By Veronika Synenka / Tie2.lt

Evgen Karas is an art expert, collector, founder, and permanent director and curator of one of the first private galleries in Ukraine — the Karas Gallery. He witnessed the birth of the art scene in the 1990s, lived through the boom of the 2000s, and is now observing its transformation after 2022. This conversation offers not only eyewitness recollections but also a sober reflection on why we continue to live in a state of anticipation and what to rely on when all that remains is faith.

Evgen, you’ve been involved in art for over thirty years. How would you describe who you are today? A gallerist? An institution? An observer?

A gallerist in Ukraine is simultaneously an observer and a gallerist. I have vast experience — over thirty years in this field. And in any case, people identify me as a gallerist. Though today I’m probably more of a passive gallerist, without public exhibitions. Several team members are in the Armed Forces. The gallery is working internally on projects. Our last project was in Cologne in February this year.

What was Ukrainian art like in the 1990s when you started? And what do you think is the most fundamental change since then?

In the ’90s, nobody knew what contemporary art was. Ukrainian contemporary art conditionally began in the late ’80s. Back then, there was no formal education related to gallery practice. I don’t know if there is adequate education now, but what I see in Ukrainian art management is often very poor. I have an art education, and my gallery work in those days was purely intuitive. We, who started in the ’90s, formed our ideas about galleries through communication with artists, who already had collaborations with European galleries. I didn’t travel abroad myself until the early 2000s. Artists traveled more since the late ’80s and brought back knowledge and ideas.

The legal system was still post-Soviet. So was the situation in general. Many artists were actively working. There was competition — post-totalitarian socialist realism (the National Artists’ Union and the artistic combine) versus the new, contemporary art, which people didn’t want to accept because it was unfamiliar in form and content. There were only a few key venues — “Brama” on Sofiivska Square, run by a U.S. embassy staff member, and the Soros Center for Contemporary Art (SCCA), which operated from 1993–2008 and supported the development of visual art.

Artists with Soviet education — academies, institutes — later began transforming the art scene. They got information wherever they could: magazines from Hungary or Poland — “Sztuka Polska”, “Domus Design” — all in black and white. Information was scarce. Many artists passed through Moscow, lived and worked in squats. Kyiv had neither institutions nor support.

Art materials were expensive, so artists mixed paints with hardware store ones, bought in bulk. They painted three-meter canvases in a few days. Everything was very DIY, bold, raw, and powerful — this defined the style. Contemporary art prices were extremely low. I remember selling a work by Oleg Tistol in 1995 for $1,500 — legendary at the time. Today it might cost $15,000.

There were only about 50–70 young strong artists speaking the language of contemporary art in the whole country — and everyone knew them by name. Documentation was zero. Sales had no paperwork. Photos were taken on slides. Catalogs were too expensive to make. So much was lost, and many works were taken abroad — we don’t even know where they are.

By the mid-90s, there were almost no galleries. But major foreign companies — advertising, audit, legal — came to Kyiv. Their executives visited exhibitions. I met many of them, including ambassadors and cultural attachés. There was communication, but no documentation of the art life. The 90s were vivid, but almost nothing remains. Everything was based on hope. And hope still exists — for a national museum of contemporary art, for better legislation, for a strong middle class that would buy art. But all of this is still “someday.”

People came to the gallery business from various fields. Some were artists like me. Others from philosophy, humanities, etc. Many dealt in antiques — because there was money and demand. Ukrainian contemporary art collectors were almost nonexistent, maybe 10%. The rest were foreigners. Ukrainian collectors only began appearing in the late 2000s, and that’s when prices rose. The legal environment improved slightly, but not fundamentally. Artists weren’t taught to be adaptive — and still aren’t. They’re talented but often like “cosmonauts,” not knowing how to function in the art market. That hasn’t changed.

What drives the Ukrainian art scene today? What inspires you, and what concerns you?

Today most artists exhibit in museums rather than galleries. Since 2022, museum collections have been hidden or moved abroad for safety. Galleries have either closed or are working in private mode. Museums have functioning infrastructure but lack collections and art marketing.

Artists are now more educated, travel more, and have more experience. In the ’90s it was a closed club — today it’s an industry. Many have exhibited abroad and established positions before the COVID lockdown. Some even managed to stay there. In the mid-2000s, only a handful of Ukrainian artists had works in prestigious museum collections or participated in international forums. Now dozens have international careers and work with renowned curators and institutions.

But now a new issue — many want to be “European artists,” and in this, identity can get lost. Identity is now more important than ever. Ukraine’s experience — war, loss, danger — provides material that Europe doesn’t have. They simulate experience, we live it. That gives us an advantage.

What is the role of art during war? Should it speak politically, or be a space of quiet and personal reflection?

Art has always been about individual experience — more than global issues. The artist’s experience is key. You can’t “buy” music or film, but you can buy visual art. That gives it spreadability, marketability, and potential — if the state doesn’t hinder it. Visual art is universally readable and quickly perceived — a few minutes are enough. You can’t do that with a novel or film or concert. I’m not downplaying literature, film, or theater — but visual art has that unique immediacy and universality.

So yes, art is important — even in a positive propaganda sense. It carries both individual and generalized messages. The individual is from the artist; the generalized comes from the gallery or curator, based on their ideological or social mission.

Today, culture is often seen as secondary. What needs to change to shift that mindset in Ukraine?

We need a national cultural policy that makes art pervasive, fashionable, and popular. The professional community — gallerists, theorists, curators, museum workers, educators, artists — has already done everything. Now the “baton” is with the state. Only the state can make art profitable. Big projects, too. They need to be marketable, and that requires state marketing. Every gallery or museum has limited capabilities. The state has much more — media, laws, cultural strategy.

So we need: 1) state-driven marketing; 2) legal support. Current legislation exists, but it’s not helpful. Why? I’m not sure — or maybe I know, and I don’t like the answer.

That there’s still no national contemporary art museum or center — that’s telling. It shows either a lack of understanding of culture’s importance or simply weakness. Almost all major art initiatives in Ukraine are privately funded. That’s not a result of policy — it’s personal initiative. That’s not good, but it’s the reality.

You’ve worked independently for many years. What’s the cost of that freedom?

For anyone in art — a gallerist, critic, curator — it’s always a bit of a… well, not struggle, but a constant effort to figure out how to realize your vision within the given constraints. It takes constant extra effort.

Do you believe in the possibility of a sustainable art market in Ukraine? What stands in the way?

If I didn’t believe in it, I wouldn’t be doing this. That hope has a religious character. Without it, there’s no point. I believe in it. So do those around me. Art without faith is impossible.

I truly believe the state will eventually realize the need to create some kind of “cultural duty-free,” a cultural offshore zone — to accelerate growth. We can’t catch up to Europe — not institutionally, not in monuments, not in museum collections worth hundreds of millions. Only a legal leap — a cultural offshore — can speed us up. Comparing our infrastructure to Europe’s is pointless. They’ve had centuries. We’ve had decades, at best.

What is a sign of “real” art for you today? What themes or approaches speak to you?

Everyone has their own version of “authenticity.” If you ask ten experts, you’ll get ten answers. Mine are intuitive — a mix of experience and exposure. I’ve traveled many times yearly to festivals, biennales, galleries. That mix — education, exposure, imagination — shapes my sense of quality. In a field without objective metrics, expert opinion — blending intuition and subjectivity — defines authenticity. Art’s quality isn’t in weight or size.

Which Ukrainian artists do you think speak convincingly about the present?

Honestly, that question implies a thematic answer — but that’s misleading. Still life or landscape can be deeply thematic or tragic. So it’s not about subject matter — though content, form, and language matter.

There’s demand for leftist ideas — defending life, individual rights, clean air and water, etc. Some artists respond with their own messages. But one must be cautious — it’s easy to simulate those ideas. Artists who recognize this demand can fake it. The key is to intuitively and experientially sense the difference. Expectations are high. Artists here — in Ukraine — are emotional, sensitive beings. They can truly feel pain, suffering, tragedy, life, and death.

Can you name any specific artists?

I’d rather not. I don’t want to do promotion. And it’s serious. Naming names means taking responsibility. It’s better not to. Even if someone tries, they’ll end up misleading — even unconsciously. A gallerist or curator will name those they work with or want to promote. So it’s not just subjective — it’s inevitably biased.

How do you see Ukrainian art in ten years?

Definitely strong. Definitely interesting. I hope artists will have more resources. Now they have almost none. By resources, I mean: large studios, quality materials, the means to create, store, and exhibit work. Infrastructure. I always say: Ukrainian art now is sketch art. Its scale often depends on the doorframe — what can be carried out.

And finally — in short: why do we need culture today?

It ties back to a previous point — culture is the only way to reproduce both personal and collective messages, curatorial and ideological, including those related to state policy. It’s a powerful resource that simply cannot be replaced. Behind every president, prime minister, taxi driver, firefighter, and cleaner — stands national culture and art. That’s how it is.

The article is part of the project “Cultural Bridge: Lithuania–Ukraine,” which is partially funded by the Media Support Fund.