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On Photography Day, we focus on those who have only recently started their professional path. A new generation of authors has emerged in Ukraine, whose names resonated not in gallery halls but among the destroyed streets of Bucha, Kharkiv, the Donetsk region, and the Kherson region—where the war became their first professional experience.
Many of them did not plan to become war correspondents: in peaceful life, they studied, filmed local stories, or pursued art projects. But with the start of the full-scale invasion, the camera became their way of speaking to the world about what is happening in the country.
Their photos are a new Ukrainian visual history: not only of destruction but also portraits of people holding on despite everything. The photographs of young documentarians have already appeared in international media, exhibitions, and competitions, becoming evidence of war crimes and the voice of Ukraine in the world.
Today, the Ukrainian Association of Professional Photographers publishes a selection of their works and reflections on war and photography.
Iva Sidash photographs the war from the inside, internalizing the experience of those around her. For her, photography is not just the documentation of events, but a shared experience in which the line between the author and the subjects disappears. She says:
“Our wartime reality is fragile, painful, and unfair as hell. The only thing I can do is capture it as I feel and see it. Almost all my war images are deeply personal, because they are not just photos—they are people in their most difficult moments. I am beside them and become part of their experience—which is someone else's, yet very much my own, our shared experience.”
Iva Sidash calls her images “deeply personal” because each one captures not only an event but a person in their most vulnerable moment. For her, the war became not a formative force but rather a trial: she does not allow evil to define her as a person or an author. Instead, closeness, care, and sincerity became paramount for her — qualities that resonate in both her words and her photographs.
“War destroys. I won’t say it formed me—I don’t want to believe that evil has such power. Something else forms me: my choice to keep doing what I do, responsibility to the people nearby, closeness, care, sincerity. The war only stripped away everything superfluous and set priorities. As a photographer, I have become slower: I listen more, I put the camera away more often, I feel presence better. Sometimes it’s difficult because, besides your own pain, you start carrying the pain of others. As a person, I’ve become softer and tougher at the same time. I protect the values I cultivated within myself. I try to take care of myself and my loved ones to find the strength to continue living and loving,”— says Iva.
Photographer Petro Chekal speaks of resilience not as a distinct symbol or image, but as photography’s very ability to exist and not disappear. His reflections are on the weight of the image, the limits of the possible, and how the war has sharpened the eternal questions of photography itself:
“If we speak about Ukrainian photography in general, for me there is no single specific image that would symbolize resilience. What is more important is that photography exists, that it is neither silenced nor erased, because there is an acute need to create it. This very need is why this war has become one of the most documented in history. And not only because of the need, but also thanks to the ability to shoot: from images that show war according to the principle ‘a good photograph is one that is taken close enough,’ as in the works of the Liberov couple or Maloletka, to the home-front portraits of people by Oleksandr Chekmenov or Polaroid portraits of artists by Taras Bychko. The very act of photographing and the relentless search for what and how to shoot is more important to me than one specific image. Of course, one can name dozens or hundreds of photographs that symbolize resilience, but it is more important to look broader—at all of Ukrainian photography, as a whole, because the true resilience is hidden within it.”
He speaks without pathos about his own images:
“Regarding myself, I don't feel that my photographs can be called a symbol of resilience. Over the past few years, I have almost stopped shooting on the front line or near it. And I miss it, understanding its importance both for me and for Ukrainian photography in general. What I am doing now is connected to a different level of photography—one that I want to transform. I would like to use the skills I acquired outside the zone of military operations for visual reflection and interpretation of what is happening and all the challenges we face.”
Photographer Oleksii Chystotin remained loyal to film even when digital technologies seemed to be the only option. For him, analog photography is a way to slow down and look more closely at the events unfolding around him:
“I usually work with analog photo processes. I am drawn to the intuitive clarity of the technology, the ability to control the process at all stages of work: from shooting to printing and framing the photographs. Black-and-white film filters out unnecessary details, stimulating work with generalized images rather than specific facts. At the beginning of the war, I tried digital photography, but quickly returned to analog. Although film is significantly slower than digital technologies, it is not a problem for me. I am in no hurry to publish material, waiting for time to set priorities: which photos are truly important, and which quickly lost their relevance. I prefer long-term projects, where there is an opportunity to observe the development of events for years, analyze, and not draw quick conclusions.”
Speaking about the future, Chystotin admits that he is unsure if he will have the chance to take his main shot—documenting the liberation of Ukrainian territories. He views this as a complex process in which photography can preserve not a triumph but the complexity and ambiguity of the moment.
“Unfortunately, I am not confident that such an opportunity will arise, but I would like to shoot the liberation of the currently occupied territories. De-occupation is a complex process, where hope turns into anxiety for the future, and joy borders on sorrow for those who did not live to see this moment. In 2022, when shooting the liberated territories of the Donetsk and Kharkiv regions, I was very surprised by the tenacity of local residents who survived the occupation and were ready to start life anew, rebuilding their region. Now these lands are again under the threat of occupation, and some have already been seized by the enemy. Photography will not bring back the dead, it is unlikely to help the living, but it can preserve the memory of this war, of the land and the people, their suffering, and their struggle.”
Photographer Ivan Samoilov says that returning to Kharkiv in late summer 2022 was the moment he first picked up a camera in the wartime reality. He recalls:
“That's when I first visited Northern Saltivka, which was about ten kilometers from the front line, and saw with my own eyes the scale of the destruction brought by Russia to my city. That day, I began documenting this war.”
Speaking about his own method, the photographer emphasizes that he tries to build frames around the central idea of the story. He says:
“For me, it is important that the frame is emotionally and substantively strong, so I discard weak or accidental compositions. I leave only what helps to build a cohesive narrative and emphasizes the key message of the event.”
Ivan is convinced that he will remain in the profession in the post-war period. He explains:
“I was involved in photography before the start of the full-scale invasion, at least taking my first steps. Now, having gained some experience, I am unlikely to leave this pursuit. In a country that has undergone such a long path of change and difficult wartime, there will inevitably be many socially important topics worth addressing through documentary photography.”
Photographer Oleksandr Mahula recalls his first trip to the frontline after the invasion began:
“It was in Cherkaska Lozova at the beginning of April 2022. Kharkiv Territorial Defense fighters were stationed there, a rotation was taking place, and I came to do a report. That was my first time shooting in a combat zone.”
Reflecting on the role of photography during the war, Mahula calls it paradoxical — both influential and limited:
“I realized how journalism, and photography in particular, works. There is a certain chain: something happens, journalists document it, the images appear in the media—and an impact occurs, sometimes noticeable even at the public level. For example, when Ukraine needed artillery ammunition, photojournalists massively photographed our guns. And these images became an argument in communication with partners—thanks in part to the press services that understood this. But at the same time, I also realized the paradox: photography can influence, but it cannot globally change the course of the war. It won't stop the fighting by itself. It is rather a small stone in the great wall of informational resistance: it might prove decisive at a specific moment, but it won't overturn the situation on its own. That, perhaps, is the main lesson for me.”
The photographer adds that he wants to remain in the profession even after the war ends:
“I have a dream—to photograph car races, especially ‘Formula 1.’ I hope the day will come when I can realize it. But the experience of war photography will remain with me forever.”
For Georhii Ivanchenko, the great war became not only a challenge but also an impetus for choosing a professional path. He recalls his start in documentary photography this way:
“I studied journalism in Lviv for half a year—precisely to learn how to shoot something socially significant, to work in a combat zone. But the full-scale invasion significantly accelerated this process. I gave the apartment owner the keys, scraped together two thousand hryvnias, got on a train, and left. And so I lived for the next two years—in constant motion, with my home in a backpack, a camera around my neck, and a complete lack of understanding of how everything works. When life cornered me—I tossed a coin, and it chose the vector for the next step. That's how I entered war photography. And it was a wonderful practical experience.”
At some point, the lightness and excitement of photographing disappear. In their place come images that are etched into memory for a long time. For Ivanchenko, this turning point came during the morning shelling of Mykolaiv:
“Photography is a very interesting endeavor. You need to be focused, quick-witted, assess the situation, and make the right moves at the right time. It transports you into a flow state that is wildly captivating and gives a feeling of happiness. But there are moments when you feel as if you are being hit with something heavy on your chest, head, and legs, when you lose orientation, breathing rhythm, and inner focus. Mykolaiv, June 2022, five in the morning: an Iskander hits a five-story building. Many bodies. A man in a shirt, crying, collects film photographs around the building—his loved ones were inside, and a rescue operation is underway. Bodies shattered by concrete lie in the courtyard, and he looks but cannot figure out: is it his mother-in-law or a neighbor. For me, that was the first encounter with something like this, and that morning became deeply lodged in my head.”
On behalf of the UAPP, we sincerely congratulate all photographers on Photography Day. Dear colleagues, do not lose the inspiration to see and preserve beauty even in the darkest times. We wish you the strength and courage to document the pain so that the world sees the truth, and at the same time, to find and share the light. May the camera always be your reliable tool, and may the light fall in a way that emphasizes what is most important.
Material Prepared by:
Topic Researcher, Text Author: Vira Labych
Photo Editor: Olga Kovalova
Literary Editor: Yuliia Futei
