Parent and Child

Today I realized I was refraining from writing further until I had a better photograph of a Russian woman dressed head-to-toe in violet, which is a pretty extreme constraint even from a lifelong procrastinator.

But yes: answer to last Blog Bowl was supposed to be purple, but since it has sort of turned into All of the Above. I really wanted to be taking pictures of these zoot-suited women but apparently dressing all in one color and walking fast in the opposite direction of cameras are two skills that come necessarily paired. Buy one get one. Annnnd like many things, sartorial monochromatics have sort of faded into normalcy.

For instance, I finally have discovered the only quiet hours in my home, 5-7AM, and relish chai and kasha and English-language podcasts in the blue light of dawn before the hustle and egg-frying and quotidian movie marathon begin (at which point I return to the hard-but-beloved lofted pallet of mine for another hour or two before class). I am used to walking thirty minutes down puffball-strewn Tverskaya to the Moscow Art Theatre School only to be told that class has been moved to tomorrow, or yesterday, or the day before that (“but I went to that one, and they told me the next one was today…?”). I am used to the beautiful pastel-colored buildings (seasonal depression prevention tactic #1, or so I hear: paint your office building turquoise).  Such is life: what weeks ago held trembling, gape-mouthed fascination is today what I pass and do not smile at, like a hardened local. A tourist’s wonderment is like that of a child, and I guess I’m like eleven or so in traveler’s years—still noticing, but not screaming in delight to the nearest adult at what I find. Cities become cities become cities, with the pushing and the shoving and the foods and the street signs and the people in them we find to love. But it would be nice, I think, if we could always keep our traveler’s age in single digits, allowing for the merriment and gasping and superfluous photography that dwells therein. In turn, as locals, let the visitors stare and snap, and retain the parental calm and understanding and pride.

Church of Christ the Saviour

Church of Chekhov the Saviour (MXAT)

I have a week left (how this has flown!), jam-packed with shows and exams and classes and send-offs, then to Cambridge to get deeper into the meat of all this stuff—interviews, six classes with Droznin a week, Chekhov in the evenings, and laying, at long last, in the grass of the Common. There is, after all, something lovely to be said for the familiar and dear as well.

Zoom Zoom

As a former short-term resident of New York, one whose 40-minute train commute from the UES to Lincoln Center was decidedly a factor in her return to her gas-guzzlin’ NC lifestyle, I must take a moment to express my total wonderment at the Moscow Underground. While I have always really enjoyed the culture and mystique of the molepersons and the different customs and attitudes and the stories that inevitably emerge from our subterreanean interactions, the metro here is Really Something Else.

In the New York metro and the Boston T and the London Tube and every other subway I have ever been into, save the sandwichery, one enters by swiping or inserting a card into an apparatus and rolling through a turnstile. Not so in Moscow. Yes, there are cards, but like the Oystercard, they needn’t be swiped but rather are sensed through pants and purses. You walk through the turnstile-less gate, and in the event that you are not carrying a card, these little doors swing out at knee height and essentially clothesline you, potentially fatally and certainly resulting in a fractured wrist or two as you tumble over the once-invisible gate. So instead of presenting the traveler’s obstacle at the get-go, which can be surmounted for a small fee, the Moscow subway appears free! But then you die because you have tried to violate something very sacred.

And O! Lo! How sacred. After you have gotten in, you ride down the longest, deepest, most absurd escalator you ever thought possible. They were apparently built as bomb shelters (or so the guidebooks say) with special secret tunnels further still underground that could serve as nuclear shelters for a select few. The system of tunnels is completely labyrinthic and confusing—you go up an escalator, then to the left, then to the left again, then down an escalator, then to the right, then up an escalator, etc., to get to your connection. But it doesn’t matter because it is SO BEAUTIFUL. There are guilded sconces, detailed mosaics, busts, bas relief, murals, lighting fixtures that belong in the Biltmore. It’s wild. Even the buskers are more refined, playing beautiful classical pieces on violin instead of yowling or whatever they do in America.

See what I mean? This isn't even one of the pretty ones, and it looks like a fancy hotel.

Get it, man.

And there is cellphone service. Even 38 miles underground or however deep it is. I don’t know how this works, maybe there are transmitters all over the place—creepy, but it’s nice. You can rendezvous on platforms and chat as you ride.

I live where the brown circle intersects with the green. Yesterday the circle was only running one direction-- 'twas a mere forty minutes from where the orange intersects all the way around clockwise. Totally pleasant, save for the MAN MYSTERIOUSLY COVERED IN BLOOD who showed up in my car for a few stops. I've avoided theorizing too much about that one. 

I have also on more than one occasion seen these hugely fluffy (Moscow winter) stray dogs hanging out in the stations (outside the invisible dangerous gates, as they do not have cards) in groups of 3-4. I think this is smart and resourceful of them—holing up in the art gallery listening to violin, free, for once, from the cigarette smoke.

Just headin' home for the night.

Answer to Blog Bowl #3: V. I know. What?

Blog Bowl Question #4: So far I have counted 19 women dressed head to toe in which single color? Hint: it is not a neutral. 

What I Do All Day

Okay guys, this is what I do here in Moscow. Watch stuff like this.

Here's someone failing their second-year object exam at Schukin:

And here are two first-years getting a 4+ (B+) on theirs at MXAT:

This is totally unfair of me because one dude got assigned a yellow ball and those other guys got a massive, sturdy table.

Still, this stuff is REMARKABLE. Object work is generally the second-year course of study in the Russian movement tradition, though MXAT only teaches it with a very light touch (out of the first years, only those two used an object in their exam, whereas each Shukin student was assigned an object [a plate, a cane, a whip, a stool] to interact with as acrobatically and coordinatedly as possible). It's a foundational piece of movement as it aligns with the work of an actor on stage--constantly using props, both hand and furniture, to flesh out character and action. I wish I had videos of the best exams at Schukin-- they were astounding, as it's probably the best object/acrobatics training in the world. 

Also, yesterday marked the halfway point of my time in Moscow. INSANE. Two new American groups have started at MXAT so now I'm in class sixteen hours a week with four instructors instead of six hours a week with two. Feelin' the burn. 

These classes the building blocks that eventually structure exams like the previously posted ones. I'll post another video soon more relevant to what I am learning (they take like two hours to upload... bleghhhh). I feel like the majority of my readership is probably skeptical that someone as uncoordinated as I could ever work towards this type of stuff, but that's the whole thing-- the pedagogical approach is so in tune and individually oriented that they can teach even the least genetically predisposed to move in new and strange and amazing ways.

Answer to Blog Bowl #2: Yogurt-covered things. No lie. You thought you wanted yogurt-covered almonds? THINK AGAIN, SILLY FOREIGNER. Raspberries are pretty expensive too.

Blog Bowl #3: In the Cyrillic alphabet, if C is S, and H is N, then what is B?

Zombie

Back from the dead! Or the gloriously alive, as it were. The weather has been absolutely perfect for the past few days and I can’t stop strolling and eating ice cream (stands literally on every block, men women and children consuming at all hours--this is my kind of place) long enough to blog.

Little park where I go running. That's the actual color of the sky. 

A church on Malaya Dmitrovka being reeeeally pretty.

I’ve spent the last week at Schukin in movement classes, watching more productions, looking in on the Russians’ classes and exams and, at long last, starting Russian language lessons. I’ve gotten a private tutor at the Russian State University for Arts and Humanities (RGGU). She’s very nice and patient with me. I figure that while I’m still trying to prepare for my interviews, do research, and figure out the damn IRB approval (which must be done by post, but much mail that leaves Moscow never makes it to its destination [I lovingly recall the story of Jaki sending a postcard from Bulgaria in July that arrived in North Carolina no earlier than November]), I might as well try to pick up a bit more language so I can navigate a little better. I’m sort of frustrated with myself over how long it’s taking me to get revved up for this component of research—it might not happen until I return to the states—but I’ve got my fingers crossed that I can work it out. It’s also unbelievably difficult to find English-language texts. I need to be learning more about Meyerhold, Vakhtangov, Stanislavski, et cetera, and J.Stor only goes so far. I forget that wonderful, free public and university libraries are a luxury, not a given. That and toilet paper (also scarily scarce).

On the topic of home, one of the most surprising things to me has been the Russian reception of me as a resident of the American south. Most people have no idea where North Carolina is. Which is understandable and fine. The only two places in Russia I could place on a map are Moscow and St. Petersburg; I could probably gesture to Siberia, too, but that’s not exactly a needle in a haystack. But when I explain where it is, what UNC is, and so forth, the most frequent question I get is “are there a lot of racists/ do you know a lot of African Americans/did your grandparents have slaves/ do you live on a plantation?” It sort of blows my mind. Though the percentage of persons of African descent is very low in this city, the fascination coupled with ignorance is substantial. What, as Americans, are we doing to give off the vibe that slavery ended six weeks ago? Am I naïve in thinking we project racial tolerance, or have it at all? I expected to get from the Russians the same negative associations of the south that Americans from other places hold, but could never have anticipated what I got. As someone new to travel, I don’t really know if this happens to southerners often. Is it something we’re doing wrong? Do we need activism or just patience?

Anyway, more soon. Please, please don’t hesitate to call my cell phone (the number’s 8-926-012-33-74; remember, Moscow is 8 hours ahead of EST) or email me at elizphil@email.unc.edu. I love hearing from home and from my fellow travelers.

Answer to Blog Bowl #1: Pigeon fluff! I don’t know what’s up with the Muscovite pigeons. Maybe they are extraordinarily downy from such long and cold winters and just now shedding as it’s warming up, but their little white floaties are ubiquitous, though the pigeons themselves are not so easily spotted. Winner: Monica Byrne for “nuclear fallout.”

Blog Bowl #2: What is the singlemost overpriced (/“valuable”) item in your typical corner grocery store? Hint: not caviar and definitely not vodka. Ice cream, FYI, is about US75¢.

Schukin and Lettuce

I’ve come to the end of week one! Great Scott.

Major highlights: classes, friends, and EATING VEGETABLES.

So it has taken me about a week to get settled (practically. Physiologically I’m still completely insane, sleeping either four or twelve hours but never, ever eight). I started at the Vaktanghov. It’s a gorgeous building always full of young, able-bodied, talented, nice-looking students walking around, frantically running between rehearsals, changing into movement clothing, singing, playing piano, doing flips, chatting on cell phones, fervently chain smoking, sleeping in hallways. Not totally unlike the student union, but markedly dissimilar in attitude and action. I reunited with Droznin, which was so nice, and he gave me a brief tour. He mentioned his disappointment that it’s possible the Vaktanghov master’s degree program will soon be terminated rather senselessly by the government—a sad truth for the MXAT program as well, which is linked to GITIS for their core classes (history, psychology, philosophy, and pedagogy). Most don’t know why this is happening and are appalled. It works so differently in America.

Later I met with the international relations lady, Sveta, who also works very hard as a translator for many classes. She got me enrolled in one of Droznin’s movement classes at Schukin (the proper title for the academy attached to the Vaktanghov) for a steal—8,000R (=~$250!). I ache all over from the rigor but look forward to getting better and better. I imagine that after my time in Cambridge I’ll either be rock-solid with washboard abs or just dead. He’s pushing me harder than last summer. Feels like field hockey.

I will likely be observing the 1^st and 3^rd year plastics classes, though everybody’s schedule changes weekly—standard at Russian theatre schools—so I’m not sure. It is very easy to understand the instruction for the first years because the training is a close, natural extension of what I did with Droznin last summer—they’re just a little fitter and better at it. The third years, however, are remarkable. So quick and acrobatic. IRB approval pending (grrrrr) I’ll enjoy interviewing Droznin about his pedagogical approach. How does the curriculum get these students from A to Q, to steal from Woolf, is two short years? Are the auditions so geniusly screened as to find the students who are capable of learning this fast? Frankly, I’m jealous that my body is 22 and not 17 and I may never acquire the same skills.

I’ve sort of latched on to London’s Central Drama Schools translated classes in plastics and acting, which so far have been similar to last summer’s work… Meyerhold, Stanislavski, Mikhail Chekhov. They’re here for two months just like me—yet another weird serendipity! They are amazing, fun, talented kids in their master’s work, about my age. They’re divided into four apartments of four, spread about the city, one of which is literally two blocks from my very own hovel. They call zucchinis corgettes and tomatoes toMAHtoes and trucks lorries and apartments flats and so forth and think I'm very funny when I say "water" or do a southern accent. I went over the other night for pasta (with vegetables!!! Thank the Lord) and wine. It waas glorious and we had a nice rowdy time.

(Side note: produce is hard to come by, as is non-carbonated water. In their absence, my appreciation for tap water and lettuce for salads has grown tremendously. Last night I had a dream about taking a bath in a tub full of Romaine and cool water and ice cubes, which I must known even on the deepest subconscious level I will not be privledged to have until July. I did, however, find a vegan restaurant that’s cheap and perfect and godly; this resulted in my first-ever broccoli binge.)

My homestay has been fine and I’m extremely grateful for the location, insane benevolence of my hosts, and good price. And for Middlebury’s graciousness in helping me to coordinate it at a moment’s notice when he MXAT dorm suddenly removed me from their waitlist of residents. Tatyana continues to worry about me, try to feed me, and teach me Russian. I end up saying spiSEEbah more than I ever say thank you in America—I guess I need to be more thankful for the people in my America life who fill the same roles.

I have seen three productions so far for a grand total of zero rubles. I have to tell you about them soon: so so so different from American theatre and fascinating in the subtleties. Also on the bulletin for future bloggery: the astounding metro, Russian conceptions of the south, and gender performativity in the streets and theatres of Moscow.

Blog Bowl question #1: What are the tiny white things that float into my eyes and nostrils as I walk down the streets of Moscow? Hint: not cigarette ash, as I originally thought.

Brrrrr

My first real day I got up, ate a plum and was force-fed some weird vegetable soup (apparently an un-refusable soviet warm thing—I’m sure they get to be experts at making it when it’s -4 degrees) by my house mama, Tatyana, and spent an hour or so in our little English-Russian conversational lessons/struggle sessions. Alexi, her husband, speaks virtually no English, but by virtue of being home 24/7 and having American students in her home nine months out of the year, Tatyana does quite well. She was really shocked to hear that I had never studied Russian, not because I’m good at speaking, obviously, but because all of the previous boarders have been from the Middlebury program and have had one to three (or more, I guess) years of instruction. She gets frustrated sometimes trying to remember words, so I ask her to just speak in Russian and let both of us be confused for a few minutes. We are both learning some, but I still do things like say “a small tea, please” when I’m asked my name. Whoops.

Speaking of purchases, the expense of everyday items (a cup of coffee, hour of internet, phone call) is outrageous—it blindingly exceeds London or New York. I have tried to be modest, eating little and scrounging for free things, but I don’t want to limit my experience by opting out of opportunities due to their cost. I want to see as much theatre as possible, and will likely be able to, pending that the Schukin school provides me with student identification (with it, thirty- or fifty-dollar bilety can dive down to five dollars, three, or free! Reminds me of UNC’s beloved Lab! theatr).

Also, Y’ALL. It’s so cold here. January in Chapel Hill cold. I-regret-not-bringing-my-overcoat cold. I went running and counted eight “why are you running right now?” looks. I think I was lied to about the nature of Moscow summer.

Oh, you know. Moscow looking as cold as it is.

But besides that particular fib, Adam has been invaluable so far. He has gotten me a cell phone, negotiated my metrocard, shown me around to my school and some key hangouts, et cetera, et cetera to infinity. He is planning on writing his master’s thesis (dizertati, conveniently) on Russian versus American pedagogy (to abbreviate), i.e. topically similar to some of my current designs and imaginings for my honors thesis. From seven years of education at the MXAT, he knows the Russian system inside and out, and from five years at two American institutions, I can proclaim to know the other, so we have tons to offer one another insofar as explanations and contacts go. Where the Russians value clarity on stage, we value ambiguity. Where they value conceit, we value overturning expectations. They value constant energy and action; we privilege arc and pursuit of objectives. And on and on. We can talk for hours and hours about the differences, laughing and scoffing, each feeling some pangs of pride and superiority coupled with awe and understanding and respect. I will certainly expound upon this as I gather information, as I suspect the meat of a thesis will spring from conversations like these over the next three months (meat springing from things? Gross mixed metaphor, Lizochka). There is so much coming in already that I can hardly keep track of it, scribbling insufficient notes in my cahier as I try not to trip over the cobblestones. None of it is at all unexciting or uninteresting, and I know it will be difficult to pare down and focus in on certain differences for my thesis.

Monday I will go to Schukin (I was supposed to go yesterday, but I stayed up until 07:00 (NC=11PM) and woke at 15:00 (NC=7AM)…go figure) and meet with Droznin for the first time in eleven months and try to get enrolled in whatever movement classes I am able to. I am very excited and nervous to be his student in his world. At the summer school, there is little language used—a little bit of Russian, a little bit of English—but I imagine here he will talk much more and exclusively in Russian. I don’t want to not understand because I need to be able to use his terminology in my thesis, but I also don’t want to interrupt him in class to ask for translations. It’s these kinds of dilemmas that make this project so crazy. At the same time, though, I wouldn’t be getting the same kind of enrichment if I were just bumming around with other Americans.

I do want to add some structure to my days (i.e. classes and rehearsal), but also believe I will enjoy the freedom to roam, run, write, eat (if I ever learn how to order!), and observe. In New York at Fordham University I spent almost every minute in class, or rehearsal, or the library, or studying in a certain despicable Starbucks…and consequently deprived myself of the richness of parading around downtown, visiting museums, seeing strange and wonderful live theater. I regret that decision, despite the inevitability of the whole deal—I was a student with the mentality to work terribly hard, just like at UNC, displaced somewhere where cooping up studying and wandering did not both fit into a 24-hour period. But I think—hope—that life will be a bit different here. Though I doubt I will be able to pry myself from academic/thesis-y ideation (okay, obsession), I know I will be happier if I cram my head full of language, theatre, and wanderlust and attempt to make decisions later and in reflection, instead of straight-lacededly forging forward on my path to senior year. I need to spend some time in the present; so much of my recent life has been lived months ahead of myself, planning and worrying.

A little side note, chosen randomly since there are hundreds already: there is this massive grocery (gastronom) down Tverskaya near the MXAT. It is so extreme and so beautiful—it looks like something straight out of Biltmore or Carnegie or Hogsmeade (a Harry Potter locale for my muggle readers), with stained glass, ornate brass and crystal chandeliers, gilded ceilings, and detailed, floral, art nouveau columns. Adam told me that it used to be the anteroom to a noble’s dom (house, building, estate) across from the Catherine Monument, but it was appropriated by the government and turned into this really fancy grocery called Yeliseyev (Elysian). It was the only place to get sumptuous, imported items—a tradition that was further broken down during big time communism and renamed Gastronome No. 1 and disallowed to sell elitist sorts of produkti, so it was just this ridiculously gorgeous building with completely pedestrian items, like pushing CVS cotton balls and Vaseline in the Wilson Library reading room. Later it changed back and is now called Yeliseyevsky Food Emporium. I cannot wait to go in and buy a $30 truffle (that is only sort of a joke).

We Begin!

FRIENDS! I have been frantically on the prowl for internet to tell you all the amazing and insane things that have been happening already, and just completely frantic in general. This is no doubt the craziest, most exciting, weirdest, scariest thing in my personal history. But I’m HERE, I MADE IT, and it is FANTASTIC.

My journey began with RDU, which was hilariously UNC-laden that particular afternoon. First of all, they kept paging Wayne Ellington, who seemed to be tardy for and may have missed his flight to Miami, but I cannot claim to be particularly sympathetic considering the proliferated joys of his recent life and the fact that he will undoubtedly make it to his resort. Secondly, Emil Kang was hanging out about 30 feet from me, presumably flying to Chicago as well, and I had these grand designs to corner him on the plane and orate about the future of Historic Playmakers Theatre, floating my inextinguishable desire to turn it back into a DDA-affiliated student theatre, but I was shy and he hopped a flight to JFK instead. Hopefully this won’t be an acontextual microcosm of next year’s goings on--Men's Basketball players making dumb mistakes, executive arts directors being ignorant of my existence...

The journey to my new home was an adventure. I was trapped in the middle seat between two large sleeping Russian men, flying over the Baffin Sea at 566mph and -84*F (ahh!!!). When I deplaned, I couldn’t find the chauffeur whom my translator/friend/guru (Adam) had called to the airport because apparently his sign said Civvitkz instead of Phillips. 

The countryside on the way from the airport into Moscow.

When I made it to Tverskaya/Belorusskaya, I couldn’t figure out how to get into the apartment building (it’s actually pretty complicated), it was raining, I hadn’t slept or eaten in almost 48 hours, et cetera, et cetera. I went and crashed in the lobby of the MXAT (Moscow Art Theatre) dormitory. The doorwoman offered me chai and I relaxed and waited for Adam to get home from lecture, introduce me to my hosts, and so forth. I crashed and slept for eight hours, woke for four with the early-rising sun, and slept for four more. Epic.

My waking hours in Moscow so far have been incredible, confusing, enlightening—and I have so many ahead of me! In many ways, it’s just as I predicted, amazingly. I was told my hosts had a cat. As I wrote my exams, I worried about him because I’m allergic, turning over and over in my mind what he’d look like (fluffy and white with grey paws, I decided), where he’d sleep, how we’d battle over possession of my pillow for weeks and weeks. My friends and I decided he would be orange—no, black—no, half orange, half black!

There are two cats. One is orange, one is black. I do not lie. They are both very nice cats and are polite to stay off my pillow. I would tell you their names but I cannot for the life of me remember them long enough to write them down when Tatyana, my house mama, tells me again and again.

Fat black cat who eats all the food. 

Baby orange fuzzball who keeps doing cute things right after I take pictures. 

In all other ways, it’s better than I could have imagined. Though the language barrier is surprisingly difficult, my 30 or 50 words have carried me pretty far, and I know I will learn more and more every day. I have so much to say about the beauty of it all, the people, the theatre. Can’t wait!