The following excerpts are adapted from a report published in The Times (UK).
In 1990, the eccentric British art duo Gilbert & George found themselves in Moscow, invited to display their work in a rare Cold War cultural exchange. Known for their Margaret Thatcher-supporting politics and controversial art, their visit coincided with the Soviet Union’s final years, offering a unique glimpse into a country grappling with rapid change. The exhibition, held at Moscow’s Central House of Artists, showcased works like the large-scale print Coming (1983), a surreal image of a London sky filled with flying underpants. Despite initial skepticism about the duo’s political leanings and provocative themes, the show became a remarkable success, drawing Muscovites hungry for artistic innovation.
At the opening, Gilbert & George, dressed in their trademark matching tweed suits, were accompanied by Tahir Salahov, the general secretary of the Soviet Union of Artists; Sergei Klokov, a KGB cultural attaché; and James Birch, the young British gallerist who had orchestrated the event. Two years earlier, Birch had staged a Francis Bacon exhibition in Moscow, overcoming significant bureaucratic resistance. This time, the challenges were compounded by the Soviet Union’s deteriorating economic conditions. Guests at the opening quickly consumed the Georgian champagne and moved on to West German beer, a scene emblematic of a country grappling with scarcity. Even the British ambassador, Rodric Braithwaite, declined to make a speech, commenting that Gilbert & George’s art was “not really my cup of tea.”
Once the public gained access, however, the exhibition resonated deeply with the Muscovites. Gilbert & George’s bold colors and graphic imagery bore similarities to Soviet social realism, creating an unexpected connection with audiences. For many, the show symbolized the possibilities of Mikhail Gorbachev’s glasnost and perestroika reforms, demonstrating that cultural exchange with the West was more than mere rhetoric. For Gilbert & George, the exhibition elevated their standing as icons of contemporary art, while for Soviet citizens, it offered a fleeting taste of freedom and modernity.
Despite the show’s success, its path to realization was fraught with intrigue and tension. Birch faced opposition not only from Soviet authorities but also from the British Council, which sought to control cultural diplomacy in the USSR. The council’s representatives allegedly spread damaging rumors, labeling Gilbert & George as “fascists” and accusing them of promoting “homosexual propaganda.” Meanwhile, Klokov, a KGB agent with a menacing charm, played a pivotal role in navigating the labyrinth of Soviet bureaucracy. Klokov’s own motives were murky—he was suspected of selling a Bacon painting intended for the Pushkin Museum to finance his personal escape plan. His colorful past included stints in a special combat unit in Afghanistan and ownership of a snake farm in Central Asia.
The challenges extended beyond political interference. On one visit to Moscow, Birch and the artists witnessed a youth being brutally beaten by KGB police. During a May Day parade, Birch found himself amid a crowd of Ukrainian nationalists angrily denouncing Gorbachev. Even logistical issues threatened the exhibition; an earlier show of Lenin-themed postage stamps had to be hastily removed to make way for Gilbert & George’s works. When the British Council ultimately shifted gears, hosting an opening party, Birch watched as others claimed credit for a project he had fought tirelessly to realize. He described the council’s hypocrisy as “breathtaking.”
After the Moscow exhibition, Gilbert & George continued to push boundaries, traveling to Beijing in 1993, shortly after the Tiananmen Square massacre. Klokov, meanwhile, avoided arrest and eventually relocated to London, likely financed by the sale of the Bacon painting. For the Muscovites who attended the show, Gilbert & George’s work left a lasting impression. One attendee interpreted Coming as a warning about Western aggression, likening the flying underpants to invading jets. This response underscored the surreal blend of cultural exchange and political symbolism that defined the exhibition.
Reflecting on their Moscow adventure, Gilbert & George recalled a surreal mix of privilege and unease. They noticed signs of a crumbling system, such as packets of raw meat distributed at cultural gatherings. Despite being aware of constant surveillance, they felt relatively safe as Western visitors. The enthusiasm of the Muscovite audience contrasted sharply with the reserved elegance of Western European gallery-goers, making the experience unforgettable. While the duo avoided overtly provocative works, they relished the opportunity to share their art with a new audience. For them, the trip to Moscow was a bold and unexpected triumph—one that, even in hindsight, feels unrepeatable.
