Kutaisi is not only one of Georgia’s most historic cities but also the homeland of a unique and world-famous tradition – Kutaisi humor. The city’s historical boulevard and its “Baghiskide” (the edge of the garden) have long been considered the epicenter of this wit. Yet, pearls of Kutaisi humor can be found in every district, every street, and even in every family. The ancient boulevard still remembers the classics – the witty sayings of Akaki Tsereteli and his contemporaries. The catchphrase okhunjobani (witty jokes) and the sharp humor of Taguna (Sharashidze), Sergia Eristavi, Giorgi Sharvashidze, Konstantine (Kotsia) Eristavi, Kita Abashidze, Pipinia Mikeladze, Besarion Lortkipanidze, Pila Ioseliani, Kotso Adanaia and many others are still alive in memory.

Visual arts – whether theater, cinema, painting, or photography – have always fascinated humanity. Over time, this interest has only grown stronger. The desire to capture and preserve a fleeting moment has existed since ancient times, when the camera obscura was used to project images. The first photograph, “View from a Window at Le Gras,” was taken in 1826–27 by Joseph Nicéphore Niépce, and later Louis Daguerre perfected the process by creating the daguerreotype, a method of producing sharp, lasting images. Since then, photography has preserved countless struggles, discoveries, and unforgettable moments of human history. Today, photography stands on equal ground with painting. Masters such as Ansel Adams, Steve McCurry, Jeff Wall, and many others have shown their artistic power. A few years ago, during an exhibition in Kutaisi of works by Lithuanian photographer Rimantas Dichavicius, I was once again convinced of the limitless possibilities of photography and its ability to create deep and lasting impressions.

Exactly a hundred years ago, in Kutaisi – one of Georgia’s oldest cities – a group of young symbolists was formed. They were given the unusual name “The Blue Horns.” The color blue has long been an emblem of Romanticism and Symbolism. It first appeared in a dream of Novalis. The Romantics sought a mystical blue flower, as mysterious as the Holy Grail of medieval Christian knights. Later, the Symbolists adopted blue as the sign of a distant, boundless, and otherworldly world – the realm of spirits, which in everyday language also meant death. The symbol of happiness, the blue bird, was sought by the siblings Tiltil and Mytila in the famous play by Maurice Maeterlinck. Interestingly, this play was incorrectly translated into Russian as “The Blue Bird”.

The discovery of manganese ore in Chiatura in the 19th century had a major impact on the development of the Imereti region. It gave a strong push to the creation of new transport links and the growth of industrial sectors in Georgia. The rapid development of production naturally led to the rise of an industrial culture. The importance of industrial heritage is widely recognized internationally. Its study, preservation, adaptation, and conservation are a priority in the cultural and research activities of many countries. Georgia has a rich cultural heritage, which has been studied in many directions. However, the country’s industrial heritage still remains outside the focus of professional research. Architectural and engineering buildings and structures built for industrial purposes in the 19th and 20th centuries are often undervalued and not studied systematically.

There is a saying: “When the cart turns over, the path will appear.” However, even after more than two centuries, the turbulent events of the 18th and 19th centuries still leave people wondering: what could have been the best way to save the country? Georgia, a small and divided land caught between three empires, found itself in the middle of a difficult political storm. This struggle had its heroes—and its anti-heroes. One of the true heroes of this period was Solomon Lionidze. He is remembered as a deeply educated and loyal statesman, devoted to his homeland. In the words of historian M. Dumbadze, “…a diplomat and a universally recognized wise man. Solomon rose to prominence not only as a man of great talent, but also as a brave warrior who served his country.”

Let me tell you about the young woman to whom Lado Asatiani dedicated his famous lines: “Oh, don’t think that beauty is fueled by love or hatred…” While working on the bibliography of the March 21, 1941 issue of the newspaper Industriuli Kutaisi, I came across a small notice of sympathy from acquaintances and friends. It read: “S. Vachnadze, M. Tutberidze, L. Asatiani and Sh. Kuridze express condolences to Keto Khonelidze on the passing of her father, Justine.” As soon as I read this statement, I immediately recalled the small memoir There Was a Young Man, There Was a Blizzard by Lado’s classmate and friend, journalist Shota Kuridze, published in the 1980s by the Soviet Adjara publishing house. Several pages of that book are dedicated to this young woman. I quickly found the book, which I had read long ago, and turned to the pages that now felt especially interesting.

It was a memorable day in Sachkhere – people were celebrating Akaki Tsereteli’s birthday. After the official event, we were sitting at a traditional Imeretian table with the then-mayor of the municipality, Tsezar Lashkhi. We were in the middle of breaking bread when Mr. Tsezar received news that his eldest son, Lasha, was unwell. But it wasn’t just illness. It turned out that he was… no longer among the living. That day marked the beginning of a sorrow that has now lasted 25 years. It was a quiet afternoon on June 21, 2000. Two friends from Sachkhere – famous parodist Obola Tsimakuridze and researcher at the Georgian Museum of Art, Lasha Lashkhi – were walking together, reminiscing, talking about the past and the future. They had much to say and even more to remember. Suddenly, without warning or explanation, Obola jumped up onto the concrete barrier of the embankment. Then he spoke a strange phrase, one that had long haunted him: “If I go, I will go, I will go and go…”

Even though I’ve spent years living in Kutaisi, I still come across interesting facts and stories about places I’ve passed by many times and wondered about. This probably happens because I wasn’t born in Kutaisi in the 20th century. At the start of this article, I’d like to point out one thing – I’m mainly trying to catch the attention of readers my age, those born in the 21st century, who know Georgia’s past mostly from stories told by others. The word “Radium” is likely familiar to everyone as the name of a chemical element. But for those who have ever walked along Tsisperkantseli Street in Kutaisi and glanced – even for a moment – at the building in front of the First School, the word carries a different meaning. The original cinema building once belonged to the Otskhele brothers, whose home was located next to the current Opera and Ballet Theatre. In 1911, after a fire, an Italian named Paulini bought the building on today’s Tsisperkantseli Street, which had already become a historical site. He wanted to reopen a cinema there and made several renovations himself. He built an 80-seat hall, but soon decided to return to Italy. Paulini then offered the building to Tikhon Asatiani and Pavle Mepisashvili in exchange for a certain sum of money.

Dori Laub, a psychoanalyst and professor at Yale University, developed important insights while researching trauma and how it is shared, expressed, and listened to. According to him, when a person shares their inner pain—something not yet fully understood or expressed—with another person who truly listens, a unique and deeply emotional situation is created. What makes this experience so extraordinary is that the listener is not hearing a story already told in museums or recorded in archives. Instead, they witness something being born for the first time—pain that has never had a chance to be revealed before. Historical facts and context are present, but they do not reduce the importance of the listener. Instead, they offer a backdrop. The act of sharing trauma allows the storyteller to give shape to emotions that go beyond everyday feelings—emotions that are often intense, elusive, and hard to define. In return, the listener confirms that the story is real and meaningful. Based on Laub’s ideas, I believe it is especially important to see and understand the stories of ordinary people during times of political repression and historical change. These personal experiences help us better understand the emotional and psychological truth behind historical events. Everyday memories filled with fear, sadness, and uncertainty allow us to see history through human eyes. This is the kind of lens through which we should look at Kutaisi in the 1920s, by uncovering the repressed memories hidden in letters, notes, and personal stories—giving voice to people who were silenced and finding an audience that will listen and recognize their truth.

When discussing the cultural developments of the late 19th and 20th centuries, fashion must be mentioned as one of the key indicators of a society’s cultural life. Kutaisi, in particular, played a significant and fascinating role in the history of Georgian fashion. The production of silk fabric in Georgia is closely connected with Kutaisi. In 1889, in the Kutaisi province, the country’s earliest spinning factories were opened – two small mills both known simply as the “Spinning Factory.” Kutaisi was the main center for silk production, and the fabric was sold at fairs across Georgia. These locally produced materials were quite expensive – their total value reaching up to 75,000 rubles. At the end of the 18th and beginning of the 19th centuries, Georgian nobles still wore traditional clothing, which was expected, as industrialization came later. Additionally, Georgia’s annexation by Russia brought many cultural changes. In the 19th century, British traveler Robert Kerr Porter, in his book “Travels in Georgia, Iran, Armenia, and the Middle East in 1817–1820,” described the appearance of Georgian women. He wrote that Georgian ladies wore full, richly decorated dresses. A bandeau, adorned with diamonds and other jewels, was wrapped around their foreheads. Their faces were painted, with only their large, dark eyes shining. Silk fabric hung from the bandeau and flowed down the back, covering the neck and chest, leaving the face and body modestly hidden, as shown in the illustrations.