A Conversation with a Soviet Poster Artist

My name is Vladimir Sergeyevich Tverdokhlebov, and art was always in my blood. My father, Sergey Grigoryevish Tverdokhlebov, was an artist and spent most of his life teaching art. My uncle, Ivan Grigoryevich Tverdokhlebov, was a well-known artist in Russia and Chechnya. Despite a difficult childhood, I spent hours in galleries and museums, studying sculptures and paintings. Becoming an artist wasn’t a choice—it was inevitable.

Growing up in the Soviet Union, we had little exposure to Western art trends. But glimpses of the outside world made it through. Classical Italian art was revered, and the Artist Union of the USSR imported Domus, an Italian magazine focused on architecture and design.

We studied the idealized forms of Michelangelo’s David and other Renaissance works. Just before Perestroika, Finnish, Czech, and Polish magazines trickled in, offering a rare view of Western influences. Poland and Czechoslovakia, though Soviet satellites, had more cultural freedom, and their publications reflected that.

I was fortunate to study at the Vera Muchina Academy of Art & Industrial Design in Leningrad, where my professors—many of whom had lived through the October Revolution and World War II—encouraged creative freedom. Monumental art, being closer to architecture and design, gave us access to workshops with glass, wood, mosaics, and metal. It was one of the few spaces where we could experiment.

Most Soviet artists worked within the system. The Union of Artists of the USSR was exclusive—you needed a portfolio of exhibited work and recommendations from two prominent artists to even be considered. I joined in 1970. The state was our primary client, and projects were posted in artist cooperatives.

I applied for a Red Cross campaign encouraging blood donation, which led to my first official propaganda posters. The process was structured: pencil sketches, approval, full-color versions, and final printing. Posters with ideological significance received the highest quality printing, while health and safety campaigns used older presses.

A good propaganda poster speaks without words. The design must be bold, the colors striking, the message instantly clear—even from a distance. If done right, people remember it. Minimalism, strong contrast, and simplicity were key.

This was a time of post-war reconstruction. The Soviet Union was rapidly building homes, schools, and government buildings—simple, functional, and uniform. Yet, our posters were vibrant, filled with optimism and purpose.

The government allocated up to 5% of a building’s budget for artistic elements like mosaics. As the lead artist on several monumental projects in Kazakhstan, I had control over materials, suppliers, and even additional design proposals. Mosaics were popular for their durability, low maintenance, and lasting impact.

Soviet citizens didn’t always appreciate propaganda posters and mosaics, but they remembered them. Unlike gallery art, our works were part of daily life—seen but not necessarily admired. That’s changing now. Nostalgia for the Soviet era has grown, and as more public art disappears, people are recognizing its value.

I never took on ideological projects. My works focused on health, safety, and the environment—causes I believed in. Many of my posters were displayed in schools, medical facilities, and community centers. Some survived, but many were lost. In Kazakhstan, there are no laws protecting public art, and many mosaics have been destroyed by new building owners.

In Ukraine, decommunization laws have led to the removal of Soviet-era artworks. It’s tragic. These works aren’t just relics of communism—they’re pieces of history. "One day, people may regret erasing them. I hope there are efforts to preserve what remains."

You can buy Tverdokhlebov’s posters here at COMRADE Gallery. You can learn more about his mosaics and paintings through his website here. This interview was co-authored in 2020 by Stephane Cornille and Vladimir’s daughter, Anara Forrester, who also translated her father’s words. Two years after this interview took place, Vladimir Sergeyevich Tverdokhlebov passed away in Kazakhstan in 2022. May he rest in peace.