Guest of the episode: artist Natalia Korf-Ivanyuk
Transcript of conversations
Nik Lysytskiy: Hello! I’m Nik Lysytskiy, and this is Archetype of the Nation — a cultural project that explores the foundations of Ukrainian national identity: what we were, what we have become, what we have, and what we can be.
We look for answers in folklore, as well as in conversations with prominent representatives of our nation. Today, our guest is artist Nataliia Korf-Ivaniuk. Hello, Nataliia!
Nataliia Korf-Ivaniuk: Hello, Nik!
Nik Lysytskiy: Each episode of our project focuses on a particular value that defines the Ukrainian people. And today, we’d like to talk about one of the most universal values — love.
Let me make a small remark, especially for our viewers and listeners. Usually, we don’t explain why we invite certain guests to talk about specific values. But when it comes to love, there’s a nuance.
In my opinion, almost anyone can talk about love — as sensual love, as the bond between a man and a woman — because it’s a deeply personal story, something everyone experiences. But to speak about love as a value, as a universal human and cultural phenomenon, can truly be done only by a poet or an artist. Since we already had a poet in one of the previous episodes, today we’d like to explore this value with you — as an artist.
Nataliia Korf-Ivaniuk: Thank you very much. I’m really happy you invited me to talk about love. And I think it’s no coincidence, because any art is already an act of love — a projection of it.
To me, this is something divine. If you don’t fill your creative process — your canvas, your inner world — with love, if you don’t transmit that feeling through paint, the viewer simply won’t understand it. They won’t feel it as they should.
I’ve always believed that only what’s truly lived through — what’s genuinely felt — has the right to be depicted on canvas. Because a painting is always a dialogue — a kind of nonverbal conversation between the artist and the viewer.
When you enter a gallery, a museum, or an artist’s studio, you can sit in front of a work — ideally alone — and begin that dialogue. You can ask questions or find answers within yourself.
But if the artist’s message wasn’t sincere, if it wasn’t born out of feeling — and therefore, out of love — then the work is empty. It might be beautiful, trendy, or visually striking, but it won’t touch something deep inside you.
To me, love is something you feel — as Beethoven said — right here, in your chest. When something stirs inside you, almost physically. Maybe it’s not the most poetic expression, but you should feel it in your gut.
That’s when it’s a perfect work of art. When I go to a gallery or museum and don’t feel that inner resonance — that reflection — I simply move on. There has to be that spark inside.
Just like when you get butterflies in your stomach from someone you love, or from a special encounter — it’s the same with painting. It’s that same flutter, that same energy of connection.
Nik Lysytskiy: Today, we’d like to explore with you the phenomenon of love — affection, Ukrainian love — and whether it can somehow be distinguished from the universal one.
And as always, we’ll begin with folklore, because for each episode we analyze how a particular value is represented in traditional culture and then form a kind of definition or reflection based on it. These essays are available on our website — links are in the description of this episode.
Here’s the thought we formulated about love:
In Ukrainian traditional society and folklore, love is not only a burning passion but also an ethical compass that demands devotion, sincerity, and trust. The worldview of “living in love” continues to shape ideas about relationships and family in Ukrainian culture and remains part of that inner strength that helps us stay human even in the hardest times.
Nataliia, do you agree with this idea? What does love mean to you personally — how do you see it, how do you feel it today?
Nataliia Korf-Ivaniuk: My grandmother once told me — when I got married, she said, “That’s it, Natalka, you’re married now. Go to bed late, get up early.” That was her philosophy of family life.
I think that today, love is no longer just about passion or emotional frenzy. Now, unfortunately — and I really don’t like to admit this — I often find myself inspired by the theme of war, even though I don’t want to be. At the beginning of the full-scale invasion, I held an entire exhibition dedicated to that difficult period, the beginning of this new, painful era.
But still, it has to be said: the war has made all of us feel the fragility of life much more acutely — and with that, the meaning of love has deepened. For me personally, as an artist and as a woman, I began to truly value time. I realized how fleeting life is, how every emotion has become heightened. And despite the fear, anxiety, and darkness, it’s crucial to preserve our humanity and hold on to the fragments of happiness the universe gives us each day. If love exists, it must be protected and cherished.
This idea — to “live in love,” as Ukrainian tradition teaches — is absolutely right. But we must also practice a kind of inner self-preservation, so we don’t lose ourselves again in blind emotions.
Artists have always paid extraordinary attention to the theme of love and romance. In Ukrainian art, one of the clearest examples for me is Fedir Krychevskyi, one of the founders of modernism and the first rector of the Ukrainian Academy of Arts.
He has a magnificent triptych called Homeland — three panels. The first part, Love (or The Kiss), is reminiscent of Klimt: a man kisses his beloved on the neck, a symbol of protection, of tenderness. The second panel, Family, feels fundamental — solid, warm, complete. And the third part, Return, shows a man coming home from war. The artist doesn’t depict the farewell, only the reunion — the moment of return to family.
To me, this work perfectly captures our reality today. Because since the full-scale invasion, so many families have been separated. The moments of farewell and reunion have taken on completely new meanings. Those brief, precious moments together must now be cherished more than ever — valued deeply, held close, and lived fully with the person beside you, especially in such difficult times.
Nik Lysytskiy: Tell me, please — what place does love occupy in your art? Because as far as I know, one of the main themes in your work is physicality. How does love manifest itself within that theme? Is it part of it — or perhaps a separate, overarching idea?
Nataliia Korf-Ivaniuk: Yes, I’ve always had several directions in my work. I’m quite an active artist, and for some reason, I can’t stay in one genre for too long — I can’t just keep repeating the same series or path. So I’ve always had two main creative lines that I follow. One is about intercorporeality — sensuality — the exploration of human psycho-emotional states through paint, through color, through texture.
This series actually emerged during a period we all remember well — the quarantine. When, by force of circumstance, we were all confined within four walls and left alone with our emotions. Life became very simple: just an apartment, four walls, a mirror, and too much time to think. For me, that time became an immersion into myself — into my thoughts, my body, my desires.
It was during that period that the theme of nudity appeared in my art. Maybe because I was spending a lot of time alone — and sometimes friends would come to pose for me — but that isolation helped me rediscover a different femininity within myself. I began to feel freer, despite everything happening outside. I accepted myself, believed in myself. And that’s when I created the series And the Nudes. Later came Flesh and Blood, which I consider one of my fundamental works — very important to me as an artist. It was exhibited at the Mironov Gallery.
At the same time, another line in my art has always been connected to cultural heritage — our sacred, symbolic tradition. I work with signs, symbols, ornaments, and color semantics. I make carpets — textured canvases inspired by Ukrainian embroidery.
Like every artist, I reinterpret them through my own vision — modernizing patterns while staying rooted in tradition. We, as contemporary artists, must rethink and continue what our ancestors began. Our heritage is immense and deep — it’s a treasure we can keep transforming into new, meaningful art.
So even though the carpets and the theme of corporeality may seem very different, I feel organic in both. In one, I express myself as a woman — as an artist revealing sensuality. In the other, I connect with the spiritual essence of my culture.
I rarely paint faces, because I feel that faces make an image too specific. I want emotion to speak through color, through paint — for the brushstrokes and shapes to tell the story instead of the face.
Now I’m working on a new series called Disappearing in Color. It’s a total simplification in terms of detail — pure emotional space. I’m still developing the concept, but I know it will mark a completely new stage in my evolution.
You know, I never go to the studio without emotion. It’s my golden rule — whatever happens, I go and work. When I feel bad, I’m in the studio. When I feel wonderful, I’m in the studio. Every day I devote myself to this process.
Sometimes it’s not even about painting — it’s about simply being there: alone with the canvas, mixing paints, washing brushes. It’s already a sacred ritual. And of course, it’s filled with love — because I love my work deeply.
Honestly, the greatest sorrow for me would be if something ever prevented me from creating. When the war began, I started painting the very next day.
At that time, I only had watercolor paper and colored ink — no materials, nothing. I was in a basement, and I began a new series right there. Many artists couldn’t work at all — I spoke with colleagues who felt completely paralyzed. But I experienced the opposite.
Even in horror, I couldn’t stop. For me, there are only two kinds of events in life — those that destroy me completely, making it impossible to work, and those that I can endure, survive, and transform through art.
Nik Lysytskiy: I think many of our viewers and listeners will be very curious to hear about how your creative process unfolds — how you create, where your ideas come from, and how they evolve into your works. Please, tell us more about that.
Nataliia Korf-Ivaniuk: Yes, that’s creation. I really love that word. I often read Myroslav Dochynets, and he once wrote that creativity is creation — it comes from the Creator.
How do my processes work? I love working large — large canvases, large spaces. I paint freely, openly. But honestly, I don’t like showing the process itself because it’s deeply intimate. It used to be easier for me when someone was nearby, but now I prefer solitude — to go deeper into myself.
To be honest, I don’t even always feel like talking about art. As I said, I don’t read much about it — I think instead. For me, the creative process isn’t about work or hobby; it’s about life itself. My studio and my everyday life are intertwined — it’s all one continuous flow. I don’t separate “I’m going to work” and “I’m going home.” I simply live this life.
I work quickly, emotionally. Sometimes I can paint a large canvas in a few hours. I don’t plan it out — it’s pure emotion. On the contrary, when I work on something too long, it starts to lose energy. Artists call that soaking. You can see when a work has been reworked too much — the energy fades, the thrill is gone.
But those impulsive, spontaneous pieces — born from an emotional rush — that’s where true love lives. That’s where you find eroticism, aesthetics, sensuality. As Gustav Klimt said, “All art is erotic.”
I usually work big — two meters by one and a half, sometimes even larger. I paint on the floor rather than an easel. It’s a technical thing — the paint shouldn’t spread. Earlier in my career, I worked more traditionally, with an easel, sitting down. Now it’s a mess of brushes, paint splatters, colors everywhere. I often throw brushes away or forget to clean them. But that’s part of the freedom — my comfort, my energy.
The process might not look very aesthetic to an outsider. But what is aesthetics? The birth of a child — it’s raw, bloody, painful, yet it’s the birth of something beautiful, the birth of a universe. That’s what creation feels like.
I have a special relationship with my works — I love them deeply — but the process itself is mine, completely personal. My studio isn’t perfect; you can easily trip over a paint can. But that’s fine. The main thing is the result.
I also love working with models. It’s fascinating to observe how a person changes when they enter the studio, not knowing what awaits them. When they undress, they reveal not just the body but their emotions. You can literally see how a woman frees herself — how she transforms, accepts herself.
When you look at my paintings, you see what I see — that spark, that satisfaction, that inner “wow.” It gives me even more inspiration.
But when I work on my carpets — that’s a different process. It’s slower, more meditative. The act of creation begins long before the physical work — with sketches, with studying symbols and ornaments, from which I then compose the final design. The technical side is hard, almost physical labor. But it’s fascinating.
What I love most is that both painting and ornament-making are unpredictable. I go home never knowing what the result will be. It’s always an experiment. I come back the next day — and it’s completely different.
Sometimes it’s not at all what I expected, but that’s the beauty of it. Like a blind kitten, you feel your way forward, not knowing where you’ll end up — and there’s a special thrill in that. The work keeps living, keeps changing.
That’s why every painting I create is unique. I couldn’t repeat one even if I tried — because everything happens in the moment, in the process, alive and evolving.
Nik Lysytskiy: In one of your interviews, you mentioned that you paint to the music of Vivaldi. Do you think something would change if you painted while listening to Ukrainian folk songs instead?
Nataliia Korf-Ivaniuk: It would, absolutely. For a long time, I actually painted while listening to Dakh Daughters and Bozhychi — and those works were completely different. The thing is, whenever I come to the studio, I always choose a playlist for myself. I know exactly what I’ll be painting, and for each series I have completely different music.
For me, that’s essential — the atmosphere in the studio. I can be in total chaos, surrounded by brushes and paint everywhere, but the music has to match what I feel, what’s happening on the canvas.
Nik Lysytskiy: So which works contained more love — those painted to Vivaldi or to Dakh Daughters?
Nataliia Korf-Ivaniuk: To Vivaldi — there was more suffering. To Dakh Daughters — definitely more love. And sometimes I put on Schnittke when I want to do something wild and intense — to pour, to splash, to go a little crazy. That’s normal for me.
Pop music? No, I can’t. Only classical — always.
I even start to feel irritated if the music doesn’t fit the work. Then I’ll stop, wash my hands, throw away the paint, and look for something that matches my mood. It’s that important.
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You mentioned your carpets, which draw on traditional Ukrainian symbols. Among these traditional motifs, are there specific ones related to love?
Nataliia Korf-Ivaniuk: Yes, of course — many of them. There are symbols connected with fertility, family harmony, the birth of children. I’ve even had families commission carpets specifically requesting those signs — certain symbols that serve almost like blessings for family happiness or the birth of a child.
In those moments, you start to feel a bit like a priestess — someone performing sacred work. It’s not just craftsmanship; it becomes something divine. You feel responsible not only for the future of the piece itself but also for how it will live on in its new home, with its new family.
Nik Lysytskiy: Have you ever researched the origins of these symbols — where they come from? Perhaps from the Trypillian culture or later periods?
Nataliia Korf-Ivaniuk: Right now, I’m creating a new series of ornamental carpets inspired by Ukrainian Baroque. When I began to work with color, I realized that these patterns are so universal they could belong to many cultures. They’re no longer purely Ukrainian — they’ve expanded into something more global.
And that’s a good thing. My first series was called The Sign. It was based on traditional Ukrainian embroidery — for example, the white-on-white technique typical of Poltava, or the more geometric motifs from Western Ukraine. Those had clear regional identities — each symbol specific to its place.
But now, I want to explore something more universal. After all, our nation is incredibly rich and colorful.
I once had a series called Gates. I loved that one. It was inspired by the painted gates you still see in Ukrainian villages — covered with swans, flowers, bright colors. I’m from Kremenchuk, and when I drive home and see those gates still standing, it warms my soul.
I was afraid they’d disappear — replaced by something modern and soulless — so I captured them on canvas. I’m grateful to those who keep repainting them, keeping them alive. That too is an act of love, very Ukrainian in its essence.
And then there’s Maria Prymachenko — such bright, untamed colors, such love in her work. Despite her hardships — losing her husband, raising her son alone — her paintings radiate life. She’s unique, inimitable. And yet, there’s something of all of us in her art.
It seems that our lives have been so hard that we compensate with color — we want to paint the world brighter.
I often ask myself, when I’m feeling low, what color am I now? People think that if something is black and white or muted, it must mean inner turmoil. But I’ve realized it’s the opposite. When life is hard, that’s when I crave more color — more light.
The dark, heavy works — those appear when everything is fine, paradoxically. When I’m at peace, that’s when I can afford to paint in black.
Nik Lysytskiy: Love, in general, can probably be called one of the most popular and oldest themes in art. Why, in your opinion, has love always been the central theme — not only in art, but in creativity as a whole?
Nataliia Korf-Ivaniuk: I think it’s actually quite simple. Love is something that touches everyone — something we all seek. It’s emotion, it’s the soul.
Whether it’s painting, literature, or music — creative people are those who feel it most deeply. And that emotional sensitivity becomes the source of creation. I wouldn’t say I’m one of those artists who wait for inspiration, but the desire to create — that inner urge — is, in a way, a form of inspiration. That’s why it’s always been essential to humanity.
In earlier times, artists explored love more directly — during antiquity, for instance, when mythological and religious themes dominated. Love was expressed symbolically — through cupids, flowers, colors. Every flower had a meaning, and that symbolism has survived through the centuries.
For example, animals were also used as symbols: a dog meant loyalty. But in the 19th and 20th centuries, artists began to play with these meanings, reinterpret them. Take Manet’s Olympia: instead of the traditional dog of fidelity, he placed a cat — which added an entirely different shade of meaning. It wasn’t just a painting of a naked woman, but of a prostitute — and that small change transformed the symbolism.
Later, artists moved away from myth and religion entirely, turning instead to their own emotions. Love began to be shown through suffering, complexity, and introspection. The personal became universal.
In contemporary art, the idea of love continues to evolve. Take Félix González-Torres, for example, and his work Perfect Lovers: two clocks placed side by side, ticking in sync — a symbol of two lovers living in harmony. But over time, one clock begins to lag behind. If you don’t wind it, it stops.
It’s a quiet metaphor: relationships need care. If you stop tending to them, they fall out of rhythm. I think González-Torres wanted to show not only that love requires effort, but that time is the most precious thing we can give.
When we are with someone, we should always say “thank you.” Even when we part, gratitude should remain: “Thank you for giving me your time.” Because time is the most valuable gift — especially now, in this moment of war, when time itself feels fragile and sacred.
Nik Lysytskiy: You’ve just taken us on a fascinating journey through how love has been reflected in art — from antiquity to modern times. Can we say that love is, in fact, the driving force behind art?
Nataliia Korf-Ivaniuk: Absolutely. And I believe it always will be.
No matter how much the world changes, how fast civilization develops — even if, as I sometimes fear, everything were to end tomorrow — love and art would remain.
I often rewatch Ivan Mykolaichuk’s Dedication, and there’s a line I love: “Love — alpha and omega, the beginning, the middle, and the end. You are the beginning, you are the end.” To me, that’s the essence of everything.
Sometimes I think that even the most terrible acts in human history can, in some strange way, be traced back to love — or to its absence. It’s what we live for, what we breathe for. In the end, we leave everything behind — all possessions, all achievements. What remains is the love we gave and received.
And I think, when my time comes, I’d like to be able to say honestly: I loved and was loved. I didn’t lose that capacity to feel — even in a world full of chaos, distractions, and worries.
To deny love would be almost blasphemous. Because love is the reason for everything — the reason we live, the reason we create, the reason we wake up each morning.
Art itself is love. All creativity is love. Music, painting, writing — even labor can be an act of love.
You might say, “But how can working in a factory or sweeping streets be love?” Yet, if you look deeper — that work provides comfort for one’s family, for the people one loves. That too is love.
So, yes — for me, love is always at the root.
Nik Lysytskiy: By the way, about wording — in Ukrainian, we have liubov (noun, “love”) and liubyty (verb, “to love”). When we were preparing this topic, we debated: love as a state or loving as an action? One feels more emotional, sensual, the other — broader, existential.
How do you perceive these two? Do they carry different meanings for you?
Nataliia Korf-Ivaniuk: Well, if you look at it — of course, yes. “Love” between a man and a woman is more about sensuality, it’s something inward, passionate, emotional. But “love” — as in to love — can mean “love for one’s homeland,” “love for a friend,” or other forms of affection.
To be honest, I don’t always distinguish between the two. I allow myself to mix them; that feels more natural to me. I’m not rigid about it — if it’s “love for a man,” it can also be “love” in the broader sense.
For me, the word love carries more respect, acceptance, faith, and awareness. It has a kind of nobility to it. While to love feels more emotional, more fleeting — it’s about passion, intensity, the thrill of the moment. Like painting — it’s fast, emotional, gives you pleasure, a rush of joy.
But love — that already has something constant in it, something lasting. And I really like the phrase unconditional love.
By the way, may I ask a question too? Who do you think unconditional love is for?
Nik Lysytskiy: Traditionally, people say — for a child.
Nataliia Korf-Ivaniuk: Yes, for a child, I think so too. Because unconditional love is what you simply feel. A child is a part of you — literally. And a man… well, he’s someone separate, someone who may come from the outside.
Nik Lysytskiy: It’s interesting, because in English the word “love” covers everything — love, affection, fondness — all in one. But in Ukrainian, we seem to try to divide it, to assign different shades of meaning. We have liubov and liubyty, and if we have two different words, maybe they reflect two slightly different concepts — even if they’re close.
I’ve often wondered why that is. Why, at some point, they diverged — as if to express different layers of the same feeling.
Nataliia Korf-Ivaniuk: It seems to me that our culture has always emphasized duty, protection, loyalty — love for one’s land, for one’s people, for one’s friends. That was always the foundation. Intimacy and sensuality, meanwhile, were often left in the background — not forgotten, but secondary.
In our nation, selflessness and defense of boundaries were seen as more important. And somehow, the inner, emotional connection between husband and wife received less attention. It was as if that part of love — personal love — wasn’t as openly discussed, even though it’s just as vital.
I think these two spheres — inner and outer — should exist in harmony. How you feel and act in your family directly shapes how you treat the world outside it. If there’s imbalance within, there will be imbalance without.
So yes, both need care — equally.
Nik Lysytskiy: Let me remind our audience — today, in the studio of the Archetype of the Nation project, we’re talking about love with artist Nataliia Korf-Ivaniuk.
We’ve already touched on mythological heroes — those from ancient times. And I’ll share something interesting I once discovered.
As you know, I research mythology a lot — we already have almost a hundred episodes on our channel dedicated to Ukrainian mythological heroes, characters, and archetypes. And while studying them, I noticed something unusual: unlike Greek mythology, which has Aphrodite, Eros, and many deities of love, Ukrainian mythology doesn’t have a goddess of love at all.
We have plenty of authentic mythological figures — those recorded in sources, not later literary inventions — and yet, none of them embody love. Maybe such a deity once existed but was lost to time. Or maybe she truly never existed.
I keep wondering — why? Why don’t we have our own Aphrodite, even though love has always been — and will always be — an inseparable part of our lives?
Nataliia Korf-Ivaniuk: Now that you mention it, certain symbols immediately come to mind. For me, for instance, when I think of unconditional love—even though we said it usually applies to a child—the first image that appears is The Forest Song. For me, Mavka is like our own Ukrainian goddess of love.
Yes, there’s sacrifice, tragedy, pain—but that’s precisely why she symbolizes love so powerfully. It’s love through self-sacrifice.
Then I also think of Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors—our own Romeo and Juliet.
Nik Lysytskiy: Those are already later works, of course.
Nataliia Korf-Ivaniuk: Yes, but I’m speaking about what comes from memory, from what shaped me. I’m less concerned about the absence of a literal goddess of love, and more about the symbols that filled that role for us.
From childhood—through school, through literature—these stories were imprinted in me. They shaped my sense of beauty, humanity, and emotion. For me, for example, Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors was one of those turning points when I realized I wanted to become an artist.
I saw the film when I was about twelve or thirteen—there was a TV broadcast for Ivan Mykolaichuk’s anniversary. It aired late at night, and I remember feeling an overwhelming catharsis. For such a young mind, it was almost too much. The next day I started drawing—painting, sketching—every single day, without fully understanding why. That’s when I realized this was my path. Something divine, something like a sign.
Later, I was lucky enough to see The Forest Song performed by Raisa Dashkivska. She played all the roles herself—she transformed from one character to another, changing her voice, her posture—it was extraordinary. And again, I felt that same inner call, that same sense of destiny: that I had to continue this feeling of beauty, that I couldn’t abandon it.
That, too, was a form of love—love that entered through art and transformed me. It gave birth to something new inside me, something I didn’t yet understand back then, but that has guided me ever since.
There’s never been a day when I thought I should do anything else. This is forever—until my last breath, I’m sure of it.
Nik Lysytskiy: You’ve mentioned The Forest Song and Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors. Indeed, both in those works and in folklore in general, love is almost always tied to trials, tragedy, or deep emotional struggle. Why do you think love in Ukrainian folklore is so inseparable from suffering?
Nataliia Korf-Ivaniuk: I think it’s not only in Ukrainian folklore—it’s true of love everywhere. Love and suffering are inseparable.
Maybe that’s what makes people feel deeply. It awakens empathy and resonance in us. When art carries pain, it reaches directly into your heart.
For example, if a movie ends too well, I almost feel disappointed.
Nik Lysytskiy: You don’t believe in happy endings?
Nataliia Korf-Ivaniuk: Not really. Maybe it’s not good—I probably need to “heal my nerves,” as they say—but I think many of us subconsciously expect tragedy. In life, of course, we want happiness. But in art, when everything ends perfectly, it feels less real. Either I don’t believe it, or I simply don’t get the emotional spark I expect.
Nik Lysytskiy: So love and suffering are like two poles between which human emotion moves?
Nataliia Korf-Ivaniuk: Exactly. In life and in art.
When you look at a painting and know the artist’s story—know the pain behind it—you feel it completely differently. Take Frida Kahlo, for example. We all know her difficult life and her turbulent relationship with Diego Rivera. That’s why her paintings cut so deep.
Or Kateryna Bilokur—her loneliness, her struggles. Her flowers might seem peaceful, but they’re filled with pain that almost screams from the canvas. Every blossom has a soul, a pair of eyes.
If an artist’s path were too smooth, the work would lose that energy—that vibration that grips you. You wouldn’t feel the same thrill.
That’s how artists live—we work on that fine edge, between emotion and exhaustion.
I can often tell from a painting what’s happening in an artist’s personal life. You can see it in the color, the form, the rhythm. When someone’s relationship ends, it’s visible in the first new work they create.
It’s not about gossip or surface changes—like when people say, “Oh, she cut her hair after a breakup.” It’s deeper than that. You can feel it through color, through texture, through movement.
And yes, it’s sad—but it’s also where the magic of art lies. Because pain, paradoxically, gives birth to brilliance. Suffering creates emotion — and emotion creates art.
Nik Lysytskiy: So, in this sense, love becomes the driving force behind art — even unhappy love, maybe especially unhappy love — it fuels the artist’s emotions?
Nataliia Korf-Ivaniuk: Unfortunately, yes — it’s necessary. But at the same time, painting for me is also a kind of art therapy; it heals. When something goes wrong, I go to the studio — and through painting, I heal myself.
Of course, I don’t tell my viewers or collectors, “This piece came from a painful time in my life.” No. The work must live on its own. But the process itself — the layering of paint, the act of holding the brush during difficult moments and continuing to create — that’s what saves me.
Love and suffering — both are essential. They’re real emotions, part of being human. Life doesn’t follow a single smooth script with a guaranteed happy ending. And maybe that’s why we learn to value each fleeting moment — happiness, time, love itself — precisely because we know it can vanish.
It’s like contrast: you can’t appreciate sweetness if you’ve never tasted salt. Night replaces day, joy follows pain — and it’s in that balance, that constant motion between meeting and parting, that we truly feel love and remember it deeply.
Nik Lysytskiy: From the viewer’s perspective — or the buyer’s — what do people gravitate toward more: tragic works or positive ones?
Nataliia Korf-Ivaniuk: It depends on the collector, of course. But generally, people prefer the positive — they want something beautiful on their walls, something that brings light.
Still, I really value collectors who choose art not for decoration, but for truth — those who take with them a piece of the artist’s soul. Such people look not just for beauty, but for authenticity.
Of course, many still want something universal — something they can look at every day, that sets the tone for a new morning. And that’s fine too.
At home, I always change the paintings on my walls — I rotate them by mood. One month I’ll hang one, then switch it for another. It’s not always something cheerful or floral — I have landscapes, Ukrainian countryside scenes painted from nature, works in different styles and colors. But it always depends on the day, on how I feel. I sense when it’s time to change something — and I do.
Nik Lysytskiy: The female body plays a very prominent role in your work. Why do you think the female form so often becomes a symbol of love, tenderness, and intimacy?
Nataliia Korf-Ivaniuk: I actually paint men too — there are male nudes in my work, though fewer of them. In fact, the last painting I finished in the studio — for a new exhibition — shows a man and a woman together. It’s the first time I’ve done such a large-scale composition like that. I’m still thinking about the title, but I’m happy with how it turned out.
And since we’re talking about love and eroticism — I once created a whole series of erotic works. But they were aesthetic, not vulgar. I never paint explicit scenes. For me, art must remain beautiful, refined. Even if it’s sensual, it should have taste — it should be delicious, as we say.
Many artists are more open, even provocative, and that’s fine too — everyone expresses themselves differently. But for me, it’s always about aesthetics.
Interestingly, I began that erotic series just before the full-scale war — literally a week before and then a week after it started. I thought people would criticize me: “How can she paint love scenes during wartime?” But the opposite happened — those paintings were sold immediately, the same day I posted them on Instagram or Facebook.
They depicted couples in passionate embraces, painted in flowing colored inks — organic, fluid, emotional. And I realized how deeply people needed love at that time. It was like a lifeline, something to hold on to amidst chaos and fear.
War is war — but finding peace within yourself, even then, is vital.
As for the female body — I think it’s because I’m a woman myself. I understand its inner language, its nuances. Through it, I can express love, pain, hope — everything. Every gesture, every curve, every brushstroke carries emotion.
Maybe it’s also because I’m a mother. I feel my body not just as my own, but as something that has created life. That gives me a deeper understanding of how to portray women — not as objects, but as worlds of meaning.
In some of my works, I’ve painted pregnant women. For me, that’s the ultimate symbol — mother, earth, creation, care. It’s love in its purest, most selfless form — timeless, sacred, and alive.
Nik Lysytskiy: From what I hear, the attitude toward physicality in art — both from artists and audiences — seems to have become more open, more relaxed, closer to how it’s been in the West for a long time.
In Ukrainian folklore, though, love usually appears in a very chaste form — it’s emotional, poetic, even painful, but rarely physical. And yet, if we look at real life, we know that traditions like the Kupala Night rituals were quite sensual — young men and women met, played, and the Church often condemned those practices.
So in life, physical love clearly existed, but in folklore it either wasn’t recorded or was heavily sanitized. Why do you think that happened?
Nataliia Korf-Ivaniuk: I think, first of all, that every nation wants to leave behind its cultural memory — the most dignified, beautiful parts of itself. And that’s normal. It’s good that we at least know those other, more primal sides existed — but it’s also natural that they weren’t passed down in detail.
I don’t think it’s something to condemn or to hide in shame. It’s part of who we are. Those moments — the Kupala celebrations, the unrestrained, instinctive expressions of desire — they were real, and they had a right to exist.
But I think people chose not to record them because some things were meant to stay private, sacred, or simply beyond words. We pass on what we can explain to children — the rituals, the beauty, the traditions — but not necessarily what could confuse a young imagination.
That doesn’t mean we’re hiding our true nature. It’s just that those were ancient, pagan beliefs — connected to the cycles of life, fertility, and nature — and they were treated with reverence. Those rituals happened rarely, maybe once a year, and gave people a kind of release, a chance to express their wild, natural side before returning to everyday order.
Every culture has its “skeletons in the closet,” as they say — and that’s fine. We don’t need to erase them; we just need to understand them properly and present them wisely.
For example, I’ll probably go home today and tell my 14-year-old son, “You know, there used to be such traditions.” I’d like to study that topic more myself and hear what he thinks about it. Because I often talk to him about art and other things — he visits my studio, we discuss everything openly.
When I have doubts about a piece I’m working on, I even ask him, “Nazar, what do you think? Do you understand what this is?” And his answers are always honest and interesting. Children see things more sincerely, more freely. If something feels wrong, he’ll tell me straight away.
Nik Lysytskiy: And how does your son perceive nudity in your art?
Nataliia Korf-Ivaniuk: Very naturally.
Sometimes I ask him quite directly — “Do you understand what this is?” And he’ll calmly say, “Yes, these are breasts, and that’s a belly,” — completely without embarrassment. Because he’s grown up around it.
He’s often in my studio, he’s seen how I work, he understands the process. I take him to exhibitions and museums — we look at paintings and talk about what he feels, which works he likes most and why.
It’s important for me that he has his own opinion, not just mine. And I see that he’s developing a good sense of artistic taste — an inner filter that helps him understand where a work is strong, where it’s weak, and how to explain why.
So yes, nudity isn’t a taboo topic for us. When I paint nudes, I don’t hide it. Sometimes I’ll say, “A model is coming today,” or “I’m going to a life drawing session.”
Of course, I don’t take him with me then — but he knows what I’m doing and why. It’s part of my work, part of art, and part of life.
He’s an artist’s child — and for him, that’s completely normal.
Nik Lysytskiy: You mentioned the different female images in your art. In folklore, too, there are various archetypes of women. In your opinion, how different is the image of a modern Ukrainian woman from those found in traditional folklore?
Nataliia Korf-Ivaniuk: Today she’s a warrior. I truly believe that the modern Ukrainian woman embodies the archetype of a warrior.
Ukrainian women have always been strong. They’ve carried enormous weight — physical, emotional, spiritual. There’s a saying: “The father carries the world on his shoulders, the mother carries the home.” But I don’t think that’s true anymore.
Now the values have shifted. They’ve blended into one another — and today we can say with confidence that it’s the woman who carries the whole world on her shoulders.
Men tend to focus on one task at a time, while a woman handles everything at once — home, work, emotions, survival. Especially now, in this world that’s constantly changing, women have stepped forward again, as if returning to the era of the Amazons.
We shouldn’t underestimate them. A Ukrainian woman may look fragile or gentle, but inside she holds a force capable of sustaining both her home and the entire world. That’s why, for me, the modern woman is above all — a warrior woman.
And that doesn’t mean she doesn’t want tenderness or protection. Of course she does — that’s also her nature. But circumstances have forced her to take on so much more. Self-preservation, protecting her family, defending her country — that’s become the priority.
If a woman is an artist, that only adds another layer of strength. Because being an artist is not for the weak. It’s a profession that constantly tests you — emotionally, financially, psychologically. It’s a struggle: with yourself, with circumstances, with misunderstanding or rejection. And if, despite all that, you keep painting — you’re incredibly strong in spirit. I deeply respect such people.
I taught for a while, and I was a tough teacher. I never sugarcoated things. If something was bad, I said it directly — because that’s how my own teachers taught me.
I remember one of them — Dyachenko — during my student years in Kremenchuk. I brought him my drawings, full of confidence. He looked at them and said, “You don’t know anything. You won’t be an artist.”
If I had been weak, that could have broken me. But instead, it motivated me — I’ll prove you wrong. That became my inner drive.
Later, when I got married, another artist told me, “That’s it, your career is over. Motherhood will stop you. There’ll be no more exhibitions.”
And I remember feeling so shocked — because that’s not a sentence, it’s a challenge. Yes, it’s difficult, but it’s not the end. And during my maternity leave, I held three or four solo exhibitions. I worked even harder than before — as if it were my last chance to create.
Of course, that level of intensity can be exhausting. Burnout for an artist is real — but I’ve learned to treat it as part of the process. When your body says “stop,” you must stop. Even if it means just sitting in the studio, doing nothing, staring at the canvas. That, too, is art. Rest is also part of creation.
Nik Lysytskiy: If you compare your visual language with traditional folklore, what do you think they have in common in how they depict women?
Nataliia Korf-Ivaniuk: That’s an interesting question — my visual language and folk tradition…
Nik Lysytskiy: Maybe there’s a connection between the images in Ukrainian folk songs and the images you create in your paintings?
Nataliia Korf-Ivaniuk: Earlier — absolutely. My early works were directly based on folklore. I delved deeply into Ukrainian ritual songs, carols, beliefs, and traditions — and translated them into the language of painting.
I had a whole series devoted to Ukrainian holidays — Yavdokha, Melanka, and others. I painted them all. But at some point, I realized something: the moment I looked at a blank canvas and already knew exactly how the finished work would look — the colors, the structure, the result — I understood that I’d reached a dead end.
When you stop being curious about your own process, it’s time to change direction.
That’s when I knew I had to move on to something different — to surprise myself again. I kept a few of those folklore pieces for myself, as a memory of that stage, but then I shifted to exploring new visual languages.
What still connects me to folklore, though, is color. Color is my bridge.
I love red. I love bright, open colors — lively, bold, full of energy. Sometimes I tell myself, “Try something calmer, pastel, muted.” I admire artists who can work softly, letting white and light gray breathe through their palette. But it just doesn’t work for me.
It’s not that I can’t — it’s just not me. My art needs to be vibrant.
That explosion of color — that’s what reveals that I’m Ukrainian.
When I close my eyes, I see those folk gates with painted flowers, ribbons, embroidered cloth, pottery, festival banners — flashes of color everywhere. All that becomes my language on the canvas.
I’m not afraid to use bold oranges, pinks, purples, yellows — even if it breaks the so-called rules of color theory. I used to teach color science, but when I paint, I don’t think about it. I just let the colors “talk” to each other. They find their own harmony.
And when they do — everything feels right, organic, alive.
So yes, even if my subjects evolve, the way I portray women, the way I see the world — it’s still full of color. That’s the thread that connects me to folklore.
Nik Lysytskiy: Unexpectedly — your answer is actually the perfect introduction to our traditional segment, “The Folklore Chest.”
Because today’s chest will be about color — and about folklore, of course, about Ukrainian folk songs. Inside it, there’s always something related to the theme of our episode. And today we’ll look at songs about love.
But there’s a small twist — some words will be missing. Behind those blanks, a color is hidden. You’ll need to guess it. Shall we try?
Nataliia Korf-Ivaniuk: Let’s! Sounds interesting.
Nik Lysytskiy: Alright, here’s the first one:
“I honestly admit that I’m in love with Roman. And he? I’m fair-haired.
Let’s get together, we’ll make a pair. What color is our Roman?”
Nataliia Korf-Ivaniuk: Oh! Roman… hmm, if I don’t guess, I’ll just trust my intuition.
Nik Lysytskiy: That’s exactly the point — to go with your feelings.
Nataliia Korf-Ivaniuk: Then… black. He’s black — though not literally.
Nik Lysytskiy: That’s right — he’s black-haired!
Nataliia Korf-Ivaniuk: Oh, really? That was my first thought! He’s dark, I’m fair — that’s how it usually goes. That’s how God pairs people: “Let’s get together, there’ll be a pair.”
Nik Lysytskiy: Alright, the next one: not so much the girl, but her face. “Give it to the girl…”
Nataliia Korf-Ivaniuk: White face.
Nik Lysytskiy: “Give me a beautiful hand, on the horse — a white face.
Over the sea, over the shore, three young Cossacks rode their horses.”
Nataliia Korf-Ivaniuk: Over the blue sea! Well, that’s obvious — the sea is blue.
Actually, it reminds me of Girl with a Pearl Earring.
You know, in the film about Vermeer — there’s this moment when he tells her, “What color is the sky?”
And she says, “Blue.” And he says, “No, think again.”
Then she starts to notice — it’s gray, it’s pink, it’s yellow…
She begins to see the subtleties, that the sky isn’t just blue.
And for me, the sea — it’s even blacker than blue sometimes.
Okay, let’s move on, otherwise I’ll start drifting into my own world.
Nik Lysytskiy: “Where will we spend the night, my beloved falcon?
There under the mountain, in the grass, my dear girl.”
Nataliia Korf-Ivaniuk: Green grass! Green, right?
Nik Lysytskiy: Of course, green.
Nataliia Korf-Ivaniuk: And yet, grass isn’t just green…
Nik Lysytskiy: And the last one:
“Green leaves, chestnuts — oh, how sad it is when evening comes.”
Nataliia Korf-Ivaniuk: Green leaves… I want to say brown or red chestnuts.
Nik Lysytskiy: Actually, white.
Nataliia Korf-Ivaniuk: White chestnuts? Unexpected.
Ah, right — when the chestnuts bloom white! Kyiv in May.
Nik Lysytskiy: Exactly — Kyiv in May.
Nataliia Korf-Ivaniuk: I was picturing the fruit — brown chestnuts, green leaves… but yes, white blossoms, that’s beautiful.
Nik Lysytskiy: And now — the Blitz interview. Seven quick questions, seven short (or not so short) answers.
What human quality do you value most?
Nataliia Korf-Ivaniuk: Kindness.
Nik Lysytskiy: And the worst?
Nataliia Korf-Ivaniuk: Cruelty.
Nik Lysytskiy: What inspires you?
Nataliia Korf-Ivaniuk: Music.
Nik Lysytskiy: What scares you?
Nataliia Korf-Ivaniuk: A phone call at night.
Nik Lysytskiy: What helped you hold on through the hardest moments?
Nataliia Korf-Ivaniuk: Paint.
Nik Lysytskiy: What’s the main goal or mission of your life?
Nataliia Korf-Ivaniuk: Love.
Nik Lysytskiy: If you had to choose three words to describe Ukrainians?
Nataliia Korf-Ivaniuk: Free. Sincere. Rich.
Not rich in money — rich in spirit.
Nik Lysytskiy: Rich in virtues — your own.
And now — our “Artifact” segment, where guests leave something behind for our small museum.
Natalia, please tell us what you’ve brought today.
Nataliia Korf-Ivaniuk: Of course, it’s my artwork — from my nude series.
At first I thought to bring a female figure, and then I thought — what’s a woman without a man?
It should be a pair. So, it’s a male torso — from my Flesh and Blood series.
These pieces are painted in colored ink — emotional, vibrant, alive — especially rich in red.
That open, living red.
I’ll be glad if they stay with you — a reminder of today’s conversation,
full of love, passion, color, and paint.
Nik Lysytskiy: Thank you very much.
Nataliia Korf-Ivaniuk: Thank you.
Nik Lysytskiy: We’ll add it to our growing museum — with every episode, it expands.
And it’s wonderful, because this way we collect not only objects,
but also values — and the memories of our guests,
who, in their own way, embody these values.
Nataliia Korf-Ivaniuk: That’s beautiful. That’s exactly right.
That’s how history is made — and how we create those tactile memories
we’ll later recall.
Nik Lysytskiy: For me, this whole project — and today’s talk especially — is like assembling a puzzle.
We explore folklore on one side, and modernity through our guests’ eyes on the other.
And discussing values isn’t easy — it’s abstract, but it’s also deeply personal.
Because yes, we talk about ourselves — our experiences, our feelings, our work, our relationships —
but we’re also trying to understand something universal.
Today, it was love.
And I’m not sure if we’ve “figured it out,” because it’s always a creative process —
like painting, building a picture of values as we speak.
But I hope we’ve revealed at least a small part of what love and affection mean
for Ukrainians — in folklore, in art, and in life.
And I invite you, if you’ve watched to the end,
to share your thoughts in the comments.
What is love for you? What is affection in the lives of Ukrainians?
How are they different? How important are they to us?
What is the image of a Ukrainian woman — and a Ukrainian man — in the context of love?
Every opinion matters, because together, piece by piece,
we’re assembling a fuller picture of who we are as a nation.
Nataliia Korf-Ivaniuk: Thank you.
Nik Lysytskiy: Thank you.
Friends, today in the studio of Archetype of the Nation we had the artist Nataliia Korf-Ivaniuk.
Tell us in the comments what you found interesting or meaningful.
Do you think love is one of the essential values of the Ukrainian people?
You can watch Archetype of the Nation episodes on YouTube,
listen on your favorite podcast platforms,
and read them at magicworld.com.ua —
where you’ll also find popular essays by folklorist Maryna Demediuk
and recordings of authentic folklore performed by renowned actors.
Thank you for being with us — and see you next time.
