For self-taught photographer Vic Bákin, whose work often deals with youth, queer or sub-cultures, there are some aspects of his project Epitome that were inevitable. “From the very beginning, Epitome felt like a book to me,” Bákin says. “I spent months flipping through these small handmade prints, holding them in the palm of my hands. At some point I felt I had this whole story in my hands; it has to be a book.”

The final form of the project might have been set in stone, but its tone, contents and process did change over time – in particular Bákin’s tender portraits of young people, which have taken on a new poignancy.

“At first, long before the Russian invasion of Ukraine, this project started as an exploration of coming-of-age masculinity. But in 2022, Epitome took the different direction due to the invasion – suddenly this youth found itself in a new menacing reality of the war. Looking at my film archive of the previous ten years, I would say my work matured, but I wouldn’t say it changed much. But obviously the war transformed this project, changing the whole context of Epitome.”

The conflict began to influence what he was photographing, from ravaged landscapes to bullet-riddled walls. It also left a visible mark on the prints too. Working from a makeshift darkroom in his bathroom in Kyiv, at one point he ran out of access to a particular chemical, leaving a bloodied and bruised appearance on the photographs.

In the book, these more recent photographs sit in dialogue with archival work, but the two sets of images – life before and after the invasion – are interwoven rather than arranged into a chronological order. The sequencing was led by Myrto Steirou at the book’s publisher, Void, and together they agreed to keep the structure ambiguous. In a way it had to be like that, Bákin explains, because “the whole point of Epitome was this amalgam of both journeys”.

“I’m also not interested in who’s in the picture, though I know that this guy is now fighting near the frontline, or that guy has left the country,” Bákin adds. “This generic approach was essential to me to build a very personal but universal story and keep the sequencing in Epitome fresh, raw, and spontaneous.”

The book draws to a close with a text written by Bákin called 500 Words for Pictures, which stems from the short diary notes that he often jots down on his phone. Besides complementing the book’s personal nature, it serves a practical function too. “When flipping through the book, I felt it could go on forever, so I wanted an exit point, an epilogue.”

Epitome isn’t meant to be prescriptive, and it isn’t meant to be pessimistic either, despite the harsh circumstances in which it has been made. The images may appear bleak or haunting but the project’s overarching message seems to lie in an extended sequence of sunflowers mid-way through the book, which appear to decay but ultimately remain standing.

“Working with photography for many years, I learned it’s a very universal language. While looking at the book, people will probably feel a spectrum of emotions according to their experiences, as I do myself. These emotions may be different for each person, and it would be foolish to even try to impose what to feel,” says Bákin. “But for me personally, the takeaway is: in the darkest of times, there’s still room for hope.”

Epitome by Vic Bákin is published by Void; void.photo