Introduction and Prelude
Creating an Exhibition History
Where does one start a history of a century of exhibitions of Russian art in the U.S.? And why does it matter – does it reflect the history of museums in the U.S.? Or tell us something about the meaning of exhibitions? Perhaps both, but before trying to answer those questions, it might be useful to know why the first question is more interesting than we might suspect.
This project had two beginnings: this researcher’s attempt to explain the apparent influences of Russian art on late 20th century American art,1 when opportunities for those artists to encounter Russian art in English language publications and museums were still rare, and a more accidental beginning when a speaker at a workshop hosted by the National Endowment for the Humanities and the New York Public Library nonchalantly referred to an exhibition of Russian art at the gallery in the Grand Central Palace in 1924. On one level, I wanted to know whether the connection between Daniel Flavin and VladimirTatlin was deeper than the title of one of Flavin’s works. Or, in the same vein, why did artists like Alice Aycock and Miriam Schapiro make visual and conceptual references to Russian constructivist theater? Could it be argued that Camilla Gray’s book was not the only source of information about Russian avant-garde art for late 20th century American artists? The second motivation, the one that more directly culminated in this work, reflected my astonishment in learning about the relatively unknown 1924 exhibition.
I was astounded on two counts: although a New Yorker, I did not know that there had ever been an art gallery in Grand Central station, and in my own study of Russian art, I was unaware of any exhibitions preceding the last quarter of the 20th century. As early as the 1920s? My opening question suddenly seemed to hold the key to knowing why it mattered. But this would involve more than simply chronicling the dates of these exhibitions. It would be necessary to know what art was included, where these exhibitions were located, who arranged them, who saw them, and what impact they had on the public. Clearly, my first question is not as straightforward as it might seem to be as it implies that the resources to do such a study exist. But do they?
In search of an answer to at least one of these questions, I turned to the encyclopedic multi-volume work by Bruce Altshuler, Exhibitions that Changed Art History.2 Because volume one preceded volume two by several years and had an earlier chronological focus, the first volume Salon to Biennials seemed to be a good starting point. A unique compendium of exhibitions with archival sources and photographs when possible, it is unmatched as a history of exhibitions. The catch, however, is the phrase “that changed
ruled by a tsar, until the revolution to overthrow him finally succeeded, and the country where these works will be displayed does not clearly acknowledge the existence of the country that presumably owned the art works, finding the answers may require rejecting any that at first seem to be obvious and correct. There is yet one more question that may be as challenging and potentially the most intriguing of all: What motivations lay behind these early exhibitions? What role does art play in promoting or instigating international dialogue, if that was ever a goal?
To preview some of my findings, this research shows how curatorial goals often determined which artists were associated with which movements, even when these associations may be contradicted by historical fact. To a large degree, official Soviet agencies and American commercial dealers were often more influential than curators or specialists in Russian and Soviet art. Indeed, goals for the earliest exhibitions had less to do with the art works than with such issues as raising money for presumably starving artists and promoting a bridge between two cultures. To be sure, sales of Russian art were often written about in the newspapers, often included in a lengthy column that named several exhibitions and sales roughly occurring at the same time and in the same location. Whereas some curators strove to associate the avant-garde with spirituality or to rouse public support for starving Russian artists, dealers, on the other hand, were often buying fakes or at the very least promoting their collections as representing periods and types of art incorrectly. Collectors, of course, might do the same as dealers, albeit for different reasons. Robert C. Williams, in his research on the interactions between Russia and the U.S., observes that sales of Russian art, and in some cases European art owned by Russians, took place before the Russian revolution and continued long after, largely motivated by the monetary needs of either merchants or the government. By the 1920s, the goal of sales appeared to change slightly to a more diplomatic goal, although economic goals remained.12
Whether sales or exhibitions, these events received widespread newspaper coverage. The role of art as a political tool in shaping one country’s perceptions of another becomes surprisingly relevant, especially when government agencies control sales and loans of art works, as was the case in the Soviet Union. To be sure, the political use of art will not be as prevalent in the early 20th century as it will be later, although it might be an oversight to ignore the deliberate use of culture in shaping public opinion at any point in time. Other questions emerged as my study progressed. What role was played by magazines such as the Little Review and the graphic artists who worked for them? How did émigrés fit into this growing history? Despite Alfred Barr’s early travels to the Soviet Union, the newly formed Museum of Modern Art did not become a leader in the sphere of Russian art until recently, and even now, it might be said that its limited contribution to this exhibition history is perplexing. Thus, I ask, what goals and beliefs provided the groundwork for these exhibitions, and in particular, the early ones? How did this exhibition history shape American understanding of the Russian avant-garde, and one might boldly say, of Soviet and then Russian culture?13 Once again, it is unlikely that there will be a simple or single answer to questions such as these. For comparison, we might look to Eleonory Gilburd’s recent and provocative study of Soviet perceptions and interpretations of western culture primarily but not exclusively during the Thaw.14 In an interesting inversion of the 19th century American critical response to Russian art of the 19th century, Gilburd tells us how the Russian spectator and critic alike believed that abstract art of the mid20th century signified capitalist degeneration and American crudeness so serious it could only be considered a barbaric, viral infection. Gilburd and Kiril Chunikhin both show us
Introduction and Prelude 5
how the Soviet Union’s reception of the American artist Rockwell Kent was directly contrary to his reception in his home country.15 The dichotomous reactions to realism and abstraction in the late 20th century cannot of course be compared to American responses to realism in the 19th century, when, as we shall see, viewers believed that Russian art was seen to confirm the cultural backwardness and barbaric nature of the Russians, but the tendency to see in art a reflection of the level of culture in a foreign country may actually tell us more about spectator responses to art than about the country that produced the art.16 Still, we might want to reckon with the negative Soviet attitude toward abstraction, whether their own or from another culture, that doesn’t seem to go away.
Before turning to the exhibitions, we should note that all of the previous questions will be problematized by the reality of changes in museological theory and the role of governments in facilitating or complicating intercultural cooperation. As a result, this story is far more complex than a chronological listing of exhibition names and art works. If, however, we choose the chronological beginning, and we don’t eliminate non-museum exhibitions, we begin with American expositions in the 19th century. One question can be answered: this is not a history of museums. They will be important but the earliest exhibitions in this history did not take place in museums.
Prelude
Russia participated in two world’s fairs held in the U.S. in the 19th century: the Philadelphia Centennial Exhibition of 1876 and the Columbian Exposition in Chicago in 1893. Unlike the rather more preposterous events we will find associated with the 1904 Louisiana Purchase Exposition in St. Louis, where Russia did participate although not on an official basis, these earlier fairs received art works that were primarily the works of the Peredvizhniki (the Wanderers) artists. The selection of works for international expositions was generally organized by the Imperial Fine Arts Academy. Initially, representatives of the Academy selected art works, rather than artists; by 1876, they were approaching artists and giving them the opportunity to select works of their own for the exhibition. By 1878, the year of the Universal Exposition in Paris, the Academy focused its invitations on the Peredvizhniki who refused to participate in that exposition. In their place, private collectors such as the Tretiakov family offered to lend works from their own collection. For the Chicago Columbian expo in 1893, Tsar Alexander III offered works from his collection. Sales of works were not the motivation behind Russia’s involvement as many of the works that were included already belonged to private or imperial Russian collectors who agreed to lend their works to the exhibition planning commission. Indeed, Russian participation in these expositions was not usually based on the belief that it would help business or trade, regardless of whether the involvement was in the area of machinery, agriculture, or art. In general, motivation for participation seemed to be the belief that this would help Russia’s image abroad. In the weeks leading up to the Philadelphia Centennial exposition in 1876, Russia was not prepared to participate but reversed its decision after receiving an invitation from President Grant (sent to all potential participating countries) and after Great Britain was seen to be encouraging the Ottomans to avoid a peaceful settlement with the Balkan Slavs, making participation a diplomatic step in building relations with the U.S.. Newspaper articles in popular papers along with the Ministry of Finance’s communication with the Tsar ensured in both cases that participation was not recommended as a means of helping industry but to provide evidence of Russia’s friendly attitude toward the U.S.17
much on description. He could not write about each of the more than 100 works but did write about many, providing elaborate descriptions that included his reading of the narrative and the emotional quality that the artist was, according to Bancroft, trying to convey. Thus, some artists appeal to our sympathies, while other artists communicate a noticeable air of sadness even in those scenes that are portraying cheerful moments. He writes that “in ‘Sunday in a Village,’ by Dmietrieff Orenbursky, when peasants are trying to make merry, we can see that they are only trying, and with indifferent success.”25 This does not read as criticism from Bancroft but as praise. The Chicago exposition was large and important, particularly from the perspective of its architecture and implications for urban planning. It did not appear to be a failure with respect to the exhibition of fine arts, and it is likely that the Russian galleries were well visited. Popular magazines did have occasional articles about Russian art, and Bancroft was not the only American to write about the Russian art section, although it is difficult to track these materials today. More are available in Russian archives. Overall, Zavyalova’s article is probably the most complete discussion of Russian involvement at the Chicago expo that we have today – as she observes, Russian writers contributed to the various sections of the larger expo catalog, attempting to explain scenes to the American audience and probably romanticizing the narratives. Bancroft and several other American writers may have been influenced by this tendency to explain and romanticize, rather than analyzing the art work from a more complete art historical perspective, if one were desired. Marian Shaw was more concise than Bancroft but essentially provided a paragraph long, descriptive walk-through. Her comments begin by observing that “Russia’s display is a marvel and a revelation to those who have looked upon the vast empire of the Czar[sic] as but one remove from barbarism” and goes on to commend several paintings for their luminous and lovely effects. A journalist rather than an art critic, she defers to the critics’ assessments of the works in this “superb collection” from the Imperial Academy and one work (a painting by Repin) from the emperor, “pronounced by the critics the artistic gem of the collection.”26
At most fairs, fine arts were never as popular as machinery and other parts of the fairs. Among the arts, painting was the most important at all the fairs, although not always the most popular. At the earliest expos, the organizers for each country initially focused on living artists only, until they began receiving complaints from the owners of art works that were lent to the expos time and again. This was soon remedied by the inclusion of art by artists no longer alive making art the only part of these expos that sanctioned an exploration of the past – a factor that may have detracted from the interest of audiences who wanted to know the present-day worlds of the cultures included in the expositions. If not overwhelmingly popular with the average spectator, they were not more so with artists. Paul Greenhalgh suggests that the influence of the fine arts palaces at the world expositions on new and professional artists was very slight; this may have been the effect of including a large amount of recent academic art in comparison with a more limited amount of work by old masters; they did, however, introduce many artists to visual arts and ethnographic displays from countries that were not usually seen in museums.27 Philadelphia, an exceptionally large fair, had three buildings for art: the Art Gallery (Memorial Hall, the Philadelphia Art Museum today), the Art Annex, and the Photographic Hall. Apparently, the organization of the art gallery was unusual, seemingly not only using American art as the most central in the plan but giving space to foreign art works that were owned by American collectors. The floor plan for the main gallery was divided into numerous small rectangular spaces of which some countries received more than one. Russia is indicated in this plan, although not in the annex that was also
Introduction and Prelude 11 prelude rightly ends in the first decade of the 20th century as we turn to the contributions of first, Christian Brinton, and second, Katherine Dreier, and then the Soviet government for what can truly be called the beginning of the history of a century of exhibitions of Russian and Soviet art in the U.S., another consequential factor has entered the picture: the role of governments in planning exhibitions and sales. Whereas the Soviet government did want to create an international market for Russian art and antiques, and did initially encourage exhibitions as a means of generating interest in these products, marketability is a different motive for exhibition planning than cultural relations. Many of the items chosen for sale were not necessarily Russian to begin with and rarely reflected avant-garde developments.33 The early interest of Soviet agencies in planning exhibitions for travel ends in the 1920s, although the interest in sales continues. Nonetheless, the lack of involvement of Russian museums in planning American exhibitions undoubtedly impacted the range of works that could be seen in this country, but was it exclusively for the worst? The answer to that question remains to be seen. Yet, it must be noted that through the efforts of VOKS, recognized as the USSR Society for Cultural Relations with Foreign Countries, the goals of scientific and cultural relations exceeded sales and led to a variety of exhibitions in the period between 1925 and 1928. Forty exhibitions in the arts were held, with an emphasis on posters, printing type, and books, among other media, but most of these were in European countries, with Germany and England recipients of more than other countries named in the report from October 1928. A Modern Art Exposition in America is also mentioned and the 1928 International Press Exhibition traveled from Cologne to four other cities, including New York.34 The role of VOKS and the friendship societies formed in other countries obviously is important and cannot be overlooked.
Notes
1. The use of Soviet versus Russian is the subject of a later paragraph. On my use of “American,” I refer only to the United States.
2. Bruce Altshuler, ed., Salon to Biennial – Exhibitions that Made Art History, Vol. 1: 1863–1959 (New York and London: Phaidon Press, 2008).
3. Introduction, Biennials and Beyond – Exhibitions that Made Art History, Vol. 2: 1962–2002 (New York and London: Phaidon Press, 2013), 11–24.
4. Exhibitions, p. 15 for both quotations.
5. Anne Odom and Wendy R. Salmond, eds., Treasures into Tractors: The Selling of Russia’s Cultural Heritage, 1918–1938 (Washington, DC: Hillwood Estate and Seattle, WA: University of Washington Press, 2009). Treasures into Tractors preceded by only a few years the English language version of a comparable study of the disasters tracked in Odom and Salmond’s book: Natalya Semyonova and Nicolas V. Iljine, eds., Selling Russia’s Treasures. The Soviet Trade in Nationalized Art, 1917–1938, translation from Russian by Andrew Bromfield and Howard M Goldfinger (Paris: M.T. Abraham Center for the Visual Arts Foundation, 2013). It is perhaps most significant that the contributions of each book to understanding the extent of Russian cultural losses are unique and non-duplicative.
6. Introduction, “A Long Engagement: Russian Art and the ‘West’,” Blakesley and Reid, eds., Russian Art and the West (DeKalb, IL: Northern Illinois University Press, 2007), 3–20.
7. Preface to Treasures into Tractors, xiii–xv.
8. See an early article by John E. Bowlt, “Art in Exile: The Russian Avant-Garde and the Emigration,” Art Journal, 41: 3 (Autumn 1981), 215–221 for discussion of the various uses and meanings of avant-garde and why the term may be useful or obfuscating.
9. Brinton will be of interest later in this chapter, as will the tenuous distinction between Soviet and Russian. For his interest in evolutionary theories, see Mechella Yezernitskaya, “Christian Brinton: A Modernist Icon,” Baltic Worlds, XI: 1 (2018), 58–64, and Andrew J. Walker,
“Critic, Curator, Collector: Christian Brinton and the Exhibition of National Modernism in America, 1910–1945,” dissertation, University of Pennsylvania, 1999.
10. Although emigration will obviously be an important and influential concept in my study, it will not be a major focus for my work as it deserves and has received book-length studies. These include Marilyn Rueschemeyer, Igor Golomstok, and Janet Kennedy, Soviet Emigré Artists: Life and Work in the USSR and the United States (Armonk, NY and London: M. E. Sharpe Inc., 1985); Christopher Flamm, Henry Keazor, and Roland Marti, eds., Russian Emigré Culture: Conservatism or Evolution? (Cambridge Scholars Publisher, 2013).
11. Irene R. Makaryk, April in Paris: Theatricality, Modernism, and Politics at the 1925 Art Deco Expo (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2018) addresses the confusions inherent in this distinction and how they played into the response to Russian and Soviet work at the expo. As far as I can tell, there is no single or simple answer to this question; whenever possible, I will use the terminology as it was used in the exhibition I am discussing.
12. Williams, Russian Art and American Money, 1900–1940 (Cambridge: Harvard University Press), 27.
13. In most cases, exhibitions after the 1917 revolution will refer to Soviet art but exhibitions of art made before 1917 will usually say Russian art. In some cases, the distinction is one that is made by the curator or museum and does not always have a clear reference to a date. I try to conform to the terminology used in the exhibition.
14. Eleonory Gilburd, To See Paris and Die; The Soviet Lives of Western Culture (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2018), see especially chapter 5, “Barbarians in the Temple of Art.”
15. K. Chunikhin, “At Home among Strangers; U.S. Artists, the Soviet Union, and the Myth of Rockwell Kent during the Cold War,” Journal of Cold War Studies, 21: 4 (Fall 2019), 175–207.
16. An unusual and very detailed article that focuses on the “infancy” of Russian artistic culture as an explanation for some disappointing art works was not based on an exhibition but written in anticipation of the forthcoming St. Louis exposition for a Chicago magazine that no longer exists: E. N. Keyser, “Russian Art: Its Strength and Its Weakness,” Brush and Pencil, 14: 3 (Jun 1904), 161–173.
17. David C. Fisher, “Exhibiting Russia at the Worlds’ Fairs, 1851–1900,” dissertation, Indiana University, 2003, 86–87. For a different approach to the role of World Fairs in establishing national identity, see Anthony Swift, “Russian National Identity at World Fairs, 1851–1900,” in Josephy Theodor Leerson and Eric Storm, eds., World Fairs and the Global Moulding of National Identities (Leiden, Boston: Brill, 2022), 107–143. Swift’s focus is on Russia’s use of the Russian style, rather than industrial advances to create its brand.
18. Fisher, “Exhibiting Russia,” p. 70. In a table of Russian participation, Fisher notes 648 exhibitors in Philadelphia, 1048 in Chicago, and fewer than 400 in St. Louis where other complications intervened. His numbers, we will see, do appear to include all types of exhibitors. The undeniable value of this work is its usefulness as a guide to resources on and responses to the fairs. Unfortunately, Swift focuses only on European expos and does not discuss the American fairs.
19. One source for Russian participation in Chicago is Anna Zavyalova, “Russian Fine Arts Section at the World’s Columbian Exposition 1893, Notes on Organization and Reception,” Online Journal MDCCC 1800, 6: 9 (2017) 119–130. Other writers have addressed Russia’s involvement in European expositions, but I have chosen not to include those as my focus is the United States. In fact, the literature on non-American exhibitions of Russian art, especially those in Great Britain, is more extensive.
20. Zavyalova, 123. Her valuable research used archival materials in Moscow.
21. To determine whether or not this was a goal of the artists who sent works would require studying the complete bodies of work done by each artist and the provenance of each work. A worthy study but somewhat outside the boundaries of this one.
22. Although I have been able to track down a copy of the exposition catalog for Chicago, I have not had that luck with Philadelphia.
23. Spelling as listed in the Official Catalogue, Part X, Department K, Fine Arts, for the World Columbian Exposition of 1893 (available online through Google and through HathiTrust MARC); description on 364–365 with the artist’s name spelled Klagess and in an earlier listing as Klagis.
24. Hubert Howe Bancroft, the Book of the Fair (Chicago, IL: Bancroft, 1893), volume 8 as digitized by the Smithsonian, 754.
25. Bancroft, Fair, 758. Spelling of artist’s name as in the book.
26. Shaw, World’s Fair Notes, A Woman Journalist Views Chicago’s 1893 Columbian Exposition (St. Paul, MN: Pogo Press Inc., 1992), 71.
27. Greenhalgh, Ephemeral vistas: The Expositions Universelles, Great Exhibitions and World’s Fairs, 1851–1939 (Manchester, UK: Manchester University Press and New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1988).
28. Gustin, “Building Babel: The 1876 International Exhibition at the Philadelphia Centennial” Sequitur, 2: 1 (2015), quotation p. 2; Robert W. Rydell, All the World’s a Fair: Visions of Empire at American International Expositions, 1876–1916 (Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press: 1984), 21. Gustin and Rydell disagree on the unusual system of arranging the galleries in Philadelphia and the degree to which they can be called racist. Rydell does not discuss the Art buildings, while Gustin does not discuss the main building, making the extent of their disagreement unclear.
29. Robert C. Williams, “America’s Lost Russian Paintings and the 1904 St. Louis Exposition,” chapter 13 in Williams, Russian Art and American Money, 1900–1940 (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1980), 87–213, is the most complete discussion of this event that I have located.
30. “The National Note in Russian Art,” The Literary Digest, xxxii: 5 (Feb 3, 1906), 157–158; Brinton, “Russia through Russian Painting,” Appleton’s Booklovers’ Magazine, 7 (1906), 151–172.
31. Andrew J. Walker, “Critic, Curator, Collector: Christian Brinton and the Exhibition of National Modernism in America, 1910–1945,” doctoral dissertation, University of Pennsylvania, 1999, 34–35 refers to Brinton’s friendship with Grunwaldt and his article for Appleton’s. He does not spend much time on this article as it comes somewhat before the period of Brinton’s career that interests him but he does see it as contributing to Brinton’s theory of national modernism.
32. Brinton, Russian painting, p. 173.
33. Odom and Salmond, preface to Treasures into Tractors, xv–xix.
34. Olga D. Kamenova, “Cultural Rapprochement: The US.S.R. Society for Cultural Relations with Foreign Countries,” Pacific Affairs 1: 5 (Oct 1928), 6–8.
Chapter 1 Sources
Altshuler, Bruce, ed., Salon to Biennial – Exhibitions that Made Art History. Vol. 1: 1863–1959. Vol 2: Biennials and beyond, 1962–2002. New York and London: Phaidon Press, 2008–13.
Bancroft, Hubert Howe, The Book of the Fair. Vol. 8. Chicago, IL: Bancroft, 1893. https://doi. org/10.5479/sil.780071.39088011387669
Barr, Jr., Alfred H., “Russian Diary,” October. Vol. 7 (Winter 1978), 10–51.
Blakesley, Rosalind P. and Susan E. Reid, eds., Introduction, Russian Art and the West. Dekalb, IL: Northern Illinois University Press, 2007, pp. 3–20.
Bowlt, John E., “Art in Exile: The Russian Avant-Garde and the Emigration,” Art Journal, 41: 3 (1981), 215–221.
Brinton, Christian, “Russia through Russian Painting,” Appleton’s Booklovers’ Magazine, 7 (1906), 151–172.
Chunikhin, Kiril, “At Home among Strangers; U.S. Artists, the Soviet Union, and the Myth of Rockwell Kent during the Cold War,” Journal of Cold War Studies, 21: 4 (Fall 2019), 175–207. Fisher, David C., “Exhibiting Russia at the Worlds’ Fairs, 1851–1900,” Ph.D. diss., Indiana University, 2003.
Flamm, Christoph, ed. et al., Russian Émigré Culture: Conservatism or Evolution? Newcastle on Tyne: Cambridge Scholars Publisher, 2013; ProQuest Ebook Central.
Gilburd, Eleonory, To See Paris and Die; The Soviet Lives of Western Culture. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2018.
Gray, Camilla, The Russian Experiment in Art 1863–1922 (revised and enlarged edition). London: Thames & Hudson, 1986.
Greenhalgh, Paul, Ephemeral Vistas: The Expositions Universelles, Great Exhibitions and World’s Fairs, 1851–1939. Manchester, UK: Manchester University Press and New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1988.
Introduction and Prelude
Kamenova, Olga D., “Cultural Rapprochement: The U.S.S.R. Society for Cultural Relations with Foreign Countries,” Pacific Affairs, 1: 5 (Oct. 1928), 6–8.
Keyser, E. N., “Russian Art: Its Strength and Its Weakness,” Brush and Pencil, 14: 3 (June 1904), 161–173.
Makaryk, Irene R., April in Paris: Theatricality, Modernism, and Politics at the 1925 Art Deco Expo. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2018.
Odom, Anne and Wendy R. Salmond, eds., Treasures into Tractors: The Selling of Russia’s Cultural Heritage, 1918–1938. Washington, DC: Hillwood Estate and Seattle, WA: University of Washington Press, 2009.
Rueschemeyer, Marilyn, Igor Golomstock and Janet Kennedy, “Soviet Emigré Artists: Life and Work in the USSR and the United States,” International Journal of Sociology, XV: 1–2 (1985).
Rydell, Robert W., All the World’s a Fair: Visions of Empire at American International Expositions, 1876–1916. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 1984.
Shaw, Marian, World’s Fair Notes, A Woman Journalist Views Chicago’s 1893 Columbian Exposition. St. Paul, MN: Pogo Press Inc., 1992, p. 71.
Swift, Anthony, “Russian National Identity at World Fairs, 1851–1900,” In Josephy Theodor Leerson and Eric Storm, eds., World Fairs and the Global Moulding of National Identities. Leiden, Boston, MA: Brill, 2022, pp. 107–143.
Walker, Andrew J., “Critic, Curator, Collector: Christian Brinton and the Exhibition of National Modernism in America, 1910–1945,” Ph.D. diss., University of Pennsylvania, 1999.
Williams, Robert C., Russian Art and American Money, 1900 – 1940. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1980.
Yezernitskaya, Mechella, “Christian Brinton: A Modernist Icon,” Baltic Worlds, XI: 1 (2018), 58–64.
Zavyalova, Anna, “Russian Fine Arts Section at the World’s Columbian Exposition 1893, Notes on Organization and Reception,” Online Journal MDCCC 1800, 6: 9 (2017), 119–130.
Reconsidering the 1920s 17 other non-objective artists, she was not a dedicated collector of Russian art and cannot be seen to have played a strong part in the eventual development of the Guggenheim’s role in exhibiting Russian art.8 Exhibitions at the Guggenheim (before it was called that) rarely included enough examples of Russian art to be seen as Russian art exhibitions. By the end of the 20th century, the Guggenheim will have become a major force in mounting large Russian art exhibitions, an evolution that is not predictable from its origins as a museum of non-objective painting, as Rebay preferred to call it. Jane Heap, although better known as an editor and publisher, should be considered as yet another curator with an interest in the avant-garde and experimental art. Not a collector herself, her exhibitions did include Russian art and architecture, and her writing in the Little Review offers another perspective on the content and importance of the 1920s in this early phase of Russian art exhibitions. To be sure, we cannot overlook the gallery exhibitions that were frequently devoted to the work of one artist, sometimes through the efforts of Dreier and at other times Brinton: David Burliuk, for example, was promoted by both. Although he was widely known and wrote articles for magazines and newspapers about art and collected art, Brinton was never really a trained art critic. He promoted artists, especially the émigrés he met in NYC, making arrangements for them to exhibit their work. Not entirely altruistic, Brinton earned commissions for making these connections between artists and galleries. Anisfeld was one of the artists that Brinton helped, arranging an exhibition at what was the new Grant Kingore galleries (references to shows at this gallery begin to appear around 1920). He did the same for Roerich.9
Whereas Brinton and Dreier were important supporters of the emerging gallery scene in the 1920s, later in the 20th century artists themselves took the lead in forming artist-run galleries. Before that happened, however, galleries that may be little known today were taking shape. The New Gallery, for example, was founded in 1922, and although not dedicated to Russian art, it did show and sell the work of numerous Russians. Whether working alone or together, Dreier and Brinton fostered gallery shows of Burliuk, Anisfeld, Leon Bakst, Goncharova, Larionov, and others. Max Rabinoff, involved in the promotion of opera and ballet stars, worked with Brinton and Fox on Anisfeld’s first exhibition. The Kingore gallery was frequently used by Brinton to display the work of émigré artists. James N. Rosenberg, the author of the privately published booklet describing the New Gallery, was soon involved in many of the groups and associations that planned and installed exhibitions. As he wrote in the forward to New Pictures and the New Gallery, 1923, the goal of the gallery was captured precisely by the word “new” – the gallery was not claiming greatness or identifying styles in the works displayed but claiming only that the work was new. The list of artists, who had sold works through the gallery in its first year was international, included a variety of media and also included men and women. Neither Brinton nor Dreier was on the list of directors although they both supported the gallery.10 In her book about Burliuk, Dreier discussed the recent founding of the shortlived New Gallery at 600 Madison Avenue, using funds provided by members of the New Gallery art club (in most cases, previous exhibitors in the gallery).
1923: Brinton and the Brooklyn Museum
Both Brinton and Dreier have been the focus of much research, generally more familiar in the case of Dreier and her Société Anonyme, and less so in the case of Brinton, although there are dissertations that focus on his work. Despite his relative unfamiliarity, his role in the early years of this exhibition history cannot be downplayed. Brinton is an
Reconsidering the 1920s
enigmatic figure, not only as a collector of art but also as a writer and curator. His tastes were broad and not limited to Russia, and his earliest involvement in exhibitions goes back to the early 1910s and featured Scandinavian art. As Andrew J. Walker notes in his dissertation on Brinton, his engagement with art was so extensive and dominated his life in so many ways, it is difficult to fathom why so little reference is made to him in art historical literature. (Did he lack the entrepreneurial skills of someone like Sol Hurok, or was it his love for and focus on Russian art, just before and then after the Russian revolution?) As Robert C. Williams tells us, Brinton was a major promoter of Russian art, 11
connecting with Russian émigré artists almost as soon as they arrived in New York. In
addition to arranging exhibitions for Anisfeld and Roerich, before any group exhibitions of Russian artists were held, he connected with William Henry Fox, the director of the Brooklyn Museum, working with him on the Scandinavian art shows of the 1910s and the upcoming Russian art shows in the 1920s. Fox and Brinton may have met as early as the St. Louis Exposition where Fox served as the Secretary of the Fine Arts Department; both were involved with world’s fairs which is where the exhibition of Swedish art originated prior to moving it to the Brooklyn Museum. Fox become director of the Brooklyn Museum in 1914, a position he held until his retirement in late 1933 (announced in 1934). Curatorial collaboration with Brinton may have suited both Fox and Brinton as they shared a belief in the national identity of modernism, making the Swedish show a natural predecessor to the 1923 exhibition of Russian art.12 Brinton continued to work with Fox and the Brooklyn Museum while at the same time working with Dreier to arrange gallery exhibitions for Archipenko, Burliuk, and works of Suprematism, and planning for the 1924 exhibition at the Grand Central Palace (GCP).
Walker argues that Brinton was developing an alternative theory of modernism which is not based on international or universal aesthetic goals but on the extent to which contemporary art is shaped by and reflects specific social conditions and national or racial characteristics of the people living in those societies. Quoting Brinton, his theory is summarized by his belief that “there is no greater fallacy than the pretension that art should strive to be international or cosmopolitan.”13 We will see this belief dominating much of Brinton’s published writing from the 1920s and 1930s. Walker proposes that Brinton’s ideology was central to the dissolution of his working relationship with Katherine Dreier, who was committed to a universalist theory of modernism.14 This does seem likely, although it also seems probable that in both cases, their highly personalized views of modernism and their individual collecting directions would have made an extended collaboration impossible. If possible, such collaboration would have necessarily been complicated by the fact that the end of the 1920s witnessed the emergence of new museums dedicated to modern and contemporary art, marshaled by directors who had their own distinctive theories. Brinton continued to have strong ties to the Brooklyn Museum, to Philadelphia, and to the American Russian Institute (ARI), factors that may also have complicated the working relationship between him and Dreier. As John David Angeline observes in a dissertation on Dreier, her ideas about museums were unconventional and may have had more in common with house museums such as Hillwood and the Barnes Foundation, than with other museums of modern art. Here the crux of her difference with Brinton becomes clear. To Dreier, contemporary art is tied to a particular time period and does not change (although there would by necessity be a variety of contemporaries if this definition holds); modern art, in contrast, was always looking to the future and to “new cosmic forces.”15 If it stopped changing, it would be moved to a different museum. Given Brinton’s growing interest in nationalist theories of art, it
Reconsidering the 1920s 19 does seem unlikely that the two collectors would have continued to collaborate. Brinton, meanwhile, had other connections that he maintained over time.
The ARI may be unfamiliar to many readers. An American organization which provided information about the Soviet Union to American organizations, its existence spanned the years from 1916 to 1962 when it was declared a communist front that was spreading anti-American propaganda. Its relevance comes from a commitment to the arts in the form of providing a syllabus for teaching courses about the Soviet Union, supporting numerous exhibitions, and facilitating a multi-museum and multi-year tour of the Soviet loan exhibition of Russian icons (1930s). Brinton served as either the vicechairman or director of the ARI Art committee (both titles are seen in printed materials). His pro-Soviet positions probably preceded his involvement with the ARI although they may have been enhanced through that role.16 Perhaps the key moment to the dissolution of the Dreier and Brinton collaboration came shortly after the 1923 and 1924 exhibitions in which both were involved. Brinton was working on plans for the Philadelphia Sesquicentennial Exposition (1926) almost concurrently with another Société Anonyme show planned by Dreier. Taken together, the two shows might be seen as enacting a debate between the two curators over the meaning and sources of modernism that underlay both exhibitions, the catalogues, and undoubtedly the dissolution of the friendship between the two.17
Although both Dreier and Brinton were associated with the 1923 exhibition of Russian painting and sculpture at the Brooklyn Museum, neither can be accorded full responsibility for this exhibition.18 Williams suggests that Brinton played a singular role in urging William Henry Fox, then the director of the museum, to have a show of the work of Anisfeld, Roerich, Sergei Soudeikin, Mikhail Larionov, Natalia Goncharova, Kandinsky, Leon Bakst, and Archipenko, timed to coincide with a pending visit of the Moscow Art Theater to New York in 1923.19 Thus, Brinton wrote to the Brooklyn Museum in 1922, suggesting that the advantage of showing the work of émigrés was that “their art was immediately available here in America without the expense and delay entailed in bringing such a collection from abroad.”20 As director, Fox would have played the central role in organizing the exhibition which included works and assistance from private lenders such as Brinton, Dreier, and numerous others: the French government, the Worcester Art Museum, the Art Institute of Chicago, the Société Anonyme, and several galleries. Fox thanked Brinton for his input in the form of the catalogue and an introductory essay. Planned to run for little more than one month, the exhibition was announced in the New York Times a week before opening with some facts that may have been wrong in the press release or ultimately contradicted by last minute changes.21 Thus, the exhibition, emphasizing the fact that the 23 artists included in the show were living artists, was a rare opportunity, in what was becoming a tradition of the Brooklyn Museum – presenting Europe’s best contemporary art to the New York public – as Fox wrote. He went on to note that in this case, “for the first time is Russian art shown in the United States in anything approaching its true strength and unity.”22
Although this cannot be called the first exhibition of Russian art, it was certainly unique in that the artists were alive and their work would demonstrate to Americans “the significance of contemporary Russian art.”23 Most but not all of the artists were no longer living in the Soviet Union; most were living in France and several had emigrated to the U.S. or had work in American collections. The exhibition, as noted in one review, coincided with performances of the Moscow Art Theater and followed many smaller exhibitions of Russian art in Manhattan galleries, thereby “preparing the public mind” for
Reconsidering the 1920s the Brooklyn exhibition.24 Also noteworthy is that this show included scenic design work in the form of paintings and watercolor sketches by several artists who had worked with Diaghilev’s Ballets Russes and the Moscow Art Theater.
Brinton’s introduction to the catalogue begins with an epigraph in French, “Il n’y a pas de style Russe; il y a l’ame Russe” (“there is no Russian style; there is a Russian soul”), that may perhaps be making reference to Gogol (previously acknowledged by Brinton as being the “unwitting father of contemporary Russian painting”25), Dostoevsky, or other Russian writers of the 19th century. No attribution is given but it is immediately clear that he will be arguing for understanding Russian art as the expression of the Russian spirit or soul, regardless of its style. This enigmatic epigraph may also make us think of the importance of icons to Brinton and his personal belief in the soulful life.26 Brinton then proceeds with a rather conventional start to the history he tells, beginning with the decision by several artists to leave the Imperial Academy of Arts as they rebelled against the “sterile formalism of routine instruction and demanded more vital themes from which to work.”27 Brinton initially disdains the aesthetic preferences of a younger generation led by Diaghilev and the Mir Iskusstva (World of Art) artists, whom he accuses of “de-russianizing” themselves as they pursued decoration rather than painting. Yet, in the next paragraph, he immediately praised Diaghilev for turning his attention away from an early journal to the stage and enabling the Mir Iskusstva artists to “achieve their chief successes in scenic production.” He names Bakst, Anisfeld, Roerich, and others who were included in the Brooklyn show.28
Are we privy to Brinton’s arguing with himself about the nature of Russian art? He continues his history with a discussion of the emergence of a French-influenced modernism that continued to ignore the Russian patrimony. In contrast, however, he finds that artists like Goncharova and Larionov do reach into the past and evoke memories of saints, Russian fables, provincial toys, and ultimately the “creative aspirations of the great mass of Russian people.” To be sure, by 1923, Larionov and Goncharova had both been working for the Ballets Russes and there had already been a show of their work in 1922 at the Kingore Gallery for which Brinton had written a positive introduction, praising their work for theater and ballet in much the same terms he then used in the Brooklyn catalogue.29
Brinton’s Brooklyn essay then describes the impact of war and revolution and fluctuations between conservatism and modernism in both those artists who are included and those not included in the exhibition, the latter seemingly because the work has not yet made it out of Russia. By the close of his essay, Brinton concludes that the Slavs (his word) produce a highly emotional art and it is this quality that makes it Russian. As he writes, “the art of France shows the dominance of intellect over imagination; that of Russia illustrates the ascendancy of imagination over intellect. In its every aspect Russian art epitomizes the eternal struggle toward freedom through sublimated creative expression. And the significant qualities of Slavic aesthetic aspiration are its conviction, and the power to convince.”30 In addition to his work on this exhibition, Brinton had already facilitated gallery shows for many of these artists in the previous year: Larionov and Goncharova, for example, had been seen at the Kingore Gallery (judging from reviews, a popular exhibition) and Boris Grigoriev’s drawings at the New Gallery, founded in 1922 and dedicated to contemporary or “new” art.31 The New Gallery lent quite a few works to this show.
Apart from the catalogue and several reviews, and the occasional reference to a 1923 exhibition, very little has been written about this show, making it difficult to determine
Reconsidering the 1920s 21 the underlying goals of museum, curator, or lenders. One unusual and positive review can be found in Vogue magazine – the writer provides an overview of the variety of artists and media, either relating them or denying relationships to earlier styles, and concluding with discussion of the artists working in theater and their “happy mixture of Russian peasant and Persian art,” as she finds in the work of Goncharova.32 Fox’s foreword to the catalogue suggests that decisions about what art was included may not have been based on judgments of aesthetic value but on what was available, either in this country already or because private owners were willing to lend their work. It does not appear that sales were a goal; nor does it seem to have served as a showcase of any individual collections or the works of a single artist. In all, 23 artists were included, each with more than 1 work although not the same number for all artists, and the arrangement of the show was based on creating individual groupings of approximately 12 art works produced by 1 artist. Given that some artists had considerably more than 12 works while others may have had only 1, this was clearly not a geometric or mathematically planned arrangement. Without knowing more, one can intuit that the goal was a predecessor for an approach taken by Katherine Dreier in 1926 where she tried to create “living room” styles of installations, although, in this show, the goal may have had to do with making the more than 300 works appear accessible and less foreign than might have been assumed by visitors unfamiliar with Russian work. At the same time, prior to this exhibition, Russian ballet and theater had already been winning over many enthusiastic followers, not all of whom eventually agreed that Russian painting had the appeal or skill that was seen in performances by the Moscow Art Theater. Ultimately, this was the conclusion of several critics writing about this show and perhaps the reason for its lesser acclaim and fame than Russian art exhibitions a year or two later. With the exception of the Vogue review, several reviews were collected and published in the Brooklyn Museum Quarterly (BMQ) shortly after the exhibition opened. Whether in or out of the BMQ collection, several themes emerge. Americans were eager for anything Russian at that time, whether because of Nikita Balieff’s personality in his Bat cabaret (Chauve-Souris is the French name used in Paris and the U.S.) or because of the extraordinary Moscow Art Theater. Yet, perhaps this desire arose from neither of those reasons but from sympathy “with the tragic recent history of that land and from ardent faith in its future.” Although this feeling was certainly a good thing, could the paintings compare with the Russian theater?33 Many said no. Other reviews included in the BMQ focused on the comments made by Brinton before describing works of the artists they preferred and whom they saw as reflecting “the cataclysm that has submerged their country,” but most focused their reviews on comparisons between the paintings and the recent performances of the Russian ballet, the Russian vaudeville, and the Russian theater.34 Royal Cortissoz’s review was possibly the harshest as he heartily derided and insulted the painters who did not show the discipline of experience that could be seen in either the theater or in the work of other gallery shows at that time (the original article included names; the reprint did not). Prevalent themes in the 1923 reviews included the craze for Russian art – as Lester Lear wrote, the craze for Russian music, dancers, and theater which has swept the country has now been joined by paintings made by Russian artists, many of whom were now living in this country and whose work could be seen in Brooklyn. Lear, along with other critics, also differentiated between the meanings of Bolshevism and Communism, and the inability to explain the popularity of Russian arts by any reason other than how much of it had been seen in the country.35 Indeed, another enthusiastic article from 1923 began by discussing how “America has been gradually prepared, through the ever-increasing presentation
Reconsidering the 1920s of Muscovite genius in painting, sculpture, ballet, opera, and drama, for the galaxy of modern Russian art that now fills the galleries of the Brooklyn Museum.” Ralph Flint continues to focus not only on the many forms of Russian art that had been seen in New York but also the value of the Brooklyn Museum’s many exhibitions along with this one. Flint and Lear are not alone in acknowledging the recent wave of Russian arts – one year before the Brooklyn exhibition opened, Oliver M. Sayler, not clearly reviewing any specific event although Balieff and his Chauve-Souris gets a lot of attention, wrote about the “Russian cavalcade” and its circus-like qualities that were bound to awaken people out of their lethargy with respect to Russia.36
The continued reference to the fact that most of the art works in Brooklyn had never before been seen in this country suggests that exposure to the new was a primary factor in this exhibition, along with the opportunity to be part of what seemed a fashion trend at that time (see Sayler for his comments on the new Russian hobbies). Unlike some later exhibitions, it was not planned to raise money for émigré artists nor would it appear to have been part of a plan to brand the Brooklyn Museum as having a special commitment to Russian art. Indeed, based on previous international art exhibitions held at that museum, it might be concluded that at that point in time, Fox was interested in and succeeding in seeing the museum recognized for a willingness to embrace the art of Scandinavia, Europe, and America. Given the seemingly more influential and better known exhibition of 1924 along with another show in Brooklyn just a few years later, is the 1923 Brooklyn show fated to be a forgotten exhibition, the victim of “good” timing? What it might best be known for is that unlike the 1924 show which emphatically excluded “examples of the production of Cubo-futurist, Suprematist, Tatlinist and kindred exuberant searchers after new and startling phases of self-expression,”37 this show did include Cubo-futurism (works by Burliuk and Larionov), a small Kandinsky, two works by Goncharova, and a sampling of stage design. It is regrettable that so little has been preserved about this exhibition as it may deserve greater accolades than those it received – after all, it did include theater arts (at a time when Americans are becoming interested in experimental Russian theater), sculpture, and a diverse group of artists with respect to style and gender. If most of the included artists were émigrés, does this exhibition contribute to our understanding of an increasing émigré culture in the visual arts? Although Brinton did try to accommodate stylistic diversity in his introduction to the show, this feature may have worked against his nationalist theory and perhaps made him more reticent about this show in his later writing. In fact, in the foreword to the catalogue of the 1924 exhibition, Brinton appeared to go out of his way to emphasize the ways in which the later exhibition was superior to the 1923 exhibition. It is perhaps ironic that both the 1923 and 24 shows, along with a second Brooklyn show in 1926, were competing in an unstated manner with an American goal of that decade to develop a uniquely American style.38 This competition was more apparent in reviews of Dreier’s 1926 show than it was in the 1923 reviews. Existing reviews of the Brooklyn exhibition that can be found suggest that Brinton’s perspective was not the dominant response although some reviewers did share his dislike for the works he was eager to exclude from the 1924 show. Cortissoz in his Herald Tribune review of “an illuminating exhibition at the Museum in Brooklyn” names many of the artists, praises the palette of Anisfeld (one of the most frequently praised artists in the show), the effects of which he compares to stained glass windows, while criticizing the “baffling tricks of cubism and futurism” that he finds in much of the work, observing that while futurism everywhere is “sad,” it was much worse in Russia, “where it sank to the depths of dullness and ugliness.” In general, he did not find the discipline of experience
