St. Petersburg

Sunday, April 17, Issaks & Spilled Blood

April 23, 2016 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

It was a beautiful day in the neighborhood, blue skies, sunny, in the 60s. The faces of people in the street were perceptibly sunnier too, their expressions more cheerful. I decided to take advantage of this brilliant day and do some of the audio tour walks, building in little respites so I don’t over do it. My art-finding mission will be met by visiting two of the churches on my must-see list; St. Issacs and The Church on the Spilled Blood.** Plus, it’s Sunday.

I made a simple plan using Google maps – 10 minutes to an old school coffee shop, The Nutcracker, near that balletomane shrine, the Mariinsky Theater. I’d pause for a restorative espresso, then walk another 25 minutes to the childhood home of Vladimir Nabokov, and pause again to genuflect before the master wordsmith and lepidopterist. Another 15 minutes walk would take me to the monumental ecclesiastic architecture of St Isaac’s Cathedral. After absorbing all the spiritual grace available, walk eight minutes to the well-reviewed Teplo restaurant. From there, Uber over to Church on the Spilled Blood, that postcard for St Petersburg, followed by dinner at Fruktovaya Lavka, another eight minutes walk, and a final Uber back to the hotel. Sounds like a modest plan, right?

Did I mention I’m listening to an audio book of Speak, Memory, Nabokov’s blindingly intelligent , deeply evocative memoir of his life in pre-soviet Russia? Yep, and it’s read by someone with the most sonorous, basso profundo voice you can imagine. Hearing Nabokov describe growing up in a St. Petersburg mansion and on country estates, his patrimony and lineage part of the air he breathed, the inevitable future losses shadowing every bright memory – fencing in the library, evading his fat French governess, seeking secluded halls of the Hermitage for sexual trysts – was an excellent choice.

Here’s what happened.

I didn’t stop for the coffee because wasn’t tired and wanted to push on while I was still fresh. Nabokov house, listed on the internet as open on Sunday, was closed today. A piece of paper in the window broke the news. I was passing Teplo before I got to the cathedral so I stopped and drew a lapdog on one of the pair of chalkboards that line the alley entry to the restaurant.

Walked on to St. Issac’s Cathedral and, after a brief battle with the ticket-dispensing machinery, successfully bought a ticket to both the interior and to climb to the top of the bell tower. The interior is vast. I made myself dizzy looking up.

Lit seven candles for family and friends before an icon of the Virgin.

So much hope and heartbreak represented by these slender candles.

I headed over to climb up the the 200 plus steps – Robin, you are my inspiration – and realized I’d lost my ticket. Ah well. Maybe it’s for the best, a sign of a benevolent creator.

I walked back to the charming Teplo and had a great meal of sautéed fish and fresh vegetables.

The menus were totes adorb.

Retro photos of happy families. No, I'm not going to quote Tolstoy. — Retro photos of happy families. No, I’m not going to quote Tolstoy.

The whole place had a childlike, Mr. Rogers comes to Russia vibe, like this giant courtyard chess set for children.

Ubered to Church on the Spilled Blood, with it’s fairytale exterior. Consider that most fairytales are terrifying. The wolf eats grandma, the mermaid walks on knives, parents abandon their children in the woods. It’s better to show than tell about the interior. Here’s a glimpse of a corner. spilled blood video.

An explosion of pattern and color. — Big, bold pattern and color in your face.

I appreciated the audio guide, especially for the specifics on how different mosaics were created. To an artist, that’s fascinating.

Extraordinary craftsmanship — Small, subtle and extraordinary.

After an hour of craning my neck and staring agog, I walked up the main drag, Nevsky Prospect, hoping to find some Russian cosmetics to take back home to my girls. No luck, one place directed me to another, and so forth. But I did get to see this other Love, Actually moment. There was smooching and he was, adorably, trading his hat for hers, completely oblivious to the crowds surging by on the street.

Hello, young lovers. I miss you, Boatie.

It was getting lateish, after 6, so I checked Google maps and thought a 30 minute walk, that’s not so bad, and I need to buy some milk. I set out in the direction of my hotel.I shouldn’t have. I really shouldn’t have.

That last fifteen minutes I went from tired to limping to painful hobbling. I need to face the fact that just because I think I ought to be able to do it, and I am willing to do it, doesn’t mean I can do it or I should do it. In all, I walked 6.8 miles. I think five miles is my limit. I will for damn sure take Uber everywhere tomorrow. I’ll be aided in my resolve by the fact it’s supposed to rain all day.

** So named because it marks the exact spot where Tzar Alexander II was blown up by terrorist’s bomb in 1881. Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose. Funded by the imperial family, it housed a shrine and held memorial services for the fallen Tzar. After the October Revolution it was used as a morgue and as a vegetable warehouse. It’s now officially the Museum of Mosaics. Thank God.

Monday, April 18 – The Russian Museum

April 24, 2016 by Virginia Parker 1 Comment

It was a blustery day of squalls. I Ubered to Double B coffee, passing this statue that always starts the William Tell Overture playing in my head. Hi yo Silver, away!

Fortified with a cup of their smooth brew, I started my walk to the Benois branch of the Russian Museum. Only a ten minute stroll, but by the time I passed the Church on the Spilled Blood, rain was pelting down. Despite rain boots, raincoat and sturdy umbrella, my jeans were going from damp to drenched. It was raining so hard water bounced up from the cobblestones and riccocheted from the surface of the canal. I sloshed onward as far as Café Berlin where I stopped for an early lunch, in hopes the downpour would ease up.

I ordered a burger, a sure sign that I’m missing home. It arrived, pretty as a picture, but it was like a burger made by someone who’d read about them and seen photographs, but hadn’t actually eaten one. The sesame seed bun was as dry and crisp like a meringue. The meat, while tasty, had an odd, pebbled texture, and was topped with pesto and pickles. I asked for a cheese burger and they slapped on mozzarella. Fries were great.

Sure enough, the sun came blazing out and I hoofed it to the Russian Museum of Art. A completely different experience from the Hermitage – less formal, less crowded (praise all the Russian Saints), and more relaxed. The change of pace was welcome. The art wasn’t as spectacular, but more than one piece made it not only worthwhile, but gave me reasons to return. I adored this painting of Phryne. I circled back to it twice, and sat on a bench and absorbed what I could. Similar to the Slav epic in scale (huge) but more celebratory. Thanks, Semiradsky.

As always, I noticed the dogs, like this jaunty, backlit fellow.

Detail of a larger hunting-themed painting. I miss you. Maddy.

The grimacing, half concealed faces worked into the design of this wall embellishment fascinated me.

This statue of Catherine and her page had marvelous textural detail.

It took a lot of self-discipline to not reach out and stroke this. — It took a lot of self-discipline to not stroke this.

And, according to the museum note, this naughty satyr is just being helpful, tying the nymph’s sandals. Riiiight.

Personally, I think he's taking them off, not tying them on. Museum interpretations can be so prissy. — Personally, I think he’s taking it off, not tying it on. Museum interpretations can be so prissy.

My favorite was this painting of a knight at a crossroads by Vasnetsov.

I overheard a guide tell five military officers that it’s from a Russian folktale. The knight must choose his direction. If he goes right, women and marriage. If he turns left, he’ll have wealth and land. If he rides straight ahead, war and death. He chooses the straight ahead path. I couldn’t help but mutter, if he picked the right woman he could have marriage, wealth, and all the fighting he wanted. Probably great makeup sex too. One of the military guys cracked a smile. They weren’t Americans or Russians, or they wouldn’t have had an English speaking guide.

I stood there and drew a couple of versions.

It reminded me of the painting in the Musée d’Orsay of a defeated cavalry solder riding home through fields of tulips, lance dragging, head bowed. The way I often feel after a full museum day, dragging my ass home through a field of glorious beauty. So much art, so little time. But I forgot one of the best attributes of this museum.

Yay, sofas.

I had planned to walk through the connected wing of the Benois, but fatigue overruled me. I sensibly walked to my dinner place, and after an excellent risotto, called it a day. Tomorrow, return to the Hermitage.

Tuesday, April 19, Hermitage

April 25, 2016 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Back to the Hermitage. Hey, it’s why I filled out all that paperwork and journeyed all these miles. Totally worth it.

After downing a double shot Double B latte, my goal was a thorough look at the French rooms and the small English collection. Passing by the classical Baroque painter Nicolas Poussin, I heard something outside the window. More band practice, or as I like to think of it, the Hermitage halftime show.

A lovely Raeburn portrait captivated me, as did this partially completed portrait of a general.

I love these incomplete works, the intention of the artist still visible. — I love these incomplete works, the intention of the artist and his bold beginning still visible.

I lingered in a large room lined with glass cabinets filled with mostly silver and gilded silver objects; variations on goblets, boxes, serving trays, dishes and vanity sets. Took way too many photos to post, but here are two standouts:

A dragon devouring a horse on top of a tankard.

dragon eats horse — I guess St George lost this one.

The Big Chicken, Hermitage-style.

Turn right at the Big Chicken to get to the throne room.

Stumbled into the throne room. I think the Russians invented the phrase, “Winter is coming.”

Game of Thrones, Russian Division. Winter is coming.

Very imposing. I especially liked the ceiling.

I was fascinated by a small exhibition about restoration of embellishment and embroidery.

Made me itch to pick a needle and embroider. — Made me itch to pick a needle.

Then I stumbled across the white and gold baroque chapel. The lines from Keats’ poem, On First Looking into Chapman’s Homer, popped into my head. “Much have I travelled in the realms of gold,/And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;”

There were interesting liturgical bits and pieces, all of Romanov dynasty historical significance.

detail of an icon

During my lunch break in the cafe, I drew cherubs on the backs of postcards to send home. Afterwards I went in search of the postoffice annex inside the Hermitage. Up I went to the top floors, down they sent me to the basement, I just couldn’t locate it. Tomorrow I’ll give it another go.

Walked to Fruktovaya Lavka after for another stellar meal (sous vide turkey breast, with parsnip puree and cherry sauce, buttered mixed Cruciferae vegetables, and raspberry tart on crème anglaise).

Trying to figure out where to go to buy authentic and interesting Russian goods not made in China and not nesting dolls. Not making great progress, but ever hopeful.

Wednesday, April 20, Hermitage

April 26, 2016 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

I bee-lined for the post office in the depths of the Hermitage. Found it by being humble enough to stop frequently for guidance from the babushkas. Mailed a clutch of illustrated postcards, then wandered around the subterranean level, to see what I could see. Came across the desiccated corpse of a Siberian man with extensive tattoos. The Hermitage helpfully supplied detailed drawing of the patterns. I took photos to pass along to my daughter Emily; musician, artist and, when the spirit moves her, tattooist.

A few rooms away, above a swatch of preserved skin, was this schematic drawing.

I wonder about the significance of the images and their placement.

I got caught up in imagining the people who used the everyday implements; particularly a room lined with the iron pots. Nothing dainty, these were hefty cauldrons worthy of Turtle Soup, the main course at Kempf family reunions. I promise you that for every pot, there was a vigorously used paddle.

There were cases of arms, armor, and equestrian gear. If warhorses were the engines, these saddles were the luxury chassis, interior and rims.

That afternoon I walked the Italian halls of the New Hermitage, a purpose-built space for the display of large canvases. I loved this still life of an oriental carpet. Someday I’ll take a serious run at one myself.

When I realized the enormous stone vase blocking my view was made of Lapis Lazuli, I nearly swooned.

look at the size of that thing. — That gorgeous blue is even more impressive in person.

It’s the blue of the Dutch skies and Italian Virgins robes. It was one of the most expense colors to buy, and there’s enough here to paint the ceiling with. Later I was told that these gargantuan pieces are veneered, not solid, but I don’t know that for a fact. It’s still a massive chunk of glorious blue.

Note the person standing next to it for scale.

I stayed long enough into the evening hour for the hordes to diminish, and got to spend a few precious minutes alone with The Conestabile Madonna. And that’s why I came. Everything from here on out, is gravy.

Thursday, April 21, Menshikov + Nabokov + Museum of Religion

April 27, 2016 by Virginia Parker 1 Comment

Ubered over the river to The Menshikov Palace, home of a proud and ambitious man. His marble bust says it all.

It’s nothing like as graceful as the Yusupov Palace, but then Menshikov rose from humble beginnings to prominence, then plummeted to a bad end after the death of his great friend and patron, Peter the Great. They were besties during their salad days in Amsterdam, which might explains his devotion to Dutch tile. It was both the fashion and outrageously expensive. Menshikov paved the walls and ceilings with it. Kind of a nouveau riche move.

Here’s his sister’s room.

Along with a lathe and wood-working tools used by Peter the Great, There was this wooden strong box. The turn of one key open 26 bolts at once.

Couldn’t find the restaurant I was looking for, so famished I decided to take a chance on this place. It turned out to be a good call. Other patrons were Italian-suited business men and a few Chanel-suited tourist couples. I got the ‘would madam like to see the menu? ‘ move from the Maître d’, who squinted at my Chucks and tee and jeans and wanted to avoid mutual embarrassment by giving me a look at the prices. He did not realize the favorable exchange rate made this a cheap meal. The venue was nice. Light-filled, spacious, calm, excellent service, and not bad food (fish cakes, mashed potatoes, grilled veg).

Name of this place is Restaurant. Which makes it really hard to looks up.

There were birds squawking and singing at random moments. I thought it was some strange attempt at ambience by audio until I saw the pair of cockatiels caged by the bar.

Ubered back across the river to the Nabokov House Museum. Opening the door was like entering a shrine. I’d read his engaging and lucid memoir, Speak, Memory years ago, and been listening to the audio book for the past week. I could see his home in my mind’s eye; especially the library, where his father practiced fencing in the morning. Ah, me. Today Nabokov’s boyhood home is nearly a ruin; a few dilapidated rooms with intact ceiling paneling, a wreck of cordoned-off stairs. The exhibits are meager; photos pinned to the walls, fragments of letters, random memorabilia.The flotsam and jetsam of his exile from the Russia of his youth. A few glass cases of butterflies alone had undiminished beauty.

A Russian language video documentary played in another room to rows and rows of empty seats and three other visitors. I guess they haven’t forgiven him. A prophet without honor in his own land.

Not ready to quit, I checked my homemade Google Map and saw the Museum of the History of Religion was only a few blocks away. Let me recommend the audio guide. It was very informative and spoken by a dry English voice. Like listening to a benevolent and cynical old man recount fairy tales. All that’s missing is the intro, ‘Once upon a time.’ Or, ‘Then the princess pricked her finger and fell asleep for a hundred years.’

Unlike the Nabokov House, there was plenty to see and hear, from shaman rites and Greek temples to over-the-top orthodox vestments, purloined, I assume, when the Bolsheviks ransacked the churches and outlawed the opium of the masses**

There were hard to define oddities, like this priest in a box

Anti-Roman Catholic propaganda.

And this, which was purported to be the actual nails from the actual cross. I doubt these are the real thing.

Unexpectedly, presenting all this as childish superstition had the opposite cumulative effect. Instead of engendering doubt, it fanned the fame of possibility. If all humanity through all the ages has worshipped, has sought and acknowledged a creator, why wouldn’t there be something greater than ourselves? Change the names, the dogma, the rituals, it all points the same direction. The idea man is the very pinnacle, the apotheosis of existence sounds absurd to me. Is hubris the word I’m looking for here? Arrogance, maybe.***

Biggest surprise was the exhibit of The Pure Land of a Buddha of infinite light, Amitabha.

The room was dim and blue. A shining path of starlight above and below led to a set of carved wooden sculptures representing the sphere of bliss. There was the humming drone of chanting. The Mahayana Buddha waits, enthroned. If I’d sat down, I don’t know when I would have gotten up. It was like sinking into a warm lotus pond, in the summer. Bliss.

My last stop was a line of bright gold and red prayer wheels. There was a notice inviting the dear visitor to spin them, so spin I did. I went up and back and up again, saying the names of those I love in my mind, urged on by a smiling Indian babushka. It’s another trip highlight.

** “It is the opium of the people. The abolition of religion as the illusory happiness of the people is the demand for their real happiness. To call on them to give up their illusions about their condition is to call on them to give up a condition that requires illusions. The criticism of religion is, therefore, in embryo, the criticism of that vale of tears of which religion is the halo.” Karl Marx

*** ‘Hubris: insolent contempt that may be defined verbally as extreme or foolish pride.’

Friday, April 22; Tsarskoye Selo, Peterhof

April 28, 2016 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

My cordial and capable guide, Nina Kazarina, arrived at my hotel with driver, Igor. He was a no-nonsense man, ex-Army. If I ever need a bodyguard, I’m calling him. We spent the drive out to Pushkin getting acquainted and I relaxed, putting myself in her capable hands.

Nina Kazarina, as nice as she is pretty.

Catherine’s palace, originally a two story structure, was transformed into eye-popping opulence by her daughter the Empress Elizabeth. She embraced rococo and ordered her architect to out-flaunt Versailles. According to Nina, Elizabeth never wore a dress twice and spent money with both fists. Frankly, it was too fancy for my taste, more Vegas than Versailles, an aggressively gilded showplace. The Yusupov Palace was far more to my liking. The other downside was the hordes. Touring the smaller rooms, each a jewel box of exquisite objects, meant shuffling along, tightly packed into an endless, snaking line. I can’t imagine the fresh hell of high season. However, in the immortal words of Rick Steves, ‘if things are not to your liking, change your liking,’ I looked for what I could enjoy. Nina’s company and commentary were on the top of that list.

At the entry, you slip brown paper booties over your shoes. Everytime I looked down I thought of hobbit feet. Snicker.

Clean but slippery. Watch you step, Baggins. — Clean but slippery. Watch your step, Baggins.

It’s an excellent solution, when the floors are as fabulous as the ceilings, and the ceilings are intricate examples of every embellishment humans can devise. Security looks in bags and takes water bottles, but you can mark your and retrieve it when you leave. We did.

Nina pointed out a pair of small cupids at the top of the grand staircase. More bronze than gold, they were original, purposefully left unrestored. That’s when I learned this palace was virtually razed by bombing.

Nina explained that the highly visible palace was targeted by German artillery. All this aggressive gilding I see is restoration work, almost brand new. I was fascinated by a series of photos in the downstairs hallway of Russian artisans recreating former glory from a bombed out shell. The idea that people were taught these skills and employed to do this heartened me.

The fabled Amber room, lined with panels made out of blobs of resin on gold leaf, is a tourist mecca. It’s more famous for being famous than it is beautiful. Nor is it, in fact, the actual Amber room. That was looted by the Nazis in 1941, and this facsimile was installed in 2003.

The cheerfulness of Nina, and her steady commentary of interesting facts, was a huge plus, truly entertaining. She deftly led us through the labyrinth to the exit. When we emerged, I was enchanted by the magic of softly falling snow.

We walked over to the nearby Museum of Festive Carriages, which I longed to see. It looked closed, but no, we were just the only people there besides the attendants (many a pensioner supplements her income with these jobs). Between growing up on horseback, and all those regency novels I am fond of reading, I was in heaven. There were the royal ceremonial coaches, like a line of Rolls Royces.

This could poof back into a pumpkin at midnight. — This might poof back into a pumpkin at midnight.

Just right for a fair weather family outing.

I loved the cupids, carved wheels, fringe galore.

Loved this jaunty gold and green model, with an umbrella for shade.

Nina looking adorable — Nina, looking like the Mary Poppins of guides.

It’s not all swanky bullion fringe. This carriage was a damaged by the first bomb attack on Alexander II, but remained intact. it was the second bomb that killed the Tsar.

The shattered remains of the carriage Alexander II was in the day he was assassinated — The carriage of Alexander II, bombed by a revolutionary, was a gift from Napoleon.

I looked my fill. I’d go back in a hoofbeat. We ate in Sochi, a nearby restaurant, going for convenience over cuisine. A cafeteria with multiple stations and black and white film footage of Louis Armstrong projected on the wall. You could see how the vast crowds of summer could be accommodated.

The drive to Peterhof took us from snowflakes to lashing rain and then to blue skies, all in thirty minutes. It was sunny and freezing at Peterhof. “The wind is blowing from Finland,” Igor explained. Locals are exceedingly proud of the engineering of the fountains (it all runs by gravity; they sneer at Versailles’ pumped water) and the many many many gold statues (I’m hearing Terry Prachett’s dwarves singing the Gold song). Peter would arrive using that waterway. How the young boat builder must have reveled in that.

Blasted by arctic winds, I hastened inside and pitied the costumed actors who stroll the terrace.

Three of my favorite stories Nina told me: Peter put pieces of fake fruit in with the real thing. He liked to punk his dinner guests and it was a measure of just how drunk they were. Catherine II blew up a frigate for the benefit of a painter. She’d commissioned a dozen paintings of a navel battle, and he’d never seen a ship explode. The Picture Hall room, wallpapered in 368 portraits of young women, are mostly done from a single model, her head at different angles, wearing different accessories.

Instead of going back to the hotel, I asked them to drop me near my favorite restaurant, and they kindly agreed. I learned that I’ve seen enough grand palaces, that I am more interested in downstairs than upstairs. Wishing I’d come when Mon Plaisir was open.

Dinner was delicious, especially the chef’s take on beef stroganoff and the baked apple.

It's on a bed of shaved chocolate. Mm'mm. — It’s on a bed of shaved chocolate. Mm’mm.

Thanks again, Nina. If you want a stress-free day trip, with a cordial and informed guide, she’s an excellent choice. Here’s a link to her company, Tzarina tours. www.tzarinatours.com

Saturday, April 23, day off & Sunday, April 24, General Staff Building

April 29, 2016 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

I spent Saturday lounging around my hotel room, looking at the blue and gold starred church dome through the skylight, doing some hand laundry, and finding creative ways to hang it up to dry. I caught up on the blog. Took naps. I could feel my body soaking up the peace. A day of rest was past due.

SUNDAY – The General Staff Building

I Ubered to the grand arch in the curve of the building that faces the Hermitage. I took a left, hunting for the entrance to the General Staff building, the home of the impressionist collection. I did it out of a sense of obligation and duty, with country music cranked up in my earbuds. It’s the playlist I use when I’m happy or need extra starch in my spine. I had really low expectations, but stumbled across several pieces that surprised me, along with some excretable sculpture, (that’s not a criticism, that’s a description) and Renoir’s pug-faced women. So far I’ve avoided Malevich. Here are some particular things I enjoyed in no particular order. Oh, and there is no map, no guide to the layout of the General Staff Building of any kind. So good luck with that. I treated it like a maze.

Okay, this just cracked me up.

Artist sketching a battle at sea. As one does. — Detail of an artist sketching a battle at sea. As one does.

I’m enthralled when the clothing in a portrait is on display nearby.

Peter the Great in one of his military uniforms

The actual uniform he wwore – note how the sash, on the diagonal here, is wrapped and tied in the portrait.

This corset has a design of Russian and French flags, crossed. Lady played for both teams.

Vive la France, Go Bears! — Vive la France! Go Bears!

Perhaps it belonged this cheerful courtesan.

If you love your job, it's not work. — If you love your job, it’s not work.

And while we’re on the subject of intimate wear, I loved this delicate batiste nightie and bold wrap. I want a shawl just like this. Though I will probably never give up sleeping in Robert’s teeshirts.

Here’s one of those semi-completed paintings I so enjoy, this time by Degas.

The renovation of the interior of this structure was only completed a few years ago. It still has that new car smell. I love the light, the space, the room, and the lack of crowds.

The views weren’t shabby either. This is looking back toward the Hermitage.

Saw another Love Actually moment, this time a young woman and her mother.

These examples are just a glimpse of all the things I found to appreciate and admire. I am so glad I didn’t let my prejudices deter me. I still have two floors to go. After I called it a day, so saturated in art I could absorb no more, I did some light shopping.

Awesome teeshirt line drawing of Peter cutting off the beard of an old school Russian man. Laos made in Russia. Double win. — Awesome teeshirt line drawing of Peter cutting off the beard of an old school Russian man. Plus, made in Russia. Double win.

Walking around I passed this street scene. This is for all y’all who imagine Russian as bleak and the citizens as grim.

Monday April 25, Marble Palace & Eliseyev Emporium

April 30, 2016 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Monday is the Hermitage’s day off, so I Ubered to Marble Palace. It’s a branch of Mikhailovsky Palace which, along with the Rossi and Benois Wings, holds the cultural treasures of the State Russian Museum. Founded by Tsar Alexander III, this is where much of the privately owned artwork, confiscated by the state after the revolution, ended up. It was an eclectic mix of grand rooms, like the Marble hall of the eponymous palace.

This gold box and these spoons made me hanker to get back to working on my own bronze box and silver spoons A pair of hinged cuffs is from the special exhibition Treasures of Ancient Russia. Along with the obligatory portraits of Peter, Catherine & Co, was this precious spaniel, who looks like an ancestor of my Maddy.

There were portraits of working class folk who looked abysmally down-trodden, and this guy. Even in Russia, the dude abides.

Jeff Bridges' Russian brother. — Wishing he was wearing a bathrobe,

Lenin and Stalin, chillaxin’. And this jolly Bolshevik. Cleopatra presides over the grand staircase. The sculpture reminded me more of Teresa in ecstasy than a snake bit woman suffering an agonizing death. Strolled up Nevsky Prospect to have tea at the famed Eliseyev Emporium, a gourmet establishment with marvelous windows.

Mechanical dolls caper around pastries, beneath winged cupids that raise and lower.

Inside, the décor was pretty enchanting too, stained glass, twinkly lights, a player piano that performed the Moonlight sonata. Alas. I should have just eaten with my eyes. This fall into the category of supposedly fun thing I’ll never do again. Not only was it clearly geared to tourists the food, charmingly presented, was mediocre – sandwiches were soggy on one side and dried out on the other, the cake tasted refrigerated, and the tea was weak. The prices were insane, but I was expecting that. In fairness, the worst aspect was out of their control. And elegant looking older couple – probably my age – sat next to me and smelled overpoweringly of mothballs. You might be luckier.

Walked to a grocery store on my way back to the hotel to pick up some milk and some chocolate. Priorities, yo. On the shelf was in the bread section was this little treat.

I went for a bag of mini-Milky Ways

Tuesday, April 26, General Staff Building

May 1, 2016 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Zipped into the Hermitage at the opening bell, on a mission to mail postcards. I was surprised at how vast and empty it felt, tourists just beginning to trickle in, the babushkas still strolling to their posts. I keep thinking of the Empress looking at her paintings, her only company the mice. Dropped off two dozen postcards, a cash only transaction. Left by way of the main entrance, which I’d never even seen. Here’s the line I have also never been in, thanks to my Friends of the Hermitage card.

I walked across to the General Staff building this morning to see what’s on second and who’s on first. My apologies to Abbott and Costello.

There were marvelous things in the collection of lavish diplomatic gifts presented to the Russian Imperial Court. Saddles were a popular choice.

I came across a small room dedicated to Rodin, with half a dozen pairs of his lovers, embracing.

I liked poking around in the Faberge exhibit too.

Brooding viking considers his cut glass boat.

But what about the contemporary art? Let’s start with the most famous work.

Which one of these paintings cost them a cool 8 million? Wanna guess? It’s in the middle. Black Square, by Kasimir Malevich. I’d say I felt nothing but that’s not strictly true. I was irritated. The time I spent looking at this I will never get back. I’d heard of it, and did some Googling, and the idea in the context of the time etc., blahblahblah, but it fails me as visual art, so that doesn’t fix the problem. I know it is my problem, not Malevich’s. This is where I think visual art jumps the shark. Not art per se, but visual art. It’s like Peter’s wooden fruit, stuck in bowls of the real thing – part joke and part field sobriety test.

Next up, Red Wagon.

This installation is supposed to evoke the dismantling of the Soviet Empire. I thought it was a temporary site for workman to leave equipment, or possibly an exhibition under construction. Several of the building’s bigger rooms are empty. Lots of blind alleys and dead ends and maze-like hallways. But some welcome open spaces too. Anyway, now I know that it’s a bone fide conceptual installation? Don’t care.

This is a temporary exhibition. It’s a big deal.

It’s large. Parts are bristly, parts are smooth. Definitely big. Again, meh.

This is what I’d trade all of these for. It was up on the third floor, in the French rooms. It’s very small, 13.5″ x15″

Watercolorist at the Louvre, by Pascal Dagnan-Bouveret. I couldn’t get enough of it. Zoom in if you can. The subject is a woman in the act of painting, which of course matters to me. It’s shamelessly charming. That frothy pink bonbon of a dress is absurd, but the curves and flounces speak to the carved and gilded frame of the large painting. I love the backs of canvases stacked and leaning against the wall, the landscape painting-within-the-painting, the way the light caresses her. The whole thing is so replete with beauty, it’s practically edible. It’s even more captivating in real life than on this screen, trust me.

It will surprise no one that, although I fit the technical definition of a contemporary artist in that i am alive and I do make art, in the world of contemporary art I fall somewhere between an anathema and an anachronism. It’s important to add that every piece of art was not made just for me. You might love Malevich. Have at it. More for you! No lines, no waiting!

I lit some candles at St. Nicholas on my way to dinner at a joint around the corner from my hotel, Romeo’s. A film crew had set up right outside the door, reminding me of my Romeo. Glad we are not star-crossed lovers, just temporarily separated by a mere 4,982 miles.

Russian apple boss are different. — Russian apple boxes are different.

Dinner was okay. My favorite part was dessert.

I think if you try to use the fork on the plate, they don’t let you drive home.

Wednesday, April 28, Dostoyevsky & a red duffle

May 2, 2016 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

It’s raining, cool, and predicted to be this way for the next five days. I’m good to go with my rain boots, my umbrella, and Uber app. A nice American woman at the hotel sprained her ankle on day one of her trip and is on crutches. She’s says the emergency care here is great. Hope I never find out first-hand.

I trod on holy ground today; the Dostoyevsky Museum. A room devoted to the anniversary of the publication of Crime and Punishment was particularly well done, the walls papered with facsimiles of his manuscript pages, drawings of fictional characters and photos of their historical counterparts, and photos of the intellectual miscreants he consorted with.Those bad boys got him jailed, condemned, driven to execution, and reprieved at the last moment by the Tsar. He was sentenced to hard labor (one of his many personal experiences with crime and punishment) and there are images representing his view of the road on the way to his mock execution. Also, photos of men in chains.

Prisoners in work camps.

And naughty ladies. Represent ladies.

Filles de joie, and dancers girls. — Filles de joies

cadle photo — This is the real saint all writers under deadlines should pray to.

There were screens mounted on the walls with multiple (muted) versions of the film adaptations playing, a series of projected images of churches that he attended or that featured in various stories, and many photographs of the great man himself. I liked one set apart, near a window and beside a candle. He worked through the night in the summer of 1865, writing The Gambler by day and Crime and Punishment at night. “Projected under the title The Drunkards, it was to deal “with the present question of drunkness … [in] all its ramifications, especially the picture of a family and the bringing up of children in these circumstances, etc., etc.””

If he didn’t meet his deadline, he’d lose the rights to all his work. He had 30 days.

Ledger with his original notes for the story. — Mr. D and notes. Revisions are a bitch, but essential. Ask any editor.

On the silver lining side, he was so buried under deadlines and desperate that he hired an stenographer, Anna Snitkina, to try the method of dictation, and proposed to her a month later She was 20, he was 45.

She accepted one of the least romantic proposals in history

The happy couple.

The family’s living quarters seemed both sterile and oppressive, but his plain, sturdy desk gave me shivers. I took a photo from the window.

Delete the cars and modern signage, and the view may not have changed that much since he stared out of it. There was something about descending the gouged and pitted stone stairs just as he must have done, that seemed more evocative than the sparse, carefully arranged room vignettes.

I bought some souvenir pens and pencils, and a mug with a quote from Notes from the Underground in Cyrillic. “I say let the world go to hell, but I should always have my tea.”

I went to the food market afterwards. I didn’t feel up to haggling with glowering men, so I passed the produce by.

Descending from the sublime to the international shrine of consumerism, I Ubered to the Galeria, a giant shopping mall. I trudged to the top floor, in search of a pedestrian piece of luggage I could use to bring home non-fragile items, clearing my small case for mugs and a ceramic bowl. I have a two suitcase allowance on my flight home, might as well use it.

I ate something for lunch that was on my list of Russian foods to try – a blini from Teremok, the MacDs of Russia. I ordered by pointing to what looked like ham and cheese. The guy on the register was patient and kind. It was 149 rubles, so $2.25. Watching them make it was a mistake – pour a ladle of pancake batter on the griddle and fill it with stuff squirted out of plastic bags. Ew. It was edible, but not good. Flabby pancake/crepe with gummy filling. I ate it anyway. It just made me love my regular Fruk joint more.

Found a small red duffle bag to carry my loot home. I went for red because, Russia. Just doing my part to support St Petersburg.