Jarvis, Russia and The Bins: A Side Dish

An aside. Imagine we're on the hard shoulder of my blog now. The periphery. We're making a quick tangential trip into the woods. The air is cold. Quick! Keep close behind, and don't look left nor right...

Why am I almost incurably ill with the want to visit Russia?

I am homesick for a place I've never been. Is that real? I am hooked. Perhaps because it still seems impermeable. Yet to thaw in more ways than one. And there's something intrinsically attractive about a closed book.

But then there are a lot of countries that are far more stand-offish (Dom Joly's accounts of North Korea are fascinating for one - he's been to Pripyat too, but that's got nothing to do with this, apart from the fact I want to go there). But for me, Russia (and it's former republics) just has something. It's like a real-life gothic fable I want to tumble head-first into, taking the lead role in a wool overcoat or something hooded (Fable Whore). There's something about the culture, the folkloric overtones, the architecture, the art and the elegance that I find bewitching. I like the cold, the darkness, the secrets, the superstition, the mythology. And at the other end, the grit and determination of a nation which endured years of censorship and repression.

I'm enthralled with the beautiful yet steely-faced gymnastics teams of the 60s and 70s (punctuated by the delightful and in some ways quite un-Russian Olga Korbut, when she dissolved in tears after a disasterous bars routine at the 1972 Olympics - left). It's no secret - I want to be them. And I love the beautiful form and athleticism of the mighty Bolshoi Ballet Company. I want to be them, too. 

I like the attitude to dress. People have a want to look sharp. And you can't argue with that. According to a cool Russian blogger I found, it's not weird to look as fabulous as possible just to take the bins out. I get this. It also reminds me of a quote from my teen hero, Jarvis Cocker, who declared to Smash Hits around '95 that he always wore a smart jacket as, 'you never know who you're going to meet.' The only folk likely to see me take the bins out in my South London Panstick-Refuse-Finery, would be 'Coolio' the Dwarf Tramp and his sometime aggressive friend, Bad Reggae Guitar Crazo (Stockwell's answer to celebrity.) But I love that that's not the point. Myself, Jarvis and the Russians - we need to dine.

Proving the jacket theory further (albeit a jacket for the face) is Ukrainian and former Soviet gymnast Tatiana Gutsu (left). At the height of her short career, she always made a plan to look as colourful as possible. In fact, so fierce was her love of liberal frosting and kohl (and poise of course) she was nicknamed by journalists at the '92 Olympics, 'The painted bird of Odessa.'

So I basically need to go to Russia. A bit like I need to eat, or I need the loo. It's not really a choice. I need to see the pomp. The hats. The military Ushanka with it's ear-flaps and turned up front - wolf-like. The People's Palaces...

I want to taste the history. A soup of revolutions, uncertainty, triumph over adversity, angst and relief, bribery, corruption, agents and spies. In GCSE history I half listened to nuggets on the Russian Empire, the last Tsar, Rasputin and the Bolsheviks - but never quite appreciated it at the time. Instead my friend and I spent lessons designing comedy Trotsky merchandise (bedspreads and lampshades). What a bonehead (me. She's still cool.)

If I fall in love with a country, I want to see the suburbs. I want to see where I would live, if I'd been born there. What local shops I'd go to. What adverts I'd be susceptible to and what toothpaste and washing powder I'd use.

I want to go to Belarus and see the apartment Korbut grew up in, and see inside the specialist sports school she attended (one of many, designed solely to produce Olympic champs.) I want to go to Siberia and see the world's oldest and deepest lake. I want to discover the old abandoned homes deep inside the Russian forest, laden with charm and woodworm, which look like eerie dolls houses (above), and the centuries old traditional wooden orthodox churches found in the North (top).

On the flip side I want to see with my own eyes, some of the brutalist monuments, palaces and buildings to come out of the 70s, 80s and 90s, where the architects sensed the loosening of reins and went mildly bonkers, yes and-ing parts of their imaginations long-repressed to create inconceivable and imposing buildings like the Palace of Weddings in Tbilisi, the polytechnic university in Minsk and the House of the Soviets in Kalinigrad (all featured in architect Frederic Chaubin's Cosmic Communist Constructions Photographed).

For me, this giant place is like an insurmountable treasure trove. A place of past oppression and endless once-upon-a-times. A rich and detailed painting, layered with meanings and riddles I can't hope to understand.

And maybe it's also an under-dog thing. This is massively general, but I am definitely drawn towards countries or communities that haven't had it easy. Because when life is difficult, often what springs forth is determination and creativity. When times are hard, it's inevitable that people access their heart and soul more; they sing louder, they feel more keenly, they live with more verve, they are the cognoscenti of camaraderie... because who knows what's going to happen tomorrow. Feeling marginalised seems to go hand in hand with a strong sense of justice. The need to be the best version of you possible, to offset the circumstances...

So, who is game for a holiday?

After I've taken the bins out in my ball gown of course...