alyyosha

Latest Posts by alyyosha

Pacific Wilderness, 1989

Andrew Remnev

“My paintings are distinguished by attention to detail and meticulous decorating a conditional Russian style. Other works are written in a different, more symbolic way. However, they have in common with the first accented by decorative: a careful selection of details, almost laconic, bordering on cheap popular. I tried to convey a sense of wonder, the unique experience of touching the mystery … ”

artofrussia.com

“I come & go. An edible saint. But if you feast on me you will be hungry.”

— Eileen Myles, I Must Be Living Twice, ‘The Perfect Faceless Fish’

Rae Klein - Untitled, from the series ‘You Are So Warm,’ 2020

George Sherwood Hunter - Jubilee Procession in a Cornish Village (1897)

By Japanese artist Hirō Isono

found in a squat in an abandoned housing development, 2023

Antonina Rzhevskaya (Russian, 1861-1934)

Music, 1903

Nikolay Kasatkin - Orphaned (1891)

The entire, original handwritten manuscript of Anne of Green Gables is now available to page through online - thanks to a scholar from Duluth, Minnesota. Read all about it in the News Tribune.

Photo: Jean-Sébastien Duchesne

main character energy, but from a dostoevsky novel.

Madison County, Montana, 1939

Forest hut, 1892

Ivan Shishkin

Nishino Yoichi aka 西野陽一 aka Yoichi Nishino (Japanese, b. 1954, Kyoto, Japan) - Unknown Title  Ink and Color on Paper

Julia Butterfly Hill lived in a 180-foot (55 m)-tall, roughly 1500-year-old California Redwood tree  for 738 days between December 10, 1997 and December 18, 1999. Hill lived in the tree, affectionately known as “Luna,” to prevent Pacific Lumber Company loggers from cutting it down.

“Dostoevsky’s novel The Brothers Karamazov. I looked on the shelves over there and couldn’t find it – is it perhaps in another section? Russian Literature or something? The librarian consulted a computer. We both waited. The wait was friendly, full of the special time that wanders in municipal libraries, like a solitary walker between trees in a wood. She lifts her head and says: We have two copies and I’m afraid they’re both out. You want to reserve one? I’ll come back another day. She nods and turns to attend to an elderly woman – younger than me – who is holding three books in one hand. People hold books in a special way – like they hold nothing else. They hold them not like inanimate things but like ones that have gone to sleep. Children often carry toys in the same manner. The public library is in a Paris suburb which has a population of around 60,000. About 4,000 people are members of the library and have tickets for borrowing books (four at a time). Others come to read the papers and journals or consult the reference shelves. If one takes into account the number of babies and young kids in the suburb, this means that about one person in ten has a ticket and sometimes takes home books to read. I wonder who’s reading The Brothers Karamazov here today. Do the two of them know each other? Unlikely. Are they both reading the book for the first time? Or has one of them read it and, like myself, wants to reread it? Then I find myself asking an odd question: if either of those readers and myself passed one another – in the suburban market on Sunday, coming out of the metro, on a pedestrian crossing, buying bread – might we perhaps exchange glances that we’d both find slightly puzzling? Might we, without recognising it, recognise one another? When we are impressed and moved by a story, it engenders something that becomes, or may become, an essential part of us, and this part, whether it be small or extensive, is, as it were, the story’s descendant or offspring. What I’m trying to define is more idiosyncratic and personal than a mere cultural inheritance; it is as if the bloodstream of the read story joins the bloodstream of one’s life story. It contributes to our becoming what we become and will continue to become. Without any of the complications and conflicts of family ties, these stories that shape us are our coincidental, as distinct from biological, ancestors. Somebody in this Paris suburb, perhaps sitting tonight in a chair and reading The Brothers Karamazov, may already, in this sense, be a distant, distant cousin.”

— John Berger, Bento’s Sketchbook

don't care didn't ask plus this hole you put me in wasn't deep enough and i'm climbing out right now

Anastasia Stashkevich as Olga, and Olga Smirnova as Tatiana, in Onegin (Bolshoi Ballet)

Scott Fraser - Shell Collection, 2014

"Russian winter". Moscow-based artist Filipp Vyacheslavovich Kubarev (b.1969).

Calling a Wolf a Wolf, Kaveh Akbar

Anne Carson, from “Plainwater: Essays and Poetry.”