Kirill Kto – Mnogo bukof
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This is not a story about book worms, readers and authors, as opposed to living famous «writers». No, not that way, not like in this joke about «Chukchi – writer». Nevertheless, we may tolerate such a rough, light, and superficial way of interpretation, and I will not be confused by any means if the audience would like to limit itself to mentioning just this one fact in the process of exposure`s picking-up. At least, I consider that, when every day threatens us with any disgrace, and it – the disgrace! – happens, all these abnormal warmings, anthropogenic disasters and marasmic festivals of lake holiday’s nature-lovers by the leadership of comradeship «Lake», when time is accelerately running up while it is going around in circles, and people go around in circles under time, and they even do not know what to do, how to save themselves, how to catch at a straw, or to catch a bedsheet, or to catch a plinth… and if you are lucky to catch something – where to go, or to creep along, who will be «the one-hour-super-hero» to be followed, which social network can give you the real good company, the real contact, the real rest from the real reality and from the human body – which is clammy, warm, surplus, BUT so beautiful. In these realities there is no big place for Art, which demands profound historical and discrepant cognition, which demands constant reflection and free stream of associations – it takes away to right, distant, unknown direction, to the emptiness, to the vacuum – from producers and consumers. Yes, I suppose that the author has his right to didactics. I am sure that there are things that could be described simply and clearly, almost inflexibly. So inflexibly that the final description can’t be marked like another «free artistic expression with the elements of appeal», when the appeal is drained of blood, when it turns to a sort of a brick which will be installed to the wall of the Tower of elephant’s skulls and elephant’s manure. The Tower that is constructed by modern artists, critics and curators in the middle of society. The Tower that is reeling for a long time and completing regularly. The Tower that can collapse without efforts of simple citizens – like the finished construction of Federation Tower or Ochta, that might have demand cash flows from all outdoors. But there were other Towers. There was another construction – ipso facto Castalikan self-forgetful digging and playing with signs, playing for real. There was another laborious zealous creativity that could have had it’s place in our post-industrial time because all real material labour is devoted to ensuring needs of society and took out sterile unobtrusive place with the picture window to Moscow – river, Neva – river, sea, bucolic view of the countryside. All blocks of flats are built by Turkish, Moldovan, and Ukrainian workers; belgian designers and sweating chinese factories sew clothings; and food itself grows in abundance on supermarket shelves. In these favorable conditions (not for everyone, and for certain sectors only) free time and energy on creation and self-study, on contemplation and reflection, on opposition oneself, on the quest of invincible entropy and chaos, could go for something else – if not for the creation, then for the knowledge, for the attempt to understand what is already there. But no one «does not want to know anything». This is one of the most common symptoms of general fatigue, fatigue from the culture itself, rejection of information overload, inability to understand it, reluctance to read the texts, but desire to write little posts in the blog, to share «emoticons» and to draw letters – it is served as the main theme, the basic conflict, over which I had allowed myself to build my work.
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