Valdone Rudenkiene/Tie2.lt

“Borderline” is a crucial element in this project. I don’t view it as merely a geopolitical line, but rather as a conceptual threshold — a moment that divides before and after. For me, that borderline is February 24, 2022. It’s the critical date etched into memory, a rupture in time. I constantly return to that invisible line, measuring what was lost, what was transformed, and what still carries forward, – says Ukrainian artist Veronika Synenka.

Tell a bit about yourself.

Well, I’m a young visual artist originally from Ukraine. My work often revolves around
memory, identity, and personal history — especially through objects and the symbolism they carry. After moving to Lithuania due to the war, my art naturally started to reflect themes of displacement, belonging, and transformation. But if briefly, I just call myself «professional escapist», for whom art became the most sophisticated way to run out from reality and resist to entropy.

Is ,,AttRibuTes” your first solo exhibition?

Not exactly. I consider my first solo exhibition to be ,,BOTTOM”, which firstly was presented at Karas Gallery in Kyiv in 2024. In addition to my solo artistic practice, I’m
also part of an artistic duo called V.P.V.P, which I co-founded with my colleague Artem Karas in 2023.That collaboration was born almost as a reaction — or perhaps a provocation — aimed at certain dominant narratives in the art world. It was paradoxical, sharp-edged, and at times deliberately uncomfortable. ”AttRibuTes” by contrast, feels more introspective, more tactile. It’s a quieter, more personal dialogue — with memory, with displacement, and with the intimate things we carry.

What does the word “attribute” mean to you personally, especially in the context of leaving your home country?

To me, “attributes” are quiet witnesses of my biography… Small, seemingly ordinary things
that carry immense emotional weight — objects, gestures, rituals that define my identity.
When I left Ukraine, I couldn’t take much with me — only a few items, chosen instinctively,
almost blindly. But over time, those items transformed. They stopped being just things. They became symbols, anchors, even extensions of self — fragments of a life interrupted, yet still vividly present.

How did crossing the border from Ukraine to Lithuania change the way you see
yourself as an artist?

That moment of crossing the border was more than a physical transition — it marked
an internal shift. Before, I understood myself in relation to place, to context — I was a
Ukrainian aspiring artist rooted in a particular geography. But afterward, I became
more attuned to the inner axis of my practice, the part that persists regardless of
where I am. I realised how adaptable, how quietly resilient art can be — how it holds
onto identity, even when everything around it is unfamiliar.

“Borderline” is a crucial element in this project. I don’t view it as merely a geopolitical
line, but rather as a conceptual threshold — a moment that divides before and after.
For me, that borderline is February 24, 2022. It’s the critical date etched into
memory, a rupture in time. I constantly return to that invisible line, measuring what
was lost, what was transformed, and what still carries forward.

Which objects did you choose to take with you, and how have they influenced your artwork in this exhibition?

Mostly, I took with me attributes of my everyday life and a few personal items. These
included two books — Faust by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Steppenwolf by
Hermann Hesse — my sketchbook with pencils, tobacco, and other things typically
used by «nicotine slaves». These objects became central to my creative process.
They appear in the works not just as visual references, but as emotional anchors.
Through them, I’ve tried to reconstruct fragments of my home and past, and explore
their connection to my present.

Do you feel that becoming an immigrant has added new layers to your artistic identity?

Absolutely. I now carry a dual lens — that of someone who belongs and someone who
observes from the outside. This distance brings both pain and clarity. It deepens my
connection to themes of memory, absence, and adaptation, and it opens up dialogues with me past and me present.

What emotions did you experience while creating these works – were they more rooted in memory, loss, hope, or something else?

It was a mix — a subtle storm of memory, longing, and a strange, fragile kind of hope. At
times, grief took the lead, shaping the process with heaviness and silence. At other moments, it was nostalgia, or even a sense of gratitude for what once was. Remembering carried a certain tenderness, but also brought an existential stillness — not dramatic, but deeply present. The emotions weren’t linear, they shifted, overlapped, and left their mark on each piece I created.

How does the idea of ‘home’ appear in your art now that you’ve had to leave yours behind?

“Home” now feels more internal — it’s in the objects, the rituals, the language, the sensory
memory. In my art, I try to capture that shift — from a fixed location to a more emotional,
portable version of home. I think that’s something many people who’ve been displaced will
recognize.

Can you describe how your artistic process changed after relocating to Lithuania?

At first, everything felt interrupted. I had to rebuild routines, find materials, learn a new
environment. But over time, this disruption led to a new kind of freedom. I started
experimenting more, allowing the unfamiliar to shape my work. Silence and solitude became part of the process in ways they hadn’t before.

Was this exhibition a way for you to process your personal journey, or do you see it more as a voice for others in a similar situation?

It began as a personal journey — a way to hold onto something stable amid constant change. But as I started to share the work, I realized how deeply others resonated with it. Even though my focus remains on building my own “museum of the nomad” (this term was suggested for my project by my supervisor from the academy, Kostas Bogdanas), the process is deeply introspective. For me, art is a way to piece myself back together — not out of ambition, but necessity. I create just because I am not capable of anything else.

How do you hope Lithuanian audiences will connect with your works in ,,Attributes”?

As I mentioned before, I don’t create art with the goal of being heard or understood. So, to be honest, it doesn’t really matter to me how a particular audience interprets what I do. Of
course, there are people I respect as artistic individuals, and I’m genuinely interested in their thoughts on my work — but that’s a purely professional curiosity. Overall, I’d say that
feedback is the last thing I rely on or orient myself around in my creative process.

What message or feeling do you want visitors to take with them after experiencing your exhibition?

Well, I’ll repeat myself here — I can’t and don’t want to think about or predict what kind of experience a viewer might have after visiting my exhibition, because I believe that the recipient’s impression is entirely the responsibility of the recipient himself.

To put it briefly, I’m telling a story of my life and gently offering the viewers to go through
this journey with me — only if they wish to, of course…