In October 2005 I went to Dijon to hold my exhibition. A folder with works had been assembled, all the necessary permissions had been obtained, the ticket was bought, and the suitcase was packed.
That, in fact, was the extent of the readiness. I did not have a visa; I had currency only for pocket expenses; and in French I could say only that I had not eaten for six days and something about the woman one should look for.
The plane left early in the morning, and I arrived in Moscow the day before.
The queue at the embassy resembled the queues for vodka in the days of perestroika. When I finally reached the visa window and presented my passport, ticket and invitation for the exhibition, the surprised young man asked, “And what will happen if you are refused a visa?”
“Then I won’t fly to France,” I answered. They issued the visa immediately))
At Charles de Gaulle I was met by a girl — a former colleague of mine from the gallery. She took me to the Gare de Lyon and put me on a high-speed train.
And then the frightening part began. The train rushed along, stopping from time to time. A pleasant female voice said something in French at machine-gun speed, vaguely reminiscent of the untranslatable wordplay of our railway-station announcements. And there was nothing that sounded like cherchez la femme or “I haven’t eaten for six days.”
I got off the train after counting the required number of stops. Almost by eye. There were no signs on the platform that I could understand. Nor were there crowds of people meeting passengers. I asked a lone passer-by, “Is this Dijon?” while thinking in terror: what if it isn’t? Where would I go then, with my miserable reserves of pocket money and vocabulary?
Everything worked out in the best possible way. They were waiting for me at another exit from the station and were very happy finally to discover me on a bench with a suitcase and an enormous portfolio.
But the exhibition itself took place in the very center of Dijon, in a magnificent hall with old tapestries, chandeliers and a fireplace)) And a great many people came. In the morning there was an emergency hanging of the works, installation, and all the pre-exhibition nerves; I was dropping from exhaustion, but I was absolutely happy! And afterwards there were intoxicating walks through Dijon with a little paper bag of hot roasted chestnuts, trips to a Templar village, an excursion to the center of Burgundy winemaking, and many, many other impressions. And, of course, many creative meetings.
And it was wonderful!
