In the East: Young Nations, Old Temptations

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Though some twenty years ago we were all talking about globalisation (the internet had only just begun to connect us in real time with the rest of the world), it wasn’t until the mid-2010s that the legacy of colonialism became an openly discussed subject. But not all countries start on an equal footing when it comes to studying their history from this perspective. For example, post-colonial studies often prefer the continents of Africa and South America to the various countries born after 1990 from the collapse of the Soviet Union. It has to be said that, in the fields that interest us—art and contemporary art—Central Asia and the Caucasus are poorly represented in the museums of Western Europe and they still struggle to be regularly represented at the Venice Biennale. Yet, in these states barely thirty years old, artists question their mother tongue, ancestral traditions, popular folklore and geographical borders on a daily basis in a quest for identity that can become dangerous if it falls into the wrong hands.

It should be remembered that while the Soviet Union controlled the Caucasus and Central Asia for most of the 20th century, these were fields of conflict between Russia and England from the beginning of the 19th century. In short, to approach these young nations born some thirty years ago from the break-up of the USSR is at the same time to look at almost two centuries of colonial history and domination. Even now Russia’s economic, political and diplomatic influence is in the news daily (one has only to look at the role of referee played by Russia in the latest armed conflict between Azerbaijan and Armenia to be convinced of this). So it was no surprise during my first trip in 2015 (1) to hear the word identity in the mouths of artists from Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan and Kyrgyzstan. Each of them spoke to me about “searching for identity” to explain their work, and I must admit that their works were my real school of general culture in Central Asia. Galim Madanov and Zauresh Terekbay explained to me the letters of the alphabet, (2) Saule Dyussenbina told me about Kurmagazy (3) and the drama of the Saigas, (4) while a good third of the Uzbek artists showed me their works inspired by a single colour photograph by Alim Khan (1880-1944), the last emir of Bukhara. Thus, to understand their art you need to know a minimum of the history of the region. But after two centuries of foreign domination, it is also for these states to write a new history based on a distant, little-known and sometimes fantasised past.

JUST A REPORT

Not all the art of Central Asia and the Caucasus is related only to the past: it also provides critical information on current events in the countries that rarely exemplify democracy and freedom of the press. This explains why artists regularly take on the role of critics of society. They are the only ones who visually denounce certain scandals. For example, when Saule Dyussenbina unites Pushkin and Kurmangazy on a kitsch wallpaper pattern (one of her artistic projects is to create perfect settings for uncultivated oligarchs, as her rerouting of the Chanel logo)—it is directly linked to the repression of homosexuality in Kazakhstan (5). And the more their criticism is seen and visible, the more hope there is for the future of a democratic system in these countries. But art as it is found in the press sometimes comes close to caricature, which creates for the artist the risk of being recognised less for the aesthetic quality of their work than for the work of a political opponent. Worse, in a dictatorship any work can be used by the state against an artist, who will have no right of reply. Such is the case with a book by Umida Akhmedova published in Uzbekistan in 2010. In it she presents a selection of images depicting the daily life of the inhabitants of the Uzbek countryside: nothing critical, humiliating or condescending, just a report representing the beautiful youth of a developing country. Akhmedova was arrested and the book banned because, according to the

Nicolas Boulard. «Specific Cheeses-Boulettes d’Avesnes» (détail). 2018. Photographie / photograph. 160 x 120 cm state, it portrayed a “medieval Uzbekistan”. Her trial triggered an international campaign that demonstrated that while Uzbekistan had indeed left medieval obscurantism behind, it was above all a contemporary dictatorship.

WINE AND CHEESE

I was lucky enough to meet many artists and share conversations with them that went beyond art. I never heard any radical or racist remarks, but often faced a slightly blind patriotism. And I also had to understand that the new historical narrative wanted by the states and the collective fantasy could come together. But how can an artist or a curator be blamed for the pride of participating in the birth of a country by bringing culture, a connection with a forgotten and repressed past, a sense of belonging to a long-repressed adventure and a bit of bad faith? In the discourse and in the works, there is thus an obvious sincerity that cannot be questioned and, what is more, if artists do not take responsibility for exhuming and protecting the cultural heritage of their countries, it isn’t the corrupt governments or those obsessed with easy money who will do so. At the same time, however, artists help to make up a distorted history or deliver pleasant clichés about their country’s history.

Nicolas Boulard is a French artist who makes works about wine and cheese. He does this in an intelligent, ironic way, with subtle references to Marcel Duchamp and American minimalism. The fact that he was born in Reims even gives him a certain legitimacy— but is he a native for all that? His methods are close to those of Farhad Farzaliev, an artist who plays with the codes of Azerbaijani society, inventing a “burger” made of the stacking of a well-filled wallet, rare brand cigarettes and luxury car keys – the prerogative of the newly rich ostentatiously placed on restaurant tables. For his part, Jean-Pierre Raynaud has repeatedly demonstrated his fascination with flags, transforming them into real paintings (again, with a certain dose of the ready-made) while, for their part, Elena and Victor Vorobiev like to play with the colours of the Kazakh flag (they photograph the use of “blue and gold” to demonstrate the omnipresence of national colours in the Kazakh urban landscape). Finally, Rashid Nurekeyev will go so far as to paint a hammer and sickle in these same colours— just to show how, thirty years later, nothing has really changed.They all, of course, make fun of a certain easy patriotism, and play with clichés (wine, cheese, national symbols). But when a contemporary art centre in

Baku, Yarat, displays the Azerbaijani flag in head-on conflict with Armenia on its entire façade, it is not a work of art, it is propaganda. (6)

DOUBLE MEANING AND IRONY

The problem lies not only within the country, and the difficulties of creating or exhibiting freely, but also outside, which favours a certain type of art between reassuring tourist clichés and easy political caricature.The idea of indigenous art—that is, art produced by members of the original ethnic groups of these countries—then takes on its full meaning. Western curators particularly appreciate Almagul Menlibayeva’s work because it depicts the desert steppe, the ruins of communism, the nuclear disaster, the Samarkand madrasas and beautiful young Asian women in stiletto heels. It is also the problem of the elites and oligarchs who lack education or courage, and continue to buy exotic representations or pretty handicraft based on traditional ornamentation. Even with the best will, even with the time for research and study to understand the foundations of a work, we continue to look at it from an outsider’s point of view, not necessarily from a settler’s point of view, but certainly not from a native’s point of view. And if an artist responds to our desires, that’s enough. All this then becomes a paradox—an insoluble contradiction within the subject and the works of art themselves. By approaching these countries from a post-communist or postcolonial perspective, they are given an excuse to assert a national identity because, after having been controlled and repressed for two centuries, it is natural to want to express oneself. Then the question is whether a postcolonial art doesn’t contain, in itself, the roots of a patriotism capable, in the twinkling of an eye, of transforming itself into a radical political statement? Contemporary art, made of double meanings and irony, can easily be instrumentalized—so many are its meanings (and aporias). In recent years, the new word that has been on every artist’s and critic’s lips is self-censorship. The quest for identity isn’t over yet, but as conflicts erupt, dictators stick to their uncertain positions and borders close (pandemic obliges), it is better to be careful and not speak too loudly, because even a well-intentioned quest for identity can always be misinterpreted. (1) The Goethe Institute appointed me to study the transformations, in the domain of art, resulting from the fall of the Soviet empire. See my articles “Central Asia. Voyage en uchronie”, artpress no. 419, February 2015, and “Vent d'Est. L'art en ex-Union soviétique”, artpress no. 450, December 2017. (2) Some former Soviet republics have kept the Cyrillic script. Others have preferred Latin characters, adding a few letters specific to the new national languages, while Armenia and Georgia have returned to historical alphabets. (3) Sagyrbaev Kurmangazy (1823-1896), famous Kazakh composer. (4) Eurasian antelope. In 2015, 120,000 animals of this species died suddenly and unexplainedly in the steppe. (5) A gay bar was located at the corner of Pushkin and Kurmangazy streets in Almaty. It was condemned after an advertising campaign featuring a Russian-style kiss between the two historical figures. (6) See Lucía de la Torre “The Aliyev Influence: How Nepotism and Self-Censorship Rule Azerbaijan’s Art Scene”, The Calvert Journal, January 22nd, 2021: https://www.calvertjournal.com/articles/show/12455/az erbaijan-contemporary-arts-scene-political-elite-baku.

Thibaut de Ruyter is a curator and critic based in Berlin.

Saule Dyussenbina. « Kazakh Funny Games - Motif Chanel, Wallpaper for Oligarch ». 2017. Dimensions variable. (Court. l’artiste)