Poetry played an important role in VIK’s life. He often used to say that by day he was a painter, and by night a poet, when the absence of daylight no longer allowed him to paint. For the artist, poetry was never a verse description of a pictorial image, although, of course, the two art forms are organically intertwined in his work. They are united by the cosmos of a shared self, by the charisma of a strong, unpredictable, and creative personality capable of overcoming the neutrality of everyday life.
VIK often incorporates lines of poetry into the composition of his paintings, heightening the sense of mythological narrative, of a certain flight away from the self into another, esoteric space. At exhibition openings and among his admirers, he always recited his poems. One cannot deny his theatrical gift: he quite literally hypnotises the listener with the metaphysical meanings of his poetic lines.
From 2000 to 2011, VIK, together with numerous like-minded poets, published the independent literary almanacs The Measure of All Things and Palette of Harmonies, a multilingual edition featuring translations into twelve languages. For him, the need for a poetic understanding of the world was a search for humanity, for emotional and spiritual nuances capable of preserving this elusive reality from oblivion.
Mira a la ventana — para ti, regalo.
Al atascarse en la nieve del trineo se bajó
Papá Noel con morro purpúreo,
medio borracho y no se congeló.
Blanco-blanquito hasta horizonte
y de azul, como después de la reforma,
la sombra se los árboles pintada
y en la casa un abeto joven está en el rincón
las manos estirando.
Alrededor los niños aburridos saltan.
Debajo de él verde en circulo poniéndose,
y chocolates comiéndose.
Allí, con el aguja del Petropavlovsky,
pico del oro brilla en el sol,
y la nieve cruje tornasolándose,
en el cristal dibujado reflejándose.
Fin de las lluvias — el invierno llegó.
Nos alegramos mucho, y él,
retardará y tomando poder,
hasta blancura la ciudad pintará.
Vik 2009
Traducido por Natalia Tituaña Anrango
Without acknowledging the downpour's din,
but rather rustling fallen leaves autumnal spice,
in statues' frames at Peterhof cascade
the morning bowed to drowsy conversation.
The festive cantered past and children nodded off,
with shrieks of fright at bells' ensnarement,
to live, in tired unbelief, through art,
beating on glass with icy pulses.
Here a guitar spins yarns in loneliness,
and blasphemously scratches hackneyed frets,
while in the park in clandestine discussion
flit by the faces of a bygone beauty.
And a blanket of sky blue tedium will smother
the hubbub and recitatives clamour,
when at the bottom of a second beer
the evening stumbles into a day-off.
Vik 2008
Translated by Thomas Clark
На шум дождя не поднимая взгляда,
Шурша опавшей прянувшей листвой
В проеме статуй петергофского каскада,
Клонилось утро в сонный разговор.
Мелькали даты, дети засыпали,
В колоколах испуганно крича,
Искусством жить в неверии усталом,
Холодным пульсом по стеклу стуча.
Где врет на одиночестве гитара,
Царапая кощунственно лады,
А на аллеях парка прошлой парой
Мелькают лица прошлой красоты.
На гул оваций, в шум речитатива
Повиснет скука в сини голубой,
Когда на дне второй бутылки пива
Случится вечер в пьяный выходной.
Town overthrown in reflection of shop windows' glass
Says good bye to his own turbulance.
Night, flight of steps, neon gas
Illuminate this instant's being transience.
возможно- /illustrate
'memento moris' essence/
Shivery fingers strangle the throat in gasps for a life,
Crying of children or maybe birds in sight.
Just over there behind transparent blinds
The air is pure, clear and light.
Down the ground pouring hard, gravel will level and smooth
Tears of sorrow - muteness of those that mourn.
And in a consoled heart sacred image of a candle alight will be drawn
By Holy Shepherd of Russia baptised.
Dying day is predicted to dive into a newly arrived
Domes of churches are blazing with grace
Overthrown town is starting to steady his pace, Performing the honour to you, Patriarch, in ages abide!
Vik 2008
Translated by Svelana Ivanova
Опрокинутый город витриною глаз
Провожает свою турбулентность,
Ночь, ступени, неоновый газ
Освещает всю сиюмоментность.
В пальцах дрожь, затыкающих глотку,
Плач детей за окном или птиц,
А за тоненькой перегородкой
Светлый воздух прозрачен и чист.
Гравий серым дождем утрамбует
Слез утраты людского молчания,
В тихом сердце свечу нарисует
Пастырь русского покаяния.
Отодвинутый день окунется в грядущее,
Заблестят на церквах купола,
Опрокинутый город, походкой идущего,
Чтит ТЕБЯ, ПАТРИАХ, на века.