So I just got back from lunch at Schlotzsky’s. If you’re not familiar with it, it’s a deli chain–they make sandwiches and pizzas on sourdough crust, that kind of thing. Very tasty. I don’t eat there nearly often enough.
Anyway, the Schlotzsky’s near my office has a huge mural on the wall over the cash registers, which pretty much dominates the internal decor. It’s quite a piece of work, though I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.
The style of the piece might best be described as “Stalin-era Soviet Russia mets American Dustbowl.” I apologize for the quality of these snaps; I took ’em on my camera phone. The more I look at this mural, the weirder it gets.
It has that kind of flat color scheme and weird perspective of the old Cold War-era Soviet propaganda, but with a few odd little twists that just kind of make my head go all asplodey-like. Take the woman selling vegetables, for example:
Doesn’t look too happy, does she?
“Things just haven’t been the same since my husband died of gout. That was in…let’s see, must have been the summer of ’02 or ’03. I’ve been chipping out a life for myself since then by selling vegetables I raise out back behind the shed, and turning tricks in town for fifty cents. Most times, the only thing that gets me through the day is quiet thoughts of suicide. My husband left a .12-gauge in the shed; it’s a little rusty, but it might still do the job. But then, who would feed the kids? Screaming little brats they are, and they eat me out of house and home. I could give them to my sister, before I do the deed, but you know, she just hasn’t been the same since Bobby went to jail. What? Oh, yes, three cents.”
Now the baker, on the other hand:
“I bake bread! Good bread, for strong people! My bread feeds workers in glorious Worker’s Paradise! Much bread, for day of Soviet triumph!”
Except that, y’know, his eyes are closed. He still sees images of his father, up against the wall, cut down in a hail of gunfire after the Revolution. But it had to be done; all the bourgeoise stock brokers getting fat off the backs of the proletariat needed to be swept aside to give way for glorious worker’s paradise. He still remembers the family mansion in the country, and when he returns home every evening to his cubicle in worker’s dormitory #137, he stares at the blank wall and sobs…
There could be a more reasonable explanation.
This is definitely in the Soviet Workers of the World Unite style, right? Where the participants engage in the individual fruits of their glorious labor to collectively throw off the shackles of capitalism?
What shame must be roaring through their proletariat heads, then, to be charging money for their wares! Those price placards are an indictment of their retrograde complicity in oppressing their brothers and sisters! I, too, would act mournfully and close my eyes! And so should you!
There could be a more reasonable explanation.
This is definitely in the Soviet Workers of the World Unite style, right? Where the participants engage in the individual fruits of their glorious labor to collectively throw off the shackles of capitalism?
What shame must be roaring through their proletariat heads, then, to be charging money for their wares! Those price placards are an indictment of their retrograde complicity in oppressing their brothers and sisters! I, too, would act mournfully and close my eyes! And so should you!
It looks like they’ve identified their consumers as the office-drone-lunch-line crowd. Hehe.
It looks like they’ve identified their consumers as the office-drone-lunch-line crowd. Hehe.
The Workers of the Five Year Plan approve this mural.
The Workers of the Five Year Plan approve this mural.
She also appears to be wearing a flesh toned dress. To help her, you know, turn tricks. Makes her look already naked.
She also appears to be wearing a flesh toned dress. To help her, you know, turn tricks. Makes her look already naked.
:::laughs and laughs:::
Made my day, says the person labelled as a Trot at 15…
:::laughs and laughs:::
Made my day, says the person labelled as a Trot at 15…
Hmm. Socialist realism hiding in Atlanta? I never knew.
The Commies are invading!!! *flails* ^.^
Hmm. Socialist realism hiding in Atlanta? I never knew.
The Commies are invading!!! *flails* ^.^
Your commentary on the mural is full of win. There is a Schlotzsky’s up the street from me (that I have never been in) and I am now very tempted to go see if they, too, have such a mural.
Your commentary on the mural is full of win. There is a Schlotzsky’s up the street from me (that I have never been in) and I am now very tempted to go see if they, too, have such a mural.
This is probably because I’m something of a 20th-century art buff, but to me it looks less like pseudo-Soviet-propaganda and more like pseudo-Diego-Rivera. Of course, however, the historical facts will reflect that there was a fair amount of crossover between those two (like his refusal to take Lenin’s face out of the mural he painted in the lobby of the Rockefeller building, which ultimately led to it being destroyed).
This is probably because I’m something of a 20th-century art buff, but to me it looks less like pseudo-Soviet-propaganda and more like pseudo-Diego-Rivera. Of course, however, the historical facts will reflect that there was a fair amount of crossover between those two (like his refusal to take Lenin’s face out of the mural he painted in the lobby of the Rockefeller building, which ultimately led to it being destroyed).
This has added another element to my enjoyment of the Schlotzky’s experience 🙂
This has added another element to my enjoyment of the Schlotzky’s experience 🙂
For the record, that’s not an oven. It’s a bread forge.
Also, if you look closely you’ll realize that the woman is actually topless but those aren’t her original arms. Her original arms were crushed by the train on which she tried to stow away during her unsuccessful attempt to escape the country during the Great Purge of ’04. Her current arms are all that remains of her younger sister, who was otherwise disintegrated by a land mine that same day. The doctors from the medical ministry noticed that they were a size too small, but the Kommisar had them attach them anyway. They work well enough, but she can’t bring herself to masturbate with them.
For the record, that’s not an oven. It’s a bread forge.
Also, if you look closely you’ll realize that the woman is actually topless but those aren’t her original arms. Her original arms were crushed by the train on which she tried to stow away during her unsuccessful attempt to escape the country during the Great Purge of ’04. Her current arms are all that remains of her younger sister, who was otherwise disintegrated by a land mine that same day. The doctors from the medical ministry noticed that they were a size too small, but the Kommisar had them attach them anyway. They work well enough, but she can’t bring herself to masturbate with them.
errr.. maybe I am a perv…
whoa on the blatant sexual imagery in that mural..someone hasn’t gotten laid in a while and has a thing for boobies.. *grins*
The cabbage in her basket has a nipple..and whats with the two large latex covered boobies in the cart?? Maybe they are blown up condoms. I remain undecided.
The homoerotic imagery of shoving that big scoopy thing in the oven just cant be disputed. And all those phallic shaped bread loaves???
*goes back to writing her perv diary*
Re: errr.. maybe I am a perv…
When looked at that way, he seems to be shoving four phalluses simultaneously into the gaping chasm…
errr.. maybe I am a perv…
whoa on the blatant sexual imagery in that mural..someone hasn’t gotten laid in a while and has a thing for boobies.. *grins*
The cabbage in her basket has a nipple..and whats with the two large latex covered boobies in the cart?? Maybe they are blown up condoms. I remain undecided.
The homoerotic imagery of shoving that big scoopy thing in the oven just cant be disputed. And all those phallic shaped bread loaves???
*goes back to writing her perv diary*
Re: errr.. maybe I am a perv…
When looked at that way, he seems to be shoving four phalluses simultaneously into the gaping chasm…