*Article* **The Visuality of Hortus Mirabilis in Krystyna Miłob˛edzka's Poetry—A Study of Selected Examples**

**Dorota Walczak-Delanois**

Faculty of Letters, Translation and Communication, Department of Languages and Letters, Université Libre de Bruxelles, 1050 Bruxelles, Belgium; Dorota.Walczak@ulb.be

**Abstract:** Krystyna Miłob˛edzka (born 1932) is one of the most interesting and unique phenomena of the Polish poetry scene of the 20th and 21st centuries. Two characteristics of her poetry, the visual character of her many poems and her preoccupation with the concept of the garden-world, are worth a closer look. Miłob˛edzka's poetry refers to the topoï of the garden-world in single poems and cycles of poetic texts. Her hortus mirabilis, inserts itself into the sphere of the metaphysical reflection of nature, giving Miłob˛edzka's poetry a specific dynamic in which the "I"—the gardener—has a significant role as an observer, and as a creator of entities. The activity of looking, which happens, in fact, in all types of verbs and aspects, is in this specific sphere (look, watch, see), fundamental to defining oneself in the world and the world's relationship to oneself. In this perspective, the image of the garden from childhood, is confronted by a necessary new visualization. The temporal aspect of the garden is at the center of existence, in the cyclical return of nature's laws of rebirth and death, which are relevant to the personal, singular perspective of the end in many of Miłob˛edzka's volumes. In *Anaglify* (Anaglyphs), some poems particularly fit the issue of visuality in poetry, not only at the conceptual level, the place granted to observation, the poet-particular observer, but the poem itself. They are conceived as graphic and pictorial realizations. Poems from the volume *dwana´scie wierszy w kolorze* (twelve poems in color) or *wszystkowiersze* (omnipoems) are special cases of these. The selected words are conceived in color, and their arrangement on the space of the page has meaning. The parallel between looking and writing, which Miłob˛edzka consistently uses in her writing method and poetically admits, is also very important. Although her poetic diction alludes to historical avant-garde and linguistic poetry achievements, her lyrical savoir-faire is characterized by a certain new minimalist construction and a separate, recognizable style. Miłob˛edzka's innovativeness lies in combining seemingly distant and sometimes poetically opposite categories: full, ambiguous image-in-poem and asceticism by means of expression, such as a minimal number of words. Her poetry is deeply rooted in perceiving, seeing, watching, and contemplating the world—faithful to its physicality but also open to the most essential questions of philosophy asking about existence and its limits. This new visibility of elements is reflected in authentic poetic delight and in the "visualizing" form, where the poem also becomes an image on the plane of a sheet of paper or becoming one side of the house wall as a mural poem.

**Keywords:** Hortus mirabilis; visual poem; poetic garden; picture of garden; Polish contemporary poetry; Krystyna Miłob˛edzka; rose; calligram; avant-garde poem

### **1. Introduction**

Krystyna Miłob˛edzka was born in Margonin in 1932 and is one of the most interesting and unique phenomena of the Polish poetry scene of the 20th and 21st centuries. Although her debut in 1960 with the volume *Anaglyphs* (Miłob˛edzka [1960] 2019) <sup>1</sup> places her near the generation of "Współczesno´s´c"<sup>2</sup> , the period of fascination with her work falls toward the end of the 20th and the beginning of the 21st centuries.

The author currently lives in Puszczykowo near Pozna´n, Poland. She remains an inspiration for many Polish poets from different movements despite not identifying with

**Citation:** Walczak-Delanois, Dorota. 2022. The Visuality of Hortus Mirabilis in Krystyna Miłob˛edzka's Poetry—A Study of Selected Examples. *Arts* 11: 104. https:// doi.org/10.3390/arts11050104

Academic Editor: Dennis Ioffe

Received: 27 July 2022 Accepted: 21 September 2022 Published: 18 October 2022

**Publisher's Note:** MDPI stays neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations.

**Copyright:** © 2022 by the author. Licensee MDPI, Basel, Switzerland. This article is an open access article distributed under the terms and conditions of the Creative Commons Attribution (CC BY) license (https:// creativecommons.org/licenses/by/ 4.0/). *arts*

any fixed poetic group (Borowiec 2012). Krystyna Miłob˛edzka's published volumes following her first *Anaglyphs* are still consistently rich in meaning and formal, inseparable linguistic solutions, appropriate and recognizable to her style<sup>3</sup> . It is also worth recalling that Miłob˛edzka, who holds a doctorate in literary studies and is a theatre scholar, also worked as a theatre director, pedagogue, and lecturer in theatre classes at Adam Mickiewicz University. She is also the author and co-author of scripts, rehearsals, written dialogues and published letters<sup>4</sup> . Miłob˛edzka's work has also received numerous awards<sup>5</sup> .

Much has been written about Miłob˛edzka's poetry, emphasizing the character of her poems, such as their minimalism of form and consolidation (Nyczek 2008, pp. 173–77; Zurek [2017] ˙ 2022), wordiness (Maliszewski 2020, pp. 74–75), a strong childlike imagination (Orska 2018, pp. 255–85), predilection for concreteness (Kałuza˙ 2008, pp.199–215), incomprehensibility, avant-garde, and linguistic inspirations (Bogalecki 2011; Gr ˛adziel-Wójcik 2008, pp. 21–34), diversity of her poetical world (Borowiec 2012) or her references to the poetry of Tymoteusz Karpowicz (Górniak-Prasnal 2017, pp. 253–69) and Miron Białoszewski (Suszek 2020).

There is now also a group of critics who try to read Krystyna Miłob˛edzka's poetry in the context of the discourse of ecocriticism or interpret it with the tools appropriate for reading ecopoetry (Lekowska 2020; Jarzyna 2017; Skurtys 2017). This is entirely possible: in her attentiveness to nature, Miłob˛edzka becomes one of the pioneers of such a poetical world view. I also think that it is possible to outline many, compatible common parts between recent works in the field of reading ecopoetry and ecocriticism (Fiedorczuk and Beltrán 2020; Koza 2020; Małecki and Wo´zniak 2020) and Krystyna Miłob˛edzka's poetry. However, I find the best definition (in fact, rather a kind of "non-definition") in the fragment by Julia Fiedorczuk:

I talk about the "ecological turn", trying to avoid the terms "ecological poetry" or "ecopoetry". These terms do function, of course, but mostly they involve attempts at some new genre or subgenre of "ecological" poetry. I am skeptical of such attempts for two reasons. First, more than human, nature has always been one of the most important subjects of poetry, and it is indeed difficult to imagine a poem that does not in any way refer to the natural world or shed light on the question of the relationship between humans and the environment. Thus, there is a risk that "ecopoetry" is just a label, artificially generated to describe phenomena that have always existed. Secondly, attempts to describe "ecopoetry" as a new kind of poetry are often prescriptive, in other words, they propose a list of criteria that a "correct" ecological poem should meet (consequently, the others would have to be considered "non-ecological"). This approach seems uninteresting also because its proponents often lose sight of the literary qualities of the text, focusing almost on the content (Fiedorczuk 2019, pp. 14–15).

In other words, I think that Krystyna Miłob˛edzka's poetry escapes clear-cut categorizations, even the most fashionable and handy ones, even if they are "eco". In thinking about the world-garden, language-poetry, inspiration and creation, this poetry retains a separate, inherent, thoroughly original character.

That is why the hortus mirabilis motif discussed here, goes beyond the obvious conundrum, reaching out to poetic texts other than the important but already analyzed and repeatedly cited by critics<sup>6</sup> . Also because "spoken" here is primarily associated with what is "seen", "articulated" with what is "made visible", and "lost" with "found". In such a lecture the very known (and widely interpreted) poem *drzewo jak drzewo* (the three as the three) becomes a kind of primary symbol of hortus mirabilis—mirabilis and lost Eden but it also concretely guides our gaze vertically along the tree trunk upward toward the unreachable the tree crown:


*Arts* **2022**, *11*, x FOR PEER REVIEW 3 of 24

chmury (chmury) clouds (clouds) drzewo tak drzewo the three yes the three

(Miłob˛edzka 2013b, pp. 132–33) że drzewa już nie ma that the three is no more

Krystyna Miłob˛edzka is still not known enough outside of Poland "because of its rootedness in the peculiarities of the Polish language" (Wójcik-Leese 2006, p. 44) although some of her poems have been translated into English<sup>7</sup> . Two characteristics of her poetry, hitherto not assembled by scholars, are worth a closer look today, especially in poem examples that combine both simultaneously. The first characteristic relates to the visual character of her many poems, and the second is her preoccupation with the world garden, which she perceived as a kind of "fair of wonders" (Szymborska 1986, p. 42). Miłob˛edzka's poetry, which can be boldly described as modern and avant-garde, refers to the topoï of the garden-world in single poems and cycles of poetic texts. This important cultural trope stems from the primordial role of the poet-gardener because, as we read in one of Mateusz Salwa's many works devoted to gardens, entitled *Antyogród w ogrodzie* (Antigarden in the Garden): chmury (chmury) clouds (clouds) (Miłobędzka 2013b, p. 132–133) Krystyna Miłobędzka is still not known enough outside of Poland "because of its rootedness in the peculiarities of the Polish language" (Wójcik-Leese 2006, p. 44) although some of her poems have been translated into English7. Two characteristics of her poetry, hitherto not assembled by scholars, are worth a closer look today, especially in poem examples that combine both simultaneously. The first characteristic relates to the visual character of her many poems, and the second is her preoccupation with the world garden, which she perceived as a kind of "fair of wonders" (Szymborska 1986, p. 42). Miłobędzka's poetry, which can be boldly described as modern and avant-garde, refers to the topoï of the garden-world in single poems and cycles of poetic texts. This important cultural trope

The garden is one of the more enduring topoï present in Western culture. At the same time, it must be remembered that it is a topoï in a double sense of the word. For the garden is as much a real place as it is a figure of thought. These two orders cannot be separated, as every real garden, i.e. a separate space where plants are cultivated for utilitarian or aesthetic purposes, is in its own way the realization of an imaginary garden (Salwa 2020, p.112). stems from the primordial role of the poet-gardener because, as we read in one of Mateusz Salwa's many works devoted to gardens, entitled *Antyogród w ogrodzie* (Antigarden in the Garden): The garden is one of the more enduring topoï present in Western culture. At the same time, it must be remembered that it is a topoï in a double sense of the word. For the garden is as much a real place as it is a figure of thought. These two orders cannot be separated, as every real garden, i.e. a separate space where

However, with hortus mirabilis, regardless of the history and theory of the garden, the current concept and the practice of implementation of the times stimulates the imagination of the creator. The meaning of the word "mirabilis"—also changes over the centuries. The signification can be understood as:—marvelous, miraculous, wonderful, supernatural, extraordinary. Some examples include the hanging gardens of Semiramis (Figure 1), the Garden of Eden imagined in the form of a painting by the Upper Rhenish Master (Figure 2) or a map (Figure 3), or even the image of a man who is a garden himself by Arcimboldo (Figure 4). plants are cultivated for utilitarian or aesthetic purposes, is in its own way the realization of an imaginary garden. (Salwa 2020, p.112). However, with hortus mirabilis, regardless of the history and theory of the garden, the current concept and the practice of implementation of the times stimulates the imagination of the creator. The meaning of the word "mirabilis"– also changes over the centuries. The signification can be understood as:—marvelous, miraculous, wonderful, supernatural, extraordinary. Some examples include the hanging gardens of Semiramis (Figure 1), the Garden of Eden imagined in the form of a painting by the Upper Rhenish Master

Between the literary gardens of past centuries, we find additional examples from *Garden of Epigrams* by Wacław Potocki (Potocki [1648] 1907) and Tytus Czyzewski's ˙ *The Mechanical Garden* (Czyzewski [1920] ˙ 1922, p. 24) (Figure 5). (Figure 2) or a map (Figure 3), or even the image of a man who is a garden himself by Arcimboldo (Figure 4).

**Figure 1.** The Vision of Babylon Garden. 1912. https://pl.wikipedia.org/wiki/Plik:Ogrody\_semiramidy.jpgimage (accessed on 16 July 2022). From book published in 1912 (Petit Larousse). **Figure 1.** The Vision of Babylon Garden. 1912. https://pl.wikipedia.org/wiki/Plik:Ogrody\_ semiramidy.jpgimage (accessed on 16 July 2022). From book published in 1912 (Petit Larousse).

*Arts* **2022**, *11*, x FOR PEER REVIEW 4 of 24

**Figure 2.** Upper Rhenish Master. c.a.1410–1420. *The Little Garden of Paradise.* https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/5/5f/Upper\_Rhenish\_Master\_-\_The\_little\_Garden\_of\_Paradise\_- \_Google\_Art\_Project.jpg (accessed on 16 July 2022). **Figure 2.** Upper Rhenish Master. c.a. 1410–1420. *The Little Garden of Paradise.* https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/5/5f/Upper\_Rhenish\_Master\_-\_The\_ little\_Garden\_of\_Paradise\_-\_Google\_Art\_Project.jpg (accessed on 16 July 2022). **Figure 2.** Upper Rhenish Master. c.a.1410–1420. *The Little Garden of Paradise.* https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/5/5f/Upper\_Rhenish\_Master\_-\_The\_little\_Garden\_of\_Paradise\_- \_Google\_Art\_Project.jpg (accessed on 16 July 2022).

**Figure 3.** The Map of the Garden of Eden. c.a. 1009. https://www.gutenberg.org/files/18757/18757-h/images/map06.jpg (accessed on 18 July 2022). **Figure 3.** The Map of the Garden of Eden. c.a. 1009. https://www.gutenberg.org/files/18757/18757-h/images/map06.jpg (accessed on 18 July 2022). **Figure 3.** The Map of the Garden of Eden. c.a. 1009. https://www.gutenberg.org/files/18757/18757 h/images/map06.jpg (accessed on 18 July 2022).

**Figure 4.** Arcimboldo, Giuseppe. 1573. *Automne.* https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/9/90/Giuseppe\_Arcimboldo\_-\_Autumn\_-\_WGA00812.jpg (accessed on 18 July 2022). **Figure 4.** Arcimboldo, Giuseppe. 1573. *Automne.* https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/ commons/9/90/Giuseppe\_Arcimboldo\_-\_Autumn\_-\_WGA00812.jpg (accessed on 18 July 2022). *Arts* **2022**, *11*, x FOR PEER REVIEW 6 of 24

**Figure 5.** Czyżewski, Tytus [1920] 1922. https://polona.pl/item/noc-dzien-mechaniczny-instynkt-elektryczny,NzIxMzg5NDQ/31/#info:metadata (accessed on 22 March 2022). **Figure 5.** Czyzewski, Tytus. [1920] 1922. ˙ https://polona.pl/item/noc-dzien-mechaniczny-instynktelektryczny,NzIxMzg5NDQ/31/#info:metadata (accessed on 22 March 2022).

the history of gardens (Majdecki 1972; Szafrańska 1998) and literary research on the vision

are. This is also partly because of a lack of a clear concept and definition in the description of gardens history, and thus of specific interpretation tools. As Jan K. Birkested writes: "Garden history, unlike the history of painting, sculpture, and architecture, has no conceptual foundations. It lacks the elements of scholarly and critical consensus: a conventional set of interpretive methods, agreed-upon leading terms, ruling metaphors, and de-

However, the concept of hortus mirabilis stimulating the imaginary and scientific approach is still interesting for the authors of literary works and scholars of different branches of sciences, as we can observe it in the recent publications (Figures 6 and 7). The fascination in the peculiar is because poetic garden has also been well described in an

Similarly, Miłobędzka's poetry, even if some scholars have already written about the presence of plants in her poetry (Górniak-Prasnal and Kuchowicz 2015, pp. 117–26; Lekowska 2020, pp. 262–71), has an as-yet-undefined world, a rediscovered hortus mirabilis. It spreads its secrets before the onlookers, amazing them and conveying a certain knowledge. Its image is meticulously created in the individual poems, which comprise a specific personal poetic "herbarium". Thus, we find in this poetry in the space of the various specific volumes: seeds, leaves, flowers, trees and branches, their general symbolism, and species names. The most important thing, however, is beyond the botanical description—activated in the image are new meanings conveyed through the medium of the poem. First, careful observation of the world is made with a poetic eye. (Figures 6 and 7):

extremely interesting work by Dimitrij Sergeevič Lihačev (Lihačev 1991).

scriptive protocols." (Birksted 2003, pp. 4–5).

The history of gardens (Majdecki 1972; Szafra´nska 1998) and literary research on the vision of the literary gardens (Rymkiewicz 1968), there is a special place in the imagination, meeting with what is seen by the poet. The meeting space for these gardens is as varied as they are. This is also partly because of a lack of a clear concept and definition in the description of gardens history, and thus of specific interpretation tools. As Jan Birksted writes: "Garden history, unlike the history of painting, sculpture, and architecture, has no conceptual foundations. It lacks the elements of scholarly and critical consensus: a conventional set of interpretive methods, agreed-upon leading terms, ruling metaphors, and descriptive protocols." (Birksted 2003, pp. 4–5).

However, the concept of hortus mirabilis stimulating the imaginary and scientific approach is still interesting for the authors of literary works and scholars of different branches of sciences, as we can observe it in the recent publications. The fascination in the peculiar is because poetic garden has also been well described in an extremely interesting work by Dimitrij Sergeeviˇc Lihaˇcev (Lihaˇcev 1991).

Similarly, Miłob˛edzka's poetry, even if some scholars have already written about the presence of plants in her poetry (Górniak-Prasnal and Kuchowicz 2015, pp. 117–26; Lekowska 2020, pp. 262–71), has an as-yet-undefined world, a rediscovered hortus mirabilis. It spreads its secrets before the onlookers, amazing them and conveying a certain knowledge. Its image is meticulously created in the individual poems, which comprise a specific personal poetic "herbarium". Thus, we find in this poetry in the space of the various specific volumes: seeds, leaves, flowers, trees and branches, their general symbolism, and species names. The most important thing, however, is beyond the botanical description—activated in the image are new meanings conveyed through the medium of the poem. First, careful observation of the world is made with a poetic eye (Figures 6 and 7): *Arts* **2022**, *11*, x FOR PEER REVIEW 7 of 24

**Figure 6.** Meydenbach, Iacobus (1491). https://polona.pl/item/Eadem,hortus-sanitatis,MTExNzkwOTEx/28/#info:metadata (accessed on 17 July 2022). **Figure 6.** Meydenbach, Iacobus (1491). https://polona.pl/item/Eadem,hortus-sanitatis, MTExNzkwOTEx/28/#info:metadata (accessed on 17 July 2022).

**Figure 7.** Cover by Marcin Markowski In: ( Miłobędzka 2019). **Figure 7.** Cover by Marcin Markowski In: (Miłob˛edzka [1960] 2019).

#### **2. Observation 2. Observation**

Entering the marvelous garden first involves, in Miłobędzka's case, a very insightful view of oneself and the world in which this poetic "I" finds itself. It also marks an act of courage to step outside one's own comfort zone. The boundary-gate-wicket to the garden is an attempt to understand what is different from the "I", which is necessary to define the "I" itself. While encountering the world and the garden, crossing a hitherto impassable boundary is important, which may be the very ritual of sensual, visual initiation. Finally, it turns out that it is the world garden that invites itself and enters the thresholds of our private existence, discovering in ourselves the space where the viewed elements exist "from within" (Foucault and Miskowiec 1986, pp. 22–27): Entering the marvelous garden first involves, in Miłob˛edzka's case, a very insightful view of oneself and the world in which this poetic "I" finds itself. It also marks an act of courage to step outside one's own comfort zone. The boundary-gate-wicket to the garden is an attempt to understand what is different from the "I", which is necessary to define the "I" itself. While encountering the world and the garden, crossing a hitherto impassable boundary is important, which may be the very ritual of sensual, visual initiation. Finally, it turns out that it is the world garden that invites itself and enters the thresholds of our private existence, discovering in ourselves the space where the viewed elements exist "from within" (Foucault and Miskowiec 1986, pp. 22–27):

Na szybie pokrytej par ˛a rysujemy dwa kółka dodaj ˛ac uszy, w ˛asy i ogon. W ten sposób powstaje kot. Mozna tak ˙ ze narysowa´c ´swierk, kwiat ˙ albo człowieka.

Dopóki róznica temperatur po obu stronach szyby utrzymuje si˛e – ˙ ludzie, zwierz˛eta i ro´sliny istniej ˛a w sposób nie budz ˛acy w ˛atpliwo´sci. Istniej ˛a z zewn ˛atrz i od ´srodka. (Miłob˛edzka [1960] 2020a, p. 9)

Draw two circles on the steam-coated glass, adding ears, whiskers and a tail. In this way, a cat is created. One can also draw a spruce, a flower or a person.

As long as the temperature difference on both sides of the glass remains humans, animals and plants exist in a way that is not—doubt.

They exist from outside and from within.

It is brought into being by very careful looking, or, in Miłob˛edzka's case, by its constant "drawing", here on a pane of glass as on a sheet of paper, and in some works, in the very space of the poem by its graphic location.

The verb "patrz˛e", like the neologism "jestnienie", balances between "jest" (is) and "nie" ((there is) not), indicating the paradox of being enchanted and dazzled by the world as a kind of compliment, sending us back to the reflection of an image, in the flash of an eye, in a pane of glass, or water, as in this poem by Miłob˛edzka:

Co ja robi˛e, patrz˛e w jest w to samo jest mnie i to samo jest wody w to ol´snienie to jestnienie jest nie nie

które scalam które skracam do istnienia (Miłob˛edzka [2000] 2020b, p. 233)

What I do, I look in is into this same is me and this same is the water into this dazzle it's a beknowing know being is not

which I merge which I shorten into existence

In this way, hortus mirabilis, inserts itself into the sphere of the metaphysical reflection of nature, giving Miłob˛edzka's poetic garden a specific dynamic in which the "I"—the gardener—has a significant role as an observer (as we read in the poem's climax), and as a creator of entities. The activity of looking, which happens in fact in all types of verbs and aspects, is in this specific sphere (look, watch, see, perceive), fundamental to defining oneself in the world and the world's relationship to oneself. This visualizing reflection, in addition to careful observation, is accompanied by weighty optical discourses and statements reminiscent of the laws of physics and related to the perception of the dimensions of reality:

Oczy nie widz ˛a gł˛eboko, widz ˛a daleko albo blisko, dlatego tyle brzegów, tyle zgniecionych mórz—czy my´sleniu wystarczy oczu na zatopienie ´swiata? Za duzo razy poznane przez siebie, ˙ zeby mogło zapu´sci´c korzenie. ˙ Przesuwane przez wszystkie pory roku. Zblizało si˛e do siebie ˙ nieustannie zbyt lekkie, az zmieniło si˛e w wiatr. ˙ (Miłob˛edzka [1970] 2020c, p. 62)

Eyes don't see deep, they see far or near, that's why so many shores, so many squashed seas—is there enough eyes for thinking to sink the world? Too many times met by itself to be able to put down roots. Shifted through all the seasons. Approached constantly too Light, until it turned into wind.

Kinetic and optical laws complement one other here, creating the credibility of the individual garden. What is too close becomes invisible to the eyes. *Jestem ze widz˛e ˙ ze widz˛e ˙ ze mijam ˙* (I am that I can see that I can see that I go by) (Miłob˛edzka [1975] 2020d, p. 113), says one of Miłob˛edzka's titles, bringing another important note a few lines further on: "less and less of me". Here, there is some kind of correspondence between the enlargement of the external garden and the diminution of one's own self. The parallel between looking and writing, which Miłob˛edzka consistently uses in her writing method and poetically admits, is also very important: "(. . . ) pisz pisz az w pisaniu znikniesz/ patrz patrz a ˙ z˙ znikniesz w patrzeniu (Miłob˛edzka [2004] 2020e, p. 314)". (write write on till you vanish in writing/ look look on till you vanish in looking) (Miłob˛edzka 2013c, p. 127). An attentive reading of Miłob˛edzka's poetry and that of her life partner, Andrzej Falkiewicz, draws attention to an interesting aspect of sensory perception, admitting something that, for the poet, is also an answer to the loaded question of which of the senses she considers most important; he replies: "As a man of our civilization—the Western civilization—I have to put sight at the forefront. It is the sense that captures to some extent the functions of all the other senses. But as a universal man, I would say touch. It is the elemental sense —the sense that enables people to conceive new life." (Borowiec et al. 2009, p. 32).

### **3. To Touch by the Colors**

For Miłob˛edzka, part of whose life was spent exploring nature (the forest park in Margonin, the Tatra Mountains, the forests near Pozna´n), childhood is also an important reminder of the world—a mysterious garden that preserves the colors and vitality of entities in memory. In this perspective, the image of the garden from childhood, is confronted by a necessary new visualization:

Kolory w dzieci ´nstwie układaj ˛a si˛e same na powierzchniach mi˛ekkich

i delikatnych. Nie wiedz ˛ac nic o sobie, nie znaj ˛ac swojej warto´sci, nie

potrzebuj ˛a si˛e dopełnia´c tworzy´c t˛eczy.

(Miłob˛edzka [1960] 2020f, p. 18)

In childhood, colors arrange themselves on the soft and delicate

surfaces. Not knowing anything about themselves, not knowing their own value, they do not need to complement each other to form a rainbow.

The poet defines child gazing in an interesting way: "It is spontaneous, self-generated thinking, not taught by others. We are born with it, and then we learn to look at the world already with someone else's eyes, to speak in someone else's words, the words

of adults" (Borowiec et al. 2009, p. 86). Referring to the bearing of Jean Piaget's theory (Piaget 1923, [1926] 2003), she also draws attention to the artistic realizations of children, where images and words are treated interchangeably. The poet finds a name-combination for them: "słoworysunki", "word-drawings" (Borowiec et al. 2009, p. 142). The poetic tricks of animation and personification are also embedded in the children's world and the power of children's imagination. Here, plants and fruits exist in an important space because they significantly focalize the seemingly inanimate world. It is as if the magic of an enchanted garden, or the unique memory of colors, was transferred to everyday objects, as in her painterly poem from the volume *Anaglyphs*:

Ta butelka z sokiem pomara ´nczowym ma niebieski korek. Niebieskie korki zast˛epuj ˛a wyduszonym pomara ´nczom niebo.

Jeszcze nigdy pomara ´ncze nie były tak blisko nieba jak w butelce nigdy go nie dotykały. Zreszt ˛a nie musz ˛a juz dojrzewa´c, wi˛ec zetkni˛ecie ˙ z niebem ma dla nich inne znaczenie—to jest albo inny przymus albo inna przyjemno´s´c. (Miłob˛edzka [1960] 2020g, p. 10)

This bottle of orange juice has a blue cork. The blue corks replace heaven to squeezed oranges.

Never before have the oranges been as close to the sky as they are in the bottle – never touched it. Besides, they don't have to ripen any more so their contact with the sky has a different meaning for them—it is either a different compulsion or a different pleasure.

The author also tells us another story from her time at the Institute of Wood Technology in Pozna´n, giving us the pictorial birth of the *Anaglyph* cycle and spatial vision that her poems preserve: "The most important thing I took away from the Institute were these wonderful glasses with one glass turquoise and the other red, which made it possible to receive spatial images. This, among other things, gave rise to the name for my first texts—*anaglyphs*" (Borowiec et al. 2009, p. 26). Commenting on this first series, the author also says: "It is there to see each thing at once from the outside and from the inside—and this is written clearly in the first *anaglyph*, but it is also repeated in the subsequent ones. In the s u b s t a n c e t h e i n t e r v e n t i o n is a seeing that is at once objective and personal, private. That is how I would read these records today" (Borowiec et al. 2009, p. 50).

### **4. The Garden Itself**

In Miłob˛edzka's volume entitled *Pokrewne* (Related), in addition to poems with significant titles for our considerations, such as *Ro´slinne* (Vegetal) (Miłob˛edzka [1970] 2020h, p. 57) or *Chlorofil* (Chlorophyll) (Miłob˛edzka [1970] 2020i, p. 58), there are also two poems of great importance to Miłob˛edzka's imagery and to our considerations, entitled *Ogród* (Garden) (Miłob˛edzka [1970] 2020j, p. 66) and *Narodzenie z oczu* (Birth from the Eyes) (Miłob˛edzka [1970] 2020k, p. 59). The first contains a visualization (to which the reader succumbs) of the thicket, entanglement, and green elements of the garden climbing towards the sun. As we read the subsequent verses, we realize that the gardens are personified and that the thicket, the growing, and searching for paths also belong to the sphere of human communication. The visualization of the garden, here, acts as a costume and, as it were, a diagnosis of the lyrical situation, the passion, and the danger involved in "tissue penetration":

Kto tu oddzieli, komu potrzebne nazywanie, splecione kryj ˛a si˛e w sobie, owijaj ˛ace, owijane, dławione jednych oddechem, podaj ˛a sobie pokarm wielkimi przełykami. Nie ma zadnych ´scie ˙ zek, nie ma doj´scia, jest ˙ tylko kawałek uległego podłoza, na ogrody w tobie, zawsze ten sam ˙ powrót, ten sam cie ´n wysyłany spod najnizszych ro´slin, wyrastanie ˙ powoli od stóp, uderzenie ciepła w ciasne obj˛ecia tkanek. Tu ogie ´n, kiedy si˛e otworz ˛a.

(Miłob˛edzka [1970] 2020j, p. 66)

Who here will separate, who needs naming, entwined they hide into each other, wrapping, wrapped, choked by one breath, they feed each other with great gulps. There are no paths, there is no access, there is only a piece of submissive ground, to the gardens within you, always the same return, the same shadow sent from under the lowest plants, growing slowly from the feet, the throb of heat in the tight embrace of tissue. Here the fire, when they open.

The second poem, demonstrates in its very fabric the close relationship between the one watching and the one watched, who/which simultaneously becomes a registration of life processes, as in the following extract from the poem: "Spojrzenie po spojrzeniu/rozgina wej´scia coraz gł˛ebsze: trawa dzieli si˛e traw ˛a/li´s´c łamie si˛e li´sciem, gn ˛a si˛e i strz˛epi ˛a, wpl ˛atane w ziemi˛e bij ˛a powietrze drzewami." (Miłob˛edzka [1970] 2020k, p. 59). (Gaze after gaze bifurcates the entrances deeper and deeper: grass/shares grass, leaf breaks leaf, bend and fray, entangled/in the earth beat the air with trees).

The temporal aspect of the garden is at the center of existence, in the cyclical return of nature's laws of rebirth and death, which are relevant to the personal, singular perspective of the end:

jeszcze do wnuka jeszcze do ogrodu jeszcze do zalu nad sob ˛a ˙ (Miłob˛edzka [1970] 2020l, p. 225)

yet to the grandson yet to the garden yet to self-pity

The dynamics of change interact with the dynamics of the image seen and processed. Miłob˛edzka aptly describes this creative process:

Actually, none of the images we have in ourselves should be immobilized, that is, become something unchangeable, something absolutely permanent. Because, after all, these images even in memories do not freeze—"they are not a music box and not a photograph". They are important when they come to life, when something disappears and something arrives in them, no matter how far back in time they are. In fact, they are deprived of time, and in this deprivation, they are changing and touching the one who owns them. They do not speak back to us in the same way every moment, neither with the same voice nor with the same gesture; and even if there were the same image, for me, having a different experience and being in a different time, the gesture and word from there are already something completely different. As long as it is alive, changing and

moving, it has some meaning. . . —*it repeals itself, as long as it is alive*" (Borowiec et al. 2009, p. 26).

### **5. Living Garden of Poems**

Among the poems by Miłob˛edzka, some particularly fit the issue of visuality in poetry, not only at the conceptual level, the place granted to observation, the poet-particular observer, but the poem itself. They are conceived as graphic and pictorial realizations. Poems from the volume *dwana´scie wierszy w kolorze* (twelve poems in color) (Miłob˛edzka 2012) are the special cases of these. The selected words are conceived in color, and their arrangement on the space of the page has meaning. Here, they meet in the minimalist form of the poem "I" and "tree" and respond to each other in a congruent symmetry: two questions, two text fragments highlighted in green, a twice-referenced word: "I see":

(i mówi ˛ace mnie drzewo?)

z ilu drzew t o j e d n o widz˛e?

wreszcie raz powiedzie´c

w i d z ˛e

(Miłob˛edzka [2012] 2020m, p. 366)

(and tree speaking me?)

Of how many trees this one can I see?

finally say it once

### I see

Behold, "I see" also means here as much as "I know"—read with the color codes and symbolism of nature (hope for green), it also means the selectivity of this knowledge if we read the green: "this one/I see" (as "this one I know" and "I am"). The minimalist form, when the poem fits at the top of the page and within empty space, is also impressive and helps to balance this ambivalence of meaning: a sense of pride in the joy of looking and seeing and the singularity of the experience. Intertextually, we are close to other texts such as the *wywód jestem'u* (discourse of I am) by Miron Białoszewski (Białoszewski 1961, p. 7), *Eimi* (I am) by E.E. Cummings (Cummings 1933), *Je suis comme je suis* (I am as I am) by Jacques Prévert (Prévert [1946] 1949, p. 100), but also the Socratic, "I know that I know nothing".

The poem of Miłob˛edzka can also be a kind of enigma or a clever riddle hidden in the answer to the question: What does not see deeply? Because the eye cannot see itself. With its blue color, the poem adopts the issue previously suggested by Miłob˛edzka—the impossibility of seeing deeply.

The author's decision here seems to be in a line with the conviction of the philosophical thought of Ludwig Wittgenstein, who in his *Remarks on Color*, notes: "If all the colors became whitish the picture would lose more and more depth". (Wittgenstein 1977, p. 44) Interestingly, Miłob˛edzka launches the rhyme deep in the process: deep—eye; and, let us say it one more time: it is important because in Polish the word "eye" (oko) is part of the word "deep" (gł˛eboko). The eye, repeated in the poem, grows huge and intense simultaneously:


OKO AN EYE

### (Miłob˛edzka [2012] 2020n, p. 364)

We find an equally interesting notation in another poem, in which, repeating the word "only" in a specific arrangement relates it, both to the poem and to the hidden addressee "you". The addressee is the most important, for to him/her (but also to the poem as well) refers the imperative, underlined "be" and enlarged ochre "shine". This potential shining is implicitly introduced by the sun; in the space of Miłob˛edzka's "colorful" poems, it is also coherent on the whole, precisely above the line image of the garden where the eye looks at the tree in the sun:

tylko b ˛ad´z only be

tylko only

SWIE ´ C´ SHINE

### (Miłob˛edzka [1970] 2020o, p. 368)

The poem *Rose*, from the volume *omnipoems* (Miłob˛edzka [2000] 2020p, pp. 256–57) belongs to Miłob˛edzka's visual and garden poems. However, it is also something more: it is a full calligram enriched by its reflection. The individual words are arranged verse by verse to form a graphic rose: "rose bloomed/ bloomed in the garden/ bloomed in the garden wet with dew/ bloomed in the garden wet with dew sparkling drops/ bloomed in the garden wet with dew sparkling drops on pink petals/ bloomed in a garden wet with dew sparkling drops on pink curled/ veined petals/ before I cut it down/ before I cut it right at the root and wrapped the cut in cellophane/ this rose/ my poem/ for Valentine". Miłob˛edzka inscribes herself with her poem by developing it with the symmetry and meaning of the rose in bloom. She creates a poem-picture, in a certain rhythm, thus referring to Tadeusz Peiper's concept of a blooming poem (Peiper [1926] 1972) and the love symbolism of the rose, thus inscribing herself in the rich history of poems dedicated to roses. The reverse image is similar to a flower, imprinted in the herbarium, a memento of the queen of the garden—the rose (Figure 8):

**Figure 8.** Miłobędzka's *poem rose*—wiersz róża is composed by calligram and its reflected image in color on the left in: Krystyna Miłobędzka (2020), *jest/jestem* (is/I am), Lusowo: Wolno, pp. 256–57. (Miłobędzka [2000] 2020p, pp. 256–57). **Figure 8.** Miłob˛edzka's *poem rose*—wiersz róza is composed by calligram and its reflected image in ˙ color on the left in: Krystyna Miłob˛edzka (2020), *jest/jestem* (is/I am), Lusowo: Wydawnictwo Wolno, pp. 256–57. (Miłob˛edzka [2000] 2020p, pp. 256–57).

Two more poems deserve attention. The first poem asks the question of "having", "possession", belonging, and one's place in the world. Underlined and "colored", "there is no", contradicts the invisible "is". In Polish, it is this cluster of "nie ma" that is the answer to the question, "is there?" Here, the lyric subject has and does not have this small world; it is also reflected consistently in other poems because the following reading is also possible otherwise: it is the world that has me. Two more poems deserve attention. The first poem asks the question of "having", "possession", belonging, and one's place in the world. Underlined and "colored", "there is no", contradicts the invisible "is". In Polish, it is this cluster of "nie ma" that is the answer to the question, "is there?" Here, the lyric subject has and does not have this small world; it is also reflected consistently in other poems because the following reading is also possible otherwise: it is the world that has me.

### **M A M**

### ( **M N I E MA** )

### **WŁASNY**

b a r d z o m a ł y ´s w i a t (Miłob˛edzka [2012] 2020q, p. 360)

### **I HAVE**

### ( **HAS ME** )

### **OWN**

### v e r y l i t t l e w o r l d

The last example shows a poem literally closed in a large square bracket. If we recall what the poem is about, for example, a rose or a tree, we can also interpret the poem as a kind of garden with a gate (Figure 9): The last example shows a poem literally closed in a large square bracket. If we recall what the poem is about, for example, a rose or a tree, we can also interpret the poem as a kind of garden with a gate (Figure 9):

*Arts* **2022**, *11*, x FOR PEER REVIEW 17 of 24

**M A M** 

( **M N I E MA** )

**WŁASNY** 

**I HAVE** 

( **HAS ME** )

**OWN** 

v e r y l i t t l e w o r l d

b a r d z o m a ł y ś w i a t

(Miłobędzka [2012] 2020q, p. 360)

**Figure 9.** Krystyna Miłobędzka.2020. *wiersz zamknięty* (closed poem) *jest/jestem* (is/I am), Lusowo: Wolno, p. 258. (Miłobędzka [2000] 2020r, p. 258). **Figure 9.** Krystyna Miłob˛edzka.2020. *wiersz zamkni˛ety* (closed poem) *jest/jestem* (is/I am), Lusowo: Wydawnictwo Wolno, p. 258. (Miłob˛edzka [2000] 2020r, p. 258).

Gutorow, writing about Miłob˛edzka's poetry-creating power, draws attention to her desire to reach such a point of speech, which is the absolutization of speech or ultimate point (Gutorow 2011, p. 290). It seems that the "closed poem" is an example of just such attainment of speech, although even here, through the play of graphic (visual) closure, one may be tempted to make ambiguous interpretations for the reason that in the vertical line, there is an opening —light and space above the poem and below the poem. If the poem is a key, and we turn it from horizontal to vertical in the likeness of a key, we open the closure.

### **6. Hortus Mirabilis by Krystyna Miłob˛edzka—Conclusion**

What is the character of the world-garden and hortus mirabilis in the poetry of Krystyna Miłob˛edzka?

The weight and admiration of the universe of the garden and its wonders are present all the time in Miłob˛edzka's work. We also find traces of this importance in the poet's correspondence with another poet important to her, the aforementioned Tymoteusz Karpowicz. Both poets and their life partners often change their opinions on gardening, on new plants, their development and illnesses, seasons, vegetables, flowers, trees and bushes. However, let us draw attention, once again, to the essence of the garden's appearance, to the importance of its visual character which appears in these words of Tymoteusz Karpowicz in a letter addressed to Andrzej Falkiewicz:

"And how does your garden sing (in colors and shapes) under the magical baton of Ms. Krystyna? How wide the Newcomers have already opened the greenery?" (Miłob˛edzka Krystyna et al. 2021b, pp. 738–39).

After all, Krystyna Miłob˛edzka—the gardener and observer continuously shares her experience with Krystyna Miłob˛edzka—the poet, that is, a careful observer of the world.

On the one hand, the poet in her poems, refers to the topoï of the tender observer, the poet-gardener, and the garden-world. On the other hand, she introduces a new verbal articulation to her poetic pictures. Although her poetic diction alludes to historical avant-garde and linguistic poetry achievements, her lyrical savoir-faire is characterized by a certain minimalist construction and a separate, recognizable style. Miłob˛edzka's innovativeness lies in combining seemingly distant and sometimes poetically opposite categories: full, ambiguous image-in-poem and asceticism by means of expression, such as a minimal number of words. Her poetry is deeply rooted in perceiving, seeing, watching, and contemplating the world—faithful to its physicality but also open to the most essential questions of philosophy asking about existence and its limits. Among Miłob˛edzka's poems, a special category is formed by texts that introduce elements of the plant world and simultaneously strongly present interest in their visual side. This new visibility of elements is reflected in authentic poetic delight and in the "visualizing" form, where the poem also becomes an image on the plane of a sheet of paper. Poems by Miłob˛edzka are also understood and seen in their visual dimension by others, for example, in graphic realization by Jan Berdyszak in collaboration with Krystyna Miłob˛edzka (Berdyszak and Miłob˛edzka 2015).

The visuality of Miłob˛edzka's poems, is also evidenced by two of them becoming the poems of public space, watched and read by everyone on the route of poetic murals in Pozna´n or in Puszczykowo. Here, as one can see at the photography of mural at Lodowa street, the two last lines really attest the poet's attachment to the garden's metaphysic architecture: *jestem wszystkim czego nie mam furtk ˛a bez ogrodu* (I am all what I have not/ the gate without the garden (Figure 10). The poem in Puszczykowo show the colors play and one more time, the importance of the verb "to be" and its possible senses (Figure 11). *Arts* **2022**, *11*, x FOR PEER REVIEW 19 of 24

**Figure 10.** © photography by Paweł Jędrzejczak. Mural of a poem by Krystyna Miłobędzka, *jestem do znikania* (I am to disappear) in Lodowa street in Poznań, made in a frame of project by Joanna Pańczak and Tomasza Genowa. **Figure 10.** © photography by Paweł J˛edrzejczak. Mural of a poem by Krystyna Miłob˛edzka, *jestem do znikania* (I am to disappear) in Lodowa street in Pozna´n, made in a frame of project by Joanna Pa ´nczak and Tomasza Genowa.

**Figure 11.** © photography by Paweł Jędrzejczak. Mural of a poem by Krystyna Miłobędzka, *wróć i bądź jeszcze dalej* (come back and be still more) on the wall of library in Puszczykowo. The mural was made in a frame of project "Młodzież w działaniu" (Youth in Action), coordinated by Magda

Finally, we have a kind of double illustration because the murals on the walls between the trees seems to show us the visual, that is concrete, character of her poetry, like

Nowicka Chomsk.

in the example:

Pańczak and Tomasza Genowa.

**Figure 11.** © photography by Paweł Jędrzejczak. Mural of a poem by Krystyna Miłobędzka, *wróć i bądź jeszcze dalej* (come back and be still more) on the wall of library in Puszczykowo. The mural was made in a frame of project "Młodzież w działaniu" (Youth in Action), coordinated by Magda Nowicka Chomsk. **Figure 11.** © photography by Paweł J˛edrzejczak. Mural of a poem by Krystyna Miłob˛edzka, *wró´c i b ˛ad´z jeszcze dalej* (come back and be still more) on the wall of library in Puszczykowo. The mural was made in a frame of project "Młodziez w działaniu" (Youth in Action), coordinated by Magda ˙ Nowicka Chomsk.

**Figure 10.** © photography by Paweł Jędrzejczak. Mural of a poem by Krystyna Miłobędzka, *jestem do znikania* (I am to disappear) in Lodowa street in Poznań, made in a frame of project by Joanna

Finally, we have a kind of double illustration because the murals on the walls between the trees seems to show us the visual, that is concrete, character of her poetry, like in the example: Finally, we have a kind of double illustration because the murals on the walls between the trees seems to show us the visual, that is concrete, character of her poetry, like in the example:


The power of this poetry also lies in its ability to co-create a space viewed and experienced, in many ways, placing the multiplicity (repetitiveness) and singularity (uniqueness) of existence at the center of its interest. Miłob˛edzka is convincing in her poetic creations and their minimalistic form. She speaks of it with amazement: "I don't know by what miracle I became interesting to young people. Maybe somewhere in the poems, I managed to—bagatelle! —capture the essence of life" (Borowiec et al. 2009, p. 141). In her original way of composing the visual hortus poems (e.g., *Rose*), she inscribes herself as a relative in the family of poets, including so ancient poetic garden as these by Johann Wolfgang Goethe (von Goethe 1789), William Blake (Blake 1794), and Emily Dickinson (Dickinson 1856, 1858) and their memorable poetic gardens and at the same time convincing today's young people.

**Funding:** This research received no external funding.

**Conflicts of Interest:** The author declares no conflict of interest.

### **Notes**


### **References**

### **Primary Source**


**Figure 7.** Cover by Markowski, Marcin In: Krystyna Miłob˛edzka. 2019. Anaglify. In Eadem, *Spis z natury.* Lusowo: Wydawnictwo Wolno.


**Figure 10.** photography by J˛edrzejczak, Paweł. Mural of a poem by Krystyna Miłob˛edzka, *jestem do znikania* (I am to desappeare) in Lodowa street in Pozna ´n, made in a frame of project by Joanna Pa ´nczak and Tomasza Genowa.

**Figure 11.** photography by J˛edrzejczak, Paweł. Mural of a poem by Krystyna Miłob˛edzka, *wró´c i b ˛ad´z jeszcze dalej* (come back and be still more) on the wall of library in Puszczykowo. The mural was made in a frame of project "Młodziez w działaniu" (Youth in ˙ Action), coordinated by Magda Nowicka Chomsk.

### **Secondary Source**

Berdyszak, Jan, and Krystyna Miłob˛edzka. 2015. *Jan Berdyszak/Krystyna Miłob˛edzka. Ostatni Notatnik Malarski/Czytania Notatnika*. Edited by Waldemar Andzelm. Lublin: Galeria Sztuki Współczesnej Waldemar Andzelm.

Białoszewski, Miron. 1961. Wywód jestem'u. In *Idem, Mylne Wzruszenia*. Warszawa: PIW.

Birksted, Jan K. 2003. Landscape History and Theory: From Subject Matter to Analytic Tool. *Landscape Review* 8: 4–28.

Blake, William. 1794. The Sick Rose. *Songs of Innocence and Experiences*. Available online: http://erdman.blakearchive.org/#23 (accessed on 30 May 2022).

Bogalecki, Piotr. 2011. *Niedorozmowy. Kategoria niezrozumiało´sci w poezji Krystyny Miłob˛edzkiej*. Warszawa: Narodowe Centrum Kultury. Borowiec, Jarosław, ed. 2012. *Wielogłos. Krystyna Miłob˛edzka w recenzjach, szkicach i rozmowach*. Wrocław: Biuro Literackie.

Borowiec, Jarosław, Falkiewicz Andrzej, and Miłob˛edzka Krystyna, eds. 2009. *szare ´swiatło. Rozmowy z Krystyn ˛a Miłob˛edzk ˛a i Andrzejem Falkiewiczem*. Wrocław: Biuro Literackie.

Cummings, E. E. 1933. *Eimi (I Am)*. New York: Covici Fried.

Czyzewski, Tytus. 1922. Mechaniczny ogr ˙ ód. In *Idem, Noc-dzie´n. Mechaniczny Instynkt Elektryczny*. Kraków: Geberthner i Wolf. First published 1920.

Dickinson, Emily. 1856. When Roses Cease to Bloom, Sir. Available online: https://www.edickinson.org/ (accessed on 23 April 2022). Dickinson, Emily. 1858. Nobody Knows this Little Rose. Available online: https://www.edickinson.org/ (accessed on 23 February 2022). Falkiewicz, Andrzej, Karpowicz Tymoteusz, and Miłob˛edzka Krystyna. 2011. *Dwie rozmowy. Oak Park—Puszczykowo—Oak Park.*

*(Two Conversations. Oak Park—Puszczykowo—Oak Park)*. Wrocław: Biuro Literackie.

Fiedorczuk, Julia. 2019. *Inne mozliwo´sci. O poezji ekologii i polityce. Rozmowy z ameryka´nskimi poetami ˙* . Gda´nsk: Wydawnictwo Naukowe Katedra.

Fiedorczuk, Julia, and Gerardo Beltrán. 2020. *Ekopoetyka/ Ecopoética/Ecopoetics Ekologiczna obrona poezji/ Una defensa ecológica de la poesía/ An ecological "defence of poetry"*. Warszawa: Muzeum Historii Polskiego Ruchu Ludowego. Biblioteka Iberyjska.

Foucault, Michel, and Jay Miskowiec. 1986. Of Other Spaces. *Diactrics* 16: 22–27. [CrossRef]

Górniak-Prasnal, Karolina. 2017. Impossible Poetry: Reading Polish Postwar Avant-Garde: Tymoteusz Karpowicz and Krystyna Miłob˛edzka. *Aktualas Probl ¯ emas Literat ¯ uras Un Kult ¯ uras P ¯ etniec ¯ ¯ıba¯* 22: 253–69.

Górniak-Prasnal, Karolina, and Katarzyna Kuchowicz. 2015. Motywy ro´slinne w *Anaglifach* Krystyny Miłob˛edzkiej. *Maska* 27: 117–26. Gr ˛adziel-Wójcik, Joanna. 2008. "Spróbuj zbudowa´c dom ze słów". O wierszach "niezamieszkanych" Krystyny Miłob˛edzkiej.

In *Miłob˛edzka wielokrotnie*. Edited by Piotr Sliwi ´nski. Pozna ´n: WBPiCAK, pp. 21–34. ´

Gutorow, Jacek. 2011. *Ksi˛ega Zakładek*. Wrocław: Biuro Literackie.

Jarzyna, Anita. 2017. Wprowadzenie do post-koiné: Nieantropocentryczne j˛ezyki poezji. *Pozna´nskie Studia Polonistyczne. Seria Literacka* 30: 107–39. [CrossRef]


Maliszewski, Karol. 2020. *Bez zaszeregowania. O nowej poezji kobiet*. Kraków: Universitas, pp. 74–75.


Miłob˛edzka, Krystyna. 1984. *Wykaz tre´sci (Register of Contents)*. Warszawa: Czytelnik.

Miłob˛edzka, Krystyna. 1990. *Teatr Jana Dormana (Jan Dorman's Theater)*. Pozna ´n: Ogólnopolski O´srodek Sztuki dla Dzieci i Młodziezy. ˙ Miłob˛edzka, Krystyna. 1992. *Pami˛etam. Zapisy Stanu Wojennego*. (I remember. Martial Law Notes). Wrocław: Wydawnicwto A.

Miłob˛edzka, Krystyna. 1994. *Przed wierszem. Zapisy dawne i nowe*. (Before the Poem. Old and New Notes). Kraków and Warszawa: "Fundacja Brulionu".

Miłob˛edzka, Krystyna. 1995. *Siała baba mak. Gry słowne dla teatru (Old Woman Sowed the Poppy. Word Games for the Theater)*. Wrocław: Wydawnictwo A.

Miłob˛edzka, Krystyna. 1999. Poezje—Poetry. In *Collaboration with E. Sułkowska-Bierezin, "2B", nr 14*. Translated by Kujawinski F..

Miłob˛edzka, Krystyna. 2000a. *Imiesłowy (Partcipels)*. Wrocław: Wydawnictwo Dolno´sl ˛askie.

Miłob˛edzka, Krystyna. 2000b. *wszystkowiersze (omnipoems)*. Legnica: Biuro Literackie.

Miłob˛edzka, Krystyna. 2003. *Przesuwanka*. Legnica: Biuro Literackie.


Miłob˛edzka, Krystyna. 2010b. *znikam, jestem. (I disappear, I am)*. Wrocław: Biuro Literackie.


Miłob˛edzka, Krystyna. 2020. *jest/jestem*. Wiersze Wybrane 1960/2020, (Is/I Am). Lusowo: Wydawnictwo Wolno, pp. 256–57.


Miłob˛edzka, Krystyna. 2020j. Ogród (Garden). In *Eadem, Pokrewne*. Lusowo: Wydawnictwo Wolno. First published 1970.


Miłob˛edzka, Krystyna. 2020p. wiersz róza (poem rose). In ˙ *Eadem, wszystkowiersze*. Lusowo: Wydawnictwo Wolno. First published 2000.


Nyczek, Tadeusz. 2008. Mikromakro. In *Miłob˛edzka wielokrotnie*. Edited by Piotr Sliwi ´nski. Pozna ´n: WBPiCAK, pp. 175–78. ´

Orska, Joanna. 2018. Ciało z klocków. Słowo na scenie w twórczo´sci Krystyny Miłob˛edzkiej. In *Nauka chodzenia. Teksty programowe pó´znej awangardy*. Edited by Wojciech Browarny, Paweł Mackiewicz and Joanna Orska. Kraków: Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Jagiello ´nskiego, vol. 1, pp. 255–85.

Piaget, Jean. 1923. *Le Langage et la pensée chez l'enfant*. Paris: Delachaux et Niestlé.

Piaget, Jean. 2003. *La Représentation du monde chez l'enfant*. Paris: Quadrige. First published 1926.

Peiper, Tadeusz. 1972. *Nowe usta*. Kraków: Wydawnictwo Literackie. First published 1926.

Potocki, Wacław. 1907. *Ogród fraszek*. Lviv: Towarzystwo Popierania Nauki Polskiej, vols. 1–3. First published 1648.

Prévert, Jacques. 1949. Je suis comme je suis. In *Idem, Paroles*. Paris: Gallimard. First published 1946.

Rymkiewicz, Jarosław Marek. 1968. *My´sli rózne o ogrodach. Dzieje jednego toposu ˙* . Warszawa: Czytelnik.

Salwa, Mateusz. 2020. Antyogród w ogrodzie. *Aspiracje* 112: 59–60.

Skurtys, Jakub. 2017. Zamiast Szymborskiej? Krystyna Miłob˛edzka i ´zródła współczesnej ekopoezji w Polsce. *Teorie przestrzeni* 28: 203–19.

Suszek, Ewelina. 2020. *Figuracje braku i nieobecno´sci. Miłob˛edzka—Białoszewski—Kozioł*. Kraków: Universitas.

Szafra ´nska, Małgorzata, ed. 1998. *Ogród. Forma. Symbol. Marzenie*. Warszawa: Ars Regia—Zamek Królewski w Warszawie. Szymborska, Wisława. 1986. Jarmark cudów. In *Eadem, Ludzie na mo´scie*. Warszawa: Czytelnik.

von Goethe, Johann Wolfgang. 1789. *Heidenröeselin in: Goethe's Schriften*. Leipzig: Georg Joachim Göschen, vol. 8, pp. 105–6.

Wittgenstein, Ludwig. 1977. *Remarks on Colour*. Translated by Linda L. McAlister, and Margarete Schättle. Oxford: C.G.E Anscombe. Wójcik-Leese, Elzbieta. 2006. Poland. ˙ *Poetry Wales* 42: 40–44.

Zurek, Łukasz. 2022. Two Commas and a Hyphen by Krystyna Miłob˛edzka. ˙ *Forum Poetyki/Forum of Poetics* 27. First published 2017. Available online: http://fp.amu.edu.pl/two-commas-and-a-hyphen-by-krystyna-milobedzka/ (accessed on 8 September 2022).

## *Article* **Representation of** *Corpus Patiens* **in Russian Art of the 1920s**

**Nataliya Zlydneva**

Institute for Slavic Studies, Russian Academy of Sciences, 119334 Moscow, Russia; natzlydneva@gmail.com

**Abstract:** Similar to the Russian historical avant-garde of the 1910s, which predicted the war and the social revolution of 1917, the late avant-garde of the 1920s anticipated the advent of the totalitarian terror and the Stalinist repressions of the 1930s. In figurative painting, this manifested itself in a specific visual "lexicon" and modality (bodily violence and the fragmented body, frustration, motifs of loss, death and general catastrophe), as well as in the expressive style (that inherited but not duplicated the models of European expressionism). In addition to proposing an analytical classification of semantics and poetics of the painting of the 1920s, the present article discusses the issue of the representation of political power in visual art and the presence of archaic roots in the *corpus patiens* (lat.) motifs. It examines artefacts made by eminent as well as little-known painters of the late avant-garde, including Kazimir Malevich, Alexander Tyshler, Kliment Redko, Georgy Rublev, Aleksandr Drevin, Boris Golopolosov and others.

**Keywords:** visual art; Russian avant-garde; prognostic function; violence; archaic stereotypes; totalitarian terror

### **1. Introduction: Art as a Foreteller**

Hegel's formula according to which art reflects life was in a simplified and perverted way hammered into the consciousness of the Soviet mass viewer from the 1930s, yet, in the very same years, it was refuted by the practice of the fine arts or, more specifically, their alternative trends in relation to the mainstream ideology. As one knows, text extends the meanings that it originally contained as the space and time of its functioning in culture expands (Toporov 1983). The text's functions expand as well. The prognostic function of art comes to the fore in crucial historical epochs and times of social bifurcation. Fortune tellers, predictors of the future, and prophets meet with great demand in a society that seeks to get rid of the disturbing feeling of uncertainty about the future or at least to reduce its frustration. Art also acquires the function of anticipation–no matter whether the artists themselves are aware of it or not. In the history of literature, cinema and painting, one finds many cases of the anticipation of future events, both at the global historical scale and at the level of the life of individuals. The most striking textbook example is the date of the 20thcentury Russian revolution that was predicted by Velimir Khlebnikov (whom Mayakovsky did not believe and mistakenly corrected the date in one of his poems: "The *sixteenth* year is coming in the crown of thorns of revolutions"). Khlebnikov deliberately looked for numerical patterns in historical chronology. At the same time, in certain Hollywood movies (*Armageddon*, 1998, dir. Michael Bay; *Escape from New York*, 1993, dir. John Carpenter; and others), the events of 11 September 2001—the collapse of the Twin Towers in New York—are foreshadowed not as an established law of time or as a mystical coincidence but as a real prophecy. Trends in art are also endowed with a prophetic gift: Russian symbolism of the turn of the 20th century, both in literature and in the fine arts, is imbued with a premonition of a civilizational catastrophe, as if foreseeing the collapse of Russian pre-revolutionary culture. The texts of Andrey Bely and Aleksandr Blok are full of vague allusions and gloomy predictions. The avant-garde—not only the historical avant-garde in Russia, but also Italian futurism and the early German expressionism—foresaw the horrors of the First World War: a blown-up world appeared in painting as fragmented polyhedrons, deviant

**Citation:** Zlydneva, Nataliya. 2022. Representation of *Corpus Patiens* in Russian Art of the 1920s. *Arts* 11: 105. https://doi.org/10.3390/ arts11050105

Academic Editor: Dennis Ioffe

Received: 31 August 2022 Accepted: 18 October 2022 Published: 20 October 2022

**Publisher's Note:** MDPI stays neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations.

**Copyright:** © 2022 by the author. Licensee MDPI, Basel, Switzerland. This article is an open access article distributed under the terms and conditions of the Creative Commons Attribution (CC BY) license (https:// creativecommons.org/licenses/by/ 4.0/). *arts*

corporeality, the attack of machines on the living organs of the human body, and borderline mental states. The meanings of Kazimir Malevich's famous "Black Square" are saturated with a general sense of catastrophe which lowered the curtain on the stage of European art history while outlining a broader context-a premonition of the decline of Russian culture. Thinking about the future, writers voluntarily or involuntarily surmised the outlines of the coming totalitarian era in anti-utopias—whether German Nazism in Karel Capek's novel *The War with the Newts* written in 1936 or contemporary events in Russia in Vladimir Sorokin's story "The Day of the Oprichnik" written in 2006. The exposure of a social project doomed to failure in Andrey Platonov's story "Foundation Pit" (written in 1930, first published in 1968) can be regarded in the same line. Although the genre of dystopia itself is still a by-product of the prognostic function, it is not so much about a critical look at modernity and its near future as about a kind of registration using the special sensory sensitivity of art of the seismic vibrations of upcoming social earthquakes. At the same time George Orwell's dystopic novel *Nineteen Eighty-Four* written in 1948 demonstrated amazing insight into the Eastern European regimes that were to be established after the Second World War. The features of the carnival of death sweeping the world—the recent pandemic—can also be seen in the prophetic movie *Joker* (2019, dir. Todd Phillips). I should also mention personal foreseeing: Mikhail Vrubel predicted the death of his son, and Van Gogh—his own death. These are just a few examples.

Let me now turn to a phenomenon of this kind that is less obvious yet all the more revealing—the way in which Soviet paintings of the late 1920s and the early 1930s manifested a premonition of the onset of the repressive Stalinist regime. This took place mainly in the unofficial art of this time, which came to the attention of the broad public only in recent decades: a lot of paintings gathered dust in the funds of museums or the attics of collectors, while many others were destroyed during the Stalinist period during mass arrests or the self-censorship of their authors. This period has been widely discussed in recent decades, and a lot has been written about its artistic atmosphere and paintings. The most important information is found in Olga Roytenberg's book *Did someone really remember that we had been* . . . (Roytenberg 2004), which provides an essential introduction to the little-known aspects of the art of that era. Individual topics in the history of painting of the 1920s and the connection between semantics and formal stylistic practices are the subject of studies by the art historians Aleksandra Salienko (Salienko 2018), Sergey Fofanov (Fofanov 2019), Anatoly Morozov, me (Nataliya Zlydneva) and others. Significant issues of the historical avant-garde were raised by Boris Groys (Groys 1988) and in a book edited by Hans Guenther and Evgeny Dobrenko dedicated to the problems of socialist realism in a wide ideological and esthetic context (Guenther and Dobrenko 2000). The approach proposed in the present article to the late Soviet avant-garde as an art that was aloof from the main paths of development-industrial art, constructivism, etc.—has not been considered before and much remains to be clarified on this issue. The prognostic functions of painting of this period leads me to formulate some more general questions: the problem of the modality of the image, i.e., of the conveyance of emotions by non-verbal means, and the problem of identifying the level of visual "text" at which a social theme manifests itself in the form of the collective unconscious. A significant aspect of *corpus patiens* motifs deals with the proportions of subjectivity and objectivity in a visual communication. Bodily suffering can be presented as the object of a mimetic narrative, yet it can also have a subjective model which is wholly determined by the level/plane of expression (the motion of the pictorial mass, contrasting colour, swirling composition, etc.). Most often there is a correlation between the object and the subject of representation that increases the degree of semiotization of the visual text in which the social context and the ideological code of the epoque becomes more perceptible.

### **2. Radical Shift in the Late Russian Avant-Garde**

The generation that entered the artistic arena at the end of the 1920s received an impulse from the artists of the historical avant-garde of the 1910s, from whom they learned

in one form or another. Many of the younger artists began with non-objective painting and subsequently retained a commitment to the problems of pure form in their mature years; Sergey Luchishkin, Kliment Redko, Aleksandr Tyshler and others practiced nonobjective painting in the beginning of the 1920s. However, these artists, along with many of their colleagues from different artistic associations ("OST" and the others), soon turned to figurative painting, narrative and symbolic compositions or genre scenes. Meanwhile, these figurative plots had little in common with the art of the pre-avant-garde period and even less with the mimetic tradition of the 19th century. While the art of the generation of the 1920s stood on the shoulders of the historical avant-garde and retained a taste for radical experiment, their radicalism shifted from form to motif, projecting the level/plane of expression onto the level/plane of content. This turn manifested itself, in particular, in the fact that the narratives of the paintings began to be saturated with negative topics. The motifs of bodily suffering and violence (hunger, disability, torture of the flesh) and physical withering (the themes of old age and death) swept over many of the new figurative works. Cases in point include *The Invalids of War* by Yury Pimenov (1926), the numerous images of dead birds in works by Vladimir Sokolov, the *Makhnovshchina* series of paintings by Aleksandr Tyshler (1920s), Eva Levina-Rosengolts' *Old Men*, Sergey Luchishkin's *Famine on the Volga River* (1925, destroyed), Pavel Korin's *The Beggar* (1933) and many other paintings. and subsequently retained a commitment to the problems of pure form in their mature years; Sergey Luchishkin, Kliment Redko, Aleksandr Tyshler and others practiced nonobjective painting in the beginning of the 1920s. However, these artists, along with many of their colleagues from different artistic associations ("OST" and the others), soon turned to figurative painting, narrative and symbolic compositions or genre scenes. Meanwhile, these figurative plots had little in common with the art of the pre-avant-garde period and even less with the mimetic tradition of the 19th century. While the art of the generation of the 1920s stood on the shoulders of the historical avant-garde and retained a taste for radical experiment, their radicalism shifted from form to motif, projecting the level/plane of expression onto the level/plane of content. This turn manifested itself, in particular, in the fact that the narratives of the paintings began to be saturated with negative topics. The motifs of bodily suffering and violence (hunger, disability, torture of the flesh) and physical withering (the themes of old age and death) swept over many of the new figurative works. Cases in point include *The Invalids of War* by Yury Pimenov (1926), the numerous images of dead birds in works by Vladimir Sokolov, the *Makhnovshchina* series of paintings by Aleksandr Tyshler (1920s), Eva Levina-Rosengolts' *Old Men*, Sergey Luchishkin's *Famine on the Volga River* (1925, destroyed), Pavel Korin's *The Beggar* (1933) and many other paintings.

The generation that entered the artistic arena at the end of the 1920s received an impulse from the artists of the historical avant-garde of the 1910s, from whom they learned in one form or another. Many of the younger artists began with non-objective painting

*Arts* **2022**, *11*, x FOR PEER REVIEW 3 of 16

**2. Radical Shift in the Late Russian Avant-Garde** 

The emphasis shifted from the spatial and coloristic arrangement of the canvas to accentuated modality. Bodily suffering was often conveyed either in terms of the emotional state of the subject or as a representation of the appropriate object. For example, Aleksandr Gluskin's painting *The Tragedy of the Goose* (1929, see Figure 1) tries less to expose the theme of a slain bird with a wide range of connotations that are verbally supported by the title (it is no coincidence that the motif coincides, also compositionally, with Goya's late canvas) than to depict a state unfolded in time. Kuzma Petrov-Vodkin's *Death of the Commissar* (1928), on the contrary, shows the physical death of a human being through a spherical perspective that transposes time into space, turning the psychological state into an object constituting a sort of epic mode of communication and eliminating the *corpus patiens* topic as such. The subjectivity of representation is also introduced with the help of predicates in the title (Boris Golopolosov's *The Man Beating his Head against the Wall*, 1938, or S. Luchishkin's *The Balloon Flew Away*, 1926). The emphasis shifted from the spatial and coloristic arrangement of the canvas to accentuated modality. Bodily suffering was often conveyed either in terms of the emotional state of the subject or as a representation of the appropriate object. For example, Aleksandr Gluskin's painting *The Tragedy of the Goose* (1929, see Figure 1) tries less to expose the theme of a slain bird with a wide range of connotations that are verbally supported by the title (it is no coincidence that the motif coincides, also compositionally, with Goya's late canvas) than to depict a state unfolded in time. Kuzma Petrov-Vodkin's *Death of the Commissar* (1928), on the contrary, shows the physical death of a human being through a spherical perspective that transposes time into space, turning the psychological state into an object constituting a sort of epic mode of communication and eliminating the corpus patiens topic as such. The subjectivity of representation is also introduced with the help of predicates in the title (Boris Golopolosov's *A Man Beating his Head against the Wall*, 1938, or S. Luchishkin's *The Balloon Flew Away*, 1926).

**Figure 1.** A. Gluskin. *The Tragedy of the Goose*. 1929.

The state of anxiety, fear, horror as well as the foreboding of catastrophe, which is especially important for our study, spread over the entire field of visual discourse in the late 1920s. To a certain extent, this turn in painting was due to the wave of interest in the heritage of symbolism that came into evidence during those years. Memories of symbolism served as a sort of antiphase with respect to the historical avant-garde of the 1910s. As the programmatic work of Russian symbolist painting, Leon Bakst's *Terror Antiquus* (1907) contained the whole gamut of expectations of catastrophe, as brilliantly shown in the famous essay written in 1909 by Vyacheslav I. Ivanov ([1909] 1979). Many works of the late 1920s are in consonance with the theme of this painting. However, can this kind of emotional gamut be explained only by the turn to symbolism?

### **3. Fear in Literature and Art of the 1920–1930s**

In the late 1920s, the atmosphere in Russia was largely saturated with a feeling of fear. In literature, the motif of fear is particularly evident. It suffices to mention Leonid Lipavsky and his book *The Study of Horror*, Daniil Kharms with his old women falling out of the window and Petrov disappearing into the forest, and the different phobias and horrors in the works of Yury Olesha, Mikhail Zoshchenko, Mikhail Bulgakov and Vsevolod Ivanov to evoke a whole cavalcade of forms and ways of representing the impending terrible in verbal artistic expression. We should also mention the tragicomic play *Suicide* by Nikolay Erdman (1928), which Meyerhold intended to stage but failed to do so on account of pressure from the authorities. Aleksandr Afinogenov's play *Fear* (1931) directly asserted that the state indicated in the title was one of the determining factors of human life: the playwright said through one of his characters, "We live in an era of great fear." As to painting, it reacted to the waves of fear in its own way (Zlydneva 2009).

In 1925, Kliment Redko painted his picture *Revolt* (see Figure 2). The appearance of this work was extremely significant from the point of view of the overall artistic climate of the 1920s. It is strictly symmetrical, almost constructivist, composition that combines geometric conventionality and narrative plot is structured by the central division in the shape of a rhombus. A group of revolutionaries with the gesticulating figure of Lenin in the centre are depicted inside the rhombus. Numerous associates are located around the communist leader along the model of a group photograph: the viewer can easily recognize Trotsky, Stalin, Krupskaya, Mikoyan, and other leading figures of the communist revolution. Extended processions of rebellious masses stretch out along the edges of the rhombus, preparing for a battle: workers, militiamen, warriors and band members holding weapons, carrying wind instruments and dragging carts with provisions. Outside the rhombus, numerous dark walls are blazing with red flames and projecting rays of light. Covered by windows, these walls resemble either prison façades or apocalyptic honeycombs. A very gloomy feeling of catastrophe is conveyed by the ornament of these honeycomb windows immersed in the darkness. The motif of violence as a sort of order resonates with the ideas of Michel Foucault (Foucault 1977). The atmosphere is also enhanced by the unnatural exaltation of the leader's posture (the iconographical canon of Lenin had not yet been standardized by 1925) and the intensity of the gloomy colouring. The feeling of horror is partly due to the memory of culture in the form of an appeal to traditional iconography: such diamond-shaped forms were used in the *Saviour in Power* composition in which Christ administers the Last Judgment. Having received an artistic education in the icon-painting workshops of Kyiv, K. Redko could not fail to realize this connection. However, it is impossible to assume that the artist deliberately used this Gospel motif in his composition to demonstrate a social catastrophe: the painting was not perceived by contemporaries in a tragic mode, as evidenced by the fact that it was successfully presented at an exhibition of revolutionary art in Moscow in 1926 without receiving negative assessments from official critics. Nevertheless, the present-day viewer who is aware of the onset of the repressive regime a few years later inevitably sees a prognostic element in this message, which vividly brings across the emotional state of the collective unconscious at the time.

this message, which vividly brings across the emotional state of the collective unconscious

**Figure 2.** K. Redko. *Revolt*. 1925. **Figure 2.** K. Redko. *Revolt*. 1925.

at the time.

The motifs of loss and existential crisis are already quite consciously broadcast in the painting of S. Luchishkin *The Balloon Flew Away* (1926, see Figure 3). The anecdotal plot and its infantile intonation grow into a life tragedy thanks to the expressive composition: two towering walls of apartment buildings form a narrow well, spatially rushing upwards towards heaven; in the windows you can see the ant-like life of the inhabitants and, on one of the upper floors, a person who has hanged himself. The latter detail leads to a negative interpretation of the whole narrative, which becomes especially obvious when one considers that the painter almost literally duplicated the engraving of the German expressionist George Grosz (1917), borrowing its composition and even the person who committed suicide. The quotation of Luchishkin's painting should hardly be interpreted as simple plagiary: the emotional density of the narrative is enhanced by eliciting a socially critical component of German expressionism. Considering how close the ties between Russia and Germany were at that time, there is no doubt that the artist was well acquainted with the work of George Grosz. We also find narrative and compositional echoes between B. Golopolosov's painting *Revolt* (1927) and G. Grosz's painting *Metropolis* (1917): the centre of the composition is accentuated by a sharp wedge that, as if in protest, cuts into a world immersed in chaos and excesses (observation made by Zaretskaya 2019). The motifs of loss and existential crisis are already quite consciously broadcast in the painting of S. Luchishkin *The Balloon Flew Away* (1926, see Figure 3). The anecdotal plot and its infantile intonation grow into a life tragedy thanks to the expressive composition: two towering walls of apartment buildings form a narrow well, spatially rushing upwards towards heaven; in the windows you can see the ant-like life of the inhabitants and, on one of the upper floors, a person who has hanged himself. The latter detail leads to a negative interpretation of the whole narrative, which becomes especially obvious when one considers that the painter almost literally duplicated the engraving of the German expressionist George Grosz (1917), borrowing its composition and even the person who committed suicide. The quotation of Luchishkin's painting should hardly be interpreted as simple plagiary: the emotional density of the narrative is enhanced by eliciting a socially critical component of German expressionism. Considering how close the ties between Russia and Germany were at that time, there is no doubt that the artist was well acquainted with the work of George Grosz. We also find narrative and compositional echoes between B. Golopolosov's painting *Revolt* (1927) and G. Grosz's painting *Metropolis* (1917): the centre of the composition is accentuated by a sharp wedge that, as if in protest, cuts into a world immersed in chaos and excesses (observation made by Zaretskaya 2019).

**Figure 3.** S. Luchishkin. *The Balloon Flew Away*. 1926. **Figure 3.** S. Luchishkin. *The Balloon Flew Away*. 1926.

#### **4. Archaic Stereotypes 4. Archaic Stereotypes**

The ambivalence of K. Redko's canvas *Revolt*, in which the heroics of the revolution are intertwined with apocalyptic foresight, and the existential motifs of loss and despair in Luchishkin's painting *The Balloon Flew Away* can be considered as signs of direct alarm. Meanwhile, the discourse of power that becomes increasingly repressive manifested itself in a number of pictorial practices indirectly, as if on the sly, which made it sound only stronger. I am referring to archaic stereotypes that emerged in the compositional schemes of a number of works. Two of them are of particular significance. The first is a group of images showing various kinds of meetings-from work to Komsomol or party meetings. Compositions of this kind became widespread and can hardly be explained simply by the The ambivalence of K. Redko's canvas *Revolt*, in which the heroics of the revolution are intertwined with apocalyptic foresight, and the existential motifs of loss and despair in Luchishkin's painting *The Balloon Flew Away* can be considered as signs of direct alarm. Meanwhile, the discourse of power that becomes increasingly repressive manifested itself in a number of pictorial practices indirectly, as if on the sly, which made it sound only stronger. I am referring to archaic stereotypes that emerged in the compositional schemes of a number of works. Two of them are of particular significance. The first is a group of images showing various kinds of meetings—from work to Komsomol or party meetings. Compositions of this kind became widespread and can hardly be explained simply by

the new realities of Soviet social life—ideological collective events or imitation of public control. Pictures of this kind represent people (bodily mass and/or side-by-side figures) gathered around a speaker or leader at a table parallel to the surface of the canvas. Such a scheme undoubtedly goes back to Leonardo's fresco *The Last Supper*, which established the iconographic canon in European art for many centuries. The visual rhetoric of Leonardo's work can be recognized in the poses and gestures of the characters in many works by Soviet artists: Samuil Adlivankin's *Liquidating the Breakthrough* (1930), Vasiliy Tochilkin's *Meeting of the Industrial Party* (1931), Nikolay Schneider's *Trial of the Truant* (1932) and some others. The supposedly unconscious appeal to this visual stereotype has a deep and clear connotation—the premonition of impending catastrophe that was imprinted in the memory of culture. However, in the painting by Solomon Nikritin *Judgment of the People* (1934, see Figure 4) based on a similar compositional scheme ("comrades" sitting at a table), the allegory hardly appears in hidden form: the realistically presented scene of a repressive trial came true in a few years. new realities of Soviet social life—ideological collective events or imitation of public control. Pictures of this kind represent people (bodily mass and/or side-by-side figures) gathered around a speaker or leader at a table parallel to the surface of the canvas. Such a scheme undoubtedly goes back to Leonardo's fresco *The Last Supper*, which established the iconographic canon in European art for many centuries. The visual rhetoric of Leonardo's work can be recognized in the poses and gestures of the characters in many works by Soviet artists: Samuil Adlivankin's *Liquidating the Breakthrough* (1930), Vasiliy Tochilkin's *Meeting of the Industrial Party* (1931), Nikolay Schneider's *Trial of the Truant* (1932) and some others. The supposedly unconscious appeal to this visual stereotype has a deep and clear connotation-the premonition of impending catastrophe that was imprinted in the memory of culture. However, in the painting by Solomon Nikritin *Judgment of the People* (1934, see Figure 4) based on a similar compositional scheme ("comrades" sitting at a table), the allegory hardly appears in hidden form: the realistically presented scene of a repressive trial came true in a few years.

**Figure 4.** S. Nikritin. *Judgment of the People*. 1934. **Figure 4.** S. Nikritin. *Judgment of the People*. 1934.

Other signs of hidden stereotypes are found in the widespread dual images of this period. In some cases, the paired compositions are motivated by the plot-for example, the paired portraits of a couple: Fiodor Bogorodsky's *In the Photo Studio* (1932) and K. Petrov-Vodkin's *Spring* (1935). However, quite often there is no motivation, such as in the paintings by Boris Ermolaev *Red Navy sailors* (1934), Ivan Mashkov *The Lady in Blue* (1927), and Pavel Filonov *The Raider* (1926–1928). Doubling is characteristic of the compositions of K. Petrov-Vodkin's earlier period (*Two Boys*, 1916). The twin images link to the cult of sacred twins evoking the ancient cultural archetype of supreme power and highest social status; in archaic societies, twins served for predicting the future (Ivanov 2009). It is significant Other signs of hidden stereotypes are found in the widespread dual images of this period. In some cases, the paired compositions are motivated by the plot—for example, the paired portraits of a couple: Fiodor Bogorodsky's *In the Photo Studio* (1932) and K. Petrov-Vodkin's *Spring* (1935). However, quite often there is no motivation, such as in the paintings by Boris Ermolaev *Red Navy sailors* (1934), Ivan Mashkov *The Lady in Blue* (1927), and Pavel Filonov *The Raider* (1926–1928). Doubling is characteristic of the compositions of K. Petrov-Vodkin's earlier period (*Two Boys*, 1916). The twin images link to the cult of sacred twins evoking the ancient cultural archetype of supreme power and highest social status; in archaic societies, twins served for predicting the future (Ivanov 2009). It is significant

that this prefiguration of movement towards absolute power led a few years later to the

that this prefiguration of movement towards absolute power led a few years later to the emergence of the famous twin portrait by Aleksandr Gerasimov of Stalin and Voroshilov against the background of the Kremlin, which gave rise to the meme *Two Leaders after the Rain* (1938).

### **5. Discourse of Power: Gesture and Motion**

Hidden symbols of power such as the onset of an era of violence can also be discerned in Georgy Rublev's still life *The Letter from Kyiv* (1929, see Figure 5). Painted in a primitive style the image shows a table viewed from above; there are a number of things on the table—a cup and saucer, a couple of lemons, a skein of thread, a brochure and an unopened envelope. From the inscriptions made in clumsy handwriting, one sees that the brochure contains Stalin's speech at a party congress, while the letter was sent from Kyiv and addressed to the author of the picture himself—"Yegor Rublev". If one takes into account that Kyiv was G. Rublev's hometown, this detail resembles an index sign of an autoreferential message. However, there is one more item on the table—huge tailor's scissors that stand out through their size and a thick black contour that visually resonates with the black letters of the inscriptions. This attribute of tailoring is a frequent "character" in Rublev's paintings representing sewing workshops. However, on this canvas this detail is not motivated by the narrative in any way and looks more like an instrument of torture than a household appliance. The composition as a whole resembles a children's puzzle where the combination of simple signs of everyday life, the brochure as an ideological resonator and the envelope as a sign of self-communication, as well as the scissors as a piercing and cutting tool (an unclearly articulated yet very formidable symbol of violence) add up to a single syntagma, a single vague dark message. It is worth noting that one year later the scissors reappeared on Rublev's canvas in a transformed form—their shape can be distinguished in a portrait of Stalin, in the outlines of the leader's eyebrows and nose, highlighted by the same thick, black and curved line (*Stalin Reading the Newspaper 'Pravda'*, 1930). It is unlikely that the artist employed this cross-textual visual rhyme consciously in this case, it is clearly more appropriate to talk about a discourse of power and perceived threat spread over the entire field of artistic practices and manifested (regardless of the author's intention) in the emphasis of details.

In a more explicit way, the discourse of power can be detected in the system of gestures of depicted characters. The waving arms, resembling the hands of a dial, of the figure of Lenin in Redko's above-mentioned painting *Revolt* are symptomatic. Imaging gestures actively flooded into painting from the mid-1920s and performed a variety of functions. Gestures in paintings echo the speech of natural language and iconically convey a message, raising its semiotic status. There are gestures of indefinite meaning that represent *homo loquens* (narrator) or *homo ambulans* (walking man) and have a mimetic purpose, i.e., to expand and corroborate a narrative. There also exists an arbitrary group of gestures aimed at describing modality: they convey emotion in a wide range of psychological states. Codified gestures form a special group: the gesture of a traffic controller, the gesture of finger pointing and-especially interesting for us—the gesture of a speaker. During this period, the central model of gesticulating characters is the model of a speaking person—a tribune (homo loquens)—which goes back to the antique motif of the oratory emperor. A final chord in this series of images is a multi-figured canvas by Konstantin Yuon *There is such a party!* (1934), in which a figurine of Lenin with an outstretched arm, barely visible in the multi-figure group of characters, prefigures the canonical pose in the visual representation of the leader for many decades to come. This gesture of the leader of the revolution is symbolically strengthened verbally by means of the title that conveys the legitimating slogan of the Bolshevik coup.

**Figure 5.** G. Rublev. *The Letter from Kyiv*. 1929. **Figure 5.** G. Rublev. *The Letter from Kyiv*. 1929.

In a more explicit way, the discourse of power can be detected in the system of gestures of depicted characters. The waving arms, resembling the hands of a dial, of the figure of Lenin in Redko's above-mentioned painting *Revolt* are symptomatic. Imaging gestures actively flooded into painting from the mid-1920s and performed a variety of functions. Gestures in paintings echo the speech of natural language and iconically convey a message, raising its semiotic status. There are gestures of indefinite meaning that represent homo loquens (narrator) or homo ambulans (walking man) and have a mimetic purpose, i.e., to expand and corroborate a narrative. There also exists an arbitrary group of gestures aimed at describing modality: they convey emotion in a wide range of psychological states. Codified gestures form a special group: the gesture of a traffic controller, the gesture of finger pointing and-especially interesting for us—the gesture of a speaker. During this period, the central model of gesticulating characters is the model of a speaking person-a tribune (homo loquens)—which goes back to the antique motif of the oratory emperor. A final chord in this series of images is a multi-figured canvas by Konstantin Yuon *There is such a party!* (1934), in which a figurine of Lenin with an outstretched arm, barely visible in the multi-figure group of characters, prefigures the canonical pose in the visual representation of the leader for many decades to come. This gesture of the leader of the revolution is symbolically strengthened verbally by means of the title that conveys the legitimating slogan of the Bolshevik coup. By this time, the iconography of Lenin as a tribune addressing a crowd of adherents had already existed for more than 10 years in propaganda posters, paintings and sculptures of the post-revolutionary period. One should mention posters by Gustav Klutsis and Vladimir Shcherbakov, the painting by Isaak Brodsky *Lenin's Speech at the Putilov Factory in 1917* (1927), the monument to Lenin by Sergey Evseev and Vladimir Shchuko at the Finland Station (1925) and many others. During these years, a book entitled *Gesture in Art* was written by the famous art critic and staff member of the State Academy of Artistic Sciences Nikolai Tarabukin (Tarabukin 1929, still not published, the work exists in two By this time, the iconography of Lenin as a tribune addressing a crowd of adherents had already existed for more than 10 years in propaganda posters, paintings and sculptures of the post-revolutionary period. One should mention posters by Gustav Klutsis and Vladimir Shcherbakov, the painting by Isaak Brodsky *Lenin's Speech at the Putilov Factory in 1917* (1927), the monument to Lenin by Sergey Evseev and Vladimir Shchuko at the Finland Station (1925) and many others. During these years, a book entitled *Gesture in Art* was written by the famous art critic and staff member of the State Academy of Artistic Sciences Nikolai Tarabukin (Tarabukin 1929, still not published, the work exists in two typewritten manuscripts at the Russian State Library). According to Tarabukin, the gesture is "the external expression of an internal necessity" (p. 33), and its main property is its intentionality. The gesture acts as a function of the *will* ("strong-willed striving towards danger–gesture", p. 358), which, obviously, goes back to German formalism, to Alois Riegl's concept of *Kunstwollen*, as well as to Friedrich Nietzsche's *will*, a motif that permeates all modernist art. Among Tarabukin's colleagues at the State Academy of Artistic Sciences (GAKhN), A. Gabrichevsky also used the category of *will* in connection with the concepts of internal motion and formation, asserting that time is an integral property of artistic form and acts in tandem with space. Motion was an important subject of research at the State Academy of Artistic Sciences (Laboratory of Choreology, Section of Cinematography-Aleksey Sidorov) and the Central Institute of Labour (Aleksey Gastev). Nikolay Tarabukin also wrote the article "Motion" for the Dictionary of Artistic Terms that was prepared at the State Academy of Artistic Sciences (Tarabukin 2005). As a signifier whose signified is movement, the gesture for Tarabukin is charged with the tension of antinomy: "[Its] synthetic resolution is obtained in form < . . . > which by its nature is inevitably a form of becoming" (Tarabukin 1929, p. 123). In other words, "gesture < . . . > is a contradiction resolved in unity and < . . . > is considered by us as a category of becoming" (p. 125). According to Tarabukin, the function of the gesture is to make visible something that lies beyond the visible: "to make an invisible disturbance visible" (pp. 135–36).

Motion as a semantic category of artistic representation also occupied Tarabukin a few years earlier when he was writing his article on diagonal compositions in painting (published in: Tarabukin 1973). In the case of *homo loquens* discussed above, the diagonal composition of the speaker/leader's outstretched hand gives dynamism to the figure. This dynamism semioticizes the concept of *life* as the will to what is beyond the visible, as an invisible excitement.

### **6. Running Man: Motion in Expressionism as Prediction**

Motion as such was the basis of the poetics of futurism in the 1910s, especially in Italy. However, in the historical avant-garde, motion mainly consisted of mechanical dynamics as well as the dynamics of binocular vision that changes points of view (simultanism). Meanwhile, in line with the shift in poetic focus from radical form to radical topics in the late 1920s, there was an increased interest in depicting the body in motion. El Lissitzky's photo collage *Runner* still fits into the early avant-garde paradigm yet the motif soon gives way to an ideologically loaded content. Thus, in the paintings of Aleksandr Deineka of the 1920s, the muscular male body, the body of an athlete and a warrior in motion, evoke the cult of strength and youth of the masculine world, unequivocally referring to the will to power and violence. The "invisible excitement" is hidden by the intentionality of the gesture of a running character despite all the positive ecstatic pathos perceived on the surface.

Far removed from official ideology, K. Malevich's painting *The Running Man* (1934, see Figure 6) represents a completely different model of motion. The man is running along a schematic representation of land lined with "suprematist" stripes; he appears huge against the background of the low horizon. The intense colouring of the composition based on the archaic triad of black–white–red, the torn contours of the depicted character against the background of symbolic figures (a cross, a sword and isolated blank houses), and the blackened face and bare feet contrasting with the white pants and hair create an atmosphere of anxiety and impending disaster. The reverse direction of motion (from right to left) reveals the important symbolic level of this visual text: a rush to the origins of the painter's poetics, an acknowledgment of the collapse of hope in the present and a desperate warning about the future. It is difficult to resist the temptation of seeing a socio-political subtext in this message by a dying artist, a message containing an insight into upcoming upheavals, which, in a sense, have already begun. It is no coincidence that one of the numerous interpretations asserts that the image is inspired by the dispossessed peasantry (on the various interpretations of the picture see: Zlydneva 2013).

Malevich's painting is the crowning achievement of the late figurative stage of the master's work, yet at the same time it is embedded into the art of the time, albeit far removed from its main trends. I am referring to the Soviet expressionism of the late 1920s and the early 1930s, a phenomenon that appeared above the artistic landscape of the era like a bright comet that was unfortunately short-lived. The range of themes and stylistic practices of this episode of the history of Soviet art was quite broad—from conventional landscapes (Aleksandr Drevin, Roman Semashkevich, Boris Golopolosov) to genre compositions in a conventionally metaphoric interpretation such as A. Tyshler's series "Makhnovshchina" with scenes of bodily violence (the painting *Gulyay Pole*<sup>1</sup> , 1927) and paintings on the theme of the revolutionary struggle (B. Golopolosov's *The Battle for the Red Banner*, 1928), and direct illustrations of life in prison (see the aforementioned *The Man Beating His Head Against the Wall* by the same artist). A common feature of Russian/Soviet expressionism is its accentuated motion thanks to dynamic pasty brushstrokes, swirling compositions, and the corresponding motifs—running and rapid driving (from Tyshler's Makhnovist gigs and Malevich's galloping cavalry to turning car by R. Semashkevich, etc.). A. Drevin's canvases, for example, do not contain social themes, yet the impulsive dynamics of the landscape scenes, the contrasting combinations of pastel and dark colours, and the individual psychologized details of nature express the hysterical exaltation of a subject on the verge of an emotional breakdown (*Dry Birch*, 1930, see Figure 7; *Bulls*,

1931). Other examples include the representations of ecstatic excitement that describe the psychological state of instability and aggression: bloody battles and wounded bodies (B. Golopolosov's *The Struggle for the Red Banner*, 1928, see Figure 8), convulsive self-torment from extreme despair (B. Golopolosov's *A Man Beating His Head Against the Wall*, 1936– 1937), and the demoniac jubilation of a crowd at a demonstration (A. Gluskin's *To the Demonstration*, 1932, see Figure 9). The latter work is especially significant as it refers (just as in the case of worker/party meetings) to the Christian iconography and, more precisely, the depiction of the Gospel episodes of the Mocking of Christ and the Carrying of the Cross. The similarity with the grotesque images of a saint's tormentors on the canvases of Bosch and with the infernal characters in the later paintings of James Ensor, the forerunner of European expressionism, is quite unambiguous in the painting of the Soviet artist. *Arts* **2022**, *11*, x FOR PEER REVIEW 11 of 16

Malevich's painting is the crowning achievement of the late figurative stage of the master's work, yet at the same time it is embedded into the art of the time, albeit far removed from its main trends. I am referring to the Soviet expressionism of the late 1920s and the early 1930s, a phenomenon that appeared above the artistic landscape of the era

practices of this episode of the history of Soviet art was quite broad—from conventional landscapes (Aleksandr Drevin, Roman Semashkevich, Boris Golopolosov) to genre compositions in a conventionally metaphoric interpretation such as A. Tyshler's series "Makhnovshchina" with scenes of bodily violence (the painting *Gulyay Pole*1, 1927) and paintings on the theme of the revolutionary struggle (B. Golopolosov's *The Battle for the Red Banner*, 1928), and direct illustrations of life in prison (see the aforementioned *The Man Beating His Head Against the Wall* by the same artist). A common feature of Russian/Soviet expressionism is its accentuated motion thanks to dynamic pasty brushstrokes, swirling compositions, and the corresponding motifs-running and rapid driving (from Tyshler's

**Figure 6.** K. Malevich. *The Running Man*. 1934. **Figure 6.** K. Malevich. *The Running Man*. 1934.

Makhnovist gigs and Malevich's galloping cavalry to turning car by R. Semashkevich, etc.). A. Drevin's canvases, for example, do not contain social themes, yet the impulsive dynamics of the landscape scenes, the contrasting combinations of pastel and dark colours, and the individual psychologized details of nature express the hysterical exaltation of a subject on the verge of an emotional breakdown (*Dry Birch*, 1930, see Figure 7; *Bulls*, 1931). Other examples include the representations of ecstatic excitement that describe the psychological state of instability and aggression: bloody battles and wounded bodies (B. Golopolosov's *The Struggle for the Red Banner*, 1928, see Figure 8), convulsive self-torment from extreme despair (B. Golopolosov's *A Man Beating His Head Against the Wall*, 1936– 1937), and the demoniac jubilation of a crowd at a demonstration (A. Gluskin's *To the Demonstration*, 1932, see Figure 9). The latter work is especially significant as it refers (just as in the case of worker/party meetings) to the Christian iconography and, more precisely, the depiction of the Gospel episodes of the Mocking of Christ and the Carrying of the Cross. The similarity with the grotesque images of a saint's tormentors on the canvases of Bosch and with the infernal characters in the later paintings of James Ensor, the forerunner of Eu-

Makhnovist gigs and Malevich's galloping cavalry to turning car by R. Semashkevich, etc.). A. Drevin's canvases, for example, do not contain social themes, yet the impulsive dynamics of the landscape scenes, the contrasting combinations of pastel and dark colours, and the individual psychologized details of nature express the hysterical exaltation of a subject on the verge of an emotional breakdown (*Dry Birch*, 1930, see Figure 7; *Bulls*, 1931). Other examples include the representations of ecstatic excitement that describe the psychological state of instability and aggression: bloody battles and wounded bodies (B. Golopolosov's *The Struggle for the Red Banner*, 1928, see Figure 8), convulsive self-torment from extreme despair (B. Golopolosov's *A Man Beating His Head Against the Wall*, 1936– 1937), and the demoniac jubilation of a crowd at a demonstration (A. Gluskin's *To the Demonstration*, 1932, see Figure 9). The latter work is especially significant as it refers (just as in the case of worker/party meetings) to the Christian iconography and, more precisely, the depiction of the Gospel episodes of the Mocking of Christ and the Carrying of the Cross. The similarity with the grotesque images of a saint's tormentors on the canvases of Bosch and with the infernal characters in the later paintings of James Ensor, the forerunner of Eu-

*Arts* **2022**, *11*, x FOR PEER REVIEW 12 of 16

ropean expressionism, is quite unambiguous in the painting of the Soviet artist.

ropean expressionism, is quite unambiguous in the painting of the Soviet artist.

**Figure 7.** A. Drevin. *The Dry Birch*. 1930. **Figure 7.** A. Drevin. *The Dry Birch*. 1930. **Figure 7.** A. Drevin. *The Dry Birch*. 1930.

**Figure 8.** B. Golopolosov. *The Struggle for the Red Banner*. 1928. **Figure 8.** B. Golopolosov. *The Struggle for the Red Banner*. 1928.

**Figure 9.** A. Gluskin. *To the Demonstration*. 1932. **Figure 9.** A. Gluskin. *To the Demonstration*. 1932.

The pictorial mass in motion and the representation of the suffering body as an expression of approaching catastrophe are also found in P. Filonov's paintings, which to a certain extent echoed the experiments of the expressionists. Already in the early work of the artist, the baroque *vanitas* was transformed into the motifs of death and decaying flesh, the world of the dead and witches (the watercolour *Man and Woman*, 1912–1913, the painting *Feast of Kings*, 1912). Later, in the 1920s and early 1930s, the painter turned to death masks (*Head III*, 1930, see Figure 10) and images of thinning bodily tissue–not of an individual figure but of the organic world as a whole. In the same years the artist began to decompose matter into atoms in motion. In the mosaic disintegration of a non-objective pictorial composition into elements and their subsequent reassembly into larger conglomerates, one can distinguish the influence of Vyacheslav I. Ivanov's ideas on Russian Dionysianism and the latter's links with ancient metamorphoses. The elemental forces of hidden, flickering mythology are at work here. Bidirectional metamorphoses of the descent and ascent of the bodily, its compression and decompression, its condensation and transparency refer to the mythopoetic complexes of Dionysus and Atlantis, which are so closely associated in Russia with the awareness of the metaphysical nature of social catastrophe. The pictorial mass in motion and the representation of the suffering body as an expression of approaching catastrophe are also found in P. Filonov's paintings, which to a certain extent echoed the experiments of the expressionists. Already in the early work of the artist, the baroque *vanitas* was transformed into the motifs of death and decaying flesh, the world of the dead and witches (the watercolour *Man and Woman*, 1912–1913, the painting *Feast of Kings*, 1912). Later, in the 1920s and early 1930s, the painter turned to death masks (*Head III*, 1930, see Figure 10) and images of thinning bodily tissue–not of an individual figure but of the organic world as a whole. In the same years the artist began to decompose matter into atoms in motion. In the mosaic disintegration of a non-objective pictorial composition into elements and their subsequent reassembly into larger conglomerates, one can distinguish the influence of Vyacheslav I. Ivanov's ideas on Russian Dionysianism and the latter's links with ancient metamorphoses. The elemental forces of hidden, flickering mythology are at work here. Bidirectional metamorphoses of the descent and ascent of the bodily, its compression and decompression, its condensation and transparency refer to the mythopoetic complexes of Dionysus and Atlantis, which are so closely associated in Russia with the awareness of the metaphysical nature of social catastrophe.

The emergence of expressionism painting in the late 1920s in Russia was due to many reasons, including the close familiarity of Soviet artists of the second generation of the avant-garde with contemporary German art (direct contacts between artists, exchange of exhibitions, a general climate of rapprochement in Germany, etc.) and the logic of development of the artistic process, in which the disappearance of the avant-garde of the late 1910s required the compensation of the "warmed up" form, which had already gained inertia. However, there was another reason: the generic features of expressionism such as internal conflict, the complex of psychotic experiences, the themes of violence and fear and the developing, continuously moving pictorial matter/mass responded (whether consciously or not) to the desire to stave off impending disaster in the form of political terror. The themes of death, which were the main referent of totalitarian art according to Igor Smirnov (Smirnov 2005), began to sound ever louder in the paintings of the 1920s. The emergence of expressionism painting in the late 1920s in Russia was due to many reasons, including the close familiarity of Soviet artists of the second generation of the avant-garde with contemporary German art (direct contacts between artists, exchange of exhibitions, a general climate of rapprochement in Germany, etc.) and the logic of development of the artistic process, in which the disappearance of the avant-garde of the late 1910s required the compensation of the "warmed up" form, which had already gained inertia. However, there was another reason: the generic features of expressionism such as internal conflict, the complex of psychotic experiences, the themes of violence and fear and the developing, continuously moving pictorial matter/mass responded (whether consciously or not) to the desire to stave off impending disaster in the form of political terror. The themes of death, which were the main referent of totalitarian art according to Igor Smirnov (Smirnov 2005), began to sound ever louder in the paintings of the 1920s.

**Figure 10.** P. Filonov. *The Head. III*. 1930. **Figure 10.** P. Filonov. *The Head. III*. 1930.

#### **7. Conclusions 7. Conclusions**

In this article, I examined the motif of the suffering body (Lat. corpus patiens) as a marker of the premonition of the tragic developments of Soviet history. I studied this motif from the dual standpoint of *what* it depicts and *how* it depicts it, i.e., both as an object and as a modality of representation. In the paintings of the late 1920s and early 1930s, the suffering body is linked to bodily violence, maiming and bloody battles. It is also expressed through metaphors: a dead bird, a withered tree, a desert landscape, the motif of loss or even scissors as well as manifestations of terrible events such as famine, suicide and death. The state of detriment, angst and psychological conflict as an expression of the suffering body in its subjective incarnation found expression in different types of visualization of motion such as motifs of running, a fluid painterly medium, dynamic compositions and, last but not least, the theory of gesture as the expression of *will* in the artistic image. Finally, the premonition of the approaching age of totalitarianism is suggested by disguised archetypes that, frequently unperceived by the artists themselves, manifested themselves as the collective unconscious. Here, I am referring to the most tragic episodes of the Gospels (Saviour in Power, the Last Supper, the Passion of Christ) that connote sacrifice and catastrophe as well as the motif of twins as a symbol of the sacralization of power. This deep semantic level of paintings attests to the memory of culture and expands the semantic field of the visual communication. In this article, I examined the motif of the suffering body (Lat. *corpus patiens*) as a marker of the premonition of the tragic developments of Soviet history. I studied this motif from the dual standpoint of *what* it depicts and *how* it depicts it, i.e., both as an object and as a modality of representation. In the paintings of the late 1920s and early 1930s, the suffering body is linked to bodily violence, maiming and bloody battles. It is also expressed through metaphors: a dead bird, a withered tree, a desert landscape, the motif of loss or even scissors as well as manifestations of terrible events such as famine, suicide and death. The state of detriment, angst and psychological conflict as an expression of the suffering body in its subjective incarnation found expression in different types of visualization of motion such as motifs of running, a fluid painterly medium, dynamic compositions and, last but not least, the theory of gesture as the expression of *will* in the artistic image. Finally, the premonition of the approaching age of totalitarianism is suggested by disguised archetypes that, frequently unperceived by the artists themselves, manifested themselves as the collective unconscious. Here, I am referring to the most tragic episodes of the Gospels (Saviour in Power, the Last Supper, the Passion of Christ) that connote sacrifice and catastrophe as well as the motif of twins as a symbol of the sacralization of power. This deep semantic level of paintings attests to the memory of culture and expands the semantic field of the visual communication.

Naturally, all the aforementioned themes and forms of the expression of human suffering were largely an artistic reflection of the difficult tribulations of generations that lived through war, revolution and devastation. At the same time, considered alongside prophecies contained in other media and studied together with all the other factors that determined the "discourse" of the image, these signs of premonition unambiguously point to the manifestation of social intuition in the fine arts. Naturally, all the aforementioned themes and forms of the expression of human suffering were largely an artistic reflection of the difficult tribulations of generations that lived through war, revolution and devastation. At the same time, considered alongside prophecies contained in other media and studied together with all the other factors that determined the "discourse" of the image, these signs of premonition unambiguously point to the manifestation of social intuition in the fine arts.

This article mainly focuses on the paintings of the younger generation of artists influenced by the historical avant-garde. However, other artists who were distant from experiments of form and motif and were completely embedded in the ideological matrix of the time were also involved in reflecting the gloomy forebodings that hovered in the air. These premonitions manifested themselves in different ways—in a conscious appeal to certain topics, such as the memory of culture in the use of traditional and archaic iconographic schemes that bear the connotations of catastrophe or in the activation of formal pictorial means that convey the anxious, gloomy emotional state of the subject. At the same time, it is important to note that, regardless of the intentions of the artists themselves, the art of the 1920s and the early 1930s served the social demand for the prognostic function. The predictions of many artists came true just a few years later in the disaster of repressions: B. Golopolosov was expelled from the professional community for 40 years in 1937, A. Drevin was executed in 1938, and P. Filonov died in poverty in 1942. It remains an open question whether such art contributed to shaping the future. Be that as it may, it was more of a diagnosis whose formulation does not accelerate or retard the inevitable development of the disease but only warns against its consequences. While the alternative movement of early Soviet art fulfilled its social mission, this message was unfortunately not heeded by contemporaries.

**Funding:** This research received no external funding.

**Data Availability Statement:** Not applicable.

**Conflicts of Interest:** The author declares no conflict of interest.

### **Note**

<sup>1</sup> Gulyaypole is the Ukrainian town where in time of the civil war of the 1919s the Ukrainian anarchist state under the leadership of Makhno was established.

### **References**

