By Shota Iatashvili
A masked poet, visual artist, and performer who writes under a pseudonym. He first emerged with this image in 2018 through the performance Thicker Skin. Since then, Andro’s masks have varied, although, as the author himself notes, he avoids making them pompous or romanticized. He is careful not to lose sight of their essential function: to conceal his identity and preserve his inner peace. Some of these masks are conceptual (Modern and geometric) while others are simple and purely practical, intended to hide his face. Even at ordinary poetry readings, he never appears unveiled. This is not merely an artistic gesture: homosexual theme is one of the primary reasons behind the protective layer that Dadiani has chosen to adopt.
Such an artistic stance inevitably invites questions. In the 21st century, the age of coming outs, should a poet still perform with a mask, even when reading poems that engage with this theme? Is this not a step backward? It’s true that Dadiani’s primary sphere of activity is not central Europe or America, but Georgia, situated on the border of Europe and Asia. Still, even here, coming out is no longer a strange phenomenon. So, can such a “semi-bold” poetic performance be considered acceptable? It’s a legitimate question, but before jumping to conclusions, we must consider the aesthetics that define Andro Dadiani’s creative work.
His only poetry collection to date, Purgatorio, was published in 2020 (Kalmosani Publishing House). From the first glance, it’s clear that Dadiani employs experimental forms to convey his message. There are attempts to visually reflect the verbal effects intended for performative declamation: through the use of special symbols, variable font sizes, and specific poetic techniques. At times, these experiments drift into pure formalism, to the point where the poet’s central line of thought is lost. His painful
confessions disappear, leaving behind repeated short phrases or fragments of auxiliary language. As Nana Trapaidze notes: “This purification, this birth is so deeply experienced that within the mystery of purification, the word itself is stripped down to sound, sometimes as a howl, sometimes as silence, sometimes as fragmented syllables, like a kind of paroxysm seeking form beyond syntax and articulation, reaching back toward a primordial source where fragmentation and differentiation were unknown.”
Dadiani also makes use of readymade techniques: presenting personal letters and their photocopies as poems. In this format, he captures intimate, care-laden moments from his life, as if to cloak the fragile and vulnerable world of his poetry in a protective layer. One notable example is the poem “Hot Borscht in a One-Liter Jar”:
At number 5 Griboedov Street, next to the basement shop, at the end of the dumpsters there’s a yard, when you go through the gate, on the left-hand side there’s a staircase that goes up to the second floor. When you go up the stairs, to the left in the glassed-in balcony there’s an exercise machine, and hanging on it is a red bag for you. Please don’t be upset or take it the wrong way—there’s something inside just for you, and I want you to take it.
Kisses, Auntie (name erased)
28.10.09.
Expressions of care are so rare in this book that they create a striking contrast with the environment described by the poet. An environment that is merciless, yet at the same time saturated with an eroticism born of self-sacrificing, obsessive, hopeless, and unrequited love.
At times, this eroticism takes the form of raw desire, even turning into aggression toward those who “set rules for people / on how to perform sexual functions.”
Still, this aggressive passion is not the defining trait of the author. He is more often drawn to tender eroticism. As, for example, in the following passage:
In the morning by Kashueti*,
I saw a black boy, resembling the Holy Mother.
Pontic azaleas burned in his eyes.
He was lighter than the March breeze,
standing still in the currents of the street.
He stood still, texting someone somewhere,
perhaps far away.
Like a soulless figure, he stood in the wind
and the street passed through him,
as if he were an arch.
In the morning by Kashueti,
I saw a black boy, resembling the Holy Mother,
broad-hipped and yellow-eyed.
Perhaps he was even named after some saint.
He stood there, texting,
maybe the Holy Mother herself.
Translated by: Inga Zhghenti / * Kashueti is a church in Tbilisi, Georgia
This clash of eroticism and brutality creates a unique sensitivity in his poetry, one that unintentionally expands its emotional and thematic range, preventing it from being narrowly confined to LGBT issues. This heightened sensitivity becomes even more vivid when the author brings his texts to life through declamations and performances. And here we must return to the subject of the mask. How do his masks function in these contexts? They are neither tragic nor comic, nor do they come from the ancient Greek tradition. They do not resemble the distinct character types of Venetian masks either. Andro Dadiani doesn’t use his masks to emphasize genre or to embody a protagonist. On the contrary, he erases the face entirely, generalizing his characters. And the broad vocal range through which his voice moves behind the mask (our author is also an opera singer) – from hysteria to seductive whisper – intensifies the overall impression and enhances the energetic impact on the audience. Ultimately, then, the mask serves an artistic purpose: an aesthetic tool to more effectively convey his message.
It is worth noting that the presentation event of Purgatorio was itself an 84-hour uninterrupted performance. The duration was deliberately synchronized with the time Dante and Virgil spend in Purgatorio. It began on April 10, 2021, at 4 a.m. and ended on April 14, at 4 p.m. The author sat backward on a wooden horse, symbolizing the prelude to the public shaming and stoning of a “sinner” by a patriarchal society. This posture evokes associations with the well-known Georgian film The Wishing Tree and its character Marita. The front of the horse appeared to be entering purgatory. The collection concludes with a poem that disperses the words across space: “Hug me, hug me tighter, come close, closer.” These words were looped in the soundtrack playing continuously during the performance. When someone entered the space, the sound guided them toward the performer, who embraced them; meanwhile, from the performer’s chest played the audio version of the poetry collection, so each visitor heard a different fragment of a poem.
The fact that here we cannot focus solely on the literary analysis of the texts is obvious. For Andro Dadiani, writing a poem is only the first stage, a beginning that almost always calls for continuation, for sensitive unfolding in public space through various media. It’s also important to note that his performances have sometimes taken the form of direct political protest, staged in the street in front of parliament, not in gallery spaces. For these kinds of works, he has often been surveilled by the State Security Service and, as of now, has left Georgia and sought asylum in Belgium.
So finally, how exactly do we assemble the portrait drawn by this masked artist? Maybe with this line from his poem called “Stretch Marks”:
“I’m looking for warmth” — a notice posted throughout the city with the number of the author, written on a slip of paper, industriously cut into pieces — all of them fluttering untouched at the bus stop. Translated by: Inga Zhghenti)
Let it be like this: I seek warmth… I seek warmth… I seek warmth… I seek warmth… Andro Dadiani likes to repeat certain phrases in his poems…
The letter was written for the international literary platform Versopolis.
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