The truth will always out. Back in the day the truth was easier to hide, but today the world has become nearly transparent: lies are exposed sooner than ever, they look awkward and ridiculous, yet they are told shamelessly and insolently as never before. The worst is when a lie grows so big it turns into a war. Even if it’s a war against myths, lying is a heavy weapon. A few days before the war, lies started to materialize in an extremely tangible fashion. It was then that I learned from news presenter that my country does not exist, that it emerged, a century ago, as a fruit of one man’s fantasy, and that today it is a refuge for Nazis and drug addicts. I know the taste of this kind of lie and would recognize it anywhere, but I cannot accept the fact that this malady has afflicted millions of submissive supporters of a regime that has for generations treated people like idiots and kept them in the grip of fear. For former residents of the Soviet Union, mendacious state propaganda is associated with the music of the Swan Lake ballet, which has for decades served as a means of concealing the truth: every significant news that needed to be kept secret, be it the Chernobyl explosion or the death of another secretary general, was replaced by this ballet on TV screens. During the August coup, Swan Lake was broadcast for three days. My performance is set to the music of the notorious ballet, but I also called it Swan Song, foreshadowing a quick end to a regime that has gotten carried away in its bad game. When lying goes so far in its foul play, it inevitably devours itself.