Novikov and Afrika Come Out

M.T. - Margarita Tupitsyna V.T. - Viktor Tupitsyn T.N. - Timur Novikov S.B. - Sergey Bugaev (Africa) D.R. - David Ross E.S. - Elizabeth Sussman V.T.: Today I saw Yufit's films, and it seemed to me that the paintings of Leningrad's Noma have much in common with this cinematic production, meaning both phenomena exist within the same movement. If that's the case, what kind of relationships brought about this similarity? T.N.: You could say it’s a unified artistic process involving both filmmakers and artists simultaneously. Both today might make a film, and tomorrow, a painting. All of these people—Yevgeny Yufit, Oleg Kotelnikov, and many others (it would take too long to list them all)—constitute a cohesive phenomenon operating in the artistic scene of Leningrad. In the case of major cultural events, they consolidate and act as a single fist. V.T.: Which finger of this fist would you associate yourself with? The thumb, the index finger, or the one used in the U.S. to sublimate a utopia called "FUCK YOU"? T.N.: I’m just the hole they stick their fingers into: I understand and accept everything. V.T.: So, it’s submission vs. aggression, isn’t it? S.B.: The question of mutual influences and relationships is the most interesting thing happening right now. Late 20th-century art represents a completed "formula of transmission," coupled with the phenomenon of "permanent ball-passing," and in Leningrad, this is expressed with maximum precision—some conditional, non-existent real-world boundaries or divisions allow us to observe the ball flying between conceptually different fields, creating this formula. Yufit and his films bring together much of what has happened and is happening here. It’s connected with the popular tradition of exchanging uncensored information. Yufit is a figure of this kind... Moreover, I associate all this with the tradition of holy fools, ascetics, and prisoners. On one hand, the holy fools were seen as ridiculous, but on the other, they were the only carriers and transmitters of a certain spiritual legacy, if such a thing ever existed. V.T.: They could be called the "megaphone of the collective unconscious." T.N.: I don't know about a megaphone, but people say that Yufit used to pick up drunks lying in the streets and alleyways, get them drunk until they passed out, and then fuck their mouths. One of them was later seen with a torn mouth. V.T.: The mouth became like a megaphone... Isn’t this story something you could call the master-narrative of necrorealism? D.R.: If pornography exists in every culture, then where is Russian porn? And what about the influence of Soviet pornography, or the reality of Soviet pornography? T.N.: It all exists and manifests in a fairly traditional way, just like before the revolution. But it’s apocryphal, a "secret history" of Russian sexuality, including memories of repression, censorship, control, and the fight against it all. S.B.: The ban on sex during Stalinism gave rise to "special" forms of sexuality. For example, the sexual attraction of one person to another was expressed by turning them in to the authorities, thereby condemning the object of affection to suffering, which was itself a form of satisfaction. D.R.: It seems like the feeling of sexuality is mixed with behavior that takes its place: this behavior substitutes desire, so all these murders were a surrogate for sexual acts. E.S.: How familiar are you with American homosexual freedom? T.N.: I don’t know how familiar… as much as the situation allows. S.B.: About 20 centimeters! M.T.: Recently, you’ve started to speak openly about your sexual orientation. You’re homosexuals, right? T.N. / S.B.: Yes! M.T.: It would be interesting (in this context) to discuss Guryanov’s post-Sots Art works, where he copies Rodchenko’s portraits of aviation heroes or athletes. If the originals allegorize utopia as a space of desire, in Guryanov’s works, they are simply sex objects. V.T.: In connection with this, I’d like to ask: Leningrad art differs from Moscow’s, of course, very significantly. Specifically, because here the expressiveness of gesture still remains important. What do you think is the reason for this? Why do you still insist on extroverted articulation? Could it be that submission in real life is compensated by aggression in creative expression? S.B.: That question is easy to answer. Leningrad is a city with a huge revolutionary tradition. Officially, it’s called the "city of three revolutions," and, as far as I understand it, expressionism is largely in tune with revolution. And this revolutionary spirit continues to persist in the local painting tradition. T.N.: To add to your words, a friend of mine always says, "Painting and politics are one and the same. Van Gogh’s gesture is Hitler’s gesture." Leningrad differs from Moscow in that the expressionist tradition here is its own. It wasn’t reflected from the West, from the "Neue Wilde," "Figuration Libre," or any kind of graffiti, and, let’s say, if the "Kindergarten" group in Moscow was influenced by Western neo-expressionism, here we had an artist like Koshelokhov, who once considered this painting his own, unlike anyone else. He was doing it as far back as the 1970s. And before Koshelokhov, there were Vasmi, Shagin, Schwartz, Arefiev—the same thing, but in a small format. And there was an outstanding artist, Cherkasov, who created abstract works. And this tradition still holds. The exceptions, perhaps, are Khlobystin, Kozin with Maslov, who look into foreign magazines. But Oleg Kotelnikov is purely a local phenomenon. He didn’t look at Western books or see any catalogs. This is his own product, which is why it has endured for so long. And since people aren’t focused on fashion, when the fashion passed, they didn’t even realize that it needed to change. M.T.: I’d like to ask about your connection to the legacy of the Russian (historical) avant-garde, as many of you claim a connection to it... In Moscow’s Noma, nothing of the kind is happening. Here, however, the issue of searching for "roots" still seems relevant... S.B.: For me personally, the connection with the Russian avant-garde is manifested in the figure of Larionov. He was the first avant-gardist to engage with fashion, as well as—back in the 1910s—with artistic cuisine. Later, Andy Warhol, and before him Dalí, considered themselves founders of this genre. E.S.: What did he do? T.N.: Dinners. Soup made from wine, bread figures of animals and birds, ornamental plants, and so on. He even had a manifesto called "Rayonnist Cuisine." S.B.: This is completely unknown in the West... M.T.: Well, what can you say about Rodchenko, Sergey? It seems to me that you have a complicated relationship with him. T.N.: I think, Sergey, it’s because of you that Rodchenko’s prices have gone up. V.T.: There’s something priapic-pornographic about raising prices. S.B.: Yes, Rodchenko’s prices are stiff... M.T.: I wanted to ask you—why did you decide to use fabric for your works? T.N.: For purely utilitarian purposes! It all comes from Larionov. For example, his concept, which later turned into postmodernism. The essence of it is this: we invented abstract paintings, then we invented neo-primitivism, then suprematism. There’s no point in painting just one thing anymore. Let everyone paint whatever they want! M.T.: But you’re avoiding a direct answer about the fabrics. T.N.: Larionov was largely influenced by folk art. And as we know, you won’t find painting on canvas in folk art. Folk art is mostly textile. M.T.: Doesn’t it bother you that using fabric makes your works feel very feminine... which contradicts the "machismo" typical, for example, of neo-expressionists? Generally speaking, heroic avant-gardism (as a whole) is characterized by a worldview of priapism... T.N.: For me, it’s very important to "lower" avant-gardism... In some cases, it’s simply necessary to do this with the previous art situation. M.T.: And how does this "lowering" take place? T.N.: Let me explain step by step. So, a new prisoner enters the cell—he’s all important, like... a former magazine publisher and so on. Suddenly, the thieves approach him, pull down his pants, fuck him, and force him to suck a dick. This, for example, is called "lowering." V.T.: A Bakhtinian situation... Dialogical relationships realized through fucking. M.T.: He (Timur) associates the transition from modernism to postmodernism with the degradation of previous forms of expression, which, in some cases, literally takes place in prison practices. But is this an analogy to neo-primitivism? T.N.: Yes, of course. For example, this painting is by Matisse, and that painting over there is from the children’s hospital, done by the patients themselves. S.B.: Any system of hierarchies is based on oppositions. There is high and low, art and anti-art. But as soon as you open the doors of the gallery to low forms, avant-gardism ceases to be what it was. It no longer works. M.T.: And it becomes possible to combine these opposite things? S.B.: It becomes not just possible, but necessary. When you work in these zones of low forms, the very opposition between high and low collapses. In our work, we take this collapse as a given, and by acting within this framework, we subvert the oppositional structures. In this sense, Leningrad art, by allowing expressionism to persist in the way it has, participates in a larger global collapse of avant-gardist hierarchies. V.T.: How do you see the future of art in this city? T.N.: A great era has come to an end. Now, everything will settle down, be classified, and solidified. All that’s left to do is wait for a new burst of activity, which may or may not happen in our lifetime. M.T.: In a recent interview, someone referred to you as the last avant-gardist... T.N.: It's not quite true. The last avant-gardist has yet to appear. I think avant-gardism, with all its revolutionary gestures, hasn’t completely played itself out. There's still room for new developments. Perhaps not in the form it took in the 20th century, but something entirely different, which will speak to the present moment. S.B.: The future of art, particularly in Leningrad, seems inevitably tied to its past. We are dealing with a tradition that hasn't been fully broken, unlike in the West, where successive movements aim to completely overthrow what came before. Here, there’s still a living connection to the Russian avant-garde, and the search for roots remains a crucial issue. This creates a different dynamic. M.T.: For me personally, the connection with the Russian avant-garde is embodied in Larionov. He was the first avant-gardist to engage with fashion, and in the 1910s, he even delved into culinary arts. Later, both Andy Warhol and Dalí claimed to have pioneered these genres, but Larionov was first. E.S.: What exactly did he do? T.N.: Banquets. He made soup from wine, bread figurines of animals and birds, ornamental plants, and other such things. He even wrote a manifesto called "Rayist Cuisine." S.B.: Nothing about this is known in the West... M.T.: What about Rodchenko, Sergey? I sense you have a complicated relationship with him. T.N.: I think, Sergey, you're the reason Rodchenko's prices have gone up. V.T.: There’s something priapic and pornographic about rising prices. S.B.: Yes, Rodchenko’s prices are holding steady... M.T.: I wanted to ask, why did you decide to use fabric in your works? T.N.: For purely utilitarian reasons! It all comes from Larionov. For example, his concept, which later turned into postmodernism. The essence of it is this: we invented abstract painting, then we invented neo-primitivism, and then suprematism. There’s no longer any point in sticking to one thing. Let everyone paint whatever they want! M.T.: But you’re avoiding the direct question about fabric. T.N.: Larionov was deeply influenced by folk art, and as we know, you won’t find canvas paintings there. Folk art is primarily textiles. M.T.: Doesn’t it bother you that using fabric makes your works feel very feminine? That contradicts the machismo inherent in, for example, neo-expressionism. Generally speaking, heroic avant-garde movements tend to have a worldview characterized by priapism... T.N.: For me, it’s very important to “lower” the avant-garde... In some cases, doing this to a previous artistic situation is simply necessary. M.T.: And how is this "lowering" accomplished? T.N.: I’ll explain it step by step. Let’s say a new inmate enters the prison – someone important, like a former magazine publisher, for example. Suddenly, the criminal elite approach him, pull down his pants, and sodomize him, forcing him to perform oral sex. That’s what’s called “being brought down.” V.T.: A Bakhtinian situation... Dialogic relationships, realized through sexual dominance. M.T.: He (Timur) associates the transition from modernism to postmodernism with the deconstruction of heterosexuality. Relationships with fathers, ancestors, are homosexual. Plus – incestuous... T.N.: Well, it's not exactly that. For instance, when I make a painting, to me it’s simultaneously a curtain, a screen, and a very serious work. It can be both a tablecloth and the highest example of art. M.T.: Apparently, Timur, you are fortunately not influenced by the stereotypes of "male chauvinism," which are so dominant in socio-cultural practices in the West. No patriarchal "creator" there would work with such material: the choice of fabric is significant. T.N.: The thing is, works made from fabric are soft, easy to transport. I can calmly carry one in a bag while watching my colleagues struggle under the weight of their canvases and stretcher bars. V.T.: Here's a question that's not critical, but rather a rejection of those critics who exist within the heterosexual Moscow art scene, criticizing the partly homosexual Leningrad art scene... There’s this common perception that here, in Leningrad, compared to Moscow's neo-conceptualism, the art is more visceral, more sensual, less articulate, almost lacking in reflection... And if that’s true, it’s paradoxical, because in the West, marginal practices like feminism and homosexuality are associated with a high level of discourse and theoretical elaboration. It seems that in the USSR, being an alternative artist and simultaneously homosexual – being "other" twice over – is doubly difficult. It’s a kind of double alienation (castration), an ultimate double-bind, creating a psychedelic ghetto from which hysterical narratives find it difficult to emerge onto the level of discourse. By the way, M. Ryklin and S. Anufriev have written some interesting theoretical texts on this subject at my request. T.N.: Moscow intellectuals sometimes forget that the most important thing in art is not overthinking it. Also, in recent years, intellectualism has become a mask that many are ready to put on at the first convenient opportunity. Especially the new generation of artists... S.B.: In Moscow, the tradition is continuous, alive, and visible, while here, tradition and our engagement with it resonate with Fyodorov’s idea of "the resurrection of the fathers." Larionov, Rodchenko, and others – long dead, gone beyond the horizon, invisible – reach out to us with spiritual tentacles from there. That’s where I see the parallel with Fyodorov. Our relationship with the Russian avant-garde is like a relationship with a prematurely deceased father who was tormented, persecuted, and destroyed. The question of reflection, therefore, operates at maximum capacity. From the American perspective, we are probably not “motherfuckers,” but “fatherfuckers.” V.T.: Tell me, has the opportunity to travel abroad affected your reevaluation of the local cultural tradition? How has the new perspective you’ve gained from seeing what happens abroad transformed your relationship to what happens here in Russia? S.B.: After going abroad, I saw the local tradition as a special relationship to space. It’s perceived as something enclosed, small, and cramped. This is probably because real space here is so vast that it’s beyond comprehension. After my trip, space expanded, and the spatial balance was disrupted. After the increase came a sharp decrease, and now I feel like I don’t have a “space to run ahead” – no perspective. That is, I felt a disappointment that the West has lost its unattainability, ceased to be a perspective, meaning that the world has unified, which I perceive as generally negative. T.N.: Before trips to the West, Russian artists mainly had the attitude that art was something sacred, important, and elevated. The artist was a holy fool, a martyr, and so on. Almost all artists, upon returning from the West, usually start "making money." S.B.: Unfortunately, I find all of this more tragic. Observing Soviet artists in the West, I saw not joy on their faces but oppression, a mark of cruel and heavy work... V.T.: How did this affect their works? S.B.: Their works? They lost their main virtue – relevance, the internal, authorial necessity of their creation. Those works ceased to be interesting.