Frozen River (2019/2025) is an experimental work of photography, film and poetry made in the Saltovka district of Kharkov, Ukraine. Conceived as a gallery installation, the project proposes a relay of meaning in which each of the three media behaves like the other two in order to be itself. Still photographs move the mind to the brink of motion, stillness moves through moving pictures, the visible surfaces of the world are as poetic as they are factual, and a picture's inner imagination lends itself to a poem's images. In the installation, photographs, video and stanzas of the following poem all hang equally, side by side, in the space of the gallery.
this year’s winter saw me staring at a frozen river,
its mirror too snow-dusted for reflection,
its mirror too snow-dusted for reflection,
its depth not easy to guess, like the depth of a grave,
or the echo of an age––
this year’s winter saw me staring at gashes,
ice in the cuts of new constellations,
or the echo of an age––
this year’s winter saw me staring at gashes,
ice in the cuts of new constellations,
it is not easy to guess the rhyme of the chase,
or which facts appearances separate—
or which facts appearances separate—
which illusions best describe air clinging to earth,
and which decimals say the beams in darkness,
and which decimals say the beams in darkness,
this year’s winter saw me me staring at a cold immensity,
uncrossable, barely bridged, too sullen to be wild—
uncrossable, barely bridged, too sullen to be wild—
it is not easy to tell pokeweeds from soldiers,
gaunt years from white evenings,
gaunt years from white evenings,
i swear i saw in the crystal the angel of death
and the lion of life, together in a restless solitude—
and the lion of life, together in a restless solitude—
it was almost a michtam of david, as in a knowledge
that forbids distance and memory alike,
that forbids distance and memory alike,
as in the groan of blasted saltovka,
or the willow swinging in the strands of the flute—
this year's winter saw me staring at an older sadness,
tracing the fault lines of an east-running prayer,
or the willow swinging in the strands of the flute—
this year's winter saw me staring at an older sadness,
tracing the fault lines of an east-running prayer,
a drifting mind is not easy to pull from a moving tomorrow,
or one pure cloud from a fast-scaling wind––
or one pure cloud from a fast-scaling wind––