MOSCOW 1994. The Dominic Ryan Peace Project Foundation.

Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
Gangland Anarchy and
a Message about War in
Moscow, Russia
1993–1994

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
The purpose was to create a memorial to a holocaust and
nuclear war which should not happen in the future and my dream
was to paint this image as a warning to nuclear war.
Contents
Introduction to Moscow & the
beginning of the Diaries
Political Chaos. History of Events in
Moscow during 1993
Synopsis of Robinson Crusoe in
Moscow
The purpose was to
create a memorial
to a holocaust and
nuclear war which
should not happen
in the future and
my dream was to
paint this image
as a warning to
nuclear war.
Gangland Anarchy and a Message
about War in Moscow, Russia,
1993 –1994
Cast of Characters of Robinson Crusoe
in Moscow
Places and Locations
The Diary of Dominic Ryan in Moscow

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
Introduction to Moscow
& the beginning of the Diaries
Rewind eighteen years to a period in 1987
when I first considered painting the Millennium
art piece—a massive 18 x 30 feet canvas. My idea
which slowly grew in form and momentum was to
paint a painting similar to Picasso’s Guernica. The
purpose was to create a memorial to a holocaust and
nuclear war which should not happen in the future
and my dream was to paint this image as a warning
to nuclear war. Upon completion it would be taken
it to the people of Russia so that we all might
remember that war and especially nuclear war was
and is a suicidal alternative. The mural was to be a
memorial to the ultimate war, and to accompany the
art work I attached a plaque which was written in
Russian and English with the words by Johnathan
Schell:
’Since we can not allow a nuclear holocaust to
occur, we are forced in this one instance, to become
historians of the future; that is to chronicle and
commit to memory an event that we have never
experienced and must never experience.’
Anticipating it would take me three years to
paint, I found a church in East Melbourne, the
Cairns Memorial Church, where I was given a
studio in the hall. I painted when the congregation
was not there every other day except Sundays. At
weddings it was covered. Just under the second
year there was an arson attack and the building, the
church and the artwork were burnt to the ground.
Devastated and in a numb shock for days the one
pathetic plus was that Time magazine had written
a two page story by Alan Atwood. The building was
destroyed and I was left with no remaining work,
while two years of my life had just disappeared
in that one night. But I did not give up. I resolved
to repaint the mural. It took a further three years
and after its completion I brought that painting to
Russia.
I wanted to create this message both for the
people of the world and for Russia. That act of
bringing that piece of artwork to Russia was a
symbolic act. At this time I was unaware that the
Soviet Union and communism would soon collapse.
And the transition from communism to capitalism
was about to happen. I arrived at the dawn of a
new and unforeseen era and the sunset of the old.
I and my companions who sought to help me were
to find ourselves deposited at an historical point in
Russian history. There was a strange synchronicity
happening, but it was also a case of out of the frying
pan and into the bonfire.
As it came to pass the whole project was
burdened by difficulties. I was not even prepared
for those new events. Sometimes our inability to
see far into the future gives us the strength to step
forwards. If I foresaw my future, it would have been
unlikely that I could summon the strength to meet
my destiny. I would have run from my courage and
hidden in my fear.
It was at this time that the journals began. After I
painted the mural a second time, I received with the
generous assistance of the Department of Foreign
Affairs and the Australian Embassy in Moscow by
the Federation of Peace and Conciliation in Moscow

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
and art director would accompany me to help
with the scaffolding. As it turned out we stepped
into a string of postponements and stalling
bureaucracy. What we believed would be an
efficient and easy exhibition was soon shipwrecked
on the reefs of Russian bureaucracy. I was displaced
and marooned in an alien culture with limited
resources but still attempting to fulfil my mission.
Graham had to return to Australia a month after our
arrival and I was left floundering for three months,
trying to find a new venue to exhibit the work.
Eventually the painting overstayed its visa and was
subject to a massive fine. I had to deal with lawyers
in order to not pay an outrageous although legal
amount of money to the Russian Customs.
The first Moscow diary documents this
period. The subsequent diaries document my
transition from an artist into a diplomat for peace
and conflict resolution in Sarajevo, the Gaza Strip
and elsewhere. They describe the campaigns I have
chosen to initiate.
I believe through these diaries I can understand
and make sense of my own life. It is also one way
of showing others how they can make sense of
their lives. The perspectives of these diaries are
my perspectives alone. Other people who are
part of this adventure have seen the events that
I experienced very, very differently. They may
disagree with what is said in these pages. They may
also be offended. Disagreement in perspective are
essential to understanding the ways that human
beings differ. If I have described someone in a way
they disagree with I ask them to remember that
it was coloured by the events of that time and my
maturity or lack of maturity. They are not memoirs
seen from the distance of maturity but responses
each day to the challenges of war zones, conflicts
and suffering.
When I describe or create a list of the houses
I have lived in, the girlfriends I have had, the cars
I have driven, or the books I have written, the list
and description begins to form a pattern. Just as
an individual assumes a form that he or she never
believed could occur, life can be a chronology of
events that we once thought unbelievable but is
now believable.
It is only in casting my eyes and intelligence back
that I consider my life to have meaning and can
discover an uncommon destiny hidden within my
life.
I am reminded of something my friend and
mentor Firouz Malekzadeh the cameraman once
said to me. In the Iranian/Iraqi war he was stationed
with seven other journalists and translators camped
on a small hillock overlooking a road in the desert
close to the sea. They observed an Iraqi MIG jet
swoop down and strafe a convoy of Iranian trucks.
70 people died in that column. Each witness
including Firouz was asked to document the
event. But each of them wrote an entirely different
account. One saw the road with the convoy as 500
meters away; another I kilometre; another that
every truck was immobilised, another saw people
running from it in flames. The accounts were as
different as the people who witnessed it. So too is
this diary an account as individual as the person
behind its pages.
My account here is similar. Others would write
as a witness to history in a different form. I have
witnessed history and this is my account. The
people who are coloured by my mind and pen are
human beings who deserve my understanding,
respect and compassion. If I have described them
in ways that are unkind or even exaggerated it is
because the pain of my own suffering could not see
above the significance or perspective of their acts,
or could not understand their perspective. I must
forgive their errors, understand that my judgements
about them are coloured by my own past and
imperfection. In these pages the righteousness are
not the ones who tried to be better, not the ones
who did great things but the victims of war. It is
the innocent whether they be refugees, prostitutes,
homeless drunks or casualties…They are the victims
of war and of society... And all victims are created
through injustice. That is why wars will only end
when injustice no longer rules this planet.

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
Political Chaos. History of Events in Moscow during 1993
The distinctly undynamic Brezhnev took Russia
listlessly through a period of stagnation, which
was followed by Gorbachev. His policies of glasnost
(open public discourse) and perestroika (economic
reconstruction) aimed to rejuvenate the ailing
socialist state, but it was beyond help and by the
late 1980s the authority of the Communist Party
was under threat. The charismatic leader Boris
Yeltsin rose from campaigning Moscow Party boss
to become the spearhead of movements against
the authority of Gorbachev. He ripped up his Party
membership card on TV. A failed hardline coup
could not stop the momentum towards the fall of
Soviet Communism. On Christmas day of 1991
Gorbachev resigned and the Russian tricolour was
raised above the Kremlin.
In September 1993 President Yeltsin dissolved
the parliament and called for fresh elections. His
market reforms known as ‘shock-therapy’ were
increasingly unpopular. The rioters erected barriers
in Moscow streets, near the White House (Russia’s
parliament building). Shots were fired and several
people injured after fights with security forces. Riot
police used water cannons to disperse the crowds
but were beaten back by a powerful and determined
crowd of rioters. During the ‘bloody’ October events
in Moscow 1993 hundreds of people were killed.
During those days the two enraged branches of
power continued shooting each other with attack
rifles and tanks. The communist protesters were
supporting rebel ministers occupying the White
House. The rebels demanded Yeltsin reverse
his earlier decision to dissolve the conservative
parliament.
Through the violent conflict between president
and parliament in 1993 and some shaky elections
along the way, Yeltsin led Russia into the brave new
world of Capitalism. Since the fall of Communism,
Moscow has attracted more than the a share of
foreign capital and new development, to the extent
that it is often spoken of by outsiders (normally
in disparaging terms) as a different country. It’s
architectural life has been embellished by a few
projects pushed by populist mayor Luzhkov,
most notably the Church of Christ the Saviour, a
remake of an original building swept away by the
Communists.

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
Gangland Anarchy and
a Message about War in
Moscow, Russia, 1993 –1994
In which the artist leaves Australia for Moscow,
invited by the Russian Federation of Peace to exhibit
a 10 X 6 metre mural about apocalypse and nuclear
Armageddon in Moscow. He visits Moscow in 1993
at the height of the White House siege by Yeltsin’s
adversaries, witnessing sedition, murder and chaos.
Finally he exhibits the painting in Moscow State
University. The artwork is subsequently impounded
and a fine of $ US190,000 negotiated. After legal
representation, the fine is waived. Dominic Ryan
remains in Moscow during the tumultuous period
of gangland anarchy as the country moves into a
free market economy. After his apartment is burnt
out, he and his girlfriend wander homeless until a
recuperating Slovenian journalist who was wounded
by a Serbian sniper during the siege of Sarajevo
befriends them.

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
Cast of Characters:
Moscow 1993-5
GRAHAM BLACKMORE
VLADIMIR
RITA MITRAFANOVA
OLGA MITRAFANOVA
LYDIA
(VICCA) VIKTORIA TROOSHINA
NIKOLAI SCHERBAKOV
GEORGE V PIVOVAROV
YURI BIMIKELICHENKO
CONSTANTINE
LOUISE O’KEEFE
IAN JONES
RITUM
NATALYA
TATYANA
(LUDA), LUDMILLA ZUGALLO
HAMISH APPLEBY
ROBERT HAUPT (1946–96)
PETER WATSON
MICHELLE WILLIAMS
SERGEI
NATALYA/NATASHA
ANDREI
Australian film designer and later architect who accompanied Dominic
Ryan to Moscow to help erect the painting Millennium in 1993 -1994
colleague to Yuri Drozdov Federation of Peace Prospect Mira Moscow
23-year-old law student. Rita subsequently became a disc jockey on the
Moscow radio Station Radio Maximum. Daughter of Olga (see below)
resident in Leninsky Prospect Moscow. Mother to Rita. Later became the
Director of the Moscow Avante Garde cultural centre DOM
Moscow landlady at Novoslobodskaya Metro, Mother of Sasha
20 year old Student at Moscow State University, African and Asian
Studies Department. Translator for Dominic Ryan and Graham
Blaclmoore
Director of the African and Asian Studies Department Moscow State
University
Executive Director Studies Graduate Association Institute of African and
Asian Studies Moscow State University
Manager of Balt Australia, shipping company, St Petersburg
student at Faculty of Africa and Asian Studies who was suggested to be
Graham’s translator
Second Secretary in the Australian Embassy and later assistant to the
Ambassador to Australia in Moscow in 1994-5
Australian cinematographer who worked on the American film Police
Academy 7 in Moscow
Latvian political journalist stationed in Moscow
girlfriend of Graham’s at Ritum’s party
colleague of Yuri Drozdov
girlfriend of Hamish Appleby
Australian friend who accompanied Dominic Ryan on the first leg of their
journey to Moscow in 1993
Australian Correspondent for The Sydney Morning Herald; The Age
monthly review and Washington correspondent for The Financial Review
filmmaker, friend and collaborator on documenting the artist’s work
girlfriend of Dominic Ryan in 1994-5 who accompanied Ryan to Moscow
and stayed with him for 7 months
boyfriend of Rita Mitrafanova
erstwhile and temporary date and Russian girlfriend of Graham
Blackmore
former partner of Natalya
ROSEMARY RYAN artist and mother of Dominic Ryan, died 1997
GALINA
babushka guard at Moscow State University Journalist Faculty

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
Cast of Characters: Moscow 1993-5
MIKHAIL, (MISHA)
NIKOLAI, WIFE NINA,
CHILD NATASHA
(PASHA) PAVEL TYRSHKIN
YURI MIKHAILECHENKO
PAUL RAUTZAU
AMANDA CLARKE
MICKEY DOLEMAN
PROFESSOR ORLOFF
CAPTAIN EUFGENIE NESTEROV
OLGA AND MARSHA
KALASHNIKOVA
MARSHA KALASHNIKOVA
PAUL HOLLEMAN
JULIA
SASHA PETLURA
SERGEI
YURI DROZDOV
OLGA
YURI BABAYOV
YURI LEGIN
OLGA
MARINA
VADIM
MIKITA KHOVLOKOV
KHOVLOKOV AND SOVBALEV
graphics designer at Federation for Peace and Conciliation
the family with whom Hamish and Luda were billeted in Novoslovdskaya
area in Moscow
Moscow Soviet-style neo-socialist artist who assisted with the Dominic’s
sojourn and exhibition in Moscow in 1993. He was introduced to
Dominic through the Moscow Peace Federation at Prospect Mira in 1992
via Yuri Drozdov
the operative in St. Petersburg for Baltic Australia
Australian Marketing Director from Opal Maritime Agencies responsible
for assisting in delivery of Millennium to Moscow
journalist, researcher and Australian friend. At the time she was
collecting hats and wanted a Russian bear skin hat sent
union representative in Melbourne who was prepared to sponsor
containers Melbourne Australia which carried the exhibition
academic who did not support the exhibition at Moscow State
University’s Grand Hall because of his fears the scaffolding would
damage the hall
the Captain who assisted in Moscow with the delivery of the container
holding Millennium – Deputy General Director Transnautic Moscow Ltd
mother of student Marsha who wrote article about the Millennium
exhibition
student who wrote the article for the exhibition
Australian Dutch friend, musician and mentor who later assisted as
collaborator on the Peace Project throughout 1995 -2002.
girl friend of Artium Shanurov, student at Faculty of Journalism Moscow
State Univiesity
36 year old Ukrainian performance artist who organised avant garde
art performances in his studio commune in Petrovsky Boulevard. Later
exhibited with Donna Karan her fashion collection in 1998
bookseller from Faculty of Journalism
Second Secretary of the Russian Federation of Peace and Reconciliation,
Prospect Mira, Moscow. Responsible for Ryan’s invitation to Russia
journalist
Vice Director of the International Department, Room 912, on the ninth
floor
the stuttering translator at Federation of Peace and Conciliation
homeless bookseller at Faculty of Journalism Moscow State University
colleague of Yuri Drozdov in Federation of Peace and Conciliation
Prospect Mira Moscow
would-be music producer of the Shakin Crocodiles music band
Moscow film director and boss of Angelica Dumas
two bureaucrats in Moscow State University

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
FRED
ANGELICA DUMAS
NIKITA
RITUM
MARGARITA OR RITA
ALEXANDER (SASHA)
INA PETROVNA
SERIOSHA
T’REE
PETER CURTIS
PAT CONNELL
KIRA SUVIKOVA
SVETLANA OREKHOVA
GENNADY YCOVEBA
(SASHA) ALEXANDER BRATERSKY
MISHA MITRAFANOVA
DARIA LEBAR
DIMA VIZHNEVSKY
PAUL BRANDUS
VALLERIE SUKHAROV
NATALYA BEBING
GALLINE
ALEXY PAVELOVITCH
YURI GRETCHKO
ILYA GLASUNOV
VLADIMIR ZHERINOFSKY
ANDREI RUBILOVS
IRINA SHISKINE
American Production designer for the film Police Academy
director documentary filmmaker who worked in a company, TREE T, of
Nikita Mikhalkov
translator and philologist from Federation of Peace and Conciliation who
translated documents for Ryan
Latvian journalist met through the Mitrafanovas
a friend who temporarily became my translator found through a Dutch
Australian Paul Holleman as the girl had stayed in Holland (new
translator)
from Faculty of Journalism, sells books downstairs in the hall, new
translator instead of Rita
secretary to Scherbakov at African Asian Studies
boy friend of Rita Mitrafanova
Australian friend and clairvoyant.
correspondent for Foreign Correspondent ABC
correspondent for Foreign Correspondent ABC
real estate agent for EastLink and friend who subsequently introduced
Ryan to his last house of residence in Skaterny Pereulok Moscow
lecturer at MGU PhD Philology Staff Faculty of Journalism
photographer
student at the Faculty of Journalism Later became a the Washington
correspondent for RTR. Later assisted with the Millennium exhibition and
later became a Peace Project volunteer.
lawyer and husband of Olga Mitrafanova
Slovenian journalist who subsequently accompanied Dominic Ryan into
Sarajevo at the end of the siege
student, the head of AEGIS, a trans-European organisation,
American correspondent for NBC Moscow working at the International
Press Centre Moscow
bookseller at Moscow Faculty of Journalism
dance teacher who befriends Dominic and Michelle
security guard at Faculty of Journalism during exhibition of Millennium
Maintenance Director at Institute of Electrical Research and Correlation.
Russian cosmonaut who was Director of the Federation for Peace and
Conciliation
Russian realist artist responsible for return to Russian classicism during
Perestroika period
Parliamentarian at Russian Dumas
icon artist

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
Cast Place of Names Characters: and Locations Moscow 1993-5
MARX PROSPEKT
TRETYAKOVSKAYA
FEDERATSI MIRA
NOVASLOVODSKA
KRASNAPRESKINSKAYA
FADIEVA ULITSA
PARK KULTURI
Soviet name for Moscow
street which runs past
Fedaration of Peace
Moscow Metro Station
Federation of Peace and
Conciliation
Metro
Moscow Metro Station
street where Lydia lived
Moscow Metro Station
KRAPOTSKINSKI PEROLUC street in Moscow
PRESISTENKA ULITSA
MUSELSKAYA
KROPONSINSKAYA
TEATRALLNA METRO
PUSHKINSKAYA
PETROVSKY BLVD
MYAKOSKYSKAYA
DORMITROVA ULITSA
SMOLENSKAYA
ULITSA GERTSENA
ULITSA NAGONAYA
street in Moscow
Moscow Metro Station
Moscow Metro Station
Moscow Metro Station
Moscow Metro Station
street on the first ring road
where Sasha Petlura lived
Moscow Metro Station
Moscow street
Moscow Metro Station
Moscow street adjacent to
Faculty of Journalism at
MGU Moscow
Moscow street
POLIANKA METRO
VISTILICHNAYA
DIMITROV ULITSA
TRETCHIKOV MUSEUM
APOTECHE
KRASNAYA PLOSCHARD
ULITSA PRECHISTENKA
KUTUZOVSKY PROSPEKT
SEDABAYAGOTSA
OSTANKINO TOWER
LIHOV PEREHULOK
Moscow Metro Station
beer
Moscow street
State Art Gallery
a pharmacy
Red Square
Moscow street
Moscow boulevard
television tower in Moscow
Moscow street
MANESHNAYA PLOSCHARD square opposite the Kremlin
ARHBAT
PRORECTOR
DOM HORDORJNIK
ULITSA YUNOSH
JANCEBO
VIKKINA
SHERIMETSIVO
PRASHKA
old central district of
Moscow where there are
Embassies and tourist
restaurants
Dean of University
House of Artists, a Moscow
cultural centre and gallery
Moscow street
Moscow Metro station
Moscow Metro station
Moscow airport
KOMSOMOLSKAYA
Moscow Metro Station

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
The Diary of Dominic Ryan in Moscow, Friday,
17 September,1993 until 16th of August 1994
Friday, 17 September, 1993, Moscow, Russia
We are in the Moscow Hotel opposite the Lenin Museum and the Kremlin. Graham Blackmore my friend
and I are standing, silhouetted against a grimed glass window in a vast lounge which feels more like a train
station than a hotel foyer. The foyer is filled with scuffed but grey parquet floors, a dozen flickering florescent
tubes and a few red lounge suites which look like they were in the film A Clockwork Orange. It is Russia! It is
7.33 exactly in the morning on a dreary Friday in down town Moscow. We departed on the 13th of September
on a Monday of this week. I am gazing out through a the stained window at treacle slow traffic which is barely
alive. People in bear skin hats their heads bowed to a heartless wind are trudging to work with plastic brief
cases with a tone of resignation from the duty of life. Morning has begun. A lone street sweeper in grey denim is
industriously cleaning the ponds of brackish water and the small clumps of rubbish off the streets with a straw
broom, while old trolley cars that should be in the Smithsonian museums are rumbling past him.
We ascend to our room. Again I am looking down onto Marx Prospekt from the fourth floor window of
our room where we begin to recollect the previous two days. On Wednesday after a rather pleasant stay in
Amsterdam we arrived at the airport Sherimetsivo, feeling tired, and bedraggled. We observed the strange
copper circular grills under the ceilings which resembled cake tins. We were cordially greeted by Vladimir, who
was there to collect some luggage which had been left after his trip to the United Nations in New York. He is
a representative of the Federation of Peace who has auspiced our visit. My contact there is Yuri Drozdov who
has asked Vladimir to collect us. We were soon bundled into a waiting car and escorted to the building called
the Russian Federation for Peace and Conciliation in Prospect Mira, formerly, before the collapse of the Soviet

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
Without turning to me he disconsolately said
that he didn’t know and didn’t care.
They drove us straight to Federatsi Mira which is the
Federation of Peace and Conciliation in Russian,
where we were cordially greeted by Yuri
who opened up his arms and
said to me: ‘Dominic, welcome
to the Vale of Tears’.
So that was our introduction to
naked Russia.
Union, the Soviet Peace Committee
On the way to the Federation in the centre of
Moscow I asked Vladimir what the name of the
driver was. Without turning to me he disconsolately
said that he didn’t know and didn’t care. The driver
had a cut on his hand. They drove us straight to
Federatsi Mira which is the Federation of Peace and
Conciliation in Russian, where we were cordially
greeted by Yuri who opened up his arms and said to
me: ‘Dominic, welcome to the Vale of Tears’.
So that was our introduction to naked
Russia.
We had unfortunately not been able to book
an apartment or a hotel, in true Russian fashion,
before we arrived and there were mini-moments of
confusion while Yuri attempted to dial telephone
numbers of people, and locations obstreperously.
Finally, he wrote up a letter in Cyrillic, with
Federation letterhead paper the contents of which
were completely unintelligible to us. We were driven
to the Moscow Hotel which, as Yuri said, was a
second to third-class hotel in the centre of the city.
On one side the hotel overlooks the Lenin Museum
and hotel Metropole, and on the other side the
Kremlin and Moscow State University. So it is really
slap bang right in the central district.
Graham said: ‘We really do begin to think that
we are going mad when we believe that we have
lost things when they were there with us moments
before’. When it came to handing over our passports
at the Hotel, with Yuri’s letter, I discovered that my
Russian visa was not inside the passport. I handed
it in all the same. But today when the passport
was returned to me I realised that the visa had
been secreted surreptitiously into the last page
undetected— so I had two days of futile panic.
Hungry after our trip we arrived at the restaurant
on the seventh floor of the hotel and entered. There
was this mammoth party of Japanese visitors at one
table, nattering gaily. As we were walking down
dim corridors Graham noted that throughout the
buildings there were hardly any lights. There were
three burning bulbs in a vast chandeliered room and
the bulbs were burning at only fifteen watts—tiny
little twinkles. Finally when the Japanese entourage
had left, the waiter ambled over to their table and
retrieved the stub of a candle and brought it over to
us. That was the one stub in that restaurant. There
was a live band playing seventies contemporary
hits—that song called ‘Lady in Red’ by Chris De
Burgh wafted across to us. Everything was sad and
dull. The lyrics I remembered, something like… how
does it go… wafting through this empty restaurant
with the waiter changing candles…

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
We awoke, in the hotel feeling drained from the
jet lag, went down endless corridors with worn
claret red carpets, pretending there were electronic
surveillance bugs in the walls.
‘I’ve never seen you looking so lovely as you did
tonight
I’ve never seen you shine so bright
I’ve never seen so many men ask you if you
wanted to dance
Looking for a little romance
Given half a chance
I have never seen that dress you’re wearing
Or the highlights in your hair that catch your eyes
I have been blind
The Lady in red
Is dancing with me
Cheek to cheek
There’s nobody here
It’s just you and me
It’s where I want to be
And I hardly know there’s beauty by my side
I’ll never forget the way you look tonight…’
But there was no lady in red…no one but us...
As I gaze around here the decoration is kitsch
bric-a-brac, with multi-coloured blow up dolls
attached to the walls. The Russians have this innate
capacity for creating advertising and interiors with a
kitschness bordering on insanity.
We retired early, feeling exhausted, and woke up
startled and bolt-eyed at an ungodly hour like 5.30
or 4.30 am as though some electric voltage had been
put through us from head to toe. I woke up to find
Graham sitting at the laminated desk poring over the
instructions to the video camera, as if he had been
on speed or amphetamines all night.
I woke up to find
Graham sitting at the
laminated desk poring
over the instructions to
the video camera, as if
he had been on speed or
amphetamines all night.
Thursday, 16th September, 1993,
Moscow, Russia
We awoke, in the hotel feeling drained from
the jet lag, went down endless corridors with
worn claret red carpets, pretending there were
electronic surveillance bugs in the walls. Along our
corridor there were two revolving glass doors. One
would open to the left and the other to the right.
Unless we remembered this, we could be shredded
hamburger meat sliced through by the glass.
Breakfast was an ordered and sedate affair.
Except that I did not know what eggs were in
Russian, we could have ordered eggs which were
pan fried in beautiful aluminium oxide saucepans
in sump oil. The breakfast consisted of bread,
cheese, tea without milk and two pizzas which
had been pre-heated. Again, there were no lights
in the kitchen and across from the kitchen were a
surrealist murals composed of a socialist youth with
bulging muscles on a plinth. Above the man the
print of the town had been created as a shadow of
this sculpture and behind it all that could be seen
was sky.
We then rendezvous with Rita, a friend of a
mutual friend in Australia and her mother, Olga
Mitrafanova at 11 o’clock, where we went to
inspect a potential apartment we will use for our
stay in Moscow in order to erect the exhibition at
Moscow State University. After a few near collisions
and possible fatalities in a careering, speeding Lada

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
with a bald headed driver called Andrei, we arrive
at this apartment which was far from salubrious. It
overlooked a cathedral and was close to Chekhov
Street, Hospital (or Balnitsa as it is called in
Russian). This apartment can be rented but is empty
and very unclean.
We then went straight to a friend of Olga’s,
Her name is Lydia, who is an eccentric and poor
divorcee, who might take us in as boarders. It has
been decided we were to live in her living room. We
decided that of the two alternatives Lydia’s would
be the better one because the first would involve
buying sleeping bags, and organising food. In this
instance we did not have time to organise such
things.
Everything in
life returns to its
beginning. On our
first visit Lydia
fussed around us
like an amphetamine
queen that didn’t
know when to stop.
Olga ended up by
leaving her umbrella
and we left—Rita,
myself, Olga and
Graham—to go on
Here in Moscow there
are endless drab
apartment blocks with
washing hanging like
party slogans from
balconies, floral designed
wallpaper executed
in tame Regency or
in muted ochres, and
splintered parquet floors
to Novaslovodska, a metro station. Lydia is in her
early sixties with a son called Sasha and has two
daughters that we are yet to meet. Her son is an
aviation engineer or, rather, he is studying to become
one. She is a woman who would have been very
beautiful in her youth, retaining a distant and faint
echo of her former beauty.
Lydia speaks German and Russian, but
unfortunately no English, There seems to be a
barrier because of the inability for us to grasp
Russian and for her to grasp English. So our
relationship is of ineffable frustrations from both
parties.
Here in Moscow there are endless drab
apartment blocks with washing hanging like party
slogans from balconies, floral designed wallpaper
executed in tame Regency or in muted ochres,
and splintered parquet floors (hence the reason
for wearing slippers). There are cheap sixties
veneered blondewood floors, bric-a-brac with a
kitsch undertone. The only objects on the wall in
our room at the Moscow Hotel are a portrait of a
ballerina, a little wooden frame with some wooden
flowers, while all good Russian hotel rooms now
have a picture of Lenin and Yeltsin either side of the
television, and picture of Pushkin above.
After the meeting with Lydia, where Olga left
her duckbilled handled umbrella, we rendezvoused
again at Yuri Drozdov’s at the Federation. Yuri is
a wonderful man. Small, only 5 foot three inches
tall, he is well built, thinning hair but a strong and
kind face. He was on a monthly stipend of what
amounted to thirty-five US dollars per month. He
lived alone, on occasion with his widowed mother,
and was a brilliant philologist and sinologist who
spoke seven languages fluently. He had been one
of the diplomatic golden boys during the twilight
Soviet years. Like many now, he was finding the
acclimatisation from Communism to free-fall,
cowboy Capitalism both difficult and confusing. A
deeply moral man, he had neither embezzled nor in
any way prepared for the disastrous changes which
are sweeping his country.
Interruption: Lydia, as we talk, has imposed great
affection by force-feeding us and force-clothing us
and force-washing us.
Dominic: Leave it open, leave it open.
Graham: But it won’t stay open.
Dominic: Put a book there.
(Graham feels awful when the door closes.)
Iggy Pop is playing Lust for Life, as we can hear
this beneath the window. Graham is slugging his
American Smirnoff—what is it, 40% alcohol by
volume, 80 proof and so as a printed label glued
to the bottle
indicates the
formula and
processes—
Smirnoff Sons,
manufactured
in Poland but
I can see that
it is distilled
in Hartford,
Connecticut. So
domestic vodka
is American, not
even Russian…
that’s interesting.
Meanwhile back at Yuri’s in the Federation of
Peace and Conciliation, we finally were reunited
with Vicca. Viktoria Trooshina had been my
translator in my first preliminary visit to Moscow
six months previously. She had been provided by
Moscow State University as a translator. Tall, razor
thin but with clear crystal eyes and an aristocratic
face (nomenclature was the Russian word for
aristocracy.) The child of diplomats she had regal
bearing that made her waifish beauty seem as if it
should be expected. She stood tall and graceful with
a cut of blonde hair like a cresting wave that always
washed across her forehead. It was extraordinary to
see Vicca here after all these months. She seemed
shy, and distanced, but at the same time interested
to see me. She had grown, I thought. There was a
discernible difference in her cheek bone structure
and her jaw subtly has filled out her face. When I

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
meet a person after a period of time has elapsed,
and then meeting them again their memory
superimposes itself over the person in front of me
and there is a dissonance.
Vicca, Rita, Graham, and I went on to a dreadful
neo-American ersatz pizza bar in white with
purple around the architraves just down from the
Federation. Vicca excused herself early, then left,
organising for us to meet again. We had black coffees
while Rita bitched about Vicca’s princess syndrome.
I conject it is either female sexual tension, jealousy
or class difference. She believes Vicca is playing the
princess and not getting up and buying the coffees.
We left after Vicca suggested that we go to the Dom
Hordoshnikov.
Rita, with her
wrinkled brow,
decided to go on
and seek other
environments
and areas.
The Dorma
Hordorjnik (The
Hall of Artists)
was the place
where Rita had
met Vicca and I
on our first visit. The House of Artists was new to
Graham who enjoyed the environment. There was
some contemporary exhibitions that were on. The
majority of the artists’ work was kitsch, but this is
a concurrent theme here. It does seem, as Graham
says, to be mediocre.
There is a prevailing theme in the art works there
about money and banks. For example one object
d’art and Dada piece was built of glass cans with
shredded money in it—an attempt at satire of the
banks. Then there was a pile of money with a spike
and a propeller made out of roubles.
Everything in Moscow seems to breathe decay,
and disintegration. On the metro; in peoples
faces, the way a babushka walks; the way paint is
peeling… There is a patina of decay which fills the
park benches, the banks and the hospitals. Although
since I was here six months ago there are more
and more architectural renovations happening.
Nonetheless I do not see further support for the
people. The architecture may be assisted, but not
the livelihoods of the people as a whole—that that
will take much longer and require greater patience
on behalf of the Russian people.
We returned that night to the Moscow Hotel
with Vicca and went up to the fifteenth floor,
where we were shown the most beautiful view of
Moscow looking out towards Krasnapreskinskaya
and Slovenskaya. Standing from this parapet on
the top floor Vicca pointed out where her house
was. Graham filmed the ramparts and walls of the
Kremlin and panned across to the seven towers
that Stalin had built in the various points of the city.
I observe there are few high rise apartments, and
the Gothic seven towers built by Stalin, sixty, or
seventy stages, appear to be the only examples of
skyscrapers.
The evening was spent dining at the Thai Table.
There were ‘No Smoking’ signs but the waiter said
that, since the maitre d’ was not around, Graham
could smoke to his heart’s content. We left at about
11 o’clock. After Vicca went home we retired to our
monastic and decaying Moscow Hotel where we
travelled along elongated red carpets right around
these curving corridors on the fourth floor until we
got to our funny little peephole of an apartment.
Friday, 17th September, 1993,
Moscow, Russia
We checked out of the Moscow Hotel at 9 am and
took a five dollar taxi straight to Lydia’s in Fadieva
Ulitsa. Like a time and motion study it took an
immense amount of trying, to bring all the luggage
from the hotel room right down to the foyer, This
is because all of us were shit-scared that if we left
something it would soon disappear. We had to make
staccato
jumps and
pirouettes
from one spot
to another.
One of us
would guard
all the luggage
and then the
other would
retrieve the
remaining
luggage. Then another person would take another
jump while the previous one looked after the first
piece of luggage. That took double the amount of
time to coordinate a simple act.
Once at Lydia’s, we deposited our belongings,
and then went straight to the Federatzi Mira,
Federation of Peace and Conciliation, where we
left the sculpture box which was a sculpture that
I had constructed for the exhibition with Yuri, and
then drove to a meeting at 11 o’clock. This was at
Moscow State University at the Institute of Africa
and Asia Studies where George Pivovarov and
Nikolai Scherbakov met us. Nikolai Scherbakov
is the Director of the African and Asian Studies
Department of the Moscow State University. He, Yuri
Drozdov, the Australian Embassy and the Australian
Department of Foreign Affairs are organising the
exhibition of Millennium which is to be exhibited in
the Great Hall opposite the Kremlin. It was through

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
African and Asian Studies Department of the
Moscow State University. He, Yuri Drozdov,
the Australian Embassy and the Australian
Department of Foreign Affairs are organising the
exhibition of Millennium which is to be exhibited in
the Great Hall opposite the Kremlin.
Further points of discussion at this meeting were that the
mural is to be shown for two months and that Graham is to
be granted a translator, although we will pay the expenses.
President Yeltsin will open the
building on October 13th
We anticipate showing the exhibition of Millennium on October 15th, which is
two days afterwards in the same Great Gall which is a beautiful parquet fl oored
hall on the second fl oor of MGU (Moscow State University).
Nikolai that Vicca had been appointed our translator. We discussed with Nikolai and George those details
pertaining to the exhibition. It seems as if the scaffolding may not be the problem that we first envisaged, and
then Vicca and I tried to ring the manager of Balt Australia, Yuri Bimikelichenko in St. Petersburg, but were
unable to get through. This is the company who are organising the transit of the containers.
We will next rendezvous with Yuri on Monday morning to try and facilitate those operations.
Outside the University Institute on its stucco walls workers in drab overalls on wooden scaffolding, like out
of Hong Kong, are repainting the walls of the university and there are instances where renovations are being
carried out. It has been two hundred years since the university’s founding by Lemonosov, so we have arrived at
the time of celebration for this anniversary.
President Yeltsin will open the building on October 13th and there will be an exhibition up in the Great Hall
of various books, etc. We anticipate showing the exhibition of Millennium on October 15th, which is two days
afterwards in the same Great Gall which is a beautiful parquet floored hall on the second floor of MGU (Moscow
State University).
Further points of discussion at this meeting were that the mural is to be shown for two months and that
Graham is to be granted a translator, although we will pay the expenses. Rita Mitrafanova, daughter of Olga
my friend who I met through Stefan, I feel will be a suitable translator for him although we are searching for
other people in the university. There was this stand-over man called Constantin, a student who could have been

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
At this point in the hotel foyer a
attractive woman in an emerald or
jade green dress and wan, wispy
hair with red, unsucculent lips came
up to us and said in a sing-song
voice: ‘You like to sleep, you like to
make love with me?’
Following the
meeting we went
to inspect the
halls above the
Institute.
Incidentally, Graham is documenting me at this
particular moment now with a video camera so it
seems a composite of technology is being used to
record, and communicate.
possible. Because he was so emphatic in his desire
to be of service to us Graham felt contradistinctive
to him. In any case he felt that Constantine was only
seeing green backs.
Following the meeting we went to inspect the
halls above the Institute. Bending over Graham
remarked that the parquet floor had been turned
into a rippled topography, because of the amount of
snow that had been washed and walked through the
corridors of the University in winter.
We then went to the Post Office to change some
money, where Graham was surrounded by a flock
of nattering hand waving Nigerians who refused
to leave him alone. He was fearful or neurotic that
he was to be eaten up, as if they were gangsters
waiting in for some poor foreigner to enter their
lair. The real version was that they had just walked
off the boat and were also so frightened that other
people thought that they were the ones who were
on the offensive. Double misunderstanding. Imagine
this as two countries.
Detente!
Vicca had to leave us at 4 o’clock because she
had a date—dinner or whatever with a friend. They
were going to see a concert with a Russian band at
the Bolshoi Ballet.
Incidentally, Graham is documenting me at this
particular moment now with a video camera so it
seems a composite of technology is being used to
record, and communicate.
We went on to another hotel and had an
elegant soft drink beverage, because Graham is so
frightened of catching microbes from the water
system. He feels dehydrated most of the time.
Hence his desire for some bottled liquids. At this
point in the hotel foyer a attractive woman in an
emerald or jade green dress and wan, wispy hair
with red, unsucculent lips came up to us and said
in a sing-song voice: ‘You like to sleep, you like to
make love with me?’
I declined and had to say that although I could
not speak for him perhaps Graham might be
interested. He also declined. Or rather I said:

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
Because I was not expecting it here, it seems all the more shocking.
‘I can’t speak for you, Graham, but I certainly am
not interested.’
She went off politely. Prostitution in the red light
district in Amsterdam is overt and forward, even out
in the open, while here the sale of sexual services
is clandestine and illegal. It is covert but also
innocent, perhaps not legally innocent but from my
perspective innocent. Because I was not expecting it
here, it seems all the more shocking. In that respect
I can say that that which is shocking is that which I
do not expect.
At around 4.30 we took a Metro and went
straight to the metro stop called Park Kulturi.
From Park Kulturi we went to Krapotskinksi
Peroluc where we found the Australian Embassy.
Here we met with Louise O’Keefe, who is the
Second Secretary to the Ambassador. She seemed
very polite, courteous and helpful. The one small
disappointment was realising that some people in
our Australian Embassy could barely speak any
Russian. I was disappointed and saddened by this.
The Department of Foreign Affairs is going
to send stickers which we will stick all over the
subways as advertising the exhibition, etc. They
have been very helpful. We hope, and from that
point on, we presume that the exhibition will be
established according to the dates therein already
set out.
Directly after the visit to the Embassy we picked
up Ian Jones’s telephone number at the Congress
Centre. He is currently shooting the film Police
Academy 7 in the outskirts of Moscow and, as an
expatriate Australian, was interested in looking us
up and visa versa.
After our sojourn at the Embassy we walked
from the Metro station, Park Kulturi to Presistenka
Ulitsa. We then walked out Ulitsa Presistenka until
we got to the Academy of the Arts where I had
been last time I had been in Moscow. Here I showed
Graham an exhibition of sculptures with revolving
clocks held by beautiful silver cast hands. The number
of bronzes that this person had done would have cost
millions of dollars, or at least hundreds of thousands
of dollars back in Australia. The building was an old
aristocrat’s chateaux with louvred doors opening onto
each through consecutive room at the same spot,
going straight down to create a second corridor. The
servants’ quarters downstairs were small.
Once we had returned at Park Kulturi, we took
the underground Metro Loop and went straight
through to Novaslovodska metro and then walked
home to Lydia’s apartment. An early night was had
by us all. This was the first night both of us had a
major sleep. Every night previous to this we had
experienced erratic and dissonant sleeping patterns.
The jet lag we are both experiencing coincides at
exactly the same point, like clockwork each evening.
Saturday, 18th September, Moscow
Last night was our first night where we stayed
at Lydia’s. This morning we rendezvoused at
Muselskaya Metro with Vicca and then caught a

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
...one side of the church was where people lit candles for the deceased, for the dead, and the other side was lit for the living.
metro out into the suburbs to visit Moscow’s most important church.
The church was stuccoed with the most beautiful gilding and, as Graham said, as he diligently searched over
the vaulted architecture of the church, that he could not find Jesus Christ anywhere. Finally at the very end
of the church, tucked away hidden beneath all these sepulchral pieces of gilding, there he was. Graham was
saying how in the Catholic Church the Mother Mary is the most important icon and deity.
We must find out the exact name of this church. We asked Vicca why there was a second wooden cross
which runs off at 45 degrees to the right angle on the crucifixes here, and she looked worried and then looking
up in the air as if she was counting serfs seemed to think that it was an arrow which indicated Heaven and Hell.
She also pointed out was that one side of the church was where people lit candles for the deceased, for the
dead, and the other side was lit for the living.
Across the church hall with a gawking crowd looking down on something I espied this person sleeping in
a little cradle. Appearing to me as if it was a plaster figure, I wanted to go over and inspect it, to even touch
it. Poor Vicca’s face flushed pale into alabaster whiteness when I soon realised that the lipstick, the rouge and
the foundation cream that was covering this woman was funereal makeup. She had recently died—soon to be
buried. She was lying in state, but she really seemed as is she had got bored with the church visit and crawled
into a little box and had fallen asleep for a nap. On the other side we walked over and there was a religious relic
...he diligently searched over the vaulted
architecture of the church, that he could not
find Jesus Christ anywhere.
Across the church
hall with a gawking
crowd looking down on
something I espied this
person sleeping in a
little cradle.
Illum dolore eu feugiat
nulla facilitis ad vero
eros et accususam et
Illum dolore eu feugiat nulla facilitis ad vero eros et accususam et lustro odio dignissim qui blandit praeset
lupatum auge duis aplore. Mimimum veniami ex ea con dolor nisi ut aliquip. Consequat duis autem vel

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
She was lying in state, but she really seemed as is she had got bored with the
church visit and crawled into a little box and had fallen asleep for a nap.
of a saint covered by clothe.
Meanwhile Graham is still looking and he has now observed two Christs, one a personalised and two
dimensional rendering on one side of the cross. On the other side was a three dimensional render of the Christ.
When we wandered outside we were holding pieces of bread and the pigeons started dancing, even
swooping over our arms, shoulders and heads. At which point a man with a grey dirty great coat and very small,
pale stubble on his chin, a beggar asked for a dollar...
Graham has interjected here as I read into the cassette: ‘A gangling youth.’ And I, well not I, but Graham’s
face, went frigid and his voice went cold and he walked off saying, ‘Nyet’. So much for compassion. Graham is
generally very kind hearted so it was not a critique on him rather his perspective on the man.
From the church we returned to the city visiting the Mayakovsky Museum, a Museum dedicated to the life of
the celebrated poet of the Russian revolution Vladimir Mayakovsky which appeared as if it was an art designed
1980s’ social realist nightclub in Melbourne. It was a little too busy to absorb all the visual information.
We then went to the small Arbat Ulitsa, a tourist street in the heart of the old city and we began from
Arbatskaya Place and Hudozyrny, and walked right along to Smolenskaya, where we had a meal at a restaurant
where the waiter was incapable of adding up the bill. Instead of using the abacus, he was using an electronic
calculator. He would press the multiplying button as opposed to the addition button and we were getting bills
of 60,000 roubles instead of 60. It seemed that someone who ran a restaurant should be taught how to add up.
Everywhere we walk we observe signs of decay. Although it was sentimental and sad seeing queues of
babushkas, stamping their feet in the cold outside the Arbatskaya holding wriggling dogs and cats who they

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
wished to sell, there was something also desperate about their requests. There are little women there with
kittens (koshkas), imploring us that they would give them away if they could find a proper home.
There is a strange paradox here. There is laughter, warmth in the people and also a sombre tone. The
Russians who we are being introduced are a very warm and touching race.
We were scheduled to meet Olga and Rita at the Arbaskaya and then travelled one stop to Kroponsinskaya
Metro. We walked to this building where Ritum, a Latvian journalist stationed in Moscow and a friend of Rita
and Olga’s was having his twenty-seventh birthday party. Here that the evening was spent with Vicca, Rita and
Olga. I think Olga had brought a cake.
The party was a sedate but voluptuous affair set in a crumbling eighteenth century apartment block once
the building that Vladimir Mikhail Bulgakov had utilised as the residence for his characters in the novella, The
Heart of the Dog. While I was at the party, Olga proceeded to tell me about the book. I also decided that Rita
would be good as a translator for Graham, approaching her that evening.
The hosts had cooked ethnic dishes from Uzbekistan. The apartment on the fourth floor, almost like a squat,
was run down, where groups of huddled friends in worn jumpers and ponchos were camped in various rooms.
One of the rooms had been emptied of all furniture, a single blue bulb flickered where grating metal industrial
music was being played. People were careering over the floor as if it they was a modern avant garde dance
troupe. The threw themselves at the wall as if it was cushioned…Their eccentric dancing resembled a cross
between martial arts and break dancing by Spiderman.
Sitting around the floor cross-legged, were twenty-two multinational students. Mounds of food like ant
hills were set out and humungous amounts of alcohol and spirits of all descriptions, shapes and sizes were laid
on the floor as if it was a picnic: Krivit vodka, Smirnoff, Stolichnaya, and everyone drank to their stomachs’
content.
There were people from Uzbekistan, Soviet Korea, and two Latvian journalists—Anita and Babentay—
colleagues Ritum had met as the journalist-cum-philosopher while sending communiques to Latvian magazines
and papers.
There was one French artist speaking broken nasal English, with a five o’clock shadow of a beard and
red stove pipe corduroys. There was also a drunken, monosyllabic wannabe film-maker who could barely
make himself audible, obviously clever, who spoke to Graham no end about this experimental 16mm film that
was going to be made about a naked woman picking amanita muscaria mushrooms, which was going to be
superimposed over water.
There were half a dozen toasts made, and at each toast one person in the group would get to their feet and
say a few words. I was asked to make a toast which Vicca translated. Then someone else translated Vicca’s
translation, but I thought that she did quite famously nonetheless.
Vicca left at about 10.30 pm. I walked her to the Kroponsinskaya Metro stop, and while returning bought a
packet of cut-price cigarettes at the outdoor kiosk for Rita to find back at the party Olga frowning, looking in
snatches for Graham. Graham was nowhere to be found.
After awhile Olga, tense turned to me and said, ‘Dominic, I’m a little bit worried, I wonder where Graham
is.’
Graham had apparently gone off with the video to film something. I thought that either the people he had
been surreptitiously murdered or extradited.
Once Olga had gone in pursuit of him she soon discovered Graham had been metaphorically kidnapped
by a male-hungry Natalya and a seduction scene had erupted but, rather comically. Neither of them could
speak each other’s language so they were beset with the task of sitting down and creating a pantomime. Two
foreigners who could not speak each others language were playing charades. And when I looked the next day at
this piece of paper in Grahams bag, there was the symbol of the telephone and the telephone number scribbled
beneath.
Graham said that every time someone had tried to get into the room Natalya would physically push them in
order to keep Graham within arm’s reach. The talons were out, the claws in and she had him by the short and
curlies. But Rita and Olga saved him at the eleventh hour. Such was the reprieve that he emerged sweaty but
relieved.
It was only afterwards that he began to rethink the affair and decided that the nature of this little event
had certain positive implications which he might maximise if he chooses. These potentials were (1) — that his
Russian might improve: (2) — maybe his sex life might improve; (3) — maybe he might lose some weight; (4)
— maybe he might find a companion; (5) — maybe he might end up with a wife; and (6) — maybe it might
turn into a nightmare.
So, weighing up the first five against the sixth it was balanced evenly. At present Graham is sitting on the
fence, waiting for an interpreter to ring up and organise his date. Having to find a woman, a female interpreter
who will ring up to organise a date for him has rather funny connotations.

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
These potentials were
(1) — that his Russian might improve:
(2) — maybe his sex life might improve;
(3) — maybe he might lose some weight;
(4) — maybe he might find a companion;
(5) — maybe he might end up with a wife; and
(6) — maybe it might turn into a nightmare.
Dominic: Do you think you’ll jump on her bones – Natalya’s?
Graham: I don’t know, no idea, no idea whatsoever.
That last evening was a benign and sedate affair,
whereas in Australia, everyone would have been
standing distant from one another, checking each
other out with suspicion, and comparison ...There
was the group singing of sentimental folk songs from
Latvia and the Ukraine. Then somebody would burst
into song and then someone else would carry it
over into a different language. There were multiple
toasts, and even though many of the people did not
even known one another, there was respect and
solidarity.
Dominic: Do you think you’ll jump on her bones
– Natalya’s?
Graham: I don’t know, no idea, no idea
whatsoever.
Dominic: Do you think she’s interested in
jumping on your bones?
Graham: I don’t think so.
Graham: I watched the people...crowds in the
Metro. Nobody...when people pushed they very
rarely touched one another, they keep out of one
another’s way. Everybody looks after one another.
You open the doors of the Metro and everybody
looks back and holds the door for the next person;
they don’t slam the door in people’s faces. On the
average, most people look after one another.
Dominic: Yes, there does seem to be a level of
care and concern above and beyond...others.
Graham: I’m sure good Russians don’t litter, I’m
sure they don’t do it, and I’m sure good Russians...
Dominic: Well, good Russians... I think... there
is less litter here than one would see in parts of
Australia, in the major cities of Australia.
Graham is smoking out the window because it is
a boarding school here.
Sunday, 19th September, 1993,
Moscow
We both slept long into the morning. It was
one of the first days when the jet lag had begun to
dissipate and leave our tired bodies so that we were
beginning to re-synchronise our body-clocks with
the Northern Hemisphere.
We awoke to a short but smarting cold wind,
clear skies and a sober walk into the city towards
Tverskai, the main central boulevard which runs
towards the Kremlin.
Sasha, Lydia’s son, had instructed us how to
get to a supermarket. It was at Pushkinskaya,
opposite the McDonald’s and just down from
Petrovsky Boulevard, that we sought some food.
Unfortunately, the organisation of buying the tickets
and then presenting them to the woman at the
check out was so beyond us and our little minds
were fuelled by the cultural shock of the new,
that we cowardly retreated away from the large
department store.
We strolled down to Tverskai and the eighteenth
century Ulitsa Gorkova, or Gorky Street as it was
known. It was the main street in the city and
today it still seems to me to be one of the busiest
in Moscow. This thoroughfare stretches from Red
Square past Pushkin and Myakovsky Squares
to Belerushka Train Station. The passage led to
the old Russian town of Tevar and then on to St.

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
As we walked up past Pushkin Square we got to the Gastronom No.
1 which was a beautiful food store of pre-Revolutionary Russia with
white sculptures and garlands lining the shop’s face and the gilded
interior was filled with stained glass, and beautiful displays.
Legend had it that a noblewoman gave birth
in a carriage as she passed this spot and later
commissioned the church to honour the Nativity.
Petersburg. In pre-Revolutionary days, the Gorky
street was at once twisting and narrow was known
for its fashionable shops, luxurious hotels and
grandiose aristocratic mansions.
Installed here were the first of the city’s electric
lamps. The first trams ran along the street and the
first movie theatre opened here. In 1932 the street
was renamed after the Russian writer, Maxim Gorky.
The street continued to be known as Gorky up
until 1990 when the Moscow City Council voted to
restore the street’s old name of Tverskai.
As we walked up past Pushkin Square we got
to the Gastronom No. 1 which was a beautiful
food store of pre-Revolutionary Russia with white
sculptures and garlands lining the shop’s face and
the gilded interior was filled with stained glass, and
beautiful displays.
It is still know as Yeselizyevs after the original
owner, who also had a popular gourmet store
I believe by the same name in St. Petersburg
upon Nevsky Prospekt. The merchant bought the
mansion from a princess in 1898 and opened the
store in 1901.
Just behind Chekhov Street is the tent-shaped
Church of the Nativity which was built from 1629
to 1652. Legend had it that a noblewoman gave
birth in a carriage as she passed this spot and later
commissioned the church to honour the Nativity.
When it burnt down, Tsar Romanov donated
the money to have it rebuilt, along with a chapel
dedicated to the icon that prevented fires, Our Lady
of the Burning Bush, which is in the chapel.
Across the other side of Pushkinskaya all these
Armenians seemed to be lingering. As Graham said,
it looked as if something was going down. But then
again, whenever you look at anything in Moscow,
it always looks as if something is going down—
merchandising scam or peddling.
I am feeling tired making this dictation, while my
body is beginning to ache, but I shall continue.
We managed to buy a few small necessary

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
condiments at one of the street kiosks towards
Myakoskyskaya and then ambled home, where we
went to bed early.
Monday, 20th September, 1993,
Moscow
….was one of those days which filled me with
consternation, but they are to be expected. There is
the good with the bad, and a loss with the gain.
Our meeting began with George and Nikolai at
9 o’clock in the morning at the Institute. At the
metro train station
Myakoskyskaya they
were turning back
people going down
the escalators, so
we could not take
the Metro through
to the central
district. We had to
wait and in waiting
realised that we
were going to miss
our appointment.
The ship, Somolansky,
which was carrying the
Millennium exhibition was
still berthed in Hamburg,
being repainted, and
would not be in St.
Petersburg until the
beginning of October.
I managed to hail a taxi or what was just a man
driving, just one worker in a sea of workers who
wanted to make an extra buck. In point of fact it
turned out to be an extra two bucks because it
was 2,000 rubles that we paid him. We sped to
the University where we ended up by being late.
Graham felt that Nikolai was a little peeved at the
fifteen minute delay. I felt that was not the case.
Nonetheless there was very little that could be done
until Nikolai who had returned at 12.30. It was
bedlam in that place, absolute bedlam. I will explain
this later.
We attempted to telephone the Baltic Shipping
Company in St. Petersburg. Finally, through a fax
machine which doubles up as a telephone, we
managed to make a connection. Both Rita and Vicca
as translators had arrived and what was apparent
was that they did not know any news about what is
happening.
The ship, Somolansky, which was carrying
the Millennium exhibition was still berthed in
Hamburg, being repainted, and would not be in St.
Petersburg until the beginning of October. It appears
as if this whole project is being punctuated by
postponements. The only way that we can find out
any further information is by telephoning them the
shipping company on the 28th. So, further waiting,
further setbacks, further resignation and further
patience is required. I’ve got so far and yet at the
very point when it is to be brought to fruition it
seems as if the grinding, unsolicited and ineffective
wheels of Russian bureaucracy are milling flour into
dust.
I do not really know what to do except sit here
and accept my destiny. The only alternative is...well
there is no alternative. It took hours to get through
to St. Petersburg and when finally we did, that was
the news that we received. Then, upon doing that,
George Pivovarov the right hand man to Nikolai who
is assisting with the exhibition returned and told me
that the exhibition was to be postponed because of
another exhibition of books which had to be shown
in the same Great Hall from the 15th onwards.
It appears that this exhibition of books must be
exhibited for a minimum amount of two weeks.
Whether such an explanation is truthful or not I
cannot say. Nonetheless I trust them implicitly.
George Pivovarov assures me that what we
can do is to remove the expensive antiquarian
books after a week and then allow Millennium to
be erected but today, upon talking to Tatyana, the
secretary who oversees the Great Hall upstairs it
seems that this may not be the case. She declares
solemnly that Nikolai knows very little about the
situation as a whole. Tatyana seems to believe
that Nikolai Scherbakov is really a small cog in the
bureaucratic wheel of the University and that his
powers are limited. Nonetheless all I can really do is
trust him. I am left with no other alternative except
to make my request more emphatic. Tatyana also
maintains that
Then, upon doing that,
George Pivovarov the right
hand man to Nikolai who is
assisting with the exhibition
returned and told me that
the exhibition was to be
postponed because of
another exhibition of books
which had to be shown in
the same Great Hall from
the 15th onwards.
there were to be
other paintings
which are going to
be exhibited aside
from the five case
of books. All I can
do is to wait and
see what happens.
Not only should
we postpone the
exhibition, but we
should have an
extra seven days
holiday and then
start in earnest.
If this postponement occurs, then the exhibition
will not be shown until the 25th of next month.
Luda and Hamish, mutual friends of Graham and I
arrive on the 29th September. Graham will need to
extending his ticket. I am upset and disappointed
even though it may not be entirely their fault, but I
did not fly halfway around the world to be told that
I have to wait an extra one month on such a project.
When we have spent such an amount of money that
we have to be told that such things occur, but this is
Russia and this is the way things are done. I should
have realised this in the first place, but my anger has
turned to resignation, my resignation to acceptance.

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
Both Rita and Vicca have separately spoken to
Graham and said that this is the way things happen
here.
Of all the things that have to be done now, some
sort of tarpaulin must be erected to cover the crates
when they arrive. We must seek out a crew to be
found to assist in the erection of this scaffolding
tower, find the addresses of people to invite to the
exhibition, contacts for the Army, catalogues printed,
posters posted around the city, and I must try and
contact various journalists,. Perhaps I can telephone
Robert Haupt, the Australian correspondent for
The Sydney Morning Herald. The army also needs
to be contacted, a speech to be written, lasers to be
found, and a truck organised to take the cases from
St. Petersburg.
I have got to
fax Peter Watson,
my friend who has
filmed the exhibition
in Australia and
Michelle, the woman
who is looking
after my house. I
must telephone the
Embassy for the
arrival of the stickers
and see Louise
O’Keefe, the second secretary to our Embassy here.
There are press releases which need to be done,
a large sign painted, and storage of cases must be
sought. What else I put my finger to my lips and
think, frowning…yes... we must approach a few
television stations, the video documentary, I must
contact Peter and tell him that everything has been
postponed. It is not necessary for him to be as quick
about things as he was going to be…and windows in
the auditorium must be blacked out.
As we are walking along with Vicca I bring my
tape recorder to document our travels.
Graham: We’re walking down the street, heading
for Mayakoskyskaya Metro. It’s a beautiful sunny
day, Wednesday, circa 22nd September 1993. We are
about to meet Rita and Vicca and just about to get
knocked over on a zebra crossing. Nobody waits on a
zebra crossing here. The cars just go straight past.
Dominic: What I meant to say to Graham was,
little observations like for example, people don’t
stop at zebra crossings, or the Russian toothpaste
tastes like tutti frutti or Fruit Loops. In the morning
when you eat your rissoles, the garlic is so strong.
Graham: I just can’t get used to the high fat diet.
My cholesterol diet must be over, through the ceiling
and now I feel rather ill in the tummy. We have
greasy breakfasts and I just can’t get used to that
first thing in the morning.
Dominic: She doesn’t know where we are.
Vicca: I just know the number of the house,
but…
Graham: We are lost.
Dominic: Graham, have you anything to declare?
Last words and testament
Graham: I leave my computer to Steven Jones-
Evans. My record collection to my mother and my
golf buggy to Dave the invalid neighbour who lives
opposite.
Dominic: Well the night is young even though the
spirits are old.
This is the sound of the Metro late at night at
one o’clock in the morning. I’m all alone on the
escalators at Novaslovodska. The hum of the city, the
hum of the trains surrounds me…..
Friday, 24 September, 1993, Moscow
Every day the people sweep the streets with
miniature brooms, backwards and forwards,
backwards and forwards hypnotically. It is
remarkable, to see the large areas which they cover
with such tiny brooms. The leaves are beginning
to fall. It’s now the end of September and the day
of the scheduled exhibition seems to be growing
further and further from my grasp.
We are now in the Federation of Peace and
Conciliation. It is Friday and it is 12.16. It’s a grey
day. I am trying
to recap the
proceedings of
the past week.
On Monday
we had a most
depressing
meeting with
Nikolai and
George. It was
something
that seemed to
have arisen of a
badly written tragic comic Russian novel.
Once we had arrived in their office I witnessed
that the secretary was not controlling the students
who were asking to see the Director of the Institute.
There was no waiting room…and everyone was
shuffling around impatiently. I would imagine that a
secretary would normally allocate students to wait in
a line or as a list. But in this instance the room was
full of people demanding a meeting—it was virtually
impossible to be accommodated.
In one corner of the room was a woman with a
hair bun, pince nez and dressed in a vermilion skirt
typing a certificate on a manual typewriter, while
a steady flow of people were coming in and out.
George and Nikolai sign documents, then someone
else would have to sign something. Fifteen, twenty
people were just waiting abstractly in the room next

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
George would stop in the middle adjective of a commanding sentence and answer one long telephone call.
There were now twelve people waiting for him. He would have three words with me and then return to his
documentation, then his telephone call, then another student, then me, then the secretary then me…then
then…and then he would return back to somebody else. Finally I had to exclaim—
Vicca and I caught the metro to the Architectural
Institute
door, fidgeting, going through their notes. It was a chaos of different students getting up and jostling to see who
would be the first to see him, then sitting down again. And I really did not know what to do. As Graham said, he
felt quite embarrassed that there was this inability to coordinate meetings.
Obviously, when in Moscow do as the Russians so…but there comes a point when sometimes one has to
draw the line. George would stop in the middle adjective of a commanding sentence and answer one long
telephone call. There were now twelve people waiting for him. He would have three words with me and then
return to his documentation, then his telephone call, then another student, then me, then the secretary then
me…then then…and then he would return back to somebody else. Finally I had to exclaim—
’Look, I’m terribly sorry but we have to have an immediate meeting’, which is what we did …the next day.
A meeting immediately…the next day! Nonetheless I am only one of many people who he must attend to and I
must understand his position too.
After our departure from the chaos of the Institute and its office, Graham and Rita left Vicca and I. They
both were to meet Sergei, her boyfriend and bought some pine soap which is used as Russian Orthodox
incense. Vicca and I caught the metro to the Architectural Institute where we spoke to one of the senior
lecturers, Vladimir Vladimirovich, and then erected a sign searching for volunteers for the exhibition. We
also spoke to Vladimir Vladimirovich who explained that if we returned the following day he would be able
to introduce us to specific students. We could then speak to them about my requirements of setting up an
exhibition.
Tired after meeting with the students we took the Metro back to Lydia’s in Fadieva Ulitsa, I think via
’Look, I’m terribly sorry but we have to have an immediate meeting’, which
is what we did …the next day. A meeting immediately…the next day!

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
What I must remind myself is
that this task must be completed
and fulfilled in the way that I
know best.
Vicca seems particularly distant
from me and whenever I try to
reach out and touch her or hold
her hand, she wilts and withdraws
from me. So I see that what I had
presumed to be something is now
no longer.
Novaslovodska. While Graham stayed at home I took
the young lass Vicca to dinner to a restaurant—a
brasserie called ‘Margarita’s’ which is just opposite
the Patriachs Pond. The dinner was a sedate affair.
‘Margarita’s’ has the redolence of the Bulgakov
novels, and it is set historically opposite the point
where, in The Master and the Margarita, Bulgakov
had begun his novel and where Berloiz, one of the
characters, had lost his head.
The restaurant had a faded ambience of a
nostalgic French brasserie. It is also one of the few
places where up-market yuppies frequent. There
are beautiful paintings on the cream, off-white walls,
tinged by a pallor of mustard green paint, while a
band plays, swaying like a cartoon ship at sea.
The food was thin crepes with shrivelled
mushrooms, yeasty fruit juice and this rockabilly
band of three people: a pianist, somebody with a
funny double bass and a hairstyle that echoed it, and
a small boy who hid from us but who seemed to play
violin.
Vicca seems particularly distant from me and
whenever I try to reach out and touch her or hold
her hand, she wilts and withdraws from me. So I see
that what I had presumed to be something is now no
longer. Whether that be the case or not, I think that
I must only treat her on a professional basis now,
as my translator and friend. What was will have to
remain in the past, and that is all that there is. The
past is no longer the present. Perhaps it is shyness,
perhaps it is a sense of diffidence about things,
although there is a tinge of sadness.
I must remember that it was my expectations
which had levelled things and perhaps even the
meeting with Michelle, my friend in Australia had
thrown up an unknown quantity and quality into the
proceedings, on my behalf. I was also a little distant.
But nonetheless, I do love the grace in her being but
there is a distance which at times I can’t reach out,
and a sense of childish coquettishness, which I find
immature. Whether it is her fear of commitment, or
just her lack of something, I don’t know.
On the one hand she wishes to be with me, on
the other hand she does not. Obviously it is her
lack of.... It could be seen as confusion. It could
be seen as her wariness, caution, even fear. At the
moment I presume that it is none of those things.
It is simply her veiled indifference. So I must view
our relationship matters in a different light and what
I had seen as someone who I was to share my life
with, I must divorce from my heart. But I am not
to worry, there is work to be done... What I must
remind myself is that this task must be completed
and fulfilled in the way that I know best.
We had no alcohol that evening. Indeed because
my father was alcoholic I never drink! The evening
had finished and it was now time to walk Vicca to
the trolley bus to send her home. Upon arriving
at Lydia’s. Graham exclaimed, ‘Maate, Dominic,
you look so drunk.’ Obviously it was the sly, wry
expression on my face from having spent the
evening with her. Who knows?

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
But it seems particularly disappointing and infuriating that I have
spent such excessive money to find that I am is in the midst of the
inefficiency of bureaucracy and broken promises. Nonetheless,
such things do occur and I must be philosophical about life.
.... they had not allocated or not allowed for both exhibitions to occur.
What they are going to do is take down some of the more expensive
books after one week and allow our exhibition to follow. This is
something which I hope may occur, but Tatyana seemed to feel that she
knew more about the operation than I did.
Moscow, Russia, Tuesday, 21st
September, 1993
A new meeting with Nikolai Scherbakov and
George Pivovarov at 9 a.m. sharp. This time we were
on time and Graham seemed to think that it was to
our advantage that this had occurred. Later on in the
day there was a meeting with Tatyana at 11 a.m. She
was the woman who has access to the Great Hall
where the exhibition is to occur.
Various agendas were discussed in the
relationship to the project as a whole. The possibility
of keeping containers outside in the snow was also
discussed. Graham seems to be more averse to this
than I, but I know what is actually held there.
The meeting with Tatyana was next in the
Great Hall. We paced out the hall to double check
that the dimensions were correct. Apparently, a
book exhibition is going to be superimposed over
the Millennium exhibition, which may prove to be
difficult, but we shall see what is going to occur.
Tatyana said that George and Nikolai had really
botched it up by virtue of the fact that they had
not allocated or not allowed for both exhibitions
to occur. What they are going to do is take down
some of the more expensive books after one week
and allow our exhibition to follow. This is something
which I hope may occur, but Tatyana seemed to
feel that she knew more about the operation than I
did. So, Tatyana seems to have more of a clue and
understanding about what is actually occurring
than the others. She also believes that there are
going to be other old master paintings which are
going to be erected—large portraits—and she was
just wondering how they will harmonise with the
Millennium exhibition. Something must be cleared
up in this area before we are to make more assured
steps.
But it seems particularly disappointing and
infuriating that I have spent such excessive money
to find that I am is in the midst of the inefficiency
of bureaucracy and broken promises. Nonetheless,
such things do occur and I must be philosophical
about life. I can understand their point of view and I
can understand that they were not entirely to blame.
Goodwill is essential and they do possess that. They
are not stupid people by any means, but it is just a
concatenation of many clauses and cases. Maybe we
are all puppets to a higher cause.
Following this, we went—Vicca and I and
Graham—to the Institute of Architects, after having
had a bite to eat downstairs. At the Institute I gave a
short speech to the students which was preceded by
Vicca’s introductory discussion, which I find highly
laudable. She is capable and immensely assured in
her dealings with people, and very professional. She
has a grace and a capacity to communicate to people
that I am proud of.
Whilst we were engaged in this introductory

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
They invited me to do a drawing on the wall, and although I was reluctant to do so, I finally
consented. In agreeing I do not know whether I made a gross mistake or did a drawing that will last
forever.
It was the usual Stolichnaya, multiple toasts, food
and camaraderie.
Nonetheless, it was
something that they would
remember if it is to remain
for many years hence.
It was signed and it was two faces that melted into one huge face, like a
heart, with a surrounding thought balloon of air, highlighting the whole.
speech, it was understood that some of the students present here were interested in giving us assistance in one
month’s time.
There was about a dozen of these fifth year architecture students sitting on the second floor, with cardboard
roughage or cut-outs of architectural displacements on the walls. After the talk one of the students had had
their 24th birthday. Her name was Vera and we were invited to join them. It was the usual Stolichnaya, multiple
toasts, food and camaraderie.
Whilst there, they kept on asking me to create a drawing for Vera. They invited me to do a drawing on the
wall, and although I was reluctant to do so, I finally consented. In agreeing I do not know whether I made a
gross mistake or did a drawing that will last forever. Nonetheless, it was something that they would remember
if it is to remain for many years hence. It was signed and it was two faces that melted into one huge face, like a
heart, with a surrounding thought balloon of air, highlighting the whole.
The drawing grew larger and larger and larger as my hand traced across this dirty brown ochre wall. Graham
was videoing it while the retinue stood and watched me as I did this. Perhaps they were aghast, intrigued or

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Once Upon a Time in Sarajevo
for Vera Happy Birthday....
The drawing grew larger
and larger and larger as
my hand traced across this
dirty brown ochre wall.
Graham was videoing it
while the retinue stood and
watched me as I did this.
There was about a
dozen of these fifth year
architecture students sitting
on the second floor, with
cardboard roughage or
cut-outs of architectural
displacements on the walls.
After the talk one of the
students had had their 24th
birthday. Her name was
Vera and we were invited
to join them.

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
Because there are no telephone directories and
there are no maps in Moscow to help people, it
was very difficult to find the printing service.
On my return, alone, I saw that he was still tin
the same position, but she was sitting on the
bench above and to the side of him. There was a
newspaper beneath his head.
Vicca was tired, reticent and, because
of the current political events which I
will go into later, after arriving home
the previous night at one, she had
sat up until three discussing with her
parents the political implications of
President Yeltsin’s decisions and his
dissolution of Parliament.
bored.
At the close of the afternoon Vicca left early and
they invited us to go to the opening of an exhibition
in Domitotrova Ulitsa on the other side of the river.
It was an architectural installation rather than a
furniture show as they had first suggested.
We went there, where there was a small
television crew, the proud architect in his red
singlet and white, horn-rimmed glasses standing
there talking with a retinue of hangers on. We
came with our entourage of students and I think
that they saw us as more hangers-on. Nonetheless
it was an interesting experience. Graham was a
little bit fraught to be beyond the umbilical cord of
a translator’s security, because Vicca had left to go
to a slide night with her friends at 5 o’clock. Like
children whose first steps were tentative, we made
our way into a new world of independence without
mommy.
We returned that night via the metro
Novaslovodska on the Ring Loop and had a very, very
early night. We were both in bed by perhaps 9.30
and yet again a good night to re-accustom ourselves
to a new bodyclock.
Wednesday, 22nd September, 1993,
Moscow, Russia
Today was spent with Vicca traveling to the
Typographica shop on the absolute outskirts of the
city in search of places to print the invitations. We
all met at Lydia’s—Rita, myself and the young lass—
and they, Rita, Graham went off to find scaffolding
while Vicca and I went into the city, sat down in the
Institute’s cafeteria, if we could call it that, set in a
basement of the University, full of corniced supports,
and crowds of students.
We began by ringing up printing services and the
quotes ranged from $700 right through to $1000.
The Cultural Information Service on Smolenskaya
was insufficient. We then telephoned Koniga Print
Shop and finally, from Solominko in Ulitsa Gertsena,,
they said that for 500 copies it would cost us $600.
We then went to Offset Printing Service which was
way, way, way, way out past the Ring out beyond
Park Kulturi in a street called Ulitsa Nagonaya, Place
20. We had to walk from the station for about three
quarters of an hour, then went further and further
and further afield.
Vicca was tired, reticent and, because of the
current political events which I will go into later,
after arriving home the previous night at one, she
had sat up until three discussing with her parents
the political implications of President Yeltsin’s
decisions and his dissolution of Parliament.
Because there are no telephone directories and
there are no maps in Moscow to help people, it was
very difficult to find the printing service. We walked
for a good three quarters of an hour down this
street, asking various people where Ulitsa Nagonaya
No. 12 was, which was what had been printed in the
details, only to discover when we found the place
tucked away in some treed haven with no front

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
When I walk through the central streets of Moscow I see a movement
towards prosperity, but beyond these confines there is negligence and
a lack of maintenance, decay, apathy and resignation.
That is one thing that will not be
happening to the mural, I hope.
Great one hundred gallon canisters and rusted containers were lying out in
decay, like an industrial elephants graveyard. There were gigantic sacks of rotting
parchment-like paper that were abandoned under the raining skies...
signage, that it was House 20.
Great one hundred gallon canisters and rusted containers were lying out in decay, like an industrial
elephants graveyard. There were gigantic sacks of rotting parchment-like paper that were abandoned under the
raining skies. In Moscow, Russia, it is habitual to abandon equipment under the weather. That is one thing that
will not be happening to the mural, I hope.
The Typographica woman here was particularly helpful and she said that it would probably cost about
US$100 to print both the invitations and the posters, which I found a satisfactory price for my needs and
budget. She continued to explain that it could be done within two weeks. So I was happy on both accounts.
We returned home and again absolutely exhausted by the process of transport by the Metro. Somehow,
whether it is because people take one’s energy on a psychic level or whether it’s because the act of travelling
with so many people my energy is drained.
The evening was spent going very, very early to bed. We both arose bushy-tailed and bug-eyed on Thursday
morning. After having been out in the Nagonaya sticks, we went straight back and I think Graham and I spent
the evening reading The Impossible Question by J. Krisnamurti , an Indian philosopher and dealing with day to
day aspects that were to concern us the following day.
Graham repaired the aerial to the television in the flat which was moved into Sasha’s bedroom. His
girlfriend, Natasha, whom he is to marry, is a podiatrist, has just arrived.
It is only when I travel beyond the Garden Ring that I observe that Moscovite living conditions remains the
same. When I walk through the central streets of Moscow I see a movement towards prosperity, but beyond
these confines there is negligence and a lack of maintenance, decay, apathy and resignation.
Still I am confronted by immense solidarity and warmth. These people are a truly endearing and
compassionate people. On the way to Novosolbodskaya, I was walking Vicca home, and we stopped and saw
this woman. She was trying to move a drunk who was asleep beneath a bench in one of the rubbish filled parks.
He was lying prostrate, almost lifeless and obviously he was so heavy she could not move or do anything to him.
On my return, alone, I saw that he was still tin the same position, but she was sitting on the bench above
and to the side of him. There was a newspaper beneath his head. Such a small, almost unpragmatic act, and
yet it smacked of tenderness, a gesture of love, that I was truly touched. Not that the touching of me was an
important aspect. My observation was not important. Her act, whether I was the witness or not, was the only
factor in this relationship.

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
On one occasion when Graham and I were exiting of the Metro, I observed
two thuggish men, one with cold silver caps over his teeth, went over and
assisted by carrying tartan carry-bags for two elderly women.
When we will walk through the city streets we will see people
with bandages over their eyes, their noses, formed I conjecture
through domestic violence, and drunkenness.
She complains every week that it cannot go on,
and every week she returns to him.
On one occasion when Graham and I were exiting of the Metro, I observed two thuggish men, one with cold
silver caps over his teeth, went over and assisted by carrying tartan carry-bags for two elderly women. It is
these seemingly innocuous, insignificant acts which are the most touching. Perhaps it is the paradox of extreme
brutality coexisting with compassion in this city which makes it incredible
Two facets are at work in this society. One is the great warmth and giving; the other is a hardness, even a
steeliness. When we will walk through the city streets we will see people with bandages over their eyes, their
noses, formed I conjecture through domestic violence, and drunkenness.
Thursday, 23rd September, 1993, Moscow, Russia
We rendezvous at Federation of Peace and Conciliation. A meeting occurs upstairs at Yuri’s office. We
provide Yuri with information for posters and he accompanies us down endless corridors to what is the small
little vestibule of an office. We are introduced to a man called Misha who will lay out in graphic design the
poster and invitations. Often the barrier of language prevents us from really acknowledging these people; what
they are and what their true characters are. Language is both a difficult obstacle to surmount and bridge to
cross. Both the invitation and the poster are to have the Millennium red cross logo.
The prices are affordable for printing and it seems that Misha, Rita Mitrafanovas father can also provide us
with optimum minimum prices through the University.
After a discussion with Vicca, Graham and I and Misha, we met in the Italian restaurant with Rita and her
friend, Sergei. Sergei is one hell of a dude. Someone to have on your side, but if he’s rowing against the current
towards you it would be a question of minding your p’s and q’s. Thickset, with a broken leg from parachuting
which had not repaired properly and temporary tye-dyed indigo T-shirt, a Rolex watch, a silver wristband
with handcuffs attached to it, the latest Rebox sneakers, leather jacket à la Rebel Without a Cause, short,
cropped hair that bespeaks of a slightly more crude lifestyle. Obviously, to survive it is necessary to operate in a
manner of every man or person for themselves. He is married, has a wife and child, and Rita is his mistress. She
complains every week that it cannot go on, and every week she returns to him. Graham said he had a money
pouch of American dollar bills.
I suppose you would refer to him as ‘an economic freelance dealer in commodities’, what they would term
here a ‘businessman’. Ethical or unethical, he is a product of the new Russia. He sat down with us, we looked

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
Sergei is one hell of a dude. Someone to have on your side, but if he’s rowing against the current towards you
it would be a question of minding your p’s and q’s. Thickset, with a broken leg from parachuting which had
not repaired properly and temporary tye-dyed indigo T-shirt, a Rolex watch, a silver wristband with handcuffs
attached to it, the latest Rebox sneakers, leather jacket à la Rebel Without a Cause, short, cropped hair that
bespeaks of a slightly more crude lifestyle.
Sergei kept on saying to Rita in
Russian, ‘What are you doing here?
What are do you want with these
people?’
It appears that
there is some
distance between
Vicca and Rita.
Ethical or unethical, he is a product of
the new Russia. He sat down with us,
we looked up at the mirrored ceiling,
and decided to discuss whether there
should be a waterbed beneath us
rather than these table and chairs...
up at the mirrored ceiling, and decided to discuss
whether there should be a waterbed beneath us
rather than these table and chairs. We all ordered
espresso coffees since it is the only place in Moscow
where espresso coffee can be made, because it is
one of the few Italian restaurants here. Everywhere
else it is always a very weak, bad, mixed blend of
instant, that Graham would generally use for art
directing aged scenarios like Death in Brunswick—
mixing it up into a light paste and pouring it over
plaster constructed walls for a patina of age, over
door handles, cupboards, and walls.
Sergei kept on saying to Rita in Russian, ‘What
are you doing here? What are do you want with
these people?’ Vicca was shocked by his language,
but I think Graham felt that he was doing that
expressly to shock her.
It appears that there is some distance between
Vicca and Rita. We think it is a class thing,
because Vicca’s parents are diplomats and former
Communists. But whatever the case there seems
some unsaid and invisible barrier between the two.
From that point on Rita and Sergei left and the
three of us went on to pursue other agendas for the
day.
Vicca, who was out of sorts the day before,
was more intact and assured, less irritable on a
subliminal level. We sat and telephoned institutions
in search of appropriate venues. We had the idea
of ringing the Embassy to find out whether they
were aware of any trucking carriers that would
import twenty foot containers. From there we
went to Komsomolskaya, the major train station for
St. Petersburg, to ask about transportation of the
containers to Moscow.
The station was like a crossover between the
mediaeval and the contemporary. Everywhere I
would go I would find people milling. There were
so many people, a thoroughfare of congestion and
contradictions.
We walked from platform to platform on the
station asking question after question of where we
could find what we were looking for. As there are no

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
Yellow Pages, no telephone directories, the process
of finding and accessing information in this city/
country is six to the power of ten in its frustration.
After Komsomolskaya Station, we journeyed
to Smolenskaya and to the Smolensk Hotel where
the American Express office was. It was there that
Graham cashed his notes.
We returned to our apartment at Lydia’s where
we had a restructuring of our plans, rested and
then at seven that evening met Natalya, Graham’s
prospective date
beneath the statue
of Mayakovsky metro
station. She was the
lady that Graham
had encountered
at the bohemian
Bulgakov birthday
party of Ritum, the
Latvian journalist/
philosopher. She
had been drunk
She had been drunk that
night that she had met
Graham but beneath the
steps of Mayakovsky she
seemed sober, in the full
bloom of beauty with
long, dark hair that fell to
her waist...
that night that she had met Graham but beneath
the steps of Mayakovsky she seemed sober, in the
full bloom of beauty with long, dark hair that fell
to her waist, a red crocheted scarf tied into a knot
and splayed out. She wore a long, felt coat and high
boots, with a trace of mascara delineating the edges
of her eyes, a handsome if not beautiful face which
showed an experience beyond her years. This is
often the case with people in Russia. She exhibited a
strength paradoxically married to a weakness.
Dominic: Just getting to the good part, Graham.
Would you like to talk about that evening or not,
because I’ve just got to that.
Graham: No, look, I don’t wish to discuss it. It
was something that you just don’t...
Dominic: Well, well, ok, well I’m documenting
it ....
Graham: I’m too devastated...
Dominic: Graham’s too devastated to discuss
the end of it.
Graham: ______ Olga,Olga...
Dominic: Alright .... Graham has just got some
jocks on, and I’m reading -...
Graham: ‘His pants for him!’
Dominic: ‘His pants for him’, yes, and he’s
putting his black pants on, looking very very chic.
Graham: I’m going to get home early this
evening so that I can take my black jeans up...
Dominic: Good.
Graham: …that I’ve never worn.
Dominic: You heard that one.
We crawled down the streets to the Patriachs
Pond and went in yet again, the four of us, to
the restaurant, ‘Margarita’s’. During the meal,
the difficulties lay in the fact that although this
was a blind, or deaf date, for Graham. Vicca was
extraordinary in her gifts as a translator. What she
failed to tell Graham in the beginning, but which he
unconsciously and intuitively had realised himself,
was that Natalya had been married three times
up to the age of twenty-four. She is now twentyfour.
She had a child of seven years of age who her
mother was baby-sitting that night. People in this
country cannot live in de facto relationships and
therefore the only way they may consummate their
relationships is through the traditional form of
marriage.
Graham: Where’s the tea?
Dominic: Oh right, I was supposed to make tea
for Graham.
Graham: And the hot water too.
Dominic: The early part of the evening...
Graham: It was a dud.
(Dominic laughs)
Graham: I have nothing more to say.
Dominic: Come on.
Graham: About the evening... yeah,well, it was
good to meet Andrei.
Dominic: We haven’t got to that part .... just
about the dinner ... what did you have?
Graham:
Well, you know,
it was quite
pleasant, it was
bland to say
the least, but
wholesome.
Dominic:
And wholesome,
yes I guess you
could say it was
wholesome.
Graham:
Yeah, well, the interesting part was that they
dispensed full strength vodka like in any other
country they would drink house wine.
Dominic: And what about that section where
those people on the table adjacent stretched over
and asked you for some food...
Graham: ... out of my entree that I didn’t eat,
yes, I’ve never had that happen to me before in a
restaurant.
Dominic: There was a stuffed tomato and this
person stretched over and asked whether they
could have one, but I think that those people were
English, they weren’t...
Graham: Tight arses!
Dominic: Tightarses. (Laughs)
I love this country, I feel this country deep in
my bones. It exudes quietude, such a solitude, and

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
...when we got out of the station she, having
become increasingly drunker, drunker and drunker,
failed to remember the exact whereabouts of this
apartment.
While swaying in front of the façade in an slurred
drawl she said ‘I’m sure this is not the place’. Just as
she explained this, here under the front door beneath
a dirty fluorescent street light was this man standing
waiting for us, and it was Andrei.
Andrei waiting beneath a street
lamp had this long suffering
look about him and even
though she had not seen him
for three years, we felt that this
was one of her husbands.
dynamism. I can criticise the frustrations, but its
essence is special.
During the meal the conversation between
Natalya and Graham was translated through Vicca
and sometimes they would lapse into asides. They
genuinely liked each other and she was coquettish
towards Graham. She immediately put her arm into
his as they walked down the street, not that Vicca
had done the same to me. Vicca was particularly
distant. This seems to be the nature of our
relationship at the moment. It is neither a good thing
or a bad thing, but I simply observe it as being the
way it is. But I will analyse her relationship towards
me at a later date.
Natalya enjoyed walking in the forests, and
would often travel down to the Caucuses. There
was a moment of misinformation where Graham
thought that the Caucuses were the Carpatians in
Translyvania.
As the rockabilly band played again, we enjoyed
their references which they imbued along the way.
There was something special about being there with
two strange women in an alien country, knowing
that that moment would never occur again, that time
cannot be repeated. Every moment is so different,
every moment, although it is alive, can never be
repeated. Although we can experience and savour,
we cannot make it happen again that same way.
There is great sadness and joy in that understanding.
After dinner as we went out in the street, a car
exhaust pipe exploded with a huge bang. Believing
a shotgun had gone off. Then after having gone to
about three separate telephone booths, Natalya
found one which worked— and here arrived the
first expression I had learnt in Moscow: ‘Ne robot
it.’ which is a Russian phrase meaning, ‘it does not
work’.
Since at this late hour there is nowhere in
Moscow to go for coffee after dinner, it was agreed
that we should visit one of her friends. This was a
man who was in his forties, Andrei, who lived as
do they all in a block of apartment flats way, way,
way out. We then made our way to an apartment
way, way, way, way away to visit her friend. It was
actually near one of the churches that I had first
visited with Vicca, beneath Park Kulturi outside
of the Ring. Natalya, it turned out, had not seen
her friend Andrei for three years and when we got
out of the station she, having become increasingly
drunker, drunker and drunker, failed to remember
the exact whereabouts of this apartment. After
circumnavigating the area three times, finally there
she was staring at this building. While swaying in
front of the façade in an slurred drawl she said ‘I’m
sure this is not the place’. Just as she explained
this, here under the front door beneath a dirty
fluorescent street light was this man standing
waiting for us, and it was Andrei.
As Graham said, Andrei waiting beneath a street
lamp had this long suffering look about him and even
though she had not seen him for three years, we
felt that this was one of her husbands. He patiently
and kindly took us up to his sixth floor apartment.
He was an architect. The whole apartment had this

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
brown, autumn mottled sheen about it that was full
of dust and yet across one wall lay a line of gold gilt
catalogues and beautiful books.
There was a beautiful drawing in the hallway, a
copy of Michelangelo’s The Slay of the Sculpture,
which Andrei’s father had done in ‘55, his father
also having been an architect. Andrei stood maybe
5’11”, had a young boyish face, but his hair was
undernourished. The back of his nape was frizzed
near the back of the skull, lopped over to hide the
beginnings of a bald pate. Over the walls were
architectural drawings of factories and of housing
commission blocks which he had designed. There
was something strange about Natalya visiting
someone who she had not spoken to or seen for
three years, with a group of foreign strangers on the
spur of the moment.
There were the usual toasts, and vodka.
Savouries were put before us, then some sugarised
toffees, caramel toffees on a platter were presented
before us.
I was feeling distant and detached at this stage
after the meal. Vicca was aware that the hounds of
time were marching at her feet and she had to be
back before the last
Metro by one in the
morning. Graham
and Natalya were
drinking on and on
and so we decided
to leave them the
two potential love
birds to their mutual
destinies. Earlier on
the Metro Natalya
Earlier on the Metro
Natalya turned to Vicca
and she said, with a
sadness or with a hope:
‘It begins.’ Well, nothing
began that night for
Graham.
turned to Vicca and she said, with a sadness or with
a hope: ‘It begins.’ Well, nothing began that night for
Graham. Natalya was so drunk that she simply fell
asleep in Andrei’s house on the couch an hour after
we had left. So Graham and Andrei spent the whole
night awake, drinking vodka, making toasts and
going through architectural books.
They drank and drank and drank and drank
through until eight in the following morning when as
the dirty sun stole through the cityscape of pumping
power stations and grey buildings Andrei, drunk,
saw Graham to the train station. He also went off
still drunk to work. It seems often the case, as with
Natalya as well, that she will drink through the night
and go to work drunk next morning. It is a way of
dealing with this land, and country and with the
relationships that they have to their troubled lives.
Vicca and I left them. Andre, Natalya and Graham
that evening at 12-30, and at the railway station at
Somolenskaya I gave her a vague kiss. She pushed
me away and it was not until the next day that I
realised that her mother had been there waiting for
her at the station. She came in to the office of the
Federation grumpy and, as I said, it was like she had
got out of bed the wrong side.
Her mother was angry and said that she should
not have been up that late. The woman is twenty,
going on twenty-one and obviously she is very
dependent upon the material gains that her parents
pass out on her and so it is a difficult situation for
her.
I feel in some ways that she feels connected to
me, but she is ambivalent in her response; she does
not know. And so although she is drawn back and at
the same time she is confused and perhaps the same
could be said of me,….I don’t know. There are good
seeds there, but all we can do is take one step at a
time. Even within the present there are problems;
I don’t think that her parents are supportive and
that is why she does not discuss our situation with
them. If this relationship was to actually take form
they would not give it their blessing at all, they really
wouldn’t. Perhaps that is why she is shielding it
from them. Or perhaps all this is in my small mind
and nothing is really real. It is difficult, it really is
difficult. I feel sorry for her, but it is the way that
often many children deal with life. In any case, she
came to work.
She pushed me away and it was not until the
next day that I realised that her mother had
been there waiting for her at the station.
So in many ways I cannot worry too much about
such personal problems. What is important is the
task at hand, although it is a time now to simply rest
and plan the next move.
Friday, 24th September, 1993,
Moscow, Russia
I meet Vicca at the Federation. The Australian
Embassy has given me various addresses to contact
transport companies. Vicca has made excellent
inroads on finding the proper trucks on transporting
the work back to Moscow. She is indispensable
and I feel that she is a good, loyal assistant. She is
nonetheless, as I said before, quite ambivalent and
irritable this day and it seems that the proceedings
of last night, of the parental pressure is now

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
transferring onto me. This is understandable.
Graham had returned at 8 o’clock that morning and was to sleep until one when he was to meet Rita and
they were to go off in search of various commodities.
After that evening with Natalya, Graham’s great adage was: Vodka was to be enjoyed, not endured.
Dominic: Friday morning you got home.
Graham: About eight o’clock.
Dominic: At eight in the morning.
Graham: You were still asleep.
Dominic: I was asleep.
Graham: I went to the front door.
Dominic: You went to the front door.
Graham: It was about half past seven.
Dominic: Half past seven.
Graham: But it was too early for you and I stood there poised.
Dominic: Stood there poised, ready to press the button.
Graham: And I couldn’t do it.
Dominic: And you couldn’t do it.
Graham: Then I went downstairs, back into the rain again to a phone box.
Dominic: Downstairs, back into the rain again, in a phone box.
Graham: And then I didn’t have a fucking copek.
Dominic: You didn’t have a fucking copek, a rouble.
Graham: And then I got really pissed off.
Dominic: Graham got pissed off, this is ridiculous ...
Graham: I was getting cold ...
Dominic: I’m getting cold ....
Graham: I should not have gone to sleep with wet hair.
Dominic: You should not have gone to sleep with wet hair, that is stupid ...
Graham: Rang the bell.
Dominic: Rang the bell, went upstairs.
Graham: Lydia was already up.
Dominic: Lydia was already up.
Graham: She was short with me.
Dominic: She was short with you.
Graham: She didn’t say a word
Dominic: Didn’t say a word.
Graham: I walked straight in here and took my clothes off.
Dominic: Walked straight in here and took your clothes off.
Graham: And went to bed.
Dominic: Went to bed.
Dominic: And then the day was spent with Rita.
Graham: In the afternoon, Rita came here.
Dominic: Rita came here.
After Vicca and I had spent a fruitless day like in Alice in Wonderland as little field mice in the treadmill of
Moscow pursing closed printer workshops and never being able to scratch out our growing list of To Dos, we
decided to lunch at the cafeteria at the Institute. We then walked round the outer perimeter of the Faculty of
African and Asian Studies where the exhibition artworks are to initially arrive. Here I made estimates of where
specific containers may be stored, and then went to the Pushkin Museum to view the Botella exhibition. As
we were travelling on the metro to the Museum heaving backwards and forwards in jolts, Vicca occasionally
catching my lapels to avoid being thrust into strange Russians looking glumly off into the passing underground I
said to her:
‘I am tired of the way that you are dealing with this. If you wish me to be with you then tell me. If you don’t,
then tell me. But don’t use excuses that my arm is too heavy or that you don’t feel that it not cool to do this in
public. If you cannot speak to me to explain, that is your fear. I would rather you look at the fear. I would rather
that you be truthful.’

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
After Vicca and I had spent a fruitless day like
in Alice in Wonderland as little field mice in
the treadmill of Moscow pursing closed printer
workshops and never being able to scratch out
our growing list of To Dos, we decided to lunch
at the cafeteria at the Institute.
Political steps were afoot while
my life here was struggling to
set the exhibition up.
The Botella exhibition was absolutely inspiring
and wonderful. Here was this artist from South
America with a beautiful anorexic wife who painted
a fat, and voluptuous world of food, women, and
song. Although there is a gnarled and dilapidated
look, to his paintings even a slightly off-centre look
to all of these art works, it is enticing and attractive.
The Botellas were voluptuous women that
were elongated. The artist explained that he had
first begun to paint these works, by depicting a
mandolin with a very small opening. Because it was
so small, it rendered the mandolin’s form with a
denser shape. I feel that the work is a composite
of Giacometti’s which were thin elongated figures.
The rich and the wealthy buy Botellas work as
a commodity, snapped up by many collectors all
over the world. There does not seem to me much
growth or expansion; the pieces in ’93 seem to me
as indicative of his oeuvre as his pieces in 1975.
He has developed a signature and that signature
continues to be repeated on demand. The ethics of
consumption are aesthetic and fiscal.
After Vicca’s confrontation with her mother
the previous night, we thought it would be correct
behaviour if she had an early night. So I went home
and met Graham at around seven-thirty.
Sasha, Graham and I then went out in pursuit
of produce and we went up to Tvereskai, bought
groceries and then, like a little excited puppy,
he took us down and Graham savoured the first
Russian beers which were... Stollichnaya beer,
which means ‘capital’ in Russian, was 12% alcohol;
as Graham said, it proved to be a very yeasty, almost
home-made type beer, like Spritz, very, very flat.
Sasha said that they often watered it down.
The ethics of consumption
are aesthetic and fiscal.

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
statements of their backing to the President
on Wednesday. World leaders also sided with
Yeltsin, led by strong statements of support
from Clinton, Prime Minister John Major, and
President Francois Mitterand of France. Yeltsin
had won support as well from the Central Bank,
which previously has sided with the Legislature
in disputes between the two branches of power.
In dismissing Parliament, President
Yeltsin has taken a huge gamble, the
consequences of which no-one can predict. It
is a gamble whose seriousness is belied by
the absurdities that now surround Russia’s
predicament.
Writes Mark Champion of The Moscow Times.
Saturday, 25th
September,
1993, Moscow,
Russia
The balance
of forces
remained
uncertain ...
I slumped up
against the bed head
of our make shift lounge room cum bedroom and
read aloud to Graham the Moscow Times article.
Political steps were afoot while my life here was
struggling to set the exhibition up. The Moscow
newspaper article is read by me:
Boris Yeltsin Wednesday confidently dismissed
the Parliament’s attempt to seize control of
Russia even as legislators ordered Army units
to their defence began to set the stage for
impeachment proceedings. The balance of forces
remained uncertain with Alexander Rutkzoi
naming the first ministers of the parallel cabinet
following his swearing in as Acting President
by the Parliament shortly after midnight
Wednesday. The two sides also vied for control
of the airwaves with the pro Yeltsin State
television network keeping news of Parliament’s
appointment of Rutzkoi off the air for many
hours. Yeltsin, in a meet the people walk through
central Moscow the day after he had dissolved
the Legislature and called forth that he would
not resort to bloodshed to fight the parliament
that had stripped him of his powers. “There is
no such thing as the Supreme Soviet,” Yeltsin
declared, “It does not exist. So there is no
dialogue and cannot be and there is no need for
it, but there will be no bloodshed.”
As Yeltsin spoke, he was flanked by
three men whose support is critical: Defence
Minister, Pavel Grachev; Interior Minister,
Victor Yerin; and the newly appointed Security
Minister, Nikolai Grochkov. All three made firm
Russia now has two Presidents, two Defence
Ministers and two Security Ministers and if
a Congress of Peoples Deputies assembles as
expected it may also have two governments
and two seats of power, separated by just a
few kilometers. On Friday the Presidents of the
Commonwealth of Independent States will meet
for a Summit in Moscow, raising the question: will
Rutzkoi try to go as well?
Russia has only one army, one Secret Service
and one police force; each of these is being asked
to choose between two masters, creating a state of
affairs that is fraught with risk. Yeltsin has clearly
made preparations for the end game he launched
Tuesday evening and for now at least it seems
that none of the power ministries will back the
opposition.
Two roads there are now that Russia might
take down as a result of the current crisis. The
first is the most desirable for Yeltsin. In this
scenario the leaders of Russia’s eighty-eight
regions of republics
will fall behind
Russia now has
two Presidents,
two Defence
Ministers and
two Security
Ministers ...
(End of newspaper articles)
the President, give
him their clear
support, dooming
the resistance
to collapse. With
enough support
from the regions,
Yeltsin could
calmly ignore his
opposition in the
White House.
As I put down the newspaper article I reflected
on the way we record the past and the present.
Its purposes and what it achieves. As I did so,
Graham has been remarking about the doors in
the apartments. ‘That’s right’, Graham explained,
‘leatherette doors and all the walls are often

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
“There was a King and he wanted someone to provide him with something that, whenever he looked at it if was
unhappy he would be made happy and if he was happy he would be made unhappy.
The present is fluid like water and runs through our hands. We cannot catch it. We cannot keep
it. Like people in our lives or relationships, all we can keep is the present...
We are all walking video cameras
that are recording the visual data of
history as it happens around us.
Inside the ring was the
phrase, the statement,
which said: ‘Even this
too shall pass’.”
a depressing hospital tan with kind of faux floral wallpaper designs in off-grey/greens, and little wooden
chinoiseries.’
We are all walking video cameras that are recording the visual data of history as it happens around us.
Through our memories, this tape recorder, the letters and the photographs we can capture the past as an
heirloom for the future. Our subconscious can also retains it but it does not retain it. The present is fluid
like water and runs through our hands. We cannot catch it. We cannot keep it. Like people in our lives or
relationships, all we can keep is the present now the objects in our present. I am reminded of a saying - “There
was a King and he wanted someone to provide him with something that, whenever he looked at it if was
unhappy he would be made happy and if he was happy he would be made unhappy. He was presented with a
ring. Inside the ring was the phrase, the statement, which said: ‘Even this too shall pass’.”

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
Sunday, 25th, September 1993,
Moscow, Russia
Yesterday Graham and I met Vicca. Graham
was suffering from the beginnings of oncoming
flu. He has been taken too many antibiotics prior
to his departure, which left his immune system
distraught and run down. We went along to the Dom
Hordorjnik (The House of the Artists) and viewed
the collection from the original Tretchikov Museum.
I stood outside near Gorky Park and spoke in front
of the camera. Behind me were deceased statues of
former Soviet political figures.
in an old, dishevelled car.
There were some very beautiful Andrei Rubilovs
in the Tretchikov collection. One was the Three
Women at the Annunciation. There were four
chrysanthemums sitting in a water-filled glass jar
beneath the painting. The painting was covered by
perspex.
Because of our poor art director’s health
problems we bought little packets of Vitamin C in a
cardboard box at an apoteche (which is Russian for
Pharmacy) on the way. The cardboard box would
open like a box of matches and in each box would be
twenty-five sachets in paper of ascorbic acid which
could be eaten as a dust.
Lydia is talking to me as I dictate these words
into the micro cassette recorder. She says that she
is tired, but relieved that her son and daughterin-law
have gone out for the afternoon. We had a
We went to Dimitrov Ulitsa and visited two
galleries in the central sector of the city. These were
galleries pertaining to modern art. The work was
raw—bottles of Spumante positioned in the back
of the walls behind a hidden door. Then a small
exhibition from a children’s book where the author
gave us a guided tour, telling us what constituted
the story. All the drawings were hung up on a
clotheslines and the books were positioned to make
them seem as if they were bricks to a house.
We then visited the Tretyikov Gallery where
Vicca tried to get us both in as Russians rather than
tourists. The difference in price was extraordinary;
there was always one price for the natives and one
price for foreigners, which is understandable. The
woman took our tickets and looked very long and
intently at us and said to Vicca, ‘Are these your
guests?’ and she said, ‘Yes’.
After our walk through the area near the
Tretchikov we parted company and Graham and I
went home. Vicca went to her rendezvous with some
unknown man who she said was going to pick her up
lunch-cum-dinner of noodles with a chicken leg and
broth, followed by mashed potato with fried onions
and a piece of luke warm tongue after the change
in daylight saving back one hour, at 4 o’clock. As a
vegetarian, I find the fare difficult in this country but
there are times when, in order not to offend, I do
things not to upset others, in the knowledge that at
a later point I can resume my initial regime.
The sun is setting, the dogs are barking and a
quietness is descending on this city, on this day,
and in this hemisphere. I can hear Lydia snuffling
and scuffling in this minuscule apartment while
the multiple paint layers in our bedroom reflect
the sun’s last rays. The trees are beginning to shed
their leaves. All of a sudden, all at once, they do so,
without warning. It is Autumn.
Graham’s illness is incapacitating him more and
more. It is a liability to our work but his health is
my pre-eminent priority. Today, which is Sunday,
he has decided to remain in bed. After arising late
Sasha and I went down to Tverskai to the Moscow
Municipal Mayor’s office, where three or four

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
...people laughed when they mentioned that the 23rd September, which was the day
that Yeltsin had dissolved the Parliament, was the Mayor of Moscow’s birthday.
...three or four thousand strong
demonstration of pro-Yeltsin
supporters were waving patriotic
Russian flags as opposed to
Communist red flags.
There were sundry press
journalists, photographers,
so many camera people and
betacam video operators.
There seemed to be in the speeches and in the waving of the placards, acid asides towards
Rutskoi, the rude remarks, the photographs of Yeltsin—a lack of conviction.

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
The products that in the West which were once banned or disallowed are now open slather
and are there to be consumed by a populace hungry for free market.a
The West seems to be a beautiful whore in this place and
America seems to be the prime Babylonian courtesan.
The poor statue of the Russian poet Vladimir Mayakovsky,
hero to a forgotten revolution, seems to cursorily nod as we
pass him but he seems in no mood to look on the intricate
details of the affairs of two foreigners.
thousand strong demonstration of pro-Yeltsin supporters were waving patriotic Russian flags as opposed to
Communist red flags. There were sundry press journalists, photographers, so many camera people and betacam
video operators. I was surprised to see so many. There is here and now an air of experiencing history in the
making but, at the same time, it lacked an energy. There seemed to be in the speeches and in the waving of the
placards, acid asides towards Rutskoi, the rude remarks, the photographs of Yeltsin—a lack of conviction.
In observing the crowd as a moving troubled sea, the speaker here knows how to fan the flames of a crowd.
They do not communicate what is real, but reflect views and push it further; amplify what the mass is gearing
to. They give them what they want, rather than what they need. It is primitive and frightening.
The rhythmic pulse in the crowd as somebody goes ‘rah, rah, rah’, and then the crowd would syncopate it.
There was one point where people laughed when they mentioned that the 23rd September, which was the day
that Yeltsin had dissolved the Parliament, was the Mayor of Moscow’s birthday.
Monday, 26th September 1993, Moscow, Russia
As the Institute of African and Asian Studiers the fax machine whirred with an unhappy stutter as the
heat sensitive paper released the fine imprint of the messages from Australia. Today I received a fax from my
mother Rosemary, and also a fax from Ludmilla and Hamish, the two friends who will join us in a week’s time.
Rosemary shows a concern, even fear, for us staying here. What is seen in the media back in Australia is not
experienced in the specific country or town. The media explodes, enlarges and exaggerates the news of what
is happening here as if it is unnatural. For example, there may be a minor explosion in Beirut but when that
explosion is seen on hundreds of thousands of television screens all round the world a curious phenomenon
occurs. Although it is one bomb… the fact that it appears in so many living rooms a like an echo means that its
significance is exaggerated.
Before I arrive at our apartment block as I cross the street, walking home across Fadieva Ulitsa I observe
a gaping pothole in the centre of an intersection. It is a manhole out of which a tree is growing. The broken
metal canister the size of a 44 gallon drum stands to one side, impregnated into the bitumen, which has
obviously been resting there for the last five years. The products that in the West which were once banned
or disallowed are now open slather and are there to be consumed by a populace hungry for free market. As I
see workmen erecting large but awkward billboards for cigarette advertising there are the tentative birth of
advertising billboards blossoming around the city; the Marlboro Man is ubiquitous throughout. The books of
Bagwan Rajneesh, the Indian guru of the Orange People, who fell so swiftly from grace are on sale, and readily
available. We are now going to an art shop. A T-shirt with ‘Mac Lenins In’ on it. I see women in the lines outside
the Lenin Museum. A man in a baggy trench coat with oil stains on it holds up one brogue shoe with a heal
half detached and five articles of groceries—a sausage and a packet of ten hotel sample shampoos. There are
hoardings with ‘Lucky Strike Made in USA’, ‘HB International’ and ‘Test the West’ as cigarettes. The West
seems to be a beautiful whore in this place and America seems to be the prime Babylonian courtesan.
On the dark sombre subway—the Metro— as they call it here ascending the silent escalators, I glanced to
one side. The escalator is long and deep as I travel up to the top of Mayakovskaya. I turn my head to the people
who are descending. Some are brooding, silent or have psychological masks on. The populace here mentally
shut down any form of interaction when they are with others on the street or on the Metro. Is this a form
of protection or a form of resignation? Is it a solemn and sullen relationship to life? For every hundred men,
women and children descending those escalators there would be three beautiful women descending with them.
Their beauty is significant.

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
Graham: It’s a great target. At three
hundred metres.
Dominic: I could wear my red
hat. They won’t hit us then.
And she walks up and asks how we can get around to the Hotel International, this little,
little woman talking to this fucking huge juggernaut of a fucking soldier.
Graham is beside me as we are walking along
the boulevard outside Mayakovsky Metro station. It
is around 5 degrees plus which is cold for me but
maybe normal for people here. The poor statue of
the Russian poet Vladimir Mayakovsky, hero to a
forgotten revolution, seems to cursorily nod as we
pass him but he seems in no mood to look on the
intricate details of the affairs of two foreigners.
Graham is describing the soldiers he has seen in the
cordons surrounding the White House yesterday.
Graham: Flak jackets...these fucking... all these
endless extensions...fucking flak jackets! The flak
jackets are huge. This man was huge, just this high,
and she came up to his belly button...
(He was describing a soldier and a woman
outside the Bella Dorma he had seen yesterday.
The Russian Parliament which is either under siege
or captured by rebels according to a the political
perspective. Bella Dorma is the Russian term.)
Dominic: And where was this?
Graham: ...talking to him. And this man cracks
a smile, he’s got a fucking Kalashnikov fucking
machine gun.
Dominic: Kalashnikov, yes.
Graham: Kalashnikov. And she walks up
and asks how we can get around to the Hotel
International, this little, little woman talking to this
fucking huge juggernaut of a fucking soldier. It was
just like this human face of those Russians, you
know. And she must have said things that touched
his soul because he smiled, like a Russian, you know,
like a human being, and she walks up and asks him
for directions. Absolutely gorgeous. We went round,
we walked all around the court, all the way around.
We had to go right, right round, almost 360 degrees.
We couldn’t get through the first cordon.
Graham: You should see the shit around here...
the American Embassy...
Dominic: Really.
Graham: Have you ever been to the American
Embassy here?
Dominic: No.
Graham: It’s fucking huge, you know.
Dominic: My question was: do you think we
should try and shoot footage...
Graham: Oh fuck yeah.
Dominic...tomorrow, around the White House?
Graham: Sure. Take Pasha. Yeah!
(Pasha Tyrishkin was my Russian social realist
artist who had befriended me upon my first arrival
in Moscow in March.)
Graham: And get Pasha’s comments on camera.
I’ll shoot the whole fucking shenanighans. But I’ll
tell you what, we’re in danger. We could get taken
out by a sniper.
Dominic: I could wear my red hat. They won’t
hit us then.
Graham: It’s a great target. At three hundred
metres.
Dominic: A red hat?
Graham: Yeah, oh fuck yeah. Bang! No, don’t
wear a red hat…Camouflage black...
Dominic: Eight in the morning, we should ring
Pasha and get him to bring the tripod.

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
Graham: Yeah, oh fuck yeah.
Bang! No, don’t wear a red hat…
Camouflage black...
...And you see it when you see the
machine guns, you know, its just on
the street, and you realise just what
its like to be a civilian in a war.
Dominic: You’re nothing.
When we saw that monument...I mean, no it’s not a monument, its just a little tiny little plaque with
a couple of bits of brick and it sits there on the overpass you know, where a fucking tank took out
two kids, you know?
Graham: Okay. I don’t want to handle a tripod in that sort of situation.
Dominic: No, fair enough. Yeah, no let’s forget about the tripod.
Graham: We’ll just get in tight.
Dominic: Just put it in there and have it going all the way.
Graham: No, just in tight. Just get in tight and shoot. You know, you’ve got to shoot, and stay wide all the
time. But, it’s really heavy, it’s really heavy. I mean, it’s scary shit. And you see it when you see the machine
guns, you know, its just on the street, and you realise just what its like to be a civilian in a war.
Dominic: You’re nothing.
Graham: You know? It’s there, in the street; it happens, you know? When we saw that monument... I mean,
no it’s not a monument, its just a little tiny little plaque with a couple of bits of brick and it sits there on the
overpass you know, where a fucking tank took out two kids, you know?
Graham: I’ve got to learn fucking money I thought I’d just be able to say numbers. I can’t talk Russian
numbers, you know.
Dominic: My numbers are really bad too.
Graham: Yeah, well we ought to just have little....just like we at school. Do you remember the pounds,
shillings and pence tables? Did you ever do the pounds, shillings and pence tables?
Dominic: No, just my multiplication tables.
Graham: Oh, you remember them? Fucking oath. Two times tables. Three times. Okay, ready. Go on, you go
...
Dominic: Two times three equals six.

M I N U T E S T O WA R Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
Vicca would turn to me every so often
and say: ‘Dominic what are you doing?
Why are we wasting our time doing this?’
It seems as if there is not sufficient locale to
store the huge 11 x 11 x 4 metre containers
for the paintings when they are emptied.
We walk out into the cold and then the
next moment we are in the abyss of a
Metro station where the sweltering heat...
Graham: No, come on... (in sing song voice):
Two ones are two, three ones are three...
(laughing)
Dominic: For God’s sake, please...!
Graham: Two twos are four, two threes are six.
Dominic: Can you imagine the typist putting this
down?
(Graham laughs madly)
Graham: Fuck you. (laughs maniaclly) It’s true.
No, I remember the pounds, shillings and pence
table: (starts up sing song voice again): twelve
pence, one shilling...
Tuesday, 28th September, 1993,
Moscow, Russia
Graham stayed in in the morning absolutely
exhausted. He has been struck down by this
phenomenal flu that has swept through parts
of Moscow. It has to do with the fluctuations in
temperature. We walk out into the cold and then
the next moment we are in the abyss of a Metro
station where the sweltering heat, the humidity and
the dust tests the body’s immunity by the swings in
temperature.
While he is recuperating I rendezvoused with
Vicca outside the Institute of Asiatic and Arabic
Studies, Moscow State University. The day was
windswept and cold, with a brisk breeze in our
faces. We met with Nikolai and followed this by
inspecting the side of the Institute as another
possibility for exhibiting the mural. But the students
were using computers which were not to be
cleared out until December, and the space lacks
the grandeur and epic presence that the Great Hall
possesses.
We also wandered around the back area and
inspected areas where the boxes and containers
could be stored. It seems as if there is not sufficient
locale to store the huge 11 x 11 x 4 metre containers
for the paintings when they are emptied.
At the Exhibition Centre, Maneesh, adjacent to
the University there is a large pavilion and exhibition
hall, which is another place to store the cases. At
the time of our visit there was a very cheap show of
fabrics and clothing. Vicca inspected them like an
expert in shopping but we did not find anything to
her taste; it was all cheap, mediocre and spoiled.
The centre appeared a cross between a secondhand
St. Vincent de Paul opportunity shop and a
supermarket emporium. There were nonchalant
dark skinned men chewing gum sitting around
with walkie-talkies, as if it was Fort Knox. Finally
we went up to the end where the offices were and
spoke to the proprietor, one of the directors. Due
to the height of the doors it was possible for me
to store the two 11 x 11 x 4 foot containers for
the paintings. At present I do need somewhere
where I can store all the cases although, adjacent
to the Institute is also possible. We might have to
attach chains to the cases to one of the pillars, but
otherwise it should be all right.
The Director of the Exhibition Centre was

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
Here in the Federation for Peace and
Reconciliation in grey office after
cream office we view bored staring
Muscovites play with outdated 1983
computer games.
Until I receive the exact dates
for the opening, I cannot
finish the printing.
amenable but he said that he would not be responsible for storing the pieces in so far as (1), they took up a lot
of room and (2), there were so many itinerant workers passing through that it could be quite easily stolen.
Vicca would turn to me every so often and say: ‘Dominic what are you doing? Why are we wasting our
time doing this?’ We went off from the Institute to the Federation to Prospekt Mira. Here a conference for
indigenous people of the southern regions of Russia and CIS (Confederation of Independent States) was going
on.
Graham has decided to resurrect himself this afternoon. So the four of us, Rita Mitrofanova, Viktoria
Trooshina, Dominic Ryan and Graham Blackmore meet at the Federation. Telephone calls were made and then
we went for bite to eat at the ‘Commonov’—an expensive Russian fast food restaurant. By Russian standards it
was not so bad. Then it seemed as if Rita was also looking worn and sickly and she left us while Graham, Vicca
and I went to an apoteche to buy cough syrup for Graham. The cough syrup was made of pseudoephedrine
and was called ‘Bloncoliten’ a Bulgarian cough syrup. It had ephedrine, hydrochloricum and rausinim,
hydrobronicum. So, after having bought the cough syrup, we looked at the White House from a distance and
then we went straight to the department store, GUM, and bought an acrylic black scarf for Graham for three
dollars.
At the Federation for Peace I could not find Yuri but we spoke to both Galina and Mikhail/Misha, who are
responsible for the posters and the dates. The posters had been done but there is still some typographical
corrections needed. Until I receive the exact dates for the opening, I cannot finish the printing.
Here in the Federation for Peace and Reconciliation in grey office after cream office we view bored staring
Muscovites play with outdated 1983 computer games. It seems there is often little work to be done, and after

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
She crisply turned on her heels and as she walked away
the thigh boots kept on falling from the knees down.
One of the women at the bar, a half-Korean prostitute, with
hennaed yet fixed hair sauntered up to us to enquire whether we
liked her red plastic, knee high boots.
my numerous visits I continue to observe colleagues playing games, and lazily reading the paper for hours. The
sense of urgency, of actually doing something does not seem to exist within their lives. They are content to
walk the aisles and be at work but little is asked beyond this. There is no commitment, or desire to complete a
project. I find this sad and frustrating and yet I must be patient.
After the farce of the Federation, Vicca and I caught the trolley bus adjacent to the Institute straight up to a
hardware store near Komsolomskaya,. It proved unsatisfactory in my desire since I could not buy white cotton
gloves for the exhibition I need there.
We returned via Red Square Ploshetkatskaya, Vicca had commitments that evening, so we decided to
terminate the evening by having a short coffee and each going our separate ways home. For coffee we found
inside the Hotel Moscova this funny little upper bar. It was set within the lower, ground level hall. We had to
ascend a second flight of stairs and then follow a staircase, ducking our head because the height of the ceiling
was so low. Passing through a small vestibule where people were using gaming machines we found this little
boite where people were having coffee.
There was nothing to eat, absolutely nothing to eat, so we had to content ourselves with two coffees. Vicca
assured me that the coffee granules would settle if you stirred them anti-clockwise, but of course, still the
coffee granules remained free-floating and at the top. One of the women at the bar, a half-Korean prostitute,
with hennaed yet fixed hair sauntered up to us to enquire whether we liked her red plastic, knee high boots.
All I could think of was how much sweat would have been contained in them, or perspiration, I should say. She
crisply turned on her heels and as she walked away the thigh boots kept on falling from the knees down. She

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
I sat and talked about the pair of us, and I could see that from
Vicca’s body language although she detested the conversation,
it was necessary that we or at least I communicate.
...whatever was happening between
us, had to come to a head one way or
another. Then and there, now and here.
... said that if you
don’t feel that
it’s right then let
us finish it. There
were things
that were...
potentials that
were mooted,
and so we
parted with some
understandings.
She felt half-heartedly that that she wanted to be with me but she said that
it would not work by virtue of the culture, of the differences...
had a vacuous, empty, somnambulistic gaze that come from doing things that do not fill the soul with joy. She
continued with her business, chatting to a few potential customers whatever that may have been. Whether
Vicca was aware of what she was, I’m not really certain.
I sat and talked about the pair of us, and I could see that from Vicca’s body language although she detested
the conversation, it was necessary that we or at least I communicate. Because of her distance, it was important
to speak rather than everything remaining pregnant or unsaid. The truth needs to be spoken. If she does not

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
feel that she wishes to be with me then it is important that she say as much. Or I know.
She understood implicitly what was being said. It cannot...whatever was happening between us, had to
come to a head one way or another. Then and there, now and here. This was the place, space and clock time
to occur. I said that if you don’t feel that it’s right then let us finish it. There were things that were... potentials
that were mooted, and so we parted with some understandings. She felt half-heartedly that that she wanted
to be with me but she said that it would not work by virtue of the culture, of the differences, of her parental
understandings, of the notions that her parents had, for what they wanted of her life.
She said: ‘Look, they pay me money and support me. If they do not feel that it is right that I do this then
they can pull the carpet from beneath me.’
And I can understand her fears and her insecurities. She went on to say that if they knew of what had
occurred between us they would see her as a fallen prostitute instead of seeing it as two people who fell in love.
They might see their daughter as not professional in her work ethics and that all she was doing was inviting
herself into a insalubrious and compromising fling.
Her mother is the daughter of an ambassador and her father was an ambassadorial assistant, so they
see themselves as above and beyond the pain or gain of us mere mortals. Also, she said they would see my
profession as a frivolous artist. So it is necessary to accept, not with resignation, not with surrender, but simply
accept that that is the way they are.
It is a sad situation, but that is the way it is. When I think back on it, we have been invited into so many
people’s homes, we have been shown such hospitality...
As I was saying, it is sad because, in spite of all the hospitality that’s been shown, I have never once been
invited to Vicca’s parents’ place. I suppose that is for many reasons, upon Vicca’s behalf and on behalf of her
parents. They do not deem that I am worthy of them. Or maybe they do not even know who I am…
Wednesaday , 29th September, 1993, Moscow, Russia
The arrival of Luda and Hamish approaches and today is the day which they arrive. It is Wednesday when
they are arriving. Rita’s mother has found an apartment for them not far from where we are, so that everything
seems to be in accordance with their needs and requirements. It was a positive day in as much as we were
able to send off a whole series of faxes to Nikolai that day. We did a little bit of videoing in the Institute, of me
walking up and down, backwards and forth, disgruntled, holding forth about inefficiency and such things.
While Vicca and I were sitting at this little coffee shop, I threw the I Ching for her which is a Chinese book

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
Being here, I have a strong
sense of deja vu.
pallid coat of
snow drifts along
one side of that
huge sculpture
of Mayakovsky
that stands in
the centre of the
square, almost as
if someone had
laid a paintbrush
with white pigment
straight across
and down his suit.
of divination I then went on and threw coins as it
was, in this instance, for her. The questions that
she asked were: ‘What will Vicca’s husband be
like?’ And we received the hexigram No. 40 going
into 2, the Receptive. And she asked: ‘What will
Vicca’s child be like?’ And we had: Coming to
Meet, followed by Gradual Progress. In the short
term. ‘Will it be a boy or a girl?’ Peace going into
Decrease, which was something which I found
difficult to determine. ‘And will Vicca love her
husband?’ Which, interestingly enough, was
Number 9 which is the hexigram which indicates
some form of interference, the Power of the Small,
that which impedes, the shadowy thing that’s in the
way of what’s going to come into being.
Wednesday, 29th September, 1993,
Moscow, Russia
Everything has been so thwarted by
frustration that I am sure that towards the end
it will be such a frenetic outburst of activity.
A light snow/sleet is falling. It is 8.35 in the
morning. Graham says it is going to be below zero
degrees. This is the day that Hamish and Luda
arrive at Sherimetsivo airport.
Graham has a bout of flu with which he is
soldiering on with a stoic and a brave constitution,
but without thermal underwear a brave, stoic
constitution may not prove to be enough. A thin,
white, pallid coat of snow drifts along one side of
that huge sculpture of Mayakovsky that stands in
the centre of the square, almost as if someone had
laid a paintbrush with white pigment straight across
and down his suit.
We arrived, Graham and I, at a very early hour,
at the Institute of Africa and Asian Studies in the
hope of meeting Nikolai Scherbakov to send off the
faxes before 9 o’clock to Australia. I wanted to send
some to the Baltic Shipping Company and to various
friends and relatives, also to Peter Watson to try and
put a stick of dynamite between his cheeks about
finishing his film about the exhibition. One fax is to
Baltic Australia to find out why the cargo has been
re-transferred onto the ship Esculpta in Hamburg.

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
It is now due on October 10th and may even be
postponed further.
Everything has been so thwarted by frustration
that I am sure that towards the end it will be such a
frenetic outburst of activity.
Being here, I have a strong sense of deja vu. In
this kitchen with Lydia, it is as if I’m remembering
what has already occurred. Perhaps I have dreamed
already the events which are unfolding.
After having sent the faxes with Nikolai, having
shot the video that morning, Nikolai Scherbakov
very sweetly recited a Russian proverb relating to
my struggles with the exhibition. For completion of
any great or heroic project we must endure three
levels. First we must pass through the initiation of
fire; then we must
pass through the
initiation of water
and then we must
go through the
golden trumpets.
Only then will we
finish our task. My
understanding of
his words were the
painting Millennium
had been burnt.
Next it would be
...often it is not the
things that we look
forward to but the
side issues which end
up becoming richer
events than the ones
we had originally
anticipated.
damaged by water. Then there would be accolades
and fame. Only after I succeeded to endure the fame
would my mission be complete.
We decided that since both Hamish and Luda
were jet lagged they should a return home, and have
an early night. We took them to their house, a rather
nice little apartment. A blind man called Nikolai, his
wife Nina and their child Natasha lived there. It was
around the corner, just down from Smolenskaya as
well. Nikolai had been blinded through negligence in
an operation and was granted a beautiful apartment
to live in. Originally he and his family, had been living
there for s many years in this one room apartment
and now they were given by the State a place which
had special interior, coded locks.
The blind Nikolai would spend his days pinning
bouquets of dried flowers together. Hamish
remarked it was strange entering into the room to
discover that the lights were always turned off. For
Nikolai it was always dark whether they were on or
whether they were off.
I held his hand when I first came into the room
and for quite some time. I felt that it was important
to do so. After a while of holding his hand, I felt that
my eyes were beginning to hurt.
We left Nikolai’s and Olga, Rita, Graham and
I adjourned to ‘Rosie O’Grady’s’ where we had a
meeting with Ian Jones, a camera man from Police
Academy 7. He failed to arrive and we spent the
evening there, having paid for a very expensive
Guinnesses.
We left the two and walked out into the busy
thoroughfare. The tape cassette was on as usual.
Graham: Well, it’s another beautiful day in
downtown Moscow. A mean temperature of about
six degrees. Wandering around the street, it’s cloudy
as usual although we did have a bit of sun yesterday.
We’re going to proceed to the Metro because we’re
going to change some money again at the Hotel
Moscow because that’s the only bloody place we
know where there’s an Exchange. Actually I think
there’s an Exchange, now that I think about it, in
the Novasalovdska, in fact I’m sure of it..: I get really
annoyed. Smell that gas, it’s really strong.
Dominic: We’re discussing the difference
between the haves...and have-nots here. We have
just been to a supermarket and I notice prices are
exorbitant by Australian standards n and then when
you see the costs of the normal person in the street,
it is like pre-Revolutionary times, the distinction
between the people who do and who have not.
This is underlined by the nature of people who are
without and with.
Since Ian Jones did not appear that night, we
ended up by speaking to Irina Suskine, a Russian
worker and her
friend. The rest
of the people
there were
expatriates,
foreigners, and
businessmen.
We both felt
repelled by
the degree of
estrangement
or wealth in
comparison to what is outside in the streets. I
remember experiencing that self same feeling when
I went to the ‘Yin Yang’ restaurant in Kathmandu,
years before and sat inside those strange multifaceted
tables and levels and then wandered into the
streets, only to discover that there were the beggars
and the dispossessed, so close and yet so far from
one’s financial reach.
‘Rosie O’Grady’s’ was like any English pub,
festooned with equestrian etchings and a series
of deep chestnut cabinets recessed into the wall.
The voices were smatterings of Belgian, American,
Norwegian, and the odd Frenchman. Cameramen
would come in, covered in rain with their betacam
strapped to their back in search of a quiet Guinness.
The prices were expensive even by Australian
standards, I felt. We paid for one round of drinks
US$20.
Andy Warhol the American Campbells soup can
Pop artist writes in From A to B and Back Again,

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
She has decided that it will simply not work. It saddened me, but because
we had not really fulfilled anything since March and there had been such a
large gap, the pain was not as great as I might have expected.
...nonetheless I feel happy that she is taken unto
herself to make a decision...
Smolensk has, subsequent to Melbourne
departure been charted off by Baltic Shipping
Company to another line and, after repairs/
maintenance in Hamburg will not be going to St.
Petersburg.
The Philosophy of Andy Warhol, that often it is
not the things that we look forward to but the side
issues which end up becoming richer events than
the ones we had originally anticipated. Driving from
Muselskaya to Smolenskaya on the trolley bus with
Vicca and there was this resounding bump, a grating
crash, and then another bump—as if some one had
shot us from behind. The electric cable of the trolley
bus had been disconnected. Blasts of static, as
electric current was discharged and then recharged.
The driver expelled ‘Shit’, ‘Gavno’ in Russian and
went outside to repair it while we were interred in
the gloaming darkness of the Moscow night.
Thursday, 30th September, 1993,
Moscow, Russia
Thursday I received a fax from Australia from the
Baltic Shipping Company. It reads:
“Smolensk has, subsequent to Melbourne
departure been charted off by Baltic Shipping
Company to another line and, after repairs/
maintenance in Hamburg will not be going to St.
Petersburg. Next vessel is Skulptur Zalkalns. She
should sail Hamburg 4th October and arrive St.
Petersburg 8th October. Please let me know if we
can assist further. Good luck with the exhibition/
hope the present situation is not causing any
problems.
Regards,
Paul Rantzau, Opal Maritime Agencies.”
So therefore, further delays, further
postponement, and I must be philosophical in a way
that only the stoic knows best.
Thursday was a rather lovely day. I am not really
certain why or how except to say I spent it with
Vicca alone. We met at the Federation, I met her
downstairs, went up briefly to see Yuri. He was
in a diffident and difficult mood, and saw us only
briefly. It was a brief meeting. It seems as if he
had problems upstairs with the President of the
Federation of Peace. Incidentally, the President of
the Federation is a former cosmonaut—and a famous
one at that. Yuri Gretchko was also the one that
signed the affidavit authorising and supporting the
exhibition of the painting, and it was through his
support that the exhibition was able to be warranted
for the opening of the book exhibition.
I met Vicca downstairs. It did not seem as if
there was much to be done. We felt that we could
reconnoitre and solicit some sponsorship. This
was done by finding a newspaper. We went to The
Russiyaa, this huge hotel, opposite the Kremlin, to
collect the new Moscow Times and from there we
travelled by the Metro to the Belarus Metro Station.
Vicca had decided that she does not wish to
pursue a relationship with me. I asked her to make
a decision. Although she dislikes doing so, two days
after the discussion with her on that Monday, she
came to a conclusion today. She has decided that it

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
From Belarus Station we travelled to The Moscow Times where I spoke to the
Features Editor, Karen Dukev, by telephone.
It was not a happy ending but at least it was an ending to something
which never really began.
So I suppose with the sadness of knowledge of
what is lost, and the sadness and knowledge that
it was never gained in the first place, that there is
no such thing as possession.
Since I
didn’t have a
passport and
my friend did
not have an
identity card,
there was no
way to go
up hence the
phone call.
will simply not work. It saddened me, but because we had not really fulfilled anything since March and there
had been such a large gap, the pain was not as great as I might have expected.
Because she is a very quiet and private person, sometimes I wonder what is going on with her, but I don’t
even know now whether she has truly made a complete or proper decision. Nonetheless ... nonetheless I feel
happy that she is taken unto herself to make a decision because to waiver was not the correct thing to do under
the circumstances.

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
Even so, she
would often pull
her hand away
or desist and
there was an
ugly moment
when she said to
me, ‘Oh, I know
why you wish to
hold my hand’.
Pasha is a
middle-aged
social realist artist
from Astrakhan
who believes
implicitly in the
soviet dream
of Communism
and the utopian
dream of a new
society—sharing
for all by all.
Dear Vicca, what a lovely day it was, it turned into. I’m not certain
why, I’m not certain how, but I really am not hurt. Perhaps because
when we were riding the escalators, there was the strangest feeling of
togetherness amidst the crowd of people. We simply hold hands and
get lost in that throng of teeming humanity.
From Belarus Station we travelled to The Moscow Times where I spoke to the Features Editor, Karen
Dukev, by telephone. The Moscow Times is situated in Ulitsa Pravde, House 24. Of course, we got to the
downstairs foyer, and the guard commands us to ring upstairs. We rang upstairs, and the woman indicates
to us we that we had to travel next door and present identification in order to go up. Since I didn’t have a
passport and my friend did not have an identity card, there was no way to go up hence the phone call.
We then strolled back home along this walk, where Vicca told me she had gone for her first
gynaecological operation. The gynaecologist, who was a man, said, ‘Don’t worry, don’t be frightened. The
only gynaecologists to be frightened of are women.’
Dear Vicca, what a lovely day it was, it turned into. I’m not certain why, I’m not certain how, but I
really am not hurt. Perhaps because when we were riding the escalators, there was the strangest feeling
of togetherness amidst the crowd of people. We simply hold hands and get lost in that throng of teeming
humanity.
We bought a cake on the way home called ‘Souvenir of Moscow’ similar to those gingerbread cakes with
a white icing over the top and sliced through the middle with a apple sauce, layered in between. On arriving
home at Ulitsa Fadieva, there was no-one here, so we spent a brief while together. It was the last time that
we were closest, that we had ever been. Even so, she would often pull her hand away or desist and there
was an ugly moment when she said to me, ‘Oh, I know why you wish to hold my hand’.
So I suppose with the sadness of knowledge of what is lost, and the sadness and knowledge that it was
never gained in the first place, that there is no such thing as possession. I understand and sense the cultural
walls that have to be torn down and I know that this person would have to give up much in order to live
elsewhere and I also don’t think that her parents would give their blessing, so she would lose a family in
order to gain a family. She is too happy, too content with her life here in Moscow. It was not a happy ending
but at least it was an ending to something which never really began.

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
He was warm-hearted with beautiful kind eyes and
would sometimes treat me like my father but was a
staunch supporter of the message…
Friday, 1st October, 1993, Moscow,
Russia
Walking for what appeared two
blocks before I could find a small
piece of rag that was sitting on
the ground and then wiped it off,
wiped myself down and returned,
a little bit more composed and
reassured.
The salad did a
backflip, went
over my long
pants, film
bag and my
hat, dripping
with beetroot.
I was utterly
frustrated. There
was nowhere to
wash, nowhere
to wipe, no
napkins, water,
soap, or no
hand towels.
It was a day for Hamish, Luda, Graha and I spent
by meeting Pasha Tyrshkin at Mayakovsky Square
beneath the sculpture. It was good to see him, Mr.
Pavel Tyrshkin, after so long. Pasha is a middle-aged
social realist artist from Astrakhan who believes
implicitly in the soviet dream of Communism and
the utopian dream of a new society—sharing for
all by all. He believes Solzhinitsyn was a capitalist
spy and the new Russia was a rebellion that
should not have been. He was warm-hearted with
beautiful kind eyes and would sometimes treat me
like my father but was a staunch supporter of the
message…. I presented him with a book by Chagall
and he presented me with an etching of landscaped
trees by the water, great big weeping willows and
a small boathouse—two copies, one of which I
may give to Graham. We then followed him back
to this house, where we discussed possibilities of
doing the large advertising banners and under what
circumstances that could be done.
We then decided to go into the city, where I
picked up more faxes, changed some money. And
we then went to Red Square where Graham filmed
the Cathedral, the changing of the guard at Lenin’s
tomb, and a visit to GUM.
We all then traipsed upstairs to the top floor
where there was a small cafeteria. Immediately
upon sitting down with, and the way I sat down,
my jumper knicked the top of the plate of beetroot
salad. The salad did a backflip, went over my long
pants, film bag and my hat, dripping with beetroot.
I was utterly frustrated. There was nowhere to
wash, nowhere to wipe, no napkins, water, soap,
or no hand towels. Walking for what appeared two
blocks before I could find a small piece of rag that
was sitting on the ground and then wiped it off,
wiped myself down and returned, a little bit more
composed and reassured.
Luda seems to be abhorrent about the state of

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
“This Russian gangster type. I wouldn’t be
surprised to see a 45 Magnum come out of this
large belly bag he always carries.”
“Our closest Ruskie drougs (Russian
friends) are Olga and her daughter, Rita.”
“Rita hits a buzzer and another armed guard opens the door and we
are finally into the White Cockroach Club. We enter to the strains of
Jimi Hendrix, voodoo charm. The ambience was fantastic.”
“Rita, gorgeous
twenty-four
year old,
just finished
her degree,
bored, doesn’t
know what
to do in the
future—Olga’s
daughter...”
the juices, and refused to eat any salad because she thought it was too revolting, refused to drinking the juice
because the use-by-date was two months old.
It was decided to visit GUM and Graham bought two dead animal skins, which were black rabbit pelts called
lapin and placing them on his head at home, I felt that they were rather becoming to his countenance.
P.S. The exhibition that we saw at the Academy was by Georgei Frangulyan, which was a retrospective
display of his sculptures and graphic works at the Academy of the Arts, 21 Ulitsa Prechistenka, Metro
Kropotkinskaya.
Graham has written in his in his fax to his friend:
‘Our closest Ruskie drougs (Russian friends) are Olga and her daughter, Rita. Olga’s about fortyfive,
doesn’t speak English very well, but a really cool lady. She has shown us all around Moscow. Her
husband is a law professor and lectures at Moscow State University. Because of the depressed state of
the economy here at the moment Olga, who is an accountant, only works part time and she’s probably
very bored so she’s been filling up all her spare time taking us around. Oh God, there’s so much I could
tell you about this place but I don’t know where to start so I’ll just write stuff as it comes to mind.
‘Last night Rita, gorgeous twenty-four year old, just finished her degree, bored, doesn’t know what
to do in the future—Olga’s daughter/unfortunately, she’s having this relationship with Sergei. This
Russian gangster type. I wouldn’t be surprised to see a 45 Magnum come out of this large belly bag he
always carries. Anyway, Rita works as a deejay in this local FM station, Maximum 103.7FM. Could give
you a long discourse on the Death Metal scene here, but I wouldn’t right now. So Rita takes us to this
invitation only exclusive underground rocker club last night, Friday. You approach this place through a
stark, crumbling tunnel under this ancient municipal building. Suddenly we are stopped in the darkness
by the heavy security guard and with a pistol and heavy baton and a walkie talkie. Rita presents these
passes and mumbles something in Russian and then waves us on. The guard growls into the walkie
talkie. We finally exit the tunnel and enter a decaying courtyard, completely submerged. We carefully

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
totter along wooden planks thrown over the
lake, take a right, walk down some steps, to be
confronted by two heavy steel doors. Rita hits a
buzzer and another armed guard opens the door
and we are finally into the White Cockroach Club.
We enter to the strains of Jimi Hendrix, voodoo
charm. The ambience was fantastic.’
Meanwhile Dominic reads from newspaper
article:
’President Boris Yeltsin’s government on
Wednesday ordered hard line defendants of the
Russian Parliament to surrender their weapons
and leave the White House by next Monday,
making an
imminent
assault on the
building appear
less likely. On
a day when
riot troops
repeatedly clash
with Parliament
supporters and
White House
defenders
warned they would shoot to kill, the Government
appeared to be looking for ways to reduce
the chances of further bloodshed. The latest
Government order was issued after the political
crisis claimed its further victim, a traffic police
officer run over by a vehicle during disturbances
in central Moscow late Tuesday evening. It
followed warnings from Washington that the
United States could not condone the use of force
to end the standoff. Until Tuesday, the Yeltsin
administration had presented a largely peaceful
face to the world, despite the tenseness of the
political crisis sparked by a Presidential Decree
September 21 dissolving the Russian Parliament.
The Russian Parliament then, or those that
remained in the building, requiring that they
remain there and defying the decree.
But news of a dramatic buildup of troops
around the White House caused concern. When
images of clashes between security forces and
demonstrators Tuesday night were aired by
major television networks in the West, it set
alarm bells ringing.
On Wednesday evening riot police with shields
and rubber clubs broke up a demonstration of
about one thousand five hundred Parliament
supporters. It was the second day they tried
to breach the lines at Barikadania. Russian
television reported that Viktor Aksyuchits, the
hard line legislator, had been hospitalised. The
demonstrators set up barricades of overturned
trolley buses near Ulitsa 905 Metro. Police
closed off the area and the streets were quickly
cleared. The trouble in the streets had been more
violent Tuesday night. Vladimir Reshtuk, 47,a
Lieutenant Colonel in the Traffic Police, died
early Wednesday of multiple injuries sustained
when he was hit by a trailer that had come loose
from a truck during the rioting. Around the
White House, Interior Ministry troops Wednesday
tightened their grip. Police, reinforced by fresh
troops, widened the area of their blockade on the
eighth day of the confrontation between Yeltsin
and the Legislature. Yeltsin’s Defence Minister,
Comopavo Grashe, told reports that militant
nationalist groups were planning terrorist
attacks in Moscow and said that legislators holed
up inside the White House were using dangerous
advisors.
“I, as a military man, feel that these are
the first steps towards the start of a large and
bloody conflict,” he said, according to Itar tass.
Several hundred soldiers could die if President
Yeltsin decides to storm the White House and
remove his Parliamentary opponents by force,
military experts said Wednesday. Military
analysts estimate that a force of anywhere
from several hundred to five thousand soldiers
would be needed to seize the building and that
casualties could
“I, as a military man,
feel that these are the
first steps towards the
start of a large and
bloody conflict,” he said,
according to Itar tass.
be as high as ten
or fifteen percent
of those involved.
That could be as
many as several
hundred deaths, in
a large, aggressive
operation. But all
of the analysts
contacted said that
an attack remained
unlikely, despite
the show of Presidential force around the White
House. Yeltsin has sealed off the area around
Parliament with thousands of city police and
smaller units of elite troops. Parliamentary
leaders believe that this signals an upcoming
assault, but Yeltsin has repeatedly said he will
not order one.
“I think they will not try to storm the building
for a long time and that this is more a war of
nerves than actual preparation for storming the
building,” said Charles Storm Van Efgravansan,
Defence Attache at the Dutch Embassy.
“A building is usually the worst thing any
regular armed force would like to deal with,”
said another military attache, “It gives an ability
to the defender, even those not very well trained
but having weapons. It gives the defender quite
an edge.” The analyst said that an attack would

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
“Several hundred soldiers could die if President Yeltsin decides
to storm the White House and remove his Parliamentary
opponents by force, military experts said Wednesday.”
“But at least a hundred
legislators and five hundred
volunteer soldiers acting as
guards in the White House
appeared determined to hold
out as long as necessary.”
likely include a quick infusion of elite troops
under cover of darkness, along with tear gas, ___
___ smoke and other weapons. Helicopters might
also ferry troops to the top of the White House
within a minute or two of the initial assault.
Yeltsin has posted some of his most loyal
forces around the Parliament. These include the
Omon, short for Special Mission Police Squad.
Formed in 1987, the Moscow unit is composed
of one thousand five hundred men who typically
fight organized crime and are experts in crowd
control, according to a spokesman, Vitaly Kiiko.
These were the troops that were used in January
1991 to crush nationalist resistance in the Baltic
capitals of Vilnius and Riga. Alongside the Omon
are soldiers from the elite Dzerzhinsky Division.
Called the Omsden, or Separate Mechanised
Special Forces of the Interior Ministry, this
division dates back to the 1917 Revolution and
historically protected Communist Party leaders.
Also near the White House, according to
soldiers deployed there, is the Alfed Counter
Terrorism Division, the Kremlin guard forces
that were once part of the KGB specialist troops.
Regular Moscow police armed with riot shields,
helmets and semi-automatic rifles make up the
largest visible units in the face of the most
violence so far.
“Steady cold rain and propaganda messages
shouted by White House defenders are also likely
to help morale. These factors make riot police
a more reliable advance force for any attack,”
Storm Van Efgravansan said.
Inside the White House at least several
hundred men have access to arms, including
AK47 sub-machine guns, recent visits show.
Even if Yeltsin has no desire to attack, there is
concern that with armed men inside and outside
the building, tensions could run high. Running
high, an accident could spark disaster. Such an
accident could lead to a chain reaction which
could result in a total breakdown of control.
Grashe made his statement as the General
in charge of the defending Parliament, Albert
Markashov, warned that his troops would shoot
to kill in the event that pro-Yeltsin forces tried to
storm Parliament. Markashov read a statement
from the White House balcony saying that the
defenders had anti-tank and anti-personnel
mines and could repel any attack.
On the political front, conflicting signals
muddied an already complex situation. The
President’s press office said that Yeltsin had
ordered Prime Minister Victor Chernomidin
to hold talks with Parliamentary leaders,
apparently reversing earlier promises never to
negotiate with the rebel legislators. This came
after Yeltsin’s government issued its ultimatum
to the legislators and their guards to leave
the building by October 4th. The Parliament
supporters had ignored an earlier ultimatum to
turn in their weapons by 11 a.m. Wednesday.
The written appeal from the Government to
Ruslin Khasbulatov and Alexander Rutskay,
the Parliament Speakes and Acting President,
promised clemency for White House occupants
who turned in their arms and surrendered
peacefully. In return, the appeal said the
government would not use force to remove them
from the building.
There was also trouble in the provinces.
Leaders of fourteen Siberian regional councils
threatened to secede from Russia and block the
Trans Siberian Railway unless Yeltsin annulled
his decree dissolving Parliament. Deputy Prime

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
Minister Sergei Shakray said that Yeltsin’s
team would hold meetings with regional leaders
starting Thursday. He said that the meetings
would pave the way for convening the Federation
Council, a potentially powerful new body of
regional leaders. Another close Yeltsin aide,
Mikhail Poltoranin, told reporters that Yeltsin
might agree to simultaneous elections for
President and Parliament if this was proposed by
the Federation Council. Earlier this week Yeltsin
rejected the idea of simultaneous polls, when
proposed by Parliament leaders.
All day tension grew as Interior Ministry
troops kept up the pressure on the people holed
up in the White House, using a powerful speaker
mounted on an armoured personnel carrier to
broadcast loud pop
music dispersed
with appeals to give
up.
“Be reasonable,
think of your
families. Stop this
action, it could lead
to a catastrophe,”
read one statement.
Parliament
supporters waged a
psychological battle of their own at police lines,
alternately taunting troops and trying to woo
them over the legislators’ side. “Why are you
here, cold and hungry?” read a statement handed
out to the riot police, “Come over to the side of
the law and President Alexander Rutskay, like
your comrades, before it is too late.”
Soldiers standing in the freezing sleet and
rain appeared edgy and tired. “Why don’t we just
get this thing over with?” complained a young
soldier of the Dzerzhinsky Division of Interior
Ministry troops.
Dominic continues reading:
An Interior Ministry soldier stationed on the
corner of the Garden Ring and Novyabut said
that seven of his platoon had been standing
guard since Tuesday morning without a break.
He said he had spent the night in the entrance of
an apartment building. The soldier said he only
expected the siege to last one or two more days.
At the White House, numbers were reported
to be dwindling. A police spokesmen said
that four hundred and thirty people had left
the Parliament building, including a number
of Peoples Deputies. But at least a hundred
legislators and five hundred volunteer soldiers
acting as guards in the White House appeared
determined to hold out as long as necessary.
Sunday, 3rd October 1993, Moscow,
Russia
We arose at about 9 o’clock. We braced ourselves
for a long tiring day. It began with dappled, and
beautiful, sunlight, streaming in parallel streaks
through the venetian blinds of the window at
Fadieva Street. It is a Sunday and we have decided
to make our way to the White House, the Bella
Dorma, as it is called. We went along to the White
House from Sedaboyagotsa via Smolenskaya and we
walked down Norvi Arhbat and onto Kutuzovsky
Prospekt.
Finally we were outside the White House where
we photographed milling soldiers, and the cordon
of water tanks and barbed wire which had been
erected around the parliamentary building while the
government and military hesitated in deciding what
to do with its renegade politicians inside. Outside
Smolenskaya there were cordons of flak-jacketed
militia with helmets and sub machine guns.
We decided to walk to Red Square to a small
church where I’d been upon my first visit to Moscow.
A short stay and we purchased an ice-cream cake
for an appointment with Rita and Olga Mitrafanova
at Leninksy Prospekt at 4.30 that afternoon. We
took the Metro
and exited out
Ten militia men
had already been
killed as well as
two journalists.
at Octobraskaya
where we saw vast
milling crowds
of Communist
supporters. They
were sitting around
the flagstones
and steps of the
monument outside the Metro station waving
placards in front of the awesome monument to
Lenin, red flags waving to and fro. It was not the
time to photograph them and as it proved later on in
the day, various journalists and photographers, one
Italian photographer had been shot, only because
they were in the wrong place at the right time.
Anyhow, Graham feels uneasy here and the area
had been cordoned off. We were unable to get a
trolley bus to visit Olga so we caught a taxi and
the driver was an antique restorer who drove us
to Leninsky Prospekt to House 60, Detage, a stone
building, Building 504, Olga and Rita’s place.
There we had the beautiful afternoon—a late
lunch or early dinner with egg and fish soup, pea
salads and wines. Toasts were made to democracy
by Misha, and we had blinns followed by ice-cream
cake which I had brought and as I was walking
through the demonstration and the placard waving
proleteriat the ice cream had been spilled and had
begun to melt and run down the front of my black

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
Finally we were outside the White House where we photographed
milling soldiers, and the cordon of water tanks and barbed wire
which had been erected around the parliamentary building while
the government and military hesitated in deciding what to do with its
renegade politicians inside.
....but if it does, then in some ways it will become a
moment in history, in many ways as much as events that
are preceding it now are.
As we were half way through this dinner, Brian, an American
friend of Rita’s rang and said that the Revolution had started,
rather the Communist Revolution.
A state of
emergency
has been
established,
and no
demonstrations
are now
permitted.
There are no cars on the streets. There is an uneasy feeling of
something impending. A hastily scrawled written sign on the
door sticky-taped was saying that it was closed.
jumper.
As we were half way through this dinner, Brian,
an American friend of Rita’s rang and said that
the Revolution had started, rather the Communist
Revolution. The milling crowd which we had seen
at Octobreskay en route to the Mitrafanova’s, had
made their way up to the Mayor’s headquarters and
where clashes were occurring. Ten militia men had
already been killed as well as two journalists. On the
news we saw people being dragged dead through
the glass doors of the mayory and fighting had
broken out in all areas of the city, especially around
the section of the mayory, as it is called.
I rang Irina Suskine to organise a meeting
tomorrow for the exhibition for Customs, and she
told me that the main building of the Media had
been attacked and that the Communists were
trying to infiltrate the Mayor’s quarters and the
Ostankino Tower was also under attack, apparently.
A state of emergency has been established, and no
demonstrations are now permitted. People will be
stopped in the street and asked to present permits,
passports, identifications, etcetera, etcetera. So it is
wise to carry identification in this situation.
After Olga’s house we then went straight
onto ‘Rosie O’Grady’s’ which is off of the Metro
station Barikadna, for another rendezvous with
Ian Jones, and this time, yet again, we were not to
meet. Perhaps it is fated, but the point was that
the bar was shut down. Because it was a place for
foreigners, the proprietors were frightened that the
Communists would blow the shit out of it. There
were people appearing at ‘Rosie O’Grady’s’ looking
puzzled and fearful and then leaving. There are no
cars on the streets. There is an uneasy feeling of
something impending. A hastily scrawled written
sign on the door sticky-taped was saying that it
was closed. It was all rather tragic-comic and
yet simultaneously serious. In any case, Graham
thought that it was not the place we should linger;
not exactly the place to be seen. We waited for a
ten, fifteen minutes for Ian to show up at 8.30 and
at about twenty minutes to nine we decided to

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
It was with frightened movements that I awoke.
We awoke to the snarling and staccato sound of machine gun fire echoing in the courtyard of
the housing flats we are in.
All the radio stations and television
stations had been captured by pro-
Communist forces during the evening...
We were unaware at that stage that the White House, the
Bella Dorma, was under fire and that the bullets, sub machine
gunfire and cannonades from the tanks were pitched at the
Russian Parliament, rather than as we first thought, at militia
and Communist bandits
make our way home via the Metro.
We arrived home and even Lydia, who arrived late, received consecutive telephone calls from worried
children because of the danger that is now in this country. We have found ourselves in the midst of a revolution.
Whether that comes into being or not; whether we find ourselves barricaded, or whether we end up by burning
our bridges or not, I do not know. Graham has the difficult task of deciding whether he should remain here. His
commitments at home mean he must be back by early in November, otherwise the house that he is renting is to
be sold, auctioned. He does not wish his possessions to be interred or misused by other people. So his dilemma
is—should he leave early? In leaving early, he may avoid bloodshed and personal problems, yet at the same
time he may also miss out on this history which is unfolding before our eyes. The world is looking to this place,
all eyes are fixed on this capital, Moscow. Crazy as it might seem, this seems to be the case. It is a difficult
decision, and whatever the decision, whichever way he turns, I’m sure in the long run it will be for the best.
I am reading The End of Nature by McGibbon, and while we might be living through the final days of
an infant democracy in Moscow, whether one is greater than the other, I don’t know. I knew that by taking
Millennium to Russia, it would draw and attract momentous events. But I did not feel that the events would
be this momentous. If it does, and it may not, be shown here—the events may be so powerful, so titanic that
something of the nature of Millennium may not be able to be exhibited—but if it does, then in some ways it will
become a moment in history, in many ways as much as events that are preceding it now are.
Suffice to say that we are witnessing the footprints of history as they are being walked engraved into the
lava of Russian history.
There is a thickness in the air that is imminent. It is not electric, it is sluggish. There is a fearful expectation.
Many of the people I have spoken to are sick and tired of many of the events that are following them. All they
want is to just get on with their lives without the intervention of these forces of violence or political intrigue.

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Once Upon a Time in Sarajevo
Pro-Communist supporters apparently
have stationed themselves on rooftops
and 6th, 7th, 8th floor windows...
The city is in total chaos.
In the distance I can hear the gunfire
of the cannonade and the machine
gun fire from the White House.

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
The violent clashes and demonstrations had been diffused the previous night,
and the Army had now moved in with tanks beginning to attack the White House
building with cannonades and helicopter mortar attacks.
that we should stencil like Michael Leunig, an Australian cartoonist on to T-shirts, “I am an innocent bystander,”
Monday, 4th October, 1993, Moscow,
Russia
I’m leaving Fadieva Ulitsa going towards
Novaslovoskaya. The city is in total chaos. The
snipers have taken over. Pro-Communist supporters
apparently have stationed themselves on rooftops
and 6th, 7th, 8th floor windows, so the task of
going to make this meeting with Irina Sushkine is
proving itself slightly dangerous, but in view of the
circumstances pertaining what I must do, making
this dash across town seems to be necessary.
Nonetheless, people seem to be getting on with
their daily day-to-day lives. There seems to be a
veneer of activity, while life goes on, people walk
their dogs, return home from work and shop. In the
distance I can hear the gunfire of the cannonade and
the machine gun fire from the White House. There
seems to be a quietness. It is getting near nightfall.
We awoke to the snarling and staccato sound
of machine gun fire echoing in the courtyard of the
housing flats we are in. Graham awoke me shaking
my shoulder as I stretched my arms and yawned.
‘Dominic, you sleep so fuckin deep that you can
sleep through even machine gun fire’, which had
been going on for a few hours prior to my waking.
It was with frightened movements that I awoke.
It is the uncertainty of not knowing...We faced the
day with a measure of uncertainty because we did
not know where the gun fire was coming from. We
were unaware at that stage that the White House,
the Bella Dorma, was under fire and that the bullets,
sub machine gunfire and cannonades from the tanks
were pitched at the Russian Parliament, rather
than as we first thought, at militia and Communist
bandits – ‘fascists’ as they say—in the streets, just
taking potshots at whosoever that they saw walking
past.
The gunfire seemed to rise up like the vaporous
odours of a thick pungent soup that had been
brewing deep in some hidden courtyard of a rotting
building. When I walked out into the streets for
the first time this morning and saw people going
on about their daily business, slightly frozen in
detachment, without acknowledgement, almost a
denial, it struck me as odd. The people here are
flexible and adaptable in their manner of dealing
with such things. The history of this land and its
people is impregnated to endure with resignation

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
...the Army had now moved in with tanks beginning to attack the White House
building with cannonades and helicopter mortar attacks.
All the radio stations and television
stations had been captured by
pro-Communist forces during the
evening...
After about 5 o’clock this afternoon, 4.30, the Parliamentary delegates began
to slowly surrender, great hordes of them, after fire had broken out in the upper
echelon of the White House, which was not looking so white any more, diffused
with charcoal and smoke stains.

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
The Federation was writing
a note of condemnation of
the violence addressed to
both parties. Neither side
were to be indicated as as
perpetrators.
Alexander Rutskoi the leader of the separatists who had barricaded themselves
in the Parliament building and all the delegates surrendered at 5 o’clock.
So the CNN news went on all day, like a ping-pong match or two bored tennis
commentators, sitting and watching the interaction from a distance.
untold suffering.
The day was so beautiful, with its blue yawning sky and temperate wind, that it seemed to create the
perfect juxtaposition of this potential revolution within a revolution. It was not until Hamish and Luda came
over that we discovered other things about what had been brewing during the day and the previous night.
All the radio stations and television stations had been captured by pro-Communist forces during the evening,
which was why there was a total media black out—every channel on the television that we turned on, except
for one, was a test pattern. The Ostankino tower had been captured by the pro-Communist people and it was
only after a heavy battle that it had been recaptured in the early hours of the morning. There is now a curfew
and people cannot venture outside after 11 p.m. at night and before 5 o’clock in the morning.
Hamish and Luda have lost all of their electricity and in the apartment where they are resident with Nikolai
and Nina. They now no longer have any hot water as well. In some areas the telephone lines are down, as
was the case with one person, one friend of Blackmore’s, who we met at ‘Rosie O’Grady’s’. It was he who
had introduced me to Irina, or she was accompanying him, I should say and because his apartment is close to
Ostankino, it is impossible to know whether he is alive or dead, or whatever.
Both Rita and Vicca stayed inside all day, wise because there is sporadic fighting and street violence. If one
becomes part of it, even as an onlooker, one is likely to become involved in danger.
I was suggesting to Graham today, that we should stencil like Michael Leunig, an Australian cartoonist on
to T-shirts, “I am an innocent bystander,” written upon them. Maybe with that slogan people may leave us well
alone, but I think not.
The violent clashes and demonstrations had been diffused the previous night, and the Army had now moved
in with tanks beginning to attack the White House building with cannonades and helicopter mortar attacks.

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
This went on for some five hours, whereby we sat
and watched, glued to the CNN reportage. Graham
documented the footage that was coming from
contemporary Moscow television. The number of
bodies was proved quite frightening and it was most
distressing to see the carnage. The carnage and
violence is occurring needlessly and, sadly, from
not so much within the walls of the Government
building, the White House, but beyond the streets.
After about 5 o’clock this afternoon, 4.30, the
Parliamentary delegates began to slowly surrender,
great hordes of them, after fire had broken out in the
upper echelon of the White House, which was not
looking so white any more, diffused with charcoal
and smoke stains.
Graham
remarking that the
tank shells appeared
to be striking at
points definitely in
between the pillars
of the building. Each
shot appeared to
penetrate the glass
windows, rather than
into the structural
masonry of the
parliament building.
We are locked into this
as destiny and I must
see it through. I realise
now that fate has cast
its lot, especially for
Millennium, and that
its destiny lies with the
destiny of this city. All
the postponements were
meant for such a time.
Alexander Rutskoi the leader of the separatists
who had barricaded themselves in the Parliament
building and all the delegates surrendered
at 5 o’clock. But, still the disenchanted, the
disenfranchised and those unhappy with what
has occurred politically have joined forces and are
attempting to stop Yeltsin and his decrees. I wonder
if Pasha is one of them. I had an appointment with
him at 12 o’clock this afternoon, and I left a message
on his answering machine that I felt it was too
dangerous to go across the city to Belarus Station
close to Bibliotechi Iminya Lenina. There remains
no answer and he did not return my call. There is no
way of knowing whether he appeared or not. I hope
that he has not done anything foolish, such is his
political vein and jugular, or maybe I should say, the
vein of his jugular.
So the CNN news went on all day, like a pingpong
match or two bored tennis commentators,
sitting and watching the interaction from a distance.
Certain asides would be made, time for a break, time
for an intermission. It was like sports commentators.
There were great crushing throngs of bystanders
outside the White House. It was not clear whether
they were supporting the Rutskoi anti-Yeltsin brigade
or whether they were spectators. There were so
many of them, and it was amazing to think that they
had been allowed so close to the barricades.
Hamish and I went and bought some food today.
Ambulances were passing and the gunfire was still
in the air. I telephoned Vicca about trucks from St.
Petersburg to Moscow, and she had been in all day.
She was telling me, that she was in Smolenskaka,
so close to the White House, that she could hear
choppers overhead. They could feel the cannonades
and mortar fires. Even from where we are, it seems
close. It is only a kilometre away. We are on the
same street—the Garden Ring—but Smolenskaya to
Mayakoskaya is a short walk or, rather, an extensive
walk.
I returned home; made various telephone
calls, one to Yuri, to see whether he was alive at
the Federation, and rang a few other people. The
Federation was writing a note of condemnation of
the violence addressed to both parties. Neither side
were to be indicated as as perpetrators.
Nothing can really be done. We are locked
into this as destiny and I must see it through. I
realise now that fate has cast its lot, especially for
Millennium, and that its destiny lies with the destiny
of this city. All the postponements were meant
for such a time. I could never say that anything is
truly meant because the moment that we embrace
wholeheartedly we lose our irony, and that is an
essential characteristic in the judgment of a person.
There can no longer be any delay. I must, and I
shall, and I can, and I will exact this event, even if
it requires flexibility, courage and support of those
closest to me.
It is strange
There is a morbid
fascination in standing
on the brink of the abyss
and looking down, as I
and many other people
were doing. It is human,
but at the same time this
humanness can also get
us killed.
with Vicca. When
I spoke to Vicca
tonight there
seems to be still a
thread which exists
between us. I still
miss this person,
although what I
find inscrutable
is my inability to
fathom whether her
distance is feigned,
whether or whether that that is simply her. She is
so reserved, but there is something sweet because
when that affection comes through, it comes
through in the most beautiful way.
While searching for empty garages I crossed the
street on the way home in the middle of this political
chaos. But still the same social problems remain.
The Moscovite was moving this drunk. When I ask
whether he needs assistance, he says ‘no’. I said
‘well, perhaps you need some form of help’. He says
‘no’. I passed back two hours later and he was still
trying to move this man along.
After the riots I looked back across at Lenin’s
Museum, and all the trees that are defrocked of
flower, or leaves have black ribbons tied to their
branches. Here is the Speakers Corner where the

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
I could see burning Lada cars, 50 meters away, these enveloping flames
which seemed to lick the sky and play like fingers into the night air, dancing
backwards and forwards in the middle of the street.
They pushed the vessel right over, but just as they
were doing this, two armoured personnel carriers
appeared and military troopers came to “the
rescue”. The personnel carrier screeched to a
stop, the khaki soldiers jumped out and fired shots
at the people as they were running helter-skelter
for cover. One person was hit and killed. They
went over and dragged him, like an inert sack of
meat, towards the personnel carrier.
The Army then started firing tear gas at us in the
direction of Patriachs’ Pond and the restaurant,
‘Margarita’s’ where I was standing.
Communists rant and rave.
I had a meeting with Irina Suskine. I left Irina
at Polianka Metro, I went to Smolenskaya down
on Savaranola, which is part of the Garden Ring.
I could see burning Lada cars, 50 meters away,
these enveloping flames which seemed to lick
the sky and play like fingers into the night air,
dancing backwards and forwards in the middle
of the street. The street had been completely
cordoned off, with no automobiles able to enter
the ring road except for the odd ambulance that
drove past, careering into the night with its siren
blaring, and hefty cumbersome tanks that trundled
past. Being curious, perhaps a little tentative and
yet interested, I walked down through the throng
of onlookers, having already avoided sniper fire
at the Polianka Metro, and there were abandoned
automobiles left in the street, and a bus which had
been turned on it side. There were pieces of broken
and soot blackened fuselage from automobiles
scattered across the road, while flames seemed to
engulf one vessel.
A line of men in plain clothes on the other
side of the street were pushing one of the buses
which the Army militia transported soldiers. And
they were pushing this automobile out into the
street and then slowly, bit by bit they tried to, by
collecting more people, rock it backwards and
forwards in an attempt to topple the truck over.
There were forty, to forty-five strong of them.
They pushed the vessel right over, but just as they
were doing this, two armoured personnel carriers
appeared and military troopers came to “the
rescue”. The personnel carrier screeched to a stop,
the khaki soldiers jumped out and fired shots at the
people as they were running helter-skelter for cover.
One person was hit and killed. They went over and
dragged him, like an inert sack of meat, towards the
personnel carrier.
I was stationed one hundred meters away by
then. The Army were going up and down the street
where I am. For some odd reason they would just
pull out one person from the crowd indiscriminately

M I N U T E S T O WA R Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
She works for a satellite dish company and on going onto the roof—they had been positioning some
satellites dishes—the patrolling helicopters had seen them, thinking that they were snipers and that when they
descended to the bottom these paratroopers had entered through the front door, putting a Kalashnikov’s barrel
into her stomach.
He said that if I use another company, I had to put deposit of AUD$9,000 with another company because
they did not wish to risk losing their particular containers. Therefore, effectively, they have me over a barrel. I
pay their price or I pay 9000 dollars.
and take them away. Because I was witnessing it from a distance I could not discern whether it was for specific
reasons, whether the people were involved in looting or what. I do not know, I cannot tell.
The Army then started firing tear gas at us in the direction of Patriachs’ Pond and the restaurant,
‘Margarita’s’ where I was standing. I could see waves of people, mostly young people, running down and then I
would find that they would return back towards the area. It was as if it was a game of hide and seek, a game of
catchers-catch-can. It is so easy for the innocent bystander to become the innocent victim as a result of a little
curiosity. I thought of wearing the Leunig T-shirt, “I am only an innocent bystander”.
When this man was just taken from the crowd, I thought, well, through one’s curiosity it is very easy to
become a casualty or a statistic. By gawking at what was happening, I run the risk of endangering my life,
which is exactly what I am doing now while Graham, Luda and Vicca all sit at home watching it on television. I
decided that I had been witness to enough. It is not noble to see such things. There is a morbid fascination in
standing on the brink of the abyss and looking down, as I and many other people were doing. It is human, but
at the same time this humanness can also get us killed.
I decided to walk home. The feeling was of danger. There were blackouts in the streets, no lighting and
because the Ostankino Tower had been captured during the night and no media was on the television.
Graham was home when I got back. He had probably taken the safer prerogative and decided to remain in
his home, less experienced but safer in doing so. Vicca had remained home, Rita had remained home. Irina said
that she had gone to work and the people had looked at her and said: ‘You are the only female that is working
today.’ She works for a satellite dish company and on going onto the roof—they had been positioning some
satellites dishes—the patrolling helicopters had seen them, thinking that they were snipers and that when they
descended to the bottom these paratroopers had entered through the front door, putting a Kalashnikov’s barrel
into her stomach. She said that that was one moment of intense fear for her.
There is now a curfew which is operating for one week, as from Monday the 4th. This curfew goes from 11
at night and through to 5 o’clock in the morning.
So, here endeth the tape of the day, which is the 3rd of October. Amen.

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
Tuesday, 5th October, 1993, Moscow, Russia
In the morning I have the threatening feeling that our friend Hamish was never to be seen again, because he
had raced straight off to see us, Luda telephoning that he should be there any moment, when in point of fact in
her half-sleepfulness he had actually said that he was off to pick up the stickers for the Millennium exhibition
at the Embassy. With great relief, he appeared about two hours later and, although he was mildly remonstrated
with, we were relieved to see him in one piece.
It turned out to be a totally useless day on many behalfs. I went to the Institute and tried to get various
matters of the project organised and then ended up at Yuri’s at the
Federation which also proved fruitless. I am making little headway.
There was the surprising disappointment when I finally telephoned Yuri
Mikhailechenko, who is the operative in St. Petersburg for Baltic Australia.
He informed me that it was impossible to use another trucking company.
I had been on Viktoria’s back to find suitable people, yesterday and today.
He said that if I use another company, I had to put deposit of AUD$9,000
with another company because they did not wish to risk losing their
particular containers. Therefore, effectively, they have me over a barrel. I
pay their price or I pay 9000 dollars. Had I used a contemporary container
company in Moscow, it would have
cost me US$300 and now I must use
them, which will cost US$900 per
truck, per container. As Vicca said, they have you round their little finger,
which I presume is translatable into Russian, otherwise she wouldn’t have
given it to me in her awkward, stilted English. Vicca, excuse me for saying
so, if ever you come to read this document.
I must fax tomorrow to both Paul Rautzau and Rosemary in Australia,
to implore them to send money as soon as possible to avoid not having
proper payment for transport for the truck. The fax reads:
’It seems I cannot use local
transport company to move
artwork in containers from St. Petersburg to Moscow. This would
cost US$500 but deposit is required on containers if local company
transport goods. Deposit is $9,000 Australian dollars! So I must pay
US$1,800 to Baltic Shipping Co. As I have little funds here, I can give
them only US$900 in Moscow and US$900 or equivalent in Australian
dollars in Melbourne. This must be transferred from Westpac account
a.s.a.p. Confirmation of receipt of this must arrive by 12.00 midday
Moscow time on Monday, 11th October from Opal Maritime. Otherwise
I am in deep shit with the cargo, that is if a truck is not immediately
on hand to pick-up. Hopefully cargo will be delayed at sea.
Baltic Shipping Co./Opal Maritime in Melbourne are in Clarendon
Street, South Melbourne. The person to speak to is Paul Rautzau. He
is a good man and will help as much as possible. I hope if money cannot be released by deadline that he
will honour the undertaking that we will pay and give confirmation of receipt of funds before deadline.’
Graham must also return to Australia tomorrow, the 6th, which is a disappointment because I truly needed
him. It has been a good time in sharing these experiences together and I think that we have both been enriched
by a deeper understanding of each other. He is a fine person and I am honoured that he attempted to help.
Unfortunately, we have done nothing. The project has been thwarted, frustrated and difficult from the start.
Whether that is my fault or just the nature of where I am. People keep on saying:
‘Dominic, this is Russia. This is not anywhere else, this is Russia.’
That night Vicca, who actually spent some time with me today... it was not so much that I spent the day with
her, but rather I saw her in the corridor on the Tuesday and said: ‘Look, Graham’s going. We must get together.’
She seemed to linger in a strange fashion, as if she wanted to extend the time, as if she regretted in some
strange, subtle way the actions of the past. But anyhow, we decided to meet that evening and spend some time
together.
So I had picked Vicca up at Novoslovodskaya. We all went out into the night to try and celebrate. We went
to a couple of restaurants, ‘Margarita’s’, another restaurant behind Tverskay, and they were all closed. We

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
Today I was speaking to Sasha Petlura the performance artist...We were discussing the revolution and we were
trying to work out: was it the fourth revolution, the third revolution, or was it the fifth revolution?
Moscow is an alternative parallel universe.
A bad day. I feel absolutely drained by this whole process, the insurmountable walls that have been put in my
way, the difficulties that have been thrust upon me by the intransigence of these people. I had not been prepared
for this, but in a sense I did not realise that there would be a situation as totally unredeemable as this.
then went down to the Hotel Moscow and that
was closed. Everything was closed. We realised
that we while were on the road after a revolution;
restaurants are going to be closed. Upon that, we
just went home, all to our separate little abodes.
The following day was spent sending the ritual
faxes to Australia and then seeing that Graham
departed to Amsterdam safely. I saw him through
the confusing circuit of the Metro, until Teatronnola
Metro where I took my leave. I gave him a parting
letter to give to a friend, Amanda and a couple of
telephone numbers. I also asked him to contact
Mickey Doleman in the next couple of weeks, to see
if he can do something about of sponsorship to get
the works back to Australia without having to pay an
arm and a leg.
We need to pin down the exact day for the Great
Hall Exhibition of the painting Millennium. I need
also an exact address of the exhibition rooms for
storage for the items, and require one room of an
outside area for storage of the large boxes. All have
to be executed immediately. The boxes will arrive
between the 10th and the 12th of next week, so the
deadline is slowly creeping up. I also require letters
of confirmation from Yuri and his people.
It has now been ascertained that I am to connect
with Vicca and have a meeting with a Professor
Orloff in the Lenin Hills, at the Central Bureau of
the Humanities (a department of the University up
there), where we’re to discuss the possibilities of the
exhibition. It seems that there are problems looming
with the prospective Great Hall opposite the Kremlin
in Marx Prospekt.
So all this is done on Wednesday the 6th.
A bad day. I feel absolutely drained by this whole
process, the insurmountable walls that have been
put in my way, the difficulties that have been thrust
upon me by the intransigence of these people. I
had not been prepared for this, but in a sense I did
not realise that there would be a situation as totally
unredeemable as this.
Wednesday, 6th October, 1993,
Moscow, Russia
Moscow is an alternative parallel universe.
Slowly, bit by bit, I become accustomed to the dirt
and the dust. In becoming accustomed to the dirt
and the dust it becomes a part of me. It becomes
my zero. Thus what was once new and electric, I
become blind to. As with suffering, with difference,
or anything painful, we anethesize ourselves to this
suffering.
Luda describes this city as a ghetto where people
are trapped within it, behind a veneer of civilisation
only centimetres away from the primeval instinct
of survival. A dog eat dog imperative. We need
cultural diversity and difference. We must explore
this, but not at the expense of separation and a lack
of commonality. This commonality must not be at
the expense of cultural diversity. How can we have
one without having the other? A can has hundreds
of worms breeding, but in order to release the

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
The dates are continuing to be postponed and yesterday I realised that there had been another postponement,
from the 15th of this month through to the 30th October. I am frightened that we are not to have any possibility
of showing Millennium.
Something is running amok and peculiar in this situation.
It is only in hindsight, when the pattern has revealed itself,
that I realise what has gone on. Orloff does not want me to
have this exhibition in the Great Hall.
To think that all this money, all this time has been spent, in order to end up with nothing. I send
this vast exhibition across the world, only to discover that there is no venue for it.
worms, one must open the can. If something festers,
opening is only a symptom of a disease which has
remained unseen but festering. We must reopen a
wound to allow the pus to be released although the
opening of the wound has not created the pus. The
democratisation of Russia is a release of the troubles
from the past, but to blame the wounds on the
democratisation is like blaming the pus on the knife.
Russia now is like Chicago in the Twenties, where
gang law ruled, the Belzioskas are operated by a
small group of Mafia-styled impresarios.
Dominic reads from the notes he made about
philosophy:
’Look at the essence, the consciousness, and relate
it to your fears. We are always hurt and being hurt.
We construct walls around ourselves to offset, to defend
ourselves from such pain and the result of that is that we
become more and more alienated, more upset, fearful and
this springboards us into feeling a greater need to avoid this
hurt. The action and instruments with which we seek to offset
this pain actually create further pain. Now ask yourself:
what is it that is this pain and hurt? What is it that is hurt?
When you are hurt ..... (tape breaks and begins again) ....
been contradicted.
If we never possess an image of ourselves then we can
avoid the greater suffering. We may be assaulted, we may
be violated, but like mercury that has been hammered, we
can come together again. When there is no occupation
we focus on ourselves as being important and gracious, as
being the central hub of all mankind, then we can go on
and operate properly.
Today I was speaking to Sasha Petlura the
performance artist in his communal artist space
on the Petrovsky Boulevard today, and he rolling
backwards and forwards in his wheelchair like a
conceptual furniture piece in that enormous art
studio head quarters. We were discussing the
revolution and we were trying to work out: was it
the fourth revolution, the third revolution, or was it
the fifth revolution?
Thursday, 7th October, 1993,
Moscow, Russia
Rendezvous early in the morning with Vicca
at Akultune which is a branch of Moscow State
University situated in the Lenin Hills, where
we went straight to the meeting with Professor
Alexander Orloff. His surname means ‘eagle’ in
Russian. He has white hair, is slightly stooped in his
mid-fifties, and wears a pale grey blue trench coat.
Professor Orloff has a powerful disposition, and
strong gait. He is the person that is organising the
exhibition of books in the Great Hall.
The University here is a sovereign base. As
Vicca and I walk along large promenades the one
redeeming quality, as strange as it might seem, is
that our relationship seems to have become more
human. One or two of the masks have fallen and she
seems more relaxed, and even happy in my company.
I am not really certain why.
We passed groves of orchards, almost like

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
Then we saw another unsatisfactory
hall on the second floor which might
be possible.
Through their body language and tones, although
it was apparent that, no matter what was the
case, he held the upper hand in this debate.
The place has a shabbiness which is remarkable,
but we may snatch some measure of measly
success from total even abject failure.
countryside, although all the buildings have a
parched, even decayed appearance. She is looking
beautiful as ever, and has a faux Hermes scarf
draped over her leather coat in such a way that
it covers one of her shoulders, while her pale
lipstick is almost transparent on her. She can look
effervescently beautiful one day and on the next
it is as if she has lost it, although those times are
quite, quite rare. We all have the moments when we
blossom and moments when we wilt.
Something is running amok and peculiar in this
situation. It is only in hindsight, when the pattern
has revealed itself, that I realise what has gone on.
Orloff does not want me to have this exhibition
in the Great Hall. It becomes more and more
apparent. He wants me to look at other premises. It
seems that both Nikolai and George are incapable
of actually finding a new space or securing the
Great Hall for me. The dates are continuing to be
postponed and yesterday I realised that there had
been another postponement, from the 15th of this
month through to the 30th October, I am frightened
that we are not to have any possibility of showing
Millennium.
This is due to what has happened with the
events that have overtaken us, but also to do with
what Orloff intends to do. Orloff is the curator
of the previous exhibition. It is just a small book
exhibition which is to be housed in the glass cases,
but it seems to me as if he somehow does not wish
to have Millennium on at all. He is aware that the
Rector or Dean of the University wishes to put
Millennium on a week after, perhaps ten days after,
his show. The Rector has said: ‘Look, don’t worry,
we want this exhibition with Dominic. The other
exhibition will bring in more people and the book
show is insignificant.’
Now, we, (Nikolai, George and I) feel that Orloff
does not wish this to be the case. He wishes his
exhibition to go on for a long time and he does not
wish mine to invade his space. It seems that that is
how he sees it.
I feel absolutely exhausted by the proceedings.

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
To think that all this money, all this time has been
spent, in order to end up with nothing. I send this
vast exhibition across the world, only to discover
that there is no venue for it. Orloff has spoken to
the authorities, we believe, and said: ‘Look, this
man cannot show these pictures in this hall, the hall
is far too beautiful, it is far too incumbent and the
scaffolding may damage the floor. It will destroy the
building... I believe the reason is, rather, an excuse,
that my exhibition will destroy the Great Hall.
Perhaps I am projecting on him things that are not
actually true…
Suffice to say that Vicca and I saw a hall with
him today in the Lenin Hills which we found
pathetic. Orloff is pushing me in a way which I found
compromising. He
was saying: ‘Come
on, come on, we
must compromise.
We must do our
best to try and make
things work.’
It is not that I
dislike the man. I do
not dislike the man
at all. But I am aware
that his attempts
to thwart me are
‘Our fucking
President’ as he
referred to him.
There is no love
lost there.
attempts that are not only motivated by his concern
only for the Great Hall in the Institute.
After rendezvousing back at the Institute, a
meeting was held between George, Nikolai and
Orloff. I was present although Vicca was not. She
was at her classes. It is obvious that this bureaucrat
Orloff possessed more power than Nikolai and
George put together. Through their body language
and tones, although it was apparent that, no matter
what was the case, he held the upper hand in this
debate.
Later on, Orloff, with some decency emerging
from him, deigns to show Vicca and I a couple of
halls in the Institute for Journalism, which was
two hundred, or a hundred meters further down
the road. I had explained to Orloff that, had I been
granted the hall in the Lenin Hills and if I had I
would never have brought this project to Russia. So,
the body language was very unfortunate to say the
very least. George showed me a hall in the building
in the Journalist building. Then we saw another
unsatisfactory hall on the second floor which might
be possible. It is in no way as epic or magnificent as
the first one, but I feel that perhaps something may
come, Everything is still very much up in the air, but
at least I have seen the room and if the paintings
go through the back, through a window, then it is
possible that the works may be stored in such a
manner.
The building has many windows, but they can
be blackened out. If we get a carpenter to take the
wood out, we should be able to get the paintings
through the doors. And above and beyond that it
seems to me as if it is a satisfactory situation.
After Vicca had left, I returned to double-check
on entrances and areas to store certain items. It is
possible the banners could be hung out in the street
and from the vestibule of the hall one enters. The
place has a shabbiness which is remarkable, but we
may snatch some measure of measly success from
total even abject failure.
Vicca left and then I metroed home. I can’t
remember whether... I think I may have stopped in
to see... no I didn’t, I went straight home and went
to bed, had an early night.
Friday, 8th October, 1993, Moscow,
Russia
Friday began by having a meeting with Captain
Eufgenei Nesterov, the Deputy General Director
of Trans Nordic Moscow Limited which was a
joint stock company in Peroluksadovos Sadosky
6, to give him the $900 which was payment for
one of the trucks to
carry the works to
Moscow. After giving
him the money, I
had a meeting with
Nikolai Scherbakov.
I showed him the
space, a couple of
telephone calls were
made and a meeting
is set up on Monday,
one o’clock with the
Dean of the Institute
of Journalism. I hope
this goes well.
Then Rita appeared, she hung around for a
period of time with me. A couple more telephone
calls were made to Mr Mikhailechenko, then another
meeting with Nesterov, and then we went to the
Institute. Yuri was there, absolutely exhausted,
drained. He said that he had to write some formative
letter on behalf of the Federation, for President
Yeltsin, which had to be thirteen pages and he was
really pissed off because it had been lumbered upon
him, not on anybody else. All his colleagues who
could have been working were downstairs drinking
coffee and he was working his butt off. And he had
to write one for the French President Mitterand, and
one for Yeltsin that had to be done in English.
The person who was normally translating
had had a nervous breakdown the week before.
President Yeltsin had to leave for Japan very soon

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
This love of
bureaucratic
protocol is horrific,
and enticingly
despotic.
I have decided to declare the exhibition worth
over $190,000 Australian dollars. This may
remove suspicion that we are using the exhibition
as a front for drugs.
It is a true battle that is going on here: with Dominic and God
knows what—Russian bureaucracy and the Devil—a bit of both
I think—and they both are giving me my money’s worth.
I’m wracking my brains but it seems that the exhibition is so huge,
10 metres by seven metres it is nigh on impossible to find anything.
and had to take the letter with him. ‘Our fucking
President’ as he referred to him. There is no love
lost there in that relationship. As Rita said, most of
the people at the Federation sit around sleeping or
playing video games, so the bureaucracy of the place
has not changed much, that is for certain.
We left the building, went to ‘Komno’, a fast food
restaurant just opened, I think it was called, and
then went straight back to the Institute, where we
were left to look for suitable openings, suitable areas
where I could store the empty boxes. I wandered
around and found there was very little available, but
after Rita had gone it became apparent to me that
there was a series of garages behind the Institute,
in a circular square ringed parking area. These
old buildings in central Moscow form concentric
squares. Within each square are smaller buildings
with trees. Here there was an Institute for Stress
Management and next door to it were these old
garages. Perhaps the large boxes could be kept
there. I pray that it will work, I really do. I really,
really do.
Then I went home, had a brief borsch with Lydia
and then raced to Mayakovsky, my favourite Metro
station, to rendezvous with a mutual friend. The girl
was Paul Holleman’s brother’s exchange student,
Rita, who had lived with them in Cullemborg in the
Netherlands. She was a lovely little girl, with short
cropped hair, wore a long dark blue male trenchcoat,
eighteen years old and works as a translator. She had
brought her friend, Julia with her.
I spent the evening with Hamish and Luda. I sat
with the blind Nikolai and spoke with him for most
of the evening about his belief or lack of belief in
God. As Rita translated, he felt life had shaped his
way of looking at things. What I wished to say was
that the way that we look at things shapes how we
become.
They both proved to be charming people and it
was an invigorating evening. I walked them back to
the Metro and then walked home by myself.
8th October, 1993, Moscow Russia
We must learn to live alone with ourselves and
then in living with ourselves we may live with
others. But saying such things does not make the
absence of my loved ones any easier. It is a true
battle that is going on here: with Dominic and God
knows what—Russian bureaucracy and the Devil—a
bit of both I think—and they both are giving me my
money’s worth. If things work then it would be good
to remain here although it would be interesting to
see how others would react here. Paris it certainly
is not; it can be so exciting and so difficult but then
it is more the pragmatics of moving things—as
a traveller with large objects it is a different
experience. It is breakfast time and I will try and get
this diary written by lunchtime. A friend, Ian Jones,
from Police Academy 7 will be in Melbourne at the
end of this week—following week and will deliver
a letter to Michelle. It was literally a miracle the
canvases were OK. There is a blue sky in front of me

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
I do not speak of what will be to others as nothing is
certain. Even the bad may still come to fruition.
I drove with Sergei and Rita,
in his car playing AC/DC at
volume 10 on the speakers
through peak hour traffic in
the splattering mud at 90
kilometres an hour to enjoy
an evening at the Academy
of Journalists a hip club for
wayward journalists.
The proverbial shit has hit the fan—just when the containers are
due to reach the shores of St. Petersburg I find that the people who
have organised the exhibition are double booked with the venue
and another person’s exhibition must take precedence to the point of
excluding Millennium from being exhibited there at all.
out the window. A small layer of snow fills the park
outside this window. I am a week behind with my
journal and am off to buy some black Pentals.
Saturday, 9th October 1993,
Moscow, Russia
I visit Olga, with Hamish and Luda where we
travel to Sasha Petlura’s. There is a meeting at the
statue of Yuri Gargarin, the astronaut, at Leninsky
Prospekt. It is huge like a phallus. Thence we go
a market where the children bought a multiple of
hats woven which they later sweetly gave to Sergei
at Petrovsky Boulevard. Hamish also bought some
white gloves for the exhibition, which was very kind
of him. I must do something or at least attempt
something in return, but I feel so much like simply
trying to survive within this ordeal. We went to
Pizza Hut on Gorky Street, of all places.
Monday, 11th October 1993,
Moscow, Russia
Today we visited the Customs at Congress
Centre. We signed some documents relating to the
exhibition. I have decided to declare the exhibition
worth over $190,000 Australian dollars. This may
remove suspicion that we are using the exhibition
as a front for drugs. The customs here are officious
but fair. It has been valued in Australia at 190,000
dollars but really since the exhibition is generally
not for sale it is may help us. There was also a

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
Also Tuesday at 2 a.m. two hand grenades were
thrown into a guarded parking lot located at
Kolochovoskoshosse 38 West Moscow causing
extensive damage to twelve foreign made cars.
meeting with the Dean of Journalism in his office as
an attempt to find another venue. I also inspected
hall in the Institute of Journalism again and then
spent the evening at Olga’s. Met the kids, but lost
them. Family was up all night. Misha, Olga’s husband
has been wonderful and supportive on the telephone
attempting to help. I have thoughts of new possible
venues One could be Vdenkh, the exhibition centre
of Moscow, another option is to explore old circuses,
or art schools. I’m wracking my brains but it seems
that the exhibition is so huge, 10 metres by seven
metres it is nigh on impossible to find anything.
Other than these possibilities there is Maneshnaya
Ploschard. I am at my wits’ end or so it seems.
Tuesday, 12th October, 1993,
Moscow, Russia
I visited Yuri Drozdov today at the Federation. He
is sick and pale. Everyone of my supporters seems
to be falling by the wayside. Whether it is a heart
complaint or an ulcer, he looks as if he is at death’s
door. I am trying to search for a refund for my return
ticket. Yuri is retyping all essential documents to
declare the art works are non-profit. It must always
be stipulated which are the specific organisations
who have invited the exhibition and then it must be
for the specific person. Stamps must be clean and
clear. This love of bureaucratic protocol is horrific,
and enticingly despotic.
A gay salesman for Martini is in the
compartment sitting next to me. We
exchange information through my
bastardised Russian. He plays with his
pyjama cord like it is a penis.
Wednesday, 13th October, 1993,
Moscow, Russia
I drove with Sergei and Rita, in his car playing
AC/DC at volume 10 on the speakers through peak
hour traffic in the splattering mud at 90 kilometres
an hour to enjoy an evening at the Academy of
Journalists a hip club for wayward journalists. There
we met Olga, a journalist who spoke of Natalya, the
daughter of a KGB agent who was to travel around
the world not knowing his identity.
Things are not easy at the moment, to say
the very least, at least with the exhibition. The
proverbial shit has hit the fan—just when the
containers are due to reach the shores of St.
Petersburg I find that the people who have organised
the exhibition are double booked with the venue and
another person’s exhibition must take precedence
to the point of excluding Millennium from being
exhibited there at all. There even seems to be some
malicious or intentional obstruction to the project.
So I am left perhaps without a place to exhibit. It
is a case of being exceptionally strong, resilient,
patient and flexible.
I have good friends who will do their utmost to
assist with this situation. I do not speak of what will
be to others as nothing is certain. Even the bad may
still come to fruition. The historical events which
I have been witness to have been interesting but
sad. To avoid sniper fire, witness burning vehicles,

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
We then sat down to a meal of macaroni and broth
and then boiled macaroni with a hint of tomato
paste. Yes, we had enough, and this is Russia.
masses of angry people and individuals shot before
your eyes is not a good thing. In some ways it is as
if I am also involved in a battle, but in a spiritual
sense. I must be strong but there are times when I
feel it has been for nought.
I am off to St. Petersburg tonight (Thursday,
14th October) and I shall endeavour to get back by
Saturday morning. It is an eight hour train trip.
Around the sculpture of Tatlin, a constructivist
artist from the 1920s there were burning embers
from a few smouldering bonfires and people
thronging in a scurrying ant-like mass, hungry to
eat the culture of the avant garde.
Is this ART? Is this a happening? The culturehungry
art groupies were there but it seemed to
me as if it was really only a backdrop for the real
which was to occur much later in the week.
Reading from a newspaper article:
’One man was seriously wounded and at
least a dozen cars damaged in two separate
hand grenade attacks in Moscow on Wednesday
while on Tuesday afternoon a hand grenade
was tossed into the Chenaro Restaurant on
Lubyinskaya Ulitsa in south-eastern Moscow
while diners were in sight. One person was
admitted to City Hospital 68 with injuries to
his chest and stomach. Also Tuesday at 2 a.m.
two hand grenades were thrown into a guarded
parking lot located at Kolochovoskoshosse 38
West Moscow causing extensive damage to
twelve foreign made cars. The attacks were
related to extortion attempts by organized crime
groups.
As these targets St. Petersburg train
passengers, because at least five foreigners
Russian train passengers were robbed as they
slept while travelling between St. Petersburg
and Moscow, victims and police said Tuesday.
Passengers on Train No. 35, which is gaining
a reputation as a regular target of these, said
money and jewellery were removed from their
bodies as they slept early Tuesday, leading
some to suspect that a type of sleeping gas was
used. Police at Moscow’s Lenin Galansky Station
said they did not believe any type of chemical
sleep inducer had been used in the train attack.
Such rumours are common but unfounded.
But victims, none of whom awoke during the
robberies, said in interviews that they were
not convinced. “How else could somebody take
this from under my pyjamas?” asked Arturo
Montero, an American tourist, pointing to a

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
The group was called “10,000 Kisses from St. Petersburg”.
Is this ART? Is this a happening? The culturehungry
art groupies were there but it seemed to
me as if it was really only a backdrop for the real
which was to occur much later in the week.
The artists performed
before a clothesline
of hanging
wallpaper from the
sixties, were stylised
and satirised discodoll
Russian girls
striped half naked
while Lenin, the oneeyed
schizophrenic
hunchback with a
Bonapartes retreat of
medals controlled an
imaginary orchestra.

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
wallet tied to his waist, “I hadn’t been drinking,
but I felt a little drunk in the morning”.
Monterosaid he lost 500 bucks, his Nikkon,
and three lenses he valued at about $1,500.
Major Tregubov, a policeman on duty when
the reports of the thefts were taken, said did
not exactly how many people had been robbed
- especially since he’d been paid off during the
robbery.’
Thursday, 14th October, 1993, St
Petersburg 11.59 Leningradsky
Vokshal
Thursday night departure for St. Petersburg
on the night train. A gay salesman for Martini is in
the compartment
sitting next to
me. We exchange
information through
my bastardised
Russian. He plays
with his pyjama cord
like it is a penis.
Nothing further
occurs.
Rendezvous
with Larissa at St
Petersburg train
I wake up in this town
in this place and it
is as if I have been
transported in to a
holographic Kafka
nightmare. It is called
Moscow. I am
Kafka’s Toy.
station. She is a friend of Olga Mitrafanova and has
kindly consented to help me. We travel to Baltic
Australia at Mezohovay Canal to meet Vladimir Sidiroff
and then go straight to the ship Sculptor Zulkcan, a
Latvian freighter. I spend the next four hours cleaning
off the snow from the top of the containers with plastic
to stop snow falling in the interior. Thence I travel
to a friend of Larissa’s—Allah— I did an exchange
of drawings with Allah. The house was in a nouvelle
riche Housing Commission apartment, if such exists.
I returned to Moscow Saturday morning to discover
whilst travelling in the train the theft of my micro
cassette tape recorder which I have used to record the
diary. Now I must use pen and paper.
Sunday, 17th October 1993, Moscow,
Russia
I walked with Sasha through the grounds looking
for more groceries. Natasha his wife has explained
that, no, it was unnecessary as we had enough food.
We then sat down to a meal of macaroni and broth and
then boiled macaroni with a hint of tomato paste. Yes,
we had enough, and this is Russia. A humble meal.
Perhaps it was out of pride that Sasha, Lydia’s son, did
not allow me to buy anything, as he wished to be seen
as the great provider.
Tuesday, 19th October, 1993,
Moscow, Russia
It is 11 p.m., it is Fadieva Ulitsa, Dorma 5,
and I am in my small parquet bedroom with the
two patinated ceramic sculptures of Pushkin and
Tchaikovsky upon the desk looking solemnly in
their china seriousness at me. The night is thick
around me. I have just returned from a ‘very serious’
performance at Sasha Petlura’s Artists Colony off
Petrovsky Boulevard. Around the sculpture of Tatlin,
a constructivist artist from the 1920s there were
burning embers from a few smouldering bonfires
and people thronging in a scurrying ant-like mass,
hungry to eat the culture of the avant garde. There
must have been at least several hundred people.
The gallery is an old style stable on the
second floor with a patina of wallpaper scumbled
and burnished. The artists performed before a
clothesline of hanging wallpaper from the sixties,
were stylised and satirised disco-doll Russian
girls striped half naked while Lenin, the one-eyed
schizophrenic hunchback with a Bonapartes retreat
of medals controlled an imaginary orchestra. The
crowd was crushing and nearly toppled Luda, Olga
and Hamish who had come with me. Is this ART? Is
this a happening?
I find myself
waiting in halls,
along corridors,
waiting for people
I do not know,
requesting their
support.
The culture-hungry
art groupies were
there but it seemed
to me as if it
was really only a
backdrop for the
real which was to
occur much later in
the week. The group
was called “10,000
Kisses from St.
Petersburg”.
It was good to forget the day and all its
frustrations. That morning I had a meeting with
Louise O’Keefe from the Australian Embassy. I
wear badge No. 7. She speaks of the contradictions
between Russia and Australia. How here my
exhibition of for that matter any event can only be
organised a week before the actual event, and yet
in our country it is inconceivable that we would
even consider an event unless it has been staged, or
rather organised, twelve months in advance. There
must be compromise or at least understanding
that we cannot organise our project only one week
prior. It will take four months for the containers to
arrive in this country we now estimate since their
departure.
At a restaurant called ‘Alladii’ in Ulitsa Gertsenba
where the proprietors sell pancakes or blinns I am
eating a bollochka and drinking thick black coffee.

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
Hamish spoke to me yesterday about how I must try and stop being so
focussed about the Millennium project. Hold on to it and yet let it go.
Ritum came to assist but had to leave; then Rita;
then Sergei; then Pasha, the Stalinist artist, who
was one of the few who stayed on. Vasya and his
friends also came and went.
I must surrender to a situation in
which I am powerless to control
forces, and yet possess the
knowledge that the forces of nature
will undo the small dyke one has
built. I can only pray now for a
miracle it seems!
The bun is in my hand and this woman takes my
plate away while the bun is poised in the air. Well ...
the plate is empty is it not?
Wednesday, 20th October, 1993,
Moscow, Russia
I wake up in this town in this place and it is as
if I have been transported in to a holographic Kafka
nightmare. It is called Moscow. I am Kafka’s Toy, as
in the painting I did. Every which way I go it seems
as if it is the wrong way. I am being impaled by the
bureaucrat’s pen. The barrier of language makes
everything like a fax of a fax of a fax. It is as if I am
swimming without goggles underwater and trying to
see the surroundings with clarity.
A I must have a clandestine meeting down red,
faded and worn carpets with Nikolai Scherbakov
in this great Mausoleum to Stalin’s iniquity, the
Main Building of Moscow State University in the
Lenin Hills. It is on the ninth floor I am supposed
to rendezvous with Yuri Babayev, Vice Director of
the International Department, Room 912. I keep
repeating to myself it is on the ninth floor. I am
armed with multiple franked letters from multiple
important and auspicious departments. But Nikolai
cannot be found and I am left to return. He was
angry since it had turned that he had appeared but
both of us had missed each other. The poor man I
am sure he feels for my situation but rues the day
he consented to allow the exhibition to come. It has
caused him intolerable heartache as well. But he is
brave and kind and believes in the message.
I find myself waiting in halls, along corridors,
waiting for people I do not know, requesting their
support. I am wholly dependent upon their support.
It is a strange, frustrating and impotent situation
which has been created. If the exhibition hall had
been found, less chaos would have happened.
I rendezvous 11.16 a.m. with Rita at the Institute
of Electrical Research and Correlation. A man with
kind eyes receives us. His name is Alexy Pavelovitch.
He is in his middle sixties, with silver hair, a slight
stoop. He has a wry smile like he knew of whom he
is speaking of, but he cannot help with the storage of
the paintings. I am running out of time I believe.
Then we race to the Federation of Peace on Marx
Prospekt and sit on telephones there. The containers
are to arrive from St. Petersburg on the following
day and I discover that there will be no tip tray on
one of the lorries and hence the nightmare of finding
a lift to offload the cases.
I went today to buy a thermos for Lydia, my
surrogate mother, at the great department store
in the city because I had broken the old one and
she requested justly so replacement. Hundreds of
women were standing in file with one shoe of a pair,
waiting to sell them. It is often sad to see and yet
I become desensitised to other people’s pain here.
It has been difficult because of my own problems
with the exhibition trying to remember that others
are materially in worse situations than I. Even
here at Lydia’s I have been not even aware of their

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
Ritum came to assist but had to leave;
then Rita; then Sergei; then Pasha, the
Stalinist artist, who was one of the few
who stayed on. Vasya and his friends
also came and went.
Already the two opposing fibreglass wall cases have had plastic put upon them
but all I can do is pray that the moisture will not get into them.
So now I have no assistants, or translator, or venue and a painting that is holed up in St. Petersburg port. A
veritable nightmare come true. One thing is certain, that I am the first to ask myself whether I am these things.
It is important that I seek to understand whether I have been bequeathed such a situation or not.
difficulties...it has been my blind spot and selfishness, and Hamish spoke to me yesterday about how I must try
and stop being so focussed about the Millennium project. Hold on to it and yet let it go.
Time is on my heels and the clock ticking, as I am running out of further possible areas to store the
Millennium containers. Their size is proving to be a difficult operation and I now very much rue having made
them so big. Anyhow, rather than having divided the painting into six large sections it should have been more
and smaller. What is done is done and I must calculate the frustrations in relation to this error of judgement.
We go to Lihov Perehulok, near Hamish and Luda’s house, to visit the Soviet Ministry of Documentary Filmmaking
Studios on the off chance that there may be an area to store the boxes—down corridors of faded sepia
photographs of anonymous faces sporting medals for forgotten patriotic struggles...everything has a worn pine
and formica feel in mute and sombre sap greens and tawns. The Director cannot assist us unless we store the
boxes outside for $100 per day. A very exciting alternative I find difficult to turn down.
Thursday, 21st October, 1993, Moscow, Russia
An early night was spent, as today was to be the arrival of the two containers. Upon awakening at 6 am,
Hamish met me at Fadieva Ulitsa so that we could attempt to meet the containers at the appointed hour of
8 o’clock. We got to Maneshnaya Ploschard by 7.45, but it was eight hours later that the containers were to
arrive, in typically Russian fashion. Inevitably it was a tense and difficult time. Only one container was to arrive.
The second was to arrive or rather is to arrive within the next two weeks. It seems that it is above a registered
height because the boxes emerge from the container by approximately one metre, and thus a normal truck
cannot go under span bridges with it. So there are further frustrations and delays.
It seems in these ensuing weeks that the Millennium containers will receive snow onto its roof as it travels.
Already the two opposing fibreglass wall cases have had plastic put upon them but all I can do is pray that
the moisture will not get into them. We shall see! It is the worst possible state of mind. I must surrender to a
situation in which I am powerless to control forces, and yet possess the knowledge that the forces of nature will

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
Things are very crazy. I feel like I am
in the middle of the most out of control
movie. Everything is upside down and
finally at the last moment do things begin
to rearrange themselves.
One aspect, like a shield I still retain, is the desire
to be liked. It is sad when people that you love
and are friendly with turn upon you for reasons
which are unapparent.
a certain
degree of
compromise
is required.
undo the small dyke one has built. I can only pray
now for a miracle it seems!
So Hamish and I spent the time staring into
truck stop distance—making videos; it was a fun
period. Ritum came to assist but had to leave; then
Rita; then Sergei; then Pasha, the Stalinist artist,
who was one of the few who stayed on. Vasya and
his friends also came and went.
I even met an expatriate English teacher who
was sitting on the park bench. It was he, once all
the others had left through either a lack of patience,
multiple commitments or disinterest, who helped
once the truck arrived. Yet again, a bureaucratic
song and dance just to get the gates opened.
Finally, the good natured maintenance man who
lives in the intestines of the building stumbled
out and unlocked the cast iron gates ... the classic
hunchback routine.
And then it seems the fireworks started. Rita
arrived with the customs agent, Andrei, looking like
a ski instructor without a mountain with his little
knitted ski cap with bouncing pom-pom on it. And
it was a hurried rush to off-load the cargo. We had
to immediately find suitable henchmen to assist
carry the boxes. My God, they are heavy when it is
a case of taking them up the stairs of the Institute.
Masonry workers were found and Rita gave them
5,000 roubles each. All these people started
appearing and I panicked, feeling that perhaps too
many had been chosen. Then, rather than a few
going, they all went. It was an error of judgment
on my behalf. Obviously to have sent them away
was not the thing to do... and it was embarrassing,
particularly to Rita.
Nonetheless, they managed with our assistance
to move the pieces to a small annexe adjacent to
the hall and cloakroom. But this action of mine
sending the people away must have proved a major
catalyst. Hamish accused me of exploiting people,
being mean with my money, being a slave driver,
ripping him and Luda off... it was a ferocious tirade.
It is important that I look into myself and seek to
discover whether I am any of these things.

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
Something in his eyes
betrayed a lust and
excitement which told me
that it was necessary to be
careful. But I could not get
rid of him. He followed me
down to Petlura’s enclave,
two feet behind me his
steps echoing mine. I told
him I was visiting friends,
and he stood outside in
the snow waiting for me,
swaying ever so slightly.
Hamish went on the next day to speak of the irrational nature of his outpourings. That he had indeed
reacted irrationally. He was not repentant but emphatic about my deeds. Rita was also angry and feels that she
no longer wishes to assist with the project.
So now I have no assistants, or translator, or venue and a painting that is holed up in St. Petersburg port. A
veritable nightmare come true. One thing is certain, that I am the first to ask myself whether I am these things.
It is important that I seek to understand whether I have been bequeathed such a situation or not. Whether it
really is a power which is seeking to undo the mural, or whether it is my attitude. Yes, and Hamish and Luda
went on to say that my attitude had created all of these problems with the exhibition.
In looking back it was partly my error, but not in the violent and aggressive sense which they said. One
aspect, like a shield I still retain, is the desire to be liked. It is sad when people that you love and are friendly
with turn upon you for reasons which are unapparent. Louise O’Keefe, the cultural affairs attache, said
yesterday that these people, the Russians, are incapable of making an appointment twelve months beforehand
and we cannot make an arrangement unless it is twelve months before, let alone three years. As she says,
a certain degree of compromise is required. Things are very crazy. I feel like I am in the middle of the most
out of control movie. Everything is upside down and finally at the last moment do things begin to rearrange
themselves
Friday, October 22nd, 1993, Moscow, Russia
The day has been spent recapitulating the events of yesterday at the Institute, moving plastic and then after
heated discussions with Hamish and Luda, took them to the railway station at Leninsky Voksel for the train
to St. Petersburg which departed with Olga Rita’s mother at 11.55. I gave them a poster to give to Larissa in
thanks for what she had done for me in St. Petersburg. Olga was in fine mettle and Misha her husband and I
shared those green acid house tokens metro tickets and rode the metro home. We had sporadic conversation
between people who know not each other’s language. He is a very kind man...some gentle but kind sadness
emerges, even exudes from him.

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
Nikolai had been a Ministry official in the Ministry of Finance before he began
his mission and foray into the altruistic world of capitalism and high finance.
As we walked I ask him about the political and social changes which
have occurred in this country and personally whether he likes them.
Nikolai has a ruddy
complexion, pince-nez, a
deer stalker cap.
The profiteers may only
be ten percent, but it must
be remembered that ten
percent when it has its back
to the wall is a vicious and
ferocious thing.
Saturday, 23rd October 1993, Moscow, Russia
Telephone call from Michelle. Her birthday is on Monday. I went to GUM and the buying of consumer
articles. I heard that Graham lost all of his possessions through theft from his house in Melbourne whilst he was
away but was insured, thank God.

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
there are people in this country who are
prepared to punish those who have implemented
and are profiting by the New Russia.
I meet Yefgeni Khodosch, the manager of two
Ukrainian groups, a mixture of European and
Persian musical folklore, Turkish ethnic instruments
and American rhythm and blues.
Sunday, 24th October, 1993,
Moscow, Russia
It is a Sunday and the first actual day of snow.
I awaken to great flurries of snow that seem like
pieces of fluff which are caught in a slipstream or
are held motionless in the sky. For brief moments
there is no gravity and then at last there is the snow
falling.
Ian Jones the camera man from Police Academy
7 in Moscow telephoned and cancelled our
appointment. I was to take him with his crutches
and swollen calf muscles to Petlura’s but I think
that without a translator and with an incapacitated
leg and a chosen laziness, his prefernce is to stay at
home.
Instead I meandered there myself. On the way
I was waylaid at the ‘Petrovsky Café’ by a very
drunken man who soon introduced himself as
Vladimir, He is a stranger who upon hearing my
inability to articulate his Russian mother tongue and
in the pursuit of the holy dollar attempted to speak
French. For one who was a self-proclaimed Arabic
journalist, I found his skill at languages particularly
lacking. Maybe he was lying. It was difficult to know.
I attempted to leave his company in the most
polite and dignified manner possible. Something in
his eyes betrayed a lust and excitement which told
me that it was necessary to be careful. But I could
not get rid of him. He followed me down to Petlura’s
enclave, two feet behind me his steps echoing mine.
I told him I was visiting friends, and he stood outside
in the snow waiting for me, swaying ever so slightly.
Before I knew it, he had found his way into the
house-commune. People were not particularly fazed
by his presence.
Finally, much to my relief, he grew bored and,
looking somewhat forlorn and disappointed left us
and traipsed off into the night.
One of the women in the artist house-commune
there was wearing a large black and white badge
which said in English:
‘GO HOME AND MAKE A
MILLION’.
I meet Yefgeni Khodosch, the manager of two
Ukrainian groups, a mixture of European and
Persian musical folklore, Turkish ethnic instruments
and American rhythm and blues. In the late 80s
Tovarishch was a genuine supergroup, but under
appreciated in Russia. Its break-up launched New
Stage, which incorporates groups led by former
Tovarishch members. The brightest of them are
Kazma Kazma and Eliza. Kazma Kazma (which
is the place in one of Kurt Vonnegut’s novels where
the world is to end) is a group of 17-19 year old
classical musicians who play fourteenth to sixteenth
century Renaissance melodies to the bassoon, flute,
French harp, trumpet and electric guitar. According
to Yeugenei, it specialises in music from the times
when a plague was ravaging Europe.

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
So it was a case of sitting in the basement of the
annexe listening to these beautiful melodies and
then walking back that evening to my home. I also
assisted in erecting a performance art with a group
of Berliners—Johannes and Lindy, an American
expatriate who has discovered that, although she
dislikes Berlin, now it is about the only place where
she can make money.
Monday, 25th October, 1993,
Moscow, Russia
Monday was a day of sending faxes to Michelle,
it being her birthday, and viewing the garage of
Nikolai Nickolavich
for storage of cases.
It initially proved
to be much smaller
than I had expected
and, although
it may be still a
possibility to store
the art cases there
they will certainly
prove awkward to
manoeuvre and
impossible to handle.
As I am departing the
cafe, Igor issues me
with a conciliatory
glance and a brief
word of warning:
‘Watch out. That
woman is married!’
Time is running out and although it may be a last
recourse it is not one which I shall use gladly. This
time it is not a lack of financial criteria—it is simply
the practicality of the situation.
I am walking back from the garage with
the financial advisor and vice president of the
restaurant, Nikolai Ivanovich and his silent and
dwarfish assistant. Nikolai has a ruddy complexion,
pince-nez, a deer stalker cap. As we walked I ask
him about the political and social changes which
have occurred in this country and personally
whether he likes them. His reply is that he does
not like instability, but rather stability, and that
there are people in this country who are prepared
to punish those who have implemented and are
profiting by the New Russia. The profiteers may only
be ten percent, but it must be remembered that ten
percent when it has its back to the wall is a vicious
and ferocious thing.
Nikolai had been a Ministry official in the
Ministry of Finance before he began his mission and
foray into the altruistic world of capitalism and high
finance. Although he has a snakish quality which
makes it difficult to trust him, I warmed to him. He
spoke English very well.
Tuesday, 26th October, 1993,
Moscow, Russia
I have an appointment with Rita at the Institute
of African and Asian Studies where we settle
financial differences awkwardly. She is adamant and
inflexible about my errors of judgment or at her
perceptions. How judgmental those who seek justice
are.
I then went to Sasha Petlura’s to inspect possible
interiors for storage of the cases. Here I was
befriended by a man in a felt beret called Igor, who
spoke in a soft-spoken Ruski vernacular. I like him
although there was something a little ingratiating
about his behaviour. Was it my projections or the
difficulties of
communication?
We then travel to
the to ‘Petrovsky
Café’ with its carved
pine peasant twirls
upon the girders,
where I buy him a
beer and make the
acquaintance, in
the cafe of a women
called Natasha. With
high cheekbones she
is plain, but warm and with her friend Alexandra,
escort me on a promenade along the Arhbat, which
is the central touristy mall in the old city.
My Russian is poor and monosyllabic while
their English is non-existent. Alexandra has been
separated from her husband for two days it seems.
There is some exchange between us but I am aware
of the nature of such liaisons. Nonetheless, it is
an adventure walking with two people, friends yet
strangers in a strange alien city, with the snow, and
the people whom they stumble upon. They seem
to be poor students. Sasha (Alexandra ) is studying
to be an agronaut, and Natasha is doing a financial
course as an economist. In Russia an economist is
the word for what we refer to as an accountant.
Here it seems the grander the title, the more
ordinary its equivalent.
As I am departing the cafe, Igor issues me with
a conciliatory glance and a brief word of warning:
‘Watch out. That woman is married!’ The thought
had not entered my head. Alexandra and I follow the
Metro home from Smolenskaya and then part at our
respective stops.

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
I am caught in a furrow of endless bureaucracy and
I have brought two containers, each forty feet long
and eight tons, full of artworks. The artworks are
stuck, collecting sun in a port 8,000 kilometres north.
It is possible that I am without a venue. I cannot find
a proper place to house the works.
Wednesday, 27th October 1993,
Moscow, Russia
Every which way I face there is inevitably
someone there who wishes to exploit me
financially.
It is indeed a very strange feeling—almost as if
one is shipwrecked or marooned and that only
through the profoundest patience and stillness will
the situation clear of its own accord and a way
appear, just as a path only appears in the jungle
after taking stock of oneself.
I am subjected to continual frustrations at the
Institute. Under these circumstances I feel so
powerless while I seem to be able to be able to do
nothing. It is often a case of waiting for people, and
then nothing comes of it in any case. Then it is a
case of learning to forget about the day’s activities.
It is indeed a difficult time; in which I must learn
not to panic; not to surrender my volition and yet
place the brakes on stepping forward. I cannot go
backwards either. I am marooned here in a country
which is at once alien and difficult.
I am caught in a furrow of endless bureaucracy
and I have brought two containers, each forty feet
long and eight tons, full of artworks. The artworks
are stuck, collecting sun in a port 8,000 kilometres
north. It is possible that I am without a venue. I
cannot find a proper place to house the works.
Every which way I face there is inevitably someone
there who wishes to exploit me financially. The
prospect of having to remain here for an extra four
months means that I will have less money and that
the money utilised cannot be adequately used—that
it will have to be extended or at least drawn out
accordingly. It is indeed a very strange feeling—
almost as if one is shipwrecked or marooned and
that only through the profoundest patience and
stillness will the situation clear of its own accord
and a way appear, just as a path only appears in the
jungle after taking stock of oneself.
Today I had a meeting with Pasha at the Lenin
Museum. The opening of his artworks at the Lenin
Museum will be the following day.
I made some attempts to telephone the
Prorector who is Dean of the University but to no
avail. I then met with Natasha and Alexandra at
Petrovsky Boulevard for an hour and then spend
some time with Johannes at Petlura’s compound.
It is the last evening of Sasha Petlura’s art festival
and there is a very wry brass band. Lenin, the

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
dwarf who dresses like the founder of Communism and wears a string of medals on his grimey vest gets up
and orchestrates. It is only then that the audience warms to the band’s works. All the musicians are in their
sixties. One of them pretends or looks like he is reading a book and the other, the drummer, has his back to the
audience. Afterwards Sasha Petlura does a performance.
With its exhaust pipes simulating cannon fire an old 1947 Riley automobile drives around the compound
carrying Sasha and his retinue of actors in circles around a bonfire. Fireworks are released. It is a cross between
a children’s pantomime, a Christian Nativity, an art happening and a very empty actors’ event. The sculptured
Tower of Taitlin which has now been contoured with an Irish linen and these firecrackers were unleashed. A
flaming cross burned and they waved at the audience. Sasha looked like a cross between the free form jazz
musician Sun Ra and a wiseman who is visiting the infant Christ at the Nativity, while another of them looked
like a comic strip character with fake furred ears and a Playboy bunny’s bottom, all in mock coffee cream and
brown. Then it was all over. I wondered why or what it is that draws people. There is magic in this.
Thursday, 28th October, 1993, Moscow Russia
Meeting with Yuri at Federation Mira. There is the happy opening of Pavel Tyrshkin’s exhibition at Lenin
Museum. Here I met the German artist Ferdinand Nantes, whose exhibition was to coincide with Pasha’s. He
is a man in his late seventies, with a limp, a gammy leg and an entertaining theory about the structure of the
universe where the solar system mirrors macrocosmically the microcosm of the atomic nuclei revolving around
atoms.
There were about seven people at the opening. It was a quiet affair. No drinks. Afterwards we wandered
through a maze of checquerboard aisles and labyrinthan tunnels in the Lenin Museum to sit and have a few
brief vodkas with a secretary and Ferdinand. There were three elderly and slightly alcoholic bureaucrats who,
through the pervasiveness of body language were commandeering the conversation. One of whom turned out to
be an art critic whose name escapes me. He looked like a Trotskyite Fox, with his uneven and somewhat sparse

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
beard and trench coat. The other man reminded me
of an alcoholic version of an Australian friend, as if
he had gone down the wrong road after a lifetime of
abuse. He was gentle, smelt a little of mustard and
had hair which hadn’t been washed. He also had
that possum look as if he had just been awoken. The
other gentleman, by far the general in the operation,
turned out to be a famous Russian artist. What was
strange was I never caught his name. Everyone kept
referring to him as such, genuflecting as if he was
the Pope incarnate.
We all went to his atelier or studio which
overlooked the Kremlin, in the magic of a white
night of Moscow. It was situated high above in the
penthouse of a twelfth floor publishing house of art
criticism. Apparently the art journal was no longer
what it used to be.
At the top floor the windows of the famous artist
were formed at double angles which allowed the
light to penetrate in at different levels. There were
ruched curtains and grey, dilapidated and peeling
paint. Multiple
icons and gold
glint. Impressionist
paintings which
were of great rose
colours—mostly
landscapes and
interiors, no
figures—from the
area of Rostov were
hung on the walls
and stacked neatly in
corners. They were
He has the Harley
Davidson leathers and
denim colours with H.D.
inscribed on the back,
but no motorcycle—a
horseman without a
horse, a kind of Don
Quixote of the Russian
music world.
very beautiful. The famous artist was not a thinker
but a visualist. His sensibility was very touching. The
whole ambience of this studio was out of a fairy tale.
I felt privileged to be there, to experience the art
and the environment.
Many vodkas later, the famous artist was soon
embracing and kissing me platonically, as if I was
his long lost brother…endlessly and it proved
embarrassing. A long evening. The conversation in
Russian was difficult for me to follow and so, like
a child, I would drift off and instead observe this
beautiful and enticing environment. What I would
like to do is use it as a possible location to do an
interview about the current state of the situation
with Millennium. But as such it will have to wait a
while before I do so.
The works of this man really did have a special
life force. Strange that upon viewing him I felt that
he was quasi self-important. Perhaps that comes
with the territory, although he remarked, pointing to
me, that talent does not necessarily bring financial
return. We all parted, and because he was so
inebriated when it came to giving me his address he
had to telephone his wife to get the current one. He
has his work in forty museums in Russia including
the Tretyakov and was shown in Carnegie Hall,
with fifty American, and fifty Russians during the
Brezhnev era.
Friday, 29th October, 1993, Moscow
Russia
It is another day of inordinate frustrations. I
ended up feeling like a clone of a Kafka novel, sitting
in these drab 60s-ish vestibules of the Federation
of Peace building with the parquet floor, the dim
florescent tubes of light flickering like a strobe
in a night club dedicated to Kafka, the babushka
(grandmother) looking suspiciously like I should be
elsewhere. Marina, Yuri’s colleague who is to assist
me, and has in her own way done so, has in this
instance left for the afternoon, saying she would be
gone for five minutes. She was gone for three hours.
So I sit. Two women opposite me are whispering
and giggling and
then whispering and
All the members
of the Millennium
exhibition have
betrayed me or
run out of time or
run out of faith in
me...
giggling again.
The evening I
rendezvous with
Vadim, a would-be
music producer. I
had met him briefly
at ‘Petrovsky Café’.
He has the Harley
Davidson leathers
and denim colours
with H.D. inscribed
on the back, but no motorcycle—a horseman
without a horse, a kind of Don Quixote of the
Russian music world. We meet at ‘Petrovsky Café’
and Metro from Pushkin Square to Sokol and go to
the club ‘Sexton F.O.Z.D.’ with his band of itinerant
musicians. They are called The Shakin’ Crocodiles.
All of the band members look as if they have never
done a days work in their lives. They proceed to get
very drunk behind the chicken wire grill which has
been erected to prevent the audience from throwing
bottles of beer at the musicians and hurting them,
a la Blues Brothers and then play some very good
music nonetheless. Of course the spit went straight
through.
Not an eclectic rockabilly as Vadim declares,
but something a bit more aerated. The song LSD
High quite touches me! Of course there are the
usual emigre groupies who proceed to make fools of
themselves in ways they would never do otherwise.
If they were not drunk. Their antics are really
juvenile, while counterculture groovers in Melbourne
would simply look cool, reserved, dignified, jaded
and in black, some of these get very silly and very
drunk. I end up returning home with Alec, the lead

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
At one point it seems to me that his advances are becoming tantamount to extreme sexual harassment. At this
point I intervene, but it seems unnecessary.
My novelty factor wears off in about five and
a half minutes.
The check-out chicks in drab linen smocks but bright lipstick like kewpie dolls with peroxide straw hair are
irritated but their vanity seduced as Vallerie undoes the bottle at the same time as he undoes their coats.
He is too drunk to follow me and I quickly escape to make my way home to Fadieva
Street.
guitarist on the Metro, who was dissatisfied with
the evening’s work, but we talk of other things—
the Centre of the Cyclone, a book by John C Lily
exploring consciousness.
Saturday, 30th October, 1993,
Moscow, Russia
Winter has arrived and with it a sense of acute
aloneness. All the members of the Millennium
exhibition have betrayed me or run out of time or

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
The bureaucracy in this place is unbelievable. I wish to scream.
There are no colours in the large paints. You cannot
buy wire. If you want a Snickers bar or a bottle of
vodka, that is another story.
run out of faith in me. Graham was good to the end,
but I am still puzzled by the way Luda and Hamish
seemingly turned upon me. And so now it is a case
of dealing with the double aloneness of this country.
In a sense I like it. I enjoy the difficulties. That is
my nature, but only when they allow the project to
unfold. If an obstruction exists for a while, it is a
good thing for development.
The snow seems like drifts of cocaine, pushed
into neat and discreet piles: except nobody is
stoned. And yet in being here it really is like a great
shadow, a shadow of sadness and suffering which
lingers over this country. The shadow of its past, of
Communism, brutality, inhumanity and sadness. This
shadow infiltrates the human soul.
So this day, a Saturday, I must try and buy an
‘aflokran’, which is Russian for a motor winch.
Lydia’s directions are correct but I inevitably loose
myself. After what seems an hour of walking down
this long street looking for a point where it turns
into a three pronged intersection, I give up and ask
directions. The man has vodka on his breath and of
course is insistent upon helping. And so together,
for what seems like a lifetime, we spend the time
walking in search of the winch, detouring down
roads I have never seen and will never ever see
again.
Everything has this white cocaine chill, when
finally by total accident and fluke we come upon a
hardware store in what seems to me the middle of
nowhere. Yet, believe it or not, and I was suddenly
believing it, there is a winch available. It costs $9.50.
I buy one and return the day after next to obtain a
second one. Vallerie, as his name turns out to be,
has no job, is brazen and a good raconteur though
he speaks only a smattering of French and English.
He celebrates our discovery by buying four bottles of
vodka which are consumed in a waylaid cafeteria.
The cafeteria on Cosmonaut Boulevard is painted
sap green and is empty of any visible patrons. The
women say that they are closing but Vallerie waves
his hands like a drunken orchestral conductor
to remonstrate his insistence. I am the stupid
foreigner—no language to communicate with. My
novelty factor wears off in about five and a half
minutes. The check-out chicks in drab linen smocks
but bright lipstick like kewpie dolls with peroxide
straw hair are irritated but their vanity seduced as
Vallerie undoes the bottle at the same time as he
undoes their coats. Before I know it he has his arms
around one of them. They believe that we are old,
old friends.
At one point it seems to me that his advances
are becoming tantamount to extreme sexual
harassment. At this point I intervene, but it seems
unnecessary. He senses my discomfort and ugliness.
It also ends our relationship. He is too drunk to
follow me and I quickly escape to make my way
home to Fadieva Street.

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
On the return I go to see the truck which has the art works in
a container only to discover that a great gaping hole has been
gouged out of the side of the aluminium cases which store the
artworks when it was transported from St Petersburg.
Sunday, 31st October, 1993,
Moscow, Russia
It is spent at home in Fadieva Ulitsa writing this
journal and not venturing forth. Recapitulation of
the salient points of this experience. Letters written
to Michelle, and others.
It seems that the truck has hit some building in coming here.
Monday, 1st November, 1993,
Moscow, Russia
Letters have been sent as faxes from the
University and after a visit to the Federation
another visit to the shop to acquire the second
mechanical winch.
Tuesday, 2nd November, 1993,
Moscow, Russia
Such a bad and difficult and sad day.
Yet again, very little to report which was
momentous. I am still waiting on confirmation that
the exhibition may go ahead. And yet really it is as
if everything remains up in the air. We do not know.
Khovlokov and Sovbalev are the two bureaucrats
that must be seen, but it seems that while Nikolai
Sherbakov, Vice Director of African and Asian
Studies, my confidant and supporter, is away, his
off-sider George Pivovarov, must accompany me to
see this Khovlokov.
But the letters I had amassed in support of
the exhibition, one from the Charge d’Affaires, in
the Australian Embassy and the other from the
Acting Vice President of the Federation of Peace,
are missing or lost. They were kept in a drawer
at the Institute of Africa and Asian Studies. The
bureaucracy in this place is unbelievable. I wish
to scream. And then two weeks later, would you
believe, we finally find the letters. A secretary
had locked them away for safekeeping and then
forgotten them. But we cannot do anything. We
must again wait for Nikolai Scherbakov to return

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
My evening is spent catatonic and vacant. I can barely move or think...
I am convinced the works
have been destroyed.
I am distraught. It
is as if the whole
project has caved in.
because Khovlokov says for us to speak to Sovbalev, his inferior, and yet we know that Sovbalev can do nothing
so we are simply wasting our time. Catch-22. We must speak to Khovlokov yet Khovlokov refers us to his
inferior. So we wait for Nikolai.
This evening I telephone Fred, an American who is the production designer on the film, Police Academy 7,
film set which is being shot on location here in Moscow. He has a thick Brooklyn accent over the telephone.
Chiefly we exchange condolences on the difficulties of the place. Essentially such things turn into a form of

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
The truck which first took them and upon which was returned was over height with these boxes.
I burst into tears. It seems as if it has all ended. I feel strangely as if everything has
gone so wrong by coming here. So much goodwill and good intentions.
hackneyed cliché it seems to me, but nonetheless the configuration of frustrations are legitimate.
It is impossible to buy plastic paint in this town. There are no colours in the large paints. You cannot buy
wire. If you want a Snickers bar or a bottle of vodka, that is another story. As it is, I am attempting to get hold of
large, heavy duty rope for the two large cases which contain the paintings. He suggests I try the old Circus off
Svetnoi Boulevard. It is close to Sasha Petlura’s art compound.
The next day, Wednesday, I do so and by going back into the area behind the audience I meet the master
of the acrobats. His name is Vladimir. I keep on thinking of the film, Circus of Horrors, with Peter Cushing.
Vladimir has the same studied insouciance. We watch the acrobats twisting on the ropes in an oval domed
arena with woodchips scattered upon the floor. After his promise of such, I go to Alexander Petlura’s and there
I also find further thick rope.
Thursday, 4th November, 1993, Moscow Russia
Such a bad and difficult and sad day. I am emotionally exhausted and deeply upset. I return to collect the
rope from the new Circus but alas Vladimir has worked late and will not be in to work until much later. And so I
avaunt to the Federation where Marina, Yuri’s dark-haired and slightly hipster-like and blossoming assistant has
been attempting to find suitable premises for the cargo when it arrives tomorrow.
To my consternation, for I had only just spoken to Vladimir Sidiroff of Intermodal Trucking, I discover that
the truck has arrived. We are yet to devise a place to store the works. The size, at 3 meters square, precludes
most storage areas in Moscow and has been the exhausting bane of the better part of my sojourn here.
I take a very expensive taxi ride to view a crane behind the University. A kind man, Alexei Pavelovich, has
consented to let us use his crane from the Institute of Electronics and Radio Engineering. Yura shakes his
head and says that it is unlikely, but we will see. On the return I go to see the truck which has the art works in
a container only to discover that a great gaping hole has been gouged out of the side of the aluminium cases

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
I remember Alexei Pavelovich’s eyes nearly popping out when I brought out the $200.
I began like a warrior who
feels the battle is lost and yet
sets out to fight nonetheless.
His name is Viktor. And soon he is pouring a
cheap vodka into his mouth like mother’s milk.
It seems his best friend was killed in gunfire
yesterday.
which store the artworks when it was transported
from St Petersburg. It seems that the truck has hit
some building in coming here. I am beside myself. I
see Mr. Nesterov that evening. He has become one of
my supporters, a kind yet cross-eyed old sea captain.
He says he will try and help. He actually IS crosseyed.
It is not a metaphor.
I am distraught. It is as if the whole project
has caved in. I am convinced the works have been
destroyed. The truck which first took them and
upon which was returned was over height with
these boxes. Of course, they failed to tell/inform me
that the boxes had struck anything. Only a genuine
miracle can respond by returning these things to
life, I believe. My evening is spent catatonic and
vacant. I can barely move or think of anything but
this catastrophe which has happened. I burst into
tears. It seems as if it has all ended. I feel strangely
as if everything has gone so wrong by coming here.
So much goodwill and good intentions.
Friday, 5th November, 1993, Moscow,
Russia
I began like a warrior who feels the battle is
lost and yet sets out to fight nonetheless. I had no
choice but to do so. And I did. Went immediately to
Petlura’s to measure for a possible room for storage,
and then Yuri with the truck was to meet me at the
Institute. He had actually been able to manoeuvre
this great truck into a side street and there,
unbeknownst to me, he had found a crane.
At the Institute for Electronics and Radio
Engineering we spoke to the head of the
Maintenance Department for the administration, a
man called Alexei Pavelovich who negotiated a price
and for $360 I was, and am, able to store the large
cases beneath a well-sheltered carport and the other
three cases for the walls and plaques in a garage
parallel and adjacent to the Institute. It seemed
perfectly satisfactory. After inspecting all the cases,
the one which contained the two sets of plaques
for the hands had incurred damage to the case
but thankfully, although there has not been a close
inspection, no damage to the plaques.
We opened the two great cases for the paintings.
They had incurred no damage to the paintings, as far
as I can see. It seems a virtual miracle. Indeed, it is
the closest I have come to a miracle in this life. The
metal had gouged in either side of the paintings but
because there had been such spaces between each,
it seems that that is why they had been saved.
And yet the way the accident had occurred, it
need not have happened like this. An inch to the
left and it would have been irrevocably damage.
They have not been extracted from their ships, but
nonetheless I believe that they are not damaged.
Again, a miracle. And I shall indeed continue to pray
for the success of this operation. If anything has
restored my faith in this difficult enterprise, it was
this.
Seven men from the Institute waited to move
them all. I remember Alexei Pavelovich’s eyes

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
Visit to Alexei Pavelovich
to pay him the money I am
already owing.
In Yuri Drozdov’s words,
‘Obviously, the man is a
crook’.
I get him to telephone Rita
and he tells her that he has
changed his mind and that he
is asking $120 per day.
nearly popping out when I brought out the $200.
Rita’s appraisal was that he is a creep and yet he
consented to help us.
I retire to the ‘Petrovsky Café’ to eat and relax.
The café is close to Petrovsky Boulevard and near
the artists’ colony of Sasha Petlura. It has been a
difficult and yet a day of great relief. I had felt all
was lost and now it seems as if a reprieve has been
put in place for me. There I sit in the warmth of
the café reflecting on the events of the last month...
The room is filled with huddled groups of students
congregating at different tables. A cute waitress
collects empty glasses from each table, unhappily.
A man with a kind face sitting next to me starts up
a conversation. His name is Viktor. And soon he is
pouring a cheap vodka into his mouth like mother’s
milk. It seems his best friend was killed in gunfire
yesterday. He is immobile, drinking his sadness
away, seeking to escape. I like him immensely. Then
this drunken woman comes up to me whilst I am
talking to him and his friend, Dimitri. Before I know
it she has stolen my krasnaya chapka, my red hat.
It is only minutes later that we realise this. We race
off into the street, and catch her as she is squatting
having a urination in a corner between two house
facades, wearing the hat. As she sits in this alcove,
peeing, I walk in and snatch it from her head.
She looks at me with drunken startled eyes like a
naughty puppy.
Saturday, 6th November, 1993,
Moscow, Russia
Today I began doing the awning at Pasha’s
studio at Filovsky Park. All the incumbent problems
of communication begin.
By the expression in his eyes
it seems apparent that it is
not enough, although we had
agreed upon a fixed sum of
$US160.
Sunday, 7th November, 1993,
Moscow, Russia
This evening I rendezvous with Ian Jones of
Police Academy 7 and his accomplice, Angelica
Dumas, at Pushkin Square. I wait in the cold,
pacing, not knowing that I had mistaken the
hour. While I am waiting a woman in a checkered
shawl lays these flowers at the feet of the statue
of Pushkin. She stands in tearful and dedicated
awe gazing up at the statue of Pushkin: a person
to annunciate and create such emotions in perfect
strangers. Perhaps it is his birthday?
Angelica is a documentary film maker and the
daughter of two nuclear physicists. Immediately she
dispelled what little suspicion I had by her smile.
We then traipsed off to Petlura’s for an evening of

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
lasers beams being shone into the trees. We played
with this children’s organ that Sasha had brought
from the upstairs. It was a moment of joy and lighthearted
magic mixed while the others drank vodka
and consumed blinns. Someone had lit church
incense and Angelica playing her classical pianissimo
on the organ—a moment never to be repeated.
I think it was good for Ian and Angelica to see a
different facet of life especially for Ian who had been
so cloistered by his work—the Bohemian world of
contemporary Moscow. Sasha is always in the news
here as Moscows pet avant gardist.
8th and 9th November, 1993,
Moscow, Russia
Monday and Tuesday I worked on the advertising
billboard at Pasha Tyrshkin’s studio. Otherwise little
to report beyond and above that.
Wednesday, 10th November, 1993,
Moscow, Russia
Visit to Alexei Pavelovich to pay him the money
I am already owing. By the expression in his eyes it
seems apparent that it is not enough, although we
had agreed upon a fixed sum of $US160. I get him to
telephone Rita and he tells her that he has changed
his mind and that he is asking $120 per day. This is
clearly daylight robbery. In Yuri Drozdov’s words,
‘Obviously, the man
is a crook’.
But what is to be
done? The moment
the conversation
began I knew
that something
was wrong and
something was up.
He has me by the
short and curlies
precisely because all
the boxes are locked
It is decided that
someone either with
the authority of the
Federation or the
Institute of African
Studies should protest
to an authority
higher above Alexei
Pavelovich.
away in his garage and the area in the Institute of
Electrical Engineering. I am the foreigner and it is
easy to be held at ransom like this with my precious
work in his control.
The building of the Institute is out of the Cold
War, with an armed guard. Identifications cards
must be granted to all citizens those entering and
departing. Cold lemon yellow walls. Wiring of four
generations is superimposed over one another,
skirt the ceilings. Here is a languishing boredom
that pervades the atmosphere like a sick stultifying
silence. I leave disappointed, partially resigned,
angered and saddened by the usual statement of
greed. What is to be done?
Thursday, 11th November, 1993,
Moscow, Russia
Today I have an appointment with Yuri Drozdov
my wonderful friend and mentor, and Marina at the
Federation. It is decided that someone either with
the authority of the Federation or the Institute of
African Studies should protest to an authority higher
above Alexei Pavelovich. Yuri is too busy. I wait
for there hours. George Pivovarov is unavailable.
Charades with his secretary. Unmarried, a spinster in
the true sense. Lovely woman. Shy and gracious.
The evening is spent with Ian Jones at his ivory
tower at the Congress Centre where he is staying.
He was there to witness a Power of Attorney to be
sent straight to Australia. After working on the film
he and Richard, his sidekick, look a dishevelled lot.
They are glad to be out of the country, and looked
upon me as a poor forlorn thing, stranded and
marooned. ‘We hope you have proper backup and
people to be with’, they said.
Ian gave me a
container of freeze
Letter was written
and handed to
Alexei Pavelovich’s
superior and
delivered 12th
November.
dried coffee to give
to Lydia, which
she promptly
complained was
of inferior quality.
Sometimes I think
the urge to criticise
here can be seen
as a smoke screen
to camouflage their
poverty. They have
their dignity and so with charity it must be handled
with great care. Sometimes gifts can be seen not
as a gift but – ‘Agh, you have spent your money
unwisely’. They look the gift horse in the mouth
because they know the terrain better than us, but
they miss the gesture. And sometimes the gesture
is not enough. Goodbye to Ian and Richard. Both
looked fat from the kill.
Friday, 12th November, 1993,
Moscow, Russia
Letter was written and handed to Alexei
Pavelovich’s superior and delivered 12th November.

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
Victor—a sweet auburn-haired man who works in
a fabric factory, has neither girlfriend nor much
money, but an engaging smile that makes you feel
like you are on a tropical island. Don’t ask me why.
On the Metro some poor bastard is beaten up by
two drunk punks.
The man who is in his early sixties with a stubble and dishevelled suite has a great cardboard box of alcohol
which they attempt to take away from him. He survives. Once upon the platform I attempt to help him carry his
goods. Blood is streaming from his face.
Saturday, 13th November, 1993, Moscow, Russia
Meeting with Natasha Melnitcova of Intourist Hotel, a friend of Tim Burstalls friend in Australia. We went to
Pizza Hut for $32 lunch and to her church.
Sunday, 14th November, 1993, Moscow, Russia
Today I travelled to Pasha’s to work on awning.
Monday, 15th November, 1993, Moscow, Russia
I travel to Pasha’s again. There was a meeting at the Institute of Electronics. It is decided to wait until the
following week when the matter be brought before the Board of the Institute. Alexei Pavelovich maintains that
only $110 was asked for each day.
Tuesday, 16th and Wednesday, 17th November, 1993, Moscow, Russia
Strange days these ones. While I wait, working on the advertising long into the nights at Pasha’s studio,
tucked out in Housing Commission land (once one gets beyond the first ring of about eight kilometres,
everything is just huge housing estates)... so I work on the large advertising signage for the exhibition,
creating the text on large linen awnings. It requires care and attention and is difficult and slow for me as I am
not trained as a graphic designer. Nonetheless, it is a necessary constituent to the exhibition, if it is to ever
eventuate. We have a meeting around the 25th to finalise dates and hopefully, God willing, the exhibition may
occur on the 15th or 17th of December. Christmas is not such a large affair here and therefore it will not be an
interfering factor, I hope.
Today I arose awakening moderately late and travelled by Metro directly to the Institute of African Studies
in the Centre, discovering that those who were there to help us were not available. Rita, my translator, was
sick or otherwise engaged; the workmen were using the room I have to store the boxes, to build a table, so I

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
He mumbles in Russian that he has fallen over.
He is half walking, half stumbling. One side of his
face is covered in blood, like from a Hammer Horror
movie, while the other side is a smudge of soot. His
stale steaming breath reeks of vodka. I do not know
what to do or how to help him.
couldn’t work there.
So feeling useless for the morning, I grabbed a
pancake at a beriozka, the small kiosk shops which
have been built out of 20 foot containers, where
a miniature Judas hole separates the purchaser
from the seller. I stood stamping my feet in the cold
autumn air while the great human tide of Muscovites
surged around me. Here I must navigate through
them like one ant threading its way on a great ant
heap. After eating I went straight to Sasha Petlura’s.
A fire was burning in his compound. Sergei and
Sasha were building a garage for his dilapidated
Volkswagen out of even more dilapidated pieces of
wood.
I telephoned Angelica, who works as a
documentary film maker, for Yuri Nikitakov the
famous Russian film maker asking for a telephone
number for Greenpeace (telephone directories do
not exist in this country). And then went to ‘Cafe
Petrovsky’, for an hour, grabbed what would in most
circumstances be inedible food and spoke with some
friends there—Vadim—he wears Harley Davidson
leathers as usual over the leathers, yet is too poor to
afford a motorcycle and escorts as the producer his
band on the Metro. The band’s name is The Shakin’
Crocodiles.
We were joined by Andrei, ex-smack addict and
Victor—a sweet auburn-haired man who works in a
fabric factory, has neither girlfriend nor much money,
but an engaging smile that makes you feel like you
are on a tropical island. Don’t ask me why.
Then I journeyed to Pasha’s for five hours at
the studio—good to be able to do something in this
capitol city where nothing works. On the Metro
some poor bastard is beaten up by two drunk punks.
He is carrying cardboard boxes. It is difficult to
discern…then I notice it is alcohol. They see him
counting his money. One punk nudges the other.
A typical rerun. Everybody simply stands aloof
and scared including myself and lets it happen.
The populous looks the other way. It is not their
business. The man who is in his early sixties with a
stubble and dishevelled suite has a great cardboard
box of alcohol which they attempt to take away from
him. He survives. Once upon the platform I attempt
to help him carry his goods. Blood is streaming
from his face, but it seems there is not too much
damage. A bruised ego and a bloodied nose. It has all
happened so quickly.
Well, enough dreadful events. It is now the next
day and the next evening. An early morning start
to restore some sense of order to the situation
with the containers. The people we spoke to from
the Institute of Electronics seem more happy to
cooperate and help after this man had attempted to
overcharge me. I am attempting to write a speech at
the moment which I hope Yuri at the Federation will
translate into Russian. Otherwise there is not much
to conclude with.

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
Thursday, 18th November, 1993
Moscow Russia
Today I received another fax—like a huge
bouquet of designs and thoughts for a different
hemisphere.
I was talking to Sergei, a 39 year old bureaucrat
within the Association of University Postgraduates.
He had been a second secretary to the Russian
Embassy in Delhi for three years and speaks
impeccable English, which is a pleasant change.
He came up through the ranks via the Communist
Youth League—Komsomolska. Then his secretary,
Helene, sat and spoke with me. Afterwards I went
to a Blinn House near the conservatory called Alladi
which is Russian for small pancakes where a snow
draped Tchaikovsky sculture in the courtyard sits
orchestrating.
On the way there this man comes up to me in
the street. He
is half walking,
half stumbling.
One side of his
face is covered
in blood, like
from a Hammer
Horror movie,
while the other
side is a smudge
of soot. His stale
steaming breath
reeks of vodka. I
do not know what to do or how to help him.
He mumbles in Russian that he has fallen over. I
say:
‘Do you want me to take you home? Where is
your home? Agedere dorma? Dom? Where can I take
you?’
He does not and perhaps cannot answer! He
is dumbfounded, in shock, I presume. Blood is
dripping from his brow. I walk with him for five to
seven minutes. His stature is small, while he appears
crumpled like a paper bag. At first I thought he had
been assaulted. He would not come with me. He
seemed lost in his world. So I let him go. Perhaps I
should have done more... but there was nothing I
could do. There are so many incidents which occur
like this in this city, which I comes across every day.
Such a sad place it can be. And yet it can be touched
by great love. I witness moments of great tenderness
and compassion here.
I then went to Pasha’s studio where I continue
to develop the film script—and projected it on the
banner.
Friday, 19th November, 1993,
Moscow, Russia
For Lydia, the surrogate mother at Fadieva Street
bread is the staff of life. Natasha, her son’s wife
with whom she lives, threw out four crusts of bread
which had been in the bread bin for the least three
weeks. Stale but not off. Lydia, announced to the
household that this was a cardinal sin.
’As it is nourishment bread is the staff of life and
all bread must be kept for us’. ‘It was a serious sin’,
what Natasha had done, she told me.
Thursday 25th November
1993,Moscow, Russia
The next day, the day after the day before—
“tomorrow is the today you were worrying about
yesterday” —here I am—a day of mild flu, while I
slept in and there
was thankfully no
appointment with
Nikolai. It was
cancelled or rather
postponed until
Monday by virtue of
his busy schedule.
So I used the time
to convalesce beside
the hearth. There
were a few forgotten
fever dreams and
hot flushes. The building I am in is centrally heated
but the moment I step out into the street it is a
minus 12 degrees.
Lines of water from a bucket just hold their
shape frozen, and then as it decays slowly, intact
within the cold, the snow and ice create with the
dilapidated paint and the patina of age a strange
decaying experience. It is difficult to put in words.
Sometimes I feel I have experienced it before. To be
non-descriptive, one could say it contributes to the
atmosphere of dilapidation.
I ventured out in the late afternoon (which is
something I perhaps should not have done) and
walked solitarily around the Kremlin at twilight. A
few couples, men hobbling home from work, the
odd Russian youth and secretaries bundled and
cocooned in parkas, were stumbling over themselves
to get home from the cold. I walked past the tomb
of the unknown soldier with the ever burning fire,
past the obelisk to revolutionary thinkers in the
Alexanderov Gardens, and then up into Red Square,
which is really quite a strange place. I could go on
for pages about my belief that all special areas in the
world are power points—points like in Paris, Ayers

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
After my tour of Red Square I
ventured out to Pasha’s studio—it is
20 kilometres by Metro—Moscow is a
big place—
He has been very sweet, kind and has
helped immensely, sometimes too much
and I must say enough.
Here I ate some spaghetti and worked while Pasha prattled on.

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
but it was interesting seeing the great plaster casts they
used, of Soviet propaganda, with heroic, and helmeted
soldiers heaving billowing flags, beside photographic
honour boards with black and white portraits
emblazoned with medals....face after face, a blur of
heroic humanity.
Rock, Cheops—and then there is Red Square. The power here in this small square is quite tangible. Nowhere
else in Moscow has this energy. It has nothing to do with Communism or its fall. The Square existed long
before. It will exist long after Capitalism has been replaced by a new world order. The beauty of the buildings I
feel is symbiotic with the energy of the place. So rather than they be beautiful for their own sake, they partake
of the energy of this area. It is uplifting.
Vladimir Mayakovsky says: ‘The earth as we all know begins at the Kremlin. It is the central point.’
Of course people have postulated their reasons of patriotism for its power. But whatever the case, the
moment I walk past the Gardens and up beside the historical Museum, this buoyant mood arises.
After my tour of Red Square I ventured out to Pashas studio—it is 20 kilometres by Metro—Moscow is a
big place—I am now close to the close to the line of resistance where Hitler’s occupying forces were unable to
pass during the end of the Great Patriotic War as the Russians refer to the Second World War in ’43. Here I ate
some spaghetti and worked while Pasha prattled on. He has been very sweet, kind and has helped immensely,
sometimes too much and I must say enough.
Wednesday, 25th November, 1993, Moscow, Russia
I am feeling tired and a little worn these past few days. It is late and I have that ache-in-the-bones feeling
which suggests I may be coming down with flu. Tomorrow will be Thursday and it may prove to be a crucial
day. We go with Nikolai Scherbakov to finalise the dates for the exhibition. Nikolai seems convinced there will
not be any glitches, but in view of the cascade of events that have enveloped me I am inclining to be wary.
Cautious but not suspicious. This does not mean I am either pessimistic or optimistic, but I need to be flexibile.
Our destiny is the acceptance of both good and bad actions to enter our lives. Nonetheless the faith I possess in
this journey and its purpose is irreconcilable with any form of negative thoughts. It is steadfast.
There is little to report in the area of doing things—I work at Pasha’s studio till 11 o’clock each night and

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
As long as I keep my humility and sense of place all will be well. And there is
nothing better for a sense of humility, unfortunately, than the personal disasters
this journey has inflicted upon me.
We are not sure when exhibition will be but it may be within 2-3 weeks.
I cannot blame Nikolai or
George they did their best and
were victims as much as me.
Millennium is an image
not necessarily of
apocalypse but of rebirth
and as such is a potent
symbol to the Russian
people of their current
plight and future:
race about during the day with various errands. For example, today was a visit to a huge clothing department
store in search of cheap white cotton in 150 cm rolls to use as awnings for the advertisement. Of course, do you
think it was there?
This morning I rendezvoused at Belarus Station with Pasha at 11.15. I waited for him, and whilst waiting
videoed people sitting opposite me, looking listlessly with their multiple bags, brown paper bags, plastic bags—
it’s bag lady heaven... and then of course I remembered I was waiting in the wrong area. I found him and then

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
Whether the art work finds its niche as the Guernica of the last decade of
the Twentieth Century is not of my control.
We need a reliable trigger which will allow
people to be jolted. The jolt is all I can do.
I propose but I do not dictate.
we visited his old art institute. Nobody recognised
him—but it was interesting seeing the great plaster
casts they used, of Soviet propaganda, with heroic,
and helmeted soldiers heaving billowing flags, beside
photographic honour boards with black and white
portraits emblazoned with medals....face after face,
a blur of heroic humanity. And then in the cafeteria
here were fresh, gentle faces, young men with kind
eyes. The students here have a confident strut to
their walk and I wonder whether it will continue
after their school days.
2nd December, 1993, Moscow Russia
Press Release:
MILLENNIUM - THE AUDIO VISUAL TOURING
EXHIBITION
The Australian artist Dominic Ryan is to
make perhaps the largest travelling audio
visual exhibition by one person in the Southern
Hemisphere to Moscow, Russia where it is to
be exhibited opposite the Kremlin in the Great
Hall in Moscow State University. The exhibition,
which deals both in the warning of global
holocaust through war and the environment
and humanitarian ideals, is then to tour around
the world. The second venue in this tour will
be Beijing. The whole environment measures
seventy-two foot long and twenty foot high with
three fourteen foot high sculptures, two helium
neon lasers, a soundscape and twelve stainless
steel plaques in Arabic, Japanese, Russian and
English. The first mural, which was burnt in a
fire in East Melbourne in 1988, was documented
by Time Magazine. The project has taken six
years to come to fruition.
Although originally undertaken as a response
to the threat of nuclear war, the exhibition
has now taken on a more universal message
as a plea for not only peace but for sustained
ecological balance. It is not a message of doom
but speaks of hope and in its declaration of
solidarity asks us that we consider what is
happening around us. The exhibition is scheduled
to open in the Great Hall at Moscow State
University from the 12th of October for two
months.
2nd December, 1993, Moscow, Russia
I am exhausted and flu-bound at present, so
what better way of enduring Russian cold turkey flu
than with pen and paper. Enclosed is fax of media
release/that is from Australia.
We are not sure when exhibition will be but
it may be within 2-3 weeks. The way this country
seems to operate is that all chaos seemingly
metamorphoses into a crystalline order at the very
last minute. An interesting premise I look forward to
witnessing!
Millennium is an image not necessarily of
apocalypse but of rebirth and as such is a potent
symbol to the Russian people of their current plight

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
It is like the wallpaper
around me is losing
its colour. I am truly
under siege.
Suffice to say that now even the person who has brought me here is soon to resign.
Today Nikolai looked pale as he
spoke across his funny cluttered
desk and all of a sudden I
noticed all his wrinkles.
and future: not only does it speak universally but
we feel that it may act as a catalyst to individualise
its message in many ways. So it may act as much as
a reminder of the White House and of the futility
of violence as much as an indicator of planetary
ecological holocaust.
We need a reliable trigger which will allow
people to be jolted. The jolt is all I can do. What
is done after such an experience is up to the
individual. Whether the art work finds its niche as
the Guernica of the last decade of the Twentieth
Century is not of my control. How the piece will be
received here I can only speculate. It may fall upon
deaf ears and blind eyes—it may be lauded—if we
get it to exhibition, and there still remain a few
problems, it will at least be accorded the chance
of speaking. That is all I can do. I propose but I do
not dictate. Bring it for the world to see and a fine
place to do it in. As long as I keep my humility and
sense of place all will be well. And there is nothing
better for a sense of humility, unfortunately, than
the personal disasters this journey has inflicted
upon me.
Friday, 3rd December, 1993,
Moscow, Russia
So my sadness at people’s stupidity ends in a smile.
I really do feel like shit today. Not a particularly
good descriptive term but it nonetheless suits
my frame of mind down to a tee. This place has
finally got to me. The measure of difficulties has
been so that I finally feel enough is enough. I am
sick of the difficulties and the problems. I feel
stranded, and marooned in this place. Now it seems
again—such wasted time—that we have no venue.
A hemisphere away—with 6 tons and 2 containers
of artworks—we brought over Graham to assist
but had to send him back—it is threatening my
relationship now. I have waited with the thought
that the Hall would be ours, since the Rector had

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
given it the go ahead and now he is reneging on his
own word. He now believes that no major exhibition
can be shown there. If that be the case I quite agree,
but they should have had the foresight, the decency,
the goodwill and the courtesy to have informed
me before I sent the works over. Or maybe I came
prematurely. I cannot blame Nikolai or George
they did their best and were victims as much as
me. Maybe they were not aware that such a place
was the only one which was available due to the
immense height of the paintings.
All the alternative venues I can think of are
pathetic and I would never have brought the
exhibition here had I have seen them.
Today Nikolai looked pale as he spoke across
his funny cluttered
desk and all of a
sudden I noticed all
his wrinkles. He is
supposed to be my
age or at least a year
older and yet he
seemed a thousand
years old. At one
point the body
language indicated
his despair with his
hands stretched over
I feel like
something out of a
Victorian novel—
the consumptive
artist trudging
through the
streets.
his whole face yet revealing his eyes only. Some kind
of Korean delegation was next door.
I picked up my speech that Nikita had translated
at the Federation office in Prospect Mira and there
I saw Yuri Drozdov, my other supporter and friend.
He seemed strained. The shit has hit his fan and his
days are numbered at the Peace League. He feels he
is surrounded by crooks. He believes Gretchko, the
famous Russian cosmonaut who became the Director
of the Federation of Peace, is a willing or innocent
pawn to these people who surround him. Suffice to
say that now even the person who has brought me
here is soon to resign. It is like the wallpaper around
me is losing its colour. I am truly under siege.
Monday, 5th December, 1993,
Moscow, Russia
A large black pen I believe will be the order of
the day. It is a Monday evening. I have washed and
am sitting in my room at Lydia’s house with the two
statues of Pushkin and Tchaikovsky looking sternly
at one another on the desk opposite my bed. The
married couple, Sasha and Natasha so very young,
with whom I live with, and so very recently married,
are quietly bickering. It makes me smile…not in a
sadistic way, but in knowing and seeing how they
interact and how easy it is for them to desist from
their course, but of course people will never listen.
So my sadness at people’s stupidity ends in a smile.
As to my own tribulations, I continue to be
philosophical, yet my patience is not an endless
reservoir. Another day with Nikolai where
the supposed appointment with an academic
bureaucrat, Alexander Khovlokov, is postponed.
It has been postponed three times since Nikolai’s
return from Africa. And even before these
postponements it was a case of waiting for
Nikolai’s return. And on one instance we had
actually made the appointment and the letters
from Embassy officials and the Federation of Peace
were temporarily lost. A great chain reaction of
difficulties. Nikolai this morning was supposed to
telephone me and when I finally contacted him he
had already gone out.
On a lighter side, we may have a very famous
cosmonaut/astronaut, ‘Shygin’ to officiate the
opening. He participated in the Soyuz-Apollo
Mission in 1975 and is still loved by the Russians,
as he was a scientist rather than a fighter pilot
originally. I am still suffering from this flu—my
bones ache and in the cold it makes it difficult to
operate. I was annunciating the difficulties of the
exhibition to The Sydney Morning Herald’s Russian
correspondent, Robert Haupt, and his words were:
‘Welcome to Russia,
I was annunciating
the difficulties of the
exhibition to The Sydney
Morning Herald’s Russian
correspondent, Robert
Haupt, and his words
were: ‘Welcome to
Russia, Dear Dominic’.
Dear Dominic’. I
went on to say that
perhaps it ought
to be like snake
bite venom that
one is inoculated
against. What
makes it interesting
is that it is not
Nikolai’s fault. He is
actually on side and
supportive. Indeed,
he is struggling with me to get this thing exhibited
and we both must wade through it all, like through
quicksand or magma.
I must be good with the telephone and not
overuse it. I know such is my way, to talk and talk,
but the cost is impractical. I must wait till either
I sell the picture the Millennium picture when it
returns to Australia, if we sell it and then we may do
as we please (within reason!)
No adventures to report to the diary. The Metro
is gruelling—such tirades of people. A friend from
‘Petrovsky Café’ stopped on the street as I was going
to Pasha’s to do the banner, complaining of the
delirium tremens. Normally it is a filch for money
which is not genuine—one must learn to discern the
difference. This time I felt he was genuine and I gave
him a couple of dollars which is enough to buy ten
cups of cheap coffee here. The living standards of

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
Walking with
Pasha, my Stalinist
friend, so deeply
entrenched in
Communist
ideology and the
Motherland, he
patriotically tears
down democratic
election posters
from doorways
and yet castigates
against the
hooligans and
gangsters.
Pasha rather flippantly said yesterday in his pigeon English: ‘Dominic, you
are like Robinson Crusoe in Russia’—marooned. It did not sit well on me, I
can assure you.
Today there was no bread in the shops,
yesterday only black or rye bread. I am
reminded of Marie Antoinette’s remark:
‘Well, let them eat cake,’ and here it is
all they seem to do.
many people here are appalling. Absolutely. Unless I
buy food for Pasha we will eat a very sparse cabbage
soup. He has a chicken once a week. Or spaghetti
with butter. I maintain my vegetarianism with
difficulty, but nonetheless maintain it.
Tuesday, 7th December, 1993,
Moscow, Russia
I am tired, exhausted, and feeling Dickensian
while I walk in the snow flakes with flu. I stopped in
at a church off Petrovsky Ulitsa. As the incense being
rocked lazily by the priest in the brass chalices, I see
the genuflections of people to their priests, and the
kissing of the cross. Nikita, my friend, has translated
the text ‘my speech’. No visit to Pasha. I bought an
English book in a cobbled street, at the only English
bookshop in town—Zwemmers. Enough.
I hope the pen makes for better reading but
alas I fear that it will run out so very soon. I am a
better person today. My bodily ailments have all
but disappeared except for a cough. The great
feverish flashes and aching muscles have abated
and now I can fully appreciate the time. When I
am sick in a foreign country when it is snowing,
trudging the streets it makes for a forlorn tale. I
feel like something out of a Victorian novel—the
consumptive artist trudging through the streets.
Yesterday was a small adventure. I visited my
friend Ritum, a Latvian journalist who lives in
the Latvian Embassy. In the snow-draped setting,
I had to present my identification cards after
passing through checkpoints and guards in Latvian
compound. At last we came to his apartment.
His digs feel like a barricaded prison, but since
the prison is on the outside in Moscow, it is to
keep the outside out. Ritum is 29 and a political
correspondent for a Latvian news service on radio
and writes for a few journals. He wishes to compose
a piece on the exhibition so at least they will know
about it in Latvia. His room is total chaos, very
undergraduate with smelly socks and computer
paraphernalia. We were kept company with his
girlfriend, Natasha, who translated where there was
a need for it. Both were philosophy students so this
was what we discussed. A lovely evening...Ritum
will help with securing journalists for the exhibition,
I hope. I have just changed pens. The last one was
getting a little heavy on the fingers.
Today has been a comedy of errors. Going down
the escalator this morning at Mayakovskaya station
to take the Metro in to work, I espy a person in
front of me with a great mass of luggage. All of it
seems wrapped in hessian bags and attached to a
metal golf-type caddy. Just as we get to the bottom,
the bag fell and jammed at the opening. I managed
to step over it, but the rest of the people could
not. It was like a cork in a syringe and someone
was pushing down on the other end. Luckily we
managed to pull it clear, before people were hurt.
Otherwise it would hot have been a comedy of
errors but a tragedy of one. I visited the Institute

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
where I received a fax. It was like a lost ancient
text that I had to decipher because the lines were
blurred or missing words or letters. It was lovely to
get nonetheless. I visited Sasha Petlura for addresses
and then Rita and her mother for invitations to be
printed.
On the way home from the outer layer of this
vast city I bumped into this lost looking woman
from the Mali in central Africa. We both spoke
French and so I discovered she was staying with
her brother, a diplomat, at the Mali Embassy. She
hates it here she told me and found it difficult—only
spoke three words of Russian. She gave me her
telephone number and I promised to invite her to
the exhibition.
Tuesday Night, 7th December, 1993,
Moscow, Russia
One way or another exhibition will begin by the end
of December. This is what seems apparent. Perhaps
the venue will not be that good or even that it may
be better. The next
four days will bring
such matters to
light. Russia—my
God. Pasha rather
flippantly said
yesterday in his
pigeon English:
‘Dominic, you
are like Robinson
Crusoe in Russia’—
marooned. It did not
sit well on me, I can
assure you. Today, with positive alternatives available, I
can be a little more elastic.
Here in Moscow the toothpaste tastes like Juicy-
Fruit chewing gum with dots of sugar in it; the
lavatory bowls are designed so that the faeces sits
on the porcelain bowl rather than be flushed; the
stairwell as I climb the stairs resembles Berlin after
Gotterdammerung, with cracked walls, broken plaster,
during World War Two, with one bare florescent which
flashes spasmodically like a cheap disco. Here all you
can buy are sweets, Snickers Bars, Marts Bars. The
cakes are delicious and always alcohol.
Today there was no bread in the shops, yesterday
only black or rye bread. I am reminded of Marie
Antoinette’s remark: ‘Well, let them eat cake’, and here
it is all they seem to do. Prices are either incredibly
cheap or outrageously expensive. Six dollars Australian
for a packet of cornflakes. At ‘Petrovsky Café’ coffee—
it is good coffee—is six cents. Usually it may cost 18-25
cents Australian. The Metro tickets are 3 cents for
one ride and $3 for a month ticket. Yet a dinner at an
exclusive restaurant is $US300 dollars. The disparity
between rich and poor is pornographic.
Walking with Pasha, my Stalinist friend, so
deeply entrenched in Communist ideology and the
Motherland, he patriotically tears down democratic
election posters from doorways and yet castigates
against the hooligans and gangsters. Still, he has been
loyal and faithful and generous. He is also noble, so his
conservatism I overlook or at least try to understand.
Yesterday a bundle of faxes have been sent—
discussions about involving the Embassy—they
may submit
formal letter of
complaint to the
Head (Rector
of University).
Then looking in
Gorky Park for
venues. Today
my translator,
Margarita,
approached
the Museum
of Modern Art.
They received us well and it seems that if the ceiling
height is all right then we will be in business by the
beginning of January. The Tretyakov Gallery may also
take the piece. These bodies, unlike the University, are
fixed in their schedules and it seems that they would
not be bureaucratically bound either. Inefficient on a
minor level but no more or less than any other western
institution. I visited the Circus to see my friend
Vladimir the rope lender, but he was not about.
Wednesday, 8th December, Moscow,
Russia
Wednesday and I must have more discussions at
the Dom Hordorjnik, (the House of Artists). Instead
of Rita, I employed Alexandra as a translator—a
young, female, 23, who has a gap between her teeth.
She is gentle and attractive with a good manner.
Unfortunately the Tretyakov Museum is unable to
assist. The Director at the Dom Hordorjnik suggested
putting the piece in central foyer. The foyer is like a
supermarket and I feel reluctant to comply unless
there are no alternatives. I am feeling listless as I
go to Pasha’s. Little work is done. I remain rather
disgruntled at this ludicrous situation. As I wandered
through Gorky Park I see the wonderful images in this
the deserted park of old abandoned restaurants and ice
encrusted circus pavilions, which are either derelict,
burnt out or closed for the Winter. Still, the effect was
oddly serene.

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
Wednesday 8th December 1993, Moscow, Russia
A meeting was held at the Institute of Journalism with the director. After the dissatisfaction of the past few
days I simply gave up. I did not care. George Pivovarov and Ina, Nikolai’s secretary, brought me to the Dean
of the Journalist Faculty. He seemed open to the idea of exhibiting in his building but kept on adding that the
students must be allowed to continue their studies there. Such a prospect is anathema to me—meanwhile
George and Ina were making all sorts of open and rude gestures with their faces as I voiced my concerns. It
seems that we will resolve such problems elsewhere with others. The venue is far from perfect but given the
situation it is a compromise I must make. At the very least the mural—experience will do itself justice here.
That is my chief concern. That it may not draw so many people as the last venue must be accepted.
The exhibition is scheduled for 5th of January.

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
Thursday, 9th December, 1993,
Moscow, Russia
I seem to feel more stabilised, indeed totally
centred now, although on Friday it was a difficult
thing to deal with. I do not blame Nikolai. Indeed,
he is as much a victim as I in this scenario. Today is
another day and with it will bring new moments and
increased possibilities. My friend Pasha was saying
that he was astounded that I was so calm in view of
what has occurred. He said that given the situation
where he would find himself in Australia under the
same or similar circumstances, he would not know
what to do. Anyhow, who knows how we respond to
crisises until we meet them.
It seems there
are possibilities
open to explore
and by the end of
the week we will
know exactly where
the whole fiasco
stands. At the very
least there is a large
room at the side
of the Faculty for
Journalists which
is available. It is
a poor alternative compared to the gracious hall
which we lost on Friday, and it would not grant us
any major publicity or access to the public. That is
why I will only use it as a last recourse, but at least
it is there as a door stop, so to speak. Unfortunately,
in order to guarantee the success of the show the
proper venue is a significant factor. Enough said.
It continues to be a strange country to visit—
always the observer, the stranger adrift in a strange
land. The snow flurries, so soft and so pure. It is
such a beautiful spectacle when it is fresh and I
know the clichés abound, but it seems so true.
I visited the Institute of Journalism and the
House of Artists yesterday to look for further places.
While I was leaving the latter I was confronted by
three young men all trying to sell their art works—as
it so happens, copies of Salvador Dali’s pictures. We
got to talking and exchanged telephone numbers.
They seemed enthusiastic and keen to help with
Millennium. Late last night after returning from
Pasha’s, I was walking via Novoslovdskaya. These
two semi-trailers parked in this small side street.
All the lights were out. And youths hurriedly
were unloading it of its cargo—it all seemed like
a moment from post-war Berlin. Men wait at the
wheels of cars, quietly smoking their cigarettes,
nonchalantly yet solemnly. The cold air. The lateness
of the hour. Well, it is like America won the Cold
War and all around are the ruins of its wake and the
beginnings of rebuilding. The black marketeering—
it’s crazy. These shops in the street—beriozskas as
they’re called it is like in prison—there are these
little vertical Judas holes, vertical windows which
shut and from which the shop owner takes your
money as you stand in the cold.
A nice evening was spent with Pasha and his
friends Nikolai and Tatyana in his studio—in broken
English, mixed with broken Russian in the warmth.
There were the usual toasts while Pasha carried on
with his solemn political sermons which everyone
increasingly become deaf to.
Friday, 10th December, 1993,
Moscow, Russia
A brief respite, perhaps if only to allow my
handwriting to flow in all directions. So often in this
city the days are spent in an endless futility and after
assaulting a crowd of some one million commuters,
swimming it seems forever upstream, there is, at the
end of the day’s journey little to achieve. Of course
life is not always about our achievements but in
the practical sense of things it is necessary to make
certain steps to complete an undertaking. Here I
make these steps with great difficulty. My patience
is thwarted and my
resources exacted. I
can find black cloth
in the shops. I went
to the travel bureau
and extended my
flight departing this
country indefinitely.
I had dinner with
Angelica Dumas at
‘Margarita’s’. She
seemed well and
we had a lovely
evening, but at times it filled me with sadness. But
in the words of Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young: ‘If
you’re not with the one you love, love the one you’re
with.’ Angelica is a beautiful person, and it is hardly
in a sexual sense that I mean such a thing. We spoke
of past lives and her current relationship. She spoke
of an infinite regret which I could visualise as a
painting of a puppeteer being a puppet themselves.
She once possessed aspirations to being a composer
and spoke of genius as an evil, which I argued
against. If every one of us is actually the cause of our
own suffering, that especially within relationships, it
is not others but ourselves who inflict the suffering,
then how can the genius be evil. No comment from
her. We also went over a speech to refine specific
details within it.

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
‘In Russia the men lead and
the women work.’
I am not here to judge nonetheless. To awaken,
but not judge.
Saturday, 11th December, 1993,
Moscow, Russia
And yet I am accosted by the sounds of
the newly married couple squabbling in
the next door room—so young and so full
of promise—promises which have been
poisoned by economic difficulties, by broken
expectations and by greed or stupidity.
Those at the Federation speak of it that Russia
is perhaps in the same situation as Berlin/
Germany in the 30s—rampant inflation, rocketing
unemployment, poor national self-esteem, and will
Zherinovsky or Yeltsin be the next Hitler, they say.
I witness a mob of Russian punks en masse
in the Metro ring train from Octobraskaya to
Novaslovoskaya. It is the largest en masse group of
long hair I have seen in this region. It seems Heavy
and Death Metal is very much in vogue here. They
had just been to see the Kreator band. Embossed
on their t-shirts was the band Napalm Death but
ironically they appeared as strangely gentle youths.
The rest of the train kept apart from them.
There was this splattering of blood, viscous,
blackened on the seat beside me on the train and on
it rested like a small offering at a church a broken
Seiko watch. One of the boys, toothless, picked it
up and began to further dissect the watch like an
insect that was to be lobotomised. A frail elderly
homeless man sat opposite me on the train. For a
short period it was as if this man was my father.
So much of his pain and alcoholism I could see in
my own father and vice versa. Of course the two
were worlds apart, but some look in the eye, some
measure of the pain echoed itself and I was left
caught by that pain. A wave of compassion flowed
through me to him. I doubt that he even knew who
I was, let alone that I existed, such was the daze he
was in. When I turned around the punks had gone
from the compartment, as had the old man. In the
blink of an eye, a world is changed.
Sunday, 12th December, 1993,
Moscow, Russia
I telephoned Nikolai and Sasha Petlura and then
spoke to Lydia about scaffolding. Rita has returned
from Poland with Seriosha, and Margarita from
Holland. I also completed a small stretched paper
reclamer (advertisement) of the Millennium symbol.
I am always touched and surprised by the amount of
loyal and dedicated support Pasha gives me without

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
Yesterday seems such a distant land and Australia is even vaguer.
The news of the exhibition that I will exhibit Millennium
in the Faculty of Journalism although not certain,
has lifted my spirits. My sense of abandonment and
marooning has appeased itself.
request. If Millennium is successful I will reward him
in as good way as possible and if not—the same.
It’s been a tough
mission over here and
I no longer even care
what comes of it all.
Monday, 13th December, 1993,
Moscow, Russia
A brief meeting with Nikolai Scherbakov. I make
some measurements of the Institute of Journalism
to see if the massive canvases can fit through the
doors. In reporting the events around me I was
wondering whether I focus on the negative or simply
that the negative forces itself on one. I know that our
consciousness in some manner magnifies situations, so
does this explain such excursions of life are merely the
products of my morbidity. And yet there are moments
of great love and gentleness which punctuate the
darkness like flowers beside a grave or the gentle
but patient onset of the first up-growth of Spring.
And yet I am accosted by the sounds of the newly
married couple squabbling in the next door room—so
young and so full of promise—promises which have
been poisoned by economic difficulties, by broken
expectations and by greed or stupidity. I believe my
eyes are open—but a stranger’s steps are always more
acute, more technicolour than those who live forever.
It is like I cannot judge my own here—my blindness is
apparent. Habit deadens us to what is. That I know. I
am not here to judge nonetheless. To awaken, but not
judge.
The election has occurred. The liberal democrats
are in. Those at the Federation speak of it that
Russia is perhaps in the same situation as Berlin/
Germany in the 30s—rampant inflation, rocketing
unemployment, poor national self-esteem, and will
Zherinovsky or Yeltsin be the next Hitler, they say. I
spoke to this woman the other day, sweeping a huge
corridor. Why are you doing this? was my question.
Her answer: ‘In Russia the men lead and the women
work.’
A piece of graffiti on the subway in Russian:
PUNKS WILL
SAVE THE PLANET!
Thursday, 16th December, 1993,
Moscow, Russia
Nikolai—faxes—Federation—Pasha.
Yuri returns from the Polls where he had been
as a neutral observer with an octogenarian English
Lord Litchfield. Slept at Pasha’s. Sewed sheets into
large advertising slogans.

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
Wednesday, 15th December, 1993,
Moscow, Russia
Day spent with Alexandra, the translator. We
visited a satire theatre and bought black cloth at
Leninsky Prospekt. I then collected invitations and
took them to Rita and Olga Mitrafanova’s. The two
Borises, Boris Spier and the other with Marina
invited me to lunch at the Federation.
Thursday, 16th December, 1993,
Moscow, Russia
An ineffectual and frustrating day as usual. After
battling the tidal forces of a throbbing and milling
humanity I went into the city to buy a pen. I visited
two shops and finally one had with sufficient article
including pens. Pens are such normal objects but
here even these can be in short supply. I discover
that I have changed my money to roubles and all
they take is dollars. A rather tragic affair.
The weather is fetid and moist which is due to
global warming.
At the Federation
Boris Spier,
an ardent
bald-headed
Communist,
suffering like all
of them from
Communisms
fall from grace,
reminisces about
how the ponds in
Moscow would
freeze continually from November to February when
he was a child in the sixties. And now what? The
news of the exhibition that I will exhibit Millennium
in the Faculty of Journalism although not certain,
has lifted my spirits. My sense of abandonment and
marooning has appeased itself. This evening I visited
the White River Gallery where Petlura and his
entourage cohabit.
Monday, 20th December 1993,
Moscow, Russia
It’s been a tough mission over here and I no
longer even care what comes of it all. As I said in a
fax a moment ago: I am carried by the momentum
of it all—I no longer care. Just do the thing—I
dare say after which an incredibly drawn out
postponement, anything would have to be an anti-
climax. Nonetheless it is an interesting and strange
adventure with many people that I have met who
have become friends.
Saturday, 18th December, 1993,
Moscow, Russia
Yesterday seems such a distant land and Australia
is even vaguer. Still am I beset by the same Russian
inefficiency. I waited for two hours at the Institute
for African and Asian Studies for Ina Petrovna to
organise the essential details of the exhibition
with the Administrative Officer of the Institute of
Journalism. She did not come. I waited through
out the afternoon. My next move depended upon
her arrival. When finally she did, it was with the
explanation—‘we shall see him on Monday’. Like a
percolator I sat there and bubbled as she left, but no
black coffee came.
Then I walked across the city to the Petrovsky
boulevard to the White River Gallery where a
friend, Aristo, was exhibiting his art work. There
were seven black velveteen cases that are holding
surgical tools with
Sasha and Natalya,
the happily married
couple at Lydia’s are
already in separate
beds—a camp
stretcher three feet
from Sasha’s bed.
dull platinum with
a white emotionless
metallic feel to
them. There are
plaques in Russian
which read: ‘Do
not worry, it will be
alright’.
Not the most
amazing work but
interesting in a
cursory way. The
black humour may have had a political innuendo. I’m
not so sure.
As walked to Pasha’s last night was so beautiful.
There had been a heavy but soft fall of snow. It had
caught like pristine white irregular powder-puffs
which hung on the boughs of the trees. The snow
hung on the tress in this avenue either side of me
shining like the crowns of queens in times long gone.
As I walked I breathed its magnificence. Like beauty
which is transient and changes, it was gone the next
day.
Lydia’s place here is good. It is safe, clean, small
but comfortable. For one month I would pay $150-
$200 for board and lodging. So she therefore it takes
care of all my needs at the immediate point. I am
planning on having Michelle come and visit. It will
be either as a friend or as a girlfriend. We will see.
Whatever happens the company will be rewarding.

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
At the last minute a new venue in the Institute of Journalism has
been found, and exhibition is now due on 11th January.
Monday, 20th December 1993,
Moscow, Russia
The days are becoming better now. I had dinner
this week at the Latvian Embassy with Ritum and
some others. The exhibition is now scheduled for
the 11th of January, 1994. Whether it is a good
day or not I no longer care. It has all taken so long,
and I feel like a cork that is being carried by the
weight of the momentum of it all. It is strange to
watch—to be the observer. I surrender to whatever
is to happen now and others, Nikolai Scherbakov
and Ina Petrovna, today took over and pushed the
project so that the Chief Administrator, a quiet, shy
and somewhat long-suffering retired Army officer,
was and is prepared to assist our venture in as
many ways as he is able to. Nonetheless I dare say
he does not know all. Christmas does not actually
occur here until the 7th or 8th of next month–
January. If things are on schedule I may go to the
South for a few days before the end of the month.
Is it I and
my poor
organisation or
the ineptitude
of inefficient
Moscow or
both? I do not
know.
Only within the
last fourteen
days has it
begun to settle.
Rita remaining in the car, Misha goes to see three
‘droogs’ waiting outside and the next moment
they have pulled out a gun and shot him twice
in the stomach. They walk over to Rita and say
quietly with the gun pressed into her temple:
‘Listen, bitch, forget what you saw, who you saw,
otherwise it will be you.’
2nd January, 1994, Moscow
Russia
Today my mind is returning to Graham. Lydia
kept on wearing Graham’s slippers upon his
immediate departure out of nostalgia and fondness
(for ten days!). Sasha and Natalya, the happily
married couple at Lydia’s are already in separate
beds—a camp stretcher three feet from Sasha’s
bed. Natasha, the potential girl friend of Graham, so
many Natashas—alas, ‘his’ Natasha told Ritum, my
Latvian journalist friend (it was to whose party we
went that night), said that it was he who had fallen
in love with Natasha: in other words, that was her
side of the tale.
Seriosha, ‘alias Sergei’, has been thrown out of
home by his wife for ‘adultery’ with Rita and is now
living in the living room of Misha and Olga’s house
with Rita, much to their consternation as protective

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
Our desires and
greed set us apart
but our belief that
we are different is
born from fear.
And so it is not this picture here which is on trial but we as an
audience and as a species.
parents. So like an endless situation comedy these
events unfold. Nonetheless all the above are well,
happy and content, as content as can be in the crazy
country.
A new friend of mine, Margarita who acts as my
translator was to collect a colleague, Misha, from her
work, at a car emporium and drive him on the 28th,
of December. She works as the director of a car
emporium. Hamish and Luda met her. A brief and
hesitant pause outside work. Rita remaining in the
car, Misha goes to see three ‘droogs’ waiting outside
and the next moment they have pulled out a gun
and shot him twice in the stomach. They walk over
to Rita and say quietly with the gun pressed into
her temple: ‘Listen, bitch, forget what you saw, who
you saw, otherwise it will be you.’ So she remained
quiet and said nothing to the police...yet the more
I remain here the safer it seems. Rita’s company is
decidedly sweet... it appeared the man Misha owed
them money: not a clever way to get it back.
They call me now: ‘Robinson Crusoe in Moscow’.
Because of the problems inherent in the exhibition
I felt awkward and upset that Graham seemingly
came over for nought. I know it was an exciting time
but...so my undertaking is that ‘if’ the exhibition
is sold, I shall undertake to reimburse him for the
ticket and some small negotiable sum. Otherwise
our arrangement of picture by moi plus some money
is still standing I hope. I have been doing sporadic
video doco stuff but not a great deal. It comes in
waves.
Only within the last fourteen days has it begun
to settle. It got to the point where the Australian
Embassy was to submit a formal letter of complaint
to the Dean of Moscow University, that since the
hall had been granted and given authorisation for
us to go ahead that for the authorities to go back
on their written word was deeply disturbing to
the government. At the last minute a new venue
in the Institute of Journalism has been found, and
exhibition is now due on 11th January.
What transpired with Hamish and Luda I found
deeply upsetting. There at the darkest hour and they
were both judging me as having created the whole
situation myself and that as a result of my attitude
and meanness I had wrought these things. I know
that the Embassy did not see it that way, nor Nikolai
Scherbakov nor Yuri.
Vicca went to Kuwait as a translator for Russian
doctors not long after Grahams departure. Rita
continues to be one translator I use less and less.
I spent some time today together with her and
Seriosha, who I like more and more. He has a very
good heart and has been very kind to her—they are
like two kids.
Tuesday, 4th January, 1994, Moscow,
Russia
It is the 4th of January and one week until the
exhibition. Today, with a new Sasha, a somewhat
awkward yet greatly satisfactory helper and friend

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
In the time of the three hours this opening goes
for, 18,000 acres of rainforest has been forever
destroyed; 7 million tons of carbon dioxide has
been produced and pumped in the atmosphere; 17
species of animals have been rendered extinct; 23
square miles of desert have been created.
This here is only a mirror to what may be or
perhaps it is a mirror to what already is.
If we can seek to understand that we
are truly all one people upon one planet
then there shall be peace.
assisted in the desperate search for scaffolding. Why everything must be left until the last moment in this
country is beyond me. Is it I and my poor organisation or the ineptitude of inefficient Moscow or both? I do not
know.
Prices are exorbitant here. They are asking $2,000-$3,000 US for the scaffolding and yet there is hope,
for tomorrow we will meet with the Director of the Stanislavsky Theatre at 1 o’clock and the forces of greed
may be put in second place to the forces of beauty and the Good. As much as this do I hope and pray. The
room has been found as an exhibition space and another for storage. The boxes, except for the paintings, have
been moved in there. This evening as I left the building late I paused outside the front door. It was truly a
magnificent sight. Everything blossoming with snow. The Kremlin walls, the lights, the red star on the spire. It
was a truly sonorous and magic moment.
The babushka, which means grandmother, who had let me out, from the faculty of Journalism is called
Gallina. She was so sweet today, showing me pictures of herself ten or twenty years ago in the Crimea bathing,
some of them slightly indiscreet I thought for one her age.

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
Saturday, 15th January 1994, Moscow, Russia
Exhibition Day
SPEECH
This piece of art appears before you all as a testament to what we cannot allow to occur on a global
level. It represents the rebirth of the new as much as our acknowledgement of what now as a species we
must face, either through the environmental, biological or holocaust of war. Yet when a message stands
as a universal one we may also read it as a particular one. And so we can see in recent events in Russia
a reflection of this work—the stupidity and futility of violence by all who participate in it.
When peace and truth are effaced justice must decide, but when justice is gone then force becomes
the sad and final arbiter. Violence as a solution is but a temporary solution and from its seeds may
further violence spring.
And so it is not this picture here which is on trial but we as an audience and as a species. It stands
as a mirror to what we cannot acknowledge in our lives and in our world. Because it is through the
acknowledgement of the truth of that which is which leads to freedom and not the desire for that which
ought to be. Thus it is the acknowledgement of suffering which leads to peace.
If this work speaks to the Russian people through the heart and they see in it both the slim yet
durable hope for our future and a passage to that future, then it has been recognized and understood. It
may speak universally but it also stresses how we have unleashed forces through our actions which can
and may seek the undoing of this world.
Is it not our denial of fear rather than fear itself which is the problem? Is not our lack of security
within the present which leads to the greed and fear of the future? Is it not our inability to seek
common values and the shared expression of each other which divides us? Our belief that we are
different sets us apart. Our desires and greed set us apart but our belief that we are different is
born from fear. Is this fear formed from the cradle of insecurity of our fragile self? If we can seek to
understand that we are truly all one people upon one planet then there shall be peace. But it is not
simply a new global economic world order which shall create this. Only the understanding of compassion
will allow us to survive with our dying but beautiful planet as a species and as a whole.
If we can truly see that those who support one group, who live in one nation, by doing so can set
themselves apart from their neighbours, then there will be peace.
In the time of the three hours this opening goes for, 18,000 acres of rainforest has been forever
destroyed; 7 million tons of carbon dioxide has been produced and pumped in the atmosphere; 17
species of animals have been rendered extinct; 23 square miles of desert have been created.

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
This piece stands before you all as a testament to what we cannot
allow. It stands as a testament to the rebirth of the new as much as an
acknowledgement of what as a species we now face, either through a
global holocaust through the environment, through war or through AIDS.
Is it not our lack of acceptance
of the present which leads to the
greed for the future?
If we can
learn to live
without greed
then there is
hope, and if
we can learn
to live with
simplicity
there is hope.
As long as we divide ourselves between races, needs, genders, nationalities or ideologies there will continue to be conflict.
That which we find most abhorrent in others
is that which exists deep within ourselves. This
here is only a mirror to what may be or perhaps
it is a mirror to what already is.
I ask you only to ponder and think. I know
this when people are struggling to survive, the
considerations of what is long term is very
difficult to understand.
But if a global revolution from without can
occur to change things it must arise within the
heart and that begins with a very small step.
We have come here today to remember a
tragedy within the past. In remembering this past
we seek to remind ourselves that we cannot allow
such an event ever to repeat itself. We know that
we have now the power to exterminate ourselves
as a species and this event is both a symbol of our
stupidity and our titanic pride. A pride which is so
magnanimous that in seeking to replace God and
his order we have fallen from grace into a selfimposed
oblivion. So it is to the lives that were lost
or maimed by this event as much as to those who
should not suffer in the future that we seek to now
remember.
Is it for us or the victims of the past or the
future that we stand here? For our own conscience
or another’s life and the life of our planet that we
wish to remember? Can one person united with
others change the wars which continually raise
their heads like the serpents of Hydra?
So the act of Hiroshima stands as a
watermark of what the future should not become,
but now it seems that both the present and the
future are tarnished by equally ugly atrocities
like Rwanda, the possible nuclear confrontation
of the Koreans or of Bosnia. I believe peace was
once fashionable, not that peace can ever be
equated with fashion, but now it seems that a
multiplicity of events have taken the world by
storm, and peace is an echo of a bygone age.
And what is the answer? Can it be secured
through governments, through deferring
responsibility upon others? Is the individual so
unempowered, so impotent in this world that
there is nothing which can be done? All we can
do is to separate the problems, and say they are
not ours. We are the problem. Not others but our
very selves have created it—the very nature of
our petty greeds, selfishness and insensitivities.
But I believe it is our individual compassion
born of love which will ignite to transform itself.
This will ignite others into that same love. This
is the only answer. This compassion will dissolve
the walls which have been built, slowly but
surely. It will replace the fear with something
else.
But I believe that solutions to the collective
murder of war can be sought non-violently
before they have had time to ignite. And each
individual’s influence can build like a critical
mass to shape the consciousness of our milieu.

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
Then I made a very hurried trip to the Faculty of Journalism
where a television crew from Ostankino were waiting for me.
Greatness is only great when it is affiliated with truth and truth can only exist when there is
compassion. Any country which desires expansion is weak, because it cannot be as it is, but must seek
to grow beyond itself.
As long as we divide ourselves between races, needs, genders, nationalities or ideologies there will
continue to be conflict. his division is not a biological separation, but due to our conditioning. So the
problem is whether this conditioning, which has invested us with the notion of separation, can be
undone.
The essential criterion of goodness is the quality of sharing and of compassion. It can be difficult to
implement when our lives are filled by problems, when we cannot afford the luxury of helping another,
but this compassion can manifest itself in unseen yet small ways. If this understanding can arise then
there is hope. If we can learn to live without greed then there is hope, and if we can learn to live with
simplicity there is hope. In carrying the memories in our hearts of this tragedy, let us sow the seeds for
a better future.
This is not only a painting. It is not only an expression of faith. And it is not a political statement. I
am not a Communist, a Capitalist or a Christian. This piece stands before you all as a testament to what
we cannot allow. It stands as a testament to the rebirth of the new as much as an acknowledgement of
what as a species we now face, either through a global holocaust through the environment, through war
or through AIDS. Yet when a message stands as a universal one, its particularity may be read according
to the viewer.
And so it is not this picture here which is on trial, but we as an audience.

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
I telephoned Vadim the
Harley Davidson Motor
Cycle fanatic without a
motorcycle who reported
that thieves had broken
into his apartment and
stolen everything.
One girl thought it was
awful and repeated that she
felt that the Russian people
were not ready to look at
such a thing.
She looked drained and a
little beyond her mere 18
years after the accident which
had so upset her with the
gangsters who had placed a
gun to her head.
Exhausted, I have had so little time it seems to
write these days, but I shall attempt to put pen to
paper. A Ukrainian Australian Edward Gansky, the
friend of a mutual friend Therese arrived today. It
was a case of meeting him at an ungodly hour at
the railway station and thence to take him to sleep
at home. The television station Channel 3 sent
a film crew to video the show opening. I believe
the programme is called ZXZ. There were three
gruff yet warm men. I spoke into the camera and
explained what the exhibition was, that essentially
it is inexplicable without seeing it, and then they
were off. Marie dropped the aluminium sculpture so
it must be repaired. Philosophical discussions with
three Russian men who are taught physical culture.
The people here easily grasp and understand the
exhibition. One person in the comments book wrote,
“Peace on Earth”. It is late, maybe they will show the
programme on television this evening?

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
Sunday, 16th January, 1994,
Moscow, Russia
Edward met with Natasha who is his St.
Petersburg fiancée. Her remarks about the painting
are truly memorable, and acute. In some ways her
response was the deepest and the most touching I
have received to date.
We travel to the Sovincentre to meet Edward’s
friend Alec who
is fat, obese, with
hooked nose, farting
and clad in black.
He is the manager of
a theatrical troupe
which performs
in the Business
Club, a faux Las
Vegas style cabaret.
Jaundiced and
bored businessmen
with their groomed,
MAKE
ART
NOT
WAR!
feminine chattels and rich families being domestic
sit around watching a circus of performers prostrate
and a gyrate to the pulse of ABBA and the lasers
spearing through a smoke machine.
Monday, 17th January, 1994,
Moscow, Russia
Tuesday, 18th January 1994, Moscow,
Russia
Today no press or media arrived, but many
promises have been given for the following days.
I must be up early tomorrow. Again many people
each with their own angle, their own perspective
are offering their opinions. One boy, Artium,
brought his artwork and asked for my appraisal,
while another two students felt that our objectives
were the same. Their Association was for an Allied
and Comprehensive Europe. Interested in the new
generation, was it spiritual or political—sociological.
They spoke of the myth of Democracy. Lee, a
Korean, gave me a New Year’s card, Vallentine
a book on Bosch. ABC will do a feature next
month. This month it is Zherinovsky that is being
interviewed by Australian television. He seems to
be the flavour of the month. A girl who excused
herself for being silly and I said there is no need
for excuses or the denial of silliness, gave me a
coloured pamphlet about born-again Christianity—
666—Revelations and the New World. I also had a
conversation with Kira Surikova, a Jewish real estate
women who desires to write and used to sojourn in
Paris.
I telephoned Vadim the Harley Davidson Motor
Cycle fanatic without a motorcycle who reported
that thieves had broken into his apartment and
stolen everything. He’s had to move again.
Dominic is tired. I met with Margarita at Sokol
Metro Station to collect some money for the workers
who assisted in the exhibition. She looked drained
and a little beyond her mere 18 years after the
accident which had so upset her with the gangsters
who had placed a gun to her head. Then I made a
very hurried trip to the Faculty of Journalism where
a television crew from Ostankino were waiting for
me. A long questionnaire has been translated by
Alex, my new business manager. Posters seem to be
selling very well. It is so invigorating and uplifting to
be confronted by the young here. They truly know
what this exhibition amounts to. It seems that the
response of people is a ratio of 8 to 2 for and against,
not that even a majority consensus necessarily
means that it is correct or good.
Edward was locked in the house all day at
Fadieva Street and I had to return to collect him,
the poor thing. A Korean, Lee, from the faculty,
was most enamoured as were a couple from Radio
Maximum. One girl thought it was awful and
repeated that she felt that the Russian people were
not ready to look at such a thing. A professor said
that it was magnificent.

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
We were expecting a grown man as an interviewer, but I was
quite surprised to discover that the journalist was a boy, Olec,
who was only six years of age, and was dressed in a fine pale
blue corduroy coat, a tie with chrome tie-pin and a oversized
microphone for his diminutive body.
All of a sudden he has fallen and his
body like a rag doll is doing great
Catherine wheels, rolling down the
escalator, head over heels. As I catch
him, there is blood and a broken plastic
and canvas suitcase snaps open to
reveal sad boiled lollies scattered on the
steps of the escalator.
Wednesday, 19th January, 1994,
Moscow, Russia
Seemingly a bad day. I hung the banner
Millennium in the street and I find there is a letter
missing. Each banner is a separate letter and it
will be tied to the metal gates. By Saturday—three
letters are left. Perhaps Pasha did forget to sew
the two pieces together. Pavel, the security guard,
was waiting for his money. In a town like this and I
cannot even borrow $110. It is tragic. The only way
I have of getting money is to go to the casino and
cash chips with my credit card. But an attempt to
buy $200 worth of chips, to be cashed immediately
to pay the personnel, in the Casino at Lutovist off
Trevskaya leads to failure. I have jeans on and they
accept only dollars rather credit cards.
I have an interview with Alexander Yaseichvich
for an Ecological Gazette; a long biblical talk with
Natasha, a talk with a woman in black leather who
desires to lend one of the tapes to record; someone
else approaches me for a radio programme. I am
to give a talk at the Press Club, organised through
my new-found manager. Videoed Edward in Red
Square; saw him to Konsomolskaya and then walked
his beautiful deyovushke Natasha home. So many
Natashas—why can they not think of another name.
An article in The Moscow Times has been written
by Sasha Bratersky— MAKE ART NOT WAR!
Friday, 21st January 1994, Moscow,
Russia
Alexander, my friend, has been a great and
wonderful support. He actually sounds like an
American and looks like a gawky 19 year old
from Revenge of the Heros, but has become a
very valuable asset in the exhibition and publicity
side of things.
A brief note as well—exhibition is slow—not
so many people—yet those who come love it. I
think a few articles have been written about the
exhibition. Some say stupid things but otherwise it
is a reasonable affair.
Michelle is due to arrive in a few weeks in
Moscow. Everything has been so hectic these
last weeks. I am in the Gallery/University now

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
... a peaked hat and glasses and walks with a waddle.
We ended the day by walking through the snow past the old edifice of the Institute of African and Asian
Studies, to find an Australian film crew who were shooting a documentary upon Zherinovsky.

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
No more money. Stranded, in this place. It is the
cosmic black joke and God is laughing and I am
laugher with him/her. So what is to be done?
Yesterday I had $500 US stolen from my coat pocket. It was my own
stupidity after finally becoming liquid to pay all my people.
Sitting in that cosseted and very
elegantly decorated munificence
which tells you that you are no
longer in Russia but the Interzone.
with Millennium beside me, and the soundscape
is playing, but not the laser. Strange days. I have
decided to move from Lydia’s for a number of
reasons. If I do so it will be within the next 24-48
hours. I do not wish to go into the matter, only
because it is not particularly interesting. Suffice to
say that I think that I will try and find something
a little better for Michelle and I, when she comes.
The flat at Lydia’s is nice, but with the money that
she will be asking for both of us to stay there we
could easily get something for ourselves alone,
which would be much more satisfactory and like
home. I take a risk by doing this, but the woman is
continuing to charge too much and increasing the
rent.
Yesterday on the Metro, I am mounting the
escalator rising up nearly 400 feet to the top of
Mayakovskaya and this drunk, twenty feet above me,
loses his balance and begins to slip. All of a sudden
he has fallen and his body like a rag doll is doing
great Catherine wheels, rolling down the escalator,
head over heels. As I catch him, there is blood and
a broken plastic and canvas suitcase snaps open to
reveal sad boiled lollies scattered on the steps of the
escalator. Luckily I caught him or rather he crashed
into me, otherwise the momentum would have done
real damage to the people beneath us.
I miss nature at present and feel the intrinsic
need for excursions in the primeval forest, with the
trees. I must make the time for this.
This afternoon a man from Argumenty I Facty,
which is a weekly journal in Moscow, Sergei A
Halzor, came to take photographs; then someone
from another ecological magazine came. This was
followed by Russian television. We were expecting
a grown man as an interviewer, but I was quite
surprised to discover that the journalist was a
boy, Olec, who was only six years of age, and was
dressed in a fine pale blue corduroy coat, a tie with
chrome tie-pin and a oversized microphone for his
diminutive body. His own television show was called
Tam Tam Novosti which is translated as ‘Here and
There News.’ It was a news programme for children
and will be screened next week on Tuesday at 4.30
in the afternoon, Channel 2. Sasha is sitting beside
me now writing an article.
Saturday, 22nd January 1994,
Moscow, Russia
There are many things to be done today, the
chores of the land of lists. I would like to video the
people’s response to the exhibition. My list says to
telephone Artium Trotsky for MTV; erect the banner
inside the front of exhibition; repair the black
curtains; and contact theatres for black curtain. I
must also fold the large covers and telephone Kira,
and Marie.
I am thinking about yesterday and what a crazy
day it was. It was wild yet indescribably strange and
yet beautiful.
Olec, the three foot, 6 year old journalist, was a
very special person I felt. Quiet, self-contained and
yet open to much information. I suppose when you
have your own television programme and you are
seven, that it is important.

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
Visitors come and go to the exhibition—so many, so
many strange and curious ones.
Distracted by
some admirers in
the exhibition hall
obviously someone
had seen me
take out the wad
of notes to pay
someone.
They had waited and the
moment I had left the coat
unattended , they had taken
their chance. And now they
are bad but happy.
Sunday, 23rd January, 1994, Moscow, Russia
It is Sunday and I thought that now that I am here in the Gallery-cum-auditorium I would find time to write
and see what could be said in the time which is available. My thoughts are a little scrambled and therefore it
will take a few minutes to orient that they begin to flow. I came straight here at around 1 o’clock. Marie, the
babushka who sits here in the Gallery, was helping me with the ladder. I was up about 17 feet when the table

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
I had my money stolen last week, about $800 Australian and of course it snowballed. Because of this I could
not pay the scaffolding people the ensuing $400 I owed them they threatened to do damage to me.
on which it was supported gave way and down I plummeted. Luckily all that was incurred was a small eentsyweentsy
cut and a piece of bruise upon the shin of Dominic’s leg. Luckily and more importantly, Marie was not
hurt at all, except for a black thumb.
Two friends, an Englishman, Allan, who has crossed my path twice and his Russian translator, Irina Shiskine,
came to the exhibition today. Irina I had met when I first arrived at ‘Rosie O’Grady’s’. A couple of others who
had heard of it through the media, somewhere, somehow. Sasha Bratersky came this afternoon and showed me
the article which had been issued in Pravda, the old Communist gazette which is now one of the opposition
papers. They had actually censored the article for editorial purposes. Rather than the title A CITIZEN OF THE EARTH,
which Sasha and I had thought the most appropriate title they had called it A GREY FUTURE, and had also
deleted various aspects using biblical scripture from Revelations which Sasha had included. It included the
sculpture of the hands and a photograph of me as well.
We ended the day by walking through the snow past the old edifice of the Institute of African and Asian
Studies, to find an Australian film crew who were shooting a documentary upon Zherinovsky. The journalist
Peter Curtis, was his name and the producer was a woman called Pat Connell.
I am still feeling the effects of the fall from the ladder. It is often the case when I have limped away from
an accident only then do I feel the a dramatic effects of the event. Alexander, my friend, has been a great and

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
Five television news commentaries,
including a children’s interviewer
called Olec, 7 years of age, so gentle
yet so grown up—Tam Tam Novosti
Still, after a thousand
leagues, obstacles,
delays and broken
promises— the
exhibition is up with
much publicity
...a press conference next week in the new
Slovenska Ratisson Hotel Press Club.
wonderful support. He actually sounds like an
American and looks like a gawky 19 year old from
Revenge of the Heroes, but has become a very
valuable asset in the exhibition and publicity side of
things. His full name is Alexander Brateski and he
has spent a few years in the United States, hence
his very identifiable American accent. He wears a
bright acid orange anorak with a green crocodile
quilted on the back, a peaked hat and glasses and
walks with a waddle.
Angelica Dumas appeared that evening and
we went briefly to the ‘Armadillo Bar’, ersatz
Americana, after which I rendezvoused with
Gennia, a woman from RTR Television who took
me, unbeknownst to Dominic, on an endless train
trip to the outer periphery of what seemed like a
lost futuristic city of drabness, endless repeated
variants of tall housing commission buildings,
towering flats clad in the snow. People were walking
and trudging in the stifling cold. So Gennia, who has
a weekly programme, not for 7 years olds but for 19-
25 year olds, was to take me to the only futuristic,
techno-acid house club in Moscow—LSD DANCE.
The music was very minimal industrial technopunk
with virtually no melody. Quite avant garde in
a very basic form. We viewed an exhibition of poor,
slightly spidery and drug-oriented pictures, done
in rapidograph with a baby laser shining through
an Absolut vodka bottle. Really all very childish but
nonetheless interesting from a sociological point of
view?
When in my fatigue, as I had had very little sleep
the previous day, I asked her about the return, she
explained that we had to wait until the first Metro at
6 in the morning. I left like a shot, but halfway on the
circle line at 1.35 a.m. the trains stopped and all the
passengers were ejected. No money for a taxi, I found
myself with a very drunk American accomplice who
was even more lost and confused than I. His name was
William, from San Francisco. He was very interested
in doing drugs, spoke proficient Russian and worked
in an Amero-Russo moving firm. So we walked
through the dead and empty streets of Moscow.

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
Wednesday, 26th January, 1994, Moscow Russia
It is Wednesday and I must rehash the last three days of Moscow life. Three days of curious significance.
On Monday Lee, the Korean student with a 4th dan in black belt karate or at least so he attests, and Sasha
Bardesky and I go to the Hotel Slovenska Ratisson where we meet the coordinator of the Press Club room.
Sitting in that cosseted and very elegantly decorated munificence which tells you that you are no longer in
Russia but the Interzone. The last international zone of airport lounges and hotels which might be anywhere in
the world. These zones all yield a gentle monochromatic sameness. I see a neutral, plush yet indistinct from one
another. The coordinator, called ‘Joe’ , was open to the possibility of a press conference for the exhibition.
Yesterday I had $500 US stolen from my coat pocket. It was my own stupidity after finally becoming liquid to
pay all my people. Now it is a case of many people now waiting for their money. Crazy. How to get it. I have no
more cheques left. No more money. Stranded, in this place. It is the cosmic black joke and God is laughing and
I am laugher with him/her. So what is to be done? Distracted by some admirers in the exhibition hall obviously
someone had seen me take out the wad of notes to pay someone. They had waited and the moment I had left
the coat unattended, they had taken their chance. And now they are bad but happy.
Visitors come and go to the exhibition—so many, so many strange and curious ones. There is the woman
who incessantly held her crucifixes, replaceable ones like crutches, at the painting yet who interestingly said
that my symbol was that of the Archangel Michael. A good woman nonetheless. Her creed was the Mother of
God, a supplication to Mary, the Mother of Jesus. Then there is Natasha, who comes every day and leaves me
pamphlets of Jesus. They are all very sweet and and like lost children it seems.
Then there was the woman who is translating a science fiction novel from Russian into English. Her name
is Svetlana Orekhova. She works in the Institute of Journalism,. She is attractive in a manly way. Then there
was Anatoly Bouldakov, who came in. He is the President of The Children of Chernobyl Foundation. A class of
Jewish students who all wanted my autograph, arrived and then demanded more posters. And then there was
the student from the Ukraine who came by electric trolley car for free from point to point, who loved the poster
so much that I said I would send one free to the Ukraine after his return. The response has been truly touching.
Today—Regina Gallery are interested in the work and there have been photographs at Argumenty Facti.
The exhibition is actually building in momentum I believe.

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
Sunday, 23rd January, 1994,
Moscow, Russia
Life here is both crazy and people lives very
cheap while the only thing which is expensive is
money. I had my money stolen last week, about $800
Australian and of course it snowballed. Because
of this I could not pay the scaffolding people the
ensuing $400 I owed them they threatened to
do damage to me. Still, after a thousand leagues,
obstacles, delays and broken promises— the
exhibition is up with much publicity: every day a
new paper comes—a press conference next week in
the new Slovenska Ratisson Hotel Press Club. Five
television news commentaries, including a children’s
interviewer called Olec, 7 years of age, so gentle yet
so grown up—Tam
Tam Novosti—have
been displayed
on television.
Unbelievable. So it
has been a very good
experience as well
as perhaps also the
worst experience of
my life. A strange
paradox I know. I
am touched by such
kindness here and
then ripped off with
The television
people from
RTR Russian
Television and
Radio came
today and
filmed.
even greater acumen by others without a blink of
an eyelash or a trace of remorse. So in some ways I
remain temporarily marooned. No sponsors yet, but
I am showered by gifts from admirers.
the turbulence. All I can do is have faith, trust and
take each moment as it comes. Coming here will
be fun, strange, boring, difficult, educating, a little
crazy and upside down and frightening and full of
love—all the opposites put together. It will be a test
and an adventure.
Thursday, 27th January, 1994,
Moscow, Russia
The pen is about to die a slow death. It is gone
and a new one has taken its place. The blue biro
replaced by the green Pental. It is like a relay race.
The television people from RTR Russian Television
and Radio came today and filmed. I spoke with
a very sincere
I am surrounded
by admirers and
well-wishers and
am given gifts
every day—
mostly of books
in Russian and
chocolates.
and beautiful
commentator who
loved the exhibition
very much, whose
name I have now
forgotten. It is
to be shown at 7
o’clock on the 3rd
February.
This evening
Sasha, Alexander
Yelganovich
invited me to the studio of his uncle. We listened
to Indian Tabla players and discussed the article
he had written in Salvador - ‘Dominic Ryan Mission
to Moscow - New Messiah.’ Thank God it was not
headlines.
Sunday, 23rd January, 1994,
Moscow, Russia
All is much better now. I think that the worst is
over, but the good is yet to begin or has only just
started. After 3-4 months Millennium is up, but only
just. We are not having a large number of people
coming to the exhibition but I hope to be able to
make sufficient changes to allow this to happen.
Three television stations have documented it. It has
been on the news twice and two papers in the last
ten days. We hope to have a press conference next
week.
Meeting many people. So many I forget their
names and they all treat me with affection and love,
except the ones who don’t...I know it doesn’t make
sense. The response to the exhibition is good and
numbers growing. I am in the centre of a strange
event: where I am is partly in control, partly putting
my head above water and partly being drowning in
Friday, 28th January, 1994, Moscow,
Russia
Today I traveled to the Federation of Peace, after
which I went to the Regina Gallery. Olga was there
but Regina was not...such a strange name for a man.
The exhibition was a large felt aeroplane sculpture
which measured 12 meters across I kind of liked it
in a Joseph Beuys kind of way. I am changing pens
again.
The relay is on. This one has a little more
strength and substance. A woman came into my
exhibition, declared she was from Business World
and then instructed some poor student to write
the story. The serf principle. The student is called
Masha who visited with her. She has one drooping
eyelid. Curious, yet it intrigues me.
At the house that evening I bring a marooned
Slovenian who has no money and nowhere to live
to the room to help her to telephone long distance.

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
Whether his stocky friend was there to take the scaffolding down or break my legs, or shoot me I was not
exactly certain.
I say: ‘You
must wait.
Kill me if
you want
but I cannot
give you the
money any
sooner.’
Ugine, the Dickensian construction boss who has rented
the scaffolding for the exhibition with his fake Englishness
and wet greed, appeared this morning with his henchman,
expecting that no money should arrive.
She had arrived in Moscow without money believing here friend would meet her at the train station. There
are five train stations and she had no contact details. She desires to telephone Slovenia to get money sent.
Lydia believes she is a prostitute and asks her to leave. Lydia is full of accusations and demands a passport for
identification from the poor girl. I feel acutely embarrassed for her sake and mine.
The President of the Children of Chernobyl Foundation wishes to establish a special foundation for
Millennium. His name is Anatoly Bouldakov. Tonight we erected the posters with one of the students from the
faculty of Journalism Olga putting up posters. She actually works there seelling books in the foyer. We come
across a most gothic Roman Catholic cathedral in Little Georgia Street, near the White House, which appeared
so disheveled, like out of Mervyn Peake’s Titus Groan. Bizarre in the moonlight. Vacated tractors and broken
machinery were everywhere.
Sunday, the 20th of January is Rita Mitrafanova’s birthday. I made a gift of a book by William Blake. Her
adoring family have invited me to the country. At the exhibition of the large painting I received a gift of an
egg by three girls Larissa, Svetlana and Natasha. We speak in French, but only just. In spite of the response
I feel that the exhibition has in a sense failed. It has been too difficult to manifest such a thing in this chaotic
environment. The great awnings outside lasted three days before people in the street tore them down. The
building does not attract enough people. I am asking too much, but I feel that it must simply return to Australia.
More and more am I resigning myself. I can do no more than such a thing - accept the fate. I have done my

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
...it fills me with a happiness
that this woman, with all her
pain, can stop in the midst of it
and hold a hand out to another.
I had received threats of violence
if the payment for the scaffolding
was not made soon, by Ugine,
the anglophile construction
engineer: ‘Dominic, you are
playing with fire!’ he says.
duty. My finances are l at an end, and physically the
thing has cost me much. I can do no more. I must
accept graciously that I did my best. Maybe I asked
for too much to occur, the impossible perhaps, and
the impossible could not be granted. A pleasant
response but one which will not take it around the
world. I accept my fate, although the dye has not
completely been cast.
Monday, 30th January, 1994,
Moscow, Russia
This evening was spent with Kira Surikova
and Igor from RTR TV. An unexpected day which
began with a brief visitation from yet another
television station: RTR, who have reported on
the exhibitions synthesis of various art mediums.
They were interested in the lasers with plaques,
which combined with the art and the music. It is
interesting to note the somewhat differing modes
of lighting which they incorporate—some inferior,
while others not so. Misha, a German friend of Rita,
is staying at the Mitrafanovas and accompanied Olga,
Rita and Seriosha to the exhibition just as the crew
was arriving. It was to be Rita’s big break on the
little screen. Dumb questions from the producer, and
Rita’s possum eyes.
Then I made aa quick visit to Kira Suvikova’s
apartment, near Gogolosky Boulevard near
Krapotkinaskaya Metro. It was nice to talk with
someone who one has things in common with me.
She showed me large, spatial, almost deluxe pictures
of her child whose name is Dominic Van Charles if
I am not mistaken—one quarter Russian, Jewish,
Spanish and Italian: an interesting entity with a hint
or trace of sadness on his shy demeanour.
Kira is the daughter of a rather famous Russian
film actress, so it has been a life lived under the
shadow of the bright lights and its incumbent
problems and neuroses. It is strange the people
I meet now—their strangeness or rather their
foreignness has an uncommon familiarity. So we
talked of countries and broken love and what love
is and how it can and cannot last; of its nature, its
motivation and origin. She strikes me as someone
who has been spoilt and then had it all stolen from
her. Bad teeth in a rich setting. All Russians have
bad teeth, even those of the higher echelons. Kira’s
girlfriend is the girlfriend of Zherinofsky the right
wing Dumas Parliamentary leader—who she says is
really very funny in a black way.
Tuesday, 1st February 1994, Moscow,
Russia
It is the first of February and I have decided
to brave the cold and the cold is some 15 degrees
below zero! Two women, one very small and wide
like a Russian dumpling, called Annette and the
other Svetlana, who I met at the exhibition have

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
He is drunk at the door and pirouettes
around like Popeye, flexing his muscles and
dictating that to be strong is to be Russian.
To speak what I see as the truth.
decided to escort me à la touriste to a fairy castle
in the snow. It is at Kuskovo and is 12 km east
of the Kremlin. Count Pyotr Sheremetyev, who
founded the estate in the mid-eighteenth century,
has transformed it into a veritable Versailles with
elegance and formality combined. It is situated
at Ulitsa Yunosh. It was of course closed and we
viewed it like urchins from the outside in. Of course
it was one of those days when I carried insufficient
clothing and the cold was catching up.
I am surrounded by admirers and well-wishers
and am given gifts every day—mostly of books in
Russian and chocolates. Every day someone from
another television or newspaper journalist writes
something about the exhibition. Still, there are not
enough people coming. Five spots on television the
last ten days it seems. I hope all is well, although my
finances do not appear to be so healthy now.
Wednesday, 2nd February, 1994,
Moscow, Russia
This afternoon I was interviewed by a journalist from
the Evening Moscow , Sergei Somebody or other.
Today I visited ‘Rosie O’Grady’s’, the Irish pub,
with Olga Mitrafanova and Misha from Germany,
Rita’s old boyfriend.
A Steinway piano sits in one of the rooms whose
spaciousness I had since forgotten existed.
Thursday, 3rd February, 1994,
Moscow, Russia
Problems have arisen again from the exhibition.
The exhibition may close on the 7th February
instead of the 3rd March. Ina Petrovna and
Pivavorov said that the Dean Zarcosky of the Faculty
would extend the period to show the painting but
it seems it is simply not possible. The lectures will
replace the exhibition on the 7th and this is final.
So little time which has been accorded to the show.
There have been insufficient numbers of people,
although we shall see. Gretchko, the cosmonaut
from Soyuz-Apollo mission in the 70s, attempts to

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
phone Zarcosky but instead receives a stubborn and Machiavellian vice dean.
Before I collected the cheque book from DHL I had receive threats of violence if the payment for the
scaffolding was not made soon, by Ugine, the anglophile construction engineer: ‘Dominic, you are playing with
fire!’ he says.
I say: ‘You must wait. Kill me if you want but I cannot give you the money any sooner.’ His eyes are all black
and soot-filled, a shimmer to them, they seem to flare like nostrils.
Then I have a lovely evening with the researcher, Svetlana Orekhova, dining at the House of Journalists
opposite Arbat. She is in her sixties and tells me her life story.
Friday, 4th February, 1994, Moscow, Russia
I race to American Express. Ugine, the Dickensian construction boss who has rented the scaffolding for the
exhibition with his fake Englishness and wet greed, appeared this morning with his henchman, expecting that
no money should arrive. Whether his stocky friend was there to take the scaffolding down or break my legs, or
shoot me I was not exactly certain. Suffice to say that nothing happened except that I gave him the money and
he was surprisingly appeased. His peaked hat and hounds tooth blue and grey jacket remained unblemished.
There have been continued efforts to prolong the exhibition but this seems to have fallen on deaf ears. We
have to wait and see the Dean Zarcosky. It seems as if the promises of Ina and George were empty and I was a
fool for believing them. Gretchko has telephoned, as have Scherbakov, but the vice-dean seems to be adamant
that lectures must begin on the 7th of this month. It seems to me as if all is lost and we will not be able to make
any useful gains from what has occurred.
There has been good publicity but above and beyond that there seems little else which I can do.
Vera, one of the casualties of these times in the New Russia, works in the typing pool with four other women
in the Faculty of Journalism which is adjacent to the exhibition room. They are all alcoholic and every night at
the exact time as I was locking up they leave staggering with their bags, all grey and crumpled like lonely socks
in a laundromat. This evening Vera stops me on the stair and presents me with this book, Starri Moscwa— ‘Old

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
Moscow’. I am truly touched by the gift and it fills
me with a happiness that this woman, with all her
pain, can stop in the midst of it and hold a hand out
to another. This is truly remarkable I believe.
Saturday, 5th February, 1994,
Moscow, Russia
A woman called Lada comes to the exhibition.
We have a rendezvous at a said hour. She presents
me with a scarf. She says very mysteriously in a
strange mystic tongue: ‘I speak only what I can show
and I have it.’
Dominic: ‘I must do.’
Lada: ‘What is your doing?’
Dominic: ‘To speak what I see as the truth.’
She puts the scarf around my neck and then
disappears.
Svetlana Orekhova picks me up and we have
a delightful evening in the Sokol district. There
during the 30s Stalin built some 200 cottages in
the midst of Moscow. Now these small cottages are
immensely sought after. In the dappled snow it is
like a little fairy tale. Svetlana wishes for me to see
what is a part of the Russia that she knows. So she
is attempting to
show me the aspects
of her country
which she knows
that I have not
experienced. Again
one is confronted
by an example of
the much vaunted
Russian kindness.
The family, old
Russian nobility, now
live in this house.
At the last
moment, having
given up, I
acquiesce to
destiny. But it has
been decided to
extend the time of
the exhibition.
I am introduced to a woman called Katya, while
her maiden name is Lancesseratt. We discuss the
implications of the mural, the Millennium project,
of perhaps getting Ilya Glasunov to assist with the
project. He is one of Moscow’s most famous realist
artists. We speak French and my deplorable and
reticent Russian over a table of meat dumplings
which remind me of Russian dim sims. A Steinway
piano sits in one of the rooms whose spaciousness
I had since forgotten existed. They are a family of
artists and, as Svetlana says, unique in this country.
They remind me very much of my own family.
Sunday, 6th February 1994, Moscow,
Russia
Back at my apartment living with Lydia I race
from the door and give Lydia the money which she
requires for the rent. Boris the dydoshka (which is
Russian for grandpa) is the security guard who tends
the keys at the Faculty of Journalism foyer entrance.
He is drunk at the door and pirouettes around like
Popeye, flexing his muscles and dictating that to be
strong is to be Russian. Meanwhile upstairs where
the exhibition is I fold blankets with a little boy who
is absolutely delightful in his attention and desire
to help. His father proudly announces that this is
Russia and that he would not accept a gesture of
payment which had come from Dominic. I present
them with a book.
Stacey and Alec, the two American journalists,
arrive in the midst of this cathartic comedy of
manners. A woman appears amongst the many who
visit this day and announces that her leg has been
healed from the picture. Meanwhile Galline, the
other babushka, complains that the music gives her
a headache. (First she was complaining that the
lasers were affecting her until I had to iterate that
since they were not on, it was impossible for this to
be the case.)
Yesterday I had a meeting
with Louise O’Keefe from
the Embassy, the second
secretary who has now
become the Ambassador’s
assistant. They suggest the
exhibition should travel to
Vladivostock.
This evening I
visit Svetlana with
her mother Larissa
and granddaughter
out in the wilds of
Jancebo. A long
way away indeed.
We tried to catch
the exhibition on
film but it was very
difficult. ZXZ were
supposed to view it
but it was not on. Two friends from their apartment
upstairs visited because the strange foreigner was
there, I guess. Their names Spakovy Skooshlo. It
was late and so I ended up staying the night rather
than going all the way back to Novoslovskaya, which
created a few problems in that Svetlana it seems
fancied me in a way I had innocently not expected.
Photographs have been taken of the exhibition by
photographers Gennady Ycoveba.
Monday morning, 7th February,
1994, Moscow, Russia
This afternoon I was interviewed by a journalist
from the Evening Moscow , Sergei Somebody or
other. He is both very gentle and is an overweight

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
A wind has swept
through me. I feel a
tide of forgiveness
and the pain of the
past I believe has
been let go—the
people who have hurt
me are gone forever.
There was a large article from The
Moscow Times: ‘The Fiery Trials of
Ryan’s Millennium’ that appeared
today, and speaks of the incongruities
of my experience in Moscow.
To date there must have been about nine articles written.
Yesterday it was the one from Business News which
Marsha Kalashnikova had written—the very young and
insouciant child with the scar on her upper lip and a
strange overhanging eyelid
bookseller from downstairs who writes for the paper. Galline also sits with her dark glasses. She jumps up and
down in front of the video camera; complains about her work.
The exhibition is to finish today. The desks go in and I am beside myself. I feel that it could have worked
a better way. Nothing has actually worked the way that I wished it to. But it is best to be content with small
inroads.
One of the booksellers down stairs is called Olga. She is bucktoothed and is neurotic, poor thing. A
combination of being gentle and sweet, but frightened of her past, and desiring to flee her present. She lies
to me saying she is living far from Moscow but it seems she is homeless. I let her sleep some nights in the
auditorium of the exhibition room. So I lock her in for the night. She is like the self-willed prisoner and guardian
of the castle.
At the last moment, having given up, I acquiesce to destiny. But it has been decided to extend the time
of the exhibition. Classes will continue but the painting remains up. Vicca, plump and abrupt, nonetheless
suggests we try an experiment: to hold classes and to have the exhibition on at the same time. So this evening
the sculptures are boxed and put away to allow for the students to sit in on class. Olga and I pick up the small
case at the Federation for the egg sculpture.
Interview late in the evening with Dima and his friend for Occult Magazine after Vadim, Sergei, Dima, Sasha
B. and others take the exhibition down. On Wednesday I discovery again that money has again been stolen
from my chamber. It seems that in this instance the culprit maybe Sasha. The dilemma of what is to be done. If
there is the smallest percentage of a chance that is not him then such accusations will only be further fuel for
problems.
Today I receive more generous gifts from well-wishers—from Sergei, a book on Russia; from a Vallodia a
book in Russian on Chekhov. In the morning my sweet translator Alexandra visits, and then that evening comes
again with her boyfriend. Quite a few people were waiting for the exhibition to be opened. It seems to go in
great pulses. Either no-one or scatterings of interested participants.

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
To date there must have been about nine articles written.

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
Thursday, 10th February, 1994,
Moscow, Russia
Visit with Sasha to the General Director of the
Stanislavsky Theatre. As we pass along nameless
corridors along wooden aisles, and through smoking
backrooms, I see people always waiting. The director
He says that he has some ideas about who can help
us with which to assist us.
A new article on exhibition from The Evening
Club. has been written but it is only a photograph
with small petty pronouncements with a syndication
of 50,000. It will not help that much. Pravda was 7
million readers.
Then the evening
is spent with Olga,
Marsha’s mother
and I. Marsha had
written an article
on the exhibition
and we have since
become platonic
friends. In their
comfortable flat we
watched videos of
Nick Cave. Their
There was also a
a hamster called
Vasya, and a love
of Aboriginal art
from Australia and
Polynesia, along with
their own sculpture
and graphic work.
apartment was near the Metro Fili. Like architecture
the building blocks here have just been muddled
around so that it is often confusing. It is like being
in this an upside down world which is familiar yet
alien.
Friday, 11th February 1994, Moscow,
Russia
Yesterday I had a meeting with Louise O’Keefe
from the Embassy, the second secretary who has
now become the Ambassador’s assistant. They
suggest the exhibition should travel to Vladivostock.
It seems that such a tour although generous and
flattering will create only further financial and
logistic problems for me. But I am touched that
they are interested. We shall see though. Strange to
breathe the air of the Embassy with its Australian
books and titles of the authors.
Then I visit Svetlana at the Institute Pedagogic,
near Vikkina after which I go to Nikolai Scherbakov’s
for his 40th birthday party. There is a long, long
table of assorted guests, including Yuri Drozdov,
toasts and the usual espionage to evade having to
drink what I find anathema. It really becomes quite
an ordeal. But it is my rudeness and my problem.
Wednesday, 16th February, 1994,
Moscow, Russia
Wednesday. It was a case of going like a robot
to the Federation and then to the Institute. I am
a pendulum between these two environments:
swinging from one to the other. Then I travel to
Octobraskaya via the Metro, another pen, another
day, another dollar and prepare myself for the
trolley bus trip from there to Univermarkt. The
number of people who must travel this route is
such that we are all crushed person against person.
Otherwise people are hurled, impressed, squished
and subjected like sardines or clothes in a washing
machine as we rumble. The peoples eyes on this
public transport system are always looking into the
distance.
I am standing beside this old woman, in her late
50s in the cramped trolley bus. She is plain, even
unattractive and yet when we are thrust together
at the rear, the energies of our bodies seem to
gell in a sexual explosion. I am totally unaware of
whether she was conscious of this as well. I can only
speculate. But it was quite a crescendo, touching
without sexuality yet
with it—a union.
I collected
invitations from
Olga Mitrafanoiva.
Then I had dinner
with Ritum without
Angelica, at the
Latvian Embassy.
It is his last night
before he must
return to Latvia. A
sweet girl whose
name I forget was there. We played the Millennium
sound tape in the bar downstairs. From Queen to
Millennium.
A wind has swept through me. I feel a tide of
forgiveness and the pain of the past I believe has
been let go—the people who have hurt me are gone
forever.
Thursday, 17th February 1994,
Moscow, Russia
Today is a day of many replies and the creation
of hopes and perhaps the end of the exhibition. I
journey to Sherimetsivo to collect Michelle from
the airport at 3.55. The aeroplane lands via Japan.
It will be strange to see her and see what the great
expanse and separation in our lives has created. In
some ways there is no longer a sense of expectation.

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
The weather has been extremely
cold, 35 degrees below zero,
the coldest in fact for 100 years
... there goes the Greenpeace
theory.
The BOMBSH, as they are called
(the homeless) drop dead in
the streets especially if they fall
asleep outside.
I must hold out and that in doing so it will be resolved.
The time is a test.
this old, frail babushka with a white beard and little
rubies pinched between slit eyelids looked at me.
It took us 45 minutes to get there. She shuffled. It seemed an inch at a time with “No” to my requests to go ahead without
her and buy the food , but I think she was scared I would run away.
Life here has filled me with such a totality of
problems and vivid experiences that people in
a separate hemisphere have had to take a more
reserved place. This does not mean that they do not
remain important, but the emphasis has shifted.
This afternoon at 2 o’clock I speak to Zarcosky in
an attempt to extend the exhibition at the Faculty.
My draw cards are that the Radisson Slovenska
Press Club will host a press conference and the
students have been invited to assist and discover
the process of what occurs there. The building is
prestigious.
The downside is that while lectures are attended,
a few of the lecturers seem a little unhappy about
the exhibition. So it is up to me or perhaps Sasha
Bratersky to convince them that an extension of
two weeks could be useful. There was a large article
from The Moscow Times: ‘The Fiery Trials of Ryan’s
Millennium’ that appeared today, and speaks of the
incongruities of my experience in Moscow.
To date there must have been about nine articles
written. Yesterday it was the one from Business
News which Marsha Kalashnikova had written—the
very young and insouciant child with the scar on
her upper lip and a strange overhanging eyelid. It
was the first article which she has ever written. As
a student who was studying to become an art critic,
it was a great surprise on her behalf. We spent the
evening yesterday with Sasha Bratersky and Dima
in the Press Club with Marina, printing up Press
Releases.
The last week has been a mottled affair with little
attendance at the exhibition, a dinner at a Georgian
restaurant near Pak Kultury. The restaurant is
signless and had I have not been directed and
escorted by a frail Stacey Anderson, the journalist
who wrote this article in The Moscow Times today,
I would never have discovered such a place. There
are sombre furnishings, the gypsy violin orchestra
and bellowing hooped women with zingara bells
and crocheted corsets in damask, and an artificial
leatherette couch. Maybe it is a place I shall return
to, with the swarthy and crooning Georgians with
their joi de vivre. Stacey suggested we put the music
to a dance-beat like Enigma.
On Tuesday night two bespectacled artists,
father and son, invited me to their studio near
Metro Nova Kuznetska. They live in a miniscule four
room garret in one of the old areas of the city near
Tretyakovskaya. The language barriers proved to be
little when there is good will and a sense of unity.
The downstairs room was covered with hangings
by the primitive people of the Ukraine. I saw calf’s
skull with diagonal interlaces and feathers à la
Sioux and they had exhibited on their side table a
collection of urns in ceramic pottery. There was also
a a hamster called Vasya, and a love of Aboriginal art
from Australia and Polynesia, along with their own
sculpture and graphic work.
Both father and son, seemed to harmoniously
coexist without the predatory nature of ego. Their
names are Mikhail and Dimitri Rivtaeva. Their art
seems to me to be an synthesis of the Mesopotamian
and primitive Polynesian. They talked about the
regional conflicts which are occurring on Russia’s
borders.
On the way home on the Metro I began to
philosophise. What is important is our relationship
to what is. Anything may act as catalyst and trigger.
It may be a flower, or a mountainside or the face
of someone upon the street. We believe that this is
an objective reality, but our relationship is formed
through the attitudes and perceptions we possess.
So everything we see in the outside world can be

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
I had stupidly kept a few
hundred dollars in the
cupboard in our bedroom.
I return home and innocently lying on the kitchen table Lydia has
left a note scrawled in pencil on a torn scrap of paper. But it was
expected.
DOMINIC AND MICHELLE TOMORROW A NEW FLAT!
Svetlana Orekhova has visited Ilya Glasunov, the
great Russian muralist and self-proclaimed genius
who took one look at the print of Millennium and
refused to accept my catalogue.
a reflection of our inner self. The world becomes
our mirror. What we see in this external world is
therefore what we cannot see in ourselves. When
we are moved to anger and to fear then we respond
because we do not understand that which is beyond
us. Fear is about our inability to accept the present
moment.
And so in painting Millennium I was allowing
us to participate and acknowledge on a global level
what is inconceivable, that we may change it. I use
the metaphor of an alcoholic. If humanity can see
its sickness just as an alcoholic may acknowledge
his or her own sickness, then this is the first and
perhaps the only step to recovery. If we see this,
not intellectually, but rather totally with our heart
and mind and soul, without judgement, then this
should provide the catalyst for the change which we
need to inspire us to do what is good and right. So if
people argue that the Millennium is a negative piece
of art, this is both my reply and argument.
I see peace occurring through the creation of
peace within the hearts of people. We have the gift
of free will and so this gift is granting us choice.
Should we simply accept that we are stupid
creatures and that six thousand wars in two
thousand years have not induced us to change?
We cannot make anyone change. We cannot make
anyone do what they do not.
At first I believed I had forgotten
or misplaced. the money but after
two occasions where it was just
disappearing I knew I was not
imaging things. But as it continued
I became aware that it was
disappearing.
Tomorrow is the arrival of Michelle. I make the
transit to the airport with Sasha and Olec. We then
travel to the Int. Press Club. Lydia had made a
special cake.
Friday, 18th February, 1994,
Moscow, Russia
I sleep in. Then I visit Press Club and afterwards
pick up Michelle. We visit the Tchaikovsky Great
Hall, then go to the Millennium exhibition and like
tourists travel to Red Square.
Saturday, 19th February, 1994,
Moscow, Russia
With Michelle we visit Olga and Rit Mitrafanova.
Pushkin Museum.

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
I had to come to the sad realisation that someone
from within had stolen the money. There was only
Sasha, Lydia, Michelle and myself.
She pointed out that I must be
schizophrenic and so asked that we
leave immediately.
Since the front door is
locked, no burglaries had
occurred
Sunday, 20th February, 1994,
Moscow, Russia
Dinner with Ritmus and Anna and Helmut and
girl from Urals in Sokhol. A man, __came up to us
and said that he will give 1,000,000 dollars for the
mural. Visit by Natalie Bebing a teacher and her
daughters.
Monday, 21st February, 1994,
Moscow, Russia
Extension—visit of Natalie Bebing again with
school children who visit exhibition.
Tuesday, 22nd February, 1994,
Moscow, Russia
And so Pasha begins by being patient
and endearing and ends by being
glazed in the eyes and saying the police
have been round demanding propiskas
(permits to live) from us and that we must
be out of here as soon as possible.
I meet a man called Vitaly who shows me his
drawings and designs. Then I go to the to Press
Club. Money is stolen again from the flat.
The other night I was walking to the shops, the
dreaded shop odyssey, the nightmare which only the
next shopping adventure can or could upstage and
as I crossed a street this was this old, frail babushka
with a white beard and little rubies pinched
between slit eyelids looked at me. Come here young
man she said without words but her arms indicating
that she needed help. Vera was her name, shopping
was her game. She asked me to walk her to the
nearest ‘Magazin’ to buy mazlo, khlep and saustkas
(Russian for butter, bread and sausages). I was
astounded that she had made it this far because she
could barely walk.
I walked her holding her by her armpits so she
would not slip on the ice, up Poskgrogo Pereulok.
It is a small street in the centre of Moscow runs
parallel to Novy Arbat. We walked together towards

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
a small, shop which was chaotically full of produce.
It took us 45 minutes to get there. She shuffled. It
seemed an inch at a time with ‘No’ to my requests
to go ahead without
her and buy the
food, but I think she
was scared I would
run away. It was the
longest crossingthe-road
I have ever
gone on . Eventually
when we arrived
they refused to let
us in. It had been
already closed by
four minutes. I was
furious. Eventually I took her to a nearby theatre.
She seemed happy and was going to wait for the
performance—all of this happened in billowing snow
tufts.
The weather has been extremely cold, 35 degrees
below zero, the coldest in fact for 100 years...there
goes the Greenpeace theory.
The BOMBSH, as they are called (the homeless)
drop dead in the streets especially if they fall
asleep outside. So it is a kind of White days except
Christmas has already been except that there is little
celebration of it here, it being a formerly Godless
and still not so Godful culture, Homo Sovietucus.
The house is warm.
Wednesday, 23rd February 1994,
Moscow, Russia
My struggles may be resolved. This period is a
test and what will arise out of it will be something
new which I cannot foresee. I must be patient and
allow whatever is to happen to arise. I know it is
a question of not giving up. One of my friends in
Australia over the telephone does not feel that the
exhibition will return to Australia. Nonetheless I
will allow for all contingencies, and not see only one
option. I must have the strength to sit this time out.
Michelle’s stay has been very special in that she has
granted us both, or rather we have granted each
other, the beauty of our company over this period. It
will be a way of dealing with these ordeals.
I must hold out and that in doing so it will be
resolved. The time is a test.
Today we visited the Federation of Peace with
Yuri Leegin, the stuttering translator, the two Borises
and Yuri Drozdov; Valodio was entranced by our gift
of the usual Stolichnaya vodka, but we deflected the
desire to toast by asking for tea. The building is like
a morgue.
Svetlana Orekhova has visited Ilya Glasunov,
the great Russian muralist and self-proclaimed
genius who took one look at the print of Millennium
and refused to accept my catalogue. We were
only attempting to find some assistance for the
exhibition, but he has seen it as too threatening to
even be able to help. He regarded the work as poor
and infantile.
7th of March, 1993, Moscow, Fadieva
Steeet Novoslodskaa Metro Moscow
I return home and innocently lying on the kitchen
table Lydia has left a note scrawled in pencil on a
torn scrap of paper. But it was expected.
DOMINIC AND MICHELLE
TOMORROW A NEW FLAT!
10th March, 1994, Pasha Tyrshkin’s
Studio, Moscow, Russia
Today was of those days where everything is
tumultuous. I sadly faxed my mother Rosemary the
precise nature of my and Michelle’s situation. We
have been asked to leave Lydia’s house and are now
staying temporarily
at Pasha’s studio.
So the difficult
times are the ones
which make the
best stories, and
are the ones that
end up in the
diary.
Money had been
disappearing from
the apartment. I
had stupidly kept a
few hundred dollars
in the cupboard
in our bedroom.
At first I believed
I had forgotten
or misplaced. the
money but after
two occasions where it was just disappearing I
knew I was not imaging things. But as it continued
I became aware that it was disappearing. Since the
front door is locked, no burglaries had occurred I
had to come to the sad realisation that someone
from within had stolen the money. There was only
Sasha, Lydia, Michelle and myself. It was unlikely it
could have been Lydia or Shell. But I did not wish
to point fingers because there was no proof…It
was disappearing….And it was a no-win situation.
Everyone was going to loose from this. The moment
I accused or at least pointed the finger at someone
she accused me of schizophrenia, that I was deluded
and vengeful. Of course how can a mother see

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Once Upon a Time in Sarajevo

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
The translator Yuri Legin from the Federation would answer
my answers with his own variation of the answer which
were often so different an answer to what I would say.
we cannot allow an ecological, biological
or nuclear holocaust, we are forced in this
one instance to become historians of the
future, to chronicle and commit to memory
an event which we have never experienced
and must never experience.
her son but in the best light? Given poor Sasha’s
economic situation it was understandable in any
case. And it was possible that he had not…Not
particularly helpful for me but anyhow as I said
everybody lost. From having $200 stolen or to
be exact $220 stolen from Lydia’s house then
another 100 et cetera…and in articulating this, it
became apparent that we were implicating without
intention her son from whom she felt only goodness
and honesty emanated. She pointed out that I
must be schizophrenic and so asked that we leave
immediately. But deep down she knew. When we
left with our suitcases in the middle of the night, she
cried, her arms around us but she had to support
her son…she was that kind of mother.
And so it was a case of having to seek asylum at
Pasha’s studio. Coldwater flat, with a porcelain pot
the size of a shoe box in which to wash and a bed
the size of a shoebox with springs which jar. And
so Pasha begins by being patient and endearing
and ends by being glazed in the eyes and saying
the police have been round demanding propiskas
(permits to live) from us and that we must be out
of here as soon as possible. We are left with little
assistance and feel as if there are few who are
prepared to help us.
Nonetheless, Olga Mitrafanova has been very
good. She has found us an apartment where will
stay. It is at the end of the railway line about an
hour out in Moscow. It is a sad lost industrial area
called Prashka. After Prague the Czech capitol.
Michelle is feeling the frustrations of living here. She
wishes to embark on photography and yet I hope
that the disappointments which can be a natural
consequence of travel do not affect her excessively.
She is strong. full of optimism and that is her asset.
Today with Michelle we went to the Sinn Model
Agency and watched fifteen awkward girls strut a tai
chi beat-it a la Mojo while we sat in the auditorium
gawking as foreigners. We then had dinner at the
Pizza Hut where I heard English accents in the
bland, middle-class, comfortable, interzone decor
but it was still a holiday from the poverty, the dirt
and bustle.
End of February 1994, Moscow
Russia
This is the speech that was given at the Press
Conference:
‘Why is it that we are here? To gratify both
mine and your careers or to seek to understand
what is true? Are we only here to share in an
experience or simply take what we desire from
that experience without returning anything? In
only taking, how can we truly communicate to
others?
In a sense, I am not here to answer your
questions bur rather help others understand
that I am here only to pose new questions and
underline the old ones.
But we have our little lives which are

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
I go off to
see Mikhail
Gorbachov next
week, perhaps
Tuesday, about the
exhibition. He has
an Institute called
The Gorbachov
Institute.
We bought one cucumber and two tomatoes today for $5.
There is a couple whom I know who have waited twenty years for
their telephone to be connected.
The broken bulbs are bought by people who take them to
their work and replace the working ones which they take
home with the broken bulbs.
surrounded by the prisons of our desires while the world around us slowly self-destructs. There is
economic rationalism and the destruction of the rainforests, there is the quest for security and the fierce
aggression of opposing nationalism which blindly cannot see the unity within diversity. There is love and
there is fear: there is peace and there is war. There is the sheer weight in numbers of people on this
planet, and our need to live with Mother Earth. The resources of this planet cannot afford to give every
one of these people a television, a video, a car, a walkman, a pair of rollerblades and a PC. Can we live
in harmony with this planet’s fragile ecosystem or will the imbalance which is now drastically altering
nature herself, continue in a vicious circle?
We cannot continue in the way that we are. Can we live within the boundaries of our true needs
or do we continue by extending the boundaries of our greed? It is our successes rather than our
failures which have created these problems. I cannot give you the answers, but sadly, neither do I see
the governments of this planet providing us with solutions. They are bent double with the immediate
problems of food and shelter.
And so I thought that the people of Russia would be blind to the message of this painting which I
have brought here. But precisely because or in spite of this suffering, the message was often understood.
I have never been so moved by the way others have been moved as I have in this country. It is
something I can never communicate to another. And so it has been my privilege to have brought this
message and exhibition to Russia.
The work speaks of both an end and a beginning. It says that since we cannot allow an ecological,
biological or nuclear holocaust, we are forced in this one instance to become historians of the future, to
chronicle and commit to memory an event which we have never experienced and must never experience.
It is in this fashion that I chose to create this work so that others would look at what might be and
choose that it should not be. The highest way to educate is to inspire. Inspiration does not interfere with
our free will.

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
The coloured window speaks of hope and it speaks of the possibility of renewal. The piece is 6 x 10
metres long with accompanying side panels which are a further 15 meters. It is being exhibited at the
Faculty of Journalism and there remains a further week for the exhibition. This work which is now
being exhibited is not the first piece. The original was destroyed in 1988 in a large fire which consumed
the C.M. Church in Melbourne, Australia.
The work says that if we acknowledge what is on a collective global archetypal level then when we
accept and acknowledge our fears, those fears lose their power over us.
When an alcoholic can simply look at himself and see that they are this alcoholic, like as unto
a mirror without denial, then this becomes both the first and the last step to healing. The very
understanding of our personal and global predicament should act as the trigger to act. And only love
and compassion can be the act which will usher this.’
Monday, 6th March, 1994, Moscow, Russia
Time seems to have passed with great speed here since I last wrote. Either I take the exhibition back to
Australia or we take it further around the world. There has been much media coverage here, some seven
television crews and nearly twice as many articles in the Russian press. In spite of this which there were not
as many people as I would have hoped who came to the exhibition. So it was a paradox. There was immense
publicity but the venue did not permit great numbers of people.
It has been good to have Michelle here—it has made the times more warm and it has given a warmth and
companionship to my moments of solitude in this strange and foreign land. I think that she is enjoying her time
here although at this moment she seems to feel that nostalgia for home and Australia which seems to sneak up
on one from behind, at the very point that we least expect it.
The exhibition comes down tomorrow after what has been nearly seven weeks. There have been a spate
of cold days and this evening, after visiting a family called Mitrafanova, we experienced a great cold—which
turned my nose into a little red clown’s. We sat around the kitchen table: Rita, Rita’s boyfriend Sergei and

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
Everything has a bustling serenity
which seems to hide its underbelly of
sublimated crime, murder, arson and
stupidity which exist side by side with
the good things.
While walking towards the Metro Station Prashkaya I
had my hair pulled as one by a punk as I walked down
the street.
Sometimes we look at the people
in the subway and it is like this
whole town has been sprinkled
by a magic powder which has
turned everyone expressionless
and blank.
her mother Olga and ate the produce of a homecooked
meal, teased the dog Philippe and absorbed
the environment. I had a press conference in the
International Press Club at the Radisson-Slovenskaya
International Hotel which was rather fun, and an
adventure. One television crew appeared and it was
screened that night a week ago on a channel called
ZXZ. The translator Yuri Legin from the Federation
would answer my answers with his own variation
of the answer which were often so different an
answer to what I would say. Dimitri, one of the IPCC
members, leaned over to Artium and said, ‘Kill the
translator’.
The future is unclear but a road will open up
soon.
Thursday, 9th March, 1994, Moscow,
Russia
The exhibition Millennium was dismantled
yesterday. This took about 3-4 days to do as there
was much to be done. Michelle helped as did my
faithful and loyal friend Sasha Bratersky and his
girlfriend. We have moved from Lydia’s because
of some problems in the household and are now
staying temporarily at Pasha’s, my artist friends
studio,. Such is life and such are adventures. We
hope to have moved by this evening and hopefully,
yet again, there will be a telephone also.
We are surrounded by friends and well-wishers
and the exhibition has had much media success,
with a press conference where Bill Clinton had one,
which was on television; the exhibition has been
on TV some ten times and about 7-8 articles on the
show as well.
Saturday, 11th March 1994, Prashka
Metro Line, Moscow, Russia
Life is the adventures. These adventures are
often the experiences which we attempt to avoid,
yet when we discuss them later they become a
history of our life. So the difficult times are the ones
which make the best stories, and are the ones that
end up in the diary.
Here we have our apartment where the snow
lingers but slowly melts. There is one bedroom and
a kitchen and shower, a television which looks like
the inside of a fishtank and a cat we have named
Coshka, which has only a portion of the charm of
Odilon or Zephyr. The apartment has been occupied
by an old couple for some years but they have, for
reasons we are both somewhat bemused by, chosen
to abscond and leave us to their little world. The
cat goes to the toilet in the bath, there is a radio
with only one radio station and linoleum patterns
everywhere seemingly—on the walls, floor, ceiling
and on the furniture.
We bought one cucumber and two tomatoes
today for $5. There is a couple whom I know who

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
I have begun to plan the new mural. This one I
shall begin in a year’s time and it will take six to
paint and create. It will be a little shorter by a few
feet, yet much longer.
A couple of days after the more recent theft of
money, the Millennium sign is stolen from the
Dyedoshka’s pantry in the Faculty of Journalism.
I witness a cripple dragging a dead leg who is
but a boy of ten that chain smokes cigarettes in
the warmth of the hall outside our apartment.
Hope is extinguished and then rekindled, like a
Moscow Winter turning into Spring.
When Michelle asks why Andrey is not sitting with
her, she simply retorts, ‘Why should he?’
have waited twenty years for their telephone to be
connected. They sell empty cans of beer and broken
light bulbs in the markets here. Why, you might
ask? The cans are to proudly present on peoples
mantelpieces to indicate how much foreign beer
they can drink. The broken bulbs are bought by
people who take them to their work and replace
the working ones which they take home with the
broken bulbs. A foundation has come through
connected with Chernobyl and I shall remain to see
whether a tour through the world will or can be
organised. It looks neither positive nor negative, as
negotiations are in their early stages. Even if this
falls, as the exhibition only finished four days ago, it
will be difficult to organise transit out of the country
at such short notice.
Life is much quieter—there remains a few
articles and journalists who are doing the odd
article, but really now it is a time where I am not
certain what will eventuate, what is going to occur.
So I sit and let the future unfold itself. Michelle
and I seem very happy together: it is a strange
adventure for both of us and at times it has a very
romantic ambience, while at other moments one
is confronted by the sheer base monstrosity of this
place.
The exhibition is down and crated although
there remains still a few items to clean and repair.
As I said in my letter to Siobhan, my sister, that I
am prepared to fly home next week for her wedding
if there is the money and return a week later. I
really do not know what is happening with the
exhibition. It seems there are a few things brewing,
but I would prefer not to speak of them just yet.
Michelle has been sick this last few days with some
unknown malady which both of us fail to be able to
identify. What it is I cannot think, except that she
is better today—full of beans and being brattish
and irresponsible and cute at the same time...but
she is always forgiven. We seem to get on very well,
which actually both surprises me and pleases me,
especially since under the circumstances of travel
people can be very incestuous and relationships

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
very claustrophobic, if only due to the exacting
nature of travel.
I went with a friend, Dima Vizhnevsky, the head
of AEGIS, a trans-European organisation, to the
theatre last night. The Pushkin Theatre, to see
the National Choreographique de France perform
some very avant garde yet somewhat dull pieces.
The press were there as were the demi monde of
Moscow or so it seemed. I go off to see Mikhail
Gorbachov next week, perhaps Tuesday, about the
exhibition. He has an Institute called The Gorbachov
Institute. All is well although at times things can
be frustrating, especially when one doesn’t have a
telephone at home.
Sunday, 12th March, 1994, Moscow,
Russia
Yesterday we, Michelle and I, dined with Vallerie
Sukharov, the bookseller. He has a small desk in the
foyer of the Faculty of Journalism and sells books
to the incoming students there. After rendezvous
at the Institute with him, we caught the Metro
through endless faceless suburbs—lost in the city
outskirts again—along the yellow line. It was dinner
in a room filled by antiquarian, gilt edged, moth
eaten and dog eared
books, all breathing
knowledge and
secret history. There
was no indication of
where the bedroom
lay; in this country
there never seems
to exist such things.
The books are
everywhere, and he
proudly showed us
his badge collection
I remember how the
mafia-owned modelling
agency Red wrote a letter
of threat to Cosmopoliltan
Agency saying that they
would blow up their office
if they used Sinn Models
instead of Red....
of some 4,000 badges, the rubber to which they
were attached decaying as I pulled the pages apart.
Vallerie is an unemployed anthropologist forced
to sell books to earn a living, his wife Natasha, a
working biologist. She has been researching ways of
breaking down oil spills through bacteria which will
eat it. My memory of the evening is of a shy woman
who excused herself, meat I could not eat, and a
beautiful mahogany mirror which looked so out of
place, and Vallerie’s mole which grew as a kind of
third eye between his eyebrows.
Tuesday, 14th March 1994, Moscow,
Russia
Yesterday was Hunter, my nephew’s, birthday—
only because Michelle dreamed of it was I able to
remember. I had dinner at Slovenskaya Radisson
where there was a moment of escape from the
squalor, if only briefly. I faxed documents at Nikolai
Scherbakov and went to a strange vegetarian
restaurant filled with dark skins—it must be the only
one of its kind—a surprise which Michelle struck
upon. Exhausted and returned here.
Today it was a case of trying to telephone the
Embassy to find some crutches for Kim, Nastia’s
boyfriend, a Korean journalist student who had been
stabbed in the thigh. Michelle is angry and disgusted
at the state of Moscow hospitals.
I also had a meeting Dima at the coffeeshop
‘Capuccine’ off Gogolosky Boulevard with Dima
Vizhnevsky. We had dinner near the Kremlin in
Moskwa Hotel.
Sometimes we look at the people in the subway
and it is like this whole town has been sprinkled
by a magic powder which has turned everyone
expressionless and blank. No emotion can be
registered, it seems.
18th March, 1994, Moscow, Russia
I am sitting in a pancake house in Ulitsa
Gerstana, which is in the centre of the city—old,
salmon pink washed houses, roadworks and
engulfing traffic—eating blinn, Russian pancakes
with a chocolate syrup with a largesse of water in it.
The Beatles or rather George Harrison’s My Sweet
Lord is on the tinkering radio, in the background. It
is a summer day of at least a happy Spring day and
my thoughts are
reaching out to the
diary.
From the
position that I am
seated I can see
the Moscovite
pedestrians
across the road
continuously
leaving the church.
Everything has a
bustling serenity
which seems to hide its underbelly of sublimated
crime, murder, arson and stupidity which exist side
by side with the good things. Moscow is getting to
be somewhat jaundiced and tiring. I am not creating
enough and so it has become constipated although,

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
A worried Nikolai Scherbakov has
telephoned me. His voice cracks on
the phone and there is an anxious
tone to his words but he cannot
explain.
...the fine imposed is 100% of the
value....I had stupidly declared
that the exhibition is worth
US$190,000.
Since we do not have the money to pay the fine the exhibition may be
impounded or confiscated by Customs. I don’t know what to do.
Both of their faces were particularly
white, with a touch of Prussian
blue…while Nikolai sat behind his
desks uncomfortably fidgeting with
a slide rule. George to one side
stood.
Apparently the Association of
Post Graduate Students of MGU
(Moscow State University) who had
auspiced the exhibition are now
responsible and must pay a fine
for the fact that the exhibition is still
remaining in the country.
at last I have begun to plan the new mural. This one I shall begin in a year’s time and it will take six to paint
and create. It will be a little shorter by a few feet, yet much longer.
As I stare out into the street through the blear of an unwashed window my mind returns to the last six
months. Today is a day of reminiscences. The memories of the last month are distant and yet immediate. While
walking towards the Metro Station Prashkaya I had my hair pulled as one by a punk as I walked down the
street. There are the dead fish eyes of people whose spirit has been extinguished. There is the passive nature
of the Metro where people are like a cattle truck of humanity. A couple of days after the more recent theft of
money, the Millennium sign is stolen from the Dyedoshka’s pantry in the Faculty of Journalism. Then another
person blesses me with a gift of a black ersatz crocodile plastic wallet. Hope is extinguished and then rekindled,
like a Moscow Winter turning into Spring.
Here are awesome, yet inhuman apartment blocks, signless, and receding as far as the curvature of the earth
and the eye can allow. Here are a drifting people which grind through habits of purchasing small groceries via
the Judas hole of free enterprise—the kiosk window. The customer sits out in the snow or the sleet or the cold
and waits. The hostility is only made apparent when you cross the border to the old world, to the West.
Still, there have been in-roads which I have built. There was a press conference at the Slovenskaya Radisson
which was televised on the Channel XZX. The loyalty and love of Michelle has been a great gift in my life and
one which had given me happiness.

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
It appears that if we can prove to them that the exhibition is non-profit with the
document which we are currently being drawn up by the Foundation for the
Children for Chernobyl and the Aral Sea we may not have to pay the fine of
190,000 US dollars.
Although the room was
clean, a thin film of
dust seemed to linger
everywhere.
He secured the blinds slightly as he seated
himself, arranging his body behind the desk like
a flower arriving to find its vase.
Some memories are of pickpockets who migrate from carriage to carriage on the late night trains, as the
plethora of drunks sleep and forget. The problems here are the inability to get things done, to even make a
telephone call. These are the petty frustrations of a simple act. I witness a cripple dragging a dead leg who
is but a boy of ten that chain smokes cigarettes in the warmth of the hall outside our apartment. I remember
Natalya Bebing, who took us to both the Circus and the Tchaikovsky Theatre to see children’s folk dancing,
with her dream of buying a house in Australia and her servant, Andrey, retarded, and who must sit apart from
her at the Theatre. When Michelle asks why Andrey is not sitting with her, she simply retorts, ‘Why should he?’
Then there is the line of chewing gum which goes up the corner of the Mitrafanova’s apartmewnt block lift.
There are the Nescafes which taste like liquid cardboard a the cost of everything; Dima Vizhnevsky’s desire to
metaphorically kill me; the continual friendships at the Faculty; Olga’s hitting of the camera while Michelle was
filming the shabbiness of the women’s toilets; the spyglasses at the Pushkin Theatre; the fake Taitlin Sculpture
at Sasha Petlura’s art compound on Petrovsky Boulevard; the thinness of the chocolate sauce over the blinn;
the telephone calls to Australia which cost $100 for five minutes; the plastic carry-all bag with the Marlboro
Man imposed upon it. There is always a proverbial generosity which gets to the point that I may be admiring
an object, a painting, or a ring only to have it pulled from the finger, detached from the wall and thrust into my
arms. This generosity is real and touching.
I remember the friendship with the loud American expatriate photographers who lived in Prospekt Mira
with the studio in their apartment, Steve and Otto Lebac, who had been wounded the night before the
storming of the White House during the attempted and aborted coup outside Ostankino.
The surreal brass cake tins soldered to the ceiling foyer of Sheremitsivo Airport; the continuing support and
loyalty of my Russian friends; the way buildings are renovated yet leave the chimneys with decaying paint.
I remember how the Mafia-owned modelling agency Red wrote a letter of threat to Cosmopoliltan Agency
saying that they would blow up their office if they used Sinn Models instead of Red; the submerged streets; the
ice falls; the endless articles and television interviews written about the exhibition; the good times and the bad;
and the energy which binds me to the place which is Moscow—like a movable tree, the roots are psychically
imprinted.
This is Russia calling dear diary. It seems as if I shall be having my birthday in this strange and perplexing
of countries. It is not a question of exciting experiences, or the orgasm of exotic architecture, but negotiating
the problems in a city of 11 million people. Buying food, tolerating the cramped Metro, stepping over the
dead bodies of frozen homeless men and carefully walking around the drunks. Every second person is drunk,
swaying, clutching a cheap bottle of alcohol which soothes the existential dilemmas of a city of unhappiness.
Their bottles are full of happiness to drown the emptiness of their unhappiness. No-one smiles and if they do,
the people resent it. When happiness invades their unhappiness people resent it.
1st May 1994, Moscow, Russia
Everything is happening at once. A worried Nikolai Scherbakov has telephoned me. His voice cracks
on the phone and there is an anxious tone to his words but he cannot explain. I must come to the Institue
immediately. It seems that the Moscow Exhibition Customs have rung his office. More shit. I must see him
immediately. it appears there are problems. Something is looming. I am not sure what.

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
‘... Have you tasted the Russian Soul and its suffering?’ he chuckled.
‘It’s tame to be a tourist here. You can taste the food but you can
never finish the meal.’
“Because of article Z B 5490 paragraph 8 your exhibition has
expired its visa deadline. You are aware that the Exhibition Customs
had granted it a visa and it was to remain here for only six months.”
3rd May, 1994, Moscow, Russia
I went to see George and Nikolai today at the
Institute of African and Asian Studies in their office.
Both of their faces were particularly white, with a
touch of Prussian blue…while Nikolai sat behind
his desks uncomfortably fidgeting with a slide rule.
George to one side stood. A pot plant behind his
head was not watered and it all seemed to reflect
the sorry state of affairs. It seems in October when
Rita had translated the customs documents she
had either failed to inform me or I had not listened
or she neglected to tell me. Either way it was not
her fault. George’s lower lip trembled….ogh fuck
I can see it coming whatever it is, its not going
to be fun. Neither of us had conceived that the
exhibition was to have been postponed and that six
months later it would still be in the country. Nikolai
explained carefully. Apparently the Association of
Post Graduate Students of MGU (Moscow State
University) who had auspiced the exhibition are now
responsible and must pay a fine for the fact that the
exhibition is still remaining in the country. The visa
and time allotment is to protect the country from
illegal sale of luxury items. For example if a Mazareti
or Ferrari car is imported into the country it must
exit the country within five or six months unless
its sale is declared or it is clear the car has lefty the
country otherwise the fine imposed is 100% of the
value of the car. I had stupidly declared that the
exhibition is worth US$190,000. It was my strategy
to show the Customs on entry that there were no
drugs hidden in the cases. What a mistake I have
made. Those poor bureaucrats have been lumbered
with my mistake but I must do the best to help
us all.

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
21st of May, 1994,
Moscow, Russia
Today the flat burnt
down. It was my
birthday.
6th May, 1994, Moscow, Russia
Since we do not have the money to pay the fine
the exhibition may be impounded or confiscated by
Customs. I don’t know what to do.
7th of May, 1994, Moscow,
Russia
Customs have waived the fine. I
must pay a 500 dollar fine instead.
Everything seems in order thankfully.
I rang Misha Mitrafanova who is a lawyer
and Yuri Drozdov who has found a lawyer also. I
am armed with multiple documents. Like paper
bullets. I telephoned Dima Vizhnevsky, the Director
of AEGIS a trans-European organisation. Dima‘s
English is impeccable and he has decided to help
with the problems with customs. I think we can
iron it all out. I’m feeling positive the nightmare
will be short lived... It appears that if we can prove
to them that the exhibition is non-profit with the
document which we are currently being drawn up
by the Foundation for the Children for Chernobyl
and the Aral Sea we may not have to pay the fine
of 190,000 US dollars. It is around a quarter of a
million Australian dollars. What a fool I am.
8th of May, 1994, Moscow
Customs, Russia
We visited Russian Customs today. I met Dima
Vizhnevsky today outside the customs. He was
standing fidgeting morosely outside the Customs,
a two-storey vanilla brick Georgian edifice and a
stunted, unpruned fig tree which grew next to
the front door. Raising a eyebrow he twitched
uncomfortably and with only a nod of greeting
turned with me and we entered the uncomfortable
Bureau. An elderly matron, smartly dressed in
a monochrome suit was already waiting in the

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
The fire brigade came and put out the fire. Of course. they stole the video
camera in the process or perhaps saw it as payment, who knows. It seems
I must pay for the renovation. There is no insurance. Olga’s aunt whom we
have rented the apartment from is away for a holiday.
Everything was gone except a few documents and the
clothes on us.
Seriosha Sergei her boyfriend ...looked at me and
smiled a broad beaming smile then looked back at the
charred remains. Smiled again and then said :
’Happy Birthday Dominic!’
The fire had been started either by the television which had
exploded or the washing machine. Either way it had happened.
We rang Olga and Misha who drove immediately over here.
corridor. The flourescent tubes above her were all lit except one down the other end, which flickered morosely.
The scuffed linoleum was blood red and the walls were painted unevenly a kindergarten green. I stood beside
Dima. An under-secretary at the end of the corridor looked up at us over her reading glasses, squinted and
shuffled some papers. She rose. Just as he vanished behind a door, I snatched a fleeting image of the bureaucrat
we were to see passing across the hall. He reappeared with a blotched ruddy face and arms outstretched,
looking for all the world as if we were his long-lost friends, calling Dima’s surname and patronymic. The woman
who had been seated spoke, announcing our arrival. He bowed and with an extended arm directed us into his
office. The door closed and a fat Chesterfield sofa and square mahogany desk with glass top shuddered against
the daylight. He secured the blinds slightly as he seated himself, arranging his body behind the desk like a
flower arriving to find its vase. Although the room was clean, a thin film of dust seemed to linger everywhere.
The time was 12.17 pm. I gazed up at him to see him smile back vacuously as if to reassure me of his utter
benevolence. I beamed back.
An exhibition of Ferraris had been misallocated and two Italian bureaucrats wheezed on their cigars
conferring with their translator, a young clean-shaven boy of perhaps seventeen with John Lennon glasses and a
stooped walk who explained to them. Then abruptly everyone left the room.
I sat on the sofa looking at the Tamozhnin’s silhouette delineated against the window-framed sky. I lay my
hands on my lap like a dog turning its stomach to a predator, whining as if defeated. Dima sat beside me. His
miniature black fountain pen was the only object lying on the blotting pad. He coughed. I likened his pen to a
drawbridge across the moat, which as he twirled it seemed to be indecisively lifted up and then dropped. A cat
playing delectably with its mouse.
The Tamozhnin commenced: ‘Good day citizens. My name is Citizen Titchikoff: Vladimir Nikolaivich
Titchikoff. So you are the artist. Have you tasted the Russian Soul and its suffering?’ he chuckled. ‘It’s tame to
be a tourist here. You can taste the food but you can never finish the meal.’
Dima Vishnevski stifled a suppressed cough. But this was one was about to become a tragedy in two parts.
He had the pamphlet for the exhibition spread over his lap. Every couple of sentences he would
disinterestedly peruse it, abstractly turning a page looking down and then up, to continue his interview.
‘It was an accident. I am sure that the Exhibition Customs are aware of this. I am sorry and I will do
anything to make amends.’
‘Because of article Z B 5490 paragraph 8 your exhibition has expired its visa deadline. You are aware that

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
We are staying with a
friend Daria Lebar. She
is someone Michelle and
I had met in the club
‘Sexton FODZ’ a month
ago and Michelle had
kept in touch.
She had been
wounded by a
sniper in Sarajevo
and had been
recuperating in the
Mayo Clinic before
she came here on
holiday.
the Exhibition Customs had granted it a visa and it was to remain here for only six months.’
‘I was not aware that exhibition had visas, let alone passports’, I thought to myself.
‘I am sorry. My original translator either failed to inform me, or I misunderstood.’ I railed. ‘We were both
unaware that things would take this long. So in her defence she may have told me.’
‘A visa is not irrelevant...the rules are not irrelevant. And because the visa of exhibition has expired its date
the rules dictate that a fine must be paid. It is that simple.’
‘But Sir...’
Dima then explained the nature of the exhibition. He sat, with an ear queerly cocked to one side. He
listened to Dima’s explanation and softened. It seems as if all will be well. He explained that if we can prove the
exhibition is non-profit the fine will not be levied.
It was over and I had to return home. I said my goodbye to Dima Vizhnevsky, turned and retraced my
footsteps, deciding not to go that way. Instead I trudged, bracing myself against the numbing cold, along
Gertsena Street, passing the forlorn ice cream vendors whose ice cream tasted like whale fat, and a small
antiquarian bookseller situated in a faux wood-inlaid Formica kiosk on the Ring Road. The street was full of
both sorrow and unsalvaged expectations.

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
We are moving around a bit at the moment due
to the fact that the apartment is being renovated
after the fire and we must wait for its completion.
I feel the exhibition is jinxed because of the
bizarre events which surround me...
15th May, 1994, Moscow, Russia
Customs have waived the fine. I must pay a
500 dollar fine instead. Everything seems in order
thankfully.
21st May, 1994, Moscow, Russia
Today the flat burnt down. It was my birthday.
22nd of May 1994 Prashkaya
end of the Metro Line, Moscow
I wonder whether anyone can read these words,
as the Metro is rocking backwards and forwards.
As it does so, so does my handwriting. (We have
just arrived at Metro Prospekt Mira.)
I guess its hard to write but writing makes it
easier. We are still recovering from the ordeal. We
had to leave today for a friends house. Our clothes
are either burnt or destroyed or covered by soot.
The fire brigade came and put out the fire. Of
course they stole the video camera in the process or
perhaps saw it as payment, who knows. It seems I
must pay for the renovation. There is no insurance.
Olga’s aunt whom we have rented the apartment
from is away for a holiday. She and her husband
return in three months time. Two of the rooms
have been destroyed completely. The foyer in the
front was left in tact. And the kitchen is only smoke
damaged.
So where do I begin? Afggh yes… a telephone
call from my mother on the 21st yesterday to wish
me happy birthday…She is worried and rather than
wishing Happy Birthday steps into a tirade about
how I should not be here in Moscow. I must return
and cut my losses. Find a real job and stop this folly
which has sent me to the far corners over the earth.
‘Come and start painting again’, she implores me.
After I had hung up the phone feeling
disgruntled and out of sorts Michelle had made a
picnic and before leaving we located a clothes drier
for some of our wet clothes that was in the hall.
We switched on the drier and left. The outskirts of

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
...it was decided that there would be no criminal proceedings and that
no payment would be asked. Nonetheless one certainly hits the panic
button when asked to pay nearly a quarter of a million dollars for a
mistake in the Customs documents.
So it was a case of
finding lawyers, guns
and money—otherwise
the exhibition was to be
impounded.
Prashka are hardly scenic. Nuclear reactors pumping
hot water into the systems of Moscow, an outdoor
market and a cemetery are the three tourist hot
spots that no one in their right mind except two
crazy foreigners would frequent.
We visited the outdoor market but it was closed.
We ended up having a picnic beside the cemetery.
A drunk was dead beside the road. Everything
was weird that day even before we returned. On
the bus people seemed to look at us strangely. Or
maybe I’m imagining it. Anyhow as we climbed the
stairs I saw the front door had two crosses of wood
hammered across it. We broke down the door and
it was apparent that the fire had ripped through the
apartment. Luckily someone in the flats had called
the fire brigade who had doused the flames and
thrown the wet smouldering contents of the living
room and our bedroom into the park four floors
below. It was a charred mess inside. Everything was
gone except a few documents and the clothes on
us. Michelle was in tears blaming me for not being
compassionate enough.
The fire had been started either by the television
which had exploded or the washing machine. Either
way it had happened. We rang Olga and Misha who
drove immediately over here. They stood outside
in the hall viewing the charred remains. Rita had
brought the wild but loveable Seriosha Sergei her
boyfriend with her. He looked at me and smiled
a broad beaming smile then looked back at the
charred remains. Smiled again and then said :
’Happy Birthday Dominic!’
23rd May 1994, Moscow, Russia
We are staying with a friend Daria Lebar. She is
someone Michelle and I had met in the club ‘Sexton
FODZ’ a month ago and Michelle had kept in touch.
She has now offered to look after us as we are
homeless. We are staying in the third floor flat of
her boyfriend, a Brazilian interior decorator. There
are now four of us in this flat. Summer is coming.
She had been wounded by a sniper in Sarajevo and
had been recuperating in the Mayo Clinic before
she came here on holiday. She is strong and it is
wonderful that she has chosen to help us at such a
dark time.
8th June, 1994, Moscow, Russia
I am a tired of being here and my enthusiasm
for the project Millennium is waning. Nonetheless I
will see out the next three months and wait to see
whether it will bear fruit. I shall endeavour to fax
the English translation of the contract, some kind of
idea of what my commitments both are and are not.
It is not binding, and can be dissolved an any point
in time. It grants me a livelihood and if after this
first period of four months we have not been able to
raise money by both the Children of Chernobyl and
myself then the contract will be dissolved. Moscow
now seems a place to endure rather than enjoy, but
I know that this is more a case of my state of mind

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
Last night I spent the
evening with a 70 year
old Russian artist from
the Ukraine, rather his
daughter and our friend
Natalya Bebing, being
shown drawings from a
children’s orphanage
Artium, a Russian boy (half Polish, one quarter Jewish
and one quarter Gypsy and the rest whatever you like)
spent three hours looking for one envelope
Daria Lebar
Originally we were to return to the apartment last week but
the woman with whom we were staying, a Slovenian journalist
named Daria Lebar, had been wounded in the war in Bosnia
had had a relapse.

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
than its actual physical properties.
We are moving around a bit at the moment due
to the fact that the apartment is being renovated
after the fire and we must wait for its completion.
So my telephone number now until the end of
the week is (095) 287 6565. It was not that it was
incorrect, but that we simply had to move out with
undue notice given. So it has been a case of being
a little like gypsies—from apartment to apartment
these last two weeks. This week I am hoping to visit
an icon painter to study his craft, a sculptor who
was an exponent of the vast monumental bronze
sculptures which have come to be associated so
much with the former Soviet tyranny of imperialism
and totalitarianism.
I rang the Australian Embassy—Louise O’Keefe
said it was agreed that we can send the posters to
Canberra. There was confusion about the posters
in that Sep Westerhaus, the person responsible for
the small grant had thought that it was 40 separate
parcels. I assured Louise that we would send in one
roll 30-40 posters.
25th June, 1994, Moscow, Russia
I am on the Metro, on the way to the family
Mitrafanova to pay the father for his services in
helping me to draw up the contract between the
Children of Chernobyl Foundation and I. So Misha
Mitrafanova was the lawyer who assisted in the
transactions. I wonder whether anyone can read
these words, as the Metro is rocking backwards and
forwards. As it does so, so does my handwriting. (We
have just arrived at Metro Prospekt Mira.)
I feel the exhibition is jinxed because of the
bizarre events which surround me—or maybe these
events are part of my destiny—at other times I see
it as life in its unfathomable mystery. A league of
permutations may arise in my mind. Originally I
had believed that the events surrounding the mural
had been appeased, but six weeks ago difficulties
surfaced. In this instance it was to prove not so
dreadful as what I had first anticipated. It seems
everything in this country can never be ascertained
from the original events. Nothing is truly fixed and
everything is in flux and fluid. Even if one is to be
charged with murder it is not until the events have
truly gone through all their cycles that the final
outcome be ascertained. My fears do not manifest
themselves, by virtue of the volatility and flux of
events here. So what began as a small Customs
problem has grown into a significant and highly
volatile event. My translator Rita had failed to tell
me of the fact that the exhibition, like any visitor to
this country, must possess a visa. The visa was for
six months, a period of time which passed on the 1st
May 1994. (I am on a rickety trolley car returning
from the Mitrafanova’s to the International Press
Center at the Slovenska Hotel. Change of scene.)
Not being told that the visa was to expire we
had no means of informing the authorities that I
wished the exhibition to remain. So upon the day of
it being overdue we were informed that there had
to be a fine to be paid to the Customs authorities.
I asked how much that amount of money was.
I was told that the fine was generally 100% of the
price of the exhibition. That is, the amount which
was written on the Customs forms which specified
how much the exhibition was valued at. Since we
had written that the Millennium exhibition was
valued at US$190,000 then that was the amount
which I was being asked to pay—around $250,000
Australian—clearly that was out of the question.
So it was a case of finding lawyers, guns
and money—otherwise the exhibition was to
be impounded. Eventually, through multiple
negotiations between the Russian Customs
Authority and the Association of Post Graduate
Students who had brought me here, it was decided
that there would be no criminal proceedings and
that no payment would be asked. Nonetheless one
certainly hits the panic button when asked to pay
nearly a quarter of a million dollars for a mistake in
the Customs documents.
Nonetheless I must take responsibility.
So crazy times indeed. The story is still
unloading itself. On Friday the second document
which grants us an amnesty and further
postponement became lost—at least it was only a
temporary situation—the document was found and
Dominic was relieved. Although it triggered a whole
retinue of signals of fear and expectation within me.
The relief which was awakened upon reprieve I can
assure you was immense.
25th June, 1994, Moscow, Russia
Life is full of the highs and lows, but that is
Moscow. Michelle is well and we are currently
about to return this day on Sunday to our original
apartment Prashka after it has been renovated
after the fire. During our stay it seemed as if the
building required reconstruction and so after due
reconstruction we will be back.
The nights are white as in St. Petersburg with
only three hours of darkness. The days are very
windswept and the rain always comes in the
afternoons. I am busy doing small drawings as well
as trying to raise sponsorship—although this has
been relegated mostly to Michelle. We are hoping to
get away to the countryside to a dacha for a much
needed break, in the not too distant future. It is

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
possible we may even spend a month there, but I
shall let you know in due course.
Originally we were to return to the apartment
last week but the woman with whom we were
staying, a Slovenian journalist named Daria Lebar,
had been wounded in the war in Bosnia had had
a relapse. She had been in a coma for six months
and had only been out of hospital for a further eight
months when she had relapsed. We had to take her
to hospital and these last days have been involved in
her rehabilitation. Apparently the seizure had been
connected to the original accident.. So it has been
a case of dealing with her problems and seeing that
she will be okay.
7th July, 1994, Moscow, Russia
All is well, gruesome, torpid and interesting, dull
and invigorating. I have been sitting trying to fax for
the last two hours to various countries and in that
time one fax was released. Artium, a Russian boy
(half Polish, one quarter Jewish and one quarter
Gypsy and the rest whatever you like) spent three
hours looking for one envelope. Every shop did not
possess any.
Last night I spent the evening with a 70 year
old Russian artist from the Ukraine, rather his
daughter and our friend Natalya Bebing, being
shown drawings from a children’s orphanage—truly
beautiful.
12th August, 1994, Moscow, Russia
A Salvador Dali retrospective has hit town.
Solzhenitsyn arrived yesterday in Moscow .... tva la
la. Also we are going to spend some days in a dacha
... sure, says Michelle with great sarcasm! She says
that I’ve been saying this since before she came!
their etchings but seem more interested in getting
very drunk in the evenings and sitting on one of the
verandahs.
The day before yesterday we spent the time
in the woods visiting an orphanage with Natalya
Bebing. It was a touching experience with brilliantly
coloured covers in the same colour. Each bedroom
was a different colour—greens with quilts and
alligator slippers. Here were these specially
humungous and kitsch posters of photographic
panoramas of nature. A very beautiful child of four
called Estelle who had been abandoned by her
mother, touched us deeply. She came up to me and
the first words that she said were: ‘My mother came
here once but she has not returned.’ And then there
was a little boy who, Estelle told me, would destroy
each of his shoes consecutively. I did drawings for
some of the children before we left.
16th August, 1994, Moscow, Russia
It is a Sunday, there are pigeons on the verandah
of the hotel at which I am staying. I can hear the
sound of a train faintly in the distance and at the
same time I am attempting to teach Michelle, who
is here with me, the rudiments of French. It is a
confusing task, attempting to speak words of French
and simultaneously write to the diary but not
impossible.
The continual double-bind and Catch 22 of this
place requires that I possess a sense of irony above
and beyond duty. A friend of ours, an American,
Aaron, a journalist from the International Press Club
and Center was unable to get his ticket without a
visa to return to the country. He was unable to get
the visa without possessing a ticket showing he was
to return to the country.
14th August, 1994, Moscow, Russia
I am here in a village about 60 kilometres north
east of Moscow. The village has only 50 people, trees
that stand tall and dogs which sleep all day under
porches. There are long white nights and that lazy
summer ambivalence which comes from not being
in the seven lanes of a one-way street in Moscow. It
is such a relief to have, even if it is only three days
in the country. The hotel is very cheap, perhaps $7
per day, and it is actually an artists’ colony in that
the building is meant for people to work. There is a
billiards room and etching and lithography presses.
A group of German art students and their professors
from Stuttgart are here. They sit and pretend to do

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
Dominic Ryan
Pavel Tyrishken
Graham Blackmore
Hamish Appleby
Victoria Trooshina
Yuri Drozdov
Olga Mitrafanova

M I N U T E S T O WA R : Robinson Crusoe in Moscow
Minutes to War
The Diary of a Gonzo Diplomat
1. Moscow 1994
2. Sarajevo 1995
3. Israel-Palestine 1997
4. Kosovo-Albania 1999
5. Cyprus 2000
6. Qaliya 2001 - Jerusalem 2002
7. The Peace Project
Seven Diaries by Dominic Ryan
Edited by Christopher Race
Graphic Design by Walter Ochoa -
Leigh Woodburgess - Pat
Photographs by Dominic Ryan - Daniel Rosenthal -
Tycho Sierra - Deaudeaux - Firouz Malekzadeh -
UN forces Cyprus & Madeline Garlick–Tahir Gambis -
Hamish Appleby
© Dominic Ryan 2005
This is an inhouse publication for private purposes only.
The Peace Project
5 Bedford Street Collingwood 3066 Victoria Australia