Moscow, so often impersonal and frenetic, feels more like a large, unwieldy village from the passenger’s seat of Brodsky’s rusty gray Lada. At any moment he is likely to swerve across several lanes of traffic to hail a passing friend (they appear with astonishing regularity) or point out a favorite building (often something old and industrial). If you are lucky, the destination of your drive will be his home, a studio garret—it belonged to his father, an architect and book illustrator—that he shares with his wife, Masha, and their two children, Sasha and Masha. (His stepdaughter, yet another Sasha, is also a regular.) The apartment is crammed with an organized chaos of found objects, books, and art projects. On the walls are his father’s paintings, and in a corner the iron press used to make the prints that first brought Brodsky recognition. An overriding philosophy gradually becomes evident: an informality that belies careful thought, a love of physical objects and the processes of making them, and a respect for the quotidian history of the individual.
From Metropolis Magazine April 2006 available (here)