The subject of an unfortunate puzzle, of the dangerous mystery of the Sphinx, is running through and framing the exhibition, and the rest of its “layers” form the clearly readable subject lines. The subject of memory is loudly and clearly started by the objects of Vladimir Anselm. This artist comes from Russia and now lives in Germany, and he sculpts from coal crumbs, making spears and helmets, guns and skulls, as if continuing the work of his almost-namesake, true-born German Anselm Kiefer, who modelled and riveted his famous “military aircraft” from pieces and sheets of lead. Kiefer created a “weapon of destruction”. It seems that Anselm’s weapons and armament soaked up Death. They cannot kill; they are not even particularly scary. But they are one of the strongest contemporary reminders about the old theme of Memento Mori. Remember about death. Heroic, infamous, never known to anyone, glorious, life-saving, useless? The black ashes of the coal spears do not answer our anxious questions.

The memory of the war - is the main subject of the exhibition. But it is paradoxical, that in the actual exhibition one cannot find a lot of reminders of that world tragedy, which ended more than six decades ago. Artists, who were born after its end (and it is difficult to find any other artists, after so many years passed) are not ready to clearly indicate that exact war, that specific event, those typical characters of that particular time. More precisely, they recall through the prism of time, mythology, or mass communications.  The Polish group DUMA even turned a forming-up of a Nazi punitive squad into something like a scene from Alice in Wonderland; horrible, but, on the whole, not scary. A little bit unpleasant, but bearable.

Artists often speak about the war in general, or the wars of the twentieth century in general. About horror, violence and inexplicable savageness, taken globally. It’s not that our contemporaries in Europe, as well as Russia, happened to be forgetful or muddle-headed (although this occurs too). The main reason is that our fathers, grandfathers, older brothers and peers (and ourselves) fought too much.  Global and local, civil and secret wars, declared, undeclared, diplomatic, for oil, for drugs, for prestige, for faith, for so much more that it is difficult to recall what it was for exactly.  It is not possible to try and recollect, and figure out how, who, where and why killed each other in the battles of Khalkhyn Gol. Who and how, when and why disembarked and attacked, retreated and fled, defeated and died in Transvaal, Panama, Cuba, Angola, Guatemala and the Middle East, and so on and so forth.

All the wars of the twentieth century have merged in our minds into some kind of a single endless event. Which officers and soldiers are depicted on the obscure quasi-photographs, taken by V. Smolyar? Let us assume, that we can guess a Japanese man due to his small stature, a samurai sword in his hand, and his woman, dressed in a kimono. The rest of the fighters seem to be from the same military unit, since Russians, Americans, Germans and other combatants in jackets and coats, helmets and caps were moulded from the same material, namely, from that courageous dough, which in one country was used for moulding Stalin’s falcon named Chkalov, in another country - the American eagle named Lindbergh, in the third country - the sky wanderer named Saint-Exupery, in the fourth - the great aces of the Reich. The silhouettes are unclear, the faces are no longer identifiable, and those who didn’t experience the era of the world wars and other global conflicts themselves, are no longer able to draw details and clarify facial expressions. They fought against each other, that is, against themselves. A memory of this kind is almost insulting. We remember that people died, but it is not possible to find out who they were, why they died, what for, and under what circumstances.