Alena Grom’s “Ruined Landscapes”: When Distance Ceases to Exist
Alena Grom’s Ruined Landscapes begins with a gesture that is profoundly simple, yet one that entirely shifts the viewer’s perspective. In the tranquil Sicilian town of Sant’Angelo Muxaro, images appear that do not belong: the ruined houses of Borodyanka, captured following the de-occupation of the Kyiv region. These images become a backdrop—quite literally—for portraits of the local residents.
This presence immediately creates tension. The peaceful landscape no longer feels neutral, and the sense of distance is no longer so obvious. A war that exists “somewhere else” suddenly draws near, entering the frame, the space, and the conversation.
The project functions as a gentle intervention—not jarring, but precise. Through interaction with people, the experience stops being abstract. It isn’t merely shown; it is lived through together—in a moment, in a gaze, in a presence.
At the same time, this work speaks of more than just Ukraine. It is about the connections we often fail to notice. It explores how the global is subtly present within the local—even in places that seem calm and far removed from conflict.
We spoke with Olena Grom about how this experience arises, what happens at the meeting point of different realities, and how the role of the artist changes when they find themselves at the very heart of this process.
What does transferring the experience of war to a different geographical and cultural context mean to you in the “Ruined Landscapes” project? How do you articulate this for yourself?
Alena Grom: For me, transferring the experience of war to a different geographical and cultural context is a way to break the illusion of distance. War is often perceived as something far away, something that doesn’t affect daily life in safe places. By bringing images of destruction into a different landscape, I am trying to show that this distance is purely conditional.
In the Ruined Landscapes project, this functions as a gentle intervention. I introduce a visual element that doesn’t belong into the familiar space of Sicily—backdrops printed with photographs I took after the de-occupation of the Kyiv region in 2022. These images show the ruined houses of Borodyanka, destroyed by Russian shelling.
A tension arises between the peaceful reality and the image of destruction. Crucially, through the participation of local residents, this experience stops being abstract—it becomes human, lived in the moment of interaction.
At the same time, for me, it is a very simple and direct gesture: I wanted to tell the story of the war in Ukraine once again to people living thousands of kilometers away, in a beautiful, almost “paradisiacal” place, who often cannot fully imagine what it means to live through war. It is a way to bring the experience closer, to make it visible and tangible.
It was also important for me to show that even those living far from combat zones are still part of a global political process. During the shoots, we constantly heard the hum of planes—these were American military aircraft based nearby. This sound served as a reminder that even in a peaceful landscape, the infrastructure of war is present; it is simply less visible.
That is why I think of this project as a statement on the interconnectedness of the world. The global constantly intervenes in the local and influences it, even if it isn’t immediately obvious. We do not exist in isolation, and no place is entirely protected. Put simply, we are all part of one world and are responsible for one another.
How did the residents of Sant’Angelo Muxaro react when faced with images of destruction? What surprised you most about these reactions, or what stood out in your memory?
Alena Grom: The reactions of the people in Sant’Angelo Muxaro were incredibly important to me, and at the same time, unexpectedly warm. When people found themselves standing in front of the images of ruins, there was an initial pause—a moment of confusion or tension. These images looked alien in their calm, familiar environment, and that was palpable. But almost inevitably, this was followed by curiosity and a desire to understand.
When I asked local residents to participate in the project, I saw it as another form of intervention—a certain intrusion into the measured life of a small town. I was aware that through my presence and my request, I was creating a situation of discomfort. I thought that for people living amidst such “paradisiacal” landscapes, it might be difficult to interact with these images and agree to take part in the shoot. I was even worried that the reaction might be sharp or dismissive.
But the opposite happened. People turned out to be very open and friendly. Before agreeing, they would ask why I was doing this and what these images meant. And when I spoke about the war in Ukraine and my own experience, they didn’t just agree—they expressed support, empathy, and solidarity.
Many joined the process with sincere interest and a readiness to be part of the work. Perhaps what struck me most was precisely this willingness—to engage, to step outside their own comfort zone, and to respond to an experience that, formally, does not belong to them.
This openness and empathy became a vital part of the project, proving that even contexts very distant from one another can meet at the level of human experience and mutual understanding.
How would you describe the connection that emerges between Ukraine and Italy within this project? Did this connection evolve during the work process?
Alena Grom: For me, the connection between Ukraine and Italy in this project does not arise as an abstract idea, but as a very concrete human experience: through meetings, conversations, and shared actions. It is built not only through images but through interaction with people who gradually become part of this story.
The project took place with the support of curator and art critic Kateryna Filyuk. Her participation was vital, especially regarding translation and communication with the local residents. Thanks to this, a dialogue became possible and natural. People didn’t just watch or agree to participate—they listened, asked questions, and tried to understand.
This connection very quickly became personal. For example, one local family invited us into their home and treated us to traditional dishes—cannoli and homemade laurel liqueur. It was a moment when the distance between “here” and “there” vanished, leaving only human connection, hospitality, and openness.
Importantly, this bond continued to develop during the final presentation of the project. Many local residents attended; they listened intently, showed great respect, and offered warm words. By then, it was no longer just an artistic gesture, but a collective experience we had lived through together.
Therefore, I can say that during the process, this connection evolved—from initial distance and caution to trust, engagement, and empathy. It transformed from something symbolic into something real—between people who were initially very far from each other but found a common ground of mutual understanding.
Does this project change your understanding of the artist’s role today — as a witness, a communicator, or perhaps even a provocateur of dialogue?
Alena Grom: Yes, this project has changed my understanding of the artist’s role. I would say that here, I felt like more than just a witness or a provocateur of dialogue — I felt like a performer.
In Ruined Landscapes, the very process of creating the image became a vital part of the statement. We worked within very tight time constraints. We had to finish the shoots before Easter, a time when the town’s pace changes and people focus on family celebrations. Everything happened intensely and quickly, without the luxury of waiting for “perfect” conditions.
The shoots took place in challenging weather: it was cold and windy, the light was constantly shifting, it rained, and then the harsh sun would suddenly break through. Strong gusts of wind would blow away the backdrop featuring the images of destruction — we had to hold it up with our hands or weigh it down with stones just to capture a single frame. There were moments when the backdrop fell on people, making the process physically demanding and somewhat uncomfortable for everyone involved.
At some point, I realized that this was no longer just a photoshoot — it was a performance. The very act of holding up this backdrop — a fragment of my reality — becomes a gesture that transcends photography. It is a collective action in which both I and the local residents participate.
For me, this became a metaphor: just as we physically struggle to hold up a backdrop that is constantly slipping away, it is equally difficult to maintain stability and a sense of reality during a war. It is an effort that requires time, presence, and shared participation.
Therefore, in this project, the artist for me is not just someone who records or initiates a dialogue, but someone who acts, lives through the process alongside others, and creates meaning through that action.
While working in Italy, did you encounter the position that culture should remain “outside of politics”? How do you respond to this as an artist from a country at war?
Alena Grom: I am certain that such a position — that culture should remain outside of politics — exists. However, during my work in Italy, I did not personally encounter it directly. No one ever said that to me.
Perhaps this is because I primarily interacted with people who were open to dialogue and consciously agreed to be part of my project. On the contrary, my experience was characterized by interest, empathy, and a willingness to listen. People asked questions, tried to understand the context, and expressed their support.
Therefore, in my direct experience, culture and politics were not separated — they naturally intersected through conversations about war, experience, and responsibility.
As an artist from a country at war, I cannot separate culture from politics because reality itself does not allow for it. When war becomes a part of everyday life, it inevitably enters artistic practice as an experience that is impossible to ignore.
Thus, my position is not about imposing a political agenda, but about being honest with the reality in which I live. And if that reality includes war, then it is present in my work — as a reason for dialogue and as a way of establishing a connection between people in different parts of the world.
In your opinion, how real is the idea of “apolitical” culture today, especially in the context of war? Can art remain outside of its context?
Alena Grom: I believe that art always resonates in unison with the present — with what is happening here and now. It does not exist in a vacuum; therefore, the idea of “apolitical” culture feels more like an illusion to me than a real position.
This becomes especially evident in the conditions of war. In the Ukrainian context, the apolitical nature of culture seems simply impossible, even unacceptable. When a country is at war, artists also find themselves in a state of mobilization. Even if we do not defend the country with weapons in our hands, it doesn’t mean we aren’t participating — culture also becomes an instrument of influence.
We see how culture is used as a political tool in Russia. They systematically invest vast resources into their cultural presence, attempting to shape their image and legitimize themselves in a global context through art. This manifests in symbolic gestures in occupied territories as well as in efforts to return to international cultural institutions.
Therefore, to speak of complete apoliticality in culture today means ignoring reality. In fact, my project is about precisely that: the impossibility of remaining a bystander in a world where wars are happening. It’s about how even people living far from conflict zones are part of a global process.
Ultimately, “apoliticality” is a position of distancing rather than a real absence of connection to politics.
Where is the project currently exhibited, and what are the next planned venues or cities?
Alena Grom: After the project was completed, I presented it directly in Sant’Angelo Muxaro — for the local residents who became its participants and co-creators. It was a vital moment, returning the work to the very context where it originated.
As of today, the project is not yet being exhibited at other venues. However, the Italian director Alessio Consoli has filmed a short documentary about it, which has become a distinct form of reflection and a continuation of this work.
I am currently considering opportunities for further exhibitions of the project.
In Ruined Landscapes, photography gradually transcends the image itself. It becomes a process — physical, sometimes uncomfortable, subject to the weather, time, and chance. The way a shot is created proves to be just as important as what is depicted within it.
In this project, the artist is no longer merely one who observes or records. They act, interact, involve others, and become part of the situation themselves. And alongside the artist, so do those who were initially just spectators.
Gradually, the distance vanishes. What seemed far away draws closer — not through information, but through experience. Through a simple willingness to stop, to look, and to remain within that gaze just a little longer.
This is precisely where the quiet, yet palpable power of this project lies.
Text: Yanina Provotar
