The artist Anna Perepechai on her exhibition “Tears of Things” at D21 Kunstraum
Although an antique family portrait greets visitors opposite the entrance door, the more abstract works in the rest of the room initially reveal little that is personal, leaving space for imagination. In “Tears of Things,” artist Anna Perepechai uses photographic experiments to tell vague stories about violence and forgetting. The room smells of earth, and at irregular intervals the sound of a drone interrupts the silence. Only in the back part of the exhibition are collected objects and photographs visible, offering insight into her more intimate relationship with the subject. In the following, the artist shares thoughts about her working process, how this tension between closeness and alienation functions, and how the exhibition fits into D21’s annual theme ALIEN.
You experiment with a wide range of photographic techniques. What possibilities does this give you that purely digital photography could not offer? How does this manifest itself in terms of the exhibition’s dynamics of impact?
My first encounter with photography was actually not digital—in my family we photographed analog until the mid-2000s. Perhaps that’s why it feels closer to me, especially when I work with my family, to use cameraless or analog techniques. It is about expression, but also about the feeling you grew up with, about the slower process of developing, and about engaging with the carrier of memory, which—at least in the form of a photograph—becomes material.
One of the central themes of my work is engaging with the past—my own, but also the collective one. In this context, the past is not only history, memories, or archives, but also something physical that can still be touched. My memories of Ukraine are very tactile and tied to materials—so sometimes it feels more natural for me to work cameralessly or analog.
I am interested in how time and experience can inscribe themselves into images. How expectations of the image can dissolve, and what role chance plays in that process. I deliberately let go of control and leave my own traces behind. For me, this unpredictability says something about memory—it is never complete. It changes, becomes damaged, partly or entirely disappears, sometimes falls into a deep sleep and then slowly or abruptly awakens again.
Up to a certain point, I strongly separated my experimental and documentary works. In 2022 many things shifted and merged at the same time—not only geopolitically, but also within my artistic practice. I began combining approaches more, bringing different techniques together and also showing works-in-progress or excerpts.
In Tears of Things these various methods come together. Through their combination—fixed or also transformable—I try to make the complexity of experiences visible, at a time when so much is happening simultaneously.
Besides photography, your tools explicitly include non-photography. You say your collections arise automatically—does this also apply to your photographic works? Do your motifs come to you, or do you search for them?
Part of my work emerges from a kind of collecting. Many fragments I do not actively look for—they encounter me and do not pass through me without leaving a trace. My work consists in arranging them and giving them a form. Sometimes that form is photography, sometimes non-photography. Sometimes no photography at all. Not everything is an object that can be photographed—or should be photographed. Not because it would be technically or physically impossible, but because it may no longer exist, or no longer breathe.
During a war of annihilation it becomes especially important to preserve what has not yet been lost—not only to prevent complete erasure, but also to enable decolonial processes both within Ukraine and abroad. Photography plays an important role here. Alongside the incredible work of Ukrainian photojournalists, artistic photography also finds its voice—it translates the complexity of these experiences in another way.
When you work from the position of witnessing, you begin to collect “automatically.” Yet this process is not entirely automatic—you are still a living human being who consciously decides to preserve something, regardless of the technique; sometimes a short note is enough. Some motifs meet me along the way, others I search for deliberately—both belong to my working method.
I believe the approach actually differs from project to project and moves between conceptual-documentary and experimental approaches.
Has this process changed? Can this change—and your general way of working—be divided into phases over time?
The process changes again and again. A theme can run through an artist’s practice for many years, and at some point a change in process becomes necessary in order to view it from other, updated perspectives.
In one of my first photographic series, “Nostalgia” (2017), I dealt with Eastern European shops in Thuringia. At that time I was particularly interested in the equation of “Eastern European” with “Russian.” In Germany, such shops were commonly referred to simply as “Russian”—a clear sign of how present Russian imperial narratives are in Germany. Other cultures that had been Sovietized and suppressed for a long time were rarely considered or included.
I was also interested in why many people with migration backgrounds from formerly Sovietized countries—who live or even grew up here in Germany—build or visit such nostalgic gastronomic places, yet often do not speak their own language, while they do speak Russian. Why do certain products and cultural images remain so strongly present, even though these people live here? Why do they remain tied to these imperial narratives? Why are there so much alcohol and politically questionable objects alongside individually wrapped sweets and products from various Eastern European countries—Ukrainian flags next to Russian ones, matryoshkas, drinking vessels, Soviet symbolism, and of course Putin accessories?
Because my art studies overlapped with my life in migration, art also became a space where I could experience and reflect on migration. That is why decolonial and migration-related questions run through many of my projects. Thematically many of them flow into one another and remain connected.
Technically, however, some phases can be identified: I began actively working cameraless during my exchange semester in Montreal in 2019–2020. After the beginning of the Russian full-scale invasion in 2022, my works became more political and more cross-technical—yet at the same time also more fragile and personal.
The exhibition runs under the theme ALIEN. Has the meaning of the word “foreign” also changed for you in that context?
During my migration—which I did not perceive as migration for a long time because I always thought I would soon return—I began to deal both practically and theoretically with the question of home. In contrast to German society, it became possible to recognize the familiar and the unfamiliar more clearly, but also to redefine myself, to search for concepts, and to master language anew.
For me today, “alien” exists alongside the familiar—just as power and fragility exist side by side.
As humans we are shaped by our origins—but they do not define us entirely. Foreignness and belonging move far beyond borders and languages. For us as humans it is existential to feel that we belong—that is why we come together, build communities, and exchange with one another. Belonging can emerge, but sometimes one must also actively contribute to it.
Another form of foreignness arises when familiar places become alien through violence—as in Russia’s war against Ukraine. Houses, gardens, or streets that you have known your entire life can suddenly become places of danger or even annihilation. This shift is existential.
You write about “alienation from your own country” and that “the familiar becomes foreign under pressure.” Can you explain in which moments this happens and what it feels like?
I have lived in Germany for twelve years—my life here develops further each year, while my family and friends continue to live in Ukraine. My experiences as a foreigner, learning German, studying, and building a life here in new and initially unfamiliar places—as well as time and the physical distance between us—leave traces in our relationships, in our dynamics, and in our communication.
Migration brings experiences of loss: social networks change, familiar norms, language, and identity are partly called into question. Alienation is a central psychological aspect of migration—closeness and distance become confused. At some point you walk down a street, whether in Kyiv or Leipzig, and suddenly ask yourself: What am I doing here—and does anyone here still need me?
Under the pressure of war this feeling intensifies even more, no matter where you physically are. You carry feelings of guilt with you and try to stretch yourself across very different realities in order to endure the pain.
And sometimes you return, perhaps seeking support in the familiar—only to realize that it no longer exists. An emptiness looks back at you. And you recognize yourself in it.
You deal with the inscription of war into family spaces—are there boundaries that are too private for you? How far do you let people participate?
Many of my works are based on personal materials—family photographs, videos, notes, or memories. That is why I think very carefully about what I show publicly. My works should not slip into oversharing, retraumatization, or sentimentality. Some things are too private to share—that is why I often work with excerpts. Showing the whole would in some cases be even more intimate.
It is very difficult for me to speak about loss and death, to name names, to publish certain portraits or certain thoughts. That is why my work sometimes moves into more experimental, anonymous, poetic forms—entangled and covered in shadows. It moves between personal processing and the responsibility to bear witness, while at the same time trying to maintain care and respect toward the people who appear in it or are mentioned.
Working together with my family and creating works with their support encourages me greatly. Our family portrait in the basement, “Under the Russian Missiles” (2023), was not an easy experience for any of us during the photographing.
When I exhibited this work in Berlin in 2023, a German couple walked past with sparkling wine and pretzels and said: “Ah, refugees again!” On that day my home region was being heavily attacked by Russia. My family was in that basement at that exact moment.
This discrepancy is painful. It could be a boundary. But together with my family I decided to cross it.
To what extent are your works meant to make conditions visible to the outside world, and to what extent are they a way for you to fix and process your own thoughts?
Part of my work arises from a very personal need—to understand or preserve things. Sometimes for remembrance, sometimes from an impulse, sometimes simply from the feeling that something must not be lost.
When I realize that an experience extends beyond me and has a collective dimension, I develop it further and share it with others—perhaps in another form that has several layers, where the most intimate remains in the lowest layer. Other things initially remain in the collection—they need time. Not everything has to be published immediately.
It is about personal processing and the attempt to make certain states visible. Art can be a space in which experiences are preserved—not only for myself, but also for others who may share similar questions or feelings.
You speak of the moment when the “I” becomes a collective “we.” Who is this “we”? Who is allowed to be or become part of it?
I try to treat the term “we” carefully. Nevertheless, there are some forms of “we” that arise from shared attitudes and experiences. Through resistance, but also through solidarity and collaboration, individual experiences become more strongly connected with collective ones.
This “we” can be family, circles of friends, or a community—but also people who feel connected in certain political moments or who consistently share similar stories and positions.
In the context of Russia’s war against Ukraine there are many different forms of this “we.” What connects them is resistance to imperial violence. This “we” does not emerge by itself and is not self-evident. It grows—through responsibility and through the decision not to remain neutral.
The exhibition has already been shown in many different places. Often things emerge only afterwards, or through conversations with visitors, that one would like to change. How has the exhibition transformed, and are there still small things you would change next time?
The exhibition actually changes with every location. Some works move or are newly added, others rest for a while. I see this as a kind of “natural” process that helps me remain open and not restrict myself too much to the original concept.
These changes do not simply arise from the desire to do something differently—they are often necessary. It is not about perfecting something or doing it “better” next time. I rather see each exhibition as a kind of invitation to my home. Encounters with visitors play an important role here, because they are visiting that “home.” Conversations or unexpected reactions can make a work visible again from another perspective.
Between stable forms and already processed content, much remains in motion and responds to different realities. It is very personal—sometimes painful, sometimes poetic, sometimes self-ironic. That is why it is important for me to find a spatial design that is understandable and suited to the respective place. Some ideas have already been realized; others are still waiting for their spaces.
For me, Tears of Things is not a completed project. It is an ongoing process that grows and changes—just like the reality from which it emerged.
Interview: Pia Brand
Pictures: © Yelyzaveta Protopopova
