The Aftermath of War
“Metallurg” sanatorium, Tskaltubo, Georgia
“Metallurg” sanatorium, Tskaltubo, Georgia
Metallurg was built in 1957 in Tskaltubo, a spa town in western Georgia that developed during the Soviet period around its mineral springs. The town was planned as a large balneological resort, with sanatoriums, bathhouses, hotels, parks, and medical facilities. At its height, Tskaltubo had 19 major sanatoriums and nine bathhouses, and was one of the Soviet Union’s important destinations for state-organised health and leisure.
Metallurg was designed for workers in the metallurgical industry. The four-storey building was completed in 1957 and was designed by Valerian Kedia and Natalia Soloviova. Its architecture reflected the scale and confidence of the period: a monumental façade, large communal interiors, marble, carved stone, a central foyer and a large chandelier.
The world for which Metallurg had been built disappeared with the collapse of the Soviet Union. Tskaltubo's resort economy collapsed almost overnight, and many of its sanatoriums were abandoned.
Then, in 1992, the building acquired another function.
Following the outbreak of the war in Abkhazia, thousands of people were displaced from their homes. Many were accommodated in Tskaltubo's abandoned sanatoriums. Across the town, what had been a network of places for rest and medical treatment became temporary accommodation for internally displaced people. In Metallurg, families began arriving in 1992.
What was supposed to be temporary lasted for decades.
At its peak, Metallurg housed around 700 displaced families. People adapted the existing rooms and communal spaces to their needs, often with very limited resources. Furniture, radiators, tiles, wooden floors and other elements of the original building were reused or removed as people tried to make the building habitable and find ways to survive.
The building therefore changed without necessarily changing very much.
Its architecture remained largely recognisable, but its meaning changed completely. A place designed around health, leisure and a particular Soviet social system became a place of displacement. Rooms intended for short-term stays became homes. Communal spaces became part of domestic life. The original function of the building remained visible, but another history had taken place within it.
Metallurg was designed for workers in the metallurgical industry. The four-storey building was completed in 1957 and was designed by Valerian Kedia and Natalia Soloviova. Its architecture reflected the scale and confidence of the period: a monumental façade, large communal interiors, marble, carved stone, a central foyer and a large chandelier.
The world for which Metallurg had been built disappeared with the collapse of the Soviet Union. Tskaltubo's resort economy collapsed almost overnight, and many of its sanatoriums were abandoned.
Then, in 1992, the building acquired another function.
Following the outbreak of the war in Abkhazia, thousands of people were displaced from their homes. Many were accommodated in Tskaltubo's abandoned sanatoriums. Across the town, what had been a network of places for rest and medical treatment became temporary accommodation for internally displaced people. In Metallurg, families began arriving in 1992.
What was supposed to be temporary lasted for decades.
At its peak, Metallurg housed around 700 displaced families. People adapted the existing rooms and communal spaces to their needs, often with very limited resources. Furniture, radiators, tiles, wooden floors and other elements of the original building were reused or removed as people tried to make the building habitable and find ways to survive.
The building therefore changed without necessarily changing very much.
Its architecture remained largely recognisable, but its meaning changed completely. A place designed around health, leisure and a particular Soviet social system became a place of displacement. Rooms intended for short-term stays became homes. Communal spaces became part of domestic life. The original function of the building remained visible, but another history had taken place within it.
When I returned in 2026 after 8 years, I found myself thinking about this difference between a building and the life that takes place inside it.
A building can survive the system that created it. It can outlive its original purpose and continue to absorb whatever happens around it. In this sense, Metallurg started to feel less like a fixed piece of architecture and more like something that changes with the circumstances around it.
There are also many different memories contained in the same place. For some, Metallurg belonged to the Soviet resort system. For others, it became associated with displacement and the loss of a home. For people who spent their childhood there, it may simply be part of their personal history.
The history of the war is therefore present in Metallurg even though the war itself ended decades ago. Some of its consequences are difficult to see from the outside.
A war has a date.
A ceasefire has a date.
A building can be renovated.
People can be rehoused.
But none of these necessarily mark the end of the experience.
By 2025, most of the displaced families who had lived in Tskaltubo's sanatoriums had been rehoused. Only a small number remained in Metallurg. Recent reporting documented around 13 families still living there, more than three decades after arriving.
This is what makes Metallurg feel unresolved to me.
The Soviet period ended.
The war ended.
The emergency situation was supposed to end.
But one situation slowly becomes another.
Returning to Metallurg after eight years made me think about this absence of a clear ending. I was looking at the same building, but from a different point in my own life. The building had changed, but perhaps not as much as I had expected. And my own way of seeing it had changed considerably.
The photographs are therefore not an attempt to reconstruct what happened there. They are simply a record of the place as I encountered it — a particular moment in a much longer history.
A building can survive the system that created it. It can outlive its original purpose and continue to absorb whatever happens around it. In this sense, Metallurg started to feel less like a fixed piece of architecture and more like something that changes with the circumstances around it.
There are also many different memories contained in the same place. For some, Metallurg belonged to the Soviet resort system. For others, it became associated with displacement and the loss of a home. For people who spent their childhood there, it may simply be part of their personal history.
The history of the war is therefore present in Metallurg even though the war itself ended decades ago. Some of its consequences are difficult to see from the outside.
A war has a date.
A ceasefire has a date.
A building can be renovated.
People can be rehoused.
But none of these necessarily mark the end of the experience.
By 2025, most of the displaced families who had lived in Tskaltubo's sanatoriums had been rehoused. Only a small number remained in Metallurg. Recent reporting documented around 13 families still living there, more than three decades after arriving.
This is what makes Metallurg feel unresolved to me.
The Soviet period ended.
The war ended.
The emergency situation was supposed to end.
But one situation slowly becomes another.
Returning to Metallurg after eight years made me think about this absence of a clear ending. I was looking at the same building, but from a different point in my own life. The building had changed, but perhaps not as much as I had expected. And my own way of seeing it had changed considerably.
The photographs are therefore not an attempt to reconstruct what happened there. They are simply a record of the place as I encountered it — a particular moment in a much longer history.
The Aftermath of War
“Metallurg” sanatorium, Tskaltubo, Georgia
“Metallurg” sanatorium, Tskaltubo, Georgia
Metallurg was built in 1957 in Tskaltubo, a spa town in western Georgia that developed during the Soviet period around its mineral springs. The town was planned as a large balneological resort, with sanatoriums, bathhouses, hotels, parks, and medical facilities. At its height, Tskaltubo had 19 major sanatoriums and nine bathhouses, and was one of the Soviet Union’s important destinations for state-organised health and leisure.
Metallurg was designed for workers in the metallurgical industry. The four-storey building was completed in 1957 and was designed by Valerian Kedia and Natalia Soloviova. Its architecture reflected the scale and confidence of the period: a monumental façade, large communal interiors, marble, carved stone, a central foyer and a large chandelier.
The world for which Metallurg had been built disappeared with the collapse of the Soviet Union. Tskaltubo's resort economy collapsed almost overnight, and many of its sanatoriums were abandoned.
Then, in 1992, the building acquired another function.
Following the outbreak of the war in Abkhazia, thousands of people were displaced from their homes. Many were accommodated in Tskaltubo's abandoned sanatoriums. Across the town, what had been a network of places for rest and medical treatment became temporary accommodation for internally displaced people. In Metallurg, families began arriving in 1992.
What was supposed to be temporary lasted for decades.
At its peak, Metallurg housed around 700 displaced families. People adapted the existing rooms and communal spaces to their needs, often with very limited resources. Furniture, radiators, tiles, wooden floors and other elements of the original building were reused or removed as people tried to make the building habitable and find ways to survive.
The building therefore changed without necessarily changing very much.
Its architecture remained largely recognisable, but its meaning changed completely. A place designed around health, leisure and a particular Soviet social system became a place of displacement. Rooms intended for short-term stays became homes. Communal spaces became part of domestic life. The original function of the building remained visible, but another history had taken place within it.
Metallurg was designed for workers in the metallurgical industry. The four-storey building was completed in 1957 and was designed by Valerian Kedia and Natalia Soloviova. Its architecture reflected the scale and confidence of the period: a monumental façade, large communal interiors, marble, carved stone, a central foyer and a large chandelier.
The world for which Metallurg had been built disappeared with the collapse of the Soviet Union. Tskaltubo's resort economy collapsed almost overnight, and many of its sanatoriums were abandoned.
Then, in 1992, the building acquired another function.
Following the outbreak of the war in Abkhazia, thousands of people were displaced from their homes. Many were accommodated in Tskaltubo's abandoned sanatoriums. Across the town, what had been a network of places for rest and medical treatment became temporary accommodation for internally displaced people. In Metallurg, families began arriving in 1992.
What was supposed to be temporary lasted for decades.
At its peak, Metallurg housed around 700 displaced families. People adapted the existing rooms and communal spaces to their needs, often with very limited resources. Furniture, radiators, tiles, wooden floors and other elements of the original building were reused or removed as people tried to make the building habitable and find ways to survive.
The building therefore changed without necessarily changing very much.
Its architecture remained largely recognisable, but its meaning changed completely. A place designed around health, leisure and a particular Soviet social system became a place of displacement. Rooms intended for short-term stays became homes. Communal spaces became part of domestic life. The original function of the building remained visible, but another history had taken place within it.
When I returned in 2026 after 8 years, I found myself thinking about this difference between a building and the life that takes place inside it.
A building can survive the system that created it. It can outlive its original purpose and continue to absorb whatever happens around it. In this sense, Metallurg started to feel less like a fixed piece of architecture and more like something that changes with the circumstances around it.
There are also many different memories contained in the same place. For some, Metallurg belonged to the Soviet resort system. For others, it became associated with displacement and the loss of a home. For people who spent their childhood there, it may simply be part of their personal history.
The history of the war is therefore present in Metallurg even though the war itself ended decades ago. Some of its consequences are difficult to see from the outside.
A war has a date.
A ceasefire has a date.
A building can be renovated.
People can be rehoused.
But none of these necessarily mark the end of the experience.
By 2025, most of the displaced families who had lived in Tskaltubo's sanatoriums had been rehoused. Only a small number remained in Metallurg. Recent reporting documented around 13 families still living there, more than three decades after arriving.
This is what makes Metallurg feel unresolved to me.
The Soviet period ended.
The war ended.
The emergency situation was supposed to end.
But one situation slowly becomes another.
Returning to Metallurg after eight years made me think about this absence of a clear ending. I was looking at the same building, but from a different point in my own life. The building had changed, but perhaps not as much as I had expected. And my own way of seeing it had changed considerably.
The photographs are therefore not an attempt to reconstruct what happened there. They are simply a record of the place as I encountered it — a particular moment in a much longer history.
A building can survive the system that created it. It can outlive its original purpose and continue to absorb whatever happens around it. In this sense, Metallurg started to feel less like a fixed piece of architecture and more like something that changes with the circumstances around it.
There are also many different memories contained in the same place. For some, Metallurg belonged to the Soviet resort system. For others, it became associated with displacement and the loss of a home. For people who spent their childhood there, it may simply be part of their personal history.
The history of the war is therefore present in Metallurg even though the war itself ended decades ago. Some of its consequences are difficult to see from the outside.
A war has a date.
A ceasefire has a date.
A building can be renovated.
People can be rehoused.
But none of these necessarily mark the end of the experience.
By 2025, most of the displaced families who had lived in Tskaltubo's sanatoriums had been rehoused. Only a small number remained in Metallurg. Recent reporting documented around 13 families still living there, more than three decades after arriving.
This is what makes Metallurg feel unresolved to me.
The Soviet period ended.
The war ended.
The emergency situation was supposed to end.
But one situation slowly becomes another.
Returning to Metallurg after eight years made me think about this absence of a clear ending. I was looking at the same building, but from a different point in my own life. The building had changed, but perhaps not as much as I had expected. And my own way of seeing it had changed considerably.
The photographs are therefore not an attempt to reconstruct what happened there. They are simply a record of the place as I encountered it — a particular moment in a much longer history.