Oleh Malovanyi — photography preserves life as it used to be
An exclusive interview with Oleh Malovanyi—co-founder of the legendary group “Chas,” one of the creative collectives later recognized as a key force in shaping the Kharkiv School of Photography.
The Kharkiv School of Photography is a creative movement known worldwide—from MoMA in New York to Tate Modern in London.
Even during the era of Soviet stagnation, the artist boldly experimented with color, working with complex techniques such as color equidensity, solarization, and the so-called “sandwich” method—or layering, as defined by Borys Mykhailov, another iconic figure of the Kharkiv School.
Oleh Malovanyi has turned 80, and his work still feels strikingly contemporary—a vivid example of how technical innovation, along with a deep engagement with materials and chemistry, can transform photography into high art.
We asked the artist a few questions for the first issue of the Ukrainian Fashion Publishing Newsletter 2026, dedicated to inspiration.
Mr. Malovanyi, there is an opinion that, among your colleagues within the artistic movement, your work stands out not for its brutality, but for its visual poetry. Do you think this pursuit of aesthetic refinement is what made you one of the very few photographers in the city whose works were already being acquired by collectors at the time?
Oleh Malovanyi: I wouldn’t put it that way. I worked with different approaches—there was never a conscious choice to focus solely on aesthetics; everything always begins with an idea. However, at the time when I was participating in exhibitions, more brutal images simply did not pass the selection process in amateur salons.
I had a wide range of works, but in 1979 a fire broke out in my studio. Part of the archive was destroyed, and another part was damaged during the extinguishing. I saved whatever I could—the remaining fragments were put into a bag and set aside for some time. It was a significant loss.
After a while, all my black-and-white materials stored in that bag began to develop mold and, as a result, turned multicolored—and unexpectedly, I found it very compelling. I started separating the film from the paper base of the photographs, and then, using a magnifying glass, hand-colored parts of a series originally created in the late 1960s with aniline dyes, and printed them again.
Later, some of these works were exhibited internationally.
As for sales—yes, it was primarily the color equidensity works that were collected. This technique produces extraordinary colors and a very distinct visual language.
Of the ideas you brought into the creative collective “Chas”—what would you keep in focus today? And what, perhaps, would you adapt to the present moment?
Oleh Malovanyi: That’s a difficult question. I’ve never really thought about it in that way. The group was formed in 1971—it was a completely different time, different conditions, and a different kind of art that we were making.
Photography itself was very different, and it had to be expressed in a way that wouldn’t get us immediately shut down.
We all lived in a state of duality. On the one hand, there was a desire to show what we were doing. On the other—there was the need to present it in a form that wouldn’t be perceived as dangerous by the authorities. Each of us found our own approach.
At first, there were seven of us, and later eight—each with a very distinct voice.
Today, the situation is different.
For you, is photography as a medium about capturing a state—or about directing it, constructing reality?
Oleh Malovanyi: Photography is a dual thing. You either encounter it unexpectedly in the surrounding space, or you conceive an idea at home and then go out to shoot it. Many artists work this way—both then and now.
Even when I had a clear idea, once I stepped into the city, I could see something entirely different. But that could also be a distraction—if you start looking in every direction, you risk losing what you came for.
Borys Mykhailov used to say that you shouldn’t go out with a camera only when you’re in the “right,” inspired state. You should go out in any state.
I have always liked the word “photography” in its literal sense—drawing with light (editor’s note). I believed that photography, no matter how you arrive at it, should speak for itself. Yes, sometimes it’s necessary to explain the context or add something about the idea. But more often than not, photographs do not need extra words.
Are you comfortable with the idea that each viewer sees something different in a photograph—even something other than what you originally intended?
Oleh Malovanyi: I don’t judge it as good or bad. I simply accept it as a given. When I was photographing nudes, I wasn’t trying to shock anyone. If it shocks someone—that’s their reaction, not mine. For me, it was a form of the highest beauty.
You are trained as an engineer, and your work is often discussed in terms of experiments with slide layering and collage. Was this driven by a natural curiosity about the material, or was it a more systematic interest in the tools?
Oleh Malovanyi: I think it was a natural curiosity. I tried almost every technical method that allowed for a different way of working with negatives or positives. At the core of most of my works is the reality that surrounded us. Technical experiments were simply a way to rethink and reinterpret it.
Are you interested in contemporary digital technologies and computer-based image processing?
Oleh Malovanyi: Yes. When the digital era began, a multitude of programs emerged. At the time, they were not accessible to us.
They certainly offer different possibilities, but I haven’t encountered a single program that can perfectly replicate what materials provide—paper, film, chemistry. Some programs are very interesting, but they do not replace working by hand.
Then I won’t ask about artificial intelligence—you probably don’t want to work with it?
Oleh Malovanyi: No. I haven’t worked with computers for the past five years. For me, it’s purely theoretical.
I see that these algorithms, in a way, “consume themselves,” though they do produce certain effects. I’m not sure what exactly they contribute to art.
I once spoke with someone who was giving AI verbal instructions, generating images, and then presenting them as their own photographs. They said, “The idea is mine, so the image is mine.”
I don’t know… For me, it’s something different.
Do you have plans for new exhibitions?
Oleh Malovanyi: No. It’s difficult to plan anything now. We are all, in our own places, living in conditions where there is neither optimism nor certainty. There is constant fluctuation—we are simply living alongside the war.
In such a state, it’s hard to think about creative plans. I haven’t produced anything new. The ideas I developed in 2022–2023 have remained only as written notes. Things like this need to be realized quickly, while they are still alive.
But I couldn’t shoot—here, taking photographs can immediately get you reported to the police. This is not the kind of city for it (Oleh Malovanyi is currently temporarily relocated and has not lived in his native Kharkiv since the beginning of the full-scale war—editor’s note).
How is the role of photography as a medium being redefined today, when so many digital devices are capable of producing images? What, in your view, is the artistic function of such photography?
Oleh Malovanyi: Photography has long been recognized as an art form—but a very particular kind of art. It is not handcrafted in the classical sense: not a painter with brushes and pigments, nor a sculptor working with tools and stone. From the very beginning, photography has been inseparable from technology.
At one time it was film cameras; earlier—glass plates; before that—the camera obscura, essentially a dark surface with an opening. But it has always involved a technical device that makes the image possible.
In that sense, it doesn’t really matter what we use today—film, digital, or something else. For me, it doesn’t fundamentally change the nature of photography. What digital technology has done is make it entirely mass.
Today, almost everyone carries a camera in their phone. Software, algorithms, image processing—these tools sometimes produce results that rival semi-professional equipment. Phone cameras are constantly improving, and photography has become максимально доступною.
And this is where the key question emerges: why do it? Why does a person take photographs?
For most people, photography is about documenting themselves. “I’m here,” “I’m there,” “I’m in front of this building,” “I’m by this fountain.” The rise of the selfie is no coincidence—it’s an entire culture of how to hold the camera and photograph oneself. Most images on social media are about presence and self-affirmation. This has only an indirect relationship to high art.
But if we look more closely—and over time—the picture changes. We used to argue a lot about so-called “everyday photography”—images of home, daily life, ordinary moments. Eventually, we came to understand that this is precisely where photography becomes art.
Because what remains over time is not the act of taking the picture, but its content: how people were dressed, what their faces looked like, what interiors they inhabited, what was present—and what was absent.
Years later, these images are no longer seen as private memories, but as evidence of a time. And in that moment, photography—even when made without any intention of “creating art”—enters the realm of high art.
Not through technique, but through its ability to preserve life as it once was.
Interview: Juliia Brosko, Yanina Provotar.
Photography: Oleh Malovanyi.
The Ukrainian Fashion Publishing Newsletter editorial team extends its gratitude to Ms. Liudmyla Rubanenko and the NGO “Hostynna na Dvorianskii” Club for their support in organizing the interview, and to Ms. Maryna Koneva for her assistance with the photo archive.
