The Founder Of STROGO Vintage Marina Chuikina About Her Favorite Books

A life 2022

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The Founder Of STROGO Vintage Marina Chuikina About Her Favorite Books
The Founder Of STROGO Vintage Marina Chuikina About Her Favorite Books

Video: The Founder Of STROGO Vintage Marina Chuikina About Her Favorite Books

Video: An Introduction | History \u0026 Me 2022, December
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IN THE HEADING "BOOKSHELF" we ask journalists, writers, scientists, curators and other heroines about their literary preferences and publications, which occupy an important place in their bookcase. Today Marina Chuikina, the founder of the STROGO vintage store, shares her stories about her favorite books.

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Marina Chuikina

founder of STROGO VINTAGE store

I like the yellowed with age, fragile sheets, frayed bindings

I grew up in a classic Moscow family of doctors: both at our house and at my grandmother's house they read constantly. It was a natural environment that I, as a child, took as something that goes without saying. Mom says that my second word was “read” (the first one is “to stand” for some reason), and it was in an imperative form. I remember very well my childhood feelings when my mother, sitting at the head of my bed, read books aloud with a special intonation peculiar only to her. Mom worked a lot, and this very moment of reading at night was a very important, sacred moment of a special, maximum intimacy between us. I remember that every time I terribly didn’t want my mother to turn off the light and leave, begged her to read a little more, but she was tired, her voice sat down, and all I had to do was wait for the next evening.

During my school years, I spent a lot of time alone at home, alone with our home library. There was so much in it: dad worked in a book publishing house and brought home everything they released. The shelves were full of science fiction, detective stories, adventure novels. Until the age of twelve, I read everything indiscriminately: I remember that I was terribly fond of fantasy, books about pirates and travels to other planets. At the same time, I looked at my mother's shelves with medical literature, with the help of which I looked for deadly signs of a particular disease, took an interest in books on psychology and tried Freud's teeth.

At different times in my life, my literary guides were different people. Within the family, of course, there is a grandmother: she introduced me at one time to Lev Kassil, Sholem Aleichem, Lilianna Lungina. Every time I come to visit her, she meets me with a question what I am reading now - sometimes I have to blush when I pull the same book for a long time.

A turning point, perhaps too acute experience, was a thoughtful acquaintance with Chekhov - I remember exactly, it was the first summer when I did not go to the camp and stayed in Moscow. The meeting of Chekhov took almost by accident, not for the first time, but this time something went differently. A subtle tragedy that was almost not voiced in words, a quiet drama experienced almost behind the scenes, opened for me a new, until then unfamiliar feeling of intoxicating delight of sadness. I started looking for authors who caused similar experiences in me.

I managed to systematize the reading process only at the Faculty of Journalism: there I read very richly, practically without distracting from literature, especially foreign literature, to other disciplines that are less interesting to me. At some point, I was very attracted to women writers - so I fell in love with Gertrude Stein and spent long evenings painfully solving her English-language texts. After that, I generally became interested in experimenting with the language, began to read Americans, became interested in the beatniks and eventually became interested in the culture of protest, youth rebellion in the United States. There, the boundaries between creativity and the private life of writers dissolved, and I was carried away by everything: a new language, rebellious ideas, a way of life, experiments on consciousness. This interest became the starting point for what I am doing now: my project was primarily inspired by the aesthetics of youth counterculture.

Most of the time, I borrow books from libraries.Favorite - "Inostranka", there I can almost always find the things I need. I like to realize that the book I hold in my hands has been read by completely different people over the past half century: some leave notes in the margins, others fold the leaves, others put bookmarks - what happened to these people? I imagine that some kind of mystical connection is being established between us, we become in some way accomplices. I like the yellowed with age, fragile sheets, frayed bindings. Most of all, of course, I love comments, nota bene, fragments of other people's thoughts left illegible in the margins - perhaps just for readers from the future like me.

Some time ago I ended, thank God, a very belated transitional age crisis: I was convinced that the book should carry exclusively painful experience, thus educating a person in a person. Now, however, I enjoy very different things: subtle humor, stringy dialogues, lengthy descriptions, ironic and sad details of everyday life. I love peeling layers, guessing, getting into the game the author intended, falling into the traps he has set, and enjoying the beautiful language.

A turning point, perhaps too acute, was a thoughtful acquaintance with Chekhov

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Vsevolod Garshin

Stories

For the first time, I came across a collection of Garshin's stories at the book-store next to Leninka. The seller literally handed me an unremarkable volume with a surname that didn't tell me anything - I read it that very night. Then I looked for everything that could be found about Garshin: his letters, memories of friends - it turns out that even Mayakovsky indirectly mentions his death in Lilichka. How could it get past me? I am very happy that it did not pass. Garshin for me is one of the great, of the pillars: everything is always very subtle, modest, without pathos; his lyrics are inseparable from the inevitable but rather positive pain that defines a person. It shows ordinary people at first glance, broken, ground by fate. Tall, strong in the most important thing, worthy - and yet doomed, like the author himself. It is enough to look at his portrait to understand what kind of person it was - and could not stand it, rushed into the flight of stairs.

Diaries of Gennady Shpalikov

("I lived as I lived")

With Shpalikov, I had the following story. I was working as an assistant in the editorial office of a magazine, when the editor-in-chief instructed me to find and contact the heirs of Shpalikov (previously known to me exclusively from the film "I Walk Through Moscow") in order to obtain the rights to publish excerpts from his diaries. The publishing house, where I called in search of contacts, gave me the phone number of his daughter, but they told me not to count too much on success - the story really turned out to be difficult and sad. I became terribly interested, and I printed out all the excerpts from Shpalikov's diaries that I could find on the Internet. I remember reading them, choking with tears, in a cafe in Lavrushinsky. I am afraid to re-read these notes again, but in a sense they became a part of me, at the same time they broke something and built something up.

Edward Uspensky

Down the Magic River

Favorite childhood book, a humorous story about a modern city boy Mitya, who goes to visit his great-aunt, not suspecting that she is none other than the real Baba Yaga. But the Assumption Baba Yaga is not a villain or a cannibal, but a very good grandmother. All day she drinks tea with her closest friend Kikimora Bolotnaya in a hut on chicken legs and looks at a saucer with an apple instead of a TV, in which they show Tsar Makar and his assistant Gavrila, and Vasilisa the Wise and all the favorite heroes of Russian fairy tales. For me, Ouspensky happened much earlier than the Strugatskys, and I absolutely adored him.

Giovanni Boccaccio

Decameron

Boccaccio stood on the top shelf of my grandmother's closet and, as a child, terribly intrigued me.At first, I timidly leafed through spicy pictures, closing myself from my parents in my grandmother's bedroom, then from under the floor I began to read: I was terribly embarrassed to ask my grandmother for the Decameron home, so I read in snatches on family holidays, most often on New Year's Eve. At that moment, when the chimes were beating at everyone, my cunning wives cheated on empty-headed husbands in every way, and roguish crooks seduced bored nuns - it was absolutely impossible to break away.

Ingeborg Bachmann

Novels, "Raspberry"

With Ingeborg Bachmann, it's great to be sad. It always seemed to me that the only way to overcome sadness is to reach the last line in it, to cross it - then the countdown will start from the beginning. For me, Bachmann is the best way to dive to the bottom: her books (my favorites are the latest) are saturated with a heightened sense of loneliness, a feeling of being lost, disconnected from the homeland and the impossibility of understanding between people. But there is no sharp strain, no bookish pathos - and therefore her painful experience is not just read, but lived.

Euripides

Medea

What strikes me about Euripides is its incredible relevance: two and a half thousand years ago, he wrote as yesterday. And Medea is a favorite character: a surprisingly strong female character, in fact the same Lilith - a woman who is not subject to her lover's slobber, terrible in anger and even more terrible in disappointment. Very accurately, in my opinion, von Trier filmed Medea: gloomy, eerie and beautiful.

Seis Noteboom

Lost heaven

This book was recommended to me by my beloved Berlin friend, and I fell in love one by one with all Noteboom's things translated into Russian. This is the most atmospheric, slow prose that you want to savor, read slowly. “Paradise Lost” is a story that is very close to me personally: the heroes lost in their own fantasies float with the flow of books, unable to really get to know each other. Everyone has their own imaginary paradise, previously lost and inaccessible - and this is its charm. Everyday, realizable paradise is of no interest to anyone, and only the elusive paradise has value.

Sholem Aleichem

Collected Works

My grandmother instilled in me my love for Sholem Aleichem - by the way, she also has a lot of similar stories. As a girl, she went for the summer to her relatives in the town of Klimovichi, from where she brought the most charming stories about tactless aunts Roses, noisy older and younger Tsipas, endless uncles Isaacs and others, others, which I still can't really understand. After Sholem Aleichem, I fell in love with Rubina with a little more modern, but no less curious and touching stories.

Charles perry

The Haight-Ashbury: A History

With this book and with several others dedicated to the events of the late 60s in America, the following story happened to me. I had just completed my diploma in the American counterculture of the 60s and, completely convinced that I ate a dog in this matter, went on vacation to Greece. In Athens, we had a connecting flight, and I had already taken a seat in an old plane to the island of Skiathos, when the real hero of my diploma entered the cabin: an elderly, but very stately and energetic hippie - in a leather jacket, cool skinny jeans, with ethnic bracelets and a mane of silver hair. I was completely delighted, but I was ashamed to meet - three days later I again had such a chance.

It turned out that he was from New York, in 1968 he was 20 years old, and at that time he was shuttling between New York and San Francisco, observing and living everything that I wrote about in my diploma. Moreover, he turned out to be a journalist and collector, collecting, among other things, rare samizdat of that time. Needless to say, he completely turned my understanding of what was happening in America at that time. For a whole week we rode around the island with him, and, like Scheherazade, he told me stories from his youth, and at parting he made a reading list, which included this book by Charles Perry.

Terry jones

Catching the Moment

My Visual Bible.A couple of years ago I was lucky enough to take a short course at Saint Martins - on the very first day of class I went to the library, and immediately to the Fashion department. This book was exactly what I needed: visual inspiration in its purest form. It had everything that interested me in particular: the aesthetics of the 80s and 90s, British rebellious youth, the spirit of protest, Susie Sue, Japanese women, Berlin, wild colors, punk and so on. Terry Jones - the man who invented i-D, a brilliant art director who worked with the best publications of his time - collected his most outstanding works in this book, and also talked about how and why it all came to his mind. I photographed half the book on my iPhone, but upon returning to Moscow I realized that I absolutely needed it and ordered it on Amazon.

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