Every time I travel to my hometown to make a project about it. And each time the project fails — it’s too hard and painful. It’s too hard to forget personal and focus on general. I thought if I made it I would call it “The Big Failure”. Not only because of the ecological disaster that happened there a few years ago, but also due to my own inability to improve the relationship with my family, my inability to tell about it. 

I don’t know what homesickness means. The only way how this feeling shows itself is via the nostalgia. It is like the feeling of love that shows itself at its most when the object of love is far away or unreachable.

All I got from my last trip is just a couple of pictures. And an unedited video about teenage girls and my failed talks with mom who constantly asks to turn off the camera. Twenty years later, Berezniki teenagers became unrecognisable from the capital ones, thanks to the Internet, but they are still made from the same mix of rape, alcoholic parents, own self-insecurity and dreams to get out of this place. It never changed and it touches me so bad that I feel like I’m fourteen again.