Victory Day and a red rose

I woke up at Rachel’s to the sounds of the airplanes I was hoping not to miss, threw on some clothes, and ran outside to watch the rest of the planes fly toward Red Square. They had been practicing for this, the big day, the 65^th anniversary of the defeat of the Nazis, all week, but there were still some planes I hadn’t seen yet.

BBC "In Pictures" 9 May

After the excitement and adrenaline rush created by planes flying low overhead, I went home, and then went for a walk in the park I recently discovered near my metro stop. I am amazed by this park which feels like wilderness in the middle of a concrete jungle. As I walked I smiled to myself about boys racing their bicycles and girls with improvised roller shoes. I wondered at the grandfather talking to his grandson as he pushed him in his stroller. I noticed litter strewn about – bottles left on trees and juice boxes discarded near the path.

As I walked, I half thought about sitting to read but didn’t rush to find a place. I passed a group in their late teens, standing, talking, drinking, smoking. I wandered, taking in the changing breeze, wondering at how sometimes it smelt so fresh, crisp, and pure, but when I took a few steps further the air smelt stale and worn out - like beer and cigarette smoke. I walked toward the playground, where there was less cigarette smoke and more “nature.” As I wandered further away from the partying teens, I saw an open bench. I assessed the situation – making sure I wasn’t downwind of cigarettes and noticed a young man in uniform with an orange beret. What part of the military is he? Then I sat down to read.

Occasionally, I stopped reading and looked up to take in my surroundings – the children playing, the birds chirping, the beautiful variety of greens and trees around me. Then, I noticed the trash pouring out of the garbage can on my left. The beer bottle caps pressed into the dirt near the bench I was sitting on. I noticed the ants that had come to feast on whatever food particles were left around and the breeze that wafted the scent of early summer blossoms past my nose. As I was reading, I felt in tune and at peace with the juxtaposition of wild and civilized that encompassed me.

Suddenly, I noticed that the young man in the orange beret was walking toward me, in front of me, and then he stopped. I looked up, and he said something in Russian that I didn’t understand but somehow I knew he was saying something nice or sweet. I got a bit flustered and couldn’t think of what to say, my brain stopped, and I felt my cheeks grow warm. Finally, I forced out, “Вы говорите по-английский?” (Do you speak English?) He looked a bit shocked, and said no. I told him, in Russian that my Russian was very bad, and of course, being polite, he said, “No, no, it’s not. You know a lot.” I said, “No I only know a little, but thank you.” Then he asked where I was from and my name. He sat down next to me, and we had a brief conversation where I tried to ask him what branch of the military he worked for. He couldn’t explain in English, and I couldn't understand in Russian, but I figured out later he works for МЧС РОССИЙ (basically like the National Guard – they do civil defense and emergency response). After this struggle to communicate, he presented me with a red rose. Apparently it’s not a tradition that military men give women flowers on Victory Day, and of course, I felt like I should have been doing something for him. Yet, in my flustered state, I was unable to say even, “Happy Victory Day.” I just got out a “Thank you” before he walked off. Rattled, amazed, and of course flattered, I watched him go, disappearing through the park and toward the metro.

A new view of play dough

It was the last day of my pre-advanced adult class, and I decided to bring in Cranium. Before class I went through all the cards to make sure that the language wasn't too challenging and the questions weren't completely culturally irrelevant, and then I looked at my "Cranium clay". It was pathetic - a crystallized, purple lump.

I asked around to see if anyone knew where I could get some clay and took the first suggestion that I was given, a bookstore across the street. The purchase was quick, painless, and the only choice I had to make was weather to pay 300 rubles for four colors or 100 rubles for 8 colors. I took my 8 colors of игра форма eegra forma (play dough) back to the school and proceeded to mix the red and blue together to make just the right amount, and just the right color of "Cranium clay". I was not at all surprised that it looked, felt, and smelled exactly like the Play-Doh I played with as a child - that's what play dough is after all. I had not anticipated the reaction of Russian teachers and students, who are around my age, when they saw, felt, and smelled this clay.

When I brought the game into the classroom, there was curiosity about the tub of clay, but no one opened it to see what it was. I put my students in teams, set up the board, and then gave them a quick rundown of the instructions. A couple rounds went by, and then someone got a "Sculptorades" card - the card that is like pictionary, but you have to sculpt with Cranium clay instead of draw. One student began reading the instructions out loud to the other team, and when they got to the word sculpt, they all lit up. Now they understood what the little tub of stuff was. My student looked at the word, took the clay out of the tub, and started sculpting. She seemed a bit confused and delighted by the texture of the clay, and after her partner guessed the word, all the students wanted to touch the clay because it was strange, new, different. So, I asked the obvious question:

"You didn't play with play dough or clay as a child?"

"We did, but it wasn't like this. It was Soviet clay."

"Soviet clay? What do you mean? What was it like?"

"It was hard and colored your hands." (It was what I call modelling clay.)

"And it didn't smell nice like this."

"Yeah, this smells like cookies."

"Well, you better not eat it. I don't think it would taste like a cookie!"

My students were almost more interested in the exotic play dough than in playing Cranium. After class, I thought maybe just these students hadn't yet been exposed to play dough, but each time someone saw me playing with the play dough in the teacher's room, the reaction was the same.

"What is that?"

"Is it food?" (perhaps because I was chewing gum)

Because the question was asked so often, it got to the point where I simply handed over a piece of the play dough as a response. Each time, the reaction was the same. Pure delight! A smile and a curious sniff - some would then hand it back, while others would play with it for a while. Most commented on how wonderful it smelled and said it reminded them of something - for me that something was Play-Doh - for them, usually vanilla (even without the suggestion from others).

Often "new" and "foreign" things are made in Russia, like this play dough, so sometimes I can't tell the difference between what is a given worldwide product and what is new and foreign. I discovered that even if something exists in a country, is easily accessible, and looks like it was made by Russians for Russians, it doesn't mean that all Russians have seen it or played with it.

My teens weren't nearly as impressed with it, so play dough worked it's way into childhood culture at least ten years ago.

The scowl and the smile: Two different perspectives on life as seen through the wrinkles of old women in Moscow.

After living in Moscow for a year and a half, I have noticed a general divide in the older generations.

There’s the бабушка (babushka) that everyone knows, the pushy, grumpy woman who is always yelling at one person or another about how their ignorance or inconsiderate actions are torturing her. She complains of how she doesn’t know if her heart can take much more of whatever minute thing has occurred. Every little thing drives her crazy and deepens the lines in her permanent frown. The world revolves around her and everyone is expected to bow down, clear the way or politely squeeze their way past her, if she is taking up the whole hall while spreading her gossip about this person or that. The lines in her face cause everyone to further entrench her in her stereotype. She has become bitter over years of not being treated with “respect” and seems to think all younger people are idiots. Unfortunately, this old woman is the more obvious one in Russia. She is the stereotype of бабушка – the one that everyone knows.

Fortunately, this grumpy old woman isn’t the only option. There’s another way of looking at the world, which is friendly and easy going. This бабушка laughs at her insane counterpart and with a smirk or laugh brushes off things that would send the other woman into a full on tizzy-fit. She smiles at couples groping each other and making-out on the metro and doesn’t mind waiting for the next train if the one she wants is full – just steps back and smiles. When she gets into a wagon, she does not feel entitled to a seat – even though the announcement says she is, but people usually get up for her anyway because she wears a permanent smile. She appreciates others’ happiness and is the woman to ask for directions when lost because she has time and enjoys life. The lines in her face show years of laughter and jokes, and she inspires others to become more friendly. If someone assists her, she may reward that person with an interesting or funny anecdote, and the gleam in her eye will cause people to look around for the humor she finds in the world. Of course, her friendly demeanor shouldn’t be mistaken for weakness. She is not weak and can push and take care of herself, but usually she chooses to go with the flow of people.

Both types of women are strong and shouldn’t be messed with. Remember that they have lived through ups and downs, certainty and uncertainty. They have probably suffered the loss of a loved one due to alcoholism and learned that there’s no sure way to guarantee health, security or money. The two perspectives boil down to one that regrets all she has lost and the other which appreciates all that she has.

Hackneyed interpretations of Malevich

An icon of modern art, Malevich's Black Square hangs like an albatross on the neck of contemporary Russian art. In order to show they "understand the history of Russian art" many contemporary artists very literally refer to Black Square in their work. There is a feeling of obligation in these pieces - almost as if an art professor assigned a project to comment on the looming presence of Black Square despite whether its presence is negative or positive or even understood.

At least five or six artists completed this project to a somewhat mediocre finish, and they are currently on display at the Moscow Museum of Modern Art's (MMOMA's) indiscriminate retrospective of the last 20 years of Russian art. There's the pregnant black square - a huge bulge protruding from the surface - perhaps signifying the weight and pressure that Black Square has placed on Russian art. There's the transparent square - a large plexiglass window which frames whatever is around it. There's the giant black pixel black square ... and the list goes on. While at first glance I found this "project" quite amusing, the repetition by different, unrelated artists and the lack of deeper meaning (aside acknowledgement of Malevich) felt more like a pointless obsession.

In the last 20 years, Black Square has become a sort of pop icon of the art world. In 1915 the work crushed the then common notion that art had to be representative or point to something from reality. Malevich knew he was creating an icon. He placed it in the corner of the gallery on its first exhibition, which is the traditional Russian place for religious icons. Despite the celebrity of the work, contemporary Russian artists need to free themselves from the specter of Black Square and move forward, rather than constantly looking back.

.10, Last Futurist Exhibition, 1915

After wading through the jumbled mess of Black Square interpretations, observing ignorant museum goers touch art work, and being overwhelmed with 30 different sound art pieces, the works of Irina Korina and Alexander Sokolov were a breath of fresh air in an otherwise overcrowded, over-thought mixture of Russian contemporary art.

Sokolov's work "Insects" Cycle, 1997, showcased square wooden cases, with glass windows, which each displayed a large art insect. At first I looked past them, but on second glance, the intricate detail work and the humor of the binomial nomenclature caught my attention. The first I saw was a bit shocking. Entitled something like Insectus injectus, the body of this insect was a large syringe and reminded me of a mosquito. The others were commentaries on consumerism, something like Consumerus vulgarus with an Adidas sneaker body, time management, with the body of a clock, and "Black Square" Metamorphosa Malevich with hard outer wings of Black Square. Sokolov's unique approach to an otherwise ubiquitous art subject caused me to look twice.

Korina's art, as always, was intriguing. Her main piece in the show, Tank, was a large wooden tank constructed of found parts of Soviet furniture. Aside from the atrocious display - visitors were forced to view this imposing installation piece in a small gallery with at least 10 other works crowded around it and without the ability to see it fully in the round - this piece was fascinating. Had I been alone in the room with it, I would have been tempted to find a way inside the tank. It reminded me of a child's fort, and I felt as though there had to be something hidden inside - perhaps this was due to the light emanating from it or the childlike curiosity that Korina's work inspires.

Korina, Tank

After an overall disappointing museum experience at MMOMA on Petrovka Street, I was relieved to have found both of these artists. Sokolov's humor and Korina's playfulness stepped out of Malevich's shadow, out of the disorganized clutter of artwork on display, into a bright new realm of Russian art.

A puzzle ring and the art of negotiation

Perhaps it was the lack of sleep or maybe all the sun and fresh air I got in Izmir, but I was in a great mood at the beginning of my adventure in Istanbul. There were foreigners (and English) all around. I walked past Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque to get to my hostel. I arrived in time for breakfast and enjoyed a breathtaking view of the Marmara Sea. Afterwards, I ventured out into the rain to look for a narghilea (hookah). I walked back toward the Blue Mosque and through the market.

On my way through I got my first taste of Turkish business hospitality.

“Hello. Could I offer you some tea?”

“Hello pretty girl.” (This was occasionally in Russian, which I found amusing.)

“Hi, may I offer you some tea?” Each shop I passed, another man said hello and offered me tea, or asked me a question. A little overwhelming. I was glad to be through it.

On the suggestion of a carpet salesman, I soon returned to that same market and walked back through. This time I stayed more focused and ended up in a narghilea shop. The shop keeper asked me what I was looking for, we talked and joked, and rather than settling on a certain narghilea and a price, he offered me tea – which after a couple hours in Istanbul, I found quite normal. I accepted, and sat down contemplating what the narghilea I wanted was worth – I really had no idea.

We chatted, drank some tea, and being an American, after about five minutes of this, I decided to talk about price. I knew what I wanted was too low, so I asked him how much they usually sell for. He told me various prices all higher than I wanted, and I hesitated. When I told him my price, I tempered it with “It’s probably too low …” (I’m obviously not good at bargaining – in fact, I hate it.)

Being an astute salesman looking for a laugh, and because of the slow business and the rain, he said, “Ok, let me show you something.”

He took a ring from the ring holder on the table. “I will show how this works – you haven’t done this before have you?” I had no idea what he was talking about so I shook my head.

“I’ll show you how this works, and if you can put it together in 5 minutes, I will give you the price you want. In 10 minutes …” He went on to list a series of different prices leading from mine all the way up to his at an hour.

I thought, “No problem. I can do this. I can play this silly game and I will get a good deal.”

Then he showed me a puzzle ring. I’d seen them once or twice before, but had forgotten all the techniques used to put them together. Regardless, he showed me how to put the ring together – not once, but twice! He then gave me the ring and told me I could ask three questions.

I think he must have studied human psychology because while it seems like this would be an easy task, especially after watching, it was extremely difficult. I am someone that needs step by step instructions to reach the finished product, and what he showed me was basically step by step but it wasn’t as easy as it first appeared. As soon as I got going, I realized I only had the first step solidly in mind and the rest was fuzzy, but I’m stubborn and refused to use my three questions.

He kept talking to me. Asking me question after question. Muddling my already fuzzy memory of the puzzle. Wanting to know what I thought of Istanbul, where I was from, what I was doing in Moscow, what I thought about the possibility of opening up a narghilea café in Moscow ... Needless to say, an hour passed, and I still hadn’t gotten the ring together. I felt like an idiot. After I gave up. He showed me again, physically involving me in the process – maybe I really am a kinesthetic learner because then it was easy. I got it together no problem. Lesson learned – I don’t do enough tinkering in Moscow.

After spending about two hours chatting, drinking tea, and messing with this puzzle ring, of course he had persuaded me – without words – to pay his price for the narghilea. He was clever. Granted, I got “ripped off” as far as prices in Istanbul are concerned, but the price was reasonable compared to prices in Moscow or the U.S. and I got a couple hours entertainment on a rainy day. I left the shop shaking my head at his ingenuity and his creative way of getting me to pay a higher price. I vowed not to be stopped by anyone else offering me tea, but this is a difficult thing, especially on a rainy day in Istanbul.

Turkish hospitality and me