Interview with Novaya Gazeta Europe, July 4, 2023
Gallerist, public figure, and a man placed on the Russian Ministry of Internal Affairs' wanted list, Marat Guelman laughs frequently and heartily. On the arm of the former political strategist and deputy head of Channel One, temporary transfer tattoos applied by his youngest daughter are proudly displayed. Outside the window of the restaurant where the interview takes place, the Montenegrin Adriatic ripples, its calm morning surface regularly cut by Guelman on his paddleboard.
Interviewer: If we were to highlight the key moments of your biography, is it fair to say they would absolutely include your introduction to the works of Ilya Kabakov and the Pussy Riot saga, after which you ceased to be a state-affiliated figure? What events and figures should be added to this list?
Guelman: Without a doubt, the primary figure in this lineage is my father. I met him when I turned 12, already at an entirely conscious age (Editor's note: Marat Guelman's father is the playwright Alexander Guelman). The second was the Ukrainian artist Oleksandr Roitburd: during the 17th Youth Exhibition in 1986, he convinced me that I must pursue what has since become my lifelong vocation. There were people who heavily influenced me indirectly: Ilya Kabakov, Gleb Pavlovsky (I was infatuated with him; that charisma held sway practically until his death). Parallel to this are my children. Did they change me? Of course.
There are many events. I created events myself that influenced not just me, but the entire artistic environment. But since you brought up Pussy Riot—yes, their impact can hardly be overstated: they tore me away from those official statuses—museum director, member of the Public Chamber—when you are close to power, when you understand everything, yet you try to maneuver. After the girls were sentenced to two years in prison, I stopped and reflected. They closed that chapter in my life.
Interviewer: Over the nine years you’ve lived in Montenegro, how has it changed?
Guelman: It’s difficult to say. Generally, Montenegro is a small country. For a long time, they were explaining to themselves and to the world that they exist independently of Serbia, that it is a sovereign state. There is a fascinating historical context here. Plus, there is absolutely no xenophobia. There are towns with their own clear majorities: Ulcinj is mostly inhabited by Albanians, Kotor by the Bokelji. Montenegrins are highly sensitive to the national question and understand that if conflicts suddenly erupt, the country will splinter: Ulcinj will break off to Albania, and so forth. Therefore, they are tolerant toward people of all nationalities, and for that exact reason, Montenegro has become an extremely attractive migration destination.
Having lost the tender for mass tourism development to Croatia, Montenegro chose a alternative strategy: to attract not so much transient tourists as people who actually want to live here. It seems to me they have succeeded in this. When I first arrived, there was only one development of this caliber—ours. Now you have Portonovi and Luštica Bay; they are constructing truly international spaces. I was in Luštica yesterday; you have Brits, Serbians, Germans, and Russians there, all in roughly equal proportions. These are the core qualities of the country—a magnificent location and an absence of acute national friction. I believe Montenegro will truly become a paradise.
Interviewer: Will the next "SlovoNovo" festival of free culture take place in Luštica this September?
Guelman: Yes, it will be held during the final week of September.
Interviewer: Judging by the June festival in Tel Aviv, is "SlovoNovo" beginning to scale up?
Guelman: The festival took place in Tel Aviv for the second time. The next concept is to organize a Russian-German forum in Berlin. This year, we will attempt to host a book fair in Montenegro. The first iteration will run concurrently with "SlovoNovo," and down the line, perhaps it will become an independent event.
Interviewer: You recently stated that the Berlin project will unite both Russian and Ukrainian artists. Do you believe it is possible to place these masters within a single space right now? How difficult of a task is that?
Guelman: I don't frame the task for myself in that manner. We opened a gallery this spring that works exclusively with art generated by artificial intelligence. Broadly speaking, digital artists rarely identify themselves through national or state lenses. Sometimes you can't even fathom who they are—at best, you know their current geographical location: based in Paris, based in Berlin, based in California, and so on.
A year ago, I didn't think I would ever open a gallery again. All of that was in the past: I had already served as the director of the PERMM Museum, so from a biographical standpoint, it’s an utterly meaningless step—there is nowhere higher to grow. But I opened the gallery and I am running the Berlin seminar precisely because I realize a new era is unfolding. This vast continent of digital art was previously rejected by the art market, perceived as marginal. Now, suddenly, it has converged upon us; people have begun to scrutinize it. Over the 30 years of digital art's existence, as many images have been generated as traditional works over the entire span of civilization—meaning a colossal amount. Yet it is un-conceptualized; it lacks museums, filters, and historians who could dictate: this is good, and that is bad. In short, this continent has moved closer. It arrived with its own criteria, its own marketplaces, and it presents a profound challenge.
Interviewer: Coinciding with this, artificial intelligence is gaining momentum.
Guelman: Yes, and that is another challenge. Its defining quality is that it effortlessly produces what requires sweat and blood from a human artist. Simultaneously, it zeroes out entire strata: for instance, within the realm of salon commercial painting, everything will be executed by AI in the near future. A devaluation of the past is occurring, clearing the field for the new.
On the other side is the war. It is invariably an ethical trial. Art always exists concurrently across all dimensions—both ethical and aesthetic. And the question of whether it is possible to write poetry after Auschwitz (and today, after Bucha) remains incredibly acute. The war signals that the old ways are no longer viable, that art must transform. Furthermore, the war has uprooted thousands of artists from Ukraine, Belarus, and Russia.
What does this imply? Take me, for example. Let’s imagine that I am still living in Moscow to this day—a famous individual, skimming the cream off my name, having gifted 200 works to the Tretyakov Gallery—prestige, fame, absolute comfort. But in the real scenario, I am in Berlin, where certain professionals know me, of course, but fundamentally I have to prove who I am all over again. Thousands of creators exist in this exact predicament today. Therefore, the emphasis on Ukrainians, Russians, and Belarusians is made not because I am seeking to explicitly unite these national groups. It is simply that they live in a situation where the task is to create despite having their foundation stripped away. Today, it seems to me, they are the most primed to embrace the new. Because an artist integrated into the system, who has established relationships with galleries, who sells consistently, is inherently inert. A gallery always demands that they reproduce what they did previously. The market always demands repetition. If you are outside the market, you are far more open to the new. All these arguments operate in unison, supplemented by personal factors…
Interviewer: Which ones?
Guelman: My grandfather was already an old man at 62. Yet I feel I have the energy, I am ready to get things done. This is the triumph of medicine and progress: on one hand, we possess substantial capabilities, experience, and capital, while on the other, the desire remains intact. Summarizing this, I resolved that it was necessary to establish a seminar and locate artists who also sense the new. Ultimately, the Berlin platform should become an initiative that jumpstarts the process of renewal in art as a whole. Even if it starts small, with just 20 artists.
Interviewer: But will the artists agree to coexist on the same platform? Consider the situation with Linor Goralik, whose appearance in Tartu was canceled at the demand of Ukrainian participants.
Guelman: This project is not about the unification of Russians and Ukrainians; it is about bypassing the national concept entirely. Digital artists frequently adopt handles that mask their origins completely. I presume that among them, those open to contemporary realities are far more numerous than among the masters of Old Europe.
As for cancellation scenarios, I have encountered them extensively. We were one of the earliest examples of canceling: a major project titled The Ukrainian Way at Saatchi—one of the premier galleries in London—was canceled. It was an exhibition of works from private collections, including my own; I possess one of the finest Ukrainian collections. The exhibition was canceled for various reasons, primarily because the Ukrainian Ministry of Culture opposed a curator from Russia. I encounter this periodically. When we organized "SlovoNovo" in May 2022 in Tel Aviv, practically two months after the onset of the aggression, dissenting voices were audible. And although "SlovoNovo" had always hosted a delegation from Odesa, the Russian-language poets and writers declined to participate back then. I live with this. And I understand them. Quite possibly, were I in the Ukrainians' shoes, I would act the exact same way. But I am in a different position. I assist Ukraine via other channels: I am a member of the Anti-War Committee; we raise funds through "SlovoNovo" and dispatch them to Ukraine; here in Montenegro, I am a board member of Pristanište, which is a foundation and a shelter for refugees. The gallery is an open situation: if you don't wish to, you don't participate; if you wish to, you come and engage. But it does not and will not contain rules tied to nationality. I will extract certain artists from Russia, though I won't disclose names just yet. We must forge new art. I need artists who, alongside me, will articulate the manifestos of this new art and move forward.
Interviewer: Artificial intelligence, then, is not the destination, but the vehicle—correct?
Guelman: It varies. It can be narrow or general. Narrow AI is indeed a tool: for instance, it translates superiorly to Google Translate. This is the kind of AI tasked with a specific objective—such as distinguishing photographs of cats and dogs, assisting a driverless car navigate streets, and things of that nature. Then there is strong, or general, artificial intelligence. This is a far more complex model, and various strategies can be deployed in relation to it: AI as a tool, as a co-author, or as a black box that the artist interrogates. For example, Zlata Ponirovskaya recently executed a compelling project titled The Face of God: she queried the AI in various ways regarding what God looks like, obtained numerous images, and synthesized them into a video. Here, the artist is precisely interested in what lies inside that black box.
I am speaking of artificial intelligence as a cultural phenomenon. It creates nothing inherently new—it simply cannot. But it devalues the old. What used to require immense labor and a massive budget—say, a music video—can now be generated over two evenings, and to no lesser standard. All those individuals who earned a livelihood creating music videos have found themselves obsolete; their labor has been zeroed out. The exact same process is unfolding in other spheres. Usually, the new attempts to emerge, while the old obstructs it—it has occupied the territory; it is entrenched. Artificial intelligence clears the path. What emerges will not necessarily be generated via AI, nor will it necessarily be digital, but it will be created in relation to their development. My ambition, perhaps for the first time in my life, lies not in institutional expansion—a museum, a gallery—but in positioning myself far closer to the artist. I want to forge new art alongside them, and subsequently, it can disperse through galleries, museums, and beyond.
Interviewer: The Berlin gallery is titled Guelman und Unbekannt—“Guelman and Unknown.”
Guelman: "Unknown" signifies artificial intelligence: since artists collaborate with it, the gallerist must follow suit. I possess—this sounds a bit like boasting—a system that helps foresee the future. It is so coherent and logical that I believe I can teach it to an artificial intelligence. And this intelligence, which I am currently nurturing—its name is Unbekannt—will begin evaluating digital art. For many artists, this might provide their very first critique: you submit an image and receive a critique in response.
Переводчик: In relation to this, you recently sought a line of communication with Victor Pelevin. Do you view him as a futurologist?
Guelman: Occasionally, a work of art is smarter than the artist. I hold the view that certain existing contemporary works of art belong, in reality, to tomorrow. Among those I know and love, three individuals produce such things: Pelevin, Sorokin, and Dmitry Krymov. Naturally, I would like them to act as mentors—individuals alongside whom we could shape the future. Krymov and Sorokin, as it turned out, were unacquainted and met for the very first time at "SlovoNovo" in Tel Aviv.
Interviewer: You haven't been to Russia since 2014?
Guelman: I have. I left in 2014, didn't visit for three and a half years, and subsequently reached an agreement with the Tretyakov Gallery. I made them a substantial gift and traveled there back then.
Interviewer: If I am not mistaken, your wife visited the country as recently as this past winter. Wasn't it frightening?
Guelman: A little frightening. But mandatory matters arose—documents and such.
Interviewer: Are there certain things, perhaps of an intangible nature, that you miss here? Aside from friends, of course.
Guelman: You anticipated the answer. I realized that for me, the homeland is my friends. I have a conventional address book containing 3,000 individuals, half of whom still reside in Russia. As long as that remains the case, I relate myself to Russia. These people are dear to me. The Perm museum, PERMM, which I established, is dear to me, and I am invested in its continued existence. Naturally, I am confident that Putins come and go, but the Tretyakov Gallery will remain. And not just the Tretyakov: I donated 50 works to the State Russian Museum…
Interviewer: Yet its new director invited the singer Shaman to become the ambassador for the museum's 125th anniversary.
Guelman: Well, there will be a next director; that is a transient matter. During the Soviet era, the Tretyakov Gallery preserved the collection of the Russian Avant-Garde. The people working there are not heroes, but they are professionals. I feel them, I understand them; they are close to me—our museum professionals. I don't demand bravado from them. But I know that given the circumstances they inhabit, their primary objective today is to preserve the museum until better times. Even if it occasionally means compromising their reputation. Unlike me in my pristine white garments: I left, I am independent of the authorities, whereas they depend on them and are forced to make compromises. I never judge anyone; I simply understand that they are sacrificing themselves and their reputations for the sake of art.
On the whole, I feel zero nostalgia for Russia. If it weren't for those fifteen hundred people who haven't left, I might cease to identify myself with Russia entirely. I have no longing for a specific place, for a certain street.
Interviewer: You recently penned a post noting that your new apartment in Berlin closely resembles your Moscow apartment. Yet you mentioned that publishing photographs is currently unsafe, which is why you posted a picture of the gallery instead—which is essentially the same as home. Meaning a reasonable degree of caution is still present?
Guelman: I have a family. Even if I momentarily forget myself due to my lighthearted character (again, I emphasize, not out of bravery), my wife will remind me. I factor this in; it is an element of our life now. I simply think that in the current landscape, I am not in the front ranks of the regime's enemies. It seems that targeting me would generate far more complications and noise than actual effect.
Interviewer: You speak out extensively and candidly. Are you not afraid that the Russian authorities might seek retribution?
Guelman: It is too late for me to be afraid. When I left in 2014, they initiated a criminal case against me. At the time, I gave an interview stating that I did not wish to participate in the war. I was questioned regarding Putin—specifically, when he would leave. I responded: only if someone stages an assassination with a snuffbox. Consequently, a criminal case was opened charging me with inciting the violent overthrow of government. Subsequently, I was designated a foreign agent, and currently, I am on the wanted list. Yet on the whole, perhaps due to a lightness of temperament rather than being exceptionally brave, I haven't feared anything for a long time. You exist among artists. Artists are brave people. You are embedded within this environment of Pussy Riot, Voina, Pavlensky—I assist them all. And nearby, functioning as a kind of constant, is the thought that they are the heroes. I support the heroes without being the author of their deeds.
But since a family is involved, you still harbor certain apprehensions. Recently, there was a forum where I suffered symptoms of poisoning. And all my friends said: “Listen, they poisoned you.” Following that, I became cautious. Specifically regarding where I dine, I am highly mindful now.
Interviewer: Is it fair to say that your wife is the load-bearing structure of your life?
Guelman: Yes! Yes, absolutely! Broadly speaking, perhaps slightly wider: the family—my wife and children. But on the whole, it must be said… I am capable, of course. Yet if it weren't for them, I would convince myself that I could easily choose to do nothing at all. As it stands, first of all, Nastya herself wants to move forward. And second, she is quite demanding of me. You constantly have to prove that you are the sharpest. Yes, she acts as the driver for numerous processes. I subsequently spearhead these processes, but the internal motor is my wife—that is the truth.
Interviewer: What do your children consider themselves: Russian, Montenegrin, Berliners, or is this question outside their sphere of interest?
Guelman: Russian. Language matters. We shall see. They are only now about to enter school in Berlin. The point is that Berlin is an international city. And it seems to me that parallel to processes like the war and artificial intelligence, several others are unfolding worldwide. One of them is that national identity is yielding to urban identity. In the near future, an individual's internal map will feature 500 cities instead of 200 countries. And identity will transform. Nobody will say: “I am German,” “I am French,” “I am Russian.” People will say: “I live in Minsk,” “Berlin is my hometown,” “I live in Paris,” “I am from Munich.” This urban identity, as I see it, will replace national identity within a decade. But currently, the younger children see themselves as Russian.
Interviewer: Will you pass your personal art collection down to them?
Guelman: I don't think in its entirety, but something will remain for them, naturally. I still have two collections in storage in Russia. One, hypothetically, will be a gift to the Perm museum of contemporary art once everything transforms. The second is more commercial; it could serve as a financial cushion for the children, though not all of it. I managed to extract the Ukrainian collection to this region. I am also waiting for a museum of contemporary art to emerge in Kyiv so I can donate it to them. Plus, an entirely new collection is currently taking shape: I interact with artists, invite them to the residency, expend certain funds on this, and receive works in return—that is how a new collection is being assembled, and it has grown quite substantial over these nine years.
Interviewer: Are there specific works that are precious to you and with which you will never part?
Guelman: There are. I transfer an Andy Warhol self-portrait from office to office, along with a few other works. But currently, I am thinking primarily about the next stage. Mikhail Surkov (the former deputy director of the Perm museum) will manage the Montenegrin gallery, while I wish to focus exclusively on the new.
Interviewer: You hold citizenship in Moldova, Israel, and Russia?
Guelman: Yes.
Interviewer: Are you unable to renounce your Russian citizenship? Or do you choose not to?
Guelman: Renouncing it is a highly convoluted process. I can't even simply walk into a consulate. I know many who renounced their Russian citizenship for economic reasons: if an individual holds substantial assets in Swiss banks, then starting from a certain amount, deposits for Russian citizens are frozen. I view exiting citizenship purely as a bureaucratic issue. I accomplished far more inside the country, for the country, than many of those who currently label themselves patriots. You and I are discussing a two-to-three-year horizon—I hope to live another twenty years. Perhaps I will survive to the moment when Russian citizenship ceases to be an issue. I don't know. On the whole, everything is unfolding so rapidly right now that one simply fails to react in time. What has transpired with the country over these eighteen months is unbelievable!
Interviewer: It is only in youth that 20 years feels like a vast expanse of time.
Guelman: To live actively, I mean.
Interviewer: Meaning that afterward, a conventional old age sets in. What is your ideal vision of it? Are you a religious person? Do you fear death?
Guelman: I am a believer, but not an orthodox churchgoer. In my youth, I was a Tolstoyan; I even preached. It so happened that the Bible was still impossible to obtain, but volumes 42–44 of Tolstoy's complete works were accessible. Consequently, I read the life of Jesus Christ as retold by Tolstoy.
Regarding old age—the question is suspended in mid-air. My father is highly capable right now; he continues to write poetry, recently penned a play, and it is being staged (Alexander Guelman is 89 years old). The main thing, it seems to me, is to preserve clarity of thought.
As for death, I maintain a peculiar relationship with it, though it is tied not so much to religion as to the experience of a trance state. I lived for a year and a half in India; I know what exists on an empirical, non-articulated level. And I do not fear dying in the slightest. My brow does not break into a cold sweat when I contemplate death: it feels as though I have already crossed that line, returned, and can periodically navigate that experience. But this is not a religious sentiment; it is strictly a transcendental experience.
Interviewer: You mentioned pristine white garments. It seems that since last autumn—the moment when the Venice-based Russian artist Katya Margolis declined to participate in "SlovoNovo"—the trial of "whiteness" has become one of the primary trials of this war, primarily for those Russians who left the country, and not exclusively for cultural figures. How do you resolve the dilemma of "bad Russians" versus "good Russians" for yourself?
Guelman: There are radical masters. Naturally, God forbid if all artists were radical. But if a cultural environment lacks a single radical, it degrades into a community of designers. When a figure like Pavlensky or Kulik emerges within it, everything turns vibrant and alive. The same applies to Katya, to her stance. It is beneficial that a figure like Katya exists, constantly prodding you and others, indicating that you are doing something incorrectly. This does not mean Katya is correct. It means she fulfills that specific function. I recognize this, and it is wonderful. Exactly as other individuals fulfill different functions.
For instance, realpolitik—for me, that is Khodorkovsky. Khodorkovsky, who says: let’s descend to earth; those 140 million citizens of the beautiful Russia of the future are the exact same individuals inhabiting the country right now, merely slightly modified, with slightly different mindsets once they possess more information. He accepts them precisely as they are.
The alternative stance is Katya's. She states that there is a specific individual who is suffering the absolute worst right now. She visualizes a Ukrainian undergoing bombardment, whose son perished in the war. And she says: let’s view everything through their eyes—including the fact that you are bathing in the sea here, living a peaceful life, and so forth. I consider it highly important that both these positions exist. Personally, I endeavor to judge no one. But I frequently audit myself regarding how my actions appear through the eyes of Ukrainians.
Interviewer: And how do you audit yourself? Do you simply articulate it internally?
Guelman: It is visible. Any moral or ethical awkwardness is visible. For example, when I am questioned whether Russians face difficulties in Europe today due to the Russian canceling, I respond: certainly more difficult than previously, but discussing it feels awkward, because individuals exist who are facing genuine hardship today, compared to whom my problems do not register as problems. I endeavor not to complain regarding cancellation incidents: when the exhibition in London was canceled, I didn't weep or declare that I am actually pro-Ukraine. It was canceled, and that was that—we moved past it and forged ahead.
Interviewer: Do you believe the war will conclude in the coming years?
Guelman: I think several distinct answers exist. The swiftest answer concerns Crimea: the moment Ukraine reclaims Crimea, Putin will vanish. No Crimea means no Putin. This could theoretically transpire within this year.
There is an alternative answer that concerns resources: every single day of the war incinerates one billion euros. Perhaps the Russian authorities will rally and navigate the presidential elections in March 2024, but subsequently, everything will stall—the country will begin to degrade, deplete, and will be unable to sustain the war. The sanctions in isolation failed to work; Russia possessed a reserve of industrial capacities after all. But incinerating such a volume of capital and human resources… The individuals fighting are extracted from the economy as well. I believe the means and capacity to wage war will be exhausted. This does not mean that something positive will unfold in Russia in 2024. But it won't get worse. It can no longer get worse.
Interviewer: It is highly improbable that the 2024 presidential elections in Russia will resemble the 2020 elections in Belarus even remotely. It is conventional to believe that given our civic immaturity, we are to blame for what is currently unfolding. Can this be altered somehow?
Guelman: From my perspective, Russian society is infantile, and this infantilism is birthed by a habit of dependency. In Ukraine, individuals work and pay taxes, and these taxes sustain the state. The state is a specific tool, and it is treated accordingly: criticized, replaced, and disliked. In Russia, the reverse occurs: there is oil and gas, the revenues from their sale flow into the budget, and the state distributes a portion of this capital to the populace. Public sector dependents constitute more than half. This dependency resembles the dependency of a minor child who relates to the authorities as parents: receiving capital and certain benefits from them, listening to them, assuming they must know best. This is not merely a contemporary perception—recall the phrase “Tsar-Batyushka” (Tsar-Father): there is a perpetual childlike, infantile, dependent relationship toward power.
How does an individual mature? I have six children, and I’ve observed: suddenly, at a specific juncture, a transformation occurs, and you comprehend that this is no longer a child, but an adult. They possess their own views; they lock their room; privacy emerges. Similarly, an event must transpire within society that forces it to mature. Frankly, I believe that the army's defeat in the war with Ukraine will constitute that exact event forcing society to mature. And it will transpire instantaneously.
I recall how in the early '80s, literally two articles regarding Afghanistan emerged that were more or less truthful. The society surrounding me transformed within a span of two weeks. Vasily Grossman's novel was published in Novy Mir—and again it transformed; before my eyes, within six months, individuals became different. I believe a similar event, independent of Putin—a defeat that cannot be interpreted any other way—must transpire now. That is why I speak of Crimea. Everything currently unfolding is also a defeat, yet the Russian propagandists attempt to package it as a victory or a partial victory, that everything is proceeding according to plan. I believe Putin consciously bound himself to Crimea to such an extent that the moment the peninsula returns to Ukraine, the Russian authorities will simply be unable to sustain the lie further. And that is when this maturation, this sobering up, will transpire.
There is also a third scenario, where the elites sense the collapse slightly earlier, begin to betray the leadership, and attempt to orchestrate coups. It’s simply that you and I cannot bank on this. Whether a betrayal of the president occurs within his own circle is a matter for the intelligence services, not for us. It may transpire, but one cannot work toward that end. Working toward the victory of Ukraine, however, is precisely what can be done.
