Posters are a special form of communication.

Especially now — when, to rent an apartment, I go to Avito [a Russian classifieds site], not out to the street in search of ads.

To get a loan, I read about banks and offers online.

And yet, they continue to exist.

To fill the streets. To pulse.

Everywhere, on every building.

And if not on the building, then on the trash bin nearby, on the drainpipe, or on the lamppost — there will be a poster.

And the ones that have taken over all the oxygen-paper space of the city —

posters about loans (urgent!!!) and help for alcohol and drug addicts.

I became a fan of these posters. A researcher. A detective.

Street advertising is more honest. More important.

It has a raw reality. It’s dense.

It told me things about the world that I hadn’t noticed.

And then I began to notice.

And I started pasting tickets to the art museum next to those ads —

because to me, these posters had become art.

A life story. An archive.

And that — belongs in a museum.