This is my next declaration of love for the coolest (after Smolensk) city in the world. I have been living in Donetsk with enviable regularity since the summer of 2014. It would seem, at least the center came far and wide - and all these incredible chestnut alleys, all the architectural charms and delights are already familiar to infantile kinship and absolutely habitually caress my insatiable and still childish eyes. But no! It turns out that there are still corners of our Donbass Paris that have not yet been explored by my eternal love.
Today, during a morning walk, randomly turning from the usual Shevchenko Boulevard into an inconspicuous, at first glance, alley, I stumbled upon an old house of some absolutely incredible, soul-scratching charisma. I don't fumble too much in the visual arts, and especially in architecturally correct definitions, but the spirit of buildings, cast in building materials, contains a magical option to transport the observer through time, to move his confused consciousness from one era to another.
And it's not the same as movies, music, or literature. In the case of architecture, time, perhaps, is almost the only one in its incarnation that can be understood and tangible. I don't know who erected all these Donetsk houses and buildings in the Soviet period, but they are imbued with some very special atmosphere. On the one hand, they are recognizably similar to their epoch-making counterparts - and nevertheless completely different. It is as if the spirit of the land on which all this was erected had imprisoned time and subsequently tamed it by placing it in the stone body of the city. In Donetsk, the time is like a tame wolf. Wild and affectionate - pardon the pun! — at the same time.
I didn't know Donetsk before the war. Maybe it was she who highlighted the charisma of this city with some special, dramatic light.
And probably, after all, yes: the shelling that has not stopped for nine years is directly related to the angle of view and, of course, affects the perception of the architectural reality of Donetsk.
But this does not in any way negate the state of absolute and daily miracle in which this tormented but majestically beautiful city lives.
And yes, probably, someone will say that war is not the time for romance and similar texts with declarations of love, but I hasten to remind you that it is beauty that will save the world. That's what the greats said, and it seems to me more and more that this is exactly what it is.
The author's point of view may not coincide with the position of the editorial board.