Mayakovsky

The Mayakovsky museum was truly a work of art in and of itself. The entire building reflected Mayakovksy’s writing, thoughts, and ideals perfectly – it seemed to truly embody his spirit. This museum was very striking, and disturbed me even more so than Mayakovsky’s written works do. Perhaps this is so because I’ve never actually seen one of his plays staged, and thus have never fully absorbed the impact of his art. I found the Mayakovsky museum to be deeply shaking, to the extent of insanity. The décor nearly seemed to delight in the insanity surrounding Mayakovsky’s life and works, and put its foundation in the fact that it had no foundation whatsoever. I was most disturbed, however, by the display of the room where Mayakovsky shot himself. The exposition of such a macabre and somber event seems deeply cruel to me, as well as de-humanizing. I want to appreciate Mayakovsky for his odd and depressing art, and find it horrifying to take the synthesis of his art to its logical conclusion – his death. Perhaps this is my own lack of preparation and internal consistency speaking, but confronting the end of such an obviously discontented man is horrifying to me. It is striking that he killed himself largely out of depression over the failure of his ideals, and gives me a sense of respect for him and his integrity. It makes me wonder what the result would have been if Mayakovsky had actually believed in something that, in the end, was beautiful.

Talking with Masha Lipman was also very enlightening. As a political commentator, I felt that even when we finally asked a non-political question, she perhaps subconsciously steered her answer in the political direction. I honestly enjoyed that, though. I very rarely follow or read the politics of any country, so hearing reasonable and well thought out explanations of Russian policy was astounding for me. I thought she had a very good international perspective, though she was somewhat critical of Russian political apathy. Though I understand this, having been indoctrinated into the American political system and required to support “the people’s participation” for the last twenty years, I’m somewhat more sympathetic toward the idea of the people abandoning political responsibility. Not that I’ve thought this out properly yet.

And, finally, I got to talk to some real, random Russians! Three guys were on the fire escape right outside my window, hitting on both Virginia and me. They quickly invited both of us, as well as the other girls, upstairs. After about fifteen minutes of refusing, we went, and it was just so much fun! They were med students, fed us tea and bananas, and forced us to sing 90s American pop songs with them. And it was fun just talking to them. I was (somewhat pathetically) acting as the main interpreter, with some help from one of the Russians who spoke English decently well. Between the two of us, everyone understood everyone else. The one who spoke some English said that he didn’t like Russian literature very much, because he didn’t see the meaning of it (specifically Bulgakov’s Master and Margarita). It kind of made me sad, but I’d love to talk to him more about it. I very rarely get to speak to truly Russian academics.