When the Russian authorities produce absurdity, we turn it into art. For free.

“November 27” is a decentralized support network for independent creators and volunteers who look at Russian reality without protective goggles, pink filters, or mandatory reverence for the power vertical.

Anyone can join: ask for help, offer help, or simply spark an idea that will flare up somewhere дальше.

Our goal is to help creators remain independent, visible, and protected—and to remind everyone that volunteering is also authorship, also creativity.

Creative people burn out as often as regional power grids in Russia. One of the best ways to reset is to help another creator.

When we orbit one another, we ignite ideas. And when there are many sparks, a fire becomes inevitable.

By helping someone else’s project, you build energy that you later—suddenly—turn into your own next loud action. Without constant interaction, we all stall as fast as a brand-new UAZ Patriot after purchase.

Russia is a country where the state turned absurdity into a technology of control. We turn that absurdity into art that will be remembered.

Because on November 27, 2025, the Russian state performed yet another episode of its government circus—this time in the genre of psychiatric stand-up.

That day, a state machine that давно lost contact with reality and common sense labeled as “terrorists” people whose work was public, non-violent, and legally transparent.

Russian courts are the only circus stage on earth where a “terrorist act” can be staged without explosions, without weapons, without victims, but обязательно with a press release and solemn, laughably serious faces.

Perhaps the only violence there was—bureaucratic: when everyone sees budget theft and puts the official on the list of those who will face prison after a change of power.

It was the day the system admitted: “Yes, it’s nonsense. But it’s our nonsense.” We replied: “Great. We’ll record it.”

That is how “November 27” was born—a monument to how far a totalitarian system can drift from reality.

The Russian state loves order—but a специфический kind: not the order of living nature where everything grows and breathes, but the order of formalin, where everything is dead, fixed in place, and smells like a taxidermist’s office.

To understand the vertical, imagine a huge state cabinet stuffed with instructions, reports, protocols—and things that once were people, now turned into bureaucratic formalists.

We—creative people—bring life into this system. We think, change trajectories, laugh in the wrong places, write, draw, film, speak—and none of it fits into the sacred filing system.

Creativity makes people think and ask questions. It causes glitches—and cracks the totalitarian structure. That’s why independent creators are the system’s nightmare.

Not those who smash the regime—that’s too straightforward. We unite those who are worse: people who switch others’ brains on.

In a country where thought is treated as a harmful side effect, our project works like a vaccine: a small shot—and a person starts smelling the rot behind reports of “stability.”

Awakening can happen anywhere: on the метро, at a factory, in a hospital corridor, in an official’s office—even inside the system, when someone suddenly discovers that reality has no “for internal use only” stamp.

Art cannot be registered, blocked, or fully banned. It mutates faster than censorship can work.

Creators and volunteers need support. We develop not a structure, but reciprocity, solidarity, and simple human relationships.

1. We connect creators with people ready to support them

We have “Creators” who generate meaning; “Volunteers” who help that meaning grow; and “Projects” that need time, skills, or ideas. We are like a nervous system connecting scattered points of living matter into one organism.

2. We build a direct, targeted support pathway

A creator publishes a project and the details needed to help. We help find those willing to support—honestly, without officials, queues, or “a certificate for a certificate.”

This is not a foundation and not a grant. It is a horizontal economy of human solidarity—something the state fears like a vampire fears sunlight. Because solidarity is freedom.

If you want to join our project as an artist or as a volunteer, write to me directly: zhenya.ilinykh@gmail.com