Author: fccorn

Bennetts, Marc. Football Dynamo: Modern Russia and the People’s Game. Virgin Books, 2009. 125-141. Print.

“Demoted Denisov demands wage parity at Zenit.” Yahoo! Sport. Yahoo!, 24 Sep 2012. Web. 30 Sep 2013. http://uk.eurosport.yahoo.com/news/demoted-denisov-demands-wage- parity-zenit- 160436532.html

Dranitsyna, Yekaterina. “Zenit to Reach New Heights.” St. Petersburg Times 29 Aug 2006, n. pag. Web. 30 Sep. 2013. <http://sptimes.ru/story/18664?page=2#top>.

Gedeyeva, Ella. “Racist Federation.” Bumbin Orn. N.p., 30 Sep 2013. Web. 26 Sep 2013. <http://www.bumbinorn.com/2008/03/27/racist_federation.html>.

O’Mahony, Mike. Sport in the USSR: Physical Culture-Visual Culture. Reaktion Books, 2006. Print.

Riordan, James. Sport in Soviet Society: Development of Sport and Physical Education in Russia and the USSR. London: Cambridge University Press, 1977. 82-120. Print.

Scherbakova, Anna. “Gazprom to foot the bill.” St. Petersburg Times 26 Aug 2008, n. pag. Web. 30 Sep. 2013. <http://sptimes.ru/index.php?action_id=2&story_id=26955>.

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Titova, Irina. “Hundreds of Zenit Fans arrested during clashes in Moscow.” St. Petersburg Times 17 Mar 2009, n. pag. Web. 30 Sep. 2013. <http://www.sptimes.ru/index.php?action_id=2&story_id=28502>.

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Founded with greater connections to the West in mind, it is almost a cliché to describe St. Petersburg as a cosmopolitan city. From its creation, St. Petersburg hummed with the noise of many languages, spoken first by the various foreigners brought by Peter the Great and later by the descendants of those people. As the history of St. Petersburg progressed, this was not always the case, with an ebb and flow of Westernizing and Slavophile currents. One battleground of this conflict is the history of the relationship between the Russian Orthodox Church and the Russian Government. With the official atheism of the Soviet era gone, the Russian Orthodox Church now enjoys a close relationship with the government of President Vladimir Putin. How does this relationship affect the activities of non-Orthodox Christian sects in Russia? In examining the context and presentation of the Lutheran Church of St. Peter and St. Paul and St. Catherine’s Catholic Church (both on Nevsky Prospekt), it can be seen that by keeping commemoration within the community, such religious communities have been able to rebuild healthy congregations since the end of the Soviet Union, without running afoul of the seemingly two-headed apparatus in power.

Organized religion began in Russia with the introduction of Christianity through missionaries from Constantinople and the Eastern, Byzantine portion of Christendom. The most reasonable date for the beginning of Christianity in Russia is 988, when Prince Vladimir, who was married to Anna, the sister of the Byzantine emperor, converted to Christianity (Murarka, 2841). Christianity was brought to Russia with a Slavonic translation of the Bible and its own alphabet created for the Slavic people, which allowed it to become a religion of the people, as the common man could understand it without having to speak Latin, as was necessary with Christianity based in Rome (2841). It was isolated from the West due to this language barrier and its accessibility allowed religious practice to become more ingrained in daily life, leading to a religion that was “more devotional than intellectual,” and more closely aligned with national feeling (2841). This identification of Russian Christianity with Russian identity itself made convenient the use of religion as a political tool and, thus, Christianity, particularly the Eastern Orthodox variety of Christianity practiced in Russia, became closely linked with political authority (2841).

This fusion of Russian folk culture and Byzantine religion created a distinctly Russian religion, and its clear emphasis of devotion over the intellectual pursuit of theology placed it apart from its Byzantine-Greek roots (2841). With the Turkish conquest of Constantinople, the Russian religious began to see their role as that of the only remaining protectors of the one true faith, one that had to be preserved at all costs (2841). This sacred mission led to a “deeply imbedded attitude against change” that valued orthodoxy most of all, and relied on strictly hierarchal structure to maintain it (2841). This structure was held up by the principle of “symphonia,” cooperation between the church and state that tied the imperative protection of “true Christianity” to the Russian state; a strong state would protect the “third Rome,” and thriving Christianity would help legitimize and keep stable the authority of the Russian government (2842). Though debate has continued over the centuries within both the Church and the Russian government as to the exact nature of this union, close ties were consistent up until the 20th century.

With Peter the Great, the state took control of the relationship, essentially establishing the Church as a “little more than a government bureaucracy” (Caridi, 6). In return for its subjugation, the Church was granted even greater latitude in Russia, including exclusive rights to religious education in Russian schools, as well as legal protection from defamation (Murarka, 2343). This ended in 1905 with the “Edict of Toleration” that granted much greater freedom to non-Orthodox confessions, though as many Russians immediately left Russian Orthodoxy, most for Roman Catholicism, these freedoms were restricted again a few years later (Caridi, 7).

Throughout the centuries of Christian presence in Russia, adherents to non-Russian Orthodox religions have been almost exclusively foreigners (7). Their numbers and freedoms have typically been bolstered by Westernizing efforts, particularly Peter the Great’s construction of St. Petersburg and his recruitment of foreign experts to work in Russia. These surges for non-Orthodox groups have typically been met with renewed restriction, due to the conflict over Russian identity. As Russian national identity is so closely tied to the Russian Orthodox Church, any influx of Western ideas or religion can be seen as an assault against the Russian way of life and the stability of the state, leading to action against confessions and sects outside of the mainstream (8). The centrality of the Russian Orthodox Church to the idea of Russian identity was reflected in the Soviet Union’s suspension of repression of the Orthodox Church in the Great Patriotic War (9).

This pattern of enthusiastic modernization and the expansion of freedoms, followed soon after by “objectors who [strive] furiously to beat back the tide of Holy Mother Russia,” can be seen in the last couple of decades and the aftermath of the Soviet Union (11). After the establishment of “western-style” freedom of religion in Russia in 1991, Russia witnessed an influx of well-funded foreign missionaries from other religions and Christian sects that threatened the traditional role of Orthodoxy at the center of the Russian state (11). In response, the Orthodox Church pushed for restrictions that would protect its position and preserve Russia as an Orthodox state (11). These efforts were somewhat successful as legislation made it through the Russian parliament a couple of times in the early 1990s, but Boris Yeltsin refused its approval on each occasion (12). By 1997, Yeltsin gave in and signed into law a measure that once again put the Russian Orthodox Church above all other confessions (14).

The current relationship between the Russian Orthodox Church and other religions remains fraught with conflict, as non-Orthodox religions are seen as unjustly encroaching on the rightful territory and people of the Russian Orthodox Church (Dunn, 7). In the last decade, the Russian Orthodox Church and local Russian government authorities have acted against the established Catholic Church in Russia by threatening to close Catholic churches in Russia, accusing Catholics of espionage, and canceling the return visas of Catholic clergy (8). This recent tightening of restrictions over non-Orthodox religious establishments should be viewed in contrast with the Russian government’s prosecution of the punk rock band Pussy Riot over their February 2012 “Punk prayer service” performance in Moscow’s Christ the Savior Cathedral (Kizenko, 609). Importantly, this cathedral has come to symbolize the ties between the church and the central Russian government since its reconstruction after the fall of the Soviet Union, as it is the location “where Patriarch Kirill I celebrates Christmas and Easter services attended by Putin and…Medvedev” (609). During the performance, Pussy Riot “[entreated] the Virgin Mary to liberate Russia from Vladimir Putin” (609). Band members were accused of blasphemy by the Russian Orthodox Church, and the Russian Government responded to this pressure by prosecuting them for hooliganism inspired by religious hatred (609). Despite significant criticism from both within and without Russia, the Russian government pressed on with strict legal proceeding, going far toward legitimizing Pussy Riot’s claim that the supposedly secular Russian government has an inappropriately close relationship with the Russian Orthodox Church structure.

There are a few key points that should be understood from this brief history. The close relationship between the Russian Orthodox Church and the Russian state is founded on Russian Orthodoxy as a central pillar of Russian identity and life, which provides for a mutually beneficial arrangement. If the Russian Government protects Orthodoxy and maintains its position at the center of Russian life, governing will be easier. This is especially true after the fall of the Soviet Union, as Russian society lacks definitive structures and meaning. Beyond this, it is important to observe that the Russian Orthodox Church considers itself to be the only religion that should be allowed to operate in Russia, and will see any other religious activity as a threat against its position, and thus, the stability of “Holy Mother Russia.” The current relationship does bear some resemblance to the earlier-mentioned “symphonia” of the pre-Soviet church-state arrangement.

The fairly extreme position of the Russian Orthodox Church makes the presence of non-Orthodox religious spaces on the bustling section of Nevsky Prospekt between the Fontanka and the Neva interesting, if problematic. Despite the great power of the Russian Orthodox Church, there are minority religions operating freely on the central street of one of the most important Russian cities. Certainly, St. Petersburg has always been a special case in Russia, and non-Orthodox religions, such as Roman Catholicism, have been “present in St. Petersburg from its inception” (8). However, St. Petersburg has not been isolated from the dynamics present in Russia as a whole. During the Soviet period, the Lutheran Church of Saint Peter and Saint Paul, located opposite Kazan Cathedral, was the site of a swimming pool (Richardson, 71-73). St. Catherine’s Catholic Church, close to the Armenian Church and opposite Gostinyi Dvor, was ransacked in 1938 after its closing and was used in a variety of capacities until its return to its parishioners in 1992 (“A Summary of the Temple”).

The Lutheran Church of St. Peter and St. Paul was designed by Alexander Briullov and built from 1833-1837. The church provided a home to the sizable German Lutheran population of St. Petersburg, and managed other community services as well, including the Petrischule, a notable secondary school of St. Petersburg emphasizing the study of German language (History of the Church of St. Peter). As mentioned above, the Soviet period saw the church requisitioned for use as a swimming pool, a period of its history that is still visible in the structure of the church hall (History). In June 1993, the church was returned to the remaining Lutheran population of St. Petersburg. Today masses are offered in both German and Russian (History).

The Catholic Church of St. Catherine of Alexandria was designed by the architects Pietro Trezini and Jean-Baptiste Vallin de la Mothe, and was consecrated on October 7, 1783 (“A Summary of the Temple”). From its beginning, the church hosted a very international congregation comprised of Poles, Frenchmen, Germans, Italians, Lithuanians, Latvians, and Russians” (“Summary”). St. Catherine’s was a significant church in Eastern Europe, boasting many celebrated priests and housing the tombs of Polish kings Stanislaw August Poniatowski and Stanislaw Leszczynski, as well the head of the allied armies against Napoleon, General Jean Victor Moreau (“Summary”). On September 7, 1938, the church was closed by the Presidium of the Supreme Soviet of the RSFSR and ransacked, later being used as a storage space for the Museum of History of Religion and of Atheism located in Kazan Cathedral (History of St. Catherine’s Roman Catholic Parish). In February 1992, city authorities succumbed to public pressure and returned St. Catherine’s to Catholic hands (“Summary”). During the time St. Catherine’s was controlled by the state, two fires gutted it beyond recognition, and looting when it was initially closed down stripped it of much of its splendor (“Summary”). Today, the church has only about 600 members in its congregation, requiring masses to be offered in English, Russian, Polish, and French due to their ethnic composition (“Summary”).

Today, both churches take very similar approaches to commemorating their past and using it to direct their present activity. Approaching either from the street, there is little external commemoration of their histories aside from small plaques memorializing the dates of their construction and the names of their architects. In fact, the manner in which they are publicly identified through commemoration seems to suggest that the value of the buildings is artistic in nature, as two more attractive facades to add to the parade of buildings on Nevsky Prospekt. Furthermore, the churches tend to disappear into their surroundings, hardly noticeable except by deliberate effort. The front of St. Catherine’s Church is crowded and obscured by street vendors selling flowers, finished artwork, and street portraiture made to order. The Lutheran Church of St. Peter and St. Paul crouches behind a gate at the end of a short sidewalk off of Nevsky, past restaurants and bars and a sign commemorating the role of Germans in the history of St. Petersburg.

It seems wrong to think that there is any intention or malice in the reduced visual impact of these buildings. They seem to be hidden more by circumstance and casual disregard than by deliberate action. If anything, it appears as if they are hiding behind the bustle of Nevsky Prospekt, as concealed oases for those who already know where to find them. Most evidently, though, it is fairly clear that most who pass by on the street simply do not care that they exist, leaving them to squat unnoticed mere yards from their own daily activity space.

Mimicking this physical positioning on Nevsky Prospekt is the positioning of the parishes in cyberspace. The websites of both churches have limited accessibility, as St. Catherine’s is only available in Russian and the Lutheran Church’s only in Russian and German. This suggests that there is little to no thought paid to the potential of these churches as tourist or quasi-pilgrimage sites for those outside of their communities. They are little more than functioning parishes. There are sections on each site concerned with the history of the churches, but in both cases, these histories are brief. On the website for St. Catherine’s, the history section must be sought, and is not readily evident from the front page, crowded with stories about Pope Francis, minor saints and devotions, and the day-to-day activities of the parish: typical fare for any unremarkable church (St. Catherine Parish). Ultimately, the posture of both parishes in cyberspace is consistent with the unassuming posture they have in perceived physical space.

This positioning in the common mental landscape of Nevsky Prospekt is key to the manner in which the Lutheran Church and St. Catherine’s commemorate their history. Upon entering St. Catherine’s, the noise of Nevsky Prospekt quickly dies away and is replaced by the tranquility and modest grace of a typical urban Roman Catholic Church. At the threshold between the foyer and the church itself are a few plaques in both Cyrillic and Roman letters commemorating those who were buried in the church, as well as a short timeline of the Church’s history. This is all very similar to what is to be found online. However, in the midst of the renovated church are two memorials to the predations of the Soviet period. Both transepts house an altarpiece unaltered from its condition when the church was returned to its parishioners. There are a few words on each piece, but the visual impact of the crumbling piles of stone against the well-kept and gleaming church is powerful enough to provoke consideration of acts against religion of all creeds.

The Lutheran Church is home to a significantly more thorough commemoration project, perhaps due to its larger congregation. Throughout the building that contains meeting halls, classrooms, chapels, and the main church hall for its congregation are many posters, each about the height of a person, that tell the history of Germans in St. Petersburg, from their arrival at the behest of Peter the Great, through World War II, and all the way to today. These posters are in either Russian or German, suggesting an internal focus to the commemoration once again. Perhaps most importantly, though the main church hall has been significantly renovated, with seating, an altar, and a band area, the stands remain from the church’s days as a swimming pool. Additionally, the acoustics of the space have been forever altered by its former use, creating a somewhat jarring disconnect between the matter of a church service and the ambience of an indoor swimming pool.

In the case of both churches, commemoration occurs internally and is similarly directed internally, allowing commemoration to continue without impediment from a Russian Orthodox Church at the elbow of the Russian Government. The history of the community can be transmitted within community with the privacy granted to the communities by remaining externally silent. Such a subtle approach to charged memories of repression grants non-Orthodox Christian sects in St. Petersburg the latitude to continue to practice their faiths how they choose. Though the situation might, perhaps, be different in another city, or in the provinces, the minority religious communities of St. Petersburg are able to keep memory most vibrant by keeping it quiet, and they continue to add to the varied cultural makeup of St. Petersburg, as they have since their foundation.

Works cited

In arguably the largest tourist attraction in Russia, St. Petersburg embodies the modern-day culture of the country. Transitioning from a tsarist government, to a communist and socialist revolution, to today’s reign under Putin, Russia has undergone several significant changes. Within these different nuances, St. Petersburg’s popular sites have evolved. For example, Alexander Garden (Aleksandrovskii sad), originally part of Peter the Great’s shipbuilding scheme at the beginning of the eighteenth century, is currently a rare patch of grass where people from all paths of life can congregate. Although parks are traditionally built for certain citizens, one can truly say that the people have changed this park, debunking former myths in the process.

Alexander Garden was immediately immortalized in Alexander Pushkin’s description in his novel Evgeny Onegin. However, Alexander Garden received its name from another Alexander, Alexander II. Interestingly, the park was built in honor of Peter the Great’s 200th birthday. Because he chose 52 different types of tree species to be planted there, Alexander II earned his name on the plaque (Alexander Garden [Saint Petersburg]). The park opened in 1874 after many years of hard work by the designer, Eduard Regel. However, many historians enjoy reminding tourists and residents alike that Alexander Garden used to be fortification against the Swedes.

In 1703, St. Petersburg became Russia’s first port and connection to the rest of Europe. By 1704, Peter the Great began building the Admiralty, a fortress. Here, Russia built its navy and placed its naval officers in the Admiralty. Even though building the fort at the mouth of the Neva would have been more advantageous, “Peter also wanted it to be protected by the Peter and Paul fortress” (Navigating St Petersburg).

The Admiralty experienced many fires, especially since it was constructed with wood. Anna Ioannovna, the Empress of Russia from 1730 to 1740, decided to rebuild the Admiralty with stone. This stonework lasted until 1805. Then, the Admiralty, under Andreyan Zakharov’s designs, was reconstructed one last time into Admiralty Square. Because the naval officers and wealthy merchants near the former Admiralty became the aristocracy of St. Petersburg, Admiralty Square became the social area for them. Alexander I was not fond of so much upper class influence in this area and gave Admiralty Square more administrative buildings. More changes were made in 1844 when the shipbuilding base was filled in at Admiralty Square and moved downstream (Navigating St. Petersburg).

As Admiralty Square transformed from a naval focus to one more social and political, several aesthetic changes were made. In 1872, plans for Alexander Garden were initiated, and the park began construction in 1874. Other names for the garden include Admiralty Garden and Labourers’ Garden. In 1879, a “dancing” fountain, designed by Alexander Geschwend, was installed in the garden and is synchronized with music. In 1880, monuments were added to the collection of statues to give it a historical touch. Furthermore, in 2007, a memorial plaque in honor of the first tram line opening in St. Petersburg in 1907 was placed in the Alexander Garden. The garden still holds “public toilets from the time of Alexander III” (Baikal Nature). This setup is quite popular in the city, with even buses being converted into public restrooms. However, perhaps the most important aspect of this park is the people. The Russians loved this garden so dearly that, during World War I when they experienced a shortage of firewood, they resolved not to cut down any of its trees.

Initially, the elite of the era claimed Alexander Garden. However, as Bolsheviks became the faction in charge, more and more aristocrats dealt with “political persecution, [the expropriation of property], [imprisonment], execution, and [the designation] as ‘former people’” (Smith 7). After the Revolution of 1917, the park was opened to the public, permanently losing its aristocratic ambiance but not its prestige. Additionally, rumors and myths continue to circulate, even into the 21st century where facts are readily available to contradict these beliefs.

The Przhevalsky myth revolves around Nikolai Mikhailovich Przhevalsky’s appearance. Born in early 1839 in Smolensk, he joined the military as a teenager and was promoted to general officer in 1867. He completed five expeditions to unknown lands, encountering “the great salt lake of the Chinese classical writers, Lop Nor, in the desert.” Dying in 1888 during his fifth exploration, he became renowned for his success as well as praised for his traveling techniques; not many explorers at the time chose only three companions (Answers Corporation).

Despite the inconsistencies of Polish and Georgian backgrounds, the myth states that many Russians believe that Przhevalsky was the father of Joseph Stalin; some ardent communists even leave flowers by the statue in commemoration of Stalin because their appearances are quite similar. When this myth was mentioned to an elderly crowd in Alexander Garden, they literally laughed at the concept. They declared that Przhevalsky was born in Smolensk, Stalin in Georgia. The general consensus was that Przhevalsky, though also considered “maniacal”, was not related to Stalin. I expected these reactions from the younger generations, but the elderly, who have lived in the soviet era, shared the same sentiment.

Although the Przhevalsky statue may be the most popular in the park, others are scattered about the garden’s paths. For example, the statue of Zhukovsky, added in 1887, memorializes Vasily Andreyevich Zhukovsky, a famous Russian poet and writer in the early nineteenth century. “Zhukovsky is credited with introducing the Romantic Movement into Russia”, and he translated many works into Russian, including those written during what was dubbed the Dolbino Autumn. In fact, Grand Duchess Alexandra Feodorovna asked Zhukovsky to tutor her in Russian since she was from Germany. He became close enough with the family to tutor her son, Alexander, as well. (Poem Hunter)

In 1896, the statue of Gogol was added; Nikolai Gogol was first considered to be a realist writer but later believed to be more surrealist. He was also credited with introducing the idea of short stories. Legends such as Alexander Pushkin soon followed his lead.

The statue of Lermontov was also unveiled in 1896. Mikhail Lermontov led an intriguing life. Developing wit as his only way to survive military school, he wrote many controversial poems; they led to fame but also to exile in the Caucasus. He wrote many poems while there and, upon return to St. Petersburg, was able to publish some of them as well as his only novel before being exiled again. He soon died in a duel in 1841 but is still famous among Russians today. (Russiapedia)

The last major statue to gain admittance to the Alexander Garden was Glinka in 1899. Mikhail Ivanovich Glinka is considered the “father of modern Russian music” or “classical music.” Because he grew up in a more privileged setting, he was inspired by his French and Italian cultural education. He decided later in his life that he wanted to establish a purely Russian opera. A Life for the Tsar, his first attempt at using Russian and Polish culture, was actually Zhukovsky’s idea. He became extremely successful with this opera but his next attempt was too foreign for the Russian audience because his inspiration was more from the bordering states of Russia than the center. After his death, many composers used Glinka’s work as a foundation for their own, allowing Glinka to become famous once more. (Classical Net – Basic Repertoire List – Glinka)

Currently, Alexander Garden is not restricted in any way, socially and geographically. Set between the Neva River and St. Isaac’s Cathedral, the park is open to whoever wishes to stroll its paths. The benches at the fountain, surrounded by statues of the greats, are regularly occupied by couples, families, artists, and vendors. Every so often, a tour will be led through the garden and past the Przhevalsky statue. In addition to the vendors and plethora of paths, Alexander Garden also hosts a playground, where children continuously run around while their parents spectate from nearby benches. Compared to the strict regimen of navy officers and merchants, Alexander Garden’s visitors have significantly expanded. It was also noted that most visitors today are tourists. However, Alexander Garden’s most inspiring aspect is that its history is fully dependent on its people.

 

Works Cited

 

Anna Pavlova. Mikhail Baryshnikov. Rudolph Nureyev. Names belonging to the complex cultural tradition of classical ballet. These names are the greats—celebrities of an era still being uncovered.   They are part of the rich cultural history of St. Petersburg, and reflect the most complex of relationships among the high and low aspects of the artistic world, including art, music, and dance. Russian “kul’tura,” is distinctly different from the rest of the modern world, its role and formation a result of adaptations (or russifications) of surrounding states. A majority of people look at culture as solely internal, but when analyzing Russian society—this fails to account for everything that is identified as distinctly Russian. It is in this respect that culture blurs lines with identity.

Dance has long been at the forefront of Russian culture. The ballet of St. Petersburg has played a significant role in forming the Russian identity of past and present, and will undoubtedly continue to play a role in future cultural development. The dance culture of Russia has been instrumental in influencing the western perception of Russian society, as well as, western perception of classical dance as a whole.Identity, which can be either constructed or innate, can still become an element of culture.

Ballet originated in the art halls of Italy before spreading into nearby France. As Western Europe chassed and chaine-turned their way through the Renaissance movement, the Rus’ state was dealing with the Mongol invasion and later building an imperial regime. Ballet in Russia is linked to the imperial period—encouraged by the Romanov tsars and tsarinas. Ballet was first introduced by Empress Anna in St. Petersburg in 1734 (“History of the Vaganova Ballet Academy”). Indeed, the word ‘balet’ is derived from the French language. This school of ballet, which was aptly called the “Imperial Theatre School,” was under the instruction of Western instructors during its formative years. The encouragement of ballet during this time coincided with the ideology of “Westernization” championed by Peter the Great. Years after the creation of the “Imperial Theatre School”, Catherine the Great of Russia established the Mariinsky Theatre also by imperial decree (“History of the Theatre: Mariinsky Theatre.”). Over the course of the 19th century, the Russian Ballet gained worldwide prominence and respect as one of the leaders in classical dance. In the 20th century the Russian Ballet gained fame as the premier example of classical dance—a model for other countries to follow. It is in the 20th century that the distinguishable Russian ballet techniques and teaching methods started to become a Russian export.Art is a social construct, defined by a constantly changing community. In times of great social upheaval, art, in many ways, can capture the changes that form within society. In the early twentieth century, a colossal shift occurred within the Russian borders when the Soviet regime came into power. Because art is both a reflection of social values, as well as a potential spark for the change of social values, it would be reasonable to think that the dance world in Russia would also change—exemplifying the social upheaval that traditionally results after drastic political upheaval.

In October 1917, the Bolshevik Party overthrew the Provisional Government which had established itself in Russia following the end of the Romanov dynasty, marking the end of the imperial Russian state. The Ballet Russes was created several years prior to this event, during a time of political unrest and revolution in Russia. Formed in 1909, the Ballet Russes has been considered the greatest ballet company of the 20th century (“Diaghilev and the Ballets Russe”). This traveling modernist dance troupe played a significant role forming the perception of Russia as a model for dance culture in the Western world. The Ballet Russes revived the declining performing arts of the western countries, bringing the ballet tradition of Europe full circle.

The Ballet Russes, praised for its ingenuity, has a strong historical connection to the Imperial Ballet Company. Although arising in Paris in the early 20th century under Sergei Diaghilev, the Ballet Russes “collected” many dancers trained in the ballet schools of St. Petersburg and Moscow (“Diaghilev and the Ballets Russe”). The company fostered western fascination, especially within Paris, of Russian culture outside of the growing political tensions. The Ballet Russes, characterized by its emphasis on both modern themes and technique, was able to connect the past and contemporary Russian ballet tradition into a singular entity that could be loved by art lovers and the general public. The significance of the Ballet Russes lies in the company’s unmeasurable influence on the evolution of ballet across the world.

During the Soviet period, the arts, much like all aspects of culture, were subject to government control. The performing arts were seen by many Soviet leaders as maintaining ties to monarchical Russia, and as built upon values in opposition to the Soviet government—western, imperialistic, high-class values. When the Soviet government took control of the Mariinsky as a state asset, it also assumed the responsibility of patronage of the Mariinsky performers. Before the fall of tsarist Russia, ballet dancers and other artists were supported by the royal family and high-standing nobles. Prima ballerina Mathilde Kshesinskaya was a favorite of Tsar Nicholas II of Russia. A former mistress of the future leader, Kshesinskaya amassed a wealth and status from royal support—with the start of the Soviet Union this support system fell apart and another had to take its place. Kshesinskaya later moved to Paris after the Revolution, and opened a ballet school. Interestingly enough, Vladimir Lenin, the first leader of the Soviet Union, would later give a famous speech standing from the balcony of Kshesinskaya’s house—now the home of a Museum of Political History in St. Petersburg, Russia (“Museum of Political History”).

Dance, much like other art genres, progresses through movements and eras with different artistic philosophies and aesthetics. In response to increasing criticism of the avant-garde movement and fear of “artistic anarchy” a new policy of “socialist realism” exemplified by Maxim Gorky, a Soviet writer, was adopted by the Kremlin as state-supported artistic orthodoxy (Evtuhov and Stites, 372-374). While many superficial changes had occurred prior to the policy adoption, socialist realism was an attempt to internalize soviet values in the art world. Instead of superficially changing the names of ballet theatres and schools to “Kirov” or “Leningrad,” socialist realism attempted to change what was being depicted—the art itself (“History of the Theatre: Mariinsky Theatre”). Ballets during this time sought to portray uncomplicated moral themes that dealt with Soviet life, while still keeping the technical skill developed during the Russian Empire.

Ballet existed throughout Soviet period, never truly detaching from its imperial tradition. Despite the continued ties to that tradition, Soviet leaders, including Stalin, did not seek to destroy Russian ballet. Instead the ballet itself was repurposed to serve the goals of the new Soviet state. This idea is supported by the fact that the Mariinsky Theatre was renamed in 1935 in honor of Sergei Kirov, a communist revolutionary, following his death. Many scholars today comment on the lack of a national, historical foundation for the Russian state—the lack of a metanarrative. Ballet, along with other forms of art and culture, common elements of a national tradition, were consequently used to create a national tradition in the USSR.

The Soviet Union marketed itself as a place of artistic expression and ingenuity superior to its capitalist counterparts. The Soviet Union, contrary to many prevalent stereotypes, supported the ballet tradition, whilst censoring social expression as a whole. Theatres and concert halls were exported to states within the Soviet Union as an example of the regime’s largesse—it used the ballet tradition and environment, the classical institution, to appeal to states within its control. Ballet helped serve a “dual political role,” in promoting the Soviet Union’s propaganda as a culturally superior country, as well as disseminating Soviet values to a larger audience (Hamm 3). Art, like other aspects of society, was rewarded with medals and titles like the “Narodnyi Artist SSSR” or National Artist of the USSR. Such practices perpetuated the social acceptance of ballet as a national activity, not unlike the use of ballet to create a more Western association a century before.

Many dancers, however, especially while touring in western countries, defected from the Soviet Union. Rudolph Nureyev, a soloist in the Kirov Ballet Company, refused to return to Soviet Union after performing in Paris in 1961. The dancers, like Nureyev, who left the Soviet Union would later join Western ballet companies gaining individual fame as well as increasing the prominence of the companies relative to the Soviet Union (“Russian Ballet Star Nureyev Defects”). These well-publicized acts of course contradicted the Soviet government’s perennial declaration of free cultural expression. [youtube]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BryIQ9QpXwI[/youtube]

Russia’s deep history with ballet has contributed to its place within the national identity. The Ballet Russes set a precedent. There is a deep-seated interest in Western countries in Russian ballet. People flock to opera houses and arts centers in hopes of seeing what makes the Russian ballet different from other ballet traditions. Museums in Russia and Western countries frequently have exhibitions dedicated to the Russian ballet tradition, perpetuating the association of Russian society with ballet (“Diaghilev and the Ballets Russes, 1909–1929: When Art Danced with Music”). Dance in Russia has been depicted in literature and art, and has accompanied opera and theatre productions. Music and dance combine when viewing the famous ballets of “Sleeping Beauty” by Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky and the “Rite of Spring” by Igor Stravinsky (Jenik). In Leo Tolstoy’s “War and Peace”, the Countess Natasha performs a dance said to lie within every Russian and consequently “rediscovers [her] own ‘Russianness’” (Figes xxx, 45).

Many articles concerning the dance world of Russia are involved not so much with the influences of politics and society on the social institution, but rather with the art itself. They look at how the ballet techniques and schools compare to Western counterparts. It has been argued that ballet is a reflection of Russian society—changing as society has changed. Others have argued that ballet and dance culture is instead one of the few things in Russian society that has been a constant across the decades – remaining generally unaffected by the Soviet period (Ezrahi 234, 237).

Teatralnaya ploshchad’, Theatre Square, is home to the renowned Mariinsky Theatre of St. Petersburg, Russia. The Mariinsky Theatre is the head of the Mariinsky opera, ballet and theatre companies. While in the past the Theatre and the Company functioned separately, today the company does not exist without the patronage of the theatre. Because of this interconnected relationship, when discussing the Ballet of St. Petersburg, the Mariinsky Theatre must also be addressed. Ordering a ticket at the Mariinsky Theatre is both an interesting and invigorating experience. Thousands of people move through the historic space each day, standing in lines in order to see the next showing of Don Quixote or The Brothers Karamazov.

These ticket officers speak various languages, able to communicate in English but ready to tolerate broken Russian. The tickets have a broad range of prices depending on what you want to see, where you want to see it and arguably, who you are (prices are conveniently lower for people who are adept at using the Russian language). The Mariinsky Theatre technically describes three separate buildings, each great in their own way: the Concert Hall, acutely designed to showcase musical greats; the original Mariinsky (Mariinskii Odin), and a new addition, Mariinsky Dva. The Mariinsky operates very differently than one would expect. It is formal, but at the same time—not. A mix of people in gorgeous trailing dresses and ties next to others in jeans and shorts. Cameras, while not allowed, are rarely supervised. The tickets, while not cheap (especially for well-known Ballets and Opera performances), are reasonable in an attempt to cater to a wider audience. A section of straight-backed, wooden benches lords over the other seating in reach of the classically painted mural and chandelier. This section is the least expensive and allows those who cannot afford the “Bainoire” or “Belle-Etage” levels a chance of seeing the productions. The Mariinsky experience is not solely for Russian citizens—but rather a source of pride that they can give to the world as a whole. The Mariinsky Theatre is one of the biggest tourist attractions in St. Petersburg, indeed in the world. Ships from all over the wottracts people who wish to see the Russian interpretation of well-known performances. They come because of the reputation that exists in the Western world, a reputation the Mariinsky propagates (“Giselle 3D from the Mariinsky Theater”).[youtube]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xkV5tM0mRaU[/youtube]

Local pride in the theatre is endemic, and my host mother in St. Petersburg would regularly sit down at the small kitchen table to tell me about upcoming performances she would be attending. Almost every week she would look forward to the opera or one of her favorite performers, who were coming to St. Petersburg. Twice she gave me tickets to see Mariinsky performances myself—the opera, Rigolleto and a quartet, which played music by Russian composer, P. I. Tchaikovsky.

With the White Nights, the summer months of St. Petersburg hold an intangible feeling of excitement and adventure. The festival of the White Nights includes hundreds of performers of every specialty, working closely with the Mariinsky Theatre itself. The Mariinsky Theatre and the performances of ballet, opera and theatre, provide a service for the Russian people—it offers a place to escape. I saw three ballet performances on two different occasions—“The Carmen Suite”, a scene from the ballet “Le Corsaire” and “Giselle”. The ballet and the theatre have the ability to transport viewers to another place. It is three hours where the outside world disappears and the inside world becomes reality.

 

Works Cited

Bratersky, Aleksander. “Putin’s Favorite Selected as Olympic Mascot.” The St. Petersburg Times [St. Petersburg, Russia] 2 March 2011: 7. Web.

Chernov, Sergei. “Local Transport Fares Up Leading to ‘Hare’ Protests.” The St. Petersburg Times [St. Petersburg, Russia] 20 Jan. 2009: 3. Web.

Gerber, Adolph. Great Russian Animal Tales. 1891. New York: Burt Franklin, 1970. Print.

Haney, Jack. Russian Animal Tales. New York: M.E. Sharpe, Inc., 1999. Print.

“Hare Island.” St. Petersburg Encyclopedia. 2004. Web.

“Ioannovsky Bridge.” St. Petersburg Encyclopedia. 2004. Web.

Lincoln, W. Bruce. “Sunlight at Midnight: Peter the Great and the Rise of Modern Russia.” The New York Times 26 August 2001. Web.

“Monument ‘the hare.’” BaikalNature. n.p. Web. 2009.

Patterson, Simon. “In Memory of the City’s Most Dangerous Floods.” The St. Petersburg Times [St. Petersburg, Russia] 3 July 2001. Web.

“Photo of the Day: Flood Strikes St. Petersburg.” Russia Beyond the Headlines. Rossiyskaya Gazeta. Web. 16 November 2010.

Propp, Vladimir. The Russian Folktale. Trans. Sibelan Forrester. Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 2012. Print.

Sokolov, Yuri. Russian Folklore. Trans. Catherine Smith. Detroit: Folklore Associates, 1971. Print.

“St. Petersburg Gets Protecting Dam.” The Voice of Russia. Web. 12 Aug. 2011.

“The Hare Escaping Flooding.” Saint-Petersburg.com. Web. 2013.

“Unusual Monuments in St. Petersburg.” Prosveshcheniye Publishers. Web. 27 July 2012.

Zenit St. Petersburg, founded in 1925, has evolved over time to become not only the premier football club St. Petersburg, but also a significant cultural institution. This importance stems from the fact that Zenit is the only major professional sports team in a city of 5 million inhabitants. To put this into perspective, Chicago, a city of under 3 million people, is home to 5 major professional sports team. This monopoly on sporting support can be seen in a multitude of ways, most noticeably through the sea of laser blue and white jerseys that flood the city streets. It is no coincidence that when Zenit played in Manchester, the British Consulate General in St. Petersburg prepared to process up to 12,000 visa applications. By contrast, the Consulate generally processes only about 22,000 of these applications per year (“St. Petersburg Times” 1). The foundation of Zenit’s cultural legitimacy comes through its mass popularity. It is no hyperbole when Zenit’s website states that “Zenit long ago became one of St. Petersburg’s key brands, alongside the Hermitage Museum, the Mariinsky Theater, and the fountains of Peterhof” (“What role does Zenit play in the life of the city?”). To most inhabitants, the culture of Zenit is the culture of the masses of Petersburg. Zenit is one of the few cultural landmarks not tied to the grand façade of Petersburg. It is a reminder that Petersburg is not just the phantasmagorical creation of Peter the Great, but also a real city that is home to 5 million people. The position of Zenit St. Petersburg serves a critical function as a microcosm of Petersburg as a whole. Zenit St. Petersburg is a club full of paradoxes, and the problems it faces are the very same ones that plague the city of St. Petersburg and Russia in general. The Zenit experience is the Petersburg experience, for better or worse.

Zenit St. Petersburg, in comparison to its rivals in Moscow, is a club without much of a storied history. Formed in 1925, Zenit were originally known as Stalinets, in honor of Stalin but also a play on Russian word for steel. After 1939, however, when the Zenit team lost in that year’s USSR Cup, Stalin ordered that they change their name since he viewed that they were no longer worthy of being named after him. Zenit’s history in the Soviet League is not an illustrious one, only winning one title, in 1984. One embarrassing episode for the club came in 1967 when the team should have been relegated, though it was decided that relegating the only team from St. Petersburg on the fiftieth anniversary of the October Revolution would be unwise. After the fall of the Soviet Union Zenit have since joined the Russian League where they have been relatively decent. Fortunes took a turn in 2005, when Russian oil company Gazprom took control of the club. This ownership change did not prevent some from speculating about the true reason for Gazprom’s purchase, however. As one businessman in Moscow stated, “It is public knowledge in Russia…that an executive position at Gazprom has been set aside for President Putin for when he eventually retires from political life. Putin is a native of St. Petersburg, and this is undoubtedly the reason why Gazprom have taken control of Zenit, rather than, say, any of the Moscow clubs. While, admittedly, the president is not actually that great a football fan, it’s obvious that he would still enjoy seeing his home-town side rise to the top in Russia” (Bennetts 126). The links between the Putin regime and Gazprom go much farther than just speculation, however. Like many of Russia’s largest companies which formed from Soviet state enterprises, there are suspiciously close connections between the two institutions. For example, from 2002 to 2008 the Chairman of Gazprom was none other than Dmitri Medvedev, Putin’s second-in-command and President of Russia from 2008 to 2012.

The influence of Gazprom can be seen in many different aspects of Zenit St. Petersburg, most blatantly on the front of each jersey as the team’s official sponsor. On a fundamental level, the introduction of Gazprom has stacked the deck in favor of Zenit. The influx of wealth that has been introduced since Gazprom’s takeover is nothing short of astounding. The annual budget of Zenit in 2009 was $99 million, over 52% more than its nearest rival Spartak Moscow (“St. Petersburg Times”). This infusion of cash is also seen in the new signings. After the purchase by Gazprom, the club was able to secure the services of high-profile soccer stars Hulk and Axel Witsel during the summer transfer window of 2012, enjoying the increase in international prestige associated with such visible signings.

This culture of wealth has not been completely without problems, however. There has been a growing divide between the new, mostly foreign, players and the domestic players, who were around before the club was bought out by Gazprom. One incident that brought this issue to the fore was the Igor Denisov wage scandal. Denisov, an integral member of the squad before the additions of Hulk and Witsel, voiced his disapproval at these signings. He argued that Hulk and Witsel were not worth the astronomical wages being paid to them, and that “the principles of how the club is run are the most important as well as the respect of the Russian players, especially us – the St Petersburg natives who have always made up the core of a team like Zenit” (“Demoted Denisov demands wage parity at Zenit”). This rift in the locker room ended up with the club demoting Denisov to train with the youth team and eventually he was sold to Anzhi Makhachkala, another club in the Russian Premier League. While Denisov’s transfer might imply that the issue has been handled, the employment of these foreign players irks not just some Russian players, but other groups in St. Petersburg as well.

 

Landscrona is the largest supporters’ club for Zenit St. Petersburg. After the signings of Hulk and Witsel, however, the group released a manifesto that demanded the club field an all-white, heterosexual team. Not coincidental here is that both Hulk and Witsel are black players, with the former from Brazil and the latter from Belgium. Later in the manifesto Landscrona stated that “dark-skinned players are all but forced down Zenit’s throat now, which only brings out a negative reaction”. On the topic of homosexuals, the declaration stated that gay players were “unworthy of our great city” (“St. Petersburg Times”). While racism and homophobia are still tacitly accepted in Russian general culture, the problem is even more acute in St. Petersburg, where even former Zenit coach Dick Advocaat said it would be impossible to sign a black player for the club. The club’s response to Landscrona stressed that the “team’s policy is aimed at development and integration into the world soccer community, and holds no archaic views” (“St. Petersburg Times”). While this may in fact be the case, it is very interesting that Hulk and Witsel were the first black players to ever sign for Zenit, making them the last team in the Russian Premier League to have at least one black player. The power of this socially engrained racism is so strong that the fans in Landscrona do not even believe themselves to be racist and that “the absence of black Zenit players is just an important tradition that underlines the team’s identity and nothing more” (“St. Petersburg Times”). The action of Landscrona just highlights the paradoxical structure of Russian society as it dives into the 21st century. Russia is hosting the 2018 World Cup, the largest sporting event in the world, but it is still a place where fans at a sporting event can throw bananas at black players with little fear of repercussions. While the standard line in Russia is that racism is not tolerated, the actions of Russian clubs, particularly Zenit, do little to discourage racist behavior. In this way, the actions of the clubs mirror the reality of racial relations in Russia at the present. As recently as 2006 a survey done by Alexander Brod, director of the Moscow Bureau for Human Rights, showed that over 50% of Russians exhibited racist or xenophobic tendencies (Gedeyeva). It is in this culture of casual racism in which Zenit operates, allowing for the stadium experience to be tainted by the poison of racism.

Another of the issues that plagues the stadium experience is that of hooliganism and violence at, and after, Zenit games. While it is a perfectly acceptable cultural reaction to get emotional or riled up by the events of a game, Zenit fans often take this reaction way past the point of acceptable behavior and into hooliganism. This trend of hooliganism is one that plagues all of Russian soccer, not just Zenit fans. When comparing Russian hooliganism to traditional English hooliganism, one anonymous fan said, “Basically, in recent years, British fans have just shouted a lot and chucked bottles. I was at the 2006 World Cup and saw how they behaved. They’d find a camera, chant, wave their fists and run off. Ridiculous. In Russia, there is nothing of the sort. When two groups of fans meet, they get right down to business, and fight until the opposing fans are either on the floor, or run away. It’s the same all over Eastern Europe right now. We respect the English tradition of hooliganism, but we no longer fear them. They are weak, right now, compared to Russia, Poland, Serbia and so on” (Bennetts 141). These words are not an exaggeration, as evidenced by the actions of Zenit supporters over the past few years. For example, after a 2009 game between Zenit and Spartak Moscow over 500 Zenit fans were detained by police out of the 8000 visiting Zenit fans who attended the match. Most were detained for starting fights, breaking chairs, and throwing smoke bombs or fireworks (Titova). Another time Zenit had to forfeit a game against Dinamo Moscow, when a Zenit fan threw a firecracker at Dinamo goalkeeper Anton Shunin and injured him, prompting the referee to call the game (“St. Petersburg Times”). Just as with racism, a casual acceptance of hooliganism plagues the Russian soccer landscape, and Russian society. This acceptance of hooliganism can also be seen in the fact that Zenit protested the forfeit loss, even though one of its fans injured an opposing player. Incidents like these place a black mark on the spectator experience of a Russian soccer game, and challenge Russia and St. Petersburg as they prepare for the 2018 World Cup. The World Cup is a pivotal moment for Russia, not only because it puts the international spotlight on the nation, but because it creates the need for new Russian infrastructure to support the event, mainly in the creation of new stadiums.

 

Throughout its history, Zenit has played in a variety of stadiums, which have illustrated the shifting cultural landscapes that both the team, and sport in general, have occupied in Russian and Soviet life. The first, and current, stadium used by Zenit is the Petrovsky Stadium, which was built in 1925, around the same time as the formation of Zenit.  This stadium was built right before the heyday of Soviet physical culture, which helps to explain why it is relatively small and only has seating for 21 thousand spectators.  It was during this period that there raged a debate about the place of sport and physical culture in the Soviet Communist experiment. Initially, the idea of competitive sports in the Soviet Union was one that was met with skepticism. One side of the debate focused on how sports were, at least initially, seen as a bourgeois pursuit that put itself at odds with the proletarian aspirations of the USSR. Eventually, however, the supporters of organized sports won out, arguing that organized sports in the USSR was different than sports in capitalist countries, since sports in the USSR strove to embody the ideals of socialism. From this, the idea of a physical culture (fizkul’tura), of a disciplined and fit socialist body housing an agile socialist mind, became a strong social current in the Stalin era. “In 1931, Soviet leaders announced an annual Physical Culture Day which was to become the apotheosis of Stalinist body culture. Such festivities were as much political theatre with sport as theme as they were a means of advertising Soviet sporting achievement” (Riordan 90). The idea of the body culture went much further beyond just the striving of the people; it became a tool of propaganda to meld human health with the attainment of socialist ideals. This idea was helped with the aid of posters and photographs portraying the quintessential Soviet citizens, both fit and supporting Soviet ideals and the Soviet work ethic. The logic behind such a concept was that increased physical health would also lead to increased mental and emotional health in pursuit of Soviet ideals in other facets of life.

It was in this context of hyper-physical culture in which the next of Zenit’s stadiums was built. Kirov Stadium initially started construction in 1932, but was only completed in 1950, due to World War II and construction delays. Kirov Stadium would remain Zenit’s home from its opening to 1989. This stadium was immense, packing in over 100,000 people, a shining testament to Soviet power, ingenuity and strength. Just as the propaganda in Soviet physical culture highlighted the ideological vigor and natural superiority of the Soviet citizens, massive stadiums, such as Kirov, served as a symbol of the preeminence of the Soviet political system and communist ideals. The idea of the super-stadium as a grand display of political might was part of Soviet interest in architectural ‘gigantism’ as a way of conveying socialist superiority. Another immense stadium built during this time was the Bagirov Stadium in Baku, which held over 80 thousand spectators. There were even plans to build the Stalin Izmailovsky Stadium in Moscow, which would have held 350,000 spectators and would have served as one of the landmark architectural sites in the world, further bolstering the political legitimacy of the Soviet system (O’Mahoney). This proposed stadium remained just a proposal, however, with the plans falling through and the stadium never being built.

 

Kirov Stadium was demolished in 2006 in order to make way for a new stadium for Zenit, Gazprom Arena. The design of the stadium, nicknamed the Spaceship, helps to highlight the growing Russian wealth in the 21st century and its changing perception in the international community. The main features of this arena are its sliding roof, a pitch that can be slid to outside the stadium and a system of heating to keep snow off the roofs, which allows for games to be played in most any conditions. Just as Kirov stadium served as a representation of the awe of the Soviet Union, the new Gazprom Arena represents the shifting cultural landscape in Russia. The stadium sports a sleek design; though the ultimate effect of the arena is to create a subdued atmosphere. It is almost as if the stadium exists there solely because it was meant to exist there, a paradigm of Russia’s return to prominence it deserves in the international system after the fall of the USSR and the chaos of the 90s. The choice of the Spaceship becomes even more interesting when compared to the other possible designs for the stadium. Many of the other plans for the stadium wished to emphasize different historical aspects of St. Petersburg or Russia in general (“Stadium designs for the new football stadium”). One of the proposals called for “recreating the idea of the former Kirov Stadium where Zenit played, with cascades of stairs, fountains and columns in Art Deco style on top of a hill”. Another of the proposals called for a multi-colored stadium, finding inspiration in the vibrant onion domes of St. Basil’s Cathedral and the Church on Spilled Blood. Yet another of the potential designs called for the arena to have a golden dome, reminiscent to the design for the second stage of the Mariinsky Theater. It is very interesting to note that even though Gazprom was one of the main funders of this new stadium, the actual decision for which stadium to build was made by City Hall. By choosing the Spaceship design, City Hall showed a steadfast maintenance to Zenit’s cultural appeal as distinct from both the relics of the Soviet Era, and Petersburg’s classical, tsarist past. Zenit’s cultural cache in Petersburg society comes from the fact that it is one of the only cultural institutions in Petersburg specifically formulated solely for the residents of the city on the Neva. The implicit paradox of this situation, however, is that the current driving force behind this institution for the people is Gazprom, a prominent symbol of Russian oligarchic culture and elitism.

 

When the construction of Gazprom Arena was announced in the summer of 2006, it was billed as a progressive and functional development that would be finished by 2009 and cost only $225 million. Gazprom chairman Alexei Miller even went on record saying that the arena, “will be ready for the beginning of the 2009 football season” (Dranitsyna). It is now 2013 and the stadium has yet to be completed, with no specific date slated for its completion, but many believe it to be around 2015. The cost of the arena has also increased substantially, with the original estimations of $225 million growing to a figure of over a billion dollars. When the stadium was initially announced, City Hall said it would finance the project from the city’s coffers, as a show of mutual cooperation since Gazprom Neft had recently just registered as a taxpayer in St. Petersburg. For this purpose it earmarked around $283 million for the project. Now as the costs have risen, however, the city expects Gazprom to pay the difference between the original and updated cost of the stadium. While this may seem like a victory for City Hall initially, Gazprom’s main shareholder is the Russian state. And as one wry observer pointed out, “the main difference between private and state money is that no manager will be killed or even fired for inefficient use of the latter. And the modern stadium is a pathway to glory not profit” (Scherbakova).

In conclusion, Zenit St. Petersburg has established itself as not just the primary sports team in one of Europe’s largest cities, but also as a significant cultural institute. The club is a paradigm of St. Petersburg as a whole, full of paradoxes, such as the future promise versus the present reality. Or the contradiction that the team is run by oligarchs, but is primarily enjoyed by the people. The inherent problem when trying to create a cohesive narrative about Zenit is that the realities of the situation never arrange themselves succinctly into a clear story. Zenit serves as a microcosm for Petersburg as a whole, since the intricacies of Zenit clearly mirror larger tendencies of Petersburg culture. It is not just too simple to write off Zenit as just a sports team and disregard its broader impact on society, but also naïve. Zenit is an interesting representation of Petersburg, since the club is almost as complicated and paradoxical as the city itself.

Works Cited

 

The Soviet era was a time of massive change for Russia. This was especially true for the nation’s economy, which, primarily through the efforts of Vladimir I. Lenin and Joseph Stalin, transformed itself into what was essentially a defective manufacturing machine (Gerschenkron, 146). Under the New Economic Policy (NEP), some agricultural land and many businesses, notably those involved in banking, military industry, heavy industry, transportation, and foreign commerce, were nationalized and the kommunalki began to appear in places like Moscow and St. Petersburg to support the ever-increasing influx of people into the cities. Government-monopolized businesses also built their own dormitory-style communal living spaces to provide their workers with sources of housing (Colgate University). While these spaces allowed the Soviet government to subsidize the living costs of residents to almost nominal fees and went a long way to ease the financial burden of living for its citizens, the quick and shoddy construction of these buildings caused the living conditions within them to be cramped, pitiful, and extremely unclean (Colgate University). Families were not given nearly enough space to carry out their daily routines. For example, in the film Bed and Sofa (Tret’ia Meshchanska) Nikolai washed himself in the salon using water from a samovar and a bucket, as he lacked an actual bathroom. Flies, trash, and human waste in common areas were constant problems (Rubenshtein). This was especially true for those separate apartments in the khrushchoby (“Khrushchev slums”) built during the mid-1950s and 1960s under

Khrushchev (Boym 125, Colgate University).collectivized under the government. While some farming and certain “light” industries in consumer goods and services, textiles, chemicals, and the like remained partially privatized under the NEP, Stalin’s multiple subsequent Five-Year Plans eventually placed all of these under “the people’s” control (Curtis). New factories, which required enormous amounts of supplies and manpower to function, sprang up all over Russia. However, because of the nation’s past reliance on farming and the tenuous economic stability that serfdom provided in small towns and rural villages, much of the population lived in the countryside (Gerschenkron, 154-155). With more and more job opportunities popping up in the manufacturing plants of major cities, the nation underwent a tremendous demographic shift to urban areas. Unfortunately, at the time urban immigration could not be accommodated by city residences. The government began to place tight restrictions on and divide up what were originally one-family dwellings into multiple family accommodations (Starecheski, 174). These new and dramatically undersized government-owned communal apartments were known as kommunalki.

On top of the poor living conditions in which urban Soviet citizens found themselves, many residents had to cope with the many regulations and restrictions on Soviet residency. In order to even be eligible for housing, it was necessary to register with the local city government and obtain a residency permit, otherwise known as a propiska (Colgate University). These propiski, which Russian citizens were given along with their birth certificates and which would change along with their passports, began originally as a way for the government to track places of residence. Eventually, they became a way for citizens to be permitted or denied housing, and they also determined from where one would receive daycare and schooling services for children, rations, and the like (Colgate University). Once the permits were obtained, housing clerks who worked for district housing bureaus, regional housing administrations, or communal management departments in major cities would allot specific amounts of space to individuals based on their professions, medical conditions, stipulations outlined by the federal and local governments, and oftentimes their own whims. These allotments ranged from about five to nine square meters of free space (Colgate University). It was rare for a family to receive more than its given space to live—this occurred typically only with high-ranking intellectuals who aided the Soviet government, or apparatchiks (Boym, 129)—and there existed many restrictions regarding the consolidation or separation of space in communal apartments (Brodsky). For instance, stipulations outlined that families could not erect walls within their own apartments because it gave them more rooms than they were assigned, despite the fact that the amount of space they “owned” would not change (Brodsky).

It was difficult, if not impossible, to move or better one’s living conditions. One could move within their own city fairly easily, so long as residency permits were altered accordingly, but one could not receive permission to live outside of their city without proof that he had already been given a job in that new area; and jobs in other cities would typically not be assigned without a propiska from that new city (Colgate University). As such, the primary means of bettering one’s circumstances was through establishing new connections (often through influence via marriage or favors, known as blat), achieving some higher office in a white collar profession, or volunteering for extremely hard labor in some undesirable position and being granted dormitory housing by a state-run business (Colgate University).

In general, Soviet leaders used kommunalki and the housing system, in conjunction with a strengthening of the nation’s passport system, as tactics to control the USSR’s urban population (Boym, 129; Harris, 584). The fact that housing was subsidized influenced many Soviet citizens to regard the government as a protective provider, making them more willing to obey its multitude of inane housing regulations without question and simply try to work the system as much as possible to better their individual circumstances (Colgate University). And this likely prevented many people from questioning other actions taken by the government during this time. This not-so-subtle and yet disguised governmental control exercised a considerable amount of influence over the cultural development of Russia during the Communist period (Harris 584).  In a manner of speaking, the aim of the Soviet regime during this time was to force upon the population a utopian ideology through a dramatic redefinition of the conceptualization of space. This began with Lenin’s original plan to distribute spatial area to each person and family based on a geometric definition of equality rather than an idea of the necessity of private space; so long as each person received their allotted area, nothing about the area mattered—its design, its location, and whether or not the room was isolated from the surroundings were irrelevant (Boym, 124-125). As more and more people were crammed into irregularly arranged plots within kommunalki, their lives suddenly became public, and they suffered from the lack of privacy that came with living in such close quarters with so many other families (Boym, 125; Rubenshtein). While at best a single person could live with around ten other occupants of different social classes, as Joseph Brodsky did during his early years, it was not uncommon for groups of twenty-five to one hundred people to live in the same kommunalka. People knew their neighbors much more intimately than they desired. For instance, Lev Rubenshtein, in his essay “Communal Pulp Fiction,” could recount for his readers minute details about his neighbors’ sexual practices, drinking habits, hopes and dreams, occupations (or lack thereof), and interpersonal relations. It was extremely difficult to have guests over, especially when they could be kicked out by one’s neighbors after eleven at night. Some people would occasionally walk into the rooms of their neighbors unannounced, while others would lie in the hallways, causing their neighbors to trip over them (Rubenshtein).

These conditions created an entirely new community atmosphere and “social order” out of the kommunalka, which, as Rubenshtein explains, was like a town in and of itself. Citizens began to grudgingly (or perhaps unconsciously, as new generations were born into the

Soviet era) accept the Soviet collective mentality. Utopian terms such as “places of communal use” and “mutual responsibility” became commonplace among the people, who regarded them with simultaneous feelings of pride and disgust (Boym, 123-124). However, in many cases there was no sense of community loyalty; one’s neighbors could not necessarily be trusted, as many would be willing to act as snitches and report small housing offenses to the government for benefits or praise (Rubenshtein). And if this constant surveillance was not enough, there were always the regular check-ups made by the superintendents of each apartment building and the janitors, or dvorniki, installed by the Soviet Housing Committee to ensure that housing regulations were upheld (Boym, 129; Bed and Sofa).

Yet despite all of the complaints that people could make about the Soviet communal living system, it seems that some people in the modern post-Soviet age miss it. Before I traveled to Russia this summer on the St. Petersburg trip, all I could simply do was wonder how. One day, in conversation with my host mother, I asked her about kommunalki, assuming that she had lived in one at some point in her life. She told me that she had never actually lived in what she would define as a kommunalka, although she knew many people who did. But she explained that those filthy, jammed apartments were what many people called home. That, in her opinion, was what these people truly missed. Generations upon generations were born and raised in communal environments, and as they grow older and watch Russia attempt to take its place in the materialistic modern world, they look back to the past and long to return to the “traditional” family values and ties of their youth. A set of interviews by journalist Brigid McCarthy with two former Soviet citizens corroborated my host mother’s sentiments. One of the two interviewees, Valentina Baskina, described her childhood experience as one that was uncomfortable but tolerable because there was nothing to which she could compare it (McCarthy). She grew up around many friends in a place where children were a collective responsibility, and she cherished the memories of her old life (McCarthy). The other interviewee, Andrei Barbje, described his childhood as one he enjoyed and missed when his family finally moved into a larger apartment in 1978 (McCarthy). He learned to respect and consider the impact of his actions on others from the residents of his kommunalka, who, as he explained, established detailed sets of communal rules and spent holidays together to unify the many families in the apartment (McCarthy). Children of the Soviet period made the most out of what they were given: they could invite friends over to play; they

listened to stories about the former lives of elders living in their apartments, who were anything and everything from artisans to soldiers to intellectuals; and, with the inspiration of Soviet cartoons such as “A Communal Story” by Alexsei Shelmanov, they could daydream and make up adventures of their own with the meager resources they had. It made sense how older Russian generations, those former Soviet citizens, could have fond memories of these times, despite the conditions in which they lived.

As my conversations with local Russians revealed, and, oddly enough, through non-Soviet foreign films such as the French Les Poupées Russes, many people still live in kommunalki today. However, those who do, it seems, tend to be either older or unable to afford a single-family apartment of their own. While the living conditions within these apartments have improved considerably since the fall of the Soviet regime, there exists a stigma associated with the idea of communal living amongst younger, post-Soviet-born generations. For instance, when we asked our twenty two-year-old language instructor at Moscow State University whether or not she had or currently lived in a kommunalka, she responded with a harsh “no” and a look of disgust. It is difficult to explain such a negative attitude towards the kommunalki among the youth. Is it a simple response to the unhygienic and far-too-public environment of the communal apartment, or is it something more? Could it perhaps be revulsion towards aforementioned Soviet ideals and an acceptance of Western materialism and the idea of the necessity of private space as opposed to the public sphere?

With that said, one major question remains: how will the kommunalki and the institution of communal living develop in the future? Their time has already passed, their popularity peaked. They are diminishing in number, and at this point, modern-day Russia and its citizens are left with a choice: are they to eliminate them entirely and remove the anomalous blending of public and private space that so reminds them of the constant eye of communism? Or are they to preserve them as historical monuments, or even as viable future housing options? Right now, so soon after the fall of the Soviet regime, it is hard to say. Russia is still trying to stabilize itself and identify its place amongst the world’s powers, as well as adjust to and balance with their own traditional family values the materialistic culture of Western influences. Only time will tell at this point, but I personally hope they keep at least a few around, for they stand as a testament to human cooperation, perseverance, and tolerance of severe governmental encroachment on individual rights that should never be forgotten.

Works cited