Lesia Khomenko on Art, War, and the Deconstruction of Heroism in Ukraine

Author(s): Scott Douglas Jacobsen

Publication (Outlet/Website): The Good Men Project

Publication Date (yyyy/mm/dd): 2025/11/26

Lesia Khomenko (born 1980, Kyiv) is a Ukrainian painter and educator redefining figurative traditions for a nation at war. A co-founder of the R.E.P. group and curatorial union Hudrada, she investigates Soviet-realist legacies and the visual politics of conflict. Her acclaimed projects, including Unidentified Figures and Perspektyvna, explore the shifting representation of soldiers and history in the digital age. Khomenko has exhibited internationally, with solo shows at Fridman Gallery and The Ukrainian Museum, and a major commission, Motion, at Kyiv’s Central Train Station. She is represented by Voloshyn Gallery in Kyiv and Miami.

In this conversation between Scott Douglas Jacobsen and Khomenko, Khomenko discusses the intersection of art, war, and memory in contemporary Ukraine. She explains the creation of her monumental 21-by-12-meter painting Motion for Kyiv’s Central Train Station, reflecting on fragility, duty, and visibility during wartime. Khomenko explores how Soviet monumentalism, myth, and propaganda shape her deconstructive artistic language. She also speaks about soldiers’ responses to her work, the tension between art and documentation, and the psychological impact of representing conflict in public and global contexts. The dialogue captures Ukraine’s surreal coexistence of beauty and devastation.

Scott Douglas Jacobsen: Today, we’re here with Lesia Khomenko. She was born in 1980 in Kyiv. She’s a Ukrainian painter and educator whose work reframes figurative traditions for a country at war. As the co-founder of the R.E.P. group and the curatorial union Hudrada, she interrogates Soviet-realist legacies. I’m thinking of brutalist architecture, military optics, and the politics of visibility through series such as Perspektyvna and Unidentified Figures (2022). She has worked extensively in the United States. 

The war became full-scale on February 24, 2022, which overlaps with her 2023 solo shows at Fridman Gallery (Full Scale) and The Ukrainian Museum (Image and Presence). In 2025, PinchukArtCentre presented her survey Imaginary Distance and commissioned Motion, a 21-by-12-meter painting for Kyiv’s Central Train Station in partnership with Ukrainian Railways. `What inspired you to create such an enormous 21-by-12-meter painting in the first place?

Lesia Khomenko: I had always dreamed of working in a public space. This commission came from Björn Geldhof, curator of my solo exhibition at PinchukArtCentre. We had been discussing a public work from the beginning as an additional project to the show.

PinchukArtCentre collaborated with Ukrainian Railways, whose role has broadened because rail is essentially the only major nationwide transport infrastructure during the war; flights are suspended. Kyiv’s Main Station is a portal to Ukraine from abroad, particularly from the West. Ukrainian Railways wants to add functions to the station—making it more of a cultural hub.

They invited me to create the work, and it’s my largest piece so far. I was scared. It was ambitious on the curator’s part, but I immediately accepted the challenge—psychologically and curatorially.

Jacobsen: This is a big project, and you didn’t place it in Voloshyn Gallery, Miami. You placed it where it could be bombed. Do you feel a sense of fragility about the art being there?

Khomenko: Yes and no. The train station is a strategic location; there’s always danger. When there’s an alarm, staff go to the basement. I feel the fragility of it, but I feel the fragility of everything in Ukraine. There is danger everywhere.

For me, the public space itself is probably the most difficult in all of Ukraine because it’s so dramatic. People are leaving and returning; there are injured soldiers; families are meeting or parting. It’s a difficult place for artwork—especially work that isn’t propagandistic but critical. That was my main concern and challenge.

Jacobsen: Living in New York, you’ve probably come across the phrase “great man theory” in North American culture—and there’s a similar sensibility, in different language, in Ukrainian critical discourse and human history. It’s the false notion that history is anchored on a lineage of so-called “great men.” You, I think, do iconoclastic work regarding the last 12,000 years of recorded human history. Your work feels iconoclastic—countering the Christ-like or Soviet notions of heroic portrayals. Psychologically, how do you de-monumentalize heroic Soviet figures, and what started that process for you?

Khomenko: I began thinking about it right after I graduated from the Academy. We received a very conservative academic education, grounded in a figurative painting tradition. The Kyiv State Academy of Art, as it was called, was founded in 1917—the same year as the Soviet Revolution. It inherited a strong tradition of Soviet painting, and even after Ukraine gained independence, this figurative approach remained. The themes shifted somewhat toward a Ukrainian national idea, but the structure stayed conservative.

My practice, from the very beginning—about twenty years ago—started as an attentive revision of my own skills and background, exploring how I could be political through visual language. I wanted to understand how remnants of this monumental Soviet style could still be made relevant, and what I could express with it. Naturally, I began deconstructing the visual language and the representational tradition.

I also focused on the post–World War II period, which is crucial because that’s when a huge mythology arose around the “great victory” and Stalinist propaganda. My grandfather was a Soviet painter and a World War II veteran. When the annexation of Crimea and parts of Eastern Ukraine happened in 2014, I began comparing my generation’s experience as artists with that of my grandfather’s generation—how they conveyed their experience of war and how we could express ours using the language we inherited.

His generation was not allowed to share personal experiences; they could only present propagandistic images. The mere fact of being veterans lent authenticity, but much of it was mythologized—an early prototype of disinformation, or what we now call “fakes.” I became deeply interested in this through many projects, exploring questions like: Who represents whom? What is the language of representation? What is hidden, and what is revealed?

I conducted visual and formal experiments, including with subject matter. When the full-scale invasion began in 2022, I already had a body of artistic methods developed. I tried to apply those methods to the new context, but many stopped working. Some, however, evolved into new forms.

For example, the idea of the “unknown soldier” was part of Soviet mythology. It transformed into my exploration of today’s self-hidden soldiers—those who obscure their faces with pixels or blur the background of images for security reasons. Different wars bring different threats, technologies, weapons, and propaganda. I wanted to link this to past wars, especially World War II.

In Ukraine, that period remains extremely complex. I believe one of the missions of artists is to engage critically with history, particularly in postcolonial and post-Soviet contexts, where history was systematically distorted or destroyed in academic settings. Many artists of my generation work to re-examine and reclaim that history through archives. It’s both vital and deeply political work.

The idea of the unidentified figure connects to the way people now protect themselves in photographs. Photography has, in a sense, become another kind of weapon. Many things can no longer be photographed, especially near the front lines. I started to think about testimony and witnessing—there are so many witnesses now. This is the most documented war in history.

Jacobsen: Within that, is there still a space for art? Can art represent the war—or does the war represent itself through social media, diaries, and constant footage from phones and weapons?

Khomenko: That’s what interests me most. Art and documentation intertwine, but everything is still connected to the Soviet past. We are now living in a kind of culmination, a collision between the Soviet legacy and the future. The war is a mixture of Soviet-era weapons and very modern technologies—drones, digital surveillance, AI targeting systems. It’s a clash of historical periods; time feels as if it’s collapsing. The past meets the future.

Jacobsen: For those who don’t have the talents of a known artist like yourself, do you see your work as a job or as a duty during wartime—to use your art and ideas in service of something larger?

Khomenko: It’s both. Of course, it’s my job, but I also feel a kind of duty. It’s about visibility—about the visibility of Ukrainian culture.

Since I’m in New York now, I see that there’s an enormous competition for visibility—different identities are constantly negotiating for space and attention. Ukraine is just one small identity among many. In that context, I feel a certain responsibility to make our culture seen, though not in a propagandistic way. My work is critical, not promotional. I don’t judge within my paintings; I observe.

Art and culture play a crucial role. In Ukraine, we often avoid discussing this because there’s a hierarchy: the army and soldiers are seen as the most essential figures. Many people who once worked in cafés or as artists are now on the front line. They are the key figures in society now. I completely agree with that. So, to claim that art is a “mission” would sound a bit pretentious.

But working outside my local context has been a real challenge. In Ukraine, I lived all my life surrounded by people who knew my work. There was an intimate circle and a specific audience. You could experiment and make subtle, “micro” gestures.

When the war began and my work entered a global context, everything changed. It required a huge effort to build a universal visual language—something that could speak clearly and powerfully across cultures without being simplified. That’s the challenge I now face, but I find it an energizing one.

I like these challenges. They’re important. Every artist needs to be challenged in this way. To answer directly—it’s both yes and no. It’s my job, but not only that.

Let’s say it’s work. It’s a duty even without war; we don’t have weekends, we never retire. It’s a way of life. During war, it’s the same—only under much more difficult circumstances. So it’s work and lifestyle together.

Jacobsen: When people visit a gallery and see your portrayals of anonymous soldiers, there seems to be a lot of open space between each piece. Does that distance do something psychologically for the viewer? Do they project themselves into the anonymous figure? Does the spacing in the gallery create a kind of pause for reflection? When you’re walking through those quiet rooms, all you hear is the echo of footsteps—especially if people are wearing dress shoes, not sneakers. Though, I know Ukrainians love sneakers.

Khomenko: It really depends on where the exhibition is. For example, I’m showing this series in Ukraine in full for the first time this year, but I’ve already shown it in the United States several times. The perception is very different.

In the U.S., there’s a different attitude toward the army than in Ukraine. Since 2022, Ukraine has experienced a merging of civil society and the military—people help soldiers, volunteer, and see them as part of the same collective effort. In the U.S., attitudes toward the army and especially toward weapons vary a lot from state to state.

When I first showed this work in California, near San Francisco—in San Jose, in a small town—the exhibition was part of a festival, and my paintings were displayed in a public space. The curators placed them in an open pavilion with semi-transparent walls. They were very cautious because just a month earlier, there had been several mass shootings in the region. The public was understandably sensitive to images of weapons—especially machine guns.

So the attitude was complex. In the U.S., it’s always difficult to show work dealing with war and weapons. But I like presenting it here, confronting people with these questions—about weapons, violence, and war crimes. These are not just political issues; they’re moral and psychological ones.

In Ukraine, the reaction is different. People immediately recognize the imagery. Many soldiers post “thank you” selfies for volunteers, and civilians are used to seeing those photos. When people see my paintings, they often say, “After Lesia Khomenko, we can’t see pixelated soldiers the same way.” That’s very positive to me—when an artist can focus attention on the imagery of war itself, on the ways it’s represented, documented, and remembered.

Soldiers themselves often respond strongly to the work. They recognize it—it’s their world.

Despite the fact that my paintings are quite abstract, soldiers recognize and accept them. They can identify many details. With more complex works, like Battle in the Trench, some soldiers have even said the paintings triggered flashbacks. That kind of response from abstract work—it’s the best feedback I could imagine.

It’s remarkable how much distance the image travels: through media, the internet, then into painting, and finally into the exhibition space—and yet the sense of reality remains. Soldiers can still recognize their world within it. That’s very important to me.

I also wanted the figures to feel unsettling and life-sized. They’re not positive Soviet heroes or idealized icons. They’re semi-robotic—almost intimidating. Ukrainian soldiers can be frightening figures in their environment—emerging suddenly from a tree line or a trench. That power, that presence, is part of the work.

Jacobsen: Do you have any favorite Ukrainian quotes—either from the diaspora in English or from Ukraine itself—that capture how you feel about the country right now?

Khomenko: I’ve heard many, but one that really stayed with me from my last visit to Kyiv was: “Kyiv in the daytime is like Monaco, and at night it’s like Aleppo.” I think that’s true. It captures the surreal contrast of everyday life during war.

Jacobsen: You mentioned earlier the way people project themselves onto your images.

Khomenko: Yes, for example, I have a work shown in a train station where people descend on an escalator—it’s a very abstract image. In that public space, people recognize themselves in it. The painting isn’t directly about war; it’s more metaphorical, about history itself and the impossibility of fully capturing a historical moment.

Jacobsen: I remember those escalators in Kharkiv—two minutes straight down. The Soviet infrastructure is still there, still working, and now Ukrainians have filled those deep subway stations with art.

Khomenko: Yes, it’s a treasure. Deep stations are a kind of luxury now—they’ve become vital shelters. That old infrastructure is helping to save lives.

Jacobsen: Lesia, thank you very much for your time. 

Khomenko: Thank you for your questions.

Jacobsen: You’re very welcome. Take care.

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