AB: In Ukrainian culture, numerous phrases tie sewing and thread to the continuity of family, the connection between generations, and the cycles of birth and death. This emphasis on traditional crafts imbues them with a significance that elevates them above everyday items. Do you similarly have symbols that form the foundation of your artistic philosophy?

OD: Yes, a lot of things are really “sewn” in our culture in embroidery and weaving. Mothers embroidered rushnyk (cloth) for their daughters, stitching in good fortune. Young women once embroidered shirts for their betrothed husbands who were off to war, weaving in their thoughts and talismans to ensure their fidelity. Symbols of family continuity, children’s dreams, and love were intricately woven into wedding carpets. There is a myriad of meanings encapsulated in these crafts because embroidery and weaving are deeply meditative processes. You cannot successfully embroider if you are furious or anxious; the threads would tangle and the fabric would tear. Threads are often associated with femininity—they embody a peaceable and reflective mood. When a woman channels her love into these crafts for hours or days, can the resulting product just be a mere carpet, cloth, or shirt? It becomes something imbued with strength. I’m certain that in every culture, traditional household items are more than just utilitarian—there’s always an inherent sense of grandeur. Anything crafted by hand carries a potent creative energy; by filling our lives with these handmade items, we infuse them with stories and significance. The thread itself serves as a metaphor for endurance and the perpetual journey of life. It is fragile and can easily break, yet it has the capability to create resilient and intricate artifacts that withstand the test of time. Doesn’t that spark curiosity?

In my new “white-on-white” works, I utilise the red thread as a symbol of life’s relentless persistence, regardless of the circumstances. It symbolises resilience and hope, weaving its way into this white limbo, infusing it with strength and meaning. During this tragic war in Ukraine, I believe it’s crucial for us to recognise and communicate this message to the world—hope perpetually endures and prevails as long as there are hands to hold the thread of life and hearts brimming with love, investing their strength in their craft.

AB: Growing up in Western Ukraine, a region steeped in tradition and everyday magic, how do you personally define the magic of art?

OD: Art, in my view, is inherently magical. As a child, I always found the idea of being a witch enchanting—it seemed like becoming an artist was practically the same thing (insert wink emoji here). The act of creation is, to me, the most natural and simultaneously the most captivating and elusive process for a person. In art, I never feel alone or bored. You can sit alone in the workshop for hours and days and have a multitude of adventures, dialogues, and dynamics. Think about it: the moment an idea is born is always a bit magical; its transformation during the process (which often occurs) is magical; even the failures are super magical because they lead to unexplored realms of experimentation. When you finally gaze upon the finished work, you think, “Well, I did this part, but it also feels in some parts as if I didn’t.” Don’t be alarmed if it sounds too mystical; the moment of co-creation is crystal clear to me. On the other end of the spectrum could be another artist, another context, or even just a fortuitous coincidence. To me, creativity is a constant dialogue with the world, with our cultural heritage, with modern expressions, with the people I encounter on the streets, with those who have long passed, with the world of social media, with sorrow, with love, with childhood—there can be a myriad of co-authors.

Olesya Drashkaba, Replica. Lina Kostenko, 50 x 70 cm, paper, acrylic, watercolour, gold and silver patina, embroidery with silver threads on paper, 2023

Olesya Drashkaba, Replica. Izdryk, 50×70 cm, paper, acrylic, watercolour, gold and silver patina, embroidery with silver threads on paper, 2023

 
AB: In terms of feminism and activism, do you find yourself to be an active woman with a broad social circle, or do your artistic principles impact your active social role? Conversely, does activism influence your artistic expressions?

OD: To be frank, I’m not entirely sure. It seems to be a two-way street. However, I don’t see myself as an activist per se; rather, I view myself as someone who lives life according to their principles and ideals. It feels natural for me to be actively involved in the lives of those around me, in my country, and in global affairs. I don’t subscribe to the idea of “art outside of politics” or any other aspect of life. Such a stance seems juvenile and often comes across as merely cynical—someone declaring, “I’m this highbrow creator, sitting atop the world, creating high art, while you people down there keep squabbling—it’s not my problem.” That’s just not me. In general, Ukrainian artists have never adopted such a detached position. Our art has consistently been entwined with our nation’s revolutions, struggles for Independence, and critical issues related to freedom, human rights, and democracy. Unfortunately, this has resulted in a pantheon of Ukrainian artists who were shot, tortured, or repressed. However, this connection also means that during any tragic or critical moment in history—or during our own personal crises—we can turn to a book by a Ukrainian poet, view works by a Ukrainian artist, or listen to songs by a Ukrainian composer, and find answers that remain relevant today. That’s because we’re all about one thing and for one thing! As for the artist who chooses not to be engaged, who’s afraid, who just wants to lead a quiet life—what’s the point? What power does their voice hold today or tomorrow?

AB: Do you believe that art has the ability to make sense of realities that you haven’t personally lived through? For example, the experience of war. Can art effectively convey such experiences?

OD: That’s a profound and complex question. Many people around the world are contemplating this very issue. I’ve read arguments suggesting that contemporary reflections are excessively reactive, lacking depth, distance, or analysis. Personally, I don’t agree. I find that real-time reflection holds immense power and purity. Would Picasso’s Guernica have resonated as profoundly if he had waited a few years, mulled it over, or delved into analytics? I’m not entirely convinced. We’re living in a time of great significance and urgency in history, and we have not only the obligation but the right to convey it through our art. Art devoid of personal reflection feels hollow, inadequate—it lacks saturation. It’s akin to differentiating literature from graphomania. Trite theses often lean toward graphomania, lacking that fresh reflection. After the massive bombardment on January 2nd, I was seething with anger. You can’t imagine how angry I was. Not sad, not shocked, not impressed—Russia will never be able to astonish us with its inhuman actions. But I was very, very angry. I channelled that rage into my studio, transforming and reflecting it there. I burned holes in thin paper and sewed them for hours. Then I did the same thing the next day, and the day after. It’s my duty—not to the “cultural front,” as I oppose equating artistic reflection with defending the country on the battlefield—but it’s my responsibility as an artist. It’s the responsibility of thousands of Ukrainian artists who must process and transmute their anger, despair, fear, sadness, and sometimes joy and love into poems, paintings, actions, installations, novels, and musical works to tell the world about this war. Perhaps there’s art today that future generations will dismiss as formulaic or frivolous, but there’s also art that captures the profound Power of the Moment. And trust me, there’s tremendous value in that—and there will continue to be.

AB: Why is it that history can’t be rewritten, yet they say fate can be embroidered?

OD: History cannot be rewritten because it’s already happened. However, we can attempt to embroider our fate because fate is fluid; it exists in the moment and beyond. I’m somewhat cautious about using the words “magic” or “magical” because people often associate these terms with something illogical, impractical, or perhaps from children’s movies or social media scams. However, Ukrainian (and I’m sure many other cultures’) magical thinking encompasses a lot of rational and practical elements. Imagine this: you’re living your life and something doesn’t feel quite right. You sit down and embroider a shirt or cloth for yourself. As you stitch, you think: “Here, I’ll add a little luck; here, a touch of love; here, a bit of courage; and here, I’ll embroider a flower that only I will know enhances my beauty.” For a few weeks, you dedicate yourself to this task, and once it’s complete, you wear it. What’s happening here? This act of meditative creation has transformed the cloth and thread into your intentions. You don’t need any “magic” to understand that your intentions will influence your decisions, which, in turn, affect your entire life. This is a form of practical, everyday magical psychology.

Olesya Drashkaba, Replica. Stus, 50 x 70 cm, paper, acrylic, watercolour, gold and silver patina, embroidery with silver threads on paper, 2023

Olesya Drashkaba, Replica. Symonenko, 50 x 70 cm, paper, acrylic, watercolour, gold and silver patina, embroidery with silver threads on paper, 2023

 

AB: Presently, many Ukrainians are choosing to wear a traditional embroidered shirt, called a vyshyvanka, on a daily basis. From my research perspective, I interpret this trend as a form of hyper-compensation and community unity. Moreover, a vyshyvanka, meticulously crafted for an individual, serves as a personalised form of protection. How do you interpret this phenomenon?

OD: To be honest, I haven’t noticed a widespread trend of embroidered clothing being worn daily, but it’s possible that such communities exist. We do have a Vyshyvanka holiday that everyone dresses up for (I personally love this day), and it has become customary to wear a vyshyvanka on all significant occasions: Independence Day, Christmas, certain important events, and sometimes even on birthdays. In my view, embroidery has transformed into both a celebratory costume and a proclamation of Ukrainian identity. This seems quite logical and understandable. I also appreciate that the notion that embroidery must be ancient and authentically traditional is gradually fading. There’s a lot of contemporary embroidery emerging with reinterpreted patterns, fashionable cuts, and artistic interpretations—it’s very intriguing and motivating. This suggests to me that we’ve moved beyond what I call the “holiness deficit”—where everything from the past is seen as incredibly fragile and untouchable. We’re transitioning from viewing our culture through the lens of a museum to actually living it. Personally, when I wear an embroidered shirt—and I own several (including an old family one, a few modern ones, and some designed by artists)—I feel really special. It’s truly a unique sensation to wear such clothing. 

AB: Returning to the theme of white and the concept of truth, white-on-white art represents a meditation on the idea of “white noise” for me. How much noise must one create to be heard? And how can art contribute to this endeavour?

OD: That’s an interesting perspective; I hadn’t considered “white-on-white” in that light. To me, white-on-white signifies maximum abstraction, a realm devoid of time and action—essentially, a limbo. However, upon closer examination, this space marks both endings and beginnings, offering an opportunity to make crucial decisions and grasp important truths. These metaphors, when analysed, appear strikingly similar. Much like the meditation on “white noise,” we aim to navigate through the noise to reach something of personal significance.

I believe that the future of the world today appears abstract, resembling this white space. Yet, people are often hesitant to acknowledge this reality. It’s easier to fill our lives with various noises to maintain the illusion of confidence in tomorrow, to develop plans, or to cling to hope for postponed fortunes or deferred dreams. Here in Ukraine, we’re acutely aware that we find ourselves HERE and NOW, devoid of concrete plans or the luxury of postponing life. We’re without the comforting hope that reality won’t intrude through the noise. This may seem daunting, but it’s also potentially beautiful. This is the magic of “white-on-white”: within this space, anything can be conceived, but you have to enter and feel it. Traverse through the noise, if you will.

It might sound unsettling, but could this be the reality of being alive? Fully embracing the present moment, the risks, the decisions, and forming a bond with hope.

Art might not always manage to break through the noise—that’s something worth recognising! This applies even to vast quantities of art. Nothing can penetrate you if you’re determined not to listen, not to perceive, not to feel. Yet, good art (regardless of quantity) possesses a cunning quality—it often discovers a minuscule crack and seeps in like sand in sneakers, persistently irritating for weeks on end. You can isolate yourself from the news, politicians, loved ones, and even from yourself, but art has the capacity to catch you off guard and instil doubt. Perhaps there’s hope in this?

 

Commentary below by Vladyslav Kolinchenko, owner of SOLOMIA RCS (Reshetylivka, a city located in Poltava raion (district) of Poltava oblast (region) in central Ukraine. Reshetylivka is known today as the centre of folk crafts of Ukraine: weaving, carpet-making, embroidery, and fur-dressing):

“It is an interesting point to consider how embroidery, as a cultural phenomenon, arose and developed so richly in Ukraine. Of course, nothing exists in isolation, and there are always reasons behind such developments.

One major reason was the Industrial Revolution. While embroidery was practised before this period, it was largely a luxury only the wealthy could afford to decorate their clothing. These garments were often worn by the aristocracy, Cossack leaders, and military officials, with elaborate designs created using imported materials such as coloured silk, gold, and silver threads. Historical records suggest that Cossack foremen also utilised pre-embroidered imported pieces as templates for developing unique patterns and mastering particular techniques.

Monastery workshops also played a significant role in the mass production of embroidered items featuring Cossack-inspired designs. However, it was the introduction of looms that truly democratised embroidery, making it more accessible to the general population.

White-on-white embroidery, in particular, emerged as a form of peasant embroidery, making this art form available to everyone. Its significance lies in its ability to create beauty from seemingly mundane materials, showcasing the beauty of everyday life. It is worth noting that each embroiderer would add their own creative flair to the patterns, allowing for a diverse array of designs.

In ancient times, linen and hemp cloth, which are naturally not white, were commonly used for making clothing. To create white-on-white embroidery, this fabric was bleached, and the resulting fabric was embellished with embroidered patterns. Vegetable or fruit-based dyes were often used in Ukraine to bleach the threads. These were placed in tubs and exposed to acidic environments created by natural fermentation, with common choices being sauerkraut or soaked apples.

White-on-white embroidery has since become a hallmark of Ukrainian traditional culture, joining the treasury of folk art and crafts that are cherished not only in Ukraine but also in many other cultures worldwide.”

Olesya Drashkaba was born in Western Ukraine in the mountainous multicultural region of Rakhiv. She received her professional education at the Uzhhorod Art College of Fine Art, the Lviv Academy of Fine Art (Bachelor’s Degree in Art (BA)) and the Kyiv Academy of Arts and Architecture (Master’s Degree of Art (MA)). Her artworks are a combination of modern and ethnic aesthetics using various graphic techniques.

Since 2016, she has been the initiator and curator of a number of feminist activist art collective projects. She has had solo and group exhibitions in Ukraine, Poland, Sweden, Mexico, Cyprus, Switzerland, Japan, and South Africa.

Drashkaba was the winner of the 4th and 5th Takasaki International Art Competition, Takasaki, Japan (Silver and Gold Awards) and a participant in the project Exlibris from Krzyżowa international printmaking workshop at the Krzyżowa Palace, Wrocław, Poland.

She is a co-founder of the Sunseed Art Association, which brings together more than twenty Ukrainian poster artists. She is engaged in public diplomacy as an ambassador of Ukrainian culture abroad.

Her main curatorial projects include Ukraine-NATO: The Formula of Security, Mystetskyi Arsenal, Kyiv, Ukraine; Ornamental DNA, Cermodern Contemporary Art Museum, Ankara, Turkey; Curatorial Forum of Ethnographic Art and Artistic Heritage Grunt, Kyiv, Ukraine; The Womanly Face of WAR, South Africa (Johannesburg, Cape Town, and Durban).

Her personal project Healing – Daily Bread: A Healing Journey in 2024 became a significant part of the Cultural Night in Stockholm in cooperation with the Ukrainian Cultural Centre in Sweden.

https://sunseed-art.com/en/team