Land art as art is, I think, something altogether ancient. It’s something from the earth, something from our ancestors, which means that it died a long time ago. For us it is a new and unfamiliar spectacle. Of course, you can call it a kolkhoz [collective farm], but then no one now has any need to create a kolkhoz. What we need is to do what is interesting, that which enchants and which forces the viewer to get to grips with the universal, mass nature of the project. In Old Russia, I suppose, all this cost a lot of money and all the folk crafts that were recreated at the end of the 19th century were sponsored by large fortunes and wealthy individuals. Talashkino, Gzhel’, Dulevo: all this was created so as to force the Russian narod [common people] to work for its own good. And for this reason Russian folk art underwent a renaissance and lives to this day in shawls, matryoshki, wooden spoons, and so on. But for us this is a spectacle, a Russian folk festival. It’s not even from the age of Old Russia, but from a proto-age, a primeval period – like the shaman dances of our distant ancestors. It’s commonly thought that cliff paintings with bisons are the most ancient art, but perhaps this status really belongs to dancing at the fireside and ceremonial cremation. Universal unification.

Did the idea of creating a centre for contemporary art in a village occur spontaneously?

Russian folk celebrations are always spontaneous. The idea was undoubtedly spontaneous. One thing led to another. There was, I think, this moment of crisis when we were unsure what to do next, but then everything fell into place. We had the idea of holding a festival, invited everyone we could think of, including many well-known architects, and everyone was willing to take part. All the ideas were born without our having to sweat over them – we would simply have flashes of inspiration and everything would begin to take shape. Personally, I can spend months doing nothing, sitting, drawing… And then suddenly an idea comes long and I begin working intensively on creating a project. It was the same here with the idea for Arch-Stoyaniye and the art centre.

Tell me, do you feel a connection with Western land art? What is distinctive about Russian land art?

There were some Dutch people who came from Adriaan Geuze (Adaiaan Geuze of West 8 made a pavilion of pine cones at Arch-Stoyanie 2007 – M.S.), bring with them entire talmuds, theoretical calculations as to how to make things from pine cones, how to build, how to assemble the material, how to measure the pine cones, using a tape measure – entire tomes of paperwork. But we, you see, do everything wrong. We did the reading, of course, we got that but right, but what next? It’s our practice to do everything without making any calculations. In the Russian manner, as they do in Russian villages. What’s the point of counting pine cones? It’s a waste of time. Of course, the pavilion should have been done a little differently than the way it turned out. But the technique we used is the same. In theory. No, it is possible to work with the West. We’ve had projects in France. But we haven’t yet done a joint project with foreigners. But you can keep talking and then end up with the Tower of Babel. You need a framework indicating who’s going to do what, who will have what duties, and then you can work together to realize the project – and where and how is of little relevance. So far we’ve received no such proposal, but if we were offered the chance, I’m sure a collaborative project would be interesting to do.

Are you easy in the company of architects? There’s no rivalry between you?

There’s no rivalry. I’m not sure whether this is a good or bad thing. They have their own approach to projects and to creating them and I have mine. I don’t understand the way they do their design work, the way they trace everything out, and I don’t understand how they can make a model and plant 20 trees around it, on the model. There’s something slightly absurd about a model of a tree. Of course, in most cases it’s not they who do it. And of course, we too do not simply knock things together. But I don’t use this kind of complicated mathematical calculation, and yet in my projects there’s never anything that comes off or falls down. There was a pillar that fell, but that was because it hadn’t been dug into the ground properly. But everything else is still standing. It’s like in a village when they build an izba [peasant hut] or a bathhouse or shed – no one ever makes any mathematical calculations. And nothing ever falls down.

No, we have no connection with architects. For me the main thing is figurativeness. How a thing looks, how it stands, how it looks in its natural surroundings. I’m an artist; for me figurativeness is more important. For instance, Borders of Empire is an absolutely visual object. There was this land, which became overgrown with forest, and then we came along and built on it what seem to be the remains of a civilization – and it’s not important what kind of civilization this was exactly, how Carthage was organized – maybe someone held ritual processions there or there was a council of some kind, but this is no longer important. What is important is that it stands before us, that it’s majestic to look at, and that it leaves an impression that is profound and memorable.

How do you picture Nikola-Lenivets in 20 years’ time?

Nikola-Lenivets in 20 years’ time is a space filled with projects, and yet it remains within the same boundaries, has not expanded. There’s no point in it expanding; let nature remain and let the grass grow. The projects are always new, but at the same time the old projects are not forgotten and there is no repetition – but there are some beautiful ruins. For instance, if a project turns out to be highly successful for some reason, it automatically becomes a ruin and is preserved – although, of course, this is a deviation from the concept that this art should live its life and then die. In general, I find the idea of restoration and recreation strange; I just don’t understand it. But the way that contemporary architecture dies, leaving absolutely nothing behind it, means there’s nothing left to conserve. Modern architecture mostly turns to dust; it simply goes up in smoke. It’s not at all the same thing as a village shed – which starts to sway, then the roof starts to slide off, first one side subsides, then the other, and you end up with something picturesque. Many of my designs are based on picturesqueness.
And this is the way it should be at the festival too – it’s nature, after all. Land art probably cannot come to an end; it should – and can – be constantly taking on nourishment. Of course, it can veer off into design. And this might happen to the stuff that I do too. But it’s not what I want. In general, I’m lazy. One of the villagers even said to me once when I started complaining of having to work too hard, “No, Kolya, this isn’t work. Work is when it’s hard, dirty, cold, and they don’t pay you any money. But what you’re doing is not work.”

Are you sad that your projects disappear?

Yes. But then people die too. All projects are unrepeatable. No one is going to reproduce them. They existed and then they died. If they died beautifully, all honour to them; if they died without beauty, then they were taken apart and that was it. A project exists and is recorded and photographed. And then it is no longer. I’m always being asked why I don’t do my Hay Tower or Woodpile again. But, no, I won’t. Those projects are beautiful memories, but now I need to think up something new. Everything in this village happens once only. Every project is born, live, and dies. It may be beautiful or it may not, but it has its own life, and when it dies, everything is over. No, it is not forgotten. But nothing is repeated.

2008, Catalog ‘XI Venice Architecture Biennale. Russian pavilion. A game of chess. tournament for Russia’.

Nikola-Lenivets, Russia — In this dying village, people don’t carve out a living. They scrape it with their nails from the soil.

For the old women who have to chop their own kindling and the lonely widows who shed tears at giving their last cow up to the butcher, what use is art?
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Thirteen years ago, artist Nikolai Polissky came to this village from Moscow, burning with creativity. He built armies of snowmen and whimsical towers out of hay, or firewood or twigs, whatever was lying around.

To some villagers, he’s a madman, the spark for a bonfire of resentment. To others, he’s an inspiration who showed them the beauty of art in a place devoid of opportunity or hope.

Radiantly impractical, the towers irritate some locals, who grumble that they create a nuisance. Residents are too busy struggling at the grinding business of survival to shuffle the few hundred yards from their homes to gaze and wonder what the constructions signify.

That someone would pay a Paris gallery $2,000 for a photograph of one of these confections is far beyond the locals’ understanding, and only serves to reinforce a sense of heartless lunacy in a market that values people like them at nothing.

But other villagers, who at first couldn’t see the point of Polissky’s works, now are moved by their majesty, ablaze with twinkling light on a purple moonlit night.

“The funny thing is, they talk and say: ‘What’s the point? Why do we need this?’ ” said Ivan Parygin, 17, one of the many locals drawn like moths to Polissky’s light. “But when they come down and see it, you can see their eyes shining.”

Standing at the top of Polissky’s latest creation, a 90-foot tower of twigs and branches that sways and creaks in any gust of wind, it is at first a little difficult to catch a sense of his artistic vision.

The whole thing is hammered up with a properly artistic sense of haphazard asymmetry, a structure so untouched by safety considerations that it makes your feet tingle as you clamber up on slippery birch branches and rustic, homemade ladders.

The reward up top is a splendid view, if you can forget for a moment what lies beneath your soles.

The giant basket-weave structure might recall the ethereal 1922 Shukhovskaya radio tower–pride of the Soviet Union–that inspired it. To some, it’s a rocket. It even conjures up elements of the Eiffel Tower.

“It’s great when people move inside the tower. You can’t see them, but it creaks and groans and you can sense they are there,” Polissky burbled excitedly.

But the construction is not quite finished yet. Polissky’s team of builders began in June, and by late this month it will be complete. Then Polissky will take out his camera. He has a talent for lighting and photographing his creations, capturing the sunlight, the dawn mists, frost and snow that nature’s charity adds.
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“The snow will come. When there is a thaw followed by a cold snap, the tower will be covered in ice,” he said. “It will look beautiful.”

Polissky, who devoted himself to painting, and a few close friends first arrived here from Moscow, 125 miles away, in 1989 and squatted on the land.

“The land was like a mysterious island, and we felt we had to build something unusual,” he said. “We wanted to make something monumental.”

They faced hostility.

“The locals did not take to us,” Polissky recalled. “There’s a traditional Russian fear of strangers. There was quite a bit of aggression toward us. They were against us as Muscovites. But that was a long time ago.”

After a dormant period, when he did little painting, Polissky understood he had failed to find the new, vital direction in painting that he craved.

He is a onetime “Mityok,” one of the leaders of an art movement famous in the mid-1980s for rejecting socialism and finding artistic inspiration not by opposition but by a devil-may-care lifestyle of permanent, joyful inebriation.

“We had a reputation as being people who knew how to live. But either you die a heroic death as an alcoholic or you get on the wagon,” said Polissky, who never embraced the port wine breakfasts of others in the group.

Two years ago, he put aside his oils and brushes, inspired by new materials that were free or cheap and widely available: snow, hay and wood.

Enlisting villagers, he created 220 snowmen, with carrot noses and bucket helmets, straggling down a slope. He made a structure of hay prosaically named “The Tower” that resembled a great golden spiral shell, inspired by the biblical tower of Babel.

He designed and built a 330-foot aqueduct of snow, and a tower of chopped firewood.

These creations stood in soft harmony with this serene piece of Russia, where the afternoon sun paints a silvery light on every leaf, where the river lies cloaked in unctuous fog under a full moon. At the end of each season, the creations melted, or he destroyed them.

“In the summer of 2000, everyone called me ‘the madman,’ ” he said of artist friends back in Moscow. “People gave me a hard time, saying: ‘What are you doing? You’re working with hay?’ They didn’t think it was art. They said: ‘Get your act together. Go back to real art. Go back to painting.’ ”

The hay tower photographs, exhibited widely in Moscow, as well as in Paris and at Montenegro’s contemporary art biennial, show the golden spiral baking in the midday summer sun, and in misty autumnal dawn, dusted like sugared icing with frost. They show the hay mowers with their scythes, villagers with faraway eyes and careworn faces.
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The works made Polissky so well known that people now come from Moscow and surrounding areas to view them.

But Polissky’s time in the village is a blink compared with Natalya Bubnova’s 95 years. Her horizon has shrunk with the years.

“A tower?” said Bubnova, a bent, withered figure. “Yes, we have a tower.” Pausing as she hacked branches for kindling, she gestured toward an ugly rusting water tower. She was bemused to hear about another tower, this one of branches, a few hundred yards from her door.

“No. There were no towers of wood here. Never.”

The village seems paralyzed by tragedy. There is no work. The place is dying. It never recovered from the collapse of the local Soviet-era collective farm and the slaughter of its 1,500 pigs and 1,000 cows in the mid-’90s.

Maria Kozhevnikova, 65, has harvested a life of hardship.

The widow, alone these last 20 years except for a succession of cats, dogs, pigs and her cow, Malyshka–”little one”–always rose at 4 a.m. to milk, and struggled in bitter snows up the long hill from the river carrying water for the stock. By June, it got to be too much and she knew that Malyshka would have to go to the butcher.

“It was a very sorry day. I even cried. But I couldn’t look after her anymore. My legs don’t work now.”

Some Consider the Works Frivolous

The fantastical constructions of wood and hay might have made Polissky famous, but they can’t save the village or bring back the past. So one might forgive those here who are a little cynical or skeptical of the artist and his work.

“Of course it’s no good to us babushkas,” Kozhevnikova said. Polissky and his friends “haven’t achieved anything that we could put to good use.”

When Polissky asked villagers to help him build the 220 snowmen for his first creation, most thought that he was crazy. But money is money.

To Alexander Kondrashov, 48, a former collective-farm worker, the project was “just a job. There was pay. We weren’t wasting our time.” But to Dmitry Mozgunov, a 22-year-old unemployed man who was born in a milder Central Asian city, it was a fantastic gift, compensation for the snowmen he could never build as a little boy.

“When we built a lot of them, it turned out all the snowmen had different individual faces. Of course, we had our favorites,” Polissky said. “They all had their own fates too. Some fell down straight away. Some lived longer.”
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Mozgunov, who moved here when he was 12, said, “There were some that turned out evil. It wasn’t that we wanted it that way. The material would tell what it had to tell.”

Perhaps making snowmen was too much fun to be considered worthwhile, because that’s when the criticism started, much of it whispered behind hands.

“They said, ‘It’s all a worthless prank, it’s useless,’ ” Mozgunov said. “I tried to explain that it’s art. It’s like a painting, to create something with your hands and photograph it.”

Kondrashov endures poverty of both time and money, working from 8 a.m. to 8 p.m. on a small farm plot, and from 8 p.m. to 8 a.m. as a national park watchman earning $30 a month. He snatches sleep on the job.

To him, Polissky has what seems a wealth of time and money and he expends it on whimsies.

“It gives the village nothing. It’s like childish games. It has no relation to life, production, reality,” Kondrashov said. “It’s simply nothing. It has no meaning for me.

“I think it only causes inconvenience for the locals. In the past, it was a quiet village. No one ever bothered us. Right now there’s more dust, more cars, more people. It bothers people, irritates them.”

Project Takes Up Resident’s Free Time

Villager Yevgeny Zelensky, 22, spends most of his free time working on the latest project, despite opposition from his parents, who see it as a dead end.

“They want me to leave the village as soon as possible and get a job,” said Zelensky, who wants to find work as a car mechanic.

For other parents, it’s a relief that their sons have something to occupy them, even if that is standing atop a 90-foot tower with no safety rope.

And when they see these short-lived skyscrapers, the feeling can be magical.

“A lot of villagers have never been any higher than their rooftops,” said Mozgunov, standing near the latest tower of branches and twigs. “The idea scares them. But they go up the tower and they’re lost for words.”

After three triumphant creations, villagers now “expect us to pull off something grandiose every year,” he said.

Since 2000, Polissky and his team have created a big project every summer and a snow project in winter, though the weather has played havoc with their snow sculptures.

Yevgeny Zheltov, 44, who was born here, said Polissky and his friends have brought new blood to a dying village and inspired the young. “They’ve changed the place beyond recognition,” he said.

“It’s changed my life. It’s changed me,” said Mozgunov, struggling to put into words his awe of and love for Polissky. “He’s like a guru. He’s an inspiration.”

There was a shy pause when other volunteers were asked what the artist means to them. Ivan Parygin finally found words.

“I think he’s a genius.”

Robyn Dixon, Times Staff Writer, Los Angeles Times Sep 11, 2002