#Putin Style
Look into my eyes. What do you see?
Study these rare photos and video.
This is me with my grandfather. He was a cook in the army working for Lenin and Stalin.
Here’s one with my grandmother in the country. She is bursting out of her simple dress with pride, her hand on my little shoulder.
In this old photo, my mom wears an exasperated frown standing in front of our house beside my grandmother whose eyes are razor sharp.
Mom worked in a factory.
She would bake pies for my friends. And tasty breads and soups.
This one is me with a very pretty girl, our shy gazes locked.
In my KGB uniform with wispy blond hair.
Here’s my first schoolteacher in her modest apartment. I visit her as president after so many years.
I enter the door holding a huge bouquet of red roses.
We embrace and kiss each other on the cheeks.
Her long hair isn’t blond anymore but steely grey, neatly pinned up as always.
She comes out the kitchen holding a bottle of champagne, smiling joyfully.
‘Cold champagne’, I say taking the bottle.
‘Of course!’, my teacher replies laughing.
I study the label carefully.
‘To what shall we celebrate?’,
‘To our reunion!’
‘To our reunion’, I repeat untwisting the cork which rockets into the ceiling.
With a frightened look I check the ceiling for damage not once, twice but three times.
At the close of the evening I sit on her sofa, my eyes wet with nostalgia.
This is me in Leningrad in a dope 70s style suit as deputy mayor.
Here’s a shot of me in white doing judo.
Another shot at the dojo beginning judo as a young man.
My toes are pointing to the ceiling as I am being thrown by my partner.
Me with my two daughters with our pants rolled up on the beach.
Here’s me in my grade school yearbook. I’m the little guy in the back row second from the left.
Here’s one with my high school teacher in a short dress. She looks at me bashfully.
At the presidential desk signing papers seriously. Playfully I smile for the camera before my serious face returns. All business, I pick up the papers and walk out.
With friends at a ski resort.
With two childhood friends.
With five high school buddies all grinning. One friend has me locked in a wrestling hold.
Strutting down the opulent halls of the Grand Kremlin Palace.
Room after room is wall to wall with people clapping thunderously.
Here’s me sleeping on my private jet after a very long day.
Here’s me on a commercial flight. The only passenger on an otherwise empty plane. I stare out the window drinking milk. Outside is dark and rainy.
Smiling with Tony Blair at a black-tie event as he touches my shoulder.
At George Bush’s ranch, listening quietly.
Studying as a law student at Leningrad State University doing my research on favored nation status.
Here’s I am writing my PhD thesis on the mineral economy.
As a young boy with my sisters and my grandfather.
Not even I can read my solemn face.
Do you know why?
I am unreadable.