Written by Matthew Kerry, this post originally appeared on ctxt.eson June 24, 2016, reproduced with Matt’s permission.
A mis amigos españoles,
Como ciudadano británico y ciudadano de la Unión Europea (aún) me avergüenza escribir esto. Me avergüenzo de ser británico.
Ante todo, quiero enviar mi solidaridad, dolor y disculpas a todxs lxs trabajadorxs europexs que, por las islas británicas, curran en los hospitales, fábricas, hoteles y el campo por mencionar unos pocos –muchas veces en condiciones pésimas– para levantar este país y que contribuyen muchísimo más al Estado de lo que reciben. Muchos de ellos condenados al exilio económico forzado de sus propios países.
La clave de este referéndum ha sido la inmigración. El 52% de votantes ha votado a favor del Brexit. Circulaba durante la campaña en Twitter un lema que rezaba “no todos los de Brexit son racistas, pero los racistas votarán al Brexit”. Creo que tiene algo de verdad esta frase, pero me niego a pensar que más de la mitad de la población británica es racista. Votar para salir de la UE fue votar en contra del statu quo. La política migratoria ha logrado focalizar ansiedades de diversa índole en las antiguas zonas industriales azotadas por el neoliberalismo, las costas y regiones rurales en declive económico y sin salidas laborales desde hace años, y también debidas a los recortes, las políticas de la austeridad y los efectos de la globalización y un mundo que está evolucionando cada vez más rápido. Las fronteras abiertas se han convertido en un símbolo de la falta de control. De allí el Brexit, y el poderoso mensaje de take back control.
El horizonte es negro pero pienso que los británicos somos mejores que esto. Yo soy del 48%, pero también soy del 99%.
En solidaridad, amor y respeto,
Matthew Kerry has a PhD from the University of Sheffield on radical politics in the Spanish Second Republic. You can find him on Twitter at @guajeingles
The ‘language’ of music is demonstrably unlike the language of literature. Still, music is considered to be as potently (if less specifically) ‘expressive’ a medium as literature. It should, therefore, not be overlooked as a ‘social text’ in its own right;[i] if literary works from the Soviet-controlled Baltic states can be read as postcolonial, [ii] it stands that other contemporary arts could be similarly loaded.
While it can’t articulate the referential specificities of verbal language, music, as a temporally framed and linearly experienced medium, is a performative embodiment of such fundamentals as the quality and direction(s) of time(s).
One example of a goal-oriented music (and/or mode of listening) with apparent ties to goal-oriented currents of thought is the case of Mozart and the Enlightenment.[iii] We can reasonably expect that, in Classical music in this vein, loose ends will be tied up: goals will be implied, progressed towards, and ultimately reached. Musical motion (harmonic, melodic, etc.) will be meaningfully directed and fulfilled through departure from and journey back to a ‘rightful’ home key or tonal area.
For the purposes of this discussion, the teleology characteristic of some strands of Enlightenment thought will be considered commensurable with currents in ‘modernism’ (when provisionally defined as one half of a dichotomy completed by postmodernism).
Within this ‘Enlightenment’ framework, the presumed time of these ideals is felt as a deliberate movement through or against something to become the master of nature and history. Meanwhile postmodernism’s time is ‘outside’, unconcerned with (rather than ‘against’) the entropic or hostile forces that threaten to sabotage the realisation of anthropocentric Enlightenment goals. In this sense, a conceptualisation of time with the implication that humans can shape their own destiny is more likely to characterise a conquering power than a conquered one.[iv]
Conversely, postmodern/postcolonial temporality may constitute a disruption of, or disregard for these narratives; a transcendence of antagonistic linear time in favour of the endless stasis and cycles of the temporality that Kristeva describes as ‘monumental time’.[v]
The meaninglessness of, or play on, linear historical narratives is a recurring theme in postcolonial literatures.[vi] Maire Jaanus suggests that monumental time, conceptually or aesthetically speaking, is the time of Estonia. As explained by the narrator of the postcolonial Estonian novel Piiririik, ‘historical time has been the imperialist’s time, the conqueror’s time, and therefore it is not his [the Estonian’s] time.’ She proposes that Estonians ‘have had little opportunity to demand much of reality or of historical-linear time, because these could not yield much’ and that, as a result ‘they have always remained acquainted with monumental time.’[vii]
So what would a musical monumental time look like? Music by Arvo Pärt and Veljo Tormis – two internationally renowned contemporary Estonian composers – is commonly described as ‘mystic’, ‘minimalistic’, and ‘ritualistic’. Circular shifting; static harmony; symmetry; continuous repetition of short units, and a sense of ‘not going anywhere’ lend these works a monumental temporality.
Arthur Versluis claims that the Soviet utopian dream (the establishment of a perfected communist society) was a type of ‘secular millennialism’: the belief that history is directed towards an inexorable goal or end-point. Such belief systems in practice have historically been characterised by a tendency towards fundamentalism and even violence; the erasure of obstructive ‘heretics’ supports the suggestion of parallels between religious and Marxist determinism and dictatorship.[viii]
Soviet teleology in these terms is a ‘lunatic meta-narrative’,[ix] the disavowal of which is generally held to have been characteristic of late twentieth-century postmodernist thought. This fixation on an ‘end’ can be mapped onto music in the sense that the latter is temporally bounded or ‘framed’ in a similar fashion to historical or literary narrative. You could say of either musical or narrative content that it starts [here], travels [this way] through [these points], and ultimately ends [there] – or, alternatively, that it starts [here] doing [this], stays [there] doing [that], and repeats for [however long].
Thus, monumental time is outside the historical time of Soviet millennialism. If ‘post-’ is understood as ‘against-’ or ‘outside of-’, it follows that the temporality of this music is a post-utopian time.
Claire McGinn is a first year PhD student at the University of York (Music department), funded by WRoCAH. With the title ‘Ritual, time, and space in post-Soviet Baltic music’, she is studying music by composers from Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania written from around 1991 to the present day. More generally, she is interested in exploring fundamental concepts like repetition and how these might function in music as reflections of the same phenomena as manifested in wider (historically- and culturally-inflected) spheres of art and thought.
[i] See John Shepherd, Music as Social Text (Cambridge, 1991).
[ii] For analysis of Baltic postcolonial literature and cultural thought (as well as the question of whether or not ‘postcolonial’ is an appropriate label in this context), see Violeta Kelertas (ed.), Baltic Postcolonialism (Amsterdam, 2006).
[iii] See Nicholas Till, Mozart and the Enlightenment (London, 1992).
[iv] Maire Jaanus, ‘Estonia’s Time and Monumental Time’, in Violeta Kelertas (ed.), Baltic Postcolonialism, (Amsterdam, 2006), pp. 219, 221.
[v] Maire Jaanus, ‘Estonia’s Time’, pp. 213-4. For more detail see Julia Kristeva, ‘Women’s Time’ (transl. Alice Jardine and Harry Blake). Signs 7/1 (1981): 13-35.
[vi] Brian Edwards, Theories of Play and Postmodern Fiction (London, 1998), pp. 86, 103-4, 126, 203; see also Jaanus ‘Estonia’s Time’.
‘The Russian worker, except for the very top of the class, usually lacks the most elementary habits and notions of culture’ – Leon Trotsky 
After the October Revolution the Bolsheviks faced a series of grave political, economic and social challenges. Despite the urgent pressures of economic breakdown and political instability, the Soviet state continuously upheld educational and, more generally, cultural transformation as essential in securing the future of the Soviet state.
The study of the Sormovo factory complex in the Early Soviet Period reveals how national cultural policies and discourses played out in a local context. Sormovo’s history is exceptional because it was a metalworking factory that had national significance despite being far from the ‘centre’. It was a small factory complex district in Nizhegorod province, around 200 km east of Moscow, and by 1917 it was one of the largest industrial enterprises in Russia.
The factory complex was nationalised in 1918, when it began producing munitions for the Soviet state. The tradition of labour activism in Sormovo and the continued support for the SRs (Social Revolutionary Party) after 1917 meant Sormovo workers were the focus of the Soviet cultural enlightenment programme on a national and local level.
Bolshevik cultural discourse was founded on the vague Marxist notion of proletkul’t (proletarian culture), which had attained mystical heights within the Bolshevik party before 1917, though it lacked clear definition. When they seized power in 1917 the Bolsheviks hotly debated how Russia’s ‘backward’ workers were to achieve proletkul’t, and formulated a two-pronged cultural policy which focused both on formal education in institutional settings and informal education through agitprop (agitational propaganda). There was a pervasive belief by the state and local Bolsheviks in Sormovo that education was the key to winning over the provincial population and transforming Russia into a socialist state.
As the head of Narkompros (People’s Commissariat of Enlightenment), Anatoly Lunacharsky sought nothing less than the re-shaping of human behaviour through education. His stated purpose was the creation of ‘a conscious worker, a citizen with theoretical, as well as general, educational preparation’ who would willingly participate in the building of a socialist Russia.
Lunacharsky abolished admission requirements for higher education in August 1918 and established Rabfaki (worker faculties) specifically designed to prepare workers for university. He stressed that learning in schools and universities was to be anti-authoritarian and de-centralised and teachers and pupils were promised minimal outside supervision.
Anatoly Lunacharsky (Source: Wikicommons)
Nadezhda Krupskaia (Source: Wikicommons)
In Sormovo, Lunacharsky’s educational policies led to the proliferation of educational and technical courses for metalworkers. There were local events including poetry reading and art shows, where the Bolsheviks aimed to establish a link between workers and students with Bolshevik sympathies in Sormovo. On a national level there was continuous correspondence between the Board of Education in Moscow and the Sormovo factory.
Sormovo’s skilled metalworkers were recruited for both technical and educational courses with some specific aims in mind. An advert for a two-week party school was sent to Sormovo in 1919. In the instructions for the local party members running the course, it was explained that their obligation was to educate listeners in the ‘Marxist outlook’ and to get workers to understand the ‘point of view of the party in all matters of life’.
The Civil War intensified the state’s cultural mission because it perpetuated the belief in cultural utopias that were linked directly to the survival of the state. Cinema was one of the most innovative and wide reaching aspects of Bolshevik propaganda. Short propaganda films (agitki), which dealt with a particular topic in a strongly visual but simple manner, were delivered to the provinces on trains and ships.
One of the most famous agit-steamers was the ‘Red Star’ which spent three months in 1919 sailing down the Volga, carrying high level Bolsheviks including Narkompros’ representative, Nadezhda Krupskaya .
It ported in Sormovo in July 1919, and the local Bolsheviks used the arrival of these prominent Bolsheviks to promote their policies and raise their popularity in an area dominated by SRs. A meeting was held during which ‘The Internationale’ was sung by local students, and Krupskaya spoke at length about the role of Sormovo workers in the revolutionary movement. This must have been an impressive spectacle for the Sormovo workers.
A free cinema was set up in the steamer where five agitprop films were shown. These included ‘October Revolution’, ‘Daredevils of Revolution’ and the educational agitki ‘Labour Commune’. This cultural event in Sormovo reveals the reach of Bolshevik agitprop during the Civil War – on its two voyages in 1919 and 1920 the ‘Red Star’ showed more than 400 films to over 500,000 people. The activities of the ‘Red Star’ also reveal how important the support of the Sormovo workers was to the Bolsheviks at a time of extreme political and economic struggle.
The propaganda machine of agitprop and the increasing centralisation of educational courses after 1918 did not leave much room for the popular initiative Lunacharsky envisaged in the creation of proletkul’t. In their use of education, cinema, theatre, festivals and mass rallies, the Bolsheviks created a powerful cultural discourse that depicted a world of sharp contrasts, of rich and poor, old and new and good and evil. They provided entertainment for workers but also carried the stark warning that if the workers did not support them, they were against them.
Sormovo was a space of intense political struggle throughout the Civil War but in the first few years after 1917 the local Bolsheviks continued to believe that cultural events and propaganda would win the hearts and minds of Sormovo workers. Cultural transformation was not just a discourse in the Early Soviet Period, but it was a sustained policy and practice that reached the far corners of Russia.
Laura Sumner is a third year ESRC funded History PhD student at the University of Nottingham. Her research ‘Ideology and Identity: ‘Knowing’ workers in Early Soviet Russia, 1917-1921’ explores discourses about worker identity in the Early Soviet Period with a focus on the factory complex Sormovo in Nizhegorod Province. You can find her on Twitter: @LMSumner90
 L. Trotsky., The Problems of Everyday Life (New York, 1973), p. 20.
 A. Lunacharsky, P. Grigorev and A. Tolstov ‘On the Foundation of the Soviet Educational System: Personal Memoirs’ (1918) in W.G. Rosenberg (ed.), Bolshevik visions: first phase of the cultural revolution in Soviet Russia (Ann Arbor, 1990), p. 320.
 Nadezhda Konstantinovna Krupskaia (Lenin’s wife) was the deputy to the People’s Commissar for Education until 1920, when she was appointed chair of the education committee. Krupskaia was described by Lunacharskiy, the chair until 1920 as “the soul of Narkompros” (Fitzpatrick, 1970: 54).