Mind racing, my eyes suddenly snap open. Beginning to panic, I flail about, trying to find something—no, anything—tangible to hold onto. After agonizing seconds, I finally feel something. I grip it tightly, my fingers tracing familiar shapes and textures. Calm rushes through my body as I feel the small object’s weight in my hand, a pendant that has been passed from one member of my family to another for centuries. This pendant—a small hammer crossed with a sickle, ringed with stalks of wheat and topped with a star—reminds me of the safety Big Brother has given us. It’s a stark contrast to what I had seen in my dream, the one that woke me so suddenly.
My dream began like those of thousands of members of YSAW, or Young Socialist Artists of the World. I dreamed of the monument we call The Worker and the Collective Farmer, a 75-foot-tall metal statue that towers over Moscow. The leaders of the Soviet Union commissioned it to show the prowess of socialism by exemplifying the strength that comes from a unified proletariat. It was displayed at the 1937 Paris World’s Fair before being returned to the homeland. The beauty of the hammer and the sickle, the man and the woman, and the proletariat body are captured in this timeless piece. It inspires a vision of progress and strength shared by all in the Soviet Union. This sculpture has served as inspiration for YSAW members across the world, to the point that it stands at the opening of many of our dreams.
Following my brief study of this great statue, I was ushered from the square into Moscow State University. As I entered the building, my eyes swept through the halls, halls that support the tallest building in Europe. Stalin had this university built as a temple to Soviet science, reinforcing the importance of realism through its architecture and the ideas taught there. It is a symbol of the achievements the Soviets brought to the world. This is a destination for many seeking a deeper understanding of the motherland and the strength of socialism. The instruction received here helps elevate art and science to a state that praises the whole proletariat. As I was coursing through the corridors of this magnificent building in my dream, I came across yet another inspirational work.
The work I came across captures the beginning of this era of unity. The Unforgettable Meeting captures the moment Stalin meets some of the Soviet Union’s workers. It reminds us of the contributions Stalin made to the proletariat, uniting us. He is the father of this idea and has taught us what art should be. The colors, expressions, and strength of this painting show the joy and friendship between the pioneers of this regime.
As I ponder the Unforgettable Meeting, I recall the painting of Lenin at the Second Congress of Workers, Soldiers, and Peasants. This piece of art captures the unity of the people around the ideas of socialism. It shows that everyone can work towards a common goal. This painting shows how well the greater good is accomplished through the unity of the proletariat.
My mind suddenly drifts back to the Unforgettable Meeting, and suddenly my dream shifts. I am suddenly standing in the crowd with the workers. I feel great joy at this. Perhaps I shall meet Stalin here, in this dream. I wonder if he will give me further instructions on creating a work of art to honor the proletariat. Many of my fellow YSAW members had received such instruction before, and it was something I had always desired.
As I stand, waiting and hopeful for a chance to receive instruction from Stalin, my eyes drift towards what appears to be a window. As I look out, the crowd and window disappear, leaving me in a room of pure white with a screen on one side. As I look, the screen begins to flash with images. These images show paintings that defy all the rules of art we have been given. These paintings show abstract things, things we have been told to never think of. Hundreds of images flash through my dream. They each defy all that I have been taught. My brain hurts as I try to comprehend what this means.
The art of Socialist Realism is simple to understand and requires little interpretation. Who created these blasphemous images! Suddenly, the screen stops on a picture of a banana taped to a wall. I wonder what meaning this has. As I begin to ponder this absurd image, ideas start to fall into place. I recognize the beauty of social realism and the art it inspires. Stalin and the leaders of this union wanted the people to be inspired by what they saw. They wanted art that gripped the soul and inspired nationalism. They wanted people to be proud of who they are. The individual to Stalin is unimportant; it is the crowd that brings the motherland her strength. Then, like darkness filling a valley, I realize something that scares me. Art can be whatever I perceive it to be. It does not need to be dictated by the country’s leaders. At that moment, my mind begins to race.
Have I been controlled and manipulated into thinking that there is only a specific way to create art? All the art that we are told to value and uphold is strikingly similar. Up until now, I haven’t seen any art that isn’t the same style. I begin to wonder and fear. Then, I wake up. Before my dream continues, my eyes open to the pitch blackness of my room, with my mind and heart racing. I grope around and find my pendant. As I continue throughout my morning, I ponder my strange dream of the night before. As I ponder, an idea occurs to me. Today, I will create art to honor people like never before.
I set out my easel and begin to paint. The colors I use today are starkly different from those typically found on the palette of a YSAW worker. I start with black. I take my brush and make strokes unlike those I have ever made before. A short line here, a longer, thicker one there, outlining a mass of people standing. They have no substance and are only recognizable as people by the outlines created by the paint on the white canvas. I gradually add more colors, creating a landscape around the people until a group of outlined bodies stands in contrast to a sunset over a large city. Then, near the center-left of the image, I find an individual and identify him. I paint him in colors that aren’t typical of Socialist Realism. This person stands strong, seeking to move almost against the flow of the hundreds of other blank bodies. As I finish my work, I check the time. I realize I have been painting for almost 15 hours. Though it has been a long day, I am proud of the piece of art I have created. It requires the viewer to think about its meaning. It is deeper than a simple painting of unified workers.
When I return to my workstation the following morning, I find a crowd awaiting me. Then I see my painting, torn to shreds and trampled on the floor. The piece I had worked so hard to create was destroyed. Suddenly, both of my arms were grabbed by men standing on each side of me. I am dragged out and brought to a dark, dank cell. I plead with my captors, seeking to understand what is going on. After hours without receiving a response, I abandon hope. I sit in my cell and begin to ponder the images from my dream two nights ago. Then I see what I have been missing my whole life. Understanding slowly creeps through me, and I grow cold with anger. The country that I have served for so long was punishing me. I had produced a piece of art that questioned the status quo. I remember one of the principles that was repeated to me by so many throughout my life: If it questions the status quo, run and turn it in.
My pendant is the only item I’m allowed in this dark prison. I clutch it tightly, feeling its familiar weight and shape. I begin to realize what it really represents. It no longer represents safety to me. I find that it now brings fear to my thoughts, rather than the peace it brought previously. This pendant, which has accompanied me everywhere I’ve gone for the last 15 years, represents oppression. As I come to this realization, the cell’s darkness becomes almost suffocating. I fling my pendant as far from me as I can, listening to it clink across the concrete floor and stop next to the wall.
Several hours later, the cell feels slightly warmer. I’ve spent time pondering the thoughts of earlier in the day. I realize that art cannot truly be art if it is controlled. While it may have artistic qualities, strict control from someone other than the artist removes an attribute that makes a work of art great. If art is not allowed to flourish freely, its greatest qualities are lost. This quality is that of individual interpretation. Censorship mutes creativity and chokes interpretation.
Suddenly, the door clangs open. Silhouetted in the doorway is a dark figure. The lights flash on, nearly blinding me. Hands reach out and drag me across the ground. I glimpse the pendant lying abandoned against the cold floor. I feel free for the first time in my lifetime as I leave that symbol of oppression behind. I’m dragged across uneven cobblestones into an open courtyard. At the back of the courtyard, a concrete fence stands, riddled with holes. I stand tall as I realize what is about to happen. Now is my chance to stand against this oppression. I am willing to give my life.
A rough strip of burlap is tied tightly against my eyes. I feel the cool concrete on my back and the sun upon my face. Booted feet march into the courtyard. I notice the murmur of a crowd beyond the booted feet. I raise my voice and shout to the crowd. A palpable quiet comes across the crowd. I share the thoughts that have been pressing on my mind, the thoughts and feelings that have grown from my time in the cell. As I speak, I hear the distinct sound of the bolt on a rifle. I stand calmly, knowing I have done what is best. I had a dream that taught me the beauty of interpretation. I shared that, and I created art, the kind of art that big brother does not want. I have done something great. I hear the shots ring out. I slump down, my body failing my resolve. As I breathe my final breath, I realize that I have become an individual free from the bonds of a controlling regime. I am free to fly upon the winds of freedom. Now I know how to create meaningful art—art that breathes with the soul of freedom, beyond the reach of the chains and control.
