pwt 48 2015

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

WEEKLY TRANSMISSION N°48 THURSDAY 03 DECEMBER 2015

“I’LL TELL YOU WHAT WILL HAPPEN...” : VLADIMIR VYSOTSKY

Vysotsky’s last poem on a britol card appeared publicly in an auction sale held at HotelDrouot, 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 datesof 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 andpopularity among Russian people during the second half of the 20th century wasunprecedented 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 returnto Russia he lived in the hideous creation of the Soviet regime, the communal apartment, withseveral other families on Bolshoi Karetnoy Street. He studied at an actors' school, and afterhis graduation worked as an actor in several theaters.

Where are your seventeen years?On Bolshoi KaretnoiWhere 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 “courtyardhooligan” songs which made him famous very fast.

I was the soul of bad company.And I can tell you, thatMy last, first and middle namesWere well known to the KGB”

By 1967 the entire country already knew about Vysotsky. Sometimes there were thedubious 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 actorand bard, among all turbulence of his life, in 1968 he met Marina Vlady, a beautiful Frenchactress of Russian origin. Marina became his soul mate. They were married in 1970; it wasthe third marriage for both of them. Their life together was described in Marina's memoirVladimir 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' oppressionof Vysotsky was tremendous. As the actor Bortnik from Taganka remembered, it seemed asthough the invisible evil of Soviet empire was trying to suffocate Vysotsky at every level. Marinawrote that his poems were never published in Russia during his life; his songs were removedfrom soundtracks, his concerts canceled, his book and record deals revoked at the lastmoment.

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 theconnection with the ordinary people from all corners of Soviet Union helped him to overcomethe 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 1973he 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 spenta lot of time together. Ironically, the meeting of two of the last greatest Russian poets of the20th century happened in America.

Vysotsky stated in his last poem to Marina in summer 1980 that his mission in life wasfulfilled:

…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 appearedpublicly in a French auction sale held at Hotel Drouot, Paris(Kapandji-Morhange, 17 November 2015) attracting generalattention when it reached a price record equivalent to BobDylan’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 3/3of 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 rebelliousdiscontent. This portrait became the singer’s favorite. 600 euros

When I sleep, a yellow light

When I sleep, a yellow lightBlinds 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 swillOn an empty stomach.

Jerks and bums in cheap saloonsFeast 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.

The repression only added to his charisma in the eyes of the Russian people, who sawin him the sole hero against the oppressive regime. In his last years he had all the moral andmaterial support of the Russian people: it was not possible for the authorities to either expelhim or silence him. But “it was his unusual, suffering, vulnerable soul” – according toShemiakin'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 fateof the individual.

The wave of popularity and the material success of the preceding years did not meana lot to him. Excessive oppression, stress, and addiction led to his early death. Vysotsky diedon July 25th during the Moscow Olympic Games. The authorities did not write a word abouthis death, but people somehow found out and several hundred thousand people came to bidtheir farewell to him”. (Quoting Elena Dimov. Excerpts from an unpublished manuscript.Contemporary Russian Literature at University of Virginia, UVA. Translations of the poems byOleg Dimov)

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 onThrough the field with daisies—There’s a light while God is gone,And the road that mazes.It goes forward through the woodFull of witches lurkingTo the end where’s nothing goodBut a hangman smirking.

Somewhere steeds in a slow modeDance 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!


KONSTANTIN MURAVIEV. Russian Urban Tree, 2000s.

Gallery silver print, 340x340 mm, signed, stamped, captioned and number 1/2 of an editionof 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.

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 bloomLike two fairy-tale poppies of blue.

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 saisEt, tu souffres en chemin,Mon cher être humain.

Écoute, gamin Vania,Ce monde est tel les Gitans,Fleurira, puis se faneraEt 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.

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 3 19 November 2015It's my fate till the end, till the cross


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

Vintage silver print, 265x415 mm, captioned, verso. 320 euros

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…


VLADIMIR VIYSOTSKY. 21 Vynils, 1986-1992.

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


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

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


VLADIMIR VIYSOTSKY. Concerts, 1986-1992.

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


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 menWill 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 waysNor cash nor information flows.

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

Black, violet, or color dreamsWill 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.


KONSTANTIN MURAVIEV. Russian landscape, 2000s.

Gallery silver print, 400x300 mm, stamped, captioned and numbered 1/1 of an edition ofonly 1 by gallery ARTOFFOTO, St-Petersburg, 2014. 320 euros

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).

[email protected]

Phone (10 am-5 pm) : (+33) 6.50.85.60.74

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.

pwt 48 2015

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