.jpg)
Marat Guelman: We are opening the exhibition “Ruins of Museums” by Vitaly Komar and the digital artist group Plus-Minus Comma, alongside Sots-Art pieces like Stalin and the Muse. When these artists created their original works, it seemed that the language of Socialist Realism had died, Stalin was long a historical museum figure, and the pieces were filled with irony. Today, however, he has suddenly become a relevant figure again. I wouldn't rule out the possibility that even a modern-day Stalinist might actually enjoy Komar and Melamid's work.
Interviewer: Hello, Marat! Good day. It feels as if we haven't greeted each other already. Could you tell our viewers where we are—as if we just woke up here right now—and what is happening? Why is there hammering in the background?
Guelman: This gallery is called Guelman & Unbekannt—meaning "Guelman and Unknown." Unbekannt is German for "unknown." We are setting up an exhibition by Vitaly Komar, a classic of Russian art and one of the founding fathers of Sots-Art from the duo Komar & Melamid. He lives in New York. Tomorrow we open this new show titled “Ruins of Museums.”
Vitaly had this concept for a long time: he wanted to understand whether modern architecture in ruins would look as beautiful as classical architecture looks in ruin. We travel through Italy and admire ancient ruins; will future generations derive that same aesthetic pleasure from the ruins of modern museum buildings? So, we selected 14 iconic museums from around the world and, using artificial intelligence alongside the authors, transformed them into ruins.
Interviewer: There is a view that to see what modern ruins look like, you don't necessarily need AI—you just have to wait a little bit.
Guelman: A thousand years, or an apocalypse, or a nuclear war.
Interviewer: Exactly. But a thousand years is a long wait, and if an apocalypse happens, we won't be around to view them.
Guelman: Indeed, "and the living shall envy the dead." Ruins and their depiction are a foundational theme in European painting. Classical art is thoroughly permeated with imagery of ruins. Historically, the image of a ruin functioned not as an apocalyptic theme, but as a motif of continuity with a long-departed past.
Speaking today at the opening, the artist himself noted the importance of Pompeii—how cultural contexts preserve images of large-scale destruction, whether from nuclear war, the eruption of Vesuvius, or technological and geological catastrophes. Looking at these works, the primary thought isn't that everything has vanished, but that life continues.
The exhibition is deeply reflective. We've been asking everyone we meet how they are adapting to the city where they've landed—in this case, Berlin. Could you share when you moved here, and how you managed to open an entire gallery in the process?
Guelman: Interestingly, I opened the gallery a few months before actually relocating here with my family.
Interviewer: Really?
Guelman: Yes. Opening a gallery in Berlin was a strategic move. I sensed new times arriving in art. I had originally planned to retire, but I decided that being a mere spectator rather than an active participant in these shifts would be disappointing. So I established the gallery.
I moved about a year and a half ago—it will be two years this August. The gallery opened in the spring. Crucially, I relocated not from Russia, but from Montenegro. When I draw comparisons, I compare Berlin with Montenegro, Moscow, and Perm. I'm not a traditional urbanist who walks around admiring city architecture—every city is beautiful in its own way.
Interviewer: Anyone who sees your Instagram posts of swimming in the Adriatic knows you're not a typical city-obsessed urbanist!
Guelman: True! But Berlin introduced several fundamentally new elements to my life.
Guelman: The first change is somewhat humorous, yet practical: the bicycle.
Interviewer: Why humorous? It's a lifestyle necessity here!
Guelman: Well, I hadn't ridden a bicycle since childhood, and now I ride one everywhere. Today I had to transport paintings, but normally I commute 40 minutes on a bike from Charlottenburg.
Interviewer: Forty minutes on a bike? That's impressive.
Guelman: It has become very important to me. I feel great physically, and it even motivated me to start going to the gym. So, the bicycle was change number one.
The second shift concerns my Jewish identity. When I moved to Montenegro, there was a close-knit, active Russian-speaking community where we functioned as a cultural minority with our own Russian galleries and events. Your identity didn't shift there.
Berlin, however, is a cosmopolitan metropolis. Everyone comes from somewhere else. You'll never become German—my children might, but I certainly won't. We initially enrolled our kids in a Jewish school, and through that, we got pulled into Berlin's Jewish community.
For the first time in my life—despite hailing from Moldovan Jewish roots—I began relating consciously to my Jewish identity. Previously, it felt like nothing more than an administrative stamp in a Soviet passport.
Interviewer: What do you mean by "consciously"?
Guelman: I really like the school—they teach in German. The student body is a mix of Israelis and German Jews, celebrating holidays together. Parents get involved in community activities. The Hasidic community built a cultural center here, and they invite me to events. It transformed from an administrative line in an old passport into a genuine dimension of my daily life.
Interviewer: It's fascinating—you knew how to ride a bike, but didn't; you were Jewish, but didn't practice it. Berlin simply unlocked what you already possessed.
Guelman: Exactly. The third pillar is finding a community of like-minded people. Berlin hosts a dense population of IT professionals who consider themselves artists. They don't act like purely commercial contractors; they create artistic projects.
In this environment, my focus on digital art isn't viewed as an eccentric gimmick as it often was among traditional, high-end gallerists. Here it is natural. Tech-creators are thrilled when someone from the traditional art world engages with them to build tomorrow's art scene.
This gallery actively works with that intersection. Our next major show will be a group exhibition of Berlin-based photographers and AI artists, juxtaposing traditional photography with "promptography."
Interviewer: "Promptography"—let's make a note of that term!
Guelman: It refers to creating art by writing text prompts for AI models.
And the fourth element—last but not least, as they say—is a settled family life. My children speak fluent German, my wife has started learning, while I've found that my English suffices for now.
Every morning I drop my kids off at school on my bike. The older ones ride independently, while the youngest rides behind me. We spend a lot of quality time together.
Interviewer: How many children do you have in total?
Guelman: Six in total, though three live with us here right now—aged seven, nine, and ten. My three adult children live independently; my eldest is 42.
Interviewer: What is Berlin like for a father of six?
Guelman: The city makes raising children easier. There are museums and sports clubs. My daughter does gymnastics, and my son was recently scouted by a second football club.
Economically, Berlin is quite socialistic—Germany as a whole is. The state pays careful attention to the children of residents, operating under the implicit assumption: "We can't change you adults, but we will raise your children as our own citizens."
As someone in a creative profession, I never kept a rigid schedule—I used to work three days straight and then rest. Here, life is far more structured. I go to the gym regularly with a trainer, which adds rhythm.
It feels like a new life because I'd never lived a quiet, ordinary life before. Previously, every aspect of my existence was subordinated to massive overarching projects. Now, while running this gallery is exciting, I refuse to alter my personal daily schedule for it. I spend mornings until 3:00 PM with my family and working out; business meetings happen only after 3:00 PM.
Additionally, in 1990s Moscow, Perm, or Montenegro, I measured myself against the city. I felt I was helping build the local art scene. In Berlin, there are 250 galleries, and I simply opened the 251st. I don't ask myself: "Marat, how will Berlin change after your arrival?" No one has those conversations here.
Interviewer: Did you not have that ambition when moving here?
Guelman: I didn't, though many expected it. My ambition is actually broader: I want to nudge the global art scene forward rather than just the Berlin scene, so geographical location is secondary. It's an extraterritorial ambition.
Within the city itself, I feel like a small piece of a much larger puzzle. Berlin is packed with people who want to change the world. It's a new feeling for me not to be tied to a single territory. My previous projects—Moscow, Perm, Montenegro—were defined by place. This gallery works with artists globally, from California to London to Chisinau.
Interviewer: I'd love a step-by-step guide from Marat Guelman on how to move here and open a gallery. If someone wants to open a gallery in Berlin, what should they do?
Guelman: Step one: talk yourself out of doing it!
Interviewer: Why?
Guelman: Back in 1993, I served on the international committee for Art Berlin, so I knew the scene thirty years ago. Of that generation of gallerists, perhaps seven people remain today. If I weren't pursuing this specific digital art project, I wouldn't have opened a physical gallery here. The space functions strictly as an instrument for a global project.
To be clear: Berlin lacks a self-sustaining local art market. The real commercial capital sits in Bavaria. In Berlin, art sells twice a year: during Berlin Art Week in April when collectors from across Germany arrive, and during the season openings in mid-September when international collectors visit. The rest of the year, it operates like a socialized system with very little commercial transaction volume.
We are participating in Art Basel this year. Normally, galleries under five years old aren't even permitted to apply; I had to demonstrate that this gallery is the institutional successor to my original Moscow gallery.
The global market has strict rules—you must host a minimum of six gallery openings a year. Commercial success happens primarily at international art fairs rather than inside local gallery spaces.
Berlin's advantage is that operating costs are lower. Rent is relatively cheap, and because of local universities, you can readily recruit student volunteers for internships.
So if your strategy is to build a presence for international fairs, Berlin is cost-effective for housing your operations.
.jpg)
Interviewer: Is that your primary strategy?
Guelman: My focus isn't even purely commercial—it's directed toward the museum sector. Launching new art directly into the commercial market is a mistake. Unproven, innovative art is rarely commercially viable right away; it must complete an institutional trajectory first. You need sufficient runway to sustain operations for five years doing what you believe in, followed by five years of commercial scaling.
My wife, Nastya, opened a gallery in Belgrade, where overhead is even lower. A gallery is a deeply personal endeavor shaped by individual vision. She travels to Belgrade monthly to mount exhibitions with her partner there.
So, my advice to anyone who has never run a gallery: test your model in Belgrade first. Then move to Berlin, and eventually target London or New York. In Belgrade, your mistakes remain hidden while your successes stand out!
Interviewer: What defines a truly successful gallery?
Guelman: A successful gallery is one that introduces new, defining artists to the world.
The Guelman Gallery was the leading contemporary gallery in 1990s Moscow because out of thirty globally recognized Russian artists from that era, fifteen hosted their debut exhibitions with us. It wasn't just because I exhibited Andy Warhol or Joseph Beuys; it was because we introduced new talent.
Gallerists working on the secondary resale market operate under a different model—driven by existing inventory and social networks. But if you want to work professionally with primary contemporary art, you must possess a clear vision of tomorrow's art history and locate artists you are determined to make significant.
Real financial returns in art come from long-term investments rather than short-term sales commissions. Representing an emerging artist yields modest commission fees because their work is priced low. But if you acquire their pieces early and hold them for a decade as their profile rises, you realize significant returns on those assets. The ideal business model uses gallery intermediation to cover operational expenses while building wealth through direct asset investment.
Interviewer: Speaking of investing in talent, since leaving Russia in 2014, have you made major new artist discoveries over the past decade?
Guelman: Absolutely. That forms another project of mine—one that is commercially viable today because, unlike digital art, it's easy to explain to traditional investors. It focuses on Russian artists in exile.
We call it Novariznica, based in Montenegro—Novariznica means "New Treasury" in Serbian. It represents a prototype for a future Museum of Russian Art Abroad.
If you examine history, the most prominent figures in Russian culture—not just painters, but philosophers and writers—were often those who left the country. Historically, when looking at Russian philosophers from the early 20th century, roughly half emigrated and half remained. Of those who stayed, most perished or lived in poverty, while those who left—like Pitirim Sorokin—achieved global standing.
The same applies to visual art: Ilya Kabakov or Komar & Melamid command major international values because their work resonated on a global scale rather than a purely local one.
By collecting the works of contemporary exiled artists today, we are building a collection that will inevitably carry significant historic and financial value over time. We've been building this archive since 2018.
Interviewer: Your approach mixes long-term investment strategy with cultural preservation.
Guelman: Yes. When I initially moved to Montenegro under a government contract, they specified: "Please don't make this a purely Russian project." So we launched the Montenegro European Art Community, positioning Russian creators within a broader European context. Once that contract concluded, I launched Novariznica independently.
Interviewer: How can an emerging artist break into a gallery today?
Guelman: In the traditional art world structure, 90% of gallery space is occupied by the established art elite. The remaining 10% is split between artists from underrepresented regions and emerging youth. Breaking through that bottleneck was historically very difficult.
The revolution brought by Artificial Intelligence is that because AI models were trained on the work of the established art elite, AI devalues established, repetitive styles. It doesn't act as a conservative force; it acts as a disruptor—a "sanitizer of the forest" that clears away derivative work.
Over the next couple of years, space for new, innovative artists could expand from 10% to 30%.
My primary advice to any young artist: find seven like-minded peers. An emerging artist's psychological state constantly swings between feeling like an unrecognized genius in the morning and feeling utterly talentless by evening. That volatility is destructive.
Building a circle of peers provides constructive feedback and mutual validation. Growth happens faster within a collective.
Secondly, target galleries whose artistic philosophy aligns with your own, rather than chasing the biggest or wealthiest spaces. If no such gallery exists in your city, move to where one operates.
┌─────────────────────────────────────────┐
│ TRADITIONAL VS. AI-DISRUPTED MARKET │
└────────────────────┬────────────────────┘
│
TRADITIONAL GALLERY SPACE POST-AI GALLERY SPACE
┌──────────────────────────────┐ ┌──────────────────────────────┐
│ 90% Established Elite │ │ 70% Established Elite │
├──────────────────────────────┤ ───► ├──────────────────────────────┤
│ 5% International / Regional │ │ 30% Emerging / Innovative │
│ 5% Emerging Youth │ │ Talent (AI Disruption) │
└──────────────────────────────┘ └──────────────────────────────┘
Interviewer: What about artists who achieve overnight fame through scandal?
Guelman: Scandal-driven strategies cannot be reliably programmed or managed by a gallery. Take Pussy Riot or Pyotr Pavlensky—their careers expanded significantly, but that trajectory started in prison. You can't advise an artist: "Go to prison to build your portfolio."
In performance and action art, the surrounding social context dictates everything. If an artist's action doesn't lead to institutional pushback, it often fades into obscurity. Action art today operates similarly to hip-hop—authenticity is judged by real-world friction.
Interviewer: Which artist do you associate most strongly with Berlin?
Guelman: That's an interesting question. Berlin is a unique city because it hasn't historically produced a single dominant "school" of painting in the way Leipzig had its Academy or Düsseldorf had its photography movement.
Western German art centered around Cologne and Munich. Berlin functions as a brightly lit stage for exhibition rather than a origin point.
However, I believe the hybrid tech-artists working here today will become the future face of Berlin art. Berlin is emerging as a global capital for digital art and AI innovation.
In traditional art history, we understood art through books organized chronologically ("France, first half of the 15th century"). Artificial Intelligence destroys the temporality of art. It absorbs centuries of visual data simultaneously, transforming art history from a linear library into a flat cultural landscape where all eras exist at once.
An AI model doesn't care when a style originated. This allows veteran masters like Vitaly Komar to operate as "new artists" using digital tools without being constrained by their age or historical era.
THE THREE FETISHES OF THE ART MARKET
FETISH TRADITIONAL MODEL AI / DIGITAL DISRUPTION
──────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────
1. Original vs. Copy Original = High Value Monoprints & digital files
Copy = Low Value blur original/copy lines.
2. Singular Authorship Solo Master / Genius Collective, prompt-engineers,
human-machine co-creation.
3. Manual Craftsmanship Hand-painted / Sculpted Generative code, automation,
and robotic execution.
Interviewer: There was a notable public debate surrounding Vladimir Sorokin's Blue Lard exhibition regarding the credit given to prompt engineer Yevgeny Nikitin. How do you view that situation now?
Guelman: Not listing Nikitin on the initial exhibition wall labels as a prompt engineer was an administrative oversight on our end—our team printed the labels in the wrong language right before the opening, forcing us to strip them temporarily.
However, his subsequent claim that he was a full co-author of the work was incorrect. Prompt engineering is a technical facilitation role, particularly from an era when AI models couldn't process natural human language directly.
Today, AI models have advanced so rapidly that the role of an intermediary prompt engineer is vanishing—artists like Vladimir Sorokin write prompts directly using customized interfaces.
The broader topic here is the erosion of traditional authorship.
When Peter Paul Rubens operated his workshop, assistants painted large portions of his canvases, yet the final work bore Rubens' name because it reflected his vision and direction.
The traditional art market relies on three core fetishes:
Generative AI, digital monoprints, and conceptual performance systematically dismantle all three fetishes.
While the existing commercial art market will persist due to the vast capital invested in it, the traditional ideological framework supporting it is undergoing permanent change.
Interviewer: Let's end with a quick blitz. Short answers: is it art or not?
The Berlin TV Tower (Fernsehturm)?
Guelman: Not art. Art must not be purely functional. When Anatoly Osmolovsky turned a chair into an artwork, he broke one of its legs—because a chair you can sit on is an item of furniture, not art.
Berlin street graffiti?
Guelman: Art. It has an author, a broad public audience, and a clear message asserting that Berlin is a free city.
Currywurst?
Guelman: Not art—it's functional food. Unless you duct-tape it to a canvas, then it becomes art!
Techno clubs?
Guelman: They represent a social environment rather than an isolated artwork. However, because art is tied to society, they form an integral part of the broader artistic ecosystem. Techno music itself is unequivocally art.
Museum Island?
Guelman: Art. Architect David Chipperfield revolutionized how historical structures are restored. Because a clear, reflective aesthetic vision guides it, the restored space constitutes art.
Are German labor strikes a form of performance art?
Guelman: No. Anything conducted to achieve a direct, utilitarian outcome falls outside art. Art requires an element of absurdity or non-functional reflection.
For an act to constitute art, the actors must consciously intend it as an aesthetic gesture. If you find a piece of driftwood shaped by the wind that looks beautiful, it is a natural artifact; if you recreate or present that object as a deliberate aesthetic statement, it becomes art.
Interviewer: Thank you, Marat. That clears up everything.
Guelman: A pleasure as always.
