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She had performed alone in the past, lunging at Patriarch Kirill, but on the morning of this protest, her heart was racing. She placed an iron stave in a tote bag, covering it with a scarf. She had on a grey hooded sweatshirt and a jacket which she planned to pull open, but otherwise wore no costume. Yana Zhdanova finds the trappings of Femen protests — flower crowns, impasto make-up — unnecessary when their message is already clear.
Alone, in a rush, Yana used a mirror to write Kill Putin on her chest, not realising she had it the wrong way around, a mirror image. She ran to the bathroom and vomited. To them, she thought, I look calm. Calm duly settled over her. Finally, she made her way to the waxwork of Vladimir Putin. It referred to a version of the Russian president with a shock of blond hair and a thinner face; the focus of its blue eyes was unusually soft. Putin stood amongst an improbable congress of world leaders.
The walls, carpet, and curtains flanking them were red and plush, like the inside of a jewellery box. She had assumed the base was firmly connected to the floor, but the statue toppled to the ground, the head collapsing into fragments strewn on the carpet like a cracked egg. They found her frightening, they would tell her afterwards. Improvising, she straddled the statue, balancing in the air above its knee, and knifed into it, slicing deep into the resin. She turned her face to the cameras.
Even in those days, Yana was unable, afterwards, to watch videos of her protests: an emotion, unspeakable, resembling fear, rushed into her, and she could not bear the memory. Finally, a guard radioed for help. Yana stood. She covered her breasts. She waited. There is a market on the Avenue de Versailles, which is set up some weekdays only to vanish by evening, leaving a series of metal frames resembling vertebrae. The apartment was new to her. She had moved there from a squat in Clichy, an under-served suburb north of Paris.
