ukraine: 84 posts

For the past few days rescue workers in the town of Dnipro have been searching for survivors of a devastating Russian attack. A missile hit an apartment building, destroying it completely. I spent several summers in Dnipro and I have several friends there, and these news have affected us deeply. Almost a year later and I still haven’t learned to cope with the pain of seeing familiar landmarks scarred by war.

After seeing images of gutted apartment buildings and bombed out streets, I needed to remember Dnipro as a vibrant town in the eastern part of Ukraine. Its name comes from its location on the Dnieper River, and its shores offer beautiful views. I went through my archive of photographs that I took during my travels in Ukraine. It was in Dnipro where I discovered the art of Petro Magro (1918–2010). A native of the region, he captured its landscapes in his impressionistic paintings. I hope that you will enjoy his artwork as much as I did–a reminder of beauty and an antidote to darkness and despair.

Do you have a favorite artist whose works uplift you? 

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Last night I dreamt of making borsch with my late grandmother Valentina. It’s been three years since I last made it, but in my dream everything was as precise as it was in real life, down to the smells of vegetables and the rough texture of Valentina’s cutting board. My dreams of Ukraine recur frequently, but this particular one was especially vivid.

I have been writing about scents and memories for many years, and yet it always strikes me as remarkable how strong the recollections can be. I also noticed that the more I studied aromas, as part of my perfumery training and later during my practice, the more I could evoke scented memories. For this reason, I encourage everyone to practice simple exercises, such as selecting a couple of simple scents (black pepper, lemon, orange, or black tea,) and smelling them every morning for a few days in a row. As you smell, try to describe the associations that the smells conjure up for you. If you write them down, even better. Once you put something into words, it becomes easier to remember, even if it’s as intangible as a smell.

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The neighborhood where I used to live in Kyiv got bombarded several times over the past couple of days. Now every night I dream of walking through it as it once were. I then wake up in the middle of the night and lie conjuring up the familiar images. Ukraine lives in me, even as I am far away from Ukraine.

I recently gave an interview to a Spanish newspaper ABC about my book The Rooster House (Mi Ucrania in Spanish) and said that to understand Ukraine, it’s important to know that its identity made up of beauty and tragedy. And so I will share this painting by Dmytro Perepelytsya (1903–1981), a Ukrainian artist from Poltava, who captured everyday life in moving, poignant images like these. His Still life with watermelon was painted in 1937, the height of Stalinist terror, but it’s a tender depiction of summer bounty in vivid colors.

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Much of my scent vocabulary comes from Poltava, a town in central Ukraine where I spent the first 15 summers of my life. I was born in the capital city of Kyiv, but Berig, a hamlet near the town of Poltava, is our family nest. My mother’s line can trace its roots to this region as far back as the 17th century. Though in Ukraine’s tumultuous history four centuries are hardly ancient, this land exhorts an inexorable pull on me. Berig is our idea of heaven. I can describe without much effort how many trees are in the orchard and which of the peeling grey shutters has a rusty hook, but I also can recall the exact scent inside the water tank, the damp warmth of the tool shed, and the bitter odor of dandelion flowers.

As you read Bois de Jasmin, you breathe in these scents along with me, because the roots of my jasmine forest, bois de jasmin, are in Berig. When describing the fragrance of carnations and roses, I think of the flowers my great-grandmother grew. They are my olfactive referents. And so I would like to take you to very place that inspired Bois de Jasmin, to my great-grandparents’ house in Berig.

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