Invisible pictures of non-existent things
Introduction
Many different
events… …I can’t even remember it all, but let’s start when I
was traveling with my "circulatio" project on the iron
rails from Helsinki to St. Petersburg… by train that is. The year
was 1993. St. Petersburg was drawing me to itself. It had something
to tell me.
For almost two
years that great, dark city of white nights flowed past me and around
me, and I collected those things which moved me. I was working ion
something that I named a “meta matka" (meta = meta-terms such as metamorphosis, metaphysics, metal and matka in Russian language: mother, womb, queen bee, in Finnish language : journey).”
I returned to Finland, perhaps knowing that everything was just beginning. I met him—Grishka. A book opened, many books opened, and that specter from the meanderings of history was upon me. Grishka, Grishka… …and I tried my best.
Let's go see; I
will show you! First I will abridge everything here at the beginning;
I’ll squeeze a planet into a mustard-seed-sized prologue.
Grishka, count,
patron, publisher, composer, was born in St. Petersburg, lived a
relatively short live... and died. A certain notable line was
extinguished, disappeared, and the whole story of Grishka
disappeared. Grishka, heir to an enormous fortune, was the central
figure of all kinds of intrigues and the target of much abuse, but he
was a soft person. A circle developed around him. He wanted to
promote projects, convey experiences, serve and support, so many made
the pilgrimage to his presence, a colorful crowd indeed. There was
the nobility, the thirsty, authors great and small, charmed
luminaries and ghostly figures.
The general
grandeur and atmosphere of ridicule directed at Grishka together wove
a grotesque golden fabric. He was ridiculed by those who were closest
to him and those who saw it all from afar.
The state of
Grishka’s health varied; his sickness, St. Vitus' dance, sent him
into convulsions, giving a ready choreography for the ridicule. On
the banks of the Neva, in Grishka’s Polystrovo palace, which the
Petersburgians called “the Roadhouse,” events and time flowed
past.
I found Grishka’s
compositions, seven in all, all short romances. A few musical artists
have come along with me on my journey for a moment, brought that
music to life from their dormant state as notes on paper.
R.I.P. Kalevi Kiviniemi (30.6.1958 - 3.4.2024)
Grishka’s
marriage, like a the sting of a bee. The woman, Lyubov Ivanovna,
dropped onto the stage of events with a colorful history as her
train. She awoke Grishka to a new life and made his close circle
grind their teeth. “Hussy. The gold-digger already warmed the bed
of the last Tsar," they whispered. But the wedding happened
anyway, and they left for Europe on the honeymoon. A great entourage
traveled with them, and more became attached along the way.
In Paris Grishka
met Alexander Dumas. The great author got along well in Grishka’s
hotel, where there was not just one suite available but a whole
floor. In one of his works Dumas called Grishka’s party a
"caravan," and joined it himself, traveling in this fashion
to Russia as Grishka’s guest in 1858. “He is like the Count of
Monte Cristo," Dumas wrote, and he also wrote about Lyubov
Ivanovna’ s eyes, and their effect…
Literature,
authors… Grishka published a literary journal. These days I see it
as a long, well-ordered row in the Helsinki Slavic Library, but back
then the vicissitudes of publishing it were one constant confused
tangle.
But everything
ended in due time, even the confusion. Spring came, the ice melted
and Grishka’s life ended. He died at the age of 38, and a decade
later, during the time of Stalin, his grave was destroyed, like the
family’s whole library, archives, and their memory.
But that opened
up to me, and it happened after I returned from Russia, from my "meta matka." I started to delve into an event a few generations
back that had been whispered about in my family circles. A certain
famous nobleman named Alexander from St. Petersburg, honored as a
scholar in his time and glazed with a patina of honorary titles,
visited a certain palace in Karelia, then a part of Finland. Later a
maidservant in the palace, Maria, had a boy child, a bastard, whose
invisible father's name seemed to be known by all: the courtier from
St. Petersburg. They knew his whole name too; he was Grishka’s
father. Grishka thus gained a secret half-brother, my grandfather’s
father.
In Helsinki, at
the corner of Alexander Street and Maria Street, stands the House of
Nobility. On one coat of arms a heart, a lion and other assorted
articles. The symbol of Grishka’s knighthood in a handsome hall.
The strange decoration and dust-trap of an extinct line. Outside the
bastard, the names of his parents recorded on the street signs:
Alexander and Maria.
But Grishka… it
is clear as day that his character is the primary prototype for
Dostoyevsky’s Idiot, but what a cover of darkness over it
all, murky and hard! Great names are like canned food. Why open them
when they are so well preserved? Opening means oxygen and its
effects.
Well, I opened the canister and we became acquainted, the great author and I, both just the right size. We conversed for years on end, now that he had time; the living never do.
Well, I opened the canister and we became acquainted, the great author and I, both just the right size. We conversed for years on end, now that he had time; the living never do.
But let us leave
prototypes as they are; we can’t get stuck in them. One has to
understand the whole, refrain from lifting anything more onto the
table, move forward.
Everything that
comes by must be noticed, like the cow that showed up at different
times on my journey, always with some kind of idiot. The servant, the
silent hero.
How many cases,
affinities showed up. Railroad, blood circulation, years, all kinds
of events formed a clear picture. The buildings of St. Petersburg,
the passage of time. Always the same things again and again. Fallen
from heaven, but risen from the trampled ground.
The forlorn
figure of the tattered knight rested on the street, and only a little
way off the broken-hearted man asked me to dance with him.
My grandfather,
Topias, the son of a Karelian bastard, the spouse of an orphan, the
father of evacuees. His unique character, his adventures… how many
waves and how many of us on this stage in this idiotic yellow light?
Topias and the Indians, the Indians and the idiots. Our white and my
black-and-white, my picture in the surface of the pool the cripple
Ilya painted.
When I saw the
Poljustrovo palace area for the first time, which functioned as the
main stage for Grishka’s social life, it was like a plowed field;
the Soviet Union had come and gone, and Russia returned.
I talked with my
friend Lyuba Hermann in Torgu, Estonia, about these histories. She stuttered the
latter half of Grishka's two-part surname. “Is it Nesnotov?” she
asked. “Pesterov?” “Besborokko?.... Oh, Bezborodko!” but that
means beardless, she blurted out, “the one who doesn’t have a
beard is Bezborodko!”
But he who no longer has a beard, nor head, nor a place in really anyone’s memory, his light of the shadow is here.
beginning of the story
here
http://idiotibidem.blogspot.fi/
G's reflection:
Mox Mäkelä's work history
contact:
mox.makela(at)gmail.com
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