7:00am: woke up, had breakfast, showered
7:45am: being e-mails and other things
8:30am: continue reading Dostoyevsky's "Notes from the Underground."
11:15am: lunch
11:45am - 12:15pm: complete "Notes from the Underground"
12:15pm: walk to school.
1:00pm: class with Igor
2:30pm: check schedule for tonight, go grocery shopping
4:30pm: make dinner
5:00pm: eat dinner
5:30pm: dishes, begin research on Opus No. 7
6:15pm: walk to school to meet Nastia to go to Opus No. 7
7:00pm: meet Nastia
7:20pm: coffee
8:00pm: Opus No. 7
11:15pm: return home
Midnight: blog, read for class tomorrow, answer e-mails, some leisure time
1:30am - 2:00am: bed?
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Monday, March 29, 2010
37
The theater is the opiate of the people, or so Comrade Lenin believed. What we learned today in our theatre history lecture was that as Lenin closed the churches throughout his newly constituted Soviet Union, he established theatres. Icons wrought from wood were replaced by icons wrought from make-up and good lighting; the ethereal was replaced with the real; epistles were replaced with propaganda.
Tonight the ballet began at 7 and few people were there to watch. The solace and peace of Chekhov's CHAIKA, transfigured into ballet, was lost on one-half of the house -- because one-half of the house was not there. Tonight, the people stayed home to count their blessings. What these multitudes missed was not a polemic on society; not a treatise on human dignity or bourgeois excess; not a homily on capitalist evils. Tonight the ballet began at 7, as scheduled, and presented an elegant exploration of Chekhov's characters. Tonight was an accidental escape.
As Anatoly Meronovich continued his lecture on Lenin and his relationship with the Moscow Art Theatre, he gave a nod to society's progress. Well, it was more of a shrug: Russians are beginning to view theatre as theater. 95% or so of Ruskis hold views similiar to those of Americans: you go to the theater to see pretty things, not to think. The theatre exists to entertain.
CHAIKA was a beautiful expansion of Chekhov's psychological nuance. It created new scenes, inspired by the play, that showed the humiliation and pain of Chekhov's beautifully flawed characters. A short but stunning duet between Masha and Medvedenko -- a woman "settling" for the also-ran of her heart -- stole the show (in my opinion). It was simple but complicated, it was plain but inspired, it was painted in gray but conveyed a spectrum of ache, love, and longing.
Sitting in the plush seats of the Moscow Musical Theater in honor of Stanislavski & Nemerovich-Danchenko, the world outside evaporated. The emotional beauty of Neumeier's explorations erased, for a moment, the stress of some. I'd venture to guess that Nastya, our Angel for the evening and our outstanding daily administrator, was someone who was releived. Her shoulders were raised and her voice quivered as we walked briskly towards the theater building. The stories tumbling from her lips had everything to do with alarm and worry -- like many of the stories we shared in DC or NYC after 9/11. The magnituted of injury was far less today, but the magnitude of vulnerability was equal: Nastya was shaken, but we were not; her country was attacked, but ours was not.
Today 37 people got onto the Moscow Metro but never got off. We didn't think about them as we left the theater. We talked about the humor and wit of the "Swan Lake" parody; we talked about the ache of the Masha-Medvedenko duet -- a duet never really seen in Chekhov. Tonight we did not talk about the two unseen women and their thirty-five faceless victims. Tonight we escaped.
Tonight the ballet began at 7 and few people were there to watch. The solace and peace of Chekhov's CHAIKA, transfigured into ballet, was lost on one-half of the house -- because one-half of the house was not there. Tonight, the people stayed home to count their blessings. What these multitudes missed was not a polemic on society; not a treatise on human dignity or bourgeois excess; not a homily on capitalist evils. Tonight the ballet began at 7, as scheduled, and presented an elegant exploration of Chekhov's characters. Tonight was an accidental escape.
As Anatoly Meronovich continued his lecture on Lenin and his relationship with the Moscow Art Theatre, he gave a nod to society's progress. Well, it was more of a shrug: Russians are beginning to view theatre as theater. 95% or so of Ruskis hold views similiar to those of Americans: you go to the theater to see pretty things, not to think. The theatre exists to entertain.
CHAIKA was a beautiful expansion of Chekhov's psychological nuance. It created new scenes, inspired by the play, that showed the humiliation and pain of Chekhov's beautifully flawed characters. A short but stunning duet between Masha and Medvedenko -- a woman "settling" for the also-ran of her heart -- stole the show (in my opinion). It was simple but complicated, it was plain but inspired, it was painted in gray but conveyed a spectrum of ache, love, and longing.
Sitting in the plush seats of the Moscow Musical Theater in honor of Stanislavski & Nemerovich-Danchenko, the world outside evaporated. The emotional beauty of Neumeier's explorations erased, for a moment, the stress of some. I'd venture to guess that Nastya, our Angel for the evening and our outstanding daily administrator, was someone who was releived. Her shoulders were raised and her voice quivered as we walked briskly towards the theater building. The stories tumbling from her lips had everything to do with alarm and worry -- like many of the stories we shared in DC or NYC after 9/11. The magnituted of injury was far less today, but the magnitude of vulnerability was equal: Nastya was shaken, but we were not; her country was attacked, but ours was not.
Today 37 people got onto the Moscow Metro but never got off. We didn't think about them as we left the theater. We talked about the humor and wit of the "Swan Lake" parody; we talked about the ache of the Masha-Medvedenko duet -- a duet never really seen in Chekhov. Tonight we did not talk about the two unseen women and their thirty-five faceless victims. Tonight we escaped.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
yesterday's post this morning
Ah, the joys of waking up drunk in a dorm full of artists! I woke up to the sounds of Shakespeare in recitation. Not a bad way at all. Some nights, I fall asleep to the sounds of Russian folk tunes being sung in the hall. Gorgeous! Trust me, I love it! After years of falling asleep to the sound of trucks rumbling down Ocean Parkway, or waking up to garbage men on F Street, this is heaven.
My choirs of angels are a chorus of young actors.
Last night was someone's birthday. I'm not sure who's, but it was his. A Russian; an actor; a comrade. Vodka and hookas were passed around. Cigarettes and beer, songs and stories, laughter on the stairs of the dorm. It was fantastic!
It is a little painful this morning, but so much the better -- good things should have a bit of a knife's edge to them. It is the sharpness that keeps them novelties and not routines.
Shakespeare in the morning; waking up drunk. Brunch in a few hours with some fabulous gay men ... Mass even sooner (I need to shower!).
I love Moscow.
My choirs of angels are a chorus of young actors.
Last night was someone's birthday. I'm not sure who's, but it was his. A Russian; an actor; a comrade. Vodka and hookas were passed around. Cigarettes and beer, songs and stories, laughter on the stairs of the dorm. It was fantastic!
It is a little painful this morning, but so much the better -- good things should have a bit of a knife's edge to them. It is the sharpness that keeps them novelties and not routines.
Shakespeare in the morning; waking up drunk. Brunch in a few hours with some fabulous gay men ... Mass even sooner (I need to shower!).
I love Moscow.
Friday, March 26, 2010
A Knife in the Back
"Joseph, your temper." "Yes Mom, I know, my temper; my temper, I know."
Some people are not meant to keep blogs. I am one of them. I hate blogging because there is a public element to private thoughts. Blogs are not diaries, but I treat them as one. I have to correct that; I have to start writing in my diary.
Today was a stressful day for stupid and personal reasons. It began with someone leaving my milk out to spoil -- accidentally, of course, but it angered me. If you're going to bang around the kitchen at some hour of the day or night, at least have the common decency to put other people's belongings away. Especially if they involve their morning ritual. Morning rituals are sacred in my family, they ease us into the trivial and stressful minutia of life. They are small personal moments -- moments that are increasingly valuable when you must live in communal housing.
In place of my soothing coffee in my bedroom, I had to head to PrimeStar. I spend money I didn't want to spend, but the walk and soothing moments reading Gogol in a cafe calm my nerves. All is better, until I get to Anatoly's class.
We sit at Anatoly's luxurious table, he at the head, and he announces his concern. It had been relayed to him that we were not understanding what we were seeing; we were not taking the intiative to find out about the plays we are sent to, and thus not understanding what was going on. He was relying on hearsay; he was wrong. He made me angry -- not at him, but at the perceived source of the hearsay.
My anger came forth in my blog. My remaining personal ritual for the day. In retrospect, I was too harsh. In retrospect, the majority of the day was a series of missteps and miscommunications.
Some people are not meant to keep blogs. I am one of them. I hate blogging because there is a public element to private thoughts. Blogs are not diaries, but I treat them as one. I have to correct that; I have to start writing in my diary.
Today was a stressful day for stupid and personal reasons. It began with someone leaving my milk out to spoil -- accidentally, of course, but it angered me. If you're going to bang around the kitchen at some hour of the day or night, at least have the common decency to put other people's belongings away. Especially if they involve their morning ritual. Morning rituals are sacred in my family, they ease us into the trivial and stressful minutia of life. They are small personal moments -- moments that are increasingly valuable when you must live in communal housing.
In place of my soothing coffee in my bedroom, I had to head to PrimeStar. I spend money I didn't want to spend, but the walk and soothing moments reading Gogol in a cafe calm my nerves. All is better, until I get to Anatoly's class.
We sit at Anatoly's luxurious table, he at the head, and he announces his concern. It had been relayed to him that we were not understanding what we were seeing; we were not taking the intiative to find out about the plays we are sent to, and thus not understanding what was going on. He was relying on hearsay; he was wrong. He made me angry -- not at him, but at the perceived source of the hearsay.
My anger came forth in my blog. My remaining personal ritual for the day. In retrospect, I was too harsh. In retrospect, the majority of the day was a series of missteps and miscommunications.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
March 24
11:00am: Class with Igor Vishnevetysky on Russian History [The Life of Avaakum]. Discussion was brief, and veered into current cultural life in St. Pete, and then talking about the role of "Old Believers" in Russia's Silver Age (1890 - 1910, or there's about)
1:30pm: Class with Anatoly Smeliansky. Discussion of upcoming productions, already seen productions. Not sure what I want to write about ...
2:45pm: Gym. Easy work-out, but good.
5:00pm: Changed for the theater
7:00pm: Mark Morris Dance Company at the New Opera.
11:00pm: watched "The Man With A Movie Camera" in 2x speed and then wrote my response.
12:00am (March 25): e-mailed response re: "The Man With a Movie Camera"
1:30pm: Class with Anatoly Smeliansky. Discussion of upcoming productions, already seen productions. Not sure what I want to write about ...
2:45pm: Gym. Easy work-out, but good.
5:00pm: Changed for the theater
7:00pm: Mark Morris Dance Company at the New Opera.
11:00pm: watched "The Man With A Movie Camera" in 2x speed and then wrote my response.
12:00am (March 25): e-mailed response re: "The Man With a Movie Camera"
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
My Russian Diet
"You're never going to be able to do it," Whitney sneered. "Why?" I responded. "Because, Russians put meat in EVERYTHING." Ok, yes, Russians do put meat into just about everything - vegetable soup is actually beef and vegetables; potato pancakes have chicken in them; cold carrot salad will have bits of chicken in it ... and so on. But keeping vegetarian hasn't been too bad for me.
You see, I've given up eating meat for Lent (except for fish, but even then I don't eat very much of it). This year, I am especially lucky because the Orthodox and Western Easters are on the same Sunday, so Lent is the same 40 days for both faiths, so Moscow is filled with "Post" [Lent] menus. These astrixed options on the menu have been my get-out-of-meat free cards for the past few weeks. So, instead of the meat soup - fish! Instead of carrot salads with chicken in them - beet salad! Instead of chicken-filled potato pancakes - regular potato pancakes! I'm in heaven.
My paradise of meal options has less to do with my reading Russian, and more to do with my ability to look at pictures. Teremok, a chain of crepe stands that can be found on many Moscow streets, serve great "e-mail" crepes [mushrooms and cheese] and ikra [red caviar, probably salmon] crepes. Delicious -- and easy to order because their larger than life pictures are on the McDonald's-like menu.
And there is McDonald's here! I went once - probably will never go again (it was a MADHOUSE), but there are some great McD's options here that you can't get in the states - like CHEESE McNUGGETS. Think chicken McNuggets, but filled with cheese instead. Yum! The strawberry-cranberry "dipping sauce," though ... um, no, not yum.
And of course there are the potato chips: sour cream and onion flavored, cheese, bacon, lamb, caviar, leek and cream, chicken, jalepeno ... and others. Why are these exotic Lays chip varieties not in the States???
Why must I use the term "exotic Lays chip varities?" That says something about our tastebuds, our American tastebuds. I don't know if Lays would have a run on caviar flavored potato chips in the states, or if fat-obessed America -- now super-sizing it criticism of McDonald's -- would buy deep friend cheese. Our tastes, and culture, are different.
I pondered this difference this afternoon as I ate my lunch -- a delicious eggplant spread (probably a sauce, like Ragu or something) on soft slices of bread with some Russian cheese and pickles, and a glass of kvas [a low-alcohol beer brewed from bread]. It's a "French lunch," as I call it, because I was watching a French film years ago, and the couple in it were going on a road trip to some country estate. On the morning of their road trip, their early lunch consisted of pickles, cheese, and bread. They were probably just emptying out their cabinets before their departure, but to me it seemed elegant. No fussing with bread slices, lettuce, slabs of meat; instead, delicate eating of small tasty bits. A kind of crude refinment.
As I continue to wander supermarket aisles -- making new discoveries like "hatchipurri" [Georgian bread - filled with cheese!] or mushroom pancakes, or chocolate flavored cream cheese -- I keep my American tastes in mind. While much of what I buy is just like home (Russian frozen vegetable mixes, or frozen lasagne) I try to venture out into something new, like pickled mushrooms [never again!]. Hopefully, as I learn what I like and make more use of my gym membership, my Russian diet will expand my perspective and not my waist.
You see, I've given up eating meat for Lent (except for fish, but even then I don't eat very much of it). This year, I am especially lucky because the Orthodox and Western Easters are on the same Sunday, so Lent is the same 40 days for both faiths, so Moscow is filled with "Post" [Lent] menus. These astrixed options on the menu have been my get-out-of-meat free cards for the past few weeks. So, instead of the meat soup - fish! Instead of carrot salads with chicken in them - beet salad! Instead of chicken-filled potato pancakes - regular potato pancakes! I'm in heaven.
My paradise of meal options has less to do with my reading Russian, and more to do with my ability to look at pictures. Teremok, a chain of crepe stands that can be found on many Moscow streets, serve great "e-mail" crepes [mushrooms and cheese] and ikra [red caviar, probably salmon] crepes. Delicious -- and easy to order because their larger than life pictures are on the McDonald's-like menu.
And there is McDonald's here! I went once - probably will never go again (it was a MADHOUSE), but there are some great McD's options here that you can't get in the states - like CHEESE McNUGGETS. Think chicken McNuggets, but filled with cheese instead. Yum! The strawberry-cranberry "dipping sauce," though ... um, no, not yum.
And of course there are the potato chips: sour cream and onion flavored, cheese, bacon, lamb, caviar, leek and cream, chicken, jalepeno ... and others. Why are these exotic Lays chip varieties not in the States???
Why must I use the term "exotic Lays chip varities?" That says something about our tastebuds, our American tastebuds. I don't know if Lays would have a run on caviar flavored potato chips in the states, or if fat-obessed America -- now super-sizing it criticism of McDonald's -- would buy deep friend cheese. Our tastes, and culture, are different.
I pondered this difference this afternoon as I ate my lunch -- a delicious eggplant spread (probably a sauce, like Ragu or something) on soft slices of bread with some Russian cheese and pickles, and a glass of kvas [a low-alcohol beer brewed from bread]. It's a "French lunch," as I call it, because I was watching a French film years ago, and the couple in it were going on a road trip to some country estate. On the morning of their road trip, their early lunch consisted of pickles, cheese, and bread. They were probably just emptying out their cabinets before their departure, but to me it seemed elegant. No fussing with bread slices, lettuce, slabs of meat; instead, delicate eating of small tasty bits. A kind of crude refinment.
As I continue to wander supermarket aisles -- making new discoveries like "hatchipurri" [Georgian bread - filled with cheese!] or mushroom pancakes, or chocolate flavored cream cheese -- I keep my American tastes in mind. While much of what I buy is just like home (Russian frozen vegetable mixes, or frozen lasagne) I try to venture out into something new, like pickled mushrooms [never again!]. Hopefully, as I learn what I like and make more use of my gym membership, my Russian diet will expand my perspective and not my waist.
Monday, March 22, 2010
An International Kinda' Life
Our washing maching speaks German. This is a problem. As an American living in Moscow, who doesn't speak a hell of a lot of Russian, and who studied Spanish in high school, "Ach!" "Aus," "Schlundern," and degrees in centigrade (I think that is what the numbers on the dial mean) cripple my poor tired brain at 8am as I try to cram my whites into the machine's mouth. Why 8am? There is one machine for an entire floor of people. You gotta' get while the gettin's good.
My lack of laundering fluency made me late for class today. It's not a complicated story, but it's not interesting either. I won't get into it. At any rate, this inconvenience is only one of a few lingual oddities here. Like my body wash - it speaks French. So, I thought I was buying an exfoliant ... but no, those are just bath beads that make me smell like roses.
Damn, I should not have taken Spanish.
Still, that mishap was better than when the Japanese lotion I bought turned out to be hand soap. What a discovery to make! Thankfully, it was only my arm that was caked in soapy goodness.
The lotion that I did buy, though, I mistook for cold cream. Actually, let me rephrase: I thought I was buying lotion, but when I got the substance home I thought its texture was too much like cold-cream's. Trying to avoid another lotion application mistake, I decided to put my misguided purchase to good use: I would wash my face with the cold cream.
That would have been a good idea if it was cold cream. It was, in fact, lotion, which I discovered in the shower as I tried to scrape the oily mess out of my eyes.
Thankfully, beer and vodka are universal. The day I mix up vodka with something else ... that's a sad day. Like the day I thought I was going to eat cottage cheese -- only to discover that it was a "unique Russian variety" of sour cream (which means extra sour). Yum. What a lovely breakfast that was!
These mishaps, though, are joyous ones. I laugh 'em off because this trip is, separations and longings aside, a once-in-a-lifetime endeavor. Like tonight: tonight was the invited dress for MXT's new production of Gorky's "Васса Железнова" [Vassa Zheleznova]. Tonight I sat next to some of the most famous and respected actors in Russia. I couldn't tell you who they were exactly, but they were there (the skinny bastards: the downside to being in a top arts program -- all the people around you are damn beautiful and spend their days doing calisthenics). Hopefully my life will be filled with more events like tonight, if I play my cards right.
The events of the past few days have put me in a nostalgic place. All the griping about vanity aside, I'm damn lucky. I'm damn lucky to have the people around me that I do, and the people who are only an ocean away.
My lack of laundering fluency made me late for class today. It's not a complicated story, but it's not interesting either. I won't get into it. At any rate, this inconvenience is only one of a few lingual oddities here. Like my body wash - it speaks French. So, I thought I was buying an exfoliant ... but no, those are just bath beads that make me smell like roses.
Damn, I should not have taken Spanish.
Still, that mishap was better than when the Japanese lotion I bought turned out to be hand soap. What a discovery to make! Thankfully, it was only my arm that was caked in soapy goodness.
The lotion that I did buy, though, I mistook for cold cream. Actually, let me rephrase: I thought I was buying lotion, but when I got the substance home I thought its texture was too much like cold-cream's. Trying to avoid another lotion application mistake, I decided to put my misguided purchase to good use: I would wash my face with the cold cream.
That would have been a good idea if it was cold cream. It was, in fact, lotion, which I discovered in the shower as I tried to scrape the oily mess out of my eyes.
Thankfully, beer and vodka are universal. The day I mix up vodka with something else ... that's a sad day. Like the day I thought I was going to eat cottage cheese -- only to discover that it was a "unique Russian variety" of sour cream (which means extra sour). Yum. What a lovely breakfast that was!
These mishaps, though, are joyous ones. I laugh 'em off because this trip is, separations and longings aside, a once-in-a-lifetime endeavor. Like tonight: tonight was the invited dress for MXT's new production of Gorky's "Васса Железнова" [Vassa Zheleznova]. Tonight I sat next to some of the most famous and respected actors in Russia. I couldn't tell you who they were exactly, but they were there (the skinny bastards: the downside to being in a top arts program -- all the people around you are damn beautiful and spend their days doing calisthenics). Hopefully my life will be filled with more events like tonight, if I play my cards right.
The events of the past few days have put me in a nostalgic place. All the griping about vanity aside, I'm damn lucky. I'm damn lucky to have the people around me that I do, and the people who are only an ocean away.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
The Unexpected
Sitting in Starbucks, waiting for my computer to boot up. What a monotonous chore -- especially when I **could** be in my room, but I'm not (I still am grumbling over my lack of internet). AOL e-mail, Harvard e-mail, Facebook - my trinity of prorities. But fun comes first, so HELLO FACEBOOK! As I log-in to Facebook I see a note: 10 people have commented on a photo of me? What?! Which picture? That must be a damn good photo! Why are people commenting? I hope I look good!
"In Memory of TinAlane DeGrazia" is the name of the photo album. The picture is of me, Jessie, Mary, Rob, Mike, Kelly, Tina, Bridget. The whole mess of us were camping: the annual Drama Department canoeing trip to Quetico Park in Canada. With our eight high school aged faces looking out at me, the "In Memory of TinAlane DeGrazia" threw me into a panic -- why the "In Memory?"
A frenzy of Google searching, clicking through Facebook pages, and my misty eyes came across a note on Jessie's Facebook page. It was from Rachel: Tina had been battling liver disease for a couple of years (I don't think many people knew). She died a few days ago (the 16th or 17th). There will be a memorial a couple of days after Easter - in Park Ridge, Illinois.
I will be in Moscow. The mist in my eyes grew quite thick, my head dizzy.
Tina and I weren't terribly close since we graduated from high school. In fact, the first time I saw her was after she graduated and was at Knox College in Galesburg, Illinois. She was a bit of bitch to me -- that "I'm in college now, I'm an adult" kinda' bitchyness. My high school heart was disappointed; I drifted away from Tina. It was only through Facebook that Tina and I were able to reconnect -- about 2 years ago -- and we wrote each other, every once in a blue moon, and would mention getting together over some holiday at home.
I don't get back to Illinois for very long periods of time, but this past summer, as I prepped for my college move, I had enough days to meet up with high school friends. Tina was not among them - I wish she was, but she had moved to Texas. It was a fun lunch, catching up with folks, meeting husbands and babies, but Tina wasn't there. I hoped she might, by some miracle, be there so we could spend more time together like we did in high school.
I was Tina's Senior Prom Date. She wore an ivory pantsuit, I wore a tail coat with an ivory tie and vest. As a Junior, honored to escort a Senior to her prom, I remember thinking how serious Senior Prom was. Was this the first step to a serious relationship?? Did my mom, or Tina's mom, expect me to propose marriage?
Looking back, I highly doubt either mother expected me to get down on one knee. In fact, I sincerely doubt if Tina expected me to get down on one knee, but I don't think that mattered to her. What mattered was having fun, and we did -- driving to prom in a pick-up, spending post-prom at the luxurious Illinois Athletic Center, and then spending the weekend at the Anichini's summer cottage in Wisconsin with what seemed like every Senior who had ever stepped onto the Maine South High School stage.
Tina. She would sit in Sanch's office, the tech director's tiny office next to PA 101 in the performing arts wing of my high school, and swivel around in his chair pointing her toes. She was a Hawkette, a swimmer, a drama freak. She loved dancing -- its form and grace -- and loved to pirouette and prance around the PA wing. She would sigh out "Alane!" in a dreamy voice. She was a melo-dramatic high school girl, without the drama. She and Tim Osborne were on-again, off-again, boyfriend/girlfriend -- but it was always amicable and never too fussy (as I experienced it). She was a techie, working backstage building sets, but would also audition and win roles in various productions, but I never saw her sport an ego. She sang alto in the choir, but I don't think she fussed over never getting a solo.
My Freshman year, she gave a presentation on Hello, Dolly! in Drama I, and because of that she and I perfected our Carol Channing impersonations -- mimicing a clip of Carol being interviewed by Conan O'Brien. We cut school together, with Kathy Sandrik, on "Southfest" my Sophomore year. We were friends, she more my protector - defending me from the taunts of other boys (either to my face or behind my back).
Tina DeGrazia. There were so many friends in high school, but few have places in my memory -- let alone my heart.
"Us"
"Tina"
"In Memory of TinAlane DeGrazia" is the name of the photo album. The picture is of me, Jessie, Mary, Rob, Mike, Kelly, Tina, Bridget. The whole mess of us were camping: the annual Drama Department canoeing trip to Quetico Park in Canada. With our eight high school aged faces looking out at me, the "In Memory of TinAlane DeGrazia" threw me into a panic -- why the "In Memory?"
A frenzy of Google searching, clicking through Facebook pages, and my misty eyes came across a note on Jessie's Facebook page. It was from Rachel: Tina had been battling liver disease for a couple of years (I don't think many people knew). She died a few days ago (the 16th or 17th). There will be a memorial a couple of days after Easter - in Park Ridge, Illinois.
I will be in Moscow. The mist in my eyes grew quite thick, my head dizzy.
Tina and I weren't terribly close since we graduated from high school. In fact, the first time I saw her was after she graduated and was at Knox College in Galesburg, Illinois. She was a bit of bitch to me -- that "I'm in college now, I'm an adult" kinda' bitchyness. My high school heart was disappointed; I drifted away from Tina. It was only through Facebook that Tina and I were able to reconnect -- about 2 years ago -- and we wrote each other, every once in a blue moon, and would mention getting together over some holiday at home.
I don't get back to Illinois for very long periods of time, but this past summer, as I prepped for my college move, I had enough days to meet up with high school friends. Tina was not among them - I wish she was, but she had moved to Texas. It was a fun lunch, catching up with folks, meeting husbands and babies, but Tina wasn't there. I hoped she might, by some miracle, be there so we could spend more time together like we did in high school.
I was Tina's Senior Prom Date. She wore an ivory pantsuit, I wore a tail coat with an ivory tie and vest. As a Junior, honored to escort a Senior to her prom, I remember thinking how serious Senior Prom was. Was this the first step to a serious relationship?? Did my mom, or Tina's mom, expect me to propose marriage?
Looking back, I highly doubt either mother expected me to get down on one knee. In fact, I sincerely doubt if Tina expected me to get down on one knee, but I don't think that mattered to her. What mattered was having fun, and we did -- driving to prom in a pick-up, spending post-prom at the luxurious Illinois Athletic Center, and then spending the weekend at the Anichini's summer cottage in Wisconsin with what seemed like every Senior who had ever stepped onto the Maine South High School stage.
Tina. She would sit in Sanch's office, the tech director's tiny office next to PA 101 in the performing arts wing of my high school, and swivel around in his chair pointing her toes. She was a Hawkette, a swimmer, a drama freak. She loved dancing -- its form and grace -- and loved to pirouette and prance around the PA wing. She would sigh out "Alane!" in a dreamy voice. She was a melo-dramatic high school girl, without the drama. She and Tim Osborne were on-again, off-again, boyfriend/girlfriend -- but it was always amicable and never too fussy (as I experienced it). She was a techie, working backstage building sets, but would also audition and win roles in various productions, but I never saw her sport an ego. She sang alto in the choir, but I don't think she fussed over never getting a solo.
My Freshman year, she gave a presentation on Hello, Dolly! in Drama I, and because of that she and I perfected our Carol Channing impersonations -- mimicing a clip of Carol being interviewed by Conan O'Brien. We cut school together, with Kathy Sandrik, on "Southfest" my Sophomore year. We were friends, she more my protector - defending me from the taunts of other boys (either to my face or behind my back).
Tina DeGrazia. There were so many friends in high school, but few have places in my memory -- let alone my heart.
"Us"
"Tina"
Friday, March 19, 2010
On the steps of the palace!
Or in a booth in Starbucks, for, once again, I am without Internet in my room.
yay.
The outrage over losing internet – daily – is building. I am paying, when the interest is tallied, upwards of $100,000 to be a part of this program (for the whole two years – around $50 grand for the first year, around $40 grand for the second, plus interest), and the goddamn Internet doesn’t work. Download one .pdf regarding a summer fellowship and WHAM! “NIET DENEG” = “NO MONEY.”
MXT, or it’s “IT people,” is making hand over fist from my Internet usage. It’s outrageous. It’s impossible to accomplish basic tasks one needs to stay connected: read the newspaper, write e-mails, write blogs, looks for summer employment. While my free-time internet searching used up my initial minutes, I’ve been very protective of the megabytes I’ve purchased. No videos, no Skypeing, no uploads to Facebook (except for 1 photo). And once again, I’m out of internet time.
Frustrating. Royally frustrating - especially after a beautiful wintery day. Today classes were cancelled for us dramaturgs. Igor Vishnevetsky, our Russian Lit. teacher, had to attend a conference, and Anatoly, our dramaturgy professor, is busy in Milan. So, no school. Seizing this oppporunity, us four D'turgs and Nastia (our fab American Studio administrator) went to the Kremlin Palace. It was pretty amazing.
Overwhelming does not describe the Kremlin. Impressive is more appropriate, I think. The Kremlin Palace took us about 2 hours or so to wander through. Giant golden platters, Faberge eggs, scepters, 13th century crowns, thrones, massive gold leaf carraiges and numerous other treasures fill about 5 massive rooms in the Palace. Definitely impressive, but not overwhelming. Stunning in its beauty and opulence, but not blinding.
The Hermitage, I hear, will leave you breathless. It's size, its collection, its decadence leave the Kremlin in the dust. But its still some damn beautiful dust.
The older parts of the Kremlin complex are also beatiful. The Church of the Assumption (?) and the Church of Archangel were two that we went into. They were awesome - in the literal sense of the word. The modest size, but the immense history, inspire awe. Being able, with the aid of art history lessons, to decode some of the history adds to the awe. The height and spans of plaster, tinted with various hues to create angels and saints and Virgins and God. To know that it was made several centuries ago, and is still standing, is awe-inspiring.
If only my access to the internet could inspire such awe.
yay.
The outrage over losing internet – daily – is building. I am paying, when the interest is tallied, upwards of $100,000 to be a part of this program (for the whole two years – around $50 grand for the first year, around $40 grand for the second, plus interest), and the goddamn Internet doesn’t work. Download one .pdf regarding a summer fellowship and WHAM! “NIET DENEG” = “NO MONEY.”
MXT, or it’s “IT people,” is making hand over fist from my Internet usage. It’s outrageous. It’s impossible to accomplish basic tasks one needs to stay connected: read the newspaper, write e-mails, write blogs, looks for summer employment. While my free-time internet searching used up my initial minutes, I’ve been very protective of the megabytes I’ve purchased. No videos, no Skypeing, no uploads to Facebook (except for 1 photo). And once again, I’m out of internet time.
Frustrating. Royally frustrating - especially after a beautiful wintery day. Today classes were cancelled for us dramaturgs. Igor Vishnevetsky, our Russian Lit. teacher, had to attend a conference, and Anatoly, our dramaturgy professor, is busy in Milan. So, no school. Seizing this oppporunity, us four D'turgs and Nastia (our fab American Studio administrator) went to the Kremlin Palace. It was pretty amazing.
Overwhelming does not describe the Kremlin. Impressive is more appropriate, I think. The Kremlin Palace took us about 2 hours or so to wander through. Giant golden platters, Faberge eggs, scepters, 13th century crowns, thrones, massive gold leaf carraiges and numerous other treasures fill about 5 massive rooms in the Palace. Definitely impressive, but not overwhelming. Stunning in its beauty and opulence, but not blinding.
The Hermitage, I hear, will leave you breathless. It's size, its collection, its decadence leave the Kremlin in the dust. But its still some damn beautiful dust.
The older parts of the Kremlin complex are also beatiful. The Church of the Assumption (?) and the Church of Archangel were two that we went into. They were awesome - in the literal sense of the word. The modest size, but the immense history, inspire awe. Being able, with the aid of art history lessons, to decode some of the history adds to the awe. The height and spans of plaster, tinted with various hues to create angels and saints and Virgins and God. To know that it was made several centuries ago, and is still standing, is awe-inspiring.
If only my access to the internet could inspire such awe.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Too much ____________________________
A daily journal. Trying to think of something inspiring to post, daily, is taxing. Not in an oppressive way, but in a guilt-inducing way. "You have not posted yet," or "you don't have access to the internet -- how are you going to post!" (which is why I'm missing a day or two of posts) are phrases that nag at me every now and then.
"Maybe you should blog about THIS" is another that pops into my head when something out of the ordinary happens to me.
"Does this rambling mess make sense?" Read on to find out ...
Today was rather ordinary. Today was a day in the life. Today reminds me of Catherine II "The Great" of Russia. Not in any kind of self-aggrandizing megalomaniac sorta' way, but in a kind of deathly way.
Catherine the Great died. We all die -- or will die. It is a part of nature. But not all of us have legendary deaths. Catherine's is legendary.
The seedier side of Russian history is beautifully glossed-over here when you go on tours around Moscow. "The Soviet Union entered World War II in 1941" - after they were party to a non-aggression pact with the Nazis, supplying the Nazis with raw materials before the Nazis decided to double-cross the Soviets and invade (they tend to leave that part out). "Maria Tsvetaeva [a famous Russian poetess] loved her husband very much" -- but had numerous affairs with other famous male and female Russian poets (they tend to leave that part out). "The Soviet Union was anti-Fascist" - under STALIN?!
"Catherine the Great died in bed."
High school history taught me about the rumored death of Catherine -- one that makes Peter Shaffer's Equus look like child's play. Still, Catherine seems like my kind of gal: a tyrant with libertine impulses. Empowered and enlightened, someone who owns her sexuality, someone who imposes -- perhaps too much so. Big characters draw big slanders. The equine rumor that found its way into freshman year World Cultures class may have been only that: a two centuries old character assasination created by her son Paul. Still, it is born of excess: a mother's ego vs. a son's vengeance.
The next "death tale" of Catherine's involves the potty. In the summer of 1997, I decided to read the 864 paged biography: The Romanovs - Autocrats of all the Russias by W. Bruce Lincoln.
http://www.amazon.com/Romanovs-Autocrats-All-Russias/dp/0385279086/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1268948521&sr=8-1
It was, and I say this in all sincerity, a great read. In here was relayed the story about Catherine's death: she had a stroke while on the toilet and died two days later (having never regained consciousness). Not exactly a noble way for God's appointed ruler on earth to pass onto the heavenly realm, but it happens (ask Elvis).
While in either situation I am sure that Catherine was brought to a bed (in the case of the first tale, she was most definitely in bed), the details that precipitated the move fascinate me. History fascinates me: it is created by the victors. Check that -- it's created by the **living** victors. So tamed tales and vengeful myths color our understanding. History is perspective.
The past few days, for me, have been filled with classes and theater. Feet in dirty shoes on sooty pavement, tramping up and down the ornate marble staircases of various theaters and Metro stations; this is my history. The past few days have been salaciousness-less. This lack of salacity made me think of Catherine -- via her valet, Khrapovitsky. He kept a diary worthy of Catherine's German heritage: no nonsense, simple details, bland.
When Catherine's former lover, Potemkin -- a man whom she had spurned -- died, this is what Khrapovitsky wrote [as quoted from Lincoln - see above for link to book and copyright information]:
Tears and despair. At 8pm she was bled. At 10pm she was put to bed. Entry for October 12, 1791.
She awoke in grief and tears. Entry for October 13, 1791.
The weeping continues. She said to me: "How can I replace Potemkin? No one can do so. Who would have thought that Chernyshev and other old men would have outlived him? He was a true aristocrat, a wise man. He never tried to sell me to others. No one could buy him. Entry for October 16, 1791.
They're simple details that humanize an inhuman figure. They cut to the truth of the woman, without being colored by horses or toilets. It's intersting writing without being manufactured. I need to take note of Khrapovitsky's style, and rather than fret over writing something entertaining, I should just write. For, as my memory serves, these bland details lead to captivating stories.
"Maybe you should blog about THIS" is another that pops into my head when something out of the ordinary happens to me.
"Does this rambling mess make sense?" Read on to find out ...
Today was rather ordinary. Today was a day in the life. Today reminds me of Catherine II "The Great" of Russia. Not in any kind of self-aggrandizing megalomaniac sorta' way, but in a kind of deathly way.
Catherine the Great died. We all die -- or will die. It is a part of nature. But not all of us have legendary deaths. Catherine's is legendary.
The seedier side of Russian history is beautifully glossed-over here when you go on tours around Moscow. "The Soviet Union entered World War II in 1941" - after they were party to a non-aggression pact with the Nazis, supplying the Nazis with raw materials before the Nazis decided to double-cross the Soviets and invade (they tend to leave that part out). "Maria Tsvetaeva [a famous Russian poetess] loved her husband very much" -- but had numerous affairs with other famous male and female Russian poets (they tend to leave that part out). "The Soviet Union was anti-Fascist" - under STALIN?!
"Catherine the Great died in bed."
High school history taught me about the rumored death of Catherine -- one that makes Peter Shaffer's Equus look like child's play. Still, Catherine seems like my kind of gal: a tyrant with libertine impulses. Empowered and enlightened, someone who owns her sexuality, someone who imposes -- perhaps too much so. Big characters draw big slanders. The equine rumor that found its way into freshman year World Cultures class may have been only that: a two centuries old character assasination created by her son Paul. Still, it is born of excess: a mother's ego vs. a son's vengeance.
The next "death tale" of Catherine's involves the potty. In the summer of 1997, I decided to read the 864 paged biography: The Romanovs - Autocrats of all the Russias by W. Bruce Lincoln.
http://www.amazon.com/Romanovs-Autocrats-All-Russias/dp/0385279086/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1268948521&sr=8-1
It was, and I say this in all sincerity, a great read. In here was relayed the story about Catherine's death: she had a stroke while on the toilet and died two days later (having never regained consciousness). Not exactly a noble way for God's appointed ruler on earth to pass onto the heavenly realm, but it happens (ask Elvis).
While in either situation I am sure that Catherine was brought to a bed (in the case of the first tale, she was most definitely in bed), the details that precipitated the move fascinate me. History fascinates me: it is created by the victors. Check that -- it's created by the **living** victors. So tamed tales and vengeful myths color our understanding. History is perspective.
The past few days, for me, have been filled with classes and theater. Feet in dirty shoes on sooty pavement, tramping up and down the ornate marble staircases of various theaters and Metro stations; this is my history. The past few days have been salaciousness-less. This lack of salacity made me think of Catherine -- via her valet, Khrapovitsky. He kept a diary worthy of Catherine's German heritage: no nonsense, simple details, bland.
When Catherine's former lover, Potemkin -- a man whom she had spurned -- died, this is what Khrapovitsky wrote [as quoted from Lincoln - see above for link to book and copyright information]:
Tears and despair. At 8pm she was bled. At 10pm she was put to bed. Entry for October 12, 1791.
She awoke in grief and tears. Entry for October 13, 1791.
The weeping continues. She said to me: "How can I replace Potemkin? No one can do so. Who would have thought that Chernyshev and other old men would have outlived him? He was a true aristocrat, a wise man. He never tried to sell me to others. No one could buy him. Entry for October 16, 1791.
They're simple details that humanize an inhuman figure. They cut to the truth of the woman, without being colored by horses or toilets. It's intersting writing without being manufactured. I need to take note of Khrapovitsky's style, and rather than fret over writing something entertaining, I should just write. For, as my memory serves, these bland details lead to captivating stories.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Resting my tootsies ...
It's been a long past few days, so when the opportunity to take a night off arose, I decided it sounded like a good idea. A nice dinner, some extended work on some writing pieces that I need to get done, and now time for some reading ... a nice break.
Especially since my knee is bothering me, and my back ... and my mind.
Age. It isn't pretty. It shouldn't be anything, really, just a fact of life; however, obsession over age is common, and I'm one of the commoners. Hopefully tomorrow will be a fresh start.
Especially since my knee is bothering me, and my back ... and my mind.
Age. It isn't pretty. It shouldn't be anything, really, just a fact of life; however, obsession over age is common, and I'm one of the commoners. Hopefully tomorrow will be a fresh start.
Monday, March 15, 2010
So what did YOU think about Threepenny?
Philippe is damn cute. He's tall and slim, has sharp features, and sandy brown hair. He's rather shy and speaks with a soft German accent.
He also intimidates the Hell outta' me.
All of the Germans here intimidate me, and for no good reason. That reason: my own inferiority complex. The American Studio at MXT is, in my mind, a bit of a summer camp when compared to the four year MXT traning program. "How do they view us?" is a constant question in my head. Having Thomas Ostermeier's students here, even if for a week, only adds to the questioning.
Can we compete? Can American talent and culture adequately compare to Europe, our literary and dramatic ancestor? Do we know enough? Our nation is notorious for having fat stupid children, many of whom have never read any aspect of our own literary heritage, let alone the global one. This psychological inferiority complex leaps to the forefront of my thoughts whenever I meet a German or a Russian -- do they think I'm dumb?
Tonight I think I held my own. I think. Us four American dramaturgs were sent to see KИЖЗ (I think that's how you spell it in Cyrillic -- in English it would be KIJE, pronounced KEE-ZHAY), directed by Kirill Serebrennikov. Kirill also directed Threepenny Opera. When we got back to the dorm, I went into the kitchen to enjoy a beer and some cheese and found Rachel and Philippe talking about KИЖЗ (which he had seen the prior evening).
The conversation ranged from opinions on visual asethetics to whether the scene that was in German really in German (it wasn't -- it was Russified German, and a cartoon of Emmanuel Kant), or what was the story that was communicated to you, and other topics. Rachel and Philippe talked, I listened.
The topic turned to Threepenny. Were there any unifying qualities that made the productions "Serebrennikov?" I think Rachel was right: there were (to my eye: the wide open space, tracking platforms, incorporation of the orchestra at different moments, and some other images were common to both productions). As Philippe pointed out, it is difficult to define aesthetic based on two productions; but, there were some striking similarities.
And then I asked a question: if Philippe thought the production of Threepenny "served" Brecht's text. He thought the dialogue with the audience was very Brechtian, supplying a necessary energy for the performance to be engaging; however, I disagreed -- but I didn't say so. I nodded and started to leave.
"But wait a minute - you can't ask me that question and not have an answer yourself!" he said (I wish there was flirtation in the comment, but there wasn't. Damn.).
My response: I thought the production was commercial (from what I could understand of it), and perhaps sacrificed true intellectualism for crowd-pleasing spectacle; the dialogue that Philippe praised was more of an enjoyment tactic than distanciation (save for one moment at the top of act three, which we agreed was effective).
I think he was impressed with my answer. I think. At any rate, I don't think I sounded like a doofus. God I hope I didn't. I was standing there in front of a cute boy in my pajamas while eating cheese; sounding like a moron would have only made a sad picture downright pitiful.
He also intimidates the Hell outta' me.
All of the Germans here intimidate me, and for no good reason. That reason: my own inferiority complex. The American Studio at MXT is, in my mind, a bit of a summer camp when compared to the four year MXT traning program. "How do they view us?" is a constant question in my head. Having Thomas Ostermeier's students here, even if for a week, only adds to the questioning.
Can we compete? Can American talent and culture adequately compare to Europe, our literary and dramatic ancestor? Do we know enough? Our nation is notorious for having fat stupid children, many of whom have never read any aspect of our own literary heritage, let alone the global one. This psychological inferiority complex leaps to the forefront of my thoughts whenever I meet a German or a Russian -- do they think I'm dumb?
Tonight I think I held my own. I think. Us four American dramaturgs were sent to see KИЖЗ (I think that's how you spell it in Cyrillic -- in English it would be KIJE, pronounced KEE-ZHAY), directed by Kirill Serebrennikov. Kirill also directed Threepenny Opera. When we got back to the dorm, I went into the kitchen to enjoy a beer and some cheese and found Rachel and Philippe talking about KИЖЗ (which he had seen the prior evening).
The conversation ranged from opinions on visual asethetics to whether the scene that was in German really in German (it wasn't -- it was Russified German, and a cartoon of Emmanuel Kant), or what was the story that was communicated to you, and other topics. Rachel and Philippe talked, I listened.
The topic turned to Threepenny. Were there any unifying qualities that made the productions "Serebrennikov?" I think Rachel was right: there were (to my eye: the wide open space, tracking platforms, incorporation of the orchestra at different moments, and some other images were common to both productions). As Philippe pointed out, it is difficult to define aesthetic based on two productions; but, there were some striking similarities.
And then I asked a question: if Philippe thought the production of Threepenny "served" Brecht's text. He thought the dialogue with the audience was very Brechtian, supplying a necessary energy for the performance to be engaging; however, I disagreed -- but I didn't say so. I nodded and started to leave.
"But wait a minute - you can't ask me that question and not have an answer yourself!" he said (I wish there was flirtation in the comment, but there wasn't. Damn.).
My response: I thought the production was commercial (from what I could understand of it), and perhaps sacrificed true intellectualism for crowd-pleasing spectacle; the dialogue that Philippe praised was more of an enjoyment tactic than distanciation (save for one moment at the top of act three, which we agreed was effective).
I think he was impressed with my answer. I think. At any rate, I don't think I sounded like a doofus. God I hope I didn't. I was standing there in front of a cute boy in my pajamas while eating cheese; sounding like a moron would have only made a sad picture downright pitiful.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
... something on the news
I love the gym. We have a love-hate relationship, the gym and I. I go out drinking all night, stumble into bed, never wanting to leave it, and then in the morning I think about the gym -- and how much I'm paying for the gym -- and resentfully drag myself out of bed to harness myself to various contraptions that Medieval Europeans would have used to coerce witchcraft admissions from young women.
And then I feel better.
Today I went to the gym. It was my first time going to the gym, any gym, in a very long time. So, up out of bed, into some sweats, and down Tsverskaya Yamskaya Ultisa I went, on the way to the Mariott Grand Hotel. The trek was necessary: last night we celebrated Brendan's return to the States after the triumphant world premiere of his/our class's production of Alice vs. Wonderland.
To celebrate, we went to this bar near to our dorm. In the basment of a building, a leather-clad DJ spun pop re-mixes from the States as we Americans quadrupled the number of people in the joint. I don't think we were obnoxious, in fact, I think we were appreciated. "Billie Jean" and "Sweet Dreams" received a unique appreciation with us in the smoky room, singing at the top of our lungs along with the Russians. It was a great mix.
Tanya, one of the "Angels" from MXT (production students who are assigned to accompany us to plays and who sometimes come out with us for drinks) brought some of her friends along and helped negotiate bar orders and introductions between us and the Russians. I bought her Martini Bianca (which is nothing but vermouth) and she teased me about my vodka soda.
"Why with water?" she asked. "I like it -- you can sip it. We drink cocktails in the States." "We do here too, but with juice. Water? That's werid." I like being teased, so we laughed, clinked glasses, and joined in the dancing to P!NK's "So What." Small cultural distinctions aside, it was like being in any bar on the Lower East Side of Manhattan.
I loved it.
We then tumbled back to the dorm -- being sure to get in by 1am (or else we're locked out until 6am) -- and continued the party there. Erikka, one of the actresses, and I got some stuff for the celebration (caviar flavord Lays potato chips) and barely made it back in time. After some more hijinks on the third floor, I very happily said "hello" to my bed and slept like a log.
And then I went to the gym. It was a good work out, and I got to watch RT - the Russian news channel that broadcasts in English. It's amazing how similar our cultures are, even though they're different. The Russian news focus, the in depth reporting, even the graphics were all like stuff you find at home on BBC or CNN.
And then the special report on secret CIA prisons in Lithuania and Poland and throughout Europe. It was demonizing of the USA. The opening images of the program had nothing to do with secret European CIA prisions -- they were videos of the notorious prisons in Guantanamo and Abu Ghrab. Then came the decidedly sharp news coverage; it was sickening.
And then I remembered I was in Moscow.
As I negotiated the elliptical treadmill in the palacial Grand Hotel on Tsverskaya, my second reaction to the report (after my initial reaction of horror) was "Of course we did this -- there was a Cold War. Of course we're continuing to do this -- Russia toys with Europe's gas supply in the Winter and is bellicose in other ways. Of course we're contintuing to do this -- Iran is now a nuclear nation." It doesn't forgive our actions, but it justifies them. And while I can't say I'm proud of the actions, one look at the hammer & sickle on the Telegraf building, or the busts of Lenin that adorn almost every Moscow street, or the Stalinist glorification of military might and Russian olympianism, reminds me that the world is complicated. The rationale employed to negotiate this complication isn't always clear or clean.
As I left the gym, I was again thinking about the night out with Brendan (my head was still a little sore). I wondered what the Russians at the bar really thought of us Americans -- were we like the images they see on TV, or were we something else.
And then I feel better.
Today I went to the gym. It was my first time going to the gym, any gym, in a very long time. So, up out of bed, into some sweats, and down Tsverskaya Yamskaya Ultisa I went, on the way to the Mariott Grand Hotel. The trek was necessary: last night we celebrated Brendan's return to the States after the triumphant world premiere of his/our class's production of Alice vs. Wonderland.
To celebrate, we went to this bar near to our dorm. In the basment of a building, a leather-clad DJ spun pop re-mixes from the States as we Americans quadrupled the number of people in the joint. I don't think we were obnoxious, in fact, I think we were appreciated. "Billie Jean" and "Sweet Dreams" received a unique appreciation with us in the smoky room, singing at the top of our lungs along with the Russians. It was a great mix.
Tanya, one of the "Angels" from MXT (production students who are assigned to accompany us to plays and who sometimes come out with us for drinks) brought some of her friends along and helped negotiate bar orders and introductions between us and the Russians. I bought her Martini Bianca (which is nothing but vermouth) and she teased me about my vodka soda.
"Why with water?" she asked. "I like it -- you can sip it. We drink cocktails in the States." "We do here too, but with juice. Water? That's werid." I like being teased, so we laughed, clinked glasses, and joined in the dancing to P!NK's "So What." Small cultural distinctions aside, it was like being in any bar on the Lower East Side of Manhattan.
I loved it.
We then tumbled back to the dorm -- being sure to get in by 1am (or else we're locked out until 6am) -- and continued the party there. Erikka, one of the actresses, and I got some stuff for the celebration (caviar flavord Lays potato chips) and barely made it back in time. After some more hijinks on the third floor, I very happily said "hello" to my bed and slept like a log.
And then I went to the gym. It was a good work out, and I got to watch RT - the Russian news channel that broadcasts in English. It's amazing how similar our cultures are, even though they're different. The Russian news focus, the in depth reporting, even the graphics were all like stuff you find at home on BBC or CNN.
And then the special report on secret CIA prisons in Lithuania and Poland and throughout Europe. It was demonizing of the USA. The opening images of the program had nothing to do with secret European CIA prisions -- they were videos of the notorious prisons in Guantanamo and Abu Ghrab. Then came the decidedly sharp news coverage; it was sickening.
And then I remembered I was in Moscow.
As I negotiated the elliptical treadmill in the palacial Grand Hotel on Tsverskaya, my second reaction to the report (after my initial reaction of horror) was "Of course we did this -- there was a Cold War. Of course we're continuing to do this -- Russia toys with Europe's gas supply in the Winter and is bellicose in other ways. Of course we're contintuing to do this -- Iran is now a nuclear nation." It doesn't forgive our actions, but it justifies them. And while I can't say I'm proud of the actions, one look at the hammer & sickle on the Telegraf building, or the busts of Lenin that adorn almost every Moscow street, or the Stalinist glorification of military might and Russian olympianism, reminds me that the world is complicated. The rationale employed to negotiate this complication isn't always clear or clean.
As I left the gym, I was again thinking about the night out with Brendan (my head was still a little sore). I wondered what the Russians at the bar really thought of us Americans -- were we like the images they see on TV, or were we something else.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
The Agony and the Ecstasy
"I think Sasha told me his girlfriend had a baby yesterday," was Sara's response. Before our eyes was a group of second year MXT actors tossing one of their comrades dangerously high in the air. The cheers, the laughter, the Russian taunts were all lost on us Americans, but it was to be expected. Today we were there to observe the second year MXT studio work with Thomas Ostermeier's students. It was going to be a cacophony of foreign languages.
[Ostermeiter, btw, is a fancy-pants German director who runs the Schaubühne theatre in Berlin. He and four of his students are at MXT for a week to work with the MXT second-year actors and directors.]
As the Russians tossed their classmate around, we Americans quietly took our place in the velvet booths that sit in the observation area of the sixth floor rehearsal studio at MXT. We were quickly shooed off of these comfy benches by a Russian woman -- Ostermeier was entering, and, seeing that we were students, this woman and another faculty member needed the seats. So, onto the rough century-old wooden floor we went, each in his or her self-contained spot.
Ostermeier takes his seat in the left corner of the room. Next to him is his translator - he speaks in German, she translates into Russian (thankfully Jenny, an American dancer who lives with us, was there to observe and could translate the Russian into English for us). Pleasant greetings, a few words of introduction, and onto their feet go the MXT actors, presenting their scenes: selections from Ostermeier's translation of Hamlet.
For the two hours we were able to observe, we watched Act I scene 5 (?? - Herr Ostermeier took some liberties with his translation) and got to see not only the cream of the national crop from Germany and Russia work, but also some cultural differences. It was interesting to say the least.
Stanislavski and Russian naturalism are alive and well at MXT (duh). This was, I think, a point of contention between some of the actors and Ostermeier. After they would perform their scene, Ostermeier would solicit questions and responses from the observing students (who were not American -- we were there to quietly watch). A phrase that seemed to come up with some frequency (so far as I could tell) was "it is not natural for me" -- actors trying to deal with their creation and Ostermeier's criticism.
It was an interesting dance to witness -- Ostermeier pushes, the Russian actor pushes back ... respectfully (they are a student, afterall) and then tries to accomodate the professor. 2 hours - two scenes by two different directors, both interpretations of Ostermeier's translation of I-v.
The rest of the conversations are esoteric and boring to type, so I'm not going to. Instead, I leave you with some impressions.
First: never let it be said that Americans lack in theatrical talent. The stumbles and guffaws that the Russians stepped into could be found in any reheasal studio anywhere in the world - Chicago, New York, Berlin, or Moscow.
Second: Russian (I would say European, but so far all I've seen have been Russians) actor training is Physical. Clown, commedia, gestus, etc. Where American actors would take someone around the shoulder, Russians actors would jump on their back in the same situation.
Third: I have a static eye, and that is boring. Elements of composition that have been drilled into my head since July are starting to take root. The pleasure of movement ... I'm beginning to understand it.
Leaving the rehearsal studio, what was foremost in my mind was how "television" our theatrical sense is in America. Glitzy sets with actors methodically placed around the set -- not climbing on one another, not doing acrobatics or anything physically amazing, just positioned like talking vases of flowers. The conversations can be deep and thought provoking, but the performances .... eh.
I think this is why we were just there to observe: as Americans, we had little to add to the conversation.
[Ostermeiter, btw, is a fancy-pants German director who runs the Schaubühne theatre in Berlin. He and four of his students are at MXT for a week to work with the MXT second-year actors and directors.]
As the Russians tossed their classmate around, we Americans quietly took our place in the velvet booths that sit in the observation area of the sixth floor rehearsal studio at MXT. We were quickly shooed off of these comfy benches by a Russian woman -- Ostermeier was entering, and, seeing that we were students, this woman and another faculty member needed the seats. So, onto the rough century-old wooden floor we went, each in his or her self-contained spot.
Ostermeier takes his seat in the left corner of the room. Next to him is his translator - he speaks in German, she translates into Russian (thankfully Jenny, an American dancer who lives with us, was there to observe and could translate the Russian into English for us). Pleasant greetings, a few words of introduction, and onto their feet go the MXT actors, presenting their scenes: selections from Ostermeier's translation of Hamlet.
For the two hours we were able to observe, we watched Act I scene 5 (?? - Herr Ostermeier took some liberties with his translation) and got to see not only the cream of the national crop from Germany and Russia work, but also some cultural differences. It was interesting to say the least.
Stanislavski and Russian naturalism are alive and well at MXT (duh). This was, I think, a point of contention between some of the actors and Ostermeier. After they would perform their scene, Ostermeier would solicit questions and responses from the observing students (who were not American -- we were there to quietly watch). A phrase that seemed to come up with some frequency (so far as I could tell) was "it is not natural for me" -- actors trying to deal with their creation and Ostermeier's criticism.
It was an interesting dance to witness -- Ostermeier pushes, the Russian actor pushes back ... respectfully (they are a student, afterall) and then tries to accomodate the professor. 2 hours - two scenes by two different directors, both interpretations of Ostermeier's translation of I-v.
The rest of the conversations are esoteric and boring to type, so I'm not going to. Instead, I leave you with some impressions.
First: never let it be said that Americans lack in theatrical talent. The stumbles and guffaws that the Russians stepped into could be found in any reheasal studio anywhere in the world - Chicago, New York, Berlin, or Moscow.
Second: Russian (I would say European, but so far all I've seen have been Russians) actor training is Physical. Clown, commedia, gestus, etc. Where American actors would take someone around the shoulder, Russians actors would jump on their back in the same situation.
Third: I have a static eye, and that is boring. Elements of composition that have been drilled into my head since July are starting to take root. The pleasure of movement ... I'm beginning to understand it.
Leaving the rehearsal studio, what was foremost in my mind was how "television" our theatrical sense is in America. Glitzy sets with actors methodically placed around the set -- not climbing on one another, not doing acrobatics or anything physically amazing, just positioned like talking vases of flowers. The conversations can be deep and thought provoking, but the performances .... eh.
I think this is why we were just there to observe: as Americans, we had little to add to the conversation.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Lingua
Threepenny Opera was tonight, at MXT. A visually striking production -- at its end. How wonderful. It's not that I didn't appreciate or like the show, but it was like flipping through a copy of Theatre magazine: beautiful and lifeless photos. Exquisite composition, little viscera.
I miss language. Check that -- I miss language I can understand. It's not that Threepenny was wordless, or soundless -- the Brecht estate would never allow that! -- but it was in Russian. I don't understand Russian. The play's use of language, its irony, its nuance were all lost to me because of this darn problem with my ears: they only "get" English. I never realized how much I value my own language.
About three years ago I decided to see the Stary Theatre of Warsaw and their production of KRUM at the Brooklyn Academy of Music. Four hours of a Polish contemporary play. I felt better about that Krummy experience than I do about a lot of what I've seen in Moscow. Call me stubborn.
Threepenny's gestus and clowning all seemed to be excellent -- so far as I could tell -- but it seemed like another stuffy night at the theater. All sorts of pretty people gathered in one spot, trying to sound intelligent, and none really behaving according to nature. Or, when considering my Polish experience, perhaps it is that with Krum it was my choice to submerge myself in slavic sibilance and here I'm rather mired in it. I hope things improve with time.
To date, only a rather campy Cherry Orchard at Lencom has reached me in any kind of emotional way. I think that has to do with my prior knowledge of the play.
I miss language. Check that -- I miss language I can understand. It's not that Threepenny was wordless, or soundless -- the Brecht estate would never allow that! -- but it was in Russian. I don't understand Russian. The play's use of language, its irony, its nuance were all lost to me because of this darn problem with my ears: they only "get" English. I never realized how much I value my own language.
About three years ago I decided to see the Stary Theatre of Warsaw and their production of KRUM at the Brooklyn Academy of Music. Four hours of a Polish contemporary play. I felt better about that Krummy experience than I do about a lot of what I've seen in Moscow. Call me stubborn.
Threepenny's gestus and clowning all seemed to be excellent -- so far as I could tell -- but it seemed like another stuffy night at the theater. All sorts of pretty people gathered in one spot, trying to sound intelligent, and none really behaving according to nature. Or, when considering my Polish experience, perhaps it is that with Krum it was my choice to submerge myself in slavic sibilance and here I'm rather mired in it. I hope things improve with time.
To date, only a rather campy Cherry Orchard at Lencom has reached me in any kind of emotional way. I think that has to do with my prior knowledge of the play.
Sharpening My Knives ...
Anatoly Meronovich has a sophisticated office on the third floor of the MXT studio. Drenched in olive and hunter green, and accented with cherry wood, its sleek lines are the heirs to the nouveau/moderne tracery of MXT theatre. Nestled within these sleek and weightless angles are heavy bookshelves, meticulously filled with an almost infinite number of books. Coves and nooks reveal couches and magnificent hand-made clocks; on the walls hang intricate costume sketches in black and gold; a set model crafted from a honey-brown oak hovers in their midst, magically fastened to the wall.
It is the office of an artist.
There is a long table in Anatoly Meronovich's office. It is made out of gorgeously crafted wood and has a deep hunter's green leather top. Gold leaf adorns the table's plush hide. It is at this elegant table that we four pupils sit with our master, once a week, for an hour. We sit and we talk; we talk and we sit. What plays have we seen? What plays should we write about? What plays do we want to see? Plays, plays, and more plays; theatre, theatre, and more theatre.
"Kisenia ..." Anatoly began, and then drifted into a conversation about the Lower Depths. The course of his train of thought may not have been clear, but it was on track: I cannot write about Kisenia. Check that - I cannot write a review about Kisenia. Why? A variety of reasons, but one that stood out -- and the reason for this electronic journal -- is that "some reviews can say everything in a few sentences - so why fill a page?"
Welcome to my first few sentences.
As Anatoly's rejection of my Kisenia paper came to rest after its circuitious lingual journey, another point was made clear: Anatoly would like a daily journal of our lives together. A way of documenting out lives, our experiences, our first impressions. "It's like a knife in the back. There's no warm-up; it's unfiltered and individual. Plus, you can make a statement and then refute that statement after you've had time to think about it."
Unfiltered statements are things that I am rather infamous for -- and not for good reasons.
For the next few weeks, I shall attempt to keep a daily journal of what I do, see, and live here in Moscow. Unlike my papers, where thesis statements and organizational flow plague me, and correct word use and spelling taunt me, this will be my circuitous conversation that eventually arrives at a point. A knife's point.
It is the office of an artist.
There is a long table in Anatoly Meronovich's office. It is made out of gorgeously crafted wood and has a deep hunter's green leather top. Gold leaf adorns the table's plush hide. It is at this elegant table that we four pupils sit with our master, once a week, for an hour. We sit and we talk; we talk and we sit. What plays have we seen? What plays should we write about? What plays do we want to see? Plays, plays, and more plays; theatre, theatre, and more theatre.
"Kisenia ..." Anatoly began, and then drifted into a conversation about the Lower Depths. The course of his train of thought may not have been clear, but it was on track: I cannot write about Kisenia. Check that - I cannot write a review about Kisenia. Why? A variety of reasons, but one that stood out -- and the reason for this electronic journal -- is that "some reviews can say everything in a few sentences - so why fill a page?"
Welcome to my first few sentences.
As Anatoly's rejection of my Kisenia paper came to rest after its circuitious lingual journey, another point was made clear: Anatoly would like a daily journal of our lives together. A way of documenting out lives, our experiences, our first impressions. "It's like a knife in the back. There's no warm-up; it's unfiltered and individual. Plus, you can make a statement and then refute that statement after you've had time to think about it."
Unfiltered statements are things that I am rather infamous for -- and not for good reasons.
For the next few weeks, I shall attempt to keep a daily journal of what I do, see, and live here in Moscow. Unlike my papers, where thesis statements and organizational flow plague me, and correct word use and spelling taunt me, this will be my circuitous conversation that eventually arrives at a point. A knife's point.
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