Смерть Автора

To my past professors,

You have spoiled me.

Way back when I was having trouble finding some classes to fill up my time (I had trouble filling up my time?) I remember coming across a flyer for a “spetzcourse” on contemporary art theory that was being offered in November.  Just the sight of the flyer lifted my spirits. I still had almost six weeks before the class would start, and then it would be for three hours ever Tuesday night. But I was very excited about the possibility of listening to a class, from beginning to end, on a subject I knew a little bit about and was interested in learning a lot more about.

Even as I found other classes I enjoyed attending and other things to do that interested me, even as I started teaching English and Yoga and organizing round tables and disseminating information about ways to study abroad, I looked forward to that day, November 25, when I would be able to sit in on, and finally begin, my study of Contemporary Art Theory from a Russian perspective.

I thought everything would be great.  I knew where the class met, at what time.  I knew I’d be able to listen to the class from beginning to end, and have a comprehensive perspective on the subject.

But it didn’t occur to me that that the professor would be the most boring individual I had ever come across. I didn’t count on the fact that she would kill, absolutely annihilate, everything that makes this topic one of the most amazing things to learn about and study.

The night wasn’t an entire wash.  I was excited to learn how to say “Death of the Author” in Russian, and I was the only one in the class who knew that Barthes wrote this famous piece in 1968.   I’ve been out of the Comp Hum world for a long time, but there are a lot of things burned in my memory, and I can jump and jive with current students in the discipline.

For that, my thanks are not due to that professor who stood at the front of the room last night and put the rest of us to sleep.  Rather, I owe a hearty thanks to my past professors, those who are lecturing 6000 miles away.   Thank you for ruining 95% of classes that I will take from now into the future, because they will not be as good as the ones you led.

This morning in my International Relations Class . . .

It all of a sudden occurred to me that I was in Moscow, and my professor, a Russian woman schooled in Austria, was lecturing about the negative diplomatic repercussions of Stalin’s blockade of Berlin.

For those of you baby-boomers in the crowd, I bet when you were my age you never thought you’d live to see a day like this. And for those of you in the crowd who believe the world will never change, well, what a difference even this short amount of time has made.

Japanese Round Table

Meeting at Udon-house

Within a ten-minute walk from my dormitory there is an authentic fast-food Japanese udon noodle restaurant. You cannot imagine the pleasure I experienced when my friend Jackie, another Rotary Ambassadorial Scholar, introduced me to this place. Jackie is Japanese herself, and she brought me along for a sort of Japanese round-table held by ex-patriots from her homeland. The conversation was lively and pleasant, or so they tell me – after all, it was entirely in Japanese. But I’m used to being at a table where I don’t understand anything that’s being said around me. As long as the energy is good, and the main course involves seaweed, I get along just fine.

Speaking of the first snow . . .

Here comes winter

Russian Football

Is the same as European football, and English football, and South American football, and football anywhere else in the world, except in America. It is the world’s sport, and this past Saturday my friends in my dormitory and I grabbed a ball and headed to the expanse of concrete across from our university for a game.

We come from all corners of the world, and our skills are rusty to various degrees. Some 11- and 12-year-old Russian kids challenged us to a match, and let’s just say that they came out on top. At one point, the kid who was playing goalie for us pulled out a cigarette and lighted it mid-play. Yes, this was not soccer the way I was used to it. But during the last Saturday afternoon before the first snow in Moscow, there was no better place to be.

Vinzavod

Installation at Vinzavod

At least the Muscovites are making good use of their old broken-down manufacturing districts. Vinzavod is the second industrial complex I’ve visited that has been turned into an expansive haven for contemporary art. The galleries here feature everything from painting to phorography to installation, and are yet another reminder of the wonder that can come if you give a building, and a city, a second chance.

Vinzavod Installation

Reasons I will never live in Moscow #3 – The Sunrise

Of late it doesn’t happen until 8:30 in the morning.

While running on the Bulvar’ Koltzo . . .

There was an old guy in running shorts and no shirt doing hill repeats.

He waved and gave me a thumbs-up.

There is much more to this country than meets the eye.

Ants Marching

I returned from my morning run during rush hour today, and the song “Ants Marching” by Dave Matthews came on over my iPod. The tune’s got a special power here, and as I speed past it all in my light-blue sweatshirt and purple Nikes I feel like I’m the only person in color in a black-white-always-grey music set.

I love running. It makes me feel special.

Reasons I will never live in Moscow #2 – Visas

Myra just reminded me of this one. Not only do you have to get a visa to study in Russia, but you have to register it with the authorities. This means surrendering your passport to an unknown authority for a few weeks. Then, every time you want to leave the country, you have to go to the office and register the fact that you are leaving. When you come back, you have to re-register with the authorities again.

Someone’s making some serious money off this whole system. Bureaucracy is what makes this country go round.