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• 1 2020-10-29T12:15:55-04:00 The Artistic Milieu and Sasha Sokolov's Philosophy on Art in "The Key Word of Belles-Lettres" 31 plain 2020-12-09T22:04:24-05:00 “We, Russians, are a literary nation” (23), Sasha Sokolov claims in the essay “The Key Word of Belles-Lettres” from his collection of writings In the House of the Hanged. This piece, while illuminating what Sokolov considers the foundation of writing and art, is also an homage to the Russian literary tradition and a lament for its decline in the Soviet Union. Sokolov faults Maxim Gorky as the “head administrator” under whose direction the “tree” of modernism was maimed and hindered by the proliferation of Socialist Realism. Gorky diminished Sokolov’s beloved art to the status of “ordinary craft” and in doing so encouraged a multitude of mediocre writers and a decline in the overall “creative milieu,” as the number of unread writers increased. The USSR’s repressive standards additionally squelched the freedom needed for experimental writers like Sokolov. Years later, during a sojourn in the United States, Sokolov had regained creative freedom, but then mourned his seeming isolation in the middle of, in his eyes, a literary desert. For Sokolov, even with his wealth of knowledge of the literary tradition and years of steeping in the Russian artistic culture, his physical distance from his homeland was too much of a barrier to his creativity. To produce good writing requires dialogue — with tradition, and with modern readers who are themselves immersed in literary culture. To Sokolov, this immersion in the creative milieu must be immediate, physical, for the sake of his writing. Through these experiences Sokolov concludes that the foundations required for great writing are artistic tradition and artistic freedom. In “The Key Word of Belle-Lettres” the importance of one's artistic milieu as a basis for art is demonstrated with dramatic, almost over-use, of textual “dialogue with tradition”: Using casual but elegant prose while integrating phrases and references from esteemed authors in a dialogue with the Russian tradition and his audience, Sokolov creates this artistic milieu he seeks, right on the page.
  
  As Sokolov himself emphasizes in this poetically rambling piece, the how, the style and artistic mood of a piece of art, is more important than strictly its what, its content or subject. Sokolov is a believer that art is created for its own sake, and thus ought to be beautiful. In this discussion of style he highlights the first sentence as particularly important, likening the first “chord of prose” to “the first line of a poem” or “verbal key to a fortress” (27). So let us pay close attention to how Sokolov sets the stage: his first phrase, “There’s a game,” is borrowed from a poem by Aleksander Blok, the principal representative of Russian Symbolism. Sokolov then proceeds with a Russian metaphor game in which players describe and guess the identity of a mystery person using poetic metaphors. This start to the essay presents language as pleasure: essentially both social and cultural. His framing as a game, or activity for pleasure, reinforces the idea of art for art’s sake – there is no inherent purpose to a game. It is also critical for this piece’s message as it gives us a more intimate framing of language before pushing on ahead with a more ideological discussion about the foundations of writing. Through style alone Sokolov has already prevented the risk distancing the conversation to the point of theory; instead, the reader is introduced into a word-game with friends, and then swept along by Sokolov's prose. This introduction to the Russian word-game effectively forces a focus on the how rather than the what of the essay by presenting writing clearly as something enjoyable, an art to be appreciated for its beauty and style.  Additionally, the game acts as a nice framing for the piece; foreshadowing Sokolov’s heavy use of metaphor and awareness of important figures which are both integral parts of the game.
  
  This idea of how is integral to the milieu that Sokolov crafts in the essay; the artistic milieu, the culture and environment of great artists and ideas, are what enable his how, his artistic expression. At some points Sokolov is quite direct in his milieu-crafting, engaging with tradition by evoking the reputations and ideals of other literary greats. He drops names into his writing frequently, as though assuming his audience is the well-versed, “sensitive critic, and adviser” he wishes to be in conversation with. He cites the opening lines of the poet Vladimir Maiakovskii’s autobiography and poet Andrei Voznesenskii’s essay about Lorca as examples of ways to “begin beautifully” (27). In addition to these interspersed references, he makes a show of using the “vagueness” inspired by impressionism — a movement he calls an “escape from the repulsive abode of what” (27) — in his description and explanation of this differentiation between how and what. By taking on this “vague style” he also elevates this debate to the level of art, using metaphors, not strict definitions and lines of logic, and drawing parallels with different philosophical movements.
  
  Here he also expands his references to include the artistic and intellectual world at large; continuing the how/what debate in terms of the idealists and materialists. A laundry list of names follow: Sokolov sites Kandinsky (an abstract painter), Flaubert (a literary realist writer), Rimbaud (a symbolist poet), Joyce (an avant-garde modernist novelist), and Shostakovich (a modern composer) as idealists, exemplifying the ideals of how, while James Michener (historical fiction writer), and Douglas Terman (military novelist) “compose their works on the computer and are convinced that their activity is literature” (28). With each of these names, the individual's artistic style and historical context come to mind, along with an array of other associated ideas. For example, when Sokolov mentions Wassily Kandinsky as an example of how it might stir up images of angular and dynamic abstract art with popping and expressive colors or remind the reader of Kandinsky’s firm beliefs in art’s connection to the soul. I see these frequent references as a part of this vague style – the inclusion of specific artistic and literary figures to represent the ideas allows Sokolov to express these ideas more simply. The essay gains additional meaning and depth from these allusions as these referenced figures stand in for larger concepts and contexts, each coming with their own associated grab bag of philosophies. Thus, Sokolov is enabled, through this constructed milieu of artists, to communicate his ideas more simply and elegantly with the added depth of history and context. It is this sort of metaliterary dialogue, these “vague” arguments, that demonstrate the importance of milieu and art together.
  
  And, for the attentive readers (or those that read the translator’s notes at the back of the book) he slips in references and paraphrased quotes from other great works. Some, for example a piece from the Russian Nobel Prize winner Ivan Bunin, are to demonstrate, to give an example of the type of artistic writing Sokolov praises: “I would visit the tavern frequented by carriage drivers, I would sit in the crowded steamy warmth…” (28). Other references are subtle, for example single words that endow the whole phrase with deeper meaning: “in essence however, it is a poisonous upas tree” (24). This line describes the “tree of modernism” in Sokolov’s metaphor for the dueling literary movements of modernism and realism. The Upas tree is a nod to Pushkin’s poem “The Upas Tree,” and gives the famous Russian poet due respect for his role in founding modern Russian literature. These are just a few more examples of the sort of graceful depth leant to Sokolov’s writing through use of these allusions. Sokolov’s allusions demonstrate how milieu can enable artistic beauty with the example of the prose in this very essay, while also making this experience more keenly felt by demonstrating the milieu concretely in the piece rather than speculating about its impacts in artistic works. Sokolov prompts the reader to start constructing this milieu in their mind through their own personal knowledge of and engagements with these famous figures.
  
  
  So what is the importance of this milieu Sokolov crafts? “Without a milieu,” he writes, “there is no normal literary process because both criteria and tradition get lost” (26). To Sokolov, tradition is what allows for creation; all art created can only be made and understood within the greater context of the art world, or “tradition.” Meaning and value can only be communicated through the established language of norms within artistic traditions; something cannot be avant-garde if there are no traditions to break free from, and thus can only be created with an understanding of and a dialogue with tradition. 
  
  Ultimately this piece is perhaps just a playful demonstration of the power tradition has to ground and add depth to a text. Sokolov clearly takes great joy in sprinkling his artistic references throughout. But, through the style, the “how,” Sokolov demonstrates the value of artistic milieu and tradition more effectively than a stale, more theoretical, essay could accomplish. By surrounding the reader with the names and ideas of respected authors, teasing lines from great works, and narrating in a poetic style like one enjoying a casual conversation with his fellow literary-Russians, even we “businessmen” of America, in this “literary desert,” can enjoy Sokolov’s milieu and appreciate its centrality to his art.
  
  Bibliography
  Sokolov, Sasha. In the House of the Hanged: Essays and Vers Libres. Translated by Alexander Boguslawski. University of Toronto Press, 2012. 
• 1 2020-10-29T12:02:25-04:00 Bursting into Light: An Analysis of Color in Kuzmin’s Wings 24 plain 2020-12-12T13:52:41-05:00 Veronica Yabloko
  
  Stolen glances, veiled language, and passionate monologues: it may sound as though I am describing a Victorian romance, but, in fact, these items make up a great deal of Mikhail Kuzmin’s complex novel Wings. Kuzmin’s novel about the underground gay community in early twentieth-century Russia, powerfully illustrates self-discovery through the eyes of a young man just beginning to see. Understanding what exactly this young man, Vanya, sees is crucial to understanding the text, for as Vanya’s self-identity becomes more vivid and clear, so, too, does his perception of the world. His world becomes more vibrant, colorful, and alive. Specifically, the colors around Vanya start to change from cool tones to warm and bright tones of light. Kuzmin uses detailed and saturated imagery throughout the text, and specifically at the beginning of each of the novels three parts, to illustrate Vanya’s metamorphosis from the cold, uncertainty of youth to the fiery, first steps into adulthood and, at last, to the bright, shining self-discovery of an adult entering the world.
  
  Vanya’s journey begins in a sea of cool tones. Much of what Vanya sees in the first few pages of part one is gray and dull. He looks through a “misted window” at “sodden roads, milkmaids’ carts at a closed level-crossing barrier, watchmen’s huts, and ladies from dachas out strolling” (5). The whole image is reminiscent of nineteenth-century impressionist rainy cityscapes. The sun “flicker[s] through clouds of locomotive steam,” and what Vanya sees of the city — “cemeteries...dank six story blocks of housing for workers amidst tumbledown wooden shacks” — he sees through a veil of “smoke and soot” (6).  In each of these distinct images, Vanya’s view is blocked by gray tones. In other words, it is not that Vanya himself is only able to see gray, rather that something tints his image of the world gray. 
  
  So what exactly is tinting his world grey? When Vanya is first introduced to the reader, he has lost his mother and his home. His feeling of loss and confusion could most certainly be a factor in why Vanya’s world is so gray. Yet, Kuzmin spends very little time discussing the death of Vanya’s mother; her death and his relocation are not portrayed as a tragic turn of events, but rather as a catalyst for his journey. In fact, Kuzmin explicitly says Vanya appears to be embarking on a “prolonged voyage” or “expedition” that would be “epoch-making”, taking paragraphs to describe how Vanya looks and a mere sentence to talk about the death of his mother (5). Thus, we must reframe our understanding of the color gray in this first part. Perhaps gray does not just represent loss and confusion, it also represents a blank slate. With this framework we can understand the abundance of gray not as a suppression of color, but an absence of it. Like an artist having only begun to sketch his work, Vanya has not yet discovered the color in his life. He is both passive and quiet in this section, never speaking against others or voicing disagreement. But as the novel progresses, as Vanya meets new characters such as Stroop, Vanya begins to speak up and see in much more vivid color.
  
  Compared with the gray introduction of part one, part two is an explosion of color. The reader is ambushed with tones of gold, pink, and red – all warm tones. Maria Dmitriyevna describes “little golden hairs that grow on [a lover’s] arms”; she illustrates a world of red fire, “a soul getting a burning desire to give itself to another...the flaming spirit of love” (43). And, suddenly, Vanya’s world is colored with these same tones, “stretches of the Volga beg[in] turning a pinky golden yellow” while the sky becomes “crimson” (44). Unlike in the first part, there is nothing blocking Vanya’s view. His own perception colors what he sees, rather than the smog of his first entrance into St. Petersburg. It should be noted, however, that this explosion of color at the start of part two is narrated not by Vanya, but Maria Dmitriyevna. While Vanya is certainly more free to understand the world in his own terms, he is still being influenced by others. Additionally, during this section Vanya starts to speak his mind more, vocalizing his disagreements with the characters such as Arina Dmitriyevna, and even more notably, pushing back against Maria Dmitriyevna when she tries to “press him” to her against his will (70). This violation breaks his passivity and stirs him into action in part three. 
  
  The symbolic significance of the color red specifically is vital as well. First and foremost, red is warm. The visual tonal shift, from cool to warm, parallels Vanya’s attitude shift. While in part one Vanya is firmly under the influence of Stroop, in part two Vanya experiences for the first time some independence. He actively rebels against his family’s influence even while living with them. The color red is particularly fitting because it is associated with many traits Vanya begins to explore: boldness, passion, desire. And though Vanya remains relatively subdued, throughout part two he questions his own feelings towards Stroop and what those feelings mean in relation to his sexuality. In this exploration Vanya looks inward rather than seeking answers from others. Red, the culmination of passion and sexuality, is intermingled with less intense colors pink because Vanya has not fully discovered these facets of himself yet. Though Vanya may be more in touch with his sexuality, he does not fully embrace it yet, as evidenced by his rejection of Stroop. This only comes after the aforementioned violation by Maria Dmitriyevna. Slowly but surely, however, these pinks morph into reds, which morph into deep crimsons in part three.
  
  Following those first steps into adulthood, Vanya takes a giant leap, leaving his family to travel with Daniil Ivanovich — and his world explodes into light. The first page of part three is bathed with images of light and life, a “shining, radiant” illustration of “Spring,” “new passion,” “light and sunshine” (75). When the sun isn’t shining, “a star [is] burning”, and “a whitish, gentle mist...spreading” (79). In this final part, light becomes synonymous with not only self-discovery, but also vivacity; Vanya’s life has become fully saturated with color and light. The gentle, white mist provides a stark contrast to clouds of smoke and soot in part one. It is as though the smoke that once clouded Vanya’s vision has been purified into light. Unlike the veil of soot in part one, the light here does not demand an absence of color; on the contrary, it highlights the fullness of color in Vanya’s life. Pinks, reds, and crimsons populate much of the imagery: “the pinkish tablecloth”, “the plates, dark red all over, like pools of blood”, “wild strawberries and...wine”, and “a red carnation” (83). These deep reds represent Vanya becoming more independent and bold. No longer does Vanya follow blindly after other characters, he follows his own desires, exploring art and the city around him. In this final part, Vanya is not only surrounded by color, he embraces it, just as he embraces his own identity and sexuality. For at the end of the novel, Vanya is no longer under the influence of anyone – he has the agency, choosing to go away with Stroop and looking into the street “bathed in bright sunlight” (99). 
  
  By imbuing different parts of the novel with different colors, Kuzmin subtly shifts the tone from section to section using visual cues. Not only does he provide the reader with stunning illustrations, Kuzmin also color grades them, giving these images double the meaning. Kuzmin creates images that represent a spectrum of emotion, thus, allowing him to write about Vanya’s experience with sexuality without ever explicitly referring to it. And, perhaps, the subtlety Kuzmin employs is part of what makes the book so complex and beautiful. His imagery ripples like a stone dropped in water, growing in breadth and impact the more time we spend appreciating it.
  
  Bibliography 
  Kuzmin, M. A. Wings. London: Hesperus, 2007.