Abroad, artistic themes inevitably part with protest
Originally published on Global Voices
“War is now” street art by Philippenzo. Photo by Daria Dergacheva, used with permission.
This post is part of Global Voices’ September 2026 Spotlight series, “Protest in Democracy.” With this Spotlight, we seek to explore the many forms of protest, the tactics states use to delegitimize and suppress them, and the complex relationship between protest and democracy. You can support this coverage by donating here.
Editor’s note: This article is based on a presentation and interview with Russian street artist Slava PTRK , originally from Yekaterinburg, Russia, who currently lives abroad, in exile. Through the artists’ narrative, Global Voices traces how street artists in Russia — starting with protests in 2022 — were either pushed out of the country, or prosecuted and sent to jail. How has immigration changed protest art? What work are those abroad still able to do? Are others who remained in Russia now either silent or working for the state? What remains are small acts of protest.
Street art first appeared in Russia when it was part of the Soviet Union. In the 1980s, protest culture was on the rise, including in music, samizdat (self-published texts) and street art subculture. Since then, the genre has grown, with regular international street art festivals in various Russian regions, and hundreds of street artists, some of them quite well known, even abroad.
When the Russian invasion of and subsequent war with Ukraine started in February 2022, street artists, like many people in Russia, were divided. Some wanted to protest against the regime and its war, but were forced to leave to country; some wanted to remain in Russia but stay quiet; and others, after some time, decided to support the regime.
A few street artists and activists – like Sasha Skochilenko, who was sentenced to seven years in a penal colony for swapping out a store’s price tags with anti-war slogans — were prosecuted. She was eventually released in Ankara on August 1, 2024 as part of an international prisoner exchange, and lives abroad in exile.
Today, there are artists in Russia who get paid for making war-themed, monumental art on multi-storey buildings in Russian cities, but small expressions of activism still survive through ordinary people using the language of street art to protest in a country where it is dangerous to do so.
The war brought street protest and rapidly growing repression
In the first months after the full-scale Russian invasion of Ukraine, public space in Russia became sites of spontaneous anti-war protest. Both professional street artists and ordinary citizens with no previous connection to art took part, painting anti-war slogans, putting up stickers, creating small installations, and intervening in official visual propaganda:
PHILIPPENZO — your favourite artist (@philippenzo)At this stage, the distinction between art and activism was often blurred, with many direct interventions: “No to war” slogans, anti-war graffiti, altered official symbols, supermarket price tags, posters, and urban objects:
“The war is shame”
At the same time, state repression escalated quickly. Administrative and criminal cases began, the word “war” was censored, and making direct political statements became increasingly dangerous.
Artists shifted from direct protest to metaphor and coded messages:
Emigration brings Russian street art abroad
After the military draft during the autumn of 2022, many Russian artists relocated to countries like Georgia, Armenia, Montenegro, Serbia, Turkey, Germany, the United Kingdom, and Israel, and continued working, although their subject matter gradually changed.
At first, much of their work still dealt directly with the war and their departure from Russia. Later, the themes broadened to include the loss of home, identity, displacement and loneliness:
“I continue thinking in my own language.”
At the same time, much anti-war visual culture moved online, with digital posters, collages, archives, and social media apps becoming increasingly important. Some artists were able to sell their art abroad, making posters and doing commercial work:
“Yekaterinburg. I miss you.”
Those who stayed
Inside Russia, meanwhile, the situation changed dramatically. Direct anti-war street art almost disappeared from public space, as artists who remained faced a much narrower range of options:
“To wait and hope. I am fucking tired.”
The language artists used had to become evasive:
I understand everything. Just can't say nothing. Photo by Daria Dergacheva, used with permission.
Some began working on official festivals, commercial commissions, or state-supported projects. Large numbers of patriotic and pro-war murals appeared: soldiers, Z symbols, heroic figures, portraits, and imagery that recalled Soviet monumental propaganda:
Russian street art. Photo by Daria Dergacheva, used with permission.
For instance, artists that participated in the popular and formerly independent Stenograffia festival, in 2023 created an eight-storey-high mural of Saint Catherine, a traditional Orthodox saint:
Photo of the mural of Saint Catherine in Yekaterinburg. Author: Stenograffia festival organizers, CC BY 4.0.
Some artists now seem to treat their art simply as paid decorative work rather than as a personal ideological statement, while others chose to remain publicly apolitical:
Mural in Russia. Photo by Daria Dergacheva, used with permission.
They continue to take part in festivals and produce abstract, decorative, folkloric, religious, or historical works, while avoiding direct statements about the war.
Everyday acts of protest linger
Despite repression and the disappearance of large-scale anti-war works, protest has not vanished completely. It has, however, become smaller and anonymous.
Anthropoligist Alexandra Archipova saves these artifacts in an online archive. Stickers, short inscriptions, small drawings, flowers, symbolic gestures, and coded anti-war messages still appear in public spaces, as the archive shows.
At the end of his presentation, artist in exile Slava PTRK summed up the situation plainly: “I don’t have any good news for you. Has art become stronger because of the war? No. If someone hoped that artistic statements would become brighter, or that war would somehow produce stronger images, I don’t think that happened. Inside Russia, it seems that making any kind of statement has become almost impossible. But strength is not about being direct, and it is not about being visually striking. Has art itself become stronger? No, I don’t think so.”
