Trekhprudny Lane

Went to the Pushkin Museum with EB today and it was all about Bonnard again, and then (once ballerinas were glimpsed through an open doorway, no turning back) Degas. It was the perfect chance to talk about vantage point (where are we standing? how do you know? what's in the way? why?) and the difference between how paint feels and how chalk feels. Afterward, Beard Papa!

Lily is now with a nice family outside of the city; it's "temporary," but at least we got her off the street, fattened her up, and trained her a bit. She has friends and room to play at a dacha. With four cats, one elderly and temperamental and newly arrived from the States, keeping her here was never going to work. I'm not even counting Pidge, whom I had to rescue once from the dog's jaws and repair with needle and thread.

Everywhere the smell of fresh paint, as fences, curbs, balustrades, and even the stone lions atop gates are given a new coat of color. The knobs and globs of paint from past years just grow bigger, and straight edges become wobbly-looking, for none of the old enamel is removed first. In true nineteenth-century fashion, the city sends out legions of workers with buckets and brushes each spring to freshen up, just as the streets and stoops are all swept clean every morning. Both do little to make the city actually cleaner, but it seems expected and it's nice to watch.