The Heart and Hearth of Wooden Toys

Most phenomena in Russian rural life have legends of some kind attached to their origins. In the case of the craft of wooden toy carving in the little Russian town of Bogorodskoye, there are two.

The first goes like this:

The land around Bogorodskoye rarely produced rich harvests, but Bogorodskoye villagers continued stubbornly to eke out a living as farmers. One day a family made the regular trek to nearby Sergiyev Posad to sell their meager produce in the square in front of the monastery. At their wagon, their children played with wooden toys made by their father. To the family's surprise, local merchants passed up the fruit and bought the toys. Seeing that the toys were selling better than the food, the father wisely left farming and took up carving.

The second legend, a favorite of woman carvers, involves a mother who was trying to pacify her bored daughter. The little girl was sobbing that she had nothing to play with. Finally the exasperated mother picked up a piece of firewood and roughed out a doll, wrapped it in a cloth and gave it to her. The girl happily played and played with the doll, but then one day threw it away. Later the father was to go to the market with his produce, but he had little to offer. The woman picked up the discarded toy and told him to sell it. To the farmer's surprise, a merchant quickly bought the doll, saying he would gladly buy more. So the husband came home and told his wife to carve more dolls.

There is probably some truth in these legends. One thing researchers confirm: village carvers have been whittling and selling toys since the 16th century.

Russians say that Bogorodskoye (pop. 9100), formerly known as Medvezhy Ugol (Bears' Haunt) because of its location in thick woods, is the heart of wood carving in this country. Villagers boast that Peter the Great played with wooden soldiers made in Bogorodskoye, while his son preferred toy blacksmiths.

Toys produced by Bogorodskoye craftsmen in the first half of the 19th century are considered classics of Russian folk art.

During this period, Bogorodskoye carvers began to refuse the services of Sergiyev Posad dyers, who traditionally painted the rougher, or Ôgray' quality toys, as the toy makers became more enamored of the warmth of perfectly carved undyed or Ôwhite' wood.

Alexander Drozdov, director of the School of Wood Carving in Bogorodskoye, believes wood should not be painted or turned by machine. "Wood is a warm material which is adapted to the soul of the person who is carving. If it isn't made by hand, it won't breathe," he said.

Toys by Bogorodskoye carvers were so popular by the turn of the century that, in 1913, the governor of Vladimir organized the first known Bogorodskoye artel, or cooperative association of craftsmen.

  "In the first wood carvers' society, there was so much demand that a person could build a whole house after one year of work," explained toy carver Lyudmila Zhuravlyova. "They worked so hard making toys and decorative carving for houses that the women would have to carry food out to them."

Even after the Bolshevik revolution, the toy carvers remained at the top of their profession. In fact, toy making in Russia was given a boost in 1918 when a toy museum was founded in Sergiyev Posad by the People's Commissariat for Education at the urging of Nikolai Bartram, who became its first director.

Bartram, a lively man who mingled easily with the Russian folk artists, soon developed an exceptional toy collection, which can still be seen at the museum.

In the 1930s, the central government decided they wanted to modernize toy production in Bogorodskoye. A toy factory employing up to 200 carvers was built in the village.

Then, in the 1960s, a new building for the wood carving school was built to replace the one founded in 1918. It looked like the toy industry in Bogorodskoye was enjoying another boom.

In retrospect, the craftsmen say, it seems this was the beginning of the end for Bogorodskoye.

Carvers were encouraged to copy characters from fairy tales or from cheap popular prints rather than come up with original ideas.  Favorite Russian themes were standardized and reduced to thousands of copies of cheap plank toys churned out by the factory.

"Swiss masters were brought in to teach Russian masters the art of wood carving," snorted Drozdov. "It was such a paradox."

While Russian originality was nearly smothered by the attention from the Soviet government, it soon became tattered by neglect. In the 1970s the government decided to build an electric power plant in Bogorodskoye, saying the village would be rebuilt when the plant was completed.

Fourteen-story apartment complexes to house the workers were built practically on top of the village, and old handcrafted homes were torn down to make room for “progress.” Some Bogorodskoye residents eagerly left their old homes for the comfort of the high rises, others were forcibly evicted as their homes were demolished.

"They deceived us," said Zhuravlyova. "The officials told us they would restore our village."

According to Zhuravlyova, the money given to each resident for compensation or restoration was used to buy carpets and furnishings for the new apartments.

What is more, carvers found they couldn't carve in the new apartments. When they chopped their logs into triangles for carving, neighbors would complain about the noise. There was no place to store the linden wood for seasoning. And slowly the pool of carvers trained by fathers and grandfathers dried up, as children rejected the trade for better paying work in the new electrical plant.

At the toy factory, morale hit rock bottom and the social welfare of workers was ignored. Vladimir Torunov , a factory supervisor for 10 years, claims the central government wouldn't respond to complaints from the workers.

"The materials were poor and often supplies were scarce, because money was directed to other crafts that made more money," he explained.

The profession of toy carving was scorned.

"Mothers would tell their children that if they weren't good, they'd be sent to wood carving school," said Zhuravlyova.

"If it wasn't for perestroika," she continued, pointing at the decaying apartment buildings that loom over the huddle of wooden houses, "they would have torn down the last of our village to build more of those."

Seemingly just in time, Bogorodskoye carvers are regrouping in the new Russian marketplace. Village residents paid the electric plant officials 15 million rubles to ensure that the remnants of their town remained intact. The Bogorodskoye wood carving school is overflowing with students, carving societies are forming and the factory is flourishing.

The current generation of Bogorodskoye craftsmen is an ethnic melting pot. Only 10 of the society members can trace their roots to village carvers. The rest are graduates of the wood carving school or those brought in from around the former Soviet Union by the electric plant and who have drifted to the craft on their own.

Their toys have taken on a new complexity. Larger, more elaborate movable toys are in vogue with western buyers. Witty scenes of family moments, marketplaces, or monastery life are replacing scenes from Pushkin’s fairy tales.

  "Now there will be a future for our children," said Zhuravlyova. She has a son and daughter in the trade, of which the former started carving when he was just four.

"First he was carving his eyebrows," she laughed, "then his fingers. Now he is finally carving wood."

After a long hiatus, Bogorodskoye children are taking pride in their parent's historic trade and parents are once again looking to their families for inspiration.

The heart of Bogorodskoye is beating again.