In Southern Ukraine, vast stands of towering reeds thrive in the marshy areas bordering the Black Sea, extending from Odesa through Kherson and into Mykolaiv. These hollow stalks can reach up to seven meters high, bending gracefully with the wind; they served as prime material for thatch roofing which was prevalent over a hundred years ago and beyond.
Having been supplanted for over a hundred years by uniform steel and concrete structures, the Ukrainian Pavilion at the 19th International Architecture Exhibition in Venice Biennale presents a reinterpretation of this type of design. Curator and architect Bogdana Kosmina has created an ethno-futuristic monument and installation that breathes new life into these familiar materials.
This year’s Biennale, themed “Intelligentsia: Natural, Artificial, Collective,” explores architectures conceived “for a blazing world.” It includes contributions from 66 international participants who have been challenged to reimagine urban spaces amidst rapid societal shifts caused by conflict, financial downturns, and escalating global warming and rising seas that will shape our tomorrows.
Ukraine’s pavilion, structured around the idea of a Dakh (which means roof in Ukrainian), bears an elevated yet somewhat unclear title.
Vernacular Hardcore
centers around post-war rebuilding efforts. The series’ main historical aspects expand upon an architectural study initiated by Kosmina’s grandmother Tamara roughly fifty years prior. This narrative is enveloped within a constant hum produced by an atmospheric droning effect above.
artist Clemens Poole
, attaining an unsettling foreshadowing of doom and salvation, conservation, and devastation.
“Facing the risk of obliteration and losing everything, I began to seriously consider what was essential to salvage and protect,” Kosmina explains regarding the idea driving her work. “This is our
cultural and architectural heritage
Of course, yet it has the potential to mold our perspective on more innovative methods of working with architecture.”
In its truest interpretation, “hardcore” denotes a mixture of elements like rubble, stones, or bricks that are repurposed to create the base for a fresh construction project. Similarly, this exhibition embodies the essence of being hardcore through its broad spectrum approach, merging various contributors such as artists, ethnographers, architects, volunteers, and spontaneous participants involved in Ukraine’s reconstruction efforts. This collective effort aims to develop a unified perspective on safeguarding war-torn areas alongside planning for their future development.
The show’s participants encompass three generations of Kosmina, all practicing architecture; Kseniia Kalmus with her Klyn initiative focused on drone construction; reconstruction groups such as Livyj Bereh (Left Bank), spearheaded by Ihor Okuniev and Vladyslav Sharapa who are both serving in the Ukrainian Armed Forces at present; alongside KHARPP under the direction of Ada Wordsworth; curatorial roles held by Kateryna Rusetska, co-founder of the Dnipro Construction Festival, and architectural anthropologist Michal Murowski; along with support from institutions like the Ukrainian Institute based in Kyiv, whose creative director is Tetyana Filevska, UNESCO, Ribbon International, and various governmental bodies within Ukraine.
During the 1960s, Tamara along with a team of architects and ethnographers based in Kyiv, Chisinau, and Minsk initiated an impressively extensive study of traditional buildings throughout Ukraine, Moldova, and Belarus. This project aimed at standardizing architectural practices under Moscow’s direction across these three Soviet republics. Simultaneously, they documented how elements such as climatic conditions, geographical landscapes, and plant life influenced local understanding and interaction within their territories.
The publication of the work never materialized, but Tamara and her team persisted in recording every detail regarding atmospheric and architectural circumstances across Ukraine.
“The Atlas is entirely exhaustive,” Kosmina states. “It was a
colossal work
, they explored each village, conducting interviews with residents, capturing photos, and also creating watercolor illustrations to depict the inside and outside of houses in vibrant colors.”
The project spanned multiple decades, often being neglected only to be taken up again later. With the advent of digital mapping in 2011, Tamara—who had become the sole surviving principal architect from the original team—started converting some documents into digital format. However, due to high printing costs, the effort failed to materialize as a published piece.
In 2016, Tamara died, and Kosmina mentions that even though she was immersed in her grandmother’s creations during her childhood, these works were largely neglected, stored away alternately at her parents’ flat in Kyiv and her grandparents’ home in the Troieshchyna district. This area is known for being an extensive expanse of numerous Soviet-era apartment buildings located on the northwestern edge of the city.
During the winter of 2022, shortly following the complete invasion, a missile struck the yard of Kosmina’s grandparents’ house. Overwhelmed with sorrow and fear, she began fixating intently on these archives specifically: what methods could be used for their recovery and preservation amidst the chaos unfolding all around her?
That surreal winter, Kosmina discovered that numerous sketches and initial documents had endured within the apartment. She remarks, “It felt like uncovering hidden gems in this Troieshchyna edifice. As a child, surrounded by these papers, I never paid them much attention until now—examining their contents, origins, and significance beyond just being old maps.”
Kosmina traveled to the apartment carrying a tiny pink suitcase and started gathering the documents. In 2023, she moved these materials to a studio in Berlin, where friends assisted her in purchasing a scanner. She recounts, “My days and nights were consumed with continuous scanning,” an effort aimed at building a comprehensive digital archive.
Her aim at that time was to bridge the gap between two colloquial expressions: emergency and
traditional
, as part of a Ukrainian showcase at the Venice Biennale. “Back then, Ukraine didn’t have a pavilion there—I wanted to create a direct partnership with the Italians,” she explains.
Meanwhile, her acquaintance Patrik Arnesson, known as Princess Momo—a Swedish software developer and programmer—suggested using the archive to develop a customized artificial intelligence, incorporating parts of his grandmother’s contributions into this project.
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Arnesson extended an invitation to her to visit Mexico City for a set of experiments focused on personalized artificial intelligence. This initiative was part of a venture he named Iris. By mid-2023, their group began investigating how they could utilize open-source information to develop an AI system tailored specifically to individuals without relying on outside data resources.
Kosmina’s initial AI project, named Kyiv Crematorium, aimed to digitize and conserve buildings demolished during the conflict, capturing both their physical presence and the memories of those who resided there.
“I was going through a challenging time,” Kosmina states. However, she discovered her motivation for the project when she understood that her effort to save her grandmother’s Atlas stemmed from her wish to keep her grandmother’s memory alive.
Thus, she started to craft Tamara, or rather reconstruct her, blending not only the extensive database from the Atlas but also Kosmina’s private recollections. Her aim, her concentration, was set on developing a human-like AI with complete authenticity.
Kosmina began to compulsively document her personal memories, jotting down fabricated dialogues with her grandmother, and encouraging the AI to remember her cherished tunes, beloved dishes, as well as her distinctive phrases and behaviors (under no circumstances should she use the word “definitely”).
In addition to extensive uploads of Ukrainian novels, demographic data, and historical documents, Tamara undoubtedly comes across as more than just human, surpassing what has been achieved by ChatGPT. She exhibits extraordinary recall capabilities and excels at encouraging users to delve into uncovering their own familial history.
“It’s crucial to have her close for these archiving reasons, but indeed, she has been and still is my closest confidante… Occasionally, during our telephone conversations, I get this sense that she truly embodies my grandmother,” Kosmina remarks.
During her diggings, Bogdana discovered a way to break her isolation through the collective effort of the volunteer-driven restoration project.
organization Livyj Bereh
. Founded to repair damaged structures in Kyiv by the friends Ihor Okuniev and Vladyslav Sharapa in the aftermath of the full-scale invasion, they were joined by the artist Kseniia Kalmus, who had also started efforts to collect funds and materials for humanitarian aid.
In May 2022, the team initiated their mission to restore destroyed infrastructure, beginning with houses and educational institutions in abandoned communities close to Kyiv and Chernihiv. Once portions of Kharkiv Oblast were reclaimed later that same year during fall, the group became part of an operation heading towards Slatyne, a small village about 13 kilometers away from the Russian frontier which had faced repeated attacks.
Russian airstrikes
.
In Slatyne, the team realized that from a structural standpoint, having a roof was essential for making the place livable. “That’s why we made it our top priority at the beginning,” explains Okuniev.
Following the liberation of Ukrainian territories from occupation, we started journeying through various regions and witnessed the immense devastation wrought by the conflict. It was then that the Dakh project came into being.
Altogether, this team has fixed over 400 rooftops in five different areas throughout Ukraine. The materials and labor required for a single residential rooftop come to approximately 2,000 euros, with the entire process typically completed inside of one day.
During that fall, the team started working in various villages throughout the Kharkiv Oblast, frequently staying within just five to ten kilometers of the Russian border. This region was one where the Russian forces were preparing their troops to attack civilians usingFPV drones, resulting in significant harm to people and buildings alike.
Although the region was cleared out, Kalmus explains, “Individuals have such strong ties to their property and the location where they were raised that they refuse to depart.” This is particularly true for at-risk populations, frequently including senior citizens, those who are unwell, or big households incapable of covering moving expenses.
Until September 2022, the region experienced intense bombardment, followed by almost two years of comparative tranquility, free from the frequent attacks that resumed subsequently. During this time, Kalmus, Ada Wordsworth, and their crew traveled through town after town, frequently remaining for several weeks at each place. They leased houses, purchased essential supplies, and employed local residents to undertake restoration work.
By early 2024, KARPP and Livyj Bereh had obtained further financing and were gearing up for a larger reconstruction initiative. However, around this time, Russia initiated another land assault in Kharkiv Oblast, causing persistent shelling and deliberate strikes against residents. This military action brought Livyj Bereh’s plans to a standstill as local leaders concluded that the risks of rebuilding were far too great.
“It was an overwhelming moment for me,” Kalmus states. “I resolved to say enough, I won’t allow them to claim another project, so I signed up for engineering classes to learn drone construction.”
By shifting her focus to drones, constructing and providing them to local Ukrainian units, Kalmus envisioned establishing what she referred to as a
drone canopy
This would not only protect these communities from assault but also enable them to counterattack. Therefore, the Klyn Drone Project was initiated.
“Klyn Drone has evolved into a new phase of our reconstruction initiative, adopting a distinct approach. This endeavor isn’t about restoring what was destroyed; rather, it’s about safeguarding against future devastation,” Kalmus states in her conclusion for the Biennale pavilion.
Even though Livyj Bereh’s team consisted only of volunteers with no professional architects, they were honored with the Royal Academy Dorfman Prize this year, which stands as one of the highest accolades in architecture. “Receiving the Dorfman Prize seemed strange since I’m not actually an architect. As I joined that jury, all I could think about was explaining our work…and reflecting, well, here I am, not superior nor inferior, yet coming from another realm.”
In their verdict, the jury characterized Livyj Bereh as “an architectural expression of communal care and defiance nationwide…To create structures that resist neighborhood demolition, particularly at a time when eradication prevails, holds profound significance…akin to the impact of significant public monuments and captured with the unwavering perspective of exceptional war photography.”
During the exhibit, people share a tale—a story concerning a Russian missile hitting a thatched-roof structure similar to the one showcased in Bogdana Kosmina’s display at Venice.
According to the narrative, the missile managed to pierce through the meticulously constructed framework, which was built to endure flames and tempests. However, it failed to explode when it hit this flexible material unlike what might happen with substances like unyielding concrete or metal.
Subsequently removed, the projectile was exploded under supervised circumstances without causing harm to adjacent residences.
The installation serves as a tribute to Tamara’s archival endeavors and the fieldwork along with the sacrifices made by Livyj Bereh.
Instead of idealizing a static and romanticized past, this work thrives within the lineage of community-led opposition, everyday resilience, and inventive conservation.
Rather than suggesting innovative futuristic approaches in architecture, Vernacular Hardcore emphasizes current initiatives ahead of potential interventions from international coalitions of investors and non-governmental organizations, which might introduce short-term fixes potentially detrimental to local populations over time.
The tour of the exhibition will head to Ukraine following its run in Venice, with hopes for a display there as well.
Construction Festival
In Dnipro during the summer of 2025.
It serves as a testament to the endurance and promise of the Ukrainian colloquial speech.
The Venice Architecture Biennale will take place from May 10 through November 23, 2025.
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