by Pavel Kostin
The street is quiet and empty. Cars go past only occasionally. In the day it’s way busier here, but now it’s all shut. Only the night watchmen are left in the factories, guys like me. Some garages and tyre shops work through the night, but there’s no one else around. It’s like the city’s frozen, making it all seem creepy.
In the middle of this frozen, uninhabited world it’s impossible to imagine that ten minutes’ drive from here life is seething: huge traffic jams, car horns, streams of people and the neon of the shops. Here it’s silent and the colours are muted. You can hear the quiet waves on the river. Big ships stop still in the water. There are no shadows because there’s no bright lights.
The sound of my steps echoes, bouncing off the stone. Right now this street is like a dream. But it’s not a dream, it’s just a city evening on a street in the industrial zone.
Oxana had told me that FridayZZ was in the building of the old workers’ club. I remember roughly where that was but don’t know the precise address. I parked the Torino at the end of the street and carried on on foot.
Some gang is coming the other way. I cross the street. I’m not planning on getting caught up in some kind of situation here. But it turns out there’s no real danger. Just ordinary teenagers, not even drunk. The gang passes by.
A familiar landmark! On the right, a rusted water tower thrusts into the sky. They haven’t painted it in a long time and it’s been rusting uselessly for years under the gloomy sky of the industrial zone.
The next building should be the old workers’ club.
The fence changes colour. Must be somewhere round here. There’s barbed wire on top. Looks like the club was shut down ages ago. I don’t think that should stop me. I don’t care if it’s working or not. I just need to get inside to find out what all this stuff is with the FridayZZ card.
I go along the fence. Not a single door, not a single gap. I get to the corner. There’s an alleyway here. Looks like there’s no access to the harbour road from the closed premises. I turn, following the fence. Maybe there’s somewhere I can climb over? The barbed wire’s in the way. Yeah, maybe it’s best to figure out what there is at the entrance.
The fence still hasn’t ended. One big grey line.
I go to the next corner. The third wall. Looks like I can see a way in up ahead. I speed up. The wall is still pristine and featureless. There’s almost no graffiti. That’s strange, how come?
I go closer to the entrance, but a couple of metres away I realise that in the dusk I’d mistaken a shadow on the fence for a gate. There’s no gate. Just the black patch from the rusted water tower.
I walk mechanically to the next turn, already knowing what I’ll see there.
Blank concrete. I have returned to my point of departure. A closed square. Not a crack, not a single gap. What’s that about? Is that normal? It’s strange and creepy. It’s like some horror film. But what if inside…? For a moment, the blood thunders into my temples, I suddenly think that I’m inside, that there’s no way out, and that however much I follow this wall I won’t get back, I’ll never get back and my life is over and I never even had one, and I’m… I’m… I think I can smell burning. Where’s the fire? My head is spinning.
I turn round and speed up, I get out of this place. I want to run, but I restrain myself, as if there’s some terrifying, predatory beast that’s going to jump out, start running and chase me down, drawn forward by some animal instinct.
It’s only in the Torino that I catch my breath. My heart is hammering like crazy. The car seems like a little fortress. I head home, trying to get on to the busy streets as quickly as possible.
• • •
Sometimes I think I’m not going to cope. That I won’t be able cope. With life. Like with an exam. Life is like an exam. It’s so stupid. But there you go. You get that feeling from somewhere. That you can lose. And that you need to fight. But with who? And for what? And what can you lose?
Let’s have a think: what’s the worst thing that could happen. For instance, I get in a crash in my Torino. A big crash. Fatal. Is that really a defeat? I don’t think so. It’s a tragedy. Poor lad, so young, so talented, we had such high hopes for him… Even though, we note, it’s not really that important if they really did have such high hopes. Louis de Funès didn’t get his first big role until he was 44. Maybe I’ll still be working away as a night watchman at the factory, and then suddenly, it all turns around. I find my inspiration. Or some hidden talents, hitherto dormant, are awoken in me. You know, no one’s insured against the sudden emergence of hidden talents.
Or another option. I crash the Torino, but not fatally. I’m left paralysed. Also a tragedy! My life would doubtless be miserable and awful. But no one would judge me for that. The lad was unlucky. And how could life have turned out like this!... And so on in that vein.
Let’s keep going. If I really don’t deal with it. If I’ll still be working as a night watchman at a factory until I’m forty five, I won’t have a career, I won’t get married, I won’t have kids. And I basically achieve nothing. I’ll drink in the evenings, start to turn into a drunk. There you go, there’s a failure for you. Feel ashamed in front of my old friends, avoid meeting my schoolmates, hate questions like, “Hey mate! What’re you up to now?’ or ‘So, buddy have you got married at last?” Smile bitterly, make a joke of it, staring at the floor.
But why’s that a failure? Why should I be embarrassed anyway? Or feel guilty? What, did I make them some sort of promise? Who are they anyway? Who are they that I should feel guilty for my personal lack of success? And why isn’t it success? So I didn’t get married, didn’t have a career. But, I’m alive, I’m healthy, I haven’t been to prison, haven’t ruined anyone’s life. Where did this need to become socially successful come from? I didn’t sign up for any obligations, didn’t sign some contract when I left uni. Did I take it in with my mother’s milk or something? Rubbish, rubbish, rubbish… But it really does exist, there’s this subconscious sense of obligation! And the burden of it, this fear of failure, is the same as the weight of failure itself. And this burden can spoil your life pretty nicely. It weighs you down. But what if you could achieve something great, if you weren’t afraid to take a risk and lose…?
Fine. Let’s keep going. What if I do have a normal career, as, let’s say, the head of the logistics department (images flash through my mind: a bald patch, a belly, a tie). I marry a nice, pretty girl. A couple of kids. A car. A flat or even a house in a suburb. Basically all those things that you can slowly and methodically tell old school friends about with a smile when you meet them.
But for all that, I won’t be happy. I won’t be and that’s it.
And what then?
Of course, you won’t be ashamed when you bump into your school friends. With your career and your two kids. But what about how you feel about yourself? Or is that another disaster? And what if you couldn’t be happy. You never could. If for you to be happy you need to be able to fly, let’s say. Or you needed to be born in the twenty second century. Or you need something impossible, it doesn’t matter what. The main thing is that it is precisely this thing, and only this thing, that you need to be happy, and it doesn’t exist or it’s impossible to get. What then?
Have Faith / Believe
Is there really an acceptable choice? Or, like Gray says, am I just a lemming who might get lucky? I mean, if you’re very tenacious and very lucky, then, maybe, you can guarantee a pain-free existence for yourself and a successful family life, but there are no guarantees for happiness. You can spend your whole life not giving in, trying, fighting, believing, but you’ll still not be happy.
Who is responsible for that?
Again – why do I have to be happy? I don’t have to. I don’t have to be happy. I don’t have to be happy…!
I don’t have to be happy.
• • •
; Me and Gray are walking along an endless wall covered in graffiti. There’s all sorts here. Tags, logos, emblems, throw-ups and even real pictures, next to which I can’t help but slow down. Gray doesn’t even think about stopping. He’s busy rating and commenting.
“Amateurish. Unsteady hand, bad lines.”
“Careless. Rushed.”
“Too tidy. Too many stencils.”
“Poor colour, ran out of paint here.”
“And this one is just a mess, no sense of colour at all.”
“Good job here, very talented. I envy this guy.”
I’m looking at the last painting he’s rated. The outline of a bird spreading its wings. The bird is drawn with one fine white line. It’s hard for me to follow all the aspects of Gray’s artistic vision.
The back story: we’d started talking about street art and I was foolish enough to announce that street art is a completely subjective phenomenon and there can be no overall rules. Gray reprimanded me severely. I would even say he ‘took me down a peg or two’. In his opinion, any street graffiti, whether it’s a portrait or a logo, is still a painting, like a vase on an artist’s canvas, and the same laws apply. You can’t draw a gherkin with arms and legs on the walls of the station and declare that this is great art.
“How come?” I object. “But what if you draw that little guy everywhere? So he becomes a sort of symbol of the city? Then that becomes street art too. Then art becomes art not in technique but in the unity of the image and the city.”
“Ok,” Gray laughed. “Let’s go out onto the street and I’ll show you what’s street art and what’s trash.”
And so we went. Gray’s judgments are rapid, laconic and uncompromising.
“The can was running out here, they had to stretch the paint.”
“This was repainted, they didn’t get it right the first time.”
“Too angular. Sharp angles with no stylistic motivation.”
“They drew this in the twilight. Shame, it could’ve been nice.”
And so on. Gray is merciless.
“Stop, enough!” I can’t bear it. “How can you be so categorical about it? How come you know it all anyway?!”
“I have an art education. Yeah, and I have a sense of style. So I like to believe.”
“But what if you’re wrong? What if everything you say, everything you see even, is a mistake? What if everything is actually different? And you’re not just wrong, but you’re aggressively wrong and you criticise other people! What if your judgment is incorrect or too hasty?”
Gray is calm and unperturbed.
“I believe in my abilities. And, as far as I can see, I can evaluate street art more or less objectively. And give an objective opinion.”
“An objective opinion? An objective opinion about street art? What on earth is that? Look at that rose three metres high, which you calmly labelled as ‘blossomed before birth’, which I actually really liked. I’ve seen it somewhere before, definitely. It’s really familiar! And I reckon that paleness is actually really interesting. I reckon the artist wanted to show how fleeting our memories are!”
And this logo?! Yeah, this one, this one, the one you called ‘too symmetrical’. But did you notice that the symmetry’s not only in the design, but is repeated in the colour, in the edges of the letters and the serifs?”
Gray shrugs his shoulders.
“It’s not about the serifs. It’s about the impression it makes.”
“Of course, it’s about the impression. But everyone’s impression is different. Maybe you don’t like something. But I like it. And an artist can weep at his own painting, because it cost him half his life.”
I’ve shaken his faith in his own infallibility, but, after a bit of a think, Gray still shakes his head.
“You know, it’s a never-ending argument. Does a masterpiece become a masterpiece at the moment of creation or in the eyes of the beholder? But this argument doesn’t mean that there aren’t people that just paint indisputably badly. With no talent. Amateurishly.”
“And you’ve assumed the role of the undisputed arbiter?”
“I haven’t assumed it. I can just see.”
“You can see? Alright…!”
To my surprise I’m starting to get angry. Maybe because if I suddenly decided to paint something that was important for me then Gray would immediately call it trash, tacking on a couple of comments about “colour blindness” and “a weak hand”.
“So then, Gray, imagine some indisputable masterpiece, the Mona Lisa or the Birth of Venus! And this masterpiece is, like you said once, lying at the bottom of a crater on the far side of the moon, under a mile of space dust. Can you see it lying there?”
“Yeah!” Gray nods, provoked, looking at me with interest.
“And so what? No one will ever see it again. Not one single person. No one will ever admire it. In some ways it really doesn’t exist any more. In a physical sense it’s nothing more than a fragment of dead material. A myriad of atoms brought together to make something boring, something not one iota more interesting than any other immobile chunk of moon rock. Right now the masterpiece is in no way different from the next rock in the dust. And so what? Where’s your objectivity now?”
“It’s not about where…” Gray begins but I don’t let him finish.
“And now let’s take that logo you slagged off and show it to a certain person. One particular person. Me, say. And this person, me, for instance, looks and says, ‘It’s fantastic. I really like it. It’s perfect!’ Thus, the audience of this bit of graffiti has without exception expressed the unanimous opinion that they are looking at a masterpiece. What then? Where’s the line? What are the criteria?”
“It’s not about the number of viewers. It’s not about where the work is…” Gray is about to start explaining, but then waves his hand, cutting himself off midsentence. “The criteria are in me. In me! You see?”
“I see,” I reply quietly, smiling. “And in me too.”
Gray looks at me for a few seconds, curious, but then, starts to laugh and slaps me on the shoulder.
“Fine. You’re right. You’re right! Let’s go. To hell with that rose of yours. You can like it if you want. Let’s go and have a beer!”
So we go and have a beer, sitting by the paint-covered wall. The day is moving towards sunset. The city is painted in the tones of evening. Pink ripens into scarlet.
• • •
I’m going home in the Torino. I’m coming back from work, from a typical shift, not a twenty-four hour one. But I’m still tired. Nothing suggests that there are going to be any surprises. My head is full of calm, detailed plans about having a wash, having a bit to eat, watching a movie. Nice regular little plans. And I can also have a think about what to have for dinner, so that it’ll be tastier and I’ll enjoy it more.
I turn left at the lights. The arrow lights up, it’s me. But the cars keep coming in the opposite direction. It’s amber already, but no one gives way. I crawl a wheel-length closer, then half a wheel. Red! And they’re still streaming ahead, not caring about the risk of a crash! Bastards!
Behind me they start beeping. I look in the mirror – a blue jeep. What are you beeping for, can’t you see that they’re still coming?
Finally I squeeze my way across the junction and hit the gas. After about another hundred metres there’s another left turn at the crossroads, but no lights this time. Again there’s a stream of traffic in the opposite direction, and no one even thinks about letting me out.
The blue jeep behind me starts beeping. One beep after another, slow and obnoxious. I start to get irritated. What a jerk! The stream of traffic in the other lane doesn’t get any smaller. The guy in the jeep leans on the horn, a long, droning, deafening honk. What’s going on! I’m devoured by anger, this is so stupid, what
the hell is going on!
The smell of ozone.
I turn my head. And, of course, there she is alongside me.
“Hi, Max!”
“Hi, Lady F. Take a look at what’s happening here. Can you help?”
“You don’t need help. The main thing is – chill out! I came to, well, to remind you of something. Be more careful. Take a look around. OK?”
Thanks, Lady F!
“No worries…”
The colours become vivid and the horn blares in my ears again. Whatever, mate.
I switch off the engine and switch on my hazards. Whatever, mate, whatever. Let him swear away to himself. I’ve got nowhere to hurry off to. Tik-tak, tik-tak…
The driver of the blue jeep goes crazy. In his fury he pulls out alongside me in the middle of the road. He’s in there shouting something and waving his arms, as he tries to join the traffic going the other way.
A minibus coming the other way beeps loudly and, not having time to break, takes off half the jeep’s face The screech of brakes. A loud smash. The honking stops. Silence. The other cars behind them brake desperately. Both drivers look at each other in numb surprise. The traffic coming the other way is completely blocked off.
I start up the Torino. I slowly and carefully move out onto the junction and drive round the accident. I pass the hapless boy racers, turn left and head for home. Sometimes it really is a good idea to calm down. It really is.
I laugh to myself, imagining the anger and the bile that must be coming from the driver of the jeep. It’s not good of course. On the other hand, he got himself in trouble. It’s obvious that to start honking like that you’d have to be a complete…
AAA. In front of me there’s a black Honda with the number plate A, numbers, AA. Three As. Three aces. I hurriedly hit the accelerator and the Torino lurches forward reproachfully.
Maybe there’s more to this? Although how many cars can there be in the city with that number plate? A thousand. Maybe it’s just a coincidence.