2013 1 Web PDF

Art and Literature
Scientific and Analytical

Journal
Texts
1.2013
Bruxelles, 2013
EDITORIAL BOARD
Chief editor Burganova M. A.
Bowlt John Ellis (USA) — Doctor of Sci- Pavlova I. B. — Candidate of Sciences, Se-
ence, Professor of Slavic Languages and Lit- nior Researcher of Institute of World Litera-
eratures in University of Southern California; ture of the Russian Academy of Sciences;
Burganov A. N. (Russia) — Doctor of Sci- Pletneva A. A. (Russia) — Candidate of
ence, Professor of Stroganoff Moscow State Sciences, research associate of Russian Lan-
Art Industrial University, Full-member of guage Institute of the Russian Academy of
Russia Academy of Arts, National Artist of Sciences;
Russia, member of the Dissertation Council Pociechina Helena (Poland) — Doctor of
of Stroganoff Moscow State Art Industrial Science; Profesor of the University of Warm-
University; ia and Mazury in Olsztyn;
Burganova M. A. (Russia) — Doctor of Sci- Pruzhinin B. I. (Russia) — Doctor of Sci-
ence, Professor of Stroganoff Moscow State ences, Professor, editor-in-chief of Problems
Art Industrial University, Full-member of of Philosophy;
Russia Academy of Arts, Honored Artist of Ryzhinsky A. S. (Russia) — Candidate of
Russia, member of the Dissertation Council Sciences, Senior lecturer of Gnesins Russian
of Stroganoff Moscow State Art Industrial Academy of Music;
University, editor-in-chief; Sahno I. M. (Russia) — Doctor of Sciences,
Dmitrieva A. A. (Russia) — Doctor of Sci- Professor of Peoples’ Friendship University
ence, Professor, Head of the Department of of Russia;
Art History in St. Petersburg State Univer- Smolenkov A. P. (Russia) — Candidate of
sity; Sciences, Professor of Stroganoff Moscow
Glanc Tomáš (Germany) — Doctor of Sci- State Art Industrial University , Correspond-
ence of The Research Institute of East Euro- ing-member of Russia Academy of Arts,
pean University of Bremen (Germany), and Honored Artist of Russia;
assistant professor of The Charles University Shchedrina T. G. (Russia) — Doctor of
(Czech Republic); Sciences, Professor of Moscow Pedagogical
Kravetsky A. G. (Russia) — Candidate of State University;
Sciences, research associate of Russian Lan- Tanehisa Otabe (Japan) — Doctor of Sience,
guage Institute of the Russian Academy of Professor, Head of Department of Aesthetics
Sciences; at Tokyo;
Kojo Sano (Japan) — Professor of Toho Tsivian Yuri (USA) — Doctor of Science,
Gakuyen University of Music; Professor, University of Chicago, Depart-
Lebedeva G. S. (Russia) — Candidate of ments: Cinema and Media Studies, Art His-
Sciences, Senior Research of Institute for the tory, Slavic Languages and Literatures.
Theory of Architecture and Urban Planning
of the Russian Academy of Architecture and
Construction Sciences;
Misler Nicoletta (Italy) — Professor of
Modern East European Art at the Instituto
Universitario Orientale, Naples; Editor Smolenkova J. (Russia)
ISSN 2294-8902 © TEXTS, 2013

TABLE OF CONTENTS
Maria Burganova
Works of Ancient Art From the collection
of The Moscow State Museum Burganov’s House 4
Nadezhda Japova
Le théâtre du silence de Maurice Maeterlinck 36
Evgeniy Zherdev
Value of Metaphor in Industrial Design 55
Alexander Lavrentiev
Where Rodchenko Meets Calder and Calder Meets Rodchenko 61
Irina Pavlova
The Images of Natural Elements
in M. E. Saltykov-Shchedrin’s Works 68
Roman Perelshtein
New Testament Motifs in Russian cinematic dramaturgy
of the 1960—1980s 75
Liudmila Freivert
Significance of V. I. Tasalov’s Perspective for Comprehension
of Typological Basis of Art Form in Industrial Design 80
Svetlana Khvatova
Orthodox singing tradition of the Early XXI century 86
Austin Washington
Oxford: Motivation, Intelligence and Passion 91
Frans C. Lemaire
La Mort Dans la Musique de Dimitri Chostakovitch 103
M. Burganova Works of Ancient Art
Maria Burganova
Full Member of the Russian Academy of Arts,
Doctor of Arts,
Professor of the Stroganov Moscow State
Art Industrial Academy,
Moscow
WORKS OF ANCIENT ART FROM THE

COLLECTION OF THE MOSCOW STATE
MUSEUM BURGANOV’S HOUSE 1
Keywords: Antic, Moscow, Berlin, collection, Museum Burganov’s

House, antic sculpture, antic ceramic.
Summary: The article is about the history of one collection of an-
cient art. It can be traced from the 19th century to the present days.
History of the collection begins in Berlin, then it has gone through the
historical events in different countries, has been in the collections of
prominent collectors and now has found its home in the walls of the
Moscow State Museum Burganov’s House. The most important part is
the illustrated catalog containing the full output objects.
Works of ancient art are mostly nomads. Century after century they
roam about different countries and continents. Not many of them have
left their initial place, but the most part of these monuments can be
united into the World collection of ancient art, which travelled around
the world and changed its owners. First of all it is related to ceram-
ics because these pieces of art have always started on a journey right
from the ceramics studio. It is quite hard to retrace all the lines of these
movements today. A relatively systematic fixation of the biography of
1
The publication was implemented by the support of The Ministry of Culture of
Russian Federation
—4— © М. Burganova, 2013

these monuments was started only in the 19th century. It was a peri-
od when large museum collections were being formed. It was the time
when the words “Antiquity as the cradle of the European civilization”
started to be understood literally. Every country strived for keeping this
cradle in its house as a memory of its childhood which was conjugat-
ed with the pan-European myth, as a symbol of its identity, as a stan-
dart for its cultural pattern.
Today, at the beginning of the 21th century the process of ancient art migra-
tion still goes on. New collections are being formed while the old monument
codes which have already become historical are being transformed.
Museums of Germany, Great Britain, France, the USA, Belgium,
Hungary, Austria, Italy, Poland, Russian Federation, Denmark and oth-
ers are proud of their collections of ancient art. They are all very differ-
ent. Some of them are enormous; the others are small but not less im-
portant. There is such a small section of ancient history at the Moscow
State Museum Burganov’s House. This collection unites sculptures and
ceramics of a broad-time range, from the 15th century BC till 2nd cen-
tury AD. These works of art were originally part of different collections.
An outstanding intellectual, general and baron Franz von Koller who
accompanied Napoleon to Elba as a representative of the Austria gov-
ernment, owned an oenochoe from Corinth of Dodwell, four rhytons
with heads of animals and a flask with a relief décor from South Italy.
An olpe which comes from the VII—VI centuries BC and a big hy-
dria with an image of a wedding procession come from the collections
of German archaeologists W. Dorow, one of the founders of Bonn’s
Museum of antiquity, E. Gerhard, founder of the Berlin Archaeological
Society.
Marble steles with images of a “feast after death” and head of a girl
were part of the ancient art collection which belonged to an outstanding
politician P.A. Saburov, head of the Russian Embassy in Athens.
Besides that, a number of collections (of L. Ross, Ingen) were in-
cluded step by step in Berlin ancient collection in the XIXth century.
Its considerable collection has been formed during 200 years. New ac-
quisitions enlarged it in such a way that it was decided to construct a
new building to expose and keep it.
—5—
The Second World War was a tragic time for the Berlin ancient col-
lection. Destinies of works of art which suffered from military opera-
tions were similar to people’s fortunes and could be determined in two
words: life and death. One part of the ancient collection which was
kept in a bunker near the Berlin Zoo was blown up before the attack
of the Soviet Army. The other part of the collection was obviously dis-
tributed among other undergrounds and depositories and some parts of
it hadn’t been found yet because of the lack of some topographic and
registration documents.
However, some monuments have a happy fortune. They survived.
They avoided fire; they went through years of ordeals and oblivion.
Works of ancient art from the collection of Burganov’s house belong
to that category. They were brought to Russia in 1946. They are sup-
posed to come from the Berlin State museums what can be confirmed
by their inventory numbers. Some of them were also recognized by
pre-war publications.
The process of the monuments’ transportation was implemented in
accordance with the resolution of the State Defence Committee with
direct participation of employees of the USSR Committee for cultur-
al and elucidative institutions, the Main archival department and the
Academy of Sciences.
There were a lot of outstanding scientists and cultural work-
ers among the representatives of these organizations: I. Grabar (The
USSR Academy of Sciences), Prof. Blavatsky (The Head of the an-
tique sector of the USSR Institute of History), A. Chegodaev (The
State Museum of Fine Arts), B. Klimov and V. Kopzov (The State Tre-
tiakov Gallery), Prof. B. Lasarev (The Moscow State University), M.
Rudomino (The Library of Foreign Literature), N. Pozdniakov (The
polytechnic Museum). The experts worked in Berlin since 06/05/1945,
preprocessing and keeping records about the suffered works of art. From
March of 1946, cultural valuables have been sent to the USSR in eche-
lons and have been distributed among the organizations that had possi-
bilities to restore and keep them. The Moscow Academy of Industry and
Art was one of them and the commission with its Head Prof. Blavatsky
transferred pieces of antique collection to the Institute. It’s necessary to
—6—
mention that these works of art came to Soviet Union in different con-
ditions. It’s a well-known fact that the main part of the antique collec-
tion was in ruins when it came to the USSR. L.I. Akimova, a research
worker of the antique art and archaeology sector of the State museum
of Fine Arts remembered her first “meeting” with these objects: “We got
18 damp boxes where we found packages with some objects wrapped
in German posters and newspapers. Bronze, ceramics, ivory – it was all
in the mud, I think, it had being racked up with spades. It was all dis-
figured, broken, sprinkled with pitch – tens of thousands of fragments.
The work on the restoration of at least some part of these antique ce-
ramics is still running in the State Museum of Fine Arts today.
The main part of the antique collection has been transferred by
the Committee of cultural and educational organizations to the State
Museum of History. The enumeration and the general systematization
of the new acquisitions were finished by scientists in 1953. There was
formed a list of objects that “the State Museum of History was not in-
terested in and that was liable to pass to other organizations and in-
stitutions”1. The Moscow Higher School of Art and Industry (former
Stroganov) was among the organizations that addressed its requests to
the State Historical Museum in order to get the objects from this list.
The Higher School has got some objects from the Berlin antique
collection in 1946 and it was researched by a commission headed by
Prof. Blavastky. The inquiry to the Museum Department of the RSFSR
Ministry of culture said: “The Moscow Higher School of Art and
Industry requests to allocate a possible quantity of bronze and met-
al works of art that joint the collection of the State historical Museum
in 1945–1946”2.
This request was pleased and these monuments found a new place.
A former student, later a lecturer of the Moscow Higher School of Art
and Industry A. Holmansky recalled: “It wasn’t a big building. The rec-
reation room of the first floor was blocked and a museum was located
there. There were glass cases along the walls, and they contained won-
derful antique ceramics brought from Germany in a certain period. We
had our studies at a narrow table that occupied all the middle part of a
very long room. <…> The only person who worked unceasingly was
—7—
a restorer Karimov. He has glued the pieces of marvelous antique vas-

es together during many years…”3 Antique works of art from trophy
echelons stayed unknown but served as visual aid, they went through
innumerable touches. These works of art were issued to the students
during their studies. They learned how to measure, to copy, to discern
different styles.
New changes in monument’s fortunes took place in 2001, when
A.N. Burganov, the head of the Monumental-Decorative Department
of the Moscow State Art and Industry University tried to carry out a
research and to restore a small part of this collection. 45 works of art
were passed to the Burganov-Centre with the purpose of its further re-
search and restoration. So, the leading specialists of the State Museum
of Fine Arts O.V. Tugusheva and L.I. Akimova were invited. After the
researches it became obvious that these works come from the berlin
ancient collection. So, the mask of anonymity and the scales of obliv-
ion were taken off. The researchers revealed that this collection was
of a state importance and it was passed immediately to the main fond
of the Moscow State Museum Burganov’s House. Its administration
has always known that the best protection of the rarities is their public
presentation, researches, publication, so the museum took measures in
all of these directions. In 2002 the collection was included in the List
of the Museum Fond of Russian Federation, so that scientific articles
about it were published in 2005, 2007, 2008. The exhibition “Antiquity.
1945” was opened in 2011.
Now this collection unites sculpture represented by Greek and
Roman original works of art and ceramics from Korinth, Attik, Beotia,
Etruria, and South Italy. Almost all of these monuments are not only
historically valuable but also have outstanding artistic characteristics,
being unique works of art of a high class.
—8—
ENDNOTES:
1
Especially after the collection was bought in 1884 by P.A. Saburov who divided his
collection between the Berlin ancient collection and the Imperator’s Hermitage.
2
The decree of the GKO № 9256 from the 26.06.1945. Top secret: The Committee
of Art by the UUSR SNK (Chrapchenko) should bring to the Commettee’s bases
in Moscow the most valuable works of art: paintings, sculptures, ornamental and
decorative art and also antique museum valuables. (J. Stalin).
3
Statements from 29.04.1946 (about the damaged objects by the opening of the box-
es)., from 15.06.1946 (about the sorting of the works by categories). The Moscow
State Academy of Art and Industry.
BIBLIOGRAPHIE:
1. Lermann, Wilhelm. 1907, Altgriechische plastik, München.
2. Benndorf, O. 1899, Österreichische Jahreshefte.
3. Bernoulli, J.J. 1901 „Griechische Ikonographie mit Aussschluss Alexanders und
Diadochen“, teil I-II. München.
4. Blümel, C. 1927, Griechische Bildhaurarbeit. Berlin, Leipzig.
5. Blümel, C. 1928, Katalog der Griechischen Skulpturen von V-ten und IV-ten
Jahrhunderts von Chr. Staatliche Museen zu Berlin. Katalog der Sammlung antik-
er Skulpturen, Berlin.
6. Blümel, C. 1940, Katalog der Sammlung antiker Skulpturen. Museen zu Berlin.
Griechische Skulpturen des sechsten und fünften Jahrhunderts von Chr. Erster Teil.
Berlin,Leipzig.
7. Blümel, C. 1933, „Römische Bildnisse. Stattliche Museen zu Berlin“, Katalog der
Sammlung antiker Skulpturen. Bd. I, Berlin,.
8. Collignon, M. 1927 „Les statues funérarires dans l’art grec“, Paris.
9. Conzes, A. 1891 „Beschreibung der antiken Skulpturen mit Ausschluss der perga-
menischen Fundstücke. Königliche Museen zu Berlin“, Berlin.
10.Conzes, A. 1878 „Theseus und Minotauros. Berliner Winckelmannsprogramm“,
Berlin.
11. Köster, August. 1926, „Die Griechischen Terrakotten“, Berlin.
12.Furtwängler, A. 1885 „Beschribung der Vasensammlung im Antiquarium“, Berlin.
13.Furtwaengler, A. 1883-1887, „La Collection Sabouroff. Monuments de l’art grec“,
Berlin,.
14.Furtwängler, A. 1911, „Denkmäller Griechischer und Römischer Skulptur“
München.
15.Gerhard, E. 1840, „Griechische und etruskische Trinkschalen des Königlichen
Museums zu Berlin“, Berlin.
16.Helbig, 1886, „Jahrbuch des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts“.
17.Schröder von, Bruno, 1922, „Die griechische Skulptur“, Berlin, Leipzig.
18.Klumbach, 1937, „Tarentiner Grabkunst“.
19.Kuhn, A. 1909, „Allgemeine Kunstgeschichte. Geschichte der Plastik“ vol.1-2.
20.Langlotz, E. 1932, „Griechische Vasen in Würzburg“.
21.Levezov. „Berliner Kunstblatt“, 1828.
22.Neugebauer, K.A. 1932, „Führer durch des Antiquarium“, Berlin.
—9—
23.Reinach, S. 1910, „Répertoire de la statuaire grecque et romaine“, vol. 1-10, Paris.

24.Reinach, S. 1900, „Répertoire des vases peints grecs et étrusques“, vol. 1-2, Paris.
25.Sauerlandt, M. 1907, „Griechische Bildwerke“, Düsseldorf, Leipzig.
26.Schrader, H. 1933, „Archaische Griechische Plastik“, Breslau.
27.Stephani, L. 1842, “Theseus und Minotauros”, Leipzig.
28.Svoronos, J.N. 1908, „Athener Nationalmuseum. Katalog“, Athen.
29.Winter, F. 1908, „Die Skulpturen mit Ausnahme der Altarreliefs“, Königliche
Museen zu Berlin, Berlin.
30.Burganova, M. 2011. “Ancient Art”, Burganov’s House Space of Culture, n.4, pp.
238-271.
— 10 —
— 11 —
²²
1. Figure of a naked goddess with her

hands pressed to the body
Inv. КП 59A.
Provenance: According to legend,
it was found in one of the tombs in
Nicosia – Agia Paraskevi (Karageorghis
2000: 25, Nr. 15).
Material: clay, white and red pigment.
Size: H. 22 cm.
A ribu on: Late Cypriot period II
(about 1450-1200 BC).

2. Upper body of the Kouros

Inv. КП 64А.
Material: Limestone: reddish-brown
color.
Size: 20.5 × 13.0 × 7.5 cm.
A ribu on: Samos, about 540 BC.
This figure is dis nguished from the
majority of the Greek Kouros (usually
naked) by its a re. A young man
dressed in a tunic and cloak.

— 12 —

3. Head of the Kore

Inv. КП 71А.
Material: white marble.
Size: 11 × 9 × 8 cm
A ribu on: Samos, about 550-540 BC
Feature of this sculpture is the Kore’s headdress.
— 13 —

— 14 —
ɪɭɫɬɢɪɨ-
4. Head of the goddess with inlaid eyes
Inv. КП 69A.
Material: Coarse marble: grayish-white
color
Size: 19.5 × 21.0 × 25.5 cm ɬɨɛɟɥɵɣ
A ribu on: Greece, around the middle of
ɫɦ
the IV century B.C.
Bibliography: Beschreibung 1891:243,
ɨɫɟɪɟɞɢNr.
632.
KUHLEXQJ
5. Statuette of Apollo
Inv. КП 63А.
Material: bronze. ɞɨɪɚɛɨɬ
Technique: one-piece cas ng, with
comple on tool. ɫɦ
Size: 13.7 × 4.8 × 3.0 cm
ɢɤɚ,,ɜ
A ribu on: the prototype of this
Ʉɚɫɫɟɥɶ
sculpture is the statue of Apollo Kassel,
ɞɨɧɷ
around the middle of V century BC.

— 15 —

— 16 —
6. Relief with a scene of “otherworldly

feast”
Inv. КП 74A.
Provenance: collec on of P.A. Saburov,
Berlin State Museums, MSAIU named
a er S.G. Stroganov, MCMA «Burganov-
Center».
Material: pentelic marble.
Size: 18 × 32 × 4.5 cm
A ribu on: A ca, the end of the V
century BC – beginning of the IV century
BC
Bibliography: Beschreibung 1891: 312-
313, Nr. 816 (IV century BC); Kurze
Beschreibung 1920: 365, Nr. 816;
Furtwängler 1883-87, I: Pl. 33,1; Svoronos
1908: 534, 552; Reinach 1912, II: 43,3;
Kekule von Stradonitz 1922: 191-192.
Blümel, 1928: K97.
8. A fragment of the stele with image of

the female head
Inv. КП 73A
Provenance: collec on of P.A. Saburov,
7. Relief with a scene of Berlin State Museums, MSAIU named
“otherworldly feast”
a er S.G. Stroganov, MCMA «Burganov-
Inv. КП 96А.
Center».
Provenance: Berlin State Museums,
Material: Parian marble – coarse white.
MSAIU named a er S.G. Stroganov,
Size: H. 18 cm.
MCMA «Burganov-Center».
A ribu on: A ca, second quarter of the
IV century BC
Size: 19.7 × 26.5 × 4.5 cm
Bibliography: Beschreibung 1891: 281,
A ribu on: A ca, about middle of IV
Nr. 748; Conze III: 269, Nr. 1210, Taf. 267;
century BC
Blümel 1928: 42, K 51, Taf. 55b.
Bibliography: Beschreibung 1891: 314-
315, Nr. 820.
— 17 —

9. Female head 10. Standing woman in hat

Inv. КП 92А. Inv. КП 65А.
Provenance: Berlin State Museums, Provenance: Berlin State Museums,
MSAIU named a er S.G. Stroganov, MSAIU named a er S.G. Stroganov,
MCMA «Burganov-Center». MCMA «Burganov-Center».
Material: limestone, Pietra di Mar na. Material: clay
Size: H. 16.5 cm The figure is hollow, thin-walled, made in
A ribu on: Tarentum, a er middle of the form of two-way. Technological hole
IV century BC on the back is missing.
Bibliography: Beschreibung 1891: 196, Size: 14.5 × 6.0 × 3.8 cm
Nr. 501; Collignon, Statues funéraires: A ribu on: Tanagra, second quarter of
296; Klumbach, Taren ner Grabkunst: the XV century BC
30/64, Nr. 157, Beilage C; Blümel
1938: 39, K 259, Taf. 80.
— 18 —
13.ɀɟɧɳɢɧɚɜɯɢɬɨɧɟɢɩɥɚɳɟ
Head of Aphrodite
Inv.ɫɩɨɤɪɵɬɨɣɝɨɥɨɜɨɣ
КП 62A.
ɂɧɜɄɉ$
MCMAɉɪɨɢɫɯɨɠɞɟɧɢɟ
«Burganov-Center».ɫɨɛɪɚɧɢɹ Ƚɨ
ɫɭɞɚɪɫɬɜɟɧɧɵɯ
Material: white marble.ɦɭɡɟɟɜ Ȼɟɪɥɢ
ɧɚɆȽɏɉɍɢɦɋȽɋɬɪɨɝɚɧɨɜɚ
Size 13.5 × 9.0 × 12.0 cm
ɆɄɋɂ©Ȼɭɪɝɚɧɨɜɐɟɧɬɪª
A ribu on: A ca, middle IV century BC
Ɇɚɬɟɪɢɚɥɝɥɢɧɚ
Ɍɟɯɧɢɤɚ ɮɢɝɭɪɚ ɢɡɝɨɬɨɜɥɟɧɚ ɜ
ɞɜɭɫɬɨɪɨɧɧɟɣɮɨɪɦɟɫɧɢɡɭɨɬɤɪɵ
ɬɚɝɨɥɨɜɚɢɫɩɨɥɧɟɧɚɨɬɞɟɥɶɧɨ
Ɋɚɡɦɟɪɵɜɫɦɲɨɫɧɨɜɚɧɢɹ
ɫɦɬɨɫɧɨɜɚɧɢɹɫɦ
ȺɬɪɢɛɭɰɢɹɌɚɧɚɝɪɚɜɬɨɪɚɹɱɟɬ
ɜɟɪɬɶ,9ɜɞɨɧɷ
11. Standing woman in dressing
Inv. КП 66A.
&ɬɨɹɳɚɹɠɟɧɳɢɧɚɜɩɨɜɹɡɤɟ
ɂɧɜɄɉ$
ɉɪɨɢɫɯɨɠɞɟɧɢɟ
MCMA «Burganov-Center». ɫɨɛɪɚɧɢɹ Ƚɨ
Material: clay ɦɭɡɟɟɜ Ȼɟɪɥɢ
Size: 14.5 × 4.8 × 3.8 cm
A ribu on: Tanagra, second quarter of
Ɇɚɬɟɪɢɚɥɝɥɢɧɚ
the XV century BC
Ɋɚɡɦɟɪɵɜɫɦɲɨɫɧɨɜɚɧɢɹ
ɫɦɬɫɦ
12. Woman in a tunic and cloak, and
ȺɬɪɢɛɭɰɢɹɌɚɧɚɝɪɚɜɬɨɪɚɹɱɟɬ
covered head
ɜɟɪɬɶ,9ɜɞɨɧɷ
Inv. КП 85A.
ȽɨɥɨɜɚȺɮɪɨɞɢɬɵ"
ɂɧɜɄɉ$
Material: clay
ɉɪɨɢɫɯɨɠɞɟɧɢɟ ɫɨɛɪɚɧɢɹ Ƚɨ
Technique: Sculptureɦɭɡɟɟɜ
ɫɭɞɚɪɫɬɜɟɧɧɵɯ was created in
Ȼɟɪɥɢ
duplex form, open at the bo om.
Size: 14.5 × 4.8 × 3.8 cm
Ɇɚɬɟɪɢɚɥɛɟɥɵɣɦɪɚɦɨɪ
A ribu on: Tanagra, вторая четверть IV
Ɋɚɡɦɟɪɵ
в. до н.э. ɜ ɫɦ ɲ ɫɦ
ɬɫɦ
ȺɬɪɢɛɭɰɢɹȺɬɬɢɤɚɨɤɨɥɨɫɟɪɟɞɢ
ɧɵ,9ɜɞɨɧɷ
— 19 —

Ɏɪɚɝɦɟɧɬɢɪɨɜɚɧɧɚɹɮɢɝɭɪɚ
14. Fragmented figure of a wounded
ɪɚɧɟɧɨɣɚɦɚɡɨɧɤɢ
Amazon
Inv. КП 94А.
ɂɧɜɄɉȺ
Provenance: sculpture was found in
ɉɪɨɢɫɯɨɠɞɟɧɢɟɧɚɣɞɟɧɚɜɉɟɪ
ɝɚɦɟ
Pergamum;ɫɨɛɪɚɧɢɹ Ƚɨɫɭɞɚɪɫɬɜɟɧ
Berlin State Museums, MSAIU
ɧɵɯ
namedɦɭɡɟɟɜ
a er S.G.Ȼɟɪɥɢɧɚ ɆȽɏɉɍ
Stroganov, MCMA
ɢɦ ɋȽ ɋɬɪɨɝɚɧɨɜɚ ɆɄɋɂ
«Burganov-Center».
©Ȼɭɪɝɚɧɨɜɐɟɧɬɪª
Size: 14.1 × 12.3 × 12.3 cm
Ɋɚɡɦɟɪɵɜɫɦɞɥɧɢɠɧɟɣ
A ribu on: Pergamum, middle II century
ɱɚɫɬɢɫɦɬɨɥɳɢɧɚɧɢɠɧɟɣ
BC
ɱɚɫɬɢɫɦ
Bibliography: Reinach IV, 1910: 193.5;
Ⱥɬɪɢɛɭɰɢɹɉɟɪɝɚɦɨɤɨɥɨɫɟɪɟ
Winter 1908: 208-209, Nr. 232.
ɞɢɧɵ,,ɜɞɨɧɷ
Ȼɢɛɥɢɨɝɪɚɮɢɹ 5HLQDFK ,9
:LQWHU
1U
— 20 —

15. Fragmented figure of flying Nike 17. Head of a boy wearing a laurel
Inv. КП 72А. wreath
Provenance: sculpture of Pergamum; Inv. КП 81A.
Berlin State Museums, MSAIU Provenance: Berlin State Museums,
named a er S.G. Stroganov, MCMA MSAIU named a er S.G. Stroganov,
«Burganov-Center». MCMA «Burganov-Center».
Material: white marble Material: clay, red paint
Size: H. 20 cm Size: 12.7 × 9.8 cm
A ribu on: Pergamum, middle II Technique: Sculpture was created in
century BC duplex form, hollow, open at the bo om.
Bibliography: Reinach 1910, IV: 238.8; Intensive revision cu er a er firing.
Winter 1908: 206-207, Nr. 229. A ribu on: Cyprus, first quarter of the I
century A.D.
16. Votive Plaque with Eye
Inv. КП 78A.
Provenance: Plaque was found on
the north slope of the Acropolis in
Athens; Berlin State Museums, MSAIU
named a er S.G. Stroganov, MCMA
Material: pentelic marble
Size: 13.8 × 15.7 cm
A ribu on: A ca, beginning II century
Bibliography: Ross 1843: 331; Kekule
1872: 202, 203; CIA III: 147 f., 237,
238. – 258
— 21 —

ɋɬɚɬɭɷɬɤɚɉɚɧɚɫɜɢɧɨɝɪɚ-
18. Statuette of Pan with syrinx and
ɞɨɦɢɫɢɪɢɧɝɨɣ
grapes
Inv. КП 83А.
ɂɧɜɄɉȺ
ɫɭɞɚɪɫɬɜɟɧɧɵɯ ɦɭɡɟɟɜ Ȼɟɪɥɢ
Material: bronze.
Technique: one-piece cas ng, with
Ɇɚɬɟɪɢɚɥɛɪɨɧɡɚ
comple on tool.
Ɍɟɯɧɢɤɚɰɟɥɶɧɨɟɥɢɬɶɟɫɩɨɫɥɟɞɭ
ɸɳɟɣɞɨɪɚɛɨɬɤɨɣɮɨɪɦɵɪɟɡɰɨɦ
Size: 12 × 5.5 cm
Ɋɚɡɦɟɪɵɜɫɦɬɫɦ
A ribu on: Trebizond (Asia Minor). II
Ⱥɬɪɢɛɭɰɢɹ
century BC Ɍɪɚɩɟɡɭɧɞ Ɇɚɥɚɹ
Ⱥɡɢɹ,,ɜɞɨɧɷ
19. Head of Silenus

Ƚɨɥɨɜɚɋɢɥɟɧɚ
Inv. КП 91А.
ɂɧɜɄɉȺ
MSAIU named a er S.G. ɫɨɛɪɚɧɢɹ
Stroganov, Ƚɨ
MCMA ɦɭɡɟɟɜ Ȼɟɪɥɢ
Size: H. 34.5 cm
A ribu on: Rome, 130-е гг.
Ɋɚɡɦɟɪɵɜɫɦ
ȺɬɪɢɛɭɰɢɹɊɢɦɟɝɝ
— 22 —
— 23 —

22. Fragment of a relief depicting a

Ɏɪɚɝɦɟɧɬɪɟɥɶɟɮɚɫɢɡɨɛɪɚ- 23.ȽɨɥɨɜɤɚȺɧɬɨɧɢɧɚɉɢɹ
Head of Antoninus Pius
portrait of bearded Man
ɠɟɧɢɟɦɩɨɪɬɪɟɬɧɨɣɝɨɥɨɜɵɛɨ- Inv. КП 82А.
Inv. КП 90A
ɪɨɞɚɬɨɝɨɦɭɠɱɢɧɵ ɂɧɜɄɉȺ
Provenance: Berlin State Museums, ɉɪɨɢɫɯɨɠɞɟɧɢɟ
MSAIU ɫɨɛɪɚɧɢɹ Ƚɨ
named a er S.G. Stroganov,
ɂɧɜɄɉ$
MSAIU named a er S.G. Stroganov, ɫɭɞɚɪɫɬɜɟɧɧɵɯ
MCMA ɦɭɡɟɟɜ Ȼɟɪɥɢ
MCMA «Burganov-Center».ɫɨɛɪɚɧɢɹ Ƚɨ Material:
white marble.
ɫɭɞɚɪɫɬɜɟɧɧɵɯ ɦɭɡɟɟɜ
Material: white marble Ȼɟɪɥɢ ɆɄɋɂ©Ȼɭɪɝɚɧɨɜɐɟɧɬɪª
Size: H. 8.5 cm
ɧɚɆȽɏɉɍɢɦɋȽɋɬɪɨɝɚɧɨɜɚ Ɇɚɬɟɪɢɚɥ ɛɟɥɵɣ ɦɪɚɦɨɪ ɧɟɣ
Size: в. 16.3 см. A ribu on: Rome, about 160 year A.D.
ɆɄɋɂ©Ȼɭɪɝɚɧɨɜɐɟɧɬɪª ɬɪɚɥɶɧɨɛɟɡɠɢɡɧɟɧɧɨɝɨɬɨɧɚ
A ribu on: A ca, end II century A.D. Bibliography: Blümel 1933: 38, R 91,
Ɇɚɬɟɪɢɚɥɦɪɚɦɨɪɛɟɥɵɣ Ɋɚɡɦɟɪɵɜɫɦ
Ɋɚɡɦɟɪɵɜɫɦ Taf.ȺɬɪɢɛɭɰɢɹɊɢɦɨɤɨɥɨɝ
69
ȺɬɪɢɛɭɰɢɹȺɬɬɢɤɚɤɨɧɟɰ,,ɜ
Ȼɢɛɥɢɨɝɪɚɮɢɹ%OPHO5
7DI
— 24 —

ȽɨɥɨɜɚɸɧɨɝɨɄɚɪɚɤɚɥɥɵ
24. Head of the young Caracalla
Inv. КП 93А.
ɂɧɜɄɉȺ
Provenance: Berlin State Museums, MSAIU named a er S.G. Stroganov, MCMA
ɉɪɨɢɫɯɨɠɞɟɧɢɟɫɨɛɪɚɧɢɹȽɨɫɭɞɚɪɫɬɜɟɧɧɵɯɦɭɡɟɟɜȻɟɪɥɢɧɚɆȽɏɉɍ
«Burganov-Center». Material: white marble
ɢɦɋȽɋɬɪɨɝɚɧɨɜɚɆɄɋɂ©Ȼɭɪɝɚɧɨɜɐɟɧɬɪª
Size: H. 16.5 cm. A ribu on: Rome, about 200 year A.D.
ɆɚɬɟɪɢɚɥɛɟɥɵɣɦɪɚɦɨɪɊɚɡɦɟɪɵɜɫɦ
Bibliography: Blümel 1931: 92, Abb. 2; Blümel 1933: 39, R 95, Taf. 59; Blümel 1962:
ȺɬɪɢɛɭɰɢɹɊɢɦɨɤɨɥɨɝ
Taf.
Ȼɢɛɥɢɨɝɪɚɮɢɹ%OPHO$EE%OPHO57DI
%OPHO7DI
— 25 —

25. Piksida with geometric painting 26. Ariball with a picture of a swan
ɉɢɤɫɢɞɚ ɫ ɝɟɨɦɟɬɪɢɱɟɫɤɨɣ Ⱥɪɢɛɚɥɥ ɫ ɢɡɨɛɪɚɠɟɧɢɟɦ
Inv. КП 100А. Inv. КП 87 А.
ɪɨɫɩɢɫɶɸ ɥɟɛɟɞɹ
Provenance: Berlin State Museums, Provenance: collec on of Ross, Berlin
ɂɧɜɄɉȺ State Museums, MSAIU named a er S.G.
ɂɧɜɄɉȺ
ɉɪɨɢɫɯɨɠɞɟɧɢɟ ɫɨɛɪɚɧɢɹ Ƚɨ Stroganov, MCMA «Burganov-Center».
ɉɪɨɢɫɯɨɠɞɟɧɢɟ ɫɨɛɪɚɧɢɹ Ɋɨɫɫɚ
Size: H. 26.5 cm ɦɭɡɟɟɜ Ȼɟɪɥɢɧɚ
ɫɭɞɚɪɫɬɜɟɧɧɵɯ Size: H. 6.3 cm
Ƚɨɫɭɞɚɪɫɬɜɟɧɧɵɯ ɦɭɡɟɟɜ Ȼɟɪɥɢɧɚ
ɆȽɏɉɍɢɦɋȽɋɬɪɨɝɚɧɨɜɚɆɄɋɂ
Material ɆȽɏɉɍɢɦɋȽɋɬɪɨɝɚɧɨɜɚɆɄɋɂ
Material
A ribu on: Boeo a, the second half A ©Ȼɭɪɝɚɧɨɜɐɟɧɬɪª
ribu on: Corinth, the last quarter of VII
Ɋɚɡɦɟɪɵɜɫɤɪɵɲɤɨɣɫɦɜ
of VII century BC Ɋɚɡɦɟɪɵ:
century BC ɜ ɫɦ ɞɦ ɜɟɧɱɢɤɚ
ɬɭɥɨɜɚɫɦɞɦɤɪɵɲɤɢɫɦ
Bibliography: Coldstream, 1968, 196, ɫɦɞɦɫɦ
Bibliography: Furtwängler, 1885, I, 121,
ɞɦɭɫɬɶɹɫɦɞɦɬɭɥɨɜɚɫɦ
208; 203, note 5. nо.Ⱥɬɪɢɛɭɰɢɹ
1084. Ʉɨɪɢɧɮ ɩɨɫɥɟɞɧɹɹ
ɞɦɨɫɧɨɜɚɧɢɹɫɦ ɱɟɬɜɟɪɬɶ9,,ɜɞɨɧɷ
ȺɬɪɢɛɭɰɢɹȻɟɨɬɢɹɜɬɨɪɚɹɩɨɥɨ Ȼɢɛɥɢɨɝɪɚɮɢɹ)XUWZlQJOHU
ɜɢɧɚ9,,,ɜɞɨɧɷ ,Qɨ
Ȼɢɛɥɢɨɝɪɚɮɢɹ&ROGVWUHDP, 1968,
196, 208; 203, QRWH
— 26 —

27. Oynohoya 28. Olpe

Ɉɣɧɨɯɨɹ Ɉɥɶɩɚ
Provenance: Oynohoya was found in Provenance: Olpe was found in Vulci;
ɂɧɜɄɉȺ ɂɧɜɄɉȺ
Nola; Collec on of Coller, Berlin State
ɉɪɨɢɫɯɨɠɞɟɧɢɟɧɚɣɞɟɧɚɜɇɨɥɟ Collec on of Dorough-Magnus, Berlin
ɉɪɨɢɫɯɨɠɞɟɧɢɟɧɚɣɞɟɧɚɜȼɭɥɶɱɢ
Museums, MSAIU named a er S.G.
ɫɨɛɪɚɧɢɹɄɨɥɥɟɪɚȽɨɫɭɞɚɪɫɬɜɟɧ State Museums, MSAIU named a er S.G.
ɫɨɛɪɚɧɢɹȾɨɪɨɭɆɚɝɧɭɫȽɨɫɭɞɚɪ
Stroganov,
ɧɵɯ MCMAȻɟɪɥɢɧɚ
ɦɭɡɟɟɜ «Burganov-Center».
ɆȽɏɉɍ Stroganov, MCMA «Burganov-Center».
ɫɬɜɟɧɧɵɯɦɭɡɟɟɜȻɟɪɥɢɧɚɆȽɏɉɍ
ɢɦ
Size: H.ɋȽ ɋɬɪɨɝɚɧɨɜɚ ɆɄɋɂ
34.3 cm. ɢɦ
Size: ɋȽ
H. 41.5 cm ɋɬɪɨɝɚɧɨɜɚ ɆɄɋɂ
A ribu on: Corinth, master Dodwell A ©Ȼɭɪɝɚɧɨɜɐɟɧɬɪª
ribu on: Etruria, end VII century-
Ɋɚɡɦɟɪɵ ɜ
Painter, beginning of VIɫɦ ɞɦ ɬɭɥɨɜɚ
century BC. Ɋɚɡɦɟɪɵ
beginning ɜ
VI century BC. ɫɦ ɞɦ ɬɭɥɨɜɚ
ɫɦɞɦɧɨɠɤɢɫɦ
Bibliography: Furtwängler, 1885, I, 125, no. ɫɦɞɦɨɫɧɨɜɚɧɢɹɫɦ
Bibliography: Furtwängler, 1885, I, 142,
ȺɬɪɢɛɭɰɢɹɄɨɪɢɧɮɦɚɫɬɟɪȾɨ
1114; Payne, 1931, 314, no. 1092; AMYX, no.Ⱥɬɪɢɛɭɰɢɹɗɬɪɭɪɢɹɤɨɧɟɰ9,,±
1248.
ɞɜɟɥ7KH'RGZHOO3DLQWHU"ɧɚ
1988, 209, no. 4 ɧɚɱɚɥɨ9,ɜɞɨɧɷ
ɱɚɥɨ9,ɜɞɨɧɷ Ȼɢɛɥɢɨɝɪɚɮɢɹ)XUWZlQJOHU
Ȼɢɛɥɢɨɝɪɚɮɢɹ)XUWZlQJOHU ,QR
,QRPD\QH
QR$0<;QR
— 27 —

29. Black figure kylix 30. Black-figure hydria

Provenance: Berlin State Museums, Provenance: Hydria was founded in
MSAIU named a er S.G. Stroganov, Etruria, Collec on of V. Gerhard, Berlin
MCMA «Burganov-Center». State Museums, MSAIU named a er S.G.
Size: diam. orifice 25.2 cm, diam. body Stroganov, MCMA «Burganov-Center».
23.5 cm, diam. stem 8.9 cm. A ribu on: Size: H. 48 cm
A ca, the Group of Acropolis 1441, A ribu on: A ca, master An men, 530-
вторая четверть VI в. до н.э. 525 years BC
Bibliography: Furtwängler, 1885, I, 287-288, Bibliography: Furtwängler, 1885,I, 377-
no. 1754; Beazley, ABV, 68. 378, no. 1891; Neugebauer, 1932, 79;
Beazley ABV, 267,10.
— 28 —

31. Lekythos 32. Black-figure oynohoya

Provenance: Berlin State Museums, Provenance: Berlin State Museums,
MSAIU named a er S.G. Stroganov, MSAIU named a er S.G. Stroganov,
MCMA «Burganov-Center». Size: H. MCMA «Burganov-Center».
24 cm. A ribu on: A ca, 500-490 Size: H. 18.8 cm
years BC. Bibliography: Neugebauer, A ribu on: A ca, master Athens
1932, 53. workshop, beginning V century BC.
— 29 —

33. Red-figure hydria 34. Red-figure plate

Provenance: Collec on of Inghen, Provenance: The old royal collec on,
Berlin State Museums, MSAIU Berlin State Museums, MSAIU named
named a er S.G. Stroganov, MCMA a er S.G. Stroganov, MCMA «Burganov-
«Burganov-Center». Center».
Size: H. 35 cm, diam.body 23.8 cm Size: H. 1.2 cm, diam. 16 cm
A ribu on: South Italy, Lucania, A ribu on: South Italy, Puglia, The Group
beginning IV century BC of Zurich 2660, 340-320 гг. до н.э.
Bibliography: Furtwangler, 1885, II, Bibliography: Furtwängler, 1885, II, 939,
875, no. 3167; Neugebauer, 1932, 146. no. 3360.
— 30 —

35. Red-figure alabaster 36. Dish for fish

Provenance: Alabaster was found in Provenance: The old royal collec on,
A ca (Pikrodafni) in 1877; Berlin State Berlin State Museums, MSAIU named
Museums, MSAIU named a er S.G. a er S.G. Stroganov, MCMA «Burganov-
Stroganov, MCMA «Burganov-Center». Center».
Size: H. 18.5 cm, diam. body 4.9 cm. Size: H. 1.9 cm, diam. 17.7 cm.
A ribu on: A ca, Pan Painter, second A ribu on: South Italy, Campania, The
quarter V century BC. Bibliography: Torpedo Group, 340-320 years BC
Furtwängler, 1885, II, 528, no. 2254; Bibliography: Furtwängler, 1885, II, 964,
Neugebauer, 1932, 56; Beazley ARV2, no. 3616; McPhee – Trendall, 1987, 100,
557, 123; М. Meyer, Männer mit Geld, pl. 33b.
in JdI, 103, 1988, 110-111, Abb. 23a,b.
— 31 —
Ɋɢɬɨɧɜɜɢɞɟɝɨɥɨɜɵɫɨɛɚɤɢ
37. Dog’s head rhyton и
Inv. КП 98А.
ɂɧɜɄɉȺ
Provenance: rhyton was founded in
Ruvo; Collec on of Coller,ɉɪɨɢɫɯɨɠ
Berlin State
ɞɟɧɢɟ ɧɚɣɞɟɧ
Museums, ɜ Ɋɭɜɨ
MSAIU named ɫɨɛɪɚ
a er S.G.
ɧɢɹ Ʉɨɥɥɟɪɚ Ƚɨɫɭɞɚɪɫɬɜɟɧ
Stroganov, MCMA «Burganov-Center».
ɧɵɯ ɦɭɡɟɟɜ Ȼɟɪɥɢɧɚ ɆȽɏɉɍ
Size: L. 20 cm, diam. orifice 11.7 cm.
ɢɦ ɋȽ ɋɬɪɨɝɚɧɨɜɚ ɆɄɋɂ
A©Ȼɭɪɝɚɧɨɜɐɟɧɬɪª
ribu on: South Italy, Puglia, 330-310
years A.D.
Ɋɚɡɦɟɪɵɞɥɢɧɚɫɦɞɦɭɫɬɶɹ
Bibliography:
ɫɦ Furtwängler, 1885, II,
946, no. 8422.
ȺɬɪɢɛɭɰɢɹɘɠɧɚɹɂɬɚɥɢɹȺɩɭ
ɥɢɹɤɪɭɝȻɚɥɬɢɦɨɪɫɤɨɝɨɦɚɫɬɟɪɚ
ɝɝɞɨɧɷ
38. Doe’s head rhyton
Ȼɢɛɥɢɨɝɪɚɮɢɹ)XUWZlQJOHU
Inv. КП 99А.
,,QR
Provenance: rhyton was founded in
Ruvo; Collec on of Coller, Berlin State
Ɋɢɬɨɧɜɜɢɞɟɝɨɥɨɜɵɥɚɧɢ
Stroganov,
ɂɧɜɄɉȺ MCMA «Burganov-Center».
Size: L. 21.5 cm, diam. orifice 8.7 cm.
ɉɪɨɢɫɯɨɠɞɟɧɢɟɧɚɣɞɟɧɜɊɭɜɨ
AɫɨɛɪɚɧɢɹɄɨɥɥɟɪɚȽɨɫɭɞɚɪɫɬɜɟɧ
ribu on: South Italy, Puglia, 330-310

ɧɵɯ BC
years ɦɭɡɟɟɜ Ȼɟɪɥɢɧɚ ɆȽɏɉɍ
ɢɦ ɋȽ Furtwängler,
Bibliography: ɋɬɪɨɝɚɧɨɜɚ ɆɄɋɂ
II, 946, no.
3424.
Ɋɚɡɦɟɪɵɞɥɢɧɚɫɦɞɦɭɫɬɶɹ
ɫɦ
ɥɢɹɝɝɞɨɧɷ
Ȼɢɛɥɢɨɝɪɚɮɢɹ)XUWZlQJOHU,,
QR

— 32 —

39. Ram’s head rhyton 40.Ɋɢɬɨɧɜɜɢɞɟɝɨɥɨɜɵɥɚɧɢ
Doe’s head rhyton
Ɋɢɬɨɧɜɜɢɞɟɝɨɥɨɜɵɛɚɪɚɧɚ
Provenance:
ɂɧɜɄɉȺ rhyton was founded in Provenance:
ɂɧɜɄɉȺ Collec on of Coller, Berlin
Ruvo; Collec on of Coller, Berlin State
ɉɪɨɢɫɯɨɠɞɟɧɢɟɧɚɣɞɟɧɜɊɭɜɨ State Museums, MSAIU named a er S.G.
ɉɪɨɢɫɯɨɠɞɟɧɢɟɫɨɛɪɚɧɢɹɄɨɥɥɟ
ɫɨɛɪɚɧɢɹɄɨɥɥɟɪɚȽɨɫɭɞɚɪɫɬɜɟɧ ɪɚȽɨɫɭɞɚɪɫɬɜɟɧɧɵɯɦɭɡɟɟɜȻɟɪ
Stroganov, MCMA «Burganov-Center».
ɧɵɯ ɦɭɡɟɟɜ Ȼɟɪɥɢɧɚ
Stroganov, MCMA ɆȽɏɉɍ
«Burganov-Center». ɥɢɧɚɆȽɏɉɍɢɦɋȽɋɬɪɨɝɚɧɨɜɚ
Size: L. 20.5 cm, diam. orifice 9.1 cm
ɢɦ ɋȽ
Size: L.19 cm, ɋɬɪɨɝɚɧɨɜɚ
diam. orifice 10.4ɆɄɋɂ
х 10.7 A ɆɄɋɂ©Ȼɭɪɝɚɧɨɜɐɟɧɬɪª
ribu on: South Italy, Tarentum. End IV
cm. A ribu on: South Italy, Puglia, Ɋɚɡɦɟɪɵɞɫɦɞɦɭɫɬɶɹɫɦ
century – III century BC.
Ɋɚɡɦɟɪɵ
круг мастераɞ ɫɦ мира,
Подземного ɞɦ ɭɫɬɶɹ ȺɬɪɢɛɭɰɢɹɘɠɧɚɹɂɬɚɥɢɹɌɚ
ɯɫɦ
340-320 years A.D. Bibliography: ɪɟɧɬ"ɤɨɧɟɰ,9±,,,ɜɜɞɨɧɷ
Furtwängler, 1885, II, 946, no. 3423.
ɥɢɹ ɤɪɭɝ ɦɚɫɬɟɪɚ ɉɨɞɡɟɦɧɨɝɨ
ɦɢɪɚɝɝɞɨɧɷ
Ȼɢɛɥɢɨɝɪɚɮɢɹ)XUWZlQJOHU
,,QR

— 33 —

41. Flask with relief decoration 42. Kernos

Provenance: Collec on of Coller, Berlin Provenance: Berlin State Museums,
State Museums, MSAIU named a er MSAIU named a er S.G. Stroganov,
S.G. Stroganov, MCMA «Burganov- MCMA «Burganov-Center».
Center». Size: H. 45 cm
Size: H. 27.5 cm, diam.-1 23.1 cm, A ribu on: South Italy, Canosa. III
diam-2 19 cm. century BC
A ribu on: South Italy, Canosa. End IV Bibliography: Furtwängler,1885, II, 958,
century – III century BC no. 3556.
Bibliography: Furtwängler, 1885, II,
961, no. 3591.
— 34 —

Ʉɚɧɮɚɪ
43. Kantharos
ɂɧɜɄɉȺ
Inv. КП 60А.
Provenance: ɫɨɛɪɚɧɢɹ
Berlin State Museums,Ƚɨ
MSAIU named a er S.G. ɦɭɡɟɟɜ Ȼɟɪɥɢ
Stroganov,
MCMA «Burganov-Center». 45. Flask with relief decoration
Size: H. 16.5 cm. Inv. КП 80А.
ɋɨɫɭɞɫɪɟɥɶɟɮɧɵɦɞɟɤɨɪɨɦ
Ɋɚɡɦɟɪɵɜɫɦ Provenance: Berlin State Museums,
A ribu on: Hellenis c art. II-I century
Ⱥɬɪɢɛɭɰɢɹɗɥɥɢɧɢɫɬɢɱɟɫɤɨɟɢɫ MSAIU named a er S.G. Stroganov,
BC. ɂɧɜɄɉȺ
ɤɭɫɫɬɜɨ,,,ɜɜɞɨɧɷ MCMA «Burganov-Center».
44. Piksida with polychrome painting Size: H. 23.5 cm; diam. orifi
ɫɭɞɚɪɫɬɜɟɧɧɵɯ ce 5.3 Ȼɟɪɥɢ
ɦɭɡɟɟɜ х 5.9
ɋɤɢɮɨɢɞɧɚɹɩɢɤɫɢɞɚɫɩɨ-
Inv. КП 61А. cm,ɧɚɆȽɏɉɍɢɦɋȽɋɬɪɨɝɚɧɨɜɚ
diam. body 11.7 cm
ɥɢɯɪɨɦɧɨɣɪɨɫɩɢɫɶɸ
Provenance: Berlin State Museums, A ɆɄɋɂ©Ȼɭɪɝɚɧɨɜɐɟɧɬɪª
ribu on: Knidos or Alexandria, II
Ɋɚɡɦɟɪɵɜɫɦɞɦɭɫɬɶɹ
century A.D.
ɂɧɜɄɉȺ ɯɫɦɞɦɬɭɥɨɜɚɫɦɞɦɨɫ
Bibliography: Neugebauer, 1932, 205,
ɉɪɨɢɫɯɨɠɞɟɧɢɟ ɫɨɛɪɚɧɢɹ Ƚɨ no.ɧɨɜɚɧɢɹɫɦ
Size: H. 46 cm, diam.ɦɭɡɟɟɜ
body 20.5Ȼɟɪɥɢ
cm 5819; U. Heimberg, Oinophoren. Zur
ɫɭɞɚɪɫɬɜɟɧɧɵɯ Ⱥɬɪɢɛɭɰɢɹ
keizrezeitlichen
Ʉɧɢɞ
Relie
ɢɥɢ in
eramik,
Ⱥɥɟɤɫɚɧ
JdI, 91,
A ribu on: Sicily, III century BC.
ɧɚɆȽɏɉɍɢɦɋȽɋɬɪɨɝɚɧɨɜɚ ɞɪɢɹ,,ɜ
1976, 286, A 11.
ɆɄɋɂ©Ȼɭɪɝɚɧɨɜɐɟɧɬɪª Ȼɢɛɥɢɨɝɪɚɮɢɹ 1HXJHEDXHU
Ɋɚɡɦɟɪɵ ɜ ɫɦ ɞɦ ɤɪɵɲɤɢ QR8+HLPEHUJ
ɫɦɞɦɬɭɥɨɜɚɧɢɡɫɦ 2LQRSKRUHQ =XU NHL]UH]HLWOLFKHQ
Ⱥɬɪɢɛɭɰɢɹɋɢɰɢɥɢɹ,,,ɜɞɨɧɷ 5HOLHINHUDPLNLQ-G,
Ȼɢɛɥɢɨɝɪɚɮɢɹɧɟɨɩɭɛɥɢɤɨɜɚɧɚ $
— 35 —
N. Japova Le Théâtre du Silence de Maurice Maeterlinck
Nadezhda Japova
Master of Literature,
Collège Universitaire Français de Moscou,
Moscou
LE THÉÂTRE DU SILENCE DE MAURICE

MAETERLINCK
Keywords: silence, theatre of silence, Maeterlinck, “Pelléas et

Mélisande”, echolalia.
Summary: The article is examining the evolution of the aesthetic
phenomenon of silence in literature and music, starting from the con-
trast of the word and the sound up to the point where they become the
full expressive means of literary and musical text. The author analyz-
es the emergence of Maurice Maeterlinck’s theatre of silence in the
context of formed concept of French language omnipotence in poetry
and theatre in the end of 19th century. Considerable part of the article
is dedicated to the analysis of the influence that silence has to the lan-
guage, which leads to the appearance of Maeterlinck’s «poetic prose».
Silence comme cathégorie esthétique

L’époque moderne nous a montré une impétueuse dévalvation de la
parole. L’invention de nouveaux moyens de communication perfection-
nant le verbalisme fait de notre civilisation celle du bavardage. Selon
le philosophe alemand Martin Heidegger, l’homme moderne vit dans
un espace de bavardage, ce qui le rend incapable d’entendre l’essentiel.
Le bavardage pourtant n’est qu’un insignifiant bruit de fond. Heidegger
écrit : « Et puisque le discours a perdu, ou n’a jamais atteint le rapport
originaire avec l’être dont on discourt»1, ce qui compte c’est la diffu-
sion et la répétition du parler même. Le bavardage est constitué par la
— 36 — © N. Japova, 2013
scission entre les mots et les choses. Contrairement à la communica-

tion qui sert à un échange d’informations entre les participants, bavar-
der c’est parler pour parler, sans comprendre l’objet de la parole. Le
bavardage, en tant qu’il est privé d’une référence extrinsèque, est in-
fondé. Cette absence de fondement explique le caractère faible, et par-
fois vide, de l’interaction quotidienne; c’est-à-dire qu’elle explique ce
sens de pauvreté expérimenté précisément comme étant au centre de
multiples flux communicatifs.
La crise de la parole produit un certain intérêt au silence qui peut
être considéré comme un symptôme de la fin du millénaire. Aujourd’hui
le silence appartient à un niveau des phénomènes se trouvant au mi-
lieu des intérêts de la philosophie contemporaine. Malgré cela, le si-
lence n’est pas analysé sous tous ses aspects. Même les dictionnaires
philosophiques les plus compétents et les plus connus comme The
Oxford Dictionary of Philosophy, 1994; The Cambridge Dictionary of
Philosophy, 1995; Enzyklopadie Philosophie und Wissenschafts-The-
orie, 1995; Encyclopedie Philosophique Universelle, 1997; Routhledge
Encyclopedia of Philosophy, 1998 ne contiennent aucun article consa-
cré au silence. Quant aux ouvrages monographiques, il n’en existe éga-
lement pas.
Avant d’essayer de définir les approches possibles au silence, il est
nécessaire de donner une définition à ce phénomène.
Par définition, le silence est absence de bruit ou de discours.
Selon le Dictionnaire de l’Académie Française (8ème édition, 1935),
SILENCE – Fait de ne pas parler; état de celui qui s’abstient de parler.
SILENCE se dit, par extension, du Fait de ne pas exprimer sa pensée,
oralement ou par écrit. SILENCE se dit encore de l’Absence de men-
tion d’une chose, du manque de témoignage sur un sujet, sur un fait.
Dans le premier cas, le silence se comprend comme une sorte d’ab-
sence, absence de paroles, absence de communication, absence d’in-
formation. Ce motif d’absence comprend le silence comme quelque
chose extérieur par rapport à un environnement bruyant. Mais on peut
aussi parler du silence intérieur, par opposition à un bruit contenu dans
l’esprit.
— 37 —
La plupart des travaux sur ce sujet considèrent le silence à l’intérieur

du langage, comme une mode négative de l’existence du texte, tandis
qu’il n’y a persque pas de tentatives de considérer le silence à côté du
langage, comme une forme non-verbale de l’expérience. Les travaux
consacrés au problème du silence théâtral sont relativement rares. Il
est à remarquer l’ouvrage monographique concernant le silence théâ-
tral – L’envers du théâtre. Dramaturgie du silence de l’âge classique à
Maeterlinck d’Arnaud RYKNER qui suit le développement du rôle du
— 38 —
1. Alexander Burganov « Le livre de lettres », 1992. 293 × 208 × 27 mm, papier,

encre,stylo. Seuls les copies. Deux pages numéro 5..
silence dans l’histoire du théâtre français de l’âge classique au théâtre

nouveau du XX-ème siècle.
En ce qui concerne la question du silence dans la littérature, d’après
Roland Barthes, le silence est une forme spécifique de rapport entre le
sens et l’écriture. Barthes a consacré un chapitre de son célèbre ouvrage
Le Degré zéro de l’écriture suivi de Nouveaux essais critiques (1953)
— 39 —
à l’analyse de la balance entre l’écriture et le silence. Selon Barthes,

le silence est une solution possible pour dégager le langage littéraire
des ornières anciennes : « Ce langage mallarméen, c’est Orphée qui ne
peut sauver ce qu’il aime qu’en y renonçant, et qui se retourne tout de
même un peu; c’est la Littérature amenée aux portes de la Terre pro-
mise, c’est-à-dire aux portes d’un monde sans littérature, dont ce se-
rait pourtant aux écrivains à porter témoignage »2.
Ainsi se pose un problème de transposition de l’expérience au lan-
gage. Les relations entre le monde et l’individu sont à la base du com-
portement lingual de ce dernier. Le langage dans ce cas-là est le garant
de la transmission de l’expérience. La pratique de traduction dévoile
l’imperfection des capacités du langage. Les difficultés qui se posent
devant chaque traducteur au moment de la recherche de l’équivalent
d’un tel ou tel mot, désignent non seulement la richesse et l’élastici-
té des langues mais aussi le fait que les sens existent indépendemment
du langage. Ce qui existe sur le plan de compréhension est souvent in-
traduisible sur le plan d’expression.
Le langage qui est inséparablement lié à l’expérience positive et ra-
tionnelle, s’avère dans la situation de la crise profonde. Le langage ex-
primant l’expérience prévisible n’est pas capable d’exprimer l’expé-
rience qui dépasse les bornes du possible. Là, on se rencontre avec des
difficultés de l’expression. Le silence d’Abraham chez S. Kierkegaard
(Crainte et tremblement, lyrisme dialectique, 1843) est une seule ré-
ponse possible à l’odre non-compréhensible de Dieu.
A l’époque moderne le silence entre dans le monde de l’art et devient
une véritable catégorie esthétique. Même la musique, cet art évanes-
cent, tend à étendre sa sphère sonore. Les expériments de R. Shumann,
C. Debussy, A. Skriabine, A. Webern sur la tonalité du silence ont exer-
cé une influencé sur la nouvelle génération des compositeurs du XX-
ème siècle – J. Cage, D. Ligetti, S. Goubaidoullina. L’interaction entre
le silence et le son devient un des principaux moyens d’expression des
arts synthétiques. Le théâtre dramatique et musical, et plus tard le ci-
néma sonore se rendent compte de la force expressive des pauses, des
césures, de l’organisation sonore et rhytmique de l’action.
— 40 —
Vers le XX-ème siècle certains écrivains et poètes concluent que la

parole ne peut pas exprimer toute la diversité des sens. Certains d’entre
eux voient la solution dans le refus de la parole au profit du silence.
Dans la critique européenne on peut remarquer trois approches ré-
pandues par rapport à ce phénomène :
1 — Le silence comme un non-dit, fait pour accompagner la parole,
pas pour la contester (DANIELS May, The French drama of the uns-
poken, Greenwood Press Publisher, Westport, 1977)
2 — Le silence comme mode de communication théâtral (KANE
Leslie, The language of silence, Assossiated University Presses, London,
1984),
3 — Le silence comme une réaction contre la primauté du verbe au
théâtre (RYKNER Arnaud, L’envers du théâtre, dramaturgie du silence
de l’âge classique à Maeterlinck, José Corti, Paris, 1996).
L’évolution conduisant le silence à s’imposer comme une compo-
sante de l’écriture théâtrale était lente et complexe. Du XVIIe au XX-
ème siècles on assiste à un élargissement progressif du drame. D’abord,
la scène française rejette le silence en lui donnant le rôle marginal. Avec
Diderot la parole comence à perdre son statut absolu, ainsi le silence
entre dans la structure du dialogue.
Ce n’est pas un hasard si le théâtre du silence apparaît comme phé-
nomène au sein du théâtre francophone. La tradition du théâtre fran-
çais repose sur l’omnipotence du verbe et s’écrit sur le mode de la pa-
role. La modernité dramatique fait renverser l’ordre des choses. On
attache plus d’importance au silence et aux relations entre le silence et
la parole. Le silence à partir de ce monent-là devient une trame dans
laquelle des paroles, plus rares, viennent s’insérer.
Le dramaturge bèlge Maurice Maeterlinck estime que le sens de
tout phénomène s’ouvre dans le silence, tandis que la parole est im-
puissante même pour définir la pensée telle qu’elle est. Maeterlinck
arive à créer son propre « théâtre du silence » où le langage habituel, ce
simple moyen de communication entre les individus lui paraît insuffi-
sant pour un véritable dialogue. Selon Maeterlinck, la parole est maté-
rielle, c’est pourquoi elle ne peut pas être l’expression de la spirituali-
té. La vrai communication entre les âmes des personnages ne se passe
— 41 —
que dans le silence. La vrai vie apparaît dans le silence tandis que le
langage sert à éviter le silence qui lui fait peur. « Les âmes se pèsent
dans le silence, comme l’or et l’argent se pèsent dans l’eau pure, et
les paroles que nous prononçons n’ont de sens que grâce au silence »,
écrit Maeterinck dans son article Le silence (1896). Le discours théo-
rique de Jean-Jacques Bernard rappelle les réflexions de Maeterlinck :
« Il y a sous le dialogue entendu un dialogue sous-jacent qu’il s’agit
de rendre sensible ».
Dans les pièces de Maeterlinck on trouve un grand nombre d’indi-
cations scéniques liées au silence (« Elles sortent toutes, en silence »,
« un silence », « Il sort en courant. – Un silence »). Ces indications ex-
priment souvent de vraies pensées et les sentiments des personnages.
Le silence de Maeterlinck sert à exprimer et à faire comprendre les
idées essentielles de sa dramaturgie. En écoutant le silence scénique
le spectateur réunit sa perception de la pièce avec ses propres idées, et
les répliques des personnages servent à orienter sa pensée, à lui don-
ner une direction. On peut comparer cette méthode avec la maïeutique
de Socrate, où l’interlocuteur trouve lui-même la réponse à toutes ses
questions. Le rôle du percepteur revient à aider à découvrir son po-
tentiel intellectuel et spirituel. Avec Maeterlinck, le silence devient un
projet dramatique.
On voit ainsi que le silence n’est pas l’absence du langage, mais une
forme de la prononciation non-verbale. Quand un personnage se tait, la
discussion ne s’arrête pas, elle continue à un autre niveau.
Nouveau théâtre, phénomène de l’époque moderne.

Le théâtre de Maeterlinck se forme dans une époque de l’idée de
l’omnipotence de la langue française. C’est la poésie française de cette
période qui éprouve l’influence de l’universalisme. Comme en témoigne
Ernest Raynaud, l’esprit poétique des années 1870 à côté des noms
de Victor Hugo, Michelet, Sainte-Beuve, Sully-Prudhomme, Arthur
Rimbaud, Paul Verlaine, Armand Silvestre etc. Voit son rôle dans la re-
naissance et le renforcement de la culture française. Victor Hugo, un des
idéologues des poètes de Pléiade le manifeste : « Il faut que l’indomp-
table pensée française se réveille et combatte sous toutes les formes.
— 42 —
L’esprit français possède cette grande arme, c’est-à-dire l’idiome uni-

versel. La France a, pour auditoire, le monde civilisé. Qui a l’oreille
prend l’âme. La France vainquera. <...> Ce grand XIX-ème siècle, mo-
mentanément interrompu, doit reprendre et reprendra son œuvre, et son
œuvre c’est le progrès par l’idéal ».3
La prose française de la fin du siècle est marquée par le mouvement
du réalisme, mais dans la poésie l’intention d’exprimer tout, même ce
qui est au-delà des frontières du réel et du physique, amène à l’essor
du Symbolisme. Selon Alfred Vallette, « Le Symbolisme demereura
là où il est : dans la poésie. C’est là et là seulement qu’il peut espérer
quelques années d’existence à l’état d’école »4.
Pour les représentants du mouvement symboliste la poésie est pen-
sée comme un intermédiare entre le physique et le métaphysique. Au
milieu de l’an 1884 le critique Léo d’Orfer a eu l’idée de demander
à « bon nombre d’écrivains et de poètes » la définition de la poésie.
Voici la réponse de Stéphane Mallarmé : « La poésie est l’expression
par le langage humain, ramené à son rhytme essentiel, du sens mysté-
rieux des aspects de l’existence; elle doue ainsi d’authenticité notre sé-
jour et constitue la seule tâche spirituelle »5. Pour Sully-Prudhomme, la
poésie est l’art de « conférer au langage la plus grande efficacité pos-
sible». Les Symbolistes ambitionnaient de créer un nouveau mode d’ex-
pression. Vers 1890 on voit déjà manifesté tous les poètes de premier
plan du Symbolisme. A ce moment son organe officiel, le Mercure de
France, se fonde et le Symbolisme prend possession de la scène avec
Paul Fort qui crée le théâtre d’Art.
Le Symbolisme a pourtant mille visages. Les poètes de son école,
Gustav Kahn, Henri de Régnier, Charles Morice, Emile Verhaeren,
Maurice Maeterlinck ont chaqun sa conception particulière du Sym-
bolisme. Ils sont tous réunis par le goût de mystère et le sens de la spi-
ritualité. « Les symbolistes on en effet acquis au conscient une bonne
somme d’inconscient. Ils entrepris résolument la conquête du Moi; ils
ont défrichés des terrains nouveaux, projeté une lumière vive dans les
arcanes de l’être, éclairé des dessous jusque-là inexplorés. Ils ont en-
richi et assoupli la langue »6.
— 43 —
L’intérêt des poètes à l’inconscient s’inscrit dans le contexte géné-

ral de l’époque. Au moment d’invention de l’inconscient et des rayons
X, de nouvelles méthodes de la transmission de l’information, l’in-
conscient apparaît au premier plan. L’humanité découvre des miliers des
fils invisibles existant réellement. La Science a imprimé aux esprits du
XIX siècle, même à ceux qui se font gloire de la mépriser, sa méthode
et ses procédés de voir. Une fièvre de sincérité emporte le monde sous
l’influence récente des psychologues écossais. En liaison avec cela, le
— 44 —
2. Alexander Burganov «Le livre de lettres», 1992. 293х208х27 mm, papier,

encre,stylo. Seuls les copies. Deux pages numéro 47..
monde de la fin du XIXe siècle et du début du Xxe a été marqué par un

vent de renouveau que le théâtre pouvait difficilement ignorer : « Si le
théâtre, art de la représentation du monde, connaît (…) de profondes
modifications de ses modes de représentation, c’est que l’homme ne
peut plus se représenter le monde comme il le faisait auparavant, non
seulement parce que l’univers même évolue, mais parce que la percep-
— 45 —
tion de l’homme se fonde sur des bases nouvelles.»7. L’économie, la

science et la technique mettent à jour et développent de nouveaux fonc-
tionnements qui vont radicalement modifier l’appréhension du monde,
donc notre relation à l’autre. Et ce, dans l’ouverture démultipliée des
liens entre homme et objet. Le mouvement général tend vers une sorte
de décollement avec le réel : « L’homme ne se contente plus de travail-
ler des matières, il en invente sans cesse de nouvelles grâce aux procé-
dés de la synthèse. (…) Un fait est là : une civilisation naît où le facteur
vitesse tiendra une place toujours plus importante… le monde se rétré-
cit… le mouvement rapide modifie le champ mental de l’individu.»8.
La science ne connaît plus les bornes du possible dans son dévelop-
pement. Du point de vue scientifique, l’invisible est ce qui n’est pas en-
core dévoilé; un ignoré qui attend son heure de visibilité. De nouvelles
capacités de l’homme lui permettent de voir beaucoup plus que ses yeux
puissent voir. La possibilité de dépasser ses cinq sens fait écho avec la
poésie qui dépasse les capacités significatives du mot en lui offrant le
sens symbolique. « Le symbolisme s’est construit sur le terreau mys-
tique, voire ésotérique, de l’époque, orientant le symbole dans une di-
rection métaphysique. Mais, historiquemenet, le symbole a précédé le
symbolisme, au sens où, même si les mots « symbole » et « symbo-
lisme » ont certainement cohabité, le symbolisme, en tant qu’une école
littéraire, avec les influences idéalistes, mystiques qu’il a subies, a pu
faire oublier que le symbole est d’abord un mode de signification, en-
gagé en tant que tel dans un processus d’interprétation du monde »9.
Maeterlinck concrétise les réflexions symbolistes contemporaines.
Ainsi dans Serres chaudes, il évoque un univers fabuleux et mystérieux.
Ses personnages se caractérisent par un langage « troué » de silences.
La Princesse Maleine est marquée par le mystère, l’inintelligible, le
surhumain et l’infini. Le théâtre de Maeterlinck représente l’irrépré-
sentable par des allusions fines. Il est une épiphanie des mondes invi-
sibles. La réalité y est moins fondamentale que les références à une ex-
périence spirituelle, à des profondeurs cachées qui peuvent être aussi
bien celles de notre inconscient que la révélation des mystères sacrés
de la nature. Cette révélation se fait moins par l’usage de mots à l’état
pur que par le tissage complexe de symboles et d’images dans le dis-
— 46 —
cours textuel, mise en correspondance qui donnera son nom à ce mou-

vement bien connu qu’est le Symbolisme. C’est par sa connaissance
de la peinture ancienne que Maeterlinck en est arrivé à inclure dans
ses textes une dimension visuelle importante. Sa première expérience
littéraire, Le Massacre des Innocents, conte publié en 1896 s’inspire
directement du tableau homonyme de Bruegel l’Ancien. La peinture
médiévale flamande prend d’ailleurs une fonction matricielle dans l’ima-
ginaire de Maeterlinck (qu’on retrouve dans La Princesse Maleine, Les
sept princesses, Les Aveugles, L’intruse, Pelléas et Mélisande, Ariane
et Barbe-Bleue, etc.).
Un des premiers théoriciens du théâtre symboliste, Maeterlinck parle
lui-même de sa conception du théâtre :
« Ce qu’on entend sous le roi Lear, sous Macbeth, sous Hamlet par
exemple, le chant mystérieux de l’infini, le silence menaçant des âmes
ou des Dieux, l’éternité qui gronde à l’horizon, la destinée ou la fatalité
qu’on aperçoit intérieurement sans que l’on puisse dire à quels signes
on la reconnaît, ne pourrait-on, par je ne sais quelle interversion des
rôles, les rapprocher de nous tandis qu’on éloignerait les acteurs ? Est-
il donc hasardeux d’affirmer que le véritable tragique de la vie, le tra-
gique normal, profond et général, ne commence qu’au moment où ce
qu’on appelle les aventures, les douleurs et les dangers sont passés ?
<...> N’est-ce pas la tranquillité qui est terrible lorsqu’on y réflé-
chit et que les astres la surveillent; et le sens de la vie se développe-t-il
dans le tumulte ou le silence ?
<...> N’est-ce pas quand un homme se croit à l’abri de la mort ex-
térieure que l’étrange et silencieuse tragédie de l’être et de l’immensi-
té ouvre vraiment les portes de son théâtre ? »10
En fait, les personnages des pièces de Maeterlinck ne sont ja-
mais véritablement pris sur leur discours, ce qui reflète sans doute
les idées de l’auteur sur la place de l’homme dans l’univers. Comme
écrit Maeterlinck, « Une vérité cachée est ce qui nous fait vivre. Nous
sommes ses esclaves inconscients et muets, et nous nous trouvons en-
chaînés tant qu’elle n’a point paru. »11
Le personnage de ce nouveau théâtre n’est plus ce qu’il paraît. « Ses
paroles ne sont que le masque qui, s’il le constitue précisément en per-
— 47 —
sonnage, l’empêche d’accéder à cette vie profonde qui se dérove à la

saisie habituelle de la scène. Détruire le masque et donc détruire le per-
sonnage, est alors la seule solution pour retrouver, sous l’apparence
sagement entretenue par le théâtre, l’énergie primordiale, la « vérité
cachée » de l’humain »12. Même la façon dont Maeterlinck nomme
ses personnages dans les pièces comme L’Intruse ou Intérieur reflète
d’une manière explicite la disparition du « je parlant ». Père, Mère,
Aïeul etc. Ne sont que des fonctions sociales. Les relations personnelles
sont englouties par un espace de silence qui sépare les personnages.
« L’ensemble du théâtre qui nous intéresse déconstruit la forme drama-
tique en ouvrant le rapport de personnage à personnage et de réplique
à réplique à un troisième terme, totalement silencieux, qui vient trou-
ver sa place précisement dans les creux du dialogue, rendus manifestes
par la paralysie de celui-ci »13. Dans la préface aux trois volumes du
Théâtre Maeterlinck nomme ce phénomène « personnage sublime » :
« ... ce troisième personnage, énigmatique, invisible mais partout
présent, qu’on pourrait appeler le personnage sublime, qui, peut-être,
n’est qu’une idée inconsciente mais forte et convaincue que le poète
se fait de l’univers, et qui donne à l’oeuvre une portée plus grande, je
ne sais quoi qui continue d’y vivre après la mort du reste et permet d’y
revenir sans jamais épuiser la beauté. »14
La présence du personnage sublime silencieux rend impossible le

dialogue traditionnel. Ici, ni l’objet ni le sujet ne sont définitivement dé-
terminés. La parole venant d’ailleurs comme de l’éternité trouve dans
le silence des personnages l’écho qui la fait vivre. « La parole erre, pri-
vée de lieu, décalée et par rapport à son objet et par rapport à son sujet,
chargée seulement de rendre sensible ce troisième personnage qu’elle
cherche désespérément à atteindre et qui est par essence insaisissable.
Si « symbolisme » il y a, chez Maeterlinck, c’est en ce sens précisé-
ment que le dialogue ne peut parvenir qu’à désigner le manque qui fait
la matière de l’action »15.
L’idéal de Maeterlinck c’est de traduire et faire sentir la vérité : « Il
faut que dans un drame on ne dise que les paroles qui devraient être
dites dans la vie, mais qu’on n’y dit pas parce que personne n’a dans le
— 48 —
trouble de l’événement la lucidité nécessaire pour traduire la vérité es-

sentielle du chuchote au fond de son être. Car tout ce qu’on ne dit pas
dans la vie, tout ce qu’on est simplement sur le point de dire à chaque
instant est mille fois plus beau que les paroles sous lesquelles on cache
ces chuchotement de l’âme. »16
Ainsi donc la force extraordinaire du silence vise à transmettre le
sens de l’oeuvre et construire une action sur les ruines de la parole.
Le silence possède aussi une capacité de défaire la parole, sans l’ex-
clure. Le silence n’efface pas la force de la parole, il n’y a qu’un dépla-
cement du centre de gravité du drame toujours au profit du silence. On
peut parler ainsi d’un sorte d’interrelation entre la parole et le silence.
Cette union est instable mais toujours dynamique. Il en existe même
de véritables face à face, où le silence et le verbe n’alternent plus mais
se présentent conjointement. Le silence n’est plus soumis à la parole,
c’est lui qui la produit et en même temps justifie. Sans lui, elle n’a pas
de raison d’être.
Poétique du silence
Pour légitimer le silence théâtral Maeterlinck parvient à créer un
langage spécifique qui balance entre la prose et la poésie. La beauté de
ce langage riche en procédés poétiques fait résonner le silence et aide
le spectateur à l’entendre.
Certains commentateurs de l’oeuvre de Maeterlinck soulignent que
toute son œuvre est poétique, même s’il s’agit des pièces de théâtre.
Elle contribue au renouvellement total de la poésie contemporaine.
Les principes élaborés dans ses premiers recueils poétiques comme
les Serres chaudes (1889) ou les Chansons, le poète-dramaturge les
transporte dans ses pièces de théâtre. Dans certaines pièces comme
La Princesse Maleine l’auteur emploie même la structure rythmique
et l’écriture graphique proches à la poésie. Comme a dit Maeterlinck à
son ami Jules Huret, il avait écrit d’abord la Princesse Maleine en vers
libres, mettant à la ligne chacune des courtes phrases du dialogue. Cette
disposition disparait pourtant de la version éditée, c’est pourquoi cette
oeuvre semble être écrite en prose. Mais justement les innovations ré-
centes de la prose et la poésie contemporaines ont eu pour principal ef-
— 49 —
fet de supprimer la distinction entre la poésie et la prose. « Le théâtre

de Maeterlinck est la mise en pratique d’une poétique du silence, qui,
en faisant du silence ce que, dans le langage, on ne sait pas entendre,
ne sort pas du langage, mais en déplace simplement la conception. Ce
silence actif en tant qu’il est l’écho entre elles des paroles sous-enten-
dues, est une confirmation du langage et non son contraire. Il ne peut
avoir lieu que dans la parole et par elle. Ce sont ces « paroles qu’on
n’entend pas » qui déterminent l’événement » du poème, parce que
l’événement est d’abord dans le langage avant d’être sur la scène. »17
La « prose poétique » de Maeterlinck est une forme de langage in-
termédiaire. Avec des moyens très simples il atteint une extraordinaire
intensité pathétique.
Le résonnement de la pièce est formé par quelques moyens princi-
paux. La nécessité d’une expression poétique se manifeste dans l’om-
niprésence des répétitions. Voici un exemple tiré du Premier Acte de
Pelléas et Mélisande :
MÉLISANDE : Ne me touchez pas ! ne me touchez pas !
GOLAUD : N’ayez pas peur… Je ne vous ferai pas… Oh ! vous
êtes belle !
MÉLISANDE : Ne me touchez pas ! ou je me jette à l’eau !…
GOLAUD : Je ne vous touche pas… Voyez, je resterai ici, contre
l’arbre. N’ayez pas peur. Quelqu’un vous a-t-il fait du mal ?
MÉLISANDE : Oh ! oui ! oui, oui !…
Elle sanglote profondément.
GOLAUD : Qui est-ce qui vous a fait du mal ?
MÉLISANDE : Tous ! tous !
GOLAUD : Quel mal vous a-t-on fait ?
MÉLISANDE : Je ne veux pas le dire ! je ne peux pas le dire !…
GOLAUD : Voyons ; ne pleurez pas ainsi. D’où venez-vous ?
MÉLISANDE : Je me suis enfuie !… enfuie…
GOLAUD : Oui, mais d’où vous êtes-vous enfuie ?
MÉLISANDE : Je suis perdue !… perdue ici… Je ne suis pas d’ici…
Je ne suis pas née là…
GOLAUD : D’où êtes-vous ? Où êtes-vous née ?
MÉLISANDE : Oh ! oh ! loin d’ici… loin… loin…
— 50 —
Ce dialogue constitue un mode polyphonique. Les lignes de Golaud

et de Mélisande sont mises en contrepoint, elles répercutent grâce à une
force omniprésente et silencieuse. Chaque phrase a son écho grâce aux
répétitions des mots, voire des goupes des mots. Selon Gérard Dessons,
« La présence de ces répétitions, comme l’avait compris Mallarmé, est
une nécessité poétique, et ne relève pas d’une affectation de style. On a
donné diverses explications de cette tendance du texte, mobilisant psy-
chologie du ressassement, ou interprétation ontologique : la parole ré-
pétée serait renvoyée à son propre vide. En fait, le phénomène de re-
prise incessante participe d’une poétique dont la signifiance ne repose
pas sur le signe et les catégories qui en découlent (la syntaxe logique,
l’énoncé). En effet, le sentiment de mêmeté produit par la reprise de
séquences verbales n’est pertinent qu’au seul plan discontinu du signe
et de la syntaxe logique. Mais dans le continu du langage, ce qui est
répété ne peut être le même, dans la mesure où la répétition d’un élé-
ment génère chaque fois un contexte prosodique et rythmique nou-
veau, qui modifie la valeur de l’élément répété dans l’économie signi-
fiante du texte »18.
M. Dessons emploie le terme « écholalie » (reconnue comme mala-

die par la médecine) au sens figuré. Ce phénomène reflète un principe
poétique réalisant une tension entre « la discontinuité des répliques et
le contenu rythmique de la parole du drame. » On retrouve les prin-
cipes de l’écholalie dans le cadre des répliques du même personnage,
comme dans les chansons de Mélisande (« Je suis née un dimanche.
Un dimanche à midi »), mais surtout lors des dialogues. Avec le silence
cette tension est encore plus évidente.
ARKEL : Je n’y vois qu’une grande innocence…
GOLAUD : Une grande innocence !… Ils sont plus grands que l’in-
nocence !… Ils sont plus purs que les yeux d’un agneau… Ils donne-
raient à Dieu des leçons d’innocence ! Une grande innocence !
La prosodie et le rythme de la pièce inventent une syntaxe, une
grammaire et un lexique spécifiques. La musique des consonnes crée
les champs sémantiques appartenant aux personnages principaux.
« Ainsi, dans la lettre où Golaud raconte à Pelléas comment il a ren-
— 51 —
contré Mélisande, figure ce passage : « et quand on lui demande ce qui

lui est arrivé, elle pleure tout à coup comme un enfant et sanglotte si
profondément qu’on a peur ». D’un point de vue lexical, les verbes qui
décrivent le chagrin de Mélisande, pleurer et sangloter, appartiennent
à un même paradigme logique, celui de l’expression de la peine. Mais,
prosodiquement, ils relèvent de deux paradigmes différents, qui sont
des paradigmes poétiques. Pleure relève du paradigmes de Pelléas (PL)
« C’est Pelléas. Il a pleuré ». Sanglotte, de celui de Golaud (GL) :
« Golaud sanglotant : Oh! Oh! Oh! ». La simple différence de degré qui
distingue logiquement pleurer et sangloter dessine, poétiquement, l’es-
pace agonistique du drame. En effet, les deux frères, Pelléas et Golaud,
qui sont en situation de rivalité amoureuse, sont également en rivali-
té prosodique, deux séries en PL et GL inscrivant dans le phrasé de la
pièce la marque prosodique dans ce conflit. »19 Le choix lexical crée
des paradigmes prosodiques constituant les portraits des personnages.
Si le portrait de Golaud se compose des termes sangloter, aveugle, en-
gloutir, étrangler, glisser, glace, sanglier, celui de Pelléas est créé par
des termes pleurer, plus, appeler, plein, pleuvoir, pâle.
En tenant compte d’une collaboration continue entre les champs sé-

mantico-prosodiques, on voit des liaisons dramaturgiques se tendant
d’un acte à l’autre. Ainsi, le premier dialogue entre Pelléas et Mélisande
nous fait déjà sentir le dénouement tragique irréversible :
PELLÉAS : Prenez garde de glisser… Je vais vous tenir la main…
MÉLISANDE : Non, non, je voudrais y plonger mes deux mains…
on dirait que mes mains sont malades aujourd’hui…
L’eau, par sa morphologie, appelle des associations avec le mystère.

Les philosophes présocratiques et l’école ionienne, s’interrogeant sur
la formation du monde, proposèrent un arché, un principe unique. Tout
provient de l’eau universelle et tout y retourne. Cette doctrine est, du
reste, proche de celle de l’ancienne Egypte pour laquelle la source de
toute vie est la masse d’eau primitive personnifiée sous le nom de Nu et
qui est à l’origine des deux fleuves sacrés : le Nil qui donne la vie d’une
part et le Ciel sur lequel flotte la barque de Râ, le soleil, d’autre part.
— 52 —
Dans nombre de civilisations on trouve le thème du Déluge. Pour les

Juifs, l’eau est l’élément choisi par Dieu pour châtier ceux qui ont fauté,
et c’est le déluge. Mythes, croyances et symboles liés à l’eau prouvent
que celle-ci est le vecteur d’une culture enracinée dans les perceptions
et l’imaginaire des hommes sous toutes les latitudes même si une sym-
bolique unique de l’eau est difficile à prouver et qu’on ne peut nier dans
le même temps certaines convergences frappantes. L’ambivalence est
cependant souvent présente : l’archétype de tous les fleuves, le Nil,
était associé aux mythes de la mort, de la résurrection et de la fertilité.
Dans le système des symboles de Maeterlinck l’eau est à l’origine du
monde mystérieux. C’est aussi le symbole des énergies inconscientes,
des puissances informes de l’âme, des motivations secrètes et incon-
nues. L’eau dormante est associée à Mélisande, qui ressemble elle-même
à l’eau et apparaît comme une ondine. Golaud la trouve près d’une
source d’eau. On voit de même naître l’amour de Pelléas et Mélisande
devant une profonde fontaine d’eau, dont les personnages eux-mêmes
éprouvent une crainte subconsciente. Pelléas la demande de prendre
garde de glisser, en évoquant prosodiquement l’image de Golaud dont
il faut se garder. Mais Mélisande veut y plonger ses mains, en liant pro-
sodiquement le désir inconscient avec Pelléas. Et quand la catastrophe
d’amour est inévitable on entend les termes de Pelléas au passé com-
posé, comme si tout était déterminé :
PELLÉAS : Vos cheveux ont plongé dans l’eau…
MÉLISANDE : Oui, oui ; ils sont plus longs que mes bras… Ils
sont plus longs que moi…
Un silence.
« Ils sont plus longs que mes bras » – ne veut-il pas dire « c’est plus
fort que moi »? C’est dans le silence suivant cette réplique que l’on
peut s’en rendre compte.
ENDNOTES:
1
Heidegger Martin, 1993, «Etre et temps», Gallimard, p. 115.
2
Barthes Rolland, 1972, «Le Degré zéro de l’écriture», Paris : Seuil, p. 57
— 53 —
3
Raynaud Ernest, 1920, «La Mêlée Symboliste»(1870 – 1890) Portraits et souve-
nirs, Paris, La Renaissance du livre, p. 2-3.
4
Ibid, p. 55.
5
Ibid, p. 59
6
Ibid, pp. 179-180.
7
BABLET (Denis), Esthétique générale du décor de théâtre de 1870 à 1914 . Editions
CNRS, Collection Le Chœur des Muses. Paris, 1965. p.80
8
Ibid, p. 81.
9
DESSONS (Gérard), Maeterlinck, le théâtre du poème, Paris, Laurence Teper, 2005,
p. 113
10
MAETERLINCK (Maurice), Le tragique quotidien , 1896, dans Le trésor des
Humbles, Lecture d’albert Spinette, Bruxelles, Labor, 1998, p. 101-102.
11
MAETERLINCK (Maurice), Le trésor des humbles, « Novalis », Bruxelles, Edition
Labor, 1998, p. 97
12
RYKNER (Arnaud), L’envers du théâtre. Dramaturgie du silence de l’âge clas-
sique à Maeterlinck, Paris, José Corti, 1996, p. 291
13
Ibid, p. 298
14
MAETERLINCK (Maurice), Théâtre, tome 1, p. 16
15
RYKNER (Arnaud), L’envers du théâtre. Dramaturgie du silence de l’âge clas-
sique à Maeterlinck, Paris, José Corti, 1996, p. 299-300
16
Annales de la Fondation Maurice Maeterlinck, tome 16, p. 14.
17
DESSONS (Gérard), Maeterlinck, le théâtre du poème, Paris, Laurence Teper, 2005,
p. 87
18
Ibid, p. 80.
19
Ibid, p. 82
BIBLIOGRAPHIE:
1. Heidegger Martin, 1993, «Etre et temps», Gallimard, p. 115.
2. Barthes Rolland, 1972, «Le Degré zéro de l’écriture», Paris : Seuil, p. 57
3. Raynaud Ernest, 1920, «La Mêlée Symboliste»(1870 – 1890) Portraits et souve-
nirs, Paris, La Renaissance du livre, p. 2-3.
4. BABLET (Denis), Esthétique générale du décor de théâtre de 1870 à 1914. Editions
CNRS, Collection Le Chœur des Muses. Paris, 1965. p. 80.
5. DESSONS (Gérard), Maeterlinck, le théâtre du poème, Paris, Laurence Teper, 2005,
p. 113
6. MAETERLINCK (Maurice), Le tragique quotidien , 1896, dans Le trésor des
Humbles, Lecture d’albert Spinette, Bruxelles, Labor, 1998, p. 101-102.
7. MAETERLINCK (Maurice), Le trésor des humbles, « Novalis », Bruxelles, Edition
Labor, 1998, p. 97
8. RYKNER (Arnaud), L’envers du théâtre. Dramaturgie du silence de l’âge clas-
sique à Maeterlinck, Paris, José Corti, 1996, p. 291
9. MAETERLINCK (Maurice), Théâtre, tome 1, p. 16
10.RYKNER (Arnaud), L’envers du théâtre. Dramaturgie du silence de l’âge clas-
sique à Maeterlinck, Paris, José Corti, 1996, p. 299-300
11. DESSONS (Gérard), Maeterlinck, le théâtre du poème, Paris, Laurence Teper, 2005,
p. 87
— 54 —
E. Zherdev Value of Metaphor in Industrial Design
Evgeniy Zherdev
Doctor of art sciences,
Professor of the Stroganov Moscow State
Art Industrial Academy,
Moscow
VALUE OF METAPHOR IN INDUSTRIAL DESIGN
Keywords: industrial design, metaphor, art form, art language,

metalanguage.
Summary: In the article there is investigated the role of metaphor in
the art language of industrial design. The author researches meanings
of literary terms “personification”, “metamorphosis”, ”epithet”, “pe-
riphrasis”, “oxymoron”, “catachresis” and other. Industrial design is re-
garded as a metalanguage, while the metaphor is an instrument which
embodies different nuances of artistic conceptual content in contem-
porary design.
Metaphor is an important category of contemporary art language.

Line, color, geometrical form are artistic when they express mean-
ing, being the signs of our world. Etymology of the Russian word
“художник” (“hudozhnic”, “artist” in wide meaning) is very inter-
esting. Its analysis is absent in great Explanatory Dictionary by V.I.
Dal’. The remarkable information about it is contained in Etymological
Dictionary by M. Fasmer1. The Old Russian words “худогий” (“hu-
doghiy”), “художный” (“hudozhny”) are translated as “artist”. The
Ukrainian word “худога” (“hudoga”) is translated as “master”, “skilled
craftsman”; the Polish word “chеdogi” is “clean”, “tidy”. Fasmer also
writes that the Russian word “ходог” (“hodog”) is related to the Gothic
“handags” (“clever”, “wise”) and “handus” (“hand”). The English words
“hand”, “handy” and “handy man” are translated as “able-handed”.
“Handags” etymologically changed as “hundoga” (“хундога”), later
— 55 — © E. Zherdev, 2013
“hudozhny” (“художный”) and in the end – “hudozhnic” (“художник”),

artist, painter.
When we speak about a piece of art, we speak about its seman-
tic, spiritual meaning. It is right for objects of industrial design too.
Designers as sculptors intensify aesthetic expression of pieces and use
metaphor, allegory, symbols. Significant metaphorical expression that
spectators can percept is the artistic quality.
Artist is not a copy master, but spectators are deeply impressed by
his picture. I.E. Repin in his painting “Grand session in State Council”
does not give details of orders of the members of Council, but we see
these orders in detail when looking at the painting in general. Caricature
is not a copy, but its expression is greater than of a photo. Sometimes
schematic portrayal and symbolic lines are even more expressive than
the exact picture of an object.
People see bare roots of trees, magnificent clouds, forms of stones
and rocks, shapes of animals, birds, objects and others. For example, in
the Crimea near Gurzuf there is a mountain called Ayu-Dag (translated
from Turkish as “Bear-mountain”). It resembles a drinking bear. Also
in the Crimea there is a rock in Koktebel called Cara-Dag (“Черная,
“чертова” гора”) (“Black, “devil’s” mountain”) that resembled the
profile of М. Voloshin, the Russian poet and painter of the early XX
century. It is with the ability to build fantasies that the person’s artis-
tic appreciation of the world begins. Industrial design as well as other
kinds of visual arts has a specific non-verbal language. The language
of art, inclusive industrial design, is implemented as the metalanguage.
The visual language of industrial design, however, is a language
in metaphorical meaning, it is a so-called metalanguage. The basis of
design metalanguage is a metatext (art foundation); recipients percept
and understand its content, art conception. Art text arises in a way of
a transfer from the level of signs onto the level of meaning. Language
disappears in its sense; it functions as the connection (dialogue) be-
tween a designer and a receiver (consumer) and as an embodiment of
spiritual content of a piece of industrial design.
German philosopher Ernst Cassirer (1874 – 1945) described a mean-
ing of metaphor and symbols in language2. His idea of metaphorical
— 56 —
and symbolical forms being a universal spiritual energy that connects

content and sign is right for industrial design too.
Linguistics describes two levels in a language: a level of expres-
sion and a level of content. It is a rule for design too. Their interre-
lations form a system. Connotations and metalanguage are opposite.
R. Barthes’ ideas about fashion and advertising are correlative for all
spheres of design3. Advertising and posters are “the library of streets”
(В.Маяковский) (V.V. Mayakovskiy). A wall acts as a stone for prehis-
toric painter or sculptor, as well as canvas is for painter and paper is for
writer. It is inside an inner side of the skull where dreams are imprint-
ed. Bart writes about associative meaning in advertising where design-
er can use two rhetorical figures: metaphor and metonymy.
Functions of artistic metalanguage in industrial design are differ-
ent. For example, this language displays content, meaning. Designer
uses poetic manners: metaphor, symbol, allegory, metonymy, synonym,
homonym.
Metaphor is a very powerful method of art form creation. Nine
kinds of metaphor are used in industrial design. Five kinds correlate
phenomena of world and a piece of design: personification, metamor-
phosis, parallelism, epithet, periphrasis4.
Four metaphoric ways correlate with utilitarian function of a piece
of design: simile, antithesis, oxymoron and catachresis (bathos).
We can display typologies of using of metaphor in industrial design:
1. Kinds of metaphoric personification (anthropomorphism, zoo-
morphism, floromorphism);
2. Kinds of metaphoric metamorphosis (transformation, change of
function);
3. Kinds of metaphoric parallelism (bionical or artistic repetition-
iteration);
4. Kind of metaphorical epithet (transfer of decorative qualities);
5. Kind of metaphorical periphrasis (allegory);
6. Mode of metaphorical simile (correlation of likeness);
7. Mode of metaphorical antithesis (correlation of contradictoriness);
8. Mode of metaphorical oxymoron (paradoxical comparison);
— 57 —
9. Mode of metaphorical catachresis (caricature, parody, ironical

comparison).
Personification in design is schematic without naturalism. This meth-
od is interesting for designers who prefer wit in art. They create styl-
ized, summarized images.
Metamorphosis is formed when composition of interchangeable el-
ements of construction generate new functional qualities. It is a change
of shape, form and function of an object: for example, a combined
knife-fan, a vacuum cleaner-container. Metamorphosis intensifies ex-
pression of composition.
Parallelism is a way in which a designer applies elements of one con-
struction for other. For example, the principle of folded in two cockle-
shells is used in watches, boxes and elsewhere. Some features of ani-
mals, birds, fishes are used in construction of machines, instruments,
apparatus (bionics). The cupboards “Casablanca” and “Carlton” by E.
Sottsass’ are like a tree. Metaphoric parallelism is a transfer of techno-
logical characteristics onto other things. So technology of weaving a
basket is used in watch bracelets.
Epithet is a transfer of decorative qualities onto other things, usu-
ally color and texture. Using of enamel “chameleon”, “sea wave” or
“metallic” is an application of epithet. Italian designers, for example
A. Mendini, create furniture with drawing in a form of impressionism
and abstractionism.
Periphrasis is a kind of allegory, often with ironical nuance. A
modern thing is created in old styles with contemporary elements.
Sometimes women’s watch features Russian folk decorative art “gzhel”
(glazed pottery, plates and dishes, toys with drawings, usually white
and blue), “hohloma” (wood plates and dishes, boxes with drawings
golden, black and red colors), or a lamp looking like a soviet symbol
“hammer and sickle”.
Different kinds of metaphor often are combined. Personification,
metamorphosis, parallelism, epithet and periphrasis are being used in
metaphors for an outward appearance. Other kinds of metaphor are ap-
plied for correlation of phenomena and utilitarian function. They are
comparison, antithesis, oxymoron and catachresis.
— 58 —
Comparison emphasizes utilitarian function of things. It is espe-

cially visible in personification. For example, when a form of scoop
is like a duck it displays its function “to dive”. We can remember the
Russian riddle: “A duck is in a sea, a tail is on a fence” (“Utka v more,
hvost na zabore”).
Antithesis is a contradictory correlation. It is, for example, a knife-
fan because it is impossible to use a knife as a fan.
Oxymoron is, for example, a form of a hen for a scoop; a hen can-
not swim. A table with glass table-cloth, when its corners are parts of
legs (Italy, 1990) is an expressive example of oxymoron too.
Catachresis is a sharp, ironical, grotesque correlation. It is, for ex-
ample, unified furniture by M. Takiama for sitting and lying positions.
Its form is like a woman doing gymnastics; or a stool with legs as feet
in sports footwear.
In practice of industrial design typologies of figures and stylistic
manners are usually applied in combination, as symbiosis:
Personification – comparison; Parallelism – oxymoron;
Personification – antithesis; Parallelism – catachresis;
Personification – oxymoron; Epithet – comparison;
Personification – catachresis; Epithet – antithesis;
Metamorphosis – comparison; Epitheû– oxymoron;
Metamorphosis – antithesis; Epithet – catachresis;
Metamorphosis – oxymoron; Periphrasis – comparison;
Metamorphosis – catachresis; Periphrasis – antithesis;
Parallelism – comparison; Periphrasis – oxymoron;
Parallelism – antithesis; Periphrasis – catachresis.
Metaphor is the embodiment of conceptual content of ideas, of their

expression in the image-concept. A designer seeks for a non-tradition-
al view on a design situation and finds the image.
Metalanguage in industrial design displays content meaning where
role of metaphor, symbol, allegory, metonymy, synonym, homonym
is significant.
Designers use metaphorical language in design art form for expres-
sion of creative credo, of new conceptions. It is displayed in experi-
mental spheres of designer’s creative work, for example, in conceptu-
— 59 —
al designs of dwellings, in visual metaphors in everyday objects and

non-utilitarian designs.
Metaphor is an instrument with rich possibilities; a designer can
succeed in embodiment of different nuances of meaning. He can em-
body new ideas about the world, its phenomena and objects.
ENDNOTES:
1
Fasmer, M., 1987. “Etymologicheskiy slovar’ russcogo yazyka”. (Fasmer, M.
Etymological Dictionary of Russian Language) (in 4 v.). M.,. [4].
2
Kassirer, E., 1995, “Lektsii po philosophii i culture // Kulturologia. XX vek:
Antologia” (Kassirer, E. Philosophical and Culturological Lections) // Culturology.
XX Century: Anthology.). M.,. P.104 – 162. [3].
3 Barthes, R. 2004. “System of Vogue.” Articles about Semiotics of Culture). M,. [1].
4
This theory is investigated in the work: Zherdev, Е. V. Меtaphora v disaine.
(Zherdev, Е. V. 2010 “Methaphor in Design”).- М.,. [2].
BIBLIOGRAPHY:
1. Barthes, R. 2004. “System of Vogue.” Articles about Semiotics of Culture. Moscow.
2. Zherdev, E. 2011 “A metaphor in design“, a Student book, 2nd edition. p. 464.
3. Kassirer, E., 1995, “Philosophical and Culturological Lections”, Culturology. XX
Century: Anthology, Moscow, pp. 104 – 162.
4. Fasmer, M., 1987. Etymological Dictionary of Russian Language.
5. Freivert L.B. 2012. “Architecture and architectonic”, Burganov’s House Space of
Culture, n.2 (36), pp. 36-56.
— 60 —
A. Lavrentiev Where Rodchenko Meets Calder and Calder Meets Rodchenko
Alexander Lavrentiev
Doctor of Arts, Professor, Vice President
for Research and International Relations
The Stroganov Moscow State Art Industrial Academy,
Moscow
WHERE RODCHENKO MEETS CALDER

AND CALDER MEETS RODCHENKO
Keywords: Alexander Rodchenko, Russian Avant-garde, design,

Alexander Calder, constructivism.
Summary: The article is dedicated to comparative analysis of spa-
tial constructions created by the Russian Avant-Garde Artist Alexander
Rodchenko and the famous kinetic European and American artist
Alexander Calder in the first half of the 20-th century. For both artists
technology played the decisive role in constructing spatial objects, both
of them used line as a basic expressive element. Still there is a certain
difference stressed by the author: Rodchenko used linear elements to
express structural and constructive qualities of spatial objects, while
Calder was more intending to represent emotion and movement.
There exist certain parallels and comparisons in the history of the

Modern Art sculpture. As a whole it can be regarded as an internation-
al substance. Local works and figures sometimes help to understand
global processes. Especially interesting is the period at the origin of
abstract sculpture and the creation of a new branch, which in Russia in
the 1920-s got the name of “constructions”, or “spatial constructions”.
Alexander Rodchenko (1891–1956), the Russian Avant-garde paint-
er, designer and photographer is well known as the creator of the three
original cycles of spatial constructions in 1918–1921. Even more, while
creating these works he developed the title. From works which he called
in the catalogue of the 10-th State exhibition in Moscow as ‘White
— 61 — © A. Lavrentiev, 2013
Non-Objective Sculptures” he came to free suspended mobiles made

of concentric elements which were entitled “Constructions”. His so-
called “sculptures” were made of cardboard geometric details connect-
ed by hinges. The title “Sculpture” had to stress two aspects. First, those
were 3d objects for viewing from different sides. Second, the forms
were attached to the basement, like in most portraits or figure etudes.
The free-suspended objects did not have any links with the traditional
understanding of sculpture. They were representing some kind of geo-
metrical and technological principles, ideas of structure in a very gen-
eral sense rather than interpreting some natural forms or dealing with
ethical or emotional substances. Those were analytical formulas.
While working over these objects Rodchenko came to a paradoxi-
cal conclusion that surface (flat material) is more spatial than the vol-
ume. He wanted to underline the contrast between the narrow border
of the form (in fact a line) and the surface as a huge flat and even area.
The contrast between the sharp edge and the nuance is the tonal gradi-
ent of the surface. From his point of view this contrast gave stronger
feeling of space than the massive volumetrical forms. In fact a number
of artists started to use flat material – cardboard, plywood, metal and
later plexiglas as a material of spatial compositions due to this effect.
Graphics and elements mostly associated with graphics became the
material of spatial forms.
Alexander Calder could come to similar conclusions after his series
of animals or human figures made of wire. The line as a usual graphic
tool was used as a material of a sculpture in 1926—1928. But even in
the abstract sculptures like the “Universe” of 1931, or balancing com-
positions of 1930 where the forms bent from wires create an absolutely
transparent object – he still remains on the territory of fine art. Due to
some imperfections in finished work, that stresses the hand-made qual-
ity of the object. In his famous “Circus” we can see how inventively
these very schematic contours suddenly reflect characteristic features of
motion of acrobats, magicians, animal tamers and animals themselves.
In Alfred Barr’s book “Cubism and Abstract Art”1 two works by
Alexander Calder were published – the mobile and the wire construc-
tion. Alfred Barr mentioned him as “sculptor and constructivist”. The
— 62 —
A.M. Rodchenko. Spatial design №. 10. 1920–21. Aluminum
same characteristic was given to Alexander Rodchenko: “painter, con-

structivist, typographer, photographer”.
The whole book is an interesting justification of abstraction in Art as
a new tradition of the 20-th century. In order to prove it Barr construct-
— 63 —
ed a diagram showing the influences and crossroads of major artistic

trends of the late 19-th and early 20-th centuries that were placed on the
cover of his book. Abstraction started to characterize the contemporary
way of seeing, thinking and quasi-scientific research in Art. In Alfred
Bar’s concept constructivism has a wide specter of artists and includes
a lot of events, which we traditionally place outside the movement.
Works of Calder were photographed for the book directly in the art-
ist’s studio. Rodchenko’s works were represented in photographs from
models and graphic design and some real graphic pieces donated to Barr
during his visit to Moscow in 1928.
“Malevich grew to be the center of a large circle of younger artists
some of whom, under the leadership of Alexander Rodchenko, formed
a schismatic group calling themselves the Non-Objectivists”2.
Barr calls Rodchenko’s series of line-constructions “the first of their
kind”.
The reason why Barr included into his book Rodchenko’s spatial
construction n.14 (quite a rare object, linking the artist’s linear concept
with works on paper, paintings and the 3-d sculptures) was its unusual
tectonics. It was not a sculpture, neither it was not a relief, it was not
a solid object as well. It was an airy structure, which used quite a rare
principle of cantilever balance. The only existing photo of this object
was probably taken by Alfred Barr and included into his book. This
object was incomparable with other objects in the book or in the ex-
hibition at the Museum of Modern Art. The second construction men-
tioned by Barr – was the circle within the circle as the first free sus-
pended mobile.
But both of Rodchenko pieces correspond well to the suspension
and balance compositions by Alxander Calder.
For Barr the most precious was this early period of “pure Construc-
tivism”, proсeeding the “more practical activities”3 of Rodchenko and
his friends from the circle of constructivists who designed theatre sets,
kiosks, posters and typography.
According to Barr’s principal division and classification of abstract
art there are two main flows: intellectual, concerned with structure and
emotional, concerned with expression. The same two flows can be found
— 64 —
in the constructivist trends. Rodchenko would represent the more ratio-

nal pole of construction, while Calder – more intuitive. They balance
each other, forming the strange “constructivist swings”.
Barr seems to understand the nature of this link between Rodchenko
and Calder. In a passage from the same book dedicated to Calder he
can not miss Rodchenko and Gabo as reference points.
“Calder, under the joint influence of Mondrian and Gabo, turned his
back on the popular success of his wire portraits to experiment with
mobile constructions built of wire, iron pipe and metal (fig. 218). Many
of the mobiles were composed of objects hung by strings or supported
by flexible wires. Others were driven by motors. They display an in-
genuity and visual humor quite different from the kinetic constructions
which Gabo designed as early as 1922 or Rodchenko’s hanging con-
structions of 1920 (figs. 130, 131). Recently Calder has deserted geo-
metrical shapes for irregular quasi-organic forms (fig. 219).
Helion was also a devoted follower of Mondrian but has gradual-
ly broken away from flat squares and straight lines to curved, slight-
ly modelled forms without, however, sacrificing the purity of his ear-
lier style (fig. 220)”4.
Alfred Barr’s publication could serve for Rodchenko as a source-
book about the Modernist trends in the World Art. And he could see
there a couple of Calder’s works.
Calder was as part abstract dada as movable Arp.
Rodchenko was 7 years older than Calder. It is not a big difference,
but still they belong to different stages of Modernism. Rodchenko act-
ed at the moment of breaking with the tradition of realism. Calder came
into action at the moment when abstraction was already proclaimed and
he was free to move in any direction – towards expressive abstraction
or metaphorical associations, design or architecture.
In comparison with Rodchenko Calder had really technical education
as mechanical engineer from Sevens Institute of Technology – (1919,
when Rodchenko already announced his Non-objective approach) and
worked as an engineer.
Rodchenko had only artistic uncompleted education from the Kazan
Art School. His technological skills came from being dentist’s appren-
— 65 —
tice and collecting all the construction manuals. He liked order and all
of his instruments were placed on a panel attached to the wall in his
darkroom and hanging vertically. There was a hand drill here, pliers,
pincers for stretching the canvas, wood borer, hammer, snips (scissors
for metal), centimeter and etc. Perhaps Rodchenko and Calder could use
almost identical type of a drill – they both needed holes for assemblying.
There is another book where Calder and Rodchenko come upon each
other. It is a monograph by a Russian contemporary kinetic artist and
architect Viacheslav Koleichuk called “Kinetism”. In a wider sense ki-
netic art is an absolutely new field of artistic creation, which was fore-
seen and established due to the activity of Calder and Rodchenko. They
both put action into their works and started to use motion as integral
part of the artistic imagery.
“Kinetic compositions using natural engines are rather different.
Let us remember the monument to Columbus designed by Melnikov
or mobiles by Calder, using the motion of the air”5, - writes Koleichuk.
Of course Rodchenko and Calder nowadays can be placed togeth-
er as outstanding artists, as contemporaries, as those who defined the
contemporary art.
But somehow their biographies link. Living in Paris, Calder knew
Man Ray and Leger. Rodchenko met them as well three years earlier
in 1925 working for the Soviet section of the International exhibition
of Decorative Arts.
There is a note that heads to the advertising agency in Philadelphia
an admirer of futurism, Leo Lionni in the 1940-s commissioned Calder
among other young artists. Lionni’s greatest impression of his childhood
was Chagall’s picture of a Fiddler in his family house in Amsterdam.
Through Chagall we can reach the Russian avant-garde art and the
whole situation in Russia with strong constructivist trends. Rodchenko
and Chagall could easily meet in Moscow in 1917 when Rodchenko
was a secretary of the Young Federation of the Painter’s Trade-union.
Rodchenko and Calder have positions on different sides of the con-
structivist kinetic see-saw. Rodchenko is fully analytical. His goal is
disselection and representation of the details of the mechanism. Calder
is more expressive. He puts life into the mechanism.
— 66 —
Calder’s works represent the tensions of space, which is not ho-

mogenius and has points of concentration of energy. His sculptures
often have needle-point edges that look like a stroke of a lightning…
There exists a caricature on Rodchenko made by his wife Varvara
Stepanova in 1922. Rodchenko is wearing his famous constructivist
outfit and holding a line in his hand as his main tool, which also resem-
bles Zeus with a lightning…
ENDNOTES:
1
The book was published in the conjunction with the exhibition with the same title
“Cubism and Abstract Art” at the Museum of Modern Art in New York in 1936. It
was first really a multimedia exhibition at an art museum including painting, sculp-
ture, constructions, photography, architecture, industrial art, theatre, film, posters,
typography
2
Barr, Alfred. 1936. Cubism and Abstract Art, New York, p.126
3
ibid, p.133
4
ibid, p.197
5
Viacheslav Koleichuk, Kinetism, Moscow, 1994, p.28
BIBLIOGRAPHIE:
1. Barr, Alfred. 1936. Cubism and Abstract Art, New York, p.126
2. Koleichuk, Viacheslav. 1994. Kinetism, Moscow, p.28
3. Burganova, M. 2013. “Expirience of minimalism”, Burganov’s House Space of
Culture, n.1, pp. 15-31.
3. Smolenkova, J. 2003. “VHUTEMAS”, Burganov’s House Space of Culture, n.3,
pp. 65-83.
— 67 —
I. Pavlova The Images of Natural Elements in M. E. Saltykov-Shchedrin’s Works
Irina Pavlova
Doctor of Philology
Senior scholar
of A.M. Gorky Institute of World Literature
Russian Academy of Science
Moscow
THE IMAGES OF NATURAL ELEMENTS

IN M. E. SALTYKOV-SHCHEDRIN’S WORKS
Keywords: fire, water, air, earth, world disharmony, expectations

of the “golden age”.
Summary: The images of natural elements in Saltykov-Shcûdrin’ s
works. The article examines the elements of nature in Saltykov-Shche-
drin’s works and its motives.
The work of Saltykov-Shchedrin, the enlightener, skeptic and so-

cial moralist, expresses rationalistic direction at de-mythologization.
At the same time, the scholars wrote, that the entire author’s works to a
greater or lesser extent are connected to folklore, mythology, the char-
acter and methods of which are extremely original and complicated.
The important part of Russian world in Saltykov-Shchedrin’s works
is the natural origin. His works reveal the image of Motherland in so-
cial, everyday life and in political contexts. Ideologically important is
the image of Russia as a field of cooperation between the natural forc-
es connected to mythological presentation.
Three mobile elements – Fire, Water and Air are represented as
blind, destructive, carrying sufferings, conflicts.
The complete image of Fire (Flames) appears in the chapter “Straw
town” of the satire “The History of a Town”. The author depicts the pic-
ture of chaos: the sky, black and scary abyss from above, cut with light-
ening, the air filled with clouds of dust; the severe silhouette of the fire
— 68 — © I. Pavlova, 2013
I. Pavlova The Images of Natural Elementsin M. E. Saltykov-Shchedrin’s Works
appears against this terrible background. The burning straw flocks were
everywhere. Lightened points, flames spread in the rage sea, which spins
by itself between the shores. The picture gains eschatological sense.
The chapter “The confirmation of repentance. Conclusion” reminds us
about destructive activity of Ugrum-Burcheev, which ended with the
free time expanding of Glupov residents, along with “the flames of trea-
son appearance from the ashes”.1 (VIII, 421). It means that the things
have reached the crisis point. Z. G. Mints and Y. M. Lotman marked, that
“from all the destructive elements fire more singles out the signs of in-
stantaneity, eschatology, fire is aimed at, on the one hand, Apocalypse,
and, on the other hand, at “Russian revolt” 2. The Fire in this work is
mystical – it appears as inexorable “the most miserable from the evils,
that fulfill unconscious natural forces” (VIII, 323), or connected to
social explosion. The catastrophe cleans up; it frees the place for un-
known. “You may say to yourself, that the past is gone and it’s time to
start something new, something, that you would like to confront, but
you can’t avoid, because it will come anyway under the name of to-
morrow” (VIII, 324). The image of destructive and purifying Fire re-
lates to wrathful history movement similar to hot lava – melted liquid
fire mass, in the article “Modern ghosts” (1863). The fire in story “The
fire in village” is shown as withering, evil, blind element.
The image of Sun is very close to fire. In “The Golovlyov Family”
rising sun doesn’t warm and enlighten people, but deepens the feeling
of loneliness and desperation. It’s seen in the scene of old and help-
less Arina Petrovna Golovlyov prayer and cry: “She sat, leaning her
face against arm and watching with the eyes full of tears at the rising
sun, as if she told it – see!” (XIII, 168). In the tale “Horse” (1885) the
sun is a fire ball that pours out sun rays, a source of unbearable torture.
The element of Water in “The History of a Town” is dark and un-
controllable. Despite governor Ugrum-Burcheev’s attempts to block it,
the water didn’t change its course and kept purling mystically. “It was
nonsense, or, to tell right, two nonsenses faced each other; the first,
created by Ugrum-Burcheev himself, and the second, burst into from
outside and declared about its independence from the first one” (VIII,
— 69 —
408). The administrative- bureaucratic insinuations and leveled chime-

ras were disgraced in front of the stubborn water movement.
The variety of water states – snow, ice. When you depict the envi-
ronment and imagine these symbols, you can hear death, despair and
anguish motives. The fog, dampness, snow and rain – is the main de-
scription of the capital in early Saltykov-Shchedrin’s tale “The compli-
cated matter” (1848), made in the frames of the “realistic school”. In
the chapter “The road. (Instead of epilogue)” of “Provincial sketches”
storyteller complains about irritating his feelings snow dust that “keeps
human in a violent custody” (II, 462). The falling snow melts on the
face, so that water flows down unpleasantly. The first snow and silver
cloud seem poetic from the first sight, which is not true. The valleys
do not breathe under the snow blanket, and tired traveler thinks, that
there is a hiding deadman under this blanket. This story depicts Russia
on the reforms’ threshold, but nothing changes in Russian life eighteen
years later in “Loyal speeches”: “Shrouds, shrouds, shrouds! Shrouds
on fields and meadows; shroud forged the river; the sleeping forest is
covered with snow shroud; Russian village is hidden under the snow
blanket. <…> Desert, hopeless and tearing apart heart desert… Here
came whirlwind, bored the snow blanket – and, it seemed, that some-
thing moaned. <…> One appears, that the whole surrounding was full
of groans, that the wind grabs accidental by the road sounds and col-
lects them in a common moan…Shrouds and moans”. (XI, 343).
The air element is semantically connected to the images of wind,
smoke, frozen steam, and cold. In the story “The complicated mat-
ter” wind always moans in the town streets that are covered with cold
and poverty. The leitmotif of this tale is “he’s chilly, chilly, chi-i-illy,
poor man!” (I, 232) But sometimes wind appears to the main charac-
ter Michulin as chilly, praying for sympathy homeless poor man. The
atmosphere in capital is poisoned and harmful literally and figuratively
for human. Possibly because the skies are meant to be the home for de-
monic forces, the mystical “it” in “The History of a Town” rushes in the
air: “The North got darker and was covered with storm clouds; some-
thing was speeding from these clouds: the rain or storm” (VIII, 423).
The air fills up with ominous Ugrum-Burcheev. The gusts strengthen
— 70 —
sorrowful, cheerless morale state, provoking the feeling of the trage-

dy of existence.
The image of Earth takes a special place in the world culture. The
image of Earth is equal to the image of Motherland in national con-
sciousness; it’s also connected to long suffering and patience. As op-
posed to Fire, Air and Water, Earth is a static element. It calls forth au-
thor’s love and pain. Human being is linked to it, when a person carries
inside his heart the colours of his Motherland, Earth, in its turn, owns
the best part of human himself. We can see characters’ sincere state-
ments about it in “Provincial sketches”, cycles “Mon Repos refuge”,
“Abroad” and other Saltykov-Shchedrin’s works. In the story “Misha
and Vanya. Forgot story” from the cycle “The Innocent stories” there
is a narrative’s emotional appeal to damp earth which is overfilled with
cruelty and landowners’ evil deeds. Russian earth is soaked with peas-
ants’ tears, so the author depicts one boy, who decided to murder him-
self that his tears streamed down his cheeks freely like “spring that
flows from the overfilled chest of mother-land” (III, 90).
The satire “The History of a Town” demonstrates that the governors’
activity is so harmful that it undermines society and essential founda-
tion. The earth may be deserted by abomination. Ugrum-Burcheev turns
the earth into plain bottom, springboard, “the straight line”, “squeezing
in the whole visible and invisible world” (VIII, 403).
And people can be mocking and thoughtless in relation to Earth.
Glupov residents in a period of Governor Erast Grustilov ruling, were
so confident in their luckiness, that they sowed the seeds into unculti-
vated earth, saying: “Anyway it’ll grow”. For the ruling class the earth
is just the object of sale contract and the source of successful life.
Though the earth is very close to people, carrying inside it compas-
sion, it could turned out to be angry mother-in-law. The author often
underlines its connection to death, rather than its link to production and
nutrient activity. In “The Golovlyov Family” the earth is very severe,
unkind, treating people indifferently.
In one of the “Provincial sketches” chapters aged nun Pahomovna
sees the beauty of the earth – gay leafy forest, green grass; and gloomy
— 71 —
image of the earth – deep caves, dark forests, stinking bogs, opened
wide underworld.
The tragic image of the earth-cemetery appears in the number of
Saltykov-Shchedrin’s stories. Such image we can see in “The Poshekhon
Stories” (1883-1884), which shows us a burial of peaceful resident Ivan
Ryzhyj, who was killed by a crowd. The earth, pressed by sorrow, can’t
be freed from its fatal heaviness: “Something huge lifted up around the
coffin, just if the earth itself cried about sending a miracle…
And there was a miracle: unnoticed existence of usual Poshehon
resident found its apotheosis in the form of corpse. Finally there was
the last sound and the crowd slowly left the cemetery” (XV-2, 147). In
the final story “The Forgotten Words” (1889), which tells about con-
science, native land, mankind, the earth appears as an endless cemetery.
The earth associates with the image of bog, in folk tales rotten and
unclean place. In “The History of a Town” golovotyapy searching for a
prince, had thrown themselves into the bog where they died. The Glupov
city is surrounded by bogs and waste ground. And the author compares
these bogs with the provincial life of the residents: “the surface is so
green, that from afar you can take it as a magnificent meadow” (II, 79).
The elements interact with each other: Fire-Air-Earth, Water-Wind,
Earth-Water-Wind, and their negative activity increases. The images
of Water and Wind worsen the feeling of social evil force, concentrat-
ed in St. Petersburg. In the early Dostoyevsky and Saltykov-Schcedrin
works we see spiritually similar capitals. At the same time the urban de-
scriptions of the capital appears to be the famous link of Air and Water
with Stone monolith3.
The chapter “The Hungry Town” of “The History of a Town” tells
that after foreman Ferduschenko fall, who took away somebody else’s
wife, the nature (Sun, Air, Water and Earth) became unfavorable to
Glupovtsy residents: “The sky fumed and poured all the living with
heat; the air was trembling and smelled like fire; the earth cracked and
looked like stone, so that you couldn’t cultivate it with wooden plough
<...>. The useless rains started in the end of June, and in August people
started dying, because of lack of food” (VIII, 310-311).
— 72 —
Jude Golovlyov faces the howling wind, wet March snowstorm,

which predicts his death, on the way for forgiveness to his mother’s
grave.
Sometimes the images of the elements are synonymic: the Glupov
town was attacked by something neither rainstorm, nor tornado but
scary it.
Only the landscape from the chapter “Pilgrims, wanderers and pass-
ersby” of “Provincial sketches” gives us the hope for near life renew-
al, so the character is young, all the elements are in the harmony with
each other. The same wonderful spring scene is depicted in the chap-
ter “Christ is risen!” The air is clear, the streams purl and run down
from the mountains to ravine, the sun shines and warms tenderly, ev-
erything cheers up people’s hearts, and everywhere there is a calm-
ing love. You will never meet the same cheerful scenes in Saltykov-
Shchedrin’s works. But there is one of his latest stories “Christ’s Night”
(1886), where the Savior gives his blessings to all the elements so that
they can find peace and order.
According to Saltykov-Shchedrin’s historical and philosophical
views nature is inexhaustible and endlessly variable and carries its own
secrets. The most important condition of smart human development is
his desire to understand nature’s laws and to comprehend creative atti-
tude to it. So, the civilization, the source of evil and outrage, is based
on social unfairness and destructively influences human essence, car-
rying in his life dissonance, deformation. Hence, the nature elements
become hostile to people, pouring out all the negative energy at them.
The author’s works show the world of nature, where all the ele-
ments – Fire, Water, Air and Earth – are active, and their activity is a
result of disharmonious surrounding reality, chaos, blind violence, the
masses’ “unconsciousness” and also the history mysteriousness, un-
predictable Russian destiny, its century-long sufferings, and desire to
overcome them.
The characteristic of satirist is to see the surrounding in “evil thick-
ening”, but even depicting dark and tragic scenes, Saltykov-Shchedrin
is invariably inspired by humanist, enlightened ideals, expectation of
the “golden age” future – existence transformation.
— 73 —
ENDNOTES:
1
Saltykov-Shchedrin, M.E. 1969. The col. of works 20 vol. Vol. VIII. Мoscow, p.
421. Further references mentioned are given in square brackets with indication at
the volume and page.
2
Mints, Z.G., Lotman, Y.M. 1983. “The Images of Nature Elements in Russian
Literature. (Pushkin – Dostoyevskiy – Blok)”, Scientific Notes of Tartu State
University, Study of literature, The typology of literature interactions. The works
in Russian and Slavic philology. Tartu, p. 40
3
Gachyov, G.D. 1973. “Dostoyevsky Cosmos”, Poetics and Literature History
Issues. The col. of articles. Saransk. Mordovian University edition, pp. 115-116.
BIBLIOGRAPHY:
1. Saltykov-Shchedrin, M.E. 1969. The col. of works 20 vol. Vol. VIII. Мoscow, p.
421.
2. Mints, Z.G., Lotman, Y.M. 1983. “The Images of Nature Elements in Russian
Literature. (Pushkin – Dostoyevskiy – Blok)”, Scientific Notes of Tartu State
University, Study of literature, The typology of literature interactions. The works
in Russian and Slavic philology. Tartu, p. 40
3. Gachyov, G.D. 1973. “Dostoyevsky Cosmos”, Poetics and Literature History
Issues. The col. of articles. Saransk. Mordovian University edition, pp. 115-116.
4. Pavlova, I. 2010. “Spirit ideals of Russia”, Burganov’s House Space of Culture,
n.3, pp. 157-178.
— 74 —
R. Perelshtein New Testament Motifs in Russian Cinematic Dramaturgy of the 1960—1980s
Roman Perelshtein
Candidate of Arts,
S. A. Gerasimov All-Russia State
Institute of Cinematography,
Moscow
NEW TESTAMENT MOTIFS

IN RUSSIAN CINEMATIC DRAMATURGY
OF THE 1960—1980s
Keywords: ideal, reality, cinematography, movie plot, theme.

Summary: Using the film The Petrified Forest by Archie Mayo as
an example, the author formulates one of the universal themes of cin-
ematography, called “the ideal and the reality”, and suggests a name
for a movie plot that corresponds to the said theme: “the failed saints”.
A Failed Saint in Archie Mayo’s The Petrified Forest

The theme of The Petrified Forest, a 1936 film directed by Archie
Mayo and adapted from a Robert Emmet Sherwood stage play of the
same name, can be stated as “the ideal and the reality”, as these two
principles collide in the film’s plot. Whereas the ideal, as defined by
Mikhail Bakhtin, is the world of “the highest aims of human existence”1,
the reality, as described by Oswald Spengler, is the world of “soul-ex-
pression”, firmly connected to the “obscure courses of being”2, which
Nietzsche called “the philosophy of wild and naked nature”3. Ideal and
reality complement each other. They gravitate towards the image of uni-
ty that can be found in the mutual osmosis of the Apollonian and the
Dionysian motifs in the Mediterranean culture. But, at the same time,
the heightened state of the soul that announces itself with such mental
constructs as dreams, desires, and ideals, and the excess of life force, that
— 75 — © R. Perelshtein, 2013
R. Perelshtein New Testament Motifsin Russian Cinematic Dramaturgyof the 1960—1980s
blindly expends itself as one of the manifestations of reality or nature,

move in the opposite directions. This is even more blatantly obvious.
The Petrified Forest demonstrates the helplessness of a dream in
the face of reality, and the magnitude of our desire to yet again put the
dream and the reality in a fight. The devil of disappointment has filled
the Arizona desert with his presence. He has grown bored with tempt-
ing the tumbleweeds and the righteous, and has taken on the regular
men. All of them are relics of idealism, but each has been fooled by
life in his particular way. And those who have not yet been fooled or
disappointed must hurry. The writer Alan Squier is seeking a beautiful
death in the desert, and he finds it. It comes as a bullet shot by anoth-
er disappointed romantic – the famed killer Duke Mantee. Duke is not
as much the “last great apostle of rugged individualism”, as yet anoth-
er victim of the century, whose religion is either pragmatism or skepti-
cism. Even Gramp Maples, the child-like old skeptic of the gas station
who took the wandering writer’s words as a joke, is disappointed. The
old man realizes that the writer didn’t lie when Alan Squier demands
of the devil that their contract be fulfilled. And thus the devil guides
Duke’s murderous hand that offhandedly and unenthusiastically squeez-
es the trigger. The devil, perhaps, is already regretting having appeared
at the old gas station, for it is now people themselves that tempt him,
one after another, testing the resilience of their destinies. Bose, the foot-
ball jock in love with Gabrielle, challenges the gangsters but suffers a
fiasco. Because of Duke’s unsteady hand, Bose gets away with only a
light wound. As he is not yet ready to die, the devil tosses him off the
chess board, not so much as a “captured” piece, but as a skittish one,
unable to follow the strict ritual of the game. Mrs. Chisholm is disap-
pointed with her husband and her life. Mr. Chisholm is, too, disappoint-
ed. Gangsters refused to play by the rules: they are not so much cold-
blooded killers or angels of death, as they are undiscriminating vultures,
complete with street riffraff habits. The owner of the gas station, who
hasn’t finished playing a hero, is shamed in front of his companions,
clients, and family. His dressed up troop is disarmed and morally de-
stroyed. And yet the devil of disappointment is, too, disappointed. It is
with too much ease that these stray souls wander into his hands. They
— 76 —
occupy fairly respectable shells and they are armed with ideals, even
though they never find any use for them.
Gabrielle is the one around whom the trouble brews. This girl who
spends her time reading François Villon is destined to escape from the
Arizona desert and perhaps even win over Paris. Gabrielle has an artis-
tic talent, and it would be a sin to bury it. Even the devil of the desert
is helpless here: the girl is out of his league. She has not yet matured
enough for skepticism. She has not yet learned those special mental
arguments that paralyze the will and make one take on heroic acts, to
sweeten one’s demise with fireworks. That is precisely what the wan-
dering writer, Alan Squier, accomplishes. He turns his death into a work
of art, into a masterpiece that will outlive him. And perhaps art will
rid Gabrielle of the smell of gasoline and hamburgers, but the devil of
disappointment will come visiting from the desert again and again. He
will appear with a smirk of a gangster anû stay silent alûnight, or re-
mind Gabrielle of his existence with the exalted chatter of a passer-
by intellectual. But we remember that Gabrielle’s future was bought
for a high price. She’s the hope of the nation of pragmatists and skep-
tics, as the playwright Robert Emmet Sherwood saw America in the
days of his youth.
And yet the devil is uneasy paying his visit to the gas station lost
in the sands. Love hasn’t yet run out of the human hearts. Love push-
es them towards self-sacrifice: a compulsory one in the case of Duke
Mantee, who is awaiting his girlfriend, and an inexplicable one in case
of Alan, who signs off his life insurance to Gabrielle and trusts her to
live life in his stead. The strange flame of love, fanned by the desert
wind, feverishly lights up the entire universe, which, though the size
of a gas station, still remains a universe.
Idealists, to use the language of the Bible, are rarely “sons of the
bondage of the law”. They abhor a system of moral statutes; indeed,
they reject a measured, fulfilled life. They are outcasts, derelicts, hunt-
ed by the nation, and it is unimportant who they are – rudderless intel-
lectuals or wandering ruffians. Idealists, should they remain faithful to
their great dream until the end, like prophets and righteous men, are des-
tined to be the “sons of Grace.” But heroes of The Petrified Forest are
— 77 —
not prepared for that level of openness. They haven’t become transpar-
ent enough to let through the light that comes from beyond. The heat
of the desert, which burns everything that’s alive even in the most ten-
der of souls, has clouded their hearts.
The world literature offers us a plethora of models created in the
image of the ideal. Leading this procession is El caballero de la triste
figura, Don Quixote of La Mancha. Spanish writer and philosopher
Miguel de Unamuno refused to believe that “Don Quixote is a fantas-
tical or fictitious entity, as if it is feasible for the human imagination
to give birth to such a stupendous figure.”4 The light that comes from
beyond was carried through Miguel De Cervantes Saavedra, and to an
even greater extent, this heavenly light was carried by his timeless hero.
In The Petrified Forest, the writer Alan Squier, like all Don Quixotes,
sets off on his path with empty pockets. He could pay for his stay at the
inn or his meal at the gas station restaurant with the heightened state of
his soul, but minting such a coin is not an easy task. It requires having
a vivid imagination and good manners. The lover of poetry, Gabrielle,
accepts this form of payment, but her admirer, with the ambitious air
of a maître d’affaire, protests. “He then asked Don Quixote, whether he
had any money?’ Not a cross,’ replied the Knight, ‘for I never read in
any history of chivalry that any knight-errant ever carried money about
him.’”5 – this quote from Cervantes perfectly matches the image of the
write in The Petrified Forest. Nonetheless, let us not rush to conclusions.
There is something that prevents me from seeing Alan Squier as the
new Don Quixote. Alan undoubtedly sacrifices himself, but the demon
of narcissism, one of the most insidious spirits of the desert, continues
to torment him. Alan is an uncompromising aesthete and, perhaps, that
is precisely what destroys his soul. Alan is a lofty idealist, a failed saint.
The movie plot based on the contradiction between the desired and
the mundane could be called “the failed saints” and the topic corre-
sponding to it may be named “the ideal and the reality”.
— 78 —
ENDNOTES:
1
Bakhtin, M.M. 1984, Rabelais and His World, Trans. by Helene Iswolsky. Bloom-
ington: Indiana University Press , p. 9.
2
Spengler, O. 2013, The Decline of the West, Vol. 2: Perspectives of World Histo-
ry, Windham Press , pp. 120–121.
3
Nietzsche, F. W. 1923The Birth of Tragedy, or Hellenism and Pessimism, New
York: McMillan , p. 83.
4
Unamuno, M. 2005 Vida de don Quijote y Sancho, según Miguel de Cervantes
Saavedra, explicada y comentada, Madrid: Alianza Editorial.
5
Cervantes Saavedra, M. 1993 Don Quixote. Hertfordshire: Wordsworth Editions
Limited, p. 19.
BIBLIOGRAPHY:
1. Bakhtin, M.M. 1984, Rabelais and His World. Bloomington: Indiana University
Press , p. 9.
2. Spengler, O. 2013, The Decline of the West, Vol. 2: Perspectives of World Histo-
ry, Windham Press , pp. 120–121.
3. Nietzsche, F. W. 1923 The Birth of Tragedy, or Hellenism and Pessimism, New
York: McMillan , p. 83.
4. Unamuno, M. 2005 Vida de don Quijote y Sancho, según Miguel de Cervantes
Saavedra, explicada y comentada, Madrid: Alianza Editorial.
5. Cervantes Saavedra, M. 1993 Don Quixote. Hertfordshire: Wordsworth Editions
Limited, p. 19.
— 79 —
L. Freivert Significance of V. I. Tasalov’s Perspective
Liudmila Freivert
Candidate of philosophical sciences,
Associated professor of
K. G. Razumovskiy Moscow state University
of Technology and Management,
Moscow
SIGNIFICANCE OF V. I. TASALOV’S
PERSPECTIVE FOR COMPREHENSION
OF TYPOLOGICAL BASIS OF ART FORM
IN INDUSTRIAL DESIGN
Keywords: art form, cultural constants, industrial design, V. I. Tasalov,

“Art in “Man – Universe” System”, archetype, ideal type.
Summary: In the article the meaning and the significance of gen-
eral foundations of art form are investigated. The basis of this inves-
tigation is V.I. Tasalov’s conception exposed in the book “Art in the
”Man – Universe” System”. The importance of this work is very sig-
nificant for the comprehension of the essence of typological art form
frames. The special side the problem is the function these frames in
industrial design.
The works by Vladimir Ilich Tasalov (1929–2012) are known only

to readers whose mother tongue is Russian. Translation of his books is
a very difficult task. A translator must be coherent, as Tasalov’s texts
contain many neologisms, idioms, metaphors that are significant for
comprehension1.
Tasalov created universal, all-embracing conception of culture,
which bases on “artcentrism”. The core of this center is an art form. In
the book “The Light Energetic of Art” (“Svetoenergatica iscusstva”) he
stated that there exists a “morphosemantic identity” of cultural forms –
art, science, religion. Tasalov accentuated different “morphological ar-
— 80 — © L. Freivert, 2013
chetypes” that are “common to all mankind’s essence and reality of cul-
tural morphological connects in constructive integrity”2.
Tasalov’s scientific biography consists of two stages. The first was
devoted to the analysis of architectural and industrial design of ХХ cen-
tury: “Aesthetics of Technicism” (“Aesthetica technicisma”) (1960), the
culmination point for industrial design’s theory of “Prometeo or Orpheo:
the Art of Technical Age” (“Prometey ili Orphey: iscusstvo technichesco-
go veka ”) (1967)3. The scientific problems of second stage were shown
in the volume of “The Essays of Aesthetical Ideas of Capitalist Society”
(“Оcherki aesteticheskih idey capitapistichescogo оbsch’еstvа”) (1979)4.
Its title is the ancient document, but the meaning of this book is very
deep and rather non-political, but aesthetical.
In the books of second stage there are all pieces of art and culture as
integrity, that are investigated under united point of view. The brochure
“Chaos and Order: Social-artistic Dialectics” (“Haos i poryadoc: social-
no-hudozhestvennaya dialectica”) (1990)5 investigates the questions of
interrelations and connections of different forms of culture. The double
culmination of this period result in the volumes “Light Energetic of Art”
(“Svetoaenergetica iscusstva”) (2004) and “Art in the ”Man – Universe”
System. The Aesthetics of “Antropics Principle” on the Junctions of
Art, Religion, Natural Sciences” (“Iscussstvo v sisteme “Chelovek –
Vselennya”. Aestetica “аntropnоgо prinzipa” nа stykаh iscusstvа, rеligii,
еstеstvoznaniya”) (2007)6. The completion is the work named “…Cross
the Magic Crystal of Art” (“…Scvoz’ magicheskiy crystal iscusstva”)
(2011)7. Its signal copy was seen by him.
Tasalov’s general culturological conception is a part of contemporary
context and simultaneously it is very original. This conception speaks
about boundless universe, where the art is the center. The supremacy
has to do with the problem of art form as a basic embodiment of “art-
ness” (“hudozhestvennost”). In Tasalov’s view the science of art is “the
course of interaction”, the interconnection of different forms of culture.
The parts of his course are in “circular” intercommunication.
Vladimir Ilich was not the first one who wrote about connection be-
tween a man and a universe. The embodiment of this universal basis in
art is an art form: “…the mutual connection of man and the Universe
— 81 —
exists in the integral system. This connection exists thanks to the art of
formbuilding(form-development) constructive-semantic energy of cul-
ture, its ideal foundations” (“constructivno-semanticheskaya energiya
ideal’nosty cul’tury”)8. The ideal is interpreted as perfection and as an
expression of universal origins.
Tasalov speaks about “cultural constants”9 that embody the essence
of world as well as laws of thought and mentality. These constants form
part of the universal-ideal in the art form. The scholar does not deny an
individual life of pieces of art, but he displays their typological essen-
tial quality. Tasalov, using an analogical concept of “art reality” creates
the term “formal reality”. It describes “the specific type of reality – the
reality of correctly organized forms of any genesis”10.
Tasalov investigates typological origins of art form in the work “The
Light Energy of Art”. (“Svetoaenergetica iskusstva”)11. In this book he
uses the term “archetype”. The interpretation of this concept has a non-
yungian meaning but rather of medieval scholiast or of biological theory
of “nomogenesis” (“evolution diatropics”) – L.S. Berg, A.A. Lyubischev
and S.V. Meyen12. (They were, as well as Tasalov, the admirers of V.I.
Vernadskiy’s theory of “noosphere”).Tasalov regards art as a part of hu-
man spiritual world and speaks about “different morphological arche-
types” that “envelope the space of interconvertible chaos and order and
the person’s essence and the reality of culture, that morphologically in-
terconnect in one constructive integrity”13. He asserted the existence of
“morpho-semantic identity” of cultural forms. “The reality of form and
formbuilding (form-development) processes” Tasalov interprets as “third
reality”14, that is not equally “pure” in being or thinking. The mankind
understands and embodies the essence of world, because the man has
the “ability of the universal approach to everyone”15.
The power and the capacity of Tasalov’s conception are modelic and
perhaps, unattainable. The generalization did not overshadow the reality
of different arts and its pieces. His analytical opinions were deep, con-
crete and exact. Tasalov’s general object of investigation is architecture,
and he always emphases its “universal constructive projective signifi-
cance”16. He also saw the “universal significance” of everybody’s art. In
the 5th chapter “The art of dance and cosmic paradigm of age ” he indi-
— 82 —
cated that archetypes (formal archetypes!) are being developed. For ex-
ample, now “the psychologo-physiological archetype of human move-
ment in space is changed”17.
Regarding the art of dance Tasalov puts question about “projective
crystal of formbuilding (gestalt-psychologists try to grasp this mean-
ing)”18. This crystal is as a hanging in air predetermined possibility of
right-intelligent formbuilding (Gestaltung). Vladimir Ilich created his
own image of this crystal. (Il.) It resembles different art forms, for ex-
ample: architecture, industrial design and dance. They determine ways of
moving, its amplitude and speed. The analogies between the art form of
ballet and industrial design were investigated in the article “Archetypes of
Choreography and Art Form in Industrial Design” “Аrhetipy horeographii
i hudozhestvennaya forma v disayne”19. Such parallels between differ-
ent arts are well-founded: the “plural version” (“variantnaya mnozhest-
vennost’”)20 is the property of art as its integrity.
The ideal and the universal in Tasalov’s theory are united. They are
the third reality of form. Its part is “the solid composition of universalias
and maxims, delicate constructive regularities, that form symbols, im-
ages, global ideals of the world”21. This sphere includes “the geometri-
cal-numerical universalias of form, “exact exactness” and linearity, flat-
ness, capacity, “ruleness” of interval-rhythm”22.
These series of concepts are very heterogeneous and its development
and continuation is the sphere for investigation.
For describing the ways in which pieces of art, inclusive industri-
al design, are created and percepted, new scientific methodological ap-
proaches are necessary. The principles formed in other arts, verbal and
nonverbal, display pure type of formal objective regularity, “archetypes
and ideals”. Its discovery and systematization is necessary for success-
ful position of industrial design as a form of art. The ancient experience
of art form in other arts displays possible ways of coherent utilitarian
and compositional aesthetical problems.
But a designer meets there with a problem: how interrelate the con-
tinuality of meaning and the corpuscular structure of form? The design-
ers and theorists understood this danger: “When a man sees a sign-sym-
bol and the metaphoric systems where the discreteness is not a basis of
— 83 —
meaning, an effort to display elements of the text for understanding…

gives rise to the loss in meaning”23. The discreteness of form presup-
poses of strong coherence across caesuras. This coherence is embod-
ied not only in semantic but in formal methods. The splendid examples
of it are the pieces of music; Vladimir Ilich was the amateur of this art
where there are no verbs and plot and where rich and refined culture of
art form is developed.
All arts, including industrial design and architecture, are united sys-
tems of utilitarian, formal, subjective archetypes. The revealing and sys-
tematization of these archetypes and laws are necessary for solution of
design as an art. Century-old practice of an art form in different arts is a
source of new ways, discoveries in art form in design.
The formal devices are the embodiments of meaning. The piece of art
is the author’s revelation and at the same time it is an independent dis-
course. The things “…always give opportunity to speak for its author;
they are the expression of his identity” 24. This thesis is true also for piec-
es of bifunctional arts – decorative art, industrial design and architecture
in lesser gradûl.
Industrial design in Tasalov’s conception takes important place as the
embodiment of “projectness” and “pure form”. Together other arts and
industrial design participate in Person’s scaling, ancient of the stairs of
“cosmological paradigm”25. Industrial design as poetry uses living ma-
terial but must elevate it to the “universal-ideal” level. All arts, inclusive
industrial design, express universal typological frames and solve impor-
tant cultural question: the “form-created curbing of infinity”26.
ENDNOTES:
1
The principal Tasalov’s books:
1) Tasalov V.I. 1960, Aestherics of Technicism. M.[10]
2) Tasalov V.I 1967, Prometeo or Orpheo: Art of Technical Age. M. [6]
3) Tasalov V.I 1979,The Essays of Aesthetical Ideas of Capitalist Society M. [5]
4) Tasalov V.I 1990, Chaos and Order: Social-artistic Dialectics M. [9]
5) Tasalov V.I 2004, Light Energetics of Art. SPb. [7]
6) Tasalov V.I 2007, Art in ”Man – Universe” System. The Aesthetics of “Antropics
Principle” on the Junctions of Art, Religion, Natural Sciences M. [4]
7) Tasalov V.I . 2011, Cross the Magic Crystal of Art. M. [8]
2
[7], p.432-433.
— 84 —
3
[10; 6].
4
[5].
5
[9].
6
[7].
7
[8].
8
[4. P. 75]. The emphasis is the author’s.
9
Ibid. P.14.
10
Ibid. P.209, 208.
11
[7].
12
[2]. Methodological policies of A.A. Lubishev. 2003. Quotation: From the scientific her-
itage of S.V. Meyen (1935-1987): To the history of the creation of bases of evolutionist
diatropics\\ The evolution of floras in the Paleozoic..The miscellanea of scientific works.
М., С.107.
13
[7], p.432—433.
14
[6]. P.200, 89.
15
Ibid. P.54. Ibid. P
16
Ibid. P.19.
17
Ibid. P.178.
18
Ibid. P.156.
19
[20]. Tasalov V.I., Freivert L.B 2006//Dizayn. Aergonomika. Servis. Vol. 1.. М., P.27-46.
20
[1]. Zherdev E.V. 2010,. Metaphor in Industrial Design (Metafora v dizayne). M., P.151.
21
[4]. P.40.
22
Ibid. P.49.
23
[1]. P. 151.
24
Ibid. P.236.
25
[4]. P.73.
26
Ibid. P.26.
BIBLIOGRAPHY:
1. Zherdev, E.V. 2010. Metaphor in Industrial Design (Metafora v dizayne), Moscow, p.
151
2. Lubishev, A.A. 2003. “Methodological policies. Quotation: From the scientific heritage of
S.V. Meyen (1935-1987): To the history of the creation of bases of evolutionist diatropics”,
The evolution û floras in the Paleozoic.The miscellanea of scientific works, Мoscow
3. Tasalov, V.I., Freivert, L.B. 2006, “Archetypes of choreography and the artistic form in
design”, Design. Anthropotechnics, vol. 1. Мoscow
4. Tasalov, V.I. 2007. Art in ”Man – Universe” System. The Aesthetics of “Antropics
Principle” on the Junctions of Art, Religion, Natural Sciences, Moscow
5. Tasalov, V.I. 1979. The Essays of Aesthetical Ideas of Capitalist Society, Moscow
6. Tasalov, V.I. 1967. Prometeo or Orpheo: Art of Technical Age. Moscow
7. Tasalov, V.I. 2004. Light Energetics of Art, Petersburg.
8. Tasalov, V.I. 2011. Cross the Magic Crystal of Art, Moscow
9. Tasalov, V.I. 1990. Chaos and Order: Social-artistic Dialectics, Moscow
10. Tasalov, V.I. 1960. Aestherics of Technicism, Moscow
11. Tasalov, V.I. 2012. “Through the magic crystal”, Burganov’s House Space of Culture,
n.2 (36)
12. Tasalov, V.I. 2012. “Meaning of the Tasalov cooncept”, Burganov’s House Space of
Culture, n.4 (38)
S. Khvatova Orthodox Singing Tradition of the Early XXI Century
Svetlana Khvatova
Doctor of Arts,
Performing Professor,
Head of Department of Music and Performing
Disciplines of the Art Institute at the Adyg State University,
Maykop
ORTHODOX SINGING TRADITION

OF THE EARLY XXI CENTURY
Keywords: The Russian Orthodox Church, liturgical singing canon,

church composers, transformation of tradition.
Summary: The article is devoted to the current state of the Orthodox
singing tradition, the identification of its dynamics. The author comes
to the conclusion of incompleteness of the processes, a state of singing
crisis, identifies the signs of destruction and the transformation of litur-
gical singing canon. He represents conservative and renewing trends
of the modern church composer creativity.
The Russian Orthodox Church in the XX century for long time ex-
isted in a state of separation from the State and in a real isolation from
society. It led to the deformation of the mechanism of inter-generation-
al transmission of spiritual and singing experience, ensuring continu-
ity of tradition. More than half a century of militant atheism in Russia,
accompanied by the persecution of the Church itself and the persecu-
tion of its faithful followers, abated or intensified, had led to almost
complete disappearance of intra institution of spiritual education by
the end of the 90’s.
Inheritance of the tradition has either disappeared completely or
has greatly weakened, and now one requires significant efforts for its
revival, which is not possible outside the Orthodox parish and cathe-
dral service. This interruption in continuity has become one of the
— 86 — © S. Khvatova, 2013
reasons for unavailability of the church to the simultaneous regener-

ation of all aspects of church life in the changed socio-political situa-
tion. Qualitatively new relations between the church and the state con-
tributed to the gradual revival and strengthening of religious life, and
paved the way for the expansion of the sphere of the Russian Orthodox
Church influence, the worship dispensation, including its singing part
as well. This was reflected, in particular, in the multiplication of the
number of church choirs and ensembles and engagement of a variety
of professional musicians in worship.
Remaining steadfast in the fundamentals of the faith and of the can-
on, the Russian Orthodox Church is transformed together with the com-
munity, being responsive to all the transformations in the socio-econom-
ic, political and cultural spheres. Being dual in the nature of its relative
isolation, the church-singing culture, on the one hand, is separated from
the secular to a certain extent, on the other – is “selectively open” to in-
novations. It addresses both the historical past and the present.
Worship of the present day, treated in a synchronic layer, creates a
retrospective of evolutionary paths and reformatory transformations of
the singing part of worship. As part of chants, it appears as a heteroge-
neous and polystadial phenomenon, including ancient monodic chants,
samples of early polyphony, transcriptions and arrangements of parts
style oral tunes of subsequent periods as well, where the role of an au-
thor is significant and where it opposes to texts of immutable chants in
a wide stylistic range.
This situation in the field of singing (the rapid accumulation of li-
turgical repertoire heterogeneous in terms of style) is largely due to
the principle of acceleration of information [1]. Computerization has
touched all aspects of church life, including such essential ones, as tra-
dition transmission, which is known to have always been implement-
ed via scriptures and stories (including interpretation). Currently, this
mechanism exists alongside with the new ones. The World Wide Web
has Orthodox Internet Resources for the regents, creating a situation
of competition of singing information offered. Its selection depends on
many factors – from the availability of recommendations of the church,
clergy and the “general line”, to personal taste preferences of regents,
— 87 —
their education, training, etc. All this has led to the accumulation of a
“critical mass” of material. The rate of accumulation and the intensi-
ty of advocacy could be a determining factor in accelerating cyclical
“fluctuations”, which in general can be described as “mutual canoni-
cal and authorial interrelation.”
The unevenness of musical component of Orthodox worship in the
90s is another pattern of its development. It is largely determined by
objective factors such as the size of Russia, complicating administra-
tive “control”, as well as subjective ones. As such, one can mention
the transfer of skills of composition to the canonical texts in teaching
composition (as occurred in Novosibirsk Conservatory in the class of
A. Murov) or combination of the composer and the regent in one per-
son (P. Mirolyubova, S. Riabchenko, M. Mormyl, C . Trubachev), and
other ones.
Notes publishing “boom” of the early XXI century, reflecting the
rapid pace of accumulation of the liturgical repertoire, began to decline
in mid 2000s: awareness of the need to streamline the music part of the
service was initiated by the clergy and the active part of the regent-sing-
ing community of Russia, which is headed by E. S. Kustovskiy, and
has administratively resulted in a kind of censorship (edition with the
blessing of the Patriarch). As a result, at the present time the number
of authors and the range of executed works has reduced in ten times.
The repertoire preserves those compositions and transcriptions, which
in its style correlate with the statutory chants.
Redundancy and diversity of options, offered for each unit of the
rite allowing selection, have actualized the ecclesiastical establishment
in the relation to the church liturgical singing, dispersed in the Holy
Scripture and the patristic tradition. These issues were discussed at the
Regency congresses and Councils at various levels, which led to the
adaption of documents governing the church singing, and provoked the
church and art history debate. Analysis of materials of the Holy Council
of Bishops (2-4 February 2011) reveals the concerns of senior hierarchs
about preserving the canonical unity of the musical part of worship.
Destructive tendency in singing services is the fragmentation of the
statutory vocal basis of singing part of worship. The transfer of “voice
— 88 —
singing” into the background, and on special festive occasions (in the
right choir) its abandoning in favor of the author’s music leads to the
loss of a kind of “stylistic reference points” in the formation of the
musical series, which inevitably leads to a distortion of the traditional
prayer dispensation. Likelihood of a loss or distortion of “voice sing-
ing” patterns, their replacement by author’s scores is not possible, as
in this case the foundation on which the circle of church music rests,
will be destroyed.
The foregoing provides the basis for evaluating the current stage of
development of liturgical practice as a crisis one, demanding an internal
address. The national culture is in the crisis state as well, that is inher-
ent to both the state and society, being in transition stages of develop-
ment. Today the situation is changing; one has already made a number
of changes in church singing, aimed at bringing it in strict compliance
with statutory regulations.
Ways out of the crisis - the conservative or renewing – are hard-
ly possible to predict specifically. Their interaction is typical to pri-
or periods of development of Russian church music, however qualita-
tive differences are obvious: an increase in the rate of accumulation of
changes, acceleration of processes, active interference of the church
and secular branches of music. Obvious are analogies to the consistent
patterns, identified in modern social history, such as its increased rate,
“reducing of cycles duration and that of their phases, accelerating the
pace of the world process” and the dynamic transformations [2], which
once again reminds us of the close connection of the church and society.
The unity of strategy and consistency of actions taken depend on
many factors, such as the presence of bright characters (both in the
church hierarchy, and in ordinary parishes), activity, quality and ag-
gressiveness of propaganda, socio-economic status, and many others.
But still the Orthodox canon (in a variety of standards contained) con-
tinues to be the backbone of the internal organization of modern wor-
ship - from the macro level (whole structure) to the micro-level (into-
nation unit and techniques of sound production).
As a tool for limiting the uncontrolled introduction to the repertoire
of new chants and authorial works that have not passed the test of time,
— 89 —
one proposes the recovery of procedure of secrecy and censorship of

music literature, designed for the church.
The subject of our study of living and changing, the processes de-
scribed are not completed, but their dynamics is impetuous, so it’s open
in its nature.
ENDNOTES:
1
Drikker, A., 2008, “The development of information technologies and civilization
on Earth”, www.philosophy2008.wikidot.com.
2
Maslov, S.U., Yakovets, U.V. 2012. “The idea of reducing the deep historical waves
was first proposed by the historian Fernand Braudel, in Russia” Available at: www.
rfbr.ru/old/pub/vestnik / V2_02/2_2.html (accessed 20 August 2013).
3
Fidenko Y.L. 2012. “Musical composition of modern mess”, Burganov’s House
Space of Culture, n.3 (37), pp. 209-219.
BIBLIOGRAPHY:
1. Drikker, A., 2008, “The development of information technologies and civilization
on Earth”, www.philosophy2008.wikidot.com.
2. Maslov, S.U., Yakovets, U.V. 2012. “The idea of reducing the deep historical waves
was first proposed by the historian Fernand Braudel, in Russia” Available at: www.
rfbr.ru/old/pub/vestnik / V2_02/2_2.html (accessed 20 August 2013).
3. Fidenko Y.L. 2012. “Musical composition of modern mess”, Burganov’s House
Space of Culture, n.3 (37), pp. 209-219.
— 90 —
A. Washington Oxford: Motivation, Intelligence and Passion
Austin Washington
writer,
University of Oxford
dom.text@gmail.com
Keywords: Oxford University, Oxford educating system, traditions
of education.
Summary: The article is devoted to the description and analysis of
studying processes’ peculiarities in one of the oldest and one of the
most prestigious universities of Europe - Oxford. The author is writ-
ing about the value of time-tested traditions and positive experience,
gained with the past centuries.
OXFORD: MOTIVATION, INTELLIGENCE

AND PASSION
It’s said that Oxford graduates — that would include me — know

less than the graduates of any other university. I think it’s true (but,
then, what do I know?)
If I’m right, and we do know less, it’s because we are better educated.
Years ago, before before my smartphone could tell me the capital
of Burma in 3 milliseconds — Naypyidaw, as it happens — knowledge
was already a cheap commodity. Libraries are filled with it — there
are stacks and stacks of it. It’s getting even cheaper by the millisecond.
What education should be about is what you do with knowledge.
Educare, the latin root of the word «education», has a connotation
of leading out from someone his talents and innate abilities. That’s what
«education» used to mean. Does it still, today? Should it?
It does at Oxford. I’m not here to talk about how great Oxford is. I
will, but that’s not my main purpose. I’m here to talk about how great
education everywhere can be — or at least how it could be a lot better
than it is now — by following Oxford’s example. Which, ultimately,
follows an even older, and simpler model.
A lot of people know of Oxford’s reputation, and probably assume
it’s the result of having a lot of smart people all in one place. It’s a lot
— 91 — © A. Washington, 2013
more than that. But at its core, it’s much less than that. Oxford, at its
core, is about two people talking to each other. Get rid of everything
else — the thousand year old buildings, the strange robes and rituals,
the latin grace before meals, but have the Oxford tutorial, and you’d
still have Oxford.
I used to live right where all the tourist buses parked. To get out my
door I used to need to elbow my way through herds of polyester clad
fat people with cameras hanging around their necks, milling around like
sheep looking at all the old buildings, as if they buildings had anything
to do with Oxford. They’re a nice set. A nice backdrop. I admit it. But
Oxford is about the people. And what they do. Which, ultimately, is talk.
Oxford has, at its core, motivated and energetic people, and a unique,
yet ancient way of teaching that not even Cambridge, its main rival,
has. All of these advantages can be replicated. Oxford uses a tutorial
system of teaching that requires each undergraduate student, in most
courses, to write 4,500 words a week (one 3,000 word essay a week,
and one 3,000 word essay every other week). He then has to defend
and discuss his essay with his tutor, in a private or semi-private hour-
long tutorial — one tutorial for each essay. For the three years that most
courses last, everything that happens is solely for the student’s benefit.
That is to say, although there are exams along the way, none affect his
final mark. They merely guide a tutor to help his student in the way he
most needs it. Occasionally, a student is too focussed on something oth-
er than his studies, and needs a a stern warning, or worse, after prelimi-
nary exams. You might assume that having fun and drinking would be
the culprits in these cases, but Oxford being Oxford, a student not fo-
cused on work is just as likely to be the president of a student society,
maybe overwhelmed arranging for the president of a foreign country
to come speak to his group. (It’s amazing how easy is is to convince
almost anyone in the world is to come to your society when you use
the magic word «Oxford.»)
Preliminary exams, of course, normally reveal students doing well.
There are of course lectures, too, but no one takes attendance. If
you need them to help with your essay — and most students feel they
do — you go to them. The diligence of students at Oxford, after all, is
— 92 —
self- selecting. You don’t apply unless you have the character, motiva-
tion, and intelligence to do the work.
Of course you need some knowledge to begin an education at Oxford.

It’s assumed that you know enough basic facts by the time you get to
Oxford to last the few years you’ll be there. Naturally you’ll pick up a
few nuggets of knowledge along the way. But facts — knowledge —
is not the point of an Oxford education.
All my friends who got «firsts» at Oxford on traditional, non-sci-
ence courses — «firsts» being the highest marks on exams — gave the
same advice. Don’t put too many facts in your essays. You don’t get
good marks if you do that. Facts must be kept to a minimum. They clut-
ter up what the examiner is really looking for. Just put in enough facts
to make your arguments work. It’s the structure of your arguments that
count. (The secret weapon — the cherry on the cake — is throwing in
one or two bits of trivia that the examiner may not know. That’s just to
keep him awake, as he wades through swamps of exams.) The point,
of course, is that it’s not what was put into you by your tutor that you
are being marked on. You get no points for merely spitting back out
what you’ve been fed. It’s what you pull out of yourself, that is truly
and uniquely yours, that makes you rise to the top.
Actually, the bit of trivia that it’s advised to throw in is not so
trivial, when considered. It’s emblematic of the fundamental point of
these three most important years of someone’s life. Exams are marked
«blind» — whoever marks an exam has no idea whose exam it is —
they are organised by number. This is done to avoid bias by any exam-
iner who might know some of his examinees. And yet, boys get far, far
more first-class degrees than girls do. It’s the received wisdom around
Oxford that this is because boys are gutsier than girls — something to
do with testosterone, it’s said. Boys take risks. In essence, they’re will-
ing, and even eager, to say unexpected things in unexpected (and clev-
er) ways. Ways that no one else has said them. I knew a girl who was
the most diligent, hard-working, knowledgeable person in her subject
at Oxford. In her final year, before her exams, she was at her desk at 9
AM, every day, months before anyone else, studying. She got a very
— 93 —
high 2:1 — close to a first. But not quite a first. She didn’t have the guts
to stray far from the well-trodden path. But those who think for them-
selves do get the best marks. Throwing in a bit of trivia is one more
way to stand-out from the crowd — to be unique.
Yet most «education» requires conformity. Strictly speaking, that’s
not education at all. It’s not educare, leading out one’s best qualities.
It’s instruction.
Another interesting thing about Oxford, that certainly sets it apart
from American universities, and even other universities in England, is
the vast diversity of the student body. At Harvard, for example, there
is one door to entry — good SAT scores, good grades, and some inter-
esting extracurricular activities — a door perhaps made slightly wid-
er if your mother is a movie star or father a billionaire (maybe it’s not
fair, but that’s the way it is). This single set of criteria makes every-
one at Harvard cut from the same cloth. They are largely bad conver-
sationalists and unimaginative, in my experience. (Did you notice? Not
a word needs to be said to get in Harvard. You can be a mute. It makes
no difference.)
Of course there are exceptions to any generality, but 40% of Harvard
grads go directly to jobs in finance or big business, displaying a lack of
self-direction, imagination, and, from what I’ve seen, social graces. I
heard recently about the motherûof a Harvard first-year ringing up the
administration asking someone to organise social events for the stu-
dents. Something’s got to give if you’ve spent your entire youth study-
ing, and, apparently, at Harvard, what you lose (or fail to gain) is self-
direction and the ability to express clear, lucid thoughts while speaking.
Speaking ought to be important, though — even today, life does
not take place solely on Facebook. (And anyway, video chat is becom-
ing more popular!)
At Oxford, on the other hand, the number of doors to entry is equal
to the number of courses multiplied by the number of Oxford colleg-
es that teach that course, multiplied by the number of tutors. There are
something over thirty colleges, and scores of courses. At each college
there are scores of tutors. So, multiply those numbers and you get...
— 94 —
well, certainly over a thousand possible ways to get in. That’s a thou-
sand different sets of criteria. Not that’s diversity.
In order to get the interview, if you do A-levels (more and more peo-
ple do the IB these days), you need good marks in three subjects (three
As, or sometimes two As and a B is enough). This means you could,
say, do only English, German, and French. Or only science subjects.
You can actually get into Oxford barely able to write a coherent sen-
tence. Or unable to add two plus two.
What you end up with, then, are highly intelligent people who are
already somewhat individuated by the time they arrive. They are all
tremendously motivated, but for a vast and wide variety of things,
both academically and, as often happens with motivated people, for
other things. (England being a modest place, I remember learning, af-
ter knowing a girl for two years, that she was England’s figure skating
champion. She’d never bothered to mention it. People at Oxford are
filled with surprises like that. On the other hand, think of the criteria
for a place like Harvard — I mean, what kind of normal person, really,
forces himself to be really good at every subject? Someone who’s per-
fectly well-rounded has all his interesting edges smoothed away. He
doesn’t know himself, just what’s expected of him.)
At Oxford you are chosen to be seen for admissions interviews based
on your record, but unlike American universities, the interviews are not
a pro forma part of the application process. Your interview with your
prospective tutor at Oxford is the ultimate key to entrance to the uni-
versity. No board, no committee, no bureaucrat has a say. If your tu-
tor thinks he’d like to devote the next three or four years spending an
hour or so with you every week, you’re in. Which means, if you think
about it, pretty much everyone at Oxford is, if nothing else, a good
conversationalist.
Quite a place, really.
At Oxford you are taught how to think, for yourself, through both
writing and speaking. This is the only university in the world that I am
aware of where this is the fundamental core of the educational process.
Education at Oxford is interactive, in the true sense of the word, not the
— 95 —
artificial one of relying on computers and machines, but people, inter-

acting with each other. It’s an old fashioned idea, but it’s worked since
the Greeks tried it. It’s a system that has produced remarkable results
for over a thousand years at Oxford alone.
Newton learned this lesson, and thought for himself. The under-
standing of gravity was accomplished by a man set free to pursue not
just the accepted sciences of the time — in his case, he spent most of
his career trying to change lead into gold, through the then accepted
science of alchemy — but also set free to pursue his own unique, id-
iosyncratic interests, which led to the apple on the head, and all that
sprang from that. If the educational system, prevalent in most parts of
the world today, had been imposed on Newton, we’d all still be trying
to change lead into gold. After all, our educational system (with Oxford
as the main exception) is based on the idea that an authority has all the
answers, and your job, as a student, is to learn them. Oxford is pred-
icated, from the earliest undergraduate level, at instilling in the stu-
dent the idea that the student’s ideas matter. They don’t matter on their
own, without learning to rigorously defend them, or alter them in the
light of better arguments and further evidence. But you are encouraged
to pursue your own lines of thought. Just as the Oxonian Newton did.
Ultimately, this means Oxford students learn how to think, to think
things through, to question ideas, and to express themselves in writ-
ing and in speaking.
Personally, I believe that this can be taken too far. One of the un-
fortunate results of an Oxford education, or really any highly academ-
ic background is that, often, those who have them develop a sense of
intellectual hubris. People from any top university are prone to dis-
miss things they cannot understand, while believing they can under-
stand things that are unknowable. It helps this delusion if something is
expressed in a way that appeals to their educational background. So,
it is common at Oxford for students to refuse to believe in spiritual or
religious ideas, which tend to be expressed poetically or metaphorical-
ly, while thinking they can understand society and the economy, when
they are spoken of in rational terms. Perhaps one day spiritual ideas
— 96 —
and phenomenon — such as, for example, Jung’s ideas of synchron-

icity — will be understood as glimpses into other dimensions, or mut-
liverses, or something physicists will one day explain. But as there is
no hard, rational explanation for such phenomena today, intellectuals
tend to reject it as nonsense. Yet there is a great deal of confidence in
many people from this background that they have a grasp of the econ-
omy, and society, because rational-sounding theories of these things
abound. Yet if something as simple as a chess game, with sixty-four
squares and thirty-two pieces, has more possible variations than at-
oms in the known universe, as indeed it does, a sceptic might think
that those who think they understand economics, and government, are
fooling themselves. How much more complex than a chess game is the
economy or society of even a small town, much less that of a nation,
or the world? The ultimate result of this overly-intellectual mind with
no room for the doubt and mystery of life might be found in the words
of Harvard grad Lloyd Blankenfeld, CEO of Goldman Sachs: «We’re
doing,» said Blankenfeld, discussing his company’s role in nearly de-
stroying the world’s economy recently, «God’s work.»
He didn’t, in fact, seem to understand either.
Despite these imperfections, in a limited and imperfect way, stu-
dents at Oxford are taught to think independently. They are taught to
think, not merely regurgitate. This makes it the best education on earth,
if not a perfect one.
The word «intellectual» was originally meant as an insult, someone

whose thoughts were out of touch with what others thought of as the
«real world». The ideas that flowed from the most prominent intellec-
tuals of the modern age — marxism, freudianism, socialism — have
been pretty well discredited through experience. President Obama,
who still believes in some of these largely discredited ideas, recently
advocated government financed schools which would «take the future
Bill Gates of the world, and give them the opportunity to flourish.»
Of course, Bill Gates dropped out of Harvard, Steve Jobs dropped
out of college after the very first term, Albert Einstein got his good
ideas when he was outside of any institution, (and had no good ideas
— 97 —
at all once he was coddled at Princeton). William Shakespeare, the

Wright Brothers, Steven Spielberg (who applied to, and was rejected
by, USC Film School), Winston Churchill (who quit school at fifteen),
Richard Branson, Mick Jagger, Vincent Van Gogh, Ronald Reagan
(who was barely educated), Thomas Edison, Henry Ford and George
Washington (who, like Churchill, stopped school at about fifteen)...
no one, in fact, that I’m aware of who accomplishes great things was
trained to do so in a formal setting, not even the «nourishing» sort that
Obama fantasizes about.
But people do flourish at Oxford. It’s for the opposite reason Obama
envisions. It’s precisely because students are left to their own devices,
while still having use of the facilities of their college, and the univer-
sity, that makes it such a worthwhile time in their lives. Student soci-
eties and organisations are self-funded (sometimes through sponsor-
ship of corporations who want to make a good impression on potential
future employees), self-organised, and self-directed. It’s standard for
any student who wants a room for an event to book one at his college,
with the college porter. It could be a speaker that’s asked to come to
speak to students, a play, a party celebrating french cuisine (or wine!) —
there is even a Oxford Tiddledywinks society. In the fencing club, most
coaching is done by older students, and this is true across all sports.
In this way, students exercise their responsibility, self-direction, and
leadership. The part of a student’s life at Oxford that’s not academic
is, to my mind, of equal value to the academic part. You couldn’t have
one without the other, not least because the crazy amount of motiva-
tion needed to succeed academically at Oxford doesn’t burn people
out, but rather inspires them to succeed in other areas of their life, too.
I spent an evening, recently, with Robert Hardy, an actor who played
Cornelius Fudge in the Harry Potter films. He was a graduate of Oxford
when Oxford was far more the way it should be than it even is today.
No government interference (which has weakened and damaged some
of Oxford’s salient features, but not utterly destroyed them, not yet, at
least). In Hardy’s day, entrance was primarily on recommendation of
the heads of boys schools whose friends were Oxford tutors, who could
— 98 —
therefore tell them what their boys were really like, and therefore which
ones were best for Oxford. CS Lewis was one of Robert Hardy’s tutors.
Once, during a week when Robert was busy doing a play, he ran into
his C S Lewis, who told him not to bother writing a quick essay that
week, write a better one for the next week. The master of his college
(Magdalen) encouraged him not to do his academic work, but instead
to concentrate on the theatre, which was clearly his passion. Plays at
Oxford are produced with no interference or help from the university,
often at venues with no real affiliation with Oxford. One of the best
ones was donated by Oxford grad Richard Burton’s daughter. As stu-
dents you pay rent on the theatre, you advertise, you start a non-prof-
it bank account, and hopefully you recoup your costs and reinvest in
the next production. What Robert Hardy’s’s educators encouraged was
for him to become who he really was, for his best self to emerge. But
in a place that was a genuine precursor of the real world. The friends
he met there — including Richard Burton — all went on to help each
other in the so- called real world. They just continued doing what they
had already been doing at Oxford.
Oxford is a loose federation of societies, schools, colleges, perma-
nent private halls, of which no one is in charge. The colleges, as an ex-
ample, operate, basically, in the same way as the university as a whole.
My old tutor is now the president of a college. When I asked him if he
could command a tree be moved to the other side of a quad, for exam-
ple, he said, well, no, he could make a suggestion to the grounds com-
mittee that the gardener had indicated that perhaps the tree might be
better on the other side of the quad, and the grounds committee might
choose to think about it. Perhaps for a long time. Perhaps never. What
this means is that momentum has more sway in Oxford than most plac-
es. No one crazy person with crazy ideas is going to change things,
much. The government has tried its best to destroy Oxford (under the
insane guise of making the intangible qualities of Oxford measurable
in way that bureaucrats can understand), but even it has not yet suc-
ceeded. Oxford is too diffuse to be pushed too hard from the outside.
— 99 —
Student societies can last for decades or even centuries, handed

down from students to students, with no one telling them what they
should do. Beyond this, Oxford’s myth and reputation mean that new
students, even if they don’t know the specifics of how things work, al-
most always arrive in Oxford motivated to succeed, not just academ-
ically, but in all areas.
Taking all this together, although imperfect, Oxford turns out stu-
dents who can think for themselves, articulate their thoughts verbally
as well as in writing, who are self-directed and can work in groups to
accomplish their goals. No one could replicate a thousand year old in-
stitution overnight — especially as a salient feature of Oxford is its or-
ganic, evolving nature, with no strong central power. But the best part,
at least of the intellectual side of Oxford, is easy to replicated. All you
need is two people — a teacher and a student — and a room. Actually,
you don’t even need the room — Socrates got along without even that.
Perhaps one of the most blaringly insane things the government
of the UK has done to disrupt the natural way educational institu-
tions have evolved for the past thousand years was announced by
Tony Blair, when he was Prime Minister. He declared that 50 % of
UK youth should go on to university, and the government was going
to try to make that happen.
If he’d said 46.459 %, or 71.3223 %, he might at least have been
able to justify his idea with reference to a study that purported to show
that, somehow, 50% would be an optimal number for some stated goal
(not that any study could hope to discern something as subtle as that,
but at least there could have been that pretense). But, instead, this ar-
bitrary number was plucked from the air because it had a nice round
sound in his mouth. It is is as profoundly and beautifully arbitrary as
if he’d said that 50 % of the population should become interpretive
ballet dancers.
Is it good that some people become ballet dancers? Undoubtedly
so. Would increasing the number of professional pirouetters to, say,
33⅓ % of the population be a better thing? I can’t see why it would,
and, anyway, not that many people have an interest in, proclivity for,
— 100 —
or talent as ballet dancers. Beyond that, there are not enough people to
watch that many ballet dancers dance. People would get bored. People
would grow to hate ballet. It would destroy, in the end, ballet. In the
same way, even in Oxford’s thousand years, there have been only a
few as great as Newton. Churchill stopped school at fifteen, Richard
Branson stopped school at fifteen, Shakespeare did without a universi-
ty education. 1% of the population is arguably too many to go to uni-
versity, but, then, you never know which one is going to end up be-
ing the next Newton. So, maybe 1%, or half of 1%, is a good number.
Who knows? Not the government.
When you start talking about ten, fifteen, or fifty percent of the
population, you don’t elevate that many people to anything resem-
bling Oxford graduates. You denude the term «higher education» of
its meaning. You lower what the term means. You now see universi-
ty courses at so-called universities in the UK in DJ-ing, in pottery, in
countless things that cannot be taught, but must be learned. Remember,
the greatest things about Oxford is that the people who get there re-
ally, really wanted to be there, are motivated, have worked hard to be
there and will continue working hard once there, academically and in
other areas. They are almost entirely self-directed. I’m sure there are
plenty of Oxford students who’ve figured out how to be DJs, potters,
pilots, figure skating champions, life-saving triathlon runners, all in
their free time, with no one telling them how to do it. I knew some-
one, a graduate student, who, when not studying, was a doctor saving
lives at the hospital, she trained for and took part in a triathlon, and,
when she flew to visit her boyfriend, gave everyone on the plane a
flower and a photograph to help spot boyfriend, sent them off first, so
that when she emerged, last, from the plane, her boyfriend had eighty
roses in his arms. No one taught her that.
To sit in a room and be lectured is not a lesser thing than an Oxford
tutorial, it is a different thing. It is as different as being invaded and
conquered is different from being invaded and fighting back and may-
be even winning. It is as different as making a cake, and growing a
— 101 —
tree. It is as different as reading a book, and having a conversation

with the author.
An ideal educational institution, in my opinion, would be like
Oxford, at its best. It would foster independent thinkers with the ca-
pacity to think critically and hard. It would create an opportunity for
motivated people to collaborate with other motivated people in a va-
riety of fields, from sports to politics and the arts. The criteria for en-
try to such a place would be varied, but motivation, intelligence and
passion would be a common criterion. Perhaps no such ideal place can
ever exist, but these ideals can at least be strived for.
— 102 —
F. Lemaire La Mort Dans la Musique de Dimitri Chostakovitch
Frans C. Lemaire
Specialist of Russian Music of XX century,
Writer of Music critics and author
of books on cultural items
Gent Area
LA MORT DANS LA MUSIQUE

DE DIMITRI CHOSTAKOVITCH
Keyword: Shostakovich, music, theme «death», Russian music

Summary: The article is devoted to the theme of death in music of
Dmitry Shostakovich. This theme is closely connected with the tragic
history of XX century and the World War II. Lemer investigates her-
itage of Shostakovich and analyses images of death, grief and protest
elaborated by the composer in the various music forms during different
periods of his creative work. Author gives special consideration to pas-
sacal - the form of mourning elegy, which Shostakovich used in many
of his famous works during and after the war period.
La musique et la mort
« Seule la musique nous parle de la mort », une aussi ferme affir-
mation d’André Malraux peut surprendre car la musique est générale-
ment absente de sa longue réflexion sur l’art et le destin des hommes.
Sans doute reconnaissait-il ainsi que dans toutes les cultures et de tous
les temps, une place privilégiée est réservée à la musique dans les ri-
tuels funéraires. auxquels elle a donné des formes spécifiques : Il faut
cependant attendre le début du XXe siècle pour que ces musiques évo-
quant la mort (Lamentations, Requiem, Marches funèbres, Élégies...)
se détachent des traditions religieuses et acceptent les dimensions
nietzschéennes du désespoir annoncées déjà par Gustav Mahler sur
les paroles du Zarathoustra dans sa 3e Symphonie (1896). Plusieurs
Requiem inspirés par les désastres du XXe siècle (Frederick Delius,
Paul Hindemith, Benjamin Britten) remplacent définitivement les ré-
signations dévotes par la protestation.
— 103 — © F. C. Lemaire, 2013

Les frontières de l’athéisme avaient été franchies quelques décen-

nies auparavant par un régime soviétique qui s’efforça d’éliminer to-
talement Dieu de la vie publique et de l’expression artistique, écartant
même toute référence à l’orthodoxie ou à la langue latine. La mort, si
longtemps indissolublement liée au sentiment religieux, en devenait
elle-même suspecte, car l’évoquer revenait à souligner la vanité d’une
existence se sacrifiant pour un paradis sur terre reporté de génération
en génération suivante, comme Chostakovitch le soulignera dans une
de ses mélodies, une quarantaine d’années plus tard. Dans une telle
idéologie du futur, l’important n’est pas la mort individuelle mais le
sacrifice à l’idéal collectif de défense de la patrie et de victoire du so-
cialisme. Seul cet héroïsme mérite la mémoire éternelle telle qu’elle
est chantée dans un des rares Requiem de la musique soviétique, com-
posé par Dimitri Kabalevski en 1963. Malgré l’utilisation du titre tra-
ditionnel, poète (Robert Rozhdestvenski) et compositeur ne recon-
naissent que l’esthétique grandiloquente du réalisme socialiste. On ne
peut dire la même chose du Requiem (1980) composé deux décennies
plus tard par Edison Denisov (1929-1996) qui associe aux poèmes de
Francisco Tanzer, trois extraits du Requiem latin, ni de celui d’Alfred
Schnittke (1934-1998) qui n’hésite pas à reprendre en 1985, l’entièreté
du texte liturgique. Quant à Viateslav Artiomiov (né en 1940), il com-
pose deux ans plus tard un Requiem (1987) qui, profitant de la peres-
troïka, élargit de façon significative la dédicace traditionnelle : « Aux
martyrs de la longue souffrance russe ». Ces martyrs sont aussi le su-
jet du long poème intitulé précisément Requiem, d’Anna Akhmatova
que Chostakovitch envisagea de mettre en musique mais auquel il re-
nonça lorsque son élève, Boris Tichtchenko (né en 1939), décida de le
faire en 1966. Cette partition ne put cependant être exécutée et publiée
qu’une vingtaine d’années plus tard lorsque, transformé par la glasnost
de Gorbatchev, le régime célébra en 1989 le centenaire de la grande
poétesse qu’il avait si longtemps persécutée. Chostakovitch était mort
depuis quatorze ans, mais il lui avait rendu hommage en 1973 à tra-
vers le poème A Anna Akhmatova de Marina Tsvetaïeva, peu avant que
s’achève un parcours musical de cinquante-huit années qui l’avait mené
des Révolutions de 1917 au milieu des années Brejnev.
— 104 —
Dimitri Dimitriévitch Chostakovitch (1906-1975)

Né dix-neuf mois après le dimanche sanglant de 1905, Dimitri
Chostakovitch avait à peine seize ans au moment de la Révolution
d’Octobre1, mais au début du mois d’avril 1917 il avait assisté avec ses
parents à la cérémonie funèbre commémorant les 184 victimes des évé-
nements de mars. Y ayant entendu le chant révolutionnaire Vous êtes
tombés en victimes ... le jeune Dimitri, sitôt rentré à la maison, compo-
sa une pièce de piano aujourd’hui perdue mais dont il reprendra deux
fois la mélodie dans des œuvres ultérieures2 .
La mort entre ainsi très tôt dans l’existence du jeune Chostakovitch
pour ne plus la quitter car à la guerre civile et à la famine qui ont suivi
la Révolution, s’ajoute en février 1922, le décès inopiné de son père.
Écrite aussitôt après, La Suite pour deux pianos, opus 6 est dédiée à
sa mémoire. Ponctué d’une sonnerie de cloches orthodoxes, son début
prend l’allure d’une déploration tragique.
Durant un demi-siècle, le thème de la mort reviendra régulièrement
dans les œuvres de Chostakovitch, ce qui n’aurait rien d’exceptionnel
s’il s’agissait d’un compositeur d’opéras mais tel ne fut pas son cas
puisqu’une carrière lyrique particulièrement prometteuse fut brutale-
ment arrêtée en janvier 1936 lorsque Staline condamna sans appel sa
Lady Macbeth du district de Mzensk malgré deux années de succès to-
talisant plus de 170 représentations. Aussi érotique que meurtrier (un
empoisonnement, deux meurtres et un suicide) cet opéra n’était guère
adapté, il est vrai, à la nouvelle doctrine d’une « vie soviétique plus
joyeuse » proclamée par le dictateur à la veille de ce que l’histoire re-
tiendra comme.. .la grande terreur.
La mort qui marque la musique de Chostakovitch n’est donc pas
celle représentée par les fictions de la scène mais bien celle des hommes
qui entourèrent le compositeur (parents, amis, musiciens) ou des vic-
times de la guerre 1941-1945 avant de devenir celle qui menace l’artiste
lui-même. Victime de nombreux accidents de santé à partir de 1960,
Chostakovitch va vivre, en effet, de longues années (1968-1975) dans
l’attente d’une mort de plus en plus présente mais qui lui accorde, au
fil des sursis, d’écrire pas moins de six oeuvres testamentaires entre
1968 et 19753.
— 105 —
Parole et musique face à la mort

Les musiciens ne sont pas les seuls à parler de la mort. Leur pri-
vilège de pouvoir le faire en échappant aux banalités indécentes des
mots est partagé par les poètes dont les métaphores s’efforcent, elles
aussi, de libérer le langage des apories que lui impose le néant. Il est
donc assez normal que, dans un telle confrontation, musique et poé-
sie se rejoignent au sein d’un vaste univers spécifique comme celui du
Lied que les compositeurs romantiques allemands du XIXe siècle ont
si magistralement illustré. Malgré la place exceptionnelle occupée par
la poésie dans leur culture, les musiciens russes ont été plus modestes,
les plus fervents d’entre eux, comme Tchaïkovski, Rachmaninov ou
Medtner composant, au mieux, une centaine de mélodies davantage
réservées aux tourments et aléas de l’amour qu’aux angoisses de la
mort. L’intérêt pour ce genre musical s’est rapidement estompé au XXe
siècle avec Stravinsky et Prokofiev, exemple que Chostakovitch suivit
d’abord puisqu’il n’a écrit que dix-huit mélodies durant les vingt-cinq
premières années de sa carrière (1922-1947).
Dédié à sa fiancée, Nina Varzar, son premier cycle, Six Romances
sur des poèmes japonais, Opus 21, (1928-1932) pour ténor et grand
orchestre, chante effectivement l’amour mais aussi — déjà — la mort
(n°2 : Avant le suicide et n°6, Mort) dans un climat expressionniste qui
rappelle Mahler (Le Chant de la terre) et Alban Berg (Wozzeck) dont
les œuvres avaient été plusieurs fois exécutées à Leningrad à la fin des
années 20. Chostakovitch va même citer explicitement Le Chant de la
terre dans la Chanson d’Ophélie d’une musique de scène composée à
la même époque pour l’Hamlet avant-gardiste de Nikolaï Akimov, puis
dans le dernier acte de son opéra Lady Macbeth. Au même moment, le
Comité central publie le décret du 23 avril 1932 qui dissout toutes les
associations et les remplace par des Unions professionnelles monopo-
lisant les activités artistiques au seul profit de l’esthétique idéologique
du réalisme socialiste. Sans doute est-ce pour cette raison que les mé-
lodies japonaises qui ne parlent que d’amour et de mort — sujets indi-
vidualistes bourgeois — ne seront créées qu’en 1966, trente-cinq ans
après leur composition.
— 106 —
Composé durant l’été 1936, six mois après la condamnation de Lady

Macbeth, le cycle de Quatre Romances sur des vers de Pouchkine,
Op.46 (1936) pour basse et piano, restera également méconnu4 alors
qu’il est d’une grande signification. La première mélodie reprend, en ef-
fet, un poème qui raconte l’histoire d’un peintre dont les chefs d’œuvre,
censurés, ont été barbouillés par une main barbare mais l’artiste, confiant
dans son œuvre, attend que les années lui rendent justice, allusion évi-
dente au sort que le compositeur vient de connaître. Cette amertume
se prolonge dans deux autres morceaux, Pressentiment (n°3) et surtout
Stances (n°4), le plus long des quatre poèmes, une méditation sur la mort
et un adieu à la vie qu’accompagne un ultime souhait : « C’est dans
ma contrée natale que j’aimerais reposer. Que de jeunes vies viennent
jouer devant mon sépulcre et que la nature indifférente rayonne de son
éternelle beauté ».
Ce pessimisme dont la mort devient l’inséparable compagne se re-
trouve sous une forme encore plus explicite dans deux des Six Romances
sur des poètes britanniques, Opus 62 pour voix grave et piano compo-
sées en 1942. La troisième mélodie, Macpherson avant son exécution,
une ballade écossaise de Robert Burns, s’achève par la conclusion :
« Triste est le sort de celui qui attend sa mort sans oser mourir » mais
c’est le célèbre Sonnet 66 de Shakespeare (n°5) qui accumule encore
davantage les désespoirs face aux méfaits et aux malheurs du monde et
salue la mort comme l’ultime libération : « Épuisé par tout cela, j’ap-
pelle le repos de la mort » (premier vers), « je voudrais ne plus être
là » (avant-dernier vers).
Si la guerre inspire à Chostakovitch la célébration des héros et des
victimes, il choisit de le faire en dehors des formes conventionnelles5
et sans paroles dans trois de ses plus grandes œuvres : la 8e Symphonie,
le Trio n°2 et le Quatuor n°3. Pour atteindre ce but il utilise paradoxa-
lement la forme à première vue abstraite et austère de la Passacaille.
Ce choix « formaliste » sera l’un des attendus de sa condamnation au
début de 1948 aux côtés d’autres compositeurs soviétiques célèbres
comme Prokofiev, Khatchatourian et Miaskovski. D’autres événements
tragiques vont introduire dans sa musique une dimension expressive
à laquelle rien ne le prédestinait. L’assassinat durant le même mois de
— 107 —
janvier 1948 de l’acteur Solomon Mikhoels, figure emblématique de

la communauté juive et beau-père du compositeur Moissei Weinberg,
ami très proche de Chostakovitch, va amener celui-ci à composer son
premier long cycle mélodique, De la poésie populaire juive, Opus 79
(1948). À partir de ce moment jusqu’à sa mort vingt-sept ans plus tard,
Chostakovitch n’écrira pas moins de 12 cycles et un total de 78 mé-
lodies, faisant de la parole l’auxiliaire de plus en plus explicite de ses
protestations6.
Le thème de la mort se présente ainsi chez Chostakovitch dans trois
régistres différents : des chants funèbres ou élégiaques émergeant des
formes contrapuntiques de sa musique instrumentale, des protestations
vis-à-vis du pouvoir exprimée par le choix des textesûd’une propor-
tion importante — le quart — de ses mélodies (Pouchkine, Tchorny,
Tsvetaïeva, Evtouchenko, poésies yiddish, Michelûnge) et, enfin, à
partir de 1969, des méditations testamentaires sur son propre destin au
fur et à mesure que s’approche la mort.
La Passacaille comme élégie funèbre

D’origine lointaine, espagnole ou italienne, la passacaille est consti-
tuée d’ une suite de variations sur un même motif ostinato exposé pré-
alablement à la basse. Analogue à la chaconne, mais plus lente et plus
sombre, elle privilégie les tonalités mineures et le chromatisme, ce qui
lui confère un caractère grave et émouvant. L’exemple le plus célèbre
est évidemment l’air de Didon dans le 3e Acte de Didon et Énée de
Purcell qui salue précisément l’approche de la mort (When I am laid in
earth) et invoque la mémoire des vivants (Remember me !). Un autre
exemple célèbre7 est l’interlude en forme de passacaille dans l’opéra
Wozzeck d’Alban Berg représenté neuf fois à Leningrad en 1927-1928
(près de trente ans avant Paris !) et que Chostakovitch avait suivi, même
à chaque représentation a-t-on prétendu. Une passacaille semblable se
retrouve entre le 4e et le 5e tableau de son opéra Lady Macbeth dont il
entame la composition en 1930. L’existence d’une version pour orgue
a été longtemps présentée comme une transcription postérieure mais il
parait aujourd’hui plus vraisemblable qu’elle fut composée d’abord pour
le clavier, sans doute comme exercice de contrepoint au Conservatoire
— 108 —
puis orchestrée sous l’influence d’Alban Berg pour servir d’ interlude

après la mort par empoisonnement du beau-père de Ekaterina Ismaïlova,
l’héroïne de Lady Macbeth, et avant le meurtre de son mari au tableau
suivant. Il ne s’agit donc pas de
compassion mais plutôt d’une évocation de l’inexorabilité du des-
tin à travers le déroulement dramatique de la basse obstinée et le poids
grandissant d’une orchestration qui soutient un terrifiant crescendo,
de pp à fffff (mesure 89) pour revenir à pp (mesure 118).
Cette utilisation de la passacaille va revenir dans de nombreuses
œuvres ultérieures de Chostakovitch8, non plus à l’opéra qu’il n’ose
plus aborder mais dans des partitions orchestrales (Symphonie n°8 et
n°15 ou concertantes (1er Concerto pour violon) et dans sa musique de
chambre (12e Prélude et fugue, Sonate pour violon, Trio n°2 et plu-
sieurs Quatuors). Le contenu expressif de ces pages est le plus sou-
vent funèbre ou élégiaque, Chostakovitch réussissant ainsi à atteindre
la plus grande intensité émotionnelle à une forme essentiellement aus-
tère et rigoureuse. L’exemple le plus remarquable est incontestable-
ment la grande passacaille qui sert de quatrième mouvement dans la
8e Symphonie, opus 65 (1943). Composé en pleine guerre, peu après que
le destin se soit définitivement retourné en faveur de la Russie sovié-
tique à Stalingrad, ce chef-d’œuvre succédait à la célèbre 7e Symphonie,
opus 60 « Leningrad » (1941) qui avait bénéficié d’un succès mondial
en déroulant au premier degré et en do majeur les affres de la guerre tan-
dis que cette seconde symphonie de guerre composée deux ans plus tard
délivre une toute autre dimension musicale et émotionnelle. Comportant
cinq mouvements, elle débute par la méditation d’un grand adagio tan-
dis que le centre est occupé par un scherzo qui traduit par une extraor-
dinaire stylisation sonore toute la brutalité impitoyable de la guerre et
de son horrible tribut en vies humaines. Un chant funèbre d’une rare
intensité lui succède sous la forme d’une passacaille avec 11 variations,
mais jugée trop savante, elle deviendra en 1948 une des charges rete-
nues contre Chostakovitch pour justifier sa condamnation et dès le 14
février 1948 la 8e Symphonie figurera sur la liste des partitions exclues
du répertoire des concerts. Plutôt que de se soumettre, Chostakovitch
maintiendra intacte la partition du 1er Concerto pour violon, opus 77
— 109 —
(1947-1948) qu’il vient de composer et qui renferme également une

grande passacaille comme troisième mouvement, mais il la met dans
un tiroir dans l’attente de temps meilleur, ce qui différera la création à
la fin du mois d’octobre 1955, soit sept années plus tard. Staline était
mort entre temps, en mars 1953. C’est la plus belle passacaille émo-
tionnelle de Chostakovitch avec celle de la 8e Symphonie. La pouvoir
expressif de ces pages est dû à la superposition du lyrisme du vio-
lon solo et du motif obstiné de la basse, horloge inexorable du destin
mais une densité expressive extraordinaire est atteinte par la ponctua-
tion dans le thème de la basse de quatre notes (une blanche suivie de
trois noires) qui correspondent exactement au motif de la police dans
Lady Macbeth. Enfin un appel des cors insère dans la passacaille un
trait mélodique du très mélancolique Nocturne qui ouvrait le concerto.
Tant de superpositions pathétiques font de cette musique une antithèse
complète de l’esthétique officielle, d’autant plus que ce concerto pré-
sente encore une autre caractéristique répréhensible sous le régime so-
viétique, l’introduction d’un thème juif dans le scherzo. Ce n’était pas
la première fois : des mélodies typiquement klezmer étaient déjà appa-
rues dans le 2e Trio, opus 67 (1944) composé sous le double choc de la
mort en février de son ami, le musicologue Ivan Sollertinski (à la mé-
moire duquel la partition est dédiée) et de la découverte au mois d’août
par l’Armée rouge du camp d’extermination de Majdanek. C’est donc
un double hommage qui était rendu ici, à l’ami dans la passacaille du
troisième mouvement avec ses six variations, au martyre du peuple juif
avec un final métamorphosant en une véritable danse des morts une mu-
sique destinée originellement aux fêtes de mariage.
La guerre finie, Chostakovitch composa un 3e Quatuor, opus 73
(1946) que, contrairement à ses habitudes, il affubla de titres des-
criptifs, sans doute pour amadouer la censure après les critiques qui
avaient assailli sa brève 9e Symphonie, opus 70 (1945) jugée mineure
et insouciante alors qu’on attendait une œuvre triomphaliste célébrant
la victoire. Le troisième mouvement était ainsi explicitement intitu-
lé « Hommage aux morts » après « le déchaînement des forces de la
guerre » spécifié pour la partie précédente, reproduisant ainsi le sché-
ma de la 8e Symphonie. On retrouve donc une passacaille, avec sept
— 110 —
variations cette fois, mais traitées avec plus liberté car elles dialoguent
avec le thème de la basse plutôt qu’elles ne s’y superposent selon les
règles du genre. Une scansion par des groupes de trois notes accentue
le caractère martial et ce mouvement commencé comme passacaille,
poursuivi comme dialogue, s’achève en marche funèbre.
Forme inspiratrice traitée ainsi très librement, la passacaille se re-
trouve encore dans plusieurs quatuors, même indépendamment de tout
contenu tragique comme dans le 6e Quatuor, opus 101 (1956), compo-
sé durant la lune de miel d’un second mariage. Cependant après le dé-
sastre de celui-ci et la conclusion du divorce, c’est à la mémoire de Nina
Varzar, sa première épouse, décédée six ans plus tôt, que Chostakovitch
dédie son 7e Quatuor, opus 108 (1960) mais sans passacaille cette fois.
Elle revient, en revanche, dans sa forme rigoureuse, avec l’adagio du
10e Quatuor, op.117 (1964) dédié à son grand ami, Moissei Weinberg
(1919-1996) dont toute la famille restée en Pologne avait péri dans
l’holocauste.
Ecrit à la mémoire de Vassili Chirinski, second violon du Quatuor
Beethoven auquel Chostakovitch a confié la création de 13 de ses 15
quatuors, le 11e Quatuor, opus 122 (1966) renferme un adagio intitulé
Élégie, titre que l’on retrouve dans le 15e Quatuor, op.144 (1974) qui
ne porte pas de dédicace mais est ouvertement testamentaire avec ses
six adagios aux titres significatifs (Élégie, Nocturne, Marche funèbre,
Épilogue). On donne d’ailleurs parfois le titre de Requiem à ce quatuor,
en particulier à sa transcription pour orchestre à cordes.
La 15e Symphonie, opus 141 (1971) composée trois ans plus tôt oc-
cupe une position analogue, explicitée dans le dernier mouvement par
une citation du thème du destin qui dans le 2e acte de La Walkyrie de
Wagner annonce la mort de Siegmund (Todesverkundigung) et par les
premières notes de Tristan symbolisant l’amour. Un motif en pizzicat-
ti des violoncelles et des contrebasses, ponctué plus tard par les tim-
bales introduit une nouvelle passacaille qui oscille entre atonalisme9
et tonalité. Extraordinairement riche en citations diverses (le thème de
la passacaille est proche de celui de l’invasion dans la 7 Symphonie
« Leningrad ») et en allusions (y compris Guillaume Tell, combattant
de la liberté), cette symphonie écrite durant l’été 1971 pendant le trai-
— 111 —
tement de la dernière chance que Chostakovitch suit à Kurgan au-delà

de l’Oural auprès d’un docteur-miracle, est clairement son testament
symphonique.
Les déguisements mélodiques de la protestation

Les événements dramatiques de janvier-février 1948 (la mort tra-
gique de Solomon Michoels, la condamnation pour « formalisme »)
avaient conduit Chostakovitch à s’enfermer dans une double vie, celle
d’un compositeur de musiques de films officiels qui réserve pour des
temps meilleurs la vraie musique qu’il continue de composer, écrivant
notamment entre août et octobre 1948 un cycle de onze mélodies inti-
tulé De la poésie populaire juive, opus 79. Le thème de l’enfant mort
et du berceau vide de la première mélodie sera repris identiquement,
quelques années plus tard, dans les Quatre monologues sur des vers de
Pouchkine, opus 91 (1952). Cette empathie vis-à-vis du malheur juif10
va culminer dans la 13e Symphonie « Babi Yar » (1962) avec le poème
éponyme d’Evgueni Evtouchenko qui proteste ouvertement contre la
façon dont le martyr juif en Ukraine a été ignoré par un régime pour
lequel il n’y a de victimes que soviétiques.
L’arrivée au pouvoir de Nikita Krouchtchev n’apportera qu’un dé-
gel éphémère pour Chostakovitch car c’est Krouchtchev et non Staline
qui exige en 1960 que Chostakovitch devienne membre du Parti. Irrité
et tourmenté, il compose en juin une mélodie intitulée Les descendants
ou La progéniture qui est une critique extrêmement acerbe de la répé-
tition à chaque génération des mêmes promesses d’un bonheur qui ne
se réalise jamais malgré les sacrifices demandés. Il disait ainsi exacte-
ment le contraire de ce qu’il était forcé de lire dans les discours offi-
ciels qu’on lui préparait. La mort n’est pas absente non plus de ce texte
puisque c’est de l’avoir comme seule perspective que le poète Sacha
Tchorny11 se plaint : Plutôt que pour des descendants qui ne sont pas
nés, je voudrais un peu de lumière pour moi, tant que je suis encore vi-
vant ! Un mois plus tard, Chostakovitch écrit en trois jours l’extraor-
dinaire 8e Quatuor, opus 110, dans la conviction qu’après sa mort per-
sonne ne dédiera d’œuvre à sa mémoire et que, par conséquent, il valait
mieux composer soi-même « ce quatuor dédié à l’auteur de ce quatuor
— 112 —
» ainsi qu’il l’écrit ironiquement à son ami Isaac Glikman. On peut

aujourd’hui déchiffrer cette partition mesure par mesure comme on li-
rait chaque ligne d’un journal intime. Le motif DSCH revient 88 fois
émaillant ce long cri de protestation, mais l’œuvre étant purement ins-
trumentale sa véritable signification n’a été dévoilée qu’une trentaine
d’années après sa composition12.
À partir de ce moment, Chostakovitch va recourir de plus en plus à
des textes qui rendent ses protestations explicites comme dans les Six
mélodies sur des poèmes de Marina Tsvetaïeva, op.143 (1973) qui il-
lustrent notamment le conflit de l’artiste et du pouvoir, en l’occurrence
entre Pouchkine et Nicolas 1er (n°4 : Le poète et le tsar). La cinquième
mélodie (Non ! battait le tambour ) évoque la fin dramatique du poète
et la comédie des funérailles officielles : « Il n’y a pas de place pour
ses amis, il n’y a place que pour les gendarmes. Comme le monarque
honore le poète ! ». En le couvrant d’honneurs, le tsar a volé le cadavre
de celui qu’il a persécuté. Chostakovitch réalise ainsi une allégorie pro-
phétique de ses propres funérailles qui se dérouleront deux ans plus tard
sur le thème du « fils fidèle du Parti ».
La troisième mélodie, Dialogue de Hamlet avec sa conscience, est
en réalité une complainte sur la mort d’Ophélie, thème déjà abordé dans
la Chanson d’Ophélie, première des Sept Romances sur des poèmes
d’Alexandre Blok, opus 127 (1967). Une autre mélodie intitulée Signes
secrets utilise pour la première fois une série dodécaphonique alors que
la musique sérielle était sévèrement condamnée et proscrite par l’Union
des compositeurs au nom du réalisme socialiste. Elle accompagne ici
un texte apocalyptique fait de visions d’épouvantes, de signes secrets
et menaçants : « Ma fin, déjà décidée est proche. La guerre et l’incen-
die sont devant moi... ».
Ces investigations au niveau du langage musical associé au thème
de la mort se retrouvent en 1969 dans la 14e Symphonie, opus 141, qui
est en réalité un cycle de onze mélodies avec orchestre traitant toutes di-
rectement ou indirectement de ce thème. Cinq autres œuvres testamen-
taires (les Quatuors n°13 et n°15, la Symphonie n°15, la Suite Michel-
Ange, la Sonate n°1 pour alto) suivront cependant jusqu’à ce que, six
ans plus tard, la mort ait le dernier mot.
— 113 —
Dans l’attente de la mort

Achevée sur un lit d’hopital, la 14e Symphonie, opus 135 (1969) com-
porte dix mélodies sur des textes d’auteurs étrangers (l’espagnol Garcia
Lorca, le français Apollinaire et l’autrichien Rilke) et une seule d’un
poète russe d’origine allemande Wilhelm Kuchelbecker (1797-1846),
ami de Pouchkine. Ce choix surprenant privilégie trois thèmes qui re-
viendront fréquemment dans les cycles ultérieurs : l’amour et la mort
(1, 3, 5 et 6), la prison, le pouvoir et ses crimes (7, 8 et 9), la mort (2,
4, 10 et 11). Certains poèmes reflètent allégoriquement (n°9 : Ô Delvig,
Delvig ! de Kuchelbecker : « Quelle joie donne le talent si l’on est au
milieu des fripons et des fous ? ») ou par anticipation (n°10 : La mort
du poète et n°11 : La mort est toute puissante de Rilke), la propre si-
tuation de Chostakovitch. L’œuvre est dédiée à Benjamin Britten avec
qui il s’était lié d’amitié et dont il admirait beaucoup le War Requiem ;
les deux œuvres ne sont d’ailleurs pas sans analogies.
Le Quatuor n°13, opus 138 achevé en août 1970 au début du trai-
tement de la dernière chance entamé à Kurgan, traduit le même pessi-
misme morbide en langage purement instrumental, grâce aux sonori-
tés sombres de l’alto qui a le rôle principal dans cette partition dédiée
à Vladimir Borisovski, l’altiste du Quatuor Beethoven qui, atteint par
la maladie, avait cessé de jouer et mourra en 1972.
Après la 15e Symphonie complétée à la fin juillet 1971, Chostakovitch,
découragé par le peu de résultats des longs mois de traitement loin de
Moscou, cesse totalement de composer durant vingt mois, ne reprenant
la plume qu’au printemps 1973 pour écrire en un mois son 14e Quatuor,
nettement moins pessimiste, suivi durant l’été du cycle Tsvetaïeva et
au printemps 1974, mais à l’hôpital cette fois, du 15e Quatuor déjà
commenté.
Durant le même été, il achève son dernier grand cycle mélodique,
la Suite sur des vers de Michel-Ange, op.145 (1974) qui devient ainsi
son testament vocal définitif13, neuf mois avant son décès. Cette com-
position est cependant due à une circonstance fortuite : la décision de
l’Union soviétique de s’associer par une œuvre musicale à la célébration
du 5e Centenaire de la naissance de Michel-Ange afin de commémorer
non seulement l’artiste de génie mais aussi le rebelle s’élevant contre
— 114 —
la tyrannie de la Papauté. Cherchant son inspiration, Chostakovitch dé-

couvre dans l’ouvrage russe de V.N.Grachtchenkov, Michel-Ange, sa
vie, ses œuvres (Moscou, 1964) un long chapitre commenté réunissant
plus de cent poésies de Michel-Ange dans une traduction de A. M. Efros.
Il y reconnaît une expression très proche de ses propres sentiments
au soir de sa vie. Retenant huit sonnets, un madrigal, deux quatrains et
deux épitaphes, il en tire onze textes dont il choisit lui-même les titres
et l’ordre, créant ainsi un parcours quasi autobiographique comme si
Michel-Ange lui renvoyait l’image de sa propre destinée. Après un
premier sonnet qui interpelle le pape Jules II : « Tu as récompensé
l’ennemi de la vérité...Plus j’ai œuvré, moins je t’ai plu... », les textes
évoquent successivement l’amour et ses tourments (n°2, n°3 et n°4),
l’ingratitude du pouvoir (n°5 : Colère, n°6 : Dante et n°7 : A l’exilé),
le rôle dont l’artiste s’investit face à la beauté et au mal (n°8 : Création
et n°9 : Nuit sur la célèbre sculpture du tombeau de Julien de Médicis),
enfin, ultime revendication, la victoire que son œuvre et l’admiration
qu’elle suscite permet de conquérir sur la mort en arrachant au destin
une part d’immortalité (n°10 : Mort et n°11 : Immortalité). Cette der-
nière mélodie oppose ainsi à la précédente un refus de la mort : « Je
reste vivant en toi qui me vois et me pleure.Vous me croyez mort mais
je continue à vivre dans le cœur de tous ceux qui m’aiment.Non je ne
suis pas parti, la mort ne peut plus m’atteindre. »
En reprenant ainsi le défi de Michel-Ange, Chostakovitch s’adresse
non seulement à ceux qu’il a connus, mais aussi à ceux qu’il n’a pas
connus, ceux qui le reconnaîtront et continueront, bien après sa mort,
à l’aimer à travers sa musique partout dans le monde. Il le fait sur une
musique très simple, enfantine, presque une comptine, provenant de la
plus ancienne partition qu’il ait conservée, un fragment d’opéra compo-
sé lorsqu’il avait une dizaine d’années. Vieillard et enfant se rejoignent
ainsi dans l’ultime geste d’adieu qui les mène hors du temps.
Face aux questions que pose à l’homme sa part d’éternité, l’art seul
a le pouvoir de donner une pérennité à l’éphémère, de faire émerger la
beauté là même où régnait la douleur, d’apporter la dimension du cri
aux murmures des opprimés, d’entrer enfin dans cette Immortalité où
— 115 —
la victoire de la mort sur le corps de l’artiste ne sera jamais celle du si-

lence sur son génie.
ENDNOTES:
1
Il était né le 25 septembre 1906 selon le calendrier grégorien occidental adopté en
février 1918 par le régime bolchevique, ce qui mène la Révolution d’Octobre au
7-8 novembre 1917. Semblablement, la Révolution de Février se situe début mars.
2
D’abord dans le film Le retour de Maxime (1936-1937) puis dans la 11e Symphonie
(1957).
3
Cette singularité a inspiré plusieurs études spécifiques : Grégoire Tosser, Les
dernières œuvres de Dimitri Chostakovitch. Une esthétique musicale de la mort
(1969-1975), L’Harmattan, Paris, Montréal, 2000 et Sebastian Klemm, Dmitri
Schostakowitsch — Das Zeitlose Spatwerk (Les oeuvres tardives intemporelles),
Verlag Ernst Kuhn, Berlin, 2001.
4
Conçu pour participer en 1937 au centenaire de la mort du poète, ce cycle ne fut pas
exécuté. La disgrâce de Chostakovitch ne cessera qu’après l’exécution à Moscou,
le 29 janvier 1938, de sa 5e Symphonie, opus 47, deux mois après la création à
Leningrad.
5
Il n’échappera pas entièrement à celles-ci lorsque des musiques de circonstance
lui seront commandées par les villes de Novosibirsk et de Stalingrad (aujourd’hui
Volgograd) pour l’inauguration de leurs monuments aux morts : Les cloches de
Novosibirsk. Les feux de la gloire éternelle (1960) et Prélude funèbre triomphal,
opus 130 (1967). Des musiques de ce type, notamment de Chostakovitch, ont ac-
compagné le cortège des funérailles de Boris Yeltsin en avril 2007.
6
Outre ces 78 mélodies, Chostakovitch écrira après 1948, 12 quatuors (et seulement
4 symphonies purement orchestrales). De cette orientation définitivement révéla-
trice des sentiments qui animent le compositeur, Solomon Volkov ne dit pratique-
ment pas un mot dans ses soi-disant Mémoires de Chostakovitch, un travail habile
mais apocryphe qu’il a prétendu abusivement avoir été mandaté par le compositeur.
7
La Passacaille a bénéficié d’un certain intérêt auprès de plusieurs compositeurs du
XXe siècle, Webern et Ravel d’abord, Hindemith et Britten ensuite.
8
On trouvera leur analyse détaillée, en particulier sur le plan harmonique, dans
Charlotte Genovesi, La passacaille dans les oeuvres de Chostakovitch : une forme
de contestation, mémoire de maîtrise de Musicologie, Paris IV Sorbonne, sous la di-
rection de François Madurell, 2003, 176 p. + 1 CD. Une première approche du sujet
avait été publiée en 2000 par Lyn Henderson, Old grounds or new ? Shostakovich’s
use of the passacaglia. (The Musical Times, Spring 2000, Vol.141, n°1870).
9
On y rencontre, en particulier, des séries de onze et douze tons. Ces dernières, mon-
tantes et descendantes, sont accompagnées dans le troisième mouvement de traits
persifleurs comme si Chostakovitch tirait la conclusion de ses expériences man-
quées de sérialisme commencées en 1967.
10
On trouve des éléments juifs dans une douzaine de partitions de Chostakovitch.
Voir en particulier : Joachim Braun, On the double meaning of jewish elements in
D.Shostakovich’s music dans On Jewish Music, Past and Present, Peter Lang, Bern,
— 116 —
2006 et Frans C.Lemaire, De la Russie tsariste à l’Union soviétique dans Le des-

tin juif et la musique, 3000 ans d’histoire, Fayard, 2e éd., 2003.
11
Nom de plume d’Alexandre Glikberg (1880-1932). Né dans la communauté juive
d’Odessa, il participa à partir de 1908 à la revue Satiricon de Saint-Pétersbourg. Ses
textes furent réunis en 1910 dans un volume intitulé Satires. Il émigra peu après la
Révolution. Chostakovitch le découvrit grâce à une anthologie publiée en 1960 à
Leningrad et il écrivit en juin de la même année son cycle Opus 109 également in-
titulé Satires mais soustitré Images du passé pour déjouer la censure.
12
Cette genèse du 8e Quatuor n’a été révélée qu’en 1993 par la publication des Lettres
à un ami.Correspondance avec Isaac Glikman (parues en français chez Albin Michel
en 1994) et, en particulier la lettre du 19 juillet 1960 écrite aussitôt après la com-
position de l’œuvre. Entre-temps, c’est-à-dire durant une trentaine d’années, le ré-
gime soviétique l’utilisera dans la cadre de ses campagnes pacifistes comme étant
« dédiée aux victimes de la guerre et du fascisme ». Quant aux œuvres d’hommage
écrites à la mémoire de Chostakovitch, elle dépassent aujourd’hui la centaine en
provenance de tous les pays du monde.
13
La Sonate pour alto, opus 147 (1975) dont il corrigea les épreuves sur son lit
d’hôpital quelques jours avant sa mort, constitue son testament instrumental. Comme
dans le 13e Quatuor, les sonorités de l’alto donnent des accents funèbres et élé-
giaques à cette œuvre bilantaire qui fait allusion à certaines partitions antérieures
(notamment la Suite, opus 6 dédiée 53 ans plus tôt à la mémoire de son père et la
14e Symphonie) mais aussi à Alban Berg (Concertopour la mort d’un ange) et à
Beethoven (le début de la Sonate « Au clair de lune » traité comme une marche fu-
nèbre). C’est bien une Sonate de la mort, un adieu définitif à la vie et à la musique.
BIBLIOGRAPHIE:
l. Grégoire Tosser, 2003. Les dernières œuvres de Dimitri Chostakovitch. Paris,
Montréal.
2. Sebastian Klemm, 2001. Dmitri Schostakowitsch — Das Zeitlose Spâtwerk, Berlin.
3. Joachim Braun, 2003.0n the double meaning of jewish elements in D.Shostakovich’s
music dans On Jewish Music, Paris
— 117 —
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Art and Literature

Scientific and Analytical

ISSN 2294-8902 © TEXTS, 2013

WORKS OF ANCIENT ART FROM THE

Keywords: Antic, Moscow, Berlin, collection, Museum Burganov’s

—4— © М. Burganova, 2013

a restorer Karimov. He has glued the pieces of marvelous antique vas-

23.Reinach, S. 1910, „Répertoire de la statuaire grecque et romaine“, vol. 1-10, Paris.

1. Figure of a naked goddess with her

2. Upper body of the Kouros

3. Head of the Kore

6. Relief with a scene of “otherworldly

8. A fragment of the stele with image of

9. Female head 10. Standing woman in hat

19. Head of Silenus

22. Fragment of a relief depicting a

27. Oynohoya 28. Olpe

29. Black figure kylix 30. Black-figure hydria

31. Lekythos 32. Black-figure oynohoya

33. Red-figure hydria 34. Red-figure plate

35. Red-figure alabaster 36. Dish for fish

41. Flask with relief decoration 42. Kernos

LE THÉÂTRE DU SILENCE DE MAURICE

Keywords: silence, theatre of silence, Maeterlinck, “Pelléas et

Silence comme cathégorie esthétique

scission entre les mots et les choses. Contrairement à la communica-

La plupart des travaux sur ce sujet considèrent le silence à l’intérieur

1. Alexander Burganov « Le livre de lettres », 1992. 293 × 208 × 27 mm, papier,

silence dans l’histoire du théâtre français de l’âge classique au théâtre

à l’analyse de la balance entre l’écriture et le silence. Selon Barthes,

Vers le XX-ème siècle certains écrivains et poètes concluent que la

Nouveau théâtre, phénomène de l’époque moderne.

L’esprit français possède cette grande arme, c’est-à-dire l’idiome uni-

L’intérêt des poètes à l’inconscient s’inscrit dans le contexte géné-

2. Alexander Burganov «Le livre de lettres», 1992. 293х208х27 mm, papier,

monde de la fin du XIXe siècle et du début du Xxe a été marqué par un

tion de l’homme se fonde sur des bases nouvelles.»7. L’économie, la

cours textuel, mise en correspondance qui donnera son nom à ce mou-

sonnage, l’empêche d’accéder à cette vie profonde qui se dérove à la

La présence du personnage sublime silencieux rend impossible le

trouble de l’événement la lucidité nécessaire pour traduire la vérité es-

fet de supprimer la distinction entre la poésie et la prose. « Le théâtre

Ce dialogue constitue un mode polyphonique. Les lignes de Golaud

M. Dessons emploie le terme « écholalie » (reconnue comme mala-

contré Mélisande, figure ce passage : « et quand on lui demande ce qui

En tenant compte d’une collaboration continue entre les champs sé-

L’eau, par sa morphologie, appelle des associations avec le mystère.

Dans nombre de civilisations on trouve le thème du Déluge. Pour les

VALUE OF METAPHOR IN INDUSTRIAL DESIGN

Keywords: industrial design, metaphor, art form, art language,

Metaphor is an important category of contemporary art language.

“hudozhny” (“художный”) and in the end – “hudozhnic” (“художник”),

and symbolical forms being a universal spiritual energy that connects

9. Mode of metaphorical catachresis (caricature, parody, ironical

Comparison emphasizes utilitarian function of things. It is espe-

Metaphor is the embodiment of conceptual content of ideas, of their

al designs of dwellings, in visual metaphors in everyday objects and

WHERE RODCHENKO MEETS CALDER

Keywords: Alexander Rodchenko, Russian Avant-garde, design,

There exist certain parallels and comparisons in the history of the

Non-Objective Sculptures” he came to free suspended mobiles made

A.M. Rodchenko. Spatial design №. 10. 1920–21. Aluminum

same characteristic was given to Alexander Rodchenko: “painter, con-