Julia Kissina, The Composer Looks Down, 2023. Ink on paper. 64×50 cm (25x20in). (Courtesy: Julia Kissina).

Julia Kissina is a writer, artist, and medium. Born in Kyiv, she studied in Moscow, wrote in New York, and now lives in Berlin. In 2006, she created and continues to lead The Dead Artist’s Society, which held séances to conduct “Dialogues with Classics” — drawing sessions with the spirits of renowned deceased artists—such as Duchamp and Malevich. She runs the seemingly ubiquitous Phantom Gallery, which takes various forms, from books to pop-up exhibitions. In 2000, she herded a flock of sheep into the Museum of Modern Art in Frankfurt as part of a performance. She also co-curated the Art & Crime Festival at the Hebbel Theater, Berlin, in 2003 and performed in a German prison. Her writing features vibrant language, while her paintings resemble polyphonic novels.

Her books often balance dark humor with existential reflection, exploring themes of memory, identity, and the absurdity of human existence. Among her most notable works are “Elefantina,” a surreal coming-of-age novel set in the Soviet underground; “Springtime on the Moon,” a poetic and whimsical look at childhood in the USSR; and “Bubush,” a tale of love, memory, and the tension between past and present.  Her works have been published in Germany, Italy, Russia, and Ukraine. In German, a poem is called Gedicht, a poet is referred to as Dichter, and Dichte means “denseness,” which fully aligns with saturated Julia’s art.

In anticipation of the artist’s talk in New York City this month, MishMash sat down with Julia to discuss her art, reality, Tikkun Olam, language as a medium, America as a land of Icarus, artistic independence, and future travels.

MishMash: Your books and artwork, no matter how surreal they appear, are based on actual events. Is it important for you to claim power over reality? Or do you want, on the contrary, to condense and intensify it through your art? What is reality, after all? What is more interesting — observing life or controlling it?

Julia Kissina: I adhere to so-called reality but shift familiar cultural codes, pushing them to the point of absurdity. This creates an alternative reality. Last year in India, I visited a remote temple built in the 1970s. It was the Temple of the Mother of Desires. There were large sculptures of vaginas through which one had to pass or even crawl. A large sculpture of a womb was equipped with a red staircase leading to the upper floor. It was a narrow passage. When you entered, panic would begin. But once you emerged, essentially reborn, you were overwhelmed by incredible joy. For me, this temple became a metaphor for what I do: send the reader or viewer on a journey through their delights and fears. It’s like a quest. Those ready for it encounter themselves as the Other, travel through time, experience their death, and are reborn.

MM: You create uncanny worlds for the reader and deal with death. Is there anything you fear yourself?

JK: It seems my “uncanny worlds” are full of joy. This is a fight against fear. Death is a state of harmony and peace. After all, we fear not death but pain, not harmony but imbalance. People need stability, which is why we invent new norms. The entire 20th century, the avant-garde rocked the boat, engaged in deconstruction and destruction, and achieved great success — it led to an era of instability. Now, all this needs to be fixed. This is the work with fear, the correction of the world through art. In Judaism, this is called Tikkun Olam — literally, the correction of the world.

Julia Kissina, Industrial Landscape, 2023. Ink on paper. 30x40cm (15×17 in). (Courtesy: Julia Kissina).

MM: Identity has become a keyword of our time. How do you identify? What is it related to in general? A country, blood, talent, language? Does it even matter?

JK: We all have very complex identities. Traditionally, they are defined by the boundaries of given circumstances. You can ignore your skin color, biological traits, temperament, and so on. You can start identifying yourself with anything, like in the case of lycanthropy, where a person identifies as a wolf. But I try to avoid phantom self-identifications, not to paint a mustache under my own nose or repent for things I haven’t done. The main thing is not to mistake freedom for delusion.

MM: Can you be both a writer and an artist simultaneously, or do you have to live out these roles one after the other?

JK: They’re just different languages. You can’t speak two languages simultaneously, so everything has to be done sequentially. There needs to be a plan.

MM: What occupies 80% of your thoughts?

JK: Various things, depending on incoming tasks and problems that must be solved. I’m learning to channel thoughts, focus, switch, and reformat. I’m becoming a machine that can actualize the necessary qualities at the right moment—magical thinking, a sense of color, and so on. Let’s say 80% of the time, I’m learning something to become a universal tool for creating art.

Julia Kissina, Tiepolo, 2023. Ink on paper. 100x 70cm (27.56×39.37 in). (Courtesy: Julia Kissina).

MM: What languages do you write in, and how does the semantics of each language influence the development of the plot and world-building? How does translating a book affect it?

JK: I mostly write in Russian. But I don’t fetishize language—it’s just a medium. In translations, details may disappear, but the essence remains unchanged. I write novels, and prose offers a vast range of possibilities and techniques, as it includes elements of poetry as well.

MM: Your books are published in different countries and different languages. Who is your reader? Do you imagine your audience when you write? What’s their background, their language? Are there specific elements in your texts that only a particular type of reader would understand?

JK: That’s an interesting question. My reader used to be a particular type of literature lover—middle-class, from any country, intelligent, attractive, spoiled, battered by life, elegant, well-educated, an art enthusiast with a good sense of humor. I hope such readers still exist.

MM: What is the difference between New York, San Francisco, and Berlin?

JK: In everything. America is the place of Icarus and dizzying delusions. In Europe, people are more grounded. You could say that America is where birds live, while in Europe, mammals and amphibians do.

MM: How does a place affect your work? Where is there more text, and where are more images?

JK: Geography inspires. Fresh information always pushes the imagination, regardless of the genre. But I especially love lost, godforsaken places where my presence causes no disturbance in the air and where, essentially, I do not exist. I can spend months in complete solitude, becoming only eyes and ears. In such situations, I feel like a demiurge, as I have no earthly obligations. Then I begin to soar above the world. In such places, I usually work intensely. For example, in Mexico, I once lived in the ruins of a villa of the Mexican ex-president, Luis Echeverría Álvarez. I was completely alone. It was a real blessing. Occasionally, I saw thieves taking the last treasures from the villa—huge fans resembling the blades of sunken ships. It was there that I began writing my latest novel about San Francisco.

MM: Your early works were mostly photographic, requiring the organization of people. Now, you’ve moved on to drawing and painting. And, as with photography, you’re gradually transitioning from black and white to color. Why is this transition?

JK: In the beginning, there were drawings and paintings. After school, I stopped because I associated them with conservatism. I was drawn to everything strict, clear, cold, rational, technical, and media-based. That period was an intense struggle with the human body — the social, gendered, normative, and physiological body. But the struggle is over. And no one won.

Now, I have returned to visual art, which, it turns out, I love. I remember how once I was struck by the paintings of Tivadar Kostka Csontváry (Hungarian painter who was part of the avant-garde movement of the early twentieth century). I was about twelve years old. I saw reproductions of his works in a bookstore — I opened a page and saw blue. It amazed me. It felt like peeking into the naked heart of painting. Back then, it was shameful to love authentic art — those were the cultural norms. That was my first immersion into cognitive dissonance.

All my life, I’ve watched artists suffer as they try to become proper, fashionable, and pleasing to museum officials and academic inquisitors. Now, I’ve gained independence. I do what only I can do, what no one else can replicate. It cannot be faked, narrated, or described — it’s the magical glow of being.

MM: You are not only an artist but also a professor, festival organizer, exhibition curator, and chairperson and medium of the Dead Artists Society. How is this public role of yours doing?

JK: This hypostasis occasionally comes to life. Then, I banish it so it doesn’t get in the way or interfere with my meditative work: creating art is, after all, a meditative, magical, and shamanic endeavor.

Julia Kissina, Lisa (Pushkin Museum). 25 gelatinsilver prints an edition of 3 + 2 AP, 1994-96. (Courtesy: Julia Kissina).

MM: When people write about you, which work is most often mentioned as defining? JK: Probably my photographic works from the nineties. Portraits of young girls in wigs made of meat.

MM: Do you agree with that choice? Which work would you choose yourself?  JK: I wouldn’t choose anything. In any case, I always value my latest work the most.

MM: A question for you from ChatGPT: What does a character feel when they suddenly realize their creator is you? JK: Nothing. It’s just a machine. This isn’t the “Six Characters in Search of an Author,” although at twenty, I wrote exactly such a play, not yet knowing that it already existed.

MM: Ask us a question? JK: Would you like to join me when I go to the South Pole or Mongolia?