Made on
Tilda
I am often concerned with what is called “memory of place” — the idea that a location such as a city, town, village, or even a home contains information capable of triggering human memory.
Since its invention, photography has been used to portray places and support memory. Moments and details attached to a location come together to form a kind of informal portrait. While photography cannot preserve anything in itself, it can help memory hold onto such images.
The photographs I took in the small town of Satka in the Urals depict ordinary moments that dissolve in time and disappear. Satka is a monotown, where the economy is dominated by the production of magnesium carbonate for metallurgy, and almost everyone is connected to this industry. The openness of people in the streets felt like something from another time. It seemed as if everyone knew each other, which made me feel both comfortable and even more like an outsider.
As someone from Moscow, I felt as if I had travelled into the past — back to childhood, when children could play alone in courtyards without concern, unlike in large cities today. “Where are you from, Andrey?” a boy asked me in one of Satka’s residential districts. “Moscow,” I replied. “Is Moscow beautiful?” he asked. I did not know how to answer.
I am often concerned with what is called “memory of place” — the idea that a location such as a city, town, village, or even a home contains information capable of triggering human memory.
Since its invention, photography has been used to portray places and support memory. Moments and details attached to a location come together to form a kind of informal portrait. While photography cannot preserve anything in itself, it can help memory hold onto such images.
The photographs I took in the small town of Satka in the Urals depict ordinary moments that dissolve in time and disappear. Satka is a monotown, where the economy is dominated by the production of magnesium carbonate for metallurgy, and almost everyone is connected to this industry. The openness of people in the streets felt like something from another time. It seemed as if everyone knew each other, which made me feel both comfortable and even more like an outsider.
As someone from Moscow, I felt as if I had travelled into the past — back to childhood, when children could play alone in courtyards without concern, unlike in large cities today. “Where are you from, Andrey?” a boy asked me in one of Satka’s residential districts. “Moscow,” I replied. “Is Moscow beautiful?” he asked. I did not know how to answer.