Zofia Rydet: Sociological Record @ the Photographers’ Gallery

In 1978, when she was 67, Polish artist and photographer Zofia Rydet (1911 to 1997) set out to photograph the inside of every Polish household. She would approach a home unannounced, knock and introduce herself, and ask the people living there if they would like to take part in her project. The result was her ‘Sociological Record’ (Zapis socjologiczny), a monumental project and one of the most important achievements in 20th century Polish photography – and this is a big exhibition devoted to the best and most representative images taken from this treasury.

Installation view of ‘Zofia Rydet: Sociological Record’ @ the Photographers’ Gallery showing a wall-sized blow-up of one of her thousands of interior photos (photo by the author)

Aim and timeframe

When she started the project, Rydet was already an artist with a well-established reputation. The Record aimed to satisfy her interest in The Home as a metaphor for human life, in the ways domestic interiors reflect personal people’s aesthetic, religious or political views, but are also repositories of histories and values which were fast disappearing.

Work on the ‘Sociological Record’ would eventually span over 12 years from 1978 to 1990, becoming an increasing obsession for Rydet as she approached the end of her life. During these years she photographed people in their homes, at their doorsteps, building exteriors and landscapes. She also returned to the same houses several years after she first visited to document the transformation of rural Poland.

Zofia Rydet at work in ‘Zofia Rydet: Sociological Record’ @ the Photographers’ Gallery

Historical background

The creation of Zofia Rydet’s ‘Sociological Record’ coincided with a turbulent period in Poland. In 1978 the country was under communist rule and sinking into a deepening economic crisis. This was the backdrop to the rise of the independent trade union Solidarity (Solidarność), a wave of strikes, and the imposition of martial law in December 1981. A long decade of repression ensued, ended only as the Soviet Union began to collapse, triggering the fall of communist regimes across the bloc, and the first free Polish elections in 1989.

Plentiful negatives and rare prints

The Record includes over 20,000 negatives taken in more than 200 provinces of Poland and abroad. By the mid-1980s, Rydet’s drive to document her subjects left no time to spend in the darkroom so she left numerous boxes of negatives. This exhibition focuses on the relatively rare number of prints the artist made in her lifetime alongside books and personal letters.

Installation view of ‘Zofia Rydet: Sociological Record’ @ the Photographers’ Gallery showing one wall covered with 63 examples of Rydet’s thousands of interior photos (photo by the author)

Over time the Record grew into a multifaceted work and developed into a number of subcategories and independent series. These include: Women on Doorsteps; the Myth of Photography; Windows; Professions; Presence; The Infinity of Distant Roads and more.

Although the work does include residents in towns and cities, most of the photographs focused on rural areas where she witnessed traditional ways of life and folk culture fast disappearing, and it’s these simple, rural dwellings and people who look like peasants, living in grim conditions, who the Record records.

A typical interior from ‘Sociological Record’ © Zofia Rydet, courtesy of the Zofia Rydet Foundation

On the Road

Many of Rydet’s journeys were undertaken by bus and this location or situation, too, evolved into an independent series. She always photographed from the front seat, behind the driver, making sure to capture the reflection in the mirror. A couple of examples are on show.

She also developed a series of photographs of roads and road signs, some of which would be incorporated into a subcategory titled ‘The Infinity of Distant Roads’ (Nieskończoność dalekich dróg).

Installation view of ‘Zofia Rydet: Sociological Record’ @ the Photographers’ Gallery showing part of a video about Rydet on the right, and on the left, one of her haunting shots of an empty road sweeping across a wet and windy landscape (photo by the author)

Categories and themes

Women on Doorsteps

Women on Doorsteps, or Standing Women, is the most consistently visualised sub-series within the ‘Sociological Record’. The women of the household would often be the first to greet Rydet on her field trips and, as such, they made a great impression on her.

Installation view of ‘Zofia Rydet: Sociological Record’ @ the Photographers’ Gallery showing examples from the ‘Women in Doorways’ series (photo by the author)

Like the work of Boris Mikhailov in the gallery above, Rydet’s work gains immeasurably from being organised into sets. The consistent composition and framing of the ‘Women in Doorways’ series allows you to dwell on the individuality – the great variety in shapes and sizes – not only of the women but of the doorways. After a while I found the design and construction of the walls and doorways as, if not more, fascinating than the people.

Houses

From shooting a doorway it’s only a few steps backwards (literally), to taking photos of the whole house and so a new category was born. The majority are rural homes and outbuildings which have been, as you can see, beautifully staged against a vast wall-sized blow-up of a particularly striking example.

Installation view of ‘Zofia Rydet: Sociological Record’ @ the Photographers’ Gallery showing examples from the series ‘Houses’ (photo by the author)

She chose distinctive structures, often with traditional designs, recognising the limited time many of them had remaining, as many were being cleared and rebuilt following the death or departure of their owners.

People in interiors

The idea of documenting the interiors of homes came to Rydet from a visit to a Polish car factory in Jelcz. Speaking to journalist and photographer Krystyna Łyczywek, she said:

‘There one of the factory halls had been turned into cubicles, office rooms. And although they were identical, they differed greatly from one another, because the people working there decorated them with whatever they liked to look at. You name it, it was there!… Beautiful girls and holy pictures, jazz idols and photos of children, hunters’ trophies and rosaries… Each of these individuals left the mark of their personality. And that’s how it all began…’

When Rydet started the project in 1978, her working method became quickly established. She would walk around a local area, knock on strangers’ doors, and ask to come in and take pictures. Rarely refused, she would then pose people against a wall, using a wide-angle lens and a strong flash to capture details in the often poorly lit interiors. The sitters were asked not to smile, in part a reflection of the importance she attached to the work but presumably also to ensure a consistency of approach.

Installation view of ‘Zofia Rydet: Sociological Record’ @ the Photographers’ Gallery showing 6 of the 70 or so interior shots (photo by the author)

Rydet wrote of the Record:

‘It is meant to faithfully show a person in their everyday environment, among that sort of shell they create for themselves, which on one hand becomes more of their intimate and private surroundings – the interior – but which also reveals their psyche, sometimes saying more about them than they themselves could.’

The title ‘Sociological Record’ was coined by Rydet’s friend, art historian and critic Urszula Czartoryska. Although Rydet adopted it, she had some reservations about its abstract and ‘scientific’ character.

Windows

Obviously, as well as specific rooms (bedroom, living room), houses have a number of distinct elements such as doors and windows. Alongside other aspects, Rydet came to realise that windows perform an important function, in fact a host of functions:

– In the low light of rural cottage interiors, the kitchen table is often placed by the window, a central focus of family life, revolving around shared meals and food preparation, repairing household items, conversations, and more.

– The window is also an opening onto the neighbourhood, a vantage point where private space turned outward, towards what was communal and external.

– Windows and window sills can also serve a decorative function, displaying plants, religious icons, and family photographs. They offer a kind of intensification of the personality or character of the owners.

Installation view of ‘Zofia Rydet: Sociological Record’ @ the Photographers’ Gallery showing some of the Window shots (photo by the author)

The Myth of Photography

This is a meta move. After photographing a certain number of domestic interiors, Rydet realised that an important part of many people’s interiors is other photographs. Often these are rare and precious objects portraying family members, or the now-ancient occupants of the houses as beautiful young couples.

These were often a specifically Polish artefact, the traditional hand-painted wedding photographs known as monidła. In these cases, she would sometimes pose her sitters holding their own photographs or would prop the images up to enhance the composition.

An old couple with a ‘monidło’ of themselves on their wedding day, from ‘Sociological Record’ © Zofia Rydet, courtesy of the Zofia Rydet Foundation

As soon as you think about it, you realise that photographic images have been freely available, even to the poorest households, and people can choose any images to ornament their lives or express their personalities. Older people have images of Polish politicians or historical figures or writers…

An impressive array of portraits of Polish patriotic figures hanging from someone’s ceiling, from ‘Sociological Record’ © Zofia Rydet, courtesy of the Zofia Rydet Foundation

Whereas it’s very noticeable that younger people decorated their rooms with image of western pop and lifestyle images.

A young Police fan surrounded by posters of her idols, from ‘Sociological Record’ © Zofia Rydet, courtesy of the Zofia Rydet Foundation

Presence

Of course the images most prevalent in older people’s homes were religious, Christian, images of Christ, the Virgin Mary and, of course, the famous Polish Pope, Pope John Paul II, head of the Catholic church from October 1978 until his death in 2005. The Pope was not only an immensely important spiritual figure through the 1970s and 80s but also supported the country’s political aspirations for system change and liberation from Soviet influence.

So it was inevitable that images of the Pope appear in so many of the interiors that Rydent decided to create another sub-genre of them, titled ‘Presence’. There’s no mention anywhere of whether Rydet herself was a person of faith. Here, as in so many of the photos and categories, it feels like she is recording and taxonomising, with no value judgements, precisely with the detachment of a sociologist recording what they see.

Installation view of ‘Zofia Rydet: Sociological Record’ @ the Photographers’ Gallery showing photos of Pope John Paul II in people’s homes (photo by the author)

Professions

Rydet was fascinated by folk culture and disappearing ways of life. This series of people at work particularly focuses on small workshops, local crafts and services, village shops and so on, places which, like the rural houses she photographed, were undergoing rapid modernisation or being abandoned by farmers migrating to cities.

Professions shown here include a postman, an artist, a sign maker, a tailor and teacher. The curators compare them to the German photographer August Sander’s epic project to document the people of his nation between the wars, or the famous Photography Unit of the Farm Security Administration program during the Great Depression in the United States. Which begs the question, why was this type of encyclopedic sociological project undertaken in Germany and the States in the 1930s, but not until half a century later in Poland?

Installation view of ‘Zofia Rydet: Sociological Record’ @ the Photographers’ Gallery showing small traders in their places of work (photo by the author)

Epitaph

The ‘Epitaph’ series was created in 1980 during a return visit to the Biadacz family in Upper Silesia. Following her first visit, Rydet returned to discover the elderly couple she had photographed had recently died. And so she photographed their wedding portrait, found in the empty house, against various backdrops – domestic objects, the yard, the field, the graveyard.

Installation view of ‘Zofia Rydet: Sociological Record’ @ the Photographers’ Gallery showing 9 shots from the ‘Epitaph’ series

Rydet wrote:

‘Not only people vanish, but also everything that surrounded them. Only photography can stop time. Only photography has the power to overcome the spectre of death, and that is my unending struggle with death and transience.’

Is that true? Can only photography stop time? I doubt it. It’s more that photography gives us a heightened sense of time passed, of the passage of time. Also, I know this was done out of kindness but it’s hard for the jaded Londoner not to detect a surreal aspect to this idealised double portrait popping up in a variety of locations.

Video


Related links

Related reviews

Hawaiʻi: a kingdom crossing oceans @ the British Museum

I didn’t read the press and publicity stuff closely enough so I vaguely thought this would be a general exhibition about historical Hawaiian art and culture – but I was wrong. It’s far more structured, nuanced and focused than that.

Featherwork and ornaments that evoke a gathering of ali‘i (chiefs) on display in ‘Hawaiʻi: a kingdom crossing oceans’ at the British Museum © The Trustees of the British Museum (photo by MKH)

A meeting of kings

The centrepiece of the show is that 200 years ago, in 1824, King Kamehameha II and Queen Kamāmalu became the first Hawaiian monarchs to visit the UK. It took them and ten of their courtiers 5 months (November 1823 to May 1824) to sail here on a Royal Navy ship and when they arrived they were treated with the courtesy and respect according any visiting monarch.

They met with the recently crowned British monarch, King George IV (crowned July 1821), and exchanged gifts: they gave our king beautiful hand-made cloaks, and received in return a silver teapot and a watch, among other luxury objects. They were dressed in the latest fashions, had their portraits painted by the court painter John Hayter, went to the theatre, were even the subject of the usual scathing regency satirical cartoons.

Portraits, cartoons and sumptuous gifts are all included here, along with a map of their route (they stopped at Buenos Aires along the way, and handed out gifts there, too).

Portrait of King Kamehameha II (left) and Queen Kamāmalu (right). Hand-coloured lithographs by John Hayter © The Trustees of the British Museum

Tragically – disastrously – after a few weeks, the handsome young king and queen both caught measles and died from it. Their courtiers returned to Hawaiʻi with the gifts but without a king, who was promptly replaced by his younger brother Kauikeaouli, who became King Kamehameha III and went on to reign for 30 years (June 1825 to December 1854).

It is this extraordinary event which provides the centrepiece of this exhibition. The show can be divided into the following parts:

1. Background facts

It opens with a brief recap of the history of Hawaii, complete with maps. Here’s a summary:

Hawaiʻi consists of 137 volcanic islands spanning 1,500 miles that make up almost the entire Hawaiian archipelago (the exception is Midway Atoll).

The eight main islands, from northwest to southeast, are Niʻihau, Kauaʻi, Oʻahu, Molokaʻi, Lānaʻi, Kahoʻolawe, Maui, and Hawaiʻi, after which the state is named. The last is often called the Big Island or Hawaiʻi Island to avoid confusion with the state or archipelago.

The archipelago was settled between 1000 and 1200 by Polynesian seafarers navigating by the stars and following the flight of migratory birds. Over the centuries, the islands became the seats of numerous independent chiefdoms.

In 1778, British explorer James Cook was the first known non-Polynesian to arrive at the archipelago (he was to go on to be killed here, after a tragic cultural misunderstanding). The early British influence is reflected in the Hawaiian state flag, which contains a Union Jack.

King Kamehameha I, also known as Kamehameha the Great, unified the Hawaiian Islands by force and diplomacy, establishing the Kingdom of Hawaiʻi in 1795 and completing unification by 1810, creating a single, powerful monarchy from separate chiefdoms.

It was his son, Kamehameha II, who succeed Kamehameha in 1819, who undertook the journey to Britain. the backstory is that in April 1822, English missionary William Ellis arrived with a schooner, the Prince Regent, to add to the King’s growing collection of ships (!). It was a gift from George IV the King of Great Britain and Kamehameha II wrote to thank him, requesting closer diplomatic ties. It was from this gesture and this correspondence that the idea was born for the royal court to journey to the other side of the planet to meet the British king.

Display of Akua hulu manu (feathered gods) in ‘Hawaiʻi: a kingdom crossing oceans’ at the British Museum © The Trustees of the British Museum (photo by MKH)

Language and pronunciation

The Hawaiian language is referred to as Ölelo Hawali and terms and phrases from it are used throughout the exhibition.

Apparently, the correct pronunciation of Hawaiʻi is to insert a glottal stop before the final ‘e’ sound. What is a glottal stop? Imagine saying in a broad Cockney accent, the following phrase: ‘Wotta lotta little bottles’ so that it sounds like ‘Wo’a lo’a ‘li’el bo’els’, where you don’t voice the t sound. Same with Hawa [glottal stop] ee.

2. Hawaiʻi culture, beliefs and crafts

Having painted in this background, the exhibition then devotes the first big space to giving an overview of the gods, traditional beliefs, arts and crafts of the Hawaiian people at around the time of the royal visit. (Here we discover, amid much else, that the British Museum holds one of the largest collections of Hawaiian objects in the world outside of Hawaiʻi.)

Wooden ki‘i (images) that embody kua (gods) in ‘Hawaiʻi: a kingdom crossing ocean’ at the British Museum © The Trustees of the British Museum (photo by MKH)

Highlights include:

  • a nine-foot kiʻi (image) of the god Kū, the god of warfare and governance, dressed with a contemporary loincloth and standing atop a pole
  • a magnificent ʻahu ʻula (feathered cloak) sent in 1810 by the first king of unified Hawaiʻi, Kamehameha I, to King George III, the largest known example of its kind

There are striking statues of wooden gods (see above), wooden bowls, plumed hats, gorgeous cloaks made from bird feathers, and a wall of coloured barkcloths.

kapa (barkcloth) pieces on display in Hawaiʻi: a kingdom crossing oceans at the British Museum © The Trustees of the British Museum (photo by MKH)

Barkcloth: Kapa (barkcloth) is made from the inner bark (bast) of the paper mulberry and other plant fibres. As a medium, kapa is a connector between the land, the people and the gods. Different forms of kapa had many uses, from everyday life to ritual practice, including as chiefly garments, spacial dividers, blankets and wrappings for bones.

HelmetsMahiole (helmets) were worn in battle and in ceremonial contexts, often together with ʻahu ʻula (feathered cloaks and capes). The head has particular significance in Hawaiʻi as one of three centres in the body where the aumākua (deified ancestors) hover. Each helmet is unique and identifies the bearer as a chief. The structure is woven from the aerial roots of a climbing plant called ʻieʻie and is often adorned with feathers.

Gods: Origin stories tell that the islands were birthed by the gods. High chiefs were manifestations of the gods on earth. Through rituals, chefs could protect the people and ensure the land’s abundance. In turn, the people revered their chiefs and cultivated the land, gathering materials and nurturing resources. Craftspeople created precious items that honoured their chief.

Kū and Lono: Kū is a Hawaiian god whose realm includes warfare and governance and that in the Hawaiian ritual calendar, the season of Kū begins in January-February and ends in October-November. At that point Ku is replaced by Lono, a deity associated with harvest, peace and recreation. (So we are currently in the season of Kū.)

Here’s one of the exhibition’s carved wooden artefacts, which experts thinks depicts a chief, as indicated by the loincloth round his waist and the feathered headdress.

ʻUmeke kiʻi (bowl with figure) © The Trustees of the British Museum

In addition, there are feathered cloaks worn by chiefs, powerful shark-toothed weapons, spears and clubs, and much more.

3. The meeting of kings

As described above, this is the centrepiece of the show and includes displays of ceremonial cloaks, lithographs of the king and queen, portraits and pictures of them at the theatre, the silver teapot, the silver watch and a couple of satirical cartoons depicting a lecherous King George groping a buxom native queen, in the comically gross style of Regency cartoons.

Installation view of ‘Hawaiʻi a kingdom crossing oceans’ at the British Museum showing the gallery devoted to the royal visit © The Trustees of the British Museum (photo by MKH)

Red

The exhibition displays a large Hawaa’ian feathered cloak near to George IV’s coronation surcoat and this triggers fascinating thoughts about a) the persistence of monarchy and king worship across the most diverse societies, b) the need these have for grand costumes and regalia, and c) the importance of the colour red. In fact red, as you can see from the images, is the really dominant colour of the exhibition: you can see for yourself that the cloaks in particular include yellow and black patterning, but it’s almost always against a core background colour of red.

King George IV’s coronation surcoat (left) and a cloak belonging to King Kamehameha II (right) displayed so you can make a direct comparison of size, shape, colour and impact, in Hawaiʻi: a kingdom crossing oceans @ the British Museum (photos by the author)

4. Alliance with Britain

Having established the close connection between Great Britain and Hawaiʻi which existed from its discovery by the West, the exhibition then explains that for 70 or so years after the 1824 visit, the two countries maintained close relations. When a zealous Royal Navy officer, Captain Lord George Paulet of HMS Carysfort, in 1843 illegally occupied Hawaiʻi and tried to formally annex the kingdom for Britain, King Kamehameha III wrote to the British government who recalled Paulet and assured the King of ongoing Hawaiian independence.

Negotiations were already underway which led in November of the same year (1843) to Great Britain and France signing the Anglo-Franco Proclamation, a joint declaration that formally recognized the independence and sovereignty of the Kingdom of Hawaiʻi. This agreement committed both nations to never take possession of Hawaiian territory, either directly or as a protectorate.

There’s a copy of the Proclamation in the exhibition, on loan from The National Archives and the curators tell us that the precise date, 28 November 1843, is still celebrated in Hawai’i today as Lā Kū’oko’a (Independence Day).

5. Annexation by the US

However, as we progress through the exhibition, the next key moment in the nation’s history came when America annexed Hawaiʻi. Like all historical events, this was more complex and fraught than it is now presented, with a background of political problems within Hawaiʻi exacerbated by the commercial interests of European and American businesses which owned extensive sugar and pineapple plantations. In 1893 a group of Western businessmen persuaded the local American agent to allow US marines to take part in the (peaceful) overthrow of the native government and to establish the Republic of Hawaii; and then lobbied Congress and the Senate to formally annex the islands, which the United States did 5 years later, in 1898. (Just worth reminding ourselves that the nearest part of the Hawaiian archipelago is 2,000 miles from the American mainland.)

The Hawaiian monarch, Queen Liliʻuokalani, protested against the coup but, when weapons were found in the palace which might have been used by loyalist forces, was placed under house arrest. She appealed to the British government, invoking the Anglo-Franco Proclamation but, to our shame, and as so often, we did nothing to defend the monarchy we had so enthusiastically hosted in 1824. Instead, in 1895 Queen Liliʻuokalani was forced to abdicate, thus ending the Hawaiian monarchy.

Even at the time, there was a great deal of debate in America, among politicians and the press, about the rights and wrongs of the coup and President Grover Cleveland opposed annexation. However, he was replaced by President William McKinley who pushed for annexation, which formally took place in July 1898. There then followed the inevitable sequence of assimilation whereby, first of all, in February 1900, the Hawaiian Islands became a US ‘incorporated territory’; and then in August 1959, the territory was officially declared America’s 50th state.

(For comparison, the contemporaneous Spanish-American war of 1898 ended with the Treaty of Paris (1898) whereby Spain ceded 1) Puerto Rico, 2) Guam and 3) the Philippines to the United States. The Philippines were a US colony from 1898 until given independence in 1946 whereas Guam and Puerto Rico remain to this day parts of the US as self-governing, ‘unincorporated territories’, meaning people born there are US citizens, they use US currency and passports, but residents can’t vote in presidential elections and have limited representation in Congress.)

And then, just as inevitably, came the modern attack of imperial guilt and in 1993 the US Congress passed the Apology Resolution, apologising for America’s role in the illegal annexation of the Hawaiian nation, which was signed by President Bill Clinton.

Throughout the annexation process the majority of Hawaiians wished to remain independent and this is signalled here in the exhibition by a picture of ʻAuʻa Haunani-Kay Trask (1949 to 2021). Trask was ‘a prominent Native Hawaiian activist, scholar, author and poet who was a leading figure in the Hawaiian sovereignty movement. She was known for her fierce advocacy against US imperialism, the illegal occupation of the Hawaiian Kingdom, and the commodification of Hawaiian culture by the tourism industry.’

Trask is quoted, on the centenary of the annexation in 1993, making the simple statement: ‘We are not American’ and this is the text you see running in lines across this striking portrait, part of a series of 108 photographic portraits of Kānaka Oiwi (Native Hawaiians) made by Hawaiian artist Kapulani Landgraf.

Photo of ʻAuʻa Haunani-Kay Trask in ‘Hawaiʻi: a kingdom crossing oceans’ at the British Museum © Kapulani Landgraf 2025

All of which makes for a thought-provoking read in light of President Trump’s ongoing threats to annex Greenland against the wishes of its (57,000) population…

6. Contemporary Hawaii

After this striking photo of Trask, we enter the final part of the exhibition, which focuses on contemporary Hawaiʻi.

Contemporary arts

I haven’t yet found space to mention that throughout the show, right from the start, the older objects have been interspersed with contemporary works made in the traditional style but made by contemporary Kānaka ʻŌiwi (Native Hawaiian) artists. These include:

Statue: A statue of historical figure Kekuaokalani, Liholiho’s cousin, who rebelled against the King’s decision to overturn the ‘ai kapu religious system. He was defeated and killed by Liholiho’s forces at the battle of Kuamo’o. The statue was made by contemporary carver Rocky Ka’iouliokahihikolo’Ehu Jensen after the traditional manner of articulated figures depicted in early drawings of Ahu’ena, defender of Hawaiian gods and faith.

Drum: Right at the start of the exhibition there’s a pahu or drum. Drums were thought to have been brought to Hawaiʻi by one of the first ancestors, named Laamaikahiki. The ancestors travelled from a place they called Kahiki, possibly in the Society or Marquesas Islands. But the point is that the drum in question isn’t an antique but was hand-carved by contemporary Native Hawaiian artist Dennis Kanale Keawe.

Akeanaliʻi by Dennis Kanaʻe Keawe (b. 1944). Made of kamani wood, shark skin, ʻaha (coconut cordage), carbon black soot coating, 2020

Contemporary videos

In the same spirit, sprinkled throughout the show are four or five short videos which show contemporary living practitioners of traditional arts and crafts explaining their practice. Take the drum, above – there’s a 90-second clip of La’akna Perry performing a mele or chant using the drum. Elsewhere:

  • Barkcloth: Hina Kneubuhl, a contemporary maker of kapa (Hawaiian barkcloth), explains how barkcloth is created and decorated, and how contemporary artists draw inspiration from ancestral works.
  • Hula: La’akea Perry, a Hawaiian kumu hula (dance master teacher), explains the importance of hula as a living practice and how it is taught today. He is filmed dancing with a newly made version of a ‘ulī’ulī (dance rattle), next to an historic example.

There’s also a general soundscape which floats across the displays, featuring the sound of waves breaking over lava beds and the sound of wind blowing through a coconut grove. All very soothing given that outside the Museum, the rain was pouring down in the gritty streets of central London.

Contemporary problems

No doubt there are all kinds of issues and ideas and things which could be written about contemporary Hawaii. The exhibition has selected a handful of areas where the state faces severe challenges and highlights how locals are trying to address them. these are mostly deep environmental issues which made for depressing reading.

1. Birds: Many of the mea kupuna or ancestral treasures on display in the exhibition – the many cloaks and other objects like coronets – were made from feathers taken from native birds. They were gathered sustainably – meaning the feathers were plucked in moderation from live birds which were then released – from species like the ‘ō’o, which was prized for its bright yellow plumage.

Today, many of Hawai’i’s unique bird species are extinct, including the ‘o’o. Those that survive are critically endangered. Avian diseases introduced from overseas have had a devastating effect, while natural habitats have been impacted by intensifying human activity. The art of featherwork continues but makers mostly use feathers from other bird species, often dyed.

2. The sea: There are almost one hundred Hawaiian fish hooks in the British Museum’s collection, reflecting the longstanding importance of fishing in Hawai’i, and also indicating the close interaction between early British crews and local fishing communities. There’s a display showing hooks with different shapes and materials designed to snare particular species of fish; the largest hook on show here was used to catch sharks.

Again, the contemporary situation is dire. Commercial overfishing in Hawaiian waters has led to a significant decline in fish populations and contributed to food insecurity for local people.

Fishing hooks in ‘Hawaiʻi: a kingdom crossing oceans’ at the British Museum (photo by the author)

3. Agriculture: Kalo (taro) is such an important crop in Hawai’i that it is described as an ancestor in origin stories. Its tuber is pounded to make a dish called poi. But over the century of American occupation much of Hawai’i’s agricultural land was turned into monoculture plantations of sugar cane and pineapples. Some communities are now reclaiming land, aiming to restore the environment by planting crops like kalo, but they’ve a mountain to climb.

7. Ownership

Quite often at these sorts of exhibitions the curators have to apologise for the fact that lots of the artefacts were looted or stolen from their original owners – so it’s nice to visit an exhibition where both sides were surprisingly polite and respectful. All the artefacts in the royal visit section are well attested as gifts from the royal delegation and many of the other arts and crafts objects are on loan from museums in Hawaii. The relatively small number of objects which were possibly stolen by naval officers or missionaries are all carefully marked and indicated.

Indeed the Museum goes out of its way to explain that the entire show was assembled in collaboration with Native Hawaiian stewards. Apparently this extended to an opening ceremony on the day it opened which started with a native Hawaiian ceremony to greet the sunrise, and then progressed to blessing this space which contains so many objects crafted by the ancestors.

And, as my summary indicates, wherever possible the curators have used terms and phrases from the ʻōlelo Hawaiʻi (Hawaiian language) alongside the English captions. The entire thing radiates respect and sensitivity.

8. Hope

Is there any hope for the future? Well, obviously not, but in order to live we all have to pretend there is. And so the exhibition ends with the projection onto a wall of a video showing four young Hawaiian students reciting a poem of hope for the future written by Hawaiian poet Brandy Nälani McDougall. The pattern and rhythm echo a traditional chant we heard earlier in the exhibition, another example of the way the curators, and their Hawaiian advisers, have tried to tie ancient and modern together into a living fabric.

Wall-sized video of students from Kamehameha School reciting the poem by Brandy Nälani McDougall in ‘Hawaiʻi: a kingdom crossing oceans’ at the British Museum (photo by the author)


Related links

Related reviews

Putin’s Wars: from Chechnya to Ukraine by Mark Galeotti (2022)

This is a very military history. Seeing as it also covers the decade before Vladimir Putin came to power, and that it is very focused on the minutiae of the Russian Army, Navy and Air Force, as well as details of the various reforms and reorganisations they have undergone during the Putin years, the book could more accurately have been titled ‘A History of The Russian Army, Navy and Air Force, 1990 to 2022’.

Military units

Here’s an example of what I mean by military minutiae. This is Galeotti’s description of the Russian army’s invasion of Chechnya:

From the north Major General Konstantin Pulikovsky led a mechanised force drawn from the 81st and 276th Motor Rifle regiments and a battalion of the 131st Independent Motor Rifle Brigade. From the west Major General Valery Petruk led elements of the 19th Motor Rifle Division supported by two regiments and two battalions of paratroopers along the railway tracks to seize the central station and then advance on the presidential palace. From the east, the 129th Motor Rifle Regiment and a battalion each of the 98th and 104th Airborne Divisions under Lieutenant Colonel Nikolai Staskov would make a similar thrust along the railway line to Lenin Square in the heart of the city and from there take the bridges across the Sunzha river. From the north-east, Rokhlin himself would lead elements of the 255th and 33rd Motor Rifle Regiments and the 66th Reconnaissance Battalion of the 20th Motor Rifle Division to take the Central Hospital complex, while units of the 76th and 106th Airborne Division would secure the Lenin and Sheripov oil processing factories and chemical works to prevent the rebels from destroying these crucial economic assets. (p.61)

The accounts of all the wars feature lots of paragraphs like this, precise accounts of which units under which commanders went where and how they fared in the fighting.

There’s also a lot of analysis of organisational and administrative reforms from between the wars, as Galeotti gives detailed accounts of the attempts of successive Russian defence ministers, most notably Anatoly Serdyukov and then Sergei Shogai, to reform the Russian army against opposition and inertia from the military high command.

Hence the chapter titled ‘New Look Army’ (pages 142 to 152), which gives us detail of how the Defence Minister and head of the general staff implemented the 2010 plan for a new-look Russian army, half the size of its predecessor but better equipped and better trained, with better retention of conscripts, fewer but better quality senior officers.

Galeotti explains, with maps, the reorganisation of the army into half a dozen military districts, gives a detailed breakdown of what a new-look motorised rifle brigade consisted of (3,800 officers and men) plus a list of all its components (including 1 nuclear, biological and chemical company) and so on. And a similar level of description of the new-look air force and navy, followed by an organogram showing the chain of military command starting with the president and working down.

And then the last 90 or so pages of the original edition of this book (before he added a new chapter about the Ukraine War), pages 229 to 310, present a very detailed review of the current state of all Russia’s fighting forces, army, navy and air forces, along with special forces, paratroopers and black berets, nuclear weapons and so on, as of the time of writing (April 2022).

In this long final section the book turns into a version of ‘Janes Fighting Ships’ only about all aspects of the Russian fighting machine, giving mind-numbing details of the speed, size, range, design and latest versions of a wide range of military kit, from machine guns (the AK12 to replace the ageing AK74) to its sole aircraft carrier (the Admiral Kuznetsov), along with equally excessive detail of each service’s organisational structure, divisions, brigades and so on and so on. Take the opening of the Spetsnaz section:

The Spetsnaz comprise seven regular brigades of various sizes, in total constituting perhaps 19 battalion-size units called Independent Special Designation Detachments (OOSN) each with around 500 personnel. The relatively small 22nd Brigade has just two OOSN, the 173rd and 411th, for example, while the large 14th Brigade… (p.292)

And so very much on, for page after page after page of excruciating detail.

I was looking for a book about the geopolitics of Putin’s Wars and that’s certainly here, attached to his fairly brisk accounts of each conflict, and when he summarises it, Galeotti is very good. But his accounts of the political background to each conflict, and even the wars themselves, take second place to his forensic analysis of Russian fighting forces and how they have changed and evolved since 1990.

Military biographies

As for the key political and military players, as the book trundled on I realised Galeotti was devoting quite a lot of time to them. All the key players in the 30-year period of the Russian army which he covers are given potted biographies. Putin is the most obvious one, along with sometime prime minister Dmitry Medvedev, but all the defence ministers, the key generals in each of the wars, and the leaders of the respective nationalist or independence uprisings, all are given a half-page potted biography (for example, the extended profile of key defence minister Sergei Shogai on pages 155 to 159).

Slowly this builds up into a sort of indirect social history, because all of them grew up in the ’60s, ’70s or ’80s, their life stories include snapshots of their lives and careers during the late Cold War, the Afghan War, the chaos of the Yeltsin years and so on. It isn’t a collective biography but, taken together, the many individual biographies begin to sketch out a network of real lives, and so start to give a feel for the institutional life of the last years of the Soviet Union.

The 1990s

For Russia the 1990s were a decade of chaos at home and humiliating conflicts abroad. The army almost fell apart amid the chaos following the end of the Soviet Union and economic collapse: stories of soldiers reduced to begging in the streets and even dying of malnutrition. In February 1991 the Warsaw Pact, which had been the West’s bogeyman since its inception in 1955, was formally disbanded.

Prime example of the chaos was how nationalist President Boris Yeltsin inherited a Duma packed with communists who blocked his every move, the standoff escalating to a crisis in October 1994 when pro-communist crowds seized TV channels and the Duma building, which prompted Yeltsin, on 4 October 1993, to send in the army who shelled their own parliament building, starting a fire which ended up gutting it. Like some chaotic Third World country.

Putin was manoeuvred into power by the KGB and other forces who wanted social and political stability after a decade of chaos under Yeltsin. As you’d expect, there are pages detailing Putin’s non-descript career, how he came over as loyal, reliable and dependable to a series of powerful men, until shadowy forces in the KGB and military helped broker the deal whereby Putin was nominated by Yeltsin to be his successor as president, on condition that he passed an act of immunity freeing Yeltsin from prosecution for his umpteen acts of corruption. Putin was made president in December 1999 and his first act was to pass this immunity law for drunk Boris.

All this Russian drunkenness, chaos and corruption is amusing to read about but the point that matters is that Putin came to power determined to restore Russia’s status as a superpower. He and his sponsors wanted to Make Russia Great Again (p.169).

‘Near abroad’

Putin wants to restore the territory lost to Russia when all the other Soviet states declared independence. Galeotti quotes a Russian defence minister in 1995 talking about ‘Near abroad’, meaning the countries and territories adjacent to Russia which it dominated for over a century through its Tsarist empire, and then bossed around through the Soviet era. It’s a well enough known phrase for Wikipedia to have an article on it, defining Russia’s ‘near abroad’ as ‘the post-Soviet states (other than Russia itself) which became independent after the dissolution of the Soviet Union.’

This concept overlaps with the nationalist notion of a Greater Russia which transcends modern borders to include all the old Tsarist territories. Both of them justify Russia interfering in, invading and taking control of their neighbours.

Reuniting the Russian people

During the Soviet Union entire populations were moved around the different republics with little concern for the consequences. It didn’t matter in the borderless USSR but it became very important when all the former Soviet Republics became independent states. At a stroke no fewer than 20 million Russians found themselves stuck in ‘foreign’ countries. To put it another way, all the countries bordering Russia contain Russian minorities, sometimes quite sizeable minorities.

The most obvious examples are the large Russian-speaking communities in the Crimea and in Eastern Ukraine which gave Putin the excuse for invading both of them in 2014 but there are also vocal Russian minorities in, for example, all three Balkan states. At any moment Putin might stir them into protests and then use these protests as a pretext for invading, pretty much as Hitler invaded the Sudetenland in 1938, to reunite its protesting Germans with the Fatherland. Which is why the leaders of the Baltic states are so worried.

So Putin 1) believes Russia has total command over its sphere of influence which can be defined as 2) Greater Russia, Russia at its greatest extent under the empire and also, maybe, the Soviet Union, and 3) wants to liberate these Russian communities now in foreign countries and reunite them with the Holy Motherland.

Russian irredentism

Yet another way of describing the same thing is the term Russian irredentism:

Russian irredentism refers to territorial claims made by the Russian Federation to regions that were historically part of the Russian Empire and the Soviet Union, which Russian nationalists regard as part of the ‘Russian world’. It seeks to create a Greater Russia by politically incorporating ethnic Russians and Russian speakers living in territories bordering Russia. This ideology has been significantly defined by the regime of Vladimir Putin, who has governed the country since 1999. It is linked to Russian neo-imperialism.

Insofar as all the old republics of the Soviet Union are now independent nation states, the Putin Doctrine represents a permanent threat to peace in Europe.

Comparison with Hitler

In many ways it’s like the situation of the German people after World War One. When the victorious Allies imposed the punitive Treaty of Versailles on defeated Germany they redrew the map of Europe so that no fewer than seven million Germans found themselves stuck in countries outside Germany. This was partly what Hitler was about with his popular promise to reunite all ethnic Germans in an expanded Fatherland. This, for example – its large German population – was why Hitler demanded the area known as the Sudetenland back from the state of Czechoslovakia, a nation which was only created by the Treaty of Versailles and which Hitler refused to recognise as a real country.

Putin is very close to Hitler’s way of thinking. He, Medvedev, foreign secretary Sergei Lavrov, members of his political party (United Russia), commentators and intellectuals, have all been lined up to claim that Ukraine simply isn’t a country, it has no claim to be a nation state. It was, is and always will be part of Greater Russia.

In his 2021 essay ‘On the Historical Unity of Russians and Ukrainians’, Putin referred to Russians, Ukrainians and Belarusians as ‘one people’ making up a triune Russian nation. He maintained that large parts of Ukraine are historical Russian lands and claimed there is ‘no historical basis’ for the ‘idea of Ukrainian people as a nation separate from the Russians’.

It would be one thing if this was just the view of a particular clique or party but in fact these nationalist, neo-imperial views are very popular across Russia. That’s the real worry. That even if Putin and his entire clique were vaporised it wouldn’t change the fundamental neo-imperial irredentist mindset of the entire Russian ruling class and a large part of its population. Russia is committed to being a source of instability and conflict in Eastern Europe for the foreseeable future…

Russian paranoia

To which we must add Russian paranoia. The whole premise of the Russian forces in all services, of Russian military doctrine, of the vast amount spent on arms and men, is that everyone wants to attack and destroy Russia. All Russian officials toe the Putin line that Russia is permanently under serious threat. Former head of the FSB, Nikolai Patrusheve, is on the record as saying the United States ‘would very much like Russia not to exist as a country’ (quoted p.312). As Galeotti puts it:

We can never underestimate the paranoias and resentments of Putin and his circle… (p.307)

Paranoia is defined on Wikipedia as:

an instinct or thought process that is believed to be heavily influenced by anxiety, suspicion, or fear, often to the point of delusion and irrationality. Paranoid thinking typically includes persecutory beliefs, or beliefs of conspiracy concerning a perceived threat towards oneself i.e. ‘Everyone is out to get me’.

If it’s a mental illness or psychiatric condition then the entire Russian military-political establishment is mentally ill.

Weakness of the Russian army

However, when he came to power Putin faced a simple challenge which was the army left to the Russian Federation after the collapse of the USSR was in very poor shape and this book is very largely about the efforts of his successive defence ministers, and hand-picked senior military staff, to reform and improve it.

Early on Galeotti mentions all kinds of reasons for the Russian army’s weakness. Obvious ones were chaos, mismanagement and universal corruption. The tradition of building a mass army of over a million using reluctant conscripts. The way the conscripts were signed up in two waves, in the spring and autumn, ensured lack of overlap and consistency. Galeotti also says the Russian army has a long-standing problem because it lacks the rank of non-commissioned officer that the British army has, the rank of men who’ve risen from private, command the trust of and speak the language of the ordinary soldiers, can convert officers’ orders into do-able actions.

Another problem was the Russian army has a centuries-old tradition of hazing, dedovshchina or ‘grandfathering’. Like everything Russian this is the legitimisation of brutal bullying designed to turn raw recruits into ‘men’. But, as well as regularly actually killing them, it of course does nothing of the sort, turns no-one into ‘men, it just brutalises them, preparing them to rape, pillage and torture whatever foreign population is unlucky enough to be occupied by them.

Then there was the vast problem of out-of-date equipment. Galeotti has passages throughout the book detailing the shortcomings of all kinds of Russian military kit, from tanks to body armour. The lack of reliable radios and communications led to friendly fire incidents in all the wars he describes. Half the Russian planes and helicopters shot down in the short Georgian war (7 to 12 August 2008) were shot down by their own side.

Hence the central thread which the book comes back to again and again, which was the efforts of successive defence ministers to reform the army, navy and air force at all levels, in all ways. Maybe the book should have been titled ‘The Reform of the Russian Army 1990 to 2022′.

Bad advice

I was amused that Yeltsin was encouraged to embark on the First Chechen War (11 December 1994 to 31 August 1996) by his advisers and Minister of Defence, who assured him they would take Grozny and pacify the country in a matter of weeks, that it would be a ‘bloodless blitzkrieg’ (p.56). The Russian attack began in November 1994 and was dogged by failure of every kind – ‘The plan was doomed from the start’.

Compare and contrast the over-optimistic advice given to George W. Bush about the invasion of Iraq, ‘they’ll be welcoming us with open arms and throwing flowers’ etc.

Compare and contrast Britain’s defence staff telling Tony Blair they could easily cope with policing Basra and sending troops to Helmand Province in Afghanistan, no problem.

Compare and contrast the Russian military establishment assuring Putin they could invade Ukraine, overthrow the government and elect a Russia-friendly administration within a week.

These military advisers, eh? Maybe the beginning of wisdom is never trust anything your military advisers tell you.

The First Chechen war (December 1994 to August 1996)

The First Chechen War was a disaster for the Russian army. It has been outsmarted and outfought, even losing cities to a ramshackle guerrilla army. All the inefficiencies, brutality and corruption of the army had been put on public display. (p.67)

The Second Chechen War (August 1999 to April 2000)

This time the Russians had a better plan and knew to advance slowly, pacifying and securing territory as they went, rather than the strategy in the first was which was to race to the capital Grozny leaving all the territory outside under the control of insurgents.

The Russo-Georgian War (August 2008 Russo-Georgian War)

The underwhelming performance of the military in Georgia… (p.88)

In 2008 when mighty Russia took on tiny Georgia, more than a quarter of all the armoured vehicles deployed simply broke down before they even reached the battlefield. (p.239)

It only lasted a week but, according to Galeotti, it was a war of blunders, including the bombing of abandoned airfields, officers lost to friendly fire and advances halted by broken-down vehicles (p.120). From his point of view – concerned with the issue of military reform – this little offensive was important because it gave Shogai and Putin the ammunition they needed to push through their sweeping reforms against resistance from the Army staff.

Annexing Crimea

Crimea had been part of the Russian empire for centuries and only (rashly) given by Nikita Khrushchev to the Ukraine Soviet Republic in 1954. So it was a prime example of the Greater Russia argument, the argument that, at the chaotic collapse of the Soviet Union, many territories which had for centuries been part of Russia were abruptly included in what were suddenly newly independent nations, often against the wishes of their Russian minorities.

Thus Ukrainians in western Ukraine were thrilled when their popular Euromaidan uprising led to the overthrow of Russia-leaning president Viktor Yanukovych and the establishment of a western-friendly government, but the large Russian minority in Crimea was genuinely scared, especially when the Kiev government indicated that they were going to remove Russian as an official language, remove Russian street signs etc. All this played into Putin’s master narrative:

In his 2021 essay ‘On the Historical Unity of Russians and Ukrainians’, Putin referred to Russians, Ukrainians and Belarusians as ‘one people’ making up a triune Russian nation. He maintained that large parts of Ukraine are historical Russian lands and claimed there is ‘no historical basis’ for the ‘idea of Ukrainian people as a nation separate from the Russians’.

Reading Galeotti’s account of the annexation of Crimea, what’s impressive was the lack of violence and Russian brutality. Russia infiltrated special units (Galeotti, of course, gives minute detail of just what units, led by which commanders, were deployed where) to all the key command points before the Ukraine high command had cottoned on to what was happening.

Crimea was an extraordinary military success. (p.178)

Local support

A key point is that a lot of Crimeans are ethnic Russians and genuinely welcomed the annexation. Putin organised a quick referendum and claimed 97% of the population approved the annexation (p.177). Do they think the rest of the world is stupid? Or are they so trapped inside their chauvinist box that they think Soviet-era electoral fictions are viable? Maybe both. They might as well have claimed 200% of the electorate wanted reunification with Russia. This kind of thing brings down derision and contempt on the Putin administration but they don’t see it.

And all along, as Galeotti points out, it isn’t necessary. If they had held a free and fair referendum, chances are the pro-Russian vote would still have won. But the Russian political elite has no concept of what democracy is and how to use it. The heirs to 250 years of Mongol khans and 400 years of tsars and 75 years of communist totalitarianism, the Russian elite literally knows no other way of ruling except via top-down diktats.

Comparison of Russian nationalism and Islamism

A key point, and a running thread through the book, is that in all these conflicts – Chechnya, Georgia, Moldova, Ukraine – the situation was made messy and confusing by the involvement of local militias. Chechnya is fascinating because some of the forces fighting the Russians were straight nationalists but, given the era and the proximity to Afghanistan, many of them were Islamic groups fighting for something else entirely, for the creation of an Islamic Caliphate in the Caucasus.

In a sense this kind of Islamic ideology and Russia’s chauvinism have a lot in common in that 1) they both inspire a kind of messianic intensity of belief and, 2) on a more practical level, that they don’t believe in borders. Greater Russia chauvinism flies free of accepted borders, borders are the enemy, keeping good Russians trapped in foreign countries created by an alien settlement somehow engineered by the perfidious West. Russia will only be great when these invalid nation states are swept away and the borders redrawn to include all true Russians in the genuine Greater Russia.

Identically the same with Islamist ideology, which believes all the borders and nation states of the Middle East were created by Western imperialists and the region will only be strong and pure when all believers are united in the restored caliphate, free of the trappings of the imperial West.

It’s a match made in heaven.

The role of militias in near Russian countries

To come back to the role of local militias, something which makes all the Russia wars feel very distinctive is that they were and are fought in places which are already riven by ethnic and tribal and cultural division. To read about Chechnya and Georgia is to be impressed by how fissile those ‘nations’ already were. The authorities in Georgia’s capital, Tbilisi, had only nominal control over the entire region of South Ossetia which was packed with pro-Russian separatists or, over to the west, on the Black sea coast, with the region of Abkhazia, ditto.

These are ‘countries’ which 1) already featured a large pro-Russian community and 2) were and are characterised by a high level of clan and tribal attachment which converts into tribal politicians, tribe-based mafias and, by an easy extension, clan-based militias.

The complicated role played by local militias in very clan-based, feuding societies is a central feature of all these conflicts.

Donbas and beyond

And continued in the Ukraine. For even as he was infiltrating his troops into Crimea for what proved to be a surprisingly bloodless annexation (February 2014), Putin was also encouraging local pro-Russian militias in eastern Ukraine.

The fascinating aspect of Galeotti’s account is how the conflict in the Donbas region of eastern Ukraine began spontaneously, with coalitions of independence politicians, activists, and rag-tag militias taking on the Ukrainian authorities. It certainly wasn’t a carefully planned operation like the annexation of Crimea, the opposite, and for some time the Kremlin didn’t know how to react. To begin with they began to siphon military hardware to the more successful pro-Russian militias, followed, after some months, by military advisers.

Galeotti says that in these early phases the aim was to warn the new pro-western regime in Kiev of the consequences of allying with the West, no more. However, as the Ukraine army got its act together and, working with pro-government militias, began to drive the pro-Russia forces East, the Kremlin had to decide whether to acquiesce in their defeat or escalate. They chose to escalate and sent in regular Russian troops, breaching the sovereignty of a European nation (p.187).

Galeotti describes the two ceasefire treaties, Minsk 1 and Minsk 2, their predictable failure, and the settling down of the problem into a permanent low-level conflict. It reminded me of some of the civil wars I’ve read about in Africa, contested borders, governments relying on local militias, all sides using exemplary violence i.e. carrying out atrocities on unarmed civilians designed to warn other villages and towns to surrender without a fight.

As 2014 turned into 2015 and 2016 the Ukrainians reformed and reinforced their army with a huge recruitment drive, better training, new kit. They drove the rebels back but could never win because whenever they looked close to victory, the Russians deployed a regiment to block them.

So the pattern was one of on-off ceasefires, trench warfare, sporadic local fighting, mutual sniping and shelling, and equally mutual recrimination, until 2022 when Putin decided that it was time to break the stalemate. (p.191)

Syria, the unexpected intervention

We in the West think the Arab Spring was a spontaneous uprising of oppressed peoples across the Middle East to overthrow their corrupt old rulers. See my review of:

From the paranoid perspective of the Kremlin, though, it looked a lot like the uprisings were the work of a West systematically getting rid of traditional Soviet allies (Gaddafi, Saddam, Bashar al-Assad). At the UN, Russia acquiesced in the West’s bombing of Libyan forces but felt betrayed when this led not to a ceasefire but to the overthrow of Gaddafi. All of this, of course, was in light of America’s overthrow of Saddam Hussein in 2003 which led not to a pleasant democracy but the collapse of the Iraqi state and chaos within and beyond its borders.

So Russia had at least three reasons for stepping in to prop up the Assad regime:

  1. the Assad family had been a friend and ally in the region: why not make him really indebted to you by saving his skin?
  2. as a message to America that Russia, too, could throw its weight around / be a regional force in the Middle East
  3. genuine concern that if Assad, too, fell, the whole Syria-Iraq strip of territory would fall to ISIS or other Islamist groups, which Russia has genuine cause to fear

Regarding ISIS, see my review of:

Regarding the international aspects of the Syrian civil war, see my review of:

The events of the Syrian civil war are complicated. But for Russia its intervention was surprisingly successful. It showed itself and the West that it could project its power significantly beyond its borders. It saved an old ally, thus bolstering its credibility. It served as a useful blooding ground for large parts of the Russian army, navy and air force, which were rotated through the theatre. It allowed the military to road test new technology, especially new drones, and to road test new doctrines and strategies for different situations and types of engagement.

It also marked the high point and maybe eclipse of the Wagner group of mercenaries, who were vital in holding the line during some attacks alongside the prone-to-run-away Syrian army, but also taught the Russian high command to keep them in their place.

Invasion of Ukraine

The 2022 invasion of Ukraine and the poor performance of Russia’s troops… (p.89)

Requires a post of its own…

List of post-Soviet conflicts Russia has been involved in

  • Transnistria war – November 1990 to July 1992
  • First Chechen war – December 1994 to August 1996
  • Tajikistan civil war – May 1992 to June 1997
  • Yugoslavia – 1992 to 1995 Russian forces were part of the UN peacekeeping force
  • Second Chechen War – August 1999 to April 2009
  • Russo-Georgian War – 7 to 12 August 2008
  • Russian forces joined international anti-pirate patrols off the coast of Somalia
  • Annexation of Crimea – February 2014
  • Start of Donbas war – February 2014
  • Syrian civil war – from 2015 Russian forces supported the Assad government
  • Second Nagorno-Karabakh War – 27 September to 10 November 2020 –Russia sent peacekeeping force in 2021
  • Invasion of Ukraine – 20 February 2014 to the present

Table of contents

For your information, here is a straight copy of the book’s table of contents, from which you can see its comprehensive scope and level of detail:

1. Before Putin

  1. Born in chaos
    • The Soviet Disunion
    • The August coup
    • Boris Yeltsin: the man without a plan
  2. A military in crisis
    • An army gone bad
    • Nukes for sale?
    • Bringing the boys back home
    • Empty dreams
    • ‘Pasha Mercedes’
  3. The first Chechen war
    • Resistance and resentment
    • High hopes, quick defeats
    • The plan
    • Taking Grozny…
    • … and losing Grozny again
  4. The wars of Russian assertion
    • Moldova’s post-Soviet hangover
    • Central Asia: the Tajikistan contingent
    • Balkan dash

2. Enter Putin

  1. Putin’s priorities
    • Who is Vladimir Putin?
    • Putin in charge
    • Putin’s ministers
  2. The second Chechen war
    • Round two
    • Retaking Grozny
    • Operation Wolf Hunt
    • The creation of ‘Kadyrovstan’
    • Lessons learned
  3. Ivanov, the Initiator
    • My name’s Ivanov, Sergei Ivanov
    • The spy and generals
    • Ivanov’s reforms
    • Size does matter
  4. Sedyukov, the Enforcer
    • Enter the taxman
    • Serdyukov’s purge
    • And enter Makarov
    • The Georgian excuse
  5. Georgia 2008: Tblisi’s move…
    • Harbingers
    • Provoking a war
    • The Georgian advance
    • The battle for Tskhinvali
    • The Russian advance
  6. Georgia 2008: …Moscow’s counter
    • The tide turns
    • The Abkhaz front
    • The audit
    • Did anything work well?
  7. ‘New Look’ army
    • Command and control: unified battle management
    • The ground forces: divisions to brigade
    • The air forces: rationalised
    • The navy: integrated at last
    • The airborne: survival

3. The New Cold War

  • Shoigu, the Rebuilder
    • Who is Sergei Shoigu?
    • ‘A servant to the tsar, a father to the soldiers’
    • General Gerasimov
    • Rearmament and recruitment
    • Ready for action
  • Crimea, 2014
    • Russia and Ukraine
    • ‘Returning Crimea to Russia’
    • Taking Crimea
    • Enter the ‘little green men’
    • ‘Crimea is ours’
    • An audit of the operation
  • Donbas, 2014-
    • Strelkov’s spark
    • A war of irregulars
    • The ‘Northern wind’
    • The fixing of the conflict
    • Stalemate
  • Lessons of the Donbas war
    • Command and control in a proxy war is hard
    • Information warfare is a powerful force multiplier
    • Implausible deniability has its place
    • Drones are the next big thing
  • Syria 2015 (1): the unexpected intervention
    • A long, bloody war
    • A friend in need
    • Heading to Hmeymin
    • Hmeymin’s hammer
    • Turning the tide
    • Victory of sorts
  • Syria 2015 (2); lessons of the Syrian campaign
    • Airpower is not (usually) enough
    • Mercenaries have their place, but need to know it
    • Brutality can work, but hearts and minds matter, too
    • Frenemies can find themselves in battle
    • A nice little war is good for business

4. Rearming Russia

  1. Rumble for ruble
    • When comparisons fail
    • ‘Let us starve, but let us export’
    • The metal-eaters
    • Buyer beware
    • Modernising the military
  2. Armiya Rossii
    • The battalion tactical group
    • The return of the division
    • Heavy metal
    • Specialised forces for specialised operations
    • Logistics
    • Capabilities
  3. The sky is Russia’s!
    • Always in transition
    • The aerospace forces
    • Defence of the motherland
    • Fist of the motherland
    • Heavy lift
    • Drones
  4. Contesting the sea
    • Never a naval power
    • Rusted, rebuilt
    • Organisation
  5. Power projection: blue and black berets
    • ‘Nobody but us’
    • By parachute, plane or track
    • The black berets
    • ‘Black Devils’
    • ‘Where we are, there is victory!’
    • Underwater sentinels
  6. The Spetsnaz
    • Special people, for special tasks
    • Tip of the spear
    • Putin’s Spetsnaz
    • The special operations command
  7. The nuclear backstop
    • Post-Soviet armageddon
    • Rail, road and tube
    • Under the waves
    • Strategic aviation
    • Modernisation and magic
    • Why nukes matter so much [they bolster Russia’s sense of itself as still a superpower]

5. The Future

  1. Political warfare
    • The rise of the spooks
    • Hybrid, ambiguous, non-linear, political
    • Outsourced warfighters [the Wagner group]
    • Information warfare
  2. New generation warfare
    • Small wars
    • Limited deployments
    • Big wars
    • Escalation, de-escalation and lesser apocalypses
  3. The challenges of the future
    • The Western flank
    • … And the turbulent South Caucasus, too
    • Central Asia: instability and jihad
    • China, the great frenemy
  4. Ukraine 2022: Putin’s last war?
    • Not the generals’ war
    • A police action, not a war
    • From Kyiv to the Donbas
    • How hubris destroyed a military
    • Deadlock
  5. Conclusions: the Eurasian Sparta?
    • A nation under arms?
    • The military myth
    • The security state?
    • A weak hand played well
    • After Putin?
  6. Ukraine 2023: a dispatch on a war in progress
    • The paradox of reform
    • War Putinism
    • The mutiny
    • The war in Russia
    • The imagination race
    • Prospects

General conclusions

The whole spectacle confirms my strong feeling that human beings simply cannot govern themselves. The naive expect humanity to take some kind of concerted action against climate change. Really? With people like this in charge?

Are modern wars doomed to failure?

Are modern wars winnable? When was the last time either Russia or America actually won a war?

For the Russians – Afghanistan, Chechnya, Georgia, Yugoslavia, Syria, Ukraine.

For the Americans – Vietnam, Afghanistan, Iraq.

Russian lies

I watched the BBC TV series ‘Putin and the West’ in which French president Francoise Hollande and British Prime Minister David Cameron baldly stated that Putin is a liar. Hollande said not only is Putin a liar but his entire approach to diplomacy is to lie, his strategy is based on lying about everything.

The Russians even lie when the lie is so blatant and absurd it damages their own cause. Galeotti’s book contains some nice examples. In 1993 during the Georgian war the Russians broke a ceasefire agreement by bombing Sukhumi while it was still held by Georgian forces.

Russian defence minister Grachyov responded with the implausible and widely derided claim that these were Georgian aircraft painted with Russian colours, bombing their own positions as a provocation. (p.122)

In moments like that you can see how lying is such second nature to the Russian establishment that it can’t see how stupid and ridiculous it makes them look to the outside world. This was captured in a recent press event in Delhi where Russian foreign minister Lavrov claimed the Ukraine war started when Ukraine attacked Russia and went on to claim that Russia was trying to halt this unfortunate war.

This is Göbbels-level lying which is so absurd that it makes you worry about the sanity of the Russian leadership. Putin ordered the military invasion of Ukraine but, having read Galeotti’s book it’s easy to think that Putin and his circle genuinely believe that they invaded the territory of a neighbouring country because they genuinely see Ukraine’s defection to the West as a kind of attack on Russia, on Russia’s idea of itself, on the Russian nationalist belief that Ukraine and Belarus aren’t independent nations at all. They felt culturally, psychologically and strategically ‘attacked’ and so sincerely believe that the military invasion was a justified response to the Ukraine government’s insult and threat to Russian hegemony.

At moments like this you can see how the Russian elite inhabits a different mindset, in effect a different reality, from the rest of the world, utterly blinded by their Greater Russia nationalism and prepared to do anything to protect it.

But there is, of course, an alternative interpretation, which is that a lot of these lies uttered in public fora are for domestic consumption. Edited by Russia’s totally cowed and quiescent media, they can then be broadcast on the nightly news, with the laughter track removed and roars of applause edited in.

Yes, it’s important to remember that the Russian government lies to everyone including its own people, and that if anyone finds out the truth and starts broadcasting it they are quickly locked up or pushed out a window or die of mystery poison. But then being lied to by your government is another venerable old Russian tradition. This isn’t my prejudice, it is a factual point Galeotti makes over and over again:

Russians have decades’ or even centuries’ experience of being lied to by their governments, especially regarding wars… (p.375)

The Russian bearhug

There’s a hoary old proverb about Mexico, ‘Poor Mexico! So far from God, so close to the United States!’ How much more true this is of every nation which borders Russia today. China, Mongolia and Kazakhstan probably needn’t be too worried, too big, nothing to steal.

But poor Georgia, Belarus, Latvia, Estonia and Finland – the Putin Doctrine, the concepts of Greater Russia, near abroad, Russian irredentism, Russian neo-imperialism, Russian nationalism – all these variations on the same theme mean the leaders and peoples of those countries must be permanently anxious about whether Russia will attack and invade them next.

It’s unlikely, seeing as most of the Russian army’s resources are deployed to – and being consumed in – Ukraine. But in planning for the future, the next five, ten years, should they be factoring in invasion by Russia?

Thank God there’s the whole length of Europe between my country and the resentful, angry, permanently aggrieved Russian bear.

War with China?

Although I’ve spent my entire life worrying about a nuclear war, subjected to movies and novels and documentaries about the horror of a nuclear war with the USSR or Russia, and although Putin and his mouthpieces go on and on about the threat from ‘the West’, Galeotti disarmingly says Russia is never going to face the threat of an invasion by NATO. Do you think the people of Belgium or Italy or Austria would ever want to attack Russia? Why? Let its people stew in the repressive authoritarian culture which they seem to love and recreate in every generation.

Galeotti argues that the real threat is China. The majority and the best Russian armed and air forces are concentrated in the west of the country, all on high alert for the mythical invasion by Holland and Denmark and Lithuania which is never going to come. But what about the vast area of Siberia?

Galeotti explains that during the imperial nineteenth century Russia seized large bits of territory from China. In principle these borders were re-agreed by a treaty of 2008, but what if China wants them back? Russia’s border with China is 4,000 kilometres long and very thinly protected (p.339).

The relationship between China and Russia is set to become more asymmetrical with China increasingly becoming the economic master and Russia the vassal. Deprived of trade with the West because of Ukraine sanctions, Russia is increasingly forced to sell its oil and gas to China which is aware of its partner’s weakness. What if China’s demands for unequal trade deals slowly, steadily increase? And apparently there has been growing concern in the FSB, some of it expressed publicly, at the growth of Chinese cyber activity against Russia, spying and hacking. And what about China’s growing influence in the five vast ‘stan’ countries to Russia’s south, Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan, Turkmenistan, and Uzbekistan, where Chinese promises of investment and cash prove more attractive than Moscow’s penniless bullying? Likelihood is all these tensions will slowly ratchet up, the direction of travel is one way, with Russia contracting before an ever-growing China…

All of Russia east of the Urals is serviced by just two enormous train lines both of which could be easily ruptured and then none of its western forces could be redeployed. Any incursion could not be contained by forces which can’t reach the battlefield and so it is here, out East, that any escalation to battlefield nuclear weapons and beyond is most likely, or least unlikely. Discuss.

Over-optimistic?

The paperback edition of the book has a final chapter written in August 2023 covering the war in Ukraine up to that date and moving onto political conclusions. Galeotti’s account of the war (as of all the other wars he covers) is brisk and very readable, it’s his broader conclusions I question.

Writing in 2022, Galeotti pulls together a raft of evidence to suggest the war has been a disaster for Putin and Russia, it’s the end of the Russian army, public opinion is turning against him, draft dodging is up, there have been firebombing of draft offices, social media is awash with soldiers bitterly complaining about being used as cannon fodder, strongly implying that the president’s days are numbered and throwing in the old canard about him being ill, cancer, some immune disease etc.

It starts out sensible and maybe each of the strands are true, but life isn’t that sweet. There is no justice. Russia is an autocratic nation, ruled for its entire history by lying dictators. It’s not being pessimistic, it’s being coldly realistic, to assume that this will never change.


Credit

‘Putin’s Wars: from Chechnya to Ukraine’ by Mark Galeotti was published by Osprey Publishing in 2022.

Related links

Related reviews

Communism reviews

Karl Marx

Communism in Russia

Communism in China

Communism in Czechoslovakia

  • The Joke (1967) How a young student’s life in communist Czechoslovakia is ruined by one ill-timed joke about Stalin; his shock that it is his friends and fellow students who denounce him most fiercely
  • Life Is Elsewhere (1969) Biography of a fictional poet, Jaromil, designed to show that communist tyranny was linked with the highest hopes of poets; that repression springs from utopian hopes: ‘Today, people regard those days as an era of political trials, persecutions, forbidden books, and legalised murder. But we who remember must bear witness: it was not only an epoch of terror, but also an epoch of lyricism, ruled hand in hand by the hangman and the poet.’
  • Laughable Loves (1969) Short stories set in communist Czechoslovakia
  • The Farewell Party (1972) Eight characters in a Czech spa town
  • The Book of Laughter and Forgetting (1978) Stories of love and sex in communist Czechoslovakia including reflections on how the communist state rewrites history
  • The Unbearable Lightness of Being (1984) The experiences of a small number of brilliantly delineated characters before, during and after the Prague Spring of 1968

Communism in England

Communism in France

Communism in Germany

Communism in Italy

  • Gramsci by James Joll (1977)

Communism in Poland

  • The Captive Mind by Czesław Miłosz (1953) A devastating indictment of the initial appeal and then appalling consequences of communism in Poland: ‘Mass purges in which so many good communists died, the lowering of the living standard of the citizens, the reduction of artists and scholars to the status of yes-men, the extermination of entire national groups…’
  • Warsaw 1920 by Adam Zamoyski (2008) How the Polish army stopped the Red Army’s advance into Poland in 1920, so preventing them pushing on to support revolution in Germany

Communism in Spain

  • Homage to Catalonia by George Orwell (1938) Orwell’s eye-witness account of how the Stalin-backed Spanish Communist Party turned on its left-wing allies, specifically the Workers’ Party of Marxist Unification which Orwell was fighting with, and how he only just managed to escape arrest, interrogation and probable execution
  • The Battle for Spain by Antony Beevor (2006) Comprehensive account of the Spanish civil war with much detail on how the Stalin-backed communist party put more energy into eliminating its opponents on the Left than fighting the fascists, with the result that Franco won

Communism in the Ukraine

Communism in Vietnam

Boris Mikhailov: Ukrainian Diary @ the Photographers’ Gallery

From the press photos I wasn’t anticipating too much but ‘Boris Mikhailov: Ukrainian Diary’ turns out to be a really interesting and rewarding exhibition, fully deserving the two floors of gallery space given over to it.

First room of Boris Mikhailov: Ukrainian Diary @ the Photographers’ Gallery

One of the problems is the promotion web pages and images just show one photo at a time and some of them look a bit meh, don’t feel that good, as a group they don’t add up to a unified look’ etc. It’s only when you get to the exhibition that you realise a number of key facts which transform your understanding.

1. Amateur Boris Mikhailov got into photography by accident, had no formal training, and so was free to invent and make things up. A lot of these innovations are really interesting.

2. Articulate Mikhailov is a very good explainer of his own work, so the wall labels which explain it are not only informative but his explanations of his innovations are unusually inspiring and interesting.

3. Bad photography One of these was the simple idea of bad photography. In the Soviet Union photography was a profession like any other, heavily controlled by the state with approved styles and qualities to promote uplifting images of perfect life in the workers’ state.

Mikhailov opened up a whole new world when he realised that bad, out of focus, poorly framed, damaged images were themselves a valid aesthetic, and a political statement. Badly printed, damaged or poor-quality productions were, he realised, the appropriate response to the shabby reality of Soviet life: ‘lousy photography for a lousy reality’. This explains why some of the images, when seen in isolation on a web page are only meh, whereas seen en masse, and accompanied by an eloquent explanation, they gain so much more power.

4. Sets It also explains why Mikhailov’s images are conceived and designed to be seen in sets and the sets don’t just represent a new subject, but the best of them embody an entirely new technique and way of thinking about photography. As he explains:

‘The idea that a single picture contains maximum information is a lie; I don’t believe in absolute truth. Exploring something from many different angles gives you a heightened sense of the truth. I need the sum of the images, the sum of the sequences in order to cast doubt on the correctness of one single, possible perception. The vibration between the images expands their possibilities.’

Biography

Born in Kharkiv, Ukraine in 1938, Boris Mikhailov is a self-taught photographer. Having trained as an engineer, he was first introduced to photography when he was given a camera to document the state-owned factory where he worked. He took advantage of this opportunity to take nude photographs of his first wife – an act forbidden under Soviet norms – which he developed and printed in the factory’s laboratory. He was fired when the photographs were found by KGB agents. From then he pursued photography full time, using it as a subversive tool and operating as part of the underground art scene.

His work first gained international exposure in the 1990s with the series ‘Case History’, a shockingly direct portrayal of the realities of post-Soviet life in the Ukraine. Having learned of him via his post-USSR collapse photos, Western fans were then able to go back and review his subversive works from the 1970s and ’80s. This exhibition presents the complete body of his work in chronological order.

‘Ukrainian Diary’ brings together work from over twenty of Mikhailov’s most important series, including:

Slideshow: Yesterday’s Sandwich (mid-’60s to 1970s)

One day he threw a couple of slides onto his bed and they stuck together. When he held the stuck slides up to the light he realised they made a dramatically surreal image and hence was born the series ‘Yesterday’s Sandwich’. As he experimented with the technique he realised the juxtaposition of random images could be thought of as reflecting the dualism and contradictions of Soviet society.

His commentary is fascinating. He explains that the 60s and 70s were a time, in all the countries of the Soviet bloc, of hidden messages and secret codes. No-one took official propaganda seriously but all organs of free expression were ruthlessly suppressed. Hence codes and secret signs and hidden allusions. In actual fact no particular ‘message’ emerges from these images except a surreal subversion of the normal, logical, sensible everyday world.

Nearly 100 of these wonderfully funny, crazy, surreal images are here displayed as a slideshow projected onto the wall of a darkened space in the gallery. For some reason they are displayed to a severely edited version of the classic Pink Floyd album, Dark Side of the Moon’ which Mikhailov considers an ‘exaggeration of beauty’ conveying a kind of ‘paradise lost’. It makes it an even more surreal experience, watching images from a distant and vanished society accompanied by such a familiar homely soundtrack.

Installation view of Boris Mikhailov: Ukrainian Diary @ the Photographers’ Gallery showing one of the composite images in the Yesterday’s Sandwich slideshow (photo by the author)

Black Archive (1968 to 1979)

‘Black Archive’ documents everyday life in Kharkiv, often revealing the disparity between public life and private life in domestic spaces. Under Soviet rule it was forbidden to photograph everyday life and so Mikhailov was forced to hide his camera in order to take furtive snapshots, often taken from behind and at odd angles. By contrast, the private sphere of people’s apartments was a space of freedom, most vividly expressed in the carefree nudity of many of his subjects.

But in the series Mikhailov also deploys his concept of ‘bad photography’— the deliberate production of sloppily printed, blurred, and low-contrast images full of visible flaws — as a metaphor and a tool for social critique.

Red (1968 to 1978)

The set ‘Red’ brings together more than 70 images taken in Kharkiv in the late 1960s and 1970s, all of which contain the colour red. From the wall labels we learn that red was a powerful symbol of the Russian Revolution (1917) and of the Soviet Union (1922 to 1991). Its presence in these varied photos indicates the extent to which communist ideology saturated everyday life. As usual Mikhailov explains all this in his vivid and fascinating way:

‘The word “red” in Russian has the same root as the word for beauty, it also means revolution and evokes blood and the red flag. Everyone associated red with communism. But few people realised that red had permeated all our lives. Demonstrations and parades are an important part of this series. It’s a place where one of the main images of Soviet propaganda—the face of happy Soviet life, secure in its future—was created. They became absolutely kitschy and vulgar… I sometimes felt that I was surrounded by a herd of cynics, victims, and fools, followed by people wearing red ribbons as if they were policemen. As if the regime was using the people’s desire to celebrate for its own ends. And it was important to me to photograph them in such a way that you could tell the “Soviet” from the “human”.’

From the series ‘Red’ by Boris Mikhailov (1968-75) © Boris Mikhailov, VG Bild-Kunst, Bonn, Courtesy Boris and Vita Mikhailov

Luriki (Coloured Soviet Portraits) (1971 to 1985)

After losing his job as an engineer, Mikhailov managed to make a living as a commercial photographer, sometimes working on the black market, enlarging, retouching, and hand-colouring snapshots of weddings, newborns or family members lost in the war.

In what is considered the first use of found material in contemporary Soviet photography, Mikhailov then appropriated and reworked these manipulated photographs for his own practice. Often using vibrant or exaggerated colours, he made them more ‘beautiful’, staying within the law while simultaneously mocking the way Soviet propaganda glorified mundane events.

By means of these simple techniques, Luriki comically undermined the absurdity of the iconography of Soviet life. Grouped together, the pictures are like a Soviet family album, a collection of surreal, ridiculous situations.

Installation view of Boris Mikhailov: Ukrainian Diary @ the Photographers’ Gallery showing one of the Luriki images (photo by the author)

Dance (1978)

Apparently open-air dancing was a popular activity in Soviet Kharkiv. Mikhailov has a lovely set depicting people of all ages, sizes and shape, in 1970s Soviet clothes, sedately dancing, quite often women dancing with other women.

Installation view of Boris Mikhailov: Ukrainian Diary @ the Photographers’ Gallery showing some of the Dance photos (photo by the author)

Series of Four (early 1980s)

One wall is covered with these images grouped into sets of four. This came about by accident. Mikhailov set out to wander the streets of Kharkiv and take photos of nothing, of non-events, designed to capture the boredom and emptiness of Soviet life. But when he came to make contact prints he realised he didn’t have small-format paper so he put four images together on one sheet. At a stroke he realised he’d created something: the multiple points of view of the same scene creates complex effects. Suddenly a boring scene becomes part of a fragmented, multi-angled world. Presented in this way, they can also have a cinematic effect, telling a story in snapshots. And another effect is to create out of a mundane non-space a kind of cocoon, creating a compression of space, imbuing an anonymous nowhere with strange fugitive meanings.

Installation view of Boris Mikhailov: Ukrainian Diary @ the Photographers’ Gallery showing some of the Series of Four photos (photo by the author)

Crimean Snobbism (1982)

Mikhailov went to Gursuf, a seaside resort on the Crimean Peninsula and took portraits of himself, wife and friends frolicking by the seaside, adopting holiday poses etc. As with many of his sets, Mikhailov gave them a sepia tone, making them feel historic and detached from the present, and also suggesting their subversive intent. Because the entire set is intended as a parody of the kind of carefree, bourgeois lifestyle then associated with ‘the West’ and far beyond the reach of your average Ukrainian citizen, and which he satirises in phrases: ‘We’re so happy. We’re so beautiful. We’re so in love etc’.

Viscidity (1982)

In another interesting experiment, in the early 1980s Mikhailov started combining text and image together in a conceptual way: he glued his photographs carelessly onto sheets of paper, then scribbled thoughts—banal, poetic, or philosophical—in the margins. His fragmentary thoughts were not intended as captions, nor to illustrate or elucidate the photographs; they were often utterly unrelated to them and intended to be equally important, a composite reflection on the social stagnation of the Soviet Union.

‘Viscidity’ is the word he used to describe the period the country was living through at the time — ‘a peaceful, quiet, featureless, dull life, a time of deep political stagnation, a frozen day-to-dayness. There was no catharsis, no nostalgia, just grey, everyday life. Nothing was happening, nothing was at all interesting.’ Hence ‘lousy photographs with these lousy texts’, ‘unchanging ordinariness and timelessness.’

Unfinished dissertation (1984-5)

On the back of the tattered pages of a stranger’s university dissertation found in a rubbish bin, Mikhailov pasted poorly printed black-and-white photos of inconsequential moments and then jotted down his thoughts about art and life in the margins. The photos don’t synch with the text, neither shedding light on each other, except obliquely.

Salt Lake (1986)

Mikhailov’s father used to tell him about a salt lake in southern Ukraine where people went to bathe in the 1920s and ’30s, believing that the warm, salty water had healing properties. When Mikhailov went to visit himself he found the crowds of people on the beach near to a disused old factory, washing themselves in the factory pipes and smearing themselves with mud.

He found it ‘the quintessence of an average person’s life in the Soviet context. Despite the horrible, polluted, inhuman environment, the people were relaxed, calm, and happy.’ To the modern Western ye, this looks like a gallery of grotesques in a grim, squalid environment.

Later Mikhailov toned his images sepia, like photographs from another era and explains: ‘There was a kind of an interplay there, a fusion between the old and the new. Old, because it was something my father had seen, and at the same time a reality that still existed… An elaboration of an idea I’d explored before: we’re both there and not there, it’s both today and a long time ago.’

Installation view of Boris Mikhailov: Ukrainian Diary @ the Photographers’ Gallery showing some of the Salt Lake photos (photo by the author)

By The Ground (1991)

When the Soviet Union collapsed in 1991, Mikhailov took to the streets with his panoramic camera slung low around his waist. While the panoramic format is conventionally used for sweeping vistas and beautiful landscapes Mikhailov captured bleak street scenes which captured the shabby poverty of the streets.

Mikhailov also devised a protocol for installing the series: the prints are hung low on the wall, forcing the viewer to stoop down to see the images, as if to bring us closer to his subjects. As with previous sets, he also treated the images, toning the silver prints brown, imbuing them images with a sense of nostalgia. As always his own comments on his process are fascinating:

‘I “aged” the images by toning them in sepia… embedding the photos in layers of time to trigger parallel, photo-historical associations, to show that photography has become as elusive as existence itself.’

Installation view of Boris Mikhailov: Ukrainian Diary @ the Photographers’ Gallery showing some of the By The Ground wide-angle photos (photo by the author)

I am not I (1992)

A series of nude self portraits in which Mikhailov parodies traditional masculine stereotypes. The stereotypes he mocks are those promoted by the recently collapsed USSR but they are also recognisable as American stereotypes too. Thus he photographs himself in a range of comic or demeaning poses, wearing an absurd curly wig, holding a toy sword or, most strikingly, an artificial phallus. Like all the sets, these gain in meaning and humour when you see 20 variations next to each other.

From the series ‘I am not I’ by Boris Mikhailov (1992) © Boris Mikhailov, VG Bild-Kunst, Bonn. Courtesy Boris and Vita Mikhailov

Green (1991 to 1993)

In the early 1990s Mikhailov produced a series of hand-coloured photographs known as the ‘Green’ series. The images are suffused with a lingering, toxic green tint to reflect the environmental decay and societal collapse following the fall of the Soviet Union. The series is represented here by a monumental triptych showing a decaying junkyard in an overgrown landscape. The colour green has a particular resonance for Mikhailov who says it is the colour of a swamp and indicates the moss which had grown on Soviet life, a metaphor for Soviet decay.

In earlier sets he had had photographed people living in poverty, drug addiction and social degradation using a disposable camera and cheap gelatin silver paper to evoke awkwardness and fragility. Here, he takes the concept further, using stains and drips of paint on the thin, crumpled paper as if to embody the worn, impoverished landscape and lives he saw around him.

Installation view of Boris Mikhailov: Ukrainian Diary @ the Photographers’ Gallery showing ‘Green’ (photo by the author)

At Dusk (1993)

Shortly after the collapse of the Soviet Union Mikhailov wandered the streets of Kharkiv with a swing-lens camera that took in a 120-degree panoramic view, capturing the life of destitute people on the streets. He tinted all the images a heavy cobalt blue. Why? Several reasons: the colour (along with the title) indicate the transition from day to night. But blue also represents his boyhood memories of the Second World War, of fleeing with his mother on one of the last freight trains out of Kharkiv to escape the Nazi advance. Blue, he explains, is the colour of blockade, hunger and war. Tinting these images of street people the same colour a) indicates the severity of the crisis of poverty which hit his country and b) also produces images of intense and haunting beauty.

From the series ‘At Dusk’ by Boris Mikhailov (1993) © Boris Mikhailov, VG Bild-Kunst, Bonn. Courtesy Boris and Vita Mikhailov

Case History (1997 to 98)

A few years after the collapse of communism, Mikhailov realised that in his hometown of Kharkiv, not only had a new ruling elite of millionaires emerged, but a significant part of the population had also been plunged into poverty. The mid-1990s produced a new group of people, the bomzhes or homeless.

So Mikhailov set about photographing these pitiful people, right at the bottom of society. He produced a series of 400 raw portraits. As with other sets, he deliberately transgressed the codes of photojournalism by paying his subjects, and he and his wife Vita also often offered them hot meals in exchange for posing. Some of the poses are stage in the manner of the Pietà or the Descent from the Cross.

This exhibition shows one image of one abject couple blown up on the wall and a display case of 100 small test prints from his archive. They are pitiful to look at.

Installation view of Boris Mikhailov: Ukrainian Diary @ the Photographers’ Gallery showing the one blown-up image and 100 test prints from ‘Case Study’ (photo by the author)

Reflecting on these images the next day, I realised that their abjectness is emphasised by their nudity. What I mean is that, unless you have a buff toned body, most of us already look a bit embarrassing when naked and caught in everyday postures, in the shower, getting out of bed etc. Many (half?) of the shots in the Case History exacerbate the poverty and squalor of the subjects by showing old, ugly, maimed or ill people, naked or half-clothed. What I’m trying to convey is how this nudity powerfully amplifies the general air of degradation and humiliation.

The Theatre of War, Second Act, Time Out (2013 to 2014)

Euromaidan or the Maidan Uprising was a wave of demonstrations and civil unrest in Ukraine, which began on 21 November 2013 with large protests in Maidan Nezalezhnosti (Independence Square) in Kyiv. The protests were sparked by President Viktor Yanukovych’s sudden decision not to sign the European Union–Ukraine Association Agreement, instead choosing closer ties to Russia and the Eurasian Economic Union. Ukraine’s parliament had overwhelmingly approved of finalizing the Agreement with the EU but Russia had put pressure on Ukraine to reject it.

In late December 2013 Boris and Vita Mikhailov documented the protests, photographing protestors who had pitched their tents in the central square in Kyiv. Mikhailov comments that the situation was so tense that scenes felt like they had been staged. ‘The bonfires, the colours, the lights, the people sitting there exhausted — everything created a general feeling of tension. It was unclear how it would all end.’

The protests succeeded in forcing President Viktor Yanukovych to flee to Russia but soon afterwards, on 27 February 2014, Russian forces occupied the Crimea, starting the Russo-Ukrainian War which continues to this day.

Thoughts

Many of Mikhailov’s images are very strong in their own right, and display adeptness in an extraordinary range of styles, from the photojournalism of Salt Lake to the nostalgic surrealism of Yesterday’s Sandwich, the warlike intensity of the At Dusk series to the blistering poverty porn of the miserable Case Histories.

But as well as the appeal of individual images, or the impact of specific sets, the exhibition as a whole builds up into a powerful portrait of life in a Soviet state – to the shabby, unhealthy, stiflingly boring nature of life under communism – and then after 1990, to the catastrophic collapse in living standards for large swathes of the population in post-Soviet society.

It’s not only an impressive body of work by a consistently inventive and innovative artist, but a powerful portrait and indictment of life in Soviet and post-Soviet regimes.

Video

This is not the usual 30-second exhibition promotional video but an extended, 14-minute-long interview with Mikhailov which really brings over how articulate and interesting he is.


Related links

Related reviews

Hyakkō: 100+ Makers from Japan @ Japan House

Like all Japan House exhibitions, Hyakkō is beautifully laid out, designed and explained. It is a celebration of Japan’s contemporary arts and craft landscape, meaning it is an assembly of over 2,000 items – teapots, bowls, cups and mugs, plates and cutlery, made from materials such as clay, glass, wood, leather, bamboo and raffia, bronze, iron and steel – humble everyday objects but beautifully designed and handmade by 123 Japanese craftspeople.

Part of the display in ‘Hyakkō: 100+ Makers from Japan’ @ Japan House (photo by the author)

How can you fit so many objects into the relatively small exhibition space under Japan House (the Japan House gallery space is downstairs from the main shop which is just 50 yards from Kensington High Street tube station)?

You can fit them all in because 1) they are all relatively small, some of them very small – and 2) by arranging them tastefully and beautifully and compactly, in clusters or sets of pieces by each of the 120 or so designers.

Showing how pieces are grouped by maker in ‘Hyakkō: 100+ Makers from Japan’ @ Japan House (photo by the author)

The exhibition derives from the quest by its curator, Nagata Takahiro, to investigate the state of contemporary craft in Japan, a quest which took her to all parts of the country and to meet over 120 craftspeople. And hence the title. Hyakkō literally means ‘a hundred makers’ but can be taken metaphorically to mean ‘lots of makers’. This is an exhibition of ‘lots of [contemporary Japanese] makers’.

History and context

Japan has long been associated with a rich culture of craft, with many practices such as urushi (lacquerware) and metalwork being passed down through generations, often as the result of strict apprenticeships. Historically, the expensive products of many of these more formal crafts were out of reach for most and were often created more as objects to be admired rather than to actually be used.

In the 1920s, the mingei (folk craft) movement turned people’s attention to the crafts of the people, focusing on the beauty of hand-crafted, utilitarian objects. Integral to this philosophy was the perceived anonymity of the craftspeople – the emphasis being on the item rather than its maker.

Bronzeware by Urukami Yōsuke in ‘Hyakkō: 100+ Makers from Japan’ @ Japan House (photo by the author)

Philosophy

As always at Japan House, there’s some Zen-flavoured philosophy, this time concerning the making of pots and bowls and plates. The wise words of four leading designers are quoted at length in wall posters. Why?

The Japanese word kōgei (‘craft’) spans a wide range of contexts, including Mingei (‘folk craft’), antiques, art and design. Its depth is immeasurable and even among makers it is not uncommon to pause and ask, ‘What does this term truly mean?’

Hence the thoughts on the subject of the four leading figures, namely:

  • Kurata Takashi, philosopher
  • Nakamura Masahiro, Assistant Professor of Design
  • Nakamura Yuta, Artist
  • Sakamoto Dai, Gallerist

Nearby, in the entrance foyer, there’s a list of 32 Japanese terms which are applied to native crafts, first the Japanese word and then a paragraph-length explanation of its meaning.

The wall of terms in ‘Hyakkō: 100+ Makers from Japan’ @ Japan House (photo by the author)

Here are a few to give you a flavour:

tsukurite: maker: a maker is someone who engages directly with materials and shapes them with their hands. This term includes not only artists but artisans and craftspeople whose lives and relationships with the land are reflected in their work.

fukanzensa: imperfection: in Japanese craftsmanship and aesthetics, beauty and richness are felt more in imperfection than perfection. The irregularities of natural materials and handcrafted work are valued for their uniqueness, stimulating the user’s imagination and affection for the object.

shizukesa: more than simply the absence of sound, shizukesa conveys a sense of clarity and composure. the serenity felt in a Japanese garden or tea room highlights the beauty of objects and spaces, linking spiritual fulfilment with aesthetic experience.

dezain: design: more than the refining of form or function, design generates new value and relationships in daily life and society as a whole. In Japan, design has historically prioritised an approach that harnesses the inherent properties of materials and seeks harmony between people and nature, rather than focusing solely on decoration or superficiality. It has developed through the integration of craft and architecture in everyday life.

And at the end of the foyer a wall-sized bookshelf housing 45 or so lovely hardback art books covering various aspects of the crafts or individual designers.

Bookshelves containing some 45 books about Japanese craft in ‘Hyakkō: 100+ Makers from Japan’ @ Japan House (photo by the author)

The pieces

All very enlightening but the point is the objects themselves and these are exquisite, wonderful. Who knew there could be quite so many types and styles and designs and materials for making plates, bowls, cups and mugs, glasses and cutlery?

The grouping by designer allows 6 to 10 pieces per person and this turns out to be just enough to showcase more than just a technique but an entire worldview in miniature.

Iwata Tetsuhiro

Clayware by Iwata Tetsuhiro in ‘Hyakkō: 100+ Makers from Japan’ @ Japan House (photo by the author)

Okihara Saya

Wooden cutlery by Okihara Saya in ‘Hyakkō: 100+ Makers from Japan’ @ Japan House (photo by the author)

Nishikawa Satoshi

Bowls and teapots by Nishikawa Satoshi in ‘Hyakkō: 100+ Makers from Japan’ @ Japan House (photo by the author)

Isihara Toshihisa

Comic figures by Isihara Toshihisa in ‘Hyakkō: 100+ Makers from Japan’ @ Japan House (photo by the author)

Sasakawa Kenichi

Glassware by Sasakawa Kenichi in ‘Hyakkō: 100+ Makers from Japan’ @ Japan House (photo by the author)

Abe Hitomi

Stones wrapped in bamboo by Abe Hitomi in ‘Hyakkō: 100+ Makers from Japan’ @ Japan House (photo by the author)

Seki Kenichi

Lacquerware by Seki Kenichi in ‘Hyakkō: 100+ Makers from Japan’ @ Japan House (photo by the author)

Yoshikawa Kazuto

Plates and spoons by Yoshikawa Kazuto in ‘Hyakkō: 100+ Makers from Japan’ @ Japan House (photo by the author)

Otani Tetsuna

Ceramics by Otani Tetsuna in ‘Hyakkō: 100+ Makers from Japan’ @ Japan House (photo by the author)

Tokuda Masami

Vases made from raw wood by Tokuda Masami in ‘Hyakkō: 100+ Makers from Japan’ @ Japan House (photo by the author)

Yamada Yōji

Patterned bowls by Yamada Yōji in ‘Hyakkō: 100+ Makers from Japan’ @ Japan House (photo by the author)

Hidaka Naoko

Decorated ceramics by Hidaka Naoko in ‘Hyakkō: 100+ Makers from Japan’ @ Japan House (photo by the author)

Ninjō Ikkei

Astonishingly smooth and gracefully bowls by Ninjō Ikkei in ‘Hyakkō: 100+ Makers from Japan’ @ Japan House (photo by the author)

Moriguchi Shinichi

Thrillingly ribbed wooden trays by Moriguchi Shinichi in ‘Hyakkō: 100+ Makers from Japan’ @ Japan House (photo by the author)

Jōji Yoshimichi

Beautifully moulded and frilled bowls by Jōji Yoshimichi in ‘Hyakkō: 100+ Makers from Japan’ @ Japan House (photo by the author)

Merch

Works from over 30 of the featured makers are available to buy in the shop on the ground floor. They’re expensive, of course, but they’re exquisite. The risk is that, once you’d loosened your wallet, you wouldn’t be able to stop.

Worlds of exquisiteness in ‘Hyakkō: 100+ Makers from Japan’ @ Japan House (photo by the author)


Related links

Related reviews

Peter Doig: House of Music @ Serpentine South

Installation view of Peter Doig: House of Music @ Serpentine South, showing the first thing you see, the big painting in the entrance hall titled ‘Painting for Wall Painters’ (2010 to 2012) (photo by the author)

Sounds

This is an interesting experiment in the impact of music on people’s perception of art.

Serpentine South is displaying 20 or so paintings by contemporary British artist Peter Doig but the real point of the exhibition is the music that dominates the show. The music is sourced from Doig’s own extensive collection of Black reggae, dub and rare groove tracks, along with a wide range of modern jazz, and is played live from collectible old LPs on a genuine record player.

This all makes a nice change from the intimidatingly cathedral-like silence of most art galleries, and encourages you to talk at almost normal room level. When we walked in the DJ was playing a long chilled dub track which sounded like this and immediately had my three lady friends bobbing and swaying like saplings in a breeze.

Old speakers

But the real stars of the show are the two ‘high fidelity’ 1950s wooden Klangfilm Euronor speakers salvaged from cinemas, one in each of the side galleries, and – in the gallery’s big central space – a huge scaffold containing speakers and the DJ along with his desk and turntables. The huge scaffold makes it feel like you’re at a festival, while the beautifully curved and shaped wooden cinema speakers in the side galleries are accompanied by a set of old cinema seats (in one, darkened, room) and wooden tables and chairs (in the other, light, room) i.e. encouraging you to take the weight off your pins and chill.

Installation view of Peter Doig: House of Music @ Serpentine South, showing the 1950s wooden Klangfilm Euronor speaker in the ‘light room’ (photo by the author)

Laurence Passera

At the centre of the exhibition is an original Western Electric / Bell Labs sound system, produced in the late 1920s and early 1930s. Developed to respond to the demands of modern movie sound, this extremely rare ‘loud speaking telephone’ consists of valve amplifiers and mains-energised field-coil loudspeakers, which were designed specifically to herald in the new era of ‘talking movies’. These speakers were salvaged from derelict cinemas across the UK by Laurence Passera, who Doig has collaborated closely with on this project.

Installation view of Peter Doig: House of Music @ Serpentine South, showing the big sound system, huge speakers, DJ setup, and a young Peter Doig fan (photo by the author)

Passera is a London-based expert and devoted enthusiast of cinematic sound systems. The speakers offer a unique listening experience due to the technical mastery achieved in their construction that places them as the great grandfathers of modern ‘hi-end’ audio.

Chill

The whole setup is designed to make you sit and chill and relax and worked very well for me and my three friends who had trekked miles across Kensington Gardens to get here and really enjoyed the opportunity to have a sit down and a cheeky nibble of the snacks we’d brought with us.

The art

Oh yes, the artworks. Well, a lot is explained when you learn that Peter Doig, although born in Edinburgh (in 1959) grew up in Trinidad (and then Canada) before moving to London to study at Saint Martin’s School of Art and Chelsea School of Art. But it’s the Caribbean which has his heart and since 2002, he’s divided his time between London and Trinidad where he set up a studiofilmclub, an influential repertoire cinema club he hosts in his studio in Laventille. This Caribbean upbringing explains the nice and easy dub reggae sounds but only partly the paintings.

Installation view of Peter Doig: House of Music @ Serpentine South (photo by the author)

Broadly speaking the paintings can be divided into two groups: big urban landscapes or studies of individual people. The urban landscapes (see example above) are reminiscent of Giorgio de Chirico in featuring a strong sense of perspective and being empty of people, and so abandoned and eerie. But whereas de Chirico paints with hard defined edges and strict shadows, Doig’s approach is always more blurred and handmade.

There are more portraits of people and they are more diverse but I found all of them a bit worrying. He is not interested in photographic accuracy and some of the figures are so blurred and smudged as to appear somehow damaged.

Installation view of Peter Doig: House of Music @ Serpentine South showing ‘Maracas’ (2002) (photo by the author)

All the writing about his painting, and Doig’s own interviews, all emphasise the sunny laid-back atmosphere of the Caribbean so I wondered if there was something wrong with me that I saw so many of the figures as suffering from some kind of damage. They looked like survivors from a nuclear apocalypse. Is this an image of carefree hedonism, or something really troubled and disturbed?

Installation view of Peter Doig: House of Music @ Serpentine South (photo by the author)

This is one of the three of the works on show which were painted specifically for the exhibition and come straight from the artist’s studio, as a visitor assistant proudly told me. It looked to me like a terrible disaster had taken place, volcanic or radioactive fragments falling from the sky to burn alive white and black alike.

Is it just me who finds these images relentlessly negative and alarming? The commentary tells us about his obsession with music which spills over into portraits of the kind of itinerant local musicians, sometimes calypso singers, you get in the Caribbean. All that sounds lovely until you actually see a Doig picture of one.

Installation view of Peter Doig: House of Music @ Serpentine South showing ‘Shadow’ (2019) (photo by the author)

The lighthouse is nice but why can you see the guy’s rib cage? It looks like an X-ray which is what set me thinking about some kind of nuclear catastrophe.

This would explain the painful postures and burned blackness of many of the images, and also explains why the urban cityscapes are devoid of human life. Everyone’s been incinerated. The painting below is called ‘Fall in New York’, but does it look like autumn in Central Park with the leaves on the trees turning wonderful shades of brown and orange and yellow? No.

Installation view of Peter Doig: House of Music @ Serpentine South showing ‘Fall in New York’ (2002 to 2012) (photo by the author)

If you really study it, maybe those oval shapes in the background are leaves, and I can see the roller skates on her feet, but does this painting convey joyful exuberance? Skating through the park on a sunny autumn day? No. To me it has the existential black dread of a Francis Bacon painting.

Musical effects

Or, maybe something else was going on in the way I perceived these paintings. Remember I kicked off by suggesting that this is ‘an interesting experiment in the impact of music on people’s perception of art’? Well, when I happened by chance to go into the naturally lit side gallery and then into the big bright central space, the DJ happened to be playing a very chilled dub track which made me smile and tap my toes and generally feel happy with the world.

But then, as I walked into the dark side gallery, a new track started playing, much more challenging music, free jazz by Pharaoh Sanders from his 1973 ‘Village of the Pharaohs’ LP.

Play it for a minute or two and you’ll see what I mean by ‘challenging’ or ‘difficult’. After a few minutes you start to get a headache and this is the point I’m making – maybe my response to Peter Doig’s open-ended, blurred and troubling images was more influenced by the music I was hearing than I realised.

Maybe I found the initial images I saw light and sunny as (I think) he intends them to be, largely because I was listening to light and sunny music – whereas the more confrontational and cacophonic Sanders track dragged me down into more of a negative mood than I consciously realised as I went into the darkened room with the nuclear holocaust images.

Maybe it’s because music’s influence is so swamping and so powerfully affects our mood and responses to visual stimuli, to paintings and artworks, that galleries are so routinely squeaky clean and super silent. It’s because any kind of pulse, beat, rhythm or melody immediately affects us, alters our perceptions and interferes with whatever the artist intended.

Well, that’s what this experiment with music and painting suggested to me…

Lions

The visitor assistants at the Serpentine galleries are among the most friendly and well informed anywhere in London. I had a chat with the DJ about the tracklist he was playing (it varies every day), and then asked another one about the ubiquity of lions in the paintings. Why so many lions, especially in the really big works in the central room?

Installation view of Peter Doig: House of Music @ Serpentine South showing ‘Rain in the Port of Spain (White Oak)’ (2015) (photo by the author)

She didn’t know for absolute certain but between us we came up with three or four theories.

1. Rasta The Lion of Judah is a central symbol in the Rastafari movement, representing Emperor Haile Selassie I of Ethiopia, whom Rastas revere as the returned messiah and King of Kings, linking him to the biblical lineage of King David and the tribe of Judah. It symbolizes strength, royalty, African sovereignty, and resistance to oppression, with dreadlocks often likened to the lion’s mane, embodying pride, independence, and spiritual power against injustice.

2. Satire on Britain It can also be seen as a re-appropriation of the British Royal coat of arms which traditionally features a lion and a unicorn representing the British Empire. Maybe the lions in Peter Doig’s paintings are post-imperial lions.

3. Lazy lions The assistant smiled when she pointed out that they’re all male lions and that male lions have the reputation of lazing around doing nothing while the female lions do all the hard work of hunting and rearing the young. I think she was making an amused feminist point but it shaded onto the longstanding and probably racist stereotype of Black men not always paying punctilious attention to family responsibilities, the kind of issue I read about regularly in The Voice when I lived in Brixton in the 1980s. But that’s the trouble with dabbling in symbols – they don’t necessarily stop where you want them to.

4. Liberated lions Now, a few days after visiting and with the time and leisure to read the big free exhibition handout, I learn that the lions in Doig’s paintings are references to the Lion of Judah – but also symbols of liberation in the simple sense that lions are normally caged in a zoo but these ones have been freed to (rather dangerously) roam the streets. Just as well, then, that the streets are eerily empty of human beings.

5. Port of Spain prison There’s an extra level of symbolism which is that in a painting like ‘Rain in the Port of Spain’, the lion is placed against yellow walls which clearly reference the prison in Port of Spain’s city centre. When you learn that this is sometimes called the Royal Gaol, then you realise the lion is a really complex symbol, indicating pride and freedom over colonial rule and incarceration, vivid orange virility compared with the washed-out streets, a kind of aliveness and thereness, and lots more…

House of Music

The exhibition title ‘House of Music’ refers to lyrics of the song ‘Dat Soca Boat’ by Trinidadian calypsonian musician Shadow, who Doig admires and has depicted in his paintings over the years. The exhibition includes ‘Shadow, 2019’, a portrait of the musician in his iconic skeleton suit. Ah. OK. That explains the X-ray image of the rib cage. But I read this fact too late to dislodge the essentially negative, worried initial response I had to the image.

Sound Service evenings

On Sundays, the space has been hosting sessions by Sound Service, a series of live listening sessions. Musicians, artists and collectors – including Nihal El Aasar, Olukemi Lijadu, Ed Ruscha, Samuel Strang and Duval Timothy – share selections from their collections on the analogue systems. During the show’s run, these sessions have featured special guests to share their selected tracks and audio samples responding to one another in new and unexpected acoustic exchanges in front of a live audience. Participants have included Lizzi Bougatsos, Dennis Bovell, the egregious Brian Eno and the fabulous Linton Kwesi Johnson, plus more.

Thoughts

I loved the big cinema speakers, and enjoyed (most of) the music, and I registered the fact the Doig has a strong and distinctive painting style, with a recurring set of images (the lions, representations of big speaker systems, walls of flags – as in the image at the top of the review). But I’m not sure I really liked any of them.

Speakers or painting? For me, speakers every time. Installation view of Peter Doig: House of Music @ Serpentine South (photo by the author)


Related links

Related reviews

The Delusion by Danielle Brathwaite-Shirley @ Serpentine North

Black and trans

Danielle Brathwaite-Shirley is Black and was born a man before transitioning to become a woman. She is, therefore, part of the Black Trans and Queer community. From these bare facts you might have predicted that she would do paintings or photos or portraits of her community; what you could not possibly have predicted is that she would convert the clean and antiseptic space of the Serpentine North Gallery into a darkened, blood-red, Hammer House of Horror setting for a series of interactive, post-apocalyptic video games!

Installation view of the atrium of first room of the Delusion by Danielle Brathwaite-Shirley @ Serpentine North (photo by the author)

Layout

The Serpentine North Gallery is made up of four corridors which form a square and, running between the east and west corridors, two parallel oblong rooms or spaces. You can see a diagram of the layout on page 3 of the exhibition guide. (Incidentally, the PDF of the guide has different pagination from the physical handout which you pick up at the show, so PDF page 2 contains pages 2 and 3 of the hard copy handout, PDF page 4 contains pages 4 and 5, PDF page 4 contains pages 6 and 7, and so on. My page references refer to the online PDF version.)

From this guide you’ll see that each of the corridors has been partitioned off by heavy, blood-red velvet curtains and given a theme and a name. Thus the first space you enter from the main entrance is titled ‘Terms and Conditions’ which does what it says on the tin, and gives a wordy explanation of what you are about to see and how you should behave.

Interactivity and inactivity

It’s as soon as this first room that things begin to go a bit awry because the instructions are quite extensive, in fact too extensive to read and process. Visitors are told not to be afraid to speak out loud, to share our experiences with other visitors, to freely question and discuss what we see. Trouble is, this is an art gallery and decades of visiting art galleries have taught everybody to shuffle silently from one artefact to another, maintain a respectful silence and not touch anything for fear of setting off alarms.

In other words her entire intent to create a fun, interactive experience is heavily curtailed by the type of location and name (art exhibition) which we’re in.

TL;DR

Next is the problem that there’s so much information. It’s only now as I write this, days later, sifting through my photos, carefully reading and rereading the instructions and studying the gallery diagram, that I can even begin to understand all the options and activities. At the time, I was visiting with three others who wanted to hurry on and see everything, with the result that none of us properly read the instructions, with the result that none of us knew what was going on.

The digital age has an acronym for this situation: tl;dr which is short for ‘too long, didn’t read’ which exactly sums up our experience.

So: if you’re thinking of going I strongly recommend that you read and study the Visitor Guide beforehand.

Border pictures

The east and west corridors are titled ‘Border’ though I couldn’t figure out why. They each contain a series of illustrations on the walls, black and white depictions of what look to be horror monsters with speech bubbles coming out of their mouths. These nearly but didn’t quite make sense. For example:

‘We lie to your face and tell you what you see is just what they deserve.’

This struck me as a riddle and I spent a minute or two trying to figure out who the ‘we’ is, who ‘you’ refers to, and who the ‘they’ are who deserve whatever it is they’re getting… before I gave up.

There are about 20 of these black and white illustrations and I could see that they’re all good, liberal satire on death and violence and armies or something, but beyond that my response was the same: puzzlement, then giving up.

Installation view of The Delusion by Danielle Brathwaite-Shirley @ Serpentine North (photo by the author)

(Now, days later, studying the Visitor Guide, I see that reproductions of all of them are available on pages 14 and 15.)

Slot machines

More obviously striking, in each of the two border corridors there are several human-sized objects which have the same kind of presence as slot machines only dressed up in fabric and with a TV-style video screen at the top. I’ve no idea what these were meant to be so enjoyed the disjunction between soft, flowing fabric and cold glass screen. My gallery partner enjoyed the nice designs.

Installation view of The Delusion by Danielle Brathwaite-Shirley @ Serpentine North showing one of the dressed-up-video screens (photo by the author)

To give a sense of scale and context, here’s a shot of one of the corridors with a couple of these slot-machines-in-dresses, along with puzzled visitors.

Installation view of The Delusion by Danielle Brathwaite-Shirley @ Serpentine North showing one of the ‘Borders’ (photo by the author)

I still don’t know whether the messages on these screens were static or changing or whether they were games we were meant to interact with, or anything. TL;DR.

Safe room

At the end of the first corridor you walk through some of the heavy, blood-red velvet curtains into a quiet room containing a trio of monster-themed bean bags, a big comfortable curving sofa and cushions, with sets of bookshelves to either side. Here are the funny bean bags.

Installation view of The Delusion by Danielle Brathwaite-Shirley @ Serpentine North showing the monster-themed bean bags (photo by the author)

And here’s a wider angle of the same room, showing the sofa and the bookshelves on either side.

Installation view of The Delusion by Danielle Brathwaite-Shirley @ Serpentine North showing the comfy sofa (photo by the author)

And here’s a shot of just the sofa, capturing the bloodstained coffee table in the middle and the gruesome horror picture at the back.

Installation view of The Delusion by Danielle Brathwaite-Shirley @ Serpentine North showing the comfy sofa (photo by the author)

Woke books

The books made me smile, they were so obviously well-intended woke titles about being Black and Queer and Trans with some feminist tomes thrown in (‘Queer Print in Europe’, ‘Cyberfeminism’, ‘A Racial History of Trans Identity’, ‘Kill All Normies: Online Culture Wars’). In other words, exactly the same titles as you get at pretty much every contemporary art exhibition, the same titles you get in the ICA bookshop, the Whitechapel Gallery bookshop, the Barbican bookshop – amusing examples of the artworld’s narrow groupthink.

And I laughed out loud when I saw a volume by James Baldwin. No reflection on him, he’s a great writer – it just amuses me the way he’s become the Mother Theresa or Mahatma Gandhi of so much contemporary art. A massive photo of him and several quotes stood at the entrance to the Barbican’s massive exhibition about Masculinity; on one visit to the Photographers’ Gallery I found a quote from him on the wall of the 4th floor gallery and on the wall of the print room, and so on. Through no fault of his own, Baldwin has become Mr Ubiquity. Mr rent-a-quote.

But it struck me that the real significance of these books is as indication of how text heavy this exhibition is. All the promotion blurb about it claims that it’s interactive and, on a superficial level, it is; but at a deeper and much more obvious level, it is highly pedagogical. All I mean is that you have to read a hell of a lot of instructions to get anything out of it, and what you’re meant to be getting out of it is ‘debate’ about trans and LGBTQ+ and Black issues, so these books are by way of being extensions of the exhibition, indicators of its fundamentally preachy, propagandistic intent.

(And now I have hours to study the visitor guide, I realise there’s a full reading list on page 11.)

The sofa cushions

We went just after Christmas so the gallery was nice and quiet and there was space to sit on the sofa for a nice rest. All it lacked was a nice cup of tea to go with. Only by accident did my friends realise that each of the sofa cushions (you can see four of them in the photo above) had instructions stitched onto them. More interactive things to do. Instructions included:

‘Hand this to someone and ask: what worries you about the future?’

‘Hand this to someone and ask: what’s a lesson you learned the hard way?

And my friends actually did this, handing each other the cushions and asking and answering these questions. Sweet.

The games

Game 1 – ‘I Didn’t Realise You Thought That’ (2025)

OK, so the several wordy and confusing blurbs at the start of the show promised interactive games, so where are they? One of them is one of the slot-machine-in-a-dress type objects in a corridor which has a handle. I didn’t even realise it was there till after we’d left and my friends mentioned it. Like everything to do with the show it has complicated and wordy instructions which I’ll quote in full to give you a flavour:

INSTRUCTIONS

PLACE YOUR HANDS ON THE DOOR HANDLE. WHEN CHARACTERS APPROACH THE DOOR LISTEN TO WHAT THEY SAY. OPEN THE DOOR TO LET THEM IN. CLOSE THE DOOR TO KEEP THEM OUT. SHOUT YOUR OPINIONS AND ANSWERS. YOU CONTROL THE BORDER TO THIS SPACE. CHOOSE CAREFULLY. WHAT KIND OF VIEWS WILL YOU LET IN? BE HONEST

HOW TO PLAY

During gameplay, animated characters will approach the doors, asking to be let in. Based on each character’s appearance and statements, players must decide whether to open or close the door—or the ‘border’—to allow them entry.

ABOUT THIS GAME

In order to build ‘safe’ communities, this game asks you to make judgments about who is allowed into your space and who is kept out. In today’s digital world, life is often shaped by updated forms of exclusion reinforced by algorithms. The rapid speed of decision-making in this game mirrors the speed, pressure and reactive ‘hot takes’ that dominate our online lives.

Inspired by empathy-based games such as ‘Papers, Please’ (2013), in which players take the role of a border-control officer, this game asks us to reflect on how our values shape the lives of others and whether we are truly thinking for ourselves or simply following instructions.

See what I mean by ‘wordy’? Reading this now in peace and quiet at home and with plenty of time, I understand the instructions and the aim. At the time 1) I didn’t even notice it was a game 2) I didn’t hear anyone ‘shouting their opinions or answers’. It is an art exhibition, Danielle, a type of space where visitors are always told to be quiet and respectful and not touch anything.

Installation view of The Delusion by Danielle Brathwaite-Shirley @ Serpentine North showing visitors reading the wordy instructions to, and very much not interacting with, the game ‘I Didn’t Realise You Thought That’ (photo by the author)

Game 2 – ‘I Can’t Move With You’ (2025)

The other two games are in the tunnel rooms between the outer corridors, each entered by the same heavy velvet curtains. To be honest moving in and out of these curtained spaces was an enjoyable experience in itself, reminiscent of visits to fairground attractions or playing hide and seek when a child. All this is helped by the way the room is completely dark except for a lurid blood-red light shining on the table, as per a horror movie.

This second game is titled ‘I Can’t Move With You’ and is a table like those used in seances or with Ouija boards. The idea is you and four or five other sit at the table and respond to statements which appear on the huge video screen facing it.

Installation view of The Delusion by Danielle Brathwaite-Shirley @ Serpentine North showing the table for the game ‘I Can’t Move With You’ (photo by the author)

Since I’ve quoted the first game’s instructions in full, I might as well do the same for this one. Feel free to skip.

INSTRUCTIONS

PLACE YOUR HANDS FLAT ON THE TABLE. TILT THE TABLE TOGETHER TO MOVE. WORK WITH THOSE AROUND YOU. COORDINATE. COOPERATE. COMMUNICATE. HOW WELL CAN YOU WORK TOGETHER? BE HONEST.

HOW TO PLAY

Take a seat around ‘The Unifier’. Using the table as the controller, players must cooperate and work together to win the game. Move a ball through maze-like levels, navigating obstacles and bumping into non-playable characters to advance. Tilt the table in different directions to guide the ball. The more the group cooperates, the easier it becomes.

ABOUT THIS GAME

This game is a homage to both ouija boards—or ‘spirit boards’, believed to convey messages from spirits—and the classic marble-platformer ‘Monkey Ball’ (2001), which popularised the game mechanic of tilting a level to control a ball. Circular gathering spaces—from the Greek Agora to King Arthur’s Round Table to the United Nations—have long symbolised representation, inclusion and diplomacy. In this game, the tilting table becomes a metaphor for negotiation, cooperation and collective action.

Since I visited with three friends, this might have been fun to play except for one tiny problem – it was broken. A visitor assistant explained that the link between the table and the video screen wasn’t working. As an expert in IT I asked whether they’d tried turning it off and turning it back on again. Then I left, smiling at the thought that if you build an entire display around IT and digital tech you should be prepared for the kind of IT issues which afflict all other IT and digital tech i.e. it frequently breaks, won’t load properly, needs to be constantly upgraded etc etc.

Game 3 – ‘I Don’t Know If I Can be Honest In Front of You’ (2025)

In the second of the two through-rooms is the third game, ‘I Don’t Know If I Can be Honest In Front of You’ and this was both 1) working and 2) easy enough to grasp in outline. Facing a massive digital screen are three ‘guns’ on stands, whose muzzles are, for arty reasons, have household lampshades clipped to them. You stand behind your gun, finger on trigger, and fire at stuff on the screen. I actually did this for a few minutes and balls from my gun appeared to impact on what I think were floating signs or images. I had no idea what I was doing or why and so, after a few minutes of pointless firing, went to find my friends. Only now, days later, do I have time and leisure to read the elaborate instructions and understand what the game was about.

INSTRUCTIONS

PLACE YOUR HANDS ON THE LAMP. TURN THE LAMP TO AIM. PULL THE TRIGGER TO COLLECT AND CAST VOTES. ANSWER THE QUESTIONS OUT LOUD. AIM CAREFULLY. WHAT YOU CHOOSE WILL BE A REFLECTION OF YOUR VIEWS. A REFLECTION OF HOW YOU THINK. A REFLECTION OF WHO YOU ARE. WHAT VIEWS DO YOU HOLD? BE HONEST.

HOW TO PLAY

Lamp-shaped guns—’the validators’—are this game’s controller. Each controller is represented by a reticle on screen. The game unfolds through a series of questions, using the language of voting: players decide what to shoot, or who to censor, with each shot they take.

As usual, there is a vast amount of text and commentary on her own game.

ABOUT THIS GAME

This game invites players to take their turn on the soapbox, drawing on the history of public debate at Hyde Park’s famous Speakers’ Corner, established in the mid-19th century. Speakers’ Corner is one of the last surviving site of over 100 original public spaces for free speech in London. Over the years, speakers have included Jamaican political activist Marcus Garvey, British Black Panthers leader Altheia Jones-LeCointe and members of the Suffragettes.

Hyde Park was also the site of the Tyburn Gallows (c. 1196–1783), hosting tens of thousands of public executions, along with the final speeches of the condemned. The game references 1990s first-person shooter arcade games such as ‘The House of the Dead’ (1997) and one of the artist’s personal favourites, ‘Doom’ (1993)—a point-and-shoot, rail shooter with mounted guns and a fixed movement path. ‘Doom’ caused a media sensation on release, sparking congressional hearings over its alleged use of violence—but it also inspired a fan-driven ‘modding revolution’—with players creating their own modified versions of the game, making alterations to its content, creating new features and building on top of the developer’s original design. This game challenges players to think critically about judgement, censorship and power in both historical and contemporary contexts

I had no idea what it was about so didn’t have a clue that it was supposedly registering votes on ‘opinions’ and so no idea what they were meant to be opinions about. You’re apparently supposed to answer the questions out loud but I was in the room for 4 or 5 minutes taking photos and I didn’t hear anyone say anything. As to the idea that the game ‘challenges players to think critically about judgement, censorship and power in both historical and contemporary contexts’, this is so wildly inapt and irrelevant to my own experience of the thing, that it, too, made me laugh out loud.

In passing I note the extremely selective and self-referential nature of Brathwaite-Shirley’s list of topics addressed at Speakers’ Corner i.e. Marcus Garvey, the Black Panthers and the Suffragettes. I think speakers may also have addressed issues like the existence of God, pacifism, trade union rights, socialism and communism, the campaign for nuclear disarmament and many more. As an old school left-winger I never cease to be amazed at how narrowly focused on the same three or four issues woke culture is (gender and race and refugees) to the exclusion of hundreds of other social and political issues, and this exhibition does nothing to alter that perception, indeed only confirms it.

Summary of the games

‘Let’s have the difficult conversations,’ Danielle Brathwaite-Shirley bravely writes, but the experience of me and my three friends (all women, all feminists) was they didn’t even realise the games were meant to be triggering ‘conversations’ about anything. None of us realised the first game was even a game, the second game was broken, and the third game felt like a standard ‘shoot-’em-up’ attraction and, when nothing much seemed to be exploding, we all got bored and wandered off.

If any of this is meant to prompt ‘candid conversations’ and ‘exchanges of opinions’ about ‘difficult subjects’ then I think they scored 0 out of 10. More broadly, Serpentine claim that the show is:

a multiplayer immersive experience run on game engines that explores themes of polarisation, censorship and social connection… that allows people to work through difficult emotions and feelings… the project invites participants to pause, discuss, and reconnect… the exhibition will encourage open discussions, shared reflections, and ways to engage with some of the most challenging sociopolitical issues we face today…

This all reads brilliantly, doesn’t it? But none of it happened.

The work is not about what’s in the games, it’s about what comes out of people’s mouths, enabling new connections and conversations in real-time.

‘Out of people’s mouths’? But I didn’t hear anyone ‘shouting’ their opinions or engaging ‘with some of the most challenging sociopolitical issues we face today’ – all I heard was people asking each other if this was a game and how it worked or if it was working at all.

It felt like Brathwaite-Shirley was asking far, far too much of visitors to a gallery, completely unprepared for the barrage of instructions and requirements for her complicated and advanced games.

She writes as if everyone was match fit to give sophisticated responses to games which none of us even understood. And even if we had understood them, does she seriously expect that English people would ‘shout’ their views about controversial social issues in front of complete strangers? The English? Has she met anyone from England before, the shyest people in the world? And English art gallery-goers? Has she been to an art gallery before? The kind of people who visit them are respectful, quiet and petrified of touching anything in case they set off an alarm. To expect them all to behave like excitable teenagers playing with familiar games in the comfort of their games rooms, yelling out opinions and commands and comments. shows a hilarious lack of understanding of your average gallery goer and/or an extraordinary level of self-centred delusion.

The Delusion

Speaking of which, it’s only now, days after visiting it, that I have time to figure out what the title of the exhibition actually means.

The entire thing is not so much Hammer House of Horror as I first thought, but is apparently themed around a post-apocalyptic world which was shaped by a single catastrophic event – ‘the Day of Division’. In this imagined future, society has broken into closed, dogmatic factions, each clinging to its own version of truth, community and survival. All of which I take to be a satire on the present day when, as we know, social media promised to bring us all together into communities of interest but has in fact driven huge wedges throughout society dividing people into toxic, hate-filled factions. Well done, social media.

There also appear to be different characters in this world, some of them reversions of characters Brathwaite-Shirley devised for previous games, and for a graphic novel she wrote – although even with the Visitor Guide in front of me, I can’t quite figure out who these are. (On closer examination, I think they’re described on page 10).

There are also, apparently, ‘loops’. Loops?

YOU CAN EXPERIENCE THE EXHIBITION THROUGH THREE DIFFERENT EMOTIONAL STATES, CALLED ‘DELUSION LOOPS’. EACH LOOP PRESENTS SCENARIOS INSPIRED BY THE EMOTIONAL STATES OF HOPE, FEAR AND HATE.

WHICH LOOP COMES NEXT DEPENDS ON HOW VISITORS INTERACT WITH THE GAMES WITHIN THE EXHIBITION SPACE.

EACH LOOP IS ACCOMPANIED BY ITS OWN SOUNDSCAPE, DIFFERENT VERSIONS OF THE GAMES AND CHANGING ELEMENTS IN THE GALLERY ENVIRONMENT.

Reads well, doesn’t it, but I didn’t notice any of these at the time and now, days later, still have no idea what it was supposed to mean in practice.

Promotional video

This video is better than most gallery promo videos because it is long enough for the artist to explain her motivation, and for other voices to explain how the games were developed, tested and deployed.

Thoughts

Watching the teams in this video apparently playing the games with great enjoyment is rather irritating because I strongly suspect everyone filmed had had the games fully explained to them, or were playing with members of the production team who could explain and give tips, and so helped each other learn get proficient at them. Like games in real life. Under those circumstances, they look like a lot of fun. But not so much if you’ve just wandered in off the street and haven’t a clue what’s going on. So my conclusions would be:

1. For visitors If you’re thinking of visiting this exhibition, read the full Visitor Guide beforehand, study the instructions for the games, and watch this and any other related videos, so that you get the most out of your visit.

2. To Danielle Brathwaite-Shirley and the Serpentine Gallery If you want random visitors who’ve wandered in out of Hyde Park or read a paragraph or two about the show on your website, to understand and get the most out of this exhibition, then please provide 1) clearer signage about where the games are, and 2) much, much, much clearer instructions about how to play them, how to understand them, and what kind of conversations they’re meant to be prompting.


Related links

Related reviews

A Story of South Asian Art: Mrinalini Mukherjee and Her Circle @ the Royal Academy

Upstairs at the Royal Academy, the three rooms of the Jillian and Arthur M. Sackler Wing of Galleries are currently given over to an exhibition of modern-ish art from south India. The show is based around the figure of the female Indian artist and sculptor Mrinalini Mukherjee (1949 to 2015) but doesn’t stop there. Both her parents, Benode Behari Mukherjee (1904 to 1980) and Leela Mukherjee (1916 to 2002), were artists and we are shown quite a lot of their work too along with their biographies i.e. they taught at Kala Bhavana in Santiniketan, the pioneering art school founded by poet and polymath Rabindranath Tagore.

Mukherjee was strongly influenced by a mentor at her art college in the Indian city of Baroda, K. G. Subramanyan, and we get a selection of his work. At college Mukherjee was part of a group or cohort of young artists and we are introduced to work by some of these, namely Gulammohammed Sheikh (b.1937) and Nilima Sheikh (b.1945). Lastly, when the group moved to new Delhi, they encountered the older artist Jagdish Swaminathan (1928 to 1994) whose exploration of tribal art and iconography encouraged their efforts to create an authentic Indian art, free of Western influences.

So in these three rooms is gathered the work of seven distinct artists, from two different generations, who worked across a wide range of media, in a great diversity of styles, all of them consciously reacting against and trying to escape from European aesthetics and methods. The show features paintings, ceramics, collages and drawings, sculptures in hemp and clay and bronze, and some enormous painted screens.

Installation view of ‘A Story of South Asian Art: Mrinalini Mukherjee and Her Circle’ @ the Royal Academy (photo by the author)

This range and diversity makes the exhibition a challenging experience to process and understand. There is quite a lot to like and enjoy, alongside much that is puzzling, and quite a lot which seemed, well, bad.

Mukherjee’s hemp sculptures

Mukherjee had a long career, active from the 1970s right up to her death in 2015. She painted and drew but her reputation rests on the large sculptures she made from dyed and woven hemp fibre arranged over metal frames to create large, impressive semi-abstract shapes.

Jauba by Mrinalini Mukherjee (2000) Hemp fibre and steel © Tate. Courtesy of Mrinalini Mukherjee Foundation

I didn’t realise it until a wall label pointed it out, but there is a deliberate evocation of female genitalia. Once it’s pointed out I suppose I can see the folds of labia to left and right, and even the difference between the large vaginal opening at the bottom and the smaller urethral opening above it, but hesitate to go any further. My gallery partner, who rarely bothers to read the wall labels, just warmed to the tumbling feel of the thing, and to its arrangement of folds and colours.

Seeking a post-colonial art

The key point, which is made repeatedly throughout the show, is that Mukherjee grew up in the post-independence generation who were powerfully committed to breaking free of colonial, European values and aesthetics and part of this was a very conscious return to and promotion of native Indian folk arts and crafts.

Benode Behari Mukherjee (1904 to 1980)

The curators really emphasise these artists’ wish to escape Western influence and create a truly independent Indian art and in some works maybe they do. But my own impression was the opposite: I was struck by how many of the paintings in particular very clearly showed the influence of modern Western art. A number of the paintings seemed to me to be copying between-the-wars Picasso, cartoon faces with both eyes visible on the same side of the nose, that kind of thing.

Here’s the work by Mukherjee’s father, Benode Behari Mukherjee, which the press people make available to us, a work made from coloured paper in the 1950s and it seems to me a straight pastiche of Matisse’s later coloured-paper cutouts. Maybe the brown skin of the central figure is a nod to the Indian nature of the work but surely it’s dwarfed by the utterly Matisse-an conception.

Lady with Fruit by Benode Behari Mukherjee (1957) © Tate. Courtesy of Mrinalini Mukherjee Foundation

Leela Mukherjee (1916 to 2002)

Here’s the work the press office makes available to represent Mukherjee’s mother, Leela Mukherjee. I don’t want to harp on about this too much but here again, I struggled to discern the distinctly Indian quality because the shape of the faces and the generally primitive working of the wood reminded me very much of African tribal art, such as you see in the British Museum.

Schematic Seated Figure by Leela Mukherjee (1950s-80s) Taimur Hassan Collection. Photo by Justin Piperger. Courtesy of Mrinalini Mukherjee Foundation

Gulammohammed Sheikh (b.1937)

Similarly, here are two works from 60 years later by Mukherjee’s friend Gulammohammed Sheikh, depicting (on the left) birds which might be cranes and (on the right) a kind of dragony-peacock bird, depicted in tall, narrow images which instantly reminded me of classical Chinese art. I can’t see anything Indian about them at all, they radiate Chinese shape, composition and styling.

Two paintings by Gulammohammed Sheikh 2018 to 2024 (photo by the author)

K. G. Subramanyan

K.G. Subramanyan (1924-2016) studied under under Mukherjee’s father and, according to the curators, developed into a ‘prolific artist-educator’. He rallied fellow artists to mine folk and craft traditions in unconventional ways, forging a postcolonial vision of Indian modernism. Here’s a gouache work demonstrating what this means in practice.

Untitled by K. G. Subramanyan (c.1950s) Taimur Hassan Collection. Photo by Justin Piperger © Uma Padmanabhan

Now this does have the amateurish quality I associate with modern Indian art, the very basic, child-level depiction of the human form which I saw just a few months ago in the extensive display of work by Indian artist Arpita Singh (born in 1937) at the Serpentine.

The exhibition’s long timeframe

Another challenge presented by the exhibition is the long timeframe it covers. The earliest work is from the very early 1970s whereas the most recent is from the 2020s. That’s a very long period of time. During that half century the international art world has changed out of all recognition. It has outgrown its European and American origins to become truly international. It has, for some time, promoted and valued artists from an enormous range of cultures, including many indigenous traditions such as Aboriginal art, which is now highly prized.

The patriotic, post-independence drive to create an authentic Indian art which the curators attribute as a central motivation to Mukherjee, her friends and colleagues, has long since become history. An ethnocentric perspective is now seen as reactionary and dangerous, witness liberal repugnance at the rise of right-wing nationalisms in countries around the world, including Hindu Nationalist sentiment in Mukherjee’s own India.

The modern art world floats above individual countries, in a kind of multicultural, cosmopolitan, liberal, enlightened, post-gender world of its own. So Mukherjee and her friends’ insistence on an Indian nationalist art, as well as her particular interest in the old-fashioned gender binary between phallic and vulvic forms, all seem rather quaint now.

To look specifically at Mukherjee’s work, when she began ‘sculpting’ in fabrics in the 1970s this was a radical and innovative technique, quite obviously rejecting the whole ‘carving in stone or marble’ tradition of the West. But by the time she began exhibiting in Europe, in the 1990s, it was a lot less unique. Numerous other artists were working in the same vein.

Jagdish Swaminathan (1928 to 1994)

Back to the art, here’s the example of Jagdish Swaminathan which we are given. This painting of a thin sliver of a bird singing above a mildly phallic lily plant against a big abstract yellow background is from Swaminathan’s ‘Bird, Tree and Mountain’ series. We find him in the late ’60s and early ’70s rejecting any type of naturalism, along with Western modernism, and instead returning to tribal and folk visual traditions. This probably is a good example of a non-western, Indian visual style although I’m not sure I like it. Do I not like it because it is not Western? No, because I love lots of non-Western art starting with Aboriginal art and lots of African art. It’s more that it’s like Western art but without enough real kick and originality.

Untitled (Lily by my Window) by Jagdish Swaminathan (early 1970s) Photo courtesy of Sotheby’s Inc © 2025 © J. Swaminathan Foundation

Gallery

A selection of photos I took to indicate the (sometimes bewildering and confusing) range of works on show.

Untitled by K.G. Subramanyan 1955-9

I liked this because it reminds me of something almost exactly the same I’ve seen by Paul Klee, in other words a European model or origin.

Untitled by K.G. Subramanyan 1955-9 (photo by the author)

Intertwined by Leela Mukherjee

Relatively small, crudely carved and unfinished wooden sculptures.

From left to right, Figure with Raised Hand, Intertwined Figures and Intertwined Figures II, by Leela Mukherjee, 1950s to ’80s (photo by the author)

Landscape 1968

My partner liked this because of the simplicity of the black silhouette but also the ambiguity of whether it’s some hills and a tree, as it appears at first glance, or whether the two lines dangling down in the middle indicate that it’s a human being.

Landscape by Gulammohammed Sheikh (1968) (photo by the author)

Untitled by Jagdish Swaminathan (1980)

According to the curators:

By the 1980s, Jagdish Swaminathan’s art reflected his deepening engagement with India’s tribal and Indigenous traditions. Moving away from the pristine colour planes of his earlier works, he adopted earthy palettes, textured surfaces, and symbolic forms. Shapes such as triangles and serpentine lines evoked mountains and snakes, resonant with Hindu mythologies of the god Shiva. These later canvases fuse abstraction with spiritual metaphor, recalling Swaminathan’s lifelong insistence that art should reveal nature and myth in their primal, symbolic essence.

Not knowing very much about ‘India’s tribal and Indigenous traditions’, I liked it because it reminded me of the brown abstract works my parents picked up at Heals or Habitat in the 1970s. And then of Paul Klee’s beautiful abstract shapes and patterns, which also often include gold or striking highlights.

Untitled by Jagdish Swaminathan, 1980 (photo by the author)

Also because of the rough impasto finish, especially of the two mysterious orange glyphs written across the image.

Detail of Untitled by Jagdish Swaminathan, 1980 (photo by the author)

Songspace by Nilima Sheikh (1995)

‘Songspace’ is the name of a series of scroll paintings by Nilima Sheikh, which I prefer to think of as ‘hangings’. Apparently there are ten in the series, of which 5 are hung in this exhibition in such a way as to create a kind of alcove into which you can step and be surrounded on 3 sides. Apparently the use of casein tempera paint on canvas is very distinctive and gives them their light and floating feel. Most of the surface is made up of abstract shapes, some of which may be landscapes in brown or green or red. Scattered in these shapes are wispy human figures which, apparently, reference Indian folktales, especially from Kashmir. They reference the style of classical Indian miniatures only blown up to wall size and refracted through a postmodern sensibility.

Songspace by Nilima Sheikh (1995) (photo by the author)

I liked the size, and the format of the hanging scroll, and the light and uplifting colouring but, as with most of these works, wasn’t impressed by, or was actively put off by, the scrappy amateurishness of the human figures.

Snake Column I by Mrinalini Mukherjee (1995)

According to the curators:

This terracotta sculpture is one of two ‘snake columns’ that reflect Mrinalini Mukherjee’s engagement with fertility and vitality. The cylindrical, phallic form recalls the ‘lingam’ of Shiva, while the serpent motifs and raised hood canopy reference Bankura terracotta vases dedicated to Manasa, a goddess of fertility. Like ‘Adi Pushp II’, nearby, the work channels sexuality as a generative power, fusing sacred imagery with organic, body-like forms that pulse with energy.

Snake Column I by Mrinalini Mukherjee (1995) (photo by the author)

If it as deliberately phallic as they say, then the snakes could as easily be sperm fighting their way to the front of the queue.

Forest Flame IV by Mrinalini Mukherjee (2009)

According to the curators:

In her final years, Mrinalini Mukherjee turned from hemp to bronze, creating sculptures that progressively grew in scale and ambition. Casting leaves, fronds and branches into molten form, she transformed nature into something both corporeal and otherworldly. ‘Forest Flame IV’ recalls the striking ‘Flame of the Forest’ tree of Santiniketan, which bursts into vivid orange blossoms each spring. Here, a trunk-like column erupts into flame-like petals, conflating vegetal growth with bodily emergence. Light animates the textured bronze surface, giving the work a sense of continual unfolding and transformation.

Forest Flame IV by Mrinalini Mukherjee (2009) (photo by the author)

I didn’t particularly like these because, as I said much earlier, by the 2000s, art had become so globalised, with so many artists creating so many kinds of object, that Mukherjee’s don’t really stand out. Downstairs at the Royal Academy are metal sculptures by Anselm Kiefer which are not unlike this. What made her very distinctive in the 1970s and ’80s had become utterly diluted 30 years later.

Adi Pushp II Mrinalini Mukherjee (2009)

To finish, back to what she did best, hemp sculptures. This one supposedly derives from her interest in botany and flowers and ‘adi pushp’ means ‘first flower’. But the curators go on to tell us that:

The sculpture’s central bulges and folds evoke human sexual organs, transforming the flower into a potent emblem of generative energy, and affirming nature as a vital, erotic life force.

None of which – the use of sublimated sexual imagery, the idea of sex as a central force in human nature – is at all distinctively ‘Indian’ but the common currency of humankind and any number of artworks, traditional or contemporary.

Adi Pushp II Mrinalini Mukherjee (2009) (photo by the author)

At the end of this small but sometimes confusing, sometimes enjoyable, sometimes boring, sometimes lovely exhibition, it looked less to me like a tumble of sexual organs than a comfortable-looking chair to have a nice sit-down in.


Related links

Related reviews

Selected Stories by Katherine Mansfield – 3

‘I feel as though I were living in a world of strange beings—do you?’
(Edna speaking for all of us, in ‘Something Childish but Very Natural’)

And years passed. Perhaps the war is long since over—there is no village outside at all—the streets are quiet under the grass. I have an idea this is the sort of thing one will do on the very last day of all—sit in an empty café and listen to a clock ticking until—.
(Vision of the end)

This is the third of three blog posts dealing with the Oxford University Press volume, ‘Selected Stories by Katherine Mansfield’. In posts one and two I summarised the stories (stories 1 to 15 in post one, 16 to 33 in post 2). In this third blog post I look at some themes and images which recur throughout the stories.

Skies

Mansfield likes skies. No matter where they’re set (New Zealand, London, Paris), and whether she’s among the posh upper classes or farm hands or the shabby genteel, all her stories include some reference to, some description of, the sky. After a while I looked out for the sky description in each story and came to wonder why they were so ubiquitous. Maybe Mansfield was always looking up to the sky and wishing to escape the dreary human scene. Or it’s a symbol of wishing to escape the fragility of her increasingly ill body into something eternal and transcendent.

All that day the heat was terrible. The wind blew close to the ground; it rooted among the tussock grass, slithered along the road, so that the white pumice dust swirled in our faces, settled and sifted over us and was like a dry-skin itching for growth on our bodies… Hundreds of larks shrilled; the sky was slate colour, and the sound of the larks reminded me of slate pencils scraping over its surface.

It was half-past two in the afternoon. The sun hung in the faded blue sky like a burning mirror, and away beyond the paddocks the blue mountains quivered and leapt like sea.
(Millie)

Although it was so brilliantly fine – the blue sky powdered with gold and great spots of light like white wine splashed over the Jardins Publiques – Miss Brill was glad that she had decided on her fur. The air was motionless, but when you opened your mouth there was just a faint chill, like a chill from a glass of iced water before you sip, and now and again a leaf came drifting–from nowhere, from the sky
(Miss Brill)

The train had flung behind the roofs and chimneys. They were swinging into the country, past little black woods and fading fields and pools of water shining under an apricot evening sky.

Behind the rotunda the slender trees with yellow leaves down drooping, and through them just a line of sea, and beyond the blue sky with gold-veined clouds.
(Miss Brill)

Out of the smudgy little window you could see an immense expanse of sad-looking sky, and whenever there were clouds they looked very worn, old clouds, frayed at the edges, with holes in them, or dark stains like tea.
(Ma Parker)

It had been raining all the morning, late summer rain, warm, heavy, quick, and now the sky was clear, except for a long tail of little clouds, like duckings, sailing over the forest.
(Mr and Mrs Dove)

When he looked up again there were fields, and beasts standing for shelter under the dark trees. A wide river, with naked children splashing in the shallows, glided into sight and was gone again. The sky shone pale, and one bird drifted high like a dark fleck in a jewel.
(Marriage à la Mode)

Posh people

Katherine was born into a socially prominent, upper-middle class New Zealand family. Distant relatives included novelists and painters. She was sent to an elite school. All this explains the confidently upper middle-class tone, settings and characters of many of her stories.

‘My word, Laura, you do look stunning!’ said Laurie. ‘What an absolutely topping hat!’
(The Garden Party)

But at the same time, this privileged world is subject to all kinds of underminings, velleities and subtleties. Although the incidents described appear, on the face of it, very straightforward, they are always subtly undermined by, inflected by… by what exactly? By the hidden depths of life, of sensibility, of meanings which are sometimes only hinted at or, in some of the most delirious stories, often don’t make sense.

Working class people

But in other stories she just as confidently captures the speech rhythms of the servant class. Something that interested me was how a servant in 1890s New Zealand (in, say, ‘Prelude’) sounds just like a servant sounds in Virginia Woolf 30 years later, or in Noel Coward’s plays which include working class characters (like Cavalcade or This Happy Breed). Did the working classes all across the white Empire have the same stock phraseology and rhythm? Did they all sound the same?

Here’s Mansfield impersonating the voice of Alice the serving girl. I’ve highlighted in bold the working class locutions.

Oh, Alice was wild. She wasn’t one to mind being told, but there was something in the way Miss Beryl had of speaking to her that she couldn’t stand. Oh, that she couldn’t. It made her curl up inside, as you might say, and she fair trembled.

Is this how the proles actually spoke? Or how they speak in books i.e. was it a convention? I suspect it is the phraseology and tone they used because it’s the same in all the talkies from the 1930s and ’40s. Unless that, also, is a convention?

Short sentences

Tackling Mansfield’s prose style is too massive a task for me. I’ll just register the importance of short sentences in (some of) her stories. On the whole her sentences are not long and incantatory like Conrad or compiled into long, repetitive paragraphs like Lawrence. Quite the opposite: they are mostly to-the-point and practical, sometimes deliberately curt.

An awkward little silence fell. Mrs Sheridan fidgeted with her cup.

Should she go back even now? No, too late. This was the house. It must be.

Not all the sentences are this short, of course. But it’s often these short sentences which anchor the texts. They are like rivets. Bolts. Nailing the fleeting perceptions down like canvas in a wind.

Like painting

Often Mansfield’s prose consists of individual lines which are like individual brushstrokes, like elements of a painting, and of a very post-impressionist painting at that. She takes realistic subjects but does them with wild colouring, as if by the German Expressionists or the French Fauves.

Here is just one paragraph from ‘An Indiscreet Journey’, which I’ve split up into its separate sentences so you can see how distinct and freestanding each sentence is, each one like a broad vivid brushstroke.

Through an open door I can see a kitchen, and the cook in a white coat breaking eggs into a bowl and tossing the shells into a corner.

The blue and red coats of the men who are eating hang upon the walls. Their short swords and belts are piled upon chairs.

Heavens! what a noise. The sunny air seemed all broken up and trembling with it.

A little boy, very pale, table to table, taking the orders, and poured me out a glass of purple coffee.

Ssssb, came from the eggs. They were in a pan.

The woman rushed from behind the counter and began to help the boy. Toute de suite, tout’ suite! she chirruped to the loud customers.

There came a clatter of plates and poppop of corks being drawn.

The purple coffee feels very Fauve, as do the blue and red and white coats. They remind me of the big broad vivid brushstrokes of the extravagantly anti-realist German Expressionists.

Self-Portrait with a Model by Ernst Ludwig Kirchner (1907)

There are many, many, many other descriptions where you notice the presence of colour. They’re generally bright primary colours, although this is partly a function of the limitation of the English language. English has hundreds of words or phrases for colours, but most writers use only a handful, only ten or so. Which is a bit boring. But Mansfield consistently embeds these ten or so colours in wonderfully vivid phraseology.

There was a lovely pink light over everything. He saw it glowing in the river, and the people walking towards him had pink faces and pink hands.

Sound effects

Note, also, in the extract I broke up into individual sentences, Mansfield’s sensitivity to sounds: Ssssb go the eggs, poppop go the corks. And the accumulated noise is so loud that it makes the air break up and tremble with it. So as well as colour, in all her stories Mansfield is very alert to sounds and noises.

The clock ticked to a soothing lilt, C’est cac’est ca. In the kitchen the waiting-boy was washing up. I heard the ghostly chatter of the dishes.

And the point of the following paragraph is the way it leads up to the onomatopoeic description of the train sound at the end.

Outside, stars shone between wispy clouds, and the moon fluttered like a candle flame over a pointed spire. The shadows of the dark plume-like trees waved on the white houses. Not a soul to be seen. No sound to be heard but the Hsh! Hsh! of a far-away train, like a big beast shuffling in its sleep.
(An Indiscreet Journey)

Same happens in this paragraph:

It had been nice in the Ladies’ Cabin. The stewardess was so kind and changed her money for her and tucked up her feet. She lay on one of the hard pink-sprigged couches and watched the other passengers, friendly and natural, pinning their hats to the bolsters, taking off their boots and skirts, opening dressing-cases and arranging mysterious rustling little packages, tying their heads up in veils before lying down. Thud, thud, thud, went the steady screw of the steamer.
(The Little Governess)

Transcribing sounds

She doesn’t just describe sounds but goes to some lengths to enact them, to directly transcribe them into language. As in the first of these sentences in ‘The Man without a Temperament’:

‘Hoo-e-zip-zoo-oo!’ sounded the lift. The iron cage clanged open. Light dragging steps sounded across the hall, coming towards him…

Or:

Over a bed of scarlet waxen flowers some big black insects ‘zoom-zoomed‘.

And as the man without a temperament comes across some old Italian women in his walk:

At a fountain ahead of him two old hags were beating linen. As he passed them they squatted back on their haunches, stared, and then their ‘A-hak-kak-kak!’ with the slap, slap, of the stone on the linen sounded after him.

And the sound of the landscape itself:

Ah-Aah!’ sounded the sleepy sea. And from the bush there came the sound of little streams flowing, quickly, lightly, slipping between the smooth stones, gushing into ferny basins and out again; and there was the splashing of big drops on large leaves, and something else–what was it?–a faint stirring and shaking, the snapping of a twig and then such silence that it seemed some one was listening.

For the duration of reading one of her stories, you become as sensitised to light, colour and sound as she evidently was, and it’s marvellous.

Pings

Mansfield likes the word ‘ping’. In ‘Mr and Mrs Dove’ the protagonist goes for a walk after the rain.

It had been raining all the morning, late summer rain, warm, heavy, quick, and now the sky was clear, except for a long tail of little clouds, like ducklings, sailing over the forest. There was just enough wind to shake the last drops off the trees; one warm star splashed on his hand. Ping!

In ‘Psychology’, the tense encounter between the passionate friends who are trying to ignore their physical attraction is expressed in pregnant silences during which inanimate objects make ironic noises, including the tell-tale ping:

The clock struck six merry little pings and the fire made a soft flutter.

Listen to these sounds in ‘The Daughters of the Colonel’:

The blinds were down, a cloth hung over the mirror, a sheet hid the bed; a huge fan of white paper filled the fireplace. Constantia timidly put out her hand; she almost expected a snowflake to fall. Josephine felt a queer tingling in her nose, as if her nose was freezing. Then a cab klop-klopped over the cobbles below, and the quiet seemed to shake into little pieces.

A perfect fountain of bubbling notes shook from the barrel-organ, round, bright notes, carelessly scattered.

Some little sparrows, young sparrows they sounded, chirped on the window-ledge. Yeep–eyeep–yeep. But Josephine felt they were not sparrows, not on the window-ledge. It was inside her, that queer little crying noise. Yeep–eyeep–yeep. Ah, what was it crying, so weak and forlorn?

In ‘An Indiscreet Journey’:

I ran down the echoing stairs—strange they sounded, like a piano flicked by a sleepy housemaid.

In ‘Prelude’:

She rolled herself up into a round but she did not go to sleep. From all over the house came the sound of steps. The house itself creaked and popped. Loud whispering voices came from downstairs. Once she heard Aunt Beryl’s rush of high laughter, and once she heard a loud trumpeting from Burnell blowing his nose.

And:

A blow-fly buzzed, a fan of whitey steam came out of the kettle, and the lid kept up a rattling jig as the water bubbled. The clock ticked in the warm air, slow and deliberate, like the click of an old woman’s knitting needle, and sometimes–for no reason at all, for there wasn’t any breeze–the blind swung out and back, tapping the window.

Mansfield’s world is alive with wonderful, subtle sounds.

Silence

Sound is often contrasted with absolute silence, to the intensification of both:

In waves, in clouds, in big round whirls the dust comes stinging, and with it little bits of straw and chaff and manure. There is a loud roaring sound from the trees in the gardens, and standing at the bottom of the road outside Mr. Bullen’s gate she can hear the sea sob: “Ah! . . . Ah! . . . Ah-h!” But Mr. Bullen’s drawing-room is as quiet as a cave.
(The Wind Blows)

Something similar in ‘At the Bay’:

Ah-Aah! sounded the sleepy sea. And from the bush there came the sound of little streams flowing, quickly, lightly, slipping between the smooth stones, gushing into ferny basins and out again; and there was the splashing of big drops on large leaves, and something else–what was it?–a faint stirring and shaking, the snapping of a twig and then such silence that it seemed some one was listening.

Voices

And human voices, of course, are included in this world of sounds, of strange sounds, of common sounds which have become strange, alien and intensified:

Her voice was quite calm, but it was not her voice any more. It was like the voice you might imagine coming out of a tiny, cold sea-shell swept high and dry at last by the salt tide…
(Je ne parle pas francais)

Their laughing voices charged with excitement beat against the glassed-in verandah like birds, and a strange saltish smell came from the basket.
(The Man without a Temperament)

Or the other, non-verbal sounds that people make:

Wheeling, tumbling, swooping, the laughter of the Honeymoon Couple dashed against the glass of the verandah.
(The Man without a Temperament)

At last [Fenella] was inside [her bedclothes], and while she lay there panting, there sounded from above a long, soft whispering, as though some one was gently, gently rustling among tissue paper to find something. It was grandma saying her prayers…
(The Voyage)

Smells

Once you become aware of it, you realise that all the senses are intensified in Mansfield’s stories. Along with vividly coloured sights and dramatic sounds go strongly flavoured smells.

From the corner by the gate there came the smell of swedes, a great stack of them, wet, rank coloured.

Frau Brechenmacher’s wedding reeks of beer. Cafés smell of cooked cabbage. Rooms are musty. Flowers have powerful aromas. Women’s hair smells of shampoo. Smell is maybe the most fragile sense and the one most overlooked in fiction but Mansfield is as alert to smells, scents and aromas as she is to the world of sounds.

She was softer than a bed and she had a nice smell—a smell that made you bury your head and breathe and breathe it.
(Pearl Button)

The café slowly filled. It grew very warm. Blue smoke mounted from the tables and hung about the haymaker’s hat in misty wreaths. There was a suffocating smell of onion soup and boots and damp cloth.
(An Indiscreet Journey)

I leaned over the table smelling the violets, until the little corporal’s hand closed over mine.
(An Indiscreet Journey)

But Kezia edged up to the storeman. He towered beside her big as a giant and he smelled of nuts and new wooden boxes.
(Prelude)

The drawing-room was full of sweet smelling, silky, rustling ladies and men in black with funny tails on their coats—like beetles.
(Sun and Moon)

How strong the jonquils smelled in the warm room.
(Bliss)

Her room, a Bloomsbury top-floor back, smelled of soot and face powder and the paper of fried potatoes she brought in for supper the night before.
(Picture)

It had been raining—the first real spring rain of the year had fallen—a bright spangle hung on everything, and the air smelled of buds and moist earth.
(Feuille d’Album)

He leaned towards her, and she smelled the warm, stinging scent of the orange peel.
(Dill Pickle)

He began to imagine a series of enchanting scenes which ended with his latest, most charming pupil putting her bare, scented arms round his neck, and covering him with her long, perfumed hair.
(Mr. Reginald Peacock’s Day)

God isn’t the ‘stinging scent’ of the orange peel brilliant? She had a Shakespearian ability for amazing perceptions expressed in astonishingly vivid phrases.

Personifications

Mansfield is restrained in her use of them but many of the stories have at least one telling instance of personification, when an object is given the quality of a person or being.

A shout from the card-players made him turn sharply, and crash! over went the bottle, spilling on the table, the floor—smash! to tinkling atoms. An amazed silence. Through it the drip-drip of the wine from the table onto the floor. It looked very strange dropping so slowly, as though the table were crying.
(An Indiscreet Journey)

She stared at Miss Moss, and the dirty dark red rose under the brim of her hat looked, somehow, as though it shared the blow with her, and was crushed, too.
(Pictures)

There was the great blind bed, with his coat flung across it like some headless man saying his prayers.

The train seemed glad to have left the station. With a long leap it sprang into the dark.
(The Little Governess)

The train began to slow down. The engine gave a long shrill whistle. They were coming to a town. Taller houses, pink and yellow, glided by, fast asleep behind their green eyelids, and guarded by the poplar trees that quivered in the blue air as if on tiptoes, listening.
(The Little Governess)

They sat outside the house in long chairs under coloured parasols. Only Bobby Kane lay on the turf at Isabel’s feet. It was dull, stifling; the day drooped like a flag.

‘Cyril says his father is still very fond of meringues, father dear.’
‘Eh?’ said Grandfather Pinner, curving his hand like a purple meringue-shell over one ear.

Pat the handy-man sprawled in his little room behind the kitchen. His sponge-bag, coat and trousers hung from the door-peg like a hanged man.

A little less dramatically:

Here and there on a rounded wood-pile, that was like the stalk of a huge black mushroom, there hung a lantern, but it seemed afraid to unfurl its timid, quivering light in all that blackness; it burned softly, as if for itself.

All the world comes alive around her, dancing, smelling, dropping, in vivid colours and a huge variety of subtle sounds.

Brilliant phrases

And then there are just scores and scores of brilliant phrasing you want to wrap up and carry around with you forever.

There was the gardener’s cottage, with the dark ilex-tree beside it. A wet, blue thumb of transparent smoke hung above the chimney. It didn’t look real.

Rain was falling, and with the rain it seemed the dark came too, spinning down like ashes. There was a cold bitter taste in the air, and the new-lighted lamps looked sad. Sad were the lights in the houses opposite. Dimly they burned as if regretting something.

Away we jolted and rattled like three little dice that life had decided to have a fling with.

Mansfield was a very great writer indeed, far greater, in my opinion, than Virginia Woolf whose stream-of-consciousness technique is highly advanced but whose actual phrase-making is often quite boring. Mansfield had an ability to wrap an endless number of brilliantly acute perceptions in staggeringly inventive new phrases, in paragraph after paragraph, that exceeds most of the writers I’ve ever read.


Credit

‘Selected Stories’ by Katherine Mansfield was published by Oxford University Press in 2002. I read the 2008 reissued edition.

Related links

Related reviews