Over the past years, you have dedicated your research to post-WWII Ukrainian art, particularly the Ukrainian inflection of socialist realism. Could you briefly outline the main characteristics of this dominant cultural doctrine within the artistic landscape?
Socialist realism resists concise definitions, among its scholars it is known for its elusive gist. So, I would say, this is not only the central question of my dissertation, but, more broadly, of my professional career. One of the angles I look at is how to approach socialist realism as a notion of artistic citizenship, a demand for socially engaged art; art that contributes to society or has a certain social commentary. This is something that is widely discussed now at the global art scenes but, of course, in a different framework. In the Soviet period, social engagement was a dominant expectation of creative practice.
I am interested in how this demand translated into reality, into the daily life of artists and art writers, their praxis. Many artworks and texts traverse the mere promotion of the Party line. For instance, I study how Ukrainian artists and art writers came together with factory workers in Kyiv, discussed art together, and even created exhibitions. Even within Ukrainian art scenes, there were multiple understandings of socialist realism.
Another aspect that I am exploring is: What was ‘realistic’ about socialist realism? While for some Marxist theorists of the 20th century this was a real preoccupation, contemporary scholarship of Soviet socialist realism tends to sideline it. In this sense, I am trying to trace the story of how understandings of realism travelled from different European contexts of thinking about art — from Germany and Austria, among others — and were questioned or expanded by people practising or theorising socialist realism in Ukraine.
During that historical era, the mystetstvoznavtsi — art experts involved in writing art history — were expected to work closely with artists and help transpose their creative processes. Why were these figures so important, and why did they remain overlooked for so long?
That is an interesting question, and I can offer only my informed guess. This profession itself is not new; in simplified terms, it is the profession of an art critic, with more obligations. Mystetstvoznavtsi were members of creative unions such as the Union of Artists (the Ukrainian Union was one of the oldest in the USSR), where they held meetings or lectures about art, discussed articles and books together, in short, came together as a professional group. In contemporary scholarship, they are not completely neglected, but rather overshadowed by artists, as art history, especially in its Western European strand, is still affected by the idea of a ‘genius artist.’ Historians are interested in what art writers published about particular artworks or artists, but in a sort of supplementary manner. The professional activities of art writers, especially in the Soviet Union, are less studied.
One might suggest that this relegation of art writers is inherited from the Soviet times. What struck me in my research is the longevity and persistence of tensions between artists and critics. Artists, who enjoyed more prestige and earned more than critics, tended to blame them for everything, while critics tried either to accommodate or fight back to preserve professional dignity and pursue their own interests. There were a lot of clashes between representatives of these two occupations. I often refer to "Ukrainian art scenes" to underline that there was no single solidarised unit, and many subjects were discussed and contested.
In my research, I also trace the attempts of artists and critics to come together and sort of reconcile. After WWII, the first big debate in the Soviet Union was dedicated to criticism and how critics failed to do their job properly because of the disconnect with artists. The initiative to assign art experts to specific studios, of sculptors or painters, for instance, followed. Some initiatives worked, some did not. The multi-volume publication on Ukrainian Soviet art history, the groundwork for which was laid in 1954, with the last volume released in 1970, was one of these colossal projects that brought architects, artists, art writers, and publishers together, for example. But its deployment was not always smooth, primarily, because collective endeavours were (and still are) difficult to coordinate.
What can the study of mosaics reveal about the various 'strategies' Ukrainian artists used to navigate or circumvent coercive Soviet artistic policies?
My early curatorial work started with children's illustrations, when I asked myself: 'How do you show something fairylike? How does fantasy coexist with socialist realism?' This playful subversion of realism fascinated me and eventually led me to study mosaics.
Mosaics were a way to convey political messages, but also a medium that allowed artists to circumvent ideological regulations more easily than in painting, which was the most censored and regulated art expression. There were many possible ways of circumvention. For instance, one strategy for artists was to account for distance: Mosaics created in regions farther from Kyiv implied fewer resources for the execution but also less scrutiny to their creative processes.
Another strategy involved leveraging authority and prestige. Let me draw on an example. Mosaics are closely connected to architecture. When a new building was constructed, several artists would be involved in decorating it. Some made mosaics, others made sculptures, and so on. Often, there was an artist acting as a supervisor, an authoritative figure who could protect or support colleagues experimenting with unconventional approaches. For instance, one artist might produce a conventional depiction of Lenin to meet ideological expectations, while others worked on more experimental designs.
To what extent do you think contemporary Ukrainian art bears traces of Russian cultural legacy, and how are artists redefining or breaking away from that inheritance?
My way of thinking about it is probably not very popular. While there were prolonged contestations on what 'Ukrainian' might mean, that in some particular cases resulted in violence and murder, many things seen in Ukrainian cities actually came from Ukrainian artists. In general, I think that framing Soviet times only in national terms contains many dangers. One of them is that ‘the scale of the Russian influence’ seems to me to be often overestimated now, deliberately or unwittingly.
In my period, there was undoubtedly an elevation of things Russian, institutional inequalities, and stereotyping; however, among many other republics of the Soviet Union, Ukraine was not the most overlooked. Ukrainians also regularly fought back, through peaceful means, and were positioned to do so. I guess it is helpful to think about the Soviet Union as not something homogenous and monolithic. Oppression and solidarisation co-existed there. Ukrainian art writers respected some Russian artists and art historians not because of their nationality but because of their work, for instance, Igor Grabar. But there was also understanding that Russian scholars' expertise on Ukraine was not deep enough, contrary to what Ukrainians themselves possessed.
What I am seeking to demonstrate is that Ukrainian art writers were more independent and autonomous than they appear. Many aspects of this story were obscured, and thanks to archival documents, I can highlight that artists and art writers were not blindly following decrees, but were instead arguing, modifying, and negotiating.
What challenges and strengths do you see in the Ukrainian art scene, both historically and in the present?
My perspective is heavily biased, I should note. Drawing upon my experience of collaborating with contemporary Ukrainian artists, I would say that they are attentive, deeply sensitive, and, overall, remarkable. Their reasoning about art, in general, and their projects, in particular, is captivating to me.
However, what I think the scenes in Ukraine lack is sustained engagement and institutional infrastructure. It is a problem tangible in many other countries as well. In Ukraine, it is compounded by the pressures of war endurance: for instance, a widely circulated media portrayal of Ukraine as "thoroughly assisted" by "the West" conceals the fact that — at least in the arts — this assistance tends to be more of a pro-forma gesture. A genuine and prolonged engagement, which could actually alleviate precarity and isolation, is rare.
At the same time, this situation can also be approached from another angle: despite deficiencies and constraints, artists, curators, and writers keep forging inventive and collaborative paths to overcome any limitations. This is something that already existed in the Soviet Union, and it endures in today’s Ukraine. In the thick of terror and violence, something extraordinary always flourishes, and I believe it demands recognition.
As a Max Weber fellow, you have written a manuscript based on Ukrainian Soviet art historiography. Are there particular methodologies or narrative approaches you're exploring through this project?
So far, the scholars, particularly Ben and Katie, who supervise our book production here at the EUI have been really great; they are really pushing me, and I benefit greatly from this (as someone who grows best in the sweet, writing-induced anguish). What I attempted to do in my dissertation, and what I hope to do more elegantly and skilfully in my monograph, is to narrate the story through the interactions between artists and art writers. Publishers and editors have also been within my purview since my dissertation. But I have to note that professional distinctions are often unstable, and during my period, many individuals took on multiple roles. Many also held Party membership, which complicates the general picture. I try to account for all these perspectives and complexities.
While working on my dissertation, I realised that I had left out architects, and it felt like a substantial loss, because I came to see them as truly significant to art scholarship in Ukraine. The next step for me is to incorporate them and expand my research on writing art histories in post-WWII Ukraine.
Polina Baitsym is an art historian and curator specialising in the history of Ukrainian Soviet visual arts. She is a co-author of two books on Ukrainian Soviet Mosaics: Art for Architecture. Ukraine. Soviet Modernist Mosaics from 1960 to 1990 (Berlin: DOM Publishers, 2020) and The Chips: Ukrainian Naïve Mosaics, 1950-1990 (Kharkiv: ist publishing, 2024). Recently, Baitsym co-curated a Ukrainian contribution to an exhibition, ‘Retrotopia. Design for Socialist Spaces’ (2023) at Kunstgewerbemuseum, Berlin, and co-edited a special issue for ‘Konstnärernas Riksorganisation’ (The Artists’ Association of Sweden). Currently, she is working on her manuscript on Ukrainian Soviet art historiography.