For three days in mid-July, Moscow-based artist Natalia Kondratova transformed an abandoned Soviet bomb shelter beneath her studio into a major solo exhibition. In a space where the architecture evokes both Cold War anxieties and present-day realities, ‘Labyrinth of Minotaur’ became an unsettling exploration of violence, fear and the fragility of human nature.

What could make a better birthday present for an artist than a solo exhibition? For the past five years, painter Natalia Kondratova (b. 1969) has celebrated her birthday by giving herself exactly that. The tradition began when she discovered that the basement housing her studio also concealed a vast bomb shelter.

Like many other similar sites across the Russian capital, it had long been abandoned until the city authorities decided to renovate it in 2021, a process that Kondratova observed with some curiosity. “They blocked the ventilation and removed all the toilet bowls, except one,” – she tells me. Absurdly, an information sheet giving the location of the key to the shelter hangs inside, in central hall, meaning that no one can find it unless they already have the key. Its 200 sqm space is a vast labyrinth of corridors and halls punctuated with metal bunk beds. These beds are a common feature in Soviet and Russian institutions, ranging from prisons to Young Pioneer camps. The walls are painted white and there are no windows. In short, it is an atmospheric exhibition venue, albeit somewhat claustrophobic.

Kondratova started to stage her own short-term exhibitions there, unbeknown to the city authorities. “I just do it because I want to and this space is available,” she told me. “My birthday is at the end of June, and this is a present I give myself every year. Instead of inviting friends over for drinks and good conversation, I put on a show.”

In April 2022, Kondratova was joined by friend and fellow artist, Yulia Reznikova (born 1966) when inspired by the tragic events, the pair put on an exhibition called ‘Instead of Spring’.

As always, the artist began installing the exhibition without a fixed curatorial concept, relying instead on intuition. Only after the installation was complete did she realise that the paintings at the beginning and end of the exhibition shared the same central motif: a reclining Minotaur. She titled these works ‘Sleeping Minotaur’ and ‘Dream of the Minotaur’. From that moment, the exhibition's underlying narrative emerged organically, bringing together both recent and earlier works. The labyrinth had always been there; now the monster had appeared as well.

The illusion was heightened by flickering candles placed on the floor of the entrance hall and by the stuffy, oxygen-deprived atmosphere caused by a mistake made by inept municipal workers. Visitors inadvertently found themselves cast as the mythical creature's victims. On a more practical level, they also discovered a place of refuge during the increasingly frequent drone attacks on central Russia. Although these drones are typically intercepted in the suburbs and rarely reach Moscow itself, the exhibition space unexpectedly acquired the character of a shelter as well as an artwork.

Kondratova graduated from the Moscow Institute of Polygraphy and for many years worked as a book illustrator. However, in recent years she has become less active in this field, focusing instead on teaching graphic design at the British Higher School of Design and developing her own artistic practice. ‘Labyrinth of Minotaur’ brought together her works from the last five years, created using various techniques. Some of these works had previously been exhibited at various art institutions in Moscow. There were large semi-abstract paintings on fibreboard and canvas, as well as many smaller prints and etchings. The works were hung on the walls of halls and corridors, on metal gratings and bunk beds, and even laid flat on beds. According to the artist, the space itself suggested several exhibition ideas: a narrow, vertical landscape fit perfectly into a wall niche. The monsters from the ‘Cannibals’ series of prints became the natural occupants of the dormitory. The shelter itself became a co-author. “On one wall, I found a label from last year that I had forgotten to remove. It said ‘Ways of Mimicry’. Next to it, mould in the shape of a screaming man appeared on the wall,” Kondratova recalls.

Kondratova is deeply versed in art history, and her work reveals echoes of artists ranging from El Greco (1541–1614) and Chaim Soutine (1893–1943) to the sombre imagery of the Baroque and Francisco Goya’s (1746–1828) anti-war prints. If her artistic vision could be distilled into a single word, it would perhaps be dehumanisation. Her paintings feature severed horse heads mounted on poles, recalling William Golding’s ‘Lord of the Flies’, alongside distorted bodies, torn flesh, and monstrous figures that barely retain their humanity. Together, they evoke the profound spiritual horror of war: the triumph of darkness and the erosion of the human soul.

In 2022, Kondratova began a series entitled ‘Grey Notebooks of War’ - a diary composed of small prints. Only one was included in the exhibition, although visitors could leaf through the complete folder in the artist’s studio. Yet there is a striking paradox. Some of the images were created years before the outbreak of the full-scale war. “The oppressive feeling was already there years ago,” the artist reflects. Since 2022, her works have simply grown in scale, as though smaller canvases were no longer capable of conveying the magnitude of the tragedy. One of the paintings, composed of a dozen large fibreboard panels, occupies an entire exhibition hall.

A series of semi-abstract black-and-red sunsets, painted from life, had been created mostly before 2022. Kondratova displayed them in the first room of the shelter, placing candles and lighters on the floor and inviting visitors to light a candle if they wished. She titled the installation ‘11 Sunsets and One Cloud’.

According to the artist, something curious happened. “When visitors first encountered these works, they found them dark and unsettling. The room was small and warm because of the candles. Yet after wandering through the long, disorienting maze of halls and corridors, they would return, sit in an armchair, and gaze at the sunsets for a long time. The paintings now seemed peaceful, almost soothing.” A trick of perception? Perhaps—or perhaps not. No one emerges from the Minotaur’s labyrinth unchanged.