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| Mass Vilnis Vējš, Artist | |
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On 1 May, 2007, I left the confectioner's on the corner of Bruņinieku and Brīvības Street to cross the intersection on my way to the box office of the Daile Theatre. I was surprised to see the street and the square in front of the theatre filled with young people on bicycles; they seemed to be waiting for something, not sure what exactly. Picking my way among the cyclists, I tried to make it to the other side of the crowd, but unexpectedly it started to move. Without any signal to set them on their way, the entire crowd of bicyclists suddenly swayed and started off in the direction of the city centre, while I was left standing in the middle of the commotion, trying to avoid being knocked to the ground. The cyclists were polite and tried to pedal past me, but some did clip me a little, and a few barely avoided collision. The sensations were not pleasant - I felt confused, angry and cross. Thankfully, it all ended without injury. It was only a couple of days later that I found out I had had an encounter with Critical Mass - an event popular all over the world, used by cyclists to fight for their right to be respected as a part of the city transportation system. In Riga these rides have taken place since 2002, but this particular one had been especially well attended. The idea is simple: cycling enthusiasts communicate online, gather in a particular spot at a particular time and, using their right to freely move around in unlimited numbers, create a "mass", which in fact shuts down all other traffic on the streets it uses. When I complained of my experience to a progressive Russian poet, he mocked me, saying I was a true bourgeois if I didn't feel any solidarity with the cyclists, who are ignored by the city fathers, despised and put in danger by the rest of the traffic, yet are themselves the most peaceful and ecologically harmless traffic participants. I couldn't quite see it his way at the time. In 2008 it still seemed that, whatever happened, art in Latvia would have a brilliant future. The opera house brought together singers for whom even Bayreuth was yearning - according to the press. To be honest though, this company was unable to gather here more than just a few times. So many were the eminent people who wished to enjoy the Song Festival that the singers' own wives and husbands had to stay at home. The Latvian delegations at the film festivals in Cannes and Berlin were the largest ones in relation to the number of films actually brought to the events. The exhibition of Russian art was attended by a full constellation of presidents - the State President, the Minister President, the presidents of all the largest banks. They were unable to meet at an equivalent exhibition of Latvian art, but then there was no such event in Latvia that year. Still, painters carried on working with their sleeves rolled up, hoping for some interest from art collectors. One brilliant collection even saw the light of day - although it consisted exclusively of works by artists already deceased. The living ones spent this time winning their bread in the "creative industries", inventing ever newer brand logos, becoming short-term interior designers, stylists and florists at well-to-do homes. Some even managed to show off on the pages of the glossies, wearing clothes that were no different from the brands favoured by the young and pretty millionaires' wives. No-one wanted to be left in the shadow - as it was rumoured that, any moment now, the more well-off Latvians will have earned so much money they won't be able to spend it all on stuff and entertainment, and then they would maybe start giving donations to art - in the interest of public and private partnership, so to speak. In 1967, the year of my birth, the British philosopher Alan Watts, an active member of the D.I.Y. movement, proposed the idea that the most important thing that children need to be taught is how to build a house, make clothing or cook for themselves. Knowing nothing of this, my parents, it would appear, followed this principle: my mother taught me to do the dishes, while my father instructed me in sawing, using a plane and soldering. The appropriate tools were always at hand in our Old Riga flat. I remembered this last year, as I was visiting the seven-room apartment of some creative director: nothing in the flat indicated that any sawdust could ever dare make an appearance in any of these rooms. At his country residence, perhaps? In my adolescent years I was a fan of Māris Gailis and Zaiga Gaile - the ‘Liesma' magazine published their tips for making your own furniture. These days the advice columns of the magazines have changed: for example, a lady confessed not long ago that, were she to have no money to pay a "professional" window cleaner in the spring, she would live with unwashed windows until she earnt the money. She is a well-known art manager. The other pieces of advice in this particular magazine dealt with finding your very own makeup stylist, personal trainer, wedding planner etc. Professionalism is also revered in art circles: artists create, experts think and culture policymakers work out cultural strategies, forming an extensive tangle of mutual exchanges of services. Fields of competence keep getting narrower, estimates keep getting higher. This year, however, something has changed. An artist who would like to find an investor, curator, promoter and a number of other professionals for the realisation of his/her idea, risks getting the same answer from all of them: "Do it yourself!" D.I.Y. or Die is the title of a tiny-budget film made in 2002 by a guy named Michael W. Dean. Its secondary title is How to Survive as an Independent Artist? With the emphasis not on survival, but on retaining independence. In the film, the basic idea is the same in all of the interviews given by many obviously creative types: the formula of D.I.Y or Do It Yourself is not only to be encouraged in everyday life, to avoid too much dependence on the consumption of industrially produced goods and paid services (as advocated by D.I.Y. practitioners since the beginning of the last century); it is also an artistic principle vital for the independence and survival of art itself. Because by getting involved in overly long chains of specialists of strictly defined areas of competence - be it in a political or a commercial context - art risks losing all its principles. It is no surprise, then, that the link between the D.I.Y. ideology and creative practice has survived movements of both self-intoxication and religious self-service, while still preserving the emphasis placed on intelligent use of resources and ecologically sound lifestyle. Have I seen it in Latvia, and if so, where? In the autumn of 2006 four art students - Miks Mezītis, Matīss Murov-skis, Edgars Spridzāns and Kristians Brekte - took to making bicycles in a basement workshop across the street from the Russian Embassy; over the course of a few days scraps of metal were transformed into unusual-looking yet perfectly serviceable vehicles. The group called themselves the Riders of the Apocalypse (‘Apokalipses jātnieki'), and their creations - freakbikes. Finding the process enjoyable, they had the idea of organising a workshop which would be accessible to all who were to be interested. They found premises in Andrejsala, and asked the Culture Capital Foundation for welding equipment money. Andrejsala at that time was already home to several creative groups. For the most part these were teams which had already proved themselves in cultural circles, as the opportunity to get their own premises for cheap in (otherwise so damned expensive) Riga was not available to all and sundry. Of course, the landlords of the abandoned harbour territory - the New Riga Development Company - had their own motives for establishing "cooperation" with artists just before embarking on a grand-scale project. Although only someone well-versed in PR spiel could ever call the Centre for Contemporary Art, Orbīta poets' association, Pulkvedis club and other tenants "informal initiatives", the legend of a free zone for creative activities had been created, and it truly did work. Thanks to the encouraging attitude of the leaders of the aforementioned bodies, they were surrounded by creative people of very varied views and no formal base. An certain ideological direction was also taking shape - for example, the well-known multimedia artist Linards Kulless took charge of the Singalong Hostel, providing a place to stay not just for countless DJs, but in 2007 also hosting a number of highly radical artists from Germany, Austria and the Netherlands, the team of the exhibition Showroom 6: Matilde. To fix the roof of his modest building, the host of the Dirty Deaf Café Kristaps Puķītis in his turn brought in environmental and social activists, whose views were evidenced by zines like ‘Haosa vēstnesis', the ‘Pretspars' internet magazine and the Vide.lv website. These young people then settled in an extension of the building. In May 2007 the Riders of the Apocalypse organised the first freakbike workshop, attended by approximately 30 participants, some 20 of which even completed their projects. Although some of the contraptions were manoeuvrable only with great difficulty, the spectator interest was immense. In the autumn of the same year another workshop was held. The results could be seen not only at the collective parade, but also at the Critical Mass event of the following year - the first one to show signs of any real confrontation with the police force. This, however, was not the intention of the tenants of Andrejsala. They just kept attracting more and more homemade bicycle enthusiasts. In 2008 another workshop followed. No constitution like that of the Vilnius district of Užupis was ever written in Andrejsala. There were no collective manifestos or resolutions either. On the contrary - it was home to countless creative groups, each one more strangely named than the other, and each of their members would be able to list off more different than common views. However, the initial need to make do with minimal resources and create the environment by their own hands developed into an ambitious D.I.Y. principle testing ground, whose aesthetic shell was given substance by a "green", ecologically-responsible attitude. Left to its own devices, the idea of free creative space soon outgrew the confines of an advertising campaign for a single real estate project. The practical activities shaped the ideology. In Andrejsala "Do it yourself!" in effect became a culture-political proposal - to view art not as a product of industry, intended for enjoyable consumption, but as a value-orientating practice without any limitations on involvement and competence. This, of course, did not suit the initiators of the project, nor its political guardians. Rental agreements with some of the tenants were not extended. Kristians Brekte promises there is going to be another freak-bike workshop in Andrejsala this year. Linards Kulless has moved to Berlin. The Dirty Deal has turned from a Café into a Teatro, and is continuing its activities in the Spīķeri area. Sadly, Andrejsala - the way it was for two years - no longer exists. Its history has not been written yet; the results have not been summed up. It seems as if there are no noteworthy results anyway... at least, not in the way that was initially en-visaged. All that remains left over is experience. Which, in my opinion, could come in very handy in Latvia today. /Translator into English: Līva Ozola/ | |
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