Oleksandra Kaniuka
- Anna Lilli Garai
- Mar 14
- 4 min read
Oleksandra Kaniuka is a Ukrainian artist working in photography, video, collage, and text. Her work, shaped by personal experiences of trauma, examines absence, emotional shifts, and the unseen layers of human existence. In "Search for Ways to Disappear" and "I Am Following Your Shadow," she captures transient moments and the empty spaces that define them. Rather than depicting fixed narratives, her work leaves room for interpretation, allowing meaning to emerge in the gaps. Engaging with the tension between presence and disappearance, Kaniuka continues to explore the performative nature of her practice.
Q: Your work carries a strong sense of stillness, yet it also hints at something beneath the surface. How do you decide what to capture?
A: I think I need to be consumed by an idea to capture something. When an image resonates with my inner dialogue, I feel compelled to take a picture. Sometimes, it feels almost divine—when the unspoken sneaks into the frame.
Q: Many of your images are taken during moments of transition—between places, between time zones, between emotional states. How does movement, or the lack of it, influence your photography?
A: Movement is essential to photography because it makes you notice things. When you stay in one place for too long, your vision becomes blurred. I also see existence as a constant state of becoming—ever-evolving. We are never the same; each second, something shifts in our bodies, our thoughts, and the world around us.
Movement is fundamental to life itself—the defining characteristic of being alive. As long as I am alive, I will be transitioning.
Q: Your series includes images from Kyiv and The Hague, two very different landscapes. How do these environments shape the mood of your work?
A: Interestingly, the landscapes of Ukraine and The Hague share certain similarities.
I remember walking with my mother in a park near The Hague, and she pointed out how many details reminded her of the places where she spent her childhood.
But when I think of the differences, I feel that in the Netherlands, stillness comes naturally—life there doesn’t demand as much struggle and sacrifice as it does in Kyiv. Kyiv is vast, fast, and demanding, making stillness something to actively seek out. Having lived here for six months now,
I constantly feel the pressure of the metropolis. In Kyiv, stillness is an escape, while in the Netherlands, it’s a state of being.
Q: You describe your photography as poetic. What makes an image feel like poetry to you?
A: Poetry is made of fragments—of speech, a curl of hair, feathers lying on thick grass. Whenever something signifies more than itself, when it fills the gaps between words, the invisible cracks in a narrative, I see it as poetic.
My photography doesn’t aim to directly represent politics or societal issues. Instead, it functions as a kind of micropolitics—a quiet protest that emerges through observation rather than confrontation with human nature.
Q: Your works often focus on absence—of people, of sound, of something just out of reach. Is this something you consciously explore?
A: Yes, I find absence to be one of the most compelling aspects of existence. The voids we experience daily push us to move, to seek what is missing. As I mentioned before, I’m fascinated by the cracks in any narrative—they hold more significance than what is immediately visible.
Q: Some of your images, like "Search for Ways to Disappear" or "I Am Following Your Shadow," feel like fragments of a dream. Do you think of your photography as storytelling?
A: I'm not sure I would call it storytelling. Dreams are ambiguous yet deeply symbolic, and each person interprets them differently. In that sense, I see my photographs as fragments of someone else's dream—one that even I can’t fully understand.
Each viewer will perceive them in their own way, finding meanings that are uniquely theirs.
Q: How has your approach to photography evolved over time? Have recent experiences changed the way you see or document the world?
A: Experiencing and overcoming trauma has changed me profoundly. I notice how my work has shifted—from a sense of heaviness to a search for lightness, something I often lack in daily life.
The war in Ukraine forced me, like many in my generation, to mature quickly, to find strength in order to endure. I see that strength in my work—though it may appear fragile, it is quite the opposite. A friend once described me as a Ming dynasty vase: delicate on the surface, but incredibly resilient.
I like to think of myself that way—a blue vase, made for no utilitarian purpose, yet existing with quiet strength.
Q: What’s next for you? Are there new directions you’re interested in exploring?
A: I want to understand my art more deeply, which means continuing to explore and learn—not just within photography but across other mediums. I’m especially drawn to the performative aspect of my work. Theatre has been an obsession of mine, and I’d love to find a way to integrate it into my practice.
But honestly, I never really know where my art will take me—I just follow.
