Kalmykov’s texts are filled with an immense sense of joy. When you know about his life and its tragic circumstances, you begin to see in his works a great deal of light and purity of imagery. They are fantastical and may seem naïve, but it is a complex, deeply considered naïveté. He was very intelligent, very funny; he understood perfectly well what he was doing and was profoundly honest in it. All this purity, this exuberance of texts and images, gives you a feeling of emotional fullness. They promise a great deal, but it is difficult to express in words—and not entirely clear whether it can be grasped at all.

On one page of his diaries—the first that came into my hands, I believe written in 1964—Kalmykov declared himself to be happy. He wrote that throughout his life he had been able to work on the circle of themes that interested him. For me, this was a profound revelation, because I knew very well the conditions in which he lived—in old age, in poverty, and with a mental illness. And yet he still insisted that he was happy.

Since encountering these texts, we have remained under their powerful and multifaceted influence. They have given us an entire way of seeing the world. At times, we naively believe that we are inventing something ourselves and stepping beyond the boundaries of his world, but in fact we remain deeply within it and act according to its laws. At certain moments, we have deliberately reproduced his language and imagery, but far more often we feel that they determine our behavior.

Kalmykov consciously called himself a genius, and we, too, became infected by this game.

In the end, it took shape as what we call the “Method of Practical Genius.” It consists of five principles and helps us practice both art and life, moving—so we hope—closer to Kalmykov’s own genius, and through that, to the inner genius within each of us. For me, Kalmykov’s genius lies in self-glorification. I believe that the choice of words and a particular way of naming one’s actions profoundly influence their outcomes.

There is no point here in speaking of narcissism. A constant inner dissatisfaction with myself, for example, prevents me from falling into that extreme. What is at stake instead is the search for something hidden within oneself. Kalmykov was alone; his existence was barely recognized, and his works were hardly exhibited anywhere. His search for his own genius began in his youth, when in Orenburg he wrote the remarkable text What Is Genius? The conviction he described in his own potential—not something given by others, but something formed independently—was deeply liberating.

His principle was to feel a constant insufficiency in what he was doing, but not to destroy himself because of that insufficiency. For him, it was a great game—to call himself great. Through play and humor, he moved from a state of absolute uncertainty to active action. Self-glorification becomes a way to overcome the pressure of the external world. The constant affirmation of his own genius allowed him to remain pure and radiant.

Kalmykov gave me essential orientation, because before encountering his texts I was in a state of paralysis. I did not understand where I was going or why, and was engaged only in self-destruction. Meeting Kalmykov and the practice of exaltation helped me return to making art. Before that, I had been in a long depression, tormenting myself with thoughts about creative and personal failures. It seemed to me that at some point everything was over: talent had left, and the bright belief that one can cope with anything was gone as well.

Then the texts appeared, pointing to the existence of two poles—where you are not merely an empty point constantly subjected to the pressure of circumstances. Moreover, they made it possible to connect these poles, to move between them. Because of this, I began to pay particular attention to the kind of pain one experiences in moments of emptiness, and to the sense of wonder at beauty that arises in states of elevation.