Sergei Oganov

For Oganov, bronze and stone are not simply two materials, but two different ways of constructing form.

Bronze offers plastic freedom. The work first takes shape in clay, then goes through molding and casting, after which the surface is refined through chasing and chemical patination. The sculptor can plan virtually every curve, plane, and transition in advance.

Stone behaves differently. It cannot be returned to its original state. Every strike and every fragment removed is irreversible, while carving creates a texture that cannot be fully reproduced through modeling. It is precisely this resistance of the material that interests Oganov.

The two approaches came together particularly clearly in the monument to Anastasia Slutskaya, where a massive stone form is combined with a bronze figure. The work required the two parts to be created independently and then fitted together with precision — technical risk became part of the artistic solution.

For Oganov, history has never been an abstract source of subject matter.

He was born in Lida, a city whose historic center developed around the medieval Lida Castle. As a child, Oganov spent his holidays there, exploring its still-unrestored towers and perceiving medieval history not as a distant past, but as part of the world around him.

Decades later, a monument to Gediminas, created by Oganov together with Olga Nechay, was installed beside those same castle walls.

His interest in the past has remained part of his working method. Oganov studies historical weapons, armor, horse harnesses, coins, seals, and the material culture of the period, seeking to understand the world he depicts not only visually, but also structurally.

At the same time, historical accuracy is not an end in itself for him. A historical figure remains, above all, material for art.

In the monument to Gediminas, an enormous cloak unites the figures of the prince and the horse and becomes a metaphor for the land the ruler gathers and protects. In the monument to Davyd Gorodensky, the hero is not shown in the moment of attack: the lowered sword creates the image of a man who does not seek war, but is ready to defend his land.

History becomes not a reconstruction of the past, but a way of speaking about power, responsibility, protection, choice, and human character.

Ancient mythology holds a special place in Oganov’s work. For him, ancient Greek myth is not a collection of old stories, but a universal system of images through which it is possible to speak about modern man.

A hero, by definition, must fight monsters and perform feats. But the path to victory often passes through violence, sacrifice, and cruelty. At a certain point, the boundary between hero and monster becomes almost indistinguishable.

In “Rook of Heroes,” the Argonauts set out to perform heroic deeds, but at the same time become hostages to their own fate — people forced to follow a destiny that determines their path in advance. In the work “Heroes,” heroic myth collides with tragic reality: virtually none of the great heroes of antiquity receives a happy ending.

Other works freely combine ancient narratives with imagery from different cultures and eras. Thus, Oganov’s Perseus may take on the features of a Japanese samurai — not as stylization for effect, but as a reminder that myth itself does not belong to any single country or civilization.

Antiquity makes it possible to speak about fundamental human questions beyond any particular state, religion, or historical moment.