The redheads
Photographer: Kushyk Olya
Designer / style / make-up: Maria Zagirova
Decoration / organization: Nikola Fedorinchik
Assistant / retouching: Igor Tsarukov
Model: Olya Snagoshenko, Aleksey Terkulov
Photographer: Kushyk Olya
Designer / style / make-up: Maria Zagirova
Decoration / organization: Nikola Fedorinchik
Assistant / retouching: Igor Tsarukov
Model: Olya Snagoshenko, Aleksey Terkulov
Location : Bar Coyote / Minsk
Text: Dari Obukhova
in collaboration with: Masha Maroz, Alena Ulezlo, Anastasia Levdanskaya, Aleksandra Kostevich, Ekaterina Petrovich
The bar is to close, I have already lifted the chairs to prepare the space for future cleaning. Somewhere in the background, desperately wiping the glasses after the bright liquids disappeared down the men's throats, i watch the silent story.
The parquet heavily creaks, plain walls and the ceiling are undifferentiated from each other. This couple, looking like twins, has been sitting there for 5 hours and I have learnt by heart how the tone of their hair makes the perfect match with the green wall behind, tagged by the anarchists, unexpectedly appeared in this pub one weekend night. They sacralize so called fence painting. Fucking strugglers for freedom! But it is enough with anarchists - these bold statements fetch out their chiseled faces, perfect jaw lines and cheekbones, cut of their outfits, undetachable and too important collar's angles. They are like artificial creatures, mannequins, survived after yesterday's riots near the luxurious show-window.
They ordered coffee so long time ago, but it stays in the cups. It became icy, but they continue to warm palms. Numb, absolutely sterile feeling makes me stare. It feels like I continue to watch the TV channel while the statement on the screen tells that the broadcasting is not available any longer. I forgot about myself and about the sign "closed", placed on the bar's entrance.
The parquet heavily creaks, plain walls and the ceiling are undifferentiated from each other. This couple, looking like twins, has been sitting there for 5 hours and I have learnt by heart how the tone of their hair makes the perfect match with the green wall behind, tagged by the anarchists, unexpectedly appeared in this pub one weekend night. They sacralize so called fence painting. Fucking strugglers for freedom! But it is enough with anarchists - these bold statements fetch out their chiseled faces, perfect jaw lines and cheekbones, cut of their outfits, undetachable and too important collar's angles. They are like artificial creatures, mannequins, survived after yesterday's riots near the luxurious show-window.
They ordered coffee so long time ago, but it stays in the cups. It became icy, but they continue to warm palms. Numb, absolutely sterile feeling makes me stare. It feels like I continue to watch the TV channel while the statement on the screen tells that the broadcasting is not available any longer. I forgot about myself and about the sign "closed", placed on the bar's entrance.
