“I am very skeptical about the impact of art on the masses”: An Interview with Artem Chekh

Artem Chekh is a Ukrainian writer. Originally from Cherkasy, he currently resides in Kyiv with his family. From 2015-to 2016 he served in the Ukrainian Armed Forces as a senior rifleman and gunner of an armored troop carrier. His book Absolute Zero, a firsthand account of that experience, was published in English translation by Glagoslav Press in 2020. His work has been translated into English, German, Czech, Russian and Polish. Chekh’s most recent book Хто ти такий? (Eng: Who Are You?) was published by Meridian Czernowitz in 2021 and went on to win the prestigious BBC Ukraine Book of the Year Award. It is currently being adapted into a film.

Chekh spoke with Kate Tsurkan about the genre of war literature, on what level the Ukrainian public engages with artistic work about the war, whether or not an artist has any significant impact on society, and more.

You served in the Ukrainian army. Many firsthand accounts about the war have been published during the past eight years, not only by those with a literary background such as yourself, but by so-called ordinary people who served, too. Would you say there are noticeable differences between the works produced by these two camps?

I’d prefer not to go into too much detail on this particular topic because I am, as you say, from the camp of those who have experience in creating literature. So I am a person with highly subjective views. But there is one immutable fact: bad literature always exists in greater quantities than good literature. It doesn’t matter which camp you belong to. You can’t value a work of literature based on the military merits of its author alone. If it’s good literature, you’ll recognize it as such. If it’s bad literature, then it’s simply bad literature. And military experience is just one of many, no better or worse than any risk-related one.

How do you think this genre will change or develop in the coming years?

I don’t know, but this is likely a situation where quantity grows into quality. I would be happy if we did not have such a concept as veteran literature. However it already exists, and we have to live with it. The main thing is that new material does not appear: let’s write memoirs, not diaries.

When Haska Shyyan’s novel Behind Their Backs was released it stirred up controversy in Ukrainian literary circles; the novel explores a woman’s desolation after her boyfriend leaves to fight on the frontlines. Would you say that the war remains one of the biggest taboos in contemporary Ukrainian literature, despite so many books being published on it?

War will be a taboo subject in literature for as long as it lasts. There are certain issues for which the time has not yet come. Of course, some European communities are squealing with delight at the prospect of it–they crave to see different truths, ambiguities, and disagreements. This is a war, and there is no truth in it. Healthy leftism is good in peacetime, but not now.

I had such faults while writing Absolute Zero. When a person unfamiliar with the war comes along and says, “Now I will show you the whole truth”, most people for whom this wound is unhealed perceive such “truth” as an assault on their wound with dirty surgical instruments. Generally speaking, I think it is more important how something is written rather than what is being written. But that’s just my opinion. This war–and any of the issues relating to it–can be described in different ways. It’s obvious that for some that a certain tone is unacceptable. Hence we have contradictory reactions, nonacceptance and outright rejection.

Does the Ukrainian public engage deeply with these books and films about the war? Or are only a particular audience interested in them?

If we look at the print runs of books or box office stats, we understand there can be no question of involvement. It is merely a slight pampering of a group of interested people. In general, I am very skeptical about the impact of art on the masses. These topics are discussed only because they are covered on TV or by a popular blogger. That’s it. All these round tables and panel discussions, literature and cinema, theater and painting—it’s for yourself and only for yourself. It does not form, develop, attract or nourish. Literature will never affect any war or military conflict. To comprehend, reflect, explore—yes. To influence, change, warn—never. Here, even history is powerless, let alone literature or cinema.

The English translation of your book Absolute Zero about the war in Ukraine was published by Glagoslav. They have also published Zakhar Prilepin, a Russian “journalist” who fought on the side of the DNR. The London Review of Books subsequently published a review that explored both of your works together.

While authors (and translators) have no control over such things, do you ever get frustrated by English-language publications giving a voice to the enemy on an equal platform, especially an enemy that engages in a war of misinformation against Ukraine on every level?

I almost don’t care. The tone of that review in The London Review of Books was quite reasonable and to some extent even pro-Ukrainian, so the fact that my book was mentioned in the same article as Prilepin’s did not upset me at all. We are only parties to the conflict for the British observer: he should not be interested in choosing between us or them. But this review and the rhetoric of the columnist interested other platforms in my work, where I do not limit myself in statements and where I have the opportunity to almost shout for a larger audience: Russia is the enemy, Russia is the aggressor. But again: to what effect? What will it change? For my name to appear in the same publishing house alongside Zakhar Prilepin, Ivan Franko, Yuri Vynnychuk, Dina Rubina, and Adam Mickiewicz means nothing. It would be worse if the publishing house published only Prilepin.

A lot of discussion about the Russo-Ukrainian war dominates the English-language press these days. Let’s mute the pundits for a moment: what would you, as someone who experienced the war firsthand, want people in the west to know eight years on?

Simply put: Russia is the enemy. Russia is the aggressor. But it seems that people already know this.

Your most recent novel Who Are You? takes place during the 1990s. Would you say that Ukrainians have emerged mentally from the hard times of the 1990s? Or was 2014 just another step on the long road towards liberation?

The nineties, in my opinion, were just a transitional stage, as were the aughts. From yoke to freedom. From ignorance and blindness to insight and comprehension. This is important for those of us in our thirties and forties because it was the time of our childhood and adolescence. A gentle age defined by first-time experiences. A time of dreams and hopes. So we return there to remember something, reflect, and be filled with the illusions and dreams that are desperately lacking today. 2014 changed a lot, but it has a rather indirect relationship to the 1990s. It was a turning point. But it is neither staged nor passable: it is the key to understanding and implementing many fundamental ideas and concepts that we did not understand or did not have the opportunity to implement before. The nineties in my novel are just a time when the events took place. It’s just the scenery, not the main character. I don’t idealize this time, nor do I demonize it, but, of course, I remember it well. The nineties are special to me in that context, not because of some popular attributes of the period.

The 1990’s are a period that doesn’t get as much attention in contemporary Ukrainian literature. Do you think any other periods in Ukrainian history also deserve more attention?

All periods deserve coverage. Too little is said in principle. I don’t want to talk about this period at all—the nineties, that is. Admittedly, I’m already starting to forget Who Are You? because I’m finishing a new novel which I’ve been working on and living with for almost a year now. That being said, the history of the US Civil War, Johnny Reb and Billy Yank, geography From Virginia to the border states is now much closer to me than the nineties, an Afghan veteran and a young me. Nothing gives deeper insight into a particular time period in which events took place than domestic drama. However in our literature there are too many heroes and unattainable spheres and not enough inkwells and irons.

Who Are You? won the BBC Ukraine Book of the Year Award in 2021. How does that change your literary career?

It is important not to overestimate the impact of awards on a writer’s career. Another thousand books sold? A few more interviews? Two weeks of relatively increased attention in the literature world? I don’t know. I have to state that success in literature is a relative concept and is limited by poor processes. In Ukraine, writers are not interesting to a wide range of the public unless, of course, you are a showman. Of course, there is a process: something is happening, but let’s agree that in a country with a population of forty million, an audience of several thousand for any successful writer is astounding. This also applies to culture in general. Such an extraordinary event as a Ukrainian film being screened at The Sundance Film Festival and winning the award for Best Director goes unnoticed in our country. It may get a small mention in the news, sure. Much more important is the death of the Kremlin lackey Kuravlev. Who needs your literature? Who needs your movie? Who needs you, with your culture, when the hryvnia is valued at 29 against the dollar and buckwheat costs 50 hryvnias?

The novel is also being adapted into a film by your wife, the poet and filmmaker Iryna Tsilyk. What is it like collaborating with your spouse? Do you try to keep your home and creative lives separate, or do they often mix?

Everything is mixed. We work a lot from home, so you write a novel with one hand, with the other you prepare soup. It is comfortable to cooperate with Tsilik. In particular, she is my editor and censor. I am her adviser. We are noumenons for each other, i.e., people who are critical of certain ideas and try to explain why or why not thoroughly. Our conversations often move from everyday topics to discussions of the creative process, ideas. We talk a lot in general. But sometimes we are silent in many ways, which also helps with our work. And seriously, life is life, I have nothing to compare mine to, and I do not know how it is otherwise. So when I’m asked how you two creative people are under one roof, I’m lost. How is it? As always.

What has it felt like to see your book, your words, adapted and reenvisioned through someone else’s gaze? Do you hope that more Ukrainian books are adapted into film in contemporary cinema?

We worked on the script together. It is radically different from the novel. This is an independent work based on the story from the book. My words have been rethought and adapted to some extent by myself. And the fact that I was present at the filming, worked on this film, and saw all the footage, somehow erases the sharpness of the perception of a new form of my material. Would I like new Ukrainian books to be adapted into ilms? I would like everything. New film adaptations, new novels, and just regular new films.

The film will star Yuriy Izdryk, another great Ukrainian poet. It seems that Ukrainian authors are particularly interested in exploring various art forms: literature, film, art, and music.

I will not speak for all writers. I can say that Izdrik is very organic as an actor. As for myself, I am not very open to new forms of creative realization. I’d rather get it right with literature, which, to be honest, is not easy either.

Interviewed by Kate Tsurkan