GLASS. Misha Burlatsky

Translate by Natasha Chehova

 

Snip-clang-bang… snip-clang-bang…  A cut, a crack – and a cut piece of glass smoothly goes to the others, which are already prepared. There’s hardly any light in the basement, only a small lamp over each table covered with broadcloth, and it seems that two bearded men from Russian epics aren’t cutting the glass but are waltzing with some imaginary dates. But sometimes the door opens and dusty streams of light take out images from the shadows which are more about folk dances than about waltz. It may be a shag tied with a ribbon, or a tablier made from mat, or even broadcloth trousers tucked in dusty tarpaulin boots.

This is a glass stall on Pochaina street. I liked to come there. I can’t recall how it exactly began and when — probably at the age of nine, or maybe ten, I would sometimes catch a tram number two which was running within the ring road, would  get off at the «Dobroliubova» stop and a minute after I already was in this basement with wattle and daub floor, two large tables in the middle and rows of cut glass along the walls. The room smelled of mould, burning oil and shag tobacco. All moves here were smooth, all sounds here were quiet…

I’m losing sense of time…

You’ll be a lead singer, — the senior lieutenant Zaprudnov, our troop commander, makes his last point. – But it’s my dad who sings, not me! – If your father sings, then you’ll be able to. – I don’t know any Russian marching songs. – Alright, what songs do you know? – I know the one in English. – That will do!

This is how we became the only troop of the Soviet Army which was going to the canteen singing «Yellow submarine». Not for too long, though.

It’s reeeeed…. – Misha Dudnik, a robust tractor driver from the Belgorod region, a sergeant one year older than me, all of a sudden stops himself from hitting my nose when it’s only one millimeter left. It’s the second time he tried to hit me and for some reason he looks rather puzzled now. Using the method of instant deduction, I realize what this quick change is about. Obviously, the first encounter of a deputy commander and the «Yellow submarine» song paid itself off, so our troop commander ordered his fighters to wash this shame away with the «blue» leading singer’s  blood, but blood appeared to be simply red…

Definitely this anti-Semit Zaprudnov misunderstood something about «blue» blood. Since poverty was wide-spread at that time, this «blue-blood» guy used to sleep on the table until he turned eighteen, until his father was taken to the Red Army, and my mother’s mother, my granny, used to sell cigarettes.

However, my father is a lead singer of the opera house now. Hence, my family has strong bonds with the theatre. In our house there are father’s portraits where you can see him playing his parts. My mother carefully cuts out reviews from newspapers and sticks them in the special album. We are very soviet Jews.  My mother gets embarrassed when a five-year-old boy tells her he wants to become the Wandering Jew. What’s more, we are a perfect family. My parents fell in love with each other at first sight. I learned by heart the story about a huge bucket of scarlet roses which was presented for the wedding by the communal apartment on Samotyok, as well as my father’s battle front tales. For instance, the story about how he was woken up on the watch by fritz who had come to surrender (my dad was given a medal for «The prisoner-to-be-interrogated». Or, moreover, how my father was saved by a squadron called «Normandia-Neman», when he, being the radio gunner of the attack plane IL-2, jumped out with a parachute, completely unaware of the Messershmidt coming from the side of the sun. It was chased away by «Yaki», and the father’s pilot, Yasha Hanukayev, landed the plane on his own. In a few days my father was  taken back. They actually wanted to take him to the penal battalion, but, fortunately, his tenor saved him.

 

One could hear my father’s tenor from a long way off, probably from a mile away! Maybe even from two! Okay, from a quarter away. Although those quarters in Gorkiy town consisted of two-floor houses with window aprons, ice-skating boots and wooden porches. Apple and cherry trees were blooming in yards in spring. You could notice whited birdhouse-like bench-holes. Lyosha Peshkov used to run in these very yards. He took lessons from the draftsman, who was living two houses off from my school, and Lyosha had already been a great proletarian writer living next house. Once my father threw a slipper on his roof while chasing spring cats. After that he walked without one. When Lyosha Peshkov grew up and became rich, he built a community hall with his friends Leonid Andreyev. Kind of palace of culture for bums, you know. Then it became an opera house, where my father was invited for work. My father’s surname was actually Cimmerman, and Burlatskaya was my mother’s surname.

My father couldn’t make career with his own surname, that’s why he became Burlatskiy. By the moment of comprehending my self-identity (it was approximately at the same age of five), I hadn’t had any doubts – you can live on Volga river only with this surname. And bear the burden, sometimes groaning in the process. By that time my father had already been taking me to the theatre.

Misha, you can open your eyes now! – this is the voice of Fyodorovich, my father’s make-up man. A minute ago he seated me in the armchair opposite the mirror and told me to close my eyes. It’s a surprise. I’m looking in the mirror but can’t see myself there!!! There’s a dwarf in a cap with enormous eye-brows, red nose and a beard staring at me! Fyodorovich was a great make-up man and also a big wag. I still have no idea how I got through all that…

Yet life was going on, my father kept taking me to rehearsals, and an occasional night passer-by could sometimes see two silhouettes – a big and a little one: they were walking backward through blizzard with their collars lifted up in case the wind was blowing right in their faces. My father took great care of his vocal cords and wished me to do the same.

 

And then spring and summer would come again. The older boys were playing with knives, girls and youngsters were hunting for treasure, the more so because only a fifth of the yard was covered with asphalt near the house where the writer Gorkiy used to live. And then the glass appeared. Little many-colored  pieces of glass. Pieces of bottle were green, the ones of the bottle of cologne were blue, and there were even glass beads of chandeliers shimmering with all rainbow colors. Everything was laid out in ornament, was hidden on the bottom of a little hole dug in the ground behind garages, then it was covered with a piece of window glass and disguised with sod.

Some lucky guys would find treasure with clock gear wheels and springs ( there was a clock factory on Zelenskiy descent, and kiddos would run there for the catch). Glass and Time would merge into one, and, when my mother brought me a book «A glass man» about the history of glass, I read it in one breath.

Later rings and bracelets made from many-colored wires began to appear in treasures – thus a new «currency» was made. There was a gloomy granite building with the clock nearby – Post House, where you could see scattered enormous wooden reels with the black cable in the yard. In this very place the treasure was hidden – thin brass wires covered with multi-colored plastic. Since I had the narrowest shoulders among all the guys, I was pushed in a granite gutter under the fence, and I puffed for a long time, cutting off precious pieces of cable with a penknife. We would weave rings and bracelets, vases and little baskets, and then we would exchange them all for other valuables and goodies. Among our valuables there were tin pistols, like «popguns», which fired with something saturated with smell of corks. An elderly Jewish junkman sometimes brought them to us. Kiddos would give anything for these «popguns»!

We had goodies for lunch in «headquarters». That was what we called a plywood «coop» standing on stilts which we built up near the fence behind the garages. Vika Sosulnikov, a fellow living next door, was in charge of the project. He was a bit older, so he made little kids like us carry remnants of board and rusty sheet iron to the spot behind the garages.

He’s gonna thrive on you, you busy bees! – this is what a guy called Seryozha Kornev shouts standing on the balcony on the sixth floor of a new house which had been attached to ours. Seryozha is ten. He is one year older and much smarter than us. Indeed, Vika became a secretary of the district committee of the Communist Youth League and we became friends with Kornev.

 

And here we are, seeing Kornev off leaving for the army camp, but a year after, as a true friend, I’m flying to Kazakhstan carrying two huge bags with food and «The USSR»  written on them. There Seryozha and his new friend Valera Guriev are scratching about frozen ground in the steep with a pick. This is what we call a construction battalion. Firstly the plane, then the train, then the bus, and finally, I get off the automobile wagon full of red-faced matrons wearing quilted jackets somewhere in the middle of the steep. A little way away there are two trailers. These are the headquarters.

 

— Go to hell! – this was the answer when I asked if I could see him. – I’ll stay here, — I say and sit on one of the bags. In a couple of hours shaven-headed  Kornev and Guriev show up: they had got a night off provided they cut off their long straight locks. The uniform, like plenty of other things, didn’t matter too much in such place as the steep.

 

— This is roasted chicken, and these are patties, — I’m taking out all the stuff from the bags and laying it on the table. – This is orange juice, from Greece, my dad got it with a bit of a wangle, — I keep talking, filling a sudden hush falling over the room. – Oh yes, I’ve also… brought my…. water colors… to show you… — Where’s vodka?! – the inn is literally shaken by yelling of guys amazed by my naivety.

 

One more year after I left for the army camp. There was the same meeting point near the Rechnoy railway station. It was sunny, seagulls were flying and there was me, shaven-headed, leaving for serving in the army in Solnechnogorsk.

Why are you so skinny?! – I’ve been like this since I was born, comrade Lieutenant General! – it is me, caught between two huge snowbanks. I hadn’t had a chance to escape from Viktor Dragunskiy, twice the hero of the Soviet Union, the supervisor of courses called «Shot», who was coming towards me. Actually his question is not without a reason. I am wearing a pile field cap soiled all over with fuel oil, a second-hand floor-length overcoat and an old, very firmly tightened belt. This «twice-hero» guy reaches my chest in his full height, what makes me look even taller, and next to him I look like a shabby broom without a handle. – How old are you? – Sorry, comrade Lieutenant general? – I’m asking: How old are you? – I’m eighteen, comrade Lieutenant general! – Oh, I see… Then go, go, there’s plenty of time to gain weight!

So I went, and went, and went, and went… I was a locksmith and a watchman, a lighting technician and a designer, I got married and got divorced, I became a father and a widower, and in the end I became an ambrotypist, a weird alliance of a photographer and a chemist, whose images you are going to see…

 

The poet has a facet-like vision… – This line was written by Atner Huzangai, the reviewer of my first collection of verses. It’s when view of the world is formed like it happens with a dragonfly. It transforms into a whole one from a great number of small fragments — these very bits of colored glass from the kid’s treasure which form the ornament of my life. I am sixty-one years old now, I’m writing these lines in Saint-Petersburg, in the house number thirteen on Pestelya street. My mother had a chance to be here and firstly got upset cause she didn’t see any father’s portraits on the walls. Mummy, I’ve come up with a different story, here on the walls there are only ambrotypes, «eternal» glass prints, for which people come to my place, like to the Photocabin…

My mom thought about it for a while… and forgave me.

 

 

A circus show in his mind. By Olga Golovina

Translate by Natasha Chehova

 

 

I reckon Misha does it like this: without looking in the mirror, he throws a tiny hook away from the loop and smoothly opens a small door on the back of his head. Right there, inside everything has already been worked out: the sculls have started to smile, the stuffed bird has spread its wings, the ballet dancer has stood still in her ballet shoes just like a mannequin.  But he also needs to let some light in, otherwise it will not work – that’s what photography is about.  So there he is, with the open small door in his mind, wandering around his studio, turning the light on, preparing the glass, loading it in his camera, muttering something to himself, while the ballet dancer is turning into Pierrot, the bird feathers are becoming heavy as a word, mannequins have gone insane because of shaking and are laughing louder than the sculls that used to belong to them — only they have gone for a walk now. Whatever.  Anyway, everything is ready now, he can finally set the camera on the back of his head and shot… I mean, shoot.

What can people of fine minds and way of life like us see in all this surreal chaos? Firstly, we see that this sort of chaos is logical and structured. It’s neither abstraction, nor ravings, nor shallow artificiality, but a combination of various reality layers in dreams and humor. The ideas are sometimes profound, sometimes they are as plain as daylight, sometimes they are like the mirror, which is very typical for photography in general, where you may not recognize yourself at this very moment, but once you do, you won’t be able to get rid of this ghost – a different side of yourself in the photo. Secondly, this chaos is narrative. It tells us the stories which have never happened but were desired to. It’s not like someone wants to have horns growing out of his spine like some protohistorical amphibian or to have an old naked faun play some spooky tune for him. It’s more about desire to have something like that. Somewhere. With someone. Sometime.

After all, like people of fine minds and way of life, we enjoy reading other people’s fantasies starting with Homer and finishing with Baudelaire and telling dreams to another side of ourselves in the mornings. And stories told in Burlatskiy’s ambrotypes are as short as Kharm’s anecdotes. Similarly to Fellini’s dream-like movies, they are full of ironic sensuality, touching melancholy about the human nature and mirth origins, like in the circus before the Apocalypse. You can shuffle them like a deck of cards and thus make more and more new plots. You can also scatter them, so that you can behold them in all their diversity and rejoice at each note of this brilliant melody. And thirdly, it is finely created chaos. Allusions  to classical paintings, photographs, literature, cinematograph, buskers’ plots of the European circus and Russian anecdote, rich texture of materials and faces, the sense of depth of the glass, composition, simple but carefully chosen light; in the long run, arrangement of photos in the book is complicated and finely performed work, a job done with great delight.

And now shots from the dark room of his mind come down to this publication. Glass on paper, let’s say. Why «Glass», by the way? Well, ambrotype is an ancient technology, photography on the glass and all that stuff. However, I’ve got another explanation. It’s like glass through which we look at the world, and glass seems transparent to us, but such authors as Misha reveal images from another reality which seemed to hover on the edge of mind but were somehow unfocused. And suddenly through all these fables we see tragicomedy of our world, we see what could have become of it or what  should never become of it. And small dark rooms of a stranger’s mind become separate worlds living no longer than the flash lasts but as long as the light exists. Gazing upon them, all of a sudden we sense something joyful – as if things came together and the picture became clearer; not completely clear, but still…

So it means that it’s time a sad clown fed a nasty rubber duckling with his flesh. It’s time to play tunes on your lover like on strings, and do it on feathers instead of a violin. It’s time to listen to the bird photographer (cause who else is supposed to shoot?) and finally comprehend everything about women while looking at the sea-urchin and at the bride’s photo. Disappear in jest, get separated, split, become double and become triple, unlock time on the wrist, and escape into the scenery of a dream.

It’s time to unlock the shutter of the heart which is connected to the rope, so that you might instantly let this whole exciting world in, the world painted with light, and then just lock the shutter again —  until the next click or forever.

Characters of his scenes, those who have taken part in creation of this carnival to celebrate his discharge from the asylum, you will probably tell me: wait, he had never done such a thing then, he had never set a camera on the back of his head, we were there in the studio and through hassles at times, jokingly at times, still we were following all Misha’s instructions and catering to his every whim. No, my dear, your eyes were playing tricks on you. He pulled your leg. You just stayed behind that small door and never had a chance to go further.

Why am I talking only about the back of his head, though? It seems to me that Misha sets his camera not only on the back of his head, but also on his eye, temple, mouth, heart, stomach and whatever he’s got there. It’s just his head that he chooses most often.

Sure. It happens exactly like that. Or you thought there is a brain in Misha’s head?….

 

 

Titles

1. Coda. Ambrotype 4х5 inc. 2014
2. Fate. Ambrotype 8х10 inc, 2010
3. After the ball. Ambrotype 8х10 inc, 20194. Letters from Bojberik. 5х7 inc, 2013
4. The muse. Аmbrotype 8х10 inc, 20116.Going to fetch water. Аmbrotype 8х10 inc, 2012
5. Ghost of the studio. Ambrotype 8х10 inc, 2011
6. Her toy. Аmbrotype 8х10 inc, 2011
7. Vladimir. Ambrotype 8х10 inc, 201710.From the series «Glass of water». Аmbrotype 11х14 inc. 2013
8. Imitating somebody. Аmbrotype 8х10 inc. 2019
9. 12. Zoya. Аmbrotype 8х10 inc, 2011
10. The portrait of Saracen.. Аmbrotype 8х10 inc, 2011
11. A woman of fashion. Ambrotype 8х10 inc. 2011
12. Маsk. Ambrotype 8х10 inc, 2011
13. Island Santa. Аmbrotype 5х7 inc, 2012
14. Formula for the universe. Аmbrotype 8х10 inc. 2011

18-19. December on the field of Mars. Аmbrotype 5х7 inc.2015

20. From the series «Glass of water». Stas. Ambrotype 11х14 inc. 2013
21. Breakdown. Ambrotype 5х7 inc, 2019
22. Hamlet. Аmbrotype 5х7 inc, 2014
23. From the series «Glass of water». Сhristina. Ambrotype 11х14 inc. 2013
24. Adagio. Аmbrotype 8х10 inc, 2016
25. Feeding ducklings.Аmbrotype 8х10 inc, 2016
26. Old wings. Аmbrotype 8х10 inc. 2016
27. Cyril. Ambrotype 8х10 inc. 2016
28. Pondering over Tesla. Аmbrotype 8х10 inc, 2019
29. Left march. Аmbrotype 11х14 inc. 2017
30. Gravitation . Аmbrotype 8х10 inc, 2010
31. Secret thoughts of sir Baskerville. Аmbrotype 8х10 inc, 2010
32. Shadow fighting. Аmbrotype 8х10 inc. 2019
33. Near the pond. Аmbrotype 5х7 inc. 2014

 

34. Dima the pilot. Аmbrotype 11х14 inc. 2014
35. Katya the pilot. Аmbrotype 11х14 inc. 2014
36. Hooked. Ambrotype 5х7 inc.
37. Anka. Аmbrotype 8х10 inc. 2018

38-39.Gasholder of the distillery. Тintype 5х7 inc. 2014

40. Setting. A meeting. With stars. Аmbrotype 8х10 inc, 2010

41. Engaging morphology. Аmbrotype 18х24 sm, 2009

42. Once it flies out, one will never catch it. Аmbrotype 5х7 inc, 2016
43. Dedication to Nadar. Аmbrotype 8х10 inc, 2016

44.Lambada. Аmbrotype 5х7 inc, 2019

45. Seminar about speeded legal proceedings. Аmbrotype 8х10 inc, 2010
46. Hotline. Аmbrotype 8х10 inc, 2009
47. Entertainment in Beardsley’s style. Аmbrotype 8х10 inc, 2010
48. Harakiri. Тintype 5х7 inc. 2012
49. Аllegory of Spring. Ambrotype 5х7 inc, 2012

50-51. Imitating Matisse. Ambrotype 8х10 inc, multiple exposure, 2016

52. Nessie. Ambrotype 8х10 inc, 2016
53. Abyss. Ambrotype 8х10 inc, 201554. Farewell. Ambrotype 18х24 sm, 2009
54. Russian roulette. Ambrotype 8х10 inc, multi exposure,2014

56-57. Shooting range of feminists. Ambrotype 8х10 inc, 2010

58. Brem evolution. Тintype 5х7 inc, 2012
59. Sir. Ambrotype 18х24 sm, 2009

60-61. Call. Ambrotype 8х10 inc, 2018

62. Girl with tattoos of she-bears. Ambrotype 8х10 inc. 2015
63. Phantom pains. Ambrotype 5х7 inc. 2014

64.Inspiro veritas. Ambrotype 5х7 inc, 2014

65. Harpography. Ambrotype 8х10 inc, 2019

66.Оlga. Ambrotype 8х10 inc. 2010

67. Wham! Ambrotype 11х14 inc, 2015

 

68-69. Memoirs. Ambrotype 8х10 inc, multiple exposure, 2018

70. Dinner party. Ambrotype 8х10 inc, 2017
71. Loudspeaker. Ambrotype 5х7 inc, 2012

72-73. Solaris. Ambrotype 8х10 inc, multi exposure, 2015

74-75. Fishing. Тintype 5х7 inc, 2015

76. Service center «Sennaya». Ambrotype 8х10 inc, 2016
77. The Little Humbacked Horse. Ambrotype 18х24 sm, 2009

78-79. Legends and myths of Galernaya street. Ambrotypes 8х10 inc, 2010

80. Julia. Ambrotype 8х10 inc, 2015
81. If the enemy doesn’t give up, he is eliminated. Ambrotype 8х10 inc, 2014
82. Razor. Ambrotype 18х24 sm, 2009
83. In the foothills. Ambrotype 5х7 inc, 2013

84.Natasha. Ambrotype 11х14 inc. 2013

85. Lord of a magic ball. Ambrotype 8х10 inc. 2014
86. Girl from Sagarejo. Тintype 5х7 inc, 2018
87. Farewell.Ambrotype 8х10 inc, multiple exposure, 2014

88.Burden. Ambrotype 8х10 inc, 2015

89. Radio F-M. Ambrotype 5х7 inc. 2016

90-91. Egyptian footbridge. Ambrotype 5х7 inc, 2013

92. Watchmaker. Ambrotype 18х24 sm, 2009
93. In the twilight. Ambrotype 8х10 inc, multiple exposure, 2013
94. Back on the air. Ambrotype 8х10 inc, 2012
95. Propaganda. Ambrotype 5х7 inc. 2012
96. Сombat. Тintype 8х10 inc, multiple exposure,2014
97. Precipice. Ambrotype 8х10 inc, 2016
98. King Clear. Ambrotype 8х10 inc, 2009
99. Eclipse. Ambrotype 5х7 inc, 2014
100. Cyclop. Ambrotype 5х7 inc, 2019
101. Аntony. Ambrotype 11х14 inc, 2013
102. Кremlin «whizzer ». Ambrotype 8х10 inc, 2010 *

103.Miserable Fanny. Ambrotype 8х10 inc, 2009

 

104-105. Dreams of an infantryman. Ambrotype 5х7 inc, multiple exposure, 2014

106. Reaching heaven. Ambrotype 8х10 in, multiple exposure,2020
107. Сocktail at Molotov’s. Ambrotype 8х10 inc, 2015
108. Ad libitum. Аmbrotype 8х10 inc, 2010
109. Night meeting.Тintype 5х7 inc, multiple exposure, 2014

110.Swan song. Ambrotype 8х10 inc, 2019

111. Affair with cocaine.Ambrotype 8х10 inc, 2011

 

112-113. Attempt of separation. Based on N.V. Gogol’s novel «Nose»

 

114. Attempt of separation. Origin. Тintype 5х7 inc, 2014
115. Attempt of separation. Withdrawal. Тintype 5х7 inc, 2014
116. Attempt of separation. Awakening. Тintype 5х7 inc, 2014
117. Attempt of separation. Adaptation. Тintype 5х7 inc, 2014
118. Attempt of separation. Contemplation. Тintype 5х7 inc, 2014
119. Attempt of separation. Return\Reversion. Тintype 5х7 inc, 2014

 

 

120-121.  Ya, ya! Natürlich!

!!!

 

122-123. Questioning. Ambrotype 8х10 inc, multiple exposure, 2017

124. Message. Ambrotype 8х10 inc, multiple exposure, 2019
125. Interrupted dinner. Ambrotype 8х10 inc, multiple exposure, 2017
126. Blind play. Ambrotype 8х10 inc, multiple exposure, 2019

127.Grand portrait. Ambrotype 8х10 inc, multiple exposure, 2018

128. Question of the essentials. Ambrotype 8х10 inc, multiple exposure, 2018

129.Clinical examination. Ambrotype 8х10 inc, multiple exposure, 2019

130. Аutotroph. Ambrotype 8х10 inc, multiple exposure, 2019
131. The honor is mine, sir! Ambrotype 8х10 inc, multiple exposure, 2019
132. Adventures of Gandhi bears. Ambrotype 8х10 inc, multiple exposure,2019
133. Identification. Ambrotype 8х10 inc, multiple exposure, 2019
134. Quick one before you go. Ambrotype 8х10 inc, multiple exposure, 2017
135. The ninth day. Ambrotype 8х10 inc, multiple exposure, 2017
136. Freedom comes naked Ambrotype 8х10 inc, multiple exposure, 2018
137. Appassionata. Ambrotype 8х10 inc, multiple exposure, 2017
138. Light. Ambrotype 8х10 inc, multiple exposure, 2017

 

* * secure high frequency telephones which used to be very typical for all heads of Moscow communist party offices