Should all art be beautiful?

A Q&A with painter Kateryna Kostelna.

I was first introduced to the paintings of Kateryna Kostelna via her publicist, who reached out to me thinking that I might find the artist’s work interesting. She was right.

There is something unsettling about Kostelna’s pieces—her smudged lines, broken figures, blurred features, and muted, mismatched tones are at once arresting and mystifying. They are not exactly beautiful, but they’re not meant to be. As she tells me below, her work is in some ways a form of protest against the idea that all art should be pretty.

Born in Ukraine and now a resident of Vancouver, Kostelna uses her work to explore themes of grief, exhaustion, and memory. It’s radical because it’s real: exquisite, but not precious. Intentional, but not overdressed. Introspective, but not insular.

Here, she takes me a little deeper into her practice.

Note: Because English is not her first language, the artist requested that my questions be sent via email. While an interview will always suffer from the lack of authentic, back-and-forth conversation, I chose to respect her wishes, because I make my own rules!

When did you first fall in love with painting?

I suppose that drawing, in general, was a reflexive way to keep my hands busy and distract myself from experiences that were too complex for a child to understand. This was definitely in my childhood, though it’s hard to say exactly when, as I was surrounded by art books from an early age. Also, my parents are clothing designers, so I believe they respected my desire to draw.

What drew you to the medium? What keeps you in love with it?

In painting and graphic art, my approach to expression and what attracts me has varied at different times. Earlier, it was a way to express my anxieties about the body, to question the ideas imposed on me by those around me, and partly to mock them. It’s worth explaining that the attitude towards women and their bodies in Ukraine is somewhat different from what is accepted in Canada or other countries. Unfortunately, appearance was often given primary importance, while education took a back seat. Living with such demands is truly difficult. For example, several older series of mine, like “Faire,” are also about moving away from the blurred traditional form of the body.

What brought you to Vancouver?

Vancouver was a happy accident. I was a migrant in Poland when I realized I needed to move further. Together with my partner, we decided to choose Canada, also considering the values of this country. But Vancouver surprised me with its openness and love, so I know for sure it was the right choice.

How do you find the arts scene here?

Local art scenes are very different, primarily due to their historical context and societal values. In Ukraine, given the context of war, art has become a field for rethinking colonial identity. In Poland, I observed great freedom and a lack of restrictions in self-expression. I found the contrast interesting between the general mood in the country, a striving for conservative values, and the artists’ desire to work with portraiture and the human figure.

In Vancouver, I often notice the absence of the human form in art, with the priority given instead to landscapes and abstract shapes. I suppose this reflects the peace and contentment felt by the local residents. They already have established, stable lives, which allows artists to delve into more minimalist forms. Separately, it’s worth noting the strong support for Indigenous art, and the large number of such projects commands my genuine respect.

How would you describe your painting style?

I would describe my style as that of a graphic artist who took up painting. Often in my works, you can see planes of colour and charcoal lines that resemble graphics, but this is merely an optical illusion. In reality, it’s a technique that I developed quite by accident.

Why are fatigue and grief such potent subjects for you?

I think it’s the curse of my generation. When I was 12, I witnessed the Revolution of Dignity in Ukraine in 2014, and my teenage years were accompanied by the start of the war. This general mood resonated strongly with my own depressive state in childhood. Furthermore, I was deeply annoyed by the people around me striving to create only “beautiful” art, so my work also became a form of protest.

What techniques do you utilize in your work to convey your intended feelings of exhaustion and softness?

I’ve grown very fond of combining charcoal with acrylic and oil. I don’t know why, but I get immense satisfaction when, after finishing the stage with paints, I move on to outlining with charcoal and smudging it.

What do you aim for the viewer to feel when looking at your work?

I suppose they might see my desire to hide from them and my very vulnerable connection to art. Besides, I’m always interested in observing the viewers’ reaction to my paintings and hearing their questions about my story and how my technique developed.

What can our grief, our exhaustion, and our quietness tell us about ourselves?

For me, this is a space where people have the ability to offer empathy to others.

This interview has been edited and condensed for clarity.