
Russian cemeteries tend their dead the way other places tend their houses — swept, planted, photographed, visited. The porcelain portraits fired onto enamel don't fade the way paper does, so the Shikatogovs look out at the street, generation after generation.
I took this while a visitor was tending the grave, straightening what the winter had knocked over. That is the whole tradition in one gesture: you are still one of us, and we are still coming.
