It is still not a full grin, but only the smile of totalitarianism. The grin is when Vsevolod Meyerhold, who was shot in 1939, disappeared from all group photos: not only from Soviet photos but also from pre-revolutionary ones. His name and image were erased from history and from cultural memory until the 1960s. By a strange coincidence, in February 2022 the Meyerhold Museum was closed for renovation. The former Meyerhold Centre in Moscow, the venue that gave rise to many independent projects, was also completely reorganised.

Cosiness

A couple of weeks later a second wave hit me: the news of the atrocities in Bucha came out.

I posted an appeal on social media. I wrote that if we were afraid to go to a rally, at least we should do a minute of silence for the victims. I suggested that we do it before the performance or afterwards. At that time The Golden Mask festival was taking place in Moscow. My colleagues responded that my suggestion was very cruel. A minute of silence before the performances could spoil the whole experience. They told me that I would be depriving the theatres of the chance to perform well. Only one choreographer declared that she was ready to follow my proposal. The next day her show disappeared from the festival programme – “due to technical reasons”.

This was the first time the thought occurred to me that I had to leave – to save my profession. Every article about every Russian performance should be inserted into today’s reality. Our present day is a disaster. But who would publish my weekly summary of theatrical disasters?

I have no immigration experience. Whenever I left home before it was only for a few months, to teach on a Fulbright grant, for example. I always knew the date of my return. At that time, I continued to work remotely: being the editor of Teatr magazine. On March 22nd, 2022 that job ended – Teatr was closed down for political reasons.

However, the blog that publishes theatre reviews remained active. It is still up and running. I have been editing it for eight months without getting paid. When I wondered why I keep doing it, and why so many different authors agree to publish their articles for free, I realised: when you lose your home and its comfort and safety, your work somehow becomes your new home.

When in Moscow, after waking up in the morning and feeding the cat, I would open a piece from an aspiring author. Before breakfast I would make some remarks on the text and send them back to the author. Then I usually asked for the next text and only then I started my day.

The New Year celebrations in Russia usually start on December 30th and last ten days. Premieres in theatres rarely happen around this time. People drink, sleep, go to each other's houses and watch series. Getting a text from an author during these first few days of the year was always unlikely. This year things changed. Since January 2nd, authors have been flooding me with texts. Although they all know that there are no more fees their work. Probably, those who are no longer in Russia are writing to try to stay in touch with the Russian reader and the Russian language. Those in Russia are trying to preserve themselves: work distracts from reading the news and thinking about what is going on. Work therefore replaces home not only for those who have left. It seems it becomes the only territory of comfort for all of us. Not material, but intellectual comfort.

Fear

Am I afraid of being forgotten by my readers? I am. Now I understand who they are even less than before. Whoever they are, I don’t want to lie them. I don’t want to describe the premieres of Russian state theatres pretending that nothing is going on.

I can see perfectly well what’s going on in the cultural scene in Russia. Those who stayed enthusiastically take the places of those who have left or been fired. Not all of them are “collaborators”, of course. And places are being freed up not only in state theatres. Our entire cultural “nation” is split. How will we unite afterwards?

I don’t speak German and I don’t understand German society very well. From the very beginning, I have had amazing support on all different levels. From the MICT, ITI and fellow German critics to the landlord in Neukölln where I rent a room. But I realise that it’s unlikely I’ll be able to write in German with as much fluency as I do in Russian. So can I remain a Russian critic?

Barriers

Now my time is divided as follows: I teach students (online and offline) or I study myself. I learn German and I improve my English. I’m learning to say who I am and where I’m from. It reminds me of when I was six and my mother told me about my Jewish roots and the Holocaust. She told me not to tell anyone about my origins: “because people don’t like Jews”. Ever since, I have been trying to tell everyone – to get rid of my fear and my inner barrier between me and other people. Now this situation is repeating again: I feel a new barrier when people ask me where I am from. I pause. I gather myself and say: “I’m Russian. I’m from Moscow”.

My way of dealing with the conversations after someone asks where I’m from appeared in late spring 2022. While I was on the Moscow-Riga bus. We had been travelling more than a day instead of the usual nine hours trip. We stood for a long time at the Latvian border – there were refugees without visas on the bus. We ran out of food and water while they were being processed. The only food and drink available was sold in vending machines. I couldn’t buy anything, because my Russian bank card wasn’t working anymore. The Ukrainians noticed and asked if they could buy me something?

- You don’t have to buy me anything. I’m from Moscow.

- And we are from Kharkiv. Tell me what kind of coffee you’d like.

In the autumn of 2022, I held a theatre workshop at the Ruhr University Bochum. I named it “Postdramatic, Postsoviet and Postcolonial”. My students were Polish girls and they spoke a little bit of Russian. So I told them about the art of the post-Soviet countries mixing English with the Russian language. “We don’t know about theatre to the east of Poland. We have no information,” they complained. They were most interested in my story about the new generation of women directors. There was no barrier between us. Frankly speaking, I really miss these students.

There are also no problems or barriers at the Vilnius European Humanitarian University, where I teach on theatre history for future actors. There are mostly young Belarusians, but there are also Russians and Ukrainians. I teach in Russian. Some students respond in their native languages, but we have learned to understand each other.

It is not so easy to say this, but here in Germany, I only have barriers in communication with Russians. We are still unable to unite. We are too prone to hierarchies. We try to divide people into bad and good.

Some voices from outside and inside

To explore my feelings, I talked to my friends, some who left and some who stayed behind.

Timofey Kuliabin (Berlin-Sofia-Wuppertal, etc.): “We save ourselves on our own.”

Timofey Kuliabin is the director of the famous “Tannhäuser” (2015) at the Novosibirsk Opera and Ballet Theatre. The performance was closed right after the premiere – for “insulting the feelings of believers”. It was an initiative of Vladimir Medinsky who was the culture

minister at that time. From that point, thirty-eight-year-old Kuliabin existed with the stigma of being the “chief blasphemer”. However, Kuliabin managed to produce many works in opera and drama. In 2017 Kuliabin was invited to stage “Rigoletto” at the Wuppertal Opera House. Since then, he has combined his work in Europe with artistic directing the Novosibirsk Red Torch Theatre. In the spring of 2022, Kuliabin was forced to leave his post. In December 2022 his father, outstanding manager Alexander Kuliabin, who had managed the Red Torch for twenty-three years and made it one of the best theatres in the country, was dismissed from the theatre.

What has changed in your work since you moved to Europe?

Basically, I have been working in Germany and Switzerland for the past six years. I can say nothing has changed in my work. Maybe apart from the fact that in Europe the deadlines for the production are tighter than in Russia.

Before the war began, you used to go to Russia after the premiere.

Yes, that has changed. I used to take three months breaks between productions – just to have a rest. Now there’s no chance. There are theatres which say: come on, we’ll call you in straight away. And I really appreciate that. The reason is: I need something to live on and somewhere to live. I have no apartment in Europe: I move from one rehearsal hall to another and while I rehearse I have somewhere to live.

How do you stand it?

Since February I have had so much stress, constant problems with money, cards, visas, etc. that I have developed a certain resistance. Still my work is my favourite thing and I try to distribute my energy evenly.

Is it easier for you to rehearse with Russian artists?

No, there is almost no difference. I usually rehearse in English, and in general, almost always without an interpreter.

Do you miss home?

I don’t leave myself much time or opportunity for that. Otherwise it would eat me up. You can pine all you want, but the past life is over anyway. I realised that from the very beginning of the war that there was no way back for me. When the war started, I was producing a play at the Prague Opera. Which means, I didn’t leave, I just didn’t come back. When you leave you have to pack somehow and then cross the border. And since I was already there, I just didn’t take the step back. It’s easier.

Now you’re doing well professionally in Europe and there’s no problem with that. Under what conditions could you go back?

I don’t think there will be such a situation. The problem is not that tomorrow the war will be over and the officials will give me the theatre back. The problem is that I won’t be able to erase what happened during that year from my memory. After all, I was building up this theatre for a long time: I worked at the Red Torch from 2006. I was the head director since 2015, that is, I’ve been building up this theatre with my father for eight years. In one second, it was all destroyed. Why go back and build a theatre again: who can guarantee me that it won’t be destroyed again? As it turns out, no one is immune to anything in Russia. I don’t see the point of wasting my life in that place.

...I just want to add. I understand that my example is not very representative. We all find ourselves in different circumstances. Some have a lot of contracts, and some are in the throes of work. Some of us see it as a tragic turn in life, while others see it as an opportunity to start again. We are all unfortunate in some way and seem to try to stick together. But we are still all individuals. You can’t say that now the whole progressive Russian theatre community has moved to Europe and everyone is happy about it. We’re still saving ourselves on our own.

Vsevolod Lissovsky (Moscow): “Reciting Brecht in trams.”

Vsevolod Lissovsky is a famous Russian fringe artist who was involved in the artistic movement of 1990s. In the 2000s, he become an independent performer and theatre director, winner of two Golden Mask awards. When the war began Vsevolod started to perform the extracts from Brecht's “Fear and Despair in the Third Empire” in the subways. While this interview has been publishing Vsevolod was detained on the street and sentenced to 15 days in prison. In the meantime, his detention has been extended by another two weeks. The official reason was “Disobedience to Police”. As I know he did not commit any disobedience.

How do you work in Moscow now?

Now reality is much more interesting than culture. So my attitude towards all sorts of art works has changed. Now it is very difficult to do any kind of performance. And you don’t care whether it’s good or bad. It doesn’t really matter anymore. Art works have too much competition from reality: you can’t beat reality. So you think about some events that might be part of reality – to the extent that you control that reality.

There is an acute cognitive dissonance, but there is no algorithm for how to overcome it. But on the whole, because I wasn’t tied into any sort of institutions, I didn’t feel a particular change in my activities.

Every time you put on a Brecht performance in the underground, you get picked up by the police.

Yes. A few times I was. When they started to “gesture” [to be really cruel – A.Sh.], we stopped it. But the performance kept going. We did three parts in six months (overall Brecht’s play has twenty-four of them). Now we are going to do it in an independent venue [the name of the stage has been left out for security reasons – A.Sh.]. We enjoyed messing around with Brecht and will continue to do so. As a matter of fact, the owner of this independent venue has bailed me out from the police. So I’ve decided to repay him with a performance.

How much was the fine?

Fifty [fifty thousand roubles, around 400 euros – A.Sh.].

Well, you’ll do the play, but it’s not likely to be paid for by an independent venue. How do you make money?

Now I don’t make any money. I’m hoping just for the occasional freelance gig. Yes, I’m starving. But it’s not much of a contrast to what I had before all this bullshit. Can’t say that I was in demand by rich institutions.

Sorry, Seva, don’t you remember that you got two Golden Masks?  You were doing pretty well.

I didn’t get any expensive commissions anyway. Those Golden Masks are something from another life. Now I’m a normal fringe artist. Apart from Brecht, I’m going to do a cabaret called “Only Don't Talk About It” (trash songs) in the spring. But there’s a big problem: I’m very unsatisfied with the long production cycle. We’ve set up a group called Chronicles and we’re preparing a cabaret. Although reality may change so much by April that our whole cabaret thing, which is a pretty complicated shit, may become irrelevant.

Why don't you move abroad?

Now my level of unfreedom is lower than it used to be before. The level of repression against me is not that bad yet, and I can’t be intimidated by cops or fines. That being said, I’m not shy about it, I do what I want. For example, recite Brecht’s poems in trams. Or we ask each other questions from Socrates’ dialogue “On the State”. In general, we do what we want.

How do the people in the trams react?

As usual: some listen, some ignore. Some sluggishly indignant: shut up. In fact, whether citizens or cops, the main triggers are more clear-cut agitations. And when they see something more complex, they’re lost.

Why do you think your level of unfreedom is lower now?

I have the ideal situation: I don’t have to fit into anything anymore. I am proceeding from the idea that if you leave, you have to be honest about the place you are going to. You don’t expect to sit back, but to go to live there. But you have to fit in somewhere, in the new place. Accordingly, you have to follow some rules. It’s easy for me here – I don’t need to follow any rules. Now at home I have absolutely no need to prove which Russian I am: good or bad. How my opinion differs from the official one. No one cares about that. And if I leave, it seems I’d have to become “good”. Besides, what difference does it make to me whether I am marginalised here or in Europe? To leave, to start a new life – I’m 55. I’d rather live my life here somehow. But I should add that my mood changes a lot. I’m talking about this very moment. And then we’ll see.

What was life like in Almaty?

Theatre has remained my main field, although in the last few years I’ve also moved into contemporary art territory. To write about theatre and exhibitions you have to be in the same space where they are. I arrived in Almaty with no idea what to do next. It was at this point that the series critic stopped working with Meduza. I didn’t know him, but he changed my life. Suddenly, I was rapidly repositioning myself as a TV series critic.

How have people in Kazakhstan reacted to the huge numbers of people from Russia?

Kazakhs, Russians, Tatars and many other people who live there are beautiful, empathic people. Greedy for any new information. When you arrive, they look at you not only as

a person in trouble, but as a person who can be useful to them. Those Russians who came to Almaty in spring did a lot for the newcomers. In particular, Yura Shekhvatov [Russian director and one of the organisers of the Lubimovka Festival, who is now in Germany. -A.Sh.] has done an amazing job in creating a theatre community. With his help the ARTiShock Theatre arranged a meeting for visiting theatre-connected Russians, where they talked about how the Kazakh theatre industry works and what it has to offer. Around two hundres people came. It seems to me that in Kazakhstan they realise that once Russia loses the war, it will soon lose its imperial position in the region. Then Astana and Almaty have real chance of becoming attractive new locations for culture and business. I ended up giving a free course there for critics and bloggers: there were two Russians, the rest were from Kazakhstan. I never interacted with the ARTiShock again. But if I needed it, they would have found a use for me. They are very keen on a mutually beneficial co-existence with Russian expats. Everything is behind us now in Russia. A new life is not starting soon. But Kazakhstan has everything ahead.

Do you already feel nostalgia?

To my mind, we miss the old way of life, not the locations. I miss my favourite places in Kazan very much. I wrote a text this summer, an obituary for the Serebrennikov’s Gogol Centre. My point was: the old life was based on a huge mistake. It consisted of the idea that we could live a parallel life within the state. Defending our own space.

That’s what our parents taught us. It was an old Soviet habit.

The end of the world is always about renewal and rebirth. I would be happy if the war didn’t start. At the same time, I realise that if the system had continued as it was by the beginning of 2022, I would have degraded along with it. I would have allowed myself more and more compromises. The apocalypse that happened has put our brains back in place. I don’t want to go back to my old life, because I have said goodbye to the illusions that accompanied that old life. I choose the grim reality in which I find myself. At least, now I don’t lie to myself.

I don’t want to go back to that life. But I do want to return to my home and my language.

Yes, I understand that. I really hope to continue cooperating with Russian-language publications. To keep in touch with my readers. They may not remember my name, but someone is reading my texts.

I’m not the kind of person who would say, “We have to stay” [i.e. stay in Russia]. In the summer of 2022, I had a plan: I would visit Europe then come back to finish a few projects, get paid for them. Then I planned to move to Riga. But the opportunity to go to Latvia closed in August 2022 [Latvia closed all borders to Russian citizens, even if they had a tourist Schengen visa – A.Sh.]. Then mobilisation happened on the 21st of September. As a result, some of my projects got cancelled. It was a serious financial hit. Now, instead of leaving, I just have to survive.

Do you have any working proposals at the moment?

Almost none. I’m producing an audio play related to the history of the Tretyakov Gallery. Then there are some small projects, but not many now. Many projects have been cancelled not because they’re forbidden, but because there’s no one to put them on for – the potential audience has left. Don’t ask me what I’m going to do next, I don’t have an answer. As a journalist I can still write about theatre. But I don’t know how long the publications I collaborate with will last.

Polina Borodina (Istanbul - Berlin) “Saying ‘I’m Russian’ and then shutting up.”

One of the most popular Russian-language playwrights of the new generation. Her plays are performed in Russia and the former Soviet Republics. After the 24th of February, she encouraged people to speak out against the war – not only on social media, but also on the streets of Moscow. Soon after that she had to leave to escape persecution. Polina’s most famous play is called Exodus.

How would you describe your move?

“Escape” is the right word for it. I’ve already experienced emigration before in my life, so I can compare. I know what it’s like to move to another country routinely. My ex-boyfriend is an Israeli. I lived there for three years. I learned Hebrew, found a kind of social group. I worked there as a carpet seller. I know what an emigration crisis is and how difficult it can be. But none of it compares to how it is now. There are common points, of course. However, the context, the pain of identity, the impossibility of saying “I am Russian” and not explaining anything further, is all new. And then... When people move, they usually take a long time to pack. Now people literally "upped and left” on scooters to Upper Lars [Upper Lars checkpoint is located on the Russian-Georgian border. In September 2022, after mobilisation was announced, thousands of people tried to leave Russia through Upper Lars. The border crossing required a means of transport, which was often a basic children’s scooter – A.Sh.] So it was a real escape. To avoid generalisations, I would add that there were some people who happened to go to Europe to work. But there are not many of them in my circle.

I agree with you that now it is hard to say “I am Russian” and stay silent.

In theory, saying “I’m Russian” and staying silent is the right thing to do. It’s the perfect moment when you can find out if the other person is a chauvinist. And whether they know how to judge a person as the sum of their actions and deeds. After all, if they have doubts and wants to know your position on the war – they can easily find it out.

What other difficulties have you encountered since moving away?

The first difficulty comes with any emigration: no one here has read your texts or seen your projects. So you have to sell yourself all over again. The second thing is that all artists work with context. Those who work with language work with context twice as much. Therefore 1) to do something worthwhile, you need to understand and feel the context; 2) what am I allowed to write about now? I don’t think it’s ethical to talk about the war from a Ukrainian perspective – to talk about the war from the inside. Although it would be very convenient: I would probably get funding and a platform for it. But am I the right person to represent the stories of a foreign country and a foreign pain? I have never asked myself as many questions as I am asking now. Plus I don’t always understand whether what you do will be considered based on your background (i.e. looking for the imperial in you). Or whether they will look at the importance of what you have now come up with.

Under what conditions would you return?

If I feel I can broadcast my worldview and narrative – and not go to prison afterwards. I would like to say: I will go back when the government changes. But then you get the feeling that someone else has to change it for me. But there is no such “someone else”. I respect the choices of those who have deliberately gone to prison. I write letters to these people all the time. But who would feel better if I were with them?

Alexander Molochnikov (New York) “In ten years, I’ll be forty. And I’ll be back.”

A very well-known Moscow theatre and film actor and director. His productions are staged at the Moscow Art Theatre and the Bolshoi Theatre. In 2014 he went to Kiev to the Maidan and wrote a report about it. In recent years, he has had a strong civic position. He has participated in rallies and actively spoken out against the war. Now he is one of the directors whose productions are either banned or performed without the name of the director.

How has your life changed since the war started?

On the one hand, everything has changed. On the other hand, once you sit down with the artists and parse the meaning of the scene, you basically realise that nothing has changed. Yes, everyone speaks English now but we share the same global language. This gave me a rush of energy and excitement. I suddenly felt as if I had woken up after four months of sleep.

Didn’t you say that it’s going to be a Chekhov’s Seagull?

Yes, it’s somehow based on it. We recently showed our sketch. It’s not clear what will happen to it next. In terms of conditions, guarantees and perspectives – all the things I am used to in Moscow – it’s a complete downshift. But in terms of creative freedom, it’s a continuation. It’s interesting to understand what the audience is like in New York. It’s a city of very different audiences, and not as theatrical as Berlin or Warsaw. My sketch is called Chekhov in the Chelsea, because Chelsea is the centre of New York culture. And The Seagull is a conversation about art.

Chelsea is New York’s famous bohemian neighbourhood.

Yes. The Chelsea that Leonard Cohen sings about in his song “Chelsea Hotel”. It’s the hotel where Miloš Forman wrote several screenplays. The place where Andy Warhol, William Burroughs, Sid Vicious and others lived for a long time. Anyway, I’m trying to understand something about New York culture through Chekhov. And since I’m in America, I want to do something about America. I don’t want to snivel about Russia or emigration. So Chekhov remains in the play only as a connoisseur of human relationships, which in Chelsea were very Chekhovian. But the setting itself and the characters are American. Although, it’s a bit strange to think back now to the fact that in July I was still doing a casting at the historical stage of the Bolshoi Theatre. (Laughs)

When did you leave to America?

At the end of August. Before that I was shooting a TV series.

Did you apply to Columbia University before the war?

Yes, I applied to the film directing department in October 2021. At the beginning of March, I had a Zoom with the admissions committee. A couple of weeks later they sent me a confirmation paper.

When you auditioned for the Bolshoi Theatre in July 2022, did you think that the production would still be possible?

Yes. We had the opera Francesca da Rimini planned for the Bolshoi Theatre. Scenographer Alexander Shishkin-Khokusai and I made a model of the sets. We didn’t really believe the opera would happen, but reasoned that, after all, the Bolshoi Theatre would still remain after Putin. I still don’t condemn those who work in Russia now. It’s what you do that matters. We put certain meanings into our future project: we thought of the first 20 minutes of the opera as being about hell. That hell was a prosperous Moscow, which manages to combine war and a social life in restaurants. In our plan, in the restaurants they were eating people who had been cooked in the kitchen.

In August 2022, the theatre announced its plans and a scandal immediately broke out: I was banned. First Francesco da Rimini disappeared from the schedule, then my previous productions – the ballet and the opera – were removed from the Bolshoi repertoire. Now the ballet has returned, but without my surname. My production 1914 is being staged at the Moscow Art Theatre in the same way. In the programme it says: “directed by DIRECTOR”.

Under what conditions would you go back?

As Leonid Parfyonov [journalist and public figure – A.Sh.] said: “After the end of Putinism.” But we do not know how life will turn out. I guess Marina Tsvetaeva did not think she would come back either. But she did. I just hope I have enough strength, ability and talent not to return before the end of this time. I think that’s all for ten years. It brings me consolation to think that in ten years I’ll be forty. Though I have some time to grow as a director in that time.