Ukraine’s Art World Under Fire

By Theresa Rézeau

Art in the Crossfire of War, Loss, and Silent Resilience

In the polished world of art acquisitions, where exclusivity, beauty, and value are the usual currencies, it’s easy to forget that behind every artwork is a deeper truth shaped by lived experience, historical memory and sometimes, the trauma of war. Art is often viewed as an asset, a collector’s prize or a financial investment. But for many artists, particularly those in conflict zones, art is survival. It is a record of history, a cry for help and a reminder to the world that they and their culture still exist.

Before the full-scale invasion of Ukraine, I had the privilege of working with a remarkable Ukrainian art dealer. She wasn’t just a curator or a seller, she was a fierce guardian of her country’s artistic heritage, working tirelessly to promote Ukrainian artists beyond its borders. Through her, I was introduced to the hauntingly beautiful works of Guyetsky Semen Natanovich, an artist whose paintings hold the quiet weight of memory, identity and resilience. 

His work speaks to something deeper than aesthetics, it is an emotional map of a land that has known both beauty and suffering. These are not just paintings, they are fragments of Ukraine’s cultural soul, visual poems that whisper stories of displacement, longing and survival.

Her commitment to preserving and promoting Ukrainian art was unwavering, even as her own world began to unravel. But when war reached her doorstep, everything changed.

A Vanished Voice: The War’s Impact on a Cultural Guardian

As the war deepened, our conversations became sparse. Art, once a bridge between us was now overshadowed by survival. The last time I heard from her was in September 2022. Her message was both lighthearted and tragic, cloaked in humour that barely masked the exhaustion of someone forced into exile.

“I’m like a party frog now, moving and driving from country to country.”

Her words made me pause. Beneath the playfulness was the raw truth of war. She had been uprooted, thrown into uncertainty, forced to leave behind not just a home but an entire life’s work. She spoke about her family, about how her husband and brother couldn’t leave Ukraine because of the country’s wartime laws restricting men of fighting age from crossing the border. She told me she had no interest in becoming “a poor immigrant living off social support at the age of 50,” and that she would only consider leaving permanently if she could sell enough art to buy a small home in Italy.

“This is the pain of war in Ukraine,” she said.

That was the last time I heard from her. Since then, silence. I continue to pray for her and her beloved family, hoping they are safe and still holding onto hope.

Her story is not unique. It mirrors the silent suffering of countless Ukrainian artists, gallerists, and cultural workers whose lives have been violently interrupted, not  just by bombs, but by the slow erasure of cultural memory. The war has destroyed more than just cities and homes, it has endangered Ukraine’s artistic legacy, its creative voice and the fragile but vital thread that connects the present to the past.

The Cultural Cost of War: What Happens When a Nation’s Art Is Threatened?

In the West, we often speak of war in strategic terms, territory gained or lost, political implications, military tactics. But wars do not just destroy landscapes. They fracture identity. They shatter archives, disperse communities, silence poets, exile painters and burn theatres. The loss of life is the most devastating consequence, but the loss of culture is the slow death of a nation’s soul.

Ukraine’s museums and galleries have been looted or bombed. Priceless works of art, centuries of history have either been stolen or lost forever. The war has forced artists into hiding or exile, disrupting creative continuity. And yet, amid this destruction, Ukrainian artists continue to create. They paint in basements. They sculpt in exile. They curate from bunkers. Their work is not just artistic, it is an act of resistance. It is a declaration that Ukraine exists. That it has always existed. That it will continue to exist.

On March 26, 2022, I witnessed this defiant spirit firsthand when I attended the “London Stands With Ukraine” rally. Organised by London’s Mayor Sadiq Khan, the event was a massive display of solidarity, a reminder that Ukraine was not alone. The mayor addressed the crowd, acknowledging the “unimaginable pain and suffering” endured by the Ukrainian people.

I marched alongside thousands, from Park Lane to Trafalgar Square, in an overwhelming sea of blue and yellow. I was there with my dear friend, Dr. Paul Bilokon, a Ukrainian-born academic and writer. Together, we stood side by side with refugees, activists, and supporters from around the world, united by a common belief: that Ukraine’s fight was not just its own, it was a fight for all who believe in freedom, dignity and cultural survival.

On stage, Dame Emma Thompson read a poem aloud, her voice carrying over the crowd like a call to history. She spoke to the children of Ukraine, telling them they were brave, that they would be remembered, and that the world had not forgotten them. In that moment, I realised that solidarity is not passive, it is active, human and necessary. Just as art gives voice to a people, standing together gives strength to a nation under siege.

Art as Resistance. Art as Refuge.

There is something sacred about preserving culture in times of destruction. To showcase the works of artists like Semen Natanovich, or to support contemporary Ukrainian creators, is not just an appreciation of art, it is a stand against cultural erasure. These works are more than just objects of beauty. They are witnesses. They are records of history. They are proof that a people and their stories still exist.

Each acquisition, each exhibition, each blog post  like this one, is a lifeline. A reminder that art is not just about aesthetics. It is about memory. It is about survival.

My Prayer for Peace

I do not pray for victory. I pray for peace, for both Ukraine and Russia. I pray for the families torn apart, the children growing up in fear, the cultural stewards who are fighting to protect their history. I pray for the artists who continue to create, even when the world feels like it is collapsing around them.

I hope that the recent meeting between President Volodymyr Zelenskyy and U.S. President Donald Trump at St. Peter’s Square was not just symbolic, but meaningful. I hope it was the beginning of a real and final dialogue for peace, a peace that allows Ukraine to rebuild, families to reunite and artists to once again create freely, without fear.

Because in the end, art remembers what history forgets. And we must listen.