Force and Counterforce: Ukrainian Art’s Response to Russian Colonisation
This text was originally meant to be published as a part of the conference proceedings for The Kyoto Conference on Arts, Media & Culture (KAMC2024). While my video presentation is available online, I foolishly missed the deadline for the paper submission. In my defence, I was busy with my Master’s thesis for the University of Bologna, but I know it is a weak excuse. This exact lack of proper time management brought me to create this blog. My research is extensive and my writings are many. Ultimately, I hope they serve the purpose.
Introduction
From the imperial domination of the Russian Empire to the Soviet Union's suppressive policies, Ukraine’s artistic heritage has been deeply shaped by external forces that sought to undermine its autonomy. This historical context of colonisation has left lasting scars on Ukrainian culture, including the marginalisation of Ukrainian art within global narratives.
The primary aim of this research is to explore how Ukrainian art, particularly in the post-Soviet and contemporary periods, has served as a tool for decolonisation, challenging both the imperial legacies of the past and the ongoing influence of Russian power. By examining key moments in the history of Ukrainian art, the study looks at the tension between national identity and foreign cultural imposition, especially in the context of the Soviet Union's efforts to assimilate Ukrainian artists into the broader "Soviet" narrative. This exploration extends to the current moment, where Ukrainian artists continue to confront the Russian invasion and the ongoing cultural warfare that seeks to rewrite their history and identity.
In the wake of Ukraine's independence, cultural institutions and artists began to resist the pervasive Soviet and Russian narratives that had dominated Ukrainian cultural production for centuries. The 1990s and the post-independence period saw a resurgence of Ukrainian art, with many artists revisiting and revising the legacies of both the Soviet era and the earlier Russian Empire. At the same time, Ukraine's continued struggle to assert its independence and cultural sovereignty became increasingly visible on the international stage.
By focusing on Ukrainian art's role in decolonisation, this research highlights the transformative power of art in shaping national consciousness, preserving heritage, and offering resistance. It also investigates the challenges Ukrainian art faces in gaining recognition outside of the imperial frameworks that have historically defined its place in the world. Through this lens, the research contributes to broader discussions on decolonial art practices and the politics of cultural representation.
Are We Colonised?
Decolonisation, as Franz Fanon noted, is a violent process aimed at dismantling the entrenched cultural and political systems of both the coloniser and the colonised. While Western colonial discourse has evolved, colonisation remains a global issue, often misunderstood and framed from the perspective of empires rather than the nations they conquered. This has led to theoretical abstractions that obscure the reality of colonisation. The colonised, suffering from testimonial injustice, struggle to share their experiences and histories.
Yet, voices that break through the silence are powerful. Originating in Latin America, decolonial discourse introduced Aníbal Quijano's concept of coloniality of power in 1992, distinguishing between coloniality and colonialism. Quijano argued that the legacy of colonialism continues to shape social structures, fostering discrimination and xenophobia, and that modernity cannot be understood without considering coloniality.[1]
The case of Ukraine is complex, as the Russian Empire and its successors—the Soviet Union and modern Russia—are often not viewed as colonisers. Soviet communism is seen as a counter to capitalist colonialism, with Ukraine perceived not as a victim but as a rebellious entity escaping the "protective" family home to face the harsh capitalist world. To avoid being lost in ideological debates, it is crucial to focus on the practical realities of colonisation: prohibitions, laws, decrees, official statements, and the physical elimination of individuals in occupied territories.
Colonisation affects every aspect of individual and societal life, impacting both the coloniser and the colonised in destructive ways. This essay focuses on three key tools: language prohibition, cultural imposition, and the denial of subjectivity—interconnected in cause and effect, and foundational to colonial policies. A nation's subjectivity is defined by its ability to act according to its agenda, shape its identity, and make independent decisions. Colonisation denies this by installing foreign rule that forces conquered states to align with the metropole in matters of self-identification and decision-making. While colonial processes vary, they share common strategies that alter the core of society — values, relationships, and identity — leaving lasting effects on future generations.[2]
Language is a powerful tool of oppression. The coloniser's language is imposed on the natives, gradually eroding the position of their own language on both personal and institutional levels. This suppression often results in the loss of oral history and intangible cultural heritage, depriving Indigenous communities of a key element of their identity. Ukraine has long endured the prohibition of its native language and the russification of all aspects of life. The struggle for the survival of the Ukrainian language dates back to the 17th century when the Russian church banned and destroyed any Ukrainian or Belarusian literature. Since then, both religious and secular literature has remained a constant target for Russian authorities.
In 1861, the abolition of serfdom in the Russian Empire freed farmers from their lords, granting Ukrainians long-sought freedom and accelerating cultural recovery. Even before 1861, secular Sunday schools in Ukraine gained popularity, offering education accessible to all. These schools, taught in Ukrainian, outpaced those run by the Russian church, which drew attention from authorities. Some believe that the rise of Ukrainian culture was first noted by anonymous figures claiming to be from Kyiv’s clergy, particularly alarmed by the translation of parts of the Gospel into Ukrainian, effectively recognising it as a distinct language.[3] In response, in 1863, Russian Minister Petr Valuev issued a Circular, secretly delivered to censorship committees in Kyiv, Moscow, and St. Petersburg. The Circular exemplifies colonial thought: it referred to the Ukrainian language not as a language but as a “small Russian dialect,” and even worse, dismissed it with derogatory terms like “patois” or “argot.” It accused the push for the Ukrainian language as a rebellious plot against the empire, involving collaboration with Poland, and concluded with a ban on publishing religious texts in Ukrainian.[4]
When an empire feels threatened by so much as a spoken and taught language in one of its colonies, it grows increasingly paranoid towards any sort of self-determination. After the issuing of Valuev’s document, publishers considered releasing any book in the Ukrainian language with great caution, up to the point of refusing to print anything at all if it was not in Russian.
In 1876, Emperor Alexander II signed the Ems Decree in Bad Ems, formalising a severe act of chauvinism. It expanded the Valuev Circular’s restrictions, banning the Ukrainian language from all cultural spheres, including theatre, music, and translation of foreign literature. Importing Ukrainian books and teaching children in any language other than Russian were also prohibited, with Russian teachers sent to Ukrainian schools to enforce these measures. These decrees had a lasting impact on Ukrainian culture, creating a cultural void that enabled the denial of subjectivity. The underlying fear was that fostering Ukrainian culture through language would give rise to national subjectivity. Centuries later, the result was a proliferation of Russian literature in multiple languages, while Ukrainian writers were silenced, not for lack of talent, but because their voices were suppressed.[5]
Year 1917: The October Revolution promised the end of monarchy and the liberation of the suppressed nations. What was named the Soviet Union inherited every feature of its predecessor, leaving no room for any significant change. The number of schools with the Ukrainian language of teaching was rapidly decreasing. Writers, philosophers, professors and other intellectuals faced harsh repression for the open critique of what they thought was going to be the liberation of Ukraine, but turned out to be a much more severe imprisonment.
The Soviet period in Ukraine was marked by mass repressions and executions of cultural elites, with the most devastating event being the Great Terror, or “Great Purge,” initiated by Joseph Stalin. The scale of cultural destruction, particularly in Ukraine, was staggering. This era became known as the "Executed Renaissance," a term coined by Polish publicist Jerzy Giedroyc in 1958, referring to the vibrant cultural and artistic output of the 1920s to 1940s, which was brutally suppressed.[6] The desire for freedom and rejection of Soviet dogmas led to the mass execution of intellectuals. The purge reached its peak in the Sandarmokh massacre in Karelia, Russia, on 3 November 1937, where 1,111 individuals, including many Ukrainian writers, artists, and intellectuals, were executed.[7]
Soviet policies in Ukraine were schizophrenic: while the abolition of the monarchy allowed for the retrieval of national identities across the colonies, every process had to be tightly controlled by the Party, with its representatives embedded in each newly formed republic. The imperial mindset denied any self-determination outside of the "Greater Russian" cultural framework. In Ukraine, language and art policies, especially regarding literature, underwent dramatic shifts in the first decade after the revolution. The peak of this contradictory approach was the “theory of the struggle between two cultures,” a pseudo-scientific idea presented by Dmytro Lebed, the Second Secretary of the Party of Soviet Ukraine, who was influenced by the anti-democratic views of Russian politician Petr Struve. He was the one to lay fundaments for this “theory” in one simple statement:
“The “Great Russian” [Russian] can be a cultured participant in the life of a nation and an educated individual while not knowing any “Little Russian” [Ukrainian] language. But the “Little Russian” that did not grasp the Russian language is illiterate in a national and political sense”.
The theory that followed it did not simply state that Ukrainian culture and language are inferior, artificial, and absolutely doomed. Lebed sustained that it is nothing less than a real struggle between the two cultures: Ukrainian — retrograde, retarder, rural, and Russian — the language of the progressive proletariat and of the city.[8]
The Russian obsessive-compulsive policies have had severe effects on Ukrainian culture and the lives of Ukrainians. Even once Ukraine regained its independence and sovereignty in 1991, it did not get rid of the abusive neighbour, who persists in their attempts to undermine the country’s political subjectivity. Even today, Ukraine is often not regarded as an active participant in the very war it is fighting. The notion that Ukraine is merely a battlefield for global power forces fits the framework of coloniality because this idea dismisses it as a subject on the international stage.
Before Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine in February 2022, Vladimir Putin’s official website published a morbid essay, "On the Historical Unity of Russians and Ukrainians," just as Russian military forces amassed on the border. Dismissed as pseudo-historical, the essay is filled with abstract assumptions and scandalous generalisations, reminiscent of imperial and Soviet rhetoric. After offering a subjective view of Ukraine’s history based on fictional literature, Putin claims Ukraine is “entirely the product of the Soviet Era” and an inseparable part of Russia. He suggests that Ukraine's internationally recognised borders are in dispute, admitting “disagreements” over “minor details.” As he skirts the issue of the invasion, he states, “I am becoming more and more convinced of this: Kiev simply does not need Donbas,” as if Ukraine’s territorial integrity were his decision. The essay grows increasingly paranoid, invoking “Western powers” and an “anti-Russia project,” lamenting that Ukrainians might despise Russia as if Russia had not provided ample reasons. Like imperial and Soviet publicists before him, Putin claims that Ukrainians oppose this “evil plan,” the only hint of subjectivity allowed. The essay concludes with Putin's assertion: “I am confident that true sovereignty of Ukraine is possible only in partnership with Russia,” echoing the words of Petr Struve in 1912. Struve could not have foreseen that, 109 years later, his ideas would not only be revived but accompany a major propaganda campaign preceding Russia's brutal invasion of Ukraine.[9]
All the facts I am laying out here serve to establish one simple fact: Ukraine was colonised by Russia, by every classic means of colonisation that has ever been invented. Consequently, today the country is struggling with the situation of coloniality of power, and culture is a mighty weapon in this struggle. Culture in a broad sense is not an abstract notion. It is a set of values and very concrete affirmations, often accompanied by a set of visual markers, and it represents those who identify with it. Its power is in its vernacularity, accessibility and dynamism. It is an antidote to the venom of colonialism, capable of resurrecting societies, and this is why it is so feared by the empires, who make it the main target in their colonial policies.
Ukrainian Culture’s Stand Against the Colonial Power Structure
After the Soviet Union's collapse, Ukraine's government underestimated the need for cultural revival, focusing instead on power struggles and the lingering influence of the empire. While cultural institutions were outdated, individual artists and collectives distanced themselves from the stagnating empire. Art produced in the 1990s reflected on colonialism, Soviet propaganda, and a resurgence of apolitical creativity after decades of censorship. Culture became Ukraine’s key asset for international visibility, essential for combating centuries of suppression and modern power structures.
Ukraine’s cultural resurrection began with language. Since the war's start, the government has made efforts to educate the world on colonial legacies, alongside the military invasion. One notable initiative was the 2019 CorrectUA campaign by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, which aimed to clarify Ukraine's identity. Targeting international audiences still linking Ukraine to Russia, the campaign focused on the linguistic dimension of decolonisation, particularly the Cyrillic alphabet shared by both countries. Despite Ukraine’s independence, Russia’s influence remained in place names and geographical terminology. Renaming cities within Ukraine is one challenge, but convincing the world that Ukraine’s version of geography is the correct one is far more complex.
The letter, addressed to whom it may concern on the website of the Ministry provides examples of the most misspelled Ukrainian geographic names:[10]
Table 1: Archaic and Modern Spelling of Ukrainian Place Names
The diplomatic mission proceeded with the Resolution that tackles the romanisation of Ukrainian geographical names, which is essentially a guide to the transliteration of the Ukrainian alphabet from Cyrillic to Latin. This change may seem minor to many, but this act is the very instance of the exercise of the international subjectivity of Ukraine. More importantly, this step contributes to the decolonisation of the minds of both Ukrainians and other nations’ citizens. Upon arrival at the airport, they head to the gate for the plane to Ukrainian Kyiv and Kharkiv, not Russian Kiev and Kharkov. These changes were adopted by a number of international media like BBC, The Guardian, Associated Press, The Economist, The New York Times, and many others, as well as the International Air Transport Organisation. The Russian media continue to insistently publish their materials using their version of Ukrainian geographical names, which proves that the change of one letter can be a real eyesore when it comes to gradual but decisive decolonisation.
However, language apart, the cultural presence of Ukraine in the art world is astonishing, even if it is tough to perceive. Many artists who worked under the Russian Empire and the Soviet Union's rule are still seen as simply “Russian”. Of course, many of them were killed by the regime or squeezed out of their country for “moral crimes” (like Sergiy Parajanov, a visionary film director), some became victims of “accidental” hit-and-run (like Oleksandr Murashko, an artist, one of the founders of the Ukrainian Academy of Arts) or imprisoned and sentenced to death among other intellectuals (like Les Kurbas, a theatre director, one of the prisoners shot in Sandarmokh tract). Those who managed to survive got labelled as Russian artists, like Malevich, Exter, Sonia Delaunay, Tatlin, and Archipenko, and this is only if accounting for the period of historical avant-garde. The socialist realism monuments, still existing in great numbers around Ukraine, those that portray farmers, astronauts, or factory workers, made of bronze, painted frescoes or mosaics — they were created by a multitude of talented Ukrainian artists, too.
Ukrainian art of all times was always marked by the country’s vibrant visual heritage, love for vivid colours, unbridled imagination and authenticity. It makes a powerful stance in representing Ukraine on the global cultural map. Or does it? The biggest European collection of XX-century art is stored in the walls of Centre Pompidou, in Paris. This esteemed institution houses not only an impressive collection of artworks but also an important library, media centre and research facility, making it one of the most important points of reference for art scholars. Over the last few decades, the institution held multiple events centred around the so-called “Russian avant-garde”, which is an umbrella term for the artistic research that was unfolding in the first half of the XX century on the territory of the Russian Empire and the Soviet Union. To be fair, most of this artistic legacy has been buried with the rise of socialist realism when any formal experiment could cost the artists’ lives. Nevertheless, “Russian avant-garde” is a comfortable concept to revel in, because it effortlessly provides representation and credit for everything that is called “Russian culture”. That is, being an empire, and later — a “union”, Russia appropriates every persona, concept, idea, or body of work that has been created on its territory, no matter where, how, and why, because this is the way colonialism works.
And thus, the situation begs a question: who can untie this imperial nod? Technically, the only entity that possesses enough resources and authority to do it is a cultural institution, any cultural institution, for that matter. It can be a diplomatic institution or a museum. Museums play an especially responsible role in this regard since they were assigned a task to house, preserve and valorise artworks from all over the globe. While housing and preservation are easy concepts to grasp, what does it mean to valorise a work of art? It is probably hung up on a wall, there are a few dozen people that spend time in front of it daily. The real issue is what exactly one gets to know about this or that artwork, and what is the reassumption of the exhibition they are going to tell their friends and family over dinner that night? They will not talk about Ukrainian art they saw, because they do not know it was Ukrainian. The statement about the artificiality of Ukraine as a democracy and as a nation also funds itself upon the poor representation of it in the global history of art and culture caused by appropriation, silencing, or straight-up slaughter of authentic cultural actors.
Now, what can a museum possibly do to essentially decolonise itself, getting rid of outdated narratives dictated by the empires of the past? A lot has been going on in the field of decolonial museology recently, and it is clear that the systems of knowledge are being recalibrated according to modern sensitivities and thanks to the unravelling of histories behind art collections, both public and private. A lot is being done, but it is still not enough. If museums possess the authority (and hence, responsibility) to tell us what it is they are exhibiting, then they fail to tell the story of Ukrainian art and heritage. Only with the outbreak of the full-scale invasion of Russia in Ukraine, Centre Pompidou started changing a few informational plaques, indicating the correct provenance of the author. It is not “Russian Empire” or “Soviet Union” anymore, but “Ukraine, formerly…”. However, these changes did not even touch the informative and elaborate website of Centre Pompidou, which is frequently used as a research engine by academics. The experiment was simple: insert the word “Ukraine” or “Ukrainian” into the sophisticated research engine of the website. At first, it seems like an error in the system: the page is blank, and there are one or two results. I tried again, but this time I searched for the word “Russian”, and no, the website was not broken, because this request contains dozens of artists, artworks, articles, and news. Here is the visualisation of this search:[11]
Table 2: Centre Pompidou Web Site Research
The disparity in representation is too significant to overlook. At the Centre Pompidou, many events highlighting Russian culture revolve around the "Russian avant-garde," with Malevich frequently taking center stage. Presented as a standout figure, he is repeatedly categorized as a Russian artist, reinforcing a specific narrative. When the resources for the research are almost unlimited, or better, the research has already been done, what keeps museums like Centre Pompidou from implementing it into their practice and finally decolonising itself? The answer might be quite simple: nobody explicitly told them to. While the public is silent, the institution can carry on its rather lazy research politics. But there are good examples, too. As mentioned before, the research on Ukrainian art, visual and cultural heritage has already been done, peer-reviewed and published. There is a whole generation of scholars who cannot wait for their life work to be implemented into the system of cultural institutions. Therefore, with a right intention, and insisting initiative, it is possible to get through.
Oksana Semenik, a Kyiv-based art historian, works to reconnect Ukrainian art with its history, challenging outdated imperial labels. In statements to major American museums like MoMA and the Art Institute of Chicago, she questioned cultural misattributions, asserting, “Ukraine is not the former Russian Empire.” She argued these labels result from colonization and the erasure of Ukrainian identity; warning that ignoring Ukrainian origins reinforces a colonial mindset.
Figure 1: Dancers in Ukrainian Dress, Edgar Degas, 1899. Robert Lehman Collection, 1975
Decolonisation, though long after Edgar Degas’ time, has influenced his work. Institutions like The Met, the National Gallery, and the Getty Museum have reexamined his 1899 painting, Russian Dancers after scholars noted the women wore traditional Ukrainian attire. Titles were updated: The Met renamed it Dancers in Ukrainian Dress (Figure 1), while the National Gallery opted for Ukrainian Dancers.
Similar efforts have reclaimed artists like Ilia Repin and Arkhyp Kuindzhi. Once classified as Russian, Kuindzhi is now recognized by The Met as an Armenian born in Ukraine. These corrections highlight the broader struggle to undo colonial legacies, benefiting not only Ukraine but other nations with histories of imperial oppression.[14]
Contemporary Ukrainian art drives the decolonial movement, reclaiming cultural narratives and challenging imperial distortions. Like the reclassification of Degas’ Russian Dancers as Dancers in Ukrainian Dress, it exposes and dismantles colonial ideologies.
Vlada Ralko’s Peace Dove (Figure 2) is a powerful critique of the “peace proposals” Russia puts forward, exposing its hypocrisy. For a colonizer, peace equates to total submission and a return to imperial rule. In the artwork, a skull—a recurring symbol of death and destruction in Ralko’s recent works—carries an olive branch, mimicking the familiar image of a white dove. However, the body of this dove is a missile, poised to strike another target and enforce its distorted version of peace in Ukraine.
Figure 2: Peace Dove, Vlada Ralko, 2022. Courtesy of the artist.
In Birth of Evil (Figure 3), Ralko delves into the dark contrast between supposed female solidarity and the hatred one woman can harbour for another. She accuses Russian women of enabling the atrocities in Ukraine, framing them as the “source of life” for this violence. The natural force of creation is depicted wielding a hammer and sickle—symbols of Soviet communism—and animal legs, signifying innate brutality. This figure gives birth to a monstrous two-headed, winged mutant crowned with imperial headpieces atop bare skulls, echoing the Peace Dove. The composition suggests a hierarchy of symbols: a blood-soaked Soviet past birthing a greater imperial evil. Ralko critiques how women, shaped by Soviet and post-Soviet society, perpetuate Russia’s colonial ambitions.
The artwork also introduces a critical element: the “eternal flame” star. A symbol of Soviet monumentalism, the star honours the “unknown soldier,” representing countless war dead from World War II. In post-Soviet Russia, these monuments are sacrosanct, with their desecration carrying heavy penalties. Ralko transforms the flame into a snake coil resembling Medusa’s head, linking the monstrous creature to its origins, ideology, and inevitable future as yet another “unknown soldier.”
Ralko’s portrayal of femininity reflects the complex dynamics between women, with the rawness of her imagery serving as an honest critique. Her use of familiar symbols—crowns, stars, hammer and sickle, and animal-human hybrids—creates layers of meaning while maintaining accessibility for deeper interpretation.
Figure 3: The Birth of Evil, Vlada Ralko, 2022. Courtesy of the artist.
Alevtina Kakhidze pursues the same line of critique, using, however, a completely different logical approach. She navigates the absurdity of hypocrisy and unimaginable outcomes through form, composition, and words. Constantly innovating, she finds clear, impactful ways to express her feelings, working across mediums like drawing, writing, and performance. Her art bridges society, politics, and the mythical or natural worlds, using complex metaphors to make sense of events.
In her drawings, Kakhidze often employs infographic-like designs or layered human figures. Her work serves as a cognitive exercise, helping her process reality. One striking piece shows a small figure—her—staring at a red, chaotic fragment, with a larger, ominous red mass looming on the canvas. She writes: “17 min by car.” (Figure 4)
Figure 4: Alevtina Kakhidze, 17 Minutes by Car, 2022. Courtesy of the artist.
This piece reflects the occupation of Bucha, a tragedy that deeply shook Ukrainian society. The proximity of such horror left Kakhidze stunned, and she channelled this disbelief into her work. The image invites viewers to compare their distant perception of events with the overwhelming reality, asking them to measure their proximity to the suffering.
This artwork encapsulates Kakhidze’s empathy and sensitivity, standing as one of her most iconic pieces. It shows how she processes the unrelenting tragedy around her through deeply personal connections.
Alevtina Kakhidze’s compositions captivate through symbolic references paired with concise, evocative text. In one of her works, she draws on the legacy of the Russian avant-garde, referencing Kasimir Malevich’s Suprematist human figures—abstract forms long debated in terms of the artist's cultural origins. Malevich’s depersonalized figures inspire Kakhidze to portray a faceless Russian population that shifts responsibility for the war in Ukraine solely onto their president. She challenges this narrative, calling it both dangerous and untrue. (Figure 5)
Figure 5: Alevtina Kakhidze, The So-Called “Russian Avant Garde”, 2022. Courtesy of the Artist.
What infuriates Kakhidze as both an artist and a citizen is the refusal of a nation of 140 million people to take accountability for their government’s actions. The figures in her work are stained with blood, a stark reminder that the blame extends beyond those giving the orders.
Both Alevtina Kakhidze and Zhanna Kadyrova use their art to process the trauma of war, employing powerful symbols and layered metaphors to critique the violence and political realities that shape their society, inviting viewers to confront uncomfortable truths about responsibility and the human cost of conflict.
The Data Extraction project (Figure 6), initiated in 2011, blends various artistic practices with ready-made and non-site concepts. By selecting patterns of cracks and road marks, Kadyrova brought fragments of urban history into the gallery. These squared pieces of asphalt, straddling installation and painting, offered both institutional and social critique. Displayed in the white cube gallery, they reflected on urban infrastructure and historical development, exposing corruption in territorial urbanization.
Figure 6: Zhanna Kadyrova, Data Extraction project 2022. Courtesy of the artist.
Revived in 2022 after Irpin’s brutal occupation by Russian forces in March 2022, the project took on a darker tone. Road fragments scarred by missile debris replaced urban renewal narratives, revealing the asphalt’s deep wounds. Once a symbol of resilience, it became a haunting reminder of violence. The damaged material provokes unsettling thoughts on the fragility of human bodies against such force. More than representation, these pieces are tangible traces of trauma, embodying the raw impact of war.
The Palianytsia project, created by Zhanna Kadyrova in 2022, gained significant attention for its layered meaning and powerful reflection of trauma. Presented as a pop-up exhibit by Galleria Continua during the Venice Biennale, it continues to tour European fairs, captivating audiences through its craftsmanship and rich context.
Figure 7: Zhanna Kadyrova, Palianytsia 2022. Courtesy of the artist.
The word palianytsia translates to "bread" in Ukrainian, a festive term distinct from the everyday hlib. Traditionally prepared for weddings or as a welcome gift, palianytsia symbolizes Ukrainian culture's deep connection to grain and breadmaking, from planting seeds to baking loaves. The word also carries a unique resistance value, as its pronunciation is nearly impossible for non-Ukrainian-speaking Russians.
The project’s visual impact is striking: round loaves of bread arranged on an embroidered white tablecloth. On closer inspection, these loaves reveal themselves as river stones, meticulously shaped and sliced. Kadyrova, displaced by the invasion, collected these stones from rivers in the Carpathian Mountains, inspired by their resemblance to bread. Balancing resistance with cultural identity, Palianytsia transforms a universal symbol into a profound commentary, inviting diverse interpretations based on the viewer’s perspective.
Zhanna Kadyrova’s art challenges time and space, transporting the viewer into carefully constructed situations. The trick is that the viewer does not necessarily belong to the reality that they are brought into, thus the impact of the artwork is remarkable. This is the case of the Russian Rocket 2022 project. Kadyrova designed a sticker that realistically reproduces the image of a flying ballistic rocket. Soon the stickers appeared on the windows of the public transport around European cities. Combined with the movement of the vehicle, the rocket would integrate in the urban landscape and move along with the viewer, creating a curious and chilling effect. “Of course, this project was not meant for Ukraine, we have enough of real rockets of our own”, Kadyrova noted in her interview with Suspilne TV.[15] Applying the logic of street art, and the principle of hijacking the public space, the project added a small but significant detail to the daily landscape of European citizens. This way, their usual morning commute to the place of work or study was now accompanied by a reminder of someone else’s routine, very similar but altered by the imminent presence of an ultrasonic rocket travelling over the city’s skies with one precise mission. Ironically, the sticker is very visible and allows one to study the missile in the tiniest detail, while in reality, it is only the deafening sound and an immediate deadly explosion to announce its arrival.[16]
Figure 8: Zhanna Kadyrova, Russian Rocket project, 2022. Courtesy of the artist.
Contemporary Ukrainian art tackles both personal and collective trauma, that has been inflicted throughout centuries. However, the main limitation of this research is the complexity and underrepresentation of the Russian-Ukrainian relationship from the Ukrainian perspective. The history of this relationship, shaped by colonialism and imperialism, is difficult to fully address within the constraints of a brief text. The dominance of Russian narratives and the marginalisation of Ukrainian voices complicate the exploration of these issues. As a result, this research can only offer a partial view of Ukrainian art’s struggle for identity and its broader historical context, requiring further in-depth investigation.
[1] Quijano, A. (2000). Coloniality of power, eurocentrism, and Latin America. Nepantla: Views from the South, 1(3), 533–580.
[2] Spivak, G. C. (1988). Can the subaltern speak? In C. Nelson & L. Grossberg (Eds.), Marxism and the interpretation of culture (pp. 271–313). Macmillan.
[3] СТАРОДУБ A. (2006). Євангеліє та циркуляр. https://web.archive.org/web/20110828084401/http://news.iv-fr.net/index.php?id=608
[4] Miller, A. (n.d.). The Ukrainian question in the Russian empire [PDF]. Retrieved November 1, 2024, from https://web.archive.org/web/20110810122451/http://www.ukrhistory.narod.ru/texts/miller-pr1.htm
[5] Васькович Г. (1976). Васькович Г. Емський указ і боротьба за українську школу. Український Вільний Університет
[6] Лавріненко Ю. Розстріляне відродження: Антологія 1917–1933: Поезія–проза–драма–есей. Париж, 1959 (2-ге вид. – К., 2001).
[7] Сергій Шевченко. Імперія терору. — Київ: Фенікс, 2021. — С. 225—343.
[8] М. Парахіна ТЕОРІЯ «БОРОТЬБИ ДВОХ КУЛЬТУР» — У ПОШУКАХ РОСІЙСЬКО-УКРАЇНСЬКОГО ІСТОРІОГРАФІЧНОГО КОНСЕНСУСУ (МИНУЛЕ І СУЧАСНЕ ОДНІЄЇ КОНЦЕПЦІЇ) // Український історичний збірник, Вип. 15, 201
[9] President of Russia. (2021, July 12). On the historical unity of Russians and Ukrainians. Retrieved November 25, 2024, from http://en.kremlin.ru/events/president/news/66181
[10] Ministry of Foreign Affairs of Ukraine. (2019). #CorrectUA. Retrieved November 1, 2024, from https://mfa.gov.ua/en/correctua
[11] Centre Pompidou. (n.d.). Centre Pompidou official website. Retrieved November 2, 2024, from https://www.centrepompidou.fr/
[12] The result for the request ”ukrainienne” shows fifteen artists and personalities, all of them relative to the post-Soviet period in Ukraine.
[13] The four articles that result from this search have all been dated after 2022, so after the beginning of the full-scale Russian invasion in Ukraine.
[14] Pogrebin, R. (2023, March 17). Museums begin to relabel art by Ukrainians as Ukrainian, not Russian. The New York Times. https://www.nytimes.com/2023/03/17/arts/design/museums-relabel-art-ukraine-russian.html
[15] Суспільне Культура. (2023). Жанна Кадирова про проєкти "Russian Rocket", "Паляниця" та як змінюється мистецтво під час війни. Retrieved May 14, 2024, from https://suspilne.media/culture/384131-zanna-kadirova-pro-proekti-russian-rocket-2022-palanicu-ta-ak-zminuetsa-mistectvo-pid-cas-vijni/
[16] The Guardian. (2023, October 30). Ukrainian artist 'bombed' by Russian occupation with AK-47. Retrieved June 5, 2024, from https://www.theguardian.com/artanddesign/2023/oct/30/ukrainian-artist-bomb-zhanna-kadyrova-russian-occupation-ak-47
