Artist’s book
Photography and text by Kirill Gluschenko, 2010–2015
№ 120
Published by Gluschenkoizdat, 2016
Edition of 10 copies
280 pages
210 × 260 m

Russian, English, French, German
Baba Masha
by Kirill Gluschenko
Translation from Russian by Ben MacGarr
<...> A doorway leads from the kitchen into the bedroom. There is always twilight there, the only light coming in from the kitchen where a lone bulb pulsates intensely in the dusty chandelier. This room is also tiny. In it, there’s a bed with a mountain of hard pillows piled on top of it, covered in semi-transparent white pillowcases. A low little cupboard stands beside it and a small black and white TV is perched on a solid commode on the other end of the room, wrapped in a crumbling plastic cover.

When I got tired of sitting in the kitchen with them, I would go to that room, push down the heavy door handle and turn on the TV. It heated up, made long buzzing sounds, and after a few minutes it slowly started to form a picture from thin trembling lines. The evening show Vremya was on. As the newscaster’s tense voice emerged slowly from the speakers, I was attentively focusing my eyes on the screen, trying to figure out what he was saying while the room gradually became cloaked in a thick, almost palpable noise barrier. I could hear broken dialogues coming from the kitchen, the sizzling of the thick pan on the stove, the faint squeaking of the mice behind the wall and the creaking couch below me. I sat there and did not move, hiding and waiting for my grandma to call me. The time passed slowly and my eyes began closing all by themselves.

When my grandma and I were leaving the house it was already night. High above, the treetops were darkening against the black sky. The fast and troubled rustling of the leaves mixed with the sound of the broad river flowing below and the lengthy songs of nocturnal insects. We walked home, running into swarms of tiny, almost transparent midges.

Once there, I deftly jumped over our fence and opened the heavy gate from the inside. I saw the silhouette of my grandma, standing with her back towards me and looking at the river. The moon was shone brightly, illuminating the waters of the calm wide river.
The Girls
by Kirill Gluschenko
Translation from Russian by Ben MacGarr

“I’d spent the previous night, like every other night that summer, on two soft armchairs put together to form a comfortable and even spacious (for my little eight year old body) sleeping place. Before going to bed, I always watched the Vremya broadcast: as the minute hand neared the ‘9:00’ mark, the alarming music started to play, the map of Russia flew in front of our eyes for some reason, and then the newscasters appeared. I listened to the news about the construction of another thermal power station and the record harvest, glancing from time to time at the screen that was glimmering away in the dark. The troubled voices of the newscasters gradually calmed down, turning into a vague babble. Under the subdued murmur of the news stream about the decline of the Soviet Union, I slowly fell into a sweet slumber.”