5-1 | Table of Con­tents | http://​dx​.doi​.org/10.17742/IMAGE.periph.5-1.8 | Sie­mans PDF


This paper dis­cuss­es the Tagan­ka Theatre’s pro­duc­tion of Pasternak’s Doc­tor Zhiva­go, staged in a remote Moscow sub­urb. Per­formed in a Sovi­et-built palace of cul­ture, the show rad­i­cal­ly rein­ter­prets Zhiva­go, trans­form­ing it from an intense­ly per­son­al to a col­lec­tive nar­ra­tive. Draw­ing on a chap­ter from my book The­atre in Pass­ing: A Moscow Pho­to-Diary (Intel­lect 2011), the paper refers to Mar­vin Carl­son, who argues that the­atre build­ings and their loca­tions great­ly impact the over­all mean­ing of a show. Cit­ing evi­dence pro­vid­ed by cul­tur­al the­o­rists, archi­tec­tur­al crit­ics, as well as authors and artists, I expand on my ear­li­er dis­cus­sion of sub­urbs – a fer­tile sub­ject attract­ing a wealth of con­tra­dic­to­ry opin­ions. I illus­trate my dis­cus­sion with images of high-ris­es inspired by the avant-garde pho­tog­ra­ph­er Alexan­der Rod­chenko, and pic­tures of soup cans and cas­es of Coca-Cola – my trib­ute to Andy Warhol, who, like Rod­chenko, reject­ed the old in favour of the new. I con­clude with a nos­tal­gic shot of a sin­gle-fam­i­ly dwelling, rem­i­nis­cent of the spaces depict­ed in Paster­nak.

Cet arti­cle exam­ine la pro­duc­tion par le Théâtre Tagan­ka de Doc­teur Zhiva­go de Boris Paster­nak dans une mai­son de la cul­ture en ban­lieue de Moscou. Mar­vin Carl­son a pro­posé que les espaces per­for­mat­ifs joue un rôle à part entière dans le sens glob­al d’un spec­ta­cle. Suite à Carl­son, je pro­pose à mon tour qu’en étant mon­tée dans une ban­lieue de Moscou, la pro­duc­tion Tagan­ka réin­ter­prète rad­i­cale­ment Doc­teur Zhiva­go, le faisant pass­er d’un réc­it indi­vid­u­al­isé à un réc­it col­lec­tif. L’article inter­roge des représen­ta­tions frag­men­taires du Moscou his­torique, des ban­lieues con­stru­ites sous les Sovi­ets, en plus de points de vue sur l’habitabilité sub­ur­baine emprun­tés à des théoriciens cul­turels, des archi­tectes, et des auteurs. Le tout est illus­tré et appuyé par des pho­tos de bâti­ment sub­ur­bains inspirés de Alexan­der Rod­chenko, ain­si que des pho­tos de con­serves Camp­bell et de caiss­es de Coca-Cola ren­dant hom­mage au tra­vail de Andy Warhol. L’article se con­clut avec l’image nos­tal­gique d’une anci­enne mai­son famil­iale, proche de l’esprit orig­i­nal de Boris Paster­nak.

Ele­na Siemens | Uni­ver­si­ty of Alber­ta

High-Rise Zhivago

Rid­ing the metro to the Merid­i­an Cul­ture Palace, I tried to keep an open mind. The show was staged by the Taganka’s vet­er­an direc­tor Yuri Lyu­bi­mov, who had pro­duced many of this theatre’s leg­endary Sovi­et-era pro­duc­tions. The jour­ney was long, even by Moscow stan­dards, and to make things worse I had noth­ing to read, mak­ing the trip even more tedious. The Merid­i­an, which I found right next to the sta­tion, was exact­ly the kind of struc­ture I imag­ined it to be: a giant con­crete shoe­box dec­o­rat­ed with sculp­tur­al depic­tions of space­crafts and cos­mo­nauts. Direct­ly in front of it was a large park­ing lot, where I pho­tographed a girl walk­ing a cat on a leash. A mass of res­i­den­tial high-ris­es was vis­i­ble in the dis­tance, and beyond that were more high-ris­es and a for­est.

The show began with danc­ing and choir singing. The enor­mous stage was lit by blind­ing spot­lights. This was not a promis­ing start. Doc­tor Zhiva­go was pro­hib­it­ed in the Sovi­et Union, and peo­ple read it in smug­gled copies. Most Rus­sians were famil­iar only with the novel’s selec­tion of poems pub­lished dur­ing Khrushchev’s thaw. “Win­ter Night,” describ­ing the clan­des­tine meet­ing of Lara and Strel­nikov, has a haunt­ing refrain: “The Can­dle on the table burned, the can­dle burned” (Paster­nak 488). This poem was made into a song which every­one sang at infor­mal gath­er­ings. I had hoped the show would be inspired by it as well. After the inter­mis­sion, things remained the same – more group danc­ing, more choir singing. And more spot­lights. I gath­ered my things and left, blam­ing direc­tor Yury Lyu­bi­mov, but also myself for think­ing that he could over­come the envi­ron­ment. No one could. When staged at a place like the Merid­i­an, Zhiva­go inevitably acquires a com­plete­ly dif­fer­ent set of char­ac­ter­is­tics and becomes some­thing oth­er than Zhiva­go. Lat­er on, I learned that Lyubimov’s choice of the Merid­i­an was not entire­ly delib­er­ate; it had result­ed at least in part from a fierce inter­nal con­flict at the Tagan­ka The­atre and a ter­ri­to­r­i­al war that fol­lowed it.

The­atre build­ings and their loca­tions, Mar­vin Carl­son argues in Places of Per­for­mance: The Semi­otics of The­atre Archi­tec­ture, “gen­er­ate social and cul­tur­al mean­ing of their own which in turn help to struc­ture the mean­ing of the entire the­atre expe­ri­ence” (2). Most researchers, Carl­son laments, address “pri­mar­i­ly (and often exclu­sive­ly)” the writ­ten text, while leav­ing the space of per­for­mance vir­tu­al­ly ignored (2). To coun­ter­act this approach, Carl­son refers to Roland Barthes’ essay “The Eif­fel Tow­er,” among oth­er sources, which iden­ti­fies the mean­ing of var­i­ous con­stituent parts, or zones, of Paris. Extend­ing Barthes, Carl­son points out that Parisian the­atres “reflect these con­no­ta­tive divi­sions,” and that the Mont­martre zone, for instance, which is asso­ci­at­ed with “plea­sure,” con­tains most­ly cabarets and music halls (1989: 12).

Sim­i­lar “con­no­ta­tive divi­sions” can also be found in Moscow, as exem­pli­fied by the con­trast between the Merid­i­an Cul­ture Palace and the his­tor­i­cal Tagan­ka The­atre. Taganka’s orig­i­nal build­ing was con­struct­ed in 1911 and ini­tial­ly housed the Vol­cano Cin­e­ma, one of Moscow’s first movie hous­es. This old-fash­ioned build­ing is rep­re­sen­ta­tive of the cozy, pas­tel-coloured low-ris­es that pop­u­lat­ed Moscow before the Bol­she­vik Rev­o­lu­tion of 1917. Today the the­atre is paint­ed dark-red, and its façade is dec­o­rat­ed with var­i­ous Con­struc­tivist-inspired details. The theatre’s strik­ing emblem, also dis­played on the façade, is rem­i­nis­cent of Kazemir Malevich’s icon­ic paint­ing Black Square (1913), rec­og­nized as a turn­ing point in the his­to­ry of art. Male­vich received a less enthu­si­as­tic response in his native Rus­sia dur­ing the age of Social­ist Real­ism.

In the Sovi­et peri­od, the Tagan­ka staged pro­hib­it­ed mate­r­i­al, such as Mikhail Bulgakov’s The Mas­ter and Mar­gari­ta, that gath­ered large crowds and antag­o­nized the offi­cials in charge of the Sovi­et arts. Its rebel­lious reper­toire cor­re­spond­ed to the theatre’s loca­tion on Tagan­skaya Square, the for­mer site of the infa­mous Tagan­skaya prison, found­ed in 1804. Fol­low­ing the prison’s demo­li­tion in 1958, the Sovi­et-built Tagan­skaya metro sta­tion became the square’s most promi­nent land­mark. The Tagan­ka Theatre’s impos­ing new build­ing, adja­cent to the theatre’s old stage, opened in 1980. With its arrival, the square has become a promi­nent the­atri­cal des­ti­na­tion – a trans­for­ma­tion sim­i­lar to that of Bastille Square in Paris. Once a site of the leg­endary Bastille prison, this square is now home to the enor­mous Opera Bastille.

The Tagan­ka Theatre’s his­tor­i­cal build­ing is rep­re­sen­ta­tive of the old Moscow described in Pasternak’s Doc­tor Zhiva­go. Rid­ing to a Christ­mas gath­er­ing in the chap­ter “Christ­mas Par­ty at the Sventitsky’s,” young Yury Zhiva­go admires the “ice-bound trees of the squares and streets” and the “lights shin­ing through the frost­ed win­dows” (81). On Kamerg­er­sky Lane, he notices “that a can­dle had melt­ed a patch in the icy crust on one of the win­dows” (81). He whis­pers to him­self the begin­ning of his yet unwrit­ten poem “Win­ter Night” (81). Kamerg­er­sky Lane, with its old hous­es pre­dat­ing the 1917 Rev­o­lu­tion, plays a key role in the nov­el.  Both Yury Zhiva­go and Lara live here at dif­fer­ent times, and it is here that both of them will die. In his room on Kamerg­er­sky, Zhiva­go fever­ish­ly writes his essays and poet­ry, address­ing his beloved city. He acknowl­edges how “emp­ty and dilap­i­dat­ed” Moscow has become fol­low­ing the “tri­als of the first few years of the rev­o­lu­tion” (436). “But even in this con­di­tion,” he insists, “it is still a large mod­ern city and cities are the only source of inspi­ra­tion for a tru­ly mod­ern, con­tem­po­rary art” (436).

In con­trast to the Tagan­ka The­atre, the Merid­i­an Cul­ture Palace is locat­ed near the remote Kaluzh­skaya metro sta­tion – a res­i­den­tial sub­urb far removed from the his­tor­i­cal cen­tre of Moscow and pop­u­lat­ed by a mass of uni­form high-ris­es, rep­re­sen­ta­tive of the “new ratio­nal­ist” archi­tec­ture that orig­i­nat­ed in the 1960s. Inspired by the 1920s mot­to “the form is deter­mined by the func­tion,” the “new ratio­nal­ism,” Andrei Ikon­nikov writes in Russ­ian

Archi­tec­ture of the Sovi­et Peri­od, sub­or­di­nat­ed form to “build­ing tech­nol­o­gy” (327). He points out that the homo­ge­neous archi­tec­ture of the 1960s divid­ed  build­ings into “func­tion­al types”; con­sid­er­a­tions of style came sec­ond and “depend­ed on the pur­pose of the struc­ture” (328). A char­ac­ter­is­tic exam­ple of these func­tion­al build­ings, Ikon­nikov con­tin­ues, is a large cin­e­ma defined by the “aus­tere­ly nat­ur­al forms of exposed, undec­o­rat­ed con­struc­tions” with an “emphat­i­cal­ly straight­for­ward” inte­ri­or devoid of any super­flu­ous dec­o­ra­tions (285-86).

The “palaces of cul­ture,” also built accord­ing to a stan­dard design, exhib­it­ed sim­i­lar char­ac­ter­is­tics. These mul­ti­func­tion­al enter­tain­ment struc­tures staged con­certs and the­atri­cal pro­duc­tions, as well as offer­ing space for polit­i­cal gath­er­ings. The Sovi­et archi­tec­ture of the 1970s, Ikon­nikov argues, still “failed to take on a more per­son­al touch,” and the col­lec­tivism of the 1960s con­tin­ued to rule (328). The homo­gene­ity of Sovi­et-built sub­urbs received a humor­ous treat­ment in Eldar Ryazanov’s hit film The Irony of Fate, or Enjoy Your Bath (1975). The film includes an ani­mat­ed pro­logue, in which Sovi­et author­i­ties veto any archi­tec­tur­al inno­va­tions, and insist­ing instead on pop­u­lat­ing Moscow and the rest of the Sovi­et Union with uni­form high-ris­es. The sub­ur­ban Chere­mush­ki neigh­bour­hood, locat­ed one metro stop away from the Merid­i­an, serves as the film’s Moscow loca­tion.

Just a few min­utes from my time­worn house, and I am sur­round­ed by the der­ricks of a build­ing estate with­out a past,” Hen­ri Lefeb­vre writes in his well-known essay “Notes on the New Town” (148). Accord­ing to Lefeb­vre, in the “old town” each house “has its own par­tic­u­lar face,” and streets are “spon­ta­neous and tran­si­to­ry” (148). The street, he explains, “is not sim­ply there so that peo­ple can get from A to B, nor does it lay traps for them with light­ing effects and dis­plays of objects” (148-49). Con­verse­ly, the “new town,” with its uni­form high-ris­es, or the “machines for liv­ing in,” ter­ri­fies Lefeb­vre (149). He acknowl­edges that the new “blocks of flats look well planned and prop­er­ly built,” as well as offer­ing var­i­ous mod­ern con­ve­niences (149). But can these blocks of flats, Lefeb­vre asks, “medi­ate between man and nature, between one man and anoth­er”? (150). “Streets and high­ways,” he warns, “are becom­ing more nec­es­sary, but their inces­sant, unchang­ing, ever-repeat­ed traf­fic is turn­ing them into waste­lands” (151).

Shar­ing some of Lefebvre’s con­cerns, Dou­glas Cou­p­land, the author of the sem­i­nal Gen­er­a­tions X, writes in his book City of Glass ded­i­cat­ed to his home­town of Van­cou­ver:

A few years ago, I went to see a Hol­ly­wood thriller which was part­ly filmed in front of my father’s office build­ing in North Van­cou­ver. In the movie, North Van­cou­ver was “Boul­der, Col­orado,” and through­out the movie Van­cou­ver dou­bled as Seat­tle, Den­ver, New Orleans and a few oth­er cities, none of them Van­cou­ver. (6)

Van­cou­ver, Cou­p­land con­tin­ues, “can neat­ly morph into just about any oth­er North Amer­i­can city save for those in the Amer­i­can South­west, and pos­si­bly Mia­mi” (7). This state­ment also applies to Edmon­ton, the cap­i­tal of neigh­bour­ing Alber­ta, where I took my pho­tographs for this paper. Edmonton’s down­town sky­line, rep­re­sen­ta­tive of a typ­i­cal mid­size west­ern city, can “neat­ly morph” into a vari­ety of towns in the Amer­i­can North­west. More­over, Edmonton’s res­i­den­tial high-ris­es, locat­ed down­town and around the Uni­ver­si­ty of Alber­ta cam­pus, resem­ble Moscow’s sub­ur­ban apart­ment build­ings. I also pho­tographed rows of soup cans and cas­es of Coca-Cola at Edmonton’s chain gro­cery stores. With their repet­i­tive geo­met­ri­cal pat­terns, those gro­cery dis­plays reveal the same monot­o­ny to which Lefeb­vre object­ed in his dis­cus­sion of the new town.

But the new and the uni­form can also be cel­e­brat­ed and even revered, as demon­strat­ed in Andy Warhol’s art – an inspi­ra­tion behind my pho­tographs of Edmonton’s super­mar­kets. “My ide­al city,” Warhol declares, “would be com­plete­ly new. No antiques. All the build­ings would be new. Old build­ings are unnat­ur­al spaces.  Build­ings should be built to last for a short time” (157).

Warhol urges city plan­ners to con­struct new build­ings “every four­teen years” (157). He explains : “The build­ing and the tear­ing down would keep peo­ple busy, and the water wouldn’t be rusty from old pipes” (157). Warhol has also favoured “the good, plain Amer­i­can lunch­room or even the good, plain Amer­i­can lunch counter” over fan­cy restau­rants (159). He even hoped to start a chain of din­ers called Andy­mats. He states: “Everybody’s sense of beau­ty is dif­fer­ent from every­body else’s” (71).

Accord­ing to Warhol, “the most beau­ti­ful thing” in any city from Tokyo to Flo­rence is a McDonald’s (71). Since the 1970s, when The Phi­los­o­phy of Andy Warhol first appeared in print, Moscow has acquired numer­ous McDonald’s restau­rants, as well as west­ern-style super­mar­kets offer­ing Coca-Cola and Campbell’s Soup. Along with Peking, renamed Bei­jing, con­tem­po­rary Moscow can now be added to Warhol’s list of “beau­ti­ful” cities. Dis­cussing Coca-Cola’s con­tri­bu­tion to America’s democ­ra­cy, Warhol writes:

 

What’s great about this coun­try is that Amer­i­ca start­ed the tra­di­tion where the rich­est con­sumers buy essen­tial­ly the same things as the poor­est.  You can be watch­ing TV and see Coca-Cola, and you can know that the Pres­i­dent drinks Coke, Liz Tay­lor drink Coke and just think, you can drink Coke, too.  A Coke is a Coke and no amount of mon­ey can get you a bet­ter Coke than the one the bum on the cor­ner is drink­ing. (100-01)

Like Warhol, the renowned ear­ly Russ­ian avant-garde pho­tog­ra­ph­er Alexan­der Rod­chenko advo­cates the advan­tages of liv­ing and cre­at­ing art in a mod­ern city. He denounces paint­ing as old-fash­ioned and irrel­e­vant: “Every mod­ern cul­tured man must wage war against art, as against opi­um” (1988: 253). Instead, he cham­pi­ons pho­tog­ra­phy, a tru­ly rev­o­lu­tion­ary medi­um, and insists on cap­tur­ing such man­i­fes­ta­tions of moder­ni­ty as “mul­ti­sto­ry build­ings, spe­cial­ly erect­ed fac­to­ries, plants, etc., two- to-three-sto­ry-high win­dows, trams, auto­mo­biles, light and space adver­tise­ments, ocean lin­ers, air­planes” (2005: 209). Accord­ing to Rod­chenko, the mod­ern city has shift­ed “the cus­tom­ary psy­chol­o­gy of visu­al per­cep­tion,” and he urges his fel­low pho­tog­ra­phers to take pic­tures from unex­pect­ed per­spec­tives, cor­re­spond­ing to the changed envi­ron­ment (2005: 209).

Rodchenko’s pho­tographs of Moscow’s high-ris­es from his Bal­conies series (1925) employ many of the unusu­al per­spec­tives he advo­cates. Cap­tured from a high-floor win­dow, some­times from the roof, or, alter­na­tive­ly, from the ground look­ing up, his strik­ing shots reflect the excit­ing geom­e­try of the mod­ern city. The tra­di­tion­al cen­tered point of view derived from paint­ing, Rod­chenko argues, fails to account for this, just as it fails to ade­quate­ly record “the street with its rush­ing auto­mo­biles and scur­ry­ing pedes­tri­ans,” as seen from a high-rise bal­cony, or a tram win­dow (2005: 209). In “What the Eye Does Not See,” his asso­ciate Ossip Brik writes that in Rodchenko’s pho­tographs “the famil­iar object (the house) sud­den­ly turned into a nev­er-before-seen struc­ture, a fire escape became a mon­strous object, bal­conies were trans­formed into a tow­er of exot­ic archi­tec­ture” (90). Echo­ing Rod­chenko, Brik insists that film and pho­tog­ra­phy cap­ture things “from unex­pect­ed view­points and in unusu­al con­fig­u­ra­tions, and we must exploit this pos­si­bil­i­ty” (90).

While serv­ing as a fas­ci­nat­ing sub­ject of pho­tog­ra­phy, Moscow’s uni­form high-ris­es pro­vide an incon­gru­ous set­ting for a pro­duc­tion of Pasternak’s Doc­tor Zhiva­go. In his essay “On the Prose of the Poet Paster­nak,” Roman Jakob­son writes: “To belong to a com­pact col­lec­tive group and to hold firm­ly to a par­tic­u­lar direc­tion are both repug­nant to Paster­nak, who is a pas­sion­ate destroy­er of cus­tom­ary affini­ties” (317). Nar­rat­ing the sto­ry of the Bol­she­vik Rev­o­lu­tion, Zhiva­go remains a pri­vate doc­u­ment – pos­si­bly the book’s great­est fault in the eyes of the Sovi­et state, and the rea­son for its pro­hi­bi­tion in the Sovi­et Union. The poem “Expla­na­tion,” includ­ed at the end of the nov­el, describes Yury Zhivago’s “pas­sion to break away” as his strongest “pull” (Paster­nak 476). Fur­ther evi­dence of this “pas­sion to break away” is found through­out the nov­el. Some of his asso­ciates at the Hos­pi­tal of the Holy Cross in Moscow regard Zhiva­go as “dan­ger­ous”; oth­er peo­ple, “who had gone fur­ther in their pol­i­tics,” con­sid­er him “not Red enough”; in short, “he didn’t please any­one” (169). His view of the rev­o­lu­tion is equal­ly non­con­formist: “You might say that every­one has been through two rev­o­lu­tions – his own per­son­al rev­o­lu­tion as well as the gen­er­al one” (136).

Per­formed at the Sovi­et-built Merid­i­an, the intense­ly per­son­al Zhiva­go was inevitably trans­formed into a col­lec­tive nar­ra­tive. With its per­sis­tent use of choir singing and group danc­ing, Lyubimov’s show, sub­ti­tled “a musi­cal para­ble,” also con­tributed to this trans­for­ma­tion. The music com­posed by Alfred Schnit­tke, Bir­git Beumers writes in Yury

Lyu­bi­mov at the Tagan­ka The­atre, “did not pro­vide any solo musi­cal scores, but offered choral music to accom­pa­ny some of Pasternak’s poems” (268). “Some metaphors from the nov­el,” Beumers points out, “were trans­formed into the­atri­cal images for the pro­duc­tion”; among these was a can­dle, which in one scene “was car­ried in on a spade” (268). She adds that the show “was com­mis­sioned by a West­ern pro­duc­er for the Vien­na Fes­ti­val,” and orig­i­nal­ly pre­miered in Vien­na in 1993 (266). Accord­ing to Beumers’s large­ly favourable account, the Taganka’s pro­duc­tion did not “aim at a ren­der­ing of the events of the nov­el”; instead, it raised a more gen­er­al ques­tion: “But who are we, and where do we come from?” (274).

While appeal­ing to the West­ern spec­ta­tor, the show demon­strat­ed less sen­si­tiv­i­ty to the domes­tic audi­ence. “Mise-en-scene does not have to be faith­ful to a dra­mat­ic text,” Patrice Pavis argues in his book The­atre at the Cross­roads of Cul­ture (26). He asks: “If pro­duc­ing a faith­ful mise-en-scene means repeat­ing, or believ­ing one can repeat, by the­atri­cal means what the text has already said, what would be the point of mise-en-scene?” (27).In Pavis’ opin­ion, “the unde­ni­able rela­tion­ship between text and per­for­mance” must take the form of a “trans­fer or a con­fronta­tion of the fic­tion­al uni­verse struc­tured by the text and the fic­tion­al uni­verse pro­duced by the stage” (28). This is a con­vinc­ing argu­ment, par­tic­u­lar­ly when applied to the adap­ta­tions of well-known works of lit­er­a­ture, such as Shakespeare’s Ham­let or Pushkin’s Eugene One­gin, both staged vic­to­ri­ous­ly at the Tagan­ka The­atre.  With Pasternak’s nov­el, which many Rus­sians were only dis­cov­er­ing when the show first pre­miered in the ear­ly 1990s, the theatre’s defa­mil­iar­ized approach pro­duced a less sat­is­fy­ing result. Some­times, a more “faith­ful” mise-en-scene is the bet­ter route to take: to be able to read, you first must learn the alpha­bet.

Works Cit­ed

Beumers, Bir­git. Yury Lyu­bi­mov at the Tagan­ka The­atre, 1964-1994. Ams­ter­dam: Har­wood Aca­d­e­m­ic, 1997.

Brik, Ossip.  “What the Eye Does Not See,” in ed. Liz Wells, The Pho­tog­ra­phy Read­er. Lon­don, New York: Rout­ledge, 2003.

Carl­son, Mar­vin A., Places of Per­for­mance : The Semi­otics of The­atre Archi­tec­ture. Itha­ca, N.Y: Cor­nell Uni­ver­si­ty Press, 1989.

Cou­p­land, Dou­glas. City of Glass: Dou­glas Coupland's Van­cou­ver. Van­cou­ver: Dou­glas & McIn­tyre, 2009.

Ikon­nikov, Andrei. Russ­ian Archi­tec­ture of the Sovi­et Peri­od. Moscow: Raduga Pub­lish­ers, 1988.

Jakob­son, Roman. Lan­guage in Lit­er­a­ture. Cam­bridge, Mass: Belk­nap Press, 1987.

Lefeb­vre, Hen­ri.  “Notes on the New Town,” in ed. Dur­ing, Simon, The Cul­tur­al Stud­ies Read­er. Lon­don, New York: Rout­ledge, 2007.

Paster­nak, Boris. Doc­tor Zhiva­go. Lon­don: Collins Harvill, 1988.

Pavis, Patrice. The­atre at the Cross­roads of Cul­ture. Lon­don, New York : Rout­ledge, 1992.

Rod­chenko, Alexan­der.  “Against the Syn­thet­ic Por­trait, For the Snap­shot,” in ed. Bowlt, John, Russ­ian Art of the Avant-Garde: The­o­ry and Crit­i­cism, 1902-1934. New York : Thames and Hud­son, 1988.

Rod­chenko, Alexan­der. “The Paths of Con­tem­po­rary Pho­tog­ra­phy,” in ed. Alexan­der N. Lavren­tiev, Alek­san­dr Rod­chenko : Exper­i­ments for the Future : Diaries, Essays, Let­ters, and Oth­er Writ­ings. New York: Muse­um of Mod­ern Art, 2005.

Warhol, Andy. The Phi­los­o­phy of Andy Warhol: From A to B and Back Again. New York: Har­court Brace Jovanovich, 1975.

Image Notes

All images the author's own.


This arti­cle is licensed under a  Cre­ative Com­mons 3.0 License although cer­tain works ref­er­enced here­in may be sep­a­rate­ly licensed, or the author has exer­cised their right to fair deal­ing under the Cana­di­an Copy­right Act.