Karabinovych's “Хуеморген” grew out of a slip of the tongue. In spring 2022, Ukrainian TikTok repurposed a Eurovision hit from 1971, Goeiemorgen, morgen twisting the innocent Dutch greeting into huemorgen—a vulgar, defiant Ukrainian expletive that doubles as a manifesto. Karabinovych, who's long examined the fragile memory of the post-Soviet sphere and the mechanics of online humor, saw in this mishearing-cum-curse an emblem of a country under bombardment: one phonetic slip separates a hopeful "good morning" from a bitter "fuck it all."

In the gallery, the original melody—slowed to a bass-heavy drone—drowns beneath hundreds of distorted TikTok samples looping huemorgen, turning Eurovision kitsch into a murky, almost meditative pool where every "morning" echoes as profanity. On the walls: sixteen sheets from a Soviet ornithological atlas, flooded in thick black acrylic that leaves only "islands of light" around the silhouettes of marsh birds—fragile frames of pre-war memory. Below them, a pale blue canvas: the unfinished logo of Odesa's Humorina festival, where the traditional "April 1st" is crossed out and replaced with "May 2, 2014"—the instant carnival turned to mourning.

The gap between goei and hue is a matter of articulation, and in that slippage, Karabinovych notes, lies political agency: power demands clarity, resistance lives in the slip-up, the meme, the glitch. Huemorgen holds you in a state of wired wakefulness—between greeting and refusal, field guide and field report—where laughter and grief sound at once, and both turn out to be necessary to face any morning, however cynical.

Commissioned by Museum de Fundatie, Zwolle.