Negotiating Socialist Realism

Throughout the Soviet period, artistic developments were closely connected to the changing socio-political context of the country. This was the case even in the early years of the socialist state, the early 1920s, when policy-makers did not pay much attention to art. In that period, the prominent tsarist-era artists who preferred avant-garde styles continued to enjoy dominant positions among the artists involved in the newly created national art unions. At the same time, the “artisanal” folklore-type of art was developing freely under the “national in form” dictum (Tagangaeva Reference Tagangaeva2017, 396–399; Boynazarov Reference Boynazarov2018, 117–118). It was only in 1932, under Stalinist control, when artists, as “engineers of souls,” as Rosenthal (Reference Rosenthal2002) puts it, “were invited to participate in socialist construction” (294). At that time, art officially commenced its ideological path and was expected to become a visual manifestation of communist politics. This new policy, largely caused by Stalin’s reaction to the growth of the avant-garde, marked the end of this genre and also curbed folklore art, or rather, effectively reframed it in the Soviet realm.

To support ideological ambitions of building the socialist state, as well as to define the parameters for acceptable artworks, socialist realism was selected as the official style of cultural and artistic production across the vast Soviet space. Initially born from the literary tradition, socialist realism later penetrated other fields of art (painting, sculpture, and architecture) and the dominant arts of that time (music, theatre, and film). All cultural and artistic production was supposed to adhere to the precepts of this style, turning it into a doctrine—in other words, a set of firm principles and clear instructions. Andrey Zhdanov, the Stalinist ideological officer, defined “socialist realism as a faithful reflection of the reality in its revolutionary development” (as cited in Golomshtok Reference Golomshtok, Rueschemeyer, Golomshtok and Kennedy1985, 21). As one of the Tajik artists characterized this doctrine, “an eye [in an artwork] should look like a real eye, otherwise the officials would not like it.”Footnote ⁶ The style and the topic converged: from now on academic representation (known as akademizm) was supposed to accompany socialist themes.

Socialist realism differed from naturalism. Within the new doctrine, it was important to depict not so much life as it was in the present, but rather to show what was “emerging or developing” in the socialist state, as well as what “was destined to become a part of the communist future” (Groys Reference Groys2008, 143). Another important feature of socialist realism was that “ … artistic depiction must [had to] be combined with the task of the ideological transformation and education of the workers in the spirit of socialism” (Czepczynski Reference Czepczynski2016, 91). As a result, by depicting a glorious, socialist future, artworks were supposed to enlighten people living in the Soviet Union in line with the core Soviet values. The policy-makers believed that educating people through art would not only allow socialist aspirations to be raised among them, but ultimately would facilitate the creation of a new type of person, a truly Soviet man. Participation in this Soviet project offered artists stable contracts and prestigious orders, public recognition, as well as a broad display of their works and media coverage—unimaginable for artists working in capitalist systems (see Kiaer Reference Kiaer2005, 335–336).

As mentioned above, art has accompanied, hand-in-hand, any event occurring in the Soviet state. For example, the five-year plans concerning collectivization and industrialization across the Soviet Union would determine the themes of the current artistic and cultural production. Scenes from kolkhoz or factories became one of the most popular motives in paintings. In 1941, in the context of the Great Patriotic War (or the Eastern Front of World War II), artists were mobilized to support the fight of Soviet citizens against the fascists (Boynazarov Reference Boynazarov2018, 131). In the post-war period, artists were tasked to depict the state efforts to ensure a peaceful life for its people. Despite its clear guidelines, Soviet cultural life and artistic production were never straightforward, even under Stalin (see Reid Reference Reid1998; Kiaer and Naiman Reference Kiaer and Naiman2005). For example, Kiaer’s (Reference Kiaer2005) analysis of a career of a prominent artist Aleksandr Deineka, whose artworks exemplified the socialist realism style, reveals a high degree of subjectivity in his artistic practice and a personal take on socialist bodies and subjects, rather than blind subordination to five-year plans.

The death of Stalin in 1953 and consequent de-Stalinization policies impacted the artistic circles by significantly liberating policies with regard to artistic production. Much of the previously banned literature, music, and art was now available to the public. However, while the socialist realism doctrine was relaxed significantly, it was not cancelled. Yet, broader and more flexible interpretations were allowed. This new pluralism has led to a rediscovery of the Russian modernist tradition and even incorporation of some Western European art (Reid Reference Reid1996). These political dynamics affected not only the artistic climate in Leningrad (now St. Petersburg) and Moscow, but also influenced the everyday work of artists in the non-Russian Soviet periphery, such as Soviet Tajikistan, where the Soviet rule until that time arguably displayed more ambiguous, colonial-like features (see Abashin Reference Abashin2015; Kassymbekova Reference Kassymbekova2016; see also Stronski Reference Stronski2010, 4). Nevertheless, as Ayni (Reference Ayni1975) writes referring to de-Stalinization in the Tajik SSR, “artistic principles [there] evolved during this period of heated and passionate debates in the big art centers of the country” (8, our translation). She further writes that while, until the early 1950s, Tajik art was characterized by the thrust for documentary and dry images which were indifferently copied from the Russian museums, starting from the 1960s some “liberation of forms from impeding and accustomed formulas” (Ayni Reference Ayni1975, 11, our translation) was witnessed. In that period, naturalist representation weakened and Tajik art witnessed what Dodkhudoeva (Reference Dodkhudoeva2006) calls “a certain democratization of the art language” (73, our translation). Given the attention paid to the so-called “nationalities question” by the Soviet elite starting from the 1920s (see Tagangaeva Reference Tagangaeva2017), art started being more actively deployed at that time as a means to acknowledge the nationalities living in Soviet republics—more and more on their own terms.

The period of our particular interest in the Soviet Union concerns the 1970s—the so-called mature, stable socialism under the General Secretary Leonid Brezhnev (1964–1982). One particular feature of this time was that artworks, and in particular visual monumental art which was easy to display in open spaces, started being widely placed in the public domain (see Kuleshova Reference Kuleshova1975). Explaining socialist ideological ambitions, Korolev (Reference Korolev and Kuleshova1975) writes that they “has [have] its own laws with regard to formation of the space—the interpenetration of spiritual and spatial environment” (8, our translation). Back then, art became a popular, proletariat-oriented tool of collective identity construction. It left museums, art galleries, and exhibitions, and moved to the streets to decorate public buildings.

With the arrival of Mikhail Gorbachev and the launch of perestroika and glasnost in the mid-1980s, the Soviet economic and political system started to tremble, which led to official opening up of cultural and artistic policies—although, as we argue, in practice these changes have been ongoing for much longer. In 1988, socialist realism officially ended. In that period, a more vivid application of art as a tool in nation-building and identity formation could be witnessed. Artists were encouraged to depict local traditions, historical (pre-Soviet) events, national dresses, and heroes. In Soviet Central Asia, this period was characterized by the strengthening of national identities and the rise of nationalist movements, pushing for “national” agendas (Brown Reference Brown1990). This corresponded with the cultural and “national” revival in non-Russian Soviet republics (Tagangaeva Reference Tagangaeva2017, 407; Dodkhudoeva Reference Dodkhudoeva2006, 144), which was visible for example in attempts to “nationalize” socialist discourses in locally created artworks, in order to ensure public resonance. Yet, as our third case study from Soviet Tajikistan will show, the “national” meant not only “Tajik,” but also involved opening a new space for an independent agency of local artists.

The Invention of “Monumental Propaganda”

Visual monumental art has always occupied a special place in Soviet artistic production. While other types of art might not have been of interest to Soviet policy-makers in the 1920s, this particular genre started being systematically used as an ideological tool soon after the establishment of the Bolshevik regime. Already in 1918, Lenin had ordered what he described as a “monumental propaganda” (Russian: monumental’naya propaganda) to be launched, a process which started by decorating major Russian cities with statues of heroes of the Bolshevik revolution, and covering centrally located buildings with Marxist-Leninist slogans (Tolstoy Reference Tolstoy1958, 7–8; Lunacharsky Reference Lunacharsky1982, 51).

Elaborating on his plan of monumental propaganda, Lenin asked Anatoly Lunacharky, a writer and leading cultural ideologist, if he remembered

In late 1918, the plan for monumental propaganda started to be put into effect with the creation of the first revolutionary sculptures in Petrograd (in 1924 renamed Leningrad) and Moscow. Busts and sculptures of prominent communists and revolutionary figures had already been placed in many cities across the country in 1920. Lenin, however, believed that his plan was unsuccessful, given that he expected faster and more visible results. The artworks were not ideological enough. The main reason behind the plan’s weak implementation was that this new Soviet monumental art was created by relying on the experience and knowledge of the artists educated in the pre-Soviet “bourgeoisie system,” and who, as the Bolsheviks believed, could not easily break with their old worldviews (Shleev Reference Shleev1987, 277). Already then, the human factor had turned fundamental. Therefore, “a lot of ideological and educational work has [had] to be conducted with the artists, who were professionally mature but ideologically weak” (Shleev Reference Shleev1987, 277). These factors significantly impeded the expected ideological impact of monumental art on the people.

Monumental art steadily developed over the following decades, under the influence of artists and theoreticians such as Evgeniy Lansere. His principle “from the conditions of the place to the subject” (Russian: Ot usloviy mesta – k syuzhetu) (Tolstoy Reference Tolstoy and Vera1975, 116), pointing to the interlinked function of the building and the ideological message of an artwork, became the basis of this genre.

Only in 1956, during the first Congress of Soviet Artists in Moscow, was monumental art officially declared an important part not only of the ideology, but also of Soviet art (Tolstoy Reference Tolstoy1958, 3). Vladimir Tolstoy, who, following the congress, was tasked with the preparation of the first compendium on the achievements of Soviet visual monumental art (Russian: monumental’naya zhivopis), writes about the political function of this type of art:

The idea to “shape people’s thoughts,” to paraphrase Tolstoy, was particularly relevant in places where locally established normativities escaped the Soviet logic, as, for example, in Muslim Central Asia, including Tajikistan.

Visual Monumental Art in Soviet Tajikistan

In Soviet Tajikistan, the first artworks within the visual monumental art tradition were only created in 1948–49. While pre-Soviet Tajikistan had a rich tradition of folk arts, including ceramics, traditional jewelry, wood carving, carpet weaving, knitting, and embroidery (Dodkhudoeva Reference Dodkhudoeva2011), as well as some experience in Persian miniature and Islamic calligraphy and ornaments (Dodkhudoeva Reference Dodkhudoeva2006, 8), for the initial decades under the Soviet rule it lacked a local community of artists who would have been educated in the tradition of contemporary fine arts. From Moscow’s perspective, the local artistic scene was thus backward in two ways. Not only did it lack a socialist spirit, it lacked, to start with, familiarity with European art traditions upon which social realism was built. As a result, the first monumental artworks in the republic were made by artists of Russian origin, who were sent from Leningrad and Moscow to Stalinabad (Dushanbe’s name between 1929 and 1961), the newly-founded capital of the Tajik SSR (see Ayni Reference Ayni1972, 18; Boynazarov Reference Boynazarov2018, 108).Footnote ⁸ The first 1948–49 Soviet artworks took the form of ceiling and wall painting portraying the local population working in Soviet collective cotton farms (Tolstoy Reference Tolstoy1958, 196–198). In contrast with the tendencies in Soviet Russia, in the periphery these works decorated mainly the interiors of government buildings and were not accessible to the wider population.

It was only in the 1960s that the first generation of local artists, who were born in the late 1920s and later educated through state-funded stipends in art institutes in Leningrad and Moscow (Ayni Reference Ayni1972, 19; Dodkhudoeva Reference Dodkhudoeva2006, 11; Boynazarov Reference Boynazarov2018, 164), gradually became involved in decorating public spaces across the Tajik SSR.Footnote ⁹ As our mapping conducted with the Dushanbe-based Bactria Cultural CenterFootnote ¹⁰ shows, the first two smalti mosaics in Dushanbe,Footnote ¹¹ located on the 1957 thermal power plant, were created in 1970. This is relatively late in comparison with other parts of the Soviet Union and Eastern European satellite states, where this type of monumental art was already starting to develop in the 1950s (see, for example, Giedroń Reference Giedroń2014 on Poland; Nikiforov et al. Reference Nikiforov, Balashova and German2017 on Ukraine; and BACU 2018 on Rumania and Moldova).

The two thermal power plant mosaicsFootnote ¹² were a joint work by three artists: Khushvakht Khushvaqtov (born in Rushan in 1926 and educated at the Moscow Art Institute named after Surikov), Zuhur Habibullaev (born in Dushanbe in 1932 and a graduate from the Leningrad Higher Industrial School named after Mukhina), and Grigoriy Cherednicheko (born in Soviet Russia in 1927). The first wall shows an athletic man holding an atomic nucleus in his huge hands. This image hints at the ability of humans to control nuclear power, as well as the competition between the Eastern and Western blocs. Another wall depicts men wearing traditional Tajik coats (Tajik: joma) and playing local instruments (Tajik: karnay). This mosaic is accompanied by a Russian quotation stating: “Communism is the Soviet power. Electrification of the whole country. Lenin,” which calls the proletariat to work harder to foster the electrification of the country. These first smalti mosaics are clearly ideological in the realm of socialist realism, which perhaps reflects the education that the authors obtained under Stalinism in centrally located art schools, where the ideological framework was more pronounced. While the characters might be wearing local clothes, which aimed to make the message closer to people in Soviet Tajikistan, the meaning fully complies with the Soviet ideology. In other words, the mosaics are somewhat folkloristically “national” in form, and clearly socialist in content.

Soviet-Tajik monumental art broke with this literal reading of socialist realism with the arrival of the second generation of local monumental artists. Here, the most prominent names include Murivat Beknazarov, Sabzali Sharipov, and Isuf Sangov in the field of mosaics, as well as Valimad Odinaev, Surhob Qurbanov, Ziyoratsho Dovutov, Nosirbek Nazribekov, and Evgeniy Prosmushkin who worked on other monumental art genres, such as stained glass windows and wall paintings.Footnote ¹³ Many artists who belonged to the second generation were born in the mid-1940s, or later, and often grew up in poor, large families in rural areas. Unlike many Soviet Tajik intellectuals who originated from pre-Soviet noble families (Tajik: asilzodagon) and developed an ambiguous attitude towards the Soviet power (see Roberts Reference Roberts2016; O’Connor Reference O’Connor2018), many of these artists were raised either in orphanages (Russian: detdomy) or in the children’s residential state institutions (Russian: internaty) which used to forge a new type of national-Sovietized intelligentsia (see Rashidov Reference Rashidov2019).Footnote ¹⁴ Furthermore, their formative years coincided with de-Stalinization, which in Soviet Central Asia manifested itself through “decolonization” and broadening the understanding of Sovietness (Abashin Reference Abashin2015).

After obtaining basic artistic education at the Art College in Dushanbe, in the late 1960s and 1970s, these promising young artists received scholarships to study monumental art in specialized schools, such as the Estonian Academy of Arts in Tallinn and the Theatre and Art Institute named after Ostrovkiy in Tashkent, or similar distinguished institutes across the Soviet Union. Importantly, these places were also peripheral and, consequently, not as “highly centralized and hierarchical” (Reid Reference Reid1996, 31) as Moscow and Leningrad. There, Soviet ideology was more complex and unequivocal. As Boynazarov (Reference Boynazarov2018) writes referring to the artistic atmosphere in Soviet Tajikistan, upon return “they actively pave[d] new paths in art” (170, our translation). This generation worked relying on a variety of styles and techniques simultaneously, developing diverse preferences with regard to the choice of subjects and modes of representation, and creating their own unique tastes and styles. They were creative and confident, working within socialist realism and, simultaneously, openly playing with it in accordance with their individual preferences. Importantly, as our interviews show, these artists did not see themselves in opposition to the state.Footnote ¹⁵ For them, Moscow was simply not the only reference of the Soviet.

Being an artist in Soviet Tajikistan in the 1970s, especially a monumental artist, was both prestigious and profitable. Because of their didactical function and location in public spaces, mosaics were given preference over other art genres. As a Tajik monumental artist comments, “I could work on one mosaic for a factory for a few months, and the income would allow me to work freely on whatever I wanted for the next two years.”Footnote ¹⁶ Furthermore, funding for this type of art was more generous because it was allocated not by the Ministry of Culture, but mostly by state industrial enterprises or other public institutions, such as schools or hospitals, which were supposed to be covered with mosaics.Footnote ¹⁷ Notably, in this way the circle of decision-makers in the field of monumental art further broadened. Another artist explains what the official procedure and the production process were like.Footnote ¹⁸ First, the customer placed an order to the Art Fund, which in turn allocated it to a prominent artist or a team of artists. Then, the selected artist prepared a sketch, which later had to be approved by a commission, which included the customer, the main architect of the city, and members of the Art Council (party members and main cultural figures, including artists). All of these figures were local, and, as the native cadres were growing over time, also increasingly ethnically Tajik. Only after this initial screening could the artist prepare a full size sketch (in Russian called karton), which was then replicated on the base, for example a wall, by using stones or smalti. Two techniques could be used: a direct one (Russian: pryamoy nabor), which involved gluing the mosaic directly onto the base, or a reverse one (Russian: obratniy nabor), by creating an image backwards, like in a mirror, and then transferring it onto the base. Our mapping of Soviet-era mosaics in Dushanbe revealed 61 sites, out of which the artists and year of creation of 39 are known. Among them, 14 mosaics were finished between 1970 and 1975; seven between 1975 and 1980; 11 between 1980 and 1985; and seven during the perestroika period 1985–1991.

While the mosaics were an order, and the sketch approval process was rather complex, many of the artworks from that period clearly reveal a loose interpretation of Soviet ideology. There are different reasons why this happened, as the cases below demonstrate. Beside artists’ subjectivities, as mentioned above, the official discourse of that time allowed for a more “national” form, which contributed to the rise of “local” consciousness by fostering more independent cultural and artistic initiatives. Referring to changes in cultural life in Soviet Tajikistan in the mid-1970s and 1980s, already after the Soviet collapse Lutfiya Ayni (Reference Ayni1997) writes: “the seeds of national self-awareness are [were] ripening (zreyut rostki natsional’nogo samoznaniya) among the intelligentsia, and are [were] manifested in a growing interest towards their own history and culture, as understood by the people” (5–6, our translation). The new local initiatives glorified local Persian leaders and thinkers of the past, for example Behzod and Avicenna, and of the present, such as the most acclaimed Soviet-Tajik author writing in the Tajik language, Sadriddin Ayni, an Iranian-Tajik poet and political activist, Abulqosim Lohuti, and a politician and academician of Tajik history, Bobojon Ghafurov (Ayni Reference Ayni1997, 6). These developments, additionally strengthened in the aforementioned perestroika period, significantly impacted monumental art created in Soviet Tajikistan.

The next section exemplifies the complex nexus between art and ideology in Soviet Tajikistan by presenting three artworks, all of which, to a different extent, oscillate between the “national” and the socialist, as well as the individual.

Kindergarten Fairytale Mosaics

The three mosaics depicting fairytale heroes are located on the buildings of what had been a kindergarten since 1974, but which in 2015 was turned into a school. As in the case of other public buildings, the mosaics were probably ordered in the mid-1970s with the aim of decorating the kindergarten. A girl with a deer and falcon and two boys with firebirds do indeed bring some color to the otherwise grey, monolithic buildings and seem to resonate with their function. At first sight, the mosaics do not reveal a heavily ideological content: electrification motives and female collective farmers (Russian kolhoznitsy) are absent from these images. A closer scrutiny, however, reveals that the three fairytale mosaics carry a subtle ideological load and were most probably aimed at shaping the values and behavior of the children who used to attend the kindergarten, by socializing them with specific gendered models.

The artist is unknown and their name is not present on any of the three mosaics. Interestingly, several local monumental artists and art critics to whom we showed the mosaic pictures quickly indicated that the artist was not from Soviet Tajikistan and the mosaics were probably a one-time order. Not only did they not recognize the style (Russian: pocherk) of any local artist in the mosaics, but they also pointed out that the artist took the characters and geometrical elements from both Eastern mythologies and Russian fairytales rather than local traditions, and, as one art critic commented, “poorly adapted them to the Tajik context.”

The first kindergarten mosaic features a young woman (Figure 1). Occupying a central place on the wall, she looks athletic, strong, and confident. There are multiple attempts to negotiate a representation of a “Tajik woman” in this image. Her facial features and a long black braid seem to point to the character’s belonging to Tajik ethnicity, which makes the mosaic “national” in form. At the same time, while the girl’s outfit resembles traditional local female attire, it is clearly too tight and sensual for local standards. One can quickly notice the girl’s muscular arms and legs, visible through her tight orange costume, as well as the shape of her waist and breasts. Furthermore, the character is depicted in motion, allegedly on a hunt: she has paused for a while, as if decisively drawing a bow and releasing an arrow. Such representation resembles the Greek huntress goddess Artemis (Roman Diana), who was often depicted with a herd of animals, bows and arrows (see Werness Reference Werness2006, 128). The scene and the girl’s posture make her look powerful, which is clearly in contrast with the common, static representation of Tajik women in local fairytales as feminine, innocent, but also docile (compare with Figure 4; Usmonova Reference Usmonova2012).

Figure 1. Mosaic with a girl, School 81 in Dushanbe. Artist unknown. February 27, 2019. Kluczewska’s photograph.

The presence on the mosaic of a deer and falcon, who seem to obey the girl, not only symbolically strengthen the hunt motif, but also reinforce the “warrior” image of the girl. As Sax (Reference Sax2001) points out, “no creature is more quintessentially masculine than the stag, with its large shoulders, impressive size, athletic stride, and propensity to fight” (141). The masculine connotations of deer and falcons with speed and power were common in many civilizations, including the Moche, Roman, Greek, and Egyptian ones (MacDonald Reference Macdonald2006, 44–49; Werness Reference Werness2006, 128–129), but are not commonly present in the Tajik-Persian tradition. By pointing out that the artist was not from Soviet Tajikistan, our interlocutors indicate an absence of established local cultural referrals in his work. Rarely in Tajik folklore, which largely draws on the Persian tradition, can an image of women-warriors be found. Gordafarid from Ferdowsi’s 10^th century epic poem entitled Shahnameh is perhaps the only case of a young woman shown as a fighter and possessing traits traditionally associated with masculinity, such as bravery, courage, and physical strengths (Shokirova Reference Sartori2004, 18). Overall, while referring to mythological representations of strong female heroes, the mosaic complies with the Soviet ideals related to emancipation of women, and in particular the ones belonging to ethnic minorities, by turning “docile Muslim women” into “women of the East” (Gradskova Reference Gradskova2019, 143). Such a masculine image of women was widespread in art produced in Soviet Russia, pointing to beauty through strength, rather than beauty through femininity (Reid Reference Reid1998, 139–140).

The other two kindergarten mosaics feature two slender young men, who, in contrast with the girl, are portrayed in a static manner. One of them is accompanied by a wolf, cat, and fish, and holds a firebird in his palm (Figure 2). The other one is surrounded by two magical birds, which are flying around him (Figure 3). While the image of the girl draws on Eastern mythologies, the mosaics with the two boys resemble scenes from Russian fairytales (see Haney Reference Haney2009). For example, wolves and firebirds appear in the popular Russian fairytale “Tsarevitch Ivan, the Firebird and the Grey Wolf,” where the wolf helps the king’s youngest son Ivan overcome obstacles to marry a beautiful girl. The image of the fish also recalls a popular Russian fairytale “The Golden Fish,” which can grant wishes. The firebirds, magic creatures with supernatural powers who help heroes, are also common in Russian fairytales. It is remarkable that while the girl is strong on her own, the boys need someone else’s magical help to overcome obstacles. Such representation of boys clearly stands in contrast with the Tajik-Persian tradition, where young men are portrayed with horses and fighting dragons, such as for example Rustam from Shahnameh. Motion is an important attribute of masculinity in local tradition. Perhaps through the mosaics the artist wanted to convey a need of collaboration, as opposed to individual action, which would reflect the Soviet ideology; however, the effect on the audience is the reverse. The children who currently study in the school quickly pointed out what they perceived as the weakness of the boys on the mosaics. In this way, rather than role models, the male characters are locally perceived as anti-heroes. The didactical intensions turn irrelevant in practice and the outcomes escape the logic of planners.

Figure 2. Young man with a firebird, wolf, fox and fish. Artist unknown. February 27, 2019. Kluczewska’s photograph.

Figure 3. Young man with firebirds. School 81 in Dushanbe. Artist unknown. February 27, 2019. Kluczewska’s photograph.

While the mosaics are largely socialist in content, their “national” form is somewhat orientalizing. Some features point to the stereotypical Western imagination of the East. Orientalization is visible for example in the boys’ attire, consisting of bright, tight tunics, tight pants, red boots and colorful turbans, which is unusual for local folklore where men are represented with low hats called toqi, a lose coat joma, and a scarf around their waist, symbolizing fertility. The artist presumably, aimed to socialize children with Soviet ideals of women’s emancipation and collaborative work, by using a broad range of referrals which they believed belonged to Eastern cultures, and thus would be automatically “national” in Soviet Tajikistan and understandable to the local audience. Importantly, in these artworks the Moscow-Soviet is the referral point of Sovietness. Ultimately, however, the kindergarten mosaics are illustrative of how Moscow saw Soviet Tajikistan, but not of what the latter was actually like.

Anvarsho Sayfudinov and Jalil Rasulov’s Printing House Mosaic

The printing house mosaic of Anvarsho Sayfudinov and Jalil Rasulov represents a different, yet also complex understanding of the socialist and the “national,” this time by two local artists. Sayfudinov was born in 1951 in mountainous Vanj, studied at the Tajik Art College in Dushanbe, and later at the Theater and Art Institute in Tashkent. Rasulov, a graphic artist and the mosaic’s second artist also graduated from the Art College and later studied with Sayfudinov in Tashkent. They both belong to the generation of local artists educated in the 1970s in the best art institutes of the Soviet Union—established, however, far from the center—who upon their return changed the artistic scene at home (see Boynazarov Reference Boynazarov2018, 170).

The centrally located printing house from 1932 (Schlager Reference Schlager2017, 242) is considered one of the oldest buildings in Dushanbe, a city that was founded with the establishment of Soviet power on the territory of Tajikistan. The mosaic appeared on the front wall only in 1983. As Sayfudinov recalls, the idea to create the artwork came from the then director of the printing house. According to the standard procedure under the contract system (Russian: kontraktatsiya), “he [the customer] approached the [Dushanbe] Art Fund (Khudfond), asking for a mosaic to be created which would reflect the building’s function, that is the power of knowledge (Russian: sila znaniya), and include the figure of a woman.”Footnote ¹⁹ Sayfudinov does not remember why back then the director insisted on a female image. Perhaps he hoped that this would grant him the goodwill of the Communist Party officials. This was common knowledge for example among local artists at that time: they realized that depicting women, in line with women’s empowerment ideas, meant that the potential “ideological shortcomings” in the composition or reluctance to include a strong ideological content showcasing Soviet achievements would be effectively covered .Footnote ²⁰

Sayfudinov further recalls that the Art Fund invited several artists interested in this order, but he and Rasulov received it. The two artists had already worked together on several occasions, decorating universities and kindergartens, and despite their young age they had established themselves in the local artistic community and were not seen as troublemakers by the officials. There was no further guidance or requirements on how to design the mosaic. The artists prepared a sketch, which was automatically approved by a commission composed of the customer, the main architect of the city and Art Council (Khudsovet) members—all from Soviet Tajikistan. As Sayfudinov says: “They all put their stamps and signed. That procedure was very important, there was no way around it.”Footnote ²¹ And yet, it seems that it was largely a formality, given that the artists knew most commission members personally and were friends with some of them. It is in this context that the mosaic designs were officially approved both in terms of its artistic quality and ideological content.

More broadly, the artwork (Figure 4) shows Soviet achievements with regard to setting up the publishing industry of the Tajik SSR and a wide circulation of books and newspapers at that time. The episodes on the left explain the printing process, as well as show the actual output in the form of books. By highlighting the importance of education, as well as promoting hard work and literacy, the mosaic clearly adheres to the Soviet ideology. This is visible in particular in the episodes on the right, showing a professor delivering a lecture and students solving a formula on a blackboard. These Soviet ideals, which are supposed to be shared by all Soviet republics, are made “national” in form in this artwork. In the upper part one can see a short poem of Jami, a Persian poet from the 15th century: “A book is your friend in loneliness, a book is the source of knowledge” (Tajik: Anisi kunji tanhoi kitob ast, furughi subhi donoi kitob ast).

Figure 4. Mosaic on the printing house. May 22, 2019. Kluczewska’s photograph.

Interestingly, a closer look reveals some local re-appropriation nested within the joint Soviet work ethos. First, the characters’ involvement in the working process is not equal. Out of nine figures featured in the mosaic, six are men and only three are women. The distribution of the tasks among both sexes further supports this gendered hierarchy at work. The men are presented in motion and demonstrate professional skills (such as using a printing machine or lecturing), whereas the women, who are static, seem to be accompanying the men (by holding a scarf, papers, or simply sitting by the table).

There is also some negotiation with regard to the women’s empowerment framework. On the one hand, the artwork breaks with the traditional understanding of gendered social roles in the Tajik society. Both central figures of a man and a woman are placed in the “sacred”Footnote ²² space of the mosaic, which resembles an opened book. They are of equal size and both are brought to the front, as opposed to the common, local representation of men in the public sphere and women tied to the domestic one (see Tett Reference Tett, Camilla and Judy1994, 141–143). This representation symbolizes an equal access of men and women to knowledge, their legitimate presence in the public space and equal position in the socialist state more broadly. On the other hand, the mosaic becomes less “socialist” in content through the way the artists dressed the characters. The main male figure is wearing suit trousers, a shirt, and black polished shoes. This kind of outfit was introduced in Tajikistan only with the arrival of the Soviet regime and replaced an old symbol of male authority, a thick coat called chapan and boots. Only a toqi on the main character’s head points to his “Tajikness.” The female figure, in turn, is depicted in a traditional local dress and with a headscarf covering her hair. There is some small degree of modernization here: her dress is shorter than it would be usually, revealing the woman’s ankles, and her headscarf is tied a bit more loosely, making some part of her hair visible. In this local variation of the Soviet ideology both depicted characters are “modernized” by the Soviet Union, yet, to a different extent. The male representation is “modern” with a symbolic degree of tradition. The female representation, on the contrary, is more traditional, with a symbolic degree of “modernity.”

Referring to Sayfudinov’s early years as an artist, Isabaeva (Reference Isabaeva and Sharifov2018) writes that “he was carefully studying arts and crafts of Tajikistan, trying to understand the spirit of his people and his ancestors” (1).Footnote ²³ As Sayfudinov himself comments on this artwork: “We wanted to show a wise woman (Russian: mudruyu zhenshchinu) and an intellectual man (Russian: muzhchinu-intelligenta).”Footnote ²⁴ While the authority of the man is depicted through his modern outfit representing his integration into the Soviet system, the woman’s authority and wisdom stems from her safeguarding of traditional culture and faith. It is also notable that her headscarf is white, which points to the woman’s Muslimness. Precisely such nuances, referring to the symbolic representation which cannot be easily grasped by outsiders, make the content of the mosaic compatibly Tajik and Soviet from local actors’ point of view, although, hypothetically, from Moscow’s point of view they might be seen as not enough socialist or even anti-Soviet. Recognizing this invisibility due to missing cultural referrals (Van Veeren Reference Van Veeren and Bleiker2018, 198) allows us to understand why the officials from Moscow did not raise any objections to this artwork during their occasional visits. Nevertheless, this symbolic negotiation reveals that in everyday life one could be simultaneously, and comfortably, Muslim and Soviet (see Sartori Reference Sartori2010, 320).

In the two artists’ “national” take, the woman continues to be tied to the domestic sphere and represents honor (Tajik: nomus), and stands for a gendered identity of local communities—where dressing “like a Russian” was a reason for shame (Tajik: ayb, sharm) for a woman (yet, not for men), because it was seen as accepting foreign social norms and values (see Tett Reference Tett, Camilla and Judy1994, 137–139; Harris Reference Harris2004, 73–79; see also Kamp Reference Kamp2006, 225–226). The traditional dress on the mosaic is thus more than a “national” touch in this supposedly socialist artwork; it denotes some degree of resentment towards this aspect of socialism which concerns equalizing of male and female social roles. This function of safeguarding the tradition attributed to the woman is additionally strengthened through the symbolic white scarf, again pointing to Islam, that she holds in her hands. This mosaic is perhaps the most explicit exemplification of negotiation of the ideology ongoing on the ground, that Tett (Reference Tett, Camilla and Judy1994, 143) describes as creating “Soviet men and Muslim women.” It is, however, important to stress that Sayfudinov and Rasulov never planned to subvert the Soviet ideals: this is how they understood them.

Regardless of the artists’ intensions, the outcome, their artwork, showcases how complex the Soviet was in the periphery, with manipulations with regard to women’s role in the society and officially proclaimed atheism, and a simultaneous acceptance of other ideals, such as the work ethos.

Isuf Sangov’s Maternity House Mosaics

While the printing house mosaic manifests local re-appropriation of Soviet ideals though a selective approach to the ideology, the mosaics covering the walls of a small entrance hall of the 3^rd maternity house in Dushanbe show local re-appropriation through an exposure of the artist’s subjectivity. Rather than attempting to interpret the Soviet and merge it with the “national,” like the previous mosaics, these artworks are mainly centered around the individual. The hospital was built in 1985, but the mosaics appeared on its walls only in 1988, when the socialist realism doctrine was about to end. The time dimension in this case is crucial to understand the image.

The artworks were an initiative of Zebo Kayosova, the head physician of the hospital, who grew up in an artistic family and married the main architect of Dushanbe. As one of her colleagues recalls, she used to love art and wanted the mosaics to convey one message, that a birth is a holiday. The order was assigned to Isuf Sangov, a local artist who had already established himself at that time. He was born in 1944 in Kulob in Southern Tajikistan, and in 1965 graduated from the Art College in Dushanbe. Like Sayfudinov and Rasulov, Sangov also belongs to the second generation of local artists and received scholarships to study at prestigious schools of monumental and decorative art. In 1970 he graduated from the Moscow State Stroganov Academy of Industrial and Applied Arts and returned to Dushanbe.

Sangov does not see his art as ideological. Despite being well-integrated into state-funded artistic life in the Tajik SSR, he answers a question as to whether he considers himself a Soviet person with hesitation: “I do, when it comes to some elements of upbringing, for example discipline and punctuality; and also some values, such as hard work. But I was never a communist, everything passed me by.”Footnote ²⁵ Sangov was not an anti-communist either. His nonchalant attitude and focus on his own spirituality resembles an “ideology of everyday existence vis-à-vis the political sphere of the state” (Yurchak Reference Yurchak2008, 715), which in the late Soviet period became a widespread phenomenon among the urban intelligentsia in Soviet Russia. Perhaps the fact that he studied in Moscow explains how he acquired this attitude.

It is also significant that unlike other prominent Tajik artists of his generation, he did not study in Tallinn or Tashkent, and thus was less exposed to peripheral variations of the Soviet ideology. This makes the “national” in Sangov’s art even less straightforward. As Ovcharova (Reference Ovcherova and Ayni2013) writes, despite the experiments in stylistic variations and themes over time, in all of his works the elements of his native land can be noticed, for example in the abundance of bright colors and referrals to sun and fire. At the same time, instead of presenting common folkloristic scenes from idyllic life in Tajik villages, with innocent girls holding pomegranates and smiling old people, he shows his “national” mainly through depicting scenes from his childhood. A similar ambiguity with regard to his interpretation of the socialist and the “national” is visible in the maternity house mosaics.

The mosaics clearly resonate with the function of the building and, at first sight, they seem to fit the socialist realism tradition. By showing episodes from a working day of the maternity house, the two scenes depicted in circles on one of the walls celebrate Soviet achievements in the field of healthcare: the professionalism of medical staff and a broad social security package provided to citizens by the state (Figure 5). In the left circle, Sangov showed a female nurse lifting a newborn, and in the right one, a male doctor who is preparing an injection for another baby, held by a female nurse. While the two scenes seem purely socialist in content, some “national” interpretation of Soviet ideals can be observed with regard to the mosaic’s gender dimension. The artwork shows men as doctors, playing the main role in the hospital, and women as accompanying staff. Decision-making has been turned into a male domain, and care a female one. Despite that, it is notable that unlike in the previous mosaics, there is nothing “national” in this representation that would point to the Tajik culture through, for example, local face features, traditional dress, bright colors, or ornaments.

Figure 5. Mosaics in the maternity house no. 3 in Dushanbe, by Isuf Sangov. February 27, 2019. Kluczewska’s photograph.

Figure 6. Mosaic in the maternity house no. 3 in Dushanbe, by Isuf Sangov. February 27, 2019. Kluczewska’s photograph.

Another wall of the entrance hall shows a circle with three women supporting a naked baby that seems to be learning to walk. The artwork glorifies motherhood, which was an important component of the Soviet ideology because of a constant need for a new labor force to uphold the labor-intensive economic development of the country. However, the depiction of the three women, each one represented differently with regard to hairstyle and clothing, is remarkable, as it moves away from the typical representation of Soviet women. In Soviet art, female beauty was often presented through an athletic and masculine body, symbolizing above all a physical strength, as in the case of the fairytale mosaic (Figure 1). Furthermore, the hairstyle and dresses had to comply with the socialist ideology by stressing “simplicity, modesty, and a sense of moderation” (Gurova Reference Gurova, Paulicelli and Clark2009, 78). In a “national,” Soviet-Tajik iteration, women would be wearing long local dresses with trousers (Tajik: kurta-ezor) and have long, black braids. In this respect, women represented in Sangov’s mosaic look neither Soviet nor “national.”

The first woman, on the left, is depicted wearing a thin, almost transparent dress which exposes her arms, neck, and breasts. Her light-brown hair is tied at the back in an elegant knot. Such representation makes her look like a Greek goddess. The second woman, on the right, has long, grey hair blowing in the wind and is wearing a flowing long-sleeved collar dress. The long, impractical hair makes this character untypical for Soviet art, and the grey hair untypical for Tajik art, which would see it as unfeminine and unattractive. The third woman, in the middle, has short-to-mid-length brown hair and is wearing a white collar dress. Among the three characters, her image is the closest to an ideal representation of a Soviet woman, in that it stresses simplicity and functionality in hairstyle and clothing, rather than sensual attractiveness. Her body, however, is not masculine. It is remarkable that Sangov called this scene “The three Graces,” which refer to charm, beauty, and creativity in Greek mythology. Rather than appealing to the Soviet ideals, the artist returns to the classical canons of female beauty, revived during the Renaissance period, which saw women as an “object of visual fascination” (Gordon Reference Gordon2004, 142).

This stands in contrast to the Soviet approach, which assesses female beauty through functionality and women’s labor skills. While the printing house mosaic re-appropriates the Soviet representation of women through depicting a female authority based on safeguarding religious traditions (Figure 4), Sangov’s mosaic does it by referring to the classical European canons. His artworks move away from reliance on bright colors, characteristic of Soviet mosaics, with an emphasis on red as the color of communism. The light blue and sea color in the background further reinforce the Renaissance motifs.Footnote ²⁶

The mosaics are intentionally not “national” because the artist has always been firmly convinced that “beauty has no nationality.”Footnote ²⁷ By depicting a woman in a transparent dress, Sangov did not fear the criticism of artists, art critics and officials who assessed the sketch, who did not make any comments, as much as the reactions of the Muslim society. As he comments: “Such boldness would not be well received in an outer space, but no one paid attention to a small entrance hall.”Footnote ²⁸

A standard reading of the late 1980s would be that the perestroika and glasnost context influenced the creation of these artworks. In that period, art policies relaxed, and more freedom was given to artists with regard to the choice of subjects. What one could expect, however, was that such an environment would contribute to more exposure of the “national” in artworks of Sangov, as a Tajik artist. Indeed, back then many intellectuals and artists living in the Soviet periphery started looking for a new identity which would be increasingly more “national.” This trend manifested itself for example in a rise of elitist nationalist movements, such as Birlik in the Uzbek SSR or Rastokhez in the Tajik SSR, which were pushing for local culture revival policies within the Soviet framework. This, however, was not Sangov’s case. Rather than being influenced by perestroika, his artworks reflect the nature of late socialism and the way that ideology and state discourses were negotiated and interiorized in the periphery. His 1988 artworks manifest a suspension of the political and a search for an identity which would be “neither pro nor anti-Soviet but beyond Soviet personhood” (Yurchak Reference Yurchak2008, 732; see also Dodkhudoeva Reference Dodkhudoeva2006, 143). His case shows that a Tajik artist did not necessarily have to have a “national” agency and create “national” art, or, more precisely, that the “national” unequivocally meant representing the Tajik nation and thus had to include local dresses and face features, and promote Muslim traditions and nationalizing values. It was not as much a new space that presumably opened in the late 1980s. For Sangov, art in general offered a chance to experiment with forms and representations, and explore his own subjectivity as a Tajik artist, independently from the “Soviet” or “national” frameworks. A local artist took full ownership of the artworks’ meaning. It is in this way that the maternity house mosaics are “national” in content.