So Ugly It's....Awesome

Heroes of Soviet Labor,

Takaia gadost’; when something is so ugly it takes your breath away, you wish not for a small, modest, tasteful bit of tameness in its place. If it must be bad, make it awful. Make it so hideous, so over-the-top, so continuous, so repetitive that it overwhelms, and you can bathe in the ugliness, be absorbed by it. Why get a drop of cold water on the back when you can do a cannonball in the ice bath? Why settle for a little bit of pretty good, when you can have a whole ocean of bad?

Such was my pleasant discovery not long ago at the Tsereteli Museum.

For those of you in the know, Zurab Tsereteli is the pet architect of the now deposed Moscow mayor, Yuri Luzhkov. He is in his 70s, has workshops all over Moscow, designed the Peter the Great sculpture that arises like a giant Vegas pool monument out of the Moscow river, and he designed the Tear of Sorrow monument that New York re-gifted to Hoboken after September 11. He is also prodigious, and clearly a genius in his own awful way.

My friend Ida introduced me to his museum (which costs several times more than the Tretiakov) and as we went up the first marble staircase two men came down, one a round little man bursting with life and white hair, dressed in a dapper gray suit and a colorful tie and scarf. He nodded to us as if saying, “can you tell how big a deal it is that I’m nodding at you?” Sure enough, as she later reported, that was Zurab, in the flesh. I was truly blessed.

He has hall upon hall upon hall of completed sculptures, never realized plans (thank God) and hundreds of paintings. We learned he paints at least one painting a day (some of them quite nice; very colorful depictions of all sorts of people, including some stereotypic images of “Old Jews.”) Such overwhelming supplies of crap! So much to think about:

You begin to pick apart each work, piece by piece, trying to analyze where it went astray. Is it in the carrying out of the thing? The technical skill? Is it the overall composition, the aggressive literality of the vision? “Russia saving Europe” is a large tilting helix of architectural forms stacked one over the other, with Russian churches supporting the Colosseum, Notre Dame, Big Ben, etc, etc.

There is Shostakovich, surrounded by large, fawning human hands. There is a large than life family “portrait” of statues of Nicholas II and his family before their murder. A Putin statue in judo outfit. Also literally ever significant figure of Russian and global culture, including Mother Theresa.

But my favorite? The huge apple in the massive central courtyard. It’s 30 feet high, solid bronze. And it’s hollow! Inside you walk and see a nude Adam and Eve holding hands staring around them at the curving walls in wonder. There, in bas relief are a baccanalia of sex acts; various positions; various participants; humans, animals. Unfortunately photographs of the interior are strictly forbidden, likely because the museum officials themselves are embarrassed to let word of the thing get out.

Oh dear friends, if you have time for only one Moscow museum, make it this one.

On a somewhat disjointed note:

It’s getting to look a lot like New Years. It’s getting frigid again, and snow is falling steadily, a little each day. Nothing too major, but in a steady way as if winter is reminding us, “dear citizens of the city, I’m coming. Rest now, walk swiftly to your destination, but rest assured, I have more of this snow on the way, any day now, I’m just gonna dump it. Until then….”

I’ve come to realize that snow removal, like the metro, is something Russians do well. Not just well by Russian standards, but world standards, mind you. I’ve attached a clip. It’s amazing to watch the efficiency between the hours of 1am and 4am, when the back streets are plowed, bringing snow to the main streets, where Bobcats (you know, the heavy equipment lifter) lift it onto the backs of truck who drive it straight of town. Sort of how they clean trash at Michigan Stadium, from rows into the stairways. It’s amazing; efficient; cold.

It’s 2/3 of a metaphor for Russia.

Meanwhile, New Years trees are up all over town. Although bearing a strong resemblance to Christmas trees in basic form, they are completely different. First off, every one I’ve seen is fake. They’re all about color, brashness, and flash. Not a whole lot of Christ child and humility and manger scenes and quiet families appreciating one another thinking of the less fortunate and taking out old ornaments that remind them of relatives and yesteryear. This seems to be all about proving electricity consumption. And in that sense they more than hit their mark. They are awesome.

Next update: the Soviet video game museum; roommate’s amazing play; Charles’ reflections on listening to Phish while riding the metro at rush hour.

Mermen

Estimable colleagues and invited guests to the capital,

When we left off, Jared and I were walking through the deserted boulevards early in the morning, the mermaids had all swum away, and the city had descended into its peak of quiet before beginning another busy day.

Again, we slept through half of daylight as jet lag finally caught and overtook Jared. Eventually we roused ourselves and headed off to VDNKh, the old Soviet industry and agricultural exhibition center (i.e. where they bragged about wheat production and have a nice fountain of women of all 15 republics in “national dress” to show the Druzhba Narodov).

We discovered that the newly restored Cosmos museum is downright awesome. Several years in the works, nary a babushka in sight; no cold, unlit corners; no unpolished parquet. It was a real live modern museum experience with dramatic lighting, useful displays, and a dynamic children’s tour that was met with excitement by a group of giggling 8 year olds. Highlights: Strelka and Belka, Soviet space dogs, stuffed and upright and waiting for their next assignment; tons of actual space-weary satellites that looked like first generation kitchen toasters, you wondered how they made it through the atmosphere; ancient spacesuits that looked like onesy pajamas; and my personal favorite, the cosmonauts mission sweatsuits, made of bright turquoise and reds; polyester with disco collars, bedecked with patches boasting of Soviet-Afghan friendship and the Soviet space program. I was crestfallen that they didn’t make retro sweatsuits for the gift shop. Mark my words, friends, they will be all the rage in two years’ time.

We raced over to the Tretyakov Gallery for an action-packed two hours of Russian art. I’m not sure what Jared thought of the seeming endless landscapes of melting snow, spindly birch trees, foreboding clouds, and suffering peasant children. I tried to convince him there was a “unique, modest, Russian beauty” in it all. Also tried my best to explain what icons are – and learned that the Vladimirskaia bogomater’ is housed in a special chapel on the museum grounds that I still haven’t seen.

The next day we packed it all in again. Morning saw us race to Izmailovo market for some souvenir shopping. We stopped by the Dagestani rug dealer from whom my friend Quinn and I had extracted two beautiful, huge handmade rugs from the previous summer for a pittance, making a grown, mustachioed man cry. He greeted me with a huge smile and a “hello friend, I might forget your name but I never forget your face.” Granted he says this to everyone, but I wonder if he remembers me as I him, after all, we spent two hours together haggling, and we made him cry. He was excited to learn Jared was Armenian (“my friend, check out beautiful Armenian rug.”) but disappointed that Jared wasn’t interested in rugs. In order to respect a Christmas surprise I will refrain from sharing what Jared purchased…

To Red Square where we visited St. Basil’s: yes, truly spectacular, beneath each colored dome is a separate chapel.

Then off to the banya, where I wanted to acquaint Jared with some semi-naked Russian men in order to create a balanced gender experience for his stay. We bought tickets at the “pauper level” of the most luxurious Russian baths, the Sanduni. There would be no hockey stars and prostitutes for us, no sir, just a bunch of middle aged Russian men (strangely divided equally between fit and whale-like, with little in between) who were middle to upper class (yes, class status is apparent even in the buff, or even especially so).

Jared was a bit taken aback when we entered the pre-banya locker room. I got that feeling you get at a health club locker room as a child: I’m totally relaxed, good sirs, and while I might casually notice that you’re naked, I certainly am not focused in on it, in fact, this whole thing is quite common and not worth mentioning, however, several of you do seem to be taking great pride in prancing about without towels…

It was a bit intimidating, as self-assured male nakedness can be. But we were quickly given towels and sandals, asked where the banya began, and made our way. We were given complimentary veniki (the birch branch bundles used for beating the body) by some nice guys who were eager to share their customs with us.

The banya is downright fun: you enter the sauna with a bunch of dudes huddling in Kirgiz-looking banya caps at various stages of self-flagellation. Everyone has his own personal philosophy about best practices. Some prefer to beat themselves, others have friends do it. Some beat their feet, others their faces. Some guy brought in honey and rubbed it all over his feet. Probably the most breathtaking experience came when a walrus of a man entered the sauna, one of those guys who seems to walk more laterally than forwards. He had a towel around his waist and one around his head, looking like a prize fighter on his way to the ring, followed by his entourage of twiggy guys. He proceeded to unfurl himself on the bench, face up, and two of his underlings proceeded to beat upon every part of his body, then they flipped him and did the other side (not unlike the process for grilling meats). Lots of grunting, lots of exhaling, lots of wheezing, lots of “da khoroshos” floating through the steam. Jared, Alejandro (our new Spanish friend, more about him in a sec) were truly impressed by this ritual of manliness, health, and masochism. Like other Russian practices, the banya seems to constantly vacillate from being intuitively healthy and good to being ridiculous, harsh, and a bit otherworldly.

Back in the cooling room, Jared and I did some cannon balls in the cold pool and watched the prize fighter exit the ring, red, contended, surrounded by the entourage, on his way to munch smoked fish and drink beer.

Jared and I continued the hot-cold-hot process a few more times, striking up a conversation with a Spaniard in town to tutor Russian bureaucrats about E.U. “best practices” (fyi, even his students are aware of the futility of the project). Turned out he was a bath connoisseur and had some interesting social entrepreneurship plans for Barcelona. So we chatted about the Imagination Station and the importance of the web for opening up “space,” did a few more dips back and forth, and headed to the locker room to dry off.

When you meet someone in the nude, you’re inclined to take a chance on them, so we invited Alejandro to get some dinner and a drink with us. I guided the two chaps to Propaganda, where expat men and Russian women have been dancing together now for at least a decade. They also have a very inviting, Western menu. More khachapuri, salmon and pasta for me, Russian beers all around, and we were having a high old time. I asked our waitress, a lovely obshitelnaia dyevuska named Lera, when they would clear the tables for the restaurant’s transformation into a nightclub. She responded, with a smirk, that tonight was a “theme party.” I asked which theme, and she said, “gay party.”

Now, Jared and Alejandro at this moment could have been forgiven for thinking that this was all part of my master plan: first, steamy nakedness; second, a pick-up in the sauna room; third, dinner; fourth, gay dance party. But in fact I was surprised as they were. We asked Lera where else we might catch some non-theme night music and she cheerfully replied “Solyanka,”

We paid, made the 10 minute trek on foot, and proceeded to play ping pong for a few hours with the Moscow Ping Pong Club (check’em out on Facebook) who, if first impressions are not wrong, is composed of the androgynous and natty progeny of Moscow’s elite, along with a fair number of noteworthy photographers and assorted celebs. I defeated “pony-tailed Russian” easily but lost to our bartender.

Night over. Fun was had. Lots of male bonding. Jared left that night, successfully, to the correct city, thus avoiding the fate of our dear friend from Ironia Sudby, everyone’s least favorite classic Soviet film.

Da svidanya.

Mermaids

My most intimate and soulful friends,

As my dad reminded me, one of my favorite descriptors of Russia is “maximalist,” a word I lifted from the depths of a misspent youth reading Berdiaev or Ogarev or some early Soviet utopian city planner. I think it basically describes a life spent in the extremes. It also best summarizes the Moscow experience of Jared, my oldest childhood friend, who just spent a long weekend with me in the City of Concrete and Colors. Jared and I have snowmobiled Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, made forts in the woods devoted to the procurement and safekeeping of candy, but have never traveled together. We made up for lost time.

I met Jared on the rail platform at Paveletskii station. It’s always a hoot to meet up with a friend in Moscow. (“What?! You’re here?!”) You just hope they passed through the sulking passport control ladies, the aggressive and swarthy “friend, you need taxi?” drivers without too much trouble and without feeling personally violated. But you cannot protect them from all of Russia, some of it they must bear themselves, abruptly, as a baptism.

The first night I took Jared to the Arbat where he was able to compare Moscow’s pedestrian thoroughfare with those of every other European city: pretty much the same, colder, more matryoshki and tattoo parlors.

We sampled plov, shashlyk, fresh-baked lepyoshka, and some vegetable salads. And thus a pattern was set: meat-heavy meals in which Jared proceeded to remove all the tomatoes and cilantro that dared infiltrate his carnivorous feast, followed by a “that’s good,” and a “you’re sure I can’t pay with a credit card?”

We walked home and, because the night wasn’t so cold, decided to walk around central Moscow, paying homage to Tverskaia, Red Square, the Metropole Hotel, and the Bolshoi Theater. As the drizzle turned to sleet and the city took on a resplendent emptiness Jared’s look said “What?! You’re going to be here for how long?!”

Friday began at 11am, meaning we had slept through almost half the daylight. A quick trip to the local McDonalds for a brunch of double cheeseburgers and fries, a walk around some of the high-end shopping streets, and a fruitless search to learn whether Jared needed to register with the local authorities, and finally we were at the Kremlin gates. At the ticket window we were treated to one of my favorite linguistic experiences: Charles is at the front of a line of 6 Russians, speaking his broken yet expressive Russian to the cashier who is trying to explain why she won’t let us buy tickets to all three Kremlin attractions given our late arrival and the seeming impossibility of racing through Russia’s sacred and historical sites; Charles is annoyed and confused, spouting philosophically about how it should be our right to rush through the exhibits; the standoff ends with Charles losing out to the wisdom of the old woman; the line is perturbed, sensing Charles’ frustration, but sensing incomprehension; they decide, almost in unison, to help by offering simple, deep, tremulous “No entrence. Is closed. Come back.” Yep, thanks comrades, that’s what I wasn’t getting. Thank you for the translations.

The Kremlin armorys’ collection of carriages, tsars’ clothing, royal gifts, arms, crowns, and various bejeweled artifacts is stunning. The 16^th century urns made of gold, carved by the King of England’s craftsmen in the shape of snow leopards takes my vote for most cool and or unique item. We both liked the emeralds the size of golf balls.

I think we also liked the various Kremlin cathedrals, but we were running to fit it all in. And who doesn’t love the world’s largest bell that can’t be rung, the biggest cannon which cannot be fired, down the street from the largest building never built? Jared enjoyed the “campusy” feeling of the place, and I have to agree, there’s something mildly collegiate about it, but minus the classes of freshmen poetry sitting on the lawn.

Dinner was Georgian, at a “trendy” new place called Khachapuri, in honor of the cheese and bread dish of the same name. It’s got that sort of Moscow interior that is cozy, angular, indirectly lit and cool, the sort of place you can bring a friend to and say, with your chest bursting with pride, “this is Moscow.” More meat and bread, and we even got Jared to admit to enjoying the eggplant. Over dinner I tried to summarize Erik Scott’s awesome dissertation on the unusually large role of the Georgian diaspora in Soviet Moscow.

We raced out of there to go to the theater. Masha #2 was in a Pushkin play (what else?) called Rusalka. The question was put to us earlier in the day: was it worth Jared’s time to sit through a play he would certainly not understand. In the spirit of roommate relations and Jared’s bold desire to “feel himself Russian,” we took up the offer, not to mention Masha’s description: “there are lots of girls, and singing, and it is short.” Because Masha put us front row center, we immediately felt like part of the performance.

Indeed, the play was short, featured many scantily clad girls who formed a sort of Greek chorus of Rusalki, or mermaids, but who sang in that haunting Slavic female peasant singing style. Mermaids, sirens, same difference. It’s amazing how much you can follow along a play relying on visual cues and music, and I think Jared like the thing, not merely because of the candy of the senses. Masha’s character was the naïve princess who doesn’t realize her fiance’s heart is with another woman until the bitter end, when she breaks down into sobbing convulsions. Her role involved maintaining the same, unbroken, strained smile for 25 minutes, then switching to bitter sorrow.

How come no one told me what “rusalka” was before? And how come no one has commented on the fact that, when the words is broken into parts, it’s further proof that Russian women are, in fact, mermaids?! This would become the theme of the night.

From the theater we went to meet up with some local ladies, one Jared had met in New York a few weeks previously, the other a friend of a friend. Kristina had told Jared to meet her at …..it was muffled, but he heard something about “dance party”, “parents’ place,” and “dance studio.” Confused, but expecting a sea of mermaids, we dutifully followed her directions to meet up, but the closer we got, the quicker our rusalki illusions fell away, leaving one tough kernel of truth: we’d been invited to see crappy Russian teeny bopper hip hop dancing at a tasteless “lifestyle dance studio.” It was a scene taken out of Russian MTV, with hordes of brainwashed teenagers clapping in unison for the dj’s who, who shouted into microphones, and performed low grade breakdance moves. I half expected Vova Putin to come out from nowhere in a ribbed mock turtle neck and commend them on the “charm” and talent of the politically glazed, blind rap-o-philic Russian youth. Jared and I swigged drinks and nursed our own thoughts. I can’t vouch for his but mine included things like: “God, I’m old”; “This is precisely the shitty American culture that I come to Russia to avoid”; and “I can sense that this crowd isn’t that in to Soviet history.”

I strongarmed the group into going to Gogol’, a cool bar decorated (in my view) like a gypsy tent turned cabaret, which shows live music. And, just as had happened last summer upon arrival in Moscow, my favorite Russian band, Markscheider Kunst, was playing! But due to the MTV Russia casting call, we completely missed them. Total bummer. We did get to see a strange drinking ritual though, in which a patron orders a shot and puts on an army helmet and gets pounded repeatedly on the head by the bar tender with a baseball bat. Quite charming, especially cuz the bat had an SS sticker on it.

Kristina suggested we go next to a club called Rolling Stones Bar. At this point in the night she had pretty limited credibility, and she was suggesting going to what we suspected was an atrocious expat hangout, or some classless New Russian glitzfest. It’s called flippin’ Rolling Stones Bar!

Well, Kristina was certainly redeemed. After a few minutes of staring out on the second-story dance floor, with its windows overlooking the Moscow skyline, and its teeming masses of actual Russian mermaids sprinkled with harmless little islands of trolls, Jared was beginning to display several phases of the 12 step reaction of many foreign men who come to Russia for the first time. These include shock, awe, incredulity, inspiration, and quiet contemplation. We met a nice, funny British dude (have you ever met a Brit abroad who wasn’t nice and funny?) and the two of us tried to calm him down and explain things to him about the gender imbalance that results from demographic pressures, the cultural practice of leaving the house looking your best at all times, and the lipstick and heels version of Russian feminism. We also tried more traditional yet unscientific explanations about bone structure, perfect gene pool components, location along east-west trade routes. In the end it was no use. Jared would have to battle these demons that way we all have done, by himself. In the end he had to grapple with what he had seen, and ultimately he would have to explain it to himself.

Because Russian night clubs are essentially casinos, with no clocks, no closing hours, no shortage of drinks, and no let up in the crowd, we stayed out later than 30 year olds should and paid the price the next day. All in all, a good day for mermaid watching.

The mermen came next.

PS: gotta love the Detroit tee-shirt. Is 222 Los Angeles police code for "broken dreams?"

And it begins

Even in Moscow, Tajikistan is for real.

Gritinks dir frekhnds,

I assume many of you have been checking out my old blog (http://tjisforreal.blogspot.com) on a daily basis for these last two years and wondered why I haven’t been posting regularly. Well, today your patience has been rewarded! And somehow you've find your way here! After a long absence I endeavor once more to prove to you that Tajikistan is a real place, just as I did in the summer of 2008, and I will do this by recording my thoughts, conclusions, and photographs of Moscow. Confused? You should be. Basically, I wanted to continue my old blog, but I think it's past its shelf life, forcing me to start anew. But my passion for proving the realnost' of everyone's favorite small, mountainous Central Asian republic has not abated. I will simply have to do so from Moscow.

Several days ago when I bought my fancy new camera, I was excited to learn that Nikon has quite the mastery of grays and blues. So you, loyal reader, have lucked out! Because you can’t find a richer array of grays than a rainy Moscow November! I endeavor to “explore the space” of grays and rain and will pass the benefits on to you.

One of the other mysteries: will or won’t Charles be able to register his visa? He was told by the “international department” at RGGU (state university of the humanities) to register his visa the day after he arrived in Moscow. Yet today upon arrival at RGGU was greeted by throngs of students leaving the gates and a security guard who sneered, “Can’t you see you’re going the wrong way?!” Turned out there was a “terrorist threat” and they were emptying the building, students and faculty smirking and glad to be returning home in the darkening, rainy, windy hour of 3:30pm. Charles will return tomorrow. (And make mental note, if you want to give an entire campus the day off, simply phone and say, “Yes, Svetlana Borisovna, please? Hi, yes, I would like to make a terrorist threat for the day. Thanks.”)

Check out the first two photos, which are essentially the daytime and nighttime views from my apartment. In the left foreground is the Greek embassy, to the right is the Stanislavsky house-museum, and across the road all dressed in aquamarine is the UN's Moscow outpost. My mission for Moscow is to concoct a logical story which necessitates a visit to all three of these establishments in the same day. (i.e. join a Greek troupe of traveling actors to pay homage to Mr. Stanislavsky and then visit UN in preparation for upcoming peacekeeping/theatrical mission to Chechnya...)

My roommates, the two Mashas, a great. Both are actresses from Chelyabinsk. Which reminds of an old Soviet song I know ("Two Mashas from Chelyabinsk," said to be a favorite drinking melody of Marshal Zhukov). Check back for more news from Moscow's theater life.

I’ll head out to the market tomorrow and look out for any Tajiks.

Best, Charles