July 15, 2024
“YOU KNOW, I’VE BEEN IN BLUES FOR A LONG TIME”
About Anton Adasinsky’s solo performance “Shell with a Tail” at the Fontanka‑69 gastro‑hub.
Alisa Feldblum to Alena Khodykova
Colleague, you and I both wrote about the DEREVO theatre in our history seminar — and for us, it was a real story. Later, for my thesis, I reread all the existing newspaper, magazine, and any other texts about independent theatre groups. I still remember almost word for word the text “What to do, Vladimir? I don’t know, Konstantin” by Marina Yuryevna Dmitrevskaya, where she, with great frustration, stated that DEREVO did not belong to art — it was merely a subculture (1989!).… “They performed some vague gestures, imitated a magician and a monkey, and banged on a drum…” Marina Yuryevna described one of their performances without much enthusiasm. However, even behind such a dismissive tone, one could discern the authenticity of DEREVO (MY’s skill — that’s what it’s all about!).
Now we understand that DEREVO is much more than a subculture, and that Anton Adasinsky had a significant influence on today’s unconventional theatre (perhaps we could call him its progenitor?).
And to be honest, I expected to see something radically provocative, wild, reckless… but it was so tender, intimate, very, very understandable (despite the complexity of the narrative), and quite conventional. Are we, who grew up on Ponizovsky’s tales about communal living and read Yukhananov’s manifestos before going to bed, so saturated with avant‑garde that we’ve become jaded — or has Anton Adasinsky become softer and more lyrical?
And to be honest, I expected to see something radically provocative, wild, reckless… but it was so tender, intimate, very, very understandable (despite the complexity of the narrative), and quite conventional. Are we, who grew up on Ponizovsky’s tales about communal living and read Yukhananov’s manifestos before going to bed, so saturated with avant‑garde that we’ve become jaded — or has Anton Adasinsky become softer and more lyrical?
Alyona to Alice
You know, in the context of DEREVO and that Anton Adasinsky, whose work we studied for our historical research, we’ve now seen something radical—radically different. Instead of wordless physical theatre, there’s an unstoppable flow of words; instead of the body, the main expressive tool is speech; instead of the visual, it’s the auditory (Adasinsky literally defines a “disembodied” form of action—the radio broadcast). The one‑man show is based on Anton Adasinsky’s collection of words “Shell with a Tail” — “the words, like shouting children holding hands, packed themselves into the book,” the Author writes, and at this evening we hear and see this verbal explosion and verbal dance of a mute artist from the past.
I agree with you that this is “very, very understandable”—in the sense that even the recurring motif of doubles (or, more precisely, of splitting, fracturing, quadrupling) in Adasinsky’s character is not archetypal (like his Harlequin‑Mephisto), but is more “human‑like” in its structure: there’s a certain Robert and a certain Marik, and they certainly have some infernal undertones.
I agree with you that this is “very, very understandable”—in the sense that even the recurring motif of doubles (or, more precisely, of splitting, fracturing, quadrupling) in Adasinsky’s character is not archetypal (like his Harlequin‑Mephisto), but is more “human‑like” in its structure: there’s a certain Robert and a certain Marik, and they certainly have some infernal undertones.
The late (if we can put it that way) Anton Adasinsky that we saw is a kind of sound, and indeed, it’s very lyrical and gentle. In contrast to the geometrically precise, silent dance of the “wooden” figures, there is a spontaneous, lively, and charming monologue, with all its imperfections, with the tremulous babblings of the shy Marik (a genius, a poet, a Myshkin — you’ll hear whoever you want), with the mockingly ironic intonations of the radio host Robert, with various memories, stories, anecdotes, incidents, and with soul‑stirring songs accompanied by electric guitar or simply a guitar. And all of this is set against the backdrop of a frozen yet moving sunset‑lit St. Petersburg: we’re sitting opposite the huge window of “Fontanka 69,” and time dissolves. But we’ll talk about time a bit later; right now, I wanted to ask you: how do you see the character of Anton Adasinsky, his numerous personalities and alter egos, and their relationships?
Alyona to Alice
Alyona, the fact is that shortly before the performance at the Fontanka 69 gastro-pub, Anton Adasinsky came to the editorial office of PTJ. "And I wrote about you in the first chapter of my diploma," I mumbled. And he exclaimed with ironic indignation: "Only in the first?!" That hour (maybe an hour and a half) Anton talked about a variety of things: starting with drinking at Grotovsky's, ending with "Blue Light" 1984/1985 with a number by Vyacheslav Polunin and Leonid Leikin "Nizza". So, in that hour, Anton Adasinsky managed to take on all sorts of personas: Jerzy Grotowski, Kazuo Ono, and Tatsumi Hijikata, Leonid Leikin, even Noah… Endlessly changing masks — just like that, so casually, even naturally, as if it were just the course of life itself, he would turn angry, then cheerful, then low pitched, then high pitched… And this was just a conversation with a stranger from the PTJ editorial office. Therefore, his one man show was for me a continuation of our conversation — but now not chaotic, developing as it happened to, but conceptually precise, subordinated to the unity of the structure.
Here, Anton hosted a radio show under the pseudonym “Richard the Lionheart”—about the great artist Marik (who also paints, is quite good at literature, and is an excellent musician)—standing by the microphone and addressing someone far away, to a fictional sound engineer. At the same time, Anton was Marik, sitting on a table and talking to Svetlana, a journalist. Richard the Lionheart explained to us that this was a miraculously preserved, one of a kind recording of an interview with Marik. Meanwhile, Marik himself is suffering (although it seems there’s no suffering here, rather, it’s more like surprise) from a split personality: it’s as if Robert — Marik’s complete opposite — is awakening inside him. If Marik is weak and reserved, then Robert is wild and fearless; if Marik is polite and tactful, then Robert is rude and straightforward. However, the further this performance went, the more Marik resembled Richard, and Richard resembled Robert, and Robert resembled Marik. And in the end, all three of them merged into one great Anton Adasinsky, the essence of whose performance was by no means in his ability to masterfully change roles.
For me, the relationships between the three characters are a fiction. In my perception, Anton Adasinsky seemed to be standing between two mirrors and endlessly multiplying himself, while Bach’s music played in the background…
I have a counter question: whose songs were those that Anton performed? Marik’s or Adasinsky’s? And is that important?
Here, Anton hosted a radio show under the pseudonym “Richard the Lionheart”—about the great artist Marik (who also paints, is quite good at literature, and is an excellent musician)—standing by the microphone and addressing someone far away, to a fictional sound engineer. At the same time, Anton was Marik, sitting on a table and talking to Svetlana, a journalist. Richard the Lionheart explained to us that this was a miraculously preserved, one of a kind recording of an interview with Marik. Meanwhile, Marik himself is suffering (although it seems there’s no suffering here, rather, it’s more like surprise) from a split personality: it’s as if Robert — Marik’s complete opposite — is awakening inside him. If Marik is weak and reserved, then Robert is wild and fearless; if Marik is polite and tactful, then Robert is rude and straightforward. However, the further this performance went, the more Marik resembled Richard, and Richard resembled Robert, and Robert resembled Marik. And in the end, all three of them merged into one great Anton Adasinsky, the essence of whose performance was by no means in his ability to masterfully change roles.
For me, the relationships between the three characters are a fiction. In my perception, Anton Adasinsky seemed to be standing between two mirrors and endlessly multiplying himself, while Bach’s music played in the background…
I have a counter question: whose songs were those that Anton performed? Marik’s or Adasinsky’s? And is that important?
Alyona to Alice
For me, these are definitely the songs of Anton Adasinsky. And it’s precisely with these songs that I have a personal experience — from my own life, just like you do. When, within the solo performance, Adasinsky began to perform the song “Korotkaya,” I found myself caught in some kind of temporal vortex, I felt a sharp temporal shift. Suddenly, vivid memories surfaced in my mind of how Anton sang this same “Korotkaya” in the courtyards of the workshops on Birzhevaya Line in 2019 — as part of his “City of Shadows” (a theatrical event — a solo concert — a guided tour) at the “Access Point” festival. Back then, in the summer five years ago, we traveled by bus with the windows curtained, perceiving the city through the lens of our guide, Adasinsky’s, Leningrad related memories and sensations; we stopped along the way at the Annenkirche and completed the route at Birzhevaya, where a plastic performance by the so called “wooden figures” unfolded in the open air, and those very songs were played.
A frozen moment: Anton Adasinsky, summer, St. Petersburg, “Short” song. Adasinsky, both then and now, is a guest in his hometown, someone who doesn’t live here, who comes by for a while, like a fleeting comet. His one man show strikes me as an autofictional museum of memory — Adasinsky’s character(s) appear as a figure from the theatrical underground of the 1980s–1990s, about which we’ve read so much, a living exhibit of a bygone era, as if a transmitter of its spirit — free, rebellious, carefree, lyrically soulful. Reality is changing radically and terrifyingly; the Adasinsky comet keeps flying into a radically different Russia, but I’m glad that for one evening we witnessed its quiet passage.
Adasinsky’s concept is indeed like a seashell: if you hold it to your ear and listen, you might not hear the sound of waves, but rather the soothing sound of timelessness — endless and eternal, like the sea.
A frozen moment: Anton Adasinsky, summer, St. Petersburg, “Short” song. Adasinsky, both then and now, is a guest in his hometown, someone who doesn’t live here, who comes by for a while, like a fleeting comet. His one man show strikes me as an autofictional museum of memory — Adasinsky’s character(s) appear as a figure from the theatrical underground of the 1980s–1990s, about which we’ve read so much, a living exhibit of a bygone era, as if a transmitter of its spirit — free, rebellious, carefree, lyrically soulful. Reality is changing radically and terrifyingly; the Adasinsky comet keeps flying into a radically different Russia, but I’m glad that for one evening we witnessed its quiet passage.
Adasinsky’s concept is indeed like a seashell: if you hold it to your ear and listen, you might not hear the sound of waves, but rather the soothing sound of timelessness — endless and eternal, like the sea.
“Where does the river end? In the sea.
What does love preserve?” Grief.
What's the road? Field.
Who will I become?.."
© DEREVO
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