We had lost confidence in our culture. Everything had to be demolished. We would begin again after the tabula rasa. At the Cabaret Voltaire we began by shocking common sense, public opinion, education, institutions, museums, good taste, in short, the whole prevailing order.
Thus wrote Marcel Janco, one of the founding members of the roulettian art movement known as Dada. Dada came into existence as a reaction to the homicidal horrors of World War I: nationalist interests, cultural conformity and traditional bourgeois ideals had clearly gotten the world into this carnivorous mess, and therefore the whole hideous batch must be tossed forthwith into the trashcan along with reason, rationality, and logic. Painting and sculpture (bah! those stodgy academic art forms) lost their privileged status and many Dadaists worked in collage, photomontage, and with a multiplicity of found objects. Art became anti-art. Chance and accident were aimed for. Long live irrationality, intuition and nonsense!
Meanwhile, I head over to the Dada Club where Songwriter Sascha's Band of Quirky Musicians has a gig. The Club is a bit hard to find: it's on the same street where Rasputin once lived, but tucked in a courtyard that would make an ideal backdrop for a movie set during the worst days of World War II. Inside, in the atmospherically dim light, I run into Photographer Olya, whom I last saw back in December when she was in search of a new abode.
"Oh," Olya says, "I was lucky. I found a room in a communal flat right near the Moscow Train Station. There are a lot of people living there, but my room is at the end of the hall so it's pretty quiet. Yeah, there's only a toilet, no shower or tub, but I got a bargain on a six-month membership at the fitness club around the corner, only $100, and it's open 24 hours, so I can shower there whenever I want. It's a lot cheaper than paying for an apartment with a bathroom -- and I can take yoga classes there too!"
Meanwhile Sascha and his quirky musicians start to play. Unusually, Music Manager Mischa has joined them, half-hidden behind a glinting tuba. I remember Olya sidling up to him back in December. Now she moves surreptitiously in front of the stage in a black sweater that keeps falling off her left shoulder, assiduously videotaping the show. It's a beautiful, heavy, depressing St. Petersburg sound.
And Sascha himself is caught up in a heavy, depressing St. Petersburg story. Around two years ago he made the acquaintance of Producer Valera with Impressive Big Black Automobile. Valera explained to Sascha that they were on the road to stardom: Sascha would write a musical, Valera would produce it, and the rubles would start rolling in. The only hitch was that although Valera had scads of money, none of it was currently available, but within the next few months, massive funds were sure to be released. On the basis of this promise and with the help of some falsified documents, Sascha got a bank loan for ONE MILLION RUBLES, which he then handed over to Valera so the magnificent musical dream could be set into motion. And then Valera disappeared. And with him all the money. But the bank loan did not, has not disappeared. What's going to happen? Songwriter Sascha is actually Unemployed Songwriter Sascha and in Russia, you can be jailed for not paying loans. After telling the sad tale, he shrugged his shoulders helplessly, saying "I really don't know what to do."
Well, the concert has ended, the Quirky Folk pack up their instruments. Music Manager Mischa, saddled with his tuba, seems to be back together with a dippy blonde whom I trust cannot really be as dippy as she at first (at second) appears. Olya is alone. And thus we disperse into the snowy whitish dark.
P.S. Cabaret Voltaire, where Dadaism was born in a frenzy of noise and nihilism, was located in Zurich, just a stone's throw from the apartment where the exiled Vladimir Lenin had developed his own solution to the World War I disaster, furiously penning his Russian Revolutionary Tracts. Long live chance. Long live coincidence. Viva roulette.
Thus wrote Marcel Janco, one of the founding members of the roulettian art movement known as Dada. Dada came into existence as a reaction to the homicidal horrors of World War I: nationalist interests, cultural conformity and traditional bourgeois ideals had clearly gotten the world into this carnivorous mess, and therefore the whole hideous batch must be tossed forthwith into the trashcan along with reason, rationality, and logic. Painting and sculpture (bah! those stodgy academic art forms) lost their privileged status and many Dadaists worked in collage, photomontage, and with a multiplicity of found objects. Art became anti-art. Chance and accident were aimed for. Long live irrationality, intuition and nonsense!Meanwhile, I head over to the Dada Club where Songwriter Sascha's Band of Quirky Musicians has a gig. The Club is a bit hard to find: it's on the same street where Rasputin once lived, but tucked in a courtyard that would make an ideal backdrop for a movie set during the worst days of World War II. Inside, in the atmospherically dim light, I run into Photographer Olya, whom I last saw back in December when she was in search of a new abode.
Before Dada was there there was Dada
And Sascha himself is caught up in a heavy, depressing St. Petersburg story. Around two years ago he made the acquaintance of Producer Valera with Impressive Big Black Automobile. Valera explained to Sascha that they were on the road to stardom: Sascha would write a musical, Valera would produce it, and the rubles would start rolling in. The only hitch was that although Valera had scads of money, none of it was currently available, but within the next few months, massive funds were sure to be released. On the basis of this promise and with the help of some falsified documents, Sascha got a bank loan for ONE MILLION RUBLES, which he then handed over to Valera so the magnificent musical dream could be set into motion. And then Valera disappeared. And with him all the money. But the bank loan did not, has not disappeared. What's going to happen? Songwriter Sascha is actually Unemployed Songwriter Sascha and in Russia, you can be jailed for not paying loans. After telling the sad tale, he shrugged his shoulders helplessly, saying "I really don't know what to do." Well, the concert has ended, the Quirky Folk pack up their instruments. Music Manager Mischa, saddled with his tuba, seems to be back together with a dippy blonde whom I trust cannot really be as dippy as she at first (at second) appears. Olya is alone. And thus we disperse into the snowy whitish dark.
P.S. Cabaret Voltaire, where Dadaism was born in a frenzy of noise and nihilism, was located in Zurich, just a stone's throw from the apartment where the exiled Vladimir Lenin had developed his own solution to the World War I disaster, furiously penning his Russian Revolutionary Tracts. Long live chance. Long live coincidence. Viva roulette. 
Dada seems to equate with resignation - a giving up on meaning and purpose, a descent into nihilism. Perhaps it's just an excuse to live sensually?
ReplyDeleteThanks for inviting me into your world.
Hi Julia
ReplyDeleteWhat a sad story. Hope you are enjoying yourself in St Petersburg. I am heading to New York next month - I shall miss meeting up with you! Or maybe you will be in New York too for the Stationery Show?
Best wishes
Sue (Art House)