Kinburn spit
Viktor Ratushny
To the unforgettable Lena Milenti, dedicated.
The barque Hermes moored on the spit. What will I see in this ghostly paradise, where I found myself again by chance, where everything is familiar? But I am different, — with this question I went ashore.
Kinburn spit. Mykolaiv region, Ukraine. August 2017
The sandy soil of the road and the memories of the past years stiffened my legs. So I sat down on the edge of the road for a smoke. It was evening. The sky was dripping, the air was intoxicating, the cigarette was burning, it was deserted and quiet around. In such silence you can hear the whisper of your beloved and the eternity of the road in the rustle of grass. The cows mooed and the wind drove the clouds, the road grew dark and the stars went out, but I sat and watched the bottomless darkness of the sky illuminated by flashes of lightning. It was as if a spirit was breaking through the veil of my thoughts and feelings. The downpour and hail pea-sized peas shed the revelation of summer, and I absorbed it to the last thread as I walked along the road to the overnight stay, where seven years ago it had been cloudless and joyous. The first night on the spit had come.
Kinburn spit. Mykolaiv region, Ukraine. August 2017
Kinburn spit. Mykolaiv region, Ukraine. August 2017
My neighbors are petty tyrants, stingy out of habit. I try not to notice and come back to fall down and see no one, and deep in the night go out into the field and watch the stars. Day three passed without a single frame. A beauty spider measures the length of the wall. Twice. Went to Grandma Ola’s house, where Lena and I once stayed. Grandma is 91 and can’t see or hear well, but we talked about the past. In the garden the old swings were orphaned, only the ropes were left. All the buildings have fallen into disrepair. It is empty and sad, and you want to run away, but there is nowhere to go. No-one’s waiting. Maybe the neighbour is playing chess, then there’s an excuse.
Kinburn spit. Mykolaiv region, Ukraine. August 2017
Free as the wind and sad at heart. Every evening I meet a longboat. In the blue distance it is almost invisible, but in an hour sixty tourists will disembark and another sixty will sail back on schedule, three times a day. The pulsation of the spit at the height of the season was reflected in the faces. One could see one’s own less and less often. The heat, the grass yellowing, the skin changing. We used to dream of many things, but you’re not around now. And the sea in languor sways tons of seaweed and splashes it on the shore. There are so many of them it’s impossible to swim at all. These writings on the water and the hail on the day of my arrival were a sign for my awakening and an escape from deep sadness.
Kinburn spit. Mykolaiv region, Ukraine. August 2017
Kinburn spit. Mykolaiv region, Ukraine. August 2017
Kinburn spit. Mykolaiv region, Ukraine. August 2017
I walk along the edge of the sea in the golden sunset. Someone is flying a kite, someone is catching space batomorphi. Silhouettes and shadows walk in a halo of light and I feel myself getting younger. Oh, my God! I’ve managed to shoot two films and cover a hundred kilometres. Now I know I am looking for the cherished 7 frames and the Lord is helping. The sadness has let go a little, the neighbours are no longer rude, the heat was apologized by coolness and it is possible to continue walking again, to the edge of the outlines. Where the liman and the sea meet, where there is no grief, no guilt, where two waves draw the dome of paradise in a instant of silence.
Kinburn spit. Mykolaiv region, Ukraine. August 2017
Tanned for two, already nicknamed Robinson. How wonderful it is to walk along the spit in underpants and not think about important. Although, there are no fish on the spit and that’s a diagnosis. My footprints on the sand are washed away by the wave, and I don’t argue with fate. As always, I drink tea late, the moon shines brightly and I never sleep. The Photo frames of the day’s moments are imprinted in my memory. They convey the elusive connection of times when we are happy. Our silent film or Kinburn understatement, like the look of a man lying on the sand, like the poetry of long shadows at sunset and the whisper of the sea.
Kinburn spit. Mykolaiv region, Ukraine. August 2017
Kinburn spit. Mykolaiv region, Ukraine. August 2017
Kinburn spit. Mykolaiv region, Ukraine. August 2017
After the long summer heat, the rains have come. Everything were soaked and no need to go anywhere. The fourth film is almost finished, two hundred kilometres have been covered and two pairs of trousers are worn to holes. It was time to leave. I was tired to the last bone. The sand and heat were exhausting, and the cold beer treacherously inflamed my throat and water flowed through my nose. A neighbour treated me to some moonshine, but didn’t invite me to the table. Two kilos of meat they ate with his wife. So I wished them health, drank a hundred grams and left. Maybe it’ll help with my throat.
Kinburn spit. Mykolaiv region, Ukraine. August 2017
Kinburn spit. Mykolaiv region, Ukraine. August 2017
Yesterday I walked to khutor across the sand in search of bryndza. I managed to buy 500 grams, but the road tortured me. Some kind of decline all around. No wine, no good snacks, not even a glance. Only hordes of mosquitoes remind us of life. His people wander in the hope of a new paradise. But is there one on earth? If the hermitism of the local people has not made them kinder, then what is it for? True, Galina Petrovna has an exceptional cabin at Rymby khutor, only 5×5 or less in size. In it, the light shimmers from East to West, and the walls are decorated with seashells. Inside there are two beds and a table and no neighbors around. In general, everything you need. Very soulful and always busy.
Kinburn spit. Mykolaiv region, Ukraine. August 2017
Kinburn spit. Mykolaiv region, Ukraine. August 2017
There is nothing more to wait for, no one will come. A stranger will not understand, and there is no sign of one’s own. The feathers lie alone along the shore, their flight is over, like a silent film. And finally, having cast aside everything false, I went out to the pier with a bottle of wine. The wind filled the neck with a hum after a large double gulp. As if two summers of speechlessness met and looked into each other’s eyes. Goodbye, spit, our song is sung for all who loved and love now. The longboat stealthily docked at the marina with the last sip of expensive wine.
Kinburn spit. Mykolaiv region, Ukraine. August 2017
Farewell, spit, peninsula of St. Elena, your image will remain forever. And our souls will meet between a cloud and an invisible pier. As your words bequeathed.
Viktor Ratushny 2017
*ncu editor’s note.
In August 2015, documentary photographer Viktor Ratushny and Odessa poetess Elena Milenti visited the Kinburn spit.
After a holiday on the spit, throughout the year, after a long illness, Elena dies of cancer.
In August 2017, Victor returns to the cherished place to say goodbye to the spit and to Lena, forever.
Three years later, Ratushny dies of cancer.
