"The Paradox of a Wound That Never Heals": Polina Shcherbyna on Pain and Healing in Painting

Interview conducted by Lesia Liubchenko, Content Lead of UFDA

Polina Shcherbyna’s painting grows out of the experience of the body — vulnerable and sensitive, yet strong in its truth. Her works explore the boundary between pain and acceptance, between what is destroyed and what can be restored. For her, the body is a carrier of memory, a space of faith and revival, where the intimate becomes universal.

In this conversation, Polina shares her reflections on her artistic path, the reformation of painting, and the search for meaning in a world living through loss.

Lesia: Polina, could you tell us how and when you decided to devote your life to art? What or who inspired you? Maybe your interest in it appeared back in childhood?

Polina: There were probably several factors that influenced this decision. One of them was my grandfather — he was a great admirer of sacred art, collected icons, various church artifacts, and books about art. The first thing that really shaped me was this environment filled with such objects. When I visited my grandparents, I would find ways to understand these items by constantly redrawing them. Basically, that’s how I started — by depicting the things around me.

So even as a child, I was sketching icons and making copies from books — mostly reproductions of Renaissance paintings, strange as that might sound. But for me, it was just a kind of play.

I was especially influenced by the first book through which I began studying the human body. Later, it became my reference and even a sort of lucky charm all the way until I entered the Academy [the National Academy of Fine Arts and Architecture]. It was “Anatomy” by Jenő Barcsay. It came to me from my great-grandmother Polina — I was named after her. She was actually a mathematician and had nothing to do with art. I made countless sketches from that book — muscles, bones, different body structures. I became fascinated by the human form quite early.

At home, we had one of those classic Soviet-era vanity mirrors — the kind with…

Lesia: Which had three sections…

Polina: Yes. And when I was about seven, I noticed that in one of the mirror panels, my face looked quite asymmetrical. That’s when I became fascinated with studying my reflection through this triple mirror — you could see your own face from the side, through the reflection of two mirrors. I became deeply curious about exploring that — both in myself and in the world around me. Over time, I began to sketch what I saw, exaggerating the differences in the proportions of my face and body.

I started thinking about the individuality of the human face, the surface of the skin, and the intricate network of muscles beneath it. I was interested in comparing and finding traces of the human body in the textures of nature — imagining skin as tree bark, loosened soil, the surface of stone, or a withered rose. These artistic explorations later took form in my early student works, “Absoluteness” and “Insurrection”.

Overall, when I look back on my path, there were some random things that probably turned out to be fateful. There are no artists in my family, but I’ve always felt drawn to studying art. So the decision to become an artist came quite early. Still, from time to time, I tried to push this profession away — even as a child, I already realized how hard it might be for me.

When I studied at the Children’s Academy of Arts [now the Art Liceum “Chemberji’s Kyiv Children’s Academy of Arts”], I fell in love with graphics — and only a little with painting at first. But not the kind of painting we were being taught. When I was ten, some of my favorite artists were Käthe Kollwitz, William Blake, Otto Dix, and Francis Bacon.

The level of sensitivity and emotional power in their works seemed unreachable to me. It felt like I could never achieve anything similar, because I didn’t yet have the understanding or experience of living through a difficult life, a personal tragedy, or historical upheaval — I hadn’t faced those decisive moments that force you to look into the abyss between the past and the future and wrestle with inner conflict, as many of my favorite artists did.

Even as a teenager, I thought that in Käthe Kollwitz’s self-portrait, you could see an overwhelming depth and pain that a contemporary artist could hardly inherit. So for a while, I wasn’t particularly drawn to contemporary art — it was hard to imagine myself as part of it.

I guess art revealed itself to me gradually, together with my own life experience — running away from home at sixteen, the pain of a loved one’s unjust imprisonment, later the illnesses and deaths of people close to me, and then the war — this single, continuous illness that triggers other illnesses in people who were once perfectly healthy.

Lesia: I’d like to talk about your development as an artist and how the Academy influenced it. Some artists don’t believe in academic education — they feel they’ll evolve on their own, outside of that tradition. What about you? Did you have an inner desire to enter the Academy and study art in a structured, traditional way?

Polina: Actually, it’s quite a long story. When I was still studying at the Children’s Academy of Arts, at some point, art became exhausting for me. I decided to step away from it and turn to fashion design and deconstruction. But later I realized that I truly needed painting. And so, at 18, I decided I wanted to return to the path I’d chosen earlier — even though my focus up to that point had been more graphic. I quit design school, spent a year and a half preparing, and finally entered the Academy I had dreamed of. That was a defining decision — one I’ve never once regretted.

Of course, over time, you start to realize how far apart the things you’re taught at the Academy — the knowledge, the motivations — are from the real world that an artist eventually faces. But I was sure I was on my path. I knew I just had to think about art, and everything else would follow. And honestly, that approach helps. I don’t think about commercialization, or about which galleries I should be friends with, or where I should go to build connections or visibility in the art scene. I don’t have a commercial plan that I’m gradually building. I focus, like an old master, purely on art. I spend a lot of time in my studio — reading, drawing, thinking — sometimes developing an idea for years before I even start working on it, and then monotonously and methodically bringing that image to life in material form.

It was the same during my studies at the Academy. I worked around the clock — sometimes I’d lock myself in the studio on Saturdays and Sundays just to have that uninterrupted time to work when no one could come in, since the Academy was usually closed on Sundays. Sometimes I made arrangements with the guards to let me stay, and other times I just stayed on my own, working fanatically on whatever fascinated me.

Sometimes those were assigned academic tasks, but by the second or third year, I was already creating more of my own pieces. I would occasionally take inspiration from academic assignments, but they were no longer just assignments. Back then, I thought those were already my own works — but now I see it was a transitional period, something between the Academy and the first steps toward my own artistic practice.

There were a lot of experiments — with levkas (gesso), carving, reliefs, enamel, tempera, and oil paint. Often these came together into mixed techniques, where the paint surface would start to flake over time, which, at one point, even became one of my recognizable stylistic features.

Lesia: It seems the Academy was not just a learning environment for you, but also a place where you explored the boundaries of your own freedom?

Polina: In Storozhenko’s studio, I sometimes felt constrained by the set visual framework — from the use of color to the composition on the canvas. That influence came directly from Mykola Storozhenko himself and his students. Still, the foundations of the studio were very strong. The visual language we were taught was based on the examples of artists like Albín Brunovský, Werner Tübke, and others.

But to me, the program seemed to gradually absorb the students’ individual vision — so at some point, I developed the opposite impulse: to push away from it completely, to lose any resemblance to the studio’s style.

Recently, I was talking with some colleagues and mentioned that I don’t really associate myself with my works from 2019. Back then, I was trying to break away from everything I’d done at the Academy and experiment freely — working with bright, sometimes pure colors, rough textures, and little attention to detail.

It was something I wanted to do to create a strong contrast with my academic works, where I had focused on delicate bodily forms, complex color palettes, carving, and refinement. I produced a series of rather expressive, fast pieces — but in the end, I realized that it wasn’t truly mine.

It was an interesting exercise — a way to understand more about my further direction in painting. I realized that my vision wasn’t shaped by the studio, but it was deeply influenced by it. During my studies, two teachers were especially important to me — Oleksandr Tsugorka and Nazar Bilyk. I still remember some of their advice to this day. Over time, I also came to understand how much I had absorbed from sacred art, which I studied quite deeply — though it had already been naturally woven into my perception and artistic language all along.

Lesia: It seems to me that this is the kind of path where you experiment — work in one style, then another, agree to things you might later regret, and eventually find your own way…

Polina: After the start of the full-scale invasion, I began working in monochrome painting. That was preceded by a gradual, consistent departure from color throughout my entire artistic practice — apart from one bright series of sketch-like works, some of which are on the UFDA website.

Lesia: Those are the earlier works from 2018–2019, right?

Polina: Yes, exactly. They represent something in between my Academy period — when the attraction to monochrome was already quite strong — and what I do now. That very bright, expressive segment was purely experimental, lasting about a year, when I made paintings quickly, in a day or a few days.

At the beginning of my artistic journey, I could work simultaneously on several series with completely opposite goals I set for myself. Those were useful exercises, sometimes within the framework of vibrant, pulsating painting. Some techniques and materials fell away over time, while others have stayed with me — like linen canvas and monochrome.

This transition is mentioned by the art historian Kateryna Tsyhykalo in her commentary on my work “Is the Wound Healing or Growing?” on the UFDA website. Even back when I was still a student — and during the first couple of years after the Academy — my painting experiments often combined openly bright, almost sculptural layers of plaster and enamel with thin glazes of oil paint that created complex dark tones.

At times, these contrasts were accentuated by the extensive use of black, which often created a dense background for a bodily form levitating in the center of the composition — or, conversely, by unexpected cuts where the figure extends beyond the edge of the canvas. In these formal combinations, the dynamics of the body’s destruction and deformation acquire a sensual beauty. Another distinctive feature of my works has always been the intentionally unpainted areas of unprimed linen within the image, creating a glowing effect from the layers of gelatin on the canvas.

Already by 2016–2018, my paintings were beginning to reflect a view on modernity — destruction both in visual language and in technique, where the image at times resembles a damaged fresco. The imagery in my painting back then already carried an existential-poetic aura and a political dimension in the depiction of the body, raising profound questions about humanity’s coexistence within darkness. Although my work wasn’t particularly visible at that time — since I rarely exhibited in Kyiv — those who visited my studio could see it and, in some way, draw inspiration from it.

Throughout my journey, the central theme — the one that connects all the meanings growing from it — has always been, and remains, corporeality and the body as a metaphor. Through it, I explore and reveal my perspective on the challenges of the contemporary world, drawing both on personal and collective experiences within the current context and through references to historical events.

In my recent artistic statements, the foundation lies in the cyclical nature of suffering throughout human history. I uncover the dark poetics of this continuous process of the body’s rebirth across different dimensions — both spiritual and physical — depicting corporeality amid the turbulence of political and social realities.

Lesia: You work with a variety of materials — fabric, wood — and in different techniques, such as burning, carving, and traditional painting. How do you choose which medium to work with for a particular series or idea?

Polina: I see my path as an exploration of painting. It’s more like a reformation of painting through a return to its roots — back to the cave paintings, the frescoes on walls, the dome paintings, iconostases, altars. For me, painting is both an object and architecture, a relief. That’s why no matter what material I choose, I consider myself working in painting — even if it’s carving or burning.

In a charred piece of wood, there can be more painting than in a colorful oil canvas. Wood can burn in so many different ways. And in all of these materials — which are my explorations of painting — I connect them through historical heritage.

I want to unify all the important principles I see in the forms and techniques of the past, giving a push toward a new wave of monumental painting. If we talk about sacred painting, I actually go against tradition — although perhaps it could be called a sort of dialogue. For example, when I carve or create a relief surface, it tends to look more like something decayed and eaten by beetles than like a luxurious gold-leaf pattern commissioned by the church. It’s more about our time — how history transforms, how the perception of history and its gaps transform.

Working with linen, I create an image reminiscent of a shroud, with partial loss of information — like an imprint. It’s a mark of time, left by human history itself. That’s the point where the divine becomes unbearably human. By human, I mean that whereas salvation once meant the rescue of the soul, today I see it as rescue from existential emptiness and cynicism.

By the way, even back in 2016, I was using the same materials I use now — linen canvas, and the preference for monochrome and black, which has been present from the very beginning, even alongside parallel experiments in other directions. Reflecting on my technique, I feel that over time, everything unnecessary has been stripped away, leaving only what was unquestionably mine from the start. It just took time to refine it.

Moreover, if I immerse myself in childhood memories, linen also connects me to my family — my great-great-grandmother Akulina wove linen by hand and made clothes for the whole family. Some of those fabrics have survived to this day, and some of my works are actually painted on the very linen she made. So, in truth, the connections run very deep.

Lesia: You’ve already touched on my next question: how do you see the boundaries of painting, given that your work sometimes extends into installation, objects, and even audio accompaniment? But I now understand that in your practice, this is broader: painting itself is the central idea that unites the creative process.

Polina: In my work, there are two important aspects. First, it’s the reformation of painting and the reconsideration of its roots. That’s what truly fascinates me in what I do. I don’t have grand ambitions to change painting as a whole — it’s more about my love for the medium and my personal choice of direction for its development within art.

Secondly, it is corporeality that is constantly transforming: at times decaying, at times sprouting anew.

Lesia: Why is it important for you to incorporate audio, melopoetry, into your work?

Polina: I’ve been writing poems and poetic texts for a long time, and often the audio recording comes first, followed by the text. It’s much easier for me that way. Many of these poems were created while I was in residence “Sorry No Rooms Available” by Petro Riaska. A lot of the poems I’ve written — and continue to write — I haven’t shown. Some have become part of my paintings that I’ve exhibited, while others exist as standalone works.

For example, at the Kebbel Villa Museum in Schwandorf, Germany, I created a monumental work that sits somewhere between a cross and a memorial. It combines burning, oil painting, cold encaustic, and a bas-relief on the top of the stele. In essence, it’s the largest work I’ve ever created — a culmination of my love for the medium.

I also included a sound installation in this work — something between prayer and singing. It’s not just a reading; it’s a complex, layered form. I hope that one day there will be an opportunity to record it and translate it from German into Ukrainian to show it in Ukraine. This piece is created through the context I am experiencing, the context my country is experiencing. Despite the difficulty of creating this work during such a challenging moment, it is one of the most important pieces I’ve made.

Sometimes, the idea seemed absurd to me because of the amount of energy and resources it required. But creating this monument was a personal form of hope.

It was emotionally difficult to address painful themes throughout the narrative of the stele. After all, making art isn’t life-saving in the way a doctor can be. That’s why, as an artist, it can be emotionally hard to live through this time, because one may feel that art is not what is immediately needed. For me, creating this object was a way of resisting the desire to give up everything. That was the hardest part — finding the reason to keep going.

Lesia: In some publications, you’ve mentioned both “horror and helplessness in the face of humanity’s dark side” and “faith in the future”. How do you combine these emotions in your work? How do they coexist or balance each other?

Polina: I think they are in a constant struggle — both within me and within the political and social field I observe. That struggle finds its reflection in the visual language of my work. The bodily forms I depict sometimes resemble humans, and sometimes they become the body of humanity or even the world. And these forms are often damaged.

Since 2022, I’ve been working with the image of stigmata, but its origins trace back to works from 2016, where there were sores on the faces. It’s something very earthly and anatomical that I deliberately interpreted as sacred, creating a metaphysical aura. In the works after 2022, the focus shifts more toward the pain of loss and the experience of horror, which I see as cyclical — like a stigmata, a process that never fully heals. With each new tragedy, the wound seems to widen, but we learn to live with it. At times, it can even appear to “heal” — that is, to adapt.

This creates a paradox of the unhealed wound in my work: neither alive nor dead, decaying in some places, growing over in others. This is reflected in the imagery I create — shoots, branches, trees that sprout. It’s a kind of healing, where I visually provoke reality to echo the imagery in my work. At the same time, I also see it as an illusion: what has died cannot be revived. In a sense, it’s an allegory of Christ’s resurrection.

Within this, there is a conflict of events that cannot be fully reconciled — a temporal conflict in which no conclusion can be drawn amid tragedy. The struggle between helplessness in the face of humanity’s dark side and hope is a constant process — at one moment one prevails, at another moment the other.

It is important for me to address the cyclical nature of events throughout human history — the history of violence. I’ve found many insights in the works of Giorgio Agamben, who himself draws on Martin Heidegger, Hannah Arendt, and others. I’m interested in weaving together these sometimes different, sometimes mutually reinforcing ideas. They often resonate with my own thinking, so I use them as subtle references in my texts that accompany visual statements.

Overall, this encourages reflection on the experiences of people who have already analyzed or lived through situations similar to what we are experiencing now. I think it’s crucial to understand the experience of World War II. People then often felt as though it would never end, that the future didn’t exist. Yet some still managed to see the future and waited for the moment when the horror ended. Something that seemed endless eventually found its conclusion. This understanding gives me hope — that we, too, can envision the future, become part of it, and reframe everything happening to us today.

Lesia: Since we’ve already started talking about the war, let me ask: how has it influenced your artistic language? How have the themes of the body and sacrifice transformed in your recent works?

Polina: I think they’ve transformed noticeably, but in a natural way. The fundamental element — the body — always remains. There’s sometimes an illusionistic or quasi-realistic depiction, but it’s never fully realistic, because it’s more about the image than the object itself.

I feel that earlier, I was more influenced by the physiological aspects of the body. For instance, in my childhood, I observed my sick great-grandmother. When she turned around and went to get some candies for me from the cupboard, I could see the large wound peeking out from under the kerchief on her head.

Shortly before the war, my grandfather passed away. For several years, he had existed only lying down. His body changed daily — losing color and shape, covered in wounds and bedsores. In a way, the premonition of the war was already present in his body, which I wasn’t able to fully depict. That was a difficult moral and ethical choice for me, because at that moment, I could not bear to face the vision of his death. I think it was a turning point that had a profound impact on me and later manifested in my painting.

Lesia: Thus, the premonition evolved into an artistic image, not just a personal pain.

Polina: Later, I stretched the largest canvases of my life in my studio on Nahirna Street. Each of them is four meters long. I rubbed my hands until they bled while stretching these dark linen canvases onto the frames. At that moment, I realized it might be the last day, that tomorrow everything would change, that I wouldn’t have time to do anything on them. Yet, through this gesture, I tried to prolong that last quiet evening. It created an illusion of hope — that tomorrow, as always, I would come to my studio and continue working. This is the kind of faith that is always present, a driving force. It seems that if this faith can be sufficiently illusory, at some point it may gain the strength to transform illusion into horror.

I feel that pushing forward head-on is part of Ukrainian identity. And this seemingly senseless act of stretching the canvas was, at that time, an expression of hope. On this canvas, I wanted to depict the premonition of war as my grandfather was dying. It stands as a gap between what existed before the war — for example, the series of heads in “Half of the Half of the Personality” Series — and what I am creating now. Someday, I will return to this work and complete it; the canvases on the frames are still in Kyiv. There is an internal need to fill this gap, which remains only as my own inner premonition.

Also, among the things that influenced certain changes in the technical aspect of my work, I recall how, the day before the full-scale invasion, my grandmother brought me small pieces of linen canvas that had belonged to my great-great-grandmother Akulina. They were in terrible condition. I took them home to restore, but at 5 a.m. the full-scale invasion of Russia began.

While packing my emergency bag, which was completely unprepared, I realized that the first-aid kit was missing bandages — which, at that moment, were already in short supply. So I ironed those scraps of fabric and sealed them in sterile packets. After several weeks of constant moving from one place to another, I ended up in relatively safe Lviv. While unpacking my things, I found those pieces of linen again, now completely wrinkled.

That image stayed with me, and from then on, I began working without a stretcher — on wrinkled linen with torn edges that resembled those handmade bandages. This evolved into my signature technique, where the folds of the fabric correspond to the imprints of time. Through their layering alone, they create faint hints of imagery. There’s something about migration in this: canvas without a stretcher, an artist without a studio. And even the notion of home becomes, for a while, mobile.

Click to see the artwork “Is the Wound Healing or Growing?” in full resolution

Since then, until 2024, there hasn’t been a single work made on a stretcher, except for one: in Uzhhorod, during a fairly long stay at the “Sorry No Rooms Available” residency in 2022, I was sponsored to create a work on a frame. It remains the only one, and it can be seen on the UFDA website — “ONE LESS TREE IN PARADISE”. This work is about loss, a torn fragment in a panorama of an endless cemetery, where instead of people or graves, there are trees. It was created during a blackout, on the 13th floor of the Intourist-Zakarpattia Hotel, using only a headlamp. That’s why this work is particularly precious: it is the only one on a stretcher and the only one created under conditions entirely unfit for artistic practice.

Lesia: What else has changed for you in your artistic process and in your perception of the world after these experiences?

Polina: What else has changed? There’s a drive to resist this darkness in humanity: how a person reaches the highest point of development — the Anthropocene — and yet falls so far that they cannot stop the tumor advancing at an incredible speed. Humanity has not endured its own progress. It destroys all its achievements again through war. In my work, I depict how this reflects on humans, on nature, and on the body of the world itself.

There is one work from the “Open Sore” Series, which began in 2022 and on which I worked until 2024 (though I plan to complete the cycle with two more works currently in progress). In it, I depict the human body and the body of nature as forming a single whole. In the existing works, I created a kind of allegory referencing the story of Saint Thomas, who touches Christ’s rib wound to see if it is real. I transpose this into the painting of the contemporary world, where higher powers test humanity for its humanity, for authenticity: Is our pain real? Pain that demands constant proof.

Regarding the stigmata of Christ, I depict this wound mirrored on the left side, in the area of the heart. This allegory of a wounded heart touches on the political order, where the world constantly demands proof and validation of the suffering of those in pain. At the same time, it reflects a growing distrust in humanity, perhaps even in humankind as a whole, where the notion of what is humane seemingly loses weight, requiring constant confirmation of inflicted pain.

In particular, I convey the sensation of the world’s body today by depicting, in some works of this cycle, features of the female body intertwined with a tree, forming a single whole. Overall, this paradox brings into collision existential questions about human existence beside another human, the human within nature, nature without the human, the death of the spiritual, its degradation, and the emergence or search for a new form of hope.

In contrast, in my works from 2024, I find my own form of hope. Yet this gives rise to an inner conflict — binary sensations, the birth of new life against the backdrop of total death, the annihilation of all living things by Russia’s war in Ukraine, and beyond its borders. It is not only about the physical, but also about what dies between people: the walls that grow in society due to wartime conditions, the distances in perception of the same reality, which destroy closeness. It is not only about the war itself, but about its consequences — the breakdown of humanity as a whole, legalized aggression and the search for enemies that seems destined to last forever.

With the emergence of new life within me, I created an expression where I combined these dual feelings toward the world, attempting to oppose them with Life — both as a literal act and as a metaphor for the possibility of rebirth for what is fading. In the last month of my pregnancy, I opened the exhibition “From Each Wound in One Day a Flower Will Grow” (2024, Dim Gallery in Warsaw, curated by Ivanna Berchak). There, I presented the first work marking a gradual return to color. And the first color I chose was Red.

Lesia: In your opinion, what is the role of an artist in a society experiencing war, trauma, and loss?

Polina: On one hand, it is the role of a witness. I often think about artists who lived and worked during World War II, and I now view their works differently. On the other hand, as an artist, I want to look into places I cannot see, where I do not know, and can only feel. For me, it is very important to depict the invisible in visual art — things I sometimes cannot fully explain in words, but which manifest for me on a sensory level through the visual medium.

Lesia: And is the process of creating art a form of therapy for you? Do you think your works can serve as therapy for viewers as well?

Polina: For me, art is something that heals. Sometimes I feel a certain sense of restoration while working, a release from everything that is destructive. I believe that the artwork retains this feeling, and perhaps viewers can also sense this restoration — a moment of catharsis.

Lesia: You mentioned Giorgio Agamben, the Italian philosopher. Did you feel disillusioned by his stance after the full-scale invasion began? His essays on the war in Ukraine have sparked controversial reactions. Some critics accused him of relativism and of not sufficiently condemning Russia’s aggression. For instance, Nikita Kadan noted that he usually respects Agamben’s work but felt disappointed in this case.

Polina: Agamben’s works have had a profound influence on me, and I respect and appreciate the complexity of his analyses. However, regarding his position since the beginning of the full-scale invasion, I think mere disappointment is clearly insufficient. His essays on the Russian-Ukrainian war, in some ways, highlight a disregard for the reality of the aggression. Agamben produced a fairly abstract philosophical analysis, ignoring the concrete fact of unprovoked Russian aggression and the imperialist nature of the war.

For me, his position represents a form of escapism that fails to distinguish between the aggressor and the victim. By questioning the narrative of Ukraine’s just defensive war, Agamben erases the moral distinctions between the actions of both sides. In effect, he plays into Russian propaganda. That said, I do not devalue his earlier works, as they have already become an established part of the broader philosophical legacy.

Lesia: Your recent exhibition at the Kebbel Villa Museum in Schwandorf was titled “The Highest Point of an Empty Temple”. Could you tell us how it began? What does this image — of an empty temple — mean to you?

Polina: The empty temple is a poetic image of pain, ranging from the personal to the collective. Symbolically, the emptiness extends into the depth of the wound in the heart, raising existential questions about the future: “Is a human being capable of finding space for love where nothing remains?” It reflects the loss of humanity and the attempt to restore the capacity to feel. Yet this attempt to understand today’s abyss is impossible without looking into the past, because within the context of history, the emptiness of today has been formed over centuries.

The exhibition is structured into four episodes, gradually immersing the viewer in different dimensions of sacrifice. In the first room, the red one, the viewer finds themselves at the bottom of the wound — I create an atmosphere of post-apocalyptic calm. Next comes the fall of the cross as a premonition of another war, a letter sent from the past that will never reach its recipient.

In the following space — “Open Sore” — which reads as the altar part, shaped as a wall and dome, it addresses pain that constantly demands proof, as well as the loss of faith in humanity, referencing “The Incredulity of Saint Thomas”. The culmination is the highest point of the empty temple — in the center of the dark hall, a poem resonates, a sound installation resembling the prayer “To Love to the Point of Bleeding”.

In the center of the hall, a cross-shaped structure — The Stele Misericordia, a monument of mercy — is illuminated in flashes reminiscent of lightning. This work carries many layers of meaning, including reflections on feminine strength and suffering, on motherhood: giving new life, witnessing it, protecting it, but also enduring suffering for it, even when the wound is not your own.

At the lower part, a mother’s hands hold her son; they are almost in shadow and barely noticeable at first glance. This speaks greatly to our current times, the measurement of pain, comparing feminine and masculine suffering, but it also evokes something timeless, reminiscent of the Pietà (Lamentation of Christ) narrative. On the right side of the young man’s chest, one can see an intercostal wound reminiscent of Christ’s.

I created this image with the idea that it functions like a mirror, so the viewer sees the wound on the heart as if looking at themselves. It serves as a prompt for reflection, raising questions such as: how sensitive is humanity today to the pain of the world? How much mercy remains for the suffering of others? From this wound, a branch with buds grows… It is a deliberate provocation of reality toward healing, something I have been depicting consistently over the past years. A gentle, almost naive gesture toward the harsh reality that surrounds us. Within this lies a tension between hope and despair, often existing equally and simultaneously.

I invite viewers to experience this exhibition as a walk through the voids of an open wound: first, you find yourself at the very bottom in the red room; then the flow carries you into the next space and the next, until you almost reach the outside, where, from a higher vantage point, it becomes possible to grasp the depth of this funnel. But it is not certain, because if darkness surrounds you, perhaps we are still inside. No matter the path traveled, the light does not yet point the way out.

Lesia: In this exhibition, you refer to historical events — from the siege of Kyiv in 1240 to the current war. Why, in your opinion, is it important to speak about the past right now?

Polina: Because the future is always a consequence of the past. For me, this journey back in time is an important step toward understanding the finitude of each tragedy. It gives hope that today’s catastrophe will also inevitably come to an end. Another crucial point is the act of returning: it allows us to reframe historical emphases and give a true voice to Ukrainian history, which has existed under constant pressure and oppression. The spread of distorted information and hostile propaganda has had a strong effect not only on Ukraine but on the entire world, where the history of the Ukrainian people was being blurred and devalued. Now, however, counteraction must catch up, and the focus is precisely on the development of this reformation of the past. This process must continue, despite the absolute uncertainty of every next stage of the war.

During a catastrophe, it seems that only the present exists for a person. But looking at past tragedies allows one to realize that the present will inevitably end as well. It also opens a space for the thought that art, through its power, preserves historical events, pushing them into the past. Perhaps, for me, it is also an attempt to project myself forward in time and see today’s tragedy already as a trace of history.

Lesia: Which exhibition preparation has been the greatest challenge for you? You have exhibited in many countries: Germany, the United States, France, Poland, Ukraine, and others. What brought you the most anxiety, worry, or even technical challenges?

Polina: Every exhibition brings me a lot of anxiety because even with the smallest possibilities (whether my own, those of the art space, or of the curator who invites me), I try to realize the final idea that was proposed or discussed with me. It is very important for me to create a sense of the exhibition built precisely on the main message. Each time it feels difficult, as I strive to overcome the budget, my own energy, and the efforts of others, and to achieve the highest quality, to reach exactly the result that was conceived, no matter what. Many people are ultimately very grateful to me for this, but the process can be challenging because I do not tire of pursuing the final goal.

Click to see the artwork “The Winter Landscape Has Changed To — The Landscape Of Emptiness” in full resolution

I can take on the work of several people: those who hang the works, those who install the lighting, because the quality of the result is essential to me. For example, in my last exhibition in Germany, there was a team of assistants, but I still worked 24/7. I arrived well before the opening and had ten days for installation. Still, another ten days would have been helpful.

I wish there were more space for art. Of course, one can always draw a line at any stage, but in the artistic process itself, there should be more room for thought — whether it’s forming an idea, creating the work, or installing the exhibition. The more time there is, and the less pressure for a quick result, the more complete the expression can be: purer and more honest with oneself and the spirit of the time.

Lesia: Could you tell us who collects your works? In which collections can they be seen today?

Polina: This is a good question because some collectors do not want it to be publicized. Some collectors own my works, but unfortunately, there are no public archives or possibilities to exhibit these pieces in their private collections. I am now more cautious with private collectors because I understand: a work disappears forever once it goes into the hands of a private collector who does not share the physical artwork with potential exhibitions, curators, or institutions. Essentially, the work dies in their collection. It ceases to exist, and perhaps it will never be found. This is very sad.

Although I have earned my living solely from art my entire life, I have never pursued a commercial path and never created anything for sale. The sizes, materials, and weight of my works make them largely incompatible with commercial avenues. I’m not just speaking about works on canvas, although even those with torn edges are not commercially viable. But those who understand the value in an artist’s expression, thinking, and unique handwriting occasionally choose to support me by acquiring a piece for their collection.

For example, some of my works are in a Parisian collection. Recently, I participated in the Bourse Habib Sharifi Scholarship (a well-known Parisian scholarship for emigrant artists across different fields, including film, music, and visual arts), where I became a laureate. As part of this program, my works were exhibited at the Salon des Beaux Arts Foundation. This foundation, established in 1816, is more focused on salon art, such as Rodin and Manet. My works, by contrast, were quite aggressive, yet they found the contrast interesting. After this exhibition, the foundation acquired one of my works for its collection. So this is one of the museum collections where I coexist with works by internationally recognized artists.

My work “If a Dream Doesn’t Fly to Us, Can We Sail Toward It?” became part of the collection of the BIRUCHIY 021 Сontemporary Art Project after my residency in Prymorsk and the invitation to participate in the exhibition “Time Not Lost”, curated by Kostyantyn Doroshenko. The exhibition was shown in Zaporizhzhia at the Tourist Information Center.

Overall, most of my collectors are private, both foreign and Ukrainian. Some works were also purchased in New York, by galleries and individuals, but these are not institutional or museum collections.

Lesia: Do you have any creative rituals? What inspires you while working — perhaps literature, cinema, or music?

Polina: Sometimes it can be music (I like certain periods of the sound artist Alva Noto), sometimes audiobooks, and less often — podcasts. Monotonous speaking in the background also creates a meditative feeling. But I also like working in silence, although that’s not really possible now. The key is that it shouldn’t be someone else’s conversations that I overhear. My studio is now in my apartment — a separate room — and it can be difficult to focus on work when everyone is at home. But listening to philosophical lectures being read aloud really sets the working vibe.

Lesia: I’d like to talk a bit about art in the context of modern technologies. How do you see its role in a world dominated by speed, instant information, and digitization?

Polina: It’s hard to say that I am deeply knowledgeable in this area. But I am very glad to be involved in this UFDA project. First of all, in the context of war, it’s an incredible step toward a digital museum, which I think the platform aims to become eventually. Secondly, even without considering the war, this is an important step for research. It’s a colossal library that not only contains artists’ works, digitized down to the millimeter and available for detailed study, but also provides extensive information about the artists themselves, which is constantly updated — like the interview we are doing now. And all of this exists simultaneously on a single platform, allowing for comparison, research, and analysis. I think this is not just a major step for local study within the country, but also a unique opportunity to delve into global art.

Lesia: In your opinion, are digital counterparts primarily a means of archiving, preservation, and research, as you emphasized, or can they be considered valuable works of art in their own right?

Polina: I think they can indeed be valuable works of art. For example, during the war, several of my works were stolen. One of them, unfortunately, wasn’t documented in time and wasn’t photographed. That could have helped preserve it in digital form. This work is called “The Fragility of the World in the Body of Unknown”, and it coexists with an audio poem. I exhibited this piece in the duo exhibition “BREACH” together with Svitlana Ahranovska at the M17 Contemporary Art Center, but only as a projection on the wall. I took a photograph with a regular digital camera.

I also see a future in NFTs, where digital copies could exist not only online but also offline, meaning at physical exhibitions. And this doesn’t only apply to purely digital art exhibitions. In fact, the potential for working with digital formats is vast and diverse, depending on the possibilities and energy one has to explore and choose the form and direction to develop. By the way, the possibility of 3D viewing would also be very useful. As an artist, it would be interesting for me to study a work from multiple angles to understand the object as a whole.

Lesia: Such an option could be useful for your double-sided works.

Polina: I started creating them in 2018. I wanted to make paintings that don’t touch the wall but interact with the space from within. Some of these works were installed on stands, while others were suspended from cables attached to the ceiling, creating the impression that they levitate in space.

The first double-sided work was exhibited in New York and remained there, while the second one I displayed suspended in the air in my studio at the Institute of Automation in Kyiv. Both sides of this double-sided piece are on the UFDA website, but unfortunately, it’s impossible to understand that they are one work because they are presented as two separate NFT images.

This project is called “Therapy of Your Own Fears”, a cycle of double-sided canvases featuring a figure looking back. The figure depicted is life-sized, with a body surface deformed and damaged, as if the skin is peeling off, exposing fears. It’s a metaphor in which the main focus is the exploration of fear: looking back, the figure gazes at the viewer. On one side, the viewer may be someone walking ahead or behind, the one at whom the figure is looking. When you see only one side of the work, it’s impossible to fully grasp the concept of this state. In the NFT format, this work becomes something different — it is no longer the same physical piece. A more functional NFT would be a step toward an expanded way of experiencing it.

Lesia: You currently live in Germany. How does this affect your art and self-identity?

Polina: I live in Leipzig, but I periodically visit Kyiv to see my family and friends and participate in exhibitions. For instance, in August-October of this year, my solo exhibition took place at the Stedley Art Foundation. Emotionally, it’s hard to be far from home: existing between contexts and calling another place “home” is something I don’t think I’ll ever get used to. I remember how frightening it was to go on my first residency during the war — it felt as if my presence was protecting my home, and I couldn’t leave Ukraine. Emotionally, it was very difficult to allow myself to go.

However, speaking about how emigration influences my artistic practice, it can be said that it creates a certain distance from the tragedy (as harsh as that may sound) and allows my artistic expression not to be purely reactive. I can give myself time to focus and reflect on whether I truly want to express something, or if it’s just an impulse as a human being. Part of me, as an artist, simply wants to capture that impulse. For example, some works created in Ukraine during the first year of the full-scale invasion were more reactive, such as “Inhuman Feeds a Slave” or “Prickly Tear”. I don’t think being reactive diminishes them; there is value in it.

Overall, this created a contrast — to gain some distance and look not only at grief, pain, and war, but also at the social and artistic context. To compare them, to reflect on how Ukrainian art can integrate into the global context or exist within the vacuum of its own community, or even be censored, depending on where it is being viewed — to analyze these processes. It’s a significant step forward in my development: finding myself in a position where I can see everything not only from within, but also from the outside.

I never wanted to emigrate. I never planned to live abroad. Until 2020, I traveled frequently to America and even had the opportunity to move to the U.S., but I ultimately refused because I didn’t want to trade Kyiv for anything. Although I had gallery contracts offered in New York, their condition was that I relocate. I decided I wanted to live only at home. The decision to stay abroad now was rather a rational one, driven by projects that had been discussed before the full-scale invasion and that evolved during my time away. In fact, I came for one residency in 2023 and then went on to another. There was a series of projects that made it impossible to return home, simply because there wasn’t enough time — and this was my only source of income, so I couldn’t afford to stop.

At some point, it became clear that I was staying, because it was my only way to continue doing art. Back home, I couldn’t see how to find the strength or the means to keep working without financial support. Many things had come to a halt, as collectors in Ukraine stopped buying art for a while. For an artist, that’s an extremely vulnerable situation and a major challenge — when you’re faced with the choice of either finding an additional or even entirely new, more “useful” profession in which you might feel needed during wartime, or finding a way to keep doing what you truly want to do — and reasons to keep doing it.

Lesia: What helps you avoid burnout, keep working, and create today? What are your sources of hope regarding the future, life, and art?

Polina: What helps me is immersing myself in the experiences of philosophers, writers, and poets. Recently, I have been drawn to the work of Paul Celan and Lesia Ukrainka: despite all the pessimism in their work, there is something resonant with my own vision of the present. Also, people — their resilience, their drive to live despite enormous obstacles — inspire me. For example, my sick mother is a strong source of motivation for me. I dream that she will witness a peaceful future and live in times where her life is no longer threatened by war. My son, on the other hand, is the embodiment of that future, and as a mother, I obviously do not want to believe that the future does not exist, because it exists in him. I want him to experience gentler times. Overall, the people I support and who support me are a driving force, despite the distance — sometimes very great — between us.

Painting is my inexhaustible source of hope. For me, it is like a time machine: through the artistic process, I can slow down, immersing myself in the creation of a work. I can also accelerate, in a way, projecting my expression into the past. This allows me to see the work as part of history, something that has already occurred, something that has ended — including the horrors of our time.