As part of a photography course led by renowned Georgian photographer Natela Grigalashvili, I had the opportunity to participate in a series of studio sessions exploring how to capture subjects beyond their immediate appearance. A recurring question throughout the course was how to photograph what lies beyond the surface. How can a photograph of a hand suggest a person, or a flower convey a mood? How can something ordinary become expressive through the way it is observed and photographed?

Working in the studio gave me the opportunity to slow down and become more deliberate in my approach. With fewer distractions, I began paying closer attention to small details—gestures, textures, expressions, shadows, and the way light transforms a subject. Rather than simply documenting what was in front of me, I became more interested in finding a feeling or idea within it.

Through these sessions, I gradually became more confident in making those choices. I learned to trust my instincts, experiment more freely, and, most importantly, recognize what I wanted to capture before pressing the shutter.

As a child, my mother would take me to the Dezerter Bazaar to buy food and household supplies. Prices there were considerably lower than at regular grocery stores, but the experience came at a cost of its own. You had to navigate chaotic passages between crowded stalls, search for what you needed, and negotiate with vendors over every price.

I disliked going there. We could not afford the convenience of a regular grocery store, so the bazaar was not a place we chose to visit—it was a place we had to go. I remember feeling a certain weight every time I entered. There was something exhausting about the atmosphere: the crowds, the noise, the constant movement, and the sense that very few people were there because they wanted to be.

Yet, alongside this feeling, I remember something else. Beneath the exhaustion and hardship, there was a quiet sense of fortitude. People seemed to carry the difficulties of everyday life without making a spectacle of them. There was a solemn dignity in the way they worked, traded, waited, and endured—something I rarely noticed elsewhere in the city.

I left Georgia and lived abroad for seven years. During that time, the Dezerter Bazaar gradually became a place that existed only in my memory. When I returned to Georgia and began studying photography, my mentor asked me to come up with an idea for a photographic series. The first place that came to mind was the Dezerter Bazaar.

I found myself drawn back there almost instinctively, as if some part of me had been waiting to return.

Much had changed. The stalls were different, the surroundings had evolved, and the city around the bazaar had moved forward. But the place was still strangely familiar. I recognized a few faces, and with them came a recognition of something deeper: that solemn sense of fortitude that continues to leave an indelible impression on me.

Lake Paravani and its surrounding landscape form one of the most striking and remote regions of Georgia. The vast lake, open fields, and high alpine terrain create a sense of calm and stillness, but beneath this serenity lies an environment that is difficult to live in. Winters are long and severe, temperatures can fall far below freezing, and strong winds sweep across the exposed landscape. The altitude and climate leave little room for vegetation, giving the land a stark and almost otherworldly character.

Despite these conditions, people have lived here for generations. The communities surrounding Lake Paravani are predominantly Armenian, with many families tracing their roots to survivors of the Armenian genocide who settled in the region after being displaced from their ancestral homes. Their history is marked by loss and displacement, but it is not the only story that defines them.

What struck me most during my time there was the contrast between the harshness of the environment and the warmth of the people. Life in such an isolated and demanding place requires a particular kind of resilience. Yet that resilience does not appear as hardness. Instead, it reveals itself through hospitality, generosity, family, faith, and the everyday care people show toward one another.