The photographic reproduction of art has a long history, dating back to the advent of photography itself. It was initially perceived as an inexpensive and effective means of disseminating knowledge about art. André Malraux, who introduced the concept of the “museum without walls” in his book of the same name, even argued that the history of art is a history of what can be captured through photography. The medium has been praised for its ability to reveal details invisible to the naked eye and provide instantaneous access to any piece of artwork, and modern digitization technologies are striving to meet a collective demand for an exhaustive inventory of cultural heritage, documented with utmost explicitness. The act of seeing, however, has long been associated with power and control over the subject being observed. It was this relatioship, in which being veiled paradoxically represents the retaining of agency, that prompted Ukrainian artist Elena Subach to explore modes of invisibility in her photography.
Following the escalation of Russian military aggression, invisibility became a matter of ethics and safety for Ukrainians. An almost iconoclastic ban on taking photographs in public spaces was implemented to prevent the leakage of strategically important data and quickly became part of the general consensus about how to respond. Despite this, the media is still filled with lurid photographs of the ongoing war, raising questions about what should and shouldn’t be seen. These discussions inspired Subach to adopt a more allusive approach in her recent projects.
The artist spent the first days after the full-scale invasion volunteering at the border crossing on the west side of the country. She witnessed thousands of families parting ways, as women and children were sent off to safety. Rather than documenting these personal tragedies directly, Subach chose instead to photograph the loud emptiness of the chairs on which the refugees-to-be sat after long and exhausting journeys, and on which they often left their belongings.
Her series Hidden has the same sensitivity towards moments of vulnerability as well as shielding from the unwanted gaze. It was created in spring 2022, when museum workers and volunteers all over Ukraine rushed to save the country’s cultural heritage. Subach, as part of the Borys Voznytsky Lviv National Art Gallery’s staff at that time, decided to picture her colleagues, restorers and conservators, as they prepared artworks for safekeeping.
All the images were made in Lviv, one of Ukraine’s major artistic hubs. The city is almost 770 years old and has a complex layered history, having been at different times part of Kyivan Rus, Poland, Austrian-Hungarian Empire and the USSR. Lviv has a unique architectural ensemble in its historical centre and rich museum collections that required urgent protection. Because of safety concerns, the press refrained from disclosing the details of these emergency measures, pushing Subach to find non-documentary, more artistic ways of telling these stories of appreciation and care.
Subach’s images are not conventional depictions of art pieces. She has photographed sculptures veiled with plastic films, sandbags piled up in the middle of the streets, portrait paintings peeking out from behind the bars of packaging tape, and the ghostly floating silhouettes of altar decorations. Wrapped in shimmering materials, the pieces are often difficult to identify, with the artist intentionally cropping figures, zooming in on details or firing the flash directly onto them to create a flattened effect. The exhibits blend with gilded or polychrome stone surfaces into a patchwork entity. At the same time the usage of direct flash conveys associations with sensational reportage or crime scene photography, reminding us of the tragic context in which the images were made.
Shrouded and left beyond the reach of our eyes, the artworks take on human-like qualities. They look scared, curious and vulnerable, and appear to have an intense physical presence. The gesture of covering, which conveys a sense of touch, can be seen in each photograph. The images also depict scenes of direct contact between people and artworks, as the well-known museum rule Ne touchez pas les œuvres is disregarded in the face of a threat.
In her previous projects, Subach did not engage with the documentary genre. But like other Ukrainian artists, the history unfolding around her forced her to use the tools at her disposal to register the testimonies of the war. Subach balances photography as record and as personal statement. In 2022, Besides Press published Hidden as a photobook, accompanied by an essay by Yurko Prohasko, a Germanist, translator, and publicist. In his essay Prohasko meditates on his experience of seeing the statue of John of Dukla (or Jan of Dukla), the patron saint and protector of Lviv, being taken down in order to be transported to a shelter. The description of the Saint’s temporary relocation, together with Subach’s images, is a poignant testament to the resilience and determination of a people willing to preserve their heritage.

See also:

Yurko Prohasko, „At the Height of Jan of Dukla“, in: Elena Subach, Hidden / CXOBAHE, Besides Press, 2022.
[PDF-Download, 400 KB]