I received my first camera at the age of 16, without any knowledge of how to use it. So, I went to Sakinform—the main information agency under the Council of Ministers of the Georgian SSR—where they kindly taught me how to load film into the camera and instructed me on what I could photograph. I enjoyed the assignment and started shooting. Each time, I returned to have my film reloaded, and my photos were well received. This marked the beginning of an unplanned yet meaningful collaboration. They started assigning me carefully curated tasks, selecting subjects and optimal shooting times to achieve the best results.

In 1996, Sakinform’s Photo Chronicle division served the second President of Georgia, Eduard Shevardnadze. Looking back, I now realize that this agency had a distinctive work style that greatly influenced me during my seven years there. When you take up photography, it is essential to define what your photography stands for. You need to develop your own 'voice'—a unique perspective and signature style. However, some things cannot be taught, such as journalistic ethics. That is entirely up to you. The golden rule applies: treat others as you would like to be treated. What you photograph is a reflection of yourself, yet sometimes, it is necessary to step away, to rest your eyes—because when you become too accustomed to a scene, you stop truly seeing it.

In the early 2000s, I started covering conflict zones. I lived in the Pankisi Gorge when the Russian-Chechen war broke out, witnessing the first wave of refugees crossing into Georgia. At that moment, it became clear that our borders could not prevent their entry. Recognizing this, the Georgian government chose to open its doors to them. In conflict areas, understanding the background is crucial—you need to grasp what is happening and what you are documenting. Beyond that, you are at the mercy of fate. There are rules to follow, but ultimately, your focus should remain on the shot, because everything can change in an instant.

Certain places within conflict zones require pre-arranged access before photographing. I have covered riots where I had to sign liability waivers, taking full responsibility for my own safety. At such moments, fear disappears. I do not think about myself—the only question that matters is whether I am capturing reality. The camera must follow you instinctively; there is no time to fuss over technical details—perhaps just to change a lens. The closer you get, the more convincing your work becomes, but proximity also increases danger. Conflict does not recognize a photographer—it does not care who you are. Adrenaline surges, emotions run high, and there is nowhere to hide. Yet, in that moment, all that matters is telling the story. It is then that you suppress emotions and nerves, because at that moment, you are not just a photographer—you are also a citizen. Photography is my form of self-expression. Whether something moves me, excites me, or disturbs me, photography is the only way I can communicate my emotions.

I have been working in conflict zones for years. After Pankisi, I documented many border regions, always focusing on the stories of refugees.

In Afghanistan, where our military training bases were stationed, even eye contact had restrictions—you could not look at someone for more than three seconds. On base, interactions required lowered gazes, and photography was strictly prohibited. One of the most striking things I saw was a wall where equipment had been nailed up, left behind like silent relics. I was there as the official photographer for Georgia’s fourth President, and the experience was unlike anything I had encountered before.

Photojournalism is bound by strict rules, which have become even more rigorous in the digital age. With the internet, it is difficult to control images once they are released. It is no longer enough to capture a compelling photo that adheres to ethical standards—now, every image must be accompanied by detailed captions and context. Photographers bear this responsibility themselves, as stolen images, stripped of their original meaning, can circulate online without credit. Those who work in print media understand this reality. In the past, newspapers and magazines had dedicated space for photo chronicles, but today, social media has reduced everything to a single image. This shifts the focus to creating one powerful shot—yet behind that single frame lies hours, sometimes even days, of work.

A photojournalist must respect people’s personal space. Not everything can or should be photographed. Sometimes, it is better to rely on memory rather than the camera. Shooting requires a particular mindset—you cannot always be in the mood for it. Yet, over time, you learn how to immerse yourself in the process. For me, it can be a small ritual. If I am caught in routine and need to shift into work mode, I might clap my hands. It lasts only a moment, but it is enough to ground me. Stepping away and resting the eyes allows for a renewed perspective, revealing details that might have otherwise gone unnoticed.

Photography never bores me. It constantly offers opportunities for self-improvement. The key is to never stop—to always know what you want to achieve. Photography allows me to express my stance, my perspective. When I have a chance, I fully immerse myself in it.

A photographer must continuously train their eye. Engaging with people enhances the emotional depth of photos, making them more meaningful. Every shot carries an emotion. If an image leaves no impression on you, you will not remember it.

Photography is an unalterable truth—nothing can change what has been captured. But to create compelling images, a photographer needs both technical expertise and a broad perspective. Erudition, insight, and an understanding of composition transform a simple shot into something truly remarkable.