A Story About Creating Exhibitions In A Frontline City In Ukraine

The first thing you learn about curating in a frontline city is that time is not a straight line anymore. It’s a loop: siren → stairs → basement → flashlight → breath → back upstairs → try again.

This is a composite story, inspired by real reporting on Ukrainian museum workers, artists, and cultural institutions who keep building exhibitions while their cities stay on the map by pure stubbornness. Names and some details are blendedbecause war doesn’t need more doxxing, and because the truth is already dramatic enough without me pretending I was there.

Still, I can tell you what it feels like in the way a good exhibition tells you something true: not by shouting, but by arranging the room so you can’t help but understand.

Why Put Art on the Wall When the Wall Might Shake?

People ask this like it’s a riddle, but it’s more like a survival question wearing a polite sweater. The short answer: because in a frontline city, the war is trying to edit your identity in real time. And exhibitionssmall, stubborn, thoughtfully litare how you argue back.

War aims at infrastructure: bridges, power stations, rail lines. But it also hits the softer architecture that keeps a society recognizable: museums, libraries, theaters, monuments, archives, the places that say, “We were here, and we meant something.” Curating becomes a kind of civic maintenancelike patching a roof, except the roof is memory.

Also: humans are not built to live on adrenaline alone. We need meaning the way we need water. And if you can’t find meaning, you’ll manufacture it from doomscrolling and instant noodlesand no one deserves that.

Choosing the Venue: Basements, Metro Stations, and Buildings That Used to Be Quiet

Before the full-scale invasion, I thought a “site-specific exhibition” meant you were being artsy. Now it means you’re being practical.

In a frontline city like Kharkiv, the venue decision starts with questions that never appeared in my old grant applications: How many exits does the basement have? Can a wheelchair get down there without turning into a slapstick routine? Does the air feel damp? How quickly can we go dark if drones start humming?

The “shelter-first” floorplan

Our “gallery” is partly a cultural space and partly what it always was in a war-zone city: a shelter with opinions. The layout isn’t about the perfect visitor flow; it’s about the safest flow. We map it like choreographywhere people stand, where they go when the siren hits, where the art won’t collapse into someone’s lap.

On blackout days, visitors read labels by phone light. The first time it happened, someone joked, “Very immersiveten out of ten, would recommend, please never again.” We laughed the way you laugh when your nervous system needs a handrail.

What You Exhibit When You Can’t Exhibit Everything

In peacetime, curating can feel like abundance management: too many good objects, not enough wall space. In a frontline city, curating becomes risk management: what can be shown without endangering the object, the staff, or the visitors.

Evacuation math: what to move, what to hide, what to digitize

The most painful work happens offstage. Museums across Ukraine have wrapped, boxed, and moved collections into basements and emergency storage, sometimes with limited climate control. It’s heroic and unglamorousmore “bubble wrap and spreadsheets” than “champagne and speeches.”

And yes, climate matters. Damp storage can mean mold and long-term damage, which is a brutal irony: you save the collection from missiles, and then a fungus tries to finish the job with the enthusiasm of a tiny villain. That’s why dehumidifiers and air cleanersunsexy, expensive, lifesavingbecome as important as locks.

Digital lifeboats: archiving websites so culture doesn’t vanish offline

Physical objects aren’t the only things at risk. Websites go down. Servers fail. Institutions lose staff. Electricity disappears with the confidence of a magician. That’s where volunteer-driven digital preservation matters: archiving museum and cultural websites, copying data out of danger, and making sure that if a building is damaged, its public memory doesn’t evaporate with it.

We started treating our digital files like they were also artifacts: multiple backups, offsite storage, a naming system that won’t make future-you cry. I once threatened to mount the folder structure as an exhibit titled “Taxonomy of Panic.” The intern said, “Only if you include the 47 versions of the same label draft.” Touché.

Designing the Show Under Air-Raid Rules

Exhibition design in a frontline city is basically a duet between imagination and logistics. Imagination says, “Let’s create an atmosphere.” Logistics says, “Greatcan that atmosphere survive a power outage?”

Light, sound, and the choreography of a siren

We plan for the siren like it’s a scheduled performancebecause if we treat it as chaos, it wins twice. Battery-powered LEDs, printed maps, clear instructions, and staff roles that feel almost theatrical: one person guides visitors, another secures an object, another counts heads, another checks the door.

The soundscape is mostly real life: distant thuds, occasional booms, the heavy hush after people return and pretend they weren’t scared. I used to think silence in a gallery meant reverence. Now I know it can also mean, “We’re listening.”

Labels that don’t lecture (and don’t re-traumatize)

Wartime audiences don’t need curators to perform academic gymnastics. They need clarity, respect, and the feeling that their experience is being taken seriously.

So we write labels that are direct, human, and trauma-aware: what this object is, why it matters, what happened to it, and what we’re not going to sensationalize. If we include difficult images, we provide warnings and an alternate pathbecause consent still matters, even in a basement.

And we tell the truth without turning pain into branding. That line is not always easy to see, but you can feel when you’ve crossed itlike stepping on a nail.

Security Isn’t a Backstage Job Anymore

In many places, museum security is a quiet profession: radios, routines, polite vigilance. In a frontline city, security becomes part of curatorial thinking.

Looting is not theoretical

Everyone working with culture in Ukraine knows the stories: occupied buildings, emptied galleries, collections removed under the language of “safekeeping.” The point isn’t just theft; it’s narrative controlwho gets to claim the past.

That reality changes how you decide what to show. Sometimes the boldest artistic choice is choosing not to put the most vulnerable object on display at all.

Provenance and the “don’t buy this” list

Another layer of defense happens far from the front: urging auction houses, dealers, and collectors to avoid acquiring items that could be stolen. Emergency guidance and “red list” categories exist for exactly this reason. It’s not glamorous, but it’s powerful: starving illicit trafficking of demand.

We talk about provenance like we’re talking about a person’s passport, because in a way we are: Where did this object come from? Who has held it? What documents prove it didn’t travel here through violence?

Community as Co-Curator

In a frontline city, “community engagement” is not a checkbox. It’s the engine. The audience is not just the audiencethey’re neighbors, volunteers, medics, students, parents, soldiers on leave, people who lost homes, people rebuilding.

Artists who stayed

Many artists could leaveand some do, and that choice deserves respect. But others stay, turning studios into shelters, continuing to make work even when their windows are taped and their calendars are written in pencil. Their art doesn’t pretend everything is fine; it insists that everything is still worth seeing.

When we curate their work, we’re not just selecting objects; we’re protecting a public conversation. War shrinks life to immediate needs. Art stretches it back openjust enough to breathe.

Opening night: when applause is quiet on purpose

Our openings look different now. Fewer speeches, more practical announcements. “Here are the exits.” “Here’s where to go if the siren starts.” “Please don’t block the stairwell with your optimism.”

People bring tea in thermoses. Someone always brings pastries like it’s a protest against despair. The guestbook fills with handwriting that looks almost angry: “Thank you for not closing.” We don’t clap loudly because the walls are thin and the night is complicated. We clap softly, like we’re applauding and protecting each other at the same time.

What These Exhibitions Actually Do

A frontline exhibition doesn’t “solve” anything. It doesn’t stop missiles. It doesn’t heal trauma on a schedule. But it does a set of smaller, essential things:

• It documents. It turns fleeting events into shared memory.
• It anchors identity. It reminds people that their culture is not a footnote.
• It creates a safe-ish room. Not safe like a fantasysafe like a plan.
• It preserves continuity. It says: “We are still capable of care.”
• It builds future evidence. Objects, testimonies, labels, archivesmaterials that matter later.

And maybe most importantly, it restores a sense of agency. War takes choices away. An exhibition gives some back: choose a path through a room, choose what to look at, choose to feel something besides fear for fifteen minutes.

How to Build a Frontline Exhibition: A Practical Checklist

If you want the behind-the-scenes versionthe part that sounds less like poetry and more like project managementhere’s what we actually do. Not as a perfect template, but as a field-tested set of habits.

1) Start with a risk brief, not a theme

• Define the threat scenarios: air raids, blackouts, broken windows, crowd panic.
• Decide your “stop rules”: when you cancel, when you pause, when you move underground.

2) Curate for resilience

• Select objects that can tolerate movement, vibration, and imperfect conditions.
• Use high-quality reproductions or digital surrogates for fragile originals when needed.

3) Make climate control a curatorial priority

• Track humidity and temperature (even with simple meters).
• Prioritize dehumidifiers, air circulation, safe storage materials, and pest control.

4) Design for “lights out”

• Battery lighting, printed guides, low-tech signage, and a plan for phone flashlights.
• Exhibit text that remains legible without dramatic lighting tricks.

5) Build a siren protocol like a fire drill

• Assign staff roles.
• Practice moving people calmly.
• Keep exits clear (your stairwell is not an Instagram moment).

6) Document everything twice

• Inventory lists, photos, condition reports, transport logs.
• Offsite backups and cloud copies whenever possible.

7) Treat the audience like humans, not “visitors”

• Content warnings for distressing material.
• Optional routes and quiet corners.
• Staff trained to respond to panic with calm, not authority theater.

8) Partner outward

• Connect with cultural rescue initiatives, museum networks, and diaspora organizations.
• Seek supplies and expertise, not just money: storage materials, scanners, conservation advice.

Conclusion: The Frame We’re Building for the Future

In a frontline city, curating is less about perfection and more about persistence. The exhibition is never “done.” It’s maintained.

Sometimes, late at night, I think about the future visitoryears from nowwalking into a calm museum with intact windows. They’ll look at a label and think, “How did they even make this?” And I want the answer to be honest: with planning, with help, with a terrifying amount of tape, and with the stubborn belief that culture is not decoration. It’s infrastructure for the soul.

That’s what we’re doing when we create exhibitions in a frontline city in Ukraine. We’re not pretending the world is safe. We’re proving it’s still worth building.

Additional : Field Notes From the Frontline Gallery

1) The keys become a personality test. I used to carry one ring. Now I carry a constellation. Every key has a backstory: “This one sticks in winter.” “This one only turns if you swear softly.” “This one opens the cabinet with the emergency labels.” If I ever lose them, please don’t replace mereplace the keys. They know the building better than I do.

2) The label maker is the most dramatic colleague. It jams when we’re calm and works flawlessly during an air raid. I’m not saying it’s sentient. I’m saying it has opinions about urgency.

3) People don’t ask, “Is this contemporary?” They ask, “Is it safe?” and then, five minutes later, “Do you think the artist made this before or after the first explosion?” Time gets folded into everything. You start reading brushstrokes like weather reports.

4) The best lighting plan is a charged power bank. We have backup batteries the way other museums have backup wine. When the lights flicker, nobody gasps. Someone just says, “Phone mode,” like we’re switching the exhibit language from English to French.

5) Visitors bring their own rituals. A man stands in front of one piece for a long time, then takes out a small notebook and writes a single sentence. A teenager photographs a sculpture, then photographs the “exit” sign, like proof that both art and survival are part of the same story. A little kid asks if the abstract painting is “a dragon” and I say yes, because dragons are a perfectly reasonable interpretation of this century.

6) The staff meetings are half curatorial, half survival comedy. We debate whether to move a work closer to the wall. Someone says, “Closer to the wall is safer.” Someone else says, “Unless the wall leaves.” We laugh. Then we move it closer to the wall anyway, because laughter doesn’t cancel logicit just makes it bearable.

7) The quietest hero is the person who keeps the inventory updated. In crises, everyone wants to be dramatic. But the spreadsheet is what lets you find a crate, prove ownership, track condition, and somedaywhen the world is less on firerestore what was damaged. When I feel powerless, I update the inventory. It’s not denial. It’s defiance in a practical font.

8) Openings are emotional in strange ways. We don’t toast with champagne. We toast with tea and the kind of relief that tastes like metal. People whisper “thank you” like it’s a prayer and a promise in one. Sometimes I look at the room and think: this is what courage looks like when it’s not wearing a uniform.

9) The exhibit doesn’t end at the exit. Outside, the city keeps happeningsirens, repairs, queues, jokes, grief, birthdays, buses that run like miracles. But for a little while, in that basement gallery, people remember they are more than targets. They are witnesses. Neighbors. Citizens. Storytellers.

10) I used to chase “timelessness.” Now I chase “durability.” Not just for objects, but for people. The goal isn’t to make something eternal. It’s to make something that survives long enough to be remembered, repaired, andone dayre-hung in the light.