I love Russia. Well, to be exact I have only been to Moscow. But I feel a deep love for the whole nonetheless. I worked in Moscow for two weeks while I set up Pagliacci for Los Angeles Opera via The Israeli Opera who rented our costumes. Directed by Franco Zeffirelli, it played at the Kremlin Palace Theatre. The thrill of going through security to get into the Kremlin, right next to Red Square and working with the Muscovites, is something I will never forget. I remember walking over the bridge that takes you into the Kremlin proper, knowing this was the very bridge that Napoleon crossed on his horse...among so many other people of historical significance...and me. One evening crossing this bridge I remember in particular. The sun was golden light as it was about to set. Deeply set stone-cut bricks make up the bridge. It is powerful and sturdy, built with precision and strength. To me it spoke volumes about the people; what they had, created, and endured. Standing on this road I felt these bricks underneath, and looking down at my feet as I walked these 'cobblestones' I had the most amazing time travel flashback. I am a teenager. It is nearing sunset also, with the same golden hued evening light-time glow. It is one of the many times I am walking towards backstage in the summer musical theatre production I was a part of for many years. I quickly returned to where I was, on this bridge into the Kremlin. I stood there thinking of the long road of Life I have walked, and the many shows on which I have worked. My passion for the theatre began at that summer arts program I loved so much. I thought to myself, "I have a love for the performing arts so I could be here today, in Moscow, at the Kremlin Palace Theatre." All the Broadway shows I have worked on, all the Stars I have watched, worked with, and enjoyed from the wings...and that moment, right there on that bridge on my way to the evening performance of Pagliacci, is the most special to me.
The bridge into the Kremlin.
Onstage of the Kremlin Palace Theatre
Flying over Moscow en route to land at the Sheremetyevo Airport I looked down and saw nothing but Birch trees. It seemed like fields and fields of Birch trees. Their shimmering leaves catching the light in the wind and their unmistakable white papery bark standing down into the ground like giant white icicles. Russia was a mysterious land to me, a place we were taught to fear growing up in the 70's, and then magically dispelled by Reagan and Gorbachev in the 80's. We were suddenly allowed to be friends.
Me and Peter, Red Square
I wanted to dive into the Moscow World. To understand, to befriend, to know. I felt like I had never lived anyplace else once we were there. I felt the Spirit of Russia as if it was a part of me, and I was a part of it. Its size was marvelous. The food was incredible. The vodka, well...not that I was able to enjoy too much as I worked long days and didn't really want to drink at night as to be too tired the next day, still was delicious. I brought home a bottle that to this day I haven't opened. The coffee each day in the cafe at the theatre was the best I may have had anyplace. Tiny servings in tiny cups that packed a delicious intense warmth that got you going. Running down the street after the costume designer Ramona, who claimed that Russia had the best cherries in the world. She darted into a shop and came out with a huge bag full of the dark fruits that we enjoyed the rest of the day through fittings. I Discovered one day that American cigarettes were cheap as candy bars, so I smoked Parliaments like all my Comrades at the theatre. I found this incredible honey shop that had some 100 or so different vats of honey. I brought home a couple of jars that I wanted to save forever, but couldn't help myself and enjoyed the golden flavor. Eating apricots soaked in honey from Moscow...mmmmm, heaven.
There are many days when out of the blue I am transported back to Moscow. I can see the light of the day in my minds eye...the beautiful people...men sitting on the sidewalk making brooms out of the fallen branches...the tall statuesque young women each one more beautiful than the next...the expanse...Red Square...St. Basil's...Gorky Park...all of it. I miss it, Her, regularly. I believe that in the future, Russia is where the next pyramids will be built. but that is another story...
The one thing that stayed with me the most though, were the beautiful Birch trees. I took many pictures of these trees while we visited the Novodevichy Cloister. I have loved birch trees since childhood, as many were on my grandma's land in Minnesota. We used to tear off the paper bark and fold it into a canoe-styled shape and float them in the marsh, or down the clear stream that ran through the woods. I always thought of these trees as magical, as silent watchers. The earth in Moscow at the Cloister smelled just like the same earth as on Grandma's farm. Soft and with a slight sandyness, damp and rich. I remember smelling this so clearly and also flashed back to her farm. I felt two places at once. Was I a child at her farm, or a child here, in Moscow?
Outside Novodevichy Cloister
Novodovichy Grounds
Russian Birch
I believe the space of Moscow, of Russia, allows for this kind of experience, this time-jumping through memory. The enormity of her allows an openness that I never experienced in the comparatively and ridiculously cramped, puny, Manhattan, or the country-like Los Angeles. When I thought of these places I felt I could hear Russia giggling..."as if", she seemed to say. "There is no comparison to Mother Russia!" "Come, cleave to my breast!"
But still, it is the quiet gentleness of the Birch trees that I think about most. I painted them several times over. Coming back to them again and again. They are like ghosts, silent young gods. Waiting. Whispering, "come home. Come home."
Birch Tree #1
Oil on Wood
12" x 13"
2008
Church
Oil on Bamboo Curtain
60" x 84"
2008
Russian Birch #1
Oil on Wood Tree Planter
23" x 23" x 15.5"
2008
