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Main Collection

Acquired from a private collection

A key figure of Moscow Conceptualism, Ilya Kabakov worked for many years as a children’s book illustrator. Having begun his career as an illustrator while still a student at the Surikov Art Institute, he collaborated with the publishing houses Detgiz (renamed Children’s Literature in 1963) and Malysh and the magazines Murzilka and Veselye Kartinki (Merry Pictures). The work on children’s books provided him—as for other unofficial artists—with a stable income, while also offering a space of relative freedom for formal experimentation and access to a very young audience.
For some artists, working with books was interesting and attractive, as in the case of Viktor Pivovarov; for others, such as Erik Bulatov and Oleg Vassiliev, it was tedious but demanded a conscientious approach; and for some it provoked outright aversion. Ilya Kabakov noted: “I did not like making illustrations, it did not come easily to me… I believed that I had to act slyly, to adapt myself as if the work had been done by a character—a typical Soviet artist who draws and produces exactly what is expected by the publishing house.” This detachment and the desire to deconstruct the figure of the author informed the artist’s stylistic choices. While in his conceptual albums Kabakov turned to the Soviet bureaucratic visual language of schedules, notice boards, and posters, in book illustration he mimicked the standardized “Detgiz style,” combining the artistic solutions of recognized, editorially approved masters such as Vladimir Konashevich or Boris Dekhterev. “The most paradoxical thing about this approved Soviet canon was that it revived exactly the style, form, and subject matter of the ‘children’s room’ which had been abolished by the spirit of the revolution. Illustration was dominated by a nineteenth‑century spirit, with its ‘realistic,’ nearly naturalistic manner of depiction,” Kabakov later recalled.
As for underground artists, collaboration with children’s publishing houses was a necessary step for Soviet writers. While the avant‑garde poetry of Genrikh Sapgir circulated in the USSR only in samizdat form until the late 1980s, his children’s books began to be published in the early 1960s, some of them illustrated by friends from the unofficial circle, including Ilya Kabakov. In Four Envelopes (Children’s Literature, 1976), Kabakov combined the realistic manner of Konashevich‑style fine hatching with a virtuoso play of horizontals and verticals. Here, lines form picture frames adorned with intertwining ornamental stems, banners for titles, and film‑strip frames for the drawings, in each case creating unique relationships between word and image. The text itself acquires a visual dimension: rendered in an artistic typeface, it gains volume and becomes enlivened with dynamic hatching and ornament. At times, verbal fragments turn into abstracted graphemes—such as the floating Fi, Fu, Nu, Vo—recalling artistic devices employed by Kabakov in his conceptual albums and paintings.

A key figure of Moscow Conceptualism, Ilya Kabakov worked for many years as a children’s book illustrator. Having begun his career as an illustrator while still a student at the Surikov Art Institute, he collaborated with the publishing houses Detgiz (renamed Children’s Literature in 1963) and Malysh and the magazines Murzilka and Veselye Kartinki (Merry Pictures). The work on children’s books provided him—as for other unofficial artists—with a stable income, while also offering a space of relative freedom for formal experimentation and access to a very young audience.
For some artists, working with books was interesting and attractive, as in the case of Viktor Pivovarov; for others, such as Erik Bulatov and Oleg Vassiliev, it was tedious but demanded a conscientious approach; and for some it provoked outright aversion. Ilya Kabakov noted: “I did not like making illustrations, it did not come easily to me… I believed that I had to act slyly, to adapt myself as if the work had been done by a character—a typical Soviet artist who draws and produces exactly what is expected by the publishing house.” This detachment and the desire to deconstruct the figure of the author informed the artist’s stylistic choices. While in his conceptual albums Kabakov turned to the Soviet bureaucratic visual language of schedules, notice boards, and posters, in book illustration he mimicked the standardized “Detgiz style,” combining the artistic solutions of recognized, editorially approved masters such as Vladimir Konashevich or Boris Dekhterev. “The most paradoxical thing about this approved Soviet canon was that it revived exactly the style, form, and subject matter of the ‘children’s room’ which had been abolished by the spirit of the revolution. Illustration was dominated by a nineteenth‑century spirit, with its ‘realistic,’ nearly naturalistic manner of depiction,” Kabakov later recalled.
As for underground artists, collaboration with children’s publishing houses was a necessary step for Soviet writers. While the avant‑garde poetry of Genrikh Sapgir circulated in the USSR only in samizdat form until the late 1980s, his children’s books began to be published in the early 1960s, some of them illustrated by friends from the unofficial circle, including Ilya Kabakov. In Four Envelopes (Children’s Literature, 1976), Kabakov combined the realistic manner of Konashevich‑style fine hatching with a virtuoso play of horizontals and verticals. Here, lines form picture frames adorned with intertwining ornamental stems, banners for titles, and film‑strip frames for the drawings, in each case creating unique relationships between word and image. The text itself acquires a visual dimension: rendered in an artistic typeface, it gains volume and becomes enlivened with dynamic hatching and ornament. At times, verbal fragments turn into abstracted graphemes—such as the floating Fi, Fu, Nu, Vo—recalling artistic devices employed by Kabakov in his conceptual albums and paintings.

Football. Fi, Fu, Nu, Vo. Sketch for an Illustration for Genrikh Sapgir’s poetry collection Four Envelopes

A key figure of Moscow Conceptualism, Ilya Kabakov worked for many years as a children’s book illustrator. Having begun his career as an illustrator while still a student at the Surikov Art Institute, he collaborated with the publishing houses Detgiz (renamed Children’s Literature in 1963) and Malysh and the magazines Murzilka and Veselye Kartinki (Merry Pictures). The work on children’s books provided him—as for other unofficial artists—with a stable income, while also offering a space of relative freedom for formal experimentation and access to a very young audience.
For some artists, working with books was interesting and attractive, as in the case of Viktor Pivovarov; for others, such as Erik Bulatov and Oleg Vassiliev, it was tedious but demanded a conscientious approach; and for some it provoked outright aversion. Ilya Kabakov noted: “I did not like making illustrations, it did not come easily to me… I believed that I had to act slyly, to adapt myself as if the work had been done by a character—a typical Soviet artist who draws and produces exactly what is expected by the publishing house.” This detachment and the desire to deconstruct the figure of the author informed the artist’s stylistic choices. While in his conceptual albums Kabakov turned to the Soviet bureaucratic visual language of schedules, notice boards, and posters, in book illustration he mimicked the standardized “Detgiz style,” combining the artistic solutions of recognized, editorially approved masters such as Vladimir Konashevich or Boris Dekhterev. “The most paradoxical thing about this approved Soviet canon was that it revived exactly the style, form, and subject matter of the ‘children’s room’ which had been abolished by the spirit of the revolution. Illustration was dominated by a nineteenth‑century spirit, with its ‘realistic,’ nearly naturalistic manner of depiction,” Kabakov later recalled.
As for underground artists, collaboration with children’s publishing houses was a necessary step for Soviet writers. While the avant‑garde poetry of Genrikh Sapgir circulated in the USSR only in samizdat form until the late 1980s, his children’s books began to be published in the early 1960s, some of them illustrated by friends from the unofficial circle, including Ilya Kabakov. In Four Envelopes (Children’s Literature, 1976), Kabakov combined the realistic manner of Konashevich‑style fine hatching with a virtuoso play of horizontals and verticals. Here, lines form picture frames adorned with intertwining ornamental stems, banners for titles, and film‑strip frames for the drawings, in each case creating unique relationships between word and image. Often spatially separated, they nevertheless continuously “appropriate” features from one another. The illustrations resemble rapid text messages, while the text acquires a visual dimension through typography: notably, even the page number is designed as a drawing.

A key figure of Moscow Conceptualism, Ilya Kabakov worked for many years as a children’s book illustrator. Having begun his career as an illustrator while still a student at the Surikov Art Institute, he collaborated with the publishing houses Detgiz (renamed Children’s Literature in 1963) and Malysh and the magazines Murzilka and Veselye Kartinki (Merry Pictures). The work on children’s books provided him—as for other unofficial artists—with a stable income, while also offering a space of relative freedom for formal experimentation and access to a very young audience.
For some artists, working with books was interesting and attractive, as in the case of Viktor Pivovarov; for others, such as Erik Bulatov and Oleg Vassiliev, it was tedious but demanded a conscientious approach; and for some it provoked outright aversion. Ilya Kabakov noted: “I did not like making illustrations, it did not come easily to me… I believed that I had to act slyly, to adapt myself as if the work had been done by a character—a typical Soviet artist who draws and produces exactly what is expected by the publishing house.” This detachment and the desire to deconstruct the figure of the author informed the artist’s stylistic choices. While in his conceptual albums Kabakov turned to the Soviet bureaucratic visual language of schedules, notice boards, and posters, in book illustration he mimicked the standardized “Detgiz style,” combining the artistic solutions of recognized, editorially approved masters such as Vladimir Konashevich or Boris Dekhterev. “The most paradoxical thing about this approved Soviet canon was that it revived exactly the style, form, and subject matter of the ‘children’s room’ which had been abolished by the spirit of the revolution. Illustration was dominated by a nineteenth‑century spirit, with its ‘realistic,’ nearly naturalistic manner of depiction,” Kabakov later recalled.
As for underground artists, collaboration with children’s publishing houses was a necessary step for Soviet writers. While the avant‑garde poetry of Genrikh Sapgir circulated in the USSR only in samizdat form until the late 1980s, his children’s books began to be published in the early 1960s, some of them illustrated by friends from the unofficial circle, including Ilya Kabakov. In Four Envelopes (Children’s Literature, 1976), Kabakov combined the realistic manner of Konashevich‑style fine hatching with a virtuoso play of horizontals and verticals. Here, lines form picture frames adorned with intertwining ornamental stems, banners for titles, and film‑strip frames for the drawings, in each case creating unique relationships between word and image. Often spatially separated, they nevertheless continuously “appropriate” features from one another. The illustrations resemble rapid text messages, while the text acquires a visual dimension through typography: notably, even the page number is designed as a drawing.

Counting Rhymes. Tongue Twisters. Sketch for an Illustration for Genrikh Sapgir’s poetry collection Four Envelopes

A key figure of Moscow Conceptualism, Ilya Kabakov worked for many years as a children’s book illustrator. Having begun his career as an illustrator while still a student at the Surikov Art Institute, he collaborated with the publishing houses Detgiz (renamed Children’s Literature in 1963) and Malysh and the magazines Murzilka and Veselye Kartinki (Merry Pictures). The work on children’s books provided him—as for other unofficial artists—with a stable income, while also offering a space of relative freedom for formal experimentation and access to a very young audience.
For some artists, working with books was interesting and attractive, as in the case of Viktor Pivovarov; for others, such as Erik Bulatov and Oleg Vassiliev, it was tedious but demanded a conscientious approach; and for some it provoked outright aversion. Ilya Kabakov noted: “I did not like making illustrations, it did not come easily to me… I believed that I had to act slyly, to adapt myself as if the work had been done by a character—a typical Soviet artist who draws and produces exactly what is expected by the publishing house.” This detachment and the desire to deconstruct the figure of the author informed the artist’s stylistic choices. While in his conceptual albums Kabakov turned to the Soviet bureaucratic visual language of schedules, notice boards, and posters, in book illustration he mimicked the standardized “Detgiz style,” combining the artistic solutions of recognized, editorially approved masters such as Vladimir Konashevich or Boris Dekhterev. “The most paradoxical thing about this approved Soviet canon was that it revived exactly the style, form, and subject matter of the ‘children’s room’ which had been abolished by the spirit of the revolution. Illustration was dominated by a nineteenth‑century spirit, with its ‘realistic,’ nearly naturalistic manner of depiction,” Kabakov later recalled.
As for underground artists, collaboration with children’s publishing houses was a necessary step for Soviet writers. While the avant‑garde poetry of Genrikh Sapgir circulated in the USSR only in samizdat form until the late 1980s, his children’s books began to be published in the early 1960s, some of them illustrated by friends from the unofficial circle, including Ilya Kabakov. In Four Envelopes (Children’s Literature, 1976), Kabakov combined the realistic manner of Konashevich‑style fine hatching with a virtuoso play of horizontals and verticals. Here, lines form picture frames adorned with intertwining ornamental stems, banners for titles, and film‑strip frames for the drawings, in each case creating unique relationships between word and image. In Crocodile and Rooster, for example, the image balances between two spatial states: as a background overlapped by a block of text, and as a complex ornamental frame surrounding it. The characters are divided by a vertical line, beyond which the Rooster’s head slightly protrudes. By breaking through the boundaries drawn by the artist’s hand, they enter into dialogue and, as the poem says, “Having exchanged such words, / they exchanged their heads.”

A key figure of Moscow Conceptualism, Ilya Kabakov worked for many years as a children’s book illustrator. Having begun his career as an illustrator while still a student at the Surikov Art Institute, he collaborated with the publishing houses Detgiz (renamed Children’s Literature in 1963) and Malysh and the magazines Murzilka and Veselye Kartinki (Merry Pictures). The work on children’s books provided him—as for other unofficial artists—with a stable income, while also offering a space of relative freedom for formal experimentation and access to a very young audience.
For some artists, working with books was interesting and attractive, as in the case of Viktor Pivovarov; for others, such as Erik Bulatov and Oleg Vassiliev, it was tedious but demanded a conscientious approach; and for some it provoked outright aversion. Ilya Kabakov noted: “I did not like making illustrations, it did not come easily to me… I believed that I had to act slyly, to adapt myself as if the work had been done by a character—a typical Soviet artist who draws and produces exactly what is expected by the publishing house.” This detachment and the desire to deconstruct the figure of the author informed the artist’s stylistic choices. While in his conceptual albums Kabakov turned to the Soviet bureaucratic visual language of schedules, notice boards, and posters, in book illustration he mimicked the standardized “Detgiz style,” combining the artistic solutions of recognized, editorially approved masters such as Vladimir Konashevich or Boris Dekhterev. “The most paradoxical thing about this approved Soviet canon was that it revived exactly the style, form, and subject matter of the ‘children’s room’ which had been abolished by the spirit of the revolution. Illustration was dominated by a nineteenth‑century spirit, with its ‘realistic,’ nearly naturalistic manner of depiction,” Kabakov later recalled.
As for underground artists, collaboration with children’s publishing houses was a necessary step for Soviet writers. While the avant‑garde poetry of Genrikh Sapgir circulated in the USSR only in samizdat form until the late 1980s, his children’s books began to be published in the early 1960s, some of them illustrated by friends from the unofficial circle, including Ilya Kabakov. In Four Envelopes (Children’s Literature, 1976), Kabakov combined the realistic manner of Konashevich‑style fine hatching with a virtuoso play of horizontals and verticals. Here, lines form picture frames adorned with intertwining ornamental stems, banners for titles, and film‑strip frames for the drawings, in each case creating unique relationships between word and image. In Crocodile and Rooster, for example, the image balances between two spatial states: as a background overlapped by a block of text, and as a complex ornamental frame surrounding it. The characters are divided by a vertical line, beyond which the Rooster’s head slightly protrudes. By breaking through the boundaries drawn by the artist’s hand, they enter into dialogue and, as the poem says, “Having exchanged such words, / they exchanged their heads.”

Crocodile and Rooster. Sketch for an illustration for Genrikh Sapgir’s poetry collection Four Envelopes

Svetlana Kopystiansky became part of the Moscow unofficial art scene in the late 1970s, creating paintings in which image and text are in a complex interplay. Unlike the “damaged” and “restored” paintings of her husband Igor Kopystiansky, with whom she has closely collaborated for decades, her works of the 1980s invariably incorporated extensive textual fragments. The artist carefully covered an already completed painting with text, then crumpled the canvas and fixed it onto the stretcher in this altered state. Kopystiansky borrowed her texts from classical literature—novels, short stories, plays—and copied them out by hand. Quotations from different authors appeared within a single work, often breaking off at the edge of the canvas or becoming “disrupted” by folds, making it impossible to read the text without semantic gaps.

The handwriting and the unconventional treatment of the pictorial surface invoke a literal collision between visual image and literary narrative. Yet the final configuration of the work and its meaning depended both on the artist’s physical actions and on chance factors. Treating the canvas as a bodily, pliable material allowed Kopystiansky not merely to fragment the literary source but to literally model its visual fabric, in which folds, tears, and bends generate new combinations of letters and signs, granting legibility to this play of forms.

The Packed Story 3 was created in the year the Kopystianskys emigrated from the USSR to the United States and marks an important stage in the artist’s practice. A canvas backpack is primed and covered with manuscript text. The fragmentation of the text is minimal, however, and the arrangement of the lines follows the object’s plastic form. Small lacunae do not hinder the reading of excerpts from Mikhail Prishvin’s lyrical prose Phacelia—specifically from the chapters “The Drop and the Stone,” “The Gramophone,” “The Abyss,” and “The Key to Happiness,” where the theme of loss intertwines with reflections on spiritual resilience and the healing power of art. The found object thus acquires an existential significance that transcends its utilitarian function.

By the early 1990s, Kopystiansky had expanded her practice to include installations and performances in which books and printed texts functioned as readymades. Among the key works of this period are The Library (1990, MUMOK, Vienna), where volumes of Edgar Allan Poe were placed in wooden crates and the open pages served as visual surfaces, and Universal Space (1994, Centre Pompidou, Paris), which combines books with gymnastic equipment in a surreal dialogue of forms and functions.

Svetlana Kopystiansky became part of the Moscow unofficial art scene in the late 1970s, creating paintings in which image and text are in a complex interplay. Unlike the “damaged” and “restored” paintings of her husband Igor Kopystiansky, with whom she has closely collaborated for decades, her works of the 1980s invariably incorporated extensive textual fragments. The artist carefully covered an already completed painting with text, then crumpled the canvas and fixed it onto the stretcher in this altered state. Kopystiansky borrowed her texts from classical literature—novels, short stories, plays—and copied them out by hand. Quotations from different authors appeared within a single work, often breaking off at the edge of the canvas or becoming “disrupted” by folds, making it impossible to read the text without semantic gaps.

The handwriting and the unconventional treatment of the pictorial surface invoke a literal collision between visual image and literary narrative. Yet the final configuration of the work and its meaning depended both on the artist’s physical actions and on chance factors. Treating the canvas as a bodily, pliable material allowed Kopystiansky not merely to fragment the literary source but to literally model its visual fabric, in which folds, tears, and bends generate new combinations of letters and signs, granting legibility to this play of forms.

The Packed Story 3 was created in the year the Kopystianskys emigrated from the USSR to the United States and marks an important stage in the artist’s practice. A canvas backpack is primed and covered with manuscript text. The fragmentation of the text is minimal, however, and the arrangement of the lines follows the object’s plastic form. Small lacunae do not hinder the reading of excerpts from Mikhail Prishvin’s lyrical prose Phacelia—specifically from the chapters “The Drop and the Stone,” “The Gramophone,” “The Abyss,” and “The Key to Happiness,” where the theme of loss intertwines with reflections on spiritual resilience and the healing power of art. The found object thus acquires an existential significance that transcends its utilitarian function.

By the early 1990s, Kopystiansky had expanded her practice to include installations and performances in which books and printed texts functioned as readymades. Among the key works of this period are The Library (1990, MUMOK, Vienna), where volumes of Edgar Allan Poe were placed in wooden crates and the open pages served as visual surfaces, and Universal Space (1994, Centre Pompidou, Paris), which combines books with gymnastic equipment in a surreal dialogue of forms and functions.

The Packed Story 3

В жизни московского концептуалиста Виктора Пивоварова тесно переплетались неофициальное искусство и детская книжная иллюстрация. Выработанные в издательствах приемы становились частью концептуальных экспериментов художника и, наоборот, черты неофициального искусства появлялись на страницах детских книг. Символично, что художник часто соединял разные измерения в живописи и графике. В многослойных композициях Пивоварова мир переворачивается с ног на голову: фон и фигура меняются местами, в невесомости парят окна, внутри очертаний предметов разворачиваются целые сценки.

В жизни московского концептуалиста Виктора Пивоварова тесно переплетались неофициальное искусство и детская книжная иллюстрация. Выработанные в издательствах приемы становились частью концептуальных экспериментов художника и, наоборот, черты неофициального искусства появлялись на страницах детских книг. Символично, что художник часто соединял разные измерения в живописи и графике. В многослойных композициях Пивоварова мир переворачивается с ног на голову: фон и фигура меняются местами, в невесомости парят окна, внутри очертаний предметов разворачиваются целые сценки.

Untitled

Владимир Сорокин — писатель, художник, одна из ключевых фигур московского концептуализма. С ранних лет увлеченный изобразительным искусством, в детстве он посещал изостудию при Государственном музее изобразительных искусств имени А. С. Пушкина, однако не получил художественного образования: в 1977 году он окончил Московский институт нефтехимической и газовой промышленности имени И. М. Губкина (ныне РГУ нефти и газа) по специальности «инженер‑механик». Однако вскоре он вернулся к визуальной практике: работал штатным художником в журнале «Смена», занимался живописью, графикой, создавал объекты и инсталляции, участвовал в выставках неофициального искусства и оформил около полусотни книг — как и многие его коллеги, для которых иллюстрация была способом заработка.

О поворотном событии в своей творческой судьбе Сорокин позднее вспоминал: «В 1975 году дама‑стоматолог по имени Кира познакомила меня с ее пациентом, художником‑нонконформистом Эриком Булатовым, открывшим мне московский андерграунд. Мастерская Булатова — Васильева стала дверью в советское литературно‑художественное подполье… Слава Богу, наделившему меня плохими зубами!» Вскоре он сблизился с Никитой Алексеевым, Ильей Кабаковым, Андреем Монастырским, Виктором Пивоваровым, Дмитрием Приговым, Львом Рубинштейном и другими представителями московского концептуализма. В этом интеллектуальном и эстетическом поле Сорокин окончательно определился как литератор. Его дебютный роман «Очередь» был опубликован в парижском издательстве «Синтаксис» в 1985 году.

«Апокалипсис» — живописный цикл Сорокина из четырех картин второй половины 1970‑х годов, в котором сочетаются элементы сюрреализма и метафизической живописи, а также постепенный переход к абстрактной форме. Название отсылает к древнегреческому слову ἀποκάλυψις — «откровение, обнажение, снятие покрова». 

Серия «Апокалипсис» второй половины 1970‑х годов — ранний живописный цикл Владимира Сорокина, отражающий поиск собственного художественного языка. В нем сочетаются элементы сюрреализма и метафизической живописи, а также постепенный переход к абстрактной знаковой форме.

Работа из коллекции Музея выполнена в пастозной манере с использованием масла, песка, гипса и бязи, что придает поверхности плотную, рельефную фактуру, словно скрывающую под собой иное изображение. В правом верхнем углу сквозь красочные слои проступает «уцелевший» фрагмент фигуративной композиции: иллюзорные складки завесы и двоеперстие, поднятое в благословляющем жесте. Этот намек на религиозную иконографию перекликается с духовными исканиями Сорокина: в середине 1970‑х годов он пришел к вере, а в начале 1980‑х принял православное крещение. В христианской традиции «Апокалипсис» — второе название последней книги Нового Завета «Откровение Иоанна Богослова», которая описывает события конца света, второго пришествия Христа и Страшного суда. В центре композиции возникает геометрический элемент — черный треугольник, чья пластическая резкость вызывает ассоциацию с авангардной эстетикой революционной эпохи, в частности с плакатом Эль Лисицкого «Клином красным бей белых» (1919–1920).

Цикл «Апокалипсис» стал завершающим этапом раннего творческого пути Сорокина как художника: он вернулся к живописи только в 2014 году.

Владимир Сорокин — писатель, художник, одна из ключевых фигур московского концептуализма. С ранних лет увлеченный изобразительным искусством, в детстве он посещал изостудию при Государственном музее изобразительных искусств имени А. С. Пушкина, однако не получил художественного образования: в 1977 году он окончил Московский институт нефтехимической и газовой промышленности имени И. М. Губкина (ныне РГУ нефти и газа) по специальности «инженер‑механик». Однако вскоре он вернулся к визуальной практике: работал штатным художником в журнале «Смена», занимался живописью, графикой, создавал объекты и инсталляции, участвовал в выставках неофициального искусства и оформил около полусотни книг — как и многие его коллеги, для которых иллюстрация была способом заработка.

О поворотном событии в своей творческой судьбе Сорокин позднее вспоминал: «В 1975 году дама‑стоматолог по имени Кира познакомила меня с ее пациентом, художником‑нонконформистом Эриком Булатовым, открывшим мне московский андерграунд. Мастерская Булатова — Васильева стала дверью в советское литературно‑художественное подполье… Слава Богу, наделившему меня плохими зубами!» Вскоре он сблизился с Никитой Алексеевым, Ильей Кабаковым, Андреем Монастырским, Виктором Пивоваровым, Дмитрием Приговым, Львом Рубинштейном и другими представителями московского концептуализма. В этом интеллектуальном и эстетическом поле Сорокин окончательно определился как литератор. Его дебютный роман «Очередь» был опубликован в парижском издательстве «Синтаксис» в 1985 году.

«Апокалипсис» — живописный цикл Сорокина из четырех картин второй половины 1970‑х годов, в котором сочетаются элементы сюрреализма и метафизической живописи, а также постепенный переход к абстрактной форме. Название отсылает к древнегреческому слову ἀποκάλυψις — «откровение, обнажение, снятие покрова». 

Серия «Апокалипсис» второй половины 1970‑х годов — ранний живописный цикл Владимира Сорокина, отражающий поиск собственного художественного языка. В нем сочетаются элементы сюрреализма и метафизической живописи, а также постепенный переход к абстрактной знаковой форме.

Работа из коллекции Музея выполнена в пастозной манере с использованием масла, песка, гипса и бязи, что придает поверхности плотную, рельефную фактуру, словно скрывающую под собой иное изображение. В правом верхнем углу сквозь красочные слои проступает «уцелевший» фрагмент фигуративной композиции: иллюзорные складки завесы и двоеперстие, поднятое в благословляющем жесте. Этот намек на религиозную иконографию перекликается с духовными исканиями Сорокина: в середине 1970‑х годов он пришел к вере, а в начале 1980‑х принял православное крещение. В христианской традиции «Апокалипсис» — второе название последней книги Нового Завета «Откровение Иоанна Богослова», которая описывает события конца света, второго пришествия Христа и Страшного суда. В центре композиции возникает геометрический элемент — черный треугольник, чья пластическая резкость вызывает ассоциацию с авангардной эстетикой революционной эпохи, в частности с плакатом Эль Лисицкого «Клином красным бей белых» (1919–1920).

Цикл «Апокалипсис» стал завершающим этапом раннего творческого пути Сорокина как художника: он вернулся к живописи только в 2014 году.

Αποκάλυψη

In the Soviet Union, the culture of children’s books and magazines was subject to
less ideological control and pressure from state authorities. Work as illustrators
provided unofficial artists with an income and opened up a space for formal
experimentation. Viktor Pivovarov, one of the founders of Moscow Conceptualism,
particularly valued this modest corner of creative freedom and its “grassroots” culture:
“Forgotten and abandoned, this fauna, just like in nature, becomes the fertile soil, the
humus for an emerging culture. Here the contemporary artist finds an inexhaustible
source of inspiration.”
 
In 1963, Pivovarov met his future wife, Irina, at a student party at the Yunost Hotel. As their son, artist Pavel Pepperstein, recalls: “When my parents got married, they came up with the idea of collaboration. Mom would write the poems, and Dad would make illustrations for them. It started as a romantic project based on love.” By 1964, their first joint book, Everyone Got Treats (originally named Kisel, or Starch Drink), was published by Malysh, marking Irina Pivovarova’s debut as a children’s poet. 

The poem at the heart of the book tells the story of a girl who treats her friends to a dessert and, having shared everything, ends up with nothing. This simple narrative of selfless generosity is accompanied by visual imagery of animals and birds. In one illustration, two hens are depicted with pots of dessert. The composition is structured around a horizontal element dividing the space into two registers: on a branch, in profile, sits a bird with a lush tail, while beneath it another bird faces the opposite direction, creating a subtle sense of hidden movement. The figures are rendered primarily in a warm ochre palette and executed with exceptional attention to the texture of the plumage.

This experimental collaboration marked the beginning of a long‑term creative partnership. In the years that followed, the couple produced several more children’s books together, including Quiet and Resonant (Detskaya Literatura, 1967), Little Spider and the Moonlight (Malysh, 1968), Tikitak (Malysh, 1968), Once Upon a Time There Was a Dog (Detskaya Literatura, 1973), and Two Very Brave Rabbits (Sovetskaya Rossiya, 1975).

In the Soviet Union, the culture of children’s books and magazines was subject to
less ideological control and pressure from state authorities. Work as illustrators
provided unofficial artists with an income and opened up a space for formal
experimentation. Viktor Pivovarov, one of the founders of Moscow Conceptualism,
particularly valued this modest corner of creative freedom and its “grassroots” culture:
“Forgotten and abandoned, this fauna, just like in nature, becomes the fertile soil, the
humus for an emerging culture. Here the contemporary artist finds an inexhaustible
source of inspiration.”
 
In 1963, Pivovarov met his future wife, Irina, at a student party at the Yunost Hotel. As their son, artist Pavel Pepperstein, recalls: “When my parents got married, they came up with the idea of collaboration. Mom would write the poems, and Dad would make illustrations for them. It started as a romantic project based on love.” By 1964, their first joint book, Everyone Got Treats (originally named Kisel, or Starch Drink), was published by Malysh, marking Irina Pivovarova’s debut as a children’s poet. 

The poem at the heart of the book tells the story of a girl who treats her friends to a dessert and, having shared everything, ends up with nothing. This simple narrative of selfless generosity is accompanied by visual imagery of animals and birds. In one illustration, two hens are depicted with pots of dessert. The composition is structured around a horizontal element dividing the space into two registers: on a branch, in profile, sits a bird with a lush tail, while beneath it another bird faces the opposite direction, creating a subtle sense of hidden movement. The figures are rendered primarily in a warm ochre palette and executed with exceptional attention to the texture of the plumage.

This experimental collaboration marked the beginning of a long‑term creative partnership. In the years that followed, the couple produced several more children’s books together, including Quiet and Resonant (Detskaya Literatura, 1967), Little Spider and the Moonlight (Malysh, 1968), Tikitak (Malysh, 1968), Once Upon a Time There Was a Dog (Detskaya Literatura, 1973), and Two Very Brave Rabbits (Sovetskaya Rossiya, 1975).

Illustrations for Irina Pivovarova’s book Everyone Got Treats

A key figure of Moscow Conceptualism, Ilya Kabakov worked for many years as a children’s book illustrator. Having begun his career as an illustrator while still a student at the Surikov Art Institute, he collaborated with the publishing houses Detgiz (renamed Children’s Literature in 1963) and Malysh and the magazines Murzilka and Veselye Kartinki (Merry Pictures). The work on children’s books provided him—as for other unofficial artists—with a stable income, while also offering a space of relative freedom for formal experimentation and access to a very young audience.
For some artists, working with books was interesting and attractive, as in the case of Viktor Pivovarov; for others, such as Erik Bulatov and Oleg Vassiliev, it was tedious but demanded a conscientious approach; and for some it provoked outright aversion. Ilya Kabakov noted: “I did not like making illustrations, it did not come easily to me… I believed that I had to act slyly, to adapt myself as if the work had been done by a character—a typical Soviet artist who draws and produces exactly what is expected by the publishing house.” This detachment and the desire to deconstruct the figure of the author informed the artist’s stylistic choices. While in his conceptual albums Kabakov turned to the Soviet bureaucratic visual language of schedules, notice boards, and posters, in book illustration he mimicked the standardized “Detgiz style,” combining the artistic solutions of recognized, editorially approved masters such as Vladimir Konashevich or Boris Dekhterev. “The most paradoxical thing about this approved Soviet canon was that it revived exactly the style, form, and subject matter of the ‘children’s room’ which had been abolished by the spirit of the revolution. Illustration was dominated by a nineteenth‑century spirit, with its ‘realistic,’ nearly naturalistic manner of depiction,” Kabakov later recalled.
As for underground artists, collaboration with children’s publishing houses was a necessary step for Soviet writers. While the avant‑garde poetry of Genrikh Sapgir circulated in the USSR only in samizdat form until the late 1980s, his children’s books began to be published in the early 1960s, some of them illustrated by friends from the unofficial circle, including Ilya Kabakov. In Four Envelopes (Children’s Literature, 1976), Kabakov combined the realistic manner of Konashevich‑style fine hatching with a virtuoso play of horizontals and verticals. Here, lines form picture frames adorned with intertwining ornamental stems, banners for titles, and film‑strip frames for the drawings, in each case creating unique relationships between word and image For example, the illustration for the poem Grasshopper is divided into three parts, with the image occupying a strictly allotted place, not invading the space of the text. Above them rises the title, also framed and resembling a banner. Cheerfully fluttering among the birds, the protagonist recalls the famous figures from Kabakov’s conceptual albums—those striving toward the sky, dissolving into emptiness, and flying off into space. “If only I could / put on a green jacket / and jump / into the sky — / just like that!” writes Sapgir.

A key figure of Moscow Conceptualism, Ilya Kabakov worked for many years as a children’s book illustrator. Having begun his career as an illustrator while still a student at the Surikov Art Institute, he collaborated with the publishing houses Detgiz (renamed Children’s Literature in 1963) and Malysh and the magazines Murzilka and Veselye Kartinki (Merry Pictures). The work on children’s books provided him—as for other unofficial artists—with a stable income, while also offering a space of relative freedom for formal experimentation and access to a very young audience.
For some artists, working with books was interesting and attractive, as in the case of Viktor Pivovarov; for others, such as Erik Bulatov and Oleg Vassiliev, it was tedious but demanded a conscientious approach; and for some it provoked outright aversion. Ilya Kabakov noted: “I did not like making illustrations, it did not come easily to me… I believed that I had to act slyly, to adapt myself as if the work had been done by a character—a typical Soviet artist who draws and produces exactly what is expected by the publishing house.” This detachment and the desire to deconstruct the figure of the author informed the artist’s stylistic choices. While in his conceptual albums Kabakov turned to the Soviet bureaucratic visual language of schedules, notice boards, and posters, in book illustration he mimicked the standardized “Detgiz style,” combining the artistic solutions of recognized, editorially approved masters such as Vladimir Konashevich or Boris Dekhterev. “The most paradoxical thing about this approved Soviet canon was that it revived exactly the style, form, and subject matter of the ‘children’s room’ which had been abolished by the spirit of the revolution. Illustration was dominated by a nineteenth‑century spirit, with its ‘realistic,’ nearly naturalistic manner of depiction,” Kabakov later recalled.
As for underground artists, collaboration with children’s publishing houses was a necessary step for Soviet writers. While the avant‑garde poetry of Genrikh Sapgir circulated in the USSR only in samizdat form until the late 1980s, his children’s books began to be published in the early 1960s, some of them illustrated by friends from the unofficial circle, including Ilya Kabakov. In Four Envelopes (Children’s Literature, 1976), Kabakov combined the realistic manner of Konashevich‑style fine hatching with a virtuoso play of horizontals and verticals. Here, lines form picture frames adorned with intertwining ornamental stems, banners for titles, and film‑strip frames for the drawings, in each case creating unique relationships between word and image For example, the illustration for the poem Grasshopper is divided into three parts, with the image occupying a strictly allotted place, not invading the space of the text. Above them rises the title, also framed and resembling a banner. Cheerfully fluttering among the birds, the protagonist recalls the famous figures from Kabakov’s conceptual albums—those striving toward the sky, dissolving into emptiness, and flying off into space. “If only I could / put on a green jacket / and jump / into the sky — / just like that!” writes Sapgir.

Grasshopper. Sketch for an Illustration for Genrikh Sapgir’s poetry collection Four Envelopes

A key figure of Moscow Conceptualism, Ilya Kabakov worked for many years as a children’s book illustrator. Having begun his career as an illustrator while still a student at the Surikov Art Institute, he collaborated with the publishing houses Detgiz (renamed Children’s Literature in 1963) and Malysh and the magazines Murzilka and Veselye Kartinki (Merry Pictures). The work on children’s books provided him—as for other unofficial artists—with a stable income, while also offering a space of relative freedom for formal experimentation and access to a very young audience.
For some artists, working with books was interesting and attractive, as in the case of Viktor Pivovarov; for others, such as Erik Bulatov and Oleg Vassiliev, it was tedious but demanded a conscientious approach; and for some it provoked outright aversion. Ilya Kabakov noted: “I did not like making illustrations, it did not come easily to me… I believed that I had to act slyly, to adapt myself as if the work had been done by a character—a typical Soviet artist who draws and produces exactly what is expected by the publishing house.” This detachment and the desire to deconstruct the figure of the author informed the artist’s stylistic choices. While in his conceptual albums Kabakov turned to the Soviet bureaucratic visual language of schedules, notice boards, and posters, in book illustration he mimicked the standardized “Detgiz style,” combining the artistic solutions of recognized, editorially approved masters such as Vladimir Konashevich or Boris Dekhterev. “The most paradoxical thing about this approved Soviet canon was that it revived exactly the style, form, and subject matter of the ‘children’s room’ which had been abolished by the spirit of the revolution. Illustration was dominated by a nineteenth‑century spirit, with its ‘realistic,’ nearly naturalistic manner of depiction,” Kabakov later recalled.
As for underground artists, collaboration with children’s publishing houses was a necessary step for Soviet writers. While the avant‑garde poetry of Genrikh Sapgir circulated in the USSR only in samizdat form until the late 1980s, his children’s books began to be published in the early 1960s, some of them illustrated by friends from the unofficial circle, including Ilya Kabakov. In Four Envelopes (Children’s Literature, 1976), Kabakov combined the realistic manner of Konashevich‑style fine hatching with a virtuoso play of horizontals and verticals. Here, lines form picture frames adorned with intertwining ornamental stems, banners for titles, and film‑strip frames for the drawings, in each case creating unique relationships between word and image. In Counting Rhymes, everything is distributed into cells and strictly aligned on the page, with each block of text corresponding to its visual counterpart: the image comments on the written word and vice versa. Yet small details disrupt this strict division: expressive strokes break through the boundaries, and isolated figures emerge in the white emptiness of the page, having escaped beyond the limits of the grid.

A key figure of Moscow Conceptualism, Ilya Kabakov worked for many years as a children’s book illustrator. Having begun his career as an illustrator while still a student at the Surikov Art Institute, he collaborated with the publishing houses Detgiz (renamed Children’s Literature in 1963) and Malysh and the magazines Murzilka and Veselye Kartinki (Merry Pictures). The work on children’s books provided him—as for other unofficial artists—with a stable income, while also offering a space of relative freedom for formal experimentation and access to a very young audience.
For some artists, working with books was interesting and attractive, as in the case of Viktor Pivovarov; for others, such as Erik Bulatov and Oleg Vassiliev, it was tedious but demanded a conscientious approach; and for some it provoked outright aversion. Ilya Kabakov noted: “I did not like making illustrations, it did not come easily to me… I believed that I had to act slyly, to adapt myself as if the work had been done by a character—a typical Soviet artist who draws and produces exactly what is expected by the publishing house.” This detachment and the desire to deconstruct the figure of the author informed the artist’s stylistic choices. While in his conceptual albums Kabakov turned to the Soviet bureaucratic visual language of schedules, notice boards, and posters, in book illustration he mimicked the standardized “Detgiz style,” combining the artistic solutions of recognized, editorially approved masters such as Vladimir Konashevich or Boris Dekhterev. “The most paradoxical thing about this approved Soviet canon was that it revived exactly the style, form, and subject matter of the ‘children’s room’ which had been abolished by the spirit of the revolution. Illustration was dominated by a nineteenth‑century spirit, with its ‘realistic,’ nearly naturalistic manner of depiction,” Kabakov later recalled.
As for underground artists, collaboration with children’s publishing houses was a necessary step for Soviet writers. While the avant‑garde poetry of Genrikh Sapgir circulated in the USSR only in samizdat form until the late 1980s, his children’s books began to be published in the early 1960s, some of them illustrated by friends from the unofficial circle, including Ilya Kabakov. In Four Envelopes (Children’s Literature, 1976), Kabakov combined the realistic manner of Konashevich‑style fine hatching with a virtuoso play of horizontals and verticals. Here, lines form picture frames adorned with intertwining ornamental stems, banners for titles, and film‑strip frames for the drawings, in each case creating unique relationships between word and image. In Counting Rhymes, everything is distributed into cells and strictly aligned on the page, with each block of text corresponding to its visual counterpart: the image comments on the written word and vice versa. Yet small details disrupt this strict division: expressive strokes break through the boundaries, and isolated figures emerge in the white emptiness of the page, having escaped beyond the limits of the grid.

Counting Rhymes. Sketch for an Illustration for Genrikh Sapgir’s poetry collection Four Envelopes

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Мастер

Sorokin Vladimir

Born in Voronezh, in the 1970s and 1980s Svetlana was part of the Moscow unofficial art milieu. In 1988, she emigrated to New York (USA) together with her husband and collaborator, artist Igor Kopystiansky. She has participated in numerous exhibitions, including the 9th Sydney Biennale (1992), the 22nd São Paulo Biennial (1994), the 4th Istanbul Biennial (1995), the 4th Lyon Biennial (1997), the 2nd Johannesburg Biennial (1997), and Documenta 11 (Kassel, 2002).

Kopystiansky Svetlana

Родился в Днепропетровске. Ведущий представитель московского концептуализма, создатель жанра тотальной инсталляции. Окончил отделение графики Московского государственного художественного института им. В. И. Сурикова (1951). После окончания вуза занимался иллюстрацией книг для издательств «Малыш» и «Детская литература». Со второй половины 1950‑х стал заниматься собственными художественными проектами. В 1988 году переехал в Нью‑Йорк, с 1989 года работал в соавторстве с женой Эмилией Кабаковой. Многократный участник крупных международных проектов в России и за рубежом: documenta IX (1993), Венецианской биеннале (1977 — Биеннале диссидентов; 1993 — павильон СНГ; 1988, 1997, 2001, 2003, 2007 — основной проект) и др.

Kabakov Ilya

Viktor Pivovarov was born in Moscow. He studied at Kalinin Moscow Art and Industrial College and in the Graphics Department of Moscow Printing Institute from 1957 to 1962. He took part in the Biennale of Dissent (Venice, 1977). He is a recipient of the Innovation Prize in the nomination For Contribution to the Development of Contemporary Art (2017).

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