A marvelous picture of Moscow’s Red Rooster arts club house, the former Cafe Pittoresque, frequented by a who’s who of revolutionary artists and seized for the workers in 1918 and lasted only a year. Opened by Meyehold’s production of Mayakovsky’s Mystery-Bouffe, as these memories of Alexander Chramoff show, the theater was buzzing with energies released by the revolution and the new horizon of possibilities opened to art.

‘The Red Cock’ by Alexander Chramoff from The Liberator. Vol. 6 No. 1. January, 1923.

IN the history of the development of the modern arts in Soviet Russia, 1918 and 1919 will play a decidedly important part; for it was at this time that the great proletarian revolution had reached its greatest tension. The awakened people swept away anything and everything that reminded them in any way of the old regime. The smoke and flames of burning estates rose to the skies. In the cities, the workers took possession of the luxurious castles of the petit bourgeois. The people clamored for the new, the novel, the modern; and this general state of mind was reflected in the field of art.

Futurists and all those closely related- to them announced a general mobilization of their powers. Young artists, self confident and sure of the future of their art, constantly attacked the established classics, and in this they were overwhelmingly successful.

“Down with drab colors! Down with old formulas, conventions and traditions!” they shouted, splashing brilliant colors on fences, houses, lamp-posts, indoors and out of doors -the streets seemed to be ablaze with them.

“Long live mass creation! Long live collective, dynamic art (not unlike life itself)! Long live the carnival of life!”

Youth conquered. The old withdrew, determined to remain unnoticed. Futurists of all shades became little by little the artists laureate. They were pushed forward and encouraged. To them was allotted the work of decorating the capital, erecting monuments and organizing celebrations of revolutionary holidays. The end to old forms in art seemed to have come. Futurism became the master of the situation, the caliph of the hour, the dictator of the day, the bolshevic in art.

In November 1919, the theatrical department of the People’s Educational Commissariat proposed to me to organize the Exhibition Club-The Red Cock. The idea of this very original name seems to have sprung from Vsevolod Emelyanovitch Meyerkhold, one of the most talented and educated directors of Russia, now occupying a position as general director of all Russian theatres.

“Yes,” he said wittily “to our cock belongs the first song of the future of red culture. On the dawn of the Russian Revolution let him resound his first prophetic cry.”

The proposal was accepted, and on one of those endlessly long winter evenings of Moscow, Number 5 Kuznechni St. blazed forth with bright electric lights. The Red Cock celebrated its birth.

After a thorough selection and lengthy discussion on principles of the theatre, the assembled artists succeeded in securing a handpicked cast. It consisted of Meyerkhold; Alexander Taerov, one of the most talented contemporary directors and manager of the Kamerni Theatre of Moscow; also the well known novelists and poets, Viacheslav Ivanov, Vodim Shershenevitch, as well as George Bordanovitch Yakulov, imagist artist, a leader of the modern movement in Russia.

In working out the program of the Red Cock, in discussing its essential problems, this group of revolutionary Marxists were all agreed on their attitude towards proletarian art.

We agreed that in the immediate years to follow, the Russian proletarian will need all his creative energy for matters of a practical nature in his fight and struggle for existence. For art he will have neither the strength nor the time.

The life of the Revolution was at stake. The Russian worker was determined to safeguard the Workers’ Republic from its enemies on both the military and economic fronts at all costs. He found it impossible to contribute to proletarian art. Consequently, it was untimely to speak of socialist, proletarian art as such. It seemed to us that a beginning toward socialist art would be ripe only when new human relationships will be formed which will give rise to a new socialist ethics. Then only could progress be made in the direction of Proletarian Art.

This was the situation. The Red Cock pledged itself to Proletcult- proletarian culture- and its main work was to observe the trend of the times, to watch with clear and keen sight everything new, interesting and significant in the world of art. This was the first and main issue.

Our second one, was by no means less important, or less difficult. It was necessary for the artists and writers to meet and be in close contact not only with the masses of peasants and workers, but also with the leaders of the Communist Party in order to discuss problems on a fundamental basis, in order to work and create in all fields jointly for the benefit of Russia and mankind.

The quarters of the Red Cock were highly satisfactory and no improvement could be desired. It consisted of numerous halls, a library, a spacious reading room, a buffet supplied by the Moscow Central Co-operative where one could have a simple meal of very good food. One hall which attracted much attention was decorated by the unusually talented imagist artist Yakulov. In the history of Russian painting the description of this hall will take a prominent place.

Imagine a gloomy, strangely formed cave, painted with brilliant futuristic designs. A roof of strained glass painted in many colors. The light piercing through casts reflections of many shades gracefully intermingled. It breaks in streaks of color on whatever surface it falls. Strange designs sprawl over the walls. Thousands of globes, cubes and squares come down like so many icicles and crystal sockets. Two gigantic candelabra hang from the ceiling, radiating an infinite number of dazzling planes.

At night the cave is lighted with a weird soft mysterious light which seems to come from unknown sources. The corners of this hall are lost in deep shadow.

Somewhere in the distance one can see the outline of the grotesque unsymmetrical stage. It has no curtain, no frames of any kind. A few trees and chairs, painted in futurist style, are the only scenery. Instead of one large platform, where the acting is supposed to go on, there is a row of small concealed stages. The orchestra is somewhere below the stage.
Muffled sounds of trumpets. Broken indistinct sounds of violins.

All this produces a weird, misty, blurred, bizarre impression. Involuntarily voices are lowered, movements become tense.

FROM its very inception, the Red Cock had a very stormy life. The place hummed with activity. To accommodate the tremendously large crowds wishing to visit the place, special days for different groups were arranged. Tuesdays were reserved for artists. These exhibited pictures which reflected vigorously the thoughts and forces of current events. Lectures on the form of the coming art were delivered. Present problems of art were discussed. Industrial and agrarian needs were linked up with personal impressions and experiences.

Poets and novelists came on Wednesday. They read the latest works. The youth of Moscow was enchanted with the newly created, unexplored, recent and novel art. On strips of paper they wrote down various themes and subjects and drew lots. Those participating had to write a poem or short story about the theme they picked. The most clever results in this direction were achieved by Balmont, Briousov, and Vasily Kashenski, the latter a blond curly-headed futurist.

Thursdays belonged to musicians. Fridays and Saturdays were devoted to actors and producers. Among them were Feodor Kamisarjevski, at present producing director of the New York Theatre Guild, Sokhnovski, Meyerkhold, Alexander Taerov, each one bringing a specially chosen repertoire, and agitating for his favorite form of theatrical endeavor. Hauptman’s Weavers, Schnitzler’s Green Cuckatoo, a symbolic work called The Deluge, a piece of imagist writing by Berger named Andreana Lekuvrer.

They produced the work of Lon-de-Ver; a play by Verkharna; and The Dolls’ Box, a musical pantomime composed by Debussey.

Every new creation, regardless how incoherent or illogical it was, every new production received a lively and welcome response from an enthusiastic audience, prepared by historical events for a new theatre.

AT 8 o’clock the halls of the Red Cock became packed. Very many people could not gain admission and returned home angry and hurt. The Red Cock could not accommodate even one fifth of all those who were interested in it.

Tuesdays, artists’ day, were especially stormy. Imagine the following scene: You approach the Red Cock building. Vast noisy crowds are at the doors. You fight your way, making endless explanations that you are one of the artists taking part. Finally you manage to get inside. The air is thick with tobacco smoke and you hear chaotic waves of noise. The people are divided into groups, discussing something with great fervor. Artists in long smocks, officers in military uniform, and proletarians in flannel shirts all mingle together. They sit on chairs, tables, benches and windowsills. Laughter, jokes and outcries mingle.

Yonder, near shelves of books, Lentulov, the futurist, is arguing over a teacup with the classic painter Malyavini, who became famous thru his picture The Gale.

A little further down, a young hot-head is trying to explain to the representative of the Moscow Soviet, Comrade Kamenev, the idea of the nationalization of art.

“Under capitalism we found ourselves in a narrow enclosure between market and buyer,” he explained passionately and convincingly. “We were forced to write that which the market demanded and which paid best, and not the actual expressions of the inner call and struggle. We dreamed of painting and writing about real life, but were forced to paint flowers, nude women, still inexpressive landscapes, the faces of the bourgeois swimming in fat, -in short, everything that would please the buyers, the majority of whom were the newly rich who understood nothing about art. Let the Soviet government provide us with paints, canvas, and the freedom of going wherever we wanted -as well as the normal minimum of food- and we will pledge ourselves to give all we create to the nation. Without any pay, the art commissar will distribute our work to studios, museums, schools and public libraries.”

Thru an open door one can see the artist Yakulov surrounded by young admirers. They are looking at a picture. They see thru a restaurant window a big street alive with motion. Lines of running pedestrians, horses, automobiles- and you get the impression the street is living a complete life of its own.

An entirely new and unknown world.

“There are no themes, we are tired of everything,” shout the contemporary artists. “Here is a better and more original subject.”

You go further. The hugeness of the crowd overwhelms you. Futurists, cubists, imagists, impressionists, classicists, and liymbolists . . . Your head aches . . . Everything swings around… You grab your cap and pull it over your head and hurry out into the street.

Peace and deep silence. The pure air strikes your face. You feel drunk with its freshness and you are lulled by its gentle softness. You hear the snow crunch under the feet of a belated citizen. hastening homeward. You hear the even sound of the night watch. You pull your coat more snugly about you, and tired by the excitement of the day, return home along the deserted sleepy streets of Moscow.

The Red Cock, all lit up, all in motion, afire with life and storm, gleams in the distance.’

The Liberator was published monthly from 1918, first established by Max Eastman and his sister Crystal Eastman continuing The Masses, was shut down by the US Government during World War One. Like The Masses, The Liberator contained some of the best radical journalism of its, or any, day. It combined political coverage with the arts, culture, and a commitment to revolutionary politics. Increasingly, The Liberator oriented to the Communist movement and by late 1922 was a de facto publication of the Party. Max Eastman would sell the paper to the Party and In 1924, The Liberator merged with Labor Herald and Soviet Russia Pictorial into Workers Monthly. An essential magazine of the US left.

PDF of full issue: https://www.marxists.org/history/usa/culture/pubs/liberator/1923/01/v6n01-w57-jan-1923-liberator.pdf