When you live near Great Water, you see the horizon at a distance measured in kilometers. Being able to look far away without breaking the void with the walls of city buildings is a special gift of the area. 

It is a feeling of having space for the gaze, as if it needs space to be fulfilled. 

There is no such scale or permanence in a city of this scale: I feel the compression of myself for the first few minutes when I get on the train to my shelf although physically this shelf is designed for the human body, and my body fits there, and after a while there is a feeling that there are centimeters on the sides where you can move. At first, I run into other people and the narrowness of the train. Then I get out of it and again I feel like I’m expanding the space I occupy, how free it is around me, and I’m happy to occupy this freedom. 

It’s the same feeling when you come from the city to look at the Great Water. 

You expect this feeling as a great joy. You’re waiting for a Lot Of Water. 

And the Great Water is coming.

Sometimes it comes like a flood.

Compares the horizon of the walls and roofs of houses with the horizon of the water surface.

It comes unexpectedly. In the midst of serenity. Water that takes with it memory, image, history.

Water, which in everyday life is not felt as a destructive and powerful force. 

And then the Great Water is a great sadness.

 In November, the water on Lake Baikal with two-meter black waves demolishes fences near the shore, throws stones at baths. 

It’s time for big waves on Lake Baikal. 

It’s time for the Great Water that will carry away houses and hide villages. 

Water is the time. Its water for a long time.

When the time comes for great water, one can only look at its power and the beauty of change.

Destruction is also beautiful. 

The horizon becomes clearer — the view becomes more spacious. From The Big Water. 

This expectation can be joyful and sad. 

And the Great Water is just there.

Irkutsk, Russia 2023