Artem Kupriianenko is a multidisciplinary artist whose practice explores the intersection of technology, perception, and contemporary visual culture. Trained in classical art and later working extensively with digital media, he has developed a distinctive visual language shaped by painting, drawing, and advanced CGI. Alongside his artistic career, he founded several international visual technology studios, experiences that continue to inform his research into image, space, and light. His work has been presented across both creative and technological platforms and featured in international publications including Vogue, Elle, ArchDaily, and Dezeen.
The exhibition “Where There Is No Signal” emerged from a deliberate pause from operational work, allowing the artist to focus on reflection and process. The project investigates states of silence—physical and internal—where the absence of digital noise reveals form, presence, and contemplation.
What makes photography — and not another medium — the right way for you to speak about reality, presence, and silence?
Photography is the most honest way for me to stay close to reality without explaining it. I’m not trying to “create” a world—I’m trying to listen to it. The camera records not so much an event as the pause between events: breath, cold, the density of air, the moment when you stop speaking and start being present. In other mediums I drift too quickly into construction. Photography keeps me with the fact—and still leaves room for silence.
Your images feel detached from time and place. When you are shooting, do you consciously try to remove these markers, or does this timelessness appear naturally in the process?
I do consciously remove the signs of “here and now,” but not for the sake of sterility. It’s more about not distracting the viewer with coordinates. When the markers of an era disappear, what remains is fundamental: light, skin, a horizon line, the texture of stone, the tension of a body. It’s not an attempt to make something “eternally beautiful,” but to leave the frame in a state where it could happen at any point in time—like a dream that isn’t tied to a date.
Nature and the human body appear as equal elements in your work. What draws you to this connection, and what do you discover in it again and again?
It matters to me to return the body to its natural place—not as an object of the gaze, but as an extension of the landscape. Skin and moss, a fold of fabric and a fold of terrain, breath and wind—it’s one field. In that connection I keep rediscovering something simple: the human isn’t above nature and isn’t separate from it. We’re a particular case of it. And in that there is both calm and responsibility.
The exhibition speaks about the absence of signal. What does “no signal” mean to you personally — as an artist and as a human being living in a hyper-connected world?
"No signal” isn’t about the absence of internet. It’s about the absence of noise between me and the world. A state where you’re not broadcasting yourself outward and not absorbing an endless stream inward. In those moments you can hear what is usually drowned out: fear, tenderness, real desire, fatigue, boundaries. As an artist, I need it because precision is born from silence. As a person, because that’s where my sense of scale and real time returns.
Your analog photographs are later transformed through digital processes. What do you find most interesting in this moment of transition, when an image shifts from film into code?
It’s the most delicate moment—when material memory becomes numerical. Film carries chance, grain, chemistry, physical resistance. In digital there’s the possibility to rewrite reality—not to “improve” it, but to rethink it. I’m not interested in retouching as cosmetics, but in translation: how meaning shifts when an image moves from light into matter, and then into an algorithm. In that passage I see a dialogue between eras—and a way to hold something fragile: to make silence visible in a language that usually serves speed.
