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!

Hi Ho Silver

I'm in the yellow unitard. This is virtually the only picture of me doing movement-y things.

I picked up my check for the Class of 1938 Fellowship today and deposited it. I have a plane ticket, a visa, and a homestay. Things look promising.