My world stands on pillars
by Kateryna Iakovlenko
This world stands on pillars.
He's nearly thirty, tall, dark-haired, and always smiling. His name is Bohdan, and he was born into a priest's family. He's an artist working with contemporary art, and just a few months ago, you could see his work at the Hanenki Museum, which is located in the former mansion of a sugar beet magnate and collector in the very center of Kyiv. In the military, he goes by the call sign Pillar.
Bohdan joined the army voluntarily. He encountered the full-scale invasion while at a monastery, where God told him to go to the front lines. He obeyed and went. He used to rarely listen to what God said before he took the leap.
We meet him at an exhibition a few weeks before he starts training, a week before the party at the House of Cinema, to which he invited all his friends to embrace them before heading to the front.
"You smell so good," I say, hugging him.
"It's Comme des Garçons," he replies, adding that it was a gift from friends.
Bohdan looks calm and uplifted, receiving messages from friends, colleagues, and acquaintances wishing for his safe return from the war.
"You know, when I made this decision, everything became much easier and simpler. I walk down the street, and people say to me, 'Bohdan, you look good, you smell good.' And I tell them it's because I heard the voice of the Lord and listened to Him," the soldier adds after a pause.
If this Lord smells like French colognes, then he definitely knows something, I think to myself.
The House of Cinema is one of Kyiv’s iconic establishments, especially significant for the artistic community. This beautiful modernist building on Saksahanskoho Street has a long history. It's where artists and filmmakers have been drinking cognac since the seventies. I would say that the House of Cinema and the neighboring Babylon Bar are Ukrainian cultural pillars.
I’m running late for the party, and by the time I arrive, Babylon is already enveloped in cigarette smoke. It’s like the start of a French film: artists, directors, playwrights, and contemporary art curators all drinking alcohol, embracing and constantly smoking despite the official ban on smoking in public places. But this space belongs to Bohdan. The bohemian conversations are more grounded this time around: we're not talking about wine or cinema but about ammunition and military aircraft. Everyone constantly asks each other how they are feeling, offer support, and sometimes fall silent. I make my way to the bar through the cloud of smoke. Along the way, I manage to hug a few familiar artists and sit down with one of them at a table. He curated the national pavilion at the Venice Biennale a few years ago. We talk about Buddhism.
Bohdan raises his glass and toasts Jesus Christ, thanking everyone for coming and asking for blessings. The bar is set to close in half an hour, so the lively group of people moves to the apartment of the future soldier.
Bohdan looks young, tall, a handsome contemporary artist, pixelated in form, initially heading for studies and later towards the 95th Separate Airborne Assault Brigade. Within a month, he becomes the deputy commander. No stories or posts—nothing. He says there are no conversations about art, only music in his headphones—it’s tough without it.
"First thing, check your subscription to YouTube Music," he says.
Good coffee is in short supply, too. He is reminded not to forget his thermos to keep warm because soldiers don't want to huddle together (the last part is said in jest).
On his first combat sortie, he loses a comrade. They go to meet reinforcements, carrying a box of ammunition with them. A grenade explodes above their heads on the way. The blast only knocks Pillar over, but Kasper is killed.
He’ll lose several comrades on the front lines within a month of being at war. He is wounded in the Silver Forest near the village of Dibrova, not far from Kreminna. A piece of shrapnel hits him in the abdomen, and he gets operated on in Dnipro and then sent to rehabilitation in Kyiv. He's learning to walk again. He barely stands, moving with the help of special aids. In his ward, there are three more patients. One of them was in a group of seventeen, and out of those seventeen, only three survived—all of them ended up in the hospital.
Another man, around fifty years old, can’t handle his pain and constantly asks for painkillers.
I think to myself that this world stands on pillars, especially mine, on pillars like Bohdan and other soldiers from this unit. They may not walk, but I know they bear the weight like Atlas.
Bohdan asks for a tasty salad and drip coffee. Every morning, he brews the coffee for the others in the ward. He shares his pastries with the nurses and gathers books for a library in the hospital. He reads the Bible aloud.
After his medical rehabilitation, Bohdan wants to become a military chaplain and return to the front, but in a different role. He wants to help the guys on the front line and spread the word of God.
We joke and say that in contemporary art, anything is possible: an artist-priest is also a fairly normal practice; the main thing is to be able to combine them.
My world stands on pillars. My country’s been at war for nine years, and I still believe that too few people truly understand what that means. Lost territories mean lost people, lost limbs, shattered roads and hearts, and destroyed buildings, along with wedding photos, parental gifts, and bedside crosses that burn just as intensely when left in a room before leaving home on time. War is about the fact that with every passing minute, our country's territory becomes even more mined, and this means that even after victory, whenever it comes, we will have plenty to deal with. War is dried tears on cheeks and dried-up territories damaged by the breach of a dam. I could continue this list indefinitely, but it's probably hard to comprehend until you wake up to an air raid siren instead of an alarm clock or until you visit your friends in the hospital who are bedridden due to war-related injuries–until phantom alarms and church bells start ringing in your ears.
But I wouldn't wish such suffering upon anyone.
Artistic, political activism is aimed at working with the body. The world remembers how Pavlensky nailed his scrotum to Red Square. I remember how every person abroad mentioned this heroic act of a post-Soviet artist who gathered the courage to stand up against a tyrant.
I won't argue anymore. I'll just ask: where is that protest now when the tyrant has become even stronger and more powerful when he acquires Iranian drones and Chinese equipment to extinguish the lives of residential neighborhoods?
But life endures.
Bohdan, along with his comrades, artists, filmmakers, playwrights, and ordinary people—someone's children, parents, grandparents—are fighting against this regime, giving their bodies (in the most literal sense) to the cause. From head to toe. Who remembers their names or even their call signs?
I constantly think about what political art is today. And to me, it seems toothless. Because no artwork, even the most visceral, can compare to what these people are experiencing and what they are sacrificing so that others can create art.
Without exaggeration, these pillars support not only my life but the lives of millions—mine and yours.
We ask Bohdan if his leg hurts and if he can feel it. They give him painkillers, and he can move his legs–he feels everything. After the second week, he can’t resist and starts trying to walk—he wants to smoke on the balcony more than anything so as not to feel chained to his bed. His library is expanding, and he carries books to neighboring rooms.
I walk through the city as if all my strength has left my body as if my body has already died after returning, and I’ve come back to life to finish my tasks.
Nine years feel like nine lifetimes.
But how many more of those lifetimes do I have left? Every day is a deduction. When you return to Kyiv, you come to terms with the fact that you might not make it tomorrow.
I order chicken soup as if I have a cold.
What ails me? It's the country that aches, its territory. It has been aching for nine years now.
Kateryna Iakovlenko is the editor-in-chief of Suspilne Kultura, where this piece was originally published.
Translated from the Ukrainian by Kate Tsurkan