Interview with The Insider, May 16, 2023
Marat Guelman has opened a new gallery in the center of Berlin. The works in its inaugural exhibition, “Repentance,” were generated by an AI based on search queries by Ukrainian artist Alik Vaisman. In Russia, however, Guelman is remembered not only as a gallerist but also as a political strategist who worked for the Kremlin in the first half of the 2000s. Ilya Zhegulev spoke with the gallerist for The Insider about how he created the first Kremlin “temniki” (media guidelines) in 2005, how he assisted Russian and Ukrainian politicians during elections, and whether he holds himself guilty for how it all turned out.
Zhegulev: Why is your exhibition titled specifically “Repentance”? And why should an AI participate in repentance?
Guelman: People hold a distinct prejudice against technical things. They assume that art created by a machine must inherently be cold and mathematical. However, anyone who has engaged with AI knows that a neural network is akin to a child's brain. You can nurture it with a sense of empathy and emotion. My next exhibition will be titled “AI Has a Soul.” I don't want to create an exhibition that simply aligns with the public's expectations. It will not be cold, calculated mathematical art, but rather an emotion.
Repentance is a powerful emotion. And I believe the concept succeeded! It felt much like a church. One can debate who it belongs to, but we achieved our internal goal—we presented an emotionally elevated project. The thing is, we are currently living in two parallel realities: one is the constantly looming aggression of Russia against Ukraine, and the other is a revolution in art.
Zhegulev: Are they interconnected?
Guelman: They are interconnected within me, and therefore I want them to be interconnected within the gallery space. The revolution in art operates on a far more significant temporal scale. Leonardo da Vinci kept two notebooks. In one, he made drawings and was an artist; in the other, he sketched mechanisms and was an engineer. Since then, any individual constantly asks themselves: am I a lyricist or a physicist? Leonardo was unique, but people are generally either one or the other. Today, however, the figure of the artist is once again that of both a tech expert and a humanitarian. An artist must know how to write algorithms, understand programming elements, and be technically accomplished if they wish to express their idea. This is one of the most critical transformations occurring right now—the very figure of the artist is changing.
Opening a gallery dedicated to artificial intelligence is about the latter. I want to be a participant in these processes, not merely an observer. Coming from Russia, it is impossible to dismiss this war from one's mind even for a moment, so I decided it would be right to anchor at least the first exhibition with a reference to the aggression.
Zhegulev: And is repentance about the notion that all of us need to repent?
Guelman: Psalm 50 is an enumeration of sins, a plea for the mercy of acknowledging those sins, and a request for forgiveness. The AI was fed Psalm 50. You communicate with an AI using prompts that contain content organized in blocks, and we took the core prompt directly from the psalm.
Zhegulev: How does this connect to you and your own persona?
Guelman: On one hand, I share a certain liability—meaning, the punishment. But there is also personal responsibility, entirely separate from this collective guilt. I have my own score to settle with myself. The gallery simply reflects the fact that two processes—the aggression against Ukraine and the revolution in art—are occurring simultaneously within an artist. I am attempting to manifest my guilt and my responsibility in a different way: I speak to Ukrainian media channels, I assist refugees, and we donate 25% of our proceeds to various Ukrainian funds. To state that this exhibition constitutes my own repentance would be wrong. This exhibition, as it should, reflects a certain situation—namely, that 2023 is a time of aggression and a time of revolution in art, and I am simply living within it. The gallery is a link to art, while my other activities are tied to the war. I joined the Anti-War Committee of Russia practically on its third day.
Zhegulev: What do you believe you bear personal responsibility for? If we look at what transpired 23 years ago when you worked with the presidential administration—is the cutoff point 1999? What are you ashamed of today?
Guelman: Probably starting from 1994. In 1994 and 1996, we feared a communist resurgence and supported Yeltsin at all costs.
Zhegulev: What does “at all costs” mean?
Guelman: The first mistake was the refusal to institute lustrations for Central Committee members and security agency staff. In 1993, we disliked the parliament, but we liked Yeltsin. And we viewed what occurred—namely, the siege of the parliament—with understanding. We felt it was high time to put an end to communism. In 1996, ahead of the presidential election, Yeltsin stood at 2%, Yavlinsky at 11%, and Zyuganov at 28%. Back then, Zyuganov had to be stopped from winning at all costs. This proved highly detrimental to the country. That was when all our media outlets were handed over to the Presidential Administration.
Zhegulev: Is that the price?
Guelman: It wasn't just the media. People turned a blind eye to how governors tallied the votes.
Zhegulev: But there were likely “red governors” as well, who could have pulled votes in their own direction?
Guelman: The goal was to ensure that the central and regional authorities acted in unison. In the "red" regions, central election committee representatives could well have been deployed to catch people red-handed. When it was all over and the communists failed to win, Yeltsin refused to hand back free media. He grew fond of the fact that all media outlets were blowing into a single pipe located in his reception room. That was when we realized that democracy is not the victory of democrats, but the preservation of institutions. I am currently a citizen of Moldova; I was born there. The communists won an election there, yet the institutions of fair elections were preserved. Four years later, the socialists won, and currently, it’s the democratic party. We committed a gross error, and I was a direct participant in all of this as a co-founder of the Foundation for Effective Politics (FEP).
Zhegulev: And what was your second mistake?
Guelman: Considerably smaller, but I bear some guilt for 1999 as well. Although I had absolutely nothing to do with the selection of candidates. In 1999, when I served as the campaign manager for the Union of Right Forces (SPS), the Duma elections concluded on December 11. Presidential nominations ran until the 24th, and the Union of Right Forces endorsed Vladimir Putin. Nemtsov told me back then: “Well, Marat, someone needs to join the headquarters.” Pragmatically, it seemed correct. Then Yegor Gaidar called and requested that we meet with his associates from St. Petersburg. It wasn't that he was fiercely opposed; he simply asked us to meet them. This delegation attempted to explain to us that we were making a massive mistake. Gaidar respected these individuals deeply. Yet we treated them with snobbery. I will not name who they were right now. Back then, they were from the Democratic Party of Russia—those who were with Gaidar during his tenure as prime minister.
Zhegulev: They were from St. Petersburg and knew exactly who Putin was back there?
Guelman: Yes. We listened to them presumptuously. The general sentiment was that Putin would become president regardless, but it was better for democrats to have absolutely nothing to do with it. By that point, the deed was already done. The primary objective had been to diminish everyone except Putin, to turn them into clowns. By late December, everyone else vanished from the narrative, and Putin remained.
Zhegulev: Sergei Dorenko did a highly effective "job" on the public images of Yevgeny Primakov and Yuri Luzhkov. And Zyuganov had been turned into a clown ever since 1996; that mechanism was already well-refined.
Guelman: The entire Duma platform was being transformed into a circus. The media showed that everyone participating in the parliamentary elections was a circus performer, while Putin abstained from all of it, remaining prime minister and “getting things done.”
Zhegulev: What about the Unity bloc? Were they circus performers as well?
Guelman: The entire platform was a circus. There was a strategic game on the table where the Unity bloc held an advantage, but the presidential election was handled entirely separately from that.
Zhegulev: Was that your idea?
Guelman: I don't know whose idea it was, but it constituted the core of the upcoming presidential campaign. I only joined this campaign in December and performed purely formal duties. The groundwork had already been laid. In August 1999, when Putin was appointed prime minister, he was known to 2% of the population; by December, his approval rating stood at 60%. At that time, I was managing the campaign headquarters for the Union of Right Forces.
Zhegulev: You ran a major campaign, and if my memory serves me correctly, you actively assisted Sergei Kiriyenko in the Moscow mayoral election, where he competed against Yuri Luzhkov?
Guelman: Yes, I assisted Kiriyenko. That is a separate issue of mine. For a long time, I hoped that what is occurring now was happening because he had lost influence, because he had been sidelined. But I was presented with evidence demonstrating that this hardline approach toward the opposition was directly tied to him.
Zhegulev: I heard that Kiriyenko practically made the personal decision regarding Ilya Yashin's arrest.
Guelman: Yes. If I place myself back into my own shoes from 1994 and 1996, everything can be rationalized. And Putin was saying entirely different things back then. People sometimes confront me: “You are against the authorities now, but you were with them back then.” Well, it’s the authorities that performed a 180-degree turn, while I remained exactly where I am. Yet, reality was already flashing certain signals that something was amiss.
Zhegulev: Aside from the St. Petersburg delegation, were there other turning points?
Guelman: Putin was merely the beginning; many other moments followed. In 2001, I left the Foundation for Effective Politics (FEP), and in 2004, I exited the political business altogether. After 2004, I distanced myself maximally, and by 2012, I was in open conflict with them.
Zhegulev: Up until 2004, you managed the media component and structured Channel One alongside Konstantin Ernst?
Guelman: At Channel One, I headed the Analytical Directorate—meaning I drafted what later came to be known as “temniki” (weekly editorial guidelines). I prepared detailed analytical briefings a week in advance for journalists, who were frequently forced to cover subjects they understood poorly. The second component was the Internet Directorate, which was just in its infancy back then.
Zhegulev: I recall that in 2005, you admitted to being the creator of the temniki. Did they first emerge in Ukraine?
Guelman: They first emerged at Channel One. In Ukraine, they were initially almost cloned for the Inter TV channel. My point of contact there was Igor Pluzhnikov, the owner of Inter.
Zhegulev: To quote you directly: “The technology [of temniki] is Russian, if we consider that the person who developed it, Marat Guelman, is a Russian citizen; however, it first appeared in Ukraine, and only later here in Russia.”
Guelman: I would need to check the timeline. In 2001, I participated in the campaign for the Social Democrats in Ukraine, and subsequently joined the channel. So, presumably, yes. I don't recall everything.
Zhegulev: You went to Ukraine and assisted the Social Democrats with their campaign. Was that a purely commercial campaign, or were you assisting the Kremlin?
Guelman: This is an important point. In Ukraine at the time, the situation was such that every politician felt compelled to hire a Russian political strategist. And the reason is clear: Russia had seen numerous elections, they occurred at various intervals, and a market was forming—meaning, individuals for whom this became a profession. You cannot maintain a profession if you only work once every four years. But when you have 80 regions and elections in each occurring at different times, it becomes a market and you can work continuously. Russia possessed such professionals; Ukraine did not. They lacked the corresponding professional profile; their existing skills were geared toward other fields. Those who filled the gap were sociologists, journalists, lawyers, and economists.
The first time I traveled there was at the invitation of Viktor Yushchenko, immediately following my work with the Union of Right Forces. The democrats had achieved a strong result in the 1999 elections. Yushchenko was serving as prime minister under Leonid Kuchma but was already preparing to leave. He had a deputy, Yuriy Yekhanurov, with whom we began working. Later, under Yushchenko's presidency, Yekhanurov became prime minister. During our initial meeting, we discussed everything, and they told me: “We want it to be like SPS, just in Ukraine”—meaning, a democratic party. I explained to them why that wouldn't work: Yushchenko would shape any party to revolve entirely around himself, which would ultimately hinder him rather than help.
Toward the end of the meeting, Yekhanurov said to me: “I heard you are also a gallerist.” I replied: “Rather the opposite; a gallerist first.” To which he responded: “You know, Viktor Andriyovych paints. Could you perhaps look at his canvases?” It turned out Yushchenko was a painter, and a reasonably decent one at that—he produced sophisticated cultural landscapes. Later, people told me that when he served as the head of the National Bank, people would wait in his reception room while he painted in his private office.
So Yuriy Yekhanurov was the first. And when nothing materialized from that, one of our liaisons introduced me to the Surkis brothers (Hryhoriy and Ihor Surkis), who were building the Social Democratic Party of Ukraine (SDPU). Everything about it was excellent, except for the fact that they were not social democrats in the slightest. Nonetheless, the project was highly compelling. This was the so-called “Kyiv Group” centered around Dynamo Kyiv; they simply resolved that they would be social democrats.
Zhegulev: And did it succeed?
Guelman: Yes, I got them elected. That was the only time they entered parliament in that configuration. I was managing the campaign for the Social Democrats, and literally two months before the election, they decided among themselves that Viktor Medvedchuk would lead. I was actually opposed to this because he is wooden.
The objective truth regarding Russian political strategists is that while Ukrainians have their internal, nuanced relationships, you arrive to execute an election purely as a business project—to receive your fee, deliver the result, and leave. In that sense, I paid no attention to other political aspects in Ukraine back then.
Zhegulev: Including the military or security ranks, so to speak.
Guelman: If we look at the criticism aimed at political strategists, not a single Russian strategist ever arrived in Ukraine without an explicit invitation from a Ukrainian politician—Alexei Sitnikov went to Yushchenko, Stanislav Belkovsky went to Yushchenko and Yulia Tymoshenko. Everyone maintained Russian advisors who were summoned, invited, and generously compensated—frequently out-earning their local counterparts. This was a subject of separate friction, but it is vital to understand that Ukrainian politicians explicitly desired this; they initiated it. The Kremlin wasn't a factor back then; the Kremlin possessed absolutely no interest in Ukraine at that moment.
The entire profession is foul. Back then, I comforted myself with the rationalization that it resembles the work of a defense attorney. A lawyer takes on various cases and does not associate themselves personally with the client—it’s an institutional process, blah, blah, blah. But it’s one thing when the fate of an individual criminal is being decided, and quite another when a vast array of outcomes depends on you. Such a profession will always exist, but I believe we were irresponsible precisely in our failure to comprehend the long-term consequences. It was treated like a game of chess. The profession inherently renders you cynical, but everyone else becomes equally cynical. Viktor Yanukovych employed an American political strategist, for instance.
Zhegulev: The profession taught cynicism?
Guelman: Yes, as though everything were unfolding abstractly on a chessboard. That very stance erodes you from within.
Zhegulev: You went there as a political strategist, but you ultimately influenced television channels in Ukraine? And more than one, in the end?
Guelman: My client was Igor Pluzhnikov. He financed the Social Democratic Party and simultaneously owned the Inter TV channel. At the time, Alexei Mustafin was the head of news there. The temniki represented an attempt to structure the channel's editorial policy, to render it more qualitative and better-informed. In 1996, Yeltsin felt that since the tool was effective, it ought to be utilized to hand down orders from the outside. If a temnik is generated internally within a media outlet (for instance, if The Insider holds an editorial meeting, hands out a briefing memorandum, and appends information to it), it serves as genuine assistance to a journalist.
Zhegulev: Did they contain prohibitions—for example, stating that it’s preferable to interview a specific expert while avoiding another?
Guelman: There was a directory of experts categorized by topic, but it functioned primarily as a reference guide. For instance, if a breaking story concerned China, and a journalist didn't know a single sinologist, it provided names.
Zhegulev: When did it cease to be a reference guide and turn into a blacklist of experts who were barred from appearing?
Guelman: I originally engineered a structure that could subsequently be utilized for any purpose imaginable. One could write that certain experts are desirable while others are undesirable. The defining factor is that it represents a highly efficient method of management. Everything was anchored on scheduling and program formatting. Pluzhnikov told me that following the main evening news broadcast, Kuchma would call him personally to berate him. Attempts at external management existed prior to this, but they were less efficient because they took the form of emotional, individual altercations.
Zhegulev: So in effect, you assisted Pluzhnikov in managing his communication with the president, neutralizing conflicts?
Guelman: Yes, I helped him preserve his business.
Zhegulev: And subsequently, you resolved to transfer this technology to Moscow?
Guelman: I was invited to establish the Analytical Directorate at Channel One.
Zhegulev: Did you adopt this from an existing model, or was it entirely your own concept?
Guelman: I studied organizational documents from CNN, the BBC, and several others. Once an editorial meeting exceeds 10 to 15 participants, it ceases to be efficient. Consequently, large media corporations resort to procedural technologies. To state that we simply took something and copied it blindly would be inaccurate. I was quite skeptical regarding the caliber of journalists and their education back then. Compared to CNN, our temniki were more voluminous because we felt compelled to pack in more background information.
Zhegulev: Do you take pride in this technology, or are you ashamed of it?
Guelman: I want to make an important disclaimer. The fact that I am explaining this now does not mean I am attempting to justify it. It cannot alter my biography. If given the chance, I would prefer that these chapters did not exist in my life at all.
Zhegulev: Were you simply fascinated by the process, or did you want to make money?
Guelman: If there had been no financial necessity, I would have focused exclusively on art and my gallery activities. From 1993 to 1996, my gallery endured a difficult period, so this work sustained it.
Zhegulev: So you simply turned a blind eye to certain things for the sake of substantial income?
Guelman: In hindsight, it looks that way, and that focus is probably accurate. You do certain things for money, and other things because they constitute who you are. I never labeled myself a political strategist. I am a gallerist; I didn't participate in political strategy conferences, I wasn't a member of their professional associations, and I didn't consider it my calling. I possessed certain skills and applied them, but fundamentally, I am a gallerist.
Zhegulev: Evaluating it today, does it strike you as wrong?
Guelman: Yes, absolutely. More precisely, it’s not even just that I did specific things incorrectly—though that occurred in 1996—but the profession itself severely damages one's karma.
Zhegulev: You previously stated that temniki eliminate the very profession of journalism.
Guelman: When a genuine editorial policy coexists alongside them, it might seem they don't, but on the whole—yes. We operated on the assumption that journalists were under-trained and required crutches.
Zhegulev: Did you encounter resistance from those who were forced to implement these temniki?
Guelman: I do not recall any. It so happened that this transformation of temniki from internal editorial assistance into a mechanism for state media control occurred after my departure. The temniki drafted for Inter were subsequently distributed by Kuchma to all other channels. While being a political strategist is an unpleasant profession, it is not the root source of evil. The client is the politician; they manifest the intent, and the political strategist merely executes that intent far too zealously. A politician desires to control the media and strikes deals with owners to ensure they accept these guidelines as orders. Today, people want to blame everything on these Russian political strategists, but now is not the time to litigate this.
Zhegulev: Now is not the time to claim you are not to blame?
Guelman: It’s a complex mechanism in which the primary actors are the politicians, not the auxiliary staff.
Zhegulev: The strategist's choice is whether to agree to the contract or decline it.
Guelman: That is the correct framing, because we also held internal debates regarding whether to work with the communists or not, particularly in the regions. I want to remind you that all these political figures were not selected by us.
Zhegulev: Did you vote for Putin in 2000?
Guelman: No, I didn't go to the polls.
Zhegulev: Did you dislike Putin?
Guelman: That wasn't the point. My father, Alexander Guelman, has recently focused less on his famous plays and more on poetry. He has a wonderful poem about laziness, and how this laziness preserved him from making many short-sighted moves. In the late Soviet era, he was highly sought after, constantly invited here and there. Looking back many years later, he writes that he is grateful to his laziness for preserving him from actions that would have caused him shame today. I was deeply moved by this poem—this vindication of laziness. Consequently, wherever possible, I practiced laziness.
Zhegulev: You were simply too lazy to go to the polling station?
Guelman: Yes. There was even a sociological study demonstrating that if it rains on election day, the democrats invariably lose. This occurs simply because a significant portion of them chooses not to go to the polling stations, whereas the communists turn out in any weather.
Zhegulev: You mentioned there was also an analytical directorate tied to the internet. Did you like Channel One?
Guelman: Those were the years 2002–2004. I resigned in 2004 because it became obvious: analysis was being supplanted by direct command. Naturally, I attempted to counter this trend for a time, but those transformations were unfolding gradually; they weren't absolute yet. You are mistaken to assume that everything was already crystal clear back then.
Zhegulev: Boris Berezovsky did not lose his channel by accident. It was seized precisely to transform its editorial policy. And you joined Channel One after it had been taken from him.
Guelman: Putin himself cut a very different figure back then. There is a crucial disclaimer regarding how I evaluate all of this today. Today, there are individuals who hold the correct view of things, just as I do, but each arrived at this realization at a different juncture. The people who visited me from St. Petersburg in 1999 knew even then. Subsequently, Boris Abramovich realized it, then Nemtsov. On the whole, no one foresaw everything from the absolute beginning or perceived reality precisely as it was from day one. Some comprehended it earlier, others later. My colleagues on the Anti-War Committee frequently criticize me for communicating so placidly with individuals holding opposing views. My response to them is that a moment will arrive when all 140 million—or at least the vast majority—will view Putin the same way. One must treat them the way I used to treat myself in the past.
Following my departure from the television channel, from 2004 to 2012, I went through a period of conformism. By then, I already understood that it was all bad. However, I believed I should focus on my specific field. I served as a museum director and a member of the Public Chamber. I always maintained my personal stance within that system and insisted on my own vision.
Zhegulev: Publicly, you constituted a part of that system?
Guelman: In 2005, I curated the “Russia-2” exhibition, which the State Duma attempted to ban. Simultaneously, Vladimir Sorokin's opera “Rosenthal's Children” was being staged at the Bolshoi Theater, drawing a vote from 293 Duma deputies demanding an investigation. I spoke out, but an artistic statement appears non-threatening to the authorities. Back then, they did not react to such statements as existential threats.
I was fortunate that the situation surrounding Pussy Riot severed my ties. I stood up in defense of the artists because I considered it my professional duty. And that sparked the conflict. When I was defending Pussy Riot, "political" individuals approached me for the first time and said: “Fine, Pussy Riot is getting a two-year sentence, but thousands of ordinary people are put on trial for absolutely nothing. Why didn't you defend them earlier?” I replied that this constituted the solidarity of the artistic community. To defend Pussy Riot, we managed to mobilize Paul McCartney and Madonna. And that was in 2012, when Putin assumed his third term.
At the time, I was fully immersed in our Perm project, serving as the director of the PERMM Museum of Contemporary Art; I was completely captivated by it. There wasn't a singular moment to walk away. Understandably, the war constitutes such a defining moment, but numerous other moments preceded it—for some, it was the assassination of Nemtsov; for others, the arrest of Khodorkovsky. For many, these events became the final straw. Our objective today is to ensure that such individuals constitute the majority.
Zhegulev: Do you believe you contributed to the consolidation of Putin's political power?
Guelman: I do not overestimate my contribution; I refuse to claim credit for things that aren't mine. The roster of such contributors is extensive, and I did not make direct policy decisions. My involvement in 1996 was far more substantial. I engaged in the anti-communist campaign and acted as one of its public figures. The second instance was Medvedchuk—the party selected him, but I interacted with him quite closely and assisted him. That represents the exact moment you referred to—when the defining factor is that the compensation is excellent.
Zhegulev: But the overarching implication of your words is that you didn't actually do anything extraordinary; it was simply a different era. Or did I misinterpret you?
Guelman: This is a crucial distinction, to ensure it doesn't seem that way. I am merely explaining the perspective from within that specific era, but that does not mean I evaluate it the same way today. A frog is boiled slowly, and degradation does not arrive all at once. The defining keyword is irresponsibility. You perform actions without considering the far-reaching consequences. You focus exclusively on today's result rather than tomorrow's landscape. You play the game. The war has altered the optical lens completely—not just mine; what previously appeared innocuous today looks like astonishing irresponsibility.
In the future Russia, I would ban myself. I am ready to assist with occasional advice and commentary. When people ask me: “Will you return, will you head an institution...”, my response is: if I were the new Russian public, I would say that we have no need for the Guelmans... along with their historical baggage.
Perspectives shift, opinions evolve, but a biography remains immutable. Yes, today you view Putin through an entirely different lens; you attempt to compensate for what you did by doing good work today. But you cannot alter your biography. If a specific line exists in your biography, it remains there permanently, even if you subsequently emerge as the foremost fighter against whatever it may be.
Therefore, it is preferable that other figures from the past do not return alongside Guelman. It is better if we cancel everyone who participated in that past life and bar them from holding power in the future.
