The bohemian theatre life, a la Moscow

There is a draught. An old armchair sits in the holes of the dilapidated parquet floor; the cello leans against the window-sill and looks out through the slightly open window. Bows swing from the ceiling on thin fishing-line, echoing the excitement of the brightly colored dress that hangs on the wall. A cardboard cut-out of a man gazing intently stands in the corner, hiding a guitar and a dismantled drum kit. On the sofa, a tabby cat called Vatslav purrs and eats a piece of processed cheese. Coffee flows through the Turkish coffee maker. It is 5 a.m.; Chistoprudniy Boulevard awakes to the sound of tram wheels rattling along the rails and tired young people mumbling on a Saturday morning.

Sasha is smoking. The exam session at the department of film-directing at the Boris Shchukin Theatre Institute has left Sasha completely sleep-deprived for a whole month.

Every month, Moscow retains its status as one of the most expensive cities on the planet. For dinner, which swiftly turns into breakfast, Sasha buys herself a bottle of cheap wine, a piece of cheese and some coffee.

Sasha. Source: Kirill Lagutko

Six years ago, at the age of 17 and having moved from her parents’ place to a rented apartment with course-mates, the student of theatre criticism at the Russian Academy of Theatre Arts never once imagined that she would someday be able to do what she loves for a living. After four unsuccessful attempts at entering the faculty of acting, she decided to enroll in the faculty of theatre studies, which is open to anyone who does not pass the audition.

The door creaks open. There is no need for a lock on it, since nobody knows that people live here – and those who do realize that this is the case are always welcome guests. A blond young man stands at the door, tired after dragging his double-bass into the room. Lyosha, Sasha’s course-mate, writes a column entitled “At the Theatre with Aleksey Kiselyov” for the well-known Moscow magazine Afisha.

When he is not writing caustic pieces for the magazine, he plays the double-bass, composes experimental music and puts on shows when he feels especially melancholy. He does not have the same financial issues as Sasha: he has not paid rent since moving in with his girlfriend, in her father’s art studio.

“We once found the transcript of an audio-recording of Putin, entitled ‘Prime Minister Vladimir Putin meets with the participants and organizers of “The Little Prince” music and literature charity event.’ The author of the text was unknown, and we decided to play around with it a little, through the medium of drama.

“We named it after the recording, and tried to refrain from attaching any kind of political connotation; although, of course, this aspect is somewhat inherent. In our country, censorship isn’t a problem if you work as part of an independent collective. The only problem is financing, of course, as there aren’t any funds or governmental establishments which support these kinds of projects,” said Lyosha.

Sasha attended acting auditions with perseverance and persistence, until she realized that she wanted to become a director. She got into the Shchukinskii Institute on her very first attempt. In order to pay for her first semester, she spent a year working the night shift in a bar and took part in a few theatre festivals, which were organized by her course-mates. Lengthy discussions with weary customers at the bar, working overtime and many sleepless nights all served to strengthen her character and teach her to handle strong alcohol: she now drinks only wine or whisky.

Her friends in the department of theatre criticism allow themselves the occasional rum and coke, as well. Work at the Meyerhold Center starts at 1 p.m., which means Masha can sleep in at least until 11:00. Masha Starygina, who goes by the nickname “Maman” (“mommy”) does what she loves best for a living: taking care of theatre performances. In fact, she likes “taking care” of things in general.

Masha is the main specialist for creative projects at the Meyerhold Center. During her free time, which incidentally is also entirely dedicated to work, “Maman” puts announcements from director-friends of hers on her Facebook wall. This was today’s: “I’m looking for 3 broken pianos, old furniture, broken household appliances. If you have any of these things, I can pick them up at the end of September.”

Masha works with Olya, a former classmate of hers at the faculty of theatre criticism. Olya’s boyfriend, Kostya, is a set designer who studied under Dmitry Krymov, one of the country’s leading teachers of scenography. At the moment, he is holding an exhibition of his work at Neglinnaya Theatre. Besides this, he takes part in certain projects, but there is not much permanent work.

“Surviving exclusively on what you love doing is a difficult task for a young director and his actors. There are successful shows, which attract large audiences, but these are one-offs. To some extent, this is either due to production issues or government funding. Theatres on the whole have such modest funds, which tend to be allocated purely to staging the production – if there is even anything to be allocated. After spending their ‘golden years’ at the institute, students become used to the consistent flow of work, and as a result they feel ‘abandoned’ when they graduate as they don’t know how to earn a living in their field of expertise,” said Masha.

Sasha has an idea: four people, a spotlight, monologues, minimalism and the rhetorical question: “Who am I, in actual fact?” In terms of synopsis, all performances are fairly similar, as are people’s stories throughout history.

Katya met Sasha seven years ago, and at first glance, her story may seem very similar: she dropped out of journalism, applied to study acting and eventually chose directing. Apparently, thanks to her former training, she has a “journalistic approach” to her creative work. “In Russia you can put on a performance about practically anything,” said Katya.

“This ‘everything’ is restricted to the limits of your own fears: poverty, failure, lack of understanding, loss of happiness, etc. Perhaps you can’t find a role to play, but nobody can stop you from putting on a performance…. The audience may not always understand me, but perhaps I just haven’t found the right ‘language’ to communicate in. I feel that the audience is capable of understanding anything.