Silent Parade: Belarusian culture – an epoch set to zero

Maxim Zhbankov

Summary

Belarusian culture in 2017 remained a trifling element (0.54% of the annual state budget1) of public life, playing the long-established role of a virtual national self-identification factory. Bureaucratic control over output and distribution of cultural products coupled with the hindered rehabilitation of selected historical figures and undesirable relevant authors creates an odd impression of conceptual tuning of official culture. Leaving its semantic hollowness unchanged, designers of the ‘cultural thaw’ create an illusion of growth by refurbishing the permitted decor.

It is not the hierarchy of values that is changing, but the intensity of the presence of the autocratic discourse in mass culture. Instead of the energy of freedom, Belarusian culture replicates a new humdrum – singing and dancing of the loyal and flexible. The synchronous rejection of the strong-willed ideological confrontation by the authorities and nonconformists kills the passion for change. Protest creativity is transforming into a negotiation and then into a game of convenience.

Trends:

Yesterday as tomorrow: Songs in the void

In comparison with 2016, which we saw as a time of contemplative decor and a slow march of the national design, the cultural layout of 2017 looks boring like a worn out embroidered shirt. The light Belarusization that had been hyped up over the past two years has become a hackneyed element of the local cultural space. This is an indisputable fact. But no longer a happening.

No one looks indifferent hearing the Belarusian language in public places. Hipsters wear hoodies with Pahonya prints and sing songs from Narodny Album in underpasses. Alivaria brews beer for the anniversary of the Belarusian People’s Republic. McDonald’s teaches visitors to play Kupalinka on the pipe. In the center of Minsk, advertising boxes invite to Symbal.by. One block farther down, KORPUS Center invites to a regular event of ‘the other culture.’ The Belarusian Republican Youth Union (BRYU) tried on embroidery-print T-shirts again. Zmicier Vajciuskevic went on tour to provincial clubs. Once fierce, battles of ideas and aesthetic inconsistencies ended with the capitulation of both sides in favor of the third player – convenient national consumption. History is being actively replaced with stage shows, and cultural identity with a trade fair of permitted symbols.

The imitative essence of the official cultural policy was most clearly manifested in the fondness of costumed processions. On June 24, in the center of the capital, the BRYU reconstructed a partisan parade of 1944 with wooden guns, cardboard planes, well groomed ‘wounded’, functionaries in soldier’s blouses, a children’s choir and a goat named Kid. On July 2, the BRYU assisted by local administrations initiated the nationwide action ‘Embroidery Day’ meant to ‘expand the spiritual consciousness of the Belarusians’.2 The key element was a youth march (an art parade) ‘Under the Banner with Embroidery.’ And that was not about memory or patriotism. It was about the willingness to play anything upon orders from above.

The absence of events dominated the list of cultural events: a semantic drift, exploitation of old vocabularies and broken records. Film director Alexei Turovich shot at his own expense a one-hour anti-Stalin drama, a screen adaptation of Vasil Bykov’s novel ‘The Yellow Sand’.3 Turovich’s personal initiative sounded like a provocative address to the national film studio Belarusfilm, which has been dead silent for years, but could not break its stylistic inertia, having played the worked-out topic with secondary techniques. It was a typical ‘perestroika’ product, late in terms of both the message and the form.

Another film ‘with a message’–the only product born by the state-run film studio in 2017–made a strange pair with the ‘Sand.’ ‘Footprints on the Water’ by Alexander Anisimov describes the post-WWII fight against anti-Soviet guerilla. In the era of an ideological myths coma, this topic can only be saved by deep psychological effects, frantic action or a brilliant personal style of the author. The ‘Footprints’ have neither. There is a ‘correct message’ (as in Turovich’s film), and inertial spending of budgetary funds.

Svetlana Alexievich’s Intellectual Club left in 2017 as a hybrid of a high society chat room and an old-fashioned series of public lectures proved to be a failure.4 Guest visits of friends and acquaintances of the Noble Prize winner (random topics, comments in passing) could not become a public narrative laboratory, not to speak of a school of critical thinking. It was designed as a place for a competent examination of the present, but lacked a clear overall concept, articulate audience, and adequate direction. The Club was put on hiatus in November and has not showed signs of life ever since.

The project of independent producer Sergei Budkin ‘(Un)Shot Poetry’, a tribute to Belarusian writers repressed in the 1930s, sounded like an encrypted epistle from the edge of the abyss. The complex endeavor linked together a compilation of works of Belarusian artists, a music video, a series of lectures, a concert, and thematic graphic art works. The project promised a lot, but, in fact, only offered a symbolic presentation of a cultural archive, and notional resuscitation of the unread poorly compatible with current cultural and educational policies, which means that it was doomed to remain a one-time marginal event.

The cultural jihad of Sergei Pukst, who released the album ‘The Unwanted Truth about the Belarusians-2’ under the True Litwin Beat signboard, was a step across the living context. Acid-tongued patter to a hard beat with guitar inserts, eloquent rhyme, hooliganish girlie vocals, and desperate attacks on long irrelevant personas of the Moscow pop beau monde and tattooed revolutionaries from Brutto. The author passionately pays off old scores and loses the listener, who does not remember any of the insulters, or, maybe, never heard of them.

The life in the inertial material involves working with secondary meanings and archival strategies. There is a risk for the artist to dissolve in that material, scatter over footnotes and references and become a retransmitter of information noises of the garbage culture.

Editing landscape: details of shaping and control

The silent transformation of ‘the other culture’ into a tertiary industry makes state agencies and free artists mutually dependent. The latter need licenses to perform, while the former need a constant recharge of their power to issue such licenses.

A certain stir aimed at the revival of the national film industry suddenly began after a two-year pause. A project brought up for public discussion in October5 (in the shortest time possible, as always) confirmed what has never needed confirmation: there is only one source of funding – the state budget. And there is only one employer – the state. And there is only one cause – the cause determined by the state. Control and reporting are the main film making tools. Money allocated from the scarce budget intended for culture is the main advantage. The right to get the work done and obtain ‘state registration’ (paid for, of course) is the main incentive. Without registration, a public demonstration of any home-produced film in Belarus is impossible. The project is in no way tailored to help the industry evolve. Instead, it gives an excellent opportunity for scot-free administrative improvisations all the way to shutting a film down, or banning a film by means of censorship.

The year 2017 was marked by the symbiosis of culture and politics. Belarus saw a brutal crackdown on a peaceful demonstration on the Freedom Day; a battle for Kurapaty, where community activists laid down before bulldozers in defense of Stalinist purge victims; the hype around the possible termination of Polish funding for Belsat. The forged White Legion case (intimidation of voters by the state-controlled media and security services) spectacularly popped like a soap bubble.

The heroic victory over the Minsk street art was among the definitive achievements of the state culture management. A series of satirical images of high-ranking officials (including the minister of the interior and the chairman of the National TV and Radio Company) appeared on city walls after the brutal dispersal of the Freedom Day street action on March 25, 2017. The said-to-be culprit, coordinator of the independent art project Signal, artist Oleg Larichev was beaten by unidentified persons and detained by the police for ‘disorderly conduct for five days. He later informed of the closure of the project.6

Cheburashkas and losers: new angles of Belarusian culture

The active inclusion of national codes (and their carriers) in the local commercial circulation was the next step towards ‘mild Belarusization’, hybrid mixes being a significant semantic accent of 2017: a cheerful mixture of pop music, commercial advertising, light partisanning and bayonet-happy choreography of security services.

Belarusian singers delegated to the Eurovision contest sang in the Belarusian language for the first time that immensely enthused the fans and brought up positive reviews in Sovietskaya Byelorussia daily and on Liberty Radio. Delicate Naviband performers became an ideal symbol of Belarusization-light embroidered patriotism, a quiet accord with the political routine and the puppyish ecstasy of living.

NaviBand is a perfect artifact of the era of conceptual nullification. It is nice, neutral and devoid of extremes, so much so that it can easily be appropriated in a variety of ideological and aesthetic spheres. The new idols equally easily dance and sing for Coca-Cola, Belsat, Eurovision and the KGB.

The militant repertoire is removed from the agenda. Invented quite recently by Lyapis Trubetskoy, the partisan rock remained an item of export to Ukraine and Poland. The unproblematically nostalgic Lyapis-98 sells better and easier in the homeland. A retouched and unsharped image of the tattooed rebel became a business card of the domestic monopolist Belavia: in its TV commercial, preppy looking Mikhalok reads Maxim Bogdanovich’s ‘Slutsk Weavers’ staring at the clouds through the window with a lyrical expression on his face.7

When roles are diligently distributed and the status quo is sacrosanct, the marginal culture is invariably doomed. If the environment does not grow with it, and there is nowhere to grow with our stability.

The cabaret band Silver Wedding stopped concert tours in 2017. The promising Teleport broke up. Unintended children of British prog rock and Belarusian poetry–the aesthetic trio TonqiHod–left the stage indefinitely having released the strong album ‘The Color that doesn’t Exist.’

Belarusian Buddhism maestro Igor Babkov released the second volume of his polyphonic novel ‘Khvilinka’, which few would call a novel. There is neither a linear plot, no direct references to the first volume, which came out two years ago, nor even a list of well-defined characters. The text writes itself like poetry, like a dream pattern, an assemblage of states of mind, an anthology of mental events. ‘Khvilinka’ is based on the conceptual rejection of the present and time itself. This is the voice of the generation that failed to materialize itself and, basically, has no one to tell about this.

The national film contest Listapad was won by yet another debutante Yulia Shatun with a slumberous, zero-budget melodrama ‘Tomorrow’, a mirror of the era of folded banners. The life of a pair of elderly provincials (her parents in the lead roles) is shown with empathy and hopelessness. An empty sky. Babbling TV. Run-of-the-mill townsfolks. And a cold country with no history, or geography. The repelling daily routine makes one want to kill himself and end this misery, but there is nothing else around.

Global wanderer Roma Svechnikov was working on the same spontaneous choreography in an alienated environment. His Belarusian trip in the company of journalist Boris Nikolaichik was described in the homemade film ‘Around Belarus on Motored Bicycles’ (Listapad-2017 winner in the nomination Best Domestic Documentary), a naive collection of scenic sketches, a field diary and brief reviews of the local context. The country looks a piece of decor for onlooker’s contemplation, an exotic route for out-of-towners, and an occasion for a glazed slideshow with a view to a festival screening.

In a situation of global conceptual nullification, simple feelings and elusive sentiments come to the fore. A fresh way to be patriotically parochial is to provide zero semantic association and make a splash of fluid emotions.

The persona of the year in this environment is a fresh-baked director of events–young video blogger Vlad Bumaga who effortlessly brought together several thousand excited followers for his presentation in a shopping mall and then demonstratively ended the show ‘to prevent injuries’. The death of big myths–imperial or combative–gives place to an outburst of the profane grassroots mythology with its simple lures: youth, energy, stardust, extreme gameplay and sincere eyes of a mama’s boy.

The only options for today are depression or hype, losers or Cheburashkas.

Conclusion

The dynamics of the cultural situation in 2017 generally corresponds to the tendencies that we outlined in the previous reviews.

The state continues to exercise control and sanctioning in relation to culture, thus acting within the narrow range of loyal actions and the reproduction of quasi-Soviet patterns of mass consciousness. A general decline in the ideological conflict along with expanded duplication of the decorative national identity kills the very matter of dispute. Having come out of the Belarusian ‘partisan ghetto’, marginal cultural activists find themselves in the line for slugged legalization, a residence permit within the legal cultural limits. The latter automatically assumes the adoption of its legitimacy and readiness for a compromise that activates the mechanisms of self-censorship and extinguishes abrupt movements.

There is a clearer distinction between the new local culture of leisure and the old tradition of militant nationalistic creativity. The very understanding of the national culture and its buildup scenario is changing. Declared in the last couple of years, the decorative nationalism policy contributes to the shaping of the Belarusian idea as a package of small entrepreneurial initiatives. They are safe for the authorities being merely projects of a non-revolutionary consciousness incapable of providing a critical mass of social change actuators. The gentle image of ‘dictatorship in an embroidered shirt’ paradoxically works as an advertisement without a zero chance to give an impetus to evolution.

Proclaimed by experts as the main outcome of the year, the rapprochement of two Belarusian cultures –‘subsidized’ and ‘illegal’8– can be defined in other way: an expansion of the zone of the stagnant mainstream, a replacement of showpieces behind the village shop window, unsold goods and eternal management. In this scenario, both sides of the former ideological confrontation continue to experience an outflow of resources and personnel in favor of the ‘third trend’–a mediocre, post-political consumer culture, zones of commercial recruitment, blurred worldview orientations and decorative nationalism.