Everything in Ukraine operates in this manner. Essentially, Taras Shevchenko, one of Ukraine’s most esteemed authors, was also redeemed from captivity with the funds raised by artists at a charity auction. It mirrors the ethos of modern volunteerism. Moreover, in the bleakest of times, artists and poets shoulder far more than the mere act of painting canvases or penning pages. However, this is merely one of the parallels.
Taras Shevchenko has been deeply involved in this major war being fought on every front, including semantics—the war of symbols and meanings, the war of history and ecology. In modern-day Ukraine, we live through a continuation of his enduring struggle. We live to “Oh bury me, then rise ye up; break your heavy chains,” just as Shevchenko wrote in his poem.
Since the very beginning, it was evident that the Revolution of Dignity had a strong connection to the Ukrainian poet. Light installations were displayed on Maidan to celebrate his 200th anniversary. We all remember how Ukrainian artist Sociopath created the Icons of the Revolution, including a stencil portrait of the Kobzar [literally, “a bard”, a title traditionally given to Shevchenko – ed.] on Hrushevskoho, with a fiery gaze over red and black fabric, and the notable phrase, “The fire of the scorched does not burn.”
This year celebrates the 210th anniversary of Taras Shevchenko’s birth, a milestone accompanied by several significant coincidences.
Among the latest such twists of fate is the flooding of the Russian city of Orsk. A symbolic turn of events indeed. The Russians clearly found the undermining of the Kakhovka reservoir insufficient, and they persisted in their campaign of terror — by the end of March, Russia had launched eight missiles at the Dnipro Hydroelectric Station, then targeted the Kanivska and Dnistrovska hydroelectric power stations. And then— a week later, the dam breaches, flooding the entire Russian city of Orsk. Ironically, it was in that very Orsk fortress where Taras Shevchenko spent a year and a half starting in 1847, imprisoned by the Russian authorities and banished under a strict order prohibiting him “to write and draw”.
‘He The One Who Breaks Dams’—remember him? In Ukrainian mythology, this is a euphemism for a diabolic creature, the personification of the spring stormy water. Although Russians attribute the causes to ordinary Russian negligence—since they knew that the water in the Ural River was rising and the structures clearly needed repair—such coincidences are symbolic indeed. This Russian dam, like the prohibition on writing and drawing, has burst and is flowing.
Among all the members of the Brotherhood of Saints Cyril and Methodius, Shevchenko received the harshest punishment. The Russian Empire truly understood the might of words, art, and culture and how crucial it was to silence the Voice of the oppressed. Tsar Nicholas I himself, whom Shevchenko dubs “The Unyielding Brake” in his Diary, added the strict prohibition on writing and drawing to the verdict.
Reflecting on the future towards the end of his exile, in June 1857, Shevchenko wrote: “As for painting, it’s beyond my reach at the moment. It’s like expecting pears to bloom on willows. I was never more than a mediocre painter to begin with. And now, even less so. A decade of neglect has transformed me from a virtuoso into a mere tavern fiddler.”
Instead, Shevchenko intended to immerse himself in aquatint engraving and also in replicating remarkable artworks, all in the pursuit of spreading beauty and making it accessible to the masses.
It’s truly disheartening to read this—about ten years devoid of practice, almost like a squandered potential, lost skills, unfulfilled creations. Instead of his beloved ‘picturesque’ Ukraine, he found himself painting landscapes in a foreign land. His works from this time are transparent and melancholic. They resemble the verses of modern poets, who perceive the world with such acuteness, constrained to forge anew with that sensation, knowing the weight of sorrow already present and what lies ahead.
And the “prohibition to write and draw”—stands as the primary Russian onslaught against Ukrainian culture throughout our entire centuries-long struggle. For centuries, the decree has remained unchanged. Their aim is to render us voiceless, incapable of speaking for ourselves, of living and creating. All these hurdles and bullets were aimed at the backs of artists instead of periods.
Shevchenko defiantly wrote in small, hidden books during his exile. Vasyl Stus, a Ukrainian poet and translator from the 20th century, reconstructed and rewrote the poems that were confiscated from him in Russian exile. He smuggled them through all conceivable and inconceivable channels beyond the walls of his prison, relying on his memory. Despite the challenges, he managed to preserve his work. And now, Volodymyr Vakulenko, a Ukrainian modern-day poet killed by the Russians during the occupation, buries his diary under the cherry tree in the occupied village of Kapytolivka in the Izium region.
Today’s “prohibition to write and draw”—is the precious time stolen from our writers, artists, directors, and musicians.
Our war has numbed the creative spirit of many Ukrainian artists. It crushed the desire to create with anything but pain, leaving only the ability to write through pain. It shouldered all the burden. It became the primary and most significant idea, the guiding force of time and place, the central lyrical protagonist— and even if you don’t directly address the war, you’re still speaking of the war. War is the sole theme of all the art produced today in the Ukrainian language. It has spread like a cancer into every soul and thought, into every written and unwritten line.
It all began when Russian missiles poured down in February 2022, leaving everyone paralysed. This blockade was just another manifestation of the “prohibition to write and draw.” Poets no longer felt the weight of their words. Artists set aside their brushes and took up shovels—to dig trenches.
The urge to sing simply wasn’t there. It felt as if all the fitting folk songs were about hardship and sorrow. ‘Could we have something where the little Cossack hasn’t lost his little hands and feet?’—soldiers would request upon their brief return from the front lines. The weight of sombre, cautionary tales from past wars resonates in those folk songs. Our lives often outstrip the drama of theatre and the allure of literature. Yet, unlike life, in theatre and literature, there’s at least a chance for a happy ending. There once was.
The imagery of contemporary Ukrainian art has become ensnared by death like a potent drug. There’s no turning to lighter themes. Light-heartedly. No longer can you simply write about violets as just violets. If violets appear in today’s poems, they do so as those that will sprout from the poet’s body come spring. For the poet is on the front lines. And in nearly every other verse, he engages with his own mortality. He writes of his death. Envisions its form.
These are the unwritten works about love. In an era when even if you aim to write about love, you end up dwelling more on death, death consumes all the focus of poets because no fair maiden can rival this dark mistress.
Today, the “prohibition to write and draw” translates to a cut in funding for the cultural scene. It’s akin to being ‘out of vogue.’ It dismantles us on a symbolic plane. Unscreened films, unpublished books, neglected architectural gems, and unconverted historical records. Missing are the festivals, creative hubs, and arenas for uncovering and showcasing new talents. ‘Do not innovate, do not thrive, do not advance’—that’s the empire’s blueprint. Your films, scholarly works, or literary triumphs won’t find space on the top shelf. Our educational deficit only aids their cause.
Today’s “prohibition to write and draw” also shows up as one’s foggy mind the morning after the Russian bombardment, a lack of focus and vigour, stress, bleak news, the loss of loved ones, distrust, and waves of despair that dampen creativity. Two years without proper rest—it takes its toll on any skill or ability. Yet, against all odds, Ukrainian artists persist in their craft–unyieldingly, doggedly, unflinchingly.
There’s a particular pleasure and inspiration in witnessing how Taras Shevchenko consistently and systematically flouts the ban on writing and drawing. This defiance has always been our way—not because of it, but in spite of it. Although he yearned for his new poems so dearly—which would be penned at home, after exile—poetry is born not only from longing and sorrow, even if they’re all that’s around.
