Yesterday and today, just as in the last century, photographs show us a part of suffering that we should understand and perhaps try on ourselves, which is not evil. It is commonplace to show suffering, it still works, it attracts attention. After all, a zealous Christian says that we will receive something better for our suffering when we die. However, suffering today can make you blind, and during the Christmas holidays you can suddenly be outraged that there are not enough train tickets and start getting angry at Ukrzaliznytsia: how can this be, what kind of lottery is this, you can't get anywhere, why can't you give us an extra carriage? Without thinking about the number of trains burned, destroyed, or converted for evacuation.
I don't appreciate flashy pictures. When the Russians hit a cafe in Groza, Kharkiv region, with a rocket, dozens of journalists and photographers rushed there at the same time, because fifty-nine people were killed at a memorial dinner for a soldier from the same village who had finally been reburied at home. Bodies covered with sheets on the ground, crying women covering the horror on their faces with their own hands, piles of stones with people still buried under them-these pictures could have shocked for at least a few seconds if you had no one and nothing in Hroha, and if you did, they could have even paralyzed you. More than a year later, I recall them, and they wander somewhere in my memories, but I can't grasp any of them. Instead, a bird's-eye view of the scene seems real and untouched by memory blur: the autumn earth and dozens of newly dug holes are all that is there. The more complex the photo or painting (whether it shows grief or joy), the more attractive it is to the eye, the more closely we look at it, riveted by the curiosity and excitement of a researcher. But as soon as we take a few steps back, when a day, month, and year passes, we are unlikely to recreate that image in all its details. A simple detail is another matter. After all, what is so complicated about the color of the earth that has just been shaken off the shovel near the tenth hole in the cemetery.
So it is with this photo, taken in October by photographer Roman Pylypiy. I have no idea what's going on behind this iron and sweaty glass: the window of a familiar Ukrzaliznytsia train car, a hanging handrail, so it's not a regular car. Most likely, it is a medical car of an evacuation train. The arm is bandaged, the hand is holding on, so the person is definitely alive, but injured. Was the wounded person brought or will they be taken in this car from the front? The fact that I can't see the person doesn't change anything. If it's not someone I know personally, I will most likely lose sight of their face over time. What I will not lose is this hand. Just because I don't see a situation doesn't mean I don't know about it. Reality seeps through all the cracks. In this picture, it seems, the infinite simplicity of documentary reveals itself - the speaking of a detail that remains a guardian over us.
I don't appreciate flashy pictures. They don't strike me with the twisted body of a murdered man lying face down on a dirty March roadside, or the heroic moment of a flag raised over a liberated city, but with a trifle that doesn't contain a drop of blood or a drop of pride. They don't impose anything on us, they don't offer us to be happy or horrified, but the details hidden in them prevent us from succumbing to the sin of simplification and turning away.
Photo: Roman Pilipiy
Text: Vira Kuriko
Yesterday and today, just as in the last century, photographs show us a part of suffering that we should understand and perhaps try on ourselves, which is not evil. It is commonplace to show suffering, it still works, it attracts attention. After all, a zealous Christian says that we will receive something better for our suffering when we die. However, suffering today can make you blind, and during the Christmas holidays you can suddenly be outraged that there are not enough train tickets and start getting angry at Ukrzaliznytsia: how can this be, what kind of lottery is this, you can't get anywhere, why can't you give us an extra carriage? Without thinking about the number of trains burned, destroyed, or converted for evacuation.
I don't appreciate flashy pictures. When the Russians hit a cafe in Groza, Kharkiv region, with a rocket, dozens of journalists and photographers rushed there at the same time, because fifty-nine people were killed at a memorial dinner for a soldier from the same village who had finally been reburied at home. Bodies covered with sheets on the ground, crying women covering the horror on their faces with their own hands, piles of stones with people still buried under them-these pictures could have shocked for at least a few seconds if you had no one and nothing in Hroha, and if you did, they could have even paralyzed you. More than a year later, I recall them, and they wander somewhere in my memories, but I can't grasp any of them. Instead, a bird's-eye view of the scene seems real and untouched by memory blur: the autumn earth and dozens of newly dug holes are all that is there. The more complex the photo or painting (whether it shows grief or joy), the more attractive it is to the eye, the more closely we look at it, riveted by the curiosity and excitement of a researcher. But as soon as we take a few steps back, when a day, month, and year passes, we are unlikely to recreate that image in all its details. A simple detail is another matter. After all, what is so complicated about the color of the earth that has just been shaken off the shovel near the tenth hole in the cemetery.
So it is with this photo, taken in October by photographer Roman Pylypiy. I have no idea what's going on behind this iron and sweaty glass: the window of a familiar Ukrzaliznytsia train car, a hanging handrail, so it's not a regular car. Most likely, it is a medical car of an evacuation train. The arm is bandaged, the hand is holding on, so the person is definitely alive, but injured. Was the wounded person brought or will they be taken in this car from the front? The fact that I can't see the person doesn't change anything. If it's not someone I know personally, I will most likely lose sight of their face over time. What I will not lose is this hand. Just because I don't see a situation doesn't mean I don't know about it. Reality seeps through all the cracks. In this picture, it seems, the infinite simplicity of documentary reveals itself - the speaking of a detail that remains a guardian over us.
I don't appreciate flashy pictures. They don't strike me with the twisted body of a murdered man lying face down on a dirty March roadside, or the heroic moment of a flag raised over a liberated city, but with a trifle that doesn't contain a drop of blood or a drop of pride. They don't impose anything on us, they don't offer us to be happy or horrified, but the details hidden in them prevent us from succumbing to the sin of simplification and turning away.
Photo: Roman Pilipiy
Text: Vira Kuriko
UAPP is an independent association of professional Ukrainian photographers, designed to protect their interests, support, develop and promote Ukrainian photography as an important element of national culture.
UAPP's activities span educational, social, research and cultural initiatives, as well as book publishing.
UAPP represents Ukrainian professional photography in the international photographic community and is an official member of the Federation of European Photographers (FEP) — an international organization representing more than 50,000 professional photographers in Europe and other countries around the world.
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