Lenin 9th April 2023
Money does not always produce the same effect on the workers. Few ones are not easily beguiled by gold, just to complain and rely on others when in need. They are sometimes useful to the Revolution as much as those greedy enough to desire the wealth of others at any cost. At the same time these individuals are incapable of finding a way to make their fortunes. I believe I belong to the few ones who can master the glitter produced by jewels and understand the true power to use banknotes as much as words, to influence and rule over a whole nation. Characters like mine desire true power and measure their decisions only on the basis of that. I went to the theatre yesterday evening. Beside for propaganda purposes, I cannot truly love cinema. It is a mass product, lacking the individuality of a piece enacted for the specific public sitting in the hall. In the museum I often assist to the projection of Eisenstein’s movies. The best ones are those produced, or at least conceived while I was officially still living. Only one came actually out before that unfortunate year, when I had to prematurely leave the world. Unfortunately not for me, but for my ideas. The Revolution had been consolidated by my comrade Stalin and my fame secured forever. If I had live further, I could have however better contributed to the development of the rituals and the iconography of a new religion. Yet the founder of christianism lived only thirty three years, while I had more time to consolidate the fruits of my teachings. Far too much has escaped the socialist propaganda. If I did not realise that by reading the main newspapers and watching Hollywood movies, I noticed how large is the field of free thought when I attended the last evening show. It was a comedy, not the kind of performance enacted in the main halls of big cities, mainly produced with state money and under a certain control of my comrades. The comedy was really produced for the enjoyment of the audience, on a stage run exclusively by private initiative and the spirit of the manager. Luckily for the Revolution, it has become quite difficult to make profit from such initiatives and the need of state money is sometimes evident also for those lucky actors to enjoy freedom. I was so happy when I found out that it was the second last performance of the last season. The building belongs to the city estates, securely in the hands of a leftist majority. Indeed a minority since in the city only a third of the electors took actively part to the choice of the major. Apparently someone in the local administration has understood how the content of the plays on the stage finds its roots in the bourgeois mindset. It must have been quite a clever mind because the excuse to close the theatre has been created with the need to offer to the youth a children's stage. A stage where I hope that only selected pieces lead by socialist ideas will be offered. The audience will be thus so carefully educated that sooner or later the common mindset shall be modelled on the basis of my writings. The change must be however quite slow, but I think that the big mind of socialism has already arranged a secure methodology. I do not understand all the details, but criticism of private property has gradually increased during the last century. Or at least I hope so. Unfortunately my mathematics has always been quite poor and I lack the skills to widely use modern technology. Perhaps it is the hint that for a while I must forget society and join some evening courses. I could ask the comrades of the museum. They have for sure some good ideas, at least they pose as well educated sons of the best universities. Sometimes, however, I have some doubts about their assumptions. They look to me far too clever to be genuine.
The art dealer
It did not go so bad as expected. My boss kept a decent attitude during the whole meeting and looked at me frowning his brows whenever he had to remark something went wrong and could be avoided. I did not dare to reply, but his points made sense. I realised I am such a junior when he stated that it is a good chance to fail on such trivial deals. He told me about the well renowned art collector who busted a tens of millions transaction with his elbow. On the evening before the consignment, while showing so proudly the painting to be sold, with a movement of his arm, the millionaire managed to hit in the middle the precious surface. The impact produced quite a visible hole in the canvass. I argued that he should have been revealed to be Bansky. Before the rest of the world would have been able to ascertain whether his revelation was well sounded, the collector could have sold the piece at double of the intended price. The millionaire was not Bansky, although it is possible that Bansky could have afforded to make the purchase and the transaction had to be cancelled. The rich man had to lose his face, pay for the restoration and needed to wait several years before putting the market once again. In comparison, my two Hockneys, that were just an edition of 250, constituted just a millesimal of the total value. Under these considerations, I forgot to ask about the colleague who put my career in danger, at least according to my fears. It is a pity that I committed such a mistake, because it was perhaps my only chance to get my revenge. My boss is considered to be a decent, if not lovely person in the whole of the company. I would really like to enjoy such a positive renomee, but it does not necessarily deserve it. I find vengeance so sweet, especially when it is the case to exercise my power and show off the hierarchical level I have achieved. Perhaps I due it to my father and the education I received from the merry men of the red hand. You could survive the troubles, without leaving the four counties forever, only by having people around you to show some respect and fear. Under such circumstances, whenever with the IRA or the loyalist, vengeance was not an option, but a need. I saw an execution, once. I was drinking a beer with friends, I was actually underage, but the bartender did not care. He was a comrade of my father. A man entered the pub, his face covered with a dark sock used as a mask. He quickly approached the friendly master of the house, the very same who served me a pint. The man extracted a gun and aimed at the head of the unfortunate bartender, who was doomed to be one of the last victims of the troubles. Some rumours crossed my street. The dead apparently betrayed the Red Hand. The regular army did not want to trust us anymore, not to consider us their allies. It was inconvenient for the Army reputation and nobody wanted to hinder the normalisation process. It was explained in a similar way. My dad escaped the court, he had good friends in London, the same who allowed me to study in Cambridge. Or actually at the College of West Anglia. I applied to Cambridge and Oxford as well, but the colleges took the bill of the admission test without ever explaining to me why I was not deemed brilliant enough to be welcome in the cultural elite. Thus I landed in an institution whose name was not ever comparable to that of the least of the new colleges. I managed to enter the art market anyway. Apparently successfully enough to be pardoned after my first huge mistake. I will owe my boss the same understanding if, sooner or later, I will succeed in taking his place. I do not intend to wait for him to retire, thus, unless a health problem will not allow me a fast career, I will have to be brutal to sit on his chair.
The consultant
I cannot afford to despise my project and I need to stand fast, although I am beginning to receive odd requests from one day to another. The visibility provided by a role like mine can be tricky to be put under control. On one side I am the responsible and selected advisor, on which to rely not just to lead people, but mainly to take key decisions. On the other hand, clever colleagues know how to make me accountable for any subject even remotely related to the issue that has suddenly emerged. It is stressful, but it would be even more stressful and frustrating if I did not have enough money to support my hobbies and my ambition. I feel the need to be empowered by wearing expensive jewellery, actually to own it. To write with a pen from a limited series and to put it in a bag is as expensive as two months of my average income. All of this, especially when dispensed on different fronts, provokes a constant drain on my finances, in such a way that I am constantly feeling poor even if it is not the case. On the contrary I could be envied because of my theoretical lack of economical sorrows. However lives are proceeding in parallel and the ones of those with a much higher or lower income seldom cross my existence. I have several times met the boss of my boss, the senior partner who makes five millions a year. I have also met the CEO of a company who makes more than one hundred millions a year. Along the street I also meet beggars who do not possess anything, as much as there are people without tangible properties. They also cross my life, but, besides the time that we stay together, my status is not affected and I continue to burden because of the desire to possess a specific item. Someone recommended the art market. Perhaps I could make a profit.
