OBERIU Paper

CHAPTER 1 INTRODUCTION
Preface
Upon rediscovery, in the later half of the 20th Century, the works of the Oberiu have been given the absurdist label, grouping them with the post-WWII Western European authors collected under the same label.  Although a cursory reading will show some similarities, particularly the peculiar disjointed feel of the writings, there is a great deal separating the two bodies of work.  Using Martin Esslin’s notion of the Theatre of the Absurd as a gateway, I will explore the works of the Oberiu through close readings of selected works, as well as considering critical writings on the Oberiu published previously.

Introduction to the Absurd
The Theatre of the Absurd is a term used to describe the works of a group of Western European writers which includes Samuel Beckett, Eugéne Ionesco, Vaclav Havel and Arthur Adamov.  Yet these authors cannot be said to be part of a school, or even group, but rather are individuals, bound by similar thematic elements, not regional proximity and social ties (Esslin, 4).  Contemporary usage of the term ‘absurd’ is often synonymous with ‘ridiculous,’however it originated within a musical context, referring to something which is out of harmony (5).  Albert Camus expanded the definition to something which is out of harmony with reason, and Ionesco wrote that the “Absurd is that which is devoid of purpose…Cut off from his religious, metaphysical, and transcendental roots, man is lost; all his actions become senseless, absurd, useless” (in Esslin, 5).
Generally speaking, the senselessness, and uselessness, the metaphysical anguish, mentioned by Ionesco, is the major thematic element tying the Absurdists together.  There is more than a common theme, however, which allow the writers to be grouped.  In describing the Theatre of the Absurd, Esslin says:
If a good play must have a cleverly constructed story, these have no story or plot to speak of; if a good play is judged by subtlety of characterization and motivation, these are often without recognizable characters and present the audience with almost mechanical puppets; if a good play has to have a fully explained theme, which is neatly exposes and finally solved, these often have neither a beginning nor an end; if a good play is to hold the mirror up to nature and portray the manners and mannerisms of the age in finely observed sketches, these seem often to be reflections of dreams and nightmares; if a good play relies on witty repartee and pointed dialogue, these often consist of incoherent babblings (3-4).
Rather than making an argument for the absurdity of contemporary life, these writers are merely presenting the absurdity (5).
Introduction to the Oberiu
The Oberiu, or Union of Real Art, was an association of writers and artists in Leningrad which lasted only from 1927 to 1930 (Ostashevsky,  xiii).  Daniil Kharms, Alexander Vvedensky, and Nikolai Zabalotsky were the primary writers associated with the group.  The above writers, and others, including Nikolai Oleinikov, Leonid Lipavsky and Yakov Druskin,  also formed a looser collective, termed the chinar (Ostashevsky, xiii).
The Oberiu fit nicely into the modernist trends in Russian literature.  They utilize intuition as a tool for obtaining knowledge of things-in-themselves, or true reality, which are imperceptible and cannot be obtained through reason (Ostashevsky, xxi).  They reject the Kantian notion that a thing-in-itself cannot be known.  There is also a degree of Bergsonian insight, viewing art as a means to obtain a sort of sixth sense.   As Kant used reason to reign in reason, the Oberiu used language to reign in language.  The object is what Ostashevsky termed “normative language,” which is broader than the equivalent reason of Kant (xxi).  It includes logic, a priori categories, grammatical and metaphoric structures and standard rules for classifications of concepts.  The idea was to fully recognize the world by destabilizing the language with which we define it. To do this, they used alogist language, and attempted to make non-normative statements which were impossible otherwise.  The read figurative language literally, constructed semantically and syntactically impossible lines, and utilized rhyme to introduce absurdity into their texts, all to create a wider meaning and understanding, rather than destroying any sense of meaning.  This alogism takes intuition to it’s most extreme state, with discontinuous syntax, semantics and situational discontinuity(Ostashevsky, xxiii).  The discontinuity extends to the level of plot, as well.  Realist novels, Vvedensky asserted, were unrealistic because the psychological motivation of characters led to inner coherence in the text.    The chinar followed what was perhaps a more developed branch of the Oberiu method.  They were not concerned with one definitive reality, but rather multiple models of reality, and not with breaking relations, but exploring relativism (Ostashevsky, xxv).  Time, for the chinar, was not a linear progression, but a shifting and subjective essence of a being.  It was also something which could not be known, and the only way to get closer to understanding it was an admission of not understanding. Time was considered to be wave-like, and every thing had it’s own rhythm, all of which were mutually non-coincidental (xxvi).  When coincidence occurred, it was the equivalent of time stopping.
They also worked with the notion of neighboring worlds, where a life was formed according to other rules, but occurring in the same place. Any visitor from a neighboring world was considered a messenger.  Typically, in chinar work, it was a hypothetical visitor, versus a physical presence, and functioned as a metaphor of inspiration (Ostashevsky, xxvi-xxvii). The late alogistic metaphors, dubbed hieroglyphs, were often open-ended and fairly consistent through the body of works (xxvii).  A window, for instance, was a border between two neighboring worlds.  Water, on the surface, was similar to a window, however, the depth and movement linked the image to time, instead.  Animals and trees, as well, were symbols of lives shaped by rules of neighboring worlds which were so ‘other’ that they were incomprehensible (xxvii).
In the 1930’s, a chinar critique of language suggested the world consisted of events, or waves, and so normative, and even alogist language, was unable to provide an accurate reality (Ostashevsky, xxvii).  They held that language, and specifically nouns, were responsible for a belief in objects.  Lipavsky was noted as saying, “Language cuts the world into pieces” (in Ostashevsky, xxvii).  In his Theory of Words, Lipavsky proposes the creation of an “ur-language,” which is composed only of indicating processes and verbs.

CHAPTER 2  THEATER
The Oberiu theater, as described in Zabolotsky’s article, “The Oberiu Manifesto,” is at its base, a resurgence in the importance of the subordinate elements of theater.  These elements, of which include the movements of a man on stage, a canvas with a town painted upon it, and a shepherd playing a pipe,  have traditionally been subordinated by dramatic plot, often through the story told by the stage actors (Giban, 200-201).  He goes on to define any action, even if it does not advance the dramatic plot, as theater, saying, “The scenery, the movements of the actors, a bottle thrown down, the hem of a costume are just as much a part of the action as the people who are shaking their heads and speaking words and phrases” (in Giban, 202).
Elizabeth Bam
Daniil Kharm’s Elizabeth Bam was commissioned to be written for, and performed at, Three Left Hours, a showcase of current trends in art, literature and theater held in January of 1928.  The play was written in 12 days, during December of 1927, and according to authorial notes, production began immediately (Cornwell, 200).  Descriptions of the stage say there was a dynamic, shifting backdrop, cut into jagged shapes which moved from scene to scene, and a list of props which included a tricycle, fencing swords, a small box and an abacus (203-205).  Notes on the production indicate it opened with an overture, although there is no way to know if the music was written for the play, or if it was simply selected from existing works.  There is also a note suggesting the presence of a choir during the performance (206).
The plot of Elizabeth Bam centers around her pursuit by two law officers.  She is being accused of a crime which she did not commit, and had no knowledge of, which subsequently turns out to not have yet been committed.  Constantly questioning, asking “Why am I a criminal?” or “what am I accused of?” Elizabeth Bam receives answers such as “Because you have no voice.” and “a vile crime.”  The accusers, constantly appearing, then disappearing through the sequence of scenes, continue the pursuit, trying to find her, so they may kill her, in the name of justice, all the while, Bam is maintaining her innocence (Giban, 119-139).
When Bam is told she is accused because she has no voice (Giban, 121), a dangerous logic game is being crafted.  The suggestion that Bam is guilty because she is unable to voice an objection seems an obvious jab at what would be a tightening grasp by the government of the time on its people.  There are also metaphoric aspects at work, when coupled with the overall movement of the play.  The people with no voice are guilty of a crime, even if there is no crime committed yet. This notion of absolute centralized power comes through in Kharms’ poems for children, as well, as in A Man Once Walked Out of His House, where “He entered a dark wood/ And on that day,/ And on that day/ He disappeared for good” (Ostashevsky, 140).

Christmas at the Ivanovs
Alexander Vvedensky’s Christmas at the Ivanovs’ is a play in four acts, composed of nine scenes, numbered sequentially (Giban, 162-189).  Based on textual clues, including stage directions, the play may well have been intended to be read, or, if performed, done in a way which might border on physical comedy and slapstick.
Vvedensky decorates his scenes with clocks, displaying time, always on the hour. This internal time movement (internal with regard to the scene) demonstrates a linear progression directly related to presence (that is to say, because one reads or views the scene, time behaves in what is accepted as normal manner). In the final scene, after all the actors have expired, the clock is blank (Giban, 189), perhaps suggesting the presence isn’t just related to the observation of time, but to its existence.
Vvedensky’s Nurse is subjugated to an expanded legal process.  The ramification for this process is established in witnessing the stage direction, “Picks up the axe and chops off [Sonias] head” (Giban, 165).  Vvedesnky’s police are of a different breed than those of Kharms, however, as they aren’t immediately interested in apprehension, but rather gathering all of the facts, such as, “What did [the parents] go see, a ballet or a play” (Giban, 165)?   When the nurse pleads insanity, however, the police become less interested in the facts, insisting, “They’ll figure it out over there” (166). Not being able to figure ‘it’ out, the Police send the Nurse to an asylum, convinced she is insane (174-175).
The asylum’s doctor bemoans the craziness which surrounds him, and shoots a mirror with a gun.  Upon being asked who shot the gun, he said “I don’t know; I think the mirror.”  Subsequent conversation reveals the insanity to be as much on the part of the doctor and attendant as anyone else.  After telling the nurse “It’s not good to kill children” the doctor declares she is sane, and tells her, after further back and forth, “Go have yourself executed” (Giban, 177).  The eighth scene contains the trial of the Nurse.  It begins with the death, and replacement of the first two judges (182-183).  The courtroom sings about their duties, then the judge sings 10 nonsense quatrains relating to an unknown other case.  Upon completion, the judge finds the nurse guilty. The Nurse shouts, “I cannot live,” and the court secretary replies, “Well, you will not live. We are meeting you halfway.”  A stage direction then points out, “It is clear to everybody that the nurse was present at the court trial, and that the conversation of Kozlov and Oslov was carried on merely to distract people’s attention” (184).  Vvedensky’s stage directions exhibit a tendency to break things down into their parts, such as the beginning of scene 7, which reads, “In the coffin, Sonia Ostrova.  Inside Sonia Ostrova, a heart.  In the heart, coagulating blood.  In the blood, red and white corpuscles.  Also of course gangrene poison” (180).  In this instance, such a breaking down creates a better understanding of death, that is, the removal of self from the parts, or body.
CHAPTER 3 POETRY
Alexander Vvedensky’s Rug/Hydrangea Poem
Thomas Epstein, in his article, “Vvedensky in Love: Poetry as Apophasis,” describes Vvedensky’s use of poetic form tended toward “Primitivism, even infantilism (recall that Vvedensky wrote children’s verse) that is in constant conflict with the ’seriousness’ of his subject matter” (Epstein, 3).  Vvedensky often uses language and form reminiscent of Russian folklore to guide the reader through the poem, and through “a series of meanings that are dangerously redundant, perhaps even self-cancelling” (Epstein, 4).
One important observation is the process of negation Vvedensky uses to define himself.  Vvedensky’s apophatic device, however, is not paralipsis or proslepsiss, but rather more closely resembles the concept of Via Negativa.  As a complex, ineffable man, he is only able to create identity by negating those things he wishes to be.  What is immediately apparent is the rather deliberate syntax used by Ostashevsky in translating the poem.  Vvedensky is not simply declaring that he is not an eagle, soaring over mountains, but rather he
regret[s] that I’m not an eagle,
flying over peak after peak,
to whom comes to mind
a man observing the acres (Ostashevsky, 13-14)
This regret leads us to question the relationship between the eagle and the self, as well as the eagle and the self.
In the process of airing these regrets and fears, Vvedensky begins not only to define self, but to establish both it’s insignificance within the broader universe, and it’s ability to cope with such insignificance.  Through the reiteration of regret, Vvedensky becomes “Frightened by the fact that everything becomes dilapidated,/ and in comparison I’m not a rarity” (Ostashevsky, 16).  The fear comes not from the unavoidable dilapidation, but rather, from the lack of uniqueness which plagues every thing which is not permanent. Although unable to change his non-permanence, Vvedensky, in acknowledging it, is better able to reflect upon his situation, and thus, cope with his imminent destruction.   It is worth mentioning that this may well lead to a circular pattern, common to chinar poetry, as it is through the poem that the acknowledgement of destruction becomes apparent, and without that acknowledgement, such reflection may not be possible.

CHAPTER 4 PROSE
Select Short Fiction of Kharms
The short prose pieces of Daniil Kharms often highlighted the correlation between social identity and one’s physical being.  In Anton Antonovich Shaved Off His Beard, this notion is highlighted quite directly.  As the title implies, Anton Antonovich shaves his beard, altering his physical appearance.  Upon doing so, his acquaintances say, “Anton Antonovich had a beard, and you don’t” (Ostashevsky, 115).  They do not know who he is supposed to be, other than that he is not Anton Antonovich, who had a beard.  There are many people with beards, and many people without beards, but the acquaintances of Antonovich clearly need that physical aspect in order to identify their friend.
The Adventure of Katerpillar sees the transformation of Mishurin from being a ‘katerpillar’ to resembling one.  At the start of the story, Mishurin “liked to lie under the sofa or behind the wardrobe and suck dust” (Ostashevsky, 147).  When invited to another persons house, he spruces up, and in doing so, accidentally blinds himself.  This leads to his going blind, and navigating by feel, after which he “began to resemble a caterpillar even more” (147).  To be requires only to exist, however, for Mishurin to resemble, it is a required to have an outside perspective.  It is this coincidence with an outside perspective that creates the transformation from being into resembling.
The act of tradition, and resistance to change becomes apparent in The Four-Legged Crow.  This crow “properly speaking…had five legs, but this isn’t worth talking about” (Ostashevsky, 146).  The resistance to change, to talking about the fifth leg, stems from both tradition and the historical perspective.  The story reads in a similar fashion as a short parable, which creates a sense of tradition and passing on knowledge.  This creates the necessity of sameness which is instilled by not speaking of the fifth leg.  The fact that the crow once was anything suggests, too, the unimportance of change.  Had the extra leg been worth mentioning, it would have been done already.
In One Man Fell Asleep, Kharms explores the relationship between the ultimate social construct, faith, and the measure of one’s physical being, weight.  When “one man fell asleep a believer but woke up an atheist” (Ostashevsky, 137), he decided to take measure of what his faith constituted, physically.  His ultimate conclusion was that his “faith weighed approximately eight pounds” (137).  This suggestion that his faith constituted a part of this physical identity, as with Anton Antonovich’s beard, may then suggest that God, instead of damning a man for turning his back on religion, may simply not recognize the man, who is now nearly 10 pounds lighter.

CHAPTER 5 CONCLUSIONS AND FUTURE REVISIONS
Conclusions
It is easy to speculate what reasons led to the initial label of Russian Absurdism.  Looking at the oddity of the translated text, and the time frame in which the texts reemerged, one could make connections between the two literary bodies.  In doing so, however, one may negate the strong geo-political contexts which separate the two groups, the Post-War Theatre of the Absurd, and the early Soviet Russian Oberiu.  While there are points of similarity between the two aesthetics, they are, upon close inspection, drastically different.  Despite this, it would perhaps be advisable to approach Oberiu texts in the same manner as the Absurd, both of which, to varying degrees, and in different ways, challenge the notion of what is reasonable to expect as a reader.
Future Revisions
As it stands, this paper has completed what it set out to do, using the Absurd as a gateway to the Oberiu.  There is, still, room for further expansion and improvement.  More comprehensive introductions to the Oberiu and Theatre of the Absurd can be prepared, giving a more detailed description of their history and aesthetics.  More poetic and prose works may be included, providing an increasingly expansive view of the collected Oberiu works, and a more direct comparison between the two groups may also be considered.

Works Cited

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Giban, George, ed, trans. Russia’s Lost Literature of the Absurd.  Cornell University Press,
Ithica.     1971.

Ostashevsky, Eugene, ed. Oberiu. Northwestern University Press, Illinois. 2006

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