“Russia?” I raised an eyebrow.
I stood in the New York Public Library’s Picture Collection, having just asked the archivist, “Where can I find the ‘Ukraine in World War II’ folder?” The archivist looked into my eyes for a few awkward seconds; then, she opened the catalog. Her fingers moved nimbly over the glossy pages. “Search in ‘Russia in World War II’ one,” she suggested. Her eyes never lifted from the catalog.
It was not the first time I’d been advised to search for Ukrainian materials in the Russian section, yet I was expecting more from the New York Public Library. “Maybe I can find what I need in the ‘Soviet Union in World War II’ folder?” I proposed, hoping for a more accurate categorization.
She responded briskly, “No, we keep both the Soviet Union and Ukraine in the Russian folder.” I was confused and frustrated. The logic behind this classification seemed alien to me, distorting historical reality. “But it was the USSR that consisted of republics, not Russia. The Russian Federation and Ukraine were once republics of the USSR, not the other way around.”
“Well, that’s how we do it here,” the archivist explained as if blaming me for my lack of understanding of how the world works.
A cultural gap persists in how history is organized and interpreted.
With its rows of shelves holding folders that housed snippets of history frozen in photographs, the setting around us took on a surreal quality. The hushed whispers of researchers, the shuffle of papers, and the soft creaking of the library’s wooden floors underpinned our dialogue. The air in the room carried the weight of historical narratives, both accurate and skewed.
The archivist’s response hinted at a broader misconception prevalent in the Western world—a subtle rewriting of history that overshadowed the distinct identities of nations within the former Soviet Union. A cultural gap persists in how history is organized and interpreted.
I left the library without my requested images but with a lingering realization that how we organize history, even within the hallowed walls of an institution like the New York Public Library, can reflect the biases and oversights of a collective cultural perspective. The dialogue echoed in my mind, reminding me that the search for historical truth is not just about finding the right folder. It is about navigating the layers of interpretation that shape our understanding of the past. As a design writer, I started to think about the influence of the conflation of the words “Soviet” and “Russian” on Ukrainian graphic design.
Search “Ukrainian graphic design,” and you will see art that emerged after the fall of 2022. Yellow and blue posters with anti-war slogans, soldiers, tanks, drops of red on tranquil village landscapes, destroyed buildings, and many more pictures that index sorrow, despair, and hope. Mostly, their creators hoped for help from the outside world. Visual communication could transmit messages to groups with the power to influence the unfolding of events, and graphic design became a successful medium for building a conversation with the Western world.
The term “graphic design” first appeared in a 1922 essay by William Addison Dwiggins called “New Kind of Printing Calls for New Design.” Around that time, Ukrainians had just lost the Ukrainian–Soviet War, which lasted from March 1917 to November 1921. By its end, the Soviet Union absorbed the territory of present-day Ukraine and made it the Ukrainian Soviet Socialist Republic. The very moment the graphic design appeared in the world, Ukraine disappeared from the political map.
As a republic of the USSR, Ukraine did not have a right to its language, literature, and art. Everything that was created then had to be titled “Soviet.” Those Ukrainians who managed to produce art were killed and accused of nationalism. Their works were saved and renamed “Soviet.” Those artists who followed the Kremlin line were called “Russians.” The written history of that period (written by the USSR) has very little visual evidence of the UKRAINIAN heritage during those years. Yet that does not mean that heritage was absent. You might find evidence of it when checking folders, links, books, and museums of Russian art or, at worst, of the Soviet Union.
Language choices play a crucial role in how people remember the past. When the USSR collapsed in 1991, everything “Soviet” became “Russian.” During the Soviet times, the gems of fifteen Soviet republics were accumulated in the capital of the USSR—Moscow. After the collapse of the superstate, Russia inherited the art of Armenia, Azerbaijan, Belarus, Estonia, Georgia, Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Latvia, Lithuania, Moldova, Tajikistan, Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan, and Ukraine. To this day, in the eyes of many, the present-day countries that were once under the USSR’s control are still one big monolithic “Russia.” The West conflates the language, using the adjective “Russian” rather than “Soviet” when meaning “Russian,” “Belarusian,” and “Ukrainian.” The East is saying “Russian,” meaning “Russian”, “Belarusian,” “Georgian,” “Latvianian,” ”Lithuanian,” “Moldovan,” and “Ukrainian.”
Today, Ukrainian graphic design is rooted in national identification, in search of future needs, and in understanding the cultural influence of a painful past on a, once again, painful present.
But what happens if you try to find evidence of Ukrainian graphic design from before 2014 when Russia annexed Ukrainian Crimea, and there appeared an urgency in world attention? Search in English and you will find images and links on war themes. Search for it in the Ukrainian language, and you will see links that I translate as “Design Tells the Story of Independent Ukraine,” “Graphic Design with a Ukrainian Face,” “Discovering Authenticity,” “The Status of Design Development in Ukraine,” and “What design traditions did Ukraine inherit from the Soviet Union?” Click on Images. Most of them were created after 2014, reflecting on the war in Ukraine. Others are in the form of photos from interviews, covers of YouTube videos, and books, inviting the curious reader to check the articles discussing Ukrainian typography, book design, and imagery. These post-2014 discussions claim that Ukrainian art existed for as long as the Ukrainian blood was running and that Ukrainian people were always finding inspiration in their nation’s complicated history. Today, Ukrainian graphic design is rooted in national identification, in search of future needs, and in understanding the cultural influence of a painful past on a, once again, painful present. Their past was abundant in revolutions, wars, losses, and endless efforts to put the country on its feet, leading to a broken heritage that, for centuries, existed in the shadows of other countries.
The Face of War, 2016 by Daria Marchenko in collaboration with Daniel Green
“The Face of War” [2016] emerged as a testament to the impact of conflict on Ukrainian lives. Crafted by Daria Marchenko in collaboration with American artist Daniel Green. A mosaic portrait of Vladimir Putin, meticulously constructed from bullet casings collected in eastern Ukraine, speaks volumes about the resilience and endurance of the Ukrainian people. Once an instrument of destruction, each bullet casing undergoes an organic metamorphosis, becoming an element of creation. The colors of the casings range from muted metallic grays to darker, oxidized tones, creating a textured surface that reflects the history and impact of each shell.
Home Soon, Dear, 2022 by Maria Kinovych (also featured in the header, above)
A graphic designer and illustrator, Maria Kinovych, has created a collection of sixty posters of Ukraine war art. In her “Home soon, dear” [2022], she drew a map of Ukraine, colored in blue and yellow, with the Crimean peninsula, colored in white, blue, and red. The hand above Crimea holds an eraser, freeing the yellow land of the peninsula from the colors of the Russian flag. Another poster titled “80 days of the full-scale Russian invasion. I almost forgot what I was like before all these rockets and tanks” shows a half of a black silhouette of a woman blurred on the red background.
Posters (all unnamed) by Maria Kinovych
Today, the Ukrainian graphic design identity is strong, but for a sad reason. Even though it is working in the country’s favor, addressing the current problems and communicating them to a broad audience, the traditional Ukrainian design is yet to be uncovered by the world. The nation’s cultural tapestry is encoded in a palette of deep reds, blues, yellows, and greens, each color carrying historical and symbolic significance. These hues echo the vibrant landscapes, traditional costumes, and folklore. The use of bold colors serves as a visual celebration of the country’s vitality and resilience. The geometric design connects graphic design to the country’s textile heritage. Floral patterns communicate a connection to nature. Folk symbols create a visual dialogue with Ukraine’s historical narrative. Embroidery, a cherished Ukrainian craft, significantly influences graphic design. Traditional embroidery’s intricate stitches and patterns resonate with contemporary graphic elements, fostering a connection between the past and the present.
Ukrainian motifs in unnamed works by Maria Kinovych
When I think of Ukrainian art, the first thing that comes to mind is the Petrykivka painting style, with its intricate floral and plant motifs. It suffused so many household items in my childhood: wooden spoons, ceramic plates, vases, and other household items depicting asters, dahlias, roses, chamomile, and fruits combined in fantasy compositions of plants and shrubs. Sometimes, floral patterns were combined with the images of birds and animals. Originating in the village of Petrykivka, this unique painting style is a hallmark of Ukrainian folk art that has recently inspired Ukrainian graphic designers. Characterized by its intricate floral and plant motifs, the Petrykivka paintings blend colors and a distinctive freehand technique. The style originated in the 17th century, and its continuation signifies a commitment to preserving cultural heritage. Graphic designers draw inspiration from the organic forms and vibrant palette, incorporating the Petrykivka elements into logos, posters, and digital designs. Flowers, birds, and animals depicted in the Petrykivka paintings often carry symbolic meanings, connecting the artwork to themes of fertility, protection, and spirituality. As an integral part of Ukraine’s artistic heritage, the Petrykivka motifs tell stories and evoke a sense of national pride in contemporary graphic design. Inga Yoon, a digital illustrator, developed an online course, Petrykivka Ukrainian Folk Art: Digital Floral Illustration. Using a combination of gouache and watercolor, she teaches foreign audiences to draw in the Petrykivka style. She presents Ukraine as a modern country with original art, creating designs using the Petrykivka technique for lush and life-affirming paintings.
Yoon, 2024
After the dialogue with the archivist of the NYPL Picture Collection, I kept searching for answers. I bought a ticket for the “Decolonizing Ukrainian Design” event organized by the Ukrainian Museum and Cooper Union’s Herb Lubalin Study Center. There, two graphic designers, Aliona Solomadina and Yurko Gutsulyak, a professor of Ukrainian Literature and Language at the University of Manitoba, Dr. Myroslav Shkandrij, and the curator of the Lubalin Center, Alexander Tolchilovsky, discussed the ongoing efforts to correct Russian and Soviet colonialism in Ukrainian design, with a particular focus on graphic design and typography. Yurko Gutsulyak stated, “Over the past decade, Ukrainian graphic design has undergone a revolution. Its roots are being slowly decolonized.” Since the beginning of the war, Ukrainians stopped being so focused on Western culture, centering their attention around their heritage. I am heartened that the Ukrainians attempt to decolonize Ukrainian graphic design. Still, it will take a long time before I can walk into a Western library and search for Ukrainian art directly in the Ukrainian section. Today, Ukrainian graphic design artists do not have enough time and resources to dive into the rich cultural past, mainly focusing on yellow and blue posters with military scenes through which they address the urgent pain of their nation–war.
It is difficult to imagine the future of the Ukrainian design. What visual language will be created after the war is over? Will Ukrainians struggle with distancing their works from the war themes? Have they already built an identity of an oppressed nation that only talks about sadness? Ukrainian graphic designers must answer these questions soon so we do not have to live in a world where Ukrainian art is left to be discovered in Russian folders.
This is a guest post by postgraduate design researcher, writer, and adventurer El. Stern. Her research explores the influence of design within mass media on identity formation.
Header image: “Home soon, dear” by Maria Kinovych
The post Decolonizing Design: Ukraine’s Fight for Visual Identity appeared first on PRINT Magazine.