Behind The Barrier

When you've been in a certain place, for a certain amount of time, even the most obscure of sights seem relatively normal.  When I first arrived here my eyes struggled to believe the sights that flashed before them.  The hunched figures in the forest plucking mushrooms, the backdrop of my daily vision reminiscent of a fairy tale woodland.  Horses and carts substituted for blacked out Bentleys and flags on aerials indicating that King Putin of Rublevskoe Zhukovka's kingdom is in the vicinity.  I walk alongside Ferrari's and eat caviar sandwiches. I pass a lady fresh from cosmetic surgery enveloped in mink walking her pooch, her face still encased in bandages.  Dubbed "The Beverly Hills of Moscow", it is easy to draw such comparisons.  Though unlike its U.S counterpart, this community of surrealism is tucked away deep in the forest.  Barriers prohibit an outsiders glare into this realm of intrigue and mystery.

Metro

Old woman with a shisha pipe. Lady with a top hat on. Girl nursing a hedgehog. Accordian playing sends the dog into slumber. Police in fur hats and woolen coats patrol.

Bulbus eyes, pinpricked and red.  The carriage doused in vodka scent, varnishing the walls the seats, the floor.  Its resisdue lingers.  Svelte silhouetes sashay through the doors, elevated.  A seat becomes free, they check their reflection in the opposite window.  Waving a lipstick wand and applying with expert precision, careful not to stray outside the lines. 

Underfoot

Leaves fall like golden tokens
fluttering confetti
pirouetting, revelling in autumnal delights.

Propaganda

The music blurs like their dormant clarity. 

Entangled in a haze of gratification. 

Itchy feet stamp the tacky floor until it is polished. 

The clock ticks, unilluminated. 

Nobody cares to look. 

The strobe flickered darkness shadowed from the breaking daylight. 

To stay or to go? 

Their feet remain impartial and heavy as dawn beckons them. 



Rewriting Worlds

A couple of weekends ago I was invited to a dinner party at a friend of a friends apartment close to Red October.  When I arrived I was a little taken aback by the niche decor. Graffiti scribbled walls, police tape cordoning off the toilet and plastic sheets covered with marker pen creating a den in one of the bedrooms.  Annelies then informed me that Simon's apartment was actually being used to showcase an exhibition curated by the Austrian Embassy. 

On September 22, the Moscow Biennale of Contemporary Art opened its fourth edition. Titled “Rewriting Worlds,’’ it will run until October 30 and features 64 artists and 14 groups of artists from more 33 countries. The Moscow Biennale will be curated by Peter Weibel, Director of ZKM in Karlsruhe, Germany.

Among famous names of the international art scene the Main project will feature artists such as Martin Walde (Australia), Ai Weiwei (China), Richard Hamilton (UK), Manabu Ikeda (Japan), Ken Lum (Canada) and Zheng Shengtian (China), Fabián Marcaccio (Argentina/USA), Walid Ra'ad (Lebanon/USA), Neo Rauch (Germany), Claire Fontaine (France), Susan Hiller (UK/USA), Rebecca Horn (Germany), Christoph Schlingensief (Germany), Olafur Eliasson (Denmark/Germany), Michael Elmgreen (Denmark) Ingar Dragset (Norway) and many others.

Russian artists will have an active part in the Biennale, exhibiting works by the Blue Soup, Electroboutique, Learning Film, as well as artists Valery Chtak, Alina Gutkina, Olga Kisseleva, Taisiya Korotkova, Taus Makhacheva, Yelena Yelagina and Igor Makarevich and others.

“Studying about 300 portfolios of Russian artists I saw a tendency for "decompression" and "deframing". In the soviet time the former generation of artists withdrew from public places to private rooms to preserve and to protect the autonomy of the artwork. By doing this they already "deframed" the artwork as a closed system and turned it into a collective experience. They in effect changed the autonomy of the artwork and also the public. The best artists of the contemporary generation benefit from this launch” – says Peter Weibel.

Old Arbat

Magnetic Stamp

In theory I am against the notion of opting for a Stabucks in foreign fields.  In amongst a wealth of difference and diversity why is it that I breathe a deep sign of relief when I see that Rapunzel locked emblem in the distance?  I reach for the familiar, a brief respite from the confusion and disorientation.  I wander the streets and piece together my sparse lingo, not recognising any sign or any sight. 

So when I see that green stamp marking the street corner I retreat, and nurse that sturdy mug that is filled with warmth and comfort.  I watch the passing faces through the barrier which dangles me in limbo between home and away. 

Cloudburst

Slumber stirred by the pelted windowpane

it jolts her awake.

Wide eyes search the sealed darkness,

quickly soothed again.

Let it rain, Let it pour.

Let it wash over.

She rises to face the unchanged picture

though flashed by daylight.

The stained and speckled glass,

trickled clarity punchers through.

Let it rain, Let it pour.

Let it wash over.

The air is crisp and moist.

It rests on her dampened skin

Exposed, uncovered and cleansed

by natures gentle caress.

Let it rain, Let it pour.

Let it wash over.

Without a shield of protection

she lifts her gaping hood.

Her woolen coat is saturated.

Blinkering, she squints to avoid the lashings.

Let it rain, Let it pour.

Let it wash over.

ritual union

Songs have a way of connotating with a time or a place.  Memories etched in every key change.  The cue of the next verse symbolic of a shifting of location or time in the brains left side.  The song has elapsed but I press repeat to refuel my basking in melodic delights. 

Snapshot

She gets that smile and a mouthful of silver.  A hunched man nurses a bottle of vodka, swilling and swallowing.  A young couple in a vision of premature winter white stride hand in hand down the cathedral steps, hand in hand both with a cigarette in the other.  Bystanders unfazed.  They've seen it all before, scratching the surface her curiosity deepens.  She strives to uncover more and quench her thirst of intrigue. 



?

Talk, chatter, conversation

debate, argument, altercation

interaction, expression, communication.

Paragraphs, sentences, chains of words

joining of a couple.  Or even a solitary one uttered.

Understanding, clarity snatched away.

She nods and smiles and gestures okay. 

Solyanka

I'd heard many a good word about this haunt and I was eager to see if such rave reviews were justified.  I read one review that claimed "If you ask any trendy Muscovite where the best club is in Moscow they will undoubtedly send you to Solyanka".  After making it past face control it was clear to see why it is a scenesters paradise. Its mismatched and natty furniture is adorned by fashionable young folk who puff smouldering on their cigarettes between sips of the house liquor.  Some talk, some simply sit, content in silence.  They wait nonchalantly for the evenings proceedings, spectating for the moment.  The dim lighting creates a living room-esq effect perfect for pre-party ambiance. There is no doubt that Solyanka hosts the mother of all house parties on a weekly basis, resident home to Moscow's hipster elite.

Moscow by night...

Friday finally arrived and I hurried back to my my apartment to slick on some lippy and change into something a little more city slicking chic :)  Driving into the city, leaving the shady canopy of the forest behind I had that Friday feeling.  I was excited about seeing Moscow after the days light had departed and the illuminating lights were shining bright. 

After hopping out a Gum shopping centre next to Red Square I had a random encounter with some men from Monte Negro, after a friendly exchange I set off to meet Jessie outside the Lenin Central Library.  Unknowing to the underpass in the Metro I attempted to cross the road which is a main artery into the city.  Trying to fathom how I was going to make it to the other side in one piece I soon realised that I was the only person trying to make a dart in front of six lanes of turbo engines. 

I went under through the metro walkway and then stopped to ask for directions to the Library.  I admit that my expectations of Russian friendliness were incredibly stereotyped and a stark contrast to the reality. I approached three girls and before I could begin to speak one hugged me and gave me a bunch of flowers.  I explained that I was English and she tried to recall the word that she was searching for, pausing with a broad smile.  "Present, for you" she said and the three girls wanted to take photographs and they introduced themselves.  Anne commented that I have nice teeth (the family nashers always seem to prompt some comment!) while Natalie insisted that I have some of her beer. 

After taking photographs and our giggle ridden exchange Deena showed me where I needed to go to meet Jessie and told me that she was a doctor and a dance teacher.  She told me that she loves to help people and being a doctor allows her to do this whilst being a dance teacher allows her to continue something she is passionate about.  Such a lovely, warm natured person and the kindness of these girls eradicated any misconceptions I may have had previously about the manner of Muscovites.  

After meeting Jessie we hopped in a 'Gypsy cab', travelling in true local style.  She gave me some tips about hailing one down to ensure that its a safe set of wheels you're getting into.  Sure enough a car pulled into the side of the road, dusty and rusty as if fresh from a building site.  We arrived at Solyanka and I left my flowers in the cloakroom just incase it didn't go down too well with the 'face control' team waiting at the top of the stairs.  After convincing the lady on the door that we were meeting people inside we were able to enter the realm of Moscow's hipsterville.