With a photographic eye attuned to the quietly luminous and the emotionally exact, Olya Oleinic has shaped a practice that feels at once deeply personal and rigorously composed. Born in Ukraine and now based in Europe, she posses a rare ability to distill a moment into something both intimate and expansive—always deliberate, never strained. Her images feel less captured than remembered.
Bringing this sensibility to our Volume 14 editorial, the collection becomes less a series of looks than a fleeting narrative—a series of gestures—where pieces are less styled than inhabited: worn lightly, lived in fully. Collaborating with Marie Cornil, a model and furniture designer whose strength and sculptural logic echo through the images; together, the two artists shape a dialogue in light, form, and motion—each responding to the other's gestures.
We spoke with Olya about her process, her entry into photography, and the rituals that inform her way of seeing.
Your images carry a quiet immediacy—at once diaristic and composed. What first compelled you to pick up a camera, and how has your way of seeing evolved since then?
I think my work has always had a diaristic quality. If I trace it back, it probably began in early childhood. I grew up in a tiny apartment with my family of four, which meant that all the objects in our home constantly migrated and shifted function—holding space for play and imagination during the day, before returning to perfect order at night. Without realizing it at the time, I felt a pull to document those temporary constructions—to hold onto them a little longer or share them with others. That instinct is still very present within me. I continue to enjoy photographing fleeting, impermanent moments—accidental arrangements or things that feel like imprints of meaningful time, whether shared or alone. Often, images taken without any specific purpose later become reference points—postcards from memory that find their way into future photographic or film projects. They become fragments of the past that inform a new idea, story, or context.
How does your Ukrainian heritage inform the sort of tactile intimacy of your work—your sensitivity—consciously or otherwise?
Ukraine is a very important place for me. I spent many summers there, and I love the spirit of its people. But my heritage isn't solely Ukrainian: my father was born in Kherson, and I grew up in Moldova. Both my parents moved around a fair bit in their youth, and I did too, between my late teens and early thirties. I think sensitivity forms through curiosity—through observing and opening up to ways other than your own. Rather than a conscious decision, it feels like a symbiosis of what comes from within and what surrounds you: living close to others, moving between countries, encountering the unfamiliar—sometimes uncomfortable, often beautiful, always precious.
Where do you go—physically or imaginatively—when you're in search of inspiration? Is there a special place within Paris where you find solace or inspiration?
I can't say I ever seek out inspiration. When I feel empty—or on the contrary, overstimulated—I know I need to go to nature. When I need reflection, I turn to my friends, my body, pen and paper, routine, and long walks. That always brings me back to a place from which it feels right to make something new. I try to stay aware that everything is cyclical—you can't override a wave.
You've photographed across mediums and borders, yet your visual language is unmistakably your own. What anchors your process when beginning a new project?
At some point, these processes start to run on a subconscious level. It has taken time to arrive at where I am now; I've shifted and adapted my practice a lot along the way. That's not to say it's at a fixed point now either—language, whether visual or verbal, is always evolving. I think of it as a tool of contact—a reflection of the person using it, their context, and state of mind. And so, by nature, it's impermanent. Everything can be an influence. In the time of ever-prevailing screens, news, and trends, the mass of information becomes a kind of sticky, blinding gum—so I think it's important to meditate on that exposure. It also matters to know your sources, and understand the symbols and meanings in what you choose to portray—or not—and how.
What does a finished image mean to you—and what keeps you returning to the same subjects or themes over time?
I think something is only finished when it no longer asks for attention. A finished image doesn't always mean a strong image, in my vocabulary. Something unfinished is like a door that isn't firmly shut—it might still exert a pull, linger, and invite you to revisit a state of mind, a place, a person. I think of things as cyclical, as spiral progressions. Sometimes it feels like you're returning to a place you've already been, but really, you're on another lap, a different level of the spiral. What's old takes on new meaning.
Do you have any rituals or rules when it comes to working?
I like taking breaks.
Photography, for many, can be an act of control—framing, editing, choosing. But your images often suggest a surrender to the moment. How do you navigate that tension between intention and instinct?
I work very intuitively. Over time, experiences solidify into instinct. What's important to me is honesty of intention—working from reflection rather than reference, and not trying to rationalize a gut feeling.
Lastly, can you share more about your relationship to model/designer Marie Cornil?
I first learned about Marie a few years ago, through a beautiful book my friends Ewa Kluczenko and Partrick Bienert did with her sister, Lucie—Marie and Lucie, edited by Florine Bonaventure. I later discovered Marie's design practice, but it wasn't until this work [for Kamperett] that we met in person.
