Collecting Moments

Ani is like a battlefield where instead of wounded and killed there are stones. Piles of stones. Thousands of stones from a thousand and one churches that used to stand in that ancient city. They keep eternal memory for this place. And blind faces on the walls can still talk and tell the history together with the birds flying around the roofless ceiling...

Остров Ахтамар на озере Ван - Это родина наших предков. Моего деда убили здесь неподалеку. Очень больно. Очень! - Десятимесячного брата отца застрелили турки в их доме в Ване. Отцу было шесть лет, когда его родителям пришлось бежать из родного города в восточную Армению. По дороге у них родилась девочка. Все говорили, что ее надо бросить, что она все равно в пути не выживет. А бабушка сказала “нет, это мое спасение”. В этом году моей тёте исполнилось бы сто лет...

Вчерашний день как жаркий вязкий сон — Персидские ковры, Афганские наряды.    - Откуда ты? — Ирландия. — Ирланда?    - Да. — Глазго? — Даблин!    - (Тель-Авив, Израиль. Но это про себя...) Турецкие слова сквозь плотный липкий дым. 'Чи кёфте', 'мерхаба'... По-курдски “Спас” — “Спасибо” — как по-русски. Чай с вкусом табака, Иранские маршрутки. Мне в Грузию. Я ниоткуда. ** Чи кёфте — турецкое блюдо Мерхаба — "здравствуйте" по-турецки

I’ve been dreaming about this place for fifteen years… A 20 km hike in the Cappadocian mountains through the Pigeon and Love Valleys. Human history carved into the natural beauty... I fell in Love with this Love Valley :)

She’s a little girl, a hippy, Dreadlocks, tattoos. They had a fight a minute ago And she is still confused. There are no sheets And the carpet is full of cats’ hair. It is easy to leave this place But it is not fair. It’s dark and filthy And smells like shit. She struggles to smile But she can not quit. She moved in with him. It was five months ago. She’s trapped in his flat With no other place to go. There’s no fresh air It’s impossible to breathe. But she will not go out To feel the breeze. She’s just a little girl, A hippy with sad eyes. It’s easy to leave this place But there's no disguise.

Before the ancient Greeks and Romans, christians and muslims in Anatolia there were the Lycians. They loved freedom, carved tombs into the rocks like the Nabateans and worshiped a mother goddess. That’s how Herodotus (I, 173) describes their matriarchy: “Their customs are partly Cretan and partly Carian. But they have one which is their own and shared by no other men: they take their names not from their fathers but from their mothers, and when one is asked by his neighbor who he is, he will say that he is the son of such a mother, and rehearse the mothers of his mother. Indeed, if a female citizen marries a slave, her children are considered pure-blooded; but if a male citizen, even the most prominent of them, takes an alien wife or concubine, the children are dishonored.” Plutarch gives a mythical explanation of this tradition in his book “Bravery of Women” in the chapter dedicated to the Lycian women: “Bellerophon killed a wild boar which was making havoc of the stock and crops in