I was given this beautiful coffee table book of Soviet

Host: The loft was soaked in the soft melancholy of late afternoon light. Dust motes drifted lazily through the air, golden as they floated past the tall windows overlooking the city. On the coffee table, a large, heavy book lay open — its glossy pages filled with striking black-and-white photographs: Soviet modernist buildings, concrete domes, abandoned swimming pools, empty theatres echoing with the ghosts of utopia.

Jack sat cross-legged on the floor, turning the pages slowly, reverently. The scent of coffee and paper filled the space — rich, nostalgic. Jeeny leaned against the couch behind him, one leg folded beneath her, watching him the way someone watches a memory unfold — quietly, knowingly.

On the first page of the book, in small elegant print, was a quote handwritten in the margin:
"I was given this beautiful coffee table book of Soviet architecture for my birthday. It has a lot of holiday camps, swimming pools, theatres, and buildings that were built for leisure activities. Incredible architecture in the most obscure places. It's a little bit sad, because a lot of it has been left to fall apart." — Roisin Murphy.

Jeeny: (softly, almost to herself) “It’s strange, isn’t it? How beauty survives even when purpose doesn’t.”

Jack: (nodding, eyes still on the page) “Yeah. These buildings — they look like promises someone stopped believing in.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Built for joy, abandoned to silence.”

Jack: “And now they’re just… relics of optimism.”

Jeeny: “Optimism was the architecture of that era. Steel and stone shaped like hope.”

Jack: (closing the book gently) “Hope is a dangerous foundation material. It cracks when time forgets it.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “So does pride.”

Host: A ray of sunlight caught the edge of the page, illuminating a photo of a vast indoor swimming pool — empty, its blue tiles cracked, the water long gone. A single beam of light poured through a broken roof panel, casting a holy glow over what remained.

Jeeny: “Look at that one. It’s haunting. It’s like a cathedral of neglect.”

Jack: “It’s beautiful because it failed. That’s what makes ruins so magnetic.”

Jeeny: “You think failure’s beautiful?”

Jack: “When it once tried to be something greater, yes. There’s a kind of honesty in decay. It doesn’t hide what time does to dreams.”

Jeeny: “But doesn’t that make it tragic?”

Jack: “Of course. But tragedy and beauty have always shared a wall. Architecture just makes that wall literal.”

Host: The city outside murmured — faint car horns, a siren, the distant hum of life still continuing. The contrast made the images in the book feel even quieter, more eternal.

Jeeny: “It’s strange — these were leisure spaces. Places where people were meant to rest, to play, to feel free.”

Jack: “And now they’re monuments to exhaustion.”

Jeeny: “Yeah. It’s like the leisure they built for was never really real. Just a projection of what happiness should look like.”

Jack: “That’s the thing about utopia — it always looks like leisure until you realize no one has time for it.”

Jeeny: (sighing) “You sound cynical.”

Jack: “No. I’m just honest about entropy. Nothing human lasts unless it’s allowed to evolve.”

Jeeny: “So maybe the sadness Murphy talks about isn’t about the ruins themselves. Maybe it’s about our refusal to rebuild.”

Jack: (quietly) “Or to remember why we built in the first place.”

Host: The wind outside brushed against the glass, making it tremble slightly — the sound of fragility pretending to be strong. Jeeny leaned forward, tracing the outlines of one building with her finger.

Jeeny: “Do you think beauty still lives in them?”

Jack: “Yeah. Beauty never dies. It just waits to be rediscovered by someone willing to look past the dust.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe this book — this whole collection — it’s an act of resurrection.”

Jack: “Resurrection or mourning?”

Jeeny: “Maybe both. Mourning the idea that architecture could ever save us, but celebrating that it tried.”

Jack: “That’s why I love these old structures. They’re not failures — they’re evidence of an era that dared to imagine the impossible.”

Jeeny: “Even if it collapsed under its own weight.”

Jack: “Especially then.”

Host: The light dimmed slightly as clouds drifted across the sky. The city’s afternoon glow began to fade into something cooler, softer. Jack turned another page — a photo of a circular theatre, its stage long gone, ivy curling through the seats.

Jeeny: “You know, there’s something poetic about a theatre abandoned. The stage built for voices, now echoing with none.”

Jack: “Silence is the last performer.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “You’re full of aphorisms today.”

Jack: “That’s what these pictures do to me. They remind me that art, like people, only really matters once it’s broken a little.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why ruins move us — they tell the truth about endurance. That even in disrepair, something remains.”

Jack: “Yeah. The bones of intention.”

Jeeny: “That’s beautiful.”

Jack: “It’s sad. But it’s honest.”

Host: The rain began, soft at first — tapping on the wide windows like fingertips on glass. The sound filled the silence between them. Jeeny closed the book gently, her hand resting on its worn cover.

Jeeny: “Do you think architecture reflects the people who built it?”

Jack: “Always. It’s the body of a civilization’s soul.”

Jeeny: “Then these ruins — they’re the soul of something that once believed too much.”

Jack: “Or believed in the wrong way. Belief without humility becomes concrete without flexibility.”

Jeeny: “That’s profound. So the cracks are the consequences?”

Jack: “The confessions.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Maybe that’s why it’s beautiful. Every ruin is an apology written in stone.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, casting rippling reflections across the table. The light now came from a single lamp — warm and golden, falling across their faces like a sepia photograph.

Jeeny: “You know, Murphy said she found the book beautiful but sad. I think that’s because she sees herself in it — the artist’s life is the same, isn’t it? You build, you create, and then you watch time take it all back.”

Jack: “Exactly. Creation is temporary shelter against oblivion. But even that’s worth building.”

Jeeny: “Because it proves we existed.”

Jack: “And that we dared to make something more permanent than breath.”

Jeeny: “Even if permanence is a lie.”

Jack: “It’s a beautiful lie. And that’s enough.”

Host: The rain slowed, and the room filled again with the quiet glow of the lamp. The book lay closed, but its presence lingered — like a small monument of its own.

Jeeny leaned her head against the back of the couch, her voice barely above a whisper.

Jeeny: “You think those buildings will ever be restored?”

Jack: “Maybe not. Maybe that’s not the point. Some things exist just to remind us what happens when we stop tending to beauty.”

Jeeny: “And yet, someone took those photos. Someone cared enough to look.”

Jack: “That’s the miracle. Even when we abandon our creations, art finds a way to remember them for us.”

Jeeny: “So the ruins aren’t forgotten. They’re waiting.”

Jack: “Exactly. Waiting for someone else’s wonder to bring them back to life.”

Host: The clock ticked quietly. The rain had stopped, and outside, the pavement shimmered with new light. The room smelled faintly of damp earth and coffee.

Jack placed a hand on the cover of the book and whispered almost reverently:

Jack: “You know, I think that’s the lesson — beauty doesn’t need to last forever to matter. It just needs to have meant something once.”

Jeeny: “And it still does.”

Jack: “Yeah. Even in pieces.”

Host: The camera of the world pulled back — the two of them, the table, the book, the quiet hum of a city that forgets faster than it remembers.

And on that forgotten page — amid photographs of crumbling theaters, silent pools, and the ruins of idealism — Roisin Murphy’s words glowed faintly, as if the ink itself refused to fade:

that there is incredible architecture in the most obscure places,
that beauty can survive abandonment,
and that sadness itself
is sometimes just the shadow
of love that refused to stop looking.

Even in ruin,
the art remains.