Far and Away: Reporting From the Brink of Change Read online

  Every evening that week, the men of the household would walk to the Djemaa el-Fna, the big square in Marrakech, which is a tourist clot by day and the hub of local social life by night. Some of Ahmed’s cousins worked there, so we would all hang out with the magicians, storytellers, and dancers as twilight deepened. When we returned to the house, a tagine dinner would be awaiting us. The women, always veiled, would have spent all day cleaning and cooking. Now, they would pour water over the men’s hands, then withdraw, returning after we were finished to eat what remained. The house had no running water and no electricity. Ahmed’s aunt’s one prized possession was a battery-operated radio. Our last day there, she told Ahmed that she wanted to know the words to her favorite song, and since Ahmed’s English was unequal to discerning the lyrics, he asked me. “Your aunt may have a tough time understanding this song,” I replied. “It’s called ‘Girls Just Want to Have Fun.’ ”

  Two years later, because my brother was studying evolutionary biology in college, our family planned a trip to the Galápagos Islands. Included with our boat tickets was a tour of Ecuador. My parents were not interested—and neither were any of the other people joining the cruise. So my brother and I had a guide to ourselves. After touring Quito, we proceeded to Cuenca to explore the Inca ruins at Ingapirca. Our guide warned us of unrest in the area but said he’d be game if we wanted to go. The road was almost empty and we had the ruins to ourselves, interrupted only by the occasional llama. On the way back, we had to stop abruptly because a large boulder was in the middle of the steep road. Seconds later, a bunch of agitated people sprang out from behind a shrub and rushed the car. One slit the tires; one smashed the windshield; one brandished a gun. The guide suggested we get out, pronto. We were locked inside a shack with our guide while the driver negotiated with the revolutionaries, who had declared their independence because they didn’t want to pay taxes. We explained via the driver that, coincidentally, we didn’t much like paying taxes, either. The driver apparently told them that the US military could bomb their village and poison their crops, and after about two hours we were released. We shuffled down the mountain until we were able to hitchhike back to Cuenca. I was already a different person from who I had been in Morocco, much less unnerved by a much more alarming incident.

  * * *

  Living in another country is entirely different from traveling through it. I went to graduate school in England and found that even England was a place of unnervingly foreign habits—my fantasies of a spiritual homecoming notwithstanding. Adopting the accent and learning a smattering of different vocabulary was not cultural fluency. I had to master new rules of intimacy and conversation, of dress and comportment, of humor and reverence.

  I had been assigned to a college-owned house I was to share with other Americans and a few Australians. The tutor for rooms explained that I would “certainly feel more comfortable” with my “own kind.” But I hadn’t crossed the ocean to cohabit with my countrymen. My pleas to move were politely but firmly denied; when I persisted, the denial became less polite and more firm. Two weeks into term, I developed a nasty cold and went to see the college nurse, Sister George, who volunteered that the newly laid synthetic carpeting in my house was full of toxins. “Perhaps you have developed an allergy to your room?” she suggested. Seizing the opportunity, I asked her to mention that implausible likelihood to the tutor for rooms. He called me into his office the next day and said, with an exasperated sigh, “All right, Mr. Solomon. You’ve won. I’ve found you a room in college.”

  It took a while to comprehend that in England an education was often considered a pleasurable luxury rather than an ambition-driven necessity. I hadn’t understood how delicate a hold meritocracy had in a class-riven society. I didn’t know why so much food was boiled so long. Neither had I imagined the confidence that accrues to families that had lived and toiled on the same land for centuries; the elegant use of humor to half mask urgent sincerities; the whole country’s reassuring habit of permanence. I was amazed by how many of my favorite writers my English acquaintances had not read, and by how many of their favorite poets I had never heard of. We were indeed divided by a common language that was less common than I’d imagined. I loved the universal penetration of pomp and circumstance, and the novel belief that pleasure mattered as much as success. I loved the country’s bank holidays and tea breaks. I loved how religion was high-minded and ritualistic instead of judgmental and perpetually reinvented. I was struck by how much more steadfastly the English traveled; indeed, their more immersive model of exploring helped launch me on the course this book documents. I came to love England for other reasons than those that had made me a juvenile Anglophile.

  When I finished my first postgraduate degree, I decided to stay in England for a while. I set about sending inquiry letters to publishing houses and magazines, and when my parents visited me that spring, I airily told them that I was looking for a job in London. My father was so angry that he banged his fist on the table of the pub in Grantchester where I’d announced my plans, silencing all the other patrons. He declared that he was forbidding it, and I told him that he was no longer in a position to forbid things. We all revolt against our parents, but it is striking to me in retrospect that I did so in relation to place.

  Actually, I had chosen to stay partly to strengthen my bond with my new home and partly to assert that I could exist away from my old one. I was twenty-three, and gay, and preparing to come out of the closet (although I didn’t entirely know it yet), and I couldn’t do it in New York, where I felt sucked back into a vortex of expectations and assumptions. I needed to break free of America for breathing space—not to be myself, yet, but to figure out what self I was becoming. I confused, as many young people do, the glamour of being an outsider with the liberty to do or think whatever crossed my mind. It was not enough to acknowledge some newfound self; I would create a new persona and be famous for the radical imagination with which I did so. I sported outré clothing that I thought echoed some elegance of a bygone era; I used arch constructions of speech; I was socially promiscuous, accepting all invitations. This exercise in self-definition, though ultimately useful in the way of youthful misadventures, was often irksome to others. What I presumed to be originality often smacked of affectation. I was both presumptuous in expressing my new, English self, and hypocritical in cleaving to my native system of values. I disavowed my privilege and the autonomy it gave me, but I also discounted my turmoil. I manifested my confused sexuality via my ambiguous nationality.

  Like many gay people of my time, I rooted myself in a chosen place and friendships. But as time passed, I came to realize that I had an amateur’s arrogance in my English friendships and had failed to understand that I had to be someone slightly different to succeed at them. I was charmed by how English my English friends were, and I assumed they would be delighted by how American I remained—but I had chosen to transplant myself and they had made no such choice. I deeply offended several people I loved. Perhaps those friendships would have foundered anyway; I was young, psychologically careless, and enmeshed in the solipsism of burgeoning depression; I also remained single while many old friends married, a difference of experience that made me feel uncomfortably marginal. Today, many of my closest friends are English people who live in New York or Americans who live in London. Displacement becomes a forgiving homeland, a thing held in common with others.

  If moving to England was the beginning of my jubilant exile, my removal to Moscow was its apotheosis. My high school glee club trip had been canceled thanks to the invasion of Afghanistan. The family trip to the Soviet Union we planned some years later was canceled at the last minute thanks to the Chernobyl nuclear disaster. So much of my favorite literature was Russian that like Chekhov’s renowned sisters, I had taken to asking, plaintively, when I would ever get to Moscow. In 1988, I was working for the British monthly Harpers & Queen as arts correspondent, and Sotheby’s was planning its first auction of contemporary Soviet art. After lookin
g at the advance materials, I had concluded that terrible art was being hyped to wealthy collectors in a scheme of cynical exploitation. I proposed writing a tell-all article about the jet-set tomfoolery of the whole sorry affair.

  * * *

  Then I went to Moscow. My third day there, I had planned to interview a group of artists who had studios in a squat at Furmanny Lane, and my translator failed to show. I didn’t want to be rude, so I went to their studios by myself. They indicated that I could hang out for a bit. At first, there wasn’t much communication; I spoke no Russian and they spoke no English. A few hours later, someone came by who spoke French, which I speak poorly, so we made some headway; a few hours after that, someone came by who spoke English. But the gift, though I didn’t know it at the time, was those hours of being unable to communicate verbally. It gave me time to watch the artists interact. As they showed their work to one another, I saw that they were getting things from it that I wasn’t. Later, I learned that the artists had designed their work to appear banal to avoid the unwelcome attentions of the KGB, but had filled it with hidden meanings. The key to understanding those meanings lay in the personal relationships among the artists, none of whom expected to exhibit to a larger audience. The work was full of inside jokes. More important, it reflected a deep mysticism: these artists believed they were safeguarding integrity in the face of a regime that was out to undermine truth itself.

  If my translator had come that morning, I would never have recognized any of that. The West was curious about these artists; I soon understood that they were just as curious about the West and lacked a point of reference, all interchange having been forbidden. I entered their orbit knowing a bit about the Western art world, and they wanted the guidance I could provide. Shockingly unmoored from familiarity, I didn’t know how to make sense of their world, but they were kind to me as a mutual coherence slowly emerged.

  The following summer, I returned to Moscow for a month of research. I remember sitting at Heathrow Airport in a panic. I wanted to see my Russian friends; I had decided to write my first book about them; yet I felt a tinge of that dread of unfamiliarity that had overcome me in Morocco four years earlier. My sense of myself was still fragile and depended on the constant reassurance that only familiarity affords. Everything in Moscow was different: what I ate, where I slept, what we talked about.

  I started out living in a dacha with a group of German artists, but ended up camping out somewhat apprehensively in the Furmanny Lane squat. I considered myself an observer but came to understand that my artist friends considered me a participant in whatever was happening—both because lives are changed by being recorded, and because the presence of an interloper is never neutral. More than a hundred artists were living in the building by then. Though there were toilets in various locations, only one bathroom, at the far side of the courtyard, was fully functional. Unlike the artists, I bathed every day. I borrowed a fuchsia terry-cloth bathrobe from the painter Larisa Rezun-Zvezdochetova. Since Larisa is not quite five feet tall, the robe hung rather weirdly on my lanky frame. A Russian documentary, released a few years later, about the art world in that late Soviet period includes overhead footage of my daily trek across the courtyard in Larisa’s bathrobe as a kind of punctuation to mark the passing days.

  I had gone to Moscow knowing about the darkness of Soviet dominion, but I had not reckoned on the heroic dimension of resistance, nor the sociability that a protracted ideological crisis can engender. These Russians’ capacity for intimacy correlated to their society’s dysfunction. I had long daydreamed about the power of art to change the world, but I had also always assumed that art was in fact just entertainment. To the Russians, though, changing the world was the prime reason to make art. “You see,” the artist Nikita Alexeev said to me, “we have been preparing ourselves to be not great artists, but angels.” Now faced with a Western market system in which they were expected to comply with commercial expectations, some produced work that played well to collectors and museums; some continued to follow their original moral purpose, creating art with little market potential; some renounced art entirely.

  Irony had been their best defense from the Stalin years onward, and irony was the armor in which they approached the new world order. The artist Kostya Zvezdochetov had been called up for punitive army service in the early 1980s, one of many Soviets who were excused from military conscription and later drafted; this process attracted less Western attention than a sentence to the gulag, but served the same function. Kostya found himself among a coalition of thieves and murderers in Kamchatka, the peninsula that lies east of Siberia and north of Japan. His battalion had been ordered to excavate the foundation of a building that had been constructed on melting ice. Kostya, who is physically diminutive, got sick repeatedly; his superiors finally realized that he was a gifted draftsman and put him to work making propaganda posters. Many years later, at his first exhibition in Western Europe, he reminded me that he had once been sent farther east than he had ever dreamed of going or wanted to go, and that he had been put in a room and given paints and supplies and been told to make art, and that he had done so even though he did not agree with the purpose of that art, because it saved him from hard physical labor. Now, he explained, he was farther west than he had ever dreamed of going or wanted to go, and once more he had been put in a room, and once more he had been given paints and supplies, and once more he had been told to make art, and once more he suspected that what he was doing supported an ideology to which he did not subscribe—but once more, he would do it if it saved him from hard physical labor.

  When my book The Irony Tower: Soviet Artists in a Time of Glasnost was published in June 1991, people asked whether there would be a Russian translation; I replied that the Soviets hardly needed a foreigner to tell them about what was happening in their own country. In 2013, however, a Russian edition was published, with an introduction by Kostya. By then the political and artistic landscape of the country had completely changed, and the lives we had led were of historical interest. That made me feel old, but it also made me contemplate the possibility that my adolescent goal of participating in change had come to fruition—that chronicling the changes had inscribed me in them.

  In November 2015, I had dinner with one of these artists, my friend Andrei Roiter, and told him about this book, recalling some of the shared history I was putting into it. “Remember how much hope we had?” he asked. I wondered whether he regretted the dreams that hadn’t come to fruition, and he said, “Even if it turned out to be groundless, the very fact of having felt that hope at that moment determined everything else I have thought, everything I have painted, everything I have become.” We bemoaned the iniquities of Putin’s Russia, and he said, “Even that violence is different because it follows on hope.” As we talked, I came to understand that hope is like a happy childhood; it equips its beneficiaries to deal with the traumas that inevitably ensue. It is experienced as a primal love. My life, relatively apolitical until I went to Moscow, took on the urgency of such embattled integrity when I was there. I did not yet know to call it purpose, but the travels described in this book all followed from that exaltation. The feeling of optimism among those Soviet artists was based on what turned out to be largely a fiction—but it was a genuine feeling even if it pertained to an imagined reality. A crushed hope is suffused with nobility that mere hopelessness can never know.

  * * *

  I moved home from London and Moscow when my mother was dying so I could spend the final months of her life close at hand. Leaving New York had given me independence, but my mother’s death eviscerated my self-created identity; my independence had required something of which to be independent, and that something had been partly the United States and partly my family of origin. Reckoning with my mother’s illness, I concluded that differentiation was overrated. I moved home to be with her and stayed there because I was finally able to accept being more or less American. No one had forewarned me, however, that if you live abroad any g
ood while, the notion of home is permanently compromised. You will always be missing another place, and no national logic will ever again seem fully obvious to you.

  A year after I resettled in New York, my London solicitor called to advise me that because I had held a British work visa for six years, I could apply to be naturalized as a UK citizen. I needed only to meet a dozen criteria. I had always paid my taxes; I had never been arrested for a felony. The final criterion, however, was that I not have spent more than two months outside the UK in any of the previous six years, and here, alas, I was in trouble. On a lark, I wrote a letter to the Home Office explaining that I’d been in Russia to research my book and in the United States to care for my mother, but that in my heart I was loyal to the Queen. A bored clerk must have been on duty when my note arrived in the autumn of 1993 because I received citizenship papers by return post.

  British citizenship conferred legitimacy on what had previously seemed something of a subterfuge. It allayed some anxiety in me to have dual nationality; I could not only claim two different places, but also be two different people. It seemed to rescue me from the burden of crafting a single identity, from the exhausting attempt to squeeze my contradictory nature into a single narrative. It marked my experiment with foreignness as a success. And it gave me options. I couldn’t look at that new passport and not think about my father saying, “They had nowhere to go.” I had someplace to go, permanently.