Slides & Snapshots: A Look Back at 25 Years of Polish Culture in Honour of Culture.pl’s 25th Anniversary

fajerwerki-pap_20010101_07W.jpg, default, Fireworks at Defilad Square on New Year's Eve, 2001, photo: Jacek Turczyk / PAP

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In 2026, Culture.pl celebrates its 25th anniversary. It was founded in a completely different era – over the course of this quarter of a century, Poland joined the EU (after which a wave of economic emigration began), we grew wealthier as a society, and travelling the world became increasingly accessible. We initially welcomed the development of the internet with optimism – later with fear. We have come to understand (with varying degrees of success) terms such as the climate crisis and the Anthropocene.

Our imagined community would at times grow closer (for example, in shared mourning), only to be torn apart again by political conflicts and disinformation. We were reminded that ‘solidarity’, during women’s strikes, the pandemic and the first months of the Russian invasion of Ukraine, was not merely a historical term. Meanwhile, Polish culture has enjoyed several spectacular successes on the world stage – one need only mention Olga Tokarczuk’s Nobel Prize in Literature, Paweł Pawlikowski’s Oscar for Ida or the box-office success of CD Projekt’s games, The Witcher and Cyberpunk.

Join me in travelling back in time. It’s Poland, 2001, the first year of Culture.pl’s existence. These were the days of Poland’s first ever reality show, the Polish edition of Big Brother and the popularity of the cult TV series The Lousy World (Świat według Kiepskich), which followed the lives of a dysfunctional family from Wrocław. It was also the beginning of ‘Małyszomania’ (the collective obsession with award-winning ski jumper Adam Małysz and, what followed, the sport itself) and ‘Pottermania’ (the brilliant translation of the first Harry Potter book only came out in 2000, three years after its debut in the UK). It was also the year in which the horrific attacks on the World Trade Centre took place and the ‘war on terror’ began. 2001 also saw Steve Jobs unveil the iPod (yes, dear children, iPod, not iPhone), which set off a domino effect, ultimately leading to the shift away from physical media and the emergence of a model of cultural participation based on subscriptions and streaming, in which we own nothing, but have access to (practically) everything.

Let’s begin with a closer look at the very reason our website could be created in the first place. In 2001, less than 20% of Poles are said to have had access to the internet. On 15th January 2001, the Polish Telecommunications company (Telekomunikacja Polska, TP for short) launched their newest service, Neostrada. Neostrada broadband internet quickly became a symbol of the emergence of the internet in Poland (the young users flooding onto the web, unfamiliar with – brace yourselves – ‘netiquette’, were dubbed ‘neo kids’). The cheapest subscription cost 300 PLN a month (which in 2001 amounted to almost 15% of the average salary); initially, the service was also available only in Warsaw. In September 2001, the Polish-language Wikipedia was launched, and by the end of the year it already had over 500 pages (today it has over 1.7 million). Although the popular Polish instant messaging service Gadu-Gadu had been in existence since 2000 (with 250,000 users by 2001), the social media revolution hadn't even begun yet. Even MySpace, which seems prehistoric from today’s perspective, would not launch for another two years. In a 2001 article in Machina magazine, you could read about this internet novelty: ‘A new literary genre has emerged. It’s called a blog.’

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Internet cafe at Metro Centrum station in Warsaw, 2009, photo: Grzegorz Jakubowski / PAP

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Meanwhile, we would buy newspapers and magazines at kiosks. Gazeta Wyborcza daily newspaper sold two record print runs of pre-Christmas editions in 2001 (one of which included a CD of a Christmas carol sung by John Paul II – the Pope boosting the circulation of the largest liberal newspaper – a snapshot of millennial Poland) reached 1.5 million copies. Today, the average combined sales of print editions of all national daily newspapers have fallen below 250,000 copies (and those of Gazeta alone below 30,000).

At the time, Poland’s urban landscapes saw a surge of ‘muralitis’ – in the summer of 2001, a mural was painted on a building at 152 Piotrkowska Street in Łódź, which was to remain the world’s largest wall painting for a few years to come. Murals began popping up all over Poland’s bigger cities.

We don’t have to remind you of what early 2000s fashion looked like, because, in keeping with the law of retromania, in 2026 you can see ‘Y2K style’ wherever you look.

Joanna Brodzik and Danuta Stenka in the film *Nigdy w życiu!* (2003); photo: Michał Mrowiec/Fabryka Obrazu/Forum

Bookstores were selling two love-filled bestsellers: Nigdy w życiu! (Never Ever!) by Katarzyna Grochola, which, in 2004, began Poland’s rom-com boom, and S@motność w sieci (Loneliness on the Net) by Janusz L. Wiśniewski. Jerzy Pilch was awarded the Nike Literary Award for his novel Pod Mocnym Aniołem (The Mighty Angel), while millennial wunderkind Dorota Masłowka is still in high school and will only write her breakthrough Wojna polsko-ruska pod biało-czerwoną flagą (The Polish-Russian War under a White and Red Flag) a year from now.

Polish cinemas are featuring blockbusters based on mandatory school reading: Quo Vadis, directed by Jerzy Kawalerowicz, based on the epic book by Nobel Prize-winning writer Henryk Sienkiewicz, Przedwiośnie (The Spring to Come), directed by Filip Bajon, based on the classic Stefan Żeromski novel, and W pustyni i w puszczy (In Desert and Wilderness), directed by Gavin Hood, based on another Henryk Sienkiewicz favourite. These topped the box office, while the likes of Shrek and Bridget Jones’s Diary, only came after (P.S. the Polish dubbing of Shrek is absolutely brilliant, but that is for another story).

Polish theatre was swept up in a wave of strong emotions following the premiere of Cleansed, directed by Krzysztof Warlikowski and based on a play by the British writer Sarah Kane. In the field of the visual arts, a spate of scandals, hyped up by the media, was in full swing – a year earlier, Polish actor Daniel Olbrychski had slashed portraits with a sabre at Piotr Uklański’s exhibition Nazis, while right-wing MPs had attempted to free a statue of Pope John Paul II from underneath a meteorite, thereby destroying Maurizio Cattelan’s sculpture. Meanwhile, back in 2001 itself, Dorota Nieznalska exhibited her installation Passion at the Wyspa Gallery in Gdańsk – it consisted of a film showing a man working out in a gym and a cross onto which a photograph of male genitalia had been mounted. In 2002, the artist was charged with ‘offending religious feelings’ and sentenced to six months’ community service – she was acquitted only after an eight-year legal battle.

Charts were dominated by folksy tunes (primarily in highlander and Balkan styles): among the top-selling Polish albums were those by Ich Troje, Golec uOrkiestra, Krzysztof Krawczyk in a duet with Goran Bregović, and the Yugoton project (Polish interpretations of Yugoslav New Wave hits). Pioneering singer-songwriter Kazik Staszewski, who featured on the latter album, was working in overdrive at the time, and over the course of a dozen or so months between 2000 and 2001, released four (!) more albums – two solo, and one each with his bands Kult and El Dupa. Interesting things were also happening on the alternative scene – Ścianka, Lenny Valentino and Pogodno all released excellent albums.

Rap fans were in mourning after Piotr ‘Magik’ Łuszcz’s tragic death in December 2000, known for his work with cult hop-hop groups Paktofonika and Kaliber 44. Meanwhile, Polish hip-hop was going from strength to strength and producing albums that are today regarded as ‘classics’. However, it was still a niche phenomenon rather than a mass movement. Rappers filled up clubs, not stadiums (as Taco Hemingway, Quebonafide or Mata would do 25 years later), and their sales figures – impressive at the time – seem rather modest compared to the streaming figures achieved by contemporary rappers (even taking into account the rampant piracy of the era).

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Paktofonika, concert at Żak Club in Gdańsk, 2003, photo by Łukasz Głowała / Forum

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You can see the difference between Poland in 2001 and today in every aspect of culture. This was a snapshot from 2001. But what happened later? And what does Polish culture look like today? Here are some phenomena that may help you see what shaped Polish culture over the last 25 years.

Culture on the streets

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Protest against the decision to demolish the Solpol department store in Wrocław, photo by Krzysztof Kaniewski / Reporter / East News

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If, without realising it, we were to be sent back in time to our housing estates and streets as they were a quarter of a century ago, there is a good chance that, after looking around a bit, we would exclaim: ‘What is this place? How can people live like this?’. But then things started to change. First, a steady drip of EU funds pulled Polish towns and cities out of their aesthetic decline to some extent; and then, cosmetic improvements ahead of Euro 2012 gave them a boost; and finally, over the last dozen or so years, they have truly begun to look magnificent and much more… European.

The investment boom – the first since the time of Edward Gierek, leader of the Polish People's Republic – had its ups and downs and contributed to our growing interest in the space around us. As early as the first decade of the 21st century, we observed the growth of grassroots initiatives concerned with the shared space in their cities, such as the Wrocław City Beautification Society, the ‘We Are Poznań Residents’ Association, or Łódź’s ‘Group of Certain People’, which, since 2006, had been organising events designed to draw attention to such urban nuisances as illegal advertising and the neglect of urban green spaces. Over the following decade, as more and more such projects sprang up, they came to be known collectively as ‘urban movements’.

Discussions about architecture and urban planning became natural parts of conversations over coffee or lunch. This time also saw the creation of new architectural slang such as patodeweloperka (predatory property developers) oraz betonoza (concrete addiction). Polish architecture was also lucky to have experts and writers to promote it, such as our very own Anna Cymer, as well as Filip Springer, Beata Chomątowska or Grzegorz Piątek.

A topic that came up again and again was demolition. Building new versions of old cities brought with it increasing concern about the fate of late modernist, brutalist and, finally, postmodernist architecture. Let us also recall, to paraphrase the title of a book, ‘buildings that became Biedronka stores’ – that is, places that once served social and cultural functions (cinemas and cafés) and were subsequently converted into discount stores. In place of industrial heritage sites, shopping centres and apartment blocks sprang up; later, it became fashionable to convert them into food courts.

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Biruta Café in Kielce, photo by Janusz Buczkowski / Kielce Investments Association, and a Biedronka store in Kielce, photo by Kamila Błaszkiewicz. Photograph from the exhibition Buildings That Became Biedronkas, 2019, Design Institute in Kielce.

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As early as the 1990s and into the early 21st century, iconic socialist modernist buildings were quietly disappearing – such as Warsaw’s Supersam, the Moskwa and Skarpa cinemas, and the ‘Chemia’ pavilion. However, as early as the 2000s, protests were already taking place against, amongst other things, the demolition of Katowice’s ‘Brutal’ – the railway station (demolished) – the ‘Audytorium Chemii’ in Wrocław (listed as a historic monument but still undeveloped) and the Hotel Cracovia (saved but still awaiting renovation). We also began to pay increasing attention to unnecessary demolitions as our environmental awareness grew.

Festivals boom and clubs crash

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Freedom Parade, Łódź, photo: Maciej Skawiński / Forum

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In 2001 there was no Open’er Festival, no OFF Festival, no Unsound or Audioriver. So what festivals did we have back then? Of course, we had the classic and ever-popular Opole and Sopot, and there was Przystanek Woodstock (Woodstock Station, today: the Pol’and’Rock Festival), which drew several hundred thousand people every year. There were also less popular, although possibly more intriguing, options: hordes of dark souls flocked to Bolków Castle for the Castle Party, while Polish fans of Jamaican music set off for the Ostróda Reggae Festival for the first time. In November of that year, the first edition of the Wrocław Industrial Festival kicked off. In Basowiszcze, Gródek, audiences could enjoy alternative acts from Belarus and Poland, and folk music enthusiasts gathered in Czeremcha and Krotoszyn. Electronic music fans took to the streets of Łódź for the penultimate time as part of the Freedom Parade – the main opponent of Poland’s largest techno party was the city’s mayor. A referendum was even held on the matter, in which residents voted against banning the event, but amid administrative turmoil, the festival lost its main sponsor, which effectively prevented it from taking place (it was revived in 2022).

In 2001, the Polish music scene was a bit like Cinderella. Not many had already discovered its potential and beauty. Poland was pretty much overlooked on the maps of any big musical personalities – they hopped from Moscow, through Prague, to Berlin and back off to the West.

Today, it’s a whole other ballgame – we have absolutely nothing to complain about. The range of festivals on offer is diverse – from multi-stage complexes to intimate events organised without major sponsors. I’ve used music festivals as an example, but over the past dozen or so years, film, theatre and literary festivals have also sprung up like mushrooms in autumn. One might think we’re heading towards having ‘a festival in every county’.

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Le Madame Club, interior, 2004, photo: Katarzyna Szustow / Museum of Wola in Warsaw

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By contrast, the venues where we can experience music on a daily basis are far fewer than there were at the start of the century. Millennial Poland experienced a club boom. Every major Polish city could point to its own legendary venues from that time: in Warsaw, these included Le Madame, which opened in 2003 and whose defence three years later became a symbol of the struggle for different worldviews and lifestyles, CDQ, and the cluster of venues on Dobra Street (including Aurora and Jadłodajnia Filozoficzna) . For Łódź – Forum Fabricum; for Kraków – Krzysztofory or Roentgen; for Wrocław – Wagon or Droga do Mekki.

In the early 2000s, it was so easy to find a cheap space in a good spot, then add a bunch of furniture you found at a flea market or abandoned next to rubbish bins or, if you wanted to go the ‘Berlin’ way, you could just put out some wooden pallets and call it a day. There was also no shortage of interesting artists who could breathe life into these beaten up spaces. Today, it’s so much harder for emerging artists to make a name for themselves – the internet hasn’t made things much easier in this respect, as it is even easier to go unnoticed in the thicket of digital excess.

A number of factors contributed to the slow decline of clubs: rising rents, gentrification and property developers’ attempts to acquire attractive plots of land, reprivatisation, conflicts with neighbours and, finally, changes in the way the younger generation spent their leisure time. During the first decade or so of the 21st century, private clubs not only repurposed abandoned spaces but also filled a gap in cultural fields in which municipal and state cultural institutions were not interested at the time. Today, clubs wishing to stay afloat must be far more driven by the logic of profit, which is why the situation is often the reverse. Concerts by up-and-coming and niche artists are increasingly taking place in subsidised community centres (the renaissance of community centres is, incidentally, another of the changes of the past quarter-century worth noting).

Polish cuisines

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Robert Makłowicz, photo: Bogdan Krężel / Forum

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There has probably never been a period in human history when diets have occupied our minds to such an extent and served as such a defining feature of our lifestyle and worldview. One might think that the more unpredictable the world around us has become, the more we’ve focused on controlling the few things over which we have any control, like food. It’s a sign of the times that so many of Poland’s popular television and internet personalities are involved in the culinary world (both in practice and in theory) – from Robert Makłowicz and Magda Gessler (Daddy and Mommy), through Wojciech Modest Amaro, who earned Poland’s first Michelin star (2013), to the popular Rozkoszny and Książula, who rose to the top on internet stardom.

Another thing that changed was our impression of Polish food. At the beginning of the century, traditional dishes were no longer considered fashionable and were mostly the domain of roadside eateries, milk bars or fancy restaurants geared at incoming tourists. It wasn’t that we disliked Polish food – on the contrary, it was yummy and homey, but it had no class. Unexpectedly, somewhere between the sushi craze and the burger boom, Polish flavours began to enjoy a revival.

We started to rediscover the art of pickling and smoking, appreciate traditional recipes and create modern takes on them and even search for forgotten recipes and ingredients. Menus began to feature produce that had disappeared from Polish tables decades earlier: Jerusalem artichokes, wild garlic, peagrass, capons and camelina oil. Restaurant plates began to feature proziaki (Polish soda bread), prażuchy (a kind of dumpling) and parzybroda (a one-pot soup). Żurek turned out to be – to paraphrase rapper Kaza Bałagane – the Polish ramen, while jagodzianki, the scrumptious summer blueberry buns became one of the most Instagrammable foods of the summer.

Culinary revolutions were happening left and right. On one hand, we had the bloggers and the plant-based restaurateurs who went about ‘veganising’ Polish classics (from oyster mushroom tripe to celeriac ryba po grecku and soy or seitan ‘pork’ chops). These experiments led to Warsaw being #11 worldwide and #6 in Europe, when it comes to the amount of vegan restaurants and vegan options, according to HappyCow’s 2025 global ranking.

On the other hand, other chefs were off experimenting with something entirely different: bringing offal back to the dinner table.

These upheavals affected not only our plates but also our glasses. It turned out that Polish apples could be used to make not only cheap apple wine but also dry ciders (their popularity was boosted by the 2014 campaign ‘To spite Putin, eat apples, drink cider’, which was launched following Russia’s embargo on Polish fruit). Across the length and breadth of Poland – from Podkarpacie to Western Pomerania – vineyards began to spring up.

Although we are still a long way from Mediterranean countries, where restaurants serving local cuisine outnumber those serving imported dishes, we have to admit that our approach to our own cuisine has changed dramatically over the past 25 years. In a good way.

Giant museums

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Warsaw Uprising Museum, photo: Sławomir Kamiński / AG

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On the last day of July 2004, the day before the 60th anniversary of the outbreak of the Warsaw Uprising, the Warsaw Rising Museum officially opened to the public. Anna Cymer, our resident architecture expert, called it a ‘museum, which changed other museums.’

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The main exhibition, designed by Mirosław Nizio’s studio, was one of the first Polish attempts to tell history by combining multimedia with exhibits on such a grand scale. ‘The main elements of the exposition are large format photographs, monitors and screens’, emphasise the creators of the museum, drawing attention to the fact that the goal of the exhibition was not only to showcase their collection but also to make it possible for visitors to experience the atmosphere of the past.

The concepts of ‘multimedia’ and ‘interactivity’ have obviously become integral elements of planning new exhibitions in the years since, but in the early days of the Warsaw Rising Museum, all of it was new. We can also discern broader phenomena linked to historical policy, new ways of expressing patriotism, or what Marcin Napiórkowski described in 2016 as a ‘memory boom’ (As he explained in Tygodnik Powszechny, this was: ‘a phenomenon permeating academic research, historical policy and various cultural practices. It involves viewing the past in close connection with current conflicts, interests and social divisions’).

The museum’s opening sparked a trend for uprising-themed content in popular culture – from films and comics to musical projects featuring songs about the uprising. From there, it was a short step to a craze for merchandise and a phenomenon known as ‘off-the-peg patriotism’ – the trend for patriotic T-shirts, murals, tattoos and match-day displays.

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Museum of Modern Art in Warsaw, photo: Marta Ejsmont

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Back to museums: Polish museums have undergone a huge transformation in the 21st century. We began creating narrative museums, thinking about participatory models, and working on promotional activities (Poland’s first ‘Night of Museums’ – at the National Museum in Poznań – did not take place until 2003!). These changes were accompanied by major investments – such as the POLIN Museum of the History of Polish Jews, the Museum of Polish History, the Museum of Modern Art in Warsaw, the Museum of the Second World War in Gdańsk and the Silesian Museum in Katowice.

Modern, interactive museums with interesting exhibitions were also being established on a smaller scale in smaller cities, a good example of which is the Museum of Polish Song in Opole. For reasons of historical policy, large-scale projects were also undertaken in smaller towns, such as the Museum of the Martyrdom of Polish Villages in Michniów and the Ulma Family Museum of Poles Who Saved Jews during the Second World War in Markowa.

Other cultural institutions have also acquired impressive buildings – such as the Szczecin Philharmonic (the only Polish winner of the Mies van der Rohe Award, so far), the NOSPR in Katowice, the Cricoteka headquarters in Krakó and the National Forum of Music in Wrocław.

Poland’s queer awakening

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From the 'Let Them See Us' series, Karolina Breguła, 2003, photo: courtesy of the artist

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Poland’s first ever Pride Parade took place in Warsaw on 1st May 2001. This date was no coincidence – under regulations in force at the time, it was the only day of the year on which a demonstration could be organised without applying for an administrative permit. Around 300 people took part. The Campaign Against Homophobia also launched that same year. Two years later, the MGO organised its first public campaign: Karolina Breguła’s photo series Let Them See Us, made up of 30 portraits of gay and lesbian couples, appeared in shopping centres and on billboards across Polish cities. In the words of our visual arts expert Piotr Policht:

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The last 20 years have been a time of great change for Polish queer art. Everything happened: grassroots initiatives, provocative gestures, the first queer archives were established, and exhibitions summarising these developments took place.

Queer voices were being heard in other fields of culture as well – in Polish theatre, literature, film and language itself. The Polish language is gendered: male, female and neutral. This makes things very complicated for those for whom none of these apply. We are still searching for non-binary forms and gender-neutral language.

Aleksander Kmak, our writer and head of our Artists and Bios Index, however, makes sure that we acknowledge a very important truth:

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[...] It’s hard not to stop and think how much these achievements of non-normative culture actually cost; how much confrontational spirit, anarchic fury, and how much of the otherness inherent in non-normativity had to be sacrificed on the altar of social acceptance; just how much the rough edges of queerness had to be smoothed out for it to prove palatable to the public, and appealing to the corporations that, once a year, are only too happy to parade at equality marches. And also: do these achievements and their (questionable) durability truly make up for what has been sacrificed?

Legislative changes have yet to keep up with cultural shifts. In the 2026 ranking of LGBTQ+ equality amongst EU countries, Poland came in third… from the bottom.

We are all from the countryside (back to the roots)

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Photo from the play "In the Name of Jakub S." directed by Monika Strzępka (2011). Pictured: Krzysztof Dracz, photo: Bartłomiej Sowa / Dramatyczny Theatre

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Krzysztof Dracz, photo: Bartłomiej Sowa/ Dramatic Theatre

Over the past few years, topics that had previously mainly interested ethnology students have entered the mainstream. One of the landmark events in the process of rediscovering our peasant roots was the 2011 play In the Name of Jakub S. created by directors Paweł Demirski and Monika Strzępka. In music: albums of songs about peasant rebellion and hardship by the R.U.T.A. project, and the popularity of Kapela ze Wsi Warszawa and Dagadana. It is also worth noting the initiatives that have done invaluable work in documenting traditional rural music, such as Muzyka Odnaleziona, founded by Andrzej Bieńkowski and Małgorzata Bieńkowska, and the In Crudo label, run by Remigiusz Mazur-Hanaj, known from the band Księżyc.

In his memorable essay The End of Peasant Culture (2003), Polish novelist Wiesław Myśliwski wrote about what he considered to be the three most essential elements of the legacy of this extinct culture: word, memory and imagination. It seems that this idea was taken to heart by the authors of the books labelled the ‘new rural movement’, which we witnessed a flood of in the second decade of the 21st century: books by Wioletta Grzegorzewska, Ignacy Karpowicz, Weronika Gogola, among others.

Film probably waited on the sidelines the longest: for a long time, two themes dominated its portrayal of the countryside: either an idyll, as in God's Little Village, or a grim, violent world, as seen in Wojciech Smarzowski’s films or Władysław Pasikowski’s Aftermath. Here, too, however, things have begun to change, as exemplified by the Tarantino-esque serfdom in Paweł Maślona’s Scarborn or the pop-cultural echoes of the ‘folk revival’ movement, such as the Netflix comedy series 1670.

All of Poland’s languages

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Silesian Autonomy March, 2012, Katowice, photo: Forum / Forum

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Last, but not least, the 21st century brought with it a renaissance of regional identities. The most visible example is, of course, Śląsk. In 2001, the Silesian Autonomy Movement was created. Alongside the political disputes over the recognition of the Silesian language, Silesian culture flourished and went to great lengths to break free from stereotypes. Silesian issues were discussed extensively in Silesian and Polish in the theatre and in literature – let us mention, for example, the works of Nike Literary Award winner Szczepan Twardoch or Zbigniew Rokita. The latter said in 2025 in an interview for Culture.pl:

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The appeal of Silesian culture has become a widespread phenomenon that would have been hard to imagine just a decade or two ago. Being Silesian isn’t uncool; it’s become something cool, a source of pride. It’s a trademark.

The fact that voices other than the dominant Polish language can be heard in Poland was also highlighted in other parts of the country. Local activists are making great efforts to revitalise Wymysorys – Poland’s smallest language, recognised by UNESCO as ‘seriously endangered’. In 2025, Joanna Wilengowska drew attention to the Warmian dialect and the identity of the Warmian people in her award-winning novel The King of Warmia and Saturn. Swada x Niczos proved that the language of the Polish-Belarusian borderland, pudlaśka mova (the speech of Podlasie/Podlachia), can hold its own not only in a folk ensemble but also on club dance floors.

Well, that was quite a journey. Thank you for joining us. Here’s to another 25 years of Polish culture!

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