For many centuries, right up until the beginning of the last, 20th century, the sky above the North American continent was colored by flocks of amazingly colorful birds, whose ruby-sapphire-emerald plumage long troubled numerous "aesthetes," "naturalists," "collectors," and simply lovers of shooting at something alive, until the last of them was caught to decorate someone's dusty, trophy-filled cabinet with its stuffed body...

The bird's name was Paloma migratoria – Wandering Dove.

About eighty years after this sad event, I named my multicolored dream of my own house by the same name, firstly because a house can travel at the will of its owner, instantly appearing wherever his unbridled imagination points, thus playfully eliminating the sad drawback of any other real estate – innate immobility.

Secondly, because the Wandering Dove does not exist, neither does my house. And there is no point in building it, especially after you realize: a person in this world does not have and cannot have a reliable home.

In the universe, our happy mind
Builds unreliable housing,
People, stars, and angels live
By its spherical tension.
We have not yet conceived a child,
But already under his foot
A film bends nowhere
In his circular orbit.

That is, strictly speaking, a person has no dwelling at all, except, perhaps, the fragile hut of his own imagination, built by him from his own feelings and thoughts in the Absolute Void. In this regard, the parting words of Khalil Gibran seem very encouraging: let your home be not an anchor, but a sail.

So the House of the Wandering Dove has become such a dream sail for me, the wind in which is my own breath.

And if this idea appeals to someone else, I will be immensely happy.

ДОМ СТРАНСТВУЮЩЕГО ГОЛУБЯ

For many centuries, right up until the beginning of the last, 20th century, the sky above the North American continent was colored by flocks of amazingly colorful birds, whose ruby-sapphire-emerald plumage long troubled numerous «aesthetes», «naturalists», «collectors» and simply lovers of shooting at something alive, until the last of them was caught to decorate someone's dusty, trophy-filled cabinet…

The bird was called Paloma migratoria – Wandering Dove.

About eighty years after this sad event, I named my multicolored dream of my own house by the same name, firstly because a house can travel at the will of its owner, instantly appearing wherever his unbridled imagination indicates, thus playfully eliminating the sad drawback of any other real estate – innate immobility. 

Secondly, because the Wandering Dove does not exist, neither does my house. And there is no point in building it, especially after you realize: a person in this world does not have and cannot have a reliable home. 

In the universe, our happy mind
Builds unreliable housing,
People, stars, and angels live
By its spherical tension.
We have not yet conceived a child,
But already under his foot
A film bends nowhere
In his circular orbit.

That is, strictly speaking, a person has no dwelling at all, except, perhaps, the fragile hut of his own imagination, built by him from his own feelings and thoughts in the Absolute Void. In this regard, the parting words of Khalil Gibran seem very encouraging: let your home be not an anchor, but a sail. 

So the House of the Wandering Dove has become such a dream sail for me, the wind in which is my own breath. 

And if this idea appeals to someone else, I will be immensely happy.