Александр Молчанов - KillerFoulkner

HE. Six languages. I’ve been learning English for eleven years and I still can’t order in a restaurant.

SHE. That’s right. You, my friend, are a loser.

HE. I’m a great Russian writer.

SHE. Literature’s refuge for losers. And I’ll tell you this as well: your writing’s bad.

HE. Here we go.

He gets up and starts walking around the room.

She gets up, get dressed, puts her things into her bag.

HE. Are you serious? You’re leaving?

SHE. You’re kicking me out.

HE. Just so you know: if you go, it’s over.

SHE. It was over a long time ago.

HE. The apartment stays mine. I’m paying for it.

SHE. I hope you choke on the apartment.

HE. Are you gonna fuck him today?

SHE. Of course. And we’ll laugh about you while we’re doing it.

HE. Wait.

SHE. You can’t stop me.

HE. Where’s he staying? What hotel?

SHE. At the «Hilton». He has the presidential suite. With views of the Reichstag.

HE. What? At the «Hilton»?

SHE. Yes.

HE. And he has the presidential suite with a view of the Reichstag?

SHE. Yes.

HE. How d’you know?

SHE. I was with him.

HE. When?

SHE. Yesterday afternoon. While you were stuck in Helen’s office.

HE. You’re lying. You don’t have anyone.

SHE. I do.

HE. You made him up.

SHE. What?

HE. You invented him to annoy me. I fucking checked everything — Skype, your email, the text messages on your phone. There was nobody. You aren’t seeing anyone. It’s all a fantasy. You’re just fantasizing. Obama. Six languages. Well, yes, of course. It’s a game, isn’t it? You were bored, so you came up with a game.

SHE. Think whatever you want, but it’s not a game.

HE. You’ve failed.

SHE. What d’you mean?

HE. «The Hilton»? Room facing the Reichstag? Do your research! Helen’s office is on Zhandarmenmarkt, across the road from the «Hilton.» You can’t see Reichstag from there. You should at least have checked the guide book, the Russo touristo…

SHE. It doesn’t matter.

HE. What?

SHE. Remember when you said that we create the reality around us?

HE. I was talking about atoms!

SHE. What’s the difference? If I believe this relationship, then it does exist.

HE. You can believe whatever you want. But to walk out on a real husband for a made-up lover: that’s bullshit.

SHE. I don’t love you.

HE. But you do love him?

SHE. I do love him.

HE. So where d’you see each other?

SHE. It’s none of your business.

HE. Forgive my curiosity, but how d’you have sex? How is he at sex?

SHE. Believe me, my friend, he is unsurpassable.

HE. And where are you gonna live with him? In the corridors of your imagination?

SHE. We’ll have no problem on that front. He’s a millionaire.

HE. You fucking made him up! Get your head of the clouds!

She says something in response. And the dispute continues for a long time, but there’s no point in us listening to it. We’ve learned the main thing already.

HE. Listen, from the book «Around Grotowski.» Barba, one of his students, described a trip to India, where Kathakali actors were performing in a market square. ( Reads ) Barba was amazed that actors’ special magnetism attracted the attention of the audience. He attended acting school in Kerala and found that as a basic position the actors lean on the «edges» of their feet, which violates the usual balance of the body. That creates a delicate position that requires the actor’s concentration. The actor is forced constantly to expend energy, and this keeps the audience’s attention.

He looks at her.

HE. Are you listening?

She doesn’t answer.

HE. I think the same technique can be used in writing. Disequilibrium. For example, Dovlatov saw to it that in the same sentence all words began with different letters so that there wasn’t any repetition. In principle, there’s no stylistic reason to do this at all. A reader doesn’t see and doesn’t realize what he’s achieving through his, let’s call it, alphabetic jumble. However, the author of the work is in a constant state of tension, which is transmitted to a reader and so holds his attention.

Pause.

HE. The most important thing is the energy that an author puts into his work. Words, thoughts, ideas, characters, plot it’s all garbage. If the reader gets the energy he’s happy. If he doesn’t get it, he just gets bored. The emotional connection is lost.

Pause.

HE. It seems to me that the boundary between what’s art and what’s not art lies where emotion ends and the mind begins. All conceptualism is a scam. It’s the energy that affects the emotions, and it must come from the work itself, and not from some long convoluted name attached to it. Because in this case, a person, sort of, by himself, but with the help of his mind, makes himself feel some kind of emotion. He becomes the author of the work.

Here’s how it works. With Rothko, for example. His paintings consist of those stripes and squares. And a canvas sometimes just split into two parts. One is painted in one color, the other another. It all seems very simple. And title of it all — well it’s Composition 1, or Composition 2. All in all, everything is simple. But when you look at it in the original, it’s very impressive. I went to an exhibition of his at the Garage. I forgot to breathe. It’s just beautiful.

Pause.

HE. And let’s take Damien Hirst. The shark in formaldehyde. You look at it. An ordinary shark in ordinary formaldehyde. The cost-price of the thing — I don’t know how much the shark’s worth. Well, let’s say, three hundred dollars for the shark, three hundred dollars for the formaldehyde. Shark submerged into formaldehyde. Nothing happens. So the top price should be six hundred dollars. And then along comes the author, and hangs the plate nearby «The Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone Living.» And that fucking shark at once becomes a work of art and worth three million. So this is how the author puts his energy not into the work, but into its title. And if you look blankly for a shark in formaldehyde, you’ll see a shark in formaldehyde. And if you know that the work is called «The Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone Living,» you’ll be thinking about the fact that while you’re alive there is no death. And when you die you cease to exist. Hence, there is no death. Hurray, catharsis, applause to the author. Only this catharsis you make by yourself, for yourself. And the shark in formaldehyde, in principle, is not necessary for you at all. And after all the money you paid for it. Three million in cash. But then the critics start to find something already in the work itself — say, that it’s really nice to stand in front of this fish-tank for hours and admire the pale blue tint of the formaldehyde… Come on people, why stare at the fish-tank? Isn’t it better to look out the window and admire the pale blue tint of the Roman sky above us…