ON THE EDGE OF ART: Between Creation and Manipulation
Mykhailo Reva and Tatyana An/Art design: huxley.media via Photoshop
One inspiring evening in Barcelona brought together Ukrainian art maestros for a conversation. Sculptor Mykhailo Reva and artist Tatyana An opened the door to their creative world, candidly sharing their views on contemporary art trends and the personal stories that have shaped their artistic journeys. Zhanna Kryuchkova, Chief Editor of Huxley, moderated the discussion. We invite you to immerse yourself in the atmosphere of this unforgettable conversation.
Zhanna: One of the most poignant films about the state of contemporary art is The Square by director Ruben Östlund. It very precisely shows how easily art can turn into manipulation. In your opinion, where is the line between art and manipulation?
Mykhailo: If we’re talking about art — I actually believe that everything happening right now reflects a spiritually barren period in human history. We are living in a time of lost honesty and depth.
Postmodernism, after all, is often about the «as if», «As if meaning», «as if form»… This phenomenon creates the illusion of art but carries no genuine energy. It’s as if it manipulates the mind, offering only a façade. But there’s no essence. No goosebumps, no gasp, no sense of wonder, none of that…
Tatyana: I believe manipulation in art begins where expectations arise — where there’s a need to be liked, accepted, purchased, and evaluated. That’s where authenticity ends, and a transaction begins. Not a revelation, but a construct. I used to draw portraits on the street, so I know what it’s like to work for payment or applause.
It’s a subtle, almost invisible kind of people-pleasing that clips your wings. But if you paint as if you were on a deserted island — with no viewers, no judges, no critics, no expectations — then true, honest art is born. You enter an inexplicable, uncontrollable state where the brush is guided by the heart, not by calculation.
That’s exactly why working on commission is so difficult. Ideally, an artist should only sell what they created for themselves.
Mykhailo: I remember, after graduating from the institute, I found myself in Rome and went into St. Peter’s Basilica in the Vatican. There’s The School of Athens by Raphael. I knew it by heart — who’s standing where, who’s whose student, Plato and Aristotle in the center… But when I stepped into that space, it was completely different. I didn’t just see a fresco — I saw the intention. The energy Raphael had poured into it. I had goosebumps all over. Every time. I’ve been there about ten times, and every time — it’s the same. An aesthetic orgasm.
The composition is simple: two central figures and the purest perspective. But you enter through a side door — there’s no main entrance — and you cross the entire space. As you move, the figures begin to come alive. That’s magic. You can’t explain it. That’s art. But now, when I enter a contemporary art museum or go to a biennale — I feel like I’m in a leper colony.
People paint, glue, dump things… You walk among objects where someone seems to be trying to extract at least a drop of meaning but ends up pulling out only form. Everything has turned into a gesture. And the gesture has become political. A shallow statement. And within it — emptiness.
Tatyana: Yes. Unfortunately, the art of destruction is still in vogue today. And it’s not just an aesthetic — it’s a form of manipulation that many don’t even notice. I believe the global chaos we’re witnessing isn’t accidental. It’s the result of something we once let in. As a consequence, we’ve lost the ability to tell when pain is purifying and when it’s poisoning.
I’m convinced that art should awaken love, inner light, and a drive for creativity in a person. When someone is hurt — by words or actions — they carry that wound forward. They pass it on to loved ones, to strangers, to the world. That’s how the energy of irritation and hatred spreads.
Why don’t we ever consider that art might work in exactly the same way? It, too, transmits whatever the artist has infused into it.
Mykhailo: I agree with you, Tanya. For example, right now, many are creating works on the theme of war — and that’s understandable. More often than not, it’s not a conscious choice, but a first impulse. A very strong one, almost poster-like. It’s a pain that needs to be released urgently.
It’s expressed through imagery that is usually rough, direct, often stereotypical. That’s how perception works in a moment of shock. But if you stay in that space — it turns into manipulation. Of emotion, of shock, of pain. Then it’s no longer art — it’s pressure. That’s why even when I work with the theme of war, I try to move away from literalness. I search for the archetype, the symbol. An image that can spark something from which healing may begin.
Take Moloh, for example — a bear’s head made from one and a half tons of shrapnel collected from the battlefield. When we brought it to Berlin, the police guarding the Ukrainian residence would come see it like they were visiting a museum. It operates on a subconscious level. It doesn’t explain — it hypnotizes. Same with the matryoshka made of shell casings or the dragon’s skull made from the roof of a Russian KamAZ truck blown up near Mykolaiv. These are all archetypes. Concentrations of memory, energy, and meaning. Things we can’t always explain — but we feel them instantly.
I titled my wartime exhibition The Study of Evil. But even then, I understood that the next step shouldn’t be reflecting on destruction — but moving toward its opposite. That’s why I’m now working on a new exhibition: The Study of Tenderness. Because that’s even more important!
And actually, the process of creating the massive Moloch was surprisingly tender… Thousands of fragments — and suddenly, you pick one up, fit it in, and it seems to find its place all on its own. It felt like some force was guiding me.
Tatyana: Even great evil can be transformed by an artist into a light of hope. Not to showcase hopelessness, but to make pain bearable. That is the role of a creator. When we come into contact with beauty, greatness, harmony — something inside us is transformed. And we carry that state forward: spreading inspiration, light, love.
Art that resembles the ripping off of bloody bandages and the picking at wounds doesn’t heal — it keeps reopening the pain. It turns suffering into the norm — especially when there is so much of it, as there is today. And then people, saturated with this energy of destruction, carry it into their words, their actions.
Films where people are killed by the dozens have become a familiar backdrop. People eat and drink while watching murders onscreen. Paintings of dead bodies no longer shock — they’ve become part of everyday life. That’s why what’s happening in the world is no accident. We receive what we project.
Mykhailo: And it’s harsh. Right now, I’m trying to explore the idea of healing through tenderness. But my set of tools is completely different. Not tender at all. Form, metal, weight… Sculpture, in general, is an art that speaks in a whisper. If painting speaks in color, we speak in form. And that form has to resonate from within. Because when sculpture starts shouting — everything becomes too literal, too superficial. But true meaning — it’s quieter.
Take Stonehenge, for example — it’s a sculpture. Or a Japanese garden. You don’t explain anything there, yet you feel everything. Recently I created a pair of glasses — made from bullets that transform into flowers. I made them for Easter. I shaped the bullets, and in the temples, I punched holes — as if they had passed right through.
We placed those huge glasses right on Dumska Street, with kids playing nearby… And then I decided to count the holes — there were 33. The age of Christ. And Easter. Incredible! Mysticism. And suddenly, form becomes meaning. You don’t invent it — it just comes. On its own. When you allow it.
Tatyana: Mykhailo, when you say «healing through tenderness», I know exactly what you mean. As someone who has lived through many layers of inner pain, I’ve been thinking about this more and more. I used to believe that only truth could heal. Even if it cut deep. But then I came to understand that truth without tenderness is like a scalpel without a heart.
I think an artist is always a bit of a healer — even if they don’t realize it. Van Gogh lived in a state of constant vulnerability, emotional instability. His world was full of anxiety, loneliness, and a desperate desire to be heard. And yet, look how much light he left behind.
Sunflowers, cypresses, the starry night — they’re not just images. They’re attempts to preserve beauty where the inner world was collapsing. He made suffering transparent — so that light could shine through it.
Zhanna: What would you change if you could turn back time?
Tatyana: There were many situations in my life, especially before I turned 25 when I didn’t stand up for myself, even though I should have. I was a very insecure teenager, constantly haunted and paralyzed by the fear of criticism. So many paintings were left unpainted because of that — countless. To create, you need complete inner freedom. The absolute absence of fear. None at all. If I could speak to my younger self, I’d whisper in her ear every time: «Paint, and don’t be afraid of anything».
Mykhailo: You know what Nietzsche said? To become an artist, you must go through three stages. First — you become a camel: you take on the entire legacy of the past, everything created before you. Second — you become a lion: you find the strength to cast off that legacy and believe that you can create something of your own, something new. And third — the hardest stage — you become a child. Because only a child creates without fear. Without looking over their shoulder. From pure play and inspiration.
Tatyana: So true. Soon I’m flying to South India — to Auroville, the city of eternal youth, and to a Vipassana retreat. I want to remember what it’s like to be a child. To create without fear, without an inner censor — that’s an exclusive privilege that not everyone has access to. Total immersion in freedom, absolute trust in the inner world — that’s what I want to reach.
Mykhailo: Yes, we’re all like a Napoleon cake — layered. I’ve noticed it in myself: real transformation begins when you start trusting your inner feelings more than the external special effects. Over the years, I’ve mastered so many techniques… As Borya Litvak once joked: «This guy, with the Jewish mug — that’s me — has two left hands». A classic Odesa joke.
But COVID, and then the war, forced me to do things I probably never would’ve done otherwise — they taught me to channel pain through myself. Because art isn’t about technique, it’s about inner sensations, about the energy you must never lose. It needs to be shaped. Lived through. And if you don’t express it — time will simply erase the traces. Take away the testimony.
Zhanna: How do you come into contact with the darker side of your personality — if you have one?
Mykhailo: Me and a dark side? I’m not sure. I feel like I don’t really have envy or any of the serious vices. But maybe I just don’t see them — or don’t admit them to myself. Is there something I might be missing?
Tatyana: Do you ever allow yourself to exaggerate, for example? In the East they say that even a small, harmless lie clouds your intuition.
Mykhailo: Oh, that I can do. My father loved to exaggerate, too. He always wanted his stories to sound vivid and memorable — to give them weight and sparkle. And in Odesa, by the way, that’s completely normal. You see, Odesa is a mythical city. Everything here is a little different.
As Harry Golubenko once told me, the residents of Odesa’s courtyards created this ironic language so they could better communicate with each other — since people of many nationalities lived side by side. At first, they joked about one another, and then those jokes and that irony gave birth to shared tables and mixed cuisines. That’s where those amazing stories came from… But above all, out of all that came… t-e-n-d-e-r-n-e-s-s. So yes, I might exaggerate. And yes, that’s my dark side (smiles).
Tatyana: That very dark side made me lose my ability in math. As a child, I was a prodigy — at seven, I could multiply four-digit numbers with ease. My father proudly showcased my abilities in front of others, as if I were a magic trick. I was the favorite student of our uncompromising math teacher, and he predicted a brilliant future for me.
But at nineteen, I stepped into the world of the hippies — a place where freedom smelled of incense, weed, and something elusive. And just a year later, I realized I was struggling to add numbers in columns. As if someone had taken the internal formula out of me. Since then, that mathematical gift has never returned…
Later, my own thrill-seeking almost dragged me to the edge. It was destructive, all-consuming. I had to be brutally honest with myself about it. And I’m glad I didn’t hide it — I redirected it. Now, it leads me to the canvas. I’ve learned to channel it toward creation, not destruction. For me, that’s true alchemy — the transformation of inner darkness into light.
Zhanna: If tomorrow you had to give away all your money to a single organization, what would it be and why?
Mykhailo: The choice is simple for me. I’d give all my money to children involved in the arts. Simply because I believe in the power of creativity.
Tatyana: I would give mine to an organization that cares for the elderly, because they are often forgotten. It’s easy to love the young and beautiful — but who needs the elderly…
Mykhailo: I completely agree with that too. I recently went through a very difficult time with my mother. She was 89, broke her hip, had surgery. All while the war was going on, bombs falling. She stayed at Odrex for a month and a half, then they said she had to be transferred. But I couldn’t carry her up to the 9th floor — no people, no conditions.
I started searching for a rehabilitation place. Those spaces affect me deeply — I sense their energy. I found one center at first, but the moment I walked in, I felt like they were draining energy from people. I kept searching. I saw things… At Fontan, where there used to be a pioneer camp when I was a kid, there’s now a retirement home. I walked in and realized: it’s a cesspool. It was so terrifying, words fail.
Tatyana: It’s not even just about retirement homes… It sounds like an alarm bell — we’re losing our humanity!
Mykhailo: In the end, we found just one place — in the Kotovsky district. Two private houses where people had set up a rehabilitation center. Their own kitchen, cozy atmosphere. I came in, and this colorful Odesa woman greeted me, showing me homemade cheesecakes with powdered sugar. And I instantly knew — this was the place. We left my mom there for just a week, but it was a week of real happiness. I came back, and she was lying there like a child and said: «I’m in paradise. I love it here».
Tatyana: It’s so true that the real measure of a society’s development is in how it treats the elderly, children, and animals. Everything else is often just decoration.
Mykhailo: My mentor Borya Litvak understood that better than anyone. His daughter Ira died of cancer, and before she passed she told him: «You’ve spent your life selecting the best athletes, but what about children with disabilities?» And he went on to build a center for them — House with an Angel. I helped him.
There were four founders: Borya, writer Harry Golubenko, Professor Heshelin, and me. And I didn’t even know I was a founder — Borya just put me down. We had a 30-year age difference, but we immediately felt a connection. He became a guide for me… like Virgil was for Dante.
And on the day he loved more than any other — April 10th, the day Odesa was liberated — he passed away. As if he knew.
Zhanna: Is there anything you fear when you imagine yourself on your deathbed?
Mykhailo: I’ve been close to death… right at the edge. Tanya, my wife, and I talked about so many things back then… And I realized: death itself isn’t frightening. What I fear is becoming disillusioned with humanity. When you look at beautiful people, at harmonious spaces — it feels like anything is possible. But then the question arises: how could this even happen?
How could our neighbors come into what was practically their own home and bring such catastrophe? Millions of lives. It defies explanation. I suppose… I’d like to die naive. Still believing in goodness. In people. In the idea that it all — somehow — wasn’t in vain.
Tatyana: I’m afraid I won’t live to see the end of the war. But truly, Misha, I’d like there to be silence and light in the end. And a sense of peace within me — for the way I lived: not perfectly, but sincerely.
Photos provided by Tatiana Ahn and Mikhail Reva
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