Nicole Lloyd's hometowns in the photo project. Poems about the homeland and places close to the heart

Never go back to places where you felt bad. Never ask someone who has refused once. And no longer let those who hurt you once come near.

We don't know where happiness comes from. But there are places where it lies, covered with a hill.

There is no need to look for the guilty where you should admit your mistakes.

Everything changes: strangers become relatives, relatives become strangers. Friends turn into passers-by, loved ones into acquaintances.

Stop looking for perfect people. Look for soulmates!

Unhappy is the person who has a favorite restaurant and no favorite author. He found a favorite place to feed his body, but he did not find a favorite place to feed his mind.

There is no point in looking for a place where you feel good. It makes sense to learn how to create this "good" anywhere.

A marriage is happy not because spouses get along so well with each other, but because they stubbornly overcome the places where they don't get along.

You are where your thoughts are. Make sure your thoughts are where you want to be.

How often do we dream of breaking free from our homes, going away in the slip-ups of a better life and reaching sky-high heights! And having realized at least part of our plans, how often do we then remember our native places, where the days of our carefree childhood passed? This is the question Nicole Lloyd asks in her photo project Places like home and suggests correcting the situation - remembering where we are from and re-establishing contact with our native places.

Places like home photo project is a collection of landscapes of suburban and rural areas of America. Nicole began her work in northeastern Pennsylvania, her own hometown. According to the girl, this was an attempt to recreate the connection with her homeland, from which at one time she so passionately wanted to leave.

“By exploring the places where we come from, we get the opportunity to reconnect with the past, try to understand its complexity and complexity and realize its importance in who we are now,” - says Nicole Lloyd. Working on the series, Nicole assures, forced her to constantly be in a conflict of emotions: the girl fluctuated between nostalgia and criticism, between gratitude and shame, between hope and sadness.

While exploring the landscapes of the country in the course of her work, Nicole suddenly discovered that there are many places that attract her just like her home, cause the same emotional state - and this despite the fact that they are thousands of kilometers from the places where she grew up. “I realized that a house is not a specific place, but it is, first of all, feelings. So I started looking for landscapes that were not part of my past, but evoked in me a feeling of comfort and closeness, just like the places of my youth. "

Nicole Lloyd's works are photographs of someone's houses. Homes, not in the sense of buildings, but in the sense of native places. And the girl really hopes that these photos will be able to evoke in every viewer memories of their own childhood, of the places where we spent the first years of our lives.

Nicole Lloyd was born in 1980 in Allentown, Pennsylvania. In 2004, she earned her BA from the Manhattan School of Visual Arts. She now lives in Los Angeles, California and works for an advertising agency.

I dream about the house where I grew up
Where she boldly smiled at the sun.
There, under the window, lilacs bloomed
And I bathed in her flowers.

Intoxicated, dizzy,
And in the meadow, in fragrant herbs,
You gave me lilacs then.
The lilac has aged, dried up ...

But I remember with a sigh
That splendid bouquet.
And the house remained, decrepit,
Yes, that bench where with you

We all dreamed under the moon.
Spring will come and I will come

Spawned new shoots
And the shadow in the window all day.

Intoxicating, dizzy,

No more wandering together!

I so want to go home, I want to go back
Where it is hot and light in summer,
Where blizzards howl on winter nights
Where it was always so good for me ...
I often remember about friends,
About how fun it was for all of us ...
Well, now I'm here alone, a stranger
And they all stayed somewhere there ...
And waking up at dark nights
Looking at the stars bright in the distance -
I understand that in a dream it is in vain
With friends and family, we are together ...
I often see my father's house in dreams
The village that I've always been dear to me
Papa's grave, where he is buried -
Where I haven't put flowers for a long time ...

Now I understand better
That our house is very dear to me,
Where I was born, where I lived-
Childhood remains in the house.
In the spring, the cherry blossoms there,
Currant bushes bloomed
The apple tree is big up to the roof
She threw white flowers.
But the years passed and everything changed
I don’t live in that house.
And only often I remember
How good I felt in him.
I grew up and then one day
My dear walked down the street
Everything is the same, but only
The house is in ruins and there is no yard ...
And the cherries don't bloom there anymore
The currant is no longer growing.
Broken branches of apple trees
Someone will take it for the furnace.
Let them knock down the house, let them demolish it further,
But I will not forget him-
Where I was born, where I lived
Where my childhood ended

And a silvery voice by the stream !!!


Their native ... lovely places !!!


And the rainbow is more colorful than the arc ...

Bow down to your mother's ground
And bow to your father to the ground,
We owe them an unpaid debt,
Remember this sacredly all your life.

A kind light is burning in your windows,
Good light.

And let our childhood not end
Although we have become adults,
Because parents want
So that we remain children.

Parental home
To the tune of the song "Parents' House"

Wherever we are, but still
Always confident
That we will be greeted with love and tenderness
Our pier is the parental home.

Parental home, the beginning of the beginnings,
You are a reliable berth in my life.
Parental home, even if for many years
A kind light is burning in your windows.

We all leave one day
On their way, drawn by fate.
But we never forget
Where were born and home.
Will you cut off the roots?
Everything grew there, loving you.
And you won't forget your dear home,
Where your life began.

We all leave sometime
From places of friends and relatives.
Well, in my heart, we are experiencing
As if we had betrayed them.
But often pulls us back.
And we are very eager to meet.
Everything that we lose irrevocably.
They give dreams only for a moment.

We're all going somewhere
Find trying to get off the road.
And, only by taking a sip of everything, we will find out
How dear our native threshold is.
And how many places in the world,
The beauties of the earth are countless.
But these diva will not replace,
Those places of relatives that are in the heart.

We are all leaving for some reason.
But who will answer this?
We dream of something ghostly
And we have been looking for happiness for many years.
The light of happiness always looms for us
A little more, there, ahead ...
And so, again on the road! And that means-
Hope, believe and love life

I'll take the train passing by
I will flee to my native land.
where it smells like larch in May,
to where my homeland is.
I will walk the streets of my acquaintances
I will climb our hill,
and from love to the native side,
from the bottom of my heart I will boil.
here in childhood we played hide and seek,
they walked in a crowd of mushrooms,
swam in the river, sunbathed, and saw colored dreams.
and no matter how many years have run,
wherever fate brings,
I dream of my native village
trees, hills and river.
and even though I rarely come,
the worldly keeps vanity,
my side, my village,
forever in my heart.

Irina:

My blue-eyed beauty -
Ringing, birch Russia!
My dear loves everything about you:
The roar of the sea, sunny heights.

Winds noise, endless spaces,
Golden domes of churches
Forest, oak forests, fleeting rivers ...
Nothing in the world is more mile.

The taste of aromatic rye bread,
The color of viburnum and mountain ash become,
Summer rains, fluffy snows ...
I love you, Russia - Mother!

I dream about my home, my native places,

sunrise, sunset and the smell of the wind,

How wheat is gilded in the fields

What a pity! That this is only a dream

I remember the train and the platform

My last evening with friends

And carried me away by the carriage, to the country,

That they didn’t know.

I know there is no time to return

Now I have to settle down here,

But I can't fool my soul

What a pity! That this is only a dream.

We've been living here for a long time

It seemed that it would be necessary to come to terms,

But I don't forget anything

What a pity! That everything is just a dream.

I love my homeland, but with a strange love!
My mind will not conquer her.
Not blood-bought glory
No peace full of proud confidence,
Neither dark antiquity cherished traditions
Do not stir in me a joyful dream.

But I love - why, I don't know myself -
Her steppes are cold silence,
Its coastless forests ripple,
The floods of her rivers are like the seas;

I like to ride in a cart on a country road
And, with a slow gaze piercing the night shadow,
To meet on the sides, sighing for an overnight stay,
The quivering lights of the sad villages;

I love the smoke of burnt stubble
In the steppe a train for the night,
And on a hill in the middle of a yellow cornfield
A couple of whitening birches.

With joy, unfamiliar to many,
I see a full threshing floor
Hut, covered with straw,
Window with carved shutters;

And on a holiday, dewy evening,
Watch until midnight ready
To the dance with stamping and whistling
Under the talk of drunken peasants.

Say kind words about One, take it all from your memories,
Let great things not be done there, But there are many reminders of happiness there.
There is childhood, mother, father, there are a lot of old friends you have left,
And there is a beautiful nature, finally, And there is always often and easily dreamed of.
It's just that it's hard to realize all this, you don't immediately understand all this in the distance,
First you want to dream about life about another, Well, then far away you just melt ...
After all, the One is in you, She filled you, nurtured, taught you,
Now she is in all her glory, In you is, and, you know, this is the power.
And you will return to realize that you are attracted by your native place since childhood,
Grace will run through the body and flow, And childhood will flash before our eyes again.
Say about one word of kindness, that boredom is all over native,
Add a little more warmth, And easily walk to your home ...

I will remember the young years
When we walked in a crowd,
When we were friends and loved
And we didn't want to go home.

Those were golden years
That was the time for youth.
And everything that was sweet to my heart
Will never return.

I will remember the house at the crossroads
And the old poplar at the gate
I will hear echoes in my heart
All my dear.

There is no home, no tree.
Many years have passed since then
But so far my soul has ached
Since those years, everything has been trailing in her.

Fate - the mistress rules life
And my dream did not come true.
And it can be seen so now and wakes
Gnawing a heart of sadness from afar.

Who said: "Russia is dead?"
I do not believe this backbiting.
Holy Russia, you stand as a wall,
On the way to the gangster expanse.
No matter how much I tried, I could not
Bad evil spirits defeat you.
Holy Russia endured everything.
Time inevitably heals wounds.
And it stands with the passage of centuries,
Determining the way for all peoples.
Who said: "Russia is dead?"
She's just gaining strength.

07.26.06 Vladimir Semyonov

Mother Russia!
I love more than anyone
Your forests, fields, open spaces,
Your children are cheerful, ringing laughter,
Winters-sorceresses shimmering time.
I love how spring comes red!
Everything awakens for a better, new life,
From a winter flickering dream
From the wonderful winter cover.
But now the summer is already following her:
They make noise like summer, make noise, make noise
Birches, dressed in bright green;
The summer village garden is noisy too ...
And after the summer - autumn with leaf fall
Running slows down for a while:
It will rain, it will pour out like hail
Will put pokrovsky snow on the fields.
And now - winter!
Christmas trees -
Expansion for fun kids!
But spring drops are pouring again
On the streets, and temples and courtyards.
And again they sing the praises of words and colors,
Easter ringing - into the blue dome!
This is how you live: from Easter to Easter
Mother Russia!
And we live - by you!

Gleb VLADIMIROV, 10 years old.

I believe in the best Russia!
After all, I am not a slave to my country.
By your power and strength
We are endowed from birth.

I can hear it thundering under the sky
Your formidable Kremlin bell.
Live covered in snow
Blessed land!

I see the light of the coming faith
In you, as in our grace.
The whole planet will be the first
Your parenting become.

I will sing to you forever
Only glorious psalms.
And there is no happier person
Whose homeland will you be.

I believe in the best Russia!
That day is coming like a snowball
When power and strength
Will spill star milk

What is my homeland called?
I ask myself a question.
The river that winds behind the houses
Or a bush of curly red roses?

That autumn birch tree over there?
Or spring drops?
Or maybe a rainbow strip?
Or a frosty winter day?

All that has been near since childhood?
But it will become all a trifle
Without mother's sweet care,
And without friends, everything is not so for me.

That is what is called the Motherland!
So that you are always side by side
All who support will smile
Who needs me myself!

In native places, the wind smells like chamomile ...

And all the land is its own until a blade of grass !!!

In native places and the sun shines brighter ...

Let me be told that there are other edges,

That there is another beauty in the world ...

And I love my places ... relatives ...

Their native ... lovely places !!!

In native places - the sky is blue,

In native places - more spacious than a meadow ...

Birch trunks are straighter and slimmer ...

And the arc is more colorful than the rainbow ...

I dream about the house where I grew up
Where she boldly smiled at the sun.
There, under the window, lilacs bloomed
And I bathed in her flowers.
Lilac, lilac, forgotten smell!
Intoxicated, dizzy,
And in the meadow, in fragrant herbs,
You gave me lilacs then.
The lilac has aged, dried up ...
Many years have passed since then!
But I remember with a sigh
That splendid bouquet.
And the house remained, decrepit,
Yes, that bench where with you
Until the roosters, until the third, singers,
We all dreamed under the moon.
Spring will come and I will come
To my house, where there is a lilac under the window
Spawned new shoots
And the shadow in the window all day.
Lilac, lilac, forgotten smell,
Intoxicating, dizzy,
But you and I are in fragrant herbs,
No more wandering together!

°☼° ° ° °☼°

Everything changed with this overseas life.

And I want to go home, get drunk from the fast river.
Yes, only, that's the problem, I can't find the way ...
Go through Europe. Is it a lot or a little?
Walk barefoot, without stopping, without longing!
Yes, I want to go home, to where my mother is ...
There, where the home is, where the nightingales whisper ...
Everything changed with this life abroad!
Everything here is not to your liking, but only according to your mind!
Yes, only I dream: to go out into a clean field,
And shout how much I love my Motherland!