Being apparently unable to switch the subject of roofs thrust upon all my image-perceiving receptions yesterday, today, still through the membrane of a laptop screen, I’m looking on some closer, Odessa roofs. These are this winter’s photographs – which is hard to believe, as much as the past winter bears the most unambiguous resemblance to the spring – and now I even think that we’ve been handed such a warm sunny winter in exchange for the real ongoing spring which the city is not going to see in the usual full-blown felicity this year.
I love this lane. Even understanding its inconsequential scale and status of bona fide streets’ cove, I tend to evaluate this alley as the place central to the whole district of the so-called old city. For me, it appears to be the local extremum of an evasive domestic spirit characteristic of a nineteenth-century southern town. Along with this, something majestic is present in the plain straight walls, standing tall, holding themselves boldly. Old and new, stark brick and painted, zigzag and curved, abrupt and continuous, the place is a compendium of dichotomies.
And if yesterday I was contemplating an impossible aspiration to fly, gazing out of a St. Petersburg window, today this aching desire recurs even more radically. Why? You’ll see it with your own eyes. At the moment, as soon as I assume, you may see an upper fragment of the next picture. Do you? A cloudy, dense, heavy canvas of sky between leaning toward the whole scene’s mass center buildings. If you scroll a little further, you’ll see the charming green-colored roof windows depicted closer in the first image. But after that, it’s no use following any further. Because of... any bets on what?
Because of, strictly, dozens of parked cars. Which permanently stimulate to wish to make photographs not lower than at the level of the second floor, though remaining a little despaired at the inability to reach a perfect, just restored cobbles in that case.
As a passive method of getting rid of the obstructing vehicles, I tried to go out for «filming» – oh, I adore this word and the whole concept behind it, though there is no film inside my camera – at night. And I did found there a kind of enigmatic moody atmosphere, partly resonating with Bulgakov’s revolutionary days’ stories. I did. As well as the same number of vehicle registration plates with sharp-cut letters and digits on them.