Imperial Speech

Since February 24, 2022, I have been asked solely about the ongoing war. Preceding this, I was asked primarily about Ukrainian Modernism, and somewhat less frequently about the Soviet heritage across its spectrum, particularly within the context of decommunization.¹ However, no one has ever asked me about the heritage of other historical periods, specifically the heritage of the Russian Empire.
From my perspective, the division into distinct styles and expertise, be it Constructivism, Modernism, Baroque, or any other, has always appeared to be somewhat artificial and useless for meaningful discussion. Similarly, it struck me as somewhat myopic to divide history into discrete eras and overlook the linking threads of continuity, both for architectural schools and political regimes. It's as if, with the Revolution of 1917, the Russian Empire fell irrevocably without a trace. Faith in discontinuity, in starting anew from scratch, and in the separation of an object from its context, or art and architecture from politics, at the very least, fails to yield any new answers to the problems that still vex society, and at most, offers wrong answers.
If in the rather conservative field of art history, periodization serves as the principal method for comprehending architecture, then architects, unless they delve deeply, perceive styles or trends as mere fashion or form. Those architects who are willing to look into more profound reflection, recognize these as methods, or put simply, as means. This represents a fundamental difference in the comprehension and assessment of the role of architecture. It enables a transition in thought from superficial matters to comprehending the logic behind processes and their outcomes. It also allows us to pose a whole new set of questions: If this is a means, then a means for achieving what, precisely? Who uses it? Who benefits from the use of it?
Therefore, I shall now direct my attention away from Soviet-Ukrainian Modernism, which is currently being destroyed by Russia, and towards Neoclassicism. Like any other architectural style, it too falls victim to Russia’s aggression, seemingly because the Russians also don’t see the need for this artificial concept of art historical periodization and destroy everything guided by an entirely different rationale. The best example of the systemic and large-scale use of Neoclassicism can be found in the South of Ukraine, within the triad of cities that includes Kherson, Mykolaiv, and, significantly, Odesa.
Since the commencement of the full-scale invasion of Ukraine, these cities have suffered extensive destruction due to Russian attacks originating from both the sea and Russian-occupied Crimea. Particularly hard-hit is the civil infrastructure of Mykolaiv, as well as its port and shipbuilding enterprises. Kherson remained under occupation from March to November 2022, and Odesa, although experiencing fewer missile attacks than Eastern Ukrainian cities, endured direct strikes on its densely populated historic center. One of the most recent attacks that demolished the port facilities and a multistorey hotel occurred directly opposite the Potemkin Stairs, immortalized by Sergei Eisenstein’s cinematic masterpiece Battleship Potemkin.

Problems of (Neo)classicism
Odesa, a city with roots tracing back to a 14th-century fortress founded by the Grand Duchy of Lithuania, later assimilated into the Ottoman Empire during the 15th century, holds prominence as a key port along the Black Sea. It turned out to be the third element in the trilogy of Kherson, Mykolaiv, and Odesa – cities lined up in a row by Catherine II along the coastline in the late 18th century to colonize the Black Sea Steppe, wrested from the Ottoman Empire during the Russo-Turkish war of 1787–1792, along with Crimea.
In response to the full-scale invasion of Russia and extensive heritage destruction in Ukraine, Odesa was included in the List of World Heritage in Danger by UNESCO on January 25, 2023, titled “The Historic Center of Odesa”. The dossier underscores Odesa’s value as an important interchange of human values within Eastern Europe through its heterogeneous architectural styles, developed during its rapid growth in the 19th century, that reflect the coexistence of many cultures. It is also noted in the dossier that Odesa is an outstanding “time capsule” of 19th‑century urban planning, with heterogeneous buildings, which reflects both the exceptionally fast growth of the town, based on the prosperity generated by the Industrial Revolution, and its notable diversity. Notably, Odesa has been on UNESCO’s tentative list since 2009.
Experts hail Odesa as a paragon of Classicism², representing and encapsulating the very essence of this architectural style. Odesa and Neoclassicism are inseparable, with individual buildings and urban planning of the city deeply rooted in this aesthetic. The era of Neoclassicism saw the formation of the city center (exactly what is on the UNESCO list and what was hit by a devastating missile attack on July 23, November 6 and several other dates), the grid system of quarters, and future expansion directions, as well as the establishment of a port as a city-forming element. Instances of Odesa Neoclassicism encompass the Transfiguration Cathedral (1795–1808), the “Circular Building” of the City Hospital (1807–1827), Vorontsov Palace (1826–1828), Potocki Palace (1823–1826), numerous residential buildings, and, of course, the globally renowned Potemkin Stairs (1835–1841).
Curiously, the dossier barely alludes to Neoclassicism, and Catherine II’s role is merely fleeting. The timeframe provided in the dossier is broad – until the early 20th century – encompassing the entire 19th century. However, as historian Eric Hobsbawm astutely pointed out, the 19th century was notably “long”, spanning various periods. In Odesa’s early 19th century, Neoclassicism prevailed amid the empire's expansion, while the latter half embraced historicism (eclecticism), paralleling the bourgeoisie's rapid ascent. Both periods remained intertwined with the Russian Empire's politics. This is acutely applicable to Odesa which has always stood as an important symbol of victories against the Ottoman Empire, as an economic outpost, and was a fetish of Russian imperial ideology. However, if it was assumed that this “imperial layer” of Odesa's heritage was not promoted as a world heritage and something else should be protected, then it introduces a contradiction. Because the very core of the protected zones is the heritage of the first half of the 19th century and its most “imperial” part. The omission of the imperial and colonial roots of the heritage leaves an elephant in the room, which could not only exacerbate unresolved issues but also play into the hands of the historical manipulations of today's modern Russian imperialist propaganda.
Furthermore, alongside the absence of mentioning of Classicism, the nomination dossier for Odesa overlooks its position in the history of the trio of cities in Southern Ukraine – Kherson, Mykolaiv, and Odesa. Erected swiftly one by one, these cities emerged as integral facets of the Russian Empire's military expansion into the Black Sea region. They materialized Catherine II's imperial ambitions of capturing the entire Black Sea and implementing the Greek Plan.³ Kherson, founded in 1778 during Catherine's Taurida Voyage, boasts examples of exquisite Neoclassicism. Mykolaiv, established in 1789, preserves its well-designed urban structure, interspersed with well-preserved until the start of a full-scale Russian invasion Neoclassicist buildings of shipbuilding and naval functions. Lastly, Odesa changed the understanding of the function of the port and transitioned it from a military to a commercial hub. Still, Odesa’s role as the final chord in the history of the colonization of the Black Sea steppes and the Greek Plan remained intact. It's this triad, not the mere single cities, that can explain a larger story left behind. At the same time, heritage sites in Kherson and Mykolaiv lack substantial conservation status, both for individual edifices and historical zones. Speaking of heritage in danger, it is the trio's fate, particularly the destruction they endured, that could serve as an illustration of a new wave of Russian imperialism, progressing through Ukraine along the very path once undertaken by Catherine II.
In 2020, I co-curated the Encyclopedia of Ukrainian Architecture⁴ which was aimed at providing a broad audience with an overview of the key milestones in the history of Ukrainian architecture, all the while maintaining a critical perspective. I firmly believed that it was imperative to focus on the significant, albeit contested, architectural heritage. Refusing to adhere to a rigid periodization, we employed the stylistic framework of historiography in a manner that aimed to deconstruct it, even preceding the widespread adoption of decolonization studies. Together with my co-curator, Yaroslav Perekhodko, who currently opposes combating Russian military expansion as a member of the Ukrainian army, we discovered that the history of these three cities serves as an exceptionally precise example, to the greatest extent feasible, of contested colonial architecture, and thus, we have penned the following:
“The architecture of Classicism in Ukraine was originally created within the modernization project of empires. From the point of view of its builders, it served as proof of the existence of civilization and the implementation of a kind of civilizational mission. On the other hand, such modernization was in its own way beneficial not only to the imperial center but also to some extent to the periphery. However, this fact does not change the essence and character of Russian Classicism in Ukraine – it is colonial.
By its nature, Russian Classicism directly copies English and French neoclassicism. The ideological basis for its spread was the Enlightenment, and Empress Catherine II, as we know, in addition to being a practitioner of ideas, also had a lively correspondence with such educators as Diderot and Voltaire. In fact, the Russian Empire incorporated “international” Classicism without taking into account the specifics of the local context. Moreover, Russian Classicism did not have the natural ideological genesis that European countries underwent. Therefore, the ideas of the Enlightenment were often replaced by copying its form.
Classicism, like any other rationalist modernization project, is an ideal tool for effectively achieving the goals of the state, whatever they may be. To this end, it, in contrast to the chaotic Baroque or artisanal Middle Ages, uses systems, structures and networks. Therefore, as in the modernism of the twentieth century, in the discourse of Catherine’s Classicism were so widespread all sorts of large-scale “projects” that with their voluntarism is not inferior to large Soviet buildings. Such projects aim to organize and “improve” the territory (without its knowledge, of course) and may vary in scale: from the interregional level, as the Greek project, to the sectoral one, as projects in the field of architectural and cartographic education.
Russian imperial Classicism was characterized by a typical set of “modernist” features: missionary work, unification, rationalism, functionalism, scientific character, progressivity, and gigantism. Similar to the modernization projects of the twentieth century, in the Catherine period they actively developed the construction of new cities, carried out projects for the reconstruction of old ones, created various infrastructure networks (including educational, transport, cultural).
Like any modernization project, Classicism inevitably comes into conflict between the project and reality, often degenerating into its opposite. What was conceived as good in a certain value system, in practice became evil. Neoclassicism in the Russian Empire, which is essentially a shell or form of the Western European Enlightenment, appropriated its architectural and political language, but did not serve its values. Instead of justice, equality, brotherhood, we received the so-called estate Classicism and estates of the realm with serfdom. And as in the reality of the Great Construction Projects of the Stalin era, the objects of Classicism were housing for privileged estates and large-scale urban projects (including a network of estates for the Empress’s many favorites).”
Even prior to the full-scale Russian invasion, we recognized the imperative of revisiting the traditionally significant place and distinct importance of Neoclassical architecture in Ukraine's history through a decolonization perspective. Because under the banner of “let architecture and art remain separate from politics”, often declared by conservative architectural historians, Neoclassicism's role within Ukraine's history and politics behind it had not been talked about. The “Russian” Neoclassicism in Ukrainian territory indeed is colonial Neoclassicism. Architecture is not out of politics, especially concerning empire-building, territorial conquest, and subsequent colonization of annexed lands and their population. City planning, notably the construction of military port cities, is intrinsically bound to geopolitical expansion.
The connection between architectural styles, urban policies, and political regimes remains direct. Catherine II's endorsement of Neoclassicism as the state style was also a method of marking territories (a trend echoed by Stalin) that can be regarded as the selection of a state language. But it was the language of architecture. It was by employing this architecture that the empire spoke through space. But the question is what was the empire trying to say? Catherine II's reign is commonly regarded as a period of Enlightened absolutism. In line with the conventions of any empire, her colonization projects manifested a civilizational mission focused on enlightenment and progress. However, the core of this was the war with the Ottoman Empire and with other empires in the future. For colonized Ukraine, alongside the pompous imperial narrative of greatness, Catherine II's Enlightenment encompassed serfdom (in fact, slavery), dissolution of statehood (Cossack Hetmanate), linguistic and cultural suppression, and indigenous people resettlement, etc.

Problems of Linguistics
It’s rather intriguing that more frequently than questions about Modernism but less frequently than about the war, I find myself being asked about the Russian language in Ukraine. I have leaned towards disregarding this query. The majority of my ancestors resided exclusively within the borders of Ukraine for centuries. Although I am fluent in Ukrainian, my mother tongue is Russian. I’m the very same Russian-speaking Ukrainian from the eastern regions of Ukraine, in whose blood various ethnicities and cultures are mixed. My hometown, Kharkiv, stands in the far east of Ukraine, bordering Russia. This very city was the target for the first missile strikes from Russia at 4 a.m. on February 24, 2022. Most of Kharkiv’s inhabitants, myself included, predominantly spoke Russian before the full-scale Russian invasion of Ukraine. Just like the residents of Odesa. Furthermore, without undue modesty, I am brilliantly proficient in Russian, both in thought and in writing. Before the Russo-Ukrainian War started in 2014, the issue of the Russian language didn't particularly concern me. Contrary to the narratives spun by Russian propaganda, I never sensed any form of oppression in Ukraine. However, following Russia's occupation of Crimea and Donbas in 2014, speaking Russian publicly felt like a betrayal of my political and civic values. That was when I surprisingly realized how inadequately I spoke Ukrainian at the time. Yet it took several more years of diverse research, ranging from the history of Modernism to the history of my hometown of Kharkiv, which traces back to the 17th century, and the broader narrative of Ukraine's built environment, to understand something beyond linguistic mastery.
It was during this period that I began to physically sense the shock and pain associated with comprehending the forced Russification of Ukrainian cities, including my hometown of Kharkiv.⁵ My brilliant proficiency in the Russian language became an ever-present evidence of the violence inflicted on several generations of my ancestors, even if some were unaware of it. Just like I was also unaware of the political violence against myself, perpetrated by both the Russian Empire and the Soviet Union. I had used language as a tool, a means of communication, even for sharing the most tender and intimate words, such as the first words spoken to my child. Language serves as the vehicle for my thoughts, which I would subsequently commit to paper. It is the working tool for my income. Moreover, language functions as a political instrument for conveying my ideas to a wider audience. It constitutes an integral part of my identity; it resides within me and it is me. But what should I do when a tool of violence of an aggressor against me resides inside me? It's as though a fragment of an enemy's rocket, launched at my home, remained embedded within me, or like a knife that was plunged into me in a dark alley, or even akin to an embryo conceived as a result of rape. How to continue to employ this tool? How to cease to feel the pain, anger, and shame? How to extract it or leave it without risking setting in gangrene?
Frankly, I don't wish to delve further, along the lines of postmodernists, into the analogy between architecture and language. However, following my preceding thought, it seems relevant. I'd prefer to examine architecture through the lens of centuries-old structural colonial violence and the instrumentalization of architecture, contemplating architecture's role as an instrument of violence. Just like any tool, architecture possesses ambivalence, as observed in the example of the language I previously discussed. It can bring both benefit and harm to those subjected to its influence, particularly when they do not own it and do not possess control over its use during times when violence is being committed. So, what do we do when the architecture of an empire that caused us harm forms the foundation of a cherished and beautiful city, such as Odesa?
Colonial architecture is not merely inseparable from Odesa, akin to a historical layer or functional fraction; it constitutes the very essence of this city – its backbone and core. This is what propels the city forward and shapes its existence. Can we erase or forget about it? It is feasible to remove or amputate a relatively minor element within the entire organism, but it's scarcely possible to remove the foundation of the organism without endangering its vitality. But then, how do we live within and preserve, care for, and cherish something that once served as a tool of violence against our people, our country, and our land? How should we live realizing the presence within us of this crime against us? Repression, rejection, or self-deception are not able to help. ‘Integration’ or acceptance seem distant and irrelevant. The harm inflicted by Russian imperialism has been and continues to be a reality. Nevertheless, architecture holds numerous potentials for society. One of these is its ability to serve as a tool. Taking ownership of these means, appropriating tools of violence for one's use, seems to be the only way to live through and take control of our past and future. A knife serves as a tool that could have harmed us in the past; today, we can employ it to wound an attacker, and tomorrow, we can utilize it for slicing bread. It's up to us to decide how to employ it, what to use, and in what manner, and be responsible for this. Yet we cannot forget the knife’s potential danger and must consciously regulate its use, calling it a knife, not something else, like, for instance, a loaf of bread.