Kirill Varnaev sought them out, armed only with only his camera and a sense of something extraordinary simply awaiting discovery. What he found was surprising, saddening, yet also inspiring.
Kirill pierced the city’s cappuccino crust to see the dark, silent depths of fighters, protectors, healers and fathers. These quiet giants tread lightly among us as we funnel through our fibrous, glowing commercial centres.
Look again, what do you see?
A glint of a stethoscope, the static comfort of a friend’s phone call, and the sterile cologne of a bandaged blood donor betray the heirs of Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent as they hide beside you. Just a word away, yet impregnable behind the magic shield of the sports section.
A ghost of Krypton passes by, reimagined with brogues, beard and battered briefcase. What’s his story? Hidden hero or tired commuter? Maybe he’s both, and yet neither as he gently plots his path through the ever-heaving sea of humanity.
Look there! The Dark Knight seems under-exposed in light grey; maybe a husband who once saved a stranger. He’s still late punching in though, no time off for good behaviour. In a moment he is gone, swallowed whole by the crowd, sinking into the swirling umbrella press of the city’s transport hub.
Who was that raincoated crusader? We’ll never know, but Kirill Varnaev found you, and captured you in his camera’s eye.