We knew a guy we called Nesta. I don’t remember - whether it was a nickname or from a cut-down surname.
Nothing special: soft voice, always half-turned to his companion,
Always the same sweater a la mid-60’s bard,
Stout white arms.
But two things made him stand out from our bunch.
First, for example, he would ask if anyone had the book “Unhurried Pace” by Lorca, or if someone had heard the metal band “The Cheekbone” from Volgograd.
Fabrications both, one and the other, which would lie firmly memorized!
And second.
After lunch in the college canteen, we walked into the courtyard, sat on a secluded bench,
Nesta pulled up his singlet, and we could see his stomach working. On the belly were waves of digestion.
The sight was mesmerising. While we were watching it for the first time, he said - “The Ships of Liss”, forever encoding us, invoking the black and white moustache of Alexander Grin against the background of a dancing navel.

 

 

 

Text: Anton Adasinsky
English text editor: David Kemp
Photo: Elena Yarovaya

 

 

 

 

Text: Anton Adasinsky English text editor: Jennifer Williams Photos, drawings and collages: Elena Iarovaia Music: Roman Dubinnikov

 

 

I eagerly await the night time. I welcome those heavy cloud-palms which hide me from the sun, the shining eye of the cyclops-god. There's no anxiety or misery in my dreams. Or at least I do not actually sense any anxiety. There are deaths and flights, seas, pursuits and love. Several times a day I try to do one of DEREVO's exercises; sitting still on a bench with half-shut eyes, trying to remember pictures from my dreams and project them onto the reality of my daytime existence. I'm on a ship. People. There are many of them. Running from one side of the deck to the other. The schooner is pitching. I recall the names of the ships in my dream. Caravel, Frigate, Clipper, Junk. I murmur in my sleep, “Junk, Junk”. I jump overboard. An overgrown shore. I'm saved and checking for injuries. An agitated groin. I'm threading my way to the shore through the wet sedge. A long and lonely life lies ahead. Happiness. At the water’s edge there is a rubber ball rotting in the water. It's neither big nor small. A small mark on the upper side. A little bit out of shape, but it still causes a smile. I want to kick it but I can't. My long dress is clinging to my legs. They call me to dinner. They call me Robert. I'm arrogant and apparently wealthy. After dinner a doctor comes. I know he's lying when he tells me that I'll die, but I want him to. He asks me to undress. I refuse. I can sense where the boundary lies between the silk reality of my dress and the world of the dream. There is silence in the castle. "ROBERT'S DREAM" was premiered in Dresden. And within a week of arriving in St Petersburg we already know that we'll change everything in it. We were happy to receive a note from a great musician. Please find some time (there is enough of it for all of us) and listen to his music. “Rock Bottom” for instance.

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Hello Anton, Thank you for the greetings. I do hope Robert's Dream went well in Dresden. Please say hello to all your company, and very best wishes for the New Year. I'm so glad your work has been so well received. Good Luck, Robert (Wyatt)

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Original text by Anton Adasinsky English text editor: Julius Green Photo by Elena Yarovaya, Carola Fritzshe, Alisa, Shtyk Photo design by Elena Yarovaya See photos of "ROBERT'S DREAM" »»

let's watch / смотрим: from "Süd. Grenze" (en / de / ru), a white-and-black film by DEREVO © 2001.