18 January (Moscow) A rehearsal is being held in a large hall — light streaming in through floor-to-ceiling windows onto the performers. Some dance, some sit sprawled across the floor watching their compatriots. “Kostik, stand up, you’re going to get cold,” the choreographer scolds. A young man slouched on the wooden parquet rises, shooting another performer with imaginary pistols before goading him into wrestling — they are ignored. After grappling briefly, they embrace before returning their attention to the proceedings. READ THE FULL ARTICLE HERE

03 December 2015 (Izhevsk, UDMURT REPUBLIC)  As my foot hit the platform, the mallet hit the orchestral base drum and the opening notes of Tchaikovsky’s coronation march flowed through the train station’s loudspeakers into the ears of passengers arriving from Moscow.

“Did you arrange that serenade especially for me?” I asked my friend Yevgeny Odiyankov, who was there to greet me, along with his now grown-up son Sasha. The elfin twinkle in Zhenya’s eyes burned just as brightly as it had when I first met him 25 years earlier, only now framed by grey eyebrows...