Languor Management

When sausage was plentiful

Russian artist  Mikhail Karasik's new book -- Great Stalinist Photographic Books -- lays bear the Soviet coffee-table books from the 1930s, "when this genre was at its artistic height" and "when sausage was plentiful."

Such coffee-table books were usually produced in costly limited editions, destined for members of the nomenklatura and libraries. Their contents could be dry, as suggested by titles such as "The Industry of Socialism" and "On Rail Transport in the Soviet Union," but the dynamic photographs and graphic design by artists including Alexander Rodchenko and El Lissitzky could make even features on tractors or steel production look attractive.

From the ashes

Lizok's Bookshelf on Aleksei Slapovskii’s The Phoenix Syndrome:

At times Slapovskii’s Phoenix Syndrome, like They, reads as much like a screenplay as a Big Book prize finalist. The result, though, is an unusually tightly written novel with supporting characters who drift in and out, abundant one-liners, quick scene changes, and a happy ending.

 

There are also dark undercurrents in the book – including a criminal past – as Gosha churns through personalities with the help of Tatiana, a store clerk and single mother who takes Gosha in and begins to love him. Still, Slapovskii’s intent is to provide light, humorous reading underpinned by social commentary about post-Soviet Russian life, something as changeable as Gosha’s personality. There’s plenty of funny-but-sad material about small town politics and jealousies, Gosha’s stint as a soccer savior, and construction projects.

Slapovskii’s Phoenix Syndrome is almost as paradoxical as Gosha: it is light but satisfying, funny but sad, old-fashioned but contemporary. Though The Phoenix Syndrome may not have enough heft to be one of the most profound post-Soviet novels I’ve read, it is one of the most clear, enjoyable, and concise.

One of those cowardly things which shrink in the first wash

Maud Newton uncovers two Nabokov stories from The Atlantic Monthly's archives: "Cloud, Castle, Lake" and "The Aurilean."

It evoked someone fleeing

Chamber Orchestra Kremlin opened a performance based on a series of poems by late Nobel laureate Joseph Brodsky at Weill Recital Hall on Tuesday evening:

“There ...” (2006), a bilingual song cycle by Eskender Bekmambetov based on Brodsky’s Russian poems and Brodsky’s own English translations, received its American premiere here. The work, a sort of musical theater piece with lyrical, thick orchestral textures, was at times redolent of Shostakovich, Piazzolla and Weill. Julia Kogan, a bright-voiced Ukrainian-born soprano, sang Brodsky’s texts, including “The Fifth Anniversary” and “Stone Villages,” in both Russian and English.

Bathroom update

This morning, I ran into the man with the spitting toothbrush from a previous post in the same restroom. He was stripped down to his pants and had his office shirt and tank top stretched out on the two available radiators. "Hey, ya gotta keep warm, right?" He told me though I hadn't asked.

Lives and memory

Lizok's Bookshelf on Orlando Figes 's The Whisperers:

Figes’s low-key approach results in a well-constructed sociopolitical history of repression in the Soviet Union that exposes the long-lasting consequences of Stalinism. The Whisperers holds tremendous value for readers interested in 20^th century Russian or Soviet history, literature, and culture.

A story of exaggerations

Sovlit.com has posted a translation of Vassily Aksyonov's "Victory", a story of chess
and life...

Strangers on a train--one of them, a chess grandmaster; the other one, looking to bring him down a peg. With resignation, the grandmaster accepts the challenge. Faced with a throng of kabalistic symbols from his opponent, the grandmaster attempts to escape among decaying columns on a secluded terrace and to sail away along the diagonals of a suburban Moscow pond. But soon he finds himself hooded and on a gallows awaiting the fate he long expected. Victory comes to one of the players...but which one? And what is the real prize?

Taking advantage

I enjoy access to a rather large men's room near City Hall, comprising 8 stalls and an equal number of urinals. If the stalls still have doors, the locks have been removed. The urinals themselves don't do much to inspire any privacy either, as there are no dividers or splash guards between them. As a matter of fact, the lock on the door to the entrance of the men's room itself has been removed, leaving a large round hole in the door. For discretion's sake, a wad of municipal-grade paper towels is usually stuck in the space--to discourage peekers, I suppose.

A unique feature of this men's room is a one-foot high marble step in front of the urinals. In order to pee, one must literally step up to the task. Of course, once a gentleman steps up, he puts himself squarely into the frame of the large, unfogged window with views into his colleagues' offices. But sometimes, the audience is right there in the room with you. On one occasion, I was greeted by a messenger eating a large submarine sandwich while seated on the step before the urinals. Another man was washing his hands at the sink. "A guy's got to get it when he can," was what the messenger told me by way of explanation. But get what?

Recently, when I had to use the men's room, I immediately recognized that someone was in Stall No. 3--one with a door--because I could hear him talking in a low voice. As this is not as unusual as it might sound--gentlemen often talk on their cell phones while sitting on the toilet, at least where I work--I stepped up to a urinal. Behind me, I could hear a low mumbling, as well as the occupant's grunts from straining. I couldn't make out what he was saying, nor could I imagine, given this bathroom serenade, that the person on the other end could either. I wondered who he was speaking to: His wife? His mother? A buddy? The help desk, perhaps?

Soon, however, the grunts became more uniform, more evenly spaced, and there was some moaning, and something that sounded like a sob. As the room is large, these noises were bouncing off of the walls. My first impression was that this fellow was suffering from a particularly acute case of IBS. But his mumbling continued and began to take a more distinct shape. I heard a series of yeahs and then a "like that." Was he talking to his bowels? Cheering them on? Encouraging a rally?

Eventually, the moaning and affirmations became so loud and persistent that I just had to turn and look. In the space beneath the stall door four boot-shod feet could be seen: two facing the door and two facing the toilet. It was 1pm on a Monday afternoon. Suddenly the messenger's remark became clear.

As a result, I decided to start using the men's room on the next floor down. Directly below my usual comfort station, this men's room also displayed similar features: the step, the wad of paper towels, even the absence of locks and expectation of privacy. When I entered it the other day, I saw a large man brushing his teeth with an electric tooth brush. This seemed normal enough. But when I stepped up to a urinal and opened my pants, he turned to me and said, "I like these."

"Pardon?" I asked, looking at the man, who was now holding his still vibrating toothbrush up for display, which was spraying spittle and tooth gel all over his shirt and tie, as well as across the mirror above the sink.

"Electric toothbrushes," he explained.

I only nodded, relieved that he was only talking about the toothbrush. It's not my habit to talk while I go to the bathroom.

"This one is from Crest. It was cheap. I got it at the Duane Reade," he continued, still spraying gel and spit. I noticed that his lips were coated with a thick layer of blue gel. "The other ones are just too expensive," he added before putting the brush back into his gel-smeared mouth.

I didn't know what to do, so I just said, "Yeah, I have a Sonic Care, and it was really expensive."

He again stopped brushing, looked at me and pulled the vibrating brush from his mouth, sending more spray across the room and his hopelessly stained necktie and shirt. "That was foolish," he said. "You shouldn't let people take advantage of you."