The apotheosis of being Russian, a hymn of joy that blows from Siberia, the storm before the calm: Winter!
This year has been a bit slow, but finally it's showing in full blast -20 degrees!
The Russian winter is generally divided into two sub-winters: days (or weeks) of white monochrome skies and a blanket of gray that pervades every hole; these are days I call Black & White, where the challenge is to grasp the nuance, the detail.
The other sub-winter, is when the cloudy blanket temporarily decides to open up and be invaded by the object-desire of Muscovites: the Sun
And when it arrives, what a show: fellow citizens give their best, the expressions do not change, rather they are motionless as ever, and life goes on like a mazurka, or a piece of kitsch-pop-post-soviet.
The children all wrapped in jackets love to slide down with sledges; parents watch them, all wrapped in jackets, and smile inside their scarves.
Smiling for the Russians is the most secret art, a private pleasure that no one is allowed in public.
Indeed it need to be deserved. What? Being happy.
This year has been a bit slow, but finally it's showing in full blast -20 degrees!
The Russian winter is generally divided into two sub-winters: days (or weeks) of white monochrome skies and a blanket of gray that pervades every hole; these are days I call Black & White, where the challenge is to grasp the nuance, the detail.
The other sub-winter, is when the cloudy blanket temporarily decides to open up and be invaded by the object-desire of Muscovites: the Sun
And when it arrives, what a show: fellow citizens give their best, the expressions do not change, rather they are motionless as ever, and life goes on like a mazurka, or a piece of kitsch-pop-post-soviet.
The children all wrapped in jackets love to slide down with sledges; parents watch them, all wrapped in jackets, and smile inside their scarves.
Smiling for the Russians is the most secret art, a private pleasure that no one is allowed in public.
Indeed it need to be deserved. What? Being happy.
