Tag Archives: Nikolai Nekrasov

Lenin Library busts, Mosow

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These things can look rather like cemeteries or crematoriums or -what is not any better, really – bad facades of bad schools. I’m talking about long rows of busts on important public buildings attempting to honor great men. Don’t get me wrong – I’m more than happy to honor great women. I hunt out opportunities to do that as often as possible in this space. But you don’t always have that opportunity in the real world when the topic is Russian literature, ca. 19th century. In the case at hand I deal with what I’m dealt – a whole bunch of men, many of them with beards.
The good thing about the east wall of the Lenin Library, located in Moscow at 5 Mokhovaya Street, is that it rises above the level of a crematorium. It’s a little surprising, perhaps, because the building itself is, in my opinion, a disaster. I don’t care if it is one of the few Constructivist-inspired buildings in Moscow to have been completed. It has a deathly gray pallor and its boxy, cinderblock construction almost looks like it’s ready to have urns of ashes slipped into each one.
But I’m letting sarcasm get the better of me today.
I’m actually writing this post because I love this wall. There is something exciting in having the opportunity to commune with a whole bunch of great and good writers all at one time. And, when it’s autumn, as it was when these pictures were taken, you have the added stroke of some beautiful, bright yellow fall leaves playing against the monotonous gray-bound background.
A few steps from left to right and back again and you can travel from Pushkin to Tolstoy, from Mikhail Saltykov-Shchedrin to Ivan Turgenev. Each of them looks down upon you with a sense of purpose, that purpose that most of us, at least, have grown to expect from a Russian writer.
I did an interview last year with the Ukrainian playwright Maksym Kurochkin. I asked him about some of the difficulties of living in Russia and writing in Russian as his homeland was under attack from Russia. You can imagine the corner he is backed into – or maybe you can’t. Not many of us have been in his shoes. Anyway, at one point Maksym admitted that part of him is completely alienated from his environs and those surrounding him. And yet he declared that he is proud to be considered a member of the new Russian drama movement, because, he said, “it is honorable to have a relationship with the best of Russian drama. Russian new drama for me is undoubtedly a progressive force.”
You see, that’s what Russian literature has always been – at least when it is at its best. And when you look up at the faces on the Lenin Library wall, you sense that quite clearly. Principled writers with something to say gathered here in one place.

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I am particularly grateful to the makers of this pantheon for including Mikhail Saltykov-Shchedrin (1826-1889, the first photo in the block below). I don’t know any place else in Moscow where one can go to pay respects to this wonderful, bitter, satirical writer. If there are any monuments or plaques in Moscow commemorating his life and work, I don’ t know of them. This makes some sense because Moscow did not play a large part in Saltykov-Shchedrin’s life. He did study for awhile as a boy at the Moscow School for the Nobility. But most of his adult life was spent either in St. Petersburg or in the provinces to which he was occasionally banished. Since I touched briefly on the topic of the sexes at the beginning here today, I think it’s worth pointing out that, while Saltykov-Shchedrin was in political exile in Vyatka in the late 1840s – he called these the years of his “Vyatka captivity” – he expressly wrote a history book for young women. He was appalled at the lack of education for girls and he wrote and published a series of lectures to counteract that.
“Captivity” and “exile” during the Tsarist years – Alexander Solzhenitsyn has written about this – were nothing compared to what occurred in the Soviet age and later. While in “captivity” Saltykov-Shchedrin continued to hold a government post and he ended up marrying the daughter of the local governor. Imagine Osip Mandelstam marrying a Soviet commissar’s daughter before being murdered in Siberia in 1938; or imagine one of the Pussy Riot members marrying the son of a local bigwig before being released. Still, Saltykov-Shchedrin’s experiences were galling enough to turn him into one of the most wickedly critical writers ever to wield a pen in Russia. He has never quite received his due abroad and even in Russia he still remains somehow almost too hot to handle. It’s good to see him here as a colleague among equals.
I haven’t been able to pin down who, exactly, are the sculptors who created the busts on the east wall. The best information I found was that a large group of artists was involved. They included Sergei Yevseyev, Matvei Manizer, Yelena Yanson-Manizer, Nadezhda Krandievskaya, Vsevolod Lishyov and Vera Mukhina.

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Dmitry Tsaplin bust of Nikolai Nekrasov, Moscow

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I don’t know how long this impressive bust will be available for view at its present location, one of the niches outside the Museum of the Contemporary History of Russia on Tverskaya Ulitsa in the center of Moscow (see final photo). I happened to see it for the first time just a few days ago as I was walking past. The obviously temporary free-standing brick pedestal – several other sculptures in this outdoor exhibit are on bricks, too – would indicate it won’t be here long. Whatever the case, we are dealing here with an image of the 19th-century civic poet Nikolai Nekrasov. I don’t want to push this too hard, but Nekrasov is somewhat ignored these days, partly, perhaps, because everyone read him at one time or another in school. His best-remembered works are two narrative poems, “Russian Women,” about two women who followed their husbands into exile after the Decembrist revolt, and “Who is Happy in Russia?” about seven peasants who are unable to find anyone who is happy in Russia. I rather suspect that not many in Russia today remember Nekrasov’s actual poem, although its title is quoted frequently, always with a healthy dose of bitter irony.

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I found it hard to walk away from this small bust. It is shot through with something ancient and profound. It almost appears to have come out of the earth fully formed. Something in it suggests that the sculptor, Dmitry Tsaplin, saw Nekrasov  as a native soul of Plato or some other thinker from antiquity. The expression is pretty much unchanging, regardless of what angle at which you view it, but from all sides it is deeply human and tragic. Tsaplin himself was a fascinating and enigmatic figure. He was still another of those unschooled Russian talents I have had occasion to write about here. Born into a poor peasant family, the fourth of eleven children, he apparently did not begin formal studies until he was 29 years old. This was in his hometown of Saratov.  I have drawn these facts from a very nice article by Yekaterina Nenasheva in the usually unreadable Communist newspaper Zavtra (Tomorrow). He had his “own particular method of working with material,” Nenasheva writes, “his own particular sculptural school. Tsaplin’s works are splendid for their simplicity and even a certain crudity – authentic, Russian and masculine.” Each of those words fits the Nekrasov bust beautifully. In 1927 Tsaplin was given a grant by the Soviet government to study his craft in Europe, where he met many of the greats of his era, including Pablo Picasso. Although his works were highly regarded in Europe, Tsaplin refused to sell any of them abroad. He insisted on bringing them all back to the Soviet Union when he returned in 1935. He apparently never quite fit into official political, artistic or academic circles and remained something of a loner and outcast until his death at the age of 77 in 1967. He was married for a time in the early 1930s to the singer, actress, poet and translator Tatyana Leshchenko, with whom he fathered a daughter Vera. His place of burial is unknown – there are rumors that his body lies near the grave of Leshchenko’s second husband in Peredelkino, but there are also rumors that no one claimed his body in the morgue and that it was “discarded” with other unnecessary corpses.

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