The Forgotten Soviet Minimalism

Anastasia Goldberg
Sep 4, 2018 · 7 min read
Collage by the author

With a huge wave of interest in minimalism rippling across the planet the motto “all you need is less” sounds more and more alluring amid the consumption carnival of today. It’s all about being analytically picky and smart, letting some air in your life not only stuff-wise, but information-wise as well. Decluttering has never been so elevated: mindfulness, ethics, awareness, respect, and art — these are only a few of the key attributes that go well with minimalism. The more I read, watch and speculate on the subject the more it reminds me of something vaguely familiar. It feels like being in my Siberian home town and running across someone whose name I can’t recall. After some consideration, the clue knocked at my door — it was the overlooked lifestyle of the late-Soviet and early-RF era, i.e. the 80’s and 90’s that I remember quite well.

Unlike the current culture-based minimalism of choice, Soviet minimalism was a forced behavior pattern cultivated in every Khrushchyovka apartment and beyond.

It was a situation of total deficit of everything, and the almighty power of connections that used to be valued much more than money was ever present. People tried to stretch what they owned as long as they could, as there was no chance for any impulsive purchases. After the iron curtain fell and its gloomy aftershock receded, we rushed to satisfy our consumerist hunger, stuffing our bellies, wardrobes, closets, and minds. With the feast of gluttony still on stage, let me tell you some of the inventive and funny curiosities I discovered in my childhood memories of the minimalistic Soviet lifestyle.

Food and Drinks

When considering Soviet minimalism, there were two must-haves for grocery shopping. The first is an ‘avoska’ — a knitted lacey shopping bag, super lightweight and small, though exposing everything you were lucky enough to purchase. The next, a ‘bidon’ (a fancy French word) — a metal vessel used to safely carry milk/kvass/water or any types of fluids that were sold on tap from special tanks. Those tanks always horrified me, probably due to an urban legend saying that nobody washes kvass tanks from the inside and they’re layered with worms.

With nearly no plastics stuff available, we reused every vessel: glass jars of all kinds were filled up with soups, pickles, jams, and things you never want to know (I’m talking about regular medical tests that required vessels). Some glass bottles that couldn’t be practically reused, such as beer bottles, were subject to recycling. Also, it was the only real chance to get some pocket money without asking my parents. I remember that my cousin and I would have the privilege to bring all the empty bottles to recycling points and spend the received money on bubble gum.

We cooked almost everything from scratch and my favorite homemade delicacy was sugar candy in a spoon. My brother and I would melt sugar in a small metal bowl and then pour it into two tea spoons to enjoy the perfect smoky and sweet flavor after it was set. My parents and their friends would have their own culinary DIY, such as a homemade berry/fruit alcoholic brew. A 3- or 5-liter glass jar with a mass of fresh ingredients was covered with a resin glove instead of a lid. When the glove became filled with vapor and resembled a hand willing to shake your own, it was clear that the fermentation process was going well and the feast was just around the corner.

Growing food was an essential part of every Soviet family life: potatoes, cabbage, carrots, beets, beans, etc. were the agricultural achievements to be proud of. As a kid, I knew no one who wasn’t recruited for “potato” family weekends. In winters, the passion for planting could be satisfied with growing spring onions in glass jars on the windowsill. Together with rye bread and salt it was one of the best treats ever.

Clothing

Honestly, I don’t remember Soviet thrift stores to be popular or useful, perhaps because they were selling same things that everybody already owned. At times, we were lucky to get admission to the centers of ‘humanitarian aid’ with piles of used clothing donated by people from the West.

It was pure textile magic. A couple of times, my cousin and I found coins in the pockets of our new garments: from Canada, Sweden etc. I could physically feel connected to a person who wore those clothes before me and thus discovered a special underlying context of using the used.

New things were bought very rarely and adored enormously, like my made-in-China tennis shoes (‘tapochki’ as we called them) with embroidered umbrellas, which soles I used to kiss when no one was watching. Each item had a personality, a story behind, and was cherished throughout its whole life cycle. The quality was high, too. I’m still wearing a Yugoslavian wool coat that my aunt managed to buy in the 70’s. Throughout the 90’s, it was used for as a uniform for potato digging sessions until I found it.

Mending and repurposing were among the great pillars of the Soviet minimalism. I’ve never had a purchased winter fur/faux fur coat of my own until I was 16, all the ones before were remade from my mother’s or aunt’s winter outfits. But still it wasn’t the end of their lives: almost each kid’s fur coat was destined to reincarnate as fur insoles. I still have ones that are tremendous for Siberian winters. The lifespan of a regular pair of knitted socks (another winter essential) could be extended a countless number of times with re-knitting and design alterations. Before I turned 13, I knew how to crochet, knit, and sew, and it was neither a hobby nor a whim, but a necessity, because I wanted to be free in my choice of what to wear.

Now, it seems obvious that the less you have the more creative your mind becomes, while the excessive availability of everything leads to a consumerist coma. But of course, back then we didn’t get super philosophical about it and owning more than one pair of pants seemed an alluring luxury.

Lifestyle

There were no plain sofas or armchairs in a Soviet apartment, everything had to be convertible. It was like living in a tiny house, I guess. On special occasions, tiny homes could be stuffed with quite a significant number of Soviets, therefore a special sleeping construction was used — a folding bed a.k.a. ‘raskladushka’. Generally used by armies and in emergency situations, camp beds became the dream (or nightmare) catchers for several generations of Soviet guests staying overnight. Sometimes people would even travel to another city with those beds to make sure they always have a cozy canvas-and-aluminum nest of their own.

I remember us having the most sustainable (and vegan!) wool production ever: we would collect all the pet hair (from Pusha the cat and Chip the dog) that had been combed for several months and give it to a skilled lady to spin it into yarn. Then my mother and grandma would knit socks, mittens or special belts to reduce back pains (that were so common after a potato weekend). Thus I could boast amazingly warm garments made from Chip and Pusha leaving them happy and alive.

A sign of good education and taste, a home library was almost obligatory for every family. Even my grandparents in the deepest countryside had an impressive collection of world and Russian classics, murder mysteries by Agatha Christie and tons of myths and legends, particularly of the indigenous peoples of Siberia. A limited choice of books in stores was balanced by the “makulatura” project: for bringing a certain amount of paper (usually, old newspapers) to recycling points, people could get a desirable rare edition. I remember helping father transport heaps of newspapers on my sled to that mysterious spot where a new printed story was awaiting.

The spirit of reusing and recycling was everywhere like the mobile phone radiation today: all the few plastic bags that a family owned were carefully washed and air-dried; women would prevent their mascara from drying by spitting in the mascara box (have no idea how the magical properties of saliva were first discovered); to make the nail polish last, a small amount of acetone was added to the bottle; when a lipstick came to an end, women would pick the remnants out of one or several used tubes, heat them up in a small jar to get a smooth texture and then cool the mix down to use it again; a humble box of matches could serve multiple tasks: to deodorize the bathroom, to make cotton swabs or toothpicks.

Minimal New World

Of course, in childhood, I perceived this forced minimalism as a fun game, an extended adventure and couldn’t imagine a different life. The late-Soviet and early-Russia period was probably among the hardest ones to live in, though it provided a substantial toolbox for both physical and mental survival. At this point in life, as the traces of the not-have mentality finally disappear, I’m trying to make owning fewer things a joy instead of a burden. People here say: “You can’t earn all the money in the world”, but I would rather put it like: “You can’t own all the stuff in the world”. I’ve been trapped into the consumption hysteria for years in my adulthood and somehow it didn’t feel right. Bringing back the simplicity of living seems the only way to combat the global clutterization and get more connected with people on much deeper matters.

Unfortunately, our Soviet past is still strongly affecting us, who grew up in the USSR, provoking different psychological issues of “seeming poor”, “what other people would say” etc. People are afraid of poverty and when you have the experience of air-drying plastic bags and efficient usage of toilet paper, you definitely prefer not to do it again. And I do understand that.

Meanwhile, modern ideas of minimalism and waste-cutting offer a new level of conscious lifestyle, when you no longer have to be ashamed of your mended clothing or secondhand furniture or old books that you read instead of hanging out in social media.

It is the unforced freedom of behavior that many of us haven’t had for many years. And by ‘us’ I mean all people, everyone who can read these words and probably feels the same connection that I first felt in childhood looking at a foreign coin in my hand.

Written by

Trying to re-discover art in life and become something bigger than biology and psychology can suggest. Currently based in Siberia.

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