Julia Beliaeva
Siren's Paradox

Installation view by Roman März © courtesy of the artist and KÖNIG GALERIE

However, it is not the look of a siren that is paradoxical. Today, when you hear the word siren, it most likely refers to an emergency warning. So how did a dangerous temptation, a voice of soothing allure, become stripped down, disfigured, and rationalized into a signal of terror? Perhaps the soul sirens acquired through centuries of human stories now compels them to turn their sweet song into a deadly warning and, in doing so, sacrifice themselves for us. Because we must not forget: when their song is no longer alluring, the sirens must throw themselves into the darkness of the sea.

Julia Beliaeva’s SIREN AND SIRENS is an exhibition about injustice, anger, sacrifice, and fear. Through familiar storylines from myths and folktales, it speaks to the horrors of present-day Ukraine. Whether depicting mythical creatures, goddesses, martyrs, known and unknown heroines, Julia carefully selects the stories she inhabits. In this show, Beliaeva does what she does best—she tells uncomfortable truths in the most comfortable way. The subtlety of her porcelain sculptures is remarkably alluring; these objects don’t force blunt truths upon you. Instead, they lure you into them, making you want to listen to something you might not want to hear.

When the Sea Is Occupied

Beliaeva’s father was a sailor. When she was a child, he would often draw mermaids for her after long journeys at sea. Were they evil, or were they good? What is certain is that they had the looks. Time passed, but Julia’s fascination with mermaids remained. No longer a child, she is drawn not only to their bewitching appearance but also to their dual nature, the savage, animalistic danger that persists in the ambiguity of their intentions. From sirens in mythology to water spirits in folktales and mermaids in fairy tales, the hybrid bodies of these wonderful creatures reflected the inherent duality in their souls, allowing for a wide spectrum of interpretations. Older stories emphasize their danger, while later retellings recast them as tragic, self-sacrificing figures. Beliaeva explores this evolution through three distinct works, simultaneously questioning these enduring tropes by placing supernatural beings in a modern-day reality.

Julia Beliaeva, SIREN, 2024

In ancient times, sirens were a sign of death. Their only purpose was to bring destruction. And yet, how tempting, how irresistible it was for every hero in the myth to listen, even for a moment, to a siren’s song. Desire has a way of eclipsing danger. Time and again, the hero, fully aware of the risk, chooses to come closer. Odysseus, despite Circe’s warning, cannot resist the gamble. He orders his men to tie him up, ensuring he can listen without being lost. He flirts with death, indulging his curiosity. But what about the sirens? Do they have freedom, or perhaps a reason of their own? The ancient storyteller preferred them as mere instruments of temptation without voice beyond their song, without will beyond their deeds. They were never meant to have a story. But what if they did?

Julia imagines a common Ancient Greek sculpture of a siren, but with the tender face of a real girl. The body of a bird with clawed feet no longer has human hands to play her instrument. Let’s say the siren was a girl in her early twenties. She had a boyfriend of the same age. Then he was sent to war, towards a fate as cruel as never coming back. He gave his life for the vanity and greed of neighbors. So now, perhaps, our siren has her reasons to be mad? She’s driven by the sadness of loss and the anger of betrayal, not by her loved one, but by fate itself. Standing on the shore, what is left for her? To seek justice with her now deadly voice, or to give it up and plunge herself into the sea, which is no longer free?

Installation view by Roman März © courtesy of the artist and KÖNIG GALERIE

Unchronologically, but please bear with it for a bit, we’re moving toward another piece in Julia’s oeuvre that shares the same title but explores a different trope. When working with other people, and let’s admit that it happens more and more in her practice today, Beliaeva rather unconsciously places the personality of her model on a pedestal first. She then carefully weaves stories, meanings, and portrayals around them, yet a delicate core of pale light always pulses within her sculptures. Hidden, invisible, or unseen, this soulfire provides the trembling rhythm.

Siren is a rare case where the name of the person portrayed always follows the work’s description. Yana Stepanenko, a Ukrainian girl, lost both her legs at the age of twelve in a Russian shelling. For Beliaeva, she is a modern embodiment of Andersen’s Little Mermaid, but this ain’t no fairy tale. Her little siren went through horrifying and cruel challenges, just like the heroine we know from the book. Yet, unlike Andersen’s mermaid, whose greatest transformation was one of her own choosing, Yana’s was forced upon her. In the end, the Little Mermaid, having become an air spirit with the hope of gaining an immortal soul, would never return to the sea. But what about Yana? Would she wish to return to the way things were before?

In this piece, Julia works with a transition of the siren (and the mermaid) to the tragic character who shows no anger, but rather humbly takes the beatings from her fate. Beliaeva’s sculpture silently continues to follow the map of air raid attacks on her phone. They seem endless, and every blast hurts like that first one. This act makes her porcelain skin resilient. One day, she’ll be ready to go back to sea.

Julia Beliaeva, REVENGE OF THE MERMAIDS FROM UKRAINIAN PORT CITIES, 2025

Between ancient times and the 19th century, water spirits (sort of a mix of sirens and mermaids) largely inhabited folktales. Their depiction varied across regions, yet certain motifs remained consistent across cultures.

In Slavic folklore, particularly in Ukrainian tales, rusalki were the spirits of drowned women who haunted lakes or rivers and tickled men to death. These mermaids were often linked to violent or unjust deaths, such as being drowned against their will, especially after becoming pregnant with an unwanted child, or taking their own lives after betrayal or abuse by a loved one. In many stories, the transformation into an undead mermaid was a form of punishment. Yet in others, it also offered a chance to avenge their death.

Installation view by Roman März © courtesy of the artist and KÖNIG GALERIE

Imagine a riverside or a lake at night. There is an old tree, usually a willow, and a group of young girls resting beneath its silvered crown. The whiteness of their sleeping gowns is softly lit by the moonlight; you can almost smell the gentle fragrance of the flower wreaths in their hair. This is the image of the mermaids deeply engraved in the Ukrainian mind. Sadness, loss, tragedy, and injustice lie at the very core of how we perceive the mermaid of old tales. And then comes the fear—fear in the face of anger and regret. Because it is the same long hair, once wreathed with the flowers of an innocent girl, that now, down on the riverbed, entangles and holds the feet of a man gasping for his last breath. The mermaid in Ukrainian folklore embodies an unconscious fear of the consequences of wrongdoing. She is the monster born from injustice, driven by grief and the anger of the abused.

Portrait of Julia Beliaeva by Ally Fane and Tony Kenguru © courtesy of the artist

A predominant part of Julia Beliaeva’s oeuvre is built around collective memory and unresolved trauma. The themes in her work span generations, responding to both past events and, tragically, to those still unfolding. Revenge of the Mermaids from Ukrainian Port Cities brings mermaids from old Ukrainian folktales to protect the land from evil today. As if summoning all the women who suffered injustice in the past, and those who have died at the hands of today’s aggressor, Beliaeva seeks to avenge centuries of oppression, offering a supernatural response to trauma. The basic material of Beliaeva’s mermaids is sadness and anger accumulated through generations. This is why her mermaid is ruthless, she feels no pity for invaders. She is an uncontrollable, destructive force of nature, ready to fight to the death to liberate her sea. In a psychological sense, these mermaids offer a form of externalization: imagined protectors through whom suppressed grief and rage can finally find expression. Perhaps Julia, or any other woman or girl, might find solace in this connection to a mystical force of nature, in something that withstands the passage of time and resists the abusers who seldom change. This tribe of mermaids becomes a message of reckoning: an eloquent reminder that no misdeed is forgotten, and that where there is no justice, there can be no peace.

Between Goddesses and Monsters

Let’s talk about rage. In early mythologies, the emotional autonomy of a goddess (whether expressed as rage, grief, joy, or lust) was not a source of disapproval or embarrassment; it served the cosmic balance. From Mesopotamian Inanna and Hindu Kali to Freyja in Norse mythology, female deities often embodied the universal duality of creation and destruction, representing love, fertility, and sex, but also war and death. In that worldview, the feminine was not confined to passive or submissive roles, instead, she held the greatest power to encircle life and death.

As you may already know, Julia Beliaeva often turns to the raw emotion of a character, building her connections through it. She is particularly drawn to those who confront danger with unfiltered emotion, whose intensity reflects her own emotional core. In her self-portraits, Beliaeva frequently seeks to liberate the parts of herself constrained by social norms, morality, or personal limits. Judith is a perfect examples of her own rage transformed into grace.

Some say that the fiercest kind of fury can be triggered by only three things: a deep insult, helplessness in the face of injustice, and the threat to the lives of our loved ones. Every single day, the newsfeed about Russian aggression toward Ukraine enrages Julia with all three. Every new attack targeting civilians, every mutilated body beneath the rubble of a home, every dead child in the middle of a ruined playground fills us with helplessness and hopelessness, poisoning our blood with the darkest rage. Julia, being a mother herself, responds to these tragic reports with raw emotion.

Julia Beliaeva, JUDITH, 2023

There is a certain irony in the fact that the story of Judith, a woman who used her looks and sexual appeal to lure a foreign general and slay him, was so enthusiastically received by religious narratives. It’s as if the same old naughty boy’s fantasy, this time, to some extent, is allowed by the Church. Famous male portrayals of Judith often emphasize her seductiveness and, at times, a kind of charming hesitance in her act. In contrast, depictions by female artists focus more on determination and resistance. The most common comparison is between Caravaggio’s Judith and Artemisia Gentileschi’s version. This juxtaposition vividly reveals the difference between painting from fantasy and painting from lived experience. In 1611, Artemisia was raped by a fellow artist Agostino Tassi. Thus, in this case, we’re not talking about the experience of beheading someone, but rather the experience of being a woman and confronting a dominating, physically stronger man, willful to get what he wants. We can assume it’s this personal experience that becomes an emotional force, flowing through Artemisia’s painting and making the tension feel unmistakably real. In Judith Beheading Holofernes, Artemisia lent her own features to Judith and those of Tassi to Holofernes, transforming personal trauma into an act of symbolic justice.

If we strip this story to its bare essence, it portrays the struggle of the oppressed against tyranny. In this unequal fight, triumph favors the one guided by righteous intent. Though, sadly, that is rarely the case in real life. Judith, whether using her seductive looks or relying on other means, whether driven by righteous anger or strategic reason, remains focused on the steady goal: saving her people from the assault of invasion. Julia Beliaeva can strongly relate to the Judith of Bethulia; she too longs for her people to reclaim their freedom.

When using her own image as raw material, Beliaeva tends to work with bold recklessness. She’s not afraid to go overboard, to offend, or to misrepresent, on the contrary, she truly enjoys transformations charged with risk and freedom. Julia freely sexualizes her own image, not to please, but to provoke, playfully confronting familiar portrayals. Sometimes, a male viewer is so hypnotized by the trick that he barely notices the political message beneath it. Julia’s Judith embodies the long-awaited triumph of the oppressed. Unlike earlier depictions, she doesn’t present the oppressor’s head on a silver platter, nor does she treat it as a prize. Instead, she mocks the tyrant and reminds us that fear alone should never grant power to a corrupted man.

Sacrifices

One’s own true sacrifices are rarely spoken about. They live in the margins, and sometimes greater than their outward cost suggests, those offerings ask for no witness. But when we do witness someone’s sacrifice, we can rarely avoid the pain beneath it. Not all of Beliaeva’s sculptures pierce with extreme emotion; some merely whisper or silently speak without a single word.

Julia Beliaeva, SACRIFICE, 2024

Sexual violence, already a threat in everyday life, becomes amplified and terrifyingly real in zones of armed conflict. In war, traits traditionally associated with femininity often mark bodies for sadistic, sexualized death. It is beyond disturbing that humanity even has a term like Lustmord, a distinctly human invention, for no other creature but man ritualizes the act of sexualized killing. One of the informal yet widely practiced survival tactics in occupied territories is the erasure of one’s own attractiveness: abandoning hygiene, layering dirty clothes, covering the body in filth as a form of camouflage. These are relatively non-harmful strategies. But there are others, more permanent, those that require sacrificing parts of oneself just to avoid being noticed, to avoid being desired... Still, would you be willing to face an artwork that shows this without restraint?

In Sacrifice, Julia explores the forced modification of the self as a means of survival. It is a self-portrait, perhaps because she couldn’t allow herself to speak of it through a body that wasn’t her own. She leans toward simple symbolism, avoiding exaggeration. No explicit graphics, no raised voices. Beliaeva treats this subject with quiet delicacy and gentle restraint.

Even outside the warzone context, the piece speaks to the violence hidden in the dark corners of social norms. At its core, any demand to sacrifice a part of oneself, whether external or internal, reveals the brutality of the surrounding environment. And this isn’t only beautification or de-beautification, but any transformation forced upon a person against their will (be it gender assignment surgery, female genital mutilation, or unwanted pregnancy, each an assault under the guise of tradition or a conditional norm). It’s not the body that is sacred, but the indisputable right of its owner to decide what, if anything, should be done with it. Let’s not pretend that certain sacrifices are made willingly. No one truly wishes to give up a part of themselves.

Julia Beliaeva, SAINT SEBASTIAN, 2024

Saint Sebastian is the only male figure in the exhibition. Once again, Beliaeva relies on symbolism and the familiarity of the character, rejecting even the slightest possibility of the story being misinterpreted.

Sebastian is a Christian martyr who paid with his life for confronting the Roman emperor and remaining true to his faith. We all remember the almost dreamy, detached gaze of the young man, his body pierced with arrows. Tied to a tree trunk, receiving arrow after arrow, he endured in silence until losing consciousness. And yet, this moment, clearly engraved in our collective memory as Sebastian’s end, was only half the story. His true defiance came after surviving that execution. The wounded man was rescued and nursed back to health by Irene of Rome. In time, instead of hiding, he returned to face the emperor once again, openly denouncing his cruelty. It was this second act of fearless confrontation that led to his final martyrdom: Sebastian was beaten to death with wooden clubs.

Saint Sebastian’s story endures as a symbol of resilience, and the courage to speak out against greater power. In her version, Julia draws the parallel with the present day effortlessly, she simply transforms the arrows into rockets, and the story, without losing its core symbolism, starts to breathe new air again. What’s interesting is that in her Saint Sebastian, Beliaeva employs a very particular visual language deeply rooted in the legacy of classical sculpture. The contorted pose and distant gaze full of dignity, confidence, and grace, evoke not only Sebastian but also The Dying Slave and The Rebellious Slave—at the very least. Glazed in porcelain, this figure invites you to hear a never-ending story of cruelty, and it’s hard to ignore it. Even the silver pierced into his body as deadly rockets reflects the light back into the viewer with finesse.

Julia Beliaeva, THE VIVID DREAM IN THE DARK, 2025

When you approach The Vivid Dream in the Dark it immediately speaks the language of classics. A semi-naked woman lounges in apparent comfort. The sheets, tastefully draped over select areas of her relaxed body, evoke the warmth of some imagined southern clime. Perhaps the windows are open, the air is soft, most likely, it is a lovely midsummer night. There’s even a hint of eroticism, naturally, since she’s almost naked. It recalls all the sleeping Venuses, those idealized, decorative bodies meant to beautify and, let’s be honest, to entertain. Take The Sleeping Hermaphrodite for example, one of the most famous marble sleepers, intended to "surprise" the viewer with a little twist once they circle around. What we often praise as ancient open-mindedness may well have been just a long-running joke. Still, these sculpted bodies of exceptional beauty are what we grow up seeing in museums, in textbooks, and online. They shape our understanding of beauty, always the same smooth marble, the same polished perfection. This is the visual language we’ve all been taught. And it’s the one Julia Beliaeva deliberately speaks in, though she has other things to say.

The Vivid Dream in the Dark is about anxiety and the fear of being killed while sleeping. Despite the frequent attacks on residential buildings, Julia remains in Kyiv, and she knows this frightening, paralyzing angst firsthand. When you live through war, every night before sleep it’s hard to resist the persistent thought: What if this time, I’ll be that body in the rubble on the morning news? Danger seeps in through the open windows, carried on the suffocating warmth. What do you dream about when the siren is woven into the silence of the night? Julia vividly remembers one dream. She found herself in a room full of canaries: so bright, so full of life. That morning she woke with an unusual sense of peace, even a lightness. Only later did she recall that canaries were once the first to die in coal mines, signaling danger to those still unaware.

Julia Beliaeva, SCREAM, 2024

As a thematic continuation of The Vivid Dream, Beliaeva creates her own version of The Scream. The reference to Munch’s iconic painting is obvious, and her piece can certainly be read as an expression of existential dread as well. However, in the space between these works, Beliaeva shifts the focus, her Scream is rooted not in an abstract inner terror, but in a nightmare unfolding in real life. Continuing her reflection on the female experience of war, she captures the fear that lingers in the most intimate corners of daily life. As in The Vivid Dream, this work touches on the pervasive anxiety around sleep, or more precisely, the fear of not waking up after another missile strike at night. Julia discovered that many women have developed the habit of sleeping clothed, abandoning the comfort of sleeping naked, simply because they fear their bodies might be found exposed in the aftermath. That quiet, personal choice screams about the psychological toll of war and the way violence seeps into even the most private rituals.

She Who Tells the Story

Historically, men were usually the ones who recorded oral tales passed down through generations. In the case of myths, they were also typically the tellers. Fairy tales, however, followed a slightly different path. Told primarily to children, they frequently fell into the domain of women who shaped the narratives with gentle adaptations. As a result, we begin to see familiar plotlines shift, with female heroines stepping more confidently into the spotlight. Non-human characters, too, evolve in these stories, often showing a depth of empathy greater than that of their human counterparts. And when protagonists find themselves trapped, with no clear path forward, it is not a distant god who saves them, but a helper with a personal connection (whether a godmother, a fairy, or a magical animal) who gently steers them toward the right way.

Julia Beliaeva shifts our attention to these figures usually regarded as side characters. As a storyteller, she sometimes inverts the plot, making nature and non-human beings the main characters, suggesting that perhaps it is us, humans, who should focus on righting our wrongs.

Julia Beliaeva, HIDE ME FROM THIS REALITY, 2025

Hide Me from This Reality introduces Beliaeva’s broader exploration of women as protectors. They shield their listeners from harsh realities, either through direct action or by creating safe spaces, like stories. Here, the storyteller becomes a guardian of both narrative and innocence, draping her coat over the young. In the darkest moments, such figures, just like the fairies in old tales, are vital. They offer moral support, guidance, and comfort, helping shape the worldview of future heroes and heroines.

The even arrangement of the figures in this piece enhances a sense of stability and balance. The three figures together form a visual triangle, evoking the comforting shape of a shelter, like the makeshift fortresses we built as children with chairs and blankets, seeking refuge from the outside world. In this structure, the figures are united, forming a protective space—one so needed in moments of vulnerability.

Julia Beliaeva, CAPITOLINE WOLF (COLOR), 2021

Do you remember the story of Romulus and Remus? Twin brothers, abandoned by the river, nursed by a she-wolf, then adopted by a shepherd and sent off to begin their human deeds. What always struck Julia was not the empire that followed, but the image itself, a tender allegory: a wild, ruthless predator nurturing fragile infants. In her reading, it isn’t just two children being cared for, it’s all of humanity, cradled by the wild. Yet, spoiled by nature’s generosity, we’ve come to take it for granted. Or worse, we’ve pushed too far. So now it feels like the moment to give something back has already passed.

In Capitoline Wolf Beliaeva inverts the familiar storyline, imagining a woman of the future whose body has evolved in response to the needs of a broken world. She nurses two small wolves, not human infants this time, but symbols of the wild that humanity has long feared and driven to extinction. This maternal gesture flips the ancient myth: the nurturer is now human, the vulnerable ones, wolves. Perhaps we can call them Remus and Romulus. Unlike the children, so often depicted in a frenzy of consumption, at least one of the pups in Beliaeva’s work pauses to study the face of its saviour. At least, this new beginning gives us some hope and a chance to repent.

Julia Beliaeva, MOTHER OF DEERS, 2024

The Capitoline Wolf becomes a kind of internal model for Julia’s ecological works. Beliaeva weaves this motif into Mother of Deers where she addresses the theme of ecocide during war. And it is frightening to realize just how many contemporary ecological tragedies could fit into this model. In reimagining ancient symbols through the lens of current destruction, Beliaeva urges us to rethink not only who we choose to protect, but how we understand care itself.

When we talk about war in the news, the focus is usually on human lives, while nature and non-human beings are often overlooked. Yet in the face of existential crisis, the bond between humans and nature becomes unmistakably strong. Somehow, confronted with our own mortality, we return to nature, finally beginning to value what was once taken for granted.

Installation view by Roman März © courtesy of the artist and KÖNIG GALERIE

In Mother of Deers, Beliaeva turns our attention to non-human victims, to every living creature that has suffered deliberate violence against life itself. The breach of the Kakhovka Dam, rare animals hunted in the occupied territories of nature reserves, reports of zoo animals starving to death behind locked gates, the destruction of Crimea’s natural environment under military development…The list is grim, unspeakably real, and as endless as human ignorance. And tragically, even if there were someone like a Mother of Deers, some almighty goddess of rescue, it would still feel futile to treat the symptoms while the destruction is being carried out with deliberate intent.

PeaceDA

Julia Beliaeva often sources her iconography from personal memory. Her motifs may originate in real life and reappear in her sculptures, transformed. Born as deeply individual, they become bearers of broader meaning in Beliaeva’s hands. Sometimes, these symbols must turn against their initial semantics to reflect present realities, to break free from illusion and false hopes.

It’s not surprising that an artist whose practice revolves around sculpture and figurines would carry memories of porcelain objects from childhood. In fact, often without fully realizing it, we start to collect a system of images that shapes our vision at a surprisingly early age. A dove figurine from her grandmother’s shelf is something Julia kept in mind for quite a while. It was made in a Ukrainian porcelain factory, part of a heritage Beliaeva seeks not only to preserve but also to reflect upon. Her grandfather also kept a dovecote, so the white dove carries multiple meanings for her. In 2025, Julia found a reason to breathe new life into this image. She scanned her grandmother’s original figurine, enlarged it, and carefully recreated a life-sized version in porcelain. Not just one, but over fifty white doves, each radiating romanticism and harmony. They appear as a moment of stillness, a fragile echo of peace and domestic life. Or so one might be tempted to believe.

Beliaeva titled this series PeaceDA, and she prefers to present the birds in flocks, so their presence becomes almost intimidating. In doing so, she sketches a new image of peace: one that is ostensible, not grounded in action - just a beautiful surface with no real substance. She speaks of a peace that comes without commitment, a peace without justice, a peace that serves as nothing more than a cover for the next, well-prepared wave of violence.

Beliaeva’s birds increasingly take on a Hitchcockian tone. They represent menace rather than peace. And at this point, we circle back to the terracotta statuettes of sirens found in ancient sanctuaries (originally used as funerary offerings). It’s not hard to draw a parallel between those slyly smiling half-birds and Beliaeva’s peace doves. Ironically, the attribution "messenger of danger" seems more fitting for the latter in today’s world. After all, what kind of peace requires you to sleep in a bunker? What purpose do peace talks serve if they only precede another missile strike? It seems like the white birds of peace slowly darkened our sky…A flock of pigeons is occupying a corner of the gallery. Julia Beliaeva produced the porcelain birds at Workshop 1400, run by Kunsthall Grenland during her residency in Porsgrunn, Norway.