Whether it is a proponent of exoticism and all that it entails — both fascinating and ethically dubious — photography has, at its core, an ability to reveal. It can reveal that which is shuttered, hidden, and usually unobservable. In the case of the colonial camera, much of this fascination with otherness leads to the path of subjugation that suggests a heinous power, used for dislocation and difference. But not everything that is revealed is done so from the foundation of spectacle and used for nefarious means in unknown geographies. I only mention this because I feel we have entered an age where all photography is expected to be seen as dubious, contracted as ethically disobedient. We are consistently forced to examine author/subject relationships and to dissect what we believe is the power paradigm within images, much of which is built not on intention but on conjecture and a type of signalling that is often more for show than for deliberate conversation—a surface criticality of photography is the means of the day. I believe that, despite good intentions residing at heart, we are perilously close to throwing the baby out with the bathwater, and what we rally against is often more self-indicting than we care to let on. Of course, there are also what we might consider bad actors —particularly in class discussions —that the medium, from what I can tell, avoids at all costs.

With this in mind, and as a spectator, albeit in book form (Cheryomushki, Stanley/Barker, 2025) and fifty years down the line, I find a sense of gratitude developing for portrait work in which I am given access, in which much of the above conversation is rendered relatively nil, and where I do not have to constantly bend a knee to the proposed virtuing in my assessment. I have become accustomed to criticising portraiture more than I have been able to enjoy it for what it is, and that has been a burden. It feels like an insurmountable task to explain the mechanics of this critique, but more often than not, I am left with my own subjective qualifiers for what I believe is benign. I could not lay out a major treatise about the dos and don’ts of such, yet somehow know, for myself at least, when something crosses a line. And in this, I suggest that everything is permitted yet also subject to audience interpretation. This might sound obvious until you are forced to write about such things and try, where possible, to keep semi-consistent, which I probably am not, wholly.

I will freely admit that my knowledge of how portraiture functioned during the latter era of the Soviet Union is based on very few examples, despite living in one of the bloc’s former territories. I am familiar with Libuše Jarcovjáková, Jury Rupin, Boris Mikhailov, and, vitally, the story of Anna Fárová, whose influence during those times, as a voice against the tyrannical regime, is vital. Of course, Koudelka should be mentioned here. So, aside from all the declarations, learning about the conditions for making photographs under Soviet rule has been a bit patchy. Bakharev, to my understanding, is an important figure whose portraits from Siberia hold a significant place in Russian photography. No slouch, Bakharev has been nominated for the Deutsche Börse Photography Prize and was included in the 2011 Venice Biennale.

What strikes me as fantastic about his work from the 70s, found in this book, is the simplicity of his portraiture. There is no excess, and he frames his subjects, often in multiples of two or three sitters, with consistent care. He is pulled back far enough from the people in his photographs to give them space in their wild Edenic summer paradise, and the pictures feel conguent with the frame register of painting, particularly Seurat and Manet. However, one could draft others into the discussion, such as Henri Rousseau. Yet, even then, he is close enough to express intimacy without feeling as though his sitters are pinned like a butterfly to a board for inspection and stasis.

I mention this because, again, I have no pretext from which to trace the lineage of Soviet/Russian photography. However, I can imagine a type of realism, found elsewhere in Russian art, cautiously embedded in Bakharev’s photographs. The pictures in question are straightforward and depict Siberian summers, with people at leisure —sometimes nude, sometimes families, and frequently lovers — within the groupings. What makes them undeniably great is the state of relaxation that he catches his sitters in. It does not feel forced or overly posed, and I would guess that has much to do with Bakharev and his native self. He is not only an observer but also there, enjoying the summer as much as the people he photographs; he documents it all. From my understanding, the nude in Soviet art is where boundaries may be crossed. The state was notoriously difficult about the pursuit of the naked body. When I worked with Jury Rupin briefly in the late 2000s, he explained some of the difficulties to me. Censorship was severe, and repeated offenses could lead to state action. Anna Farova also faced challenges with her landmark Czech publications on pictorialist and modernist masters such as František Drtikol.

In Bakharaev’s work, the long grass and wooded areas provide the figures, both nude and clothed, with a strategic relief in their environment. They are secluded, clandestine in their pursuit of naturalism. As such, posed and arranged in an arrested, prone, and inviting manner, they remind me of alabaster statues, frozen yet with a sympathetic gesture—a quality often missing in overly stoic contemporary photography— bulwarks in the wake of Rineke Dijkstra’s deadpan grip on photographic portraiture. Somewhere between Bakharev and Dijkstra are Tod Papageorge and Judith Joy Ross. Worth noting is that the latter’s portraits have an excess of illumination that makes them nearly haunting. In Bakharev’s photographs, it feels more like an invitation, and there is a pathos to the work that Judith Joy Ross also finds in her work. Though I do not want to compare the two too much, I found myself thinking of her work while looking at this. In thinking of Mikhailov, the closest I get is to his book Salt Lake.

This is a really great book. It makes me wonder what else is in the archive and what I missed when Novokuznetsk, his former title with Stanley/Barker, came out. Upon a cursory glance, it would be great to see this title to see the different approach to the artist’s interior groupings. Still, for the time being, this is something slightly adjacent, and somehow neutralizing the background with the outdoors allows for a pronounced look at the people of Siberia with no further explanation needed and highly recommended.

Nikolay Bakaraev

Cheryomushki

Stanley/Barker