‘My Generation Lived A Double Life’: An Interview With Alexei Lidov
Aleksei Lidov (Handout photo)
Aleksei Mihailovich Lidov was one of the world’s most distinguished art historians, internationally recognized for his pioneering work on Byzantine art and iconography. A scholar of deep intellect and quiet defiance, Lidov came of age in the late Soviet era, navigating a world split between official ideology and private truth. He died on May 29 at the age of 66.
In this interview — conducted by Alexandra Nikiforova and first published at the Pravmir website on April 17, 2017 — Lidov reflects on the roots of his independent thinking, shaped by his family, living in a communist country and ultimately the world of art. With both warmth and clarity, he shares how these experiences forged a path toward art history — and ended up living a life lived thoughtfully, often against the grain. This interview was republished on May 30, 2025.
The interview has been translated for ReligionUnplugged.com by Simon Igorovich Agapov. It has been edited for space and clarity.
Alexandra Nikiforova: Aleksei, in the late ‘90s, you gave us lectures on Byzantine art. Then and now, I was struck by your perpendicularity to the mainstream, your different way of thinking, your independence. Where do these traits come from?
Aleksei Lidov: Once, a close friend and Serbian colleague unexpectedly defined my persona and said: “You are a typical leader-dissident.” Not a leader of dissidents, but a leader who tends to lead people, but at the moment when they start following him and expect approval, the leader says: “Guys, it’s not quite like that. Let’s doubt what I just said.”
I think this is a very personal trait, unlikely to be related to my generation. And with the generation, it’s connected to constant resistance to ideological pressure, which characterized my youth. My generation lived a double life: One was official and ritualistic, the other unofficial and genuine. Honestly, this situation oppressed me.
And when I, like everyone else at university, had to take exams in Communist Party history or Marxism-Leninism, I never spoke from the first person, but with quotes like “Lenin said,” “Marx wrote,” distancing myself from religious-like meanings of what was said. Professors didn’t see my internal protest; they saw it as academic seriousness and usually gave me a “excellent” grade.
Aleksei Lidov as a child in the Soviet Union. (Handout photo)
AN: Did internal dissent interfere with or help you in life?
AL: It created many problems. It’s a very ambiguous persona — “leader-dissident” — a person who leads and simultaneously calls for doubt. So, in terms of everyday comfort — of course, no. But I didn’t invent this persona; apparently, it is my essence.
AN: Tell us about your family and how it influenced you.
AL: I was very lucky with my parents. They were worthy, talented and bright people. Both graduates of MSU’s [Moscow State University’s] Mechanics and Mathematics faculty. My father, Mikhail Lvovich Lidov, was a prominent mathematician involved in celestial mechanics and mathematical models of Soviet space flights. By the way, he was a laureate of the Lenin Prize — the highest award for Soviet scientists. My father never talked about his work. It was taboo. He signed agreements and strictly followed rules. Later, his acquaintances told me that he was the only person Sergei Pavlovich Korolev didn’t yell at — simply because he couldn’t do without him.
Despite that, my father was a true humanist; he knew at least half of Russian poetry by heart. He loved to read poetry from time to time, both in company of friends and colleagues. He liked to write poems for various occasions, and they were always precise, charming, and pleased others. The environment was amazing — I believe it largely shaped me. It was the environment of the Soviet scientific elite. Most of these scientists’ research was related to space or war, and all these scientists, according to one KGB officer, lived “a life of internal emigration.” They worked honestly, obtained scientific degrees, and earned good salaries, but interestingly, almost none of them joined the Party; those who did often left because they considered it an invisible line of compromise. They had a strict, soberly critical view of what was happening and weren’t shy about expressing it — not from the podium, but in conversations “in the kitchen” and during hiking trips, which my father took me on regularly from age seven.
We usually went kayaking on rivers of the Russian North. Around campfires, we discussed everything, and it was incredibly interesting because these people knew and read almost everything. Literature came from “beyond the border.” Remember the joke that in the USSR there are two good publishers — Samizdat and Tamizdat? Well, these people read both. Sometimes I even got a little. I remember, in 10th grade, my father brought me a night’s reading of George Orwell’s famous novel 1984. I read it and was completely stunned: it was 1975, and I was struck by how similar everything was!
My parents divorced when I was three, but remained friends for life. It was a wonderful divorce — everyone was happy that they parted, and no one ruined each other's lives. Once a week, my father came to visit, not only to me but also to my mother and her new husband. They all drank tea, talked about different things, and then my father read me stories at night.
He read me short stories by Jack London so that I could fall asleep after about half an hour, and they were interesting enough for me and made a strong impression. The characters of Jack London — brave, courageous people going against circumstances — had a huge impact on my character and life later.
Aleksei Lidov as a child with his mother. (Handout photo)
AN: Who was your hero ideal?
AL: They changed over time. Just like my favorite novels — in high school, it was The Red and the Black by Stendhal. In ninth grade, I was deeply impressed by Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray. I loved Lermontov — one of my favorite Russian works was A Hero of Our Time. There was a child-Harold in me — a sense of being different and unwilling to part with it. I was quite unlike the model Soviet Komsomol member, although I had to join the Komsomol at the end of 9th grade to enter the Moscow State University’s History Faculty.
AN: So, you also went against the grain and didn’t follow your parents’ path?
AL: Yes. My parents fought with me for a year; I studied at a math-oriented school. That school partly replaced the famous and at that time disbanded Second Mathematical School. In my 19th year, six teachers from that school and two full classes came to my school.
My parents saw my future in physics and mathematics. But I decided differently. All of 9th grade, I was discouraged — mainly my mother, who explained: “These art historians live in complete poverty on 70 rubles. Look at the good life here, and our friends are the dean of the Mechanics Department and the dean of the physics faculty...” But I stubbornly said, “No, I want to study art history.” Our home had a fairly large library, but there were only 4 or 5 books on art — almost nothing.
AN: So why art?
AL: In eighth grade, I joined the Club of Young Art Historians at the Pushkin Museum. It was a paradise! At that time, the atmosphere in the club was unique, and the attitude towards children was exceptional. They saw us as individuals who not only had the right but also the duty to think — which was considered heresy in the Soviet school system — to think and think for yourself! And it was encouraged.
I was delighted that they understood me, and my life was “from Saturday to Saturday” — constant meetings at the Pushkin Museum. Between that, there was school with lots of math and physics, which I didn’t enjoy, but Saturday meetings at the museum became my environment, and it definitely determined my choice of path.
AN: What do you remember about studying in the art history department?
AL: I got in almost by a miracle. The decisive exam was an essay, and those who were “on the B-list” received a bad grade and could do whatever they wanted afterward. But since I had a five in my certificate and three other fives, I had 23 points, which were not enough to pass, but on the theory and history of art department, there were three places that the department could take with a semi-pass grade.
The department decided to take those with the best answers on the specialty, so I got in. It’s worth noting that these three students with 23 points became the best students of the course. The department of theory and history of art was an oasis amid the ideological work. The Faculty of History was considered ideological. Many entered to make a political career and become professional apparatchiks and nomenclature. But the theory and history of art department was left alone because it was considered meaningless and harmless for ideological work. We were covered by departments of Party history and Soviet history, and we led a life that was, if not dissident, then at least non-ideological.
The ‘70s, when I studied at the university, was a somewhat paradoxical era. On one hand, boredom and stagnation reigned, but on the other hand, a generation of bright, outstanding, and independent scholars appeared in the Academy of Sciences and universities. They were not dissidents, but their independence of thought was astonishing and, of course, a challenge to the Soviet authorities. This included Sergei Averintsev, Yuri Lotman, Mikhail Gusev, Aaron Gurevich, Boris Uspensky, Vyacheslav Ivanov and others.
They existed on the edge: They weren’t dismissed from their jobs but were subjected to minor persecutions, like not being allowed to participate in international conferences or hindrances in publications. In the art history department, there was a cult of Viktor Nikitich Lazariev — a prominent Byzantologist, corresponding member of the Russian Academy of Sciences. His “History of Byzantine Painting” was translated into Italian and became a significant event in world science. It was Lazariev who managed to make the Byzantine art history course a regular core course, taught to all art historians at MSU. That’s a rare situation. Even now, I find it hard to name another place where Byzantine art is a mandatory course. Lazariev died before I entered in winter 1976, and I attended his memorial service. There I first saw my future teachers and his closest students — Viktor Nikolaevich Grachenkov, Olga Sigismundovna Popova and Alexei Ilyich Komech.
Aleksei Lidov (right) pictured with his father. (Handout photo)
AN: Your choice of Byzantine profile in the early ‘80s was quite different from today. Was it thanks to Lazariev?
AL: The first thing I remember is my trip to Kyiv with my mother at age 12, when I first entered the Saint Sophia Cathedral and saw its stunning mosaics and frescoes, its amazing space (which, as I understand now, allowed me to formulate the concept of “spatial icon”). Later, I started reading. In 10th grade, I read Lazariev’s “History of Byzantine Painting.” Looking at the black-and-white images, I realized that it was mine. When I entered university, I already knew I wanted to study Byzantine art. I was also interested in Old Russian art, but in the Old Russian tradition, it was the Byzantine beginning that attracted me. It’s, of course, determined by the word “love.” And it’s inexplicable.
If I try to translate it into more understandable categories: three years in the Young Art Historians Club gave me solid knowledge of world art history. But what did I feel? I understood that the subject of my studies had to be bigger than I myself to see it from below. Regarding various exciting traditions, like French 18th-century art, it was clear that it was a good subject for intellectual gymnastics, for constructing concepts. I always managed this easily, and I could come up with some theory or a beautiful, unconventional move. But it was boring because it didn’t engage what seemed the most important — spiritual meanings. And Byzantine art was always impossible to fully comprehend: I always tried to reach it and felt that something was forever beyond understanding.
I was very lucky with my teacher at the university, Olga Sigismundovna Popova, who knew how to captivate and even enchant the audience with her love for the subject. Her lectures were not just presentations; they were actions conveying the incredible beauty of Byzantine art, evoking a state of aesthetic ecstasy. She conveyed the sense of how incomprehensible and beautiful Byzantium was. And this was a major motivation for me to study Byzantine art. Another important argument was Lazariev’s moral integrity. We lived in the USSR, a world of state-controlled ideology, where freedom was limited, and public expression was impossible.
Like the early Christians in the Roman Empire, we read the same books, understood each other with half a word, even if we didn’t know each other, and there were millions like us. There was government authority and official rituals everyone had to perform. How can one remain human in such a situation? How to live with this authority — join the Party or not? Many said: “Of course, join. You’ll be allowed to go abroad, get promotions. But if you think to yourself or tell jokes about Brezhnev every day — you can keep doing that!” For me, it was a profound moral choice, because I didn’t want to participate in these “dances” — it was disgusting. Therefore, I didn’t intend to join the Party despite all the “cookies.” An example of moral strength for me was Viktor Nikitich Lazariev, who was sharply critical of the Soviet power and didn’t join the Party. Yet he managed to become a corresponding member of the Russian Academy of Sciences and an internationally recognized scientist.
When I studied, our professor, Viktor Mikhailovich Vasilenko, told how Lazariev helped colleagues imprisoned in camps — not as a friend but as a colleague, risking accusations, he regularly sent them packages with food and warm clothes. His civic courage and principled stance were a remarkable example of how one can refuse to dance with power and still maintain professionalism and integrity, without resorting to dishonesty to achieve scientific results.
AN: How has your attitude toward Byzantium changed over the years?
AL: What was Byzantium then? Lectures by Averintsev at the university. Honestly, he was not a great lecturer. Even now, many might find his style rather dull. But what struck me was that he quoted Church Fathers, memorized the Gospel, and existed in that space naturally — it was like a church. In a time when attending church was not customary or even forbidden, people sought spiritual life by listening to Averintsev’s lectures or Popova’s stories about
Byzantine art. And when all this became accessible and, moreover, a new mainstream, the situation changed. It became purified, and only those for whom it was a profession remained engaged in Byzantine studies. I wouldn’t say there was a radical shift or revival — it just became possible. When I started writing my first works on iconography, I was lucky. But some of my senior colleagues, like Olga EtinGof or Alexander Saminsky, couldn’t publish their early works because they were censored.
AN: What did the freedom of the ‘90s bring to Byzantine studies?
AL: A moral imperative. In my value system, freedom is always better than captivity. Any reasoning that art or science under pressure yielded some special results is irrelevant. Many worked under censorship — writers and scientists. If they managed to do something, breaking through censorship, that was already a result.
We often joked about the Soviet phrase “for the first time in Soviet science” — as if there was a separate “Soviet science” and everything else. And I would recall Mikhail Bulgakov’s phrase that sturgeon are only fresh. Art, I think, is the same. At some point, it was a Hamburg account: a test of authenticity for many. But it’s fair play: either you can contribute to world science or you can’t.
Aleksei Lidov as a young man studying art history. (Handout photo)
AN: You call the Church of Nerl “the heart of Russia.” And where is the heart of Byzantium?
AL: The spiritual center of Byzantium was a church that no longer exists — the Church of the Theotokos Pharos in the Great Imperial Palace in Constantinople. A small, incredibly beautiful church that housed the main relics of Christianity, especially relics related to the Passion of Christ. Byzantine emperors brought ambassadors here, even non-Christians. It’s mentioned in the Tale of Bygone Years that Russian pagan ambassadors were brought here to demonstrate that Byzantium held the main spiritual values of Christianity.
The spiritual strength was concentrated in Constantinople. When the Crusaders captured Constantinople in 1204, the most intelligent ruler of the time, Louis IX of France, understood that to make Paris the center of Western Christianity, he needed to acquire the great relics of the Pharos Church. Paying enormous sums, almost half of France’s national budget, he bought the Crown of Thorns and 21 other major relics from the Crusader king Baldwin II and transported them to Paris. There, he built a Gothic replica of the Pharos Church — the famous Sainte-Chapelle. And he succeeded: Paris became a spiritual center of Western Catholicism, comparable to Rome. But the roots of this project were Byzantine — an attempt to transfer the sacred space from one place to another, which happened many times in history with the New Jerusalem and others.
The Church of the Intercession on Nerl is a metaphor, but in terms of spiritual significance and influence on people, it’s true! Seeing it for the first time was an epiphany.
AN: The heart of Byzantium is the Church of the Theotokos Pharos, but what about the mind?
AL: It’s not Newton’s binomial; it’s the Cathedral of Holy Wisdom [Hagia Sophia]. The greatest church of all times and peoples. I have seen a lot in life, but nothing compares to it — neither in architecture nor in the power of the image nor in the depth of spatial solutions. I am very glad I could live in that space physically and. mentally for many years during my scientific work.
AN: Byzantine art was born in a regime-based state. Yet, this art is both perfect and free. How did the celestial Jerusalem coexist with an unbending political-administrative system, and where does the sense of freedom amid strict canon come from?
AL: Our stereotypical views of Byzantium as a rigid state and culture are not quite accurate. In the collective consciousness, Byzantium is often depicted as a flurry of masks — sometimes negative, sometimes gilded but fake, in modern terms. These masks are only loosely related to the true Byzantium.
AN: And what is the face and what is the mask?
AL: The face of Byzantium, if briefly, is the icon of the Vladimir Mother of God. Visit the Church of Nicholas in Tolmachi near Tretyakov Gallery, look at the icons of the Mother of God and the Infant — nothing else from early 12th century Byzantine frescoes remains, and you will see the face of Byzantium.
The same applies to early Byzantium — the Hagia Sophia in Istanbul and its space. It’s also a face! The same with the canon. Byzantine artists were surprisingly free according to our understanding. This is not wishful thinking but based on a remarkable text — Epiphanius the Wise, a Russian monk and scholar, describing Feofan Grek’s work in Moscow in the early 15th century. He marvels that Feofan doesn’t look at patterns but paints from his head, creating images. What canon are we even talking about? We know Feofan’s frescoes — just visit the Church of the Savior on Ilyina Hill in Novgorod.
AN: We study Byzantium through sources. We see how modern sources interpret the truth about events. Does the image serve as the most authentic witness and narrator? Can it lie?
AL: Yes! Even when an image is intentionally untruthful, it reveals itself. We live in a world where forgeries are everywhere — in science, art, politics, life. And ordinary people find it hard to distinguish what is genuine from what is tendentiously fake. But if we don’t develop the skill of discernment, we will lose the main thing. Life will be reduced to imitation and pseudo-values. It’s not an academic matter but a human universal. Many people, unfortunately, find it more convenient to live with masks.
AN: Your major contribution to Byzantology is the discovery of an entire area, “hierotopy.” I remember how skeptically your early talks about hierotopy were received. This summer, at the Congress of Byzantine Studies in Belgrade, a round table was devoted to hierotopy, and it became clear that it has entered the global toolkit of Byzantologists and is applied much broader than just art history. How did this discovery come about?
AL: Creating something new, extraordinary, and astonishing was not my goal. When one of my respected senior colleagues asked, “Are you trying to become the new Wölfflin?,” I was surprised by such a question. Since student years, I felt that the methodology of my discipline, which I sincerely loved and studied with interest, was very limited. Hierotopy — this is the creation of specific sacred spaces, regarded as a special form of creative activity, as well as a specific field of historical and cultural research that identifies and analyzes examples of this creativity.
The idea of hierotopy emerged as a way of seeing, as another dimension that does not negate anything but simply offers another perspective. Yes, the reaction from some domestic colleagues was very strange and, frankly, not very friendly, but I was supported by colleagues and friends, distinguished scientists of international renown, mostly older. Among them were Hans Belting, Salvatore Settis, Peter Brown, Slobodan Curcic, Gerhard Wolf, Oleg Grabar, and others. They immediately saw great potential in the concept of hierotopy and expressed their firm “yes” both verbally and in action. It was an important defense, although I had no doubts about the correctness of the idea. Psychologically, it’s difficult when you come up with a radically new idea and around you are told it’s doubtful, sometimes even heretical. Some critics, often not reading a single text properly, accused me of both.
AN: What is hierotopy, and what has it changed in world science?
AL: The main idea of hierotopy is that sacred space is created by specific people, in specific circumstances, with specific goals. This activity, which existed over centuries, should be regarded as a special form of human creativity alongside others — literary, musical, visual. And we need a new branch of cultural history that studies this sphere of creativity.
AN: Can you give a clear example of how the hierotopy method works?
AL: The New Jerusalem of Patriarch Nikon near Moscow. It was an ordinary Russian land of the 17th century, unremarkable in itself. A specific person, Patriarch Nikon, had an idea in his mind. He saw that this land was Holy. And he began to realize this vision practically. He created a new sacred topography: the Istra River became the Jordan, Mount Olivet was a nearby hill, Mount Tabor, and a whole monastic complex called the “New Jerusalem.”
The basis of hierotopic creativity is the same everywhere: first, an image or idea appears in the mind, which gradually materializes into reality. This image is like an icon- intermediary linking worlds. The Patriarch Nikon complex is a spatial icon. Was there a similar story in the history of art? It was traditionally believed that the objects of study were mainly material — architecture, images, decorative elements…
AN: So, describing culture and hierotopy, are they a key to understanding?
AL: It’s an attempt to understand how the Byzantines created. They started not from laying bricks but from the idea-image. And here, hierotopy allows us to identify a whole group of great artists, one of whom was Emperor Justinian. Another is the aforementioned Patriarch Nikon. And in Western tradition, Abbot Suger, who developed the concept of space in the first Gothic church of Saint-Denis.
AN: Were they artist-thinkers?
AL: They created an image or idea similar to film directors. And then they involved craftsmen to materialize and realize their idea on material carriers. The carrier could be a word — many writers modeled space with words. Therefore, the hierotopic approach is now spreading into philology.
AN: You have been engaged with Byzantium for 40 years. Have you understood it completely?
AL: Not entirely. But what has appeared over these years? A feeling of Byzantium in the gut. This, by the way, is a problem for some Western colleagues and outstanding scientists: they know a lot about Byzantium but do not feel it. The main result of my long-term work is the ability to feel what Byzantium can do and what it cannot — to see the true face, not be fooled by masks.
Aleksei Lidov (left) during a visit in London in 2006. (Handout photo)
AN: Today, there is more talk than ever about our connection with Byzantium. How do you personally feel this connection?
AL: All our spiritual roots are in Byzantium. Our fundamental values come from Byzantium. In us, there is a Byzantine way of perceiving the world — what I call “iconological consciousness” — when the world is perceived not as ultimate reality but as an icon. This distinguishes “Byzantine” writers like Tolstoy and Dostoevsky from their great Western contemporaries Balzac or Dickens. You read Tolstoy or Dostoevsky’s narratives about reality, but at some point, you realize there is another reality behind it, and the meaning of the story is to transfer you there or at least remind you of its existence.
This understanding of the icon, coming from Byzantium, is also present in many of our great modernists. It struck me especially in Andrei Tarkovsky’s films: “Andrei Rublev,” “The Mirror,” “The Sacrifice.” They show milk spilling on a table in slow motion, and these shots transfer us to another reality. That’s our Russian-Byzantine.
And this is highly valued worldwide. Fifteen years ago, at the Media Arts Center in Karlsruhe, during a seminar with Hans Belting, I saw how young German filmmakers and researchers reacted to Tarkovsky: this is the “text” they don’t have. And it’s difficult for them to understand, but we read it on a genetic level. It’s a text encoded in our cultural memory. Neither Tolstoy nor Dostoevsky seriously thought about Byzantium, nor about icons, because in their time, the great icons had not yet been discovered; they were not yet revealed. But the iconological perception always existed subconsciously within us.
AN: You said you feel Byzantium in your gut. And Russia?
AL: What is most mine, most visceral, is the Byzantine component in Russia. That is, the Byzantine element of Russian culture. It’s the value system I am ready to fight for. I acknowledge my connection with many other forms of Russian culture, non-Byzantine, but the Byzantine beginning in Russian culture is like a tuning fork. Everything else is built around it as needed.
AN: I was struck by your essay about August 1991. You end it with: “In countless travels around the world, I have not had the chance to meet Count Raevsky, and I would very much like to shake his hand, looking into his eyes with gratitude, and then, lowering my eyes, ask for forgiveness...” What would you like to ask forgiveness from the count for?
AL: It’s about those two days, August 19-20, 1991, during the attempted coup. The coup failed partly because many understood they could no longer be slaves and went out to defend their freedom at the White House. Now, it’s a common version that it was a farce, that it was staged, and so on. Gorbachev was not arrested, Yeltsin was fake, and everything is not worth mentioning. But I know for sure — and no one can convince me otherwise — that these were two bright days, that it was really scary, and that the fate of Russia was decided during those days, at least for a significant period.
The key moment was when the confused people gathered at the White House understood they needed to resist. They started building rather funny, ultimately ineffective barricades. But those barricades became a symbol of resistance, and they changed the course of history. It began with a small, scattered group of people at the entrance to the White House, under the rain. Suddenly, a person — a foreigner visiting Russia — jumped onto the parapet and said: “Compatriots, I am a delegate of the Congress of compatriots, Count Raevsky, I urge you to organize yourselves and build barricades.”
It was obviously a descendant of the Raevskys, who fought at Borodino and saved Russia in critical moments. From that moment, the open resistance to the coup plotters began.
AN: Why ask for forgiveness?
AL: We failed to protect the freedom that we began to win in those August days of 1991. We took a very important step toward freedom, but for many reasons, we lost it — including the greed and dishonesty. of those who came to power on the wave of that freedom. And due to the historical habit of submitting to authority, coming from a country that only 150 years ago abolished serfdom. We have little to be proud of. We have come a long way since 1991, but we have not safeguarded something fundamentally important. It was in those days in August 1991 that I experienced one of the brightest moments of my life — the emotions I felt then, the proximity to death, authenticity, and unity of people. Do you understand?
I remember feeling — for the first time in my life — deep respect for my people. And I mean “People,” not just the protesting intelligentsia, but all classes and social groups, very ordinary people: students, workers, housewives bringing food. That was my Russia, which I love, understand, and cherish. It doesn’t always manifest itself. But it was a moment of truth. People came out selflessly, risking their lives, just because they didn’t want to be slaves anymore. They came to defend their freedom.
AN: Is freedom an absolute value for you?
AL: Yes, an absolute value. For me, freedom, as a Christian and Orthodox person, is a key concept. Ultimately, we all answer to God — individually. Not as a group, not as a family, not as a nation — personally. We answer and will answer at the Last Judgment for everything each of us has done. And all attempts to shift personal responsibility to some societal or group level are, in my view, un-Christian. They substitute the essence of the phenomena. Many find it easier to live with masks than to accept personal responsibility for what they do in life.
AN: Do you distinguish between “I” and “they,” or do you take responsibility for what happened in the country?
AL: Undoubtedly. I consider myself part of my people, although I often dislike the reactions of most of it. But I understand that I am responsible for what happens, and I do what I can when I see something wrong. This civic feeling has always been with me. This is my country, I have only one. I didn’t choose it, and I don’t regret being born in Russia. I still believe in its better future. I remember the early 90s, when I met acquaintances, and their first question was:
“Which embassy line are you standing in?” At that time, many wanted to leave for anywhere — South Africa, Australia, or wherever they could. And when I said I wasn’t in line, they looked at me as if I were crazy. My reasoning that you shouldn’t abandon the country that just gained freedom was seen as semi-madness by many. Later, during scientific internships in America, I was offered to stay and work there, but I consciously decided against it. The loss I’d suffer from moving there permanently could not be compensated by the benefits I could get abroad.— Do you think, without imposing your view, that there is no feeling of joy from life in your homeland “by the heart,” from within, with all its nuances?
Despite great respect for achievements of America and many European countries, I find that many things there are wonderful but not mine. It will always be foreign to me — charming, comfortable, but alien. Like with parents — a simple comparison, but accurate. So, I believe that renouncing this — at least in my humble opinion — can only happen for “life reasons.”
AN: One of your favorite words, which you mentioned several times today, is “authenticity.” Why is authenticity so important to you?
AL: We live in a world of endless fakes and imitations in science, art, politics, life. Therefore, the word “genuine” is key for me. I very much dislike living with fakes and surrogates.
AN: You love quoting poetry. What quote describes you today?
AL: Not just today, but in life, my favorite Tchaikovsky: “We cannot predict how our words will resonate. And compassion is given to us as grace is given to us.”
Alexandra Nikiforova is a graduate of the Department of Classical Philology at Moscow State University. She has a PhD in Philology and a Senior Research Fellow at the Institute of World Literature of the Russian Academy of Sciences. She’s also a orrespondent for the radio program “The Annunciation” and contributor to the websites Pravoslavie.ru and Tatiana’s Day. She is a member of the Association of Art Historians.