A poem

by Stefan Ivanov

 

i wanted to travel along with ivan moudov for one of his exhibitions
ever since
more than ten years ago
a friend of ours told me about their trip to cabaret voltaire in zurich
and before that to venice for the biennale

the first time that i saw him
he was a guest in a show in a bulgarian music television
he was wearing sunglasses and shorts
after that i saw him at his home
where there was a photo shoot with some other writers
including the one that told me about their travels
i have the feeling that he’s with us the whole time

once i was in paris at an opening of an exhibition by moudov
he was surprised to see me
i think that since then we are making plans to travel together
this was a long time ago and after different types of depression
(mine not his)

we are travelling and i’m asking him
what exactly are the works in the exhibition going to be
he’s telling me quickly clearly and precisely

the sculpture will be used as a hand rail
in his house at the black sea coast
the second is called “kibik”
or “kibitzer” as the english dictionary suggests
which means “a loafer”
and it’s about the black footmarks on walls
the biggest enemy of the white cube
the third one is a surprise
i don’t know anything about it
i wonder if ivan knows more than me
but as far as i know him
he really has a surprise in store
he always has one or more

i wonder what color are the mountains in albania
and if they are white
in bulgaria the mountains in the patriotic songs are blue
that always surprised me
are they sad?

i’ve never been to kosovo or albania
moudov hasn’t been to albania neither
although he says that he is of albanian descent
i have relatives in macedonia
that in the last twenty years
i’ve only heard on the phone

i think how calmly i watched anri sala’s videos in pompidou
i still remember them

i don’t remember how we reached pristina
that means that it was also calm
in the apartment the fridge is singing louder than the wind
and is more expressive

i ask moudov what does he expect from the exhibition
he doesn’t have any expectations
he’s opened to anything
including to nothing too
there can be a crowd
or just a wandering kid that waits for his mother

(we met an eight year old boy
that learned english from “rick and morty” and “family guy”
i learned english in the 90’s from “cartoon network”
i wonder from where and how did moudov learn english in the 80’s)

moudov is a bit worried
he may be a bit stressed with the drawing
i doubt it

he wants for once to read a poem
he thinks poetry is an abstract art
(we are wondering
should we translate the text with google
from english to albanian)

i ask him
but he doesn’t remember
who’s the first albanian
that he got to know

but he remembers that on the macedonian border
the female border guard is asking him
“if you are an artist
where are your paintings?”
he explains that he’ll paint them on the spot
in the gallery
“but how is this happening” she insists “you have an exhibition”
“oh well” she finally says
and she leaves us

we didn’t eat in mcdonalds in macedonia
we didn’t eat in mcdonalds in kosovo either
in albania maybe we are going to continue to not do that

on the road we were talking about politics and gossip
i asked him if he was afraid before his wife became pregnant
he didn’t understand the question
“why should i be afraid before she got pregnant
there’s no sense in that”
moudov is a calm person

in kosovo
but still on the border
little kids want to sell us water
they are repeating
“mister water money bulgaria”
we don’t buy

we entered pristina
and for the first time since we are on the road
we switched on the gps on our phones
and they didn’t work
there was no voice nor instructions
it was like in a fairytale or a scary dream

we drove around the ring-road
we passed calmly through the central pedestrian street
because we saw our landmark – hotel “sirius”
(not serious
but more like the bright sirius from checkhov’s “the seagull”
from the monologue of the immortal soul
my favourite part of the play)

we had a walk
the people were moving with enthusiasm on the streets
maybe because they felt good

or because it was cold

i slept in a child’s room
with drawings on the door 

while we were walking we didn’t meet bill clinton
but there was mud where we left the car
i dreamt that we created a man from mud
a little newborn baby
a little bill clinton
who wants to eat italian pasta

after another round of talks about friends and politics
we reached albania
the mountains here are frightening and beautiful
after the border there are graves and bunkers
after that there are dams or lakes after that there are palms

we went to the place where you are at the moment
and where you are reading this text
we looked at the previous exhibition
moudov drank a beer
i drank a coke
i browsed through the vinyl records
he began to paint on the wall
i began to read

we went to the apartment
in pristina we were on the seventh floor
here we are on the eighth

we went for a walk
we saw bar “sofia”
the logo was the coat of arms of the bulgarian capital
i didn’t feel at home inside
or it’s exactly like at home in a painful way
we saw the lake the new construction sites and buildings
the new square and the pyramid
(the mausoleum in sofia was destroyed long ago)

i know more about other countries and places
but not enough for these that are close
and i can reach by car
and with which we have similar pains and past
and sometimes we laugh at the same things

i feel a bit stupid
like i’m a child again
i’m having a nightmare
and i’m walking on a staircase
the gps doesn’t work
there is no handrail
the borders are missing
sometimes the steps are missing
and my thoughts are stupid trails
left by a man without the proper attitude
because i don’t know so many things
and i must catch up
without knowing if i’m going up or down
the movement is the only solution

call it funny
call it sad
call it what it is