Conflict exists in color
An American artist’s observations on art, war and loneliness in Russia.
Russia is a crown jewel in Europe. Its heritage of creativity has survived repeated attempts to be censored, suppressed or destroyed. Over the last few months, Russian, Ukrainian and other Eastern European countries have faced new challenges to their creativity and humanity.
If there is anyone who understands this, it is my friend Daniel Mesta. I met him when I was training to go on my Latter-day Saint mission to Spain, and I was blown away by how creative he was on so many levels.
Over the last few years, he has been living in Russia until it invaded Ukraine. He has a unique perspective on the intersection between war, culture and art and how it has affected creatives throughout Eastern Europe. This article is part observation and part love letter to the artistic legacy of Russia.
I hope you enjoy his essay as much as I do.
In the Georgian state of Adjara, on a forgotten stretch of the Black Sea shore, thousands of young Russian men sit in bare holiday rentals, mourning their pasts and awaiting their futures. I found myself among them for a portion of the winter in Batumi, Georgia, the country’s second-largest urban area after the capital, Tbilisi.
Like them, I had left rather suddenly from St. Petersburg.
Like them, I was finishing a degree at a Russian university.
Like them, I was in my twenties and hoping not to waste it.
Like them, I was unfamiliar with Georgia and Caucasian languages and culture.
But unlike them, I was not Russian. I was not an exile, I was not an outcast — merely an observer.
While there, I had the wonderful opportunity to reflect on the culture that has sustained my artistic appetites for years. There was so much I missed about St. Petersburg, of course. The opera, ballet, concerts, theatre, museums, architecture — all of it was the highest possible quality. St. Petersburg makes the rest of Europe seem plain, low-achieving and blasé. Its might, originality and unparalleled commitment to excellence are what won my heart, and its dedication and reverence for its own history are what keep me in constant love and awe.
Living in a literal jewel box has no downsides until you introduce external violence. While not a major military target (at the time of writing), the constant threat of violence was enough to make me step away from my beautiful home and situate myself further south for the winter months in a country not directly involved in any of the fighting. Because of my thesis research, I decided to rent in Batumi, a city that held somewhat relevant historical resources for me. Ultimately, I didn’t find exactly what I was looking for. Instead, I discovered a slice of humanity that will forever change the way I look at both war and peace.
Despite its seaside location, Batumi is not a foggy city. However, the uncertainty in the air is so palpable that it creates a subtle gloom that hovers just on top of the town. Despite Batumi’s neon buildings, dancing fountains, and dazzling laser shows, cheer is still a scarce resource. Bars are full, of course, but by the end of the night, merriment has faded into mourning — or worse, fighting. The beaches are filled with young men trudging over the rocks alone. They walk in the shadows of sculptures depicting happy families and lovers. For many of them, it’s the first time they’ve ever truly been isolated. Of course, with the language and cultural barrier, they feel lost in space. But they are also lost in time. The status of the conflict that holds them in exile changes daily, and it shows no signs of letting up anytime soon.
The men in the city hold various occupations. Most of them work in IT. Most men with well-paying remote jobs like these were able to leave as soon as the first mobilization call went out. The next most populous group is the creatives — artists with ties to organizations that are now no longer in operation. Naturally, I felt most connected to them as a practicing theatre artist myself.
During a conversation with Russian theatremaker Vitaly Kogut, who finds himself in immigration limbo in Tbilisi, I found myself spellbound as I listened to his perspectives. A Russian citizen with Ukrainian roots, he remarked on the atmosphere in Ukraine after polarizing pro-Russian and anti-Russian protests swept the area in 2014.
“I felt in the air something [was] changing, and changing dramatically. And as an artist, I feel it's so important to feel it and to connect to this.” The conversation meandered, eventually turning to the controversial issue of the role of artists in a society where speech is monitored and censored. When speaking about Russian creators who used their talents to support the operation, he stated, “I think it’s a betrayal of your profession — of the humanitarian ideal of art.”
This brought up an important conversation about the role of censorship in preventing disinformation and panic. Vitaly personally thought that media sources in Russia were over-censored, although he agreed that many would find comfort in knowing as little as possible about the current situation.
In his words, though, when it came to the effects of the operation on Russian creativity, he mused, “I think Russian creators have even more to say right now,” he said. “They have more energy — artistic and personal — because we are all molded … we are all injured by this situation.” He went on to describe his love for the Russian people, and the Russian soul, a soul he says has been perpetually misunderstood by the West. I nodded in full agreement.
And what a situation it is! As much criticism as Western media outlets have for Russian censorship and narrative control, they still do not seem keen on reporting the entire story themselves. The fact is that the conflict is deeply entrenched in historical nuance and linguistic innuendo. There is almost no ideal way to simplify the conflict, and there certainly isn’t a way to transform that simplification into a digestible narrative.
As I found myself in conversation with Russian, Ukrainian and Georgian artists, there was a common thread that everyone seemed to cling to, and it was something that perhaps we only understood because of our training and immersion in the world of humanity and emotion: Conflict exists in color. There is no such thing as a black-and-white conflict. Everybody thinks they're right, and everybody wants what they want.
Vitaly still seemed to have some hope for the future of Russian art. After all, it is Russia who has brought the world some of the most mighty poets, composers, writers and creators of all time. I share his optimism. Russians, of course, are not a monolith. But the hostility towards these men who are fleeing a brutal death in a conflict that they do not support seems unified around the globe.
Why members of European and North American societies have decided to suspend kindness in pursuit of hatred is a nuanced and complicated question — and not one that often receives an honest answer. These men have become victims of this conflict as well, regardless of who you believe is right. That is because, at this point in the conflict, there is no right — only wrong. And withholding kindness from people in need based on nationality is wrong. Continuing to fight when solutions that involve a cease-fire are presented is wrong.
Perhaps nobody understands that better than these men as they sit, isolated and abandoned, staring out over a gray sea. Regardless of who you believe is winning, they have lost.
Daniel Mesta is a creator, critic and curator based between New York, St. Petersburg and Mexico City. Daniel currently works as a literary manager and enjoys writing about art, politics, and everything in between.
By the way…
In 2023, I want to do more guest posts like these. If you enjoyed this, reply or comment below and let me know. And if you have an idea you’d like to pitch, please send me an email at thecharrette@substack.com.
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