by Aleksandr Perchatkin

Read the Faculty Introduction.

Throughout my life I have been acting as a camera: when I feel strong emotions, I “snap” a picture and put it in my storage. The storage is full of stories of different kinds, and the most important one is journalism. I care about these journalistic snapshots because the stories are not mine. They belong to someone else, and my job is to transmit them in a fast and efficient way. The snapshots are grouped in envelopes by different categories: date, theme, titles, and stories themselves. Now, I am opening the envelope titled “Vending machines and their future usage worldwide,” where three images are collected.

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Snapshot No. 1: “Sorry”

9 September 2019

Dasha is sitting on a bench near “Aleksandrovskiy Sad,” a popular garden among tourists, trying to hide from the scorching heat of Moscow September. The garden is always crowded with tourists–it is almost impossible to find solace among the Soviet-style weird flowers and trees that were planted there long before Dasha was born. She cries and is surrounded by unfamiliar faces, who mingle with the natural scenery with their noises of astonishment and complaints. Dasha sits there, crossing her legs and arms like a tired student after classes, but her face is different. It bears an expression of emptiness and transparency. The spot that she is looking at is missing, either obscured by the crowd or the chaotic tourists, making it hard for her to focus on anything other than the touristic nonsense around her.

Notes:

On this day, Dasha and I agreed to do an interview about her experience. We went to the local Starbucks, bought lattes and started talking. The interview itself was too gloomy, much more controversial than I thought. I was not ready to hear all the descriptions of that incident, and she was not ready to tell me about the entire experience. I felt like a teacher examining an unprepared student: the situation was uncomfortable for both of us. Nevertheless, it was the most important meeting of my life—a meeting not with my father, who I have only seen twice since my parents’ divorce, nor with Mr. S, the person from the Moscow government, who I desired to interview since I was eight (I have been into politics since I was eight years old, and I would love to interview my spiderman from Tomsk who transformed Moscow of the 90s into a European city).

This realization was unexpected. I did not know which of my stories would be the most transformative for me. But it was Dasha with her story of domestic abuse, a story that made me think about the course of my career in journalism.

Snapshot No. 2:  “The process of making”

10 September 2019

The room is dark and cavernous, resembling a barn with its closed blinds and complete lack of lighting. It emanates a peculiar odor, reminiscent of a place where something died a week ago. Despite the eerie atmosphere, I remain seated at my table surrounded by a multitude of energy drink cans, which I pretend are meant to be there. This is my room, and it’s 3 am.

My eyes are bloodshot and struggling to function due to their prolonged exposure to the computer screen. My headphones blare at their highest volume, and the computer’s cooling system drones on at its highest power.

Notes:

Typical evenings for me back then involved preparing for college admission exams and working. One of my jobs was producing my own podcast where I would interview teenagers about their struggles and challenges. In this particular scene, I was editing Dasha’s story using a sound editing program. Although the interview was meant to be an episode for the radio, I was hesitant to send the final version to the editor. I doubted the story would be popular; it lacked a catchy element and was not very convincing. Dasha used phrases like “I don’t know”, “I’m not sure” and “I don’t remember” which might have discouraged listeners who prefer more certainty in stories.

Snapshot No. 3: “Turn around”

12 September 2019

I leave the office of the XYZ channel, the media that considers itself to be the only independent one in Russia, where some of the producers invited me after hearing my podcasts about Netflix TV shows. I join the circle of smoking journalists after recording a program regarding Tik-Tok’s place in teenagers’ lives. They talk about how they are interested in major events in Russian social life, but they spend their money and time discussing such abstract popular culture topics on-air. One of the anchors politely says, “Are you okay? We were just talking about how well your podcasts are doing!”

Notes:

I once saw these journalists as role models, but I noticed a significant ethical difference between me and XYZ’s approach that day: I had one important story on my metaphorical  camera, while their journalistic polaroids were wasted on naïve teenagers’ opinions. However, I did not make Dasha’s picture known because it was not “catchy” enough. This meeting at XYZ made me realize that I had turned from being a young journalist, who is still finding his way in this profession, to a vending machine that tempts people “to buy” stories that look fancy at first glance, keeping important ones in the last rows.

Snapshot No. 4: “Mr. S”

1 December 2019

The streets of Moscow are filled with two distinct smells: car fuel and the aroma of fresh baked goods. This contrast is a constant in Moscow, which contains both a bustling metropolis, with its abundance of cars and factories, as well as a quaint European-style city. As I walk the famous Tverskaya street, Russia’s own living Mount Rushmore comes into view. Although not as imposing as his US counterpart, he is alive with color and stands proudly at the entrance of his office, waving to a group of politicians from Armenia. His face is the same color as the stone bricks surrounding him, giving him a robotic appearance and masking any emotions he may be feeling. As he turns and enters his office, I feel hesitant and do nothing, even though only weeks before I would have eagerly sought out Mr. S for an interview.

Notes:

I did not see the point in trying to talk to Mr. S that day. All of the questions that I wanted to ask him had already been answered. This spiderman was still a hero to me, but his polaroid was not as important as Dasha’s. Her story could be far more useful than an interview with a Russian politician.

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I am sealing this envelope full of snapshots and thinking about its title. In some years, vending machines will capture the labor market worldwide — their cool-headed working style attracts many investors. They do not cause any problems with people, they are repetitive, they have the same “beeeeeep” after every order. But do they recognize people’s voices, do they hear the fear, happiness, apathy, or excitement? One may say that for ordering pizza and sushi, there is no such need as recognizing emotions, and that may be true. But what about talking, not just supplyingfood? I have noticed that some people may rather talk to Siri than to a human being, and I am absolutely sure that is not the way things are supposed to work. Machines cannot solve people’s problems.As a journalist, I had once tried to be like a vending machine  with a programmed evaluation regarding a  story’s importance, but I learned that it simply was not who I am. I knew that the interview with Mr. S. would have received many views but releasing Dasha’s episode felt more right. I have more than a set number of buttons on a panel – I have a strong understanding of what is right, more important words to say than a simple  “thank you for your patience, we appreciate it”. I am a journalist who wants to tell the stories that matter, that change people’s lives. Stories like Dasha’s are important to tell because they can create a strong sense of community amongst ourselves because this story feels more real and more personal than a politician’s story or a fluff piece on the news ever could.