Old roofs are enchanting. Turbulent with their unexpected bends and sharp rises, abrupt with their sudden edges, nostalgic with their stains of rust, roofs embody, to some extent anyway, the ultimateness of a person’s endeavor to reach the sky.
As another piece of my St. Petersburg memories, this couple of photographs succeeds The Crimson and the Blue story displaying an old shadowy bridge in Tsarskoye Selo. But the curious thing about these two sets taken side by side is that the roofs, all at once sun-drenched and revealing their stark contours, were captured first. And exactly this bright sun, beaming its light down on the city’s sloping metal tops after four days of the plain cloudy firmament with a sort of inkblot test structure, triggered a self-induction process inside us which resulted in amazing vigor and a road spirit. Hence, we set off for Pushkin – which is a town, not a poet – and only there that vague bridge, having happened to lie at the narrow line between the light and the dark, occurred.
But before, I was standing by the window and peering at the precisely sharp outlines which had meticulously encircled all the edges and ledges. The whole tableau seemed slightly quivering in the effervescent blue. I couldn’t properly focus my eyes – and a certain kind of perplexity seized me, but that was the kind experiencing which you always feel impatient childish delight. And never want it to stop, coping with a growing desire to fly.