34 Photos
16 Photos
Introduction
It has taken considerable time, energy, and dare I say it, some angst to arrive at the title of this exhibition! Even now, I’m not sure we achieved perfection, but it does eloquently convey the sense of what these pictures are about.
Our first two winters in Russia were almost entirely grey. There was little snow, and it was, apparently, unseasonably warm. For whatever reason, we made few trips out of Moscow, unless it was to leave the country…normally in search of sun. For me, winter felt like an entirety of gloom, with little to recommend it.
Last year, that changed. Not only was it one of the coldest winters on record, I had the opportunity to travel further afield – beyond Moscow. Here I discovered a completely different winter. A winter that is perpetually frozen, bitter cold with deep blue skies and a low hazy winter sun that sets the world all myriads of pink, orange, yellow and the snow pure white; sights that make you look twice, thrice, and then again, to be sure you saw what you think you saw.
The literal translation from English to Russian of the phrase “Moments of Truth” is “моменты истины”. In Russian this is a weighty statement implying an almost Gospel-like revelation. It is the moment of absolute when that which was previously unclear, not visible, or understandable, becomes clarified. It is a moment of realization and total comprehension of the true nature of the thing in question – in a sense, the move to a higher level of awareness.
Whilst this was not my life’s “моменты истины”, there were many “moments of truth”. Certainly, it was “my Russian winter” unveiled – announcing itself in a triumphant shout of glorious Technicolor. I believe I saw the true heart of winter – and I embraced it. In essence, to say my “Russian journey” has moved to a new plane of understanding would not be an untruth.
On a very personal note, and of some import, is the fact that a large proportion of the photographs in this exhibition were taken during the period immediately following my father’s death. Whilst experiencing waves of untold grief, the scenes I witnessed stilled, reassured and helped to heal a soul that was deeply troubled, and a heart that abounded with sadness. If I could thank them, I would.
Henrietta Challinor
Moscow, March 2011
