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    Photo: Grzegorz Pytka
    Madame T.

    The sky was misleadingly blue and the air tenderly biting on this bright and sunny winter's morning, strange weather for this city, which, at the close of winter could never usually boast of anything other than a slouched horizon and gray streets, slouched faces and gray coats, seldom reminiscent of the great and elegant metropolis that it in fact is. On this day, however, the city was true to its real identity, for which the chilly, sunny weather was perhaps responsible; a day where the light does not fall solely on faded squares and faces, but uncovers the true beauty of a big city. On a late morning of a day like this and in this particular city, a metropolis which is paradoxically at ill ease with itself, I could allow myself to think of Madame T.

    Continue reading Tzveta Sofronieva's Madame T.

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