Tchaikovsky eggplant

Colta.ru continues to publish the diary of Dmitry Volchek, journalist and writer. Other fragments for 2016 can be read here , here , here , here and here .

November 5

The beginning of the Quire Festival. The huge hall of the “Svetozor” is filled with the same guys, who have learned to shave more than a year older than the year old. The film "Chemsex" about the dissent residents of London, who are exposing, e ** and infect each other with AIDS. “As if you were not yet open, and when you have a good partner, gardens and fountains are found on this planet.” If you have sex without G BL (a remedy for rust from the garages gate) and ketamine, then you ask yourself: "And that's all?"

Two accepted the GBL in the sauna, one fell into a coma, he was taken away, then he ended up in a second coma, they came to their senses in the hospital, a friend brought them GBL , they again accepted and plunged into whom in intensive care.

Instead of a remedy for rust, I drink pink wine with youth.

November 6

He was going to look at the wasteland in Brno, where Jean lived his wife, but I’m not going anywhere, but, without getting out of bed, I edit a magazine, buy a scarf and a ticket to the Parisian Philharmonic.

Sometimes my panic returned, inspired by a meeting with a pedophile in the Giant: in the full hall of the cinema, when the whole row is full, it becomes bad. I manage to read two stories of Chester. "Safari" about Bowles and Scorpions is quite brilliant. It seems that his friend and my correspondent poet Edward Field is still alive (92). I take Bowles’s diary, but I stumble about the mention of Donald Windem, I begin to read about him, order a book of his stories, and then the night is lowered.

November 7

The night, and then I spend the morning at Adam Curtis's film about the end of politics. The former laws do not apply, around the illusion, and must defeat Trump. All mixed up: Gaddafi, Assad, LSD, Surkov, UFO, Brexit and Aerobics.

I look at the photo of Trump with Warhol 1983. In December, Min Tanaka will dance. There are big shocks ahead.

Two films at the Quire Festival. The first documentary, about how one writer scored first with a brick, and then a vase of another writer, his lover, Crime of Passion , like Joe Orton. Now, having served seven years in a crazy house, he published a book, set a play about the murder and became celebrity. Why do Russian writers do not do that? Prilepin could easily slaughter Vodolazkin, and the balls could strangle Shishkin.

“Cat”, who received the Teddy Award (I missed it on Berlinal), with an alarming plot. The hero for no reason turns his neck to his beloved cat, then he falls from a tree and gives his eyes out. The director is either bent, or e*stubborn: having gone on stage, it is taken to laugh, bringing into the confusion of a beautiful translator.

Among the public a huge number of crazy ones. At the first session, a man of an incredible look of forty is sitting behind me, but with a Gothic bang hiding the half-face, and knocks his foot in the back of the chair. When the character turns the neck of the cat, a drunken cry is heard in the hall: “Fate! Fate!" My head suddenly begins to hurt, I am scared that this is an attack of glaucoma. I come home by midnight and talk about Skype with Mogatin for half an hour. In the event of Trump’s victory, he is going to arrange a performance in Trump Tower with the YES M EN group.

November 8

American elections. I think how to get to your Saya Museum in Houston, you need to spend the whole day there. The distances are giant, the route does not add up.

Despite the fact that Peter Rumpel (he unexpectedly buried and luxuriously speaks English) campaigned Pidorasov to go to the “victim” with Dirk Bogard, and a half of cripples in the hall. It scares most of all that I can’t understand whether I saw this film or not, and only on the very last scene, when the wagon is a saleswoman in ugly glasses, I am convinced that I saw, moreover - recently - about five years ago. This is really scary: Alzheimer comes up, I forget the only thing to remember is the plots of the films.

November 9th

Dadaist becomes the head of the globe, and a confusion reigns in my soul. The devil knows what will happen next. The usual world is falling apart, although the dollar, for a short while falling, immediately jumps back. Castelpelli puts the drama about American democracy in March in Antwerp. Without thinking twice, I buy a ticket. It will end badly, but everything will end badly. All day I edit the last pieces of the magazine: the erotic story of Duras about the delusional novel with Jan Andrea.

I want to look at Nikolai Bakharev, I’m going to the vernissage, but the owners of the gallery did not think to invite him from Novokuznetsk. He has several brilliant photographs: Russian people of the 80s, revealed so that you see all their fate at once, all their disappointments, poverty and absurd death from a fall from the tower crane.

I meet Vorotnikov in the gallery, greets me cheerfully, and the goat does not say a word. Just today they reported that a request from Moscow came to issue them. But they will not be given out.

Autechre is left before the concert, but time is now running like a frightened hare, and I find myself in salad with a huge meaningless salad. The Meet Factory club in the back of life, the terrible surroundings of the Smikhovsky station, inconsolably Soviet landscape. As Andrei warned me, Autechre begins to play two hours later. I drink terrible wine with Gregory. I am the oldest here, and he is the youngest. Young electron workers playing on the warm -up is easier, but better than a dying “swelling”. I return to a crazy route, on three trams, home, where I am waiting for a box from a golden goose.

November 10, Vienna

As a character of a quest, I am again fulfilling the task almost perfectly: I run to the bus station, I read Bowles and Brobet on the road, I come to Vienna, get to the secession, in which the old exhibitions were closed, and the new ones did not open, so that I look at the Beethoven Frisis for the hundredth time, I buy Koloboki with poppy seeds, I have lunch from the Eternal Chinese with the Eternal Chinese with the Eternal Chinese Yakhontov (the seller of the esoteric x ** intervenes in our conversation from the next table and wants to be friends with us), I buy Zahar-Port and watch four and a half Benning film. I did not calculate incorrectly: I thought that after the session I would have to wander through the streets, but because of the discussions (the film screening is diligent, announcing the film about the Museum of Natural History bad, and the message of Michael Snow is miserable) The session has been delayed, so I have to run away from the middle of the fifth film: I barely have time for the bus. I thought that I would be the only passenger, but the night flight was successful, the crowds of incomprehensible Taliban racing in the darkness in Prague, Berlin and Hamburg, so as not to pay for the hotel. The vile atmosphere of Dormithory , snoring from different angles. In Prague, a black Uber selects me, speaking only in English, but immediately calculating my miserable Russianness. Very Cold in Russia? But in Europe, winter is rapidly coming, on the way we get into a snowstorm.

November 11

I am writing an article about a blind -born underground from Siberia, which collected antiques and secretly composed notes for prohibited Chechen sites, cursing Russia, accepted Islam and fled to Finland. The blind underground herself refuses to speak with me, because she does not want to have anything in common with the naked opposition. We are armed with powerlessness!

November 12

I wake up at 6:30 to go to Vienna again. During the night, everything was covered with hoarfrost, in a warm bus I am almost happy, although I am worried if I have time at the airport in the morning.

We have lunch with Yakhontov on our MARKT and talk about how to suppress the instinct that commands to have a child. He smokes more and more, while constantly losing his tobacco: this unconscious requires that he abandoned a suicidal habit. We drink on a glass of walnuts, go to the flea market, where it smells of death from old things, and go to the exhibition of Martin Kippenberger. I know only his crucified toad, and she, of course, hangs here. We freeze in front of a huge book, on the pages of which photos are projected from the ceiling. There are still white paintings, stacked into the walls, and a room filled with birch, under which huge wooden tablets of alkazelter (“Forest of political correctness”) are lying.

Then, already alone, I’m going to Kunstkhistoryshez at the de Vaal exhibition, which gathered ominous absurdities in the reserves, including a small devil caught after the ritual of exorcism in the 16th century and stolen in glass. The exhibition is twisted around Dürer’s drawing: the nightmare of water falling to the ground. Corals, reminiscent of a fire, a musical instrument in the form of a snake, a portrait of an unknown old woman, Veronica’s boards, decorated with quotes from the apocalypse, a petrified fish, a skull -covered skull, strewn with large worms.

Near Hofburg, demonstrators are walking under the roar of drums. At first it seems to me that they shout “Trump! Trump! ”, But then it turns out that these are vegans that require prohibition of fur, and they yell “ Stop! S Top! " In the cage, a crumbling woman in a costume costume is rolled in a cage.

The concert of Haas, for which I rushed to Vienna. In the first branch, his wife-master, a corporate black woman Mollen Williams, reads the poem “Hyena” for more than an hour about how she suffered from alcoholism in San Francisco, got into Rehab, overcame a bunch of temptations, but eventually tied. It looks like an unbearable parody of Bukovsky’s poems. The alcoholic confession is drowning and disfiguring the excellent music of Haas. Molina has white sneakers, covered with rhinestones. For an unknown reason, it seems to me bad, I seem to be poisoned in the Arab restaurant Falafel, Humus or even Austrian wine, my heart is not in place, something like a light panic attack, I want to escape, but then everything passes, and I still drink the glass of Zweigelt in the interval.

In the second compartment, the whole light is turned off in the hall, and the ministers close the arrows indicating fire exits, cardboard on huge sticks, but green rays are still seeping from there ( LE Rayon Vert ) . We are convinced not to expose luminous dials, not to get phones and maintain a complete darkness. You are meaningless*Bon, because there is absolutely nothing dark in music, this is an almost uniform buzz of the violin quartet. You can imagine that on the summer day a flock of flies is spinning over something tempting (for example, a corpse). Perhaps it should be dark like in a coffin? But in the coffin the flies cannot turn around.

In the foyer of the concerthouse - a performance. The girl plays the Winter Way, and on the lid of the piano melts, destroys and falls on the floor of a block of ice, a whole iceberg. The statue of Beethoven squeamishly looks at this abuse of Schubert.

I arrive at a strange hotel in the Maidling area, where an indecently cheerful young receptionist rents money from my card for twice, and then cancel it for a long time; It remains to sleep for five hours, but I can’t fall asleep.

November 13, Paris

I wake up at 4, 10 minutes before the alarm clock. The quest has been passed: I sit on the right train, come at the right time to the airport and still have time to eat the most expensive breakfast in the universe. I am flying with a crowd of Irish-Boles, yesterday there was a match, and fools shake green scarves.

In a strange way, I end up in Paris exactly a year after the attacks, yesterday they opened Babaklan, and Sting sang in it. I do not notice the slightest hint of grief. They wrote that there would be candles in the windows, but there are no candles. The dead are forgotten, the living rejoice. Scared that parents do not answer my letters (snow and ice in St. Petersburg), I call them, but everything is in order. On the advice of Lviv, I go to the Moro Museum. The whole XX century was born in this workshop, from de Kiriko to Neo Rauh, and Dali borrowed a lot from him. I sit on stools, pull out frames with engravings and look at lust.

In Palais de Tokyo, performance Tino Segal. First, the child is suitable, asks if the progress is good and the animals progress (we had a beautiful capricious boy), and, leading such a conversation, gives the older girl who asks if society allows freedom, then a woman and, finally, an old man. We (+Lilya and her friend) are an amazing French old woman, speaks in excellent Russian and tells how she came to study Platonov in the USSR and there were only idiots around, but then smart people like Mamardashvili began to appear. Everything ends with a collective dance, a dancer approaches me and whispers in the ear of English words about the preservation of nature contrary to progress.

We hasten to the nanter, where the last time I watched Dennis Cooper, at the performance of Apichatpon. On the advice of Bori, I ridiculously go to the very center of the hall, and a complex beam of a film projector (or is it a lighthouse? Aircraft?) With a chirp is spinning around me.

In a Japanese restaurant, I take a meaningless cold noodles, which needs to be painfully lowered into soy sauce, then I get to the villa for a long time, the new Philharmonic, entwined with a huge steel snake. The concert of Steve Reich begins with an impressive MATMOS group, but in the second branch a French paradise acts and shows the clumsy tourist shooting of India on the screen. This is unbearable. We are sitting inside the snake, or, rather, hollowed out, on the balcony, and I want to rush into the ground. For a long time I get on night trains to Clish Square.

November 14th

In a cafe, where Russian waitresses used to work, now a handsome non-neiger gives breakfast. Forty minutes I walk past the opera, Saint-Lazar station, Louvre. We meet with Ukanov and Lily in Monnai E at the Kattelan exhibition: I like the corpses in bags of Carrara marble most of all, as if in the final of the Sweet Film. There are other impressive things: a headless horse sticking out of the wall, and two men in suits lying in bed. Lily leads us to the Shakespeare store: in the most prominent places - Burroughs, Bowles and Jane, and a portrait of the unpleasant Allen Ginzberg hangs on the second floor. Many beautiful people who came to win Paris, like me 30 years ago. We go for a long time (my leg begins to hurt) on the embankment of the Seine to the Salpetrier hospital, where only madmen had previously tormented, and now all the weak in a row. Cleo from the film about Cleo was headed here. There is no one in the huge temple, only the statue of the seductive St. Christopher with a baby in his arms. Lily leads us through a dull underground passage, where heels from the morgue go.

We have lunch near the Russian Orthodox and Cultural Center. The center was recently opened, hoping that Putin was consecrated, but Putin did not come, and the center was immediately closed again. Around the fence, do not enter, and there are three gopniks with such caricature and baptized faces that, it seems, they specially drove a Russophobe here.

Ujanov left, Lily does not eat anything, but he smokes continuously and thinks about Androphilia. When we leave by bus, SMS comes from Camila, who goes to the Russian cultural center. She is ready to spend me, but I am going to the Jean-Jacques of Enner by advertising issued in the Moro Museum.

On the way there is an omensible: when I begin to say that there are people who enjoy support from above, and those who are deprived of it fly a small fly in my mouth. This is such an incredible and frightening sign, especially in November that I shut up a Forever. The Enner Museum is terrible. This is not just a bad, but a monstrous, third -rate salon artist: it is incomprehensible that he (and not, suppose, Bugro) devoted such a magnificent museum. But there is one interesting picture: a portrait of his mother at the bed of the deceased daughter, his, therefore, sister. The deceased is incomprehensibly large, and the cup of her headboard is strangely curved, like Picasso. Probably E. wanted to draw correctly, but failed.

From the metro everyone is expelled: a suspicious object. Yesterday, Lily says, it was also. We go to Bon Marché to choose a jacket, but I don't like anything. Fashionable things are becoming more expensive and disgusting, although at the Cattelan’s exhibition I saw a young man in an incredibly elegant coat strewn with goose legs.

Last test: three Balanchin ballets in Opéra Garnier . All my childhood “Voice of America” spoke about Balanchin and his genius. But it turned out that it was terrible - the apotheosis of bourgeois art, deprived of the slightest meaning, a little different from the Stalinist Bolshoi Theater. I managed to buy a ticket to the most magnificent box, but I had to give way to a little girl sitting behind me: it seems that the daughter of one of the dancers or dancers. But the girl is still poorly visible, so the mother (or aunt) moves her chair to a living woman sitting on the side, speaking English with a strong Slavic accent. The woman grins displeasedly that, perhaps, she will have to go out during the ballet, and I think: here is an arriant cattle, you can’t go out in the interval? But in the middle of the performance with a woman there is an asthmatic seizure, she begins to cough frantically, jumps up and pushes a stool with a girl, so that she almost falls. This is also a kind of ballet, much better than Balanchin. On the stage there is a fascist Galicle: neat dancers dance so correctly and faceless that it is almost impossible to endure. I can imagine that the hall is full of SS caps: the Germans went to the same ballets during the occupation? The only excuse that I come up with for Balanchinsky dances is not people, but insects: striped ants take care of the moths.

The first restaurant near the opera turns out to be Burgundy-Samoye, so you have to limit yourself to onion soup.

November 15

Вчерашняя муха появилась неспроста: утро начинается с неприятностей. Просыпаюсь с головной болью (бургундское розовое вино?) и обнаруживаю, что потерял уорхоловскую капсулу с таблетками. Потом в метро автомат по моей глупости проглатывает билет. Сажусь в поезд, и он 20 минут не двигается с места. Но самое ужасное происходит в музее Орсе, когда на рамке при входе я начинаю звенеть и избавление от часов, перстня и даже очков не помогает. Очередь раздраженно наблюдает за моими потугами. Приходится снять ремень, и только тогда чертова машина перестает верещать. На обратном пути я 10 минут ищу номерок от гардероба и обнаруживаю его в глубинах бумажника, когда уже совсем отчаиваюсь. Но внутри меня ждет отличная выставка Фредерика Базиля, который, похоже, был closeted gay , приставал к Моне и, чтобы наказать порок, отправился на Франко-прусскую войну, где тут же был убит (выставлены его элегантный мундир и потертый бумажник).

Обедаю с Камилой на бульваре Распай. В декабре она родит девочку. Рассказывает про культурно-православный центр. Патриотический театр из Владимира показывает там постановку о крещении Руси, пускать посторонних они не хотят, потому что все придумано для того, чтобы подслушивать канцелярию французского президента, находящуюся прямо внутри комплекса. Вегетарианский киш, который я хотел заказать, кончился, а салат щедро посыпан беконом (проклятие мухи).

«Бесконечная поэзия» в маленьком зале MK-2. Секс с менструирующей карлицей, самоубийство кузена-гея, который висит в петле, держа на руках свою собачку, визит бабушки, бьющейся головой в торт, шкатулка с красными волосами любовницы, забрасывание публики кусками мяса и яйцами, принесенными в скрипичных футлярах. И кончается фильм так же, как и первый: отплытием на баркасе смерти. 87-летний Ходоровски моложе и изобретательнее всех: миллион трюков, которых хватило бы другим режиссерам (Ксавье Долану, белиберду которого показывают в соседнем зале) на всю жизнь.

В Jeu de Paume с Сергеем Кузнецовым, который устраивает курсы для парфюмеров. От разговора о прошлом нас спасает выставка Uprisings , подготовленная Диди-Юберманом, очень крутая: от газеты восставших в Кронштадте до молотка, которым Арто колотил по своим рукописям, дабы добавить им выразительности.

Мануэла Морген приглашает меня пить чай и задает миллион вопросов о жизни: где я работаю, как живу и как путешествую. Мне не хочется ничего рассказывать, и я чувствую себя как на таможне. Мануэла зовет меня в подвал смотреть авангардистские короткометражки, но происходит конфуз: у меня есть только 35 минут, и все 35 минут говорит, предваряя программу, седобородый человек из компании Light Cone , так что я удаляюсь, не посмотрев ничего.

Концерт Рамона Ласкано и Маттиаса Пинтшера в старой филармонии. Это грандиозная музыка, но я не могу сосредоточиться, все время высчитываю что-то в будущем, которого нет. Ужинаем у случайного японца, Лиля опять ничего не ест. Ее раздражают женолюбы, и она хочет смотреть фильмы, снятые андрофилами. Рекомендую Гироди и Оноре.

Нужно пересаживаться на станции «Сталинград», но мое антисоветское подсознание вытесняет это слово, и я чуть было не отправляюсь на République . Думаю лишь о том, как бы снова смыться в Париж в декабре, посмотреть Сая Твомбли и заняться бредовым рождественским шопингом. Живу будущим, потому что прошлое, как сказал председатель Мао, прошло. Да и настоящее тоже.

16 ноября

Проклятие мухи: у портье, которому я плачу, вырубается машинка для карточек; кафе, где я хотел позавтракать, еще не открыто, в соседних пьют пиво ночные люди, проститутки и сутенеры, и мне боязно садиться к ним со своим комичным круассаном и апельсиновым соком. Доезжаю до Северного вокзала и нахожу там эклер. Лечу через Вену: выхожу не в ту дверь и снова оказываюсь перед рамкой контроля. У меня всего 15 минут на пересадку, и уже думаю, что пришел п**дец и я упущу самолет, но нет: чудесным образом удается вскочить на шаттл и все успеть. При этом начинает ужасно болеть затылок, а красных таблеток нет. С огромным трудом доделываю последний кусок журнала, и нужно еще доперевести разговоры с Боулзом, но нет сил абсолютно.

17 ноября

Кажется, встречусь с Ходорковским в Таллине. Половину дня покупаю билеты на Туринский кинофестиваль, потом доделываю интервью с Денисом Карагодиным, который хочет наказать убийц своего прадеда. Дикий авитаминоз, опять облезают руки.

Приснилось, что К.А. украл много денег и мы хотим их у него забрать, они спрятаны в недостроенном доме, который А. стережет. Все тихонько пробираются внутрь, я вижу на полке два желтых кабачка и понимаю, что деньги спрятаны внутри. Хватаю один, и точно: он аккуратно разрезан. Бегу, а за мной уже несутся А. и еще какие-то люди. Потом оказываюсь в Греции, но путеводитель написан по-французски. Встречаю в магазине П.И. Tchaikovsky. Он тоже ищет путеводитель. К нему относятся не очень приветливо, но на улице все подходят. Я тоже подхожу и спрашиваю, можно ли с ним сфотографироваться. Он говорит: «Конечно, ведь мы знакомы». Я говорю: «Да, мы вместе украли баклажан». Он спрашивает с горечью: «А правда, что вы интересуетесь фашизмом?» Твердо отвечаю: «Фашизм — это мясоедение» — и на этих словах просыпаюсь. Правильно же я ответил?

To be continued.