Liam Gillick's Letters from Moscow

[karenarchey]

This letter originally appeared on the Moscow Biennale website. It is the first in a series of letters artist Liam Gillick will write as his contribution for the 6th Moscow Biennale.

121, PROSPEKT MIRA, MOSCOW

Letter from Moscow No. 1

Monday September 21, 2015

There is an old saying here that in the future there will be no difference between waste and energy. What used to make sense no longer has any traction at a time when discourse has replaced action. The weather is clear right now. But it will get warmer throughout the week. Talk on the streets has been of the re-election of the Greek government. Tsipras have played a smart game. I leave my apartment here every morning and head down to the café on the corner. I have gotten to know the girl behind the bar. We attempt to talk about political strategy but I know she is laughing at me — though a strange pity shows in her eyes. She told me the other day that her boyfriend thinks I am a fool. That European progressives see something in this Tsipras thing that is merely a reflection of their own weakness and lack of control. Tsipras for him means nothing. And as a result — it means I have no grasp of the inherent corruption of the European Union. I need to find a new café but the pity in those eyes keeps me coming back.

I made a list of varied “izations” on the paper table cloths that they love here. “Virtualisation”, “containerization”, “orchestration”. I was on a roll. The girl came over to see if I needed more coffee or a shot of something to pick me up a little. Fury for a second. Then she deliberately spilt my cup across the table. Fussing around and talking to herself under her breath she furiously wiped the paper — smearing my notes. It took a second to realize that she was talking to me — not to herself.

“What?”

“Beat me gat thu delta quake.”

“What?”

“Sorry?”

“Meet me at a data snake”

“I am really sorry. But I can’t understand…”

My Russian is still rusty and not up to snuff…

Reeling she dropped the cup to the ground. Bending to pick it up she spoke clearly into my left ear.

“Meet me at the Data Lake.”

I grabbed my book and my phone and left quickly for the apartment. Until tomorrow…

Take care of yourself…

Береги себя

Liam

Liam Gillick is part of the generation of artists who gave art a new impetus in the late 1980’s and early 1990’s. He deploys multiple forms to expose the new ideological control systems that emerged at the beginning of the 1990s. He has developed a number of key narratives that often form the engine for a body of work. Gillick’s work exposes the dysfunctional aspects of a modernist legacy in terms of abstraction and architecture when framed within a globalized, neo-liberal consensus. His work extends into structural rethinking of the exhibition as a form.

As the ghost of the Moscow Biennial Liam Gillick will be present for some time and participate in a number of unofficial events. His contribution may become perceivable as a response to a keynote, as a keynote on stage or via other channels the program is offering.

[karenarchey]

Letter from Moscow No. 2
Tuesday September 22, 2015

I woke up at 5am and watched the sun come up in the city. Saw twenty year old German cars unleash across the street. I can’t think in a decent direction. I think one of my teeth is loose or my skull is loose and my teeth are fine. My head feels inside out. The lining of my brain is dehydrated. My feet look blue. The line was too long to get into the Lenin Mausoleum yesterday afternoon. There’s a hole in the front of my face where my mouth should be. How do you test a hole? I need to sleep but it is impossible when you feel this bad. So what do you do to test a hole?

You go to a bar. Focus on a crossword - the easiest ones here are designed for semi-literate guest workers like me and can be bought from the traditional octagonal news stands that dot the city center. I want to put something in my drink to take the edge of it. But there is nothing but Red Bull or the Russian equivalent of Mountain Dew. I belong to no one. My teeth are loose. I wish I could remember where I am supposed to meet the girl from the café. I bet Rem Koolhaas never has these problems.

It feels like no-one owns this city. It has systemic edges. But in the center it is mute. Moscow keeps churning along. I am desperate to find some peace here. A systemic peace. One that can be tested and mapped and fully realized. I motioned for another drink. Six down. An accumulation of numbers. Four letters. Ten across. A landlocked body of water. Four letters.

Math Pond?

Today is a write off.

Until tomorrow…

Take care of yourself…

Береги себя

Liam

[karenarchey]

Letter from Moscow No. 3
Wednesday September 23, 2015

Data Lake! It’s all coming back to me. All the streets were closed off near my apartment today. I stayed home and watched the normal mix of poverty baiting and news slinging on TV. My internet connection is incoherent. I am trying to use the wi-fi system from the apartment upstairs. Every time I guess the password it gets changed. But it keeps me focused - running through various cute pet names, Russian soccer players and school yard taunts backed with zeros and dates.

In Moscow they love to wash the streets. It’s an important gesture but still feels alien to me. I spent many years in Paris - jetlagged and up early to witness the ritual cleansing of the boulevards. I always coveted the little bundles of wood and carpet that they used to stop off the drains and keep the water flowing. In Nice every night they would hose down the square in the old town. Wash the trash away until it slowly dried out the following morning and made it’s way back home.

What they need here is a decent Mosque. I keep going on about it to the two guys who live upstairs. I think they think I think they would use a decent Mosque if they had one - but I keep explaining to them that its just an observation. Something about the way I pronounce “observation” in Russian must be coming out wrong. I think they think I am saying it is just an “accusation”. Something about the resulting frisson gets me going. It’s clear that they cannot be sure that I am saying accusation so they don’t quite take offence. But they steal themselves for imminent insult. Otherwise they play PlayStation all day. CSKA v Spartak v Dynamo v Torpedo v Lokomotiv. I am trying to sell them the idea of a soccer and insurgent shooter mix up. I am pretty sure the tall one replied that I would need a Math Pond to achieve that in online mode. But maybe I misunderstood him. We laughed. I told them the anecdote about how I want to teach Gramsci to architects in Ivy League Universities. So they stopped laughing and went back into their apartment.

This evening I think I will go out. As I sweetened up I was sure I could hear the call to prayer - very faint but unmistakable. At this time of year in Moscow it is great to go to Armenian bars. They have fantastic brandy. And you can talk about love and sex and money. They get a bit sentimental in a paradisical-utopian way after a few but I have acquired the Russian knack of bringing things down to earth with airport stories.

I may have pushed it too far tonight. After a few dozen; Let’s get starteds! To yous! To your healths! To our meetings! To our friendships! To the hostess! To women! To our parents! and To loves! I stood on the table and shouted in my base Armenian “Love is like an Airport!” I don’t know what’s happening to me but I think the guys upstairs know something about the location of the Data Lake.

Nostrovia!

Until tomorrow…

Take care of yourself…

Береги себя

Liam

[karenarchey]

Letter from Moscow No. 4
Thursday September 24, 2015

My room is becoming a Scandinavian prison cell. I haven’t been able to buy any new furniture since I arrived and my irritation with the design of the existing things leads me to pile everything away anywhere I can find some space. This has left me with a monk’s cell. A table, a chair and a simple bed. In this vast city I am just a biological cell in a body that I cannot control so I better get my shit together.

This morning I was looking for somewhere to hide the various potted plants that were abandoned here by the previous owner. I went to the Azbukha Vkusa supermarket on the corner and borrowed a trolley with a wink and a swift purchase of Arborio rice. It’s been hot here. And I struggled down the stairs with the plants. Piled into the trolley I made my way towards the Tretyakov Gallery on Krymsky Val. Damn security checks everywhere, but I have a good route. I stopped for a rest on Ordynskiy Tupik, in the little park.

The girl from my café was sitting on a low wall with a small box. I stopped to say hello. “The day my mother died, five kittens were born”. I parked my trolley to stop it rolling away and looked into the box. The kittens were sleeping.

I promised her I would be right back and rushed ahead pushing my trolley full of plants. At the back of the museum, one of the guys from the apartment upstairs opened the loading bay doors and I pushed my trolley inside. “Are you sure this is OK?” “Sure.” “OK. Well, thanks. And I am sorry about the Mosque misunderstanding.” He didn’t answer. But walked off into the museum pushing the trolley ahead of him. He has a place with everyone else’s plants, under the stairs. No questions asked.

As I walked off I saw them unloading a Buddha Machine. I can’t think what else to call it. It was a machine in the shape of a Buddha.

Shit. Kittens. Running back to Ordynskiy Tupik there was no sign of the girl. In the park there were handsome young men dressed for waiting, moving chairs around. They placed name cards on some chairs, then studied documents and moved the name cards around. Then moved them around again. Training. Getting ready for staged events future and planned. As I turned for home I saw the logo on the back of their shirts.

“Data Lake”
Troitskoye, Mytishchinsky District, Moscow Oblast

[karenarchey]

http://assets.blog.hemmings.com/wp-content/uploads//2010/12/NYCvintagebus_700.jpg

Letter from Moscow No. 5
Friday September 25, 2015

I got on the Metro at Kropotkinskaya and immediately realized I was heading in the wrong direction. I got off at the next stop and ran right into two guys who used to play golf with my brother in law. I had no idea what to say to them. So I told them I was now a psychologist but had actually come here to train as a Ballerino. Wrong move, especially using such an arch “nomenclature”. One of them IS a psychologist. And the other a ballet buff (actually Opera but ballet as a methadone-like replacement). Hit the button on my phone that makes it fake-ring and excused myself.

I need to get to Troitskoye. But I need better information. I like cities where you can just stand there. And Moscow is good for that when the weather is as fine as it is right now. So I just stood there and looked at people’s jeans. I couldn’t make any decent correlations between current jeans and aspiration, smartness, weakness, or sportiness. So I tried parsing them via a paradoxical dialectics of attractiveness pitched against economic consciousness. That didn’t help so I just stood there.

I have a headache. And Troitskoye is a long way from here. Maybe if I just stand here for a while something will resolve itself. I decided to walk to the Okhotony Ryad Shopping Center. It’s all about the managerialism of the present there. What I really like about it is the way that there is a large staircase in between the two escalators. You can skip down the stairs - looking to the world like a tall attractive economist while the fools all just stand there blocking all parts of the escalator. Don’t they realize that you should stand on the right and move on the left? I practiced my hop up and skip down the central staircase for a while. Then moved over to have a little sit down.

I squeezed onto one the marble benches in between sneakers, race team logo shirts and diamante thongs poking over white jeans and stared up at the glazed cupola of painted glass showing an image of the world centered on a large black void where the north pole ought to be. I love it underground, where we can build a world of philosophy and art unencumbered by the pressures of flora and fauna. I took out my phone and started to photograph the world. I zoomed in on the large black void where the North Pole should be and hunched down over my phone to check the image. When I looked up an attractive, slim young Imam was staring at me from across the hall. There was no expression beyond compassion. There was no judgment in his eyes. But as soon as he noticed me noticing him noticing me - he too looked up at that black void and immediately walked fast towards the main entrance. Moving quickly after him I saw that he had dropped a business card…

"Data Lake”
Troitskoye, Mytishchinsky District, Moscow Oblast

Until tomorrow…

Take care of yourself…

Береги себя

Liam

[karenarchey]

Letter from Moscow No. 6
Saturday September 26, 2015

It’s decided. I’m going to take a taxi to Troitskoye and screw the expense. It all began last night. I was in a taxi after a few drinks had multiplied into the necessity to keep the taxi window open all the way home for that cool old wind in my face. I decided to sit in the front - Istanbul style. A few years ago I was in a cab from Cayenne in French Guyana to Rochambeau Airport to catch an evening flight to Orly. The cabby started driving slower and slower and hit the brakes every time a car approached that had their headlights aimed at us. Turned out the driver was night-blind. We swapped seats, I drove the taxi to the airport, and negotiated a huge discount on the metered fare. I wonder how he managed to get back home? In South Korea the “guest of honor” is supposed to sit in the back opposite the driver. Then, there is a pecking order to where the next three people should sit. Or maybe that’s Japan. In Shanghai, you’re supposed to sit in the back, apparently, but I always sat in the front because the drivers never understood me when I tried to pronounce the street names in Mandarin, and even if they understood correctly, they often had no idea where it was. Thankfully they understood me when I said “Left”, “right" or “straight” in Mandarin. But you really have to be in the front seat and paying attention if you want to do that. I was enjoying myself immensely.

“You know this car is painted RAL 1006?” He didn’t reply. We drove past the VDNKh. The Exhibition of Achievements of National Economy is a permanent carnival crash of music against lights and armed to the teeth with rides and mechanized nonsense. It specializes in murdering time with distractions that can’t yet be replicated by xboxes or pads. I was happy drunk as we cruised past. The Scorpions and Europe were grinding their rock gears and slipping various clutches. All this was interspersed with what would pass for martial music where I come from. Sometimes I fear I live in a state of lucid cynicism that keeps me apart from my neighbors here. I think they are more conscious of the “third ear” even if they can no longer express precisely what it might be listening for.

It didn’t look fucked up to me. I tried to keep the half smile working in aid of the international brotherhood of shared bullshit and to keep my vodka breath at bay. I knew there was only one large bottle of beer left at the apartment but I wanted it now.

We got to my street and the taxi pulled over. I looked at the driver and he looked at me. I handed him the “Data Lake” business card that I had found at the shopping center and I tried to smile a little universal smile. He looked up at the meter and tapped it with his finger. “Piiiiz’dets, blyaaaa!” It didn’t look fucked up to me. I tried to keep the half smile working in aid of the international brotherhood of shared bullshit and to keep my vodka breath at bay. I knew there was only one large bottle of beer left at the apartment but I wanted it now.

“We make a deal?” “OK” “OK”. We made a deal. It was an outrageous fare. But as I was about to reach into my pocket - he brought out his leather binder, peeled off a few thousand Rubles and handed them to me. I sat transfixed - unmoved in the seat. The engine kept running in the quiet street. I sat there. He handed me back the business card. I got out. He said he would be back in the morning. I got a cold sweat on my neck. I tried to keep cool. I think I might have even said “Ciao”. Good grief.

Until tomorrow…

Take care of yourself…

Береги себя

Liam

[karenarchey]

http://assets.nydailynews.com/polopoly_fs/1.1265057!/img/httpImage/image.jpg_gen/derivatives/article_970/meteor.jpg

Letter from Moscow No. 7
Sunday September 27, 2015

I woke early. The weather has changed. It’s gone grey. I needed to get out of the apartment before the taxi driver returned. There’s a place around the corner that opens early. I went down and walked there.

Fuck Sunday. So I went over to the Museum of the Revolution. It opens early to sweep up tourist fueled by Nescafé. The guards were goofing off and checking their phones. I walked inside. I took off my jacket and put it down on a bench beside me. An orderly crowd started to build and move limply around the rooms. I turned towards the wall. A familiar voice removed me from my stare. “You can’t leave your jacket there”. It was the girl from the café - dressed as a museum guard. “It might be a suspicious package.” She smiled and asked me to follow her.

As we left the building she shrugged off her jacket and we moved swiftly across Tverskaya Street heading towards Strastnoy Boulevard. We didn’t speak. But I could see a taxi in the middle distance with the engine running. By the time we reached it she bore only a hint of museum guard.

As we drove away I looked up at a banal brick office block topped by an oval superstructure going up across the street. I had asked nothing and expected nothing.

Grey skies for the first time since I arrived have lulled me. The question of caring is swamped and mired. I have lost my energy. It is Sunday in Moscow and one person I barely know and another I do not know are driving me away from the center. This will take forever - as always.

I decided to sit calmly and not speak. I decided to look at the city as we blurted forwards then ground out multiple halts. I could have just opened the door and walked away. The driver spoke first:

“A luxurious Sunday brunch is undoubtedly one of the highlights of the Moscow culinary scene. Mountains of gourmet food items including oysters, lobster, Kamchatka crab, roast meats, sashimi, exotic dishes from the Far East and of course caviar served up with endless amounts of wine, fresh juice and champagne and a huge sweets spread for dessert is a treat not to be missed.” I sat calmly.

“On Sundays, the club hosts the best gay parties in Moscow. During the day, Propaganda operates as a restaurant renowned for its low prices and delicious food. The Caesar salad served here is rightfully considered the best in the city.” As we swept onto Butyrskaya I looked longingly out of the window at ads for Lofttime, Airman, M&Ms and Whitesnake.

Until tomorrow…

Take care of yourself…

Береги себя

Liam

[karenarchey]

Letter from Moscow No. 8
Monday September 28, 2015

She lunged at my neck. I didn’t see it coming - I didn’t expect it. Frankly I didn’t really know what to do. I let her try and throttle me and just sat there. “Drive faster!” she yelled at the driver - which was pretty funny considering the Moscow traffic. She stopped trying to throttle me and apologized.

As she tapped out a number on her LG I began to cry. I don’t think the driver or my throttler even noticed. I turned my head towards the window. The adverts became more repetitive, just urgent requests to buy anything at all at anytime, please. The graffiti was going in reverse.

A stray thought made me laugh. Whatever she was saying to the driver sounded like, “Shaghai is like a washing machine.” I snapped out of it and said “It washed your brain.” The car slowed and they both looked at me. I couldn’t stop laughing. They couldn’t not laugh. Through my tears and laughter I said - in my basest Russian, “If you aren’t listening to the actual words, the way so many younger Russians talk sounds just like American English – the same intonations and pacing. EVERYTHING!” There was a pause.

Then we were all laughing. Saying any sequence of words that came into our heads in Russian but in the style of a louche American teen.

“Liquid hog wash zipper man.” Hysterical.
“Stone foot sandwich wrecker” Haven’t laughed so hard in my life.
“I’ve been Googling, seriously” I nearly lost a chunk of lung.
“Yuri Gagarin t-shirts” I think she pissed herself.

We took a hard right. I was still laughing when the driver got out, opened my door and smashed me in the face with something dense in a sock. It was the blow to my neck from my friend in the back that took me down.

At least I was at peace now. Having blackout dreams. Moving fast across cities and spaces. Picking up fragments. Plastic tennis rackets, visas, reading newspapers in elevators, floating across the lobby of Hotel Cosmos, winking at the hustlers and dropping money for the working girls.

Ka - ray - o - kay, Ka - ray - o - kay, Karaoke, Karaoke, Ka - rayay - oh - kay.

Something just burst in my brain.

Until tomorrow…

Take care of yourself…

Береги себя

Liam

[gai_savoir]

Under what liberal (in the old sense) or neo-liberal (in the now sense) remit is LG doing in Moscow at all? Nice shot at semi-poetic prose, mind you.
A

[karenarchey]

These letters represent Liam’s contribution to the 6th Moscow Biennale, not sure where that falls on your old-liberal/now-liberal rubric, @gai_savoir. It does appear he’s having quite a bit of fun, though–and as an editor I’m not really sure where all of this is going. Research for a new karaoke bar Relational Aesthetics venture? A luxury industry handbook on cab decorum in third world countries? One can never be sure… Further, some of these photographs appear to be taken outside of Moscow, or even Russia, so there’s that. The image of grey skies appears terrifyingly similar to a Russian dash cam image of a meteorite in Chelyabinsk. Looking forward to further dispatches for some clarity, @liamgillick.

[karenarchey]

Letter from Moscow No. 9
Tuesday September 29, 2015

The blood supply to part of my brain has been interrupted or severely reduced, depriving my brain tissue of oxygen and nutrients. Within minutes, my brain cells will begin to die. All I know is that I cannot move and cannot speak. I think I am on my side on a gravel surface. I can only see through my right eye. I can hear feet and smell Karelias Slims. I slip out of action for a little rest from the exhaustion of keeping one eye open.

Maybe I can pay some people to come and demonstrate for my cause. Or against my case. I can’t focus. Alice Neel was married to Gerhard Richter. I should have gone to the Yukon. I could have found a nice job in Dawson. I wouldn’t care who left me - how many dogs died - how many people had their thumbs pulled off. I can hear Uzbek popular songs. I dream of Uzbeki restaurants in full Orientalist mode. I want the extravagant decor back. I want waiters in costume. I want wandering belly dancers. I want wild bands singing Uzbek songs. I dream of vegetarian food - spiced up with a little meat - just to give the vegetables a lift.

Before leaving town I had left a clear note in my best Russian for a driver to come and meet me if I didn’t return by the end of the day. I can’t move and can’t feel my Huwei any more. Even if I could find a way to answer the phone I doubt I would understand the instructions about where to meet, where to flee or what to do.

Someone energetic and assured has lifted me from the ground. I hear their feet compressing the gravel. Cigarette ash drops in my face. I can receive no further damage. I hear blips of water at the lip of a lake. What are they waiting for?

Alice Neel? That can’t be right. I try and test the words as they lift me into a small launch earning a swift rabbit punch to a kidney. I manage to open that eye again as we are sweeping towards a large concrete bridge.

Data Lake is not all its cracked up to be. Best to just heave me into the water. Actually - best just to take me back into the center of the city and we can all have a drink and laugh about it. Actually - best just to take me to the hospital and get me a brain scan. Actually - best just to imagine that I am not here at all. Actually - best to just heave me into the water after all.

Data Lake. I have many rich queries. I want well-defined levels, strong, bounded-staleness, sessions, and eventuals. I want strong and eventual consistency. Reduced friction and complexity.

Here goes. Up and over the side.

Until tomorrow…

Take care of yourself…

Береги себя

Liam

[karenarchey]

Letter from Moscow No. 10
Wednesday September 30, 2015

I hit the water and immediately struck my knee on the bottom. Suddenly, there, ankle deep. Looking back at the launch. Empty and bobbing gently on the lake. I looked up at the bridge. If only… Ladas, Volgas, Zils, Mokvichs, Gazs, Uazs, Kamazs, Derways, Spetstehs, Dragons. Instead other gentle Japanese hums and German rolls. And I could see my driver. Waving from the span.

Fucking Fortune 300. Ruinart champagne, hors d’oeuvres. And backstage another shithole. I eschewed the bridge and ran for the shore. Time for some woods. A kid with a Honda just handed it over and I was on the move. The weather has cooled but the humidity cancels it out. If I get my skates on it will be dissident style, figurative sculpture, cheese, cold fries and mayonnaise. Bread and wine from Abkhazia. And blow me down - a pint of vodka. Masha and Kristina. Svetlana, Yelena, Olga and Natasha. I wonder if Konstantin Melnikov is at home? Maybe it is time to head for the Narkomfim building. I always loved a good ribbon window.

As I shimmied towards the bridge my PCX-125 hit some hard things. Over and over I clunked. Bits of UT-88 a Vector-06C. My God. A Micro-80. I need to break the ice. There or near the bridge. Plaster flaking off - revealing brick.

Pulling back on the throttle. Both eyes now open and working. Twisting gears as I head towards a green light. A man on the corner - rolling his own cigarettes - while his friend rips off his filter. I love it here. I want to go home - I want to go back to the café on the corner. I know the difference between exile and dissent. I think of Chekrygin. I think of solar forces, charging the earth with forces of attraction and repulsion, bringing the mood of a light summer and laying the way for meteoric flame-trails, immortal sons arising on nearby planets, dispersing the reason-key, the structure that controls the celestial spheres’ courses, engulfing the force of storms provoked by the sun on the planet spheres. In the flowing motions recreated by the magnificent dance, new suns igniting in the celestial scatter, renewing the heavens.

Had I logged onto Rusavtobus.ru I would have known that the 15.45 from Troitskoye was thirteen minutes late. That the driver had also spent a precious few seconds ripping the tip from his Original Gold, straight from the heart of Moldova. That the driver was in the habit of checking his fucking Fly Mobile Levi Strauss branded, 1.76-inch screened, 220 by 176 pixels resolutioned, 2-megapixel camerad, 64MB internal memoried, micro SD’d, USB ported piece of crap.

I wasn’t decapitated by the bus. Rather my body was flung across the street as my head got stuck in the logo. A debodying in a time of beheading. A surgical strike by public transport. My driver has it all on the dash cam. Just white light for a second but a whiff of that suit as he approached me. Data Lake. Special services. Catering for you. Covering me gently up with a spare table cloth pulled from the back of the van just mildly obscured by a gathering crowd.

Take care of yourself…

Береги себя

Liam