Biography of Elena Makarova

Elena Makarova February 3 Elena Makarova-art therapist, journalist, writer. A man who committed a journalistic feat: Elena Makarova gave part of her life to the study of pedagogy Terezina - a “demonstrative” Nazi concentration camp, which contained Czech, German, Dutch, Austrian and Danish Jews. In this camp, it was even allowed to engage in art-strange twists of fascism, thanks to which art therapy that was born at the beginning of the last century managed to slow down its methods.

And Elena Makarova is the daughter of famous dissidents poets and one of the creators of the first aesthetic schools in the Soviet Union. These schools in the 70s were the only alternative to state preschool education. Elena Makarova told Papmambuku how and what she read in childhood. I grew up in a communal apartment, we had one room. No library. I first saw the book shelves with my grandparents-they themselves barely read Russian, but cherished the books collected by their sons.

The main scribbler was considered by their eldest son Petya, hanged by the Germans in Chigirin during the war. He wrote poems and plays, and, being a young man, bought up cheap publications. The second son, my uncle Milya, was fond of history, so that all historical books were in his part. He later taught history at the University of Baku. The youngest son, my dad, did not seem to buy books at that time.

He went to war after the tenth grade. I learned to read early, about four years. But how exactly - I do not remember. But I remember one picture from the Baku life: home sits at a large round table. This table reached me to the chin. I went to the table and said that I could read. The first book that I read was a primer. I took it from Aunt Mara, who was five years older than me.

Although I already knew how to read, they still read it aloud, especially when I was sick. Dad read. Brothers Grimm. I liked my father's voice. I remember two of my favorite books of that period: “Katrusya is already big” and “The road goes into the distance”. In the book about Katrusa, at first there were some passions, experiences, and then her mother becomes a big man, almost a deputy of the Union.

It was very good. And in the book “The Road goes into the distance” the child was lost, he was searched for a long time. In the end, the child was found, met with his mother. I sobbed over this book. This book was a prototype of my whole life, the situation with my mother. This book completely overcome me. In general, I liked Soviet books. I read little fairy tales, and they did not form me.

I read books in which they write the Pravda, books about harsh reality. But in them everything should have ended well. I also remember that the books on the shelves were covered with a thick layer of dust. I liked to get them from the shelf and clap their palms on them: a gray suspension swirled in the sun. There were many pictures in historical books, very scary.

The execution of 26 Baku commissars, they stand in the sea and they scorch from rifles in them. The First World War, some gas masks, I don’t remember everything. I read signatures to my grandmother under the pictures, and we cried together. I had a special attitude to the pictures. I felt them very much. For example, my grandmother hung on the wall “Ninth Wall”. So, when I looked at this picture, it rushed.

From fear. So I was afraid. Then there was a book by Louis Bussenar, Captain Soldering. She had a terrible cover. With a lion. I was very afraid of this book. I am still afraid of books with terrible covers. And my granddaughter says to me: “Read me a terrible book. Only you hold it so as not to see the cover. ” I, the six -year -old, read the “life of mutual” by the remark and “goodbye, Hemingway weapons” - this happened during those periods when blindness rolled over her.

I was worried about the life of adults. I was seriously worried about injustice. And I must also say about poems. Poems are the element of my childhood. Mom and dad in cigarette smoke read their poems to each other. Mom wrote them lying on the bed and singing under her breath. At such moments, she could not interfere, and I quietly sculpted in the corner.

Dad wrote poetry at work, and mom at home. And I, the ten -year -old, when I got to the hospital, read Tsvetaeva out loud: “You go, looking like me, my eyes directed down.

I lowered them - too! Passerby, stop! In the hospital we had a good library, where I read it with binge. After the end, I read with a flashlight. About twelve years I read all Balzac, Tom after Tom. I had a diary where I recorded my impressions of books. I plunged into reading with my head. Lena's letters were funny ....