Watch the interview (in Russian)
The interview appeared in issue 55 of the Catoblepas journal.
Participants: Aleksandr Spiridonov Jr. and Marusya Navka
Duration: 24:02
On poetry, theatre, and music
Aleksandr: Good afternoon! This is Catoblepas Press. We are in the very centre of Saint Petersburg, at the Fleur shop, with Marusya Navka. Our press is currently hard at work on Marusya’s book Bias Tape, so we are interviewing her.
Marusya, tell our viewers and listeners a little about yourself: your creative path, theatre, and music. You are a remarkably versatile and interesting person, and everyone will want to hear about it.
Marusya: Hello! My name is Marusya, and I’ve been writing poetry since childhood. I did a little theatre and film at school, then attended the Saint Petersburg School of New Cinema after graduating. I spent about seven years involved in theatre and film, then gave it up and decided that songs were the easiest way to bring poetry to people.
When you read poetry aloud, the audience does not quite know what to do next. Applauding feels strange, but not applauding feels strange too. When you sing songs, everything is clear: if people like them, they dance, jump, clap, and shout; if they do not, they look at you strangely. I moved into music as a way of giving form to poems.
Then I had a punk band. It broke up, and my view of the matter changed. I realised that subordinating music to poetry and making songs text-centred was wrong. Music is something else, and words play a somewhat different role within it.
In my new music project, I do not subordinate songs to words. The words emerge in the same way as the music—through improvisation. So I decided that poems belong in books after all. They did not take root in songs, which have other words and a logic of their own. Yet the poems have to go somewhere, because I am constantly writing. That means books still need to be made.
I tried printing and binding a long poem myself as a zine. It was fun, but honestly, I became thoroughly sick of sewing those books. I have no thimble, the awl keeps stabbing my fingers, cutting paper is very difficult, and it still comes out crooked even though people gave me lots of good blades and rulers. I decided it needed to be printed differently, more like a proper book. That is how I met you, Aleksandr, and Catoblepas Press. Of course I could do it alone, but I need help: I cannot manage it, there is too little time and one of me is not enough.
SIGNA and the production Playthings
Aleksandr: Tell us about theatre. You have an interesting story involving SIGNA, for example. It was a fairly major theatrical event in Saint Petersburg, and you were part of it.
Marusya: Yes, it was the 2019 Theatre Olympics. Some outstanding theatre directors came from Europe and elsewhere. One project was made by a Danish company: the production was called Playthings. They recruited actors in Saint Petersburg. Whenever they travel somewhere, they always recruit local actors.
There was no conventional stage or auditorium. It was participatory theatre: the audience was inside the process itself. The whole thing lasted about four hours, with the audience very close to the actors. The actors had no scripted lines. Each had a character they never broke in the audience’s presence, but there was no specific script—only certain rules of play.
They bought all the costumes and some of the scenery at Udelnaya. They built little houses from scratch inside a completely empty factory building. The actors were local too. Rehearsals were in English, while the performance itself was in Russian because the audience was Russian. We spoke English with the lead actress, who was also directing, because she did not know Russian.
It was probably my most interesting theatre project. It was an extremely intense experience for anyone, not only an actor, both in the amount of work involved and the number of provocative situations. There was violence, for example, but we agreed clearly in advance which scenes I was comfortable taking part in. You could choose a role without any of that. But if a fight took place, it was real.
Aleksandr: Did it last about ten hours?
Marusya: No, between three and four. Every performance was unique, so it is impossible to be exact, but four hours at most.
Aleksandr: Was it at the Red Triangle?
Marusya: No, at the Laminated Plastics Factory. It resembles the Red Triangle, but I think the Red Triangle is barely operating now; it mostly contains rehearsal spaces. The Laminated Plastics Factory was half operational. The production occupied a disused building. We had something like a dormitory there. When we went to the canteen, there were actual factory workers who worked there every day. Before us, the building was occupied by AKHE, the artists’ theatre. I think they later moved, but I do not remember exactly.
Aleksandr: Did the factory workers attend your performance?
Marusya: No, the ticket was very expensive.
bobok, oboronny kompleks, and improvisation
Aleksandr: Tell us about your music projects: bobok, oboronny kompleks, and do izobreteniya imyon. I learn about them through bezdarny underground: you seem to be listed everywhere, organising, performing, and singing.
Marusya: I have already described bobok: it is a new project in which the music is not subordinate to the words and almost everything is based on improvisation. We do not rehearse. We meet, invent and record something there and then, and later finish mixing it and release it. We do not spend several meetings developing one song: we invent it, play it a few times, and immediately record it. We might meet before a concert to work out what we will play, but there are no regular rehearsals.
Oboronny kompleks was the punk band that preceded it. Everything there was subordinate to the words. The music was simple but aggressive, while the lyrics were intricate and required the music to set them off. We rehearsed constantly: at least two days every week.
It was great. The band existed from 2022 to 2025, and we kept increasing the scale: more rehearsals, albums, and concerts. At first we performed in Saint Petersburg, then at larger venues, travelled to Moscow twice, and later to Nizhny Novgorod. It was as though we were moving very purposefully towards something, although we did not know what. We did not want to make money from music. It was posted only on Telegram, where it could be downloaded for free: that was our position. Everything was highly structured; we had formulated a kind of manifesto and followed it.
Then the band broke up, and I wanted something freer. That sense of purpose had begun to feel airless.
Both Oboronny kompleks and bobok belong to the bezdarny label.
Aleksandr: Our favourite label.
Marusya: It was created by a wonderful artist from Vladimir, мексиканец санчез (meksikanets sanchez). We met entirely by chance. First the punk band joined the label, and then I thought: bobok might as well be there too.
Sasha and I often perform together, also improvising without any rehearsals. We meet on the day of the concert, practically at the soundcheck, play one thing, then play something else at the concert. It is difficult to call that a rehearsal; it is more like meeting the person you will play with that evening. Do izobreteniya imyon is one of those one-off bands, whose name…
Aleksandr: A supergroup. That is what you call a group in which the best musicians come together to create a great band.
Why bobok
Aleksandr: Does the name bobok have a literary basis?
Marusya: No. I learnt about Dostoevsky’s short story after the band had been named. The name comes from the fact that I really like peach stones. I even have one tattooed here. I used to draw this little thing as a child, and I love how it looks.
Polina, the owner of Fleur, said to me, “Bobok.” That was her name for a cherry stone, because that is what they call them in Saratov. Later, when I got the peach-stone tattoo, Misha from my new band—Mishanya Sergeevich, who drew the illustrations for the book—said, “A proper bobok.” I asked, “You know that word too?” He is from Astrakhan.
Polina says that only a cherry stone, not a peach stone, can be called a bobok. I do not know for certain; no one in Saint Petersburg uses the word at all. In short, a bobok is the stone of a berry or fruit in some southern dialect.
I deliberately refuse to read Dostoevsky’s story, so that it cannot influence the band’s work or introduce any literary allusions. I simply ignore the fact.
Dog Mole
Aleksandr: Tell us about your first collection, Dog Mole. I am also curious: who is the “Brundelyak of My Heart”? Were you awarded the prize?
Marusya: No, I was shortlisted.
I wrote the long poem because my friend Sevastyan Obozny—a Moscow writer from the Moscow School of New Cinema who also used to make films—said that I should write a novel-poem. He likes my poetry, but suggested forcing myself into a long, complex form: it might have an interesting effect on me and my work precisely because it would be difficult.
I thought it was a great idea, but put it off for a long time. Then last summer I woke up thinking: today I will write a novel-poem. People distracted me all day, but in the evening I sat down and wrote the first chapter without stopping, although I had no idea what the poem would be about. The first chapter is my favourite. After that I tried to squeeze the remaining chapters out of myself, and it was very difficult. I still like some of them; others, I think, are simply filler.
That is not a problem in a large form: not absolutely everything has to be wonderful. A few good chapters are enough—preferably the first, the last, and one somewhere in the middle. That is more or less how it turned out.
Aleksandr: Was it the first part that you recorded for Vox Catoblepae?
Marusya: The first chapter, I think.
Aleksandr: You can hear Marusya reading it in Vox Catoblepae, the anthology we published at the end of last year.
Marusya: I wrote the poem and printed it myself. Friends who work at a print shop gave me blue paper. Everything was printed free of charge in the basement of Podpisnye Izdaniya; my friend works there—or rather, at Akademiya. Then their printer broke because the paper was too thick.
My friend, the well-known photographer Dima Pryakhin, designed the layout for free—many thanks to him. A friend in Paris made very good illustrations that I like. In short, everyone helped me and everything was free, so I gave the books away for free too.
When several people wanted to buy the book, I told them it was not for sale at all, but they could send a donation if they wished. People sent donations for a while. Then one woman praised the book at length and sent me fifty roubles. It felt so unpleasant that I abandoned the idea and said: just take it for free. That is much better—it is a gift.
Aleksandr: Is there at least one copy left anywhere? I have never seen it in person either.
Marusya: No, none remain. I still have many sheets, and in principle the edition could be repeated. But I promised more copies than I gave away. Later I went to print another one at some friends’ place on Nekrasova Street. We struggled with the printer for ages, everything printed incorrectly, and I thought: this is a sign. I should stop doing this and move on to the next book. It was not meant to be.
The print run was thirty copies. I printed and gave them away, but I probably needed forty-five: about fifteen people did not receive the book I had promised them.
Aleksandr: A bibliographical rarity. Now our viewers will be hunting for copies.
How Bias Tape came together
Aleksandr: Now tell us about Bias Tape. If the long poem was a unified work conceived in advance, how did Bias Tape take shape? You sent me the finished poems about a month after our conversation.
Marusya: It is simply a collection. The long poem was written from beginning to end specifically as a long poem. It has a plot—an unobvious one, but a plot nonetheless—and a beginning and an end.
Then there are many poems that did not belong anywhere. They did not become songs for the punk band and will not become songs for the new band. They are not from the long poem. The collection contains only one small fragment—four lines from the long poem—and otherwise has no connection to it.
Poems write themselves throughout your life, as a kind of side activity. Assembling a collection is work: you have to give it shape and reject texts according to some principle. I selected poems that had not been published anywhere but which, I felt, now needed to be placed somewhere.
It turned out that they were all connected in some way. The collection gives the impression of being a little like a long poem itself, partly because there is no clear separation of titles and dates. Some people who read the draft said it felt like a single text. It really does seem to have a kind of micro-plot.
This is strange because the poems were written at completely different times: two poems may be seven years apart. They are arranged intuitively, not chronologically. I do not know why a plot can be traced through them. All the texts are connected by the fact that I wrote them—perhaps that creates something between them, although they differ stylistically. The brain always looks for a connection where one may not exist at all. Yet the work turned out quite cohesive. And there is the finished book.
Illustrations by Mishanya Sergeevich
Aleksandr: Tell us about Mishanya Sergeevich’s illustrations.
Marusya: Mishanya Sergeevich is also in the band, and he draws very cool pictures that look a little like comics. I thought they would suit the collection perfectly: they are cheerful, simple, and unlaboured. That is important. I do not want everything to turn into pompous poetry.
The poems themselves are not quite like that. In the long poem, for example, I deliberately inserted words that dispelled the excessive pathos of the very fact that it was a long poem. That is absent here: the poems were written at different times and not for this collection. Some possess an excessive tragic quality that is no longer close to me. That is why they need these little, almost childlike illustrations.
Misha drew two pictures especially for the book; I selected the others from his archive. He made the cover too. In the original copy, real thread is sewn through the cover; the other books will use a scan of it.
Why it says “Eat semolina” is a good question.
Aleksandr: Mishanya has already answered it.
Marusya: Yes, in great detail.
Dedicated to Sofia Kamill
Aleksandr: Tell us about the dedication. Did you know Sofia?
Marusya: Yes, Sofia Kamill was my friend. Not my best or a very close friend—more an acquaintance. At first I thought I would not dedicate the book to anyone, or would invent something funny. Then I remembered her.
When we spent time together, I felt a certain similarity and kinship. We looked alike from the moment we met: we had similar hairstyles, walked in the same way, and behaved similarly in some situations. Perhaps that is why we did not spend much time together. I sometimes felt we were competing for the same place—not in the world at large or in poetry, but simply within our social circle.
She liked having fun and doing silly things. I remember her jumping into the Neva and swimming. I like that too. When there are two people like that, they may begin competing without even realising it. That is why we rarely met: occasionally in a group, or a few times on our own.
But I remember her very clearly. We even wanted to make a film about her—precisely because we barely knew her, yet she left such a distinct impression. She died suddenly, and it was very hard.
I had another friend who also died young, but he died of cancer. That is somehow comprehensible: if a person has cancer, there is a strong possibility that they will die. Sofia simply died, just like that—a terrible accident. She could have lived for a very long time.
She was not my best friend, but our private conversations immediately return to mind. The brain completes a story in which she was unhappy, did not know what to do here, and felt lonely. I remember wanting to help somehow. But we hardly spoke. Later I searched through our messages, and nearly all of them were about wanting to meet and then, for one reason or another, not meeting.
I remembered her and thought that she was the person to whom I wanted to dedicate the book. For me, a dedication is not an address to the most important or closest person. I can say everything to those close to me while they are alive. This is a dedication to someone for whom nothing can now be done. I can no longer say anything to her or help her in any way. But I can dedicate a book to her. It makes no difference to her now, but there is no one else to dedicate it to.
Anastasia Cheche and play readings
Aleksandr: Anastasia Cheche wrote the blurb for your book.
Marusya: Yes, she is a very good friend of mine. She writes extremely good plays. I like all of them, and each new one more than the last, although I like the very first one too.
She then organises readings of those plays. Readings are my favourite form of theatre. If I were offered a stage production, I would probably decline: it is a laborious, unwieldy process. A film is all right—if I do not have to act and can simply be present in the frame. A film is at least a finished thing. A stage production is an endlessly protracted saga that may lead nowhere after consuming half your life. No, thank you.
A reading is wonderful: you simply sit and read. It is a fresh, living form. Nastya and I have done many readings. I love reading her plays and their characters. When I pick up one of her plays for the first time, I understand everything immediately and am ready to read. When she hears me, she says, “Yes, exactly.” Because Nastya writes excellent plays.
Aleksandr: Can people come and listen to a reading? Are they public events?
Marusya: You can simply follow Anastasia Cheche on social media. They have a separate account for the readings. She graduated recently; they are all writing new plays and taking part in readings.
Aleksandr: And, by the way, we are currently in the middle of filming Monastyring, a film being made about Marusya.
Marusya: Yes, that is true.
Aleksandr: On that cheerful note, we conclude our wonderful interview. Many thanks to Marusya and the entire film crew, who helped us greatly with the shoot.