“Any open discussion gets political in Belarus”

Interview by Jess Smee

Ms. Chistoserdova, when did you realise you couldn't return to Belarus?

My colleague Valentina Kisilova and I had an independent gallery in Minsk. For political reasons, it was forcibly closed down at the end of 2020. We came to Berlin in mid-July 2021 on a residency but after just a week, our lawyer advised us to stay away from Belarus. We hadn't planned to go into exile and we found ourselves thrown into the complex task of continuing our work from abroad.

Then, in February 2022, Russia launched its full-scale invasion of Ukraine...

For us, that was a double shock. We were already dealing with the repression that had followed the 2020 protests in Belarus, and suddenly Russian troops were invading Ukraine through Belarusian territory. We found ourselves representing a country that had become part of the war, even though Belarusian society had no choice in that decision.

And did the war in Ukraine also impact your work?

Completely. Before the invasion we as Ambasada Kultury had been working on an independent Belarusian pavilion for the Venice Biennale. We wanted to create a space for Belarusian artists who had never been shown internationally because the official national pavilion was always state-organised. 

When the war began, that changed. It no longer felt possible to speak solely from a Belarusian perspective. Instead, we moved towards supporting Ukrainian colleagues while also continuing to support Belarusian independent culture.

After the outbreak of the war, we focused on supporting our Ukrainian colleagues while also promoting the independent Belarusian cultural scene. We founded the online platform AntiWarCoalition.art to reflect on why imperialism continues to persist to this day and whether art can offer any resistance to it. The project soon also became a physical space for debate, for example at documenta fifteen and the Venice Biennale.

“Even a single wrong ‘like’ on social media can be enough to get you arrested and sentenced to prison”

From outside, Belarus is often seen simply as Russia's ally. Does that reflect how people inside Belarus see the war?

I don't think so. But there is a sense of fear. Today, even sharing information about the war—or simply a wrong “like” on social media can be enough to get you arrested and sentenced to prison. Silence should not be mistaken for support.

Many Belarusians carry a double burden. We live with continuing political repression, but we also have to face the fact that Russian troops entered Ukraine through our country. Society had no say in that decision, yet many people still feel its moral weight. That is one reason solidarity with Ukraine became so important for us.

Before exile, you spent almost two decades building independent art spaces in Minsk. How did you start out?

In 2004, Valentina and I opened a tiny shop selling design objects by Belarusian artists. Very quickly it became something much bigger. Artists, writers and musicians began using it as a meeting place because there were almost no independent cultural spaces left.

The space became known as Podzemka — “Underground”. It was literally underground, below street level, in the centre of Minsk, ironically next to the Police Academy. It became a hidden meeting place for independent Belarusian culture.

When we lost that space in 2009, we opened a gallery of contemporary art: Ў. It is a letter that exists only in the Belarusian alphabet. For us the name symbolised our language and identity, and we decided that Belarusian would be the gallery's main language.

Why was that important?

Under Lukashenko, simply choosing to speak Belarusian was already a statement. The language is automatically associated with the opposition. For us it was important to show that our country has its own language and culture which deserve to be visible.

Were your exhibitions political?

We never organised overtly political exhibitions because we knew we would be closed down immediately. But in Belarus any open discussion becomes political. Our exhibitions and public programmes created space for conversations that weren't happening elsewhere. We invited artists, writers, sociologists, philosophers and activists to come and think together. We also organised educational programmes for curators, critics and artists because those opportunities barely existed in Belarus. Many people built international networks through the gallery, and that remains our mission today—even without a physical space.

But we knew the authorities kept a close eye on our work. Officials came to talks. Sometimes they invited us for “friendly conversations”. They would remind us again and again that “a gallery should show beautiful things. Less criticism. Less discussion.” Nonetheless, our Gallery survived for eleven years, which was exceptional in Belarus.

At what point did the authorities decide your work had gone too far?

There wasn't one moment. The pressure increased slowly. Ironically, one of the most political things we did  had nothing to do with art but rather with COVID.

What happened?

The Belarusian government largely denied the pandemic which broke out just as we had moved into a huge new gallery space, about 1,000 square metres. Suddenly all our exhibitions had to be cancelled. Instead of leaving the building empty, we offered it to a volunteer initiative supporting hospitals: The gallery became a distribution centre for medical supplies, protective equipment and donations. Overnight, an art space became a place of care. For me, that showed that culture is completely embedded in society.

“Overnight, an art space became a place of care”

How do you continue your work in Belarus without a gallery?

We create different kinds of meeting places, forming networks and starting conversations. One of the most important was our 2024 exhibition in Kharkiv, Ukraine, just 35 kilometres from the Russian border. Together with Ukrainian colleagues we brought together artists from eleven countries. 

Alongside the exhibition we organised our Bridges of Solidarity programme, with more than thirty public events across fifteen European countries. Some were discussions organised by grassroots organisations; others were performances, screenings and lectures. Every event was streamed back to audiences in Kharkiv.

What happened then?

One collaboration with ZKM Karlsruhe was especially moving. During the light festival we projected artworks alongside animations made by children from an art school AziNiziMaza in Kharkiv that had relocated to the metro because of the bombing. Together with the Belarusian diaspora organisation RAZAM, we created a residency programme PerspAKTIV that enabled more than seventy Belarusian cultural workers to spend one to three months working in Germany and Poland. These offered people temporary safety and also sparked lasting collaborations, exhibitions and friendships.

“People continue to make art. They just do it differently”

What are you working on now?

Our biggest project at the moment is called Open Muzej. Belarus has never had a museum of contemporary art. Before the 2020 protests we had even rented a building where we hoped to create one. Exile, however, has forced us to rethink the idea. For me, a museum isn't only a place where artworks are displayed. It is a place where memory survives.

So now we are building a nomadic museum through archives, podcasts, research and publications. We are also putting together a book about Belarusian contemporary art between 2015 and 2025—a decade of extraordinary cultural flourishing followed by years of repression and exile.

But independent culture has not disappeared in contemporary Belarus. It has simply become invisible again. I've heard of exhibitions taking place in forests, private apartments and other hidden spaces. It reminds me of the unofficial artistic life of the Soviet period. People continue to create. They just have to do it differently.

Is there still an independent culture scene in Belarus?

It has simply become invisible. I've heard of exhibitions taking place in forests, private apartments and other hidden spaces. It reminds me of the unofficial artistic life of the Soviet period. People continue to make art. They just do it differently.

What does exile mean for you today?

Even our passports have become political. Since Belarus stopped renewing passports in its embassies abroad a few years ago, it means that exiled Belarusians have to return home to get a new one. That puts them at risk of getting arrested. Germany provides travel documents, but losing your passport impedes international travel. It's one more way the regime continues to dominate our lives, even after we've left the country.