ISSN: 2158-7051 ==================== INTERNATIONAL JOURNAL OF RUSSIAN STUDIES ==================== ISSUE NO. 6 ( 2017/1 ) |
THE TROTSKY-SHKLOVSKY DEBATE: FORMALISM VERSUS MARXISM
NORBERT FRANCIS*
Summary
The
controversies and discussions sparked by the Russian Formalists are important to
review today because many of the same issues are still current. The most
well-known exchange occurred in the early 1920s between Leon Trotsky and Victor
Shklovsky, between a high government official of the Soviet regime and a leading
member of the Society
for the Study of Poetic Language. Was the discussion a harbinger of future
Soviet policies? Interestingly, some of the objections voiced by government
officials, at the time charged with overseeing cultural policy, are reflected in
modern-day conceptions of Russian Formalism. An important question to consider
is why a theory in poetics should have stirred the heated debate, about
questions of ideology and art, in the first place.
Key Words: Russian
Formalism, Marxism, poetics, Socialist Realism, science,
art.
Literature and Revolution
As
we approach the 100th year anniversary of the Russian Revolution, we
are reminded of the discussions on art and ideological content that can be
traced to the period just prior to and following the dissolution of the
Constituent Assembly in January 1918. The seven or eight years of debate was not
the first time for the questions to come up, but it marked future discussions on
this topic more broadly than at any previous time. In part, this lasting
influence was the result of the establishment soon after of the most complete
and totalizing state oversight of artistic activity in modern time for almost
sixty years (ending definitively with Glasnost), mainly in the Soviet systems of
Europe and East Asia. Why such influence also came to be important among many
artists and critics in the West is the topic for another occasion; suffice it to
say that it can be traced to the same period. This study will focus on one point
in this debate, that between the Russian Formalists and representatives and
supporters of the Bolshevik regime, in particular one of its central leaders,
Leon Trotsky. The most well-known exchange, mainly one-sided, is between
Trotsky’s “The Formalist School of Poetry and Marxism,” Chapter 5 of Literature and Revolution
(1924[1957]),
and writings of leading formalist theorist Victor Shklovsky.
A
common perception, in large part resulting from the eventual political defeat of
formalism by the late 1920s, is that Trotsky’s critical evaluation represented a
convincing take-down, at least that his arguments, by and large, carried the
day. This view, in its different forms, in fact, has been widely accepted in
literary studies, in addition coming to be taken as part of a definitive
critique of formalist theories. For most observers, repulsed by the later
consolidation of the Stalin regime, Trotsky’s legacy has suffered less reproach
(a great understatement for defenders and followers). For many, a certain
measure of benefit of doubt, or even credit, appears reasonable to grant to his
attack on formalism. He perished at the hands of the GPU, had criticized Stalin
for dictatorial rule, and famously co-authored, with Diego Rivera and André
Breton, the “Manifesto for an Independent Revolutionary Art” (1938[1970]),
taken by many to represent a rejection of Socialist Realism and
state/ideological control over the arts. While sympathy for these positions
today is not uncommon, an objective assessment of both the events of the period
and the actual record of the debate will show that this sympathy is undeserved.
Above all, it is the historical context of the uneven exchange that helps
specify what the issues, on both sides, were really all about.
A Political Critique of an Approach to Poetics
The
first difficulty in a close reading of “The Formalist School of Poetry and
Marxism” is to get a clear idea in what Trotsky’s (1924[1957]) objection
actually consisted. Not only was formalism the only theory (“pre-Revolutionary”
ideologies aside) to “[oppose] Marxism in Soviet Russia these years,” but the
theory was also of “reactionary character” (p. 163). strong words in 1924. In
what way could a series of hypotheses about poetic language, its linguistic and
stylistic properties, possibly be right-wing or counterrevolutionary? In fact,
Trotsky’s description of some aspects of formalist research on poetry by the
OPOYAZ (Russian acronym for: Society for the Study of Poetic Language, founded
in 1916) were not incorrect: the researchers in this case attempted through a
systematic analysis of poetic works to propose a scientific account of the
essential characteristics that distinguish poetry from (non-artistic) prose.
Precisely, OPOYAZ tried to “reduce its task” with this very purpose in mind
(Pomorska, 1971). The starting point, so to speak, was that the “meaning” or
“content” of a poem (what it’s “about,” what it makes reference to in society or
in a given psychological state, etc.), or the biography of the poet, plainly
aren’t what distinguishes it from prosaic language. Thus, research could begin
by studying the linguistic properties of what they called “verbal art.” The
concept of “verbal art” was important because it referred to the aesthetic
qualities of “the verbal” - the wording in the voice, the language itself. In
this way, the starting point was to limit or specify the field of inquiry; that
not every possible aspect of creative writing, its history, social utility, the
intentions and class origin of the author, etc., would be pertinent, as in any
kind of problem solving.
The
idea behind “reduction” that Trotsky presented in “The Formalist School of
Poetry and Marxism” as a defect of the theory actually isn’t about politics,
left-wing or reactionary, but rather it is a standard methodological tool of
science. OPOYAZ sought to apply this method to better understand what they
called: “literariness” – what makes a poem artful, in contrast to the stylistic
properties of a newspaper editorial or of a typical narrative account? For this
reason, the novice researchers turned their attention to forms and structures in
search of foundational characteristics. That’s what “essence of poetry” refers
to; and it would be correct to say that a proposed distinguishing characteristic
would describe an aspect of its totally that would be “partial,” and even
“scrappy” (p. 163), as Trotsky points out. It would be “scrappy” in the sense
that no one set of specific and circumscribed features could ever account for
all phenomena related to poetry. Rather, the question that interested the
formalists was what they might eventually discover about poetic language that is
inherent and primary. Meaning and socially relevant content are, of course,
interesting aspects of creative writing to analyze and discuss; rather, the
formalists argued that they are aspects that are not defining and essential.
Whether they are defining and essential, or not, evidently, was a research
problem that still needed to be settled through further scholarly work. The idea
of OPOYAZ, then, was a proposal, a set of related hypotheses.
In
this sense, “reduction,” simply refers to a method of discovery where, in
analysis, we focus on a specific problem or question: “specific” here is helpful
because narrowing down the problem space and trying to determine which factors
and interacting entities are actually relevant makes it easier to study the
phenomenon at hand. These would be the factors and interactions that could
hopefully shed light on the problem to be solved. The attempt to specify this
problem in poetics didn’t mean that OPOYAZ sought a “reduction of poetry to
etymology and syntax” (p. 163) or to anything else. Trotsky makes this common
mistake based on a misunderstanding of the term. Such a reduction, as he
presented it in the subtitle of the Chapter 5, would not be anti-Marxist, but
simply nonsensical. All of poetry, of narrative, of expository discourse, or of
any other genre, cannot be “reduced.” He was attributing to the researchers of
poetics a kind of reductionism that
posits that a complex phenomenon in its entirety simply consists of one or a
small number of its component parts. It was clear that this was not the
objective of the work of Shklovsky and this colleagues if one read their working
papers with an open mind.[1]
Much confusion could have been avoided here by consulting the major programmatic
documents that addressed this research problem, widely available at the time
(for example: Jakobson, 1919[1967]; Shklovsky, 1917[1990]).
In no representative study of OPOYAZ do we find an argument where we can “regard
the process of poetic creation only as a combination of sounds or words, and to
seek along these lines the solution to all the problems of poetry” (Trotsky,
1924[1957], p. 172).
Knight’s
Move
(Shklovsky,
1923[2005]) was a fine work to reference in the debate, but the collection of
squibs, random reflections, and brief essays in none of its entries presents
even a summary exposition of the theory in poetics that the formalists were
working on. The
denunciation of formalism on this point was simply founded on a course and
misleading characterization. As a simplistic argument, easy to remember, it has
taken on a life of its own over the years, often repeated by critics who by all
evidence have never consulted the source documents.
So,
if “formalism, confined within legitimate limits, may help to clarify the
artistic and psychological
peculiarities of form” opening “one of the paths to the artist’s feeling for the
world” (p. 164), in what then consists its “reactionary character”? Trotsky
begins by repeating the “reduction” error from the previous page: that “to them
verbal art ends finally and fully with the word, and depictive art with color. A
poem is a combination of sounds, a
painting is a combination of color
spots” (p. 164). Here it is important to add the emphasis to “is” to clarify the
point. No reasonable reading of the published proposals for further research by
OPOYAZ
could take away that they meant: the discovery of an essential feature, say, of poetry would
be the discovery of what poetry is,
fully and finally. Surely a passage somewhere could be found where someone used
an abbreviated formulation to say or suggest what poetry is. The revolutionary years were times
of the exhortation, proclamation, and the provocation. When the revolutionary
Futurists (Burliuk,
et al. (1912[2004]) called
for the works of Pushkin to be requisitioned and tossed into the River Neva
everyone knew what they really meant.
But
we should ask: Why did the formalists’ proposals for the field of poetics, a
specific aspect of it, spark such fierce opposition? At first glance, the
theories seem rather uncontroversial. Was it the impulse to politicize this
field of study as well, as was the case in other disciplines? The second
question we can set aside for now. The first question is important because the
rejection of the formalist research program came to be so generalized as to take
on almost semi-official status; in later years the accusation of “formalism”
came to be associated with grave consequences.
As
was already noted, it’s not likely that Knight’s Move was chosen for this
polemic because it summarized a theory of poetics of the “formalist school.”
Trotsky’s Chapter 5 in fact barely addresses problems of poetic language either,
much less critiques any of the specific proposals on these questions by
Shklovsky, Ejxenbaum,
Jakobson or other representative author. In fact, as was just mentioned, the
collection of essays in the short book itself makes little mention of them. A
quick reading does, however, give us a hint for why Trotsky found the essays so
objectionable. The most enduring quote, often cited, is the commentary on the
Futurist experiments of the time: “Art has always been free of life. Its flag
has never reflected the color of the flag that flies over the city fortress”
(Shklovsky, 1923[2005], p. 22). Taken word-for-word, we know, and by all
indication the author knew, that this affirmation could not be literally
correct. From the course syllabus of any Art History 101, we know that life and
social forces throughout history influence art taken in its full and complete
totality. Rather, we can understand the provocative idea just like we understand
what Shklovsky’s Futurist colleagues meant when they called for discarding
forever the great works of 19th Century Russian literature. During
the time of slogans, as a response to the steady call for what art and
literature should be, the idea of
freedom from life and from the color of the banner spoke to a bigger idea
(Lunts, 1922 [1975]): that party prescription (that year not yet an obligatory
instruction) cannot determine either style or content. But
as a debating point, the response in Knight’s Move provided the opportunity
for its detractors to explain in what exactly the political prescription would
consist. According to Trotsky, the government was not interested in dictating
themes to writers, “please write about anything you can think of” (p. 171). But,
for choosing which side to be on, and for evading the accusation of reactionary,
artists should not “ignore the psychological unity of the social man…The
proletariat has to have in art the expression of the new spiritual point of
view…to which art must help him give form. This is not a state order, but an
historic demand…You cannot pass this
by, nor escape its force” (p.
171) (emphasis added). But as we now know, the correct ideological content in
fact was of the utmost importance; to question it, by setting preferred content
aside for the purpose of studying patterns of language and discourse, had come
to be an obstacle to the larger program, despite disclaimer. To Lunts and the
circle of intrepid writers who called themselves the Serapion Fraternity,
Trotsky devoted a separate section of his book (p. 76):
If
the Serapions get away from the Revolution entirely, they would reveal
themselves at once as a second-rate or third-rate remnant of the discarded
pre-revolutionary literary schools. It is impossible to play with history. Here
the punishment follows immediately upon the crime…To be outside the Revolution
means to be among the émigrés. Of this there can be no discussion. But apart
from the émigrés abroad, there are the internal ones.
We
can now summarize the evolution of the debate on how art and literature are
related to affirmative ideological message, how the former incorporates a given
version of the latter:
(1)
It can (a good thing, for example, if
it’s fashionable or popular, or important to the writer for expressing an idea,
portraying an image, etc.);
(2)
should (or must if the artist’s work is to be
relevant or acceptable, 1917—1932)
(3)
shall (as in official policy, e.g.
Socialist Realism, 1932—1980s). See Note 3.
Knight’s
move
made another provocative proposal, related to the first: that historical
materialism was not an adequate theoretical framework for the study of
literature. It questioned Trotsky’s theory that: “However fantastic art may be,
it cannot have at its disposal any other material except that which is given to
it by the world of three dimensions and the narrower world of class
society….[that] Marxism alone can explain why and how a given tendency in art
has originated in a given period of history” (p. 178). If we take “material”
broadly to mean both the physical materials of the artist’s workshop and all the
other resources, which include the artistic abilities and understandings, mental
resources of different kinds, motivations, artistic sensibility, etc., then at
very least we can grant that Shklovsky was proposing a difficult topic for
Marxists to consider. Theoretically, even at the time, they were on thin ice. In
effect, could it be that Marxism
alone explains the history of art? For example, the disputed question of
narrative themes, that across historical epochs they may be “homeless” (so to
speak) and “interchangeable,” addressed the problem that they are difficult to
explain simply by recourse to the analysis of class society from one historical
period to another. Vladimir Propp (1928[1968]),
the formalists’ specialist on folklore, proposed a method of taking into account
possible psychologically universal
motifs, that were even independent of
the historical struggle among social classes. Propp was perhaps thinking about a
time in history of classless society.
To
spell out his argument more precisely in the chapter of Literature and revolution following
“The Formalist School of Poetry and Marxism,” Trotsky gave examples that
socially-minded poets should aspire to. Among the most pointed was praise of the
writings of inspirational poet Demyan Bednyi (1883—1945), famous for setting the
slogan to meter and rhyme. But despite the acclamation in Chapter 6,
“Proletarian Culture and Proletarian Art,” it is hard to imagine that a more
rancid and corrupted verse will ever again come to be read aloud: “He is a
Bolshevik whose weapon is poetry. The Revolution is, for him, …the highest
authority. His work is a social service not only in the final analysis, as all art, but subjectively, in the
consciousness of the poet himself...the shrewdness of fables, the sadness of
songs, the boldness of couplets, as well as indignation,…nothing of the
dilettante in his anger and in his hatred. He hates with the well-placed hatred
of the most revolutionary Party in the world…Not only in those cases when Apollo
calls him to the holy sacrifice does Demyan Bednyi create but day in and day
out, as the events and the Central Committee of the Party demand...Demyan Bednyi
does not seek new forms…[The] sacred old forms…are resurrected and re-born in
his work, as an invaluable mechanism for the transmission of Bolshevik ideas”
(pp. 212—213) (emphasis added).
Death
to the vermin! Kill them all to the last!
And
having finished off the dammed vermin,
Liberated
from the yoke of the lordly horde.
One
by one, by regiments, by squads, join our brotherly ranks!
(Poetry
of Bednyi, cited in Pipes, 1994, p. 300)
His
most memorable poem perhaps was “No Mercy” (1937) composed to mark the trial and
execution of Grigori Zinoviev.[2]
Context of the Debate
Understanding
how historical developments determine or influence the stylistic forms of art
and literature across time is a difficult research problem. Understanding how
the specific historical context of post-revolutionary Russia influenced the
debates on art and literature is a question that is much easier. Here we pick up
on this same suggestion from the previous section: that the exchange between the
Marxists and the formalists was much more than an academic dispute. In reality,
it wasn’t mainly academic at all.
Without
any doubt, the Stalin era inaugurated the most all-encompassing control of
politics and ideology over literature. But it would be mistake to mark the
change as the counterrevolution that overthrew a “workers’ democracy” regime of
Soviet freedom in expression and creativity. This is the claim of the present
discussion, following the research on this theme concisely summarized by
Krishnan (2010). The above-mentioned specific historical context starts even
prior to the dissolution of the Constituent Assembly, during the weeks following
the overthrow of the Provisional Government in October. The decree establishing
The Revolutionary Tribunal for the Press was signed by Lenin in January of 1918,
widespread censorship documented in the pages of the Social Democratic Novaya
Zhizn. The
infamous Gravlit extended government oversight and approval to literature in
1922. That is, political control was exercised prior to and following the period of the Civil War,
pretext during these years for all variety of extraordinary measure.
Following
the massive opening of KGB files, seventy years later exactly, the Russian
Federation rehabilitated the victims of the Tagantsev conspiracy, or the
nonexistent Petrograd Armed Organization, so-called by the Cheka which
fabricated the plot. Among the approximately 200 university professors,
scientists and writers rounded up, between 60 and 70 were executed, including
Nikolay Gulimov, leading member of the Acmeist School, Guild of Poets, founded
in 1910, and first husband of Anna Akhmatova. Of the remaining, most found their
way to the Gulag (NB: not an innovation of Stalin) or were deported to Germany.
The conviction of the Tagantsev conspirators followed the show trial (1920) of
the “Anti-Soviet Tactical Center Group” and the “Union for the Regeneration of
Russia” formed by university professors, teachers, and public supporters of the
dissolved Constituent Assembly. Newspaper reports listed the 67 executed
members, charged with conspiring to overthrow the new post-October Soviet
government (Birstein, 2004).
The
general intellectual climate in the humanities, to a large extent, took its lead
from the proletarian art movement, notably among artists themselves and mainly
on their own initiative.[3]
The superiority of the socialist order was already brushing aside the decaying
bourgeois culture and its “uncommitted” art. The negation of capitalist
literature was marked by the “grand style” and “monumental character,”
idealization of proletarian labor, the class struggle, mechanization and
technology, and the ethos of collectivism (Ermolaev,
1977). The jockeying for favor would even include the denouncing of one another
among the different revolutionary art groups as “bourgeois” and
“counter-revolutionary” (e.g. Mayakovsky’s Left Front of Literature, staunchly
pro-regime, was accused in these terms, for having suffered the influence of
Futurist tendencies). It’s important to point out that during the same years of
selective censorship and repression – prior to, during, and after the Civil War,
and then during the relative relaxation of control, in some areas, of the New
Economic Policy (1917—1927) – identifiable intervals and significant working
space of noninterference were also in evidence (Jangfeldt, 2014; Krishnan, 2010;
Pipes, 1994), presenting a contradictory and even confusing panorama for
historians of literature. For example, all of the leading members and
sympathizers of OPOYAZ as far as we know, in some cases surprisingly, were
spared (by 1930, all who were still in the Soviet Union had either recanted or
moved on from the discussion; from 1920 Jakobson was in Czechoslovakia). Sheldon
(1977, 2005) has contributed exceptionally to clearing up the seeming
contradiction and confusion. In the end, as the cited authors argue, the
expectation that art serve the revolution, promoted by the proletarian art
movement, helped to pave the way during the 1920s for making this expectation
official in the 1930s.
In
a study of Communist-era science, Birstein (2004) traces the evolution of
political intervention, closely analogous to that outlined in the previous
section on literature. Coinciding with the imposition of Socialist Realism, the
most aberrant distortion of scientific research is associated with the Stalin
period, notably the promotion as official of Lysenko’s version of inheritance of
acquired characteristics. In the sciences, the field of genetics appeared to
party leaders as the one most amenable to politicization (the idea of
“competition” perhaps having bourgeois implications, “cooperation” more in line
with the shaping of New Man). The earlier revolutionary period was marked by
selective and uneven repression, resulting in the overall appearance of
tolerance. In fact, much of the work of scientists was not directly controlled
by the party/state, unlike the stricter supervision later, beginning in the
1930s. Recall that the first and second show trials and executions (1920 and
1921) of academics and writers carried out by the Cheka (established under the
direction of Felix Dzerzhinsky in December of 1917) included several
prominent scientists. In August of 1922 the large scale deportations of
counterrevolutionary academics, including prominent scientists, began: one
contingent to “the northern regions,” and the majority abroad, truly
unprecedented measures never undertaken even under Tsarist rule.[4]
During the 9-month period following the February 1917 formation of the
Provisional Government, academic institutions had gained independence from state
control for the first time. In sharp reversal, they were nationalized following
the dissolution of the Constituent Assembly. Three years later, professional
meetings of scientists and other academic unions required registration with the
GPU (1922 successor to the Cheka). As in the other realms of the national
culture, it was the period of relative/selective tolerance and freedom from
outright political intervention that laid the groundwork for the subsequent
imposition of state-sponsored pseudo-science (Birstein, 2004, pp.
15—39).
In
the plastic arts we take note of a parallel to developments in both literature
and science. The evolution of Kazimir
Malevich’s experience with party influence and governmental oversight of culture
is instructive. It provides a glimpse into the antecedents of the full
imposition of Socialist Realism in this domain, implemented explicitly in 1934.
Arrested by the security forces in September of 1930, the three month
interrogation centered on his meetings with counterrevolutionary artists during
an official trip to Poland years earlier and, more specifically, accusations of
formalism. There was in fact reason for suspicion, as it was true that since
1917 and all throughout the 1920s the work of Malevich had to some extent
resisted tendencies and calls for favoring greater functional design, socially
defined concepts of utility, and propagandistic content. With time, tendencies
in favor and strong promotion, even from working colleagues and fellow artists,
evolved toward more direct suggestion. In
fact, the themes he had touched on in a published essay, previous to his
interrogation, had a familiar ring from the concurrent debate in literary
studies. “Art no longer cares to serve the state and religion… [It] wants to
have nothing further to do with the object, as such, and believes that it can
exist, in and for itself, without
“things” (Malevich 1927[1959], p.
74)
(emphasis added). The copying of nature may turn out to be more comfortably
“comprehensible” for didactic purposes, but “creative workers (“persons of
[this] category call themselves free people” - p. 21) are always a step ahead…
they show
it the road of progress” (p. 34). “An artist who
creates rather than imitates expresses himself; his works are not reflections of
nature but, instead, new realities…The depicting of the events of daily life, in
the manner of …reflected images, falls to the lot of those who lack the capacity
for new creation…” (p. 30). Those who succumb to the regimenting power are
advanced as loyal…while those who preserve their subjective consciousness and
individual point of view are looked upon and treated as dangerous and
unreliable” (p. 21).
It
was true; Malevich and an entire generation of Russian visual artists had been
influenced by the avant-garde currents of Western Europe, in turn reflecting
back and multiplying this impulse internationally. By all evidence, the period
of relative tolerance, for them, late into the 1920s, allowed for greater
margins of freedom and experimentation than was the case in the literary arts.
The national and international influence of the Vitebsk
Arts College, with its lively debates, would count among the most well-known
examples.
The Society for the Study of Poetic Language on the Defensive
We’re
not sure if Shklovsky ever publicly replied to “The
Formalist School of Poetry and Marxism.” For OPOYAZ, the prospects for
developing new lines of work, sharpening incipient and rudimentary conceptions
(there were a good number of these), and polemicizing with opposing views had
already begun to dim by the mid-1920s. But for our purposes, a glance through
the book that Trotsky singled out will help us get an idea, in addition to the
passages cited above, of what all the fuss was about.
Picking
up on the “free of life” theme, trying to answer the question of “what makes art
enchanting,” the reader is provoked again: “That the outside world doesn’t
exist” (1923[2005],
p. 65).
We know what Shklovsky means: that imagination is better than reality, and art
is better still. The idea was important at the time, and is today. Recall the
observation of Malevich about copying nature, that for this purpose
(non-artistic) photography could now do just fine. With their “repudiation of
space…the Supremacists freed themselves from the slavery of things” (p. 63).
Kandinsky (1914[1977])
had made a similar observation, comparing abstraction in music and in the visual
arts, calling attention to the miserable failure of “program music.” In an
argument with Proletkult, Shklovsky (1923[2005],
p.
21) declared that there had been enough of the “[incessant clamor] for a new art
that will correspond to the new class ideology”; that someone should be able to
take “propaganda out of art” (p. 27). Here, he gets credit for the prescient
warning to take it out of music too (p. 26).
In Knight’s Move there is only
passing mention of one of the central tenets underlying the concept of
literariness, an hypothesized distinguishing property of verbal art:
estrangement, or defamiliarization (pp. 74—75, 86—87). The idea, from “Art as
device”
(1917[1990])
and Ejxenbaum’s
“Theory of the formal method” (1926[1970]), was
put forward early and some progress was made in refining it, but time just ran
out. More
recent reflection on its currency for literary studies can be found in Eagle
(1988), Ehrenreich (2013), and Vatulescu
(2006), important to take a minute here to review in light of the controversy
and persistent misunderstanding. As mentioned in the first section, this aspect
of formalist theory didn’t come up in “The
Formalist School of Poetry and Marxism.”
Shklovsky and Ejxenbaum
wanted to study how
the artist of language recovers for the reader and listener a sensation, by prolonging and making
difficult the automatic perceptions that, with time, become unmarked (expected).
This is the feeling they proposed
that would be specific to (defining of) poetry, because the emotional response
that is evoked by a theme (the semantic content), for example, can also be
evoked in prose. Remember, this view doesn’t imply that there is anything wrong
in studying the themes of poetry (what poems “mean”). Estrangement refers to
when words and their patterns, and how meanings are constructed, come to be
unfamiliar in the language forms that are taken as art. They are now new for an
aesthetic purpose. The processing of language in everyday speech and writing
that was efficient is now broken up, sometimes removed from the customary
context. As a result, processing slows down. Impeded perception, de-automatized,
appears as rough and foreign. In the context of verbal art “rough and foreign”
is experienced in an aesthetic way, as “strange and wonderful,” removed from the
“everyday.” The sound patterns of poetry show a “phonetic roughening” and a
rhythm that is marked (unexpected). These are the “devices” for shifting
attention to the patterns themselves, sometimes decomposed and rearranged. The
sensation is triggered, so to speak, by foreign patterns, by unfamiliar forms
(typically without awareness by the listener or reader). Whereas prose is
economical and direct, poetic speech is attenuated. Thus, when the marked
rhythms and phonetic patterns of verse become predictable and conventional,
according to the formalists, this shift in perception sets the stage for
innovation. Evidently, on some level, the theory of estrangement applies to the
visual as well as to all the temporal arts. But we can see now why OPOYAZ
focused more on the analysis of poetry than on narrative, a more complicated
problem in some ways.
The
concept of estrangement doesn’t explain every facet or aspect of poetic quality,
much less aesthetic effects in general; there are clearly other factors in play.
Then the concept was pressed into service by the formalists to account for
historical change. This was an interesting point of debate with their
competitors and critics. The idea is that, in art, the process of
familiarization (habituation) contributes to change across time. This hypothesis
can be taken as at least plausible, because of the need to renew perception.
Consider the case of one-time innovative styles becoming predictable and
commonplace. But here again, the shift of estrange to familiar wouldn’t be the
only dynamic to take into account. Not surprisingly, the attraction of this
hypothesis for the formalists was that it was an explanation that focused on a
kind of “internal” factor. Ejxenbaum
reminded his critics that formalism didn’t reject the influence of “external”
forces. Rather, the interactions specific and “internal” to art
itself
called their attention for having been neglected until then. And if it could
shown to be correct that these structural factors were part of the explanation,
they would turn out to be closely related to the immanent and defining formal
properties of literary language (the aspect of literature they saw as important
to study). In any case, progress on this question lies in a systematic study of
a large and representative corpus of examples. In this discussion, the notion
that “form-determined content” was never actually elaborated upon seriously,
probably because it wasn’t a good idea to begin with, and should have been
discarded early on. I for one don’t see the connection with their overall
theory. Perhaps Shklovsky in this case had something in mind that might have
developed at some point into a more productive line of
work.
Tracking
the debate, checking quotations and citations, should remind us that the
“formalist school,” such as it was, was not only short-lived (perhaps ten years
of steady activity before “discussion” became completely one-sided), but
immature throughout its development. The novice theorists often contradicted
each other and themselves, common, and not necessarily a bad thing for a
start-up movement. Imprecise informal hypotheses, such as “form determines
content” would be difficult to maintain with any consistency. Recall that
Ejxenbaum
admitted that external environmental, social/historical, conditions influenced
the evolution of artistic genres (it’s obvious that they do). But then on
occasion his colleagues apparently contradict him (Knight’s Move, pp. 56, 93). Sometimes
the contradiction springs from the brazen short-hand, slogan-size challenge, or
the animated retort to incite another round of polemic, or just from normal
everyday short-hand: “Art has always been free of life” – We have emancipated
art from it! Shklovsky said that
these were the banners of Futurism.
Indeed, along a street demonstration of banners, we don’t expect each one to be
coherent with all the others (if art has always been free of life, then the
Futurists didn’t emancipate it). Even their most clearly formulated theories
(e.g. defamiliarization) we have to take as tentative, remaining so for missing
the opportunity to test them out empirically. It was about ten years, more or
less, and time ran out. An accurate balance sheet, therefore, requires a
head-to-head comparison of representative works of the full record. The
comparison would need to include relevant research proposals that could have
been actually carried out. Out-of-context capsules will not suffice to advance
our understanding of the actual differences at stake.
In
the end it’s fair to say that the circumstances surrounding the debate imposed a
vastly unfavorable relationship of forces (to borrow an expression) for one of
the sides, conducted on a stage where events were moving rapidly (Francis,
2015). Skhlovsky was a member of one of the political parties that opposed the
dissolution of the Constituent Assembly. Knight’s Move was written from exile in
Berlin to where he had fled to avoid arrest. Seven years earlier, OPOYAZ took to
heart the great opening of free expression that the February Revolution had
ushered in. As already mentioned, by 1924 the intellectual climate had tilted
far in the direction toward assumptions that strongly disfavored their views (to
put it mildly), and the pace of events would soon start to accelerate. It’s also
fair to say that with the eventual triumph of art as propaganda in the 1930s,
the record of the debate and the assessment of the young formalists’ proposals
has remained in large part one-sided.
In
an otherwise thorough history of Russian Formalism, Erlich (1965) fell into the
same dead end of other biased commentators. The chapter on Trotsky’s attack on
formalism turns out to be almost as shallow. Picking through Knight’s Move to find the same offending
quotes in an attempt to show that OPOYAZ “divorced” (p. 99) art from social
life, ideology and (the Marxist interpretation of) history, he also didn’t seem
to get it that there was something wrong in branding an approach to studying
poetic language as “reactionary,” adding his own disqualifications of:
“ultra-Formalist,” “aggressive” (p. 99) “arrogant,” “juvenile,” and
“impertinent” (p. 101). By all the evidence in his confusing summary of the
discussion of narrative plot, Erlich was as unfamiliar with the work of Propp as
Trotsky was. The hypothesis that the formalists were exploring, in this case
related to the evidence for universal themes in prose narrative, was simple. If
there are common motifs that can be shown to be widely cross-cultural, this
finding might be accounted for in fundamental predispositions of human nature (a
possibility, by the way, that would have been anathema to the idea that ideology
and social conditioning can mold the “new man” without limit). The bias that
runs through Erlich’s apparent misunderstanding is interestingly transparent:
the problem-solving work of scientists, focused on specific empirical questions,
is unacceptable unless certain “social determinants” are included as required
considerations. They must be integrated into the research program, obligatorily,
to avoid the accusation that the research has become a tool of reaction. But
focusing on specific problems or questions is always “partial” (in the sense of
“incomplete”) because the objective that empirical investigation tries to stay
away from is the theory of everything.
[1]Extreme
or all encompassing reductionism is
not pertinent to this discussion. The theory of historical materialism, for
example, is an attempt to reduce explanations of social phenomena to a smaller
set, that in addition seeks to focus attention on relevant evidence. The idea is
that the new theory will have greater explanatory power, in the end, requiring
fewer assumptions. For example, materialist approaches in science are preferred
because they reduce the field to natural explanations, to material phenomena.
Historical research can be also be objective if it does not arbitrarily limit
its scope to recent history and to only one theoretical framework. For example,
inquiry into essential properties (e.g. of narrative and poetic competencies in
humans) would need to take into account evolutionary antecedents. Reducing
factors to consider, among all the logically possible, is a common everyday
approach that we also apply to routine problem solving. Finally, it’s important
to point out that to hypothesize a distinguishing property, say of a given
aesthetic genre, is not the same as proposing that it is the most “important”
aspect of it that observers and participants need to
consider.
[2]During
the years of the pursuit of Trotsky by the Soviet security forces, the
reputation for advocating freedom of expression and for opposing dictatorial
realism that he gained in many circles can be traced to a short passage in the
“Manifesto for an Independent Revolutionary Art” (the very title, though, should
be cause for critical reflection). However, the notion of “…not the least trace
of orders from above” sits uncomfortably within the context of a political
program indistinguishable from the period of the run up to the Stalin era: “[In]
defending freedom of thought we have no intention of justifying political
indifference,…revive a so-called pure art which generally serves the extremely impure
ends of reaction…“[The] supreme task of art in our epoch is to take part…in
the preparation of the revolution. But the artist cannot serve the struggle for
freedom unless he subjectively assimilates its social content” (Trotsky,
1938[1970],
pp. 119—120).
For absolute clarity on this point Trotsky reiterates the 1918 standard for
selective censorship and repression: “We recognize, of course, that the
revolutionary state has the right to defend itself against the counterattack of
the bourgeoisie, even when this drapes itself in the flag of science or art” (p.
119). This last condition, in fact, forms part the current-day program for art
of political organizations that trace their heritage to “Trotskyism” (Siegel,
1970). As this view is summed up in the concluding lines: “[True] art is unable
not to be revolutionary”…“The independence of art – for the revolution. The
revolution – for the complete liberation of art!” (p. 121) (emphasis above
added). The question is posed in the cited passage: in what possible way could a
“pure,” apolitical, art form, a poem with no discernible “social content” for
example, be “reactionary”? The reader will forgive me for pointing out the irony
(one nonetheless that is representative): the verse of the exalted proletarian
poet of Literature and revolution
(1924), subsequent author of “No Mercy,” Trotsky now found to be wanting
(“pathetic”…“simple”) in the pages of the Bulletin of the Opposition (1932), cited
in Volkogonov (1996, pp. 340—341), when he was on the run from the GPU himself.
In fact, a careful reading of “Manifesto for an Independent Revolutionary Art”
shows it to be entirely consistent with the Literature
and Revolution of
1924.
[3]This
aspect of the ideological and historical antecedents of Socialist Realism is
important to emphasize, Proletkult, for example, having been an important force
among writers and artists that for a number of years formed part of a true mass
movement independent of the regime. As such, the regime came to distrust its
leadership and disfavor its activities, soon ordering its integration into the
Commissariat of Enlightenment. Thus, Proletkult was an example, until its
dissolution, of defending autonomy for its cultural project within the second
stage (2) in the evolution (1917 to 1932) of revolutionary aesthetics: artists
(1) can, (2) should/must, and (3) shall, incorporate affirmative
political content into their work. Proletkult militantly favored (2), but
outside the control of the state.
[4]In
an interview with American reporter Louise Bryant one year after the execution
of the professors and writers of the Tagantsev “conspiracy,” Trotsky explained
the new policy: “….by themselves they are politically insignificant,
but they represent a potential weapon in the hands of our enemies. …[All] of
these elements would become agents…of the enemy and we would be obligated to
execute them by the laws of war. It’s for this reason that in this period of
relative calm that we prefer to exile them.” Cited in Emelianov
and Malishev (2001, p. 86).
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*Norbert Francis - Professor at Northern Arizona University, Facultad de Filosofía y Letras, Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México (1994), teaches at Northern Arizona University. His current research project focuses on problems of literary creation in cross-cultural contexts. Recent publications include: a study of the relationship between Nobel Laureate Octavio Paz and the Russian Formalists on the occasion of the 100th anniversary of his birth, in California Linguistic Notes (2014), and his political evolution after the fall of the Berlin Wall, in Mexican Studies (2015), a review of his biography, El Poeta y la Revolución, written by E. Krauze. These papers were followed by Noches rusas y el origen del Realismo Socialista, a review of a study by R. Echavarren, in Destiempos (2015). The present article is the fourth installment of this series. e mail: norbert.francis@nau.edu
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