Hello, and welcome back to the “Daniel Doing Anything But Writing the Next Chapter” post, also known as ~intermission~. For the second round, I thought we could talk about the dreaded subject of separation between the art and the artist, or else, the idea of a creative ivory tower.

Allow me to start, as I so often do, from afar with some context. When I was only starting high school in 2015 (also only about two years in of writing anything at all), an album came out called Горгород (“Gorgorod,” or Mountain-City, translated roughly) by a Russian rapper Oxxxymiron (colloquially, Miron). I never really was a big fan of Russian rappers, finding them unimaginative and crude, just as most of the modern Russian musical landscape – I was primarily raised on alternative sounds of the late-90s and early 2000s, when, in my opinion, our music scene peaked; Russian rap, comparatively, is in a a truly sad state, now as it was then. But Miron, for lack of a different word, was special, different; having earned a bachelor’s in literature from Oxford, consistently performing over top-notch production, and penning verses known for their complexity and wordplay – not to mention, also being from the same city as me! – a crude yet, in my opinion, appropriate comparison (but one that Miron himself had alluded to before) would be an artist of Kendrick Lamar’s style and level, but in a much, much less developed musical landscape. 

Gorgorod, to that end, was a unique album not just for hip hop, but for Russian music as a whole: it was a concept album set in a fictional city inside of a mountain (hence the name of the album), following a nameless writer’s (04/08 edit: what do you know, I really do get carried away – his name is actually Mark, I just completely blanked out on it. My bad, but the point stands!) struggle with creativity and his political awakening in the process (as we used to say, you can see where the legs of my own art grow from). Through punchy rhymes and catchy melodies, Miron tells a satirical story about the state of the Russian society and politics, of finding one’s purpose in the struggle of the many, and the crushing defeat that all too often follows such struggles, a theme not unfamiliar across Russian art as a whole. Skipping *a lot* of context, the writer, joining the opposition, gets high on the revolutionary plot to overthrow the mayor (in part thanks to his romantic entanglement with mayor’s daughter who introduces him to the revolutionary leader), but gets arrested, beaten up, and told by mayor himself to pipe down or face certain death. In the penultimate song on the album, Башня из Слоновой Кости, “Ivory Tower”, he walks through the city defeated, lamenting his place in both creative and physical world, seeing his face on book covers inside stores and being lauded by those around him, but ultimately feeling bitter in his inability to meaningfully change anything, settling on being happy he is at least alive. One of my favourite lines, once more translated very roughly, is

“And I descend, unprecedentedly acquitted, hypocritically pardoned, 30 years old”

It’s an emotional listen, a last hoorah of a man who lost, yet tries to persuade himself that there is victory to be found in living and knowing the truth, in spite – or maybe, because of – the price paid. 

By the end, however, he addresses the listener:

“Answer me this: can a creator live in an ivory tower? Is he to be welcomed in the palace or (must he) furiously (be) against the nobles, or (is he) to keep his neutrality?”,

when, abruptly, before he can continue this thought himself, he is cut off by a gunshot from one of his older, obsessive fans, who leaves him messages throughout the album about how he’s a sell-out. The final thought of a creator, unresolved; the full potential of embracing change – however rocky, uncertain, or bitter – cut down by the ire not of his enemies, but one of his supporters.

The album received mixed reviews on release, even if it was recognised as immensely important culturally. With years, though, it aged like fine wine – especially given the tight grip that Putin’s government has imposed since 2015. Miron himself, in the wake of the Russian full-scale invasion of Ukraine, aligned himself with the opposition, a camp yours truly finds himself in personally, and is now in hiding. Even if you don’t know Russian, it’s a great listen (although, yeah, you’re not gonna get the full picture), so I undoubtedly recommend it – especially songs that I come back to outside of the album like “Переплетено” (Intertwined), “Полигон” (Firing Field), “Накануне” (On The Eve Of), “Слово Мэра” (Mayor’s Word), “Башня из Слоновой Кости” (Ivory Tower), and “Где Нас Нет” (Where We Are Not).

Okay, this isn’t a review, and I promise I am not turning this page into a music blog; much like my own character, I’m getting distracted, so let me get back to the point.

That one line – “can a creator live in an ivory tower?” – was one of the most important things the 16 year old Daniel has ever heard. To my mind, even if the question was left unresolved (arguably, you could make a case, given the way the album unfolds, that the answer should be “yes”), I think the answer is a decisive “no”. Put in the context of my own political maturing, turbulent and detached as it was becoming, the realisation that none of my favourite books, movies, albums, plays, could be – nor ever were – written from an ivory tower, alongside understanding the idea of media literacy, began here. We all carry our experiences with us, think back to them in creating, use them for inspiration or as stepping stones of the process, defining and redefining ourselves and the chosen craft in relation to them, and on and on and on. 

To my end, that’s how I view Decembrism – hell, that’s how I view most things I’ve ever tried writing – as it simply wouldn’t be possible without all the things I’ve lived through over the last ten years (or, if you really want to get personal, the last almost twenty five years). The world of the novel, although different from ours, is only altered ever so slightly; given the increased policing, crackdown on civil liberties, and commodification of everyday lives – both in the West and in most corners of the globe – it really doesn’t take much imagination to picture overwatch drones, twelve hour workdays, or even an Amazon-like company that has a legal permission to maintain an “anything goes” policy for what they are delivering. Though, unlike conventional dystopias, I feel as I only needed to tweak a couple of handles rather than craft a completely new world, and I proudly wear that fact on my sleeve. For honesty about these influences as they translate into the pages is a requirement, not a choice. And not to be cocky, but I think, as you read my lengthy ramblings, you’ll tend to agree.

Put bluntly, I sincerely believe that, as a creator of any caliber, fame, or ability, one has a responsibility to create truthfully and honestly. Art, however grandiose or mediocre, has a purpose, whatever you yourself believe that purpose to be; to create dishonestly – that is, to pretend as if it is just art for the sake of art (or, one better, for the sake of money) – is to undersell it. Moreover, I don’t believe it’s even possible to really create any other way: even the most dishonest product is still a product of its creators’ environment, upbringing, beliefs, relationships, and so on and so endlessly fourth. One cannot create without any of these, for even the most shameless cash grab is still indicative of something in relation to its creator, however upsetting or unwelcoming that realisation might be.

Now, much of this might be pretty obvious – I am aware I am not reinventing the wheel here; but, in the spirit of that same honesty that carries the craft itself, I think it’s important to lay the fundamentals bare given the chance. I myself had moments with certain authors (I won’t name names, but I’m sure you can think of one or two yourselves) who wrote exceptional books that I adored, yet maintained them to be art for the sake of art, or worse, thought them to be purely apolitical and separated from the social conditions in which they were thought of or set in, and it always rubbed me the wrong way. Given the kind of story I am trying to tell – and especially the kind of themes I am trying to write around – such creative honesty, as is in Miron’s case, becomes a must. So, consider this me saying that I fully intend this narrative to be more than surface level and that no art, however beautiful, can only ever exist for the sake of it being a beautiful piece of art.

Anyhoo, the chapter’s coming along nicely – I’d say, being a little more generous to myself than I tend to be, we’re halfway there. My personal deadline at the moment is the end of April, so we’ll probably have another one of these intermissions prior, but who knows.

But until then, stay safe, stay healthy, tell your friends about this cool website you’ve found, and enjoy the story. Talk soon (ish).

– Daniel