Oxana Timofeeva
The title of this essay paraphrases the famous expression
“Socialism with a human face,” which refers back to 1968, to the events in
Czechoslovakia known as the Prague Spring, but also to the Soviet 1980s, the
time of the late Soviet Union prior to perestroika, when the idea of changing
the very nature of so-called “really existing socialism” from the inside
according to human/democratic values was still popular among dissidents.
Apparently, it was not a renewed and more refined socialism, but a good old
capitalism which entered this space under the mask of the human. Apparently,
something went wrong long before perestroika, when communism went in an unknown
direction, like a strange animal that managed to escape from people and from
the very really existing socialism. Here I would like to track this strange
animal and read its traces as peculiar “signs from the future.”
I want to suggest not that something went wrong with
socialism, but that something is wrong with the human face. Let me start from
the argument, which sounds quite banal already, about the dialectical
relationship between the ideology of democratic humanism and the racist social
practices of neoliberalism.
Questions are posed here and there, in the entirety of
Europe and further to the West, across first world countries and around: What
happened to our nice and glorious multicultural world? How is it that our
multiple identities, subjectivities, cultural diversities, and irreducible
singularities are no longer taken into account? Where has our welfare paradise
gone? Is it already lost? The enemy is easy to locate: the one percent, the
rich, the bankers, the absolute capitalist minority that owns the world,
together with far-right governments and politicians who provide this minority
with silent support and hardcore austerity politics. Right-wing governments
never defend the interests of people; they only pursue their own interests—the
power of the rich over the poor, the power of capital over labor, the power of
the one over the many.
Austerity policy is another name for state racism, since its
first targets are migrant workers, asylum seekers, and refugees. But it equally
abuses artists, intellectuals, the precarious, the disabled, the sick, the
poor, and the retired—all those whose very existence does not correspond to the
holy land pictured by the perverse imagination of the right-wing. In brief, the
far-right is the evil attacking the freedoms and rights won by the people in
the course of twentieth-century class struggles, and then carefully guarded by
social democrats.
My object of critique here, however, is not the evil of the
right-wing, but rather the good of democratic universalism, since they both
form part of one and the same dialectical chain. My argument is very simple: if
humanism, often used as a slogan for struggles against racism and xenophobia,
proceeds from the assumption that there is some exceptional dignity in human
beings and some exceptional value to human life, then it is just one step away
from putting into question the value of any nonhuman life.
The institution of human rights is based on recognition.
Someone should be recognized in his or her human dignity. If this concrete
biped is recognized as human, regardless of his or her gender, race, or
ethnicity, then this individual must have documents and the right to vote, the
right to life, the right to property, and so on. He or she pays taxes to the
state to which he or she is attached as a citizen, so that this state will
provide for his or her security. The rights of citizens are becoming
practically equal to human rights. And there is a certain logic here. The state
is a guarantor of human rights; therefore, a certain human can enjoy his human
rights as a citizen of a certain state. Citizenship is becoming a legal
condition for someone’s humanship, so to speak. Hence the enormous
difficulties faced by those who have no citizenship at all, or who have the
wrong citizenship.
Today, illegal migrant workers are the most vulnerable in
terms of citizenship. They are being massacred in high numbers at the borders
of welfare states while trying to enter illegally. If they have already
entered, they are constantly trying to escape the police. They are living in
the streets, in the basements of houses, and in slums, even as they enable the
prosperity and economic growth of these glorious states through their low-paid
or unpaid labor. The institutions of human rights and citizen rights are based
on the exclusion of nonhumans and noncitizens.
However, my intention here is not to say that all we need to
do is extend the realm of human rights to include animals, to bring them into
the human universe—this is basically the agenda of animal rights defenders,
which is totally fine. But if these changes were implemented within the
existing capitalist regime, we would end up with something like animal
citizenship, with related attributes like border control, dealing with illegal
animals trying to reach happy European fields from forests on the global
periphery, and so on.
I would rather like to claim that the class struggle has to
be carried forward by those who appear as nonhumans, or even as unhuman
monsters, like the Hollywood aliens that symbolized communism during the Cold
War. Revolution does not have a human face. It goes beyond the human and human
rights, towards animality. This idea was perfectly drawn by Russian poet Vladimir
Mayakovsky in his “Ode to Revolution”: “You send sailors / To the sinking
cruiser / there / where a forgotten kitten was mewing.”
This image of revolution is striking and powerful. It hits
the mark. There is something absurd and irrational in the excessive generosity
of the revolutionary gesture depicted by Mayakovsky—imagine how crazy an army
commander would have to be to send a battalion of sailors, adult armed men, to
risk their lives for the sake of some forgotten, tiny, politically
insignificant creature. And yet, that’s precisely how the drama of
revolutionary desire should be performed.
Almost like these sailors, I will now try to look back to
the sinking cruiser of the Russian Revolution in search of, if not a proper
animal, then at least for its traces, almost erased by history. First of all,
let’s see how the Revolution dealt with animals and other nonhumans, or with
those who were “not human enough.”
After the October Revolution of 1917, the idea of a
“revolution in nature” and even of a “struggle against nature” was continuously
advanced in all spheres of the nascent Soviet society. Nature was supposed to
have changed—liberated from its reliance on necessity but also preserved from
the precariousness of contingency. A diffuse avant-garde attitude
unconditionally sustained the idea of a point of no return, a “giving up the
ship,” a total transformation of the social and natural orders towards
emancipation and equality. Nature was also considered a battlefield for class
struggle. The central theme running through Soviet literature and poetry of the
period is the potential or actual transformation of one species into another—of
animals into humans, for example—accompanied by the acquisition of higher
levels of consciousness and freedom.
Nature is not “nice”: the Russian Revolution sees nature, in
a Hegelian-Marxist spirit, in terms of unfreedom, suffering, and exploitation,
and the animal kingdom serves, in a way, as an example of society that should
be transformed. It is not a matter of the predominance and superiority of one
species over the other, but a matter of taking everything into account. As long
as inequality remains untouched at the interspecies level, equality of people, too,
can never be realized. Or, to put it in Adornian terms, history is the history
of oppression, and the violent domination of humans over humans starts with the
human domination over nature.1
As the futurist poet Velimir Khlebnikov puts it, “I see the
liberties of horses / and equal rights for cows.”2 In
his poem The Triumph of Agriculture, Nikolay Zabolotsky, one of the
founders of the Russian avant-garde absurdist group OBERIU, describes nature as
suffering under the old bourgeois regime. He compares animals to proletarians
and creates a utopia of their progressive liberation facilitated by technology:
I saw a red glow in the window
Belonging to a rational ox.
The parliament of ponderous cows
Sat there engaged in problem-solving …
Belonging to a rational ox.
The parliament of ponderous cows
Sat there engaged in problem-solving …
Down below the temple of machinery
Manufactured oxygen pancakes.
There horses, friends of chemistry,
Had polymeric soup,
Some others sailed midair
Expecting visitors from the sky.
A cow in formulas and ribbons
Baked pie out of elements
And large chemical oats
Grew in protective coats.3
Manufactured oxygen pancakes.
There horses, friends of chemistry,
Had polymeric soup,
Some others sailed midair
Expecting visitors from the sky.
A cow in formulas and ribbons
Baked pie out of elements
And large chemical oats
Grew in protective coats.3
Andrey Platonov deserves special attention in this respect.
Among the numerous intellectuals, artists, poets, and writers who were inspired
by the Russian Revolution and invested a great deal of creative energy and work
in it, Andrey Platonov is a unique figure. Coming from the industrial
proletariat, he became a major Russian writer for whom the Revolution consisted
in crafting a truly Marxist literary practice examining topics like community,
sexuality, gender, labor, production, death, nature, utopianism, and the
paradoxes of creating a new (better) future.
In his writings, not only humans, but all living creatures,
including plants, are overwhelmed by the desire for communism, a
desire which, as Fredric Jameson pointed out, still has not found its Freud or
Lacan.4 A
passage from Platonov’s novel Chevengur (1928–1929)
is emblematic in this regard:
Chepurny touched a burdock—it too wanted communism: the
entire weed patch was a friendship of living plants … Just like the
proletariat, this grass endures the life of heat and the death of deep snow.5
The desire for communism comes out of profound boredom (toska)
in the face of the unbearableness of the existing order of things. “We should
change the world as soon as possible,” proclaims one of the Bolshevik characters
in The Sea of Youth. “Otherwise even animals are already getting
insane.”6
Platonov’s expectations for communism go far beyond ideology
and politics. The more depressive and tragic nature is, the stronger the hope
for happiness and freedom. This hope is essential and it possesses all the
force and passion of natural life. In animals, this hope consists in following
their destiny without knowing any alternative besides death.
Platonov’s communists and Bolsheviks are revolutionary
animals. They literally recognize themselves in animals’ faces and project
onto animals their own revolutionary passion. And if, as human beings, they are
ascetic and refuse the immediate gratification of bodily desires, they do so
because their greater desire, or their unbearable desire, is
the desire for communism. They are moved by their passion for the realization
of happiness for everyone, including the smallest animals.
The necessity and urgency of revolution as a planetary
change is already inscribed in unconscious animal nature, which seems to expect
from humans, from communists, fromus, a kind of salvation. Platonov’s
historical materialism is animated by the force of an anxious animal’s
intolerance against all that is and towards the happy anticipation of all that
should be:
The desert’s deserted emptiness, the camel, even the pitiful
wandering grass—all this ought to be serious, grand, and triumphant. Inside
every poor creature was a sense of some other happy destiny, a destiny that was
necessary and inevitable—why, then, did they find their lives such a burden and
why were they always waiting for something?7
From this perspective, revolution is not so much a move forward,
but an absurd gesture of turning “back”—towards these weak forgotten creatures
who are awaiting help, towards Mayakovsky’s kittens, but also towards ourselves
as those unhappy animals. The only problem is that it is always already too
late. The tragedy of animality consists in the fact that an impossible
catastrophe happens at every moment. The animal (or the slave, or the poor)
dies of sorrow and misery without achieving its long-awaited happiness.
Mourning functions as an internalization or preservation of
what is lost. Memory is a faithful thought: by preserving what is lost, the one
who remembers saves it from the emptiness of oblivion. Memory is a fidelity to
what is no longer there, but what nevertheless endows us, as Walter Benjamin
would say, with “weak Messianic power”:
The past carries with it a temporal index by which it is
referred to redemption. There is a secret agreement between past generations
and the present one. Our coming was expected on earth. Like every generation
that preceded us, we have been endowed with a weak Messianic power, a power to
which the past has a claim.8
The claim of the Benjaminian past is that it affects the
present and relates it to the urgency of revolutionary action, which can answer
to the hope of those whose lives were interrupted by death. If the chance of
life was lost, if the creature, in whose heart unknown happiness throbbed, died
in poverty, sadness, and slavery, then only those who are alive can live up to
its expectations. Platonov shares with Benjamin this paradoxical view of the
materialist dialectics of history, when, for example, he writes about the
responsibility of living people to those who died during the war:
The dead have no one to trust except the living—and we
should live now in such a way, that the death of our people was justified and
redeemed through the happy and free destiny of our nation.9
In these lines, Platonov identifies himself with a certain
nation, and the dead, too, are part of this nation. However, in his prose he
does not describe some actual, existing nation, but rather, to put it in
Deleuzian terms, he “invents a people.”10 (This
is similar to Kafka, who invents a Mouse Folk.) Deleuze describes this invented
people as follows:
This is not exactly a people called upon to dominate the
world. It is a minor people, eternally minor, taken up in a
becoming-revolutionary. Perhaps it exists only in the atoms of the writer, a
bastard people, inferior, dominated, always in becoming, always incomplete. Bastard no
longer designates a familial state, but the process or drift of the races. I am
a beast, a Negro of an inferior race for all eternity.11
It is precisely to this kind of bastard people that Platonov
dedicates his novel Soul. Its protagonist, Nazar Chagataev, who was
trained as an economist in Stalinist Moscow, is instructed by the Party to go
to the desert and find a small nation in order “to teach it socialism.” His
novel Soul (Dzhan) is a generalized personification of
the Soviet people, as well as an unexpected metaphor for the Jews (wandering
around the desert in search of freedom). It is also a literary figure that
gathers under the name of “nation” all the unhappy and lost humans and animals:
Seven days later, after taking the most direct footpath,
Chagataev reached Tashkent. He went straight to the Central Committee, where he
had been expected for a long time. The secretary of the Committee told
Chagataev that somewhere in the region of Sary-Kamysh, the Ust-Yurt and the
Amu-Darya delta there lived a small nomadic nation, drawn from different
peoples and wandering about in poverty. The nation included Turkmen,
Karakalpaks, a few Uzbeks, Kazakhs, Persians, Kurds, Baluchis, and people who
had forgotten who they were … The poverty and despair of the nation was so
great that it looked on this work, which lasted for only few weeks in the year,
as a blessing, since during these weeks it was given nan bread and even rice.
At the pumps the people did the work of donkeys, using their bodies to turn the
wooden wheel that brings water to the irrigation channels. A donkey has to be
fed all through the year, whereas the workforce from Sary-Kamysh ate only for a
brief period and would then up and leave. And it did not die off entirely; and
the following year it would come back again, after languishing somewhere in the
lower depth of the desert.
“I know this nation,” said Chagataev. “I was born in
Sary-Kamysh.”
“That’s why you’re being sent there,” the secretary
explained. “What was the name of the nation—do you remember?”
“It wasn’t called anything,” said Chagataev, “though it did
give itself a little name.”
“What was this name?”
“Dzhan. It means ‘soul,’ or ‘dear life.’ The nation
possessed nothing except the soul and dear life given to it by mothers, because
it’s mothers who give birth to the nation.”
The secretary frowned, and looked sad. “So there’s nothing
they can call their own except the hearts in their chests—and even that’s only
for as long as the hearts keep on beating.”
“Only their hearts,” Chagataev agreed. “Only life itself.
Nothing belonged to them beyond the confines of their bodies. But even life
wasn’t really their own—it was just something they dreamed.”
“Did your mother ever tell you who the Dzhan are?”
“She did. She said they were runaways and orphans from
everywhere, and old, exhausted slaves who had been cast out. There were women
who had betrayed their husbands and then vanished, fleeing to Sary-Kamysh in
fear. There were young girls who came and never left because they loved men who
had suddenly died and they didn’t want to marry anyone else. And people who
didn’t know God, people who mocked the world. There were criminals. But I was
only a little boy—I can’t remember them all.”
“Go back there now. Find this lost nation. The Sary-Kamysh
hollow is empty.”
“I’ll go,” said Chagataev. “But what will I do there? Build
socialism?”
“What else?” said the secretary. “Your nation has already
been in hell. Now let it live in paradise for a while—and we’ll help it with
all our strength.”12
Nation here is a kind of “substance,” matter which can build
communism out of itself, but which can also exhaust itself as a natural resource,
since the poorer the life of a people is, the more greed it provokes. Nothing
prevents the reduction of the substance of nation to pure labor force.
The life of this small population is disappearing; it
literally disappears in the sands of the desert, together with the naked or
almost naked people in rags. The reader of Agamben will immediately recognize
here the idea of bare life. Platonov starts the history of his people from this
zero-level of life, or as Agamben would put it, from the grey zone in between
life and death. This life is not properly human; it is deprived of symbolic,
real, and cultural wealth. It has nothing to identify with and nothing to
defend itself against exploitation, which, according to Platonov, exhausts the
living soul:
Chagataev knew from childhood memory, and from his education
in Moscow, that any exploitation of a human being begins with the distortion of
that person’s soul, with getting their soul so used to death that it can be
subjugated; without this subjugation, a slave is not a slave. And this forced
mutilation of the soul continues, growing more and more violent, until reason
in the slave turns to mad and empty mindlessness.13
This is how Platonov inverts the dialectic that, from Hegel
to Marx, claimed that labor transformed an animal into a man and a slave into a
master. The Hegelian slave changes the world with his labor and acquires
self-consciousness, whereas Platonov’s human-animal works to maintain its life
and hopes for a better world, but finally exhausts himself and falls into
despair, paradoxically finding his last refuge in the dumb body of an animal.
Platonov’s escape route from the human is described in his
story “Rubbish Wind,” written in 1934. Its main character, Albert Lichtenberg,
a physician of cosmic space, transforms little by little into an indefinite
animal because he is unable to stay human in fascist Germany. He finds his last
refuge in this animal body, which no one can recognize any more. And if in The
Sea of Youth the zoo technician Visokovsky dreams that “the evolution
of the animal kingdom, stopped in former times, will recommence, and all poor
creatures, being covered with hair, who are now living in distemper, will
finally achieve the fate of a conscious life,”14 in
“Rubbish Wind” we see the inverse process:15 a
man becomes covered with hair and loses his sanity, so he is put in a
concentration camp because he is no longer human enough:
The judge announced to Lichtenberg that he was sentenced to
be shot—on account of the failure of his body and mind to develop in accordance
with the theories of German racism and the level of State philosophy, and with
the aim of rigorously cleansing the organism of the people from individuals who
had fallen into the condition of an animal, so protecting the race from
infection by mongrels.16
Paradoxically, this unrecognized animal, or animalized
man—or, to put it in Agambenian terms, this Muselmann17—performs
a feat at the end of the story: he saves a Jewish communist woman and helps her
escape from the camp, and then finally sacrifices himself in vain when he tries
to use his own flesh to feed an insane woman who lost her child. He exhausts
himself to the extent that when his wife, who is searching for him with a
police officer, finds his dead body, she cannot recognize it as human.
Rubbish Wind is one of the most hopeless of
Platonov’s works. In it, he inverts the entire picture and opens up—for a
moment—the secret world of a human being “in distemper,” a human hidden in an
animal body. He writes for this dying creature—as Deleuze would put it, “one
writes for dying calves”—in order to fix the possibility that was not
recognized and is already lost. The human becomes animal and then finally
becomes waste, similar to Kafka’s Gregor Samsa in The Metamorphosis.
What is recognized is the animal. “Like a dog”—these are the last words of K.
in The Trial. When someone puts a knife in his heart, he says:
“Like a dog.” To this Kafka adds: “It was as if the shame of it was to outlive
him.”
Commenting on this passage, Walter Benjamin relates this
shame to Kafka’s “unknown family, which is composed of human beings and
animals,” and under the constraint of which Kafka “moves cosmic ages in his
writings.” According to Benjamin,
To Kafka, the world of his ancestors was as unfathomable as
the world of realities was important for him, and, we may be sure that, like
the totem poles of primitive peoples, the world of ancestors took him down to
the animals. Incidentally, Kafka is not the only writer for whom animals are
the receptacles of the forgotten.18
Thus, Kafka’s animal is the “receptacle of the forgotten.”
Not of the being as forgotten, but rather of the forgotten as
such, as a meaningful nothingness, around which our being constitutes itself as
negativity, desire, and memory. Does that oblivion not come from the fact that
“I am the other,” which points to, among other things, what Žižek calls “the
un-human core of humanity”? Memory is restlessly lurking through the forgotten.
The self-relation of the human cannot but confront this paradox—the unhappy
animal which we retrospectively produce out of our own despair dies ingloriously
before we manage to fulfill its anticipation of freedom. The gates of terra
utopia, where we might realize the last hope of our desperate animality,
are always already closed. And on these gates, it is written: “Animals are not
allowed.”
However, as Žižek notes, it is precisely and only among
animals that Kafka was able to imagine a utopian society.19 His
last story—the one he wrote in March 1924, just a few months before his death,
when he already knew he was dying—was “Josephine the Singer, or The Mouse
Folk.” At least three contemporary philosophers—Fredric Jameson, Slavoj Žižek,
and Mladen Dolar—have written about this story, in which there are basically
two protagonists: Josephine the singer and her fellow “mouse folk.” Of course,
the mouse folk here constitute the kind of small “subhuman” nation which, in
Deleuze, is invented by literature. The first-person protagonist in the story
is one of the mouse folk. They wonder to themselves about Josephine’s posture,
her role in the society of mice, and her historical fate. One of the mice asks
how it is possible that Josephine’s voice is so attractive to her fellow mice.
There is nothing special about her voice; she does not possess any talent as a
singer; she is not an outstanding person. Apparently, she is just piping, like
all mice do, except that the other mice don’t pay so much attention to their
own piping and sometimes are not even conscious of it. But when Josephine
sings, they stay silent. The secret is probably in her special posture—she is
an artist, an exceptional individual, she maintains an exceptional and marginal
position in relation to the whole of the mice people. It is precisely this
marginal position which makes the immanence and heterogeneity of the mice
people possible.
This, claims Dolar, is the position of the artist, who
produces a readymade, an artwork as the “non-exceptional exception, which can
arise anywhere, at any moment, and is made of anything—of ready-made objects—as
long as it can provide them with a gap, make them make a break, it is the art
of a minimal difference.”
According to Jameson, the mice people praising Josephine is
a paradoxical example of the utopia of radical democracy: Josephine’s singing
is a kind of excessive sacral performance that allows the mice people, through
abandoning their individual identity, to finally become who they are. The
essence of people appear in the essential indifference of the anonymous. “She
constitutes the necessary element of exteriority that alone permits immanence
to come into being.”20
Žižek further radicalizes Jameson’s statement and claims
that this is an example of what communist culture should look like. “The mouse
community is not an hierarchic community with a Master, but rather a radically
egalitarian ‘communist’ community.” Žižek calls Josephine “the People’s Artist
of the Soviet Mouse Republic,” and asks: “What would a communist culture look
like?”21 He
even provides an answer to his question—but I will not do that. Instead, my
claim is that in order to answer this question, which is the question of both
theory and art praxis, one needs, as Kafka’s famous dog would say, more
philosophy—more interpretation of what precisely an artist can and should
borrow from the beast.
1 See Vincenzo Maurizi, History of Seyd Said,
Sultan of Muscat (Cambridge: Oleander Press, 2013), 67–103.
2 Eugene
Ostashevsky, “Selections from the Triumph of Agriculture,” The American
Poetry Review (July 2005)
3 Ibid.
4 Fredric
Jameson, The Seeds of Time(New York: Columbia University
Press, 1994), 97. See also Jonathan Flatley, Affective
Mapping: Melancholia and the Politics of Modernism(Cambridge: Harvard
University Press, 2009) 180.
5 Andrei
Platonov, Chevengur, trans. Anthony Olcott (Ann Arbor: Ardis
Press, 1978), 198.
6Платонов
А. Ювенильное море // Платонов А. На заре туманной юности, 294.
(Trans. by author.)
7 Platonov,
“Soul,” in Soul and Other Stories, trans. Robert and Elizabeth
Chandler (New York: New York Review Books, 2008), 27.
8 Walter
Benjamin, “Theses on the Philosophy of History,” inIlluminations: Essays and
Reflections (New York: Schocken Books, 2007), 254.
10 Gilles
Deleuze, “Literature and Life,” in Essays Critical and Clinical(Minneapolis:
University of Minnesota Press,1997), 4.
11 Ibid.
12 Platonov,
“Soul,” 22–24, italics added.
13 Ibid.,
103.
14 Платонов
А. Ювенильное море // Платонов А. На заре туманной юности, 302.
15 “The
regressive metamorphoses of ‘Rubbish Wind’ suggest that in the fascist ‘kingdom
of appearances’ all is not as it seems. In this kingdom of beasts evolution
moves on the opposite direction, i.e. toward a human degradation, and this
results in the animalization of man and a racist society that expels defective
“subhumans” as extraneous zoomorphic beings” Hans Günther, “A
mixture of living creatures: Man and Animal in the Works of Andrei
Platonov,” Ulbandus: The Slavic Review of Columbia University (2012),
14, p. 271..
16 Platonov,
“Rubbish Wind,” in The Return and Other Stories, trans. Angela
Livingstone and Robert Chandler (London: Harvill Press, 1999), 82.
17 See
Giorgio Agamben, Remnants of Auschwitz: The Witness and the Archive,
trans. Daniel Heller-Roazen (Boston: Zone Books, 2002).
18 Walter
Benjamin, “Franz Kafka: On the Tenth Anniversary of His Death,” in Illuminations:
Essays and Reflections(New York: Schocken Books, 2007), 132.
19 Slavoj
Žižek, Living in the End Times(New York: Verso, 2010), 370.
20 Fredric
Jameson, The Seeds of Time,125.
21 Žižek, Living
in the End Times, 368.
Oxana Timofeeva is a Senior Research Fellow
at the Institute of Philosophy of Russian Academy of Science and currently a
Humboldtian Fellow at Humboldt University in Berlin. She is a member of the
Russian collective "Chto Delat?" ("What is to be Done?"),
and the author of Introduction to the Erotic Philosophy of Georges
Bataille (Moscow, 2009, in Russian) and The History of Animals: An Essay
on Negativity, Immanence and Freedom (Maastricht, 2012).
__
De JOURNAL 48,
10/2013
Fotos:
Film still from
Soviet director Valeri Rubinchik’s King Stakh from Savage Hunt of King
Stakh (Дикая охота короля Стаха), 1979.
Ilya Kabakov, Heads, 1967.
Laika, the first
dog in space. Photo: Marc Garanger/Corbis
Illustration
from L. Davidichev’s Hands Up! or Enemy No. 1, A Novel for Young Adults (1971).
Illustrations and typography by R. Bagautdinov.
Illustrations and typography by R. Bagautdinov.
Russian director Sergei Eisenstein with a mexican candy
skull.
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