Serge Lifar \ Serge Lifar (1905-1986)

Serge (Sergey Mikhailovich) Lifar (1905-1986)
French (native to Russia) ballet dancer, choreographer, teacher.
Serzh Lifar was born in Kiev and all his life he cherished his love for his native city.
Late, only at the age of 16 saw the lesson of classical dance, the young man felt his vocation and began to learn.

As a boy, he rushed to Mykolayivska Square every morning to the building of the 8th Kiev Gymnasium.
Who would have thought that at the end of the century the wall of this structure (in the present Ivan Franko Square - Focus) will be decorated with a memorial plaque in his honor.

In the midst of the Civil War, 17-year-old Lifar without visas, without money, reached Paris, before the Russian Ballet. Sergei Pavlovich Diaghilev appreciated the talent of a young man who had almost no professional training, and accepted him into the troupe.

Selflessly working on the technique and expressiveness of the dance, Lifar became the leading soloist, the star of the Russian Ballet.
Diaghilev carefully attached him to music, painting, developed taste, acquainted with the treasures of culture, drove to Italy.

In 1929 the talent of the Lifar-choreographer was manifested, but in the same year the great Diaghilev died.
Hardly surviving the death of his mentor and realizing that no one can replace Diaghilev, Lifar refused to become head of the Russian Ballet.

by Vladimir Kush Metamorphosis

There are people...

There are people cut from the tree: they are strong, reliable, but not very interesting.
You look so in the eye, and there - the circles of past years and nothing more, nothing at all ...
You knock at his heart, and in response - the hollow sound of a hollow tree.
Not because there is nothing there, but because you can not hear the rest; To see you is not given and even more so.



There are people molded from papier-mâché: they are executed, as a rule, carefully, so that you can see the prints of someone's neat fingers, carefully embodying their idea in life. Painted with all the colors of the rainbow, they show off to each other with unusual shapes and a combination of contrasts, draw before each second and slowly deteriorate without the breath of life of their creator.



There are people fused with cranberry ice: they break into our life with a fresh wind and fill all the corners of frightened souls in the evening sea tide. They support us, cherish our dreams and hopes until one evening they run out of their seemingly endless virtues and disappear, leaving a slight taste of summer mood.



There are people forged from steel: they do not bend under any wind, they go forward - no matter what ways, they achieve their own - whatever methods they use. Shining in the sun and indulging awe in the night, they inspire respect for strength and steadfastness, without looking back at more subtle mental matters.



There are people cut out of paper: they are proud of their sharp angles and smooth lines, but are ashamed of the plane, from that they twist around their axis. It turns out such an eternal yule with quirks, with which it's hard not to live - to communicate. It would be better if we already calmed down, to God.



There are people woven from dandelions: they radiate the sunlight all around, appearing as good wizards only when necessary; Create around us a thin film of stainless steel called "friendship" and stay close. I want to believe that these dandelions are weaving without tearing, otherwise, whatever one may say, they are doomed to wither. On the other hand: who is not doomed?



There are people lined with bricks: yes, it's behind them, "like a stone wall," if you do not go into details and details. Their views always amaze with their steadfastness and surprise with their constancy. These usually have a rise at 06:30, breakfast, a glass of orange juice, a whole day of nothing producing work, a TV (golf, book, poker, internet) and a call out at 23:00. A real hell on Earth, is not it?



There are people made up of words: they correctly write, paint figuratively, masterfully speak, skillfully talk. They can chat, talk and leave in complete perplexity. In this case, smart specimens prefer to remain silent.


There are people who are cooked from milk chocolate: they are cozy, atmospheric, and, most importantly, quite sweet. Like the product of manufacture, they would be served for a five-hour tea with oatmeal cookies and rahat-lukum. With such good, as long as the temperature is roomy, and as soon as it gets hot - well, you understand what I'm talking about - they turn into a sticky helpless substance that is not something that does not save, and treacherously embroil your feet, forging saving movements. But, to tea - are good, you can not argue.



There are people associated with wool: they provide heat (inside and outside) anywhere in the world, warming your heart with countless souls. The wool has now risen in price, that's why people have become fewer, but somebody is lucky from time to time-you can find this man himself and shake a little with a smile on his face in the rays of his love. Happens in life is happiness.

by Kal Gajoum paintings for sale

On Christmas day these are the dreams of dreams!

"Let's visit Arkhangelsk, sir,
We will buy haddock, salmon caviar ...
I'm baking shangs for you in a Russian stove,
Fish soup and ...
.................. .dew opening,
I'll let your gentle look in there silently,
When you cross the threshold
My hut, where to meet you in the update -
A cardigan plisy, embroidered with silver,
Yes boutiques of crimson morocco,
That I bought on market day,
From the chest I'll get a new board,
Where the lilac is embroidered on the white with lilac ...

Floors in advance I in the upper room I will wash,
I'll spread the mats brighter,
I will cover the table with a fringed tablecloth,
Under the lampshade, which I particularly love,
Put the Viennese chair for you,
....................................... .. the hat
I'll hang to the washstand,
………………………….romance
Will sing us a gramophone ...
You are from the carafe
Pour in a pile of vodka for us.
I'll only take a sip,
You will drink, taking a fork with a fungus,
Catch a catfish in marinade
And with a liver a crack pie,
Wet cowberry and cabbage,
Pike with pike, pancakes with caviar ...
Pickled salted with pickled cucumber,
Say:
- And maybe the second? ..

Looking down my cheeks,
(... it was vain for them that they rudely blended them)
I will say:
"Of course, sir, it's more fun,
Perhaps, the conversation will go straight away ...
.............................................
When it is appetizingly smoke
With a potato dish, which is served on the table,
Quietly on the washed floorboards,
Like a well-fed cat, his tail
Us, a cozy good evening will enter the house
And will lie down on the bench under the image ...
You say:
- The other day a river rose,
But the thin ice ...
....................................
.................. .a devils in the eyes
You will get dubbed, inviting to dance
My irrepressible imps ...

Moments of the meeting will rush ...
Having opened their arms in the passage,
Say this:
"Madam, you are an Angel!"
You are from now on forever needed!
"Let's visit Arkhangelsk, sir ..."
......................................................
On Christmas day these are the dreams of dreams!

Irina

David Schultz. In Antarctica, the ice floes were hidden in the ground ...

In Antarctica, the ice covered the earth,
The snowstorm in Antarctica was replaced by a blizzard.
Here, some penguins used to live,
Jealously guarding their snow.
Jealously guarding their snow.

Once the penguins are in full collection
To the sea for fishing wandered the crowd.
A strange picture is seen in the sea -
A huge black iceberg smokes a pipe.
A huge black iceberg smokes a pipe.

Penguins were stricken, what will happen,
And where did the wind come from?
They see people coming down to the ice floe,
They first met people.
They first met people.

People frightened them with a song with a bell,
Silence has destroyed many years of captivity.
The sky was tightened by a network of thin,
Having weighed the web of its antennas.
Having weighed the web of its antennas.

But now in penguins there is no fear,
Radio listen and they want,
In the evenings he was in a fine black dress coat
They stand for hours at the village.
They stand for hours at the village.

They walk a long line, arching their backs,
They are engaged in gymnastics in the morning.
And then the penguins clean the ice floe,
Dancing waltz vintage in the evenings.
Dancing waltz vintage in the evenings.

Everything in the world knows this flock,
Their knowledge and horizons are expanding.
Jazz penguins know, Bach knows,
Poems penguins know and know the sport.
Poems penguins know and know the sport.

And with people, penguins walk side by side,
Listen diligently every day broadcast.
And now the penguins are glad to people,
After all, people for penguins opened the world.
After all, people for penguins opened the world.
After all, people for penguins opened the world.