Konstantin Kuzminsky


Konstantin Kuzminsky- a poet. Born in 1940 in Leningrad. From the mid 1960s. took an active part in the unofficial literary life of Leningrad, compiled a number of samizdat author's books (including Joseph Brodsky, Stanislav Krasovitsky, Henry Sapgir). Since 1975 in the USA. Published in emigrant publications: almanacs "Muleta", "Draft", "A-Z", etc.; in 1981 he released a joint collection
nickname of poems with Eduard Limonov and Alexei Tsvetkov. The fundamental work of Kuzminsky - "Anthology of the latest Russian poetry near the Blue Lagoon" (nine volumes since 1980).


Konstantin Kuzminsky is a legendary man. Poet, compiler of the famous anthology of the Soviet avant-garde and underground of the 60-80s "The Blue Lagoon", a parable in the byword of New York and Moscow bohemia. Emigrated in 1974. I got acquainted with the poems of Kuzminsky, with his "Laguna" many years ago. And not so long ago we met. Moreover, under circumstances that once again confirm the idea that there are no chance meetings. Everything is natural. Let me explain. In 1992, I received a scholarship to study in Geneva the work of the outstanding Russian philosopher Nikolai Lossky. Sitting for hours in the library of the University of Geneva, I (I confess) studied not only the philosophical treatises of the academic Lossky, but also completely non-academic poets, prose writers from the Blue Lagoon. Then fate brought me to New York. One day I found myself with nowhere to sleep. My friend Kolya H. started calling his acquaintances. For my device. He agreed to receive me... Kostya Kuzminsky.

Brighton. Two cramped rooms. The kitchen where the Maestro reclines. Nearby are three huge greyhounds. Charming wife Emma prepares sandwiches and tea. And we are talking. Another evening...

These are, of course, only snippets of the interview.

— Kostya, first of all, tell us who owns the copyright for the Blue Lagoon anthology, how was it created?
- The copyright belongs to me. Although it was created on the materials of samizdat, which belonged to everyone. On this occasion, my beloved Vagrich Bakhchanyan once joked: “Art belongs to Lenin. People". The compiler of the anthology is Grigory Leonovich Kovalev, he has been blind since the age of six. If some royalties for the publication of the anthology begin to arrive (Kuzminsky granted me the right to publish The Blue Lagoon in Russia. - E.S.), I would like you not to forget about Kovalev. I have been collecting the archive for the anthology since 1959. Let me explain why? To get acquainted with the work of our poetic generation, we had to know each other personally, as well as reprint each other's texts. You will be surprised, but the first books by Brodsky, Naiman, Bobyshev, Rein (whom I consider my literary opponents) were compiled by my comrades. Brodsky and I are the same age and met when we were eighteen years old. In the sixty-second year, Grigory Kovalev, Borey Taigin and I compiled a book of Joseph. In the sixty-fifth year it came out in the West. To be honest, I'm a little offended by Oska that he never remembers who compiled his first book, who brought him proofreading for editing, and so on. But this is by the way. We didn't do it for fame. But for pleasure. If, say, compiling an anthology did not give me joy, I would never even lift a finger on a finger.

— What is its circulation?
- Practically zero. The first volume came out with a circulation of six hundred copies, the second - five hundred ... further - and even less.

—How did the books sell?
“Two hundred and fifty copies were ordered by Slavists from American universities, one hundred and fifty went to Europe, and a hundred went to the authors. Now you will not find complete sets of the anthology during the day with fire. Even American universities do not always have complete sets. In Cornell, for example, there is no first volume. Sper Yuz Aleshkovsky. But I do not regret - the book came to a grateful reader.

— How was (perceived) the anthology in the reading American world?
- After the first volume there were a dozen enthusiastic articles, after the third - six. Then - none. Tired. The anthology, one might well say, remains a fact of samizdat. Because all this was printed in a typographical way, it did not cease to be samizdat. Still, attempts to print The Blue Lagoon in Russia failed. And it is needed, of course, only in the homeland.

— When you compiled The Blue Lagoon, did you edit the writers?
- Never. I wrote an afterword, a commentary, whatever, but I did not rule anyone.

— Kostya, you have an unusual life. We married five times, studied at the biological faculty of Leningrad University, a specialist in snakes, nonconformist literature has become the essence of life, the only authority you respect is Old Man Makhno, you are always surrounded by admirers and admirers. I have a personal question - what is the main life observation you made?
- Observations, Zhenya, a lot. But here's what I'll tell you. It turns out that Hasek and Kafka lived at the same time in the same city - Prague. But what a different space they saw. You understand, the world is huge, immense. And the world of art is vast. Just do not need a writer, an artist (in the broadest sense of the word) to edit. The rainbow is so strong that it has many colors. I would like you to keep this in mind when you publish an anthology in Russia.

.
Konstantin Kuzminskyformer Leningrader
. .
KONSTANTIN KUZMINSKY (born in 1940). In the USSR, no
was printed, but his poems were distributed in samizdat. In 1975
emigrated; lives in New York. He was published on the pages of the magazines "Continent", "Third Wave", "Sagittarius", "Mulega" and others. Compiler
and publisher of The Blue Lagoon Anthology of Contemporary Russian Poetry.
.
.
FOG

I. X.

Very gray
fog in the city.
Lonely and cold
fog.
Clings to the head
fog,
grey,
in the gray city
fog.
Hold her tight
fog.
Look into her eyes
fog.
Fall on her shoulders
fog,
hug,
how he hugged me.
Don't forget her shoulders
fog.
Do not forget her cry -
deception.
Freeze in the fog
Houses,
it will deceive
then it beckons
fog.
Silence.
And white darkness.
Neither you
neither me...
Fog...

EPISTLE TO THE MONKING PIIT TITUS ODINTSOV
DAY OF THE SORRIENT'S BIRTHDAY OF THE AUTHOR

What, Titus, do you live in Ann Harbor?
How the ocean fills the land
So I kiss you and hug you,
I understand your soul tobacco.
What kind of brashno and other food
Having shared with a friend, why the resentment,
Tacos in the French city of Paris
You will come - and lower the ports lower,
You will be surrounded by dissolute girls,
Making countless mockery over you,
Washing the last penny out of the purse
And a gishpan collar, that is, herpes, rewarding.
I still live in secrecy in Texas
Dreaming of bread, and also of kvass,
With disapproval, I see indecent Texas girls,
Not having on these vital money.
Kako, having taken your tailor's needle in ruci,
With a fractional foot you drag yourself to the massage room,
There you are trying on a water bed,
Zane your desires are ripe.
Shit of millions of local daughters of Tsar Nikita -
Ole! - not lust, but filled with shit,
For the use of this slot they charge a bribe
And at the same time they build obscenely a hymen.
Why do I live like a monk
Poesia, virgin virgin - I pray to her,
I'm trying to create an anthology for the century,
Zane work and fasting befit a man.
Why do I fast spiritually and everything,
I create the sacrament of the finger sign,
To your side, my friend, Titus, who lives on the lakes of the Great,
Abiding in vain, but tacos and existing.
Accept the kisses of the piita-brother
On the day of the onago's death and back,
How the sun does not set over the Blue Lagoon shining,
This epistle ends with brotherly love.

Aurelius 16th,
year 1980 from R. X.,
in Texas.

EXCHANGE STUDENT

In the boudoir - two girls
And Wendy - see, vices
professional, professional
toy
what lives with vrubel
rely on two vices
and a professor's vest

once Russian art
she preferred the feeling
but a graduate student appeared
carrying a deodorant
as well as an antiperspirant

she wrote a monograph
and she loved monogamy
he offered her pornography
and she looked without blinking

on a luxurious transvestite
who has a dick and a tit
and she loved analytics
paralysis
syphilitic

because in a professorial environment
as well as in the writing environment
she accounted for
regarding everything about

because flunked the Greek
and French is C grade oral
tried to pass everything heroically
believing that pots he is lean

about the great post spun
suffocate from his milk
she respected the crook
for the great curiosity

but she became a professor
you do not shake me in vain mother
there are no lice on the top of the head on the bald
and in the mouth not a dewdrop of poppy

because the bed linen
the dew of heaven rolled down
in the restaurant she ate
how useful for her body

and the body quadruped
and ischium and vagina
and she fell in love with a chairman
believing him for an Albanian

for the world strengthened the bonds
with the metropolis and Israel
took oud without shame
twisted and corrected
elongated and oval
triangular cylindrical

these games are her anal
these dances are her Bacchic

and New Zealand sleigh
bending her pots uncircumcised
and according to her new desire
performed in a professorial environment

writing diploma
getting degri
and hollow mouth
tear to a scream

rolling the ball
rolling on a bobbin
he fried doggy style
lured into the cube

and the smile was
on the cheeks of a rose
the girl knew the business
moved her hands

lean on the shelves
open her groin
sawdust on the floor
wet and smelly

and Brezhnev on the door
in orders and tailcoat
looked disapprovingly
on their naked asses

she took antiposis
udder flowed vertically
and caressed her antipodes
with their parapodia

sandwiched between two furry
in the still waters of her lair
tub pelvis suitcases
she gave to God

but not to Caesar or mower
not a poet or an artist
and to the client of Colonel Nosarev
a dissident, not a shoemaker

he sang to her about human rights
tucking filthy in the anus
and dutifully blinked her eyelids
like a heifer giving herself to a bull

but the bull plowed
but fuck
and she: impudent
only moaned

ooh yeah ooh
yes pots is good
unchopped
like vrubel

leaving for the south pole
stared straight to the north
suffering over that penis
he is big and handsome

in both new and old zealand
like tamarind flowers
her wishes bloom
according to the pots of the country of tamerlane

and the geese are drawn by a thread
screaming her false name
and a fat sweaty tail
and a frail girl's udder

she is a former student
and milk sheep bleat
she squeezes bashfully
similar vegetable

votche: antipodes will not come
to the pasture to your virgin land
and timidly she antiposes
accepts and amuses with a blade of grass

shy sex slit
Where does the mouse hide?
and looks at the blue distance
sighs and scratches his armpits.

TO THE SHEATH

"Yes, Nussberg planted ..."

(G.G.)

“15th century. Dagger in sheath.
The dagger is lost. Sheath not from
that dagger."

(Hermitage. Tarasyuk?)

Oh, these scabbards, these legs,
About these vypushki on them!
The Circassian was sharpening a damask knife.
And he called his grandmother: '- Nanezh!

Ps't'ek'va, ncyx'ya, ch'et'ch'onch'e!
Why does your ph'ach'ich sound?
Why is your gentle voice louder
Than flowing keys from the mountains?

What for? What for? - The Circassian is calling.
And Terek jumps, growling.
Why does Tamara undress
And after calling the executioner?

So thought Pushkin, looking around,
Sharpening your dagger on a stone.
The horse would be so bold asian!
And the scabbard is dreaming at night.

Where are you putting your dagger?
Tell me, dark-skinned girl, mountain maiden.
Why are you raising your head
Your unsharpened axe?

About these scabbard edgings,
Oh those cannons at night!
The hostage tried the concubines
First pat on the shoulders

Then across the Persians, Lyadvey awe
He, the rapist, is not new -
When a Cossack woman endures affection,
He greedily drinks her love

Her cold cheeks,
Her movable fingers...
And percy wool intertwined,
And their wallets are empty.

Why why? The hostage said
And your dagger on your knee -
Who was still trembling
He broke his hand silently.

And these scabbards are light fluff,
Circassians heavy spirit -
He melted the ode into liberty,
Released with a dagger?!

Jan 24 1981 .

.
Page 202–211
.
< ...........................

_______________________________________________________________________

, USSR - May 2, New York, USA) - Russian poet.

Biography

He studied at the Faculty of Biology and Soil of the Leningrad University and at the Department of Theater Studies of the Leningrad Institute of Theatre, Music and Cinematography, but was expelled from both. He worked as a worker at a container factory, a distillery, a stage worker at the Mariinsky Theatre, a house painter at the Russian Museum, a worker at the Hermitage's household department, a worker at a geological expedition, etc.

From the mid 1960s. took an active part in the unofficial literary life of Leningrad, compiled a number of samizdat author's books (including Joseph Brodsky, Stanislav Krasovitsky, Genrikh Sapgir), samizdat Anthology of Soviet Pathology. Conducted residential exhibitions of unofficial art.

The fundamental work of Kuzminsky - "Anthology of the latest Russian poetry near the Blue Lagoon"(nine volumes starting from the year). This edition is the most extensive collection of samizdat poetry of the 1950-80s, systematized by regions and poetic groups, provided with comments by the compiler.

Konstantin Kuzminsky died suddenly on May 2, 2015 at his home in Lordville, New York from a heart attack.

Criticism

Gives an analysis of the "level of criticism" of Kuzminsky's reasoned - a significant difference from the style of the opuses of the homegrown "literary critic", consistent only in terms of the abundance of dirt, viciousness, abuse and foul language - the main "stylistic" characteristics of his "anthology", and everywhere in this amateurish, and therefore - a pretentious sea of ​​anecdotal lies - "I", "I", "I".

Not less and opposing opinions:

Vladislav Kulakov:“Kuzminsky is the enfante terrible of Russian poetry - his style and image can shock anyone. He had long quarreled with a good half of the artistic and literary emigration, and it seems that he never expressed himself about the Soviet literary establishment except in obscene terms. But image and personal tastes are one thing (we'll talk about this later), and the results of many years of publishing work are quite another. And they, as they say, are there. Nine profusely illustrated thick volumes (800-900 pages each) in landscape format. Photos, documents, paintings, graphics, author's autographs (many facsimiles), memoirs, comments - a huge amount of information. And, of course, poetry, a sea of ​​poetry. Kuzminsky in this sea is like a fish in water. And listen to his opinion, albeit expressed in an arbitrarily exotic form, I assure you, it is worth it. .

Film

Humanities
research

Boris Groys (1978) Eugene Schiffers (1979) Yuri Novikov (1980) Yefim Barban (1981) Boris Ivanov (1983) Vladimir Erl (1986) Vladimir Malyavin (1988) Mikhail Epstein (1991) Andrey Krusanov (1997) Konstantin Mamaev (1998) Lev Rubinstein (1999) Igor Smirnov (2000) Valery Podoroga (2001) Vardan Hayrapetyan and Lena Szilard (2002) Vladimir Toporov (2003) Mikhail Yampolsky (2004) Boris Dubin (2005) Roman Timenchik (2006) (2011)

An excerpt characterizing Kuzminsky, Konstantin Konstantinovich

And the conversation turned again to the war, about Bonaparte and the current generals and statesmen. The old prince, it seemed, was convinced not only that all the current leaders were boys who did not understand the ABCs of military and state affairs, and that Bonaparte was an insignificant Frenchman who had success only because there were no Potemkins and Suvorovs to oppose him; but he was even convinced that there were no political difficulties in Europe, there was no war either, but there was some kind of puppet comedy played by today's people, pretending to do business. Prince Andrei cheerfully endured his father's mockery of new people and with apparent joy called his father to a conversation and listened to him.
“Everything seems good as it was before,” he said, “but didn’t the same Suvorov fall into the trap that Moreau set for him, and didn’t know how to get out of it?
- Who told you? Who said? shouted the prince. - Suvorov! - And he threw away the plate, which Tikhon quickly picked up. - Suvorov! ... Having thought, Prince Andrei. Two: Friedrich and Suvorov ... Moreau! Moreau would have been a prisoner if Suvorov's hands were free; and in his arms sat hofs kriegs wurst schnapps rat. The devil is not happy with him. Here you go, you will recognize these Hofs Kriegs Wurst Raths! Suvorov did not cope with them, so where is Mikhail Kutuzov to deal with? No, my friend,” he continued, “you and your generals cannot manage against Bonaparte; you need to take the French so that you don’t know your own and beat your own. The German Palen was sent to New York, to America, for the Frenchman Moreau,” he said, alluding to the invitation that Moreau had made this year to enter the Russian service. - Miracles! ... Were the Potemkins, Suvorovs, Orlovs Germans? No, brother, either you all went crazy there, or I survived out of my mind. God bless you and we'll see. Bonaparte they have become a great commander! Hm!…
“I’m not saying anything so that all orders are good,” said Prince Andrei, “only I can’t understand how you can judge Bonaparte like that. Laugh as you like, but Bonaparte is still a great commander!
- Mikhail Ivanovich! - the old prince shouted to the architect, who, having taken up the roast, hoped that they had forgotten about him. “Did I tell you that Bonaparte is a great tactician?” Vaughn and he says.
“Yes, Your Excellency,” answered the architect.
The prince laughed his cold laugh again.
- Bonaparte was born in a shirt. His soldiers are excellent. Yes, and the first he attacked the Germans. And only the lazy did not beat the Germans. Since peace has been standing, the Germans have been beaten all the time. And they are nobody. Only each other. He made his glory on them.
And the prince began to analyze all the mistakes that, according to his concepts, Bonaparte made in all his wars and even in public affairs. The son did not object, but it was clear that no matter what arguments were presented to him, he was just as little able to change his mind as the old prince. Prince Andrei listened, refraining from objections and involuntarily wondering how this old man, sitting alone for so many years without a break in the country, could know and discuss all the military and political circumstances of Europe in recent years in such detail and with such subtlety.
“Do you think I, old man, don’t understand the real state of affairs?” he concluded. “And that’s where it is for me!” I don't sleep at night. Well, where is this great commander of yours, where did he show himself?
“That would be long,” answered the son.
- Go to your Buonaparte. M lle Bourienne, voila encore un admirateur de votre goujat d "empereur! [here is another admirer of your servile emperor ...] - he shouted in excellent French.
- Vous savez, que je ne suis pas bonapartiste, mon prince. [You know, Prince, that I am not a Bonapartist.]
- “Dieu sait quand revendra” ... [God knows when he will return!] - the prince sang out of tune, laughed even more out of tune and left the table.
The little princess was silent during the whole argument and the rest of the dinner and looked in fright now at Princess Marya, then at her father-in-law. When they left the table, she took her sister-in-law by the hand and called her to another room.
- Comme c "est un homme d" esprit votre pere, she said, - c "est a cause de cela peut etre qu" il me fait peur. [What a smart person your father is. Maybe that's why I'm afraid of him.]
- Oh, he's so kind! - said the princess.

Prince Andrei left the next day in the evening. The old prince, without deviating from his order, went to his room after dinner. The little princess was with her sister-in-law. Prince Andrei, dressed in a traveling frock coat without an epaulet, was packing with his valet in the chambers allotted to him. Having inspected the carriage and the packing of the suitcases himself, he ordered to lay it down. Only those things remained in the room that Prince Andrei always took with him: a box, a large silver cellar, two Turkish pistols and a saber, a gift from his father, brought from near Ochakov. All these travel accessories were in great order with Prince Andrei: everything was new, clean, in cloth cases, carefully tied with ribbons.
In moments of departure and a change in life, people who are able to think about their actions usually find a serious mood of thoughts. In these moments, the past is usually verified and plans for the future are made. The face of Prince Andrei was very thoughtful and tender. With his hands folded back, he paced the room quickly from corner to corner, looking ahead of him, and shaking his head thoughtfully. Was he afraid to go to war, was he sad to leave his wife—perhaps both, but apparently not wanting to be seen in such a position, hearing footsteps in the hallway, he hurriedly freed his hands, stopped at the table, as if he was tying the cover of the box, and assumed his usual, calm and impenetrable expression. These were the heavy steps of Princess Marya.
“They told me that you ordered the mortgage,” she said, out of breath (she must have been running), “but I so wanted to talk to you alone again. God knows how long we'll be apart again. Are you angry that I came? You have changed a lot, Andryusha, - she added, as if in explanation of such a question.
She smiled, pronouncing the word "Andryusha". Apparently, it was strange for her to think that this strict, handsome man was the same Andryusha, a thin, playful boy, a childhood friend.
- Where is Lise? he asked, only answering her question with a smile.
She was so tired that she fell asleep on the couch in my room. Ah, Andre! Que! tresor de femme vous avez,” she said, sitting down on the sofa opposite her brother. She is a perfect child, such a sweet, cheerful child. I loved her so much.
Prince Andrei was silent, but the princess noticed an ironic and contemptuous expression that appeared on his face.
– But one must be indulgent to small weaknesses; who does not have them, Andre! Don't forget that she was brought up and raised in the world. And then her situation is no longer rosy. It is necessary to enter into the position of everyone. Tout comprendre, c "est tout pardonner. [Whoever understands everything will forgive everything.] You think about it, poor thing, after the life to which she is accustomed, to part with her husband and remain alone in the village and in her position? This very hard.
Prince Andrei smiled, looking at his sister, as we smile, listening to people whom we think we can see through.
“You live in the countryside and don't find this life terrible,” he said.
- I'm different. What to say about me! I don't want another life, and I can't, because I don't know any other life. And you think, Andre, for a young and secular woman to be buried in the best years of her life in the village, alone, because papa is always busy, and I ... you know me ... how poor I am en ressources, [interests.] for a woman accustomed to the best society. M lle Bourienne is one…

    Konstantin Konstantinovich Kuzminsky (born April 16, 1940, Leningrad) is a Russian poet. He studied at the Faculty of Biology and Soil of Leningrad University and at the Theater Studies Department of the Leningrad Institute of Theatre, Music and Cinematography, but was ... Wikipedia

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    Russian surname. Known bearers: Kuzminsky, Boris Nikolaevich (born 1964) Russian literary critic, translator. Kuzminsky, Konstantin Konstantinovich (born 1940) Russian poet. Kuzminsky, Sergey Leonidovich (1962 2009) Ukrainian ... ... Wikipedia

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    Samizdat poets are authors for whom participation in the uncensored literary life of the late 1950s and mid-1980s (and above all publications in samizdat) was the main way of literary behavior. Thus, in this ... ... Wikipedia

    These are authors who left the Soviet Union and settled in other countries from the early 1970s, when such an opportunity arose, and until the early 1990s, when moving to another country lost its unambiguous political meaning and ceased to be ... ... Wikipedia

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    Cavaliers of the Order of St. George IV class with the letter "K" The list is alphabetical personalities. Last name, first name, patronymic are given; title at the time of award; number on the list of Grigorovich Stepanov (in brackets number on the list of Sudravsky); ... ... Wikipedia

Autobiography

Tzygan, polyak, evrej i russkij (na 5/8)
syn xudozhnika i uchitel "nitzy, i vnuk gallenterejschika i xudozhnika
April 16, 1940 goda v bol "nitze uritzkogo, v leningrade, otdelenie ne zapomnil, veroyatno - rodil" noe
1949-57 - pervaya anglijskaya shkola na fontanke
57-60? biofak LGU, gerpertolog
64-69? teatral "nyj in-t, teatroved
59-63 geolog, geofizik, gidrolog, ixtiolog ehstoniya, sibir", kavkaz, krym, kol" skij p-ov
64-67, 68 ehkskursovod goroda, aleksandro-nevskoj lavry, pavlovska, petergofa, alupki
57-75 rabochij tarnoj fabriki, likerno-vodochnogo zavoda, zooparka, mariinskogo teatra, russkogo muzeya, ehrmitazha
February 15 - April 2, 1960 goda - 1000 hours on Pryazhke, spetzial "nost": shizofrenik
69, 70, 72 bexterevka, klinika pavlova, speschial "nost": alkogolik i nevrastenik
57-75 v promezhutkax spetzial "nost": tuneyadetz
1975-76 - Vena, Parish, Grenobl", Tolstovskaya ferma
76-81 Texas, god professorship v university
81-? N "yu-Jork Publikatzii: 9 tomov Antologii novejshej russkoj poezii u Goluboj laguny (1980-86)
1872 "zhivoe zerkalo" (sosnora, gorbovskij, kushner, brodskij, kkk) s syuzannoj massi gorstka stixov kucha statej rukopisi

I kinda, vse...

Alicia Baker, journalist
builds KKK horns, 1968?
photo: G. Donskoy

At the bed of a crazy "grandfather"
(Leonid Petrovich, a neighbor in Staronevsky),
1969?, photo "Petit" or "Gran"
( or )

At Mikhnov-Voitenko on the street. Saltykov-Shchedrin
(with Helen Baxter-de-Ville-Morin-Lee-Hunt,
daughter of Texas millionaire Hunt,
mother - from Lautrec, writer, friend of Cocteau)
1971?, photo

"On the verge of October-November 1974" K. Kuzminsky organized in his apartment the first group exhibition of unofficial photographers "Under the Parachute", which was attended by V. Mikhailov, V. Okulov, O. Korsunova.


PARACHUTE OF DR. GLINCHIKOV
Konstantin Kuzminsky

What can you offer
Me, mister Proffer?
/from the texts of the 75th/ ...

And Valera, armless midshipman,
raises our anchors
spreading bird's sails...
/"Faina", 1981/

What would I do without them? Without money, without paper, without glasses, without lamps - with only two hands ... I made an exhibition of artists, 23, and away we go ... According to the preface to the photo catalog, written in English under the pseudonym "Igor" Smolensky" / that in translation means - Ilya Levin, who served as a boat guard on Smolenka / such an exhibition, "Under the Parachute" was opened "from October 26 to November 1, 1974. And it was visited by" more than 500 people ". I do not quote the preface, without having permission from the author living in the West, but I state it myself.
The exhibition "23's" was visited by Herr Nussberg himself, with a bunch of assistants, and filmed it. Upon departure, he left me a Leningrader Valery Glinchikov, Doctor of Engineering Sciences, head of the department, yachtsman, dreamer and enthusiast. Valera was a godsend. My domestic chandelier, which shone with two bulbs on the ceiling, did not give so much light, the desktop ones made the pictures glare, therefore, belatedly, a "scattered light" was made for the exhibition of photographers. The head of the department, Glinchikov, sent me a couple of laboratory assistants, with state-owned electrical engineering and borrowed, from nowhere, an almost complete parachute. The boys quickly turned on the light bulbs in the center and in the corners, parachuted the entire ceiling (of course, during working hours) and left. The walls under the photographs were covered with gray cardboard, also somewhere hidden, and under Pchelintsev I put a canvas brought by one of the artists. From the remnants of this canvas, my mother cut out bags for the Israeli archive, and I keep them to this day. Photo paper, of course, was also stolen / but the photographers themselves were already doing this /, and no more accessories were required.
, of course, dumped before the opening of the exhibition, and I put it "anonymous" from the works I had, one: "But not satiated" / the girl sits at the table and eats dumbbells /, she is also on the back cover of the catalog. The rest - not only did not let down, but on the contrary, let them down with them. - He brought his friend Anatoly Sapronenkov, someone brought in amateur photographer "Kvasov" /pseudonym/, who only took pictures of his hands, Vilya Onikul showed up, in a word, seven more people were added to my half dozen. The usual story. And at the exhibition of artists - in addition to half a dozen initiators, another one and a half were added, which made the number 23. There were 13 photographers. stolen by Krivulin/. In addition to three serious walls, occupied almost entirely, and, Naryshkin stuffed whatever he got into his corner / dragged, for example, a portrait of his wife - not in quality, but so that he wouldn’t grumble at the girls /, Slava Mikhailov’s corks - fell on a closet covered with canvas , and who appeared to the eyeballs / the oldest participant in the exhibition /, received, like Galetsky before him, into possession - the door. I didn’t exhibit my photographic works, because I don’t know how to take pictures, although I wanted to. But nobody would print from my ugly negatives.
A catalog was also made. In December-January, the publisher Karl Profer (Ardis Publishing House, Michigan) visited me, being a prudent person - I did not give him my anthologies, but offered a photo catalog. The negatives, the design, and the cover /photo, Petrochenkov's fonts, my composition/ were made, and sent to the West. In Vienna, Profer told me by phone that the photos for printing were bad, which made it impossible to publish the catalog. What did not stop him was to use photographs for his covers - almanacs "RLT" / "Clock" /, illustrations for the magazine "Verb" / photo / and, of course, without instructions, not only from where, but also from the authors themselves. I'm not talking about money: I didn't pay. So I first got acquainted with the mores of the capitalist West. At the same time, the colors for the covers were chosen by a colorblind person.(*)
Fortunately, in addition to the small sharks of capitalism, I was always surrounded by carp. And, of course, the idealists. We dreamed of making a film about St. Petersburg, from the water, for which Glinchikov took us on a yacht / but not on it /, rode in a motorboat, and then I myself hired a friend with a motor - just before leaving, and took a photographer and cameraman. The movie camera broke down on the way down, on the Moika, and Gelya Donskoy went home. He wouldn't fit in the boat. In addition to my secretary / see the volumes in the photo /, he appeared with Verunya, and was mostly busy with her. "Shoot, shoot, here's the shot!" - I shout to him, he lets go of Verunin's chest - "Huh? Where?" and clicks without looking. The only good thing was that we said goodbye to the "Venice of the North", we spent the whole night wandering along the Neva and the canals, and rode my daughter and her brother. There are practically no personnel left. And I was inspired to do this by the yachtsman and scuba diver Valera Glinchikov, a pure soul. Now he wears it around the Baltic and Mediterranean, he sends postcards, but he will not gather in the Gulf of Mexico. Dreamer, everyone is looking for patrons - not for himself, for me! It was by them - by their hands and forces - that my exhibitions were made. But they are not in the photo ... I took off the parachute before leaving, dust accumulated in it ... I hung for half a year. ------------------
approx. KKK - 2006:
(*) What I wrote to him - and wrote after leaving (not taking into account that the color-blind layout designer was his wife, Ellendea or Ellendi, through whom he milked brotherhood - with Brodsky ... On whose pre-Nobilian fees - the Ardis publishing house was promoted "**. For which Brodsky called him "Gutenberg", and Seryozhenka Dovlatov, who echoed him in everything, even patriotically "Ivan Fedorov" ... we know these local Gutenbergers ... thieves and Gesheftmachers).
(**) The originals for reprints of rarities of the 1920s were supplied by Gelka Donskoy, a bibliomaniac (and a self-publisher, for which he was sitting, fairly). Gutenberg himself didn’t understand a damn thing about Russian literature - he taught it ... But no one strangled Carlos Proffer for this (and for that), on the contrary: he died by himself, and they honorably buried, smearing slobber and snot - Nobel laureates and pop-entertainers ( s.dovlatov). Ugh!

Donald Francis Shien and Konstantin Kuzminsky
A few more photos of the exhibition Under the Parachute from the "Anthology of the latest Russian poetry near the Blue Lagoon in 5 volumes" (Konstantin K. Kuzminsky and Grigory L. Kovalev)

From an interview: In 1968, I returned after serving in the army and a friend dragged me to a coffee shop on Malaya Sadovaya. There, in the evenings, "democratic" punks gathered: artists, blackmailers, "centers", students, people of street romance. Somehow, a very colorful character appeared in satin pants and directly approached our company.
It was Kostya Kuzminsky. No one introduced us, but he immediately recognized "his own" by his eyes. With the help of Kostya, the circle of acquaintances expanded. Then we already understood that there were two worlds: "Soviet courtier" and "uncontrollable creative". This circle was not large, there were about twenty points in the whole city - private apartments (I never liked the word "salon", salon is cocaine, female students, pale faces, a premonition of a coup, gnawed), where one could meet interesting, lively creative people .
For example, Kuzminsky had an amazing library, and he easily gave books to read, including rare editions of Khlebnikov, Kruchenykh, Oberiuts. Gorbovsky, Erl, Sosnora, Dovlatov, Venya Erofeev, Shemyakin, Ovchinnikov, Len appeared in his apartment. In the same place we made an exhibition "Under the parachute". By the way, I suggested the idea of ​​the name. I wanted to turn the apartment into an unusual exhibition hall during the exhibition. So there was a parachute hanging from the ceiling. Actually, it was a happening. The door was opened by Kuzminsky's long-suffering mother, he himself was lying on the sofa in the center, in a burgundy dressing gown, the Chekists came: a clean shave, a diamond parting, crimplene suits.

Standing: V. Kvasov, S. Mikhailov,