Russia, Past and Present

Marina Tsvetayeva: Rails

2012-05-24T21:52:00.002+02:00

Marina Tsvetayeva came of age in Moscow during the Russian Revolution of 1917 and the Famine that followed. She published her first collection of poems, Vechemy Albom (Evening Album) in 1910, at the age of eighteen; her Selected Poems were translated into English, by Elaine Feinstein, in 1971, followed by translations of A Captive Spirit (1994), and Earthly Signs: The Moscow diaries, 1917–1922, which appeared last year. Throughout her career, Tsvetayeva drew on the work of Boris Pasternak, Rainer Maria Rilke and Anna Akhmatova, among others, but she bore more than her share of grief, too. During the Moscow famine in 1919, she attempted to save her younger daughter, Irina, from starvation by placing her in a state orphanage; the child died soon after. Her husband, Sergei Efron, who had worked for the Soviet secret police, was executed in 1939, while her surviving daughter, Ariadna, was sent to a labour camp. On August 31, 1941, not long after the German army invaded the Soviet Union, Tsvetayeva hanged herself.

Her poetry, verse plays and collected prose still speak for the voiceless of that time, particularly the young women and mothers driven to desperate measures. “Rails”, as translated by Feinstein, quietly captures the chaos of those “departing, deserting” a country they had once called home. In the first lines of the poem, Tsvetayeva compares the railroad tracks to a bed with “tidy sheets”, a place of comfort, before switching to a metaphor in which “parallel tracks ruled out / as neatly as staves” resemble sheets of music instead. One imagines how the musical qualities of verse often soothed the poet’s sorrows. Yet “Rails” asserts that that no amount of hope can muffle “the note of pain always rising / higher than love”; only acceptance of pain might help us to transcend our suffering. “Despair”, which she compares to an “arranged marriage”, may come, but may also lead to transformations. Even as the speaker becomes “Sappho with her voice gone” – perhaps contemplating the loss of her own muse – she seems to rejoice. She becomes “a simple seamstress”, then “a marsh heron”, able to rise above the scene, to contemplate it from a distance. She will see the train move along the tracks “and slice through them like scissors”. The last lines of the poem are cutting, too, with their allusions to both suicide and marriage at once. “Rails” shows us a poet at the height of her creative powers, yet powerless to halt the division and destruction that shaped her life and the lives of so many others.

Rails

The bed of a railway cutting
has tidy sheets. The steel-blue
parallel tracks ruled out
as neatly as staves of music.

And over them people are driven
like possessed creatures from Pushkin
whose piteous song has been silenced.
Look, they’re departing, deserting.

And yet lag behind and linger,
the note of pain always rising
higher than love, as the poles freeze
to the bank, like Lot’s wife, forever.

Despair has appointed an hour for me
(as someone arranges a marriage): then
Sappho with her voice gone
I shall weep like a simple seamstress,

with a cry of passive lament –
a marsh heron! The moving train
will hoot its way over the sleepers
and slice through them like scissors.

Colours blur in my eye,
their glow a meaningless red.
All young women at times
are tempted by such a bed!

MARINA TSVETAYEVA (1979)
Translated by Elaine Feinstein

Alexander Belyayev (1884 - 1942)

2012-05-24T20:31:00.000+02:00

Alexander Romanovich Belyayev was born on March (4) 16, 1884 into the family of a priest in Smolensk. In 1901 he graduated from the Smolensk Theological Seminary. But he didn't want to become a priest and that is why entered the Demidov Lyceum in Yaroslavl. After the death of his father he had to make his living by drawing, playing the violin and teaching private classes.

Having graduated from the lyceum, he became quite a good lawyer and his clientele was gradually growing. He was quite a success, and often travelled abroad. However, in 1914 he decided to quit everything and dedicate himself to writing.

At the age of 35 he became seriously ill with backbone tuberculosis and was bedridden for six years. Fortunately, the writer managed to recover and return to high-grade life.

At first he lived in Yalta and worked as a tutor, and an inspector of criminal investigation department, and then moved to Moscow and again went in for law, but continued writing at the same time. In the 1920s he wrote such well-known novels as The Island of Crushed Ships and The Amphibian Man.

In 1928 he moved again, this time to Leningrad, and then totally plunged into literary activity. Interested in mental functioning problems, he wrote the novels Professor Dowell's Head, The Lord of the World, The Man Who Lost His Face.

Alexander Belyayev has written more than twenty stories and novels, several dozens of short stories, a number of essays, sketches, reviews, critiques, plays, and articles.

When World War Two started, the writer refused to be evacuated from the blockaded city of Leningrad. On January 6, 1942 Alexander Belyayev died. The location of his grave remains unknown.

High Over Saint Petersburg

2012-05-24T16:37:00.001+02:00

High Over Saint Petersburg: Let’s fly over St. Petersburg at heights 300 and 1200 meters. Location: St. Petersburg via crimson-zeus

Daniil Kharms (1905-1942)

2012-05-23T01:03:00.002+02:00



Russian literature seems always able  to bring forth a crop of  new and
interesting  writers who are experimenting  somewhere at  the  frontiers  of
literary  style,  language or story.  Among our contemporaries,  we think of
Andrey  Sinyavsky (alias 'Abram Tertz'), Vasiliy Aksyonov, Sasha Sokolov and
Yevgeniy Popov, along with the women  writers who  emerged  under glasnost',
during the last Soviet years: Lyudmila Petrushevskaya,  Tatyana Tolstaya and
others.  But alongside the  new writers, we  continue to rediscover the old.
Mikhail Bulgakov and  Andrey Platonov, unexpected jewels from the  Stalinist
period, only came  to prominence  decades  after their own span. Discoveries
from the 'Silver Age' period (roughly the 1890s to 1917) are still coming or
returning to  light.  Neglected  figures  from  even  further back  are  now
achieving or recovering a belated but deserved readership (Vladimir Odoevsky
from the  Romantic  period,  Vsevolod Garshin from later  in the  nineteenth
century). Another  fascinating  figure,  the  contemporary  of Bulgakov  and
Platonov, but  with a  peculiar  resonance  for  the modern, or  indeed  the
post-modern, world is Daniil Kharms.
     'Daniil Kharms' was the  main,  and subsequently the sole,  pen-name of
Daniil Ivanovich Yuvachov. The  son of a St. Petersburg political, religious
and literary  figure,  Daniil  was  to  achieve limited local  renown  as  a
Leningrad  avant-garde eccentric and  a writer of children's stories  in the
1920s and 30s. Among other pseudonyms, he had employed 'Daniil  Dandan'  and
'Kharms-Shardam'. The  predilection for 'Kharms' is  thought to  derive from
appreciation  of the tension between the English words  'charms' and 'harms'
(plus the German Charme; indeed, there is an actual German surname 'Harms'),
but  may  also owe  something to  a similarity in  sound to  Sherlock Holmes
(pronounced 'Kholms' in Russian), a figure of fascination to Kharms.
     From  1925  Kharms  began  to  appear  at  poetry  readings  and  other
avant-garde activities,  gained membership  of the Leningrad  section of the
All-Russian Union of Poets (from 1926), one  of the many predecessors to the
eventual Union of Soviet Writers, and published two poems in anthologies  in
1926 and 1927. Almost unbelievably, these were the only 'adult' works Kharms
was able to  publish in his lifetime.  In 1927 Kharms joined together with a
number  of like-minded  experimental  writers, including his talented friend
and close  associate  Aleksandr  Vvedensky  (1900-1941) and  the  major poet
Nikolay Zabolotsky (1903-1958), to  form the  literary and artistic grouping
Oberiu (the acronym of the 'Association of Real Art').
     Representing something of  a  union  between  Futurist  aesthetics  and
Formalist approaches,  the Oberiut considered themselves  a 'left  flank' of
the literary  avant-garde.  Their publicity  antics,  including  a  roof-top
appearance  by  Kharms,  caused  minor  sensations  and  they  succeeded  in
presenting a highly  unconventional  theatrical evening entitled 'Three Left
Hours'  in 1928,  which  included  the  performance  of Kharms's  Kafkaesque
absurdist  drama 'Yelizaveta Bam'. Among the  Oberiu catch-phrases were 'Art
is a cupboard' (Kharms normally made his theatrical entrances inside or on a
wardrobe) and  'Poems  aren't  pies;  we  aren't herring'.  However,  in the
Stalinising years of the late  1920s, the time for propagating  experimental
modernist art had  passed.  The rising Soviet neo-bourgeoisie were not to be
shocked:  tolerance  of  any  such frivolities  was  plummeting  and hostile
journalistic attention ensured  the hurried disbandment of  the Oberiu group
after a number of further appearances.
     Kharms and Vvedensky evidently felt it wiser to  allow themselves to be
drawn into the realm  of children's literature,  writing for publications of
the children's  publishing  house  Detgiz,  known  fondly  as  the  'Marshak
Academy',  run by  the redoubtable  children's  writer  (and  bowdleriser of
Robbie  Burns),  Samuil  Marshak,  and  involving  the  playwright  Yevgeniy
Shvarts.  By  1940  Kharms  had  published  eleven  children's   books   and
contributed  regularly  to  the  magazines 'The Hedgehog' and  'The Siskin'.
However,  even in  this  field  of literary  activity,  anything out  of the
ordinary  was  not  safe. Kharms, in  his  'playful' approach to  children's
writing, utilised a number of Oberiu-type devices. The  Oberiu  approach had
been denounced in a Leningrad paper in 1930 as 'reactionary sleight-of-hand'
and, at the end  of  1931, Kharms  and Vvedensky  were arrested,  accused of
'distracting  the  people  from  the  building  of  socialism  by  means  of
trans-sense verses' and exiled to Kursk. However the exile was fairly brief,
the  times  being  what  Akhmatova  described  as  'relatively  vegetarian'.
Nevertheless, little work was to be had thereafter; Kharms was in and out of
favour  at  Detgiz and  periods  of near  starvation  followed.  Kharms  and
Vvedensky (the latter had moved  to the Ukraine in the mid-30s: see Kharms's
letter to him) survived the main purges  of the 1930s. However, the outbreak
of war brought new dangers: Kharms was arrested in Leningrad in August 1941,
while  Vvedensky's  arrest  took  place  the  following  month  in  Kharkov.
Vvedensky died in  December of that year and  Kharms (it seems of starvation
in prison hospital) in February 1942. Both were subsequently 'rehabilitated'
during the Khrushchev 'Thaw'. Most of their adult writings had  to await the
Gorbachev period for  publication in Russia. Both starvation and arrest were
anticipated in  a number  of Kharms's  writings.  Hunger  and  poverty  were
constant  companions;  indeed, Kharms can lay  claim to  being  the  poet of
hunger (not for nothing did he take strongly to Knut Hamsun's novel of  that
name),  as  the following  translation  of  an unrhyming but  rhythmic verse
fragment shows:

     This is how hunger begins:
     The morning you wake, feeling lively,
     Then begins the weakness,
     Then begins the boredom;
     Then comes the loss
     Of the power of quick reason,
     Then comes the calmness
     And then begins the horror.

     On his general situation in life, Kharms wrote the following quatram in
1937:

     We've had it now in life's realm,
     Of all hope we are now bereft.
     Gone are dreams of happiness,
     Destitution is all that's left.

     The arrest of Kharms came,  reportedly, when the caretaker of the block
of flats  in which he lived called him down, in his bedroom slippers, 'for a
few minutes'. He was apparently charged with spreading defeatist propaganda;
there  is evidence that, even in those times, he managed to clear himself of
this charge, possibly by feigning insanity.
     Kharms had been  a marked man since his first arrest in 1931 and he was
probably  lucky  to escape  disaster  when  he  landed  in  trouble  over  a
children's poem in  1937  (about  a  man who  went  out to  buy  tobacco and
disappeared). In addition, his first wife, Ester Rusakova, was a member of a
well-known  old  emigre  revolutionary  family, subsequently  purged;  it is
intriguing to recall that Kharms had been, for several years, Viktor Serge's
brother-in-law.

More here.

“Ice Trilogy”: Metaphysical masterpiece or empty myth?

2012-05-22T00:30:00.002+02:00

A huge, frozen meteorite crashes into Siberia. Our hero, young Snegirev, is mysteriously drawn towards it on a geological expedition and becomes the first of the 23,000 Children of Light to awaken and realize his destiny. He and the rest of the blue-eyed, fair-haired brotherhood are really “Light-bearing rays.” Endlessly reincarnated, they have become prisoners on Earth, the planet that was “Light’s great mistake”, violating the harmony of the cosmos. The mission for Bro (Snegirev’s new light-name) is to find and assemble the other 22,999 brothers and sisters in order to dissolve the Earth back into Primordial Light.

This is the premise of Vladimir Sorokin’s bizarre “Ice Trilogy,” now a three-novel tome in English. The author is a controversial figure: Soviet authorities banned his satirical books and state prosecutors (encouraged by a pro-Putin youth group) once tried to prosecute him for disseminating pornography; the pornographic material in question was the writer’s own work. But Sorokin has gone on to win several awards and become a major cultural figure. “Ice Trilogy” is an ambitious and extravagant work but its metaphysical and mythological pretensions sometimes seem a little hollow.

Awakening the rest of the “Ice Trilogy” Light-gang involves smashing each of them very hard on the chest with an ice hammer. When the brotherhood loses the ability to recognize fellow children of light, they resort to whacking every blue-eyed, blond-haired person in the hope of finding “one of ours.” The resulting corpses are discarded as “empties.”

More here.

Osip Mandelstam: Yet to die. Unalone still

2012-05-21T20:27:00.000+02:00

Yet to die. Unalone still.

For now your pauper-friend is with you.

Together you delight in the grandeur of the plains,

And the dark, the cold, the storms of snow.

Live quiet and consoled

In gaudy poverty, in powerful destitution.

Blessed are those days and nights.

The work of this sweet voice is without sin.

Misery is he whom, like a shadow,

A dog’s barking frightens, the wind cuts down.

Poor is he who, half-alive himself

Begs his shade for pittance.

January 15-16, 1937

TRANSLATED BY JOHN HIGH AND MATVEI YANKELEVICH

Petersburg, as we have not seen it.

2012-05-20T20:44:00.001+02:00

Petersburg, as we have not seen it. Photos by Alexander Petrosyan :

Lots of beautiful photos!

Russia’s Nikolai Khozyainov wins piano contest in Dublin

2012-05-19T18:32:00.001+02:00

Russia’s Nikolai Khozyainov has been named the winner of an international piano competition, which is held once every three years in Dublin, Ireland.

The 19-year-old conservatory student in Moscow faced up to 50 older performers from around the world, bagging the top prize of 15,000 Euros.

Khozyainov was trailed by China’s Jayan San, followed by Andrei Osokins of Latvia.

With the hard-win victory under his belt, the Russian will now have a chance to showcase his pianistic skills at Wigmore Hall in London, Carnegie Hall in New York, the National Concert Hall in Dublin and other prestigious venues.

Nikolay Khozyainov - Chopin Piano Concerto n°1 - 3rd mov

The Horned Tradition of Turkmenistan

2012-05-19T12:37:00.001+02:00

The Horned Tradition of Turkmenistan: In Nokhur village, Turkmenistan, there is an unusual cemetery where the graves are decorated with horns of mountain goats. This very ancient tradition probably initially meant connection with a progenitor to whom they sent souls of the dead: all peoples … Read more...

Restoring Wonderland

2012-05-17T20:32:00.001+02:00

An array of once neglected and forgotten architectural gems from the former imperial estate of Tsarskoye Selo have been brought back to life and will be unveiled to the public this summer.

Local residents and city visitors alike will be able to set foot for the first time ever in the mystical White Tower, a spot once favored for outdoor activities by many members of Russian royalty, including the family of Russia’s last tsar, Nicholas II.

The restoration of the White Tower Pavilion, located in the estate’s Alexander Park, is in full swing. Looming over the romantic park from a hilltop, the tower, built between 1821 and 1827, was born out of Tsar Nicholas I’s admiration for Gothic architecture, medieval art and the culture associated with knighthood. The tsar intended the tower to be a treat for his sons — princes Alexander, Nikolai, Mikhail and Konstantin — who all came to adore it. The princes studied history there and practiced various athletic activities.

The pavilion, designed by architect Adam Menelas, was severely damaged during World War II and proper restoration did not begin on it until the 1980s. Funding for the project was low, however, and renovation work did not get very far. The project was resumed only in the fall of 2011. Renovation work is planned to restore not only the building’s magnificent façade, originally decorated by a series of cast-iron sculptures of knights from medieval history and literature, but also the tower’s interior, including its intricate stucco molding. One of the tower’s signature attractions, its viewing platform, which offers stunning panoramic views of the park and estate, also looks set to open for visitors.

At present, the park — including the tower itself — is closed to the public. However, Olga Taratynova, director of the Tsarskoye Selo museum-estate, has promised that the White Tower will be home to a children’s center specializing in culture, entertainment and education by the end of the summer. Some of the tower’s rooms will be turned into classrooms, where local children will be able to learn to draw, sing and dance. An engaging interactive display will also be mounted in the tower.

Taratynova compared the restoration of the Cameron Gallery Grottos and the Oval Staircase to successfully performed heart surgery.

The grottos were almost entirely destroyed during World War II and have since remained closed to the public. The grottos, which are almost 200 years old, needed urgent and large-scale renovation work, as their brick walls were rapidly losing their ability to hold up the structure and were at risk of collapsing.

According to Natalya Kudryavtseva, chief architect at Tsarskoye Selo, the gallery now looks exactly as it did back in the reign of Catherine the Great.

“Without dismantling any elements of the staircase, we created temporary support structures to allow us to waterproof the lower levels of the staircase,” she explained. “It was a risky enterprise.”The Oval Staircase renovation work, which is still underway, turned out to be particularly challenging for restorers, Kudryavtseva said.

In the future, the grottos will become home to a collection of period sculptures, which are expected to greet the first visitors by the end of this month.

One of Catherine the Great’s favorite architects, the Scottish architect Charles Cameron came to Russia in 1779, and spent more than fifteen years working on various projects in Tsarskoye Selo. The Cameron Gallery is regarded as the architect’s most successful project on the estate, and the one that brought him fame.

The empress wanted a serene colonnade for meditative strolls and intellectual talks, and the magnificent elegant masterpiece delivered to her has become an iconic image of St. Petersburg.

The Mirror Pond, situated in the Old Garden of the Catherine Park, also required renovation. After the pond was completely drained, its walls were reinforced with concrete platforms. The restorers are now working on making a new slime to line the bottom of it. It is expected that the Mirror Pond — which has not been renovated since the 1970s — will be filled with water again before the end of June.

More here.

Alexander Neverov: Tashkent, the Bread City

2012-05-16T21:06:00.002+02:00

Mishka sank into thoughts. He just couldn’t get Tashkent – the city of bread – out of his mind. He would start calculating: two thousand miles is not that far after all. Well, it is far, if you walk, of course. The train would get you there in three days. And the ticket – can’t he live without the ticket? The conductor will see a little guy on the train and say, “Don’t hurt him people, it’s Mishka, the Starveling – he’s not a burden. How heavy is he? Forty pounds, at most.” If they kick him out of the carriage – the train roof works just as well for a couple days. He’d climbed up trees to pick up rooks’ nests – it’s a lot tougher, by the way – but still he didn’t fall.

Suddenly Mishka saw his buddy Seryozha, one year his junior, and it cheered him up a bit.

“Come with me!”
“Where to?”
“To Tashkent, to get bread. The more the merrier. You get in trouble – I cover your back, I get in trouble – I have yours covered. We are not gonna make it here anyway.”

Seryozha didn’t have much faith in this adventure at first.

“What if it rains?”
“It’s a summer rain, it’s warm.”
“What if the soldiers kick us out?”
“We’ll be quiet.”

Seryozha was not so daring. He picked his nose a couple times and said, “No, Mishka, we’re not gonna make it.”

Mishka swore, “Trust me, we will, just don’t chicken out. The Red Army are everywhere now, they won’t push us away. They’ll know we are starving and give us bread.”

“We are little, we’ll get scared.”

Mishka argued that they were not little at all. It’s no big deal that Seryozha is younger, Mishka will do all the hard stuff: look for a good place on the train, ask for help. They are not some girly girls! If something doesn’t work out they’ll just be patient. When there are two of them, things are easier to deal with. They’ll ride the train at nights and walk in the daytime. They’ll hop on the train again when the conductor is not looking.

“When are we coming back?” Seryozha asked.
“Before you know it. The way there takes four days at most, and the way back takes four. We’ll get about twenty pounds of bread, so it’s not heavy to carry.”

Seryozha’s eyes gleamed with happiness.

“I’ll take thirty!”
“No, you won’t. If you have too much, someone will steal it from you. We’ll better come back for more once we know the way.”
“Let’s keep it secret, Mishka.”
“Okay!”
“It’s just going to be you and me. If Vanya or Kostya ask to come along – don’t let them: they’d be scared of a squirrel! How far would we get with them?”
“Aren’t you scared yourself?”
“Why should I be? I can go to the graveyard at night.”

Translated by Ekaterina Shubnaya, RT

Architecture of Soviet Kaliningrad

2012-05-16T18:09:00.001+02:00

Architecture of Soviet Kaliningrad: Soviet Kaliningrad was pretty much different from Russian Kaliningrad. Let’s see some photos of the city how it used to look. This photo seems to show Kaliningrad of 1990 with all its spirit and mood. Cathedral before restoration, 1992 Inside … Read more...

Exciting Tour to the Chelyabinsk Station

2012-05-14T20:41:00.001+02:00

Exciting Tour to the Chelyabinsk Station: Let’s make an exciting tour along the Chelyabinsk station. Here passes the Trans-Siberian railway Attention! The object is guarded. A huge sand-dryer. The sand is loaded on each diesel locomotive and electric locomotive in the maintenance depot. Next to the … Read more...

Marina Tsvetaeva: Candlelight in Night

2012-05-14T10:56:00.002+02:00

It's a home again
Where some never quit:
Maybe, sip champagne,
Maybe, simply – sit.
Simpler yet – two hands
Have each other found.
Have you seen, my friends,
Homes like this around?
They of parting nights
And first meetings scream.
Maybe, many lights,
Maybe, only three ...
Will I get my mind
Rid of worries weird?
Why has next to mine
Home like this appeared?
Not from candlelight
Fearful darkness dies -
From those sleepless eyes.
Bless those homes, my friends,
Where light never ends,
Homes that nights ignite.

English translation by Alexander Givental

Color Photographs Of Russian Cities 1968-84

2012-05-13T14:00:00.001+02:00

Color Photographs Of Russian Cities 1968-84: These are some color photos of Leningrad, Odessa, Kiev, Sverdlovsk, Perm dated 1968-84. For the beginning some photographs of Vladislav Mikosha, the pioneer of the Soviet color photography. Leningrad through the camera of a foreign tourist, 1971. “Astoria” hotel Dvortsovaya … Read more...

Kamchatka: Up To Avacha

2012-05-12T11:40:00.001+02:00

Kamchatka: Up To Avacha: It’s not so hard to climb Avachinsky volcano. The path leads up only in some places sinking in snow… Hope nothing tragic has happened here… Neighbour of Avacha – Koryaka or Koryak hill Sulphur Is it a man or a … Read more...

Vasily Ivanovich Surikov - Biography

2012-05-11T20:40:00.002+02:00

Surikov, Vasily Ivanovich Storm of Snow Fortress

Vasily Ivanovich Surikov is considered Russia's greatest historical painter. He executed only nine historical canvases out of hundreds of portraits, studies, and sketches - but what canvases! He was a master of monumental historical compositions, depicting national tragedies and powerful human characters.

In his canvases Surikov dealt with many dramatic episodes of Russian history such as the reformation of the church in the mid 17th century and Peter the Great's reforms of the 18th century. In Surikov's own time, the late 19th century, there were numerous flashbacks to those events in Russia. The Wanderers, a group of Russian realist artists to which Surikov belonged, were greatly influenced by the ideas of revolutionary democrats; they believed that art had a social-educational mission. They organized exhibitions all over Russia bringing art to the common people. The association united many of the best artists of the time. It was most active during the 1870s and 80s. Moscow merchant Pavel Tretyakov, the founder of the first museum of Russian art, was the main collector and promoter of the Wanderers’ works, guided in his activity by the ideal of serving the people.

The Russian people were the main characters of Surikov’s works and courage and daring were the artist's principal subject matters. In his paintings, Surikov always focused on fine portraiture. His female images are particularly elaborate and masterful.

His parents were also in a broader sense artistically gifted. His father, a passionate lover of music, played guitar excellently and was considered the best amateur singer in Krasnoyarsk. His mother had wonderful inherent artistic taste. The source of Surikov's conception of beauty was Siberia, with all its severity, its sometimes cruel customs, its courageous people and “old Russian” beauty. “Siberia, brought me up from childhood with the ideals of historical types,” Sukarov wrote.Born in the Siberian city of Krasnoyarsk, Surikov was of Cossack descent. His ancestors once built this city and participated in Cossack uprisings in Siberia and on the River Don in southern Russia. Surikov’s father's family came to Siberia from the Don area with Yermak, the Cossacks’ ataman (commander) in the Urals. His mother came from the old Cossack family Torgoshin and it was from these roots that the artist inherited his proud and freedom-loving character. Pyotr and Ilya Surikov and Vasily Torgoshin are mentioned among those who took part in the Krasnoyarsk uprising of 1695-98. Surikov was proud of his origins and wrote: “I am a Cossack through and through, with a pedigree going back over two hundred years.”

Sukarov made his first attempts at drawing in early childhood: “I was six, I remember, I drew Peter the Great from an engraving. The colors I did myself: blue for the uniform and crimson for the lapels.”

The first person to notice the boy's abilities was Grebnev, the drawing teacher at the Krasnoyarsk district school, which Surikov finished in 1861 with a certificate of merit. Grebnev gave Surikov the task of copying etchings from the old masters. Surikov later spoke with gratitude of his first tutor: “Grebnev nearly wept over me, teaching me to draw.” Appreciating Vasily's exceptional talent, his drawing teacher supported the young man's desire to become a professional painter.

In order to support the family after his father's death in 1859, Surikov worked as an office clerk. Sometimes, as he recalled later, he even had to “paint Easter eggs for three rubles per hundred” and once he took a commission to paint an icon entitled “The Holy Virgin's Feasts.” Surikov's drawings attracted the attention of the governor of Krasnoyarsk, Zamyatin, who put in a word for him at the Council of the Academy of Arts. The response from St. Petersburg was positive, but with the reservation that he would not be provided a scholarship. The rich gold-mine owner Kuznetsov, an art lover and collector, came to Surikov's aid and offered to pay for his studies and upkeep. ...

Aleksandr Vampilov: Farewell in June

2012-05-10T22:36:00.000+02:00

In a big dorm room, all the beds are taken out, the tables are put together. A wedding reception. Bukin and Masha (bride and groom), Frolov. Among the guests, the most unselfconscious is Bukin’s buddy – a guy nicknamed Gomyra. For our convenience, let’s label the rest of the guests at the table as follows: ASB President, Fun-loving Guy, Geek, Hot Girl. The fun is at its highest.

ASB President: Comrades! Attention, please! Comrades!

Gomyra (interrupting): I want the floor! (gets up) Quiet! I would like to say a couple words…

Bukin (encouraging): Come on, Borya, nail it.

Gomyra: Hold on, Vasya, hold on… Today, in this room, my friend and geologist Vasya Bukin is trying on the role of a groom and a man in love. What have I to say to that? Vasya is the kind of a guy who would chase his dream, he’ll accomplish his goals fair and square. No dirty tricks. He’s not capable of it… I don’t see the reason for these smirks. I’ve been with Vasya to all possible expeditions, and I can tell the best what kind Vasya is. He never hid behind others’ backs and let his friends down. When I am saying this, I mean: if he ever gets stuck in this charade, he should know… (addressing Bukin) Anyway, if anything happens, you should know that you've got your best friend, who will never abandon you. I am done.

Masha. Wait a second. I don’t get it. Can you please be more specific?

Bukin: Masha, it’s clear. He wants to drink for friendship. Right, Borya?

Gomyra: That’s right, Vasya, you get me.

Geek: To friendship.

(Everyone but Masha and Frolov drink)

Gomyra (to Frolov): And you?.. Why aren’t you drinking? (to Bukin) Vasya, why is he not drinking?

Bukin: Relax. He will.

ASB President: Comrades! Attention, please!

Geek (interrupts): Toast again? We can’t go that fast. We’ve just had one, and here you go again: we need to eat something.

Masha: Exactly. Boys, eat something, or you’ll get plastered.

Fun-loving Guy: Why, let’s sing, guys! I think it’s right about time. Something special...

ASB President (struggling through): Guys! Listen to me, guys! Today is a very happy day. Just think: the biology department has 18 girls in the senior class, and – can you believe it? – 11 are already married. Today we are giving Masha away – she is number 12 – don’t you think that’s an achievement? Look at the chemistry department – they are so far behind. From all the girls of our class I wish the newly-weds all the best. And one more thing: Bukin should respect her as much as she was respected by her peers. Masha, let me kiss you!
(ASB President and Masha kiss each other)

Gomyra (grabs a wine bottle, staring at it): “Abrau Durso”… good stuff…

ASB President: And the last, but not the least, comrades! A surprise for the newly-weds! As a wedding gift, our committee and the trade union granted our newly-weds a separate room in the dorm! Just for them!

(Cheers, rattling of glasses, Bukin and Masha kiss.)

Translated by Ekaterina Shubnaya, RT

Sales for electronic books has doubled

2012-05-10T20:44:00.000+02:00

Demand for electronic books has doubled in Russia for the last year. Publishers have earned $135 million, according to the agency Rospechat (Russian Publishing).

The market of electronic books is growing 120% annually in the recent years. ‘One of the major reasons is rather low size of the market last year. to grow from the zero point is always fun and fast. In the nearest years the market will be growing fast. New kinds of electronic payment and e-book readers are being introduced,’ says the Business FM presenter Alexander Gavrilov.

The sales of e-book readers are growing fast as well. Its is one of the most active segments of consumer electronics.
RIC

Joseph Brodsky: Butterfly

2012-05-09T21:43:00.000+02:00

Should I pronounce you dead?
Thank Him: You've seen a rise of
the sun. Gifts so derisive
evoke regret:
I barely can infer
“you've lived.” Your dates: of birth, and
of turning into earth at
my hands, concur,
which makes me hesitate
subtracting out
the earlier amount
within one day.
II
Because a day for us
is nothing, innit?
The void. One cannot pin it
and make for eyes
their diet: Days, afar
on white background,
and having neither bound
nor substance, are
invisible. Aren't they
like you? Or rather,
you are, reduced a dozen
of times, one day.
III
I'd say, there is no you
at all, but what is
this silky-feeling goddess
like you? - And hue
is not the void's ally!
What could inspire
such wonder-paint applier?
Unlikely, I,
a muttering disease
so color-meager,
could have imagined figures
and tints like these.

IV
Your little wings display
eye-pupils, lashes.
Whose faces do these splashes
of dye portray:
a beauty girl's, a bird's?
Or, maybe, neither,
and on your flitting easel,
a Nature Morte
is painted: lettuce heads,
or beans of coffee,
and even – look! – a trophy
of fishing spreads.
V
Perhaps, armed with a lens,
I would discover
a landscape: beaches, towers,
a group of friends.
Is it as dark as night?
or day-like shiny?
And in the world so tiny,
which astral lights
adorn the sky? Disclose
to us, what's printed
on it, and give a hint what
the model was.
VI
I think, there coexist
and this, and those:
in you, a face, a rose,
a star persist.
Where is that artist-mage
who did not falter
to turn your elfin altar
a world-like stage,
the world that makes us fuss,
loose reason, shatter,
where you're a thought of matter,
the latter's us.
VII
Could you explain, what for
such guise was given
to you for less than even
a day, on shores
of lakes whose glossy look
reflects the vastness
of space? And you – this hastiness
steals your luck
to gratify,
let chasing, catching linger,
thrill in one's fingers,
allure the eye.
VIII
You won't respond, but for
another reason
than dither. Nor there is an
ill will. Still, nor
your death is your excuse.
All living creatures,
among their common features,
their kinship clues,
are granted voice for, say,
conversing, singing,
rehearsing and rethinking
a wink, a day.
IX
And you – you are devoid
of said endowment.
But less is good, - avow it! -
for, what's the point
to be a pet of fate,
an aim of envy?
So, don't lament yourself if
your wit, your weight
are worth of this taboo.
Voice burdens, trust me.
More aerial than dust, be
more silent, too.
X
Perception-free – alas,
of terrors spared,
you flutter in the air
above the grass
beyond these prison-like,
twice tears half laughter,
the former and hereafter,
and this is why
when you are searching for
your proper nurture
the very space, by virtue
of this, reforms.
XI
So does a poet's pen
that lonely slithers
along the notepad, neither
aware of when
nor what awaits its script,
where moonshine, wisdom
are mixed, but irresisting
that pulsing grip,
whose voiceless jolts compel
rejoicing, grieving,
not buds – of dust relieving,
but chest – of spells.
XII
So brief a tenure term
and looks so pretty,
combined in an unwitting
surmise, affirm
that what this world is for,
to say succinctly:
the Maker has no inkling,
and what is more,
the purpose isn't us.
My friend bug-lover,
in truth, light doesn't hover,
nor darkness does.
XIII
So, will you do as well
with my “Farewell” as
all days do? There are fellas
whose storage well
went Lethean. But look,
their sin is minor:
for there behind them fly nor
their fortune's flukes,
nor dates with beds for two,
nor dreams amorphous,
nor memories -- but swarms of
your siblings do!
XIV
You're better than the Void.
Or rather, nearer.
Yet from within, I fear,
you're its envoy,
its next of kin, its kind.
In your brief instance,
it has achieved existence;
and that is why,
all daily stir amid,
you're worth regarding
as something gently guarding
my self from it.

...

Victory parade arms galore

2012-05-09T13:51:00.000+02:00

More RT

The Old Cradle of Knowledge

2012-05-09T01:01:00.001+02:00

The Old Cradle of Knowledge: Some unique photographs of the St. Petersburg Polytechnic Institute of Emperor Peter the Great dated 1912. Commodity research museum Naval museum The first lab of physics The second lab of physics Chemical pavillion Chemical pavillion view from the tower Chemistry … Read more...

All set: Final rehearsal of Victory Day parade in Moscow (VIDEO)

2012-05-08T21:15:00.000+02:00

Fourteen thousand soldiers and 100,000 units of military equipment took part in this last rehearsal before the big day. It was also the only daytime dress rehearsal – unlike the previous three, which were held at night.

All servicemen involved in the parade wore their dress uniforms, and tanks, missile launchers and armored vehicles rolled down Red Square. To preserve the Red Square paving blocks, special rubber grips have been fitted on all the track vehicles.

Helicopters and fighter jets are also part of Victory Day celebrations, and will fly over the Kremlin on May 9th.

Ludmila Petrushevskaya: The Fountain House

2012-05-08T21:03:00.001+02:00

There once lived a girl who was killed, then brought back to life. That is, her parents were told that she was dead, but they weren’t allowed to keep her body. (The family had been riding the bus together; the girl was standing up front at the time of the explosion, and her parents were sitting behind her.) The girl was just fifteen, and she was thrown backward by the blast.

While the parents waited for the ambulance, and while the dead were being separated from the wounded, the father held his daughter in his arms, though it was clear by then that she was dead; the doctor at the scene confirmed this. But the body still had to be taken away, so the parents climbed into the ambulance with their daughter and rode with her to the hospital morgue.

She seemed to be alive, as she lay on the stretcher, but she had no pulse, nor was she breathing. Her parents were told to go home, but they wouldn’t; they wanted to wait for the body, though procedures still had to be followed—the autopsy performed and the cause of death determined.

The father, who was desperate with grief, and who was also a deeply religious man, decided to steal his daughter’s body. He took his wife, who was barely conscious, home, endured a conversation with his mother-in-law, woke up a neighbor, who was a nurse, and borrowed a white hospital coat. Then he took all the money in the house and went to the nearest hospital, where he hired an empty ambulance (it was two in the morning), and, with a stretcher and a young paramedic, whom he’d bribed, drove to the hospital where his daughter was, walked past the guard and down the stairs to the basement corridor, and entered the morgue. There was no one there. Quickly he found his daughter and, with the paramedic’s help, put her on the stretcher, called down the service elevator, and took her to the intensive-care unit on the third floor. The father had studied the layout of the hospital earlier, while he and his wife waited for the body.

He let the paramedic go. After a brief negotiation with the doctor on duty, he handed over his money, and the doctor admitted the girl to the intensive-care unit.

Although the girl was not accompanied by a medical history, the doctor could see perfectly well that she was dead. But he badly needed the money: his wife had just given birth (also to a daughter), and his nerves were on edge. His mother hated his wife, and they took turns crying, and the child cried, too, and now on top of all this he had been assigned exclusively night shifts. The sum that this (clearly insane) father had offered him to revive his dead princess was enough for half a year’s rent on a separate apartment for his own little family.

This was why the doctor began to work on the girl as if she were still alive, but, since the father was determined not to leave her side, he did request that the man change into a hospital gown and occupy the cot next to his daughter.

The girl lay there, as white as marble; she was beautiful. The father, sitting on his cot, stared at her like a madman. One of his eyes seemed out of focus, and it was only with difficulty, in fact, that he was able to open his eyes at all.

The doctor, having observed this for a while, asked the nurse to administer a cardiogram, and then quickly gave his new patient a shot of a tranquillizer. The father fell asleep. The girl continued to lie there like Sleeping Beauty, hooked up to her various machines. The doctor fussed around her, doing all he could, even though there was no longer someone watching him with a crazy unfocussed eye. In truth, this young doctor was a fanatic of his profession—there was nothing more important to him than a challenging case, than a person, no matter who it was, on the brink of death.

The father slept, and in his dream he met his daughter—he went to visit her, as he used to visit her at summer camp. He prepared some food—a sandwich, that was all. He got on the bus—another bus—on a fine summer evening, somewhere near the Sokol metro station, and rode it to the paradisiacal spot where his daughter was staying. In the fields, amid soft green hills, he found an enormous gray house with arched gates reaching to the sky, and, when he walked through these giant gates into the garden, there, in an emerald clearing, he saw a fountain, as tall as the house, with one tight jet of water that cascaded at the top into a glistening crown. The sun was setting slowly in the distance, and the father walked happily across the lawn to the entrance, to the right of the gate, and took the stairs up to a high floor, to the apartment where his daughter was. She seemed a little embarrassed when she greeted him, as if he had interrupted her. She stood there, looking away from him—as if she had her own, private life here, which had nothing to do with him anymore, a life that was none of his business.

The place had high ceilings and wide windows, and it faced south, overlooking the fountain, which was illuminated by the setting sun.

“I brought you a sandwich, the kind you like,” the father said.

He went over to a table by the window, put his little package down, paused for a moment, and then unwrapped it. There lay his sandwich, with its two slices of cheap black bread. He wanted to show his daughter that there was a patty inside, so he separated the bread slices. But between them he saw—and right away he knew what it was—a raw human heart. The father was terrified that the heart had not been cooked, that the sandwich was inedible, and he quickly wrapped the sandwich up again. Turning to his daughter, he said awkwardly, “I mixed up the sandwiches. I’ll bring you another one.”

Olympic Games 1980, Moscow

2012-05-08T14:39:00.000+02:00

The beginning of an unforgettable Olympic Games in Moscow in 1980.