Andrey Levkin. Kitchen hermeneutics 8

Kitchen hermeneutics 8
B.Sh. Okudzhava. Poems / Introductory articles by L.S. Dubshan and V.N. Sazhin. Comp. V.N. Sazhin and D.V. Sazhin. Note V.N. Sazhina. - St. Petersburg: Academic Project, 2001, “New Library of the Poet”. - 712 s.

Andrey Levkin

Publication date: April 19, 2001

The first thing we will take into account is the alienation of the author of the poems from the deceased person. Actually, even without that, several years before his death, Okudzhava was already quite such a creature - that is, only composing, while at the same time having clearly worked out his project. For a large number of people who did not see him, but only heard, during his lifetime he was always like this. Well, the voice only emphasized the alienation.

And he began to become alive - in the everyday sense - only towards the end of his life. It seems that this procedure (through all sorts of interviews) was unpleasant for all parties involved in the process.

It is also obvious that his prose was written by some other version of O., since there is not much connection between prose and what is called O.’s poetry, apart from the approximation that is always inherent in O., but this already applies not only to him, but and by his time. I will not talk about prose, nor about voice, phonetics - I am talking only about the book, that is, about the space of its text and about its author.

In the case of Okudzhava, what is more interesting is not his opuses, but the mutually located spaces onto which he was projected. The space of a certain (always not entirely clear) current reality and the space of reality from the time the texts were written. The space of the author’s ideas about reality as such and the artistic space, which are almost synonymous, because all the same, the artistic space will be based on the author’s original ideas. Let’s take a moment here: is this always the case? Maybe there are other options? And, accordingly: the space of representations and the artistic space - can they be different?

O. works ingenuously: his key words are not inside him, not in the work area (in some kind of “gray” writer’s room), on the contrary: he put them, these Main Words of his, into his texts. The result and, accordingly, its mechanics - and in this version everything will be quite mechanical - consists in winding anything around these driven posts. " Vera ", " Arbat ", " Love ", " Commissars in Dusty Helmets ". Or new formations of an equally not sensual, but aloofly elegiac quality: “ The Last Orchestra ,” “ The Jacket That Is Altering ,” some wild “ Sentries of Love, ” and so on. " Hope a little trolleybus ." Then, if he managed to make such a column, confirm it so that it would not wobble, then - well, just by texture - he will be able to sing. There is no such column - there will be no song: the verse was not successful, that is, just in someone’s album (O. has a reservoir of dedications, messages and simply mentions of individuals). Sometimes this approach (putting up these columns and decorating them by wrapping words on them) is labeled “romanticism,” which is exactly the opposite of romanticism Novalis , much less Hölderlin.

He does not shake his terms; on the contrary, they are affirmed and strengthened by the entire text of the opus. Well, as it should be for a concert. With the format, that is, everything is clear, it is not complicated. After reading this book, no surprises emerged either (well, perhaps “ Of course, I’m to blame for a lot of things: / well, I overlooked it, I’m so mediocre... / But if Khasbulatov is a democrat, / then it’s better to go to a totalitarian regime! ” - and even then , what a surprise?).

What kind of space will be created as a result of this letter? Based on the author’s method, it is clear that the relationships between objects are not explored, they are not touched at all, and, perhaps, that they are simply assigned to taste.

From these columns the author will certainly draw strings to himself, as if to his physical body. It is interesting here that these threads do not go back to the author at all, but to the same writing part of him, in which this “sort of man” is highlighted. Well, “ you look at me, and I look into space .” A kind of safety net that provides texts with at least one reader-consumer, that is, a certain guaranteed connection between certain subjects already within the text.

“Consumer” is quite appropriate here, since such a reception is quite public. Not to mention the fact that the space itself is intended for pure consumption - these, such as dragees, “watches of love”, “Arbat”, “Mozart”: specific sweets, the recipe for which (recipe + technology) is completely the author’s own.

But it’s interesting that when people sing about, say, vodka or port, they are not talking about the liquids themselves, but about the sensations that are potentially already contained in these words. But in the case of O., this option does not happen: “watches of love” are not at all equivalent to the texturally equivalent now, say, “sexual riot police,” and “Mozart,” of course, wrote music for the transition from “Okhotny Ryad” to “Teatralnaya ".

That is, the space of O.’s writing is a popular print, a children’s illustration, or some kind of illustration of life, which is like a children’s book, which is sweet. Or, more precisely, cartoons: with the characters “Vera”, “Nadezhda”, “Arbat”, “P. Trolleybus”, “Love”, “Mozart”. Of course, what's a cartoon without a song?

The trolleybus is moving. A tailor is altering a jacket. Commissioners in dusty helmets are bowing, Mozart is playing. More precisely, these are “pre-cartoons” - pictures that come to life, drawn on the edges of the notebook and then quickly leafed through. Zip - one simple action: the commissars bowed down, wearing dusty helmets. That is, space does not develop and does not clarify itself, it is assembled from these columns, nails in the brain. Like a set of trinkets on a sideboard, each of which is associated with something significant in terms of personal life and success in work.

It's quite similar to a kindergarten. Not only because “let’s join hands,” but nominatives of this kind are like pictures on kindergarten cabinets, in which everyone keeps something of their own: the world consists of cabinets on which such word-pictures are pasted. It’s difficult, but it’s possible to do, but cartoon characters don’t change, they’ll remain the same as they were drawn all their lives. A person is forever the same as he accepted himself. Well, how I put myself. What column?

In the pop mechanism, it is fundamentally impossible to become attached to the post: twist it, loosen it. There is no need to break and look at how everything works, it is harmful to the songs. Ergo, in such texts there are no holes into which you want to crawl behind some kind of reverse side in order to find out why everything is arranged this way - and what exactly is arranged. Just posts that need to be painted beautifully. This is a fractional space, a space of fractional consciousness. Nominalism + a little bit of rebellion against Occam, which O. has some sort of Marxism-Leninism in it. I don’t think, of course, that he thought about it.

For comparison, here is another option, with “loosening” and crawling through the wrong side. The problem there is not at all in going deep somewhere for the sake of the text, or pulling something out for it. This is not a problem, but a job. The point is not to create some kind of specially complex artistic space. As it lines up, that’s how it will be. What can be extracted from these holes and transferred into the space of writing is not aesthetics, and it is not even that the agent of writing equips himself in the space of writing with what he has extracted from certain depths. The problem is to find out for yourself some real reasons: yourself, letters. Of course, this option has nothing to do with O.

In the case of O., the most interesting thing is that he is in demand by the layer, the environment, called the “intelligentsia”: accordingly, its passion for O. determines some parameters of the environment itself, and this is even more interesting. O., in fact, gave her the technology of perception, explaining to her how to behave and feel in this cartoon. He offered her a space to live: recognizable and convenient for mass consumption, and gave her an intonation that could be trusted.

For the masses, yes. In the book, for example, there are comments that, in particular, tell who Penelope is (“ Penelope is Homer’s wife of Odysseus ”), who Rastrelli is and who Rossi is. Let's take into account that the collection was published in the series "New Library of the Poet" in St. Petersburg, and it was published by "Akademproekt". That is, these three entities, in principle, do not allow explanations of who R. and R. are - but this needs to be explained to O.’s readers. Let us take into account that the comments were made by a person who compiled the book and also wrote a preface to it: in other words, a person from an environment not foreign to O. And he, quite naturally for himself, writes: “ Rastrelli Bartolomeo Francesco (1700-1771) and Rossi Karl Ivanovich (1775-1849) are St. Petersburg architects .” And this is not such a suspicious compiler; he cites, for example, A. Galich’s critical remark in a conversation with A. Sakharov regarding an inaccurate detail (“you cannot press your palms to your forehead while playing the violin”), which completely coincides with his discourse.” see: "Banner". 1991. #2, p. 152. ) ".

Well, the same question about the space of “real reality”. That is, what is the space in which a person really lives: that is, the space in which life is actually measured and decisions are made. That is, where everything is real, like if you go there when the color is red, a car will run over you, and not like la-la. The space in which a person is responsible for himself and where everything happens to him: according to his standards. Where, in fact, he can only feel good in accordance with his ideas, or rather, with the feeling of life: that is, a place where a person not only believes that his life is there, but it is exactly there.

In the case of a person writing, it is also the space in which his writing lives - this is the space of the writing being.

It is clear that the space of O.'s texts is not the space of Gregory Palamas. And not the artistic spaces of, say, Bely, well... Blake, Khlebnikov, Leon Bogdanov... Henry Miller , in the end, this is a place of “as if reality”, “as if life”. In fact, the “postmodernist” attachment to the magical particle “as if” was just a cheerful voice of that very “as if,” which was not only taboo, but could not even be imagined in the previous eon. That - previous - time took place among “as if concepts,” whether they related to views on nature, the meaning of life, or the best structure of society.

It was just a place where a person’s freedom or non-freedom was understood as the opportunity to choose the most pleasant option from among his details.