Prokopyevsk. An unstaged photo story
Author: Andrey Novashov. Photo: Vil Ravilov.
Photographer Vil Ravilov lives in Prokopyevsk and documents life in this mining town. His photo project is called "Pearl of Kuzbass," a pompous nickname for Prokopyevsk during the Soviet era. Today, the name carries a tinge of sarcasm and bitterness. The last mine in this mining town closed six years ago, and coal is now mined exclusively in open-pit mines. Prokopyevsk has been experiencing an economic crisis for decades. Young people are leaving. Men are moving to other regions for shift work. The population is dwindling: in 1962, Prokopyevsk had 292 residents; in 2025, it will be 170,5. Despite all this, local authorities hold a celebration in Prokopyevsk every year—City Day. To save money, it is held on the same dates as the miners' professional holiday—the last weekend of August.
Vil Ravilov began his photo project dedicated to the city in 2017, planning to complete it within five years. But, as he told NeMoskva, in 2022 he realised he'd been photographing the five years leading up to the "SVO." The war changed the context of the photographs. Ravilov decided to continue his series to document how Prokopyevsk changed after February 24th. Experience Prokopyevsk and its passage through time from Ravilov’s perspective via his photographs and commentary.
— The coal preparation plant in Prokopyevsk. The snow had already melted, but it was black from coal dust. At the end of winter, when the snow is cleared, the structure of the snowdrifts is visible. Like a layer cake. Black and white layers alternate. The white ones are from snowfall, and the black ones are layers of "precipitation," the falling coal dust.
This photo was taken in 2017; Prokopyevsk has become slightly cleaner since then. Currently, the pollution mainly comes from coal-fired boilers, turning the snow black. It also comes from private homes, where coal-fired stoves are also used.
— Taken in 2017. It's now within the city limits of Prokopyevsk, but it used to be the village of Maneikha, popularly known as a "kulak" settlement. Apparently, in the 20s and 30s, they used to transport repressed kulaks there. In the background is the Dzerzhinsky mine, the last one in Prokopyevsk to close, in 2019. Part of an open-pit coal mine is also in the frame. There's a banner hanging on a house. These banners, no longer needed by those who printed them, are used by the people of Prokopyevsk for their farming. My mother also lives in a private house, and she has an old banner somewhere, but we can't figure out what to do with it. The building in the foreground no longer exists. The people were relocated, all the houses were demolished or burned.
— Also in 2017. I spent hours walking around the city, taking pictures. Then, a little man appeared from a first-floor window and, without asking him anything, started telling me his stories. I didn't really understand what he was saying, only that he'd worked in a mine his whole life. There was a mountain of snow outside the window, which I climbed to photograph this man, and this is the picture I got. The window frame reflects an industrial chimney with smoke pouring out. A teacher at the Galperin Photography Department later said to me, "Do you realize what you've photographed? Work, home, retirement—that's a person's entire life."
— Navy Day in 2017. The sailors were celebrating in a cafe tent. There was no rowdiness. They were cheerful and calm. I was photographing life in Prokopyevsk and decided to photograph them too.
"This was the former Orbita movie theater. Probably 2018. Then it burned down and was torn down. In the 80s, it was the most modern movie theater in Prokopyevsk, but it was poorly built and quickly fell into disrepair. For a while, they hung various banners on the building, but the wind blew them off. At the moment I was taking this photo, a banner was hanging that said, 'Pearl of Kuzbass.'
— November 2018. A large-scale exhibition was taking place at the Vernissage Cultural and Exhibition Center in Prokopyevsk. They brought large reproductions of paintings by Soviet artists. The photo shows behind the scenes of the exhibition's opening. Many people don't believe that this isn't a staged photograph: the paintings and reality rhyme in both the color scheme and the mise-en-scène. But it truly isn't staged. My photo story about Prokopyevsk is, in principle, not staged.
— Spring 2019. Kiselevsk, a neighbor of Prokopyevsk, is located near Podzemgaz. An underground fire broke out there—the result of coal mining. Residents suffered from smoke, and their children were constantly ill. The authorities stubbornly continued to claim that the fire wasn't coal burning underground, but rather a regular landfill. Heavy equipment operating at the open-pit coal mine was also operating near the village. Some Podzemgaz residents recorded a video asking Canadian Prime Minister Trudeau for shelter. The video went viral on social media, and the protesters were dubbed the "Kiselevsk Canadians." The story reached the federal level. But the protest ended the same way all protests in Kuzbass end—in nothing. Several families were relocated, the rest gave up, continue to live in Podzemgaz, and, it seems, have given up hope.
In this photo, taken at Podzemgaz, a child is looking out of a window. The family is apparently impoverished…
"This was taken near the Prokopyevsk registry office. There are days when they register a lot of weddings at once. These guys and girls are probably guests at those weddings. There's another layer of meaning here. Part of the word "Brazzers" is visible on the car. That's the name of a famous porn studio that likes to film movies about taxi drivers and passengers. First, the driver and passenger talk, then the action unfolds. It's a double-edged sword.
— A few years ago, on May 9th, Prokopyevsk hosted a vintage car show. Owners brought their rare cars, and locals who came to the event took photos next to them. I was just passing by and saw this man in a hat. He also had a retro style, like he was from the 70s or something.
— 2020. The building of the Prokopyevsk Shaft Automation Plant (PSHA) had been abandoned for many years and was frequently on fire. It was dangerous to enter—the roof could collapse. The firefighters couldn't even put it out properly. Then the building acquired a new owner who decided to demolish it. The remains of the roof were removed with an excavator. I managed to capture this moment. I used time-lapse photography.
When I posted a photo on social media, my followers in the comments reminisced about going to this cultural center as kids, attending clubs, clubs, and concerts. I only went there once. The building was sturdy, beautiful, and monumental back then. We couldn't save it, so we simply got rid of it. For me, this photo symbolizes the end of the Soviet era.
The building wasn't completely demolished. They left the ground floor, which now houses various shops. Now, a neon "Magnet" sign glows behind Lenin. Basically, capitalism won. Lenin himself, however, remains. The monument, of course, is now shabby, with bits constantly falling off, but apparently there was no order to tear Lenin down. He still stands there.
"Theatrical labs are what I love most about the theater. There's always something creative, innovative, and contemporary happening there. Directors from around the country put together sketches of plays with local actors over the course of a few days, which they then present to audiences."
These photographs show a sketch of the play "Red Laughter," based on Leonid Andreyev's novel, staged in 2021 at the Prokopyevsk Drama Theater. It's a powerful play about the post-traumatic effects of war. It was a bit eerie to watch. On stage, the main character's murdered comrades come to life in his hallucinations. In the glasses on the table there is blood.
— Summer 2021. An old pile driver. All that remains of the Zenkovskaya mine, which has been inactive for many years. The pile driver, I believe, is still standing.
I also went to Airborne Forces Day a few times and then took separate portraits of the paratroopers. They even included me in their WhatsApp chat, but I later left. They were okay back then, some even a bit oppositional—they were hating Putin. I stopped going in 2021 because I ran out of ideas for photographing them. I think after February 24th, their opposition ended. I don't communicate with the Prokopyevsk paratrooper community anymore, but I know that some of them were mobilized, some signed contracts, some died in Wagner.
— Autumn 2018. Some kind of counter-terrorism exercise was being held at the Prokopyevsk Drama Theater. They were practicing as if a bomb had been planted in the theater. I was the theater's staff photographer at the time. That day, we were asked to leave the building for an hour and a half. You don't often see a police officer in a helmet and full gear in Prokopyevsk. I tried to photograph this training in contrast to everyday life. I didn't get any great shots, but in this picture, the color scheme somehow came together. The guy in the foreground is so colorful—he looks like he's straight out of the Soviet era.
"Five Minutes of Hate" in the buffet of the Prokopyevsk Drama Theater in early March 2022. It was still unclear what would happen next. Russian troops had just entered Ukrainian territory. Back then, it seemed Kyiv would be captured within a couple of weeks.
The employees were seated to watch a short video. It was a jumbled, unstructured clip. Such videos are common on Odnoklassniki. There was almost no video footage from the SVO back then. The video was a composite of everything from the Great Patriotic War to footage of fighting in eastern Ukraine after 2014. The main idea was that the SVO was a continuation of the Great Patriotic War. An order came down from above: show this film to government employees. They were required to report that they had watched the patriotic video. The employees watched it for ten minutes and then went back to their work stations.
In the spring of 2022, an artist who works with space and creates installations wanted to erect a cross at the Prokopyevsk coal mine in memory of all those who died in the mines. Both in memory of those who died in the accident and in memory of those who died from diseases acquired in the mines. I'm not sure exactly how this cross was made. It's a lightweight frame covered with coal on top.
I was photographing the installation of this art piece. The cross was erected beside the road in front of the open-pit mine. There was no fence, so anyone could walk by. But security guards immediately approached us, then more arrived in a car and started filming us with their phones, and I started filming them too. They demanded that I stop filming. Then one of the guards handed me a phone. A polite voice informed me that the mine employees would be forced to remove the installation. So this art piece didn't last long, but the fact that it was installed was important to the artist.
A typical City Day celebration in Prokopyevsk. August 2022. People are having fun. They turned on the car stereo, and people are dancing nearby. In this photo, everything is decent and appropriate, but in general, City Day is the kind of celebration that makes you watch your surroundings, lest someone drunk knock you down. I wouldn't say that today's Prokopyevsk is a heavy drinker, but there's certainly a drinking problem on holidays. Alcohol sales are restricted on these days, but beer bars are open, and you can get something there. Sometimes it seems like people come to the center from outlying areas on City Day not to rejoice, but to get drunk out of grief.
"Maslenitsa, the farewell to the Russian winter. This was filmed in 2023. Maslenitsa in Prokopyevsk is basically the same every year. The city administration organizes the festival. Every year there are the same contests, the same costumes. But the townspeople come, they still enjoy it. The only thing they always complain about is that they don't put enough hay in the effigy of Winter, and it burns too quickly."
"It was in March 2022—the anniversary of Crimea's annexation. I thought back then that they'd celebrate the annexation every year from now on, but for some reason they haven't. Apparently, at the beginning of the Second World War, patriotic events were necessary, but now it seems they're no longer needed."
I monitor people's moods through city public groups and chats. There are "angry patriots" there who criticize the authorities, and there are even those who are against the SVO; they use Aesopian language, which is very interesting to read.
But while at first Prokopyevsk residents enthusiastically commented on news from the front, now everything has completely disappeared. They write mostly not about the SVO, but about traveling, hiking, and playing sports.
"It was 2022 or 23. I just snapped it on my phone. There were a lot of pro-war activities in Prokopyevsk at that time. I don't know if they were ordered from above or if it was a local initiative. They were weaving these camouflage nets and collecting money for the Special Military District. It was mostly women who collected. They stood there with glass boxes, and these boxes were almost always empty. No one gave money voluntarily."
Military equipment stood on this avenue for many years until September 2023, when Putin issued a decree designating Prokopyevsk as a "City of Labor Valor." A stele commemorating Labor Valor was erected on the site where the equipment had been located, and the military equipment was removed. Now it has been transported to another part of the city, and for several months, the equipment was simply moved further down the avenue, where it sat not on pedestals but simply on the asphalt. Its tires were deflated. Prokopyevsk residents joked that the military equipment with deflated tires was symbolic.
— The "Immortal Regiment" march in Prokopyevsk last year or the year before. There's something interesting about that event. I remember the very first time it was a memorial, sincere event. An orchestra played at the very beginning, and then people walked in silence. They talked among themselves, but there was no music. Then they "improved" the "Immortal Regiment." Speakers were placed every few meters, and the music didn't even play, it blared. The whole thing began to resemble a farce, some kind of May Day demonstration. On May 9th this year, the "Immortal Regiment" was massive, with a huge crowd. But they reached the end point and then disappeared. Maybe it was the heat. But before, people would stay for the concert that followed the march, socialize, and drink moderately. But this time, almost no one stayed. It became uninteresting.
"This is Novokuznetsk activist Denis Shakin. In 2024, I traveled with a journalist from Russian Forbes to cover the Kuzbass coal industry, and Denis, who works on that agenda, also went with us and was one of the subjects of the report. We went to the village of Apanas in the Novokuznetsk district. It's also not far from Prokopyevsk. Apanas is one of the villages being attacked by open-pit coal mines. The locals are resisting, even blocking roads to prevent heavy equipment from getting through. This struggle has been going on for over ten years. The coal miners are trying to silence the protesters. They face criminal and administrative charges, and sometimes they are simply beaten. Denis Shakin has been attacked several times.
Sometimes residents manage to achieve a temporary victory and stop coal mining near their homes, but after a year or two, another owner comes in and everything starts all over again.
— May 8, 2025. Preparations for May 9. In Prokopyevsk, they were expecting the governor; the alley was being landscaped for his arrival. Each municipal organization had its own section. The "Motherland" statue and Stalin were hung by staff from the Prokopyevsk Museum of Local History.
— May 9th celebration in Prokopyevsk in 2025. The wind blows across the flag with Putin, and it takes on various shapes. These are NOD members handing out posters and banners to their children and grandchildren.
"This was taken in Tyrgan—that's what one of the districts of Prokopyevsk is called. It's always windy there, and in winter it piles up snow dunes like these. In recent years, they haven't even properly cleared the roads, much less the yards. It's probably a mother and daughter. They're walking where there used to be a path."
Biographical information
Vil Ravilov is a member of the Union of Art Photographers of the Russian Federation. He was born in 1987 in Prokopyevsk. He became interested in photography during his senior years at the Novokuznetsk Pedagogical Academy, where he graduated with a degree in the Russian Language and Philosophy (RGP) department. He later studied at the Yury Galperin Photography Department and the DocDocDoc School of Contemporary Photography.
As a documentary and reportage photographer, he collaborated with the media outlets Takie Dela, Kommersant, Forbes Russia, 7x7, and New Tab.
Participated in exhibitions Photoplay Street Awards (2024), “I Live Here” (Hermitage, St. Petersburg, 2023), “Between Heaven and Earth” (art residence “Respect”, Novosibirsk, 2023), “Discovering Russia” (Vyborg, 2021), Makers of Siberia (Omsk, 2021), “Young Photographers of Russia” (2020).
