Today, only 25% of the population lives in the countryside, and many villages are either depopulated or abandoned entirely. This project is deeply personal to me—it is etched in the memories of my childhood, spent in these disappearing villages, surrounded by the warmth of family, the smell of freshly baked bread, and the colors of traditional textiles that adorned every corner of the home. These vanishing interiors are not just physical spaces—they are living archives of memory, heritage, and tradition. They are the essence of a world that shaped me and countless others, a world that is now fading away before our eyes.

This project is about more than documenting rural decline—it is about feeling. It is grounded in the emotions of childhood and in the bittersweet nostalgia of revisiting places that once felt alive, full of warmth and connection. It is also about the feelings of loss and helplessness that come from observing this disappearance over time. To walk through an empty village, to hear nothing but the wind, is to feel the weight of what is being lost—not only places but also the very fabric of who we are as a people. There is grief in this project, but also love—a deep respect for the lives and traditions that shaped these spaces. Whenever I enter one of these homes, I feel the presence of my own grandparents—those who have passed. The silence of these homes is heavy, filled with the echoes of a life that once was. I remember my grandmother’s hands, worn and strong, embroidering towels late into the evening, and my grandfather telling stories. Their presence filled the house, and their love and care built a world that felt eternal. But now, as I walk through these empty or fading homes, I feel an ache in my chest. My grandparents, like so many who lived in these villages, carried the traditions, the stories, and the soul of the Belarusian countryside. Their loss feels not only personal but collective—a loss for the country itself.

The decline of the Belarusian village mirrors global trends, but it is also rooted in our unique history—shaped by Soviet collectivization, wartime devastation, and the challenges of the post-Soviet era. These villages are not just disappearing physically; they are taking with them the stories, values, and aesthetics of a way of life that cannot be replaced. Each abandoned house, each discarded photograph, is a reminder of how fragile our cultural heritage truly is.

More than ten years ago, while working on my “Pagan” book, I began to notice the visual disappearance of the Belarusian village. The colors of houses and interiors, the daily rhythms of life, and the walls filled with family photographs were all vanishing. Nearly every house I visited had its own iconostasis of photographs—images of relatives, icons, hand-embroidered towels, and paintings. There were damask or painted carpets on the walls. But as the older generation passes away, this visual culture is being discarded. Children and grandchildren clear out the houses, throwing away these symbols of memory, or they renovate the homes to their taste, erasing the old aesthetic entirely. The vibrant, unique world of the Belarusian village is disappearing, and with it, a piece of our collective identity.

The Belarusian village feels like an island, a fragile archipelago slowly sinking into the sea. But it is also a place of profound beauty and resilience, shaped by hard work, connection to the land, and the love of those who came before us. This project is my way of holding onto those feelings, of preserving the essence of a world that shaped me and so many others. It is a reminder that even as the world changes, we must not lose sight of where we come from