Painter, illustrator, and co-founder of the St. Petersburg group “Mitki,” Alexander Florensky grew up on traded tapes, hosted an early Viktor Tsoi living-room show (which he taped), came up with imaginary LP sleeves for Kino, and brought a collage sensibility into animation. His memories show that the idea of “Beatles worship” was a myth and that there was a wider and truer Soviet listening world.
“Access was there if you really wanted it.”
His first exposures were the usual suspects—The Beatles, Jesus Christ Superstar, Uriah Heep, and later Pink Floyd. But what mattered wasn’t just one band; it was the whole infrastructure of desire. As he put it, “It was perfectly accessible—to anyone who wanted it.” The real unlock was a home tape recorder his mom finally got him when he was about fourteen. Before that, listening meant visiting friends; afterwards, a network appeared—people who would dub LPs to tape, or tape-to-tape.
“LPs were around, but for our age, they were pricey and hard to find. Tape was the ecosystem.”
When asked about the usual “we were all Beatles fanatics” story, Florensky disagrees. Yes, the Beatles were there, but there was more to it than that: Alice Cooper, Deep Purple, later Pink Floyd, Kraftwerk—whatever was on someone’s reels. He says that the closest thing to Western rock were Polish and Yugoslav bands touring officially. He doesn’t think it was life-changing musically, but he says it was invaluable because they were there, in the flesh.
Along with Western rock, he followed the singer-songwriter current that was off-limits: Vladimir Vysotsky (he remembers hearing him around 1972), then Alexander Galich. These weren’t just about aesthetics; there was a social and taboo element to it.
“With Galich, the hook was the social, the forbidden—and the talent.”
He also recalls Arkady Severny and émigré “chanson”—“white-guard flavor,” as he puts it—prized precisely because it was off-limits.
The Mitki and an early Tsoi tape
Mitki was an informal circle of artists, writers, and poets that included up to twenty members, with Vladimir Shinkaryov, Viktor Tikhomirov, Olga and AMitki was an informal group of artists, writers, and poets that included up to twenty members, with Vladimir Shinkaryov, Viktor Tikhomirov, Olga and Alexander Florensky, and Dmitry Shagin as key figures. They were inspired by earlier nonconformist painters and staged small shows, which were often banned, until the group solidified in 1984 after the release of Mitki, described by Vladimir Shinkaryov and drawn by Alexander Florensky. It had a playful philosophy, mixing irony, postmodernism, and a quiet refusal to cooperate with Soviet authority. They summed it up with the motto “Mitki don’t want to defeat anyone.”
By the early ’80s, small exhibitions moved from apartments to semi-legal venues under the Fellowship for Experimental Fine Arts, but censorship lasted until 1987. Researchers compare Mitki to Western hippie culture and American and European countercultural groups, but they also point out that its members have a lot of different ideas, even though they’re all part of the same story and they don’t have a leader.
Florensky had a pretty sweet setup by the mid-1980s. He had his own studio, no parents, and a phone, which made it a natural hub for the young Leningrad scene. He first heard Viktor Tsoi on a friend’s tape; not many people knew about him at the time. He invited Tsoi to play a living-room concert at the studio. Florensky recorded it on a single 60-minute cassette (he chose the cheaper Soviet tape over a 90-minute German one—”five rubles saved = two bottles of wine”). Tsoi sang for over an hour, but the last 30 minutes were lost.
“A historical concert—and I saved five rubles instead of buying the longer tape.”
He didn’t realize the tape’s value until after Tsoi’s death. He transferred it to a high-quality cassette and gave the original to Tsoi’s widow, Marianna, with sleeve notes and a designed CD package. The original master disappeared after a technician died, and Marianna passed away as well. Years later, Tsoi’s son Alexander digitized Florensky’s copy. Florensky promised not to publish online, but the disc he was hoping for never came out. He’s been true to his word.
“I promised Tsoi’s son not to publish it online. He never released it, and I still keep my promise.”
He believes the set includes two songs Tsoi often sang live but likely never recorded properly.
Working with Kino & Aquarium
Music connected the circle to Leningrad rock. Friends like Boris Grebenshchikov and Viktor Tsoi performed at early Mitki exhibitions, and Aquarium’s Triangle album was often played at shows. Later on, Grebenshchikov started working on soundtracks for Mitki films.
Alexander Florensky took cues from Peter Blake, David Hockney, and Terry Gilliam when he created the covers for Aquarium’s 10 Arrows and Thirst. They’re improvised, playful, and deliberately rough, which is a nice change from the polished precision of Andrei Usov.
Also, Florensky painted LP-sized gouache covers for Kino, not as official commissions but as a playful gesture: let’s pretend these albums already exist as records. At the time, the idea that Melodiya would publish Kino seemed crazy—”one minute before it became thinkable.”
From Krugozor to collage animation
Florensky says that the flexi-disc magazine Krugozor was a big influence on his musical taste and visual culture. He was into the strong art direction, eclectic imagery, and steady drip of new sounds.
He says his later animation style was influenced by The Beatles’ Yellow Submarine interludes and Terry Gilliam’s cut-out work for Monty Python: collage, inserts, playful typography. In the film project Mitkimayer, typographic sequences by collaborator and wife Olga Florenskaya weren’t just titles; they were animated gags, and a plasticine vignette became a standout.
“Disney-style wasn’t right for us. The collage and inserts were”
Underground vs. outsider
Is a “real artist” always an outsider? Florensky is blunt: most 1970s underground painters would have gladly had an official studio, cheap supplies, and orders—without ideological compromise. A lot of people turned it down because they didn’t want to compromise their integrity. Others made some tactical changes, like teaching, doing minor design work, or leading children’s circles, to make ends meet while continuing to paint on their own.
“They’d have loved a studio and cheap canvases—not the compromise that came with them.”
He mentions that official landscapes could show churches, but only if the cross was cropped by the frame—like a fig leaf to avoid “religious propaganda.”
For whom he draws
He’s always been more into the approval of certain elder artists than museums, fairs, or curator circuits. Biennales and market peaks aren’t reliable measures.
“Keep the Hermitage as the horizon; don’t measure yourself by a fair that’s forgotten in a week.”
How to judge the work (and why Russians can be harsher)
He points out that there’s still a lot of local respect for foreign “properness” — like how jeans and LP records were all the rage in the 70s, but now it’s like imports are “real” and anything made at home is seen as “provincial.” That psychology still affects how Russian audiences rate DIY sleeves or rough, hand-built editions.
He didn’t often work for pay, except for friends and literary projects he was passionate about (like Dovlatov). Two official posters (a circus bill and a ballet poster) are the exceptions, though. He did those as he would for himself, not to chase a client brief.
“I never took on what I don’t love. If it pays for what I’d do for free—fine. Otherwise, no.”
On AI and tools
AI is great for things like upscaling, translation, and compression, but it’s not so hot when it comes to taste and creativity. Computers have been a part of his workflow for decades, but he doesn’t see them as replacements for the originals on paper or canvas.
“From the outside it looks like me; in spirit it isn’t me.”
Systems change; conformity remains
Curators and fairs can become a new norm—like another Union of Artists, but with a different style. The oxygen is for those who don’t adjust.
“Structures change; conformity stays. A few people refuse—and that’s where the oxygen is.”
Modern projects: Alphabets
Jerusalem’s alphabet
Alexander Florensky’s alphabet series didn’t start in his hometown of St. Petersburg, but in Jerusalem. The idea came from his friend, the poet Mikhail Korol. Korol would write a poem for each letter, and Florensky would illustrate it. Eight months later, Korol sent all 33 poems—and even bought Florensky a ticket to Jerusalem. The Jerusalem Alphabet was the start of a long-term personal project.
After that, he created the Tbilisi Alphabet while he was staying in Georgia for a while. These books were different from the usual commercial commissions because they started informally. They were just friends working together, with no contracts or publishers. Later, a patron covered the cost of the print run, and the book was published locally.
Peterburg’s alphabet
After those projects, Florensky finally returned to his hometown. The Petersburg Alphabet came out with support from Timofey Markov’s boutique press and Pulkovo Airport, which put large prints of his playful illustrations in its new terminal. That exposure led to another invitation—to create a Voronezh Alphabet.
Montenegro alphabet
Over time, the series expanded: a Montenegro Alphabet, supported by curator Marat Gelman; a New York Alphabet, developed with his Voronezh publisher; and others. Each book follows the same compact format, designed to be approachable and affordable—”like a schoolbook you can carry under your arm,” Florensky says.
Even though there are more and more cities on the list, the artist sees each city as a personal exploration. His drawings often highlight hidden corners rather than well-known landmarks: quiet courtyards in St. Petersburg, a remote bridge in Montenegro, or a forgotten street in Tbilisi. “It’s all about what I like,” he says. “If that matches a guidebook, great. If not, that’s fine too.”
Research is as important as drawing. For Montenegro, Florensky spent weeks traveling the country, guided by locals and friends, photographing, sketching, and collecting details—even down to lettering styles and local idioms. He worked exclusively in Cyrillic, keeping the script alive by preserving it in its original form, even as it slowly gives way to Latin letters.
Today, the alphabet books form a series that makes sense as a whole, with the same size and concept, but each one is still unique. “Every city is different,” Florensky says. “And every time, I discover something new—even in places I thought I knew like the back of my hand.”
Key facts
- Name: Alexander Florensky (Александр Флоренский)
- Known for: Co-founder of the “Mitki” art movement; book and album cover design; animation art direction; prolific illustrator.
- City: Leningrad / St. Petersburg
- Intersections with music: Early tape-trading of Western rock; friendships with Aquarium and Kino; private 1984-ish studio concert by Viktor Tsoi (recorded to cassette); hand-painted, LP-sized mock covers for Kino albums during perestroika.
Timeline
- Early 1970s (age ~12–16): First wave of Western music via friends’ homes and, later, his own tape recorder: The Beatles, Jesus Christ Superstar, Uriah Heep, Deep Purple, Alice Cooper; later Pink Floyd, eventually Kraftwerk. Access was mostly reel-to-reel, then compact cassettes; actual LPs were rare/expensive.
- Parallel Soviet/Russian stream: Deep impact from Vysotsky (first heard c. 1972), then Galich; also underground favorites like Arkady Severny and émigré “Russian chanson.”
- Live “near-West”: Polish and Yugoslav touring bands in Leningrad (e.g., Czerwone Gitary and others) offered one of the few legal “rock-adjacent” live experiences.
- 1983–1984: Meets the emerging Leningrad rock scene; hears a then-unknown Viktor Tsoi on tape; hosts an intimate Tsoi concert in his studio and records it to a 60-minute Soviet cassette—accidentally cutting off the last half-hour.
- Late 1980s: Paints full-size, LP-format Kino cover “prototypes” (gouache), as if their albums already existed on vinyl—equal parts fandom and joke about the still-impossible idea of Melodiya issuing them.
- 1990s–2000s: Animation and book design; collage-driven style aligned with Yellow Submarine interludes and Terry Gilliam’s Monty Python cut-outs.
© 2025 Artur Netsvetaev, interview with Alexander Florensky.
© 2016, Openmonte.com
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