Postcards Home
Diana Smykova shares the stories of individuals from different countries and backgrounds and their experiences with migration, identity, their sense of space and trauma
Postcards Home is the latest photo project by Diana Smykova. The series explores what constitutes home through dialogue and visuals, sharing the stories of individuals from different countries and backgrounds and how their sense of home is formed through their experiences with migration, identity, their sense of space and trauma.
What is home? How does the concept of home evolve throughout one's life? Is it an image, a structure, memories? What do people associate with home, and how is it influenced by destructive external circumstances?
Diana Smykova: "Last spring I was forced to leave the place that had always been home. I felt as if I were in limbo, neither here nor there, having lost my old support system without finding a new one. To better understand the changes happening within, I began investigating the experiences of others who I met along the way, giving them space to reflect. Soon after, this process of reflection became no less important than the project itself — examining the origins of these feelings of home allowed me to transform them into oneness and acceptance."
The pieces exhibited were made using photographic techniques, both digital and analog. Utilizing sunlight, physical prints, collage and other techniques, the artist illustrates the chaos and fragmentedness of memory, creating symbols and textures representing a sense of home for each subject photographed.
Limited editions prints are available for purchase in Dissolution Gallery, Tbilisi.
Musa.
I was five years old. I hadn't yet gone to school and didn't know anything about religion and the ways of the world. My grandfather was a Bedouin Sheikh, and we used to roam around North Sinai with our camels. Today the Bedouins are becoming less and less nomadic, but there was once a time when they were not tied to any place at all. We would set off at sunrise without knowing where we'd end up that night.
I used to fall asleep on the seashore, often dreaming of a white boat drifting from east to west along the water. The dream was always the same.
One day, lying on the sand, I awoke in front of the same sky, sea and white boat.
Now I live far from my family on the Gulf of Eilat. I'm not particularly attached to anyone. Every night, when I'm alone under the night sky, I sense that I can only be true to myself when I'm alone in nature. That's where I was able to find myself. 30 years on, I still occasionally see that white boat floating along the bay. I carry this with me.
Where do I feel at home? Anytime I'm on a beach, standing in the sand before the sea.
Tanya.
I always knew that I'd leave the place where I was born. I've gotten used to feeling like I don't belong, whether due to bullying at school or my parents' indifference toward me.
I moved in with my grandmother in Krasnodar after finishing school. She always tried to keep me fed, made sure I had warm clothes and kept track of who I was with from her apartment balcony. I resented her.
It was only after she died that I understood that nobody loved me quite like her. Sometimes, when I was still in school, I'd come over at the end of the day. She accepted me for who I was, no matter what. She'd give me loads of advice that I didn't ask for and bought me coats for the winter. She didn't expect anything in return.
I recently moved to Georgia with my husband. It was here that for the first time in my life, I felt the freedom to be myself.
Even so, the only place that I could ever call home remains that room in my grandmother's apartment. The apartment has long since been sold, but I have a recurring dream about flying through the window and taking with me the remaining china that my grandmother used to collect.
Sometimes I see her in my dreams; there's something bright and shapeless about her essence that takes away all of my pain, all of my resentment and anger.
I moved to a new country and took some of my grandmother's old china with me. That way I'll always have a piece of my childhood home in the form of old cups and teapots.
Veronika.
My mom is from Latvia. My grandmother is ethnically Tatar, and my father comes from a Jewish family. I only have a very small amount of Ukrainian blood, but I was born in Kyiv and never dreamed of leaving.
I've traveled to dozens of countries throughout my life, but I wouldn't want to live in any of them. For me, travel is about inspiration and bringing that feeling home. I never believed in the idea that home is somewhere to be found. Home isn't just a place for me — it's where I invest my energy and efforts.
My husband and I were far from Ukraine when the war started. After much back and forth, we decided to go back. My friends often ask me if I'm afraid to be here in wartime. However, after returning, I was overcome by a strong feeling of calm and certainty — I knew at that moment that I had made the right decision. Nothing scares me anymore.
My husband and I have been working together on a project born out of my childhood dream of a sanctuary, a home. Seven years ago, I had a dream in which I was sitting in a treehouse within a forest, bottle of lemonade in hand, surrounded by birds. This silly dream spawned our vegan treehouse café on the bank of the Dnipro River. It became the physical manifestation of my most basic childhood concept of home, a place full of the things you value most.
You shouldn't look for home. Any place becomes home once you love what you have and put your all into it.
Sasha.
I was always moving around as a kid, going from place to place and handed over from relative to relative. One day my mother picked me up from kindergarten in Elektrostal and took me straight to my grandfather's in Yevpatoria. As soon as I started elementary school and started to make friends, my mother returned and took me back as abruptly as she had left me. Shared rooms, a lack of toys and personal belongings and moving from rented apartment to rented apartment. That was my childhood. I straddled two worlds: hatred toward my mother in Elektrostal and love for my grandfather in Yevpatoria, where I spent my summers.
After finishing university, I hitchhiked across Asia where I spent two years in various countries. I never felt a connection to any place, and as soon as I'd settled in somewhere and made friends, everything would fall apart. I'd decide I didn't want to stay, and I'd end up back on the road. I never went back to these places; there was no road home.
I never associated myself with any place or culture. The world is too large; you can't live in one country your whole life. In Russia I felt like a foreigner. Sometimes a place reminds me of Yevpatoria, bringing me back to childhood smells of the ocean and the summer heat. It helped me connect to places.
When I was 25, I bought an apartment in Moscow. I never felt at home there. When I began renting the apartment out, I felt a weight lifted off my shoulders. There were fewer temptations to return to Moscow and more opportunities to be on the road.
I was never able to settle down anywhere and form a bond with people or place. Frankly, I don't think I'm able to. I really enjoy visiting people — I'm constantly moving from place to place. A place is empty and meaningless without people, so my sense of home is scattered around the world.
Mubarak.
I was born in South Sudan, and there my heart will forever remain. Childhood was the happiest of times; that's when I truly felt at home. For me this feeling has to do with Sudanese culture. Sudanese people are kind-natured. Each Sudanese home has an entryway room where anyone may enter and stay for as long as they please. Nobody locks the door to this room. I think this is an excellent representation of how we accept one another in Sudan.
I later moved to Egypt for studies, and I can no longer return to Sudan due to the political situation in the country. After living in Cairo and wandering about large cities, I realized that it wasn't for me. I value nothing more than relationships between people, and in big cities people are distant.
Having found myself in Sinai many years ago, I opened a campground consisting of straw houses right next to the sea. That's when I understood that although I can no longer return to Sudan, I can live life in my way in Sinai. The principles behind my way of life are based on South Sudanese culture and Sufism, principles that were passed down from my grandfather.
I treat guests like family, so any traveler may stay at my camp free of charge if they need to. When I care for people, whether it's greeting guests or meeting old friends, I'm never lonely. It's in those moments that I feel a connection to my childhood and my country. I'm a terrible businessman, but I'm a great practitioner of Sudanese kindness.
That's how I found my second home, a home far away from my country.
Pasha.
I was born and spent my whole life in Saint Petersburg. For me, a sense of home is being connected to a stable place, people I love and a feeling of safety.
On February 24 I understood that my sense of home will never be the same. Everything was as it was, but totally different — a complex and contradictory feeling. It's as if someone went inside my house and began destroying everything without my knowledge.
My wife and I left the country in the beginning of March. When I left, I wasn't sure that I was making the right decision; I wanted to stay near me with my parents and workplace. Emotionally, it was much harder for me to stay in Russia; I could no longer trust anyone or anything. I didn't want to keep waking up feeling afraid and vulnerable.
Now, more than ever, I'm focusing on those things that are fundamental to a sense of home, like talking to family and tea ceremonies. These rituals ground me and connect me to home.
I don't think I would have made the decision to leave the country without my wife. She's the main thing giving me a sense of home. But things changed, and a week ago my wife left me. This event was another hit to my mental strength. My first instinct was to fly back to Russia where I could see my friends, where I could feel safe from the world. My time in a foreign country made me lose my home again.
But I remained abroad. I decided for myself that returning to Russia would be a step backward. These events helped me find my true self no matter where I was or with whom. But it's not over; I'll go through this process all over again.
I now find myself in limbo; I'm neither here nor there. I lost that which was habitual without finding something new.
I'm on the path to finding myself in this new reality.
Emma.
I was born in Vilnius and spent my childhood in an orphanage. When I turned 7, I was taken in by a family that genuinely loved me. It was as if they were raising me not just for themselves, but for the whole world.
I remember how I was always drawn to the mountains as a child. I even marveled at images of mountains on postcards. I first saw mountains in person when one of my school teachers took us mountain climbing in the Caucasus. This was a very profound experience for me. I felt as if the mountains were my essence. Never did I feel as alive and present as I did in the mountains.
I subsequently began participating in mountaineering expeditions. They came so naturally to me, and I never longed for home. Only later did I realize that I'm a person who was torn from her roots, never truly belonging.
Mountaineering became my whole life. After many years of climbing, I sustained an injury, which forever left me unable to undertake serious expeditions. I thought my climbing days were over.
But five years ago I moved to Georgia with one mission and started looking for a place where I'd be able to settle for a little while. I ended up in this mountain village called Ghebi. Standing before the gates of a random house, I caught myself in a strange thought. "I'm home." So I stayed and met the love of my life a few years later.
The local culture is not for me, and I still feel like an outside observer. But this place is unequivocally home, filling me with energy and allowing me to be myself.
Dima.
I lived in Minsk for more than 30 years. I never liked it there and didn't miss it for a second after I left. The only time I felt at home was while visiting Barcelona. That's where I'd smile as I walked through the airport doors. I became drawn to this feeling and knew that Barcelona would be where I'd end up.
I ended up moving to Kyiv instead. I really liked it there. However, I couldn't help but feel that something was missing. Everything was full of love, and I channeled this energy into my art, into freer forms, lines and color.
On February 24, this malformed feeling of happiness and belonging was shattered. I had to leave. When I closed my apartment door on February 25, I realized that perhaps I'll never see my friends, my belongings or my art. It was hard to accept that the life that I had grown to love was now gone and that things would never be the same. I made friends and loved the city. Spring was on the horizon… Now I find myself in between places and emotions. When it comes to a sense of place, I feel homeless.
I've now come to the realization that my home is my inner world and my art. This world is always with me, no matter what happens on the outside. That's how I continue to remain active. That's my home.
Diana.
When I was a kid, I didn't feel warmth and comfort at home. Most of my childhood memories are gone, but I remember feeling cramped, feelings of shame and uncertainty. In my mind I was always distant from my parents and from the place where I lived. I was immersed in my internal world where I dreamed of traveling. When I turned 12, my mother went on a trip for 3 days and never returned. I guess I never learned how to form bonds with others.
When I was 14, I started traveling solo. Strange as it was, I was more comfortable sleeping in a tent or at a gas station than I was in my own bedroom.
I had nightmares about returning home. When I finally did return and told my grandmother about my travels, she really understood me. That was the first step toward reconciling a sense of home.
I traveled for the following two years. I was carefree and wasn't tied down. There was only the road ahead; I finally let go of the past.
But in moments of weakness, when I'd become tired and discouraged, images of home began to take shape in my mind, a place where I could always return. It kept me motivated on my journey.
I truly discovered my hometown once I had already seen the world and only began to value attachment after breaking free. I learned that a sense of home comes about as the result of a journey. It comes from experiencing the diversity of the world – the tropics, the desert. However, you always end up in your own garden. That's home.
That’s it for this newsletter!
If you have any suggestions for interviews, features, topics, interesting work or photo books that I should check out, don’t hesitate to leave a comment or reach out!
Stay safe and keep shooting.
Kim
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Beautiful work..