War Through the Looking Glass or When Salt Looks Like Sugar
Maxim Dondyuk’s photographs are extraordinary documents of contemporary Ukrainian history. His immersive images of the Ukrainian Revolution of Dignity in 2014 brought him worldwide fame. In conversation with Solomiya Magazine, Maxim shares his personal journey as an artist and photojournalist, gives insights into the evolving landscape of war journalism, and discusses the challenges posed by propaganda. The interview unfolds as a compelling exploration of the complexities inherent in conveying the emotional depth of war, and of the intricate relationship between art and documentation.
In your lecture for Odesa Photo Days, you touched upon the topic of aesthetics in documentary photography. In particular, the idea that aesthetics allows us to look at the gruesome things. Simultaneously, there is an opinion that aestheticization in documentary photography modifies the real state of events prompted by war — and I’m choosing my words carefully here, avoiding the use of the word “truth.” What does aesthetics mean to you personally in your photography?
While we use the term ‘truth,’ it’s important to also remember about post-truth, which makes things more complex and raises a significant question: what do we consider as truth in war photography? Is it a soldier in the trenches when there’s someone with a camera, or is it the same scene without a camera present? Is it a soldier in the trenches and a photographer who has a specific image in their mind of how the soldier should behave in such circumstances and thus attempts to capture authenticity? I mention this because when other photojournalists document battlefront areas in Ukraine, claiming it as the ‘truth,’ they are often permitted to work at those regions for only a couple of hours, which does not allow them to show a deeper context. And this, unfortunately, leads to a superficial level of understanding of the war from the public. Documentary photography can strive either towards art or journalism. For some reason, journalism attempts to entirely assimilate documentary photography and dictate its visual essence while neglecting its potential as a means to express an artistic vision and disrupt outdated norms. I believe the question of truth becomes more complicated here because when documenting reality, we react to it and manipulate it through our point of view. And some staged photos can tell more about war than the plain documentation of events. I consider myself primarily as an artist, but during the war, I often work with media to combat Russian propaganda. However, like any other artist, I may go to the battlefront areas already knowing what I want to show and how I want to show it. I refuse to say that the truth exists. I never capture the truth, but my subjective perception of it. I manipulate it and show what I want to show.
The question of aesthetics is highly individual and depends on one’s tastes and preferences. In my works, aesthetics serves as the language I use to communicate about things. Unlike journalistic documentary photography, where a photographer has to capture an image that rationally explains the depicted events, my artworks aim for an emotional connection. There’s something intangible that resonates, and it’s challenging to express in words. Photography, for me, is a feeling. The way I depict what I see, and every color I choose, evokes associations and contributes to that overall emotion. We have already become accustomed to looking at aesthetically rendered gruesome events in classical art. How many crucifixion and battle paintings are there when we visit museums? How many paintings depict human suffering? The same thing applies to war photography. From the photographer’s perspective, there is nothing more boring than photographing war, but we still need to pay attention to it. Speaking about war through art can be a means to foster understanding because most people won’t be looking at the hard reality. It can be too painful.
Aesthetics in photography can indeed serve as a tool to assert the photographer’s presence and showcase their philosophy. And this is something you emphasize a lot — the importance of having one’s own philosophy of photography. How would you describe yours?
I would say that it is not the philosophy of photography we should develop but every artist should be a bit of a philosopher themselves. It allows you to perceive the world differently and shape your own viewpoint. I began my career as a typical photojournalist and documented things for newspapers and photo agencies. When I started working on the Tuberculosis project in 2010, I quit the agencies and began the search for my own perspective. Before that, I was mainly learning the technical aspects of photography and how to build compositions. But this photojournalistic background turned out to be
a significant obstacle for my artistic expression. In photojournalism, there are rules you have to follow, but art does not abide by any rules. When working on the Tuberculosis project, my philosophy started shifting. I worked with people who suffered from the disease; I saw them die; I saw them knowing that they were about to die and heard them talk about it. And despite all that, I saw them love this life. Coming back to Kyiv felt different after witnessing such things.
Before Ukraine’s Revolution of Dignity in 2014, I found myself disenchanted with documentary photography as a tool of storytelling and was ready to give it up. I then delved into the realm of documentary films, acquiring skills, and even shooting one film in Crimea, which, hopefully, I will finish working on with my brother in 2024 (Maxim’s brother, Mykola Dondyuk, is a filmmaker — editor’s note). During the Maidan revolution, I was simultaneously capturing photos and recording video footage. At some point, my love for photography was rekindled, however, not as a means of documentation but as an artistic practice. The Maidan photographs exposed me to the world of art that I hadn’t seen before. I was invited to attend art- and photo-festivals; I talked to curators and art collectors. This experience made me better at analyzing my art and understanding the significance of a good photo-selection in my projects. Ultimately, art for me is an instrument of self exploration. After photographing the beginning of the Russia’s war in Ukraine in 2014, I moved to Paris where I suffered from severe PTSD and realized that neither financial stability, living in Paris, nor fame made me happy. It was a very hard period, during which my wife and I decided to move to Asia for 3 years. When both in Paris and Asia, I studied Western and Buddhist philosophical works, and my lifestyle also reflected that as I moved from the traditionally consumerist European lifestyle to isolating myself in Asia.
I must admit that the way of thinking practiced in Asian traditional cultures interests me more. I believe that it is a significant problem when an artist is egocentric. Ego is something that will always leave us in a state of constant frustration, regardless of how much success your art brings you. I reached the pinnacle of my career in 2014; then everyone forgot about me, and I faced financial problems. And now, here I am: doing this interview with you. All these experiences contributed to my ever changing philosophy, where fewer things irritate me, fewer things evoke envy; I have less ambitions, and I now know that everything is fleeting. If many people recognize my photographs today, they can easily forget about them tomorrow.
We constantly hear from the media that Russia’s war against Ukraine is the most ‘documented’ war. But it is also the most complex hybrid war, in which Russia also uses information as a weapon. You mentioned that after the 2022 full-scale invasion you returned to work with journalistic media to combat Russian propaganda. How do you exactly do that?
If we use the term ‘documented’ in relation to the amount of war footage we have from reconnaissance drones or the phone recordings we have from soldiers, then yes, this is the most documented war. However, it is not the most journalistically documented war; that distinction belongs to the Vietnam War. The American government at that time allowed uncensored coverage of the war, which was a big mistake. The horrors witnessed by the American public during that period led to an outbreak of anti-war protests across the U.S.A. (Dondyuk refers to the protests during 1963 – 1975 — editor’s note). When documenting war, some media regulations should be intact.
The journalistic photographs that we have from the frontline of Russia’s war in Ukraine usually depict only one superficial perspective, and there are not many works that offer a more in-depth look into the actual state of affairs. We see more and more media outlets using OSINT footage in their materials, and I wonder how it is going to impact journalism, especially photojournalism. But, unfortunately, journalistically, this war is far from being well-documented.
Why is it so?
Because war propaganda works from both sides: Ukrainian and Russian. I believe that Ukrainian soldiers, who fight at the battlefront, have the right to be documented before the threat of their potential death. For me, showing the cruelty that the soldiers undergo to resist the enemy holds a greater value than bluntly replicating the messages that censorship spreads, which usually appeal to the feeling of patriotism.
It is a two-sided situation. On the one hand, when a civilian person who hasn’t had previous battlefield experience witnesses the real horrors of war, all one wants to do is scream, ‘for God’s sake, please just stop this.’ It is a heavily traumatizing experience. On the other hand, with unregulated censorship intact, people are not able to understand the scale of the ongoing tragedy. They literally watch polished content on YouTube or social media and quickly forget that there is always an intention behind it. If the media doesn’t start to show some level of what is truly happening on the Ukrainian frontline, it can lead to a catastrophe where people won’t be able to sense the potential danger that can suddenly erupt. Propaganda always demonizes the enemy and thus breeds an aggressive society that would be willing to be mobilized and go to war — and it should be like that. But we should not underestimate our enemy and present it as weak, because today Ukraine is fighting a massive army that is several times bigger than its own.
To sustain some level of censorship, Ukrainian authorities allow journalists to work on their materials at the battlefront for a very short period of time, which is not enough to create impactful stories. When I worked on the New Yorker article (Dondyuk refers to the “Two Weeks at the Front in Ukraine” article, written by Luke Mogelson and photographed by Maxim Dondyuk. Dondyuk worked on it independently without notifying the authorities — editor’s note), I lived in the trenches near Bakhmut for two weeks. We saw many things that are usually not shown in the media and talked about them in the article. Luke [Mogelson] showed the reality of the war, so that people could understand it better. However, when the article was released, I faced serious repercussions from Ukrainian authorities, and my media accreditation was taken away for “additional verification.” I still don’t have it, and I am basically not allowed to work on my photo-projects or travel abroad for cultural events. (As of the moment of this interview’s release, Dondyuk has successfully regained his accreditation — editor’s note). I started documenting this war because I thought that I was combatting Russian propaganda, but at some point my photographs started to work against Ukrainian censorship.
When I read ‘Two Weeks at the Front in Ukraine,’ it was a significant moment of disillusionment for me. As someone who lives in Kyiv, the capital city of a country at war, I am often exposed to propaganda, but such articles are a very rare find. It led me to the conclusion that the desire to understand the war, or at least to try, always requires a complex effort of will, where you must first put in the effort to find the information and then accept it. And if I had this impression while living in Kyiv, I think the further you go outside of Ukraine, the less the level of understanding is. In your opinion, how can we, Ukrainian artists and the global community, foster a better understanding between each other?
Unfortunately, the only way to understand the war is to experience it firsthand. Articles, such as Luke’s, are crucial as they shatter the illusions that censorship imposes, but I must say that even the soldiers fighting at the battlefront would prefer the public to not see the harsh reality they endure daily. It is very grim and hard.
I believe showing the real state of wartime affairs is the responsibility of journalists. Not those who adhere to propaganda but those who seek problems in the system and address them. Once journalists identify a problem, the government should make an effort to solve it. These are the normal relations between journalists and political authorities. We need to engage in uncomfortable conversations, and we need a government that is interested in supporting independent journalism.
For Ukrainian artists, it is crucial to organize public exhibitions abroad and continue discussing Ukraine’s wartime reality. When I was permitted to travel outside of Ukraine and organize exhibitions, I engaged with the visitors. I explained the most common misconceptions that Russian propaganda spreads and often donated the funds raised from my sold art to help Ukrainians in need. However, our government and the Ukrainian Ministry of Culture now rarely allow any male artist to cross Ukraine’s state border because of the scandal (Dondyuk refers to the March 2023 incident when Ukrainian stand-up comedian Andrii Shchehel left Ukraine temporarily for a cultural event abroad but didn’t return to avoid mobilization. Consequently, Ukraine’s Ministry of Culture imposed serious restrictions, making it nearly impossible for Ukrainian male artists to obtain permission for temporary leave for international cultural activities. — editor’s note). I get this sense that the Ukrainian government does not understand how important war-time art is, which is an integral part of Ukrainian cultural diplomacy abroad.
But once you understand war, your world perception changes forever. In 2022, when I attended a photography festival abroad, I got scared of the sound of a plane flying above me or the sound of somebody opening a bottle of champagne. During the war, our brain operates differently and amplifies bodily reflex senses, which can make you appear overly alert even in relatively peaceful circumstances. This is something we will have to face when the soldiers return home. We will need to communicate these experiences both with each other and with the global community; we will need to address these changes and create a safe environment for those who have witnessed the horrors of war.
When preparing for our interview, I came up with this final question that I wanted to ask you. In all honesty, the question does not make any sense to me now, but I will still ask you to hear your answer. Do you have any photograph you have taken that had a significant influence on you, and what is its story?
You are right. This question does not make any sense because to say that any of my photographs is more important to me is the same as saying that any person or situation is more important than the other. At this very moment, we have this conversation between you and I. Anything before and after that are our thoughts about the past and the future. And photographs can be compared to our memories that were once our ‘present,’ now visible to others. I find that so fascinating about photography. The same applies to any artistic work. I have been asked this question a lot, and I once even tried to select ten such photographs, but I gave up. It is impossible. I do not view photography as an achievement; I see it as my visual diary where I encapsulate my emotions and historical events. It serves as a time portal that takes me back to those moments, each of which were very important to me. That is why I am not able to answer this question and probably never will be.