A Modern Manifesto for Russian Studies
The Bolshoi Theatre (Photo by don-vip via Wikimedia Commons)
Russian studies are experiencing a re-evaluation, one that is perhaps long overdue.
With Putin’s invasion of Ukraine in February of last year, Western theatres, galleries, and other cultural institutions began to cut ties with Russia: the Royal Opera house cancelled the Bolshoi Theatre’s residency in London, the Munich Opera House fired its director over connections with Russia, and the Venice Biennale cancelled the Russian pavilion.
It is not surprising that in the context of a raging war, Europe’s most prestigious institutions were keen to avoid any suggestion that they were celebrating the culture of an international aggressor.
Indeed, the link between Russian culture and Russian power has become the elephant in the room in Slavonic faculties across the country. The question remains unanswered and troubling: the West is fighting against Russian economic and military power, but should we seek to do the same with Russian cultural exports?
Throughout history, art and authority in Russia have been intertwined; culture has served both to bolster and to critique the country’s rulers and their regime. Many of the most famous Russian writers and artists are those who maintained openly antagonistic relations with the authorities. Pushkin and Lermontov were both once exiled for their anti-tsarist writings; Solzhenitsyn and Bulgakov exposed the cruelties and absurdities of the Soviet system; and Dostoevsky received a death sentence for his distribution of anti-tsarist works. Because these authors are emblematic of Russia, Russian culture’s locus could be perceived as outside the reach of the authorities, if not in open conflict with them. However, Aleksandrov’s Circus (1936), that we study in first year at Cambridge, is one such example of works that were created to spread the party’s ideals and ideology. The paintings, posters, and other propaganda of the Soviet era are also part of the cultural legacy that has created the of Russia today.
Even from these few examples that I have cited, it is already evident that Russian culture is not a monolith. It is difficult to condemn “Russian Culture” broadly because it is unclear how said “culture” ought to be defined. Is it Romantic, poetic, and free-spirited like Lermontov and Pushkin? Is it Stalin’s bright red propaganda? Is it the mix of nostalgia for the USSR and dizzy capitalist thrills that 1990s Russian culture portrays? Few would suggest that Pussy Riot’s punk feminism and Ostrovsky’s How the Steel Was Tempered have much in common, yet they both pertain to Russian culture.
Beyond the troublesome ambiguity of culture and the intellectual difficulties that it presents, we must not forget that art is also a concrete asset and political tool. Like many governments, Russia uses the export of its culture to exert its soft power. The Russkiy Mir Foundation, which serves to promote Russian culture and values abroad, was established by Putin in 2007, the same year as his Munich Conference speech that is often credited as the first manifestation of his stance against perceived Western “aggression” and encroachment. Even after the invasion of Ukraine, Russkiy Mir continues to fund shows within the Federation, and across CIS countries. The faces and names of prominent Russians such as Tchaikovsky, Eisenstein, and Surikov adorn their homepage. By posting features about the oppression of Russian clergy in Ukraine alongside competitions marking Tchaikovsky’s anniversary, this governmental organ aims to shape the narrative surrounding Russian culture by claiming historical artistic figures and artistic production for the government’s benefit.
However, I would argue that this should not prevent our consumption of these works outside the context of state-funded exhibitions. Whilst paying to attend a Russian state-run show may be morally dubious, purchasing an English-printed copy of Crime and Punishment, attending a Chekhov play in Paris, or listening to a recording of Rachmaninov’s sonatas does not have the same ethical bearing.
Yet, there is one final unresolved issue that could serve to hamper our continued appetite for Russian culture: Russia’s imperial past and how it is represented. From the sixties and seventies onwards, postcolonial lenses have been applied to English literature. As decolonisation processes sparked across the world, European scholars were forced to re-evaluate the role that their artistic works played in oppression. Whether it was the fact that Russia was already seen as a mysterious Orient to Western Europeans, or whether Soviet atrocities under Stalin attracted critical attention elsewhere, Russia, despite being one of the world’s largest historical empires, seems to have avoided a similar critique. Consequently, this field is ripe for exploration and many scholars are already producing a plethora of works across a broad range of topics.
Just as with English literature, postcolonial studies do not represent the death of Russian culture, but rather a possibility for re-invigoration. For some, the new focus on Russia’s imperial and Soviet “periphery” detracts from the visions of Pushkin, Petersburg, and poetry that Russian culture is often reduced to. In my view, this can only be positive. Indeed, with more and more Russian students being sent to former Russian colonies or Soviet satellite states on their years abroad, Russian studies has already become far less Russo-centric. Instead of returning from Moscow and St Petersburg and reproducing the same visions of Soviet legacies and Russian history, students coming back from Georgia or Kazakhstan will have heard and retained different perspectives on this country.
The re-evaluation of Russian culture that is already underway may kill Russian studies as we know it: fetishist visions of Red stars, exiled poets, snow, and birch forests are now far less palatable as Russia leads a deathly war in Ukraine. However, this does not mean that Russian studies are permanently tainted, it merely requires us to approach Russian studies with a nuanced perspective. We can no longer ignore Russia’s colonial legacy and we should also be wary of how the Russian government aims to package its culture as a soft power tool. Yet we must keep reading and studying these texts, not only for their philosophical insight and aesthetic value, but because generations of Russian writers, painters, and dissidents used their works to critique the very same abuses of power and restrictions of freedom of which the Russian government is now guilty.
As Russian students we can lean into this legacy, rather than the hegemonic vision of a war-glorious and dominant Russia that Putin wants us to credit.