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Host: Hi.
Marat Guelman: Hello.
Host: Ever since the LiveJournal (LJ) days, one instinctively wants to introduce you as: "Marat Guelman, gallerist." How would you introduce yourself today?
Guelman: "Gallerist" has practically become a permanent moniker at this point. I am still a producer, occasionally an artist, and frequently a father of six. If we are talking about my background, I usually put it this way: born in Moldova to a Jewish family, started my gallery career in Moscow, and currently reside in Berlin.
Host: Fine. Residing in Berlin. A producer. How many galleries does this gallerist, producer, and father of six currently operate? I almost used that cliché about galleries being your children as well. I counted three permanently operating institutions: Berlin, Budva, and Brussels. Is there anything else to add?
Guelman: Belgrade, in a sense. We run it together—my wife, Nastya, plays the pivotal role, but I am certainly involved. No, institutionally we are trying not to expand any further. There is also the "floating" European Anti-War Committee, which operates continuously and quite actively. We work with PACE (Parliamentary Assembly of the Council of Europe) and independently of PACE. But if we are talking about curatorial work, I have an ongoing exhibition in Chelsea, New York, at the Uncoin Gallery. There is also a highly vital exhibition for me in Paris, where I am participating alongside Orlan, Ai Weiwei, and Marina Abramović—essentially as an established master. So art is everywhere. But as the saying goes, "home is where the cat is." Both of our cats are in Berlin, so I consider Berlin my home.
Host: I must ask what the cats are named.
Guelman: Fyodor and Lev. The thing is, my neighbor in Berlin is the writer Vladimir Sorokin, and he has a Fedya and a Lyova. He addresses them on a very informal, familiar basis. We decided we should do the same. We aren't as famous as he is, but at least our cats bear those names.
Host: Strictly first names, no patronymics. Very informal. I want to ask you about the Brussels gallery. First of all, it is literally called "Perm." Secondly, somewhere on Facebook, someone asked you what funds were used to establish it, and you responded: "That is the wrong question." The actual question is: how much will this gallery earn? On what principles does it operate? And what is the story behind a gallery carrying such a distinct ideological load?
Guelman: An ideological load unquestionably exists. It is the gallery of the Anti-War Committee. It turns out that while in Strasbourg and PACE the work is session-based—you arrive once a quarter and work for a week—with the European Parliament, there is a continuously operating commission, meaning a permanent presence is required. It was my proposal that we didn't actually need an office; we needed a gallery that would serve as a representative mission. Representing whom? Anti-war Russia.
Then we began searching for a name. Naturally, if you put the word "Russia" in the name of a gallery, no one in Europe will bother to differentiate the nuances. But "Perm" is not Moscow. I recall a project by a Permian artist that was literally titled "Not Moscow." That is why we named it "Perm"—we are sending a signal that these are Russian people, not the Kremlin, not Moscow. It will focus on sharp, political art, and it will strictly work with artists who maintain an anti-war stance, not exclusively Russian ones. By the way, in August, we will host an exhibition by Vladimir Tsesler—a highly essential Belarusian artist. We will also feature American political artists. So, I hope it will become a genuine cultural institution, but with its own distinct focus. To answer the question about the funding...
Host: Did the Anti-War Committee receive a grant for the rent and for six exhibitions a year?
Guelman: Yes, from the European Committee. And we hope to expand on this. Obviously, grants can never fully cover basic operating expenses. I conduct my activities as a gallerist, and I hope we will secure additional sales. Broadly speaking, my residency in Montenegro handles this. We support artists who left Russia due to their disagreement with current policies. Supporting an artist means locating collections and museums for their work. I engage in this work continuously.
Host: You mentioned that grants cannot cover everything, but typically, grants do not cover baseline capital expenditures. You cannot acquire real estate or always cover leases.
Guelman: No, we are leasing the space. Furthermore, under Belgian law, you cannot lease commercial property for a period shorter than five years. So, "Perm" in Brussels will exist for at least five years. Welcome, welcome. In addition to hosting exhibitions, this gallery will operate as a cultural center. Once a week, we will organize readings, screenings, concerts, and so forth. And during periods when a member of the Anti-War Committee is in Brussels, we have a second floor that functions as the committee's office where meetings with MEPs take place. So it is a form of international representation of alternative Russia in the capital of Europe.
Host: It seems that whatever Marat Guelman builds, it always turns out to be politics and art simultaneously. We must talk about this, because "gallerist" is the first label, and "political technologist" is the second, though it seems problematic to separate the two. We will return to this. Since we recalled Perm, let's talk about the PERMM Museum of Contemporary Art.
Guelman: I just want to add a brief comment to what you just said. There are many cultural figures inside the Anti-War Committee. Within the Russian anti-war movement as a whole, the majority are cultural figures. If you look at the businessmen who remained versus those who left—who left? Oleg Tinkov, Yevgeny Chichvarkin. But the vast majority of the Forbes list remained. In art, however, look at literature: all the top-tier writers left—Shishkin, Sorokin, Ulitskaya, Akunin. Zakhar Prilepin and a few others stayed, but the absolute creative core left.
So the logic of establishing a cultural representative mission is obvious. In the end, Alla Pugacheva’s public statements triggered a larger impact than the actions of all opposing political structures combined. This isn't about Guelman combining politics and art; it is about a historic situation where creators found themselves on the opposite side of the regime. They play a significant role in the anti-war movement.
Host: Regarding the Perm museum: you were the founder of the Museum of Contemporary Art in Perm. Years later, your former colleagues there faced police searches. Are you following the case developing there? Some claim it is linked to you and Pyotr Verzilov, while some of it is not. But it appears to be the Russian state moving in a single direction—declaring this institution alien to the modern Russian Federation.
Guelman: Yes, absolutely. I follow what is happening in Perm closely, not just within the Perm museum. My wife and I often say that while we feel no nostalgia for Moscow, we recall Perm with warmth. If we ever wish to visit Russia again, we will try to find a flight straight to Perm.
The reality that contemporary art and this regime are fundamentally antagonistic became clear to me back in 2012–2013. Putin's third term was directly connected to the end of our Perm chapter, when Governor Oleg Chirkunov was removed, they began targeting me, and the word "modernization" was effectively banned. The Perm project was the flagship of the cultural modernization of the country. Previously, we were celebrated. Dmitry Medvedev told me: "Other governors are asking to be introduced to you." And then, in an instant, it all ended. Modernization was replaced by preservation and traditionalism.
Why? Artists are always oriented toward the future, while the current regime looks strictly to the past. This isn't just revanchism; it is their worldview. Putin envisions the 19th century as Russia’s golden age; he wants to return there. Secondly, an artist always conceptualizes their work globally, looking to expand. The current regime, conversely, declares a distinct, insular "Russian World" that doesn't need external influences. Thirdly, there is freedom. Freedom is an indispensable necessity for an artist and an absolute problem for the current regime.
My forecast is that what happened to Perm will happen to all contemporary institutions. We might not have noticed, but the departments of latest trends in major state museums have simply been quietly shut down. Contemporary art currently persists in Russia only because the state hasn't fully focused its attention on it yet. Under the control of oligarchic handlers like Leonid Mikhelson or Roman Abramovich, certain spaces still exist. But I am confident that if this regime has any historical time left, it will shut all of it down.
Host: I would frame that alternative history slightly differently: it wasn't just Putin's third term, but Vladislav Surkov leaving office. He was a man who believed it was possible to synthesize contemporary art with mature, late-stage Putinism. Historically, there are examples of classical right-wing regimes that embraced the aesthetic of the future—Italian Fascism and Futurism were closely linked. They found a symbiotic connection, and Surkov harbored a similar idea. That period was the peak of your influence in Russia. The Cultural Alliance project saw you traveling to various regions, welcomed by local media and governors who believed you could chart a new, state-sanctioned course. There were even competing projects within the system, like the Houses of New Culture (DNK) that Medinsky opened across the country with the exact same focus on contemporary art and urban reformatting.
Guelman: I see no point in debating whether contemporary art and Putinism are compatible, because they are fundamentally not. Both the October Revolution and Italian Futurism were ideologies oriented toward the future—they harbored a vision of transforming the world to move forward. Putinism lacks this. This is the source of its temporary stability and its ultimate historical doom. It is resistant to revolutionary shocks, yet doomed because the wheel of history does not spin backward.
The regime declares historicism. The concept of a golden age has always existed in art as an alternative to the concept of progress. Both groups of artists stood on the shoulders of giants, but one group said: "We stand on their shoulders to move forward," while the other said: "They achieved perfection, and we wish to return to that state." Putin views time as his enemy, just as he views freedom as his enemy. Time is most easily measured through technological progress—from horses to cars, planes, and rockets. Technological progress in the form of AI and the internet is a threat to him.
A state of schizophrenia can persist temporarily. It was fascinating when they were banning everyone, yet simultaneously opening the V-A-C GES-2 space in Moscow. My international colleagues asked me: "How is this possible? It is an architectural masterpiece of contemporary design." I responded: "Well, this is our domestic schizophrenia." The authorities can do one thing with their left hand and the opposite with their right, but it is temporary. Eventually, it will align. My hypothesis remains that they will eventually close all of it down if given enough time.
Host: You politely avoided my question regarding Surkov and your relationship with him. How defining was his support? The plaques on the Perm Museum used to read: "With the support of the Presidential Administration."
Guelman: They were rather latching onto our success. Objectively speaking, the story of the Perm project is simple. I experienced a personal tragedy. I went to America, lived in New York for six months, and mounted my first exhibitions there. That was when I formulated the concept of "Russian Poor" (Russkoe Bednoe) art, responding to my American colleagues' questions about how Russian art differs from Western art.
At that time, Sergey Gordeev arrived. They had just merged the Perm region and the Perm oblast, creating the Perm Krai in its current borders. Gordeev became a senator representing Perm. The premise was simple: he was accustomed to the reality that to secure a Senate seat, you had to pay the governor. But Governor Chirkunov told him: "No, we don't need your money; do something useful for the region instead." Gordeev began brainstorming, came up with an eccentric idea, and met with me.
The idea of the museum was born. I made him promise that not a single kopeck of state funding would be involved, because I had no plans to cooperate with the Russian state at that juncture. We launched the project and acquired the old river station building. Surkov emerged only when we needed to transfer the federal river station property to the regional administration. He helped facilitate that.
Then the 2008 financial crisis hit. Gordeev told me: "I used to be a billionaire, now I am a millionaire. I am pulling out of the project." But I was already operating at full steam; the art world already knew we were executing the "Perm Cultural Revolution." I had to compromise my principles. Fortunately, Chirkunov—we are still close friends—proved to be an exceptionally progressive guy. We agreed that it would become a state-funded museum. That is the backstory.
The second phase of interacting with the administration occurred under Medvedev's presidency. My relationship with Surkov went back a long way. In 1998–1999, I worked with Alexander Voloshin, and Surkov was his subordinate. Back then, I perceived Surkov strictly as an administrative manager; I didn't see him as an ideologue at all. When Voloshin resigned after Khodorkovsky's arrest, Surkov took his place. But he was never my patron; my relationship was with Voloshin, on relatively equal terms.
The second instance of state cooperation was when we launched the Cultural Alliance exhibition across fourteen cities. The organizers from all those cities said they wanted the same project. I said: "We cannot clone Guelman; we need to build a structure."
Host: You could have cloned six children, excuse me.
Guelman: We had to establish a structure and set common rules. We started with St. Petersburg, and it expanded. We were attempting to quietly decentralize the country, bypassing other channels. The eleven cities that aspired to become cultural capitals within the Cultural Alliance represented eleven distinct centers, eleven alternative capitals of the country. I was willing to engage in political compromises with the authorities for the sake of that goal.
Host: I wanted to note that the project bore the logo of United Russia—decentralization under the banner of a highly centralized ruling party. Whose idea was that? Did Surkov declare it had to be a party-branded project?
Guelman: Believe it or not, I don't remember. At the time, it seemed completely trivial to me. I said: "Put whatever logo you want on it, as long as the work gets done." But that was my mistake. I admit it.
I was rescued from all of this by Pussy Riot. When they executed their performance, I stepped in to defend them because I believe I must always stand on the side of the artist. A month later, I was told: "Do you realize you are the only state employee in Russia defending Pussy Riot?" There were many of us globally—Paul McCartney and others—but among state employees, I was the sole voice.
Host: McCartney was not a Russian state employee, notably.
Guelman: Exactly. And they began a campaign against me, an extermination campaign using all available resources. I understand how things operate in the Kremlin, but this was disproportionate to my standing. It was as if Berezovsky had died, and Guelman became the new primary target. I couldn't comprehend why at first. I asked an acquaintance of mine to find out what the issue was on Staraya Ploschad. It turned out the FSB had fabricated a report claiming that I was the mastermind behind Pussy Riot. This was accepted as objective truth. First of all, they couldn't believe that women could organize themselves without a man directing them. Secondly, they couldn't grasp that artists could pull off something like that without a manager. The reaction was intense; when they imprisoned them, Putin—whose favorite musician was McCartney—was enraged when McCartney wrote him a letter.
Host: You mentioned your wife, Anastasia Guelman, who is also currently engaged in art management. We will talk a bit about personal matters later, if you don't mind. Regarding Oleg Chirkunov—the former governor of the Perm Krai—he actually started his career in the KGB during the late Soviet era. He graduated from the KGB Higher School, became a successful entrepreneur in partnership with Yury Trutnev, who is now the powerful presidential envoy to the Far East. Chirkunov served as a senator, managed a major retail network called Semya, sold it, and is a very wealthy man. He currently lives in France, where he purchased a castle. Since February 2022, his Facebook profile picture has read: "There will be no war when everyone says: No." It seems he left early and was allowed to leave with his capital because he was "one of their own"—a former security services officer.
Guelman: That was a specific situation. I don't know if anyone is interested in rehashing those details now.
Host: It is highly interesting, especially since you mentioned you remain in contact.
Guelman: We had an idea to turn the Perm Krai into the democratic capital of Russia. The cultural project had succeeded. Chirkunov did not want to run for another gubernatorial term. His term was concluding roughly at the same time Putin was returning to the presidency for a third term. I was negotiating with the administration to let him oversee honest elections as governor. We wanted to invite various democratic political forces to participate in the Perm gubernatorial elections.
We had seemingly reached an agreement. But when Putin learned that Chirkunov refused to run for a consecutive term, he needed to find a spot for Dmitry Basargin, who was leaving his ministerial post in the federal cabinet. Putin asked Basargin where he wanted to go, and since Chirkunov was leaving, they removed Chirkunov and appointed Basargin a week before the regional election law—which Medvedev had restored after the protests—was set to take effect. This crushed the idea of honest elections.
Chirkunov was the one consoling me, because I had already drawn up grand plans for a democratic capital of Russia. He asked me: "What are you losing sleep over?" You live with an idea, and suddenly it is taken away. I met with Basargin several times initially, and he even signed a new contract for me as museum director. But now, of course, one realizes how unique Chirkunov was in that office. All the others are merely the soles of Putin’s boots. He immediately ceased all involvement, declined all federal appointments, and in 2014, we went to Berlin to brainstorm how we would live outside of Putin's jurisdiction.
Host: My view, as someone who lived in Perm during Chirkunov's tenure, is that he was a man of ideas. He was a proponent of modernization, but specifically authoritarian modernization. He had read Atlas Shrugged and literally quoted Ayn Rand. He believed he knew what was best, and others did not.
To conclude the Perm chapter, I want to ask about your personal collection. When you donated it, there was an exhibition at the Tretyakov Gallery titled “Marat’s Gift.” You donated a portion of the works to Moldova, a portion to the Centre Pompidou, and a portion to the Russian Museum in St. Petersburg back in 1999. Perm residents noted that despite the rhetoric of decentralization, Perm received nothing from your personal collection.
Guelman: I kept the collection I intended for Perm. The situation was simple: I was trying to leverage it with the local authorities. I told them: "Return the physical premises to the museum, and I will donate a major collection." I tried to negotiate through the curator Nailya Allakhverdieva, through officials, but it failed. You cannot burden a museum with a collection if it lacks a building.
In 2019, it seemed to me that the Tretyakov Gallery was an institution capable of speaking to the authorities on equal terms. The Tretyakov existed before Putin and will exist after. They preserved the Russian Avant-Garde when it was banned. So I made the only correct decision. I still believe it was correct, because the Tretyakov is a powerful institution with excellent storage facilities. Let it wait there.
Currently, I have a new, highly fascinating collection consisting of works by artists who left Russia due to their opposition to the war, including Slava Ptrk from Yekaterinburg. It is an excellent collection. I am embedded in a living process. Let them overthrow Putin, let them return the building to the Perm museum, and we will make a gift.
Host: You mentioned Nailya Allakhverdieva, the former director of the PERMM Museum, who resigned and is now facing a criminal investigation. That story is detailed on Meduza. Regarding Chirkunov: what is his current stance?
Guelman: His position is obvious: he does not accept this regime or the transformations that have occurred in Russia. But he doesn't speak out publicly; he is writing a book that will eventually be published. I won't speak on his behalf like a spy. This situation reveals human qualities. It is pleasant to interact with someone who is not only a political ally but with whom you share a happy chapter of your past. I value this communication.
Host: We talked about Surkov. Let's discuss another former Deputy Chief of the Presidential Administration, Sergey Kiriyenko, with whom you worked. It seems your current practices of blending politics and art stem from that experience. When the Lively Perm festival was taking place, I was shown a copy of a book you produced for Kiriyenko's 1999 Moscow mayoral campaign, titled “Unofficial Moscow.” That was the blueprint for Lively Perm. When did you last speak to him, and what do you think of his transformation? He clearly harbors ambitions to play a role in a post-Putin Russia.
Guelman: We last met at the funeral of our close friend, Vyacheslav Glazychev. He was a candidate for vice-mayor when Kiriyenko ran for office, and a close friend of mine. We met at his funeral, and that was the last time. Following that, Kiriyenko apparently instructed his staff to stop sending me automated birthday congratulations. He is a highly systematic guy; everything is automated. All important people must receive congratulations.
In 1999, we met daily for three months; our offices were adjacent, so the day began with a briefing. The Union of Right Forces (SPS) achieved its best result then, entering the Duma. I managed the campaign headquarters. Kiriyenko was number one, Nemtsov was number two, and Khakamada was number three. Anatoly Chubais was operating backstage.
Looking back, one can analyze his trajectory. Since they were always close and somewhat competitive—Nemtsov actually introduced him to the political scene—Kiriyenko secured his top slot in the list. But even back then, he was surrounded by security services.
Host: What do you mean by that? How did it look?
Guelman: His entire entourage looked like KGB officers—his chief of staff, assistants, drivers. They didn't look like typical drivers or secretaries; they looked like active-duty officers. They surrounded him even then. And, of course, there was an absolute absence of political convictions. People claimed he was a Scientologist, but it was simply an absence of ideology. He was a man devoid of ideology; when there is no ideology, you rely on technology, and technology is what leads to those associations. When there is no overarching goal, only the method of achieving a task remains.
Host: Or a methodologist, yes.
Guelman: Yes, a methodologist is a specific application of that approach. At the same time, he possessed a respect for culture. He felt he was uneducated in that sphere and didn't hesitate to admit it, asking for assistance. Since we were working closely for three months during the campaign, I put together a "dream team" for him: Tatyana Tolstaya, Dunya Smirnova, and my father, Alexander Guelman. Once a week, they brought him books to read and held discussions about them. And he read them, despite the hectic pace of an election campaign. He was highly efficient.
His campaign slogan was: "If you want to live like in Europe, vote for Kiriyenko." But he experienced a breaking point. No one expected the SPS to achieve such a major success, and many different people entered the Duma, including a large group of Gaidar’s supporters whom Gaidar had placed in non-eligible slots on the list, yet who won. They began a campaign against Kiriyenko, pushing Nemtsov forward. Nemtsov didn't actively participate in this, but Kiriyenko told me: "I didn't sign up for this."
He went to Putin and said: "I don't want to be in the Duma; take me as your soldier, place me wherever you want."
I believe the systemic liberals—Gref, Kiriyenko, Nabiullina, Shvydkoy—bear responsibility for what followed. Autocrats of Putin's type do not survive in power for long on their own because they lack technological competence. But these systemic liberals went to serve Putin, and a significant portion of the responsibility lies on them, including Kiriyenko.
When Kiriyenko was appointed presidential envoy to the Volga Federal District, he agreed on the condition that Perm would be included in his district. In the beginning, he helped out of inertia—for example, helping transfer the Arsenal contemporary art center in Nizhny Novgorod from the Ministry of Defense. He valued that center.
But in 2011, I asked him to help a certain individual, arguing that he was "one of ours." Kiriyenko told me: "I have no 'ours' anymore; I am Putin's soldier." He told me this in 2011, and I realized it was pointless to try to engage him in any positive initiatives.
Host: He started his career in the Komsomol, then became a liberal reformer under Yeltsin, and even took the blame for the 1998 default. You often repeated that the 1999 SPS campaign was won because the party endorsed Putin for the presidency during the final two weeks of the race.
Guelman: Nemtsov made the wrong choice in that system and followed his convictions, while Kiriyenko understood the rules of the game: you have to be a soldier, and he adapted.
This logic of "efficiency above all" is a Faustian bargain. It is a deeply flawed logic. Currently, the artists who remained in Russia and who refuse to cooperate with the state are pursuing the only correct strategy of silent non-participation. But Kiriyenko was already a wealthy man; he didn't need to serve for money. He had a certain vision of the future and his place in it. He should have listened to Pyotr Shchedrovitsky's lectures about the inevitability of collapse. Historically, whether it happens in five or ten years is irrelevant; everyone who stood alongside Putin will be remembered like Himmler or Goebbels. Who does he want to be in that future? He had no material need to serve. He was a free man. He could have been happy like Chirkunov. Chirkunov is happy, while Kiriyenko is not—I am certain of this because he is an educated man surrounded by people alien to him. The most difficult position today is occupied by these systemic liberals who made a compromise based on false constructs. Unlike me, Kiriyenko never had a "Pussy Riot moment" to serve as a cold shower and show him that his path was a dead end.
Host: Regarding Ukraine: you worked with Viktor Medvedchuk and later with Viktor Yanukovych.
Guelman: I worked with Medvedchuk, not with Yanukovych.
Host: Let me share how I heard the story, and you can clarify. Regarding Medvedchuk: why did the attempt to build a "Ukrainian Putin" fail? Because Medvedchuk's public image—and I assume you participated in crafting it—was moving in that direction.
Guelman: The "Ukrainian Putin" concept was developed without me. That situation also grew out of the SPS project. When we won the campaign for SPS, an individual from Chubais's inner circle who handled finances said: "Marat, they want to meet with you in Ukraine to establish a similar project." I flew to Kyiv and met with Viktor Yushchenko and Yury Yekhanurov, who later became his prime minister. Yekhanurov was my primary contact. Yushchenko was prime minister under Kuchma at the time. I explained to them why it wouldn't work: Yushchenko was already too prominent a figure, and any new party would be a burden for him.
There was a funny episode: Yekhanurov mentioned they heard I was a gallerist, and I joked that I was also a political technologist. He said: "Viktor Yushchenko paints; can we show you his paintings?" I agreed. They told me that when Yushchenko was head of the Central Bank, visitors waited in his reception room while he painted traditional Ukrainian cottages (khatynki) in his back office.
One of the organizers of those meetings was Grigory Surkis, the owner of Dynamo Kyiv. When it became clear that the project with Yushchenko was a no-go, he said: "We want to establish the Social Democratic Party." I found the idea fascinating because I believed it was a missed opportunity that social-democratic ideas didn't exist in our political landscape. The slogan was "If you want to live like in Europe." I wanted to show people that Europe was social-democratic at the time.
I took the contract. They had the "Kyiv Clan"—seven prominent businessmen—and they decided Medvedchuk would be the leader. It was a difficult choice because he was rigid and possessed negative political charisma. But the decision was made. I worked on making Medvedchuk appear more human, and they won seats in the parliament. But they were not genuine social democrats.
I later admitted to The Insider and other outlets that taking a contract in a foreign country was a dark chapter in my career. It was a game for me, but peoples' lives depended on it. It is a ruthless profession. Following that, I began consulting Kuchma's administration.
Host: I heard a story that Gleb Pavlovsky left Ukraine, while Guelman remained during the first Maidan. Men from the Donbas arrived and asked: "We hired you, what are you going to do now?" and you had to act.
Guelman: No, that is completely inaccurate. It was nothing like that. Victor Pinchuk and I, when the search for Kuchma's successor was underway...
Host: Pinchuk is Kuchma's son-in-law, a prominent figure in the contemporary art world in Ukraine.
Guelman: Yes. Pinchuk and I wrote a lengthy memorandum detailing why Yanukovych should not be appointed successor. We delivered it through Kuchma's daughter to ensure no one else saw it. Kuchma responded through his daughter: "But who will raise the funding?" From Kuchma’s perspective, the successor had to manage relations with the oligarchs and handle fundraising, which Kuchma wanted to avoid.
The decision to appoint Yanukovych was made because the Donetsk clan funded the campaign themselves. On May 1, when Yanukovych became prime minister and the official candidate, our memorandum became known, and I ceased to be Kuchma's advisor.
On May 2, Pinchuk and I were in Crimea, and he asked: "What do we do now?" I told him: "Stop engaging in politics, let's build a contemporary art center instead." This gave birth to the PinchukArtCentre in the center of Kyiv, which is one of the best projects I ever conceived. I curated their “First Collection” exhibition. He later hired excellent curators from France.
We parted ways amicably. I met Yanukovych only once prior to May 1 in my capacity as Kuchma's advisor, simply to comprehend why he was running for president and what was on his mind.
Host: And what was on his mind, in your view?
Guelman: Destiny. He believed it was his destiny to be president.
Host: Regarding Moldova: you are a citizen of the country. You were born in Chisinau, and President Maia Sandu presented you with your passport.
Guelman: That is a bit of an exaggeration. I traveled there, received my passport, and met with Maia Sandu on the same day. I showed her my new passport, and a photo of that moment was published. But she did not present it to me; I reclaimed my citizenship by right of birth.
There is a group of "good Russians" whom the president welcomes. However, some in Moldova claim that anyone Russian is an agent of the Kremlin, and they say the same about you. They also claim you proposed a major cultural project that fell through because of funding issues. What was that project?
Guelman: Let's start with what succeeded. I made a valuable donation of Moldovan art to the national museum. Recently, I launched the project “55 Natives of Moldova in Global Art.” It is a unique project that I discovered by chance. A collector asked me to locate an American artist, and during the search, the Jewish Museum in New York provided me with database records showing that 55 Jewish immigrants from Chisinau, Balti, and other towns played a pivotal role in global art, yet no one had highlighted this. Some were co-founders of Dadaism in Paris, New York, and Tel Aviv.
When the Moldovan pavilion opened in Venice, the Minister of Culture told me that the mayor of Venice noted that the orchestras performing at the famous cafés in Piazza San Marco are all graduates of the Chisinau Conservatory. I published these 55 biographies on my website, and the next day I received an offer to establish a museum. It is an exciting project.
Additionally, I assisted Sandu during both the presidential and parliamentary campaigns.
Host: In what capacity? Did you offer advice, or was it something more?
Guelman: It was more significant. Regarding the diaspora: there was incorrect information circulating that the election was won exclusively due to the diaspora votes. The figures demonstrate that without the diaspora vote, she would not have won.
The issue was that diaspora votes are counted last, which created an impression of manipulation among some observers, especially since pollsters didn't measure diaspora sentiments. We worked with the diaspora to integrate their voice into the mainstream political narrative for the subsequent parliamentary elections. As a Moldovan residing in Berlin, I acted legally as one of the coordinators of the campaign.
Furthermore, we organized a mission of the Anti-War Committee. Twenty-five percent of Moldovans speak Russian as their native language. They view the rupture of ties with Russia as a rupture with their own culture. It was crucial for us to travel there and explain that this is a rupture with Putin, not with Russia. We brought Russian musicians, entrepreneurs, and politicians to show that there is another Russia that supports Sandu. Dmitry Gudkov traveled to Balti for this purpose.
Host: I must note that the gas remains with the other Russia. You have Gudkov, but the Kremlin holds the valve.
Guelman: Yes, but gas is an argument that cuts both ways. The Kremlin can shut off the valve, which is what triggered the crisis in Ukraine when they pressured Yanukovych to abandon the European track, leading to the Maidan. Russia possesses vast resources, which appear massive to a small country like Moldova. But we won the elections. It was Putin's first political defeat in the region, followed by Hungary, where we also assisted. The Anti-War Committee played a vital role in explaining to Russian-speaking Moldovans that supporting Sandu and opposing the war does not mean opposing Russia.
What did not succeed: I met with Sandu and agreed to write a memorandum on the role of culture in the country's integration into Europe. I presented this report in the parliament. It was well-received, but nothing followed. This is common; there are always more urgent crises to manage.
The project argued that if Moldova joins the EU by 2028, the global spotlight will be on the country, and it must be prepared. I have written similar development projects for various cities, starting with Perm. It is a consulting field that I engage in professionally.
The Minister of Culture failed to execute his part of the work. He is no longer in office, but back then, he should have discussed the project with local cultural figures. They shouldn't have learned about it from the press. We continue to work. There is no singular global project, but there are smaller ones. For example, on June 15, we are exhibiting Moldovan art at Art Basel during the Volta fair—featuring four Moldovan artists. It is a unique showcase.
Host: Regarding the present: you mentioned your main project is building a "Russia outside of Russia," separate from Putin's state—"my Russia is with me."
Guelman: I have several projects, and I consider each of them primary. MetaRussia—the project of organizing European Russian-language culture—has been active since 2017. It remains the most important forum of Russian culture in Europe, featuring a museum and a university. It is a mechanism for the Russian-speaking minority to organize its cultural identity in Europe.
In Montenegro, fifteen percent of the population is Russian-speaking. It is a cultural autonomy, much like the Albanians or the Serbs. It is a fascinating experience to see how a culture persists as a minority culture without the backing of a large state territory. The same applies to Berlin, where about ten percent of the population is Russian-speaking, with three operating theaters. We established a university in Montenegro. Some skeptics claim our children won't need this, but let the children decide.
Secondly, I have become an artist myself, and I enjoy success in this field. Previously, when I opened a gallery in Berlin, people praised it, but in Moscow, I operated the number-one gallery, while in Berlin, it was one of hundreds. When I ran the project in Montenegro, people noted it lacked the scale of the Perm project. I grew tired of these comparisons, so I am glad to have a sphere where I am judged strictly as an artist.
But our most critical project remains the Anti-War Committee. While the other initiatives depend on me and I can abandon them if they fail, this is my personal responsibility. I would gladly focus exclusively on my art exhibitions, like the successful one in New York. But my conscience doesn't allow it. I am obligated to oppose Putin and his war.
Host: Can you explain the cultural autonomy of Russian culture outside of Putin's state using the example of the open letter regarding Alexander Sokurov? You discussed this with Alexander Plyushchev, and it appeared you were caught off guard by the phrasing you signed and had to explain it post-factum. Sokurov is a courageous artist who remains in Russia, does not compromise with the state, yet he faced exclusion from individuals who should support him.
Guelman: You have to read the actual letter. The letter was about something else. It contained an unfortunate phrase regarding Sokurov, but it was a lengthy letter listing artists who are currently imprisoned. The letter was written within a specific context: the Venice Biennale had invited the Russian state to participate. They actively lobbied for Russian participation due to budget considerations.
The international community, the European Commission, the Italian Ministry of Culture, and our Anti-War Committee opposed this, arguing it was an attempt to normalize an aggressor state. Because the Biennale organizers had invited them, they couldn't withdraw the invitation, claiming they opposed censorship. We explained that Russia is a state that practices censorship, imprisons artists, and compiles blacklists. By claiming to oppose censorship, the Biennale was facilitating the primary censor in Europe.
The pavilion was allowed to operate only for three days prior to the official opening. In an attempt to save face, the organizers proposed a dialogue with the opposition. Six years ago, Sokurov participated in the pavilion, and Hermitage Director Piotrovsky acted as the commissioner. The state utilized Sokurov's reputation to marginalize contemporary artists. Sokurov is a decent man, but he allowed his name to be used by his friend Piotrovsky.
Our letter argued that if we are talking about protest artists, the majority are either silent inside Russia or have emigrated. There are two small groups—one in prison, and another represented by figures like Dmitry Muratov. Sokurov cannot participate in an open political debate because he has to return to Russia. Sokurov understood this himself and declined to travel.
My signing of that letter without editing that specific section was a mistake. I know Sokurov well and respect his courageous stance. But he was utilized by state propaganda. The letter was about a different issue, but I made a mistake by signing it without a thorough reading. Public figures shouldn't do that.
Host: There was no intention of exclusion or segregation regarding Sokurov?
Guelman: Absolutely not. His stance is courageous. But he would have been constrained in an open debate in Venice. While others can speak without constraints, he would have had to weigh every word, knowing he had to return to Russia, which could have put him in jeopardy. I am explaining the context of my mistake, not justifying it.
Host: To summarize: you are a person who blends art and political technology. For you, political technology is perhaps more critical than fine art, which serves a functional role. You successfully negotiate with corporate sponsors, regional governments, and political parties, proposing political solutions. Consequently, your cultural projects are executed with the intensity of an election campaign, which can trigger local conflicts. You are a political technologist operating in Moldova to support the ruling party, working for the anti-war opposition. What is your take on this assessment?
Guelman: It turns the reality upside down. I opened my first gallery in 1990. Everything significant I have accomplished has been as a cultural producer. In 1994, my gallery faced financial difficulties, and Gleb Pavlovsky and I established the Foundation for Effective Politics. For a time, political consulting was a mechanism to sustain the gallery.
The media is always more interested in the political consulting aspect of my career. But those who understand art recognize that I have launched projects that transformed the artistic landscape, starting with the Ukrainian Transavantgarde in 1989. Currently, I am working on a major art project. My donations to the Russian Museum, the Tretyakov Gallery, and the Centre Pompidou represent a significant cultural contribution.
War is not politics. War is a state of life and death that transforms everything. When people claim I am engaging in politics today, they misunderstand the situation. I support artists with an anti-war stance. I argued with the artist Oleg Kulik, stating that there are things more important than art, and he was enraged. But I believe this is true during a war.
I was deeply engaged in Ukrainian art; I operated the Guelman Gallery in Kyiv for two years. Prior to February 2022, my projects as a cultural producer were significant. The Perm project went beyond traditional cultural management—it was an attempt to reorder the world, placing culture at the center.
In the Soviet era, culture was relegated to the back page of the newspaper alongside the horoscope. I wanted to move culture to the front page. In the 1990s, exhibitions at the Guelman Gallery occupied the front pages of Kommersant. When we organized the Art Riot exhibition at the Saatchi Gallery in London, there were about two thousand press reviews, and I was introduced as the former director of the Perm Museum, because the global community knew about the Perm project. It was a project about organizing life through culture. I cannot agree with your assessment.
Host: A final question. Have you ever contemplated an alternative scenario where you remained in Russia, and Sergey Kiriyenko—who is the handler for the occupied territories in Ukraine—approached you, saying: "Marat, Mariupol is a new city; we need you to go there and utilize your culture-led development tools to make people forget the horrors of the war, moving the tragedy to the back page. You know how to do this." Have you ever envisioned yourself in that position?
Guelman: We don't know what could have happened. For me, everything became clear in 2014. A week after the full-scale invasion began, a journalist asked me: "Marat, could you have envisioned this?" and I said no. A Ukrainian journalist then sent me an article from 2014 containing my interview, titled: "I do not want to participate in Russia's war against the world."
When they violated the international consensus by annexing foreign territories, they rendered these cultural projects impossible. You can rebuild a theater building in Mariupol, but you cannot restore the theater. It doesn't work. The state attempts to turn PR men and propagandists into writers and artists, and it fails.
I consider myself fortunate that at key turning points in my life, there were signs that guided me to the correct side.
Host: Thank you very much. Marat Guelman, gallerist, as we agreed today.
