The exhibition by Vlada Ralko “As If I Am Not There” emerges from a particular, elusive state. The artist captures an intermediate moment in which it seems as though nothing is happening to us—yet it is precisely within this moment that tension accumulates, only to erupt later in an unexpected sequence of events. These “movements between movements”—subtle, secondary, almost invisible—become crucial and carry significant weight for the future. They have no clear form and resist direct interpretation, yet they are felt through the entire body: movements that occur before they become events—we sometimes call them premonition.

This exhibition engages with what usually escapes our field of vision, yet remains vital. These are intermediate micro-movements that do not claim importance, but precisely through them we gain access to deeper processes. “It is a state of ожидание (waiting), filled with inactivity and emptiness. People seem to understand that they need to act, yet at the same time avoid responsibility for making decisions,” the artist notes.

The exhibition brings together works from different periods, forming a kind of mini-retrospective of the artist’s practice. It allows us to delve into the multilayered meanings that overlap and gradually reveal themselves—to us and to the artist herself—within this specific constellation assembled in one space at this particular moment. Among the key works are drawings on paper from the Kyiv Diary (2013–2015) and the Lviv Diary (2022–ongoing). These series of visual notes were created from the beginning of the Maidan and throughout the Russian-Ukrainian war. It is no coincidence that Ralko works with this form of testimony: fragmented images, texts, and gestures on A4 drawings allow her to capture experience in the moment—an experience of fragility, fear, and endurance—transforming personal memory into a collective archive of trauma.

At the center of the exhibition, large-scale paintings loom above the viewers with surreal spatial compositions, from which fragments of life—disappearing in time—seem to spill out. They are almost painful to look at, as fragments of bodies, faces, and gestures coexist without ever forming a whole. They exist as residues of intensities that the artist records during this enforced pause, yet does not integrate. Despite first impressions, these fragments do not represent trauma; rather, they function as its residual form. The viewer is invited to engage independently—to question, reflect, think, and meditate.

In works from the 2017–2018 project Reserve, Ralko begins to reflect on war from multiple perspectives: as a moment, a beginning, a point of departure, and as duration—a slow infiltration into everyday life, a shift in perception that occurs almost imperceptibly.

“Reserve is, on the one hand, what we keep just in case, and on the other, a protected space—what we preserve as untouched. This untouched reserve becomes an urgent question today—in a critical situation where decisions must be made quickly, often without time for careful consideration,” the artist remarks. War did not arrive suddenly but was composed of countless signals that went unread. Only in retrospect does it become clear that they had always been pointing toward it. Today, Ralko’s Reserve acquires new meanings essential to our reading: we look back at our own past and are struck by our own stillness in the face of the future. “And here an important question arises: do we have enough inner resources to endure this situation? What is the cost of this endurance? How ready are we to pay it?”

It is therefore no coincidence that in “As If I Am Not There”, Ralko returns to her poem “War”, written in 2020, which today resonates even more strongly, revealing the scale of the war:

She comes to visit
But she will not catch us by surprise
She has long been welcomed everywhere
And treated as a guest

The artist introduces this poem into the exhibition as a reminder of a state of anxious uncertainty that should not have become a background condition. At the core of the work lies an experience of splitting: physical presence in a safe space—whether in the rear or abroad—combined with an internal presence in a country at war, creates a state of duality in which reality and unreality overlap. Time becomes distorted: it seems to stop, stretch, and lose its linearity. Outside—silence; inside—tension. In the video, the artist’s mouth speaks, repeats, asks, prays in a silent recitation of the poem “War.” This is not merely a psychological effect, but a new mode of existence.

At the same time, Ralko returns to the theme of signs—as a system of orientation in life. Signs guide us, like road markers in the dark, yet we see them only when we focus our attention on them. “That is why they appear on a black background—as flashes, as moments of sudden realization,” the artist explains. This line in the exhibition concludes with two paintings from the 2008 series Signs.

The exhibition continues to unfold through precisely placed objects from the 2025–2026 project Not My Room. At first glance, these are items associated with the experience of losing one’s home: pillows, blankets, icons. Usually confined to the intimate and private sphere, they become carriers of memory here.

These are not metaphors—they are traces, often traumatic, like scars. These objects seem to hold fear, displacement, survival, bodily presence, insomnia. They absorb everything that cannot be archived otherwise.

Through these objects, another line of tension emerges—between the human and the animal. It is stitched with black threads on white, like an unstable boundary. In critical conditions, this boundary becomes fragile: a person may act against the instinct for survival or fully submit to it. Questions arise: what is justice? does truth exist? what makes us human? Within this oscillation lies the temptation to doubt and lose faith.

The answer is almost outlined as a zone of risk through the presentation of the 2003 work Ordinary Person. Here, the artist addresses violence not as an extraordinary phenomenon but as something that gradually enters everyday life. The normalization of violence is one of the most dangerous processes because it happens imperceptibly. This exhibition attempts to restore our capacity to feel—to recover a sensitivity that has become dulled. At the same time, it resists another extreme—nihilism. In a situation of war, where everything can lose meaning in an instant, preserving belief in truth and justice becomes not an abstract stance, but a condition of humanity.

Curator: Maryna Hutz