- Poet. Winner of the Andrei Bely Literary Prize (2001).
- In the early 1970s studied at the biological faculty of Leningrad University, then at the philological faculty of Gorky University. Since 1976 he was a laborer, worked as an elevator operator, librarian, laboratory assistant. Member of the literary association D.Ya. Gift and the Religious and Philosophical Seminar by T.M. Goricheva.
- In 1979 he was first imprisoned in a psychiatric hospital, in 1981 - in a special psychiatric hospital on Arsenalnaya Street, where he spent two years. He began to compose poetry in 1984, for several years he wrote over four hundred poems. Since 1991, he was almost constantly in a psychiatric hospital, where he spent almost a quarter of a century, until his death. He was helped, looked after by A.L. Meisel, poets Elena Schwartz, Viktor Krivulin, Yulia Lanskaya... In recent years, after the progression of the disease, he did not write poetry.
- A well-known representative of St. Petersburg uncensored poetry. Most of the works are free verse. His work is called by the writer M. Ya. Sheinker "The Collective Unconscious of the "Second Culture"". The first poems were published in the samizdat magazine Obvodny Kanal (1986, No. 9) and in the Volga magazine (1992, No. 5/6). In 1998, the 1st collection - "Poems" was published, in 2000 - the 2nd collection - "Vasily Filippov's Poems", in 2002 - "Selected Poems" and in 2011 - the last, fourth - "Poems" (this included works, written in 1984-1985).
- Died August 13, 2013. He was buried at the Smolensk Orthodox cemetery.
Boris Smelov. Photo portrait of Vasily Filippov. Photo from the mid-1970s.
Vasily Filippov. 2011. Photo by Olga Zikrat (Photo from www.echo.msk.ru)
In Leningrad, artists and poets live in their holes,
They leave the stage
And they raise children with female cyclamen faces.
Here I wandered through the ring city
With a cat on a leash
Along the Summer Garden to the river.
Is it worth remembering?
To write in a notebook?
For the future reader to come to sleep in it?
Is it worth living?
Maybe a narcissistic doppelgänger awaits me beyond death
And I will merge with his face
And I will become a father.
Our walks along the Summer Garden will die.
I know one thing: the reward is waiting HERE,
If I kiss an emerald.
What did your cracked lips say,
It turned out in the convolutions of my brain,
But longing-boa constrictor obscured the stars.
What are my feelings?
It's sad to remember them.
But it's scary to die.
I have to look at the wall THERE for all eternity.
The skies will open.
In the meantime, wasps suck my brain.
How many cigarettes have I smoked
Until I crawled to the typewriter.
I will die and everything will die with me.
How vision came to life when the Magi walked
Behind the Star of Bethlehem.
Vision used to rejoice at palaces,
And now people are scattered through the forests,
And he dies in the Titian Museum.
Is it true that there is still meaning
On the bottom of a beer bottle?
Is it true that the silk nets did not break?
Is it true that your lips are not cold yet?
Is it true that people once lived in this city?
Please enable JavaScript to view theAbout the poems of Vasily Filippov
collective unconscious
"second culture"
V. Filippov. Poems. St. Petersburg: Association "New Literature" and TO "Red Sailor", 1998.144 p. 500 copies
With the care of a few friends of the poet, with great difficulty and a fair delay, the first collection of poems by Vasily Filippov was published in St. Petersburg. This name still says little to lovers of poetry. But, according to VICTOR KRIVULIN, there will be nothing surprising if in a hundred years from all our so-called "second culture" of the 60-80s. it will be the only one left. The poetry of Vasily Filippov, according to the exact definition of Mikhail Sheinker, is "the collective unconscious of Russian unofficial culture."
"Kommersant"
Vasya Filippov, a young man of extraordinary, angelic beauty, a young man of extraordinary, angelic beauty, at first wrote prose - short and very strange stories. Since 1973, he has been constantly, although imperceptibly, as if by a shadow, present at the poetry readings of Schwartz, Okhapkin, Mironov, Stratanovsky, Shelvakh. Subsequently, all of them will become characters in his poems. He is loved but not taken seriously. Filippov's first public appearances were regular reports at a religious-philosophical seminar in 1976, the first publications were theological studies in the 37 magazine. In the late 70s - a sudden and unmotivated mental breakdown. Since then, he practically does not leave psychiatric hospitals. Almost everything that he wrote in poetry was created either in psychiatric hospitals or during short (no more than two or three months) periods of life in the wild. The corpus of his texts is enormous. Most of it is kept in the Manuscript Department of the Pushkin House, the smaller part is kept by friends. This book is based on the texts kept by Asya Lvovna Meisel.
When recording, Vasily Filippov does not distinguish between his texts - they go in a continuous stream, as if he has been writing one book in one breath all his life, producing a single statement, without pauses and spaces. Filippov's poems are a record of unceasing inner speech. He himself did not read his texts aloud. I just brought them and waited patiently for others to read them. Silently. His “unvoicedness” lived in defiance of the fashion for the sounding word, leaving out the imitation of the psalmist performance inherent in most St. Petersburg poets of this generation. The fundamental soundlessness of Filippov's poetic speech is a consequence of the inner freedom he achieved. Freedom to such an extent that a normal person simply could not bear it, because it is impossible to live on the verge of self-destruction and ultimate self-expression.
I don't know any purer verses in Russian poetry, more defenseless and devoid of any kind of conventionality. In fact, we have before us the first real Russian free verse, since free verse here is not so much a formal concept as a meaningful one. Verbal lack of will and amorphousness, these generic vices of Russian free verse, formally present in Filippov, are unrecognizably transformed in his poetics, transforming into a powerful dictate of some kind of transpersonal creative will and the fluid harmony of organismic education.
The organic nature of his texts is not chaos at all, as it might seem at first glance. This is a very complex system with a fundamentally non-isolated internal structure. An attempt to isolate it is tantamount to killing the elusive meaning. But at the same time, Filippov's texts are highly meaningful. Their true meanings are not imposed, but groped for, and the tactile trembling of the word under the fingers of a blind reader creates an artistic effect, the equal of which I do not know in contemporary poetry.
Filippov has many quotations, mostly an echo of Petersburg poetry of the 1970s and 1980s, nothing to do with the latest postmodern technique of the ironic "centone". Alien speech in these verses is evidence of love, not irony and banter. The poet does not mock or imitate. He appropriates "someone else's" by the right of a shadow participant in the process. This shadow over time, as the flesh becomes thinner and the soul gets tired, becomes more and more radiant.
Viktor Krivulin
Petersburg dreams
The existence of poetry in the last 10-15 years has sharply raised the question of the possibilities of traditional lyrics. Conceptualism and minimalism, multiplied by irony as the basis of attitude to the world, on the one hand, and rhythmic intellectual and philological studies, on the other, made the phenomenon of direct lyrical expression rare. In any case, the poet must today not only overcome the inertia of tradition, but also prove his right to exist within the framework of this tradition. And here, of course, traditionalism is determined not by the presence of meter and rhyme in poetry, but by the character of the lyrical hero: before us is an actor's mask, an image or a certain “I” with my thoughts and feelings.
There is a crisis - the lyrical hero turns out to be unnecessary, superfluous. One of the ways to overcome the crisis, probably, can be the rejection of reflection. Relatively speaking, the poet is likened to a musher-singer: “What I see is what I sing”, but the gaze is directed both outside and inward, this is the look of a man of culture, whose naivety is complicated by associations, memory of books read, pop-up quotes and mythologems flickering a little to the side dreams:
When I drive through Leningrad
I remember you,
As if you were hiding behind the walls -
And cyclamens wither for three weeks.
Neva, like a vein,
Hears me
And it seems to me - I'm on the roof of the Pamirs.
This is the beginning of a poem by Vasily Filippov, one of the most original poets of the Leningrad "second culture", whose only book so far came out in mid-1998. The book includes poems written in 1984-1990 - a kind of lyrical diary, almost documentary daily entries: “There was Asya Lvovna. / I fed her poetry”; “So he lived on a trip to Pechory. / Spring has come"; “Today I will read Fedorov”; "A Crazy Evening / After a Beer and a Meeting". And so on and so forth. The themes of the poems are common: love, death, memory. An unusual feature of the poet's vision, transforming Leningrad in the late 80s into a mystical vibrating space, where everyday realities, dreams and visions are mixed. The poems are permeated with a sense of death, the finiteness of human existence and faith in an afterlife. The usual situation for Soviet-Russian urban life
A pipe burst at the Komendant airfield.
The cold flooded the icons-apartments.
Cold-ash
turns into a harbinger of the end of time:
The Creator created the earth, but left it without heating
Until Sunday
And in the cited poem, and in others, a mystery is going on: an angel, dying, becomes a man ("Dream of Preexistence"), a poodle - a spirit that materializes "in a dog / Inside a thorn bush" ("Memory of Yasha"). In the poem “History and Leningrad”, death already lies in wait for poetry itself, and the city, and the country: “Maybe our poetry is in Leningrad / Last splashes, Last sparkles. “...” Tomorrow the Bronze Horseman will be demolished / And Eugene will return. / Tomorrow we will meet in the church last.”
Everything is moving towards an inevitable end, and Vasily Filippov writes a chronicle of his life, life in the outskirts of St. Petersburg, in a psychiatric clinic, in a community of underground poets. His poems are a story exploding with unexpected metaphors and abrupt plot twists. The verse is natural, like breathing, intermittent, uneven, nervous. The words mysteriously flicker and take on a different meaning. The empty shell comes to life and is filled with new content.
Quiet, Lord, quiet
So the dodder crunches on the teeth
In this world
But I'm not alone
My room is with me
Thick volumes
Like at home
Where darkness hides
City where live letters
Clocks are walking down the street
They wear crosses.
Thus ends the book. A book of naked, defenseless, living poems. The poet Vasily Filippov flows completely, without a trace, into the text, into pure sound; he goes into his dreams, from where only a voice comes, free and light. Perhaps this is the last refuge of poetry - the human voice.
Andrey Uritsky (Znamya magazine No. 1. 1999)
Vasily Filippov
Dates of life and creativity
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Father - Anatoly Kuzmich Filippov. Mother - Adelia Ivanovna Filippova (died tragically in December 1983). In the summer of 1980, he was assigned to a psychiatric hospital named after Kashchenko in the village of Nikolskoye near Gatchina. From the end of March 1981 to June 1983 he was in a special hospital on Arsenalnaya Street for escaping from the Kashchenko hospital. 1984-1986 - a period of active creativity. In 1984 he wrote 188 poems, in 1985 - 174, in 1986 - 46. Being at large, Vasily was friends with the poets Viktor Krivulin, Elena Schwartz, Alexander Mironov, Alexei Shelvakh, Sergei Stratanovsky and others. Currently located in the 3rd city psychiatric hospital named after. Skvortsova-Stepanova (since Christmas 1993, hopelessly). Poems by Vasily Filippov (through the efforts of his friends) were published in magazines: "Arion" (Moscow), Obvodny Canal (Leningrad), "Volga" (1992, No. 5-6, p. 22-29), "Bulletin of New Literature" (1992, No. 4, pp. 89-103), "Bulletin of New Literature" (1994, No. 8, pp. 161-168). In 1998, the first book of the poet was published: Vasily Filippov. Poems. - St. Petersburg: Association "New Literature" and TO "Red Sailor", 1998, - 144 p. 500 copies |
Valery Shubinsky
The poet Vasily Filippov died. About his victory over time - VALERY SHUBINSKY
I never knew Vasily Filippov (although it could very well have been: the same city, adjacent literary circles, a relatively close age; however, of course, the distance between twenty and thirty is much greater than between forty-eight and fifty-eight years). And (more importantly) I read his poems (written mainly in 1984-1986) five to seven years late.
Maybe this creates the right distance? Poems - real poetry - after all, not for someone who knows too thoroughly about what they (not for literary scholars? - but their knowledge is usually illusory). However, most of the readers in this case know and remember even less. For example, I wonder how Filippov’s poem “An Evening in the Writers’ Union” is perceived by a person who was not at this evening of Elena Schwartz and Viktor Krivulin in 1985 and does not remember exactly how
Botvinnik bitch
Gave the poets a slap
(actually not a "bitch", of course, but an old Soviet writer, sincerely frightened of unseen creatures - real poets with their unpredictable language and metaphors that require a vivid reader's imagination) and which one credo stated with a lower case named shiraly?
To understand the poems of the same Schwartz, all these details mean nothing. Her poetry - like almost any great poetry - rose above reality, released from it the truly high, as a Kabbalist releases divine sparks from a clip, built small worlds with their own inner space, their own flow of time. For many poets of the next generation - just a few years younger than Filippov - the movement of being was by definition a disintegration, a movement into emptiness, into darkness, and they saw their goal in creating ring structures, closed, stopping time, in maximum separation from the surrounding reality ( including from the non-lyrical part of one's own inner world) - rhythmic, strophic, linguistic.
And Filippov, it seems, did not argue and did not compromise with external time - he merged with it, identified himself. And therefore, no recurrence - the movement of lyrical thought corresponds to what (an example of the vulgarization of a literary term) is commonly called stream of consciousness. The transition from text to text corresponds to the flow of life, consisting of love, reading, say, Proust or Platonov, communicating with friends, visiting poetry evenings and bohemian coffee houses (beautiful? But here again nothing can be explained to outsiders, one must remember the blissful and terrible taste of small doubles and Alexander stripes, and the stench of those gateways, and the emptiness of those pavements, and ...) - and periodic hits in psychiatric hospitals. But now I don’t want to talk about this, about madness.
Self-identification does not mean that the passage of time is not perceived as decay.
History fled to Moscow
And stops there gradually
jerks,
Old heart.
And the famous one:
In Leningrad, artists and poets live in their holes,
They leave the stage
And they raise children with female cyclamen faces.
Yes, only this way. Hopelessness. And at the same time, trust - trust in what will be on the other side of the collapse. The belief that this is not the end yet, that there, beyond the point of death, some other story awaits us:
Tomorrow they will demolish the Bronze Horseman
And Eugene will return.
Trust means trust in the language. Not an attempt to create other a language that is more or less in conflict with the language of everyday life or the middle book language, and the courage to surrender to this language and digest and regenerate it “on the go”: not to turn it inside out, parodying or semi-parodying in Oberiutian, but simply enliven with your wisely naive breath what already, it seems, is not revived in any way and in any way. The poem "History and Leningrad" (quoted twice above) begins - what a horror! - line:
A poet in a totalitarian state...
And it does not interfere with anything - excellent poems.
Such a concentration of texts filled with eschatological tension could be unbearable even for a completely healthy consciousness.
If you believe that Filippov is, as they say, “the collective unconscious of the “Second Culture”, then it is like this: trust in the fleeting time (and in the words of this time), based on the belief that this time - maybe the last of the world and God (which means it is real and important). Today it is hard to believe it, but the feeling of the “end times”, the approaching doomsday was quite common in the eighties. If you like, you can prove it with citations. Filippov - well, for example:
Everything is mixed up - Chernyshevsky Crystal Palace
And the Stalinist house.
And you, too, will be there, beyond the horizon,
Where my words don't reach
But my severed head stretches there.
No, of course, this is not the collective unconscious. This is just the path of one poet, which, it turns out, is also capable of leading and leading to victory - victory over time. From within in this case. And I don’t want to talk about madness, so that no one would consider this monumental and refined verbal “lubok” a variant of “art brut”. No, this is a phenomenon of conscious, main, healthy art.
Moreover, Filippov could write differently - and sometimes wrote. Closed, anthological poems. Such as the amazing "Butterfly":
I look at the sky. Eyes open on their own
Like two dahlias.
Maybe the reason for this is the movement of the clouds,
What pushes the eyeball to the bridge of the nose,
Where does the butterfly sit?
Do not frighten her, do not frighten the sky.
Another thing is that such a concentration of texts filled with eschatological tension (hundreds - in two years!) could turn out to be unbearable even for a completely healthy consciousness. Maybe at the time of creation it seemed like autotherapy. But this medicine is dangerous. However, here it depends a little on the choice of the poet: whoever is caught by the wave, he can no longer always resist it.
One way or another, the disease won. Now you can about her. Only that Filippov's latest photographs look a bit like a portrait of old Batyushkov with a forget-me-not in his buttonhole, only without that tense grimace that Batyushkov's mouth twisted. And young, he looks a bit like the “real”, young Batyushkov - but even more beautiful. Despite the fact that the modern Russian psychiatric boarding school is probably hell in comparison with the Vologda manor house (“... yes, the cry of my comrades, but the scolding of the night wardens ...”), fate was, perhaps, more merciful to Filippov than to Batyushkov: he he remembered himself, recognized his friends, talked to them... Even poetry still returned to him - it seems, occasionally, in short waves. These fragmentary lines have their own power; verbal hearing and a spontaneous sense of form did not leave him here either (as, incidentally, they did not leave Batyushkov in his verses written in madness):
Alyona
Arrow kalena
Tells me
that I'm torn
garbage cat
Give me your scarlet mouth
But still, the "real" Filippov remained there, in that "between times", on the very edge of Soviet life, in volume city with its rare cars, small double coffees, glass cups in soda machines, Georgian Rkatsiteli wine, Bulgarian Opal cigarettes, and Lolita's typewritten fifth copy of tissue paper. More precisely, some fragment, a reflection of that city remained reflected and presented to eternity by its poems.
There are people who are indifferent to the phenomenon of death, who do not think about it, do not feel it. It seems to them that death is simply the cessation of activity. A good person stops doing good deeds. Bad - bad. The poet stops writing poetry. In this sense, with the death of Filippov, in recent years, it seems, he no longer wrote, nothing has changed.
But in fact, death is a way out of time. That is, identification with yourself in any of the days of your life. And this means that Vasily Filippov returned to us, to our world in 1984, 1985, 1986.
With the birth of a poet!
At the moment, Vasily Filippov is a member of the Chekhov Bears handball club. He is trained by the honored coach V. Maksimov. In the game, he takes the position of point guard. He has the rank of master of sports of international class. Vasily Filippov has a higher education. In 2004 he became a graduate of the Russian State University of Physical Education.
Filippov Vasily Viktorovich was born on January 18, 1981 in Moscow. He is one of the best Russian handball players who have received world fame and glory. In 2008 he took part in the Olympic Games.
Vasily Filippov started playing handball at a fairly early age. His first professional club was the Kuntsevo team in Moscow. A great influence on the development of professional characteristics and attitude to the game was exerted on the novice athlete by his first coach A. Pankov. It was he who was able to discern a good player with a great desire to win in a novice athlete.
In 2001, the Chekhov Bears sports club was founded. Filippov was one of the first athletes who was invited to join it.
In the period from 2002 to 2008, Vasily Filippov became the champion of Russia as part of his team.
In 2004 he won the World Championship among students. And in 2006 Filippov became the owner of the European Cup
In 2008, Filippov made his debut at the Olympic Games. The athlete showed not a bad game, but the Russian team could not take the main position. Filippov, together with his team, was in 6th place, leaving behind stronger rivals from Spain, Croatia, Poland, Iceland and France. The Russian handball team included such athletes as Konstantin Igropulo, Alexei Kamanin, Yegor Evdokimov, Timur Dibirov, Vitaly Ivanov, Alexei Rastvortsev, Alexander Chernoivanov and many others.
Vasily Filippov believes that the Russians did not have enough strength at the Beijing Olympiad. The athlete is very upset by his loss, but he is sure that at the next Olympiad the Russian team will bring home the long-awaited Olympic gold in this sport.
At the moment, Vasily Filippov is a member of the Chekhov Bears handball club. He is trained by the honored coach V. Maksimov. In the game, he takes the position of point guard. He has the rank of master of sports of international class.
Vasily Filippov has a higher education. In 2004 he became a graduate of the Russian State University of Physical Education. Lives with his family in Moscow.
In his free time from training, Vasily prefers to spend time with his family and close friends. Quite often, an athlete can be seen on the bowling alley, because this is one of his favorite activities.
