Boris Scherbakov


In December of 2007 my brother and I returned home to Russia for the first time and spent three weeks between Moscow and Eastern Siberia. Along the way I revisited the vaguest of notions and images that I had collected in the first five years of my life with camera in tow. When I told my father, still living in Irkutsk, that we were planning a visit in December, he warned us that we would be coming in the most miserable time of the year and strongly encouraged us to come during the summer, when Russia is at the peak of its beauty. Naturally, we went anyway, and found Russia as she is more often than not, frozen beneath sheets of snow.