Wounds, Scars and Tears

Hand embroidery on textiles, 2026

Part I: The scar in shape of the Southern Coast of Crimea (embroidery on a curtain)

In my childhood, I went there almost every summer. To swim in the Black Sea, to sunbathe, to walk along the promenades, hand in hand with my parents. My generation was the first to spend Crimean summer holidays in the independent Ukraine. 12 years ago, in February 2014, russia began its occupation of Crimea. On the 18th of March of the same year, after the illegal “referendum”, it was pronounced a part of russia. Since then, Southern Coast of Crimea, with which I associated my entire childhood, has been lost to me. I don’t know when I will be able to visit it again. But I understand that this place will never be the same as I remember it. I came in terms with this understanding. At the same time, my wound in shape of the Southern Coast of Crimea - despite that it has rather turned into a scar - still hurts.

Part II. The wound in shape of the northeastern border of Ukraine in Kharkiv region (embroidery on a curtain)

On the 24th of February 2022, Russian troops on countless military vehicles broke through the Ukrainian border in many places. One of them was the border with Kharkiv region, 40 km from its capital city Kharkiv - my hometown. To these days, the border remains a zone of endless battles, and a source of permanent threat. For almost 4 years I’ve been away from home, seemingly away from danger - but this wound still reminds me how close the danger still actually is.

Part III. The traces of dried tears in shape of Donetsk and Luhansk (embroidery on handkerchiefs)

North Saltivka is the neighbourhood on the northeastern outskirts of Kharkiv. My home is located close to its inner borders, more in the direction to the city centre. On the very first day of the full scale invasion, Russian army began to constantly fire at this neighbourhood from their short-distance missile systems which they positioned in the nearest occupied villages. Since then, almost every building in North Saltivka was destroyed. The neighbourhood turned into a ghost town, where the air was filled only with the sounds of explosions. In May 2022, when Ukrainian army pushed the Russians away from the city outskirts, the fire stopped, but recovery never fully came. North Saltivka, my home neighbourhood, still remains an open and bleeding wound on the body of my city and country - and somehow on my own body as well.