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| The Central Market. 6 August 2013 Katrīna Teivāne-Korpa, Culture Theorist A conversation with Māra Brašmane about her solo exhibition at Cultural Space / Canteen 371 11.07.–05.10.2013. | |
| The heat of summer already seems so long gone that you begin to ask yourself whether it really was as oppressive as it seemed at the time; the jam jars, after the stress of jam-making, are now resting peacefully on the shelf as intended; and having crossed the threshold of autumn, life has entered the customary routine which, apart from a few moments of relaxation, will naturally take us right up to the culmination of spring – after which we’ll be yearning only for the sun. But before the jam, there were the berries, and in my memories a bright shining August day maintains a close link with the summer, the main event being two visits to the Central Market. The first time to buy cherries and redcurrants, and the second – to see an exhibition of photographs by Māra Brašmane (born 1944) in the newlyopened Cultural Space / Canteen 371. This was not the original plan: actually, I had been hoping to combine the two tasks in the one visit. But, to my surprise, the exhibition venue was closed to market-goers. The improvement works were taking longer than anticipated, so I had to make a special appointment to see the exhibition which, thanks to my quick-thinking colleague, I was able to do that same day. The atmosphere of the exhibition was as one might imagine. The sunlit room, full of dust from the renovation work, attracted more attention than the small-format pictures, in some cases several of them arranged within one frame. In the slanting rays of the sun you could more often view yourself in the glass of the pictures, with the photographs being left in the shadow. Of course it’s normal that you have to make some effort to ‘see’, but the long-winded journey getting to the exhibition and the hot weather were not the best of companions. I was starting to get grumpy – there, I’ve said it. Whatever the case, the photographs by Māra Brašmane have a knack of pleasing the viewer. Come to think of it, ever since the exhibition The City of My Youth in 2002, her photography for us, Rigans of the 21st century, has represented a steadfast link with the city as it was in the second half of the last century, especially in the 1960s and 70s. As a young girl at the time, her freely-ranging, keenly-observant view is comprehensible and interesting for us. Life ‘back then’ – sometimes rather gloomy, occasionally comical – seems in general to have been quite liveable, even romantically attractive. And that’s what makes me want to return to her works again and again. | |
 Māra Brašmane. Rīgas Centrāltirgus. Puķu placis ziemā. 1969–1970 Publicity photo Courtesy of the artist | |
| Although so much has been written about Māra Brašmane over the last decade and it would seem that everything has been said already, the exhibition at the Central Market, or more precisely – the wish to experience it in a different way – led me to invite the photographer for a conversation. She kindly agreed, promising to bring along some more photographs to show as well. Apparently the market first caught Brašmane’s attention when she turned to photography in the first half of the 1960s. The images show the main ’hero’ of the exhibition, the Central Market, as well as other markets in Riga and Latvia. Markets have also been documented during trips abroad. To begin with, Māra Brašmane related how she’d come up with the idea for an exhibition. This was in October last year, when in a series of lectures held at K. Suns by the Sarma & Norde architectural office she’d represented, together with Inta Ruka and Ante Krauze, women photographers whose work depicts the city. Brašmane in her presentation had shown the audience scenes from various Riga markets at various times. Māra Brašmane: I decided to show the market. I have a lot of pictures of it, I like the market. The city – that’s something very abstract. I don’t have any amazingly photographed pictures of architecture, or anything special like that. I have a mix of different things: medium-distance and long range views, details. The lecture was attended by architects. The room was full, which really surprised us. Architects are active people. One young man named Roberts Simsons – an economist, as it turned out – had been to our lecture and enjoyed it. And so at the beginning of this year he called me, and told me that he intended to open a new café in the Central Market, a canteen with a touch of culture. And they’d decided that the opening exhibition could feature my photos of the Central Market. Katrīna Teivāne-Korpa: Do you attach importance to the place and the space where your work is shown? For example, in this particular case it was the Central Market, one of the liveliest places in the city, in a space between two food pavilions. M.B.: I think not. With me it’s probably like this: if I’m given the chance, then I’ll try to sort myself out best as I can. Because I also recalled my experience at the Cēsis exhibition(1). I was told: this is your little bit of space. And I came up with a plan of how to fill it. We discussed how the exhibition had been laid out. M.B.: Since they wanted works from different years, I had a problem: the photographs from the 1960s and 70s had been manually developed in the darkroom, but the others, from the present day, were done digitally. At one point I was really stressed out as to how I might combine the two, because there wasn’t time to copy the works, and in any case it would have cost a lot of money. And then I decided that I could mix the photographs (two frames have pictures from the 60s together with recent pictures) and you could provide a passepartout which would link up the photos. The pictures were arranged in such a way that they’d relate to one another, so that the different times could co-exist, in a tonal sense as well. I’m well aware that the pictures from the 60s and 70s are superior, although who knows – if I had to remake the more recent ones in the darkroom, then it might be a different matter. | |
 Māra Brašmane. Kuldīga. 1970 Publicity photo Courtesy of the artist | |
| K.T.-K.: The photographs didn’t have any titles. When looking at the pictures you could notice the changes between periods and also in the style of your work. The images from the 60s and 70s stood out among the latest ones, they seemed more self-contained, definitely more evocative, and the absence of a title was not a problem. However odd it might seem, it was the more recent photographs that seemed to require a title. M.B.: The organisers of the exhibition thought that there was no need for titles, and I agreed. But now I, too, consider that there should have been annotations, or at least some kind of general text that would give the viewer more of an idea. As the author, I had assumed that there’d be people here – the everyday market-goers, and then the information and dates would not be so important. Because the market is a setting we all know, a familiar place, we each have our own memories. But now it’s only intellectuals who are going to the exhibition. They have a different approach to exhibition attendance: like you, they go there specially, and will have a different appreciation of it. And that’s when you do need titles for the works. K.T.-K.: Continuing with this theme – how important is it to you what the photograph is relating? M.B.: In actual fact it’s very important to me. Previously I didn’t think that much about it. Moreover, if a photograph arouses certain feelings in me, then you’d need to write a whole story to explain. A very short title was always required, for example, in the days of the club (the Riga Photo Club – K.T.-K.)(2). Then I would just put three dots – leaving the viewer to think whatever they wished. That actually is the best way. By means of a text you can provide some kind of insight and give additional information. But on the other hand, when I had the chance to go to London I saw exhibitions of works by Bill Brandt, Cecil Beaton and others, and there they always had titles. And I came to appreciate how important it is for me to learn something more. I also like the way Aivars Liepiņš (who has a wonderful collection about the people of Siksala village) and Inta Ruka write the titles for their work: they’re about a particular individual, rather than an explanation, as an explication of the image. On the other hand, I also like very much the approach taken by, say, Andrejs Grants: the town of Saldus in such and such a year. That’s not specific either, but it’s a particular location and you know that. These approaches are not mutually exclusive, but in general, I like having titles. K.T.-K.: I have to admit that quite often I cut corners at exhibitions. I go in, scan the room and only stop to look at those works that immediately attract my attention. The presence of a text tends to discipline me in this regard. M.B.: Something that is good speaks to you instantly. That’s what I was taught at the VEF sculpture studio.(3) The head of the studio, Harijs Fišers, asked: in an exhibition, how do you know whether this or that particular work is a good one? Latvian sculpture is wonderful in that all of our sculptors, at least back then, used the real material. In Russia it was plaster casts and nothing else, but over here we had metal, granite, all kinds of materials. Fišers said: first go into the room and look at the works that catch your eye. Examine what makes the work so special. Then go around once again and examine the use of the material. This is important, because that’s what you’re learning. And then go through a third time, and examine what’s gone wrong in some of the works. Since they’re all being exhibited, the works have been considered by a jury and accepted, which means that they are representative of the artist. We look at the pictures. Commenting on a photograph from 1968 taken in Matīsa Market, Māra says she has a weakness for bad weather. M.B.: Yes, I like bad weather, such as rain, fog, cold, a blizzard (laughs). K.T.-K.: So you look out the window and decide – oh, the weather’s bad, let’s go out and take photos? M.B.: Yes, exactly. Because when it has rained, things appear even on the bare tarmac, light is reflected and this makes the grey monotony colourful, alive. It’s the same here: it was very cold. The chimneys were billowing smoke and steam, and suddenly it all came alive. A lot of sun is just one immense contrast – and that’s all, what can You do with it. This leads to problems. K.T.-K.: This is a lovely photo (a little boy sitting on a table next to mushrooms and scales, while the ladies are engaged in conversation – ‘Mushroom-picking season. Central Market’, 1969). M.B.: That’s kind of simple, a way of life such as you find in the countryside. People don’t get wound up. If there’s a child, then it will just hang around, and take a rest there as well. K.T.-K.: This is wonderful, too (a classic old lady with a scarf around her head, in work clothes – a long skirt – peeling potatoes at the table, and amid all the hustle and bustle of trading there’s a little boy lying next to her on a box on the ground – ‘Riga Central Market. 12 November 1969’), it’s reminiscent of Italian Neorealist films or early 20th century social documentary photography. Only that I think your pictures have less drama and more life. How would you comment on your works, if we were to look at them as photography of social criticism? M.B.: I was certainly very critical, inwardly, in my youth. I’ve always been a great idealist and dreamer. And the aspect of criticism: I see it, but I’ve always thought about not hurting the person there. And very often that holds me back from taking a photograph. Even now. Of course, if that were to be the intention... But it doesn’t always work out. One example is the Cēsis exhibition. I thought that it was a good exhibition, but there was such absolute silence about it, that I understood that I’d been overly keen to make a social statement. But then presumably you’d need something completely extreme and terrifying. Men are usually better at that. I myself have all kinds of taboos, things I won’t do. And here... No, I don’t want to criticize anyone. That’s the way life is. I simply like the market, I like people, their activities and the way they do what they do. Because my Dad also, for example...when we were growing up, we always had a garden, and we all worked there: weeding, sowing, planting vegetables. Yes, and Dad traded at Matīsa tirgus – he had tomatoes this big! And the earliest black currants. He had white sleeve protectors that we found amusing. But it was no laughing matter, because he earned money for sugar, for building materials, for sand, whatever was needed for improving the garden and building the summerhouse. So I’ve always respected – and held dear – people who do things. And here, too. That little boy, for example... When I had my exhibition and a book was published4, a colleague at the museum said she remembered very well how she and her grandmother had travelled from Jūrmala at five in the morning in order to get the best places for trading at the market, and how she herself would just lie down somewhere and go to sleep. It’s natural that you should have your child with you, where will you leave it? K.T.-K.: At the exhibition I didn’t see any interior views of the pavilions. M.B.: Interior views? Oh, they’re really bad. I was a real selftaught amateur, an autodidact. I only had either my Dad’s old Voigtländer camera, which he kindly gave me and which I didn’t really know how to use, or a Zorkij that a friend lent me. Later, when I started working, I bought a Zenit. That was already something. I didn’t have flash, and I didn’t like it anyway. Some people still had equipment from the time of independent Latvia, and some had managed to get it with the help of relatives. And when I joined the photo club, I learned a lot about composition and lighting, and about cam- eras and so on. Men, being pragmatic people, took jobs at places that had such equipment. And the best in this regard were the All-Union enterprises. Because photography was very, very widely practised. There was the club system, and everywhere there was a need to photograph heroes of labour and make posters, to design plaques of honour and so forth. Photography was almost obligatory everywhere. K.T.-K.: What was it like to take photographs in the market back then, and what’s it like now? M.B.: Back then a person had paid for their ticket at the market and just sat there selling their goods. There were no problems at all. In the first place, they were sitting there with their own produce and selling it, and secondly I was a young girl, the same as all the rest. Nobody took me seriously. And it’s like that with many things: while you’re a beginner, you can get away with everything. Although being grey-haired does have its advantages, too. K.T.-K.: So you were able to photograph and nobody took much notice. M.B.: Not particularly. And I always like chatting to people. I was very shy, but people like it when you talk to them. Not everyone: some will turn away and frown. But on occasion I went together with girlfriends, or a male friend such as Juris Zvirgzdiņš, and that served to divert attention. The people are trying to sell, after all, that’s why they’re sitting there. And if you’re just going to fiddle about... But you also see how people react to you, and then you yourself either respond or not. It’s not a good thing to steal, you shouldn’t ever steal anything, anywhere. Nothing good can come of it. That’s why it’s best to act openly. But today, seeing you asked, I’ve already got a problem. I can’t just go out and take pictures. For one thing, I’m so much more aware now: there are all kinds of prohibitions and instructions. At the market now you have to go up to almost everyone and ask whether you’re allowed. And that’s understandable. Illegal trading hasn’t disappeared. Well, they no longer offer me moonshine, perhaps because I’ve got too much grey hair, but both men and women offer me cigarettes. And so if I were to take a picture of one of these people, then nothing good would come of it. But I’ve taken pictures in many other countries, and there haven’t been any problems, and here in Latvia, too, there are no problems in various markets. It all greatly depends on the trader. You have to have a chat. K.T.-K.: But do you usually go there with the specific intention of photographing the market? M.B.: I’m very sorry, but I no longer do that. Precisely because I have a psychological barrier. I have my camera with me very often, but it’s not as if I just set out with a firm intention. That’s no longer the case. K.T.-K.: Looking at the old photographs, it’s interesting to observe Riga’s ‘stomach’ – it’s all apples and potatoes. Lasting values in Latvian cuisine. M.B.: And mushrooms and berries, and of course, a lot of flowers. We have more of those than virtually anywhere else. But now times have changed. We needed European standards even before we joined the Union. For example, all those delicious cakes with whipped cream: they transformed into some kind of artificial stuff. This is where my social sarcasm might come in. But since I can’t show it, I can only express it to you. Everyone’s always talking about the won- derful gains we’ve made, but we’ve also lost a great deal. There is irony in Māra’s photographs, and plenty of it. You just have to notice it. She shows pictures from recent years where, under the parasols of Riga Central Market, there’s a string of traders selling the same uniform range of foreign goods. We talk about the innumerable stalls selling cheap clothing. And about whether we take pride in our own produce, because nowadays you have to make more of an effort to find it amidst all the jumble. A photograph taken right at the beginning of independence shows people with a wide range of clothing and different kinds of accessories for sale, and here Māra prompts me to recall the Polish goods that were, at one point, a significant source of income for many ordinary people. M.B.: In a photograph, everything is important. For example, formerly I didn’t rate very highly a photograph like this (“Prāgas iela – from the Central Market to Old Riga”, 1969 – K. T.-K.): we just came along, apples were over there, and carrots or peppers over here, there’s my sister Ieva, and my friend Ingeborga. Now that time has passed, I’ve come to appreciate the importance of the environment and how it changes. Nowadays we’ve got a shopping centre (Stockmann) here, and a car park. Once there were regulations that prevented you from building anything like that near a bridge. Now things are completely different, everything’s permitted. My work in Rundāle5 also helped me to understand the importance of the way things are right now, how it has been in the past, and how it changes again. K. T.-K.: Nowadays the photographs you took, for example, in the 60s also tend to be regarded as contemporary art. What do you think about that? M.B.: What can I say? For its own purposes of collecting information, the Centre for Contemporary Art has purchased quite an extensive collection from me.(6) And I’ve also heard that I’ve been addressed very ironically as a ‘contemporary artist’. But it’s the same for any artist whose work is shown, or who has been written about, or whose work attracts interest. Either you have to disassociate yourself from it entirely, or... And so, what can you say: if you’re doing something, then it’s important that people notice it has some value. Sure, in this case it was 30–40 years that my archive had been stored away, but it was my Riga. Just as our documentary filmmakers were making wonderful films, so I, too, wanted to collect a Riga of my own. That’s what I did. I was told: you shouldn’t be taking pictures of house corners, insignificant things like that. You’re not meant to do that, it won’t work. But it was and still is important to me. In one way, it’s a document of the times, and on the other hand, it has already acquired an entirely different value. I’ve heard people ask – is that art? I’ve never actually said that it is art. For me, that’s not important. For me it was important to collect this kind of material, and I’m happy that it is still alive. K.T.-K.: Your work, particularly the early work, is very cinematographic. Has film been an inspiration for you? M.B.: Yes, I have a great weakness for film. I really liked our documentaries. Among my friends there were film directors and cinematographers, Andris Slapiņš as well. He even tried to convince me to enrol at the Moscow Film Institute. But I thought that I had such a poor grasp of photography, let alone film. I don’t want to comment on art film, but Riga documentary cinema has really inspired me. And that’s why I say that I wanted to create for myself a Riga collection with rain and sun, flowers and atmosphere, and all kinds of characters. At the photo club I showed portraits because I knew that was what they wanted there, or certain photographs that were considered to be good exhibition photos. But this was my personal project. K.T.-K.: What did you read, what kinds of books do you enjoy? M.B.: By the time I’d reached a certain class in secondary school I’d read everything there was to read about war. But I really liked psychological literature. I tried to figure out who I really am ages ago (laughing). No, well, I read all kinds of things. We had a lot of good books at home, about art, and fiction as well. I really enjoy the short stories of Ezeriņš, Blaumanis and Poruks, Čaks. At that time I could recite the poetry of Čaks by heart. P.S. I couldn’t resist mentioning that the day after I’d been to the Central Market I went to see the exhibition of photographs Fashion Close Up by Ilga Sūna (born 1931) at the Latvian Museum of Photography (8– 25 August, 2013). On show were photos taken in the late 1970s and 80s: aesthetic black and white fashion art photography, and pictures of the models doing their everyday work. This visit brought back childhood memories of leafing through the Rīgas Modes magazine, and it was another view of history “from a different angle”, as well as providing the enjoyment of excellent photography. Inevitably, my thoughts on the two exhibitions intersected. Leaving aside contemplation of the fact that Māra Brašmane has received the greatest acclaim for photographs taken in her youth, whereas Ilga Sūna worked on the photographs displayed in the exhibition when she was already over 40, I concluded that both exhibitions, in equal measure, served to reveal the photogenic aspect of the subject, if I may put it like that. This is what gives the content in the images permanence, preventing it from aging or going out of fashion entirely. And along with this, of course, there’s the growing charm of a well-preserved photograph. But there could be other ways of looking at it, too. Translator into English: Valdis Bērziņš (1) The exhibition of Baltic contemporary art at the Cēsis Art Festival (23.07– 06.08.2011). The work exhibited by Māra Brašmane was dedicated to the documentation of Rundāle Palace. (2) Brašmane was a member of the Riga Photo Club from the late 1960s up to 1973. (3) Before turning to photography, Māra Brašmane took an active interest in sculpture and attended the Doma sculpture classes at the VEF Palace of Culture. (4) Manas jaunības pilsēta / Māra Brašmane [photographer]; Juris Zvirgzdiņš, Liāna Langa [text]; compiled by Laima Slava. Rīga: Neputns, 2005. (5) From 1973 to 1984 Brašmane worked as photographer at Rundāle Palace Museum. (6) Brašmane’s works have also been included in the ABLV Bank contemporary art collection for the pending Latvian Contemporary Art Museum. | |
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