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Category: Holidays

A Moment of 2011: The Blazing Setting Sun at the Border of Europe and Asia

Sunset over Europe-Asia border

 

Champagne fence
Trees of wishes
Urals pine trees
Walk into sunset

Since 2006, 2011 has been the most positive and wonderful year. The moments I pictured may not have always been the most uplifting, but they nonetheless bring back good memories. I want to share them with you in these last 11 days of the passing year, and we start with the sunset in Yekaterinburg. The picture was taken at the small park “on the border of Europe and Asia”. The park hosts wedding parties, therefore here’re trees of wishes, “the Gates of Love”, and a fence made of champagne bottles. I was lucky to have been taken there at the sunset. The warm September evening saw us, three girls, enjoying ourselves that included posing in front of the Europe-Asia obelisk you see here in the photo. This was the last day of my visit to the capital of the Urals Region, and I doubt it could be better.

Russian Winter in Arts: Alexander Pushkin – Winter Road

Through the murk the moon is veering,
Ghost-accompanist of night,
On the melancholy clearings
Pouring melancholy light.
Runs the troika with its dreary
Toneless jangling sleigh-bell on
Over dismal snow’ I’m weary,
Hungry, frozen to the bone.
Coachman in a homely fashion’s
Singing as we flash along;
Now a snatch of mournful passion,
Now a foulmouthed drinking-song.
Not a light shines, not a lonely
Dusky cabin. . . Snow and hush. . .
Streaming past the troika only
Mileposts, striped and motley, rush.
Dismal, dreary. . . But returning
Homewards! And tomorrow, through
Pleasant crackles of the burning
Pine-logs, I shall gaze at you:
Dream, and go on gazing, Nina,
One whole circle of the clock;
Midnight will not come between us,
When we gently turn the lock
On our callers. . . Drowsing maybe,
Coachman’s faded, lost the tune;
Toneless, dreary, goes the sleigh-bell;
Nina, clouds blot out the moon.

Russian Legacy.com

Russian Winter in Arts: Boris Pasternak – Winter Night

Egon Schiele, Embrace (Lovers)
Marc Chagall, Green Lovers

Boris Pasternak – Winter Night

Sweeping, sweeping all earth’s corners
Came the snowstorm turning;
On the table burned a candle,
Stood a candle burning.

As in summer swarms of midges
Draw towards the flame,
From outside there flocked the snowflakes
To the window pane.

On the window circles, arrows,
Marked the snowstorm’s churning;
On the table burned a candle,
Stood a candle burning.

And across the brightened ceiling
Fell the shadows’ spate:
Arms cross-wise and legs cross-wise
In a cross-wise fate.

With a thud upon the floor
A pair of shoes fell down;
Waxen teardrops from the night-light
Dripped upon a gown.

All was lost in snowy darkness,
In the white hoar whirling.
On the table burned a candle,
Stood a candle burning.

Corner-draughts caught at the flame
As temptation’s fire
Raised a pair of angels’ wings
Like a cross afire.

All through February the snow swept:
Sometimes in its turning
On the table burned a candle,
Stood a candle burning.

Translated by Henry Kamen, 1962.

Original Russian text.

Мело, мело по всей земле 
Во все пределы. 
Свеча горела на столе, 
Свеча горела. 
Как летом роем мошкора 
Летит на пламя, 
Слетались хлопья со двора 
К оконной раме. 

Simone Lipschitz, Lovers

Метель лепила на столе 
Кружки и стрелы. 
Свеча горела на столе, 
Свеча горела. 
На озаренный потолок 
Ложились тени, 
Скрещенья рук, скркщенья ног, 
Судьбы скрещенья. 
И падали два башмачка 
Со стуком на пол, 
И воск слезами с ночника 
На платье капал. 
И все терялось в снежной мгле 
Седой и белой. 
Свеча горела на столе, 
Свеча горела. 
На свечку дуло из угла, 
И жар соблазна 
Вздымал, как ангел, два крыла 
Крестообразно. 
Мело весь месяц в феврале, 
И то и дело 
Свеча горела на столе, 
Свеча горела.

Борис Пастернак, 1946. 

Russian Winter in Arts: Isaac Levitan – A Boulevard at Evening (1883)

Juxtaposing Isaac Levitan’s painting and Vladimir Gilyarovsky’s book, what can we learn about Moscow life in 1880s?

Isaac Levitan – A Boulevard at the Evening (1883)

Even today Moscow boulevards will look exactly the same at dusk: trees, benches, people gradually disappearing from the streets… However, the painting by Isaac Levitan was made at the same time when Vladimir Gilyarovsky, a famous intrepid journalist, was exploring the dark corners of Moscow. The stories from 1880s make the bulk of his well-known book, Moscow and Muscovites, and according to Gilyarovsky, this was the time like no other. For instance, we may assume that the evening depicted by Levitan was supposed to change into a moonless night, and so, according to the Duma calendar, the lights were lit on. If the Moon was expected, the lights remained turned off, despite other possible weather mishaps, like fog, heavy rain, or snow. Very similar to other big cities, Moscow had a very peculiar and unique “underground” life where criminals and prostitutes ruled the world. Many boulevards, therefore, were not the place to have a walk in the evening. Even Gilyarovsky, who was well-known among the outcasts, had to wear brass knuckles when he had to return home late.

As you read Moscow and Muscovites, you begin to wonder: how on Earth had the city endured the theft and murders, and why the criminals seemed to have been virtually untouchable? Surely, people who were often barely dressed and nearly always drunk could not be driven to seek safety by a mere impulse to self-preservation. The answer is entirely political. Following the assassination of Alexander II in March 1881, the new Emperor and Government brought in strict measures against all suspected “revolutionaries”. Strangely or not, prostitutes and those who rented out spaces in communal flats were considered the most “politically reliable” and were thus protected by the police. They were even notified of upcoming raids.

By the way, just like me, Vladimir Gilyarovsky is a Sagittarius, and quite a typical one: intrepid, on the lookout for truth, smart, open to people, with a keen interest in crime. My Grandma studied Criminal Law, and I very nearly followed into her footsteps. Thankfully, I realised there was a no less meaningful and adrenaline-filled way of enjoying mystery, people, truth, and travel, and that was the field of historical research and literature.

Russian Winter in Arts: Alexander Pushkin – Winter Evening

Storm has set the heavens scowling,
Whirling gusty blizzards wild,
Now they are like beasts a-growling,
Now a-wailing like a child;

Now along the brittle thatches
They will scud with rustling sound,
Now against the window latches
Like belated wanderers pound. 

Our frail hut is glum and sullen,
Dim with twilight and with care.
Why, dear granny, have you fallen
Silent by the window there?

Has the gale’s insistent prodding
Made your drowsing senses numb,
Are you lulled to gentle nodding
By the whirling spindle’s hum?

Let us drink for grief, let’s drown it,
Comrade of my wretched youth,
Where’s the jar? Pour out and down it,
Wine will make us less uncouth.

Sing me of the tomtit hatching
Safe beyond the ocean blue,
Sing about the maiden fetching
Water at the morning dew.

Storm has set the heavens scowling,
Whirling gusty blizzards wild,
Now they sound like beasts a-growling,
Now a-wailing like a child.

Let us drink for grief, let’s drown it,
Comrade of my wretched youth,
Where’s the jar? Pour out and down it,
Wine will make us less uncouth.

Translated by Walter Arndt
Russian Legacy.com

Russian Winter in Arts: Alexander Pushkin – Winter Morning

Cold frost and sunshine: day of wonder!
But you, my friend, are still in slumber –
Wake up, my beauty, time belies:
You dormant eyes, I beg you, broaden
Toward the northerly Aurora,
As though a northern star arise!

Recall last night, the snow was whirling,
Across the sky, the haze was twirling,
The moon, as though a pale dye,
Emerged with yellow through faint clouds.
And there you sat, immersed in doubts,
And now, – just take a look outside:

The snow below the bluish skies,
Like a majestic carpet lies,
And in the light of day it shimmers.
The woods are dusky. Through the frost
The greenish fir-trees are exposed;
And under ice, a river glitters.

The room is lit with amber light.
And bursting, popping in delight
Hot stove still rattles in a fray.
While it is nice to hear its clatter,
Perhaps, we should command to saddle
A fervent mare into the sleight?

And sliding on the morning snow
Dear friend, we’ll let our worries go,
And with the zealous mare we’ll flee.
We’ll visit empty ranges, thence,
The woods, which used to be so dense
And then the shore, so dear to me.

Russian Legacy.com

Father’s Day – Eric Clapton

When I published a poll awhile ago, asking what work should I concentrate on to finish, most of you voted for the book about three generations of men united by an experience of surviving fatherhood (or sonhood, as you like it). This story is close to my heart, too: after my parents parted amicably when I was 2, I lived without a Dad, and then I got married, and my father-in-law provided me with the experience I hadn’t have. And then he died, and I couldn’t even say goodbye. Frankly, this made me reassess some aspects of relationship with my ‘real’ Dad, and today we are closer than ever before.

Eric Clapton’s story is that he didn’t know his parents, his father, in particular. And this song is poignant in that it narrates this continuous attempt to grab a fleeting presence of something one didn’t have – authority and support of their own father.

Happy Easter with Old Postcards

I really like it when Easter falls on the same day across the Christian denominations. While I am planning to share a few memories later today, I first and foremost share the old postcards from my family archive. In one of them you can see two young people about to exchange kisses. This is a usual Orthodox Easter rite, when you and everyone you meet exchange kisses, one of you says “Christ has resurrected!“, while another replies, “Indeed He has resurrected!” This postcard belonged to my great-grandfather and appears to date back to the First World War times. The postcard on the left is German and is probably just as old.

 

The Palm Sunday in Russia and Beyond

The Palm Sunday, or the Entrance of Our Lord into Jerusalem, is one of the movable feasts in the Christian calendar, celebrated one week before Easter

The Palm Sunday, or the Entrance of Our Lord into Jerusalem, is one of the movable feasts in the Christian calendar, celebrated one week before Easter. This year it is celebrated on the same day by all Christian churches – 17 April. In Fort Wright, Cincinatti, they will even reenact the Entrance, donkey included.

In the Orthodox tradition the Sunday is usually called Willow, not Palm. The reason is practical: there are no palm trees in mainland Russia, while willows and ivy trees are the first to start budding. For this reason for many centuries people were using willow branches to celebrate the feast. On the photo you can see what they look like, standing in my flat’s balcony.

The popularity of the feast was such that it was commemorated in poetry by the famous Alexander Blok. 105 years ago he composed the poem that was much later adapted to music. I include a non-adapted translation and the music video. Featuring Kristina Orbakaite, the daughter of the Russian pop-music diva, Alla Pugacheva, the video pays a larger hommage to Symbolism and even Surrealism, than one could think of fitting into three and a half minutes.

Boys and girls
Carry candles and willow branches
To their homes.

The lights are glowing,
The passers-by cross themselves,
And spring is in the air.

The little reckless wind,
And the little rain
Don’t put out the fire!

Tomorrow, on a Willow Sunday,
I shall get up first
On a Holy Day.

Alexander Blok, 1906

ВЕРБОЧКИ

Мальчики да девочки
Свечечки да вербочки
Понесли домой.

Огонечки теплятся,
Прохожие крестятся,
И пахнет весной.

Ветерок удаленький,
Дождик, дождик маленький,
Не задуй огня!

В Воскресенье Вербное
Завтра встану первая
Для святого дня.

1906

error: Sorry, no copying !!