CHASING PAINT

Wednesday, May 4, part two, Hermitage Storage Facility

May 16, 2016 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

After the regal equipage, paintings, icons and frescoes, we were taken to view a variety of furniture, mostly chairs.

{"focusMode":0,"deviceTilt":-0.03015134669840336,"whiteBalanceProgram":0,"macroEnabled":false,"qualityMode":3} — Chairs and more chairs.

There were wonderfully elaborate examples, great fun to look at, but surely purgatory to sit on.

Cherub heads and velvet worn to the nap .

La-Z-Tsar. Even royals can’t resist a good recliner

chair neauvou — Looks shockingly modern in this context.

Lovely needlepoint — Lovely and bold needlepoint

After this we were led through a large room filled with brilliantly colored cloth tents. I imagined them being used for weddings or warfare. I had a dearth of facts, so I let my imagination run free.

s tent coat — I was surprised to see this. I have a coat very like this one. It came to me from Afghanistan by way of NYC back in 1975

There were several exhibits of court finery. Unfortunately, most of my photos were spoilt by glare.

Lastly, these two garments.

Sleeve of Peter the Great — Sleeve of a coat worn by Peter the Great. He had a very recognizable silhouette – great height, narrow shoulders. He liked ease of movement. That sleeve inside the sleeve helped hold in warmth. And those buttons!

My personal favorite, a coachman’s hat for those really special occasions.

After several hours, this visit was done. Uber found me on the steps, and hauled me back to the city for my last meal and final visit to the Hermitage proper. That will be my final post of this trip.

Wednesday, May 4th. Part One – Hermitage Storage Facility

May 15, 2016 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

It all funneled down to this day. Things fell off my hopeful maybe? list like hanged men dropped on a gallows. No way I’d get to the Museum of Politics or the Alexander Nevsky Monastery where Dostoyevsky lies restlessly interred. Ah well. Enough is as good as a feast.

I updated and sized photos* then skipped downstairs to breakfast with my order queued up on my Google Translate app; porridge with raisins, brown sugar, and cinnamon on the side, please. “Would you like the cappuccino you ordered yesterday, Ma’am?” asked the maître d’, appearing at my elbow. They’d been taking notes. The waiter looked at my order, hesitated, then suggested perhaps it would be better if they softened the raisins in warm water for me first. It was hard to keep a straight face. “Thanks, but no.” Chewing fresh golden raisins is no hardship. I nearly added, ‘it’s fortunate that someone of my advanced years can sit up and take nourishment at all.’

I Ubered about 25 minutes in light traffic to the storage facility of the Hermitage, where they keep objects that need special care, restoration, and those thousands of items that don’t have a slot on the hallowed Hermitage walls. I don’t know how they decide what is displayed and what goes on hiatus.

I’d hoped for a glimpse of paintings from the Northern renaissance and reliquaries that could serve as inspiration for my own design and build metal projects. Instead, I was added to the only available tour, a Russian language group of parents and children, from middle school age, to mobile enough get into mischief, down to a nursing infant in arms. Surprisingly, this turned out well. I didn’t see works of the kind I generaly seek out, but what was deemed sufficiently engaging for children was right up my equine alley. The guide began with saddles and carriages of the Romanovs.

Diamonds on the soles of her shoes immediately started playing in my head.

Painted wood versus chunky embroidery. Not sure which would be the most uncomfortable.

Fringes vs a decent pommel you could grab if the horse got frisky. — Decent pommel you could grab if the horse got frisky or attractive fringe? Tough call.

sad cheetah 2 — More of saddle blanket than a saddle. You can see where the rider’s legs wore away the fur on the sides of the cheetah.

I roamed around peering into things while the guide nattered on in Russian. I liked being able to look closely, instead of feigning polite attention. One small boy set off impressive alarms by wandering deep into the display area behind the red ropes. He only did it once.

One of the carriages was a magnificent red affair

Crown on the roof. In case you were looking down from a rooftop.

Fabergé copied it on a minuscule scale, turned it into a mechanical toy, and hid it inside one of their famed eggs. It can still propel itself on tiny wheels.

I loved the painted carriages. I’m about to get my Prius painted (blue instead of that boring inoffensive and dull beige it’s been since 2007), but part of me wants to do something like this.

Or like this tiny sleigh. Very popular in Holland at the time – note the windmill on the right.

Rolling art.

Detail; Figureheads. lions, and dolphins, oh my! — Figureheads. lions, and dolphins, oh my!

From there we went to a room of works undergoing restoration. We had out own personal guard, who didn’t do much more than open doors and herd stragglers.

Our guard across from racks of stored paintings. — On duty, across from racks of stored paintings.

The paintings each of these unit holds are listed on the sides.

What I wouldn't give to be turned loose in here for, say, a decade. — What I wouldn’t give to be turned loose in here for, say, a decade.

A few bits of paper were taped to the exit door, visual notes on works undergoing restoration.

Next we were led down featureless corridors and in and out of elevators until we arrived in a room packed with large frescoes on one end, and small icons on the other. Everything was hung behind glass, under strict light and climate control.

{"focusMode":1,"deviceTilt":0.04562060435744719,"whiteBalanceProgram":0,"macroEnabled":false,"qualityMode":3} — Closeup of an Icon supported by brackets on a grid system. The light was dim while we were there, and the lights went off when we left.

{"focusMode":1,"deviceTilt":-0.002587393918309644,"whiteBalanceProgram":0,"macroEnabled":false,"qualityMode":3} — Precious, in every real sense of the word

Some wild version of St. George? Or an archangel snuffing out a demon? Russian saint? — An archangel snuffing out a demon? Russian saint? Gabriel blowing his horn on judgement day?

He looks showroom ready, almost too clean. Also, disappointed, weary, and cynical. A visual shrug. Very Russian — This Christ looks showroom ready, almost too clean. He seems faintly disappointed and slightly cynical. Very Russian expression.

I’m breaking this excursion in two parts, since there were multiple categories of treasures and too much I want to show rather than tell. Plus, my adventure is nearly over and I hate to let it go.

Next up: Chairs, Couture, & Camping.

*If I didn’t hook up my phone to the computer, I’d be screwed when it comes to uploading photos. It’s still seems glitchy, but it’ll be important to know when I’m arranging the next long journey.

Tuesday, May 3, Stieglitz Tour, Zoom lunch

May 8, 2016 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Did laundry in the sink, because I need thin socks to wear now that St Petersburg has blue skies and 60 degree weather. The lovely Astoria had heated towel racks that will dry them in a trice.

Ate my breakfast downstairs. It was a tad formal for my relaxed Beverly Hillbillies style, but they seated me with a view of the Saint Isaac’s Cathedral. Service was impeccable, performed by waitstaff so attractive you’d think you were in LA. When I asked for porridge with raisins, it appeared in a porcelain bowl. My double shot cappuccino was world class. I ate while I sized photos for the blog, happy as an overpriced clam on ice in a silver bowl.

Ubered over to the Stieglitz museum and Academy of Art and Design. The driver was a double for Herc on The Wire. His English was serviceable and he wanted to chat, a double rarity among Russian Uber drivers. He told me he had worked in Moscow for 30 years, but he liked living in St Petersburg better. No, he didn’t go to the May 1 parade, he didn’t approve of those politics. On impulse, I showed him my video clip on my phone of the perky, prancing Russian drummer girls and he softened like butter in the tropics.

Popped out at the Stieglitz, and knocked on the door. My stout guide had an air of benevolent command and was the the doppelgänger of the announcer in the Wendy’s Burger ad from the 80s. She unlocked the first of many sets of metal gates, and off we went, her chatelaine of keys rattling. Stieglitz created a monument to the applied art and design, making the building itself a kind of visual text book, a marvelously illustrated folio of arts and crafts through the ages. Both students and the graduates of the school actively participated in the painting and decoration. The interior murals and frescos were copied from both Italian and Moscovian Palaces; hall after hall, ceiling after ceiling.

I wanted to fall to my back on the floor and just soak it in. I had a fantasy of lying on a well-padded handcart and being wheeled through the halls.

Turns out the school is closed on Mondays and we had the place to ourselves. My guide would point and announce ‘perspective’, or ‘19th century’.

Certain words, like cloisonné, required no translation. Gestures, and writing dates with her finger in dust, worked well. I discovered I preferred non-verbal tours. I spent more time looking and less time talking. She lingered near the textiles: wall mounted glass cases of dolls dressed in the regalia of their Russian region, cases of vintage French silk upholstery swatches, dresses for brides and pregnant woman, elaborate headdresses, variations on the embroidered coif.

We strolled halls lined with Spanish, French, and Italian escritoires ornamented with carving, petra dure mosaics, marquetry.

Galleries surrounding a central courtyard exhibition space were lined with copies of the broken, powerful figures of the Parthenon friezes.

Paint spattered, well-used easels and rickety chairs were set up for students.Restoration work from the depredations of the Soviet era is ongoing.

I got excited over a small metal box and communicated via my iPhone that I was making a bronze casket, after which she brought me behind the velvet ropes and opened various boxes for me to examine.

I typed ‘I prefer skill and beauty,’ and she sighed and indicated she loved medieval period. We bonded.

An intricately carved wooden box bed had us both in raptures.

For all that the Stieglitz was plundered by the Soviets and left dusty, stripped of acquisitions, and frayed around the edges, it was still a treasure house of imagery and cultural achievements, and she was its keeper. We walked the halls for over an hour. I departed filled to the brim with beauty and possibilities, and a deep happiness that this cradle for applied arts survived being looted, whitewashed, and turned into a gym. It was, without a doubt, the best 2000 rubles I ever spent.

Recall how disappointed I was, how angry at being thwarted when I first knocked on this door and was turned away? I had to figure out a way to finagle a tour, which resulted in this deeply satisfying experience. ‘Things have a mysterious way of working out,’ as my friend Tom Magill used to say. Have a little faith.

Afterwards I called Uber and went to Café Zoom. Score! Delightful ambience, great food, and best of all, kind, smiling waitstaff. Very like Teplo, with a playful menu and a sense that families were welcome. I started with a salad of fresh shaved carrots and apples, my entree was cod on mashed potatoes, and I drank a non-alcoholic mojito; 7-up, lime, and mint. Very refreshing. The check came in a children’s book about a frog.

I wish I'd had room for a piece of that cake. — I wish I’d had room for a piece of that cake.

It was 3pm by the time I walked back to Astoria. I did the bulk of my packing for the trip home, and some reading. Thank you, Rose Lerner, for Listen to the Moon, book three of the Lively St. Lemeston series. Her story about an out of work valet and his maid of all work sweetheart fit right in with my day spent in glorious halls that needed dusting. Read until midnight, but didn’t wake until 7, so that’s good.

Last night I felt like I might be sickening, coming down with something; sore throat, headache. Not cholera, but not good. Uh oh.

Monday, May 2, Loft Project Etazhi, 3rd time lucky

May 7, 2016 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Monday, another day when I have to remind myself that I don’t have a plan, I have a purpose, slow down and just look around. Be in the moment.

Walked towards Double B coffee & tea for my favorite coffee. Passing through Palace Square, I found out just what Russians do with that wide open area on the day the museum is closed.

I found a note on the Double B door saying they weren’t opening until 11. Knew better than to skip breakfast, and went looking for the pyshki (Russian Krispy Kreme-type doughnut) place. No luck, but Fruktovaya Lavka was right there, and open, so I went in and had apple pancakes (blini with chopped, sautéed apples), a great double shot cappuccino, and updated the blog while I ate. With my Mac Air in my backpack, I walked over to the Russian Museum, intending to pay homage to Phryne and maybe draw for awhile. Encountered the long lines I’d only heard about. Turned right around, called Uber and went to Loft Project Etazhi to snag that super cool top for Robin. Hooray, they were open, OMG they wanted cash. I tried to pull cash out of a nearby ATM with my AmEx or Visa but no go. Slightly more determined than discouraged, I Ubered back to the hotel, ate an apple, pulled my debit card out of my safe, hit the ATM in the Astoria. Back I went to the Etazhi. It is always lively, hipsters families must be coming from miles around. I’m still amazed at how shoddy and squalid the building itself is, but feel right at home. I buy the shirt (third time lucky!) buy another teeshirt with flying Hermitage cats (sales supports homeless people and autism research). Counting the few rubles I have left, I ascend the stairs to the Green Room Café, which I think of as the yellow butterfly restaurant. No credit cards welcome here either. I can afford tomato soup and bottle of water. There are young kids everywhere, squirming in high chairs, sleeping in their mothers arms or solemnly thumbing an iPhone A woman with beautiful dreds eats her lunch with one eye on her toddler.Headed towards to Dostoyevsky’s parish church, Vladimir Icon of the Mother of God Cathedral. Completed in 1783, it has five different-sized onion-shaped cupolas, some currently undergoing restoration. Bells were ringing as I walked up.

Inside, a priest was chanting a mass, while swinging a censor and circling a low altar for his congregation of seven wizened, white-haired parishioners.

I sat half-hidden by a column and thought how lucky I was have made this journey to St. Petersburg. Before I left, I bought bright red wallet cards of icons and some red candles that I lit for my dear ones. Left feeling tranquil and happy. Ubered back to the Astoria, listening to Peter the Great.

Sunday, May 1, Labor Day Parade and Kazan Cathedral

May 6, 2016 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Today was crazy in the best possible way. My plan had been to walk to the Kazan Cathedral, Uber over the shop in Loft Project Etazhi and buy that perfect flowy-yet-structured blouse for Robin, and end the day visiting the Benois wing of the Russian Museum.

I walked to the corner and grabbed a flat white double shot and an almond croissant. Started toward Kazan, looked up from my iPhone map and realized the intersection with Nevsky Prospekt was empty. What the what? This is the 5th Avenue and Broadway of St. Petersburg, thronging with humanity and bumper to bumper cars 24/7.

I turned onto Nevsky Prospekt to find police and soldiers lining the curbs, one every ten or 12 feet. They looked really young, in their teens and early twenties. A parade was coming in 15 minutes. I’d been told the Victory Day Parade was on the 9th, but this was the Labor Day Parade, International Workers Day.

I changed my plans instantly. Not missing this once in a lifetime experience. Turns out, though it looked like they were braced for riots, the parade was as mellow as the Inman the Park Festival, even without my funky favorites, the Seed and Feed Abominable Marching Band. Balloons galore, babies in strollers, girls in short skirts with pompoms, and homemade floats in the back of pickup trucks. It was an entirely peaceful crowd, and most of the people walking in the parade looked like they were doing a 5K for charity. Ambling along, smiling at the blue sky, babies on shoulders.

Happy folks marching in celebration — Happy Labor Day! I’d bet cash money they’d all vote for Bernie.

There were occasional synchronized cheers, but for what, I have no clue. A proud Putin supporter on the sidelines waved his flag. Everybody got along.

The cops were mostly there to keep people from swarming the streets with their iPhone cameras, and from crossing in front of the marchers. A lost cause, that. The babushkas did it anyway, and the boy soldiers got red-faced, and looked like they wanted to cry. I posted a clip on FaceBook of a lady drum line – adorable and so perky. May 9th is when the tanks roll down the streets and I was told that, from now until then everybody takes time off, like our unofficial Christmas to New Year’s break.

After an hour of happy Russian people on parade goodness, I walked up the street to the Kazan Cathedral. Outside, a choir sang in celebration of Orthodox Easter.

Inside, I lit candles for my family and friends.

I wrote a prayer request list too and the lady who took it and my ruble donation sternly demanded, ‘Orthodox?’ ‘No,’ I admitted. ‘Catholic?’ she asked. ‘Yes.’ Turns out that got my prayers in the right slot of the box at her side. I didn’t ask if the two slots were for the sheep and the goats. I’ll wait on Judgement day for that. I thought the Kazan was officially a museum, not a place of worship, but people were lined up to touch this particular icon, and press their foreheads or lips to the lower right side of it. Nuns patrolled the aisles, plucking out candle stubs and swiping the glass framed icons with rags that I hoped were soaked in disinfectant. The touching and kissing of icons is something I witnessed in every church I ventured in.*

Urbered to the Etazhi market to buy that blouse for Robin. Alas, the shop was closed and no days/times posted. A kind woman on the register in a nearby shop tried to call them, but the number posted was defunct. Strike one.

Wandered around the Benois wing of the Russian museum, 20th century art that, to my prejudiced eye, was mostly lame, but a few things stood out in a good way A portrait of women mill workers.

Alexander Dieneka, 1927, Textile Workers

It remindedme of the movie Norma Rae, and this portrait of three oncologists in Edinburgh.

This elegant small watercolor of an African woman.

This, mostly because the the delicious light on her toes.

And this happy go lucky duo.

The clock was running an hour fast. I thought a great title would be 'Does it feel hot to you? I'm burning up. , — I imagine it’s a comment on the global climate crisis. “Does it feel hot to you? I’m burning up.”

I had another great dinner at Fruktovaya Lavka. They brought me a special plate of Russian Easter treats, on the house. A stollen type bread, cubes of ricotta cheese, nut, and fruit spread, and a colored hardboiled egg.

By the time I walked back to the Astoria, I had racked up 5.75 miles. Sleepily making plans for tomorrow, since the Hermitage is closed on Mondays.

*Still thinking about what separates spiritual from superstition, and what part ritual plays in a spiritual life. I light candles to direct and focus my intentions, not to solicit divine intervention. I believe in a power greater than myself, I just don’t expect to have any control over it.

Saturday, April 30, and now for something completely different

May 4, 2016 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Woke at five and wrote two blog entries, which took me to 10:45 mostly because I get caught up in editing and looking up clarifications on the internet and time flies away. I approached the concierge about negotiating entrance to the Hermitage Storage Facility and the Stieglitz Academy and Museum over the phone, and she went to bat for me immediately. No luck. The Hermitage played pass-the-problem-to-another-department until she called one that doesn’t answer their phones. The plucky and determined concierge, named Xenia after the patron saint of the city, assured me she’d keep trying. She was wry and expressive and funny and clearly capable. Just watching her work her magic over the phone was entertaining.

I walked to the corner to try the Angel of Happiness café, and it was way too high-end hip and crowded. I loved the place mat.

My server didn’t approve of my choice to have milk with my granola instead of yogurt, and let her displeasure be known. The granola was great, like a homemade version of Sugar Smacks loaded with many varieties of nuts. Took this photo of this guy outside the window, holding a bouquet of daisies and texting, thinking he’s’ gonna get lucky.

The girl in the yellow coat facing the other direction, across the street? That's a story right there. — The girl in the yellow coat facing the other direction, across the street? That’s a story right there.

Before I left, he walked in with the object of his affection; a blonde in supple black leather. No wonder he was so hopeful.

Decided to walk to the Benois wing of the Russian museum and set out, following my Google Maps GPS. I pasted in an address from my master list. Bad call. It led me far away in the wrong direction. When I figured out I had nearly walked back to my old hotel, I stopped and called Uber. Know when you are defeated.

Scooted to the first place on my shopping list, Loft Project Etazhi (74 Ligovsky Prospect). I vaguely recalled it described as many arty shops in a loft. Pay dirt! Walked into the courtyard from the street into a mash-up of Wonderroot, Krog Street market, Homegrown, with an East Atlanta/Earl vibe. Skinny, young(er) people with bubblegum pink streaks in peacock blue hair, or shaved and cut at angles, or – extra credit – a sprongy mass of dreds to the waist. Guys with green top knots. Everyone pecking away on their phones, more texting then talking. Lots of I-am-too-cool-to have-a-facial-expression stares, but also lots of little kids, from babes in arms to toddlers lurching around, to resigned youths of eight or nine glued to their iPhones. It reminded me of Krog Street Market, but much rougher physically, People kept pouring in, paying 100 rubles to get in the loft door. It was a street party in an alley.

The interior was falling apart (sections of the wooden bannister rail came off in my hand. Twice,) but creatively divvyed up. Multiple tiny cubbies, made with loving hands out of scrap wood and lollypop colored plastic panels and insulation board. Raw edges and patchwork of found materials; the unisex bathroom stall doors were made out of insulation foam boards.

tat head — Poster boy for their target market.

There were five floors of these hole-in the-wall-shops stocked with hipster/boho/Goth/hippie/rocker/souvenier merch. Excellent! Some American thrift store tat, cool local designers who must be sewing in their bedrooms, sneakers, ‘herbs’, soap, pizza on hotplates and pushed through windows, magnets, charms, cards, leather cuff bracelets, and so on.

I thought this would be ideal for Robin, but needed her confirmation. Texted her the photo.

Simple in color, complex in design. Moves beautifully. Photo does not do it justice.

I didn’t hear back – I think it was 2am her time – so ended up buying a few small things and a teeshirt. On the fourth floor I stepped into a large open restaurant where the bread factory had been. Made by loving hands hippie decor reminded me of back in the day in Haight-Ashbury. Wooden crates, for light fixtures, tin buckets for delivering the check, Yellow butterflies cut out of construction paper and tacked onto every exposed surface; walls, ducts, columns, windows, and tables. I thought of Remedios the Beauty in 100 Years of Solitude who metamorphoses into yellow butterflies. Or maybe it’s a sly reference to Nabokov. The window ledges were lined with tropical plants and desert cacti.

Intended to order something safe, but asked the waitress what she suggested. Mushroom pancakes was her answer and I said yes, though my heart sank. She brought me blini with fresh sautéed mushrooms in a light cream sauce and it was fantastic. My lucky day!

Three costumed figures turned up. I don’t know if they were folk tale Russian characters or hipster weirdness. This couple wandered around doing mime and posing with the clientele.

A top floor art gallery displayed drippy versions of famous people; Bill Murray, Frida Kahlo, Woody Allen. No Russians. The air was redolent with Hookah smoke, pizza, sneezy incense, coffee, and that essential oils and soap reek. Thumping club music, twittery electronica, American R&B made it an ongoing battle of the bands. Looked out the window and saw the green buds of birch tree leaves dotting the bare branches and remember how when he saw the sticky little leaves as they open in spring, Ivan Karamazov fell back in love with the world he wanted to renounce. Then this happened;

On the way out I bought myself a soft, clementine orange bag in leather-ish material made in St Petersburg. Just a simple tote, but it pleased me mightily. Left with Incense clinging to my hair like a halo.

Ubered back to the Astoria with its distinctive red awnings and air of prosperity and permanence. Got a yes to the shirt from Robin, so will return and nab it tomorrow. The concierge had worked magic – I’m scheduled for tours in both places. Russian language, but that doesn’t matter, I just want to look. She said they were impressed I was from Atlanta because of our famed Kimball museum. Um, no. That’s in Fort Worth.

Friday, April 30, Moving Day

May 3, 2016 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Raining borscht and vodka, a drenching steady rain. I showered, had breakfast and finished packing. I updated my blog until noon, when It was time to call Uber Black and move to the swanky Astoria.*

Upon arrival one man ran out, opened my door, handed me an umbrella, and carried my bags, Another man opened the hotel’s entry door, and a third man took the umbrella from me, and guided me to the desk where a very polite young women checked me in. Another woman walked me to my room and two guys showed up to hand off my luggage. But wait! There’s more. A maid arrived with a bathmat so I don’t fall in the shower and then two men (do they travel in pairs? Are they a matched set?) presented a plate of fresh fruit, another plate with four chocolates (oh, the chocolates! So good my eyes rolled up in my head), and a handwritten note from customer relations, thanking me for coming. Full court press.

The lobby smells like rich men. Expensive cologne air freshener, essence of Tom Ford maybe? White marble, sparkling chandeliers, fresh flowers. Polished is the word that comes to mind

Double glazed double windows in my room, so there is not a whisper of sound from the brisk traffic four floors below. Imposing St Isaak’s, bedecked with angels and saints, topped with golden domes and spires, is my view. It looks close enough to reach out and touch.

After I unpacked, ready to race over to the Hermitage, it took 20 minutes of searching to admit I had lost my key card. I was heading downstairs to beg them for another, when I saw the damn thing. It had its own lit up slot in the wall by the door. Who knew? I realized I needed a license to drive this room.

By the time I walked into the Hermitage at 5pm, I could wander freely. Spent quality time in the peacock room and saw Catherine’s hanging garden mirrored by her indoor forest of chandeliers and fluted white columns
Sat and sketched Danae, trying to get the line of her creamy thigh just right.

Dawdled in the armor room. The plumes don’t seem right on men and horses tricked out to wreak carnage. Even jousting was serious business.

War, Famine, Pestilence, and Death. — War, Famine, Pestilence, Death and me.

Left on a quest to find Peter’s Winter Palace, which exhibits a few rooms modeled on his original residence.

I made a wrong turn and was thrown out by an irate ticket checker for the Hermitage theater. The ladies at the coat check were kind though and, thanks to GoogleTranslate, also helpful. We passed my iPhone back and forth and they explained to me I was one building and a canal bridge away. Finally found the right door and immediately felt at home in his intimate and practical rooms.

Peter’s workshop. Love the files hanging on the back wall. He and Robert would have gotten along like peas and carrots.

One of the eerier exhibits was a wax effigy of Peter, created from a mold made of his head, hands, and legs three days after his death. The torso was whittled out of wood and jointed, the better to pose it. I see the resemblance to that statue with distorted proportions in the Peter and Paul Fortress, but it was described as ‘startlingly life life’, and it looks stiff and artificial to me. I’m getting very fond of this Tsar, except for his tendency to torture and execute people in creative ways, and having his first wife kidnapped and incarcerated in a nunnery against her will. Listening to Peter the Great: His Life and World, by R.K. Massie, has made the hair on the nape of my neck rise more than once.

Walked from the museum to dinner at Fruk, and trotted back to the hotel afterwards past inventive store windows, expensive hotels and charming eateries, my iPod blasting Eric Paslay’s High Class.

Back up to my room to find the bed linen turned down and chocolates on my pillow.** There’s a footage of a merrily blazing fire, complete with crackling sound, on the flatscreen.

*When I started putting this trip together last July, my cosmopolitan nephew urged me to stay at the Astoria. It’s expensive, but I could eke out a short stay using 1. the nonrefundable discount 2. further discount of booking far in advance 3. the plunge of the ruble.
Given the length of my stay I needed something more affordable for the initial three weeks. My TripAdvisor research led me to the Alexander house, where I was very happy. If the Astoria booking wasn’t non-refundable I would have tried to stay on there, but now that I am here, and rolling in the soft, warm lap of luxury, it sure is nice. I don’t fit in, but the staff are kind to me. I don’t behave like an entitled bitch, so that probably works in my favor.

**One funny story; coming back to my room that first night, I’m walking down the long corridor, and a man steps out of a room in a white terrycloth bathrobe and looks in my direction. I keep walking his way because my room is in that direction, and he keeps staring. I have to pass by him because, yup, my room is next to his. He does a 180 to keep me in his sights. Different culture or dangerously creepy? Don’t know and don’t care, I just figure out how to use the chain lock on my door with record speed. Later that night I heard a lot of voices and girly laughter and, er, furniture banging, so I think maybe he had me mixed up with someone else, a person he perhaps did not actually know, but was expecting. I am sure I did not look like what he ordered.
I could be totally off base with my speculation (he was expecting his niece! They were playing Heads Up charades!), but I’m not knocking on the door and asking for clarification.

Thursday, April 29, Peter & Paul Fortress

May 3, 2016 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Turned away from the Stieglitz Academy of Art and Design, I blundered into an orthodox mass and grabbed enough blue sky to walk around the Peter and Paul Fortress and walk back across the bridge. Learned skipping breakfast is a very bad idea and Uber, while not infallible, is close to it.

I stayed up late reading*, then updated my blog. I was running late, so I figured I’d grab a coffee on the street.** Ebullient at the prospect of seeing the Stieglitz, the cradle of St Petersburg artists, I skipped to the entrance. Young people were coming in and out like bees to a hive. A woman carrying a large portfolio came out, a skinny person of ambiguous sexuality and asymmetrical, semi-shaved green hair went in. I was in the right place. A ticket office box is next to a turnstile, but I can’t quite see how to get to it. The clerk tapped a finger on the inside of the glass.***

Sad for me. I came up with Plan B on the fly. The sky was blue, I’d walk to some nearby cafe for a coffee and pastry, then Uber to the Peter and Paul Fortress and poke around the church and cosmonaut exhibits. I set out to the nearby Transfiguration Cathedral that I’d marked on my Google Map, where I intended to light a few candles and say my prayers. I didn’t see a cafe until I was on the square of the church where I saw a swanky specialty coffee and tea place. Eureka. It’s past noon and I am feeling the lack of caffeine and calories. There was one customer there and the clerk, measuring out tea leaf by leaf. No, I am not exaggerating. They consulted on the next tea selection. Five minutes went by without any acknowledgement. I left, now seriously cranky.

Walked into the church and smack into a mass in full swing. Incense in clouds, priests and altar boys dressed elaborate purple and gold Lenten vestments. The floor was packed with SRO worshipers, who bowed and crossed themselves in repetitious patterns. They were not in synch with each other, but moved to their own beat. There was a slender, dark man in my peripheral vision. He wore a goatee, dressed entirely in black,and gave off a D’Artagnan vibe, complete with sardonic expression. It was as hot as a bakery oven with a heady odor of sanctity – incense, beeswax, cologne and humanity. An altar boy appeared and handed D’Artagnan a wrapped package of what looked like a very large biscuit. I lit candles for my beloveds and slipped out.

Uber took me to the entry to the Fortress, where I walked around listening to an audio guide of the island’s history on my iPhone, and hoping to find a cafe. No luck, just little kiosks of souvenirs and carts selling boiled corn on the cob. This sculpture of Peter the Great drew a crowd of youths who stood in line to rub his skeletal fingers. I felt like he looks. Not happy.

I visited the engineers’ house and the Cathedral of Saints Peter and Paul, which holds the marble sepulchers of the Romanovs.

In one of the hallways was a family tree with images of each member of the dynasty. That would be handy to have in your pocket when you’re trying to keep all the Alexanders straight.
The golden angel that tops the church’s spire has fallen repeatedly (bringing to mind another fallen angel). I liked the story of the third angel that broke and dangled precariously overhead. A roofer repaired it, using his ropes to climb up to it without delay, sparing the city the cost of scaffolding.

I circled the island twice, but failed to find the cosmonauts exhibit, and was too depleted by hunger to care. I came across this manhole cover and thought of my dearly missed spouse, Robert Kempf.

Traffic was not moving on the road leading to the bridge back across the river, so I decided to walk across and then call Uber. A creative and nimble driver was able to outwit traffic and delivered me to the door of my favorite restaurant Fruktovaya Lavka at 4:30. Minutes later, good bread and olive oil was in front of me. By the time I finished my main course, followed by a raspberry custard tartlet, all was well with my world.

Meatballs with cranberries on zucchini puree. Yum. — Meatballs with cranberries on fresh green pea puree.

Back to The Alexander House to pack for my move to the Astoria Hotel. I’ve enjoyed my stay in this friendly little hotel on the outskirts. They have treated me very well, and provided that welcoming, safe home base I had hoped for. My room was bright, spacious and comfortable and the cost not only reasonable, but thrifty. The staff are friendly, cheerful, and flexible. They are the heart and soul of the establishment and make all the difference. I’d stay here again, and heartily recommend it to people who want what I wanted – a quiet haven at the end of the day, removed from the bustle of the center.

* Mistake #1 (tired) ** Mistake #2 (hungry) ***Mistake #3 (angry). My trifecta of errors. Never skip breakfast. Low blood sugar sucks the joy out of living.

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.

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.

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