Disclosure

If you start doing anything seriously, soon you will realize that problems of any contemporary occupation arise mostly at promotion level.

If you cannot market yourself, you can do nothing. In such arts, as cinematography and photography, the more gifted you are the less chances you have to maneuver smoothly
through troublesome process of advertising.

Artistic talent is often about creative originality and helplessness in practical things.

Contemporary society is one absurd limitless marketplace. Wherever you go, you turn to be potential buyer with whom they talk in terms of sale. Internet is paranoia store of advertising spam and initiated purchases, not mentioning already radio and TV.

You cannot reach the end of your own street without being asked for money. Beggars trade you their humiliation; prostitutes trade their body orifices for temporary use. Post box exists exclusively to devour tremendous quantity of commercials and bills.

You are not human; you are consumer – water, shelter, cloth, food, entertainment
and even your accidental death – all is article of trade and must be paid for.

In this world of sales, the first thing you know about yourself is that you are nonentity in buy-and sell hierarchy.
Your overall human value drops down until mark Mr. Nobody or rises like pole of thermometer measuring potential buy ability of your bank account.

If your sad fate is to be an artist, first thing you better do is dismiss old-fashioned ideas about high value of hard labor and talent over mercantile mediocrity.

Today it is not essential to be genial, even better for your own sake not to be so; you must be moderately industrious-moderately gifted useful member of society with good management skills. In this civilization not creativeness, but management plays most important role.

Establishing photography as profession sorrowfully connected with your potential buy capacity.

One cannot even start in photography without certain professional purchases. Newcomer must compete at the market with those who invest thousands in their photo arsenal. New technologies demand involvement of modern equipment and software, which costs.

What about photo models who are not picture pretty and young, they can market themselves with certain profit in the field of porno. Beauty and youth are not sufficient conditions for success in non-sex-industry either.

A few photographers in Graz, with whom I came in contact searching possibility to earn as model in previous years, confessed they could hardly ever sell anything, and offered me to pose for them nude free of charge.

Before emigration to Austria, I would often visit Moscow Cinema House (Dom Kino) and enjoyed circulation among film producers, actors and camera operators.
Sometimes I was accompanied by film producer Sergey.

He was man over 50 with snow-white beard. Rather well known in documentary cinematography, Sergey came to Moscow from province with hope to market his films. He had two grown-up children and ex-wife, who could not bare life of financial insecurity with him anymore.
He sold all his property in native town to have recourses enough to buy only summerhouse in Moscow district.

It is meaningful point in Russian high society to live within or outside of Moscow city ring highway that signifies level of person’s prosperity. Sergey’s lodgings occurred to be far beyond ring highway, and to reach Cinema House he was to take suburban and metro trains for overall 4 hours per day.

He was discreet person with traditional gallantries of Russian intelligentsia, which
let him touch my elbow exclusively descending steep staircase.

Only once he told dreamily that he was fond of horses and that my angular movements
reminded him of young, not completely adult horse once he took care of being a boy.

Unfortunately, like anywhere in the world, one needs not only excellent product such as ready documentary to find buyers, most of all one needs to know right people.

Day after day passed, but Sergey could neither sell his work nor find new projects.
It was not rare case among Russian men of art and letters that he started to drink and drank heavily.

According to national tradition, within a few years he descended from champagne to technical alcohol consumption in environment of dark gateway.
I declined his invitations, because he used to fall asleep in the chairs of watch rooms, when possible promoters were invited, and he would slide under the table in restaurants and spread their, which gave pains to transport him out.

I stopped visiting Cinema House. Being deeply frustrated, I existed in state of inner emigration and intended to leave Russia.
Already in Graz, once I got message that Sergey died.
Being drunk as usual, he tried to get back to his lodgings and missed last train. It was frosty night. Instead of waiting in railway station, where he would probably be in hands of police who hunted for tipsy wanderers, he started for a walk.
Then he lay down in the snow to give himself a break.
The white bed was soft and warm.

He fell asleep.
Perhaps he saw vast green fields of his native land. Young red horse with black hair tentatively approached him.
He held out crust of bread with salt and murmured:
- Come here, my silky beauty…
It snowed heavily that night.

There was turmoil of wind and snowdrifts. Nobody could disturb Sergey’s sleep.

Bang at the door came after midnight. Since it was bars area, I reached for rolling pin and
then shut open the door.
Russian woman Natasha stood there together with her husband - short man with disproportional big hands. Natasha looked as child who broke vase playing football in living room and tried to postpone inexorable penalty of angered parent.
- Galya, confirm that I was with you last night, - retorted she miserably.
Looking at her companion whose hands were clenching like claws of big cancer anticipating piercing through soft flesh, I hurriedly confirmed falsehood.
I knew Natasha for a few years. Now and then, she visited me in my attic to narrate about her life of struggle with controlling and jealous husband.
Couple came to Austria from Moscow region 15 years ago. They had two children, and
man belonged to category of “imported Russian brains” being highly qualified specialist welcomed by Austrian science.
Natasha existed in situation of complete financial dependence on spouse,
what stimulated significantly her victim attitudes and brutal dominant manners of her man.
She went so far in confessions of being beaten by him regularly at least once a week.
I would suspect exaggerations, as if she would not appear with bruises. Once it was violet “lantern” under her eye that she tried to cover with strand of hair.
Not so long time ago, striving for independence in her forties, she started to search for work, and as the choice was restricted by emigration and local employment situation - she readily grabbed low-paid cleaning job in Graz. During first months of her washing floors and toilets trial, she felt exhausted, but liberty added to her self-esteem.
However, she continued to be involved in struggle with her spouse.
Observing people around I conclude they tend to separate their problems from themselves. While problems are often components of their own mental system.
If you are close to person who physically abuse you for 20 years it means you constantly recreate this model of partnership yourself and certain private satisfaction you get in this creative process supports your choice. There is always something satisfying for both partners in long-lasting unions, something that spreads beyond visibilities and glues whole construction.
Natasha used to complain about sadistic eruptions of her man, and of course, fact of violence was terrible by itself.
Once being a photo model and shooting with certain FC photographer, I experienced similar incident. There was stressed atmosphere in improvised studio.
When photographer approached me unexpectedly and touched my breast, I could not help myself striking him.
He became fierce and gave me heavy blow back that smashed me down on the floor.
I would never forget feeling of being at mercy of creature who used physical superiority as right to overpower me.
Shooting often at Stephansplatz, I also witness how grooms beat their horses to make them obedient. Imagine you are chained to cart and cannot move away. When you get blow, you can only start expecting next one. We are all chained to those carts. They symbolize life circumstances we find ourselves in.
Natasha not only wept, but also demonstrated presents she got as bribe and compensation from her husband: cloths, cruise tickets, digital cameras and even car.
Contemplating on phenomenon of violence, once I visited exhibition Of Sacher Masoch in Sackstrasse.
There were excellent sketches for his novel“Venus in Furs” and modern sado-maso and fetish orientated photos of tied up nude women and men licking shoes of beautiful dominant mistresses. If reading about tortures of Great Inquisition make us doubtful about merits of human nature in general, then fact that pleasure and pain have transit borders and extend each other – only contributes to common knowledge in physiology, and also understanding that many humans have altitude for submissiveness or dominance that can be manifested only erotically,- prevents from jumping to conclusions.
Looking at the visitors of S/M exhibition. I was thinking how many of them who were sure about their own highly moral puritanical outlook were potentially capable to plot and execute sado-maso approach to their partners: from slaps on the buttocks and verbal humiliation, till domestic violence and terror control.
Last time I met Natasha she looked worried. She had come through divorce with her man, and now lived alone in a flat on the other side of the Mur. Her eyes became clouded, when she wished me the best in my lonely life in Vienna.
What about her, she decided to resume living together with her ex-husband in the new house that he bought after divorce to make her come back.
We kissed goodbye.
She hurried away along Hauptbrücke, and looking after her, I was thinking she grew older and lost weight living alone.

I visited normal Soviet school, where among other exotic subjects
we studied scientific atheism.

In classroom with portrait of Mongolian looking Leader and quotation: “Religion is opium for people”
teacher talked about Darwinism and astrophysics mocking over
tales of holy world creation.

We were busy with history of Christianity, and there was Moslem country outside - with neither veil, nor pray. For us Islam expressed itself only in pork sausages veto and mini skirts decline when elderly relatives paid visit.

Already living in Austria, I realized that many non-religious inspiration authors had Christianity based world outlook.
Nevertheless, even in most disastrous moments of life when visiting church, I could never cross myself.

Childhood images of horned devils with long-handled spoons cooking sinners in big container circulated in my mind.

Once at exhibition in Kunsthaus, decently looking man circa 60 year old assisted me with descriptions of musical instruments I could not fully understand.
Franz knew a lot and demonstrated talkativeness and competence. He had dark eyes, robust physique and red moist lower lip slightly protruding forward as if expecting to consume something sweet.
He invited me to concert of spiritual music.

Strictly following his directions I came to place next week.
When opening the door, I found myself in big light room with dinner table in center. Sound of talks seemed muffled as if reaching ears through water, and by special atmosphere, you could unambiguously judge predominance of women and absence of alcohol drinks. Faces seemed to be covered by layer of unanimity that blurred individual features.

Franz invited me to regular meeting of certain religious sect, in which he participated actively for more than 20 years.

Whenever you start discussion with devoted visitors of such gatherings, they tend to give dogmatic answers to any of your questions, as if cutting themselves off from any independent searches for truth.

I could not come to complete belief by means of mere quotations, being doubtful about everything, including the fact that I was ever born.
Later Franz wanted to show me his collection of musical instruments, and all way
until his house in outskirts of Graz, we talked about God: I would ask about his own opinion, and he would reply me with standard universal quotations from Bible.
It was big wooden house with three bedrooms upstairs and cozy kitchen, where Franz was busy cooking dinner for himself and his two adult sons.
I confessed that browsing through Austrian dating agencies I saw Franz photo.
He admitted the fact he dated and did it especially actively after divorce. During last year he had met with
more than 50 women who searched for partner. What was wrong with all of them? Nothing was wrong.

Franz expressed idea that with age persons tend to be choosy and also rigid about what they want. Only with one of this 50 women he had closeness. It lasted for three months.

His former wife was of 20 younger, and they used to attend the same church.
It was him who normally made all household including cooking and washing, though both partners worked.
Franz played role of father, his good-looking wife - role of capricious daughter.
With time relationship became worse. They used to fall in fierce arguments,
and then didn’t talk to each other for weeks. After short period of intimacy and reconciliation, the hostility and struggle aroused again and managed their lives.
During times of cold war with her, Franz felt especially distressed and would sometimes
find his personal belongings like books and instruments damaged.

Once he collapsed in bed and injured foot against thorns
of cactus which somebody put secretly under blanket.

The day came, when common church friends reported that Franz spouse
was seen in company of black man.
Relationship can be over, but jealousy, as strongest emotion, always stays intact.

Franz was tormented by jealousy and shame.
He would lay sleepless all night listening to cracks and noises of his wooden house, and thinking, thinking. He felt helpless to stop bitter flow of thoughts.
He started secret investigation, and discovered that considerable amount of money
was spent by his wife for male’s cloths. She also bought motorcycle for somebody.
He started to spy after her himself and also used services of private detective. Eventually they divorced.
- It was all about money, - confessed Franz solemnly, and his red lower lip became pale.
Evidence was needed in court to legalize divorce with money loss for partner guilty in adultery.

Franz followed his wife and her Nigerian lover when they came in the fields and hided himself behind the bushes.

When couple finished the game and left, he picked up two condoms with sperm and brought it in the labor.

Coming back home in twilight,
I see street prostitutes in Hütteldorferstrasse during their evening shift.
Girls have extremely minimized professional outfit standing there almost nude in cold rain.
Some of them are very young.
Trying to catch glimpse of their faces in quickly growing darkness
I try to imagine what they feel.
I also see men who occasionally stop there in cars.
What do they search?
During first years of my life in Graz I actively dated.
It was vitally important to start understanding people around.
Operating with few German words, I used
to talk with men from Graz, Brück and Linz-
about their lives.
Understanding surpasses language barriers.
But I could never clearly apprehend what men really search for.
If they tend to value physical component of relationship so high,
then every lass standing by the road could instantly gain full
power over their hearts.
We met in dusk smoky
space of Sporgasse café. W. was one of my correspondents-55-year old
teacher with dark sad eyes.
He gave me impression of being sophisticated, cynical and innocent at the same time.
We talked for two hours and then met again.
He was born in province and after getting education
married to woman from neighborhood.

Union occurred to be unhappy,
and after 25-years of mutual ordeal, couple came through destructive divorce.
At the moment of our meeting, teacher was in relationship with 19-year old girl,
with whom he lived together.
Looking at the roofs of Graz spreading below us he told:
- We sleep in one bed, but we have no intimacy.
Gloomy luminosity of his eyes told me it was truth.
As he confessed, W. always experienced exaggerated sexual needs,

and his former wife used his dependency as weapon.

Eventually she deprived him of sex completely, and it was hard for both: he
suffered from absence of sexual release, and she - from absence of closeness.

During last years he got only occasional console in brothels.
But then something extraordinary happened to W. He fell in love.

He fell in love
with 16-year old girl, his pupil.
He could not resist her being so excitingly youthful and nonchalant,

her provocative bravery made him crazy, after years of depravity,

humiliation and sexual hunger, he felt suddenly free and sensed
that this 16-years old teenager with fully formed breasts and sensual smile-
was ready to do anything he wanted, flattered by very idea of being in love with teacher.

Sometimes when sitting in class, he was afraid to stand up and start lesson, because he was visibly aroused.

Common sense, cautiousness and grip of sudden infatuation struggled in him, and as
he started to meet with her privately in forest,

where nobody could spy after them, his wisdom gave up to obsession.
Young girl can hardly be preoccupied with goal to satisfy needs of aging teacher unless it gives food to her ambitions.
She talked to her girlfriends, and news about forest meetings reached ears of school master and parents.
The only way for W. to go on after that was to start living together with his girl
in officially approved partnership. He moved to the house of girl’s parents.

His decent income helped to resolve situation.
Every time I met with W., I sensed he used generous quantities of alcohol to inspire himself through day.
-It was mistake, mistake! All my life was mistake!- used W. to say searching with eyes
for waiter who would bring him next cocktail.

The last time I met W. he was smartly dressed and looked even more gloomy than usual.

He was to go to his mother’s birthday party. O, mama, here is your beloved boy with huge bouquet!

There was also younger sister and canyon of misunderstanding between relatives.

Every meting of mother and daughter meant quarrels, shrieks and slamming of doors.

Sister was touchy. Having good education, one day she lost her work.

Then her boyfriend escaped and found younger woman.

She started to drink and became mixed in stories with co-drinkers. That infuriated mother.
Only 83-year-old father supported daughter morally and financially with his pension.
Then father suddenly died.
A few weeks after his funeral woman disappeared.

They seek her everywhere. Police, relatives. All private belongings stayed at home, so search dogs were used. There was no trace of her. Only one year later, somebody came against remains of human body in bushes of Schöckl and the woman was identified.

She came there one day equipped only with bottle of brandy and handful of sleeping pills finding it was impossible to struggle through hell of her life alone.

Vienna

Vienna

Graz. Young beggar has writing at his cap: “Fuck rules”

As long as I remember myself, I was always mesmerized by water. Even washing cups made it pleasant experience feeling blissful substance touching my skin.

Being so much fond of sea, I avoided deep places and could not swim at all, combining adoration toward water with dread.

Most likely, such attitude I got by being born in region of steppes and mountings, where holy substance is rare and brings life to dry earth of nomads.

During summer months, I was often sitting in fire boat fastened to the Mur coast.

Looking at the river I perceived wisdom of things, feeling myself perfect particle of perfect universe. Boat was gently rocking me and I was sure that linking chain was broken and I was floating in nowhere.

Walking along Muradweg, I used to send cosmos mail messages to all possible Gods and Goddesses of water. You must pronounce your utmost wish

looking at the river - and it will be delivered to holy quarters of nature.

How could I compress all unfulfilled desires in one single wish that can be send as plea to eternity? Feeling wind drying my tears I begged

river: “Please show me the way!”

But river never confirmed or denied anything. It existed solemnly in sphere where small private misfortunes and frustrations played no role. River always wanted to show me – whatever I did, suffering was inevitable!

Only one medicine was valid – detachment.

For your own sake you better be detached of your desires and dependencies!

Dependence starts as adventure. Among tens of similar affairs, you were so easy to come through- only one gives birth to fatal addiction.

Fatality comes in image of man.

He invites you to make trip to Slovenia in his car and then picks you up at the corner of the street. He is suspicious and nervous; he makes a few rounds in area to catch glimpse of possible spies.

Contrary to you, he has something to lose.

During trip, you both keep strained silence, partly because of his CD with Russian music that plays loud – to prevent probable record of talk. He doesn’t fully apprehend the meaning of Russian songs he is listening to. In my turn, I am shy, but provocative. Instability of my situation and fears make me enterprising and dangerous.

This game is seduction. I try to seduce mature man, arouse his feelings and then look what will go out of it. Sexual satisfactions I don’t search and also never get.

Game is much more meaningful than that. I want to gain power over man’s heart.

We swirl around along Slovenian roads, captured by curiosity and trepidation.

Eventually distant hotel is found. Not a single detail of that intimacy I can recollect. Trivialities of quick closeness are dimmed by anxiety. Nor can I recollect his caresses. May be there were none.

Depth of my feelings surpassed all, and if sex occurred under any circumstances,

it played only role of confirmation.

We met again and made another trip.

I was sure I would easily forget these affairs, as I forgot many of them that gave nothing

to me except hurt. But imagination was already at its work, and poison of dependence on imaginary images started circulation in my blood.

It was like unknown illness you could not take control of and could not predict its frightening zigzags.

It took me years of struggle to get rid of it.

For a long time, in fact for a few years I listened to cassettes with Russian music he presented me – and did it every day. Every day I dreamed of dancing together with him in big hall feeling his body in elegant suit pressed against mine.

Perhaps I disturbed God of Mur river with my requests too often.

Fate hit me unexpectedly.

Once I came to public ball and saw him dancing with other woman. Looking how he kept her hand, I knew unmistakably that he slept with her. His face expressed tenderness unfamiliar to me.

Everything there was like in my dream – big hall full of people, lights, sounds of music and his eyes…lingering at other woman’s face.

I stepped in shadow.

Pain in chest! What physical anguish can be compared with it? Lights merged spinning around. There was no past, no future, only this moment of agony that was lasting ever and ever.

I dig nails in my hand, and drops of blood appeared, but there was no ache.

I became suddenly blind and could not make one face from another.

I tried to gulp vodka in buffet, but failed and threw it at shoulder of person standing beside.

Then it was lapse in my memory. Next time I found myself standing at Hauptbrücke

and looking at dark waters below. How much time passed, a few hours, twenty minutes or may be years? From eternity point of view, it was all the same.

O, River! Why did you take my utmost dream from me? Please take instead my life!

It seemed water noise changed its tonality as if trying communicate something to me.

I could feel fresh breathing of the Mur at my skin.

To terminate all in a moment? Jump down and after seconds of injury to enter eternity – without regret, attachment and pain?

The dim waters of the Mur moved forward – and this movement was suddenly right and full of deep meaning. River – the only witness – knew what I felt.

It told me the highest wisdom of moment was to die being alive and to transit to other self, other point of view.

Street was empty and I could hear bell ringing two.

Suddenly I felt tremendously tired, and knew I must go to reach my small attic.

I also knew I would stand all in this life, because that day I survived death of my dream.