Ukrainian Night: Istorychnyi Muzei

Artist Note

I remember very well the first time I went down to the subway, which became an shelter. I was struck by the emptiness and silence of the station. In peacetime, there were constant streams of people here. Trains came and went. Hundreds of sounds merged into a single hum.

On March 3, everything was different. I was deafened by the silence. And the emptiness. There were people, but they weren't rushing on the train or the escalator. They were charging phones on the stairs, waiting for the kettle to boil. Children played on the platform like a playground. The trains stood on either side, gaping black holes of dark windows. Toothbrushes, cups, children's toys had already appeared in the windows of the carriages. People were very quickly turning transport into their home. A home of necessity. I remember that I went into a wagon and asked to take a photo of a still life in the window. There was food, some kitchen utensils, personal hygiene items. And flowers. A small bouquet of flowers in the midst of it all seemed an apotheosis of absurdity. Then I saw more carriage home, tents in the station, drying laundry on the platform, children's playgrounds, cardboard rooms, carpets, blankets, cat litter boxes, clothes hangers, and many, many things not in any way associated with the metro.

And, of course, I saw people. People who were hiding in the subway. Beautiful people who were scared. Scared for themselves, their children, their loved ones. On May 20, they were practically all kicked upstairs, disregarding their fear, disregarding their insecurity. I filmed the subway as a shelter until the last day. I was with these people until the end. I slept with them on the subway, ate, played, talked, laughed and cried with them. In these photos are THOSE that I will never forget AND THOSE that I will never forget.