A Circus Master's Heartfelt Triumph

The spotlight blazed like a thousand suns as Gia Eradze, the artistic director of the renowned "Royal Circus", stood on the hallowed sawdust of Simferopol’s Big Top—now a Crimean Honored Artist. The title, bestowed like a golden key to the kingdom of dreams, left him speechless, then overflowing. "You’re a sorceress!" he exclaimed to the Culture Minister, his voice cracking like a whip mid-performance. "Three hours we sat together, and you never whispered a word!" The award, he confessed, wasn’t just metal and ribbon—it was the echo of a childhood promise.

From the Thirteenth Row to the Spotlight

Thirty-five years ago, a wide-eyed boy from Yalta begged his parents for tickets to this very circus. "No show meant no vacation," he laughed, recalling how his father miraculously procured seats in the 13th row—where he watched the legendary Filatov troupe. Now, that boy commands the same ring, weaving new legends with his "5 Continents" spectacle. "What’s next? After this honor, I’ll craft something unlike anything Crimea’s seen," he vowed, eyes glinting like disco balls under the big top’s glare.

Gravity-Defying Dreams and Venetian Leaps

The ceremony doubled as a stage for two world-first acts:

• "Knocking on Heaven’s Door"—a suspended antipodist routine by Olga Volchek, who juggled fate (and props) with her feet mid-air. "She’s the last of her kind," Eradze murmured, as if describing a rare comet.
• "Venetian Fairy Tale"—trampoline acrobats spun like carnival gondoliers, their flips rewriting the laws of physics.

Both numbers will debut at September’s "No Borders" festival in St. Petersburg—provided the artists ever leave training. "We’ve seen nothing but the gym for months," admitted Vladislav Afanasyev, his laugh tinged with exhaustion. Eradze promptly pledged a whirlwind tour of Crimea’s coasts—"even if I must extend my stay just to taste Yalta’s air again."

The Sawdust Brotherhood

Behind the sequins, the circus is a monastery of discipline. Artists train dawn to dusk, often past midnight before premieres. "Such devotion demands a mad genius at the helm," the Culture Minister noted, hinting at Simferopol’s impending renovation—a phoenix rising from sawdust and sweat. Boris Tezikov, the circus director, likened Eradze’s troupe to alchemists: "They turn skeptics into believers. Suddenly, no one’s ‘too old’ for magic."

As the curtain fell, Eradze grinned like a man who’d stolen fire from the gods. "Next year? We’re coming back—with storms in our pockets and lightning in our feet." The crowd’s roar was answer enough.