There is a peculiar alchemy that happens when a place, steeped in layers of history and forgotten stories, finds its visual chronicler. It is a process I understand intimately, one that echoes through my own ongoing work, “Echoes of the Past,” where I grapple with the visible and invisible threads connecting memory to the mundane and I apologies for mentioning it again, feels like I bring it up all the time. It is not enough to simply see, one must truly feel the weight of time, the whispers of past lives embedded in stone and soil. Max Sher’s “Snow,” published with the meticulous care we have come to expect from The Velvet Cell, precisely achieves this, offering an intimate, almost visceral exploration of Kars, a city that sits at a crossroads of empires and human destinies. This is not some detached academic exercise, it is a profound immersion, born from a deeply personal lens, and it resonated with me right down to my bones.

Sher’s own journey into photography, sparked by the sheer boredom of an interpreter’s existence at a paper mill on the Russian-Finnish border, is a testament to how the most profound paths often begin with the most unassuming steps. Growing up a “Wandering Jew,” born in St. Petersburg and finding a “second home” in the “hellhole” of Siberia, gave him a unique vantage point on how places, particularly the post-Soviet landscape, are perceived both internally and externally. This lived experience fuels his unwavering commitment to a “de-exoticizing” approach, one that consciously rejects the facile, often arrogant clichés propagated by Western media – the bears, the orthodox churches, the pretty young girls. His aim, instead, is to elevate the everyday built environment, to present the “realness” of spaces that, for so long, were either erased by Soviet “socialist realist” art or reduced to caricatures. His ambitious “Palimpsests” project, from which has grown out of “Snow” undoubtedly draws its philosophical lineage, set out to be a “photographic catalogue of archetypes,” capturing the very fabric of the post-Soviet urban landscape, those mundane elements “poignantly familiar to any post-Soviet person.” The systematic way he approached this, even using tools like Google Street View to hunt down specific examples of a typical supermarket or a courthouse, speaks to a dedication to authenticity that I find incredibly compelling. It is a quiet form of political commentary, hidden within the very banality of the structures, and for Sher, it is a conscious “decolonizing project” of his own perception, a brave stand against imposed narratives in a system that could label a photographer a “foreign agent” for merely existing independently. His comfort with both soft, atmospheric light and the “hyperreal” sharpness of sunny pictures, which strip away “opinion” or “emotion” to leave pure documentation, further underscores this rigorous commitment to an unvarnished truth.

Kars itself, as “Snow” so eloquently reveals, is a city built on palimpsests. Its history, a dizzying succession of Armenian kingdoms, Byzantine rule, Seljuk conquests, Ottoman strongholds, and Georgian fiefdoms, culminates in the pivotal Russian annexation during the 1877-78 Russo-Turkish War. Reading about the establishment of the “Kars Oblast” under a “military-native government,” a form of colonial rule where civilian affairs fell under military jurisdiction, paints a stark picture. The text speaks of the “40 years of black days” for Turkey, of forced migrations and the Tsar’s strategic resettlement of Russian religious dissidents. It is a history of brutal power plays, where “good old’ wars” and diplomatic bargaining crushed the aspirations of smaller nations, a reality that makes the philosophical undercurrents of this book resonate deeply. Sher’s first impulse to photograph Kars came from Orhan Pamuk’s novel “Snow,” a work that locals told him was “not true to facts.” This, for Sher, was “wonderful,” a liberation from the very notion of objective truth in photography. He spent a month there, immersing himself, “talking to people, drinking raki, strolling around town, collecting impressions and often catching myself thinking how it was all similar to Russia there.” This experience was revelatory, a moment where he saw Russia “more clearly, as if in a mirror,” reaffirming his belief that “the best remedy for orientalist arrogance is to look for similarities wherever you travel, rather than othering differences.” The inclusion of Alexander Pushkin’s powerful epigraph from “A Journey to Arzrum,” where the poet’s own “photographic fate was also to be decided in Kars,” adds a deeply poignant layer, weaving literary history into the very fabric of Sher’s photographic exploration.

Throughout “Snow,” Sher’s lens finds the profound in the prosaic, inviting us to contemplate the quiet dramas of everyday existence. Take, for instance, the image featuring four older gentlemen playing Okey in the now-defunct Yesilyurt kiraathanesi. The high ceilings, the late 70s decor, the stark white snow outside the window contrasted with the autumn leaves on the trees, and the distant cars driving past, all create a tableau that feels timeless and deeply human. I can almost hear their murmuring voices, imagining them “watching the world go by and put the world to rights,” a quiet dignity in their shared space. It is a powerful evocation of human connection amidst historical currents. Another image that seized my attention shows workers throwing sand from a tractor trailer onto an icy road under a vast, blue sky. Despite the clear conditions, I can almost feel the bitter cold emanating from the photograph. It is a subtle but potent reminder of the often unseen labour that keeps our world moving, a stark contrast to the sophisticated gritting trucks with their amusing names that we celebrate here in the Scotland who are kind of famous globally now because of the interactive map you can watch the, along with the names we all chose in votes as a country (Chilly Connolly, Grittly Come Dancing, Snowrassic Park and more).

Then there are the poignant ruins of Ani, once a magnificent Armenian ghost city, now reduced to a rugged, rocky hill covered in patches of snow. The detailed caption, outlining its pillaging by Mongols, its destruction by earthquake, and its passage through countless empires before its inclusion in the UNESCO World Heritage list, provides a haunting backdrop to the image. Sher captures a simple sign, starkly red against the neutral browns, greys, and white snow, pointing towards an exit. The pop of that red arrow, a signal of departure or ending, against such a profound historical silence, is an artistic gut punch. It makes you feel the immense weight of time and impermanence, the fleeting nature of even the grandest civilisations. Similarly, the entrance to the defunct Karsspor stadium, built on the site of a Russian military cemetery from the 1877 invasion, presents a desolate landscape. The snow separates us from the scene, but the distant road, the solitary hut with its striking green door, and the neighbouring yellow doors create a fantastic contrast, drawing the eye into a scene laden with the ghosts of past conflicts and forgotten sporting dreams. These are merely a few examples, but they are indicative of the great images that proliferate throughout this remarkable book.

The meticulous presentation by The Velvet Cell, from the book’s substantial 120 pages to its tactile hardcover and assumedly elegant design, serves to elevate Sher’s vision further. The inclusion of academic texts, notably Dr. Kübra Zeynep Sarıaslan’s essay on Orhan Pamuk’s novel, reinforces Sher’s own conviction that photography, on its own, cannot “objectively transfer information or tell coherent real stories.” It is the interplay of image and text that allows “Snow” to truly stir feelings, associations, and thoughts, deepening our engagement with Kars’ intricate social context. Max Sher’s “Snow” is not merely a collection of photographs, it is a profound act of looking, a conscious challenge to the simplistic narratives that so often define our understanding of distant places and complex histories. It reminds us of that empathy and understanding blossom not from exoticism, but from seeking commonalities in the everyday, from acknowledging the shared human experience that transcends geopolitical boundaries. This book, in its quiet power and unflinching gaze, is a testament to photography’s enduring ability to make us feel and think, and for that, it is truly exceptional.

Regards

Alex