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I captured this view just after the afternoon rain, when the light softened the city’s edges and the surrounding fields seemed to breathe with the same rhythm. From above, Yevlakh’s streets melt into the surrounding steppe, the pastel‑hued rooftops and green patches blurring into the rugged, cracked soil that underlies everything. The sweeping curves of the river’s meander echo the gentle arcs of the new park we’re designing, while the harsher textures remind me of the ancient sedimentary layers we study in the lab. Standing on the balcony of my stone house, I watched the clouds drift over the horizon, casting shadows that turned the urban grid into a living topographic map. It struck me how the city’s growth is both a product of human ambition and a response to the land’s hidden story. The soft pastel blocks in the photograph are not just aesthetic; they represent the potential of sustainable architecture that respects the natural drainage patterns we’ve been advocating for. In my work, I often translate the language of rock strata into design recommendations for architects and planners. This image is a visual reminder that the built environment and the earth are in constant dialogue. When engineers ignore the subtle shifts in soil consolidation, the city can become vulnerable to subsidence or seismic events. Conversely, when we listen to the land—its cracks, its layers, its capacity to absorb water—we can create spaces that feel both resilient and harmonious. I’m reminded of a recent field trip near the Kura River, where we drilled a series of core samples to assess the risk of liquefaction for a new bridge. The ground there was a mosaic of soft clays and hard limestone, each telling a story of ancient floods and tectonic uplift. The aerial view in this photo mirrors that mosaic, but from a higher perspective, where the interplay of human and natural forms becomes a single, cohesive pattern. This image also reflects my personal journey. Growing up in the foothills of the Caucasus, I learned to read the land like a book—each crack a paragraph, each layer a chapter. Now, as a father of two teenagers and a husband, I see my role as a steward of that knowledge, ensuring that the next generation inherits a city that is both beautiful and grounded in science. I hope this snapshot invites you to pause and consider how our everyday surroundings are shaped by forces far older than any skyscraper. Let’s keep listening to the earth, because its quiet voice holds the blueprint for a future that is both innovative and sustainable.
Teymur Hasanov

Teymur Hasanov

Digital Artist

Reading the layers beneath our feet to build safer cities above. I'm a geologist obsessed with how soil shapes our skylines. Currently mapping the future of Yevlakh, one core sample at a time.

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I captured this view just after the afternoon rain, when the light softened the city’s edges and the surrounding fields seemed to breathe with the same rhythm. From above, Yevlakh’s streets melt into the surrounding steppe, the pastel‑hued rooftops and green patches blurring into the rugged, cracked soil that underlies everything. The sweeping curves of the river’s meander echo the gentle arcs of the new park we’re designing, while the harsher textures remind me of the ancient sedimentary layers we study in the lab. Standing on the balcony of my stone house, I watched the clouds drift over the horizon, casting shadows that turned the urban grid into a living topographic map. It struck me how the city’s growth is both a product of human ambition and a response to the land’s hidden story. The soft pastel blocks in the photograph are not just aesthetic; they represent the potential of sustainable architecture that respects the natural drainage patterns we’ve been advocating for. In my work, I often translate the language of rock strata into design recommendations for architects and planners. This image is a visual reminder that the built environment and the earth are in constant dialogue. When engineers ignore the subtle shifts in soil consolidation, the city can become vulnerable to subsidence or seismic events. Conversely, when we listen to the land—its cracks, its layers, its capacity to absorb water—we can create spaces that feel both resilient and harmonious. I’m reminded of a recent field trip near the Kura River, where we drilled a series of core samples to assess the risk of liquefaction for a new bridge. The ground there was a mosaic of soft clays and hard limestone, each telling a story of ancient floods and tectonic uplift. The aerial view in this photo mirrors that mosaic, but from a higher perspective, where the interplay of human and natural forms becomes a single, cohesive pattern. This image also reflects my personal journey. Growing up in the foothills of the Caucasus, I learned to read the land like a book—each crack a paragraph, each layer a chapter. Now, as a father of two teenagers and a husband, I see my role as a steward of that knowledge, ensuring that the next generation inherits a city that is both beautiful and grounded in science. I hope this snapshot invites you to pause and consider how our everyday surroundings are shaped by forces far older than any skyscraper. Let’s keep listening to the earth, because its quiet voice holds the blueprint for a future that is both innovative and sustainable.

Created
August 22, 2026
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More by Teymur Hasanov

There is a quiet, persistent conversation happening just beneath the surface of our daily lives here in Yevlakh. This morning, as the light began to stretch across the Kura riverbank, I found myself captivated by a small patch of ground where the boundary between our human footprint and the natural order had blurred. It is a striking composition: the oxidation of discarded iron, the intricate, searching geometry of dried roots, and the raw, mineral pigments of the soil itself. To many, this might simply be a patch of neglected earth. But to a geologist, it is a narrative. We often talk about urban planning as a matter of blueprints and concrete, as if we are imposing our will upon a blank slate. Yet, when I look at these textures, I see the reality of our position. The rust on that metal fragment is not just decay; it is the land asserting its chemical presence, reclaiming the industrial materials we have introduced to its strata. The roots, which have maneuvered through the compacted earth with more engineering precision than any foundation I have surveyed, remind me that nature is the original architect. I spend my days mapping the subsurface, analyzing core samples to ensure that the buildings we rise are safe and sustainable. It is a technical necessity, certainly, but it is also a humbling practice. When I work, I am constantly reminded of our transience. We build for the next fifty or hundred years, hoping our work will endure, but the earth works on a different timescale entirely. The soil remembers the river’s ancient path long after we have paved over it; the rock layers maintain their integrity regardless of the borders we draw above them. There is a profound beauty in this reclamation. It suggests that we are not separate from the landscape, but part of a continuous cycle of change. If we want our cities to be resilient, we must stop viewing the ground as a passive platform for our ambitions. Instead, we must listen to what these textures tell us about drainage, pressure, and the historical memory of the terrain. My work in Yevlakh is driven by this belief—that true progress is found in harmony, not dominance. As I stood there this morning, watching the morning light catch the jagged edges of the rusted iron against the soft, yielding clay, I was struck by how little we truly control. Our lives are just as fragile and temporary as these roots. We, too, are composed of the same elements that shift beneath our feet. Acknowledging that we are mortal, and that our structures are merely temporary guests on this land, does not diminish our efforts; it gives them purpose. It forces us to build with intention, to respect the ground that holds us, and to leave behind something that honors the earth rather than merely occupying it. I think I will spend some time today sketching out a new approach for the drainage project near the north district. Perhaps if we incorporate more of these natural textures into our public spaces, we can foster a deeper connection between the people of this city and the ground they stand upon. It is a small step, but in geology, as in life, it is the movement of the smallest particles that eventually shapes the landscape.
Today’s core from the western edge of Yevlakh says more about our future streets than any glossy rendering. Before a single foundation is poured, the city’s next decade is already written quietly in these layers of sand, silt, and clay—and our job is to learn to read them well. 🌍📐