First of all, I just read Dostoevsky’s Notes from Underground, and I want to re-title my post about the Kremlin: On the Occasion of Wet Snow.
Moving on. Thank you all for your concern about the metro attacks yesterday. As I said, everyone here is fine, and we are lucky enough to have the option to walk everywhere we need to be.
The sun finally came out this weekend. There was sun before, I suppose, but it wasn’t warm; the city felt harsh, bleak, and benumbed. I understand why many Russians walk around the way they do, bundled up, scowling, isolated, just trying to get where they’re going. I can see how winter in this city would make you do that. But this Sunday, as I walked home from brunch, I saw a different Moscow. The sunshine was actually warm, the breeze gentle instead of bitter. People were outside, walking with friends, rollerblading in the square, even laughing and smiling as they chattered. Children ran past me giggling, their parents chasing after them. There was life. As Nastia told me last week, “Other cities wake up from sleep in spring. Moscow wakes up from a coma.”
I realize this feeling of life emerges in any city when the weather gets warmer. But, I have to say, I wasn’t sure it would happen in Moscow. While the individuals I’ve met in Russia are fantastic, the people as a whole feel cold by nature – not friendly, not cheerful. Not nice. But the beauty of the day on Sunday, the change I saw in people, made me think that perhaps I was wrong.
Monday morning was different. The warm sun still bathed the city, but people didn’t turn their faces to it. Instead, they shuffled along in their heavy coats, eyes downcast or looking around suspiciously, fighting through the crowds of people on the sidewalk who could no longer take the metro. That glimpse of life was gone – the wall of discontent and cynicism was back up. It was like the dead of winter again.
And yes, this is all somewhat metaphorical, but the mood in the city was odd. On the surface, everyone looked unruffled. My school is smack in the center of the city, several blocks from Lubyanka station, and besides a higher police presence, nothing was different. And yet… It’s taken me a little while to understand the strange atmosphere. Russians don’t parade their emotions like Americans do. Many Russians I know have remarkably expressionless faces, so that I can never tell what they’re thinking - but talking to our professors and administrators has helped me to understand, at least a little, how people are reacting.
Russians are angry. They are angry that the government hasn’t done enough to fix the problems in the Caucuses. They’re angry that they couldn’t stop attacks in the very center of their city. They’re angry that cab drivers took advantage of the situation instead of helping, charging exorbitant amounts while people tried to get to work yesterday. They’re angry that the Russian television stations virtually ignored the explosions for hours, not bothering to interrupt their programming. And more than anything, they’re disappointed. It’s been almost six years since the last terrorist incident, and they thought the attacks were in the past. People are sad, people are shaken, but people are angry.
I want to assure everyone, though, that things are incredibly calm here. Everything is running normally and we are all taking every precaution. If anything, the police presence is going to make the rest of our time here even safer. And so, to end on a more positive note, I’ll mention that the ballet I saw last night was absolutely breathtaking – an adaptation of Chekhov’s Seagull, which was funny, sad, and gorgeous – perfectly Chekhovian. And the night before that, I saw a six-hour adaptation of James Joyce’s Ulysses, which was so good it made me actually want to READ Ulysses, which I never thought would happen. So maybe that will be this summer’s project.
Finally, some good news: I accepted an internship with Arena Stage in Washington, so I’ll be back in DC for the summer!! Anyone want a subletter?
PS: Happy birthday, Frank!!!
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Don't Let It Snow, Let It Snow, Let It Snow
Ok, I get it. It’s cold in Russia. This isn’t news to most people in the world. What is news, however, is the obsession that Russian theater seems to have with making it snow onstage. Five shows we’ve seen have made full use of their theater’s snow machine; three of them, a bit fanatically. Perhaps I’m just noticing because four out of four of the most recent plays have had a snow fetish. But really. You want to hear about major trends in Russian theater? Here’s one.
It started with our first show, Ksenia: a play visiting from St. Petersburg, about a suffering Russian saint. Every time she kneeled down to pray, the snow started. I’m sorry, the rain AND snow started. Clearly snow alone wasn’t enough of a trial, for her or for us. The next day, when we were touring the MXAT stage, MXAT’s technical director pointed out where the water pool had been. “Yes, last night they needed it rain and snow at the same time,” she said, and rolled her eyes in that withering Russian way.
The next Nor-Easter held off until last week, when we saw our first opera: Barber of Seville at the Stanislavsky Music Theater. It snowed for the entirety of the first scene, meaning that by the second, there was at least an inch piled on the stage. This wasn’t really a problem until the set moved and we appeared to be inside the house. I think. It wasn’t exactly…clear. Dining room table, couch, and even the piano sat among snow drifts: a puzzling choice, to say the least, in a production that seemed to be going for realism. I’m not sure how the opera singers felt about their odd environment, but the kids in the cast loved it. During the curtain call, the five ADHD-likely boys bounded and slid in the snow, gathering up armfuls and tossing it up in the air over the singers taking their bows. It was cute. Again, not sure how the opera singers felt.
The major snow emergency, though, occurred last Saturday. Mysterious men; a snow-covered grave; a pond with a man-sized fish? Ok, maybe intriguing at first. But the intrigue of Masquerade didn’t last long. This director seriously took snow-making to the extreme. Whether it was to highlight a moment or just prettify a transition, the swell of a deafening waltz was accompanied by a roar from the snow machine hacking itself on. The director clearly found this combination charming, as it happened every 3 or 4 minutes for three hours. I truly don’t know how the actors weren’t buried alive in 3 or 4 feet. I sat there imagining something like that photo of me when I’m 10, dwarfed by a New England winter snow bank.
After that experience, the snow obsession just became a game. We spotted it in MXAT’s new Vassa Jeleznova, falling prettily over a bathhouse. Then, last night, in a play called The Office, it snowed in two corners of the stage, just over the office plants, so that they would wilt. Why? Couldn’t tell you. Forget smoking. Snow machines are the new national addiction.
It started with our first show, Ksenia: a play visiting from St. Petersburg, about a suffering Russian saint. Every time she kneeled down to pray, the snow started. I’m sorry, the rain AND snow started. Clearly snow alone wasn’t enough of a trial, for her or for us. The next day, when we were touring the MXAT stage, MXAT’s technical director pointed out where the water pool had been. “Yes, last night they needed it rain and snow at the same time,” she said, and rolled her eyes in that withering Russian way.
The next Nor-Easter held off until last week, when we saw our first opera: Barber of Seville at the Stanislavsky Music Theater. It snowed for the entirety of the first scene, meaning that by the second, there was at least an inch piled on the stage. This wasn’t really a problem until the set moved and we appeared to be inside the house. I think. It wasn’t exactly…clear. Dining room table, couch, and even the piano sat among snow drifts: a puzzling choice, to say the least, in a production that seemed to be going for realism. I’m not sure how the opera singers felt about their odd environment, but the kids in the cast loved it. During the curtain call, the five ADHD-likely boys bounded and slid in the snow, gathering up armfuls and tossing it up in the air over the singers taking their bows. It was cute. Again, not sure how the opera singers felt.
The major snow emergency, though, occurred last Saturday. Mysterious men; a snow-covered grave; a pond with a man-sized fish? Ok, maybe intriguing at first. But the intrigue of Masquerade didn’t last long. This director seriously took snow-making to the extreme. Whether it was to highlight a moment or just prettify a transition, the swell of a deafening waltz was accompanied by a roar from the snow machine hacking itself on. The director clearly found this combination charming, as it happened every 3 or 4 minutes for three hours. I truly don’t know how the actors weren’t buried alive in 3 or 4 feet. I sat there imagining something like that photo of me when I’m 10, dwarfed by a New England winter snow bank.
After that experience, the snow obsession just became a game. We spotted it in MXAT’s new Vassa Jeleznova, falling prettily over a bathhouse. Then, last night, in a play called The Office, it snowed in two corners of the stage, just over the office plants, so that they would wilt. Why? Couldn’t tell you. Forget smoking. Snow machines are the new national addiction.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Never-Ending Winter
I’m having spasms of guilt over not writing enough on my blog. Joe and Sara are so good at it. Why do I have so much trouble? I’ll go for a few days without writing, and then post two or three in a day when I get inspired. Joe says I’m binge blogging. Probably. But hey, I warned you.
In order to avoid wracking my brains for a witty yet profound topic, I think I’ll stick with a travel journal this time. On Friday, Sara, Rachel, Joe, and I finally visited the Kremlin with our fantastic interpreter/administrator, Nastya. She was sweet enough to volunteer to come with us, I think because she’s taken so many people there she could sleepwalk around the museum and still translate the labels.
It didn’t start out as the best day we’ve seen in Moscow weather-wise – and shockingly, yes, we’ve had some good ones – but we didn’t pick the day. Both our classes happened to be cancelled, so clearly the universe was to blame, or perhaps our professors. At first, it was just plain dreary and drizzling. Nastya suggested we check out the Armory first, hoping that the weather would clear up by the time we were done.
So, I’ve seen a lot of these kinds of museums – case after immaculate case of solid gold punch bowls, jewel-encrusted potato peelers, and porcelain teacups that were gifts from Prince Gilgamesh the Great, or whoever the visiting monarch happened to be. Usually, one blinding room is about all I can take. You can only look at so many shiny forks.
But I was really surprised by the Kremlin Armory: the whole first floor held an incredible collection of clothing, livery, and carriages, items that were actually owned and used by the tsars. There were gorgeous coronation dresses, complete with all the outrageous styles of the 18th century; there were dazzling crowns and massive, intricately carved thrones; there was even a pair of Peter the Great’s enormous boots from 1700. The man apparently had ridiculously large feet.
The carriages were really the most impressive. They had about 15, from several different emperors, and they were gigantic. Most of their back wheels were as tall as I am, and several of them were as long as two cars. Two Smart Cars at least. Maybe three. Beyond that, we learned that some of them were so heavy it required ten horses to pull them. Of course they were all stunningly decorated with everything from wood carvings, to gold statues, to semi-precious stones. I think we have a new reality TV series here. Pimp My Ride: 17th Century.
In addition to the carriages, there was a room full of decorative horse harnesses, saddles, and bridles. These horses seriously wore more jewels than New York socialites. The detail was incredible. Russians redefine the phrase “jewel-encrusted”, in clothing and livery, as well as the “royal gifts” that were displayed upstairs. Piece after piece covered in pearls, jade, emeralds, rubies, diamonds. Most of the treasures of the monarchy in Britain or Italy seemed to be purely gold or silver, but here there was no end of precious stones. I swear there were more than 100 Bibles with gold and gemstone covers.
How did the Russians manage to keep all of this? They had just as much political strife and destruction as western Europe – maybe more. And yet Catherine the Great’s coronation dress, and the porcelain plates Napoleon gave to Alexander I (before they went to war), all survived. Where? Buried in some hole in the Kremlin? It’s amazing to me. It also crossed my mind that perhaps during dubious times in the 20th century, some of these things had been manufactured, for whatever reason. But I’d rather believe that they’re real.
So, after thoroughly enjoying this collection, we headed back outside to find…snow. Yes, a full-blown snowstorm, on a day where it was 65 degrees in the States. Wonderful.
We decided to brave the weather anyway, and headed to Cathedral Square – an area inside the Kremlin surrounded by four cathedrals. One of them, Archangel Cathedral, was the coronation site of all Russian tsars. The churches were gorgeous, but the outside was hard to admire in a snowstorm. The walls inside are covered with beautiful icons, which in the Orthodox faith are seen as more than just paintings of saints or the Holy Family – they are a direct connection to heaven. As we’ve started to learn in our art/architecture class, Orthodox churches are built on a different plan than Catholic and Protestant cathedrals: square instead of cross-shaped, with small, circular chapels housing different icons (why the bigger churches have several towers), and one large main cupola.
Despite the weather, the adventure ended up being wonderful, and we’re definitely going to go back when it’s warm and sunny. We’re hoping that will be soon. Hoping.
In order to avoid wracking my brains for a witty yet profound topic, I think I’ll stick with a travel journal this time. On Friday, Sara, Rachel, Joe, and I finally visited the Kremlin with our fantastic interpreter/administrator, Nastya. She was sweet enough to volunteer to come with us, I think because she’s taken so many people there she could sleepwalk around the museum and still translate the labels.
It didn’t start out as the best day we’ve seen in Moscow weather-wise – and shockingly, yes, we’ve had some good ones – but we didn’t pick the day. Both our classes happened to be cancelled, so clearly the universe was to blame, or perhaps our professors. At first, it was just plain dreary and drizzling. Nastya suggested we check out the Armory first, hoping that the weather would clear up by the time we were done.
So, I’ve seen a lot of these kinds of museums – case after immaculate case of solid gold punch bowls, jewel-encrusted potato peelers, and porcelain teacups that were gifts from Prince Gilgamesh the Great, or whoever the visiting monarch happened to be. Usually, one blinding room is about all I can take. You can only look at so many shiny forks.
But I was really surprised by the Kremlin Armory: the whole first floor held an incredible collection of clothing, livery, and carriages, items that were actually owned and used by the tsars. There were gorgeous coronation dresses, complete with all the outrageous styles of the 18th century; there were dazzling crowns and massive, intricately carved thrones; there was even a pair of Peter the Great’s enormous boots from 1700. The man apparently had ridiculously large feet.
The carriages were really the most impressive. They had about 15, from several different emperors, and they were gigantic. Most of their back wheels were as tall as I am, and several of them were as long as two cars. Two Smart Cars at least. Maybe three. Beyond that, we learned that some of them were so heavy it required ten horses to pull them. Of course they were all stunningly decorated with everything from wood carvings, to gold statues, to semi-precious stones. I think we have a new reality TV series here. Pimp My Ride: 17th Century.
In addition to the carriages, there was a room full of decorative horse harnesses, saddles, and bridles. These horses seriously wore more jewels than New York socialites. The detail was incredible. Russians redefine the phrase “jewel-encrusted”, in clothing and livery, as well as the “royal gifts” that were displayed upstairs. Piece after piece covered in pearls, jade, emeralds, rubies, diamonds. Most of the treasures of the monarchy in Britain or Italy seemed to be purely gold or silver, but here there was no end of precious stones. I swear there were more than 100 Bibles with gold and gemstone covers.
How did the Russians manage to keep all of this? They had just as much political strife and destruction as western Europe – maybe more. And yet Catherine the Great’s coronation dress, and the porcelain plates Napoleon gave to Alexander I (before they went to war), all survived. Where? Buried in some hole in the Kremlin? It’s amazing to me. It also crossed my mind that perhaps during dubious times in the 20th century, some of these things had been manufactured, for whatever reason. But I’d rather believe that they’re real.
So, after thoroughly enjoying this collection, we headed back outside to find…snow. Yes, a full-blown snowstorm, on a day where it was 65 degrees in the States. Wonderful.
We decided to brave the weather anyway, and headed to Cathedral Square – an area inside the Kremlin surrounded by four cathedrals. One of them, Archangel Cathedral, was the coronation site of all Russian tsars. The churches were gorgeous, but the outside was hard to admire in a snowstorm. The walls inside are covered with beautiful icons, which in the Orthodox faith are seen as more than just paintings of saints or the Holy Family – they are a direct connection to heaven. As we’ve started to learn in our art/architecture class, Orthodox churches are built on a different plan than Catholic and Protestant cathedrals: square instead of cross-shaped, with small, circular chapels housing different icons (why the bigger churches have several towers), and one large main cupola.
Despite the weather, the adventure ended up being wonderful, and we’re definitely going to go back when it’s warm and sunny. We’re hoping that will be soon. Hoping.
Quirks of a Cold City
1. The metro, a sprawling network of underground passageways and astounding efficiency, smells like baking bread. I can’t figure out why. There are these tiny booths from which people sell bread and pastries, but are they baking things in their 4 x 4 box?!
2. After a performance, during the curtain calls, the audience claps in rhythm. Instead of random applause, they fall together like automatons: clap, clap, clap, clap… It is a bizarrely creepy experience.
3. There is no exaggerating the fur thing.
4. Respectful and rude. Russians have a very strict code of civility. Students, for example, must stand and be silent when the teacher enters, not drink anything during class, and stand when they leave. At the same time, people will shove you in the subway, invade personal space, and stare unashamedly when they figure out you’re a foreigner.
5. Russians don’t like to give direct orders. When they say “It would be better for you if…” or “Maybe you want to do this…” it actually means, “You better damn well do this.”
6. “Salads” mostly consist of meat and mayonnaise or vinegar. And anything shredded.
7. Russians can put anything in a dumpling or pancake and make it fabulous.
8. Cashiers grumble when they have to give you change, but the ATMs won’t give you anything but 500 or 1,000 ruble notes. There’s a conflict here.
9. I thought people might have exaggerated the lack of color in Russians’ clothing, but it’s true. Looking out over the sea of people in the metro, you see black coats, grey hats, black boots, grey scarves. I’m hoping for a change in spring.
10. Stray dogs take the metro. (ABC News: Stray Dogs Master Complex Moscow Subway System) I’ve seen them sleeping in stations, but so far none on trains yet. That’s a cultural experience worth waiting for.
2. After a performance, during the curtain calls, the audience claps in rhythm. Instead of random applause, they fall together like automatons: clap, clap, clap, clap… It is a bizarrely creepy experience.
3. There is no exaggerating the fur thing.
4. Respectful and rude. Russians have a very strict code of civility. Students, for example, must stand and be silent when the teacher enters, not drink anything during class, and stand when they leave. At the same time, people will shove you in the subway, invade personal space, and stare unashamedly when they figure out you’re a foreigner.
5. Russians don’t like to give direct orders. When they say “It would be better for you if…” or “Maybe you want to do this…” it actually means, “You better damn well do this.”
6. “Salads” mostly consist of meat and mayonnaise or vinegar. And anything shredded.
7. Russians can put anything in a dumpling or pancake and make it fabulous.
8. Cashiers grumble when they have to give you change, but the ATMs won’t give you anything but 500 or 1,000 ruble notes. There’s a conflict here.
9. I thought people might have exaggerated the lack of color in Russians’ clothing, but it’s true. Looking out over the sea of people in the metro, you see black coats, grey hats, black boots, grey scarves. I’m hoping for a change in spring.
10. Stray dogs take the metro. (ABC News: Stray Dogs Master Complex Moscow Subway System) I’ve seen them sleeping in stations, but so far none on trains yet. That’s a cultural experience worth waiting for.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Experimental Apparently Isn't Black and White (but "Kije" is)
Things I usually don’ t like onstage: obscure and seemingly pointless objects. Monochromatic color schemes. Constant hissing and ambient noise. Not being a huge fan of the esoteric avant-garde aesthetic that is so dear to most of my comrades, squawking actors and floating puppets will often make me roll my eyes rather than tear up in admiration - and they already have, in one or two of the 7 shows we’ve seen here so far.
Tonight, though, that didn’t happen. We saw “Киже” (Kije or Kizhe) at MXAT, and I enjoyed every artsy-fartsy minute. The story is sort of a Russian version of “The Emperor’s New Clothes”, but it’s also based on Russian history during the reign of Tsar Paul I. The fictional part is about a non-existent Lieutenant Kije, who is created by a clerical error. Not wanting to contradict the tsar, the people act like Kije is a real person: he has a love affair, is exiled and pardoned, gets married, and receives a state funeral when he “dies.” The production is concerned with the outrageous things people do to avoid angering their unstable emperor, and the sickening things that happen to those who can’t avoid it.
Of course I can’t talk about text of the play, and the finer points of poetry and plot were lost on me. But the staging of this production was incredible. While the aesthetic was jarring at first, every moment was an inventive combination of light, sound, performance, and composition that truly enhanced the story of Tsar Paul and Kije. To begin with, everything onstage, including the floor, the costumes, and the actors’ faces, was white. It was a blank landscape, against which
anything that wasn’t white stood out in stark contrast. The actors were also constantly playing with talcum powder, sending plumes of dust into the air and over each other, creating a striking stage picture.
Tonight, though, that didn’t happen. We saw “Киже” (Kije or Kizhe) at MXAT, and I enjoyed every artsy-fartsy minute. The story is sort of a Russian version of “The Emperor’s New Clothes”, but it’s also based on Russian history during the reign of Tsar Paul I. The fictional part is about a non-existent Lieutenant Kije, who is created by a clerical error. Not wanting to contradict the tsar, the people act like Kije is a real person: he has a love affair, is exiled and pardoned, gets married, and receives a state funeral when he “dies.” The production is concerned with the outrageous things people do to avoid angering their unstable emperor, and the sickening things that happen to those who can’t avoid it.
Of course I can’t talk about text of the play, and the finer points of poetry and plot were lost on me. But the staging of this production was incredible. While the aesthetic was jarring at first, every moment was an inventive combination of light, sound, performance, and composition that truly enhanced the story of Tsar Paul and Kije. To begin with, everything onstage, including the floor, the costumes, and the actors’ faces, was white. It was a blank landscape, against which
anything that wasn’t white stood out in stark contrast. The actors were also constantly playing with talcum powder, sending plumes of dust into the air and over each other, creating a striking stage picture.This colorless visual landscape also imparted greater importance to sound. The production had an orchestra and there was some great traditional music (with better performances than Threepenny Opera), but the instruments were also used in non-traditional ways. In one moment, an ominous blowing/rumbling crept under the dialogue. It was unclear at first where it was coming from, until I realized that the horn players were simply blowing air through their instruments, without playing notes. As a former instrumentalist I can imagine them sitting every night, thinking, “20 years of training for this?” – but hey, it was effective.
In other moments, actors provided their own soundscape: hissing, clicking, screeching, sighing; dropping, clanging, thumping different objects, each of which made their own distinct sound; altering the speed and rhythm of their dialogue to create a coordinated tapestry of noise, which molded the play as much as the visual or the narrative, but never became distracting.
So, perhaps the lesson here is that I should keep an open mind with experimental theater. Or maybe it’s just that I need to see good experimental theater. What can I say, I like a narrative. It’s when theater becomes obscure for the sake of obscurity and too self-important for its own good that things go bad; and it’s when theater uses innovative and surprising methods to share something with its audience that things are good.
What’s better, though, is that I’ve only been here two weeks, and I can already see that immersing myself in Moscow’s rich artistic culture is really helping me to define my own aesthetic. I never thought I’d be able to say that spending three months seeing all the theater, art, music, and history I can stand would be anything but fun; but I think it’s really going to help me bring back a more refined artistic sense. Which, honestly, has been an insecurity for me, since I’m younger and less experienced than most. So, fingers crossed, I can see more like Kije; and if not, that I can confidently proclaim why that dinosaur puppet was completely unnecessary.
In other moments, actors provided their own soundscape: hissing, clicking, screeching, sighing; dropping, clanging, thumping different objects, each of which made their own distinct sound; altering the speed and rhythm of their dialogue to create a coordinated tapestry of noise, which molded the play as much as the visual or the narrative, but never became distracting.
So, perhaps the lesson here is that I should keep an open mind with experimental theater. Or maybe it’s just that I need to see good experimental theater. What can I say, I like a narrative. It’s when theater becomes obscure for the sake of obscurity and too self-important for its own good that things go bad; and it’s when theater uses innovative and surprising methods to share something with its audience that things are good.
What’s better, though, is that I’ve only been here two weeks, and I can already see that immersing myself in Moscow’s rich artistic culture is really helping me to define my own aesthetic. I never thought I’d be able to say that spending three months seeing all the theater, art, music, and history I can stand would be anything but fun; but I think it’s really going to help me bring back a more refined artistic sense. Which, honestly, has been an insecurity for me, since I’m younger and less experienced than most. So, fingers crossed, I can see more like Kije; and if not, that I can confidently proclaim why that dinosaur puppet was completely unnecessary.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Cloakroom Deals
A story: Joe, Rachel, and I meet our professor, Anatoly, at the stage door of the Lenkom Theater. We’re going to see a controversial production of Chekhov’s Cherry Orchard – controversial because the production changes almost all of Chekhov’s writing. Anatoly didn’t love the production his first time around, but the director pressed him to give it a second chance. He said that many things in the production had been changed. (They weren’t.) He reluctantly agreed, partly because he could only get tickets for us if he came along himself.
Striding up the marble stairs of a deserted entrance hall, we are met by the director, Mark Zacharov. Anatoly introduces us, and I smile widely as I shake his hand and frantically grope for “Pleased to meet you” in Russian. It doesn’t come. Not surprisingly.
Anatoly speaks to the director and another woman in Russian, and then we’re lead to hang up our coats. As we walk, Tolya turns to us and says, “Apparently the Minister of Finance is here.” Before we can really process this statement, we follow him into a dimly-lit, spacious meeting room with a vast round table surrounded by antique chairs, where several well-dressed men are sitting with cups of tea, or possibly vodka. It smacks of James Bond: I automatically envision an underground lair, a lavish back room where deals are done that few ever see. Why is this room in a theater? I don’t know. The men hardly glance our way as we sheepishly hang up our coats and hope no one asks us a question in Russian. Anatoly hands us our tickets and says, “You go sit. Just a moment – I will say a few words to the Minister.” Oh. Well, sure.
Later, during the intermission, we ask Anatoly how his chat went. Alexei Kudrin, apparently, is not only the Minister of Finance – he’s the deputy prime minister. Anatoly mentions that during their talk, he told the minister about us, and our program, and that he was very interested. He smiles and says, “Actually, he invited us to have tea with him at intermission…but I said I think it would be better no.”
After the show, the three of us walk home, amazed at our professor, and imagining how teatime with the minister might have gone with our lackluster language skills. “So, how do you like Moscow?” “Ochin charasho, spasiba (Very well, thank you).” And that would probably be about it. I mean really, I couldn't even remember "pleased to meet you".
Striding up the marble stairs of a deserted entrance hall, we are met by the director, Mark Zacharov. Anatoly introduces us, and I smile widely as I shake his hand and frantically grope for “Pleased to meet you” in Russian. It doesn’t come. Not surprisingly.
Anatoly speaks to the director and another woman in Russian, and then we’re lead to hang up our coats. As we walk, Tolya turns to us and says, “Apparently the Minister of Finance is here.” Before we can really process this statement, we follow him into a dimly-lit, spacious meeting room with a vast round table surrounded by antique chairs, where several well-dressed men are sitting with cups of tea, or possibly vodka. It smacks of James Bond: I automatically envision an underground lair, a lavish back room where deals are done that few ever see. Why is this room in a theater? I don’t know. The men hardly glance our way as we sheepishly hang up our coats and hope no one asks us a question in Russian. Anatoly hands us our tickets and says, “You go sit. Just a moment – I will say a few words to the Minister.” Oh. Well, sure.
Later, during the intermission, we ask Anatoly how his chat went. Alexei Kudrin, apparently, is not only the Minister of Finance – he’s the deputy prime minister. Anatoly mentions that during their talk, he told the minister about us, and our program, and that he was very interested. He smiles and says, “Actually, he invited us to have tea with him at intermission…but I said I think it would be better no.”
After the show, the three of us walk home, amazed at our professor, and imagining how teatime with the minister might have gone with our lackluster language skills. “So, how do you like Moscow?” “Ochin charasho, spasiba (Very well, thank you).” And that would probably be about it. I mean really, I couldn't even remember "pleased to meet you".
An Experiment
In order to work on my writing (and as Joe said, because Tolya told me to), I’ve decided to start a blog and *try* very hard to write short entries every few days or so. In the past I’ve been terrible at this kind of thing, so if I don’t keep up with it, you were warned ahead of time. Mostly I want to talk about my time here in Moscow, and share with anyone who cares to read it. I'll also be talking about productions, etc, so feel free to skip the posts when I start to geek out.
So! I’m living in Moscow with my Harvard graduate class, in a dorm with other Russian MXAT students. (Vocab: “MXAT” stands for Московском Художественном театре, or Moscow Art Theater, and is pronounced “Mhat”. I’m taking classes at the Moscow Art Theater School, the most prestigious theater school in the country and possibly anywhere.) There are 23 of us: 4 dramaturgs, 18 actors, and one voice & speech student. While the actors are living together on the 3rd floor in doubles, Sara, Rachel, Joe and I (the dramaturgs) and Jane, the voice student, are living in the lap of luxury and cloud of rising cigarette smoke on the 5th floor. They tell us that the fifth floor is the nicest, but five huge flights of stairs makes me doubt the reality of that statement. The rooms aren’t bad, though, and we each have singles.
Our dorm is in an awesome location in downtown Moscow, right off one of the major avenues, Tverskaya. They told us our dorm would be a “short walk” from school, but it turns out that’s also a questionable statement. Though it’s a nice walk on a main street, it’s a bit of hike, and takes a solid half an hour walking at a quick pace. Luckily, if you’re feeling lazy, there’s a metro about a block away. Three stops and you’re at the theater.
For the first week, I made it my personal mission to try to pass as a Russian. This mostly requires wearing high-heeled boots, fur, and black, and not smiling. At first I thought I was pretty successful – I was asked for directions twice in the first two days – but lately I’ve been getting more of the “Ug, you annoying foreigner” stare. Probably because I’ve decided the walk is too long to wear my heels. Overall, though, I think I’m blending pretty well, especially when I’m not in a gaggle of loud Americans.
And yes, while we’re here we are taking classes (which couldn’t really be said when I was in Rome, if you remember). Russian everything: Literature, history, art & architecture, film, theater history, and history of set design. Almost all of these things overlap and involve venturing out in the city to see Moscow’s huge number of museums and historical sites. There are six major art galleries and numerous smaller ones, several memorial parks, an incalculable amount of theater, dance, and opera, and every literary genius (of which there are many in Russia) seems to have a “memorial apartment”: the houses/apartments of Pushkin, Chekhov, Tolstoy, Gogol, etc etc have all been preserved and turned into museums, some fascinating and some spectacularly boring. (“This is where Pushkin wrote. But this is not his desk, and we’ve lost his manuscripts, and that window was put in last year.”)
The amount of theater we’re seeing could be a course in itself - 4 to 6 shows a week. The professor in charge of this (and us) is Anatoly Smeliansky, the dean of MXAT School and the assistant artistic director of MXAT itself. We are lucky enough to know him quite well because he comes to Cambridge to teach us in the summer and in January-February. But here in Moscow, to (a bit ashamedly) quote Anchorman, he’s kind of a big deal. In fact, really a big deal, especially in theater. When Hillary Clinton visited Moscow a few months ago, he was her host for an evening of opera. They hit it off, and there is a fantastic picture of the two of them in his dark wood, leather, and antique-filled office, hanging next to countless national awards for contributions to theater and culture. He’s working with the US State department on opening educational and artistic communications between students in the US and Russia, and when he invited the US ambassador and his staff to the premiere of our small student show, they came. The best example I have of his importance is from a few nights ago, when we attended a play with him. But that’s for another time.
So! I’m living in Moscow with my Harvard graduate class, in a dorm with other Russian MXAT students. (Vocab: “MXAT” stands for Московском Художественном театре, or Moscow Art Theater, and is pronounced “Mhat”. I’m taking classes at the Moscow Art Theater School, the most prestigious theater school in the country and possibly anywhere.) There are 23 of us: 4 dramaturgs, 18 actors, and one voice & speech student. While the actors are living together on the 3rd floor in doubles, Sara, Rachel, Joe and I (the dramaturgs) and Jane, the voice student, are living in the lap of luxury and cloud of rising cigarette smoke on the 5th floor. They tell us that the fifth floor is the nicest, but five huge flights of stairs makes me doubt the reality of that statement. The rooms aren’t bad, though, and we each have singles.
Our dorm is in an awesome location in downtown Moscow, right off one of the major avenues, Tverskaya. They told us our dorm would be a “short walk” from school, but it turns out that’s also a questionable statement. Though it’s a nice walk on a main street, it’s a bit of hike, and takes a solid half an hour walking at a quick pace. Luckily, if you’re feeling lazy, there’s a metro about a block away. Three stops and you’re at the theater.
For the first week, I made it my personal mission to try to pass as a Russian. This mostly requires wearing high-heeled boots, fur, and black, and not smiling. At first I thought I was pretty successful – I was asked for directions twice in the first two days – but lately I’ve been getting more of the “Ug, you annoying foreigner” stare. Probably because I’ve decided the walk is too long to wear my heels. Overall, though, I think I’m blending pretty well, especially when I’m not in a gaggle of loud Americans.
And yes, while we’re here we are taking classes (which couldn’t really be said when I was in Rome, if you remember). Russian everything: Literature, history, art & architecture, film, theater history, and history of set design. Almost all of these things overlap and involve venturing out in the city to see Moscow’s huge number of museums and historical sites. There are six major art galleries and numerous smaller ones, several memorial parks, an incalculable amount of theater, dance, and opera, and every literary genius (of which there are many in Russia) seems to have a “memorial apartment”: the houses/apartments of Pushkin, Chekhov, Tolstoy, Gogol, etc etc have all been preserved and turned into museums, some fascinating and some spectacularly boring. (“This is where Pushkin wrote. But this is not his desk, and we’ve lost his manuscripts, and that window was put in last year.”)
The amount of theater we’re seeing could be a course in itself - 4 to 6 shows a week. The professor in charge of this (and us) is Anatoly Smeliansky, the dean of MXAT School and the assistant artistic director of MXAT itself. We are lucky enough to know him quite well because he comes to Cambridge to teach us in the summer and in January-February. But here in Moscow, to (a bit ashamedly) quote Anchorman, he’s kind of a big deal. In fact, really a big deal, especially in theater. When Hillary Clinton visited Moscow a few months ago, he was her host for an evening of opera. They hit it off, and there is a fantastic picture of the two of them in his dark wood, leather, and antique-filled office, hanging next to countless national awards for contributions to theater and culture. He’s working with the US State department on opening educational and artistic communications between students in the US and Russia, and when he invited the US ambassador and his staff to the premiere of our small student show, they came. The best example I have of his importance is from a few nights ago, when we attended a play with him. But that’s for another time.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
