Over the years, I kept coming back to memories of the family dacha. I could smell our wooden house in other houses, longing for tea from the samovar and the pile of granite stones opposite, which I used to go through in search of treasures. In the place where the dacha was, I felt a strong unity with myself, my parents and my grandmother. With the world around me. As a child, I liked to go to the end of the road that led to the dacha house and look curiously around the uncharted corner. I cherished the memorable fragments even when I grew up and my grandmother was gone, and joint trips to the dacha became a thing of the past.
I endow the image of the dacha with experiential meaning. When the new owners demolished the house, I realized that I had lost something more than a physical object. Even in the family archive, I found no images of the dacha. Only photographs of the plot.
To reconstruct the symbols of the past and to feel like a child again, like a pilgrim, I went with my camera to the village where the dacha stood. The archive photo acts as a guide to memories that change with me and take on additional meanings.