Going Underground


Film Photo Shoots at Rastvoritel (“Solution”)!

You can book a photo shoot in our pre-revolutionary retro-vintage interiors. You can see sample photos in this post.

– We love simple, semi-amateur, raw photos, although we always take our work professionally, of course.

– Our photos capture the natural essence of the moment and look fundamentally simple yet truly authentic.

– We shoot on film and enjoy experimenting. But we can also do more organized shoots.

– Our shoot will turn out great no matter what. Of course, we can’t always predict a perfect result, but that’s the essence of art.

We shoot with Zenit 11, Zenit S, Olympus, and Premier cameras.

🚩To discuss details and book a shoot, message us directly at @rastvoritel__

Rastvoritel Underground Art Gallery

📷 photos by @lena_eterna and @majestic_primitive_art

#saintpetersburg
#photography
#film
#35mm
#photoshoot

Source: Rastvoritel (Instagram), 7 September 2026. Translated by the Russian Reader


KYIV, Ukraine – It’s the last evening of my vacation.

I’m sitting in a taxi taking me to the Lviv railway station so I can return to Kyiv, and I can’t hold back my tears.

It’s not that I’m sad about returning to work and my normal routine. But when I get home, I know I won’t be able to sleep in my own bed. Once a cozy little nest, my own bed is now a place of constant fear, where even the deepest sleep comes at the risk of a ballistic missile or drone attack. I don’t trust monitoring channels anymore. I don’t trust anyone, except this primal fear that fills every cell of my body as soon as it starts getting dark.

And this fear is warranted. Russia has spent the whole summer launching large-scale ballistic missile attacks on Kyiv, taking advantage of Ukraine’s shortage of interceptors. They also used drones, including jet-powered Shaheds. Russia ramped up its missile production and also relies on North Korean missiles to intensify the attacks.

On top of that, Moscow seems to be adopting a new tactic, launching jet-powered drones throughout the whole day to paralyze the entire city. On August 27, there were 13 air raid alerts in Kyiv — a record-setting number of attacks lasting more than half a day. Since then, the attacks have been almost non-stop.

Basements and underground parking garages no longer feel safe enough. That’s why more and more Kyiv residents have started spending the night in the metro, often heading down there even before an air raid alert is issued.

A person checks a smartphone and others sleep as they take shelter overnight in a Kyiv metro station. Photo by Serhii Okunev/AFP via Getty Images and The Counteroffensive

Even when there’s no attack, people would rather spend a night in the metro than wake up suddenly to explosions in their own bed, unprotected.

Zoriana can’t sleep well anymore as the constant threat takes its toll

Night strikes started happening more and more in July.

I took the first few nights of ballistic attacks as something I simply had to accept. Last year, Russia had also stepped up its attacks on Kyiv during the summer, so I was mentally prepared for it.

But this time, they started using ballistic missiles more often.

I told myself that they would run out soon, since ballistic missiles are very expensive, while flinching at every new explosion in my bathroom.

But it only got worse.

Notifications about air raid alerts have become useless, as they only give two minutes before the first explosions, which can mean an endless night of hundreds of those two-minute windows and lots of panicked running.

So I couldn’t sleep well anymore.

My psychologist suggested breathing exercises and a ritual to help me calm down. But when I tried that, all I could hear was how hard my heart was beating.

That’s how my bed turned into a place of tormented waiting. Waiting for loud explosions and … my own death.

So I started going to the metro, regardless of whether there are air raid alerts or not.

Mariana wasn’t afraid of air raid alerts until this summer

I used to be pretty calm about air raid alerts. I went to the basement only a few times at the beginning of the war, when every alert was new and seemed scary and dangerous. But luckily, my hometown of Vinnytsia didn’t get attacked much. So I stopped going to the shelter and just continued on with my life, despite sometimes hearing the sounds of faraway explosions.

When I moved to Kyiv in 2023, I was a bit more cautious.

At night, the corridor became my sleeping spot during attacks. And although the explosions became more frequent, I still didn’t care enough to disrupt my sleep and go somewhere safer to hide.

But constantly seeing news of residential buildings completely ruined after massive attacks on Kyiv made me feel like the corridor was not enough. So in June, I started going to the shelter.

Zoriana wonders why she pays rent when she sleeps in the metro every night

People can go into the metro and stay overnight even without an air raid alert. Of course, you can wait and go once the alert starts, but I definitely can’t make it there in two minutes — the approximate time of a ballistic missile’s approach.

That’s why, at 10 p.m. every day, I have to decide whether or not to spend the night in the metro.

Without an attack warning, there aren’t that many people in the metro — typically around 30. I have already started to recognize a few familiar faces, and every evening we exchange a tired smile. But when there’s word of a massive attack coming, there’s not even enough room to drop a pin.

I have a separate warm tracksuit that I sleep in at the metro, my own folding bed, a comfortable pillow and a blanket. I always bring a thermos of tea, too.

But the constant thoughts never go away: maybe it will be quiet and I can stay home; maybe it won’t, and then it will be sheer terror.

Mariana sleeps better on hard school chairs than in a cozy bed at home

When I go home by metro at night, I see some people preparing to sleep there. They set up an improvised camp using mats, pillows and blankets. But even the metro can’t guarantee us complete safety.

At the end of July, the vestibule of the Lukianivska metro station, which I always use when commuting to my university, was damaged. At the time, people were sheltering there from the attack.

Since the closest metro station is 15 minutes from where I live, I go to the basement of a nearby school. I always bring a bottle of water and a sleeping bag with a pillow — they help me feel a little bit more comfortable while lying on hard school chairs.

I constantly check the Telegram channels that monitor incoming attacks, while other people in the basement whisper among themselves or snore. I hear the explosions outside, but it seems like the missiles can’t reach me in the shelter.

Eventually exhaustion gets the better of me and I fall into a restless sleep until I hear the all-clear signal. But I don’t leave the shelter right away. The thought of having to come back again because of another attack makes me stay until 4 a.m., the time when I for some reason feel that the threat is over.

With drones being launched constantly now, there’s no period of time that is truly safe. A new alert can come at any time, day or night. And when that happens, I’m too exhausted to care. I stay in my corridor and listen to the explosions, just hoping that I’ll be lucky and not get hit.

I’m consumed by only anxiety and exhaustion now, and whichever feeling is more intense at any given time is what dictates how I respond.

Zoriana fears this living nightmare made her a bad person

For the past two months, I haven’t been able to rest at all. There are no weekends or weekdays anymore, only day and night. Days filled with anxiety about my life. Nights full of fear and uncertainty.

And, strangely, I felt the worst when there was no attack. Exhausted, I walked home from the metro at 6 a.m. after taking shelter there overnight. That was when I caught myself thinking that I was sorry there had been no attack. I had wasted my night, and they hadn’t even bombed us. A second later, I burst into tears over that intrusive thought. How could I be disappointed that there was no attack? Am I really such a horrible person?

That was when I realized how much this is destroying me, dissolving everything joyful and bright that I had spent years filling my soul with.

It has been two weeks since my vacation ended, and I have slept alone in my apartment only twice.

I am still in Kyiv, trying to keep living my life. For how long? We’ll see.

And even as I write this right now, I’m packing my things for another night in the metro.

Source: Zoriana Semenovych and Mariana Stadnyk, “Why pay rent just to sleep in the metro,” The Counteroffensive with Tim Mak, 10 September 2026. As a paying subscriber to this Substack-based journal, I’m happy to share it with my own readers occasionally. ||||| TRR

Where Apocalypse Is Now

Utkina Dacha, St. Petersburg, 17 June 2012. Photos by the Russian Reader


Last week on a bus to Leningrad, as a bottle was passed around, I got angry for Finland. The Finns aboard found this very funny. For three hours we jolted on atrocious roads through [the] Karelia[n Isthmus], former Finnish heartland gobbled by Stalin in the Winter War of 1939, then regained and lost again during the Second World War. Amid forests of birch and pine, I glimpsed a long disaster. This was my first time in the USSR (my fourth in Finland). I was unprepared for the brokenness of every human thing, the old Finnish farmhouses and lakeside villas collapsing or collapsed, the travesties of farming apart from neat kitchen gardens. The once famously cosmopolitan Baltic port of Vyborg (Viipuri in Finnish), which could be the prettiest small city in the world, felt post-nuclear, its citizens (non-Finns, with whose forebears Stalin replaced the native population) listlessly wandering. Some gaped as our fancy tour bus wallowed by. The single purposeful activity I saw in [the] Karelia[n Isthmus] was that of a man painting an ornamental fence around a roadside ammunition bunker. The contrast to Finland’s grace and bustle was unbearable.

“Vyborg,” I said to the Helsinki art critic Markku Valkonen, who has Karelian roots. “You want it back.”

“Sure, I would like it back,” he said softly, “but I do not want to spoil my life with bitterness.”

[…]

I thought of it again in Leningrad, where apocalypse is now. The city is huge and grand beyond anything I expected. Its nineteenth-century buildings by C. L. Engel, who also worked in Finland, gave me a first impression of an imperial Helsinki, with aspects of Paris and Amsterdam thrown in. But the beauty is a patch that unravels within a block of the Winter Palace, exposing uniform squalor. The tour went to the Hermitage. There I was overwhelmed by the Rembrandts and by a room of Matisses that nearly forced me to my knees. Like other lovely things in Leningrad, the staggering holdings end abruptly in 1914. Meanwhile, in a separate building of the Hermitage, there was a show of—get ready—Peter Max. I wish I could find that amusing. But the evidence of near-term Soviet vulnerability to Western hustlers is too awful. With its stupid Revolution finished, the USSR may be in for a flood of imported stupidities.

Source: Peter Schjeldahl, “Baltic Views” (Village Voice, 11 June 1991), in Hot, Cold, Heavy, Light: 100 Art Writings, 1988–2018 (Abrams Press, 2019)

A Monterey Story: The Answer

Carol Matranga Courtney, Robinson Jeffers and Red-Tailed Hawk (2020), patinated bronze (detail). Monterey Conference Center, Monterey, California. Photo by the Russian Reader

Source: The Collected Poetry of Robinson Jeffers, vol. 2: 1928–1938, ed. Tim Hunt (Stanford University Press, 1989), p. 536.


Photos of Jeffers Plaza and its environs by the Russian Reader


Робинсон Джефферс: Ответ

Виктор Постников

Каким же должен быть ответ? Не поддаваться мечтам.
Знать, что насилием заканчивались великие цивилизации
И к власти приходили тираны.
Когда придет насилие – старайтесь избегать его с честью
и живите с наименее жестокими; знайте: зло неизбежно.
Чтобы сохранить свою целостность, будьте милосердны, искренни,
Но не дайте мечтам о всеобщей справедливости и счастье обмануть вас –
Этим мечтам не суждено сбыться.
Знайте: какими бы отвратительными ни были части,
целое остается прекрасным.
Человек, отделенный от земли, звезд, от своей истории,
так же отвратителен, как отделенная рука… … и неважно,
отделен он в мыслях или по сути…
Целостность – величайшая красота,
это органическая полнота жизни и всех окружающих вещей,
божественная красота вселенной.
Любите это, а не отделенного от полноты жизни человека;
в противном случае вы сами попадете в такое же незавидное положение,
или утонете в отчаянии, когда настанут тяжелые времена.

Source: Stihi.ru

Timofey Anufriev Dies Fighting for Ukraine

The name of the beautiful young woman in this photo, taken a month ago in Odessa, is Katya, and she is the mother of a wonderful young man, Timofey Anufriev, a Russian passport holder who went to war to defend Ukraine. Today we received news that he has been killed. You can learn more about him in the film to which I’ve linked in the comments. And try to think hard about [the difference between mere] words and real actions… May the memory of the heroes live forever!

Source: Vitaliy Manski (Facebook), 6 January 2026. Translated by the Russian Reader


The Insider, “‘War is like playing chess with death’: Confessions of a philosophy student from the RVC” (in Russian, no subtitles)

Until recently, 21-year-old Timofey Anufriev (son of the renowned artist Sergei Anufriev) was an ordinary university student in Petersburg. For over a year, though, he has been fighting for Ukraine in the ranks of RVC (Russian Volunteer Corps). Our film crew met with him in Kiev. Timofey talks about why he made this decision and about war and death in this report by The Insider.

Source: The Insider (YouTube), 20 March 2025. Annotation translated by the Russian Reader. There is an egregiously machine-translated and machine-dubbed version of this same film which can be viewed here. |||| TRR


Timofey Anufriev

[The] 22-year-old Russian-Ukrainian fighter Timofey ‘Aeneas‘ Anufriev was kіlled in action while defending his second homeland.

“Timofey participated in many of the Corps‘ operations: assaults, cleanups, and capturing prisoners. He lived and dіеd like a true knight and poet, in a blaze of fiery glory! <…> Forever in the RVC, forever in the ranks!” the Corps wrote on its Telegram channel.

Anufriev served as a stormtrooper and had the call sign ‘Enei’ [Aeneas]. He was awarded the medal ‘For Assistance to Military Intelligence of Ukraine.’

“The son of a well-known conceptual artist [Sergei Anufriev], born in Moscow and raised in Odesa, Enei regarded both Ukraine and Russia as countries close to him. Highly intelligent and well-educated, open and kind, he sought to contribute to the Corps not only in combat but also beyond the battlefield.

From an early age, Enei was familiar with the cultural circles of two capitals. Unlike the detached, insular segment of the artistic elite that exists removed from reality, he was deeply concerned about the fate of his people.

The outbreak of the war coincided with his first year at university in Saint Petersburg, where he studied philosophy and planned to become a public intellectual. He was disturbed by the way many around him in Russia pretended that nothing was happening. As a result, he decided first to leave the country and later to join the Russian Volunteer Corps.

“There is always a choice,” Enei believed—and he made one guided by his sense of honor. Throughout his combat service, he served as an assault infantryman, one of the most dangerous roles in war.

He took part in numerous operations, including assaults, clearing operations, and the capture of enemy personnel. He lived—and died—in accordance with his convictions.” wrote RVC on its nocturnal post.

Source: ukrainciaga.international (Instagram), 6 January 2025


The son of a famous conceptual artist, he was born in Moscow and grew up in Odessa. Aeneas considered Ukraine and Russia to be his home countries. An exceptionally intelligent and educated, open and kind person, he sought to benefit the Corps not only in battle, but also beyond it.

From childhood, Aeneas was familiar with the cultural bohemian scene of the two capitals, but he was not part of the abstract and “airy” artistic elite that exists detached from reality. On the contrary, he was deeply concerned about the fate of his people.

The war began during his first year at university in St. Petersburg, where he studied philosophy and planned to become a public philosopher. He was disgusted by the fact that many of his peers in the Russian Federation pretended that nothing was happening. Therefore, he decided to first leave Russia and then join the Russian Volunteer Corps.

“There is always a choice,” Eney believed, and he made a choice dictated by honor. He spent his entire military career as an assault soldier — the most dangerous job in the war.

He participated in many operations of the Corps: he stormed, cleared, and took prisoners. He lived and died like a true knight and poet, in the rays of fiery glory!

He was awarded the medal “For Assistance to Military Intelligence of Ukraine.”

Timofey “Aeneas” Anufriev

Forever in the RVC!
Forever in the ranks!

Source: Russian Volunteer Corps Eng (Telegram), 6 January 2026

Suffer the Children

LOCAL INSPIRATION of the day. This quilt by Joleigh Kambic is part of a larger quilt titled “Babies in Gaza Who Never Made It To Their First Birthday.” The quilt is composed of smaller quilts created by nearly 40 quilters from across the Monterey Bay, commemorating the children who were killed in the Israel-Hamas war. It is on display through Oct. 3 at the Unitarian Universalist Church of the Monterey Peninsula, 490 Aguajito Road in Carmel.

Source: Monterey County NOW newsletter, 29 September 2025


Special detention center for waifs and “troubled” teens. Moscow, 1988. Photos: Igor Stomakhin

Source: Igor Stomakhin (Facebook), 1 September 2025. The first of September (aka Knowledge Day) is the first day of the school year in Russia and other former Soviet countries.

Continue reading “Suffer the Children” →

Solidarity with Ukraine (and Its Opposite)

Coeleen Kiebert, Ode to the Women of Ukraine, May They Return to Quilt Their Beauty Again Soon, 2021. Ceramic, indigo linen. Pajaro Valley Arts, Watsonville, California, 26 April 2025. Photo by the Russian Reader


News from Ukraine Bulletin 144 (28 April 2025)

In this week’s bulletin: Solidarity With Ukraine conference speeches, reports and draft declaration/ Mobilise to free abducted children/ More evidence of Russian torture, targeting of civilians, abduction of children/ Putin’s foreign mercenaries

News from the territories occupied by Russia:  

Donbas hostages savagely tortured for ‘confessions’ in 2019 sentenced in Russia to 24 years (Kharkiv Human Rights Protection Group, April 25th)

Huge sentences and videoed ‘repentance’ in Russia’s mounting terror in occupied Zaporizhzhia oblast (Kharkiv Human Rights Protection Group, April 24th)

“Relatives said: people like you should be killed.” The story of a woman who survived torture and fled occupied Mariupol twice (Ukrainska Pravda, April 24th)

Crimean resident jailed for “discrediting the Russian army” is freed (Crimea Human Rights Group, 23 April)

Crimean Tatar Mejlis rejects any international recognition of Crimea as Russian, chairman says (Kyiv Independent, April 22nd)

Horrific sentences demanded against five Ukrainians abducted from Russian-occupied Melitopol (Kharkiv Human Rights Protection Group, April 22nd)

The situation at the front:

The weekly war summary (The Insider, 26 April)

‘Wiping out neighborhood after neighborhood’ Russia pounds Ukraine’s Pokrovsk, forcing civilians to flee under fire. For many, it’s not the first time. (Meduza, April 21st)

News from Ukraine:

Russia returns body of abducted Ukrainian journalist Victoria Roshchyna with scars from torture (Kharkiv Human Rights Protection Group, April 25th)

Nine people killed and 42 injured in Russian drone attack on bus in Marhanets, Dnipropetrovsk Oblast – photos (Ukrainska Pravda, April 23rd)

‘Please don’t use my name’ A report by journalist Shura Burtin on the growing war weariness among Ukrainians (Meduza, March 27th)

War-related news from Russia:

Russia’s deserters: “A raging meat grinder” (Meduza, 24 April)

Despite Putin’s denials, Russia’s military has welcomed foreign mercenaries from at least 48 nations — (iStories, April 23rd)

Darya Kozyreva gets real prison term for Taras Shevchenko poem and opposition to Russia’s war against Ukraine (Kharkiv Human Rights Protection Group, April 22nd)

The Lost Army: War veterans could pose a problem for Putin’s Russia, just like they did for interwar Germany (The Insider, April 21st)

Olga Menshikh: “A Society Sick with Fear Cannot Be Happy” (Russian Reader, April 20th)

Analysis and comment:

What Trump’s plan might look like, in maps (Meduza, 24 April)

Russia’s selective ‘terrorism’ in war against Ukraine and in fraternizing with the Taliban (Kharkiv Human Rights Protection Group, April 23rd)

In memory of Cooper Andrews, Finbarr Cafferkey and Dmitry Petrov (Solidarity Collectives, 19 April)

Research of war crimes and human rights abuses:

Meeting with Representatives of Ukrainian Roma in Brussels (Kharkiv Human Rights Protection Group, April 25th)

Experts of the Committee on the Elimination of Racial Discrimination Commend Ukraine’s Presence Despite the Prevailing Circumstances, Raise Questions on the Treatment of Ukraine’s Indigenous Peoples and the Roma Population (UNHCR, April 24th)

A reliable tool in the hands of human rights defenders: how the KHPG database works (Kharkiv Human Rights Protection Group, April 23rd)

International solidarity:

Mobilise to free the Ukrainian children abducted by Russia (Labour Hub, April 27th)

“My soul is in this project of ours” (Solidarity Zone, 24 April)

Building Global Solidarity with Ukraine (Ukraine Solidarity Campaign, April 23rd)

Justice without borders: the ZMINA and TDC advocacy trip to Chile (Zmina, April 18th)

Free Denys Matsola and Vladyslav Iskra Zhuravlov (Solidarity Collectives, 16 April)

Solidarity With Ukraine conference in Brussels, 26-27 March. Contributions here, media coverage here, draft conference declaration here, with call for amendments

Upcoming events:

Wednesday 7 May, 3 – 5pm, War and Peace in Ukraine, Clerici Building G.21, Headington Campus, Oxford Brookes University, Oxford.

Sunday 1 June, 1.0pm, Marble Arch, London, March for the children of Ukraine  


This bulletin is put together by labour movement activists in solidarity with Ukrainian resistance. To receive it by email each Monday, email us at 2022ukrainesolidarity@gmail.com. To stop the bulletin, reply with the word “STOP” in the subject field. More information at https://ukraine-solidarity.org/. We are also on Twitter, Bluesky, Facebook and Substack, and the bulletin is stored online here. 

Source: Ukraine Information Group


KYIV, Ukraine (AP) — A peace proposal by the Trump administration that includes recognizing Russian authority over Crimea shocked Ukrainian officials, who say they will not accept any formal surrender of the peninsula, even though they expect to concede the territory to the Kremlin, at least temporarily.

Giving up the land that was illegally annexed by Russia in 2014 is also politically and legally impossible, according to experts. It would require a change to the Ukrainian constitution and a nationwide vote, and it could be considered treason. Lawmakers and the public are firmly opposed to the idea.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” said Oleksandr Merezkho, a lawmaker with Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelenskyy’s party. “We will never recognize Crimea as part of Russia.”

Unlike a territorial concession, a formal surrender would permanently relinquish Crimea and abandon the hope that Ukraine could regain it in the future.

The Ukrainian public largely understands that land must be ceded as part of any armistice because there is no way to retake it militarily. Polls indicate a rising percentage of the population accepts such a trade-off.

But much of the public messaging about land concessions has suggested that they are not necessarily permanent, as when Kyiv Mayor Vitalii Klitschko told the BBC recently that Ukraine may need to temporarily give up land as part of a peace deal.

Saying otherwise would effectively admit defeat — a deeply unpopular move, especially for Ukrainians living under Russian occupation who hope to be liberated and reunited with their families one day. It also would call into question the sacrifices made by tens of thousands of Ukrainian service members who have been killed or wounded.

U.S. President Donald Trump underscored the Crimea proposal in an interview published Friday in Time magazine: “Crimea will stay with Russia. Zelenskyy understands that, and everybody understands that it’s been with them for a long time.”

Asked by reporters on Sunday if Zelenskyy was ready to give up Crimea, Trump said, “Oh, I think so. Crimea was 12 years ago. That was President Obama that gave it up without a shot being fired.”

His comments offered the latest example of the U.S. leader pressuring Ukraine to make concessions to end the war while it remains under siege. Trump has also accused Zelenskyy of prolonging the war by resisting negotiations with Russian President Vladimir Putin.

Crimea, a strategic peninsula along the Black Sea in southern Ukraine, was seized by Russia years before the full-scale invasion that began in 2022. The Russian takeover followed large protests that ousted former Ukrainian President Viktor Yanukovych, who had refused to sign an association agreement with the European Union.

In the lead-up to peace talks, Ukrainian officials told the Associated Press for months that they expect Crimea and other Ukrainian territory controlled by Russia to be among Kyiv’s concessions in the event of any deal. But Zelenskyy has said on multiple occasions that formally surrendering the land has always been a red line.

Elements of Trump’s peace proposal would see the U.S. formally recognizing Crimea as Russian and de facto accepting Moscow’s rule over occupied Ukrainian territories, according to a senior European official who spoke on condition of anonymity to discuss sensitive diplomatic discussions.

Whether the U.S. formally recognizes Crimea as Russian is out of Zelenskyy’s hands. But many obstacles prevent the Ukrainian president from doing so, even under immense pressure. He cannot unilaterally sign any such proposal, and he could be reprimanded by future governments for even attempting it, experts said.

Ukraine began to accept that it would not regain its lost territories after the failure of the country’s 2023 summer counteroffensive. From then on, the Ukrainian military concentrated on defending the territory it still held.

In return for territorial concessions, Ukraine wants robust security guarantees that ideally would include NATO membership or concrete plans to arm and train its forces against any future Russian invasion with the pledged support of allies. One scenario envisions European boots on the ground, which Russia rejects.

Zelenskyy has said negotiations over occupied Ukrainian territory will be drawn out and will not likely occur until a ceasefire is in place. In late March, he told reporters after a call with Trump that the U.S. president “clearly understands that legally we will not recognize any territories.”

He said giving up territory would be “the most difficult question” and “a big challenge for us.”

Formal recognition of Crimea would also amount to political suicide for Zelenskyy. It could expose him to legal action in the future, said Tymofiy Mylovanov, president of the Kyiv School of Economics and a former economics minister.

Signing a potentially unconstitutional document could be interpreted as high treason, Mylovanov said.

The Ukrainian government cannot act either. It has no constitutional means to accept a violation of its territorial integrity, and altering the territorial makeup of the country requires a nationwide referendum.

If Ukrainian lawmakers were even to entertain the idea of surrendering Crimea, it would trigger a long, drawn-out legal debate.

“That’s why Russia is pushing it, because they know it’s impossible to achieve,” Mylovanov said.

“Anything related to constitutional change gives so much policy and public communication space to Russia,” he added. “This is all they want.”

Soldiers on the front line say they will never stop fighting, no matter what the political leadership decides.

“We lost our best guys in this war,” said Oleksandr, a soldier in the Donetsk region, who spoke on the condition that only his first name be used in line with military protocols. “We won’t stop until all Ukrainian lands are free.”

Source: Samya Kullab, “Shocked by US peace proposal, Ukrainians say they will not accept any formal surrender of Crimea,” Associated Press, 27 April 2025. The emphasis is mine — TRR.


Coeleen Kiebert, Ode to the Women of Ukraine, May They Return to Quilt Their Beauty Again Soon, 2021 (detail). Pajaro Valley Arts, Watsonville, California, 26 April 2025. Photo by the Russian Reader

Tautology (2)

Gartenstadt Falkenberg and Preussensiedlung

Yesterday was a rare sunny, warm day, so my boon companion and I traveled to the city’s far southeast to walk through Bruno Taut’s Falkenberg Garden City in Berlin-Bohnsdorf. It was like a tiny vision of heaven.

As it happened, it was also a short walk from Max Bel, Franz Clement, and Hermann Muthesius’s Prussian Street Estate, which was also quite handsome and built to a properly human scale.

I’ve noticed Berlin’s modernist housing estates seem to have had a beneficent effect on their neighborhoods, so that even current architects designing new houses and developments there try to get into the Tautian spirit, as it were. The overwhelming impression, however, is that you’re looking at a future we have lost forever.

The Russian Reader, Berlin-Friedrichshain, 30 March 2019


And now we come to this verb “see.” Within fifteen lines it’s been used six times. Every experienced poet knows how risky it is to use the same word several times within a short space. The risk is that of tautology. So what is it that Frost is after here? I think he is after precisely that tautology. More accurately, non-semantic utterance. Which you get, for instance, in “’Oh,’ and again, ‘Oh.’” Frost had a theory about what he called “sentence-sounds.” It had to do with his observation that the sound, the tonality, of human locution is as semantic as actual words. For instance, you overhear two people conversing behind a closed door, in a room. You don’t hear the words, yet you know the general drift of their dialogue; in fact, you may pretty accurately figure out its substance. In other words, the tune matters more than the lyrics, which are, so to speak, replaceable or redundant. Anyway, the repetition of this or that word liberates the tune, makes it more audible. By the same token, such repetition liberates the mind—rids you of the notion presented by the word. (This is the old Zen technique, of course, but, come to think of it, finding it in an American poem makes you wonder whether philosophical principles don’t spring from texts rather than the other way around.)

Source: “Joseph Brodsky: On ‘Home Burial'”

A Memorial Concert for Pavel Kushnir

A charity concert has been held in Paris in tribute to the pianist Pavel Kushnir, who died in detention in Russia. The funds raised were donated to the Paris-based Atelier des artistes en exil (Agency of Artists in Exile), which aids artists who have fled their countries due to war, persecution, and discrimination.

The concert was held at Salle Cortot in Paris. World-renowned pianists Grigory Sokolov and Sergei Babayan performed a program of pieces by Frederic Chopin, Robert Schumann, Franz Schubert, Franz Liszt, and Sergei Rachmaninoff. Tickets for the concert were sold out almost instantly.

“As musicians, we want to voice our support for artists around the world who are persecuted and sometimes forced to leave their native country. Pavel Kushnir chose internal emigration and bravely and unreservedly spoke out against the war. He paid for this with his life. We wholeheartedly support Grigory Sokolov and Sergei Babayan’s November 18 concert in Paris and join them in paying tribute to Pavel, as well as in voicing our solidarity with all artists who are suffering from repression today,” reads a letter in support of the concert, which was signed by Martha Argerich, Daniel Barenboim, Gidon Kremer, Anne-Sophie Mutter, Semyon Bychkov, Paavo Järvi, and many other famous musicians of our time.

“Music can be used for good as well as for ill. Pavel Kushnir always used it for good. Let us honor his memory and follow his example,” says pianist Evgeny Kissin, who also signed the letter.

“I am honored to pay tribute to the memory of a young artist who gave his life for the truth. Pavel Kushnir clearly understood that there can be no happiness and, in fact, no real art when one country causes another country untold suffering, and the truth about this crime is not heard. The deeply inhuman nature of the regime responsible for his death is underscored by the fact that he, a young artist living far from the capital, posed no danger to the continuation of its criminal rule. He made a beautiful recording of Rachmaninoff’s Preludes, and for that reason I wanted to play Rachmaninoff for him. I would have loved to have met Pavel, who was undoubtedly a beautiful, exceptionally sincere young soul. My thoughts are with Pavel Kushnir, his family, and all the victims of the enemies of freedom and truth,” said Sergei Babayan, explaining his involvement in the concert and the works selected for it.

The proceeds from the concert, as well as the donations raised, will be given to the Paris-based Atelier des artistes en exil, which has aided many hundreds of artists during the seven years of its existence.

“When we left Russia, we had heard nothing about Atelier, and it was not clear where we would put down roots,” says composer Dmitry Kurlyandsky, who turned down Russia’s Golden Mask national theater prize, which he was awarded for the music he wrote for Perm-based Theater-Theater’s production of the play Katerina Izmailova. He called the award “antics on the part of a system which is destroying the theater.”

“But on the second day,” Kurlyandsky says, “I had already found out about Atelier. We called them and they invited us to a meeting. It was the very beginning of the wave of emigration from Russia, and Atelier had more capacity to accommodate refugees. We lucked out. Thanks to Atelier we stayed for eight months for free in a hotel in downtown Paris, and during this time we were able to get our papers sorted and find a place to live.”

Judith Depaule

Judith Depaule, founder and head of Atelier des artistes en exil, sat down for an interview with Radio Svoboda.

— How did you find out about Pavel Kushnir’s tragic story?

— From Russian acquaintances. I also read about it in the French press. There wasn’t that much coverage of Kushnir’s plight, but there were some articles nevertheless. Many artists at Atelier talked about it.

It’s all quite frightening, of course. I have been studying the history of theater in the Gulag for a long time. I see Kushnir’s tragedy as a repetition of what already happened, of things with which we are all very familiar. I’m always amazed at how much history can repeat itself. I wonder why it repeats itself, despite everything we know about our past. How is it that people are dying again just for freely expressing themselves! I find it scary, because the right to freedom of expression is what matters most.

— You said that you said that you studied theater in the Gulag. Tell us a little more about that.

— It so happened that as part of my studies I researched the work of the Futurist theater director Igor Terentiev, who was arrested and sent to work on the White Sea Canal. We know a lot about his life on the White Sea Canal because he was photographed by the legendary Alexander Rodchenko. It was a shock to me that the theater could exist in the Gulag. I researched the topic. I went to the Memorial Society, and I was able to interview many former prisoners. I even traveled to Magadan and Vorkuta. So I am an expert on the history of the theater in the Gulag.

— Whose idea was Pavel Kushnir memorial concert? Why were Grigory Sokolov and Sergei Babayan involved in it?

— It was the artists at Atelier who took the initiative. To make the event respectable, they decided to invite famous musicians. We approached Sokolov and Babayan, and they immediately agreed.

— Yes, Sokolov and Babayan are certainly musicians of the highest order. Babayan is also a renowned teacher. Was the concert program solely Sokolov’s and Babayan’s choice? Or did they discuss it with you as well?

— No, they decided themselves what to play in memory of Kushnir. It was their own choice; we didn’t discuss it with them. It was important to us that the program included pieces which they loved and were willing to perform.

— I think any classical music lover would dream of going to such a concert. It’s just a pity that the occasion is so tragic. There was also a letter in support of the concert, signed by a plethora of classical music stars. The letter claimed that Pavel Kushnir had chosen internal emigration, internal exile. Do you agree with this? If so, how do you understand this term?

— I would imagine that Pavel did not want to be the center of attention, but simply wanted to feel freer. This did not work out for him, alas. I think that, while living under a dictatorship, Pavel was trying to find a place where he could at least breathe freely and do what he loved doing. Because Russia is so vast, you could say that it really was internal exile. This again takes us back to the past. When people tried to disappear from the Kremlin’s sight, they left the major cities to feel at least a little bit freer.

— Atelier des Artistes en Exile deals with a wide range of creative genres, not just music or theater, for example. How did you decide to take on such a serious challenge?

— I founded Atelier in 2017 as a response to the migration crisis in Europe, which peaked in September 2015. There were so many Syrian migrants in Paris. I was working in a small cultural center at the time. We just decided to shelter migrants; it wasn’t about artists at the time. Gradually we began helping immigrants and put together a festival that was dedicated to Syria. I often talked to exiled artists, and they always said the same thing: “We were professional artists before we left. We had a profession. What are we supposed to do now? We don’t understand how French society works, we don’t understand its cultural traditions.” And so on. I decided that something had to be done to help performers and artists in exile. Gradually, this idea began to develop, and I set up this agency in early 2017. At the time there was no talk at all about Russian artists and performers, back then it was mostly Sudan and Syria. Atelier has grown because it helps everyone who leaves their country, whatever the reason, whether dictatorship or discrimination. The world is now in a state in which there are wars, dictatorships, and illegal imprisonment everywhere. So performers and artists have started arriving in France much more often.

— What kind of assistance do you provide? Do you help with accommodation, visas, and jobs, or do you support cultural projects?

— For those who are still in their home countries but want to come to France, we help them get visas and explain how to get here. When people are already in France, we help them with long-term visas and residence permits, so that they are staying in France legally. We help them with social services — medical insurance and so on. We provide a place to work, because that is super important. If you don’t have a place to work, you are no longer an artist or a performer. We offer French language courses, and we have put together a program for artists to learn French through art. We help them understand how French society is organized and learn the peculiarities of French culture. We explain to them what rights they have, what benefits they can claim, how they should fill out their income tax declarations, and so on. We also organize cultural events.

— Who supports Atelier des artistes en exil itself?

— It is supported by the French Ministry of Culture, which sponsors various programs. Private foundations also help out. We are constantly looking for resources. The Pavel Kushnir memorial concert also includes a fundraising campaign to support the Atelier. This involves the money from ticket sales and donations, which we need very much, as we have a large team helping hundreds of people — 350-400 people a year.

— How can people who decide to come to you for help prove that they are artists?

— You have to show us what you have done up to this point: a portfolio, internet links, an account of your past work. It is not difficult to check whether a person is actually an actor, musician, or artist. It is immediately clear what kind of experience they have, where they studied, with whom they worked. Then we decide whether or not to work with them.

— Given that there is a full-scale war on in Ukraine, do you prioritize Ukrainian artists who have fled the hostilities when you’re choosing whom to help?

— Because there are many ongoing wars in the world, we don’t prioritize anyone. We just assist people who find themselves in a dangerous situation. If we talk about relevance, we are most often contacted by people from Gaza and Lebanon, who can be killed at any moment and who ask us how they can leave and what they need to do to leave. We are always watching what is happening in the world. It was not that everything was fine in the world when we started, but there were not so many conflicts. After the pandemic, there were immediate problems in Myanmar and Afghanistan, there was the war in Ukraine, there was the brutal crackdown against the women’s rights movement in Iran. And so on and so forth. More and more performers and visual artists have been turning to us because they don’t know how to go on living.

— Has the number of Russians who seek your assistance increased recently?

— It has been a constant flow which doesn’t stop. The current wave of émigrés from Russia is even greater than the very first one, whom we call White Russian émigrés.

— Let us return to the fate of Pavel Kushnir. I have read that famous musicians who learned about this tragedy and then listened to Pavel’s recordings and read what he wrote, voiced regret that they had not known about him or his talent earlier. Do you think there are many such unknown talents in the world? If so, how can we help the world learn about them not only after their tragic deaths, as happened with Kushnir?

— Pavel’s fate mirrors the history of art in many ways. Many great talents have been discovered after their death. There are so many musicians, actors, and artists for whom creating and making art is what matters most, not being famous. It doesn’t matter to them that they are not in the public eye. We can’t know about everyone, of course. I can’t suggest any way of remedying ths; it’s just the way the world works. There are people who will always be in the limelight, and there are people who will go on modestly pursuing what they love. Sometimes they are more talented than the artists we know well. When we discover a great talent after their death, sometimes a hundred years later, we ask ourselves how come we hadn’t heard anything about them until now, how we had missed them. But there’s hardly anything we can do about it.

Source: Andrei Sharogradsky, “‘I Wanted to Play Rachmaninoff for Him’: A Pavel Kushnir Tribute Concert in Paris,” Radio Svoboda, 19 November 2024. Translated by the Russian Reader. Thanks to Comrade Koganzon for the heads-up.

Remembering Navalny

There’s shoddy work everywhere. Even great publications suffer ridiculous failures.

This is the cover of the new issue of the New Yorker.

What ridiculous crap.

(You can probably guess who that is supposed to be.)

Source: Sergei Parkhomenko (Facebook), 12 October 2024. Translated by the Russian Reader


I wouldn’t want Navalny to be remembered the way he has been remembered this past year.

I haven’t read the book Patriot yet, but I was quite upset by Mikhail Zygar’s review of it. Zygar compares Navalny to Jesus and concludes that by dying, Navalny bequeathed us an idea that would rid future generations of cynicism and teach them to believe.

This is feeble sentimentalization, in my opinion. Navalny didn’t not dream up any particular ideas. He called for action, not faith. The meaning of his sacrifice, in my mind, is practical and political, not abstract and ideological. It can and should benefit the current generation, not some future generation.

Navalny didn’t dream up a new ideal. The “beautiful Russia of the future” is a feeble image, but Navalny understood better than anyone how tyranny operates on the mechanical level. I often complain that the FSB understands better how Russian society functions than do opposition politicians, sociologists and psychologists. Navalny couldn’t be accused of this shortcoming.

He was the only person in Russian politics who talked about power relations as a two-way street. He didn’t talk about the enormous resources Putin has, but about the fact that we give Putin power. It is not the security services, the army and the tanks that give Putin power. We give Putin power.

This view evolved over the course of Navalny’s career, becoming more and more central. As time went by, it separated Alexei more and more from his colleagues in the opposition. Toward the end of his life, Navalny’s writings centered on the idea that power consists in consenting to obedience, in “obeying in advance.” We say to ourselves: I cannot disobey, because if I don’t obey, they will (notice me/file administrative charges against me/fire me/banish me from my profession/send me to jail/kill me).

“The only fear there should be is that we leave our homeland to be plundered by a pack of liars, thieves and hypocrites, that we surrender without a fight, voluntarily, both our own future and the future of our children.”

Only by obeying in advance can governing by unfulfilled threat be scaled up indefinitely, to a country of 140 million people, because this means of governing doesn’t require any resources. We obey without taking resources from the state. Putin’s estimates for the war in Ukraine include every dollar, euro, and pound spent on Ukraine’s defense. They are what counts against Russian budgets, not “faith in democracy” or “anti-war sentiment.” I understand Alexei’s decision to return to Russia in this sense; I see it as logical and unusually tenderhearted on the personal level. By returning to Russia, Alexei was able to provide Russians with one more example of tyranny’s limits: Putin never had power over Alexei. Had he stayed in Germany, Putin’s power would have extended to Navalny.

At the end of his life, Navalny did not call for faith, he called for deeds: “If your convictions are worth something, you must be willing to stand up for them. And if necessary, make some sacrifices. And if you are not willing, then you don’t have any convictions. You just think you do. But they are not convictions and principles. They are just thoughts in your head.”

Navalny was concerned not with the thoughts in our heads, but with whether our deeds matched our thoughts. I appreciate Christian philosophy, but I could never accept the postulate that a second of faith can save a person, no matter their actions — “Now thou shalt be with me in paradise,” and so forth. The Russian opposition, for as long as I’ve been watching it, wants to get to democracy approximately the same way the thief gets to paradise — by believing in it. The notion that we are democrats and decent because we believe in democracy while all remaining Russians are slaves and awful because they don’t believe in it is the main obstacle to democracy in Russia, in my mind, and the Koshchei’s egg of tyranny. A “democracy” in which only “democrats” have a stake and which only they want is an oxymoron that makes democracy impossible and tyranny in Russia perennial. Democracy cannot be for Muscovites alone. It cannot be built via media outlets in which only Petersburg and Moscow have a voice. It cannot be built without equal representation of activists, issues, and interests from other regions and ethnicities.

Late in life, Navalny hated talk about the “freewheeling ’90s” and the good Chekists/bad democrats dichotomy, which doesn’t prevent his supporters from remaining stuck in this selfsame paradigm.

“I hate the authors of the authoritarian [Russian] constitution, which was sold to us idiots as democratic, even then granting the president the powers of a full-fledged monarch. […] I hate the ‘independent media’ and the ‘democratic community,” which fully supported one of the most dramatic turning points in our new history — the fake presidential election of ’96.”

Navalny was able to cringe at his former self: “I repeat that back then I vigorously supported all that stuff. Not election fraud, of course — I didn’t like that even then — but I did everything I could to ignore it, and the general unfairness of the elections didn’t fluster me one bit. Now we are paying for the fact that in ’96 we thought that election fraud was not always a bad thing.”

Alexei started his career in Russia’s faux democracy project, which was unfair from the get-go. He entered politics as a “democratic nationalist,” desiring greatness and a better elite for Russia. It was within this same paradigm that he pursued the most successful project of his life: “fighting the regime by legal means.” By the end of his life, however, he came to realize that Russian power is held by a hypocritical elite which justifies its obedience by talking about white coats, and is not willing to share power. It is not even willing to think about being the equals of other Russians, let alone the equals of Ukrainians, for example.

This, in my opinion, is what Navalny left behind. It pains me to see how the legacy he left at such a high cost is being frittered away by films about traitors, stupid speeches, and sentimental religious comparisons.

Source: Vladimir Ponizovskiy (Facebook), 23 October 2024. Translated by the Russian Reader

Leningrad 4

If you have been to Chronicles Bar [in downtown St. Petersburg], you have definitely seen the photos discussed in this film. In today’s session of “Screening the Real,” we are watching Leningrad 4, a documentary about Sergei Podgorkov and other champions of Leningrad’s unofficial photography scene during perestroika. Yuri Mikhailin spoke to the filmmaker, Dmitry Fetisov, about dramatic structure, time as a form and rhythm, and Soviet-era beer stalls.

“Leningrad 4,” Dmitry Fetisov, 2023 (in Russian with no subtitles)

My path to documentary filmmaking was a tortuous one. At school, I was interested in writing texts, and at the age of seventeen I decided to apply to the St. Petersburg State University of Film and Television (KiT) to study drama, but at the interview I was advised to go into documentary directing. At the time, Victor Kossakovsky was accepting students, but I didn’t go to study with him, I went to Tver (I’m from the Tver Region) and studied three years at the College of Culture, specializing in directing and theatrical acting. Then I went to study in Konstantin Lopushansky’s feature filmmaking program at KiT. I studied for a year, but them I decided to try my hand at documentary filmmaking again, although I didn’t really understand what it was.

I transferred to Vladislav Borisovich Vinogradov’s course, and I more or less made a go of it there. I guess I had found my master. It was the first time I saw examples of poetic documentary films with characters and dramatic structures that intrigued me. I also really liked Vladislav Borisovich’s work (I Return Your Portrait, A New Year at the End of the Century). I think that I have inherited to some extent his format, in which the films are based on interviews with the characters, and the themes have something to do with Leningrad culture.

Still from “Leningrad 4,” Dmitry Fetisov, 2023

My interest in photography stemmed from moving to St. Petersburg. I liked the texture of its central districts, the most banal things—palaces and , the difference between the Petrograd Side and Vasilievsky Island. And I was very interested in the movies made at Lenfilm Studios—Ilya Averbakh, the so-called Leningrad school, the perestroika-era pictures. This texture intrigued me. I came across the photographs of Boris Smelov, Leonid Bogdanov, and Boris Kudryakov. I became a big fan of theirs, and started looking for lesser-known photographers.

You could say that Leningrad 4 was born in 2011, when I went to a photo exhibition at the legendary Borey Gallery on Liteiny for the first time and saw Sergei Podgorkov’s work. I thought that I should make a movie about this man. I was very impressed by Ludmila Tabolina’s show at the Akhmatova Museum, as well as the exhibition on the Zerkalo photo club, from which many photographers had emerged.

Still from “Leningrad 4,” Dmitry Fetisov, 2023

In 2021, I decided to make a short film about Sergei Podgorkov. At the time, I had no idea that it would turn out to be a forty-minute movie. I wrote to Sergei on VKontakte, and he invited me to his place in Borovichi. If I were making the film now, I would probably add a video chronicle of the trip. Podgorkov showed us around the town, including the old railway station, and after filming we drank some good Novgorod moonshine with him to celebrate our acquaintance.

Many of the shots were made with Soviet gear—a Helios 40 telephoto lens. I bought it in a thrift store, and I successfully fitted this 1965-made lens to a Sony mirrorless camera. The Helios 40 handsomely blurs the edges and thus emphasizes the subject in the frame. It is my favorite lens.

After filming Podgorkov, I realized that the topic could be pursued further. I had always been interested in the Leningrad Rock Club, and so I decided to film Andrei “Willie” Usov, who was the staff photographer for the band Aquarium and did all the covers of their records, and was friends with Mike Naumenko.

Andrei “Willie” Usov, holding his iconic image
of Boris Grebenshchikov and Mike Naumenko. Still from “Leningrad 4,” Dmitry Fetisov, 2023

The third character was the pictorialist Ludmila Tabolina. I appreciate this movement in photography. The next character was Alexander Kitaev. I liked the Kitaev’s powerful countenance, that of a bohemian. Petersburg photographer, and I decided that I would film him even before I got acquainted with his images myself.

Another character is Valery Valran. He is not a photographer, but a well-known artist in Petersburg, a popularizer of photography, a curator of photo exhibitions, and the first to turn [photos by Leningrad’s underground photographers] into a photo album: the book Leningrad Photo Underground appears at the beginning of the film. I decided to include it in the film to tell about this photography movement a little from the outside.

And finally, there was Sergei Korolyov. I filmed him, but during editing I realized that, unfortunately, a short subject about him did not fit into the film. I edited it separately and posted it on my “Blog Stall” which I dreamed up when blogging was the cool thing and where I publish stories related to cinema. This episode is called “The Photographer Korolyov”.

“The Photographer Koroylov,” Blog Stall, episode 26

How did I realize that these characters were enough? When I filmed them, I had an idea for the next film I might make: about photographers who are no longer alive, like Bogdanov and Kudryakov. And I decided that the filming was over.

The film took a long time to edit, almost a year. I realized that each photographer has a certain leitmotif. Sergei Podgorkov has a story connected with beer stalls (although he does not emphasize it himself), Andrei Usov has rock, Ludmila Tabolina has the white nights, and Kitaev has [Petersburg’s] Kolomna neighborhood.

Still from “Leningrad 4,” Dmitry Fetisov, 2023

To separate the interviews and photos, I decided to use a film footage frame. Some of my colleagues think that this is visual bad form, but for me it seems logical: conversations with photographers are the present day, while their photos are the past, and the footage works as a transition between them.

Sometimes I wanted to connect the times. The chapter “Conversations at Beer Stalls” features music by contemporary jazz-noir artist Bebopovsky and the Orkestry Podyezdov. I had enjoyed him for a long time. I met the artist, and the opportunity to use his music in the film presented itself.

While I was editing, I did a photo shoot on black and white film for an acquaintance. I was supposed to make shots like in the scene in Godard’s movie Le petit soldat in which the main character takes a picture of a young woman. For this photo shoot, my friend bought a Leningrad 4 light meter on Avito. I realized that I would call the film that, because the main character is late Soviet Leningrad, and there are four photographers in it. Then I decided that I would divide the movie into four parts. Besides, perhaps these photographers possibly also used the Leningrad 4, as it was one of the most popular exposure meters of its time.

It was later that Sonia Minovskaya, my co-director and assistant on the movie, noticed that in some mythologies the nuumber four is the number of decay, death, and demised. And indeed, in each chapter something fades away or dies. In the first one, the Leningrad white nights are buried, while in the second, Mike Naumenko and a whole erа exits the stage. Then we see the end of the Summer Garden in its historical guise, and in the final chapter, where the rallies in the squares are shown, we see a country disintegrating. I didn’t think about this symbolism when I was making the film. I did it intuitively.

Photographer Alexander Kitaev. Still from “Leningrad 4,” Dmitry Fetisov, 2023

I understand that the editing is finished when a special, unique time emerges in a film. Time is a rhythmic form to me. A movie is ready to go when it suits me rhythmically. My films are calm, lyrical, and meditative. I probably like the documentaries of Wim Wenders for a reason.

Leningrad 4 was screened at the Arctic Open Festival in Arkhangelsk, where it got a super-warm reception; at the Salt of the Earth Festival in Samara; and in the online program at Artdocfest.

At one of the premiere screenings at the Rosphoto Museum, Sergei Podgorkov, with his usual irony, criticized the film for being too sentimental about an era that, in his opinion, is not worth the nostalgia. I did not put nostalgia in the movie, especially nostalgia for the Soviet Union, which I do not have. Andrei Usov noted that the films uses images from a time when the city was more interesting texturally for photographers. Nowadays, Petersburg is quite touristy, shiny and bright. He also admitted that the film left him with a heavy feeling. He and Naumenko had a great, strong friendship, and he still takes his departure quite personally.

Still from “Leningrad 4,” Dmitry Fetisov, 2023. Photo by Sergei Podgorkov

Another character in the movie, Svetlana, attended the screening at the bar WÖD. In the final scene, we see a photo of her standing on the roof of a building opposite the Mariinsky Palace during the attempted coup in August 1991 and looking into the lens—as if that era were upon us today. This is a famous photo by Sergei Podgorkov. Recently, Sergei found Svetlana through the internet and invited her to the screening. And now, thirty-three years later, she saw herself on the screen and recounted how the picture was taken. Podgorkov had run out of film, but Svetlana was also an amateur photographer, so she lent him her own camera, and he photographed her.

Recently, I went to Chronicles Bar on Nekrasov Street and saw Podgorkov’s photos there. It was amazing. It is a young people’s bar, and yet the walls are adorned with photos of Soviet-era beer stalls, so it is as if two eras were connected through Podgorkov’s photographs.

Source: Yuri Mikhailin, “Screening the Real: Dmitry Fetisov’s ‘Leningrad 4,'” Seans, 25 May 2024. Translated by the Russian Reader