Veronika Synenka / Tie2.lt

,,CUTOUT is not about technique. It’s about freedom, synergy, and boldness.” Collage artist and festival co-founder Katya Syta shares how it all began—and how collage has become the voice of a new artistic generation.

Katya, how did you come to collage? What drew you to this medium?
I got into collage by accident, after meeting Svitlana Ostrovska. For me, it became an intimate dialogue with myself, where no one interferes and I have complete freedom of expression. What attracted me was the freedom and symbolism I could embed—though I don’t always aim to be understood. Nowadays, my collages reflect not just symbolism but also my expressive nature.

When did you feel the urge to create something bigger—a festival, a community, a platform?
It happened during my solo exhibition at the Kyiv History Museum in early 2021. I met other collage artists among the visitors, including Annett Sagal. That meeting sparked the idea for a group exhibition. The idea came to the three of us at once—including my sister, Olya Syta. We had so many ideas that it all grew into a festival. The community began forming during the festival—and by the end, we announced the opening of a workshop that still exists today, with 23 resident artists as of May 10, 2025.

CUTOUT isn’t just an event—it’s festivals, a community, workshops, exhibitions. How would you describe its spirit?
To me, it’s a philosophy of interaction in the art world—a space for expression and becoming.

What was the concept of the first festival, and how has it evolved?
In 2021, it was important to present collage as an art form within our cultural environment and elevate it beyond being seen as mere craft or “cut-and-paste.” We were also driven by the reluctance of Ukrainian galleries to engage with collage—because it’s not canvas, harder to price or exhibit.

Our first festival’s theme was “Art is not eternal”, as people often asked, “How long will collage last?” For us, the message was: the lifespan of art doesn’t define its value—just like a person’s worth isn’t measured in years. What gives art value isn’t the medium—it’s the artist.

The theme remains relevant, though now more for audiences than galleries. Viewers are still learning to perceive art beyond canvas.

Who makes up your audience today—professional artists or people looking for self-expression?
Both. When professional artists join us, they usually appreciate our environment. It feels different from typical art communities—there’s no competition. We move in our own direction. Our community includes multidisciplinary artists, photographers, illustrators—even some of my students.

What role does the community play in CUTOUT’s growth? Do you feel you’re shaping a cultural environment?
Absolutely. We don’t just feel it—we’re consciously shaping it. There’s already a generation of collage artists who’ve grown up observing what we do, what we teach, and how we share. Before me, hardly anyone used torn paper techniques—now I see it in my students’ works. The same goes for treating collage as painting. We’ve even influenced pricing. In 2020–2021, few collage artists were on the art market, with prices starting at 500 UAH. Now, collage is featured in nearly every gallery and art event.

Before 2021, most collage artists worked in isolation, rarely exhibiting publicly—just small informal shows for a narrow audience. Today, collage is seen as a legitimate art form, not just a technique.

What makes collage a unique form of artistic expression today?
It’s more honest—it quickly channels the subconscious. In collage, you’re not depicting what you see—it’s often an uncontrolled expression through spontaneously chosen images. Sure, some artists create planned concepts, focusing on technique—like Sasha Chichkan’s technically stunning works. But sometimes a collage can move you with just one or two glued pieces—not about the idea, but the sincerity of the symbolism.

Why do you think collage is experiencing a resurgence in Ukraine right now?
Because it’s fast, adaptable, digital-friendly, and can be animated. During WWI, collage was a tool for art activism—and it still is. It’s also trending in advertising and design. But mostly, it’s emotionally honest—and that’s missing in the art scene today. Even those who aren’t art-savvy can connect with a collage’s familiar symbols and imagery—it helps them see themselves in it.

Would you say collage is a form of resistance? A reflection? A search for wholeness in fragmentation?
Yes, all of that. But collage is much more than we imagine. As a philosophy, it shows that collage artists are more adaptable to social change. They’re used to reinterpreting what they’re given—reshaping it into their own picture, their own reality.

How do you see contemporary Ukrainian art today? What’s important, painful, and relevant in it?
I’m happy to see new art spaces opening, especially by young people—maybe not always professionally, but it’s happening. What hurts is the “old school” that clings to 1990s values and resists change. But I’m glad they’re not eternal.

We lack criticism, ethics, art dealers, and exhibition spaces. The lack of dealers is a key issue—they’re few, and the sales system is shaped by corruption from the early 2000s. They don’t study the market; they just stick to the same old paths.

Contemporary art is undervalued—not just by dealers but by gallery owners, too. They don’t want to take risks, build authority, or present unknown names. Why bother when collectors are trained to buy, say, Kryvolap?

I love contemporary art deeply. And if I get a chance to showcase Ukrainian artists to the world—I use that chance 150%.

Are there artists or events that have particularly inspired you lately?
From events—the projects by the Dukat gallery team at the Ukrainian House. Elena Grozovska’s sensitivity and deep knowledge shine through her curatorship. Their current work is some of the most professional I’ve seen in Ukraine—full of aesthetics and depth.

From artists—Tiberiy Silvashi. He’s a phenomenon in contemporary Ukrainian art. I don’t understand why he isn’t shown more abroad—his work is a cultural legacy for centuries, if the world survives its own stupidity. I’m currently looking for sponsors to present Silvashi in Tokyo. I hope to find another passionate person to make it happen—just one with money.

How has the Ukrainian art scene changed since 2022? Is it bolder, more political?
Definitely bolder—thanks to the younger generation, under 30. I’m very grateful to them. The main thing is not to hinder them, but to support them.

More political? Maybe. But there’s also a lot of populism—especially from those using political themes for self-promotion, while living abroad or having left Ukraine under shady circumstances.

When I’m abroad, I don’t want to see exhibitions where Ukrainian artists exploit political themes crudely—especially those who haven’t been in the country for years. Even within Ukraine, that happens. One example—Sviatchenko’s works on war at the Lavra gallery art fair. It was tasteless and cynical.

What’s missing are art critics. Artists shouldn’t have to police that.

Do you believe culture can truly change something—in society, in consciousness?
Yes. I don’t just believe it—I see it and feel it. When I exhibit projects in Europe, I often hear that Ukrainians and Russians were previously seen as the same. They couldn’t tell us apart.

But the more independent projects we do abroad, the more we show the world who we are. These projects must be deep and serious—not just folk dolls and Easter eggs. We must expand the associative field of our nation—and it must be intellectual.

What does being an artist in Ukraine mean to you right now?
It means responsibility. Because if my audience is not only Ukrainian, my message must be accessible, honest, and diplomatic—while staying true to myself as a person and an artist.

What would you like to express through your art today—not as an organizer, but as a creative individual?
Everything I want to say—I say. The only thing is I rarely have time or funding to present my more personal work, though I’ve created a lot. It often reflects emotional experiences I can’t share with anyone.

On the non-personal side—I’m working on a project about prisoners. I act as both ideologist and artist. It began after I accidentally came across letters from civilian prisoners. The pain was overwhelming—you don’t read such letters twice. You just do everything to make them seen worldwide.

Interview is a part of cultural project ,,Cultural bridge:Lithuania-Ukraine”, partly funded by Mediju remimo fondas.

Projektą iš dalies finansuoja Medijų rėmimo fondas