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REFLEKSIJA:
CONTEMPORARY ART FROM ESTONIA, LATVIA AND LITHUANIA HISTORICAL CONTEXT The idea for a Walter Phillips Gallery project on contemporary art from the Baltic states was first considered in 1989. At that time the Soviet Union was still a binding, formidable force, although the cracks and fissures of national unrest, particularly in the Baltics, were becoming very apparent. Determined nationalistic forces were rearing themselves against an unmitigating giant. Was history repeating itself? For the Baltic republics of Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania, independence and pride are deeply embedded in the national psyches. Although the ethnic settlements of these countries go back to the early part of the millennium long before the arrival of Christianity, for centuries these small warring pagan nations were the recurring battlegrounds for oncoming armies of Finns, Swedes, Poles and the Teutonic Knights of Germany. Russian Tsarist rule of the Baltic provinces began in the early 1700s although local autonomy was in effect until Russification began in earnest in the 1860s. Even then, Russification was deeply resisted in these states which were faithful to their ancient languages and vital cultural traditions. All three Baltic nations regained independence soon after the 1917 Russian revolution, only to lose it again in the 1939 German-Soviet Non-Aggression Pact that allowed Germany to invade Poland and thereby precipitate WWII — the Pact that gave the Baltic states to the Soviets. These states then became victims of succeeding German/Soviet occupations, massive deportations and totalitarian whims of the communist regime. That there prevailed such a willful determination to practice indigenous languages and maintain traditions 50 years later in the late 1980s, seemed almost miraculous. While the three Baltic nations have often shared a common foe, each is unique and to some, (Estonians in particular), identifying the Baltic states as a unity has been viewed as an enforced Soviet ploy used to herd three problem children into one pen. Even from the perspective of language, Estonia shares similarities with Finnish while Latvia and Lithuania’s connection to a very old branch of Indo-European languages has linked them as brother nations and elicits greater similarities in customs and traditions. Although it is not always useful to characterize ethnic groups, the people of these three countries have their distinctions and perhaps these manifest themselves in the overtones of art production. In Estonia, the northernmost nation known to have the coolest temperament, the predominant artistic genre has been geometric abstraction. Linked to the Scandinavian countries by proximity and to Helsinki by trade, during the years of occupation information arrived from the outside world through Tallinn. As a result, Estonian artists took many of their cues from the west rather than just Moscow, absorbing ideas about conceptual, pop and land art. In Latvia, Riga is the largest city of the Baltic republics and historically was a cosmopolitan centre maintaining a strong link with Germany. Its urban mass allowed for greater diversity in the artworld as well as an impetus to develop at a faster pace, quickened by exchanges and touring international exhibitions which didn’t always travel to the smaller cities of Tallinn or Vilnius. Like Estonia, Latvia is a Protestant country tending to a greater openness to new ideas in the 1980s and perhaps this led to more installation-based and multi-media dissident art practices. Lithuania on the other hand has been deeply Roman Catholic where the teachings of the Church fostered a morally conscious and humble, albeit stubborn, population. Even with the birth of George Maciunas’ Fluxus movement and the innovations it spawned, the Lithuanian art world of the late 80s was still dominated by sculptors and painters of figurative expressionism conditioned largely by German and other west European influences. THE IMPACT OF INDEPENDENCE When I visited the Baltic republics in 1991, it was after the coups, the tanks and the blood. Independence had just been regained and it was a euphoric time. My goal was to explore the artistic landscape in the context of independence, and as I conducted visits with artists, it was difficult for me to leave the social conditions of life behind the studio door. I was looking for art that did not separate itself from life; art that would speak of what freedom might now mean; art that reflected the complexities of a new national life. In this fresh moment I was particularly interested in more precise comparisons of old and new ways, what was gained and what was lost? My quest for socially engaged work however, was met with some resistance. The terms “political” or “social” still carried connotations of socialist realism or at best implied political cartoonists who satirized and denigrated the politicians of the fallen regime. The seven artists I selected for the exhibition in Banff were somewhat of an exception – they brought a social consciousness into their art practices. This is not easy to do when life is brimming with politics, and finding food, clothing and shelter are in themselves political feats. Nor is it easy when in the face of the Soviet artworld’s omnipresent ideology of socialist realism that prevailed for decades, the most forceful political gesture at that moment was to engage in the “decadence” of abstraction or expressionism. When all people, including artists, were consumed with the everyday politics of life, art was one of the few reprieves where the mind could wander abstractly, inscribe beautiful colours and patterns, or escape to surreal places. These were still the principle measures of defiance in the Baltic artworld of the 1980s. Things changed in 1991, however without the dictates of the Soviet system, the new found “freedom” was still not so liberating. Leonhard Lapin, one of the artists in the exhibition, talked about the realities of artmaking in the 1970s and 80s compared to the 90s.
While some artists disengaged, many played a significant role in the transformative political events of the independence movement. They had been active in resistance movements for decades, sending their encoded messages through songs, paintings, plays, poems, fiction and crafting subtle subversive signs that were immediately understood by the people but no so clearly interpreted by officials or outsiders. However, it was always a dance with danger, and blatantly crossing the line resulted in severe punishment. It meant banishment from the Artists Union, a lifeline which supplied a network, sources for artistic materials, guaranteed exhibitions and sales for its members, especially the ones who followed the dictates of the Communist Party. Through these structures, a certain type of art and artists became highly valued in society and were comfortably supported during Soviet times. With the collapse of the system in 1991, artists were left scrambling to fend for themselves – ironically, while culture was the motivating force for the revolution, it is not visible in the current political agenda of an independent government. Many of the commercial galleries that sprang up in 1991 have since folded, the art academies can barely keep their doors open for lack of funds, and as studio rents have increased hundredfold many artists are faced with the dilemma of how to continue their practices. But despite these setbacks, there are hopeful changes too: new personnel with broader perspectives have been named to ministries of culture and contemporary art museums; abandoned army barracks and other post Soviet buildings are being used for grassroots art activities; a handful of artists have greater opportunities for international travel and exchange in response to the west’s curiosity; the spate of regular biennials and triennials are slowly being replaced by curated exhibitions that bring greater analysis to the art of the region; and ideas of corporate sponsorship and other new forms of philanthropy are being introduced. These are all reasons for cautious optimism in the face of traumatic change. |