As Russian bombs rain down on Ukraine, one young Ukrainian activist is trying to halt destruction of a different kind: the neglect of, and damage to, modernist buildings and public art.
Nearly a decade ago, in 2015, Ukraine instituted laws demanding the removal of monuments and street names glorifying the country’s communist past, with the exception of listed heritage sites. But masterpieces of Soviet modernism are at risk from an unthinking approach to the laws, according to architecture expert and photographer Dmytro Soloviov.
The problem is compounded, he said, by “unchecked development”, corruption, and a lack of planning regulations – as well as a general lack of knowledge of and appreciation for Soviet modernism.
Anger about Ukraine’s period as a subject of the Soviet Union can blind citizens to the merits of the country’s modernist architecture, he said. “Subtlety and nuance are completely missing from the debate about decommunisation generally. And when it comes to Soviet Ukrainian heritage, it gets even messier. People really get blinded by misdirected fury.”
“When you remember we are in the middle of a brutal war which is destructive in itself, it is completely unnecessary to add to that destruction,” he said.
Soloviov, who is writing a book titled Ukrainian Modernism, to be published by the UK publisher Fuel, runs an Instagram account that both celebrates and charts damage to 20th-century Ukrainian architecture and public art. He has posted before-and-after shots of the Kherson Library, whose carved-wood interiors were smashed by Russian shelling, as well as communist-era mosaics of sportspeople, obliterated during a refurbishment of a Lviv stadium.
On a sunny day in Kyiv, he pointed out the unique architectural features of Zhytniy market, one of central Kyiv’s most recognisable landmarks. The building, designed by Valentyn Shtolko and Olha Monina in 1980, has a remarkable concave concrete ceiling that swoops over the enormous market hall, in which a dwindling number of traders sell meat, cheese and vegetables.
“It’s like a gothic church,” said Soloviov, pointing out the great windows of the market’s upper floor. “No walls, all glass, fully transparent.” The windows are overlaid with triangular metalwork motifs that echo the shape of a horse chestnut leaf, Kyiv’s symbol. The exterior is decorated with reliefs depicting 1,500 years of Ukrainian trade routes.
But the building is under threat, and not only from incoming missiles: twice this year the city council has instigated and then halted an auction for the lease, amid protests from fans of the market that unscrupulous developers could destroy its character and largely intact original features.
Ukrainian celebrity chef Yevhen Klopotenko is spearheading a campaign to revive the market’s fortunes, “working on finding investors to save the market and to make it a new tourist destination with local products, farmers, restaurants – something similar to Borough Market [in London]”, according to his spokesperson. A working group put together by the city’s authorities is expected to consult the public soon on the market’s future.
Soloviov is sceptical, pointing to the fact that Klopotenko has run community events in the building that have involved painting parts of the internal concrete walls, pillars and stairways in Ukraine’s national colours of blue and yellow – far from the intentions of its architects, he said, and inappropriate to its design. “Do what you want if it’s not dissonant,” he said, “but don’t make a travelling circus out of it.”
Over in the western Kyiv residential district of Vidradnyi, Soloviov pointed out the gable ends of a series of 1960s housing blocks, decorated with enormous mosaics created by artists Ivan Apollonov, Oleksandr Dolotin and Valery Karas. All except one are badly damaged. Where once a hedgehog stood amid a composition of animals (an owl, a deer, a cockerel, a moth), there is now a blank space; other mosaics depicting ceramics production, weaving and music-making are similarly disfigured.
The culprit is flat-dwellers installing external insulation, said Soloviov – and there is no legal framework to protect the mosaics. “It’s a lack of regulation, and education, and cultural awareness,” said Soloviov – a “kind of ‘casual decommunisation’ – often politics has little to do with it”.
But where architecture, design and politics do clash is in the Museum of the History of Ukraine in the Second World War, an institution formerly known as the Museum of the Great Patriotic War – the term used by the Soviets, and in modern Russia, for the conflict.
Some argue that the museum’s entire narrative is tainted by Soviet thinking, while Vladimir Putin’s insistent use of the second world war as a propaganda tool in modern Russia further tarnishes it in the eyes of many.
Others regard the monuments and sculptures that scatter the 10ha grounds, as well as the displays and mosaics of its interior, as part of the nation’s history, honouring Ukraine’s role in the defeat of Nazi Germany.
The most famous sculpture is the “Motherland” statue that towers 62 metres above the city. Last year the hammer and sickle on the female figure’s shield were replaced by a trident, Ukraine’s national emblem.
Soloviov is among those who worry that in the long term, sculptures and displays in the complex could be removed – but it is absurd to think of the historical artworks as “active” propaganda, he argued. “As far as I know, no one ever died of communism after leaving this place.”
The museum director, Yurii Savchuk, said: “We need to find a balance – to find a way to develop a museum for the Ukrainian people and for our state, especially in this dark time for our history.”
In the long term, he said, the vision for the museum would embrace the role of the allies instead of being a place in which “all elements of the museum are subordinated to the main idea, of the leading role in the second world war of the USSR”.
On the other hand, he said, “It’s not a good time to discuss this when during the night the Russians are bombarding our homes. We don’t have much of an opportunity to think about these things – but some people want to use the situation against our sense of solidarity. This place can be a weapon in politics.”
