The collection of eggs painted by grandmother and Uncle Volodya has always been somewhere nearby. I remember those eggs in the old studio in the semi-basement near Patriarshy Ponds. I remember them in Degunino, where they lived for a time. I seem to remember them even on Garibaldi Street, where I lived with my parents until 1981. They were always there.
About five years ago my mother brought them to our dacha when she moved. And once again they were nearby, but I somehow did not notice them — my gaze would slide past familiar objects with routine indifference.
And then, one day, I saw them. They “jumped out” at me and lodged themselves in my mind; I urgently needed to photograph them. I did, and I’m glad I did.
When I photograph something, I take in all the details very clearly. On one egg I spotted a yogi and grandmother’s initials, her date of birth, Adam and Eve, and even a fig.