Together with Alexandra Morozova, we began working with Kalmykov’s archives, and it became a crucial and astonishing encounter with a genius. Kalmykov left behind 10,000 pages of manuscripts. It is an overwhelming amount. And these are not merely words or information—they are written in a very particular way. He invented his own handwriting: a broken, trembling line, which he used in almost all of his writings. As a result, you did not simply open a page of text—you looked at it as if it were a work of art.

We were, of course, struck by both the scale and the freedom with which he wrote. He created fantastical novels, many of them unfinished. He produced numerous pseudo-scientific speculations. This strongly recalls the general spirit of the early 20th-century avant-garde, when science and art were intertwined and it was not always clear what was true. Kalmykov also wrote many artistic manifestos, which we read as well. Some of them are genuine manifestos—clearly articulated, with principles that he himself followed throughout his life.

And, of course, the archive contains diaries, where he records everything that happens to him—his apartment, his pension, his work, his life in Almaty, his membership in the Union of Artists, and more. What struck us most was his immense energy and his desire to release his “genius” into the world. On almost every page he seems to cry out: “I am a genius! Picasso and I will remain for centuries!” And there is something in this. It does not sound like the cry of a madman. It is the cry of a genius who truly needs to be released, because he carries a powerful, expansive inspiration.

From this emerged not just an idea, but a necessity—to “release” Kalmykov. And we understood that a single performance would not be enough; that alongside it, we needed to publish a book of his texts—whether as a collected works or in another form—and to create other activities as well.

We are all used to living in a world where success is equated with results, fame, and money. But when I look at unconventional artists, I understand that they were free from these definitions. For them, success meant conquering the “cosmos and its surroundings,” as Kalmykov put it. I think the same applies to the project Kalmykov. Revival. Its success will consist in the fact that everyone involved—artists, administrators, citizens—will be able to touch Kalmykov’s creative cosmos and discover their own.

It would be wonderful if, as a result, Kalmykov became, in a sense, a “brand” of Almaty—if we, as a city, could “create” our own Van Gogh. That in itself would be an unprecedented undertaking. Although the emergence of such a “brand” is not the main goal of the project. The main goal is to revive, in the city and in its people, the figure of the artist—freely dreaming, childlike in honesty, open to the new, sometimes naïve, sometimes strange.

Today, more than ever, we need encounters with the “other,” and Kalmykov is a wonderful “other”—even if he is our fellow countryman.