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A slap in the face of public taste

Reading our New First Unexpected.

Only we are the face of our Time. The horn of time blows us in verbal art.

The past is tight. The Academy and Pushkin are more incomprehensible than hieroglyphs.

Throw Pushkin, Dostoevsky, Tolstoy and so on. and so on. from the steamer of modern times.

Who will not forget his first love, does not recognize the latter.

Who, gullible, will turn the last Love to the perfumery fornication of Balmont? Does it reflect the courageous soul of today?

Who, cowardly, will be afraid to steal paper armor from the black tailcoat of Bryusov's warrior? Or are they the dawn of unknown beauties?

Wash your hands that have touched the filthy slime of the books written by those innumerable Leonid Andreevs.

To all these Maxim Gorky, Kuprin, Blok, Sollogub, Remizov, Averchenko, Cherny, Kuzmin, Bunin and so on. and so on. - All you need is a cottage on the river. Such an award is given by fate to tailors.

From the height of skyscrapers we look at their insignificance!

We order honor rights poets:

1) To increase the dictionary in its scope arbitrary and derivative words (Word-innovation).

2) An irresistible hatred for the language that existed before them.

3) With horror, remove from your proud forehead from bath brooms the Wreath of penny glory you made.

4) To stand on a block of the word "we" in the midst of a sea of whistling and indignation.

And if Bye even in our lines there are dirty stigmas of your "common sense" and "good taste", but nevertheless they are already trembling for the first time lightning of the New Coming Beauty of the Self-valuable (self-sufficient) Word.

D. Burliuk,

Alexander Kruchenykh,

V. Mayakovsky,

Victor Khlebnikov

Velimir Khlebnikov

Przewalski's horse

“Bobeobi lips sang…”

Bobeobi sang lips
Veomi sang eyes,
Pieeo eyebrows sang,
Leeeey - the appearance was sung,
Gzi-gzi-gzeo the chain was sung.
So on the canvas of some correspondences
Outside the extension lived the Face.

"Who's to say..."

To whom say
How important did the lady live?
No, not an important lady,
And, so to speak, a frog:
Thick, low and in a sundress,
And led a Bolshevik friendship
With pine princes.
And mirror fires
marked the traces,
Where did she step in the spring,
Virgo of windy water.
It's full, Sivka, you can see the tra
Throws sohu. The downpour whips and whips
Apparently waiting for us until the morning
Sleep, horse and honor.

"On the island of Ezele ..."

On the island of Ezele
We dreamed together
I was in Kamchatka
You fiddled with gloves
From the top of Altai
I said "darling".
In the foothills of the Amur
Wings of Cupid.

"Winging in gold writing ..."

Winged in gold writing
thinnest veins,
Grasshopper put in the body of the belly
There are many coastal herbs and vera.
"Kick, kick, kick!" - Zinziver rumbled.
Oh swan!
Oh shine!

"Ochi Oki..."

Ochi Oki
Shine away.

"The monster is a dweller of the peaks ..."

The monster is a dweller of the peaks,
With a terrible ass
Grabbed the one who carried the jug,
With a lovely look.
She swayed like a fruit
In the branches of shaggy hands.
monster, freak,
Enough, amuses your leisure.

"A windy flail is walking ..."

A windy brush is walking
By the golden army of the fields
What was morning became day.
Blessed is he who was lazy in the morning.

"With a murmur-whistling..."

With a murmur, a whistle
The birds have stopped flying.
trembling leaf
They didn't fly.
And like a high wing
Night swan thunderstorm
cloud bird found
Throwing twilight on the bottoms
Mysterious feathers stretched
Behind the clouds with a wide wing.
A fugitive of the science of hypocrisy,
I galloped ahead.

Devi god

Dedicated to T.

First

Daughter of the Sun Prince. Mamonko! The cows are already roaring, they are asking for water, hearty ones. Let me, my dear, let me, my dear, I run to the well for water, I’ll bring it to drink, my little doves. It's not a big problem if the prince's daughter once runs to the well for water, I will not stop being the daughter of the Sun, the glorious Prince of the Sun. And my shoulders will not cease to be tender and white from the yoke. And from the yard all the careless servants left, who went where.

Boyar. Go, dear, go, sick. And what is this freak that has found on you? You take care of the cow! It used to be that you threw pearls into the water-river - and they cost cows, - or you burn oxamites at the games around the fires - but they cost pearls, otherwise you cherish the care of cows. Go, donya, go, drink them! But why did she put on a kiku with a pearl eye? It will also drag you into the river because of it, the water one, and you will get not to the sea’s indigence, but to your native evil spirits. Or a cow will butt you, and she is terrible!

Rumor, the daughter of the Prince-Sun. Oh mommy, mommy! I will go past the Sleepers, and it is not good if they see me with simple hair. It is better to have a pearl kick when walking on water for cows.

Mother of Molva. Go, go, Nezlavushka, go, go, beautiful! (He kisses her, bowed, with her hair loose, on the forehead. The princess, flushed, with a lean and desperate face, leaves.) But why can't I hear the cow's meow? Or has she become deaf in her old age? (looks through things in the casket).

(An old woman runs in, clasping her hands.)

Old woman. Oh, mother princess! Yes, listen to what happened! Yes, listen to you, what a misfortune was inspired! Not a falcon on gray ducks, not an evil hawk on innocent pigeons, beloved pigeons, dear pigeons, - the Devi God, like snow on his head. Devi-god, he appeared. Devi god.

Boyar (horrified). Devy-god! Devy-god!

Old woman. Appeared uninvited, unexpected. An evil enemy appeared, an enemy, a falcon eye. Drive us crazy, infuriate our fools. Oh, how many troubles there will be! Others will stagger, walk, making their eyes wide and crazy with happiness and repeating quietly: "he, he." Others, my dear, will not see the light in different ways.

Princess. Oh, what an attack! Oh you, a cloud for our happiness. Fortunately, ours is golden, not scolded by anyone, not cursed by anyone, not disgraced. Haven’t I punished Belina: you’ll just see that famously girlish in the city - the gates to the castle, to the castle are carved, and the key is either in the water, or to me. Yes, let the dogs around the yard later, so that no one could convey the news, whether that little note was small. That's what the cows wanted to drink! It was then that the need began to go in pearls. And the girls all ran away. Oh, sly, my beloved! And she would have frayed her beloved braids if she had not loved more than her father-mother, more than the rest of her days, a golden, and golden braid to the toes. And only equally sweet is the blue-black curls of Dream. But on the distant icy sea he praises the Russian name.

(Other women enter, clasping their hands.)

Women. They say that the tsar's daughter is dressed like a selinochka-polyaninochka and also does not take her crazy eyes off the girl's dash.

And they say, beauty is indescribable, neither sleepy nor fabulous, but its own.

And there are gray-haired shameful ones, they say, and they also do not take their crazy eyes off the blue-eyed one. And at least he looked at someone. She walks and smiles at someone. And it is not known to whom. He takes a flute from his belt and sings, smiling. And why he sings, and why he sings, and where he came from, and for how long, is unknown. And where - unheard of, unknown. And where we're going, we don't know. Haven't the last times arrived? No, in our time they knew shame, and the girls did not dare to rage, disobeying their parental will. Now where we are going is unknown. You know, the end times are coming.

Ah, gray hair, gray hair!

Old woman. What, princess, will you give a silver mirror for a high price? Let me see, maybe I'll love it, and I'll give you any price for it. Greek work. And from the Pharmacopoeia?

Princess. No, he brought a Jew from Babilu.

RUSSIAN FUTURIST MANIFESTOS

A Slap in the Face of Public Taste (1912)
A Slap in the Face of Public Taste [Leaflet] (1913)
First All-Russian Congress of Bayaches of the Future (1913)
Theater, cinema, futurism. V. Mayakovsky (1913)
Radiants and Futures (1913)
We Color (1913)
Go to hell! (1914)
A drop of tar. V. Mayakovsky (1915)
Trumpet Martian (1916)
Flying Futurist Federation Manifesto (1918)

Published according to the book: Russian Futurism: Theory. Practice. Criticism. Memories / Comp. V. N. Terekhina, A. P. Zimenkov. - M., Heritage, 2000. - 480 p.

A slap in the face of public taste

Reading our New First Unexpected.
Only we are the face of our Time. The horn of time blows us in verbal art.
The past is tight. The Academy and Pushkin are more incomprehensible than hieroglyphs.
Throw Pushkin, Dostoevsky, Tolstoy and so on. from the steamer of modern times.
Who will not forget his first love, does not recognize the latter.
Who, gullible, will turn the last Love to the perfumery fornication of Balmont? Does it reflect the courageous soul of today?
Who, cowardly, will be afraid to steal paper armor from the black tailcoat of Bryusov's warrior? Or are they the dawn of unknown beauties?
Wash your hands that have touched the filthy slime of the books written by those innumerable Leonid Andreevs.
To all these Maxim Gorky, Kuprin, Blok, Sollogub, Remizov, Averchenko, Cherny, Kuzmin, Bunin and so on. and so on. All you need is a cottage on the river. Such an award is given by fate to tailors.
From the height of skyscrapers we look at their insignificance! ..
We order honor rights poets:
1. To increase the dictionary in its scope arbitrary and derivative words (Word-innovation).
2. An irresistible hatred for the language that existed before them.
3. With horror, remove from your proud forehead from bath brooms the Wreath of penny glory you made.
4. To stand on a block of the word "we" in the midst of a sea of whistling and indignation.
And if the dirty stigmas of your “common sense” and “good taste” still remain in our lines, then nevertheless they are already trembling for the first time Lightnings of the New Coming Beauty of the Self-valuable (self-made) Word.

Almanac “Slapping the Face of Public Taste. In defense of free art. Poems, prose and articles. [M.], ed. G. Kuzmin and S. Dolinsky. In addition to the four listed authors, Livshits and Kandinsky participated in the almanac. Circulation 500 or 600 copies. This is the first Russian futuristic manifesto and the most successful, it was a stormy reaction in society and in the press. There was no other such success for the manifestos. A few months later, a leaflet was released with similar text and a group photograph. The group did not yet refer to themselves as "Futurists". In everyday life, the group was called "Burlyuks", and Khlebnikov - "Budetlyane". The word "futurists" has so far been used only as a curse at someone else's address.

Sollogub, Kuzmin - "misprints of disrespect." That's right - Sologub, Kuzmin.

A slap in the face of public taste
[Leaflet]

In 1908, The Garden of Judges was published. - In it eniy - a great poet modernity - Velimir Khlebnikov first appeared in print. Petersburg meters considered " Khlebnikov crazy." They did not print, of course, not a single thing of the one who carried Revival of Russian Literature. Shame and shame on their heads!..
Time passed... V. Khlebnikov, A. Kruchenykh, V. Mayakovsky, B. Livshits, V. Kandinsky, Nikolai Burliuk and David Burliuk in 1913 published the book "A Slap in the Face of Public Taste".
Khlebnikov now he was not alone. A galaxy of writers grouped around him, who, if they followed different paths, were united under one slogan:“Down with the word-means, long live Self-sufficient, self-valuable Word! Russian critics, these merchants, these slobbering bastards, thick-skinned and unaware of beauty, blowing their daily bagpipes, burst into a sea of indignation and rage. Not surprising! Whether they, brought up from the school bench on the models of Descriptive poetry, understand the Great revelations of Modernity.
All these countless lisping Izmailovs, Homunculus "s, eating scraps falling from the tables of realism - the revelry of Andreevs, Bloks, Sologubs, Voloshins and the like - assert (what a dirty accusation) that we are "decadent" - the last of them - and that we did not say anything new - neither in size, nor in rhyme, nor in relation to the word.
Were Russian literature justified in our orders to honor Poets' rights:
to increase the vocabulary in its volume with arbitrary and derivative words!
to an irresistible hatred for the existing language!
with horror to remove from your proud brow from bath brooms the wreath of penny glory you made!
to stand on a block of the word "we" in the midst of a sea of whistling and indignation!

Leaflet. M., 1913. On the back of a four-page leaflet, as a comparison of old and new poetry, poems by Pushkin and Khlebnikov, Nadson and D. Burliuk, Lermontov and Mayakovsky, excerpts from Gogol and Kruchenykh were printed in pairs.

FIRST ALL-RUSSIAN CONGRESS OF BAYACHI OF THE FUTURE

We have gathered here to arm the world against us! The time for slaps has passed:
The crackling of blasters and the carving of scarecrows will stir up the coming year of art!
We want our adversaries to bravely defend their crumbling possessions. Let them not wag their tails, they will not be able to hide behind them.
We ordered crowds of thousands at meetings and in theaters and from the pages of our
clear books, and now they have declared the rights of bayachis and artists, tearing the ears of those who vegetate under the stump of cowardice and immobility:
1) Destroy the “pure, clear, honest, sonorous Russian language”, castrated and smoothed by the languages of people from “criticism and literature”. He is unworthy of the great "Russian people"!
2) Destroy the outdated movement of thought according to the law of causality, toothless "common sense," symmetrical logic ", wandering in the blue shadows of symbolism and give a personal creative insight into the true world of new people.
3) To destroy the elegance, frivolity and beauty of cheap public artists and writers, constantly releasing more and more new works in words, in books, on canvas and paper.
4) For this purpose, by the first of August of this year, new books “Three” by Khlebnikov, Kruchenykh and E. Guro are being published. Rice. K. Malevich, "Celestial Camels" by E. Guro, "Dead Moon" - employees of "Gilei" - "Print and We", etc.
5) To rush to the stronghold of artistic stunting - to the Russian theater and resolutely transform it.
Artistic, Korshevsky, Alexandrinsky, Big and Small have no place in today! - for this purpose, the New Theater "Budetlyanin" is being established.
b) And several performances will be arranged in it (Moscow and Petrograd). Deim will be staged: Kruchenykh's "Victory over the Sun" (opera), Mayakovsky's "Railway", Khlebnikov's "Christmas Tale" and others.
The production is directed by the speech creators themselves, artists: K. Malevich, D. Burliuk and musician M. Matyushin.
Rather, sweep away the old ruins and raise a skyscraper tenacious like a bullet!

With genuine true.
Chairman: M. Matyushin
Secretaries: A. Kruchenykh, K. Malevich
Usikirko, July 20, 1913

For 7 days. SPb., 1913, August 15. The manifesto was adopted at the congress, which was attended only by its authors (Khlebnikov was unable to attend). In September 1913, M. Larionov came up with the projects of the Futu Theater, and on April 26, 1914, in gas. "Nov" appeared "Declaration on the Futuristic Theater", written by V. Shershenevich.

THEATER, CINEMA, FUTURISM

The great upheaval that we have begun in all areas of beauty in the name of the art of the future - the art of the futurists - will not stop, and cannot stop, at the door of the theatre.

Hatred for the art of yesterday, for neurasthenia cultivated by paint, verse, footlights, the unproven need to reveal the tiny experiences of people leaving life, makes me put forward, as proof of the inevitability of recognizing our ideas, not lyrical pathos, but exact science, the study of the relationship between art and life .

Contempt for the existing "magazines of art", such as "Apollo", "Masks", where tangled foreign terms float like greasy spots on a gray background of meaninglessness, makes me feel real pleasure from publishing my speech in a special technical cinematographic magazine.

Today I raise two questions:

1) Is modern theater an art?

And 2) Can modern theater compete with cinema?

The city, having filled the machines with thousands of horsepower, for the first time made it possible to satisfy the material needs of the world in some 6-7 hours of daily labor, and the intensity and intensity of modern life have caused an enormous need for the free play of cognitive abilities, which is art.

This explains the powerful interest of today's man in art.

But if the division of labor brought into being a separate group of beauty workers; if, for example, an artist, having given up writing "the charms of drunken metres", goes to broad democratic art, he must answer society under what conditions his work becomes socially useful from being individually necessary.

The artist, having declared the dictatorship of the eye, has the right to exist. Having approved color, line, form as self-sufficient quantities, painting has found an eternal path to development. Those who have found that the word, its outline, its phonic side determine the flourishing of poetry, have the right to exist. These are the poets who have found the way to the eternal prosperity of verse.

But does the theater, which until our arrival only served as an artificial cover for all kinds of art, have the right to exist independently under the crown of a special art?

The modern theater is furnished, but its furnishings are the product of the decorative work of an artist who has only forgotten his freedom and humiliated himself to a utilitarian view of art.

Consequently, from this side, the theater can only act as an uncultured subjugator of art.

The second half of the theater is "The Word". But here, too, the onset of the aesthetic moment is determined not by the internal development of the word itself, but by its use as a means of expressing moral or political ideas incidental to art.

And here the modern theater acts only as an enslaver of the word and the poet.

This means that before our arrival, theater as an independent art did not exist. But is it possible to find in history at least some traces of the possibility of its approval? Of course yes!

Shakespeare's theater had no scenery. Ignorant criticism explained this by unfamiliarity with decorative art. Was not this time the greatest development of pictorial realism. And the theater of Oberammergau does not shackle words with shackles of inscribed lines.

All these phenomena can only be explained as a premonition of the special art of the actor, where the intonation of even a word that does not have a definite meaning and the movements of the human body invented, but free in the rhythm, express the greatest inner experiences.

This will be the new free art of the actor.

At the present time, in transmitting a photographic representation of life, the theater falls into the following contradiction:

The art of the actor, essentially dynamic, is shackled by the dead backdrop of the scenery; this piercing contradiction destroys cinematography, which harmoniously fixes the movements of the present.

The theater has brought itself to ruin and must pass on its legacy to cinema. And the cinema, having made naive realism and artistry like Chekhov and Gorky a branch of industry, will open the way to the theater of the future, the unfettered art of the actor.

Vladimir Mayakovsky

* Thus, for example, the imaginary heyday of the theater over the past 10-15 years (Artistic) is explained only by a temporary social upsurge ("At the Bottom", "Peer Gynt"), since petty plays, having lived for several hours, die for the repertoire. (Author's note.)

Kine magazine. - M., 1913, No. 14

RADIANTS AND FUTURE
Manifesto

Timofey Bogomazov, Natalia Goncharova, Kirill Zdanevich, Ivan Larionov, Mikhail Larionov, Mikhail Le-Dantyu, Vyacheslav Levkievsky, Sergei Romanovich, Vladimir Obolensky, Moritz Fabry, Alexander Shevchenko.

Sat. "Donkey Tail and Target". M., 1913.

WHY WE COLOR
Futurist Manifesto

To the frantic city of arc lamps, to the streets spattered with bodies, to the huddled houses, we brought the painted face; the start is given and the track is waiting for runners.
Creators, we have come not to destroy construction, but to glorify and affirm. Our coloring is not an absurd invention, not a return - it is inextricably linked with the warehouse of our life and our craft.
Roaring a song about a man, like a bugler before a battle, she calls for victories over the earth, hypocritically hiding under the wheels until the hour of vengeance, and the sleeping guns woke up and spit on the enemy.
A renewed life requires a new community and a new preaching.
Our coloring book is the first speech that found unknown truths. And the fires caused by her say that the servants of the earth do not lose hope of saving the old nests, they gathered all their strength to protect the gates, they crowded, knowing that with the first goal scored we are the winners.
The course of art and the love of life guided us. Loyalty to the craft encourages us who fight. The steadfastness of the few gives strength that cannot be overcome.
We connected art with life. After a long solitude of the masters, we loudly learned life and life invaded art, it's time for art to invade life. Face painting - the beginning of the invasion. This is why our hearts are beating so fast.
We do not strive for one aesthetic. Art is not only a monarch, but also a newspaperman and a decorator. We value both font and news. The synthesis of decorativeness and illustration is the basis of our coloring. We decorate life and preach - that's why we paint.
Coloring - new folk jewels, like everything in our day. The old ones were incoherent and squeezed out by money. Gold was valued as an ornament and became expensive. We overthrow gold and stones from their pedestal and declare them priceless. Beware, those who collect them and keepers - you will soon be beggars.
Started in 05. Mikhail Larionov painted the model standing against the background of the carpet, extending the drawing on her. But there was no announcement yet. Now the Parisians do the same when painting the legs of dancers, and the ladies powder brown powder and lengthen their eyes in the Egyptian way. But this is age. We associate contemplation with action and rush into the crowd.
To the frantic city of arc lamps, to the streets spattered with bodies, to huddling houses - we brought what was not: unexpected flowers rose in the greenhouse and teased.
Citizens have long pinked their nails, lined their eyes, painted their lips, cheeks, hair - but they all imitate the earth.
We do not care about the earth, the creators, our lines and colors arose with us.
If we were given the plumage of parrots, we would pluck the feathers. for brush and pencil.
If immortal beauty were given to us - would it be smeared and killed - we, going to the end. The tattoo does not occupy us. Tattooed forever. We paint for an hour and the betrayal of experiences calls for the betrayal of coloring, as the picture devours the picture, as outside the window of the car, shop windows flicker invading each other - our face. The tattoo is beautiful but speaks of little - only about the tribe and deeds. Our coloring book is a newsboy.
Facial expressions do not interest us. What of the fact that they are accustomed to understand, too timid and not beautiful. Like the squeal of a tram warning the hurried hallways, like the drunken sounds of the great tango - our face. Facial expressions are expressive, but colorless. Our coloring is a decorator.
Rebellion against the earth and the transformation of faces in the searchlight of experiences.
The telescope has recognized the constellations lost in space, the coloring will tell about the lost thoughts.
We paint - because a clean face is disgusting, because we want to proclaim about the unknown, we rebuild life and carry the multiplied human soul to the upper reaches of being.

Ilya Zdanevich
Mikhail Larionov

J. "Argus". 1913. No. 12.

GO TO HELL!

Your year has passed since the release of our first books: Slap, Boiling Cup, Judges' Garden, etc.
The appearance of the New Poetry had an effect on the still crawling old men of Russian literature, like the white marble Pushkin dancing the tango.
Commercial old people stupidly guessed the value of the new before the public they were fooling and "out of habit" looked at us with their pocket.
K. Chukovsky (not a fool either!) delivered hot goods to all fair cities: the names of Kruchenykh, Burdyukov, Khlebnikov ...
F. Sologub grabbed I. Severyanin's hat to cover his bald talent.
Vasily Bryusov habitually chewed the poetry of Mayakovsky and Livshits with the pages of Russkaya Mysl.
Come on, Vasya, this is not a cork for you! ..
Was it not then that the old men patted us on the head in order to hastily sew an electric belt for themselves from the sparks of our defiant poetry to communicate with the muses?
These subjects gave rise to a herd of young people, previously without a specific occupation, to pounce on literature and show their grimacing face: the mezzanine of poetry whistled by the winds, the Petersburg Herald, etc.
And nearby a pack of adams crawled out with a parting - Gumilyov, S. Makovsky, S. Gorodetsky, Piast, who tried to attach a sign of Acmeism and Apollonism to faded songs about Tula samovars and toy lions, and then began to spin in a motley round dance around the established Futurists. Today we spit out the past that stuck on our teeth, declaring:
1) All futurists are united only by our group.
2) We discarded our random nicknames of ego and kubo and united in a single literary company of futurists:

David Burliuk, Alexei Kruchenykh, Benedict Livshits, Vladimir Mayakovsky, Igor Severyanin, Viktor Khlebnikov.

Roaring Parnassus, St. Petersburg, Zhuravl Publishing House, 1914. Here the authors of the manifesto called themselves futurists and sent all other futurists, in fact, to hell. As early as 1911, Severyanin called himself a futurist, more precisely, an "ego-futurist." But they almost immediately quarreled with him and did not contact him again.

DROP OF TAR
"A speech to be delivered at the first opportunity"

Gracious sovereigns and gracious sovereigns!

This year is the year of deaths: almost every day the newspapers weep with loud grief for someone with mastitis who has passed away before the deadline. better world. Every day, with a lingering weeping, it sings over the multitude of names carved by Mars. What noble and monastically strict newspapers are published today. In the black mourning gowns of funeral announcements, eyes shining with the crystal tear of an obituary. That is why it was somehow especially unpleasant to see that this same grief-ennobled press raised such obscene fun about one death very close to me.

When critics harnessed in a train drove along the dirty road, the road of the printed word, the coffin of futurism, the newspapers trumpeted for weeks: “Ho, ho, ho! so it! take it, take it! finally!" (terrible excitement of the audience: “How did it die? Futurism died? What are you doing?”)

Yes, he died.

For a year now, instead of him, fire-speak, barely maneuvering between truth, beauty and the site, on the stages of the audience, the most boring kogan-Eichenwald-like old men have been crawling. For a year now, the most boring logic has been in the classrooms, proving some sparrow truths instead of the merry ringing of decanters on empty heads.

Lord! don't you really feel sorry for this eccentric fellow, in red whirlwinds, a little stupid, a little uncultured, but always, oh! always bold and burning. However, how do you understand youth? The young, to whom we are dear, will not soon return from the battlefield; but you, who have remained here for a quiet occupation in newspapers and other offices; you are either rickets, unable to carry weapons, or old bags stuffed with wrinkles and gray hairs, whose business is to think about the most serene transition to another world, and not about the fate of Russian art.

And you know, I myself do not really feel sorry for the dead man, though from other considerations.

Relive in memory the first gala exit of Russian futurism, marked by such a resounding "slap in the face of public taste." From this dashing dump three blows under three shouts of our manifesto were especially remembered.

1. Crush the ice cream maker of all kinds of canons, making ice out of inspiration.
2. Break the old language, powerless to catch up with the leap of life.
3. Throw the old greats off the steamer of modernity.

As you can see, not a single building, not a single comfortable corner, destruction, anarchism. The townsfolk laughed at this as the eccentricity of the madmen, and it turned out to be a “devilish intuition” embodied in a stormy today. War, expanding the borders of states, and the brain makes you burst into the borders of yesterday unknown.

Artist! Do you need a thin mesh of contours to catch the rushing cavalry. Repin! Samokish! remove the buckets - the paint will spill.

Poet! do not put iambs and trochees into the rocking chair with a powerful fight - it will turn the whole rocking chair!
Breaking words, word innovation! How many of them, the new ones headed by Petrograd, and the conductor! die, northerner! Should the Futurists shout about the oblivion of the old literature. Who behind the Cossack boom will hear the trill of the mandolin player Bryusov. Today everyone is a futurist. Futurist people.

Futurism took Russia with a stranglehold.

Not seeing futurism in front of you and not being able to look into yourself, you screamed about death. Yes! Futurism has died as a special group, but in all of you it is flooded.

But since futurism has died as an idea of the elite, we do not need it. We consider the first part of our program - destruction - completed. That is why do not be surprised if today in our hands you see, instead of a jester's rattle, a drawing of an architect, and the voice of futurism, yesterday still soft from sentimental daydreaming, today will pour out into brass sermons.

V. Mayakovsky

Published in the almanac “I took it. Drum of the Futurists": Mayakovsky, Pasternak, Khlebnikov, Aseev, O. Brik, V. Shklovsky. Petersburg, December 1915

PIPE MARTIAN

PEOPLE!
The brain of people still jumps on three legs (three axes of space)! We glue, cultivating the brain of mankind, like plowmen, to this puppy the fourth leg, namely the axis of time.
Lame puppy! You will no longer torture our hearing with your nasty barking.
People of the past are not smarter than themselves, believing that the sails of the state can only be built for the axes of space. We, dressed in a cloak of only victories, are starting to build a young alliance with a sail around the axis of time, warning in advance that our size is larger than Cheops, and the task is brave, majestic and severe.
We stern carpenters once again throw ourselves and our names into the seething cauldrons of beautiful tasks.
We believe in ourselves and indignantly push away vicious whispers people of the past dreaming of pecking at our heel. After all, we are bosses. But we are beautiful in the steady betrayal of our past, as soon as it entered the age of victory, and in the steady fury of skidding another hammer over the globe already starting to tremble from our trampling.
Black sails of time, make noise!

Viktor Khlebnikov, Maria Sinyakova, Bozhidar, Grigory Petnikov, Nikolai Aseev

Scroll. Kharkov, April 1916. All text belongs to Khlebnikov. After all, we are barefoot - concession to censorship. That's right - "After all, we are Gods."

MANIFESTO OF THE FLYING FUTURIST FEDERATION

The old system rested on three pillars.
Political slavery, social slavery, spiritual slavery.
The February Revolution abolished political slavery. The road to Tobolsk is paved with black feathers of a double-headed eagle. October threw the bomb of social revolution under capital. Far on the horizon are the fat backsides of fleeing breeders. And only the unshakable third whale stands - the work of the Spirit.
As before, he spews a fountain of stale water - called - old art.
Theaters still put on: "Jewish" and other "kings" (works by the Romanovs), as before, monuments to generals, princes - the royal mistresses and the queen's lovers with a heavy, dirty foot stand on the throats of young streets. In petty shops, pompously called exhibitions, they sell pure daubs of noblemen's daughters and dachas in the Rococo style and other Louis.
And finally, on our bright holidays we sing not our hymns, but the gray-haired Marseillaise borrowed from the French.
Enough.
We are the proletarians of art - we call the proletarians of factories and lands to the third bloodless, but cruel revolution, the revolution of the spirit.
We need to acknowledge:
I. Separation of art from the state.
The destruction of the patronage of privileges and control in the field of art. Down with diplomas, titles, official posts and ranks.
II. Transfer of all material means of art: theaters, chapels, exhibition spaces and buildings of the academy and art schools- into the hands of the masters of art themselves for the equal use of them by the entire people of art.
III. Universal art education because we believe that the foundations of the future free art can only emerge from the depths of democratic Russia, which until now has only been hungry for the bread of art.
IV. Immediate, along with food, requisition of all hidden aesthetic reserves for a fair and equitable use of all of Russia.
Long live the third Revolution, the Revolution of the Spirit!

D. Burliuk, V. Kamensky, V. Mayakovsky
Given to Moscow 1918, March.

Newspaper of the Futurists. M., March 15, 1918. In April of the same year, the residence of the futurists - the "Cafe of Poets" in Nastasinsky lane 1 (next to the "House of Anarchy", the headquarters of the anarchists) - was closed. David Burliuk emigrated to the United States in 1919 through Far East. Mayakovsky shot himself in 1930.

Reading our New First Unexpected.

Only we are the face of our Time. The horn of time blows us in verbal art.

The past is tight. The Academy and Pushkin are more incomprehensible than hieroglyphs.

Throw Pushkin, Dostoevsky, Tolstoy and so on. and so on. from the steamer of modern times.

Who will not forget his first love, does not recognize the latter.

Who, gullible, will turn the last Love to the perfumery fornication of Balmont? Does it reflect the courageous soul of today?

Who, cowardly, will be afraid to steal paper armor from the black tailcoat of Bryusov's warrior? Or are they the dawn of unknown beauties?

Wash your hands that have touched the filthy slime of the books written by those innumerable Leonid Andreevs.

To all these Maxim Gorky, Kuprin, Blok, Sollogub, Remizov, Averchenko, Cherny, Kuzmin, Bunin and so on. and so on. - All you need is a dacha on the river. Such an award is given by fate to tailors.

From the height of skyscrapers we look at their insignificance!

We order honor rights poets:

1) To increase the dictionary in its scope arbitrary and derivative words (Word-innovation).

2) An irresistible hatred for the language that existed before them.

3) With horror, remove from your proud forehead from bath brooms the Wreath of penny glory you made.

4) To stand on a block of the word "we" in the midst of a sea of whistling and indignation.

D. Burliuk,

Alexander Kruchenykh,

V. Mayakovsky,

Victor Khlebnikov

Futurism

The Futurists entered the literary arena somewhat earlier than the Acmeists. They declared the classics and all old literature to be dead. “Only we are the face of our time,” they argued. Russian futurists are an original phenomenon, like a vague premonition of great upheavals and the expectation of grandiose changes in society. This must be reflected in new forms. “It is impossible,” they argued, “to convey the rhythms of a modern city with a Onegin stanza.” Futurists generally denied the former world in the name of creating the future; Mayakovsky, Khlebnikov, Severyanin, Guro, Kamensky belonged to this current. In December 1912, the first declaration of the Futurists was published in the collection Slap in the Face of Public Taste, which shocked the reader. They wanted to "throw the classics of literature off the ship of modernity", expressed "irresistible hatred for the existing language", called themselves "the face of the times", the creators of a new "self-valuable (self-sufficient) Word". In 1913, this scandalous program was concretized: the denial of grammar, syntax, spelling of the native language, the glorification of "the secret of imperious insignificance." The true aspirations of the futurists, i.e. "will be," V. Mayakovsky revealed: "become a doer of one's own life and a legislator for the lives of others." The art of the word was given the role of a transformer of beings. In a certain area - the "big city" - the "birthday of a new man" was approaching. For which it was proposed to increase the "dictionary with new words" in accordance with the "nervous" urban environment, to convey the pace of traffic with "disheveled syntax."

The Futurist movement was quite broad and multidirectional. In 1911, a group of ego-futurists arose: I. Severyanin, I. Ignatiev, K. Olimpov and others. Kamensky. In 1913 - "Centrifuge": B. Pasternak, N. Aseev, I. Aksenov. All of them are characterized by an attraction to the nonsense of urban reality, to word creation. Nevertheless, the Futurists in their poetic practice were by no means alien to the traditions of Russian poetry. Khlebnikov largely relied on the experience of ancient Russian literature. Kamensky - on the achievements of Nekrasov and Koltsov. I. Severyanin highly honored A. K. Tolstoy, A. M. Zhemchuzhnikov and K. Fofanov, Mirra Lokhvitskaya. The poems of Mayakovsky and Khlebnikov were literally "stitched" with historical and cultural reminiscences. And Mayakovsky called Chekhov the urbanist the forerunner of cubo-futurism.