Nastia Svarevska interviews Serafima Bresler: Russian artist on the war and making art with Ukrainian refugees
Nastia Svarevska: Serafima, as a Russian artist living abroad, did your practice change after Russia invaded Ukraine?
Serafima Bresler: Before the war, my practice explored the consequences of the Chernobyl accident. I studied the involvement of my family and the reaction of the Soviet state to the disaster in 1986. I investigated how propaganda, silence and lies had compounded the liquidation of the consequences. After moving to Germany, I decided to work with more global things. I began looking into the problem of nuclear power and nuclear weapons storage, a feeling of total insecurity and the possibility of the Chernobyl disaster happening again. Yet the accident was part of the past, a catastrophe of Soviet times. I quietly researched it all at a distance because the story was not mine. It was that of my grandparents. And my feeling of insecurity was my anxiety. Then the war in Ukraine started.
NS: And suddenly it became more real…
SB: People in Ukraine are fleeing the horror of war, leaving their homes. Meanwhile, Russian propaganda doesn’t call it what it is. Instead, it claims “that everything is according to plan and under control” and calls the public reaction “provocation” and “hysteria of the West”. In 1986, they used the same language to describe the situation in Chernobyl, calling it “conflagration”. Then in 2022, I read about Russian troops entering Pripyat, raising the radiation level; the death of Chernobyl liquidator Yuri Karakurkchi in Mariupol from shrapnel wounds; the occupation of the Zaporizhzhia nuclear power plant; and the possibility of a disaster five times more severe than that in 1986. As you said, everything I previously researched became closer. I no longer have that distance. Instead of the past, I’m exploring reality.
NS: Which must feel very different.
SB: At first, I didn’t know how to approach my practice because it was more powerful than me. But I knew I had to keep doing my job. Staying silent wasn’t an option. At the same time, it was necessary to work with information about the war, especially with Russian propaganda changing the facts, destroying the truth and twisting it. The difference now is that I get information from the newswire, not from my grandmother’s stories or books with liquidators’ memories.
NS: You co-founded Art Workshops for Refugees, a space for adults and children to come together and make art. How did you come up with the idea for the project?
SB: When the war started, I couldn’t think about anything else. I remember sitting in Hamburg in a frozen state, thinking I had to do something. Then I saw my classmates from HFBK volunteering: they were collecting donations to help Ukrainian refugees arriving in Germany. Meanwhile, I was teaching an online course for high school students on portfolio preparation. I knew I was pretty good at it, so I had the idea of organising free art classes for the refugees, creating comfortable conditions for them and using my professional experience. My friends, Lisa Ostapenko and Anna Bochkova, were thinking the same thing. And we just did it together. Very quickly and, I believe, professionally. In March, we had a schedule and began holding a class per weekend. It became an important project for us, which we continue to do now.
Art Workshops for Refugees, Hamburg, 2022.
NS: What is the experience like?
SB: Of course, in the beginning, it was difficult introducing myself and saying that I was from Russia because guilt and shame were eating me up. It was painful to see children who left their homes while their fathers stayed to protect their country. Then you witness a slight shift, children smiling. These moments give you strength to continue working, realising that people need warmth, kindness and a safe space where they can distract themselves a little, find new friends and make things together. And we can offer them our knowledge, skills and comfort. That’s the least we can do right now.
NS: As you mentioned before, you dedicated a significant amount of time researching and creating work about the Chernobyl disaster, resulting in an installation such as What happened there? (2022 - present). What made you so interested in it?
SB: It started with my final thesis at the British School of Design. I was looking for a subject that would provide me with a basis for research after graduation for further work as an independent artist. My family rarely raised the topic of the accident, but everyone knew that my grandfather, Igor Gerasimov, was a liquidator. At the time, I was already working with the subject of memory and domestic space, so I realised it was the perfect opportunity to start learning more about this history because of the foundation that my practice already had.
NS: Did your family support the idea?
SB: One day, I went to my grandmother Mila. We sat down in the kitchen and started a conversation. She doubted my choice of the topic because she thought it would be too hard for me, but in the end, she realised that I was serious. She provided me with contacts of her colleagues and friends who were in Chernobyl or the ‘Chernobyl Widows Union’. I started visiting liquidators’ apartments and interviewing them. I was curious about how these people live now, how they keep these memories and how these events and experiences affected their everyday life. The more I learnt, the more ideas I had for further research.
Installation view of What happened there? at HFBK, Hamburg, 2022. Home, 70 x 115 cm, drypoint on primed fabrics, 2022.
Installation view of What happened there? at HFBK, Hamburg, 2022. Home, 70 x 115 cm, drypoint on primed fabrics, 2022.
NS: So in addition to the political, you also explore the personal in your practice, in particular the domestic space, both mental and physical. What does home mean to you, especially now in the context of the war?
SB: I’ve never considered home a country, thinking of it in terms of intimate and personal surroundings. For a long time, my entire practice focused on the domestic space represented by the apartments I grew up in and my connection to my family. I was reflecting on the Soviet «Khrushchyovka» and how it was destructive to personal development and the infrastructure of the city as a whole. Yet I was also interested in details such as objects migrating from one apartment to another and the family archive. When I started working with historical contexts, including the nuclear accident, the role of the home changed. And when the war broke out, it confirmed my belief that home presents no fortress, no stability and no protection.
NS: I always thought there’s no single definition of the word.
SB: Home is a constant process, you change, and it changes with you. At the same time, the war made me feel somewhat ambivalent: when you miss the place yet don’t want to return there, when you love it and hate it at the same time. Of course, it’s a privileged position, as the war is not happening in Russia, and I can’t take it for granted. But I’m still afraid that when the war is over - and the whole government system finally collapses - the country where this home is waiting for me will be completely different. Then the answer to this question will probably change again.
NS: These past few months have not been easy on you, yet you managed to have a solo exhibition at Klub der Kunste in Hamburg (congratulations, by the way!). When life gets too hard to handle, what helps you continue making art?
SB: Thank you! I feel like my practice will always be with me. During the lockdown, I’d have completely lost my mind if not for my job. Right now, I can honestly admit to not being sure about what exactly I want to focus on because too much is going on, and things are changing too fast. I used to be quite specific with my subjects, but now I feel like I’m trying to cover everything: the war, home, family, me, past and present. All things are interconnected and intertwined. I need to remind myself what I do and who I am as an artist. And the solo exhibition was about that. It covered my family history and connection to the accident at the nuclear power plant, the war and how it became a new stage in my work and life, and finally, my self-portraits from last year. It may sound banal and superficial, but you can’t run away from yourself, your past, and especially not the present. Though sometimes I really want to.
Installation view of Everything Not Saved Will be Lost at Klub der Künste, Hamburg, 2022.