In an exclusive interview with Jewish.ru, gallerist and publicist Marat Guelman talks about how he became a toxic figure, who is currently skimming the cream, and whether there is life after fame.
Sindeeva: Ilya Khrzhanovsky took the helm of the Babyn Yar Holocaust Memorial Center in Kyiv. Were you ever offered to lead this project?
Guelman: Nobody made me any offers. Politically, I am much more clear-cut. Someone who once interacted closely with the Russian authorities might seem like too toxic a figure for a project like that in Kyiv—but that is just my hypothesis. Still, I think Ilya is an interesting appointment. I observed his work in London and Paris, and I value him highly. I understand that things are complicated, and I hope the scandal will ultimately benefit Babyn Yar itself. A grand memorial is absolutely necessary. Right now, there are just monuments there—perhaps the right ones—but they don't look compelling. What is needed is a global exhibition.
Sindeeva: You and Khrzhanovsky share similar roots. What kind of memorial would you build?
Guelman: I have Jewish-Moldovan roots, but of course, it’s all the same background. I do not forget the tragedy that occurred—the older I get, the more often I look back on it—but in a professional sense, I hadn't planned on manifesting my lineage just yet. You know, my father is from Chernivtsi—back then, it was Bessarabia. He wrote screenplays for Israeli directors and was much more integrated into Jewish life. I was not.
My father, by the way, wrote a book titled The Ghetto Boy. My mother, a schoolteacher, didn't write anything down, but she was also a ghetto prisoner in Poland. This is the history of our family on both sides. My father's brother and grandmother perished in the Death March. Out of 14 family members, only he, his sister, and his grandfather survived until liberation, and it was my grandfather who told me these stories.
Sindeeva: How did you perceive these stories back then?
Guelman: Like any Soviet child: there is good and evil, victims and oppressors. And our side is the right one. Everything was very clear-cut. My mother told me about her brother who died, a collection of small stories, including some that were not very flattering toward the local population. For instance, their family tried to cross the Dniester River when the Germans were advancing, but they didn't make it in time and had to turn back. Even before the fascists arrived, their homes had already been looted by the locals. "You're going to leave anyway. What's the big deal?!" they said.
And there were many stories about how the Romanians were susceptible to money: if you handed over a gold ring, they would tell you which group to join to end up in a transit camp rather than a firing squad. This is very much in line with what my father wrote about. Back then, these stories rather disrupted the ideal picture of good and evil. Today, it all looks very different.
Sindeeva: Understood about Babyn Yar. And what is the life of Russian artists like right now?
Guelman: Given the country's current isolation, young artists have very few opportunities for a breakthrough. And this is a most serious problem. Those with whom I collaborate—their creative work was already established in the 2000s, and now they are, as the saying goes, skimming the cream. Meanwhile, building new careers is difficult.
Sindeeva: Many representatives of Russian culture have scattered across Europe like shards. What does their community look like abroad?
Guelman: Natalya Sindeeva once told me: "You left, but we stayed. You are already a cut-off slice. Perhaps you don't always correctly evaluate what is happening in Russia?" But Sorokin lives in Berlin. Akunin lives in England. And Shishkin, a winner of the Russian Booker Prize, lives in Switzerland. A significant portion of Russian literature lives outside of Russia—and these are not shards. Nor are they a cut-off slice!
Today, the borders are not closed; our cultural diaspora has not severed ties with the metropole. Akunin's books are published in Russia. Unlike in previous Soviet years, those who left do not lose touch with the homeland. We are becoming, in a way, intermediaries between European and Russian culture. A crucial point is to stop being ashamed of one's Russianness. Previously, you could only become successful in Europe if you assimilated, ceased being Russian, and became French, for example. Now, you can remain within the framework of your own culture.
Sindeeva: You used to be the main cultural educator in Russia. Your name never left the newspaper pages. And now, it isn't there. Is there life after fame?
Guelman: People used to say that just as Putin isn't in Donbas, I am not in Moscow. I am, of course, present there. A year and a half ago, I mounted an exhibition at the Tretyakov Gallery. I curate 15 exhibitions a year in Europe—and these are mostly exhibitions of Russian and Ukrainian art. As for fame, I had a crisis in 2005. I left for India for two years. And I genuinely vanished. After all, people don't want anything from you except your name. Not your competencies, nor your unique qualities. Only the name. That is what I ran away from. And I disappeared from all Russian federal TV channels. I only returned when it was time to do the Perm project. That audacious project was a trial once again. And moving to Montenegro was also a challenge. Despite all my past achievements, I had to start all over again.
Sindeeva: But you are also an experienced political strategist. Doesn't your professional instinct itch from what is happening back home?
Guelman: As a political strategist, I finished in 2004—and I am very happy about it! So nothing is itching. I am grateful to fate that it tore me away from political consulting and interaction with the authorities in a timely manner. In 2012, Pussy Riot happened, I stood up in their defense, and the authorities decided that this was unacceptable. At the time, I was a member of the Public Chamber and the director of a state museum. On that note, all my relations with the authorities ended—at the initiative of the latter. But now I live in harmony with myself. The former governor of the Perm Krai came to visit me. He said: "You should personally thank everyone who squeezed you out of the country, because life in Montenegro is, of course, vastly different."
Sindeeva: Are you talking about Oleg Chirkunov, who lost his gubernatorial seat, as the press wrote, due to his collaboration with you?
Guelman: He was simply a liberal man. He came to modernize the economy and the urban structure. But that was Putin's third term, and the word "modernization" became a dirty word—we were returning to our roots.
Sindeeva: Why did you wait until you were squeezed out then?
Guelman: That is a good question, actually. Back then, it felt like there was something worth staying for, but today that is not so obvious. You know, much like Chulpan Khamatova did for the sake of the children, I did it for the sake of the museum. For instance, I had the Cultural Alliance—an association of 11 cities that decided to develop through culture. It’s clear that for the city mayors, a connection with the top leadership was important. And I was interacting with Medvedev—it was shown on television.
It is obvious now that the Medvedev era was a collective illusion. People hoped that Medvedev—by virtue of his purely human qualities—would become the conduit for a new policy, but that didn't happen. And, evidently, it couldn't have happened. But delusions sometimes allow us to take positive actions. Many good things exist not because of, but in spite of the circumstances.
Sindeeva: How do you view the future of Russia?
Guelman: I see a degradation of institutions. However, unlike in the Soviet past, there are no ideological dogmas—and that is a good thing. It means they can turn in any direction: if necessary, they could become great friends with America as early as tomorrow. Especially since their children are studying in Europe—which serves as insurance against developing along a North Korean scenario.
Yet, at the same time, there are no grounds to hope for change. The repressive machine has been built: they fought against the FBK and Navalny, they won, and now they need to find something else to do. I was told that now the "E-Center" operatives (staff of the Ministry of Internal Affairs' Center for Combating Extremism) attend stand-up comedy shows—listening to who says what. They need to find new enemies; otherwise, they themselves are obsolete.
Against this backdrop, Moscow lives its own separate life, including its cultural life. Being a foreigner in Moscow right now is highly comfortable. Many cultural figures feel roughly that way over there. The opportunity not to delve into politics, not to think about it, feels like a privilege. It is precisely this attitude that plays into Putin's hands.
Sindeeva: The convergence of cultural figures with the authorities, nevertheless, continues.
Guelman: Representatives of Russian art, to my great regret, turned out to be banal conformists. Everyone has their own circumstances—I don't judge anyone individually, but on the whole, it is quite sad.
Sindeeva: Perhaps that is why you obtained a passport of the virtual state of Freeland. What is it to you?
Guelman: A game. You know how in childhood we used to play with money: we cut it out of paper and played among ourselves. We, as adults, play seriously—at being a state: a passport with a good design and a seal, our own currency. You choose a tariff plan: citizenship, rules, guarantees. It’s a utopia, but with the advent of the blockchain era, it is moving closer to reality.
I want the state to shrink down to the level of a service. There is a certain disillusionment with the system that exists today. It doesn't matter whether it's Russia, the US, or Montenegro—on the whole. The resource of this kind of societal organization is exhausted. It seems obvious to me that in the future, states will not exist. But between the present situation, where they are strong, and that future, where they are gone, there is a transitional moment—and that is Freeland.
