SHELTERING BALLAD: IN CONVERSATION WITH SABINE ZOLTNERE

“It’s a breaking point when the ideal world of a child shatters, and you start wondering, ‘Why did this happen to me?’” reflects Sabīne Zoltnere as I flip through Sheltering Ballad, her new photobook exploring the loss of her father, who passed away when she was just nine years old. The book features a curated collection of black-and-white photographs, capturing scenes of nature, childhood memories, and moments from Sabīne’s life—sometimes alone, sometimes with her father—all centered around the theme of grief. “This side of photography is so interesting to me because it’s an artwork, but also a document capturing a specific moment in time,” she explains.

The day we meet, the Latvian photographer welcomes me with tea and pastries from a local bakery in her bright new studio, “Studio Soft”, on Gustav-Adolf-Strasse in Weißensee. “There’s still so much to do in here,” she insists as we settle across from each other, a candle flickering between us. The space is largely unfurnished but still feels warm and inviting, which is fitting given the deeply personal conversation we’re about to have. 

The book, she reveals, was decades in the making. “I knew my father’s death was the catalyst for why I started searching for meaning, but I never fully acknowledged it until now,” she shares. Sabīne first began seriously considering the project in 2018, hoping to “make peace” with her loss through art. She experimented with self-portraits and dove into family photo albums and archives, but it quickly became overwhelming. “It brought up so many unresolved emotions, opened boxes from my subconscious that I wasn’t ready to deal with,” she recalls. “It was really difficult. I felt paralyzed, unable to move forward.”

It took several attempts to complete the project. “I’m someone who likes to finish what I start, so the fact that I couldn’t was frustrating,” she admits. But gradually, piece by piece—sometimes taking photos, sometimes putting them away in a drawer—Sabīne accumulated enough material. In March of this year, she attended a workshop at the independent bookstore Bildband in Prenzlauer Berg, with the idea of creating a zine. However, the concept of a full book quickly took shape—thanks to one of the hosts, Youvalle Levy, who runs Replika Publishing. “It was serendipity,” Sabīne says. “Once I had the right platform, everything moved quickly. Having years of distance from when I first took those photos, and then revisiting them during the editing process, really helped me gain perspective on my childhood and this experience.”

Sabīne Zoltnere was born in 1992 in Riga, just one year after Latvia regained independence from the Soviet Union. “I was part of the first generation of children born into independence,” she reflects. “Political movements and mindsets were shifting, and Western influences were pouring in. Products and goods that had been banned or unavailable during the Soviet era suddenly became accessible. People went crazy for them. It was an interesting time,” she recalls.

Her words strike a chord with me, as our stories share a common thread—I was born in Belarus, another former Soviet republic, in 1991. I think back to a childhood portrait from her book, where she wears a satin bow tied neatly around her ponytail. “I had the exact same one,” I say, pointing to the photo. Sabīne nods knowingly: “That’s the Soviet heritage.”

She first showed a serious interest in photography in her early teens, hoping to join a workshop led by Latvian documentary photographer Andrejs Grants, but she was too young to participate. Years later, while studying art and printmaking at the Art Academy of Latvia, she finally enrolled. Reflecting on that time, she describes it as “the foundation and a doorway to creative thinking,” concepts that were entirely new to her: “My mom is a dentist and my father was a lawyer, so there was no creative background in the family.”

With this newfound passion, exciting times followed. During her studies, Sabīne spent a year in Italy, interning at the Venice Art Biennale and living in Florence. It was also in Italy that she met her now-husband, a musician and designer. After Sabīne’s graduation, the couple moved to Berlin and quickly fell in love with the city’s vibrant cultural scene. “There are so many events happening every week, and we love it—it’s great,” she says. “We both have that disease,” she adds, referring to their mutual creative drive. “I’m very thankful for it because we can support each other and understand each other’s struggles. It’s nice that we share a piece of each other’s soul, you know.”

Her longing to connect is at the heart of the book, as she hopes that sharing her own grief will inspire others to seek support too. “In Western culture, we tend to avoid talking about death, but acknowledging our limited time on this planet can actually motivate us to focus on what truly matters,” Sabīne asserts. “The book is about missing someone, but it’s also about offering support, which I wish I’d had more of as a child. I didn’t have a psychotherapist to talk to about my grief—it was the 90s. And my mother was busy working, providing for my sister and me on her own.”

While creating Sheltering Ballad—a title that nods to Paul Bowles’ 1949 novel The Sheltering Sky, which explores similar themes—Sabīne reconnected with her friend, poet Bogdan Licar, who shares her interest in death and life’s impermanence. She invited him to contribute poems that serve as carefully placed pauses in the narrative.

“I wanted to keep the book quite abstract—more like an emotional diary of what I went through, rather than a chronological story,” Sabīne explains. Showcasing the unpredictable nature of grief and how it comes in waves was essential to her. “There’s a dynamic curve of intensity in the book—you start quite intensely, and then slowly, the story resolves with some bitter or angry backtracks on the way. That’s where the poems come in, adding a rhythm to the experience.”

The sense of floating in the book is remarkably tangible. As I leaf through the photos, I’m struck by the feeling of being in a transitional, dreamlike state—somewhere between waking and sleeping, where the ego dissolves, and everything feels porous and vulnerable.

“Yeah, there’s a lot of water, a lot of shifting things,” she agrees. “I think part of my way of dealing with grief—especially as a child, facing those overwhelming waves of emotion—was to disassociate and numb out. It’s a paralyzing feeling.” In the self-portraits, you can sense that duality: being there, but not fully present. “It’s like you’re participating in events, but you’re also just an observer, watching as things unfold without truly engaging,” she explains.

In addition to symbolizing change and melancholy, water is also deeply tied to Sabīne’s childhood, evoking memories of countless hours sailing with her dad. “We spent so much time at sea, and those are my best childhood memories,” she muses. “Just being at the beach, for example—there are these photographs of pieces of wood from the shore, shaped and transformed by the water. When I was a child, we used to collect those bits of driftwood and other elements, wondering what shapes they reminded us of. So, this is like a beach photograph, but at the same time, it’s not.”

“Now that the project is complete,” I ask, “do you feel you’ve found a sense of surrender?” I’m referring to the book’s description, which calls it a journal of her “journey through suffering in search of peace and acceptance.” 

“Yes, very much so,” she says. “I was able to let it go in a way,” she says, referring to her father’s passing. “I mean, it’s difficult to choose the right term because grief is always going to be part of me, but I’ve made peace with it.” 

After its release in mid-October 2024, the book has also taken on a life of its own, traveling to places where Sabīne herself isn’t—like the Paris Photo Fair or the Recreo Valencia Art Book Fair. Speaking with others who share similar stories has also been profoundly healing. “People I’ve never met are reaching out to tell me how a specific photograph or part of the story has touched them,” she shares. “Suddenly, I’m having these deep, meaningful conversations with complete strangers about something so personal.”

She grows thoughtful. “I feel very happy about this because it represents the higher purpose of art—taking the time to discuss fundamental topics that are part of our being. We wouldn’t be able to imagine our identity without them.”