STANISLAV OSTROUS EXHIBITION „CHERSON. CITY X“

The city that exists on the map.

The city that exists in the imagination.

The city that leaves no memories.

The city that I dreamt of.

The city where my children live.

The city that does not give in to the enemy.

The city full of poets and gopniks.

The city where almost nothing happens.

The city where miracles happen.

The city that keeps warm.

The city where dreams live.

Kherson.

 

The idea to take pictures of the place where I live comes from the desire to preserve something that remains invisible. The imperceptible signs of the passage of time. Something that remains constant yet always changing. Something that is as awkward as a teenager or, in contrast, openly revealing itself like a whore. Something that embeds itself in the photographic film, leaving a lasting impression.

Cities are like people; some you may know since childhood, others you may encounter in your youth or discover as an adult. A city can become boring and disappointing, and then it can surprise you and evoke new emotions. A city can be near and dear, or cold and unfriendly stranger. Some cities invite strolls and moments on park benches, while others scare us away like a plague. There are many cities and each one has its own destiny, and our destinies are intertwined with the destinies of the cities. We leave our mark on them, they leave their mark on us.

I have lived in Kherson for more than 20 years. At first, I couldn’t get used to it. However, as time passed, I discovered new friends and places where ‘outsiders’ don’t go. The city became my own, revealing its little secrets and bringing immense joy. My children were born and live in Kherson. My friends are in Kherson. The city slowly let me into its cosy courtyards, into its homes. Unashamed of its mossy backstreets, the city allowed me to spy on its tranquil provincial life. Like an eager voyeur, I wandered through its secret streets, glimpsing what remained unseen by the casual eye. Such places are rarely featured on souvenir postcards; they are intimate portraits. The stories shared by my friends are equally intimate.