Art during wartime stops being merely about aesthetics—it becomes an archive of memory, therapy, and a manifesto of resilience. Yuliia Heneralova, a talented Ukrainian artist from the hero city of Kharkiv who is currently based in Canada, found her unique voice in refined botanical painting. Her small-scale works, which have won recognition at the international Golden Time Talent competition, impress with their jewelry-like precision. However, behind every delicate petal hides a deep personal story—a story of evacuation, the preservation of national identity, and an inexpressible connection to her home. Yuliia spoke about how Kharkiv irises saved her soul during the hardest times in our exclusive interview.
Yuliia, descriptions of your work often mention that you have been drawing since childhood. However, did botanical painting truly become your calling right away? Do you remember the exact plant that started your journey in this style?
Actually, I haven’t been drawing since early childhood, as back in the day at art school they simply ruined our desire to draw. But after the full-scale war began, an acute need arose to somehow put my psychological state in order. That was when I opened photos of my irises that I grew in Kharkiv and which remained there. I simply started recreating them on paper. It was my memory of Ukraine, whose roads russian boots mercilessly walked and continue to walk upon. That is precisely how my path in this style began.
Working in a small format is often associated with jewelry craftsmanship. Why do you prefer this miniature size, and what opportunities does it open up?
I started drawing in a small village when we were living in evacuation. It was purely an economy format, as we left Kharkiv with one small backpack and two cats. We had to save both paper and our own time. Total uncertainty reigned back then; we didn’t know if tomorrow would come, so I wanted to manage to finish a work here and now. About any “unique opportunities” or high concepts, at that moment, I wasn’t really thinking at all.
You live and work in Canada now. Do you find new sources of inspiration in Canadian nature?
Yes, there is also a wonderful park here with a large number of irises. Every time I look at them, they instantly bring my thoughts back to my native Kharkiv.
You are originally from Kharkiv—a hero city demonstrating incredible courage. Does the resilience of your hometown reflect on your palette and choice of subjects?
For me, the iris is a direct image of the resilience of my native Kharkiv. This flower has a strong, enduring stem and at the same time amazingly soft, living petals. In this contrast, I see Kharkiv itself: inside—iron strength, resilience, and a preserved identity; outside—sensitivity, tenderness, and a longing for life. Moreover, the iris is very colorful, just like us Ukrainians: we are all different in character, life experience, and voice, but united by a single inner essence. My iris seems to say to the world: “We are from Kharkiv, we are from Ukraine—and we are alive despite everything.”
Today, viewers see powerful philosophical markers in your works: Freedom, the Sanctity of Human Life. How do you manage to embody these grand meanings in the tiny images of flowers?
At first, it wasn’t a conscious philosophy—it was memory and a very personal feeling of connection to what our neighbor took away from us. Only over time did I realize that such simple, everyday things are indeed the carriers of great meanings.
Freedom, the value of human life, and Ukrainian culture manifest for me not in abstractions. They live in concrete images—in the flowers I remember, in the land where they grew, in everything that remained inside us after all that was destroyed and endured. That is precisely why even the most fragile images are capable of carrying immense content.
What does it mean for you to be an artist representing modern Ukraine on the international stage? How does art help you interact with foreign audiences?
For me, it is primarily about voice and visibility. It is extremely important that our culture and our ancient history are not told for us by someone else—we must show it to the world ourselves. Art helps preserve Ukrainian identity and make it alive, deep, dimensional, and recognizable for foreigners. It is our way to speak about ourselves honestly, directly, through the language of images and our own visual experience.
Your craftsmanship gained recognition at the prestigious Golden Time Talent competition and opened doors to the International Association of Artists. What were the main challenges you faced on this path?
The main challenge at the very beginning was banal doubt and fear. It seemed that I wouldn’t have enough resources, strength, or proper conditions to move forward. But over time, largely thanks to my environment, I realized: ideal conditions will never come. It is important to simply step into your fears and keep acting, doing your work every day. As a result, the journey itself turned out to be much more important and interesting than the fear that paralyzed me at the start.
Botanical drawing requires strict precision. How do you manage to balance correct lines with conveying living emotions on the canvas?
When I look at a flower, I never perceive it purely as a dry botanical object. I see a living entity in it, a character, a certain symbolic image. Sometimes a dance is born in my lines—like in my “Hopak” series, where the irises seem to move dynamically and sound to the beat. Sometimes these are very romantic, delicate images. And sometimes my flowers are about resilience, about those people who are currently defending our country and giving it the opportunity to remain alive at all.
Your paintings adorn private collections all around the world. Have there been instances where feedback from buyers touched you to the core of your soul?
Yes, and there are many such moments. I often give my works as gifts, and right now they live in the homes of many Ukrainians scattered across different countries of the world because they were forced to flee the war.
People often tell me that these images bring back the feeling of home, reminding them of Ukraine and what they had to leave behind. For me, this is the highest reward—understanding that my works do not merely exist as a pretty picture, but give people warmth, living memory, and an unbreakable connection to their homeland.
You conduct creative meetups in Canada. Tell us, what experience do you pass on to your attendees?
My experience in hosting public events is still small. I have mostly conducted meetings on decorative art and neurographica. In them, I primarily shared my inner state and the process of creativity itself as therapy. After such classes, people often note relief, a significant reduction in stress levels, and pleasant emotional fulfillment. As for masterclasses specifically in botanical painting—I do not conduct them yet, as I am still in a constant process of learning and perfecting this technique.
Working on a detailed miniature requires solitude. Do you plan to teach others this delicate art in the future?
Currently, I do not teach miniature botanical painting and, honestly, I don’t really see a format for classical training in such detailed work. For me, this is too intimate and personal a process.
In its essence, it resembles deep meditation—and everyone experiences it in their own way. In such delicate matters, it is impossible to simply “pass on technique” by instruction; one can only show a person a general direction or share one’s philosophical approach.
