"Art Does Not Speak, But It Happens": An Interview with Hanna Zubkova
Anastasia Haustova spoke with artist Hanna Zubkova about the False Sun project, which reveals the specifics of artistic and research work with an archive.
translation of the interview to Spectate
Hanna Zubkova. Photo Alexandre Sauvillers
Anastasia Haustova: Recently, many artists feel the need to invent additional justification for their practice. Some say that just as “after Auschwitz, writing poetry is impossible,” there’s no point in continuing to make art after the Russian invasion of Ukraine, at least not the kind we envisioned before. You continue to create projects—did you experience doubts, and how did you resolve them?
Hanna Zubkova: Art seeks forms of response to upheaval, or at least that’s how the myth of history frames it. Duchamp’s 'Fountain', for example, is considered in some way a response to the absurdity and horror of World War I. Can that response be proportional? It’s difficult for me to call Auschwitz simply an "upheaval," and to compare “poetry after it” to my personal experience in art. Should we refer to the past to talk about the present? Indeed, what happened after February 24 left me speechless, in tears, unable to eat or drink, let alone make art. There was a huge feeling of helplessness and anger, inexpressible, spilling out onto family, friends, acquaintances, and strangers on social media. This kind of trauma happened to the entire part of the world that is involved in this, in one way or another. Before translating this lived experience from a psychophysical consequence into a position, a statement, discourse, or anything else, it’s necessary to recognize it as trauma itself. Part of my family lived in Kyiv for a long time—the anxiety was partly related to literal things, a sense of safety or danger. I can’t separate the feeling of concern for the fate of the world from concern for myself, my loved ones, and the countries close to me. After all, I’m from Belarus, Russia, and partly Ukraine. Like many others.
It’s not that I didn’t want to do anything, but rather that I physically couldn’t. To be clear and honest, I recognize that this is not a position but a literal physical inability. At the same time, I noticed that many artists continued to work, choosing the path of manifestos and activism. It’s interesting to observe this, and it’s good that it exists, but it doesn’t resonate with me. When I imagine that kind of agency for myself, I can say that I don’t feel close to the idea of art as a form of journalism or activism. In general, I’m not fond of calling this a “language.” Perhaps art does not speak, but it happens. In the end, for me, returning not to art, but to feelings, occurred through communication, volunteering, therapy, and grounding. Now, I suppose I can say that I don’t see how it’s possible to return to art without first returning to oneself. The feeling that we’re being stretched on a media torture wheel generates a huge amount of anger, which has nowhere to go. And it seems that stopping this anger, noticing it within oneself, is a task that comes before making any choice, including artistic ones.
After the Belarusian protests in 2020, many had already asked themselves more than once: "What do we do with art?" Especially when many people had bigger concerns than art and literally needed to survive. A wave of powerful emigration occurred back then, and for many, it was a double displacement—some moved first to Ukraine and then were forced to flee again. Having lived for over 10 years between Paris, Moscow, and Minsk, I often find myself in communities of people who emigrated, fled, or moved from the impossible into alienation, helplessness, and hope. From Iran, Lebanon, Abkhazia, and various post-conflict and conflict zones. I began to realize that all coordinates are disrupted, or they are so multi-layered, complex, and unstable by nature that it would be reckless to define them once and for all. Like a set of interjections and manifestos, both desperate and convincing, powerful and sorrowful. It’s probably worth recognizing the tautology and excess in them before making a definitive conclusion about whether or not to continue making art. Can such a conclusion even be final?
View of Hanna Zubkova's installation "False Sun. The Catcher" at the Garage Museum of Contemporary Art, Moscow, 2023. Photo: Alexey Naroditsky © Garage Museum of Contemporary Art
Hanna Zubkova: Right now, apart from working directly on False Sun, I’m not working on any other projects for the moment. It began back in 2017 without external support and continued as part of the Field Research program in 2020–21. The main portion of what could be called the active phase of the work was completed then. When I revisited these documents and research findings, it became clear that everything I had done still resonated with what is happening now. In fact, it may have even become more relevant in a certain way.
Anastasia Haustova: After February 24, I myself fell into depression and couldn’t do anything for about six months. But it was precisely through interviews and conversations with people who stayed here that I was able to pull myself together. This issue arises because many people accuse others of both doing something and not doing enough. We started analyzing all this, and processing the trauma became easier as a result. Let’s talk about False Sun. This project is presented within the Garage Archive Commissions program, which supports researchers working with the problematics of archives. It’s no coincidence that these projects are exhibited within the library, especially after Garage formally ceased its exhibition activities. The archival turn in art has many facets—offering endless opportunities for working with the politics of memory, history, knowledge, personality, identity, and fiction. What is fundamentally important to you when working with an archive?
View of Hanna Zubkova's installation "False Sun. The Catcher" at the Garage Museum of Contemporary Art, Moscow, 2023. Photo: Alexey Naroditsky © Garage Museum of Contemporary Art
Hanna Zubkova: One relevant quote that comes to mind is from Derrida’s Archive Fever: “There is no archive without an outside.” Reflecting on etymology, he explains that "archē" means both beginning and commandment: commencement and commandment. In its primary sense, an archive is a repository of documents, mainly for administrative or governmental purposes. What’s also crucial here is the process of transitioning documents from private circulation into some kind of public storage, status, or dimension. At the same time, Derrida notes that this transition is not equivalent to a shift from secret to explicit, because, as he continues, the archive is a kind of shelter. I was interested in the agency of the archive in this transition from the personal to the public, the dynamics of the relationship between the archive itself and the archive as an institution—a more rational inquiry, rather than one about the medium's role in communicating with the spirits of the past. Nevertheless, the archive did become a membrane through which ghosts began to seep. Derrida also talks about the drive toward death and how the archive allows us to return to something archaic, to an origin.
Anastasia Haustova: The infamous "original source"?
Hanna Zubkova: Yes, in this sense, the archive becomes an absolute, ultimate beginning—a collection of fragments that promise coherence, which cannot be fully realized. You find yourself under the influence, the power, of the archive. Thus, this origin becomes a form of inheritance that comes to me involuntarily. It raises an ethical question: “What should I do with this past that comes to me, even though I didn’t ask for it?” We deal with the archive much later, not at the moment of its creation, and in circumstances that are indexically tied to the point of the archive’s production through dates, places, documents. But the archive itself already exists atemporally, beyond the moment of its creation. I am intrigued by this idea of what happens in the boundary zone between the archive and the outside world.
Fragment of the discovered archive, 1914–1977. Photo: Zarina Kodzaeva © Hanna Zubkova
A.Kh.: But how did it all start? I think that's important. You say "involuntarily," but on the other hand, you had a choice not to take on this archive. It seems like this moment also reveals the agency of the archive, in which it starts imposing itself.
H.Z.: Here, the halo of coincidence starts to intersect with the halo of an imperative, which blurs the understanding of a random event and gains gravity through my desire to work with it. If you look at it differently, this coincidence turned out to be the result of preceding events, structures, systems, choices, knowledge, and various contexts that influenced the circumstances leading to this discovery. The archive was found in the apartment of the Kursanov family, which my acquaintance bought in Moscow. This discovery doesn't seem entirely random because the very fact that someone could buy an apartment indicates that they are hierarchically part of a system of social well-being, possibly comparable to the person who lived in that apartment in the 1970s. My acquaintance and I met due to being in a certain system of privileges, within which our relationship could develop. This discovery is both random, as I had no intention of finding anything, and at the same time, it’s logical, resulting from a series of choices, systems, and contexts. The archive came into my hands when my acquaintance decided to give me the folder. He chose to trust me. What followed was also a series of decisions. From the moment the archive was in my hands, a quantum situation arose, and even if I had chosen to do nothing with it, I would still have made some choice. It’s as if there’s always a string of coincidences threaded onto a chain of decisions. In a similar way, I think, we relate to the past. You can close your eyes to it, but you still know it exists and continues to act.
A.Kh.: The same is said about politics. An artist may not engage with politics, but politics engages with the artist. Another thought occurred to me. I like reflecting on exceptions, including what didn’t happen. One can only imagine how many archives were never worked with. In other words, how many archives someone stumbled upon, but their stories were never told. In your case, the Kursanov archive told a story.
H.Z.: But did it? I’m not sure.
A.Kh.: Considering the scale of the project, I think it did, but what exactly did it say? And my first question here is conceptual. One of the central concepts in *False Sun* is the chronotope, which overlays the map of the empire and its borders. How do you define the concepts of "empire" and "chronotope"? How do they relate to each other? What issues in their relationship are central for you?
H.Z.: These relationships weren’t immediately obvious to me. They began to take shape as I worked on the project. My reflections on these relations arose because of a mistake I made when I decided to use such categorical systems for mastering space as map, boundary, and time. That’s what interested me—rationally examining positivist tools that structure space and also create it. Somewhere in my drafts, I wrote that these are tools of colonization, oppression, and discovery. In this way, I intuitively placed them on the same plane. Using these tools led me to a mistake.
I had to find a certain extreme point of the chronotope, and this task was connected to an affirmative play on being a tourist, one who embarks on an expedition and follows the main marketing clichés of the Soviet empire in search of the key point of the "Far North." The tourist uses available tools for measuring, mastering, and discovering space. When I took out my camera to capture the most beautiful sunset in the world at the edge of the North, I realized that it wasn’t happening. It turned out the sunset was supposed to happen "the day after tomorrow." As I explored various points that were identified in the archive documents, many such errors and anomalies accumulated. At some point, I noted to myself: what if I’m calling something an anomaly that is actually perfectly natural? Isn’t this an example of exoticization? And this exoticization arises from the exploration of imperial logic as such, including within a single person—for instance, within myself.
"Europe-Asia" sign, 1955. Current condition, Ray-Iz Massif, Priuralsky District. Photo: Viktor Pleskov © Hanna Zubkova
H.Z.: These relationships were not immediately obvious to me. They started to take shape as I worked on the project. My reflections on these relationships arose because of a mistake I made when I decided to use categorical systems for mastering space, such as map, boundary, and time. What interested me was rationally examining these positivist tools that structure space and, at the same time, create it. Somewhere in my drafts, I wrote that these are tools of colonization, oppression, and discovery. In this way, I intuitively placed them on the same level. Using these tools is what led me to a mistake.
I needed to find a certain extreme point of the chronotope, and this task was connected to an affirmative game of being a tourist—someone embarking on an expedition and following the main marketing clichés of the Soviet empire in search of the key point of the "Far North." The tourist uses available tools for measuring, mastering, and discovering space. Taking out my camera to capture the most beautiful sunset in the world at the edge of the North, I realized that it wasn’t happening. It turned out that it was supposed to occur "the day after tomorrow." As I investigated various points identified in the archive documents, many such errors and anomalies accumulated. At some point, I asked myself: what if I’m calling something an anomaly that is actually perfectly natural? Isn’t this an example of exoticization? And this exoticization arises from the exploration of imperial logic as such, including within an individual—for example, within myself.
Hanna Zubkova, False Sun, 2021, video still © Hanna Zubkova
Gradually, I began reflecting on these mistakes and reading related materials. For example, I recalled a lecture by Nikolai Ssorin-Chaikov titled "Empire and Postcolonialism as Chronotope." The two words that had been circling in my mind came together here. He discusses everyday episodes from what he calls "the taiga space of a state farm in the upper reaches of the Podkamennaya Tunguska River." As an ethnographer, he goes there and collects various stories, documenting his interactions with the local inhabitants. Through everyday conversations, he notes other temporalities, which are not defined by clocks but embedded in phrases or names of activities. He talks about "multiple temporalities." I became interested in the idea of the relationship between a structured time grid and living space. In his lecture, he also mentioned that empire is not a past that ends but rather a form of continuation and succession. In my automatic relationship with space, that very empire reproduces itself. Recognizing these mistakes led me to reflect on my relationship with the chronotope.
Before that, I came across a quote from Solzhenitsyn's 'One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich':
"They brought a tank to melt snow for mortar. They’d heard from someone that it was already twelve o’clock.
‘Must be twelve,’ Shukhov declared. ‘The sun’s at its peak.’
‘If it’s at its peak,’ the captain responded, ‘then it’s not twelve, it’s one.’
‘Why is that?’ Shukhov was surprised. ‘Everyone knows the sun is highest at noon.’
‘That’s what people used to say!’ the captain cut him off. ‘But since the decree, the sun is highest at one.’
‘Whose decree?’
‘The Soviet government’s!’
The captain left with the stretcher, and Shukhov didn’t argue. Did even the sun obey their decrees?"
This is also an example of such a discrepancy. My project, in essence, is a documentation of failures related to these relationships that occur at a boundary—a boundary that is conditional but at the same time ruthless. You can talk about abolishing boundaries, but at the same time, you are directly dependent on grids that, at a certain point, fail. And I’m interested in that failure.
Hanna Zubkova, The Catcher, 2021, performance, former kindergarten building, Rudnik settlement, Vorkuta, Komi Republic © Hanna Zubkova
A.Kh.: I caught onto the idea of an embedded code, let’s call it "imperial," which often speaks ahead of us, distorting the reality we encounter.
H.Z.: Yes, but I find this question interesting in a broader perspective. The concept of empire also arises in the well-worn expression that "the sun never sets on the empire." This phrase carries within it a chronotope: the territory is so vast that you can always be under the sun at any point within it. There’s no sunset. Is such a situation natural, and what does it tend toward to maintain its stability? The relationship between categorical systems and the experiences they describe is fascinating here. The very title False Sun is not so much an image as a literal model of the witness’s dilemma or representation, similar to Agamben’s The Fire and the Tale. You, as a witness of the "false sun," describe it as such, but it only exists for the observer at a specific moment, in a specific place. It’s even difficult to say if it exists on its own in relation to the sun. And why, after all, is it "false"? At what point am I supposed to believe the witness who was present? Despite the descriptive scientific systems that are supposed to inspire my trust, why can’t I also believe that it’s a sign or an angelic effect? I’m interested in the relationship between events and their descriptions, their correlation with myth. Thus, the project’s map is built around seven myths—about origin, borders, the grandeur of a city, the North, the end of the world, and history.
Unknown photographer, False Sun, photograph found on the internet © Hanna Zubkova
A.Kh.: I now understand that the word "empire" or "imperial" might be limiting in relation to the project because it’s also a critique of ideology and myth. These words seem to fall short of what is being addressed here. By the way, the archive itself can be both a source of truth and a source of myth. False Sun seems to simultaneously create a fictional world around the figure of the philosopher Kursanov and deconstruct the imperial myth as it appears in the artistic canon, the authority of knowledge, resource economy, and the phenomenon of ideology. You mentioned that you’re interested in the archive as such. But how would you articulate what the archive itself "says"? Does the archive have a specific medium quality, or does it always contain the potential for ideological inversion and contextualization, meaning its potential to become an ideological tool? How do you resolve this contradiction?
H.Z.: I’m more interested in highlighting this contradiction rather than resolving it. Undoubtedly, the archive has a nostalgic aesthetic: fragile papers, half-spoken words. At some point, I realized my interest in the work of artists who engage with archives or documents in any form—such as Walid Raad’s Atlas Group, the Agency of Singular Investigations, Sasha Sukhareva, and Anri Sala. Through an unspoken dialogue with these artists and philosophers who deal with documents, I realized that for me, the archive as such is, above all, a thing. An archive, as defined in an institutional sense, is a collection of documents presented to us through technical descriptions: date, time, place. These are the parameters that are inseparably assigned to the archive.
Building on this, I worked with the attribution of the archive, meaning I structured my research project through the chronotope of dates and places that correspond to the documents in the archive.
As for Kursanov’s life, frankly, we know very little. I wasn’t interested in speculating or psychologizing his personality. I was more interested in the "generic": this archive could be exactly itself and yet be any other folder. The name doesn’t matter. There is no hero. Nor is there an anti-hero. And incidentally, there’s no significant figure either. The question of attribution also lies in the reflection on myths.
Tombstone on the grave of Georgy Kursanov, Kuntsevo Cemetery, Moscow, 2019 © Hanna Zubkova
H.Z.: Working with the archive, I was interested in the concept of displacement. My goal was to place myself in a situation between the moment when it’s just a folder and the moment when it becomes a tool for instrumentalization. This gap was the displacement of the archive from a box under the bed to the Garage museum archive. I can’t claim that it remains an archive in and of itself, but that’s the space from which this contradiction can be observed. Additionally, I wanted to address the question of the permeability of boundaries: what happens when certain knowledge ends up in a place where it seemingly doesn’t belong? A Marxist philosopher’s archive, belonging to a Soviet bureaucrat, ends up among the collections of nonconformist artists. We see in the archive’s dates that up until 1937, he was drawing—perhaps an alternative version of art history was interrupted? Yes, I work with the archive. Yes, I constantly refer to it. However, it also remains just a folder in the Garage archive, available for viewing upon special request.
Let’s take an analogy with 3D scanning, for example. When scanning is done, the machine first captures the points visible to its sensors, and then the software fills in those points, turning them into a surface. The space of filling in is precisely the space of speculation because we assume that the object is formed by a certain surface, but in reality, it’s made up of gaps, assumptions, and extrapolations. I wanted to create a cast of the archive that would allow for extrapolation, but not my own. False Sun became that cast—a project with an open code, where the viewer can fill in its parts themselves, based on the coordinates. And at the same time, they can question the fragility of conclusions. The Kursanov archive itself remained as it was. I wanted to remain in the aura around the archive, rather than inside it.
A.Kh.: That’s a great comparison with 3D scanning. The specific nature of the archive lies in this "in-between" state. However, what is created around the archive later becomes an entire universe. It constantly expands and continues to live. It turns out there is no final point where it will be complete. For example, by submitting the archive to *Garage*, you give other researchers the opportunity to work with it.
View of Hanna Zubkova's installation "False Sun. Catcher" at the Garage Museum of Contemporary Art, Moscow, 2023. Photo: Alexey Naroditsky © Garage Museum of Contemporary Art
My question about ideological nuance relates to a quote from the exhibition text, where Sasha Obukhova wrote that "Eurocentric states often reveal their totalitarian, dark side," clearly referring to the history of the 20th century, for example, Italian or German fascism. The text also discusses the Soviet Union and its darker side: camps and repressions. However, we are still accustomed to opposing these two 'chronotopes' in one way or another, yet the project dismantles the conditionality of this opposition. There are two points here. First, the reasonable critique of the grand European narrative, and second, the danger that this critique could be used to support an 'anti-European' discourse, which modern conservative ideologies and groups have adopted. What do you think about this ambivalence, where different interpretations can use it for their own purposes?
H.Z.: I was expecting this question. I discussed it with my husband, who is French with Vietnamese heritage. When I read him the question, he asked me, "Which conservative circles exactly, in the U.S.?" Indeed, what are conservative circles? How do we define them?
A.H.: Take Viktor Orbán, for instance, the prime minister of Hungary, who said the European Union is a failed parody of the USSR and consistently criticizes Brussels' policies. And I won’t even mention the anti-European discourse in Russia.
H.Z.: I’m not speaking about that specifically, but it’s interesting to reflect on this topic. Here we’re talking about instrumentalization as such and the limits of autonomy for any publicly framed object, which, whether it's an atom or Wi-Fi, can shift into a military-industrial complex. Even mosquitoes can become weapons. As I became more confident, I realized that I’m not responsible for this instrumentalization, but I am responsible for continuing to critique any form of it—articulating radical doubt. I would distinguish this from political populism, where doubt is used to achieve a certain goal. In my case, I am rather presenting a comparison of facts and coordinates. In this installation, as well as in the space of this research, a person exists within an open system. For instance, Sasha expressed her interpretation within these coordinates through the curatorial text. I think she is not at all required to convey what "the author intended." She is offering a reflection. Let each person have their own interpretation. I leave the responsibility to the individuals who construct their own discourse and select arguments for it. For example, one could illustrate The Triumph of the Will with the Discobolus just as one can instrumentalize any other object. At the same time, I agree with you, and I fully acknowledge the boundaries of my own autonomy. I don’t aim to influence anyone’s opinion through my work.
Hanna Zubkova, Culture will survive, trust me hun, says an angel of electricity and tickles my neck. I laugh involuntarily and wake up, 2022 © Hanna Zubkova
A.H.: This question arises from recent political events, which inevitably find their way into art. Currently, there are quite loud discussions about the ideological implications of various projects. I won’t hide the fact that I find these discussions quite unpleasant because they are often framed from specific ideological standpoints. For me personally, False Sun is primarily a project that critiques ideology. In this sense, I really value it and respect your approach. It shows how everything works—how interpretation layers onto reality. You demonstrate that chronotopes and borders are conditional. This also applies to the debate about the ideologization of exhibition projects.
Another important theme in the False Sun project is the issue of the canon, which becomes a sponsor of the imperial myth, a topic you explore through the myth of white Greek marble—the same marble used for sculptures in both the Paris Academy of Arts and the Pushkin Museum.
H.Z.: Marble, which in fact, was originally colored. I think this point needs to be constantly reminded. In the Paris Academy of Arts, in the Pushkin Museum, and indeed in most peripheral museums, there are plaster copies. This is important because the technology of reproduction allowed the canon to spread in its white form, and at the same time, made it marketable. Popes, for instance, would buy copies for their residences: they were following a trend while also reproducing it. At the same time, this technology contributed to the "whitening" of the marble because, when casting molds, even the small traces of pigment that remained on the statue’s surface were inevitably damaged. So, this pigment was erased both physically and ideologically. Despite articles in the 18th and 19th centuries acknowledging the presence of pigment, they were marginalized. The theme of the original and the copy, as well as our relationship with technologies of reproduction, is also addressed in my projects.
Hanna Zubkova, Culture will survive, trust me hun, says an angel of electricity and tickles my neck. I laugh involuntarily and wake up, 2022 © Hanna Zubkova
A.Kh.: This is a very important point because it happens that we encounter many copies, certain simulacra, but never fully realize where the original source is that we keep talking about.
H.Z.: The video documentation of the "elusive sunset," where I film through a military scope the copy of Discophoros—Discobolus at Rest—corresponds to the "myth of the origin." It articulates the issue of the canon and the impossibility of finding that origin. For a French-speaking viewer, another question might arise here because, in addition to source as "origin," there’s also racines, meaning "roots." And racines etymologically relates to race. We can go even further with this idea. But again, I don’t want to develop this thought to any conclusions. I’m pointing out contradictions.
A.Kh.: However, it seems that contemporary art has also developed its own canon. Do you think there’s a kind of international code in contemporary art? Roughly speaking, biennale art looks the same in Russia, Europe, America, and often in their former and current "colonies." Peter Osborne, in his lecture Contemporary Art is Post-Conceptual Art, raised this issue. Do you observe a kind of canonization in contemporary art? What do you think about it?
H.Z.: If we consider this in terms of accessible geographical markets, because, in my opinion, the canon arises from the intersection of market and power discourse, I would say that one of the key codes is still the English language. Another code is the bureaucratic apparatus, which acts as an interface between the artist and non-artist. There are also technological infrastructures. There’s a code in the form of discussions "about art," communication, critical articles, and catalogs. Speaking of catalogs, when I like a classic artist, I go to the library to see what else they did besides their famous works. And I find catalogs and books where the same works are repeated again and again. It’s rarer to find a little book with sketches, drafts, and the beginnings of other paths, completely different works. This is less accessible to us because such works aren’t codified in large catalogs. In conjunction with the market, publishers, critics, and the media space—libraries are also a type of media space—only the part codified by these structures becomes visible.
Drawing by Georgy Kursanov from the discovered archive © Hanna Zubkova
A.Kh.: So, a canon can exist for an artist in the form of their well-known works, while what they were doing in parallel might remain unknown.
H.Z.: A canon as "generic." Here, I’m highlighting the question of the autonomy of art. I once participated in an exhibition for which I helped come up with the title Persisted in Changing Nothing. It refers to the act of some absurd resistance, knowing it will lead nowhere, without hope of changing anything. Even though I realize that we always participate in both the canon and ideology, I can’t confirm the existence of a visible possibility for their mutation. But it does happen. I think it’s important to talk about this, but I also find it significant to understand that we are also part of the canon. The boundary of this autonomy is fluid. The claim that my actions should change something seems to me like a corrupted logic.
A.H.: Many of your earlier projects were more performative—The Ideology of the Working Class Doesn't Impose Any Boundaries on Love (2018), The Revolutionary Axis (2014, in collaboration with Ekaterina Vasilyeva)—but your recent works can be described as more research-based. Do you feel there’s a qualitative shift here, and what is it connected to?
Hanna Zubkova and Ekaterina Vasilyeva, Axis of Revolution, 17-hour performance, Moscow, 2014, video fragment © Hanna Zubkova
H.Z.: It always seemed obvious to me that I’ve been engaged in both research-based projects and performative practices throughout my life. Every work has always been connected to a research perspective. This was also reflected in the fact that part of my life was tied to academic research: for instance, at the Sorbonne, I defended my master’s thesis at the intersection of philosophy, art, and media, and then continued my research in the fields of philosophy of language and psychiatry at the École Normale Supérieure. However, that was a period of searching for expressive means, and I wanted to explore beyond the academic text. Starting with The Revolutionary Axis, the element of research has always been present in my works. Reflecting on this question with you now, I can say that back then, I was somewhat hesitant to talk about research as artistic work, as I thought that process wasn’t considered that important within the framework, let’s say, of the canon of contemporary art. It’s difficult to convert both into a "statement" and into an object. As I gained confidence, I started paying more attention to the research process, and perhaps I became more relaxed about what contemporary art and its canon are. Maybe I simply shifted some emphasis in what I do rather than fundamentally changing anything.
A.Kh.: Your answer challenges the critical, research-based approach of art historians and theorists, because you’re saying you didn’t really experience it that way. On the contrary, we love to impose a certain framework and catalog an artist’s work—this is indeed a great observation, especially in the context of your previous comment about catalogs. Nevertheless, I’d like to ask a follow-up question on this topic. Claire Bishop critiques research-based art not only for its privileged position within the system of producing artistic knowledge but also for its deliberate de-aestheticization. Your project at Garage indeed turned out to be strict, focused, and more rational, especially compared to the works of Babyshka 18:22 or Anna Soz. To start, how do you see the role of form in your work?
Hanna Zubkova, The Ideology of the Working Class Doesn't Put Any Boundaries fon Love, performance (Brothel on Saint Anne Street, Amsterdam, Hermitage Museum, Amsterdam, AIDS Conference, RAI Center, Amsterdam, Museum of Architecture, Moscow, Embassy of the Kingdom of the Netherlands, Moscow, Brothel on Saint Anne Street, Amsterdam), 2018, video fragment © Hanna Zubkova
H.Z.: The question of the austerity of this form depends on the scale we apply to it. Perhaps it’s not austere in the same way as conceptual art, where the idea could be more important than the form. Though even that assertion is debatable. In working on my projects, I’d like to search for a different vocabulary or other ways of articulation rather than relying on the relationship between form and content.
The plastic element has always been very important to me. I’m still deeply interested in all forms of art, and this interest has intensified, especially through my teaching activities, where you process a huge amount of works, drafts, notes, and discoveries. It's hard to imagine how many sketches, material searches, and spatial comparisons exist before reaching the codified version. For me, plasticity and expressiveness are related to the search for the gap between the document and the art object, with exploring and perhaps even disrupting the boundaries between installation, device, exhibition, publication, place, interface, event, discovery, manifestation, flicker, or fading.
A.Kh.: Exactly. When a critic, theorist, or viewer approaches this question superficially and begins imposing a framework of interpretations, they overlook the huge process of thinking through everything you just described. Another point Bishop raises is that research-based art often retransmits the privilege of knowledge, making it inaccessible to everyone. What would you say about this from your position as a teacher?
Hanna Zubkova, If Only I Could Be a Fisherman of Souls, 2019, fragment © Hanna Zubkova
H.Z.:Teaching is just a word. Sometimes I call students participants, courses workshops, and classes meetings, and sometimes the reverse. Homework is more like adding different behaviors to familiar routines to continue the process rather than finding a successful solution to end it. One of my seminars is even called "No Endings, Only Stabilizations." In the atelier, I don’t feel like I’m transmitting knowledge. I feel more like a facilitator than a teacher, like a midwife, as Socrates put it. Part of the workshop coincided with military actions and highlighted the community aspect inherent in the workshop as a gathering, not a class. It became a valuable space, expressing the need for a place where art could still be discussed and where one could find ways of engaging with art amid various degrees of horror. You could turn that into a performance, and then, according to Bishop, it would likely be considered participatory art, which would make it even harder to engage with. The privilege lies not only in the fact that certain knowledge is less accessible and, therefore, less transparent to many, but also in having access to the internet, a device, or even a chair to sit on.
In the role of a facilitator, I’m more inclined to share a set of tools and research practices that participants can apply to their work if they wish. The theoretical part, where I talk about other artists’ projects, emerges in response to how participants' thoughts and works resonate. For me, there’s no difference between a technical sketch by Manet, a study of a herd of cows by Eugène Boudin, an installation by Neïl Beloufa, or a story by Cindy Sherman. I’m interested in connecting artists’ works and practices not through the chronology of events or classification of phenomena, which could be described as knowledge of art, but through a conversation about intersecting points—one that I would prefer never to end.
Transcription: Ilya Bushinsky
Editing: Anastasia Haustova