Everything Was Forever, Until It Was No More

Could you elaborate on the process of creating Solomiya, especially the challenges of capturing the zeitgeist and representing history as it is happening, as well as finding a common voice while having your team divided between Kyiv and Berlin?

Sebastian: The magazine was founded by me and Vsevolod Kazarin, a fashion photographer from Kyiv, whom I’ve met in April of 2022. At the start of the full-scale invasion both of our photographic practices seemed obsolete because we didn’t know how to deal with the war, and so we very spontaneously teamed up and decided to go around Kyiv making portraits of its youth. We then thought: what are we going to do with all those pictures? And the idea came to create a magazine where we could showcase them, as well as the work of the young people we met on the streets, since a lot of them were participating in the city’s art scene. The first issue was pretty much like what you would do in a school’s newspaper by simply printing what you already have. It was July 2022 and we kept on working from there on.

Rather than choosing a specific topic as other monothematic magazines do, we try to react to current events, or better in German: Zeitgeschehen [a noun combining “time” and “to take place”]. This connects us to traditional journalistic media. However, art can be a wonderful tool to see this Zeitgeschehen not through the lens of politics, but through the lens of artistic creation. This is what enables us to build bridges between regions and countries of very different social and political realities, making the thoughts and emotions of Ukrainians relatable to others, beyond the common narratives described by common words.

Ivanna: We work on broadcasting sincere reflections and personal experiences in such a way that they become more accessible. We approach the topic of war, that is usually presented in a very objective manner, with perspectives that are as subjective as possible. For instance, Lesha Berezovskyi’s photo series “War Knocked on My Door Again”, that were published in the second issue of the magazine, uses incredibly sensitive and quiet imagery to tell his personal story of the war, which otherwise always appears to be unmistakably loud.

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The title of the screening refers to a peculiar temporality of historical change – a topic you have also reflected upon in "Solomiya" while exploring the notion of "but": "If we were to describe life in times of war, we would use the word “but”, because it evokes a feeling of discomfort and ambiguity that emerges when discussing something that is far beyond our control". What was your experience of time, post-February 24^th, that not only simultaneously flies by, but also freezes?

Sebastian: We came up with the idea of letting the page count of our first issue stop at 24. From that page onwards every page is marked “24” because, especially in the beginning of the full-scale invasion, there was a different sense of time - we had a common saying that the year 2022 never ended.

Ivanna: The perception of time changed because in a situation where you experience this whole load of information and stress it cuts of you from your past and your future, you simply get stuck and the longest time you can think forward is just the day, how to survive this day. It then takes a lot of effort to get back to a more normal connection to temporality, where you can, for example, plan more into the future or track some your emotions from yesterday, or the day before and reflect upon them. For Ukrainian audiences, the magazine can offer this moment of reflection. When you’re in the midst of a situation there are always news all around you that might not, however, describe the everyday reality, it is important to remind ourselves of what is happening and how it influences us, even if we don’t notice it in the moment.

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I was recently thinking about two pieces of text: "Containment is a strategy that works only so long; the war will not stay put, the war will come to you", an opening sentence of a review of this year’s Kyiv Biennial that simultaneously took place in 5 other countries beyond Ukraine, as well "This is not our war" – a series of graffiti that were sprayed on the walls in central Berlin. How do you transmit a message from the warzone to those who live in peace, so the war does become ours? And what are the limits of such ownership?

Sebastian: The question of (non-)ownership of the war in both Germany and other Western European countries is a consequence of colonial thinking. Despite the fact that Germany’s energy politics around Nordstream 2, just to name one of the most prominent cases in this context, enabled russia to start this war, the eventual denial of any responsibility has put Ukraine and its people in a situation of being colonized by both the East and the West, since both see Ukraine as a resource to provide energy, grain, and people. While russian imperialism still seems to be hardly defeatable by the means of independent publishing, we can use our magazine to foster a more equal relationship between Ukraine and Western Europe which needs to start not only when Ukraine might be able to join the EU in years, but now.

Recently, I did a presentation of my research on the exiled Ukrainian communities: I interviewed Ukrainians who not so long ago came to Berlin and are now stuck; they need to make a decision whether they should really settle here or prepare to go back; and also to answer the question of who they are in terms of formulating some group identity. They find themselves in no man‘s land, as their minds are, of course, in Ukraine while their bodies are in Germany. I was observing how these two very different realities come together - coming from a state of emergency and martial law vs living in a country where this state of emergency and trauma that comes with it is externalized. I was presenting it to an audience of students and among them there was a student from Palestine, who felt connected to what I said, and began to share his experiences, too. It was very touching.

Ivanna: Since the end of the WW2, the United Nations have served as the primary arbiter of global order, and therefore any transgression of international accords regarding territorial integrity raises profound concerns about the entire framework of international law. It is noteworthy that Ukraine, signatory to the Budapest Memorandum, voluntarily relinquished the third-largest arsenal of nuclear weapons at the time of signing. The memorandum advances the objectives of nuclear disarmament and non-proliferation, values endorsed by those aligned with pacifistic principles. The commitment to protect Ukraine, as stipulated in the agreement, now assumes paramount significance, while any deviation from it not only calls into question the credibility of current assurances but also signals a potential erosion of global security.

Therefore, the russian invasion has many unintended consequences not only for Ukraine, but also for the world. The perceived limits of ownership are precisely what we are trying to fight, as nothing prevents one from feeling solidarity with the struggle of Ukrainians, both on a personal level and on the level of state policy: Ukrainian resistance unites not only pacifists but eco and human rights activists, as well as feminist initiatives, and we call on you to join the initiatives of various kinds.

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A 1998 "Pizza Hut" commercial starring Mikhail Gorbachev prophesized the end of history - the last leader of the USSR was shown enjoying a slice of pizza at the heart of the former imperial power. However, more than 20 years later the Cold War-era language still remains, from geographically dubious Eastern Europe and Stockholm Syndrome-like post-Soviet space to its Western gaze-y update The New East. What does it mean – if anything - to come from the former East today?

Sebastian: I was born in 1996 and grew up in a family of parents from former West Berlin, who in the early 2000’s moved to a flat in the periphery of Berlin which used to be the former GDR, only to move to a suburb in former West Berlin 10 years later as the old flat became too small. In the mid-90s, my grandfather, from West Berlin, married my step-grandmother, from East Berlin. My step-aunt, from East Berlin, and my mother, from West Berlin, would always speak the local Berlin dialect at our family gatherings, which I always perceived as a very strong connection between them. I cannot remember having asked any fellow student in my school about whether they were from the West or the East. Only when I left school and entered my photography’s agency “OSTKREUZ”, which represents a very strong legacy of East German photography, as it was founded by some of best photographers from the former GDR, I was suddenly asked: “Are you from East or West Germany?”. I was completely overwhelmed by this question, which seemed to me - and still seems! – as nothing but a social construct. And I strongly believe that this construct must be made redundant, given how neutral or even meaningless terms such as “East”, “West”, “Europe” or “Eurasia” - the latter probably the worst one - become immediately appropriated by political interests.

Ivanna: In my opinion, the fact that the “East”, or the “New East”, as you’ve mentioned, is perceived as a periphery is the main problem. Being from the "East" means constantly fighting for one's independence, emphasizing differences and demanding respect for one’s subjectivity.

In regard to the Stockholm Syndrome, the Ukrainian language has two different words for “Soviet” - “sovietskiy” and “radianskyi”. “Sovietskiy” is more connected to the Russian and Soviet propaganda, it’s a concept that was imposed and, to some extent, foreign to us. Hence, the usage of "Soviet" signals a certain colonial period in the history of Ukraine. "Radianskyi" is its Ukrainian translation and reflects on the USSR whilst including the Ukrainian perspective. The discourse concerning the Soviet Union is now mostly focused on the crimes committed during the period, such as Holodomor, a man-made famine in Soviet Ukraine in the early 1930s. While some European countries may not officially recognize it as genocide, there is a perception of the event as a significant part of Ukrainian history and an aspect of its occupation.

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In the introduction to the first issue of the magazine you highlighted the stories of Ukrainian youths who are now paying a high price for the European dream in the form of EU integration. Before February 2022 there equally existed an idealized Ukrainian dream - the country was seen as Europe’s bread basket with its capital, Kyiv, as the new, poor but sexy Berlin. How conscious are you of the perception of Ukraine when representing it in your magazine? Is it changing and what is still missing from the narrative?

Ivanna: Ukrainians fought for the European dream during Maidan Revolution in 2014. Since February 2022, Ukrainians have been fighting for the right to exist in a genocidal war against russia. Ukraine is seen as a bread basked only when viewed from the outside, when its territories and people are conceptualized as a resource - a very colonial vision that we are trying to critically undermine.

Sebastian: The western version of the “Ukrainian Dream” can hardly be compared to the “European Dream” of Ukrainians. Besides subcultural activities such as the techno music scene in Kyiv, Ukraine was never a very known territory. Ukraine’s occupation by Nazi-Germany has not been part of my history classes at school [in Germany]. We could learn French or Spanish, but hardly any school offered (or offers) Polish, despite the country being literally next door and sharing a long, though not romantic history with Germany. For many Germans, Europe ends with the river Oder, not the Ural. This also enabled russian propaganda to shape the discourses in parts of the German society in relation to the annexation of Crimea and the war in Donbas. Maybe this is also why our magazine is still mostly read by people who have an immediate connection with Ukraine. However, and gladly, there is a change in this perception, but it is a long way.

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While culture might seem like a secondary concern in times of war, the destruction of Ukrainian culture has proved to be a direct target of Russia’s aggression time and time again, just as the Western academia and art institutions were shown to be complicit in its erasure in favour of the "great Russian culture". As a project created in response to the full-scale invasion, what are your thoughts on the decolonial discourse in regard to Russian imperialism, as well as the role culture can play in it?

Sebastian: Museums and other places of cultural expression are being targeted, because they are very powerful, but also vulnerable players that can hardly be protected from a missile. While a singular artistic production can seem like a secondary concern in times of war, the role of culture is fundamental, as it creates a sense of belonging and identity but also emphasizes difference. This also means that an active cultural life is not only nice to have but is an imperative part of resisting imperial aggression.

In this war, however, it’s hard to talk about the erasure of culture precisely because it happens all the time - I feel like this is what the entire war is all about. I remember curator Kateryna Radchenko giving a lecture about Donbas and how russian forces in the occupied territories were destroying family photo albums of people who had no political power. Culture and memory is being erased even on this very personal level. It’s equally complicated to talk about erasure because most of it now happens behind the front lines, in occupied territories that no one is able to access. Culture is for sure being erased but the real question is - can one actually see it?

Ivanna: In January there‘s going to be an exhibition opening in Modena, Italy, organized by a russian cultural association that will show russia’s renovation of Mariupol – without the mention of destroying it first. It’s simply absurd [the exhibition, titled "Mariupol. Rebirth after the War" was since cancelled by the Italian authorities, due to event’s panel being inconsistent “with the commitment not to practise fascist and racist ideologies“, according to Reuters].

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Personally, the first things that come to mind when thinking how the 90s in the former East are being remembered nowadays must be the aesthetics promoted by high fashion brands such as "Vetements" or "Gosha Rubchinskiy" – a very particular, as well as a limited way of framing the era. What stories and/or visuals from the time are still overlooked and could expand our understanding of the past and, potentially, explain the present?

Ivanna: If we are talking about the transition from communism to capitalism, which was quite painful and gave rise to many economic problems, one of which is oligarchy, the consequences are still difficult to deal with. Unfortunately, new political alliances are not being formed as actively. Instead, the influence of russian narratives remains, pro-russian politicians are present, but this is a feature that unites Ukraine not only with Eastern Europe, as such sentiments are also observed among the West.

The key to understanding the 90s can only be analysis, a conscious approach to analysing certain social and cultural phenomena. A direct reproduction of the aesthetics of the 90s without understanding what is behind them reinforces and deepens the problem, as it creates a romanticized image of the crisis period. It also gives grounds for sentiments toward the greatness of the Soviets and reinforces a stereotype of Moscow’s centrality. Such approach usually paints all external factors as exclusively hostile - and yet the Soviet Union collapsed primarily from within, unable to sustain itself.

In the context of the 90s, I'd like to give the vanguard musician Ihor Tsymbrovsky as an example. His music was a way for young people to escape the grey Soviet everyday reality. In recent years, after three decades of absence, Tsymbrovsky is reappearing on stages, now with crowds of today’s youth.

Sebastian: A friend of mine, German photographer Werner Amman, just released a wonderful photobook “Kein Morgen” (“No Morning”) with his archive of rave photos from the 90s. I am always fascinated whenever I see these photographs, because I have a feeling that they could have been taken just yesterday. The 90s, despite a lot of precarity and violence, were all about restarting and building something new on the ruins of history. This can be as dangerous as it is beautiful, but the 90s, as a feeling, can come back at any moment. In Kyiv, the city today reminds me a lot of Berlin in the 90s, or frankly, of what my older colleagues told me about the 90s in Berlin, as I was born too late to see it with my own eyes, but, hopefully, right in time to re-explore what still remains from that time.