Summary of this article
Since 2022, the group has released anti-war music, staged a 2024 Munich performance targeting a portrait of Vladimir Putin, and occupied the Manhattan offices of tech company Ubiquiti, accusing it of supplying Wi-Fi equipment used by Russian forces.
When governments use cultural platforms like the Biennale to burnish their image while committing aggression abroad and crushing dissent at home, remaining silent amounts to complicity.
Pussy Riot chooses confrontation, using art not as decoration but as a weapon of truth and resistance.
“It is a shame that neo-fascists across Europe hold the highest positions of power and openly support Vladimir Putin.”
These sharp words from Nadya Tolokonnikova, founding member of Pussy Riot, cut straight through the elegant facade of the international art world in March 2026. As the Venice Biennale prepares to welcome Russia’s official pavilion back for the 61st edition in May, Tolokonnikova and her collective refuse to allow business as usual. Their message is unflinching: when a regime wages war, culture cannot pretend to be innocent.
In a fierce statement, Pussy Riot condemned the decision as “a serious blow to Europe’s security.” They argued that since Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine in February 2022, the Kremlin has deliberately turned cultural “soft power” into a strategic weapon.
“Since the start of the full-scale invasion of Ukraine, cultural soft power has become part of Russia’s military doctrine and an instrument of hybrid warfare,” the statement declares. “The Kremlin has long used culture as a continuation of foreign policy and as a way to legitimise the regime abroad. We should not step on the same rake twice. We remember that in 1934, for example, Hitler and Mussolini enjoyed art together at the Biennale. In 1942 the Biennale was dedicated to military art, while the exhibition catalogue contained not a single mention of World War II. It is nothing new that totalitarian regimes use art to normalise their power.”
The collective ends with a defiant promise: “Expect Resistance. We will drown out the noise you export, death, tragedy and lies.”
Tolokonnikova followed with an open letter to Biennale President Pietrangelo Buttafuoco, requesting access for Pussy Riot to the grounds on May 6, 7, and 8. She announced plans for a live protest performance that blends art and activism, expressing unconditional support for Ukraine, victims of Russian war crimes, Russian political prisoners, and Ukrainian prisoners of war. Their campaign has already generated significant momentum , a petition signed by over 6,000 people, threats from the European Commission to review funding, and criticism from 22 EU culture ministers.
This confrontation is the latest chapter in Pussy Riot’s sustained fight against Russia’s war in Ukraine. Since 2022, the group has released anti-war music, staged provocative actions such as a 2024 Munich performance targeting a portrait of Vladimir Putin, and occupied the Manhattan offices of tech company Ubiquiti in March 2026, accusing it of supplying Wi-Fi equipment used by Russian forces. They have consistently demanded that “Ukraine must win” and that Putin face justice at The Hague.
At the core of everything Pussy Riot does lies a powerful conviction: art is inherently political. The collective has never accepted the comfortable illusion that creativity floats above power, ideology, or conflict. For them, every song, every performance, every balaclava-clad action is a deliberate political intervention. Art can expose injustice, mobilise resistance, humanise victims, and challenge authority, or it can be co-opted to sanitise crimes, project false normalcy, and legitimise oppressive regimes. When governments use grand cultural platforms like the Venice Biennale to burnish their image while committing aggression abroad and crushing dissent at home, remaining silent amounts to complicity. Pussy Riot chooses confrontation, using art not as decoration but as a weapon of truth and resistance.
This belief did not appear suddenly. Pussy Riot first burst onto the global stage in 2011 as a loose collective of young feminist activists in Moscow. They wore colourful balaclavas, delivered raw punk energy, and turned public spaces into stages for guerrilla protest. Their defining moment arrived on 21 February 2012 inside Moscow’s grand Cathedral of Christ the Saviour. In a brief, unauthorised performance known as the “Punk Prayer,” they sang “Mother of God, Drive Putin Away!”, a direct feminist challenge to the growing alliance between Vladimir Putin’s regime and the influential Russian Orthodox Church.
The performance lasted under three minutes, yet its consequences were enormous. Three members, Nadya Tolokonnikova, Maria Alyokhina, and Yekaterina Samutsevich, were arrested, charged with “hooliganism motivated by religious hatred,” and sentenced to two years in prison. The trial became an international cause célèbre. Figures from Madonna to Paul McCartney voiced support. Amnesty International labelled them prisoners of conscience. Images of the young women in handcuffs, still wearing their balaclavas, cemented Pussy Riot as a global symbol of defiance against authoritarianism.
Their time in harsh penal colonies only deepened their understanding of state violence. Upon release, the experience reinforced their commitment to using art as a tool for dismantling power structures. More than a conventional band, Pussy Riot functions as a radical feminist protest art collective. Their work targets patriarchy, homophobia, authoritarian control, and the dangerous merger of church and State in Putin’s Russia. They advocate for freedom of expression, LGBTQ+ rights, women’s bodily autonomy, and the fundamental right to dissent. Music, performance, and direct action serve as instruments to confront repression and imagine more just societies.
The price of this stance has grown steep. Most members now operate from exile. In December 2025, Russia officially designated Pussy Riot an “extremist organisation,” criminalising association with their work inside the country. In September 2025, five members received in-absentia sentences ranging from 8 to 13 years for anti-war activities. In April 2026, Tolokonnikova was added to Russia’s federal wanted list. Persecution has not weakened their resolve; it has only sharpened their voice and expanded their international reach.
Tolokonnikova continues pushing artistic boundaries with projects like her durational installation “Police State,” which recreates the oppressive conditions of the Siberian prison where she served time. She has spoken candidly about prioritising powerful, truthful art over personal safety. This fearless approach embodies the collective’s spirit: art must engage with reality, especially when reality involves war, repression, and injustice.
From the cold walls of a Russian penal colony to the glittering canals of Venice, Pussy Riot’s journey demonstrates how inseparable art and politics truly are. When regimes weaponise culture to project soft power while exporting death and lies, artists who refuse to cooperate become essential voices of resistance. They expose the gap between official narratives and lived suffering. They remind audiences that aesthetics can serve truth or propaganda, but never both simultaneously.
As the 61st Venice Biennale draws near, Pussy Riot’s planned intervention carries a message far larger than one pavilion. It challenges the entire art world to examine its own role in geopolitics. Prestige events like the Biennale celebrate creativity and dialogue, yet they cannot claim neutrality when participating nations commit war crimes. In such moments, protest itself becomes the most vital form of art.
Pussy Riot has spent over a decade proving this point. The balaclavas may come off, but their fight continues, loud, unapologetic, and rooted in the belief that art, when wielded with courage, can help drown out the noise of oppression and amplify the demand for justice. In a world where culture is increasingly used as a battlefield, their message resonates louder than ever: expect resistance.
