Fake Flowers

Ukrainians adore fake flowers. For marriages, deaths, and holidays I don't exactly understand, they are in abundance. They're sold by Sveta, the most flamboyant lady in Novoarkhanhelsk- cheetah print fur coats, hot pink jellyfish hats.. she's electric. She's right in the middle of the main street, and is one of those rare vendors who is not sitting and staring mutely ahead. People are buying.

The logical conclusion of this passion: monumental floral vaginas. Go into any cemetery and you will see these things, big, screaming red, rimmed in silver ribbons and plastic pine garlands. Sometimes there's a several of them pushed together, with even more pine, ribbon, and silk flooding in between them. They make an impression, and they will survive the cruelest winter.

More modest graves:

 

 Sveta, the fake flower lady (she'll also hook you up with some dope fireworks):

Cow Story

Torpedo the Highly Intelligent Goat

I was walking by the river and I found these goats, mother and child, down a slope. As I was drawing them, a woman appraoched me, surprised. She was the owner of the goats. I asked her permission to draw the goats, and she gave it without hesitation. Her name was Svetlana, the old goat was named Torpedo. When Torpedo was younger, she was more ballistic- Svetlana said she'd hold one end of her chain and Torpedo would get an urge, and she'd shoot away,  knocking Svetlana to the ground. Svetlana definitely had affection for this goat, I saw love in her eyes.
She said the goat knows Ukrainian. She gives an order like "Turn" and she doesn't even need to nudge her, the goat knows. Although- there are times that Torpedo pretends that she doesn't understand, because she is feeling lazy or rebellious.
Svetlana said that if I was a real teacher, I should teach her goat English. "This goat learns fast," she said.

 

First days in Novoarkhanhelsk (Rewind to December)

These were some of the first photos I took upon arrival at Novoarkhanhelsk, my home for 24 months. "м'ясо" just means meat- people don't need to get too fancy with the names of their stores around here.

 

Playground Girls

To get home, I walk through a park about the size of a city block. It has orderly lines of trees, a dilapidated squat toilet compound, and a little playground in the middle. Sometimes there are playing children here and sometimes there are slightly older drinking children.
On this day, there were both. The girl on the right was hollering at me, not really friendly, but not really aggressive either. The girl on the left, who I think was her little sister, was laughing and swinging, rather sweetly.