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About the PhotographerMarylise Vigneau is an award-winning documentary photographer. Raised in a secretive Parisian family, Vigneau developed an early taste for investigation and justice. She prefers long-term projects to better explore memory and place and likes to capture in-between moments in regions saturated with history and socio-political tensions. She has worked for The New York Times, Wall Street Journal, The Guardian, Politico Europe, and Libération. |
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Set in war-torn Ukraine, this project explores the intimate and human dimensions of the full-scale Russian invasion, tracing grief, loss, and the profound ways war alters identity, memory, and the texture of daily life. Looking beyond the headlines and with a tender lens, it focuses on the unfolding aftermath of the war to preserve its memory. Through portraits of love—both enduring and broken it reflects the suffering and resilience of individuals impacted by war, offering a personal and social perspective on these dark times. Amidst the noise of war, it captures a longing that endures, stronger than violence, for justice, truth, love, and peace. It also aims to serve as a body of evidence.
Two girls dance at the base of Kyiv’s “Mother of Ukraine” statue, a fleeting joy amid war. © Marylise Vigneau
Truth in Photography: It has now been four years since Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine, and twelve years since the Russo-Ukrainian war began. Amidst this conflict and chaos, why did you decide to focus on love?
Marylise Vigneau: Eros and Thanatos have always walked together. Near my home in Austria lives a Ukrainian refugee who briefly returned to Kyiv to finalize her divorce. There, one evening, she started a conversation online with a gamer. Words soon became intimacy, and she drove across the country to meet him, not far from the frontline — a soldier with a few stolen days. They fell madly in love. When I heard this story, I understood that love, in all its forms, would become a thread of my work in Ukraine, a counter-narrative to the cult of death that Russia has instituted in the sad prison it has become. Moreover, images of bombings and wounded civilians remain crucial as testimony, but I wanted to address the intimate dimension of this war.
Marylise Vigneau: Eros and Thanatos have always walked together. Near my home in Austria lives a Ukrainian refugee who briefly returned to Kyiv to finalize her divorce. There, one evening, she started a conversation online with a gamer. Words soon became intimacy, and she drove across the country to meet him, not far from the frontline — a soldier with a few stolen days. They fell madly in love. When I heard this story, I understood that love, in all its forms, would become a thread of my work in Ukraine, a counter-narrative to the cult of death that Russia has instituted in the sad prison it has become. Moreover, images of bombings and wounded civilians remain crucial as testimony, but I wanted to address the intimate dimension of this war.
Sumy, April 16, 2025. A woman passes in front of the aftermath of a Russian shelling in Sumy. © Marylise Vigneau
© Marylise Vigneau
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On April 19, 2025, a prisoner exchange occurred at the Belarusian-Ukrainian border between Ukraine and Russia. While the exchange happened at the border, families gathered at the general hospital in Chernihiv, anxiously awaiting news.
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TiP: Your Ukrainian work seems to encompass different styles, from documentary to composed portraits. How did your approach for these different photographs differ? Do you have a preferred style? Was the choice of style artistic or out of necessity?
Vigneau: My work is a puzzle in the making. It remains open, like the reality of a country at war, unfinished, shifting, resistant to fixed meaning. I move between portraits, fragments of daily life, and moments when history becomes visible: a funeral, a prisoner exchange. Yet for me, it all belongs to the same documentary field. Life is the substance I work from. Every image is composed, and each echoes to the others; together they build the frame of the narrative. It is not a question of preference or choice; the different approaches answer and complete each other. They are not opposing strategies but different temporalities within the same inquiry. I observe, I listen, I question, I absorb, and gradually a narrative coheres. Beyond cultural differences, in the end, human sentiments and behaviors are remarkably universal.
Vigneau: My work is a puzzle in the making. It remains open, like the reality of a country at war, unfinished, shifting, resistant to fixed meaning. I move between portraits, fragments of daily life, and moments when history becomes visible: a funeral, a prisoner exchange. Yet for me, it all belongs to the same documentary field. Life is the substance I work from. Every image is composed, and each echoes to the others; together they build the frame of the narrative. It is not a question of preference or choice; the different approaches answer and complete each other. They are not opposing strategies but different temporalities within the same inquiry. I observe, I listen, I question, I absorb, and gradually a narrative coheres. Beyond cultural differences, in the end, human sentiments and behaviors are remarkably universal.
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In a park, in Odesa, a drunk young man plays with flowers. "I’m numb" he said, staggering. His nights are spent wandering the city and getting drunk. The psychological toll of the war on youth, will be one of the most pressing issues of the coming decade in Ukraine. |
© Marylise Vigneau
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Odesa, Ukraine, May 2023. © Marylise Vigneau
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Arseniia Terzi is a dancer and a model. On that day, amid the war imposed on Ukraine by Putin's Russia, she poses for a Moldavian clothing brand on a beach in Odesa. Behind her, the Black Sea seems so calm, yet death can appear anytime in the form of a missile fired from a Russian warship. |
Kyiv, April 12, 2025. © Marylise Vigneau
At the start of the full-scale invasion, Vania defended the Kyiv region and its airport. He witnessed the brutality and looting of Russian troops. On March 12, under siege and near collapse, his unit was attacked from behind. He threw grenades and killed for the first time, feeling only the rush of survival.
In April 2022, while recovering from pneumonia, he met Vladislava on a dating app. After weeks of long conversations, they met in person during his short leave. They fell in love quickly and got engaged before he returned to the front near Bakhmut. He remembers the trenches, the mines, the early morning shifts to catch a phone signal, the dogs he talked to, and his fallen comrades.
There were long stretches of waiting between moments of violence.
When their position collapsed, his unit had to retreat five kilometers under open artillery fire. Then Vania stepped on a mine.
He remained conscious, feeling the burning pain in his neck, and knew instantly that he had gone blind. After the evacuation, he woke up to the sound of a respirator, and it reminded him of a football stadium. He hated it.
After a week of silence, Vladislava learned what had happened through his mother. She wasn’t afraid—just relieved to see that his arms and legs were intact, and that he was still the man she loved. They soon married. Today, they are raising a baby boy together.
TiP: How did you go about creating your portraits? How involved were the subjects in their creation? When telling these emotional stories with composed portraits, how do you try to reach a sense of truth?
Experience has taught me how to approach a subject and decipher people's fears or reservations. In portraiture, the image is built through dialogue and establishing trust. It emerges from time spent listening, from attention to gesture, to silence, to space. I often photograph people in their environments. I observe the objects around them, the light. If something calls my attention, I ask about it. It enters the frame only if it carries biographical or emotional weight. Nothing is introduced to produce meaning; meaning must already be there. The image with the prosthetic eye explains how I proceeded. First, I did a portrait of Vania, who lost one eye on the front line. His wife, Vladislava, was helping him joyfully, gently. After some hesitation, feeling almost guilty, I suggested photographing the prosthesis placed on their joined hands. They both agreed naturally, and soon Vladislava had removed the prosthetic from Vania’s eye socket. This intimate image captures their bond, the tenderness between them, and the strength that has carried them through the life-changing impact of war.
Experience has taught me how to approach a subject and decipher people's fears or reservations. In portraiture, the image is built through dialogue and establishing trust. It emerges from time spent listening, from attention to gesture, to silence, to space. I often photograph people in their environments. I observe the objects around them, the light. If something calls my attention, I ask about it. It enters the frame only if it carries biographical or emotional weight. Nothing is introduced to produce meaning; meaning must already be there. The image with the prosthetic eye explains how I proceeded. First, I did a portrait of Vania, who lost one eye on the front line. His wife, Vladislava, was helping him joyfully, gently. After some hesitation, feeling almost guilty, I suggested photographing the prosthesis placed on their joined hands. They both agreed naturally, and soon Vladislava had removed the prosthetic from Vania’s eye socket. This intimate image captures their bond, the tenderness between them, and the strength that has carried them through the life-changing impact of war.
Kyiv, April 12, 2025. © Marylise Vigneau
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The hands of Vladislava and Vania meet over his prosthetic eyes, a gesture of love and resilience. Vania defended Kyiv and later stepped on a mine near Bakhmut, losing his sight. This intimate image captures their bond, the tenderness between them, and the strength that has carried them through the life-changing impact of war. |
Between two air raid sirens, a woman sits in a Kyiv bar, her face caught in the window, the city reflected around her, a moment of normalcy among the noise of war. © Marylise Vigneau
TiP: Complete the sentence: “Truth in photography is…”
Vigneau: Truth in photography is a complicated matter. I tend to think that truth in photography is an illusion. There is never one truth, only fragments of truth. What matters is the ethics and intentions behind the photograph, how you approach your subjects, what you choose to include or leave out, and how you honor the dignity of the people you are documenting. The most impartial photographer can only hope to show a portion of the truth, at most, an accurate depiction. As one of my favorite photographers, Sally Man said, “What is truth in photography? It can be told in a hundred different ways. Every thirtieth of a second when the shutter snaps, it's capturing a different piece of information.” I was brought up in a strict Catholic school, where the nuns tried to impose “Truth,” stuffing it into our young minds until it felt suffocating. Since then, I’ve remained skeptical. Truth is rarely singular. That said, every moment captured with our cameras holds meaning and, with it, responsibility. Often, a photograph does not have an immediate impact; it is a fragment of a larger story that might briefly raise awareness or shed light on an issue. The survival of dictatorships uniquely hinges on rewriting history and methodically organizing oblivion. This machinery crushes anything that nuances, contradicts, singularizes, or asserts a claim. Documentary photographers protect and preserve memory through their work, extracting clandestine truths and bringing them to light. Moreover, a photograph endures as a document for the future, especially in these times marked by war crimes. A picture can become a piece of evidence, a tool for mobilization and legal prosecution, and a historical record for future generations.
Vigneau: Truth in photography is a complicated matter. I tend to think that truth in photography is an illusion. There is never one truth, only fragments of truth. What matters is the ethics and intentions behind the photograph, how you approach your subjects, what you choose to include or leave out, and how you honor the dignity of the people you are documenting. The most impartial photographer can only hope to show a portion of the truth, at most, an accurate depiction. As one of my favorite photographers, Sally Man said, “What is truth in photography? It can be told in a hundred different ways. Every thirtieth of a second when the shutter snaps, it's capturing a different piece of information.” I was brought up in a strict Catholic school, where the nuns tried to impose “Truth,” stuffing it into our young minds until it felt suffocating. Since then, I’ve remained skeptical. Truth is rarely singular. That said, every moment captured with our cameras holds meaning and, with it, responsibility. Often, a photograph does not have an immediate impact; it is a fragment of a larger story that might briefly raise awareness or shed light on an issue. The survival of dictatorships uniquely hinges on rewriting history and methodically organizing oblivion. This machinery crushes anything that nuances, contradicts, singularizes, or asserts a claim. Documentary photographers protect and preserve memory through their work, extracting clandestine truths and bringing them to light. Moreover, a photograph endures as a document for the future, especially in these times marked by war crimes. A picture can become a piece of evidence, a tool for mobilization and legal prosecution, and a historical record for future generations.
Two teenagers in love stand in front of a map of Ukraine, made from fabric flowers. The map, untouched by Russian annexations and invasions, reflects the borders established at the time of its independence from the Soviet Union in 1991. © Marylise Vigneau
Kyiv, Ukraine, April.4, 2025. © Marylise Vigneau
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On that day, the sun shone brightly and the city breathed in the gentleness of spring. Families filled the parks, and for a moment, the war felt distant. But by late afternoon, the illusion shattered: a Russian missile struck Kryvyi Rih, 400 kilometers away, killing 14 people — including six children. |
TiP: For the documentary photographs, did you speak to your subjects before photographing them? Or did you see the moment, photograph it, and then speak to them afterwards? I’m thinking specifically of the photograph on the young girl on the tank, and the photograph of Nadiia Krasnoshchok at the casket of her grandson.
Vigneau: Concerning the little girl, I saw her from afar, running and frolicking with a playful fox-tail attached to her. And then I saw the destroyed Russian tanks exhibited in the park. I anticipated that she might climb one of them, and I imagined a frame that would include the city in the background. She did, in fact, climb the tank and play for a while. It was a candid moment, but anticipation was the key.
Concerning the grandmother, Nadiia Krasnoshchok, it was the funeral of her entire family, killed in a double-tap bombing in Sumy on Palm Sunday, an attack that shocked the country. Many people had come to attend, but she was the only surviving relative. She was destroyed, screaming curses at Putin and weeping. Addressing her and interrupting her mourning would never have entered my mind.
Vigneau: Concerning the little girl, I saw her from afar, running and frolicking with a playful fox-tail attached to her. And then I saw the destroyed Russian tanks exhibited in the park. I anticipated that she might climb one of them, and I imagined a frame that would include the city in the background. She did, in fact, climb the tank and play for a while. It was a candid moment, but anticipation was the key.
Concerning the grandmother, Nadiia Krasnoshchok, it was the funeral of her entire family, killed in a double-tap bombing in Sumy on Palm Sunday, an attack that shocked the country. Many people had come to attend, but she was the only surviving relative. She was destroyed, screaming curses at Putin and weeping. Addressing her and interrupting her mourning would never have entered my mind.
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Maksym Martynenko, 11, was killed alongside his parents, Nataliia and
Mykola, during a Russian missile strike on Palm Sunday 2025. His grandmother, 71-year-old Nadiia Krasnoshchok, is the only relative alive. |
Sumy,Ukraine, April 16, 2025. © Marylise Vigneau
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Kyiv, Ukraine, April 18, 2025. © Marylise Vigneau
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Tatarin stands with his partner, Angelika, at the Kyiv War Museum, before an installation that recalls the destroyed missiles, sometimes turned into coat hangers in the trenches. For safety, his real name is withheld, as his family remains in Crimea. Descended from Crimean Tatars deported under Stalin, he grew up with stories of survival and resistance. After joining anti-Russian protests, he fled Crimea on his father's advice. In Kyiv, he met Angelika, an internally displaced woman from occupied Donetsk. She had fled after witnessing Russia's bombings and brutalities. |
TiP: How have the conditions in Ukraine impacted how you do your photography work?
Vigneau: The first time you experience an air alert, it feels both unreal and frightening. After a day or two, however, it becomes part of the rhythm of life. I discovered that I am not afraid of the alerts or the explosions. I am not proud of that; it is simply how it was for me. That said, I never went close enough to the front lines to experience the deadly buzz of FPV drones. Let’s say that I found myself more emotionally involved here than anywhere else. I do not wish to elaborate too much about myself. What matters are the conditions in which Ukrainians have been living, four years of full-scale war, countless losses, and a harsh winter punctuated by the regular bombing of energy infrastructure. The exhaustion is visible. I feel committed to building strong images to stand with a country I love more every day.
Vigneau: The first time you experience an air alert, it feels both unreal and frightening. After a day or two, however, it becomes part of the rhythm of life. I discovered that I am not afraid of the alerts or the explosions. I am not proud of that; it is simply how it was for me. That said, I never went close enough to the front lines to experience the deadly buzz of FPV drones. Let’s say that I found myself more emotionally involved here than anywhere else. I do not wish to elaborate too much about myself. What matters are the conditions in which Ukrainians have been living, four years of full-scale war, countless losses, and a harsh winter punctuated by the regular bombing of energy infrastructure. The exhaustion is visible. I feel committed to building strong images to stand with a country I love more every day.
Kyiv, Ukraine, April 10, 2025. © Marylise Vigneau
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In 2008, Olga and her best friend built a small house in the Carpathian Mountains near Ivano-Frankivsk. There, she met Roman, a local with whom she immediately formed a deep bond. They soon began living together and married. They later moved to Kyiv for work. Sharing a love for flowers, they started growing roses seven years ago and nurtured ambitious plans for their business, dreams that were abruptly interrupted when the war began. |
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Portrait of soldier Vitalii Lykhobytsky with his daughter Kira. In May 2023, in the trenches of Luhansk, in the temporarily occupied territories of Ukraine, was scanning enemy lines through a thermal camera. He was wearing a helmet fitted with advanced headphones. Then, a Russian sniper fired. The bullet shattered the camera and pierced one of his eyes. When it happened, his first thought was for his children: Will I ever see them again? And even if he did survive, he feared his injuries might frighten them. It took nearly two years and several surgeries for his face to begin resembling what it once was. Today, Vitalii has returned to civilian life and works for a construction company, contributing to rebuilding a country still at war. |
© Marylise Vigneau
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Kyiv, April 14, 2025. © Marylise Vigneau
Portrait of Olena Fokova, taken in the forest near her home in Bucha. Before dawn broke on 24 February 2022, residents of the Kyiv region awoke to the thunder of Russian artillery and missile strikes. Bucha, once a quiet suburban town, was thrust into the front line of Russia’s brutal push toward the capital and later became the documented site of a brutal massacre. That very morning, Olena fled to Poland with her daughter. Her husband, Serhii, drove them to the border before returning to Kyiv, intending to enlist in the army. It was the last time she saw him.
Shortly afterwards, while he sat in a car parked in front of their house, their phone call was abruptly cut off—and his voice was never heard again. Neighbours later said the car remained there, untouched, with no sign of blood—only that Serhii had vanished. In October 2024, a letter arrived informing her that he was being held captive in Russia. Later that month, after a prisoner exchange, news came: Serhii was alive but had been tortured and was barely able to walk.
Olena finds solace in her work as an art therapist for adolescents with mental disabilities.
TiP: Is there a particular story that sticks with you the most from this project?
Vigneau: There are so many stories, but one stays with me vividly. One of the images is a portrait of a young woman, sitting on the floor, crying and holding a bouquet of dried roses, wearing a bulletproof jacket. Her loss was only three months old. At one point, she touched the gloves of her deceased boyfriend, a sensual gesture. Those gloves had protected his body, the flesh of the man she loved. I kept photographing until my own tears blurred the frame. In the end, we were sobbing together on the floor.
Vigneau: There are so many stories, but one stays with me vividly. One of the images is a portrait of a young woman, sitting on the floor, crying and holding a bouquet of dried roses, wearing a bulletproof jacket. Her loss was only three months old. At one point, she touched the gloves of her deceased boyfriend, a sensual gesture. Those gloves had protected his body, the flesh of the man she loved. I kept photographing until my own tears blurred the frame. In the end, we were sobbing together on the floor.
Kyiv, Ukraine, April 18, 2025. © Marylise Vigneau
Nikita used to send messages to Anna daily from the front, always starting with "Hello, sunshine."
He was killed by a mine while fighting for Ukraine.
They met in Kyiv in October 2024. Two loneliness met each other, and the bond and trust were immediate. But their time together lasted just a month.
Nikita was a Belarusian who once worked in Russia to escape a troubled home. When the full-scale invasion began, the war deeply upset him. It prompted him to leave Russia, hoping to start anew back in Belarus. Yet the war in Ukraine haunted him, and he created a Telegram channel to educate other Belarusians misled by propaganda. Soon Nikita found a way to join an international battalion and came to Ukraine. Fighting for Ukraine was also a fight for Belarus' freedom.
Initially, he fought on the frontline near Kharkiv before becoming a drone operator.
His father, who was staunchly pro-Russia, wished for his death, calling him a traitor.
On November 30, Anna received a call from one of Nikita’s fellow soldiers. The words were simple and devastating: “Nikita 200” — military code for killed in action.
Anna wears his bulletproof jacket and shirt, carrying a bouquet of roses he had given her. As she clutched his gloves, her tears flowed. Her voice breaks as she recounts how she visits his grave with two sets of headphones, listening to the music they once loved together.
TiP: How did meeting and photographing these people make you think about your own life?
Vigneau: If I am drawn to telling the stories of others, it is certainly not to reflect on my own life. Yet these stories do not vanish once the encounter ends, and some embed themselves within my emotional landscape. What struck me profoundly in Ukraine was the pervasive uncertainty, the impossibility of projecting oneself into the future in wartime. This mental condition, living without the assurance of tomorrow, is something I observed repeatedly. It reinforced my own obsessive awareness of fragility and of time. Not in a dramatic way, but as a constant undercurrent.
Vigneau: If I am drawn to telling the stories of others, it is certainly not to reflect on my own life. Yet these stories do not vanish once the encounter ends, and some embed themselves within my emotional landscape. What struck me profoundly in Ukraine was the pervasive uncertainty, the impossibility of projecting oneself into the future in wartime. This mental condition, living without the assurance of tomorrow, is something I observed repeatedly. It reinforced my own obsessive awareness of fragility and of time. Not in a dramatic way, but as a constant undercurrent.
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In front of Chernihiv’s General Hospital, where recently released prisoners of war are taken for medical care, a man is wrapped in a banner bearing the portrait of his son, who remains captive in Russia. For the past two years, he has attended nearly every prisoner exchange, hoping for his son’s release. That day, however, brought yet another disappointment. |
Chernihiv, Ukraine, April 19, 2025. © Marylise Vigneau
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Kyiv, Ukraine, April 14, 2025. © Marylise Vigneau
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Anna Pavelko, 18, an art student, lives in a small dormitory within a student residence. She grew up in Zaporizhzhia, where her childhood was filled with dance, theatre, and drawing—she can’t recall a time before she began to create. When the full-scale invasion began, she fled the shelling and spent four months in Poland. She eventually settled in Kyiv, where her work explores themes of displacement and the body in wartime. |
© Marylise Vigneau
Vladislav, 28, and Valeria, 22, both from the occupied Donetsk region, met just before the full-scale invasion began. They spent only two weeks together before he was deployed. A civilian mine clearer before the war, Vlad joined the army to continue his mission—making Ukraine safer, one mine at a time.
“For me, the war started eleven years ago,” he says.
They met in a café. Valeria remembers his orange cap, his charisma, and the way his eyes locked with hers, sparking an immediate connection. Vlad called it déjà vu. On August 9, 2022, while dismantling a mine, Vlad was severely injured. After 10 days in a coma, he woke up blind, his eye sockets empty. But Valeria was there. He touched her face, trying to convince himself it was real, though his memory of her had already blurred.
At first, he tried to push her away, thinking she deserved a better life. But she stayed. In the hospital in Donetsk, he proposed with flowers and meringues.
Three months later, Vlad left the hospital. He now wears prosthetic eyes—his favorite is tiger eyes,worn with pride. “My disability is part of who I am,” he says.
