The Most Ridiculous Show on Earth

Above, top to bottom: Young circus fans watch as a the trapeze artist balances atop a metal pole at the "Circ" in Lviv, Ukraine on February 27th, 2009; these pictures pretty much speak for themselves. I thought I might be saddened by dancing bears, but it was hilarious; an interesting cultural difference, these are the gymnasts who held aloft metal poles while the girl on the right performed on them. The gentleman on the far left is wearing a mock Yamaka, and they played yiddish-sounding music when he climbed up one of the poles, clearly meant to be Jew of the act, and thus the Ukrainian scapegoat. The other two men are dressed like Russian sailors, with the implication that all three are clowns and womanizers; the Poodle cha-cha.

Last week I had the privilege of attending the Ukrainian circus, commonly mistaken for the Ukrainian Parliament. The debacle was held inside a circular concrete structure that looked like the MetroDome, sans football and beer. The only public entertainment events I've attended so far have been operas, dances, and orchestras, which are dirt cheap and full of culture.

But then I saw the posters for the Ukrainian Circus, beckoning with dancing bears in clown costumes and a line of cha-cha-ing poodles waving their paws. It was catnip. I had to go.

I've always wanted kids and I have a special love for big families since my mother comes from a family of nine. But when I walked into a circus arena filled with 2000 screaming children, I realized I was not quite ready for the responsibility of cleaning a nacho-cheese covered toddler eating cotton candy. At least, I was not ready for the class of seven year olds that kept climbing over my knees during the performance.

The Ukrainian circus is a bit like real life in Ukraine, but with clown costumes and gymnastics.

It was mostly a normal circus, but I don't ever remember bears being a big part of Barnum & Bailey's routine. As I sat near the top row of circus, peering through my 200mm lens at the floor below, I was convinced the bear running out on stage on two legs and doing summersaults was a guy in a bear suit.

Almost certainly a bear from the Carpathians or from Russia, these brown bears were big, but closer to six feet when standing on their hind legs. The rode motorcycles, juggled fire on their feet while riding on the back of an All Terrain Vehicle, danced and walked a high beam.

Other crowd favorites were the cat that suicide-jumped off a 30-foot pole into a blanket, the clown that threw a fake rat into the audience and almost caused a stampede, mullet-sporting trapeze artists, and a muscle-man/gymnast who did an interpretive ballet version of the Iron Cross to the Eurythmics. Bravo.

One act I didn't get to see that day was Brett's personal favorite: the parachuting puppies. That's right, miniature "Benji" dogs climb a series of ladders to the top of the arena, and then run and jump off a ramp, seeming to fall some 200 feet to their death until a parachute opens. I laughed so hard I cried, but I would love to photograph it.

New Website and Business Cards

It's time to put away childish things. I've upgraded my website to http://www.rudz.net/ , and now my full online archive is available for purchase. Click on any image on the website and you can purchase prints, posters, digital copies and even coffee mugs!

My good friend John Tadelski told me I should make a "Best of Rudz 2008" album. This website is answer to that request. Happy shooting.

Death of a friend

"Camera?" I said, motioning to my bag and looking at Sasha with pleading eyes.

Sasha turned and translated my request to Brother Jaroslav, the 23-year old monk who was hosting us. After a brief exchange, Sasha turned to me and shook his head.

"He's almost dead, you know?"

I scuttled down the hall after Sasha and Jaroslav[Yaro-slav], as the smiling brother opened a door just 3 rooms down from where I had been sleeping. The silence of a universally recognized stench hit us as we entered the inner room. It was more than just urine or the familiar stink of sweat, this smell was unique to the dying.

Not once had Jaroslav's impervious smile left his face during our three days at Univ Monastery, not once had he frowned or winced with the frustration of our American ways or our terrible Ukrainian. But in that room, as the three of us stood around the bed of Ananina, we looked again into the eyes of this now dying monk and were speechless. Jaroslav's smile was gone.

I remember photographing this monk in September, shortly after I first arrived in Ukraine. During evening prayer, he had waddled into the sanctuary, oblivious to the chanting and the pairs of eyes following him, and sat next to the singers. I knew there weren't any photographs allowed in the sanctuary, but the intricate design of his robe and the black cusp of his hood captivated me. As he sat in a beam of sunlight, clothed in black and surrounded by the wail of Ukrainians worshipping, I saw him as a pillar, an aging foundation of something I was only beginning to understand.

I asked him after Vespers(evening prayer) if I could photograph him, and he agreed. After I snapped a few shots, he thanked me and then kissed my hand. If I had been in America, I would have awkwardly giggled. But I understood what he was communicating, something deeper than the clumsiness of language. Brett told me that in Ukraine, people only kiss the hands of a Bishop.

As Brett, Sasha, Jaroslav and myself stood with Ananina's caretakers last weekend, five months after I first visited Univ, we stared blankly into pale blue eyes that couldn't stare back. The cancer in his lung, they said, had left him so weak he was unable to stand or talk. He stared blankly at the ceiling. His chest rose and fell with short gasps from an open mouth, and it reminded me of the panting of the hamsters I had as a kid.

Jaroslav told me Ananina hadn't eaten anything all month, just water. We all bowed before we went out, and feeling out of place, I forced myself to touch his bed. I knew I couldn't offer him any comfort than what he already had, I knew he was tougher than me. I knew he had left the monastery in his 20s to fight in the war, and when there was no one left to fight, he married and had another life. When his wife died, he came back to the monastery and donated all of his possessions to the monks.

I knew I could offer him nothing as I touched his blanket, searching for his bony ankle in the sheets to show some shallow sense of compassion. I knew it didn't mean anything, and that's what disturbed me most of all. I knew I couldn't pay him the same respect and return the kiss.

The rumors are true: things are bad

Above: Joseph Sywenkyj for The New York Times in Kyiv, Ukraine.

I planned on the Decisive Moment, the photo story, light or something equally harmless as our assignment for my Beginning Photojournalism course at Ukrainian Catholic University. As with all classes in Ukraine, word-of-mouth is the best advertising, and students don't really show up till the third week. But today, the assignment was a surprise: in five pictures, explain the banking crisis of Ukraine.

I've received two emails thus far from friends asking about this article from the New York Times concerning the economic crisis in Ukraine. For those that don't know, Ukraine had the fastest depreciating currency in the world in 2008 next to Iceland, whose entire banking system collapsed. People want to know: is this just hype, or is Ukraine really this bad?

In short, it's true. It's worse than you think. I told my students today that I saw the perfect picture standing on the street the other day, looking at one of the money exchange signs. A woman in her 50s was staring at the exchange rates for the Ukrainian Hryvnia, US Dollar and the Euro, shook her head, and gave an exasperated sigh, her frozen rosy cheeks puffed out.

That's how everybody feels here. I hate to say it, but what you read is true. Ukraine is really in a crisis, far worse than Americans can imagine.

Although I can't confirm the speculations, several people I have spoken with expect riots within the next 2 months. People are very frustrated by the fall of the currency and feel powerless, and they are getting restless. My roommate has been approached by several coworkers asking to buy American Dollars off of him. They aren't looking to con anyone, they just want their hard-earned salary to be worth something by 2010.

What they play on the bus

Just listen to this track and imagine riding in a small van, with seating for 20 people, packed with about 35 Ukrainians who haven't discovered deodorant. Everyone is either eating something or drinking beer. The road is full of potholes, so many that the driver swerves into oncoming traffic to avoid them, stopping every 20 minutes to push a babushka out the door.

That was my weekend ride to and from the monastery.

Don't Hate Me Because I'm Polish

Above: My Polish teacher, Bartek, speaks English, Russian, Spanish, Ukrainian and, of course, Polish, fluently. He wants to expand his English vocabulary, which is how I barter for free lessons. When I suggested he pose for some portraits after he donned my Irish cap, Bartek said "bułka z masłem," or "piece of cake." He's a character.

Dale Ahlquist, where are you? We just started the first Ukrainian Chesterton Society

1. "Religious liberty might be supposed to mean that everybody is free to discuss religion. In practice it means that hardly anybody is allowed to mention it." - Autobiography, 1937

Last night was the first meeting of the first Ukrainian Chesterton Society, as far as we know, that is. For those of you not in the know, Gilbert Keith Chesterton was a well-known British journalist and Catholic author who has amassed quite the following in the United States. Brett and I attended the 2005 summer Chesterton Society Conference at St. Thomas University in St. Paul, Minnesota. We've been hooked since that weekend of heated theological debate and homemade beer, and since reading Dale Ahlquist's The Apostle of Common Sense.

You can find a few Chesterton quotes on my facebook profile, and although there's nothing documenting it, my college roommate, my friend Margaret and I helped start the Marquette University Chesterton Society in the spring of 2008. That learning experience made this first meeting easy and highly enjoyable. We read the following article(English for the Americans and Canadian, Russian for everyone else):

http://www.cse.dmu.ac.uk/~mward/gkc/books/success.htmlhttp://www.chesterton.ru/essays/25.asp

The Fallacy of Success was a huge hit and our 1 hour meeting turned into a 2 hour heated discussion with contributions from all 11 participants.

"I think the oddest thing about the advanced people is that, while they are always talking about things as problems, they have hardly any notion of what a real problem is." - Uses of Diversity