Does art truly change the world? It does bring to light issues that have long been excluded from mainstream discussions with 2024 marking a turning point for artists from historically marginalised regions. From the 60th Venice Biennale, where works by artists in the Pygmalion Gallery with those from Kazakhstan gained prominent attention. To the West Asian art fairs with their long-standing tradition, rooted in a deep respect for local values, prioritising collective dialogue and the exchange of ideas over commerciality and profit. As such, the Abu Dhabi Art Fair emerged as a notable event, challenging Western cultural dominance.
Back in November, a standout exhibition at the Abu Dhabi Art Fair was Silk Road: Drifting Identities curated by Elvira Eevr Djaltchinova-Malec. This project showcased works by artists represented by four galleries, each linked to areas along the historic Silk Road — regarded today not only as a trade route but also as a path leading to self-discovery and spiritual transformation.
The conversation with Elvira Eevr Djaltchinova-Malec extends beyond the realm of art itself, becoming a profound reflection on humanism, empathy, and sensitivity to the suffering of others – all particularly relevant in the context of the beginning of a new year, a time to reassess one’s beliefs and ideas.
We’re meeting today to discuss the project Silk Road: Drifting Identity, presented in the Focus section you curated during last year’s Abu Dhabi Art Fair. The show featured artists represented by four galleries whose origins are geographically linked to this ancient trade route. The name goes back to the 19th century when a German traveller and geographer, Ferdinand von Richthofen, coined the term “Seidenstrasse”. Today, the Silk Road is not merely seen as a trade route but also as a path of self-discovery and spiritual metamorphosis through collision with other people. Does this vision align with the fair’s overarching concept? In what ways are they connected?
As a curator and lecturer with many years of experience, I have struggled for a long time to unite the academic and commercial worlds. As a student, I researched the phenomenon of foundations established during the reign of the Ottoman Empire, initiated by rulers and their families to support the arts. Through this, I noticed a natural and logical connection. Academic tradition and its rich legacy stem from travel, the exchange of ideas, information, experiences, and trade. In the Middle Ages, trade routes were bridges across cultures, so to speak, and the Silk Road was among the most significant ones. It’s important to remember that it was not a single road but a network of land and sea routes. At the junction of the roads, dynamic centres of trade – markets, bazaars – were established in the ports. With the development of these marketplaces, travellers found rest, security, and protection, while rulers offered patronage and hospitality to scholars and artists seeking refuge. The contemporary model of art fairs is not unlike a medieval bazaar. These places are not merely of commerce but also hubs of lively, dynamic cultural dialogues at many different levels.
Does the Abu Dhabi fair differ from its European counterparts in terms of ideas?
Yes! In Europe, we became accustomed to the model in which fairs take place in a cold hall divided into booths and stands. On designated days, we primarily meet for commercial purposes, only to quickly forget about the whole thing as soon as it ends. Europe – and the West in general – have distanced themselves from the carnivalesque nature of fairs, as described by the sixteenth-century French writer François Rabelais, and the culture of laughter. In contrast, in Asia – to apply the methodology of another carnival theorist, Russian philosopher and literary critic Mikhail Bakhtin – the fair does not lose the spirit of the medieval carnival. For a cultural researcher, participating in these types of events and observing the vivid tapestry of culture is a dream come true.
At the Abu Dhabi Art Fair, organised by its patrons, the event is treated as a forum, a platform for dialogue, and a place to confront others who might be very different from us, encouraging cultural exchange. Despite the misleading similarity of organised discussions, lectures, and panels, the event is, in fact, a joint celebration, where meeting and building relations take precedence over the commercial transaction itself.
Let’s discuss Silk Road: Drifting Identities. Could you please tell us more about the concept and curatorial vision?
Many years ago, back in 1997, I had the honour of participating in an international research project focused on the notions of identity. Over time, it evolved into the Artes Liberales research team led by the Warsaw University professors – Jan Kieniewicz and Zoja Morochojewa. Since the beginning of time, people have tried to find their place, their identity, in a world of constant change in which new boundaries are shaped by socio-cultural development. One could say that life is a constant journey, where it is becoming increasingly difficult to define not only national identity but also gender identity. As such, the triage – Searching Identity, Drifting Identity and Metamorphosis – provided the framework for our interdisciplinary academic research, in which I focused on the artists’ achievements.
So far, the artists I collaborated with as part of this academic project have raised questions about the search for identity through their work. The artists from Tibet, for example, asked themselves if their art had a local or global character. During the Abu Dhabi Art Fair, I invited the artists and their galleries to delve into the phenomenon of drifting identity. Here, the traditional dilemma of choosing between commercial and “scientific” or “intellectual” works did not arise. The artists were given a great deal of freedom, which was a very bold and innovative move for a commercial art fair.
Alongside the team of gallerists and curators, we decided to give artists a voice, following Bakhtin’s methodology of polyphony (meaning multiple voices), to allow them to articulate their ideas without any curatorial comments or favouritism. In the polyphonic narrative, various ways of thinking exist simultaneously, polemicise with each other, and relate to each other. Most importantly, they are not subjugated to a curator’s overarching concept. The experiment turned out to be a success. By inviting a broader audience to reflect – from schoolchildren to adult laypeople – we gave new meanings to words with each interaction, expanding their semantic scope in line with Bakhtin’s theory of dialogism of culture. After all, real life takes place neither at the museum nor in a gallery but on this figurative trail, on the road. Therefore, research on identity continues, even during art fairs, and the third instalment on metamorphosis is coming soon.
Since the beginning of time, people have tried to find their place, their identity, in a world of constant change in which new boundaries are shaped by socio-cultural development. One could say that life is a constant journey, where it is becoming increasingly difficult to define not only national identity but also gender identity.
— Elvira Eevr Djaltchinova-Malec
How did you approach the design of this specific exhibition?
I wanted to invite artists from the peripheries, whose presence on the art market is scarce and whose work is regarded as “exotic”. The narrative surrounding the Silk Road is dominated by the legacies of powerful empires and civilizations – China, Persia, India, Turkey. Therefore, I decided to subvert Western mainstream expectations and give voice to the smaller ethnic groups, often overshadowed by these dominant narratives. I also wanted to showcase a fragment of the enormous post-colonial and post-Soviet space.
Speaking of the artists. The show features artworks by Georgians and Kazakhs whose work is highly avant-garde, combining traditional forms of expression with the latest technological discoveries, such as AI. What points of view do they represent?
First and foremost, our intention was to present the trajectories of individual artists – those represented by commercial galleries as well as those who act as educators within their communities. It is worth making some distinctions at the outset. Kazakhstan is a relatively large and powerful country in Central Asia with a substantial financial base, where investments in galleries and museums create opportunities for the development of the art market. The first private contemporary art museum will open in 2025 in Almaty, showcasing an impressive collection of one of the country’s leading businessmen, Nurlan Smagulova. Despite this impressive growth, Kazakhstan is grappling with the tragic consequences of Russia’s war against Ukraine. Another alarming issue is the impending environmental disaster – the drying up of rivers, lakes, and the sea, as well as land erosion – which is the subject addressed by many local artists.
The situation in Georgia, located at the other end of the route, is much more complicated. The country is facing geopolitical and social challenges, also caused by Russia’s war against Ukraine, along with the escalating repression by the pro-Russian government against representatives of the younger, pro-European democratic movement. The country’s history is also marked by the experience of the Soviet regime, which can undoubtedly be described as colonial. Both Kazakh and Georgian art revolve around the theme of liberation, which is a common thread in the global South of the Road. Over 80 per cent of Kazakhs, the most Russified nation in Central Asia, were absorbed into the Russian regime, which resulted in the loss of their identity and language. Resistance movements in Kazakhstan were suppressed brutally by the Soviets in December 1986, an event that deeply scarred the national memory. A more recent trauma was the bloody suppression of protests by Kazakh demonstrators fearing a Russian invasion in January 2022.
How did these socio-political circumstances affect the artists?
Last year’s Venice Biennale was particularly meaningful for the art of Central Asia. Kazakhstan was represented by the Pygmalion Gallery from Astana. The curators decided to present the utopian concept of Jerūiyq, the mythical promised land free from diseases and hunger, where birds weave their nests on the backs of sheep and time bestows eternal life. “With the attainment of Independence, Kazakh art has received a new impetus for decolonisation and reimagining of the future, defying Soviet censorship and metropolitan orders”, Danagul Tolepbay and Anvar Musrepov, the pavilion’s curators, wrote in their statement.
The selection of works by Yerbolat Tolepbay for the national pavilion was a very symbolic gesture. During the Soviet era, Kazakh artists could not freely and directly express their ideas, so their works were rife with symbols and allegories. This society is connected deeply to tradition, and Tolepbay frequently references symbols and national heritage, especially the archaic structure of the cosmos, as both a tribute to tradition and a direct indication of his inspiration and his origin. His mother was a healer and shaman. On a daily basis, the artist spoke his native language, which was condemned by the Soviet government, as well as the museum scene, art critics, and theorists who were dominated by influential Russians and maintained that Kazakhs owed their modern art to them. A similar narrative is still prevalent in the independent Republic of Kazakhstan. The role of the artists is also one of self-decolonisation. This is a difficult process because, as the national consciousness grows, so does the risk of conflict over national emancipation. Kazakhstan is home to over twenty nationalities, and while Russian is the second official language, the Russian population makes up just a little over 15,5 per cent. It is worth noting that the theories about the alleged radicalisation of Kazakhstan towards Islam are nothing more than post-colonial propaganda and Russian manipulation aimed at maintaining control over the society and defending against this “radicalisation”.
One can state with certainty that Yerbolat Tolepbay is one of the creators of contemporary art in Kazakhstan who represents a national – not nationalist – school seeking to preserve the authenticity of language and culture. Large-scale pieces by Tolepbay figuratively address the subject of decolonisation, including its future, and refer to the notion of identity. The artist started working during the Soviet era and evolved during the painful and tragic history of Perestroika. He is incredibly prolific today, during the transformation of the Republic of Kazakhstan. At the same time, he is an academic professor who has taught a number of extraordinary artists, including Almagul Menlibayeva.
That’s right, as one of the most famous Central-Asian artists, Almagul Menlibayeva’s practice is not only a reminder of the historic suffering but also a commentary on the influence of social and political changes on the cultural landscape of the country. But how were such deeply moving works received at the art fair in Abu Dhabi?
One could say that Tolepbay pioneered the artistic movement to liberate Kazakhs from Soviet oppression. Almagul, who came from this very scene, ventured into the world at the early stage of her career and never came back. Today, she is an internationally acclaimed artist, but her art, rooted deeply in her nation’s traditions and mythologies, constantly alludes to the heritage of her home country. The main subject of her practice is the earth and everything around it – both in the physical and symbolic sense. A great deal of her work refers to the catastrophic environmental consequences of Soviet experiments conducted on Kazakh soil. After all, this is where 468 nuclear tests were carried out between 1949 and 1989, leaving lingering effects still felt by today’s residents. War is not just bombings but also the destruction of local landscapes. These experiments both caused ecological damage and had serious civilisational consequences – epidemics broke out, people died from poisoned air. Almagul’s latest project refers to the dying Lake Balkhash, which is on the verge of completely drying up. The artist speaks with tenderness about Kazakhstan as the heart of this vast steppe, her beloved universe, a source of strength and energy. Her art builds upon the themes addressed by Tolepbay, while her international career seems boundless. In her work, she utilises a variety of materials, from textiles to artificial intelligence. As a result, her pieces become more universal and accessible to everyone, regardless of their culture or origin, while also raising questions about why and who is behind all of this.
In the context of female artists from Kazakhstan, it is also worth mentioning Zhanna Nugerbek who refers to local mythology and nomadic tradition of Central Asia.
Zhanna creates sculptures, monumental outdoor art installations and land art. In her practice, she refers to, for instance, Kurgan stelae, a stone sculptures of “fat ladies” that can be seen on the steppes of Kazakhstan, Siberia, and Mongolia. What’s interesting is the fact that the genesis of those sculptures remains unknown. Although many studies have been conducted on this subject, none of them offers a full answer. Although referred to as “fat ladies”, the figures are androgynous, and their gender is difficult to identify with certainty. They also appear in other countries, which is a testament to the nomadic culture from which they originate. On one hand, Zhanna’s works, filled with symbolism and mysticism, may resemble traditional tourist souvenirs collected from different parts of the world. But on the other, they contain a deeper reflection on heritage, history and identity.
How would you describe contemporary art from Kazakhstan then?
The art of Yerbolat and Almagul tells the story of a profound transition, central to contemporary art practice in Kazakhstan. In contrast, Zhanna’s work offers hope – it’s a form of therapy and a story that touches on the essence of what’s currently happening in Kazakhstan’s contemporary art scene. Filled with meditation and healing potential, her art resonates on both an individual and social level.
How come their voices were heard even across borders?
The reason is simple – the West has finally matured and allowed previously marginalised voices to be heard. It’s only now, in the 21st century, that we’re starting to really grasp the historical and ongoing damage caused by colonisation. The West failed to notice attempts at rebuilding the former USSR empire in the last decades – what we now recognise as secondary colonialism. The scale of this problem is only now becoming clear due to ongoing conflicts like the war in Ukraine or the Middle East. On the other hand, we live in an era of information overload, in which tragic news no longer moves us. In this reality, the key role of artists is to build awareness and sensibility. Their pain has finally been noticed, starting a new chapter of global liberation.
Does that mean that in order for us to acknowledge someone’s tragedy, another, more powerful one, must happen?
Yes, and war serves as excellent PR because it draws attention. As Ukrainian curator Dr Alisa Lozhkina – former chief curator of the Mystetskyi Arsenal in Kyiv and author of the acclaimed monograph The Art of Ukraine – once said when she was invited to Harvard as the war broke out: “They love us when we’re getting killed”. Horrible but true, unfortunately. Artists’ careers from the “non-West” are often built on the blood of their own people.
One of the artists who moved me the most was Gulnur Mukazhanova, a Kazakh artist who emigrated to Berlin and has been dealing with the issue of post-nomadic identity. Did the harsh political reality influence her art or at least the choice of materials?
Through her art, Gulnur processes both her Kazakh roots and her current state, vividly illustrating the experience of a drifting identity. She left her homeland early and started working as an artist in the West. This bravery and openness to the world helped her become one of the most famous artists from her region. She creates monumental installations from felt and organic materials like soil, stones and plants, as well as video installations. A large portion of the fair’s audience marvelled at the energetic colour palette of her works and the unique use of velvet in her felt installations, which evoked a plush, soft form. In fact, she references the Kazakh tradition, where, after the birth of a girl, the family collects her dowry in a large chest filled with velvet and other luxurious fabrics such as brocade and taffeta.
Women in Kazakhstan often experience domestic abuse. So, while Gulnur’s colourful works may seem so full of joy, they are, in fact, imbued with a great deal of suffering and represent an attempt at a harsh reckoning with the past. In her creative process, the artist often deconstructs her works, tearing them apart, setting them on fire and destroying them in bouts of extreme emotions. One might say that for her, art is a form of therapy, allowing her to confront the pain and painful memories. In her felt installations, Gulnur often uses tailoring needles to emphasise the temporality of moments, and the volatility of fates and situations.
Artists’ careers from the “non-West” are often built on the blood of their own people.
— Elvira Eevr Djaltchinova-Malec
Women’s art is a recurring theme in your essays. It seems important not only in the context of the exhibition, which features primarily female artists but also your own history. As you once mentioned, you grew up among four sisters and self-development and education were valued in your household. What role does this play in art, as well as in mainstream events like the Abu Dhabi Art Fair?
Indeed, not only women’s art but also the role and position of women in society are extremely important to me. My mother, Dukkhar, to whom I owe the establishment of the Warsaw Institute for Modern and Contemporary Asian Art, was a philanthropist and patron. She invited country girls to our house every year, giving them a roof over their heads and, more importantly, an opportunity for higher education. She continued to support them financially after graduation until they became self-sufficient. I try to follow in her footsteps.
They say that emancipation in the Middle East is progressing at an astonishing pace, and the United Emirates is leading the way in this regard. Women are present everywhere – in culture, business, and government. At the Fair, I was surprised by their dominant presence. They accounted for almost 70 per cent of all visitors. The organizers held a separate preview for women, in line with the country’s tradition. Women asked so many questions that I am now more convinced than ever that their voice is decisive, both in private and social matters. They are curious, passionate, and ask questions not only about academia but also practical, commercial ones. I have attended many fairs, but never before have I experienced such a siege – a true “invasion” of women.
What were the most unexpected conclusions that were drawn from these conversations?
Definitely, the fact that the marginalisation of women is a global issue. At the panel, we discussed the status of women in Switzerland, among other topics. Can you imagine that hobby clubs over there are divided based on gender? Swiss women were the last in Europe to be granted voting rights, and they still need to fight for their place in society.
In your opinion, are art fairs – largely commercial in nature – the place to bring up such difficult social issues?
Definitely. Fairs, such as the one in Abu Dhabi, can create space for the exchange of ideas, openness to others, and mutual support. They are also an excellent opportunity to explore tradition and discover the roots of what’s widely perceived as Western but actually originates from the East. A great example of this is modernism, which has its roots in the Islamic world. Arab society is full of patience, observing the West, which, fortunately, is increasingly more open to dialogue. In this sense, the Fair becomes a platform for fostering this dialogue and forging deeper relationships.