated reportage” but also had aesthetic aspirations.  Though both groups were committed to documentary representation, they differed in their methodological approach to documentary composition.[1] The work of Oktiabr was based “on fragmentation and they viewed reality as a disconnected and puzzling space” while the ROPF “leaned toward whole images and saw the world as a concrete and continuous entity.”[2]  Aesthetic differences between the two groups stemmed from fundamentally different ideas about the purpose of the camera. Mark Markov-Grinberg’s main objection to Oktiabr was that form and style overtook content in their photographs. “Chasing after the shot dominated content,” he said. “We, in the opposite group, photographed for a reason, for a purpose. Art for Art’s sake is nothing…”  It would appear that modernist trends in photography disappeared as a result of editorial decisions at newspapers and journals, and the arrest and execution of prominent former ROPF and Oktiabr associates in the Terror of the late 1930s, rather than the apparent dissolution of the groups themselves.

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Eleazar Langman, Toothbrush, 1930-1931

In the 1950s and 1960s, the history of modernist Soviet photography was rewritten by (largely Russian) cultural and art historians. This was in part a process of reclaiming that which was excised from national and all-Union culture by Stalinist policies, and could be considered a redressing of Leninism as a means of atoning for the crimes and excesses of Stalinism – which occurred in many social, cultural and political forms. The abrupt liquidation of modernist trends in photography, and visual and material culture generally, or rather, photographer’s and critic’s perceived truncation of the evolution of Soviet avant-gardes, led to a reevaluation of the historical and cultural value of early Soviet photography. In the 1950s and 1960s though, the rewriting of this history tended not to focus on the differences between individual artists and artistic groups but instead presented the multiple Russian avant-gardes as stylistically and ideologically uniform and glossed over differing ideas about the social utility of Soviet art or, for photographers, the express purpose of photography within the Soviet context.

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Arkadii Shaikhet, New Apartment Buildings in Moscow. Stairwell from Above, 1928

This glaring omission, collapsing conflicting versions of modernist styles and philosophy into one collective, unified group came from Stalinist policies: In reevaluating modernist trends in photography, critics unquestioningly accepted the Stalinist government’s declaration of a unified photographic community. In practice, this declaration, that aesthetic differences between groups had been resolved, was absolutely false: while Oktiabr and the ROPF were officially disbanded, the dissolution of their loose collectives had little impact on individual style.  The 1935 Exhibition of the Masters of Soviet Photography contained 450 works, many of which were included in personal exhibitions of former ROPF and Oktiabr members. While the exhibition was advertised as evidence of the termination of the quarreling groups, the images included in the exhibition did not attest to ideological and aesthetic unification of the groups.

The Revolutsiia! Demonstratsiia! exhibition shows how photography was just one part of the Revolution in visual culture and objects that occurred between the 1910s-1930s, including book, theatre and industrial design, posters, architecture and so on. Like in other artistic genres, modernist photography was reevaluated in the cultural Thaw. What is interesting, however, in this reevaluation and reinstitution, was that critics’ publications accepted the collapsing of modernist groups into a single style without much in the way of introspection. Additionally and critically, modernist styles became the focal and reference point for socialist realist artistic and photojournalistic images simultaneously – absorbing and nullifying the contradictory ideological frameworks put forth by ROPF and Oktiabr photographers. In doing so, photography theory in the post-war and late Soviet periods was plagued by contradictions from collapsing diametrically opposed ideas about what was “Soviet” about Soviet photography.

Nevertheless, the specter of Russian modernist art continues to inspire current visual artists, most notably Mikhail Karasik whose lithograph images and book designs incorporate photomontage and elements of Suprematism. Despite being only a small part of Soviet modernist visual culture, modernist Soviet photography holds a lasting impact on subsequent generations of Soviet and Russian artists,  demonstrating its visual potency.

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Mikhail Karasik, Homage to Constructivism, 2012

[1] Leah Bendavid-Val, Propaganda and Dreams; photographing the 1930s in the USSR and the US, (Zurich; Edition Stemmle, 1999), 37.

[2] Margarita Tuptisyn, The Soviet Photograph 1924-1937, (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1996), 67.

Why Gender Matters in Soviet Photography Clubs

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Members of the Riga Camera Club, Zenta Dzividzinzka Center, Leonis Balodis, 1970

Photography in the Soviet Union was a largely male-dominated endeavor. From artists to photojournalists and amateur photographers, the number of women who participated in the medium in public is staggeringly low. Article 119 of the 1936 constitution (amended in 1944 and replaced only in 1977) afforded all Soviet citizens the right to rest and leisure: “The right to rest and leisure is ensured by the reduction of the working day to seven hours for the overwhelming majority of the workers, the institution of annual vacations with full pay for workers and employees and the provision of a wide network of sanatoria, rest homes and clubs for the accommodation of the working people.”

For the majority of Soviet women, however, this equal right to leisure was not reflected in reality. The double burden of paid work coupled with domestic tasks meant that women had substantially less access to leisure time, particularly if they were married with children. This burden did not decrease with age as many grandmothers lived with their children and cared for their grandchildren and any extraneous domestic tasks.  Even today, the Telegraph reports that in the developed world, men enjoy on average 30 to 50 minutes more leisure time per day than women (though the figures do not include the Russian Federation).[1] Despite the initial goal of gender equality in the Revolutionary and NEP era Soviet Union, the Party and government reinforced traditional gender roles for the majority of the Soviet period. As a result, it’s likely that Soviet men experienced substantially more leisure time than women and the domestic division of labor weighed heavily on women who were encouraged to both work outside of the home while also performing the majority of domestic chores.

A poll of 1,800 Russian adults published by the news outlet TASS earlier this month reveals some statistics that reinforce traditional gender norms: 54% of those polled believed men should be the primary breadwinner, while only 1% conceded that women could fulfill this roll. Only 43% believed that both men and women should work. Interestingly, 74% stated that married men and women should share housework equally, while 84% stated that both mother and father should be involved in raising their children.[2] But this is perception, rather than an actuality. Many studies have shown that perceptions of egalitarian division of domestic labor differ from reality.[3] Similarly, Małgorzata Mikucka has written about the disparity between domestic chores in Eastern Europe and Post-Socialist countries, suggesting that Soviet era forced employment of women could account for the continued inequality.[4] 

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Zenta Dzividzinska, Self-Portrait, 1968

This is one way of explaining the lack of women involved in photography clubs. Zenta Dzividzinska was a photographer, graphic designer and member of the Riga Camera Club. In addition to the disparity of available leisure time, some of Dzividzinska’s work was ridiculed by male club members because it didn’t depict women’s bodies in ways that the male club members deemed appropriate or “beautiful.” According to her daughter, art historian Alise Tifentale, this was one of the reasons her foray into art photography was short-lived, mostly taking place between 1964 and 1969. Dzividzinska’s work largely portrays the everyday life of average Soviet women in the Latvian countryside. Their worth was not determined by traditional male concepts of beauty or femininity. Rather, Dzividzinska’s representations of women focus on other aspects of personhood, particularly maternity. Her depictions of the unglamorized female form as beautiful but also utilitarian, in contrast to sexualized and glamourous male depictions of women’s bodies, were not appreciated by male photographers.

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Zenta Dzividzinska, Untitled VI, 1968

To this day, this attitude towards depictions of women persists in the former Soviet Union and is perpetuated by women as well as men. It is blatantly obvious in everything from advertising to the selfies shared by women looking for flats or flatmates on Facebook and Vkontakte (the Russian version of Facebook), a very strange phenomenon that I can’t understand as anything other than attracting a roommate or apartment based in part on their looks. It’s symptomatic of what society values about women, and concepts about the function of women, and what the culture values about women. This is not unique to the former Soviet Union by any stretch, and male-dominated concepts of femininity and women’s bodies continue to dictate what images circulate in the public sphere. Ultimately, while Dzividzinska’s work is now admired by artists and critics, it was not embraced by her peers in the photography club.

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Zenta Dzividzinaka, Untitled X, 1968

 

[1]Special Focus: Measuring Leisure in OECD Countries, https://www.oecd.org/berlin/42675407.pdf

[2] http://tass.com/society/971044

[3] Wunderink S and M. Niehoff. Division of household labour: Facts and judgements. Economist (Leiden)1997;145(3): 399–419. Gager, CT. The role of valued outcomes, justifications, and comparison of referents in perceptions of fairness among dual-earner couples. J Fam Issues. 1998; 19(5): 622–48.

[4] Mikucka, Małgorzata. “Division of Household Labor between Spouses: How Do Central and Eastern Europe Differ from the West?“ International Journal of Sociology, Vol. 39, No. 1, “Across Nations”: Trust, Fear, and Inequality: Analyses of the European Social Survey (Spring, 2009), pp. 76-94.

 

 

“Dear Editorial Collective:” Amateur Letters to Sovetskoe foto

I find the published amateur letters to the editorial collective at Sovetksoe foto, a common feature of the journal, fascinating. These letters are not unproblematic sources, because of course they were carefully selected from thousands of letters sent to the editorial staff. But, if anything, they reveal the narrative of amateurism that the editors at Sovetskoe foto wished to portray and the motivations of those sending them.

There is no evidence to suggest that the editorial board distorted the content of the letters it published apart from considerations of length and clarity. For the purpose of this blog post, what people chose to write about was shaped by their knowledge and perspective of the recent, in the Soviet case violent, past. An outlandish example, which I will nevertheless make for the sake of illustrating my point: letters publicly criticizing the Soviet government about the lack of available camera equipment in the height of the Terror were unlikely.

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What is interesting about amateur letters to Sovetskoe foto, given Stalin’s recent death, was amateurs’ willingness not only to criticize, but to identify themselves in their criticism (though it is unclear if they used their real names), and further, for the journal to publish these letters. There was no guarantee that the repressive measures of Stalinism would not be reinstated. Not all letters were critical, and those that did contain criticism were not inflammatory diatribes but rather calls to action that included improving access to chemicals, calls for better education etc. Nevertheless, from the first year after the journal was reestablished, amateur reader responses indicate broad dissatisfaction with the resources available to amateurs not only outside of Moscow, but in the capital city as well. The first complaint letter, written by Moscow amateurs V. Kulik and M. Borido voices a number of concerns, particularly the number of photography developing laboratories in Moscow, of which, at the time, there were six.[1] They complain about the length of time it takes laboratories to develop photographs (in late summer and early autumn it could take up to 3 weeks for photographs to be developed), the processing equipment available at the facilities, and the training of technicians. They expect that the upcoming 6th World Festival of Youth and Students will completely overload the labs. The authors state a that there was a disregard for amateur photographers, and more crucially a disregard for the most basic needs for all those involved in handicrafts:

“In the interests of tens of thousands of Moscow-based amateur photographers (and not only those in Moscow), the work of the existing laboratories should be improved. They must be provided with high quality chemicals and paper. It is necessary that these laboratories reduce the time it takes to complete orders and improve their services for amateur photographers.”[2]

This letter reveals a few clues as to the background and motivation of its authors. First, Kulik and Borido are apparently not very proficient amateurs as they are concerned about how lab technicians are developing photographs: were they skilled enough to develop their own images it is unlikely that they would have encountered the poor service at the three photography labs they mention in their letter. Second, they reference designs for a Moscow Central Photographic Factory, which would centralize “the separate workshops and laboratories” across the city and improve the overall quality of development facilities. To my knowledge, this plan never materialized, but it indicates a desire for further collaboration and consolidation of amateur photography. Finally, they draw attention to the World Festival of Youth and Students, and specifically that they were concerned about how foreigners would perceive the Soviet Union based on the lack of photo finishing services.

Another brief example from the same issue of the journal was written by V. Polikanov, resident of L’vov. His antipathy was specifically aimed at the director of the regional House of Folk Art, T. Poroshina, who was promoted to the position in 1955. She was refusing the L’vov photo club, which was founded in 1954, access to meeting and exhibition space which was granted by the previous director “Comrade” Volkov. She considered the activities of the club to be illegal because “the charter on the Houses of Folk Art said nothing about photography.”[3] The club appealed to the regional Department of Culture for help, but the department deferred to the director’s decision, stating that the photography club should be based at a local Palace of Culture, even though, according to Polikanov, this institution did not exist in L’vov.[4] As a result, the club was liquidated. Polikanov lamented the negative impact this had on the community because the club had significantly improved the skill of local amateurs who in turn became correspondents for the regional press and whose images had been included in All-Union magazines.

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Poroshina’s literal interpretation of the charter appears as an example of stereotypical Soviet bureaucratic ineptitude. There may be a number of reasons why she denied the club access to the House of Folk Art: she may be a stickler for the rules, she may have had disagreements with the previous director and therefore chose to reverse his decisions. Perhaps members of the photography club were particularly unruly or loud; the possibilities of her motivations are endless. Nevertheless, Polikonov (and thousands of other amateur photographers) trusted the editors of Sovetskoe foto enough to write them about this disagreement and expected them to intervene on the club’s behalf.

For amateur photographers, letters to Sovetskoe foto’s editorial collective reveal the ubiquity of criticism directed at local institutions and the perceived deficiencies of the current system. In publishing these letters, the editors knowingly disseminated and solicited this information from readers.

[1]Kulik and Borido mention three laboratories in particular, one at Metrostroevskaya Ul. 6 (now Ostozhenka Ul.), the second at Arbat 41, and the third in the Tagansky District.

[2] V. Kulik and M. Borido, “Luchshe udovletvoriat’ zaprosy fotoliubitelei,” Sovetskoe foto no. 6 (1957): 75.

[3] V. Polikanov, “Vozobnovit’ rabotu L’vovskogo fotokluba,” Sovetskoe foto no. 6 (1957): 76-77.

[4]  The Hotkevich Palace of Culture was completed in 1934, it is unclear why Polikanov did not attempt to move club activities to this location.

Sites of Violence: Moscow’s Monument to Kalashnikov

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Moscow’s Kalashnikov Monument

I tend to shy away from publicly asserting my opinions about contemporary Russian politics and policies generally, because I am an outsider, albeit one whose ideas and opinions are informed by personal and professional interests. My lack of involvement is not indicative of my particular views, but rather a recognition that my participation could carry very significant professional consequences. This week’s blog, in contrast to previous posts, is about how memories of the Soviet past are shaped and represented by memorial statues, not only geographically, but also by recent political and cultural events. While not explicitly about photography, the number of locals and tourists photographing these memorials certainly plays a role in how the Soviet Union is perceived and how the current regime is representing the Soviet past. In writing this post, I am attempting to abstain from propagating my personal views, but rather presenting how recent events relate to that which the current regime chooses to memorialize.

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Business Center behind Kalashnikov Memorial

At Tuesday’s unveiling of the Kalashnikov monument in the Tverskoi District of Moscow, an area previously characterized by memorials and museums dedicated to Russian and Soviet literary giants Pushkin, Bulgakov, and Mayakovsky, there was not a particularly large crowd. Located in front of what I consider to be a neo-Stalinist business center (inspired by Stalinist or Socialist Classicism), the monument is actually two memorials. The first is a 26-foot statute of Kalashnikov cradling an AK-47. The second, is a depiction of St. George slaying the dragon, a common subject of Russian orthodox iconography, with bas-relief assault rifles. This second monument has been somewhat embarrassing, and on Friday, the city was compelled to remove a portion of the relief because it was revealed that it depicted not an AK-47, but a Sturmgewehr 44, a weapon used by Nazi soldiers at the end of World War II and created by German arms designer Hugo Schmeisser. The sculptor of the Kalashnikov monument, Salavat Shcherbakov, has admitted that the mistake was essentially the poor result of a google search but, as one of my friends noted, it is almost a Freudian slip given that there is some speculation whether it was Schmeisser, not Kalashnkov, who actually designed the AK-47. In 1945 Schmeisser was one of 16 German weapons designers “evacuated” by the Red Army and forced to work at the Izhevsk Machine Building Plant where Kalashnikov developed the AK-47 in 1946. Schmeisser was allowed to return to Germany only in 1952 and died the following year.

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Original Monument with Sturmgewehr 44
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Monument with Sturmgewehr 44 removed

Shcherbokov was already a controversial figure before mislabeled images on the internet led him astray. He was also the artist behind the divisive 55-foot statue of Vladimir the Great that stands just outside the Kremlin. This statue was originally meant to stand at the top of Sparrow Hills, with Prince Vladimir’s back to Moscow State University, towering over the city from one of the highest vantage points in the metropolis – reminiscent of the positioning of the Art Deco Christ the Redeemer in Rio de Janeiro. The presence of Prince Vladimir in Moscow, however, deepened Russia’s already fractious relationship with Ukraine: Vladimir ruled Kievan Rus from Kiev, not Moscow, from 980 to 1015 and was descended from Prince Rurik who established himself in Novgorod in 862. Critics of the statue see this as a sort of cultural appropriation of non-Russian heritage, which is part of a larger pan-Slavic project that hierarchically situates Russians as a first among equals, similar to Russian’s status within the Soviet Union (in truth, Prince Vladimir and the entire Rurik dynasty were neither Russian nor Ukrainian, but Vikings who settled in Rus, a geographical area that is split between contemporary Russia and Ukraine). Vladimir, for opponents of the statue’s presence in Moscow, belongs in Kiev and to Ukrainian history.

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Photograph of Vladimir the Great by Natalia Kolesnikova, AFP

Salavat Shcherbakov has admitted that the inclusion of the AK-47 in Kalashnikov’s hands is meant as an identifier: people may not know to whom the memorial is dedicated in the absence of the automatic weapon. This may be true. But Soviet era monuments in the Tverskoi District do not incorporate such clues to identify their heroes: Neither the Mayakovsky statue nor the original Pushkin statue, erected in 1956 and repositioned in 1937 respectively, and both a short walk away from Kalashnikov’s monument, use books, papers, pens, quills etc. to demonstrate how these men contributed to Russian history and culture (though Pushkin is universally recognizable among Russians). Shcherbakov said that his design was representative of “the eternal struggle between good and evil,” describing the AK-47 as a “weapon for good.”

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Puskin Statue on Pushkin Square, Photograph from the Moscow Times

The use of an object of violence to recognize Kalashnikov’s place in Russian history is interesting. First, Kalashnikov himself had a fraught relationship with his creation, at times saying that he was unashamed of the mass destruction it was capable of, at others questioning how he, as an Orthodox Christian, could have produced such an invention. Second, and in contrast to Shcherbakov’s “weapon for good” assertion, Russian journalist Oleg Kashin revealed to reporters from DW that “In today’s Russia it has become entirely normal to speak of war not as a tragedy but rather as good advertising for Russian arms.” As portrayed by the statue, the AK-47 is not an object of destruction, but instead cradled as if it is the child of its the creator, not an object that, at its very core, is destructive. It is represented as a source of pride.

The 35 million-ruble ($538,000) Kalashnikov monument was inaugurated by the Minister of Culture, the Moscow Mayor, and Father Konstantin of the Russian Orthodox Church. This is of course indicative of the closeness between the Orthodox Church and the current Russian government, which is not particularly revealing. Nevertheless, that representatives of the church would agree to bless the statue, given its content, outwardly seems to condone the use of firearms. While Russian gun control laws are relatively strict, supporting an object of violence is unsurprising given recent legal developments, which impact women and minorities. There are a growing number of vocal and dangerous far-right nationalists which have been allowed to thrive and promote similar views as the Alt-right in the United States. In 2014, the Russian bill “for the Purpose of Protecting Children from Information Advocating for the Denial of Traditional Family Values,” or what has been called the “Gay Propaganda Law,” was unanimously approved by the State Duma. Not only does this law discriminate against the LGBTQ community, but the law is vague enough that simply providing information about STD protection to a minor could be interpreted as a federal crime. It also further stigmatizes the already marginalized group of AIDS victims and AIDS prevention workers. In February of this year, Putin signed into law a bill that decriminalized first offenses of domestic violence that do not result in serious injuries that require hospital treatment. These laws and nationalist groups promote violence – and the decision to erect a statue in the center of the capital city to Kalashnikov, whether deliberately or coincidentally, further contributes to its normalization.

Historically, the public squares of the Tverskoi District have been sites of protest but also sites of violence. In the 1950s and 1960s, the Mayakovsky and Pushkin squares were the gathering places of unofficial poets and political dissidents, but also the site of their subjugation and arrest. In June, Navalny’s peaceful anti-corruption protest in Moscow resulted in the arrest of over 700 activists, including Navalny himself, and the protest was surrounded by armed authorities whose very presence was harassing and intimidating. Though serious violence was, on the whole, avoided, the potential for violence was palpable and the tension was tangible. The following week the whole event was repeated in a second wave of protests. From now on, if and when protesters are confronted by armed police and OMON officers as they demonstrate in the Tvereskoi District, they will also be under the watchful eye of Kalashnikov and his invention.

Kalashnikov himself did not live in Moscow, as some critics of the statue have been quick to point out. But the overwhelming response from Muscovites, at least those willing to talk to reporters, has been that of approval. Similarly, what is surprising is the number of young and middle-aged citizens who support the statue and are willing to share their varying ideas about what it represents. All of this is to say that, in honoring this aspect of the Soviet past, the Russian government has memorialized, accepted, and normalized this specter of violence. Purportedly, every fifth firearm in the world is a Kalashnikov and in honoring and glorifying its invention, the Russian government is not only tolerating but promoting the violent ends for which the weapon was created.

Regulating Photography Clubs and The Lithuanian SSR Society of Art Photography

The regulation of amateur photographic images in the Soviet Union was a perpetual concern for photography critics. The issue of amateur expertise was a central source of apprehension: small clubs were usually geographically distant from major cities, which meant that access to the necessary supplies were less frequent (it was not cameras that were in short supply, but rather paper and chemicals). Though, that which was available was not always desirable and played a role in stylistic and creative choices. For instance, Aleksandras Macijauskas admitted that the “unusual angles, diagonal perspective, and the grotesque-looking faces” of his subjects were because used an extra wide-angle lens.[1]  There were no other lenses available for him to purchase. More problematic for critics at the time, however, was that small groups lacked guidance, both technically and aesthetically. On their own, small clubs would be harmless, if misguided: but often small clubs would provide illustrations for the local press, pamphlets and factory wall newspapers. It was the dissemination of these unregulated (or poorly regulated) images that plagued critics and the editors at Sovetskoe foto.

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Aleksandras Macijauskas, In the Market, 1972

This was less of a problem for larger clubs, but club leadership remained a concern. In most clubs, a board elected by the members of the group adopted a charter that defined the shape of club life and outlined the “rights” of the participants (rules for club exhibitions, rules for the future election of board members, etc.). Clubs held periodic meetings, usually once weekly or twice monthly, in which members discussed images and participated in practical exercises. These meetings culminated in an annual or bi-annual exhibitions. Many clubs defined their exhibitions as a sort of “propaganda photography,” which provided an “aesthetic education” for an uneducated audience.[2] If a club was mismanaged, or allowed for “slipshod snapshots” to be included in club exhibitions, this incorrect propaganda would spread to other club members, the audience of the exhibition, etc. Similarly, in gathering like-minded individuals, large clubs had the potential to breed deviation from standard aesthetic conventions set by Sovetskoe foto and official photography publications. These fears were justifiable. For example: The art collective Vremia (Time) was founded by Kharkiv photo club members Jury Rupin and Evgeny Pavlov in 1971 and included Boris Mikhailov, Oleg Malevany, Gennady Tubalev, Aleksandr Suprun, Aleksandr Sitnichenko and Anatoly Makienko. Gunārs Binde and Jānis Gleizds, members of the Riga photo club produced experimental images that, at the time, would have been considered pornographic. Their descent, if you will, into experimental, unofficial and Sots art, was a direct result of their participation in amateur clubs.  Thus, the lack of official regulatory structures across the whole of the Soviet Union allowed for that which was most undesirable: the circulation of either deliberately or unintentionally anti-Soviet photographs.

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Boris Mikhailov, from the series Superimpositions, 1960-1970
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Preparing for the exhibition Amber Lands in Šiauliai. Aleksandras Macijauskas, 1971

In Lithuania, the only republic to organize a photography union outside of the Journalists’ Union, the LSSR Society of Art Photography, or FMD, was founded by professional photojournalists and amateur photographers in October 1969. This regulatory organization developed as a response to the unique political situation in Soviet Lithuania, in part due to Antanas Sniečkus’ cautious promotion of national culture. Yet, this organization in and of itself was quite different from what many critics desired because it removed photography from its own independent categorization (by 1969 the general consensus amongst photography theorists was that photography occupied its own classification outside both art and photojournalism) and instead placed it under the ostensible control of bureaucratic institutions that “viewed art photography as merely a genre of photojournalism.”[3] And yet, on the surface, this model proved remarkably effective at resolving the complications voiced by critics. The FMD “was the only institution in Soviet Lithuania that specialized in the production and distribution of photography, as well as photographic education” and its “activity encompassed the creative work of professional and amateur photographers.”[4] Professional members of the Society received benefits much like members of other artistic unions, including a stipend that allowed them to independently fund their work without commissions or contracts. Each photograph that “was to be made public” was first reviewed by the Art Council of the FMD before any further evaluation was considered by censors, journal editors, and so forth.[5]

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Announcement of the Lithuanian SSR Exhibition of Amateur Photographers, 1977

 

[1] Vytautas Michelkevicius, “The Lithuanian SSR Society of Art photography (1969-1989): An Image Production Network,” Vilnius: Vilnius Academy of Arts Press, 2011, 111.

[2] . V. Stigneev, Fototvorchestvo Rossii: Istoriia, razviti i sovremennoe sostoianie fotoliubitel’stva, Moskva: “Planeta,” 40.

[3] Vytautas Michelkevicius, “The Lithuanian SSR Society of Art photography (1969-1989), 117.

[4] Ibid, 97.

[5] Ibid, 101.

Gunārs Binde and the Rīga Photo Club

The Photography Club “Rīga” was formed in 1962 by photographer Vilnis Folkmanis and a number of other photographers in the city. Prominent members included Gunārs Binde, Jānis Gleizds, Leonīds Tugaļevs, Vilhelms Mihailovskis, Valdis Brauns and Egons Spuris. Over the years, approximately 400 people from Rīga participated in the club in some way or another and organized exhibitions both in Latvia and abroad through their photo studio. In the mid-1970s, the club was awarded its first international grand prize at an exhibition in France, and the studio received at least one prize every year afterwards, either in the USSR, or in various exhibitions abroad. In the late 1980s the Rīga photography club also arranged lectures at local universities. Unsurprisingly, the majority of lectures were devoted to compulsory Marxist-Leninist aesthetics, but, according to one publication, the “students generally had a strong general knowledge of photography techniques and history.”[1]

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Gunārs Binde, The Beginning, 1967

Interestingly, archival sources indicate that organized amateur photography in Latvia began in 1957 as part of a directive from the USSR Ministry of Culture in Moscow, which stipulated that Latvian photographers should participate in an All-Union Exhibition dedicated to the 40th anniversary of the Great October Socialist Revolution.[2] To participate in the All-Union Exhibition, each republic was required to hold their own local exhibition and the most “successful” photographs would then be submitted to the All-Union exhibition. The exhibition was held at the Latvian SSR Museum of Latvian and Russian Art (now the Latvian National Museum of Art) in Rīga and while not much is known about the participants, records show that the exhibition included 256 photographs.

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Gunārs Binde, Jealousy, 1965

Despite the top-down initiative which led to the establishment of photography clubs across Latvia (and the Soviet republics generally), my research indicates that many clubs were self-regulating and did not have strong ties to either central or local cultural authorities. The sheer number of clubs, as well as the varying skill levels of club participants, geographical location, and the size of the club meant that access to education, but also censorship, was uneven at best (fueling anxiety from photojournalists and photography critics, as I have discussed previously). By 1968 there were photo studios and clubs at the Palace of Culture of the State Electro-Technical Factory, the Tram and Trolleybus Administration, the Electro-Mechanical Technical College, the College of Building, the ‘17 June’ Factory, the Technical College of Cultural and Education Workers, the Liquor and Vodka Factory, the Musical Instruments Factory, the Club of Trading Workers, the Train Carriage Factory, and the Main Board of Pharmacies, to mention a few.[3]

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Gunārs Binde, Motherland, Oaks, 1957

Rīga, however, stood out due to its size and reputation for being “avant-garde” among Soviet photography clubs. This notoriety was largely due to Gunārs Binde’s work, which, in 1965, received the gold medal at the XXIX Salón Internacional de Arte Fotográfico in Argentina and was reprinted in countless journals in Latvia and across Eastern Europe. In many ways, Binde’s experimental photography is not a typical representation of the Rīga photo club in general, nor of photography in the Soviet Union as a whole, which plausibly is the reason why the club gained its “avant-garde” reputation. If one were to consider Soviet photography of the 1950s and 1960s as firmly oriented in a Modernist paradigm (which I would argue, was the case for many Soviet photographers and certainly the style promoted in the journal Sovetskoe foto), Binde’s images from the 1960s look more like a transition between, or rather, amalgamation of, Western Modernism and the developing Postmodernist Conceptualist and Sots-Art movements. This makes his notoriety within the contemporary Soviet context more puzzling, as Soviet non-conformist art was not recognized as “art” among cultural authorities. Perhaps, however, photography’s amorphous official categorization as a medium which was decidedly “not art” may have played a role in the success of Binde’s photographs.

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Gunārs Binde, Botticelli 71, 1970

[1] “Mākslas fotogrāfija,” Baltic Forums, vol. 2, (1985), p. 97.

[2] Order No. 467 issued by the Minister of Culture of the Latvian SSR Jānis Ostrovs on 29 May 1957. The State Archives of Latvia, 678. f., 2. apr.,160. l., 1.

[3] The State Archives of Latvia, 1583. f., 3. apr., 22. l., 15., 19., 23., 35., 42., 53., 72., 73., 112.