«In some sense, text has lost its meaning, or, to be precise, has begun to mean too much». An interview with a photographer Alexander Gronsky

DO YOU REMEMBER HOW YOUR PASSION FOR PHOTOGRAPHY STARTED?

Frankly speaking, I have never pursued anything in my life other than photography, so it's been a long journey for me. I began taking it seriously when I was 15-16 years old, as it seemed to be something accessible and straightforward.

I started by taking pictures of my friends, then I joined a photography club to learn the technical aspects and how to work with film. I began frequenting libraries and reading photography magazines around the year 1995. One day, as I stepped outside to take some photos, something clicked, and a sense of excitement washed over me.

YOU SAID YOU’VE NEVER DONE ANYTHING APART FROM PHOTOGRAPHY, HOW IS THAT SO?

It’s something about not being able to switch from one thing to another. I learned to get satisfaction from doing photography and just didn’t manage to get a hold of anything else.

YOU HAVE BEEN WORKING AS A PHOTOGRAPHER FOR MAGAZINES FOR A LONG TIME, AND YOU HAVE BEEN DOING PHOTOJOURNALISM. AT WHAT TIME AND WHY DID YOU DECIDE TO GO INTO THE FIELD OF ART? AND WHAT IS THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN THESE TWO AREAS FOR YOU AS AN AUTHOR?

To be honest, I don't seem to fit into either of these fields. In photojournalism, I've never been drawn to creating stories and shooting classic reportages. I seem to prefer a single picture more: it offers the opportunity to immerse oneself, delving into the story happening right inside the frame. But I've never been able to translate the shot into text — I've never been good at it, and that's why I've never found success as a photojournalist.

I used to shoot a lot of reportages, but I've always had this feeling that... I'm not an imposter, no. It felt like photography wasn't invented for telling stories. The kind of photography that interested me was meant to be looked at for a long time.

At some point, I formed a good partnership with a gallery and agency, Photographer.ru, in Moscow. Looking back, we spent 8 years working together. They invited me to hold an exhibition and to start selling prints of my photos, and I was skeptical about it at the time. It seemed like nonsense to me: here I was, pressing the button, printing 8 or 28 pieces, and somebody was going to buy it for $500 per piece, while the cost price was just $30. I was deeply hesitant and considered what I was doing as a hobby. But when my photos started to sell, I was pleasantly surprised! I enjoyed this option of making money much more than taking photos for magazines, where a photo editor, art director, or editor-in-chief would crop, cut, and use the photos to construct their own story, which had nothing to do with my vision.

So, when my prints started to sell in 2008-2009, I was very happy. And even though I had to take what interested me and what I wanted to shoot more seriously, it was a fortunate opportunity not to be dependent on an editorial assignment and to be free to explore. All of that aligned with my desire to learn something from photography.

ALTHOUGH YOU SAID THAT YOU DIDN’T FIT IN NEITHER PHOTOJOURNALISM OR ART, LATELY I HAVE OFTEN HEARD (IN CONVERSATIONS WITH FRIENDS, ACQUAINTANCES, READ IN OTHER INTERVIEWS) THAT YOU ARE ONE OF THE MAIN ARTISTS OF OUR TIME. COLLECTOR ANTON KOZLOV EVEN SAID THAT THE PRESENT TIME IS GRONSKY'S TIME. HOW DO YOU FEEL ABOUT THIS AND YOUR POPULARITY IN GENERAL?

To be honest, I feel like I was more popular 15 years ago than I am today. I'm okay with that; popularity comes and goes in waves. From time to time, the things I illuminate with photography become noticeable and interesting to many people, and after some time, this attention wanes. I think it's a normal ebb and flow in an artist's career. My interest within photography also evolves: I explore different subjects, and different people become interested in it.

Today is a unique time. As I mentioned, I have always been much less interested in reportages and photojournalism as such. But suddenly, this situation happened where it can and should be documented, but it's completely unclear how to do that. So I started taking pictures of what is happening in Moscow, where not much happens at all. For someone like me, who doesn't like reportage shots, a perfect situation has emerged: there's no cohesive story that can be expressed through photography, but there's everyday life and a prevailing sense of desolation. Titles like «Moscow-2022,» «Moscow-2023,» and so on, have taken on a depressing significance. «Moscow-2024» is just a burnt-out hole, an uncertainty that leaves us unsure of what to do, lending a feeling of importance to the very image.

In our history, there have been several defining moments etched into our collective memory: 1917, 1941, 1991. I remember how I felt when looking at photos from the 90s: they were often well-crafted, confidently composed Soviet shots — a grandmother with her granddaughter, some amusing scenes, an old veteran with medals. Such shots always bothered me — I always wanted to ask the photographers to step back a bit, to capture a broader picture! While a grandmother is nice, show us the kiosks beside the metro station or the shop windows in the background, show us what people are wearing. Provide us with a broader perspective, as it's impossible to fully grasp that moment. There were many details that seemed inconsequential or unpleasant at the time, but they would be interesting to observe today to feel the passage of time.

And now I've realized that I can capture scenes like this, while nobody else does it as consistently and persistently. My photojournalist colleagues, with whom I used to compare myself, have suddenly vanished, and even foreigners have left. It's as if I've been chosen as the responsible one here. But I don't feel like I'm the responsible one; I'm just experimenting, playing with my camera, trying to capture something in this vacuum. It doesn't always turn out right — my photos only gained notice after two years of daily work, so it wouldn't be accurate to say that success came raining down on me.

I JUST WANTED TO ASK ABOUT DESCRIPTIONS FOR YOUR WORKS. A DISTINGUISHING FEATURE OF YOUR PHOTOS IS THAT THEY ARE TIMELESS IN SOME SENSE. EARLIER, IT WAS OFTEN EVEN UNCLEAR WHEN OR EVEN IN WHAT CITY THE SHOT WAS TAKEN. HOWEVER, NOW YOU ARE SPECIFICALLY VIOLATING THIS RULE BY STATING BOTH THE CITY AND THE YEAR WHEN THE PHOTO WAS TAKEN. WHY DID YOU DECIDE TO BREAK THE RULE FOR THE NEW SERIES?

I don’t adhere to any singular or established outlook, angle, or approach — in different series, I tend to direct my attention toward different subjects. For several years, I’ve been focused on identifying architectural repetitions within urban landscapes. Prior to that, there wasa series titled «Pastoral,» which explored the concept of timelessness. Some even mistakenly thought that I intentionally sought out marginal landscapes to illustrate the challenges of living in the Moscow region. However, I was actually searching for a universal landscape, one that resonated with my childhood memories.

At any given time, in any city, in any country, there are such landscapes, disconnected from the urban environment. For example, I recall the feelings of my childhood: there’s a city with certain rules — you should walk on the sidewalk, behave decently, and not cross the road in unexpected places. But suddenly, there’s a gap in the fence where you can slip through, and beyond lies an abandoned construction site. Different rules apply in this space — there are no ethical boundaries; you can use this place as a restroom or smash beer bottles. You can’t do these things on the street, but here, just beyond the fence, everything operates differently! The «Pastoral» series was precisely about seeking out these territories, where the boundary between city and nature becomes blurred: here we have the city, and there we have a space for a barbecue or lounging on the grass. Just a short walk behind the garages, and you encounter the same trees and bushes, but it’s a space where anything can happen, where the environment articulates differently.

Now, text has infiltrated my photos. Although I previously avoided it quite vehemently, as if the addition of text to a photo diminished its depth. But for the past two years, I’ve been consistently capturing text, and it's been present since the inception of the series. The patriotic billboards from the early days of March 2022 were particularly striking — against a backdrop of blue sky, the words «For Peace» were displayed. It was a revelation for me: language ceased to convey a fixed meaning; instead, it began to blur. A single phrase could now convey two completely opposite meanings to different viewers. In a sense, the text lost its singular meaning, or, to be precise, it began to encompass too much, simultaneously embodying both its intended and opposing meanings, with interpretation depending solely on the viewer’s perspective. I found this utterly mesmerizing. Furthermore, as the project progressed, it began to evoke a meme aesthetic — where text appears in the image, but it’s not I who adds it; rather, I discover it within the landscape, playing with it, sometimes intentionally obscuring parts of it.

As the meaning of text became less defined, every advertisement in the city became multifaceted to me. Instead of making a statement, billboards became questions.

WHILE YOU WERE TALKING, I REMEMBERED THE WORKS OF ALINA GLAZUN, YOUR WIFE, AND I THOUGHT THAT THERE ARE SOME RESEMBLANCES IN YOUR WORK AND THIS MUTUAL INFLUENCE IS VERY NOTICEABLE.

It’s true, I wouldn’t hide that I’m being influenced by my wife. The way she works with text, extracting the heart from a random phrase, in which any sense gets lost and the phrase itself becomes a great empty hole or a question — all of this is certainly affecting me.

HOW ARE YOUR IMAGES BEING CREATED? DO YOU GO OUTSIDE AND LOOK FOR "THAT PERFECT SHOT", OR IS IT A LONG WALK DURING WHICH YOU FIND WHAT YOU NEED?

You present them as separate options, but I see them as intertwined. For me, going outside and observing is a joyful way to live — spending most of my time wandering with a camera. Before February 2022, I was disheartened that these walks didn’t yield any tangible results. Simply walking out and capturing scenes in a manner reminiscent of "I sing what I see" felt somewhat purposeless, akin to a visual form of graphomania. Yet, that's precisely what I needed — the act of wandering and capturing images.

Upon reviewing my two-year archive recently, I realized that I had never seen a significant portion of these photos before. Perhaps I was too fatigued when returning home, distracted by other matters, simply uploading the archives and never revisiting them. And I’m fine with that. While editing and selecting images can be engaging, currently, the routine of walking and shooting sustains me. I require my 20 thousand steps per day and the meditative state it affords me.

YOU WALK 20 THOUSAND STEPS EVERY DAY?

I try to, but it’s not possible to do everyday. Four days a week, I think, I walk for about five hours straight. I walk more in the summer, because the day is longer, while in the winter I do fewer steps.

WOW! AND WHAT IS THE PROBABILITY THAT IN THESE FOUR DAYS OF FIVE HOURS OF WALKING YOU WILL FIND THE SHOT YOU NEED?

The more you shoot, the more difficult it is to realize that you got "that desired shot". I have come to such a state now, when it’s more important for me to walk than to take a certain picture. Sometimes there are bold combinations, something aligns great. I often walk over the same places: if I see something interesting and the shot doesn’t turn out well, I come back several times. Moscow is not that big if you walk 20 kilometers a day. So it’s basically walked over and through for me.

DO PASSERS-BY REACT IN ANY WAY TO YOUR WORK? ARE THEY TRYING TO INTERACT WITH YOU?

I’m a bit of a shy person. I used to be terribly shy, but it's gotten a bit easier with time. My fascination with cityscapes stems more from practice than aesthetics: I avoided getting close to people because it made me uncomfortable. I figured if it was uncomfortable for me, it must be uncomfortable for everyone else, so I kept my distance, usually around 20 meters.

I tend to avoid interacting with people. Passersby hardly notice anything, and if they do, my 25-30 years of practice help me swiftly frame the shot, grab my camera, and capture the moment without lingering too long. These habits developed from social phobia have become a tool I enjoy using. I simply enjoy the landscape.

As Charlie Chaplin wisely said: a close-up is always a tragedy, but a long shot is always a comedy. Taking a broader view tends to imbue situations with a bit of humor or irony. It's amazing how that works!

I used to steer clear of crowded city environments, but now I find myself closer to people with more of them surrounding me, especially since I exclusively shoot in Moscow and there's nowhere to escape to. It was challenging at first, but I've grown accustomed to it.

Transitioning to a digital camera was a struggle for me. I used to think everything looked awful compared to film. But now, I believe film just imparts a cheap effect to photos, and there's no real point in using it. I recently tried to rationalize this to myself and came up with an analogy with alcohol: when people first start drinking in their youth, they enjoy sweet, flavorful drinks like cocktails or sweet wines. It's similar with photography: initially, people are drawn to blur, bokeh, and filmy halftones. But as their tastes develop, they prefer drier wines with subtler flavors, no longer needing bold flavor accents. Eventually, it's not even about the taste — it's about the effect. Similarly, you can shoot with an iPhone or a cheap digital camera and still achieve the desired effect. It's like drinking hawthorn tincture from morning to evening; the effect is what matters most. The phenomenon of capturing the essence of the surrounding reality becomes more important, and beautiful aesthetics take a backseat.

IT SEEMS TO ME THAT PHOTOGRAPHY IS ONE OF THE TYPES OF SPECULATIVE ART, ALTHOUGH IT STARTED AS RELIABLE. IN OUR TIMES, A PHOTO OF AN ATTACK CAN BE PHOTOSHOPPED THE WAY IT DOESN’T LOOK LIKE AN ATTACK ANYMORE. WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT THIS? HOW IMPORTANT IS ACCURACY TO YOU?

I think it’s a good intention to tell the viewer if the photo is AI-generated, collaged, or real. I am among the few photographers who have a good relationship with AIs and those nice pictures they produce. It would be great to see everyone getting fed up with such sweet images and exotics stopping to be the main motivating interest for the viewer.

I remember wanting to go to India 20 years ago, just like every beginner photographer wanted. Everything is beautiful there, so vivid, real and has a great texture. And I went to India, took pictures there for two weeks, the photos were cool, just like National Geographic stuff — Mumbai, markets, slums. And that was it, I got off the hook. I realized that a much more difficult task is to walk out of your house entrance with a camera in your hand in February and try to find something decent.

AND HOW DID YOU MANAGE TO FIND BEAUTIFUL IN A SIMPLE YARD WITH PANELS?

I began my journey before the rise of "trash yard aesthetics" social media communities, at a time when the post-Soviet landscape wasn't aestheticized at all. It's hard to imagine now, but I vividly recall the shift around the 2010s. Previously, everything seemed merely ugly to me, whereas beauty was associated with palm trees, mountains, and the ocean. The question that intrigued me was: how do I find beauty in parked cars, in a rusty playground, in a nondescript poplar tree?

I started extracting elements from these scenes, cropping and framing them in a way that, if not beautiful, then at least meaningful. Now, it's evident that a nine-floor panel building can possess its own beauty: some may view it with nostalgia, while others appreciate its aesthetics or graphic qualities. This shift is significant because many such spaces have been reappropriated. Previously, they were seen as places of embarrassment — akin to a cluttered room you wouldn't invite guests to see: «Don't let anyone see this! If a foreigner visits, they'll be horrified by such sights!»

Perhaps this reappropriation was aided by foreigners themselves. People from different countries visited us, were struck by the brutalist architecture, and coined terms we hadn't yet embraced. My own career supports this theory: I initially found commercial success in the West. Upon returning to Moscow, I realized that French people admired my work and were willing to pay handsomely for my photos, making our suburbia seem not so bad after all. «Appropriation of space» is a fitting phrase; I believe my «Pastoral» series embodies just that.

WHY DO YOU THINK PEOPLE FROM RUSSIA AND FROM ABROAD STARTED TO FEEL RELATED TO THESE AESTHETICS AT SOME POINT?

I think the shift in perception is akin to rediscovering an old dress that was once despised as a grandmother's garment. Throughout one's life, there's a desire to discard it, until one day, around the age of 30, it's retrieved from the closet and suddenly appears fascinating, pulsating with new hues. Similarly, consider a headscarf — something my mother would never wear, as her own mother adorned one constantly. For her, it symbolized a nightmare, a mark of rural simplicity, a source of shame. Yet today, fashion enthusiasts flaunt similar scarves, vibrant and bold.

Regarding spaces, it's crucial for people to cease viewing them merely as dumping grounds. These places possess their own significance and are not entirely dismal. Perhaps, as individuals traveled abroad, they realized that foreign countries encompass more than just iconic landmarks and tropical resorts; they also feature peculiar, marginalized spaces where people lead lives.

With a more attentive and curious gaze, we've come to understand that the nine-story panel building embodies a profound concept of communal prosperity, equality, fraternity, and an envisioned bright future that never fully materialized. It's a narrative distinct from shame; it's about acknowledging certain events and places with reverence. A sense of distance has emerged — akin to childhood tights: I recall despising them as I spent my youth in them. But with time, a sense of historical context emerged, and I realized they weren't designed to torment me; they were a part of a broader historical narrative.

HOW IS PHOTOGRAPHY DIFFERENT FROM OTHER TYPES OF ART?

The most simplistic viewpoint suggests that photography isn't a form of art; it's merely a technical method. What you produce could either be considered art or something strictly utilitarian. Just as not every ink print on paper qualifies as art — it could be as mundane as police fingerprints. However, I don't approach photography with a specific objective of conveying something; rather, I'm fascinated by photography itself as a phenomenon, as a means of crafting imagery. That's why I've continuously explored photography from various angles and experimented with it throughout my career.

One of photography's inherent challenges lies in its illusion of clarity. It's a structural characteristic — the assumption that every viewer, without any prior knowledge or careful examination, can immediately comprehend what's depicted and its significance. This illusion has made photography a potent tool in propaganda: it's accessible to even the least educated individuals. It creates a false sense of understanding among viewers who believe they've grasped everything. They fail to recognize the context, narrative, or complexities and feel no impetus to delve deeper.

I once embarked on an entire project centered around photography's clarity, meticulously curating diptychs designed to subvert expectations and challenge perceptions. I juxtaposed pairs of images that defied logic: one photo appeared fake, or the other did, or both did, employing a mix of analog and digital techniques. This endeavor was significant to me; I devoted three years to it. My aim was to rupture the facade of "everything being clear" and plunge into a realm of uncertainty and ambiguity.

HOW DO YOU FEEL ABOUT THE FACT THAT PHOTOGRAPHY IS NOW AVAILABLE TO A LARGE AMOUNT OF PEOPLE? ON THE ONE HAND, THIS IS A TYPE OF ART THAT IS MAXIMUM CLOSE TO SOCIETY: SHOOTING FOOD, BEAUTIFUL SUNSETS, ON THE OTHER HAND, IT IS DIFFICULT TO DO ARTISTIC OR CONCEPTUAL PHOTOGRAPHY.

We have to accept that an amazing thing has happened. Photography has captured the whole world, and everyone has started to take pictures on a high professional level. Now a kid takes photos with their iPhone, while 30 years ago it was a highly paid profession. And photographic professionalism has lost its value too — it’s now difficult to make money with photography. But it puts professionals into new interesting frames.

After this intoxication and overdose of photographs, there is now a decline, and it seems to me that it will soon be interesting again.

The surge of interest in photography in the 90s, which gave rise, for example, to Rodchenko’s school, did not materialize into anything; it crumbled. We see successful careers of graduates — these are photographers who came to photography school and became painters. And it was a multimedia school initially — for photographers, videographers, new forms of media. I have no complaints against anyone, it’s simply amazing how this happened: everything seemed so promising, a ticket to the future, new technologies... But as a result, nothing really worked out with this new tool. People simply took paint and canvas and began to express themselves. There are several times more professional painters today than professional photographers. It is amazing. 20 years ago no one would have believed this.

AND WHAT SHOULD YOUNG PHOTOGRAPHERS DO NOW, IN YOUR OPINION? THOSE WHO REALLY LIKE THIS PROCESS AND WHO DOESN'T WANT TO GO INTO PAINTING OR SCULPTURE?

If they like the process, then they should continue doing it, and there’s nothing left apart from the process. Some time ago, I decided to create a photo circle. Some time ago I decided to start a photo club. For many years I couldn’t, because I wondered: what can I offer, what can I teach? Any education or studying is directed towards a rational plane. It seems like you promise that people will learn to take beautiful photographs and after that they will become highly paid specialists, there will be exhibitions all over the world, and albums will be published. And any such promise makes me feel kinda sick, because I cannot teach it. All I can teach ends exactly in "you will take a good photo" territory. If a person will get joy from it, then everything past that is only luck or some other skills, other processes.

Now I plan to just take some walks once a week with our photo club, wandering around, talking or being silent, taking pictures, and discussing things. And there’s not going to be any "Point your camera this way, then send your shot to this address and get a million". I can hardly make a living for the most part of my life, so I definitely can’t teach how to make a successful career.

NOW I THOUGHT THAT YOU USED TO WALK ALONE, AND NOW YOU HAVE DECIDED TO GET A COMPANY FOR YOURSELF — SO AS NOT TO WALK ALONE!

Yes! For me, taking a walk is a way of being by myself. Now I have decided to try a different approach, to take walks with a company. We’ll see. It’s not a success story. I worry a lot about how it will turn out to be.

WHAT MODERN PHOTOGRAPHERS DO YOU LIKE? ARE THERE ANY OF THEM AT ALL?

This question always puzzles me. I don’t follow anyone, so it’s embarrassing for me to point at somebody. I conducted a list of people who are interesting to me 15 years ago. But it hasn’t changed since then. I see good photographers who apply effort, they do good stuff. But the territory of discoveries has ended for me.

WHAT ABOUT DIMA MARKOV? YOU SEEMED TO BE COMPARED TO EACH OTHER A LOT.

He was a very good photographer, but did a completely different thing. Dmitry was a classic genre photographer and always stated everything straight. And it is principal for me to have something slipping away, to have something wrong. On the other hand, he documented things he saw, just like I do. He was close to me in this kind of way, and I value that.

PROBABLY HE WAS, SPEAKING WITH YOUR OWN TERMS, MORE ABOUT CLOSE-UPS, AND YOU’RE ABOUT LONG SHOTS?

I shoot this way because that’s how I react to trespassing the border, and that helps to keep the dramatic effect in my photos. Dmitry always took dramatic stories, though. His focus was bound to marginal territories, but not spaces, more like people who were put to the border of society which we try not to see. And it’s close to me: Dmitry tried to find the border that we try not to cross.

We all know that there is a different world beside ours: in a neighboring apartment, house or district, there is a whole other Universe. Even within a range of 500 meters around us, there is a completely different life. And we seem to keep the borders. For me it’s on an imagery level — a construction site, a hole in a fence, for him — it’s a door into an orphanage, hospice or a rehabilitation center. I think we can be unified by looking from that angle. Dmitry certainly looked for territories where such a border was visible. The border of a different world that can live by different rules.

IS IT POSSIBLE NOW TO PURCHASE YOUR WORK SOMEWHERE?

I fell out of this process. For a long time, only the Paris gallery Polka worked with me, and in Russia I represent myself. For now I function at an amateur level: I show photos from the computer, we discuss something, I try to explain something on my fingers. I don’t print large exhibitions, but you can purchase photographs from me personally.