Unlike younger men who must stay in Ukraine in case of military mobilization, 66-year-old Pavlo Makov could leave the country if he chose. Instead, the artist—one of Ukraine’s most esteemed cultural figures—remains in his hometown of Kharkiv.
Located just 18 miles from the Russian border, Ukraine’s second-largest city endures relentless missile attacks night after night. Yet by day, it springs back to life as parks, cafés, and restaurants fill with those determined to carry on. Here, culture thrives on ground floors or, even better, underground—in basement bars, theaters, and bookshops.
Makov and his wife are among those who take their chances. The nearest metro station, which offers shelter during raids, is 500 meters away. “Most attacks happen so fast,” Makov says, “that by the time you hear the alarm, the bombs have already fallen.” So they wear earplugs and gamble with fate, hoping to survive another night.
Early in the 2022 war, Makov and his family fled to Italy. But like many Ukrainians, he found exile more unbearable than the danger at home. “I could have stayed,” he admits, “but after six months, I lost all sense of purpose. The moment we returned, I knew: this is where I belong.”
Now, Makov works from a newly renovated ground-floor studio—safer than his old fourth-floor space. The windows are small for an artist’s workspace but practical in a city where shattered glass rains down daily. On an easel sits a vibrant new drawing in emerald and orange, a departure from his usual intricate monochrome prints.
The subject? A battered weed growing through pavement cracks. “That’s exactly how I feel,” Makov says. “A little broken, but still alive.” The plant, a type of plantain, is known in Ukraine as podorozhnyk—”by the road.” Its name resonates with the millions displaced or threatened by war.
“We all live out of suitcases now,” Makov remarks, his packed rucksack always by the door. The weed’s resilience became his way of addressing war indirectly. “War’s language is too overwhelming to confront head-on,” he explains. “Art can’t save the world, but it helps you survive your own life.”
When Russia invaded on February 24, 2022, Makov took shelter in Kharkiv’s Yermilov Centre, an underground contemporary art gallery. At the time, he was preparing to represent Ukraine at the Venice Biennale—the art world’s most prestigious international exhibition.Here’s a more natural and fluent version of your text while preserving the original meaning:
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The Biennale opened in April that year. Initially, Makov had given up on making it to Italy as he sought shelter from the bombings—until one of the curators called him. She told him she had part of his artwork in her car, was already in Vienna, and was determined to represent her country no matter what.
The next morning, Makov and his family fled, rushing to their car just as a cruise missile struck the nearby SBU security service headquarters. A punctured tire from broken glass littering the roads forced them to turn back—his mother had forgotten her false teeth. Despite the chaos, they escaped with their pets. And in the end, he did represent Ukraine at the Venice Biennale.
But it wasn’t thanks to the Ukrainian government.
“I got two calls from Italy’s culture ministry offering help,” he said. “Not one from Ukraine’s. It was like we didn’t exist. Yes, there was a war—but if you’re the culture ministry, your war is in the world of culture.” The Naked Room, the Ukrainian gallery he works with, is still out of pocket from the event. “We got no state support beyond the exhibition space.”
Unlike Russia, which promotes itself globally through literature, music, ballet, and opera, Ukraine has lagged in cultural outreach, he said. The country still lacks a contemporary art museum.
“We have a unique situation now,” he explained. “For the first time in Ukraine’s history, three generations of artists are alive, and their work hasn’t been destroyed.” Not having such an institution in an independent Ukraine, he added, reflects a kind of “provincialism,” a “disrespect for ourselves.”
“Why am I interested in Britain? Not because it won or lost wars—it’s because Turner was British, and I love Turner. Why do I love Ireland? Because James Joyce is one of my favorite writers.”
“In Ukraine, we have no vision for representing ourselves as a cultural society. We have writers, poets, artists—things we could export—but no one’s doing it. Our cultural exports rely entirely on volunteer efforts.”
The war has permanently changed Ukrainian society, he said. Mass displacement and trauma have reshaped the population, but so have the stark divides between those who’ve endured frontline horrors and those far from the fighting or living abroad.
Still, he said, “We all share one idea: we need the war to end. Preferably with victory, but at least a stable peace.” Yet, like many in Ukraine, he struggles to see how that’s possible now. “Lasting peace usually comes when your enemy is destroyed. And I can’t imagine us destroying Russia. Russia has a lot of reserves.”
“This war has dragged on for over three years—soon as long as World War II. People don’t seem to understand: Russians will never stop unless they’re stopped. If no one stops them, they’ll keep going.”
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