The concept of “ruin value” (Ruinenwert), introduced by architect Albert Speer in the 1930s, suggests that structures might be designed to leave behind compelling ruins, bearing silent witness long after their use has ended. This idea inspired me to re-examine the remnants of the Soviet era through the abandoned ceramic factory in Minsk.

This factory, once a place of relentless production, now stands as a stark reminder of a different time. Its decaying walls, broken molds, and scattered remnants tell stories of a system that sought to shape not only materials but also people, pressing lives into rigid forms. The factory’s remains do not need elaborate ornamentation to convey their message; they speak through their rawness and fragility, echoing the labor and discipline imposed within these walls.

Through these photographs, I explore the idea of ruin as both a physical and ideological residue. These images of crumbling infrastructure invite viewers to reflect on the impact of systems that aim to shape people as predictably as products on an assembly line. They capture a moment where the structure has outlived its purpose, yet continues to provoke questions about permanence, value, and the unintended consequences of legacy.

With recent shifts in political landscapes and a desire in some quarters to resurrect aspects of the Soviet past, these ruins raise a pressing question: Will they remain as relics of a bygone era, or is there an intention to reconstruct them, bringing them back to serve a new, yet familiar, purpose?

In these frames, I hope to encourage viewers not to mourn or romanticize the past, but to examine it critically. This is not a celebration of ruin but an invitation to consider the structures, both physical and ideological, that shape societies—and the silent but enduring traces they leave behind.