Critical Beauty: Olga Krykun on Flowers, Crisis, and Continuance
I met with Ukrainian artist Olga Krykun during her residency in the Dutch countryside. We talked about the role of flowers in her paintings, not just as decoration, but as figures that have taken on personal, historical, and even political meaning. What began as portraits of young women soon shifted after the invasion of Ukraine, transforming into flower-figures that embody both vulnerability and resilience. In our conversation, Olga traced this evolution, reflecting on art’s role in times of crisis, the symbolic and practical power it can hold, and how beauty, memory, and intuition continue to shape her practice.
Let's start with the flowers, where did this fascination begin?
I first painted young women surrounded by flowers. Girls, specifically. That was the starting point. I developed a technique of staining the canvas, and then, less than a year later, the invasion of Ukraine happened. Before that my work was about women, online life, being young.
And when the full scale invasion happened?
It was a very strong wake up call for me. I started questioning everything in my life, and in my work. I asked myself, should I even be an artist? But that questioning gave me a strong sense of why I must be an artist.
And what was that answer for you? Why continue?
I saw how powerful art is, that it can carry messages, shape conversations, and offer counterpoints when other voices carry opposite, harmful messages. I wanted my voice to be present, maybe even louder. And I saw how art could also bring concrete change. With friends, I organized charity sales of art to raise funds. In the beginning, people in Europe were hesitant even to support basic protective supplies, like medical materials or tactical clothing, because they feared it would mean sponsoring violence. But through art, we were able to raise significant money.
SUMMER FORGET-ME-NOTS / ЛІТНІНЕЗАБУДКИ 04, 2022, Acrylic, dye, pastel on canvas, 45 x 40 cm.
So art became both a message and a tool for action.
Exactly. I wouldn’t call it philanthropic, it was just something everyone in Ukraine did, in their own way. If you worked in marketing, you used marketing. If you cooked, you did it through restaurants. I did it through art. I realized how much power art can have both symbolically and practically, and that kept me going, even though it’s a difficult field.
And amidst this turmoil, did the flowers become a place of refuge?
They became a character. The sunflower is the national flower of Ukraine, and gradually the women in my paintings transformed into flowers. They became these girl-flower figures. It wasn’t something I planned, it just happened. The subject remained the same, but instead of melancholy Western women living online, this new character carried the melancholy of existential struggles.
When I look at your flowers, I don’t see violence. Many feel playful, flirtatious, even joyful. Is that more your recent work, or what do these flowers express for you?
They mirror many emotions. Early flowers were sad, but also hopeful, full of unity. Even in bad situations, there’s incredible hope. I didn’t want to be morbid, especially because I was in Europe, experiencing the war online, communicating online. My flowers hold both heaviness and lightness.
And after years of painting them, do you still feel connected to this flower-character?
Yes, she grows with me. At first she was a sunflower, but later became other flowers with other meanings. Sometimes it feels impossible to escape them. Even when I think of something else, it turns into a flower.
Why do you think that is?
My brain just works that way now. But slowly, I’m also returning to portraits of women.
Would you say then that the flowers become a softer way of seeing the world?
Not softer. More critical. Flowers are vulnerable, yes, but they persist, they bloom briefly, they give new life. They’re layered with meaning.
And of course, flowers have a long tradition in art history, especially in still lifes. Did you consciously draw from the old masters?
Not directly, but I was trained in still life. In Ukraine, my early art education was focused entirely on it. I was very good at it, painting people terrified me, but still life’s felt safe. That stayed with me. Even now, I treat everything; flowers, objects, animals, like still life’s.
And you grew up surrounded by figurines, right?
Yes. My parents ran a souvenir shop, full of little figures; dogs, angels, flowers, characters. Everywhere. That imagery became part of my bones. I loved the dog figurines especially, and I still think about them when painting.
Let’s talk about your process. How do your paintings begin?
I used to work with dyes and ink, but dyes were stressful, there was no chance to edit a painting, or add more layers. Acrylic gives me more freedom to layer. Sometimes I plan a composition, but often I let intuition guide me. It’s always a balance between control and spontaneity.
2nd year/ Forget-me-nots 01, 2023, Acrylic, dye, pastel on canvas, 45 x 40 cm.
Do you plan your palette too, or is that intuitive?
I plan moods, not exact colours. I know color meanings, but viewers bring their own interpretations, so it’s flexible. Personally, I gravitate towards violet, blue, pink. Violet has always been my favorite. Pink came later, for me it’s very optimistic.
Do you see your art as a reflection of how you experience the world?
Yes. It’s my way of seeing, then putting it back out. I don’t think I’m special…we all respond to situations, technology, stress in predictable ways. My work just filters those responses into images.
Artist captured in Japan at PARADISE AIR, Image credits Hajime Kato.
And beauty? Your works are conceptual but also undeniably beautiful. What does beauty mean to you?
Beauty is clearness of the soul, good intentions. Almost biblical.
And what do your paintings teach you?
They’re mirrors. They show me things I haven’t said, but that are still present. They surface feelings.
How would you describe that inner perspective in one sentence?
It’s hard to put into words. That’s why we have art.