Text and interviews by Leo Felipe
Photography by Ivi Maiga Bugrimenko
The term scene refers to the set of practices, values, styles, and social interactions that form a specific environment within a community. Scenes are made up of groups of people who share interests, attitudes, and lifestyles, often expressed through music, art, fashion, or behaviors that bring a strong sense of identity and belonging. This is why visuality plays a crucial role in every scene.
Luckily, we have Ivi Maiga Bugrimenko! In recent years, she has been almost obsessively documenting São Paulo's "underground" scene of electronic, punk, and experimental music—not only passively recording its existence but actively contributing to its creation.
Ivi has just released her first photobook, Vidacobra.
Tell us a bit about how you started as a photographer. Were you already involved in the scene from the beginning?
I began photographing in 2016, shortly after my father passed away in April. While organizing the house with my mother, I found an old Fuji analog camera he used to take family pictures. I noticed it still had half a roll of undeveloped film. I picked it up to finish the roll and see what he had captured.
At the same time, I started attending experimental events in São Paulo, like those organized by Cacá [musician and visual artist Carlos Issa] from Objeto Amarelo. It was a period of many discoveries, as I began mingling with people connected to the city's cultural scene, including artists and photographers from the underground, like those from Feira Plana and former MTV members.
Initially, I would go out with the camera without a specific intention, capturing whatever caught my eye: events, people, and everyday moments. By 2017, I had also started using an old digital camera, which had a "sandstorm" filter that gave a black-and-white effect with heavy grain. I began using it to capture these outings because it was more economical than shooting on film.
During this time, I created the Instagram Socialixo, playing with the idea of being a “trash socialite.” My intention was to highlight what was often overlooked or considered “ugly.” It was never about creating documentary portraits; it was my perspective on what drew my attention. This was a pivotal period of experimentation for me, and many of the photos reflected the punk and experimental environment I frequented.
What determines whether you shoot in analog or digital?
The choice has always been intentional. My analog camera, with its 35mm lens, is more closed and better for close-ups, while the digital one has a wider lens, allowing for broader compositions. The black-and-white mode of the digital camera highlights shapes, volumes, and shadows, whereas the analog camera, being color, is reserved for images where color is dominant.
I’ve always liked shooting in black and white with the digital camera. It resonates with the aesthetic of underground scenes and the classic portraiture of those cultures. Additionally, it allows for a larger number of shots. On the other hand, the analog camera works well for portraits, something I’ve learned and refined over time.
One thing that bothers me is when someone puts a black-and-white filter on one of my color photos. I hate that, and I always maintain one rule: don’t mess with the essence of the photo.
Tell us about your influences
Aesthetically, my photos have clear influences. My interest in black and white aligns closely with the Japanese school of the 1960s, particularly the Provoke magazine and photographers like Daidō Moriyama. They had an eye for forgotten corners and the raw details of landscapes.
On the other hand, my portraits have an intimacy that is more reminiscent of Nan Goldin. It’s a mix of references, inevitable for someone who grew up and was shaped in the 2000s. I don’t think I’m creating anything new, but rather remixing and imprinting my vision within these contexts.
And how did you get involved with Mamba Negra?
In 2017, I had been photographing for about a year and a half, completely immersed in the scene, posting a lot of pictures on Instagram, and receiving positive feedback from friends. Even so, I didn’t see myself as a professional photographer.
Laura Diaz invited me to photograph a Mamba Negra event that year alongside another photographer. That test was pivotal, and I’ve been part of it ever since. However, at first, I didn’t fully grasp what it meant.
I believe that your arrival — which coincides with Euvira, Valentina Luz, and the performances by Coletividade Namíbia—was a turning point for the scene.
I think I ended up creating a visual identity for the underground parties, especially by giving this scene an analog aesthetic. In a way, I feel some responsibility for that, maybe even some credit—though I’m not sure if “credit” is the right word. At the time, most of the people shooting on film in São Paulo came from a more "daytime" profile, so to speak. They weren’t really people who frequented the nightlife or alternative parties.
Looking back, I realize what I was doing was unique in that context, even if I wasn’t fully aware of it at the time. Today, many photographers who came after me have told me they started exploring this aesthetic after seeing my work. That makes me happy. I think it was a fortunate convergence of analog aesthetics, timing, and the fact that I was immersed in such an interesting and visually rich scene.
Was it an immediate connection?
They liked my work, and that was really special. I’m always grateful because it truly was a significant encounter. But it’s funny because I never really saw myself as part of the collective. For me, Mamba was always Laura and Cashu. Of course, there’s a whole extended network around them, but I didn’t see myself as part of it. At first, I didn’t even know if I’d be invited to photograph the next parties. I was in that uncertain space until, at the end of 2018—more than a year after I started—Cashu said to me, “You know you’re part of Mamba, right?” That’s when I understood my place there.
That moment was important because, in the beginning, our connection wasn’t based on friendship. It was more professional and organic, which gives even more value to that recognition.
Before photographing at Mamba, I had already attended some of their parties, even though I wasn’t very into electronic music at the time. The transition happened around 2016 when I started going out more. At first, photographing these events was a very different experience. When you’re not there with a specific role, it can feel uncomfortable to take pictures, especially without permission.
My style has always been quick and intuitive, without interfering with what’s happening—something close to documentary photography, but more spontaneous. I’ve developed a strong peripheral vision, which helps me capture moments and, sometimes, even avoid unwanted interactions. Over time, I became a familiar face in the scene.
And what catches your attention at parties?
In the electronic scene, people know I have my camera, and sometimes they even "perform" to be photographed. That happens a lot, but I don’t always capture those performances—it really depends on the person or the situation. For me, deciding what to photograph is very instinctive, guided by elements like styling, outfits, and what they represent in the context of the event as a whole.
I really enjoy photographing the regulars at these events because I think it’s important to document the characters of the nightlife. These aren’t necessarily DJs, producers, or people working the event, but rather attendees who, in some way, embody its essence.
I have portraits of people I’ve followed over time, with multiple images of them at different parties. This consistency creates a record that shows how these individuals are also active and essential participants in building that collective.
After all, the party isn’t just about the music or the production—it’s about who’s there, giving themselves to the experience and connecting with the space in some way. These are the people who make everything so unique.
Fashion is a prominent element in your photos. Do you think this is related to your background?
Yes, I think I’ve always had an eye for fashion, perhaps because of my initial training. I studied fashion because I was interested in its relationship with image and identity, although I don’t feel drawn to working in the industry today—I prefer to keep my distance. Still, what has always fascinated me is the idea of dressing up for a night out, creating a mask or persona for that specific moment.
While I don’t always dress up myself, observing how people choose to present themselves is something that captivates me, especially at parties. I worked with costumes for a while, which further reinforced this interest. Each space has its own nuances: in electronic scenes, the looks are more extravagant, while in punk and experimental settings, the style choices lean in other directions—lots of black, lots of leather. That’s why black-and-white photography works so well in these contexts, highlighting textures and shapes.
In Brazil, I notice a visible intention to be photographed at parties, something that doesn’t always happen in electronic scenes elsewhere, like in Europe, where there’s more restriction around cameras. Here, it’s almost like there’s an unspoken agreement: people dress up expecting to be photographed, and we, as photographers, capture that energy. This informal pact is part of what makes these parties so unique and compelling to document.
And the book? This project had a long gestation and finally came to life.
The book's story goes back to when Lucas [Lucas K, founder of Quadradocirculo publishing house and editor of the book] and I met in 2018. He was one of the first people to value my black-and-white photos taken at electronic parties. That meant a lot because, honestly, those photos were never particularly appreciated in the party scene. They were rarely featured on the official social media pages of events, except for a few times with Obra, which had an aesthetic more aligned with that type of image. Cashu herself used to say that Mamba parties were very colorful and that black-and-white photos didn’t fully capture the event's visual energy. Still, I kept shooting them because it felt true to my artistic vision. Lucas, with his unique perspective, recognized the value of that work and helped me bring it to a conclusion.
Since 2019, we’ve been shaping the idea of creating a book. The first concept was for a CCSP call for proposals, titled Máscaras sobre Máscaras ("Masks over Masks"), during the 2020 pandemic. That project wasn’t selected, but Lucas kept refining the idea over the years.
The concept for Vidacobra emerged as an evolution of all these attempts and ideas. In 2023, when Mamba celebrated its 10th anniversary, the idea of creating something commemorative involving my photos and the collective’s history came up. Initially, we thought about a collaborative publication with Estúdio Margem, but budget constraints prevented that. So, we decided to channel our efforts into a book that encompassed not just Mamba photos but also other black-and-white series.
The selection process was intense and collaborative. I started with a pre-selection, but Lucas had full access to my archive—over 10,000 photos, at least 5,000 of which are black-and-white. He immersed himself in the material, making choices and refining the book’s vision. The title Vidacobra was my idea, initially as a playful nod to the meme “Life Snake,” but it ended up taking on a deeper meaning. 2023 was a tough year for me, marked by my mother’s illness and passing. The title reflects not just the Mamba snake but also the "snake of pressure"—the struggles of adulthood.
This work has a deeply collective nature, involving not only the people portrayed but also the relationships I’ve built with the scene and those individuals over the years. The intimacy I have with the environments I photograph is something I truly value. I don’t see myself as an intrusive photographer—for me, building a connection with the space and the people is essential to capturing something genuine.
The launch party for the book was wonderful, but there was a certain nostalgia in the air—a feeling that things have changed and will never be the same. This sentiment is even reflected in the aesthetics of the parties, which are now entirely different. With such a strong biographical and documentary load, do you think Vidacobra closes a cycle?
The idea of living in a "time spiral," with continuous transformations and cycles of change, perfectly aligns with how party scenes evolve. In that sense, the book not only documents a specific moment in this scene but also carries the symbolic weight of being a transition point. It captures the essence of a phase that no longer exists while simultaneously pointing toward what lies ahead.
The shift from smaller, more intimate gatherings to massive productions seems to mirror the trajectory of many cultural movements that undergo similar transformations. Now, with parties returning to club spaces, this change is not just about location but also carries political undertones. In such a context, photography as an art form becomes a powerful tool to document and translate these nuanced shifts.
Vidacobra acts as both a record and a reflection of these changes. When people look at these images, they don’t just see a snapshot of a moment—they sense that something meaningful has been lost and is simultaneously being rebuilt in a new form. This duality gives the work its significance. It not only documents the scene but also actively engages with its evolution, portraying both the "what once was" and the ongoing process of becoming.
Vidacobra was one of the winners of the Zum Photobook Award, an important recognition for your work. What are your next steps?
I also teach at Galpão Comum alongside Helena Ramos. Together, we explore how a photographer positions themselves as an artist—what it means to be an artist-photographer versus a commercial photographer. Sometimes the distinction is clear: an artistic photographer tends to have a more expressive, unique perspective, though I’m not particularly fond of the term "authorial." I've always balanced photography with parallel jobs and never lived exclusively off it, which has allowed me to stay true to what I want to photograph and preserve my creative vision.
Winning the photobook prize was a huge encouragement. It gave me an opportunity to reflect on the value of my work and helped me reach new audiences who didn’t know me before. It was rewarding to see my work resonate with jurors unfamiliar with my name, as I’m better known within a niche. Right now, my focus is on broadening my connections, presenting my work in new spaces, applying for projects, and exploring new directions. I’m particularly excited about revisiting my archive—over 10,000 images—and finding fresh narratives by reinterpreting and combining the photos I’ve already taken.
I still want to keep photographing parties because I think there’s an intriguing shift happening in the scene. Beyond that, I trust that when the time is right, new themes and opportunities will naturally come my way.
Leo Felipe currently works in the art market but has previously been a bar owner, punk band singer, DJ, party producer, radio host, TV presenter, academic researcher, and curator. Among his books, notable titles include a sex shop de drugs & food (Quadradocirculo, 2023) and A História Universal do After (nunc, 2019), which was translated into Spanish and published in 2022 by the Argentine publisher Caja Negra. One of its chapters was published in English in issue #132, Black Rave, of the e-flux journal.