The presentation aims to show how political propaganda undermined artistic motivation
in the era of “refrigerator socialism” by comparing two art events. In 1972, the Hungarian
National Gallery organised a graphic, sculptural exhibition with the support of the
Ministry of Education, while the Studio of Young Artists, a quasi-subsidiary of the
Foundation for Fine Arts, organised an art contest – both on occasion of the alleged
500th anniversary of Hungarian revolutionary György Dózsa’s birth. Relatively speaking,
a great deal of information is available on the Gallery’s exhibition: a proper catalogue
was made of it, numerous critiques appeared on it, and the Arts and Crafts Advisory
Council (as well as its successors) kept the jury’s records. On the other hand, we
know almost nothing about the Studio’s contest. The pictorial source is far from being
complete; aside from this, we have to rely on the artists’ memories for the most part.
In the Studio of Young Artists’ Association’s archive, the record for their July 1972
general assembly merely mentions in passing that the contest had been successful.
Aside from shedding light on the unfair chances “young” artists had against those
who already “had it made”, this lack of documentation also shows what a frighteningly
short time it takes until art history can no longer be reconstructed, even in a period
unravaged by revolutions or war. It can also be seen as indicating that it was not
advisable (or not worth it, according to the comrades) to publish the image of Dózsa
the Studio had generated. The Hungarian Revolutionary Workers’-Peasants’ Government
presented Dózsa as not merely the leader of an uprising of peasants, but as a forerunner
of the revolution and the labor movement – as a symbolic figure of class strugle.
The official texts on revolution and revolutionary resulted in a special kind of hidden
meaning. Critiques were usually vague, and written with metaphors and symbolism that
were understood “by everyone” except the person being criticised; in this case, however,
quite the opposite was true: when the texts spoke of revolution and failed revolution,
“everyone” was thinking of a revolution, other than the one intended. While the explicit
aim of the official text was to emphasise how revolutionary the current state of society
was – despite the text being part of a mind-wiping machine of lies in a party dictatorship
that wasn’t revolutionary at all –, its readers were thinking of the failed revolution
of 1956, or a much-desired revolution yet to come. But the revolutionary mantra nullifies
political desires, motivation and thoughts. At the time, artists were forced to participate
in thematic exhibitions, as there were few other opportunities to make themselves
known. Those who wanted to work for an official Dózsa exhibition had to achieve something
practically impossible: they had to talk about Dózsa and his uprising without saying
anything – anything potentially interesting. The combination of revolutionary demagogy,
the suppressed desire for revolution, lies and a peculiar knowledge of history could
only result in a highly smudged image of history and Dózsa, and it’s quite difficult
to create a work of art based on such an image.
