In the depths of "mirror"

Tel Aviv Winter came, charged rains, threw thoughts and images, the Mediterranean puddle was solarized, and they already know the old-timers, ready-wait for the “mirrors”! And for sure, looking - the magazine came out, and two rooms at once, a new treat for the good old intellectuals, the faithful first students of the second avant -garde (mirror. 2011. No. 37 - 38).

Going out in the provincial Tel Aviv, in the foothills of Sinai, the magazine collects authors from all over the world, sometimes pulling out the choirs of glorious shadows, resurrecting worthy "missed names." As Sasha Sokolov would say - "choosing the best."

Opus thirty -seventh

It begins on "A" - Alexander Anashevich. The poet lives in Voronezh, where he once visited, ohm, ohm ... "Black fleas live on a drunkard and a freak, and everything moves in a sunny round dance: pantelers, old people, motorcycles and flocks of fleas, and behind the hill, with a rainbow over his head stands an inconspicuous bogokh." Kindergarten of the joys of earthly.

Next - the entrance to the poetry of the tomb, close to me with your young game. There, eternal smart Jews scurry out for a while and the glorious simple-minded Slavs are rounded-a kind of pleasant fusion-", the foaming PIITIC" Abram-Durso "of the absurdity. "Then the Slavs were still so sweet people in their lakes sailed quietly in their forests, they fed themselves without succumbing to the spirits of darkness." On the other hand: "The crows of Pasternak fly from the openwork cross to the cross and the peeling dog eats something Jews stretch to the evening old woman Russian cramped noses sticking out all the evil-dimensional druisa around." In general, driving from the spring cross and scourging with a verb! The surroundings are also familiar, routine even, a soft-hearted tomb: "I saw Russian poets all lie in the same coffin in the wooden regiments of narrow people at the Jews on the hump themselves, too, all the Jews all the Jews will rush and hiss all the Euro-Russian zoosades dressed in livery." Little is striking in the absence of a mat, inherent in the tomb of the tomb-in his texts, the mat-Syams are not dried in vain, but vigorously in spacedness-as, say, meat carcasses of Sutin hopped off the chaim of life.

Efrat Mishori, a modern Israeli poetess, turned Virschi from Hebrew Shlomo Krol. "And so the Soul-Soul wrote in her diary, and so she asked when her time came: what will happen when I go to the body when I come in the process of connecting a seed with an egg? Who will I be when I study the active vocabulary of sin and prohibition?" Curly white verse, a shaking verlibr.

Vadim Rossman. “He was an excellent draftsman ..." And here is excellent poetry - sound painting, unnecessaryness, "Pointerism of the Morning Sun" and other causals - hung both in the line and the "short prose" catalog. But it is so penetrated by the creeping vines of alliterations and so overgrown with colored metaphors that I want to stay there longer, "in the Bungalo among tropical thickets, where the beauty-Kambojik with a very dark-skinned face and elastic caviar resorted." The Burma or Balmont tags are not suitable here - an author living near the Castali Key, in the Bangkoka forgotten by God, is absolutely autonomous, is torn from the points of the shelter and literary forerunners. "He did not even write so much as he painted with words." And the reader, if he is not a druid-aid, not the final fie-Pen, will peer and rejoice.

Alexander Ilyanen, a seductive diary, not a day without a line: “Somewhere Charlotte’s scarf mysteriously disappeared. I will wear anin. Belo-pink and the colors of the cream brool (today I noticed in the light), I will wear a graph a memorial scarf, with a green jacket of Zamsheva.” Also poems, of course, for the "mirror" in the album. "At the same time, Selin mentioned as a shield. De that he only drank water." De journey to the edges of Europe, all around the water - Venice, as in a mirror, a non -Neva other begins ... Wandering coeleo, Pound, Gilles Deleuz - Eh, to children's swollen glands! ..

Perhaps the decoration of the room is the conversation of Irina Vrubel-Golubkina with the famous writer Sasha Sokolov, who, in Serlinder, retired from the myth and the world and did not give any interviews a long time ago. It is called "I choose the best all my life ..." being not a chick, I have not grown up, so at least Pechents of the Sokolov nest, I invaded understandable enthusiasm, fell into the recorded conversation. I liked it very much. At first, however, the striking inconsistency of the freed-assigned canonical falcons-texts of his oral domesticated speech is slightly slightly bruised. As if somewhat struck the semantic gap between the dog’s dog and the wolf written. Once again, having licked your mouth, you reflect-oh, what goat-percial song, the teacher himself would write out the good news, and did not slap the four pupil students! However, all giving is good, and the word Sokolov is in a line. Thanks to the "mirror" and Irina Vrubel-Golubkina-it turned out both deep and entertaining. When they interpreted in general and near, briefly about the diga resident, a wonderful stylization near Dovlatov crawled out. Kurt Vonneut - “funny, humorous such an old man”, Nina Berberova - “moody lady, sophisticated, arrogant”, Borges, “discreet, restrained, maybe deliberately”, amusing Apocrypha about Brodsky, cordially about the tomb: “Here is Misha Grobman - he is a poet, an artist, and a theorist, and in general Leviathan” Further, as Kilgor Trout used to say. When it came to serious - about the language - the language of the master, of course, changed. About Alexander Goldstein: "Sasha is complicated. He is complicated not only stylistically, but also philosophical ... Sasha is a tactful, insufficient mystic ... There is a powerful associative thinking, but almost everything is communicated from the perspective of a tired person." And a lot, much more. In short, I learned, the truths and Donik gained that I need to read (re -read) Sokolov’s works - but the presentation is good ...

The conversation of Irina Vrubel-Golubkina and Mikhail Grobman with Herman Titov, an artist and a collector from Vologda is quite interesting. Titov tells, in particular, about the artist Andrei Monastyrsky, whose painting "Transport" decorates the cover of this "Mirror" number. Monastyrsky, it turns out, also created the book "Kashirskoye Shosse" - "where the main hero is the insanity of the protagonist against the background of Orthodox austerity, but proceeds with the obvious such Mahayan touches to the void." This is how interesting they tell - I want to read it right away, pulls! It would be necessary somehow. And then Sasha Sokolov said about Pasha Pepperstein: “Some kind of porridge”-how he nailed. And what, it would seem, is so strict: porridge is our food, our spiritual, nutritious ax ... Kashirskoye Shosse!

Lyolya Kantor-Kazovskaya, "The second Russian avant-garde and the Western art community: the 1950s-60s." Serious work, the English version is being prepared for printing. "Gromman built his compositions from biomorphic and geometric iconograms ... His concept led to the idea of ​​the possibility of almost a magical effect of forms on people's consciousness, and these forms were subjected to thoroughly thinking, analysis and selection."

Arkady weeks, "Manifesto of Philosophy". The text is densely inlaid Latin, Greek, German, English, Sanskrit, Japanese hieroglyphs. It was difficult for me, the Cyrillic son, it was difficult to get through the Basurmansk valernik. Such a “manifesto” has come out now - the ghost is wandering in the wake, the ghost of Finnegan ... He rested his eye on accessible oases: “The postmodernism is incestuosen, he does not have the very idea of ​​communication with another. He always looks in the mirror.” A simple zigmund proverb.

Alexander Kovalensky (1897-1965)-a selection of poems and an essay on the life and work of the poet, written by Eugene Steiner. "He came from the rich noble family, was the second cousin of Alexander Blok and the elder friend of Daniil Andreev, who had a great influence on him as a poet and a spiritual priest." Further, I think, it is clear that the entire archive is confiscated and burned, he went through prisons, survived in the camps, and was released in the mid -fifties. Today, Evgeny Shteiner, analyzing the archive of the permanent Moscow author of the Mirror Alexei Smirnov (1937-2009), discovered the typewriter of the Kovalensky spurs of the mountains with the date of 1941. The Pastushya’s horns were sang under the window, the silver ringing came closer, and Luch, laughing, fell on the slope, lilac iris, white anemone and wormho moss, and cups of mountain spruce. " Yes, there were people. They lived, wrote, loved. And what else will you mumble ... "Stop Machine", - as Kharmsovsky Pushkin said.

Igor Kholin (1920-1999), "Poor Turtle", a fragment from the novel. It turned out to be the sad on marvelous - it was not impressed. Here, it seems to me, the magazine pecked a bit with his nose. Such a fast, murmuring nonsense, stepped (exactly Ilyanen, but injured time), turtle shreds, shimmering from Pu into a self-ragged flux of consciousness (tank flows?), A simple absurdity for the poor-a bendal tortoise, all who comes and comes behind his skull. Attempts to get a pale fire with friction ... Ah, they will say, you delve into, sucker, this is Kholin! Well, Kholin, well, holi? “After all, he doesn’t care, the deceased,” like Coroviev's sipel. Somehow I will survive my meager. By the way, you did not read - this is generally the first publication. Take the "mirror", open the cover and run even from top to bottom - and then soap the withers! ..

Dmitry Bavilsky, "27. Inner cinema: all Symphony of Nikolai Maskovsky." A beautiful, incredibly inventive, friendly-complicated prose, a hardworking fish from Remizovsky pond-a story about music as such, twenty-seven chiefs-symphony. "The sound time of the opus turns out to be a time for thinking about music and around it, the possibility of looking at its inner cinema, which develops on the wrong side of the eye eyelids. In fact, this is an" automatic letter ", fixing a series of floating images caused by external sound and its inner reflection." Absolutely bewitching, rosy overflowing bubbles of associations - “there, in the depths of the mirror, behind the scene” - louds, louds, here you are and the ship (Goncharovskaya “Pallad”) floats, and, hearing, “the cloud ends with suicide, a swift black monk falling on the palmistry”, and the miraculous Shostakovich on the fading of the heels Shostkin’s film, and Prokofiev in the Chudska Gama, and the mischievous lake school of Russian mermaid waves (Stravinsky with marine grass), and "Poened late Glazunov". And in different places it is driving one: “Moonlight rolled out with kubaroma,” “The beginning is loudly, in a shostakovichevsky, kubarom rolls from the steps”, “The light stream rolls into the kubarom”. Oh, a scroll-slop, trained Bavilian, kubar, sleepers and rhombuses, walking dancing tanks! To me, to me, in the Bosomonom of the Volcnary Childhood, the Autochtonic bear stepped in the ear, it seems to me that there was no meat - it was just a prose that he herself came up with that the world ether was breathing in and describes to us, mocking with a felt boot, increasing the meat of signs on the bonfire of sounds - like a gomer thunder and sea Ships ... The text-symphora is inexhaustible, like amber with the meanings "stolen inside". You can punish and cyclic for a long time, save my Myskovsky, it is better to read Bavilsky yourself.

On the back of the magazine, the “porcelain man” of Mikhail Grobman is like a photo of an AFAS of one of the authors, and there are thirteen of them in this issue - the remarkable service “Mirror”!

Opus thirty -eighth

Alexey Grigoryev, Moscow poet. “I approached you at a shot, intervention winter ... Cold rails brilliant belt, a burned Kostyak station ...”, “and from the sky, he sprinkles rice porridge from the sky, and there is still a little anisa in the snowdrift of the soul ...”, “I don’t go to the subway, I carry a pie in my pocket ...” Rus, where you are striving, the metropolis, rushing paths, Vickel paths, villages on the way. The stump, the giggling geese-swans-is good, stable in the yard. And here we have in the sands-Toska-Kruchin, a gray cruel.

Yuri Leiderman, "Poems for the Greek Theater and Folk Songs." Leiderman gives us another joy: “Damn it! Mr. Ziberly! Already crown the cold! We all know the song about the railway ...” Yes, we know how not to know - they just read Grigoryev. "And the Kremlin - again a miserable station, the station frozen ..." Leiderman is better.

David Dexor, "Lebanese War". The first Lebanese war, triumphant-tank, unlike the second panic. The text is a jerky, the devil in the details, Erich-Ham, and everything is without changes: "Were they afraid? The answer will be too metaphysical, well, it seems-you woke up at night and you are afraid of death." And one more thing: “The smell of Lebanon is a sweet burial, heat and corpses”, “Farewell, Lebanon. Forgive, please,” this military prose ends. Goodbye, sorry, weapons.

Valery Isenberg, artist, writer. Outside, on the cover of the room - its installation "Upgings, eggs, emerald flies and blood (self -portrait)". Inside is the story "Difficult life." Moscow, a frost, the workshop of the artist Aizenbrot, on TV - Spartak with Kirk Douglas, a friend of Nilin - from afar, on foot, almost with the Nile, a kind of outcome - eats dumplings, crushes mol, and moth everywhere - in cabinets, boots, under nails, gladiators' fights were straightened in my head and ragged me in my head and ragged me in my head and got into my head and got into my heads Counted! - And when a friend leaves, fleas appear from his innocently forgotten portfolio. Here you have Nilin - the lord of flies! Lice is not enough, and so - Egyptian executions.

Nikolai Bokov, "Notes of the Parisian Bom". Bokov is an amazing and unless (so far?) Writer. Moving on the treasured-smudgering, godmother-memory (to come to Rus' from the outside), Nikolai Bokov, alas, did not succeed in the modern spilled premium sea. And it is a pity-the prose greedy to the reader’s wolf, acute scum-“with cocaine”, irritated, irritating mental receptors, exquisite and exacting something simple, elevator. And the walls of the monastery without a broken sharp glass on top ... Here is God, but here is the pain threshold of being.

Vyacheslav Ivanov, "A few words about poetry." These, so to speak, three conversations of Irina Vrubel-Golubkina (with Sokolov, Titov, Ivanov) gloriously saturate the magazine. The famous Vyacheslav, the “coma” of Ivanov, the famous linguist and academician, tells us about the problem of the digestive of mass consciousness - how it digests literature, the culture in general, which is stuck in the hill in the folk throat. About the block is interesting. According to Ivanov, in the beginning there was a block-and behind him everything, everything, everything, the pod-percentes, the number is not twelve.

Valery Merlin, "Anthropology for an angel, or Jewish Dostoevsky." Merlin is a magician and a wizard of deconstruction, tearing Fedor Mikhailovich into shreds and particles. Dostoevsky’s biblism is anthropology for Merlin. "Sonya is the lizabeth Gilgul, killed by Raskolnikov’s ax. Her soul is a mirror of lightning, she accommodates his father's light ... The mirror reflects the face of Raskolnikov himself: looking in the mirror, Raskolnikov sees the father’s angry face in the reflected light." It seems to me that Merlin's spells: "Mirror, mirror!" - For the good of the magazine.

Alexey Smirnov, "In Russia, the sound is primary ..." again a block. “If, instead of the Bolsheviks and Lenin, Petersburg would have captured King Darius or Xerxes, or herds of centaurs, then the block would also be“ interested ”and walked along the streets, and he would write, and write something else“ twelve ”.

Valentin Vorobyov, "The Feat of the Moscow Tsarha", "The main vault of Darte", "Others and all sorts." Sales-wraps, colleagues, colleagues-stone. Not very friendly "literary cartoons", artists and Wednesday - Moscow Soviet, underground art, metropolitan vodka. A light brush and Pisaks: Evtushenko’s owner (Gangnus), followed by a “whole bastard of dudes”-Komsomolets Aksenov (for some reason, Vorobyov does not add-Ginzburg), Akhmadulin, Okudzhava. All in earrings and ears. No one is forgotten. If about painters is equally adversely and reliable - a pity.

Lyudmila Golubkina, "Milka, my girl ..." Cute memories of childhood. Written work is written by the daughter of the poet Vladimir Alexandrovich Lugovsky and Irina Solomonovna Golubkina. Unusual for the "mirror" the work is the bare ingenuous graphics of the "simple letter". But the talent of the author-story is drawn, pushes the prose-outwardly winter, black and white, forever-and-breath, but internally-weapons, herbaceous-solar, Golubkina, Lugovskaya ...

On the rear cover-the "spatial structure" of Franca Kintsl (1934-2011). Mikhail Grobman in a short note about him notes: "Czech emigrant artists have always seen their associates and close friends in our face. There was always an understanding and in the whole of a common enemy-communist nobles." Yes, two of the tomb of the Oblo-Ogromic enemy-Chudoviti have two lives-communism and realism. Comban is a tomb is a tomb ... Naturally, together and Vrubel-Golubkin in the depths of the "mirror". And she is Leviathan! The broadcast continues.

(Magazine "Mirror", No. 37, No. 38, 2011)