Time to read: 17 minutes(s)

In Russia, a court has fined artist Vladimir Ovchinnikov for discrediting the military for the second time. Last spring, he was fined for his painting "Stop," which depicts a girl in blue and yellow clothing being bombed. The painting appeared on March 25, 2022, on a wall opposite the Borovsk military registration and enlistment office in the Kaluga region, where the 85-year-old muralist lives. A judge also fined him 35 rubles in June of this year for his painting "Meat Grinder Politics," which depicts two meat grinders grinding people into mincemeat. The millstones of one depict the familiar year "1937," while the millstones of the other depict the letter "Z," which has become a symbol of the Kremlin's war against Ukraine.

"If every Russian had taken this position, the Ukrainian people would never have suffered incalculable grief," a Ukrainian follower wrote on Ovchinnikov's Facebook page, while Vladimir Aleksandrovich's Russian followers have raised more than enough money to pay the fine for the second time.

Ovchinnikov's position is simple: a complete rejection of the war unleashed by Putin against the Ukrainian people. He expresses this on the walls of Borovsk, just as he expressed his interest in the people of Borovsk and their history through frescoes painted until February 24, 2022, depicting historical figures and events—Stalin's repressions, Boyarynya Morozova and Archpriest Avvakum, Tsiolkovsky... Since 2002, the self-described muralist has created over 160 works in Borovsk on abandoned and existing buildings, fences, and window frames. Of these, about six dozen have survived—the rest were destroyed by rain and snow, and some by official censorship. The artist doesn't regret the washed-out paintings—they remain in photographs and albums. He says it's easier for him to paint something new than to restore the old. 

Since the war in Ukraine began, Vladimir Ovchinnikov has devoted much of his time to anti-war work. He paints, the authorities paint over it, he paints again, the authorities paint over it again. More than a dozen anti-war murals have been destroyed.

 He doesn't hide, painting during the day, as hundreds of passersby and tourists pass by. He carefully crafts each scene, often timing them to coincide with news events. Ninety percent of them pass by, "as if the war doesn't concern them," says a Borovsk resident, for whom the military aggression came as a complete surprise. 

"It's a disaster, a disgrace, that a country that always talked about world peace would suddenly unleash aggression, completely unprovoked. We have only one person, the commander-in-chief, making decisions. It was unimaginable. We have a very infantile society. Many of our president's actions over the past 20 years have made it so infantile. They pass laws like, 'If you criticize the use of the army, we'll fine you, we'll shut you up,' everything is done to keep the people silent, to make them afraid. People, as soon as you start a conversation, try to brush it off. I did several works—I wrote "Z" (madness) in monosyllables on a wall in large letters, and at first they were afraid to prosecute me for it. Then I wrote "Z" (shame), then "Z" (stop), then I made a picture in yellow and blue of a girl with bombs raining down on her—and that's what they punished me for." They punished him with a fine—there can be no doubt about the correct use of the army, says Vladimir Alexandrovich.

_{The artist painted "Z-Madness, Z-Shame, Z-Fiasco" throughout 2022, commemorating the events of the war in Ukraine. All three have been destroyed. Photo: facebook.com/Vladimir Ovchinnikov}

Only chance saved him from a real prison sentence for discrediting the Russian armed forces. If the time between the first and second trials had been 11 months, a repeat offense within a year negates the fine and orders judges to send Russians to prison. 

“Why aren’t I afraid?” the artist asks again, and replies that he hasn’t been afraid in his life – it’s shameful to be afraid at 85 years old. 

"It's hard to imagine them coming after an 85-year-old man, putting him in a car, taking him to jail, and then starting a trial or something. It's nonsense; they think people will be outraged by the way they treat the elderly. These days, we're basically forced to use Aesopian language in accessible places on the walls," he smiles. 

More than a dozen anti-war frescoes were erased from the walls and fences of Borovsk by municipal workers on orders from the mayor's office. Only Tsoi and the diptych "Love and Separation" remained, with a subtle hint difficult for bureaucratic minds to grasp. The fighters against dissent also spared the words of the Kino leader—"Our hearts demand change"—and left them. But the neighbors on the wall were destroyed, along with their anti-war quotes—by Galich, Yevtushenko, Shevchuk, Yuli Kim. Vysotsky also caught the brunt of the attack, with the line "Over skulls and corpses, meter by meter, the soldiers of the Center group are marching across Ukraine." Some local patriot added a "Z" with a number to Tsoi's tattoo, but the artist burned it back to match the wall.

Besides the Z-madness and Z-shame, there was Z-basta. "When we took Kherson, it wasn't we who took it, but we who were driven out of Kherson," a street artist lists. Then "New Year's Paratrooper," with the letter Z, descends upon the Borovsk military registration and enlistment office on New Year's Eve 2023, alongside a New Year's Santa Claus with a beard and a machine gun. In "Nostalgia," girls—a Russian and a Ukrainian—holding hands, like in a Soviet poster, wax nostalgic about the past. Then "Cranes," with a line from Rasul Gamzatov about how there's a small place in this ranks, perhaps that place is for you?

"There are crosses below, cranes flying in the sky, and on the ground, crosses, crosses, crosses. Somewhere, something was painted over, I restored it, I painted doves all over the city, I painted eight of them in one day, then a large painting, 'Gagarin in Borovsk,' with the slogan 'Peace to the World' above the buildings, and my wife wrote a poem for it. That's about it, I think. They convicted me of the girl under the bombs and 'Meat Grinder Policy,'" the muralist says. 

Vladimir Ovchinnikov used funds raised on social media to pay fines—and the sums collected were several times greater—to publish several albums, including his anti-war frescoes. In "Dramatization of Walls," one section, "In the Name of Russia," is about the military deeds of the military, and the next section is called "In the Name of What?" (Here's the Z—enough of the Z). The albums "City within a City," "Brush and Pen," and "City Navigator: From Fresco to Fresco" have been published. Next week, the book "Elvira and Vladimir in Two Voices. 20 Years Later" will be released, which includes an anti-war section.

His wife, poet Elvira Chastikova, added poems to the paintings. Unfortunately, the books are not available for sale online. Ovchinnikov doesn't yet understand how to sell online. However, tourists readily purchase his albums in local stores. 

While doves of peace are still flying around Borovsk, utility workers with paintbrushes haven't yet reached "Love and Separation," which Vladimir Ovchinnikov painted at the site of the meat grinders on May 31st. But by July 18th, he was already summoned to the Obninsk technical inspection office on an administrative charge: he painted someone else's fence, and a certain "very active Z-patriot" wrote that Ovchinnikov painted cranes, a bridge, and a girl in an unauthorized location. 

"It's very difficult to see any discrediting of the army in this diptych. "Love and Separation" is based on Okudzhava's words, "two faithful friends, love and separation, never go without each other." There's a very distant, subtle allusion there; it's a diptych. On one side, it depicts a girl waiting, this part is called "Waiting," the second part is called "Wedge of Cranes"—the figure of a conscript or mobilized soldier receding across a bridge, and these cranes fly above him. I already had a painting with cranes, so I immediately associate it with what it's about, why these cranes are here.

He says he hasn't decided yet what his next subject will be, but he has an idea. Last winter, he painted two girls, a Russian and a Ukrainian. The girls stand on opposite sides of a crack, reaching out to each other. His wife, Elvira Chastikova, wrote the following lines for the painting: 

How we reach out to each other! Like willow branches flowing in the wind, to tightly intertwine, in defiance of prohibition. This is thirst. This is important: from impulses to migrations, because everyone is free to choose whom to embrace.

"I was planning to hold a solo exhibition in February with anti-war paintings, but for 'technical reasons' they said the exhibition would not take place. Now, I think it would be good to paint something else instead of these girls: two girls, about 18 years old, running along this crack, or rather, a chasm, one on one side, the other on the other, and in their hands they are holding kites in the colors of the national flags of Russia and Ukraine, and there, in the air, they intersect. A sketch is also ready," the artist promises for a new fresco like this. 

In Borovsk, the artist is being hounded by the authorities, represented by Nikolai Klinichev, head of the Borovsk district, and the local newspaper. They published an article titled "Thirst for Fame or Dementia?" According to Ovchinnikov, the text contains not a word of truth. He filed a lawsuit to defend his honor and dignity. At the last court hearing, the judge ordered a linguistic examination to determine whether the facts and the headline apply to the plaintiff. 

Ovchinnikov's many years of work have contributed to the city's budget. If you search for information about the town on a search engine, the top attraction is the "Borovsk Frescoes," along with thousands of enthusiastic comments from tourists who have come here on excursions. However, the city authorities don't appreciate this.

 Vladimir not only fights the war but also works to restore the memory of the victims of political repression in the Borovsk district. He has fought several trials, seeking the rehabilitation of disenfranchised "class alien elements"—kulaks, traders, priests, and many others—as well as their families. Ovchinnikov alone rehabilitated 1159 disenfranchised residents of the district, and the court recognized them as politically repressed. For many years, the artist has been trying, at his own expense, to erect a memorial to the victims of political repression, inscribed with the names of those who perished in the Gulag. But to no avail. The authorities have obstructed this in every possible way. The only successful attempt was to install a stone brought from Solovki. 

 Why are they erasing the memory of the repressions? Perhaps the descendants of those who carried out the repressions don't want to know what their fathers and grandfathers did. Take Germany: how they honor anti-fascists there, how chancellors and other politicians lay wreaths. Now everything is moving toward forgetting, forgetting, forgetting. What's the solution? At least open the archives so people can study the materials. 

_{For Vladimir Ovchinnikov, the parallels between 1937 and what's happening in Russia in the 21st century—political repression and the crackdown on "dissent" that runs counter to the ruling regime—are stark. Photo: facebook.com/Vladimir Ovchinnikov}

According to Vladimir Alexandrovich, Borovsk authorities destroyed six memorials dedicated to Soviet repressions. Five of them bore the names of victims.

"They're running and painting over the words 'Without memory, there is no nation,' 'Cutting off memory is a crime.' They've painted over about 20 works, but they don't dare charge me for political reasons. I advocate for the perpetuation of the memory of political repression. What can they say to me? 'Why do you need perpetuation?' They're running and painting over them," laments Ovchinnikov, whose father served 10 years in the Gulag. 

Vladimir Ovchinnikov doesn't care what people call his work—street art, frescoes, graffiti, murals—or whether it will remain forever on the walls of Borovsk. He's critical of his life, saying he matured too late. In Soviet times, everything was decided for everyone: school, university, job placement, work, retirement. He felt a surge of growth and maturity when the 90s gave him the right to choose how to live. He immediately turned to entrepreneurship. The drive was there.

After retiring in 2002, he moved from Moscow to his father's house in Borovsk.

It must be said that life had long drawn him to its walls. From his youth, he was irrepressible. In 1968, Gosstroy exiled him to Mongolia for a year for criticizing a construction technology. There, during the Prague Spring, he conducted a survey among his colleagues about their attitudes toward Soviet tanks in Czechoslovakia. He prepared a questionnaire and distributed it anonymously. Immediately, a tip was sent to the Russian Embassy, ​​and a young construction worker, Volodya Ovchinnikov, was warned that his contract would not be renewed for his political activities and sent back to Moscow. Things could have been worse, but they turned out okay. 

— Where does such support for the war come from in Russia?

"Our society is a swamp. What do elections mean to us? We don't have elections, we have a special operation. Whether you vote or not, the outcome will be the same, because up there, everything is planned out, and the election technologies know how to fool you. And simply adjusting the numbers is a piece of cake. That's why so many people are apathetic."

— If there's such infantilism, apathy, and the authorities know about it, why are they so afraid of your frescoes?

"It's not that they're afraid of my frescoes; they're afraid for their jobs. If they don't notice that there's disorder outside and you're sleeping, they'll fire you. So, their job description forces them to do this. The administration is completely at a loss: on the one hand, most people like these frescoes, everyone praises them, but on the other, they can't support them. How can you support this artist? What if he's caused harm, done something wrong? Basically, they don't know what to do. I can feel it. The situation here is that you can't paint anything on the walls of a historical settlement, but if it's interesting to tourists, then what can you do? It's a dead end. I have a work about the Russian military, in which I depicted the military deeds of Borovsk in the past—how can they paint over it in the name of Russia?"

— Who are your heroes today? 

"Who are the heroes? On the one hand, those who do their job competently and honestly. Take the actress Peresild, for example, who flew into space, accomplished the job with honor, and prepared thoroughly."

On the other hand, there are those who speak up. If it's a politician, say, Nemtsov, or Yashin, I can say yes, they're heroes. Or Navalny. Among the heroes today, I would also name our artistic community, those who have left the country, who are simply unable to sing or perform here. And people of the spoken genre, like Galkin, they have to convey something to the people. What will he convey if he's against it? He'll be banned immediately. Their courage is also enviable. Galkin, the actor Belov, many, many others, Nagiyev, Meladze, Pugacheva, Gverdtsiteli—she recently said she can't sing in Russian—my sympathy extends to them.

Is it possible to restore trust between Russia and Ukraine? Will Ukraine forgive the treacherous attack? 

"I think it's all very individual. My closest friend lives in Odessa. He knows my position; he doesn't have to think about whether to forgive me or not. But talking about the nation as a whole is much more difficult. Just as I don't understand talk of collective responsibility; everything depends on how the defeated country behaves. If it admits its guilt, if it tries to atone for that guilt, if it bothers to ask for forgiveness, that's one thing. But if it's just talk about how we did everything right, then it could go on forever."

Yes, there was anti-Russian sentiment in Ukraine, and I understand where it came from. After all, it was the Holodomor, all the repressions emanated from the Kremlin, everything was planned by the Kremlin. The repressions of 37 were planned, by order, by program, by quotas, by region. Everything was thought out down to the last detail, how everyone should behave under these conditions. It was a plan for destruction—to scorch the intellectual field, essentially. And that's exactly what happened.

I have a work called "Their Names Went Down in Russian History." I depicted six portraits of people from the Borovsk district, famous throughout the country. Their names are in every encyclopedia. This is all from the 19th century. But when I wanted to continue this series in the 20th century, I couldn't find a single person with the same level of fame. I explain this by the fact that the entire elite was destroyed. First, they were driven abroad during the revolution, and many left, those who had no hope of anything good for themselves under this regime. Then, the loss of voting rights and the recognition of class aliens made people social outcasts, and these were, for the most part, active and enterprising people. Then came the first wave of dispossession and deportation to special settlements, where education was no longer possible. Three years of imprisonment were standard for all those who did not accept collectivization. Then came 1937. And then the Borovsk district was occupied for two months and 20 days. Then our guys returned and arrested people indiscriminately, guilty or not guilty, to be shot and imprisoned. A large group was sent to the Vorkuta mines, where they couldn't survive more than three or four months.

So there's little intelligence left. And if anyone does make it to the upper echelons of power, it's usually through negative selection.

— What kind of Russia would you like to live in? 

"In a country where human rights are respected, where there is democracy, where there is a rotation of power, where there is a normal court. On the other hand, I suspect that even in a very good environment, where all the rules are observed, all the norms are fulfilled, and the courts function well, life in such a country might be boring—there's no room for heroism."

Do you consider yourself an oppositionist?

"Call it whatever you want; it's the essence of the person that matters. There's a lot of debate about what to call my work—frescoes, murals, graffiti, or something else entirely—but I don't care what they call it, as long as it's not strictly frescoes. Fresco is painting on wet plaster, a complex technique, and I've never used it. I'd call it murals."

I paint on drywall, but I can also paint on brick and wood. I paint where it's important, where it will look good, and what it will be called doesn't really bother me. A wall is a big responsibility. Everyone sees it, you've painted a picture on an easel, and you don't know what to do with it—give it away, sell it, or put it in storage—few people will even know about it. Everyone sees it on a wall, both those who understand art and those who don't. A lot of people are unprepared for it, about 95%; only 5%, according to statistics, go to exhibitions and art galleries here. It turns out that I'm forcibly introducing people to art who are uninitiated and have never seen an exhibition. There's a responsibility here; you need to give it something meaningful, something that will grab their attention.

Ovchinnikov doesn't look back to see who's behind him. He simply approaches the wall and draws bullet-riddled helmets and Russian bombs flying toward a little Ukrainian girl. He's forcibly showing his fellow citizens what's censored.

His paintings have captivated Russians for many years. Perhaps today they touch the consciences of the silent.

For Ovchinnikov, it's important to speak up, to use his murals to communicate with those passing by. Instead of television, he shows a war on the fence. Or rather, an anti-war.  

Irina Krasnova