Moscow’s Cultural Life Persists in the Shadows of an Unspeakable War

Art exhibitions now hide in cramped apartments and dusty studios accessible only to “friends-only” lists, or in the sleek offices of wealthy collectors who can no longer publicly showcase artists effectively blacklisted by the Kremlin.

Small theater troupes stage productions that, while not overtly critical of the government, refuse to hew to the official narrative. Philosophy and political discussion circles convene in kitchens and living rooms, evoking stark parallels with the Soviet era.

At such gatherings across Moscow, a single topic looms over every conversation yet is almost never voiced aloud: the war in Ukraine.

“There are these unwritten, intuitive rules of behavior: don’t discuss it out loud,” said Andrei V. Kolesnikov, a Russian political analyst who remains in Moscow. “Better yet, don’t discuss it at all,” he added. “What’s there to talk about? You can’t change anything anyway.”

The recent wave of Ukrainian drone strikes on Moscow aims principally to bring the war home to Russians. Fissures are appearing in the city’s placid facade — long queues at gas stations this summer after Ukraine targeted oil refineries, a jarring sight in a metropolis that in many ways outstrips its European peers with spotless, manicured parks, a superb transportation network, and ubiquitous digital services.

The strikes have intensified a pervasive anxiety, especially among artists, writers, academics, and other cultural figures — a tension present since the war’s outset: Is the capital’s comfortable lifestyle a mirage that could vanish at any moment?

Navigating this tension, Muscovites have developed a lexicon of euphemisms. Some refer to the conflict simply as “it”; economists speak of “elevated budgetary expenditures”; others default to “because of the situation” when addressing any consequence of the fighting.

Even as pristine subway cars fill with passengers absorbed in their phones, riders must cycle through VPNs to reach the wider internet, the Kremlin having blocked many international apps — a connection that grows especially tenuous during rush hour.

Parents scramble to find schools offering a world-class education free of propaganda. At one parent meeting, a principal proudly recounted how students exercised democratic rights by drafting a formal petition — 120 signatures strong — demanding hot dogs on the cafeteria menu. The principal, speaking anonymously for fear of reprisal, confided that students can dodge mandatory propaganda sessions by simply arriving late.

Nina L. Khrushcheva, a professor of international affairs who splits her time between Moscow and New York, argued that Russia has again revealed its dual nature, perfectly embodied by its coat of arms: the double-headed eagle.

“One head looks toward Europe, yearning for a flourishing, 21st-century civil administration, while the other seeks to drag the country back to the Middle Ages and bow to Genghis Khan,” she said in an interview.

Since Russia’s 2022 invasion of Ukraine, hundreds of thousands of Russians have fled, including prominent artists and entertainers who denounced the war. Others stayed, remained silent, and preserved their careers — sometimes drawing criticism from those who left.

The most talked-about film in Moscow of late is “Pictures of Friendly Relations,” a textured drama following millennial theater and film professionals throwing a farewell party for their brightest star, who is emigrating. The film screened in dozens of cinemas this spring and streams on a major Russian platform.

The film never explicitly states why he is leaving his closest friends and ex-girlfriend. Shot largely in black-and-white, with only two vivid color flashbacks, the cinematography marks a “before and after” that resonates painfully with many Russians.

Though the war in Ukraine is never mentioned, it casts a shadow over every scene. A theater director scrambles to excise seemingly innocuous references to freedom and prison from a script to evade censors. Another character moonlights in delivery work simply to survive. The prevailing mood is one of profound displacement, where friendship offers the only temporary refuge.

As one critic observed, the film “managed to capture an era in which you cannot speak of the ‘now,’ but you can show the present — without unnecessary words, so to speak.”

People have internalized the rules of what is tolerated — chief among them, never address the war. To remain in Russia and pursue creative work, one must know where the red lines lie and never cross them. A pervasive fear persists of misstepping, or of the lines shifting without warning.

Several individuals interviewed for this article refused to be quoted in any form. One asked that the entire recording be deleted and broke down in tears from the sheer tension. Another questioned the very value of reporting that might endanger those who speak.

Yet independent gatherings continue in the heart of the city, vulnerable to anyone wishing to disrupt them.

In late May, artists from the Boloto collective installed works — among them a carousel of scythes and a full-sized catamaran — on the roof of the hulking, late-Soviet Moscow Youth Palace. Part of the self-styled Bolotnoye, or “Swampy,” Biennale, the venue was disclosed only to invited guests, and journalists were asked not to report on it until the three-day exhibition closed.

Since its founding in 2020, the exhibition has sought to counter both commercial galleries and the official culture of state-run institutions, said curators Olga Tumanova, 40, and Vasilisa Lebedeva, 42.

“Certain direct statements are simply impossible to make in our context,” Ms. Tumanova said.

Ms. Lebedeva added: “Consequently, many artists here have turned to metaphor, symbolism, and indirection. Paradoxically, that often lends the work greater openness and complexity.”

This spring, in the subterranean parking garage of a vast Moscow shopping mall, a 90-minute performance featured Yevgeny Tsyganov, a leading Russian actor, sifting through dusty sets from a 2020 production of Thornton Wilder’s “Our Town.” The production was shuttered abruptly in 2022 after its celebrated director, Dmitry A. Krymov, denounced Moscow’s invasion of Ukraine and remained in New York.

In the recent performance, Mr. Tsyganov reminisced not only about the lost production but also about Mr. Krymov’s earlier work in Moscow and the country’s life before the war.

Among the 300 spectators sat establishment figures including Elvira Nabiullina, head of the Central Bank, and Konstantin Ernst, who runs the influential state broadcaster Channel One. In a perfect illustration of Moscow’s split reality, Mr. Ernst — the architect of state television propaganda — called the profoundly nostalgic play one of the best things he had seen in years.

Some artists who fled have returned, unable to settle in foreign countries that often proved unwelcoming. For those who stayed or came back, navigating the city means retreating into what locals call “capsules of calm” or “islands of peace.”

These spaces — hidden exhibitions, underground bookstores, alternative theaters — transport people to another place or time, offering temporary tranquility.

Participants harbor no illusions about altering the state’s course. In Mr. Kolesnikov’s view, this vibrant underground life echoes the “silent resistance” of the Soviet era. Today, gathering to watch a play or discuss a book is the only way civil society can function.

“It is a way of survival,” he said.

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