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Natan Altman and the problem of Jewish art in Russia in the 1910s
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Natan Altman and the problem of Jewish art in Russia in the 1910s
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NATAN ALTMAN AND
THE PROBLEM OF JEWISH ART IN RUSSIA IN THE 1910s
Copyright 2003
by
Alina Orlov
A Dissertation Presented to the
FACULTY OF THE GRADUATE SCHOOL
UNIVERSITY OF SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA
In Partial Fulfillment of the
Requirements for the Degree
DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY
(SLAVIC LANGUAGES AND LITERATURES)
MAY 2003
Alina Orlov
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UMI Number: 3103954
Copyright 2003 by
Orlov, Alina
All rights reserved.
®
UMI
UMI Microform 3103954
Copyright 2003 by ProQuest Information and Learning Company.
All rights reserved. This microform edition is protected against
unauthorized copying under Title 17, United States Code.
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UNIVERSITY OF SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA
THE GRADUATE SCHOOL
UNIVERSITY PARK
LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA 90089-1695
This dissertation, written by
A l i n a O r l o v
under the direction of h e r dissertation committee, and
approved by all its members, has been presented to and
accepted by the Director of Graduate and Professional
Programs, in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the
degree of
DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY
Director
Dissertation Committee
< 2
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Dedication
To my parents Elena and Joseph Orlov
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Acknowledgements
I am grateful to my advisors John Bowlt, Marcus Levitt, and Adam Rubin
for their guidance, wisdom, and enthusiasm at every stage of the process.
I extend my gratitude to the collective of the Slavic Department at USC for
invaluable training and support. Others I would like to thank include Jeff
Veidlinger, who encouraged me to pursue the topic and pointed me to Altman’s
archive at the Russian National Library. Conversations with Seth Wolitz were of
enormous value. I benefited from discussions about national art with Sarah
Warren in the preliminary phase. She and Fred White provided council in Russia
for navigating its archives and libraries. Ruth Wallach offered her bibliographic
expertise.
In St. Petersburg, I am especially indebted to Viktor Efimovich Kel’ner and
Evgenii Gollerbakh of the Russian National Library and Valerii Dymshitz of the
newly founded Jewish Museum. Aleskander Samuilovich Pasternak, the heir to
Altman’s studio and to his collection of photographs from the An-skii expedition,
shared these with me plus a wealth of details about Altman’s character. Altman’s
adopted child Dmitrii Bronislavovich Malakhovsky and Irina Valerianova
Kotlukova made available to me Altman’s personal library, personal objects,
original paintings, and slides of his lost works. Irina Evstigneeva, Director of the
Theatrical Museum, introduced me to me them and made her collections available
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iv
to me. Evgeniia Petrova, Director of the Russian Museum, granted access to its
collection and documents. The collective staff of the Museum gave tremendous
assistance. Dmitrii El’iashevich, Director of the Jewish University in St.
Petersburg, furnished me connections to Jewish materials in Kiev. Dmitrii
Belozerov of the Russian National Library’s Manuscript Department helped in
photographing its materials.
In Moscow I owe thanks to Lidia Iovleva, Director of the Tretiakov Gallery
for granting permission to work in its storage rooms and manuscript section and
library. Maria Anna Elizarovna, Producer and Director of the film “The Artists of
GO SET” alerted me to the existence of certain “ethnographic photos” in Altman’s
personal archives, which turned out to be original photograph from the An-skii
Expedition of 1912-1914. Natalia Cherkasova of the State Institute of Art History
of the Academy of Sciences and its Director Aleskei Nelekh helped coordinate
logistical aspects of my research and linked me to their community of scholars.
Gleb Pospelov invited me to speak at the Institute on the topic of An-skii’s lost
photos, which gave me valuable feedback on the topic. Peter Pissarskii of Moscow
Jewish University made its library accessible to me. Lev Verchonov of the
Institute of Scientific Information on the Social Sciences broke the “no-foreigners
rule” in offering me user privileges at the Institute’s Library, which contains
numerous valuable pre-Revolutionary Russian Jewish periodicals.
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V
The staff of YIVO in New York, especially Yeshaya Metal and Fruma
Mohrer have assisted personally and through email. Sheva Zucher and Kalman
Weiss of the Columbia University Summer Yiddish Program introduced me to this
language and culture. Desiree Karen helped with German translation.
Gillas Correa eased me through a data-recovery process after my computer
crashed. Kurt Shaw, Eric Althoff, and David Borgmeyer edited parts of the
manuscript. The flaws that remain are my own.
The Borchard Foundation, the Ahmanson Foundation, and the College of
Arts, Letters, and Sciences provided funding for project.
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vi
Table of Contents
Dedication ii
Acknowledgements iii
List of Abbreviations vii
Note on Transliteration viii
Abstract x
Introduction 1
Chapter 1 From the Margins to the Center: Altman’s Cultural
Self-Positioning 24
Chapter 2 Jewish Art Historiography in Russia in the 1910s 80
Chapter 3 Pioneering a Jewish Style: Altman’s Jewish Prints 110
and Sculpture
Chapter 4 Jewish Identity in Altman’s “Self-Portrait” (1915) 130
Chapter 5 Ans-kii’s Expedition (1912-1914) and The Jewish Society
for the Encouragement of the Arts (1915-1919) 161
Chapter 6 Altman and Chagall 197
Conclusion 220
Primary Bibliography 225
Secondary Bibliography 240
Reference Bibliography 262
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List of Abbreviations
L—Leningrad
M—Moscow
P—Peterburg (> 1914) or Petrograd (1914-1918)
SP—Saint Petersburg
ARM—Arkhiv Russkogo Muzeia, SP, Mikhailovskaia Pi.
IZOGIZ—Gosudarstvennoe IzdatePstvo Izobrazitel’nykh Iskusstv
MAA—Muzei Anny Akhmatovoi, SP, Kanal naberzhnoi Fontanki 34
NBA RAKh—Nauchno-Bibliograficheskii Arkhiv Rossiiskoi Akademii
Khudozhestv, SP
ORTG—Otdel Rukopisei Tretiakovskoi Galerei, M
RGALI—Rossiiskii Gosudarstvennyi Arkhiv Literarury i Iskusstva, SP,
Shpalemaia 34
RNB—Rossiiskaia Natsional’naia Biblioteka, SP, PI. Ostrovskogo SP
TM—Teatral’nyi Muzei, St. Petersburg, SP, PI. Ostrovskogo 3
TsGIA—Tsentral’nyi Gosudarstvennyi Istoricheskii Arkhiv goroda Sankt
Peterburga, SP, Pskovskaia 18
YIVO—Yiddish Institute for Jewish Research, 15 West 16th Street, New York
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Note on Transliteration
Two main transliteration codes are employed in this work. For Russian
common nouns and phrases, the Library of Congress system is used. For Russian
proper nouns, a distinction is made between names with a Russian provenance and
others. Russian proper names with a primarily Russian provenance (i.e. they
appear in Russian scholarly literature more than in the English, German, and
French ) are transliterated the Library of Congress system. The following fall into
this category: Aivazovskii, An-skii (he authored his own name and insisted on the
dash), Antokofskii, Baranov-Rossine, Brodskii, Dubnov, Grabar’, Grigor’iev,
Kul’bin, Mandel’shtam, Roerich, Shterenberg, Stasov, Tugendkhol’d,
Vereshchagin, Vermel’, and so forth.
In the main text, a different transliteration code is used in cases where
Russian proper names have a provenance in a Latin-letter literature. Then, the
spelling is used such as it was when the names first appeared in their non-Russian
contexts. Hence: Altman, Anisfeld, Archipenko, Benois, Bezalel, Eraser, Chagall,
Ehrenburg, Exter, Mayakvosky, Wischnitzer, Zadkine, and so forth. In the
footnotes, however, such names are spelled in the Library of Congress style.
Special mention should be mentioned of three families names that look
similar but belong to people who are not related to one another: 1) the Orientologist
Baron David Ginzburg (1857-1910) and his family (in French sources appearing as
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Giinzburg and Gunzbourg); 2) ll’ia Gintsburg (1859-1939) the sculptor and founder
of the Jewish Society for the Encouragement of the Arts; and 3) and Moisei
Gintsburg, the founder of the Convalescent Home in which the JSEA was housed.
In cases where a Russian name also has a Yiddish provenance, sometimes a
different transliteration is used. When a word is transliterated from a Yiddish
source, one of the many the several existing Yiddish-English codes is used. In it,
/y/ or /yi/ rather than /i/ to designate the phoneme [i], /tch/ is used where Russians
would use /ch/, /ch/ in place of /kh/, and /z/ instead of /ts/. Hence, for example:
Yitzakh rather than Itsak, biografyes rather than biografies, “Der skulptur y.
Tchaikov” rather than “Der skulptur i. Chaikov,” Chaim rather than Khaim, and
Aleichem rathen than Aleikhem,
In transliterating pre-Revolutionary Russian orthography, the Russian
words are converted to normalized modern spelling in Russian before being
transliterated into Roman characters. Hence the original eBpencKHa HaponHbin
appears as ‘evreiskie narodnye.’
All translations from the Russian, Yiddish, French and German are mine
except where otherwise noted.
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Abstract
x
This dissertation examines Natan Altman’s (1889-1970) Jewish works of
the 1910s in the context of emerging ideas about Jewish art in contemporary
Russia. It counters two critical assessments of Altman’s significance in modern art:
that his role was less than pioneering, which Abram Efros suggested in his 1922
monograph on Altman, where he called the artist a “chameleon”; and that Altman’s
allegiance to the Jewish nationalist movement in the early 1910s was unequivocal,
which has been implied by Avram Kampf and Susan Tumarkin Goodman in their
surveys of modern Jewish art.
The present study promblematizes these views firstly by foregrounding the
innovative aspects of Altman’s Jewish works. It shows that his 1913 Jewish Prints
provided a blueprint for a folk-oriented modern Jewish style; and that his 1915
sculptural “Self-Portrait” as a Hassid, the first of its kind, challenged both anti-
Semitic and Jewish nationalist tendencies to typologize images of Jews. Secondly,
this study demonstrates that Altman was aware of ideas about Jewish visuality that
permeated Russian culture. It thereby suggests that he used the Jewish nationalist
platform to advance himself in broader artistic arenas.
Chapter 1 demonstrates a pattern in Altman’s biography of a preoccupation
with vogue and a desire to be in the center of cultural circles, suggesting that
similar concerns of self-promotion motivated his interest in Jewish art. Chapter 2
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discusses constructs of Jewish visuality that were operative within art critical
writing and institutional practices in Russia in the 1910s. Chapter 3 traces
Altman’s use of these constructs in his Jewish works. Chapter 4 shows that
Altman’s 1915 “Self Portrait” critiqued uniformity in artistic representations of
Jews. Chapter 5 examines two institution-level projects that helped define
Altman’s relationship to Jewish art: An-skii’s Ethnographic Expedition (1912-
1914) and the Jewish Society for the Encouragement of the Arts (1915-1919).
Chapter 6 outlines his early competition with Marc Chagall for recognition as a
Jewish artist.
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1
Introduction
Part I: Scholarship on Modern Russian Jewish Art
As a study of a set of Jewish artworks produced in Russia in the 1910s in
their immediate cultural context, this work is indebted to previous inquiries into
Russian Jewish art of that period. Among the recent Western and post-Soviet
Russian surveys that have enriched this field, the work of Avram Kampf, Ruth
Apter-Gabriel, Hillel Kazovsky and Susan Tumarkin Goodman deserve special
mention. In the 1970s, Avram Kampf first provided a useful definition of Jewish
art as an “experience” rather a “school” or “movement.” He argued that the art
produced by Russian and East European artists in the era of the Revolution
constituted the initial phase of this experience in the 20th century. Kampf unearthed
a wealth of material on previously little-known artists and analyzed their work in
terms of national and artistic affinities.1 One decade later, the Israel Museum
orchestrated a tour de force exhibit that described Jewish participation in the
Russian Avant-Garde from 1912 to 1928 as the “Russian Jewish Renaissance”.
This project, led by Ruth Apter-Gabriel, qualified Kampf s argument about the
Jewish contribution to world art by identifying the Avant-Garde as a conduit of
1 Avram Kampf. Jewish Experience in the Art o f the 2(fh Century. (South Hadley, Mass.: Bergin
and Garvey, 1984). See especially Chapter 1 “The Quest for a Jewish Style in the Era of the
Russian Revolution,” 15-47, which also appears as the article “In Quest of the Jewish Style in the
Era of the Russian Revolution.” Journal of Jewish Art 5 (1978), 48-75.
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2
Jewish influence on the modern aesthetic. The essays that accompanied this
exhibition enhanced our understanding of the particular complexity of factors that
made up the Jewish artist’s creative matrix, especially on the level of national,
political, and aesthetic allegiances.2
In the post-Perestroika years, critical appreciation of the work of Russian
Jewish artists as distinctly “Jewish” was furthered by new research. Using
materials from previously closed archives, the Russian historian Hillel Kazovsky
examined national self-identification of artists active from the 1880s until the
outbreak of WWI. He argued that some artists, like Yehuda Pen, Yakov Kruger,
and Moisei Maimon, asserted their Jewish identity and that this declarative impulse
crescendoed in later generations.3 In his three-part chronological scheme of
nationalist developments in art (which fall short of qualifying as a full-fledged
“movement”) Kazovsky identified the peak of Jewish self-identification in the pre-
Revolutionary years.4 Building on these efforts to chart a history of Russian Jewish
art, the 1995 exhibition curated by Susan Tumarkin Goodman enlarged the scope of
investigation. It attested to a century of Russian Jewish artistic activity and
2 Ruth Apter-Gabriel. Tradition and Revolution: The Jewish Renaissance in Russian Avant-Garde
Art, 1912-1928. Exhibition Catalogue. Second Edition. Jerusalem: Israel Museum, 1988 [1987],
3 Gillel’ Kazovskii. “Evreiskie khudozhniki v Rossii na rubezhe vekov. K probleme natsional’noi
samoidentifikatsii v iskusstve.” Vestnik evreiskogo universiteta v Moskve. 3/10(1995), 166-189.
(Translation: Kazovsky, Hillel. “Jewish Artists in Russia at the Turn of the Century: Issues of
National Self-Identification in Art.” Jewish Art 21/22 (1995/6), 20-39.) Also: his IegudaPen iego
ucheniki. Series: Shedevry evreiskogo iskusstva. (M: Image), 1993; and his “Shagal ievreiskaia
khudozhestvennaia programma v Rossii. ’ ’ Vestnik evreiskogo universiteta v Moskve 1 (1992), 83-
97.
4 Ibid. “Evreiskoe iskusstvo v Rossii, 1900-1948: Etapy istorii.” Sovetskoe iskusstvoznanie: XX
vek. 21 (1991), 229-254.
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reconsidered the predicament for individual artists in terms of their immediate
cultural and artistic milieus and the changing political and national consciousness.5
This dissertation is indebted to and tries to build on these groundbreaking
efforts to recognize the Russian Jewish contribution to art. By narrowing the scope
of investigation to one artist, Natan Altman (1889-1970), and the immediate
cultural environment of his Jewish works, it allows for deeper reflection on the
nature of this contribution.
Altman has been considered along with numerous Jewish artists active in
Vitebsk, Kiev, Moscow and St. Petersburg to constitute the Russian Jewish
Renaissance of the 1910s and 1920s. This movement was realized in the domains
of art, literature and the scientific study of Judaism, all of which worked to hasten
the secularization of Jewish culture.6 In 1900, Martin Buber first introduced the
term “Jewish Renaissance”, defining it as the “resurrection of the Jewish people
from partial life to full life.”7 In 1903 he edited a collection of essays on seven
Jewish artists in 1903 and in other ways propagated art the keystone of the
resurrecting process.8 The revival in Eastern Europe worked to lay down a
5 Susan Tumarkin Goodman. Russian Jewish Artists in a Century of Change, 1890-1990.
Exhibition Catalogue. (New York: Prestel), 1995.
6 Seth Wolitz. “The Jewish National Art Renaissance in Russia.” In Apter-Gabriel, ed. Tradition
and Revolution: The Jewish Renaissance in Russian Avant-Garde Art, 1912-1928. Exhibition
Catalogue. Second Edition. (Jerusalem: Israel Museum, 1988), 23. In German, the emerging
discipline of Jewish studies was called Wissenschaft des Judentums and made itself distinct from
earlier Jewish historiography with its emphasis on present and future Jewish cultural experience.
7 Michael Brenner. The Renaissance o f Jewish Culture in Weimar Germany. (New Haven: Yale
UP, 1996), 24.
8 Martin Buber, ed. Judische Kilnstler. (Berlin: Judische Verlag, 1903). Cited in Brenner, 28.
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4
foundation for integrating traditional Jewish culture into the modern world.
Besides experiments in literature and art, which combined Yiddish and Hebrew
traditions with those of Russian, Poland, and Ukraine, there emerged new Jewish
publishing houses, periodicals, museums, and centers of scholarship.
This study argues that Altman’s participation in the Jewish Revival
worked not only to further the Jewish nationalist cause but also to advance himself.
While he provided Jewish organizations with examples of a modern Jewish style,
these in turn helped showcase his work and created a favorable climate for their
reception. Nationalist critics boasted about Altman’s achievement. He, on the
other hand, never vocally expressed his support for the Jewish cause in art or
politics. To a certain extent, Altman benefited more from them than vice versa.
This study also subverts a prevailing notion in scholarship on Altman and
the Russian Jewish Renaissance that his “contribution” to the movement was
unequivocally pro-nationalist. Analysis of his important Jewish works illuminates
a more complex stance vis-a-vis nationalist principles in art, suggesting that he
exploited and challenged them simultaneously. As a statement about Jewish art,
his work was more radical and nuanced than previously acknowledged. His Jewish
Prints (1913) harnessed Western Primitive impulses and applied them to Jewish
culture in a unique way. Moreover, Altman was the first to notice the absence of
Jewish sculptural self-portraits and to fill in this gap. His 1915 “Self-Portrait”
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5
showed familiarity with traditions of representing the “authentic” Jew and provided
a critique against the nationalist tendency to generalize the Jew in art.
Finally, this study complicates the issue of ambivalence in scholarship on
Russian Jewish artists. It is often claimed that they were caught “between two
worlds,” to borrow a phrase made famous by Karl Gutskow, and that their situation
often necessitated a choice of one world over the other. Some, like Leon Bakst and
Robert Falk, are seen to have acculturated and embraced internationalist principles.
Others, like Marc Chagall and Solomon ludovin, are seen to have committed
themselves to a nationalist visuality and, in the case of ludovin, politics. Others
still, like El Lissitzky, are considered unresolved in their ambiguity.
Such observations have merit, but the issue of competing loyalties does not
always apply. To Altman, at least, the dilemma did not present itself as such, at
least not until the 1920s. These notions are also slightly anachronistic with regard
to the pre-Revolutionary period, when the politicization of art was not as severe.9
The issue did not become critical for El Lissitzky, for example, until after the
Revolution.1 0 Before then, there certainly there existed contradictions between
Jewish and Russian cultures as well as demands to assimilate. But as Altman’s
case suggests, the gap between minority and majority cultures did not necessitate a
9 Soviet government decrees of 1918 and 1919 that minimized separatist identification of national
minorities polarized the situation, making the choice between national and international camps more
of a charged issue for Jewish artists.
1 0 Victor Margolin. The Struggle for Utopia, Rodchenko, Lissitsky, Moholy-Nagy. (Chicago: U of
Chicago P), 1997. Especially Chapter 1, “Visions of the Future: Rodchenko and Lissitzky,” 9-45.
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6
clear ideological taking of sides. Altman’s self-assertion as a Jew in Russian and
international artistic spheres presupposed the neutrality of the issue.
Altman combined Jewish and non-Jewish stylistic elements in his work
between 1912 and 1916. For him, like others, doing so did not represent an ethical
or political conflict. The mixing of the modern with the traditional and the Jewish
with the non-Jewish certainly characterizes the Jewish modernist enterprise as a
whole, and is abundantly represented in the work of artists such as Isaac Ryback,
Isaac Rabinovich, and Aleksandr Tyshier and many others. It is useful to observe
the idiosyncratic way in which artists like Altman took advantage of the openness
of the situation. His work provides an alternative to models of Jewish art that
attach fixed ideological meanings to artistic decisions. It marks a unique moment,
in which artistic play was not as laden with the heavy political responsibility that
would follow in later years.
Altman’s early career provides excellent material for re-considering the
model of the Russian Jewish art. He was one of the more successful makers of
Jewish art, more so than Ryback, ludovin, or Boris Aronson. His Jewish oeuvre
emerged earlier and in more concentrated form than others, like Rabinovich and
Falk, whose Jewish interests did not bloom until their involvement with the Jewish
theater. Altman’s work made louder and more piercing statements about the
direction of Jewish art itself. Moreover, contemporary Jewish criticism zeroed in
on him as the leading representative of this tendency.
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Altman’s activity in the 1910s also provides a glimpse into the Jewish
institutional context that has been little studied. While the activities associated with
the Kulturelige in Kiev after 1919 have been examined in part because of El
Lissitky’s collaboration with the group, the pre-Revolutionary Jewish formations in
St. Petersburg have received less attention. These include The Jewish Society for
the Encouragement of the Arts; Solomon An-skii’s ethnographic enterprises, which
were headquartered in the capital; Mikhail Bernshtein’s art studio, which was one
of the only fine art schools open to Jews in the city; and Nadezha Dobychina’s art
gallery, which also welcomed Jews. My fortuitous discovery of An-skii’s
photographs among Altman’s past possessions reinforce the need to reconsider his
Jewish oeuvre.
The picture of Altman that emerges here is one of an artist seeking a critical
community that could provide him a platform of visibility in Russian and European
artistic spheres and who was very conscious of possible Jewish audiences.
Altman’s self-positioning does not take away from his concrete contribution to the
Jewish art movement. His Jewish work offered a paradigmatic model of a modem
Jewish style. Specifically, as we will see, it put into practical use three prevailing
ideas about what constituted the Jewish in art: the notion of Jewish melancholia and
the connections of Jewish art with folk culture and with the East. With regard to
the first quality, which manifests itself as a somber and reverent tone, Altman’s
Jewish works contrasted with his non-Jewish work. With regard to the second and
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third, they are not particularly distinct from his work of the same period.
Regardless of this, his Jewish work was successful in legitimizing the three notions
and thereby inaugurating the making of Jewish art in Russia.
Finally, the qualities of this style, because of their contrast to Chagall’s,
remind us of the range of possibilities that existed in the 1910s for developing a
modem Russian Jewish art. In the later tradition, Chagall has loomed so large in
academic and popular culture, we tend to see his kind of art as exemplary of the
“Jewish.” Recognizing that Altman’s abstraction served as a counterweight to
Chagall’s narrative approach helps restore the accuracy of the historical picture and
minimize the impression that Chagall dominated in the initial creation of a modern
Jewish art. This dissertation defines this moment as unique in the process of
Jewish acculturation, in which the Russian Jew did not need to reject his Jewish
legacy, but instead broadcasted using a kind of formal mask of his minority culture.
In sum, this dissertation examines a unique moment in the development of
Russian Jewish art and Natan Altman’s role in challenging, legitimizing, and
defining its various aspects. For some of Natan Altman’s contemporary critics, his
Jewish works represented the future of Jewish nationalist art. To others, they were
prime examples of an Avant-Garde art in which the “Jewish” aspect was simply a
gesture of aesthetic affinity toward a national tradition but empty of political
content. Altman’s Jewish work, then, functioned as a kind of Rorschach test for
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people’s idea about Jewishness in art. The split reception of these works testify as
to how undetermined the model of Jewish art was.
Recent scholarship on Altman has neglected to examine his relationship to
Jewish art in a substantive way. His name is noted in most surveys of the Russian
Jewish Renaissance of the 1910s and 1920s but only briefly (Kampf, Apter,
Kazovsky). The surveys invariably label Altman a key contributor to the
Renaissance and imply that his participation was singularly aimed to support the
nationalist agenda. Upon closer examination, however, a certain disconnect
emerges between the intentions of Altman and those of contemporary nationalist
crticism. It becomes clear that Altman’s relationship to Jewish art was more
complicated than they would often allow for. His Jewish works contained elements
that could suit both the enthusiasts of modern international styles and champions of
the pure “Jewish tradition.” Altman never verbally articulated his allegiance to the
Jewish cause and exhibited most of his Jewish works in non-Jewish venues first.
His only verbal statement on Jewish art related it to Assyrian art and suggested that
its proper context was Avant-Garde Primitivism. Moreover, some of his Jewish
work critiqued Jewish nationalist efforts to typify the image of the Jew.
Altman’s relationship to Jewish art also had a dimension of opportunism.
Abram Effos was partially right when he described the artist’s general nature as
chameleon-like. Altman was heavily influenced by changing tendencies in art,
absorbing, within the span of a decade, what he learned from Impressionism,
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10
Cubism, Primitivism, and Futurism. His interest in Jewish art stemmed from this
larger pattern of his life to adapt to artistic movements. Efros’s assessment is
useful in suggesting there was casualness in Altman’s commitment to styles and
movements. But with respect to Jewish art, Efros’s description of Altman’s
tendency to blend does not do Altman justice. Certainly Altman was attuned to the
fact that Jewish art was emerging as an art historical category in Russia and took
advantage of the opportunity afforded by key institutional projects to promote the
“Jewishness” in art. He could not ignore that Jewish art served him as a platform
for his advancement. But his role in the movement was not that of a follower or
imitator, but a pioneer, and his works engaged with artistic fashions in unique and
creative ways.
Altman’s Jewish work described here can be summed up as statements
against conformity and “blending in.” Altman’s graphic series Jewish Prints (1913)
and the sculpture “Self-Portrait: Head of a Jewish Youth” (1915) were both
groundbreaking works both within Avant-Garde and Jewish artistic contexts. The
prints commented on aspects of Russian Primitivism in a radical way, injecting into
it a tone of reverence for the primitive subject. The sculpture harnessed the
principles of Cubism and Futurism to problematize nationalist images of Jews. As
a sculptural representation of the artist’s “self’ in Jewish attire, the piece assailed
the very idea of a uniform typology of the Jewish appearance.
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11
Part II: Altman’s Jewish Works
And Their Critical Reception
Altman’s corpus of Jewish art is not large. It consists, firstly, of about a
dozen paintings and drawings he made in the years between 1906 and 1913, which
are of his family and neighbors from Vinnitsa, Altman’s hometown, which he
visited intermittently during his days of schooling in Odessa and Paris. Jewish
Prints (1913), a series of black and white ornament designs using Jewish folk-
motifs, and his sculpture “Self-Portrait: Head of Jewish Youth” (1915) comprise
his most renowned Jewish works. I focus on these two works in Chapter 3 and 4 to
illustrate Altman’s non-sentimental, calculating approach to Jewish issues and his
belief in the aesthetic efficacy of Primitivist elements of Jewish visual culture.
Then, there are the minor commissions Altman carried out in 1915 and 1916 for the
Jewish Society for the Encouragement of the Arts, including illustrations of a
Hebrew alphabet book and the Society’s emblem design.
In addition, there is Altman’s post-revolutionary Jewish work of the years
1920 to 1927, including illustrations of two Yiddish publications and books by
Isaac Babel and Il’ia Ehrenburg; multiple set designs for the Jewish theater; and
the art design for a Jewish film. By this period, Altman’s task of showing the
relevancy of the Jewish aesthetic to modern art had been accomplished and, in a
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12
certain sense, had been usurped by the institution of governmental theater. Having
become immersed in Communist politics and grown distant from the Jewish culture
of the shtetl he had initially helped to legitimize in art, he now worked to transcend
it in his work. With four notable exceptions— his set designs for the plays
“Hadybbuk” (1921) and “Uriel Acosta” (1922), art direction for Jewish Luck
(1925-1927), and his portrait of the actor Solomon Mikhoels (1927)— his Jewish-
related work in the 1920s became mechanical and ineffective. With his move to
France in 1928, his interest in Jewish subjects faded away completely, perhaps only
returning to the forefront in a series of Old Testament drawings (1933). After
returning to Russia in 1935, his work for the Jewish Theater lasted only a few years
and proved to be insignificant. And the last echo of interest in the Jewish subjects
sounded in his illustrations of the first Soviet publication of Sholem Aleichem
(1956).
While Altman’s earlier Jewish works—such as “The Jewish Funeral”
(1911) and portraits of the “Old Jew” and “N. E. Dobychina” (both 1913)—were
significant in their own way, it was Jewish Prints (1913)—less sophisticated in
execution than the paintings—that drew the most admiration. Collectively, they
were shown at the World of Art Exhibition in the spring of 1915 and some were
reprinted in The New Magazine For All.1 1 In 1923, they were published as a large
sized book in a limited edition (approximately 500 copies) and garnered significant
n Novyi zhurnal dlia vsekh 4 (April 1915).
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critical attention, cementing Altman’s association with Jewish nationalist art.1 2 The
Ukranian-American print-maker and critic Louis Lozowick, who was an enthusiast
of Russian Avant-Garde art, celebrated Jewish Prints and called them “one of the
first and finest contributions” to the Jewish Renaissance in Russia of the 1910s and
1920s.1 3
Altman’s “Self-Portrait” (1915), in bronze, copper and wood, also elicited
amazement with its seeming ex-nihilo success on the level of pure craftsmanship.
Again, Lozowick expressed wonder at the fact that “the author of this thoroughly
competent work was not known to have passed the slow process of apprenticeship
[in the plastic medium—AO],. .which strew the path of every beginner... ,”1 4
What strikes us today as even more significant about this sculpture is the way it
problematized the issue of Jewish appearance. In portraying himself and subtitling
the sculpture “Head of a Jewish Youth,” Altman in effect publicized his ethnic-
national identity, the first artist to do so in Russia. He thereby challenged the
assimilation processes particular to Jewish artists, or, as Arbam Effos’ described it
in 1918, the “humble self-effacement” and the “dressing-up according to another’s
taste and times.”1 5
1 2 Max Osborn. Evreiskaia grafika NatanaAl 'tmana [German Edition: Judische Graphite], (Berlin:
Petropolis, Tipografiia Sinaburg & Co.), 1923. 250 copies of the German edition were printed.
Presumably, the number of Russian copies was equal or less.
1 3 Louis Lozowick. “The Art of Natan Altman.” The Menorah Journal 12 (1926). 62.
1 4 Ibid. Lozowick may not have known that Altman did indeed study sculpture in the Odessa School
of Art from 1907-1911.
1 5 Abram Efros. “Aladdin’s Lamp.” Translated by Alan Myers in Aleksander Kantsedikas. Semyon
An-sky. The Jewish Artistic Heritage; An Album. (M: RA), 1994,10. Original: “Lampa Aladina.”
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By comparison, Altman’s non-Jewish corpus is more extensive and diverse.
In the early 1910s, as he geared up for the Jewish revival, Altman also developed a
Cubistic style that was international by nature. His landscape painting
“Mestechko” (1913), for example treats the Jewish subject in Cubist key, invoking
a Jewish connotation of the location in the title and using Cezanne’s understanding
of space to describe the physical geography. His Cubist approach to the structure
of the face is clearly palpable in most of his portraiture in the 1910s and 1920s.
Between 1913 and 1916, Altman was socially affiliated with Futurist circles, and a
few works remain from this flirtation with the movement, including two costume
drawings for the “Dance Macabre” for the cabaret “The Comedian’s Bivouac.”1 6
The time of the Revolution made for a particularly productive era in
Altman’s life. He illustrated Mikhail Kuzmin’s Wings and Nets, proposed designs
for the Soviet flag, designed several postage stamps, made porcelain designs with
Soviet slogans, organized extravagant open air decorations of streets and squares,
put on a major art exhibition in the former Hermitage, edited and contributed to the
art journal Iskusstvo kommuny, sat on a number of high-level administrative
committees, and drew the first official life-based drawings and a sculptural bust and
a relief of Lenin. After the Revolution, the nature of Altman’s work changed to
Evreiskii mir. Literaturnyi sbornik. Book 1. Sobol’, Andrei andE. B. Leiter, eds. M: Evreiskii
Mir, 1918, 301.
1 6 Altman’s “Dance Macabre” designs date from around 1916. No reproductions have been
published, and the originals are kept at the Theatrical Museum in St. Petersburg.
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15
accommodate emerging theories of art that posited the working masses as ideal
audience and pushed for industrial production of art.
In the mid-1920s, Altman’s enthusiasm for the idea of “art for the people”
began to wane, and he turned to more personal subjects, creating a series of
intimate nudes of his soon-to-be wife Irina Racheg-Dega, for example. This
particular series is unique in his oeuvre in combining a delicate outlining technique
and a highly charged erotic tone.
His style shifted again with his emigration to France in 1928. Aside from
his one stage design project for a French Communist theater and several book
illustrations, Altman’s years abroad represent his attempt to emulate the relaxed,
Impressionistic, and painterly style he appreciated in French artwork. Upon his
return to the Soviet Union in 1935, he readjusted his manner and genre once again
to suit the grand scale of Soviet theatrical productions, which formed the main
outlet for his creative energies for the last three decades of his work.
Scholarship on Altman can be divided into whether or not it has emphasized
or downplayed his Jewish interests. Altman was heralded as a representative of the
newest development in Jewish art by Maksim Syrkin, who delivered two lectures
sponsored by JSEA in 1916. They were called “Jews and Art” and “New Times.”1 7
Although the transcript of these lectures did not survive, we do have short notations
taken down by someone in the audience on margins of the invitation to the event.
1 7 RNB f. 1722 op. 2 p.7.
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According to these notes, Syrkin discussed some of the more prominent names of
Jewish artists around the globe: Mark Antokol’skii, Isaac Levitan, Lev Bakst in
Russia; Camille Pissaro in France; Joseph Israels in Holland; Ernst Josephson in
Sweden, Max Lieberman in Germany. From these names, we can infer that Syrkin
was probably more concerned with participation of Jews in art at the highest level
of the profession and less with a “Jewish style” Syrkin’s apparent failure to
include Lilian, for example, and the school Betsalel he founded in Palestine, also
suggests that he did not define Jewish art through a visual content that bespoke
“nationalism.”
Thus, when Syrkin singled out Altman and Chagall as two of the most
promising figures in Jewish art, full of “youthful bravery and daring,” he is not
necessarily focusing on the “Jewishness” of their style. Instead, he wanted to
recognize the merits of their work in more general aesthetic terms. He notes that
Altman’s work is “tightly controlled,” his cubism “measured.” He speaks of
Chagall’s “happy, childlike and playful nature.. .his little world.. the splendid
music of tender colors,” and “the motifs of deformity.” About either Altman or
Chagall—from the notes it is not clear which—Syrkin says that “his ideas lack
sculpture-ness; he wanted to express his ideas through surface forms.”1 8 Altman
and Chagall were in the audience.
1 8 Ibid.
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The fact that writers like Syrkin allotted attention to Altman’s Jewish art is
telling considering the small quantity of Jewish art Altman produced. Chagall had
by this point made hundreds of drawings, prints and paintings and had worked out a
comprehensive iconography of the Jewish world. As another point of comparison,
Yehuda Pen could boast of a long list of major paintings that dealt quite poignantly
with issues of Jewish life.1 9 In 1916, Altman’s Jewish works consisted of only a
few projects, but they were enough to warrant significant attention.
Later Jewish nationalist literature arrived at different conclusions than
Syrkin. In their 1919 Yiddish essay “The Ways of Jewish Painting,” Isaac Ryback
and Boris Aronson discussed Altman’s integration of folk-elements with modern
stylistics. They described abstraction as a “racial instinct” and extolled the role of
Jewish Primitivism in contemporary art. Within Ryback and Aronson’s ideological
framework, Altman emerged as not “nationalist” enough. He did not pursue
abstraction to the extent that he should have, and his folk-based art was little more
than a slavish imitation of the primtive sources. A successful national art called for
more than that.2 0
The German critic Max Osborn did not concur, siding with Syrkin’s
original position. From his point of view, Altman captured the spirit of the
authentic Jewish folk, a necessary element in the formation of a national Jewish art.
Here, Osborn was relying on a German Romantic view of the Ostjude as the locus
1 9 Gillel’ Kazovsky. Ieguda Pen i ego ucheniki. Opus cited, 33fF.
201 . Ryback and B. Aronson. “Di vegn fun der idisher malerai.” Oyfgang{ 1919), 99-124.
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of Jewish authenticity. What Ryback and Osborne disparaged as Altman’s lack of
imagination, Osborn celebrated, arguing for its essential role in transmitting traces
of a fading culture. He wrote:
[There] still exist areas where old Jewish art remains stable and almost
free of outside influence. We find monuments of this art in southeastern
Europe. Here, parts of the Jewish population do not live as they do in
other countries of central and western Europe, but are secluded in
religious communities, completely isolated from their neighbors of
alternate faiths; they recognize themselves as one nation inside a state;
and their rituals, taken from their fathers, have been kept in extraordinary
purity. [In their prayer-houses, we] are enveloped in an atmosphere of
Jewish national tradition, that is not counterfeit, not diluted, and contains
nothing else except itself.
It is this kind of environment that formed Natan Altman’s first
artistic directions, which provided the material for his graphic work
included in this album.... [The] quiet, secluded, and pious atmosphere
[of Gritsev] possessed him with irrepressible force. If before, he was
involved in the complex fullness of modernity, here a mysterious and
captivating unity of thought appeared before him, a unity of everyday life
and of a whole structure of life, one that brings [us] from the cold and
fragmented mechanical quality of our times to a holistic culture of bygone
years.... When he entered the temple and looked at cult objects and saw
at home how on the Sabbath and holidays ceremonial objects were taken
out, when in the half-forgotten cemetery he walked in the rows destroyed
by the rocks of school children, his spirit was saturated by the essence of
the Jewish folk [evreiskoi narodnosti], which, unnoticeably, for even
himself, according to the unexplainable laws of artistic creation,
summoned in him particular artistic and craft images. Giving in to these
experiences, Altman naturally came to the idea that the artistic
phenomena around him, which with every day increasingly merged for
him into one organism, can serve as the basis for a renaissance of an
authentic Jewish style.2 1
2 1 Osborn. Opus cited, 10.
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The last note in this debate on Altman’s contribution to the Jewish
nationalist cause in art was sounded by the joint writing of Waldemar George [ne
Georges Jarocinski] and Il’ia Ehrenburg in France in 1933. Their Yiddish
publication worked to propagate art along with leftist politics to the Jewish
population. In their monograph on Altman, they call him the “David of the Russian
Revolution,” referring to Napoleon’s neo-classical court painter Jacques-Louis
David (1748-1825). The very fact of Altman’s success in the wider world, and
even in the political realm, was more important to these critics than the socio
cultural implications of his Jewish aesthetic. To George in particular, Altman
represented yet another name in his long list of Jews who became modern artists.
The problem that concerned the critic most was the quantitatively measurable
phenomenon of Jewish presence in the modern art world. In a later survey of
Jewish artists, he explained:
[What’s important is] not the birth of a collective Jewish art... but rather
the appearance of a great number of Jewish painters and sculptors who
have achieved leadership. Whether they are conscious or not of their
racial or religious background, these creative spirits have enriched the
common heritage of the civilized world.2 2
In Russia of the early 1920s, despite the anomalous existence of the Jewish
theater, projects serving nationalist interests started to be banned and discussions of
2 2 Waldemar George. “The School of Paris.” In Cecil Roth, ed. Jewish Art; An Illustrated History.
Revised edition by Bezalele Namciss. (Greenwhich, Connecticut. New York Graphic Society
Ltd.), 1971 [1961], 229-260.
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nationalist subjects began to be avoided. To ensure Altman’s survival, Soviet
critics tried to explain away Altman’s Jewish art and to advance his other works
instead. In his 1924 monograph on Altman, for example, Boris Arvatov mentions
works like “Jewish Funeral” (which he refers to as “Funeral”), Jewish Prints, and
“Head of a Jewish Youth” (which he does not explain as a self-portrait), but deems
them insignificant. Arvatov offered crude apologetics that can be summed up as
follows: even though Altman may have toyed with Jewish subjects in the past, he
had by now put these amateurish stunts long behind him in order to undertake the
more serious challenge of non-objective and socialist-inspired art.
Soviet critics beginning in the 1920s downplayed the significance of
Altman’s Jewish works. Boris Aronson failed to include him in his important 1924
monograph on contemporary Jewish printmaking.2 3 Avram Efros and Boris
Arvatov situated the artist squarely in the Avant-Garde tradition.2 4 In his 1971
monograph on the artist, Mark Etkind similarly passed over Altman’s Jewish works
in the span of several paragraphs. To Etkind, these works represented only a
transitional phase to Altman’s establishment as a Soviet artist.
Altman criticism was strongly influenced by an idea that Efros had initially
expounded in his 1923 monograph on Altman. He claimed that Altman embodied
the quality of Jewish mimicry, i.e. the innate ability of Jews to adapt to changes in
2 3 Boris Aronson. Sovrememaia evreiskaia grafika. (Berlin: Petropolis), 1924.
2 4 Abram Efros. Portret NatanaAl 'tmana. (M: Shipovnik), 1922; Arvatov, Boris. Natan Al'tman.
(P, Berlin), Petropolis, 1924.
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their surroundings. Efros’ reviewer, P. Ettinger, was convinced by Efros’
description of the artist as having “the expected dose of Jewish mimicry.”2 5
Axonson also shared this belief with Efros. If Efros insisted that “Altman has the
uniquely national ability of a Jew to take on the color and appearance of his
environment,” Aronson wrote in a similar vein that Altman “put on an act
[pretvorenie] that only a Jew is capable of.”2 6 Louis Lozowick’s 1926 description
of Altman becoming the “perfect European” during his stay in France also derived
directly from Efros, who had talked about the same issue in terms Altman’s
“refined genealogy.” Efros’ idea of Altman as a chameleon was also echoed by
Arvatov and Etkind.
In non-nationalist critical literature, Altman’s Jewish works have been
largely ignored. This is so for a number of reasons. Firstly, they were
overshadowed by Altman’s Cubist paintings of the same period, which have earned
him the associated accolade of “importing” the style into Russia.2 7 In his review
article, for example, Lev Bruni insisted, to the detriment of Jewish Prints, that
Altman’s Cubist “Portrait of Akhmatova” and “Landscape” (1914), were his most
2 5 P. Ettinger, “Portret Natana Al’tmana.” Review of Efros. Sredi kollektsionerov 5 (1923), 45.
2 6 Louis Lozowick. “The Art of Natan Altman.” The Menorah Journal 12 (1926), 61; Efros. Opus
cited, 28. Boris Aronson. “O Natane Al’tmane.” Trans. John Bowlt. Evrei v kul’ ture russkogo
zarubezh’ ia: Stat’ i, publikatsii, memuary, i esse. 4 (1939-1960). Edited by Parkhomovskii, M.
(Jerusalem) 1995, 418.
2 7 In the French context, Primitivism is often viewed as a substratum of Cubism, whereas in the
Russian context, is it perceived more as a siti generis movement. George Braque (1882-l%3)and
Pablo Picasso developed and popularized the working methods of early Cubism in the years 1908-
1912. In Altman’s works like “The Catholic Saint,” “Woman at the Piano,” “Portrait of N. E.
Dobychina,” and “Portrait of an Old Jew” (1913-1914), he demonstrates his familiarity with Cubist
principles by examining the geometric structures of physical objects and renouncing linear
perspective.
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important works exhibited. Jewish Prints could hardly compete for mainstream
attention because painting was deemed a priori more formidable than print.
Secondly, Jewish Prints series has been overlooked because Soviet
criticism tended to downplay Jewish subjects in general and therefore to
circumvent them in Altman’s oeuvre. Even post-Soviet critical literature on
Primitivism in Russia has neglected Jewish Prints, although this work would seem
a natural one for discussion in this context.2 8 And lastly, Jewish Prints has been
overlooked in Western surveys that mention Altman, as these tend to recycle the
association he is best known for, his Constructivism of the Revolutionary period.
Jewish issues were generally avoided in Soviet scholarship after the mid-
1920s. If a Jewish artist was not altogether neglected, as were Mark Chagall and
Leonid Pasternak, his Jewish background was brushed aside as irrelevant, as in the
case of Isaac Levitan and Isaac Brodsky, for example.2 9 With someone as beloved
as Isaac Levitan, to reduce his Jewish roots to a detail meant, from the Soviet point
2 8 See for example: M. Betz. “The Icon and Russian Modernism.” Artforum (New York) 15/10
(1977), 3-45; Anthony Patron. Mikhail Larionov and the Russian Avant-Garde. (Princeton:
Princeton UP), 1993.
2 9 In one treatment of Levitan, for example, Fedorov-Davydov skirted the issue of the artist’s Jewish
derivation by attributing the problems he had assimilating and surviving in Moscow to his low rank
and class, i.e. to the separate problem of raznochinstvo that is specific to non-Jewish Russians.
Fedorov-Davydov, A. A, Isaac Levitan, 1860-1900. (L: Aurora, 1987), 5-18. Neither Fedorov-
Davydov nor other Soviet art historians discussed the relationship between Levitan’s art and his
Jewish roots. While Levitan was canonized as a great ‘Russian’ artist, other Jewish-bom artists,
like Leonid Pasternak and Marc Chagall, for example, in part because they emigrated, were made to
seem negligible in the history of Russian art. Despite the high regard for Pasternak before his
immigration to Berlin in 1922, Soviet scholars virtually ignored him, and his work was not exhibited
until 1979. Chagall, too, was all but forgotten by Soviet art historians; and when he was mentioned
in passing, he he was referred to as a ‘Belorussian artist,’ as if to oppose the way he was touted in
the West as a Jewish artist from Russia.
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of view, paying him the highest compliment. This move was usually attended by
the cliche explanation that his soul was “more Russian than a Russian’s.”
Likewise, diminishing the importance of Altman’s ethnicity and his early
“nationalist” interests was also an act of critical benevolence, serving to secure
Altman’s reputation as a pioneer of socialist-minded art.3 0 This study remedies this
critical neglect by demonstrating the significance of Altman’s early Jewish works
in the context of modern Russian Jewish art.
3 0 The one Soviet monograph on the artist by Mark Etkind exemplifies this. Mark Etkind. Natan
A l’ tman. (Moscow. Sovetskii khudozhnik), 1971. [German Edition: Nathan Altman. Dresden:
VEB Verlag der Kunst, 1984 ]
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Chapter 1
From the Margins to the Center:
Altman’s Cultural Self-Positioning
Part I: Altman and Vogue
Altman’s early career demonstrates a consistent pattern to anticipate trends,
to stay informed of the novel, and to be fashionable, but only for so long, moving
on after the fad peaks. Altman was involved in various artistic movements in the
1910s, transitioning easily from the community of La Ruche in Paris into
Petersburg’s bohemia. At the time of the Revolution, he even rose into the ranks of
the Soviet administrative elite. Altman’s wide range of artistic interests perplexed
his critics as early as the 1920s, when Efros described his mobility between
groupings and styles as “nomadic.” By analyzing Altman’s unfailing knack for
detecting promising avenues, this chapter suggests a framework in which to view
the investment of his talent in Jewish subjects. They appear, then, to reflect
Altman’s belief that Jewish art had a very particular place in the culture of artistic
vogue.1
1 Ziva Amishai-Maisel’s raises a similar question with respect to Chagall in her essay “Chagall and
the Jewish Revival; Center or Periphery?” In Apter-Gabriel, Ruth, ed. Tradition and Revolution:
The Jewish Renaissance in Russian Avant-Garde Art, 1912-1928. Exhibition Catalogue. Second
Edition. (Jerusalem: Israel Musuem, 1988 [1987]). 71-100.
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The Fashion of Altman
In Russia, an aura of “fashion” surrounds Altman to this day. His name
recently appeared in a flashy and sophisticated St. Petersburg magazine, Sobaka,
which parades international modish culture and takes its title from the Russian
word for the e-mail symbol thereby announcing itself as contemporary. In his
ruminations on the death of Bunny Pager of Vogue magazine, the savvy and
sardonic cultural critic Aleksandr Borovsky conjured up an image of Altman as
another stylish and self-fashioned persona, i.e. if it were possible, the Soviet
equivalent of Pager.2 “I have been lucky enough to have associated with
fashionable [m o a h m m h ] people,” Borovsky wrote. “In my childhood—with Natan
Altman, the relic of the Russian Avant-Garde, preserved by a Soviet department in
the glass can of his studio on Lesnoi [Prosepkt].3 [Altman] made an artwork of
himself. He spoke with a special kind of Parisian-mestechko accent and used
aphorisms at that. He decorated himself [acHBonncuamnn] with a particular
uniform of a blouse. He would recall his enigmatic buddies Marc and Pablo.”4
Others testify to the way in which Altman fashioned himself. Those who
remember him in his late years speak in unison of his legendary aura, one that set
him apart from all who surrounded him. In December of 2000, at a public event
sponsored by the St. Petersburg municipality and dedicated to Altman, the artist
2 Borovsky alleged that Pager had founded Vogue. I have not been able to confirm this.
3 “Glass can” refers to the look of Altman’s top-story studio which has an enormous window almost
the size of a wall, an atypical feature for late-Soviet residential buildings.
4 Aleskandr Borovskii. “Iz angliiskikh gazet.” Sobaka 3 (March 2000), 88-89.
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Aleksander Pasternak and the art historian Mikhail Evseev toasted Altman’s
phenomenal way of standing out in a crowd. “You would see him walking on
Nevsky,” Pasternak reminisced with Evseev nodding in confirmation. “But you
only saw him. It was as if no one else was on the street. He had this way of
carrying himself.” Liudmila N. Lunina, who helped Altman organize his
retrospective in 1968 and 1969, testified to his gallant manners, general elegance
and his meticulous attention to his attire.5
It seems that Pasternak, Evseev, and Lunina were affected more by the
lingering aura of Altman’s early reputation as a rebel-Futurist and revolutionary
than by the man himself. For when they knew him in the 1950s and 1960s,
Altman’s larger-than-life quality had diminished. In photographs taken at the time,
he appears drab, scornful, and broken down. Confidence is absent from his work
from the post-WWII period, consisting of restrained theatrical decorations,
unexciting book illustrations, and uninspired replays of his earlier sculptures of
Lenin. These mediocre stylizations and concessions to Social Realism lack the
radical spirit that he helped inaugurate in the first decades of the century. The half
hearted effort behind them failed to earn him a place in the pantheon of Soviet
“masters.” While others, like Isaak Brodskii (1884-1939), for example, made their
5 In December 2001a relief bronze plaque inspired by Altman’s “Self-Portrait: Head of a Young
Jew” was put up at Altman’s last residence in Leningrad, marking the building as the city’s
historical site. This event, jointly organized by the St. Petersburg municipal office and the Theatrical
Museum, also commemorated the thirtieth anniversary of Altman’s death. It received both
television and newspaper coverage. The comments cited here of his friend and artist Aleksander
Pasternak, the art critic Mikhail Evseev, and a director at LOSKh Liudmila Lunina were publicly
expressed at this occasion.
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careers with eulogizing portraits of government leaders ranging from Lenin to
Stalin, Altman settled for a less glorious sideline niche.
This denouement of Altman’s career casts a shadow over its brazen
beginning and disappoints those with a special regard for the Avant-Garde. This
sad coda has led some to discount Altman’s career as a whole, as Nikolai
Khardzhiev did in a 1991 interview, when he judged Altman to be “an
uninteresting artist, an overblown [paviyTbiH] and rather boring print-maker.”6
This kind of overt disparagement is unique in Altman criticism and may have
stemmed from a personal grudge.7 But Khardzhiev’s assessment of Altman as
boring is understandable with respect to Altman’s late Soviet period. Khardzhiev
may have articulated what is otherwise left unspoken because of the overwhelming
respect Altman had earned in the beginning of his career.
Altman is still hallowed in Russia, and his late-year acquiescence and
i restraint are forgiven. He is remembered for being the painter of Anna Akhmatova
and Solomon Mikhoels and for knowing Vladimir Maiakovskii and H’ia
i Ehrenburg. His life abroad made his idiosyncratic manners be construed as
6 Ira Golubkina-Vrubel’. “N. Khardzhiev: Budushchee uzhe nastalo.” Interview with Khardzhiev.
InN. I. Khardzhiev. Stat'i ob avangarde. Vol. 2 ( M: RA, 1997), 362-381.
7 Khardzhiev’s evaluation should be seen from the proper perspective. Unlike many artists
associated with the Avant-Garde of the 1910s and 20s, Altman survived the purges that began in
1937 and accommodated to Stalin’s regime, living comfortably and working in an official capacity.
It is this late concession to the ‘system’ that may bother Khardzhiev, who faced continuing hostility
from Stalin, Krushchev and Brezhnev while tirelessly promoting Kazemir Malevich and Mikhail
Larionov and other victimized Avant-Garde artists. Perhaps this atmosphere bred Khardzhiev’s
resentment against Altman. (I thank Mark Konecny for pointing out the idiosyncraey of
Khardhiev’s set of dislikes, which besides Altman included Vladimir Tatlin and Liudmila Popova;
and for offering reasons to doubt the view of Khardzhiev as a dissident, one of which is the feet that
most of his work was not for the drawer and was indeed published in his lifetime.)
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“foreign,” which was flattering in the Soviet context. He had been “there,” on the
other side, had rubbed shoulders with Marc and Pablo. These meetings and his
time in Paris formed a major aspect of his public image.
Altman’s early connections to the Avant-Garde also earned him lasting
respect, especially since the re-appreciation of the movement by the Russian
intelligentsia of the 1960s. In academic spheres, Altman was embraced as a living
symbol of all who had been repressed, forced out, or annihilated. Taken together,
Altman’s Jewishness, his association with the Avant-Garde, and his years of life
abroad gained special significance within Russian dissident culture and progressive
and underground Soviet culture.
Russian scholars with more distance from the personal dramas of the Avant-
Garde than Khardzhiev tend to think favorably of Altman, In conversations, they
sometimes extol the genius of his 1914 Akhmatova portrait and recall the sensation
of his 1968 retrospective. This event, in as much as it showed off a one-time
“Futurist” and an emigre to the West, was welcomed by the intelligentsia as an
echo of Akhmatova’s own rehabilitation from “degeneracy” ten years earlier8 For
these scholars, Altman’s reputation hinged specifically on his earliest work. The
1968 show was remarkably well attended, with lines winding around the building
of LOSKh (Leningrad Department of the Union of Artists), Leningrad’s most
8 E. D. Kuznetsov. Natan Al'tman: k retrospektivnoi vystavkeproizvedenii; zhivopis’ , graftka,
skul ’ ptura, prikladnoe iskusstvo, teatr, kino, oformlenie ulits i massovykh zrelishch. Exhibition
Catalogue. (L: Soiuz khudozhnikov RSFSR, 1968).
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29
prestigious official venue. The first of its kind in the post-Thaw context, this show
represented a kind of synechdotal resurrection of the perished Avant-Garde.9
Because plans for retrospectives by Robert Falk and David Shterenberg were foiled
in the same year, there seemed much to celebrate just in the fact that Altman’s
show was not, in the end, banned.1 0 In the following years, Altman would be
included, albeit posthumously, in numerous Soviet art surveys and exhibits while
other artists of the early Avant-Garde still remained unsanctioned.1 1
Altman’s early career has earned Altman this exceptional status in Russia.
His affiliation with the early Futurists marked his defining moment for the amateur
9 In Ms review of Etkind’s 1971 monograph on Altman, M. Neiman points out that Altman was one
of a handful of Avant-Garde artists to receive such full-scale recognition. Neiman, M. “Natan
Altman. ” Review. Iskusstvo XXXVIII/3 (1975), 70-1. Artists like Robert Falk and David
Shterenberg, for example, did not enjoy shows of this proportion until 1979 and 1991, respectively.
See Levitin, E. S., ed. et al. Robert Fal'k: Risunki, ak\>areli, guashi. ExMbition Catalogue. (M:
Sovetskii khudozhnik, 1979); Lazarev, M.P. David Shterenberg, 1881-1946: zhivopis’ , grafika.
Exhibition Catalogue. (M: Sovetskii khudozhnik, 1991).
1 0 Altman’s wife Irina Schegoleva-Altman has been credited for pulling off tMs bureaucratic feat
using her social connections to top officials.
"Besides Mark Etkind's monograph Natan A l’ tman. Moscow: Sovetskii Khudozhnik, 1971, the
following catalogues and surveys included Altman in the 1970s: N. N. Novouspenskii.
Gosudarstvennyi Russki muzei: zhivopis. (L: Aurora, 1975); H. I. Popova. Risunki sovetsMikh
khudozhnikov. Exhibition Catalogue. (L: State Russian Museum, 1978). This covered 69 artists,
including Altman, Ivan Pougny, and Lev Bruni, and emphasized the 1920s and 30s. V. A.
Pushkarev. Izorbrazitel ’ noe iskusstvo Leningrada. Exhibition Catalogue. (L: Soiuz khudozhnikov
RSRSR, 1977). This covered the years 1920 to 1972. V. I. Rakitin. Russkoe iskusstvo pervoi treti
XXveka. ExMbition List. (Iaroslavl’: Muzei izobrazitel’nykh iskusstv, 1979). Smarinov, D. A.
Iskusstvo knigi 68-69/8. (M: Kniga, 1975). This featured articles on Lebedev, Altman, Vasnetsov,
Shterenberg, and others. F. J. Syrkina. Russkoe teatral ’ no-dekorativnoe iskusstvo. (M: Iskusstvo,
1978). TMs surveyed the 18th to the 20t h centuries with special attention on the fin de siecle. E. F.
Kovtoun. Kniznye oblozhki russkikh khudozhnikov nachale XX veka. ExMbition Catalogue. (L:
Gosudarstvennyi Russkii Muzei, 1977). TMs reproduced six works by Altman. A. S. Galushkina.
“Vystavka ‘Agitatsionno-massovoe iskusstvo pervykh let Oktiabr’skoi revoliutsii.’” In A. N. Tyrsa,
ed. Ocherki po russkomy i sovetskomy iskusstvu. Gosudarstvennaia Tret’iakovskaia galeriia. (L:
Khudozhnik RSFSR, 1974). TMs mentioned Altman briefly. These sparse inclustions culimate
with a nuanced reading of several of Altman’s portraits by I. Pruzhan and V. Kniazeva. Russkii
portret kontsa XIX—nachala XIX veka. (M: Izobrazitel’noe iskusstvo, 1980).
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30
student of Russian culture Sergei Viazemskii.1 2 For Mikhail Evseev and others,
Altman’s Revolutionary art was the highlight of his career. Evseev holds Altman
in high esteem as an earnest believer in that period’s utopia.1 3 The literary and
cultural historian Alexander Etkind (Mark Etkind’s son) also regards highly
Altman’s early Soviet work. He groups Altman with such “outsanding
intellectuals and genuine masters in their respective fields” as Stanislavsky,
Meyerhold, Gor’kii, Bulgakov, and Konenkov, who “creatively cooperated with the
authorities until they were arrested or died.”1 4
In the West, Altman is known primarily through his post-revolutionary non
objective painting and Constructivist set designs. The view of Altman as an Avant-
Garde artist is well deserved, even though his experiments were less esoteric and
radical in comparison with Malevich’s Suprematist paintings, Tatlin’s designs for
the “International” Building, Aleksander Rodchenko’s “Spatial Constructions,” or
El Lissitzky “Prouns,” for example. Scholarship on the Russian Avant-Garde
consistently mentions Altman’s “hits,” including the grandiose street decorations of
1918, the paintings “Labor” [Trud], “Petrokommuna” (1921) and the Constructivist
1 2 Viazemskii introduced the Altman section of his notes and clippings with a quotation from
Ehrenburg, who grouped Altman along with Malevich as a Futurist. RGALI. Files of Sergei
Mikhailovich Viazemskii. f. 118 op.l n. 116 p. 56a.
1 3 M. lu. Evseev. ‘”0 Petrogradskom otdele izobrazitel’nykh iskusstv Komissariata narodnogo
prosveshcheniia (1918-1921).” Sovetskoe iskusstvoznanie 23 (1988), 297-316.
Aleksandr Etkind. “Lager-camp Nostalgia.” In Nina Rozwadowska-Janowska and Piotr Nowicki,
eds. No!—and the Conformists; Faces o f Soviet Art o f 50s to 80s. (Warsaw: Fundacja Polskiej
Sztuki Nowoczensnej: Wydawnictwa Artustyczne i Filmowe, 1994), 79.
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31
set for the play “Uriel Acosta” of 1922.1 5 His name also appears as part of the
J ewish contingent of the Avant-Garde.1 6
Altman apparently understood his role in Soviet culture as a de-facto
representative of “non-official” art. After returning from France in 1935 for a
combination of personal and professional reasons, he played up this reputation-
collecting antique furniture, which was then rarely accessible, installing a gas stove
in his studio, which he said reminded him of the one he had in France, and keeping
a photograph of Picasso and Chagall on his desk. Those who knew him testified
that his dress was always remarkably “elegant.”
In the post-Stalinist period, these gestures, while perhaps revealing an
inferiority complex, worked to demonstrate Altman’s affiliation with the bourgeois
West, a world was forbidden to ordinary Soviet citizens. His leaning towards
foreign influences was welcomed and fueled by Altman’s second wife, Irina
Shchegoleva, a St. Petersburg socialite. Altman was aware of his unofficial status,
even if it rested completely on his past laurels and had more to do with his
constructed persona than the art he had been producing since WWII. When in
1969, at age eighty, Altman was awarded the title of “Recognized Artist,” one of
1 5 See Alan Bird. A History o f Russian Painting. (Oxford: Phaidon, 1987); Christina Lodder.
Russian Constructivism. (New Haven: Yale UP, 1983); and Jean-Claude Marcade. L Avant-Garde
Russe 1907-1927. (Paris: Flammarion, 1995).
1 6 Ruth Apter Gabriel, ed. Tradition and Revolution: The Jewish Renaissance in Russian Avant-
Garde Art, 1912-1928. Exhibition Catalogue. Second Edition. (Jerusalem: Israel Museum, 1988
[1987]); Avram Kampf. “In Quest of the Jewish Style in the Era of the Russian Revolution.”
Journal o f Jewish Art 5 (1978), 48-75; and Goodman, Susan Tumarkin. Russian Jewish Artists in a
Century o f Change, 1890-1990. Exhibition Catalogue. (New York: Prestel, 1995).
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32
the lowest ranks in the Soviet hierarchy of accolades, Altman scoffed at the insult
and remarked, “I may not have a title, but I have a name.”1 7
Part of the reason Altman’s name still resonates in Russia, despite the
academism and tame quality of his post-WWII work, lies in the success of his
artistic debut. In 1915, Apollon, the most prestigious Russian art journal of its
time, published Altman’s portrait of Anna Akhmatova, which had won instant
acclaim at the World of Art Exhibition in the spring of that year. Reproductions of
some of Altman’s contributions to the show appeared as illustrations in the April
issue of The New Magazine for Everyone, which also featured a favorable review
of Altman by Lev Bruni, an established Petersburg painter. Bunin lauded the
“Portrait of Anna Akhamatova” and “Landscape” (both 1914) for the way they
emanated light and conveyed volumetric form. The art critic Nikolai Puni, who
was then “at the very center of anticipating and paving the way for a new artistic
culture,” to quote his biographer, also discussed Altman’s Akhtmatova portrait as
illustrative of the vistas opened by French Cubism.1 8 Punin applauded Altman for
being less concerned with anatomical structure than with what he called “artistic
material reality,” exemplified in the manner in which Altman explored the folding
in the model’s clothes, their weight, and texture. This more “real” reality, wrote
Punin, is what artists were turning to at the time, with Altman leading the way.
1 7 My conversation with the Ehrenburg scholar Boris Iakovlevich Frezinsky, December 2000.
1 8 M. Petrov. “Introduction.” In N. N. Punin. Russkoe i sovetskoe iksusstvo. (M : Sovetskii
khudozhnik, 1976), 15.
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Punin also noted that Altman investigated the raw materials of which art is made.
And this, he surmised, would make for a whole new direction in art. “It is no
longer sufficient to draw; one must draw with chalk, with pencil, with ink— to
explore the quality of the material itself, to let the material itself speak.”1 9
If a certain degree of praise in mainstream criticism testifies to Altman’s
arrival on the scene, the fact that his works were also being bought likewise
signaled his arrival. By 1917, more than twenty of his works were in the
collections of A. V. Rumanov, N. I. Dobychina, S. I. Mollo-Netr, and S.
Stol’nikov.2 0 In the years that followed, the Russian Museum in Petrograd and the
Ateneum Art Museum in Helsinki purchased his works.2 1
Throughout the next decade, Altman’s name was still topical. His friend,
the writer Il’ia Ehrenburg, used Altman’s name to elevate his own standing in the
public eye and amongst his peers. In a passage from his memoirs Liudi, gody,
zhizn ’ , Ehrenburg mentioned speaking about Altman with the poet Boris Pasternak
when they were discussing other “world events.” The topic of Altman, which
merged in their conversation with the latest work of Meyerhold and the battle
1 9 N. Punin. “Risunki neskol’kikh molodykh.” Apollon 4-5 (Apr-May 1916), 1-20. Besides
Altman, Punin also discussed L. Bruni, N. Tyrsa, P. Piturich, and P. L’vov, whose work he saw as
marking the end of Impressionism.
2 0 David Elliot and Valerii Dudakov, eds, 100 Years of Russian Art, 1889-1989: From Private
Collections in the USSR. Exhibition Catalogue. (London: Lund Humphries, 1991). I have not
found information on Mollo-Netr and Stol’nikov.
2 1 Writing in 1922, Efros mentioned that the Ateneum Art Museum owned Altman’s sculpture
“Self-Portrait: Head of a Jewish Youth.” Efros, Abram. Portret NatanaAl 'tmana. (M:
Shipovnik, 1922), 26.
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34
among the Futurists, served to make the impression that Ehrenburg was an
courant2 2
From the Provinces to Paris
The genesis of Altman’s reputation lies in his artistic debut as a provincial
Jewish youth with professional experience in Paris. This combination of
Jewishness and experience in Paris titillated the tastes of connoisseurs of art in St.
Petersburg, providing Altman the “passport” into the city’s artistic circles. But
information on Altman’s earliest steps in art is scant.
With the exception of the brief interviews that Altman allowed Mark
Etkind, the artist never divulged much about his childhood in Vinnitsa, a small
town in the Ukraine.2 3 The beginning of Altman’s documented story, therefore,
begins in 1904 when, at the age of fifteen, he left Vinnitsa to attend the Odessa
School of Art.2 4 The lively cultural atmosphere of this port city, where Altman
spent the next four years, offered new possibilities for the young man. It was here,
for example, that Altman likely met the would-be Futurist poet Aleksei
2 2 Il’ia Erenburg. Liudi, gody, zhiznvospominaniia. 3 vols. M: Sovetskii pisatel’, 1990: vol. 1,
344.
2 3 Several years ago, a museum that is dedicated to Altman reportedly opened in Vinnitsa, but I
have not yet seen it. For the account of his earliest years we are indebted to Mark Etkind in his
Natan A l’ tman. Moscow: Sovetskii khudozhnik, 1971.
2 4 The school was founded in 1865 and for the first two decades run by teachers from Milan and
Munich. It has been variably called The Odessa School of Drawing and The Odessa School of Art.
In 1917 it was made a subsidiary of the Academy and renamed The Art College of the Fine Arts
Society in Odessa. (Arvatov, B. Natan A l’ tman. P, Berlin: Petropolis, 1924; Kuril’tseva, V.
Aleksei Alekseevich Shovkunenko. M: Sovetskii Khudozhnik, 1954; and Tikhimirov, A. N. M. B.
Grekov, n.p. IZOGIZ, 1937.) Arvatvov mistakenly gave the dates of Altman’s attendenceas 1901-
1907.
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Kruchenykh (1886-19697).2 5 Their later acquaintance in St. Petersburg has also
been alleged, largely based on an illustration of Kruchenykh’s poem “Shish”
inserted as a tail-piece to the 1913 Futurist anthology Vzorval ’ .2 6 Odessa, as the
place where various nascent artists like Kruchennykh converged, served to open
wider horizons to Altman’s blooming imagination.
At the turn of the century Odessa was called “Little Paris” because of its
atmosphere—noisy, colorful, cosmopolitan, and full of outdoor life. The city
boasted a number of galleries. The Picture Gallery, which had opened in 1899, the
City Theater and the Italian Opera were especially popular with the art school
students.2 7 Odessa’s artistic culture was lively enough to merit the attentions of
Apollon, which reported on the events there, although not without some
condescension.2 8 The city had a long-standing tradition of exhibiting both famed
and emerging artists in Russia from Ivan Aivazovskii and Vasilii Vereshchagin to
251 have not been able to verity their acquaintance, which is mentioned off-handedly and without
source-information in Kowtun, E. F. Die Wiedergeburt der Ktinstlerischen Druckgraphik
Dresden: Dresden Verlag der Kunst, 1984, 142.
2 6 The illustration of Kruchenykh’s poem was attributed to Malevich before Khardzhiev considered
it Altman’s work. Khardzhiev does not argue his case and exemplifies the tendency, which is the
subject of this chapter, to perpetuate Altman’s fame as a Futurists based on conjecture and loose
association. Khardzhiev, N. I. Stat’ i ob avangarde. Vol. 1. (M: RA, 1997), 103. The “Shish”
illustration features a cross between the Russian character ‘sh’ and the Hebrew ‘shesh,’ which works
to enhance the onomatopoeic play on the sound ‘sh’ in Kruchennykh’s poem. This peculiar shape
is also found in one of Altman’s possessions that still hangs in the family’s home—a blue tile with
the ‘sh’-like design in black. This is one argument for considering the piece Altman’s. Yet the
illustration is too rudimentary and is executed too crudely to suggest any specific author. The
drawing does not resemble other ones by Altman of the same period, and this makes Khardzhiev’s
attribution doubtful.
2 7 P. Dul’skii. “Vospominania.” In Kornilov, P. E., ed. P. A. Shillingovskii. Series: Russkie
mavery. (Kazan’: n.p., 1926), 11-24.
8 Apollon classified Odessa as a ‘province. ’ See for example: Anonymous. Apollon 3 (Dec 1909),
16-17.
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Nikolai Roerich. During the time Altman lived in Odessa, the St. Peterburg-based
World of Art group was well renowned and appreciated. The Symbolist aesthetic
was also represented in the Odessa Salon, where Altman participated in 1909,
alongside French Symbolists Odilon Redon and Henri Rousseau.2 9 This
association prefigured his attempt to exhibit with the World of Art Symbolists in
St. Petersburg in 1914 and 1915.
Odessa’s dense Jewish environment must also have offered both contrast
and liberation for the youthful Altman, inasmuch as it was largely secular and
distanced from “old-world” habits of the Pale. Other Jews attended his art school
and Altman counted several, including Abram Manevich and Il’ia Gintsburg,
among his friends. But Altman did not involve himself with any organized Jewish
groups in Odessa, as he would in St. Peterburg a decade later.3 0 In a sense, he did
not need to, since Jewish culture permeated all social levels in the city more so than
in St. Petersburg, where it existed as isolated cliques.3 1 Among the more
celebrated names whom Altman may have been aware of in Odessa included the
2 9 The Odessa Salon was run by a graduate of the Odessa School of Art Vladimir A. Izdebskii, who
also published the associated magazine Salon. See, for example: Salon: Katalog internatsional 'not
vyskavki kartin, skul’ ptury, graviury i risunkov. (SP; tipografiia F. N. Al’tshulera, 1910); and
Anonymous. Apollon 3 (Dec 1909), 16-17.
3 0 See photographs of Altman and Manevich together in the sculpting studio at the Odessa School of
Art in the Altman archives of the RNB.
3 1 The underground of Odessa’s Jewish culture formed the basis of Isaak Babel’s early short fiction.
For a historical study of the development of a Jewish base in Odessa, see:, Steven J. Zipperstein.
The Jewish Community o f Odessa 1794—1871: Social Characteristics and Cultural development.
Dissertation, 1980.
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Hebrew poet Haim Nahman Bialik and David Ginzburg, the researcher of ancient
Jewish illuminated texts, both of whom lived and worked there intermittently.
While Altman’s urban surroundings exposed him to a wide array of
experiences, his immediate art school milieu had more of a disciplinary—and
perhaps repressive—effect. The program at the Odessa school was set by the
Realist painter Kiriak Konstantinovich Kostandi (1852-1921), the leader of the
Wanderers’ movement in the Ukraine. Kostandi had studied in the Imperial
Academy together with his life-long friend, Il’ia Repin, and was held in high
esteem by Pavel Chistiakov and Il’ia Kramskoi. In Odessa, Kostandi helped found
the Organization of South-Russian Artists [Tovarishchestvo Iuzhnorusskikh
khudozhnikov]?2 His tenure at the school would last more than thirty years, and
later generations of Kostandi’s students would become Soviet Realists, including I.
Brodskii, M. B. Grekov, P. Vasil’ev, F. Krasitskii, L. Muchnik, and P. Volokidin.
Much to Altman’s exasperation, Kostandi doggedly resisted the challenges
posed by the French Impressionists to his theory of art. For example, when a
certain senior student named Finkel’shtein showed an Impressionist work in 1897,
Kostandi and the faculty saw this as an insolent gesture.3 3 Unlike the
Impressionist’s focus on the immediate experience, which they practiced by
recording transient states—e.g. twilight or the apex of a summer’s day heat—
Kostandi trained his students to draw from memory and thereby amass an arsenal
3 2 V. Kuril’tseva. Aleksei Alekseevich Shovkunenko. (M: Sovetskii Khudozhnik, 1954).
3 3 Dul’skii. Opus cited, 11-24.
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38
of frozen human postures, accessible for any given scenario. If, for the
Impressionists, the investigation of light was an end in itself, for Kostandi, this
investigation was placed in the service of rendering volume. The drawing
technique that he taught therefore invariably relied upon tonal shading, with the
goal being to define and place a mass believably in space.3 4 The Impressionist
palette generally excluded the color black, while Kostandi taught his students how
to use it.3 5
Altman did practice Kostandi’s methods, as evidenced by his unremarkable
1906 painting “At the Fair,” an exercise of assembling a cast of standing and
walking poses and making them seem weighty with abundant shadow.3 6 But he
was more intrigued by alternate non-illusionistic approaches, which he explored in
such works as his “Landscape with Curtains” (1906-1908). Following the example
of Edouard Manet, the all-submerging light and unifying pastel palette here served
to flatten rather than to give shape, and the embroidery of the white transparent
curtain took precedence over any concern with depth or spatial relationships.3 7 His
drawings “Self-Portrait” (1906) and “Grandmother” (1908) both paid special
attention to the pattern on the clothing more than to the face or to the body as a
solid mass.
3 4 Shister, A. Kiriak Kostantinovich Kostandi. Exhibition Catalogue. (M: Khudozhnik RSFSR,
1975), 25-38.
3 5 Dul’skii, 11-24.
3 6 See reproduction in Petrova, Evgeniia, Anatolii Dmitren’ko and Vladimir Leniashin, eds.
Zhivopis’ : PervaiapolovinaXXveka. Vol. 8. SP: Palace Edition, 1997,22.
3 7 Ibid.
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If Altman rebelled against Kostandi’s Realism while in school, after leaving
it, he put aside even the more basic skills he had acquired at the Odessa School of
Art. In his “Model” (early 1910s), for example, Altman used primary colors out of
the tube, coarsely blending them on the canvas contrary to the preparatory process
Kostandi had taught of mixing plentiful amounts of pigment on the palette.3 8
Moreover, Altman applied paint directly onto a crude large-grain canvas in this
painting as in others of the same period, without first preparing the fabric with
gesso. Poverty was certainly a factor, but Cezanne, Impressionism, and early
Cubism preoccupied him to the point of seeming to erase the discipline and skills
acquired in Odessa. All this notwithstanding, Altman’s early training by Kostandi
would exert itself in later years, most notably in his neo-Realist work circa 1929
and in two aspects of his signature style: the fixed commitment to pre-conceived
composition and the heightened concern with the verisimilitude of facial features.
Three of Altman’s other teachers in Odessa should be mentioned.3 9 First,
there was the conservative teacher of drawing, the Italian-born L. D. lorini. His
drawing exercise using eggs for a still life was legendary in the school, and he was
both respected and resented by most pupils for his parochialism. Altman’s later
meticulous care for perfect lines may have derived from lorini’s purist
3 8 Ibid. Kostandi’s instructions to mix on the palette were documented by his students. See Shister.
Opus cited, 25-38.
3 9 Edouard Roditi made a mistake when he wrote that Altman studied under Alexandra Exter in
Odessa, Exter’s extensive entourage of students was based in Kiev, and I have not found any
evidence of Altman being in any way a part of it. Edouard Roditi. “The Jewish Artist in the
Modem World.” In Cecil Roth, ed. Jewish Art: An Illustrated History. Revised edition by Bezalele
Namciss. (Greenwhich, Connecticut. New York Graphic Society Ltd., 1971 [1961]), 286-312.
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predilections. Second, there was the sculptor G. A. Ladyzhenskii, who equaled
Kostandi in authority but used it to encourage students to engage with the latest
developments in modernism. Unlike Kostandi, he applauded the aforementioned
Impressionist rebel Finkel’shtein of 1897.
And third, there was Iosif Peref man, who taught science at the School, but
also sketched the Jewish “type” from nature, or, as Dul’skii phrases it, “faces of old
Jewish men.”4 0 While Altman would comment on the Jewish “type” in his
sculptural “Self-Portrait,” he bypassed this kind of drawing-based tradition
altogether. His vast corpus of portraiture includes no drawings of insignificant
strangers, Jewish or otherwise, and favors famed personalities and friends instead.
He was not interested in provinciality in the abstract sense, evidenced an elitist
attitude about his art, and was likely to think Pere'man's exercise amateurish. His
Jewish portraits, such as “Grandmother” (1908), “Lady with a Dog” (1911),
“Potrait of N. E. Dobychina” (1913) and “Old Jew” (1913), were based on his close
familiarity with the subjects and on the sense of their individuality.4 1
Earlier students of the Odessa school included Isaak Brodskii and Boris
Anisfeld (1879-1973), whom Altman would come to know later in St. Petersburg
4 0 Dul’skii. Opus cited, 18.
4 1 “Lady with a Dog” features Esfir Shvartsraan, Altman’s neighbor in Vinnitsa. It had been
mistakenly considered as a portrait of N. E. Dobychina. See Petrova. Opus cited, 23. The portrait
of Dobychina is reproduced in Petrov, V. N. “Raznostoronnyi khudozhnik: k 80-letiiu Natana
Al’tmana.” Tvorchestvo 10 (1969), 9. The subject in “Old Jew” is thought to be Altman’s close
relative.
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and Paris, respectively.4 2 While in Odessa, Altman was friends with Abram
Manevich and perhaps Mane Katz, who attended the art school before 1910.4 3
Among Altman’s other fellow students at the Odessa school were Mitrofan
Borisovich Grekov (1882-1934), Pavel Aleskandrovich Shillingovskii (1881-1942),
Aleksei Alekseevich Shovkunenko (1884-1974), and A. Lakhovskii, the last of
whom would participate together with Altman in the Jewish Society for the
Encouragement of the Arts and the journal Art o f the Commune [Iskitsstvo
kommuny].4 4
As Altman stated in various forms and applications beginning in 1916, he
decided to leave the Odessa school without finishing because he felt stifled.
Without this accreditation, entry into the Academy of Art in St, Petersburg would
be difficult. In a 1916 reflection on this decision to leave the Odessa school,
Altman wrote that he considered the subsequent year “one of the most productive
and prolific.”4 5 On a very broad level then, we can see that a process of searching
and rejecting and searching again propelled his early education. But because
almost no personal documents remain from this period, and Altman did not readily
discuss his past, the exact circumstances of his moves from Vinnitsa to Odessa to
4 2 Iosif A. Brodskii and A.G. Petrova, eds. et al. Isaak Izraelevich Brodskii. (L: Khudozhnik
RSFSR, 1988); Flint, Janet A. Boris Anisfeldt: Twenty Years of Designs for the Theater,
(Washington: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1971).
4 3 J.-M. Aimot. Mane-Katz. Preface by Paul Fierens. (Paris: Editions Marcel Scheur, 1933).
441 have been unable to find literature on Lakhovsky, Sorin and Kolesnikov.
4 5 ORTG f. 31 n. 2001 pp. 1-2.
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42
Paris, including financial backing and relationships with mentors, remain in
obscurity.
Paris (1910-1911)
Altman’s first stay in Paris in 1910-1911, too, remains scarcely
documented.4 6 From Etkind we learn that en route there, he visited Munich’s new
Pinacoteka, where he was especially impressed by the German Symbolist painter
and sculptor Max Klinger (1857-1920). In Vienna’s Ksthistmus Museum, he was
most awed by Velazquez’ portrait of the Infanta Maria Theresa.4 7 Once in Paris, he
settled in with Vladimir D. Baranov-Rossine (1888-1942) in La Ruche, a structure
of rooms and studios in Montparnasse so named after its floor plan, which
resembled a bee-hive. He also came to the social gatherings of mostly Russian
emigres hosted by Marie VassilefF, which furnished him with useful connections.
He never learned any French, and it is likely that in Paris his communications were
limited to Russian and possibly Yiddish. Montparnasse, the central quarter of
Paris, overflowed with Russian immigrants to the point that it was said not just to
resemble an ex-patriotic colony, but to be “Russia itself.”4 8 Historians speak of the
4 6 According to Etkind, Altman’s stay lasted nine months, with him leaving in the Fall of 1911.
4 7 Lev Bruni compared Altman’s expertly handling of the eyes in the Akhtmatov portrait to
Velasquez’ mastery in depicting “copper and tin before they are melted into bronze.” Opus cited,
36.
4 8 Quote by the sculptor Serge Clmrcus. In Jean Marie Drot. Les heures chaudes de Montparnasse.
Memoirs. (Paris: Hazan, 1995), 106.
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43
enclave of Jewish artists mostly from Eastern Europe as the School of Paris.4 9
Many of them, like Altman, came from minor towns from Belarus, the Ukraine,
and Russia.5 0 Some, like Chaim Soutine and Marc Chagall, became notorieties,
while others, like Osip Zadkine, Ghana Orloff, and Jacques Lipchitz, enjoyed
moderately successful careers in Paris, Israel and America.
Although there is no evidence that Altman befriended any of these artists, it
is likely that he associated with the Russian and Yiddish speakers among them.
Some of them he would associate with later. In the mid 1910s, he was acquainted
with luri Annenkov (1889-1974), Georgii Yakulov (1884-1928) and Boris
Grigoriev (1886-1939) in St. Petersburg’s Futurist circles around the cabaret Stray
Dog, and with Isaak Brodskii—through the Jewish Society for the Encouragement
of the Arts, and later with David Shterenberg—through common exhibitions, like
the one in the Van Diemen Gallery in Berlin in 1922.5 1 Altman and his first wife
Irina Racheg Dega became friends with Ivan and Ksenia Pougny (1892-1956,
4 9 These include Jiri Kars, Jules Pascin, Moshe Kiesling, Michael Kikoine, Pinkus Kremegne,
Leopold Gottlieb, Mane Katz, Amedeo Modigliani, Ghana Orloff, and Sonya Deiaunay-Terk,
among others. See: Waldemar George. “The School of Paris.” In Cecil Roth. Opus cited, 229-
260. George’s defines the School of Paris in sociological terms, noting that many of its participants
came from modem East-European cities and well-to-do, often assimilated Jewish families. He
ignores the aesthetic principles that comprised the School of Paris. See also: E. Silver and R.
Golan, eds. The Circle o f Montparnasse; Jewish Artists in Paris, 1905-1945. Exhibition Catalogue.
(New York: The Jewish Museum, 1985); and Valerie Bougault. Paris Montparnasse: The Heyday
o f Modern Art, 1910-1940. (Paris: Terrail, 1997).
5 0 Just to name several: Chagall was from Vitebsk, Belarus; Soutine—from a town near Minsk,
Belarus; Archipenko—from Kiev, the Ukraine; Shterenberg—from Zhitomir, Ukraine; and
Zadkine—from Smolenk, Russia.
5 1 Altman knew luri Annekov, Aleksander Yakovlev, and Boris Grigoriev through the Futurist
cabaret “The Stray Dog,” in which they all functioned as decorators. Altman is shown together with
Shterenberg and Chagall in a photo taken at the Van Diemen Gallery. And Altman’s and Brodskii’s
participation in JSEA is documented in the organization’s archives.
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1892-1972) especially during his second stay in Paris.5 2 Altman’s stay in La Ruche
temporally coincided with that of Zadkine, Archipenko and Lipchitz, which
explains the overlap of his later sculptural self-portrait of 1915 with their work of
the same period. Altman’s paintings after his return from Paris also suggest a
possible familiarity with the Parisian work of Leon Bakst, Alexandra Exter and
Boris Anisfeld, who did not spare bright pigment and paraded contrasting
juxtapositions of basic complementary colors. After Paris, Altman also employed
highly saturated blocks of color in almost pure tones, in works like “Lady with a
Dog” (1911), “Portrait of Anna Akhmatova” (1914), and “Sunflowers” (1915).5 3
Paris provided Altman the credentials to pass easily into artistic circles in
St. Petersburg. Paris (alongside Rome) had always been the traditional Mecca for
Russian academic artists, where they honed their skills and tested their visions.
Russians respected France as a place of innovation, marked most clearly in the
preceding decades by Cezanne and Picasso. This link to Paris was a major
impetus, for example, for the formation of the World of Art group in fin-de-siecle
Russia. The journal Apollon (1909-1917) also helped feed Russian curiosity about
5 2 His late-year correspondences with Ksenia Boguslavskaia and his first wife Irina Racheg-Dega
testify to the close friendship. The letters are part of Altman’s archive at RNB.
5 3 Other immigrant artists residing in Paris in 1910 include: Sonya-Delaunay-Trek, Ferat,
Troubetskoi, Ul’ianov, Serov, Survage, Khadr, Tchaikov; and in 1911: Lissitzky, Udal’tsova,
Charchoune. For more on Russian-French artistic relationship in this period, see: Hulten, Pontus,
ed. Paris—Moscou 1900-1930. Exhibition Catalogue. (Paris: La Ministere de la Culture de
L’URSS, 1979), 3-35, 52-3, 674-77.
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45
Parisian trends by reporting on them closely.5 4 This gallophilic atmosphere made it
possible for Altman, a Jew from the backwaters with an incomplete second-rate
education, to blend into the bohemian circles of Russia’s artistic capital.
Lev Bruni was one of the first to appreciate the French influence present in
Altman’s post-Parisian work, noting that it demonstrated signs of “a foreign
school.”5 5 Punin also testified to the fact that Altman was appreciated at the
gatherings in Bruni’s apartment precisely for being freshly from “there”—i.e. the
other side—and, if not having rubbed shoulders with Picasso, at least rubbing
shoulders with his works.5 6 This combination of province and haute couture had
also served Exter and Bakst well, among others in Altman’s generation. It was a
point that Efros emphasized in his writing on the artist—that his Parisian education
complemented his provicial naivete well and brought out a kind of innate “finesse.”
Efros described Altman as “polished” in appearance and “European” in his
57
manner.”
Futurist Associations
Altman’s flirtation with Futurism in the years between 1913 and 1916 has
often been viewed as his defining characterstic. In a 1918 essay, Altman himself
asserted that Futurism should dictate the way of proletarian art. But his
5 4 See for example: n.a. “Demony i sovremennosf: mysli o frantsuzkoi zhivopisi.” Apollon 1-2
(1914), 64-75.
5 5 Lev Bruni. “Natan Altman.” Novyi zhumal dlia vsekh 4 (April 1915), 36-8.
5 6 Nikolai Punin. “Kvartira #5.” Typescript. ORTG f.4 n. 1568 p. 6.
5 7 Abram Efros. “Natan Al’tman.” [1922] In his Profili. M: Izd-vo Federatsiia, 1930, 256-7.
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46
understanding of the term “Futurism” here was rather broad, encompassing all he
deemed anti-academic, experimental and progressive.5 8 Writing in the 1930s
about pre-revolutionary culture, Ehrenburg classified Altman as a Futurist, along
with Malevich, Tatlin, and Rodchenko, but failed to elaborate on his relationship to
these artists. In later and post-Soviet times, some of Altman’s admirers have also
attached Altman to Futurism, but again, without specifying the extent of his
involvement with the movement. Kardzhiev, however, again voiced a note of
dissent, calling Altman an “accidental collaborator,” who in fact “participated in
the Futurist anthology only once.” 5 9
Altman’s actual involvement with Futurist circles indeed may have been
marginal, but it was far more than “accidental.” It bears certain logic and a
progression. As early as 1913, he associated with the St. Petersburg Futurist
cabaret “The Stray Dog,” which was renamed in 1916 as “The Comedians’
Bivouac” [Prival komediantov] 6 0 We see Altman in several group photographs
taken there in December 1913, together with Nikolai Burliuk, Vladimir Piast, Osip
Mandel’shtam, Riurik Ivnev, Nikolai Kul’bin, and others. Another photograph
taken at one of its evening events in March 1914 features Altman with Sergei
5 8 Altman, Natan. “Futurizm i proletarskoie iskusstvo.” Iskusstvo kommuny 1 (Dec 15 1918), 1.
5 9 Khardzhiev. Opus cited, 103. Khardzhiev is referring here to the “Jack of Diamonds” show of
November 1916.
6 0 The cabaret was also known as “Starcounter” PbciaomctJ. It was announced to open in March
1916: “Khronika.” Liubov ’ k trem apel ’ sinam: zhurnal Doktora Daportutto. Kniga 1 (1916), 98.
Its interior was designed by the architect I. Fomin, and its halls were painted by S. Sudeikin, B.
Grigor’ev, and A. Iakovlev. Sudeikin designed the set for its first production. The theater was
housed in the basement of a building that stands across the main square of the Russian Museum in
central St. Petersburg.
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47
Sudeikin, II’ia Zdanevich, Boris Grigor’ev, and others.6 1 Even more important
testimony to Altman’s Futurist affinity comes from two of his designs for the
cabaret’s 1916 productions of “Dance Macabre.” These two works present a
skeleton in elaborate costume and another with a flurry of red fabric. The works
are executed in a playful style with geometric patches of color arranged chaotically
around the dancing figure.6 2
Altman participated in the “0-10: The Last Futurist Exhibit” in December
1915, for which Kazemir Malevich came from Moscow.6 3 Altman briefly
cultivated his connection to the Moscow Avant-Garde when he exhibited at the last
“Jack of Diamonds” show of November 1916 alongside Malevich, David Burliuk,
and Ivan Pougny.6 4
Altman’s caricatures of Sudeikin, Akhmatova, Piast, Martiros Sar’ian,
Nikolai Roerich, and Konstatin Bal’mont also attest to the depth of his immersion
6 1 Benedikt Livshits. Polutoroglazyi strelets. L: Sov. Pisatel’, 1989 [1933]: unnumbered pages
between 544 and 545.
6 2 Altman’s two theatrical designs, which have not been reproduced, are stored at the Theatrical
Museum in St. Petersburg. Their dates have been set around 1916. This dating makes sense since
no production that included a “Dance Macabre”is mentioned in the study of the cabaret’s
performances from 1913 to 1915: Pamis, A. E. and R. D. Timen’chik. “Programmy ‘Brodiachei
Sobaki’.” Pamiatniki kul’ tury: novye otrkytiia. (L: Nauka, 1983), 16-257. In the context of the
cabaret, Altman may have also associated with Meyerhold, as has been alleged in: A. Korobtseva.
“Grigor’ev i ‘Prival Komediantov’.” Neva 3 (1988), 197-199.
6 3 Artists related to the show gathered in Lev Bruni’s apartment, and that frequenters of Bruni’s
apartment were also there, including Altman, Artur Lurie, Osip Mandelsham, Nikolai Balmont,
Mitrokhin, and Kliuev. Nina Gurianova. Exploring Color: Olga Rozanova and the Early Russian
Avant-Garde, 1910-1918. Trans. Charles Rougle. (Amsterdam: (B B Arts International, 2000),
161.
6 4 Khardzhiev. Opus cited, 133-4.
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48
in the Futurist milieu.6 5 The Russian genre of the caricature, or sharzh, assumes a
degree of familiarity with the subject.6 6 Altman inscribed his caricature of
Sudeikin in a way that clearly showed that he was fully immersed in the cabaret’s
life. The inscription reads: “He became famed for ‘entertaining young maidens’
and ‘inversing life’ ” This quote referred to two of Sudeikin’s productions in 1911
and 1912, and adequately characterized the atmosphere of the cabaret.6 7
Beginning in about 1915, Altman also spent time with a circle that met in
Lev Bruni’s flat, located on the grounds of the Academy of Arts. Among its
regulars were Osip Mandel’shtam, Vladimi Tatlin, Konstantin Bal’mont, Ivan
Pougny and Olga Rozanova. In his essay “Apartment No. 5,” Punin remembered
that Altman was well-liked for his personality but, as mentioned above, especially
prized for having an air of the “foreign”:
Among the regulars was Natan Altman, ‘who brought the school of a
foreign land,’ as Bruni wrote of him. Altman came to Petrograd directly
from Paris. Among us he was a person who just recently saw live the
work of the left French artists. [... ] He always brought with him the chaos
of life. He had a practical mind, but fanciful and happy. Altman did not
like drawn-out theoretical arguments and never joined any groupings,
preferring to answer for himself alone so as not to answer for others. He
6 5 Altman also made caricature of S. M. Volkonskii, P. P. Potemkin, N. M Minskii, and himself.
Some caricatures were printed in the magazines Satirikon and Novyi Satirikon from 1913 to about
1915. Also see reproductions in Binevich, E. “Tcatral’nye sharzhi Natana Altmana.” Teatr 3
(March 1985); and A. M. Konechnyi,. et al. “Artisticheskoe kabare ‘Prival Komediantov’.”
Pamiatniki ku 'tury (1988), 98-154. Vladimir A. Piast (b. 1886, nee Pestovskii), a close friend of the
poet Aleksander Blok, wrote about the 1910s in 1929, when Altman was already in emigration, and
he did not mention Altman: Vstrechi. Ed. by R. Timenchik. (M: Novoe literatumoe obozrenie,
1997 [1929]). I thank Ira Goodman for providing this information on Piast.
6 6 The term sharzh differs from the English ‘caricature’ in that is applies to a literary genre as well.
It denotes a comic mocking of an acquaintance or public figure without malicious intent and derives
from the French verb ‘charge,’ meaning to exaggerate or underscore.
6 7 Evgenii Binevich. “Teatral’nye sharzhi Natana Altmana.” Teatr 3 (March 1985), 108.
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49
had this characteristic gesture—to hold a cigarette holder with a cigarette
very low between the fingers; I always remember him with this gesture6 8
Punin described the social gatherings as always art-centered and intense,
especially in times of all-around deprivation:
Many people gathered in apartment No. 5; not everyone knew each other,
but they became acquainted; we listened to what the Moscow people had
to say. Besides us, who were always there, including Artur, Lur’e,
Altman, Tyrsa, Mandel’shtam, Nikolai Bruni, Mitrokhin, Kliuev,
Viach[islav] Voinov, Nikjolai] Bal’mont—that evening also came Puni,
Boguslovskaia, Rozanova, Tatlin, Kliun, Udal’tsova, Popova, Pestel’....
We gathered in Bruni’s studio, the large room with a window that looked
out at the corner of the 4th line of Vasilii Island and the bank of the Neva,
The apartment was situated in the Deliamotov building of the Academy of
Arts and belonged to the descendant of the overseer of the Academy
Museum, S. K. Isakov. (The Brunis were related to him, Briullov and
Petr Sokolov.) In this way [Lev] Bruni... inherited the academism of
both Briullov and F. Bruni and the realist art of Petr Sokolov, one of the
finer and livelier artists of the XIX century. Bruni was proud of grandpa
Sokolov; his watercolors always hung in the studio. Miturich constantly
reproached [Bruni] for “Pompey” and “The Bronze Serpent.” 6 9 P.
Miturich lived at Bruni’s; at one time they were students of
Samokish.. .Honesty and realism were synonymous for them both,
especially for Miturich.7 0
In 1916, it seemed to me, and probably to many of us, that life in
apartment No. 5 was more intense and full than in any other place. We
met there and shared our work and exchanged opinions. We followed
literature. We read articles, listened to poetry. We energized the lazy,
brought down those who became arrogant; we cared for one another and
learned about art.... We met there usually once a week, in the evenings,
drank tea, ate potatoes with salt, by the end of 1916 we brought our own
sugar and bread.... We loved our gatherings; we loved our art and
Punin. Opus cited, 6.
69 Petr Miturich—painter and printmaker (1887-1956)—A.O.
7 0 Punin. Opus cited, 2-3.
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50
jealously guarded it from one another. Those who know the value of art
understand what competition is 7 1
Other Artistic Spheres
The field of Altman’s artistic activity reached outside the domain of Futurist
culture. Altman took part in non-Futurist shows, like that of the Petrograd Society
at the Salon of Nadezhda Dobychina of 1914, to which he submitted some of his
earlier work.7 2 The same year, his contribution to an international printmaking
show in Leipzig was solicited by Sergei Makovskii (1877-1962), the editor of
Apollon. 7 3 In late 1916, Altman showed at Dobychina’s, again with Vasilli
Kandinskii, Robert Falk, and Marc Chagall.7 4 He also attended evenings at events
that were associated with the Stieglitz school.7 5
Altman’s association with Futurist circles lead to his assignment as an
instructor at Bemshtein’s school and studio in 1917. Mikhail Davidovich
Bernshtein (1875-1960) ran the school on Kazanskii Pereulok 33, across from the
Kazan Cathedral on Nevskii Prospect, together with the sculptor Leonid Shervud
7 1 Ibid, 1.
7 2 Altman showed a 1907 self-portrait, Woman on the Veranda, Young Girl’s Head, Six landscapes
from Brugge. Three Parisian landscapes, including La Ruche, and the Head of Jewish Youth.
Other participants included A. Benois, M. V. Dobuzhinskii, A. V. Miss, Z. E. Serebriakova, and A.
A. Exter. Vystavka kartin v pol ’ zu lazctreta deiatelei iskusstva. Khudozhestvennoe biuro N. E.
Dobychinoi. (P: n. p., 1914), 1.
7 3 Sergei Makovskii., ed., et al. Katalog russkogo otdela: Mezhdunarodnaia vystavkapechatnogo
deta i grafika v Leiptsig. (SP: Tipografiia Sirius, 1914), 187, 190.
7 4 V. P. Lapshin.. Khudozhestvennaia zhizn ’Moskvy i Petrograda v 1917gody. (M: Sovetskii
khudozhnik, 1983), 305.
7 5 V. P. Iarshetskaia, ed. “Rasskazy peterburgskogo gimanzista i vospominaniia M. D.
Tuberovskogo.” Lindt i sud’ by rta rubezhe vekov: Vospominaniia, dnevniki, p is’ ma, 1895-1925.
(SP: Liki Rossii, 2000), 130.
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51
(1871-1954).7 6 Although this school has not yet been studied, scattered bits of
evidence suggest it was, like Lev Bruni, both respectful toward 19th century
traditions as well as committed to experimentation. The school attracted artists
outside of the academy, including Solomon Iudovin, who studied there in the years
1910-1912, and Aleksander Benois, Petrov-Vodkin and Vladimir Tatlin, who
taught there periodically in the early 1910s.7 7
By the time Altman came on board in 1917, Bemtshein’s alignment with
modernism was already established. By 1912, students were coming to his school
from more conservative institutions for this very reason, as attested to by Nikolai
Lapshin. The young student Lapshin had been attending Ian Tsionglinskii’s studio
until Mikhail Le Dantiu told him about Bemshtein. Lapshin remembers that at that
moment, Le Dantiu wore a playful combination of a three-piece suit and a bright
green ribbon, and that he was reported to have dropped out of both the Academy
and Tsionglinskii’s studio. He spoke of his newfound inspiration in his
associations with “The Union of Youth,” Mikhail Larionov, Natalia Goncharova,
and Vladimir Tatlin. Le Dantiu also assured Lapshin that “no one could teach
drawing better than Bemshtein.” When the two friends showed Lapshin’s
1 6 Viazemskii. Opus cited. Bemshtein became a peripheral artist in the Soviet period and took his
own life in 1960. The claim of Shervud’s collaboration is made by Nikolai Lapshin in his 1941
autobiographical notes. “Tvorcheskii put’ khudozhnika Nikalaia Fedorovicha Lapshina.”
Manuscript. ARM f.144 n. 452 p. 39ff.
7 7 E. Gollerbakh and I. Ioffe. Iudovin. (L: Tipograflia Akademii Khudozhestv, 1928), 21. The
question of Tatlin’s teaching at Bemshtein’s studio in 1916-1917 has been discussed in detail in the
personal correspondence between the art historians Vladimir I. Kostin and Boris D. Suris. Letter
dated 25 April 1977. ARM f. 195 n. 108.
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52
drawings to Bernshtein, the latter judged them harshly but accepted Lapshin
nonetheless. His first experience of the school was a radical departure from his
earlier training:
After the ‘Romantic’ atmosphere of Tsionglinskii’s school, Bertnshtein’s
studio seemed somewhat strange to me. In painting, instead of depicting a
still life as it was, they painted using various different colors, revealing
shapes [ofiteMbi]. [Their canvasses depicted] some kind of heaped
vegetables, which in no way resembled ‘nature;’ and this was supposed to
be a study of forms and shapes? In drawing, they based themselves on
anatomy. Anatomical charts and a skeleton hung next to the model. As
an example for drawing, there hung framed reproductions from
Michelangelo’s “Creation of the World.” Many people worked, both
young and old. Some little Englishman.... And old and grey American
woman.... Sarra Lebedeva.. .. Lebedev. Kozlinski.... V.M.
Ermolaeva.... E. N. Turova... ,7 8 I was taken to be a serious student and
soon became something like his assistant.
Then the anatomical charts were put away... Bernshtein’s studio was
orderly. Bernshtein invited leading artists to give workshops. They
would propose a theme, and when the students would complete the
project, they would do a critique. While I was there, such themes were
given by Petrov-Vodkin, A. Benois, E. Lancere and others.7 9
We have additional information on Bemshtein’s studio from two letters
written in 1917 by the student-artist Aleksandra Sergeevna Brazhnikova (1889- ?)
7 8 Sarra D. Lebedeva (1892-1967), Vladimir V. Lebedev (1891-1967), Vladimir I. Kozlinskii (1891-
1967).
7 9 Kuz’ma Sergeevich Petrov-Vodkin (1878-1939), Alexander Benois (1870-1960), EvgeniiE.
Lansere (1875-1946); Lapshin’s notes are not dated. They are most likely to have been written in
1912, when he was working on his “Gypsie” series, which was shown at the “Target” exhibit In the
letter, he discussed the making of this series using the present tense. Bemshtein’s invitations of
November 1912 to A. Benois asking the latter to teach a course at the studio are found at QRTG f.
127 n. 711pp. 1-2.
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53
addressed to Evgeniia Konstantinova Evenbakh. In this correspondence,
Brazhnikova described the two weeks (starting on March 27, 1917) that she spent
working in the studio. She mentioned that Altman was replacing Bernshtein as an
instructor but that he rarely showed up; a fact that she barely lamented since she
felt that she had learned enough just by working with a model. Her report also
betrays something of the school’s atmosphere:
[T Jhese two weeks [in the studio] gave me much in terms of work and
spirit. Often I worked one-on-one with the model, which was quite
pleasant, and I worked in the way that I wanted. I dispensed with all kind
of styles [MaHepbi] and—in approaching the model from the point of
realism—I find that I made certain achievments. The instructor—
Altman—did not end up showing up even once the whole time. I don't
know what kind of a difference his presence would have made; it may
have added to or distracted from my work, but I don't regret at all that he
wasn't there. [In the studio] I met new people, such as I had never had the
chance to meet before, who live only through art and do not think about
anything else. Among them—several people with young energy
[n o p b m a M H ] and several who were strange and wild [ a h k h x ] , especially at
first glance, but interesting precisely because of their wildness and their
own kind of originality.... In these two weeks I forgot about everything
and lived only by my work from day to day. I experienced so much in
these fourteen days that they seemed like a month. It was a pity to leave
for good. The environment was such that everything that surrounded me
gave material for emotional work [nepe>KHiBaHHfi].8
Among those in Bernshtein’s studio, Ermolaeva, the Lebedevs, Kozlinskii,
Lapshin, and Le Dantiu may well have impressed Brazhnikova. For she mentions
them frequently in her letters.
8 0 ARM f. 203, op. 1, n. 106, p. 35.
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54
Poetic Associations
Besides being linked to wide artistic networks in the 1910s, Altman was
also friends with a number of poets and writers including Anna Akhmatova, Osip
Mandel’shtam, and Arnol’d Volkovskii. In the second half of the decade, he freely
associated with Vladimir Maiakovskii, Nikolai Avseev, and Il’ia Ehrenburg.
Mandel’shtam was said to have recited his eight-line poem about Altman a hundred
times in 1913 within the context of socializing at Lev Bruni’s apartment and the
Futurist cabaret.8 1
This here is the artist Altman
He’s a very old, old man
And in German the name Altman
Means a very old, old man
He’s an artist of the old school
He worked hard throughout his life
This is why he is not happy
Such a very old, old man.
3 to ecTb xyqoxcHHK AjibTMan,
OneHb CTapbin HenoBeK.
n o HeMenKH 3HaHHT AjIbTMaH—
OneHb CTapbiii nejiOBeK.
O h x y flo a c H H K c r a p b i H im c o jib i,
I J e jI b lH CBOH T pyflH JIC H B e x ,
8 1 Eto est' khudozhnik Altman,/ Ochen ’ staryi chelovek./Po nemetskii znachit Altman—/Ochen ’
staryi chelovek.// On khudozhnik staroi shkoly,/ Tselyi svoi trudilsia vek,/ Ottogo on nevesetyi,/
Ochen ’ staryi chelovek.
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55
Orroro o h He B ecejib ifl,
OneHb CTapbifi nejiOBeK.
Mandel’shtam pronounced the refrain with a false importance and a thick
Yiddish accent, /oshan stari shalovak/. This comic effect was exaggerated by the
irony of calling a non-Academic artist, influenced by Cezanne, Cubism, and
Futurism and at 23 years of age — “of the old school” and “old.” Mandel’shtam’s
ditty also touched on the issue of sadness, which was informed by the art-
historiographic perception of Jewish art as essentially melancholy, an issue to be
discussed in Chapter 3.
Altman also worked with several poets in the capacity of illustrator. In
1914, he provided minimalist prints for the cycle of works Solntsa potselui by the
late-stage Symbolist and second-rate poet Arnol’d Volkovskii. For the inside
illustration of this book, Altman re-used several of his flower motifs from Jewish
82
Graphics. Later, he produced a Realist pencil drawing to accompany
Maiakovksii’s poem “Verlaine and Cezanne.” It showed the two artists in a
Parisian cafe crowded with people, easels, and chairs.8 3 In 1924-1925, Altman
used post-revolutionary designs for Nikolai Avseev’s poem Krasnosheika and
continued book illustrations in later years.8 4
8 2 Amol’d Volkovskii. Soltnsta potselui. Illust. Natan Altman. (SP: s. p.), 1914.
8 3 Maiakovskii, V. Izbrannye stikhi. Ed. L. Iu. Brik. (M, L: Academia, 1936), 249, 475.
8 4 N. N. Aseev. Krasnosheika. Illust. Natan Altman. (L: Gos. Izd-vo, 1926).
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56
Of all his connections with the literary world, his link to Ana Akhmatova
would remain the most prominent in the minds of others, even though the poet
herself did not advertise their friendship. She never wrote about Altman nor asked
him to illustrate her work. In 1916, she merely noted: “I feel that our muses are
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friends.” And yet it is primarily through her portrait that Altman gained a
reputation for being a part of poetic circles. For example, in 1925 Gollerbakh
discussed Altman’s portrait as a parallel to Blok’s 1913 poem “Akhmatova,” the
rhythm of which (set into a four-foot trochaic meter) he described as a gypsy
walking across a floor sown with nails. Blok’s poetic voice or the ‘I’ in the
following verse is Akhtmatova’s:8 6
Not so scary, not so simple,
I am not so scary as to simply
Kill. Not so simple as to not
87
Know how scary life can be.
Another poetic parallel to the Akhmatova portrait has been drawn by
Altman’s acquaintance and art critic Aleksandr Kamenskii in 1978.8 8 He made the
8 5 Ginlio Einandi, ed. Zapisnye knizhki A m y Akhmatovoi (1958-1966). M-Torino: Rossiiskii
Gosudarstvennyi arkhiv literatury i iskusstva, 1996.
8 6 Gollerbakh drew correspondences between several portraits of Akhmatova and certain poets.
Thus he linked Petrov-Vodkin’s portait with Fedor Sologub; O. Della’s—with Mandel’shtam;
Natalia Dan’ko’s—with Mikhail Kuzmin. Gollerbakh, Erikh, ed. Obraz Akhmatovoi. Second
Edition. (L: n. p., 1925).
8 7 He c x p a n m a ii H e npocra a,/ R H e Tai< C T p an m a, ir r o o n p o c r o / Y6nBaT£>; H e t h k n p o c r a 9 t q 6
H e 3H aTh, K an a o o H b C T p an m a.
8 8 Aleksandr Kamenskii. “Obratnaia perspektiva.” In his Zasluzhennyi khudozhnik RSFSR Natan
Altman 1889-1970. Exhibition Catalogue. (M: Sovetskii khudozhnik, 1978), n.p.
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57
provocative claim that Altman’s 1914 portrait served as the basis for
Mandel’shtam’s poem “Akhmatova,” which was composed in the same year:
With a half-turn, oh sorrow,
You note the indifferent,
The imitation classical
Shawl turned to stone
Falling off a shoulder.
Ominous voice—bitter rhapsody—
Soul unchaining the womb;
Like Rachel, once, standing
An indignant Phaedra.8 9
Altman’s connections to poetic culture through social associations and in
his capacities as portraitist, caricaturist, and illustrator lend another layer to his
reputation as an artist. By virtue of his contact with poets, he had been made to
appear to have a poetic sensibility of his own. The strength of Altman’s poetic
reputation affected Vladimir Lapshin’s reading of paintings like “Petrokummuna”
(1919) and “Rossia-Trud” (1921), leading the historian to perhaps overstate the
“poetic principle” inherent in these pieces. Lapshin noted that these works display
a poetic sensibility that Altman must have acquired through his participation in,
among other places, the Cafe of Poets, established in Petrograd in late 1917.9 0 On
the other hand, the dearth of personal journals, an unelaborated style used in
8 9 Osip Manel’shtam. Complete Poetry o f Osip Emilevich Mandelstam. Trans. Burton Raffel and
AllaBurago. Introduced by Sydney Monas. (Albany: State U of New York P, 1973), 67.
9 0 V. P. Lapshin. Khudozhestvennaia zhizn ’ Moskvy i Petrograda v 1917 gody. M: Sovetskii
khudozhnik, 1983, 250.
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epistolary writing, and the terse nature of Altman’s few art-theoretical publications
suggest nothing more than a quotidian and practical approach to the word. Altman
was neither prolix nor especially appreciative of literature in general.
“Petrokommuna” and “Rossia-Trud” embody this lexical efficiency in that they
literally spell out their titles across the canvass. They assume that a single phrase
alone has the power to represent ideas when placed in the representational context
of painting. Conciseness has been discerned as a major aspect of his style by David
Arkin, who admired his “finished” quality [zakonchennost ’ ].9 1 Louis Lozowick
similarly noted his precision, and Kamensky—his “minted” manner
[chekannost’ ] 9 2
The Portrait of Anna Akhmatova and ‘World of Art’
With his portrait of Anna Akhmatova, Altman acquired instant fame. In his
remembrances, Nikolai Punin pointed out the sudden visibility that followed this
painting: “In 1915, at the same time as Lur’e’s portrait of Miturich, Altman sent his
Akhmatova portrait to the annual ‘World of Art’ show. Both works were
immediately recognized and garnered the support for our subsequent exhibitions.”9 3
9 1 Djavid] Arkin. “Natan Al’tman. Ocherk.” Krasnaia niva 42 (1927), 14.
9 2 Louis Lozowick. Modem Russian Art. (New York: Museum of Modern Art, Societe anonyme,
inc., 1925), 35-36; and his essay “The Art of Natan Altman.” The Menorah Journal 12 (1926), 61-
64; Kamenskii. Opus cited, fourth unnumbered page.
9 3 Petr Miturich (1887-1956)—artst; ORTG f. 4 n. 1568 p. 6. Before that, in 1913, Altman had
exhibited only “The Old Jew” with five World of Art group. (Gordon, Donald E. Modem Art
Exhibitions 1900-1916. Munich: Prestel, 1974, 754.)
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59
The artist V. Malashevskii also testified to the portrait’s overnight fame: “[The]
portrait... was known by everyone,” he wrote.9 4
Akhmatova’s own position was itself just on the border between fame
within salon culture and wider notoriety. The portrait captured her just in that
way—relaxed in an intimate poetic world, yet edgy, alert, and open to more
possibilities. Altman and Akhmatova had met in Paris in 1910, where she mingled
in artistic circles and posed for Modigliani.9 5 Later, around 1913 in St. Petersburg,
Altman encountered her in the Stray Dog Cabaret. He made several caricatures of
her during this period, and she remembered their modeling sessions lasting a long
time.9 6 These visual documents are the only evidence we have of their contact,
which is otherwise not mentioned in Akhmatova’s and Altman’s writings.
The portrait worked to shape Altman’s renown as a participator in salon
culture. In situating his subject, a salon personality herself, in a majestic
atmosphere, marked by a column and a natural landscape made up of crystals,
Altman fulfilled certain expectations of the World of Art group. The enchanted
forest in the background appealed to the taste for fantasy, the kind Morozov
9 4 Malashevskii, V. A. Vchera, pozavchera: Vospominaniia khudozhnika. L: (Sovetksii
khudozhnik, 1972), 87.
9 5 Akhamatova posed for a number of artists. After Modigliani in 1910 and Altman in 1914, the list
is as follows: O. L. Della-Vos-Kardovskaia in 1915; in 1922—S. A. Sorin, K. S. Petrov-Vodkin, I.
A. Tyrsa, A. S. Tyshler, G. S. Vereiskii, L. Bruni, Iu. Annenkov, Kruglikova; later—Smorgon,
Nemenova, Khardzhiev, Kogan, Dmitrii Bushen, and Osmerkin. Einandi. Opus cited, 602.
Although a certain solemnity can be traced in them all, it is hard to claim that Altman’s functioned
as an archetype, especially when dealing with a powerful personality like Akhmatova’s.
9 6 An undated caricature has been reproduced in Konechnyi, A. M. et al. “Artisticheskoe kabare
‘Prival Komediantov’.” Pamiatniki ku 'tury (1988), 98-154.
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60
appreciated in Maurice Denis’s “Psyche and Cupid,” for example, or the kind
evoked by Kandinskii’s flights into the imagined past. At the same time, Altman’s
measured use of Cubism was perceived to contain a promise to bring salon culture
out of a stylistic impasse. Aleksander Benois though the search for “style” in the
Akhmatova painting would help breathe new life into the World of Art. “Without a
doubt,” he wrote after seeing the portrait, “it is particularly in Altman we can find a
great stylist, one who has everything necessary for that—a persistent will, a
fanciful imagination, and particularly fine taste.”9 7
After showing at the World of Art exhibit in 1915 and the show of
Contemporary Russian Painting in 1916, the Akhmatova portrait was purchased by
the prominent collector Arkadii Rumanov.9 8 As Altman remembered more than
fifty years later, Rumanov paid a handsome sum for the piece.9 9 After the
Revolution, the portrait made its way into the collection of the Russian Museum.1 0 0
Even after much pre-Revolutionary and salon-associated art was rendered
illegitimate in the 1920s, Altman’s portrait held sway. It was chosen from among
9 7 A. N. Benois. “Vystavka sovremennoi russkoi zhivopisi.” Rech ’ . Dec 2 1916.
9 8 A lawyer, journalist, patron of the arts, collector, and bibliophile, Arkadii V. Rumanov (1878-
1960) was also a member of the Education League, the Society for Preservation of Artistic and
Ancient Monuments in Russia, and the Committee of the Imperial Society for the Encouragement of
the Arts. He was appointed director of the journal Niva in 1916 and one of the three directors of the
Company of the A.F. Marks Publishing and Printing Concern. After 1917, he emigrated first to
England and then to France. See E. Iakovleva. Paper Abstract. The First International Academic
and Practical Conference. ( SP: The Roerich Family Musuem, 2000).
9 9 As mentioned earlier, this information was solicited from Altman by Viazemskii in 1969. See the
Viazemskii file in RGALI f. 118 op.l n. 116 p. 56a, 62.
at the artist’s exhibition. See Viazemskii’s file of notes and clippings in In his notes from 1969,
Viazemskii recorded his conversation with Altman on the subject at the 1969 retrospective:
io° y p j'niazeva and I. N. Pruzhan. Portret v russkoi zhivopisi kontsa XlX-nachala XX veka.
Exhibition Catalogue. (L: Gosudarstvennyi Russkii Muzei, 1975), 19.
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61
others as the frontpiece to the 1923 edition of Akhmatova’s collection of poetry.'0 1
And in 1925, Gollerbakh extolled the portrait, echoing Benois’ attention to
Altman’s stylistic experimentation. Gollerbakh pointed out its way of combining
“psychologism” with “realism,” two favored terms rooted in the 19th century and
revived again by neo-classically minded early-Soviet critics. Gollerbakh wrote:
One has to recognize this remarkable portrait as one of the most
noteworthy of landmarks in the history of Russian art in general and in the
history of portraiture in part. It is interesting to juxtapose it with Serov’s
portrait of Ida Rubinshtein, to which it is close not only because of the
similarity of Akhmatova’s figure with the body o f ‘Great Ida,’ but also
because of a commonality in the approach to the problem: in both cases
we see a clearly manifest search for style. But while Serov in the given
instance exchanged his heartwrenching [myMHTejibHbiH] psychologism
for style, Altman was able to transmit something all-encompassing
[BceoGbeMjnomee]; his portrait is interesting as a phenomenon of style as
well as a phsychological experiment and finally simply as a document. In
his search for form, Altman, even with all his cubism, was able to remain
a realist and made a strong, firmly crafted [cKOjioueHHyio] object.
Emphatic thinness and angularity of the model are warmed by the thick
and vibrant color. The verisimilitude is not only of surface appearance
but also on a deep and intimate level. One unwillingly recalls
[Akhmatova’s] lines about “eyes that inintentionally beg forgiveness” and
“barely perceptible movement of the lips.1 0 2 [emphasis in original]
Moreover, Gollerbakh saw a Romantic kind of eeriness in the portrait. In
Hoffmanesque language, he told of his experience of seeing the portrait at the
Russian Museum one night after closing hours:
1 0 1 A. Akhmatova. Chetki: Stikhotvoreniia.. Ninth Edition. (Berlin: Petropolis and Alkonost,
1923).
1 0 2 E. Gollerbakh, ed. Obraz Akhmatovoi. Second Edition. (L: n. p., 1925), 7.
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I was walking through the unlit and empty halls accompanied by a night
watchman with a flashlight. In one of the rooms, his flashlight
illuminated Altman’s Akhmatova portrait; I stopped for half a minute, not
more, and the portrait once again retreated into the dark night. But what
remained from that momentary contemplation was immeasurably more
significant that a lengthy daytime rendezvous with this work.1 0 3
Later, the portrait still stood out as Altman’s greatest achievement for Gollerbakh.
In 1929 he singled it out as Altman’s most representative work.1 0 4
Some fifty years later, the Soviet historians Kniazeva and Pruzhan judged
the Akhtmatova portrait to be one of the most “all-encompasing and penetrative”
pieces in Altman’s oeuvre.1 0 5 According to them, Altman not only captured one of
20th -century Russia’s most intriguing cultural figures, but also helped to project her
persona as majestic. He transposed her into a fairy-tale kingdom imbued with the
dazzle of crystals and precious jewels. In Malashevskii’s description of the
portrait, its documentary and image-making functions are also taken as a given. He
commented: “[Akhmatova] wrapped herself in a large Persian scarf, holding its
comers with her hands, while her arms folded across her chest. All of this created
the impression of an escape into oneself.”1 0 6
1 0 4 E. Gollerbakh. “Puti noveishego iksusstva na zapade i u nas.” Vestnik znaniia 6.
Ezhcmesechnoe prilozhenie. (L, 1929), 324.
1 0 5 Kniazeva, et al. Opus cited, 113.
1 0 6 Malashevskii. Opus cited, 87.
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63
Part II: Unprecedented Power
At the Helm
The contrast between Altman’s Akhmatova portrait of 1914, resonating as it
did with the tastes of the cultural elite, and his work after 1917, which catered to
the imagined interests of the masses, could not be starker. After the Revolution, in
his capacities as both artist and administrator, Altman became a prominent
spokesman for a socialist-minded art. Louis Lozowick provided an apt description
of the transition: “By a peculiar conjunction of circumstances, the Russian
Futurists ... found themselves at the helm at the outbreak of the Revolution.”1 0 7
Altman’s position as the leader of the “Comfuturists,” as some of them would be
called, was a result of being at the right place at the right time and of hard
passionate work. Days after the taking of the Winter Palace, artists and writers
were called to assemble at the Smolny Institute, the center of the new Bolshevik
power. Altman was one of the few to show up, along with Aleksander Blok, Riurik
Ivnev, Vladimir Maiakovskii and Vsevolod Meyerhold.1 0 8 From this point
forward, Altman fulfilled various governmental and administrative duties. On
March 10 (23), 1917, he was elected along with K. Somov to head the painting
section of the Union of Artists, which in Jan 1918 would evolve into IZO, the Fine
1 0 7 Lozowick. “The Art of Natan Altman.” Opus cited, 63.
1 0 8 Lapshin. Opus cited, 235.
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64
Arts section of government, under the directorship of David Shterenberg.1 0 9 On the
next day, Altman joined L. Bruni, V. Voinov, I. Zdanevich, A. Karev, N. Punin,
K.L. Boguslavskaia, and V. Ermolaeva in a group working to preserve a
multilplicity of aesthetic styles.1 1 0 It seems they wanted to fend off accusations that
they were directing the course of art and excluding certain artists. In later
meetings, Altman insisted that his desire goal to welcome and encourage a wide
array of artists in the country’s new cultural program.1 1 1
In the following years, Altman designed book covers, stamps, monuments,
and china plates,1 1 2 drew up resolutions and staged revolutionary plays. He
decorated Uritskii Square, which had been part of the Imperial grounds and was
now made public, displaying the slogan that would enter into the Soviet lexicon of
rhetoric—“All land to the workers!” He organized an art exhibition in the former
Winter Palace that aimed to bring fine art to the level of the ordinary person.1 1 3 His
art, like the paintings “The Petrograd Commune” (1919) and “Russia-Labor”
1 0 9 Ibid, 90, 332; IZO was the abbreviation for the acronym IzoNarkomros—The Fine Arts
Department of the People’s Commissariat of Education [Otdel izobrozitel 'nykh iskusstv
Komissariata narodnogo prosvescheniia] head by Anatoli Lunacharskii. It was responsible for
directing the country’s fine art programs and was on the same level with MUZO and TEO, which
oversaw museums and theaters, respectively.
Ibid, 334.
1 1 1 Ibid, 335.
1 1 2 His china plates are listed in E. Gollerbakh and M. V. Farmakovskii, eds. Russkii
khudozhestvennyi farfor: sbornik statei o Gosudarstvennom farforovom zavode. (L: Gos. Izd-vo,
1924). Their photographs are reproduced in Lidia Andreeva. “La Porcelain d’agitprop.” Trans.
Ivan Mignot. In Hulten, Opus cited, 341. One plate features the slogan “Land to the People”
[Zemlia trudiashchimsia] and propagandizes mass education. It depicts a line of people entering a
library on the left, and on the right—a line of people coming out reading books.
1 1 3 Katalogpervoi gosudarstvennoi svobodnoi vystavki proizvedenii iskusstv. (P; IZO, Tsential’naia
tipografiia, 1919); Mfaksim], S[yrkin]. “Vseobshchaia khudozhestvennaia vystavka v Petiograde. ’’
Plamia 22 (1918), 360-361.
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65
(1921), became simpler and explicitly ideological, literally spelling symbolic words
and appealing to the peasant and worker. Finally, his high-level involvement with
the newly re-structured Academy of Arts, the magazine Art o f the Commune and
other emerging government organs put into motion his ideas about the need to
democratize the arts.
Altman’s appointment to a number of high posts was due in large part to his
congenial relationship with Anatolii Lunacharskii, the Commissar of Education and
Enlightenment. Like Lissitzky, Shterenberg, and many other Jewish artists who
were thrust into powerful positions during the cataclysmic first period of Soviet
rule, Altman abandoned most nationalist agendas. When he became head of IZO,
Altman’s responsibilities included realizing Lenin’s monumental propaganda plan
in Petrograd, the organization of the First Free State art show, and celebratory
decoration of the city .1 1 4
Altman’s heady affair with government power was not limited to
organizational matters. Between 1917 and 1919, his political commitment to the
new regime was evident in his attempt to make himself into the state’s first artist.
He vied to design the Soviet Union’s first official stamp and flag. Altman’s
drawings for the 1,3, 7, and 10 ruble stamps, featuring simple, black and white
1 1 4 RNB f. 1126 n. 66, “O moei rabote na dvortsovoi ploshchadi: k pervoi godovshchine oktiabr’skoi
revoliutsii, 1918.” Also see: M. Iu. Evseev. “O Petrogradskom otdele izobrazitel’nykh iskusstv
Komissariata narodnogo prosveshcheniia (1918-1921).” Sovetskoe iskusstvoznanie, Vyp. 23
(1988), 297-316.
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66
symbols—the sickle, a sheaf of wheat, and a tractor—were issued.1 1 5 Although his
design for the Soviet flag was ultimately rejected, it had been considered in the
final round of the selection process. From the summer of 1918 until the beginning
of 1919, Altman appeared to have been the winner.1 1 6 Altman himself claimed that
his flag design had been “approved.”1 1 7 In his 1971 masters thesis for the
Academy of Arts, N. A. Gofman claimed that Altman received the first prize for
the flag of the RSFSR.1 1 8 I. Rostovtseva’s article from the same year also
attributed the first official flag of the RSFSR to him.1 1 9 Altman evidently cherished
this historic event, having kept his design in his personal files. It featured the
1 1 5 Khardzhiev cited 1917 as the date when Altman made the state’s official stamps, while Guerman
noted it as 1918. N. I. Khardzhiev. Stat’ i ob avangarde. 2 Vols. (M: RA, 1997); Michael
Guerman. Art o f the October Revolution. (New York: Hariy N. Abrams Inc., 1979). The stamps
for the one-, three-, seven-, and ten-rubles were first published in Izobrazitel ’ noe iskusstvo: zhurnal
Otdela izobrazitel 'nykh iskusstv Komissariata narodnogo prosveshcheniia 1 (1919), 50-51.
1 1 6 The sequence of events is approximately as follows: On May 1s t 1918, a competition was
announced for the flag design. One month later, some of the submissions were reproduced in the
magazine Plamia (no. 7, 17 June 1918). These included drawings by I. Pougny, S. Chekhonin, and
S. Lebedev. On July 10 of that year, it was announced that a winner was chosen, but his name was
not revealed. (In 1968, the historian of early Soviet symbols Arii Usachev wrote to Altman upon
the former’s suspicion that Altman had actually been the winner in the flag design of 1918. See
letter in RNB f 1126 n 3 53 p. 1.) By the beginning of 1919, the final selection of Sergei
Chekhonin’s design became official.
1 1 7 Altman used this flag in his Uritskii Square decorations in 1918. In his description of this
project, he noted that that the Flag had been “approved” [utverzhden] at the Soviet Congress of July
1918. “Q moei rabote na dvortsovoi ploshadi; K Pervoi godovshchine Oktiabr’skoi revoliutsii
1918.” Typescript. RNB f 1126 n 66 p. 7. A newspaper account from September of that year also
corroborated this, reporting that “of all the projects of flag designs, Altman’s was approved
[odobren].” Izvestiia VTsIK 207/471 (24 Sept 1918).
1 1 8 N. A. Gofman. Obraz V I. Lenina v tvorchestve khudozhnikov N. I. A l’ tmana, /. I. Brodskogo,
L.O. Pastemaka, A. N. Mikhailovskogo (20-25gody). Thesis. (L: AkademiiaKhudozhestv. Institut
zhivopisi, skul’ptury i arkhitektuiy imeni I. E. Repina, 1971), 13.
1191 . Rostovtseva. “Uchastie khudozhnikov v organizatsii i provedenii prazdnikov 1 Maia i 7
Noiabria v Petrograde v 1918 godu.” In E. A. Speranskaia, ed. et al. Agitatsiomo-massavoe
iskusstvo pervykh let oktiabria: Materialy i issledovaniia. (M: Iskusstvo, 1971), 38.
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67
yellow letters RSFSR arranged in a rhombus formation at the top left corner against
a solid red background.1 2 0
In the academic year 1918-1919, Altman was asked to teach in what used to
be the Imperial Academy of Arts, to which he had had no hopes of being admitted
only a few years earlier.1 2 1 The structure of the Free State Studios or SVOMAS
was conceptualized to oppose exclusionary and elitist practices of the past. Anyone
who desired to study there in 1918 was admitted freely, and the first round of
faculty was voted in by the students themselves. In the elections held on
September 17, 1918, artists like K. Petrov-Vodkin, M. Matiushin, I. Gintsburg, and
I. Pougny received the largest number of votes.1 2 2 Students then signed up for the
studio of their choice.
In this democratic climate, Altman’s method of coming on board was an
aberration and revealed his priviledged status. Out of the sixteen instructors that
academic year, he was the only one besides Malevich (who would join SVOMAS
1 2 0 RNB f. 1126 n. 353 p. 4.
1 2 1 In the post-revolutionary years the former Academy was known by a series of different names
and acronyms. From April 1918, it was renamed the Free School of Art [Svobodnaia
Khudozhestvennaia Shkola], From August 1918to April 1921 it was called the Petrograd State Free
Artistic Educational Studios [Petrogradskie Gosudarsvennye Svobodnye Khudozhestvemye
Uchebnye Masterskie] but abbreviated variably as PGSKhUM, SkhUM and more commonly—
SVOMAS. For a month after that it was known again as the Academy of Arts; and from April 1921
to September 12 1922 it was called the Petrograd Higher State Artistic-Technical Studios
[Petrogradskie Vysshie Gosudarstvennye Khudozno-Tekhnicheskie Masterskie] or VKhUTEMAS;
from September 12 to August 8, 1924—the Petrograd Higher State Technical Institute
[Petrogradskii Vysshii Gosudarstvennyi Tekhnicheskii Institut or VKhUTEINJ; from August 8
1924 to April 19 1930—The Lenin Higher Art Institute [Leningradskii Vysshii Khudozhestvennyi
Insititut or LVKhTI] ; from April 19 1930 to M y 2 1932—the Institute of Proletariat Fine Art
[Insitut Proletarskogo Izobrazitel 'nogo Iskusstvo or INPII],
1 2 2 With 27 separate studios functioning, 664 students attended SVOMAS in the fall semester of
1918.
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in December) to be appointed rather than voted in. By October, Altman’s studio
was attended by thirty students, approaching the volume of studios of more
experienced instructors like Matiushin and Petrov-Vodkin.1 2 3 Among his students
were Maria Klever and M. Z. Levin (1896-1946).1 2 4 The latter would go on to
enjoy a minor career as a stage-designer in the Soviet theater, his work clearly
bearing the imprint of Altman’s own.1 2 5 As part of his functions in SVOMAS,
Altman took part in the Council of Education [yuebHbin CoBenr], along with L. N.
Benois, A. T. Matveev and Petrov-Vodkin.1 2 6
Meanwhile, from late December 1918 to October 1920, Altman also held an
influential position outside the SVOMAS. Along with V. Baranov-Rossine, A.
Karev, and A. Matveev, he served on the Committee of Works-Acquisition for the
Museum of Artistic Culture in St. Petersburg (now the Russian Museum). The
obvious conflict of interest—o f artists having the power to purchase their own
work—did not seem to be considered problematic, and the work of each committee
member was acquired as regularly as that of other contemporary artists.
1 2 3 NBA RAKh f. 7 n. 5 p. 32.
1 2 4 A. Serapina. Liudi i ud’ by na rubezhe vekov: vospominaniia, dnevniki, pis'ma (1895-1925).
(SP: Liki Rossii, 2000), 192-3. It is not clear if Maria Klever had any relation to Kh. Klever
(1850-1924), the landscape artist from Vitebsk. The latter is mentioned in G. Kazovskii, G. leguda
pen i ego ucheniki. Series: Shedevry evreiskogo iskusstva. (M: Image, 1993, 26); or to another of
Altman's students, Oskar Iul’evich Klever, from whom Altman signed a military release form in
1918. NBA RAKh f. 7 op. 1 n, 41 p. 5.
1 2 5 E. Gollerbakh. “M. Z. Levin.” Krasnaia gazeta (L). Vech. Vyp. 303/1973 (2 November 1928),
4. For reproductions of Levin’s theatrical work see: L. Oves. “ Vozvrashchenie iz proshlogo o
tvorchestve M. Levina.” Teatr 3 (March 1985), 143-146.
1 2 6 NBA RAKh f.7 n. 32 pp. 1-2; n. 33 pp. 1-111 passim; n. p. 3.
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In December 1918, seven of Altman’s pieces were bought for a total of
35,000 rubles. These seven pieces were: 1) “Head [of a Jewish Youth]”, 2) “Still-
Life,” 3) “The Woman at the Piano,” 4) “Brugge” 5) “Chair and Bottle,”
6)”Landscape with Trees,” and 7) “Self-Portrait.”1 2 7 A year later, his paintings
“Realism N l” and “Realism N2” were acquired for 30,000 rubles each.1 2 8
The documents from the meetings show that the committee deliberated over
their purchases with care and aimed to include a broad spectrum of artists. When
AJtman was still serving on the committee, the Museum purchased numerous
works by Pavel Filonov, David Burliuk, Aleskander Benois, and Sergei Sudeikin,
and single pieces from Kuz’ma Petrov-Vodkin, Marc Chagall, Nikolai Tyrsa, Petr
Miturich, and Mstislav Dobuzhinskii.1 2 9 As noted, being on the acquisitions
committee allowed artists to purchase their own work as well as those of their
friends. As it grew (in February the committee would include Kazimir Malevich,
David Shterenberg, and Lev Rudnev, and in July—Nikolai Punin and later Nikolai
Tyrsa, the potential for the abuse of power became more evident.1 3 0
1 2 7 RGALI f. 244, op. 1, n. 1, pp. 5-6. (Minutes from December 13, 1918.) The same day the
committee also decided to pay comparable sums for works by Korev, Baronov-Rossine, and
Matveev, Shkol’nik, and Meshchanikov. Ibid, pp. 7-34.
1 2 8 Ibid, pp 49-57.
1 2 9 Ibid, pp. 35-45 (Minutes from February 3, 1919).
1 3 0 For a discussion of this issue of such conflicts see the Lissitzky chapters in Victor Margolin. The
Struggle for Utopia. Rodchenko, Lissitsky, Moholy-Nagy. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1997.
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70
Uritskii Square
Altman’s Uritskii Square decorations to celebrate the one-year anniversary
of the October revolution boosted his visibility.1 3 1 This project merged political
demonstration with performance art and enacted Maiakovksii’s verse, “Let the
streets become our brushes; and the squares—our palettes.”1 3 2 It precipitated the
decoration of the city on other occasions—“May First,” “The Day of the Paris
Commune” and “October Days” in the years to come. Artists of various
backgrounds, including Kseniia Boguslavskaia (1882-1972) and Vladimir Baranov-
Rossine were involved in their planning and execution. The contemporary
Bolshevik critic Boris Arvatov, in his 1922 article “Theater as Production,”
recognized Altman’s method of staging as the prototype for what he advocated as
an “agitational” theater, which incites the viewer to direct action rather than mere
contemplation. A. M. Gan, in his article of the same year, “The Struggle for Mass
Action,” saw in street decorations of this kind and other mass spectacles an
alternative to professional theater.1 3 3
1 3 1 Altman was asked to decorate Uritskii Square by David Shterenberg, then head of the fine arts
section of IZO Narkompors. Shterenberg had also asked him to participate in the May-Day
decorations of that year along with N. Punin, O. Brik, and A. Karev. M. P. Lazarev. David
Shterenberg: Khudozhnik i vremia, p u t' khudozhnika. (M: Galaktika, 1992), 154.
1 3 2 See these in Vladimir Tolstoy. Street Art o f the Revolotion. Festivals and Celebrations in
Russia, 1918-1933. (London: Thames and Hudson, 1990); and James Von Geldem. Bolshevik
Festivals, 1917-1920. (Berkeley: U of California P, 1993).
1 3 3 See review of Arvatov’s article “Teatr kak proizvodstvo” and A. M. Gan’s “Bor’ ba za massovoe
deistvo” in “Al’manakh o teatre.” Reviews. Avangard 3 (Sept 1922), 81.
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Out of the many ritualized artistic events to mark the transformation of
royal land into public property, Altman’s decoration of Uritskii Square was one of
the most important.1 3 4 The Palace Square [Dvortsovaia ploshad’ ] borders the
former Hermitage and the building of the General Staff [Glav-shab] and is flanked
by the Marsian Fields on one side and the Neva River on the other. Its location
made it ripe with symbolic potency since it represented the old regime as well as
comprised the city’s largest open space. Altman installed lights around the column
in the square’s center, which made for an especially dramatic impression. One
observer described what she saw in cataclysmic terms: “It seemed that a bonfire
blazed at the foot of the column; [and at night] a fire dragon was choking the core
of the city in its embrace; and it was just about to reach the saving angel [on top of
the column].”1 3 5
Altman’s 1918 description of the Uritskii project contained a decidedly self-
promoting aspect. Broadening the definition of his work from “decoration” to
“transformation,” he underlined its significance as a symbolic break with the past.
In noting that he chose the slogans, Altman highlighted his role in establishing a
standard of political discourse in art. He characterized himself as an autonomous
and non-conforming leader who “had to do some fighting” to get his way :
1 3 4 A. S. Gushchin. Khudozhestvennye oformleniia massovykh prazdnikov 1918-1931 vLeningrade.
M, L: OGIZ-IZOGIZ, 1932.
1 3 5 E. M. Ivanova. Shestoe chuvstvo: kniga dlia chteniia po istorii i kul ’ tury Petrograda. (SP:
Beloe i chernoe, 1997), 43.
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I set myself the challenge to change the look of the square as history
had determined it and to transform it into a place where revolutionary
people come to celebrate their victory. I did not intend to decorate it.
Rastrelli and Rossi’s creations were not in need of that.1 3 6 I wanted to
oppose the beauty of Imperial Russia to the new beauty of the victorious
people. I was not seeking harmony with the old—but a contrast,
opposition to it. I placed my constructions not on the buildings but in
between them, where the streets flowed into the square.
My constructions were firm planes of various sizes and shapes of
different colors of the spectrum. They were placed on the level of the roof
next to the building standing there. Huge flags were attached to them and
descended all the way to the ground. They were numerous and were of
different colors. The project that I carried out for the new government
flag and that was confirmed at the Fifth [sic] Soviet Congress in July 1918
served as the prototype for these flags. In distinction from the
Government flag, there were, beside emblems, slogans on the flags, and
they were of not only red. I had to do some fighting before I was able to
break the monopoly o f the color red and win the right to use all colors o f
the spectrum at the celebrations. I chose all the slogans.
I only put up three posters in front of the buildings. One I put in
front of the gates of the Winter Palace. It had on it a picture of a
workman who spread out a canvas diagonally across that read “The one
who was nothing will become everything.” The two others were placed
on the half circles of the Building of the General Staff. One depicted a
peasant and another a workman with respective slogans “Land to the
workers” and “Factories to the workers.”
In the center o f the square around the column there was a tribune
with four lanterns around it. This was a tall scaffold with stairs on four
sides. The lanterns were locked into four huge red cubes. At night they
were lit up. They leaned into one another at the corners. At the very
column there was a construction that recalled the flares of a fire that
soared upwards. The hard planes from which it was built were colored
different shades of yellow, orange, and red.
In those years there was an alley planted with trees. In October
there were already no leaves left on the trees. I constructed three-
dimensional shapes on the branches and covered them with green fabric,
and the trees again bloomed green. Along the background of the
1 3 6 Varfolomei Varfolomeevich Rastrelli (ca. 1700-1771) and Karl Ivanovich Rossi (1775-1849)—
famed St. Petersburg architects whose buildings surround Uritskii Square.
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greenery, a slogan made from cut-out letters was stretched. It read:
“Workers of the world—unite!1 3 7 [emphasis in original]
The slogans that Altman painted at Uritskii Square were imbued with the
power of the people’s will; they would change the look of history, he believed.
Five decades later, Altman recalled these ideals as part of his apologetic for the first
generation of Communists. In a 1968 commemoration of the life achievement of
his IZO colleague Nikolai Punin, Altman countered the prevailing skepticism with
which the early Communist artists were viewed. They were not power-hungry and
corrupt, he insisted. He counted Punin and himself specifically as part of the
“intelligentsia” who worked to democraticize the arts, saying:
At the calling of the Soviet government to collaboration, the intelligentsia
responded not with sabotage but with action. We worked with all the
energy of youth.... We believed in the bright future of humanity.... We
believed that we were right.1 3 8
These two moments—in 1918 and 1968—frame Altman’s political position
with regard to the Soviet regime. Like many Jewish cultural figures who had
believed in the promise of the Revolution, Amtan had supported it ardently.
Despite his disillusionment with Russia’s cultural development in the 1920s, he did
not articulate a disavowal of his ideology. Athough his second emigration to
1 3 7 RNB f. 1126 n. 66 p. 1-11.
1 3 8 RNB f. 1126 n. 154 p. 1.
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France in 1928 can be construed as a kind of retraction of of Soviet alliegance.
Still, the last four decades of his career represent an overall quiet acquiescence.
This unwavering public stance marks a contrast to his pre-revolutionary attempt to
avoid aligning himself politically in a clearly discernable way.
The Peak of Political Power
Having been catapulted into an extraordinary position of authority in IZO in
1918, Altman used it to organize the First Free State Exhibition of Art, which
demonstrated a new, more democratic philosophy of art, and to help launch the
magazine Visual Art [Izobrazitel"noe iskusstvo], a forum for theoretical discussion.
The First Free State Exhibition took place in the Palace of the Arts, formerly the
Hermitage of the Winter Palace. The ideas behind this exhibition were idealistic in
reverse proportion to the actual means available for their implementation. The
most basic materials, like nails, wood, and canvas were in short supply. During set
up, temperatures inside the building plummeted to 12 degrees below zero Celsius
and when the exhibit actually opened, visitors walked around its halls without
taking off their fur coats.1 3 9 But these conditions of scarcity only highlighted the
historical imperative behind the show as a broad-based, non-competitive, ultra-
democratic forum for artists.
1 3 9 Katalogpervoi gosudarstvennoi svobodnoi vystavki proizvedenii iskusstv. ( P: IZO [Tsentral’naia
tipografiia], 1919), 7; and , Lazar’ Vladimirovich RozentaF. “Iz vospominanii.” Typescript. RNB
f. 1126 op. 2 n. 16 p. 4.
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As the preface to the catalogue declared, the First Free State Exhibition
inaugurated an era of freedom for the artist since he or she was no longer dependent
on market demands. With the State as the new sponsor of all art, there would no
longer be a need for individual artists and groups to compete. To emphasize this
agenda of non-competition, the organizers of the show went against the usual
procedure of using a jury to pick the best pieces. It dispensed with juries
altogether, explaining in its catalogue that in this respect, it took inspiration from
the Salon des Independants, a kind of model for rebellion against art-establishment
practices.
The First Free State Exhibition defied the use of “standards,” accepting
submissions from non-professional artists alike and displaying a total of 2,000
pieces. The point was to make art “accessible to the workers” and “to make
everyone feel like a creator, whether he is a professional artist or a laborer who
allocates his left-over free time for art.”1 4 0 They grouped works together in certain
halls according to “influence” father than to chronology so as to “teach to see—
beyond distinctions between one group and another—that commonality that unites
all true art and that places the sign “=” between the XIV and the XX centuries:
between the icon and Suprematism.”1 4 1 This kind of discourse evidenced the
imprint of Malevich’s more radical theories, some of which were published in
Visual Art. Malevich suggested that curators think of museum or gallery walls as
1 4 0 Katalog. Opus cited, 3.
1 4 1 Ibid, 4.
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canvasses and organize the paintings according to the “axes of color and space,”
proposing one sequence of rooms as an example: “Icons, Cubism, Suprematism,
Classicism, Futurism ”1 4 2
The magazine Visual Art provided a forum for a discussion of such
theories.1 4 3 There was great disparity in much of the writing between idealistic
ambition and the effectiveness with which they were articulated. The column
“From the Editors” put forth its mission statement in the form of undeveloped
maxims about working class consciousness, distance from the past, classless
society, the need for innovation, and other aspects of “the new world view.”
A conceptual tangle emerged around the issue of the artist’s relationship to
“reality” in a way that rehashed 19th-century aesthetic theories on the subject.
Altman and David Shterenberg and other editors of Visual Art tried to equate
“reality” with the everyday life of the worker and decreed the exclusive reign of a
visual culture that was steeped in this: “Only a world that is presented realistically
can give material for our artistic knowledge.”1 4 4 Apparently Visual Art saw no
inconsistency between its call for “realism” and its reproductions of Suprematist
and non-objective art, indicating that it meant by the term something altogether
different than the populists, for whom “realism” necessarily involved precise
1 4 2 K. Malevich. “Nashi zadachi.” Izobrazitel'noe iskusstvo I (1919), 27.
1 4 3 Visual Art was a continuation of Art o f the Commune [Iskusstvo kommuny] (1918-1919), which
had involved some of the same writers, like Nikolai Punin, who made the vehement call to “to blow
up, destroy and wipe old artistic forms from the face of the earth. ” Iskusstvo kommuny 1 (Dec 7,
1918. Altman had been participated marginally in Art of the Commune as well.
1 4 4 Izobrazitel 'noe iskusstvo I (1919), 5.
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documentation of the objective world. But the magazine, in its haste to lay out a
complex of raw ideas, did not make this distinction clear.
Aside from these contradictions, Visual Art operated with a Marxist premise
that the emergence of a new artistic culture (i.e. the “superstructure”) must
necessarily follow the change in the social order (i.e. the “base”). Accordingly, the
unprecedented erasure of classes in Russia would bring forth an understanding and
a production of “beauty” that radically differed from anything the world had ever
seen. The magazine’s role, then, was to facilitate and track the materialization of
this change. It indicated the anticipated orientation of art with its choice of
reproductions. The first issue included D. Shterenberg’s collage design with a
slogan celebrating Soviet rule, Matveev’s bust of Karl Marx, A. Karev’s 1916
“Easel Art,” Altman’s 1918 “Color Volumes and Planes,” Tatlin’s 1913 primitivist
“Fisherman,” Rozanova’s 1916 Suprematist composition, and Tatlin’s “Board
Number 1 While the first two expressed commitment to Marxism and the new
government, the rest consciously commented on or undid “old bourgeois art.”1 4 5 N.
Puni’s article “Art and the Proletariat” elaborated on the Marxist formula that the
base determines the superstructure.1 4 6 K. Malevich contributed his more
extravagant directives to the future. His essay “Our Goals” prescribed the
following: “1) war on academism, 2) [instituting] a directorship made up of
1 4 5 Ibid, 3, 5, 13, 15, 19, 21, 23.
1 4 6 Ibid, 6.
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78
innovators, [and] 3) the establishment of a world collective of artistic affairs.”1 4 7
V. Solov’ev provided an invective against the World of Art on the grounds that its
theatrical artists treated set design like painting and ignored problems of space on
the stage. He called on up-and-coming designers to study props, costume, and
lighting.1 4 8 Kandinskii’s article “On Scenic Composition,” excerpted from the
1912 almanac Der Blaue Reiter, served as a pair to Solov’ev’s, but seemed out of
place with its metaphysical constructs and emotionalism.
The failure to iron out the theoretical contradictions of Visual Art is
symptomatic of the conditions under which it was produced: haste and inexperience
combined with inflated idealism.1 4 9 The magazine was abandoned after one issue,
illustrating the idea expressed therein by Osip Brik that “[superfluous discussions
interfere with work.”1 5 0 The magazine’s folding in 1919 marked the end of a period
in Altman’s life in which he enjoyed power on the highest level of Soviet cultural
administration.
At the end of 1919, Altman moved to Moscow, which the Soviets made
Russia’s new capital. In his relocation, Altman followed, as it were, the shift of the
regime’s center of power. His ambitions became concentrated more exclusively on
his artistic practice, including his Constructivist stage designs for Moscow’s two
Jewish theaters. After 1922, his theatric decoration declined qualitatively and
1 4 7 Ibid, 27.
1 4 8 Ibid, 36-38.
1 4 9 The magazine was well funded. It used a multi-tone printing process for its cover and the high-
quality paper, unusual features in the thrifty civil war years.
1 5 0 Ibid, 26.
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quantitatively as his commitment to Soviet politics became more ambiguous,
leading finally to his return to France in 1928. This schematic outline of his
biography as the background to his Jewish works of the 1910s reveals a pattern of
Altman moving in tandem with the lime light. As an ever-present factor in his
early career, one that earned him the reputation of fashionability, this desire to stay
central provides an important factor in considering the impetus behind Altman’s
Jewish art.
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Chapter 2
Jewish Art Historiography in Russia in the 1910s
Ambition was a key factor in Altman’s decision to participate in sphere of
Jewish art. He was doubtedlessly aware that the desire for a modern Russian
Jewish art was ripe, even if the idea was only “in the air” and had not been
practically realized. The timing of Altman’s Jewish works coincided with a serious
theoretical interrogation of the premise that Jewish culture was antithetical to the
practice of making images. This challenge to prevalent art critical assumptions
facilitated the formation of a discourse that both glorified and disparaged Jewish
national elements in art. The debate on this issue provides a context in which to
better understand Altman’s Jewish interests. Critics who posited Jewish art as a
historical category generated constructs that Altman would rely on in the creation
of his Jewish style. They included the notion of the special melancholy of Jewish
culture, the natural embededness of Jewish art in folk-art traditions, and its Eastern
character.
Toward a “Jewish A rt”
The late 19th century critic Vladimir Stasov (1824-1906) made the initial
case for positing a Russian-Jewish art. As a supporter of the Wanderers, a group
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81
of Russian artists with a nationalist-populist outlook and its attendant socio
political critique, Stasov understood art’s function in raising the cultural
appreciation of the “simple people.” Within this framework, he saw Jews as
members of the “downtrodden” and believed that recognizing their achievements in
art would improve their lot in life. Stasov articulated his vision by utilizing
Romantic language describing the depth of the Jewish people’s soul. This language
echoed discourse on the Russian “folk” as developed by the famous critic Vissarion
Belinsky (1811-1848) and based in German Romanticism.
At a time when art criticism asserted not only its analytical function but also
a prescriptive power, Stasov had both a theoretical and practical impact. Stasov
was friends with the Russian Jewish sculptor Mark Antokolskii, who would later be
hailed as the father of Jewish Sculpture.1 In his letters to the artist, Stasov tried to
persuade Antokol’skii that the Jews were “his” people and that he should address
their history in his art, group together his Jewish works as a series, and present
himself as a Jewish artist. The critic even attacked Antokol’skii for shedding his
original name Mordechai. “What have you in common with ‘Mark’? Certainly
nothing.... Where is your national pride in being a Jew? You should forget ‘Mark’
and become proud of your ancient forefather Mordechai.”2
1 See such refemces to Antokol’skii in Il’ia Gintsburg. “Skul’ptura i kul’tumye zadachi evreev.”
Evreiskii mir 1 (Jan 1909), 123-8; and Karl Schwarz Jewish Artists o f the 19th and 2(fh Centuries.
(New York: The Philosophical Library, 1949).
2 Cited in Avram Kampf. Jewish Experience in the Art of the 20th Century. (South Hadley, Mass.:
Bergin and Garvey, 1984), 165, fii 7. See Stasov’s complete letters to Antokol’skii in Stasov, V. V.,
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In 1886, Stasov and Baron David G. Ginzburg published pages from ancient
Jewish religious manuscripts in a luxurious album entitled Hebrew Ornament,3
This collection reproduced illuminated pages of texts from 9th century Syria, 10th
century Palestine, 11th century Cairo, and 14th century North Africa, some of which
were kept in the Imperial Library in St. Petersburg and in the National Library in
Paris. These illuminations were exclusively abstract, featuring no human or
animal forms.4 In his introduction, Ginzburg outlined the relevant literature on
these and other such manuscripts, demonstrating his erudition on the subject. He
detailed the process of dating the works based on stylistic analysis of the Hebrew
letter. Without addressing the issue of figuration, he considered such a collection
as positive proof of the existence of a distinctly Jewish artistic tradition.5
ed. Mark Matveevich Antokol ’ skii: ego zhizn’ , tvoreniia, p is ’ ma, i stat’ i. (SP,M: Izdanie T-va M.
O. Vol’f, 1905).
3 Gunzburg [Ginzburg], D. and V. Stassof [Stasov]. L 'Ornament Hebrue. (Berlin: S. Calvary &
Co., 1905). This edition includes Ginzburg’s introductory essay “Avant-Propos,” which accounts
for each plate. Original Russian edition—Drevne-evreiskii ornament po rukopisiam
[Ornementation des anciens manuscripts hebreux de la Bibliotheque Imperiale Publique de Saint
Petersbourg]. (SP: Gunzbourg, 1886). A mention of a 1907 French edition is made in Elisheva
Revel-Neher. “Jewish Art Without a Question Mark.” In Matthew Baigell and Milly Heyd, eds.
Complex Identities: Jewish Consciousness and Modern Art. (New Brunswick: Rutgers UP, 2001),
12-33.
4 See this description in Margoliowth, George. “Hebrew Illuminated Manuscripts: L ’ Omement
Hebraique par D. Ginzburg et V. Stassoff. The Jewish Quarterly Review 18, 20 (London, 1906,
1908), 761-7.
5 Among the literature Ginzburg cites are: M. Gaster. Hebrew Illuminated Bibles of the IXth and
Xth Cenuries. (London, 1901); D. H. Miller and Schlosser, eds. Sarajevo Haggada. (London,
1843-1845); Silvestre. Facsimile de la Bible de Bologne Paleographie Universelle. (n..p, n.p.,
1850). Stein Schneider. Catalogue de Berlin Paleographic Society o f England. (Berlin, 1878).
The prints here are based on the collection of Abraham Firkovich (b. Lutsk, Volkhyn’e, 1780). He
was an archeologist who created Semitic paleography and put together a Hebrew library. He lived
in Odessa, Oxford, and St. Petersburg and published on the subjects of Jews and Syrians. He
traveled extensively—to Crimea in 1839 (Le Roc de Juifs), the Caucases 1840, and Egypt,
Palestine, Mesopotamia.
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Stasov and Ginzburg’s work influenced II’ia Gintsburg (1859-1939) in his
efforts to galvanize a new generation of Jewish artists around Jewish art in the
courses at the Imperial Academy and in his leadership in the Jewish Society for the
Encouragement of the Arts. Gintsburg may have even modeled his patronizing
endeavors on those of Stasov and Ginzburg. In his autobiography, Gintsburg
fondly recalled Ginzburg looking for and nurturing young talent. He said about a
certain prodigy: “[I] found a boy, amazingly talented, a Jew, of course—this tribe
is the most talented; he writes marvelous poetry, but he is weak, sick, and he eats
badly; he needs to be helped.”6
It has been noted by Avram Kampf and others that Hebrew Ornament
(probably the 1905 French edition) inspired the calligraphy in Altman’s Prints and
that of Lissitzky’s Jewish work of the 1920s. These observations bear themselves
out especially in Altman’s case. His use of gold as a dominant color, the Hebrew
letter as the centrality of the design, the intricate organic fauna patters, the
imprecision of the line, imperfect circles, and perhaps even iconographic elements
like candles and utensils suggest a familiarity with the book. It can be said with
fair certainty that by 1915 and 1916, Altman was familiar with the 1905 edition
since he had access to the work in the library of the Jewish Society of
Encouragment of the Arts.7 The book’s publication was widely advertised.8
6 Il'ia Gintsburg. Izproshlogo: Vospominaniia. (L: Gos. Izd-vo, 1924), 129.
7 The price for the 1905 edition was approximately 75 rubles. Considering that Chagall’s monthly
stipend was 10 rubles, this is a considerable sum for individual artists to pay.
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84
Positing a “Jewish Art ”
The emergence of a significant number of successful Jewish artists in the
1900s precipitated a change in critical attitudes. Jewish presence in the fine arts
could no longer be discounted as incidental and rare. Many artists had launched
their careers in the high or non-utilitarian arts, most notably in France, and were
beginning to gain recognition. Other events were also unprecedented. The Jewish
art school founded in Jerusalem in 1906 was able to expand its program throughout
Europe and Russia in 1911. The virtually unknown Jewish artist Abram
Manevich, who was originally from the Ukraine and had minimal artistic
credentials other than his informal European education, was able to put on a one-
man show in N. E. Dobychina’s gallery, one of the central exhibition halls in
Petrograd.9 In the same year, over sixty Jewish artists were able to display their
work collectively under the banner of “Jewish art.”1 0
Critics responded to the changes. Some, like Maksim Syrkin and Il’ia
Ginsburg, took an uncompromising nationalist position, making blanket
declarations that “Jewish art” exists, has always existed, and should continue to
8 See, for example, the letter of an artist from Baku by the name of I. Oris to the Jewish Society for
the Encouragement of the Arts inquiring about the book in Alina Orlov. “K istorii Evreiskogo
Obshchestva pooshchreniia khudozhestv, 1915-1919.” Ezhegodnik evreiskogo muzeia. (SP) Edited
by Viktor Kel’ner. Forthcoming.
9 Personal ’ naia vystavka kartin i etiudov Manevicha. Katalog. (P: Khudozhestvennoe Biuro N. E.
Dobychinoi), 1916. This is a list of lOOworks with 7 reproductions.
1 0 Katalog vystavki kartin chlenov obshchestva. (P: Evreiskoie obshchestvo pooshreniia
khudozhestv, 1916).
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exist. Both Syrkin and Iakov Tugendkhol’d hailed Chagall and Altman as symbols
of a new Jewish movement. In his 1916 article on Chagall in Apollon, for example,
Tugendkhol’d argued that a certain Jewish spirit emanated from Chagall’s art.
“That which on another level would seem strange [in Chagall’s work] is explained
by [his] national-Semitic origins.”1 1 Others were more apprehensive, maintaining a
negative stance on Jewish art as an historical movement and/or theoretical
framework.
With all of Stasov’s efforts to will Jewish art into being an accepted field of
study, he admitted feeling hard-pressed to prove the existence of its practice in
Russia. As he saw it, the Jewish nation could and should follow the model of the
Wanderers in creating art for and about their own people, but by the close of the
19th century, they had not yet succeeded. If his publication of Hebrew Ornament
attempted to establish the existence of Jewish visual culture in the distant past, he
faced a seeming scarcity of resources with regard to modern history. He said as
much when he lamented the disparity in Western modem art between the number
of times the Jew is depicted and when he himself is making the art.1 2 Stasov’s
model of modem Jewish art history assumed the predominance of absence. Rare
geniuses emerged sporadically, marking the gap of tradition rather than forming a
1 1 la. Tugendkhol’d. “Mark Shagal.” Apo//o« 2 (1916), 12. Tugendkhol’s repeated his statement in
his later essay “Khudozhnik Mark Shagal.” In his and A. Effos’ Iskusstvo Marka Shagala. (M :
Gelikon, 1918). [An excerpted translation in Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum. Marc Chagttl
and the Jewish Theater. (New York: Guggenheim Museum, 1992), 139-143.]
1 2 See Stasov’s essay in his and David Gunzburg [Ginzburg], D. L Ornament H6brue. Reprint.
(Leipzig: Karl W. Hiersemann, 1920) [Berlin: Calvary, 1905].
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line of continuity. For him, Mark Antokol’skii represented an isolated case of
Jewish artistic potential and therefore merited the critic’s exclusive attention.
This model of Jewish visual history, as a vast emptiness occasionally
interrupted by moments of extraordinary spirituality, was implicitly invoked in a
1900 obituary article on Isaac Levitan in the anti-Semitic newspaper New Time.
The author saw a paradox in the fact that a Jew could capture the spirit of Russian
nature [priroda] better than any Russian. It seemed to him astonishing that “this
full-blooded Jew, like no one, compelled one to feel and love our poor and
unadorned landscape.”1 3
This “rare phenomenon” model of Jewish art was challenged by a 1902
monograph on Levitan by Solomon Vermel’. The author presented the theoretical
basis for understanding Jewish aesthetic elements in modem art on a broader basis
than isolated case studies. Vermel’ shared Stasov’s general positive attitude toward
Jews, and his publication was financed by the famous Jewish publisher A. E.
Landau.1 4 Like Stasov, Vermel’ understood the mechanism of creation as powered
by the soul, which absorbed, filtered, and transformed “reality” into “art.” He also
viewed the soul as necessarily determined by race and nationality. Both of these
notions derived from German Romantic thought, which had been absorbed by
Russian criticism in the 1830s and resonated once again in fin de siecle Russia.
1 3 Novoe Vremia 8769 (29 July 1900). Cited in Vermel’, S. Isaak I l’ ich Levitan i ego tvorchestvo.
(SP: Tipografiia A. E. Landau, 1902), 7.
1 4 Vermel’. Opus cited.
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To appreciate Levitan fully, Vermel’ wrote, one should not forget that the
artist’s soul was Jewish. Even though his subject was the Russian countryside, it
was processed through the soul, and this determined the special characters of his
art. Vermel’ offered a retort to New Time by claiming that there should be nothing
surprising about the fact that such soulful expositions of Russian nature were
created by Jews. In fact, as he explained, the genesis of Levitan’s talent and
sensitivity rested precisely in his Jewishness:
The influence of [Levitan’s] race, that is, racial heredity, should occupy
the first place [in understanding his work]. It gave his talent a special
coloring and created his individual temperament. [... J We want to point
out the undeniable fact that his Jewish background was one of the
important factors in the development of his talent. Yes, he was a ‘full-
blooded Jew,’ and this circumstance should have certainly made a certain
imprint on his personality, character, and worldview, and consequently,
on his art. It is funny, in fact, to speak of Levitan, as a ‘Russian
nationalist-populist’ because he chose the Russian village as a theme.1 5
As if the heart of the matter is in the subject [of a work] and not in the
means by which it is reworked, in what transformations it undergoes as it
makes its way through the artist’s soul. Afterall, one cannot consider
Lermontov a mountain dweller because, for his poetry, he chose themes
from the life and nature of the Caucuses. Levitan was a Jew, and his
richly gifted nature was, first of all, a result of an inborn racial and
individual heredity.1 6 [italics in original]
In maintaining that Levitan’s Jewishness was more than a surprising and
incidental detail and that it was, rather, the most salient condition of his art,
1 5 Here Vermel’ was quoting from an April 1901 article in Zhizn ’ which described Levitan as “a
Frenchmen, a melancholy person, and a Russian national-populist [narodnik].”
1 6 Ibid, 8-9.
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Vermel’ moved away from the theory that Jewish visuality occurred only rarely.
Levitan’s special sensitivity towards this Jewishness was not only his individual
attribute but that of an entire race. This implied the possibility that his kind of
talent is contained on a broader level than had been previously acknowledged.
Aniconism
The idea that Jewish culture is essentially aniconic, or lacking images, was
prevalent and unquestioned in Russia before the turn of the 20th century.1 7 The
1890 Efron and Brokgauz encyclopedia entry under “Jews” focused on his lack of
visual talent:
Although Jews stand out in their significantly sharp eyesight and hearing,
they yield a large percentage of color-blindness.... This characteristic
explains, perhaps, the low propensity of Jews for painting. But [the
matter is different in the realm] o f ... music, trade, the banking business,
11?
the belle-lettres, and criticism, science.
In making this claim, the essay relied on and referenced German and English
anthropological literature.
The idea that Jews are a people of the book rather than the image, that their
hearing is better developed then their sight, and that they have no talents in the arts
1 7 For the development of the aniconic historiographic models see: Kalman Bland. The Artless Jew.
(Princeton. Princeton UP, 2000); and Olin, Margaret. “From Bezal’el to Max Liebrmann: Jewish
Art in Nineteenth Century Art Historical Texts ” In Catherine M. Soussloff. “ Jewish Identity in
Modern Art History. (Berkeley: U of California P, 2000, 19-39).
1 8 “Evrei.” Entsiklopedicheskii slovar’ . Vol. 11. Edited by I. E. Andreevskii. (SP: F. A.
Brokgauz, I. A. Efron, 1890), 427.
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dominated 19th century thinking. Hegel, Kant, Wagner and others endorsed this
vision of the Jews. It had a profound impact on 20th century art historiography as
well. Its irony and contradictions are summed up in Chagall’s 1920 mural for the
Jewish Theater, where he represents four areas of Jewish talent that comprise the
theatrical arts: music, dance, drama, and literature. The fact that he excludes “art”
is just one reverberation of the profound and all-permeating myth of the Jew
lacking in this type of talent.
In this context, even the minor ways in which Russian critics in the late
1910s grappled with aniconic myths seem extraordinary. In his 1918 essay on
Chagall, Tugendkhol’d first attacked certain fundamental beliefs:
Isn’t it well known that there is no Jewish art because the biblical religion
forbade the creation of ‘graven images’ and the historical conditions of an
ever-worrying life could not be conducive to the flourishing and
consolidation of beauty? But first of all, as Stasov once observed, the
accepted view of Jewish art as an empty place does not correspond with
reality. From Stasov’s time on, the collection and study of Jewish
antiques has been well advanced and it has become clear that, if the
creative talents of biblical artists did not materialize or did not survive to
our day, the domain of grand art, they did find their application in small
art—in synagogue art and domestic utensils, in embroideries of the
curtains and coverings of the Torah scrolls, in golden, silver, wooden,
filigree and enamel representation of man—the artists depicted domestic
animals (beginning with the frieze of the palace ofHyrkanos). Religion
forbade the convex depiction of animals to avoid the temptation of
idolatry—the artists painted them in colors or concave. It was precisely in
the ornament of flora and fauna that the decorative talents of Jewish art
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were expressed—decorative because another, three-dimensional relation
to the world was forbidden.1 9
Writing in Yiddish in 1920, Solomon ludovin sided with Tugendkhol’d in his
rejection of the notion that Jewish prohibition of the image has functioned as
conventional wisdom. While accepting that the injunction negatively impacted the
development of art among the Jews, he did not concede that the ban had absolute
reign:
A constant struggle took place between the artist and the synagogue over
the portrayal of human figures. The artist would paint something, but it
would get rubbed out, as we can see in a 14th century hagode2 0 which is
kept in the Jewish Museum in St. Petersburg. Here we find the first
human figures in a hagode that was painted by hand. Later in printed
hagodes, we see the first figure painted by hand... of four sons having
Passover..., the plagues, and so on. Later in the taitch-khumeshim2 1 four
women and in [regular] Pentateuchs, on the title page, we see Moses and
Aaron. Even later do we see paintings of rabbis; the rabbi, the tsadik, and
so on. The content of the pictures is as transparent as the entire
immateriality of Jewish life.2 2
The aniconic myth gained ground again after the establishment of the Soviet
state. In his 1924 memoirs, IPia Gintsburg perpetuated the idea that the old
traditional Jewish world as antithetical to art. The religious prohibitions against
1 9 la. Tugendkhol’d. “Khudozhnik Mark Shagal.” In his and A. Efros’ Iksusstvo Marka Shagala.
(M: Gelikon, 1918), 17.
2 0 Hagode—the collection of tales and songs read on the first two nights of Passover.
2 1 Taitch-humesh—the Pentatech in Yiddish that was traditionally read by women.
2 2 S. ludovin. Yidisher folks-omament. (Vitebsk: Irhmiel Radinson, 1920), n.p.
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“making images” and the general environment of Vilna, he claimed, discouraged
him from making sculpture. The only people to recognize his artistic interests as
valuable were his sisters, who knew about art from reading German books. The
young Gintsburg was also encouraged by an old stonecutter, who first told him
about Antokol’skii. When in 1870 Antokol’skii himself visited Vilna and saw the
results of Gintsburg’s “hobby,” he spent enormous efforts in convincing
Gintsburg’s parents that the boy should move to Petersburg to develop his talent.
Before Antokol’skii’s appearance, Vilna was an artistic vacuum, as Gintsburg
describes it:
I never saw one artistic work in my native Vilna. In Jewish culture,
sculptural representations are prohibited by religion, and not only in the
synagogue, but in the home of a religious Jew there must not be an image of
a human or an animal. The feet of our chandelier were always covered over
with wax because they had images of human faces. And in the city, there
were no monuments or statues. The only sculptural works were the colored
“idols of count Tyshkevich”—as the caryatids on his house were called.
Many Jews made stamps out of stone, sometimes with images of Greek
columns, or boxes, which they decorated with some ornament. But I did
not see the human figure, and I did not like ornament. Moreover, I did not
care if my work had some kind of a practical use.
My mother... looked very unfavorably at my work, in which she
saw only a distraction from studying the Talmud. I was still attending the
kheder [a Jewish school] and made such progress, that despite my young
age, they wanted to allow me to study independently in the synagogue on
equal footing with the adults. Like my brothers, I was bound to become a
rabbi and showed extraordinary ability in Talmud studies.
I was often harassed for my “horseplay” (this is how my mother
called my sculptural activity), and my work and instruments repeatedly
started to be thrown out the window onto the street.2 3
2 3 Il’ia Gintsburg. Izproshlogo: Vospominaniia. (L: Gos. Izd-vo, 1924), 11-12.
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Gintsburg conflated the many obstacles to his artistic aspirations—parental
disapproval, Vilna’s lack of cultural life, and religious restrictions—to make for a
hyperbolic effect. When he wrote that he saw no art in Vilna, he was obviously
exaggerating. The absolute terms employed —“I never saw one artistic work”—
promoted the narrow vision of a child to the status of an objective claim, creating
the impression that everything around the youth was inimical to art.
Positing a Jewish Art
While the aniconic position that Jewish culture lacks images continued to
exert influence on theory, a significant step was taken toward positing Jewish art as
a critical category. Nikolai Lavrskii’s 1915 investigation Art and the Jews was
pioneering in this regard both in Russia and the West.2 4 At the time of the writing,
Lavrskii was a young scholar, and later he would go on to publish several art
historical monographs on non-Jewish subjects.2 5 While Lavrskii did not dispel
aniconic theories, he investigated the issue of modern Jewish art more thoroughly
than had been done before and allowed for imagining it as a possibility.
Lavrskii argued against crude anthropology as an explanation for the
absence of Jewish art. Facts cited in encyclopedias about the percentages of “color
2 4 Nikolai Lavrskii. Iskusstvo i evrei. (M: Iskusstvo i zhizn’, 1915).
2 5 Ukazatel' knig i statei po voprosam iksusstva: Zhivopis ’ i skul’ ptura. (M: IZONKP, 1919)
[Tvorchestvo, 1914]; A. Miganadzhian. A■ E. Miganadzhian. (M: Iskusstvo i zhizn’), 1916; P.
Kharybin. Risunki P. A. Kharybina. (M: Tip. I. S. Kolomiets), 1918; n.a. Cherkask i ego starina.
(M: Iskusstvo i zhizn’, 1917); and A. Grishen’ko. A. Shevchenko: Poiski i dostizheniia v oblasti
stankovoi zhvopisi. (M: IZONKP, 1919).
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93
blindness” among Jews, he insisted, cannot be used to explain a racial non
predisposition towards visual creation. Jews are able to develop a sense for “paint”
and to work with tones just as well as any other racial group. But these abilities do
not always manifest if the social circumstances are not favorable. When the
conditions are right, however, the Jewish people as a race produce great artists like
any other people, as the cases of Joseph Israels, Max Leiberman, Leon Bakst and
Boris Anisfel’d demonstrated.
Because this list did not amount to much, Lavrskii explained, any
investigation into Jewish art of his day could only be approximate at best: “We can
discuss Jewish art only as a problem—and only in general outlines. Nothing has
been done in this field, and so without raw material and factual data we cannot
come to definite conclusions.”2 6 But the situation would be sure to change,
Lavrskii predicted. Someday there would be more art made by Jews, and art
historians would need to prepare methodological tools to engage with this art.
Lavrskii worked toward this by examining the work of Jewish artists of the
past and present—in terms of genre, mood, form, and style. Out of these, he
advanced “form” as the most likely locus of national traits. Lavrskii used the term
rather vaguely and in the sense of “that which is not content.” He suggested, for
example, that something in Levitan’s “form” emanated Jewishness even though the
2 6 Lavrskii. Opus cited, 15-16.
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artist makes no specifically Jewish references.2 7 Lavrskii struggled to find words to
capture the intangible “Jewish” quality. He found a connecting element between
several Jewish artists. Israels and Lieberman, for example, shared an affinity
toward the intimate interior space, which Lavrskii noted was prized by Jewish
culture. As Lavrskii saw it, Levitan also captured this intimate quality in his
landscapes. Thus Levitan was grouped together with Israels and Lieberman for this
quality as well as for what Lavrskii saw as his typically Jewish melancholia.
But these threads that Lavrskii began to weave between various Jewish
artists—he was not able sustain. For what do Antokolskii, Pissaro, Bakst, Chagall,
Altman, and others share with Israels, Lieberman, and Levitan? Tracing the Jewish
elements in such widely ranging work in any systematic way, he found, was
impossible. “Any attempt to find commonality in the work of Jewish artists will
inevitably produce negative results.”2 8 After considering this impasse, Lavrskii
concluded that a different approach was in order for the proper understanding of
work by Jewish artists. Rather than postulate a Jewish commonality, it would be
more useful to examine the artists in the context of the art of their respective genres
and artistic periods. Thus Israels and Liberman would need to be seen in the
context of contemporary Dutch genre painting, and Levitan should be compared to
landscapists such as Constable and Courot. Because individual Jewish artists have
been dispersed among various lands and worked in isolation from each other,
2 7 Ibid, 13-14.
2 8 Ibid, 43.
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Lavrskii suggested that was necessary to contextualize them within the “territorial”
nations, i.e. the lands in which they lived and worked: Holland for Israels,
Germany for Liberman, Russia for Levitan, etc. In this way, Lavrskii was
affirming an art historiographic approach that discounted a formal Jewish aesthetics
and served to blend work by Jewish artists into a gentile tradition.
Lavrskii’s book heralded the birth of “Jewish art” as a sociological fact.
With the imminent eradication of the Pale of Settlement, he reasoned, an
unprecedented amount of Jewish art will be produced, and art historians will have
to reckon with this. He noted that groups of talented Jewish artists were already
forming in Paris and Palestine. “[These] gifted individuals speak of the creative
potential of the whole people, which is very likely to make its own art in the
future.”2 9
While Lavrskii praised the process of liberating the Pale, he was wary of
nationalist groups using Jewish art to further their agenda. “Those who intend to
create a Jewish art for the strengthening of a national movement are deeply
mistaken.”3 0 The kind of Jewish art Lavrskii envisioned would be unencumbered
by political ties and would develop autonomously and as a by-product of social and
economic growth.
If Stasov only mentioned in passing the lack of control Jews had historically
with regard to their own image, Lavrskii addressed this issue more fully. He noted
2 9 Ibid, 56.
3 0 «
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that the frequency with which Jews functioned as passive subjects in art was not
proportionate with the frequency in which they served as agents of representation,
i.e. they were drawn and painted more than they themselves drew and painted. He
saw the increase in the number of working Jewish artists as an indication of a
growing confidence and deemed it important that Jews assert their individuality.
He argued against those who dismissed the inherent power of Jews as individuals,
as did, for example, Weidlinger in his study Gender and Personality. Weidlinger
had written that “Jews, like women, lack an individual self [nnnHocTb].’’3 1
Lavrskii saw evidence to the contrary in the fact of the appearance of major artists
among the Jews. Given adequate socio-economic conditions, more Jews would be
able to show the force of their person through art. “Before, Jews and their history
served as a subject for [other] artists,” he wrote. “Now the Jews have transformed
themselves from being objects of observation and study into a creative factor that
the art historian and critic must account for. The previous hopelessness and
despondency that was noticed among the Jews ... is being replaced by confidence
and vigor.”3 2
The significance of Lavrskii’s study in relation to Altman is two-fold. First
of all, it laid the groundwork for a non-nationalist critical reception of Altman’s
Jewish work. It offered a framework for considering Altman’s contribution to the
Russian and European Avant-Garde. Secondly, it articulated the Altman’s concern
3 1 Ibid, 7.
3 2 Ibid, 8.
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about the relationship between Jewish identity and representation, an issue which
manifested most clearly in his 1915 sculptural “Self-Portrait.”
Thirdly, Lavrskii’s theory offered a critical correlation to Altman’s
uncommitted practice of Jewish art. While the historian anticipated that a Jewish
art would emerge in the near future, he also forecast that eventually all nationalist
art would wither away, and there will be no need for art critics address national
categories in modern art. Lavrskii wrote:
Who knows? It may be that in the future, these national schools will be
less distinct from one another than they are today, . . . and then it will be
possible to speak not about ‘national’ schools, but strictly of artistic
principles.... If this tendency in the erasure of distinctions between
national schools continues in the future, we will not only have to stop
discussing the appearance of a Jewish art but of national art of other
countries.
Jewish Melancholy
A commonly employed critical construction of Jewish visuality in Russia in
the early 1900s focused on the element of sadness.3 4 Vermel’ first made the case
for associating the gloominess in Levitan’s landscapes with the artist’s Jewish
origins. Vermel’ accepted observations others had made about Levitan’s
3 3 Ibid, 57.
3 4 See discussion of the development of this construction in late 18th and early 19* century Russian
literature in O. Lekmanov and I. Vinitskii. Opyty o Mandel ’ shtame. (M: Izd-vo Moskovskogo
kul’turogicheskogo litseia, 1997).
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“inexpressible sadness” and “obscure sorrow” and linked these to Jewish culture.3 5
He contested one description of Levitan as “a French melancholic” and attributed
the mood of his paintings to “the influence of his race” instead:3 6
It seems that in [Levitan’s] art, there is an echo of the grieving soul of a
people that has been mourning its destiny for millennia.... Happy songs
and dance do not befit the son of a suffering people. One senses the
eternal sadness [grust ’ ], the century-old misery [toska] that the Jewish
heart constantly carries inside. And Levitan is not unique in this
respect.... The same note is struck in Henrich Heine’s elegies and
Mendelson Bartol’di’s wonderful melodies. Would not, in fact, Levitan’s
landscapes serve as fine illustrations to many of Heine’ poems? They
have much in common that makes them kindred. It is Jewish sadness and
gloom. Levitan invested this sadness, this inescapable [beziskhodnoe]
misery into Russian nature, which he understood and depicted in his own
37
way.
In their 1913 monograph on the artist, art historians Sergei Glagol and Igor’
Grabar’ also linked Levitan’s sadness to his Jewishness. His disposition was a
product not of “millennial-long mourning,” as Vermel’ would have it, but of the
specific conditions of Jewish life in contemporary Russia. The difficulties Levitan
had faced, including his two expulsions from Moscow and the problems of
assimilation and poverty, became imprinted on his character. As they explained,
this developed the necessary sensitivity in the artist to appreciate Russian nature:
3 5 Vermel’ cited these characterizations from the newspapers New Time and The Courrier.
3 6 Here Vermel’ cited P. Ge’s article on Levitan published in the magazine Life,
3 7 Vermel’. Opus cited, 10.
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It is known that many people even sincerely doubted [Levitan’s]
Jewishness, because he had such a sense for that Russian landscape. And
he felt all the sadness of that landscape remarkably well, its poetry full of
grief In Levitan's soul there lived a special sensitivity to just these sad
chords. And maybe he was attracted to Russian nature because he found
in it something congenial and native. This sadness, as a leitmotiv, persists
all the way through Levitan’s art.3 8 [emphasis added]
Glagol and Grabar’ conceded only partially to Vermel’ on his point that
Levitan was “Jewish to the marrow of his bones.”3 9 The first sentence of their
tract—“Levitan is a Jew”—served to set up an opposing claim that the artist’s heart
and soul was not in fact Jewish, but Russian. 4 0 The authors advanced Levitan
over and above other landscape artists “with Russian last names,” including Ivan
Shishkin (1831-1898) and Aleksei Venetsianov (1780-1847).4 1 Still, they agreed
with Vermel’ that the sadness in Letivan’s work had to do with the socio-cultural
difficulties of living as a Jew in Russia. “[T]he one thing we cannot deny is the
influence of the national oppressiveness [y rH ereH H O C T b ], which creates sadness in
the artist. In this respect, perhaps Levitan’s Jewishness had a definitive effect on
him....”4 2
Melancholy as a particularly Jewish sensibility was also being detected in
other artists, even when their work made no overt Jewish references. Abram
38Sergei Glagol’ and Igor’ Grabar’. Isaac 1 1 ’ ich Levitan: Zhizn ’ i tvorchestvo. (M: Izd. I. Knebel’,
1913), 81.
3 9 Ibid.
4 0 Ibid, 1.
4 1 Ibid, 76-79.
4 2 Ibid, 81 fh 1.
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Manevich, for example, who abjured the Jewish nationalist craze around him
altogether in the 1910s and emulated the French Impressionists stylistically and
thematically, was nevertheless seen to manifest the “gloominess” associated with
his nationality. Manevich’s plein air studies, exhibited in his 1916 show in St.
Petersburg, were devoid of any references to Jewish subjects and used titles that did
not specify location. Still, the Jewish newspaper Vremia claimed him as their own,
understanding his paintings as lyrical reflections on the misery of the Pale:
After all, Manevich is a Jew, and all his paintings use the Jewish
language—not only because they depict little corners of the Jewish Pale
of Settlement, but also because they are permeated with a quiet and
gloomy misery and because they show his love for his native land. ...
They play with color, study light, and employ ornamental motifs. ... A
soft and gray color scheme prevails. In these little paintings, Manevich is
nothing other than the lyrical poet of the Jewish mestechko. 4 3 [emphasis
added]
The reviewer added that Manevich’s style grew out of the location. In other words,
when he painted his hometown, as opposed to Bfiev, for example, his style was
more “Jewish” than elsewhere.
The especially gloomy Jewish sensibility is encountered in broader Russian
contexts as well. We come across it in Aleksander Kuprin’s short story
“Gambrinus,” which was written in the 1910s and centered on the incredible
emotionalism of the Jewish musician Sashka. “A Jewish grief as ancient as the
4 3 D. Zaslavskii. “Title” Vremia (M, 19 March 1916): n.p.
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earth cried from the string of Sashka’s violin and entwined the women with the
sorrowful colors of his national melodies.”4 4 In their poems about Altman, Anna
Akhmatova and Osip Mandel’shtam pointed to the artist’s sad temperament. In her
1915 cycle “Epic Fragments,” Akhmatova described Altman during their painting
session: “And gaily he complained, and in a sad way/ He spoke of happy days that
never came.” Mandel’shtam, whose own work was known for its gravity, touched
on Altman’s melancholic nature in his poem quoted previously, playfully
connecting Altman being “old” and “of the old school” with his disposition: “He’s
an artist of the old school/ He worked hard throughout his life/ This is why he is not
happy/ Such a very old, old man.”4 5
Jewish Arts and Crafts
The institutional affiliation of Jews with craft and technical school in Russia in the
1910s helped perpetuate the definition of Jewish visuality as based in craft-making
more than in the fine arts. Legally, Jews were permitted residency in St. Petersburg
under the condition that they attend a craft school or practice a craft. Chagall, for
example, tried to obtain residency through the Baron Stieglitz School of Arts and
Crafts.4 6 Altman too came to the capital under this pretext. The Jewish Society for
the Encouragement of the Arts helped young men from the provinces register with
4 4 A. I. Kuprin. “Gambrinus.” Povesti i raskazy. (M: OGIZ Goslitizdat, 1946), 170.
4 5 See discussion of Mandel’shtam’s sadness in Lekmanov. Opus cited.
4 6 Chagall described being denied entry to the Stieglitz School in My Life Trans. Peter Owen.
(London: John Buckley, Ltd., 1965), 81.
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trade schools for this purpose. JSEA’s connection to craft schools was not all
pretense, however. When donation came in to build the Artistic and Industrial
Institute in Ekaterinoslav, which would be open to Jews and non-Jews alike, the
Society modeled it on the technical and crafts college rather than the academy.
The lower genres in general—printing, carving, engraving—also became
associated with the Jews. It is on this premise that the first school of art for Jews
was founded in Palestine in 1906. Its name, in fact, derives from Bezalel
(pronounced beisalel), the first recorded Jewish artist-artisan. He is described in
Exodus 35: 30-33 as a worker of gold, silver, brass, a stone cutter for setting
jewelry, a wood cutter, and practitioner in all manner of skillful workmanship.
Boris Schatz and the founders of Bezalel were convinced that the most practical
way to express an authentic Jewish visuality was through artistry that re
invigorated this ancient model. They also counted on popular support for this idea,
as proceeds from student sales to tourists to Palestine would, according to their
plan, provide Bezalel with a big portion of its basic funding. All Bezalel students
were required to train in the crafts before continuing to the department of painting.
Its program concentrated on weaving carpets, printing, making textiles, utensils,
candles, and other manual productions.4 7
4 7 Bezalel operated under the direction of Boris Schatz until 1919. For the history of his school, see
Nurit Shilo-Cohen, ed. Bezalel 1906-1929. Exhibition Catalogue. (Jerusalem: Israeli Museum,
1983.)
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The East
The connection between the Jews and the East was also sanctioned on an
institutional level. As in other places of higher education at the time, such as the
Universities of Oxford, Columbia and Harvard, where “Jewish studies” developed
in the 19th century, the discipline was subsumed under the umbrella of “Oriental
studies.”4 8 It is under this umbrella that Simon Dubnov, for example, gave lectures
in history in a school he founded with his colleagues, unofficially called the
“Jewish University.” In art history, the connection was even more specific because
the most serious scholarship at the time focused on ancient Jewish visuality as it
developed in Babylonia, Egypt, Syria and Assyria. It is no wonder that Altman’s
only written statement about Jewish art insited on its Assyrian roots.4 9 Such
associations were prevalent and still influence the way Jewish art as a whole is
approached today. Sed-Rajna’s recent textbook on the subject opens with a chapter
entitled “Oriental Sources of Jewish Art.”5 0
This scheme, in which Jewish art was part of the larger discipline of
Ancient Eastern studies, determined the Russian approach to Jewish art in the
beginning of the 20th century. Vladimir Stasov, for example, in his
4 8 Witness for example; J. Mann. The Jews in Egypt and in Paletsine under the Fatimid Caliphs. 2
vols. (Oxford, n.p. 1922) and 1.1. Efros. The Problem o f Space in Jewish Mediaeval Philosophy.
Columbia University Orinetal Studies, Vol 11. New York: n. p., 1917). In many universities
today, Jewish studies is still under the umbrella of the East. Hebrew at Harvard, for example, is
studied under the auspices of the Near Eastern Languages and Culture.
4 9 Natan Al’tman. “K chemu ia stremlius’ v svoei zhivopisi.” Novyi zhurnal dlia vsekh 4 (April
1915), 38.
5 0 Gabrielle Sed-Rajna, ed. Jewish Art. Trans. Sara Friedman and Mira Reich. (New York; Henry
Abrams, 1997) [Paris, 1995],
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104
recommendation for the building for the Chorale Synagogue in St. Petersburg,
argued that the Mauritanian style of the Alhambra mosque in Spain would offer the
“closest example of the Jewish national aesthetic.”5 1
The premise that a modern Jewish art should look to its roots in the Ancient
East was upheld by the Jewish Society for the Encouragement of the Arts, with
which Altman collaborated closely from 1915 to about 1918. Out of the first five
contemporary books acquired by its newly established Library in 1916 two of them
were The Law Codes o f King Hammurabi, the first Russian translation of the then
recent Babylonian discovery, and The Ancient World: The East, an anthology of
ancient texts from Babylon, Syria, and Egypt edited by the prominent Orientologist
Boris Turaev.5 2 Another scholarly publication that JSEA owned was Ivan Volkov’s
Aramaic Documents, which discussed new evidence proving the presence of the
Judeans in southern Egypt.5 3 Besides featuring studies that contextualized Jewish
culture in its ancient Eastern origins, the Society considered it important to
investigate today’s Jewry living in the East and planned to acquire photographs of
5 1 M. Beizer. Evrei v Peterburge. (Jerusalem; Biblioteka Aliia, 1989), 29.
521 . M. Volkov. Zakony Vavilonskogo Tsaria Khammurabi. Edited by B. A. Turaev. First Edition.
Series: Kul’tumo-istoricheskie pamiatniki drevnego vostoka. (M: T-vo A. A. Levensona, 1914).
Hammurabi’s law codes had been discovered at the turn of the century and were the oldest extant
ancient Eastern laws. B. A. Turaev and I. N. Borozdino, eds. et al. Drevnii mir. Parti: Vostok.
Series: Sbomik istochnikov po kul’tumoi istorii Vostoka, Gretsii, i Rima. (M: T-vo A. A.
Levensona, 1915). Turaev’s more famous publication History o f the East had been translated into
several languages.
531 . M. Volkov. Arameiskie dokumenty iudeiskoi kolonii na Elefantine V veka do R. Kh. Edited by
B. A. Turaev. Second Edition. Series: Kul’tumo-istoricheskie pamiatniki drevnego vostoka. (M:
T-vo A, A. Levensona, 1915). The library’s holdings, including the books by Turaev and Volkov as
well as Gunzburg’s and Stasov’s Hebrew Ornaments, are detailed in Evreiskoe obshchestvo
pooshchreniia khudozhestv. Otchet Evreiskogo Obshchestva pooshchreniia khudozhestv za 1916 g.
(P: Pechatnia M. Pivovarskogo, 1917), 9.
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Jews living in “the Caucuses, Crimea, Turkey, India, China, Persia, as well as
Tunis, and Morocco.”5 4 Finally, An-skii’s collection of medieval manuscripts,
which was also part of JSEA’s Libary, included ancient texts in Arabic along side
with those in Hebrew. The board of JSEA encouraged its artist members to use
such resources in their work of developing a Jewish national art.
If the constructs of “Jewish sadness” and “Jewish craft” were disputed only
occasionally and in passing, the Orientalist framework for Jewish art, which the
Society endorsed, had much stronger opposition. A divide in the politics of cultural
nationalism formed an “East versus West” debate for modeling a modem Jewish
art. Zionists like Max Nordau and Ahad Ha’am provided a distinctly Occidentalist
model of Jewish visual culture, envisioning the future Jewish state as a West
European oasis in Asia, an isolated sector that would stave off the East. As Nordau
put it, Erets Israel would serve as “a wall against Asian barbarity.”5 5 These ideas
began to be realized in 1906 by Bezalel’s rejection of Eastern stylization. Although
the Jerusalem-based art school consciously ignored current Western trends like
Neo-primitivism, Cubism, and Expressionism, its fundamental approach was
nevertheless nurtured by Western artistic traditions. The art nouveau prints and
lamps Bezalel produced as late as the 1920s, for example, while lagging behind
Europe stylistically by two decades, reflected an adherence to Western aesthetics.5 6
5 4 JSEA’s future photographic plans are also specified in its publication cited above.
5 5 Quoted in Shilo-Cohen. Opus cited, 20.
5 6 Ibid.
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Altman’s artistic praxis sided primarily with the Eastern model of Jewish art
propagated by the Society. In 1915, he wrote that his Jewish Prints were inspired
by Assyrian art, and his self-sculptural portrait of the same year employed features
that typified to Ostjude 5 1 In this respect, the debate over how to align Jewish art—
with the East or the West—worked to Altman’s advantage,
The provenance of ancient Jewish art became a point of contention with the
1905 French-language publication of David Ginzburg and Vladimir Stasov’s
anthology of medieval Hebrew manuscripts, which was owned by the JSEA.5 8
Ginzburg asserted in the introduction to the French publication that the plates
themselves served as conclusive evidence that a distinctly Jewish style existed.
The homogeneity among plates belonging to regions separated from each other by
vast distances and hundreds of years demonstrated as much, he reasoned.
Ginzburg’s case was vehemently repudiated by George Margoliuth, a British
investigator of ancient Hebrew manuscripts, who concluded just the opposite from
the very same plates. Margoliuth contested that the plates’ “general similarity of
character is determined not so much by their Jewish contents as by their more or
less cognate origin,” and, rather than illustrating a Jewish art, they merely bear “the
eastern and half-eastern mark of workmanship.”5 9 [emphasis added]
5 7 Natan Al’tman. Opus cited.
5 8 Gunzburg, [Ginzburg] and Stassof [Stasov], Opus cited. The luxurious 1905 edition of the
album was one of the most expensive new publications in the collection of the library of the Jewish
Society of the Encouragment of the Arts.
5 9 George Margoliouth. “Critical Notice: Hebrew Illuminated Mss: L 'Ornement Hkbralque par D.
Gunzburg et V. Stassof.” Review. The Jewish Quarterly Review 18 (1906), 763.
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107
It was not only Jewish art of the ancient period that was seen in the light of
an Eastern aesthetic. Modern Jewish artists, who were not necessarily seeking a
Jewish aesthetic, were also perceived to reveal a certain Semitic essence when they
touched on Eastern themes. The way in which the work of Leon Bakst (1866-1924,
nee Leo Rozenberg) was usurped by Jewish nationalists exemplifies this well. A
World of Art artist of Jewish descent, Bakst had been educated in a secular and
Russianized environment, and appreciated Jewish religious objects for their
aesthetic value alone. Indifferent to the nationalist cause, he was nevertheless
classified as a “Jewish artist” by the Zionist publication Ost und West in part
because of the “Oriental” character of his art.6 0 Writing in 1912, an Ost und West
reviewer commented on Bakst’s Oriental designs:
It is as if the age-old Semitic blood had been reawakened here in Bakst;
this joy in colors, which the Jews had completely lost during their many
years of exile and living in need and misery, seems to have been
reawakened in this artist to new life. His forms are as honest and healthy-
Jewish as from the Bible.6 1
Eastern derivation was also an issue that permeated critical writing on the
work of Boris Anisfeld (1879-1973), another older contemporary of Altman.6 2 A
Jewish artist from Bessarabia, who, after studying in the Odessa school and the
“ in his memoirs, Chagall discussed Bakst’s secularization and aestheticization of religious objects.
He mentioned that an intricate curtain meant to cover the Torah Ark in a synagogue was displayed
on the wall of Bakst’s home like a piece of art. Chagall. Opus cited, 90.
6 1 Paul Barchan. “Leo Bakst.” Ost und West 9 (Sept 1912), 815-816.
6 2 Bakst, Anisfeld and Altman did not reject the Orientalist label.
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Imperial Academy, Anisefeld, like Bakst, joined the Diagilev’s World of Art
theatrical venture in Paris. For the most part, his work was taken to be akin to
Bakst and representative of a tendencious kind of Western Orientalism. Others
disagreed on weather the East or the West had the upper hand in Anisfeld’s art.
Another Diagilev-group artist, Aleksander Benois, thought Anisfeld a “typical
Occidentalist.”6 3 In his 1918 essay, Christian Brinton asserted the opposite, namely
that Anisfeld demonstrated a direct engagement with the ur-sources of ancient
Attican, Babylonian, Palestenian, and Byzantine art.
A similar kind of assertion has also been made with respect to Chaim
Soutine (1893-1943), an artist whom one would not at first glance associate with
anything Eastern. The French critic Elie Faure, however, saw in Soutine traces of a
Jewish art that was akin to that of the Assyrians, Phoenicians, Arabs, and Moors.
Reflecting on Soutine’s work sent the critic into reveries about “the people of tents
selling products of their vagabond industry invoking immemorial Asia, which is
sensual, dancing, and musical.” 6 4 Considering this lasting legacy of relating
Jewish culture to the East—both as an academic scheme and as a critical
construct—helps us understand why Altman used Eastern stylizations in inventing
6 3 Quoted in Christian Brinton. The Boris Anifseld Exhibition: 1918-1919-1920. Brooklyn
Museum. (New York: Redfield-Kendrick-Odell Co., Inc., 1918), n. p. Anisfeld attended the
Odessa School a decade earlier than Altman, from which he continued to the Imperial Academy and
the World of Art group. His theatrical design in America starting in the 1920s is informed by
Altman’s early work for the Jewish theater.
6 4 Elie Faure. Soutine. (Paris: Les Editions G. Cres & Cie, 1929), 9.
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109
a modern Jewish art. The Eastern element in Jewish Prints (1913) served to signal
the ancient derivation of his style.
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Chapter 3
Pioneering a Jewish Style: Altman’s Jewish Prints and Sculpture
Jewish Prints and Folk Art
While visiting his hometown of Vinitsa in the Ukraine in 1912 and 1913,
Altman also traveled to the Jewish cemetery in Gritsev, a village 130 kilometers
away.1 The designs he traced from the gravestones there formed the basis of his
lithographic series of black, white, and gold prints. They were shown at the World
of Art Exhibition in the spring of 1915, and some of them were used to illustrate an
issue of The New Magazine For A ll2 In 1923, ten of the prints were published as
large-size book in a limited edition (approximately 500 copies) and garnered
significant critical attention. The introduction to the album written by the
prominent German art historian Max Osborn (1870-1946) celebrated the piece as
an example of modern Jewish art. In his essay that treated this work, the Ukranian-
bom American print-maker Louis Lozowick cemented Atman's association with
Jewish nationalist art.3 Osborne especially lauded Atman’s use of ornamental
1 Gritsev is about 300 km southwest of Kiev and part of the Khmel’nitskaia province, which
borders the Vinnitskaia province to the west.
2 Novyi zhurnal dlia vsekh 4 (April 1915).
3 Max Osborn. Evreiskaia grafika NatanaAl 'tmana [German Edition: Jiidische Graphik], (Berlin:
Petropolis, Tipografiia Sinaburg & Co., 1923). 250 copies of the German edition were printed.
Presumably, the number of Russian copies was equal or less. Louis Lozowick. “The Art of Natan
Atman.” The Menorah Journal 12 (1926), 61-64. Osborn was a multi-cultural enthusiast and
celebrated Jewish art in the way he did other culturally- and epoch-specific styles. He wrote
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motifs—lions, oxen, pigeons, pigs, plants, and columns, relating them to traditions
in synagoguel and hagode decorations. These staples of folk art, as both Efros and
Osborn put it, were “artistically transformed” or—in Lozowick’s words—
“deliberately deformed” by Altman. They worked in the service of Altman’s
experiment in modern design—a system that used half-elliptical lines, intersections
of planes, and rapid passages from dark to light.
In the print entitled “Eve and the Serpent,” for example, Eve’s outline was
formed by equal curved lines, elements of tree foliage, and regularly repeating
shorter lines. Similar devices were typical for contemporary Futurist work, and
Altman also employed them in his non-Jewish works, such as the untitled drawing
of a female nude surrounded by birds and plants, which was reproduced in The New
Satiricon in 1914.4 This stylized way of depicting the female also appeared in
Altman’s treatment of Akhmatova in his 1914 caricature of her and Nikolai
Gumilev.5 In Jewish Prints, the combination of these stylistic techniques and the
prolifically on a wide range of subjects. Before his publication of Altman’s Jewish prints, Osborne
had published a general history of art (1909) and monographs on a number of artists, including
Joshua Reynolds in 1908, Eugene Bracht in 1909, Franz Kruger in 1910, Ludwig Richter in 1911,
Emil Orlik in 1920, and Max Pechstein in 1922. After his publication on Altman, Osborn continued
to write on various subjects, including the Rococo style and the artists Jhar Ultstein, Georg A.
Math6y and Leonid Pasternak. Lozowick was an enthusiast of the Russian Avant-Garde. He had
traveled to Berlin and Russia in 1922 and 1922 and met Altman, Malevich, Tatlin, Shterenberg, and
Punin. See Lozowick’s impressions of these meetings in his Survivor from a Dead Age: The
Memoirs of Louis Lozowick. Edited by Virginia Marquardt. (Washington: Smithsonian Institution
Press, 1997). He continued to follow the developments of the Russian artists, which he summed up
in his incisive monograph Modern Russian Art. (New York: Museum of Modem Art, Societe
Anonyme, Inc., 1925).
4 See reproduction in Novyi Satirikon 16 (17 April 1914), 10.
5 The unpublished caricature of Akhmatova and Gumilev is kept at the Ana Akhmatova Museum in
St. Petersburg.
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112
folk-art elements served to suggest a localized Jewish authenticity. More than
Altman’s early Cubist-influenced portraits of Jews, these prints later provided
nationalist critics with evidence of Altman’s “ethnic” interest, since Primtivism was
perceived to better express the ethnic impulse than Cubism.
The immediate critical response to Jewish Prints was limited. Lev Bruni
mentioned the works only in passing in his review of Altman’s World of Art
showcase in 1915. Bruni wrote that the prints represented the “national” aspect of
Altman’s work.6 In 1918, Abram Efros may have had the prints in mind while
penning the introduction to Solomon An-skii’s album Jewish Artistic Heritage, in
which he argued that the re-discovery of Jewish folk art was a cause for
celebration, even if it came late. His insistence that the whole future of Jewish art
lies in “the astonishing spiral of a tombstone” imbued Altman’s Prints and other
with a nationalist significance:
Truly, [Jews] lag behind and are the last to arrive at the aesthetic of folk
art. ... [0]ur popular-art enthusiasm has come very late, and in the world
art market, apologetics on behalf of folk arts are obviously already
becoming demode In the guise of dandies, we are probably figures
of fun in the eyes of the art world, with our parochial raptures, our jigging
about almost like some pagan priest in front of a popular print design or
gingerbread decoration. However, we say that we respectfully hand back
our admission ticket into good society, if keeping it means giving up our
tears and raptures over the humble aesthetic, a pinkas blossoming with
patterns, or the astonishing swirling spiral of a tombstone; we say that our
entire artistic future lies latent here; that we have been considered worthy
to begin a new, unprecedented epoch in Jewish plastic arts, and that there
6 Lev Bruni. “Natan Altman.” Novyi zhurnal dlia vsekh 4 (April 1915), 36-38.
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113
is no price we would not pay, so long as we can cling on avidly, fiercely
tenacious, to the world of national beauty that has been revealed to us.
Jewish Prints is remarkable for its originality in combining elements of
Western and Russian Primitivist traditions and applying them on Russian-Jewish
soil. Like Primitivists in the West, Altman treated primitive motifs, in this case of
Jewish folklore, in a reverent manner, i.e. one lacking irony. And like Primitivists
in Russia, he made a bow to the East, as if to underscore the intrinsic connection of
Jewish primitive art to Eastern ancient art. The impact of this transplantation was
more limited than with his Cubist painting. But in discovering the homegrown
exotic of the Jewish folk, Jewish Prints created a template in Russia for a separate
Jewish style, which would be useful to artists like Solomon ludovin, Issachar Ber
Ryback and artists associated with the Jewish Society for the Encouragement of the
Arts. By considering Jewish Prints against their cultural background, Altman’s
role of importing elements of Western Primitivism to Russia becomes clear.
Primitivism in the West
Early 20th century European Primitivism, which Altman observed during his
Parisian stay, re-appraised the aesthetics that were heretofore considered low,
crude, childlike, and “primitive” in a derogatory sense, and then aimed to
reinvigorate modem art with its primordial energy. Paul Gauguin’s de-facto ex
7 Abram Efros. “Aladdin’s Lamp.” Opus cited, 9.
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114
patriation to Tahiti in 1891 and Pablo Picasso’s sojourns through Africa led to the
artistic re-appraisal of the primitive, which broadened to include not only the
culture of the South Pacific and modern Africa, but also Medieval and peasant art,
Egyptian art, Japanese prints, and children’s drawing. Primitivist elements can be
traced in wide-ranging contexts, from Van Gogh and his engagement with the
Japanese print, to the Nabis, and, in particular, to Maurice Denis and his idealizing
renderings of ancient tales. Primitivist impulses are also detected in the Fauves’
penchant for flat patches of color and in the folklore fantasies of the Blue Rider
group in Munich (1911-1914).8
This reassessment of the “primitive” in Western Europe was inextricably
linked to the politics of colonialism. Starting with Paul Gauguin’s copious studies
of the Indonesian female, Primitivism raised the issue of exploitation. In many
ways, the movement worked to counteract the notion of “Enlightened Civilization.”
Primitivist tendencies in art were part of a growing anti-imperialistic stance, which
extolled innate human value and emphasized the virtues of the peoples who had
been dominated by Europe. This position was endorsed by scientists and writers.
Ethnology and physical anthropology supported it, most notably in the work of
Franz Boas (1852-1942), who paid special attention to the artistic output of
8 Kandinskii explained that the group’s principle was to start with the folk element and
move toward greater abstraction and anonymity: W. Kandinsky. “On the question of
Form.” In Klaus Lankheit, ed. The Blaue Reiter Almanac. New Documentary English
Edition. (New York: Da Capo Press, 1974), 147-187. For a history of Primitivism in the
West see William Rubin. “Modernist Primitivism: An Introduction.” In Rubin, ed.
Primitivism in 2tfh Century Art: Affinity o f the Tribal and the Modern. (New York: The
Museum of Modem Art, 1987), 1-79.
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American Indians, Africans, and Polynesians.9 Joseph Conrad’s “Heart of
Darkness” (1902), in following the example of Arthur Rimbaud’s portrayals of his
life in North Africa several decades earlier, described the horrors of French and
British exploitation of the Ivory Coast and hinted at the savage beauty of its
inhabitants. The broader premise of European Primitivism was to offer alternate
routes to self-discovery and an antidote to what was perceived as the West’s
regimentation of the mode of perception.
Unlike in Russia, Primitivism in the West remained separate from the
Jewish cultural revival. In Western Europe, Jewish folk art was invariably
perceived as closely aligned with nationalist politics. Martin Buber, for example,
included folk art in his cultural program for Zionism, which he strated to outline at
the Zionist Congress of 1901. On a more general level, art that dealt with Jewish
subjects was automatically segregated with the nationalist art of such artists as
Moritz Oppenheim and Maurucy Gottlieb. As it will be shown below, the
nationalist frameworks for Jewish folk art were less rigid in Russia at the time of
the making of Altman’s Jewish Prints.
9 See for example Boas’ 1916 essay: “Representative Art of the Primitive People” in Fraser
Douglas, ed. The Many Faces o f Primitive Art: A Critical Anthology. (Englewood Cliffs, N.J.:
Prentice Hall, 1966).
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Jewish Prints: Bewteen Russia and the West
Russian Primitivism in the 1910s emerged out of an indigenous tradition of
celebrating the ‘folk’ and enjoyed a symbiotic relationship with its Western
counterpart. The modern Russian movement exerted its influence abroad most
notably through activities of the World of Art group in Paris and Vasilii
Kandinskii’s leadership in the Blue Rider group in Munich. Meanwhile, Russia
culture was attuned to the latest artistic developments in the West, revering Paul
Gauguin and Pablo Picasso, for example, both of whom were represented in the
collections of Moscow’s celebrated art connoisseurs Ivan Morozov and Sergei
Shchukin.1 0 Picasso’s works were reproduced in the journals Zolotoe Runo
between 1906 and 1909 and in Apollon beginning in 1909, and Paul Gauguin’s
journals from Tahiti were translated for Russian publication in 1914.1 1
Altman shared several elements with contemporary Russian Primitivists
like Natalia Goncharova (1891-1962) and Mikhail Larionov (1891-1964). His
interest in Jewish tombstone designs paralleled their rediscovery of the icon. The
aesthetic value of the icon became jarringly clear when a large number of them
were restored for the 1913 tri-centennial celebration of the Romanov dynasty.
Secondly, Altman shared with the Russian Primitivist the dichotomy of revering
folk aesthetic while disdaining—on a personal level—village life. If Gauguin was
1 0 Georg-W. Kollzsch, ed, et al. Morozov i Shchukin—Russkie kollektsionery: otMone do Pikasso.
Exhibition Catalogue. (Cologne: Du Mont, 1993).
1 1 Paul Gaugin. Noa-Noa. PutesheMe naTaiti Pol' Gogena. Trans. S. and O. Edited and
introduced by la. TugendkhoTd. (M: Izd-vo D. Ia. Makovskogo), 1914.
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117
prepared to live in Tahiti indefinitely, Russian artists like Altman, Goncharova, and
Larionov saw their native towns as a short stop on their way to cosmopolitan
centers like St. Petersburg, Moscow, and Paris.1 2
In assuming the reverent tone, Altman’s Jewish Prints applied a nationalist
impulse characteristic of early Primitivism in Russia to the Jewish subject. This in
itself was something new in Russian art. Both 19th and early 20th century
Primitivist movements in Russia were not interested in Jewish primitive culture.
When they were, their attitude was not altogether favorable, as in Natalia
Goncharova’s painting “The Sabbath” (1912), for example, which gently mocked
the observers of this Jewish ritual.
The reverent tone in Jewish Prints was unique in that it replaced a thread of
irony that can sometimes be detected in Russian Avant-Garde Primitivism. If
toward the close of the 19th century Ivan Bilibin had glorified the Slavic folk, at the
beginning of the 20th century Mikhail Larionov approached Russian village culture
with derision, criticizing its backwardness. In his painting “A Walk in a Provincial
Town” (1907), for example, he equated strollers with pigs. Niko Pirosmonashvili
(1862-1918), Natalia Goncharova, and David Burliuk( 1892-1967), also sometimes
approached the primitive subject with a degree of disparagement.1 3 This was in
part because unlike Picasso and Gaugin, they were encountering the “Other” in
1 2 For a discussion Russian Primitivist attitudes toward “home,” see Sarah Warren. “Spent Gypsies
and Fallen Venuses: Mikhail Larionov's Modernist Primitivism,” Oxford Art Journal 26/1 (2003),
25-44.
1 3 Niko Pirosmonashvili, Chagall, Goncharova, and Larionov exhibited together at the 1913
“Target” [Mishen ’ ] show.
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their own roots and seeing a kind of home-grown exoticism.1 4 Their ironic stance
served to provide the necessary distance for this kind of self-reflective process.
Altman had gained this distance by traveling abroad the year before creating
his Jewish Prints. His entirely reverent attitude to Jewish folk tradition in Jewish
Prints worked to align his art with the discourse of oppression of national
minorities in Russia. Marxist thought had helped put the “Jewish Question” to the
forefront of debate. In making Jewish Prints, Altman harnessed the political
mood, in which the issues of exploitation, political rights, and nationality were
becoming inextricably connected. The situation of the Pale culture, because it was
endangered, made the context for Primitivism very different than for Western or
Russian Primitivist. Jewish Prints reflected an urgency in regard to Pale’s
disintegrating villages. While these may have been as unappealing for Altman on
a personal level as were Larionov’s and Goncharova’s hometowns were for them,
in his art, Altman treated their cultures with dignity.1 5
This quality differentiates Jewish Prints from the Russian Primitivists and
marks a distinction between Altman’s Jewish and other work of the 1910s. His
1908-1913 portraits of Jewish relatives and friends, his 1915 sculptural self-
portrait, and his designs of the Jewish Society for the Encouragement of the Arts all
1 4 To the extent that the Russian Primitivists depicted the cultures of their native regions, the term
‘Nativism’ may work better to distinguish the movement from its Western counterpart, which
focused on far away places. The term ‘nativism’ has been used by Mark Kiel, albeit in an off
handed way and without argumentation. Mark William Kiel. “From Jewish Folk Art to Jewish Art”
Chapter Three. A Twice Lost Legacy: Ideology, Culture and the Pursuit o f Jewish Folklore inRussa
until Stalinization (1930-1931). Dissertation. (The Jewish Theological Seminary, 1991), 236-384.
15
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exude a weighty seriousness.1 6 In contrast, his other work is by and large
humorous and lighthearted. This includes his caricature sketches of Shileiko
(1910s) and Akhmatova (1914), his designs for the cabaret production “Dance
Macabre” (1916), and his aforementioned corpus of sharzh-caricatures.
Eastern Stylization in Jewish Prints
Altman saw Jewish Prints as a model for a nascent modern Jewish art. The
Eastern roots of this art, as he envisioned it, were equally necessary to acknowledge
as were its folk sources. The Prints reflected these two constructs of Jewish art—
as Eastern and folk-based—that permeated Russian culture. Altman also discussed
the interlinkeag of the two in his brief 1915 statement about the Prints entitled
“What I Aspire to in My Painting”:
The drawings from the cycle Jewish Prints and [in particular:]
“Illustrations to the Bible” and “Original Sin” have a connection to Jewish
folk art, which is still influenced by Assyrian art despite the passing of
millennia. It seems to me this is where the path for creating a national art
lies.1 7
In the very act of copying from gravestone images, there was something of the
Orientological popular practice of examining ancient grave and other stone
16
1 7 Al’tman, Natan. “K chemu ia stremlius’ v svoei zhivopisi.” Novyi zhurnal dlia vsekh 4 (April
1915), 38.
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tablets.1 8 The allusions in the Prints to ancient Eastern art were noticed by the
critic Arvatov in his 1924 discussion of the “national theme” in the print series.
Following Altman’s description, he referred to them “Assyrian-Jewish
stylization.”1 9
This evocation of the East in Jewish Prints reoriented West European
interest in Jewish authenticity to a more distant geographic location. Western
enthusiasts of Jewish ethnic art considered the isolated culture of Russian and
Eastern European Jewry of the Pale, the Ostjuden, to carry the most unadulterated
Jewish experience. Art market trends in late 19th century Germany reflected this
perception. For example, the paintings and prints of Flungarian-born Jewish artist
Isidor Kaufman (1853-1921), which documented the dress and customs of Eastern
Orthodox Jewry during his travels through Galicia, Poland, and the Ukraine, were
enormously popular with German Jews.2 0 Like Kaufman’s work, Jewish Prints
held out the promise that Jewish authenticity could be recovered and served to help
shift the perception of its locus farther “East,” to a more exotic place of “Other.”2 1
Altman was not alone in believing that a modern Jewish style should exploit
its organic connection to the art of ancient Babylon, Egypt, Syria and surrounding
1 8 See, for example, the photographs and analyses of grave-stones texts from the Brittish Museum
and the National Libray in Paris in B[oris] Turaev and I. N. Borozdino, eds. et al. Drevnii mir. Part
1: Vostok. Series: Sbomik istochnikov po kul’turnoi istorii Vostoka, Gretsii, i Rima. (M: T-vo A.
A. Levensona, 1915).
19B. Arvatov. Natan A l’ tman. (P, Berlin; Petropolis, 1924), 29.
2 0 Grace Cohen Grossman, ed. New Beginnings: The Skirball Museum Collections and Inaugural
Exhibition. (Los Angeles: Skirball Cultural Center, 1996), 123.
211 am relying here on the idea of shifting conceptual constructions of the East expounded by
Edward Said in his Orientalism. 1s t Edition. (New York; Pantheon Books, 1978).
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lands. Jewish Prints played into two cultural paradigms in which Jewish artistic
experience was linked to ancient Eastern art. This served to reinforce the Jewish
aura o f Jewish Prints. First, by invoking the Orient in his Prints, Altman engaged
a formative construct of the nature of J ewish visuality that was discussed in the
previous chapter.
Secondly, the Eastern motif capitalized on the growing attention Zion
received in Russian Jewish discourse on galut or the condition of exile. The fact
that Jewish culture originated in Ancient Judea resounded among secular and
religious Jews alike at the turn of the century. The religious and apolitical
Orthodox of the Pale and the secular and socialist Zionists, opposing each other in
most other respects, shared the assumption that the condition of Jews dwelling in
Russia was temporary. While urged by Messianic calls on the one hand and search
for social and economic justice on the other, both groups maintained that eventually
many Jews would return to their ancestor’s Eastern homeland.
Non-Jewish Orientalism
Eastern stylization in Jewish Prints functioned differently than it did in
Altman’s non-Jewish work. If in the Prints, references to the East served to elevate
the status of folk art and add a tone of formality, elsewhere it functioned toward the
opposite goal and more in accordance with the workings of Russian Primitivism,
i.e. to provide distance from and meta-commentray on its subject. More
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specifically, the Eastern motifs in Altman’s non-Jewish work of the same years as
Jewish Prints served to critique the preoccupation with the East in contemporary
Russian culture.
Altman’s 1914 caricature of Anna Akhmatova, where she is sitting like an
Assyrian princess on a cloud in a cross-legged position or Indian-style [po turetski]
achieves this effect, as does Altman’s 1913 caricature of the World of Art painter
Nikolai Roerich (1874-1947), where the Asian features of his face are
exaggerated.2 2 Altman’s caricature was prophetic to the extent that Roerich’s
fascination with Eastern philosophy would grow into a lifelong fanatical devotion,
leading him to travel and live in Central Asia, Tibet, and India in the 1920s and
1930s.2 3
For certain Russian Futurists, the East represented freedom from
Renaissance conventions of visual representation. As the poet Benedikt Livshits,
artist Georgii Yakulov, and musician Artur Lur’e asserted in their poster of 1914,
the East offered them an alternative to a Western “geometric” and “trigonometric”
apprehension of the world. They declared their alliance with Eastern “algebraic”
perception principles that “move from the subject to the object.”2 4 Russian artists
emphasized the role of the East as the seat of the earliest primitive art, and thus the
modern artist’s natural subject of interest. Writing in his 1914 book
2 2 Altman's emphasis of Roerich’s eastern features has been duly noted by Evgenii Binevich.
“Teatral’nye sharzhi Natana Altmana.” Teatr 3 (March 1985), 108.
2 3 Binevich, E. “Teatral’nye sharzhi Natana Altmana.” Teatr 3 (March 1985), 108.
2 4 Benedikt Livshitz, Georgii Yakulov, and Artur Lur’e. My i zapad. Poster. (SP: Izd-vo Tahiti,
1914).
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Neoprimitivism, Aleskander Shevchenko argued that Primitivism was a legacy
[dostoianie] only of Asia; that the East was the “ur-source” [pervoistochnik] of the
primitive, from which Europe merely borrowed.2 5
Altman’s “Portrait of Vladimir Shileiko,” executed circa 1913-1915,
parodied this Futurist crusade against Western modes of perception. The portrait
pictured Shileiko in a two-dimensional profile, with the bottom half of his body
split from and facing the opposite direction from his torso and head.2 6 This nod to
Assyrian and ancient Egyptian art was enhanced by other details, including the
right angles of the folded arms, and the triangular form made by the legs and the
feet joined toe to heel.
The stylistic level of Altman’s lampoon was reinforced by his choice of the
portrait’s subject. As an accomplished student of Assyriology at Petersburg
University, Vladimir Shileiko was a leading representative of the fascination with
the East in contemporary Russia.2 7 He had published an essay on “Babylon” in the
Efron and Brokgauz Encyclopedia of 1912 and on the “Tetragrammathon” in the
Jewish Encyclopedia of 1913. With his discovery and translation of two letters in
2 5 Shevchenko, Aleksandr. “Neo-Primitivizm: ego teoriia, ego vozmozhnosti, ego dostizheniia.”
[1914] In Bowlt, John E. Russian Art of the Avant-Garde. (New York 1976), 41-54.
Shevchenko’s argument was summarized in Grishenko, A. and N. Lavrskii. A. Shevchenko: poiski,
dostizheniia, v oblasti stankovoi zhivopisi. (M: Izd-vo otdela izobrazitel’nykh iskusstv
NarKomPros, 1919). Shevchenko had also authored a book on Cubism in 1913.
2 6 This device of splitting the figure’s top and bottom and inverting them was also employed by
David Burliuk in one of his illustrations of Benedikt Livshits’ poetry. See Livshits, Benedikt.
Volch’ e solntse. (M: Izd-vo Ko. Futuristov “Gileia,” 1914), last page,
2 7 Shileiko was also an amateur poet who would be married to Akhmatova from 1918 to 1921.
Some of his poetry would be published the anthology Vesenni Salon Poetov (1918) and in the
magazine Sirena (1919). Tamara Shileiko. “Legendy, mify, i stikhi.” [Biography of V. K.
Shileikoj Novyi Mir 4 (Apr. 1986), 199-212.
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the Hermitage by a famous Babylonian King, Shileiko became a respected scholar,
publishing these and other translations of ancient texts in the two anthologies edited
by Boris Turaev in 1914 and 1915: Hammurabi’ s Law Codes and Ancient World:
The East.2 8 Out of the many illustrations of ancient art in the latter anthology, the
drawing of Pharoah Tutmos I depicted the human figure in a way that could have
inspired the Shileiko sketch.2 9 Altman’s drawing turned the tables on Shileiko by
activating the perceptive modes of ancient Eastern cultures as tools for observing
the modern scientist himself.
Altman’s “Self-Portrait: Head of a Jewish Youth”
If Jewish Prints engaged particular Primitivist trends, Altman’s next Jewish
project, the sculpture entitled “Self-Portait: Head of a Jewish Youth” (1915),
arrived at a competent understanding of Cubism.3 0 The head’s bluntly cut surfaces,
2 8 As previously mentioned, both of these were part of the Libraiy of the Jewish Society for the
Encouragement of the Arts. I. M. Volkov. Zakony Vavilonskogo Tsaria Khammurabi. Edited by
B. A. Turaev. First Edition. Series: Kul’tumo-istoricheskie pamiatniki drevnego vostoka M: T-
vo A. A. Levensona, 1914; and Turaev and Borozdino, eds. et al. Opus cited.
2 9 Turaev, unpaginated, between 16 and 17.
3 0 Altman returned to sculpture three times after “Self-Portrait.” In 1920, he produced a bust of
Lenin and separate reliefs of Lenin and Anatolii Lunacharskii; in the same period, he started the
bust of the German scientist Wilhelm Rentgen, the inventor of X-ray technology, which would be
completed by V. A. Sinaiskii in 1928 as part of the Lenin Monumental Plan. (The sculpture stands
today at 6 Rentgen Street in St. Petersburg. Reproductions appear in V. A., A. G. Raskin and L. O.
Shaposhnikov. Monumental and Decorative Sculpture o f Leningrad. (L: Iskusstvo, 1991), 73,427.
Altman’s original sketches for it are very close to the finished product. They are kept in the ARM.
In 1967, Altman made sculptures out of branches, which he cut and polished so that they resembled
animals, making a bow, in effect, to the 1911 experiments in organic art by Mikhail Matiushin. (See
for example Altman’s “Wounded Animal” (1967) in Etkind, 14. Photographs of Matiushin’s
organic sculpture appear in 1967 in Alla V. Povelikhina and John Bowlt, eds, et al. Organica: The
Non-Objective World o f Nature in the Russian Avant-Garde o f the 2&h Century. Exhibition
Catalogue. (Cologne: Galerie Gmurzynska, 1999.)
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geometric forms, and sharp angles mirrored such elements in the bronze head
sculptures produced by Aleksander Archipenko and Jacques Lipchitz in Paris in the
mid 1910s.3 1 It also anticipated the Cubist sculptural figures of Osip Zadkine in the
1920s and also, in particalar, the Cubist head sculptures by Joseph Tchaikov circa
1920.3 2 Altman had met Archipenko, Lipchitz, and Tchaikov in Paris in 1910-
1911, but there is no evidence of friendship or contact after this time.3 3 The fact
that Altman’s “Head” shared stylistic features with the contemporary work of
Archipenko and Lipchitz can be attributed to the general interest in African
sculpture generated by Picasso. The African trend affected artists working in
Russia in the mid-1910s, even if they did not travel abroad.3 4 Around the same
time, Russian sculptors like Boris Korolev (1885-1963), Ivan Kliun (1870-1943)
and Sergei Konenkov (1874-1971) began their own proto-Cubist experiments.
3 1 Archipenko’s first Cubist figural sculptures predated Lipchitz. Archipenko’s 1912 “Woman
Walking,” for example, interlocked concave and convex shapes to render the female figure.
Lipchitz’ first Cubist sculptures date to 1914, but the overlap between Lipchitz and Altman is
stronger, in part because Lipchitz’s focused almost exclusively on the head. It is evident
particularly in a work like the “Head” (1915, The Tate Gallery, London), which employs the long
neck found in African sculpture. See reproductions in A. M. Hammecher. “Lipchitz: The Birth of
Cubist Sculpture, 1909-1915.” In his Jacques Lipchitz. (New York: Abrams, 1975).
3 2 Tchaikov's 1921 sculpture “A Young Jew,” for example, carried Cubist principles to a farther
extent than Altman’s work, sacrificing the specificity of facial likeness. A photograph of
Tchaikov’s piece is reproduced in Iosif Tchaikov. Skulptur. (Kiev: Melukhe Farlag, 1921) and in
the essay's later reprint in a 1922 issue of the Polish-Yiddish journal Chaliastra.
3 3 Tchaikov returned to Russia in 1913, while Arkhipenko and Lipchitz remained through the 1910s
and 20s.
3 4 One international exhibit that featured African-inspired sculpture was the Italian Futurist
Scultpure show of 1914. Nikolai Kul’bin reviewed the show. See his “Buccioni [sic], U. Rttura,
Scultura Futurista (Dinamismo plastico). Milano, 1914.” Review. Russkie vedomosti. Kul’bin
noticed the way Cubist painting found its natural conclusion in the three-dimentiona medium.
Altman knew Kul’bin personally through common Futurist circles.
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While Cubism determined Altman’s vision of structure in “Self-Portrait,” a
Futurist aesthetic guided him in choice and use of materials. His friend and writer
Il’ia Eherenburg noticed this and argued for the viewing of the work within the
context of pre-Revolutionary Russian Futurism. To him, “Self-Portrait” suggested
an assemblage of machine parts. It seemed that the hat could actually be taken off
and put back on the head as if it were a separate part of a machine.3 5 Altman’s
work also shared the Futurist idea of multi-media art in its simultaneous use of
bronze, copper, and wood.3 6 Indeed, Altman’s sculpture may have been inspired
by the poet Filippo Marinetti’s unique detour into visual art in his 1914 sculpture
“Self-Portrait (Dynamic Combination of Objects),” which was made of polychrome
woods, matchboxes, various brushes and a gray silk handkerchief.3 7
Altman’s “Head” also echoed Umberto Boccioni’s famous works
“Dynamism of a Woman’s Head” and “Dynamism of a Man’s Head” (both 1914)
in the smooth surface of the bronze.3 8 Boccioni captured the visual effect of a
human head spinning like a vase on a pottery wheel. Although Altman’s “Self-
Portrait” did not imitate speed in this way, the slick and polished metal surface of
3 5 Il’ia Erenburg,. Liudi, gody, zhizn vospominaniia v trekh tomakh. (M: Sovetskii pisateF,
1990), 33.
3 6 This emulated Boccioni’s rejection of assumption that a sculptural piece is that which is of one
material. Mixing fragments of glass, wood, and horse-hair into plaster in Boccioni’s pieces “Head
and House and Light” and “Fusion of a Head and a Window” (both 1912) illustrated a new
definition of sculpture. Belloli, Carlo. Iconografia di Filippo Tommaso Marinetti fondatore del
Juturismo: contributi cromoplastici e grafosintetici per una imagine del poeta. (Milano: Silvia,
1982), 86.
3 1 Marinetti’s work was hung in the main ceiling of the Dore Gallery in London in 1914.
3 8 In 1912, Boccioni explained his artistic approach in his book La Scultura futurista.
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the head did betray a Futurist fondness for machines. This separated Altman from
Primitivism, which had a certain affinity toward wood and stone, expressed, for
example, in Natalia Goncharova’s enchantment with ancient stone idols [kammenye
baby].
Because the “Self-Portrait” experimented with a combination of materials,
Ehrenburg averred that it marked a move toward an art that revealed the condition
of artistic materials as “things.” It dispensed with the iilusionism of easel painting
and worked to show off the tactile and textual property [faktura] of artistic
materials themselves. Prefiguring the ideas of “ready-made” art in the West,
Ehrenburg explained this kind of art as an occasion for physical “as-is” reality to
speak for itself rather than to be manipulated.3 9 Writing in 1933, he claimed that
Cubism had stopped short of completely abdicating illusionistic devices and
praised Altman’s 1915 sculptural “Self-Portrait” for trying to transcend them. “The
time had passed when [Altman] imitated wood or marble after Braque or when he
... [gave] his art the meaning which Fuchs gave to his.”4 0 According to Ehrenburg,
Altman’s self-portrait marked a change of emphasis from imitation to presentation
in his relationship to materiality.
3 9 Ehrenburg expounded his views on the importance of unadulterated presentation of physical
reality in the magazine Veshch-Objet-Gegenstat, which he found in Berlin in 1922 together with El
Lissitzky. The Russian title Veshch translates as both ‘ Object and ‘ Thing. ’
4 0 Erenburg. Opus cited, 33. Ehrenburg may have been referring to one of two Fuchs: Emil Fuchs
(1866-1929)-Austrian sculptor and medallist popular with the British royal court for his bronze
portrait busts; or Peter Fuchs (1829-1898)—German-born Realist sculptor famous for his
monumental statues of saints in various European cathedrals. In either case, the point was Fueh’s
adherence to the idea of realistic likeness..
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Ehrenburg’s observations about Altman’s trajectory tried to wrestle the
“Self-Portrait” out of the Jewish framework used by nationalist critics. His efforts
are understandable given the anti-Jewish climate of the 1930s. As an exercise in
revisionist history, Ehrenburg’s endeavor is also justifiable, since Altman’s piece
had initially been showcased in nationally neutral contexts, such as the spring 1915
World of Art show and the “0-10 Exhibition,” a distinctly Avant-Garde venue.4 1
As mentioned, the piece had been overlooked by reviewers of the World of Art
show. And in the “0-10” exhibit, it had been overshadowed by radically
experimental works by Kazimir Malevich and Vladimir Tallin.4 2
It was not until the lectures by Maxim Syrkin and II’ia Gintsburg, which
were sponsored by the Jewish Society for the Encouragement of the Arts in
December 1915 and early 1916, that Altman’s sculpture received significant critical
notice.4 3 Syrkin and Gintsburg must have seen the piece displayed in one of the
4 1 “0-10” was organized in December 1915 in St. Peterburg by Ivan Pougny and included Kazemir
Malevich, Kseniia Boguslavskaia, Ivan Kliun, 01’ga Rozanova, Alexandra Alexandra Exter,
Mikhail Menkov, and Aleksei Morgunov. For documents related to the show and its description,
see Herman Beminger and Jean-Albert Cartier. Pougny (Iwan Puni) 1892-1956: Catagalogue de
I’ oeuvre. (Tubingen, Germany: E. Wasmuth, 1972).
4 2 Igor Grabar’ called Malevich’s Suprematist works ‘boring-ism’ [skuchism]. Aleksander Benois’
criticism was also negative, but he admitted that in some respects Malevich had “conquered
Raphael, Titian, and Michelangelo.” Ibid.
4 3 Altman’s sculpture drew minimal attention in Apollon and was barely mentioned by Bruni in his
review of the artist in Novyi zhurnal dlia vsekh mentioned earlier. Meanwhile, Jewish periodicals
printed Syrkin’s and Ginsburg’s lectures, reproduced photographs of the sculpture, and mentioned it
separately. The sculpture was purchased by the Russian Museum in 1918, when Altman was on the
board of the Committee of Museum Acquisitions. TsGALI f. 244 op. 1 no. 1 p. 5. It was referred to
in the 1918 acquisitions document as “Head” and valued at 2,000 rubles, which was quite low in
comparison to the other works purchased, like he painting “Woman at the Piano,” was was aqnired
for 7,000 rubles, two then-recent still-lifes for 5,000 rubles each. The “Head” was later sold to the
Ateneum Museum in Helsinki and afterwards to a private collector in Paris. Mark Etkind. Natan
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129
non-Jewish venues and praised it as a prime example of a modern Jewish art. The
sculpture was then displayed in the Society’s 1916 show of Jewish art. While
Ehrenburg’s suggestion that critics revisit the sculpture in its non-Jewish context is
appropriate, it is also important to try to understand why the piece resonated so
strongly with the Jewish nationalists. The next chapter tries to do this by
contextualizing the sculpture within a tradition of Jewish portraiture.
Al ’ tman, (Moscow: Sovetskii Khudozhnik, 1971), 117. Today, it is one of Altman’s best-known
works and one of his most frequently exhibited pieces in the Russian Museum.
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Chapter 4: Jewish Identity in Altman’s “Self-Portrait”
Jewish Self-Portraits
Nationalist criticism seized the occasion of Altman’s “Self-Portrait” to wax
rhetorical over the future of Jewish art. Critics like Maxim Syrkin and Il’ia
Gintsburg predicted that this piece would open the way for a deluge of Jewish art in
Russia. While fervent, this criticism was not closely analytical and was not
particularly concerned with the stylistic qualities of Altman’s work. In anticipating
that Jewish artists would follow in Altman’s footsteps and bring about a movement,
they in fact missed part of Altman’s point. His “Self-Portrait” did not serve as a
trumpet call for more Jewish art. It was more like a shot in the dark, the shocking
effect of which meant to provoke the question of nationalism in art. His assault on
common assumptions about the image of the Jew in art was unique and
irreproducible.
Although precipitated by Mark Antokol’skii’s and II’ia Gintsburg’s Jewish
sculptures, Altman’s sculpture broadcast the problem of ethnic identity in art in a
new way. Because it referred to the artist’s own persona, it brought more precise
attention than before to the double function of Jew as subject of representation and
its maker. Even Yehuda Pen, who can be considered Altman’s predecessor in this
regard, and Marc Chagall, both of whom painted their Jewish worlds and figured
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131
themselves as parts of it, did not focus on the problem of personal identity as did
Altman here.
Altman’s “Self-Portrait” differed from depictions of Jewish artists before
him in two significant ways. Firstly, it used a three-dimensional medium. As far
as it is known, neither Antokol’skii nor his pupil Gintsburg, the two renowned
Russian Jewish sculptors of the preceding generations, made images of
themselves.1 Perhaps this lacuna is endemic to the plastic media in general, i.e. that
sculptural self-portraits are rare. The absence of Jewish sculptural self-portraits can
also be seen as a result of the Jew’s particular relationship to sculpture. Firstly,
Jewish participation in three-dimensional media was mostly limited to the
decorative arts. From the 16th to the 19th centuries in Eastern Europe, a tradition
had developed of Jewish artisan metal work and wood carving of religious objects.2
It reached an apex of professionalization when woodcarvers formed itinerant
groups, which traveled from one community to another, building and decorating
1 The lesser known Jewish sculptor Maria L’vovna Dillon (1858-1932) is also not known to have
sculpted her own image. Dillon graduated from the Imperial Academy in 1875, received her title of
klassnyi khudozhnik in 1888, and was one of the first women sculptors. Her work consisted mainly
of portraits.
2 Indeed, the result of this experience make up the bulk of exhibition material in most Jewish
museums. Jewish traditions in metal work have been detailed in Cecil Roth, ed. Jewish Art: An
Illustrated History. Revised by Bezalele Namciss. (Greenwhich, Connecticut. New York Graphic
Society Ltd., 1971 [1961]); and Kantsedikas, Alexander and E. Volkhovinskaia, et al. Serebro.
Series: Shedevry evreiskogo iskusstva [Masterpieces of Jewish Art] (Moscow: Image, 1999)
[1992],
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wooden synagogues.3 This decorative tradition had only a negligible impact on
the modern sculpture of Jewish artists like Brodskii, Lipchitz, and Zadkine.4
Secondly, a Jewish artist’s relationship to sculpture was especially charged
because of Judaism’s historical rejection of idolatry.3 Gintsburg broached this
issue in his reflections on Jewish art in the mid-1910s.6 The Second
Commandment had been understood as a ban against images, including depictions
of the divine, all sentient beings, plants and animals, or the human figure. One of
the stronger interpretations of the ban was in relation to sculpted idols and the
human face because of the Commandment’s Biblical association with the story of
the Golden Calf.7 In the fact that Gintsburg and Antokol’skii, both professors at
the Imperial Academy and assimilated secular Jews, picked up the chisel with the
intention of representing the human form, we can infer one of the following: either
they disregarded the Jewish prohibition as part of their general dismissal of
religious laws, or they did not feel bound by some of the commandment’s specific
3 Barbara Gilbert. “Modem Jewish Art: A Survey.” Lecture. March 21, 2002. Hebrew Union
College.
4 Brodskii studied sculpture with la. O. Trouninanskii at the Odessa School of Arts, which he
attended from 1899 to 1902, i.e. a few years before Altman. I. A. Brodskii. Isaak Izrailevich
Brodskii. (L: Khudozhnik RSFSR, 1988).
5 The predicament of the modem Russian-Jewish artist was also shaped by the historical rejection of
sculpture in pre-Petrine Russian culture.
6 Gintsburg, Il’ia. “Skul’ptura i kuTtumye zadachi evreev.” Evreiskii mir 1 (Jan 1909), 123-8.
7 Kalman P. Bland. “Power and Regulation of Images in Late Medieval Jewish Society.” Chapter 7.
In his “The Artless Jew: Medieval and Modern Affirmations and Denials of the Visual. Princeton,
NJ: Princeton UP, 2000, 141-153. Anthony Julius, in his treatment of the subject of idolatry and
Jewish art, mentions that the artist Joseph Engel was told to destroy all the faces he had sculpted as
a youth. Anthony Julius. Idolizing Pictures: Idolatry, Iconoclasm, and Jewish Art. (London:
Thames and Hudson, 2000), 17. Engel was a little known sculptor who was roughly contemporary
with Chagall.
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133
injunctions, such as those against sculpture and human figuration, but—judging
from the absence of representaton of the divine in their work—did feel restricted in
this specific regard. Supposing the latter, is it also be possible that these sculptors
extended the Biblical prohibitions to also apply to images of one self?8 However
we may view this problem, the fact that Jewish sculptors avoided self-portraiture
remains important for considering Altman’s “Self-Portrait.”
Altman’s 1915 sculpture differentiated itself from most previous depictions
of Jewish artists, both in portraits and self-portraits, in a second way: it emphasized
the Jewish features of the artist’s appearance. Before him, there were limited
examples of this. While there did exist, of course, paintings of Jews made to be
recognizable as “Jews,” and there also existed Jewish self-portraits, which for the
most part minimized markers of Jewish identity, the two genres of portraiture were
not combined. The most notable exception to this was the Polish-Jewish painter
Maurycy Gottlieb (1856-1879), an artist famed for his genius and early death at the
age of twenty-three.9 Three years before his death, Gottlieb painted himself
wearing a gold earring, diadem on head, and Eastern-style toga-like attire in his
“Self Portrait as Ahasuer” (1876). The title referred to the figure of the Wandering
Jew of Christian legends who was condemned to roam the earth until the end of
8Antokol’skii and Gintsburg’s works are catalogued in Gosudarstvennaia Tret’iakovskaia Galereia.
Skul ’ ptura i riskunki skul ‘ pturov kontsa XlX-nachala XX veka. Collection Catalogue. (M: Sovetskii
khudozhnik, 1977); and Gosudarstvennyi russkii muzei. Russkaia skul ’ ptura v sobranii
Gosudarstvennogo russkogo muzeia. Collection Catalogue. (L: The Russian Museum, 1977).
9 To the extent that Alman was aware of Gottlieb as a precedent in acknowledging himself as a Jews
in his self-portraits, is possible that “Head” pays tribute to Gottlieb by invoking the theme of Jewish
youth.
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time as punishment for taunting Christ on his way to Cavalry.1 0 Produced amidst a
fervor of Jewish self-identification prompted by a close reading of The History of
the Jews by Graetz (1875), Gottlieb’s painting re-appropriated the image of
Ahasuer from the Christian literary context. The painting may have also functioned
to bewail Gottlieb’s own fate, which he felt was shaped by anti-Semitism,
especially as he experienced it in Jan Mateijo’s studio. Unlike his 1874 “Self
Portrait in Polish Attire,” which minimized the artist’s “Jewish” features, in the
“Ahasuer” self-portrait, as critics have noted, these features were emphasized. His
“thick sensuous lips, black curly hair, hooked nose and a melancholy look,” as
Nehama Guralnik describes them, complemented the superficial references to the
ancient Far East to produce a distinctly Jewish characterization.1 1 Echoes of the
“Ahasuer” image would appear in Gottlieb’s later self-depictions, like in “Self-
Portrait in Eastern Attire” (1877) and “Jews Praying at the Synagogue on Yom
Kippur” (1878). The latter painting features three self-portraits, and in one of
these, Gottlieb is seen wrapped in a tallit and wearing a medallion with a Magen
David. In “Christ Preaching at Capernaum” (1878) he appears as an anonymous
figure among Christ’s audiences, striking the same pose as Ahasuer.1 2
1 0 A possible reference to Ahuserus, the Persian king in the story of Esther, foritifies the Eastern
dimension to Gottlieb’s self-portrait.
1 1 Nehama Guralnik,. “Maurycy Gottlieb: Ahasuer and Dreamer, a Polish-Jewish or Jewish-Polish
Artist?” In his In the Flower o f Youth: Maurycy Gottlieb, 1856-1879. Exhibition C atalog. (Tel
Aviv: Dvir Publishing Ltd, 1991), 36.
1 2 Ibid, 37, 47-49.
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If Gottlieb represents the exception among Jewish self-depictions, his
predecessor in Germany, Moritz Oppenheim (1800-1882), embodies the larger
tendencies of avoiding self-portraits and disassociating the image of the self from
Jewish identification. Since the time of Rembrandt, painting Jews in a positive
light was in itself nothing new in Western art. But even the most established
Jewish artists shied away from painting themselves in ways that underlined their
religious and or ethnic backgrounds. Oppenheim illustrates this paradox especially
well because, unlike many other Jewish artists around him who converted to
Christianity and eschewed associations with Judaism, Oppenheim never converted,
and, as a mature artist, became a celebrated spokesman for Jewish culture. As
Ismar Schorsh explains, Oppenheim regarded Judaism not as a credo or code of
behavior but as a kind of sacred space, which derived from his childhood
experience of family, home, and school in the Hanan ghetto near Frankfurt.1 3
Oppenheim tacitly argued for the need to sustain this family environment as an
organizing principle, which he depicted between 1850 and 1870 in a series of
twenty genre paintings on Jewish Holidays. These were published in four separate
editions using grisaille versions and became one of Germany’s most popular
albums of the period. Because this corpus of works was substantial and well
received, Oppenheim has been hailed as the “first Jewish painter.” But when
1 3 Ismar Schorsch. “Art as Social History: Oppenheim and the German Jewish Vision of
Emancipation.” In Moritz Oppenheim: The First Jewish Painter. Exhibition Catalogue.
(Jerusalem: The Israel Museum), 1983, 39.
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136
Oppenheim portrayed himself in his 1822 “Self-Portrait,” he stripped his image of
any allusions to this Jewish “sacred space” that he so celebrated.1 4 Instead, he is
defined by symbols of his profession, like an Italian/Dutch painter’s hat, which cast
his figure into the tradition of the “old masters” and paid homage to his ideal of the
humble and devoted quattracento artiste.1 5
Established Russian Jewish artists who preceded or were contemporary to
Altman followed Oppenheim’s rather than Gottlieb’s lead insofar as they did not
openly proclaim a Jewish identity in their self-portraits. This can be said of artists
on both ends of the acculturation spectrum, from Yehuda Pen and Marc Chagall,
who were immersed in the Jewish life of Vitebsk, to Leonid Pasternak and Isaak
Levitan, who were more at home in the environment of a Russian-European
cosmopolitan intelligentsia.1 6
After Pen (1854-1937) graduated from the Imperial Academy in 1885, he
started a successful school of painting in Vitebsk, where the majority of students
were Jewish — among the more famous were Chagall, Osip Zadkine, El Lissitzky,
Solomon Iudovin, and Abel Pan (later—Pfefferman). He also produced realist
1 4 See reproduction on the cover of opus cited above.
1 5 Oppenheim’s 1819 studyof himself, produced in his first years of school, does bear markers of his
Jewishness. It is a delicately etched profile of the young and dignified Oppenheim with a single line
connecting his forehead and nose. Schorsch describes the depiction as “a sensitive young man,
distinctly Jewish, with a large skullcap and sidelocks neatly combed back over his ears.” (Ibid, 38,
reproduction on p, J?8). Without discounting this early impulse to portray himself as a Jew
altogether, I would maintain that his later self-portrait represents Oppenheim’s mature attitudes to
his Jewish identity.
1 6 Vitebsk’s Jewish population at the time was at 52 percent. G. Kazovskii. Ieguda pen i ego
ucheniki. (Series: Shedevry evreiskogo iskusstva.) (M: Image, 1993). See also A. S. Shatskikh.
Vibestk: Zhizn ’ iskusstvo 1917-1922. (M: Iazyki russkoi kul’tury, 2001).
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137
genre scenes peopled by Jewish characters and filled with details of the Jewish life
17
around him. But when Pen painted himself, he chose to separate his image from
these surroundings. His 1898 “Self Portrait with Palette” shows the artist en face,
gazing straight ahead and isolated within a dark and empty background, cropped by
a close frame.1 8 He wears a tidy jacket with vest and tie, the kind of formal dress in
which one could lunch in any nice restaurant in Moscow and be taken for a
provincial doctor or lawyer. His attire is spotless, and no signs of the disorder mar
the respectability of his profession. The tip of the brush that the artist holds is
depicted to be painting the very surface of the canvas. By making such a nod to the
European tradition of trompe Voeil, the painting suggested Pen’s view of himself as
a gentleman who need not bother with the undignified business of survival. By
virtue of this benign and playful gentleman’s vocation, Pen is removed from the
commonplace Vitebsk life that he depicts elsewhere, which is circumscribed by
ethnicity and religion. As an artist, he belongs to a group of a different order.
Chagall’s self-portraiture contrasts with his other works in the same way.
The artist’s image is not fixed in the distinctly Jewish setting of his painterly world.
Cultural symbols abound in Chagall’s depictions of the mestechko, and the world
therein is often tumultuous and “topsy-turvy.” His self-portriats, on the other hand,
1 7 Hillel Kazovsky uses these facts to argue that Pen was a Jewish painter and his school of
painting—a Jewish school.
1 8 Pen’s self-portrait is reproduced in color in Susan Tumarkin Goodman,, ed. et al. March
Chagall: Early Works from Russian Collections. (New York: Jewish Museum, 2001), 17. It is
dated here as 1898, while Kazovsky gives a more open dating of 1890s.
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138
lack these cultural references and show the artist calmly poised.1 9 In the handful of
drawings and paintings of himself that Chagall made between 1909 and 1923, none
show any Jewish particularities. In the earlier ones, like “Self-Portrait” (1914), the
face is drawn with tenderness and concern for an academic kind of verisimilitude.
The objects included in most of the early portraits are exclusively from the studio
environment. Chagall’s image is constituted by references to his vocation:
canvasses, paints, palette, etc. In the 1914 portrait, he is bedecked, a la
Oppenheim, in an Italian-Dutch beret perched aslant on his head.2 0
Out of all these artists, Leonid Pasternak (1862-1945) was most attentive to
his own image. He made more than a dozen self-portraits between 1908 and 1915,
including drawings in charcoal, pastel, and pencil as well as paintings in oil. These
portraits picture Pasternak wearing his signature white bow tie and starched white
shirts and jackets, appropriate to his social position as a professor of art at the
Moscow School of Painting. As Pasternak’s biographer has suggested, these self-
portraits can be divided into two groups: staged poses produced before 1911 and
more natural depictions created thereafter. The ones before 1911 projected a
conscious image of a handsome dandy. In these, Pasternak is often pictured
holding or wearing a summer, light-colored, rimmed hat with a dark ribbon, tilting
casually, which harmonizes with other elements of a leisurely dacha life.
1 9 Notable exceptions to this are “Self-portrait with Seven Fingers,” (1909/1910), which plays on a
Yiddish idiomatic expression and his 1919 mural for the GOSET. Ziva Amishai-Maisels.
“Chagall’s Jewish In-Jokes.” Journal o f Jewish Art 5 (1978), 76-93,
2 0 Haftman has noted that in such portraits, it is as if Chagall proclaims “Anchi’o son pittore”—I am
also a painter. Werner Haftman,. Marc Chagall. (New York: Harry N. Abrams, 1984), 48-49.
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Pasternak’s first portrait, painted at the age of thirteen and based on a
school photograph, shows a young boy in a military-style gymnasium uniform.
From hence forward, none of the portraits of himself—either alone or with
family—made any allusions to Jewish traditions. In a portrait from 1902-1903,
Pasternak is shown wearing an “old master’s” hat. With this accessory, he became
situated in the European artistic tradition in a way that echoed Oppenheim and
anticipated Chagall. The ever-present bow tie added to this effect as well, as did
the sometimes elaborate arrangements of his robes and his Don Quixote moustache
and pointed beard. Pasternak’s early self-portraits often employed a concert
composition and pictured him figure in full in the foreground or to one side, with
references to art and family in the background.2 1 The self-portraits after 1911
dispensed with this kind of suggestive staging. Using simple frames and plain
backgrounds, these examined psychological states and recorded concrete details of
the artist’s aging process. In these more technical and precise works, Pasternak
dispensed with his earlier elegant poses.2 2
Unlike Pasternak, Isaac Levitan (1860-1900) made only a handful of images
of himself. Although his appearance was commonly admired, Levitan downplayed
the importance of his image. As Petrov surmises, Levitan was ironic [ironiziroval]
toward his own appearance, did not like to pose, and was not in love with his image
2 1 A concert composition involves more background and scenery than more straight-forward
portraits.
2 Rimgaila Salys. “Biographical Sketch.” In her Leonid Pasternak, the Russian Years, 1875-1921:
A Critical Study and Catalogue. Vol. I. (New York: Oxford UP, 1999), xxi-xcii.
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140
in the way an “aesthete” of the time might be.2 3 His wish to deflect attention from
himself may have been part of the reason Levitan disliked Chekhov’s literary
portrayal of him in the story “ Poprygunia, ” the publication of which led to a rift in
their friendship.2 4
Levitan’s two extant self-portraits do not reference Jewish culture in any
way. A casual 1880 study of his head executed in India ink is neutral in this
regard.2 5 His late and unfinished self-portrait in oil (ca. 1900) shows the artist
looking slightly to the right without any expression. He is wearing an
unremarkable jacket and a signature polka-dotted bow tie.2 6 These self-portraits
present Levitan clearly outside of a Jewish cultural context. The limited quantity of
his self-portraits suggests the artist’s overall disregard for representations of his
• 27
own image. The stereotyping Levitan experienced in school, when he was seen
as an “Arab,” may have attributed to this self-consciousness.
2 3 Vladimir A. Petrov. Isaak I l’ ich Levitan. SP: Khudozhnik Rossii, 1993, 73-74.
2 4 In the story, Chekhov suggested an amorous affection between the character based on Levitan and
the wife of their common acquaintance
2 5 Tretiakov Gallery. See reproduction in Fedorov-Davydov Isaac Levitan: The Mystery of Nature.
(Bournemouth, England: Aurora, 1995), 18; and in Miriam Rajner. “Levitan’s ‘Jewish
Graveyard’.” The Israel Museum Journal 12 (1994), 29.
2 6 Levitan is captured in several photographs of the same period. See reproduction in Petrov. Opus
cited, n.p.
2 7 Portraits of Levitan by other artists are also limited in quantity, and with the exception of the early
studies of him as ‘Christ’ and ‘Arab’, which are discussed below, they do not connect him to Jewish
culture. Besides these, there exist only two other portraits of Levitan. In Valentin Serov’s 1893
painting, Levitan is modestly dressed in a dark bluejacket and silk-blue tie. With his slanting head,
slightly droopy eye-lids, and pallor, he seems tired, undernourished, and exhausted. This portrait
employs somber hues and shows Levitan seated in front of a wicker chair that obstructs our view.
Levitan’s arm rests on the chair, keeping him guarded from us, as it were. Serov’s talent was in
showing a predominant personality trait through a single gesture or compositional element The
chair, functioning as a kind of screen, shows the side of Levitan that is withdrawn, self-shielding, or
not altogether comfortable with this kind of self-exposition. (The portrait appears as the frontispiece
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141
Role-Playing in “Self-Portrait”
In Altman’s “Self-Portrait,” the secular and cosmopolitan modern artist
appears in the guise of a Hassid. The work uses a staple Romantic device of
conflating public and private personas. The bronze head depicts Altman dressed up
as a Jew of the old world, sporting a traditional Hassidic hat and side hair curls, or
peyes. The effect of taking on the appearance of the marginalized “other” is further
reinforced through the blackness of the piece. The dark color of African wooden
sculpture is invoked here with the total effect of the Cubist rendition of the facial
features, the blackness of the bronze and the stylized elliptical eyes, full lips, and
long neck.
The theatricality of this self-posturing should not be overlooked. As an
adult, Altman did not wear Hassidic garb. In the earliest photographs we have of
him, from his school days in Odessa, i.e. between 1904 and 1907, he donned an
ordinary cap or kepka, a typical garment of Russian gymnasium students, and he
wore his hair a la Oscar Wilde—long and thick, cut at one length straight across
just below the ear.2 8 As later pictures show, Altman eventually dispensed with his
kepka but retained this one-length haircut through the late 1920s. Thus when he
to most Levitan monographs, e.g. Petrov, Fedorov-Davydov.) In the less remarkable earlier portrait
of Levitan by his brother Adolf, Levitan is dressed even more simply, in shirt and jacket, and
appears likewise somewhat sedated. See the undated portrait in Fedorov-Davydov, A. A. Isaac
I l’ ich Levitan: Zhizn’ i tvorchestvo, 1860-1900. (M, L: Iksusstvo, 1976), n.p.
2 8 In the 1910s Marc Chagall and IFia Gintzburg also had this untypical hair-do, which had nothing
to do with Wilde per se or with homosexuality, signalling, if anything, only a general association
with bohemia.
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142
presented himself with a Hassidic hat and peyes in the “Self-Portrait,” he was, in
fact, donning a mask.
The hat and peyes connoted, at least to the general public, traditional
Judaism of the abandoned Pale while to Jews, they referred to the specific strata of
Hassidic Jewry as the least acculturated group. Western audiences were also
familiar with these semiotics of representation of the Ostjude, both from Jewish
journals of the time and from 19th century paintings of Eastern European Jews, in
particular those by Isidor Kaufman. Altman’s “Self-Portrait” relied on this
iconography to produce images of “authentic” Jewish culture that would seem
endearing in a secular context. If previous Jewish artists literally “dress[ed]-up
according to another’s taste and times,” as did Gottlieb in his 1874 self-portrait
mentioned earlier where he wears a costume of a Polish nobleman, Altman did just
29
the opposite. A secular and non-religious acculturated Jew, he disguised himself
as a Hassid.
While the reviews of the “Self-Portrait” in 1915 and 1916 did not address
the implications of an explicitly Jewish iconography, their sensitivity to the issue
was manifested as confusion about the work’s title. Some referred to it as “Self-
Portrait” and others as “Head of a Jewish Youth.” It is not clear what Altman
actually named his piece originally. The Soviet art historian Lazar’ Rozental’
claims that Altman called it simply “Self-Portrait” and credits the critics with
2 9 Maurycy Gottlieb’s 1874 self-portrait, which is in the private collection of J. Felsner in Vienna, is
reproduced in Guralnik. Opus cited.
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143
assigning the quality of Jewish appearance to Altman’s likeness by adding the
subtitle “Head of a Jewish Youth.”3 0 Judging from his earlier works, Altman
wanted to emphasize the “Jewish” in his titles, as evidenced in “Portrait of a
Jewish Old Man” (1913) and the mysterious “Jewish Head” that was displayed at
the 1915 World of Art show.3 1 Whatever the original name may have been,
eventually the two parts melded and made for the tautological and somewhat
contradictory title of “Self-Portrait'. A Head of a Jewish Youth ”3 2 Naturally, the
nationalist criticism wanted to emphasize the ethnicity inherent in the work and
included the word “Jew” or “Jewish” in the title. Still, they treated the title as if it
were malleable. The Jewish Weekly of 1916, for example, referred to it as “Jewish
Head,” implying its classification as a “type” study, a category that had been
popular since the end of the 19th century.3 3 In the 1916 Exhibition of the Jewish
Society for the Encouragement of the Arts, the piece was listed as “Head of a
Young Jew.” The disparity in the titles indicates an overall ambiguity about how
to broach the issue of ethnic/national identity, which the sculpture had so clearly
raised.
" ’ Lazar’ Rozental’. “Iz vospominanii.” Typescript. [1983] RNB f. 1126 op. 2 n. 16p.2.
3 1 In his review of Altman’s work exhibited with the World of Art, Bruni considers “Jewish Head”
in the same paragraph as two of Altman’s paintings and does not differentiate their media. From this
it can be inferred that Bruni is talking about a drawing or a painting. Opus cited, 37.
3 2 Etkind has it as “Head of Jewish Youth (Self-Portrait).”
3 3 Syrkin’s article, for example, featured a reproduction of the work with the title “Head of a Jew,”
and the attribution: “A Sculpure by Natan Al’tman”. M. Syrkin. “Evrei i iskusstvo.” Evreiskaia
nedelia 25 (19 June 1916), 40.
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144
Regardless of which half of the title appeared in the reviews and in
exhibitions, it was obvious that the face being presented was meant to look Jewish
and that its features were the artist’s own. Even without any title, this would have
been self-evident. As it was, with the titles appearing in reviews often as separate
halves, its various versions still functioned uniformly—to underscore the equation
between the artist’s “self’ and Jewishness. In other words, the separate halves of
the title, as it were, were still complete. And independent of which half Altman
may have preferred, the sculpture itself reflected the urge to recognize the presence
of Jews in public life. Given the generally opposite impulse in Russian society
during WWI, “Self-Portrait” can be considered confrontational on a socio-political
level. The war gave rise to xenophobic and anti-Semitic measures. In the year the
sculpture was made, for example, the printing of Yiddish-language publications
was prohibited for fear that they would contain unpatriotic material. Altman’s
image of himself as a Jew countered such efforts to erase manifestations of Jewish
culture.
While Altman’s “Self-Portrait” served as a manifesto for the relevancy of
Judaism in modern culture, it also worked to develop a private artistic language that
portrayed his experience of the Jewish world. One element of this personal
vocabulary is the random-looking wooden piece shaped like a vertical wave that
juts out on the left side of the sculpted head. Like the other details in this
economical and compact sculpture, this represented more than a whimsical wing
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145
shaped decorative form. The detail served as an inter-textual reference to two of
Altman’s earlier Jewish works: “The Old Woman” (1908), a drawing of Altman’s
grandmother, and “The Old Jew,” a portrait in oil of an old man seated beside the
Pentateuch, a symbol of religious learning. In both the drawing and the painting,
the figures are seated on a simple wooden chair, and we understand that this is what
the wooden piece in the sculpture is meant to synechdotally represent. On a formal
level, it was an efficient way to demarcate space and integrate the subject into his
surroundings, an effect that Cubists strove to achieve. The detail also worked to
suggest a sitting posture and an interior setting. The sculpture’s shape and
positioning of the wooden piece to the left of the face was identical to that in
Altman’s paintings “The Old Woman” and “The Old Jew. ” This intertextual
relationship suggested an inter-generational bond between the two older Jews and
the young Altman.3 4
Altman’s Odd Looks
If the peyses and hat in Altman’s “Self-Portrait” forged associations with
Judaism in a language accessible by all, and if the wooden piece did this by
employing a more exclusive vocabulary of his Jewish portraits, then Altman’s own
3 4 There exist other inter-connections in Altman’s Jewish oeuvre. His 1911 “The Lady with a
Dog,” which depicts Esfir Shwartsman, a resident of Vinnitsa (whose representation here was
mistaken for many years for that of Nadezhda Dobychina), is connected to Altman’s 1911 “Jewish
Funeral.” The left side of the Shwartsman portrait uses compositional elements from “Jewish
Funeral.” A close examination of the two has revealed that they had originally shared the same
canvass and were cut in two only after they the canvass had been painted. I. Pruzhan and V.
Kniazeva. Russkii portret kontsaXlX—nachalaXIXveka. (M: Izobrazitel’noe iskusstvo), 1980.
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146
facial features raised the issue of Jewish identity on an even more personal level in
his self-portraits. In using his own countenance to exemplify the look of a Jewish
youth, Altman made himself vulnerable to anti-Semitic sneers. Considered in the
context of strengthening nationalism, however, this same self-offering was also a
self-empowering move in that it challenged anti-Semitic imaging. This
combination of self-martyrdom and self-assertion contributed to the strength of the
sculpture’s effect.
Its provocation was especially charged given the fact that Altman’s
appearance was commonly considered “odd.” In describing his looks around 1913,
for example, his contemporary Lazar’ Rozental’ noted that Altman looked
“unusual,” “striking,” “angular,” and even like an imitation of a “Cubist painting.”
Rozental’ remembered his features as follows:
... a medium height, a stocky build, a good figure, a striking face, large
features, angular, all straight lines, like on the canvasses of timid imitators
of the newly fashionable Cubist painting. There was something unusual
about him, but it was not Parisian; much was still provincial.3 5
In describing Altman circa 1914 and 1915, Nikolai Punin also noted certain
idiosyncratic mannerisms. Altman held a cigarette very low in between his fingers
and when he entered into a room, he seemed to “carry in with him the turmoil
[sueta] of life.” Punin also noticed particular physical traits, writing that Altman
3 5 RNB f. 1126 op. 2 n. 16 p. 1
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147
“had an Asian face, sharp nimble movements, and prominent cheekbones.”3 6
Finally, Altman’s second wife Irina Shchegoleva, an ethnic Slav, in describing her
first impressions of Altman, also stressed his unusual features:
When he appeared, I was struck and attracted by his strangeness
[neobychnost ’ ]. This was a person of medium height, dark skin, with dark
slanting eyes, slightly protruding cheekbones, soft big lips, and a chin
slightly cut off. His hair was straight, black, and dim, like an [American]
Indian.3 7
Shchegolova’s description of Altman’s “slanting dark eyes” [raskosye temnye
glaza] was a common Russian epithet for Mongolians, Tartars, or Asians. And
“large, soft lips” referred euphemistically to blackness, largely due to Russia’s
veneration of its African-blooded national poet, Aleksander Pushkin.3 8
In his 1922 monograph, Portrait o f Natan Altman, which highlighted the
issue of physical appearance in its title, Abram Efros constructed an alternate image
of the artist. He created parity between Altman’s outer appearance and his art,
structuring his text around descriptors with suitable metaphorical flexibility. He
3 6 N. N. Punin. “Kvartira N5.” Manuscript, [n.d.] ORTG f.4 n. 1568 p. 6.
3 7 Irina Petrovna Shchegoleva. “Vospominaniia o Natane ATtmane.,” Typescript. [1971] RNBf.
1126 op.ii n. 252 p. 1. Shchegolova noted that she first met Altman on vacation in Evpatoria in
1927.
3 8 In Konstantin Paustovsky’s 1947 short story “The Rose of Winds,” for example, the character
Nastasia, reflecting on the distinctive traits of poet-geniuses, mentions Pushkin’s “Negro lips”:
“[Nastia] thought that each poet had something in his outer looks that distinguished him from other
people—Pushkin’s negro lips [negritianskie guby Pushkina], Lermontov’s gloomy eyes,
Maiakovskii’s thundering voice. (Konstantin Paustovsky. “Roza vetrov” Sobranie Sochinenii.
Vol. 7. (M: Khudozhestevennaia literatura, 1969), 345. Pushkin himself called attention to his
African lineage in his work, an issue which is discussed in Thomas J. Shaw. “Pushkin on His
African Heritage: Publications during His Lifetime.” Pushkin Today. (Bloomington, IN: Indiana
UP, 1993), 121-35. For the significance of Pushkin’s geneology in Russian culture see also: Anne
Lounsbery. “Soul Man: Alexander Pushkin, the Black Russian.” Transition 9/4 (2000), 42-61.
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148
argued that in Altman’s physical demeanor, as in his art, the same was perceivable:
his French and aristocratic airs, his intellectual coldness, a maturity that was
beyond his years, and artistic conservativism.3 9 In his review of the monograph, art
historian Pavel Ettinger (1866-1948) thought that it recast Altman according to
Efros’ ideals and tastes. The problem with trying to “portray” Altman, Ettinger
suggested, was that it changed his very image in the process.4 0 Ettinger’s objection
to Efros tapped into the issue generated by Altman’s “Self-Portrait” itself of how
the real and imagined physiognomies of Jewish artists are perceived.
The Look of Jewish Artists
The personal appearance of Jewish artists who preceded Altman had been
interpreted in ways that linked them to the Hebraic or “Eastern” tradition. Camille
Pissaro (1830-1903), for example, had been described to “looked like Abraham” by
the contemporary critic George Moore. Pissaro’s “beard was white and his hair
was white and he was bald,” Moore wrote.4 1 This was a way of reputiating the fact
that the artist had disassociated from Judaism in his life and work. His looks still
marked him as inherently connected to Abraham’s lineage.
Closer to Altman’s place and time, the appearance of a Jewish artist also
seemed to stand out. Levitan’s face was considered “foreign” and “Eastern” by his
3 9 A. Efros. Portret Natana A l’ tmana. (M: Shipovnik, 1922).
4 0 P[avel D.] Ettinger. “Portret Natana Al’tmana.” Review. Sredi kollektsionerov 5 (1923), 44.
4 1 Quoted in Larry Silver. “Introduction.” In his and Freyda Spira, et al. Transformation: Jews
and Modernity. (Philadelphia: Arthur Ross Gallery, 2001), 15-6.
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professors at the Moscow School of Painting, Sculpture and Architecture.4 2 In
1887, he posed as “Christ” for his teacher, Vasilii Polenov, for the latter’s
monumental “Christ and the Sinner.” And, in 1889, Levitan modeled in Arab and
Bedouin costumes in the studio of M. V. Nesterov.4 3 This prompted later critics
to claim that Levitan’s looks were “Arab.”4 4
While Chagall also modeled as Christ, he himself interpreted the
appearance of Jewish artists as such so as to navigate the unfamiliar art world of St.
Petersburg and Paris. In his memoirs, he recalls his impression upon first seeing
other Jewish artists: “There’s Max Jacob. He looks like a Jew.”4 5 Chagall also
recognized the Jew in Leon Bakst (nee Lev Rozenberg, 1886-1924), despite the
latter’s projections of an ethnically neutral image in his self-portraits. Chagall
“identified” and identified with Bakst on the level of his appearance. In his first
impressions of the aritst, Chagall thought he unveiled the “true” Bakst behind what
was a kind of incidental mask:
4 2 The painter Konstantin Korovin (1861-1939) said that Levitan’s face reflected his beautiful spirit.
(Petrov. Opus cited, 73.) Petrov himself discussed the artist’s clear mind and spiritual openness and
vulnerability [rannimost ’ ] reflected in the artist’s eyes. Levitan’s biographer Solomon Vermel'
wrote that Levitan made a ‘graceful [iziashchnyi] gentleman’ of himself. S. Vermel’, S. Isaak Il'ich
Levitan i ego tvorchestvo. (SP: Tip. A. E. Landau, 1902), 10. Photographs of Levitan bear out
these compliments and show a dashing young man, peaceful and composed, his beard and mustache
neatly trimmed. He is wearing a handsome hat and tweed coat. Alexei Fedorov-Davydov. Isaac
Levitan: The Mystery o f Nature. (Bournemouth, England: Aurora, 1995). The photographs appear
towards the beginning of the album.
4 3 Fedorov-Davydov, A. A. Isaak Ilich Levitan: Dokumenty, materialy, bibliograftia. M:
Iskusstvo, 1996, 10.
4 4 Tamara Iurova has written that Levitan “resembled an Arab.” Cited in Petrov. Opus cited, 40.
4 5 Marc Chagall. My Life. Trans. Peter Owen. (London: John Buckley, Ltd., 1965), 111. Max
Jacob (1876-1944)—French draughtsman, painter and writer, influenced in his early work by
Picasso and Cubism.
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It seemed to me that it was pure chance that [Bakst] was wearing
European clothes. He was a Jew. Reddish curls clustered above his ears
He could have been my uncle, my brother. I began to think that he was
born not far away from my ghetto, and that he had also been a pink and
white boy like me. Perhaps he even stammered like me.4 6
Chagall felt that his own appearance was, in turn, significant to Bakst. “He will
understand me,” he wrote. “He’ll understand why I stammer, why I am pale, why I
am so often sad, and even why I paint in lilac colors.”4 7 In non-Jewish contexts,
Chagall felt his looks made his identity transparent and aroused suspicion. After
being rejected from the Baron Stieglitz School of Arts and Crafts, he blamed it on
his looks, writing, “My Semitic appearance aroused their curiosity.”4 8
Part 13: Deconstructing the Jewish “Type”
Chagall’s candid articulation of his preoccupation with Jewish appearance
was exceptional, for the subject was naturally awkward and often considered
tactless and taboo. This is to reiterate the point that Altman’s “Self-Portrait”
touched on a sensitive matter. It did so with the understanding, which equaled
Chagall’s, of the unspoken psychological processes involved in the issue of Jewish
4 6 Chagall. Opus cited, 90.
4 7 Ibid, 91.
4 8 Chagall. Op. cit. 90. Chagall thought the school was suspicious of his real purpose to obtain
residency in St. Petersburg.
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appearance. The importance of Altman’s “Self-Portrait” in this regard can be better
understood if seen in the context of earlier images of Jews.
Positive Image of Jews in Art
Altman had at his disposal abundant examples of positive images of Jews in
the European and Russian fine arts. The fact of their profusion cannot be
overstated and has been copiously demonstrated in the 400-page volume on the
subject, The Jews in Christian Art.4 9 Christ, whose representation many times
made his Jewishness explicit, was, after all, its central model of beauty. Jewish
artists added to this tradition, emphasizing Christ’s noble features. Mark
Antokol’skii’s 1876 marble sculpture “Christ,” in which the figure was shown
wearing a skull cap, was interpreted by his contemporaries as bearing a distinctly
Jewish look.5 0 Oppenheim’s painting “Christ Before the Judges” (1877-1879) also
endowed Christ with side curls, a prayer shawl, and a kittel,5 1
Among the canonical and “beautiful” images of Jews made by Jewish
artists, the literary personages, Shakespeare’s Shylock or Gotthold Ephraim (1721-
1781) Lessing’s “Nathan the Wise” painted by Mauracy Gottlieb, can be mentioned
along with other works by Oppenheim and Izadore Kauffman (1853-1921.
4 9 Heinz Schreckenberg. The Jews in Christian Art: An Intellectual History. (New York:
Continuum, 1996).
5 0 Ziva Amishai-Maisels argues that Antokol’skii’s “Christ” was the first in Russia to represent
Christ as Jewish. “The Jewish Jesus. ” Journal o f Jewish Art 9 (1982), 84-104.
5 1 Kittel—white garment worn in some Ashkenazi rites for the High Holy Days, Pesah, and other
ceremonial occasions.
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Ephraim Lilien’s polular illustrations and prints heroicized the Jewish body by
casting it in the form of Greek muscular heroes. And in Russian academy-style art,
artists like Isaak Asknazy, Moses Maimon, and Yehuda Penn supplied graceful
Realist images of Biblical, historical, and modern Jews.5 2
Negative Stereotypes
While these kinds of representations provided Altman with possible models
for imaging himself as Jewish, the genre of the Jewish “type” did the opposite.
Altman’s “Self-Portrait” rejected the very premise of the “type” portrait, which
tried to identify a set of Jewish features and to define Jews as a separate ethnic and
social group. “Self-Portrait,” in its self-referentiality, aimed to underline individual
uniqueness over and above any categorization. It did not only replace one image of
the Jew for another. It challenged the possibility of such a replacement and posited
identity as that which does not lend itself to typification.
Several strands of depiction of Jews served as the object of implicit critique
in Altman’s “Self-Portrait.” On the level of popular culture, there was, in the mid-
th
19 century, “Race Science,” to which not only scientists contributed in the West,
but also politicians, tax-men, and other members of society. Particular scientific
literature that asserted the racial inferiority of Jews seeped into Russia, which was
countered by the rise of Zionist writing. A similar trajectory can be traced on the
5 2 Hillel Kazovsky. “National Self-Identification in Art.” Jewish Art 21-22 (1995-6), 20-39.
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level of art. In the 19th century, Race Science informed depictions of “the other.”
At the turn of the 20th century, the popularization of Zionism contributed to an
artistic backlash against negative stereotypes. An attempt was made to refashion
the image of the Jew in decidedly idealistic terms. Non-Zionist Russian
nationalists, while adding to the assortment of positive images of Jews, offered an
altogether different set of images from the Zionists. Informed by socialist labor
politics, these were not fantasy-oriented and were rooted in the material reality of
shtetl life as it was. Rooted in the culture of the folk, such images served to define
Jews as a socio-economic class of laborers and to substantiate the larger struggle
for equal rights of workers.
Scientific literature fed and reinforced popular perceptions of the Jewish
countenance as aesthetically curious and inferior, a perception Altman’s “Self-
Portrait” assailed. The mid-19th century British anatomist Robert Knox (1791-
1862), for example, had described the Jewish physiognomy as “African”:
[The Jew’s] muzzle-shaped mouth and face remov[e] him from certain
other races.. .the eyes [are] long and fine, the outer angles running
towards the temples; the brow and nose merge to form a single convex
line; the nose [is] comparatively narrow at the base, the eyes
consequently approaching each other; the lips are very full, the mouth
projecting, the chin small, and the whole physiognomy, when swarthy, as
it often is, has an African look.5 3
5 3 Robert Knox. The Races o f Men: A Fragment. (Philadelphia: Lea & Blanchard, 1850), 133,134.
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In his monograph The Races o f Men, Knox justified an aesthetic hierarchy in which
some races were objectively more beautiful than others and relegated Jews and
Blacks to its lower end.5 4
Such denigrating notions permeated Western anthropology and were to
some extent absorbed by Jews, as Sander Gilman shows in his discussion of Jewish
self-hatred.5 5 One of Gilman’s examples is from the 1904 Jewish Encyclopedia,
which offered an explanation, from the point of view of anthropology, for what was
taken as a Jewish characteristic, “the furtive gaze”:
[T]he eyes themselves are generally brilliant, both eyelids are heavy and
bulging, and it seems to be the main characteristic of the Jewish eye that
the upper lid covers a larger portion of the pupil than among other
persons. This may serve to give a sort of nervous, furtive look to the eyes,
which when the pupils are small and set close together with
semistrabismus, gives keenness to some Jewish eyes.5 6
Since German- and English-language sources informed the sciences in
Russia, entries like this can also be found in Russian encyclopedias. In the 1890
edition of Efron and Brokgauz Encyclopedia, the entry for “Jew,” for example, also
emphasized the “extra-ordinariness” or “otherness” of his physiological traits,
5 4 Ibid.
5 5 Gilman, Sander. The Jew’ s Body. (New York: Routledge, 1991). Also see discussion of self
alienation, as Sicher describes it, by Jewish Soviet intellectuals, who in their auto-biographies often
expressed aversion to Judaism, denying or concealing historical facts. Efraim Sicher. Jews in
Russian Literature after the October Revolution: Writers and Artists between Hope and Apostasy.
(New York, Cambrigde UP, 1995).
5 6 Joseph Jacob. “Anthopological Types” in Jewish Encoclopedia. Vol. 1-2. (New York: Funk and
Wagnalls, 1904), 291-6.
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describing “typical” Jewish features in anthropological terms. These features, the
reader was assured, when taken in sum, could be used to accurately identify Jews
from other ethnicities by scientists working in the field. They included:
a relatively low height,... the circumference of the chest is often less than
half the height,... a long torso..., shorter extremities, the color of eyes and
hair are by and large dark.... The shape of the head is usually
brachycephalic [i.e. short—A.O.].... Facial and bodily hair is generally
ample. Curly-haired Jews are encountered not infrequently. The forehead
is quite wide; the face is narrow; the space between the eyes is not big; the
eyes are extraordinarily lively; the nose in general is quite large,
frequently (up to 30%) crooked, but for the most part straight, very rarely
turned up, with animated nostrils; the lips are often somewhat full.
Overall, the features of the face are so characteristic that an experienced
eye almost always recognizes the Jew.5 7
This descriptive data, the entry implied, could be used by laymen to identify Jews
in their midst despite surface-level assimilation.
The Type
The artistic tradition of picturing the Jewish type [in Russian—tip] can be
traced back to the Romantics like Eugene Delacroix (1798-1863), who were fond
of recording, in drawing and lithography, interesting personages of foreign lands.
The category of the Jewish type emerged out of this interest in recording the
“other,” which included Africans, Gypsies, and peoples of the East. In it, the Jew
5 7 Entsiklopedicheskii slovar ’ . Vol 2. Edited by I. E. Andreevskii, et al. (SP: F. A. Brokgauz, I. A .
Efron, 1890).
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constituted the subject for portraitists who embraced ethnographic precepts. For
some, the artistic endeavor of “typing” the Jew was part of a broader Race Science
in Europe.
Zionism provided the conceptual leverage to challenge both the
anthropological literature and its attending artistic representations. For cultural
Zionists especially, creating positive images of Jews became a primary concern. In
their efforts to discard the stigma of the ghetto, they went beyond flattery and
approached idealization in their images of Jews. Ephraim Moses Lilien, for
example, copiously supplied Zionist publications like the Ost und West with
drawings of Jewish figures suggesting stoic nobility and physical prowess, etched
with purposeful, clean lines and set in idealized settings.5 8 Lilian’s fantasy Jewish
heroes replaced the clutter and tatters of the old world, where every detail belied
the messy life of necessity and struggle.
As much as Western Zionists admired the Ost-jude for his spirituality, they
disdained his physical reality and looked instead to the Ancient Greek
proportionality and grace for a visual model of their future. To them, folk art
carried the cultural baggage of the shteth oppression and superstition. One issue of
Ost und West dismissed folk art as Vulgar and unoriginal.5 9 By erasing signs of the
immediate present, the Zionists worked to create a type of Jew that would represent
future ideals.
5 8 Seth Wolitz. “E.M. Lilien and ‘Zionist Art’.” Jewish Affairs 53/ 2 (Winter 1998), 83-84.
5 9 S.B. “Die ‘Haggada’.” Ost und West 4 (April 1904), 267.
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Non-Zionist nationalists, while also countering anti-Semitic visual
stereotyping, distanced themselves from the Zionist cultural agenda by embracing
traditional and folk-based Jewish culture of the Pale. Since they were not intent on
leaving Eastern Europe for Zion, to them, the sordid details of the Pale were dearer
than Lilien’s kind of imaginations articulated with Western finesse. Their visual
exercise involved a frank and sympathetic registry of the harsher aspects of Pale
life and its imprint on the human. In Russia, these Jewish artists turned the
Romantic gaze, or the photographic lens, as was often the case, on the communities
from which they originated.
An amount of distance, which could allow for this retrospective reflection
in regard to the larger cultural self, was necessary for this to happen. Solomon An-
skii and Solomon Iudovin, in their photographic recording of Jewish faces of the
shtetl in the years 1912-1914, could not have conceived of the project had they not
been as assimilated into Russian and European culture as they were, especially An-
skii, with his linguistic fluency in both Russian and French and work experience
among the political intelligentsia. Their shtetl photographs reflected, aside from
An-skii’s pro-labor politics, a keen interest in the features of the face and the details
of clothes. Apart from showing the distressed conditions of the Jewish worker, the
scores of close-up photographs of wrinkled elderly women and men of the shtetl, in
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their faded, ragged work-shop clothes, amounted to an effort toward forming an
imprecise and general Jewish typology.6 0
Altman’s self-portrait engaged both the idealizing and sympathetic models
for imaging the Jew. In its perfectly symmetrical, polished and broadly chiseled
facial features, it emulated the quality of Lilien’s proud, virulent, and beautiful
warrior. At the same time, the ear-locks and hat echoed the realistic detailing of the
shetl depictions typical of An-skii and ludovin. Altman avoided siding with either
one of the aggressive nationalist ideologies entailed by the two trajectories of
typologization. The point of Altman’s work was to undermine and replace the
“type” with self-referencing idiosyncrasy.
In less direct ways, the sculpture also addressed other manifestations of the
Jewish “type,” including renditions in Russian Jewish periodicals, Russian
magazines, and Western and Russian anthropological literature. Russian Jewish
journals classified drawings of Jewish faces by little-known artists with the titles
“Jewish type,” thus cementing the category in the mid 1910s and picked up by
critics. This category reverberated outside Russia as well and was used, for
example, to describe some of Chaim Soutine’s portraits of Jews.6 1 Under this
rubric, there also appeared romanticizing drawings of young Jewish soldiers as a
6 0 See various shtetl photographs in Gitelman, Zvi. “Creativity versus Repression: The Jews in
Russia, 1881-1917.” Chapter I. In A Century o f Ambivalence: The Jews o f Russia and the Soviet
Union, 1881 to the Present. Second Edition. (Bloomington: Indiana UP, 2001) [1998], 1-58.
Close to 300 reproductions of An-skii’s and Iudovin’s photographs are archived at the Institute of
Modem Russian Culture at the University of Southern California.
6 1 Elie Faure discussed the physical ‘types’ depicted in Soutine’s portraits and whether they have
more Tartar features than Jewish ones. Soutine. (Paris: Les Editions G. Cres & Cie, 1929), 8-9.
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159
form of reportage from the fronts of World War I. The Jewish Weekly featured
portraits by the unknown artist A. Braser, for example, such as his “A Russian Jew
from Kishinev,” a closely cropped and dramatically shaded pencil drawing of a
young soldier in the trenches of Champagne in 1915.6 2 Jewish images also
proliferated in Russian popular magazines in the form of cartoons and caricatures,
but the spirit in which these were made stood in opposition to the serious and
heroicizing tone of the Jewish soldier types. Magazines of the mid 1910s, like The
New Satirikon, for example, featured inimical caricatures of Jews—as “swarthy,”
angry, deceitful, and untidy.
Both of these popular cultural contexts were informed by representations of
the Jewish “type” in anthropological and ethnographical literature. In so far as the
drawings in the Jewish journals focused on physiognomy and details of dress and
sometimes, with titles like “A Russian Jew from Kishinev,” “A Mountain Jew,” or
“An Eastern Jew,” they suggested the subject’s appearance was representative or
“typical” of a certain region. Such art took on the functions of description and
classification from the anthropological sciences, which, because of their relation to
Race Science, were somewhat tainted by anti-Semiticism. In defiantly
displaying himself as a Jew, Altman risked making himself subject to such
disparaging attitudes.
6 2 A. Braser. “Russkii evrei (iz Kishineva).” Drawing. Evreiskaia nedelia 1 (3 Jan 1916), 46. See
also Braser’s pen drawings of other Jewish soliders in Evreiskaia nedelia 2 (10 Jan 1916), 42.
6 3 See photo from around 1900 of “Young [Caucasian] Mountain Jews” in Gitelman. Opus cited,
27.
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Altman’s “Self-Portrait” engaged with these manifestations of the Jewish
“type,” both flattering and not, and negated the essential motivation behind the
genre itself—to typify and typologize. Like them, Altman’s work pictured the face
and costume of a Jew. Unlike them, it did not aim to represent a group but the very
singular person of the artist himself. The laws inherent to the genre of self
portraiture, in which uniqueness is prioritized and made consistently undeniable,
conflicted with the genre of the Jewish “type” and worked to negate the latter’s
generalizing thrust. The “Self-Portrait” eliminated the posture of objectivity
implicit in the Jewish “type,” closing the circuit between the observer and the self.
The principle of subjectivity was further reinforced by the deconstruction inherent
in Cubism in that it offered perspectival multiplicy on a cultural-ideoglical level as
much as did on the level of aesthetics.6 4 Finally, the plastic medium, which
approached the diegetic person of the artist more fully than could a two-
dimensional representation, also helped subvert the “type” tradition.
6 4 Pablo Picasso’s painting“ LesDemoiselles dAvignon” (1907) exemplifies such a double affront
to set socio-cultural and aesthetic monovisions.
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Chapter 5
The Ans-kii Expedition (1912-1914) and
The Jewish Society for the Encouragement of the Arts (1915-1919)
Part I: The An-skii Expedition (1912-1914)
In the summer of 1912, when Altman mined Gritsev for its folk-art
treasures that formed the basis of Jewish Prints, Solomon An-skii (Shlome
Rappoport, 1863-1920) undertook a similar kind of exploration but on a broader
scale. Some speculate that An-skii approached Atman to join him in the project of
collecting Jewish folk art in regions of the Pale but that Atman declined.1 Possible
reasons may have included Atman’s spirit of competitiveness and independence.
He may have felt such collaboration would jeopardize his creative autonomy. He
may have also been indifferent to An-skii’s strong political nature, which was then
expressed through his Bundist views. Whatever the reasons may have been, the
fact remains that Atman and An-skii pursued their endeavors separately.
An-skii’s expedition provides a background that is necessary for
understanding Atman’s Jewish pre-Revolutionary Jewish interests. In many
respects, An-skii’s work guided Atman’s own efforts in Jewish art. Atman’s
1 No evidence of this invitation exists. Valerii Dymshits suggested it in my conversation with him
in December 2000.
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appreciation of expedition, which is evident in works like Jewish Prints, is also
corroborated by the fact that Altman secretly had in his personal possession—from
about 1917 to the end of his life—about 300 photographs taken by An-skii’s team.
These photographs were discovered in Altman’s private archive while doing
research for this work. The circumstances by which Altman came into their
possession will become clear as we consider the history of An-skii’s expedition and
collection.
Like Altman, An-skii was motivated by the sense of his historical situation.
Namely, he was aware that in Russia, Belorussia, and the Ukraine, the shtetl was
quickly disappearing because of general deprivation, pogroms, and massive
migration that had started to intensify in the 1880s. Reviving the culture itself in
situ would have been counterproductive, at least from the point of view of
Enlightened Secularism. Why nurture a stagnant depository of medieval
superstition in a world that was moving according to the model of science as
progress? Rescuing the traditional culture of close-knit community of the Pale may
also have seemed impractical and futile because of the large-scale exodus. In the
years from 1900 to 1904 alone, four and half million people left from this region
for the U.S. Others, especially young people, were fleeing to larger nearby towns:
Minsk, Kiev, Khar’kov, and, when they could accomplish the feat, to Moscow and
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St. Petersburg. Altman and An-skii were part of this generation of youth seeking
opportunity outside the Pale.2
The “second wave” of immigration, as it is known in modern Russian
Jewish history, which was triggered by a series of pogroms in 1903 in Kishinev,
Moldavia and elsewhere also had a detrimental effect on the vibrancy of the Pale.
The extinction of the shtetl was a cause for lament for some and for celebration by
others. The adherents of a more religion-centered model of ideal Jewish community
feared the massive Jewish relocation would irreparably sever the socio-religious
fabric that was already strained due to decades of intense secularization.
Nationalist and socialist-minded Jews, on the other hand, saw in this an opportunity
for Jews to build stronger and more economically viable lives outside of its
structures. Political Zionists, in particular, worked to distance their vision of the
Jewish state from the religious culture of the Pale. In his utopian novel Old New
Land [Altneuland, 1885] Theodor Herzl (1860-1904) proposed replacing the old
Jewish customs with white gloves and Western European mores. While cultural
Zionists like Martin Buber and Ahad Ha-am were also eager to see Russian Jews
flee the geographical boundaries of the Pale, they recognized the value of the
common cultural experience of its inhabitants as that which would provide
cohesion and help build a future Jewish community.
2 For the trajectory of the collapse of the Pale, see Mark Levitats. The Jewish Community in Russia,
1844-1917. (Jerusalem: Posner, 1981); and Ezra Mendelsohn. The Jews o f East-Central Europe
Between the World Wars. (Bloomington: Indiana UP, 1983).
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Life in the Pale must have seemed especially desperate to those who could
compare it to the outside, where opportunities, at least for eager secular youth, were
more ample. We can only imagine how poignantly destitute their native provinces
seemed to Chagall and Altman after they returned there from Paris. Chagall need
not have been a political nationalist to be troubled by the shtetl’ s destruction, which
the first World War greatly exacerbated. Scholars, at least, have often imputed a
sense of foreboding to him, and they are probably right. When the artist returned in
1914 from Paris to his home in Vitebsk, he made about fifty to sixty paintings,
mostly from his window, which he collectively referred to as “documents.” As
Kiel has observed, it is as if he wanted to record instances of a world that was
disappearing before his eyes.3 “I longed to put [the people of Vitebsk] down on
any canvasses, to get them out of harm’s way,” Chagall later wrote about this
period.4 Art historican Aleksandr Kamenskii has also expressed this opinion about
Chagall’s state of mind after leaving Paris, noting that the artist anticipated the
imminent destruction of his childhood home.5 A similar argument has been made
3 Mark William Kiel. A Twice Lost Legacy: Ideology, Culture and the Pursuit o f Jewish Folklore
in Russa until Stalinization (1930-1931). Dissertation. (The Jewish Theological Seminary, 1991),
245-6.
4 Marc Chagall. My life. Trans. Elizabeth Abbott. (NY: Orion P, 1960), 134.
5 A. A. Kamenskii. “Rossiiskie khudozhniki v Parizhe nachala XX veka.” Problemy iskusstva
Frantsii XX veka. Vyp. XXII. Materialy nauchnoi konferentsii ‘Vipperovskie chteniia— 1989.’ ( M:
Gosudarstvennyi muzei izobrazitel’nykh iskusstv im. A. S. Pushkina, 1990), 91-111; 93.
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about Lissitzky, namely that in his 1922 “Boat Ticket” [Shifs karta], the artist
affirmed the death of the shtetl world.6
The collapse of the shtetl also preoccupied An-skii. While his earlier
interests traversed across cultures, both Russian and Western, An-skii turned to
specifically Jewish matters around 1910, when significantly enough, his fifteen-
year correspondence with his mentor Khaim Zhitlovskii (1882-1953), an ardent
Jewish political writer, shifted from Russian to Yiddish.7 Because of his
background with narodnichestvo, or populist politics (he worked for Peter Lavrov
in Paris until 1905), and then socialist labor alliances through the Bund party, An-
skii regarded the shtetl as a socio-economic entity. From literati like Isaac Leib
Peretz (1851-1915), he learned to view the shtetl as an endangered locus of vibrant
literary and aesthetic material. That An-skii’s undertaking was also inspired by
notions of its visual value is indicated by the fact than while planning the trip, he
tried recruiting students from the Academy of Arts.8 If the shtetl was doomed for
6 Ziva Amishai-Maisels. Lecture. Delivered at Exhibition “ ’Monuments of the Future’: Designs by
El Lissitzky.” Getty Museum. December 1998. Lissitsky’s “Shifs-karta” illustrated Il’ia
Ehreriburg’s story of the same in his 1922 book Six Stories about Light Endings [Shest povestei o
legkikh kontsakh],
1 YIVO. Chaim Zhitlovsky papers, 1895-1920. See reference in Mohrer, Fruma and Marek Webb,
eds. Guide to the YIVO archives. Armork, NY: M. E. Sharpe, 1998. Zhitlovky’s early political
transformation is indexed by the two parties he helped found: first the Russian Socioalist
Revolutionary Party, and later the Jewish Socialist Labor Party; this trajectory shaped An-skii’s own
political evolution.
8 Avram Kampf. Chagall to Kitaj: Jewish Experience in the Art o f the 20* Century. Revised
Edition. Exhibition Catalogue. (London: Lund Humphries, 1990) [1984],165 fh 12.
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166
extinction, he figured its cultural artifacts could at least be placed out of harm’s
9
way.
In the summers bewteen 1912 and 1914, An-skii, lu. Engel’, Z. Kissel’gof,
and S. ludovin collected Jewish folk prints or lubki, illustrated manuscripts, and
music in the regions of Galicia, Podolia, and in the Kiev province. Their enterprise
was called “The Ethnographic Expedition named after Baron Horace [Goratsii] O.
Ginzburg,” who provided an initial grant of 10,000 rubles. Its cost would amount
to 23,000 rubles by 1914 and would be covered by other donors related to the
Jewish Ethnographic Society.
An-skii and his team took pictures of synagogues inside and out, and of
people and streets, trying to capture the sense of shtetl life. Their intent, at least in
part, was to salvage what was left before it disappeared altogether by depositing it
in a context of conservation, study, and display. Informed and motivated by the
science of ethnography, which evolved as a discipline in Russia in the mid- 19th
century, they wanted to preserve various aspects of the atmosphere of the shtetl
itself: its landscape, language, tales and sounds. The photographs taken by An-
skii’s nephew Solomon B. ludovin (1892-1954) show an aesthetic appreciation of
empty market squares, winding, crooked fences, synagogue exteriors and shop
fronts. Scores of photographic portraits were also made of shoeless children on the
9 The understanding that Jewish materials, including those with religious value, would be collected,
itself reflects the overwhelming process of secularization. (Adam Rubin. “An Ambivalent
Embrace: Jewish Folklore and the Rejection of Exile.” Lecture at YIVO. (New York, July 2001.)
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streets, women in interior spaces, and men at their professions, the latter category
especially suggesting An-skii’s labor socialist politics. According to An-skii’s
report, the collectors amassed 2,000 photographs, 1,800 folk tales and legends,
1,500 songs and mystery plays, 1,000 melodies (recorded on phonographic
cylinders), 100 historical documents, 500 manuscripts, and 700 antiques.1 0
While An-skii’s expedition had little direct impact on the fine arts, it did
inspire several artists to study old forms of Jewish visual expression.1 1 In 1912-
1913, as we saw, Altman traveled to Gritsev specifically to trace tombstone
engravings. Two years later Issachar Ryback and El Lissitkzy travelled to Worms,
Germany to study the oldest surviving synagogue in Europe.1 2 In 1916, JSEA
made plans to fund another expedition to southern Russia, which did not come to
fruition. Around the same time Ryback and Lissitzky also traversed south to
Mogilev, on the Dnieper River, where Rachel Wischnizer had rediscovered the
town’s 18th century wooden synagogue with extravagant ceiling and wall
decorations.1 3 Lissitzky recorded his bedazzlement in Mogilev. “It was quite a
1 0 S. An-skii. “Pis’mo v redaktsiiu: O rabotakh Etnograficheskoi Ekspeditsii.” Evreiskaia starina.
Vyp. 2 (Apr-June 1915), 239-240. Recently, some of the melodies have been restored on a CD that
was produced in Kiev.
1 1 For a discussion of the limited role of the collection on the painting and print making immediately
before and after 1917, see John E. Bowlt. “Ethnic Loyalty and International Modernism: The An-
ski Expeditions and the Russian Avant-Garde.” Stanford Conference, May 2001. Publication
forthcoming.
1 2 Lissitzky’s own notes about the date of these travels were ambiguous. Victor Margolin. The
Struggle for Utopia, Rodchenko, Lissitsky, Moholy-Nagy. (Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1997), 24 fa.
40.
1 3 Rachel Wischnitzer. “The Ornaments of the Mohilev Synagogue.” Heavar 15 (Tel Aviv, 1968),
251-3. [in Hebrew]
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168
different feeling from the one I had when I first entered a Roman basilica, a Gothic
chapel, a Baroque mosque in Germany, France or Italy. I felt like a child
enveloped by a screen, opening his eyes upon awakening... ,”1 4 As late as 1919, the
leadership of JSEA did not give up on the idea of collecting more folk art and
solicited help from its members.1 5 As a last salute to An-skii’s endeavor, in 1927,
ludovin and the Jewish Museum planned expeditions to the Zhitomirskaia and
Khmel ’ nitskaia regions.1 6
In 1917, when ludovin had temporarily moved to Vitebsk, the Museum was
closed by order of the authorities. The official reason was to protect the holdings
from the danger of looting. In the reining chaos, the museum’s holdings—mostly
consisting of An-skiii’s findings, including clothes, pottery, decorations, texts,
prints, religious objects, and photographs—were scattered into the hands of various
institutions and private collectors. Eventually, a large part of An-skii’s collection
ended up in Kiev. Another part, which An-skii took with him to Vilna in 1918,
1 3 Wischnizer was an art historian with Jewish nationalist leanings. She went to Mogilev in 1912.
Kampf. Opus cited, 17; See her ornamental insider cover design in M. Balaban, ed et al. lstoriia
evreiskogo naroda. Vol. 1. (M: Mir, 1914 ).
u Quoted in Kampf, 17-18. El Lissitzky, “Al bet hakneset bemogilev.” Rimmon 3 (1923), 9-12.
Also appears in Yiddish in Milgroim 3 (1923), 9-13.
1 5 JSEA member named O. G. Breitbart, who was traveling south for health reasons, was asked to
see what he could gather on behalf of JSEA. Another member M. G. Serebrenyi, who was
traveling to Vilna for separate reasons, was requested to do the same. And a certain member
Gutmanovich was sent to the south on a special assignment [komandirovka] for this reason. See
Letters to O. G. Breitbart and M. G. Serebrenyi. TsGIA f. 1722 n. 5 pp. 173, 183, 185.
1 6 Although outside the historical parameters that concern us here, two final mentions should be
made with regards to the reverberations of An-skii’s original expedition. His path through Galicia
and the Ukraine were re-traced in the 1940s by ludovin’s disciple and artist David Goberman. See
his Evreiskie nadgrobiia na Ukraine i v Moldavii. Vystavka fotografii. (SP: Iskusstvo Rossii,
1999). The founding of the Jewish Museum in St. Petersburg in the last years and the recent attempt
to document surviving synagogues in the regions of the former Pale, an effort of St. Petersburg
based historians lead by Valerii Dymshitz, also continue An-skii’s legacy.
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remained there. Still another part was transferred to the Ethnographic Museum in
St. Petersburg, which now operates under the auspices of the Russian Museum.1 7
Apparently, ludovin took certain prints with him to Vitebsk when he moved there
in 1918 since he had them published there in 1920.1 8 It seems likely that it was in
this turbulent period that Altman came into possession of about 300 photographs
from the An-skii expedition of Podolia and Volynia. As of now, the An-skii
collection in its original entirety has not been accounted for.
Upon returning to St. Petersburg in the early 1920s, ludovin re-opened the
Museum and took on the task of safeguarding it. At one point, he even moved into
its quarters. He tried expanding its collection of Jewish art by purchasing pieces by
Altman, ludovin, Yehuda Pen, and Aleksandr Tyshler. In 1929, the Museum
reportedly owned 1,500 photographs (N. B.: 300 less from the original count!), 350
sound cylinder recordings, and 350 ceremonial objects. The Museum was closed
and re-opened several times in the late 1920s and early 1930s until its final closing
in 1934.
The materials from An-skii’s collection certainly never received wide notice
by the Avant-Garde or other artists of the period. After the Revolution, perhaps
only ludovin was convinced they were still relevant to art and could inspire artists
1 7 This museum is now called the Russian [Rossiiskii] Ethnographic Museum and operates under the
auspices of the Russian Museum. It has displayed the An-skii materials in an exhibition that toured
across Europe: Mariella Beukers and Renee Waale. Tracing An-skii: Jewish Collections from the
State Ethnographic Museum in St. Petersburg. (SP: Gosudarsvennyi muzei etnografii narodov
SSSR, 1992).
1 8 S. ludovin. Yidisher folks-ornament. (Vitebsk: Y. L. Peretz Society, 1920).
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170
interested in Jewish themes. His own exquisite woodcuts of Jewish shtetl scenes
from the 1920s closely approximate the photographs he took on the expedition.1 9
Altman did not make use of the photographs or the collection in any direct way in
his early art, including in his designs for the Jewish Theater in the 1920s. In 1957,
however, when he illustrated the first Soviet publication of Sholem Aleichem,
Altman directly relied on several of Idovin’s photographs. He made exact copies
of the figure of an old woman in a headscarf from one photo and of the
composition with a synagogue exterior and a street lamp from another.2 0
An-skii’s enterprise did, however, play a role in alerting Altman to the
value of historic ethnography in relation to art. In his illustrations and stage
designs, which often demanded familiarity with distant cultures, he made a point of
assuring historical accuracy of drawings through research. In his children’s book
illustrations of 1933, Altman detailed the costumes of Indians, Alaskans, and
ancient Romans.2 1 Later, while designing stages for Kiev’s GOSET in 1940, he
consulted Isai M. Pul’ner, the director of the Ethnographic Museum, so at to ensure
the accuracy of his representations.2 2 Altman’s journals from the 40s contain
notations of books on Bessarabia of the 19th century, presumably for similar
1 9 I. Ioffe and E. Gollerbakh. S. ludovin: graviury na dereve. (L: Akademiia
Kudozhestv, 1928).
2 0 Sholem Aleichem. S iarmarki: Rasskazy. Trans. R. Rubina. Illustr. Natan Altman. (M: Gos.
Izd-vo, 1957).
2 1 Berta Lask. A trovers les ages: voyages d ’ un elephant sur un cheval aile. Must. Natan Altman.
(Paris: Editions sociales intemationales, 1933).
221 kindly thank Liudmila Uritskaia, the current Deputy Director of the Archives at the
Ethnographic Museum for conveying this information in a personal conversation.
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171
productions. Later, Altman studied costumes in preparation for his illustrations to
the book The Legends and Tales o f Latin American Indians2 3
There are also indications of his penchant for ethnographic detail in his
personal correspondence. The photo postcards he sent from France depicted local
ethnic costumes and rows of dressed up folk-dancers in various regions of France.2 4
His letters to Irina Shchegoleva in 1940 from his tour to the Soviet south with
GO SET discussed ethnographic rarities and remains from the past. From Lvov, for
example, he wrote: “Here there are splendid Baroque churches and an ancient
synagogue, which is called ‘The Golden Rose,’ There are Jews here as you have
never seen, such that even I have seen only in pictures. There are marvelous parks
here, buildings destroyed by bombs, and a wonderful Market Square around the
town hall, where they sell flowers, vegetables, and fruit.”2 5
The fact that Altman kept ludovin’s photographs his entire life is
understandable in light of this appreciation of the ethnographic enterprise.
Although he made no mention of the photographs probably out of fear that they
would be confiscated, or because of the general anti-Jewish atmosphere present in
the Soviet Union, he doubtlessly understood their historical significance. He
2 3 E. Zibert. Legendy i skazki indeitsev iatinskoi ameriki. Illustr. N. Altman. (M, L: Gos. Izd-vo
khudozhestevennoi literatury, 1962).
2 4 In September 1930 Altman sent two posters to his wife Irina Rachek-Dega in Paris from
Bretagne. “Fete des Drapeaux Bretons. Costumes” featured a group of dancers in embroidered
clothes. “Une Pont-Avenaise” showed a woman in traditional costume.
2 5 ARM f. 199 op.l n. 7 p. 9
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bequeathed them to his closest friend, an artist of Jewish descent, Aleksander
Pasternak.
Part II: The Jewish Society for the Encouragement of the Arts (1915-
1919)
While An-skii prompted Altman to consider the value of shtetl aesthetics,
the Jewish Society for the Encouragement of the Arts [henceforward—JSEA]
facilitated the implementation of an art based on this idea.2 6 Altman’s career
would not have been the same without his involvement with this organization,
which helped artists from provincial towns to enter professional careers in St.
Petersburg. Altman enjoyed special status in the organization, seen as he was as an
up-and-coming artist. He supplied the group with evidence of Jewish talent in the
visual arts. In turn, Altman’s attitude toward the JSEA was dutiful, and he attended
more than half of its meetings between late 1915, when it was founded, and the
middle of 1919, when it was dispersed.2 7 When JSEA held a competition for the
2 6 For discussion of JSEA’s role in Jewish artistic life in Russia see John E. Bowlt. “From the Pale
of Settlement to the Reconstruction of the World.” Tradition and Revolution: The Jewish
Renaissance in Russian Avant-Garde Art, 1912-1928. Ed. Apter-Gabriel, R. Jerusalem, 1988,43-
60.
2 7 Altman attended JSEA’s first general meeting on 29 November 1915 (TsGIA f. 1722 n. 2 p. 1);
the first meeting of the Art Section on 2 January 1916 (f. 1722 n. 3 p. 2); and the meeting on 16
January 1916 (f. 1722 n, 3. p. 3). He was voted in to the committee to help victims of the war on 27
January 1916 (f. 1722 n.3 pp. 6-7). He signed in at the general meeting where I. Gintsburg read
“Antokol’skii and the Plastic Arts in Jewish Culture” on 31 January 1916 (f. 1722 n. 2 p. 2). On
23 Februrary 1916 Altman was enlisted into the committee to organize that year’s exhibition and to
conceptualize plans for building an arts and crafts school in Ekaterinslav (f. 1722 n. 3 p. 9). Altman
signed in at the meetings on 14 March 1916, 18 September 1916, and 14 November 1916, when
they decided to hold the show at Dobychina’s Berau. At the 1 December meeting Altman was
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173
design of its insignia in 1916, Altman won first prize. This event symbolized his
symbiotic relationship with the Society.
The competition to design JSEA’s emblem required that the submissions be
executed in a “Jewish style.” After a discussion of what this would entail, JSEA
surrendered to the ambiguity of the situation. “We know full well,” announced the
committee, “that a Jewish style as such does not exist.”2 8 In requesting
submissions from a broad pool of artists, including non-members, by placing adds
in a range of magazines, such as Zodchii, an organ of the Imperial Society of
Architecture, JSEA refused to specify its criteria for “Jewish style” in any detail.
Internally, however, it cultivated certain expectations, such as “Eastern
ornamentation,” as the meeting notes make clear.2 9 The selection of the winner by
a jury of artists, including Boris Anisfeld, B. F. Blokh, and Abram Manevich,
resolved the vagueness around “Jewish style” and ended JSEA’s ostensible naivete
in this regard. Now there was a reference point. Altman’s winning design was
held to mark the turning point toward a precise Jewish style.3 0 Executed in a
elected to jury the Moscow show (f. 1722 n.3 p. 20). At the meeting on December 15 1916 Altman
was urged to finalize the JSEA emblem for printing; he and B. F. Blokh announced a 2000 ruble
anonymous grant they garnered for a competition of works on the Jewish theme (f. 1722 n.5 p. 147).
Altman attended Maxim Syrkin’s lecture “Jewish Art and Our Times” on 30 Dec 1916 (f. 1722 n. 2
p. 7) Altman signed in at the meeting on January 23 1917 and at the auction on 14 February 1917.
On 21 February 1917 he was named a candidate for the committee to produce JSEA post-caids.
Chagall was already on this committee (f. 1722 n. 3 p. 26). Altman signed in for the last at the
meeting on May 4 1918 (f. 1722 n. 5 p . 140). By September of that year, JSEA had, in effect,
disbanded. Unless noted otherwise, all archival references henceforward in this chapter come from
TsGIA, The Central State Historical Archives of the City of St. Petersburg.
2 8 f. 1722 n.l p. 59, 59back.
2 9 f. 1722 n.l p. 36.
3 0 f. 1722 n. 3 p. 2.
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174
manner that grew out of his Jewish Prints, Altman’s black and white emblem
featured Hebrew characters, arranged symmetrically across the top and sides. It
was Primitivist in concept and lacked figuration and compositional complexity. It
provided JSEA with an example of a modern Jewish style.
Nurturing Young Talent
While JSEA tried to sprout branches in Moscow and Kiev, its power
remained based on Petersburg Jewish intelligentsia. Some artists shunned the
Society on philosophical grounds. Leonid Pasternak, for example, whose name
would have lent the organization prestige, declined to join its Moscow branch. In a
letter to JSEA’s director Il’ia Giritsburg in 1916, Pasternak explained that he was
31
adverse to the idea of creating Jewish national art.
Prior to around 1916, Pasternak moved exclusively in non-Jewish circles of
intellectuals and artists, but in this period, he befriended a number of Jewish
cultural figures, including Solomon An-skii and Hayim-Nahman Bialik (as
evidenced by his paintings of them) and started research for his book on
Rembrandt’s Jewish portraiture.3 2 Still, at this point, Pasternak felt JSEA had little
3 1 f. 1722 n. 6 pp. 70-72.
3 2 Rimgalia Salys. “Biographical sketch.” In her Leonid Pasternak, the Russian Years, 1875-1921:
A Critical Study and Catalogue. 2 Vols. Introduced by Jon Whiteley. (New York: Oxford UP,
1999), xxi-xcii; Pasternak, Leonid. Rembrandt i evreistvo v ego tvorchestve. Berlin: Izd-vo S. D.
Zal’tsman, 1923.
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175
to offer him.3 3 After the Revolution, when his professional standing became
precarious, Pasternak relaxed his stance against national art. In early 1919 and
before his permanent immigration to Germany, the artist accepted JSEA’s
commission for its project of Jewish-themed posters. During this brief
collaboration, Pasternak expressed irritation with various bureaucratic
inefficiencies in JSEA in longwinded letters that revealed a man unaccustomed to
such dealings.3 4
Other less successful Jewish artists felt they could do without JSEA,
presumably for similar ideological reasons. Mane-Katz (1894-1962), for example,
after working in Kiev and then Paris, opted out of his membership in 1917.3 5 If it
was the idea of advocating a “Jewish art” that Katz opposed, then he may have
warmed up to it eventually, since he did participate in JSEA’s group show of
1916.3 6 He also exhibited, under the “Jewish” heading, three times in the mid and
late 1920s in France.3 7 Abram Manevich, who like Katz, came to St. Petersburg
from Kiev via Paris, also opted to walk the solo line. Although he actually did join
3 3 Attaining tenure status at the Moscow School of Painting was difficult for Pasternak, although he
did hold the title of Professor since 1905. See E. G. Whiteley. “Introduction: Leonid Pasternak and
European Art.” In Bruk, la. V., ed. Leonid Pasternak v Rossii i Germanii. Exhibition Catalogue.
Tret’iakov Gallety. M: Pinakoteka, 2001: xv-xx. This is the first Russian catalogue and critical
treatment of Pasternak since his emigration in 1922 and addresses his Jewish cultural context
indirectly.
3 4 f. 1722 n. 6 pp. 70-72.
3 5 f. 1126 pp. 55.
3 6 Evreiskoe obshchestvo pooshreniia khudozhestv. Katalog vystavski kartin i chlenov obshehestva.
(P, n.p, 1916).
3 7 Manevich exhibited three times under the Jewish rubric: in 1924,1925, and 1929. O. L. Ldkind,
K. V. Makharov, and D. Ia. Severiukhin, eds. Khudozhniki russkogo zarubezh ’ ia: biograficheskii
slovar’ . (SP: Notabene, 1999), 410.
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JSEA in Moscow, Manevich’s membership was more real on paper than in
actuality.3 8 Instead of exhibiting with JSEA in 1916, he orchestrated his own grand
show of Impressionist works at Nadezhda E. Dobychina’s gallery. The show was
accompanied by a slim but high-quality catalogue that eschewed all Jewish
associations.3 9 Manevich’s independence from JSEA and other formally Jewish
groupings would last into the next decades, including his years in America.
Pasternak, Mane-Katz and Manevich were exceptional in separating themselves
from JSEA on ideological grounds. Other Jewish artists working in St. Petersburg
felt the organization could give them practical support, and two hundred of them
joined JSEA in its first year.
The atmosphere of World War I was conducive to the founding of JSEA,
since the Society also served as a focus of mobilization for war-related causes. Part
of the proceeds from its exhibitions went to war victims, and the Society was
housed in the infirmary that treated them.4 0 Hence, in participating in the show,
the JSEA artists were supporting the general war effort, and the goals of their
artwork became bound up with it, adding to the Society’s moral raison d ’ etre.
The war also contributed to the general conditions that made JSEA’s
establishment possible. War-related legislative moves hastened the eradication of
3 8 Manevich kept a copy of some JSEA related brochures and invitations in his personal files. See
his file in the Bund Archives at YIVO. Locator number 144/5.
3 9 Personal ’ naia vystavka kartin i etiudov Manevicha. Exhibition Catalogue. (P:
Khudozhestvennoe Biuro N. E. Dobychinoi, 1916). In this list of 100 works and 7 color
reproductions, no title features any Jewish reference. Despite this, American audiences in 1916
lauded Manevich as a landscapist of the Jewish shtetl.
4 0 The M. A. Gintsburg Convalescent Home doubled as an infirmary during the war.
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the Pale and spurred Jewish migration to urban centers. Jewish youth intent on
becoming professional artists flooded the capital. At the same time, major art
schools refused admission to all but a miniscule number of Jews. The Imperial
Academy of Arts in St. Petersburg, for example, continued its long-standing quota
of three new Jewish students per year well into the 20th century. This was despite
the outstanding successes of its Jewish pupils like Mark Antokol’skii, Il’ia
Gintsburg, Moisei Maimon (1860-1924), and Isaac Brodskii.4 1
The Moscow School of Painting, Sculpture, and Architecture also made
Jewish students a rare exception. It rejected Leonid Pasternak when he first applied
there. Art colleges [ynHjiHina] in Kiev, Vilnius, Khar’kov, Vitebsk, and Odessa
were more welcoming to Jews, but they lagged behind Russia’s two artistic centers
in resources and access to progressive world culture. For some, however, these
served as a start. The College of Art in Odessa was attended by Altman, Manevich,
and in their own time, Pasternak and Isaac Brodskii.4 2 The Vitebsk Art School,
founded in 1885 by Yehuda Pen—himself an Imperial Academy graduate—played
a significant role in producing formidable Jewish artists including Marc Chagall, El
4 1 Maimon attended the Academy from 1880 to 1887 and earned the title of akademik in 1893;
Gintsburg attended it from 1898 to 1907 and earned the title of khudozhnik in 1907; and Brodskii
attended the school from 1902 and 1908 and earned the title of pensioner in 1909. See these in S.
N. Kondakov, ed. Spisok russkikh khudozhnikov k iubileinomu spravochniku Imperatorskoi
Sanktpeterburgskoi Akademii Khudozhestv (1764-1914). (SP: n.p., 1914). Other pupils of the
Academy include Boris Anisfeld (1901-1909), Yehuda Pen (1882-1885) and Mikhail Bemshtein.
El Lissitzky was one of the more famous artists to have been rejected by the Academy.
4 2 Brodskii attended the Odessa school from 1899 to 1902 as a prerequisite for the Academy.
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178
Lissitzky, Osip Zadkine and Solomon ludovin, who lacked access to the Moscow
or St. Petersburg schools.4 3
Technical and craft schools, both in cities and provinces, offered many
aspiring Jews a springboard into the fine arts with their more lax admission quotas.
Those who wanted to bypass a preliminary education before entering a major
school or academy went directly abroad. Pasternak, who was initially rejected by
the Moscow School of Painting, Sculpture and Architecture, went to Munich to
study. El Lissitzky, after being refused admission into the Imperial Academy in St.
Petersburg, went to Darmstadt, Germany, where he studied architecture and
engineering. Chagall was turned down at the Baron Stieglitz School of Arts and
Crafts in St. Petersburg, where, as previously mentioned, his “Semitic appearance
aroused their curiosity.”4 4 As an alternative, he headed for Paris, where Mark
Antokol’skii had settled permanently in the 1880s and younger Jewish artists from
Eastern Europe arrived beginning at the turn of the century.4 5
Going abroad, of course, required resources, which were sometimes
provided to artists on an individual basis by wealthy philanthropists or patrons.
Marc Chagall was a lucky beneficiary of such good will on the part of Baron David
Ginzburg, who allotted him ten rubles per month during a brief period in 19104 6
Chagall’s stay in France from 1911 to 1914 was financed by Maxim M. Vinaver
4 3 G. Kazovskii. Ieguda pen i ego ucheniki. Series: Shedevry evreiskogo iskusstva. (M: Image,
1993).
4 4 Marc Chagall. My Life. Trans. Peter Owen. (London: John Buckley, Ltd., 1965), 82.
4 5 Cf. discussion of Parisian immigrant circles in the early 1910s in Chapter 1.
4 6 Chagall, 82.
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(1863-1928).4 7 The source of Altman’s funding for his sojourn to Europe is not
known, but it is likely that it came from a similar kind of informal patronage.
Other Jewish students of art who did not have such connections or their own means
had the option of attending the Bezalel School of Arts in Jerusalem, where their
study and travel was subsidized by German Zionists.
After about 1910, institutional life in St. Petersburg began to accommodate
to the influx of Jewish artists. In terms of schooling for Jews, there appeared
Mikhail Bernshtein’s studio (discussed earlier), which was open to Jews. Solomon
ludovin studied there from 1910 to 1913 and Altman taught there in 1917.4 8
Nadezhda Dobychina’s Bureau, as the gallery was called, was founded in 1910 and
provided a venue for Jewish artists. Dobychina was a Jewish socialite and an
aficionado of contemporary art with leanings toward late Symbolism.4 9 In 1916,
she hosted several JSEA exhibits and Abram Manevich’s solo show, which was
mentioned above.
Besides limited opportunities in schooling, access to scholarship systems,
and exhibiting venues, young Jews faced a legal hindrance to studying art in St.
Petersburg. Since most were from the provinces, they required the government’s
4 1 Viktor Kel’ner. “Menia mozhet poniat’ stradalets khudozhnik: Peterburgskie gody M. Z.
Shagala.” Iskusstvo Leningrada. 8(1990), 105-110.
481 . P. Furman. Vitebsk u graviurakh S. Iudovina. (Vitsebsk: Vydan’ne Vitsebskaga Akrugovaga
Tavarystva Kraiaznaustva, 1926). [In Belorussian and German]; also see: E. Gollerbakh and I.
Ioffe. ludovin. L: Tipografiia Akademii Khudozhestv, 1928. [In Russian]
4 9 John Bowlt. “The Moscow Art Market.” In Edith W. Clowes, ed. et al. Between Tsar and
People: Educated Society and the Quest for Public Identity in Late Imperial Russia. (Princeton,
New Jersey: Princeton UP, 1991), 112.
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permission to live in St. Petersburg or in Moscow, i.e. receive resident status. It
was on this basis that Levitan was forced to leave Moscow on two separate
occasions, once when he was already a professor at the Moscow School of
Painting. Some artists managed to find bureaucratic loopholes and avoided
encounters with public officials. During his first stay in St. Petersburg in 1908,
Chagall, for example, lived under the pretext of being a servant in the home of the
lawyer Goldberg. He was once even jailed for not having the proper papers.5 0
After being called back to Russia from Paris at the outbreak of war in 1914,
artists like Chagall, Mane-Katz, and Abram Manevich had difficulty in obtaining
legal residency in St. Petersburg. As persons non grata, they were subject to arrest.
This may be why Altman, for example, listed his official address with the Baron
Ginzburg family, at Vasilevsky Island Line 1, 44.5 1 His real residence, as it
appeared in JSEA directory of members was in an apartment one block away from
the Society, at Vasilveskii Island, Line 4, 66.5 2
The founders of JSEA, because of their societal roles, were very cognizant
of these problems. Maxim Vinaver was a wealthy businessman, active in politics*
who had supported Jewish talent privately for years. Baron Osip G. Ginzburg was
continuing the tradition of his father Baron David G. Ginzburg (1857-1910), the
5 0 Larry Silver. “Diaspora, Nostalgia, and the Universal Conditions of Modem Jewish Artists” in
Silver, ed. et al. Transformation: Jews and Modernity. Exhibition Catalogue. (Philadelphia:
Arthur Ross Gallery at Uof Pensilvania, 2001), 13-34.
5 1 Ves’ Peterburg na 1914 god: Adresnaia i spravochnaia kniga g. S.-Peterburga. SP: Izd-voTov-
va A. S. Suvorina “Novoe vremia,” 1914.
5 2 JSEA’s Members Directory, 1916: f. 1722 n. 5.
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philanthropist and Orientologist made famous by publishing the aforementioned
Hebrew Ornament. Osip Ginzburg and his mother Baroness Matilda Ginzburg
were active JSEA members from 1915 to 1918.5 3 The one-time student of Mark
Antokol’skii and now professor at the Academy of Arts, Il’ia Gintsburg, interacted
with many aspiring Jewish youth seeking guidance and support. Gintsburg’s wide
circle of connections included Il’ia Repin, Lev Tolstoy, Vladimir Stasov, Maxim
Gorkii and Fedor Chaliapin. Through Gintsburg, Chagall received his initial
break—an introduction to his first patron, Baron David Ginzburg.5 4 Before
spearheading JSEA, Gintsburg had discussed Jewish art in his courses in Oriental
Studies at the Academy.5 5 Whatever guidance, tutelage, and social connections
these men could provide on an individual basis, they hoped to systematize and
expand by banding together in an official capacity.
The institutors of JSEA, while diverging in their political and aesthetics
leanings, shared a common belief that the main impediments to Jewish involvement
in the arts were poverty and general injustice in social attitudes toward Jews in
Russia. They wanted to do their bit to counteract this and considered their “most
important duty—to protect budding talent.”5 6
5 3 Ibid, p.202.
5 4 Gintsburg was said to have been considered David Ginzburg’s ‘favorite child.’ Avram Kampf.
Chagall to Kitaj: Jewish Experience in the Art o f the 2(fh Century. Revised Edition. Exhibition
Catalogue. (London: Lund Humphries, 1990), 165, fii 12. Chagall’s temporary stipend from
Gintsburg was 10 rubels a month. Chagall. Opus cited, 82.
5 5 Kampf, 165 fii 12.
5 6 JSEA membership solitication. November 1915. f. 1722 n.l pp. 34-35.
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The Beginning
After some bureaucratic obstacles, on September 20, 1915, JSEA was
registered with the city as an official organization. Its mission statement was taken
almost verbatim from that of the Imperial Society for the Encouragement of the
Arts, which had been established in 1821 to aid students of the Academy of Arts.5 7
One sentence, however, marked JSEA’s goals as distinct. They included “the
expansion of the plastic arts (painting, sculpture, architecture, etc.) among the Jews,
artistic education of the Jewish masses, and the development of a national creative
art.”5 8 With these aims made explicit, JSEA was given the right to gather, exhibit,
and publish, to organize museums, libraries, and schools, and to conduct research.5 9
Gintsburg assumed its directorship, and called for the first general constitutional
assembly on November 29, to which seventy-five people showed up. In December,
JSEA opened a branch in Moscow, and designated its directorship, oddly enough,
to the little-known artists L. M. Antokol’skii (unrelated to the sculptor) and M. I.
Gabovich, an engineer and amateur collector named Ia. F. Kagan-Shabshai, and a
government barrister named A. L. Fuks.6 0 Appointing non-artists to the head of the
Moscow branch was perhaps telling of this city’s non receptive climate. In 1916,
5 7 For a history of this society, see P. N. Stolpianskii. Staryi Peterburg i Obshchestvo
Pooshchreniia Khudozhestv. (L: Komitet populiarizatsii khudozhestvennykh izdannii, 1928).
5 8 Ochet evreiskogo obshchestva pooshreniia khudozhestv za 1916 g. P: n.p., 1917. in writing the
proposal for JSEA, the founders relied on the model provided by the Greater Russian Society for the
Encouragement of the Arts, an organization of long-standing repute that provided stipends to the
needier of students at the Imperial Academy. Isaac Brodskii, for example had received a stipend
from this organization when he studied there in 1903. TsGIA f. 448 n. 1283.
5 9 Vestnik evreiskogoprosveshennia 35 (1915), 23.
6 0 f. 1722 n. 4. p. 3, 5.
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JSEA also opened branches in Khar’kov and Kiev (under An-skii’s directorship),
and in its first year, the Society counted 239 members altogether and had an annual
budget of 4,500 rubles.
In 1916, most of JSEA’s meetings took place at the Jewish Convalescent
Home named after M. A. Gintsburg, which was located on Vasilievskii Ostrov,
Line 5-50.6 1 Emblazoned on the front facade of the Home was the name of its
founder Gintsburg, who was related to neither the Baron Ginzburg family or the
artist Il’ia Gintsburg. One can make out the letters of the name in a photograph
from the Altman collection, taken around 1912, which shows several rows of frail
aged people, tidily dressed in pressed uniforms and well-groomed, lined up neatly
in front of the building. Although the Home functioned primarily to shelter and
care for the old and the sick, after 1913, it became a nexus of sorts for various
Jewish cultural activity. Mikhail Beizer describes it as such in his chapter
dedicated to this building, “The Home on the Fifth Line.”6 2 Its halls were lent to
the newly established “Jewish University,” as it was unofficially called. Thus
lectures by professors like Simon Dubnov could be heard there regularly. Around
the same time, The Jewish Ethnographic Society established its library and
museum there, and the two Societies shared the responsibility of maintaining them.
6 1 f. 1722n. 2 p. l.
6 2 M. Beizer. Evrei v Peterburge, (Jerusalem: Biblioteka Aliia, 1989), 131-153.
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184
An-skii’s expedition housed its headquarters here.6 3 The Home also
provided occasional housing for students and those without residence in the city.
An-skii composed his play “HaDybbuk” while boarding in one of its rooms.6 4 In
the immediate vicinity of the Home were the expansive grounds of the Imperial
Academy of Arts, where JSEA’s Chairman Il’ia Gintsburg worked and lived.
JSEA’s location must have felt like home turf to several of its other members who
had previously attended the Academy, such as Moisei Maimon and Maria Dillon.
In 1916, Solomon ludovin’s quarters were situated directly across the street from
the Home. Other members of JSEA, including Altman, M. F. Blokh, M.
Traupianskii, M. M. Sinaver, and M. L. Shaft an, also lived in the Home’s
proximity.6 5
Scope of Activities
JSEA tried to promote scholarship on the subject of Jewish art. To this end,
it hosted various lectures. In March 1916, Il’ia Gintsburg presented a paper called
“Sculpture Among the Jews” while Maxim Syrkin presented “Jews and Art” and
then “Jewish Art and Our Times” in December.6 6 In 1918, JSEA invited Rachel V.
6 3 f. 2129 n. 66 p. 11.
6 4 Beizer.
6 5 f. 1722 n. 3 p. 29; JSEA also met at other locations, like a member’s flat at Suvorovskii pr. 30,
kv. 18; and in 1918 at Dr. A. M. Bramson’s apartment on Nevsky 95.
6 6 Il’ia Gintsburg. “Skul’ptura i kuTtumye zadachi evreev.” Evreiskii mir 1 (Jan 1909), 123-8; M
Syrkin. “Evrei i iskusstvo." Transcript of Lecture (26 March 1916). Evreiskaia nedelia 25 (19 June
1916): 38-40. See notes from Syrkin’s unpublished lecture “Evreiskoe iskusstvo i novye vremena”:
f. 1722, n. 5 p. 148; f. 1722 n. 1 p.71.
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185
Wishnizer, the art historian and maker of Jewish ornamental art, to carry out a
systematic study of this subject. According to JSEA’s records, in August 1919,
Wischnizer was in the process of “collecting materials in the Asiatic Museum and
the Public Library [and] photographing illustrations in different hagades for the
purposes of slide-demonstrations.”6 7
In 1916, JSEA put on several exhibitions and auctions in St. Petersburg and
Moscow, the benefits from which went to the victims of the war. It held
competitions for ex-librises for libraries and individuals and post-cards. The
Society planned the construction of a technical and crafts school in Ekaterinoslav,
for which it received a grant. It discussed the possible reconstruction of the St.
Petersburg Synagogue. It also received and distributed among the members
various orders for book illustrations and festivity decorations. Together with the
Jewish Ethnographic Society, JSEA maintained a small library and a museum
based on the An-skii collection. Chagall mentioned that JSEA also ran a school,
but no evidence exists to support this.6 8
JSEA made itself known well enough to elicit numerous letters from around
the country, from places like Simferopol’, Novo-Vorontsovka of Kherson province,
Chernigov, Nevel in Vitebsk province, Genichesk in Tavricheskaia province,
Mestechko Podobrianka of Mogilev province, and Trostianets ofKhar’kovskaia
6 7 f. 1722 n. 2. p. 19.
6 8 Chagal wrote that he was allowed to enter the third year-level of this school right away. Opus
cited, 82.
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186
province.6 9 Young men wrote in seeking general advice and asking if they could
send in samples of their work.7 0
Despite the relative paralysis in 1917, JSEA continued its activities. In
April 1918, it reviewed its statutes and even expanded some of its goals. It
established contact with magazines such as Art o f the Commune, Art and the
Worker, and Art, which were organs of IZO.7 1 While Gintsburg stayed on, the
weight of directorship shifted to Isaac Brodskii, A. M. Bramson, and A. B.
Lakhovskii (1880-1937).7 2 A budget of 380,000 rubles was estimated for the year
1919.7 3 But the directorship itself fell under the control of the IZO’s Department of
the Fine Arts, which would now supply it with funds and adjudicate questions of
artistic merit.
As an attempt to retain a degree of autonomy within this new structure, in
March 1918, several members moved to form a Jewish Artistic Club called
“Mneiro.” Bramson envisioned it as an independent body that would “realize, on a
practical level, those activities that educated the artistic side of the general mass
and facilitated the development of national art.” But little seems to have come out
69f. 1722, n.l, pp. 1-35
7 0 For 10 of such letters see Alina Orlov. “K istorii Evreiskogo Obshchestva Pooshchreniia
Khudozhestv, 1915-1919.” Ezhegodnik Evreiskogo Muzeia. [Jewish Museum Annual, SP] Edited
by Viktor Kel’ner. Forthcoming,
7 1 f. 1722 n.5 p. 26.
7 2 Others to join the director’s board were M. F. Blockh, M. I. Solomonov, D. K. Ziv and O. G.
Breitbart. f. 1722 n. 6 p.42.
7 3 Ibid.
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of this plan.7 4 JSEA remained active under State governance until May 1919.
During its last year, the Society was preoccupied with only one project—a
publication of textbook illustrations and posters on Jewish themes. After a lengthy
review process of artists’ submissions of their designs, over a dozen commissions
were offered, including ones to Altman, Pasternak and Chagall. Because JSEA’s
funds were soon cut off, these designs were never published.7 5 Altman’s role in
this aborted enterprise was somewhat incestuous, since he was both one of the
commissioned artists and on the IZO jury and fund allocation board.7 6
JSEA’s Debates on National Art
JSEA’s patronage stipulated that artists submit themselves to its guidance.
This conditionality is evident in the way notions of “support” and “directing”
dovetail in the Society’s mission statement, which asserted its aim “[t]o ease the
path [of the young Jewish artist], to support [obodrif] him through active
7 4 f. 1722 n. 5 pp. 2-7; Bramson’s quote is from April 13, 1918: f. 1722 n. 2 p. 8.
7 5 The following theme assignments were offered on Jan 3 1919: to Pasternak — “Father Returns
Home from Work;” Chagall — “Children with Family” and “Wedding”; A. Lakhovskii “The
Taylor and the Shoemaker;” S. Simkhovich—“Passover;” P. I. Geller— “The Carpenter,” I.
Brodskii — “Mother and Child;” N. Altman— “Celebrating the Sabbath” and “The Alphabet;” M.
Blokh and I. A. Greenman — “The Locksmith;” A. Ia. Piatigorskii— “The Fairy-Tale” and “The
Teacher;” M. Maimon — “Chanukah;” M. L. Shafran — “Sukkoth;” M. G. Slepian— “The
Watchmaker;” S. M. Zaidenberg — “Grandpa and Grandma;” M. G. Shatan — “Purim;” and S. N.
Gruzenberg — “The Carriage Driver.” M. I. Solomonov was offered do produce the poster for the
fight against Tuberculosis for the Society of the Protection of Health among the Jewish Population.
7 6 See reports on IZO’s activities in Iskusstvo kommuny 19 (13 Apr 1919), 4. JSEA made a request
to IZO to fund the poster project for children, showing ten posters as samples; the members of the
board, including Altman, Gruzenberg, Lakhovskii, and Simkhovich considered the petition and
affirmed six of the posters, f. 1722 n. 6 pp. 93-109, 119.
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188
sympathy, and perhaps, at times, to direct his creative impulse.”7 7 Some JSEA
members approved of this implicit quest for a Jewish style, while others were wary.
This issue surfaced in the first meeting of JSEA’s Council of the Artist
Section on January 2, 1916, when Altman raised the question of what kind of art
the Society was interested in patronizing. The secretary recorded his assertion as
follows: “Natan Altman points out that while everyone believes in the necessity of
supporting young Jewish talent, no one has an opinion as to what kind of art Jewish
artists should produce. Meanwhile, the main goal of the Society is to develop a
nationally-distinct creativity [HaqnoHajibHO-caMofibiTHoe TBopnecTBo] in the plastic
arts.”7 8
Through the generalizing language of these minutes, it is hard to tell what
exactly Altman was criticizing—the absence of a program for realizing the
Society’s stated goal or the prescriptive nature of the goal itself. Perhaps
implicitly, he was pushing his own agenda for popularizing the kind of Jewish art
he had produced. In any case, his comment served to start a discussion among
other members on what the Society meant by “national art” and whether it should
make this notion more concrete with specific aesthetic criteria.
On this day, the debate was cut short by the meeting’s chairman, S. K.
Gipshtein, who directed the group towards matters of internal organization instead.
But the issue Altman raised at the first meeting of Artist Section would remain
7 7 JSEA solicitation for membership. November 1915. f. 1722 n.l pp. 34-35.
7 8 f. 1722 n. 3 p.2 back.
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189
central to JSEA. For example, in March 1916, an anonymous letter by a member
of the section addressed the limiting nature of the Society’s demands for a national
art. The letter concerned the requirements for the competition for the JSEA
emblem, which the writer found too narrow. He wrote:
In proposing such a theme as “Jewish style in Art” the Council of the
Artist Section knew, of course, that a Jewish style as such does not exist
and therefore that the submitted materials would comprise a limited
quantity of not well developed elements of a purely Jewish character7 9
(emphasis added)
The question also resonated in JSEA’s Kiev branch. At its gathering in Janurary
1917, Iakob Tugendhol’d gave a lecture dedicated to this very problem.
Tugendhol’d argued that a national art can exist in theory and does exist in practice
and pointed to Chagall among others as examples. He asserted that the work of
Jewish artists from different parts of the world is spiritually linked and is often
“cosmopolitan.”8 0
Questions about what “Jewish national art” was and what it should be
continued to surface in JSEA discussions. They manifested most notably at a
general meeting on April 13, 1918, when its mission statement came under review
and the clause on “national art” fell under heavy debate.8 1 The issue focused on
7 9 f. 1722 n. 1 p.59, 59 back.
8 0 f. 1722 n. 1 p.51 C78
8 1 f. 1722 n. 2 p. 9 C28
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190
whether or not the Society should advocate some kind of a “national” art in the first
place. The majority, including A. M. Bramson, M. F. Blok, D. L. Ziv and I. Ia.
Gintsburg, held an affirmative position, reasoning that otherwise JSEA had no
raison d'etre. Bramson made an especially passionate argument about national art
as a retort to general anti-Semitism and as proof of the inherent worth of the Jewish
people. Jewish art would “wash away the shame with which various cast-outs and
scoundrels cover us, grinding into the dirt the basic elements of human co-existence
and trampling the beauty of life in all of its manifestations.”8 2 Artist B. L. Gurvich
added that if there already exist artists who were willing and ready to make
“Jewish” art, why not have an organization to support them? To substantiate his
claim about the existence of a trend, Gurvich mentioned Alexander Benois as a
critic who had also noticed it.8 3
A minority among the JSEA wanted to do away with the clause on national
art. They justified the existence of JSEA as an entity designed to Jews regardless
of what their aesthetic inclinations were. A. Lakhovskii and M. Siniaver, for
example, advanced the idea that art is by its nature international. They would
rather see emerge from Jewish culture an art that had merit on non-nationalistic
grounds rather than something “Jewish” but second-rate. Marc Chagall too could
be counted as one who sided with them. To illustrate the disadvantage of setting
stringent nationalist parameters, Lakhovskii brought up the Bezalel School. He
8 2 It is not clear whom specifically Bramson had in mind here.
8 3 f. 1722 n. 2 p .llC 3 2
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191
deemed its efforts to forcibly create a strictly “national” aesthetic a failure. He
said, “Variations on ornamental motifs [in Betsalel art] were repeated extremely
monotonously and did not transcend well-known forms.” Not to repeat the school’s
mistake, he insited, JSEA should avoid asserting particular aesthetic directives.8 4
This non-nationalist argument held sway within JSEA even though it
contradicted its official program. For example, the show the society organized in
1916 included the work of Leon Bakst, who was not a member of JSEA nor
interested in making “Jewish” art. The catalogue for this show spoke of wanting to
be representative and comprehensive and to show the limitless range of art
produced by Jewish artists.8 5 His non-nationalist position, however, appears to
have been a minority. Afterall, artists who, like Pasternak, Manevich and Katz, did
not want to compromise their internationialst approach to art, we can assume,
simply did not join the group.
Among the “nationalist” majority in the Society, theoretical definitions of
“Jewish art” diverged. We can talk about a working definition they relied on as a
group to put their program into practice. By “Jewish art,” they meant more than an
art object made by a Jewish person. They expected a work of art to manifest
“Jewishness” on a visual level. For example, in its guidelines for a competition on
Jewish themes conceived of in 1916, JSEA announced that submissions “must
84 f. 1722 n . 2 p. 10 C31
85 E v re isk o e o b sh c h e stv o p o o s h c h re n iia k h u d o z h e s tv . Katalog vystavki kartin i skul 'ptury
khudozhnikov evreev. M, 1917.
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192
necessarily involve a subject of Jewishness [eepeM CTBo] (history, genre, or
symbol).”8 6 In terms of media, JSEA had in mind first of all painting and second of
all sculpture, planning to give three money awards to the former and two to the
latter.8 7 Altman helped plan the competition in the beginning.8 8 JSEA’s push for
art that was national in “content” remained strong even though it did not always
yield results. In 1918 and 1919, the project was reincarnated into aforementioned
competition for book illustrations and posters that used “motifs from Jewish life.”8 9
Artists were encouraged to use the JSEA library, museum, and photo collection.
JSEA’s type of nationalism was deeply rooted in populist ideology, one that
combined a reverence for the “folk” with a belief in science. It wanted to spawn an
art that was rooted in plain people’s culture and that was accessible to the masses.
To this end, it wanted to study them. JSEA undertook the running of the library
and museum established by the Jewish Historical and Ethnographic Society, which
contained artifacts from An-skii’s expedition. Following the Ethnographic Society,
JSEA emphasized scientific inquiry. We can see this in the language of Doctor
Bramson, for example, in his discussion of JSEA’s goals: “To analyze all the
various dispersed monuments of national art, to do scientific research on it, to study
it in the very depths of the masses.”9 0
8 6 November 21, 1916: f. 1722 n. 3 p.20
8 7 Painting, print, and sculpture received most attention in JSEA, while theater and film and other
arts were disregarded.
8 8 f. 1722 n. 5 p. 147 D4
8 9 f. 1722 n. 2 p. 10 back.
9 0 f. 1722 n. 2 p. 11.
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JSEA and Populism
In order to establish channels into the broader Jewish population, JSEA
developed relationships with already existing organizations with social and
educational missions, including: The Society for Protecting the Health of the
Jewish Population, the Society of Education [oopa30BaHHH n Bocmn aHHa] of Jews,
and the Russian Society for the Study of Jewish Folk Culture [HapOAHOcra]9 1
JSEA wanted to reach out to young artists from villages. They appreciated the
villagers’ approach precisely for its lack of sophistication and lack of academic and
urban influences. This fondness for naivete in an artist remained among the group
associated with JSEA even after its formal dissolution. When Solomon ludovin,
the archivist of JSEA museum materials in 1929, asked the student-artist David
Goberman to produce some drawings on Jewish rituals using materials from what
remained of the original library and museum, he assured him that the cruder and
less “learned”, the better.9 2
Thus, populism not only determined in large part JSEA’s notion of “the
national” but also that of “art.” Although the kind of art JSEA promoted among the
Jewish people included the higher genres of academic painting and sculpture (e.g.
Isaac Levitan and Mark Antokol’skii), for many members, such as D. Ziv,
9 1 f. 1722 n. 3. p. 5.
9 2 D. Goberman. Khudozhnik o sebe. (SP: D. Goberman, 1998), 14; also converstion November 4,
2000.
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194
“national art” clearly gravitated toward the semi-industrial arts and crafts9 3 This
vocational orientation is understandable given that the form of artistic education
most accessible to Jewish “people” was in provincial technical colleges.
The populist agenda became even more pronounced in JSEA policy after
the 1917 Communist Revolution. At the annual general meeting on April 3, 1918,
which concerned the restructuring of JSEA, Bramson noted that “the main changes
in [JSEA’s] mission statement is the shift in the center of activity ... on to the
people [Hapofl], the masses rather than singular individuals.” In expressing his
support for the “national art” clause, Bramson also used heightened populist
rhetoric. “[JSEA] must motivate the talent that is hidden in the depths of the
people. Only then will the Antokol’skiis not be counted as singular in our lives.
Only then will the geniuses, brightly blazing with beauty, comprise the pride of our
nation and a cultural energy of humanity as a whole.... Our goal is to bring to life
the best inclinations of the soul of the people and to help them to expand their
potential.”9 4
JSEA and Zionism
Although JSEA’s kind of populism and nationalism differed from that of
the Zionists, its relationship to their politics was tolerant. Several of its more
vociferous members, including M.S. Ioffe and A. L. Piatigorskii, were Zionists.
9 3 f. 1722 n. 2 pp. 10, 10 back.
9 4 f. 1722 n. 3 p. 10.
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Before joining JSEA, from 1908 to 1915, they had directed an organization that
supported Bezalel, the bastion of Zionist art.9 5 This group had also called itself
“Bezalel” and worked to aid the practitioners of Jewish art in Russia.9 6
JSEA tolerated the Zionist point of view in its discussions. In its debate on
the “national” clause, for example, the pro-nationalist majority enjoyed Zionist
support. The representative of the Central Committee of Zionists Organizations in
Petersburg, G. Pivovarskii, voiced his opinion at a JSEA meeting in absolute terms
that “in no case is there any room for internationalism in the life that Jews are
trying to build right now.”9 7 Although his position was not embraced, it was not
disregarded either, and Pivovarskii was invited back to other meetings.
One reason JSEA maintained relations with the Zionists, especially as they gained
strength after 1917, had to do with its unofficial public relations policy, established
by Gintsburg, to have a wide network of associations with all manner of Jewish
organizations. The two groups collaborated in areas of shared interest. JSEA
sometimes hosted delegates from Zionist organizations at its meetings. In June
1917, JSEA agreed to provide a jury for a competition that the Society for
Economic Revival in Palestine was holding for the design of a residential home to
be built on Palestinian territory.9 8 In May 1918, JSEA bought a number of works
95 f. 2 8 7 n. 6 9 p. 5.
9 6 Bezalel’s founder Boris Shatz was a student of Mark Antokol’skii in Paris from 1989 to 1995.
Mark William Kiel. A Twice Lost Legacy: Ideology, Culture and the Pursuit o f Jewish Folklore in
Russa until Stalinization (1930-1931). Dissertation. (The Jewish Theological Seminary, 1991), 18.
9 7 f. 1722 n. 2 p. 10.
9 8 f. 1722 n. 3 p. 28.
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196
of art from an exhibition sponsored by the Zionists. (They bought works by
Gurvich, Brazer, Bykhovskii, Kratko, and asked for works by Lilien for the
museum.)9 9 In 1919, the Zionist Organization called upon JSEA artists to design
the shekel.1 0 0 But in their larger politics, of course, the groups diverged. While
Zionist efforts went into preparing for life outside of Russia, JSEA presumed the
future locus of Russian Jewry to remain in the country and worked to improve the
conditions for artistic life there.
9 9 f. 1722 n. 5 p. 23.
1 0 0 f. 1722 n. 2 pp. 18-19.
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Chapter 6
Altman and Chagall
“The Jewish Artist”
Altman’s Jewish art was shaped not only by institution-level projects like
the An-skii Expedition and various commissions, shows, and contests sponsored by
JSEA. It was also profoundly affected on an individual level by his competition
with Marc Chagall. The two artists were aware of each other’s efforts to represent
the Jewish essence in art and vied with one other in this regard. Their contest was
fueled by contemporary criticism that judged one or the other’s efforts in Jewish art
superior.
Jewish art in the 1910s served as a litmus test for formal theories of art that
were developing concurrently in Russia. Could one deduce the nationality of an art
maker using purely formal analysis of his work? Could Jewish national essence
manifest itself on a formal level regardless of the subject matter? Many critics
thought so but disagreed on what constituted the Jewish “essence.” The opposing
styles of Natan Altman and Marc Chagall provided the key materials for this
discussion more so than their predecessors (Pen, Antokol’skii, Gintsburg) or their
contemporaries (Manevich, Bakst, and Ryback, etc.). Altman’s works leaned
toward the ornamental, abstract and Primitivist, while Chagall produced a variety
of genre scenes, characters and narrative works. At first, critics recognized both as
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representative of the Jewish spirit, but with greater political polarization after 1917,
one artist was advanced over the other.
Eventually, Chagall and his narrative-orientation came to define a core
Jewish essence in 20th century Western art historiography, in part because Altman
dropped out of the competition and partly because the matter was no longer open to
discussion in Soviet Russia after the mid-1920s.1 As it will be argued here, the
situation was quite the opposite before then, when the question was first posed.
Scholarly criticism held Altman’s abstractionism to be the most effective vehicle
for the national spirit.2 It was only the most ideological writers—like the rigid
Marxist and Yiddishist critic and artist Joseph Tchaikov—who held Chagall up as
the beacon of Jewish culture.3
The critical texts that dealt with the question of national form varied in
seriousness and political orientation. Some were abstract musings, and others were
fueled by fiery political conviction. Samples represent the entire range in this
1 In 1929 Erikh Gollerbakh wrote of Chagall as synonymous with “the expression of the Jewish
national essence.” Chagall’s higher standing in this regard, over and above Altman’s, has remained
since. Gollebakh. “Puti noveishego iksusstva na zapade i u nas.” Vestnik znaniia 6 Ezhemesechnoe
prilozhenie (1929), 324.
2 Abram Efros.(Rosstsii). “Evreiskie khudozhniki: Mark Shagal.” Parti. Evreiskaia zhizn ’ 10-11
(12 March 1917), 36-40; Part II. 12-13 (27 March 1917), 53-58; “Evreiskie khudozhniki: Natan
Altman.” Evreiskaia zhizn' 51-52 (1916), 46-52; “’Plat’e korolia;’ Mark Shagal.” In his and la. A.
Tugendhol’d’s Iskusstvo Marka Shagala. (M: Gelikon, 1918), 7-10; 27-52; “Khudozhniki teatra
Granovskogo. ” Kovcheg: almanakh evreiskoi kul’ tury. Vyp. 2 (M: Khudozhestvennaia
literature, 1991), 220-243 [Originally appeared in Iskusstvo (GAKhnN) 4/1-2 (Moscow, 1928)};
“Lampa Aladina.” Evreiskii mir. Literatumyi sbornik. Book 1. Edited by Andrei Sobol’ and E. B.
Leiter, eds. (M: Evreiskii Mir, 1918), 297-310; “Natan Al’tman.” [1922] In his Proflli. (M: Izd-
vo Federatsiia, 1930), 245-286; Portret NatanaAl ’ tmana. (M: Shipovnik, 1922); “Zametkiob
iskusstve.” Novyi Put’ 48-49 (1916), 58-64.
3 Nikolai Tarabukin. “Po khudozhestvennym vystavkam: Al’tman, Shagal, Shterenberg.” Vestnik
Iskusstv 5 (M, 1922), 27-8; Iosif Tchaikov. Skulptur. (Kiev: Melukhe Farlag, 1921) [in Yiddish],
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199
chapter, but a focus is placed on those that highlight the Altman-Chagall
juxtaposition. Efros receives special attention because he was progressive and
represented proto-Formalism in art criticism. In his writing on Altman and
Chagall, he recognized a separation between their art and nationalist movements,
and he strove to create a non-political, art-historical discourse that would address
“the national” in a systematic formal way.
The perception of Marc Chagall as the consummate Jewish artist has
received sanction in recent decades due to the overwhelming attention paid to his
“Jewish style.” For example, his murals for the State Jewish Theater [GOSET] of
1919, where Chagall presents himself, in his own words, as the “mother” of
GOSET, have been exhibited and discussed so widely, they have created the
general impression that Chagall singlehandedly “gave birth” to Jewish theatrical art
in Russia.4 Admittedly, recent scholarship on GOSET and surveys of the Jewish
artistic milieu in its wider parameters—like those of Hillel Kazovsky, Abram
Kampf, Ruth Apter-Gabriel, and Kenneth Silver, as well as studies devoted to
individual painters within it, including Joseph Tchaikov and Chaim Soutine—have
served to correct the preponderant focus on Chagall. They remind us that his
4 See for example: Guggenheim Museum. Marc Chagall and the Jewish Theater. (New York:
GM, 1992); and Susan Tumarkin Goodman, ed. et al. March Chagall: Early Works from Russian
Collections. (New York: Jewish Museum), 2001.
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theatrical murals were considered influential alongside a significant number of
other set designers for GOSET.5
Since the Holocaust, Chagall’s role has been made to mediate the
irrecoverable experience of Eastern European shetl. His scenes and characters have
become ubiquitous and accepted at the highest level of culture—from the Knesset
building in Jerusalem to Paris’ Opera. The perception of Chagall as the
quintessential Russian Jewish artist of the early 20th century is distorting since it
was far from pre-determined in the 1910s that Chagall would be allotted the title.
Natan Altman vied with him for that name, and indeed this competition propelled
Chagall’s career toward defining his “Jewish style.” At first, the same critics who
lauded Chagall often exalted Altman in similar terms—for combining Jewish and
modernist interests. These critics include the founder of the Jewish Society for the
Encouragement of the Arts, Il’ia Gintsburg, the Jewish nationalist art historian
Maxim Syrkin, and the essayist Abram Efros. Before 1917, the two artists were
made to share a pedestal, but after the Revolution, the critical literature became
polarized, favoring one over the other. Soviet critics like Nikolai Tarabukin tried to
topple Chagall from his superior position, while Yiddishist writers like Isaac
Ryback, Boris Aronson, and Joseph Tchaikov worked to discredit Altman.
5 See for example Abram Efros’ 1928 essay “Khudozhniki teatra Granovskogo.” Opus cited.
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Settling an Old Score
Altman and Chagall’s uneasy professional relationship began when they
met in Paris in 1911. It reached a high point of tension in 1922, after which
Chagall emigrated from Russia, disappointed by a post-revolutionary environment
that was adverse to him and filled with bitterness for Altman and the Jewish
theater. Chagall alleged that he was supposed to have designed the sets for the
1922 premier of An-skii’s “Hadybbuk” at the Habima Theater. He recalls An-skii
having said, “You’re the only one who can stage it. I’ve been thinking of you.”
Chagall even provides a corroborating witness to An-skii’s proposition. “Baal-
Machshowess, the writer, who was with us, nodded and said ‘yes’ with his
spectacles.” Chagall also claims that the theater Habima approached him first on
“Hadybbuk” and that he declined their offer out of a sense of loyalty to GOSET,
since he knew “the two theaters were at war.”6 As it turned out, Altman received
the Habima commission and the glory of the production’s success. In his memoirs,
then, Chagall is settling some old scores when he insists that he was indeed An-
skii’s and Habima’s first choice and suggests his moral superiority over Altman in
his loyalty to GOSET.
“Hadybuk” has been staged more than a thousand times since its Habima
premier in 1922, and Altman’s costume and stage designs have served as the
6 Marc Chagall. My Life. Trans. Peter Owen. (London: John Buckley, Ltd., 1965), 164, 162.
GOSET is an acronym of Gosudrastvennyi evreiskii teatr, The Jewish State Theater. At its
inception in 1919, i.e. when it was smaller, it was called GOSEKT, or Gosudarstvennyi evreiskii
kamernyi teatr. It is one of the few Jewish institutions that survived the 30s and 40s, lasting until
1948.
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prototype for these subsequent stagings. The recognition that this brought Altman
may have upset Chagall, especially because the designs for “Hadybuk” emulated
Chagall’s own “style,” as he put it. In his memoirs, Chagall leaves Altman
unnamed when he writes, “At the Habima, they ordered another artist to paint ‘in
the style of Chagall’.”7 Chagall may have also felt snubbed because Altman had a
bigger budget than Chagall had during his time with GOSET in 1919, and because
his “style,” as he saw it, was being replicated while he himself was being ignored.8
Having been recently ousted from Vitebsk by Malevich, finding little common
ground with Lunacharskii, and no longer being on good terms with Granovskii,
Chagall may have felt especially isolated. Neglecting to give Chagall credit after
taking “his” commission and executing it “in his style” added insult to injury. It is
possible that by leaving Altman unnamed in his memoirs, Chagall meant to
reciprocate this failure to properly acknowledge him in 1922?
This passage in Chagall’s memoirs on the “other artist” is strange
considering it was written a decade after the incident with Habima. By this point in
the early 1930s, Chagall had gained worldwide fame while Altman was living in
obscurity and struggling to survive as a temporary immigrant in France. In other
words, Altman was no longer a contender on Chagall’s level, and may have even
appeared to Chagall as an inferior. If there was no necessity to fear competition
7 Ibid, 164.
8 This difference in their budget has been noted by Ziva Amishai-Maisels. “Chagall and the Jewish
Revival: Center or Periphery?” In Ruth Apter-Gabriel, Ruth, ed. Tradition and Revolution: The
Jewish Renaissance in Russian Avant-Garde Art, 1912-1928. Exhibition Catalogue. Second
Edition. ( Jerusalem: Israel Musuem, 1988) [1987], 71-100.
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from Altman at that point, perhaps the passage can be read as Chagall’s effort to
revenge a moment when he was slighted by Altman and the Habima Theater in
1922. It suggests that back then, at least, Chagall had regarded Altman as a rival.
Rivalry
Altman and Chagall’s rivalry developed against a backdrop of common
cultural associations. It began in the period from 1910 to 1911 when they lived and
worked in La Ruche in Paris along with other artists from Eastern Europe.9 This is
where Altman may have seen Chagall’s 1908 painting “The Funeral,” one of his
earliest, a small painting of subdued hues that used an inverted equilateral
triangular composition, the top line marked by an aloof fiddler perched on a rooftop
and other mourners on the street. The corpse, at the bottom of an the triangle, is
shown from above, splayed out in the open street and surrounded by candles.1 0
Upon his return from Paris to his hometown Gritsev in 1911, Altman painted “The
Jewish Funeral,” a work that shows an affinity to Cubism in style but to Chagall’s
“Funeral” in composition and theme. It employs a triangular composition. The
corpse is situated in the center and surrounded by candles and mourners. It uses the
perspective of someone hovering above. Altman’s painting, one of the largest in
his oeuvre, outsizes Chagall’s work by at least a factor of four. The space is an
9 Their mutual influence in this period is briefly discussed by Amishai-Maisels. Ibid, 75-80.
1 0 When Chagall came to Paris in August 1910, he brought many of his earlier Vitebsk paintings
with him. Ibid.
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interior and conveys more intimacy and presence than Chagall’s. It also lacks
Chagall’s sense of irony.1 1
In 1911, when Altman named his piece “Jewish Funeral” rather than
something more personal, such as “Isaac’s Funeral,” or, more generically, “A
Funeral,” he was anticipating the trend for “ethnicity.” His title signals an
understanding that his art could be presented from the “Jewish” angle. Altman was
more market-savvy than Chagall, at least on his home turf. He showed his work
with frequency at Dobychina and elsewhere, while Chagall’s exhibits were more
intermittent. Besides Cubism, Altman had learned that the Jewishness in his own
art and Chagall’s was marketable as such. He had a sense of coming trends and
adjusted his style and allegiances accordingly. Throughout his career, Altman
experimented far more extensively than Chagall.
Chagall, on the other hand, avoided artistic groupings altogether and
retained a consistency of style throughout most of his life. Athough Chagall
would also advertise his subject within a nationalist framework in later years, the
1908 title “Funeral” more accurately represents his mindset in Paris. While deeply
1 1 Amishai-Maisels, following Etkind, writes that Altman’s painting commemorates the death of his
grandfather. Ibid, 79; Mark Etkind Natan Al ’ tman. (M: Sovetskii khudozhnik, 1971), 21-22.
According to the 1911 death certificate, however, it was someone closer in age to Altman who
died—perhaps a brother or cousin. The name on the 1911 death certificate, which Altman kept in
his personal files, is Ovshii Itskovich Altman. It records the young man’s death from tuberculosis in
Uman’ in the Ukraine. Since the root of Natan and Ovshii’s patronymics is the same (‘Itskovich’
derives from Yiddish ‘Itsak’ and ‘Isakievich’ from ‘Isaak’), the deceased may have been his brother.
As far as it is known, Altman had no other immediate family. RNB f. 1126 op. 2 n. 25. In either
case, as a document of a death of a family member, the painting understandably imparts an
emotional gravity.
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immersed in his idiosyncratic Jewish material, he presented himself as a
universalist. Chagall shied away from discussions of a Jewish art movement. He
rejected the aspirations of the Makhmadim, the group of Jewish artists in La Ruche
who rallied around this cause.1 2
Altman saw an opportunity in the issue that the Makhamdim artists
provoked. The 1912 journal they published, which included contributions from
Joseph Tchaikov, Leo Koenig, Henry Epstein, and Yitzhak Lichtenstein, sparked
reactions from both Altman and Chagall. Specifically, its quasi-folk and art
nouveau-styled illustration of Biblical stories offered a solution to the artists’
quandary about how to tap the Jewish spirit using traditional sources while
maintaining the edge on artistic inventiveness. Although the Makhmadim were
disparaged by Chagall for their “backwardness” and ignored by Altman, their
treatments of Biblical subjects may have inspired the two artists.
Altman could have seen a copy of Makhmadim’s journal, which came out
in 1912, in Paris—after his return to Russia—but it is more likely that he heard
about Chagall’s “Adam and Eve” or “Homage to Apollinare” (1911-1912)
displayed at the Salon des Independants and commented on by Apollinaire.1 3 Both
Altman and Chagall produced eroticized Cubist renditions of “Adam and Eve” and
other Biblical stories. Later, Altman would return to the Old Testament in his
1 2 “Makhmadim” means precious ones and alluded to the fine Hebrew poets of yore. They had
studied in Bezalel and came to Paris to catch up to the latest artistic developments while maintaining
the school’s Jewish nationalist position. My thanks to Seth Wolitz for providing this information.
5 3 Amishai-Maisels, 80.
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black and white series of etchings of 1930, executed in a delicate Realist manner.
For Chagall, Biblical subjects became a more sustained interest after his trips to
Jerusalem in the 1930s and culminated in his 1955-1956 Old Testament
illustrations, brightly colored and Expressionist-inspired, which were
commissioned by Ambroise Voillard.
After leaving Paris, both men returned to their respective homes and painted
their families and townspeople. It would be fair to note that Chagall started such
portraits of hometown characters earlier. While in Paris, he transported people
from Vitebsk onto the canvas from memory or “dreams,” as Efros would write,
producing such portraits as in “Pinch of Snuff” (1912) and “Jew at Prayer” (1911-
1912). Guided by a similar appreciation of the generation that carried on
traditional religious practices, Altman painted “The Old Jew” (1913), which
figured an old man en face with the five books of the Pentateuch behind him.
Amishai-Maisels suggested that Chagall opened one of these tomes, as it were, in
his own rendition on the same theme in his “Jew in Bright Red” (1914).1 4 In other
words, the influence was not just one way. Leaving aside the possibility of such a
specific inter-text, we can say that Chagall’s series of paintings started in 1914
upon his return to Vitebsk—including “Jew in Bright Red,” “Jew in Black and
White,” “Pinch of Snuff,” and “Jew in Green”—evidences a similar impulse as
1 4 Ibid, 96, fn. 68.
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Altman’s “The Old Jew”: to meditate on a long life lived out in religious
observance.
Chagall’s series reiterates the basic pose of the model in Altman’s “Old
Jew” with more elaborate variations. But if Altman, in his economic and
understated fashion, marks religiosity with closed and unlabeled books, Chagall
does not spare us his signature cornucopia of iconographic references: phylactery
bands and boxes, stars of David, texts, prayer shawls and hats, arks, scrolls, and
other such ritualistic details. By 1914, both artists had moved to St. Petersburg
and, in the next few years, their Jewish work continued to spiral around each
other’s. If Chagall upped the ante in promoting Jewish religious minutiae, Altman
answered with an equal challenge. With his sculptural self-portrait “Head of a
Young Jew” of 1915, Altman made a public display of his own Jewish identity.1 5
As the two artists vied with one another for best representation of the
Jewish essence, they moved in the same cultural sphere in St. Petersburg. Chagall
liked remaining on its fringes, while Altman yearned to be on the inside. It is
generally supposed that the two were friends before the incident with Habima in
1922, although no direct evidence of this exists. Nevertheless, it is clear that they
watched and influenced each other’s work. Discussions of the Chagall-Altman
friendship suggest a one-way influence, with Altman in the role of disciple.1 6 Yet
it becomes apparent from seeing their parallel developments that their relationship
1 5 Amishai-Maisels sees Altman’s portrait in the context of his competition with Chagall. Ibid, 82.
1 6 Ibid.
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was mutually cross-pollinating and of equal benefit to both. After Altman’s 1914
“Portrait of Akhmatova,” for example, one notices intensification in Chagall’s
color scheme. Another instance is Chagall’s adaptation of the characteristic orphic
shapes that Altman used to mark open space, the kind he used in his 1914 “Portrait
of Akhmatova” and which Iurii Annenkov, the Suprematists, and other artists also
quickly picked up. Chagall’s use of these particular marks can be seen clearly in
his 1919 murals for the Jewish Chamber Theater.1 7
By 1916, both artists were members of the Jewish Society for the
Encouragement of the Arts. And, in typically opposing fashion, Chagall was
tentative about his membership, showing up sporadically to meetings, while
Altman believed in the organization and participated regularly. These attitudes to
JSEA—laxidasical versus serious—indicate Chagall’s and Altman’s respective
relationships to Jewish art, at least within an institutional context.
Both artists showed their work in JSEA’s 1916 exhibition.1 8 In the heady
years between 1917 and 1919—when the Society was staving off its collapse
through re-organization and replaced Ginsburg with A. Bramson as director—the
two artists remained JSEA members. In February of 1917, when the society was
most desperate for funds, Altman and Chagall joined a commission to plan a JSEA
art auction and produce a JSEA series of postcards. Both signed in at a meeting on
171 thank Seth Wolitz for pointing this out.
1 8 Evreiskoe obshchestvo pooshchreniia khudozhestv. Katalog vystavki kartin i skul 'ptury
khudozhnikov evreev. M, 1917,
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May 4th , 1917.1 9 And in December 1917, Chagall and Altman, among others, were
selected to jury the show “Russian Jews in Art: A Show of JSEA in Moscow,” held
at the Lemers’e Gallery, which opened on March 29, 1917.2 0 In 1918, JSEA
asked Altman and Chagall, among other artists, to produce poster designs for the
competition on Jewish themes.2 1 Their paths crossed at other venues as well: the
Jack of Diamonds show in Moscow in November 1916, where Altman showed
“Head of a Young Jew” and Chagall over forty Vitebsk paintings;2 2 in a group
exhibit with David Burliuk, Vasilii Kandinskii, Nikolai Kul’bin, Ivan Pougny,
Nikalai Tyrsa, and Robert Falk at Dobychina’s gallery in December 1916 and
January 1917; and again at Dobychina’s with Nikolai Roerich, Sarra Lebedeva,
Isaak Brodksii, and Iurii Annenkov in late 1917.2 4
Critical Debate
Critics pitted Altman and Chagall against one another, asking which better
captured the Jewish spirit and indicated the better direction for a national art. In a
May 1916 article, Maxim Syrkin expressed ecstatic delight in Chagall. He spoke of
1 9 TsGIA, f. 1722, op.I, n.5, pp. 135-7.
2 0 Ginsburg discusses the plans for the show at a JSEA meeting on 21 Dec 1916. TsGIA, f. 1772
op. 1, n. 3, p. 21; also see reference to the show in V. P. Lapshin. Khudozhestvennaia zhizn'
Moskvy i Petrograda v 1917 gody. (M: Sovetskii khudozhnik, 1983), 314.
2 1 At this point, Chagall was already in Vitebsk. The back-and-forth correspondence between him
and JSEA apropos the poster-project exists and remains in the JSEA archives TsGIA. These letters
concern Chagall’s design on theme of a Jewish wedding. This commission explains an otherwise
untitled and unidentified print that was included in the 1999 Jewish Museum Exhibit. Goodman.
Opus cited,
2 2 N. E. Khardzhiev. Stat 7 ob avangarde. Vol 2. (M: RA, 1997), 133-4.
2 3 Lapshin 1983, 305.
2 4 Ibid, 252-254.
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210
him as “an extraordinary new phenomenon,” and after discussing his sense of
beauty, he asked in amazement, “Where does this come from?”2 5 How do we
explain this “extra-fine, pathologically-refined sensibility of an aristocrat pur sang?
. . . Is [Chagall] a realist, or an idealist? . . . Does he belong to us [Russian Jews]
alone or to the world?”2 6 This article made only slight mention of Altman, whom
Syrkin estimated to be “highly talented.”2 7
Max Syrkin singled the two out again in a public lecture sponsored by
JSEA, which took place at the Chamber Theater on Kriukov Canal in St. Petersburg
on December 30, 1916. After surveying the Judaic-conscious art of the 19th
century, Syrkin hailed Chagall and Altman as the most promising of their
generation in bringing about a new Jewish art. He juxtaposed Altman’s “tightly
reserved” nature [Tyro cqepxcaHHbm AnbTMaH] and his “measured Cubism” with
Chagall’s “joyful, child-like mischievious [A ex cK H -m a jiO B x iH B a a ] nature.”2 8 Syrkin
had given an earlier version of this lecture in March of that year, and its first part,
which cursorily overviewed moments of ancient Jewish visual history, was
subsequently published in Evreiskaia nedelia as “Jews and Art: Part I.”2 9
Although the promised second section of Syrkin’s aricle, in which he was to deal
2 5 Ibid, 44, 48.
2 6 Ibid, 44.
2 7 Ibid.
2 8 The transcript of this lecture has not survived, but notes made by someone in the audience on
back of a brochure announcing the lecture are preserved in TsGIA. From these notations, we can
reconstruct the outline of the lecture as having overviewed a host of 19th century Jewish artists first
and finished with a discussion of Altman and Chagall, f. 1722, op. 1, n. 2.
2 9 Maksim Syrkin. “Mark Shagal.” Opus cited.
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with more modern issues, failed to appear, Evreiskaia nedelia provided a fore-taste
of its content by illustrating the first, significantly enough, with Altman’s sculpture
“Head of a Young Jew.”
Around the same time, in 1916 and 1917, Abram Efros authored two essays
for the journal Evreiskaia Zhizn ’ , one focusing on Altman and the other on
Chagall.3 0 Separately from this, Efros also penned a favorable critique of their
work as well as the work of Robert Falk, all of whom exhibited with the Jack of
Diamonds group in 1916.3 1 In his “Jewish art” column, however, Efros found
Altman to engage the issue more directly than Chagall. He used Altman, rather
than Chagall, as a platform to discuss the formal problematics involved in Jewish
art. Chagall, in contrast, prompted a different set of musings from the critic, mostly
around the connection between fantasy and reality. Efros, who often related details
about an artist’s personality and mannerisms to his art (often as a rhetorical move),
noted that Chagall walked as if on firm ground but that this solidity of his
connection to the earth was merely an illusion. The artist was actually flying,
wholly absorbed in his imagination. This observation formed the crux of Efros’
analysis—that in Chagall’s world, logic is absent, that we enjoy elevated vantage
points while taking in details of life below, and that hyt, or everyday life, is fused
3 0 Abram M Efros. (Rosstsii). “Evreiskie khudozhniki: Mark Shagal.” Opus cited; “Evreiskie
khudozhniki: Natan Altman.” Opus cited. These essays constituted the column “Jewish artists,”
which was meant to be continued on a regular basis but was not.
3 1 Ibid. “Zametki ob iskusstve.” Opus cited.
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with dreams. Based on these paradoxes, which he found intriguing, Efros predicted
greatness for the artist.
Altman, Efros noticed, walked with absolute conviction. Unlike Chagall,
this centeredness carried over into his art. Efros contended that there was nothing
ambiguous about Altman’s sculpture “The Young Jew.” It clearly provoked the
“Jewish question.” The issue itself, whether there is a Jewish art or only artists
who are Jews, could not be resolved presently, Efros admitted. But Altman
triggered the debate. His Jewishness, which expressed itself in the balance between
mysticism and law, lay at the center of his art, Efros argued. If we sense something
from another world, foreign, or strange when looking at Altman’s art, something
we cannot quite put a finger on, it was not Cubism or something vaguely French. It
was surely this Jewish element.
In 1918, Efros, collaborating with another eminent critic, Iakov
Tugendhol’d, produced the first comprehensive appreciation of Chagall.3 2
Although Altman never captured the notice of Tugendhol’d, Efros awarded him
comparable attention four years later.3 3 Because nationalist topics had to be
handled more delicately in these later publications (the year was 1922), Efros’ view
on the issue was presented less directly. Regardless of the specific content of the
essay, the two artists carried equal weight in Efros’ critical oeuvre.
3 2 Abram Efros and la. Tugendhol’d Iksusstvo Marka Shagala. Opus cited. Partially translated in
Marc Chagall and the J. Theater. (New York: Guggenheim, 1992), 134-8, 139-143.
3 3 Abram Efros. Portret Natana A l’ tmana. Opus cited.
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This critical issue of whether Altman or Chagall best represented the Jewish
spirit fell away in the Soviet context. In a sense, their competition was transmuted
into one for overall artistic merit. In his review of their work displayed at the 1922
Berlin exhibit, the Soviet cultural guide and ideologue Nikolai Tarabukin
juxtaposed the two artists using a rudimentary and popular distinction at the time
between the “what” and “how” of art.3 4 In accord with the fashionable view, the
“how” of art clearly won over the “what” in Tarabukin’s evaluative scheme of what
constituted good painting. Chagall was indicted on this count, i.e. in that his
strength lay in the latter, the “what.” Tarabukin asked the reader to consider two
works side by side: Chagall’s murals for GOSET (1919) and Altman’s
painting/collage “Labor” (1921). Obviously Chagall was more invested in the
“what” (the subject matter) than Altman. And because of this preoccupation with
the “what,” he was out of touch with the times, implied the author. In addition,
Chagall’s heavy-handed “symbolism”—another term of opprobrium for
Tarabukin’s audience—worked to the detriment of both his composition, which
Tarabukin felt was rather chaotic, and his technique, which seemed negligent.
In Altman’s work, however, the “how” reigned, as Tarabukin asserted. This
spoke to the command the artist had over the painterly craft itself. Tarabukin
described Altman’s technique as “craftsmanship” [MacTepCTBo] and used other
favorable terms like “compact” and “constructed” (referring to Altman’s wood
3 4 Nikolai Tarabukin. “Po khudozhestvennym vystavkam: Al’tman, Shagal, Shterenberg.” Vestnik
Iskusstv 5 (M, 1922), 27-8.
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214
collage “Labor”) to advance Altman over Chagall. He noted that Altman also
superceded Chagall in his controlled sense of color and understanding of texture.
Finally, Tarabukin clinched Altman’s ascendancy by noting that the artist
transcended Cubism. Antipathy towards Cubism was also typical of the Soviet art
critical perspective of the time, and was represented in an article that followed
Tarabukin’s in Vestnik iskusstva3 5 Chagall, Tarabukin wrote, still showed features
of the old-fashioned style while Altman, the “painter-constructivist” and the
“painter-non-objectivist,” had come a long way, obliterating almost all traces of
aestheticism from his earlier Akhmatova days. Thus, in Tarabukin’s assessment,
which reflected the critical preferences of Leninist Russia, Altman was a superior
artist to Chagall on many counts.
In subsequent Soviet criticism, Chagall was relegated to an irrelevant status.
If in this context, Chagall served as a foil for Altman, the reverse was true in Kiev-
centered Yiddish culture. Here the Jewish dimension of their competion re-
emerged. In an important 1919 Yiddish essay written by Isaac Ryback and Boris
Aronson and published by Kulturlige, an organization that opposed Soviet efforts
to centralize and rein in Jewish nationalist movements, the critic deemed Altman’s
efforts in the domain of Jewish art inadequate.3 6 He contended that Altman’s
3 5 Ibid, 29-31.
3 6 Issachar Ryback and Boris Aronson: Di Vegen der Yiddisher Maleri. (Kiev: Kulturlige, 1919);
also reprinted as an essay of the same title in the Yiddish journal Oyfgcmg (1919), 99-124. In other
times, Aronson held a more favorable view of Altman. See, for example, his essay “O Natane
Al’tmane.” [1918?] Trans. JohnBowlt. Evrei v kul’ ture russkogozarubezh'ia: Stat’ i, publikatsii,
memuary, i esse. Edited by M. Parkhomovskii. 4(1995): 417-420.
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Jewish Prints imitated folk art in a way that was too intellectual and that did not
show Altman’s individual touch. At the same time, they wished to see Altman take
abstraction to a higher level. In these regards, Chagall, with his more spontaneous,
emotional and primitive improvisations, and Falk with his “conviction and depth,”
suited the needs of Jewish art much better. It was Chagall, above all others, who
deserved the sobriquet of “Jewish artist,” Aronson and Ryback argued.
The same hierarchy, with Chagall at the top and Altman at the bottom,
would be repeated in Joseph Tchaikov’s 1921 essay, published in Yiddish first in
monograph form in Kiev, and later reprinted in Warsaw and Paris journals.
Tchaikov, a one-time member of the Makhmadim, knew Chagall and Altman from
their days in Paris (1910-1914), and his writing particularly juxtaposed these artists.
Tchaikov proposed that Jews not insolate from the broader cultures by developing a
separate visual idiom but that they take part in universal developments in art. To
him, Altman’s work seemed to narrow the possibilities of Jewish art. Although
Tchaikov acknowledged Altman’s status as a popular Jewish artist, he considered
his art incompetent and misguided, calling his paintings “colored drawings.” Even
Altman’s non-Jewish work was not up to Tchaikov’s standard. He admonished
Altman’s erratic combination of styles, which seemed to him disagreeable* as in the
Akhmatova portrait, for example, where, he asserted, the face executed realistically
jarred with the body and surroundings portrayed in Cubist terms.
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As for Jewish art, Chagall came closest to the ideal because he was the less
conscious of it, i.e. he was not preoccupied with “Jewish art” per se and did not
cater to nationalist expectations. Tchaikov held up Chagall’s “Praying Jew” (1914)
as an example of quintessentially Jewish art. The painting, made to appear an
impromptu sketch, depicts a torso, stretched like elastic into an unnatural curve,
head cascading up-side-down, bent over a book. No doubt Tchaikov chose to focus
on this piece because to him, such drastic experiments against academic realism
represented progress.
In the Tchaikov’s scheme, Chagall was followed only by Robert Falk as an
example of a fine “Jewish artist.” This order is telling, since Falk displayed little
concern for Jewish culture altogether. One cannot express the essence of a nation
by setting out to do that, Tchaikov maintained. It has to occur unintentionally and
organically through the practice of a progressive non-nation-specific art form.
Jewish art cannot be generated forcibly. This is why, according to Tchaikov,
Altman does not measure up to Chagall as a Jewish artist.
The Yiddish scholarship on the matter, then, reveresed the Soviet appraisal
of Altman in favor of Chagall. The political import in both cases should not be
overlooked. By the time of the first of these articles, Altman had switched loyalties
and stopped contributing to the making of a Jewish “fine art.” Although Chagall
had allied himself with the Revolution, his attempt to work in Soviet institutional
settings was unsuccessful. He tried to “talk the talk” of Revolutionary art, but it
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came out clumsily, as when in Vitebsk he formulated his understanding of
proletarian art tautologically as “art of the proletarian masses.”3 7 In contrast,
Altman was not at all ambiguous about what constituted proletarian art. In fact, he
provided one of the initial definitions in his 1918 article for Iskusstvo Kommuny, in
which he proclaimed that Futurism embodied the visual tastes of the working
masses.3 8 Altman had a much more intuitive sense of what the times demanded and
was not adverse to the kind of “technical art,” as Polonsky termed it, that Chagall
abhorred.3 9 Consequently, after the Revolution, he quickly moved into the elite
Narkompos circle, and this may have caused some resentment among the more
radical and separatist Yiddishists, like Ryback and Tchaikov. The fact that Altman
started working for the Jewish theater in 1919, as did Chagall, did not redeem him
in their eyes. Theatrical art was considered a separate category, perhaps less
significant than gallery art in advancing Jewish artists. At least it was not what
these critics had in mind in defining Jewish art.
The second political context to note in connection with the cold regard for
Altman evidenced by Ryback, Aronson, and Tchaikov is the resistance of die-hard
Yiddishist culture to Sovietization. Yiddish publications in Kiev, Odessa and other
Soviet peripheries became more entrenched in their ideological positions and
resisted centralizing processes by which minority presses would be brought into
3 7 Quoted in Franz Meyer. Marc Chagall. Trans. Robert Allen. (New York: Harry N. Abrams
n.d.), 270.
3 8 Natan Al’tman. “’Futurizmi i proletarskoie iskusstvo.” Iskusstvo kommuny (Dec 15 1918): 1.
3 9 Polonsky, Gill. Chagall. (London: Phaidon Press Ltd., 1998), 14-18.
with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission.
conformity with dictates from Moscow. Both of the Yiddish essays discussed here
were first issued in Kiev, where the Yiddishist intelligentsia was feeling the coming
tide of this pressure and became more entrenched in its position. Hence, the
sentiments on Altman and Chagall, which reversed the Soviet paradigm, worked to
express independence from the “headquarters’” regulation of culture.
After the show of Soviet art in Berlin in 1922, contact between Chagall and
Altman was ruptured, and the hard feelings over “Hadybbuk” lingered. Chagall
stayed in Berlin and eventually made his way back to Paris, while Altman returned
to Moscow and continued his work for the GO SET. There is no evidence that the
two had much of a connection in France after Altman himself moved there in 1928.
Late in his life, however, Altman liked to brag about their friendship. In his
Leningrad studio, he prominently displayed a framed photograph, one that remains
there still, of middle-aged Chagall and Picasso together with satisfied smiles on a
sunny day in Paris. He also owned a number of French monographs and catalogues
on Chagall. But all of this may have been a front, one that would have especially
impressed Altman’s elite Soviet visitors with a penchant for forbidden “foreign”
art. From the documents, it does not appear evident that the two maintained
contact after 1922.
One may perceive an awareness that each had for the other’s work in the
late 1920s and in the 1930s. As noted, both Altman and Chagall took up Old
Testament themes—Altman in the 1930s, Chagall in the later decades. Both
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illustrated handsome editions of Gogol—Chagall in 1929 and Altman in 1935-
1937.4 0 In these works, both artists underlined the writer’s metaphysical whimsy
and thus converged stylistically for the final time. The gap between them was
widened in the 1920s and 1930s by their differing cultural positions. Altman, even
while in France, saw himself as a Communist and a Soviet cultural emissary. After
his return to Russia in 1935, he did not have the choice to reject this position.
Chagall had the freedom to leave such beliefs behind, if he had ever entertained
them seriously in the first place. In Chagall’s work, the color red often represents
violence and danger, reflecting his rejection of the Soviet regime. Chagall’s and
Altman’s portraits of Lenin mark their divergence. In 1937 Chagall depicted Lenin
as a clown standing on his hands. Meanwhile, Altman, who had been Lenin’s first
official portraitist in 1920, was condemned for the next decades to the task of
overseeing reprints of his essay that described his experience with the leader in his
Kremlin office as well as of his drawings, busts, and reliefs of Lenin.4 1
4 0 See reproductions in Galerie Valentien. Marc Chagall, Originalgraphik, 100 Einzelbl&tter sowie
die Folgen zu Gogol, die toten Seelen: La Fontaine, Fabeln und zur Bibel. Exhibition Catalogue.
(Ausstellung: Stuttgart, 1958). N. N. Gogol’. Peterburgslcie povesti. Illust. Natan Al’tman. (L:
Academia, 1937).
4 1 See reproduction in Igor’ Golomstock. Totalitarian Art: In the Soviet Union, The Third Reich,
Fascist Italy and the People's Republic of China. Trans. Robert Chandler. (London: Codings
Harvill, 1990), 2-3. Golomstock does not provide title of painting.
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220
Conclusion
This dissertation has made claims pertaining to Natan Altman’s historical
context and to his Jewish artwork. To begin with the former, the situation in Russia
in the 1910s is characterized as a unique and formative moment in history when
Jewish identity in art was a relatively open category. This short-lived but vital
Russian critical tradition which attempted to define “Jewish art,” has been
neglected by investigators of early Jewish art historiography, since they rely mostly
on German and other Western sources.1 Yet, the Russian voice in this larger
discourse is important. One wonders to what extent did the Russian critical
tradition, with its pioneering works like Nikolai Lavrskii’s 1915 tract, interact with
later Western Jewish art historiography.
Did the Russian debate over who was the better Jewish artist—Altman or
Chagall—play a formative role in creating modem Western discourse on Jewish
art? Did notions like Jewish-Eastem link also figure into this formation? When
American critics, partly in response to the Jewish presence in movements like
Abstract Expressionism, asked, “Is there a Jewish art?” and “Does it have a natural
affinity to abstraction?” to what extent were they elaborating on the Russian
’ See for example: Catherine M. Soussloff. “Introducing Jewish Identity to Art History”; and
Margaret Olin. “From Bezal’el to Max Liebrmann: Jewish Art in Nineteenth Century Art Historical
Texts.” Both in Soussloff, ed. Jewish Identity in Modern Art History. (Berkeley: U of California
P, 2000), 1-19, 20-39.
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engagements of similar issues indicated here?2 When briefly looking over other
Western treatments of such problems, one notices a similarity between their
theoretical frames and those employed by Russian pre-revolutionary critics.3
Assessing the level of impact of the Russian sources on the Western Jewish art-
historiographic literature would increase our understanding of Russia’s contribution
to the intellectual enterprise of theorizing a Jewish art.
As with regard to Altman and his practical contribution to Jewish art, this
study argues the following: that Altman was attuned to the prevailing cultural
constructs of Jewish visuality and attempted to actualize them in his work. He used
his familiarity with Jewish life strategically, as a kind of currency with which to
draw attention to himself in the larger art world, arguing for the immediate
relevance of the Jewish aesthetic in contemporary visual discourse. His formula for
a Jewish style combined a somber tone with invocations of Jewish folk traditions
and the East.
It would be constructive to test these conclusions against other evidence.
Altman’s theatrical work of the 1920s deserves consideration in this respect. After
the Revolution, the theater formed the main venue through which Altman’s concern
with Jewish culture manifested. He was employed by the Habima Theater in 1922
and by the State Goverment Theater (GOSET) from 1921 to 1927. His most
2 Joseph Gutmann. “Is There a Jewish Art?” In Moore, Clare, ed. The Visual Dimension: Aspects
o f Jewish Art. San Fancisco: Westview Press, 1993: 1-21.
3 See, for example Karl Schwarz. “Introduction.” In his Jewish Artists of the 19th and 2(fh
Centuries. (New York: The Philosophical Library, 1949), 1-10, 161-212.
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222
significant work of the period were his designs for the plays “Hadybbuk” (GO SET,
1921), “Uriel Acosta” (Habima, 1922), and the silent film “Jewish Luck” starring
Solomon Mikhoels, directed by Aleskander Granovskii, and scripted by Isaac
Babel.4
To what extent did Altman’s work for GOSET continue to develop a
specifically Jewish style in the way of Jewish Prints? Do his designs for
“Hadybbuk” use a pre-existing lexicon, such as Magen Davids, banners that
proclaimed in Hebrew ‘ Shma Israel' (Hear, Oh, Israel), candelabras, and a wooden
bima—as elements in his prescription for a modem Jewish art?5 Did his theatrical
style exert influence on other GOSET artists (and vice versa), including Robert
Falk, Isaac Ryback, and Isaac Rabinovich? Did it also inspire Boris Anisfeld in his
work for American Jewish theater and Moisei Levin (1896-1946)—for Soviet
theater, as has been suggested?6
It would also be useful to consider Altman’s work in the 1920s for the
Jewish theater in its political context. If the pre-Revolutionary period allowed for
ideological ambivalence, the Soviet climate demanded clear statements of
4 Between 1924 and 1928, Altman produced only a handful of unremarkable stage decorations for
GOSET. In 1925, Altman designed Sholom Aleichem’s “The Doctor” and Abraham Goldfaden’s
“The Tenth Commandment,” and in 1926—Jules Romaine’s “The Marriage of Trubadek” and
“Comrade Shindel’.” He also worked for GOSET sporadically between 1937 and 1940. During
World War II, he was evacuated with the theater to Perm’ and Kiev. After WWII, he receded into
an uneventful career with the non-Jewish state theaters based in Leningrad.
5 Bima is a raised platform in a synagogue used for the reading of the Torah. The Theater Habima
was named after this.
6 Levin's indebtedness to Altman has been noted by L. Oves. “Vozvrashchenie iz proshlogo o
tvorchestve M. Levina.” Teatr 3 (March 1985), 143-146.
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223
uncompromising commitment. How did Altman and GOSET negotiate the Soviet
mandate for universality with the nationalist call for Jewish distinctness? In setting
out GOSET’s initial program in 1918, GOSET’s director Aleksander Granovskii
did not view these as contradictory. He wrote:
We maintain that the Jewish theater should be a universal theater,
the temple of bright beauty, of joyous creation, the temple in which
prayer is said in the Jewish language . . . that the challenges of our
theater are those of World Theater; it is only the language that
distinguishes [our theater] from others.7
In the 1920, however, was it really possible to sustain the implied balance in this
duality of universality and distinction?
Besides this theatrical work, it would be fruitful to consider a set of works
by Altman that invoke African and American Indian traditions. Can we argue that
Altman conceptualized Jewishness in relation to other Diasporic cultures?8 The
resemblance of his 1915 “Head” to African masks has already been noted. But
what of his illustration of Vladimir Markov’s 1919 study of African art and that for
7 Cited in Abram Efros. “Nachalo.” In K. L. Rudnitskii, ed. Mikhoels: Stat'i, besedy, rechi,
vospominaniia o Mikhoelse. (M: Iskusstvo, 1965), 382.
8 Recent treatments of the larger issue include Nicholas Mizroeff, ed. Diaspora and Visual Culture:
Representing Africans and Jews. (New York. London: Routledge, 2000); especially the
“Introduction” by Mizroeff, “The Multiple View Point: Diasporic Visual Cultures”, 1-18; and
Dale E. Peterson. Up from Bondage: The Literatures o f Russian and African American Soul.
(Durham, N. C.: Duke UP, 2000).
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224
a 1962 children’s book on Native American Indians?9 Then there are his 1929
painting “Self-Portrait,” in which his skin appears extremely dark, his portraits of
his Irina Schegoleva as an American Indian (1950-1960) and other life details, such
as the naming of his cat “Othello.” Did such preoccupations with marginalized
culture in the Soviet context represent a psychological transference of his earlier
interest in Jewish subjects in art? It seems Altman’s oeuvre offers fecund ground
for considering such questions.
9 Vladimir Markov. Iskusstvo Negrov. (P: Izdanie otdela izobrazitel’nykh iskusstv Narodnogo
Komissariata po Prosveshcheniiu, 1919). E. Zibert. Legendy i skazki indeitsev latinskoi ameriki.
Illustr. N. Altman. (M, L: Gos. Izd-vo khudozhestevennoi literatury, 1962).
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225
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