Poster “Mayakovsky lit up from the stars”

Once, V. Tarakanov and I ended up in building number 9 on Stoleshnikov Lane, where once lived Gilyarovsky in one of the apartments.

Tarakanov always knew how to talk to people and find adventure out of the blue. It was he who pulled out random passers-by with large bags from the “Alphabet of Flavour”, who invited us to barbecue... in the center of Moscow?

The apartment was on the second floor of the same building. The size was incredible, a hundred squared meters. In the middle of the huge hall there stood a French bath, the old parquet of the 19th century was torn down to the stone floor, and the walls were painted with someone's phone numbers and surnames. There was a chimney in the living room, where a real fire was flaming. The random passers-by who led us here introduced themselves as a group of actors.

The promised shashliks were actually grilled in the fireplace on skewers.

Someone started a conversation:

“Grandfather Gilyai actually lived here. Gilyarovsky, that is. In this very entrance, on the first floor.“ “Incredible. I read his Moscow and Muscovites, a wonderful book.”
“Yes, he wrote well. The first city urbanist, like Varlamov. And you speak more quietly here. They say Gilyai doesn't like making noise.”
“What is it, a haunted house? Bad apartment?”
“Of course. Here you can hear steps and sighs. The spirit of Gilyarovsky walks at night. Okay, I'm kidding. It's just that the neighbors are troubled, they will call the cops.”

Tarakanov and I did not interfere in the conversation, but rather listened, drank wine and looked at the fire, unable to understand whether we were dreaming of this fireplace in the center of Moscow or whether everything was really happening. Yes, it didn't matter.

I heard a conversation about poetry:

“Well, who do you love more, Yesenin or Mayakovsky?”
“Both did well in PR. Probably Mayakovsky. You know, he was in many ways like Victor Tsoi. Exploited the same themes. Well, stars and all.”

An old Macintosh that couldn't connect to the Internet was grinding disks in the corner; next to the fireplace stood a scratchy piano, behind which someone was playing a tune. Comfort penetrated the mind, and the body was buried in the armchair.

Some of the guests continued to fuss:

“Does anyone have a lighter or not? I want to smoke.”
“I don't have.”
“Oh, damn it. Am I to light up from the fireplace? I can get burned, I'm drunk. Are there really no matches?”
“Yes, you have a light up from the fireplace.”
“I don’t want, I don’t want to fall into the fireplace! Hey, you two, do have a light?”

Tarakanov patted his pockets and took out a lighter. I lifted my swollen eye, looked contemptuously at the fussy guest, and muttered in a drunken, stuttering tongue:

“Still looking what to light up from. Old Mayakovsky, he lit up from the stars.”

There was the laughter.

“Whose quote did he say?”
“Something familiar. Lit up from the stars. Was it Brodsky who said this?”
“I don't know, maybe his wife.”

But I myself did not know whose quote I said. Came home in the morning, googled and found nothing. I made it up myself. It was good that the wine at Gilyarovsky's was put in like that.

I asked Jenya Romantseva to make a poster with this phrase. It is necessary, I said, to draw Mayakovsky, who stands on his tiptoe over Moscow, growing to the sky. So that he would reach for the stars with a cigarette and try to light up from them, and make an inscription next to it: “Mayakovsky lit up from the stars.”

Jenya sent a draft of the poster a week later. We discussed improvements: on the tram, write Herzegovina Flor (the cigarettes that Mayakovsky smoked), correct his face and connect the stars into a constellation. “Okay, I’ll do it,” Jenya replied, “By the way, whose quote is this? Brodsky? I couldn't find anything..."

The poster is available in A1 and A4 sizes, tif format. It can be used free of charge for any non-commercial purposes: hanging in an apartment or office, distributing leaflets and printing in the media with the names of both authors.