Ukrainian photographer Stanislav Ostrous shared his experiences of the first days of the full-scale war in Kharkiv, the stories of people he encountered in areas liberated from Russian forces, and the places that truly embodied the soul of Kherson.
— Could you please describe what you remember about the first day of the full-scale Russian invasion? Where were you, and what images did you capture?
— On February 23, 2022, photographer Anna Melnykova and I were setting up her photogravure project City No Name, which was scheduled to open on February 24, 2022, at the Kharkiv Municipal Gallery. The setup was challenging—Anna had a large piece consisting of nine works, and we spent the whole evening with a hammer and pliers. All that was left to do was straighten the corners so the photos would hang evenly, put up nameplates, and tidy the space. We even bought some wine to celebrate the successful arrangement and enjoy the evening.
We woke up at 4 a.m. to explosions in Kharkiv. I immediately went online to read the news—everywhere, people were saying the war had begun. It was a real shock for me. I didn’t think a full-scale Russian invasion would actually happen. The day before, my ex-wife, who was living with our children in Kherson at the time, called me, worried about the possibility of war. I reassured her, saying everything would be fine.
On the morning of February 24, I didn’t even know what to do next. Looking outside, I saw a small line of five or six people at an ATM. I decided to quickly get ready and withdraw some cash as well. By the time I got outside, the line had grown to over twenty people. Nearby shops were closed—everyone was afraid of looting. While waiting in line, I thought I heard a drone flying overhead. I lived in the Shevchenkivskyi district of Kharkiv, which was heavily shelled. Russian forces had approached the city, and artillery was active. I managed to withdraw some money and left the city that same day, heading to the suburb of Pokotylivka. It was relatively calm there—no explosions could be heard, but there were self-defense checkpoints everywhere and the sounds of our troops testing their firearms.
The main issue at that time was access to medicine and food. There was a store near us with almost empty shelves. People started arriving in trucks, bringing meat from bombed farms. We later learned that farmers were hastily slaughtering animals so they wouldn’t leave them to suffer under occupation. Stories spread that Russian forces were preventing farm staff from reaching the animals or feeding them. Russian troops came right up to Saltivka, a district in Kharkiv, and seized the Feldman Ecopark. The animals there were starving, and several park workers were killed while trying to bring them food. These are some of my memories…
At the start of the full-scale Russian invasion, I didn’t have press accreditation. Without the proper documents, it was impossible to travel to Kharkiv and take photos. I immediately began searching for opportunities, and the Ivano-Frankivsk media outlet Kurs helped me obtain a press card. I received my credentials in early March, and on the very first day, I went to Kharkiv. The city was completely deserted—wrecked cars lay across the streets, anti-tank barriers were everywhere, and maybe once every half hour, a car would pass by. It was bitterly cold. I wandered the city aimlessly and eventually reached the city center, where I encountered other photographers: Pavlo Dorohyi, Maksym Dondiuk, and James Nachtwey. Maksym let me join him in his car, and we went to shoot together. Since I didn’t have a car, I walked everywhere—public transport wasn’t running, and taxis were charging outrageous sums that I won’t even name. People were paying fortunes to get from Northern Saltivka to the train station.
Together with my colleagues, I came to Saltovka. There I took my first shots of a full-scale war. Then I took pictures in the Kharkiv Regional Council. On the second day of filming, I was approached by a press officer who supervised all the journalists and with whom I had to agree on the shooting in advance. The military officer was simply surprised by such impudence. However, when he saw my camera, a medium-format Rolleiflex, he said that he would allow me to take pictures with it. I fascinated him with this camera, and we started talking.
The press officer with the call sign Karabakh was inside the regional council building on March 1 when the missiles hit. I have footage of the rescuers taking out the bodies of the dead. Karabakh recalls that the shock wave carried him towards the stairwell and broke a glass window. When the soldier came to, he saw that the sole of his boots had been torn off. I took a picture of him with my Rolleiflex.
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Every day, I took the commuter train from Pokotylivka to Kharkiv, walked through the city, and photographed. I walked as much as I could physically manage. Volunteers helped me get a bulletproof vest and a first aid kit. I would look for smoke on the horizon and head in that direction.
— Why was it important for you to photograph the war? Which media outlets did you start collaborating with?
— At first, it was terrifying. Especially during the first week, when I didn’t have accreditation and couldn’t take photos—I was focused solely on how to find food. I remember the first thing we bought: three dozen eggs. We bought them and immediately felt some relief—at least we wouldn’t starve for the next week. Later, we managed to get turkey meat and filled the freezer. Once I resolved those basic needs, I was able to think about creativity. When I started taking photographs, I immediately felt calmer because I was working again, doing what I do best. That was the first therapeutic moment for me.
Secondly, I wanted to document everything happening around me. I understood that this was an extraordinary event. After that, the fear subsided, even though the city was constantly being shelled with mortars, artillery, and Grad rockets. In Saltivka, my colleagues and I came under fire—fragments were flying right above me. I walked through Kharkiv, sticking close to the walls, and kept photographing.
My work began appearing in Ukrainian and international publications, including German outlets. Foreign journalists frequently reached out, looking for a fixer. At the start of 2022, I didn’t know Kharkiv well, as I had only recently moved to the city from Kherson. While I was familiar with the city center, I wouldn’t have been able to guide anyone to Saltivka or other districts.
Initially, I focused primarily on reportage photography. Later, I was contacted by the charity foundation Global 2000 for Children of Ukraine. In Kharkiv Oblast, there are over 20 family-type homes, and I documented the foundation’s aid to children. We traveled throughout the region, distributing humanitarian aid. A psychologist was with us because many of the children had been evacuated from occupied territories, and some were suffering from PTSD.
After the liberation of part of the region from the Russian military, I went there to take pictures. I met Kharkiv volunteers who were helping people from the de-occupied territories. Of course, I helped to unload and distribute humanitarian aid, and at the same time I was shooting. Some of the photos from these shoots were included in my photo project “Peaceful”. We traveled to many parts of the Kharkiv region, but it was harder for people who had survived the Russian occupation - it was as if something was changing inside them, and the camera could see it well.
— How beautiful can a photo taken during a war be? For you, is photography now more about documentation or art?
— For me, photography right now is primarily about documentation. However, that’s an important question, and one I’ve thought about a lot.
Photographers still rely on tools of expression—there must be composition, light, and color in the frame. Even when I’m photographing portraits of people who have endured difficult events or tragedies, I try to make them beautiful. I’ll guide them to a window or ask them to sit in a way that highlights their features.
I instinctively look for the best light, the most advantageous angle. I think about where color might be more effective or where a monochrome image would work better.
In my opinion, what should never be present in war photography is the addition of artificial beauty. To put it bluntly, searching for an interesting angle through a decorative fence, branches with leaves, or a lace curtain framing a building destroyed by shelling—especially when people might still be trapped under the rubble—is, for me, the height of cynicism. I understand that some may want to work with foreground elements, but I personally avoid such approaches. It’s crucial to clearly depict the event and convey it accurately.
Another thing that troubles me is how, by the third year of the full-scale war, we’ve started to grow accustomed to it. When I heard the sound of an explosion in Kharkiv, I calmly contacted journalist acquaintances for details, got on my bike, and went to photograph the scene. In those moments, I began to feel that these shoots had become routine for me, and I was creating content out of others’ suffering. Of course, it’s not truly like that, because I, too, was at risk—the shelling could have hit me as well. I’m not a tourist visiting Kharkiv for a weekend; I live here and experience all of this alongside other people. Except for a few residencies and exhibitions abroad, I haven’t left the city. I’ve tried to find personal meaning in what I do. I am a photographer, and the only thing I can do is document and convey the tragedy unfolding in my city and my country.
— Are there moments you chose not to photograph because of ethical considerations? Times when you had the opportunity but couldn’t bring yourself to raise the camera?
— Yes, I’ve had such moments. I witnessed a shelling, and a man died practically before my eyes. I was walking to a supermarket in the residential area of Pavlove Pole when an explosion occurred just a hundred meters away. I always carry a small Rollei 35 with me, so, of course, I immediately ran toward the scene. By the time I arrived, firefighters were already working, and a man’s body was lying on the ground. No one stopped me or interfered—I showed my accreditation, and the police allowed me through. I realized I could capture a very striking image if I photographed the man up close. However, a person in death is utterly defenseless; they cannot give consent to be photographed. I wasn’t sure how ethical it would be to take such a shot. The man’s expression in that moment was terrifying—it felt like the very face of death. I couldn’t bring myself to take a close-up. Instead, I captured wider shots—images of how the body was wrapped in a black bag and carried away. That experience made me question how professional my sense of ethics or lack thereof really is. As a documentary photographer, I’m supposed to push past my personal boundaries and take such images. But that time, I couldn’t do it.
There was another moment when I didn’t document an event. I was filming documentary clips about Kharkiv’s cultural figures, and we were in a car with Serhiy Zhadan and staff members from the Literary Museum. Shortly before we passed through one district, it had been shelled, and I saw bodies lying on the street. The women were very frightened, and I didn’t have the courage to ask the driver to stop. I probably should have gotten out and taken photos, but at that moment, I couldn’t.
— What are the biggest challenges you face as a photographer documenting the war?
— The hardest part is explaining to people why I’m taking photographs. When I was shooting in places hit by shelling, people were initially irritated and genuinely didn’t understand why this needed to be documented. Over time, of course, they got used to it. Sometimes, I would just photograph Kharkiv, even when nothing was happening. Residents would immediately approach me and ask why I was taking pictures. I would show my accreditation, explain who I was shooting for and why, and show them my film camera, emphasizing that developing the images would take a few days. Even the police accepted that argument.
When I traveled through the city and saw police officers or soldiers, I would immediately raise my hands and approach them myself. In the early days of the full-scale war, everyone was on edge. I understood that if military personnel were in an area, it likely meant they were guarding an important object that couldn’t be photographed. I would show my accreditation, the contents of my backpack, and explain my work. However, there was one time when a colleague and I were taken in by the Security Service of Ukraine (SBU). We were photographing a building, and someone saw us with cameras and called the authorities. They checked our documents and took us somewhere for further questioning. Since my residence registration was in Kherson, which was already occupied at the time, I aroused a lot of suspicion and questions. Once everything was clarified, they let us go.
— How difficult is it for you to avoid repeating yourself, not taking photos based on certain templates or clichés?
— I try to find new forms. I’ve always been more interested in shooting on film—not because it’s trendy or feels more authentic, but because the medium suits me better. Although I’m perfectly comfortable shooting digitally, I prefer film. At one point, I got my hands on an old Rolleiflex camera with a defect—the film winding mechanism didn’t work properly. In Austria, I found a replacement back for it and started shooting on photographic paper. I captured images of Kharkiv, its iconic locations, and ended up with a series of unique paper negatives—like Polaroids, but reversed. I’m now planning to turn these photographs into an art book—a “black series” about the city. I wanted to work with a concept while still shooting documentary photography.
At some point I got emotionally tired of filming arrivals. I photographed the aftermath of the explosions, wherever I could get to or where photographers were allowed. I was so burnt out from photographing the destruction and the dead that I started taking pictures of people on the beach. I took a boat ride on the river, filmed summer, the beauty of nature, people on vacation. I also think such shootings are important, because all this is happening during the war. War is not only about misfortune, air raids, destruction, but also about life. Life in a city under fire. Life during the war, here and now. People are walking, relaxing, drinking beer and riding catamarans. This is the story.
Then I collaborated with our air defense forces. I noticed that there were a lot of women serving there, and I wanted to take portraits of them. However, I was not allowed to photograph the combat divisions, only the equipment without showing the location. On the third year of the full-scale war, our air defense called and said they needed photos of their work. I shot for them digitally and simultaneously for my own project on film. However, the material I shot hasn’t been released yet, so this series of photos has not been published anywhere.
— What aspects or themes of the war do you think are still insufficiently covered?
— Honestly, I don’t know. It seems to me that everything has probably been covered. You can always look for new approaches, new forms, but most of the topics have already been explored. Personally, I would photograph collaborators, but I don’t know how to find them, let alone convince them to be photographed. When I was shooting the "Civilians" series, I was simply photographing people who came for humanitarian aid. But people told me that in the villages, there were many collaborators, and they, just like everyone else, stood in line for bread and aid. This is a complex and interesting topic, and unfortunately, collaborators haven’t disappeared—there are still many of them, including in Kharkiv.
I photographed abandoned stray animals in shelters. Dogs, in particular, are a whole separate topic. They have very heightened senses, and the sounds of shelling or explosions can cause them to have concussions. These dogs develop certain behavioral patterns that indicate the problem. They might wag their tails or show affection, only to suddenly bite. I photographed shelters for dogs with concussions. I also took photos at an abandoned stable in Staryi Saltiv. The owner had moved to Russia and left over 20 animals to fend for themselves. It was clear that the horses were once well-groomed and of high pedigree, and the stable was well-equipped. Now, two local sheriff officers take care of the horses, but they have no funding. The stable is privately owned, so the horses can't be rehomed. In the summer, the horses graze on their own, and in the winter, volunteers prepare feed for them. Of course, they’re fed, but the level of care they need is not provided.
— Tell us about your "Civilians" series. When and where did you shoot it?
— In the fall of 2022, after the Ukrainian Armed Forces liberated Kharkiv Oblast, I started traveling around the region with volunteers. At first, we went to the Chuhuiv district. We would gather at seven in the morning, load up with various packages, medicine, and of course bread—specifically picking it up from the bakery—and take it to the people. I remember the first village we went to was Malynivka. Yes, the same Malynivka where the famous film "Wedding in Malynivka" was shot. I think Malynivka is the only place where I would want to photograph a wedding.
We traveled around the village, distributing humanitarian aid. Malynivka had been under occupation, and it had a strong impact on the people. Those who hadn’t lived in Russian-occupied areas looked more lively, active, and even happier. On the other hand, people who had experienced the occupation seemed disoriented and lost. They were struggling because they had been right on the frontlines.
I wasn’t just photographing, I was unloading boxes, distributing aid, and if needed, helping to dig out vehicles stuck in the mud. We visited many villages, and I regret not recording their names. I remember we were in a village located right on the border with Russia, which had been under occupation. When I look back at the photos I took on film from that village, it feels like I’m looking at pictures from World War II. The people, wearing torn padded jackets, knit caps, and thick woolen clothes, were characteristic of a bygone era. How do you photograph them in a beautiful way? I photographed them as they were — I simply said, "Look into the camera, I need this for a report." People agreed because they were grateful for the help.
— What stories of people from the Kharkiv region liberated from Russian troops are particularly memorable to you?
— We were in the village of Zalyman, which had been caught in crossfire. It’s situated in a valley, with a river almost encircling it. On one bank, Ukrainian soldiers were based, and on the other, Russian troops. The village had a lot of destroyed houses. In this village, I met Lyuba, who had gathered all the dogs she could find in her yard. People had evacuated, but the animals were left behind. Lyuba’s husband had been mobilized and died near Bakhmut.
I also remember Ali, an Azerbaijani man, who wanted to show me his home. We arrived at the spot, but there was no house left — everything was destroyed. Ali was practically living in a chicken coop. The village had been occupied, and when the Ukrainian army arrived, not all Russian soldiers had left. Ali told me that he had taken advantage of the moment and managed to drive a fuel truck from the Russian army to the Ukrainian military. I'm not sure how much truth there is in his words, but I recorded the story.
In Donetsk region, I met an elderly couple. In early 2022, they had evacuated to their children, but in 2023, they returned to their village. It turned out there was nowhere to return to — their house was completely destroyed, except for the basement. They were utterly lost, with emptiness in their eyes. They couldn't go back to their children, so they planned to rebuild at least something before winter.
This year, I went to Kherson for the first time. I met an incredible woman, Melania. I met her in the Naftogavani district, near the Island — which is almost on the front line. Her house is by the river, and across the river is a red zone where combat operations are taking place. Her house was completely buried in sand and silt, which she had been digging out. When the Kakhovka Dam was blown up, in addition to sand, a barge had washed up in her yard. Imagine the scene — a house half-buried in sand, with a barge in the yard.
Before I became passionate about photography, I worked as the head of the industrial boiler repair section at "Khersonteploenergo." We had a base on the Island, a workshop with equipment. My former colleagues allowed me to enter this area. It was initially flooded, and then a missile landed in the yard. It was very hard to witness all of this. Overall, my visits to Kherson were the most difficult and saddest for me.
— When did you first come to Kherson after the start of the full-scale war?
— I first came to Kherson in March this year, after the Russian invasion. On the first day, I simply walked around the city and photographed. I went to the Oleksiy Honchar Library, located on the Dnipro embankment, which no longer exists. There were several missile strikes there, and it burned out from the inside. I have very personal memories tied to this library — my friend, the famous Kherson poet Yevhen Yanenko, worked there. Writers like Andrukhovych and Zhadan would visit Yevhen at the library. Unfortunately, Yanenko passed away before the full-scale war began. The library had a photography club, which I regularly attended when I lived in Kherson. Every Thursday we would have meetings, discussing and debating various topics. Later, I would go to Yevhen’s, and we would talk about literature, drink tea, and sometimes more than just tea.
It was very hard for me to see the library in such a state. Once a beautiful building in the style of Ukrainian modernism from the 1960s. Before the full-scale war, my colleagues and I received a grant and were working on a project about Kherson's modernism. I still have beautiful photos of the library — both its interiors and panoramic shots.
— On your social media, you now post many photos of Kherson from before the full-scale war. Please tell us about this series — when and where were these photos taken?
— These photos were taken between 2017 and 2019. I was always walking around with my camera, photographing Kherson. I had two series — one shot on digital and the other on film, and they were entirely different narratives. If I can put it this way, on digital I shot objective photography, while on film — very subjective. I tried to convey my feelings through the space of the city, capturing places that held special meaning for me. On digital, I photographed beautiful shots of Kherson. I wanted to convey the feeling of the city — how and what life was like in Kherson, and what was happening there.
Now, I have joined an artist residency, and I finally have time to work with my archives. When I started curating photo collections, I realized that almost everything I had captured no longer exists. This is especially true for the coastal areas, about which I once wanted to create an entire series. In fact, Kherson can only be truly felt if you get on a boat and navigate the tributaries of the Dnipro River. It seems to me that the soul of Kherson was there. But now — it's just ruins. The left bank is occupied, there are ongoing battles, and people there built their homes over generations. Building on the left bank was quite difficult — all the materials had to be transported. There were no roads, so we had to move cement and bricks by boat through the marshes.
On Potemkin Island in the Dnipro River, there was a summer house belonging to the Kherson artist Vyacheslav Mashnytsky. He popularized and developed art in Kherson and founded the Kherson Museum of Contemporary Art. During the full-scale war, he stayed in the city to take care of the museum’s collection. He lived at his summer house, fishing. During the occupation, he went missing. We are all very worried about him and hope that Slava is somewhere in captivity. This is a huge loss for Kherson. Around the Museum of Contemporary Art, a significant part of Kherson's culture was concentrated, and exhibitions were frequently held there. One of the last exhibitions I participated in was called "Kherart."
I once told Viacheslav Mashnytsky about my idea to film the lives of people on the left bank of the Dnipro River in Kherson, because few people know this side of the city. Slava then joked that he should let it stay that way, that there was no need to attract unnecessary eyes. He even talked me out of filming for a while. However, my friends and I went rafting, sailing, and I always took pictures. Now, when I look at these photos, I realize that this Kherson is gone. Of course, we will rebuild the city, but it will be a different Kherson. We can restore the buildings, but who will restore life on the left bank, the carefree and endless hot Kherson summer, boats, fishing, swimming. This simply does not exist physically-everything is destroyed. I'm finishing up the selection of material for the book. My photographs show a part of Kherson's past life, and I decided that it should be shown.
We worked on the material:
Researcher of the topic, author of the text: Katya Moskalyuk
Editor-in-Chief: Viacheslav Ratynskyi
Literary editor: Yulia Futey
Website manager: Vladyslav Kukhar
Ukrainian photographer Stanislav Ostrous shared his experiences of the first days of the full-scale war in Kharkiv, the stories of people he encountered in areas liberated from Russian forces, and the places that truly embodied the soul of Kherson.
— Could you please describe what you remember about the first day of the full-scale Russian invasion? Where were you, and what images did you capture?
— On February 23, 2022, photographer Anna Melnykova and I were setting up her photogravure project City No Name, which was scheduled to open on February 24, 2022, at the Kharkiv Municipal Gallery. The setup was challenging—Anna had a large piece consisting of nine works, and we spent the whole evening with a hammer and pliers. All that was left to do was straighten the corners so the photos would hang evenly, put up nameplates, and tidy the space. We even bought some wine to celebrate the successful arrangement and enjoy the evening.
We woke up at 4 a.m. to explosions in Kharkiv. I immediately went online to read the news—everywhere, people were saying the war had begun. It was a real shock for me. I didn’t think a full-scale Russian invasion would actually happen. The day before, my ex-wife, who was living with our children in Kherson at the time, called me, worried about the possibility of war. I reassured her, saying everything would be fine.
On the morning of February 24, I didn’t even know what to do next. Looking outside, I saw a small line of five or six people at an ATM. I decided to quickly get ready and withdraw some cash as well. By the time I got outside, the line had grown to over twenty people. Nearby shops were closed—everyone was afraid of looting. While waiting in line, I thought I heard a drone flying overhead. I lived in the Shevchenkivskyi district of Kharkiv, which was heavily shelled. Russian forces had approached the city, and artillery was active. I managed to withdraw some money and left the city that same day, heading to the suburb of Pokotylivka. It was relatively calm there—no explosions could be heard, but there were self-defense checkpoints everywhere and the sounds of our troops testing their firearms.
The main issue at that time was access to medicine and food. There was a store near us with almost empty shelves. People started arriving in trucks, bringing meat from bombed farms. We later learned that farmers were hastily slaughtering animals so they wouldn’t leave them to suffer under occupation. Stories spread that Russian forces were preventing farm staff from reaching the animals or feeding them. Russian troops came right up to Saltivka, a district in Kharkiv, and seized the Feldman Ecopark. The animals there were starving, and several park workers were killed while trying to bring them food. These are some of my memories…
At the start of the full-scale Russian invasion, I didn’t have press accreditation. Without the proper documents, it was impossible to travel to Kharkiv and take photos. I immediately began searching for opportunities, and the Ivano-Frankivsk media outlet Kurs helped me obtain a press card. I received my credentials in early March, and on the very first day, I went to Kharkiv. The city was completely deserted—wrecked cars lay across the streets, anti-tank barriers were everywhere, and maybe once every half hour, a car would pass by. It was bitterly cold. I wandered the city aimlessly and eventually reached the city center, where I encountered other photographers: Pavlo Dorohyi, Maksym Dondiuk, and James Nachtwey. Maksym let me join him in his car, and we went to shoot together. Since I didn’t have a car, I walked everywhere—public transport wasn’t running, and taxis were charging outrageous sums that I won’t even name. People were paying fortunes to get from Northern Saltivka to the train station.
Together with my colleagues, I came to Saltovka. There I took my first shots of a full-scale war. Then I took pictures in the Kharkiv Regional Council. On the second day of filming, I was approached by a press officer who supervised all the journalists and with whom I had to agree on the shooting in advance. The military officer was simply surprised by such impudence. However, when he saw my camera, a medium-format Rolleiflex, he said that he would allow me to take pictures with it. I fascinated him with this camera, and we started talking.
The press officer with the call sign Karabakh was inside the regional council building on March 1 when the missiles hit. I have footage of the rescuers taking out the bodies of the dead. Karabakh recalls that the shock wave carried him towards the stairwell and broke a glass window. When the soldier came to, he saw that the sole of his boots had been torn off. I took a picture of him with my Rolleiflex.
Every day, I took the commuter train from Pokotylivka to Kharkiv, walked through the city, and photographed. I walked as much as I could physically manage. Volunteers helped me get a bulletproof vest and a first aid kit. I would look for smoke on the horizon and head in that direction.
— Why was it important for you to photograph the war? Which media outlets did you start collaborating with?
— At first, it was terrifying. Especially during the first week, when I didn’t have accreditation and couldn’t take photos—I was focused solely on how to find food. I remember the first thing we bought: three dozen eggs. We bought them and immediately felt some relief—at least we wouldn’t starve for the next week. Later, we managed to get turkey meat and filled the freezer. Once I resolved those basic needs, I was able to think about creativity. When I started taking photographs, I immediately felt calmer because I was working again, doing what I do best. That was the first therapeutic moment for me.
Secondly, I wanted to document everything happening around me. I understood that this was an extraordinary event. After that, the fear subsided, even though the city was constantly being shelled with mortars, artillery, and Grad rockets. In Saltivka, my colleagues and I came under fire—fragments were flying right above me. I walked through Kharkiv, sticking close to the walls, and kept photographing.
My work began appearing in Ukrainian and international publications, including German outlets. Foreign journalists frequently reached out, looking for a fixer. At the start of 2022, I didn’t know Kharkiv well, as I had only recently moved to the city from Kherson. While I was familiar with the city center, I wouldn’t have been able to guide anyone to Saltivka or other districts.
Initially, I focused primarily on reportage photography. Later, I was contacted by the charity foundation Global 2000 for Children of Ukraine. In Kharkiv Oblast, there are over 20 family-type homes, and I documented the foundation’s aid to children. We traveled throughout the region, distributing humanitarian aid. A psychologist was with us because many of the children had been evacuated from occupied territories, and some were suffering from PTSD.
After the liberation of part of the region from the Russian military, I went there to take pictures. I met Kharkiv volunteers who were helping people from the de-occupied territories. Of course, I helped to unload and distribute humanitarian aid, and at the same time I was shooting. Some of the photos from these shoots were included in my photo project “Peaceful”. We traveled to many parts of the Kharkiv region, but it was harder for people who had survived the Russian occupation - it was as if something was changing inside them, and the camera could see it well.
— How beautiful can a photo taken during a war be? For you, is photography now more about documentation or art?
— For me, photography right now is primarily about documentation. However, that’s an important question, and one I’ve thought about a lot.
Photographers still rely on tools of expression—there must be composition, light, and color in the frame. Even when I’m photographing portraits of people who have endured difficult events or tragedies, I try to make them beautiful. I’ll guide them to a window or ask them to sit in a way that highlights their features.
I instinctively look for the best light, the most advantageous angle. I think about where color might be more effective or where a monochrome image would work better.
In my opinion, what should never be present in war photography is the addition of artificial beauty. To put it bluntly, searching for an interesting angle through a decorative fence, branches with leaves, or a lace curtain framing a building destroyed by shelling—especially when people might still be trapped under the rubble—is, for me, the height of cynicism. I understand that some may want to work with foreground elements, but I personally avoid such approaches. It’s crucial to clearly depict the event and convey it accurately.
Another thing that troubles me is how, by the third year of the full-scale war, we’ve started to grow accustomed to it. When I heard the sound of an explosion in Kharkiv, I calmly contacted journalist acquaintances for details, got on my bike, and went to photograph the scene. In those moments, I began to feel that these shoots had become routine for me, and I was creating content out of others’ suffering. Of course, it’s not truly like that, because I, too, was at risk—the shelling could have hit me as well. I’m not a tourist visiting Kharkiv for a weekend; I live here and experience all of this alongside other people. Except for a few residencies and exhibitions abroad, I haven’t left the city. I’ve tried to find personal meaning in what I do. I am a photographer, and the only thing I can do is document and convey the tragedy unfolding in my city and my country.
— Are there moments you chose not to photograph because of ethical considerations? Times when you had the opportunity but couldn’t bring yourself to raise the camera?
— Yes, I’ve had such moments. I witnessed a shelling, and a man died practically before my eyes. I was walking to a supermarket in the residential area of Pavlove Pole when an explosion occurred just a hundred meters away. I always carry a small Rollei 35 with me, so, of course, I immediately ran toward the scene. By the time I arrived, firefighters were already working, and a man’s body was lying on the ground. No one stopped me or interfered—I showed my accreditation, and the police allowed me through. I realized I could capture a very striking image if I photographed the man up close. However, a person in death is utterly defenseless; they cannot give consent to be photographed. I wasn’t sure how ethical it would be to take such a shot. The man’s expression in that moment was terrifying—it felt like the very face of death. I couldn’t bring myself to take a close-up. Instead, I captured wider shots—images of how the body was wrapped in a black bag and carried away. That experience made me question how professional my sense of ethics or lack thereof really is. As a documentary photographer, I’m supposed to push past my personal boundaries and take such images. But that time, I couldn’t do it.
There was another moment when I didn’t document an event. I was filming documentary clips about Kharkiv’s cultural figures, and we were in a car with Serhiy Zhadan and staff members from the Literary Museum. Shortly before we passed through one district, it had been shelled, and I saw bodies lying on the street. The women were very frightened, and I didn’t have the courage to ask the driver to stop. I probably should have gotten out and taken photos, but at that moment, I couldn’t.
— What are the biggest challenges you face as a photographer documenting the war?
— The hardest part is explaining to people why I’m taking photographs. When I was shooting in places hit by shelling, people were initially irritated and genuinely didn’t understand why this needed to be documented. Over time, of course, they got used to it. Sometimes, I would just photograph Kharkiv, even when nothing was happening. Residents would immediately approach me and ask why I was taking pictures. I would show my accreditation, explain who I was shooting for and why, and show them my film camera, emphasizing that developing the images would take a few days. Even the police accepted that argument.
When I traveled through the city and saw police officers or soldiers, I would immediately raise my hands and approach them myself. In the early days of the full-scale war, everyone was on edge. I understood that if military personnel were in an area, it likely meant they were guarding an important object that couldn’t be photographed. I would show my accreditation, the contents of my backpack, and explain my work. However, there was one time when a colleague and I were taken in by the Security Service of Ukraine (SBU). We were photographing a building, and someone saw us with cameras and called the authorities. They checked our documents and took us somewhere for further questioning. Since my residence registration was in Kherson, which was already occupied at the time, I aroused a lot of suspicion and questions. Once everything was clarified, they let us go.
— How difficult is it for you to avoid repeating yourself, not taking photos based on certain templates or clichés?
— I try to find new forms. I’ve always been more interested in shooting on film—not because it’s trendy or feels more authentic, but because the medium suits me better. Although I’m perfectly comfortable shooting digitally, I prefer film. At one point, I got my hands on an old Rolleiflex camera with a defect—the film winding mechanism didn’t work properly. In Austria, I found a replacement back for it and started shooting on photographic paper. I captured images of Kharkiv, its iconic locations, and ended up with a series of unique paper negatives—like Polaroids, but reversed. I’m now planning to turn these photographs into an art book—a “black series” about the city. I wanted to work with a concept while still shooting documentary photography.
At some point I got emotionally tired of filming arrivals. I photographed the aftermath of the explosions, wherever I could get to or where photographers were allowed. I was so burnt out from photographing the destruction and the dead that I started taking pictures of people on the beach. I took a boat ride on the river, filmed summer, the beauty of nature, people on vacation. I also think such shootings are important, because all this is happening during the war. War is not only about misfortune, air raids, destruction, but also about life. Life in a city under fire. Life during the war, here and now. People are walking, relaxing, drinking beer and riding catamarans. This is the story.
Then I collaborated with our air defense forces. I noticed that there were a lot of women serving there, and I wanted to take portraits of them. However, I was not allowed to photograph the combat divisions, only the equipment without showing the location. On the third year of the full-scale war, our air defense called and said they needed photos of their work. I shot for them digitally and simultaneously for my own project on film. However, the material I shot hasn’t been released yet, so this series of photos has not been published anywhere.
— What aspects or themes of the war do you think are still insufficiently covered?
— Honestly, I don’t know. It seems to me that everything has probably been covered. You can always look for new approaches, new forms, but most of the topics have already been explored. Personally, I would photograph collaborators, but I don’t know how to find them, let alone convince them to be photographed. When I was shooting the "Civilians" series, I was simply photographing people who came for humanitarian aid. But people told me that in the villages, there were many collaborators, and they, just like everyone else, stood in line for bread and aid. This is a complex and interesting topic, and unfortunately, collaborators haven’t disappeared—there are still many of them, including in Kharkiv.
I photographed abandoned stray animals in shelters. Dogs, in particular, are a whole separate topic. They have very heightened senses, and the sounds of shelling or explosions can cause them to have concussions. These dogs develop certain behavioral patterns that indicate the problem. They might wag their tails or show affection, only to suddenly bite. I photographed shelters for dogs with concussions. I also took photos at an abandoned stable in Staryi Saltiv. The owner had moved to Russia and left over 20 animals to fend for themselves. It was clear that the horses were once well-groomed and of high pedigree, and the stable was well-equipped. Now, two local sheriff officers take care of the horses, but they have no funding. The stable is privately owned, so the horses can't be rehomed. In the summer, the horses graze on their own, and in the winter, volunteers prepare feed for them. Of course, they’re fed, but the level of care they need is not provided.
— Tell us about your "Civilians" series. When and where did you shoot it?
— In the fall of 2022, after the Ukrainian Armed Forces liberated Kharkiv Oblast, I started traveling around the region with volunteers. At first, we went to the Chuhuiv district. We would gather at seven in the morning, load up with various packages, medicine, and of course bread—specifically picking it up from the bakery—and take it to the people. I remember the first village we went to was Malynivka. Yes, the same Malynivka where the famous film "Wedding in Malynivka" was shot. I think Malynivka is the only place where I would want to photograph a wedding.
We traveled around the village, distributing humanitarian aid. Malynivka had been under occupation, and it had a strong impact on the people. Those who hadn’t lived in Russian-occupied areas looked more lively, active, and even happier. On the other hand, people who had experienced the occupation seemed disoriented and lost. They were struggling because they had been right on the frontlines.
I wasn’t just photographing, I was unloading boxes, distributing aid, and if needed, helping to dig out vehicles stuck in the mud. We visited many villages, and I regret not recording their names. I remember we were in a village located right on the border with Russia, which had been under occupation. When I look back at the photos I took on film from that village, it feels like I’m looking at pictures from World War II. The people, wearing torn padded jackets, knit caps, and thick woolen clothes, were characteristic of a bygone era. How do you photograph them in a beautiful way? I photographed them as they were — I simply said, "Look into the camera, I need this for a report." People agreed because they were grateful for the help.
— What stories of people from the Kharkiv region liberated from Russian troops are particularly memorable to you?
— We were in the village of Zalyman, which had been caught in crossfire. It’s situated in a valley, with a river almost encircling it. On one bank, Ukrainian soldiers were based, and on the other, Russian troops. The village had a lot of destroyed houses. In this village, I met Lyuba, who had gathered all the dogs she could find in her yard. People had evacuated, but the animals were left behind. Lyuba’s husband had been mobilized and died near Bakhmut.
I also remember Ali, an Azerbaijani man, who wanted to show me his home. We arrived at the spot, but there was no house left — everything was destroyed. Ali was practically living in a chicken coop. The village had been occupied, and when the Ukrainian army arrived, not all Russian soldiers had left. Ali told me that he had taken advantage of the moment and managed to drive a fuel truck from the Russian army to the Ukrainian military. I'm not sure how much truth there is in his words, but I recorded the story.
In Donetsk region, I met an elderly couple. In early 2022, they had evacuated to their children, but in 2023, they returned to their village. It turned out there was nowhere to return to — their house was completely destroyed, except for the basement. They were utterly lost, with emptiness in their eyes. They couldn't go back to their children, so they planned to rebuild at least something before winter.
This year, I went to Kherson for the first time. I met an incredible woman, Melania. I met her in the Naftogavani district, near the Island — which is almost on the front line. Her house is by the river, and across the river is a red zone where combat operations are taking place. Her house was completely buried in sand and silt, which she had been digging out. When the Kakhovka Dam was blown up, in addition to sand, a barge had washed up in her yard. Imagine the scene — a house half-buried in sand, with a barge in the yard.
Before I became passionate about photography, I worked as the head of the industrial boiler repair section at "Khersonteploenergo." We had a base on the Island, a workshop with equipment. My former colleagues allowed me to enter this area. It was initially flooded, and then a missile landed in the yard. It was very hard to witness all of this. Overall, my visits to Kherson were the most difficult and saddest for me.
— When did you first come to Kherson after the start of the full-scale war?
— I first came to Kherson in March this year, after the Russian invasion. On the first day, I simply walked around the city and photographed. I went to the Oleksiy Honchar Library, located on the Dnipro embankment, which no longer exists. There were several missile strikes there, and it burned out from the inside. I have very personal memories tied to this library — my friend, the famous Kherson poet Yevhen Yanenko, worked there. Writers like Andrukhovych and Zhadan would visit Yevhen at the library. Unfortunately, Yanenko passed away before the full-scale war began. The library had a photography club, which I regularly attended when I lived in Kherson. Every Thursday we would have meetings, discussing and debating various topics. Later, I would go to Yevhen’s, and we would talk about literature, drink tea, and sometimes more than just tea.
It was very hard for me to see the library in such a state. Once a beautiful building in the style of Ukrainian modernism from the 1960s. Before the full-scale war, my colleagues and I received a grant and were working on a project about Kherson's modernism. I still have beautiful photos of the library — both its interiors and panoramic shots.
— On your social media, you now post many photos of Kherson from before the full-scale war. Please tell us about this series — when and where were these photos taken?
— These photos were taken between 2017 and 2019. I was always walking around with my camera, photographing Kherson. I had two series — one shot on digital and the other on film, and they were entirely different narratives. If I can put it this way, on digital I shot objective photography, while on film — very subjective. I tried to convey my feelings through the space of the city, capturing places that held special meaning for me. On digital, I photographed beautiful shots of Kherson. I wanted to convey the feeling of the city — how and what life was like in Kherson, and what was happening there.
Now, I have joined an artist residency, and I finally have time to work with my archives. When I started curating photo collections, I realized that almost everything I had captured no longer exists. This is especially true for the coastal areas, about which I once wanted to create an entire series. In fact, Kherson can only be truly felt if you get on a boat and navigate the tributaries of the Dnipro River. It seems to me that the soul of Kherson was there. But now — it's just ruins. The left bank is occupied, there are ongoing battles, and people there built their homes over generations. Building on the left bank was quite difficult — all the materials had to be transported. There were no roads, so we had to move cement and bricks by boat through the marshes.
On Potemkin Island in the Dnipro River, there was a summer house belonging to the Kherson artist Vyacheslav Mashnytsky. He popularized and developed art in Kherson and founded the Kherson Museum of Contemporary Art. During the full-scale war, he stayed in the city to take care of the museum’s collection. He lived at his summer house, fishing. During the occupation, he went missing. We are all very worried about him and hope that Slava is somewhere in captivity. This is a huge loss for Kherson. Around the Museum of Contemporary Art, a significant part of Kherson's culture was concentrated, and exhibitions were frequently held there. One of the last exhibitions I participated in was called "Kherart."
I once told Viacheslav Mashnytsky about my idea to film the lives of people on the left bank of the Dnipro River in Kherson, because few people know this side of the city. Slava then joked that he should let it stay that way, that there was no need to attract unnecessary eyes. He even talked me out of filming for a while. However, my friends and I went rafting, sailing, and I always took pictures. Now, when I look at these photos, I realize that this Kherson is gone. Of course, we will rebuild the city, but it will be a different Kherson. We can restore the buildings, but who will restore life on the left bank, the carefree and endless hot Kherson summer, boats, fishing, swimming. This simply does not exist physically-everything is destroyed. I'm finishing up the selection of material for the book. My photographs show a part of Kherson's past life, and I decided that it should be shown.
We worked on the material:
Researcher of the topic, author of the text: Katya Moskalyuk
Editor-in-Chief: Viacheslav Ratynskyi
Literary editor: Yulia Futey
Website manager: Vladyslav Kukhar
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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