Aliona Karavai, a contemporary art curator, discusses the situation surrounding the exhibitions "As Though We Hid the Sun in a Sea of Stories: Fragments for a Geopoetics of North Eurasia" and "The Assault of the Present on the Rest of Time" in Berlin.
"Ever felt like you're not understood in Germany?" Nikita Kadan and I are asked at our inaugural event in Berlin. It marks the beginning of a series, thanks to an invitation from the central office of the Heinrich Böll Foundation. We're touring nine German cities until the end of September, organizing discussion events with exhibition elements in each. This initiative is tied to Kadan's project, "We Are the Price," where we discuss the intersection of war and art, emphasizing why the latter cannot exist independently of the former.
The moderator clarifies, "For instance, do you ever feel like you're not understood when German institutions invite Ukrainian and Russian female artists and curators to the same platform for collaboration and/or dialogue?" I respond that it varies, but yes, the concentration of disparities in understanding the fundamental working principles of what is possible and impossible is highest in Germany and Austria. I mention that I find it intriguing how this self-appointment as a mediator happens, a role not taken up by, for instance, Romanian, Italian, or North American colleagues. I wonder where this self-nomination comes from, despite the numerous voices from the Ukrainian community who, since at least 2022 (and some since 2014), have expressed the impossibility of artistic dialogue as long as rockets fly overhead. I question the expectations for explanations when Ukrainian female artists and curators reject proposals they never asked for. I express my confusion about whether these German institutions understand the multi-layered inequality between Ukrainian and Russian female artists created by the context of a genocidal war. Do they possess reliable tools and sufficient expertise to work adequately with such inequality, given that it will only deepen otherwise? And do they have the perspective even to recognize this inequality and its roots? Responsibility means responding, but I finally realize that this time, these questions are not for me.
During this conversation, in another part of Berlin, two German institutions opened an exhibition titled "The Assault of the Present on the Rest of Time: Artistic Testimonies of War and Repression." It is curated by Katya Inozemtseva, the former chief curator of Moscow's Garage Museum of Contemporary Art, who, in 2017, included Crimea in the program of the First Triennial of Contemporary Russian Art, justifying it as not "ignoring the geopolitical fact that Crimea became a federal district of the Russian Federation." Inozemtseva did not dare to comment on this curatorial decision even after 2022 and her departure from Russia. She also refrained from commenting on her public complaints that Ukraine "simply erased Crimea, and artists based in Kyiv or Lviv stopped going there." Yes, Katya, there were problems with Ukrainian cultural politics in Crimea until the spring of 2014. But no, Katya, since the spring of 2014, it has become (or rather, remained) difficult, often dangerous, and sometimes impossible for people with Ukrainian passports to go there. These are basic facts about how any occupation works, but they can easily escape the perspective of someone who is part of the occupying apparatus. As part of this apparatus, you could not only freely visit Crimea but also organize workshops to "create a situation of looking into each other's eyes." Katya, would you recreate this same scenario now in Mariupol or Melitopol?
"Responsibility means responding – literally, for starters. At least answer the questions directed at you and don’t ignore them," I think, accumulating questions for everyone conveniently remaining silent. Except for the Ukrainian artist Katya Lisovenko, who dared to step forward to respond to the mistakes made by all.
Speaking about curatorial mistakes: They have already been listed in the Sotsialno-Kulturna Review, and there were quite a few in this exhibition. There were classic mistakes involving the lack of permission to use artwork (such as using Victoria Amelina's poem without the consent of the copyright holders), mistakes that a curator of "this level" shouldn't make. Perhaps Inozemtseva is accustomed to working "the Russian way" and hasn't adjusted to the "European style" yet. But there were also errors bordering on deliberate unethicality and factual ignorance.
For example, the dedication to Victoria Amelina, who was known for her principled public refusal to cooperate with Russian cultural figures, a stance that a Russian curator failed to respect after Amelina’s death from a Russian rocket. Was the Russian curator unaware of this position because she only learned about her from sensational July headlines? Was she also unaware that Russia occupied Kramatorsk in the spring of 2014, and an illegal referendum took place there—similar to Crimea, although this occupation lasted only a few months? Otherwise, the curator would have had the opportunity to organize a "looking into each other's eyes" session there, within the framework of the Triennial of Contemporary Russian Art.
Let's also consider the exhibition's title itself, quoting the film by director Alexander Kluge, known since last spring as an active public opponent of providing weapons to Ukraine. Allegedly, "attackers and those attacked suddenly become more or less the same as soon as they fight each other." Inozemtseva's curatorial essay begins with a reference to Kluge. Meanwhile, the exhibition description on the website promises this: "Against the backdrop of the war unleashed by Russia in Ukraine, exhibition curator Katya Inozemtseva understands the past as continuity and as the present." Katya, does this past include the relatively recent events of 2014? I already know the potential answer to this question: no. In the same curatorial essay, it is claimed that the Russian army invaded Ukrainian territory in February 2022. In other words, the rest of the "violence and oppression" remains outside your scope – it is selectively and conveniently erased, blurred, and diluted from history.
Against the question "What is the responsibility of the curator?" this set of curatorial mistakes seems deliberate. But I also don't share the view that it reflects Inozemtseva's intention or a plan by the secret services. No, it's a classic and dangerous combination of "universal" ignorance and a not-so-subtle imperialistic perspective, vividly demonstrating the professional inadequacy of Russian curators in European projects related to war, totalitarianism, and state violence. The professional inadequacy not only of Katya Inozemtseva but also of the entire class of Russian "emigrant” curators, including another former curator at the Garage, Yaroslav Volovod, who is co-curating a decolonial exhibition with the striking title "As Though We Hid the Sun in a Sea of Stories: Fragments for the Geopoetics of North Eurasia," which will open in Berlin on October 21 and includes the artist and curator Nikolay Karabinovich from Odesa. In the description of this exhibition, the terms "Russian / Russia" are mentioned seven times, "Soviet / post-Soviet / Soviet Union" five times, "Polish-Jewish" once, and guess what—not a single mention of the name of any post-colonial country or a subjugated federal republic. One of my "favorite" parts includes passages about the exhibition promising "fragments of new geopoetics free from official versions of territorial control and mechanical repetition of existing attitudes" and it being "especially important in the times of renewed Russian imperialistic aggression" (without specifying towards whom). I fear this exhibition will bring us a series of unpleasant surprises, which have already started with the absence of permission to exhibit works by the announced Paraska Plytka-Horytsvit, mistakes in the transliteration of Sergei Parajanov and Olga Rapay-Markish’s names, and the museum simply deleting the list of participants after "curatorial mistakes" were discovered in the previous exhibition. I address Karabinovich: Nikolay, will you be able to steer the curatorial helm and the decolonial framework? In any case, good luck.
The responsibility to decolonize one's thinking goes beyond merely mentioning relatives from Kostiantynivka or any other Ukrainian city. It's not enough to identify oneself as Ukrainian or Jewish. Even living in Ukraine and being here during the war might not suffice. Achieving a deeper understanding of the privileges associated with being a colonizer, whether in the past or present, demands consistent and introspective self-reflection. It necessitates a daily commitment to recognize and confront the oppressive tools that have been wielded and may still be wielded. It involves embracing Michael Rothberg’s concept of the “implicated subject.” It requires dismantling imperialist perspectives, urging a shift away from blind adherence for a meaningful period of time. It necessitates breaking ties and attachments to the empire and understanding the nature of the mistrust that will be extrapolated onto bearers of Russian identity for a long time, as Nikita Kadan often emphasizes in our events like “We Are the Price” in nine German cities: "Now it's not enough to be against the war. Now you have to be against Russia."
At these events, Nikita also talks about the intertwining of Russian and Ukrainian cultures (for instance, during the avant-garde movement in the twenties), about the artistic heritage he is not willing to surrender, and the instances where the colonized becomes the beneficiary of the colonizer's practices. He speaks of the fluidity of roles and identities. This means decolonization work is relevant for everyone, especially those who identify as Ukrainian, German, or other curators or artists. It doesn't hurt. Instead, it helps prevent a sense of superiority. This work could be significant for Ukrainian artists, especially those who have been abroad for a long time, feeling the impact of historical resentments and wanting to recalibrate their inner compass.
In this context, I cannot help but ask myself: "What is the responsibility of an artist for a curator's mistake?" In the exhibition "The Attack of the Present on the Rest of Time: Artistic Testimonies of War and Repression," curated by Katya Inozemtseva, two Ukrainian artists participated: Katya Lisovenko and Dana Kavelina. Strangely, both artists have lived mostly abroad, particularly in Vienna and Berlin, since the beginning of the full-scale invasion. After several days of discussions on social media, Lisovenko withdrew her participation and removed her works from the exhibition, taking responsibility for Inozemtseva's mistakes as a curator, but also for her error in commenting on Viacheslav Mashnytskyi's portrait. Kavelina, on the other hand, has chosen not to respond. "I fully realized myself as an artist when the war in Ukraine began. My political stance was formed through the internal shock I experienced when I realized that the war was closer than I imagined," she wrote about her artistic practice for Secondary Archive a few years ago. But, Dana, I would like to ask: What is your political stance now? Are issues primarily within Ukraine currently less of a priority for you than issues in Europe, where you concentrate your artistic representation? Did communication obstacles of a physical or mental nature hinder your communication? Does your silence mean abstaining from responsibility as an artist for the curatorial framework of the exhibition you are participating in? Moreover, I would really like to see your works “Mother Lemberg”, “Mother Lviv”, and “Failure of Presence” in Ukraine.
A significant part of the discussion with artists—specifically, the attempts to question Kavelina—focused on the quality of this discussion. Some criticized what they saw as an unacceptable tone that bordered on bullying. To others, most of the posts and comments seemed emotional but aimed at raising professional questions rather than attacking or belittling. Perhaps it depends on individual feeds and those who are added as friends (or not added or even blocked)—that's how information hygiene and bubbles work. Maybe sometimes people didn't dislike how something was said but rather what was said itself; this happens frequently. In any case, we still need to work on the culture of public discussion; there are deficits and problems. But what worries me even more in this discussion is the dangerous generalization about "traumatized Ukrainian artists in Ukraine," whose trauma supposedly might be a reason to exclude certain arguments from the discussion. No, here, we need to act in the opposite way. Collective trauma is evidence of a collective crime, and such testimonies should not be swept under the rug. Yes, these are times when we all need to be more mindful of our mental health and its timely check-ups. But instilling shame for collective trauma or relegating someone to a "less reliable" status in a discussion because of it is a (post)totalitarian practice of forcing victims into silence. The stereotyping of a whole group of Ukrainian colleagues as "radical" and "patriotic" might be a convenient game from the past but seems strange in the context of not noticing the imperialist elephant in the room. My dear leftist community, which I also consider myself a part of, it's a bit challenging to call oneself leftist if you tolerate the spread of imperialist narratives through the instrumentalization of your own.
Meanwhile, my main concern extends beyond the Ukrainian artistic community, and that is: "What is the responsibility of institutions?" Two German institutions, the Brücke-Museum and the Schinkel Pavillon, entrusted this task to a curator who, due to her experience and unexamined imperialistic perspective, was professionally unsuitable for curating an exhibition on totalitarian violence. They entrusted her with financial and communication resources. Why did these two institutions make such a misguided decision? Why didn't any internal safeguards work within these institutions? Were these institutions able to provide a safe space for Ukrainian artists to work, and what measures were taken to prevent retraumatization? How did your institutions share responsibility for this mistake, and why did the role of the "police officer," responsible for resolving the conflict, fall upon the Ukrainian artist? What perspective was lacking, and ultimately, what internal work are German institutions undertaking to decolonize their organizational thinking and illuminate their blind spots? It seems that questions of this nature need to be the focus going forward, intensifying scrutiny on institutions that invite such exhibitions onto their platforms. At least, that's the focus I intend to adopt moving forward if only there were enough hours in the day.
As I write this column, almost every evening, Nikita Kadan and I explain why each of us refuses to collaborate with Russian curators and artists at the “We Are the Price” events. For Kadan, it's primarily due to the absence of equal dialogue partners, someone who could be among German anti-fascist artists during World War II. Nikita Kadan explains this pragmatically, based on how the art market in contemporary Russia developed and gradually succumbed to corruption and censorship under a regime that transformed from kleptocratic to fascist. According to him, the screws were tightened slowly and systematically, not swiftly as in Nazi Germany, allowing them to align the Russian art niche with the imperialistic narrative fully. That’s why the work of someone like Bertolt Brecht is impossible in contemporary Russia. For me, it's more about ethical and security reasons. Collaboration between Ukrainian and Russian cultural figures is marked by fundamental inequality—in terms of safety—because only Ukrainian artists live under the daily threat to their lives and/or contemplate this threat for their loved ones. When the act of aggression concludes, and there is tangible hope for collective accountability for crimes (including reparations), artistic dialogue might become potentially feasible if there are dialogue partners who can be trusted. Until then, attempts at joint discussions resemble trying to drown out artillery fire with poetry—a futile, naive, and unethical endeavor towards those currently under fire yet expected to compose the next stanza.
The more I contemplate the question of "Why not?" regarding collaboration on joint projects with Russian artists or curators, the more convinced I am that it's unproductive. The right question must be posed to German and Austrian institutions to find the right answer. Or, perhaps the initial question should sound slightly different. It could sound like: "Why should I?" Why should I collaborate with Russian colleagues, what does it bring to me? To Russian colleagues? And what about your institution?
Complicated? We've merely scratched the surface of reality. This complexity already exists. It's just that it translates differently onto our shoulders – like now when answers about the exhibition come from everyone except those who created it.
With gratitude for (mostly nocturnal) discussions about this exhibition with Stanislav Turina, Lesia Khomenko, Sasha Kurmaz, Katia Lisovenko, Mykola Ridnyi, Kateryna Tarabukina, and Serhii Klymko. With gratitude for conversations about dialogues and safe zones to Alevtina Kakhidze.
In cases of generalization, the author uses feminine nouns, encompassing representatives of all gender identities.
Text originally published (in Ukrainian) by Suspilne Kultura as part of a collaboration with Documenting Ukraine.
Translated by Kate Tsurkan
