Veronika Synenka/Tie2.lt

Polina Verbytska is an artist known for her bodily language that balances between vulnerability and reality. Her art is a direct reflection of corporeality without embellishment. We spoke with her about sensual realism, the boundaries of provocation, the experience of emigration and return, as well as how artistic practice changes in times of war.

Do you describe your practice as “sensual realism”? What do you mean by that term?

I mean reality — the reality of bodily life, just as it is. At some point, I realized that the way I depict people often seems unpleasant or vulnerable to others because they think I’m emphasizing certain flaws. In fact, I’m not really emphasizing them — I just don’t hide them. And I don’t consider the fact of their existence to be something bad. It’s not a sign of negative attitude. I accept it as a given. That’s how I see.

Your sculptures are very bodily, even intimate. Do you remember the first work where censorship completely disappeared?

I didn’t have a distinct path to the disappearance of censorship. I think it’s just a specific way of perceiving reality. It wasn’t a process of becoming more uninhibited — I’ve seen things this way from the very beginning. I’ve always been interested in the human body — ever since childhood. So probably my girlfriends or my mom thought I was perverse because I drew naked people. But in reality, I was curious about the differences in our bodies. Because bodies are just as different as faces. And for some reason, I paid attention to that. For me, it’s not an erotic act — it’s an observation of individuality.

Has your attitude toward the human body changed over more than ten years of practice?

Attitude toward the body? Well… it’s a body. How should one feel about it? We have one. It has individual features. And in the end — it’s the only thing we can perceive in another person. We can’t see their inner world or feel their emotions. The body is the basis of our perception: movement, body language. That’s important.

Are there topics you consider taboo, even for yourself?

I think if a person has taboo topics, they might want to see a psychoanalyst and figure out why. The very nature of censorship seems strange to me. Because often, behind a buildup of principles hides a desire for what is forbidden. And in general — I don’t think I’m a very moral person. I don’t believe I have taboos that I wouldn’t dare to break.

How has the full-scale war affected you? Has your form of expression changed since 2022?

Actually, yes, it has. Before, I didn’t hesitate to depict deformed flesh — I often used it as a metaphor for internal states. I felt comfortable working with bodily ruptures — it seemed they conveyed emotions well. But after the war began, I realized those images might be taken too literally. Because it’s no longer a metaphor — it’s an experience the country is going through. It’s too directly associated with war. I don’t want my works to be interpreted that way. I don’t consider myself a “topical” artist. I don’t have the moral right to speak about the war — I’m not personally integrated into it. In fact, the war hasn’t had a strong impact on my experience. And I don’t want to become that voice because I simply don’t have the right to be it. That’s why I try to avoid overly explicit bodily deformations now and work in a more subdued manner.

At one point you said that your art is not about beauty, but about truth. Has your understanding of that truth changed in times of war?

Again, I don’t see a conflict between my art and the war. Because everything I do is personal. It’s about me, my experience — individual and not connected to the war. The fact that war exists — I knew that before. That terrible things happen to innocent people? I already knew that too. I’ve read a lot of books. So I’m not particularly surprised…

At the beginning of the full-scale invasion, you went to Klaipėda. How did a different cultural environment affect your artistic language?

I’d say that my creative work there became an attempt to preserve a part of myself that I remembered. There was nothing for me to do there — so I just started working a lot. My schedule was: start early, finish late. That environment influenced me by pushing me toward drawing. I didn’t have a studio, I couldn’t make sculptures. But drawings are small — you draw them at home while watching TV shows.

Did you feel like an artist in exile or more like a temporary resident?

That’s an interesting question. It was my second migration, but the first one that was forced. And about half a year in, I realized that I wasn’t living there — I was just waiting to return home. Because I couldn’t accept that it might be for a long time. I didn’t even buy a hairdryer, thinking: “I’ll be going home soon, what’s the point?” And then I realized I hadn’t dried my hair properly in ages. So I went out, bought a hairdryer — and that was my first act of accepting that I was now living there.

What triggered your return to Kyiv?

I had been thinking about coming back for a long time. But if you’ve been in emigration for a while — the decision to return becomes very difficult. It feels like a defeat. Like you’re saying: “I give up. I couldn’t adapt or assimilate here. I’ve failed.” And I had kids — I felt it would be selfish to put them in danger just because of my personal desires. But after an art residency in Chicago, I packed up in two weeks, wrapped everything up in Lithuania, and left.

Has your art become more local, more rooted in Kyiv?

Yes, I think so. Because Kyiv is now a conscious choice. I was born here, but now I’ve returned by my own decision. And at the same time, I started working on a gallery initiative. Now I’m on both sides — as an artist and a gallerist.

Tell us about Draft Gallery. It was a short but bright project. What was your intention behind it?

There was no intention. I just found a studio on OLX in a good location for a decent price. Then my friend Bohdan Hulai, a photographer, suggested presenting his artbook there. A lot of people came. I thought — why not host cultural events from time to time? And things just unfolded naturally.

Did your view of the gallery system in Ukraine change after this project?

I think the system itself is fine. We just don’t have many galleries. There are big institutions, mid-level ones, apartment-style exhibitions — all of that is great. We have artists — both emerging and established. And all of them need to make plans to stay motivated and continue developing. But the number of galleries can’t support that. There simply aren’t enough of them.

You often speak about freedom as a necessary language for art. How do you define it now?

That’s a complex question. Often when I speak of freedom, I mean at least freedom from domestic burdens — which most women artists my age simply don’t have. Because they’re busy with family, while men can easily say: “I’m an artist, you handle this yourself.” You need your own time and space to just “think.” I’m also aware that Ukrainian men don’t currently have freedom, because they can’t freely cross the border. For example, Kyiv — it’s my choice. I can be here, but if I want to leave, I can at any moment. I value that option. Because it makes me feel like a person who — well — owns her own life. And that’s quite important.

How do you balance artistic practice with motherhood?

It’s fine. My kids are already grown and independent. But something always suffers: either you’re not fully present as a mother, or as an artist. Some people choose only family, others only art. If you want “everything at once” — it’s going to be hard.

Your art is bodily and direct. Is it still provocative for audiences? Is provocation important to you?

Initially, I didn’t aim to provoke. But then, when you realize that it works that way — yes, maybe you start to use it a bit. Because the temptation is there: you already know in advance what things will provoke a reaction. But I think it’s better to refrain from that, because it’s a rather cheap trick.
Why do my works cause discomfort? Honestly, I still don’t get it. Because in the end — it’s just an object. No matter how it’s made, no matter what’s depicted — it’s just some object you can easily choose not to look at if you don’t like it.
For example, you know, Viber stickers upset me way more than any artwork. And I don’t complain — I just say “thank you” to the people who send them to me.

What is your biggest challenge today — internal, aesthetic, or social?

For me, the biggest challenge is always internal. Because sometimes I have to ask myself: am I doing what I’m supposed to be doing? Am I being honest? Or am I slacking? Am I doing enough? I feel a certain responsibility to myself. I think that if I’ve been given some talent or ability, then I have to be accountable for that.

What concerns or inspires you most today?

I think it’s the influence of everyday life in Ukraine. This duality — everything seems normal: we meet with friends, it’s fun, joyful. But right next to that — sorrow.
I recently went to a drag show, then stopped by to buy cigarettes — and the cashier was wearing a black headscarf. Clearly, she had lost someone. And there’s this very strange mix of realities — a city full of life and beauty, and at the same time, so many personal tragedies…