Ukrainian naive mosaics: Searching for the “Chips” of one’s memory

In Ukraine, the name of photographer Yevgen Nikiforov is firmly associated with Soviet-era mosaics. His photo book, “Decommunized: Ukrainian Soviet Mosaics,” was published by Osnovy in 2017 and has received considerable media attention. Nikiforov’s photo project, often called “the first comprehensive study of Soviet monumental mosaics in Ukraine,” was released at a very opportune moment. At the time, Ukraine was actively fighting the presence of Soviet symbols in public space. The so-called “decommunization law” that regulated this process also applied to monumental mosaics, which were in need of protection and promotion.

If we were to describe “Ukrainian Soviet Mosaics” as a collection of the most striking monumental mosaics in Ukraine, then the new project by Yevgen Nikiforov and art historian Polina Baitsym, “The Chips: Ukrainian Naïve Mosaics of the 1950–90s,” draws our attention to works that are less familiar or completely unknown to the general public. These omnipresent mosaics can be seen in the schoolyards of regional capitals, small town playgrounds, and on all kinds of typical infrastructure throughout the country.

Yevgen first came up with the idea for his book back in 2019. After over 10 years of traveling around Ukraine, the photographer compiled an extensive archive of mosaics that are often difficult to attribute to a specific artist. The description of the publication reads:

“Naïve mosaics are often a mundane backdrop for local residents, or an uncomfortable and problematic material for the transformation process of public spaces. The book focuses on them as a phenomenon that raises questions about memory and space, past and present, self-expression and imitation, and captures the fragility of the monumental, which, like chips, eventually became crumbs at the bottom of the package.”

The “chips” in the book’s title remind us of residuality, with an immediate urge to think not only about the “bottom of the package” as a certain peripherality, but also about the mosaic itself—the pieces that fall from their walls and get lost in the grass or mud near half-abandoned bus stops. 

One of my earliest childhood memories is related to mosaics. It is difficult now to know for sure whether or not this is actually my oldest memory, but I vividly remember feeling surprised when I touched the colored smalt embedded in the wall of the kindergarten where I had walked hand-in-hand with my mother.

The name of this kindergarten was “Sonechko” (which means “Little Sun”), and between the two entryways, right in the middle of the building’s façade, was a rather large decorative mosaic. In its center was a yellow sun with pointed rays, past which (or perhaps simply into which) flies Buratino – the main character of a fairy tale by Russian author Aleksey Tolstoy and who might be considered the Soviet equivalent of Gianni Rodari’s well-known Cipollino – holding on to the legs of a swan. In Chapter 10, he escapes from the story’s antagonists, Basilio the Cat and Alice the Fox, who are disguised as forest crooks. Today it seems to me that it is this very scene that the mosaic depicts, but at the time I thought it was strongly reminiscent of the plot of the Ukrainian folk tale “Ivasyk-Telesyk,” in which the main character returns home on the wings of a goose.

I wondered why he had such a pointed nose; the dangerously short distance between his nose and the equally pointed ray of the sun made me nervous. Something about this reminds me of Michelangelo’s “Creation of Adam,” especially Pinocchio-Telesyk’s nose and the sun rays that join like God’s fingers do with Adam’s. 

RELATED: On architecture, embroidery, and going back to one’s roots: Six new artbooks

While my mother was discussing something with my teachers, I touched the bits of smalt and slipped my fingers in the gap around the sun that sharply set its yellow mass apart from the blue background. From a child’s perspective, that mosaic seemed like a perfect and extremely refined piece of work, like anything new in the neighborhood one encounters for the first time. Now, this memory seems to me as sentimental and naïve as the mosaic itself. But the very concept of “naive” raises more questions than answers, because it can mean many things depending on the context in which it is used. The author of the introductory, interpretative text, Polina Baytsym, is also aware of this, so she separately focuses on the history of the use of the concept in Ukrainian and Soviet art criticism. In particular, she points to the constant juxtaposition of “naïve” and “professional,” which, of course, leads us to a number of undesirable binary simplifications:

“In Ukraine, naïve art as a denomination is rather falsely construed as a despicable remnant of the Soviet art vocabulary. In fact, Soviet art scholarship was tightly intertwined with German art studies, while naïve became widespread from the 1950s simultaneously in French, German, and Yugoslav art writing… < … >. In the Soviet art studies, as far as I could trace, an art historian Nataliya Shkarovskaya, who was an editor of the relevant section of the well-known (even among contemporary researchers) journal ‘Decorative Arts of the USSR,’ coined this term to describe the creative approach of Ukrainian female artists (Mariia Pryimachenko, Kateryna Bilokur and Mariia Halushko).”

Indeed, if one takes a closer look at the works photographed for this book, it becomes apparent that not all of them come across as amateurish decorations or completely devoid of professionalism. Not all of them can be labeled “naïve” both in terms of visual style and quality of implementation. Sometimes these are very different works with very different calibers of execution, which once again demonstrates its narrow categorization convention to the reader/viewer. So when it comes to defining the concept of “naïve” in this book, Polina seems, in my view, to choose the most generalized but also intuitively the most appropriate option – naïve as an approximation to amateurish. And not the amateurism that has now become laden with negative connotations, but amateurism in its original sense, i.e., inseparable from a sincere love for one’s work. Even Yevgen Nikiforov’s practice itself, which is based on a subjective urge to search and research, is also included in this framework.

In 2020, Yevgen wrote to me on Facebook to ask about the locations of the mosaics in the town of Blahovishchenske in Ukraine’s Kirovohrad region. This is exactly the same place where the “Sonechko” kindergarten is located. In addition to the central mosaic with the sun and Buratino, the building also has, sandwiched between the rows of first- and second-floor windows, several smaller compositions featuring animals. When I saw these works in Yevgen’s book in 2024, I did not recognize them at first, even though I felt like I was looking at something very familiar. Here we can think back to the line in the description that states that the image of mosaics “raises questions about memory and space, past and present,” and say that my story exemplifies this statement.

RELATED: Ways of memory and struggle: Five new photo books about Ukraine

“Decommunized” depicts many mosaics that allude to Soviet cartoons and folk tales, and I think that my Buratino with the Sun could just as easily fit in among them. The photographs are arranged in such a way as to group works with similar images or motifs so the reader will come across a spread with tractors, then another with dancers, then with owls, etc. All descriptions are appropriately placed in a section at the end of the book. Thus, the very experience of turning the pages and visually interacting with the photos is free of unnecessary information overload.

Contemplating the mosaics in the book is akin to mulling over an anonymous mosaic for the first time that you stumbled upon in an urban or rural environment.

The introductory texts occupy a smaller portion of the book, but if one leafs through the pages from the beginning and genuinely absorbs the passages written by Polina, the reader/viewer’s optics are automatically adjusted accordingly. The kaleidoscope of images can be viewed like a portable curatorial exhibition. In my opinion, this is precisely what any coffee table book should strive for that interprets cultural artifacts, documents one art form by way of another, or contributes to the genre’s reproduction and popularization.

In fact, the only reason I penned this text is because I wanted to have a written record of the flashback of the “Sonechko” kindergarten mosaic I had when I saw Yevgen’s works. This story is sufficiently unsophisticated to support a story dedicated to naïve mosaics. At the same time, due to Polina Baytsym’s idea-saturated texts, the book is self-explanatory without needing additional descriptions. Rather, it requires scrutiny and interaction, as well as, for readers from Ukraine, recognition of the “chips” of one’s own memory.

The publication is a part of the “Chytomo Picks” project. The materials have been prepared with the assistance of the Ukrainian Book Institute at the expense of the state budget. The author’s opinion may not coincide with the official position of the Ukrainian Book Institute.

Translation: David Soares

Copy editing: Terra Friedman King, Ben Angel