I.: Were there any people around whom people gathered, that is, some kind of “core” of the community?
R.: Well, there was a guy called Kolia; back then, he was known as Filatov. He was there because he and others — like Ihor Kopystianskyi from Lviv and Sveta Kopystianska — were among the first. They were prominent figures at the time and remain well known today. They were kind of… They really formed the vanguard, and Kolia was very much a part of that. You could say he was something of a dictator on his own floor. But he was also very… And then all of that vanished. Now, Kolia says nothing is happening in Moscow anymore. Everything has become commercial; most galleries have closed down, and only a handful remain. In short, it’s all in decline. Pragmatically, things were different back then — people were striving for something. But now, it’s just about money. Pure “cash”.
[…]
I.: And in general, what were your relations like with the broader Lviv community and the authorities? Did you ever set yourselves apart from them?
R.: No, no, honestly, it was like giving them the middle finger, up your sleeve, you know? Me personally, and the hangout [tusovka — tr. note] too, nobody cared. There was just no relationship at all. Absolutely none.
I.: So, they just calmly accepted that you existed, that you were somehow…
R.: No, they really didn’t care — whether we existed or not. And honestly, we weren’t all that interested in them either, so that was that. No connection with them at all. But with the artists, yes, we had a connection.
[…]
I.: Did you ever get together at cafes or restaurants?
R.: I know we used to meet at Nektar… because Nektar was in a great location, so… we used to meet at Nektar.
I.: And how often?
R.: It was right at the intersection. First, it was in a great spot on Saksahanskoho Street, and in the evenings, we’d head out for a walk. As we strolled those hundred meters, we’d either bump into someone, get stuck chatting, or just keep going — something like that. How often? Pretty much every day (laughs). There really wasn’t anything else to do, you know, because no one… and even if someone had a job, they worked but didn’t care about work or didn’t work at all.
I.: And you didn’t make plans in advance, I mean, if you met there?
R.: No, no, not at all. There was always someone there — honestly, it felt like half the city hung out there…
I.: Well, but it was an opportunity, if you wanted to meet someone, talk to someone like that.
R.: Well, yeah, if you were bored, you’d just go to Nektar. While you were sipping your coffee, there’d always be someone already sitting there, or someone would show up soon. Something like this.
I.: Did you ever go out of town together, take a break like that?
R.: No.
I.: Mostly everything in the city, right?
R.: Yeah.
[…]
I.: And where did you work back then? I mean, you painted — was that just for fun, or did you have a job?
R.: I don’t think I really worked anywhere. I mean, I was finishing my architecture degree, and back then you had to put in a couple of years at your assigned job. After that, I went to the Aesthetics Bureau, but I didn’t stay there long. Still, thanks to that Bureau, I managed to get a studio. I worked up until ’86, I think, and then nowhere after that. Oh, and Manilov got me a job at the conservatory once. I used to draw water clocks, but that was just for an hour [a day] or so. So, after that, honestly, I hardly worked anywhere. And I still kind of don’t.
I.: How did you make a living back then?
R.: Well, I made stuff, drew things to sell.
I.: Right, so you were drawing some things for yourself and some for sale at the same time?
R.: No, well, I had to do something, right? Mainly, I was living off my mom’s pension at the time — you could actually get by that way back then. My mom was still alive, so I managed. Besides that, maybe once a month I’d paint an icon somewhere, or do these winter landscapes of the St. Yura Cathedral — I knew those scenes by heart already. Then I’d take them to the Sheptytskyi Foundation across from the post office and hand them in. I’d get a bit of money for them, but back then, that was enough to last the whole month.
I.: So, it was enough.
R.: It was enough, really — more than enough. Just make some trinket and you could get by for a month.
(Artist, 55 years old at the time of the interview)
I: And what did this anti-establishment stance of yours — of your so-called artistic circle [tusovka — tr. note], which had nothing in common with this system — consist of?
R: Well, our priorities were just completely different — what we were interested in, the kind of structure we were building, none of it had anything to do with the official ideology they were pushing. In fact, it totally undermined the foundations of that ideology. So, it shaped us into future anti-system people, you know? It came in waves, I guess. There were those hippies too — they didn’t really go out and fight the system head-on, but they were anti-system, or maybe it’s better to say non-systemic. And back then, just being non-systemic — not part of the system at all — was seen as a real threat.
[…]
I: Did you go, say, to the theater, or the philharmonic, or the movies together?
R: Oh, the cinema, that’s a whole different story. That was the club on Khasanska Street. You probably know the place I mean, right?
I: Yes.
R: So that was another part of it — talking about movies, reflecting on them, thinking it over together.
I: So, you were involved in that, in that Khasanska scene?
R: Yeah, well, I don’t know, I think pretty much all those circles in Lviv ended up on Khasanska Street — people would go there and kind of know each other. But we didn’t really mix much, since even there people split up, sometimes by language. Not strictly, but kind of — the Russians, I mean the non-systemic Russians, would stick together. They were usually Russian-speaking, though not always Russian by nationality. And as for the theaters, yeah. We saw a lot of premieres, and we were there.
I: Which ones exactly? At Zankovetska’s or somewhere else?
R: Usually at Zankovetska’s. Back then, you didn’t really have a choice to go anywhere else. And if there was a good concert at the Philharmonic, we’d definitely go. That was always an event.
I: So, did you go to those events as a group [tusovka — tr. note]?
R: No, everyone just went on their own, but we’d all run into each other there. After that, it might turn into a group thing [tusovka — tr. note] — we’d go off somewhere together.
I: So, you’d get together and go somewhere?
R: Yes, exactly. We didn’t even plan to get together — we’d just meet up. It all happened spontaneously; there was never any plan.
[…]
I: Well, you were probably really on the edge; you were in both circles [tusovka — tr. note] a little bit: in this one and that one. So, if we talk more about art, about your wife, who is a ceramist, do you know why she did it? What motivated her to do art? What were her motives?
R: That was just her life, you know? I’m not even sure how to explain it. She didn’t really need any motivation; it’s her profession, her life’s work. She enjoys it, she does it, it’s her calling — probably something given from above. She just takes it as a given, no questions asked. Same with her sister, actually. She went to the Polytechnic Institute because their mom said she needed some kind of foundation — acting wasn’t a serious profession, supposedly. So, she studied there for five years — mostly just taking classes here and there — and then she went into theater and built a career there.
I: And what did you do?
R: It was just like with my father — when it was time to make a choice, he was clear: “You’re going into engineering because it’s apolitical. Anything else, you just can’t do here; you’d have to compromise your principles, and that’s not right. With engineering, you’ll have a solid foundation, a technical degree, and then you can always have a hobby on the side”.
I: And what were you doing at that time?
R: Professionally?
I: Basically: what was your job?
R: Well, for a while I was a student — studying mechanical engineering at the Polytechnic. Then I worked at the Institute of Physics and Mechanics, doing research. That was another kind of creativity, really.
I: So, at that time, you were essentially making a living through science?
R: Yeah, I did earn a living, that’s true. But besides that, I took on catchpenny jobs [haltura — tr. note] — writing term papers and things like that — because what I made wasn’t quite enough. But I actually liked that work; it was creative, and the whole environment was interesting.
[…]
I: Yes, interesting. I’ve heard a lot about how the Soviet authorities tried to suppress precisely this humanities intelligentsia, while letting the technical intelligentsia slip a bit under their radar. And at the same time, very strong development was taking place precisely thanks to the technical intelligentsia, because there was this free-thinking there. That is, while they were putting a lot of pressure on one group, the other was developing and driving everything forward.
R: Well, they had to compete with the U.S., right? And without some creativity — without at least a bit of freedom — that just wouldn’t have worked. I’m sure more was allowed in those circles; maybe they just weren’t watched as closely, those technical intelligentsia circles. Do you mean the so-called “labor collectives” [trudovi kolektyvy — tr. note]? Professional circles?
I: Perhaps, and even those informal gatherings — meaning that the pressure was much greater on the humanities scholars specifically, rather than the technical ones.
R: Well, you see, in our circles [tusovka — tr. note], it was mostly humanities people — there really weren’t many from the technical intelligentsia.
I: Essentially, you were a technician.
R: Yeah, yeah, I was an engineer. Maybe there were a few others, but honestly, not many at all.
I: But still, because you were constantly part of that circle [tusovka — tr. note], you contributed something and you gained something in return — so I think it was a pretty beneficial symbiosis.
R: That became really clear to me later, when I was already editing the newspaper, Novyi Postup. Somehow, that humanistic way of seeing the world just fit really well with my technical, structured mindset.
(Researcher, 52 years old at the time of the interview)
I: So, to start with, please tell me how you ended up in this artistic, creative, literary milieu in Lviv, what it meant to you, and what your first impressions were.
R: Well, if we’re talking about memories, these go way back. First off, I think it all started with a meeting—meeting one of the leading artists at the time, the sculptor Emmanuil Mysko. That’s really where it began for me. I mean, before that, I already felt this inner pull to be a sculptor, to be an artist, to create — that was always there. But then, meeting him, that’s what brought me into this circle of artists, writers, painters. And honestly, just being in that studio, in that whole environment, it really made me stop and think about my own path. I’d ask myself: “What are you doing here? Why are you sitting here?”
[…]
I: And what contributed to this situation coming about? I understand that it might have been some kind of political context — the ideological changes taking place, the fall of the Iron Curtain, and the people gaining more freedom both to express themselves and to hear others. What allowed you to live life to the fullest like that?
R: When it comes to the social side — how we lived, moved around, and created — it was because of a huge wave of enthusiasm. It wasn’t about money, or subsidies, or outside influences. There really wasn’t any economic basis to it at all. It was all just something inside us — a desire to create, and that’s it. Sure, sometimes we’d get paid a little for our work, but that was only because someone new would get involved, a manager or just someone who wanted to help out. And honestly, you could feel the system was falling apart. It’s hard to describe.
[…]
“You know, maybe my own experience is just a brick — or maybe just a drop — in the whole ocean of what was going on. Part of it happened outside this city, part of it here, so that’s probably why it feels the way I described. Maybe someone else will get into all the details, because I have so many friends, artists, people I know who are really meticulous about that chronology, about how it all went down almost exactly like that. I just never had time for that— I was busy making something totally different. I was just completely wrapped up in what I was creating; that’s all”.
(Sculptor, 52 years old at the time of the interview)
“You know, life was just completely different back then. From my perspective, there wasn’t any commercial side to it at all. Artists didn’t do their work thinking about what they could charge — no matter what it was. Material stuff was always in the background somehow. What mattered were those creative moments. Artists would talk, argue, debate, whatever — it was just this ongoing process. And honestly, everyone was broke”.
[…]
I.: So, basically, you’d gather somewhere outside those apartments, so to speak, somewhere like that.
R.: Yeah. Right, right, right.
I.: Right. And at what kinds of places? Where did you usually gather? Well, aside from the fact that you gathered at exhibitions.
R.: Well, we’d get together at exhibitions. You know, if there was an exhibition on, we’d just sort of gather there — maybe at the end of the day or after lunch — and hang out, chat, not necessarily right in the hall. Then there was Silvestrov’s studio, down in the basement [at Dzerzhynskyi Street 26 — now Vitovskyi Street 26]. We’d meet there a lot. Same with Saigon. Really, most of the time we met in studios. Kapustiak had one on Khrest, at 38 Chuprynka Street. Places like that. We could get to Yagoda’s studio, too. That’s just how it was.
I.: And in any cafes?
R.: As for cafes — well, for coffee, there was Nektar. Now it’s called Malenarii or Mulinarii or something like that — a brand name. They had these railings, and people would just sit there with their coffee, like pigeons on a rail. At the upper Nektar, there was no alcohol, just coffee. If you got there early, there’d be a line, and you’d spot someone you knew, give them a nod — there’d be two cups. Then, when it finally was their turn, they’d order twenty cups at once (laughter). That’s mostly why there was always a line. People would order, hang out with their coffee, and then go their separate ways. That was it. We’d meet up over coffee, chat, and just when you were about to leave, someone else you knew would walk in, and the conversation would start all over again. People would share what they had heard, who they had seen. From the outside, I guess we probably looked like a bunch of slackers [tuneyadtsi — tr. note], just sitting around drinking coffee for an hour or more. But really, it was all just talk — discussion, that’s what it was. You know, just interesting stuff. I mean, if it wasn’t interesting, nobody would have stuck around there drinking coffee for an hour and a half or two hours.
[…]
I.: And you mentioned quite interestingly at the beginning that your gallery, essentially, started without any paperwork.
R.: Yes.
I.: Can you tell me how you found this space, and how you managed to set it up?
R.: Well, it was actually really simple… You know, back when perestroika was happening and all that, I’d already been interested in art for a long time — even way back when I was a student. So basically, I quit my job — I was working as a senior lecturer at the Zooveterinary Institute at the time. I just gave it all up and decided to open a space, to start a gallery. So, I went — this was still during Soviet times — to the first secretary of the [Lenin] district committee [of the Komsomol], whom I knew, and said: “Andrii, just give me the space”. Well, actually, the space already belonged to the Youth Center. So, in that situation, I came to talk about that to the Youth Center… and really, I’d just started setting it up, started working there; everything was fine. It wasn’t a commercial thing. And then, you know, Ukraine came along, the Soviet Union disappeared, and there weren’t any documents either. That Youth Center, as they say, just faded away. Then I set up what you might call a “small enterprise” — that was the legal term back then. I started going around, went to the city council, and little by little… well, in about six months, I got it all sorted out. They’d just tell me, “Bring this certificate, bring that application”, and I’d calmly go get whatever was needed. If I told you this now, you wouldn’t believe me — nobody would. Back then, it was just: here’s a list of documents, maybe a few extra ones, but that was it. Everything happened so smoothly. If only there hadn’t been all that commercial development of those spaces later on. But if you had a space — fix up the roof, make sure the walls weren’t leaking — you just got to work. It really was that simple.
I.: And even more so if it’s a basement.
R.: Yeah, it was a basement space. So that’s how it all happened… Back then, it was easy to put on exhibitions, and honestly, it cost next to nothing. Electricity was just a few kopecks, gas about the same, you know. But then, when the bony hand of capitalism started squeezing the throat of creative freedom, that’s when we had to start thinking about what to do next, how to make it work. But as long as everything was that affordable, it was all much easier.
[…]
I.: Oh, by the way, back then, how did you make a living, basically?
R.: Well, everyone had a job somewhere — everyone worked, making maybe 110 or 120 rubles a month, so there was at least some income. Rent was cheap, you know — three kopecks, or maybe three or five rubles. Bread was 16 kopecks. Basically, if you didn’t go to restaurants or spend money elsewhere, it was barely enough, but it was something. Especially if two people were working in a family. And artists, well, they’d sometimes sell a painting or something. I remember there was this rumor going around that Jews who were leaving the country would buy paintings. Someone set a rumor that they went to the States or Germany, got into some public housing, and could sell some paintings to get a better place there or something. So, every now and then, artists would manage to sell a thing or two. Of course, it wasn’t like a factory; they weren’t just working for money, but there was something to it. We were young; well, it was always the case that if someone had a bit more money, they didn’t hold back; they’d always chip in.
(Gallerist, 51 years old at the time of the interview)
I: Were there any little cafes where you usually hung out and drank coffee?
R: Well, everyone knew Nektar. Back then, that was the place — we always used to meet up at Nektar, right here on Saksahanskoho Street. Later on, during the perestroika years, we’d sometimes go to Inturist or the café inside Zhorzh. But honestly, it’s Nektar that sticks in my mind the most — the coffee place. There were a few spots like that around town back then. Yeah, they were interesting places.
I: And what about, I mean, during, you know, describe a typical meeting. So, you come to Nektar, and what’s there?
R: You know, it’s hard to describe a typical get-together — there really wasn’t any set routine. No single topic, either. And definitely nothing…
I: So, what did you actually talk about over coffee?
R: Well, sometimes we talked about art, or something related to that. Honestly, it’s hard to remember a specific conversation now or to really structure it. In the late eighties, we went to Moscow a lot for exhibitions, so maybe we chatted about that too — but not for hours on end or anything. It’s just tough to say for sure.
[…]
I: Regarding your gatherings — say, in studios or at someone’s apartment — were you usually invited, or did you just sort of happen to get together and say, “Let’s go visit so-and-so”?
R: Well, it was mostly spontaneous. There’d be a group of maybe ten to fifteen people — the bigger circle. The smaller circle was, I don’t know, four, five, maybe six people, and then the wider group — twelve, fifteen, all sorts of different types, you know? I’m not even sure what to call these groups — associations, gatherings, something like that. Some people would show up for a while, then disappear, but there was always some kind of core group. There weren’t any special rules or structures, especially since time wasn’t organized like it is now. Back then, at the end of the Soviet era, it was pretty free. Especially for people in the liberal professions. It really didn’t matter what day it was — Friday, Wednesday, Tuesday, whatever.
I: So, you could do it any day?
R: Sure, we could just hang out whenever — and hop around each other any day, really.
I: And did you hop around, I mean, from apartment to apartment?
R: Mostly workshops.
I: From workshop to workshop?
R: Well, whether it was a workshop or an apartment, it didn’t really matter…
I: And how often did you meet?
R: Pretty much every day. Almost every day.
[…]
I: And why did you do that? Why were you doing that?
R: Well, that’s the big question, isn’t it? I mean, what else was there to do? Honestly, just because.
I: So, architecture, obviously, took a bit of a back seat for you?
R: Well, yes and no. It’s pretty clear — because it just wasn’t interesting. Honestly, it still isn’t, at least in local practice. The work that went with it was always boring, uninteresting — and I don’t think it was just me; nobody really saw themselves working nine to six or nine to five. That’s kind of what that whole scene was about. There were hardly any people like that [in the architecture].
I: So, people wanted some kind of flexible schedule?
R: If someone went to work, well, they went — but honestly, what was the point? And if only…
I: But how did you make a living then…?
R: Well, I should say… It’s like in Podervianskyi’s book — “a shitty engineer in the office”. Honestly, nobody did that (laughs).
I: (Laughs).
R: Nobody did.
I: So how did you make a living back then?
R: Back then, it was actually easier. First, there were these catchpenny jobs [haltura — tr. note] — always a thing for artists. The same guys — Bratkovskyi, Sahaidakovskyi — in the Aesthetics Bureau, they were writing slogans, doing graphic design, that sort of thing. It was pretty easy to make money that way, and the money was actually pretty good. It even had a kind of status to it, and honestly, it wasn’t hard.
I: So, there was something like that, something done for oneself, something considered art.
R: Yeah, and while you were doing that, you could always have something else going on the side. But that was enough to put food on the table. Bratkovskyi, for example, was sewing clothes — fashionable stuff, pants or something — and making money that way. But it didn’t take up six hours a day as it might now; it was more like four hours a week, and that was enough. Plus, there were other things — money worked differently, prices were different, all that. For a lot of people, even into the late nineties, the whole question of making money didn’t really come up. Things just happened naturally. It was all pretty simple. Even more so in the eighties, I think. And in the nineties — well, I wasn’t here anymore, so it’s hard to say. But it seems to me the big problems started in the second half of the nineties, when everything turned into real capitalism.
I: And before that, things just kind of kept going by inertia, I suppose, right?
R: Things were just coasting along. My friends from Estonia would come visit and say, “People here live so well — they don’t worry about money, they don’t care about all that earning and stuff”. But of course, that could only last so long. After that, it all changed.
I: So, but these catchpenny jobs — they provided a sort of minimum, that is, what’s needed to get by.
R: Yes.
I: Something to eat.
R: Some people made copies of paintings, some did design work, some did interiors. That’s how it’s called now — interiors — but back then people called it “decoration”. And that was plenty. Everyone did their own thing.
I: Well, but it, in a way…
R: Maybe someone had a job somewhere, but not nine to six — and definitely not for a Soviet salary.
I: So, even if someone was working, it wasn’t really publicized? I mean, you didn’t even know about it?
R: Yeah, basically. It wasn’t the main thing, you know? It didn’t take up most of our time.
(Photographer, 51 years old at the time of the interview)
In the late Soviet era, Lviv’s intellectual and artistic circles developed a distinctive survival strategy within the party-state system — what could be called an “ethics of parallel existence”. During late socialism, labor was regarded not only as an economic necessity but also as a core ideological concept. The Soviet state considered labor both a moral duty for its citizens and the primary tool for shaping the “new man”. According to socialist ethics, labor was the ultimate form of human self-realization and a person’s contribution to the collective good. These principles were systematically reflected in Soviet sociology of labor, which argued that participation in a labor collective [trudovyi kolektyv — tr. note] was both an economic and a moral obligation.
Yet the lived reality of late socialism shows that the daily existence of Soviet citizens often diverged from official ideology. Scholars of this period note that, while people formally participated in state institutions, they also constructed their own informal ways of life. Alexei Yurchak describes this phenomenon in depth; he argues that late Soviet society developed a specific social position he terms being vne (being outside, vnenahodimost), which meant existing both within the system and, to some extent, beyond it. Rather than openly confronting authority, many adopted this approach: they performed required rituals, worked in institutions, and attended official meetings, all while cultivating alternative spaces of meaning in their private lives, informal circles, and cultural practices. Within this context, the distinct culture of Lviv’s art underground in the 1980s emerged. Under totalitarian control, where work was mandatory and leisure ideologically managed, unofficial culture forged its own definitions of work and idleness. In-depth interviews with participants from that era reveal the intricate workings of this world.
Official work as a “smokescreen” and “catchpenny job” (haltura). For most members of the underground, official employment was not a source of identity but rather a regrettable necessity or a strategic resource. This reality fit seamlessly into the broader context of late Soviet culture, where formal participation in state institutions often coexisted with alternative forms of economic and cultural activity. The interviewed Artist recalled that he officially “hardly worked anywhere”, except for brief stints at the Aesthetics Bureau of Lviv Polytechnic or the conservatory. His actual livelihood depended on “catchpenny jobs”, like reproducing icons or painting winter landscapes with St. Yura Cathedral for sale. This was work for the sake of survival: “Make some trinket and you could get by for a month”. In such circumstances, work was clearly divided into two spheres. On one hand, there was functional labor, aimed at earning money. On the other hand, there was true labor, rooted in creativity and often left “in a drawer”. This division was typical of many cultural environments in late socialism, where the official economy coexisted with informal practices of production and exchange. The Researcher posits another kind of “dual world”. While working officially as an engineer, he used his professional role to maintain formal status but reserved much of his intellectual energy for cultural pursuits. He noted that technical environments (labor collectives, trudovi kolektyvy) were less closely monitored by the system, which allowed for greater internal freedom. In Yurchak’s terms, this could be seen as the practice of “living alongside ideology”, where people outwardly followed the system’s rules, yet their real cultural and intellectual lives unfolded elsewhere.
Studio and gallery: labor as world-making. While work was an intimate practice for the Artist, it took on the qualities of a cultural mission for others in the milieu. The interviewed Sculptor demonstrated the most radical devotion to the process itself, immersing so deeply in creation that he ignored the external signs of success — catalogs, collections, or exhibitions: “I was busy making something totally different. I was just completely wrapped up in what I was creating; that’s all”. His work became a kind of ascetic discipline, a daily solitude with the material and a constant self-interrogation: “What are you doing here? Why are you sitting here?” This approach transcended economic logic and approached creativity as a discipline of life. By contrast, the Gallerist transformed labor into institutional management, focusing on building a “structure” that would allow private art to become public. His work involved the daily search for venues and negotiations at a time when the art market did not yet exist. It is here that the transition to a new economic logic begins to emerge. Art gradually began to function as a profession capable of generating profit, especially with the help of foreign buyers. Thus, by the late 1980s and early 1990s, the underground scene was steadily entering a new cultural economy.
Nektar and Virmenka: the phenomenology of lviv idleness. For participants in the underground, the Nektar café and the legendary Virmenka stand out as central places in their memories. Through the lens of official Soviet morality, those who spent hours in cafés may have seemed like “freeloaders” (darmoiidy). The Soviet regime even had legal measures to combat what it called “parasitism” (tuneyadstvo). Yet, for the artistic community, these cafés served as intellectual laboratories. The interviewed Photographer described this state as “coexistence”. For him, there was no clear line between work and leisure: the “hangout” (tusovka) itself, private conversations, and the faces of friends became material for documentary photography. For the gallerist, Nektar served as an informal office, a place to plan, discuss new exhibitions, and share what they had seen on Polish television. The café was transformed into a space for self-education, cultural exchange, and strategic thinking. In this way, Lviv’s cafés exemplified what Yurchak called parallel spaces of life that sprang up alongside the official system. While they weren’t overtly political, these cafés fostered an autonomous cultural environment in which new values and forms of communication emerged.
The ethics of resistance: “a middle finger up your sleeve”. Many underground participants shared a common view of the Soviet system as something external to themselves. Working for the state was seen less as a source of meaning and more as a formal obligation — a kind of “tax” paid for the chance to pursue their own cultural lives. The Sculptor chose a form of internal emigration through hands-on work with materials, while the Gallerist took administrative risks by organizing semi-banned exhibitions. The Artist, meanwhile, embraced near-deliberate unemployment, living on the edge of poverty to safeguard creative freedom. Each of these approaches represented a different form of parallel existence, a way of being within the system without truly identifying with it. The late 1980s and early 1990s brought commercialization, which gradually eroded the ethic of “work for the sake of the idea”. The artist notes with bitterness that now (the interviews were recorded in 2012), everything has boiled down to money, to “pure cash”. In the past, people “were striving for something”, and the creative process itself mattered more than selling. The Gallerist echoes this shift, observing that the introduction of real prices for paintings changed artists’ motivations. Where big money appeared, what those in the scene called “pure art” often disappeared.
The experience of the Lviv underground shows that, under oppressive conditions, idleness can become a form of intellectual hygiene. Choosing not to fully engage in the official labor system created room for creativity and imagination. The Lviv model of the 1980s illustrates how a creative community can turn resource scarcity into a wealth of cultural meaning. In this context, labor ceases to be merely an economic category and becomes a means of claiming and defining “one’s own” cultural space. For today’s cultural initiatives, this history is a vital reminder: creative breakthroughs often arise not within institutionally regulated settings, but in spaces of free communication — sometimes over a simple cup of coffee in a Lviv café.
The interview excerpts below are part of the Lviv Creative Communities oral history collection of the Urban Media Archive, created in 2012. The collection consists of interviews with people whose activities were directly related to creativity (creative communities). The aim of this collection was to reveal the connections between aesthetic practices and the social space of Lviv. The selection of interview excerpts presented here focuses on the late Soviet period and the early years of independence.