Translated material
Joker
The poet Vadim Zhuk died. Alla Bossart recalls
Vadim Zhuk, 2023. Photo: Kirill Zykov / AGN "Moscow"
The text was first published on the website of Novaya Gazeta - Baltic.
Vadik had a very good (theater) education, including Samo. Huge pop experience. Own “cabbage” theater “Fourth Wall”, adored in Leningrad. Actor, director, screenwriter, presenter and, as it later turned out, a very big poet. Why subsequently - I will say.
-And who do you think yourself? Well, in the sense of ...
- In the sense, what to write on the monument? Joker.
Yes, the beetle was an outstanding joker. And in this capacity, the favorite of Leningrad, where everyone knew him, and then Moscow and other cities, where he went with rare tour or festivals.
Festivals. A special and expensive gift handed to him with a generous fate ...
Actually, Vadik would be lucky. He himself said: I was loved by the best of the blondes and the best of the brunettes.
The best of the blondes was Olya, Olya Savarenskaya, a theater artist, a beauty, smart as a devil, fireworks, a woman-festival. Mom Ivan. On Vadik’s business card, by the way, it was written: “Vadim Zhuk. Ivan's father. " Adored wife. Adored son. Adored Peter (never, only Petersburg). Adored theater. Adored friends. Life was a success.
It broke ... no, this flat path exploded exactly in the middle, when Olya fell ill. And in the prime of his beauty, creativity, talent, success and love - he left.
They thought Vadik would not recover, such a grief was so black.
They took him to him, to Moscow.
For some time we lived together, in our kopeckoy, Vanka was already half-frozen, stayed in St. Petersburg for the elder.
Well, somehow, together, the wounds lifted a little.
And then (also at the festival) Vadik met the best of the brunettes. Also artist, puppeteer - Marina Kurchevskaya. From her filing Vadim Zhuk, animation and her people, the best in the world, came.
Fate did not leave its favorite.
A shaft of love, adoration of the animated world fell on the beetle. About 25 years ago, he became the permanent presenter of the ceremonies of international animated festivals. It was a separate attraction. Separate song. A completely separate form of his branchy gift, and I will say more - existence. He could not live without this reign on stage. Not acting, no. Another ... Well, like a spiritualized electric generator who will not withstand his own tension if he does not share his energy of humor, laughter, trolling, draws, impromptu, sarcasm, mockery and simply verbal purple.
We were friends with Vadik with his 50. For thirty years, Vadim Zhuk, a joker, has never settled. (Damn, how terrible that I am writing it now, how we need words during life ...) All thirty years, that under the applause he went on stage in his butterfly, he did not deceive his expectations. The level, freshness and pressure of his humor were struck.
This year he was removed from the maintenance of his beloved Suzdal festival of animation. On Friday, Vadik wrote to me:
“So far, everyone is forbidden to me - the name on the posters, performances. So the management in Suzdal was banned. In Roskomnadzor lies a serious denunciation of “Russian veterans”.
With a request to deal with me. So they understand. " On Wednesday, sitting in the hall, he said to our friend: how painful ... He died on Thursday. So they figured it out.
Actually, I believe that poets do not die their death.
Poets are always killed.
Vadim Zhuk, mostly, was a poet. As already mentioned, very large. Half a life he wrote cheerful jokes. And then some kind of relay clicked in it-and along with sparkling fun, a mighty poetic substance suddenly flooded ... like blood from a cut vein. Poems poured - yes, such a quality that sometimes you can’t resist on your feet. As if forty years have been accumulating - and here. I will not bring anything here. Otherwise I can not stop. Today, the whole Facebook is full of his poetry. And there are books.
I will say one thing.
The poet is killed again.
A poet of a grandiose scale and inexhaustible poetic energy.
This poet lived cheerfully, like a singing thrush, like a starling, he jerked a walnut pie. He loved as a poet, was friends as a poet, attended as a poet and actions (few people know it better than me), all sorts of actions - did as a poet. It is according to the Pushkin word: "Not like you - otherwise."
Once we doubted for a long time whether to go to St. Petersburg, my daughter has an aggravation-and then we all went. "What a blessing!" - exclaimed Vadik, and that was true. And there we treated her, and Vanya was sitting at her bed, playing the guitar and sang.
And we loved each other so much ...
Now and stay with this pain - that Vadik and I have not forgiven each other. That the quarrel of our ten -year -old did not receive remission.
I forgive you, my friend, even though your Marina does not like this word.
Well, forgive me.
It was a million times more good.
Author: Alla Bossart *