Fog in the city and existentialism

My grandmother was a great woman, survived the ugliest times of the WWII, managed to raise children in the scarce climate of Magadan with her husband constantly busy at work helping other people’s animals. She played guitar at the age of 82, secretly smoked cigarettes in the toilet, went grocery shopping on her own and told us stories of her multiple illegal abortions. Then one day she was gone … suddenly … I guess that’s the way I would like to go as well, so that no one would be suffering trying to help me.

And now there is her flat. The flat full of stuff, collected over the past 40 years. You can find her best dresses, fur coats, knitting and lots of china. Everything collected with love and care. Most of it will find its peace somewhere in the trash, some of it will find its way to her children’s homes. We all collect things, surround ourselves with things and cherish them just to discover that nobody would care about them when we are gone. No one would admire your favorite dress or a hat when u are no longer there. They would throw it away. But what is left? Just a memory of you, that you mattered to some people. That someone still remembers you and you may live a little longer. Everything is temporary, things and attachments included
Fog in Vladivostok by Alex Hitrov

Fog in Vladivostok by Alex Hitrov

Fog in Vladivostok by Alex Hitrov

Fog in Vladivostok by Alex Hitrov

Fog in Vladivostok by Alex Hitrov

Fog in Vladivostok by Alex Hitrov

Fog in Vladivostok by Alex Hitrov

Fog in Vladivostok by Alex Hitrov

Fog in Vladivostok by Alex Hitrov

Fog in Vladivostok by Alex Hitrov

Fog in Vladivostok by Alex Hitrov

Fog in Vladivostok by Alex Hitrov

Fog in Vladivostok by Alex Hitrov

Fog in Vladivostok by Alex Hitrov

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