Preserving Ukraine’s Modernist Legacy

Photographer and researcher Dymtro Soloviov documents the nation’s Soviet-era architecture, making the case for its protection amid war, redevelopment, and neglect

Kyiv photographer and architectural researcher Dmytro Soloviov has made it his mission to record Ukraine’s modernist and Soviet-era landmarks. Familiar to many of us, through his Instagram platform, he presents images and stories both online and in person that bring these buildings to a wider audience. His book, Ukrainian Modernism: Modernist Architecture of Ukraine, showcases more than 120 sites, ranging from monumental mosaics and vibrant stained glass to overlooked and forgotten buildings. Alongside documenting them, Soloviov advocates for their preservation, highlighting the threats posed by war, redevelopment, and long-term neglect and stressing the importance of safeguarding the architectural heritage as a vital record of Ukraine’s cultural and historical identity.

To learn more about his work and the challenges of preserving Ukraine’s modernist architecture, we asked Dmytro Soloviov a few questions about his projects, inspirations, and vision for the future.

Q: What first inspired you to begin photographing Ukrainian modernist architecture, and how did that eventually become this book? Was there a particular building or moment that sparked the idea?

I’ve been interested in both photography and architecture since 2014, when I visited Warsaw and was impressed by the magnetic Palace of Culture and Science. I started travelling across Europe to familiarise myself with different architectural styles. I switched my focus to Ukraine in 2018, after I moved to Kyiv following several years of living in Minsk. I was shocked by how quickly mosaics were disappearing and iconic modernist buildings were being repurposed, reconstructed, or demolished. That sense of urgency drove me to focus on modernism, documenting these structures before they vanished entirely. At the same time, I realised that modernism is my favourite style – bold, optimistic, and innovative, with deeply humanistic aspirations. There was one particular building and moment that sparked the idea of starting a project dedicated to Ukrainian modernist architecture. I’ve learned that the developers plan to turn the famous Flying Saucer building into a shopping mall. I saw the building back in 2014 in a book by Frederic Chaubin, and to me it was a symbol of Ukrainian architecture. I couldn’t believe how this is allowed to happen. From that shock and the strong desire to save both the Saucer and prevent the complete erasure of modernist heritage, the Ukrainian Modernism project was born. What started as a creative practice centred on exploring the architectural beauty of Ukraine’s modernist structures through an Instagram page gradually evolved to include advocacy, research, guided tours, and eventually practical preservation efforts. This book is the latest manifestation of that work: a visual and narrative archive of Ukraine’s modernist architecture.

Q: How did you go about selecting the buildings featured in the book? Were you guided more by architectural significance, visual appeal, or access?

I wanted to showcase our modernist heritage in all its diversity. So, I was guided primarily by functional and geographical variety, as well as visual appeal. The book features not only grand theatres, libraries, and extravagant hotels, but also small administrative buildings in tiny mountain towns, police stations, bus repair stations, and playgrounds. I believe this diversity offers a richer understanding of both the era and the country.

Q: Were there buildings you wanted to include but couldn’t due to condition, access, or safety? Are there any that still feel like ‘unfinished business’ for you?

Obviously, I couldn’t visit Luhansk, Donetsk, or Crimea, regions with many modernist treasures, because they’re currently occupied by Russia. I’m glad I made it to Mariupol in 2018, so at least part of Donetsk Oblast is represented. As for safety, it wasn’t a major concern for me. I visited Kharkiv and Sumy in the fall of 2024, even while they were under sustained, devastating air raid attacks. Access, however, was often an issue. Since February 2022, people have understandably become more cautious, to put it mildly., I had to shift from casually dropping into places to arranging visits through lengthy correspondence. However, those efforts paid off, not only in terms of access, but also in the form of thoughtful and warm conversations with the heads of public institutions, such as the Sumy Library or the Palace of Children and Youth in Uzhhorod.

Q: When you photograph these structures, are you aiming to document them faithfully, interpret them emotionally or both? Has your approach changed over time as your relationship with the subject deepened?

When I started in 2018, my goal was to portray modernist architecture in a positive light – often quite literally. I was always chasing sunny weather, naively hoping to shift public perception that saw these structures as grey, heavy, and depressing. At the same time, I wanted to stand apart from the many popular Instagram accounts that leaned into the bleak aesthetic of brutalism and Eastern Europe, characterised by overcast skies, post-rock soundtracks, and decay. That aesthetic has its power—and its truth—but to me, modernism carried a different emotional charge: one of hope and energy. I wanted my work to reflect that. Over time, as I developed a deeper understanding of both architecture and light, my approach evolved. Now, my aim is simply to do these structures justice, to present the best version of them. I tend to favour clean, smooth shots that highlight form and clarity. It’s funny because Stephen and Damon at FUEL actually prefer a more unkempt, raw look. As for emotional interpretation, it’s fluid. It depends on the building, the surroundings, the weather, and my own mood. However, I always strive to find dynamic or dramatic angles that highlight each building’s unique character.

Q: How do you see the relationship between interwar Ukrainian modernism and later Soviet-era modernist styles? Are there any aesthetic or ideological continuities or tensions that stand out to you?

I do see some traces of continuity between interwar Ukrainian modernism and later Soviet-era styles, but the relationship is complex. After Stalin consolidated power, constructivism and avant-garde were officially banned and never fully rehabilitated, even after his death. Architecture did get fortunate in escaping the rigid Stalinist Empire style under Khrushchev’s leadership, which allowed for more modernist expressions. This is a rich topic that definitely deserves closer scrutiny and deeper research. One clear stylistic continuity I highlight in the book is the Kyiv Academic Theatre for Young Spectators. Originally built in 1932 in the Constructivist style, it underwent heavy reconstruction between 1987 and 1993 in a Neo-Constructivist style, a somewhat on-the-nose example of architectural dialogue across eras.

Q: What role did political ideology play in shaping the forms or symbolism of these buildings? Do you think Ukrainian architects were able to embed national or local identities into these centralised styles?

Political shifts were always reflected in architectural form. The evolution of Soviet modernism in Ukraine broadly tracked ideological changes: light, functional buildings during the Khrushchev Thaw; heavier, monumental forms under Brezhnev; and early postmodern gestures in the Gorbachev era. These shifts paralleled global architectural trends, albeit delayed by the long interruption of Stalinist neoclassicism. Soviet modernism after 1955 wasn’t a centrally imposed style like Stalinism; yet, architecture was more regulated than in capitalist states, primarily due to the planning system. Architects operated in frameworks created by state planning bodies, standardised building typologies, and design institutes. As the Party itself encouraged the embedding of national or local motifs, Ukrainian architects often introduced regional distinctiveness through materials, ornamentation, and stylisation within these frameworks. Soviet Ukrainian architectural periodicals were filled with endless debates about what constitutes “national form” and how or whether it should manifest in modern architecture. These discussions show that identity remained a live and unresolved question.

Q: To what extent do you see this architecture as a reflection of Ukrainian identity, especially during periods of constrained autonomy? Is modernist architecture now part of how Ukraine tells its own story?

Modernism was a global, cosmopolitan movement, and Ukraine played a significant role in that conversation. Yet here modernism took on a distinct local character. Most notably through monumental art, as artists often tapped into traditional Ukrainian crafts and folk motifs, subtly evoking local identity into modernist forms. This legacy wasn’t created solely by famous architects and artists, but by a collective effort, one that included Ukrainian planners, builders, engineers and craftsmen. It emerged during a highly complex and controversial era, but one that prioritised purposeful creation for the public good over private profit. That ethos is something that holds deep meaning for me, and it has shaped much of the built environment we now look back on. So yes, I believe modernist architecture is and should be part of how Ukraine tells its own story. It’s an integral chapter of our cultural identity, reflecting both our connection to global ideas and our ability to adapt them with local meaning.

Q: Did you notice strong regional differences in how modernism was expressed across Ukraine? Were there areas that especially surprised you in terms of their architectural richness?

Many architects in Ivano-Frankivsk, Lviv and Zakarpattia regions had a strong affinity for local vernacular traditions and often incorporated them into their designs. The interior of the Ivano-Frankivsk Music and Drama Theatre, residential buildings in Nadvirna, or the folk-inspired roof of the Zakarpattia Theatre in Uzhhorod are just a few examples that made it into the book.

Q: Many of these buildings are in various states of neglect. How do you see the future? Are there any restoration efforts that give you hope?

I see them all being demolished and replaced by yet another mall or residential high-rise. Even the iconic, legally protected Flying Saucer building can’t seem to escape developers’ greed. There’s little hope, since both state and local governments are dominated by businessmen and developers, so unchecked corruption feels like the natural order of things here. And the war has only deepened their sense of impunity. There are no official restoration efforts that I’m aware of. On the contrary, every week, another mosaic gets carelessly destroyed during some clumsy thermo-insulation job at a school or kindergarten. On the bright side, there are grassroots initiatives, individuals documenting and raising awareness and the quiet persistence of those who care. It doesn’t give me hope, that’s long gone, but it gives me a reason to keep going. But on an institutional or strategic level, there’s no reason to be optimistic.

Q: What kind of response has the book received inside Ukraine? Has it helped spark new conversations around preservation or awareness?

Circulation inside Ukraine has been very limited so far; the first copies are only just starting to arrive. But abroad, the response has been overwhelmingly positive, from what I’ve seen.

Q: How has this long-term photographic project shaped the way you think about Ukraine’s 20th-century history? Do you think architecture reveals something that written records sometimes can’t?

The project has deepened my emotional connection to Ukraine’s 20th-century history. I studied it closely, from Soviet-era periodicals to contemporary research papers and personal conversations with architects and artists who lived through that time. It provided me with a more nuanced and critically informed perspective, something sorely lacking in today’s discourse.

Architecture reveals far more than written records. After all, it is the sum of human activity in any given period. You can feel the emancipated boldness of the 1920s in constructivism, the oppressiveness of High Stalinism in the imposing neoclassical colossi, the hopeful optimism of the Kruschev Thaw in the light, functionalist buildings of the 1960s, the re-Stalinisation shift in the hulking brutalism of the Brezhnev era, and the playful, rebellious tones of the late Soviet postmodernism during perestroika. The buildings express ideals, beliefs, and contradictions of their time more vividly than words ever could.

Q: Your favourite Ukrainian dish?

Ukrainian cuisine is my favourite of all, on par only with Middle Eastern. I enjoy simple savoury food, so a perfect lunch for me is borsch and mashed potatoes with a cutlet.