stories

‘Vacation not far from ongoing tragedy’ Photographer Patrick Wack on his journey along the Azov Sea’s Russian coast, where he documented tourists during wartime

Source: Meduza

In the summer of 2022, French photographer Patrick Wack embarked on a trip along the coast of the Sea of Azov, traveling from the city of Taganrog to Russian-occupied Crimea, for his photo project Azov Horizons lll. On his journey, he documented Russian propaganda scattered all along the vacation resorts, where militarization met the tranquility of the sea’s shoreline. Wack spoke to Meduza about his experience photographing a country at war and reflected on earlier installments of his project, Azov Horizons l & ll, which saw him travel to the Ukrainian coast of the Sea of Azov, including Mariupol, before the start of Russia’s full-scale invasion.

Inspiration for Azov Horizons

I stumbled [upon] this project rather than actively researching or looking out for ideas in the region. In the summer of 2019, I took a summer trip to the Dolzhanskaya Spit on the Sea of Azov with my wife and her family. It was, first of all, the visual encounter with the area, its topography and colors, that triggered my interest.

The rationale behind most of my personal work is located at the intersection of geopolitics and journalism, and also poetry and travel. My projects, their rationales, and geographies evolve over the course of their production. The shore of the Sea of Azov, not cities, remained the geographical anchor, but I have given myself more freedom over time in terms of going inland. The American tradition of road photography very much influences my creative process. I like to travel freely around a vaguely designed itinerary […], but the rest is improvised. I like to stumble on situations and let my instincts guide me. 

The first appeal [of the Sea of Azov] was mostly visual, but [it was] also the nearby presence of occupied Crimea and the conflict in the Donbas. Unconsciously, the contrast between the peaceful beauty of the shore and the tension in the area was what pushed me to come back in 2021 to photograph the Ukrainian coast. I do not work in hot areas. I like to document the behind-the-scenes […] of current events.

After researching the region, I discovered a wealth of historical, geopolitical, and environmental features that would allow for a relevant long-term project addressing very current issues. [But] I did not expect a full-fledged invasion of Ukraine, and just like for my Uyghur project, it seems history caught up [with] how this project is going to pan out. I plan to have a chapter for both Russia and Ukraine, before, during, and after the war. Each chapter also works independently as a mini-project.

For the third chapter of the project, I knew we would drive from Taganrog all the way to Crimea over the course of two to three weeks.

Working as a photographer in Russia

I finally arrived in Russia in December 2021, my arrival having been delayed by more than a year [because of] the pandemic. The war started shortly after that. Therefore, my experience of Russia is that of a country at war.

I have to admit that my knowledge and experience of Russia and Russian society are shallow. […] I was not around to witness the gradual militarization of society over the past ten years, which has increased with the start of the war. My images depict a general climate and attempt to extract a few main ideas [for] the viewer. Among them, […] the obliviousness of the Russian population, the militarization of society, and the peacefulness of a country slowly isolating itself from the world.

It seemed like the conflict was a distant event, and people went about their vacation along the sea as [if] nothing was going on. But everywhere, signs and symbols of an ever-more militarized society were emerging. Watching Russian families having a good time by the sea while warplanes flew by on what were probably bombing missions into Ukraine seemed totally surreal and dystopian.

The situation [for] foreign journalists in Russia is vastly different from that of Russian ones. Even though quite a few foreign publications decided to relocate their correspondents outside of the country for safety reasons and to make sure they would be able to report freely, […] many others decided to stay, even though the window of what was possible had narrowed. I think most of us believed it was even more important to stay and report so that the country doesn’t become a “blind spot.”

Of course, the main difference [between international and Russian journalists] is that we believed we didn’t risk being thrown in jail. That illusion disappeared with the arrest of our colleague Evan Gershkovich, with whom I was working just before his arrest. [It was] at that point that I decided to leave the country.

Reception from locals

I was worried about the reactions I would encounter in areas such as Crimea, so close to the war, as a Westerner photographing and asking questions about […] current events. But there were no incidents in that regard. On the contrary, people were warm and welcoming, as always in Russia. The main challenge for me was narrative, that is to say, finding the symbols and situations that would create meaningful photographs to describe my feelings while being there.

While I always keep in the back of my mind the main topics behind my project, serendipity mainly drives it. I drive or walk around, and suddenly, a person, the light, or place triggers my attention. Then, encounters and conversations happen naturally. There were no issues talking to people, and even if some truly believed that Russia was only preemptively defending itself from […] NATO or American aggression, they were mostly happy to engage in a conversation with me.

Reflecting on Azov Horizons I and II

The main difference this time [compared to Azov Horizons I and II] was that I was working in a country that had unleashed an unprovoked and criminal aggression [against] its neighbor. The previous year, I had spent time documenting the city of Mariupol, which by now lay in ruins, and other places which were now occupied. Therefore, the project took a whole other meaning.

For Chapter II of the project, a lot of people are photographed looking at the horizon in a contemplative manner, like […] two girls in Mariupol or Anatoli [one of the people photographed for the project], with his eagle in Berdiansk. For me, this was a way to symbolize hope, as well as nostalgia, the longing for the other side, for a lost brother or a missed lover.

It’s indeed hard for me to mentally coincide the images of Mariupol in ruins with the ones I had made just a few months prior. The people from the city I know personally are all safe and displaced, either in the west of Ukraine or in Europe. [But] I had […] met people in Ukraine that now might be dead or most certainly displaced and traumatized.

I was now again on the Azov shore, documenting places and people going about their daily lives and [on] vacation not far from the tragedy [that] was ongoing, but [who were] mostly in denial of it.