Painters, dip your brushes in the vanity
Of the yards and the sunrise,
So that your brushes may be like the
Leaves, like the leaves, like the leaves of
November.

Dip your brushes into the blue,
According to the forgotten urban
Tradition, draw with diligence and love,
As we walk with love on Tverskaya
Street.

Let the pavement rock, as though it
were coming around!
Let what hasn’t started, start.
You draw, you draw, it will add up…
How are we to foretell whether you
Succeeded or not?

You, like judges, draw our fates,
Our autumn, our winter and spring…
It is nothing to you, that we are
Outsiders. Draw! And then what is
Unclear, I will explain.

-Okudzhava


September 3rd, 2008.

Hello all!
As most of you know, I am in St Petersburg, Russia for the year on a Fulbright grant. I am studying at European University in the art history department and doing my own research on early 20th century Russian ballet history at a number of archives in the city. I’ve been here for about a week now and I still feel as if I’m settling in a bit. I only just a few days ago moved into my apartment for year. The owner was in Riga and only returned on the 2nd of September, so until then I was staying with my old host mom, Alla. Despite whatever inconvenience there was in waiting to move in, it was actually really nice spending a few days with her and getting my bearings again. It feels even more like home at Alla’s because she was just in Maine with her daughter, Olya, for about 11 days, staying with me and my parents. Not to mention, I lived with her for some 6 months while I studied abroad on ACTR and while doing my research here last summer. It was fun catching up with her, watching movies, playing durak, dominoes, and badminton with her 10 year old granddaughter. Overall, a nice welcome back. What hasn’t been a nice welcome back is the weather. It’s been raining almost everyday here and quite cold. The city decides when to turn on the heat, which probably won’t be till sometime in October, so it gets pretty chilly at night. I was hoping that it would still feel a teensy bit more like summer, seeing as I arrived at the end of August… but no such luck. Fall is indeed here, in all its damp, bone-chilling misery. I’ve been told that Indian summer will be here soon, and my friend Tania has informed me how beautiful it can be here in the fall once the leaves start to turn. Fall is by far my favorite season, probably because I’m from Maine, so I’m looking forward to seeing how it is here.

Leaving home was a bit harder than I anticipated. I’m bad at transitions, and it made me sad that the last few days I had at home I could already feel autumn in the air along the ocean. Ah well. But now that I’m here, I’m not at all homesick. Time operates differently here, and sometimes it feels like this place and my life here carries on a parallel existence while I’m away, which I can right away pick up again as soon as I come back. It is a truly a different dimension here. Sometimes I feel like my senior year at Brown almost didn’t happen. Being here for a couple of weeks this summer I think most likely also made coming back not as difficult, but in some ways it made leaving home more difficult. I wasn’t missing Russia that much because I’d just been here, and the thought that I would be gone for an entire year was a little daunting, but in the end I’m glad I did come over the summer—if for nothing else than to be here for white nights again and find an apartment.

My first few days here went decently. There is already another girl, Anna, here on a Fubright grant from Yale, whom I met at the Fulbright orientation in dc in July. We’re both at European University, which is convenient. She’s a sweet girl, but oh so very American. It’s funny. Thankfully I’m hardly ever picked out as an American (until I start speaking I suppose). Perhaps I’ve already perfected my Petersburg scowl. While stopping by the university to get myself registered to be in St Petersburg I fortunately ran into Ilia Dorontchenkov, who will more or less be my adviser here. For those of you who haven’t had the fortune of meeting him, he taught Russian art history at Brown a few semesters, and taught art history for Brown’s summer program in Petersburg, and normally is a dean at European University in the art history department and is a professor at the Fine Arts Academy. It was wonderful to see him again after at least a year and a half and it was comforting to see a familiar face. He showed me around the department some and told me about all the classes offered in the department. There are going to be some fantastic courses—so many that I’m afraid it might even interfere with my research here. Classes, however, don’t start until the 8th, so I’ve a little more time to figure things out. It will be interesting having all these classes in Russian with mostly Russians. Hopefully I won’t make too much of an idiot of myself (I feel like an idiot about half of the time in this country). Thankfully Ilia already knows me, so if I sound stupid in Russian, at least he knows in my own language I’m not quite as pathetic. Ha. Later that day I met up with Anna and we piggy-backed on this Revolutionary history tour her adviser was giving to a group of Stanford kids and their two professors. The tour was in English, seeing as only a couple of the Stanford students knew Russian, and it was interesting learning a bunch of little details, say, about Mars Field, etc. Unfortunately the weather was dreadful—cold, rainy, very windy, and I was smart enough to be wearing high heels… Between jet lag, the weather, acclimating to life in Russia, and walking around Petersburg for 6 hours in high heels, I was beyond exhausted and slept almost 14 hours that night.

At this point I’m pretty much all moved into my apartment. Moving was a bit of a hassle and I don’t remember there being this much traffic in Petersburg, although I guess when I usually take cabs somewhere they’re not official (gypsy cabs) and it’s around 4am when the bridges are finally going down. After sitting in traffic for nearly an hour and a half and driving all the way from Bogatirskii to Marata, I got here. I saw the apartment once this summer, but had forgotten some things. It’s really not a bad place at all and the location is great (about a 10 minute walk from Nevsky prospect and the metro Mayakovskaya, about 3 minutes from the Ligovsky metro, and about 6 or 7 minutes to the Dostoevsksaya/Vladimirskaya metro). There are a little of convenient things around, some decent restaurants, little grocery stores, an indoor market, a beer restaurant, among other things. The area seems pretty safe as well, and Marata is a decently busy street. The building is quite old—sort of your typical Petersurg building—a sallow, peeling yellow and a Dostoevskian courtyard with bizarre angles. I’m living on the top floor (the 6th), which means no upstairs neighbors and more sunlight, seeing as my windows face into the courtyard. My favorite room here is the kitchen. My guess is I’ll spend most of my time in there. The owner of the apartment, Valeriya, a former Russian actress, is here until the 21st, which is actually pretty convenient for me as she’s been explaining to me how everything works in the apartment, the best places to buy basic things and groceries, and introducing me to various friends who will supposedly help look after me. I don’t mind playing the ignorant American girl if it benefits me. Plus, it sometimes happens that I get the exotic factor and I become a kind of accessory people like to take around and introduce and expose to “Russian culture” ranging from house parties, to rock concerts, to ballet. No complaints there. One of the cool things about the building is the roof. I doubt I’ll go up there much unless I’m with someone else and the weather is good, seeing as it’s kind of spooky and not especially safe. There’s a special key to the “attic” or utilities area above the flat (super creepy and dirty—we went up there because we heard noises on the roof as if someone were walking around up there—turns out there was no one—maybe I have a ghost). From this little attic space, after crawling over various pipes, there’s a small window and stairs that exit onto the roof, which is of course angled, so not especially safe, but there’s a tiny railing to stop you if you should fall, although I hope I never have to trust it. After walking up the side of the roof to the very top, opens up an incredible view of the city. I’ve been on top of St Isaacs Cathedral, but somehow this was better. There’s a view of all the other courtyards around and then a glimpse of the Neva, St Isaacs, Peter and Paul Fortress, etc etc. It’s fantastic. I’ll have to get my lazy self up sometime to see the sunrise.

Well, now it’s around the 18th or so of September. Life has been crazy, if wonderful. My landlady, Valeriya, has kept me very busy. I’ve been going to the theater 4 or 5 nights a week for free. She’s been introducing me to all her friends—mostly actors, musicians, film and theater directors, and even puppeteers, etc. I’ve already developed a good network of contacts and friends to rely upon. Including Valeriya’s friend Kolya. The other night he came over to hang out with me and talked for 3 hours about the history of Russian rock. He looks terrifying—like a mobster, big guy, with a boxer’s nose, but he’s a teddy bear in reality. He’s kind of a surrogate uncle here…whenever I have a problem or if I’m nervous to walk home late at night, he’s at my disposal. He grew up in Siberia and he was telling me all about life there in the soviet union. He remembered the first time he heard a Beatles song. It was played on accordion by this hippy type guy who came as their music teacher. Kolya said he just started crying. He’d never heard anything like it. I’m looking forward to spending more time with him. He’s taking me to a DDT concert next week. I’m psyched.

I’ve been meeting and remeeting plenty of other people. We went to a film premier a week or two ago of Uchitel’s new film Pleniy. All the cast was there and the composer of the music—a friend of Valeriya’s. We got invited to the VIP after party, which was a blast. For once I didn’t feel like a complete idiot. At home with Valeriya I probably seem pretty clueless sometimes. Like, why would I know the word for sponge in Russian? But I felt as if I had a little coming out into society party of my own at the film premier, and I think I made Valeriya proud. Perhaps she was just happy I didn’t embarrass her, haha, and I redeemed myself after fainting in the bank on her a few days before. (I still have no idea why that happened. Thankfully I was with Valeriya, getting an account opened to pay my rent after she leaves. I woke up on the floor and for a minute had no idea where I was. Dead? Alive? Heaven? Hell? Nope, still Russia, off Nevsky prospect. Although cursed to wander up and down Nevsky would certainly be an interesting version of purgatory. So now I’m worried Valeriya thinks I’m some kind of invalid. Everything is fine, though. I think I just hadn’t had enough water or something that day). But anyway, I spoke with the director of the film and a few of the actors, after Valeriya got me in the proper mood with a few glasses of wine. I met Desyatnikov, apparently a very well-known composer here. He writes music for ballets, opera, film, etc. A piece of his premiered at the New York City Ballet last summer, actually, where an old friend of mine dances, which is pretty neat. It turned out we knew some people in common, including Tim Scholl of Oberlin, who also does work in ballet history. At the premier I met this guy Alex, who is a musician. He plays the bass. He ended up walking me home as it was already pretty late. I helped him record a video for the Rachmaninoff Competition he’s entering. He sounded amazing. I had no idea the bass could sound so beautiful. So it’s all been good and I was enough of a society success for Valeriya’s liking.

For whatever reason it seems easier for me to make friends in this country than in America. It’s true that Russians are somewhat cold on the surface, but once you get to know them, they’re the warmest people in the world. There is such a culture here of mutual aide, perhaps left over from the Soviet Union. Things are so spontaneous and wonderful. The bluntness of Russians sometimes still amazes me. I remember when I saw Alla again for the first time in over a year this summer, within 10 or 15 minutes of seeing me she asks: “So, Liza, how’s your love life?” Me: (shrug) “I don’t know…” Alla: “Don’t worry, I’ll find you a nice boy.” Me: “Russian?” Alla: “No. They’re bad.”
Me: “Ukrainian?” Alla: “Worse. I’ll find you a nice Jewish boy, you know they make the best husbands.” So I’ve heard. Similar situations have come up with Valeriya as well. The first day I met her she was asking me about how much money people make in America depending on different jobs, how much money I make, my parents make, why there are so many fat people in America, why so many male ballet dancers are gay. (I still don’t know the answer to that question, and Russia has completely thrown off my gaydar, which used to be pretty sharp after spending more time than was probably healthy in ballet school.)
In any case, I’ve come to notice more and more that there is something so intimate and confessional about talking across languages and cultures. It happens in trains when you believe you’ll never see that person again or when you know that you’ll forget their name the day after meeting them. It’s sometimes easier to talk to a stranger than to your best friends. And also one feels as if one needs to explain, and yet not explain more. When you’re speaking with someone in a language not your own or not their own, from different upbringings and life philosophers, one seems to need to fill in the blanks, to not just take things for granted, or rely upon assumptions. It’s happened with many of my Russian friends, and with Alla especially. I remember this past summer when I was hanging out with Nadya, I met this friend of hers, David. We were having a small get together at her house during white nights. And around 1am we decided to go on a canal/Neva cruise. Her boyfriend works for a company that gives boat excursions, so we hopped on one for free. The evening was magnificent. We got home around 3am and got ready for bed. David and I ended up in the kitchen for sleeping, and he simply would not stop talking. I don’t know if it was just the alcohol speaking or the white nights or perhaps that intimacy I am thinking of that is entirely platonic, but we just talked for hours, mostly him talking and I listening. It really seems people just want someone to listen to, to explain themselves to. And for me, it’s easier to listen anyway than to speak in this crazy language (especially once evening has already shaded into morning, and mild inebriation has begun turning into unpleasant hangover). In this small pocket of unexpected recognition or closeness that one sometimes happens upon, there aren’t the same expectations or commonalities, or if there are, they’re the big cultural stereotypes that very quickly dissolve with a few cups of tea. It almost seems as if to a foreigner, they can’t be so complaisant in explaining themselves or other people, because there aren’t the same assumptions, it’s a if they become a witness to their own lives in desiring you to become witness to it as well.

Anyway, so much has happened that it’s hard to even go back and talk about it. We always have guests here, nearly every night. The other morning I woke up to take a shower, and as I’m walking back to my room, Valeriya’s friend Olga, an actress, grabs me and drags me into Valeriya’s room where Valeriya is still in bed and Aleksei (a Russian-Israeli theater director) is still in the pull-out chair. There was tango music playing and the next thing I know Olga’s got me doing the tango around the room. I finally escaped to get dressed and then go into the kitchen to find Aleksei rolling a joint and Olga pouring herself a glass of vodka and grapefruit juice. Good morning in Russia. There are always interesting people and I always have a good time, but I think I do need to sleep more and have more energy for my work. And sometimes I just want to wake up and drink my coffee and eat my yogurt and muesli in peace. I’ve had little time to myself, and I forget how much longer everything takes in Russia to do that would take maybe 5 minutes or a half an hour to do back home in the states. Everything operates on a totally different time-table, and it can sometimes be super frustrating, especially if you’re not used to things here. The simplest mundane tasks become absurd adventures. But it seems I never really got Russia out of my system. It was easier than it should have been to switch back on the Russia-switch and have things that are absurd seem normal. My English is already faltering and I find myself doubting my grammar. I fear I’m already slipping into that abyss of languaglessness between English and Russian (neither are good anymore and I’m not even sure what language I think my own thoughts in).

One of the highlights, besides the film premier and various theater events, was seeing an old friend of mine from ballet school again, Lina. We went to NBS together and she now dances in Eifman’s company here in Petersburg, although they’re often on tour. She’s been in the company two years now, but I had no idea until about a year ago. I no doubt saw her dance in some of Eifman’s performances before without realizing it. Anna and I went to Don Quixote last Friday and saw her dance. She’s as lovely and thin as always. I wasn’t crazy about the ballet, to be honest. I think it is one of his weakest works. It felt a bit thrown together and he shoved in random Petipa variations from the original Don Q and even from Swan Lake. It was a little weird and slapdash. My typical complaints about Eifman also apply to this work. He can’t seem to rid himself of his prop and big stretchy fabric a la Martha Graham fetish. The music was canned, as usual, and his sense of musicality is lacking, in my opinion. Although, being an American, and growing up on Balanchine who’s sense of musicality is superb, perhaps I’m a little overly critical. I was also frustrated by his choreography for the corps. His work seems distracted when there are multiple groups on stage and his way of organizing space isn’t especially profound. I think his best choreography is for a pas de deux, even if they’re often over-sexed. Lina confirmed my impressions of Eifman’s use of sexuality in his ballets. There is such a thing as balletic love-making even in the most classical of works, but Eifman takes it to a whole new level, and near to the banal at times. As Lina was explaining, in rehearsals, Eifman is always screaming at the dancers: “Feel as if you’re having an orgasm! Orgasm! More! Haven’t you guys ever watched porn!!!” Haha. Oh Eifman. Poor Lina was horrified at first, but now she’s used to it. She’s the only non-Russian or non-Ukrainian in the company. Her Russian is pretty good at this point, but sadly she’s seen rather little of Petersburg. They have a crazy work schedule. 11-12 class, 12-4 rehearsal, and then again rehearsal from 7-10, every day. I guess having rehearsal so late is good since it prepares you well for when you’ll actually be performing. When she’s back from tour I’m planning on getting her out a bit more and having her meet some non-ballet people for once. But it was wonderful and surreal seeing here again. And in Petersburg, of all places.

Among other random highlights, was meeting this famous opera singer from the Mariinsky Theater. Her name is Ekaterina Semenchuk, not sure how to spell it exactly. She was born in Minsk, but apparently she’s quite well-known both here and abroad. She sang at Prince Charles’s wedding and is often on tour, playing all the big opera houses from Berlin to New York. Without realizing it, I saw her perform last summer in Gergiev’s opera “The Gambler.” In any case, she was over the other night with her little sidekick/assistant Natasha, and one of Valeriya’s old friends. They were here till 4am drinking and singing Russian folksongs. Katya is amazing and I’m looking forward to hanging out with her more. For being such a talented woman, she’s incredibly down to earth (I was actually over at her house last night eating borsch and pie and watching the film of her performing at Charles’s wedding and from a production of Carmen). Anyway, around 3:30 am Valeriya decides it’s a good idea to go up on the roof. So we bring a pot of tea and cups with us and climb up into the attic in coats and furs. We hear footsteps on the roof and freak out. Valeriya yells, “Who’s walking around on our roof!!!” It turned out it was this young man supposedly working on the cables. Why at 3am, I don’t know. Such is Russia. So we ended up having tea with him and wandering around the rooftops for a while. It was indescribably beautiful and the most surreal light. It was a true view of Petersburg in all its withered glory—looking out over the jumbled yellow and rust-red rooftops, towers, and courtyards with their external elevators that look like gigantic glass spines climbing up the sides of the buildings. St Issaac’s was gleaming a sepulchral white in the distance and the whole city was aglow with this strange orange and green light of early dawn. Simply mesmerizing. I could’ve stayed up there all night were it not for the cold. I put pictures from the evening on my flickr site, if you’re curious to see.

So in the end, we seem to have a kind of artists’ salon going on here at 57 ultisa marata. Interesting people are always coming and going. Classes have begun, which have been great, even if I don’t understand everything (this high academic Russian vocabulary is new for me). I met the director of the Hermitage the other day for a small lecture he was giving, to which I was invited. I’ve gotten back in touch with my ballet contacts here, including Olga Kuznetsova, for those of you who know her, and met some new ones. I went to a little get together thing earlier this week at this library and archive along the griboedova canal. The head choreographer of the Mikhailovsky ballet and theater was giving a talk and showing some films. I spoke with him for a bit afterwards and he seemed interested in getting to know me. Having a strong background in dance, the seeming novelty of being American (no idea why), speaking Russian, and being a budding philologist and ballet researcher seem to be serving me well. Russians seem more into networking and open to helping each other out than Americans. I also met this choreographer’s friend there who is a modern ballet critic and works at a small experimental dance conservatory. She’s invited me to one of their ballet premiers in a month or two so I can give her my “fresh” perspective, and has offered to help me with my work. She herself has a fantastic collection of ballet history books. I’m thrilled things seem to be moving along so well already. It was really pleasant being amongst ballet enthusiasts. There’s really no money in ballet, so those who love it love it simply and deeply for its own sake. These people were all incredibly open and friendly and willing to help, and also weren’t inebriated like many of my new actor/film friends. Dancers have always been better at taking care of themselves, though, so that’s not too much of a surprise.

It’s nice being in Petersburg this time. I always love it here, but things are going better than expected. It was a wonderful bit of luck that I happened to end up in this apartment and meet Valeriya and all her friends, who’ve truly adopted me. It’s become more and more clear to me that everything done here is done through friends and friends of friends, so I’m thankful that I’m developing a larger and larger network of people that seem to like to invite me to things and want to help me. For once, I don’t feel quite as anonymous and superfluous in this city. Perhaps my Russian has just gotten better enough that I can actually express myself and round out the contours of my personality.

Home life is good. Whenever no one is here I spend most of my time in the kitchen reading, wrapped in a blanket, with tea and the gas stove on (we’ve still no heat, and it’s in the 40’s). The neighbor across the courtyard has this enormous white cat, who is clearly aware of how attractive he is. He often sits proudly in the windowsill, showing himself off. We stare at each other while I drink tea. So I’ve made a new friend, I guess. I seem to be ok and my health is all right, despite the fainting spell. I’ve no doubt lost some weight—my average weight in Russia is about 3-5 lbs less than in the states (if I start falling into the double digits again I’m going on vacation to Berlin or flying Tania in from Providence to be my housewife). I really want to start running, but it’s simply impossible to go running on the streets in this city. I went running twice last year in Udelniy park. The first time resulted in getting lost, happening upon a bunch of old people singing Russian folk and Soviet songs, drinking vodka with a couple of old people who gave me directions, and running home tipsy. The second time resulted in running away from a pack of wild dogs. So yeah… Running here is certainly an adventure, but I’m not sure I’m up for it right now. The gyms here are ridiculously expensive. So who knows. I’ll just do a bunch of walking I suppose, but running definitely boosts my mood especially when it’s already getting darker every day.

Valeriya is leaving the 21st to go back home to Switzerland, where she now lives with her husband, so after that life should be a little more quiet. A classmate of mine, Gavril, who’s a grad student at Brown and is from Bulgaria, will be crashing here for a few days though next week while he gets his visa registered. He’s doing research all over Russia this year on modern regional politics. Olya is coming this weekend to hang out in Petersburg. And then in about a week and a half I’m going on a boat cruise along the Volga river to a bunch of cities. I can’t wait! After that I’ll stay in Moscow for a few days with Olya. So life will still be very busy even after Valeriya leaves.

I think that’s all for now. I’ll try to write more frequently and less lengthily in the future. This city is as miraculous as always, full of the most frustrating of paradoxes and happiest of coincidences.
Poka!