Postcards from within
What is the homeland? What defines the boundary lines, where “my land” ends, and the land that is “not mine” begins? The politicians, who play with maps as they see fit? The urban limits of the town where I was born? The history tales? The shared imaginary space created by books, myths, and songs? What determines that one belongs to one nation and not to another?
Postcards from within
What is the homeland? What defines the boundary lines, where “my land” ends, and the land that is “not mine” begins? The politicians, who play with maps as they see fit? The urban limits of the town where I was born? The history tales? The shared imaginary space created by books, myths, and songs? What determines that one belongs to one nation and not to another?
Years ago, with open arms, I entered the cosmopolitan universe, proud to call myself a citizen of the world. I can feel myself at home at any place on Earth. The social-cultural universe of contemporary Russia feels alien to me. And yet I am Russian. I can sense that unequivocal bond that ties me to what is called “my land”, boundaries of which I can’t define. What does make me Russian? The myths, the songs, the books? The breath of the wind over the field? The cyan color of the bucolic sky that you can’t see anywhere else in the world? The magical force of the forest? Childhood memories preserved in the cells of my blood?
Proust’s madeleines transformed inside me into chocolate wrappers. Postcards sent from the fallen empire. Tales and stories that I can only see through a shamanic kaleidoscope, a quantum portal between parallel universes. The umbilical cord that nurtures me and defines me in a way that I can’t comprehend but I can’t deny it either.
Years ago, with open arms, I entered the cosmopolitan universe, proud to call myself a citizen of the world. I can feel myself at home at any place on Earth. The social-cultural universe of contemporary Russia feels alien to me. And yet I am Russian. I can sense that unequivocal bond that ties me to what is called “my land”, boundaries of which I can’t define. What does make me Russian? The myths, the songs, the books? The breath of the wind over the field? The cyan color of the bucolic sky that you can’t see anywhere else in the world? The magical force of the forest? Childhood memories preserved in the cells of my blood?
Proust’s madeleines transformed inside me into chocolate wrappers. Postcards sent from the fallen empire. Tales and stories that I can only see through a shamanic kaleidoscope, a quantum portal between parallel universes. The umbilical cord that nurtures me and defines me in a way that I can’t comprehend but I can’t deny it either.
Postcards from within
Año2011-2014
