An Introduction
Pear Not Bear is a newsletter on fashion, art and the beautiful from Russia. This is the story about how it came to be.
Recently a memory presented itself to me. It goes 15 years back. I’m only 24 and I have just left Russia, and at this very moment I’m on a date. We walk, and if I remember well we may be talking about traditions, and suddenly he says, Could you say something in Russian?
I shift from one foot to the other, let out a nervous laughter, and when my brain sends a signal to my mouth to start talking, it feels like my mouth does not belong to me, it contorts instead. It goes on like this for a minute or two. Are you even Russian? the man asks, surprised.
I am Russian. And I used to lower my voice every time I had to say it.
I had a good childhood. I spent summers between my grandparents’ dachas, getting stuffed with freshest fruits and vegetables from their gardens, and I spent non-summer months hauling ace grades from school. I counted days down either to Christmas or to my birthday in July.
My parents had a rough time, though. Early 90’s in Russia were a shitshow. The USSR vanished; the new Russia emerged. It was a chaotic, unstable, often unlawful period. To get ahead, you needed to be in the right place at the right time. Or you needed to be ruthless. Everyone else was left behind in the early 90’s. When on pay days my father came home with a single loaf of bread it was a sign there was no salary again (and it was better not to ask him when). Same at my mother’s work. To get more cash in such times, she sold her wedding band (and didn’t tell my father), and later a beautiful leather coat that I hoped to wear one day. I got used to wearing the same clothes.
Eventually things got better — we had no more debts and occasionally could go on holidays by the Black Sea again. But by the time I was 16 I had a fully formed idea that it by all means must be much better abroad. In my early teens I formed a particular attachment to the English language. I liked searching for the BBC on my grandfather’s long-wave radio: those squeaky sounds when I moved the dial left and right meant I would soon come across a distant voice that spoke the language that I wanted to be part of. I wanted to bathe in it like in a warm hospitable sea. At 12 and not at all forced by anyone I kept myself busy memorising the table of irregular English verbs. Later in high school I begged my parents for the home internet and when that happened over one Christmas I had more penpals than my then classmates had dates. I was going to study English abroad, I told everyone who asked and who didn’t.
After completing my linguistics studies at home I qualified (and got a scholarship) for a Masters programme in English Metaphor in Amsterdam, the Netherlands, and I left. I was 24.
There is a lot of stuff one wrestles with at 24. My self-image, for example, was largely defined by what others thought or said about me. When a teacher jokingly asks if my mother fed me vodka as a baby and the full class erupts in laughter, it sends chills down my spine. When yet another stranger asks if I drink vodka for breakfast when I introduce myself, it makes me want to dissociate myself from my roots and my motherland, because everyone else is making fun of it.
I paid attention to my pronunciation, used fancy English words and many people made me happy when they said they thought I was French (could be that black woolen beret that I used to wear a lot and that I bought at an underground kiosk when I briefly lived in Moscow).
Last year a high-end local sports club advised its trainers to discontinue using ‘Russian’ in the traditional abdominal exercise ‘Russian twist’. The club management was reacting to the then breaking news about the war. I am Russian. Would I be a wrongdoer in their eyes?
Not much good to read is available right now with the adjective ‘Russian’ tied to it. And I would love, now more than ever, to say something good — and not lower my voice. In the interest of more light, for the sake of more creativity! In search of those I’m turning to what I love — writing and fashion.
Welcome to Pear Not Bear — a fashion and art newsletter about the beautiful from Russia. May it be a small antidote to the doom(scrolling). Let’s peek behind the curtains: there is still the whole culture behind them. It’s so nice to have you here!
Writing has unchangeably been my favourite thing. I came to it via food first. I had a food blog before, Godful Food. One summer I got an email from a journalist who wrote for the Wall Street Journal, she wanted to interview me for her upcoming article on WSJ.com about expat food blogs of note. I almost ate the whole pot of black beans stew before the interview and I almost didn’t answer the phone. Nerves are a force.
Fashion has been my other unchangeable favourite thing, but less talked about. I made myself believe that you need to be a big name to be able to talk about fashion. Well, I am going to talk about fashion, because I love beautiful clothes and the thrill (and sometimes the bore) of getting dressed.
Some proof:
Or:
And:
Pear Not Bear is where I will be highlighting and showcasing (young and) independent fashion names from Russia. To this end I reach out and interview artists, designers and brand founders, people like you and me, and then sit down and weave what I’ve heard into the dispatches that will eagerly land in your inbox. We will talk about their craft and sense of style, and how they deal with obstacles and what helps them get back up when they fall, what they will never part with, and what it means for them to be Russian. This is going to be very interesting!
Pear Not Bear will also be a place where I can personally explore the subject of self worth and self acceptance by way of fashion and style. I’m thinking along the lines of deep dives and well-documented field trips where I expose myself to things I’m scared of, like walking into a Prada store.
Pear, not bear! appeared first as an expression at a cocktail bar where, at peak hours, you ought to shout to be heard. What? I said out loud, drawling the ‘a’. Pear! — my best friend shaped his hands into the fruit — Not Bear! — he curled his fingers to resemble bear claws. We were talking about a pear liqueur in our cocktails. I liked that funny expression so much, I never forgot about it. It must be 14 y/o by now.
Pear Not Bear is a perfect title for this newsletter. There is everything I need in it. While ‘bear’ is a humorous nod towards Russianness, including my own, it is also an old-fashioned and hurtful stereotype, and that’s not where we’ll be going. The emphasis is on ‘pear’, and ‘pear’ stands for everything fresh, beautiful and creative. Think of a pear tree in bloom and how a bear may be dancing under it, a perfectly possible scenario!
Let’s do this!