Last month, a storm was brewing around the photography exhibition (MORE THAN ONE PHOTO THE HISTORY OF BULGARIAN PHOTOGRAPHY 20TH CENTURY,  December 9, 2025 – March 9, 2026) at the Sofia City Art Gallery (SCAG), echoing—at least in tone—the controversy surrounding Valentin Kalínov’s widely discussed text on the Lorca exhibition at the National Gallery (the Palace). The two cases are, of course, unrelated; the overlap feels more like a coincidence than a connection. Still, it prompted me to reflect—admittedly from a non-expert perspective—on the place of photography in our local cultural landscape.
There has long been a noticeable gap between photography and other visual arts in Bulgaria. My personal impression is that photography has often been regarded as secondary—like a distant relative who is present but rarely the focus of attention. When photography does appear in major galleries, it is often to fill a programmatic gap or as part of a competition or biennial format. Truly independent, conceptually driven, large-scale photography exhibitions in prominent spaces remain the exception rather than the norm. In fact, over the past decade, such instances have been surprisingly few.
Among larger institutions, SCAG has made a notable step forward by presenting at least one significant photography exhibition each year in recent years, often featuring internationally recognised artists. One might question whether this is enough to be considered progress. While it may not be sufficient on its own, it is certainly an improvement compared to the silence that preceded it. Small institutional gestures like this can sometimes begin to shift broader attitudes. Additionally, it is worth noting that SCAG's exhibitions tend to remain on view longer than usual, allowing them to reach a wider audience.
In contrast, the National Gallery (both the Palace and Square 500) appears more cautious, at times to the point of being overly restrained. Photography remains an occasional guest there, rather than an integral part of the program. Fortunately, other spaces approach things differently. The Sofia Arsenal – Museum of Contemporary Art (even if only sporadically), Credo Bonum (increasingly so), and especially Synthesis Gallery show that photography can function as a central pillar of a program, not merely as an accent.
Synthesis is, of course, a specialised photography gallery, so it is not a fully comparable case—but that is precisely what makes the difference so visible. Its program is consistent, clearly curated, and supported by discussions, screenings, and events that feel like a natural extension of each exhibition. Since Nadezhda Pavlova and Nikola Mihov took over, the gallery has leaned toward more ambitious and conceptually grounded projects. Not every exhibition resonates equally—and that is perfectly fine. What matters is the presence of a professional, engaged approach to both curating and presenting photographic work.
Looking back, the current situation is not entirely surprising. For years, Bulgarian photography operated within a relatively closed circuit—centred around biennials, competitions, and more conventional formats, often shaped by a somewhat kitschy, FIAP-style aesthetic. The result was work that felt predictable, safe, and at times disconnected from broader developments in contemporary art. This model remained dominant well into the early 2010s, while many of the more compelling photographic voices stayed largely under the radar, appearing mainly in isolated, low-profile exhibitions with limited media visibility and promotion.
​It is perhaps no wonder, then, that photography still struggles to be fully embraced by wider audiences. The issue is not a lack of sympathy for the photography, but a lack of clear criteria and positioning. Photography does not need to be defended—it needs to be articulated. It needs curatorial direction, visibility in central galleries, and a stronger presence within the context of contemporary art. It also needs authors who are willing to experiment, to take risks, and to develop distinct voices.
Even if one does not always appreciate all the mechanisms through which contemporary art is promoted, they often play a necessary role in bringing visibility to artists and practices. What is needed are projects built on strong concepts—not loosely framed themes that invite broad participation and selective curation afterwards. While the latter approach is convenient and widely used, it rarely leads to genuinely memorable exhibitions.
In many ways, photography is not lacking in potential. There are compelling authors, diverse themes, and still-unexplored directions. What seems to be missing are spaces with the confidence to take risks—and the willingness to present work that goes beyond what is comfortably familiar.
Perhaps if we begin to think more seriously about this, the recurring question—whether photography truly belongs within the core of visual culture—will eventually become irrelevant. Photography is already a language. The real question is whether we are prepared to engage with it as such.
I find it fitting to end on a more optimistic note, with a quote by Kristian Takov:
“Bulgaria wakes up terribly slowly, but the sun has already risen… Getting up is inevitable.”
It may not have been said with photography in mind, but it feels just as relevant here. And if we are already talking about awakening, there is no reason not to include Bulgarian photography in the process.
​
March, 2026

The photo book from the project “Father and Son” by Valery Poshtarov is now available to experience, completing the cycle of this great journey, a surprisingly multilayered and special photographic project. It is one of the most powerful photography projects a Bulgarian photographer has created in recent years - perhaps even ever.
To hold your father’s hand - such a natural and seemingly simple gesture of love- turns out to be a major emotional challenge once you have grown up. Seen through the lens of photography, it carries a particular impact. One of the things we lose as we grow up and become men is the ability to communicate fully with our parents. This project makes you reflect on the prejudices and stereotypical roles we inherit across generations. These often determine the direction of our communication with the people closest to us; sometimes they cripple our instinctiveness, and other times they alienate us from one another.
Valery has discovered a gold vein - a project that is both simple in its structure and deeply human and universal in its message. The project moves between classification and a kind of cataloguing of fathers and sons from different geographical regions, from Europe to Asia. To a large extent, it recalls classic photographers with their large-scale portrait series, perhaps most closely reminiscent of August Sander. But unlike Sander’s desire to describe the characteristics of a nation, Valery’s work contains something much more invisible and fleeting: the communication. And, as it turns out, something universally valid beyond any territorial boundaries. By travelling and continually adding new pairs of fathers and sons to his portfolio, Valery draws a geographical map of the desire to restore lost communication.
This project inevitably makes everyone reflect on their relationship with their father or son. It invites reflection on how well we manage to demonstrate our love, whether it is even necessary. Or to what extent our “ability” to raise sons is an inheritance passed down between generations. And further, do these abilities change as the world changes? Does the way we communicate change? And will the phenomenon so skillfully captured by Valery still be valid in two or three generations?
One thing is certain: those of us who are now parents are fully aware that, from the beginning of time, the relationship between father and son most often passes through an unspoken love.
The book contains nearly 200 photographs—portraits of fathers and sons prompted by the photographer, an outsider (a stranger), to hold hands. “So what?” someone might say. But in fact, we are talking about grown, mature, and even elderly men - not small boys and their young fathers. This is precisely what gives the project its particular power.
As you flip through the book, you cannot help but feel a knot in your stomach as you sense the quiet, swallowed emotion on the faces staring into the lens. At first glance, the “dramaturgy” is simple - classical, almost cliché. Two people photographed frontally, with a vertically positioned camera. The distance is neither too close nor too far. But at a certain moment, when they least expect it, the photographer asks them to hold hands.
And this is the key to the project - a small, unexpected gesture that pulls the subjects out of their comfort zone. It makes them demonstrate what they feel but rarely show: physical closeness between father and son - something they have lost, namely the ability to communicate fully, even if only through gestures. In each face, you can read the inner excitement. And yet there is also some unspoken satisfaction. The fathers seem more surprised—the sons—not so much.
The varied “background settings” and clothing, which often hint at where the photographs were taken, as well as the obvious resemblance between father and son, add new layers to the untold stories of these pairs of men. We see people with different professions (sometimes pairs sharing the same profession—a sign of continuity), and different attitudes toward their appearance. Yet there is no vanity in any of the photographs. This is extremely interesting.
Usually, when faced with a photographer—whether suddenly or by arrangement—people try to present their best selves. They pay attention to how they look. Here, this human trait is almost absent. We see people in dirty work clothes, in slippers, in bathrobes, bare-chested, dishevelled, with untied shoes, hastily slipping on sandals over socks—completely natural, yet impressive.
Perhaps this is precisely Valery’s mastery—every man, whether father or son, appears dignified. They stand firmly, with calm confidence. Whether it is because the person closest to them stands beside them and gives them strength, or because Valery manages to bring out this presence in everyone, I do not know. But these are portraits of men who radiate strength of spirit—every single one of them. They understand the seriousness of the gesture and perform it without complaint. With dedication. Without grumbling.
I have never cried at a photograph, but this project moved me to tears many times. One of the images that gripped me by the throat shows a father and son leaning against the hood of an old family car, standing at a relatively large distance from each other, at the very moment when Valery asked them to hold hands. Probably startled, they fail to do so. Their hands are tangled in a bizarre knot from which awkwardness radiates. It may be the only portrait in which the father does not look directly into the camera.
As I flipped through the nearly 200 pages, I imagined many things. I wondered whether I myself would dare to hold my own father’s hand—he who has never shown closeness, apparently out of fear of “spoiling” me. And how afraid I am that one day my own son might feel something that would make him not want to hold my hand.
Although much has been written on the subject—including in the latest novel Death and the Gardener by Georgi Gospodinov, which also touches on this aspect of expressing love—this project is extraordinary. It touches everyone who has a living father, which is probably half the population of the earth. And for those whose fathers are no longer here, it is even more special—perhaps more painful because it shows what we might lose.
And that a simple act of closeness, a hand extended, can prove to the people we love most that we love them unconditionally—regardless of cultural differences, generations, social roles, prejudices, and inherited patterns of communication.
Look for Valery’s photo book. It may be one of the most meaningful gifts you can give to your father. Or to your son.

https://www.poshtarov.net/

March, 2026
​

Last night, 
a tree took root in my stomach,
and in my mind - 
the birth of an unwanted child.
Now I'am awake, and I ask: 
Who gives birth to trees?
Who plants them? 
Why does one water them,
and another cut them down?
Are there homes for undesired saplings,
as there are for children? 

January 2026 

The windowless room will collapse first in my heart, then in reality.
Wall by wall, like a foldable cardboard box.
The ceiling will fly away taking its cobwebs in the corners with it.
After that, the shadows will leave as well -
those shadows that my mouth was long unwilling to chew,
and that the imagination unjustly thickened.
The last leaf of the past will tear itself free and thud into the sea like a brick,
yet there will be no pain - in the sea, there is no pain; it only absorbs it.
Out of emptiness, space will be born where I can be young again,
then a child, and grow from the inside out - not backwards, as biology demands.
The recurring dream will melt away, too. There will be no anger or bitterness.
Only that which holds up the sky will remain, and within it,
a new being will rise high in defiance of all the dry lessons on flying.
The windowless room will disappear, and there will be no more rooms without windows.
In my hands, snowdrops will sprout without waiting for winter.
I will love, and with that love, I will build a hacienda from nothing -
only outlines lightly marked in chalk, just enough to know that
once there was a room here, my room from childhood.

January 2026

IN THE MOST HATED ROOM
How do flowers grow
in the most hated rooms,
leaning over tablecloths
while someone underneath drinks
bitterness?

Flowers grow
but only forward.
Their memory has been surgically removed, 
maybe by an anonymous Greek god.
They refuse to turn their heads toward the past
and even sunflowers deny it…
“We deny it”, they say.

​They don't live in the past
but they leave a scent behind -
a letter that someone will open
one day.

January, 2026

BAKU, I DREAM OF YOU
Do you know that I still dream of you?
I dream of your pigeons and houses,
and of your small, ugly apartment blocks
rimmed to the neck with gas pipes.
I dream of your monochrome streets,
among which Zaha's genius shines
in white, and stands out like a drop of blood
on your oil-perfumed face.
I dream of your trees - the lone wolves,
covered in a thin veil of dust,
and I dream of your golden teeth,
and I dream of your Flag Square,
and the bustle in front of the Nizami metro station.
I dream of your voice too — in a glass full of wind,
and of your empty benches on the shore, early in the morning.
I dream of you, I dream of you, my Baku -
how you keep injecting me every Friday
with the solitude of the sixth and the seventh days,
and how I love you even more for that.
I dream about how I’m losing you, but you don't care at all.
Because you don't need me; only I need you.
That's why I dream of you, Baku.
aa / 2023

Blind
                                                                     To Eltaj Zeynalov (1986-2025)
​
We were blind to you, though we believed ourselves to be sighted.
Only the Caspian Sea truly saw you. Every morning and evening,
as you walked down the crooked streets of Bayıl, though it is mute and has no eyes.
How short-sighted we were. We could see the great lake, yet not a single one of the seas inside your soul. We never heard the storms that tore you apart from within, and we dismissed their thunder.
Barriers rose everywhere in front of you, standing like colossi. You passed through them, with pain in your left leg, limping, sometimes breathless, yet still you managed, as if someone were calling you forward.
You showed the world your middle finger,
while a pale smile lay on your lips.
But why did you choose to stand against life, my friend, and not against death?
You spoke gently with the wind,
argued with the falseness in people,
And you yourself stood upright, the last leaf
on the trees along the seaside promenade.
Then you tore free, flew off and fell into the sea quietly, like a tired bird.
Were you waiting for winter, that deceptive handmaiden of death, or did she descend too soon? And you - toward whom were you hurrying, that you could not wait for us?
Now guilt weighs heavily.
We were near and far at the same time.
Our arms had not grown long enough to embrace you, like that black statue in front of the Yarat centre we used to laugh at…
And so it happened, my friend,
It was not us, but the sea that held you first, overtook us,
And after you, only the waves remained, and the silence that hurts more than they do.
---
Eltaj's webpage: https://eltajzeynalov.com/