Помоему самыми свободными и выразительными являются художники. Художники вообще брызгают по чистому листу своими духовными внутренностями, мозгами прям. С фотографами чуть хуже, но все же, когда смотришь на серию карточек хороших фотограферов, часто представляется сам человек, ведь это все видели его глаза. Его мир, который он так чувствует. Посудите сами, сколько милиардищ тысяч кадров он пропускает и останавливется лишь, на каком то одном. Соответственно фотограф определяется тем , что он не фотографирует.
I’m starting a long-term photo project on the Russian-American community I grew up in. Mostly portraits with stories, their life, reasons for coming here to U.S., their struggles, and success stories. I’ve been thinking a lot about our community, it’s uniqueness, and my relationship to it.
When i was living within it, all i wanted to do is get out, run as far away and forget this place. But this place is home, it truly is. Everybody has to leave their home and come back so they can love it again for all new reasons.
The people here, these amazing people, I think they deserve to have their stories told. These beautiful people, their eyes filled with experience a thousand conversations could do no justice. The struggles and pain they’ve gone through to be where they are, these people amaze me. Young and old, poor and wealthy, just getting by day by day or living the high life, i want to know their stories, i want to retell them.The hundreds of families that had an impact on me, their lives and stories are little treasures that i want to be revealed. For some reason i want to do this, need to do this. Maybe its my way of giving back, since I’m not a part of this community anymore, or maybe I’m looking for answers that these people collectively hold. Either way these people deserve to have their stories told, and who else will do it?
…and this much curiosity is just enough for me to start this project, and i hope it will grow into something else, maybe something bigger, maybe revealing something more, or becoming a voice for so many without one. For now I’ll just collect the stories and try to put the puzzle pieces together…
Я сижу на песке, поджав ноги в синих кедах, и смотрю как туман укутал гору. Розовый закат и на губах самая мягкая тишина.
I wrote a four word letter
Though I’d lived I hadn’t been alive
You held my hem but I traveled blind
Thought I’d sold my soul for something better
The rain came down, it wet my eyes
I didn’t mind
It’s not me that you’ve missed
You heard me when I cried
“You’ve seen you’ve loved a side of me that died”
I remember sunshine
And you were mine
It’s still a little cloudy but there’s no rain in sight
You were mine
I avoid the mirrors, aware of the monster I’ve created. Sometimes I get this haunting feeling, the sort of sensation you get when you wonder whether you are two people, the other of which does things you can’t explain, bad and terrible things
Fell in love with the game but I forgot your name. Go ahead please find me, cause I’m not scared. Though you stayed the same I forgot from where i came…