Source: The Conversation – UK – By Kathrin Maurer, Professor, Department of Cultural and Linguistic Studies, University of Southern Denmark
It’s 2:44 am. An air siren cuts through the clear night sky over Kyiv and into my sleep. Heart pounding, I rise out of bed in my seventh-floor room of the Hotel Rus. Feeling like I’m on autopilot, I walk down the stairs to the bomb shelter. Chairs are lined up in orderly rows in this basement that was once a gym. But only one elderly man in jogging pants with a travel cushion around his neck sits here.
I quietly take a seat next to him and try to figure out the threat level on my newly installed Kyiv Air Alert App. The air threat persists, but tonight people seem to have decided that sleep is more important. I, too, resolve to return to my room. I have to be awake for my lecture tomorrow at the Pinchuk Art Centre, a well-known international museum for contemporary art in Kyiv.
The lecture is the reason I am in Kyiv. As a professor of culture and technology at the University of Southern Denmark, I was invited to speak about my research on drone art.
Drone art is about using artistic practices to explore, question and reflect on military drones. Being asked to give a talk about this in Ukraine felt like a rare and important opportunity – and I didn’t hesitate to say yes.
The next day, I have some time before my talk. I take a stroll along the boulevards and the grand neoclassical buildings in the centre of Kyiv. People are out in cafes, bars and restaurants. The bustling shops are crowded with customers.
Where is the war on this blue-sky day in Kyiv, one might wonder.
But the war is here, constantly.
I spot groups of soldiers in camouflage standing on the street. A man on crutches, who carefully crosses a road junction. Statues encased in sandbags and boarded up – sheltered from air raids.
Kyiv’s central square, Maidan Square, is awash with flags and portraits commemorating fallen soldiers. The air is filled with the constant roar of generators that provide electricity during ongoing power outages.
In the evening, I finally stand in the lecture hall of the Pinchuk Art Centre to give my presentation. Young people, art students, curators, artists and older generations sit in the audience.
What can I tell them about drones – those for whom remote warfare has become a daily reality?
I talk about art, about military drones, about technology, about loss. I focus on the Ukrainian artist Lesia Khomenko, whose large format oil and acrylic works are on show in the museum.
Her painting “I’m a Bullet” (2024) is striking, as it shows the perspective of a kamikaze drone before it hits its target.
The painting is abstract, and its white, expressive brush strokes give you an impression of an explosion. Khomenko’s art does not represent iconic images of war; her work engages with questions of how remote sensing technology dehumanises the subject and raises ethical questions about how we, as an audience, “watch” war.
The search for a non-iconic visual language of war is also shared by the Ukrainian filmmakers Yarema Malashchuk and Roman Khimei.
Their recent work “Four Seasons” (2025) is a four-channel film that shows a small drone hitting a window in a living room and making a buzzing noise. Its manoeuvres echo Ukrainian youths practising drone piloting at home to prepare for possible conscription.
After my lecture, a woman who sat in the front row and eagerly took notes approached me: “My son was killed by a Russian drone strike”. We look at each other in silence. I try to find words. She gives me a slight smile and says: “Thank you for coming to Kyiv. Engaging with art can be a lifeline”. And then she hastily leaves the room.
Staying connected to life
During my time in Kyiv, in my conversations with the artists, curators and people I meet, I’m told time and again how creating or engaging with art builds resilience – how art helps people get through crisis and how art helps communities stay connected to life.
The sold-out opera houses, concert halls and theatres are proof of that. And although museums have had to protect part of their collections in shelters, they are open, and people flock to the exhibits.
On my departure day, I sit on the early morning train to Warsaw – 16 hours ahead, no flights in or out of Kyiv these days. Through the train window, birch trees pass in a blur, as we traverse snow-covered fields and quiet villages.
During the past few days, the war came closer to me than ever. It is as though I can feel it in my body, although I have only been in Kyiv for 72 hours.
I have the privilege of returning to a place of peace. Others do not.
The war does not stop at the border – it touches all of us in ways seen and unseen. In the spaces of art and culture, we can pause, reflect, and hold in our minds the lives and stories that demand to be remembered.
This article was commissioned as part of a partnership between Videnskab.dk and The Conversation.
This article was commissioned as part of a partnership between Videnskab.dk and The Conversation.
– ref. In Kyiv, I saw how art can help hold a city together in the shadow of war – https://theconversation.com/in-kyiv-i-saw-how-art-can-help-hold-a-city-together-in-the-shadow-of-war-269129
