Andrii KYRYCHENKO - Autobiography

I was born in Kyiv in 1982 into a military family. I was the third child, and in this I was fortunate — I was raised by experienced parents who had already walked the path with my older brothers.

It’s hard to believe now, even for me, but I was an incredibly obedient and disciplined child. I was an excellent student at school, fascinated by mathematics, physics, and other exact sciences, but I always loved to draw.

At the age of nine, I began attending a children's art school. I can’t say I took art seriously at the time or saw myself as an artist in the future. But I was drawn to the unique atmosphere of the place — something I still hold as a precious memory. I especially remember the smell of materials and the light in the studios. Each workshop had its own character — painting, sculpture, printmaking, and the library. These spaces were filled with a genuine and selfless spirit of creation. That, perhaps, was what drew me in: the chance to create and immediately see the results of my work. It was one of those moments when it’s not you who chooses the craft, but the craft that chooses you.

Even during summer vacations, I kept going back to the art school. Everyone there knew me well, and without saying a word, they would hand me the key to whichever studio I wanted to work in. That was true happiness, and I now look back on it with deep gratitude.

After finishing school, I enrolled in a technical university — out of a sense of duty to my parents. After five years, I graduated with distinction as a telecommunications engineer. At the time, in the post-Soviet world, the profession of artist was not considered necessary, promising, or even respected.

However, once I received my diploma and had to decide what to do next, I couldn’t ignore my dream. It was a difficult decision for my family: I chose to pursue ceramics, turning away from years of technical education and my parents’ expectations.

So, in 2002, I opened my first studio — on the outskirts of Kyiv, in a former cement factory. It was a very contradictory time: the conditions were rough, but I felt happy because, for the first time, I had taken responsibility for my own future. I remember my mother once visiting the studio and bursting into tears. She hadn’t imagined the conditions I was working in, and it hurt her deeply. But that space became the starting point of my artistic journey. This period lasted until 2014.

After the Euromaidan, the annexation of Crimea, and the beginning of the war in Donbas, everything changed. It became clear that Ukraine was still seen as part of the “old world.” This pushed me to reconsider my artistic role — and even the role of art itself — and led to the search for a new studio with a new purpose and meaning.

Thus, in 2015, a new chapter began in a studio at the Kyiv Hippodrome. Of course, it didn’t happen by itself — it required enormous effort and time. A year and a half went into renovation and setup. But it was worth it: the main idea was to create the first international ceramics art residency in Ukraine. The inspiration came from my visit to an art residency in South Korea that same year.

From that moment, a key goal for me became shaping Ukraine’s cultural image — to show that it could be a full participant in the international art scene. This led to participation in numerous competitions and exhibitions, and eventually, to my joining the International Academy of Ceramics (IAC).

Over the years, this studio demanded a great deal — of strength and hope. It was not an easy path. But it rewarded me with inspiration and many works. Most of my major series were born there. It was there that I realized art is not only about form and technique — or science — but a way of speaking, a language capable of reaching the viewer’s heart. And I still believe in that.

The 2022 war changed everything — definitively. Since September of that year, I have been living in France under temporary protection. Despite the lack of permanent housing or a studio, I continue my artistic work. It is the only thing I managed to preserve — and I don’t intend to lose it. It is too great a sacrifice — one I am not willing to make.

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