Hanna Vynohradova about patchwork of ukrainian culture in Donetsk

The Russian-Ukrainian war, which began in 2014, forced 1.5 million internally displaced people to leave their homes even before full-scale invasion. Over the past year and a half, this number has grown to 7.7 million. Emotional upheavals, loss of economic stability, images of lost homes, and uncertainty about the future accompany each of them. Stereotypes, discussions, and accusations against the displaced can be observed in online or private conversations. Attempts to make sense of these issues continue through art.

Hanna Vynohradova, a performer from Donetsk, occupied by Russia nine years ago, moved to the capital of Ukraine and stayed there after the full-scale invasion. Hanna talks about researching the culture of Donbas by reflecting on her own experience in family relationships and interactions with the external world.

Kateryna Lukiashko: When did you start dancing? How did the war impact your creativity?

Hanna Vynohradova: I’ve been dancing all my life. My mother was a ballerina. After my birth, she had to leave that career because she was alone. She started working as a dance teacher, and I grew up in her studio. In those years, there was a dance craze in the population because the show “Everybody Dance” aired on national television. Our studio groups were overflowing, and people rushed to dance. I have classical ballet training and show dance, but contemporary dance on TV was a real discovery. There was none of that in Donetsk. In the desire to discover something new, I traveled around Ukraine and took all the workshops I could attend. At one point, I felt I was still so young, and dance had already ended. You can put different choreography, but it will all be within existing limits. Nothing new, and I tried everything.

Kateryna Lukiashko: Why did you apply for the Antonin Artaud Fellowship?

Hanna Vynohradova: I came across the Antonin Artaud Fellowship application to support artists in the field of performative arts, and I liked it. I realized that I could do anything, get support, and not be limited. It was even attractive to fill out the application. I wrote answers and realized that even if I didn’t pass, I had already thought about the idea for myself and collected material. On the one hand, no one touched me. On the other hand, I always felt that I could talk to someone. It’s enjoyable.

Now, I continue to dance, but not like before. The difference is in the attitude towards the body. Then, it was seen as an instrument that creates form. The body is a way of being, so it’s difficult to adapt it to any specific choreography. Apart from preconceived choreography, I became interested in what else the body can move. Now, I set tasks for myself, but until the moment of dancing, I was still determining how I would implement them. In other words, the creative process happens in the moment of realization.

Now for myself, I am engaged in pole dancing. There, the movements are refined and specific. It’s a sport. But for me, it’s a game. It’s fun and funny to spin on this finger. I returned to choreography but through the prism of a new experience.

Kateryna Lukiashko: How did your journey in performative art begin?

Hanna Vynohradova: In early 2015, I attended a performance by the TanzLaboratorium group. I didn’t understand much, but something deeply resonated with me. Three people were reading a complex philosophy book by Tristan Garcia in simple lighting on the stage, challenging to comprehend. The format was simple: one reads, and the others dance, influencing each other. And they did this for an hour. It was about time and space. They danced, but it was unlike anything else. There was a body and movements, but there was no attempt to express emotion or engage the audience. Simultaneously, it wasn’t too detached, allowing the audience to observe – no plot, just reading, movement, and natural light. Sasha Lebedev, a participant in this group, was so captivated by what was happening that he crashed into blinds during the dance. That struck me. How could someone be so enthralled? Time passed, and the people on the stage were now in my performance. After that, Larysa Venediktova invited me for a conversation and a workshop, after which I started working with them.

Performance is a formed category where you understand what to expect. You come, and people in front of you show something. I won’t say I’m engaged explicitly in that. I consider myself a dancer, but occasionally, I undertake structured projects, showcasing them to the public and calling them performances. Because expectations come with the word “performance.”

Kateryna Lukiashko: What event marked the beginning of the war personally for you?

Hanna Vynohradova: In May 2014, I didn’t believe it would last long, though I prepared. I read articles about wars in other countries, wanting to understand what to do if something similar happens. They were terrifying. Despite everything, I prepared for a massive concert on June 1, and seven days before it, Donetsk airport was destroyed. The next day, with my partner, mother, and his daughter, we found ourselves at the station. Armed people were everywhere, and danger was palpable. We jumped on the first available train, not even grabbing our bags. We ended up in the nearest, relatively calm city—then Dnipropetrovsk. We felt lost. My mother decided to go to her sister in Russia. Local journalists even wanted to interview her. She confessed she was desperate. She didn’t think people there would believe the television so strongly. Everyone was happy that our nations would finally be together again. Meanwhile, we headed to the capital of Ukraine.

Kateryna Lukiashko: How did Kyiv welcome you?

Hanna Vynohradova: Everything was yellow and blue. In the first days in the capital, I noticed that almost every third girl had a patriotic manicure and ribbons. However, I faced an unfriendly reality. Due to being from Donetsk, I couldn’t rent anything. I stayed at the country house of an acquaintance’s mom. I spent 20 hours calling advertisements for two weeks, hoping someone would rent us a flat. No one wanted to. Until one option emerged. People wanted to avoid renting to people with Donetsk registration because many myths had arisen about the displaced. They feared they wouldn’t pay, return, cause trouble, or bring and settle Romani people.

We were accused of being separatists, wanting Russia’s invasion. It was as if we were invading the capital like rats and trying to ruin it. Such treatment shocked me and even led to hysterics. A woman in the metro shouted, “You, Donetsk people, should be killed; get out of here, I hate you.” This happened in the metro. There were many people. I entered a carriage, sat on the edge, and left a seat for my partner. At the last moment, a woman rushed into the door. She didn’t look sane. Perhaps she didn’t like that I took up a lot of space. I asked her how she knew I was from Donetsk. She replied that it was obvious. It wasn’t the first time I heard something like that, and I had a hysterical fit. I jumped off my seat, grabbed the railing, and cried loudly. Just at that moment, my partner entered. He asked what happened. Through tears, I tried to explain. He got angry, approached her, and said something. The woman ran around the carriage, looking for the emergency brake or police call button. And at the next station, she just ran out of the train.

Since the 1990s, the impression of eastern residents as bandits has been ingrained. Nowhere in Ukraine was safe then. In the fifth grade, I went to my English teacher’s home after a night shooting at her entrance. With a full backpack, I walked past a puddle of blood. It didn’t happen daily, but I didn’t feel safe there in childhood. Although my boyfriend grew up in Cherkasy and says, they had almost the same experience.

Kateryna Lukiashko: How are your relationships with Russian relatives? Do you maintain a connection?

Hanna Vynohradova: My mother was born in the Russian Urals, in Udmurtia. My grandmother lived there, and I visited her in childhood for the summer. Then, my aunt took my grandmother to Bashkortostan. I last saw them all in 2013. Communication gradually reduced to birthday greetings. From 2022, we don’t communicate at all, and it hurts me.

When my mother was in Kostyantynivka under the threat of shelling, her native sister called via Skype and asked if she planned to celebrate Maslenitsa. The second time she called was because, according to Russian news, they saw that Kostyantynivka had been “liberated.” It wasn’t true because the city was never occupied. The relative didn’t believe her sister, who was at the center of events. Instead, she trusted her television and accused my mom of “speaking propaganda words” being under her influence. We encountered a terrible misunderstanding. My aunt, my mom’s best friend, has always been essential to me. At the same time, someone in her knows me better and tries to control me.

At some point, my mom asked her sister not to call anymore. Instead, she sent a message: “I still love you.” In other words, “You’re foolish, but what can you do with you.” It’s a typical “big brother” narrative.

Kateryna Lukiashko: How did you come up with the idea for “Me and Olga” as part of the Antonin Artaud Fellowship?

Hanna Vynohradova: The idea for the play originated after I discovered the workshop “Nide ne tysne.” My mom was sewing clothes there, and I took on the rest. I observed how she created it, viewing it as her relationship with her body—how she feels it. Raised as a ballerina, my mom remained physically sensitive, creating clothing according to her feelings and disliking anything constricting. I saw an intersection of dance, movement, and form in this. As part of the promotional campaign, I tried to involve my mom in the studio, filming short videos of us dancing. From there, I wanted to expand and explore deeper meanings. Adult mother and daughter were dancing together; my mom still moves fantastically at 65.

Getting my mom on board was super challenging. I applied during inspiration and casually mentioned, “Oh mom, remember; we danced together… so, there’s this project.” I wanted to involve her but didn’t explicitly ask for consent, fearing rejection. I said she agreed over the phone. Yet, she sent a message saying she wouldn’t participate. It was harsh and uncompromising. I was deeply saddened and thought it was over. However, after meeting the founders of the Antonin Artaud Fellowship, Olga and Volodymyr, I realized they didn’t expect strict adherence to the initial proposal. My idea could transform and take other forms. There was no pressure of expectations. So, I decided to talk to my mom, gather material, and work independently. Eventually, she agreed to be the main character in the video.

I thought this performance would be about mother-daughter relationships, and it is. Many people were touched when my mom agreed to join me on stage directly from the audience. It happened when I was in a desperate situation without a conclusion for the play, even on the performance day. On that day, there was heavy shelling. We were in a shelter, and my mom spent the night with me. I dared to approach her again with a request, and she decided when and how she would do it herself. I told her all the details, realizing how wrong I had been. I admitted to secretly filming her. My mom doesn’t like surprises, fearing people will laugh at her.

Kateryna Lukiashko: What was the final result of the performance?

Hanna Vynohradova: The final part has several sections. For the first one, I chose a dance from 1996 that my mom choreographed for a group of girls. I was a child watching from the audience and found it enchanting. It seemed like the best and most challenging dance in the world, making it impossible for me to replicate. Revisiting this childhood impression, I delved into the archives and found a video. When I watched it, everything looked completely different. The fairy-tale aura was gone. Now, it seemed funny. Under the song “It’s My Life” by Dr. Alban, the girls in Eastern costumes perform the choreography of an estate dance, throwing Batman figures. This takes place in the Donetsk Youth Palace, in the mining town. I was intrigued by this culture. The choreographic interest was in precisely learning this dance. It was challenging. The movements were uncomfortable. I literally forced my body into the choreography I was inspired by as a child. I asked my mom how she choreographed this dance. She replied that she didn’t know English, like others around her. The song wasn’t translated, and they didn’t realize that the singer was black and the music was a manifesto of black people. He sang about his culture, while the choreographer from the mining town just liked the lively rhythm with Eastern motifs. The first phrase they all knew the translation of was “It’s My Life.” And for her, life was dance. The costumes were found in the costume shop. Batman figures appeared just because my mom was a ballet dancer and taught her students how to lift their legs. She assembled her puzzle from these pieces. I was very fascinated by this cultural mosaic, which I hadn’t encountered anywhere else. What’s the culture like in Donetsk? Well, here it is. I showed several photos from my mom’s ballet past and the miners’ lives. The comparison of such different yet similar, physically demanding work.

In another part, I used a poem by Maxim Kholodny:  “On a steep terricon, you gave yourself to me in broad daylight on Saturday. And all of Donbas watched us, all of Donbas, stopping work.” In the 1960s, this peculiar poet didn’t live in Donetsk but, judging by everything, visited. I shot a video of me reading it and asked my mom to move rhythmically in the background as she felt. I took the microphone in the middle of the action and talked about terricons. Not many people know what they are. The only common understanding is that they are harmful to the environment. When I was a teenager and we walked on them, I knew they could collapse, so you had to be careful. They have voids inside. But I only recently learned that some of them continue to burn inside throughout their existence. Lava flowed from one in the region, and it burned people alive. You can’t build them near human settlements, although in Donetsk, they are everywhere. Even art festivals and motocross races were held on them. Purely practical things for coal extraction later turned into places to drink, engage in sex, or attend a music festival.

Kateryna Lukiashko: So, has Donetsk become not just a backdrop but an active participant in the narrative?

Hanna Vynohradova: Through delving into the intricacies of personal relationships, I uncovered another issue—the temporal, cultural cross-section of the region. Specifically, Donetsk’s, the untold, unstudied one. To share it is a challenge, as it’s inherently personal. It’s my culture, one that doesn’t accumulate in the images of Taras Hryhorovych Shevchenko, embroidered shirts, or anthems. It’s what I perceive it to be.

What is your culture if you live in Kyiv or Uzhhorod? Odesa resident, what does your culture revolve around? It’s a question about what truly shapes us – exploring oneself in personal feelings rather than adopting a prescribed model of worth. These are my peculiar songs, perilous slag heaps, and whimsical dances. This is my Ukrainian culture, unique to each individual. It’s time to explore it within ourselves and get to know each other. From millions of diverse cultures, we’ll find common ground. Let’s make it visible and understand that it’s the living culture of Ukraine. We want the state to refrain from creating our culture. In the Soviet era, the party would choose its form and impose it on the people. Sing these songs, and you are confined within the frame of Stalin.

On the contrary, we want to explore it among people, get acquainted with ourselves, and get to know each other. To have it emerge, be present, and spoken. It’s a welcoming situation where everyone showcases their own.

 Kateryna Lukiashko: When the city is liberated, will you return there?

Hanna Vynohradova: I will go immediately. I often dream of approaching the walnut tree in my yard. Then, I wandered along the city’s main street, Artema Street, from the railway station to the Central Department Store. Then, I’ll visit the Palace of Youth “Yunist,” the dance hall where I first stepped on stage. I’ll stroll to the school and university. And I’ll end the day at the slag heap. It’s frightening to imagine the encounter between my memories and the new reality. My dream is to have the opportunity to visit because the final detachment from home is too complex.

The Antonin Artaud Fellowship is created to support emerging artists, cultural managers, and performers in Ukraine. It is focused on exploring new progressive forms of theatre, supporting experimental chamber works that could lay the foundation for larger projects in the future.