The unique space, specifically designed for the exhibition, was conceived and crafted by architect and designer Kirill Ass. The dimly lit room features concrete walls, some covered with grilles, behind which letters or schematically drawn angels seem to emerge. Visitors are struck not only by the concept and the power of the works but also by the spatial design, the theatrical lighting, and how the artworks are displayed.

The windows are unevenly painted in black, and light filters through the letters of the introductory text by the exhibition curator, artist Daniel Lismore. He also reflects on his familiarity with the cruelty of reality. It is evident that this exhibition is about solidarity and shared destinies. Moreover, it underscores the idea that an artist never stops creating. In this context, another important notion emerges: Fragile is not just a way to acquaint viewers with art objects. It is a sales exhibition: proceeds will support artists who are at risk for various reasons.

The strength of this project lies in the fact that renowned artists with exhibitions in major museums are supporting their colleagues who find themselves in difficult circumstances. Many of the works are sold under very favorable conditions.

Daniel, how do you feel about the idea of the exhibition space resembling a theatrical performance?

“You know, I see every artist as a character telling a story. We all love stories, so when you bring them all together in one room, they tell you one big, shared story. I hope we succeeded in making this exhibition feel like a show.”

What transforms an object into art?

“I think it’s the artist’s hands, their ideas, and how they convey a single idea, a feeling—or perhaps more—and embed it in their work to share it with the world, eliciting a reaction. That’s what artists do so well, whereas politicians are terrible at it.”

Does an artist share part of their soul through their work

“Absolutely. I think it’s important to listen to these voices, as all of them have something meaningful to say to the world. I deeply value what they’ve created—it matters not only to them but to others as well. These works won’t leave with us when we die. Art is something special in our lives; it makes us feel. Not many things can evoke feelings like that.”

When you encounter an artist who speaks in a different language—not linguistically, but in a different artistic language—how do you approach it?

“You simply have to listen to them. You see their work, and you don’t need to act; you just need to keep an open mind.”

From the darkness, illuminated by golden light from carefully placed spotlights, the artworks emerge. For example, there’s a large painting by Oksana Mas, a renowned Ukrainian artist who has exhibited several times at the Venice Biennale. In Fragile, she presents a work from her Mandala series—a circle with a center teeming with life, like an egg, the sun, the universe (ovo), composed of hundreds of egg-like universes. Mas uses the egg, a symbol of life, as the foundation of her art.

Kostya Benkovich contributes several works created with metal and welding—transforming heavy metal rods into delicate Brabant lace. His brightly painted “Hand of God”, with its cloud, hand, and vivid red light, resonates with powerful symbolism. Another standout piece, displayed at the entrance, consists of welded steel suitcases. These suitcases—on wheels, with handles—are empty and transparent yet filled with an almost tangible, heavy air. They evoke anxiety, pain, and loss. This piece captivated an entire city; one of Benkovich’s suitcases was ceremoniously gifted to Edinburgh, where it now “travels” silently across cobblestones. The journey seems endless, yet it carries no promise of adventure—only darkness, an ocean, and a blizzard.

This work clearly speaks of refugees, forced migrants, and—oh, a new term!—relocants. Packing your entire life into a suitcase is far from an exciting challenge.

A triptych by Nadya Tolokonnikova occupies one of the concrete walls. These are large, strict, graphic canvases. They depict frontal faces, seemingly concealed by balaclavas, with burning black tears sliding down them, not absorbed by the knitted fabric. Above their heads are halos, inscribed with intricate lettering.

The exhibits tell their stories, reflecting and supporting one another. Among them is a photograph by Mark Quinn: a wide-open eye—soft blue, deep as the universe—of his newborn son. Overlaid on the iris is a glowing red outline of continents.

An extraordinary artifact by Nicola Turner, “En Pointe”, balances precariously on the sharp tips of sickles and pitchforks. The body of the installation, made partly from warm, soft wool, embodies both precariousness and warmth, despair and hope.

Oksana Mas’ “Guernica” is monumental in both physical and metaphorical terms. A mass of protrusions covered in black plastic—torn in places to reveal schematic body parts—creates a hauntingly powerful image. This harrowing work stands alongside another Benkovich creation, made of barbed wire: “The Cloud.”

The art spectacle culminates in Joe Corré’s multifaceted work, “Ash from Chaos”. Several years ago, this piece shocked the music world: Corré, the son of Vivienne Westwood and Malcolm McLaren, burned punk heritage worth thousands of pounds and placed the ashes in a special glass coffin, alongside a copy of his father’s death mask and a punk-styled rubber duck. In a draped corner, flames flicker on a screen, and the air carries the scent of funeral incense. Punks not dead? Remarkably, this final piece in the exhibition evokes an extraordinary feeling—a thirst for life. To look. To truly see. Which, as the work suggests, are not always the same.