Dau Project

Dau 1

An interesting question for the narrative environment designer is: to what extent was the Dau project, enacted in 2009-2011, and reiterated in 2019, a narrative environment? It also raises, obliquely, the question of the boundaries between (voluntary) ‘participation’ and ‘subjection’ particularly, as in this case, in a fictional reconstruction of an oppressive regime where the participants enact the subjection in a recursive cycle.

The Dau project brought into existence a fictional world that sought, as an experimental art piece, to blur the distinctions between art and life. The project was initially conceived by the Russian film director Ilya Khrzhanovsky in Moscow in 2005 as a film about the Soviet physicist Lev Landau. The project title, Dau, is an abbreviation of Landau’s surname. However, what was initially conceived as a biographical portrait of a physicist transformed into a ‘staged reality experience’ when Khrzhanovsky decided  that Landau’s life story was too large and potent to be confined to a conventional narrative.

In 2009, Khrzhanovsky built a huge sealed set in the northeastern Ukrainian city of Kharkiv, where Landau worked and taught in the 1930s. The film’s set, which became a cult of historical verisimilitude, was known locally as ‘the Institute’. It was built in Kharkiv’s derelict outdoor swimming pool complex, which offered a natural courtyard surrounded by low Stalin-era buildings.

In the process, the constructed environment became less a film set than a parallel world. It functioned as a mini-state, trapped in the period 1938-1968, sealed off from the contemporary world outside it. This world was populated with hundreds participants, some actors, some non-actors, some celebrities, some scientists, who lived as faithfully as possible as Soviet citizens of the time. The obsessive drive for period authenticity went into such details as clothes, hairstyles, food packaging, cigarette brands, and so on. As well was having a spatial existence, time also moved forwards inside Dau’s world. As it passed from 1938 to 1968, the period detail was continually updated (Rose, 2019). 

Dau 2

James Meek (2015) summarises concisely the events of this ‘staged reality’, “For more than two years, between 2009 and 2011, hundreds of volunteers, few of them professional actors, were filmed living, sleeping, eating, gossiping, working, loving, betraying each other and being punished in character, in costume, with nothing by way of a script, on the Kharkiv set, their clothes and possessions altered, fake decade by fake decade, to represent the privileged, cloistered life of the Soviet scientific elite between 1938 and 1968.”

The strangest aspect of this project was that only a tiny proportion of this daily living was actually filmed. It was not like a giant Big Brother house. There were no hidden cameras. A single cinematographer, Jürgen Jürges, roamed the set with a three-person crew. Between 2009 and 2011, he filmed 700 hours of footage, a very small amount, considering the two-year duration of the “experiment”. The rest of the time, people went about their Soviet business, unobserved.

Some of the nature of Dau’s realism or verisimilitude can be gleaned from the casting. Dau’s man-child son is played by Nikolay Voronov, who turns out to be a Ukrainian YouTube star. Sasha and Valera, two gay lovers in the Dau world, were formerly homeless people. The mother of Nora, Landau’s wife, is played by Lidiya who is the real-life mother of the Russian actor, Radmila Shchyogoleva, who plays Nora.

As expressed by, Teodor Currentzis, one of the points of participating in this experiment is how to be yourself and yet not to be yourself at the same time. You are in an environment that you know is a game, but it does not work if you are not also yourself. Indeed, so successful was this ‘immersion’, this double articulation of one’s game-participant self and one’s ‘real self, that when leaving the world of Dau and re-entering the outside world, the participants felt it was like visiting another time. The real world became like a stage or film set to them.

The Dau experiment in Kharkiv ended definitively in November 2011, when Khrzhanovsky ordered the destruction of the Institute. According to a report in Kommersant, the director hired a group of real-life Russian neo-Nazis to storm the set, destroy it and performatively enact a massacre of its staff.

Dau 3

From the seven hundred hours of footage shot in Kharkiv of the myriad threads of an ultra-elaborate artistic experiment, editors in London were said to be fashioning a dozen or more movies, a television series, and a user-directed internet narrative system. Finally, in October 2018, the film, DAU Freiheit, or DAU Freedom, is to be shown to the public for the first time at an art installation in Berlin.

However, it may be that , as James Meek concludes, “the significance of a representative spectacle was, perhaps, most fully realised in the emotions of those who enacted it, rather than those who will merely witness its two-dimensional, unscented, intangible afterglow on a flat screen”, which raises the issue of the different kinds of ‘immersion’ that are possible for narrative environments, immersion in a cinema diegese and narrative being different from that of theatre and theatre being different from that of a ‘staged reality experience’.

To rekindle that degree of significance for the visitor to the installation, Mark Brown reports that a large section of the Berlin Wall will be rebuilt on Unter den Linden boulevard, creating a walled-in city within a city. Before entering this city, visitors will have to buy ‘visas’ online and hand over their phones. The project will end with a ritualistic tearing down of the wall on 9 November 2018, exactly 29 years after the event in 1989.

A report on the project by Alina Simone can be heard here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wWwf_uvcsCk

A review of the Parisian version of the Dau project, which opens in early 2019, can be seen below from the programme Encore


Brown, M. (2018). Stalinist Truman Show: artist paid 400 people to live as Soviet citizens. Guardian, 1 September. Available from https://www.theguardian.com/world/2018/aug/31/stalinist-truman-show-artist-paid-400-people-to-live-as-soviet-citizens [Accessed 2 September 2018].

Meek, J. (2015). Diary. London Review of Books, 37 (19), 42-43. Available from https://www.lrb.co.uk/v37/n19/james-meek/diary [Accessed 2 September 2018].

Rose, S. (2019). Inside Dau, the ‘Stalinist Truman Show’: ‘I had absolute freedom – until the KGB grabbed me’. Guardian, 26 January. Available from https://www.theguardian.com/film/2019/jan/26/inside-the-stalinist-truman-show-dau-i-had-absolute-freedom-until-the-kgb-grabbed-me [Accessed 27 January 2019].

edited 28 January, 2019 by Allan Parsons

Associated Terms

Lepage Realism

Jules Bastien-Lepage, October, 1878, National Gallery of Victoria


What does it mean to ask whether a particular narrative environment is ‘realistic’? How meaningful is the question of ‘realism’ for narrative environment design? Is it an important question, or one that is more important for works of art, whether literary, visual or audiovisual?

It is suggested that, while not directly relevant as an aesthetic, semiotic or representational judgment, the question of ‘realism’ is important for the narrative environment designer because it also implicitly raises the questions of ’reality’, that which is being represented, and, by implication, the question of the ‘subject’ (actant or interpretant), for whom the ‘work’ establishes a relationship between that which is ‘realistic’ and that which is ‘real’ and, furthermore, that which is ‘fictional’ and that which is ‘factual’. It is further suggested that understanding the complex relationships among these four terms, ‘realistic’, ‘reality’, ‘fictional’ and ‘factual’, is vital for understanding how the ‘real’ is constituted and experienced.

One important reason for considering ‘realism’ for narrative environment design, then, especially in its ‘deformed’ or ‘neo-‘ forms, is the nature of the (human) ’subject’, (or, more broadly, in a post-humanist and ‘augmented reality’ digital environment, the ‘persona’, or ’actant’) that is implied, especially in terms of how its bodily capacities are implicated in relationship to the ‘work’, which determines the nature of the participatory action required of the (human or other) ’subject’ (interpretant, actant). In terms of participation, then, the implied ’subject’ of a conventional work of ‘realism’ is of the nature of a reader, viewer, spectator or auditor, that is, focused primarily on ‘the eye’ with responses that are primarily intellectual. The sensory range is curtailed, excluding the other sense-organs, and the interpretive range is restricted, to cognitive understanding, issues which Juhani Pallasmaaa (2005, 2009) discusses in the context of architectural design.

In short, ‘realism’ is not a primary issue for the narrative environment designer. However, the issue of ‘reality’ is a key concern for the designer. So is the relationship established to an implied/addressed ‘subject’, through whatever degree of participation is called upon, between the narrative environment and the ‘reality’ that the designer is seeking to evoke and critique. It should be noted that this assumes that the primary aim of a narrative environment design is not simply to describe, show or represent a reality, but to take up an active, practical, critical relationship to a specific definable (social or social-material) ’reality’. While those artefacts deemed to be works of ‘realism’, for example, in the late 19th century may have been ‘critical’ of the ‘reality’ they were representing, the implied subject received that critique as a reader of a literary text or as a  viewer of a pictorial text, in short, as a spectator of that ‘reality’ not as an active participant in that ‘reality’. For the participant (actant) in a narrative environment, while it may the world of an other that is being enacted (their world), it is presented in such a way that ‘you’, the participant (actant) is implicated, so that ‘your world’ is put into relation with ‘their world’ in a practical dialogue.

It is, therefore, not so much the techniques of ‘realism’ that are of primary interest or value to the narrative environment designer, but their purpose: to highlight in a critical manner, to establish a critical relationship to, a represented, enacted ‘reality’. It has to be said, in case there are any misunderstandings at this point, that ‘reality’ itself is always in question, realised as emergence through a plurality (Arendt, 1990) of distinct standpoints and viewpoints inter-acting while seeking to establish the (symbolic, rational) ‘reality principles’ (Brown, 2015, 2018; Parsons, 2018) among themselves.

Because narrative environments are ‘designs’ more than they are ‘works of art’, they are not simply works of representation, realistic or otherwise. They take place in ‘the real’, and (re-)enact the real, nevertheless their ‘reality’ is a ‘mixed reality’ (both realistic and real, both fictional and factual) and they are often perceived in terms and frames that have been characterised in various past ‘realistic’ modes of art and other media forms such as journalism and news broadcasting. It is therefore valuable to consider the meanings that attach to the term ‘realism’ and its relationship to ‘reality’.

Realism in Jakobson: Summary

Although one should bear in mind, as Nelson Goodman cautions, that, “Realism, like reality, is multiple and evanescent, and no one account of it will do.” (Goodman, 1983: 272) [1], nevertheless, in discussing ‘realism’, a good place to start is the work of Roman Jakobson (1987), who differentiates among five different meanings of the word ‘realism’:

A. Realism as the intention of the author/creator/maker, who conceives the text as realistic;

B. Realism as the reception of the text, i.e. the reader/spectator/auditor perceives the text as realistic;

C. Realism as literature and painting characteristic of the realistic movement(s) of the nineteenth century, literary realism and realism in painting [2];

D. Realism as any number of literary, painterly, theatrical, photographic or cinematographic techniques and devices which lend a sense of the real to a text, image, cinematic, televisual, videographic or theatrical production;

E. Realism as the consistent motivation and realisation of poetic devices, for example, in the poetic (‘more accurate’) rendering of a delirious experiential state (experiential realism)

For Jakobson (1987: 13), realism does not represent the extra-literary or extra-artistic world as it really is. Rather, it follows certain rules whose goal is to create a particular illusion or impression of reality.

Realism in Jakobson: Narration

Realism, as Roman Jakobson (1987) defines it, is “an artistic trend which aims at conveying reality as closely as possible and strives” for maximum verisimilitude. We call realistic those works which we feel accurately depict life by displaying verisimilitude.”

Jakobson points out that this immediately faces us with a dilemma. Realism may be taken to refer to the aspiration and intent of the author, i.e. it is conceived by its author as a display of verisimilitude (meaning A). It is conceived as intending to be true to life. Alternatively, a work may be called realistic if the person judging it perceives it as being true to life (meaning B).

In the first case, we evaluate on an intrinsic basis, in terms of the (literary or other artistic) conventions used (the diegesic universe, in Souriau’s phrase), the structure and rhetoric of the work. In the second case, the reader’s individual impression is the decisive criterion (the imaginary world constructed by the reader/spectator/auditor ‘measured’ against or compared with/contrasted with the symbolic world the reader/spectator/auditor inhabits), reception and interpretation of the work.

Jakobson considers that these two distinct meanings have been irredeemably confounded in the history art, such that the question of whether a given work is realistic or not is covertly reduced to the question of what attitude the reader/spectator/auditor takes toward it.

This has led, Jakobson argues, to the emergence of a third meaning. He points out that classicists, sentimentalists, the romanticists (to an extent), even

the “realists” of the nineteenth century, the modernists to a large degree, and finally the futurists, expressionists, and their like, have all proclaimed faithfulness to reality, maximum verisimilitude, in other words, realism, as the guiding motto of their artistic programme.

In the 19th century, this motto gave rise to an artistic movement. It was primarily the late copiers of that trend, Jakobson argues, who outlined the history of art (as recognised at the time of Jakobson’s writing in 1921), in particular, the history of literature. Hence one specific case, one separate artistic movement, was identified as the ultimate manifestation of realism in art and was made the standard by which to measure the degree of realism in preceding and succeeding artistic movements.

Thus, a new covert identification has occurred, a third meaning of the word “realism” has crept in (meaning C), one which comprehends the sum total of the features characteristic of one specific artistic current of the nineteenth century. For literary and art historians in the early 20th century the realistic works of the 19th century represent the highest degree of verisimilitude, the maximum faithfulness to life.

As the conventions of a particular moment in art and literary history come to be equated with realism (meaning C), the definition of realism as the artistic intent to render life as it is (meaning A) becomes subject to ambiguity: realism can be taken as the tendency to deform the given artistic norms that are conceived as an approximation of reality (meaning A 1); or as the tendency to conform to the conventions of a given artistic tradition, one conservatively conceived as faithfulness to reality (meaning A 2).

Taking this ambiguity into account, and applying it in the context of meaning B, which presupposes that my subjective evaluation will pronounce a given artistic fact faithful to reality, meaning B 1 emerges when I rebel against a given artistic code and view its deformation as a more accurate rendition of reality; while meaning  B 2 emerges when I am conservative and view the deformation of the artistic code to which I subscribe as a distortion of reality.

The concrete content of A 1, A 2, B 1 and B 2 is extremely relative, Jakobson notes.

Thus, new realist artists (in the sense of A 1) were compelled to call themselves neo-realists, realists in a higher sense of the word, or naturalists, and they drew a line between quasi- or pseudo-realism (meaning C) and what they conceived to be genuine realism, that is, as borne out in their own work.

‘’I am a realist, but only in the higher sense of the word”, Dostoevski claimed, while almost identical declarations have been made in turn by the Symbolists, by Italian and Russian Futurists, by German Expressionists, and so on.” (Jakobson, 1987: 24)

Progressive realism can be characterised in terms of unessential details. One such device, Jakobson argues, is the condensation of the narrative by means of images based on contiguity, that is, avoidance of the normal designative term in favour of metonymy or synecdoche, a condensation which is realised either in spite of the plot or by eliminating the plot entirely. For example, when describing Anna’s suicide, Tolstoj primarily writes about her handbag. Such an unessential detail would have made no sense to Karamzin, although Karamzin’s own tale, in comparison with the 18th-century adventure novel, would likewise seem but a series of unessential details [3]. Since such a device is frequently thought to be realistic, i.e. lifelike in the sense that life does not follow a narrow narrative path but is full of irrelevant (from the perspective of story) personas and events, this gives rise to meaning D, stressing that D is often found within C.

This desire to conceal the answer, this deliberate effort to delay recognition, brings out a new feature, the newly improvised epithet (added quality). Thus, a strange term may be foisted on an object or asserted as a particular aspect of it. Negative parallelism explicitly rejects metaphorical substitution for its proper term: “I am not a tree, I am a woman,” says the girl in a poem by the Czech poet Sramek. This literary construction can be justified; from a special narrative feature, it can become a detail of plot development.

From time to time, the consistent motivation and justification of poetic constructions have also been called realism. Thus, the Czech novelist Capek-Chod in his tale, “The Westernmost Slav” somewhat disingenuously calls the first chapter, in which a ”romantic” fantasy is motivated by typhoid delirium, a “realistic” chapter. Jakobson calls such realism meaning E. That is, it is a mode of ‘realism’ in which the requirement of consistent motivation and realisation of poetic devices is met. Meaning E is often confused with C, B and so on.


[1] Similarly, Kirstin Sørensen comments that there are three perceptions of literary realism that predominate. All of them have been considered, and sometimes still are considered, to define literary realism, but all of which ultimately do a disservice to the genre and its appreciation. They are realism as a period phenomenon, that is, the realistic literature of the 19th century; realism as maximum accuracy in the representation of reality; and realism as maximum verisimilitude to the real (appearance of the real).

[2] In literature, this includes the work of Honoré de Balzac in France, George Eliot in England, and William Dean Howells in America. In painting, this includes the work of French artists Gustave Courbet, such as, for example, ‘The Stonebreakers’ of1850, Honoré Daumier, and Jean François Millet as well as such US artists as William Sidney Mount, Thomas Eakins and (although a little later in the early 20th century) the Ashcan school. According to literary history, realist literature is was produced in Europe and the USA from the1840s to the 1890s, when realism was superseded by naturalism.

[3] As Jakobson (1987: 25) explains, “If the hero of an eighteenth-century adventure novel encounters a passer-by, it may be taken for granted that the latter is of importance either to the hero or, at least, to the plot. But it is obligatory in Gogol or Tolstoj or Dostoevskij that the hero first meet an unimportant and (from the point of view of the story) superfluous passer-by, and that their resulting conversation should have no bearing on the story.”


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Jakobson, R. (1987). Language in literature, edited by K. Pomorska and  S. Rudy. Cambridge, MA: Bellknap Press.

Pallasmaa, J. (2005). The eyes of the skin: architecture and the senses. Chichester, UK: Wiley.

Pallasmaa, J. (2009). The thinking hand: existential and embodied wisdom in architecture. Chichester, UK: Wiley.

Parsons, A. (2018). Neoliberalism’s “reality principles”. Poiesis and Prolepsis [Blog]. Available from http://prolepsis-ap.blogspot.com/2018/01/neoliberalisms-reality-principles.html [Accessed 9 September 2018].

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edited 10 October, 2018 by Allan Parsons

It could be argued that a narrative environment forms a ‘world’. What does this mean? The writer who perhaps best explains this in a way useful for the design of narrative environments is Jean-Luc Nancy. Nancy (2007) argues that two senses of the ‘world’ are generally conflated:  the world as the givenness of all that exists; and  the world as a globality of sense, a meaningful whole.

The former sense of ‘world’ is the sum total of things in existence, as in the phrase ‘everything in the world’. The latter, however, is a totality of meaning. For example, one can speak of Debussy’s world’, a Kafkaesque world or the world of James Joyce’s Ulysses. In such cases, one grasps that one is speaking of a totality, to which a certain meaningful content or a certain value system properly belongs. This relates closely to ‘the world of the story’ or to the notion of diégèse in Souriau’s and Genette’s sense.

A world in this latter sense means a meaningful, shared context. Worldhood here implies “an ethos, a habitus and an inhabiting” (Nancy, 2007, 42). Madden (2012) explains that a group of people who hold anything in common, living in proximity, or sharing vulnerability to disease, for example, can be said to be part of the same world in the first sense. However, in order to qualify as sharing a world in the second sense, they need to be able to form this aggregate world into something more sensible or inhabitable, to be able to communicate dialogically, for example, or to cooperatively transform the conditions of their coexistence (Madden, 2012, 775).

While narrative environment design is firstly concerned to create a world that has its own consistency and integrity, both narratively and environmentally, a second level of concern is that of the relationship between the world of the narrative environment and the lifeworld, which is of a critical and dialogic character. The encounter between the world of the narrative environment and the lifeworld takes place in the imaginary storyworld that the participant constructs through interaction with the narrative environment. This is to acknowledge the major and minor, and dominant and subordinate, narratives in play in ordering lifeworlds, even though the lifeworld as a lived experience does not simply follow a narrative structure. In other words, the historio-spatiality of the lifeworld is not reducible to a single homogeneous, explanatory narrative structure.


Madden, D.J. (2012). City becoming world: Nancy, Lefebvre, and the global-urban Imagination. Environment and Planning D: Society and Space, 30 (5), 772–787. Available from http://journals.sagepub.com/doi/10.1068/d17310 [Accessed 11 May 2019].

Nancy, J.-L. (2007). The creation of the world, or, Globalization. Albany. NY: State University of New York Press.

edited 13 July, 2019 by Allan Parsons