As a regular reader of Slashdot, I am often amazed at the litigation that artists--especially musicians--have to deal with. The lawyer profession is almost almost a pox upon their kind. When it should not be, lawyers should be working with musicians to protect what is theirs. And the abuses, mistreatment, scamming & lying they face from their managers, labels, publishers & contracts makes it a wonder to me that any artist makes a living at all!
A friend in college introduced me to the works of
Mikhail Bulgakov after which I immediately read and fell in love with his most famous work,
The Master and Margarita . Spurred by that I read
Heart of a Dog yet could find no other novels at any of the used bookstores. Bulgakov was a Ukrainian born Russian novelist and playwright who suffered suppression and torment by the Soviets. Oddly enough, he found favor from Stalin which was possibly the only thing that kept him from a much worse fate. So he is a rare gem that was allowed to write novels & plays which he wrote with furious satire against those manipulating his life and existence.
Recently in 2007 Andrew Bromfield translated
A Dead Man's Memoir (A Theatrical Novel) for
Penguing Classics and I found it at a Border's Books of all places! I have found that I can order translations of several other of his works but for now I would like to discuss
A Dead Man's Memoir as I feel it pertains more and more to
present day America than it does the historical Soviet Union.
The books main character, Sergei Maksudov, is a failed novelist. This is Bulgakov's satire of himself. Maksudov is not a great legal expert and meets a man through a friend who will publish one of his manuscripts in a literary magazine. But after he sells the rights (for very meager sums) to publish it to this man, nothing is ever published. What really happened in Bulgakov's life when he did this was a man named Zakhar Kagansky traveled to Europe with the ill conceived contract and posed as Bulgakov's legal advisor! He spent fifteen years collecting royalties on Bulgakov's plays & novels!
So instead, Maksudov turns to writing plays. He makes the mistake of signing a contract with a theater interested in producing his play. But he at once realizes that they are not so interested in producing it as they are turning it into something
... more acceptable or merely just more to their likings. His author friend--a man trained and broken already by these types--explains to him that he should have agreed to everything and then simply never done it. This is what it takes to progress as an artist.
One of my favorite parts of the book is when he faces the entire board (including their leader and the very manipulative Ivan Vasilievich) of that theater and comes to a very harsh realization:
'As far as I can understand, my play has not been found suitable, and I ask you to return it to me.'
For some reason, these words caused agitation. Armchairs shifted, someone leaned down towards me from behind and said:
"No, why put it like that? Come now!"
Ivan Vasilievich looked at the jam and then, in consternation, at the people around him.
'Hmm ... hmm ...'--he began drumming his fingers--'we are saying in a friendly way that to perform your play would mean causing you terrible harm! Quite horrific harm. Especially if Foma Strizh takes it on. You will find life unbearable and you will curse us ...'
After a pause, I said:
'In that case I ask you to return it to me.'
And in that moment I quite distinctly glimpsed malice in Ivan Vasilievich's eyes.
'We have a little contract,' another voice suddenly spoke up, and Gavriil Stepanovich's face appeared from behind the doctor's back.
'But your theater does not wish to perform it, what do you want it for?'
Then a face with very lively eyes behind a pince-nez moved closer to me and in a high, thin tenor voice said:
'Surely you won't take it to Schlieppe's theater? What will they make of it there? Why, they'll have brisk little officers strutting around on stage! What good is that to anyone?'
'Under the terms of the current statutes and interpretations it cannot be given to Schlieppe's theater - we have a little contract!' said Gavriil Stepanovich emerging completely from behind the doctor's back.
'What is going on here? What do they want?' I thought and suddenly, for the first time in my life, I had a terrible, suffocating feeling.
So used and manipulated leaves Maksudov a mental wreck and wretchedly jaded. Bulgakov opens chapter 14 talking about Moscow and a stain he has on his clothing, perhaps drawing parallels to the people he deals with daily there:
How, can you tell me, can grease stains be removed from clothing? I tried this way and that, one thing and another. And it's quite remarkable: for instance, you soak it in petrol and the result is wonderful - the stain dissolves, dissolves and disappears. You feel happy, because there is no torment worse than a stain on your clothes. It's sloppy, it's bad, it gets on your nerves. You hang the jacket on a nail, and when you get up in the morning - the stain is back again, only now it has a slight smell of petrol.
The same thing after boiling water, dilute tea, eau de Cologne. Its' a real curse! You start getting angry and twitchy, but there's nothing you can do. No, it's clear that anyone who has once put a stain on his clothes is going to walk around with it until the suit itself wears out and is thrown out for ever. It's all the same to me now, but I wish others fewer of these stains.
So true of the tricks and contracts that artists find themselves in. Ever wonder why The Artist Formerly Known as Prince is once again Prince? Contract dispute! And I'm sure he had some of the best lawyers working for him and reading over that document before he signed it! How much longer before that stain is back?!
Fortunately, his play is eventually produced as the theater is under criticism for not being contemporary or independent (which is in its name). From that point on, every horror story ever told of a book or play being produced into a movie or stage is realized by our hero. Aside from massive ego complexes, critics mad with jealousy & bad acting instructions, he has to deal with his contemporary play being directed by an older, more esteemed man who wants to censor and edit the play. Bulgakov's real life hardships were no different as directors and theater managers tried desperately to cleanse his plays of any political satire or criticisms--especially of the current government!
This drives him to nearly complete sanity. At night he practices lying to Vasilievich and dealing with him so that his play will be produced without censorship. He comes to this harsh realization:
One night I decided to check things - I pronounced my monologue without looking in the mirror, and then cast a furtive, squinting glance into it - and was horrified.
Gazing out at me from the mirror was a face with a wrinkled forehead, bared teeth and eyes that betrayed not only anxiety but also ulterior motive. I clutched my head in my hands realizing that the mirror had misled and deceived me, and I flung it to the floor. A triangular piece sprang out of it. They say it's a very bad sign if a mirror breaks. Then what can be said of the madman who deliberately breaks his own mirror!
A harsh realization that you are dealing with these kind of people, an even harsher realization when you realize that you've become one of them. Now a nearly a raving lunatic who has taken to talking to himself, he depends entirely on living at the theater where his play is being produced. It is the only thing that keeps him going--to know that his story might be told to people to provide them enjoyment and to hear it and recognize with the characters.
However, the production goes very slowly and the director (Vasilievich) is taking entire days to force the actors and actresses to perform strange acting rituals that are supposed to make them better actors. While the play does not progress at all! By this time, Maksudov & Bulgakov have become cut down and unsure of themselves, the lunatic says to himself near the end of the book:
'Yes, this is all astonishing. But it is only astonishing because I am an ignoramus in these matters. Every art has its own laws, mysteries and methods. For instance, a savage would think it funny and strange that anyone should scrub his teeth with a brush, filling his mouth with chalk. To the uninitiated it appears strange that instead of proceeding directly to operate on his patient, a doctor first does all sorts of strange things to him, for instance, he takes blood for analysis and so on ...'
How many times do you think that a musician, actor, writer, painter or graphics artist has been instructed not to do something? How many albums do you think come out these days with the intensity of the sound on the CD mastered so that it is all the way up all the time? How many artists are allowed to keep the sound that made them famous in their small towns? How many movies are made that lack a formulaic sure fire success model for today's theaters? Are we not living in a society where what is 'art' is defined by those with the funds to publish it?
If you don't read A Dead Man's Memoir, at least recognize that to be an artist of any kind today doesn't mean starvation necessarily but instead torment, manipulation and in the worse cases being stripped of your dignity & sanity.
