Interview
"Kvartirnik" Vs. Brighton Beach
We sit in a cozy space with large windows in Barcelona's Eixample district. A former scrapbooking shop has been transformed into "Kvartirnik" – a cultural center and an association for a new wave of Russian-speaking emigrants. Most of them are young people who left after February 24 and are only beginning to realize their creative potential in their new countries. In emigration, everything has to be rebuilt from scratch...
The founders, Anna and Lana, carry a heavy load beyond their projects and businesses – courses, fairs, children's events, exhibitions, and concerts. The cultural center has existed for two years. At the beginning of 2024, it won the Impulse Awards, but by the end of the year, it was on the verge of closure.
What helped the founders keep the project alive was the realization that, above all, "Kvartirnik" was necessary for themselves.
The founders, Anna and Lana, carry a heavy load beyond their projects and businesses – courses, fairs, children's events, exhibitions, and concerts. The cultural center has existed for two years. At the beginning of 2024, it won the Impulse Awards, but by the end of the year, it was on the verge of closure.
What helped the founders keep the project alive was the realization that, above all, "Kvartirnik" was necessary for themselves.
Why did you decide to create a cultural center in Barcelona? Was it for profit?
Lana: We didn’t have a business idea! Everything happened organically. If we go back two years, it felt like everyone from Russia was being "canceled," and tomorrow we would be next.
Aline and I were renting an apartment and called it “The Crying Apartment.” Anna would often visit, and we supported each other: sharing our anxieties, exchanging coping strategies for panic attacks, and discussing which antidepressants we were taking.
One day, Anna said: “Let’s record a podcast.” We called it a “One-Way Ticket”, and the response was huge—within a month, a thousand people knew about us.
Anna: The first Kvartirnik was in February. About 13-14 people gathered. We had a lecture on sexuality in art, drank wine, and philosophized.
Then, our circle expanded through friends and their friends. We started hosting events every two weeks, then every week. We found permanent lecturers to collaborate with and more people interested in our activities. Later, we started organizing weekend excursions...
Lana: We didn’t have a business idea! Everything happened organically. If we go back two years, it felt like everyone from Russia was being "canceled," and tomorrow we would be next.
Aline and I were renting an apartment and called it “The Crying Apartment.” Anna would often visit, and we supported each other: sharing our anxieties, exchanging coping strategies for panic attacks, and discussing which antidepressants we were taking.
One day, Anna said: “Let’s record a podcast.” We called it a “One-Way Ticket”, and the response was huge—within a month, a thousand people knew about us.
Anna: The first Kvartirnik was in February. About 13-14 people gathered. We had a lecture on sexuality in art, drank wine, and philosophized.
Then, our circle expanded through friends and their friends. We started hosting events every two weeks, then every week. We found permanent lecturers to collaborate with and more people interested in our activities. Later, we started organizing weekend excursions...
The podcast continues on YouTube, now under Kvartirnik's brand.
You outgrew your apartment… and decided to move to a new space?
Lana: Exactly. Having our own venue was both our success and our biggest burden. Now, our team consists of seven people, and our monthly expenses amount to €4,550. We are constantly looking for ways to cover these costs.
We tried different models. We wanted to run a café during the day and hold events in the evening. But we were denied a license—it turned out that opening another café on that street was not allowed. By then, we had already bought equipment and paid for barista training...
We invested €9,000, only to get a final rejection. Now, we are trying to sell the equipment, but we will inevitably lose some money.
Another revenue stream is concerts, which currently keep "Kvartirnik" afloat. But even here, we face challenges: we organized successful artist tours in different cities, yet, for example, in Alicante, a hall for 420 people only gathered nine spectators.
At some point, Anna and I completely burned out. By December 2024, we seriously discussed closing "Kvartirnik".
What saved us? The support of our team and the realization that we needed this project ourselves. We decided not to give up, and in February, we are launching a fundraising campaign. In April, we are opening a library and considering introducing a membership system in our association.
Lana: Exactly. Having our own venue was both our success and our biggest burden. Now, our team consists of seven people, and our monthly expenses amount to €4,550. We are constantly looking for ways to cover these costs.
We tried different models. We wanted to run a café during the day and hold events in the evening. But we were denied a license—it turned out that opening another café on that street was not allowed. By then, we had already bought equipment and paid for barista training...
We invested €9,000, only to get a final rejection. Now, we are trying to sell the equipment, but we will inevitably lose some money.
Another revenue stream is concerts, which currently keep "Kvartirnik" afloat. But even here, we face challenges: we organized successful artist tours in different cities, yet, for example, in Alicante, a hall for 420 people only gathered nine spectators.
At some point, Anna and I completely burned out. By December 2024, we seriously discussed closing "Kvartirnik".
What saved us? The support of our team and the realization that we needed this project ourselves. We decided not to give up, and in February, we are launching a fundraising campaign. In April, we are opening a library and considering introducing a membership system in our association.
Symbols of Kvartirnik
A corgi named Sherlock played a big role at the very start of the project—people would come partly just to see him. Now, he’s responsible for maintaining the dog-friendly atmosphere at the cultural center.
Anna’s grandmother’s rug has been redesigned in a modern style, serving as a symbol of the unity between tradition and innovation.
Kvartirnik-branded merch helps you feel part of the community. Buy yours and show your support!
Do you consider yourselves a Russian-speaking community?
Anna: Our sign says that we are a multilingual cultural center. The windows are transparent, so everything is visible: events, rehearsals, and courses. Random passersby stop by and say, “Oh, we’re your neighbors! What’s happening here?”
We don’t want to be like Brighton Beach. We always focus on socialization and integration, but without losing our roots. We constantly say how important it is to understand the local culture.
For example, I give lectures on Catalan artists—those I admire. We go on art and historical tours around Catalonia and Spain.
Are you also learning Catalan?
Anna: Yes! The Catalan culture welcomes you quickly. You don’t have to spend decades learning the language while being mocked and corrected. Here, you take a small step—saying “Adeu” or “Bona nit”—and people are already ready to accept you.
Lana: It’s about respect and gratitude toward the locals. Especially after February 24, when they did not judge or despise us but instead supported people with Russian passports equally with Ukrainian refugees.
Anna: Our sign says that we are a multilingual cultural center. The windows are transparent, so everything is visible: events, rehearsals, and courses. Random passersby stop by and say, “Oh, we’re your neighbors! What’s happening here?”
We don’t want to be like Brighton Beach. We always focus on socialization and integration, but without losing our roots. We constantly say how important it is to understand the local culture.
For example, I give lectures on Catalan artists—those I admire. We go on art and historical tours around Catalonia and Spain.
Are you also learning Catalan?
Anna: Yes! The Catalan culture welcomes you quickly. You don’t have to spend decades learning the language while being mocked and corrected. Here, you take a small step—saying “Adeu” or “Bona nit”—and people are already ready to accept you.
Lana: It’s about respect and gratitude toward the locals. Especially after February 24, when they did not judge or despise us but instead supported people with Russian passports equally with Ukrainian refugees.
Concert at Kvartirnik—sold out!
How has your project evolved over the past two years?
Lana: The mood of the people arriving in Barcelona has changed significantly. At first, "Kvartirnik" was a place where we could see each other and not feel alone in a new city.
Now, the intensity of emotions has subsided. The first months after moving are an emotional storm. Then, routine sets in, and you start looking for your next steps. For many, "Kvartirnik" became a launchpad, a support point.
One example is Lesha and his family, who are Belarusian. We met them literally within their first week in Barcelona. They actively participated—attending theater classes. Later, we organized free courses on Castellers (a traditional Catalan human tower sport). Now, their whole family is part of a Casteller team!
Anna: We stay true to our values: integration, culture, and support. For example, this year, we continue a series of events about minority cultures. Last year, we hosted a Tatar night, which was a huge success. In March, we are organizing a Kalmyk culture evening—led by the Kalmyks themselves.
Lana: The mood of the people arriving in Barcelona has changed significantly. At first, "Kvartirnik" was a place where we could see each other and not feel alone in a new city.
Now, the intensity of emotions has subsided. The first months after moving are an emotional storm. Then, routine sets in, and you start looking for your next steps. For many, "Kvartirnik" became a launchpad, a support point.
One example is Lesha and his family, who are Belarusian. We met them literally within their first week in Barcelona. They actively participated—attending theater classes. Later, we organized free courses on Castellers (a traditional Catalan human tower sport). Now, their whole family is part of a Casteller team!
Anna: We stay true to our values: integration, culture, and support. For example, this year, we continue a series of events about minority cultures. Last year, we hosted a Tatar night, which was a huge success. In March, we are organizing a Kalmyk culture evening—led by the Kalmyks themselves.
Anna
Tell us about yourselves—who are you and where are you from?
Anna: I was born in Yekaterinburg. Later, I moved to St. Petersburg to study medicine. I love medicine as a science, but the medical system in Russia breaks you.
During my medical internship, I told the head of our program that I wanted to quit medicine and pursue art. He looked at my work, a series called “Beauty Inside” about biological and anatomical beauty, and said: “You’re talented—just go.”
So, I became an artist and sketching instructor. I taught courses in different schools in both St. Petersburg and Yekaterinburg.
But you didn’t study this formally?
Anna: My parents were always immersed in creativity—my mom took my sister and me to oil painting classes, though I never really liked it. My dad, despite working in a technical field, would sketch Michelangelo’s and da Vinci’s hands in the margins of his notebooks.
I don’t have a university degree in art, but I have thousands of hours of practice, learning from other artists, and self-education.
In St. Petersburg, I was just getting established—I had my students, a workshop, and participated in exhibitions. Moving to Barcelona meant rebuilding everything from scratch.
I’d like to say I started from zero, but that’s not true—because no one can take away your knowledge and experience. But arriving in a new country, where you don’t know the language, have no friends, no family, nothing… That’s a different kind of challenge. It’s stressful.
Anna: I was born in Yekaterinburg. Later, I moved to St. Petersburg to study medicine. I love medicine as a science, but the medical system in Russia breaks you.
During my medical internship, I told the head of our program that I wanted to quit medicine and pursue art. He looked at my work, a series called “Beauty Inside” about biological and anatomical beauty, and said: “You’re talented—just go.”
So, I became an artist and sketching instructor. I taught courses in different schools in both St. Petersburg and Yekaterinburg.
But you didn’t study this formally?
Anna: My parents were always immersed in creativity—my mom took my sister and me to oil painting classes, though I never really liked it. My dad, despite working in a technical field, would sketch Michelangelo’s and da Vinci’s hands in the margins of his notebooks.
I don’t have a university degree in art, but I have thousands of hours of practice, learning from other artists, and self-education.
In St. Petersburg, I was just getting established—I had my students, a workshop, and participated in exhibitions. Moving to Barcelona meant rebuilding everything from scratch.
I’d like to say I started from zero, but that’s not true—because no one can take away your knowledge and experience. But arriving in a new country, where you don’t know the language, have no friends, no family, nothing… That’s a different kind of challenge. It’s stressful.
Lana
Lana, was it difficult for you to start from scratch?
Lana: I feel like an emigrant for the second time. My parents and all my ancestors are from Kurdistan.
My grandfather’s family fled from Turkey to Georgia, then from Georgia to Armenia, where I was born. From there, we moved to Russia.
If I remember correctly, Kurds have faced genocide more than a hundred times. We practice Yazidism, and Muslims consider us pagans.
At some point, I tried to understand why this happened. In my opinion, it comes down to misinterpretation and a refusal to understand—it’s easier to call us "idol worshippers." But in reality, Yazidism is an ancient faith.
I distinctly remember the in-between state of an emigrant—for example, thinking in my native language but struggling to understand Russian.
Small ethnic groups often cling to their traditions, some of which feel medieval. For us, it’s not even about family—it’s about clan and lineage. We know our ancestors up to the seventh generation, and in my entire family history, there hasn’t been a single case of inbreeding.
If my father met a Kurd in Barcelona today, he would immediately know everything about that person through our global kinship system.
Is there a Kurdish community in Barcelona?
Lana: I don’t know. And I don’t know if I want to know yet.
That sounds contradictory—you say you belong to the community, yet you don’t engage with it and instead build a Russian-speaking one.
Lana: I struggle with self-identity. Right now, I’m trying to understand who I am—what Russia and the Russian language mean to me, what Kurdistan and the Kurds mean to me.
All my life, I wanted to become Russian—to learn the language, integrate, assimilate, and understand what it means to be part of Russian culture.
Ironically, it’s only in Spain that I finally feel like a Russian woman.
Lana, by the way, what did you do in Russia?
Lana: I never even finished ninth grade—I worked a lot.
I started as a sales assistant, and eventually, I opened my own business. For the last twelve years, I’ve been running a transportation company, and it’s still operating.
I also own a chain of nail salons.
That’s why I can afford not to earn money from Kvartirnik—on the contrary, I finance it.
Lana: I feel like an emigrant for the second time. My parents and all my ancestors are from Kurdistan.
My grandfather’s family fled from Turkey to Georgia, then from Georgia to Armenia, where I was born. From there, we moved to Russia.
If I remember correctly, Kurds have faced genocide more than a hundred times. We practice Yazidism, and Muslims consider us pagans.
At some point, I tried to understand why this happened. In my opinion, it comes down to misinterpretation and a refusal to understand—it’s easier to call us "idol worshippers." But in reality, Yazidism is an ancient faith.
I distinctly remember the in-between state of an emigrant—for example, thinking in my native language but struggling to understand Russian.
Small ethnic groups often cling to their traditions, some of which feel medieval. For us, it’s not even about family—it’s about clan and lineage. We know our ancestors up to the seventh generation, and in my entire family history, there hasn’t been a single case of inbreeding.
If my father met a Kurd in Barcelona today, he would immediately know everything about that person through our global kinship system.
Is there a Kurdish community in Barcelona?
Lana: I don’t know. And I don’t know if I want to know yet.
That sounds contradictory—you say you belong to the community, yet you don’t engage with it and instead build a Russian-speaking one.
Lana: I struggle with self-identity. Right now, I’m trying to understand who I am—what Russia and the Russian language mean to me, what Kurdistan and the Kurds mean to me.
All my life, I wanted to become Russian—to learn the language, integrate, assimilate, and understand what it means to be part of Russian culture.
Ironically, it’s only in Spain that I finally feel like a Russian woman.
Lana, by the way, what did you do in Russia?
Lana: I never even finished ninth grade—I worked a lot.
I started as a sales assistant, and eventually, I opened my own business. For the last twelve years, I’ve been running a transportation company, and it’s still operating.
I also own a chain of nail salons.
That’s why I can afford not to earn money from Kvartirnik—on the contrary, I finance it.
If things change in your home country, would you go back?
Lana: Some time ago, I thought I might return because I missed it so much.
But in the last six months, I’ve realized that I love it here. I have local friends, and I want to be in Barcelona.
So, if we imagine that 20 years from now we’re still here, I would want to continue doing something socially meaningful, especially for immigrants.
Anna: I don’t like big statements like “I’m here forever”. Words like that intimidate me a little.
But I can say this for sure: Catalonia has given us so much—freedom, emotional security—and that has helped us all endure and grow.
Lana: Some time ago, I thought I might return because I missed it so much.
But in the last six months, I’ve realized that I love it here. I have local friends, and I want to be in Barcelona.
So, if we imagine that 20 years from now we’re still here, I would want to continue doing something socially meaningful, especially for immigrants.
Anna: I don’t like big statements like “I’m here forever”. Words like that intimidate me a little.
But I can say this for sure: Catalonia has given us so much—freedom, emotional security—and that has helped us all endure and grow.