PWT 48 2015

WEEKLY TRANSMISSION N°48 “I’LL TELL YOU WHAT WILL HAPPEN...” :

THURSDAY 03 DECEMBER 2015 VLADIMIR VYSOTSKY

TRANSMISSION 48 CONTENTS : Vysotsky last poem appeared recently...

i

I was the soul of a bad company

ii

Vysotsky ready to be Pugachev

1

Our greatly praised world is so pitchy

3

I’ll tell you what will happen

5

Vysotsky’s last poem on a britol card appeared publicly in an auction sale held at Hotel Drouot, Paris — Kapandji-Morhange, 17 November 2015 — attracting general attention as it reached a price record equivalent to Bob Dylan’s or Beatles’ memorabilia.

The e-bulletin presents a selection of books, albums, photographs and ancient documents as they have been handed down to the actual owners by their creators and by amateurs from past generations.

The physical descriptions, attributions, origins, and printing dates of the books and photographs have been carefully ascertained by collations and through close analysis of comparable works.

The books and photographs consigned from all around the world are presented in chronological order. It is the privilege of ancient and authentic things to be presented in this fashion, mirroring the flow of ideas and creations. Payment in euros, Paypal is accepted.

N°48 : “I’ll tell you what will happen”

I was the soul of bad company: Vladimir Vysotsky (1938-1980)

“Vladimir Vysotsky was the greatest bard in Russian history whose influence and popularity among Russian people during the second half of the 20th century was unprecedented and is still not understood in full, even now more than 30 years after his death.

Vysotsky was born in Moscow on January 25, 1938 in the family of a military officer.

As a child he spent several years in Eastern Germany with his father's family. After his return to Russia he lived in the hideous creation of the Soviet regime, the communal apartment, with several other families on Bolshoi Karetnoy Street. He studied at an actors' school, and after his graduation worked as an actor in several theaters.

Where are your seventeen years?

On Bolshoi Karetnoi Where are your seventeen troubles?

On Bolshoi Karetnoi.

Where is your black revolver?

On Bolshoi Karetnoi.

And where are you not today?

On Bolshoi Karetnoi.

He started to write and sing songs as a student in the 60's. It was his “courtyard hooligan” songs which made him famous very fast.

I was the soul of bad company.

And I can tell you, that My last, first and middle names Were well known to the KGB” By 1967 the entire country already knew about Vysotsky. Sometimes there were the dubious texts, but their simplicity and humor made them popular very quickly: I happened to be walking around And I hurt two people by chance, They took me to militia grounds Where I saw her...and broke down at once.

It was like a gift from above to Vysotsky that, in the midst of his popularity as an actor and bard, among all turbulence of his life, in 1968 he met Marina Vlady, a beautiful French actress of Russian origin. Marina became his soul mate. They were married in 1970; it was the third marriage for both of them. Their life together was described in Marina's memoir Vladimir or the Interrupted Flight; it was one of the poignant love stories of the 20th century.

Marina was his guardian angel until his death. A lot was said about her by the Russian media, but her love kept him alive for twelve years.

With smiles they were breaking my wings, My scream sometimes was like a wail.

And I was numb from pain and helplessness, And could just whisper: thanks to be alive!

Who were “they� in this famous song? During his lifetime, the authorities' oppression of Vysotsky was tremendous. As the actor Bortnik from Taganka remembered, it seemed as though the invisible evil of Soviet empire was trying to suffocate Vysotsky at every level. Marina wrote that his poems were never published in Russia during his life; his songs were removed from soundtracks, his concerts canceled, his book and record deals revoked at the last moment.

But I am certain of what is false and what is sacred, I understood it all a long time ago.

My way is straight, just straight, guys, And luckily there is no other choice!�

His humor and ability to laugh through the most difficult times as well as the connection with the ordinary people from all corners of Soviet Union helped him to overcome the failures but the level of stress was enormous.

What Vysotsky did in these conditions would not have been possible for anybody else: over thirteen years he held more than 400 personal concerts in the Soviet Union. From 1973 he started traveling abroad, first to France and Europe, then to the USA in 1978 and 1979, Canada and other countries. In New York he met with Joseph Brodsky and two of them spent a lot of time together. Ironically, the meeting of two of the last greatest Russian poets of the 20th century happened in America.

Vysotsky stated in his last poem to Marina in summer 1980 that his mission in life was fulfilled: …I have a lot to sing to the Almighty.

I have my songs to justify my life...

Vysotsky’s manuscript last poem on a britol card appeared publicly in a French auction sale held at Hotel Drouot, Paris (Kapandji-Morhange, 17 November 2015) attracting general attention when it reached a price record equivalent to Bob Dylan’s or Beatles’ memorabilia.

Weekly Transmission 46

1

19 November 2015

VALERY PLOTNIKOV (B. 1943). Vysotsky ready to be Pugachev, Moscow, 21 May 1976.

Gallery silver print, 480x470 mm, stamped, signed, stamped, captioned and numbered 3/3 of an edition of only 3 by gallery ARTOFFOTO, St-Petersburg, 2014.

Vladimir Vysotsky preparing himself at home to play Yemelyan Pugachev (1742-1775) historical character who became a symbol of the Russian cultural tendency towards rebellious discontent. This portrait became the singer’s favorite.

600 euros

When I sleep, a yellow light When I sleep, a yellow light Blinds me and I’m groaning, “Get away, a painful night!

Come, a sunny morning!”

But the morning is an ill, Wrong and boring comer: I just smoke or drink some swill On an empty stomach.

Jerks and bums in cheap saloons Feast for no reason— It’s a paradise for goons, But for me—a prison.

In the church I hear sweet songs, There even gold looks shabby...

Well, the church is also wrong, It’s not such as must be!

Wheezing, up the hill I lurch, Being tired and harried— On the top I see a birch, And below—a cherry.

Wish the hill were ivy-twined, Then I’d be in clover; Wish another joy I’d find— But it’s wrong all over!

I keep running on and on Through the field with daisies— There’s a light while God is gone, And the road that mazes.

It goes forward through the wood Full of witches lurking To the end where’s nothing good But a hangman smirking.

Somewhere steeds in a slow mode Dance without desire.

All is wrong along the road, And the end is dire.

Nor the church nor the saloon— None of things is holy!

All is wrong beneath the moon, Wrong and quite appalling!

The repression only added to his charisma in the eyes of the Russian people, who saw in him the sole hero against the oppressive regime. In his last years he had all the moral and material support of the Russian people: it was not possible for the authorities to either expel him or silence him. But “it was his unusual, suffering, vulnerable soul” – according to Shemiakin's words – “that made him suffer because of all the unjustness he saw in the world.”

In 1972 he wrote one of his most tragic songs, Capricious Horses, full of reflection on the fate of the individual.

The wave of popularity and the material success of the preceding years did not mean a lot to him. Excessive oppression, stress, and addiction led to his early death. Vysotsky died on July 25th during the Moscow Olympic Games. The authorities did not write a word about his death, but people somehow found out and several hundred thousand people came to bid their farewell to him”. (Quoting Elena Dimov. Excerpts from an unpublished manuscript.

Contemporary Russian Literature at University of Virginia, UVA. Translations of the poems by Oleg Dimov)

Weekly Transmission 46

2

19 November 2015

KONSTANTIN MURAVIEV. Russian Urban Tree, 2000s.

Gallery silver print, 340x340 mm, signed, stamped, captioned and number 1/2 of an edition of only 2 by gallery ARTOFFOTO, St-Petersburg, 2014.

320 euros

Мир такой кромешный (Russian Text by David Markish)

Мир такой кромешный, Он и летом и зимою снежный. Человек идет по миру, Человек хороший, грешный, Кто твой Бог, кто твой кумир, о человек, Ты сам не знаешь и в пути страдаешь, Дорогой мой человек.

Слушай, мальчик Ваня, В этой жизни все цыгане, Отцветет он и увянет, Или вновь цветком он станет, Может сына ты оставишь на земле, Может так вернешся к мраку, Парой синих маков расцветут глаза твои.

Our greatly praised world is so pitchy, Here’s the snowfall summer and winter.

Through it Man makes his pathway of life, He’s religious and sinful alike.

Who’s thy God, O Man, what’s thy goal?— Both of answers for thee are unknown, And therefore thou’lt suffering pain, O Man, on thy questionable way.

Le monde est si sombre, Été comme hiver, il est enneigé, Un homme marche de par le monde, Un homme bon, un pauvre pécheur, Qui est ton Dieu, quel est ton idole ?

Toi-même, tu ne le sais Et, tu souffres en chemin, Mon cher être humain.

Vanya, listen to me, my dear child, Gypsies are all the men in this life.

He may lose color and pass away, Or become a fine flower again...

Maybe thou’lt get here wealth and kids, But then thou’lt return to the King...

Thy bright eyes, my dear Vanya, will bloom Like two fairy-tale poppies of blue.

Écoute, gamin Vania, Ce monde est tel les Gitans, Fleurira, puis se fanera Et à nouveau refleurira.

Peut-être, laisseras-tu un fils sur cette terre, Peut-être, est ce ainsi, qu'aux ténèbres, Tu retourneras, telle une paire de pavots bleus, S'épanouiront, à nouveau, tes yeux.

Weekly Transmission 46

3

19 November 2015

It's my fate till the end, till the cross It's my fate till the end, till the cross, Shout till I'm coarse, after that only numb, To pursue and argue, till the mouth has froth, That it's all wrong, that it's not right!

That the hucksters are lying about Christ's mistakes, That until the flagstone would press into dirt, Three hundred years under the Tartar yoke were all a waste, That was just it - hundreds years of indigence and shame .../...

M.N. VLASSOVA. Old Belivers, Paulina Larionovna with Goats, Mourmansk Rayon, 1984.

Vintage silver print, 265x395 mm, captioned and dated, verso.

320 euros

Weekly Transmission 46

4

19 November 2015

But there was Ivan Kalita who did what he could, And not only one but many who stood up to all, The sweat of goodwill and the revolts in vain.

Pugachov, blood, and misery again...

Let the people not get it at first, I'll repeat it again even in the image of a fool.

But sometimes even the theme isn't worth it, And the vanity is the same old vain...

I am breaking my nerve, guys, to do what I can, And someday one of you may for me light a candle, For the naked nerves' sting as I sing and I choke, For the jolly manner in which I am joking‌

M. N. VLASSOVA. Old Belivers in PerestroĂŻka Period, Mourmansk Rayon, 1984.

Vintage silver print, 265x415 mm, captioned, verso.

320 euros

Weekly Transmission 46

5

19 November 2015

VLADIMIR VIYSOTSKY. 21 Vynils, 1986-1992.

Complete collection of 21 records in original illustrated boards, 300x300 mm.

Weekly Transmission 46

5

19 November 2015

VLADIMIR VIYSOTSKY. Complete collection of 21 vynils, 1986-1992.

Complete collection of 21 vynils in original printed boards, 300x300 mm.

Weekly Transmission 46

5

19 November 2015

VLADIMIR VIYSOTSKY. Concerts, 1986-1992.

Complete collection of 21 LP records in original printed boards, 300x300 mm.

Weekly Transmission 46

5

19 November 2015

VLADIMIR VIYSOTSKY. CONCERTS. Complete collection of 21 LP vynils, 1986-1992.

Complete collection of 21 records, 33 RPM in printed boards, 300x300 mm.

900 euros

I’ll tell you what will happen...

I’ll tell you what will happen, friends, In the unknown stretch of ages, Despite the fact that learned men Will disapprove my exhortation.

Once it’ll transpire on the Earth, That storms will take their normal courses.

Then ices, like raw leather girths, Will tighten bellies of the oceans.

Will fall the currents of great strength, Electric meters will show naughts, And will detect their usual ways Nor cash nor information flows.

And then not bellicose arms — Not thud of hoofs and powder smoke — But billions of glasses drunk Will drown this poor sinful Globe...

Black, violet, or color dreams Will come, your troubles will be ended — That is, ye all, benign and grim, Will be entirely contented.

No one will like as it befalls, But it’ll befall without doubt.

If there is crying in the North, Then wait for crying in the South.

Weekly Transmission 46

6

19 November 2015

KONSTANTIN MURAVIEV. Russian landscape, 2000s.

Gallery silver print, 400x300 mm, stamped, captioned and numbered 1/1 of an edition of only 1 by gallery ARTOFFOTO, St-Petersburg, 2014.

320 euros

Capricious horses Along the ledge, on a brink of a precipice. I lash my horses, drive them on.

Somehow the air is not enough for me, I drink the wind, I swallow the fog, Feeling with a reckless delight, that I am vanishing, vanishing.

Slow down my horses, slow down! Don't listen the tight whip!

But somehow I got the capricious horses - I didn't finish living; I will not end my song.

I will let my horses drink water, I will finish sing my verse.

For a moment, somehow I will stand on the edge....

I will go like a feather from a hand - the hurricane will sweep me, And the galloping horses will pull my sleigh on the morning snow.

Pace yourselves, my horses, do not hurry, Let my last way to the shelter will be longer, just a little!

Slow down, my horses slow down! The whip and lash are not your overseers!

But somehow I got the capricious horses - I didn't finish living; I will not end my song.

I will let my horses drink water, I will finish sing my verse.

For a moment, somehow I will stand on the edge. We've come in time: No late comings to God, - Why then angels sing with such vicious voices?

Or is it a ringing bell got numb from sobbing?

Or is it me, crying to the horses not to carry the sleigh so fast?!

Slow down my horses, slow down! I beg you, do not ran at such fast pace!

But somehow I got the capricious horses - I didn't finish living; I will not end my song.

I will let my horses drink water, I will finish sing my verse.

Number Forty-Eight of the Weekly Transmission has been uploaded on Thursday, 3rd December at 15:15 (Paris time).

Upcoming uploads and transmissions on Thursdays : Thursday 10th December, Thursday 17th December, 15:15 (Paris time). serge@plantureux.fr Phone (10 am-5 pm) : (+33) 6.50.85.60.74