Publication: 25 Feb 2025
Text & Photo: Capturing Creativity Editorial Team
Text & Photo: Capturing Creativity Editorial Team
Planet Earth, the 25th eastern meridian, 12 October 2024. Saturday, late afternoon. It’s drizzling a bit, but pleasantly so; a few hurried little humans hum to themselves as they busily scuttle around the underpass by the bus station of a small-to-medium populated place. They carry shiny things in and out, glowing things, shaggy things… Wait—now they’re hauling an enormous refrigerator! Luckily, the rain retreats right before the start of the event, which this year takes the form of an open-air sci-fi reading room—certainly not the most waterproof choice available. The Earthlings in question rejoice, albeit unknowingly, that the statistical probability of such a climate-psychodynamic coincidence—on a Saturday, no less—is only 0.000856804596 percent; meaning they’re truly insanely lucky, I’m telling you
The observed event is the Infundibulum Microfest phenomenon, which for a second consecutive autumn, appears, flares up, and vanishes within the span of a single day in Gabrovo. This year, however, beyond memories, it leaves behind a physically lasting trace—an alien underground landscape that takes over the underpass by the Gabrovo Bus Station. Its author, Nevena Ekimova, a local artist, has been rummaging through the minds of science-fiction writers from her father’s library since childhood, and we can safely—if figuratively—say she learned her ABCs from Asimov and Bulychev, or, if you prefer, from Arkady and Boris… At the moment, she is arranging one hundred and seventeen (minus nine) little books with beautifully illustrated covers in chronological order, displaying carefully collected sets of old but cult Earth magazines, and talking to passers-by about their influence on childhood and growing up—hers and theirs.
Gradually, the little square by the bus station becomes populated and chatty. As twilight approaches, the lamp switches on: a dramatic scenographic gesture in the form of a huge furry egg made of tinsel fringe, the work of another local imagination engine, Gergana Runkel. Its light glints off the gold-and-silver surfaces of the giant Blob—a prototype sculpture hinting at the underpass’s oncoming invasion of art made from tin cans. All in all, unlike the events on the Moon (which the author attends regularly and always leaves dulled), this one definitely has atmosphere.
A little after seven in the same area, a gathering of Earthlings forms around the poet-with-a-guitar Ilko Birov. The fifty-seven minutes of the concert—a mix of original music and nicely chosen covers—are broadcast by dozens of interplanetary radio stations, whose white background noise wonderfully complements the nostalgic-melancholic vibrations and the composer’s gentle voice. In the Milky Way alone, the performance is forecast to result in 422,553 new babies.
After the concert, a crowd of assorted humans—varying in size somewhere between R2D2 and Chewbacca—streams down the stairs, forcing the author of this report to abandon the comfort of their observation post in a geranium on the balcony of Apartment 12 in the neighbouring block and mount a fly. With the fly’s help, and after difficult negotiations, the author follows the multitude into the underpass. There, echoing conversations unfold; gigabytes of photos, terabytes of video and phone stories are produced; and impressive quantities of craft beer are consumed (to the fly’s enormous delight and to my growing concern).
I keep an honourable distance from the periodic bursts of applause around the official opening, and soon catch music again—this time digitally undulating and, in places, frankly extraterrestrial. The second musician in the programme is Pavel Terziyski, whose voice could easily be sealed into one of those boxes Earthlings occasionally launch into deep space to boast about their (often mediocre—though not in this case) achievements. Terziyski manages to enchant the onlookers, who dreamily half-close their eyes and sway in time, wrapped in thick stage smoke, as if teleported straight from a 1990s disco.
The disco itself doesn’t take long to arrive—after Pavel, Gonzo from the Block steps up to the command console and deftly starts twisting and pressing all manner of buttons, to excellent effect. The dancefloor breaks range from deep retro to radically futuristic, with elements of Charleston, robot dance, and Prodigy shuffle—plus socked push-ups during the pauses. It must be said, even from the perspective of a seasoned cosmic clubgoer like the author, the dancers’ level of innovation is impressive.
At midnight, the music stops, and the industrious humanoids from the first paragraph spring into action again—though with movements a touch smoother and more measured than before. Cables and curtains are rolled up; the refrigerator is dragged off somewhere with great effort; the shiny and glowing things continue to glimmer in the emptying underpass. A line of human heads toward the afterparty, whose events, to everyone’s relief, the observer will discreetly omit. Last in the column of Earthlings is Rosina Pencheva, dressed in high-visibility orange, locking up, counting, and once again checking that everything is in order—after all, the whole thing was her idea.
Инфундибулум Микрофест е проект за култура и изкуство на платформата Capturing Creativity по идея на Невена Екимова и Росина Пенчева. Реализира се с финансовата подкрепа на Община Габрово по програма Култура, приоритет Творческо преживяване и социализация на пространствата, и Елена Груп ЕАД. (Пълен списък на партньорите, екипа и гост-артистите)
