The most spectacular example of revolutionary street theatre was The Storming of the Winter Palace, staged in 1920 to celebrate the third anniversary of the October insurrection. This mass spectacle ended the distinction — which in any case had always been confused — between theatre and revolution: the streets of Petrograd, where the revolutionary drama of 1917 had been enacted, were now turned into a theatre. The key scenes were reenacted on three huge stages on Palace Square. The Winter Palace was part of the set with various windows lit up in turn to reveal different scenes inside. The Aurora played a star role, firing its heavy guns from the Neva to signal the start of the assault on the palace, just as it had done on that historic night. There was a cast of 10,000 actors, probably more than had taken part in the actual insurrection, who, like the chorus in the theatre of the Ancient Greeks, appeared to embody the monumental idea of the revolution as an act of the people. An estimated 100,000 spectators watched the action unfold from Palace Square. They laughed at the buffoonish figure of Kerensky and cheered wildly during the assault on the palace. This was the start of the myth of Great October — a myth which Eisenstein turned into pseudo-fact with his ‘docudrama’ film October (1927). Stills from this film are still reproduced in books, both in Russia and the West, as authentic photographs of the revolution.22
Art too was taken on to the streets. The Constructivists talked of bringing art out of the museums and into everyday life. Many of them, such as Rodchenko and Malevich, concentrated their efforts on designing clothes, furniture, offices and factories with the stress on what they called the ‘industrial style’ — simple designs and primary colours, geometric shapes and straight lines, all of which they thought would both liberate the people and make them more rational. They said their aim was ‘to reconstruct not only objects, but also the whole domestic way of life’. Several leading avant-garde painters and sculptors, such as Chagall and Tatlin, put their hands to ‘agitation art’ — decorating buildings and streetcars or designing posters for the numerous revolutionary celebrations and festivals, such as 1 May or Revolution Day, when the whole of the people was supposed to be united in an open exhibition of collective joy and emotion. The town was literally painted red (sometimes even the trees). Through statues and monuments they sought to turn the streets into a Museum of the Revolution, into a living icon of the power and the grandeur of the new regime which would impress even the illiterate. There was nothing new in such acts of self-consecration by the state: the tsarist regime had done just the same. Indeed it was nicely ironic that the obelisk outside the Kremlin erected by the Romanovs to celebrate their tercentenary in 1913 was retained on Lenin’s orders. Its tsarist inscription was replaced by the names of a ‘socialist’ ancestry stretching back to the sixteenth century. It included Thomas More, Campanella and Winstanley.23
As far as one can tell, none of these avant-garde artistic experiments was ever really effective in transforming hearts and minds. Leftwing artists might have believed that they were creating a new aesthetic for the masses, but they were merely creating a modernist aesthetic for themselves, albeit one in which ‘the masses’ were objectified as a symbol of their own ideals. The artistic tastes of the workers and peasants were essentially conservative. Indeed it is hard to overestimate the conservatism of the peasants in artistic matters: when the Bolshoi Ballet toured the provinces during 1920 the peasants were said to have been ‘profoundly shocked by the display of the bare arms and legs of the coryphées, and walked out of the performance in disgust’. The unlife-like images of modernist art were alien to a people whose limited acquaintance with art was based on the icon.fn4 Having decorated the streets of Vitebsk for the first anniversary of the October insurrection, Chagall was asked by Communist officials: ‘Why is the cow green and why is the house flying through the sky, why? What’s the connection with Marx and Engels?’ Surveys of popular reading habits during the 1920s showed that workers and peasants continued to prefer the detective and romantic stories of the sort they had read before the revolution to the literature of the avant-garde. Just as unsuccessful was the new music. At one ‘concert in the factory’ there was such a cacophonous din from all the sirens and the hooters that even the workers failed to recognize the tune of the Internationale. Concert halls and theatres were filled with the newly rich proletarians of the Bolshevik regime — the Bolshoi Theatre in Moscow was littered every night with the husks of the sunflower seeds which they chewed — yet they came to listen to Glinka and Tchaikovsky.24 When it comes to matters of artistic taste, there is nothing the semi-educated worker wants more than to mimic the bourgeoisie.
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Alongside new art forms the ‘dreamers’ of the revolution tried to experiment with new forms of social life. This too, it was presumed, could be used to transform the nature of mankind. Or, more precisely, womankind.
Women’s liberation was an important aspect of the new collective life, as envisaged by the leading feminists in the party — Kollontai, Armand and Balabanoff. Communal dining halls, laundries and nurseries would liberate women from the drudgery of housework and enable them to play an active role in the revolution. ‘Women of Russia, Throw Away Your Pots and Pans!’, read one Soviet poster. The gradual dissolution of the ‘bourgeois’ family through liberal reform of the laws on marriage, divorce and abortion would, it was supposed, liberate women from their husbands’ tyranny. The Women’s Department of the Central Committee Secretariat (Zhenotdel), established in 1919, set itself the task to ‘refashion women’ by mobilizing them into local political work and by educational propaganda. Kollontai, who became the head of Zhenotdel on Armand’s death in 1920, also advocated a sexual revolution to emancipate women. She preached ‘free love’ or ‘erotic friendships’ between men and women as two equal partners, thus liberating women from the ‘servitude of marriage’ and both sexes from the burdens of monogamy. It was a philosophy she practised herself with a long succession of husbands and lovers, including Dybenko, the Bolshevik sailor seventeen years her junior whom she married in 1917, and, by all accounts, the King of Sweden, with whom she took up as the Soviet (and the first ever female) Ambassador in Stockholm during the 1930s.
As the Commissar for Social Welfare Kollontai tried to create the conditions for this new sexual harmony. Efforts were made to combat prostitution and to increase the state provision of child-care, although little progress could be made in either field during the civil war. Unfortunately, some local commissariats failed to understand the import of Kollontai’s work. In Saratov, for example, the provincial welfare department issued a ‘Decree on the Nationalization of Women’: it abolished marriage and gave men the right to release their sexual urges at licensed brothels. Kollontai’s subordinates set up a ‘Bureau of Free Love’ in Vladimir and issued a proclamation requiring all the unmarried women between the ages of eighteen and fifty to register with it for the selection of their sexual mates. The proclamation declared all women over eighteen to be ‘state property’ and gave men the right to choose a registered woman, even without her consent, for breeding ‘in the interests of the state’.25