Right now, in theater halls and philharmonics, on underground stages, in museums and galleries – and even in the kitchens of freezing apartments – collective trauma meets collective therapy. What emerges there is catharsis: quiet, stubborn, and vitally necessary.
My friends – renowned Ukrainian artists from different generations, Olha Petrova, Hanna Kryvolap, and Olha Morozova – continue working in their studios and apartments without electricity or heating.
“The absence of light is not an obstacle,” Kryvolap declares.
“I raise the temperature with painting,” Morozova smiles.
Petrova, a representative of the generation shaped by World War II and a professor at the Kyiv-Mohyla Academy, lectures future art historians from her own apartment at +9°C, while, each day she creates warm, sun-filled pastels – as if summoning spring closer.
These are not heroic gestures for an audience. They are everyday acts of cultural resistance.
On Jan. 22, artist Ihor Haidai once again opened the doors of his Kyiv studio on Prorizna Street on his birthday – as he has done every year – despite war, cold, and blackouts. He calls this “Open Doors Day” an act of resistance to Russian aggression. Here, culture is not the backdrop of war, but its antithesis.
Ukrainians possess a peculiar and resilient ability to adapt. If offices are freezing, we work in friends’ homes where there is heating, or in cafés.
One ordinary day in January 2026: my daughter, a student and future architect, works on her projects in a café near home. I interview a human rights defender and journalist who was released from captivity a year ago. In the evening, friends and I gather in an unheated philharmonic hall to heal our hearts with the music of Borys Lyatoshynsky.
Lyatoshynsky Space 2026 began immediately after one of the most terrifying nights of shelling – Jan. 9. It lasted a full week: concerts, public discussions, a book presentation. The Column Hall was packed, with the foyer serving as an additional venue. And the music sounded – music that sustains.
Crowded bookstores, in any weather, during air-raid alerts, and in their absence, are another marker of resilience. Ukrainian books are steadily gaining ground. Reading culture restores a sense of time’s continuity – precisely what the enemy seeks to strip away.
In Zaporizhzhia, a city under constant threat, the Oleksandrivskyi Square was recently reconstructed. At its heart is the “Magic Garden of Maria Prymachenko,” featuring interactive figures of fantastical animals. For Ukraine, Prymachenko has become a symbol of resilience and a visual code of our soul. Her “Beasts from Bolotnia” now gaze at us in this frontline city as proof that goodness exists.
Notably, the Zaporizhzhia Art Museum has assembled one of the finest collections of Prymachenko’s works – 100 pieces, now evacuated for safety.
Despite daily brutal shelling, the Zaporizhzhia Philharmonic continues to plan symphonic concerts, a memorial evening for Volodymyr Ivasiuk, and programs for children. In Dnipro, the ballet fairy tale “The Twelve Months” plays to sold-out houses. The playbill emphasizes that the production is based on the fairy tale by Czech writer Božena Němcová – not Marshak.
In Kharkiv, the underground Loft Stage at the National Opera and Ballet Theatre (HNATOB) has become the city’s main stage. Here, culture has literally gone underground – to survive and to keep sounding.
Culture during wartime is not a luxury. It strengthens, unites, shapes memory, and works toward future recovery. It pushes artists toward new forms and higher quality, presents Ukraine to the world, and raises funds for the Armed Forces. For Ukrainians today, culture is an island of self-preservation.
Our inner heater.
The views expressed in this opinion article are the author’s and not necessarily those of Kyiv Post.