A Memoir of 1968
The dusty road had held us all day long. Huge trucks belching choking fumes had raced past us, barely missing our outstretched thumbs by inches it seemed. Sometimes they blared their industrial strength horns at us, scaring us, pushing us away from the road edge. There had been very few cars, and those mostly tiny SEATs already filled with farmers and dogs and kids, and certainly not looking to pick up two hippies dirt-encrusted from too much unsuccessful hitchhiking.
I guess we managed to walk three or four miles that day, in the blazing sun, just south of Valencia. We had expected better luck (“Gibraltar by evening!” had been our war cry as we emerged from a night in a roadside culvert) and had not prepared for such a long long day trudging through heat and dust and flies. We were exhausted, and more, we were dehydrated, the half dozen blood oranges we had each consumed notwithstanding.
Ahead of us we could see the outskirts of a village, and a village meant a cafe and Coca-Cola and even iced water, perhaps. It was one of those days when we knew we were willing to spend a few of our remaining pesetas. We stumbled forward, the dust scuffing beneath our feet, coughing. We must have looked liked ancient mummies straight from the desert as we finally collapsed into the two canvas chairs set out under the tin-roofed patio of a tiny cafe. I can only imagine the thoughts that were flowing through the old man’s head as he took our order for two Cokes.
We had been sitting for some minutes before we realized that an old radio was scratching its way through the late afternoon heaviness. And it may have been a minute or so more before we understood that it was speaking to us in English. American Forces Radio, probably from Germany. “…And as the crowds begin to gather from all across Memphis, we remind our listeners that President Johnson will speak to the nation this evening, on this day when Dr Martin Luther King has been shot and killed on his hotel balcony…”
The Cokes, glistening as the ice melted down the sides of the bottles, stood unremembered as our tears washed black gullies across our cheeks.
For good and ill, the revolution in Russia in 1917 proved to be a major event in world history. The politics of this event and its evolution during the 20th century are subject to serious differences of opinion. What is unarguable, however, is that the Russian Revolution opened a door to a remarkable flowering of creativity among Russian artists. This renaissance is discussed in a fascinating review article at Hyperallergic.
There is a tendency is to believe that Socialist Realism, “a glorified version of truth where misfortune does not exist, and [which] utilizes the party’s hegemonic power over representations of reality to sculpt the public’s perception of their lived reality, as favoured by Stalin from the mid-1930s, is all that the revolution brought forth. This article makes clear that this was not the case, at least in the beginning.
There were the Constructivists, Cubists, and the Supremacists (such as Malevich), but there were also “traditionalists” such as Yuri Pimenov who adapted their work to the new century.
By 1935, Socialist Realism had become the only acceptable art to be supported by the State, a position that lasted for decades. “During the 1960s, even after the Communist Party’s pressure on the artists was loosened, Socialist Realism remained predominant in Russia, and its lasting influence on Russia art was detectable until the 2000s.” It is still the only sponsored art in North Korea.
Well worth the read.