#Peter and Paul Fortress

[semioticapocalypse]

Henri Cartier-Bresson. Sunbather at the Peter and Paul Fortress, St. Petersburg. 1973

Follow my new AI-related project «Collective memories»

[alexxx-malev]

Russia. Saint Petersburg. Peter and Paul Fortress Питер. Петропавловская крепость

[ukdamo]

Today's photo with the most hits is a genuine throwback.

Jonathan and Peter stand by the Neva, with the Naryshkin bastion of the Peter and Paul Fortress, beyond (May, 2006).

[simplicius-simplicissimus]

Baltic Sea - St. Petersburg

[xxkai-the-fryxx]

Y’all my current Hyperfixations are TF2, The Beatles, and Marvel. Send me anything related of the three and I’ll love you forever.

[cedar-eats-poetry]

Love the idea of pyro collecting cursed plushies. Like they have an entire shelf full of Skibidi Toilet and mutilated sonic characters. They give Miss Pauling a Peter Griffin plushie and she thanks them for it but it secretly scares the shit out of her.

[futuristicearthquakepatrol]

View of the Palace Embankment from the Peter and Paul Fortress. 1795

[pmamtraveller]

KONSTANTIN FLAVITSKY - PRINCESS TARAKANOVA, 1864

The painted lady Elizaveta Vladimirskaya, also known as "Princess Tarakanova," was a renowned female adventurer and imposter who claimed the Russian throne. She passed away in the Peter and Paul Fortress prison in Petersburg. However, not this dramatically

In the time of Empress Catherine II, a lovely young woman residing in Italy but aiming for the Russian throne introduces herself to Roman society as a Princess from Russia. Catherine II commanded Count Orlov to journey to Italy and return with the imposter. The Count feigned romantic feelings for the "Princess" and lured her onto the ship headed to St. Petersburg. Upon arrival she was bound and transported to the Petropavlovskaya fortress. Legend has it that Catherine had her locked up in a cell that would get flooded whenever the Neva River water levels rose.

Tarakanova actually passed away from tuberculosis; however, over time, various myths surrounding her demise started to emerge. One of the stories that sparked Flavitsky's imagination was that she tragically perished in her underground dungeon during a major flood. Official records indicate that Tarakanova passed away a couple of years prior to the historic flood on September 21, 1777, during which the water levels in the Neva River surged 310 cm above the usual levels. Ironically, the artist himself passed away from tuberculosis.

Flavitsky's artwork gained him recognition and was acclaimed by the art community, particularly for its impressive dramatic pose and facial expressions. The painting was the first historical canvas in Pavel Tretyakov’s collection, with many to follow. In 1867, the Paris World's Fair showcased 'Princess Tarkanova'. However, Emperor Alexander II instructed for a statement to be included in the catalogue indicating that “the plot was borrowed from a novel and contains no historical truth”.

[fishinchipscomplains]

Ahem ahem.. aahh

I was on tour of the Peter and Paul Fortress aaaand there was a lot of beautiful film posters :--(

Original - Kalmanson Mikhail Sergeevich (1917)

[sovietpostcards]

Female figure at the base of one of the Rostral columns overlooking the Peter and Paul fortress.

Leningrad. Photo postcard by B. Raskin (1969).

[half-a-life]

The Basilica of St. Peter and St. Paul is a neo-Gothic church in Vyšehrad fortress in Prague, Czech Republic.

Founded in 1070–1080 by the Czech King Vratislav II, the Romanesque basilica suffered a fire in the year 1249 and has been rebuilt in Gothic and later in neo-Gothic style. The basilica features an impressive stone mosaic above its entry, and its twin 58 m towers can be seen atop a hill to the south from along the Vltava River in central Prague.

The Basilica and Royal Collegiate Church of St. Peter and St. Paul

Prague, Czech Republic 🇨🇿

[pentacentric]

I probably think way too much about how very little Sam knew about Mary. How John and Dean gave him almost nothing, to the point that she wasn't even really like a ghost shadowing his life, more like the story of one overheard in bits and pieces over the years. And yet, his whole life from when he can first remember—every bit of motivation or guilt, every point of pride or shame—is built around his mother, this person he isn't allowed to know.

I've written a lot of bits and pieces about it before, but never a standalone. This is actually an excerpt from a longer story, but I modified it some and I think it works on its own, hopefully (he knows about hunting already but that's really the only canon difference).

..........................

When Sam's in fourth grade, and has to write a page about his favorite memory, he asks for Dean's help. All he can seem to dredge up at the moment is just too weird or too farfetched. Things that say far too much about the way they live for a teacher to read.

So he asks Dean what he would write about.

After some teasing about his best memories being of all the times Sam's embarrassed himself (and a well-aimed pink rubber eraser hitting him between the eyes) Dean quiets down and turns thoughtful.

"Well, I dunno what my most favorite memory would be, really. I guess…" He bites his lip, chews on it for a second, gaze directed absently into the distance. "I think it would prob'ly be my first memories? It musta been, like, when I was three and four maybe. They're…of Mom."

"Oh." Sam's chest gets a little tight. He speaks quietly, cautiously. Dean—Dean and Dad both—they don't talk about her much. Sam's seen her picture, the one that Dad keeps in his journal, a few times, but he knows so little about her. Just that she was pretty (beautiful), with a smile that reminds of him of Dean's and wavy blonde hair. "What was she—what are they like?"

Dean smiles, maybe a little sad, but it's more than that. Warm, wistful; gaze still unfocused and distant. "Mostly…happy. Like…bright. She'd sing to me a lot, and, like, I didn't know the songs back then, but, when I hear 'em now, I can hear her voice singing them. Beatles, Beach Boys, Simon and Garfunkel, um…Peter, Paul, and Mary, maybe…" Dean chuffs out a laugh. "I remember Puff the Magic Dragon, at least…I think I even remember Dad teasin' her about how she better sing me some real music, too, not just sissy crap, but, I dunno, maybe I made that up."

Dean pauses, that bittersweet expression on his face, still, and Sam doesn't want him to get lost in it. He also doesn't want to miss this opportunity, if he can help it.

"I dunno. He'd say somethin' like that." Dean spares him half a smile, still somewhere else in his head. "What…what else do you remember? What'd you guys do together?"

"Well, not a whole lot. I guess mostly just the normal stuff you do with a little kid. Like legos, I remember we'd build castles an' fortresses and stuff. I wanted her to build me a car but we didn't have enough black bricks, so she made me a little boat instead. Dad said it looked like a bathtub." He smiles. "Um, she'd dance with me, sometimes. To the radio. Make lunch—I mostly remember sandwiches and Mac n' Cheese. I'd sit in that little seat in the cart when she went to the grocery store, and she'd ask me what was on the list and I'd pretend I could read it and make up dumb stuff."

The silence is longer this time. Sam breathes out, carefully. "What kinda stuff?"

"I dunno. Just silly things, like 'elephant steaks!' Or 'a unicorn!' Or 'poop n' rhubarb pie!'"

"Gross." Sam wrinkles his nose.

Dean grins at that. "I think you're, like, the only kid ever who never found poop and fart jokes funny."

"'Cause they're not."

When Dean laughs, muttering little weirdo, Sam looks around for something harmless to throw at him, pouts.

"Don't worry, Sammy, if anyone wonders why you're so weird I'll just tell them it's 'cause you still poop your pants, and you're kinda sensitive about it an' all."

"Dean."

Sam decides that his pencil is perfectly fine to throw after all and, as a concession, doesn't aim it at his head. Dean grins, not seeming too annoyed by the assault, so Sam decides to push his luck.

"Did Mom think it was funny? Your lists?"

Dean's melancholy little smile is back. "Yeah…yeah, I think she did. She'd always laugh, anyways. An' she had the best laugh. I'd make up stuff that just got more and more ridiculous just so I could keep watchin' her laugh." He sighs, shrugs. "Anyways, yeah…that's Mom. That's what I remember."

It gets quiet after that, and Sam can see Dean's face starting to shutter over as he withdraws. It's rare for Sam to get to see his brother so open and unguarded any more. Over the last few years, Dean's started to change; Sam can tell. Still fun, still charming, still affectionate, at least with Sam (mostly when there's no one else around to catch him being so uncool). But, even though they're not always alike—Dean doesn't usually brood, rarely explodes, and he never gets that kind of burning cold John does when he's focused on something—sometimes now he kinda reminds Sam of Dad. He's been more closed off, the way Dad can be, his deeper emotions pushed farther away, out of Sam's reach. Doesn't show when things get to him, like he used to.

It's actually kind of lonely, sometimes.

"So, what are you gonna write about, Sammy?"

When Sam shrugs, Dean suggests the time they ran out of gas on a back road in central Florida. They'd only walked two miles before an Oscar Myer Wienermobile came barreling down the road, seemingly out of nowhere, and gave them a lift to and from the closest gas station (still a good eight miles away). Sam counters with the night in Montana that Dad got so drunk he started fighting with the motel owner about yetis (Dad coming down hard on the side of 'hoax'). They ended up getting kicked out at two am after Dad had cut down the guy’s “Bigfoot Crossing” sign with an axe. They toss back and forth increasingly ridiculous ideas until they're both laughing so hard they're in literal tears. When John comes back, they can't even stop long enough to answer what's so funny. Dad just smiles, bemused and fond, and shakes his head before heading off to shower.

Sam thinks maybe he can add this afternoon to his Good Memories pile.

In the end, he waits until that evening, before bed, and easily fills up a page-and-a-half about the time, last summer, when Dad was on a hunt out west and he and Dean had spent all afternoon exploring tidal pools in Yaquina Head, Oregon, marveling at the tiny little aquatic worlds they found. He invents an older teenage cousin that tagged along so the teacher won't question why two young kids spent the day alone in a national park.

He gets an A.

From then on, Sam keeps his eyes out in thrift stores for cassettes from the bands Dean mentioned; pockets them when he can to listen to later on the beat-up Walkman knock-off Dean stole for him for his sixth birthday. He likes a lot of it, but he's careful about what he keeps; only his favorites. He stashes them in the bottom of his school bag, in the hollowed-out book that Bobby showed him how to make last year, on a rainy day when Sam got bored with watching old Westerns.

For some reason, he doesn't want Dean to know about them. Doesn't want him to feel like Sam's trying to take something away from him. So he slips them in when he's sitting in the back of the Impala alone, on long trips, and closes his eyes. Lets the albums pour into his ears over the headphones; shuts the rest of the world out. Sgt Pepper's. Pet Sounds. Bookends. He tries to imagine his mom, Mary, singing the songs to him, in a sunny kitchen.

But he can never really pull together a complete image of her; just bits and pieces, blurred-together impressions: yellow hair, the smiling face from the picture (looking kind of flat, like a mask), a flowered dress he'd seen in a shop window. And he doesn't know what her voice sounded like, so it kind of just ends up being a composite of the voices of some of his favorite teachers (along with the mother of a classmate back in Indiana who drove him home once when she spotted him waiting for the rain to stop under the playground slide).

So he gives up on trying to picture her, and, instead, just tries to sink into the music, sees if he can feel what she was feeling when she listened to it. Imagines the conversations they might have: which songs would be her favorites, why she would have liked them, where she was the first time she heard them playing.

When he hears those songs on the radio now, or over the speakers in a restaurant, it makes him feel kind of happy and sad at the same time.

They remind him of her.

(Except for America—for some reason, that one makes him think of Dean.)

[balkanparamo]

Konstantin Flavitsky, Princess Tarakanova In The Peter And Paul Fortress At The Time Of The Flood, 1864.

[zaharprostoi]

Fireworks over the Peter and Paul Fortress.

[simplicius-simplicissimus]

St. Petersburg: Peter and Paul Fortress - Peter and Paul Cathedral (graves of the Romanovs)

[adini-nikolaevna]

"The great day came. It was April 16, the eve of Sasha's twenty-third birthday. In the morning there was mass, at one o'clock in the afternoon the official ceremony of dressing the bride in the presence of the whole family, newly appointed court ladies and three ladies-in-waiting. Marie was coiffed so that two long curls fell on either side of her face, a small diadem of diamonds and pearl pendants was placed on her head - under it was attached a veil of lace, which hung below the shoulders. Each of us sisters gave her a pin to attach it, and then a purple ermine-trimmed robe, so heavy that five chamberlains had to hold it, was placed over her and fastened at the shoulder with a gold pin. At the end, Mama also attached a small bouquet of myrtle and orange blossom under the veil. Marie looked grand and majestic in her outfit, and the expression of solemn seriousness on her childish face was in perfect harmony with the beauty of her figure. At three o'clock there was a solemn banquet, approximately four hundred people were seated in the Nicholas Hall of the Winter Palace at three huge tables. In the middle are the Royal Family and the clergy, who opened the banquet with prayer and blessing. At the table, ladies sat on the right hand, gentlemen on the left. They drank the health of the young couple, Their Majesties, the Tsarevna's Parents, as well as all loyal subjects, and each toast was accompanied by cannon salvoes. The highest ranks of the Court brought champagne to Their Majesties; we, the other members of the Royal Family, were served by our chamberlains. A military band played, and the best singers of the Opera sang so that the walls shook. At eight there was a polonaise in the St. George's Hall: Papa danced in front of everyone with Marie; at ten o'clock we returned to our chambers, here only the family dined with the newlyweds. Adini and I did not take part in this, but had dinner with our teachers in my rooms and looked out at the Neva, at the illuminated embankment, ships decorated with flags, a festive crowd, and behind it the spire of the Peter and Paul Fortress, rising to the sky, still gilded by the setting sun… this day ended with such a wonderful note.”

- Grand Duchess Olga Nikolaevna, Queen of Wurttemberg, on the nuptials of her elder brother, the future Emperor Alexander II of Russia and Empress Maria Alexandrovna (nee Princess Marie of Hesse-Darmstadt.)