At a St Petersburg factory in 1917, rustic scenes depicting golden sunsets and prickly rose bushes gave way to smoking chimneys and telephone wires. The Bolsheviks have recently seized power and annihilated the tradition of tsarist rule. The royal family and their entourage lie dead as autocracy is dismantled to make way for communism. The Imperial Porcelain Manufactory (IPM), a symbol of tsarist decadence, is renamed to the State Porcelain Manufactory and repurposed as a propaganda machine. Stores of fine, snow-white china became a canvas to rouse enthusiasm for the new socialist era, giving this delicate material an alien, almost contradictory second life.
The IPM hallmark was replaced by a cog, sickle, and hammer, tokens symbolizing the newly formed solidarity between agricultural and industrial workers. Increasing the country’s productivity was integral to Bolshevik ideology and so this newly minted porcelain displayed daring images of smoking chimneys, telephone wires, and tower blocks in place of the pastoral scenes and pageantry the factory was once known for.
Some pieces featured effigies of Lenin and included calls to action along the margins. Later known as agitation porcelain, these vibrant compositions hoped to galvanize the working-class citizen. Industrial workers often took the stage, working towards a radiant future, as seen in Mikhail Adamovich and Anton Komashka’s plates, or joyfully taking up arms in Natalia Danko’s figurines.
Contrary to the energy, explosions, and destruction displayed by the blocky, imperialist art style, the takeover of the IPM was part of the Bolshevik’s softer approach of demonstrating respect for Russian patrimony and appealing to the powerful Russian upper middle class. ”The main reason for the Bolsheviks to maintain the porcelain factory was the preservation of cultural heritage,” historian Dr Sjeng Scheijen told BBC Culture.
As a result of the artists having a lot of artistic freedom to experiment, their creations were far from commercial. Sets such as Kazimir Malevich’s half-moon cups and thickset teapots were too bulky and clumsy for day-to-day use. Hand-painted plates and jugs were also destined only for display since their delicate brushwork could not withstand regular use. In fact, the designs intended to raise money for the Russian famine of 1921 never made it to auction; instead, they were showcased in European exhibitions like the 1925 Universelle in Paris. According to Deborah Nicholls-Lee, “As models of artistic ingenuity, the pieces were extraordinary. As tools of propaganda, they were unavoidably flawed.”
After Stalin’s ascent to power, the need for propaganda intensified, heightening the use of art as a vehicle. However, the propaganda was inevitably inauthentic and uninspired, depicting a brutal regime with sappy images of Stalin surrounded by adoring children. Artistic endeavor had been stifled.
Around the beginning of the 1930s, famine and executions had left the Marxist vision of 1917 in tatters. Scheijen agreed that it was an amazing phenomenon, comparing it to “if the Wedgewood factory employed Picasso, Matisse, Kandinsky and all the great modernists at the same time and let them do whatever they wanted.”
The IPM hallmark was replaced by a cog, sickle, and hammer, tokens symbolizing the newly formed solidarity between agricultural and industrial workers. Increasing the country’s productivity was integral to Bolshevik ideology and so this newly minted porcelain displayed daring images of smoking chimneys, telephone wires, and tower blocks in place of the pastoral scenes and pageantry the factory was once known for.
Some pieces featured effigies of Lenin and included calls to action along the margins. Later known as agitation porcelain, these vibrant compositions hoped to galvanize the working-class citizen. Industrial workers often took the stage, working towards a radiant future, as seen in Mikhail Adamovich and Anton Komashka’s plates, or joyfully taking up arms in Natalia Danko’s figurines.
Contrary to the energy, explosions, and destruction displayed by the blocky, imperialist art style, the takeover of the IPM was part of the Bolshevik’s softer approach of demonstrating respect for Russian patrimony and appealing to the powerful Russian upper middle class. ”The main reason for the Bolsheviks to maintain the porcelain factory was the preservation of cultural heritage,” historian Dr Sjeng Scheijen told BBC Culture.
As a result of the artists having a lot of artistic freedom to experiment, their creations were far from commercial. Sets such as Kazimir Malevich’s half-moon cups and thickset teapots were too bulky and clumsy for day-to-day use. Hand-painted plates and jugs were also destined only for display since their delicate brushwork could not withstand regular use. In fact, the designs intended to raise money for the Russian famine of 1921 never made it to auction; instead, they were showcased in European exhibitions like the 1925 Universelle in Paris. According to Deborah Nicholls-Lee, “As models of artistic ingenuity, the pieces were extraordinary. As tools of propaganda, they were unavoidably flawed.”
After Stalin’s ascent to power, the need for propaganda intensified, heightening the use of art as a vehicle. However, the propaganda was inevitably inauthentic and uninspired, depicting a brutal regime with sappy images of Stalin surrounded by adoring children. Artistic endeavor had been stifled.
Around the beginning of the 1930s, famine and executions had left the Marxist vision of 1917 in tatters. Scheijen agreed that it was an amazing phenomenon, comparing it to “if the Wedgewood factory employed Picasso, Matisse, Kandinsky and all the great modernists at the same time and let them do whatever they wanted.”
