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  Minimizing junk, maximizing joy and understanding are a question of honor to me. At a certain point you say, fuck this shit, we can do better by ourselves. The DIY principle might help here: it makes you analyze, question, come up with alternatives. Start from scratch.

  * * *

  Bernie Sanders writes in Our Revolution about an experience he had in South Carolina. He was talking with a young black man who was working at McDonald’s: “He informed me that, to him and his friends, politics was totally irrelevant to their lives. It was not something they cared about or even talked about.” Like most Republican states, South Carolina had rejected the Medicaid expansion provided by the Affordable Care Act. People survive or die without access to health care, but they still refuse to see how their participation in politics is directly connected with their lives (and deaths). And then Bernie writes (it’s simple and genius): “Frankly, this lack of political consciousness is exactly what the ruling class of this country wants. The Koch brothers spend hundreds of millions to elect candidates who represent the rich and the powerful. They understand the importance of politics.” The Koch brothers and Putin’s mob don’t want you to check on what’s going on with the money they use their political influence to steal from us, the taxpayers, in government subsidies and other concessions. It’s understandable.

  The quality of political discussion has turned into junk. It’s all very comforting for the Koch brothers and Putin’s friends, who can keep doing their shady deals while we’re distracted with idiocy.

  * * *

  Across the globe, the same political trends are spreading like a sexually transmitted disease.

  In Russia there is no real politics. My country is a territory run by thugs, and they do whatever they please. They’re not interested in public debates or real public opinion; they know that convenient public opinion can be easily manufactured. It’s easy to make an opinion poll in Russia: the administration picks numbers they like and announces them through state-controlled media. So we can’t really expect to have high-quality debates in Russia. We can’t expect it, but that doesn’t mean we’re not trying to re-create Russian political discourse by ourselves.

  I remember thinking that in other countries, where unfake elections are going on, everything must be so different from what I’ve seen in my country and much more complicated, and I will never be able to understand it. I was nervous when I talked about politics in front of, say, American students. Everything changed (for America and me) when Trump showed up. He dumbed down American political discourse. He did it bigly.

  I used to pay more attention to details and facts in the United States, but after Trump, I lost any wish to do so. I became lazy in a way. I don’t feel that I even have to read the news in Russia every day, because everything is clear: we have selfish thugs in power who want to make our country authoritarian again, and they are doing that in order to extract as much profit as they can for their own pockets.

  The Trump phenomenon criminally simplifies political conversation. I was ruined by the level of the presidential debates. Keep your words close to your deeds, be clear and coherent, don’t try to bullshit me (I’m not an idiot though I may look like one), serve the people, be transparent—or fuck off. You’re public property when you’re an elected representative; if you don’t like it, fuck off again and don’t go into politics. Or, as Noam Chomsky puts it, “That is what I have always understood to be the essence of anarchism: the conviction that the burden of proof has to be placed on authority, and that it should be dismantled if that burden cannot be met.”

  Isn’t it both funny and desperate when punks end up being those who require a work ethic and professionalism from politicians?

  We surely need more of the DIY ethos in politics. The DIY ethos in politics means more direct democracy. There are certain issues that citizens can and should decide by themselves.

  * * *

  REBEL’S GUIDE

  At some point I was holding master classes on shoplifting in Moscow.

  It is more convenient to work in pairs in supermarkets. You put the groceries in a cart, find a safe place in the store, and put them in your bag. Expensive and compact items like meat and cheese are easier to pack on your back or stomach, cinching them tight with your belt. Then you grab a loaf of bread or box of oatmeal from the shelf and head for the checkout counters. You pay for the bread or the oatmeal.

  When you exit the supermarket and turn the corner, put the stolen items in your camping backpack. Your shoulder bag should be ready for the next store; always keep it empty. You must not go into the next store with items taken from the previous store. If you are found and detained, the list of stolen goods will include what you brought in with you.

  * * *

  lady simplicity: poor art

  I have a lust for simplicity, purity, and minimalism of form in art. I like to consider this approach to art as the art of simple living.

  Art is being overproduced, overpolished. The market overproduces pieces of art because of its own fears. The fears of the market are simple: What if not enough products are sold?

  It breaks my heart when young artists who are not really involved in the market are working hard to overproduce. They are castrating themselves, diluting their own works of art. They’re forced by the market-driven art world to start down their artistic paths with money hanging over their heads. They have to think about where they can suck up more money by producing more art instead of thinking about the art itself—the shadows, the sounds, the colors.

  These kids spend tens of thousands of dollars on equipment they don’t even need. I understand why Sony or Time Warner needs a RED camera and professional lighting. The entertainment industry is an industry. It’s a factory, fast-food art, mass produced. To make a shitty hamburger for McDonald’s you need to have a factory, and you need giant, expensive facilities to produce a piece of shitty art. So I understand why Sony needs CGI, but I don’t really understand why I and other artists who are not connected with corporations need to reproduce corporate aesthetics.

  Nevertheless, I see more and more outsiders who, instead of developing their own radically new path, are copying deadly mechanical and overproduced aesthetics. If you think you need thousands of dollars to make a video, it means you were fooled. It’s the idea, vision, feeling, and integrity that counts. With or without money.

  It’s all about the idea, or skill, or passion, or courage, or radical honesty without any glitter or special effects. With zero unnecessary gestures or expensive equipment. Art requires hellish amounts of concentration and self-discipline, and you’re totally in charge—there’s nobody around to tell you what to do. There are no safety belts. No insurance or guarantee. But that’s where the edge is.

  * * *

  MONEY ACTION!

  Vote with your money. Every time we spend our money on something, we vote for this thing to exist in our world. Purchasing something sends a message to the marketplace, affirming the product, its ecological impact, its process of manufacture. Money is power, and with this power comes responsibility. If we spend our money differently, we can change the world.

  Live beneath your means. It provides a sense of security to live on less than you earn. It also proves that you are not an insatiable consumer.

  Avoid debt. Beware of credit cards. Banks are generally very eager to offer us credit, because it’s a good way to chain us to them. Beware of debt.

  The 30-day money experiment. Spend a month taking note of everything you purchase. At the end of the month, categorize your expenses into rent, food, electricity, wine, coffees, lunches, etc., then multiply those categories by twelve to get a rough idea of the yearly cost of each of the categories. Small things add up to significant sums over a year. This means that small changes in spending habits can produce significant savings.

  Rethink your spending. Perhaps by spending less or more carefully you will be able to work less? Consider reducing your working hours. Many people are locked into forty-
hour-per-week jobs even though they’d prefer to work shorter hours and receive less money. This locks people into over-consuming lifestyles. In Holland there is a law that allows employees to reduce their working hours simply by asking their employer. The employer is required to accept this request unless there is a sufficiently good business reason to deny it (which happens in less than 5 percent of cases). By protecting part-time employment, Holland has produced the highest ratio of part-time workers in the world.

  (Adapted from The Simpler Way: A Practical Action Plan for Living More on Less by Samuel Alexander, Ted Trainer, and Simon Ussher.)

  * * *

  Deeds

  kill the sexist

  We created Pussy Riot out of confusion. My friend Kat and I had been invited to give a lecture. We told the organizers the topic would be “Punk Feminism in Russia.” We started preparing for the lecture the night before and suddenly discovered that Russian punk feminism did not exist. There was feminism, and there was punk, but there was no punk feminism. The lecture was less than a day away. There was only one solution: invent punk feminism so we would have something to talk about.

  Our first song was “Kill the Sexist” (October 2011).

  * * *

  KILL THE SEXIST

  You’re tired of rancid socks,

  Your daddy’s rancid socks.

  Your husband will wear rancid socks,

  His whole life he’ll be wearing rancid socks.

  Your mom is up to her neck in dirty dishes,

  In dirty dishes and rancid grub.

  She washes the floors like an overfried chicken.

  Your mom lives in a prison.

  In prison, she washes potties like shit.

  There is never freedom in prison.

  A hellish life, male domination:

  Hit the streets and free women!

  Sniff your socks yourself,

  And don’t forget to scratch your ass.

  Burp, barf, binge, shit,

  And we’ll happily be lesbians!

  Go on, suckers, envy the penis yourselves.

  Even your beer buddy’s long penis,

  And the long penis on the boob tube

  Until the shit hits the ceiling.

  Become a feminist, be a feminist.

  Peace to the world, and an end to men.

  Be a feminist, destroy the sexist.

  Kill the sexist, wash away his blood!

  Be a feminist, destroy the sexist.

  Kill the sexist, wash away his blood!

  * * *

  We didn’t have any musical instruments. We snipped a sample from an English Oi! punk song and duplicated it. To record the vocals, we took a Dictaphone and locked ourselves in the bathroom. But Kat’s dad kicked us out. Then we went outside to record. It was autumn, three in the morning, and raining. We took refuge in a playhouse on the playground, our heads butting against the ceiling. A bunch of druggies were sitting on a nearby bench.

  “You’re sick of rancid socks. . . . And we’ll happily be lesbians,” rang forth from the playhouse.

  A few of the druggies poked their noses in the window.

  “Girls, what have you been smoking? We dosed up too, but it didn’t get us as high as you are. Maybe you could share with us?”

  “Leave us alone, we’re busy.”

  Pussy Riot began rehearsing in a basement belonging to a Moscow church. It was the autumn of 2011. Construction work was going on. We would be recording songs, and workers with jackhammers were walking around us.

  We rehearsed a number thoroughly and for a long time. Unlike punk groups who perform in clubs, we had to get the musical part down, but we also had to unpack and pack the equipment as quickly as possible. We not only sang during rehearsals but also tried to learn how to continue playing and singing when guards or police were grabbing our legs and trying to drag us away.

  Time passed, and the renovation of the church basement was finished. The church decided to rent it to a store, and we wound up on the street. We went to rehearse in a pedestrian underpass from which we were constantly kicked out.

  But after a couple of months, the harsh winter was setting in, and it was impossible to rehearse outside. We set up shop in an abandoned tire plant. We went there every day during the New Year’s holidays. We started work on January 1, 2012, as the country was sleeping in after the big party and MPs were sunbathing in Miami. The guards at the entrance to the plant always asked us the same thing: “Can’t sit still at home, girls?”

  “Why should we stay at home?” Kat would ask, surprised.

  “To make pies and cook soup.”

  After hearing a full lecture on the history of the feminist movement a couple of times in response to their questions, the guards elected not to talk to us anymore and would just let us in without saying a word. That is just what we wanted.

  Journalists were slightly intimidated by us at that time. Moscow News wrote, “Finding Pussy Riot is not easy. The soloists do not give out their telephone numbers, and they constantly change the place where they rehearse. I managed to contact them through the internet. We agreed to meet near a subway station. At the appointed time, a tall young man came up to me. He did not wish to reveal his name and silently led me off. We soon turned down an alley and descended into a dilapidated basement. A single lamp lit the room, and beneath it sat two young women in masks, bright tights, and short dresses.”

  * * *

  How much does it cost to put on a Pussy Riot concert? Nothing. The equipment—microphone, cables, amp, guitar—is borrowed from our punk friend; the dresses, tights, and hats, from our girlfriends who like colorful things. We ask video and photo journalist friends to shoot the concerts. To edit the videos, we download a pirated program and do the work ourselves. Food expenses amount to a loaf of bread and a bottle of water. You should always take this ration with you to a concert in case you are locked up at a police station overnight.

  For a pittance we got hold of some decently powerful car speakers. We picked up some aluminum trim at the market and built cabinets for the speakers.

  We powered our DIY speakers with a car battery. Once, on my way to a concert, I noticed something was running down my back and that something was burning. It turned out my backpack was leaking. The rubberized bottom was liquefying: acid flowing from the battery was eating through it. There was nothing I could do: I couldn’t throw the battery away! So I kept going, feeling the contents of my backpack slowly dripping into my panties.

  Early on, I discovered that when I’m wearing a mask I feel a little bit like a superhero and maybe feel more power. I feel really brave, I believe that I can do anything and everything, and I believe that I can change the situation. We played at being superheroes, Batwoman or Spider-Woman, who arrive to save our country from the villain, but we were choking on laughter looking at ourselves: a fur hat pissed on by a cat with narrow slits for eyes, a nonworking guitar, and for the audio system a homemade battery that leaks acid.

  When I put on the balaclava—that fantastic sensation when I did my first performance—I understood that happiness could be this, among other things. When you enter that certain moment, you really appreciate it.

  creating a political feminist punk band: the basics

  An artist, just like a philosopher, is a junkie for critical thinking. And he knows (allegedly) how to turn the results of his analytical activity into cultural forms.

  Some people are inspired by exactly the same things in Pussy Riot that irritate others: directness, frankness, and shameless dilettantism. You say we’re making shitty music? That’s right. We consciously stick to the concept of bad music, bad texts, and bad rhymes. Not all of us have studied music, and the quality of performance has never been a priority. The essence of punk is an explosion. It is the maximal discharge of creative energy, which does not require any particular technique.

  But why the bright colors? It was a really dumb reason: we just didn’t want to be taken for terrorists in black balaclavas. W
e didn’t want to scare people; we wanted to bring some fun, so we decided to look like clowns.

  Heroes

  d. a. prigov

  I refer to D. A. Prigov as Pussy Riot’s godfather. Or, possibly, fairy godmother. D. A. Prigov didn’t care about definitions. The opposite is true too: he enjoyed definitions, but he liked to juggle with them.

  When somebody called D. A. Prigov a painter, he would say, “Oh no, no, no, I’m actually a poet!” When he was called a poet, his reaction would be, “You may have misunderstood something. I’m a sculptor!” And if somebody referred to D. A. Prigov as a sculptor, he’d claim to be a musician. He actually started to play in a music band at some point in order to escape the earlier definitions. They created a fake contemporary art band called Central Russian Upland (when Pussy Riot started to do illegal street performances, we borrowed a microphone from this band—it was a big blessing). D. A. Prigov was also a performance artist, fiction and nonfiction writer, and political columnist, and he worked with video art too. He took part in movies as an actor.

  D. A. Prigov created himself as a conceptual art project. He was thoughtful and original about every role he took. His whole life was his project. A DIY project in a way. It requires a lot of self-reflection and outstanding self-control to build your whole life as an art project. D. A. Prigov did it. DIY is not about being easy on yourself—quite the opposite: it means that you’re demanding as fuck of yourself. Always follow your own axioms, as D. A. Prigov says.

  At the beginning of the 1990s, he decided to write 24,000 poems by the year 2000. Twenty-four thousand because he wanted to produce one poem for each month of the next two thousand years. Prigov calculated how many poems he needed to write in a day and religiously followed his plan. He never skipped a day. And what do you think, he killed it! Always follow your own axioms.