Veronika Synenka/Tie2.lt

This interview was recorded during Vera Blansh’s solo exhibition “Valkyrie”, held at the Stedley Art Foundation from April 8 to May 31, 2025 (curated by Kateryna Tsygikalo). The project will later travel to Vilnius, where a new installation of Vera’s work, curated by Veronika Synenko, will open at Gallery T.2 on June 19.

Vera Blansh met the full-scale invasion of Ukraine with a camera in hand—working as a war journalist on the front lines. Later, she moved to Japan, where she turned to ceramic art and traditional Japanese ink painting. Her work has become a new visual code—an amalgamation of Ukrainian and Japanese symbols, where military helmets intertwine with wreaths, and female figures embody mythic Valkyries—symbols of strength, memory, and invincibility.

In this conversation, Vera shares her reflections on war, the role of women in art and on the front lines, and how culture becomes a weapon—gentle, yet precise.

The title “Valkyrie” is very symbolic. What does this image mean to you?

It’s about everything you mentioned—it’s about the “woman–warrior” and our Motherland, since the word “Homeland” is feminine in the Ukrainian language. In other words, it’s about my country—Ukraine.

You documented the full-scale war as a war photographer. What marked the turning point from documentary work to artistic reflection?

Actually, even my documentary work looks, I would say, quite artistic. Many well-known Ukrainian photographers have noted that my documentary shots carry the aesthetics of fashion photography—because I always strive to present more than just a factual image. The beginning of this artistic exploration came before the invasion—it happened naturally. My creative path has been flowing like a river—developing with its own current.

How has your experience living in Japan changed your visual language? Did art become a way to heal or process the experience?

Absolutely. All artists, even those like Matviy Vaisberg or Vlada Ralko, with whom I have close ties, talk about how creativity during wartime is healing. Reflection becomes a way to cast the feeling out—into paper, into clay, into performance. You express it, release the emotion. And yes, even if not completely, you do begin to heal. It becomes easier to endure the next shock. Because, unfortunately, they don’t stop… The shelling continues, and people keep dying.

What changed in your work after returning to Ukraine? Was it hard to work with the war theme again, but on a deeper level?

Being home is a great joy. Our Ukrainian energy—you won’t find anything like it anywhere else. And during war, it intensifies in a strange way. It’s a feeling I’ve had since February 2022, when the invasion began—it’s like living your last day. A vibrant urgency pulses inside me. You live as if everything must be done today. And the same goes for creativity—you live and create as if it were your last day.

Your exhibition features many images of the female body, helmets, and wreaths. It looks like the aesthetics of war through a feminine lens. Was this feminist narrative intentional?

Yes, it was a conscious decision—a way of softening the material and better conveying the message to a Japanese audience. I am a woman myself, so this narrative came very naturally. I often thought about women who lost their loved ones—husbands, sons, fathers. About their trauma, about how they continue living, yet seem to no longer live. Sadly, we have countless such stories…

Do you see modern Ukrainian servicewomen as the new Valkyries? How has this influenced your visual language?

Yes, absolutely. And not only do I see them—they truly inspire me. To be honest, I often thought about becoming a paramedic myself. I don’t know if I’ll ever reach that point, but in 2022 I thought about it often. Since I worked as a war photographer, with a camera, I felt a sense of duty. I was a soldier—just in a different force: the informational, visual one. And that’s important too. But many women, many girls, are dying for us. It’s especially painful when it’s artists. Like the young painter Margarita Polovinko, who recently died at the front… You see, these are girls who had their whole lives ahead of them, who could have inspired us—they were just beginning to bloom. But they chose a different path. I believe such women should not only be painted or sculpted—films should be made about them. They deserve it. The public needs to know about them. Art projects often reach only a limited audience. These women truly inspire me. I grieve their loss. In Ukraine, there’s a feeling that those who die at the front are like unknown relatives—it feels like someone very close has left this world. As if they died specifically for me. That’s why they inspire me…

Do you believe that art can speak about war without depicting it directly? How can one find a language that doesn’t lose its depth?

Perhaps—if it were sound. We know that Ukraine is home to the excellent “Opera Aperta,” a contemporary opera lab founded by my friends Roman Hryhoryv and Illia Razumeiko. They’re creating modern Ukrainian opera. Roman has composed several works performed on decommissioned weapons—it’s incredibly powerful. And that, too, is a language—non-illustrative.

The exhibition speaks about continuity of tradition. Where do you think historical memory and contemporary art intersect?

I believe it’s in our fight for freedom. For survival. It’s a folkloric, ethnic theme. In the past, our artists used folklore as a weapon. Our ethnicity was a form of resistance against Red Terror. So these things are interconnected. Speaking of contemporary Ukrainian music—we have the amazing performer Onuka. She works beautifully with sopilkas and other ethnic instruments. She even has a residency in Chernihiv region, where she preserves the legacy of her grandfather, a master instrument maker. She now creates music, artifacts, and other works there. All of that—ethnicity, folklore—merges with the contemporary.

Of course, we don’t want to sink into sharovarshchyna (a term used negatively to describe kitschy or superficial portrayals of Ukrainian culture through pseudo-folk costumes and household clichés – editor’s note), and I hope I’m far from that. But still, when we weave in ethnicity, folklore, or historical experiences into contemporary Ukrainian visual art—that’s what creates our modern language. And I think it’s fascinating.

In general, as the wise Solomon once said: “There is nothing new under the sun.” What exists—has already been; what will be—already is. In other words, we can’t invent something entirely new. We simply draw inspiration from our history. And that’s why our reflections are so deep. You can’t reflect in any other way—you have only one code: your ethnicity. It’s your culture. Because culture defines a nation. Language defines a nation. That’s our code. And it is precisely for this code—for who we are—that we are being killed. And now, we try to make it known.

Projektą iš dalies finansuoja Medijų rėmimo fondas