How Many Lenins Does it Take?

Many years ago, art historians noted that, if we were to demolish all the monuments to tyrants,

there would hardly be any public sculptures left to visit...

Eight years ago, on January 22, 1924, the first monument to Vladimir Lenin in the Soviet Union, by amateur sculptor Fyodor Kuznetsov, was unveiled in Noginsk (Moscow region). During the dedication ceremony, the secretary of the party cell announced that Lenin had just died: “We came here to unveil a monument to comrade Lenin during his lifetime, but now we must unveil a memorial. We have received terrible news. Our Ilyich died yesterday, on January 21, at 18:50, in Gorky.” The huge crowd moaned.

After Lenin’s death, thousands of memorials were created all over the Soviet Union. This, despite the fact that, soon after Lenin’s death, his wife Nadezhda Krupskaya published an appeal in Pravda, requesting that Soviets spend their money on hospitals, schools and libraries, rather than on monuments to Ilyich. Her call fell on deaf ears. The waves of adoration for “The Great Leader” rose higher and higher, destroying everything in their path. After World War II, the Lenin fetish was exported to the states of Eastern Europe which had been brought under Soviet hegemony.

Ironically, the sculptures of Lenin (whose likeness was often unrecognizable) were frequently set on bases once occupied by monuments to the tsars. The monuments were maintained by special citizen teams and top students often were charged with cleaning the monuments of dirt and bird droppings. This all changed in 1992. With the disintegration of the USSR, allotments for the upkeep of Lenin monuments dried up. Plaster busts began to crumble; sometimes a leg or a hand fell off; there was even a report of a headless Lenin standing sadly in front of a village school.

Over the last decade, Lenin statues, once a common site in town and city squares, began to disappear. Some were stored in special museum warehouses; some were put on exhibit in the park outside Moscow’s Central House of Artists, on Krymsky Val; some were exported to collectors of retro-Soviet paraphernalia abroad. It even became fashionable to display small figures or busts of “The Great Leader” in offices and dormitories.

Interestingly, there are few monuments depicting Lenin seated. One was in the Moscow Kremlin (photo opposite, above). In 1994, it was transported to Gorky, where Lenin died. Another was in the Czech town of Pardubice, and another in the Kazan Kremlin. The plaster Lenin in Kazan once shared a bench with Josef Stalin, until the 22nd Congress of the CPSU turned the tide on Stalin’s (but not Lenin’s) Cult of Personality, and required removal of his statues (and his body from the mausoleum on Red Square). In Kazan, Stalin was replaced by four huge plaster books. In Simferopol (Ukraine) Lenin is also (still) seated on a bench which seems overly long. The reason is the same: the other “Leader” sat next to Lenin until 1961, when he was quietly and urgently removed during the night.

There used to be so many Lenins in so many Soviet towns that they gave rise to countless curious stories.

In Stavropol, the Lenin monument stood next to a marble column topped with an angel, which is blessing the town. Local wags have nicknamed the place, “The Square of the Angel and The Devil.”

In Kirzhach (Moscow region), the Lenin monument was built near the walls of an ancient convent.

At the railway station in Simferopol (Ukraine), three monuments to Lenin were squeezed into a space no bigger than a football field.

In Kiev, the monument to Vladimir Ilyich is situated on the boulevard named after the famous Ukrainian poet, Taras Shevchenko. In a recent poll, many locals revealed that they had long thought the monument was the likeness of Shevchenko, not Lenin.

In Soviet Leningrad, there were 103 monuments to Lenin. Some were dismantled very quickly in the post-Soviet era. For example, pre-1991, a bronze Lenin pointed his finger at the Nevsky House of Culture, where knitting and embroidery clubs met. When the tenants of the House of Culture changed, the statue came down. City authorities did not like the fact that Lenin stood pointing at a new strip club and casino.

It used to be that, as you entered St. Petersburg on the road from Moscow, you drove between statues of Lenin and Stalin. After Stalin was removed, a strange picture resulted: the bronze Lenin pointed at an empty monument base across the road.

In Chukotka, compared to other regions, Lenin monuments appeared very late, because of the remoteness of the region and the high costs of transportation. The first memorial was unveiled in the town of Anadyr. It was a “typical” two-meter high sculpture of “The Great Leader,” with his cap in one hand and the other arm outstretched. Local pranksters tied a large stick to the sculpture’s hand, so that it looked as if Lenin were fishing on the square in winter. Later, someone clothed Lenin in black underwear. The militia tried to remove the garment, but the defacers had affixed it with wire. In the process of removing Lenin’s “underpants,” the militiamen made deep scratches on poor Ilyich’s leg, resulting in a severe reprimand. Perhaps in response to the pranks, the statue was replaced by a 6-meter high Lenin, this time made of pink granite. Tellingly, the new Lenin had his cap in one hand, and the other hand ... in his pocket.

– Dasha Demourova

There is a monument to Lenin in every town. In every district capital. There is an inexhaustible supply of orders for them. An experienced sculptor can sculpt a Lenin blind. With his eyes blindfolded, that is. Yet there are some curiosities. For example, in Chelyabinsk there was this situation:

In the central square, across from the city soviet, a monument to Lenin was to be unveiled. A ceremonial meeting was organized. Fifteen hundred people gathered.

Emotional music was played. Orators gave speeches.

The monument was covered with grey cloth.

And then the key moment arrived. To the din of drumrolls, local officials pulled off the cloth.

Lenin was portrayed in a familiar pose – like a tourist trying to catch a ride on the boulevard. His right arm pointed the way to the future. His left was in the pocket of his wind-blown coat.

The music stopped. The silence was broken by a laugh. Within minutes, the entire square was full of laughter.

Only one person was not laughing: the Leningrad sculptor Viktor Dryzhakov. On his face, an expression of horror was gradually replaced by a grimace of equanimity and resignation.

What had happened? The unlucky sculptor had carved two caps. One covered the Leader’s head. The other was gripped in his fist.

The officials quickly wrapped the defective monument back up with the grey cloth.

By morning, the monument was unveiled anew. Overnight, the extra cap had been removed ...

– Sergei Dovlatov, The Suitcase (1986)