RUSSIA 08

Kasimir: What Happened?

The New Tretyakov gallery, near Gorky Park
Shows 20th Century Russian art. At the turn
Of the last century, Cezanne’s influence is
Evident. Later, The Jack of Diamonds movement,
Founded in Moscow, emerges, blessed with its
Vivid, rough-hewn brushwork and a Fauvist palette.
Malevich belonged to it, but only briefly.
By 1915 he’d created his Black Square,
Which does exactly what it says on the tin: a
Work of savage purity which blew up art and
Made it start again. Two years later politics
Caught up. The ambition of Constructivism
Dovetailed with the ambition of Revolution.
For five years, Malevich, Tatlin and co explored
The edges of form, pushing it past inconceived
Boundaries. Then, the energy waned. Russian art
Began the long drift towards Social Realism.
Malevich’s work ceases to feature. Save for one
Piece from around 1930, called Sisters. A
Figurative picture showing two sisters, daubed in
Dull pastels . The avatar of modernity
Turned into a chocolate box craftsman. At which point
The Revolution could be called that no more.
Kasimir Malevich died in nineteen thirty
Five. He was accorded a state funeral and
Revered as a hero of the USSR.

The All Russia Exhibition, Moscow

Set in a large park, the exhibition was created by
Stalin and called, initially, The Exhibition of
Economic Achievements. It features extravagant
Pavilions dedicated to every corner of the USSR:
The Georgia Pavilion, the Karelian, and so on.
At the centre, in front of a vast Lenin statue, is
The House of the Peoples of Russia, behind which
Is The Fountain of the Friendship of Peoples.
The site is capped by two Aeroflot jets and a
Duplicate of the rocket that took Gagarin into space.
(Disconcertingly cramped, man in space in a
Baked bean can.) Where once denizens of the
Soviet Republic marvelled at its glories, now the
Site is overrun by teenagers on roller blades;
Pumping Eurotrash which booms from strategic
Speakers; fast food joints; whilst the pavilions
Are devoted to tacky trade fairs selling computer
Parts or furry toys. Lenin looks on as a bright blue
Tellytubby prances below.

It’s as if the place
Has been remodelled to mock the regime which
Aimed so high only to fall so low. But this notion of
Design is misleading. All that’s happened is the old
Has been displaced by the new. The old may frown
At the brashness of its successor, but its forefathers
Felt the same way. No doubt the sparrows look at
Each stage of human development in bafflement,
Remembering the glory of a world before creatures
Walked on two legs and began chirruping
Their incessant, meaningless twitter.

The Mayakovsky Museum, Moscow

A deconstructed shell of a building
Ripped to pieces and re-assembled
With all the clutter of his life and
Myth scattered like grapeshot, at the heart
Of which lies a small, untouched study,
Containing a desk, a divan, a
Fireplace and a picture of Lenin.
With a blunt gesture, the guide explains this
Is where the poet shot himself in the head.

Notes on the Ceremony

In one of several cathedrals contained within
The Kremlin of Segiev Posad, one of various
Never-ending services is taking place. The
Cathedral is a baroque, high-ceilinged hall,
Brightly frescoed, with hundreds of people
Gathered, negotiating their personal
Prayer space. The choir sings a constant refrain.
Light gate-crashes the prayers’ line of sight.
Head-scarved women cross themselves as they
Enter, and when the service dictates. Some
Have brought foot-stools for later in the day,
Others bag the benches on the sides, the
Only seating space. Devotees kiss relics.
A mobile phone goes off and is absorbed by
The energy of worship. I think of church
Services I attended as a child, dull in
Comparison to this palpable passion,
Bottled up for seventy years by the
Communists. Awaiting its release,
In spite of Soviet attempts to refract
It unto the fading glory of their cause.

The End of the Road

We drove cross-country, North East from Suzdal,
Towards a pretty town whose name I can’t
Recall, crossing meadows saturated
In wildflower, dusted by morning rain.
Reaching a small town with seven exits,
We took one leading to a road marked
Brown, not yellow, on the map. A Russian
Driving ahead turned round. The brown road was
Indeed brown, a gloopy quagmire. After
A hundred squelchy yards we reversed,
Discretion being the better part of valour.
Returning to the seven tongued town we
Opted for a safer, yellow route. This
Too proved to be a blighted track, the top
Layer of tarmac a memory of
Long-spent tyres. But it took us in the right
Direction, leading to a hamlet six
Kilometres from our destination.
Before deteriorating. After
The rain, it was no more than a sequence
Of gravel lakes. We cajoled the unwilling
Hire car through the treacherous pits, inching
Forward, awaiting the rending of an
Axle or the demise of the suspension.
Finally, we reached a raised, concrete track,
Of sorts. The car bumbled through a
Terrifying landscape of reed and giant
Yellow weeds. Midges bombed the windscreen.
After a meagre kilometre the
Concrete came to a sudden stop. Ahead
Lay more gravel pits, muddied, rain-soaked,
Stretching into the visible distance.
A four by four or a dirt bike might have
Done the job. But in a tin-can hire-car
In the fly-blown heart of Russia, we had
Reached our point of no return. Like so
Many other invaders before us, we
Conceded defeat, turned on our tails, and fled.

In the Monastery (Suzdal)

The monastery is the size of a village. Its
Fortified walls enclose a hotchpotch of towers,
Churches and tourists. It hums with the sound of a
Thousand twangling instruments. The campanologist
Peeling his eleven o’clock solo, competes
With a team of rubber booted lawn strimmers, who
Compete with the drills of building workers, enjoined
In more restoration of the Russian soul. In
The monastery’s museum of decorative
Art, all notes are written in Cyrillic, far from
My comprehension. I stare in ignorance at
A thousand years worth of rings, pendants, winding sheets,
Bishop’s robes, goblets, crucifi, icons and the
Rest, fragments from another, parallel, culture.

Dawn over Suzdal

Clustered crows reel overhead, cawing for the night being lost
To day, when their dominion’s supplanted by god and man,
Those tolerated foes. One day they’ll attack, tearing the
Lead from brute spires which invaded the sky so long ago;
Pecking flesh like the bloodthirsty mosquitoes, (already
Taking breakfast). The sky inverts. Flamingo pinks pale to
Pallid blue. The streets of Suzdal are empty, its churches,
Monasteries and convents dedicate to the glory of
Christ. The stand-off between meadow, reed, flower and white-washed walls
As fierce, yet tranquil, as it has ever been, or shall be.

Vladimir

Russia’s previous capital, the town’s three hours drive from Moscow,
Down a straight road which leads to Siberia, renamed ‘The Road of
Enthusiasm’ by the Soviets. It’s cathedral contains
The grave of Alexander Nevsky. At Lake Pepius he lead
The Russians to victory against the heavily armoured Teu-
Tonic Knights, who crashed through the ice. The cathedral’s being restored.
Yellow plastic sacks adorn golden chandeliers. Masons lay floors
Between baroque angels and frescoes so old they can barely whisper.